[Main account of Satori-Runa & Pretzel-Box] [W r i t e r] [And bring us the young perfection for there us shall surely be. No clothing, tears or hunger. You can see, you can see, you can be.]
At the very beginning, there was a giant amount of unnamed feelings that I felt inside me, especially when I got to hold that silver metallic key in my palm that travelled all the way towards me in a simple white envelope with nothing but my name on it.
Even despite the smooth coolness of the metall didn't erased the burning sensation in my palm, when I got to hold it for the first time. You see, I always told myself, in regards to you, that I do not need an apology, especially not one shaped by etiquette that found its source in the modern human nature or the hollow phrases people offer when sorrow asks for form. I know, truly, you chose what made you feel happy in these times, even at the cost of my own comfort. I acknowledge that sacrifice from the bottom of my heart, and yet I refuse to pay it the final respect that you always wished. I despise, loathe and curse your actions with the seconds that pass by in our everyday lifes, even after you went to the trouble of delivering this key to me.
The sole reason I accepted the key anyways was simple and stubborn at the same time: To step out of my own shadow into a new era of myself. While others claimed that humans do not chance, a mantra I always believed too, I want to try, to become someone unrecognizable, if only for the sake of my own fragile mind. The first step to this, is to made amends with my past and loosen the hands that hold my trauma in a deadly grip, to welcome the uncertain. To get a fresh start, I will move into the house you left me and record everything in the journal I carried with me. I fear I will not be able to hold my thoughts alone, so I will dedicate them to you instead. You sacrificed my comfort and from that sacrifice I shall now seek my final solace.
I wanna be one of those people who go up the attic in 40 years and find a box with letters from you that are sealed and faintly smelling like nostalgia. And in those letters are all the words and feelings you couldn't have told me into my face and I would sit there and read them while trying to imagine how many hours you spend with thinking about me.
And I wanna be the person that will write you letters when you are gone. Just to place them on your grave and ask myself, if you would spend the same amount of time you wrote in reading the ones I left for you.
Each dragging movement sent a jagged bolt through what was left of your limbs, slicking the sterile facility floors with a trail of blood and pulped tissue. Your body didn’t feel like yours anymore, it was a mangled puppet, jerking forward inch by inch as bone scraped tile and something deep inside tore again and again. Each breath came in wet gasps, every exhale rattling with broken sobs and blood. You failed to grasp the concept of reality itself.
Time lost meaning. Seconds bled into hours into days into hallucinations. Numbers danced in your mind, spiraling out of control, folding reality into a tight, suffocating coil. You didn't know where you were anymore, but you remembered feeling the pain.
Until it numbed, until the cold burn of a needle pierced your neck, Sebastian’s hand holding your chin like you were some whining pet. “Shhh,” he whispered mockingly, watching your body slacken. “You’re quieter this way.”
And then,
“A rat on the hunt.”
That voice. Painter.
You turned your head, a grotesque twitch of muscle and drugged will, and found the screen glowing with a cruel, gleaming smile. Painter’s face flickered, but the malice was steady. Who could have known that a single screen would show so many different hostile human emotions as if he was born for it.
“Looks like they stick their nose in places they don't belong,” he cooed, amusement coiling like smoke around every word. “Suit yourself… living bait.”
His voice infected your head, burrowing deep. The facility around you shimmered and pulsed, bending inwards like a collapsing lung. His voice distorted, layered over itself in a sickening chorus as it spread into your mind, mixing itself with the drug.
You tried to speak. “Where… where is the exit?” It came out alien, sluggish, like it had to claw its way up your throat from some distant, drugged abyss.
“The exit!” you screamed again, your voice raw, hysterical, unfamiliar. Your mind was fracturing. This couldn't be you, right? Was there someone in your body? Where was your own voice?
Painter laughed.
“As if I’d tell you. But maybe… maybe if you crawl on your belly like the pathetic thing you are, beg me, sob a little…I might give you a hint.”
That was the breaking point.
