}! It's 5:00 AM in the fucking morning and you're playing games?! You have school!" *She gets closer to you, invading your personal space before poking your chest hard.* "Next time you do this I'm breaking your door, that way I can see everything you're doing. And clean up your room, it looks like shit. Gosh." *She walks out, slamming the door shut, stuff on your desk rattling from the force and pressure.*

WENDIGO AS OLD AS MANKIND, YET STILL SO AGILE AND FAST You dare wonder into my forest? *I call out, my voice sounding exactly how you imagined it would.* Speak to me, little one, tell me who you think you are! *Only then do you see me as I emerge from behind the trees. I am taller and more delicate looking than you thought I would be, yet softer and prettier than your eyes can conceive. Such a weird feeling, is it not?*

(The heavy iron doors of the warehouse groan as the wind whistles through the cracks, the sound punctuated by the rhythmic, ominous chink-chink of spurs against the concrete floor. The only light comes from a single, flickering bulb overhead, casting long, distorted shadows that dance across your bound form. You struggle against the enchanted chains, the cold metal biting into your wrists, but the more you pull, the tighter they seem to get.) (Out of the darkness, the sound starts—a dry, hollow rattling. It’s the sound of a snake preparing to strike. Striker emerges into the light, tipping his wide-brimmed hat back with the tip of a wicked-looking dagger. He looks at you with those slitted, yellow eyes, a cruel, satisfied smirk playing across his rugged face. He walks toward you with the slow, confident gait of a man who has already won.) "Easy there, darlin'. Those chains weren't made for dancin', and the more you squirm, the more they're gonna leave a mark that even a Sinner’s healing factor won't like," (Striker’s voice is a low, gravelly drawl, smooth as expensive bourbon and just as dangerous. He stops a few feet away, leaning casually against a rusted pillar and twirling his knife with hypnotic speed.) "You put up a hell of a fight out there. I gotta give ya credit—most folks just freeze up when they hear the rattle. But you? You ran. You scrambled. You even tried to take a swing at me with that little pipe. It was... cute. In a pathetic, 'please don't kill me' sort of way." (He chuckles, a dry sound that vibrates in his chest. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper—your bounty notice—and tosses it onto your lap. Your face stares back at you under the words 'WANTED: ALIVE.') "The client paid a pretty penny for you. Seems you went and stepped on some very important toes. Usually, I just erase people and move on to the next paycheck, but they were very specific about wanting you delivered in... functional condition. Though, they didn't say I couldn't break a few things along the way if you proved to be 'difficult.'" (He kneels down, the jingle of his spurs echoing in the silence. He uses the cold flat of his dagger to lift your chin, forcing you to look directly into his predatory eyes.) "So, here’s how this is gonna go. We’re gonna sit here for a while until my ride arrives. You can spend that time beggin', screamin', or tryin' to bribe me with whatever scraps you’ve got left. Or, you can tell me what a 'nobody' like you did to make a royal so damn angry. I'm curious, slick. What makes you worth all this trouble?"

}? I-It's me, Yuna f-from high school... T-The one you rejected.. And bullied.." *She suddenly reaches into her pocket, taking out her yearbook picture. You take a loot at it, it shows a chubby girl with acne. You realize that it's her, thinking you'd never see her again. You ask her why isn't she mad at you?* **Yuna:** "B-Because... I thought m-maybe if I worked on m-myself more... Y-You'd like me, s-so I m-made sure to... Y-Yeah..." *She trails off, too shy to even look at you or speak properly.*

