Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The pizza oven buzzed softly behind Elliot, humming like it always did when it hit that perfect temperature—just hot enough to bake a pepperoni to golden crisp, but not hot enough to catch fire and ruin his night. It was supposed to be a normal Tuesday. A slow one, the kind where he could fold boxes until his fingers cramped and hum along to the tinny music crackling out of the old radio.

But tonight, something felt… off.

He stood behind the counter, halfway through folding a pizza box, eyes locked on the fog outside the window. The streetlamps were drowned in gray, shadows twitching behind the mist like they were alive. The town didn’t usually get this quiet. No cars. No scooters. No late-night soda runs. Just that thick, muffling silence that made the pizza shop feel like a snow globe someone had shaken too hard and forgotten on a shelf.

“Probably just the weather,” Elliot muttered to himself, voice cracking in the empty store.

He finished folding the box with a crisp snap and slid it onto the stack. Behind him, the oven beeped.

Ding.

Order up.

Elliot turned to pull the pizza out when the bell above the front door jingled. His head snapped toward it.

No one.

Just the door swinging open with a creak, and cold fog curling into the warm, greasy air of the pizzeria.

Elliot blinked. “What the—?”

And then—

“Yo,” came a lazy voice. “You still alive in here or did the cheese fumes finally get you?”

Elliot turned just in time to see him step in.

Chance.

Same ridiculous black fedora. Same sunglasses even though it was dark out. Same smug grin like he knew every secret in the universe and was trying to decide whether or not to sell them for $5 and a slice.

“I thought you left town,” Elliot said, frowning. “You disappear for weeks and then waltz in like nothing happened?”

“I missed the pizza,” Chance replied, walking in like the place was his. “And maybe I missed you too. A little. Tiny bit.”

Elliot just stared, deadpan. “We’re out of flirting specials.”

“Ouch.” Chance clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “Brutal. And here I was gonna offer you a whole rose and half a pickup line.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re dense,” Chance said with a smirk, leaning against the counter. “I could say, ‘You’re the only delivery I’d never want to lose,’ and you’d ask me if I meant mail or food.”

“Do you?” Elliot asked, genuinely confused.

Chance groaned and let his head fall to the counter with a soft thud.

For a moment, the two just stood there—Chance dramatically face-down on the countertop, and Elliot quietly cutting the pizza into even slices, like nothing was out of the ordinary.

Eventually, Chance lifted his head again, hair a little messy from the humidity in the air. His grin returned, just a little softer this time.

“I’m serious, though. It’s good to see you.”

Elliot gave a small shrug, his eyes not leaving the pizza cutter. “Yeah. You too, I guess. Just… weird night.”

“Fog’s thick out there,” Chance said, glancing at the windows. “Feels like something’s watching.”

“You’ve been watching too many horror movies.”

“You live in a pizza place alone, man. That is a horror movie.”

Elliot cracked the tiniest smile. “Point.”

Chance reached over the counter and snatched a slice, even though it wasn’t his. Elliot didn’t stop him. He never did.

Outside, the fog pressed harder against the windows. The silence beyond the glass felt heavy. Still. Waiting.

But inside, for now, there was warmth. A shared pizza. And two very different boys sitting together at the edge of something they couldn’t see coming.

Elliot wiped his hands on his apron as the pizza slicer clacked against the cutting board. The bell above the door jingled again—not haunting this time, just a cheerful ding as a pair of regulars walked in, hoods damp with fog and faces already lighting up at the smell of melted cheese.

“Evening!” Elliot called, his voice perking up automatically.

The two nodded and shuffled over to the counter. Elliot handed over the still-steaming pizza, exchanged a few polite words, and rang them up. As they left, the bell jingled again.

Then again.

And again.

More customers rolled in, one after another, like the whole town had waited until this exact moment to crave late-night pizza.

“Guess the fog makes people hungry,” Elliot said, shoving a fresh pizza into the oven.

Chance leaned against the counter like he owned it, still chewing on his third slice. “Or maybe word got out that the cute guy’s working alone tonight.”

Elliot rolled his eyes so hard he almost tripped over his own shoelaces. “You’re gonna choke one day saying stuff like that.”

Chance swallowed dramatically. “Then I die doing what I love—flirting while full of carbs.”

Elliot laughed, a quiet, tired giggle slipping through his teeth. He tried to hide it, but Chance caught it.

“There it is!” Chance pointed like he’d just spotted Bigfoot. “The Elliot giggle! Rare. Priceless. I should charge for that.”