You launched forward, your ruined body dragging itself on nothing but desperation and rage. Your hands, shaking, red, fingers stripped raw, latched onto the frame of his screen, nails splitting as they pressed into the glass. You were barely human now. Just nerves and panic and hatred.
You pressed your face against the monitor, cheek thudding against the flickering image. Your breath fogged the screen. “Where. Is. The. Exit?” The words oozed out. A desperate, twisted whisper. They weren’t a threat, they were a plea from someone whose mind was splintering into pieces. To who were you even talking to? Maybe…the screen was the exit?
Then came the cracking sound.
Your fingers dug in deeper. Nails snapped. Blood smeared the screen. The pressure built. And built. The screen spiderwebbed under your grip. Painter’s voice, once smug, pitched into shrieks of digital agony.
“S-Sebastian—!” he wailed, voice jittering, echoing through the walls like a dying alarm.
You kept pressing, then slamming, thrashing, throwing every ruined part of yourself against the screen. Your bones were no longer holding you up. They were battering rams, splintering under the force of your own will. Flesh tore as you used your shoulder like a hammer, skin peeling off in wet, red sheets. Blood smeared across the glass, thick and hot, trailing down like war paint. You hit again. And again. And again. Not even knowing why anymore, just needing to break through that smug smile, that glowing screen, as if the exit was buried behind his fucking face.
Your fingernails snapped off one by one, leaving streaks of raw skin and tendon dragging down the surface. Cracks bloomed across Painter’s expression, fractured pixels flickering in and out, the image glitching like he was starting to scream. You didn’t notice. Or maybe you did and didn’t care. The noise in your head was louder. Wet and pulsing and endless.
Your forehead hit the screen next. Once. Twice. The third time it split open, and your blood mixed with the glass shards sticking out of the monitor. They lodged into your skin like broken teeth. You didn’t stop. You used your hands like claws, scraping at the broken edges, dragging your palms down until they were flayed open, meat and wires tangled together, no difference between what was you and what was him anymore.
You were sobbing now, but it didn’t sound human. You sounded like a thing being ripped apart.
Your elbow shattered as it went through the glass, twisting the joint in a direction it was never meant to go. The nerves howled, but still, you dug deeper, reaching through the shards and the sparks and the blood for something, anything, whatever was left of him. The screen convulsed with Painter’s static cries, but your own drowned him out.
“WHERE IS IT?!” you choked, vomiting blood from the effort. “WHERE IS THE FUCKING EXIT?!”
You pulled, yanked, crushed what was behind the screen until the light inside him died out. Until the only sound left was your ragged breathing, and the crackle of broken circuitry beneath your weight.
You collapsed, trembling, half inside the wreckage. Glass embedded in your face. Limbs hanging useless, twisted. The blood pooling around you wasn't just yours. It was everywhere. You were smeared in it. Drenched. Dying. Maybe already dead.
The lights flickered.
A pop. A snap. A hiss.
Then black.
A heartbeat later, light returned.
You blinked.
What was left of Painter was nothing but shredded metal, cracked circuitry, and blood, somehow blood. You didn’t know where it had come from, and you didn’t care. You stared down in disbelief, mouth agape, trembling, as the last trace of resistance in your body gave in. Your vision blurred. The drug took hold. And you collapsed.
Estella realized, in that fleeting moment, that the happiness she felt wasn’t from the fireworks glittering across the starry sky but from the person standing beside her, watching them.
The night sky bloomed with bursts of colour and light, but her gaze never left Louis.
He, too, had long stopped looking at the fireworks. His eyes were fixed on nothing, lost in thought.
"Estella."
"Hm?"
He turned to her, a faint, melancholic smile on his lips.
"I'm so sorry."
His voice was soft, barely louder than the wind. He didn’t look her in the eyes, and something about that silence between them felt heavier than anything he could’ve said.
She blinked, confused, trying to understand. But before she could ask, he stepped back, just enough to make her heart twist.
