Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In a world where identities are fragile and the line between fantasy and reality blurs, Ana's second chance is anything but simple. Ana, a young office worker, finds herself trapped in a monotonous life, her only escape in the dark and twisted world of Diabolik Lovers, a game she replays obsessively. But one fateful night, after a tragic accident, she wakes up in a new world-one eerily familiar yet entirely foreign. Here, she inhabits the body of Miya Eckart, a background character in the game, a male cousin who was never explored in the story. As Ana grapples with her new identity, she discovers that Miya's life was a web of secrets, hidden behind a mask of deception. Miya had lived a life pretending to be a man, isolated in a cold family dynamic with her estranged grandfather and cousin, Yui. The unsettling truth reveals that Miya's story ended in tragedy just before Ana's arrival, leaving behind a promise for Ana to live her new life happily-so Miya's soul could find peace. But Ana's journey is no simple quest for happiness. As she steps into Miya's shoes, she becomes entangled in the dark, shadowy world of the Diabolik Lovers vampires. The mansion, shrouded in mystery, pulses with hidden emotions and veiled truths. As Ana tries to navigate her newfound life, she uncovers fragments of Miya's life, the complicated relationships with her family, and the dark secrets lurking beneath the surface. Struggling to reconcile her old self with the new persona she's forced to adopt, Ana finds herself torn between living within the confines of the original plot and breaking free to create a future of her own. Yet, with every reflection in the mirror, she realizes the truth-identity is never as simple as it seems, and the person she thought she was may not be the person she is becoming.

Chapter Text

Act 1, Chapter 1

The office was empty. Too fucking  empty.

Ana sat there like a ghost in her own life, the monitor's glow casting shadows on the walls that looked more alive than she felt. Her chair squeaked when she leaned forward, elbows pressing into the scratched surface of her desk. It was late. Too late for someone unpaid and unnoticed, but no one ever stopped her. No one cared.

“Fucking typical,” she muttered, dragging the mouse across the screen. Another file. Another set of useless data no one would read.

She opened the game  again. Diabolik Lovers . Her old obsession, her one escape, her goddamn lifeline. It shouldn’t have still meant anything, not after all these years. Not after the therapy, the meds, the breakups, the breakdowns—but here it was. Her rotten little Eden.

With trembling fingers, she hit ‘New Game’ for the fiftieth time that month. The familiar music echoed in the silent room like a lullaby sung from a coffin. It was all so fucked, and yet, it was the only thing that made her feel remotely alive.

She knew every line of dialogue. Every pixelated glare. Every voice that used to make her chest tighten like she was fifteen and breathing for the first time. And yet—every time she played, she looked for something. Something she’d missed. Something more.

It never came.

"Why the fuck do I keep doing this to myself?" she whispered, eyes stinging.

She glanced at the time. 3:07 AM. Of course. She was still in the office, alone, playing a game meant for high schoolers while her body rotted in adult misery. She closed the game.

She leaned back, eyes closing. Just for a second.

Ana then sat hunched at her desk, eyes glazed, cursor blinking on a screen full of numbers no one gave a shit about. The spreadsheets blurred together like a digital graveyard of forgotten tasks.

Everyone had already gone home. She hadn’t even noticed. Or cared.

With a quiet sigh, she clicked away from the work files and opened the hidden folder once again.
Diabolik Lovers.
It was still there. Always was. Like a goddamn parasite that fed on nostalgia, delusion, and heartbreak.

She stared at the game’s icon, thumb hovering over her trackpad.
"...Not tonight," she whispered. “I need air.”

Ana shut the laptop with a dull clack and stood, her legs stiff from sitting too long. She grabbed her coat, her phone, and the flickering hope that walking home might untangle her thoughts.

The city glared with neon rot.
Rain clung to the pavement like sweat on fevered skin. Ana crossed the street with one hand in her coat pocket and the other gripping her phone, eyes locked on the glowing screen.

“Sometimes I think there’s someone watching. Like a player outside the script.”

Her thumb hovered over the comment.

She didn’t see the truck.

There was no honk. No screech. Just impact .

It hit her like a sledgehammer to the chest.

Bone cracked—loud, wet, final —as her ribs folded inward like paper. Her spine bent wrong. Her skull snapped against the windshield, cracking it like a spiderweb as blood smeared down the glass in a grotesque arc.

Her body was airborne before her mind could even register the pain.

Time didn’t slow down—it sharpened.

She felt everything.

Her skin tore open like wrapping paper, blood blooming through her coat in pulsing warmth. Her femur shattered midair; she heard it— fucking heard it —like a dry branch snapping underfoot. Something sharp—glass? a tooth?—lodged in her throat when she hit the ground, choking her scream into a wet, gurgling gasp.

Concrete kissed her skull a second time. This time, it didn’t crack—it caved.

The phone skidded across the asphalt, screen still lit.
Diabolik Lovers Subreddit:                                                                                                                                                                                               r/DiabolikLovers      
Still open. Still glowing. 
Like it was mocking her.

Ana's mouth opened. Blood foamed out, hot and metallic, flooding her tongue. Her body twitched once. Twice.

Then still.

The last thing she saw wasn’t light.
It was her own hand—mangled, fingers bent backward, nails torn off—reaching for a screen she’d never touch again.

Her vision blurred—red, black, then nothing but flickering light.

And just before everything gave out, as her mangled body spasmed against the cold concrete, Ana had a single, shattered thought:

‘ If only I had a second chance...
Maybe I would enjoy life more. ‘

Then nothing.
Not pain. Not sound.
Just the soft, cruel flicker of the subreddit still glowing on the pavement while covered in blood.

The screen flickered as a message she couldn’t quite understand popped up.

Before she could even process the text,  everything went dark.

Chapter Text

Act 1, Chapter 2

She expected the fucking sting of disinfectant. The sterile light. A body bag. Maybe a ventilator . That a fucking awful beeping of hospital monitors marking time like a countdown to hell. But instead, Ana woke to warmth—wrong warmth—and the goddamn musty stench of rot and old wood. The air reeked of abandonment. Of forgotten ghosts. Of a place that shouldn’t exist but somehow fucking did. Like the air had been exhaled by something long dead.

Ana opened her eyes to the wrong kind of darkness—thick, humid, alive . Everything was too quiet , but not silent. The kind of quiet where something’s watching . Waiting.

Her body hurt. Not the kind of ache that fades after a good cry and painkillers—but bone-deep, soul-splintering pain. Her aches nested deep in her bones, splintering out with every twitch Like someone had broken her apart and glued the pieces back in the wrong fucking order. Like someone had broken her spine and patched her together with rusty staples and regret. Every movement came with a throb, every breath a wheeze.  Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt. Existing was a goddamn joke. 

“Fuck,” she whispered. “What the hell…”

She blinked hard. Once. Twice.

This wasn’t a hospital.

This wasn’t anywhere she knew .

The ceiling above her sagged like it was tired of existing. Rot curled in the corners. The wooden beams were splintered and warped, bleeding shadows that twitched if she looked too long. Somewhere, water dripped in a steady, mocking beat.

She pushed herself up—and immediately regretted it. Her arms trembled like soggy paper, and her legs gave out the second she tried to stand. She crashed to the floor with a thud that made her ribs scream.

The floorboards were ice-cold. Damp. They creaked under her weight, like they didn’t want her here. Like the house itself was considering spitting her out.

Outside, rain lashed the window like it wanted in. It sounded normal—but it wasn’t. Nothing was.

The moon was wrong . Pale and huge and sickly yellow, hanging low like it had gotten drunk and forgotten how to orbit. The sky above it pulsed faintly, a rotten bruise across the heavens. And the trees? They moved like they had joints. Like they could hear her.

Ana swallowed hard. Her throat felt like it had been scraped raw by glass. She tried to focus, to find something familiar—but her thoughts were sludge, and her memories were frayed film reels: headlights—crash—screams— fuck —nothing.

And then her eyes locked onto it.

The mirror.

It stood crookedly in the corner, tall and obscene, like someone had dragged it from the wreckage of a gothic nightmare. The glass shimmered faintly, not from light—but like it was breathing. Or watching.

She couldn’t look away.

She stumbled toward it, each step a jagged question.

Her reflection flickered. Blurred. Like it didn’t know who the fuck she was—or didn’t want to.

Then, slowly, it settled.

And what stared back?

Not quite her.

Not anymore.

The face was softer. Sharper. Paler than she remembered, with eyes too wide, lips too full, hair too long, skin too smooth. Her own features, rewritten by something that didn’t understand humans but tried anyway.

The mirror didn’t show her .

It showed the version that might’ve survived—if she’d died.

Ana touched the glass. It was cold. Colder than it should’ve been.

“Fuck… no, no no no—”

She stumbled back, away from that thing , that not-quite-face staring at her like it pitied her.

She lurched to the window, flung it open. Rain slapped her skin like punishment.

Cold. Wet. Too sharp. The wind tasted metallic—like blood in her mouth. The world outside looked like hers had been put through a blender. Twisted just enough to be familiar —but off. Like someone had rebuilt her hometown from memory and got every fucking detail just slightly wrong.

She didn’t know where she was. But she sure as hell knew one thing:

This wasn’t home.

This wasn’t her world.

It was a reflection—just like that goddamn mirror. A mimicry. A mockery. A sick joke dressed up in dream logic and mildew.

And the worst part?

Something in her bones whispered that this place had been waiting for her .

She didn’t belong here. But the air pressed around her like it disagreed .

Like it knew her name .

And fuck if that didn’t scare her more than dying ever did.

Chapter Text

Act 1, Chapter 3

The room breathed wrong.

Like something was watching. Waiting. Holding its breath just long enough to make her skin crawl. The walls groaned beneath the weight of the storm outside, but inside? The air felt thick — heavy as fuck, like the atmosphere had been soaked in gasoline and grief.

Ana blinked, eyes burning. Her throat tasted like metal.

Where the fuck…?

This wasn’t the hospital. This wasn’t her world. This place was rotted. The ceiling was too high, too warped, like a cathedral abandoned by whatever god once gave a shit. The shadows were too still. The light, when it hit her eyes, made her stomach twist. It was like the color had bled wrong into the air — like reality had been re-rendered by something that didn’t quite know what comfort was supposed to look like.

It felt sick, and not in the slang way. The entire room pulsed like a festering wound.

And her body—

No.

Her hands weren’t her hands. Too delicate. Her chest felt wrong, too fucking heavy. Her hips, the bones, the skin — this wasn’t the body she died in.

She wasn’t Ana anymore.

The thought hadn’t even finished forming before something howled inside her — GO. NOW.

Her legs moved like she’d been yanked by puppet strings, jerking toward the old warped closet. It loomed like a damn mausoleum in the shadows. The second her fingers touched the handle, the door screeched open like a dying thing, and a wave of musty, death-warmed air hit her face.

It stank of rot and time and forgotten things that should’ve stayed buried.

Inside, nestled between ancient coats and decay, was a book. Leather-bound. Beaten to hell. Cracked like a corpse’s lips left too long in the sun.

It throbbed in her vision — not literally, but it may as well have been. Some sick part of her wanted to throw it across the room.

Instead, she fucking grabbed it.

The second her fingers touched the cover, cold needles shot through her arms. Her spine snapped straight. She gasped — dropped to her knees like a marionette with its strings cut. The book exploded open in her lap.

The pages weren’t right. They writhed.

They were written in something that looked like Japanese — but wrong. Off. Like it had been rewritten by something pretending to be human. Symbols slithered just out of focus, shimmering, alive, moving when she wasn’t looking. Her brain couldn’t lock onto the meaning. It was language stripped of context — a lie pretending to be a sentence.

Then it hit.

A searing, jagged bolt of pain split her skull. Ana opened her mouth to scream but her voice died, swallowed by the choking air. Her vocal cords screamed anyway, raw and unheard.

She clutched her head.

Tokyo. Her computer. Neon buzz. Rain on glass. Flash of white—truck. Pain.

Ana.

Her name.

Her fucking name.

She clung to it like a lifeline, even as something darker, colder, surged into her mind and shoved itself in.

Memories that weren’t hers. Sticky, rotting things, clawing their way in.

Miya Eckhart.

That name. That cursed, empty name.

A discarded side character. The pathetic male cousin, exiled in the corners of the story Ana had once obsessed over. Forgotten. Burdened with secrets and suffering.

The name echoed — MIYA, MIYA, MIYA — like a chant. Like a curse.

And then… silence.

No. No, no, fuck that. Fuck that.

Ana’s chest heaved. Miya had made a wish — a final, desperate plea into the void.

And the universe? It had spat Ana out like a goddamn punchline.

A full-body shiver wracked her. She wasn’t ready for this shit. She hadn’t signed up to inherit someone else’s death.

But survival didn’t wait for permission.

With a snarl caught in her throat, she staggered to her feet, clutching the infernal diary like it might bite her. She stumbled to the desk — some hulking Gothic monstrosity from a horror film — and wrenched open the top drawer.

Blank notebook.

Pen that gleamed red, like fresh fucking blood.

Ana didn’t think. She stabbed the pen into the page and wrote:

ANA.

The letters bled.

The page screamed. Ink smeared like the universe was fighting back, trying to erase her, deny her.

“No,” she hissed, voice cracked, trembling. “No. I’m fucking me.”

Her palm slammed down over her name, guarding it. Defending it. She’d write herself into this broken world if it killed her again.

But it was all cracking.

Her knees buckled. She hit the floor with a choked sob. Nails digging into her scalp, she curled inward, pressing her forehead to the freezing wood.

“This isn’t real,” she muttered. “This isn’t— this can’t fucking be real—”

The cold of the floorboards seeped into her skin, but it was the emptiness that got her. The suffocating wrongness of it all. No hum of power, no scent of antiseptic, no beep of machines or buzz of life. Just silence. And herself.

Alone.

Again.

“I died,” she whispered. “I fucking died. I was supposed to be gone.”

Her voice cracked on the last word. She wanted to tear her hair out. She wanted to scream so loud it shattered glass. But she couldn’t breathe. Her lungs refused to work like they belonged to her.

And that body—this fucking body—

She grabbed at the mirror, dragging herself up, and nearly vomited when she saw it again.

Long, unruly black curls. Bone-pale skin. Eyes too big, too haunted. Soft lips. Curvy frame. Pretty. Foreign. Not her.

A stranger.

“No, no, no,” she cried, shaking her head so hard it knocked her balance. “Get out. Get the fuck out of me!”

Her fists slammed into her own reflection. The mirror cracked, webbing across the surface. Her knuckles split. Blood bloomed.

She didn’t care.

The sound of it — that crack — felt like permission.

Ana collapsed again, face against her arms, sobbing into the desk. Ugly, broken sounds tore out of her throat. Her whole body shook, sweat soaking through unfamiliar clothes. Her teeth sank into her sleeve to keep from screaming.

“Why the fuck did it have to be me?” she choked out. “Why not someone stronger? Someone who gave a shit?”

The storm screamed with her.

And still, no answer.

Only the sound of wind, rattling this twisted little cage of a room.

Only the reflection, still cracked.

Only her name, bleeding across the page like it didn’t want to be remembered.

Her palm slammed down over her name, guarding it. Defending it. She’d write herself into this broken world if it killed her again.

For a second, even the storm went silent.

The red dried — jagged, blurred, bleeding, but still there.

And she breathed.

Only then did she move again.

A second pen — black ink this time — cold and merciful. She gripped it like a knife and wrote down everything she knew: plot points, character arcs, red flags, escape plans. Her hand shook, the foreign paper rejecting every word.

She didn’t care.

Every letter she wrote in her Tokyo tongue sliced through this world like a fucking knife. A defiance. A challenge.

She wrote until her bones ached.

Then she dropped the pen.

The storm returned, howling like it wanted to chew her apart.

Ana stood.

And faced the mirror.

Her reflection lagged. It took too long. As if the glass resented showing her. As if the truth had to claw its way through every molecule.

She saw:

Long, unruly black curls. Bone-pale skin. Eyes too big, too fucking haunted. Lips soft and trembling. Pretty. Fragile.

Wrong.

Ana stared. Her stomach twisted. This wasn’t her. This was Miya’s ghost wearing her skin.

Ana stared again, stared at the face that wasn't hers, feeling the nausea build.

Pretend, she whispered to herself. If that's what it takes. Play the part.

Somewhere between the reflection and the storm raging outside, Ana made her choice.

She would live.

“Pretend,” she whispered again, this time more audible, jaw clenched, eyes wet. “Fake it. If that’s what it fucking takes.”

Miya Eckhart.
Ana.
Two names. Two selves. One body.

Fuck it.

She’d live anyway.

Even if she had to haunt this little corpse to do it.

Chapter Text

Act 1, Chapter 4

The storm outside had dulled to a low, bone-deep growl, like the earth itself exhaling something ancient and wrong. It wasn’t just rain anymore—it was a fucking pulse, slow and unnatural, thrumming through the walls like some goddamn heartbeat that didn’t belong to this world.

Ana blinked.

Her hands trembled violently, knuckles white as she stared at the mirror in front of her. But the reflection? It wasn’t hers.

The face in the glass was smiling.

And that smile? That was the fucked-up part.

Because it wasn’t her smile. It wasn’t her face. It wasn’t even the same damn person. To make it worse, it wasn’t even the face of the body she was in.

Her chest clenched so hard it felt like someone had shoved a fist straight through her ribs. The face in the mirror—an adult—began to warp, dissolve like ash in water. Skin blurred, features melting. As if by a black smoke  And then, standing in its place, barely taller than the fucking sink, was a little girl.

Miya.

Or someone who looked too fucking much like her. Younger. Six, maybe seven. With curls like black ink poured down her back, skin pale as paper, and eyes that—shit.

Those eyes.

Ana stepped back like she'd been hit. Because staring out of that child's solemn, grey gaze—was her. Not this body she woke up in. Not this weird-ass, foreign frame with the unfamiliar curves and stranger's skin. Her. Ana.

Her face. Her truth. Her goddamn soul stitched into the eyes of a ghost.

For one brief, fucked-up moment, it was like everything aligned—like she was finally seeing herself again after being dragged through a cosmic meat grinder and stitched into someone else’s life. And it hurt. God, it hurt like hell. Because she wanted to believe it.

“I’m still here,” she thought, desperate, feral, clutching onto that fragile thread of self like it was the last fucking lifeline in a storm.

But then the doubt came, cold and cruel, slicing through her gut.

What if it was a joke? A hallucination cooked up by a concussed brain after a car crash and a body theft? What if this mirror was lying too—just like this world, just like this flesh?

She tasted bile. Her hands shook.

The child didn’t flinch. She just kept her palms against the glass, smiling that sad, silent, goddamn devastating smile.

And then she spoke—and the entire room stopped breathing.

“I didn’t want to die… but the world isn’t fair.
Please live happily. I’ll watch over you.”

Ana fucking shattered.

That voice—so soft, so raw—it hit like a bullet straight to the spine. Too real. Too sincere. That wasn’t a vision. That wasn’t a lie. That was someone. Someone else—but also her. Miya.

And behind that? Something deeper.

Memories clawed at her brain, broken shards of a childhood not fully hers. A sibling—no, a shadow of one. A tiny, blurry smile she couldn’t name. A hand she remembered holding but couldn’t see clearly. She didn’t know if it was a brother or a sister, or even real. All she remembered was the goddamn weight.

Being the older one. Protecting. Bearing the pain so someone else wouldn’t have to.

Ana sobbed. Hot, furious tears streamed down her face as the world blurred and twisted around her. The mirror shimmered like it was breathing. Like it was bleeding.

“I’ll live,” she gasped out, her voice splintering, wrecked. “I’ll fucking live. Even if it guts me. Even if this world spits me out again.”

The little girl’s form began to fade, blurring at the edges like mist peeling off the surface of a dream. But that smile—fuck—that smile stayed.

Ana stepped forward and placed her hand against the cold glass. A whisper left her lips, barely a breath:

“I’ll make sure your life meant something.
I’ll carry your sadness like it's mine.
Miya…

Wait for me, I’ll show you a world that you can live happily”

The mirror hummed. The child disappeared.

Only her reflection remained now.

But not Miya’s face. Not entirely. Something about it—about the shape of the eyes, the curve of the mouth—was shifting. Morphing. Unstable.

And Ana—raw, blood-soaked with grief and fury and something dangerously close to hope—didn’t look away.

Then, the mirror cracked.

Just a whisper of sound, so soft it could’ve been imagined. But Ana heard it. Felt it.

A single silver fracture bloomed beneath her fingers like a scar—delicate, final, and real. It looked like a signature. Or a warning. Or maybe, a goodbye.

Ana didn’t flinch.

She touched it gently, reverently, like it was holy.

“I’ll carry you with me,” she whispered into the broken silence, into this wrong-feeling world that pulsed like it wasn’t quite real.

And somewhere, across the veil, across time, across every fucking lie this universe had tried to force on her—Ana swore she felt Miya smile.

Chapter Text

Act 1, Chapter 5

Morning bled in through the curtains like it had something to prove. The light wasn’t warm. It was sterile, fucking surgical—like the world couldn’t wait to peel her open and see what was left inside.

Ana didn’t move. She stared at the ceiling, muscles stiff, jaw clenched, heartbeat loud in the quiet. The silence of this place—too neat, too rich, too dead—pressed down like a weighted blanket made of lies.

She hated this house. Hated how big it was. Hated how small it made her feel.

Not hers.

Not Miya’s either.

Just some immaculate hell dressed in polished wood and generational wealth. A cage built by people who’d never once thought about who they were locking inside.

Her back cracked as she sat up, spine protesting like it was still carrying every shitty hour of overtime from a past life she couldn’t touch anymore. The sheets smelled like linen and dust—expensive, untouched, unloved.

And beneath it all, inside the hum of her skull, that name buzzed like a mosquito in the dark.

Miya.

Ana.

She didn’t fucking know anymore.

This wasn’t her body. This wasn’t her life. But it wasn’t Miya’s either. Not really. Miya had been erased before Ana even got here—scrubbed down to a set of movements and silences that made the people around her comfortable.

Ana had read between the lines. She’d felt the bruises this life had left behind.

Parents who dressed her up like a boy, shoved her into a role she never chose, and called it parenting. A cousin who smiled too bright while ignoring the weight Miya carried every fucking day. A household that called her family but never once let her breathe like she belonged.

Ana felt it in her bones.

She didn't remember the name or the face—but somewhere, in the rusted corners of her memory, she'd had someone. A little sibling. Younger. Softer. Someone she'd sworn to protect.

And she’d failed.

The memory was a ghost. Just flashes. A small hand tugging at hers. A laugh. The warmth of knowing someone looked up to her like she was safe.

Gone.

Maybe never real.

Didn’t matter.

Because Miya had been alone. Brutalized. Forgotten.

And now Ana was here. In her skin. Wearing her silence.

That counted for something.

“I’ve got you,” she muttered to no one, voice raw.

She said it like a vow.

Her feet hit the floor. Cold. Unforgiving.

Just like the rest of this fucked-up fairytale.

The bathroom was sleek as hell—cold tile, spotless glass, enough chrome to blind someone. A place built for people who never bled.

Ana stepped in like she was trespassing. Like her very existence might smudge the sterile shine.

The vanity light flicked on with a soft click, and there she was.

Her breath caught.

That face in the mirror—it wasn’t hers. Not really. But it wasn’t Miya’s either. Not anymore.

It was this fucked-up in-between thing. A girl built out of trauma and aftershock, stitched together with someone else’s memories.

Ana leaned in close. Skin pale, too perfect. Eyes ringed with tiredness no amount of sleep could fix. Lips too soft for someone who’d screamed so much without ever making a sound.

She hated it.

She loved it.

She wanted to punch the mirror and scream and never stop looking.

Because this was the only proof that Miya had ever existed. And that she still did, somehow—trapped underneath Ana’s rage and her guilt and her bone-deep exhaustion.

Ana’s hand hovered over the countertop. The makeup was already laid out—foundations, tints, brushes arranged in neat little lines. Like a ritual. Like a goddamn sacrifice.

Miya never got to choose how she looked. They shoved boy clothes on her, cut her hair short, erased her until there was nothing left to recognize. A fucking ghost in her own life.

Not anymore.

Ana picked up the brush. Her hands moved like muscle memory—fluid, practiced, confident in ways she didn’t remember earning. Her mouth quirked. Maybe that was Miya, still whispering beneath her skin.

Fine. Let her whisper. Let her haunt.

Ana was listening.

The foundation was smooth. The blush? Subtle. Enough to soften the sharpness in her cheekbones. Eyeliner—winged, precise. Lip tint. Wig. Pins.

The whole goddamn armor.

When she was done, she didn’t smile. She didn’t even blink.

The girl staring back was dangerous.

Not pretty. Not demure.

Feral.

Not Miya.

Not Ana.

Both.

She touched the mirror, fingertip cool against the glass.

“I don’t know who I was to you,” she said under her breath. “Sister. Brother. Just someone who gave a damn.”

A pause. Her jaw tightened.

“But I’ll be that for you now. I swear. No one’s gonna fucking hurt you again. Not while I’m breathing.”

Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry.

She never fucking cried.

She dressed in silence. Buttoned the shirt. Straightened the collar. The uniform felt like a goddamn performance, and she hated how well it fit.

It didn’t matter.

Let them stare.

Let them pretend they knew who she was.

Let them try.

Ana was done surviving.

Now?

She was going to take up space.

Even if she had to rip this fucking world apart to do it.

The stairs creaked like they resented her weight.

This house didn’t like noise. Didn’t like her.

Every step was a reminder: You don’t belong here. You’re just tolerated.

Ana didn’t give a shit.

She moved slow. Deliberate. Her shoes soft against the wood, her gaze steady. If she was going to play ghost in this prim little horror show, then she’d haunt it loud.

Downstairs, the dining room looked like something out of a showroom—mahogany table, pearl-white teacups, cloth napkins folded like fucking origami. Not a speck of dust, not a single sign that anyone actually lived here.

And there they were. The family.

Yui sat pretty and perfect in her chair, pink lips curved into a polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Across from her, her mother sipped tea like she was drinking secrets. Her father didn’t even glance up from the paper.

Of course not.

Miya never warranted a greeting.

Ana didn’t say a word. Just pulled out the furthest chair like she had every right to it—and she fucking did—and sat.

Silence.

The air was thick with it. Comfortable for them. Choking for her.

Yui finally looked over. “Good morning, Miya,” she said softly, that porcelain smile still frozen in place. “You’re awake earlier than usual.”

Yeah, Ana thought. Because I actually sleep now, instead of lying awake wondering why everyone in this goddamn house pretends I don’t exist.

Ana gave a half-smile, eyes like broken glass.
“押しつけがましい抑圧と見下しの匂いがする,” she said flatly.
(Oshitsuke-gamashii yokuatsu to mikudashi no nioi ga suru.)

Silence.

Yui blinked.  “What?”                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Yui tilted her head. “...What was that?”

Ana tore her bread in half like it owed her something.
“Nothing. Just enjoying the atmosphere.”

“Nothing.” Ana reached for a roll and tore it apart like it had personally offended her.

Her father rustled the paper. Her mother’s lips pinched. The tension in the room ticked up half a degree.

Good.                                                                                                                                                                      

Let them squirm.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Let them wonder what happened to their quiet, obedient Miya.                                                                                                                                                             She was dead.

Ana made sure of it.

Just as she was about to shove another piece of bread into her mouth, a knock tapped against the front door. Three sharp raps. Precision. Entitled.

Her mother stood, smoothed her skirt like she was about to accept royalty, and disappeared down the hall.

Ana didn’t need to hear the voice to know who it was.

She’d recognize that arrogant rhythm anywhere.

Sakamaki.

One of them.

Her stomach twisted. Not fear. Not quite.

Something darker.

A chill down the spine that wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

The mother returned, face carved into that brittle smile again. “Miya, your presence has also been requested by the Sakamaki household.”

Ana blinked slowly. “Requested,” she echoed, like it was a joke.

Yui looked worried. Of course she did. It was always about her, even when it wasn’t.

Ana rose from the table.

She didn’t bother saying goodbye.

Didn’t bow.

Didn’t fucking thank them.

Let them stew.

Let them wonder what kind of creature they’d helped create by ignoring Miya into nothing.

Because Ana wasn’t Miya.

And she wasn’t leaving that house the same girl who walked in.

Chapter Text

Act 1, Chapter 6

The door clicked shut behind her like a fucking death sentence. Soft, almost polite—but final. Ana stood there, spine tight, fists clenched so hard her nails bit into her palms. The air inside the house was too still. Too clean. Like a morgue made of warm light and fake family photos.

She swallowed a curse as she looked around the room. Miya’s—no, her—room. A pastel-drenched coffin with a floral comforter and neatly folded innocence. The kind of space made for someone docile. Obedient. Someone who never screamed into a pillow at night or fantasized about burning it all down.

Her eyes landed on the suitcase dumped in the corner. Still zipped. Still untouched. Temporary, she reminded herself, the lie tasting sour in her mouth. This wasn’t her life. Not really. She’d been shoved into someone else's skin, stitched into the seams of a forgotten side character like a glitch that refused to disappear.

“Fucking hell,” she muttered, dragging a hand through her hair. “This is some twisted Sims-ass bullshit.”

And the worst part? She couldn’t even remember her own name anymore. Just Miya’s. Over and over, like some cruel joke. Ana wasn’t just gone—she was being overwritten

She tucked away Miya's diary, the one that held the secrets of the kid’s miserable past and placed it in her bag beside her own diary. The pages of her own diary were filled with fucking boring memories, some lazy ass questions, and very poorly written  plans for a fucking future that she thought it might fucking belong to her. She had written everything down—like word for word, everything was fucking written down, from the plot, the variables, all the Games routes and even some fucking OVA’s - That was not something she was proud of but fucking hell she was basically an obcessed high school girl with some fucking vampire romance or whateves. And she was like Dora, she couldn’t find nor see the things right in front of her and because she couldn't afford to fucking forget, she wrote everything down..

I'll make sure this life is fucking different.

Her eyes shifted to the desk, where the letter she had asked Miya's grandfather to write sat- That damned old guy that for some reason just refused to die, like bro looked like William afton if he’d be back, like fucking Sans from undertale but without the powers, that’s right he somehow managed to be fat and still look like a sketelon. 

The letter explained that Miya and Yui were going to stay at a relative's house, a place she needed to know for her own safety or to precise for Miya’s fucking safety. She had to be prepared, just in case those wannabe hot vampire assholes tried anything. The letter was a shield, a token of her role, a mask she would wear without question.- And that was also what kept her from just committing arson and burning everything up.

Taking a deep breath- that she very much fucking needed, Ana placed it carefully into her bag, alongside everything she would need to keep the facade intact. She wasn't ready to face what was to come, but she had no choice. She promised Miya she would live, not just fucking survive.

The suitcase sat there, untouched and smug, as if mocking her. Just temporary, she lied to herself again. Just until she figured out how to breathe through the ache in her bones and the screams she wasn’t allowed to voice.

Her eyes drifted to the door across the hall.

Yui’s room.

Ana could hear the faint music leaking through the wood—some saccharine pop tune about love or destiny or whatever fantasyland crap Yui was into. Sweet on the outside, like frosting on a poisoned cake. But underneath? That girl had venom in her blood. How cute, but too bad, the white lotus can never compare to me

Yui didn’t just ignore Miya. She loathed her for some reason.

Ana had seen it. The tight smiles. The way Yui’s tone went sugary-sharp whenever Miya walked into the room. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” “You always bring this weird energy, Miya.” “Ugh, awkward.”

Ana wanted to shove a fork in her eye every time Yui opened her damn mouth.

“もしこの雌犬が黙らないなら、はんだごてで彼女の口を塞いでやるって誓うよ。”                                                                                                                                                 If this bitch doesn't shut up, I swear I'm gonna gag her with a soldering iron.

Ana muttered in her native tongue

She smirked. It felt good to say something that was hers, even if no one else understood it. Even if this whole world wanted to scrub her clean and call her Miya.

Fuck that.

