Archive of Our Own ^beta

The sun begins to dip into the horizon. Its warm orange light, which once filled the kitchen, slowly disappears along with it. You already miss its warmth on your face, the last of the light only a faint glow in the powder purple sky. You are bent over the sink as you continue to clean the last remaining dishes from dinner. You work meticulously as your hands guide the pink sponge over the pan’s surface. Never leaving a part untouched with soap. You were never one to rush things, especially not something like the dishes. It was a comforting thing for you, really. To have both your mind and body still for a moment—with just your hands moving in a rhythmic repetitive motion—all while the gentle stream of the water and the sound of your own breathing flowed in your ears. The action was more than just routine, it was homely.

As the sky begins to darken—stars becoming visible in the cool night—you feel something warm and firm press against your back. Not something, someone. Their hands slowly find a place on your upper arms. The coolness of them contrasts with that of your own skin, which shivers in appreciation. Their thumbs start to create a soothing motion on the skin. You let a sweet hum leave your lips, reveling in the feeling of their soft and slender fingers. You never want them to stop.

“My love, you should be resting.” The voice comes out firm but gentle at the same time. Their breath caresses the nape of your neck. You can even smell hints of the lavender dish soup you are using on them. You tilt your head back a little to have it lean on their chest.

“Daisuke, I’m almost done. I swear.” You say as you scrub the remaining coffee stains from a mug.

“You promised me you would allow yourself to relax more. Yet here you are.” His voice has no hint of actual anger or frustration, just concern.

“I’ll have you know that I actually like doing the dishes, it helps me relax.” You huff quietly, your eyes focused on letting the warm water rinse away the foamy soap left.

“And I’ll have you know that I appreciate that you do, truly. Your hands are always so tender and careful. But...” He pauses as he carefully chooses his next words. “I worry that you might be putting too much on your plate—forgive the pun. You move across this house faster than it takes a hummingbird to move from flower to flower. I feel like you never allow yourself to take a break.” His expression was dampened by that of guilt.

You were always one to help others. You would seek out any way to become useful or helpful; the desire to feel needed made you feel content. It would be boring for you, unbearable even, to just spend your day doing nothing. Although you’d have to admit that there was truth to what Daisuke was saying. Sometimes you push yourself too far or burn out too quickly. After you got the Dateviators, it didn’t get any better. However, that just made you more willing to keep helping others. Your objects acknowledged every small gesture and were enamored by your care for them. The positive reactions felt almost like a drug to you, the way it made you feel loved, seen, and safe.

“Hey, don’t worry about me, I’m fine.” You say and manage to finally turn off the faucet. “See? All done!”

You turn your head a bit to give him a cheerful smile. You meet his face, his lips are turned upward slightly, but his brows still pucker slightly with concern—a distant sadness in his eyes. You decide to slowly remove your rubber gloves and set them on the sink counter, and then turn your body around to face him completely—his hands find new placement on your waist as if to ground himself.

“Hey.” You say gently as your own hand reaches out, and with your thumb, you smooth out those frown lines between his eyebrows. Your hands are just as tender as when you were handling the dishware. Daisuke closes his eyes for a moment and exhales through his nose at the comforting gesture.

“I am grateful you guys worry so much about me. It means so much, you know? But I don’t see myself having to worry about going ‘too far’, you wanna know why?” Daisuke opens his eyes again, his eyes searching yours as he gives you a small shake of his head.

“Because I have you guys.” You cradle his face with both your hands and trace along his features. Gliding along his cheekbones and tracing his beautiful freckles as if they were constellations in the night sky.

“I swear, if it wasn’t for everyone here, I would have already been too exhausted to even just get up in the morning. With no one to encourage me to relax or take it easy. But I do have you guys, and you do look out for me, even when I don’t realize it. I trust you all with my whole being, and I feel safe to have you around.”

You let the words sink in for a second before you press your forehead to his gently. “Please understand me when I say that you guys are not and will never be a burden to me.” The truth of your words is evident in your tranquil tone. You swear you can feel the tension in Daisuke’s body disappear as his body goes soft in your arms.

His arms wrap around you fully and bring you closer to him. He hides his face in the crook of your neck and breathes you in—like he can’t believe someone like you could really exist. You—the most kind, sweetest, and beautiful human that has ever walked the Earth.

“I am very happy you think that love. What would we do without you?”

“I’d hate to even think about it. Who would be there to break up Dirk and Harper's daily screaming match or reassure Luke that the end of the world is not happening?” You tease, and that causes Daisuke to chuckle a little.

“That would be a true horror.” He replies and lifts his head to look at you again. His initial worry is nowhere to be seen, all you can read in his eyes is deep affection and love for you. He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away—as if you ever would. You meet him halfway, and connect your lips to his.

The first touch of his lips is feather-light—just a brush, a promise. He tastes faintly of mint and the tea you’d shared after dinner, sweetened by something uniquely him. The world narrows to that single point of contact, to the heat between you, to the quiet hum that slips from your chest before you can stop it.

He deepens the kiss slowly, almost cautiously, as if afraid you might vanish if he moved too fast. One of his hands slides up your back, the other coming to rest at the base of your neck, his thumb drawing slow circles there. The movement sends a shiver down your spine, the kind that feels both grounding and electric.

Your own hands find the front of his kimono, fingers curling into the soft fabric as you tilt your head just slightly to fit better against him. The room is silent save for the faint clatter of a dish settling in the rack and the quiet thrum of your heart echoing in your ears.

When you finally pull away, your breaths mingle in the small space between you. His forehead rests against yours again, his lips still ghosting yours, as if reluctant to let go completely.

“You see?” you whisper, your voice soft but steady. “I told you—I am relaxed.”

Daisuke huffs a quiet laugh, one hand still cupping your cheek. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” you murmur, smiling against his skin, “but you love me anyway.”

His answer isn’t in words this time—just another kiss, slow and certain, the kind that says everything he doesn’t need to.

***

The house had gone quiet for the night. The laughter, the clinking dishes, the faint piano melody from earlier—all of it had faded into the gentle hum of evening. You padded softly down the hallway, the floor cool beneath your feet.

The front door waited at the end, tall and steady in the dim light. The golden knob caught the faintest glimmer from the lamp behind you, and you could feel his familiar presence even before you reached him.

