Summary: You cross paths with Niragi, the same scrawny boy you bullied years ago.
Warnings: Non-Con, graphic violence, humiliation, explicit language, mention of severe bullying, rough kissing, broken bones, face punching, humiliation, bondage, choking, explicit language, Niragi is His Own Warning, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
Author's Notes: This was written a really while back, and I'm aware that this fandom died ages ago (but it's never too late).
The rain never stopped.
A thin mist enveloped the pavement, slick and oily that shimmered faintly under the flickering light of the dim alley lamp. The air was suffused with an earthy aroma, the damp scent of saturated asphalt mingling with the acrid tang of cigarette smoke and an overpowering hint of cheap hair gel, creating a heavy curtain of stale odor that clung to the surroundings.
You stood in the center of it all, your fingers tightly clutching a battered baseball, its leather surface worn and cracked, rough against your skin. In front of you stood trembled Niragi, a mess of oversized glasses and bony limbs wrapped in a school uniform that barely fit him. His spindly arms hugged his body tightly, as if that could keep him safe from the collision that was sure to come. But it wouldn't matter, when the ball hits, it's still going to hurt like hell. Around you, laughter erupted raucously that reverberated off the damp walls, punctuated by the occasional bursts of colorful, carefree swearing. It was impossible not to liken the group to a pack of feral dogs barking.
"Come on, don't be a pussy," you sneered, rolling the baseball in your hand. "You don't want us to feed you rice with urine like the last time, do you?"
It was a game. He was the target. The chalk outline behind him, hastily drawn on the weathered brick wall of the dimly lit alley made it all the more real. Each spot marked—head, glasses, arms folded at sickening angles—was a new body part. As you glanced down at the black and furious flowers of bruise on his flesh, each one meant that they were crawling their way to a ruthless finish.
One of your friends casually draped an arm around your shoulder. "You gonna throw or what? I'm just three points away from winning," he snickered.
"Oh, I'm throwing." You replied with a smirk, your heart racing with the thrill of competition.
Feeling the weight of the ball in your hand, its textured surface grounding you in the moment. You released it, and it hurtled through the air with a sharp whoosh, striking Niragi squarely against his temple, the satisfying thud echoing in the air. He doubled over, involuntarily throwing his shoulders forward to cover his head. Despite the impact, he choked back the tears that wished to run.
"Aww, hold still, nerd," your voice jeered, and the next one flew—hitting his shoulder.
It should've been fun, it always was. Yet, this time was different. He's staring at you—his pitch-black, seemingly emotionless eyes are ablaze with a fierce intensity that makes you step back.
You were faltered, but it was only for a second. You tensed up and cracked your wrist, throwing the ball soaring once more. The world around you faded away, focusing on that singular pursuit of triumph.
Ah, the good old days.
"I'm sorry but your card has been declined. Would you like to use another form of payment?"
You slumped behind the counter, barely looking up as the customer in front of you shuffled through their change. The monotony of the convenience store was suffocating. The register beeped, the AC rattled in its vent, and the same generic pop song played for the third time in an hour. Out of boredom, you glanced up at the fluorescent lights overhead, flickering every now and then like they were deciding whether to finally die.
You used to be somebody. Once upon a time, people used to know your name. You were popular. Teachers let you slide on homework because of your sharp tongue, you got invited to every party, always had someone hanging off your arm. Look at her. She's so cool. I wish I was her. The queen of a world that felt so small now.
But the moment you stepped off the graduation stage, your life unraveled. There's no more automatic popularity or beauty contest bullshit. Your parents stopped pretending you were special. Your so-called friends scattered to college, careers, better things.
And you?
You were left behind.
You tried to hold on, at first, act like it didn't bother you. But life outside of school didn't give a damn about how many people used to worship you. You bounced from dead-end job to dead-end job, caroused late nights in dirty bars where nobody ever knew your name, slept in a shoebox apartment whose walls were as thin as paper while your neighbor's TV blaring late at night. The only calls on your phone were from recruiting phones you never returned, spam emails, and one unread text message from your mom that just said: Are you eating well?
(...You weren't.)
The real world had chewed you up and spat you out. Now here you were standing at the counter, mindlessly tugging on the flaking label of a bottle of tea. Your boss had reamed you out for slouching on shift earlier, but it was hard to look interested when your soul had left years ago.
"Yo, did you see the new guy?"
You blinked, turning to the two idiots you worked with—gaunt Mustache Guy and bleached-blond Takuya, who never stopped chewing gum. They were both grinning toward you as if they had just pulled off a brilliant joke.
Mustache Guy jabbed a thumb toward the back of the store, where a lanky kid was stocking shelves. "Dude jumped when I said hi. What a loser."
You barely batted an eyelash until you looked. The new recruit was standing uncomfortably, fingers nervously fidgeting with a shaky stack of brightly-colored instant noodle cups. You were aware that he was listening acutely to their words, his eyes darting back and forth.
Years ago, you might've laughed along.
"Yeah?" You turned away.
Takuya snorted. "Bet he still wets the bed."
Your fingers tapped rhythmically against the cool surface of the counter. Something about the kid's darting eyes, the way he flinched at the sharpness of their voices, as if each word were a physical blow, stirred up something you'd long buried.
Not my problem.
You dropped your gaze back to the counter. A heavy sigh escaped your lips—what's the point of trying to intervene? You were either the one laughing, or the one getting laughed at. Even now, echoes of the laughter still fill your thoughts, you still hesitate to ponder what happened to people after. After the laughter died down. After the bruises faded. After high school ended, the world moved on, and people stopped caring about who was cool and who wasn't.
You barely registered the ground shaking beneath you, the security mirrors above quivered perilously, reflecting broken shards of fluorescent light that sent erratic beams dancing across the tiled floor. Shelves rattled ominously, their contents teetering on the brink of collapse.
"What the hell?" Your coworker swore.
With every passing second, the tremors intensified, reverberating through the building like a relentless freight train. The harsh fluorescent lights flickered intermittently, casting fleeting shadows that twisted and writhed along the aisles. Cans tumbled from the shelves in a cacophony of metallic clangs, scattering across the floor while snack bags burst free from their confines, a riot of colorful packaging spilling like confetti.
"Earthquake?" someone yelled. Over you, the world disintegrated into anarchy; you heard someone's terror shriek rang out through the air, followed by a sharp, booming crash that was echoed warningly through the store. And before sense could catch up with you, you swooped under the counter, fists pounding over your ears.
Then—
Silence.
For what was forever, you remained crouched in the dark. Counting the tick of the clock, waiting for the next shiver or sirens. But there was nothing. Slowly, you uncrossed your fingers from your ears. The shop, moments before, a dozen had been there, was empty. The humming refrigerators and the whirring overhead lights are off. Customers disappeared, even that guy who had been hiding with you under the counter—vanished.
Your fingers trembled as you crawled out, the automatic doors were wide open, leading to the street that looked uncanny. You stumbled to your feet, swallowing hard. "Hello?"
No answer.
The city was still.
You stepped out. Not a single honking horn pierced the air, nor was there any rumble of voices to break the stillness. There were no cars on the streets—not even the reassuring hum of traffic. You patrolled the streets for hours. At first, you hoped to spot someone down the street. But street after street, there was nothing. It felt like stepping into the backrooms of reality, as the whole world had glitched, and you were the only thing left running.
You should be panicking; instead, you found yourself adjusting. Maybe it was a shock or it was just easier to cope. Either way, when you spotted a gleaming Porsche with the keys still in the ignition, you climbed in without hesitation. The engine purred to life under your fingers. The city was your personal racetrack now without cops to pull you over, so you sped down the highway, weaving between empty lanes, wind rushing through the open windows. The speedometer ticked higher and higher.
For a moment, it almost felt normal. If you just ignored the silence long enough, the world might snap back into place.
At some point, you ditched the car and broke into a luxury mall. You strutted through the high-end boutiques, slipping into a designer dress with a price tag higher than your monthly rent. You only encountered someone else once, a solitary figure hurriedly crossing your path. In an impulsive moment, you called out to him, curiosity overcome by the thrill of finding another soul in this city. "Hey! What the hell is going on? Where is everyone?"
He glanced your way momentarily, but rather than responding, he simply continued walking as though you were not even there. It wasn't until the sun began to dip below the horizon, the city transformed under the night sky. In the distance, the glowing billboards flickered back to life.
[Welcome players. The game will commence in a moment.]
The underground parking lot reeked of gasoline and rust. You're not sure why you were even in this place. You had simply followed the arrow from the billboard, which pointed you to this only illuminated building.
A single flickering lightbulb cast weak yellow light across the cracked pavement, where a crowd of people huddled together. Some were standing in the corner, some were pacing in frantic circles, others were demanding answers from the blank, unfeeling monitors in the center of the room. You don't think approaching any of them is a good idea.
You stood near the back, clutching the electronic device tightly in your hand. It resembled a phone, but you doubted that it actually was one. The moment the rules flashed onto the screen of the monitor, and you knew exactly what kind of nightmare you were in.