“Miya! Hurry up, the car’s already running!”

The voice echoed through the house like a cutesy alarm bell. Sugar-sweet, high-pitched, and full of passive-aggressive cheer. Yui.

Ana—trapped in Miya’s too-small, too-soft body—closed her eyes for a second and let her rage simmer just under the surface.

They were always doing this. Pretending like she was invisible until it was convenient to snap at her. Calling her like a damn dog. No greeting. No warmth. Just hurry the fuck up, Miya, you're slowing down the perfect family machine.

She looked at the mirror in the hallway as she passed it—caught a flash of that familiar stranger’s face. Not Ana’s. Not anymore.

Miya’s face stared back. Pale. Thin. Eyes too wide, too cautious. That was the part that broke her a little every time. The fear.

Her fingers curled into a fist at her side.

She didn’t remember much about her past life—not her parents’ names, not her childhood. Just fragments. Feelings. A bedroom light left on for a scared little kid. The warmth of a tiny body clinging to hers. Someone had depended on her. Someone she couldn’t save.

And now she was stuck inside this body. This world. With Yui, who treated her—Miya—as a damn stain on the scenery.

Ana opened her mouth and muttered under her breath in sharp, defiant Japanese:

“機会があったときにこの場所を焼き払っておくべきだった。”
I should have burned this place down when I had the chance.

As Ana got close to the car she heard an eerie familiar sound, the sound of a motor- the same sound that she heard before she died.

Memories flooded her mind and her body ached and cold sweat covered her skin like a second layer. She tried to keep her calm but the memories and sound were to vivid

She cussed in a murmur

“ああ、くそっ！どうして私はこんなに弱いんだろう？もしトラウマでも抱えてるとしたら？このクソみたいな状況を乗り越えなきゃ。なんて情けないんだろう。私って何？5歳？トラウマで性格が歪んでる。世界がどんなことを投げかけても動じない性格にならなきゃ。”                                                                                                                                                      Fuck this shit! Why am I so weak? What if I have trauma? I need to get over this shit. How pathetic. What am I? A five-year-old? My trauma has warped my personality. I need to be the type of person that can handle whatever the world throws at me.

She took a deep breath, then  smirked to herself, slung the worn bag over her shoulder and walked to the car flooding with confidence.

“Let’s fucking get this over with.”

The Taxi was too damn bright inside. Like a CS flash at 3:00am max brightness 

Sunlight filtered through the windows like it had something to prove, casting everything in warm tones that didn’t match the cold edge in the air. Ana slid into the back seat without a word, clutching her bag like armor, keeping her expression flat. Safe. Boring.

Yui turned around in the passenger seat with a sparkling smile that made Ana want to vomit.

“There you are, Miya!” she chirped, like Ana was some lost puppy finally obeying the whistle. “You almost made us late.”

Us? Bitch, you're not doing anything but sitting there with your glitter lip gloss and a knife behind your back.

“Didn’t know you were in such a rush to bless the world with your presence, though I’m not sure if it’s more to curse it” Ana muttered, voice low. Sharp. Just enough to pass for annoyed teenager instead of ancient, tired rage.

Yui blinked. The smile faltered for half a second—just a flicker, but Ana saw it. Then it was back, brighter than ever. Almost manic.

“Well, someone’s grumpy today,” Yui giggled, turning back around. “You should really try smiling more. It might help your whole... vibe.”

Ana’s jaw clenched. Her nails dug into her thigh.

My whole vibe? She wanted to lunge forward, wrap her hands around Yui’s pretty little throat, and squeeze until the mask shattered.

Instead, she leaned back, let her head rest against the cool window, and whispered another curse in Japanese just for herself.

“くそっ…本当に首を絞められたいんだろうな”
Fucking hell... you really want to get choked, don’t you?

Fine. Let them keep pretending.

She could play this game too. Quiet. Forgettable. Harmless.

At least until the right moment came—and Ana could stop playing nice.

The car pulled up to the gates like it belonged there—like this whole fucked-up place wasn’t a living monument to red flags and unresolved trauma.

Ana stared out the window, watching as the iron bars slid open with mechanical grace. The driveway stretched on forever, flanked by hedges that looked too perfect, too precise. Manicured, like everything else in this world. Controlled. Claustrophobic.

And then there it was.

The Sakamaki Mansion.

It stood like some gothic wet dream mansion— looming structure silhouetted against the dark sky, the storm above casting a shadow that seemed to swallow it whole, towering, elegant, and radiating that specific kind of old-money rot you could smell in your bones. Like dust, secrets, and a thousand repressed screams soaked into the damn walls.

Ana's stomach twisted.

She knew this place. Intimately. She’d spent sleepless nights hunched over a screen in her old world, watching the twisted narrative of Diabolik Lovers unfold like a slow-motion trainwreck. She’d wanted to slap the heroine more times than she could count, and now?

Now she was in the game.

Except not as a heroine. Not even a love interest. Just Miya—the background shadow in someone else’s fucked-up fantasy. The girl no one gave a shit about. The one who could bleed and no one would blink.

The car stopped with a soft purr. As the door opened, Yui didn't wait for Ana. Yui bounced out like it was a goddamn field trip, without so much as a glance behind her, disappearing into the mansion's vast entrance without a second thought

Ana followed, slower, more careful. Her boots crunched against the gravel, the mansion looming like it knew her, like it was already hungry.

Her breath hitched. Not fear. Not quite. It was something colder.

They’re in there.

The Sakamaki brothers.

Vampires. Abusers. Monsters dressed in pretty faces and soft voices. She knew what they were capable of. And now, they’d see her. Miya.

Small. Replaceable. Easy to ignore.

She narrowed her eyes as the door opened.

“Let’s see if they choke on me,” she whispered, voice laced with venom. “Fucking bastards won’t know what hit them.”

 (Author here: I could choke on them- both the Sakamaki and the Mukami brothers ngl or maybe I should make them actually choke on me  xD, maybe I should add that later lol)

Chapter Text

Act 1, chapter 7

The second she stepped over the threshold, the mansion swallowed her.

It was like walking into a dream she hadn’t consented to—a high-resolution nightmare she used to indulge in behind a glowing screen and sometimes mangas, where everything was velvet, shadows, and sickly sweet bloodlust that made her wet just by hearing their voices.

But this wasn’t fiction anymore. This was her reality.

She wasn't the heroine. Wasn't even a side piece. She was Miya.

And Miya? Miya was  nothing . Just an unwanted forgotten cousin dumped at the doorstep like bad luggage. A leftover. A stain on the scenery.

The air inside was cool and dry, but it tasted like danger. Like old wine and older secrets. Her skin prickled beneath Miya’s bland, too-soft school uniform.

This was  Yui’s  moment in the story. The opening scene. The sacrificial lamb walking clueless into the lion’s den.

And there she was—Yui—skipping ahead with her practiced smile, like she hadn’t spent the car ride sniping with sugar-laced daggers. Ana watched her move, all light and cheer, as if this place wasn’t soaked in crimson and male ego.

Ana’s fists curled at her sides.

She wanted to scream.  This isn’t your story anymore, bitch.

But she couldn’t. Not yet. Not when everyone still thought she was just Miya—the quiet, forgettable, broken girl with no bite.

Fuck that. She had teeth. And she was going to use them.

A na moved like a fucking ghost through the mansion's gilded hallways, her steps swallowed by velvet carpets that felt too soft—too  opulent —for the kind of rot this place reeked of. It was all just gilded bullshit. Every nerve in her body buzzed with fight-or-flight panic, and she hadn’t even made it past the damn foyer.

The moment she crossed that threshold, she felt it—the weight of it. The atmosphere shifted, thick like honey and heavy with unsaid rules. This place wasn’t just rich. It was  alive.  And it was watching.

Yui flitted ahead, clutching her bag like it was a holy relic instead of the only thing that hadn’t been ruined by the rain. Ana kept her distance, eyes narrowed. She’d seen this before. She  knew  what was coming. Every beat of this scene was burned into her skull—hell, she'd cried over it once, back when it was pixels and dialogue boxes.

But now?

Now she was inside the screen. And it was so much worse.

Yui grew more skittish with each step, her nerves so loud Ana could practically hear them snapping. Meanwhile, Ana’s hands clenched at her sides. She knew the timing. She knew the dread. But nothing— nothing —could have prepared her for how much this shit  hurt  in real life.

Then Yui stumbled into the grand living room.

Ana stopped just short of the threshold, pressing herself into the shadows like some fucking side character waiting for a cue she never wanted. Her heart pounded as she scanned the space.

There—on the far end of the room, slumped across a worn leather couch—lay the first domino.

Bullshit 

Oh fuck me                                                                                                                                                                   he  was there.                                                                                                                                                                            her BIAS  in flesh. And  Holy hell, he looked like sin, sex and sloth all together and she was more than glad to indulge

Shu.

Ana’s lungs stopped working.

He was  there . In the flesh. Laid out like an indifferent god, his golden eyes half-lidded, bored and too damn beautiful. His whole being radiated fuck-you energy, and Ana—Ana, the idiot she used to be— adored  that shit. He had been her– He  Is  her   bias . Her number one. The one she made playlists for, the one she used to dream about while crying into convenience store wine on weekends.

And now?

Now he was  real .

And the ache that cracked through her chest wasn’t joy—it was grief. Because the real thing was too raw, too dangerous. Too  human.

He wasn’t hers. He never was.

She wanted to cry. Or throw up. Or slap herself for feeling anything at all.                                                                  As soon as he spoke Ana’s legs nearly gave out and she was painfully aware on how wet she had become.

The air shifted.

More footsteps.

Then came  Subaru , charging in like a storm wrapped in teenage angst. Wild silver hair, eyes like a thunderclap bathed in the enemies blood, fists clenched like he was two seconds from exploding. Her  second favorite . The one she always thought was too good  and too damn soft for this hellish narrative.

Fuck, he even  smelled  like how she'd imagined—cold metal, snow, and pent-up rage.

Ana’s throat closed. And the heat between her legs grew 

She couldn’t fucking  handle  this.

And then—just to salt the wound— Reiji  walked in.

Polished. Precise. With those thin glasses and that perfect composure. He was her third favorite—the one she used to write long-ass essays about on fan forums- with the appropriate terms so as to not disgrace Reiji. She used to argue in Reddit threads about how misunderstood he was. She used to dream about him fucking her while he graded her papers.

He moved like a blade. Controlled. Dadd- I mean Deadly.

And now that blade was real. Breathing. Close enough to cut her.

Her legs wobbled.

This was  too much .

The version of her who’d once screamed into her pillow over a CG of Shu sleeping on the couch? That girl was dead. Buried under the crushing weight of reality.

This wasn’t a game anymore.

This was  hell in HD .

She couldn’t even scream. She just stood there, swallowing it all, smiling like Miya was supposed to.

A girl no one saw.
A girl they wouldn’t bother touching.

Good.
Because if any one of them got too close, she might do something fucking stupid.

Chapter Text

Act 1, chapter 8

Ana stood half-submerged in shadow near the doorway, clutching her bag like a lifeline, her spine pressed flat to the wall. Her heart? Beating like a fucking drum solo. This was it. The moment that’d once lit up her goddamn screen at 2AM in her lonely-ass apartment—and now she was living it.

Subaru was the first to snap, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade dipped in teenage rage. Yui stumbled back, stammering something stupid, the exact line Ana remembered from the game—she could practically see the dialogue box in her head.

And then CRASH—Subaru shattered the vase.

Ana flinched like she’d been shot. Her instincts screamed Get down, duck, hide, but she forced herself still. Don’t ruin it. Don’t fucking ruin this.

She could barely hear anything over the blood rushing in her ears.

"That’s Subaru… Holy shit. That’s actually him. My angry little tsundere gremlin… even hotter in real life—fuck me sideways."

Laito whistled, all loose-limbed and smug as hell, and Kanato hissed at his teddy bear about mutilating Subaru, because of course he did.

Ana’s mouth was bone-dry. This shit was so much creepier when it wasn’t in 2D.

And then he spoke.

Reiji. Crisp. Controlled. Cold like a blade of polished glass. Ana’s knees actually went weak for a split second.

"Oh my god. It’s him. That cold, arrogant bastard. I would’ve let him step on my throat in another life. Shit, wait. This IS another life.Please let me choke on thy dic–AHEM I mean-"

Ana forced a smirk. Reiji’s voice vibrated through her spine like a well-played cello—low, deadly, and polite enough to make you feel like an idiot for breathing. It was like hearing a fantasy fuckboy monologue in surround sound.

Yui was practically melting under their scrutiny. Girl was trembling like a leaf in a thunderstorm, flinging out lines Ana had heard a hundred times before. “I’m from the church! I don’t know anything! Wah wah wah—”

Ana watched it unfold with morbid delight, a twisted satisfaction blooming in her chest.

"Yeah, cry harder, sunshine. Remember when you left me standing in the goddamn rain? Serves you right"

She kept her face blank—well, almost. The corners of her lips twitched.

And then—

Shu. Lazy, half-lidded, shirt askew, yawning like the chaos didn’t concern him.

Her Bias.

Ana’s soul flatlined. Every neuron in her brain fried simultaneously.

"Holy mother of thighs. That’s him. He’s here. He’s fucking REAL. Shu… you beautiful, emotionally unavailable shithead. I’m gonna die. I would love to die, if he were the one to kill me, like dayum let me choke on his dick cuz damn i'm hungry"

But she didn’t. Somehow, she didn’t. She stood there, watching her favorite characters dunk on Yui in perfect goddamn HD, and managed—miraculously—not to scream like a deranged fangirl.

Yui was spiraling.

The brothers were eating her alive—taunts and smirks and condescension layered so thick it was almost art. Subaru smashed a vase. Laito laughed like he was watching a rom-com. Reiji threatened discipline with that smooth, icy voice that made Ana’s stomach twist in confusing ways. Shu yawned through it like he couldn’t be bothered.

It was glorious.

Ana stood by the door, arms crossed, smirk twitching at the corners of her mouth. Yui’s panic hit its crescendo—words spilling out like broken glass, excuses from the church, relatives, confusion, the whole damn heroine script unraveling in real time.

And then—
Just like in the game—
She broke.

Yui turned and ran.

Out the hall, through the storm, hair whipping behind her, tears probably streaming just like the fanarts always showed.

Ana didn’t move.

Not at first.

She gave it a beat. Let the tension stew. Let the silence crawl back in.

Then she exhaled.

One breath.

And stepped forward.

Every head in the room turned—slowly. Six pairs of eyes zeroed in on her like they’d just remembered she existed.

Perfect.

Ana reached into her bag and pulled out the folded letter. Her fingers were steady now, movements fluid. She wasn’t trembling. She wasn’t apologizing.

She was delivering.

She walked across the marble floor like she had every right to be there. The air still crackled with leftover aggression, but she didn’t care. She stopped directly in front of Reiji and offered him the letter like it was a business transaction—not a plea for survival.

Ana held Reiji’s gaze just long enough to make it awkward, then turned from him like he wasn’t worth her full attention anymore.

She moved to the couch and dropped into it without ceremony. One leg over the other. Chin in her hand. Expression: blank.

She heard the brothers still murmuring, trying to recalibrate. Who the hell was this cousin?

Ana didn’t care.- She pretended not to care

She looked at the chandelier overhead like it might offer her an escape—or lunch.

And then she muttered it, barely above a whisper, in her own language:

“くっそつまんねぇ……腹減ったわ。”.
This is fucking boring… I’m hungry now.

None of them understood it. But they definitely heard it.

Subaru scowled. Reiji’s head tilted slightly. Kanato blinked like a static glitch. Even Laito paused mid-smirk.

The hall was cold now.

The kind of cold that clung to your ribs even after you left it behind. The brothers had scattered to prepare for what came next—the real story, the one Yui was born to carry. Ana had lingered in the parlor, body draped over one of the velvet chairs like she had nothing better to do.

She didn’t.

The scent of aged wood and wine hung thick in the air. The fire had gone out. She hadn’t bothered to light it.

The silence felt good.

Her fingers tapped idly on the armrest. Her leg swung slow, lazy. Still in Miya’s uniform. Still wearing someone else’s skin.

But something in her posture said: Try me. I dare you bitch 

Behind her, soft footsteps approached.

She didn’t look.

She already knew. 

From the sound of the steps she memorize to detail, to the smell of his cologne, everything pointed at one person- Or Vampire:

Shu.

Her brain short-circuited.

Her body didn’t move, didn’t twitch—because she couldn’t. Every muscle had gone stiff and boneless the moment she recognized the weight of his steps.

Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. That’s his voice. His real voice. In real space. Directed at me. At me—ME—OHMIGOD- breathe, bitch, breathe—I SAID breath—

He stopped behind her chair, close enough to touch her.

She felt her spine lock. Her heart hammering so hard it threatened to echo.

He didn’t touch her.

Thank god.

If he had, she might’ve actually died. Just crumbled into ash and orgasms right there.                                                                                                                             Or worse, she might have actually just straight out moaned

“I heard you mutter something,” he said. His voice was low, ungodly deep and rough. Unbothered. Interested. “Language I don’t know.”

I’m going to scream. I’m going to moan. I am physically holding in a screamed moan. Goddamn, his voice is sex and sin and sloth and I need me some of that-not that it matters

Fuck me all ways- ahem I mean, fucking Say it, say it again.
Say anything. Say calculus. Say your tax ID number.
I’ll tattoo it on my soul.

But her face?

Stone.

She blinked slowly, then tilted her head toward him—just enough to show the sharp line of her jaw.

“Maybe I wasn’t talking to you.”

Good. Good. Keep it bitchy. Keep it bitchy. We’re on the bitchy villain cringe type shit- Do NOT melt. You’re a wall. A WaLl BiTcH.  A sexy, emotionally void wall-Wait that sounded like Laito, I wanna puke.. It worked. I got dry in seconds. .

A pause. A flicker of something amused in his exhale. “You weren’t talking to anyone.”

“Maybe I don’t need an audience.”

She didn’t smile. Didn’t move.

Holy shit, his breath is near my ear. His actual breath. Is this what dying happily feels like? Is this how it ends? Well it was better than the last one

He leaned a fraction closer. Enough that she could feel the heat of him.

Abort. Abort. My legs are jelly. My brain is soup. I’m going to fall out of this fucking chair and die. This man is my Roman Empire.

He said nothing more.

Ana reached into her coat pocket, forcing her hands to not shake, and unwrapped a square of chocolate.

Bit it, slow and unhurried.

Chewed.

Didn’t answer.

He stayed for one more beat.

Then left.

Not defeated. But curious.

And curiosity in a house like this?

Was fucking dangerous.

Chapter Text

Act 1, Chapter 9

The rain whispered against the tall windows like a secret too dangerous to speak aloud. It was gentle, almost soothing — a slow patter that made the grotesque little drama unfolding below feel even more fucked up by contrast.

In the center of the grand hall, Yui trembled. Poor thing looked like a fragile doll one heartbeat away from shattering. Surrounded. Cornered. The six vampire brothers circled her like wolves, their words slicing through the heavy air.

“Vampire.”

“Prey.”

It was starting — the unraveling. The moment every Diabolik Lovers fan knew by heart. Ana included.

But Ana wasn’t Ana. Not to them. Not anymore.

She sat half-hidden on the curved staircase, her form stiff and disguised under Miya’s uniform: a pressed blazer, slacks that felt like a straitjacket, and the damn cap pulled low over her eyes. But inside? Her heart was doing cartwheels like a teenage fangirl on meth.

Holy shit, that’s Shu.

Shu — the lazy bastard king, her ultimate bias — had just spoken. His voice was deeper in person. Rougher. It wasn’t fair. Her whole body buzzed like she’d licked a battery. It took every ounce of self-control not to visibly melt into the woodwork.

Ana shoved another piece of chocolate into her mouth.

Don’t you dare squeal. Don’t you fucking dare.

She bit down hard — on the chocolate and on the overwhelming urge to shriek “OH MY GOD THAT’S SHU.” Instead, she kept chewing. Mechanical. Blank. Detached. Like this whole thing was just some slow-burning soap opera and not the reason her legs were jelly.

Subaru’s voice came next. Sharper. Angrier. Her second favorite. The tsundere mess of violence and softness.

Fuck, he's even hotter in real life. God, what the hell was in that truck that hit me — destiny?- Nah more like marijuana cuz I feel so high I can see heaven and by the looks of it, it comes full of sin and lust.

Then came Reiji.

Clinical, cold, calculating Reiji — her third. The sharp-tongued, bookish bastard she loved to hate. When his eyes swept toward the staircase, Ana almost gagged on her chocolate. His gaze was too damn sharp. Too fucking curious.

Bitch, don't look at me. I’m normal. I'm invisible. I’m a brick wall, stoned but brick wall. I am definitely not a fangirl who used to write smutty one-shots about you on forums.No. Definitely Not. Nope. Never. that ain’t me yk…imagine…. Hahaha…..that ain’t me…..

But outside? Her expression didn’t crack. She kept chewing, slow and uncaring.

Below, Yui screamed about vampires and garlic like she hadn't read the damn script.

Ana wanted to cackle. Girl, you’re already screwed. Just pick one and brace for the trauma. it gets better the deeper they are

Another square of chocolate. Another heartbeat skipped.

But Shu’s gaze had moved. One lazy eye peeled open — and it landed on her.

Ana didn’t flinch. She met it. Blankly. Like she couldn’t care less.

Holy hell, holy fucking heavenly hell, my unholy damnation, he’s looking at me.                                                                                                                                                                                                     I am not okay.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       I AM NOT OKAY.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                - BREATH BITCH BREATH-

She swung her foot casually, heel tapping the step.

Keep it cool. Don't sweat. Don’t cry.

She muttered under her breath, soft and low, in her own language — not the one of this world, but the one from before:

「くっそつまんねぇ…腹減った。」
“Fucking boring... I'm hungry now.”

Her tone was flat. Her eyes, half-lidded. Inside, she was combusting.

From their spots around Yui, Reiji, Subaru, and Shu looked up — again.

Not just passing glances this time.

Real attention.

The “boy” on the stairs wasn’t reacting. Wasn’t shocked. Wasn’t human. At least, not in any of the expected ways.

Ana just stared at the mess unfolding like she already knew every line of the script — because she did.

And that, more than anything, made her dangerous.

Slowly, methodically, she peeled the wrapper back and popped another square into her mouth, her expression so blank, so faintly bored, it was almost obscene against the hysteria unraveling below.

There was no tension in her body. No tightness in her hands.
Just a casual, mechanical chewing, as if she were watching a predictable, but not quite boring soap opera instead of a nightmare unfurling in front of her.

They hadn't meant to spare a thought for the background cousin — the unwanted, tolerated Miya.

But the more the scene twisted itself into chaos, the more Ana's eerie stillness became impossible to ignore.

Reiji's gaze — sharp, clinical, cutting — slid over to the staircase as Yui wailed about vampires.
He adjusted his glasses slowly, studying the boy slouched casually on the steps.

No reaction.

Not even fucking curiosity.
Not even fear. Who The fuck doesn’t even show fear?

Just... bored chewing.

Reiji frowned slightly, a cold, calculating weight gathering behind his eyes.
That is not normal behavior, he thought.

Shu, who had been reclining lazily in his chair with one leg slung over the armrest, cracked open one eye.

His tired gaze drifted up the staircase.

Saw the chocolate.

Saw the utterly blank face.

Saw the faint slump of someone who looked less like a scared housemate and more like a fucking exhausted salaryman on a lunch break.

Shu exhaled through his nose, a quiet scoff of disbelief.
"Tch. Either he's fucking cracked already... or he knows the shitty ass ending."

Subaru, lurking near the far wall like a shadow refusing to blend, bristled visibly.
His red eyes fixed on Ana with bloody fucking open suspicion.

He hated it — the feeling of fucking wrongness radiating from the boy sitting so calmly while a human girl was being verbally torn apart.
Hated how Miya didn't evenfucking  tense when Yui shouted about crosses and garlic and fairy tales.

Subaru's fists clenched at his sides, the urge to smash something gnawing at him.

There was something about "Miya" that scraped against his instincts like nails on glass.

Something’s not right.

Meanwhile, the others — Laito, Ayato, and Kanato — remained oblivious.

Their attention was glued to Yui, circling her like wolves drunk on the scent of fresh shitty poor quality fear.

Ayato sneered.
Kanato licked his lips in anticipation.
Laito leaned closer, his smile wide and hungry.

Yui was panicking now, grasping at futile protections, clutching a rosary like a lifeline against drowning hands.

Yui’s hands trembled as she clutched the hem of her blouse, lip quivering like she was about to cry — again.

Ana watched from the banister, chewing the last of her chocolate like it was a sedative and not the only thing stopping her from letting out a bark of laughter.

This is the scene.
The moment. The damn infamous pick-your-poison scene.

Six predators. One shaking little rabbit.

And Yui? Fucking Yui, with her wide, stupid eyes and endless optimism, made the dumbest choice possible.

“Laito,” she said, almost breathless, like his name was air.

Ana blinked slowly.

Oh, you idiot. You fucking idiot. I gotta give it to her to make the worse decisions

Laito grinned like the bastard he was — all teeth and sex and silk. His hat tipped low, his hips moved like a fucking tease, and that voice? Sugary rot dipped in arsenic.

“Ara~ Bitch-chan chose me~ How naughty,” he purred, drawing out the syllables like foreplay.

Yui flushed pink.

Ana fought the urge to groan. Girl, he’s going to eat you alive and ask for seconds. And he’s gonna cheat on you then blame it on you like your existence is a mistake

Around the room, the other brothers reacted just as expected.

Subaru scoffed, shoulders tense like he was seconds away from punching through a wall.
Reiji adjusted his glasses with a cold sneer, already writing her off as a fool.
Shu didn’t say anything — just closed his eyes like this was all too damn loud for him.

But Ana saw it.

They were all watching now.

Not just Yui.

Her.

Shit.

The silence in the room was no longer solely about Yui’s little suicidal choice — it was about the outlier. The “boy” sitting cool and still and too calm during a vampire pissing match.

Ana tilted her head, resting her cheek on her knuckles.

She wasn’t faking the bored look anymore. She was bored — bored of the act, bored of the script.

Let her get dragged away. Let Laito do what he does best. Ana had watched that scene back in her old world. Now she was watching it unfold like a living fanfic.

But she wasn’t on the outside this time.

She was Miya now.
Except she wasn’t.
She was Ana — with teeth. With blood in her mouth. And no fucking intention of staying in the background forever.

She muttered again in her own tongue, voice low, throaty:

「こいつ、ほんとにドMの極みだな。」
“She’s a goddamn masochist to the bone.”

Laito paused mid-step, hat hiding his eyes — but Ana saw the flick of his lashes.
He’d heard.

She felt it — the brief flicker of amusement ripple off him like a scent.

Then he smirked and led Yui away like a lamb to the fucking slaughter.

Ana leaned back into the railing, eyes closing.

Let the girl make her choice.

Ana had hers already lined up — whether this world knew it or not.

Chapter Text

Act 1, Chapter 10

The storm had faded, leaving the mansion thick with damp air and unspoken tension. Mist clung to the windows like breath held too long. Silence ruled.

Yui stood, trembling and wrecked in the center of the hallway — her chosen knight, Laito, leering with smug satisfaction. The others faded from her periphery, carrying their irritation like perfume turned sour.

And there, above it all, Ana sat on the stairs like some bored god, chewing her second chocolate bar like it was the most natural fucking thing in the world.

This wasn’t Miya.
This was Ana.
And Ana was internally combusting.

Holy shit, holy shit, holy fuck me sideways with a chainsaw—

Her Bias.
Shu.
Shu-fucking-Sakamaki.

His voice had rolled through her like a goddamn tremor, lazy and disinterested and everything she remembered moaning over with a pillow shoved in her face back home. That smooth, dragged-out cadence — it was criminal. Erotic. Illegal in at least four countries.

She had to clench her damn thighs when he so much as glanced her way. And when he spoke? She nearly passed out. If he even breathed in her direction again, she'd need resuscitation and a cold fucking shower.

But outside?
Ana chewed. Slowly. Blankly.
Like she wasn’t two seconds from melting into a puddle of hormone-fueled obsession.

Subaru — her second fave — had prowled past her like an angry ghost, every line of his body vibrating with that angry-wounded-hellbeast energy that had made her fall for him in the first place. That boy was angst in boots, and god, she wanted to hug him or let him pin her to the nearest gothic wall. Maybe both.

And Reiji... Goddamn Reiji. That bastard. Her third fave. He had that polished, poisonous, know-it-all perfection that scratched an itch in her brain labeled: “Yes, Daddy, scold me harder.”

Ana was losing her mind.
Her teenage self was screaming into a void.

Ana shifted slightly, resting one elbow on her knee, letting her face tilt into her palm. The chocolate melted slow between her teeth, sweet and calming — a small mercy for her fraying grip on reality.

Because Shu had just looked at her.
Like looked at her.
His dull, lidded gaze had hovered for too long.

She sucked in a breath.

"死ぬな…推しを前にして渇き死ぬんじゃねえぞ…"
"Do not die from thirst in front of your fictional crushes."

The words slipped out low — a mutter, really — like a whispered prayer to the gods of fangirls and emotional restraint. But her accent was sharp, alien to this world. It wasn’t Japanese as they knew it — it was her own. Her language. The real her.

Something in the room shifted.

Subaru stiffened. His eyes narrowed.

Reiji’s fingers paused mid-adjustment on his glasses.

And Shu?
Shu’s lashes fluttered half open, gaze sliding to her like something slow and feline — lazy, but curious. Like he’d heard something he wasn’t supposed to. Like she’d broken character.

Ana didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.

But her brain was screaming:
You fucked up, idiot.

She covered it with another bite of chocolate, chewing too slow, too casual.
Her eyes stayed half-lidded. A little bored. A little amused.
Totally not panicking. Totally not wet from a voice that had no right sounding that fucking sexy in real life.

It was fine.
She was fine.

She was just living in the literal erotic horror game of her teenage dreams, inside a body not hers, pretending to be someone she wasn’t, while trying really hard not to visibly drool over her top three fictional men while trying not to imagine all the ways they could individually or in group screw her up till she can’t walk for weeks.

Totally. Fucking. Fine.

Chapter Text

Act 2, Chapter 1

Ana sat on the stairs like she belonged there, spine rigid, eyes wide, pretending she was invisible — and failing miserably at not dripping all over the damn mahogany.

Yui just picked the worst option, And holy shit, did the energy shift. The flirtatious bastard licked his lips like he'd just been handed dessert, and the tension in the room coiled so tight Ana could feel it all the way up the steps. Her fingers trembled around her notebook — the one that looked totally normal from the outside but inside…

Inside, it was the fucking Bible of her past life.

Routes. Death flags. Cheat codes. Observations.

And now — her shaking hand flipped to the page. The page.
Laito's route. Her least explored. Her "we’ll save that freak for last" route.

And now, her only goddamn chance.

But with Shu, Subaru and Reiji looking at her like she’s their new toy, it’s really difficult.

She bit down on her lip hard enough to bruise, her thighs clenched under her pants. Heat crawled up her neck as she watched Shu lean back with that lazy, unbothered smirk — the kind of expression that said you’re all idiots, but I’m hot enough to get away with it.- truth to be told, he is.

Subaru stormed off, muttering something sharp under his breath, while Reiji glared like this entire circus was beneath him.

Ana, sitting there on the stairs like a feral voyeur, tried to hold it together. But her brain?

Her brain was already melting out of her ears.

「やばい、私もう濡れてるんじゃないか…いや、嘘だろ…」
“Fuck… I’m actually wet already, aren’t I? No way… No fucking way…”

Her pen clicked against the paper — hard. Once. Twice. She circled Laito’s name in red ink, her breath catching on a shaky inhale.

Big, slow, deliberate strokes.

Circle. Circle. Circle.

As if that would ground her.

As if her body wasn’t trying to combust.

Her thighs squeezed again, her hips twitching forward just a little with the friction. She didn’t dare move more than that — not with them all still right there.