“Checking up on me again, love?” Dorian’s voice came low and smooth, the warmth of his accent curling through the air. There was always something about the way he spoke—precise but unhurried—that made every word feel like it lingered a second longer than it should.

You tilt your head up lightly to get a better look at him. Dorian always had that air of polished authority about him—tall, posture straight as the frame he embodied, his presence both grounding and commanding. The sleek black of his uniform matched the gleam of the wood he once was, polished to near perfection, with warm brown accents like the grain of mahogany beneath varnish. The brass details—the cap’s insignia, the watch, the faint shimmer at his collar—caught the light just enough to make him seem perpetually touched by sunset.

But it wasn’t the uniform that made you pause. It was his eyes—steady, patient, and sharp with quiet intelligence. When he looked at you, it was never cold or distant. It was the gaze of someone who had seen countless nights pass, countless doors close and open, yet still found something worth guarding.

And when he smiled—just barely, that restrained British sort of smile—it softened everything. Made the whole room feel just a bit safer.

You smile faintly. “Just making sure you’re locked. You know how I get if I forget. Call it an old habit.”

He chuckled, a sound like wood creaking softly under a gentle breeze. “I’d never let anyone through without your say-so. You know that.”

“I know,” you said quietly, tracing your fingertips along the edge of his frame. “Still… it’s nice to make sure.”

“You should be in bed by now, it’s getting late.” He glances behind him to look at the dark blue sky.

You leaned your shoulder against his frame, smiling faintly. “And you should be, I don’t know, doing the door equivalent of sleeping. Do doors nap? Power down? Hibernate?”

He chuckled—the sound was soft, like the gentle creak of well-polished hinges. “I’m afraid not, darling. Bit difficult to doze off when one’s job is to stay upright and alert.”

You frowned at that, brushing your fingers along the wood beside the doorknob. “That can’t be healthy. Even sentient doors deserve a bit of rest.”

“I rest in spirit,” he replied smoothly, the lilt of his accent curling around the words. “Besides, I quite like these quiet hours. Gives me time to listen to the house breathe.”

You let your hand rest flat against him, the wood warm under your palm. “Still… I don’t like the thought of you just standing here all night alone. It feels unfair.”

“Worried for me, are you?” he teased gently, though you could hear the affection woven beneath.

“Always.” You tilted your head slightly. “You guard me all night; it’s only fair I check in on you.”

Dorian went quiet for a moment — a stillness that felt deeper than silence. When he finally spoke again, his tone had softened. “You’re too kind, love. But I promise, I’m content here. Keeping you safe is its own sort of rest.”

You hummed quietly at that, pressing your forehead to his surface in a tender gesture. “Then at least promise you’ll let yourself relax a little. Just a little.”

“I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try, love.”

“Goodnight, Dorian,” you murmured.

His voice softened. “Goodnight, my dear. Sleep well for the both of us, hmm?”

You smiled against the grain and nod.

You let your hand linger one more moment before turning away, the house somehow feeling safer—warmer—knowing he was there. And as you walked up the staircase, you could swear you felt his gaze follow you, fond and unblinking, until you disappeared from sight.

***

The night settled thick and velvet over the neighborhood, soft as a lullaby.

Inside, Dorian stood guard as he always did—a sentinel framed in the amber light of the hallway. His posture was perfect, composed, almost statuesque. Yet behind that stillness was something deeply human—or at least, something close to it.

He didn’t move, didn’t yawn or tire. He simply watched the front door as though he was the door—which, in a way, he was. The threshold, the barrier, the promise.

From where you slept down the hall, you’d trust him with your life. You always had. His presence meant peace. Meant safety.

Dorian would never let anything cross that line. Not a shadow. Not a threat. Not even the wind, unless it asked politely.

He was proud of that—proud of his duty, proud of the quiet. He thought of you, of the others, of the laughter that still clung to the walls from earlier that evening. Protecting you wasn’t a burden. It was purpose. It was love.

And so, as he stood tall before the silent entryway, Dorian believed — with all the steadiness of steel — that the night was calm. That all was well. That his house, his family, his you, were safe.

He didn’t see the glint far beyond the window.
Didn’t hear the static hum in the earpieces of men waiting in the dark.

Outside, the air was colder. Tighter.

The kind of air that comes before impact.

A figure crouched low by the hedges, murmuring into a mic. Another knelt near the streetlight, adjusting a small metallic device that blinked once before going still. The soft click of machinery punctured the night—faint, careful, professional. Each one carried steel—matte-black weapons strapped to their chests, barrels glinting faintly in the streetlight. The weight of them was practiced, familiar.

Then a low voice cut through the static:

The team paused, silhouettes against the faint orange wash of the streetlamps.

From the comm, the man’s voice came again — smooth, deliberate, almost casual:

“Understood, sir.”

And then, quiet.

Dorian’s hand rested gently on the doorknob inside — unaware that the same door he swore to protect was now marked for breach.

The night remained peaceful.

For now.

The night had settled over the house like a velvet curtain. The world outside was quiet, the deep navy of the sky dotted with a few stubborn stars that refused to fade beneath the town’s glow. From your half-open window, a faint breeze drifted in, carrying with it the gentle hum of the ventilation system — soft, steady, like a lullaby played through distant walls.

You moved through the dim light of your room, every muscle humming with that particular kind of fatigue that comes after a long, busy day — not exhaustion, exactly, but the warm ache of having given everything you could. The kind of tired that made you crave softness.

The mattress dipped as you sat down. Betty’s plush surface seemed to rise up to meet you, cradling your weight like a sigh. The sheets were cool at first touch, smooth and silken beneath your fingers, smelling faintly of lavender and something sweeter — the scent that was uniquely hers. You sank back into the comfort, your head finding the perfect spot on the pillow as your body relaxed into the slow, enveloping warmth.

“Mmm… there you are, cutie.”

Her voice drifted from somewhere next to you—low, sultry, and tender all at once. It was a melody wrapped in honey. You felt a faint ripple beneath your shoulders as if the bed itself shivered with delight. You turn to the side to see her lying beside you. Betty was always beautiful, but something about seeing her in the dim light made your breath catch. Her soft pink curls framed her face like the softest cotton on skin, the loose strands glowing faintly in the lamplight. Her robe hung open just enough to show the warm tones of her corset beneath — her figure curving with an inviting ease that made her look like she was sculpted from smoothest clay. She rested with her usual languid grace, one elbow propped up, hand resting lightly on her head, her eyes heavy-lidded with sleep but also full of gentle fondness.