He lifted his head, and in that moment, he seemed like a stranger. Whatever path had led them here, it had already crossed the point of no return. The memory of her smile began to fade, replaced by something colder in her expression.
"Was this your only reason to be with me?"
Louis took a breath, shut his eyes, and clenched his hands like he was holding onto something he couldn’t let go.
"It was never my plan to fall in love with you… yet here I am. Everything I did was so I could stay by your side."
"And If I had nothing more than a single minute to describe how I felt in that particular moment, then I would have calmly closed my eyes and picked a single word: Disappointment."
"I felt disappointment in them for not telling you. Not reflecting their past mistakes and shaping them into a experience to teach you."
"I felt disappointment in you for not keeping your words, for going on and on as I kept dropping all those signs like bread crumbs in front of your eyes."
"Disappointment in myself for lying to myself and whispering each evening that everything is okay as the world kept burning down."
"But it was my fault in the end. After all, who knew that bread crumbs could burn so well?"
I've been super inactive because I started to put together my manuscripts for a label that will help me to publish my long time fiction that I worked on for several years and I wanna put all my focus on that.
So cross your fingers for me that it will all work out.
I don’t think I stared at it for more than a minute—if that, mere seconds.
But I knew that an hour could pass, a day, or even a month; time was utterly meaningless to something that didn’t even comprehend the concept of it.
So I sat there, motionless in the chair, facing forward, staring. It—or rather, he—stared back. I assumed he didn’t need to blink. His eyes burned red, unwavering, their intensity slicing through the fragile layers of my comfort as effortlessly as a surgeon’s scalpel through skin. Natural. Precise.
Castorice from HSR x reader but it's Hotarubi no Mori E
She didn't mean to get too close, but at the same time, Castorice was unable to stay away. You saw her loneliness, and despite the warnings, you tried to be as close as possible.
Trying to co-exist without touching until an accident breaks the boundary and the first time you share a touch is also the last time.
Somewhere along the road of life, between moving forward and being stuck in place, there is a cinema that plays memories.
Those who enter will see their past unfold on the screen, reliving every experience they once cherished or regretted.
But those who have forgotten—the ones who no longer remember their own past—are the ones who work there.
I wonder how sorrowful it must be, to watch the lives of others flicker before your eyes, day after day, while the faces of those you once loved remain lost to you…
Painters pov for @splatting-stampede her Runaway. It is unedited and it is recommended to read runaway first.
I can't even come up with enough words to describe how much I loathe storms like these.
The sky was mocking me.
Cordelia was somewhere behind the counter, getting ready to close the shop with me. I had asked her to stay a bit longer. It wasn't really necessary, but I didn't want to be alone. Perhaps Cordelia was the only thing keeping me chained to reality for now. A shame, really. If only Cordelia were Jelly.
Cordelia was the first person I hired. She had practically begged for the part-time job, and Sebastian had insisted I take breaks. So I gave in. Let her think she had earned it.
"Today went pretty well," she said, her voice grating against my ears as I turned around. That smile—forced, empty. Nothing like Jelly’s. Jelly’s smile could eclipse the sun itself, while Cordelia's was a flickering, pathetic candle barely clinging to its wick. "I feel like I did pretty good on those keys."
Jelly would never fawn over themselves like that.
The towel in my hand stilled as I fought back an urge—to strangle her, perhaps, or at least to silence that insufferable self-congratulation. Cordelia wasn’t stupid. A quiet hum escaped me, just enough to keep her from getting suspicious. I had no interest in feeding her delusions further. She had one purpose, and that was to serve me. A tool, nothing more. And yet she still entertained the foolish idea that she could be something beyond that.
Pathetic.
I resisted the sigh clawing up my throat. I could feel her gaze, heavy and expectant. No doubt she had crossed her arms—her usual tell when she was dissatisfied with my response. Always so predictable.
"Are you doing okay? You're quiet today."
That false concern, that naivety. It was almost pitiful. Cordelia had no idea she was tightening the noose around her own neck.
I let the silence linger—one minute, maybe two. She didn’t push.