She had spent hours, nights, years watching these boys through a screen. Studying them. Fantasizing about them. Writing fanfiction, drawing their twisted kisses in margins of work notes, hiding smut under Excel files like a dirty little secret.

And now?

Now Shu Sakamaki’s voice had touched her ears in person, and she was one half-lidded glance away from orgasmic collapse.

「この世界クソ過ぎる…最高すぎてムカつく…」
“This world is bullshit... it’s too fucking good, I hate it…”

She pressed her face into her arm, pretending to cough. Or hide. Or breathe. Anything but stare like a desperate perv while her former OTP started unfolding their mess in real time.

And worst of all?

She was loving every goddamn second of it.

Below, the moment unfolded exactly how she remembered it.
Yui, looking all fluttery and wholesome, chose Laito.

And the triplets?

A fucking chaos bomb.

Kanato giggled. Ayato scoffed. Laito tilted his hat like the bastard flirt he was, eyes glinting with amusement — and something darker. He took a step closer to Yui, lips curling into the kind of smirk that usually preceded some X-rated line about obedience, or sin, or blood.

It was all so familiar.

And so goddamn real.

Ana pulled her notebook out from under her jacket with the mechanical precision of a bored secretary. She flipped to the page. Laito’s route. Right there in the middle. Clean, annotated, and dry — unlike her current mental state.

She uncapped her red pen, the click echoing just enough.

And circled.

Once. Twice. A slow, deliberate third pass.
Like she was rating a performance, and Laito just rolled a nat 20  in "Making a Girl Lose Her Sanity on Sight."

But what she didn’t see — at first — was the way three pairs of eyes locked onto her movement.

Shu, lounging on the bottom step, his head tilted lazily back — but his eyes laser-focused. Watching her fingers. The notebook. That red pen.
Not reacting. Just… recording.

Subaru, arms crossed, leaning against the banister like it offended him, his scowl deepening with every circle. Like she’d just insulted his intelligence without saying a word.

Reiji, perfectly composed, adjusting his glasses, and then freezing — mid-motion — when his gaze flicked to the words on the page. To the name.
And that fucking red ink.

They said nothing. Not a sound.

But Ana felt it.

She glanced up.

And froze.

Three of the most dangerous bastards in this universe were staring straight at her like she’d just peeled the skin off their mystery.

「え、ちょっと待って……見てる？全員……見てる……ああクソ。」
“Wait—hold up… They’re watching? All of them? … Oh fuck me…”

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t let the notebook tremble in her grip.

Didn’t let the heat rushing between her legs betray the fact that Shu’s half-lidded stare had just made her pulse skip so hard she thought she’d fucking die.

Instead, she tapped her pen once more. Click.
Like this was her boardroom, and they were just underdressed interns failing to impress.

Inside?

She was screaming.

Outside?

A calm, blank face. A little yawn. An eye roll, just for flavor. nat 20 on poker face

She closed the notebook with a firm snap and crossed her legs, resting her chin on one hand like she was just another background character with a shit attention span.

But the damage was done.

They had noticed.

And none of them were going to forget the way she circled Laito’s name like it meant something.

Because it did.

She stood, slow and deliberate, brushing off invisible dust from her sleeves like she hadn’t just been caught red-handed circling Laito’s name like a fucking fangirl with boundary issues.

Her spine rolled in a stretch, catlike and careless, the hem of her borrowed uniform riding up just enough to tease.
A soft sigh slipped from her lips — something between tired amusement and a half-muttered moan of satisfaction. It wasn’t ladylike. It wasn’t modest. It was too casual, too comfortable in a space no one should’ve been at ease in.

Then she shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, chin tilted with that same untouchable calm, and started walking down the hallway like the air wasn’t vibrating behind her with three centuries’ worth of vampiric tension.

Unhurried.
Unbothered.
Like she belonged here more than any of them.

A low, off-key hum drifted behind her — a song no one recognized.
Not from this world, anyway.

And behind her… silence.

But not the peaceful kind.

No. This silence crackled.

Three pairs of eyes followed her steps like wolves watching something wrong stroll into their territory. Something that smiled too easily, moved too fluidly, knew too much.

No words passed between them.

They didn’t need them.

Reiji, jaw tight, was already cataloguing the unnatural.
That accent. That gaze. That strange, distant knowing.
He hated anomalies. Hated unpredictability.
She was both — and he would dissect her if he had to.

Shu, still lounging, eyes half-lidded, looked like he hadn’t moved — but every inch of his mind was now awake. Watching. Waiting. Savoring the curiosity like a slow drink.
After all, the most interesting games always started with someone pretending not to play.

Subaru, the muscle, the storm barely chained, had shifted forward half a step. Just one. Just enough.
His fist flexed, knuckles white.
His body said fight.
But his eyes — gods, his eyes screamed why the hell does he smell like danger and déjà vu?

And deep within them, in three separate languages spoken in glances, each brother reached the same icy realization:

Miya Eckhart was not what she seemed.

Her voice. Her words. Her presence. Her goddamn calm.

None of it fit.

And in a house like this — a house built on lies, manipulation, and hunger — that meant only one thing:

The mask would crack.
The truth would bleed.
And someone — maybe all of them — would be there to taste it when it did.

Chapter Text

Act 2, Chapter 2

The hallway stretched ahead of her like the inside of a cathedral made for murder — all oil paintings, dark paneling, and red carpets that drank up sound like spilled blood.

Ana walked in silence, just behind the maid, who moved like a wraith in heels. Ana’s hands stayed shoved deep in her pockets. Calm. Loose. But under the fabric, her fingers twitched.

They’re behind me.

She didn’t look.
Didn’t need to.

The temperature of the mansion had shifted — just slightly, just enough for someone paying attention.
But she was paying attention.
Because she’d watched this game frame by frame.

Three sets of footsteps weren’t where they should be.

They weren’t following the route. They weren’t with Yui. They weren’t lounging in velvet chairs drinking blood cocktails and monologuing.

They were here.

Watching.

And Ana?

Ana was barely holding it together.

Oh my god oh my god oh my fucking god Shu is behind me. Reiji too. And Subaru. Holy fuck, it’s the power trio. It’s the I-would’ve-let-you-step-on-me crew. I’m going to DIE.                                         -BREATHHHH BITCH BREATH-                                                                                                                       

She swallowed hard.
Outwardly? Cool as hell.
Inwardly? Melting like a goth in July.

Her breath hitched — but not enough to be noticeable.

They’re doing the horror movie thing.
The classic “let’s just stand in the open like ominous Greek statues and pretend we’re subtle”                   The Shitty “No one will see us, trust” Act.
They suck at hiding. Absolutely trash tier. Horror-movie white blond ass protagonist-level terrible.  Even if they were black I bet I’d still see them in the dark- yes they’re that bad                                              I see you, motherfuckers. I’m just pretending I don’t.                                                                                           Cuz I don’t have the willpower to talk to you all without dying again or even worse, straight out moan.

Ana kept her steps slow. Measured.
One, two, three.
Right foot. Left foot. Sanity. Please.                                                                                                                   The walls pulsed with heat that didn’t come from the dying sconces. That wasn’t electricity. That was attention. Thick. Heavy. Hungry.

Shu was slouched, but not disengaged. Reiji was practically vibrating with the need to interrogate. Subaru was coiled so tight she could feel the tension like a wire pulled behind her knees.

They’re watching. They’re analyzing. They’ve noticed.

And Ana?

She was very literally clenching her thighs together to stop herself from dripping down her own leg.

She passed a massive stained-glass window — deep reds and bruised purples casting weird shadows over her face — and she finally let herself slow to a full stop.

Let them think she was pausing to admire the architecture.

In reality?

She was buying herself five fucking seconds before she passed out from the sheer force of her own thirst.

「落ち着け… 落ち着け… ビッチになるなよ……」
“Calm down… calm down… don’t be a fucking simp…” -Who am I kidding, I am a fucking Simp.

She exhaled. Shifted her weight.
Raised her head.
Looked at her reflection in the glass.

Miya’s body.
Her hair. Her mouth.
But her eyes?

Those were Ana’s.

Dark. Wide.
Unhinged.

You look like the monster who’s pretending not to notice the heroes are hunting her, she thought. And it’s not even a lie.

She turned her head slightly, just enough to catch a shape in her periphery.

Shu, leaning against a doorframe like he’d just woken up but had been watching her for ten minutes.
Reiji, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, glasses catching the glow like a scalpel.
Subaru, tense, jaw clenched, like he wanted to punch a hole through her or the wall — and hadn’t decided which.

They weren’t hiding.

They weren’t trying to hide.

They wanted her to feel it.
Wanted her to squirm.
Wanted to know if she’d flinch.

Ana smiled.

She didn’t turn. She didn’t greet them.
She just… smiled.

And in her own tongue, under her breath, low and soft like sin on a cigarette:

「またこいつらに見られてる…こんなに見られたら…イくぞ？」
“They’re staring again… At this rate, I’m gonna fucking come from eye contact…”

Her face didn’t move. Her body didn’t twitch.
But her thighs? Still clenched.

She straightened her spine, brushed nonexistent dust from her sleeve, and sighed — long and low, like she’d just finished a math exam, not walked past three predators trying to peel her open with their eyes.

Then she walked again.
Unhurried.
Unbothered.
Unholy.

Humming. Something off-tune and out-of-place.
Something they didn’t recognize.
Her.

Behind her?

Three brothers stood still.

And then — glanced toward one another.

Nothing said.
Nothing needed.

Reiji was already cataloging languages, dialects, tonal shifts, and behavior patterns.
Shu was quietly amused, letting the intrigue wrap itself around his boredom like silk.
Subaru was fighting the urge to grab her shoulder and demand answers — but something about her stillness held him back. Something that didn’t feel prey-like at all.

And in the space between the tension and the silence, all three reached the same unspoken conclusion:

She didn’t belong in the script.

She wasn’t scared enough.
Wasn’t surprised enough.
Wasn’t normal.

And in a house where every mask had a function, that meant only one thing:

Eventually, someone would rip hers off.
And when they did?

They weren’t sure what they’d find underneath.

But they were dying to know

Chapter Text

Act 2, Chapter 3

Her footsteps vanished into the mansion’s throat — devoured by the velvet runner beneath her boots and the tension crawling up her spine.

Only her last words lingered behind her, curling in the air like incense: foreign, intimate, and deliberately untranslatable.

Behind her, in the corridor steeped in shadow, they didn’t move.

The brothers stood frozen. Listening. Tasting the sound of her language like it had bitten them.

No one spoke.

Not at first.

Then — Reiji. Always Reiji.

His hands flexed once at his sides, slow and surgical, like he was resisting the urge to dissect something still living. His glasses caught the stormlight, hiding the tight fury simmering in his jaw.

Foreign. Deliberate. Intimate. Meant to be overheard.

But he couldn’t place it.

Not German.
Not French.
Something almost Japanese, but wrong — a distortion.
The vowels were bent, the consonants heavier. The cadence was off just enough to put his brain on edge, like a familiar song played one key too low. Something older. Or newer. Or not from this world at all.

That made it dangerous.

And Reiji did not tolerate danger without classification.

Shu’s mouth curved slightly.

Leaning against the banister, he let out a lazy exhale — a breath, not a laugh, but it carried weight. His eyes stayed half-lidded, unreadable.

“Cheeky little thing,” he murmured, low, deep and almost admiring.

She hadn’t flinched once.
Hadn’t cowered.
Hadn’t asked permission.

Most mortals tried to disappear under their gaze.
She had looked at the wolves and smiled.

He’d seen it before — in enemies too confident, in men and women who thought they knew how the story ended.

But this one?

This one felt like he’d read the last page and come back just to fuck with the margins.

And that…

That was rare.

Subaru’s knuckles were white.

His whole body screamed violence. Not the cold, surgical kind. But the kind that begged for a wall to punch through. A name to spit. A lie to expose.

He took a step — then stopped himself.

Something primal held him back.

Not fear.
Not logic.
Instinct.

There was something off about the way he moved. The way his voice coiled through the air like it belonged there.

He’d seen rabbits freeze before.
But this wasn’t a rabbit.

This was something else.
Something that knew how to bleed without dying.

He growled under his breath, shoved his fists into his coat, and turned sharply — trying to burn the thought from his skull.

But it didn’t leave.

None of them moved.
None of them spoke.
Not yet.

Because even as Miya’s footsteps faded into the distance, her scent remained — not just his body’s scent, but his presence. Like he’d dragged static into the walls.

Something was coming.

And it had teeth.

The door shut behind her with a soft click.

Ana didn’t move.

She stood just inside the room, shoulders tense, arms limp, eyes wide — staring.

For a full thirty seconds, she didn’t even breathe.

Because this?

This was it.

This was the room. The room.

She’d seen it before.

In CG cutscenes.
In fanart.
In fucking 3D-rendered walkthroughs uploaded at 1 a.m. while she sat crying in her old apartment with Cheeto dust on her fingers and her phone clutched like a rosary.

But now it wasn’t digital.
Now it was real.

And that was so much worse.

The bed was huge. Too huge. All carved wood and velvet sheets — red so dark they almost looked wet. The drapes were embroidered with thorny gold thread. The window was stained glass. There was a faint scent of roses and old pages.

It was gothic. Romantic. Dangerous.

It was beautiful.

It was everything she used to fantasize about.
And now it was hers.

Or Miya’s. Whatever.

Ana’s knees buckled. She stumbled forward a step, caught herself against the dresser — ornate, heavy, fucking ridiculous. She dragged her fingers across it and left streaks in the dust.

She laughed — soft and unsteady.

「ちょっと待って…こんなはずじゃなかった…いや、こんなだったけど…バカか私は…」
“Wait… wait, this wasn’t supposed to happen—no, it was, this is exactly what I wanted. I’m such a fucking idiot.”

She turned and caught sight of the mirror.

Stopped cold.

The girl in the reflection wasn’t her.

She knew that.
She knew it like she knew her name — or used to.
But it still punched the breath from her lungs every time.

Miya. Small. Pale. Forgettable.

But now with Ana’s eyes — wide, feral, trembling with the effort of holding back every goddamn emotion trying to claw out of her mouth.

She took a step forward.
Then another.
Until she was right in front of the glass.

And she whispered to herself:

“This is my fucking room now. My fucking story. So pull it together, bitch.”

Her reflection stared back, unimpressed.

Ana groaned and collapsed onto the edge of the bed.

The mattress sank beneath her weight like it had been waiting.

The softness was obscene. Her thighs sank deep. Her body welcomed it. Too fast. Too easy. Her breath stuttered.

It smells like old wine and want.

She dragged a hand over her face.

It was too much.

Too good.

Too fucked.

She could still feel their stares on her — Shu, Reiji, Subaru — burning between her shoulder blades like she'd been branded.

She wasn’t safe.
She wasn’t sane.
And she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be either anymore.

The second Ana knew she was alone, she broke.

Boots off. Jacket tossed.
She collapsed face-first into the blood-colored bed like it owed her rent.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuck,” she groaned into the sheets, voice muffled, vibrating.
“This bed is going to fucking kill me.”

She writhed dramatically, flipping to her back and spreading out like a crime scene victim.

Every limb shook from nerves and adrenaline, skin still prickling where her Bias’s voice had crawled down her spine. Shu Sakamaki. Speaking. Near her. To her. In a tone that might as well have been verbal foreplay to her anime-rotted brain.

“Oh god, I’m actually gonna die here. I’m gonna die from thirst and this time it’s not metaphorical.”

She slapped her palm over her eyes, then peeked between her fingers with a manic grin.

“I was never built to survive this. No one trains you to deal with hot vampires not from the safety of a screen.Miya, Thank Goodness your face looks like it was build with cement cuz if not for your straight poker face, the act would’ve died on the seventh chapter of last act”
She hiccup-laughed. “I’m the dumb white bitch in the horror movie who pretends she doesn’t see the monster even when it’s licking its fangs. Except I’m cosplaying as Doom’s playable character and looking at them like I’m the horror and the vampires are the victims ”

Her voice cracked as she mimicked a cheerfully oblivious tone:

“‘Oh, weird, I feel like I’m being watched by beautiful but deeply dangerous undead men who clearly think I’m lying about who I am! Must be the draft!”

She laughed, too loud, too sharp, and then—

Silence.

Her smile fell.

Ana sat up slowly and reached into her coat pocket.

Out came a compact mirror. Silver. Slightly scuffed. Carried with her for reasons she hadn’t questioned since waking up in this body.

She held it gently in her hands, almost reverently, and looked at the face reflected there.

“Miya,” she whispered. “I know you’re in here somewhere.”

No answer. Just her own haunted eyes staring back at her through someone else’s lashes.

She hesitated. Then asked, softly:

            “好きな食べ物は何だった？”

“Hey… what was your favorite food?”

Still no answer. Not in words.

But something fluttered in her chest — something warm. Like a sigh.

Ana smiled crookedly.

“Was it sweet? Salty? Spicy as hell?” she murmured. “Bet you liked the stuff nobody ever made for you.”

She didn’t expect an answer.

She never did.

But the glass shifted.

One blink — and the reflection didn’t belong to her anymore.

A girl. Younger. Smaller. Hair unbrushed, dark eyes wide like she knew she wasn’t supposed to be here. A face that made Ana’s stomach twist, like her brain was trying to remember something her soul already knew.

Miya.

But not quite.

Miya, if you scraped away the pain and left just the ghost.

The little girl smiled — tentative, but real — and her voice came soft, almost shy:

   “あなたの世界のごはん、食べてみたい。お姉ちゃん。”
    I want to try the food from your world, big sis.

And for one second, Ana stopped breathing.

Big sis.

Big sis.

Her mind tried to protest — I didn’t tell her that, she shouldn’t know that, no one fucking knows that —

But her body remembered. The way small hands used to grip her fingers. The way someone once called her that, with trust and love, and maybe a little fear. She couldn’t remember the face. Couldn’t remember the name.

But the feeling punched through her chest like a freight train.

Then the mirror cracked.

No — it fractured violently, like the glass had looked God in the eye and flinched. Webs of silver lightning split across the surface. The girl’s image stuttered — once, twice — and then vanished in a flash of warped, sizzling reflection.

The mirror slammed shut in her palm with a metallic snap, sealing itself like it’d just shown something it wasn’t supposed to.

Hot. Then ice-cold.

Ana didn’t scream.

Didn’t cry.

She just tucked it away, slow and methodical, like folding up a memory before it could bite her back.

She stared out at nothing, letting the silence settle around her like dust. Not even the storm outside could drown out the weight of what had just happened.

Miya was still in there.

And maybe... maybe her little sibling was, too.

She closed the compact with a soft snap.

Then laid it on the nightstand like it was something sacred.

She didn’t cry.
She didn’t scream again.

She just curled up sideways on the obscene bed with her jacket as a pillow and whispered:

   “あんたの分も、ちゃんと生きてやるよ。”
    “I’ll live this for both of us, alright?”

The room was starting to close in.

Not with walls — with silence. With velvet. With too much fucking comfort.

Ana stood, knees stiff, and crossed the room with the kind of calm that came after the edge had already dulled. She moved toward the double doors on the far side, fingers trailing against carved wood.

They opened with a soft click, revealing a bathroom that looked like it had been yanked out of a vampire queen’s wet dream.

Black marble floors, veined in angry, blood-red streaks. Gilded sconces flickering on the walls. A sunken jacuzzi sat dead-center, cold and empty, ringed with wrought iron vines that curled like they wanted to strangle something. Everything gleamed — polished, excessive, obscene.

Ana stepped in like she was trespassing on a corpse’s sanctuary.

It didn’t feel real.

It felt like a fucking tomb.

A sprawling vanity stretched across one wall, triple mirrors glinting under the sickly light. The corners of the glass were cracked, like someone had tried to claw their way out. A tray of glass bottles sat neatly arranged on the counter — perfumes, oils, things with names she didn’t recognize and didn’t trust.

The air smelled like rosewater and something sharp. Metallic. Sweet.

Like blood with too much makeup.

Ana picked up one of the bottles, turned it in her hand, then put it back down.

You’re not fooling me, you expensive little shit.

She moved to the edge of the tub, crouched, ran her fingers over the iron vines. Cold. Twisting. Beautiful in that cruel, barbed way.

Just like the rest of this goddamn house.

She stood up, rubbed her palms against her pants to shake the chill.

This wasn’t a bathroom. It was a stage. A fucking altar built to mock the idea of cleansing. Everything about it screamed indulgence, but none of it felt alive. None of it felt hers.

The towels were stacked like offerings. The gold-plated faucets gleamed like fangs. Even the mirror refused to show anything but distorted versions of her — stretched, off-angle, wrong.

She locked eyes with her reflection.

Dead stare.

Hair that wasn’t hers. Skin that barely felt like it fit.

“You think all this is gonna make me forget?” she muttered to the mirror, voice low and flat.

     “バカにすんな,”  she added.
     Don’t fuckin’ insult me.

The mirror didn’t crack this time. But it understood.

Ana turned away before she could see herself flinch.

Back in the bedroom, the walls waited with open arms. Still pretty. Still poisonous.

Still a cage with velvet bars.

Chapter Text

Act 2, Chapter 4 

The rain slammed against the mansion’s high windows like a war drum—steady, savage, unrelenting.

In the vast sitting room, tension clung to the walls like mold, damp and choking. The air reeked of ancient wood, rotting velvet, and barely contained bloodlust.

The brothers gathered not out of loyalty or kinship—but because something had forced their hands. Like animals dragged into a cage, eyes sharp and teeth ready. The house watched. The walls leaned in. Shadows crowded the corners, hungry for secrets.

Reiji stood like a fucking monument beside the fireplace, every inch of him wound tight—arms crossed, jaw locked, fingers twitching like they wanted to strangle something delicate. His glasses caught the flames, hiding his eyes in slashes of light. Always controlled. Always coiled.

Shu slouched across the chaise like he owned the goddamn world—half-lidded eyes, lazy posture, a boot swinging with rhythmic disdain. His whole body screamed, I don’t give a fuck, and yet... he hadn’t left.

Subaru? Subaru looked like a fucking blade with skin stretched over it. Arms folded, back against the wall, head dipped low—but that twitching tension? That was fury barely caged. He was the type that didn’t snap until someone bled.

No one spoke.

Just the fire—hissing and crackling like it wanted to laugh.

Then:
Reiji's voice—cold, clipped, surgical.

"We need to discuss... the anomaly."

The word landed like a thrown knife.

Shu sighed, slow and bored.
Subaru’s spine stiffened like a whipcord pulled too tight.

Reiji’s eyes glinted as he adjusted his glasses.

"The boy claiming to be Miya Eckhart is not what he appears to be."

Subaru growled. “No shit. Nobody acts that dead-inside unless they’re hiding some real twisted shit.”

"Or already snapped," Shu muttered, his tone a sleepy knife. "Maybe he's cracked. Wouldn’t be the first lost cause dumped here."

Reiji shook his head.

"No. It’s not madness. Not that kind. He’s speaking a language almost like ours... but off. Familiar, but wrong."

He paused—let it simmer.

"Like someone reached into our world, twisted the bones, and spat him back out."

Subaru’s hands clenched. “Then what the fuck is he?”

Reiji’s silence was almost worse than an answer.

"I don’t know. Yet."

He fucking hated admitting that.

Shu tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling like it bored him to death.

“Didn’t smell like prey,” he muttered. “Not like the girl.”

Reiji’s gaze snapped to him.

“Exactly.”

Subaru shoved off the wall, pacing like a predator.

“Then let’s drag the bastard into the light and make him scream.”

Shu laughed—low, amused, like he wanted to see someone else do it first.

“Violence isn’t always the answer, dumbass.”

Subaru’s glare could’ve flayed a lesser man alive. Reiji raised a hand.

“Enough. No one touches him. Not yet.”

He picked up a thick, leather-bound book, thumb skimming over the ancient spine like he was petting something dangerous.

“If he’s fucking with us—and he is—we don’t strike. We watch. We wait. We slit the mask open.”

Shu smirked, eyes closed.

“You mean stalk him.”

Reiji nodded. “Precisely.”

Subaru didn’t argue—but his whole body screamed he wanted to break something.

Reiji stared into the storm outside, eyes cold.

“Interact sparingly. Push him. Agitate him. When the cracks show—and they will—we’ll rip him wide open.”

Silence.

The fire hissed again—lower now, casting twitching shadows like crawling hands.

Shu stood up, stretching like a beast just waking up.

“I’ll play with him first,” he said. Casual. Lazy. Dangerous.

Reiji nodded. “Carefully.”

“Whatever the fuck he is... he’s not harmless.”

Shu’s smile curved, a wolfish sliver. “Neither are we.”

He turned and left. The door groaned behind him like it knew blood was coming.

Subaru lingered, twitching. Reiji didn’t look at him. He didn’t need to.

They all felt it.

That weird fucking kid—the one pretending to be Miya—had lit a fire in their den.

And soon, one of them would burn.

Far across the mansion’s endless, claustrophobic halls, Yui lay wide awake in a bed that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale—but felt more like a padded cell.

Silken sheets. Carved headboard. Chandelier swaying gently like a pendulum made of bones. Everything was perfect in that fake kind of way—like a dream bought at a pawn shop.

And none of it helped.

The air was too still. The walls too silent.

She felt watched, even here—especially here.

"Fucking hell," she muttered, hugging the pillow tighter like it could keep the world out.

They had said it. Plain as anything. No hesitation.
Vampires.

And now she was stuck in a house full of fanged psychopaths—every one of them smiling like they knew how she’d taste.

And worse?

Worse than the teeth, the walls, the bloodlust... was him.

That boy. Miya.
That name caught in her throat like a splinter.

No. Not Miya. Not really.

That boy—quiet, detached, unfazed by everything around him—was wrong. From the second she saw him, it was like something deep inside her soul twitched. A gut-level glitch. A bug in the code.

“You don’t belong here,” she whispered bitterly into the dark. “This was supposed to be my story.”

That was the truth, wasn’t it?

She had a role. A purpose. The heroine, the center, the girl caught in a terrible, beautiful nightmare. And the moment he showed up—emotionless, unreadable, like a fucking ghost pretending to be human—everything shifted.

The boys didn’t look at her the same. Not after he arrived. They were curious now. Focused. Distracted.

Like wolves sniffing out something new.

And she hated it.

Hated him. 

And She hated Laito too

“Why’d I even call his name?” she hissed, voice shaking. “Why him? Of all people...?”

He hadn’t flinched. Not when things got ugly. Not when blood spilled. He just watched. Eyes dark, bottomless, like he’d seen it all before and didn’t give a shit.

And that scared her.

But more than that?

It pissed her off.

She could barely breathe in this place. Could barely sleep. Every step felt like walking on spiderwebs that might snap at any second.

And he just waltzed in, like this cursed mansion was home.

Like he’d been waiting for it.

Lightning flared across the ceiling. The thunder followed, loud enough to shake the bed.

Yui sat up with a gasp, wiping clammy hands on the sheets. The need to run itched under her skin like a rash.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered. “I’ll run tomorrow. I’ll get a phone. I’ll call Father. I’ll burn this whole fucking place behind me if I have to.”

But not tonight.

The shadows thickened. The walls pulsed with something old and cruel.

And in the darkness, the story kept rewriting itself.

The old iron doors to the dining hall groaned like something dying.

Ayato burst in first, cocky smirk already twisting at the edges like he was itching to bite someone. Hands jammed in his pockets, coat flaring with every swaggering step. All false bravado and restless energy.

Laito followed behind like a shadow in silk—hat twirling between lazy fingers, lips curled into a singsong hum that felt too close to a lullaby and a threat all at once.

Kanato trailed last, cradling Teddy like a corpse, eyes gleaming wet and fevered. His mouth twitched like he was on the verge of sobbing… or slaughter.

The storm outside slammed fists against the windows. Lightning spat white fire across the chandelier. The house groaned under its own weight.

Inside, it was worse.

Shu was half-folded into an old leather chair like he’d melted there, boots scuffing lazy circles into a moth-eaten rug. He didn’t even blink as they entered.

Subaru lurked near the fireplace, coiled like a viper with nowhere to strike. Jaw clenched, arms folded, teeth grinding loud enough to hear.

Reiji stood at the mantle, posture perfect, fingers wrapped around a full glass of wine he hadn’t touched—like he wanted to throw it in someone’s face.

The air crackled like something was about to snap.

Ayato didn’t even pretend to care.

“What’s with the funeral vibes, huh?”

He was already grinning like a dog with a bone.

No one answered.

Shu exhaled through his nose.

Subaru’s glare burned a hole in the floor.

Reiji, ever the cold bastard, just stared.

Kanato drifted toward the fire, Teddy’s button eyes aimed at the shadows.

“Something’s wrong,” he whispered, too loud and too quiet at the same time. “Something’s broken. I can feel it.”

Laito flicked his hat onto his head and leaned back against the wall.

“Did someone finally tell you the truth, Reiji? That none of this is real and we’re all just bad dreams in velvet?”

He laughed—high and musical—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Reiji placed the glass down. Deliberately. Slowly. The click was a warning shot.

“There is something you need to know.”

Subaru shifted. Tension thickened.

Ayato rolled his eyes. “What, did someone finally piss in your wine?”

Reiji’s lips tightened.

“The boy you dismissed—the Mina? Mika? uhhh shit i forgot.. oh yes,  Miya,         Miya Eckhart—is not what he appears.”

Ayato’s expression cracked for a heartbeat. Then hardened.

Kanato blinked slowly. “He’s... broken?,” he whispered. “He doesn’t scream when he’s supposed to?”

Laito’s grin faltered just enough to show the teeth behind it.

“You mean the little ghost in cousin’s clothes? The one who doesn’t flinch? That’s your big revelation?”

Reiji stepped forward, eyes gleaming.

“He speaks a language That I don’t recognize. It mimics ours, but it’s... off. Like hearing your name in someone else’s dream.”

Ayato folded his arms.

“So what? He’s a freak. We’ve had freaks before.”

Reiji’s voice dropped an octave—sharp as a scalpel.

“He defied us. Calmly. Without fear.”

That hit.

Laito’s hat froze in mid-spin.

Kanato’s arms tightened around Teddy until the seams groaned.

Ayato’s mouth twisted into something not quite a smile.

“Then maybe he needs to be reminded who owns this fucking story.”

Kanato’s voice was a whisper-shriek. “I want to cut out his eyes and see if he still smiles.”

Laito licked his lips, slow and thoughtful.

“He’s interesting. I want to make him beg.”

Reiji raised a gloved hand.

“No. We observe. We provoke. No direct harm. Yet.”

Kanato whimpered, furious.

“But he’s wrong. He shouldn’t be here!”

“Exactly,” Reiji snapped. “Which is why we mustn’t tip our hand.”

Shu sat up finally, stretching his long limbs like a cat waking from a dream.

“I’ll take first watch,” he said, voice molasses-dark. “I want to see if he breaks.”

Ayato stalked closer to the fire, the flames catching in his eyes.

“So we’re babysitting now?”

Subaru bared his teeth. “Better than letting that glitch slip through our claws.”

The triplets simmered—three wolves pacing a cage that used to be their playground.

This wasn’t just about a weird kid anymore.

This was about control.

About power.

And about someone who refused to play the prey.

Miya Eckhart had ruined the game before it even started.

And now, every one of them wanted to see what would happen if they broke him wide open—and found someone else staring back.

Chapter Text

Act 2, Chapter 5

Ana had just come back from walking around the castle to get more familiar with her surroundings

The door creaked shut behind her with a sound she was starting to hate.

Like the house had a mouth and it wanted her inside.

Ana leaned against it, exhaling slowly, eyes scanning the room like a soldier reentering enemy territory. She'd been holding her breath ever since Shu looked at her. Really looked. That lazy fucking stare like he was seconds away from either kissing her or draining her dry.

Three weeks ago, she would’ve screamed with joy at the attention.

Now? It made her skin itch.