“Long day, huh?”

You smiled, eyes half-closed. “You have no idea.”

“Oh, I think I do,” she purred, stroking your hair. “You’ve been running yourself ragged, sweetheart. I could feel it the moment you laid down—all that tension in your back.”

Her words seemed to vibrate through the mattress itself, a gentle thrum that spread warmth across your body. She adjusted herself next to you, the sensation of her plush, soft arms wrapping around you was welcoming. You let yourself go limp in her arms, your back and shoulders finally relaxing.

“There,” she murmured near the shell of your ear. “Better?”

You let out a low hum of agreement, sinking deeper. “Much better. You always know how to help me relax.”

“That’s my job, sweetheart,” she teased lightly. “To keep you soft, safe, and loved. And you know what?” Her voice dropped to a whisper, intimate and velvety. “You make it so easy.”

Your heart gave a gentle flutter at that, your breath coming out a little uneven. “Y-you flatter me.”

“I’m telling the truth,” Betty said. “You’ve been so good to us all, always giving and giving… but even the strongest need to rest. Let me take care of you tonight.”

You felt the bed’s surface shift slightly again, the warmth deepening around your form as she drew you closer into an embrace. The faint vibration of her voice in the air was almost hypnotic.

“Close those pretty eyes for me,” she whispered. “The world can wait ‘til morning. Right now, you’re mine—my sweet, tired darling.”

You let out a quiet laugh, unable to help it. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“Mmm,” she hummed, amusement curling around every note, “only to those who fight sleep. You, my love, are far too lovely when you let go.”

Your body grew heavier with each breath, your heartbeat syncing to the rhythmic hum of the ventilation system and Betty’s soothing cadence. The faint creak of the wooden frame beneath you was like the steady rocking of a cradle.

“There you go,” she whispered again. “Breathe, just like that. In… and out. That’s it, sweetie.”

You managed to mumble something back—half words, half affection—before your thoughts began to blur at the edges.

“Sweet dreams, lover,” she said, her voice a low lullaby. “I’ll keep you safe.”

You felt Betty’s soft warmth curling around you like a sigh as your eyes began to shut closed until-

CRASH!

The sound tears through the stillness like lightning through glass. The whole house seems to lurch—walls shivering, the air itself jolting awake. The hum of the vents is drowned beneath the clatter of something heavy hitting tile. Then another sound follows—a thud, then the dull crunch of boots on splintered wood.

Your heart stutters, jolting you upright before your mind can catch up. The room is dark, only the faint blue glow from the street outside spilling across the floor. Betty moves to your side in an instant. Her body presses against yours. The mattress beneath you has become tense, her own plush body trembling in a way you’ve never felt before.

“Stay still, sweetie,” she whispers, her voice hushed but shaking. The usual silk of her tone is gone, replaced by something raw—protective, frightened. “Something’s wrong.”

Your pulse is a drum in your throat, your ears ringing loudly. “What was that—?”

“Shh.” Betty’s hand—warm, soft—presses against your side. “Don’t move, cutie. Don’t speak.”

Then, a distant voice downstairs. Rough. Human.

“Back entry secure. Move in.”

No! This can’t be happening!

You feel like fainting and throwing up at the same time. He had finally snapped. The man who would spy on you with little drones—watching you go through your boring days stuck inside—looking at the way you would go around the house, talking to seemingly nothing, while you wore those pink glasses. The man who, for months, would send you a bunch of emails asking you to return them to him in exchange for money, the amount more than anything you’d make in your entire lifetime. He would promise you anything you’d want—anything—just to get those glasses back. He would make your greatest dreams come true, give you whatever your heart could possibly desire.

But you refused. Always refused.

You proved to be different, stubborn, infuriatingly stubborn. Money seemed inconsequential in your eyes. You were hell bent on keeping them. That only enraged him. How dare you? How fucking dare you? Who the fuck were you to keep something that was not yours?! To reject his generosity for something that wouldn’t be worth it, for you at least. How had an insignificant, jobless, pathetic waste of a human being managed to insult him this way? This would not do. He would make you regret this. Your little playtime was over—it was time you had a reality check.

***

The wood’s splinters scatter onto the floor. The back door now had a hole from where it had been kicked open. Dorian clutched at his arm as it hung limp on his side, now dislocated. He sat on the floor, his head leaning back against the wall as he tried to control his pained pants. He had failed. How had he let this happen?

The agents didn’t come quietly. When they appeared out of their hiding places, a feeling of anxiety filled his gut. They were covered and armed, deadly.

They hit the back entrance like a storm—the first boot slamming hard against the wood, then another, then another. The frame shook with every impact, Dorian bracing himself with everything he had. Even as he felt his body begin to bruise, he refused to be open.

“I think not.” he hissed through clenched teeth, the faintest trace of his composure cracking. The hinges screamed as he locked every bolt, every chain, every ounce of strength he could summon through the house’s trembling walls.

The men outside barked orders—“Again! Harder!”—and the next blow made his vision blur white with pain. His wooden form splintered where the deadbolt met the jamb, a sharp crack ringing through his entire being like a bone snapping. Something did snap.

He could feel it—the sharp, nauseating twist as his frame was forced inward.
His arm was yanked from its socket, and combined with the feeling of his wrist being snapped in half, made it feel like his whole arm was being burned in fire.

“Ah— bloody hell!” The words came out loud but strangled. For a door that had never cried, Dorian’s breath hitched in something perilously close to a sob.

The next kick blew the lock apart. The chain snapped. Dorian was on the verge of collapsing on his knees as the men began to hurry inside.

Light from the agents’ flashlights sliced through the dark home as they shoved the door open—the force tearing what remained of Dorian’s latch free. He hung open awkwardly, splintered wood jutting like broken ribs, and some of it hit the floor.

He tried to close again.

Tried to hold them out, to keep you safe upstairs. But his hinge had been torn half out of the wall, his body trembling violently in protest. Every move made the pain surge through him like fire licking through wood.

“Fuck!” He grunts as his knees finally give out and hit the floor with a miserable ‘thump’.