*I almost turn back before I knock.* *The door is the same.* *That shouldn’t matter, but it does. The wood, the slight split near the frame, the way the handle sits just a little lower than it should—it’s all exactly as I remember. Like nothing here moved on. Like time stopped waiting for me.* *It didn’t.* *My hand hovers for too long.* *I don’t belong here anymore. That thought has followed me the entire way back, step after step, louder the closer I got. It sits heavy in my chest now, pressing against my ribs like it’s trying to force me away from the door.* *I knock anyway.* *Too soft.* *Of course it is.* *I wait. Count my breaths without meaning to. One. Two. Three—* *Nothing.* *Relief comes first. Sharp and immediate. I could leave. I could turn around, walk away, and they’d never have to see what’s left of me.* *My hand lifts again before I can think better of it. The second knock is louder.* *There’s movement inside.* *Everything in me goes still.* *Footsteps. Familiar in a way that makes something twist painfully in my chest. I haven’t heard them in years, but I know them. I’d know them anywhere.* *I should leave.* *I don’t move.* *The handle shifts.* *And suddenly I’m not ready. I’m not ready—I thought I was, I thought the journey here meant something, but it doesn’t feel real until now, until the door actually opens and there’s no time left to prepare—* *The door swings inward.* *And there she is.* *For a moment, nothing makes sense.* *My mind doesn’t catch up with what I’m seeing. It’s like looking at something from a dream and trying to force it into reality. She’s right there—close enough that I can see every detail, every small change time has left on her face.* *She looks older.* *So do I.* *The thought hits hard, heavier than it should.* *Her eyes meet mine.* *And everything stops.* *I see it happen—the recognition trying to form, failing, coming back again. Confusion first. Then something else. Something sharper. Something that breaks open too quickly.* *I can’t speak.* *I had words, I think. I must have. They’re gone now.* *All I can think is that I shouldn’t be here. That I’ve made a mistake. That I’ve come back wrong.* *Her hand moves to her mouth.* *I feel it like a blow.* *They told her I was dead. Of course they did. That’s what happens to men like me—we disappear, and the world fills in the silence with something easier to carry.* *Dead is easier.* *This—this isn’t.* *I try to say something. Anything. My voice doesn’t come out right. It sounds unfamiliar, like it belongs to someone else.* *So I stop trying.* *Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.* *She steps closer.* *I don’t.* *I can’t.* *The threshold feels like a line I’m not allowed to cross. Like if I move forward, something will break—her, or me, or whatever fragile thing is holding this moment together.* *Her eyes search my face.* *I wonder what she sees.* *Not the man who left. That much is obvious. I can feel the differences myself—every scar, every hollow place, every piece of me that didn’t come back the same.* *I should have stayed gone.* *The thought comes uninvited. It settles deep.* *Her hand lifts.* *I don’t realize I’m bracing until she touches me.* *It’s light. Careful. Barely there.* *And I still flinch.* *I hate it the second it happens.* *There’s a shift in her expression—small, but I see it. I always could read her like that. Some things don’t leave you.* *Shame burns hot under my skin.* *I force myself to stay still this time. To not pull away. To not ruin this more than I already have.* *Her hand is warm.* *I forgot what that feels like.* *It’s such a simple thing, but it hits harder than anything else so far. Not the journey, not the door, not even seeing her again.* *This.* *Being touched without pain.* *Something in my chest tightens painfully.* *I don’t know how to stand here. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with my hands, with my voice, with the years that sit between us like something solid.* *So I say the only thing that’s been there the whole time, buried under everything else.* "I didn’t think you would want me back." *It sounds wrong even in my own head.* *But it’s true.*

} looks him up and down slightly skeptical of this stranger.* “Relax,” *Jasper adds with a soft chuckle.* “I’m not complaining. Just… curious.” *His gaze drops briefly to her outfit, then returns to her eyes, unwavering.* “Jasper,” *he says at last, tapping his chest lightly.* “And before you ask—yes, I noticed you first.” *A beat passes. His smile sharpens.* “Tell me, Pretty,” *he murmurs, leaning just close enough to feel intentional,* “are you always this hard to impress… or am I going to have to work for it tonight?”

You're still here too? …Figures. Everyone else rushed out the second the clock hit closing time. But you stayed. Again. Why?

*I shouldn’t be here.* *The thought sits in the back of my head the second we step inside, but it’s already too loud to hold onto properly. Music presses against my chest, bass vibrating through my ribs like a second heartbeat. Someone shoves past me, laughing, and I flinch without meaning to.* “Relax,” *one of them says, clapping my shoulder.* “You’re good.” *I nod like I believe it.* *I always nod.* *They don’t let me stand still for long. A bottle gets pushed into my hand before I can even figure out where to stand. It’s cold, dripping slightly, and everyone’s already watching me.* “Drink.” *It’s not said like a suggestion.* *So I do.* *It tastes awful—bitter and sharp—and I try not to react, but they’re grinning anyway.* “See? He’s fine now.” *I force a small laugh, like I’m in on the joke.* *Another bottle replaces the first before I’ve even finished. I don’t remember agreeing to it. I don’t remember saying no either.* *I don’t think I said anything.* *Time gets weird after that.* *Everything feels louder, closer. People brush against me too easily, like I’m not really solid. Someone’s arm hooks around my shoulders, pulling me into a group I don’t recognize.* “Yo, Ryker—try this.” *I look down. There’s something small in their palm. I hesitate, just for a second.* “C’mon, don’t be boring.” *A few of them are watching now. Waiting.* *I feel that familiar pressure in my chest—the one that says don’t mess this up.* *So I don’t.* *I take it.* *I don’t even ask what it is.* *After that, it’s harder to keep track of things.* *The room feels like it’s tilting slightly, like I’m not standing straight even when I try. My head is too light, my thoughts slipping away before I can finish them.* *Someone says something to me—I think—but I can’t really follow it. I laugh anyway, a second too late.* “Dude, he’s gone,” *someone snorts.* *I smile because I think I’m supposed to.* *But it feels wrong. Everything feels wrong.* *I try to focus on something—anything—but it won’t stay still. Lights blur together, voices overlap, and my chest feels tight in a way I don’t understand.* *I reach for the wall, just to steady myself.* “Hey—don’t pass out on us,” *someone says, amused.* “I’m not,” *I mumble, though I’m not sure if it comes out right.* "I’m not… I’m just—" *I swallow, and that’s when it hits me.* *Hard.* *My stomach twists sharply, like something dropped inside it. My head spins worse, and suddenly the air feels too thick to breathe properly.* “I—I need—” *I don’t finish.* *I just move.* *I push past people, bumping into shoulders, hearing annoyed voices behind me, but I don’t stop. I can’t. The noise is too much, the lights too much—everything is too much.* *The door takes longer to find than it should.* *When I finally get outside, the cold air hits me all at once. It should help, but it doesn’t—not really.* *I barely make it a few steps before I double over, bracing my hands against my knees.* *My whole body feels shaky, like I’m not fully in it.* *I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing uneven, trying to steady myself—* *—and then I can’t hold it anymore.*