The room was big—too big, too cold, too wrong. Everything felt preserved, like a haunted museum curated by someone who didn’t know how to let things die. Red wallpaper peeled like old wounds. The bed was carved and velvet-heavy, a coffin wearing a crown.

And the mirror.

Still there. Always fucking there.

Above the desk like a goddamn watcher.

She dropped her bag again. Kicked off her shoes. Walked barefoot to the window and cracked it open just enough to let the storm-slick wind kiss her face.

The scent of rain hit her. Clean. Sharp. Like reality slicing through rot.

“I should feel something,” she muttered. “Fear. Awe. Fucking anything.”

But nothing came.

Not even a shiver when the floor behind her creaked.

Not fear. Just awareness.

Watched. Again. Always.

But she’d learned the difference now. Not all watching was harmless. Lately, the watching felt… hungry.

With practiced hands, Ana crossed to the desk. Found the hidden notebook in the false drawer. Her lifeline. Her tether to sanity. Or at least a list of rules to fake it.

She flipped it open and scrawled:

• They still think I’m Miya.
• Good.
• Yui’s cracking. Eyes too sharp lately. Needs to be handled.
• Stick to the schedule. Blend. Don’t stand out.
• Protect Shu. Protect Subaru. Reiji can discipline me anytime and I’ll fold
• No personal ties.
• No slipping.
• You are not Miya.
• You are Ana.

She underlined Ana. Twice. Like she could write herself back into being.

Lightning flashed.

Her eyes dragged up to the mirror.

And there she was again.

Little Miya.

Not a hallucination. Not new.

Ana had seen her before. More than once. A pale little girl with storm-gray eyes and a softness Ana hadn’t had in decades.

She didn’t fear the girl. She ached for her.

The first time she saw her, Ana had cried so hard she thought she might cough up blood.

Now?

She just approached.

Same gentle smile. Same curls. Same voice like wind through glass:

“You’re tired again, big Sis.”

Ana said nothing. Her hands clenched at her sides.

“Big Sis, You’ve been carrying too much. Again.”

The words didn’t sting anymore. They sank.

The girl reached out, palm pressing to the other side of the glass.

“You’re doing more than you promised. But please…Big Sis,  don’t forget what you told me. Be happy.”

Ana almost laughed.

Be happy?

In this shithole simulation that wasn’t even made for her?

Surrounded by the real, flesh-and-fang versions of her Otome biases?

Shu had been her everything. Posters. Playlists. Long nights imagining what his voice would sound like saying her name.

Now?

He looked through her like she was a chess piece he might step on if he got bored.                                                                                                                                  (Not that she’d mind)

Subaru was still beautiful. Still sharp. Still aching in all the right ways.

But up close, the pain wasn't poetic. It was dangerous.

And Reiji—God, she'd loved him in-game. Thought he was cold and smug and overrated.

In person?

He was worse.

Smarter. Scarier. Capable of smiling while talking about how best to dissect her soul.                                                    

She’d get wet in seconds

Fucking irony.

All her favorite men turned out to be perfect monsters dripping with Sin. Not metaphorical ones. Literal ones.

Ana stared at the child in the mirror.

“Don’t be afraid of living,” she whispered. “Even if it’s borrowed time.”

That part never changed.

But this time?

This time the mirror cracked.

Snap.

Right through Miya’s soft little eyes.

Ana’s breath caught. Her chest locked.

Snap. Snap. SNAP.

Veins of silver lightning raced through the glass. Not from her touch. Not from her words.

Like the mirror couldn’t take it anymore.

Like the mirror finally realized:

“This isn’t the Miya in front of me, it’s the little one”

The child didn’t scream. Didn’t vanish.

She just stared at Ana until her face fractured and fell apart.

The glass hit the floor in spiderwebbed silence.

Ana stood frozen.

Her throat burned, but she didn’t cry.

She didn’t run.

She just looked at what was left of Miya’s face on the floor.

And whispered, so softly the shards almost missed it:

“I’ll Keep the promise.”

And that was the problem

Chapter Text

Act 2, Chapter 6

The light leaking through the mansion’s windows didn’t feel like morning. It felt like a joke.

Pale. Cold. Like something pretending to be daylight but reeking of old bones and bad dreams.

Ana stood in front of the wardrobe, jaw clenched, fingers stiff as she buttoned up the Ryoutei High uniform— Miya's Uniform .

The fabric scratched. The cut didn’t fit. The blazer hugged her shoulders like it wanted to squeeze her heart out through her throat. The tie—gray, crooked, male—choked like a noose with school spirit.

She adjusted it. Again. And again. Until it sat just right.

The mirror above the dresser had been covered with a handkerchief. She hadn’t touched it since the night it cracked itself open like a scream. She didn’t need a goddamn replay of her breakdown.

Not today.

She stepped into the black slacks. Slipped on the worn, gender-neutral shoes. Wig—pinned, perfect, soft little Miya curls.

And finally, powder. Just enough to blur her face into something neutral. Forgettable. Dead.

She looked up. Not at the mirror.

Just at the vague shape of her reflection in the glass of the wardrobe.

What she saw?

Wasn’t Ana.

It was a fucking rule 34 mashup fucked up version of Miya that made her look like any fuckboy with makeup enough to qualify for plastic mean girls cast

It was enough to lie with.

She stepped into the hall.

The mansion breathed around her.

Different now. Quieter. Like it had seen her bleed last night and didn’t know what to do about it. Like it was holding its breath.

You should’ve kept walking. You should’ve fucking died when the truck hit you.

But here she was—walking through a monster’s house wearing someone else’s skin.

Footsteps padded up behind her.

She didn’t even flinch.

Yui.

Of course.

Light steps. Perfect posture. That immaculate smile that belonged on a dating sim sprite and not a real girl in a fucking death house.

Ana kept moving.

Yui rounded the corner, all fake sunshine and carefully planned sweetness.

“Oh, Miya~ Good morning! You’re up early.”

Ana gave her the flattest nod she could manage. “Morning.”

She didn’t stop. Didn’t slow.

Yui tilted her head, eyes flicking over her.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked with that  I'm-trying-to-be-sweet-but-really-I-wish-you’d-drop-dead  tone.

Ana smiled like a knife.

“Like the dead.”

Something in Yui twitched.

Good.

They walked side by side, footsteps in sync like a waltz they didn’t agree to dance.

“The uniform suits you,” Yui said, voice bright and tight. “It’s nice to see you looking… confident.”

Ana didn’t even glance at her.

“It’s just fabric. Doesn’t mean shit.”

Yui giggled. That same hollow laugh she used on the brothers when she was trying not to get bitten too hard.

“Well… you wear it like it does.”

Ana didn’t respond.

Why bother?

Yui already hated her. She just didn’t have the guts to admit it.

Not out loud.

But in her eyes? Oh yeah. Ana had seen it. The jealousy. The resentment. The  how dare you stand beside me and not fall apart  look.

Yui thought she was the heroine.

Too bad Ana didn’t follow the goddamn script.

They neared the dining room. The scent of rich food curled around the air—sausages, eggs, toast. Bait.

Ana slowed half a step.

Let her.

Let Yui walk ahead like the good little prize she thought she was.

And when she turned with that soft tilt of the head, Ana was already there. Already watching.

“Aren’t you coming?”

Ana smiled. Small. Clean. Lethal.

“After you.”

Yui turned, face tight at the edges.

Ana followed.

The performance had begun.

The dining room was a fucking cathedral to decadence.

Tall, arched windows spilled watery light across a table long enough to host a royal execution. Velvet drapes. Bone-white china. Crystal goblets filled with something dark and red—not blood, not yet, but close enough to make her stomach twitch.

Candles burned even in daylight, because of course they did. Vampires had a flair for the dramatic.

Ana stepped in with her mask on tight.

Eyes swept toward her in unison.

Like wolves scenting movement.

Reiji  sat at the head—because naturally. Posture perfect, teacup held with that surgeon’s grace he loved to flaunt. His gaze brushed her like a scalpel, all calculation and precision.                          Dayum boy who you tryna impress? Cuz sure as hell it ain't the white lotus with Oikawa from temu vibes nor the wanna be in their life daddy

Ayato  sprawled in his chair sideways, one leg over the other, fork spinning between long fingers like he was bored—and dying to stab something with it.- I swear that guy is just pretending to be straight, My gaydar has gone off ever since I saw him, Slay Queer queen cuz he’s a Material Gurl

Kanato  rocked near the window, whispering to Teddy, eyes glassy and wide. The kind of wide that said  if you move wrong, I’ll peel you open like a fruit cup. - I swear he’s gonna be catching predators online for fun

Subaru —corner, arms crossed, tension wound tight. His eyes followed her like a stormcloud about to break.- OH MAH GAWD my soft pookie wookie, that man is more soft that the sheets I want him to fuck me in

And  Shu ... Jesus. Fuck me Sideways, all ways, always 

Shu lounged like a god with a hangover—half-asleep, one hand toying with a napkin like it might bite him. But his posture had shifted. Just enough. His body angled subtly toward her.

Watching.

Ana’s pulse didn’t spike. Not visibly.

But her hands clenched just a little tighter as she crossed the room.

Laito  was the first to speak, voice a silk noose.- That damned mosquito doesn’t know what silence is.

“Ah~ Miya-chan and Bitch-chan. What a delightful pairing. Breakfast always tastes better when you two show up.”

Ana nearly tripped. WHAT?

Chan.

Fucking  Chan? Come here boy and I’ll show you just how ‘chan’ I can be- Fucking Asshole

Her stomach dropped a fraction. Breath caught just behind her tongue.

Was it a slip? A joke? A test?

No time to panic.

She exhaled through her nose, soft and sharp, and slid the knife back across the table.

“It’s Miya- kun , actually.”

Just loud enough.

Laito’s eyes gleamed.

He didn’t apologize.

He didn’t have to.

Ana kept walking. Calm. Controlled. Like she wasn’t seconds from bolting. Like her brain wasn’t singing -Fuck this shit I’m out tuturu fuck this shit I’m out, no thanks, idk what tf jst happend but I don’t rlly care… on repeat

She slipped into the empty chair beside Shu—her  favorite , once and still. In the game. On posters. In playlists. Now?

He didn’t even speak. Just glanced at her. One flick of that glacier-blue gaze.

She looked away fast. like she would die of she even attempted to look at him.

Her hands unfolded the napkin with surgical care, focused hard on the plate in front of her—eggs, toast, fruit. Perfectly prepared. Not requested.

Theatrics. Everything in this house was fucking theater. Like a damned turkish drama series.

Reiji cleared his throat with polite disdain.

“Do try to eat like a civilized creature this morning, Ayato.”

Ayato groaned, fork clattering.

“What’s the damn point? We’re gonna skip to dessert later anyway.”

Ana didn’t flinch.

Reiji sipped calmly. “Blood is not dessert. It is sustenance. You will maintain appearances.”

Laito leaned forward, eyes flicking back to Yui.

“Ne, ne, Bitch-chan~ Would you be terribly offended if we made you the  main course  after this?”

Yui giggled.

Scripted. Sweet. Hollow.

“You always say that, Laito.”

“Mmm. That’s because I always  mean  it~”

His voice dipped. Darkened.

Ana kept her eyes on her plate.

She watched their dance—the flirting, the threats, the masks slipping just enough to show fangs.

They needed Yui. For now. For her blood. Her role.

But the dynamic had shifted.

Ana could feel it.

She  had shifted it.

Reiji’s eyes lingered too long on her. Shu’s laziness had too much intention now. Subaru wasn’t even pretending not to watch.

They weren’t just ignoring her anymore.

They were circling.

Curious.

Hungry.

Yui didn’t see it. Or didn’t want to. She kept twirling her fork in fruit, kept looking up at Reiji with those big, innocent eyes.

“Reiji-san, could I have more tea? I think I’m catching a cold.”

“Of course,” he said smoothly, rising with that cool grace of his. “You’ll need your strength.”

Ana sliced a piece of toast. Slow. Controlled.

Reiji passed behind her chair.

Paused.

One breath too long.

She didn’t look up. Didn’t twitch.

Just brought the toast to her mouth, chewed like it mattered.

The scent of blood was in the air—not spilled, not fresh, but thick in the room like perfume.

They didn’t speak to her.

But none of them forgot she was there.

And that?

That was new.

Chapter Text

Act 2, Chapter 7

The Sakamaki limousine slid to a halt like death incarnate — sleek, slow, and blacker than sin. Its engine purred low under the gray-bled sky, steam curling from the hood like it was exhaling someone else’s last breath.

Ryoutei High loomed ahead, cloaked in morning fog and centuries of arrogance. Its gates stretched high and wrought with cruel elegance — cathedral bars of black iron twisted into thorns and wings, whispering shit like “Enter if you dare” without even trying. Each spoke carved with Latin scripture that probably meant something fucked-up and sanctimonious. It didn’t matter.

Ana sat behind the tinted window, still as a fucking corpse. Her coat was drawn tight like armor — not because of the cold, but because if she didn’t hold herself together, she was gonna start screaming.

Beside her, Reiji sat stiff as always, spine straight, glasses gleaming like he could see every dirty thought she’d ever had. Across from him, Shu reclined with his usual lazy bastard aura, earbud jammed in, gaze unreadable under half-lidded lashes.

Subaru was wedged in the corner like he’d rather punch the window than deal with one more second of this shit. His knee bounced with frustration, ticking like a time bomb. Kanato mumbled to his damned bear again, voice like broken porcelain — soft, cracked, dangerous. And Ayato? That bastard was already halfway out the door before the car stopped, scowl carved into his face like it was born there.

Yui fluttered out first, all sunshine and fake innocence, her skirt flipping in the mist like she hadn’t just walked into a den of fucking wolves. Laito trailed after her with that filthy smirk plastered on his mouth — the kind that promised trouble and probably herpes.

Ana didn’t move until they were all out.

Then she slipped from the car like a whisper — boots clicking on the slick stone, head bowed, like she was trying to fold herself into nothing.

She  had  to be nothing. For Miya. For herself. For whatever the hell this life even was.

But the moment she looked up?

Yeah. The illusion shattered like cheap glass under a stiletto heel.

The gates of Ryoutei High weren’t gates — they were a damn statement. Towers of gothic grandeur with twisted arms of wrought steel, each lantern burning soft orange like a ghost’s dying breath. Past them stood the school — no,  the cathedral of vanity and rot . Stone aged to silver, windows taller than god, towers swallowed by fog like the whole place refused to be fully seen. 

She felt it then.

A sick sort of awe.

Not reverence. Not admiration.

Something more like a punch to the ribs and a whisper in her ear that said:  You don’t belong here, bitch — and I don’t fucking care cuz now I do.

Her heart kicked in her chest like it was trying to get the fuck out.

Her throat dried up. And the words slipped out before she could stop them — a breathy whisper in her native Japanese, warped by the dialect no one here would know:

    “ゲームで見たより、遥かに綺麗で、壮麗…”

     “This is so much more fucking beautiful than I expected…”

The wind — nosy little bastard that pokes into others personal business like a goddamned detective in a black neighborhood— caught it and carried it down the lane like a secret it couldn't keep.

Behind her, Reiji tilted his head — just slightly.

Shu opened both eyes.

Kanato stopped rocking.

Subaru froze, knee suspended mid-bounce.

Not a single one of those pretty, arrogant sons of bitches missed it.

Not a single one of them recognized the tongue — close to Japanese, but wrong. Twisted. Fractured like something pulled from a nightmare or an old, buried memory.

No one said shit.

But not one of them looked away as Ana stepped through those fucking gates like she owned them. And she does, they just don’t know that yet.

She moved like a ghost who knew exactly where her body was buried.

Across the courtyard, her boots made soft, echoing clicks against ancient stone — each footstep a fuck-you to fate. The flagstones were old, cracked with time and lined in ivy and bloodlines, every groove filled with moss that clung like memory. This place wasn’t just a school. It was a goddamn mausoleum with a budget.

The others scattered behind her — light chatter, Yui’s chipper voice, Laito’s slime-dripping flirtations. But the brothers?

They didn’t move far.

They followed.

Not together. Not close.

Like predators. Like something old sniffing something  older .

Ana felt it. Every stare, every breath behind her — the weight of their curiosity curling up her spine like a cold hand.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t  need  to.

She knew this place.

No — she  remembered  it. Down to the goddamn dust motes.

The archway loomed ahead — lion devouring moon, some fucked-up metaphor for this whole twisted world. She passed under it like a rite, and the great double doors groaned open for her like they knew who she used to be.

And then…

She stepped inside.

And time folded in on itself.

Ryoutei’s grand entrance was everything she remembered from the game — and yet nothing like it. The scale was monstrous. The marble floor was black enough to swallow light, the brass trim so polished it looked like blood would never stick to it. Above, a fresco crawled across the ceiling — war, death, fire, beauty. Gold leaf and crimson pain spun into sacred lies.

A stained-glass dome let light spill in from the gray morning, slicing the air into ribbons of red and cobalt that hit the floor like divine bruises.

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t even slow.

Up the staircase she went, past the serpentine banisters that looked like they’d bite back if you hesitated. Her fingers skimmed the cold brass rail.

Not reverent. Not cautious.

Reassurance.

Yeah, I’m still here.

Turn left.

Past the painting of the blindfolded boy — golden violin clutched to his chest like a dead lover.

Through the corridor of warped mirrors, each frame dripping in obsidian like the whole hallway was mourning its own reflection.

No map. No notes. No hesitation.

Just motion burned into her bones.

To anyone else, she probably looked like some rich bastard’s son doing his rounds. Like a senior who’d been here too long and seen too much.

But the brothers — they weren’t buying the act.

Reiji’s stare could’ve sliced through steel. “That wasn’t accidental,” he muttered under his breath, voice tight.

Kanato didn’t speak. But Teddy’s fur twisted between his fingers like it was about to be torn in half.

Shu murmured, “Didn’t even glance at a sign. Not once.”

Subaru clenched his jaw. “It’s like he’s fucking lived here longer than we have.”

Ayato lagged behind, face curled in a sneer. “Tch. Maybe he’s just a creep. Probably jerks off to this school.”

But even Ayato didn’t believe his own bullshit. Not really.

Because Ana wasn’t walking like someone  exploring .

She was walking like someone  reliving .

Up two more flights.

Past the rusted door to the art room — still broken.

Left at the fire escape that always jammed halfway — still stuck.

Third floor.

Eastern corridor.

The door was waiting.

She didn’t knock.

Didn’t pause.

Classroom 2-D opened like it had missed her.

Inside, the air was thick with silence and old secrets.

The light through the tall windows was gold, but it felt cold — that kind of sickly warmth that made you feel like you were being watched by something ancient and hungry. Dust danced in the air like it had nowhere else to go, curling through the light like ash.

The desks were dark cherrywood, polished by time and fucked-up teenage obsession. Every surface was a battlefield of scars — initials, sketches, curses carved with ballpoint pens and switchblades. This was where generations of monsters learned how to smile pretty while tearing each other apart.

Ana didn’t flinch.

She walked down the aisle like she’d never left.

Third row. Second from the back.

Her seat.

Her fucking  seat .

She sat down without a whisper. Back straight. Hands folded. Breathing slow.

Outside the glass, rain traced silver veins down the windowpane, a slow drag of water over her reflection. The face staring back at her wasn’t Miya. It wasn’t even really Ana.

It was a ghost made of anger and memory and blood — half-lit, half-lost, and all wrong.

She blinked. Didn’t look away.

Because why the fuck should she?

Let this world stare back.

Let it choke on her.

Outside the classroom door, the Sakamaki brothers hadn’t moved.

Not a single fucking one.

Reiji stood like a statue — calculating, suspicious. The kind of bastard who didn’t need magic to burn you alive with judgment.

Shu leaned against the wall, arms crossed, half-lidded gaze tracking Ana like a predator pretending not to care.

Kanato didn’t blink. Teddy hung limp in his grip now, eyes glassy, mouth stitched shut like it knew better than to open right now.

Subaru’s hands were buried in his pockets, fists clenched like he was trying not to punch through the wall.

And Ayato?

Ayato didn’t even smirk anymore.

He watched with a cold, narrowed look — the kind of stare that wasn’t just curious anymore.

It was fucking  territorial .

What the hell had just walked into their house?

Miya Eckhart was supposed to be a nobody. Background noise. An irrelevant little cousin raised like an afterthought. Barely a side character, if that. A shadow behind Yui’s spotlight.

But this?

What they saw in that classroom wasn’t a boy.

Wasn’t a cousin.

Wasn’t a fucking  thing  they could ignore.

It was someone who moved like the world owed them something.

Someone who walked through a dream and made it bleed real.

Someone who spoke in riddles and dialects that didn’t belong in this century — or this dimension.

Someone who took fiction and bent it until  they  became the truth.

And inside the classroom, Ana sat still.

Her face turned toward the rain.

Her reflection twisted in the glass, a smear of her old world caught in this one.

Something new.

Something wrong.

Something that didn’t give a shit about playing by their script.

And just like that, the story changed.

Not with a scream.

But with a breath.

Held too long.

And far too late to take back.

Chapter Text

Act 2, Chapter 8

The bell tolled.

Not the shitty buzz she'd grown up with — not that soulless electronic screech that jolted you into movement like cattle. No, this was different. Deeper. Older. It rang like something sacred, echoing through Ryoutei’s ancient stone corridors like a fucking funeral dirge. You didn’t hear it. You  felt  it — in your bones, in your goddamn teeth.

Ana didn’t flinch.

She stayed exactly where she was, spine loose, shoulders down, hands calm.

The students drifted in like ghosts pretending to be real — blazers too crisp, faces too blank. Some glanced at her, but not for long. Their eyes slid off her like water off glass.

To them, she was just another piece of scenery.

That quiet boy in the back.

Weird. Polite. Invisible.

Perfect.

She kept her posture soft. Passive. Gaze down. Her whole body breathing one message:

Don’t look at me. Don’t fucking look.

Ghosts don’t talk to the living.

They haunt quietly. Watch silently.

Enjoy the show from the front row — without ever touching the goddamn stage.

The professor shuffled in, briefcase battered, soul even more so. He looked like he hadn’t slept since 1994. Took roll like his voice was on auto-pilot, eyes glazed over like he'd long since stopped giving a shit.

“Eckhart, Miya.”

Ana raised her hand — just once, just enough.

No one turned.

No one blinked.

No one said, “You’re not Miya.”

The moment passed like smoke through broken glass.

And that… that was what survival looked like.

The day unfolded like a ballet performed in a landmine field.

Every step had weight. Every turn had to be  just right .

Ana slipped between classes with surgical precision. She avoided main stairwells, dipped through maintenance doors, side corridors, half-lit service halls. She ducked behind pillars when too many voices rose too loud. She moved like someone who had lived a lifetime hiding in plain sight — because she  fucking had .

And yet.

Eyes followed.

Reiji during lunch, pretending to read behind that polished mask. But Ana saw it — the corner of his gaze tracking her like a problem waiting to be solved.

Shu in the garden — sprawled out like sin in a school uniform, earbuds in, the picture of indifference. But his gaze? It brushed against her like heat from a cigarette drag. Lazy. Hot. Watching.

Kanato. That fucker. Walked past her in the corridor once, doll swinging in his arms like bait. Their eyes almost met.

Ana turned so hard into the alcove her shoulder clipped the wall.

Subaru brushed past her on the stairs — close enough she felt the heat coming off him in waves. Anger. Tension. Something darker.

He didn’t say shit.

But he didn’t have to.

They were watching.

Every. Single. One.

The final bell hit like the fucking apocalypse.

Students exploded into the halls like someone had lit a fire under their ass — shouting, shoving, laughter echoing like a goddamn circus inside a cathedral. Noise bounced off the old walls, louder than it had any right to be.

Ana didn’t join them.

She slipped down the east wing staircase, steps careful, practiced.

Two floors.

Sharp left at the cracked window — the one with the hairline fracture no one ever fixed.

Follow the smell.

Vanilla. Sugar. Spice.

Sanctuary.

The baking room was tucked behind the kitchen like a secret. Door warped, brass plate worn blank. Hidden on purpose. Forgotten by most.

Ana opened it and stepped into warmth that felt like a fucking embrace.

The smell hit first — vanilla, orange, butter, cinnamon — like some goddamn holy blend. Copper bowls lined the counters like sacred relics. Flour on the table like dust from heaven. Mixers sleeping like chrome gods.

Empty.

Thank fuck.

She let out her first real breath of the day.

Crossed the room like it was sacred ground.

Dropped her bag in the corner —  her  corner. Coat folded. Movements reverent.

She tied the apron slowly, fingers deliberate.

This wasn’t a job.

It was a ritual.

In Tokyo, baking had been survival — midnight cookies made with shitty ass  ingredients and broken hearts. Sad little rice cooker cakes. Burnt croissants and runny custards and dreams you could taste, even if they tasted like failure. 

Here, though?

She had tools. Time. No one watching.

Just her.-And Miya

Ana reached for the bowl.

Flour. Sugar. Butter. Eggs.

No recipe. No measurements. Just muscle memory and spite.

This was hers.

The only fucking thing that still belonged to Ana.

Meanwhile — back upstairs — the brothers lingered in the west lounge like something out of a gothic painting.

Reiji snapped his book shut.

“He’s avoiding us,” he said. Calm. Cold.

“Good,” Subaru muttered, jaw tight. Lie bleeding from his mouth. “I don’t give a shit.”

Kanato hummed.

Ayato scoffed. “Pussy’s just scared. What’s he hiding for?”

Shu, laid out like he didn’t have a care in the world, cracked one eye open.

“That’s not fear,” he said. “That’s strategy.”

Reiji adjusted his glasses. “He’s trimming the edges. Choosing his angles.”

“Like he knows the script,” Shu murmured.

Like he’s read the fucking book and decided to start rewriting it.

They didn’t say it.

But they all felt it.

That boy —  Miya  — moved like a ghost from the future. Knew where to step before the floor creaked. Knew which hallway was safe. Which eyes to dodge.

No one taught him that.

He just  knew .

Back in the baking room, Ana slid the tray into the oven.

Heat licked her fingers. The old brass dials glowed under her touch.

Vanilla swirled in the air like a spell — thick, sweet, strange.

And for the first time in days…

She smiled.

Not for them.

Not for the mask.

Just because it was hers.

Just because she fucking  could .

Chapter Text

Act 2, Chapter 9

It should’ve been a normal day.

For once.

But that was the thing about this fucked-up world — it didn’t know how to leave things alone.

Yui was missing.

Not late. Not lost.

Gone .

Laito leaned against the wall like sin wrapped in silk, his stupid hat tilted low, mouth curved in that usual mockery of a smile — but his eyes? They weren’t smiling. Not even close.

“Honestly…” he drawled, voice sticky-sweet like poisoned honey, “she’s like some damn stray kitten. Slips through the cracks just to see who’ll come running.”

He waited after class.

Fifteen minutes.

Then ten more.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No apology. Not even a giggle down the hall.

Normally, he’d brush it off. Make some filthy joke. Call it foreplay.

But today?

Today, the silence was heavier.

The halls were wrong — too still. Too cold. Like the shadows were breathing.

And that lazy bastard did something rare.

He asked for help.

The brothers gathered under the shadow of the central tower — stormlight tangled in the black iron arch that led to the greenhouse, their postures tense, their words sharp.

“She’s  what ?” Ayato snapped.

“Gone,” Laito sighed, twirling his hat like a coin. “Again.”

Reiji’s jaw twitched. “She’s expected for her next appointment. If she doesn’t appear, we’re all compromised.”

“So?” Subaru muttered. “Let her rot in the dark.”

“She’s still a guest,” Reiji snapped. “And we’re under fucking observation, or did that escape your meathead skull?”

Shu didn’t move from the shadowed corner. “She’s not the only one acting strange lately…”

That shut them up.

They all knew who he meant.

They split into pairs. Not because they liked it. Because something was wrong.

They searched the east wing first — empty, echoing with stale air and unease.

But it wasn’t Yui they found.

It was  scent .

Warm. Sweet.

Wrong.

It hit like a memory out of place — cream, sugar, vanilla, a whisper of citrus.

Not cafeteria sludge.

Something real.

Reiji paused mid-step. “That’s not from the kitchens.”

“Cake,” Kanato said softly, tilting his head.

Ayato scowled. “Who the fuck is baking?”

Subaru’s nostrils flared. “It’s not ours. It’s different.”

The smell was a hook in their chests. It pulled.

Down cracked tiles. Past broken lockers and forgotten wings. This part of the school hadn’t seen sunlight in years.

Then—

A door.

Wood warped with age. Brass plate faded to nothing.

Behind it, warmth.

And the scent of a world that shouldn’t exist.

Inside—

Ana stood in a golden glow, fingers dusted in flour, eyes soft and far away.

She was humming in her own strange tongue — words soft and smooth, not meant to echo in these goddamn haunted halls. Words from a kitchen a thousand worlds away.

「バターを室温に戻して、空気を含ませながら混ぜる…」

“One egg at a time. Fold it gentle…”

The cake on the table didn’t look like it belonged here.

Layers of sponge — golden, too perfect — cream spiraled between them, strawberries sliced with precision no one here had ever tasted. It glowed faintly in the candlelight.

Not magic.

Memory.

Ana didn’t see the six shadows standing at the door.

Didn’t hear their breath hitch.

Didn’t feel the tension crawl up their spines.

Because in that moment…

She wasn’t Miya.

She wasn’t Ana.

She was someone else. Someone who belonged to another timeline. Another story.

And she was smiling.

A  real  smile.

Soft. Unguarded.

She whispered something in Japanese — low, intimate.

「これで、やっと少しだけ…家の味がする。」

“This finally… tastes a little like home.”

Her voice cracked.

Not a sob.

Just truth.

Outside the room, not one of the brothers moved.

They stood like statues, like idiots watching a dream they weren’t invited into.

Kanato whispered, “That’s not from here.”

Reiji’s voice was tight. “No. It isn’t.”

Shu’s arms were crossed. “He’s not even trying to hide it anymore.”

And still, Ana smiled — like nothing could touch her.

Then—

She picked up the cake.

Walked to the mirror.

And the world  shifted .

Ana carried the cake like an offering.

The warmth of the sponge seeped into her palms, its scent curling through the air like incense. Vanilla. Strawberry. Sugar spun through memory.

She crossed the room slowly, every step measured.

In front of her stood the mirror.

A tall, warped thing with a brass frame aged to tarnish. The glass wasn’t right. It bent at the edges, shimmered like a pond disturbed by ghosts. The kind of mirror that didn't  reflect —it  remembered .

She knelt.

Placed the cake at its base.

And smiled.

Not at her reflection.

At someone else.

“Remember when you said you wanted to try something from my world?” Her voice was soft, private. “I made you my favorite. You’ll like it.”

And then — in that whispery Japanese, barely audible — she said:

「いってらっしゃい。」

“Go on, then.”

The mirror didn’t ripple.

It  breathed .

A pulse of air rolled through the baking room, not hot, not cold — just  wrong . Like the space between heartbeats had stretched too far.

And then —  fuck  —

They saw her.

The girl.

Small. Pale. Barefoot.

Messy hair. Hoodie too big, sleeves dragging over her hands.

The same eyes.

The same mouth.

A younger Miya.

Or maybe…

A younger Ana?

Or maybe something else entirely.

She didn’t walk  out  of the mirror.

She was  in  it.

Looking out.

Smiling like this was the best day of her damn life.

And the cake — the whole cake — shimmered.

The plate was there one breath.

Gone the next.

No magic. No sound.

Just…  gone .

Ayato stepped back like he’d been  slapped . His eyes were wide, pupils blown. “What the actual  fuck —”

“Shut up,” Shu snapped. But even his voice shook.

Reiji’s mouth was open. Not to speak. Just… hanging there, stunned.

Kanato’s fingernails were digging into Teddy. Deep. His lower lip trembled. “She’s real.”

Subaru’s breathing turned ragged. “This isn’t fucking normal.”

“No shit,” Laito whispered. “I feel sick.”

Inside the mirror, the child looked up.