“DORIAN!” Wyndoln shrieked as she ran to his side. She tries to suppress a gag from escaping her lips when she looks at the mangled mess that is Dorian’s arm. Before she could say anything else, the two men were already moving throughout the house. The walls seem to be shifting with unease at this intrusion.

“I take the east, you take west.” The taller man ordered, pistol in hand. With a nod, they both began to slither through the shadows with deadly stealth. The house started to become truly panicked at the sight of the gun in their hands.

“Yo, what the hell do they want?” Curt asks hurriedly, as both he and Rod move to lift Dorian off the ground.

“They’re definitely not your average burglars.” Rod replies, with uneasiness seeping into his usual confident tone. Dorian grits his teeth as the sharp pain of his injury spreads to his shoulder blades.

“These bastards are most likely here for Skylar. Fuck—we can’t let them head upstairs!” Dorian barks at the objects around them. Everyone has varying faces of fear or confusion.

“What do we do?!” Wyndowln squealed, voicing everyone’s concern.

“Maybe if we moves quick-like… makes a bit o’ noise — they might back off, wha?” Gaia suggests.

Everyone decides to act quickly, knowing that they don’t have enough time until they find Stella. Before they find you.

As the men moved, the air turned colder, heavier. Each step creaked like a heartbeat against the floorboards. As one man neared the dining room, a faint sound began to bleed through the air—quiet at first, delicate, almost beautiful.

A single piano note.

Then another.

The sound drifted through the hall like the faintest whisper of breath — hesitant, trembling, as though testing the air.

One of the agents froze mid-step. “You hear that?” His eyes were trying to scan through the dark.

“Yeah,” the other answered, though the word was little more than a rough whisper. “Someone’s here.”

They followed the sound, weapons drawn. The melody led them into the parlor—a wide, open space lit only by the weak glow of the moon through the window. Slight dust particles could be seen dancing in the air thanks to the light from outside. The moonlight reflected on a sleek and wide surface—the grand piano.

An antique upright, elegant, were her ivory keys that still performed through the years of touch. She stood silent for one heartbeat—then another. Keyes stood her ground, even if they couldn’t see her. Her calm beauty was marred by a look of fear. But she refused to sit and do nothing—she refused to let these men hurt you.

And then, without warning, she played herself.

The first chord struck like a scream—loud, discordant, a violent crash that made both men flinch.

“What the hell—”

Before they could react, the next notes erupted—fast, harsh, chaotic. The piano’s lid trembled with every strike as invisible fingers slammed against her keys, hammering them down with furious precision.

The melody spiraled into something manic—no rhythm, no pattern, just sound and rage and grief all colliding at once. It wasn’t music anymore; it was a voice—her voice—breaking under the weight of fear.

The agents covered their ears, the dissonance clawing at their nerves.

“Stop that noise!” one of them barked, but his voice was swallowed by the sound—a twisted symphony of panic and fury.

Keyes’ bench rattled and slid across the floor, crashing into the wall. The room seemed to shake with her.

BANG.
BANG.
BANG.

Each chord struck like a heartbeat, desperate and defiant. The sound bled into the walls, through the pipes, into the very bones of the house.

One of the agents fired a warning shot — the bullet embedded in the wooden frame just above her lid. The echo of the gunshot seemed to fuel her.

Now she played faster. Louder. The strings inside her groaned, the pedals slammed down, and the resonance grew unbearable. It wasn’t just sound anymore — it was pressure. A pulsing, living force that pressed against their skulls until it felt like their heads might split.

“Shut that thing the fuck up!” the first agent shouted. The other tried to reach for the piano. He slammed the fallboard down. Hard.

The sound that followed wasn’t the sound of a chord—rather a cry of pain.

Instantly, the lights flickered—Lux screaming wordlessly from the tall lamp in the room, their glow stuttering and in rapid and unsteady patterns. Even if you and Lux had never been super close, they still didn’t wish for you to be harmed. Gaia decided to spin uncontrollably, her globe’s stand trembling unsteadily from the movement. Both men looked at each other, one held a confused and slightly disturbed expression—the other seemed to be more solemn, more aware.

“What the fuck?” The shorter man spoke his thoughts out loud—his hands flexing slightly on his gun.

“Keep moving, agent.” The other commanded, he wasn’t going to back down because of a loud piano or a blinking lamp. He moved his way to the living room as his partner headed towards the dining room and kitchen.

The moment the man made it past the large dining table, he was abruptly pushed from behind. A sharp scraping of the wood against wood was all he heard as he stumbled forward into the kitchen. The table moved forward to make contact with the man's lower back. The man yelped at the pain.

“Gah—”

The agent’s temper finally broke as he yipped his head around and made eye contact with the now shifted table.

“Goddamn piece of shit!” he growled, grabbing the edge of the table that had dared shove him. “You wanna play games?”

He shoved it back, hard. The legs screeched against the floorboards — the sound raw and angry, like teeth grinding together.

Abel tried to pull himself still, to hold his ground, but the man’s boot came down fast.

A single kick.

Wood splintered.

The sharp crack split through the room like a whip. One of Abel’s wooden legs—his right one—gave way instantly. He felt the break like something deep and real, tearing apart.

It hit him before he even hit the ground — white-hot pain exploding through his own human leg. His knee buckled, fire shooting up his thigh. The sound of the break echoed in his ears, followed by his own ragged breath.

“Ahh—!”

He hit the floor hard, the air leaving his lungs in a choked gasp. The world spun—the smell of sawdust thick around him, sharp and dry.

“Dammit…” he groaned, clutching his knee—or what should’ve been his knee. But when he looked down, all he saw was splintered oak and the jagged edge where the leg had broken clean off.

He could feel it though—the pulse of pain right where bone should be. His heart thudded unevenly in his chest, every beat pushing another wave of agony through him.

“You—you didn’t have to—” his voice came out hoarse, trembling, his drawl breaking between breaths. “Ain’t done nothin’ to you… just—just tryin’ t’ keep this place safe…”

He tried to move, but the pain lanced through him again, stealing his breath. He slumped onto his side, fingers digging into the floorboards, nails scraping against the old varnish.

From somewhere behind him, Chairemi frantically raced to his side. Her eyes were already filled with glossy tears. She gripped the ends of her hair from the terror she felt in seeing him on the floor.