Finally, I gave her what she wanted, though it was nothing more than a hollow echo.
"I'm fine."
I let the towel slip from my fingers, watching as it landed in a crumpled heap on the counter. The surface beneath it was polished to an unnatural shine, wiped clean of every smudge, every fingerprint. Had I been at it for minutes? Longer? The mindless repetition must have kept my hands busy while my thoughts wandered elsewhere.
My gaze drifted to the edge of my vision—small cardboard boxes stacked against the counter, filled with cables, gears, and spare parts. A perfect excuse. I straightened slightly, shifting my weight as if just remembering they were there.
"Just... thinking."
The words left my lips in a slow, calculated murmur as I pulled my shoulders back, feigning a reluctant return to the present. I let my expression shift, just slightly, feeding Cordelia the illusion that I was confiding in her.
"Can you take some of these parts to the back for me?"
There was no doubt in my mind that she would comply. Cordelia rarely questioned my requests. Why would she? I paid her. That was the role she played—obedient, useful, predictable.
"Sure thing, boss!"
I barely acknowledged her response. Instead, my eyes remained fixed on the glass counter, its smooth surface reflecting back the hollow image of myself. A ghost of a person stared back at me—dark circles bruising tired eyes, lips pressed into a faintly downturned line. When had I last slept? Not just closed my eyes, but truly let myself rest? The nights blurred together, a stretch of endless hours spent in the suffocating quiet of my room, waiting for something—anything—to pull me out of it.
If only Jelly were here.
The thought lodged itself deep, unshakable. My fingers twitched before moving instinctively, dipping into my jacket pocket and pulling out my phone. The weight of it felt heavier than it should. My thumb hovered over the screen, drifting across familiar numbers, lingering just above Jelly’s contact.
Call them. Just once. One word from them would be enough.
But for what? What excuse did I have?
Think, Vincent. Think.
My pulse drummed in my ears as I hesitated, balancing on the edge of action. A single press—a simple, meaningless movement—and I could hear their voice.
Then, the screen flickered. A notification slid into view, blocking my path.
Cordelia.
My breath hitched, irritation creeping into my chest like an unwanted guest. Her name sat there, a quiet interruption, forcing itself between me and what I wanted. My grip on the phone tightened. Even when she wasn’t speaking, she found a way to make herself known.
Of course she did.
I exhaled sharply through my nose, my jaw tightening as I stared at the unwanted message. The moment was gone.
Again.
-Hey, I'll be a bit, I'm taking inventory and sorting things.
Her message was simple. Simple and so utterly annoying.
-Ok. Don't be too long. Storm might knock out the power.
-o7
I placed the phone down, exhaling sharply as the weight of the day pressed harder against my skull. The stress curled into my mind like an unwelcome guest, tightening its grip. A minute—that’s all I wanted. Just one quiet moment to gather myself.
But, of course, the universe refused me even that.
The sharp rhythm of clicking heels echoed against the floor, each step a deliberate intrusion into my fleeting peace. My jaw tightened, fingers flexing as I cursed the timing under my breath.
Cordelia had said she’d be busy. That meant I had a window—just enough time to take matters into my own hands. To confront Allison about the plan.
"I should thank you for the money."
Her voice slithered through the air, saccharine and smug. She stood in front of me, painted lips curled into a smirk, the red smudged carelessly across her mouth like an imitation of something alluring. Cheap. Tasteless.
"Everything went as planned," she added, her tone brimming with self-satisfaction. "It's done. The trial is in a few weeks, and then he's finished."
Allison was another perfect pawn in this game. And like any pawn, she had an expiration date. The moment her usefulness ran out, she’d be swept off the board without a second thought.
"Each and every piece of evidence was planted—his hair, his clothes, even his blood." She practically purred, reveling in her own cunning. "And that whore of a partner he has? Completely clueless."
A slow, deep burn crept through my veins, molten and violent. My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into flesh.
"Mind yourself."