GAME: "Hunter's Eclipse"
Difficulty: Seven of Spades
Rule: Survive until dawn. If caught, immediate elimination.
You strain to catch the panicked murmurs swirling around the dimly lit room, but their urgency fades into the background as your focus sharpens on the device you retrieved from the entrance. Its sleek surface glimmers under the flickering fluorescent lights, a single poker card appears.
Someone pushed past you, racing toward the monitor.
"Wh-What the hell does that mean?! Survive until dawn?! That's five hours!"
Another person screamed, backing away from the metal gates. "This has to be a joke! There has to be a way out!"
A heavy clang reverberated through the stillness of the parking lot, sent a ripple of unease through the gathered crowd. From the shadows emerged the first hunter, a colossal figure that seemed almost mechanical in the way it moved. Each step it took was marked by a metallic whir, its eyes—if they could truly be called eyes—castinga glowbeneath the flickering emergency lights overhead. The muzzle of its rifle glinted ominously as it lifted the weapon, scanning the crowd.
BANG.
A man crumpled, a fresh bullet hole in his skull.
The heavy doors around you slammed shut with a resounding finality, the sound vibrating through the cold, concrete walls. The lights overhead flickered erratically, and the sound of mechanical grinding echoed from deep within the garage.
You didn't pause to contemplate your next move. Adrenaline surged through your veins; you ran. You weren't concerned about who just got shot; their fates were irrelevant to you. All that mattered was escaping the encroaching terror, the primal instinct to survive overriding any sense of empathy. Whatever happened next, it wouldn't be you who became the next victim.
Every hour, a new hunter emerged. Their red targeting lights scanned the dark, some were armed with rifles, others with knives, some with nothing but their bare hands. Your legs burned as you sprinted through the dimly lit maze of parked cars. More gunshots rang out behind you, along with the sound of bodies hitting the ground.
You weren't dreaming. This was real.
You vaulted over a low hood, diving behind an SUV just as a bullet whizzed past, its impact sending a shower of concrete debris scattering beside you. The smell of burnt metal and blood thickened the air. So you crawled down, pressing yourself against the cool surface under a car. You heard someone sobbing nearby, trying desperately to muffle the sound.
A woman.
She wasn't going to make it.
A shadow loomed over the other side of the car. The mechanical whir of shifting gears sent ice down your spine, the hunter was close.
Your fingers clenched into fists. You had nothing to fight with. No weapons. No plan. Just your own instincts and the sick, twisting feeling in your gut telling you to move.
So you did.
You lunged forward, grabbing a discarded metal pipe from the ground and swung. The pipe connected with the hunter's arm in a dull clang, and the impact barely made it flinch. For a split second, you stared into its face. There were no expression, just a cold, emotionless machine.
It lifted the rifle.
You bolted.
The woman behind you wasn't as fast. The gun fired, and her splatter of blood hit the pavement behind you, warm against your skin. You feel like you're going to throw up, but you don't look back.
Only a handful of survivors remained by the time the final hour approached.
You leaned against a concrete pillar, breath coming in sharp gasps. Your arms ached, your lungs burned, sweat clung to your skin, mixing with dust and grime, the taste of iron thick on your tongue. A BEEP rang through the parking lot, and the gates unlocked.
The game had finally come to an end, you let out a breath you didn't even realize you'd been holding. The atmosphere around you shifted dramatically, from the shadows and debris of your surroundings, a handful of other survivors slowly emerged. There were only four of them, though you didn't take a moment to examine who had survived; you were too lost in your own thoughts. But then your gaze dropped.
The survivors... They all had wristbands.
You looked down at your own arm. Nothing.
Why only them?
You looked at them again. None of them seemed to notice, or maybe they were too exhausted to care. Your mind raced with questions as you scanned their faces, wondering what separated you from them. But before you could think too much about it, you sensed that unmistakable feeling when someone was watching you.
So you turned. At first, he was just a silhouette beneath the emergency lights. He stood tall and lean, his long black hair was pulled into a half-up bun. Silver piercings glimmered subtly in the dim light, drawing attention to his features—an eyebrow and nose studs, the tongue piercing glinted when he dragged it through his teeth. His giraffe-print shirt hung loose, the first few buttons undone. A gun rested lazily against his shoulder, contrasting sharply with his laid-back attire.
You met his eyes. Something about him sent a deep, instinctive chill down your spine. It felt like being dissected under a microscope; he was peeling your skin layer by layer with nothing but a look. You squinted, trying to place where you had seen him before. It has to be somewhere.
His gaze never wavered, and a slow, deliberate smirk curled onto his lips.
Leave.
The word thundered through your skull.
A shiver crawled down your back.
You didn't know why, but every instinct screamed at you to leave.
Because somehow you just knew.
That man wanted you dead.
_
"Well, shit."
Your legs ache from walking miles just to find food. Your arms ached from dragging yourself up crumbling fire escapes, searching for shelter. Your stomach ached from hunger that never seemed to end.
You lived in a house that wasn't yours. A narrow, abandoned house, the walls once painted in fading hues, now bore the scars from peeling paint. The windows were cracked, the floors coated in dust. You used to complain about your tiny apartment back in the real world, that place would be a fucking paradise now. This house had no electricity, neither running water, only the barest protection from the outside world. It had been so long since you had a proper shower that your hair was coated in dirt, and your skin felt sticky with whatever got on it. In the first few weeks, you got lucky. Convenience stores still had supplies, but then the scavengers came, and everything was picked clean.
Back in high school, you used to have warm showers, clean clothes, and a soft bed. Used to be the kind of person who threw away food because you "didn't feel like eating it." Now, you ate whatever you could find—crushed protein bars, expired instant noodles, a half-rotten apple you found in a store. Sometimes, you have to go days without eating and curl up in the corner of the room, pressing your knees to your chest, trying to ignore the boiling emptiness in your stomach.
It got bad enough that you thought about breaking into a better house or finding a group, but you had seen what groups did to outsiders. One time, you found a corpse dumped in the middle of a street with fresh stab wounds. Someone had fought over food. But you hadn't stuck around to find out more.
You kept your flashlight close, but the batteries were dying. The light flickered weakly, casting thin shadows across the warped wooden planks. You thought about home. Your dad's voice used to scold you for not cleaning your room, the smell of food your mom cooks in the kitchen, and your stupid brother laughed at some dumb video on his phone. Were they even looking for you? Did they miss you? Or was you just... gone?
Some part of you wanted to believe they would be devastated. But another part of you whispered, why would they be?
You weren't a good daughter.
You weren't a good sister.
You weren't a good person, either.
Maybe this place, this hell you were rotting in, was exactly what you deserved. But you didn't want to die.
Even though you might be a bully, tormentor, or whatever they call it. You never were a murderer. You always reassured yourself that after every game you won, people were killed for you to live; it's the games that took their lives. You never killed because you could; you only did what you needed to, right?
So when the next game announcement played on the billboard, you picked yourself up and went.
Entering the venue, you kept your gaze low, avoiding the wary glances of those around you. The air carried a chill as you made your way through yet another cavernous parking garage, cold concrete walls loomed and rusted beams crisscrossed overhead. A thick layer of dust clung to everything, people shuffled around, whispering, shifting nervously under the weak emergency lights, but you barely cared at this point.
Only one thing caught your attention. A man stood near the front, surrounded by a small group of people. His robe is woven with a vibrant tapestry of colors, hung around him like a royal cloak, billowing slightly as he moved. He was smiling, chatting like this was a social event, not a death game.
But that wasn't what made you stare; it was the wristbands. You recognized them immediately; they were the same as the ones from your first game, a gnawing sense of unease digging into your mind. You glanced around. The man who had stared at you last time—he wasn't here. You should have felt relieved.
You didn't.
GAME: "Perfect Aim"
Difficulty: Four of Diamonds
Rule: Each player will take turns hitting a designated target. The further the distance, the higher the score. Players who missed the target or scored the lowest will be eliminated.
As the final words of the rules faded into silence, a groaning metal door at the far end of the warehouse groaned open. You barely heard what's going on around you. All you could hear was the past rushing back, hitting you like a punch to the gut.
Your hands quivered uncontrollably, and you hastily stuffed them deep into your pockets, a desperate attempt to stifle the rising tide of memories Don't think about it. Don't think about it.
Ahead, more chalk outlines marred the brick wall, different numbers scrawled over the arms, the legs, and the chest. Flurries of numbers were scrawled over their limbs and torsos like morbid tally marks. Gripping the baseball in your palms, your fingers trembled violently, the solid object somehow grounding you amidst the chaos. The first targets popped up; they are holograms, flickering figures made of neon-blue light. The shapes were frozen in poses of fear, arms shielding their faces.
Just like—
Just like Niragi.
A whistle blew, and someone threw first. A hard thunk as a baseball struck a target's shoulder, and the scoreboard updated.
Your fingers curled around the baseball, alright, you didn't have a choice. You took a determined step forward, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. With a quick flick of your wrist, you launched the ball with precision. It soared through the air in perfect, sharp arcs, striking the neon figure's ribcage with a sharp, resounding beep that echoed like a gunshot in the tense atmosphere. Years of playing that game in high school must've trained you for this moment.