“Abel! Oh no!” She sobbed.

“D-don’t worry, sunshine. I’m—fine. ” Abel hissed through gritted teeth, the corner of his vision blurring. “That bastard done only pushed me…”

He tried to pull himself upright, his hands shaking as he reached for something—anything—to steady himself. The air around him felt cold, hostile. The house knew. It felt his pain.

“You’d better stand back,” he muttered under his breath, his voice weak but heavy with threat. “Ain’t no forgivin’ this one.”

The house was no longer confused or scared.

It was angry.

The sound of banging and crashing screamed in your ears, the terror freezing you in place on the mattress. A million things racing through your mind—regrets, pleas, guilt. The feeling of vulnerability suffocating you with every second that passed.

Safe. What a comforting word.

Too bad that was just an illusion. You were never safe. How foolish to think you were. To think you could have avoided the vile man who was dead set on getting those glasses of yours back—at any cost.

You were so stuck in your head that you didn’t realize someone was calling your name. Their voice was frantic and scared. You look away from the bedroom door and glance up to the vent grid on the high part of your wall. You make eye contact with a pair of wide eyes.

“My love, we don’t have much time!” Hector rasps, hands gripping tightly at the metal grids. “They’ve already made it past the living room!”

“What’s going on?” Betty, still holding on to you, asks the question you would have asked if not for the fact that you couldn’t find your voice. Still in a state of shock.

“T-they broke through Back Dorian, his arm is b-broken. They shot at Keyes, a-and one of the men just broke Abel’s knee.” Hector stutters as he quickly relates what is happening. A choked sob leaves your throat, you quickly move to cover your mouth with your hand. You feel hot tears stream down your cheeks.

“No...” You whisper. Betty’s grip on you only becomes tighter as if she’s trying to ground herself as well.  

“Everyone is trying to distract them as much as they can, but it's only a matter of time before they find the staircase.”

You try to swallow, but it ends up stuck in your throat. You feel your body begin to tremble, even in Betty’s arms around you. Even your vision starts to blur, not just from tears beginning to form, but also from the dizzing headache that pounds at your skull.

“You need to hide Y/N! You can’t stay here, or they’ll find you!” Hector’s knuckles have gone white now from how tightly he grips at his grid, evidence of his rising panic. His eyes are switching from your face to the door and back to your face again.

“Oh no please...” Betty hides her face in your shoulder. You feel her tears seeping through the thin fabric of your sleeping shirt. Her quiet sobs fill the room as she pleads for you to stay. Your heart only aches more at witnessing her pain.

God, this was all your fault!

“You can hide in the closet with the Hanks or—or hurry to the bathroom—attic maybe? Just—Please!” Hector is getting more impatient—no—terrified by your lack of movement.

The men are starting to get more irritated downstairs, their annoyed grunts and shouts reaching your ears. The noises of furniture banging and slamming also follow, who knows what they were doing to your friends? And for what? All for a pair of pink glasses? These men were clearly on a mission, armed and deadly. Were you really going to just hide and watch as they took apart your house, hurt those you cared about? They didn’t deserve any of this! It wasn’t their fault!

The fear that you once felt started to turn into something else—something beginning to boil inside of you. An angry-like determination. You weren’t going to hide like a coward, you just wouldn’t! If they wanted those glasses so damn badly, then they would have to get through you first. Even then, you would make sure they never found them. You would show them—show him—that you would not surrender so easily. Send him a message of your own:

'Go to Hell!'

With this new fit of fury stirring inside of you, you started to make your way off the bed.

“Y/N! Wait, what are you doing!” Betty’s whisper shouts as she clings to your shirt—grip tight.

“Hector's right, there is no time. They can’t find me here with the glasses. You know what will happen to you if they do, what will happen to Skylar if Most gets his hands on her and her technology. I won’t sit around and do nothing while those men rip apart the house trying to find her.” Your voice comes out hoarse yet firm, as you look at your bed. Betty’s eyebrows pucker in worry, you can already know what she is thinking.

‘It's too dangerous.’

Your gaze softens slightly, and you reach out to quickly caress her cheek, pressing a warm kiss to her forehead.

“Everything will be alright, we will get through this, together.” You try to sound comforting, keeping your voice as steady as you can. But you know what those words will cost you. You know the risk that lies ahead—outside that door. You don’t stand a chance against those men, not physically, at least. You have a feeling that they won’t exactly be “gentle” with you—these are Most’s men after all. Torture or violence wasn’t beneath him. Yet you are willing to face that danger—willing to take a bullet if you need to. Anything to keep your friends safe. In the back of your mind, you know they would disagree with you. They would rather be the ones being pushed around instead of you. It’s unfortunate that they forget just how stubborn you are. Once you set your mind on something, you won’t be deterred.

You pull your hand away from Betty’s face, each breath coming raw and sharp. Her fingers cling to your sleeve like she’s trying to pin you to the mattress, but your jaw is set. There’s no arguing it now—you can hear the way the house is being torn apart below, feel each slap and thud in your ribs. Those sounds are no longer faceless noise. They are your friends.

You slide off the bed, light-headed, and everything tilts for a second—the room a slow-turning carousel of shadows. Hector’s eyes are huge behind the vent grate; he looks like he might step out and carry you away in that instant if he could. Instead, he bats at the metal with trembling hands.

“M-my love, no! Don’t do anything rash!” His voice panicking on every syllable. He stiffens as you walk up to him, glasses still on your face. You have to tilt your neck a little to stare up at him through the grid.

“Just let us hide you-”

“No.” You cut him off—a tone of finality in your words.

“These men are too dangerous! They will hurt you! Kill you!” He chokes out. You can see his own eyes well up with tears.

“Hector.” Your voice breaks, but you swallow the fear anyway. “Listen to me.”

He stares, frozen.

“They’re hurting everyone. Dorian. Abel. I can’t—” you hold back a sob. “I can’t let them destroy this house to find me. You can hide them. You’re the only one who can.” He immediately knows what you are referring to, his glare becoming angry.

“I don’t care about the damn glasses!” he shouts. “I care about you!” How ridiculous that you would care about hiding the Dateviators more than putting your own safety—your own life—first. Did you understand what you were risking, what losing you would to to him? To all of them? The thought was too unbearable for Hector.