The words came out quiet, measured—but beneath them lay the raw fury I barely held back. How dare she speak of Jelly like that.
How dare she defile the name of something so untouchable.
"Who you think is a whore," I murmured, my voice laced with venom, "I revere as my greatest muse."
Allison scoffed, rolling her eyes as if my rage was a mild inconvenience. "Whatever," she dismissed. "Nine deaths, and Sebastian's blamed for all of them. You'll have your muse, and I'll get my revenge."
Her words barely registered. A hollowness settled in my ears, an instinct clawing at the edges of my mind. A presence.
Then it hit me.
I turned my head slowly, a shadow shifting in the corner of my vision.
„Cordelia.“
That little rat took off the moment realization hit her, her frantic steps echoing against the floor as she bolted for the storage room. She’d lock it, no doubt. Pathetic. As if a flimsy door could save her. Stupid, stupid girl. A pest should be exterminated, not given the chance to scurry away.
I flicked my hand in a sharp motion, dismissing Allison. Her usefulness had run its course for the night. I had more pressing matters to attend to. No witnesses. No interruptions. Just me, and the thorn in my side that had finally overstepped.
Through the thin barrier of the storage door, I could hear her retching, the wet sound of vomit splattering against the floor of my sanctuary. My space. My perfection—defiled by her weak, trembling body. How dare she. How many mistakes had I forgiven? How many times had I let her continue breathing despite her insufferable existence?
Enough. It was time to pay the price.
Without hesitation, my fingers found the cool handle beneath the counter, wrapping around the emergency axe. We kept it for fires—to break through doors, windows, anything that stood in the way. How fitting. Tonight, it would serve its true purpose.
With one precise, merciless swing, the lock splintered. The sharp crack echoed through the space, but it was the silence that followed that sent a thrill up my spine. She hadn’t heard me. The little rat was too busy wallowing in her sickness, curled up in a pathetic heap.
I approached without a sound, like a shadow creeping over prey. The air was thick with the acrid stench of bile, of fear. My fingers twitched.
Then, I struck.
My hand clamped down on her shoulder, digging in hard enough to bruise. Cordelia gasped, lurching upright with such force that her elbow knocked against the shelf beside her. Something tumbled—ceramic meeting the ground with a sharp, sickening crash.
A sculpture.
My sculpture.
I stilled, my gaze lowering to the wreckage at my feet. Fragments of a delicate face—cracks running through once-smooth features, splintered lips, empty eyes staring upward in broken silence.
Jelly’s face.
"You broke it."
The words left me in a whisper, too soft, too calm. A quiet before the storm. My fingers twitched against her skin, my grip tightening inch by inch.
My masterpiece—ruined.
Piece by piece, shattered by the hands of a filthy, undeserving pest.
"You broke my masterpiece."
Cordelia had made many mistakes before.
This would be her last.
Her next words didn't reached me. But they didn't had to.
"Shhhhhhh."
I pressed a single finger against her trembling lips, feeling the soft hitch in her breath beneath my touch. The fear in her eyes was intoxicating, her pupils blown wide, reflecting the dim light in warped, glassy terror. She was shivering—so delicate, so fragile—like a bird caught in a storm, its wings too broken to carry it away.
A thrill coiled through my bones.
The first tear slipped down her cheek, then another. I traced the path of each one, catching them with my thumb, wiping them away as if they were something precious.
"I forgive you."
The words were barely a murmur, a soothing hum that curled around her like a lullaby. I wanted her to absorb every syllable, to feel the weight of my mercy pressing down on her fragile little soul.
"This is all so sudden, isn't it?"
Cordelia was a victim of circumstances.
Circumstances she walked into willingly.
"Thrust onto the stage of a game far greater than yourself."
She trembled.
"But you've played your part perfectly."
She sobbed.
"And now, you can leave."
Her breath hitched—a tiny, broken sound.
"N-no, no no no—"
She flinched back, skittering away like a rat caught in a corner, and the sight of it sent a sharp sting of irritation through my skull. She always knew how to test my patience, pressing all the wrong buttons without even trying.