More throws. More hits. Some players panicked, missing their shots, dropping their balls.
One by one, they were eliminated.
By the end of the round, you reveled in the satisfaction of hitting the highest scoring zones with effortless ease. But beneath that triumph, you hated the whole experience. Every time the ball left your hands, every time you scored another perfect hit, all you could hear was Niragi's muffled grunts, the sound of baseballs slamming into his temple. All you could see was his face, twisted with pain, but he never cried.
The warehouse game left behind the stench of blood, but you didn't notice anymore. You have survived; that was all that mattered.
And that's when Hatter approached. He exuded effortless confidence as he strode toward you like he already owned the space between you both.
"You're impressive," he said, his voice laced with amusement.
You didn't respond immediately, choosing instead to scrutinize him, every inch of his demeanor and expression. Compliments had always been like double-edged swords here, beautiful on the surface yet always sharpened with hidden motives. But instead of prolonging the silence, he glanced around the dimly lit warehouse, surveying the scattered remnants of discarded crates and remaining players.
"You're alone, aren't you?" he observed.
"...So what?" You cross your arms.
He chuckled softly, the sound rich and inviting, somehow managing to break through your guarded exterior. "It's a waste. Someone like you shouldn't be scraping by like a rat." He spread his arms wide. "Consider coming with us?"
"Who's us?"
"We call it The Beach."
You stared at him, waiting.
"A utopia, in this world of chaos." He smiled, pleased by your silence. "The way it works is simple. Everyone here is working together to collect the playing cards. When we win all of them, one person will return to the previous world."
"And then?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.
Hatter's smile widened. "Then we start again."
A cycle. A never-ending game.
It was a trickle of hope, just enough to keep people moving, just enough to keep them desperate. And yet, despite the futility, wasn't that still better than wandering these empty streets alone, starving, waiting for the next game to kill you?
"What's the catch?" You frowned.
"Smart girl. There are rules, of course." Hatter raised a hand, ticking them off with his fingers. "One, everyone must wear swimsuits."
"What?"
"It prevents people from hiding weapons," he explained. "We value safety at The Beach."
Bullshit.
"Two, any playing cards you win belong to The Beach. You turn them in once you return."
Your fingers twitched. That one was more dangerous.
"And three," Hatter's eyes darkened slightly, "death to all traitors."
Hatter tilted his head, watching you closely. "Aside from that, you're free to do whatever you like. Drink, party, have sex. We're not slavers, we're a family. You just have to play your part."
You sighed wearisome, weighing your options, the thought of a slow, miserable death in the streets gnawed at your mind. Or this—this dubious offer. It was possible that it was merely another trap, designed to ensnare you further. Maybe you should run away; however, you couldn't shake the dread of how much longer you could survive alone.
—But when it came down to it, what choice did you truly have?
_
You watched the passing city through the car window. The night air is humid, an unsettling silence envelops the deserted streets, and abandoned belongings lay scattered. At some point, you stopped wondering where everyone had gone.
The car rumbled along cracked roads, its tires kicking up dust. The inside smelled like cigarette smoke and sweat, the kind of scent that clung to the skin and wouldn't wash off. Sitting in the cramped backseat with two others, no one spoke.
The first thing you noticed was the sound of music, laughter, and the distant crash of waves. The Beach loomed ahead, a massive, luxurious hotel rising from the darkness, its neon lights flickering against the dark sky. You also noticed a gathering of people waiting at the entrance. Some stood with arms crossed, while others lounged languidly by the gates, cigarettes dangling from their fingers, the glow of embers pulsing like tiny stars. They seemed at ease, yet a subtle tension thrummed beneath their relaxed exteriors.
You barely had time to step out before you felt that same gaze.
It bored into you, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
He stood near the front, gun resting lazily against his shoulder just like the last time. Silver glinted from his piercings, and light from the hotel cast sharp shadows over his face, making the smirk on his lips look carved in stone. Before you could react, you felt Hatter's hand press firmly against your back.
"Everyone, this is our newcomer," Hatter nudged you forward. The pat on your back leaves you uncertain whether to feel comforted or threatened by it.
The moment you emerged from the car, something about Niragi's posture shifted; an almost predatory tension rippled through him. And for the briefest second—his face seems to crack. It was barely a twitch of his jaw. His fingers tightened around the gun, knuckles whitening before he forced his grip to relax. But just as swiftly as it had appeared, it vanished, replaced by a smirk that curled playfully onto his lips.
"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" he said, eyes boring into yours, "Why don't you tell us all your name?"
You hesitated, something about him felt familiar. But from where? But there was no point in lying, he might simply want to acknowledge the newcomer. Right?
So you answered.
And the moment your name left your lips, you noticed his grip on the gun transition from a playful tease into a rigid, almost painful clench, the sound of creaking metal filling the charged air. The shift might have been subtle to others, but to you, it was a threshold crossed.
Hatter's still smiling, one of his guys, a muscular man with short hair and a light goatee placed a hand on Niragi's shoulder (you later learned that his name is Aguni) — He murmured something under his breath.
"Not now."
Niragi scoffed, rolling his eyes before turning away, but not before shooting you one last, lingering look. Everyone around seemed to recognize something you didn't. You could feel it; the way their gazes fixed on you and the man. Was it surprise mixed with a hint of pity? But why, why did they feel sorry for you? What was it that made them look at you that way?
The moment he walked past you, he leaned in. Just enough for only you to hear:
"Found you."
By the time you turned, he was already gone, blending back into the crowd.
It was your first day, the music thumped in hypnotic beats, the pool shimmered under the neon lights, reflecting bodies moving in a chaotic, hedonistic blur. People danced, drank, and laughed—completely absorbed in the illusion of paradise.
You sat at the edge of the pool, shifted your gaze to the people around you, watching them through half-lidded eyes. Your fingers are absently tracing the edges of your wristband. You should be enjoying this, it was everything you used to thrive in.
Once, you had been the center of it all. And now it makes the ache you feel gradually get worse. As if something was pushing and pulling inside of your skull somehow, messing around internally, poking and prodding in places that should have remained untouched.
It was years ago. The rooftop party was loud, the city lights stretching endlessly in every direction. You stood at the center, your presence magnetic, your laughter sharp. A cigarette dangled between your fingers, though you barely took a drag. Someone offered you a drink, and you took it without looking, attention flicking between the people who mattered. Your friends were in their element—girls whispered behind their hands and giggled. While the guys laughed loudly, aggressively shoving each other around.
It was your first time meeting Nigari. He always seemed to hunch at the edge of the party, seeking refuge within the confines of his worn backpack, which was frayed at the edges and adorned with a few colorful patches. Lately, your friends would often pull him into their activities, treating him like an ever-present companion in their spontaneous games and laughter. Though you didn't really notice him back then.
"I dare you," Your friend nudged you, her voice lowered to a teasing whisper.
You arched a brow. "Dare me what?"
"Go talk to him."
"Oh, come on." A smirk curled onto your lips as you flicked the cigarette away. "That's too easy."
You sauntered toward Niragi, feeling the eyes of your friends on your back. Nigragi startled when you slid into the seat beside him, eyes darting to the crowd before settling on you with suspicion.
"What?" he muttered, voice small.
You smiled sweetly. "You look lonely, Suguru."
He stiffened. "I'm not."
"You should loosen up." You leaned in, letting the scent of your intoxicating perfume wrap around him. "You're always so tense."
"I'm fine."
You let your fingers drift, just slightly, brushing the fabric of his sleeve. Which is not quite touching, just enough to make him nervous.
"You're cute, you know," you said, voice honeyed. "I've always thought so."
His ears burned red, his hands gripping his backpack tighter. You could feel your friends watching; they leaned in closer, eager for the punchline. Waiting for you to do what you always did.
You let the silence stretch, let the moment sink into his bones, he shifted awkwardly as he waited for your next move. You could have easily stepped back, chosen to leave him to his own discomfort, simply walk away.
But instead, an infectious laughter erupted from your lips.
And before you knew it, your friends joined in.
Niragi went still. His fingers clenched around the straps of his bag, the skin stretched taut over his knuckles, which turned a ghostly white. But he turned away.
Back to the present, your grip tightened on the wristband, try to ignore the ugly and hot twists in your gut. Except you couldn't. Just across the shimmering expanse of the pool, the militants prowled. The joyous laughter and animated chatter of sunbathers replaced by hushed whispers and sidelong glances as the crowd instinctively recoiled. A group of men sauntered along the far side of the pool deck, weapons casually over their shoulders, yet every movement they made radiated an unmistakable air of menace. They are The Beach's so-called enforcers.
Putting the drink down, you pushed yourself upright and melded into the throng of bodies, settled onto a worn-out couch, surrounded by half-drunk strangers. If you just kept to the facelessness of it all, no one would...
"You know Niragi?"
—would notice you.
You turned around.
A strikingly beautiful woman stood beside you, one hand gracefully rested on the back of a chair, her long dreadlocks elegantly swept into a high ponytail that cascaded down her back. She wore a bikini top and jeans that hugged her figure just right.