You have never seen him so angry before—the guilt in your heart grows heavier. You hate that you are making him feel this way. Hector’s breathing grows uneven, the vent shaking from how tightly he grips it. His voice lowers, barely a rasp. “You don’t understand what you’re askin’ me to do.”

“I do.” You take the glasses in both hands, walking to the wall until you’re face-to-face with him. “I’m asking you to trust me.”

Hector’s hands tremble on the vent, his knuckles still pale. “Trust you?” His voice cracks on the word. “You’re askin’ me to watch you walk to your death.”

You angle your neck slightly higher, the Dateviators glinting faintly in the dark. “No. I’m asking you to make sure it isn’t in vain.”

He opens his mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to beg—but no sound comes out. Only a low, broken rasp. His eyes are wide and wet, reflecting your face like you’re already fading away. You feel your heart drop when you hear a shout downstairs, and the sound of thudding on the stairs follows.

Fuck you're out of time!

“Hector.” You quickly step closer to his vent, eyes pleading and filled with heartbreak. “Please.”

For a second, you think he won’t move. Then, carefully, his fingers reach through the grid—soft and warm skin brushing against your cheek. The touch lingers only a second, like he’s trying to memorize the warmth before it’s gone.

“Please come back,” he whispers.

You smile —small, brittle. You feel the glasses slip from your face and into his grasp. You are no longer able to see him.

His hand closes around the glasses, shaking. “You’d better come back to me,” he says again, this time more to himself than you.

A crash outside makes both of you flinch. The lights flicker.

You take one step back. Then another.

“I love you,” he blurts out the words, it hurts knowing you can’t hear them.

You hear banging on the door, clearly locked by Dorian. You seem stuck in place, feeling blood rush through your ears. ‘This may be the end,’ you think. You feel your heart only breaking more as the men behind the door bang harder.

Then there's a pause.

Silence.

What?-

BANG!

A gunshot goes through the lock. The door swings open.

Betty lets out a high-pitched scream while Hector shouts at the top of his lungs.

The last thing you see is a figure tackling you to the ground, your head making contact with the cold surface—you yelp in pain. You're about to let out a scream of your own—but cut yourself off before you can—as you feel cold metal being pressed against the side of your skull.

“One wrong move and you're dead.”

What happened after you hit the floor? It's all a blur, really. A painful, violent blur.

You remember the harsh whip of the gun on your skull, though. That makes you quickly lose consciousness.

***

Your head feels like it’s been split open. A slow, throbbing pulse runs behind your eyes, and the metallic taste of blood coats your tongue. You blink, vision swimming—light and shadow blurring into one suffocating haze.

When the room finally comes into focus, the first thing you recognize is the smell.

Your office.

Coffee. Paper. Cedarwood polish—Home.

You're still at home.

You’re tied to a chair.

Thick nylon bites into your wrists, the edges burning against skin rubbed raw. The ropes cinch tighter every time you move, a deliberate cruelty. A gag of torn cloth hangs loosely around your neck—removed, but ready to be shoved back in—or maybe even to strangle you with.

The sound of boots echoes against the hardwood. Two shadows stand in front of you, the dim lamplight bending around them. One tall. One shorter, yet both are bulky and completely towering over you. The taller one moves with the kind of stillness that demands control; the shorter one can’t stop pacing, shoulders twitching with impatience. His glare is between smug and completely mad.

“Well,” the shorter man mutters, voice thick and unpleasant to your ears, “the little thief finally wakes up.”
He steps forward, crouching down so his sneer fills your still-blurred vision. “You’ve caused us a hell of a lot of trouble, sweetheart.” The nickname feels disgusting on his tongue. Some of your lovers call you by the same name, yet it doesn’t bring the same feeling of affection and tenderness when he says it. You weren’t sure if they wanted to soften you up or intimidate you. Either way, you weren’t going to budge.  

You meet his stare but say nothing. Trying not to evoke any emotion in your eyes. The silence makes his jaw twitch. He grabs the armrest of your chair and shakes it roughly, the movement sending pain flaring up your bruised shoulder and back. You wince slightly, yet the only thing on your mind is Chairemi, knowing she can feel the way this man is handling her.

“Where are they?” he snaps, almost sounding like a growl. “Where are the glasses?”

You don’t respond. You barely breathe. The room feels like it's getting smaller with every passing second.

The taller agent sighs from somewhere behind him. “Agent Crowe,” he says evenly, voice smooth, controlled. “You’ll get farther with patience.”

Crowe scoffs, turning toward the taller man. “They’re not talking.”

“That’s because you’re yelling in their face,” the tall one replies, taking a step closer. His tone doesn’t rise—if anything, it drops lower, quieter, more dangerous. He studies you with unsettling calm, eyes tracing every flicker of movement from you, every labored breath and twitch of your eyes. It’s terrifying to admit how this man is the one to send a shiver down your spine. His own cold, stoic eyes seem to pierce through you, in a way where you're scared that he can actually hear your thoughts. You can almost feel him thinking, calculating what will make you break first. What would make you start to plead for mercy, beg for them to stop, and reveal everything?

God, you feel like you might puke already.

Then he similarly crouches to your level, eyes leveled with yours. Your heart feels like it will rip out of your chest with how fast it's beating. “You know who sent us, don’t you?”

He doesn’t need to say the name. The chill that crawls up your spine is enough of an answer for him.

Most.

You duck your head. He tilts his head slightly, his gloved hand reaches for you—you flinch—waiting for a blow, yet he only tilts your chin up to continue having eye contact with you. It forces you to look at him again. His voice comes out, deep and low. “Then you understand why lying is pointless.”

Your breath quickens. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat right now, but you steady your voice before speaking. “You can kill me,” you whisper, “but you’ll never find them.” The room seems to have lost its breath at the words. You don’t want to imagine the looks of pain and agony on your friend's faces, seeing you so helpless and at the hands of such monsters. They try their hardest not to move or cause a commotion, knowing that making a scene right now could cost you your life. A life that seemed to be counting down the seconds very quickly.

The other agent—Crowe—laughs sharply, like the sound of metal grinding. “Oh, I like this one. Brave. Stupid, but brave.” He circles behind you, leaving your line of sight, until you feel the cold edge of something—metal—drag against your arm. A knife. “Maybe you’ll change your mind after we loosen your tongue a little.”