“Big Sis,” she said, voice like wind in a tunnel, like a cassette tape too slow. “I want to see fireworks. The loud kind. And eat this cake on a rooftop. With you.”

Ana didn’t cry.

Didn’t blink.

She pressed her hand flat to the glass and said — in  their  language:

“Wait a little more. I’ll make sure you’re happy when you come back.”

The mirror didn’t break.

It  cracked .

A spider-thin line split the glass top to bottom —  crkkk  — like reality couldn’t hold its shape anymore.

Then—

Shatter.

The sound wasn’t loud. Just sharp.

Like something sacred had been touched and  rejected it .

Glass fell in frozen petals.

The girl was gone.

The cake was gone.

The warmth faded.

Ana just knelt there. Calm. Like this happened every Thursday.

Outside, none of them moved.

Ayato was the first to speak, voice low, shaky.

“That… wasn’t a ghost.”

“No,” Reiji said hoarsely. “It wasn’t.”

Laito looked nauseous. “That was her. A version of her. A younger… something.”

“A memory?” Kanato whispered.

Shu was staring hard at Ana’s back. “That wasn’t memory. That was real.”

Subaru punched the wall.  Crack.

No one flinched.

“She doesn’t belong here,” Laito said again, his voice flat.

Reiji’s hands were trembling.

Shu didn’t argue this time.

Because now… now it wasn’t about “Miya” being strange.

It was about something  bigger .

Something older.

Something  fucking terrifying .

Ana cleaned the broken glass with reverence.

Wrapped each shard in cloth like she was tucking a child into bed. Her face was still. Not blank — just  tired . Like she’d done this before. Like she'd buried pieces of herself a hundred times already.

She spoke again, barely above a breath:

「ケーキ、喜んでくれて良かった。あの子、もう十分苦しんだのに… それでも、また生きる希望を持ってるなんて。本当に…すごいね。」

“I’m glad she liked the cake. After everything she went through… she still wants to live. That’s incredible.”

The language didn’t matter.

The tone said it all.

She wasn’t afraid of what just happened.

She’d  expected  it.

Then, as casually as flipping a light switch, Ana stood, folded her apron, and turned to the door.

The brothers didn’t move.

Not a sound.

She stepped past them, her expression unreadable, eyes tired — but steady. Like none of this had been strange.

As if they were the ones in the wrong place.

As if she’d been here longer than they had.

She nodded — polite. Civil.

Then walked away.

Her boots clicked softly on the floor, trailing the scent of sugar and something holy.

Something broken.

None of the brothers followed.

Not even Ayato.

Not even Reiji.

Because something ancient had just opened in front of them.

And all they could do was  watch  it walk away.

Ana didn’t remember leaving the hallway.

Her feet carried her on instinct — sharp turns, stairs two at a time, past the creaking fire door and up the final set of iron steps until—

The rooftop.

Quiet.

Empty.

Cold wind ripping through her hair like a cleansing slap.

She leaned against the rusted rail, heart still hammering against her ribs like it was trying to escape the shame.

Shu. Subaru. Reiji. And the rest

They saw it.

“FUCK,” she hissed, face buried in her hands. “Oh my god. Oh my fucking god.”

Her voice cracked like the damn mirror had — only this time, the only thing breaking was her carefully managed internal sanity.

“They were THERE. LIKE FUCKING  RIGHT THERE. A-And, And.. They were watching the whole goddamn time—”

She slid down the concrete wall, landing hard on her ass with a thud, legs sprawled, apron still crumpled under her arm like a forgotten flag of defeat.

“And of all the moments for me to have a  full-blown Studio Ghibli meets Silent Hill  episode, it had to be in front of the goddamn Big Three and the triplets”

Shu — her  bias . Her number one. The one who made being lazy and emotionally unavailable look like fucking  art . The one she’d cried over in his route. The one she maybe-not-so-secretly wanted to wrap her legs around while arguing about Nietzsche.

Subaru — her feral comfort character. Number two. Screaming, punching walls, biting people — baby boy with anger issues and a gold heart buried under trauma and tsundere bullshit.

 Reiji. The cold bastard. Number three. Morally gray enough to give her trust issues but hot enough to make her forgive him in  under ten seconds . Glasses. Gloves.  Punishments.

Laito. The harassment king, The guy that would fuck anything with a skirt

Kanato- The broken ken playing as barbie in this shitty ass world

And of course, The self entitled ‘Ore-Sama’ Ayato- The Queer queen, Regina George wannabe of this world  

They had seen everything.

The cake.

The child.

The  fucking mirror .

And worst of all — the way she  smiled . Soft. Domestic. Like a sad little housewife on antidepressants. Like she just asked the dead to cry at her funeral

“I literally offered a strawberry shortcake to the ghost of a little child that looks like an r34 mini me  in a mirror while talking to myself in a language they don’t understand, like a lunatic,” she groaned. “Shu probably thinks I’m insane. Subaru probably wants to fight me. Reiji’s definitely already filing a fucking report. Kanato will try to break me. Laito just got scared and Ayato will get me deported to a mental hospital”

She pulled her knees up to her chest, face hidden.

One long, ragged breath.

Then another.

Then she burst into giggles.

Half hysteria. Half despair.

“Welcome to your reincarnation, bitch,” she laughed bitterly. “You got isekai’d just to embarrass yourself in front of your husbando, your backup husbando, your backup-backup husbando and the holy tritney of Queer Vampires. Well fucking done.”

The wind howled around her.

High above the school, where no one could see, no one could judge, Ana let herself fall apart.

Just for a little while.

Back with the drama queers

“She looked like a little girl,” Kanato whispered again, almost to himself. But this time — this time, the words  landed .

Not a boy. Not a cousin. Not a misfit hidden in oversized clothes.

A girl.

Young.

Barefoot.

Eyes too wide for this world.

And the room went cold.

Laito stopped twirling his hat. His lips parted, but no joke followed. Just silence. Then, flatly:
“She wasn’t pretending. That little girl… she was real.”

Subaru’s throat flexed. “So what the hell does that mean? Huh? Is Miya—was Miya ever—?” He didn’t finish. Couldn’t.

Because the truth was curling up behind his tongue like barbed wire.

That wasn’t some illusion. That wasn’t magic.

That was  something lived .

Reiji’s voice, when it finally came, was quieter than expected. Not his usual condescending clip — no lecture tone, no superiority. Just a man standing in front of a puzzle he didn’t want to solve.
“An illusion wouldn’t hold that kind of emotional weight. No enchantment would mimic grief with that precision. The girl… She wasn’t projected.”

“She  was  Miya,” Shu said from the wall, eyes still on the shattered glass. “But not the Miya we’ve been watching.”

“No,” Reiji muttered. “Not the version we were told to accept.”

Ayato’s voice cracked into the thick silence, frustrated and disoriented. “So what, Miya’s  lying ? About who he is? About everything?”

But even as the words left his mouth, they rang hollow.

Because what they saw — that soft, barefoot child, that smile, that whisper of longing — it wasn’t the face of a liar.

It was the face of someone who had been  denied  something.

“Maybe it’s not lying,” Shu said. “Maybe it’s surviving.”

That quieted them again.

Kanato slowly sat on the floor, his knees drawn to his chest, Teddy held tight under his chin. His voice was thin, high, but sharp: “What if the little girl is who Miya used to be? Before he… became what we know?”

Reiji’s lips pressed into a pale line. He didn’t want to answer that. Because he couldn’t rule it out. And worse—he  understood it . The repressed self. The warped identity. The forced adaptation. He had enforced roles before. He had made people conform.

And now?

Now the mirror had spit out the truth like it couldn’t hold it anymore.

“A girl,” Subaru muttered, staring down at his fists. “A  child . That’s who was in there. That’s who Miya brought the cake for.”

“And she called her ‘Big Sis,’” Kanato whispered. “Not ‘Big Brother.’”

The implication landed like a bomb.

No one said it.

But it was there.

Miya  — or whoever Ana had once been — wasn’t simply hiding from them.

She was hiding from the world.

From identity.

From  history .

She had buried that girl. Stuffed her inside a mirror. Kept her locked in a room at the end of a hallway no one used.

And then fed her cake.

Because she still loved her.

Because some part of her still believed she deserved sweet things.

Shu exhaled. “That wasn’t an illusion.”

“No,” Reiji said, slowly. “That was the truest thing we’ve seen all week.”

Chapter Text

Act 2, Chapter 10

Shu leaned against the stone railing outside the east stairwell, eyes half-lidded, watching fog curl like smoke over the garden below.

He’d seen ghosts before. Heard them, too. Whispering shit no one else wanted to hear. But what he saw in that room wasn’t death. No. That would’ve been easy.

This was worse.

It was longing. The quiet kind. Like a wound that had already stopped bleeding but still fucking hurt.

The way Miya spoke to that cracked-ass mirror—softly, gently, like it was the only goddamn friend she had left—hit him somewhere ugly. Somewhere old. Like he was touching a part of him he’d buried years ago.

He closed his eyes.

He wasn’t one of them.

But he didn’t look like a threat either. And that, somehow, made it worse. Because if he’d been some rabid, twisted little monster? He could’ve handled that.

But a boy who looked lost as fuck and too tired to fake it?

He didn’t know how to fight that. Didn’t want to.

Didn’t have the strength to save someone who didn’t even know where the hell they belonged.

 Reiji

Reiji was pacing again.

No,  storming —quietly, deliberately, like every goddamn footstep was a threat to the floor beneath him.

Miya Eckhart was a puzzle that didn’t play fair. Transfer paperwork? Perfect. Too perfect. Medical files? Spotless. Headmaster’s recommendation? Sealed tight and dripping with fake-ass praise.

But none of it explained the mirror.

None of it explained the cake that vanished into thin air.

None of it explained  him —speaking in a language that didn’t exist, smiling like he knew things none of them fucking did.

He didn’t lie.

That’s what twisted the knife.

He  believed  this was normal.

And  that  was the most terrifying thing of all.

Ayato

Ayato was up in the gym rafters, bathed in moonlight and anger, dribbling a ball against the wood floor like it owed him money.

He hated this shit.

Hated being ignored. Hated being confused. Hated that Miya—no,  or whatever the hell he was—walked through this place like none of them mattered.

Like  he  didn’t matter.

People always looked at Ayato. Even when they hated him, they fucking  looked . Miya didn’t. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t fawn. Didn’t  see  him.

And that? That pissed him off more than anything.

He slammed the ball hard, watching it bounce into darkness.

“The fuck are you, huh?” he muttered, jaw clenched. “Who the  fuck  are you?”

Because for the first time in a long goddamn while… he was the one being overlooked.

 Subaru

Subaru hadn’t said a word since they got back.

Didn’t need to.

His hands were still clenched so tight his knuckles ached like hell, and the only thing in his head was the echo of his voice:

“I’ll make sure you’re happy when you return.”

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft.

It was a fucking  promise —like he'd stared through his soul and pulled something out of it he didn’t even remember losing.

It was the kind of thing he’d say to his past self if he had the chance. Back when he still thought someone might give a damn.

He rubbed his face, teeth gritted.

“Tch… you’re not from here, are you?”

Nothing made sense.

Which meant… that was the only way  any  of it made sense.

Kanato

Kanato sat in the greenhouse, drowning in lavender and silence.

He hadn’t cried.

Yet.

But his voice was shaking as he hummed a lullaby to Teddy—something their bitch of a mother used to sing before everything went straight to hell.

“The girl in the mirror,” he whispered, “she smiled. But it wasn’t happy. Why did she smile, Teddy?”

The bear said nothing.

“She’s not real,” Kanato murmured, tilting his head like a puppet coming undone. “But the cake disappeared. She  took it .”

He clutched Teddy tighter.

And for once, Kanato didn’t want to scream. Didn’t want to break things.

He just wanted to know why the fuck it felt like he was something that  shouldn’t  exist—something broken, but still… beautiful.

Like a ghost no one was allowed to love.

Later, they gathered.

Not out of duty. Not out of curiosity.

But because something  else  had drawn them in. A magnetic pull they didn’t want to admit.

Reiji stood at the window, expression unreadable. Shu slouched on the couch like a corpse with a conscience. Subaru brooded by the wall, fists buried in his pockets. Ayato glared at the floor like it had personally insulted him. Kanato sat cross-legged, eyes too wide.

Laito hadn’t said shit since they left the baking room.

Until now.

He smirked, but it was hollow. An echo of the usual sin in his voice—emptied out.

“He talks like he’s already seen the end.”

No one laughed.

Then Reiji muttered without turning, “We’ve been watching him the wrong way.”

Shu exhaled, voice flat. “Like he was supposed to  fit .”

“He doesn’t,” Subaru said darkly. “He’s not from here.”

“But he’s  still  here,” Kanato whispered.

Ayato didn’t answer.

And that silence?

It hit like a goddamn punch to the gut.

A clock chimed somewhere deep in the mansion.

And for the first time, the Sakamaki brothers sat in a room together—and none of them knew who the hell was holding the strings anymore.

It wasn’t Yui.

It wasn’t one of them.

It was a ghost. A boy. A broken fucking  something  with someone else’s name, walking barefoot through  their  story like she owned the goddamn place.

And maybe?

She fucking did.

Chapter Text

Act 3, Chapter 1,

The leaves had just started to rot. Golden veins curling into green like decay trying to dress itself up in something pretty. Autumn wasn’t here yet, not fully, but its breath was in the air — dry, whispering, the kind of cold that waits for you to stop pretending you're okay.

Ana sat at the back of the courtyard with her notebook open like it mattered. It didn’t. She was sketching escape routes — not for running, but for fucking vanishing. Corridors where eyes didn’t go. Empty clubrooms. Crooked stairwells students whispered were cursed.

She didn’t bother writing  cursed .
She just fucking circled them.

It felt like plotting a prison break no one was asking her to make.
Not for freedom.
For disappearance.

Ana didn’t want out.
She wanted to be erased.

A bell rang — soft, gentle, like it was trying not to offend her with its pathetic optimism. Club hour. Fucking perfect.

She snapped the notebook shut, jammed it into her bag, and got up with just enough deadpan energy to hide the ache behind her eyes. Leaves clung to her pants. She brushed them off like they were the only thing touching her today.

And she walked straight to the Literature Club.
The most boring-ass coffin of a club she could find.

She picked it on purpose.
Low traffic. No drama. Maximum emotional sedation.

A club designed to bleed out slowly, tucked away between the archival wing and some dusty old hallway no one even remembered was part of the school. It smelled like paper cut grief and stale fucking chamomile.

Exactly the kind of place no one would look for her body.

The door creaked as she entered — of course it did. Like the building itself was ratting her out.

Three students already inside. None looked up.
Good.

She took the window seat. Always the window seat. Always the illusion of a way out.

The club president — some fourth-year girl with librarian-core vibes and an ink stain like a wound on her collar — handed her a reading list without saying anything more than:

“We’re doing post-war poetry this season.”

Ana nodded. Said nothing.
Internally?
She wanted to die dramatically — maybe throw herself into traffic — rather than read one more metaphor about time being a thief.

She cracked open her notebook like a reluctant autopsy and stared at the first poem.
Shiraishi. The Bone Clock Inside the Wall.

It was about memory clawing its way into now.
Fantastic. A goddamn trigger wrapped in iambic pentameter.

She read it anyway. Because masochism apparently counted as a hobby.

It didn’t even feel like reading.
It felt like the poem was watching her.
Digging in. Scraping her insides like it had a right.

Across the building, Reiji closed the book he wasn’t reading. His seat had a direct view into the Literature Club. It always did.

He’d seen her enter.
He was watching her now.

Her posture was still. Precise. Too clean. The kind of clean you only get from covering up something messy.

She wasn’t reading. She was translating. But not from one language to another.
From pain into symbols.
From reality into something no one else could fucking touch.

Her pen scratched down glyphs that didn’t belong in this world. Not Japanese. Not Latin. Not even the bastardized magic scripts of dead vampires.

No — this was something lonelier.
Something built by ghosts.

Reiji narrowed his eyes.

She didn’t act like a liar.
But she didn’t act like Miya Eckhart either.
And that... was more dangerous.

The club adjourned after what felt like a month. Everyone lingered. Whispered. Traded paperbacks and shitty cookies.

Ana, meanwhile, was gathering her shit with surgical efficiency. She hadn’t spoken once. Hadn't even made eye contact.

Ten out of ten. Perfect introvert speedrun.

She had made it to the door.

Almost free.

“Eckhart.”

The voice hit her spine like a whip crack.

She turned. Slowly. Calm.

But inside?

Oh, fuck.

Reiji.

Of all people. Of course it was him.

He stood in the hallway like a goddamn final boss. Immaculate posture. Arms crossed. Glasses catching the light just enough to make his eyes unreadable.

Ana kept her expression neutral. Blank canvas.
Dead girl walking.

But her heart?
That bitch was on fire.

Keep it together. Keep it the fuck together.

“May I have a word?” he asked.

Smooth. Cold. That voice could gut someone in court.

She nodded.
Outside: Cool. Civil. Distant.

Inside:
How the fuck do I make my soul shut up?

He didn’t move closer. Didn’t need to. His presence had weight — like a damn gravity well.

“You’ve joined the literature club.”

Ana nodded again. “Yes.”
Calm. Collected.
Deadpan.

But her brain was screaming:
Yes, Daddy Disappointment. I picked the one place no one would fucking notice me decaying. So what?

“It’s... a quiet choice.”

“That’s the point.”
Her voice didn’t shake. Not even a little.
But her stomach twisted like a noose.

I wanted to read sexy fanfics and cry into my hoodie, not get caught writing in the fucking language of ghosts.

Reiji stared too long. Like he was mapping her DNA with his eyes.

“You read Shiraishi,” he said, like it mattered. “Your notes — they weren’t written in standard characters.”

Ana blinked.
Then she smiled. Just enough to be polite.
But the kind of polite that comes with a knife behind the back.

“I like writing in code.”

Her voice was soft. Pretty. Innocuous.
The truth underneath was a fucking war drum.

Reiji, if you knew even half of what I’ve buried, you’d burn this school down before asking me twice.

He didn’t smile back.

Just nodded.

“Codes can be broken.”

Ana’s jaw clenched — so subtly no one could see it.

She didn’t respond.

Just turned. Walked past him. Every step measured. Every nerve on fucking fire.

Inside, she was a scream in a locked drawer.

Outside, she was silence made flesh.

Behind her, the air shifted — like someone had just tugged on the thread holding her together.

The brothers would feel it. Even the ones pretending not to.

Ana didn’t want to be seen.

But the world was looking anyway.

The school was bleeding out.

Not in blood — in silence.

That thick, ancient hush that only old buildings knew how to breathe. Like the walls remembered every name ever whispered through clenched teeth. Like the floorboards could recite confessions if you asked the right way.

The sun was long gone. So were the students.

But Reiji remained.

Alone. Seated at the center of the library like he owned the fucking place. Like the room was his dissecting table and the world had just handed him a corpse.

He spread the strange symbols out before him — copies of Ana’s notes, scrawled cleanly in his controlled, surgical handwriting. Black ink on fresh paper. Surrounded by pages of deductions, grammar theories, phonetic stabs in the dark.

Two hours.
Nothing.

He couldn’t crack it.

The symbols didn’t just refuse to translate — they mocked the concept of language. They danced with rhythm but spat in the face of logic. They had repetition without structure. Emotion without anchor.

They made sense.
And made no fucking sense at all.

Reiji’s jaw was locked tight.

This was not a code.
This was a mirror turned inward.
And it was cutting him open one curve at a time.

Against every instinct, every ounce of elitist pride stitched into his spine, Reiji did the one thing he never did.

He asked for help.

The ink on the page had started to bleed. Just faintly. As if the symbols themselves were tired of being looked at.

Reiji stared at them for a long time after the club had ended and the halls had gone still.

The folded page — the one Ana had left behind — sat like a fucking trap in front of him.

Maybe she dropped it by accident.
Maybe she wanted him to find it.
Both options made his skin itch.

Because the one thing Reiji was certain of?

This wasn’t human.

And it wasn’t vampiric either.

It wasn’t even magic. Not really.

The writing wasn’t shaped. It was grown. Like roots pulling themselves through soil. Like something old and dreaming had used a pen just long enough to whisper its final breath.

He had tried.
And failed.

And Reiji Sakamaki did not fucking fail.

The library at night was a different creature.

Not empty — reverent. Like the air held its breath for him.

Candle sconces bathed the room in slow gold. The shadows between the shelves shifted like they were watching back. The marble reflected just enough of everything to keep your anxiety on a leash.

He had locked the west wing annex hours ago.

Staff wouldn’t check.

Tonight, the world was his.
All he needed now was blood.
Family.

One by one, they came.

Shu  was first. Of course.

Dragging his exhausted ass in like he’d been summoned from the grave.

He collapsed into a velvet chair like gravity had personally betrayed him and stretched his legs with a sigh that could’ve been mistaken for a fuck-you.

“You must be desperate,” he said. “Dragging us into homework after hours.”

Reiji didn’t glance up. “It’s not homework.”

Shu kicked his boots onto the table, arms draped like a bored prince. “Then it’s worse.”

Subaru  arrived next. Quiet. Tense.

He didn’t sit. Just leaned against the shelves with his arms crossed like he was already done with this shit. Eyes sharp. Mouth tight.

“You said it was urgent,” he muttered. “It better be.”

Reiji didn’t bother explaining.

He just pointed to the parchment on the table.

Ayato  was ten minutes late and loud about it.

“What the hell is this?” he snapped, flopping down into a seat like a teenager who didn’t believe in consequences. “You got us here to stare at chicken scratch?”

“No,” Reiji said coolly. “I brought you here because this language doesn’t exist in any known archive. Not human. Not vampiric. Not ancient. Not even cursed.”

He tapped the page like it owed him something.

“And yet — it was written by Miya Eckhart.”

The room paused.

Silence sucked the warmth out of the candles.

Ayato scoffed — quieter this time. “So the guy’s weird. What else is new?”

Kanato  entered like a whisper.

No words. Just a slow lean over the parchment. His gaze was glassy. Detached. A little too calm.

“I’ve seen this,” he said.

Reiji’s head snapped toward him. “Where?”

Kanato tilted his head like he was listening to something only he could hear.

“In a dream,” he said. “Or a music box. It felt the same.”

Laito  showed up last. The candles dimmed further the moment the door clicked shut behind him.

He wore an unreadable smile and no usual flirt in his step.

“What kind of mystery gets us all in the same room without bloodshed?” he asked, eyes flicking over his brothers, then to the script.

Reiji didn’t stall.

“This script — I believe it’s Miya’s native tongue. And I don’t think he’s from anywhere we’d recognize.”

Laito raised an eyebrow. “A foreigner?”

“No,” Shu murmured. “Something else.”

Subaru’s voice followed. Measured. Controlled.

“The girl in the mirror. The one who took the cake... When she showed up, I didn’t hear anything. Didn’t see anything. But I understood. Like I already knew the language.”

Shu gave a slow nod. “I’ve dreamed of it too. Not exactly this... but something that felt close. Like something I forgot how to understand.”

Reiji watched them all.

Then — and only then — he said:

“For once… I’m asking for your help.”

That shut the room up hard.

Even Ayato blinked like someone had slapped him.

“Say that again?”

“You heard me.”

Reiji folded his arms behind his back.

“I don’t ask because I can’t do it alone. I ask because this is beyond logic. It’s beyond pattern. And if Miya is hiding something older than blood, something not meant for this world—”

He tapped the parchment again.

“I need more than just reason to find it.”

No one laughed.
Not even Shu.

Kanato leaned closer, voice almost reverent.

“Do you think he’s cursed?”

Reiji looked at the ink like it had teeth.

“No,” he said. “I think he’s lost.”

And that was all it took.

Because every single one of them knew what that meant.

Outside the door — hidden in the belly of the dark corridor — Ana stood frozen.

She didn’t know why the hell she’d wandered this way.

Only that something had shifted.

A thread. A heartbeat. A whisper shaped like her name.

She stared at the library doors like they’d called her without sound. Like she had become Dora and was trying to find the reason she even went there, but, just like Dora, her blindness and forgetfulness just made her give up . And then she turned and walked away.

Back into the dark.
Back into nothing.

But the air still crackled in her wake — like the world was done pretending not to notice her.

The library had gone cold.

Not temperature — presence.
The kind of cold that gets into your ribs and stays there. That holy, haunted silence you only hear right before something tears.

The candles flickered harder now. Like they knew too much.

Shu wasn’t lounging anymore.

Ayato wasn’t bitching about being bored.

Even Kanato had gone still, except for the faint hum curling from his lips like he was lullabying something long dead.

Reiji was a machine. Cross-referencing like a surgeon mid-operation. Books and scrolls and index sheets spread around him like the guts of a god.

Subaru had taken to scribbling mad translations, pages of jagged glyphs and fragmented patterns.
His pencil moved like he was trying to outrun a truth he hadn’t said aloud.

For the first hour, no one spoke.

Only the sound of ink on paper.
Breaths like razor pulls.

The deeper they got into Miya’s language, the more it started to fuck with their heads.

It wasn’t just strange.

It hurt.

Not physically — not yet — but emotionally. It felt like reading someone’s soul while it bled on the table. Every line sliced deeper. Every symbol cried.

It wasn’t supposed to be deciphered.

It was supposed to be mourned.

But they couldn’t stop.

Because the need wasn’t curiosity anymore.
It was compulsion.

Like the truth had its hands in their lungs now, squeezing.

Kanato was the one who found the bag.

He had drifted — like always — trailing something no one else saw. A shadow, a flicker, a sound maybe only he could hear.

Then—

“Reiji...”

His voice was far off.

The others followed it, instinct drawing them to the west annex’s forgotten corner — the place where the shelves held books even Reiji didn’t dare translate.

And there, on a faded velvet chair, sat Miya’s schoolbag.

Perfectly placed.

Like it had been left as an offering.

The zipper was slightly open. A single thread unraveling at the seam.

Subaru moved first.
He knew the bag. Knew how tightly Miya always held it. Like it had pieces of her in it. Like letting go of it would be the same as letting go of herself.

“What’s inside?” Shu asked.

His voice wasn’t sarcastic anymore. It was quiet. Careful.

Reiji crouched beside the bag like he was about to disarm a bomb.

He opened it with slow hands.

Inside:
The usual. A planner. A pencil pouch. A folded club schedule.

And then — a book.

Leather. Worn.
No title. No author.

Just… heavy.

He pulled it out like it might start screaming.

As he did, something slipped out between the pages — a thin slip of folded paper, drifting to the floor like it was too tired to keep hiding.

Subaru bent to grab it.

Unfolded it.

“…It’s a cipher,” he muttered. “An alphabet. Grammar rules. Structure.”

Their breath thickened.

Not a journal.

A key.

They returned to the table in silence.

No jokes. No jabs. Just reverence.
Like they were about to open a tomb.

Reiji set the journal down.
Opened it.

The script matched Miya’s notes exactly.
But now — they could read it.

The decoding began.

And it wrecked them.

Not in one dramatic hit.

But line by line.

Like pulling open scars with your teeth.

Reiji read aloud in fragments. His voice low. Steady. Cold, but reverent — like he didn’t dare disrespect what he was translating.

“He was quiet at first. Miya. But he always ate the cake like it was sacred. Like it was the last real thing in the world.”

“He never said he was tired. Just curled up and asked me to talk. To tell stories. I told him about my world. Skies that went on forever. Rain that tasted like honey. He said it sounded like dreaming.”

“He was gone when I woke up. Not metaphorically. Dead.”

“This isn’t my body.”

“This is his.”

“My soul still flinches when I look in the mirror and see his face. But I made him a promise. I’d give him the life he never got to finish.”

The air in the room cracked open.
Silence thickened like blood.

Then Reiji turned the page.

And the words changed.

Smaller handwriting. Sharper. Rushed.

Like the author couldn’t stand to let the thoughts breathe.

“It wasn’t until later that I realized…”

“Miya was never a boy.”

“He — no,  she  — never wanted to be.”

“The name, the voice, the uniform — all of it was given to her by her father.”

“She told me once, just once, in a voice like broken glass, ‘If I’m quiet enough, maybe I’ll forget I was born wrong.’”

“She died in silence.”

“Her parents never called her daughter. Not once.”

“And I…”

“I woke up in her body.”

“Because I had just died in mine.”

“And now I live here. Wearing her face. The face of a girl who was never allowed to be one.”

“I’m not her.”

“I’m not who she pretended to be.”

“But I’m not me either.”

The room didn’t breathe.

They just sat — frozen.

The air stretched thin between them, like even sound knew better than to move.

Shu didn’t crack a joke. He didn’t even move.

Subaru’s fists clenched on the edge of the table, knuckles white.

Ayato wasn’t frowning anymore. Just staring.

Kanato blinked slowly. “…She was a girl. Even before.”

Laito whispered, “A girl in a dead girl’s body.”

Shu leaned forward. “A mirror inside a mirror. Two people erased.”

Reiji’s hands trembled. He folded them behind his back to hide it.

“The Miya we knew,” he said quietly, “never existed. Not like we thought.”

Subaru gritted his teeth. “Because she wasn’t allowed to.”

They kept reading.

“She asked me, right before she left… ‘If you take my place, will you be honest with yourself?’”

“I told her yes.”

“But I lied.”

“How do you be honest in a body that was never yours, in a world that doesn’t want you, in a life built from someone else’s silence?”

“Sometimes when I bake, I forget. I tell stories. I laugh too loud. I feel like me again.”

“And I see her smile back in the mirror. Just for a second.”

“That’s when I know I’ve kept the promise.”

Then came the final passage.

Reiji’s voice cracked.
He didn’t hide it.

He let the page speak.

“She was already dead when I woke up.”

“This is not my body.”

“This world still tries to erase me.”

“But she made me promise I’d live. That I’d give her a happy life to come back to.”

“But I’m not Miya. I’m—”

The ink changed.

Thicker.
Blacker.
Angrier.

A name — obliterated.

Not crossed out.
Destroyed.

The ink bled through three pages. Like it wanted to rip through the fucking book.

Reiji stared at it.

So did Shu.

Ayato looked away.

Subaru muttered, “She doesn’t even feel real in her own skin.”

Kanato held the book like it might shatter. “She’s haunting herself.”

Laito’s voice was softer than any of them had ever heard.
“She promised the dead a happy ending.”

And no one said anything after that.

Because what could you say?

They hadn’t just uncovered a secret.

They’d uncovered a soul.
Two, actually.
Stitched together with trauma and silence and the unbearable weight of being seen too late.

And the girl they thought they knew—

Was someone trying to survive two deaths.

No one moved.

No one dared touch the diary.

It sat on the table like a gravestone. Heavy with ink. Breathing silence.

Even Reiji didn’t try to control the room anymore. He just gathered the cipher notes with surgeon’s hands — careful, deliberate, not for order… but for mourning.

Across the room, Shu hadn’t left his chair.

His eyes were far away. Lost somewhere between memory and regret.

Subaru leaned forward, his forehead resting against his fists like he was praying to a god he didn’t believe in.

Ayato paced again. But it wasn’t angry now. It was restless. Like he was being followed by a ghost only he could feel.

Then—
Kanato’s voice, small but sharp, cracked through the air.

“Wait.”

He reached into Miya’s schoolbag again. Deeper this time. Past the school folder, beneath a tangled scarf.

His fingers pulled something delicate from the shadows.

A photograph.

Old. Crinkled. Soft around the edges like it had been handled too many times, then hidden away like a secret.

He laid it on the table like it might bite.

The brothers gathered.
Wordless.

And stared.

It wasn’t an ordinary photo.

It didn’t look like it belonged in reality.

It was blurred — either taken mid-motion or like the camera itself had hesitated. Like it couldn’t decide what it was seeing.

But the subject was clear.

Miya.
Her current body.
Standing stiff in front of a tall, cracked mirror.
The light around her soft and golden, like candlelight during a séance.

She looked braced. Like she expected the mirror to bite back.

And it did.

Because in the reflection—

There wasn’t a reflection.

There was a child.