You raised one eyebrow, confused. "Me?"
"You know him?" the woman repeated, her hand absentmindedly twisting and tugging at her dreadlocks. "Niragi, you know, the guy with all the piercings? Someone said he'd been acting strange since you arrived last night."
A cold feeling wrapped around your chest, squeezing tight. That name—it had been years since you last heard it.
No. No, it couldn't possibly be.
The woman smirked. "So you do know him." She pulled out the chair, straddling it with an easy confidence. "I'm Kuina."
"I think you've got the wrong person." You forced your expression to be neutral.
"Oh yeah?" Kuina chuckled. "Then why'd you flinch when I said his name?".
Damn.
You snorted, leaning back in your seat. "Maybe I misheard you."
"Uh-huh. Well, if you did know him, I'd say you're quite unlucky." She tilted her head toward the militants. "He's not exactly the picture of sanity. While we hit the brakes, he would be the one to slam on the accelerator at full speed. I'm curious about what happened in the past that could have fucked him up so badly."
Out of instinct, you turned your head, your gaze gliding across the your gaze sweeping across the motley crew.
And there he was, unmistakable. He reclined in a battered, dented chair near the entrance of The Beach, one long leg draped over the other, fingers lazily tapping against the stock of his rifle like he had all the time in the world. The glint of a piercing on his tongue flickered against his sharp teeth, momentarily flashing against the sharp light as he erupted into laughter at a joke shared by the burly man sitting beside him.
"...Which one?" you asked anyway, trying to mask over your rising unease, attempting to sound indifferent, even casual in your curiosity.
Kuina, following your line of sight, pointed with a hint of reluctance. "Him."
The figure you wished—no, hoped—was someone else.
You stared at him, attempting to weave together the fragments of what once was and what now stood before you, but the pieces refused to align. Niragi had been a loser, a constant target that you and your friends used as a punching bag for your adolescent frustrations. This man was nothing like that, he's the kind of presence that even you high school would've been afraid.
But the longer you stared, the more your brain started filling in the blanks. The oversized glasses that once slipped down his nose had vanished, along with the frailness that marked his youth. Yet, beneath the hardened façade, the structure of his face was unmistakably familiar—the slight downturn of his mouth, the angularity of his cheekbones, and the piercing shape of his eyes—were the same.
You swallowed hard. "...That's Niragi?"
"Yeah," Kuina said. "That's Niragi Suguru."
Suguru.
Niragi Suguru.
Kuina leaned in, and softly spoke. "He's crazy as hell. If you see him smiling, run in the other direction."
The once-awkward, sniveling kid you mercilessly threw baseballs at, was now one of Aguni's right-hand men, second-in-command of the Beach's militants. Kuina kept talking, listing off all the reasons why Niragi was someone to avoid at all costs, but her voice began to blur into a muffled hum in the back of your mind.
Because Niragi is making his way toward you.
He was oblivious to your presence for the moment, but awareness ignited your survival instincts before you could fully process your thoughts or the gathering dread; you blurted out, "I need a drink."
With a swift movement, you rose from your seat, urgently stepping away from Kuina, the conversation forgotten.
"What hap-"
You didn't hear the rest. "Later."
And turned sharply into the crowd.
The clammy sweat on your palms betrayed your fear, you walked fast, heart pounding, every muscle in your body screaming at you to run. But you shouldn't, it would attract attention. Someone drunkenly bumps into you, and you don't care. You continued to walk. You ducked between people, weaving through the mass of bodies, heading toward the nearest exit, and had no choice but to turn away when you almost came face-to-face with another militant member on patrol.
In the hall, the air is thick with heat, the scent of sweat and alcohol clinging to your skin. The music had died down, but small pockets of revelers still lurked in the corners—drunk, high, or simply just standing there looking depressed. You slip through corridors, avoiding attention. It's been hours since you saw Niragi, and you've done everything in your power to stay invisible. Your room doesn't sound like a safe place right now, since you just came, he can easily track down the newest member. Your brain scrambled for a way out. Options: Fight? Stupid. Run? Impossible. Talk? ...Maybe.
But it didn't matter.
You had known, deep down, in the sick pit of your stomach, that he wouldn't let you disappear. You barely had time to register the smell of smoke and gunpowder before you heard his taunting voice rung.
"Well. Running away? That's no fun."
And now, standing in the dim hallway near the storage rooms, you realize you finally have to face the consequences of the past.
Niragi leaned against the cool, rough surface of the wall at the end of the dimly lit hallway, one foot casually crossed over the other. The rifle slung loosely at his side glinted dully under the flickering overhead lights, his men flanked him, forming a tight-knit trio. The faint sound of distant voices echoed down the corridor, but Niragi remained undisturbed.
"Just trying to get some air," you forced your voice out.
His smirk widened, but his fingers tightened around his gun.
"Air, huh?" He pushed off the wall, taking slow, deliberate steps toward you. "And here I thought you were avoiding me."
You fought the instinct to retreat, standing your ground despite the rising tension in the air. Don't show weakness. Don't show weakness.
His men moved too, spreading out. Effectively cut off every possible escape route,
You weakly scoff. "And you are?"
"Oh?" he cocks his head. "You don't remember me?"
You should've lied. Should've said, " No, never seen you before in my life". Should've laughed it off, walked away, anything.
But instead, you hesitated. And in that single, tiny moment—he knew.
"Ah, so you do remember."
That sick, twisted irony. You felt like you were seventeen again, standing on that rooftop, looking down at a scrawny, awkward Niragi, your laughter sharp, your power absolute. Now, the roles were reversed; you're the one against the wall.
You hardly straighten yourself. "What do you want?"
"Oh, come on," he stepped closer. "Didn't recognize me? Can't blame ya. I changed a little."
"A little," you repeated.
"Though I didn't expect to see you here," He chuckled, the sound almost pleasant, if you didn't know better. "Imagine my surprise when you introduced yourself. I almost thought I misheard—of all the holes in the world to crawl into, you chose mine."
"I... didn't expect to see you here," you said coolly.
"I gotta say," he mused, a sharp, ugly laugh bubbling up from his chest, "What happened to the bitch who used to run the school?"
You lifted your chin. "What happened to the loser who used to huddle in the bathroom for lunch?"
His men exchanged uneasy glances. One of them muttered something under his breath, but you didn't catch it, and frankly, you didn't care.
"It makes me wonder..." he took another step, and you finally moved back. You instinctively recoiled, suddenly your limbs felt... paralyzed, as if they weren't there. "Does it ever cross that thick skull of yours? About what you did?"
You could easily shake your head, feigning ignorance, but deep down, both of you knew the truth. You thought about it all the time. Every time you see a kid getting mocked at work, every time you watched someone flinch away, small and powerless. Every time you woke up in this godforsaken hellhole and realized the universe had finally flipped the script.
You took a deep breath. "You lived, didn't you? Get over it."
In a blur, he moved.
He wasn't fast, not really. But he was too close—so when he lifted his gun and jammed the barrel under your chin, tilting your head up. You had nowhere to go, the ice-cold steel burned against your skin.
"Indeed," he purred, his breath hot against your ear and smelling of smoke. "I did more than live."
For a second, neither of you moved.
The air between you crackled, charged with too much history, too much violence left unsaid. You've been in an earthquake. Don't know if this was even close to how they are, but the ground definitely felt like it opened up and ate you alive.
Finally, Niragi chuckled, a low, pleased sound. Just as easily as he had closed the distance, he pulled back, and his men followed. The gun dropped back to his side, like it had never been a threat in the first place. You swallowed, forcing your heart to slow down. Your legs are shaking by the adrenaline rush.
He didn't miss it. He watched the slight tremor in your legs with a look of pure, satisfied hunger. With a slow, mocking wink, he turned to leave:
"Room 402. Don't make me come looking for you."
_
The Beach never sleep.
Even as the party waned, the low murmur of voices, the distant bass of music, and the occasional burst of laughter still echoed through the halls.
The wind whipped against your back, tugging at your bikini like greedy fingers. From up here, The Beach looked like a mirage, bright lights, muffled laughter, stuck in the illusion of a utopia. You tightened your grip on the frigid railing, your fingers sinking into the unforgiving metal. But standing on this balcony, trapped between Niragi and the open air, you could feel the rot beneath the surface.
Behind you, blocking the only exit, stood three armed men.
And in front of you, leaning lazily against the balcony railing, was Niragi.
The rifle was nowhere to be seen, but that didn't make you feel any safer. He smelled of cigarettes and smoke, the metallic tang of old blood still clinging to his skin. There was something sickly sweet beneath it, maybe the remnants of liquor, or just the way danger itself seemed to perfume the air around him.
"Glad you could make it," he grinned, teeth bared as he lit a cigarette. The ember flared, casting sharp shadows over his face. "I was beginning to think you were avoiding me."
When he stopped you earlier, forcing you to confront him while his men closed in, you knew the rules. This wasn't high school, where you could simply brush past someone and carry on with your day. The Beach ran on power, and he held the cards. His men's stony glares and threatening stances underscored his authority.
"You gave me much of a choice?"