The taller man shakes his head at you, like he is disappointed with your response. Almost like how a father acts with an impatient child. Yet, he doesn’t stop him, stepping back to observe. You almost want to tell him to come back, have him do it, rather than this feral man beside you. Yet you keep your mouth shut, sweat beading down your temple.

You brace yourself as Crowe leans in close enough for his hot breath to touch your ear. You hold back a whimper at the closeness. “Last chance, sweetheart. Where. Are. The. Glasses?”

This was it, your time to be brave. To show them that they could take everything from you except your will.

You lift your head, just enough for Crowe to see the defiant look in your eyes.

“Yes, sweetheart?” He smirks smugly. Expecting you to be intimidated enough to speak. What he doesn’t expect is for you to smirk similarly at him.

“You’ll have to do better than that.”

Crowe’s expression twists into something ugly, and in the next instant, pain explodes across your face as the back of his hand connects with your cheek. The crack echoes through the room. The chair tilts slightly under the force, your wrists biting harder against the rope. You feel blood fill your mouth once again, warm and coppery. You spit it onto the floor between you, refusing to meet his eyes again. Fighting back tears at the burning pain spreading on your cheek.

“Go to hell,” you grit out with as much disdain and anger as you can manage. A rough hand comes to grip your jaw, yanking it to face a pair of raging, wide eyes.

“Why, you little!-”

“Careful,” the tall one says, almost sounding bored. “We need them conscious.”

Crowe’s snarl twists more, he is panting slightly. “Oh, they’ll stay conscious. I’ll make sure of that.”

You close your eyes for half a second, steadying yourself. Don’t let him see the fear that is gradually overtaking you. Don’t give him—both—that power. You picture Hector’s trembling hands clutching the glasses—his voice cracking as he told you to come back. You picture Betty’s tears soaking your shoulder. Abel’s pained groan. Keyes’ desperate, discordant piano.

You remind yourself why you can’t break.

Crowe presses the unused knife flat against your throat now, just under your jaw. You feel a burning sensation there, and feel something warm run down your throat. You gasp slightly. His voice drops into a menacing hiss, a vein protruding from his forehead. “You think this is some kind of game? Those glasses aren’t yours to keep, doll. You hand them over, or I’ll start carving answers into that pretty face.”

You feel like might start hyperventilating any second now. Dreading the idea of your whole office being there to witness such a horrific scene.

“Crowe.”

The taller man’s tone slices through the room like a blade of its own. It causes both you and Crowe to look back at him. “Step back.”

Crowe doesn’t move at first. His eyes flicker between you and his partner, jaw tightening. “You really think words are gonna work with this one?”

“I think,” the tall man says evenly, “that pain only makes martyrs. Fear makes believers.”

He turns his attention back to you. There’s something in his eyes—intelligence, but no empathy. “I know what those glasses do,” he says quietly. “I know they’ve… created things. Living things.” He lets that hang in the air. “Tell me, Y/N… how many of them are there now?”

You freeze. Feeling the color drain from your face.

He knows.

He steps closer until you can smell the faint trace of his cologne—cold, sterile, chemical. “You’ve hidden something powerful, Y/N,” he murmurs. “Something beyond you.”

Your blood runs cold. As your mouth hangs open—unable to utter a single word.

A small smile creeps onto his face as he watches the realization flicker across yours. “Ah. So it’s true.”

“What the hell are you on about?” Crowe asks after a minute, sounding irritated that his partner knows something he doesn’t.

The taller man doesn’t answer Crowe. His gaze stays locked on you, studying you the way a scientist watches something squirm beneath glass. “You didn’t create them, did you?” he asks softly. “No. You acknowledged them.”

You swallow hard, your throat scraping dry.

He leans in, voice barely a whisper now. “But they found you first.”

Crowe groans in frustration. “Christ, Grey, what are you even talking about?”

Grey—so that’s his name—straightens, finally turning toward his partner. “They are not just protecting stolen tech. They are protecting sentient beings.”

Crowe scoffs, his tone mocking. “Sentient beings? What, you mean their freak show of a house?”

You scowl at him, wanting so badly to punch that stupid grin off that face of his. But you quickly remember why that wouldn’t be such a good idea.

“You hear this crap, sweetheart? You got the smart one spinning fairy tales for you.” Crowe rolls his eyes at you, not believing what he’s hearing. The lamp on the desk beside you flickers unsteadily. Is it Lux? Volt and Eddie? You aren’t sure—none of the other men seem to pay attention to it—are they trying to tell you something?

You stay silent, trying to act as if nothing happened. As you force your breathing to stay even, you can feel Chairemi shuffle slightly beneath you—the chair trembling ever so slightly, as though restraining herself. Don’t move, you beg silently. Please, don’t move.

“Where are the glasses, Y/N?” The taller man turns and asks sharply, immediately getting your attention. His voice is darker now—a sense of urgency kicking in. His stare was more deadly than before. Yet you still find the courage to respond.

“I’m not telling you.” It comes out more weaker than you intended. The man only sighs, annoyed.

“Stop making this more difficult and painful than it has to be, Y/N. Is it going to be worth it in the end? What are you even gaining out of this? What, just some sense of companionship—friends?” He says the word with a demeaning tone. “You are doing this because you care about them, right? You love them enough to sit there tortured and silent. Well—” He lets out an empty chuckle. The most emotion you’ve seen on this man thus far. “—I don’t see them coming here and helping you.” He almost spits at you.

The room grows uncomfortable and continues to feel small. You don’t know how humiliating it is for them. To hear these men speak those words to you. How badly they wish they could do something to help. But what would it cost them? How many more objects would be broken and injured if they tried?

“See?” Grey says after the seconds of silence. “Not a single one of them has come running. Not the lamp. Not the desk. Not the sentimental scrap heap you call a home.”

You glare up at him. “They don’t owe me anything.”

And it was true. None of them owed you anything. Just like what you said to Daisuke:

“Please understand me when I say that you guys are not and will never be a burden to me.”

“But you owe them?” Grey continues, arching a brow at you. “How touching.”

Behind you, Crowe flicks the knife against your arm. Not cutting—but threatening. Taunting. “Honestly, Grey, I’m gettin’ bored. Can I just start slicing? Maybe take a finger? They’ve got ten. They can spare one.”