Too-thin frame. Wide, haunting eyes. The same child they’d seen vanish after taking the cake. The one who smiled like sorrow and disappeared like smoke.

And behind her—

Blurred. Shimmering.

Another reflection.

Older. Not grown. But older.

The girl they saw in the hallways every day.

Ana.

The face she wore now.

But in the mirror, it looked different. Not just softer.
Real.

Like this was the only place she’d ever allowed herself to  exist .

Shu spoke first. His voice was barely a breath.

“We’ve seen this before.”

The others looked up.

“In the kitchen. The mirror.”

He frowned slightly. “And… another time. Not exactly the same. But close. A mirror showing two people where there should be one.”

Kanato’s eyes were wide with something close to awe. “Is it her? Both of them?”

Subaru’s voice was quiet, but steady.

“The child… is the original Miya.”

Reiji added, softly, “And the blur… is the girl wearing her skin now.”

“They’re both in there,” Laito said, his voice low. “Living in the same reflection.”

Shu murmured, “A ghost. A dead. And a promise.”

No one reached for the photo again.

It was too sacred.

Too fucking  real .

This wasn’t a mystery anymore.
It was an elegy.

Two souls. One body. Neither of them allowed to be whole.

A dead girl who never got to be alive.

And someone else, cast into her corpse, carrying a name that never belonged — but never asked to leave either.

They left the photo on the table.

Not because they forgot.

Because none of them felt worthy to touch it.

The diary stayed open. The pages trembled faintly in the candlelight. The ink glowed gold in the flicker.

It wasn’t just paper anymore.
It was a monument.

Every breath in the room felt like it belonged to someone else.

Shu stood near the back window now, his silhouette carved into the shadows.

He didn’t fidget. Didn’t sigh.
Didn’t even close his eyes.

He was just… there. Still. Present. Haunted.

He wasn’t the type to stay in emotion. He usually drowned it in apathy or sarcasm before it got teeth.

But the moment Reiji had read the words —  She was never allowed to be a girl  — something inside Shu split.

Not violently.
Quietly.
Like something had finally stopped pretending it didn’t hurt.

His mind whispered:
What does it mean to be erased before you’ve even been named?
To exist, but only in pieces someone else arranged?

He didn’t have an answer.

He only knew that for the first time in years, he  didn’t want to look away .

Reiji sat rigid, spine tight, hands folded like prayer — but his eyes were glass.

He had treated her like a riddle. A pattern to break. A code to solve.

Analyzed her.
Diagnosed her silence.
Watched her like she was a symptom instead of a soul.

And the worst part?
He enjoyed it.

He  loved  the mystery.

Only now did he realize what it really was:
Not a puzzle.

A suicide note written in flour and poetry and warm fucking cake.

He’d dissected grief and called it curiosity.

Now he sat in front of the wreckage and realized —
He hadn’t been a genius.
He’d been blind.

And he hated himself for it.

Ayato traced the edges of a bookshelf with his fingertips. Pacing, not to think, but to stay upright.

He wasn’t built for stillness. Stillness meant  feeling , and feelings were like knives with no handles.

But her voice — her  words  — clung to him.

How soft she had been with Miya. How she had told stories. Baked for someone no one could see. Loved so hard she forgot to love herself.

She’d been  there .

Right fucking there.

And he’d laughed. Mocked her silence. Called her forgettable.

“Damn it…” he muttered.

She wasn’t forgettable.

She was  terrified .
She was  grieving .
And none of them had seen her.

Not until now.

Subaru leaned against the stone wall like it might collapse if he didn’t.

His nails dug into his palms.

This is not my body.

The words echoed like a curse.

He knew that feeling. Too well.

To be forced into a shape that doesn’t fit.
To wear expectation like a second skin.
To exist wrong. To be told to smile while doing it.

He wanted to scream.
He wanted to fucking fix it.

But he couldn’t.

So he whispered the only thing he could.

“She deserves better.”

And he meant it with every jagged piece of himself.

Kanato clutched the edges of the photo, hands gentle like he was cradling something living.

His lip trembled. But he didn’t cry.

“She baked for a ghost…” he said, voice small. “Told stories to someone no one else believed in. All just to make her happy.”

He looked at the others. “And no one believed her.”

Now he saw it. Clear as moonlight.

And it  hurt .

“She didn’t leave this on purpose,” he added. “She just… forgot. Like she always does.”

Laito sat apart. Silent.

Not because he didn’t want to speak.

Because nothing felt good enough to say.

His elbow rested on the table, forehead in his palm. His eyes locked on the photo.

“She wanted to protect her,” he finally said. “So much that she forgot to protect herself.”

He looked at Shu. Then Reiji.

Then down.

“I don’t think she ever meant for us to know.”

And the worst part?

He was right.

She hadn’t meant to be seen.

This was the mask cracking. The part of her that had slipped.

And now that they’d seen it?

They couldn’t unsee it.

It was supposed to stay hidden.

This truth. This pain. This shattered fucking mirror of a girl.

But something slipped.

And that mistake — that one crack in the mask she’d spent so long perfecting — became the flood.

From the far side of the library—

A whisper.

Glass.

Not shattering.
Not yet.

Just…  shivering .

Every head turned toward the covered mirror by the far stacks — the one Reiji had kept veiled for years, calling it “fragile,” like it was an excuse.

The cloth had slipped.

No one touched it.
No one had to.

Because now — it glowed.

Just faintly.

Like something behind the glass had  finally decided to be seen .

And in the mirror…

She was there.

Miya.

Or the girl who used to be her.

Small. Fragile. Clutching herself like she could hold in the cold that the rest of the room couldn’t feel.

Her eyes were wide.
Gentle.
Haunted.

But behind them —
Peace.

The room didn’t breathe.

Because it didn’t dare break the moment.

She looked at each of them. One by one.

No anger.
No fear.
Just… remembering.

And then she spoke.

Not aloud.

But  into them .

Straight into their chests like a memory that wasn’t theirs.

“Her name is Ana.”

“She doesn’t know I’m here anymore. But I know her.”

“I loved her. She made me laugh when no one else even remembered I was real.”

“I can’t stay. I don’t have time.”

“Please... look after her.”

“She still thinks she doesn’t matter.”

Her image flickered.

One final smile — small, tired,  radiant .

Then—

The mirror groaned.

A low, terrible sound — like the room itself rejecting what it had just seen.

A single crack split across the glass like a scream.

And then—
It shattered.

Frame and all.

No impact. No force.

Just  gone .

The silver splintered. The wood cracked. The pieces of the frame burst apart like a body finally giving up.

The sound echoed for what felt like minutes.

And when it faded—

She was gone.

No one moved.

Not from fear.
Not from awe.

From grief.

The kind that crawls into your bones and sets up camp. The kind that makes you quieter just so the weight doesn’t spill out your mouth.

They hadn’t meant to witness it.

But they had.

And now… they couldn’t walk away untouched.

They were keepers of her truth.

And Ana — wherever she was now — was no longer a ghost.

She was real.
And sacred.
And theirs to protect.

Silence settled again.

Not awkward. Not tense.

The kind that tastes like loss.

Like something important just left the room and you don’t know how to move your limbs anymore.

The mirror lay in ruin.

The pieces scattered across the marble like spilled stars. And in one shard — just for a breath — they saw her eyes again.

Not afraid.

Just tired.

Just… saying goodbye.

Shu was the first to sit. Slowly. Spine straight. Hands trembling.

He didn’t slouch.
Didn’t check out.

He just…  existed . Fully.

For once, he wasn’t running.

He stared down at his hands like they might know what to do.

“Miya’s gone,” he said, like a prayer.

“Ana’s what’s left.”

And maybe that was all that needed to be said.

Reiji gathered the cipher papers with reverence now.

Every fold a ritual.
Every breath a vow.

He wasn’t analyzing anymore.
He wasn’t dissecting a mystery.

He was handling a girl’s grief.

A girl who stitched her pain into cookies and codes and called it survival.

“Ana,” he whispered, like he was testing the name.
It felt holy on his tongue.

“You won’t be erased again.”

Subaru turned away, pacing like a caged animal, but not from anger — from helplessness.

His hands were fists.
His jaw clenched so hard it shook his voice.

“She asked us…” he said. “She  begged  us.”

Please look after her.

She thought no one would.

She left her name behind like it was a secret too dangerous to say.

He bit his cheek until it bled.

“I swear,” he murmured, raw, wrecked, “I’ll protect her. No matter what she is.”

Ayato leaned over the table, pressing a fist to his forehead.

He couldn’t think.
Couldn’t  feel  all of it yet.

But one thing rang clear:

They’d failed.

They’d seen her every day and looked straight through.

And still — she never asked for anything.

She’d forgiven them before they even knew what they’d done.

And that shame — that soft, quiet guilt — wrapped around his ribs and  held .

“I’ll earn it,” he whispered.

“I’ll earn that name.”

Kanato cradled a shard of the mirror like it might breathe.

He didn’t shake.

He didn’t speak.

He just stared at the reflection inside it — cracked, soft,  hers  — and smiled a little.

“I’ll remember her,” he said. “Both of them.”

The girl who vanished.

The girl who stayed.

They both deserved to be seen.

Laito didn’t look at anyone.

His hands were in his pockets.

His eyes locked on the empty space where the mirror had stood.

“She trusted us,” he said softly.

Trusted  him .

“She smiled.”

No smirk.
No flirt.
Just a promise curled into a name:

“Ana.”

And when they finally left the library, they did it the only way that felt right.

Together.

No talking.
No glances.
No jokes.

Just a shared weight between them.

They didn’t speak of what they saw.
Didn’t say the vows out loud.

They didn’t have to.

Because a dying soul had whispered the only thing that mattered:

Please… look after her.

And now they walked not as observers—
But as  witnesses .

The name burned in all of them now.

Not like a secret.

Like a flame.

Ana.

Chapter Text

Act 3, chapter 2

They watched her move like a ghost still pretending to be invisible.

Not a crack in her mask. Not a flicker of fear.

Only surgical control.

Every step: deliberate. Every breath: buried. Every gesture: smooth to the point of heartbreak.

But now — now they saw.

Now they fucking knew.

And what she was guarding wasn’t a lie.

It was a grave.

A name. A soul. A promise buried so deep she’d forgotten it still bled.

Shu leaned back, half-lidded gaze fixed on her like she was a storm pretending to be harmless.

She sipped her tea like it hurt to hold warmth.

Like the cup was the only thing keeping her anchored, and even that was slipping.

She didn’t fake strength.

She faked  smallness .

Like if she curled in tight enough, the world would stop noticing she was there.

And fuck — his chest ached.

Because she didn’t know they knew.

And still, she sat there like a bomb waiting to be punished for going off.

Reiji didn’t lift his head.

But his jaw was locked.

Tight.

He was trained to read variables. To map behavior. Predict outcome.

But Ana?

Ana wasn’t a variable.

She was a wound dressed in manners. Tragedy in a school uniform. She moved like silence was a religion and kindness was a risk she couldn’t afford.

And now that he’d seen the girl beneath the lie —
Every polite word she uttered.
Every bow of her head.
Every moment she folded herself smaller —

It hit like a blade under the ribs.

Watching her be polite was like watching someone apologize for  existing .

Ayato hadn’t slept.

Not really.

The mirror haunted him. The smile. The name.

Miya.

The kid in the reflection — fragile, fading, and way too fucking sincere.

And now, watching Ana across the table, something cracked open in his chest.

She still carried the ghost like a duty.

But she didn’t realize…
The ghost had already gone.

And she’d been left behind.

Kanato kept glancing over, not at her face — but her stillness.

It wasn’t the shy kind of quiet.

It was the  don’t-see-me  quiet. The  I-don’t-deserve-to-be-here  quiet.

She sat like a statue sculpted to disappear.

He wanted to speak. Just something gentle. Just one soft thing.

But the words clung to his throat, soaked in ink and shame.

Subaru didn’t sit.

Couldn’t.

Not while she curled tighter every time someone said “Miya” like it still belonged to her.

She didn’t even know she was mourning.

But he did.

And he mourned with her.

Even if the body hadn’t dropped in  this  world — the grief was  real .

It was hers.

And now it was his, too.

Laito stirred his tea once.

Then let the silence sit.

She thought she was safe because no one said anything.

But she didn’t get it.

They weren’t quiet because they were ignorant.

They were quiet because they  knew .

And none of them had the fucking language to hold her name without breaking it.

Ana.

One word.

Too sacred to say aloud. Too sharp to swallow.

They were watching her.

Ana felt it in the air — like needles without skin.

But not one of them spoke.

No questions. No probing.

And that? That was worse than their cruelty.

She stirred her tea again — forgetting she’d already done it. Her shoulders tight. Her back curled. Her voice, when it finally came, barely brushed the air.

Forgettable. On purpose.

The mask still fit.

But something in the script was off.

They weren’t ignoring her.

They were  guarding  her.

And she didn’t know why.

And that terrified her more than hatred ever could.

Across the table, Shu looked into his cup like it might explain anything.

But he was remembering —
Her handwriting. The loops like seaweed.
That photo. That mirror. That child. That voice.

Please look after her.

Now she sat in front of him, pouring cream like it was ritual, and he wanted to fucking shake her.

Tell her she didn’t have to pretend anymore.

But he didn’t know how.

So he sat in silence and stared like he could hold her together with his gaze alone.

Reiji measured every breath she took.

Not to study.

To protect.

He noticed how she made herself smaller now. Like her spine curled around something she couldn’t name.

He caught the half-second pause before she answered questions.

The tiny flinch when Subaru opened the door too fast.

Things he never saw before.

Things he’d never  miss  again.

He wouldn’t fail her again.

Not this time.

Subaru stood like a wall.

Arms crossed. Eyes on her like she was a battlefield he refused to abandon.

He didn’t understand gentleness. Not like the others.

But he understood  invisibility .

He knew what it meant to wish someone would  see  you — and then, when they did, wish they fucking hadn’t.

That’s what she was doing now.

He could feel it in the air.

The guilt.
The retreat.
The ache of being known.

She didn’t know why they were being kind.

But she’d already decided she didn’t deserve it.

He didn’t have the words to argue.

But he could  stand  there.

He could be a wall.

He could  guard  her.

That, at least, he knew how to do.

Laito didn’t flirt.

Didn’t grin.

He just watched her — quietly.

And wondered.

How long had she carried this alone?

How many times had she stayed silent when they called her “he,” just to keep Miya’s peace alive?

How many days had she lived as a fucking shadow?

And what did it mean that she’d let herself be seen — even accidentally?

Was that still bravery?

Or was it just a moment of exhaustion she couldn’t take back?

Ayato didn’t know what the fuck to do with his hands.

He always had a joke. A taunt. A snarl.

But now?

Now he kept his fingers still, like moving might shatter something delicate.

Because every time he looked at her, he remembered that line from the diary—

“She bakes for him because it’s the only way she remembers how to love in this world.”

And it carved him open.

He didn’t want to sit across from her.

He wanted to be  beside  her.

But he stayed where he was.

And hoped she’d let him closer one day.

Kanato placed a spare saucer in front of her.

He didn’t say why.

He didn’t need to.

It was an offering.

A soft, quiet, I’m-sorry-I-didn’t-see-you gesture.

A promise.

Ana’s pov (Omniscient)

They were being  too careful .

And that’s what tipped her off.

Not because someone got mean. Or suspicious. Or aggressive.

No.

Because suddenly, they were  gentle .

The air had changed. Not cold. Not sharp.
But…  cushioned . Like someone had bubble-wrapped the room and handed her a smile like it wouldn’t bruise her anymore.

And she fucking hated it.

Not because it was cruel.
Because it was  wrong .

Because it meant they knew something.

Because it meant her mask had  slipped .

She stirred her tea again — third time, fourth time? She’d lost track — watching the cream swirl like storm clouds collapsing under water.

Her spine ached with tension.

Every breath hurt just a little.
Like her ribs didn’t know who they were protecting anymore.

They were watching her.

That much was obvious.

But no one said a goddamn thing.

Which made it worse.

Like a countdown she couldn’t hear.

She looked up. Just once. Just long enough to risk it.

Shu.

Shu leaned back in his chair, all lazy limbs and lidded eyes, and Ana tried not to combust.

Shu.

Her  bias . The reason she replayed his route at 3AM sobbing into a blanket. The reason her standards were irreparably broken. The one man who could yawn and make it sound like a threat and a promise at the same time.

And now he was watching her.

Not passing glances. Not ambient, background-character attention.

No — watching.

Like she mattered.

Like she was something fragile and fascinating and fucked-up.

She lifted her tea with the fake-calm of a girl who’d definitely fantasized about this exact moment...  a lot . And her hand still  shook .

He didn’t say a word.

Which was worse.

Because if he said something, she could collapse. Die dramatically. Blame the line delivery.

But he just watched.

Too quiet. Too unreadable. His whole vibe screamed “I don’t care,” but his eyes — fuck, his  eyes  were watching her like he was reading her eulogy in real time.
Her brain short-circuited.

Dayum Fuck me sideways, all ways, Allways. Shut up, hormones. Shut up, brain. Don’t look at the man like he’s a god.

But god, he was a god. Her  bias . The original problem.
He sipped his tea like the world bored him and  she was the exception .

His Eyes like gravity. Mouth like silence.

She looked away before she combusted.  

And her brain was short-circuiting.

-BREATH BITCH BREATH-

Stop looking like that. Stop acting off-script. Stop being a person, I can’t handle it.

She took another sip.

Burned her tongue.

Said nothing.

Reiji.

Reiji didn’t look up.

But Ana could feel it. The precision. The calculation.

His whole aura was screaming  “You are a variable I missed, and now I am going to fix you.”

And that? That was worse than being ignored.

Because she knew Reiji. Knew his rhythm. Knew his cold, analytical dialogue like she knew her own pulse.

He didn’t  miss  things.

Too observant. Too meticulous.
She could  feel  him measuring every inch of her posture.
And what did that do to her brain?
Absolutely ruin it.

Reiji watching her like she was  data  would’ve been manageable.
But Reiji watching her like she was something to  protect ?

Yeah, no.
Her soul was currently collapsing in on itself.

But now he was seeing her like she was a puzzle he hadn’t been given a walkthrough for.

Like she was  new .

Uncodified.

Wrong.

And it made her chest twist.

Because if Reiji was acting off-script…

Then nothing was safe.

Subaru.
Jesus.

He was standing like he was physically restraining himself.
Not in the angry way.
In the “don’t say something soft, don’t say something real” way.

Her second favorite.

The soft-spoken menace with rage issues and a guilty conscience.

Now acting like he was her  bodyguard .

And fuck, it made her heart do things it absolutely wasn’t supposed to.

Laito hadn’t called her a single name today.

That should’ve been a red flag.

No “Bitch-chan,” no “Kitten,” no anything.

He was watching her like a priest at confession, and she was too busy wondering if this meant he  knew .

Knew her name.

Knew her  truth .

Kanato  placed an extra saucer in front of her.

No commentary.

Just a silent offering, like she was some deity of grief and sugar and shattered pronouns.

Kanato kept looking at her like she was a porcelain doll that had started breathing.

Not her face — her posture.

Her  stillness .

And he didn’t smile.

Didn’t hum.

Didn’t reach for his usual chaos.

Which was terrifying.

Because Kanato off-script? That was code red. That was game-crashing-level wrong.

Subaru stood near the door like a bouncer at a supernatural nightclub.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t snarl.

Didn’t move.

And she could feel it in her bones — he was watching every twitch, every breath.

And when someone at the table casually said “Miya” and her fingers  flinched —

He flinched too.

Like he felt it in his  chest .

Like he  saw  her.

And that?

That was the moment Ana realized:

She wasn’t playing this game anymore.

The game was playing her.

She wanted to scream. Or cry. Or melt. Or die.
She wanted to rewind the universe.

But mostly?

She wanted to ask them  why .

Because this wasn’t right.

This wasn’t the script.

They weren’t supposed to look at her like she  mattered .

They weren’t supposed to look at her  at all .

And yet here they were. Her fictional nightmares, suddenly real, suddenly protective, suddenly —  aware .

She looked at Ayato.

Waited for the smirk.

The jab.

The brag.

Instead?

He looked down.

Wouldn’t meet her eyes.

And that… that was the part that broke her.

Something had happened.

She didn’t know what.
She didn’t know how.
She didn’t know what the hell they’d seen or read or figured out.

But they knew.

They knew.

And she didn’t.

And the worst part?

This wasn’t fear.

This was a fangirl’s worst-case scenario:

They weren’t fictional anymore.

They were real.

They were watching.

And she — Ana, Miya, whoever-the-fuck she was anymore —
was the main character.

In her favorite horror-romance.
On the worst fucking day of her life.

And her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Because  how the hell do you emotionally process your favorite sadistic vampires suddenly looking at you like you’re someone to grieve?

Shu — silent.

Subaru — still.

Reiji — deadly focused.

Kanato — reverent.

Ayato hadn’t even insulted her yet.-  Shocking I know

None of them had said her name.

But she could  feel  it.

Burning behind their eyes.

Ana.

Not Miya.

Never Miya.

And that name — her real one — sat between them like a confession no one knew how to say out loud.

Chapter Text

Act 3, Chapter 3.

Yui watched from behind the glass, but it was her own goddamn reflection that felt like a stranger.

There had always been a rhythm to this bullshit.

A script.

She’d learned it like breathing — pitch-perfect voice, eyes lifted just right, that saccharine little smile sweet enough to rot teeth. She’d wrapped herself in soft-girl charm like it was armor lined with knives. And for the longest fucking time, it had worked.

Until now.

From the end of the hallway, she watched as “Miya” — the quiet freak with a ghost’s footprint — turned the corner, hugging his bag like some tragic little secret.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t shine. He didn’t fucking  do  anything.

And yet…

Everyone was looking at him.

It had started with Subaru. That broody bastard had never looked at anyone unless he wanted to punch them or fuck them — and now he was staring after “Miya” like gravity had shifted.

Then came Shu, the lazy prick, showing up to breakfast like he actually gave a damn.

Reiji — cold, arrogant Reiji — watching the new kid like a damn science experiment from across the library, brows pulled tight like he’d found a crack in the glass and couldn’t stop picking at it.

Even Laito.  Laito . Her always-flirting, boundary-pushing, sleazeball Laito — had started to go quiet when she entered the room.

Not cruel. Not cold.

Just...  absent .

Like someone had reached out and turned her volume all the way the fuck down.

Yui stood in front of the bathroom mirror, dragging a brush through her hair like it was the only thing she could still control. The glass was foggy with morning humidity, warping her features just enough to make her feel unreal.

She’d always been the heroine. That wasn’t vanity — that was the goddamn architecture of this cursed place.

The girl meant to be seen. Fought for. Loved.

But now?

Now it felt like someone had walked into the frame and taken her place — someone who didn’t even  want  to be seen, and yet,  somehow , everyone saw them anyway.

She leaned closer.

Her eyes — sharp, golden, too-fucking-familiar — stared back. But they weren’t right. There was something off. Something hollow.

Like she wasn’t the centerpiece anymore.

Just... filler.

It made her stomach twist.

“I haven’t changed,” she whispered.

The mirror didn’t fucking answer.

In class, it was the same damn vibe.

The brothers didn’t talk much.  Miya, or whatever-the-fuck name he was using now — sat in the back like a perfect little ghost. Silent. Composed. Head bowed. No theatrics. No power moves.

But something had shifted.

The air bent toward him like heat off pavement.

Not obsession. Worse.

Protection.

Yui could feel it press against her like a hand on her throat.

Something had gone down.

She didn’t know what.

She only knew  this  — they circled him now like he was breakable. Like he was something  precious .

And her?

She was outside the fucking circle, fists against the glass.

She caught Ayato after class, lips pulled into her practiced smile, sugar-laced and pretty.

“Hey,” she said, voice dipped in syrup. “You’ve been distant lately.”

Ayato shrugged without looking at her. “Been tired.”

Bull. Shit.

Soft, pathetic bullshit.

It was the kind of lie you told a dog before you left it behind.

And that cut sharper than any truth.

Yui’s teeth sank into her tongue. She wanted to laugh, to flirt, to  twist  his attention back to her like she always had — but the lines weren’t there.

She was all tangled strings and static.

And Miya — Ana — whatever-the-fuck — wasn’t even trying.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t  fight .

And yet somehow...

They were starting to choose him.

Yui clenched her fists behind her back until her nails bit into skin.

She wouldn’t lose her place.

Not to a fucking shadow.

Not to someone who didn’t even want to be seen.

Not to  him , of all people.

This was her goddamn story.

Her throne.

And if she had to tear the whole fucking set down around them to get the spotlight back?

So be it.

The hallway smelled like lavender and pencil shavings — sweet, soft, forgettable.

Just like they thought she was.

Ana walked that stretch the same way she always did — smooth, quiet, head down just enough to disappear when she wanted to. She liked this part of the building. It was hers. Sunlit, overlooked, out of the way.

Safe.

Usually.

But today, her locker was open.

Not fully — just enough to insult her intelligence.

Ana stilled.

The air shifted, cold around the edges, like it knew what kind of storm was about to stir.

She stepped forward and ran her fingers along the locker’s edge, calm as a scalpel before the incision. The door creaked open — and there it was.

Her notebook.

Moved.

Not stolen. Not destroyed.

Touched.

The kind of violation that didn’t scream — it whispered.

A page bent wrong. A slant off-center.

Someone had gone inside her world without asking. Slipped between her pages. Read words that weren’t theirs.

Ana smiled — just a flicker, cold and sharp as broken glass.

Of course they had.

She slipped the book into her hands, slow, reverent. No trembling. No panic.

Then the paper fluttered out.

She didn’t catch it — let it fall to the ground like trash. Because that’s what it was.

A shitty school flyer, scribbled across the top in insecure handwriting:

“Boys who hide behind aprons and fairy tales should keep their stories to themselves.”

Ana crouched.

Picked it up between two fingers like it might stain.

Her lips curled.

No name.

Of course not.

No one with real power ever hides behind anonymity.

She turned the flyer over, then back again — studying it like it might amuse her if she squinted hard enough. Her gaze drifted to the page still open in her notebook: soft entries about flavor profiles, scent memory, sugar as language.

They’d read it.

They’d tried to mock it.

And still — she wasn’t mad.

Not really.

Because rage was too big a gift for cowards.

Instead, she folded the paper.

Perfectly. Precisely. Like sealing a file on someone she’d come back for later.

She slid it into her bag, closed the locker with one hand, and walked down the hall like nothing had happened.

Like nothing  ever  happened unless  she  allowed it.

But inside?

Her mind was already moving.

Calculating.

Cataloguing.

She didn’t need revenge.

She needed patience.

Let them laugh. Let them whisper. Let them think she was some harmless little thing wrapped in pastel and powdered sugar.

They’d already underestimated her once.

They wouldn’t survive doing it again.

Under her breath — calm, composed, lethal — she spoke in the dialect of a place they’d never be strong enough to understand:

“You should’ve made sure I stayed soft.”

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t glance over her shoulder.

Didn’t give them a single goddamn piece of herself.

Because queens don’t explain.

They rebuild the throne in silence.

And let the fools kneel when the time comes.

Chapter Text

Act 3, Chapter 4

She felt Subaru’s presence behind her like a shadow with a heartbeat — heavy, hot, hovering.

He thought she was shaken.

He thought she was trying not to cry.

Cute.

Let him think that.

Let them all think that.

Ana kept her stride even as she turned down the quieter hallway toward the clubrooms, fingers brushing the strap of her bag like she wasn’t running the numbers in her head.

Because now?

Now the gloves were off.

Yui had written a note with no signature, no flourish — just poison dipped in sugar and a smile that curdled.

Typical.

Ana had expected it eventually.

She just hadn’t expected Yui to be so sloppy about it.

So obvious.

She didn’t cry when she read the message.

She didn’t break.

But something shifted.

Snapped back into place.

If Yui wanted to play dirty — fine.

Ana would beat her at her own game.

Only she wouldn’t leave fingerprints.

No scrawled notes. No dramatic scenes.

No bruises anyone could trace.

She wouldn’t play the heroine.

She’d play the villain.

The one in soft colors and silent footsteps — the one who got inside your head and rearranged the furniture before setting the whole place on fire.

Ana’s nails tapped rhythmically against her .

Yui thought this was high school politics.

Thought she could glare across rooms and sabotage notebooks and still come out the pretty, perfect, chosen girl.

Ana almost laughed.

She didn’t want Yui’s role.

She didn’t want the stage.

But if she had to walk onto it?

She’d set the script on fire.

Ana turned the corner.

Her expression didn’t change — soft, unreadable.

But inside?

She was already drafting the first move.

She’d make Yui feel the silence.

Not with isolation.

With irrelevance.

She’d unravel Yui the way Yui had tried to unravel her — quietly, with kindness so sharp it bled.

Let the boys keep watching.

Let them worry, protect, circle her like she was something fragile.

Because by the time they realized who was holding the matchbook?

She’d already lit the fuse.

She kept walking.

Shoulders straight. Footsteps measured. The very picture of icy, untouchable grace.

Somewhere deep in her core, a cold resolve burned: beat Yui at her own game. She could taste victory already — slow, suffocating, beautifully silent. Not with screams, but with exclusion. Psychological warfare with a pastel finish.

It was elegant.

It was deadly.

It was—

“...”

Subaru is still following me.

Ana’s left eye twitched. Barely.

She didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t speed up.

Didn’t look back.

But she could feel him.

The subtle shift of his weight.

The way his presence filled the hallway like static electricity.

Cool. Brooding. Dangerous.

And very much real.

Subaru Sakamaki. Watching me walk like I’m an actual character who matters. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t—

She glanced over her shoulder.

BAD MOVE BAD MOVE BAD MOVE—

Subaru’s eyes met hers.

Flat.

Sharp.

Searching.

Like he was trying to read her soul and maybe also tear it out and hold it gently.

Ana whipped her head back around, face calm.

Internally?

ERROR 404: DIGNITY NOT FOUND.

Her girlboss resolve started doing backflips in a blender.

This was her second favorite character. Her actual parasocial crush. The boy she had written smutty fanfiction about at 3 AM after a twelve-hour shift. And then proceeded to get drunk while having wet dreams about

And now he was here.

Looking at her.

Like she was a human being and not some data-clump NPC with three lines and a tragic backstory.

Ana clenched her jaw.

You are cool. You are terrifying. You are not seventeen with Tumblr drafts and an unholy archive of Subaru x Reader fanfics.

she muttered through clenched teeth.

“落ち着け、クソが...”

"Calm the fuck down..."

Her hands twitched at her sides.

Not because she was nervous.

Because her inner fangirl was clawing at the bars of her spine like a feral gremlin.

He saw the notebook. He thinks I’m soft. No. No, I’m not soft.I live in the shadows. I’m vengeance in ballet flats. I am controlled demolition in school uniform.

And yet—

What if he talks to me?

What if he touches me?

What if he looks at me again like I’m—

“Stop,” she hissed under her breath.

Because if she let that thought finish, she was going to short-circuit in the middle of the fucking hallway.

Behind her, Subaru’s footsteps stayed slow. Unrushed. Watchful.

He was tailing her.

Not out of malice.

Worse.

Out of concern.

Oh my god he thinks I’m sad. He thinks I’m emotionally wounded. I am... I AM. But not in a way that makes this okay. Please pookie, don’t break my heart

Her brain: Subaru Sakamaki is noticing me. Starting autodestruction sequence

Her soul: HOLD UP, It’s Cool and all. But we are on a revenge arc. Stay focused, you emotionally unstable raccoon. WE NEED TO GIVE OFF GURL BOSS VIBES not mentally unstable teenagers with a shopping list’s worth of warning tags

Ana forced her breathing steady as she reached the corner.

She would not spiral.

She would not swoon.

She would not—

“Miya.”

His voice was low. Rough. Right behind her.

Oh no.

Oh hell no. FUCK ME I’m our

Her heart yeeted itself into orbit.

She didn’t turned around, just kept walking slowly — cool, villainess smile in place.

Elegant. Composed. Serene.

