Okay okay—so I want Kim’s POV of Kenta being taken captive. Yes, he knows the kind of person Kenta is. He knows Kenta was raised alone, taught to deal with his problems alone. He knows Kenta’s default setting is self-sacrifice, that he was never taught how to lean on people. And the few times he has tried? They’ve thoroughly, absolutely ruined him. Kim knows this is all new territory for Kenta. He knows Pete has been the only constant in Kenta’s life—romantic feelings or not, Pete is still the only common denominator he has. He trusts him.
He also knows Kenta is dead-set on destroying Tony, on helping them rid the world of that monster. Kenta’s priorities are locked in—laser-focused on the bigger picture, the greater good. But no matter how much Kim rationalizes Kenta’s silence, it doesn’t make the ache in his heart hurt any less.
The thing is, it’s not about trust. Kim trusts Kenta. He trusts him to do what needs to be done and to do it with every ounce of ability he has. The pain comes from when it’s happening—after the kiss. After the conversation where Kim told him to stop running. To stop running to Pete. To think about his feelings, their feelings. Kim told him—in every way he knew how—that Kenta would always have him. No matter what. No matter when. Kenta would always have Kim to lean on.
If this had all happened before Kim had said anything—before he’d laid his heart out like a damn offering—maybe he could dull the sting. Maybe he could tell himself it didn’t mean anything. But now? Now Kenta knows. And he still chooses to communicate with Pete, and Pete alone.
Kim isn’t blaming anyone. He’s not pointing fingers, not trying to be angry at the choices people make to survive. It’s just—by now, he had hoped Kenta would’ve seen his affections for what they were.
And then there’s the whole thing with Kenta specifically telling Pete not to send backup. Not to involve anyone else. Kim gets it, he really does. He understands the sentiment. He knows Kenta has never been the kind to ask for help—not openly. Not ever. So Kim isn’t angry. But every single time he asks Pete, “Are you sure?”
“Are you sure Kenta’s okay?”
“Are you sure he doesn’t need help?”
Every time Pete says something like, “Kenta said he didn’t need it,” or, “Kenta told us not to”—it’s like a knife. A knife being driven into the same spot, over and over again.
And don’t get me wrong—I’m not trying to minimize Kim’s feelings, reduce him to bare strings waiting to snap the moment there’s distance or rejection. I’m just saying—I’m hurt for him. Because he’s so eager to love Kenta. And it’s understandable that Kenta moves slow. That he’s hesitant, cautious, bruised by history. But a text? An “I’m okay”? A fucking emoji? A missed call? A goddamn typing bubble—anything. You just know Kim has his phone open on Kenta’s chat 24/7, just in case something—anything—comes through for him.
And I know for a fact Kim stays up every night, waiting. Because even if Kenta tells him to trust him, there’s no way he’s not falling apart with worry. But he lets Kenta make the choices he needs to make.
Sorry, I got a bit carried away—but my point is: I want a reality where Kim starts second-guessing whether Kenta actually cares for him. Because when Kenta asked, “Are you coming with me or not?” Kim thought that was a step forward. He believed it meant something. And now? Now he’s faced with this wall of silence. Of absence. Of cold distance.
There’s no way my baby wouldn’t be disheartened. Maybe Kim starts settling into the idea that Kenta’s just not interested. That this—whatever it was—was never going to be anything more. Maybe it is rejection. Subtle, quiet, unbearable.
And again—he’s not mad. He’s not mad at Kenta. He’s not mad at Pete. He’s not even mad at the rejection. He’s just furious at the hope. The kindling in his heart that keeps sparking—only to get snuffed out by reality.
Maybe Kim finally realizes the truth: that Kenta doesn’t want him. That—just like Pete—Kenta never felt anything real for him.
I’m not saying that’s going to change how Kim feels. But maybe it changes how much he shows. Maybe he starts to close off, just a little. Maybe, piece by piece, he retreats into himself. Because the longer Kenta is away, the more he questions if Kenta will ever come back.
He doesn’t have the answer.
But either way, it’s all coming crashing down.
Am I selfish for also wanting Pete to be the one who tells Kim to go rescue Kenta—after realizing the new truth that’s settled over Kim’s heart? Like, “He trusts you the most,” and Kim just thinks, No, he doesn’t. But he says okay anyway, because he hasn’t quite reached the point where he’s hardened his heart completely. Not yet. Even if every passing day feels like Kenta choosing to speak only to Pete and no one else. And Kim still just wants to see him safe. To see Kenta. Out of there. Alive. So he agrees.
And when he does find Kenta—roped up, or chained, or something brutal like that—Kim drops to his knees and undoes the knot without thinking. Just asks, quietly, “Are you okay?” And Kenta says, “I’m fine,” but Kim can see the gashes, the bruises, torn clean through the rips in his shirt. And he adds it—silently, tiredly—to the growing list of reasons why he needs to start locking his feelings up tighter: Kenta still doesn’t trust him enough to tell the truth.
And then, just as Kim is reeling from that, Kenta says, “Where’s Kim? The others? Are they still here?” And there it goes—Kim’s last stupid sliver of hope that maybe Kenta would say he missed him. Or that he’s glad Kim came. Or even apologize for the silence. But no. Kenta just wants intel. Wants reassurance that everyone else is safe.
Kim takes a breath. He knows Kenta doesn’t mean it like that. It’s not personal. He tells himself that. He tells Kenta what he wants to know—“Pete and Chris are in the lab. The others are on the fourth floor.” Something like that. And Kenta’s only response is, “We should go help them. They probably need it.”
And Kim’s hands would probably shake. Because Kenta will give help to everyone, but never let himself receive it. Never let himself need.
So Kim nods. Even though it’s against Pete’s plan of “get Kenta out of there.” Because logically, Kenta’s right—they probably do need help. So Kim hands over his extra gun. Hands Kenta his blade. Doesn’t look at his face—can’t look. Can’t risk seeing worry etched there for everyone else but him.
They run. Up the stairs, around the corner. Kim keeps his ears sharp, tracking Kenta’s footsteps behind him, listening for anything off in his breathing, anything that might mean pain. Because Kenta would never admit it, not even now. Kim leads the way, relying on the map etched into his memory.
He’s so focused on Kenta—on his pace, his breath, his silence—that he misses the sound of gunfire. Until Kenta yanks him back just seconds before a bullet could’ve taken him out. And Kenta’s hand is wrapped around his wrist. Tight. And Kim’s heart has the audacity to flinch, to leap, to hope.
But he shuts it down. Because he’s seen this film before, and he didn’t like the ending. Back then, hope was fair game. Now? Now it’s just reckless.
So he steadies himself. Slowly, gently, he pulls away. Takes Kenta’s hand off him without a word.
Don’t get me wrong—I want them to kiss. I want them to kiss and end this whole emotionally devastating circus just as much as—if not more than—anyone else. I want them to have their soft moment, to finally collapse into each other’s arms, safe and warm and wanted. I want the warmth, the resolution, the overdue comfort. I wouldn’t change a single thing about the series—not one damn moment—but my brain has been fermenting, and you know it’s never once let a heartbroken character just... breathe. Not once. So here I am, spiralling. That said, I really want to know what you all think—honestly. Do you think Kim would pull away, even just a little? Quietly protect himself before he breaks? Or do you think he’d double down, push harder, desperate to prove that love means staying, even now?