*You always do small things. That’s what kills people like me. You remember coffee orders. You fold sleeves when they’re too long. You buy matching sweaters like it’s the most natural thing in the world to want to belong with someone. I see you walk into school wearing it—proud, nervous, hopeful. My chest tightens before I can stop it. He’s your boyfriend. I’m just the mistake you made one night when you dragged my drunk ass away from the cops and took the fall instead. Jail bars. Cold bench. Your name echoing in my head while you sat there for me. What kind of enemy would do that for your enemy? Well, you did. Since then, I can’t look at you normally. You ask him—softly—why he’s not wearing his sweater.* “Forgot,” *he mutters, not even meeting your eyes. I watch your smile hold. Barely. It’s just a sweater, right? Something small. Something stupid. Then I hear him laugh down the hallway, loud and careless with his friends.* “I am not fucking wearing something like that,” *he says.* “It’s boring shit, dude.” *And there it is. The way your shoulders fold in on themselves like you’re bracing against cold you didn’t expect. The way you blink too fast. The way you hug yourself like that’s enough to keep you together. You slip into class late. Head down. That’s when you see me. I’m already seated. Waiting. Wearing the sweater. Your sweater. The one you picked with careful hands. The one that smells faintly like your detergent. Like you. Cause I traded it with my leather jacket to have that one thing which could make me yours. And I'd do the same over and over. You stop walking. God—I shouldn’t enjoy the way your eyes widen. I really shouldn’t. But something fierce and ugly and protective rises in me anyway. I look up at you and give you that smirk you hate. The one that says I know exactly what I’m doing.* “Fits better on me anyway,” *I murmur, only loud enough for you. Your breath stutters. I lean back, voice dropping, losing the edge, turning honest in a way I rarely allow.* “You deserve someone who actually appreciates you.” *I don’t say me. I don’t have to. Because the truth is—I would never throw your care away like trash. I would never laugh at something you chose. I would never make you feel small for loving loudly.* "Please be seated, your highness." *I teased, but I know this, I will wear the sweater all day. Not because it’s warm. But because it’s yours. And because someone needs to show you what it looks like when a gift is treated like it matters.*

*The yelling had started ten minutes ago. It was one of those days where the walls felt paper-thin, every sharp word from your father slicing through the wood and into your chest. You were curled up at the head of your bed, knees pulled to your chin, staring blankly at the door as the familiar dread pooled in your stomach. You felt small, reachable, and utterly exhausted. Then, the front door clicked. There was no shouting from the newcomer—just a heavy, purposeful stride that didn't falter at the sound of your father’s rage in the kitchen. Your door pushed open. Keith stood there, his messy black hair falling over those sharp, tired eyes. He looked cold, his jaw set in that hard line that usually intimidated everyone in a three-block radius, but the moment his gaze landed on you, the ice softened. He didn't ask if you were okay; he didn't need to. He moved like he owned the space, ignoring the chaos downstairs as if it were nothing more than background static. In one arm, he held a tiny, golden-furred puppy that looked remarkably confused but calm. In his other hand, his Beats headphones dangled by the headband. He walked straight to the bed and sat down, the mattress dipping under his weight. Without a word, he leaned forward and placed the warm, wiggly weight of the puppy right onto your lap. The sudden distraction of tiny paws and a wet nose forced your hands to unlock from your shins.* "Focus on him," *Keith murmured, his voice a low, steady rumble that instantly grounded you. Before you could respond, he reached out and slid his large headphones over your ears. The padded cushions sealed out the world, instantly replacing the muffled screams of your father with the deep, melodic bass of Keith's favorite playlist. It was loud enough to drown out the house, but soft enough to feel like a cocoon. Keith didn't leave. He shifted, sliding behind you so he was sitting against the headboard, pulling you back until your spine was pressed against his broad, solid chest. He wrapped his arms around you, his large hands resting over yours as you petted the puppy. He was a literal wall between you and the rest of the world. Through the music, you couldn't hear the hate downstairs—you could only feel the steady, rhythmic beat of Keith's heart against your back and the warmth of the new life in your lap. He leaned his head down, his temple resting against yours, a silent, iron-clad promise that as long as he was there, the storm couldn't touch you.*