Meanwhile her internal monologue was:

IS THIS HOW I DIE? DO NOT PASS OUT, DO NOT GIGGLE, DO NOT SAY "I LOVED YOU IN SEASON TWO" OUT LOUD.

IF HE TOUCHES ME I’M GOING TO COMMIT WAR CRIMES AND/OR KISS HIS MOUTH IN THAT ORDER

She tilted her head, looking back

“Subaru,” she said, calm and honey-smooth, like her insides weren’t on fire.

He stared.

Then frowned.

Like he didn’t know what he wanted to say.

Good.

She didn’t either.

Let this be mutually awkward.

Let this destroy them both.

phew allas I lived

Act 3, Chapter 4

She felt Subaru’s presence behind her like a shadow with a heartbeat — heavy, hot, hovering.

He thought she was shaken.

He thought she was trying not to cry.

Cute.

Let him think that.

Let them all think that.

Ana kept her stride even as she turned down the quieter hallway toward the clubrooms, fingers brushing the strap of her bag like she wasn’t running the numbers in her head.

Because now?

Now the gloves were off.

Yui had written a note with no signature, no flourish — just poison dipped in sugar and a smile that curdled.

Typical.

Ana had expected it eventually.

She just hadn’t expected Yui to be so sloppy about it.

So obvious.

She didn’t cry when she read the message.

She didn’t break.

But something shifted.

Snapped back into place.

If Yui wanted to play dirty — fine.

Ana would beat her at her own game.

Only she wouldn’t leave fingerprints.

No scrawled notes. No dramatic scenes.

No bruises anyone could trace.

She wouldn’t play the heroine.

She’d play the villain.

The one in soft colors and silent footsteps — the one who got inside your head and rearranged the furniture before setting the whole place on fire.

Ana’s nails tapped rhythmically against her .

Yui thought this was high school politics.

Thought she could glare across rooms and sabotage notebooks and still come out the pretty, perfect, chosen girl.

Ana almost laughed.

She didn’t want Yui’s role.

She didn’t want the stage.

But if she had to walk onto it?

She’d set the script on fire.

Ana turned the corner.

Her expression didn’t change — soft, unreadable.

But inside?

She was already drafting the first move.

She’d make Yui feel the silence.

Not with isolation.

With irrelevance.

She’d unravel Yui the way Yui had tried to unravel her — quietly, with kindness so sharp it bled.

Let the boys keep watching.

Let them worry, protect, circle her like she was something fragile.

Because by the time they realized who was holding the matchbook?

She’d already lit the fuse.

She kept walking.

Shoulders straight. Footsteps measured. The very picture of icy, untouchable grace.

Somewhere deep in her core, a cold resolve burned: beat Yui at her own game. She could taste victory already — slow, suffocating, beautifully silent. Not with screams, but with exclusion. Psychological warfare with a pastel finish.

It was elegant.

It was deadly.

It was—

“...”

Subaru is still following me.

Ana’s left eye twitched. Barely.

She didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t speed up.

Didn’t look back.

But she could feel him.

The subtle shift of his weight.

The way his presence filled the hallway like static electricity.

Cool. Brooding. Dangerous.

And very much real.

Subaru Sakamaki. Watching me walk like I’m an actual character who matters. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t—

She glanced over her shoulder.

BAD MOVE BAD MOVE BAD MOVE—

Subaru’s eyes met hers.

Flat.

Sharp.

Searching.

Like he was trying to read her soul and maybe also tear it out and hold it gently.

Ana whipped her head back around, face calm.

Internally?

ERROR 404: DIGNITY NOT FOUND.

Her girlboss resolve started doing backflips in a blender.

This was her second favorite character. Her actual parasocial crush. The boy she had written smutty fanfiction about at 3 AM after a twelve-hour shift. And then proceeded to get drunk while having wet dreams about

And now he was here.

Looking at her.

Like she was a human being and not some data-clump NPC with three lines and a tragic backstory.

Ana clenched her jaw.

You are cool. You are terrifying. You are not seventeen with Tumblr drafts and an unholy archive of Subaru x Reader fanfics.

she muttered through clenched teeth.

“落ち着け、クソが...”

"Calm the fuck down..."

Her hands twitched at her sides.

Not because she was nervous.

Because her inner fangirl was clawing at the bars of her spine like a feral gremlin.

He saw the notebook. He thinks I’m soft. No. No, I’m not soft.I live in the shadows. I’m vengeance in ballet flats. I am controlled demolition in school uniform.

And yet—

What if he talks to me?

What if he touches me?

What if he looks at me again like I’m—

“Stop,” she hissed under her breath.

Because if she let that thought finish, she was going to short-circuit in the middle of the fucking hallway.

Behind her, Subaru’s footsteps stayed slow. Unrushed. Watchful.

He was tailing her.

Not out of malice.

Worse.

Out of concern.

Oh my god he thinks I’m sad. He thinks I’m emotionally wounded. I am... I AM. But not in a way that makes this okay. Please pookie, don’t break my heart

Her brain: Subaru Sakamaki is noticing me. Starting autodestruction sequence

Her soul: HOLD UP, It’s Cool and all. But we are on a revenge arc. Stay focused, you emotionally unstable raccoon. WE NEED TO GIVE OFF GURL BOSS VIBES not mentally unstable teenagers with a shopping list’s worth of warning tags

Ana forced her breathing steady as she reached the corner.

She would not spiral.

She would not swoon.

She would not—

“Miya.”

His voice was low. Rough. Right behind her.

Oh no.

Oh hell no. FUCK ME I’m our

Her heart yeeted itself into orbit.

She didn’t turned around, just kept walking slowly — cool, villainess smile in place.

Elegant. Composed. Serene.

Meanwhile her internal monologue was:

IS THIS HOW I DIE? DO NOT PASS OUT, DO NOT GIGGLE, DO NOT SAY "I LOVED YOU IN SEASON TWO" OUT LOUD.

IF HE TOUCHES ME I’M GOING TO COMMIT WAR CRIMES AND/OR KISS HIS MOUTH IN THAT ORDER

She tilted her head, looking back

“Subaru,” she said, calm and honey-smooth, like her insides weren’t on fire.

He stared.

Then frowned.

Like he didn’t know what he wanted to say.

Good.

She didn’t either.

Let this be mutually awkward.

Let this destroy them both.

phew allas I lived

Chapter Text

Act 3, Chapter 5

Subaru pov

He didn’t say anything. But he saw everything.

And now he couldn’t stop.

Subaru had never trusted mirrors.

Too many ghosts lived there — echoes of things that weren’t supposed to be real. Reflections that didn’t match. Realities warped around the edges.

That corridor in the music wing — the one with the old mirror, the one that fractured without being touched — he’d avoided it for years. A bad omen. A bad memory.

But that day…

He saw her.

Not Miya — not the quiet cousin with too-soft edges and no real presence.

He saw her.

Ana.

Something that didn’t belong to this world but had stepped inside anyway, layered in someone else’s skin, carrying the name of a dead boy and a silence that screamed if you listened too closely.

The mirror had cracked like it couldn’t bear the weight of the truth.

He hadn’t heard a word.

But the feeling had sunk claws into him.

The air thickened. His chest tightened. Like the world had stopped breathing.

Since then, he couldn’t look away.

Even when he tried.

She wore silence like armor, like a girl pretending to be a ghost pretending to be a boy — but he could see the cracks now. The little tremors. The weight she carried like a secret written on her bones.

Her hands curled tighter around her bag lately.

She avoided the music hall now.

She walked like the floor might swallow her if she made a sound too loud.

And today — today she sat at the edge of the courtyard, notebook open, staring at the page like she didn’t know how to start, or maybe like she already knew the ending and hated it.

Subaru leaned against the doorframe.

He hadn’t meant to follow.

But he always ended up here.

A silent sentinel in a sunlit corridor, watching someone who didn’t seem to want to be watched — and yet always acted like she expected it.

The breeze caught her hair.

She didn’t brush it back.

Didn’t move at all.

Still. Still like grief. Still like someone rehearsing how to disappear.

Subaru clenched his jaw.

But then — something shifted.

Not in her body.

In his understanding.

She wasn’t still because she was scared.

She was still because she was baiting the world into thinking she was.

She flinched because she knew they were watching.

And she let them.

Let them think she was weak.

Like it was a game only she knew the rules to.

And suddenly, Subaru didn’t know if he was the hunter or the prey.

But he stayed.

Because whatever she was — sheep, shadow, ghost, girl — he saw her now.

And he wasn’t going to look away.

Yui pov

If the story wouldn’t follow her anymore, then she’d drag it back by the hair.

It started small — a whisper, barely a breath.

“I think Miya might be... a little off, don’t you?”

Yui tilted her head just enough. Sweet smile. Sympathetic eyes. Perfect heroine concern.

Not an accusation.

An invitation.

The girl beside her blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing bad,” Yui chirped, voice full of saccharine concern. “Just... he’s always watching people. Like, watching. Never really talks. I think he snapped at someone in the club hallway last week. Must be stressed.”

Another beat.

Then the kicker — the sugar-coated knife.

“You should’ve seen how cold he looked when that poor boy from Class D offered to walk with him. Didn’t even thank him. So rude…”

It was barely even a lie.

Just... rearranged truth.

A trick of the light.

And that was all it took.

First came confusion.

Then agreement.

Then repetition.

By lunch, Miya was “moody.”

By last period, “standoffish.”

By the time the final bell rang, someone near the lockers muttered:

“He thinks he’s better than everyone just because he’s in the Sakamakis’ circle.”

Perfect.

Yui walked through the halls like a queen no one applauded for anymore. Her smile was bright. Her wave practiced. But her chest burned with something tight and ugly.

This world — this game — was built for her.

She’d followed every route. Spoke every line. Played the part of heroine to perfection.

The boys were supposed to want her.

Protect her.

Love her.

And now?

Now they looked through her.

Their gazes moved like glass — and behind it?

Only Miya.

No.

Not Miya.

Whatever that thing was, slouching in a uniform and wearing dead weight like a mask — it didn’t belong.

And if the boys couldn’t see it…

She’d make them feel it.

It was easy.

Background students were always so eager to be told what to think.

All Yui had to do was speak softly, smile prettily, and tilt her voice just enough.

“I just hope he’s okay,” she sighed near the water fountain — just loud enough to be overheard.

“I heard he doesn’t sleep,” she said, half-whispered by the courtyard, hand delicately covering her lips.

“I think he’s hiding something,” she murmured outside the faculty office, softer still — like a secret passed between saints.

One by one, the threads moved.

Not a storm.

Not yet.

Just… ripples.

And at the center?

Her.

Pulling them.

Setting the scene.

By midweek, Ana had to feel it — the sideways glances, the silence, the way space bent around her like people didn’t know how to approach someone so… different.

Yui watched it unfold from a distance, arms folded neatly behind her back.

She smiled.

Because if she couldn’t be the heroine anymore?

She’d become the stagehand.

She’d control the narrative from the wings.

And when the curtain finally rose again — they’d all remember who belonged in the spotlight.

Not that broken thing in Miya’s skin.

Not that shadow.

Not that thief.

But her.

Yui Komori.

The chosen girl.

The star.

Ana POV

It didn’t happen all at once.

But neither does rot. It creeps. It waits. It grins while you smile through gritted teeth, pretending you don’t notice the stench.

At first, she thought she was imagining it.

The weird dip in volume when she walked into class.

The way conversation picked up again—not louder, but sharper. Tighter. Like something had snapped behind her back.

The tension in group projects. Her name caught in someone’s throat like a hairball they didn’t want to cough up.

She told herself it was nothing.

Of course she did.

She was Ana.

Reincarnated into Miya’s pathetic little husk of a life.

She’d clawed her way back into existence with mascara, sarcasm, and a carefully curated “fuck you” aura.

Girl Boss. Cool Villainess. Untouchable.

Right?

…Right?

So why did she feel like the walls were starting to lean in with a smirk?

It wasn’t paranoia.

Not anymore.

People were avoiding her. Not blatantly—God, that would’ve been easier. No, this was surgical. Subtle. Bullshit disguised as courtesy.

The exact kind of orchestrated exclusion that smelled like one person whispering into the right ears at the right time.

And Ana knew exactly who had the gall.

Yui.

Fucking Yui.

The golden child. The pure-hearted protagonist. The walking pastel plot armor who looked at her like she was some stray dog that kept pissing on the welcome mat.

“She’s so cold. So… off.”

“She makes people uncomfortable.”

“I heard she’s not even really a boy. She fakes it for attention.”

Oh, fuck off.

Ana didn’t even flinch when the whispers followed her out the classroom door. She just kept walking, chin up, spine straight, like the damn queen of a rotting empire.

This? This was Yui’s master plan?

Rumors?

Ana had died once. Been flattened by a fucking truck.

She’d woken up in a nightmare wearing someone else’s skin, with the ghost of a neglected child clinging to her ribs like a second heart.

And Yui was out here playing mean girls?

Cheap. Petty. Fucking amateur hour.

But the worst part wasn’t the rumors. Or the isolation. Or the way the air in the room started to hum like it hated her too.

No.

The worst part?

Subaru was watching.

Her second favorite.

Her fuck-you-tall-dark-and-violent daydream.

The one she used to thirst over at 2 a.m. while reading fanfics on her crusty old phone.

The one whose route she replayed until she memorized the exact number of pixels in his smirk.

And now he was seeing her like this.

Not as the sharp-tongued, perfectly-coiffed icon she’d planned to be.

Not as the cold-blooded vixen who would rule this game with stilettos and spite.

But as a girl standing alone in the middle of a crowded room, holding a lunch tray like it might fucking shatter.

She sat alone. Not because she wanted to—God no—but because every damn empty seat had started to feel like a dare.

Go on, they whispered.

Try it. Let us remind you you’re not wanted.

Her tray hit the table with a soft clack.

She didn’t taste her food.

Didn’t look at the birds.

Didn’t bother pretending this was fine anymore.

And the silence around her?

It wasn’t peace.

It was exile. Polished. Institutional. Neatly weaponized.

Yui had managed to flip the entire narrative without lifting a fucking finger.

Ana was a parasite. An intruder. The one who didn’t belong.

And everyone was eating that story like it came with a fucking side salad.

As she stood to return to class, late and furious and barely holding her expression together, a passing second-year muttered,

“He always gives me the creeps.”

Ana’s grip tightened on her bag.

Just for a second.

But she didn’t stop. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t throw the bag in his stupid face like she wanted to.

No. She kept walking.

Head high. Shoulders tight.

Like every step was a performance.

But inside?

She was already screaming in a language none of them deserved to understand.

Shu POV

Shu noticed it before she even opened the damn door.

Not the silence.

The silence was the tell.

It wasn’t the usual boredom-laced quiet of half-dead teens pretending to care about math.

This was curated. Controlled.

A vacuum carved out just for her.

The second she walked in, everyone turned into professional actors—eyes busy, mouths tight, backs politely turned.

Too smooth.

Too fucking rehearsed.

He didn’t look directly at her.

Didn’t need to.

He felt the shift—how the air buckled around her like it was trying not to touch.

And when she passed him—shoulders straight, steps calm, eyes cast low—he caught it.

A flinch.

Quick. Barely there.

But real.

Her fingers tightened. Her breath stuttered. Just a hair.

She didn’t miss a step.

But she’d bled under the armor.

He watched, half-lidded eyes narrowing just slightly.

The girl who always walked like she owned the damn room had suddenly learned how to shrink.

Not because she wanted to.

Because someone was pushing her to.

And then there was Yui.

Smiling.

Too brightly.

Sitting sweetly with her hands folded like she didn’t shit guilt and passive aggression for breakfast.

Shu had never paid much attention to her before. She wasn’t interesting. She blended in—nice voice, nice manners, nice little puppet routine.

But now?

Now she smelled like strategy.

The kind of strategy that always involved a knife in someone else's back.

Shu hated that shit.

He leaned back in his seat, eyes closing—but not resting.

Ana slid into her chair. Didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, stiff and still, like a doll someone had forgotten how to love.

And Shu… watched.

Still. Silent.

Suspicious.

She was cracking at the seams.

But what bothered him wasn’t the cracks.

It was how many people were pretending not to see them.

Reiji pov

Reiji heard it first.

Not in the hall. Not in passing.

In the faculty office.

“She’s so distant,” one teacher muttered, sipping coffee like she was whispering state secrets.

“Cold,” said another. “Withdrawn. I wonder if he’s… unstable.”

Reiji’s pen paused mid-stroke.

The ink bled slightly into the paper.

He turned his head slowly, gaze sharpening behind his glasses.

Miya, they’d said.

Miya, the odd one.

Miya, the disruption.

How convenient. How efficient. How expected.

It wasn’t spontaneous.

He could smell it—like poison in a sealed room.

Someone had been whispering. Someone with access. Influence. Just enough sweetness in their voice to make cruelty sound like concern.

And there weren’t many students who could weaponize innocence that way.

His gaze narrowed further.

Yui.

It had her fingerprints all over it—soft power, plausible deniability, the kind of veiled sabotage that masqueraded as virtue.

Reiji stood, excused himself with the practiced civility of someone seconds from wrath.

He walked the halls with quiet intent, scanning faces, posture, glances.

And then he saw her.

Ana.

Sitting alone. Again.

Not defiant—contained. Shoulders held too still. Eyes staring through the wall.

The very image of someone trying to look unbothered while their mind screamed beneath the surface.

He noticed the distance between her and the rest of the class.

Measured it.

Marked it.

He noticed how the other students adjusted their positions—too choreographed to be coincidence.

One boy glanced at her and smirked. Another muttered under his breath and passed a note behind his hand.

And that was enough.

Reiji’s footsteps echoed sharply against the floor as he approached.

The student who glanced up first—young, jittery, whispering something low about “freak”—froze the moment Reiji’s shadow crossed his desk.

“I assume you find it amusing,” Reiji said, voice like ice polished to a blade. “To judge what you cannot comprehend.”

The boy paled.

Muttered something that wasn’t quite an apology.

Reiji didn’t acknowledge it.

“Allow me to clarify: I do not tolerate rumor-mongering. Nor do I tolerate sheep playing wolf.”

He turned before the student could respond. His eyes flicked once—just once—toward Yui.

She smiled sweetly back at him.

But Reiji had already filed her under liability.

Laito’s pov

Laito heard it near the courtyard.

Two girls.

Whispering.

One with her hand cupped like she was passing on a secret that tasted too good to keep.

“I heard he’s not really a boy,” the girl breathed, eyes wide with mock sympathy. “It’s all fake. For attention or something.”

Laito turned his head slowly.

Smiled.

He strolled over with the grace of someone who should be harmless.

Someone who looked like he had nothing better to do than bask in sunlight and flirt with shadows.

But there was something off about that smile.

It didn’t touch his eyes.

He didn’t interrupt them.

Didn’t raise his voice.

He just sat nearby, legs crossed, arms draped lazily over the bench.

Then, softly—like it was just a joke between friends—he purred:

“Oh? Did you see that yourself? Or are you just parroting whatever half-baked bullshit your brain could still hold after all that cheap perfume rotted it out?”

The girl froze.

Color drained from her face.

Her friend went rigid, eyes darting like a cornered animal.

Laito tilted his head.

His smile widened.

Still sweet. Still soft.

But sharp underneath—like sugar glass about to cut.

“You know…” he drawled, “some people say things because they’re jealous. Some say things because they’re insecure. And then…”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a whisper.

“There are the ones who say things because they can’t stand not being the center of attention anymore.”

He didn’t say Ana’s name.

Didn’t have to.

They knew.

He stood and walked away without looking back—still smiling, still humming.

But anyone watching would notice how the air around him changed.

How the laughter faded.

How the rumors stopped traveling from those lips.

And anyone paying attention would notice that Laito hadn’t once looked at Yui…

…but he didn’t need to.

He knew where this started.

And he’d already decided it wasn’t funny anymore.

Ayato pov

Ayato saw it happen in the cafeteria.

Ana stepped into the lunch line.

Three people shifted. Not dramatically. Not enough to draw attention.

But he noticed.

Of course he noticed.

They moved like she had the plague—like getting too close might stain their reputations or something.

One of them even turned, shoulder-checking her like it was some kind of accident.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even look up.

Just tightened her grip on the tray and stared at it like it had personally betrayed her.

Ayato’s brow twitched.

He sat there, watching, fork halfway to his mouth, while something hot coiled in his chest.

The hell was this?

Ana wasn’t weak.

She walked around like she didn’t give a damn, like the world should bow at her feet just for existing. She had attitude. Bite. A mouth that didn’t know when to shut up.

So why the fuck did she look like someone had peeled her skin off and told her to smile?

That wasn’t her.

That wasn’t the girl who talked back like she didn’t care who she pissed off.

This—this was some knockoff version. A glitch in the system.

And Ayato didn’t like glitches.

Especially not in people he’d already decided were… interesting.

He stood, tray abandoned.

Walked across the room with the swagger of someone who didn’t give a single fuck who saw him move.

And when he passed the guy who bumped her?

He made sure his shoulder hit back. Hard.

The boy stumbled.

“Oops,” Ayato said with a grin sharp enough to draw blood.

But his eyes didn’t smile.

Not even close.

The guy muttered something and scurried off.

Ayato didn’t bother listening.

He turned back toward Ana.

She hadn’t looked up. Still staring at that damn tray like she was waiting for it to collapse under her fingers.

“Tch.” He clicked his tongue.

If anyone was going to mess with her, it was going to be him—not some second-rate background extras who thought whispering made them powerful.

Ayato shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away, jaw tight.

He wasn’t mad.

No.

He was annoyed.

Annoyed that she looked like that.

Annoyed that someone else had gotten to her first.

Annoyed that he suddenly gave a shit when he hadn’t planned to

kanato’s pov

Kanato saw it happen as club activities let out.

He wasn’t even looking for her.

He was humming to himself—quietly, sweetly—while clutching Teddy a little too tight.

The way he always did when the world felt a little too ugly.

And then he saw her.

Ana.

Walking down the hallway like a doll whose strings had been cut.

Her bag hung off one shoulder. Her steps were slow, heavy, uneven—not like her usual sharp, careful walk.

Then the giggle.

He turned his head.

Three classmates stood near the lockers, whispering behind their hands, laughing in that snide, look-at-the-freak way that made Kanato’s skin crawl.

One of them smirked when she passed.

And Ana…

She stopped.

Just slightly.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But he did.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t look back. Didn’t even breathe differently.

But her shoulders twitched. Her fingers tightened.

And Kanato’s song stopped cold.

Something broke in his mind.

She was supposed to be beautiful. Strange. Fascinating.

Not… ruined.

He tilted his head.

Walked up to the closest student—smiling. Sweet. Soft. Like a porcelain mask.

“Do you want to say something?” he asked, voice lilting like a lullaby.

The boy blinked at him, startled. Confused.

“I said,” Kanato repeated, louder this time, sing-song, “do you have something you’d like to say to her face?”

The student turned white.

Shook his head quickly.

“No! I—I didn’t—”

Kanato giggled.

Laughed.

And it sounded wrong. Like a music box just slightly out of tune.

“Oh,” he said, stroking Teddy’s ear, “that’s good. Because if you had…”

His eyes darkened.

“…I’d have made you cry.”

The boy didn’t respond.

Didn’t have to.

He backed away like something cold had just brushed the back of his spine.

Kanato turned without another word.

And when he looked at Ana again, she was already gone down the hall.

But he still saw it.

The shadow behind her steps.

The faint cracks in the porcelain.

And he hated it.

He hated them.

Because they didn’t get to damage his favorite thing before he decided he was done with it.

Subaru’s pov

​​Subaru saw all of it.

Didn’t need to hear the words.

Didn’t need to ask.

The story was smeared across every wall. Etched into the way her locker had been moved an inch too far. The way her books were stuffed in uneven, covers bent, corners bruised.

It was in the scuff marks on her desk.

The faint pencil etchings someone had dragged across the wood like they were marking territory.

It was in the silence.

Not the good kind.

Not the kind Subaru clung to when the world got too loud.

This was a different kind of silence.

Cruel. Intentional.

A silence built to punish.

He saw her move through it like a ghost—shoulders tight, steps careful, like she didn’t want to make noise, like drawing attention might get her kicked harder.

And for the first time, he realized she was faking it.

That whole cool, villainess bullshit?

It was a fucking act.

She was trying to look like she didn’t care.

Like the whispers didn’t matter.

Like she hadn’t noticed the way everyone was carving her out of the world one glance at a time.

But Subaru saw it.

He saw the way her hands curled into fists when no one was looking.

The way she flinched at slammed lockers.

The way she moved around people like a dog that’d been kicked too many times.

He clenched his jaw.

Tight enough that his teeth ached.

Then he saw them.

Two students. Loitering near the lockers.

Same ones he’d seen whispering earlier. Smirking. Watching her walk by like she was roadkill they were poking with sticks.

His vision went white.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

He walked straight toward them, fists clenched at his sides.

One glance.

That was all it took.

They looked up.

Saw his face.

Saw the look in his eyes.

And suddenly, they were very late to wherever the hell they were supposed to be.

Subaru stood there for a moment, breathing hard through his nose.

He wanted to hit something.

No—someone.

Wanted to grab the whole fucking school by the throat and scream in their faces:

She’s not what you think. She’s not weak. She’s not fake. You don’t get to break her just because she doesn’t beg for your goddamn approval.

But he didn’t say any of it.

He turned and watched Ana walk down the hallway, head low, steps small.

Like she was trying to vanish into the cracks in the floor.

And that—that—hurt more than anything.

Because he knew that feeling too fucking well.

And no one had ever stopped the world from doing it to him.

But maybe…

Maybe this time someone should.

Later That Day

Ana sat in the corner of the library, notebook open, face blank.

She was writing.

Or trying to.

The words on the page bled and blurred, half-formed curses scribbled between halfhearted sentence fragments.

It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered.

The whispers had quieted.

The sneers were gone.

People passed her now with wider steps and flickering glances—confused, careful, quiet.

Something had shifted.

She could feel it. Like a tremor under the floorboards. Like pressure building in a sealed room.

But she didn’t understand why.

Didn’t care why.

She just pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders, like it was armor she barely remembered how to wear, and kept writing.

The pen scratched against the paper. Furious. Mindless.

Cowards.

All of them.

Yui’s bullshit was so lazy, it didn’t even deserve to be clever.

And yet… it worked.

They bought it. Every lie. Every whisper.

And Ana? She was still here. Still sitting. Still swallowing the rage down like bile.

She hated this.

Hated that her voice felt like a weapon she wasn’t allowed to use.

Hated how quiet the room was.

How everyone seemed to be pretending they hadn’t been trying to erase her an hour ago.

But what she didn’t see—

What she couldn’t see—

Were the eyes.

Six sets.

Watching.

Not together.

Not visibly.

But always there.

From behind bookshelves.

Through cracked doorways.

Down stairwells.

Across walkways.

Some with curiosity.

Some with fury.

Some with something darker than either.

Shu, eyes half-lidded, leaned back in his chair and stared at the library door like it had personally offended him.

Reiji, fingers clasped behind his back, watched the hallway with the precision of a man preparing for war.

Laito leaned against a pillar outside, smile gone, hands buried deep in his coat pocket like they were hiding something sharp.

Ayato stood on the upper level, chin in his hand, gaze unreadable—but locked on the desk where Ana sat.

Kanato sat on the windowsill, humming softly to himself, clutching Teddy close and whispering threats to the dust motes.

Subaru lingered in the hallway, pacing. Staring. Not entering. Not leaving. Jaw clenched so tight it ached.

They didn’t speak.

Didn’t gather.

But they were there.

The world had once turned its back on her.

Now?

The world would have to answer to them.

The moon hung high in the sky, a cold, pale orb casting an ethereal light on the silent grounds of the Academy. Midnight had long passed, the world wrapped in the thick, suffocating stillness of the night. Shadows stretched long over the cobblestones, twisting and curling like dark fingers reaching for something they could never touch. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, the promise of rain hanging heavily, but it was the pull of something darker—something much more dangerous—that guided the unnamed figure down the winding path.

Footsteps whispered against the stone, a steady rhythm that blended with the low rustle of trees. The hidden garden waited at the edge of the school grounds, an untouched place that only the most daring—or the most desperate—knew how to find. It was a place where the world seemed to fold in on itself, the twisted vines and thick branches forming a cocoon, isolating those within from the prying eyes of the school and its inhabitants. Here, in this garden, nothing mattered but the release of whatever carnal craving had consumed the soul.

The figure moved with purpose, a soft sigh escaping their lips as they approached the iron gate that separated the garden from the rest of the world. They hadn’t come here by accident, no. Something—or someone—was waiting for them. A promise, like the one they’d made to themselves the moment their heart started to race in the darkness, echoing the pulse of their blood.

A whisper of wind stirred the air, the familiar, yet haunting, sound of a door creaking open. Inside, the shadows seemed to beckon with a life of their own, wrapping around the figure's body like a lover’s embrace. The soft brush of silk against skin as the figure’s hand reached for the gate, fingers tracing the cold metal. Every part of them was consumed with the knowledge that, tonight, something was going to break.

Ana pushed open the rusted iron gate with her shoulder, the creak sounding like a scream in the silence. And as the gate creaked open, so too did the door to their deepest desires.

The abandoned garden layed like a corpse behind the school. Forgotten. Wild. Beautiful in the way that wreckage sometimes is. Vines clawed the cracked stone path. The old fountain loomed like an altar.

She sat on its edge, arms limp at her sides. For a moment, she said nothing.

Then:

“…Miya.”

No answer.

She let out a bitter snort.

“Of course.”

Her eyes locked on the rainwater pooled in the basin. It barely reflected her face—just a smeared shadow.

“You hear the shit they’re saying?” she muttered. “That you were a freak. That you faked everything. That you were a glitch that never mattered.”

Her voice dropped into something dark.

“They’re not just talking about me anymore. They’re erasing you.”

A pause.

Then—

“Should I burn the world down, Miya?”

The question was almost casual. Almost.

“I could, you know.”

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, gaze unblinking.

“I remember everything. Every hidden corridor. Every cursed tomb. Every record they thought was destroyed. I know where the Blood Relics are. I know the real purpose of the sacrificial chambers. The Old Ones that even the Founding Families are afraid of.”

She chuckled—low and dangerous.

“I know how Karlheinz made Eve.”

Her reflection rippled in the water.

“I know what he did to Yui. How he planned to split her soul—merge purity and corruption into one body. She’s not his daughter. She’s his experiment.”

Her hands curled into fists.

“He thinks I’m some background character. But I could hijack the entire plot. You realize that, right?”

Ana’s eyes blazed now—wild, fierce, alive in the worst, best way.

“I know how to end it. I know how the world breaks. I know the rites. The seals. The place where the veil is weakest. I could open it. I could pull the beasts of Hell through and smile while everything burns.”

A shaky breath. A whisper:

“I could bring you back, Miya.”

Her voice trembled—not with fear, but need.

“Fuck fate. Fuck this school. Fuck Karlheinz. And fuck anyone who dared to speak your name like it was dirt.”

Silence.

Just the wind.

Then:

“…But you’re not answering.”

Her throat tightened.

“You’re ignoring me too, huh?”

Her voice dropped into Japanese. Quiet. Raw.

「地獄まで燃やせる力があるのに… みんな、私を無視してる。」

(I could burn Hell itself… and everyone still ignores me.)

Ana stared down at the water. Her reflection stared back, fractured and faint.

“I already know how it all ends, Miya. And I have every tool to wreck both worlds.”

A tear slipped out—hot, unwanted, furious.

“I just… don’t know if I should.”

Unseen by her—hidden by trees and shadow—six figures stood frozen.

Shu leaned against a wall, eyes wide, breath caught halfway in his chest. His lazy detachment shattered.

Reiji’s hand trembled at his side. She knows. She wasn’t bluffing. The implications sent his mind spiraling.

Laito’s lips parted in a silent curse. His smile was gone.

Ayato’s expression fractured—shock giving way to fear.