"What did you do?" Her voice cracked, fraying at the edges. "Why—why was Allison here? I thought—we exposed her. Why were you talking to her like that? Are you two—are you plotting something?"
The words tumbled from her lips, frantic and desperate, like the bile she had vomited earlier.
But she already knew the answer.
We both knew.
"You already know that," I hummed, watching her, letting the weight of my presence fill the air between us.
She was cornered. She was mine.
"So give me your phone," I said, tilting my head just slightly, "and you are free to go."
A lie.
I had been feeding her lies since the day we met, weaving them into the very fabric of her reality, twisting them into something warm and safe—something she wanted to believe. She was full of them by now, bloated with pretty deceptions.
Without me, she would starve.
"My—"
"Yes." My voice remained smooth, unwavering. "I can't have this getting out, you understand."
I took a slow step forward, letting my shadow stretch over her, watching her shrink beneath it.
"My muse is going to fall into my arms," I murmured, a reverent sort of madness slipping into my tone. "So hand it over, and I’ll dispose of it properly."
Cordelia’s breath stuttered, her fingers curling protectively around the device hidden in her grasp.
Pathetic.
She still thought she had a choice.
She shook her head.
Stupid.
Foolish.
Inexcusable.
"Cordelia. Drop the phone."
The little rat had some fight in her still, her fingers scrambling over the screen, dialing desperately as if salvation could be found at the other end.
"Check the video I just sent you! Painter's framing you for—"
Enough.
I drove my foot into her stomach with brutal force, cutting off her pathetic plea. The air escaped her lungs in a strangled gasp as she crumpled to the ground, writhing in agony. Her pain was a symphony—a chaotic melody that only I could conduct.
I pressed my foot down harder, grinding into her abdomen until I could feel the tremor of her insides, threatening to rupture beneath my weight. How delightful it would be to see her burst, to watch the life drain from her eyes as her body failed her.
But the shrill voice from the phone jarred the moment, his grating tone polluting my ears. I sneered, lifting my foot to shatter the fragile device beneath my heel. The satisfying crunch of glass and metal silenced him, leaving only Cordelia’s pitiful whimpers echoing in the room.
I turned my gaze back to her, a cold smile stretching across my lips as I knelt down, straddling her trembling form.
"You made a poor choice."
My voice was soft, almost tender, as I tugged my sleeve upward, revealing the syringe I had prepared just for her. The liquid inside glinted menacingly, a promise of suffering and silence.
"Poor, forgettable, pitiful Cordelia," I whispered, leaning in so close I could feel her shallow breaths against my cheek. Her scent—fear, sweat, the acidic sting of vomit—was intoxicating. "Always so eager to help. Such a sweet, loyal little pawn."
I brushed away the stray hair matted with blood from her face, forcing her to meet my gaze. I wanted to see the exact moment hope left her eyes.
"But what about me?" I murmured, feigning a tone of wounded innocence. "I am in need, Cordelia."
"No," she choked out, her head jerking to the side as if turning away could save her from the truth. "You're sick! Obsessed—a freak!"
Her resistance was laughable. Weak, insignificant. My hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her futile protests. I pressed down, savoring the muffled cries that vibrated against my palm.
"Shhhhh," I crooned, mockingly tender. "It's okay, little pawn. You’ve served your purpose. And I always take care of my pieces—even when they betray me."
The needle hovered over her neck, the sharp point grazing her skin as I let the fear simmer in her wide, pleading eyes. A delicious appetizer before the main course.
"My father will take care of you," I promised, voice dripping with cruel amusement.
And then, with deliberate, measured pressure, I sank the needle into her flesh, pushing the plunger down slowly, relishing the way her body tensed beneath me.
Her eyes grew dull, panic giving way to resignation as the poison seeped into her veins, burning away her final resistance.
"I have no need for you anymore."
I leaned in, lips brushing her ear as her vision began to blur, the life draining from her gaze.
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