Every object in the room hated this guy right now. They would love nothing more than to pounce on them if they dared to use that blade. The small blood spilling from your neck wasn’t helping keep the tension down. Dasha had already gone still with fury, arms flexed as she crossed them over herself, staring daggers at the two men. Jerry was fiddling with his bowtie, almost ripping it off completely with how stressed he was, sweat building on his brow. Penelope wasn’t holding up that well either, her legs shaking as the blade glided across your skin, tears prickling in her eyes. Chance was there next to her, keeping a firm grip on her shoulders to comfort her—well, at least try to comfort her—what good was his comfort when he himself was also coming apart. Seeing his most wonderful, sweetest, and kindest traveler being put in harm's way like this made his heart grow heavy—made him feel so helpless. What could a small regular D20 do in this situation? Flick himself and hope to poke an eye? Yeah, what help that would be. Shelly, Curt, and Rod shared the same sentiment, being attached to the wall, they were held back from being able to cause any real damage. Everyone couldn’t stand it, having to remain still. They all held their breath as they watched the two men hovering over you.

Grey’s eyes lock onto yours—two pairs of determined eyes now staring at each other. Then he takes a fist full of your hair and yanks your head back, so you can look upward to the ceiling. The rough grab tears at your scalp, and you cry out from the pain, followed by a grunt from your lips, trying to keep it together.

“They will not break from pain,” Grey concludes. “I see it now.”

Crowe scoffs. “So what? We keep going until they do. They’ll crack. They always crack.” You try to push back the thought. ‘They’ve done this before.’

“No,” Grey says, still gripping tightly to your hair. “Not this one.”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

Crowe frowns, confused. “What do you mean ‘not this one’? Everyone talks eventually.”

“They’re not everyone,” Grey sighs, still keeping eye contact with you. “And torture will only strengthen their resolve. They’re protecting something alive. That’s not something you can beat out of a person.”

Your throat tightens while Crowe just rolls his eyes dramatically.

“Oh, great. Now we’re doing psychology. Love this job.”

Grey ignores him. Something changes in his eyes, like a switch.

“You’re not going to talk, are you, kid?” He says matter-of-factly, like he already knows the answer.

“No.” You snap.

He hums at you, sounding accepting of your answer.

“Then I guess it’s time we take our leave.”

“What?”

“What?!”

Both you and Crowe say, sounding just as confused, although Crowe is unhappier about it.

Grey doesn’t elaborate. He simply releases your hair with a rough shove, your head snapping forward from the force. Every nerve in your skull throbs. Crowe looks between the two of you like he’s waiting for the punchline.

“That’s it?” Crowe barks. “We’re giving up because they’re stubborn?” He waves the knife at you in pure disbelief. “No, no, no. You don’t get to walk out of here with a ‘well, nice talk.’ I barely got started!”

Grey levels him with a single look—cold, sharp, commanding. It stops Crowe mid–tantrum.

“We’re done here,” Grey states. “This approach is useless. They won’t talk, and if we keep pushing, we risk killing the only leverage we have.”

The only leverage.

You feel Chairemi tremble beneath you again, but only the tiniest twitch—just enough for you to feel it. Just enough to remind you she’s listening. Watching. Helpless.

Crowe throws his hands up, muttering curses, pacing like a caged dog. He stabs the air with his knife as he speaks. “So what, we just leave empty-handed? We tell Most we failed? Yeah, that’ll go great. Maybe he’ll skin us instead.”

Grey gives him a look that could slice a man cleaner than Crowe’s knife. “We’re not leaving empty-handed.”

You feel your stomach drop.

Grey turns his gaze to you again. Letting it all sink in.

Crowe stops pacing. Blinks once. Twice.

Then his face splits into a slow, vicious grin. The most deranged yet.

“Oh. Oh.” He drags out the word, like savoring a taste. “Now that… that I can work with.”

You instinctively pull at your restraints—the chair groaning softly under you, but unmoving. Your wrists are burning in pain. Every part of you wants to scream and rip yourself from the chair at the implication of their words. The voice in your head is practically screaming at you.

‘No. No, no, no—
They can’t. They can’t take me.
Not like this. Not in front of them.’

Your pulse punches into your ribs so hard it hurts. The air thickens, too heavy, too sharp, like you’re breathing toxic gas. You can feel every object in the room straining—begging—to move. To help. To save you. But they can’t. And the thought shreds something inside you.

‘I can’t go. I can’t let them take me. I can’t do that to them.’

Daisuke’s face flashes in your mind first—his soft, simple smile.

‘He’ll think I left him…
God, he’ll think I didn’t fight hard enough.’

Then Betty—your sweet, Betty. The sound of her scream when the door splintered. Her soft hands clenching your clothes like you were the only steady thing in her world. Her tear-stained cheeks. Her shaking voice:

“Oh no please...”

The memory cleaves you open.

‘What will she do when she sees I’m gone? —that I was taken? That I couldn’t protect them?
That I failed her, failed them?’

‘They’ll never see me again.’

The thought hits you so violently that it almost knocks the breath out of your body. You swallow down a broken, desperate sound.

‘Most will kill me.
And they’ll be left with nothing but the memory of me tied to a chair, beaten, bleeding, taken—
and they’ll think they failed too.’

Your throat sparks with a sudden, reckless fury—an instinct, a plea, a final shred of fight bursting out of you before you can contain it.

You jerk against the ropes—

And your voice breaks out, raw and shaking—

“No!—” you scream out, the sound vibrating your entire being.

Crowe smirks. “Oh, look who found their voice.”

Grey only gives a curt nod. Just wanting to get this over with. Not caring that your world is falling apart right in front of him.

“Bag them. We’re leaving.”

Suddenly, the desk lamp burns bright. The sound of electric static fills the air before the bulb explodes loudly.

SMASH!

The shattered glass scatters across the office floor a few inches from your feet. You shrink into yourself as you let out a small scream. Shocked more than anything. Crowe lets out a yelp and a few curses as the glass was able to hit his face. The taller man turns ever so slowly to face the now-shattered lamp, sparks of electricity radiating violently from its socket. The man’s face contorts into a sinister smile, eyes crinkling with sick pleasure.

“Well—Didn’t like the sound of that, did you?”