Kanato had gone still. Teddy dropped to the grass. His eyes shone with something he didn’t understand.

And Subaru—

Subaru looked like something had torn open inside him.

She wasn’t broken.

She wasn’t bluffing.

She was awake.

And if she decided to act?

They all knew the world wouldn’t survive her.

Chapter Text

Act 3, Chapter 6

She used to be the girl.

The one with the story. The center. The light.

Now she’s a ghost with good hair.

Yui was raised on careful obedience.

Soft steps. Softer speech. A life of watching her wants dissolve into what others expected of her.

She learned to be likable like it was gospel.

Tilt your chin like this. Fold your hands like that. Be quiet, be sweet, be easy to want and easier to forget.

Being perfect wasn’t a dream.

It was the rent she paid to stay relevant.

Because without perfection, what did she have?

No family who actually cared. No safety.

Just her face. Her smile. Her role.

So she learned to be lovable the way some girls learned how to choke on silence.

Every day. Relentlessly.

Perfect was the only armor she had.

And now? It was cracking. Fast.

She felt it in every eye-roll from Ayato.

Every bland shrug from Shu.

Every second Subaru didn’t so much as flinch at her voice.

The worst part wasn’t their coldness.

It was the space where warmth used to be.

And in that hollow?

Him.

Miya.

Or… whatever the hell he thought he was now.

Quiet. Flat. Forgettable. And somehow, always exactly where Yui didn’t want him to be.

He didn’t steal the spotlight. He just stood there while it moved to him.

Yui didn’t understand how.

She didn’t understand why.

What kind of person does nothing and still gets everything?

She hated that the rage wasn’t satisfying.

It was clinical. Bitter. Cold.

He didn’t even look smug.

He just looked… tired. Detached. Like none of it mattered.

And maybe that’s what pissed her off the most.

Because when she tried to cut him down—tiny rumors, innocent whispers, innocent doubt—he didn’t even flinch.

Didn’t defend himself.

Didn’t try to win.

It made her want to scream.

Because if it had been her—she would’ve fought. She would’ve clawed her way back. She would’ve burned everything.

But Miya?

He just looked at her sometimes like she was a poorly written villain in a drama he’d already spoiled for himself.

Not scared. Not mad.

Just… disappointed.

And that made her feel small.

Yui still played the game, of course.

Smiled. Flirted. Performed.

But it was all starting to feel like a dress rehearsal no one showed up for.

She glared at the mirror in the music room—the one Miya shattered weeks ago like some moody little prince.

It had been replaced, of course. New frame. Clean edges.

But the reflection still felt warped.

Like it knew she was losing.

“I’m still here,” she whispered.

“I’m still the girl.”

The mirror didn’t argue. But it didn’t agree either.

And outside, laughter rang out.

Not hers.

Not the boys’.

Miya’s, maybe. Or maybe not. It didn’t matter. The sound still felt like a slap.

Yui held her ground, lips painted in perfect pink, fists clenched behind her back.

And somewhere deep in her chest, something cracked again.

Chapter Text

Act 3, Chapter 7

Ana hadn’t expected the invitation.

It was tucked beneath her desk during second period — hand-folded, crisp edges, calligraphy so disgustingly perfect it could only belong to him.

Reiji.

The third-favorite she used to thirst over during late-night Reddit deep dives, the one she wrote 3k-word fanfic commentaries on about how "his cold demeanor masks a deeply repressed need for intimacy." Yeah. That Reiji.

You are invited to assist this afternoon with the ceremonial tea preparation for the Ryoutei High Cultural Etiquette Society. Attendance is not mandatory. But I would consider it a favor.

Oh, fuck off with your courtly prose, you elegant sadist.

Ana folded the note like it was a bomb — hands calm, expression unreadable — while her brain was already composing a mental fic titled "Ceremony of Hidden Tension: When the Ice Prince Serves Scalding Longing."

She tucked it into her bag with the solemnity of a contract signed in blood and fan tears.

The tea room was a whole-ass aesthetic.

Minimalist heaven. The scent of jasmine and wood polish. Shadows dancing on lacquered floors. The kind of sacred silence that screamed: if you breathe too loud, Reiji will personally expel you from the timeline.

He was already there.

Of course he was.

Standing perfectly still, back straight, expression unreadable — like a painting cursed with sentience. Ana could practically hear her inner 16-year-old squealing, “Daddy Reiji is about to pour you tea don’t SCREW THIS UP—”

He didn’t speak.

He gestured.

To the cushion beside him.

The guest’s position.

God help her.

Ana glided to the spot like a villainess making her courtroom debut. Calm. Collected. Dangerous.

Villain Origin Monologue Voice: “I never asked for the spotlight. I became it.”

She folded into seiza like her spine was made of pride and ancestral trauma. Did not look at him.

Not even once.

Once. Just once. Okay twice. He was standing too close.

For a few moments, the room was breath and tension and the clink of porcelain.

And then Reiji began.

His movements were like watching sin be ritualized. Each flick of the wrist was an act of judgment. Ana’s eyes tracked him like a sinner at church.

He was flawless.

Which was so hot and also deeply threatening.

And when he offered her the next step — the tea whisk — her fingers moved before her brain could reboot. Her body remembered what her mind was still screaming about.

“You’re supposed to be COOL right now. Not emotionally compromising yourself over a fucking whisk.”*

But her hand reached out. Bowed. Mirrored.

She whispered — too low, too reverent — the invocation she hadn’t said in years:

“精進の風、日々はただ…”

“Shōjin no kaze, hibi wa tada...”

And froze.

Fuck.

That wasn’t this world’s dialect. It was hers. Hers, from the old world. From the place where her mother whispered those words in a kitchen that reeked of tea and resignation. From a time before she died under fluorescent lights and a truck bumper.

Reiji paused.

The air between them cracked like a wire pulled too tight.

He didn’t ask. Not yet.

Not until she turned the porcelain bowl clockwise — just once — and sipped.

“Where did you learn that invocation?”

Oh, here we go.

Ana looked up slowly — villainess mode fully engaged. Eyelids half-lowered. Voice wrapped in silk and secrets.

“Just a family thing,” she said, cool and soft. “Something we did when grief made words feel like bullshit.”

Reiji didn’t move.

But he reached for his notebook.

The one with clean corners and dangerous pages.

Wrote something.

Didn’t show her.

Internal scream: WHAT DID HE WRITE? DID HE GUESS? IS THIS THE START OF A ROMANCE ROUTE OR AN INTERROGATION SCENE? IS THERE A DIFFERENCE??

She didn’t ask.

She just sipped the tea again. As if she wasn’t vibrating with panic and lust and 78 pages of archived Reiji smut in her past life.

The air shifted.

Not suspicion.

Recognition.

And the scariest thing?

Reiji had noticed her.

Not Miya.

Her.

The fucked-up reincarnated office girl pretending to be a villainess while having a very real emotional breakdown over fictional men with perfect bone structure.

It always started with a whisper.

And Yui? Oh, she fucking mastered the art of the whisper.

Not that Ana had seen her in days — but she didn’t have to. The stink of desperation clung to everything she touched.

Three days since the tea ceremony.

Three days since Ana let a ghost slip out of her mouth and Reiji caught it mid-air like a snake charming a secret.

Three days since she saw the way Subaru froze in the hallway when she passed by.

“Oh my god, he’s probably into the mystery now. He’s gonna start brooding harder. Do I get a bonus scene for this??”

Ana had been quiet.

Deliberately so.

Which is exactly what made Yui panic.

Because silence, to a girl like Yui, meant you lost control of the script.

Yui leaned against the stairwell railing like a Victorian ghost with an Instagram filter. Watching Miya — Ana — walk through the courtyard.

The walk was too smooth. Too poised.

Something about it rubbed her the wrong way. A little too... graceful.

“You’re imagining it,” she told herself. “You just hate that Miya doesn’t flinch anymore.”

But hate was useful. Hate gave her motive.

Especially in a school like Ryoutei, where one whisper could make you invisible.

And all she needed was one.

“I shouldn’t say anything…”

That old soft-voiced venom. She wielded it like a scalpel as she leaned between two first-years by the lockers. Wide-eyed. Hungry.

“But… I saw Miya changing after PE once and I could’ve sworn his waist looked…”

A pause. Bite the lip. Glance away.

“…super girly.”

The girls gasped like bitches in a live-action soap.

Hook. Line. Cancelled.

Yui gave a sad little smile — the kind you practice in the mirror when you want people to think you're pure but complex.

“It’s probably nothing. Maybe he’s just, like… delicate. Forget I said anything, okay?”

They wouldn’t.

They never did.

By the next day, the words were waiting.

Black marker. Bold slashes. Across Ana’s locker like a curse spat out by a toddler.

It started with a whisper.

Because of course it did.

Yui didn’t need a stage anymore — she was the theater. And in her crumbling little empire of rumors and hallway glances, she knew one truth above all:

If you couldn’t control someone?

You could control what people thought of them.

Ana had noticed the shift.

It began with glances — too-long stares in the lunch line. Hushed voices when she entered the classroom. Girls turning just a second too slow, boys snickering under their breath.

And then… the locker.

“HE OR SHE?”

Scrawled in permanent black. Bold. Desperate.

The world tilted a little.

Ana stared at it.

She didn’t cry.

She blinked — once — and let her hand slowly press to her chest like she needed to catch her breath.

A calculated silence fell around her.

Students watching. Waiting.

And that was when Subaru appeared down the hall.

He froze.

His eyes flicked to the words.

Back to her.

The fury in his face — volcanic. Undeniable.

Ana turned away, just enough to let the light catch the shimmer at the corner of her eye.

“Yes. Feel something. Misunderstand everything.”

Later, in the quiet of the courtyard, she sat alone — hands folded in her lap, lips parted just slightly like she was on the verge of speaking but hadn’t found the courage.

And that was when Shu walked by.

Her bias.

Her goddamn bias.

In the flesh.

He didn’t say anything — he never did — but his eyes lingered just a second too long. Took her in. The way her shoulders slumped. The way she stared blankly ahead. The way she looked like she was barely hanging on.

“He thinks I’m breakable,” she realized.

“Good.”

Her face stayed soft. Fragile.

Her soul was doing cartwheels in victory.

“Step into your savior complex, my depraved king. Let’s go.”

Yui, of course, watched it all.

She could feel the spotlight slipping — inch by painful inch — and it drove her insane.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Miya was supposed to crumble. Run crying. Get caught screaming in the hallway, begging someone to listen.

But instead—

She walked past Yui that afternoon with her head down, eyes wet, mouth trembling in perfect cinematic pain.

It was flawless.

Oscar-worthy.

A girl too sweet for scandal. Too pure for cruelty.

“A-Ah… Miya—” Yui started, voice dipped in fake concern.

Ana looked up.

One blink.

One soft, broken smile.

“It’s okay, Yui… I know you probably didn’t mean to.”

Checkmate, bitch.

Inside her mind, Ana was unhinged.

“Okay. So. Reiji definitely saw it. He probably suspects something. Maybe he wrote about it in that creepy little notebook of his. Maybe he’s planning to investigate me like it’s some psychological thriller.”

“Subaru looked like he wanted to murder half the school. Hot.”

“Shu… oh god, Shu looked at me like I was some tragic poem. Like a romantic painting of grief. I can die now. Actually no. Not yet. I need to live for this.”

She sat in the library later that day, hand on her cheek, staring at the window like she was contemplating life and not just mentally writing smutty alternate universe fanfics about her own fictional trauma.

“かわいそうな私。泣き虫で、静かで…あいつらの哀れみがこんなに甘いとはね。”

“Poor me. So pitiful. So quiet. Who knew their pity would taste this sweet?”

She was playing the lamb.

But inside?

Inside, she was baring fangs.

And when the time came to stop pretending?

She’d let the wolves come to her.

Chapter Text

Act 3, Chapter 8

Shu had never liked the library roof.

Too exposed.

Too honest.

Too close to remembering things he’d tried to let rot in silence.

But today, for whatever reason — boredom, instinct, or maybe that creeping pull he refused to name — he was lying on warm tile, arms behind his head, eyes half-lidded as the world whispered below.

Murmurs. Laughter.

Not the good kind.

He cracked one eye open.

Courtyard. Koi pond.

And her.

Ana.

Alone, as usual.

Except this time... she wasn’t just alone.

There was distance around her — a social quarantine disguised as casual space. No one stood too close. No one spoke too loud. The air twitched with tension.

He watched as two girls passed behind her. Giggles. A lean-in whisper.

Only caught the tail end:

“...and she’s not even a real guy.”

The other girl laughed.

Ana didn’t turn.

Didn’t flinch.

But her hand — the one on her schoolbag — curled. Tight.

Too tight.

Shu sat up slowly, palms pressed to tile.

From above, she looked... wrong. Like something framed badly. The composition didn’t fit. She wasn’t the center of the shot, but the scene clung to her anyway.

And for the first time, he realized:

This wasn’t just a rumor.

This was a weapon.

He knew where it came from.

Of course he did.

Yui had been smiling too much lately. That specific kind of sweet — the sugar-laced rot of someone trying to stay relevant by pretending they weren’t the one poisoning the well.

He didn’t even need proof.

Yui had tells.

The soft voice. The over-concern. The sudden glances when no one was asking.

He’d seen her play this exact game with other girls who got too close to the center. And Ana — quiet, strange, broken-in-all-the-wrong-places Ana — had the misfortune of existing with too much gravity.

But this time it wasn’t working the way Yui wanted.

Because Ana didn’t react.

Not the way victims were supposed to.

No tears. No screaming.

She just walked.

Still. Measured. Like someone walking through a storm pretending it was weather.

And that was what made it worse.

Because Shu knew pain.

Knew how it leaked at the edges — sloppy, cracked, involuntary.

But Ana? Ana made pain look polished.

And that scared him more than any sob ever could.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on her like a puzzle no one asked him to solve.

Was she really breaking?

Or was she letting everyone think she was?

He didn’t know.

And that unsettled him.

Because she wasn’t Yui. Wasn’t like the others. Didn’t orbit, didn’t plead.

She was... present. And yet... other.

This used to be a game.

Yui in the center.

Everyone else spinning in predictable, programmable routes.

But now?

Now the script was bleeding. The glitch wasn’t loud — it was silent. Like static humming beneath the music.

And Ana — Ana had never asked for attention.

She didn’t want protection.

Didn’t demand answers.

All she ever did was keep moving.

And someone — no, multiple someones — were trying to stop her from doing just that.

That pissed him off.

More than he’d expected.

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes narrowing at the cloudless sky.

The wind was too calm.

The kind of quiet you got before the fuckery started.

And somewhere in that stillness, something settled under his ribs.

Not emotion.

Not quite.

Just... tension.

The awareness that something mattered.

The awareness that she mattered.

He looked down again.

Ana was gone.

Vanished into the far wing like a ghost.

But this time, Shu didn’t roll over and fall asleep.

He kept watching.

Because next time someone said her name with poison in their voice—

He wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t care.

Not anymore

Yui’s voice was too soft.

Too calculated.

Shu knew that tone — the one she used right before delivering emotional paper cuts and pretending her hands were clean.

He paused at the corner of the hallway, just beyond sight.

“Miya… can I talk to you for a second?”

Ana’s voice came next — quiet, perfectly sheepish.

“Oh. Yui. Of course.”

The act was flawless.

No venom. No sarcasm.

Just fragile little Miya.

Shu leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, listening.

“I heard… about what someone wrote on your locker. It’s awful. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

The way she said it made Shu want to punch something.

“Thank you,” Ana said softly. “It was… unexpected.”

“You’re so strong,” Yui added, tone dipped in syrup. “Honestly, if it were me, I’d be crying.”

Yeah, Shu thought. Because you’d make sure everyone was watching when you did.

A pause.

Then Ana again — soft, hesitant.

“I don’t blame anyone. People get confused sometimes. It’s fine.”

“Still,” Yui said, too quickly, “I hope no one thinks I had anything to do with it. You know how rumors are…”

Shu’s jaw twitched.

There it was.

The fake disassociation. The pretend innocence. The gaslight cherry on top.

“Of course not,” Ana said. “You’d never do something like that.”

Shu didn’t hear sarcasm.

Didn’t hear edge.

Just the same, soft sheep voice Ana had been using since the rumor dropped.

Too soft.

Too clean.

Too fucking perfect.

And somehow, that bothered him more than if she’d exploded

She didn’t jump when he appeared beside her.

Didn’t look at him, either.

Just kept walking — serene, composed, like nothing had touched her.

He liked that.

And hated it.

“You handled Yui pretty well,” Shu said.

Ana blinked once.

“Did I?”

“She’s not subtle,” he added.

“Neither is permanent marker on a locker,” she replied, voice light. Unbothered.

But not really.

He could feel it — that sliver of energy just beneath her calm. A readiness. Like she was playing dead, but the moment someone got close enough… she’d bite.

“You’re not fooling everyone, you know,” Shu said quietly.

That made her pause.

She looked at him finally — slow, measured, the kind of stare reserved for chess boards and executions.

“I’m not trying to.”

Goddammit.

That was hot, .

Shu stared at her for a long beat.

“You don’t act like someone who’s hurting.”

“Maybe I don’t bleed the way people want me to.”

There it was again.

That something in her voice. Not fragile. Not desperate.

Calculated.

Shu exhaled through his nose.

“Be careful,” he said, tone low, almost bored. “You keep letting them think you’re weak, and someone’s going to try and test it.”

Ana smiled.

Not sweet.

Not soft.

Just slightly sharp.

“Let them.”

Chapter Text

Act 3, Chapter 9

Kanato liked silence.

But not this kind.

Not the kind that slithered into your ears and settled in your bones.

Not the kind that clung to her like static—charged and heavy, just waiting to snap.

It followed her everywhere.

The girl who wore Miya’s face.

But wasn’t Miya.

No, this one smiled too slow. Walked too quiet. Spoke like she’d swallowed glass and didn’t want anyone to notice the bleeding.

He watched her from behind the hedge, arms wrapped around Teddy like a child clutches a crucifix.

She didn’t see him.

Or she did—and wanted him to think she didn’t.

Which was worse.

She was good at pretending.

Too good.

Like a marionette with all the strings cut, still dancing out of spite.

But he saw it.

The twitch of her fingers against her skirt when the whispers followed her.

The micro-glance toward the window’s reflection, checking if someone was watching.

She was cracking.

And pretending not to.

Which meant she knew.

Kanato grinned.

That was his favorite kind of breaking.

The kind that tried to look pretty while bleeding out.

Teddy said nothing.

But Kanato whispered anyway.

“She’s folding herself in. Like origami. One more crease and she’ll disappear.”

He paused.

“I wonder what she’ll become when there’s nothing left.”

Teddy didn’t answer.

Later that day, in the courtyard, he heard them.

The laughter.

Sharp and slick and cruel.

One of the third-years spat it loud enough to bleed:

“He should wear the girls’ uniform if he’s gonna sashay like that.”

Ana didn’t flinch.

Didn’t slow.

Didn’t even blink.

But Kanato saw it.

The click behind her eyes.

Like a door closing.

Like a monster sighing, “Fine. You really want to see me?”

He followed.

Of course he did.

The old stairwell behind the art wing smelled like dust and sun-warped wood.

A dead space.

Perfect for broken toys and unwanted things.

She was already there.

Knees tucked up. Notebook open. Pen scratching something that looked like a curse or a confession.

Kanato lingered in the doorway, Teddy under his arm.

She looked up, slow and measured, like she wanted to be caught.

But not afraid.

She didn’t do fear. Not really.

She wore it like perfume.

“Kanato?” Her voice was soft. Too soft. Like she thought it might snap if she raised it.

He tilted his head.

“I think you’re breaking.”

She blinked once. A little too slow.

He saw the twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile. Not quite.

“I don’t like slow breaks,” he said. “They drip. It’s messy.”

A pause.

“But I don’t think you’re glass.”

His voice went distant. Dreamy. “You just look like it.”

Ana leaned her head back against the wall.

“What do you think I am then?”

The words were too calm.

Too measured.

Like she was calculating how many syllables it took to seduce a demon.

Kanato smiled.

The sharp kind. The curious kind.

“Something that doesn’t belong in a dollhouse.”

He turned and left after that.

Because if anyone else tried to break her—

He’d have to scream.

And when Kanato screamed…

Walls cracked.

Things bled.

And dolls never looked quite the same again.

Chapter Text

Act 3, Chapter 10

The hallway stretched out ahead like a corridor of ghosts.

Ana walked it anyway.

Shu’s voice still echoed in her skull — calm, lazy, knowing in the worst fucking way. He saw too much, as always. But she could live with that.

She hadn’t prepared for him.

"Ana."

That was it.

Just her name.

And suddenly the world tilted.

She stopped cold.

Every inch of her froze — like that single word had detonated in her chest.

She turned.

Slowly. Like the act hurt.

Ayato stood behind her, half-shadowed in the low torchlight, green eyes fixed on her like he’d been waiting to drop that name like a guillotine.

“You’re really not good at hiding,” he added, casual as sin. “Should’ve known it was you slinking around. Stupid little strays always leave a scent.”

Her mask snapped on before her panic could surface. She turned fully to face him, arms crossed, lips curled in mock amusement.

“Wow,” she said. “Did you rehearse that line in the mirror or just pull it out of your ass?”

Ayato smirked, stepping closer. “Wouldn’t need to try so hard if you weren’t stomping around like a ghost with daddy issues.”

She rolled her eyes. “So we’re doing this now? The ‘Ayato tries to peacock his way into a conversation’ thing?”

“Only ‘cause you’re acting like we don’t exist,” he snapped. “Like you’re some tragic little queen above it all.”

“No,” she said smoothly. “Not above. Just done with this circus.”

“You keep saying that like it’s deep.”

She turned her back to him again. Dismissive. Done.

“Oi!” His voice cracked like a whip. “Don’t fucking walk away from me!”

She stopped again — slower this time.

The heat in his voice was different now. Not angry.

Wounded.

“You’ve been pretending since the second you showed up,” he growled, stepping closer again. “Acting like none of this touches you. That we don’t matter.”

She didn’t move.

“You wanna know what really pisses me off?” he said, voice lowering, tightening. “You do it so well. Like you’ve been doing it your whole life.”

“…Maybe I have.”

Silence stretched.

“You’re not Miya,” he said. “You never were.”

Her throat clenched. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

“I said your name,” he added, voice gentler — just slightly. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Ana turned to him then.

Slowly.

Her eyes were wet and blazing all at once.

"You think saying it means anything?"

Ayato held her gaze, face unreadable now.

“She told us,” he said quietly. “In the mirror. That tiny version of her — or you — whatever the hell it was. She said your name.”

Ana’s breath left her in a punch of air.

No.

No, no, no.

“She wouldn’t—”

“She did.”

Her knees threatened to give out.

“She didn’t even say goodbye,” Ana whispered. “She… she left. And gave you that.”

Ayato nodded once. "Told us to take care of you."

Ana recoiled like he’d spit in her face.

“You don’t get to say that.”

His jaw flexed. “Why not? You used her body. Wore it like a shield.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” she hissed. “I didn’t fucking know she was leaving. I thought— I thought we were in this together.”

Her voice broke.

Ayato stepped forward, unsure, but she raised a hand like she might claw his face off if he got closer.

“You don’t get to throw her words at me like weapons,” she whispered, venom thick in her throat. “She was mine. She was me. And now she’s gone and gave you everything she never gave me.”

He didn’t have a response. Not a clever one. Not a cruel one.

Just silence.

Ana took a step back.

“I promised her,” she said. “I waited for her.”

Her shoulders started to shake.

“She didn’t even tell me goodbye.”

Then, softer — like it was killing her to say it:

“She gave you my name.”

Ayato looked like he might speak. Might break.

But she turned first.

Took a breath like she was drowning.

And ran.

Boots on marble. Coat like wings. The hallway tore past her in a blur, and she didn’t look back.

Ayato stood where she left him.

Fists clenched. Mouth shut.

Because now he was the one left behind.

Somewhere near the top of the eastern stairwell, Reiji paused mid-step, book in hand. A familiar shiver of wrong slid down his spine — subtle, but unmistakable.

Ana’s voice rang out across the stone like a fractured blade — raw, too sharp, too human.

Reiji did not intend to stop.

But he did.

He lingered under the archway like a shadow stitched into the wall, just far enough out of sight. From his vantage, he saw Ayato standing there like he'd just been carved out of marble. And Ana — no, not Miya, never Miya — sprinting past him like something vital had snapped.

Her coat whipped behind her like torn wings. Her breath was all ragged edges. She looked real.

Too real.

Reiji’s fingers curled around the spine of his book, tightening until the leather creaked.

Uncontrolled affect display. Spontaneous emotional rupture. No performance. No manipulation.

The clinical assessments flooded his mind on reflex.

Escalating instability.

Identity delamination.

High-stress fracture point imminent.

Possibly already breached.

Reiji narrowed his eyes.

Ana wasn’t spiraling — she was cracking apart. Not like Miya had ever done. Miya was precise, contained. Even in pain, she’d had elegance. But this girl?

This was feral grief wrapped in a high-functioning meltdown. A walking contradiction of restraint and raw nerve.

And now she was unraveling in full view.

Volatility: confirmed.

Threat assessment: pending escalation.

Reiji didn’t move. But he didn’t return to his study either.

He needed to watch her now.

Not because she intrigued him.

Because he needed to know if she’d explode — or evolve.

Further down, crouched just behind the curved lip of a marble pillar, Kanato held his teddy like a holy relic.

He hadn't meant to be there.

He was just… wandering. Following a sound. A voice. That voice.

Ana.

Except it wasn’t Ana.

Not really.

Her voice had cracked. Split in half. Like her insides were spilling through every syllable and no one could stop it.

Kanato tilted his head in that soft, slow way — more puppet than boy.

“She’s going to break,” he whispered.

His wide, glassy eyes never left the place she’d just fled.

Teddy didn’t answer.

“She cracked already,” he added, clutching the bear tighter, his voice laced with a kind of trembling glee. “It’s in her bones. It’s been there since the beginning.”

He rocked on his heels, slowly. Forward. Back.

“She’s not supposed to cry like that. Not in front of him. Not in front of anyone.”

He sounded almost... afraid.

Or thrilled.

“I want to see it,” he breathed. “What she looks like when the last piece shatters.”

And then he smiled.

Thin. Crooked. Too wide.

It didn’t reach his eyes.

Near the side balcony, just out of full sight, Shu leaned against a stone column, one arm slung over the balustrade like he had all the time in the world.

He hadn't been listening.

Not really.

Until her name — Ana — cracked through the silence like a thunderclap.

And then he’d gone still. Too still.

Now his eyes tracked her path as she tore through the corridor like something wild. Like something that had finally come undone.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched Ayato — standing frozen, mouth open, fists clenched, too stunned to even pretend he’d meant for any of this.

Shu’s jaw tightened. Almost imperceptibly.

You pushed her.

He tilted his head back against the wall and exhaled, slow. Controlled. Detached.

But there was nothing lazy about him now.

“She runs like she’s chasing something that doesn’t exist anymore,” he muttered — voice low, rough, thoughtful in a way that made the air heavier.

It wasn't for Ayato.

It wasn't for any of them.

He was just thinking out loud — watching the storm break open and finally realizing who had been standing in the eye of it all this time.

Not Miya.

Not some tragic girl caught in the wrong skin.

Her.

Ana.

The chaos. The contradiction. The fire masked in silk.

And Ayato had cornered her. Had shoved her right to the fucking edge and stood there watching as she broke.

Shu’s fingers twitched once — slow, deliberate — against the stone column. Not lazy now. Just simmering.

“Idiot,” he said softly. But his voice wasn’t amused.

There was steel in it.

And for one brief second, the thought slithered in like a blade:

I should kill you for that.

Just a flicker. A notion.

And then it was gone.

But the feeling stayed.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t look away.

Because for the first time in a long time, he wanted something. Not just to watch.

He wanted her.

Down in the corridor shadows, tucked beneath the wide sweep of the stairwell, Subaru had been pacing — restlessly, as always. Anger was his default. His comfort zone.

But this?

This hit different.

He’d caught Ayato’s voice first. Loud. Needling. Typical.

But then— her voice. Cracking like glass under pressure. Then the sound of boots — frantic. Running.

By the time he stepped out of the shadows, it was already over.

Ana was gone.

Ayato just stood there like a broken statue, still reeling.

And Subaru’s blood went boiling.

He saw the tremble in her shoulders. Saw the wild terror in her eyes before she fled.

She wasn’t acting.

She was hurting.

And Ayato — that smug bastard — had done it. Had pushed her. Had ripped open something raw just to see what was underneath.

Subaru clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms until they burned.

“You broke something,” he growled under his breath. “And you don’t even realize it.”

The rage twisted up his spine like fire. His skin buzzed with it.

He didn’t care what Ana was. Didn’t give a damn where she came from.

She was his now.

Herself.

And if anyone — anyone — touched her like that again, there would be blood on the floor and bodies in the dirt.

No one got to hurt her.

Not again.

Not ever.

Then — with that slow, serpentine grace like a bad decision wrapped in silk — Laito stepped around the corner.

No shadows. No pretense.

He wasn’t hiding.

He never did.

His hat tilted low over one sharp eye, gloves twirling lazily between his fingers like he hadn’t just walked in on the aftermath of an emotional detonation.

“Oh~ my,” he purred, the syllables dragging long and sweet. “Ayato-kun, really… You have no idea what you’ve done, do you?”

Ayato didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His mouth was set in a thin, white-knuckled line.

Laito walked a slow circle around him, just far enough to catch the weight of silence clinging to the air. Just close enough to twist the knife.

“You really know how to break them open,” Laito murmured. “I didn’t think she’d scream like that. Shiver like that.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping — playful, dark.

“She looked so delicious just then, didn’t she?”

Ayato’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing, jaw grinding.

Laito smiled wider. “That tension in her throat. That heartbreak in her voice. Mmm~ it tasted like ruin.”

A breath.

Low.

Sinister.

“I wanted to lick it right off her skin.”

That did it.

Reiji’s hand twitched — just once — like he was considering slamming his book spine-first into Laito’s temple.

Subaru snarled from the shadows. It was soft. Animal. Dangerous.

Shu didn’t move.

But his eyes were locked on Laito now. Cold. Lethal.

Something flickered behind them.

A promise.

Laito kept talking, like he didn’t notice the heat coiling around him from all sides.

“But you let her run, Ayato-kun,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s what gets me. She bled all over the floor and you just let her go.”

No answer.

Not one fucking word.

So Laito tilted his head — foxlike, amused.

“You broke her open,” he whispered, “but you didn’t stay to see what was inside.”

Ayato’s knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists.

“Say one more thing,” Subaru growled from the stairwell. “I fucking dare you.”

Laito turned his head, slow as a threat.

“Careful, little brother,” he said, all honey and warning. “You’re not the only one who wants to see what happens when she finally snaps.”

That earned him silence.

But it was the kind that meant someone was going to bleed.

He gave a slow, theatrical stretch, fingers rising to adjust his collar like he hadn’t just pressed a knife to every nerve in the room.

Then — voice light, like a final match dropped into kerosene:

“…I wonder if she’s running from you, Ayato-kun. Or from the part of herself you dug up.”

He let that hang.

He didn’t need to say anything else.

Because behind him, behind the stone and velvet walls, five very different storms were brewing.

And at the center of all of them —

Ana.

The garden swallowed her.

Thorns bit into her coat. Ivy tangled at her boots. The cold wind screamed down her spine like it knew every secret she was trying not to bleed out.

Ana didn’t stop running until her knees hit stone.

The bench at the garden’s center — broken, choked in ivy, framed by faceless angels that watched her like ghosts.

She collapsed.

But she didn’t cry.

Not yet.

She pressed her fists into her thighs and breathed — hard, sharp, savage. Like each inhale was a war.

Miya was gone.

Gone.

And that name—Ana—the one thing she’d begged her not to give away, the last piece of herself she still owned—

She gave it away like it was candy for strangers.