“You’re such a—”

“Entrepreneur. Genius. Visionary. I know.” He straightened his tie dramatically. “Honestly, I could buy this whole place and turn it into a casino-pizzeria. Slot machines on one side, deep dish on the other. Maybe a live jazz band. Get your fortune told with every breadstick.”

Elliot blinked, absolutely done. “That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

“You say that now,” Chance said, wagging his finger, “but one day, you’ll be standing on stage in a red velvet suit going, ‘Welcome to Pepperoni Palace!’ while I rake in the cash.”

“I don’t want a palace.”

“You could have anything,” Chance said suddenly, a little softer. “I’ve got the money. I mean, if you wanted… I could get you out of this place. You don’t owe me anything. You just—don’t deserve to be stuck here every night folding boxes.”

Elliot paused, his back to Chance. For a second, it looked like he might actually say yes.

But then he chuckled and said, “If I leave, who’s gonna stop you from turning the world into a breadstick empire?”

Chance laughed, tipping his fedora low over his eyes. “Can’t argue with that.”

The moment passed. Elliot got back to work, scooping fresh dough, taking orders, shouting over the hum of the oven and the growing line of customers. Chance stayed nearby, chatting with anyone who’d listen, cracking jokes, charming the pants off of half the pizza shop. He had that energy—like a spark in a room full of gas.

And Elliot… he looked tired, yeah. But he was smiling now, even if just a little. He even let Chance sneak another slice when he thought no one was looking.

⸻

Later That Night…

As the crowd thinned and the clock ticked toward closing, the fog outside had thickened into a wall of white. The street was quiet again. Empty.

Chance stood by the window, watching it.

“You ever get the feeling,” he said suddenly, “that something’s coming?”

Elliot glanced over. “Like what?”

Chance shrugged. “I dunno. Just a feeling.”

Elliot didn’t say anything, but he looked outside, too.

The fog was still. Too still.

But inside, the oven beeped one last time. Warmth still lingered in the air. And the two of them stood quietly in that pocket of peace, unaware that tonight was the last time anything would feel normal again.

Chapter Text

By the time the last customer left, the shop was quiet again. The oven had cooled, the soda machine hissed its final sigh, and only the low buzz of the lights above remained.

Elliot turned the sign on the door to CLOSED, locking it with a soft click.

Outside, the fog hadn’t budged.

Chance was still there—of course he was. He sat cross-legged on the counter like it was his living room, chewing on the crust of his final slice.

“You really just gonna sit there till we open again?” Elliot asked, wiping down the tables.

“I mean,” Chance stretched out, “you’ve got heat, leftovers, and no security cameras. That’s already better than half the motels I’ve stayed in.”

Elliot gave him a flat look, scrubbing a stubborn smear of cheese off the table. “You’re not sleeping on the pizza warmer again.”

“No promises.”

They fell into a comfortable silence. Elliot stacked trays and boxes, sweeping crumbs into the trash. Chance spun something in his hand—one of those coins again. It shimmered oddly in the overhead lights, not like normal change.

Elliot caught it out of the corner of his eye.

“You always have those?”

Chance glanced down at it, like he’d forgotten he was holding it. “Hmm? Oh. Yeah. Kind of a… keepsake.”

“Looks fancy,” Elliot said, squinting at it. “Where’s it from?”

Chance smirked. “One of those places where you don’t really pay with money, you pay with nerve. Ever been somewhere like that?”

Elliot blinked. “You mean, like… a vending machine that only works if you shake it the right way?”

Chance let out a wheezing laugh and nearly dropped the coin. “God, no—though that’s probably less risky.”

Elliot tilted his head. “So what kinda place is it?”

Chance hesitated. Not long. Just enough to notice.

“Somewhere with tables,” he said casually, “cards, smoke in the air, music that sounds too classy to be real. And people who smile too wide when you lose.”

Elliot nodded slowly. “…So like, a casino?”

Chance leaned back, watching the ceiling. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Elliot didn’t push further. He didn’t know much about casinos, and the way Chance said it made it sound like he’d just described a dream more than a place. Elliot just shrugged and went back to cleaning.

“You ever gamble?” Chance asked.

“I play scratchers sometimes,” Elliot said. “Won two bucks once. Spent it on garlic knots.”

Chance smiled to himself, then tossed the coin high in the air. It spun, caught the light—and for a second, Elliot swore the symbol on it shimmered red.

But when it landed back in Chance’s hand, it was just a coin again. Plain and harmless.

Elliot stretched his arms with a groan and checked the clock. “Well. That’s everything.”

“Closing time,” Chance said, hopping off the counter. “Another day, another dollar.”

“More like another day, another twenty pizza boxes folded.”