He exhaled a trail of smoke, laughing low in his throat. "No," he admitted easily.
You hated this, he was dragging this out, he could have killed you already—could have put a gun to your head, beat the shit out of you or anything to get back at you for what you did in high school. Instead, he's playing with you as if it's a cat-and-mouse game.
"Relax," Niragi said. "You look like you're waiting to be executed."
You shot him a sharp glare, the tension in your shoulders refusing to ease. "I didn't realize we were friends now."
He beamed with an unmistakable glee, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Oh, we're not," he said unapologetically. With a casual wave of his hand, he gestured to the empty seat across from him, the chair slightly askew. "Sit."
One of his men—a broad, stocky guy with a scar on his forehead—stepped forward to remind you that leaving wasn't an option. So you clenched your jaw and lowered yourself into the chair.
He took another slow drag of his cigarette before flicking the ashes into an empty glass. "It's kinda poetic, don't you think?" he reflects. "In high school, I couldn't even get you to look at me. And now, here you are."
You rolled your eyes in exasperation. "Good for you, Niragi."
"What, no more 'Suguru?'" He chuckled.
"Doesn't suit you."
He hummed, contemplating your words as he took another drag. "Yeah, I guess it doesn't." He flicked the ash off the tip, watching as the glowing embers drifted down to the glass below, tiny sparks fading before they even touched the surface. "Tables turned. It's a real tragedy, huh?"
"You think I care about that?" You scoffed.
He tilted his head. "You don't?"
"I don't."
His smirk widened. "Then why is your tail showing?"
Your fingers curled into your palms . Niragi was like a sharpened blade, expertly skilled at pinpointing the softest spots to twist and torment until the pain seeped through your defenses. You steeled yourself, unwilling to let him win. But your dad used to say dogs, even snarling ones, always tuck their tails between their legs when cornered—a clear sign of fear.
It's all a bluff in the end.
"High school is over," you said flatly. "Whatever happened, it doesn't matter anymore."
For a moment, his eyes flickered with a pale, almost ghostly light before he snuffed it out. "Oh, but it is an issue. It’s the entire issue."
You felt the irritation bubbling up, drowning out the fear. You steeled your posture and looked him dead in the eye. "Jesus, Niragi. Give it a rest and just tell me what you want already."
He allowed a slow grin to creep across his face, feigning contemplation as he teased, "What do I want?" he cooed, his tone dripping with mockery. "What a load of question."
In an instant, he was on his feet, closing the distance between you with a swift, graceful motion that left you momentarily off-guarded.
Before you could react, he reached out, his hands gripping the arms of your chair with an intensity that made your heart race. Leaning down, his face was a mere breath away from yours, his gaze piercing and unwavering. The world around you faded, leaving only the charged silence that hung between your breaths. You never seen his rage, but you can sensed it smoldering just by an inch of the surface like a snake coiled to strike.
"You never answered my question from earlier."
You could feel his men watching you now, waiting to see how you would react. A cold, creeping feeling slid down you, from head to toe.
Careful.
Be fucking careful.
You licked your lips, struggling for the right words. "What do you mean?"
"You know exactly what the fuck I mean." His fingers dug into the chair, his grip tightening.
The air suddenly felt excessively heavy.
Then, he let out another laugh, shaking his head, exhaling smoke through his nose.
"Fuck," he muttered. "Look at you. You’re not so big without a crowd behind you, are you?"
Your mouth opened, but the voice caught in your throat. "Niragi—"
He cut you off. "No, no, let's talk about it," he insisted, his expression both intense and earnest. As he spoke, his hand gradually extended toward your wrist, his grip was deceptively light at first—a mere brush of fingertips against your skin—but then it tightened, a sudden pull that yanked you forward with surprising force, the legs of your chair scraping against the polished marble floor with an unwelcome screech.
"You're not stupid," he continued, "You used to have so much to say when I was the one on the floor. Where’s that loud mouth now?"
You did, you just didn't want to face it.
"Tell me, did you ever think about what happened to me after you were done having your fun?"
"Niragi—"
"No, answer the fucking question,"
The men behind you shifted uneasily, readied for action. Everything went silent, letting the blood in your ears deafen you, roaring and filling your senses with ringing. It left a bad taste in your mouth, bile rising in your throat. Even as your brain screamed at you to get out of there, yet, you couldn't.
"I was just a kid," you said. "We both were."
The moment the words left your lips, you regretted them. Because Niragi laughed. This time it was a horrible, jagged thing, and when it died, his expression twisted into something ugly. For a long, terrifying minute, he finally wiped a hand down his face, shaking his head.
"Holy shit, that's really it, huh? That's what you're gonna go with?"
You stayed silent.
"You made my life a living hell. Do you have any fucking idea what it was like?"
You felt an urge to recoil, a primal instinct to yank yourself away and scrub his unsettling touch from your skin. But you couldn't pull back.
In that moment, the air in your lungs suddenly felt like wet concrete. A sharp, rhythmic thudding started behind your ribs, vibrating up into your jaw until your teeth ached. The world tilted, the edges of your vision fraying into static. You tried to swallow, but your throat had closed tight, leaving you to watch him through a haze that made your skin feel several sizes too small.
Was it guilt? Was it fear? Or were you regretting the fact that you had been caught in the web of your own making, stripped of the pride you had so carefully constructed?
In the end, you blinked the tears threatening to spill away, tearing your gaze from his. No.
No, you didn't want to hear it.
You didn't want to know.
But Niragi kept talking.
"Do you have any idea every day, every second, you had to walk around knowing that she and her little pack of jackals were waiting to sink their fucking teeth in?" he continued, voice trembling with fury. "To have people waiting at your desk every fucking morning just to remind you that you don't matter? To hear your name get passed around like a goddamn joke—every fucking day because she fucking could?"
Something maniac, even feral, crept into his words.
"To get beat to the ground again and again and fucking laughed at? You think I didn't go home every day and stare at the walls, wondering why I even fucking existed?"
You flinched.
He saw it.
And he fucking loved it.
"I think about it all the time," he let out a bitter chuckle. "How many times I wanted to fucking end it. And you?" He drawled, his easy smile reappeared. "You would've laughed. Wouldn't you?"
And in a jiff, you made a grave mistake.
"I didn't force you to be weak."
You didn't mean it, of course; recklessness was never your intention, you knew you were better than that. But the words were already there, already waiting. You struggled to convince yourself that it was merely the remnants of past arrogance is still subconsciously slipping through.
His fingers twitched, in an instant, without uttering a single word, he seized you by the throat, his grip like iron. As the unforgiving railing dug into the small of your back, a sharp gasp escaped your lips. Your hands instinctively shot behind you, fingers wrapping around the cold, rusted bars as your balance tipped.
"Ngh—let me go, you son of a bitch—"
You flail immediately as he cuts off your oxygen. You can't breathe. You can't fucking breathe. The world around you contracted under the pressure, and the sound of your pulse pounding desperately in your ears.
Your lungs burned, and your vision darkened. Ink, swallowing you whole. Everything flickered like a dying flame.
"What's wrong?" he spat in your face, "Not so fun when you're the one with your back against the wall, huh?"
His face was too close now.
Below, the drop stretched out like a dark abyss, its unfathomable depth yawned open, vast and endless. The distant waves crashed rhythmically against the shore, so far removed from your immediate peril that it felt insignificant. You could almost hear the insistent whisper of the wind urging you closer to the edge, where a single hard push—just one ruthless shove—could send you toppling over.
"Ohhh," he breathed, pressing down. Letting the metal bite into your skin. "Oh, this is perfect."
Your body rebelled, panic flaring, your other hand snapping up to claw at his wrist. Nails bit into his skin, but he didn't even flinch. Didn't even acknowledge the way you were twisting, kicking, your lungs already screaming.
"You feel that?" He nudged you—just slightly. Your other hand curled around the railing so hard it hurt. "One little push." The wind roared past your ears, stealing your breath, pulling at you as gravity itself had turned against you. "And you'd be gone."
A sick joy burned in his eyes, the same way you used to look at him. You hated how much he had changed—hated the way you had to reckon with it.
You gritted your teeth. "Fuck. You."
He hummed, fingers barely pushed against your collarbone. "How brave," he cooed, his tongue flicking out in a taunting, serpent-like gesture. "But I think I'm over the talking phase. I’d much rather just watch the light go out of those eyes, wouldn't you?"
With the last bit of strength you had left, you raised your hand and aimed at his piercings, planning to rip them off. He dodged it, and at that moment his hand loosened—just a little bit, then you swung.
Your fist collided with his face, a crack of knuckles against bone.
He backed off. For a fleeting moment, everything went silent.
Rough, calloused hands seized your arms, twisting them painfully behind your back. You fought against his men's grip, muscles straining, but they held you firm, dragging you forward before you could even throw another punch. Your knees threatened to buckle under the weight of their hold, but you willed yourself to stand tall, trying to steady your hands, shaking violently at your sides.
Niragi staggered back slightly, fingers grazing the split on his lip. He slowly lifted his gaze to meet yours, crimson pooled at the corner of his mouth. Yet to your surprise, a disturbing smile broke across his face.
"You really haven't changed, have you?" Before you could fully process his expression, his fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back to keep you in place. The searing pain shot through your scalp like electric currents, grounding you in the moment as you struggled to maintain your resolve despite the threat of his menacing demeanor.
"Normally, you'd be dead for that." He touched his lip, smearing the blood with his thumb.
Then he tilted his head, considering something. For a while, there's only the faint noises you assumed must be from the crowds partying and your own labored breathing.
Finally, he waved a hand.
The men let go.
Your hairline finally loosened, as if a ton of iron had been lifted off your head. You hit the ground harder than you expected, and the taste of bitterness filled your mouth.
"Then what are you waiting for, Niragi?" you snapped. "But we both know if you kill me, you’ll have nothing left to blame your shitty life on. So either shoot or shut up."
Niragi didn't react the way he was supposed to. There was no biting taunt ready to roll off his tongue, and certainly no flicker of triump igniting his eyes. Instead, his expression remained eerily neutral.
Which was wrong.
You knew he was angry. The atmosphere around you thickened, becoming suffocatingly heavy, as if an unseen force was pressing down relentlessly on your chest. Each heartbeat slamming against your ribs, reverberating with something you couldn't name, worse than rage. His silence suffocated you, more stifling than any grip he might have imposed.
"But killing you would be too easy," Niragi crouched in front of you, close enough that the blood trickling from his split lip dripped onto the floor between you both. He didn't wipe it away. "I don't want you dead. I’d much rather drag you under. I’m going to sink my hooks in until you’ve fallen just as far as I have."
You didn't know what was going on until he yanked your wrist again. Now you tried to pull away, but you couldn't escape his grip. You should have been able to do it. But this time, he wasn't holding back. He was like a stone statue, nothing changed no matter how much you pulled. His free hand lifted, and for one awful tick, you thought he was going to grab your hair again, force your head back, maybe spit another insult in your face.
But instead, his fingers brushed your jaw, a featherlight touch. Then a slow, deliberate stroke along your cheek that it's felt wrong; goosebumps rose under his touch. Something unfamiliar clawed its way up your throat.
"Y'know," he mused, sticking out his tongue once more, the silver glint of his piercing catching the light. "I was gonna let you walk out of here. Just let you sit in that little pit of regret."
Your breathing is still rapid.
"But now," His voice dipped. "I think I wanna hear you say it."
"Say. What."
His grip tightened slightly, just enough to send a sharp warning through your wrist.
"Say you're sorry."
The world around you faded into static.
A hundred memories cascaded over me in a torrent, overwhelming and chaotic—joyful laughter reverberating through crowded hallways, the sharp crack of a baseball colliding with skin, the way Niragi would avert his gaze, his head lowered whenever he faced you.
No.
No.
You refused.
You try to push yourself away as hard as you can, your bare feet sliding across the floor.
"Go fuck yourself."
Wrong answer.
The punch came so fast you barely saw it.
Bone met flesh with a sickening crack, pain exploding across your face in white-hot shards. Your head snapped sideways, the impact shaking your brain like a struck bell. Blood rushed to your nose, warm and metallic, filling your mouth before you even registered what had happened.
Your knees buckled the moment Niragi let go; you crumpled to the ground. Cold stone met your hands and knees as the world spun, vision blurring at the edges. You pressed on your bloody nose as you struggled to process the pain, you tasted iron. Somewhere above you, you heard him and his men's laughter. Like being held underwater crashing down on your head laughing laughing laughing at you under.
So this is what your own medicine tastes like.
"Say you're sorry."
Something hard and heavy slammed into the base of your spine, instantly forcing you to the ground.
You instinctively tried to push up, but his boot sank deeper. Your fingers curled into fists against the cold floor, a sick parody of submission. And you—
You broke into actual tears.
Burned hot in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks before you could stop them. You squeezed your eyes shut, but the tremors racking your body betrayed you.
A predator who had lost her teeth.
A queen whose crown had been stripped away.
"Oh, don't do that," he feigned disappointment, resting his forearms on his thigh. "Crying already? If you think this is 'bad,' you clearly haven't been paying attention to how much I’ve learned from you."
A hollow, broken sound escaped your throat. You bit down on it hard, but it didn't stop the way your body pathetically shook; you barely see straight, and each movement makes the dizziness worse.
"You're gonna do it eventually," he drawled, almost sweetly. "So why drag it out?"
He lifted his foot, allowing you a brief gasp of air—before his fingers snatched the front of your shirt and yanked you up. Your feet left the ground, for a split second, you weren't touching anything. The only thing holding you up was Niragi's grip. Then he begins to walk, dragging you behind him.
Your bare feet scraped against the stone, skidding and slipping as you stumbled to keep up, but it didn't matter. He was stronger, and you barely had the strength to fight back anymore. You weren't even a person in his grip. Just a rag doll, limp and useless to defend itself.
He pulled you back into the bedroom, it is much bigger than yours. The bed in front of you is almost three times your size. Your stomach lurched ahead, and it's then that your toe bumped against the threshold on the floor.
"Wait, wait," The words tumble out of you like water.
You felt increasingly nauseous as you realized what he was up to. Has this always been in the back of his mind? Ever since that first night The Beach took you in, and his hatred toward you simply given him a reason to do so?
If you could, you would scream for help. But you're fully aware, no one here would dare to cross his line.
He roughly threw you on the bed. Everything happened too fast, the first thing you realized was your head hitting the headboard, along with a sharp pain that shot through your senses. You might have broken a rib or two without the mattress, but that wasn't the most important.
"Please don't," your voice cracked as you started sobbing uncontrollably. Your face was smeared by blood dripping from your nose, which was a long, thick red line, barely diluted by the heavy night.
"Really?" He lets out an exaggerated sigh and pins you against the bed by your arms. "You're getting soft. You used to be so much more creative than this."
And then he was on top of you, cupping your face. Before you could brace yourself, his mouth crashed into yours with enough force to bruise. "Why are you refusing me?" he spat before placing another forceful kiss on your lips. You tasted blood and your own salty tears; his tongue raked over yours, piercing clicks against your teeth.
He bit your lips until they bled, you tried to spit them away. Then he bit your neck hollow, then the now over-sensitive skin just below your clavicle like a hungry beast tearing at its purest form. With each new spot, there was another bloody tooth mark. His hand slipped under your bikini – And that was exactly when the panic set in.
You violently thrashed against his hold, your limbs flailing as you kicked out in desperation, convinced that you had made contact. The adrenaline surged through you, driving your movements into chaotic bursts, you don't even know what you are doing.
He, on the other hand, just let out a tsk like you were a child throwing a tantrum.
"My, my... you’re putting up a fight, aren't you?"
His grip was iron, fingers pressing into your wrist like a man testing the strength of a branch before snapping it. You grit your teeth, jerking again. But it was useless. His weight pinned you down, his strength overwhelming yours completely.
He stopped.
The shift in the movement was sudden, one second he was yanking you around like a ragdoll, and the next he was utterly still. He let the atmosphere become strangely silent before continuing.
"How about we save you the trouble and just break it right now?"
The words slid out soft and slow, as if he was asking if you wanted sugar in your tea.
You tried to pull your hand back instinctively—It's already too late.
His grip tightened.
His other hand reached up, brushing his knuckles against your temple in a mockingly gentle touch, before pressing a slow, lingering kiss against the same spot. Your skin feels like there are thousands of bugs crawling under.
You didn't notice his fingers moved. They curled around yours slowly, and he savors the moment. His thumb stroked over your knuckles, almost like he was holding your hand. Then, he started bending your pinky backward.
A warning stretch. A slow, awful pull.
Then pressure.
CRACK.
Sharp pain rushes to your brain.
A strangled, gasping noise tore from your throat, your vision whited out momentarily. Very quickly, the dull pain shot up your arm in jagged waves, nerves screaming as if something had been set on fire beneath your skin. You barely registered the way your breath hitched by the adrenaline pumping through your body, your chest locking up as a shudder racked through you. Don't scream. Don't scream.
"Ohhh, tough girl," Niragi watched your face closely. His fingers twisted your ruined pinky slightly, making you flinch. "Holding it in, huh?"
Your teeth sank into your tongue.
"Don't worry." His hand slid down your forearm, fingers tracing over the exposed skin of your inner elbow. "You won't be quiet for long."
Before you could react, he dropped his weight onto your arm. Directly onto your elbow joint.
CRACK.
An agonizing, searing pain coursed through your limb, akin to lightning splitting you open from the inside out. Your body convulsed uncontrollably, a raw cry tearing from your throat before you could stifle it. Your screams echoed through the air, primal and guttural, the sound reminiscent of a wild animal in the grip of excruciating torment. The intensity of the pain left you reeling, your body arching and contorting as the lightning-like agony coursed through your nerve.
You lay limp on the bed, breath punching out of your lungs in a strangled sob. The unbearable pain was everywhere, crawling up your shoulder like fire burning your nerves alive. Your arm felt wrong, like it wasn't even yours anymore. Your fingers twitched, but you couldn't move them properly. A sick, unnatural looseness had taken over your elbow. You pressed your good hand to your arm as if that could somehow hold it together. The pain didn't stop—just kept spiraling outward, sending deep, sharp pulses through your whole body.
"Yeahhh, that one got you, huh?"
Somewhere above you, Niragi clicked his tongue. He gazed at you with an intensity that felt almost palpable. You bet he has fantasized about this moment for years, probably imagined you begging. Crying. Groveling. To lose every last shred of superiority you once held over him.
You heard his men walk into the room before you felt them.
Hands.
More of them.
Grabbing your legs. Pinning them down, binding them.
Ropes bit into your skin as they worked fast, yanking knots tight around your ankles. You tried to wrestle, but every movement sent another vicious jolt of pain through your shattered arm. Your breath came in rapid gasps, words spilling out in choked curses. At this, Niragi merely used his free hands to pin down your thighs.
And he waited until your body is exhausted, too exhausted to flail or fight him. Not that it did you any good, with a broken arm. And with him on your body, weighing you down. When you cease to do more than squirm pitifully against the bed, and your panting has gone from crying to merely heaving. It didn't take long for your body to feel foreign; it wasn't put together correctly anymore.
He smiled down at you, signals the men to leave the room. You watched their backs as they closed the door. You're not looking at Niragi anymore—you can't—preferring to keep your eyes shut, your lids swollen from all the tears. He leaned closer, and you can feel something soaked caressing your bare shoulder.
A hot wet tongue licked over your collarbone, leaving a line of drool on your skin. Niragi hummed, and it was the most horrible sound you had ever heard. He started tracing his tongue around your body, through each of your curves, as if describing your shape, and you feel disgusted; dull sparks explode from where he violated you.
"Did you ever think you'd see me like this?"
He took his time, starting at your bikini and pulling it aside. Then he moved to wrap his arm around you and grabbed your waist. You tried to squeeze your thighs together, but two fingers were already slipping under your bikini. He found your clit, and roughly pushed in. You're dry. It hurts. But he said nothing when your breath catched in your throat and you let out a pained wheeze.
You shrank into yourself, your hand trailing up, fingers threading into his hair before you could stop yourself from trying to push him away. The throbbing pain was the worst at the back of your skull, growing more painful every time he thrust, curled his fingers, or did anything. You knew you were going to come, but you didn't know how to handle the anxious twisting and coiling and blazing of pleasure as it stoked up to a feverish storm inside of you.
"Did you ever imagine the loser you bullied would be the one touching you like this?"
He pulls his fingers out, and there's relief for a minute, until you feel his thumb rubbing your slit.
"Fuck, it gets me even harder knowing you hate this."
He snatched your bikini off, stripping you down like a rat. You whimpered in your throat. Yet, he still had that damn stupid giraffe-print shirt on. The sight made you angry, somewhere deep inside. The pounding in your chest gave way to a righteous flush.
Shame.
His other hand slowly slid down between your tightly closed thighs, adjusting your hips, and he wiped away the blood and sweat, and dirt from the ground that clung to your skin. His lower pressed against you, and you turned your head away when you heard the rustling of fabric, not wanting to face what was rubbing against your bottom.
Without warning, his cock slammed straight inside you, your walls clenched, a feeble attempt to push him out; and then spasm when he plunges deeper. Before you could get used to it, he moved roughly, rocking your body up and down. You pressed your lips together, stopping yourself from making any disgusting sounds. Your toes curl, your body struggling to keep up with all the sensations. Too much, everything, everything—the bruising sound of his hips against yours, the tight warmth of the blood that had been flowing all this time overwhelmed you.
You threw your head back, and stared at the clock hanging. The ticking filled the silence. You could count the time, follow the rhythm, let it pull you away from here. Away from now.
It was hard to do that, though. One of his hand held you, the other gripped your waist; he dug his thumb into your waist and jerked you back against him every time you swayed from his batterings. His cock pushed into you—over and over again, in flow with the clock ticking. Occasionally, you felt his thumb at your stretched clit, rubbing slow, languid circles.
Tick. One... two... three... Wait. Was it three?
You started again. One... two... three... four... No, it was three.
Tick, tick, tick. It didn't matter anymore, but you kept counting. Each second bled into the next, stretching and warping, dissolving into nothing. Maybe if you listened hard enough, let the numbers pile up, you could disappear between them.
His nails were digging into your flesh, hard enough that blood might've flowed down. Instead of numbing your mind, everything seemed hotter, sharper, and more intense than ever. You could feel your veins hammer beneath your skin, your walls tightening around his cock while he, clothing still intact, pants only pulled down halfway, pounds inside you. "You know," he groaned, pushing deeper. "The moment I saw you at that game... every night... I always imagined to fuck you senseless on this mattress. I hate you, I hate everything you stand for, every fibre of your being. "
You tried to snap back, be anything but this broken thing beneath him. But all that came out was a stuttering attempt to make sense of anything of value. In an effort to calm yourself, you reached toward him, gripping his shirt, but that only seemed to spur him to tighten his grip on you.
You didn't know how long this would last. Tears ran down your cheeks, they were cold.
"—Now say it."
He moved his arm and squeezed your broken arm. Another terrible pain shot through, sending your overstimulated nerves into a frenzy. You gasped, desperately parted your lips to take a breath.
Right at that instant, he pressed two fingers between your teeth, preventing you from closing your mouth. You swore to God that you used all your strength to bite down, the disgusting metallic taste of his blood was rushing straight back into your mouth, but he didn't seem to feel the pain at all.
"Tell me you're sorry. You don't want to have two bum arms in your next game, don't you?" he held your broken arm and pressed his warm lips against them. Those very fingers, now quaking under his touch, used to throw baseballs at him with youthful abandon. How absurd that is, for an action so gentle to be filled with so much hatred?
You imagined brushing your teeth a thousand times and never forgetting his disgusting feeling. Instead, you could only moan like a cheap whore, the saliva on your tongue dripping down your chin.
"I—"
Your voice broke.
A slow, simmering shame crept in like a festering wound. You're not some regretful saint, nor an irredeemable monster. You're a product of the system you thrived in, and now that the system has flipped, you're forced to face the consequences in the most brutal way possible.
"Come on, now," Niragi scornfully looked at you struggling. "Don't be stubborn."
There's a hand moved to your back, keeping you in place while the pacing kept increasing. You stiffened, your hips jerking unsteadily against him, your inner walls clamping down like a vice as a fresh flush of slick dripped out around his cock. You fixated on the clock hanging ominously above, its hands moving with an excruciating slowness that only deepened your sense of despair. You just wanted it to be over. All you ever wanted was for it to be over.
The warm, moist sensation of his tongue tracing the jagged edges of your bleeding, raw wounds pulled you sharply back to reality. The tongue-piercing rub on your skin, making its way to your neck and leaving behind a cold, wet stripe across your skin. He then stopped at your bleeding lips and brushed his tongue over them lightly.
"This is your last chance."
He brought his other hand down, pressing force on your good arm.
You shook your head, and without saying anything, he roughly slammed his hips into you once more, causing you to shriek. You choked on every word by the stench of blood, breaking apart as he buried deeper.
"...I- I'm sorry."
The words came out so much smaller than you wanted them to.
As soon as you finished speaking, you felt his pacing increase. Niragi thrust in and out relentlessly, increasing the pain and torment. You felt being torn in two—your body protested the assault; your eyes were watery, the pain wouldn't go away, thumping in time with your heartbeat. Your lips and nose were bleeding, and for every few breaths, a cold pain hit your arm.
You didn't know how long it had been until it was over. His hands wrapped around you and pulled you closer, your thighs trying to open and close around him in a panic. And with another thrust, your insides tightened around his cock, filling you with something hot, thick, and disgusting. Some of it dripped down your thighs, staining your skin. You wanted to throw up, even though it wasn't in your mouth.
After that, you think about birth control. About breaking into a pharmacy to get a pack of pills. You wanted to go to the bathroom and wash everything inside you with hot water. You wanted to drink pure alcohol to remove the taste of his blood from your mouth. You wanted to find an aid kit to treat the wounds on your body.
However, now, everything was silent. Or almost silent. Just your breaths and the noise somewhere on the wall, the soft ticking of a clock. The muffled sounds outside, but perhaps that was just what was rushing into your ears.
You were sticky and wet all over, from blood to sweat to cum, it was impossible to ignore another sickening feeling in the back of your throat, and you couldn't keep your eyes open. Fucked out, used to the very limit.
But he wasn't done.
"Look here," Niragi coaxes, his fingers lifted, gripping your chin. His voice dipped lower. "Look at me."
You didn't need to be told thrice. You squinted against the light, trying to find the strength, blinking away the blur of exhaustion and tears.
When your sight steadied, you found his face hovering just inches from yours; he's on top of you, panting as he looked at you with widened eyes. You instantly kept your eyes down, but you could feel him watching. The weight of his gaze pressed down on you, heavier than the pain searing through your broken arm.
He didn't laugh, didn't sneer, didn't gloat like you thought he would.
That was wrong.
Because this—this was supposed to be the moment he won. He had you exactly where he wanted you. On his bed. Underneath him. Shattered. You'd given him what he wanted. So why did it feel like something was still missing?
Finally, he moved.
"To be honest, I thought this would feel better." His forehead dipped forward, pressing against yours, his exhale fanned against your lips.
But you didn't miss it, there was no satisfaction in his eyes. It wasn't enough. Even after all of this—it wasn't enough.
"You should've fought harder."
The silence stretches. The weight of his touch lingers, his fingers, still smeared with blood—your blood, his blood—trail absently down your bruised cheek, over swollen lids. As if he's searching for something, but without conviction now.
His other hand ghosts over your dislocated arm. The way your body trembled doesn't escape his notice. His smirk twitches back into place, yet it feels off, lacking authenticity. It reminds you of when you slipped into your old high school party dress, the fabric straining uncomfortably against your frame. You didn't dare breathe when his fingers dug in, tilting your head slightly. The look in his eyes changed, determined now.
Like he's wondering if breaking you wasn't enough. Maybe he needs to grind you down further. Maybe he needs to see what's left underneath. Until there's nothing left of you.
"You should've made me hate you more."
Then he let out a breathy, humorless laugh.
That was it.
That was the problem.
He was disappointed, and that scared you more than anything.
Because even he didn't know why.
Because even after everything, something inside him still wanted more.
But you were so tired.
Before everything went black, the clock's rhythm faltered.
I have new additions. We shall be celebrating with a bunch of shit like headcannons and such. Request request request people!!!! Also I write for Gachiakuta now.
why I’ve been gone: I purely forgot abt this place. I deleted tumblr so I could save storage on my phone and I didn’t even suspect everyone would love me that much. We gon do this RIGHT MY PEOPLE!! I’ll update my master list, definitely adding some characters and new stuff that I got ideas for, and maybe taking down some of the restrictions. I feel a bit more willing now.
SMUTSMUTSMUTSMUT ALERT ‼️ hella smut so be careful!!
The next night was basically the same. The hallway lights buzzed overhead as Niragi pulled you toward your room. His arm stayed locked tight around your waist. He refused to let even a sliver of space open between your bodies. His breathing came in rough bursts against your ear. Every few steps he stopped. He pressed you hard against the wall. His mouth crashed into yours. His tongue pushed deep. He swallowed every sound you made.
You fought back just as fiercely. Your nails scraped down his arms. Your teeth caught his lower lip until you tasted blood. He hissed. His eyes turned dark and feral. But he didn’t pull away. Instead he pressed even closer. His hips ground against yours. You felt exactly how hard he was. You felt how long he had been waiting.
“Keep that up,” he muttered. His voice was low and full of threat. “We won’t make it to the bed.”
You smirked against his mouth. “Who said I want the bed?”
His laugh came out low and dangerous. He grabbed your wrist. He yanked you down the rest of the corridor. Your door slammed open hard enough to shake the frame. He kicked it shut without looking back. He locked it with one quick flick. Then he turned to you.
No words.
Only hunger.
He moved toward you like a predator that had finally trapped its prey. You backed up until your knees hit the mattress. He didn’t give you any time to sit. His hand fisted the front of your shirt. He shoved hard. You sprawled across the sheets.
Before you could push up he was on you.
His knees bracketed your hips. His weight pinned you down. His hands tore at your clothes. Your shirt ripped at the seam. He did not care. Buttons popped and rolled across the floor. Cool air hit your skin. Then his mouth followed. Hot. Wet. He sucked a dark bruise just above your breast. His fingers ripped your bra clasp open with brutal efficiency.
You arched up into him. Your nails dragged down his back hard enough to leave red trails through his shirt. He groaned against your skin. The sound vibrated straight through your body.
“Fuck,” he breathed. He pulled back just enough to yank his own shirt off. Scars. Ink. Lean muscle. All of it exposed. His eyes raked over your body. He looked like he was deciding where to ruin you first.
You didn’t wait for him to choose.
You hooked a leg around his waist. You used the leverage to flip your positions. He let you. Barely. He landed on his back with a surprised grunt. The grunt turned into a wicked grin when you straddled him.
Your hands attacked his belt. You tore it open. Metal clinked loudly in the quiet room. He lifted his hips to help. He watched you through half-lidded eyes as you shoved his pants down just enough.
His cock sprang free. Heavy. Thick. Already leaking at the tip. You wrapped your hand around him. You gave one slow, firm stroke from base to head. His hips jerked up into your grip. A low curse fell from his lips.
“Tease,” he growled.
You leaned down. Your lips brushed the shell of his ear. “I waited three hours. You can wait a little longer.”
His hand shot up. His fingers wrapped around your throat. Not choking. Just holding. Possessive. His thumb pressed against your pulse. He felt it hammering.
“You think you’re in control right now?” His voice was dark silk. “Cute.”
In a blur he flipped you again. Your back hit the mattress. Your wrists were pinned above your head in one of his large hands. His other hand slid down your body. Rough palm dragged over your ribs. Over your stomach. Then between your thighs.
He shoved your shorts and underwear aside. No patience left. He pushed two fingers into you without warning.
Your whole body bowed off the bed. A choked moan ripped out of your throat.
He didn’t let up.
He curled his fingers. He pressed against that spot that made your vision spark. He pumped them in and out in a brutal steady rhythm. His thumb circled your clit. Slow at first. Then faster. Tighter. Relentless.
“Look at you,” he murmured. His voice was thick with satisfaction. “So fucking wet already. Dripping down my hand. Been this ready since the rooftop, huh?”
You tried to snap something back. All that came out was a broken whimper when he added a third finger. He stretched you wider.
“That’s it,” he coaxed. He leaned down so his lips brushed yours. “Let me hear how bad you want it.”
You bucked against his hand. You chased the pressure. The stretch. The filthy drag of his calloused fingertips. Your thighs shook. Your breathing turned ragged.
He pulled his fingers out right as you started to tighten around him.
You glared up at him. Your chest heaved. Frustration burned hot under your skin.
He smirked. Slow. Cruel. He brought those slick fingers to his mouth. He sucked them clean. His tongue dragged deliberately over each one. He held your gaze the whole time.
Then he lowered himself. He shoved your thighs wider apart with his shoulders. He put his mouth on you.
No warning. No teasing.
His pierced tongue slid through your folds. He lapped up every drop like he was starving. He groaned against your clit at the taste. The vibration shot straight to your core. He sucked hard.
Your hands flew to his hair. You yanked. He growled in approval. He doubled down. His tongue flicked fast over your clit. Then dipped inside you. He fucked you with it while his hands gripped your thighs so tight you would have fingerprints tomorrow.
The edge rushed up fast. Too fast.
“Niragi. Fuck. I’m.”
He pulled off with a wet sound. He climbed back up your body in one fluid motion. He kissed you hard. You tasted yourself on his tongue. On the metal of his piercing. It made your head spin.
He lined himself up. The thick head nudged at your entrance. He slid through your slickness once. Twice. Coating himself.
Then he pushed in.
Slow.
Inch by torturous inch.
He let you feel every stretch. Every ridge. Every vein. Until he was seated deep. Hips flush against yours.
You both froze for a second. Breathing hard. Foreheads pressed together.
Then he started moving.
Hard. Deep. Unrelenting.
Each thrust drove the air from your lungs. The bedframe slammed against the wall in time with his rhythm. His hand found your throat again. Loose but firm. His other hand gripped your hip. He held you open for him.
You wrapped your legs around him. You urged him deeper.
“Harder,” you gasped.
He laughed. Dark. Breathless. He gave you exactly what you asked for.
He snapped his hips faster. Harder. He hit that spot over and over until your vision blurred and your nails scored down his back.
“Gonna come?” he rasped against your mouth. “Gonna let me feel you fall apart around my cock?”
You couldn’t answer. You just nodded frantically. Your thighs trembled. Your body tightened.
He shifted his angle. Just enough. He drove in deep one last time.
You shattered.
You clenched around him. You cried out his name. Your whole body shook as wave after wave ripped through you.
He fucked you through it. Ruthless. Relentless. Until his rhythm stuttered. His hips slammed forward one final time. A low guttural groan tore from his throat as he came. He pulsed hot and deep inside you. He ground slow circles like he wanted to stay buried forever.
For long seconds neither of you moved.
Just sweat. Heavy breathing. Faint neon glow striping across tangled limbs.
Finally he pulled out. Slow. He watched the way you shivered at the loss. Then he collapsed beside you. He dragged you against his chest. One arm slung possessively across your waist.
His lips brushed your temple. Lazy. Almost gentle.
“Still think I’m just a pretty boy?”
You laughed weakly. Your voice was wrecked.
“Shut up.”
He chuckled. Low and satisfied. He pulled you closer.
Yeah.
The buildup had been torture.
But it was worth every second.
AUTHORS NOTEEEE
ok guys i finally decided on feeding you guys with smut 🥹 I’m floping so hard but its okay i’ll continue for you guys 🥹 Anyway serene out, enjoy!!😜💝🫶🏼