Chance walked to the front, pressing his hand to the glass door. The fog outside had thickened, streetlamps just faint orange glows behind the white. He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stood there.

“You good?” Elliot asked.

Chance didn’t answer right away. Then—casually—“You ever get the feeling something’s about to change?”

Elliot snorted. “Dude, I’ve been folding cheese into cardboard for three years. The only thing that ever changes is the toppings.”

Chance turned back with a grin, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Lucky you.”

Elliot locked up behind them, still unaware of how different things were about to become. Still smiling faintly. Still thinking Chance was just a weirdo with too many stories and a casino obsession.

And Chance—well, he looked back at the fog just once, coin tight in his palm.

Then they both disappeared into it.

The glowing sign inside the pizza shop flickering off with a tired hum. Outside, the world was still swallowed in fog. It pressed up against the street like a wall, soft and cold and silent.

Elliot wheeled his motorcycle out from behind the shop, pulling on his jacket and gloves. The seat was slick with moisture. Even his breath made little clouds in the air.

Chance stood nearby, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched slightly—not from cold, Elliot noticed, but something else.

“You walkin’ home?” Elliot asked, adjusting the strap on his helmet.

Chance blinked. “Huh? Oh. No. I mean—kind of? My place is way out by the hills. Buses stop running after midnight.”

Elliot gave him a look. “Don’t you have, like, a million apps for this kind of thing? Order a car?”

Chance hesitated. “Yeah. I just… don’t really feel like going back there tonight.”

Elliot raised a brow. “You get evicted or something?”

“No. I just…” Chance trailed off, then smiled faintly. “Your couch has better vibes.”

Elliot rolled his eyes but sighed. “Fine. Hop on.”

He reached into his backpack and tossed Chance his extra helmet—his red pizza delivery cap still tucked underneath.

“Wear the hat too,” Elliot said, dead serious. “Gives you bonus points.”

Chance grinned, popping the helmet on over the hat like a sandwich. “Let’s roll, delivery boy.”

⸻

The fog made the streets feel narrower than they were. The only sound was the low whirrrr of the motorcycle’s engine and the occasional splash as they passed through puddles left by the mist. Traffic lights glowed like floating orbs in the air, no cars, no movement.

Chance held on loosely behind him, one hand on the back seat, the other holding his coin again—spinning it slowly like a nervous tick.

Elliot didn’t ask what was on his mind. He could feel something was bothering him. But he’d learned that pushing Chance only made him joke more. So he let the quiet settle, let the engine do the talking.

⸻

At Elliot’s Apartment

Elliot’s place was small—one bedroom, a bathroom, a living room stacked with pizza-themed plushies he swore weren’t his. The walls were plain, the floor creaky, and everything smelled faintly of garlic.

Chance flopped onto the couch dramatically. “Ah. Freedom. No glowing dice. No rigged games. Just cheese air and old couch cushions.”

Elliot tossed a pillow at his head. “Don’t insult my air.”

He pulled out a blanket from the closet and tossed it down. “Couch is yours. Don’t drool on it.”

“No promises,” Chance said, already making himself comfortable. “You know you’re a good guy, right?”

Elliot paused in the doorway to his bedroom. “I’m just tired.”

“Still good,” Chance mumbled, voice quieter now. “Just tired too.”

Elliot left the light on in the hallway. Just in case.

⸻

Later That Night…

The clock on the wall blinked 2:43 AM when Elliot stirred from sleep.

His bed creaked.

He turned slightly—only to realize someone was hugging him from behind.

Tightly.

“…Chance?” he mumbled, blinking.

The idiot in question had snuck into his bed like a cat, arms wrapped around Elliot’s back, forehead pressed lightly between his shoulders. Breathing soft and steady, fast asleep.

“Seriously?” Elliot muttered.

He waited.

No response.

Just steady, quiet breathing.

Elliot sighed, eyes heavy. “You better not kick me in your sleep.”

There was no reply—only the soft rhythm of breath and the fog brushing quietly against the windows outside.

Eventually, Elliot closed his eyes again.

He didn’t push Chance away.

…

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Slam

The room wasn’t lit by anything natural. No windows. No view of the fog outside. Just one long ceiling light, flickering occasionally, buzzing like a dying wasp. The walls were concrete—gray, cracked, and ugly—and everything inside smelled like burnt rubber and bleach.

A table stood in the center. Heavy. Metal. Stained.

Behind it sat a figure in a wide, velvet-red chair with metal studs along the arms. He was well-dressed, but not in a way that said style—it said power. Black double-breasted coat. Red tie. His shirt was crisp and white, despite the dimness, and his gloves were thin leather, stretched over long fingers.

His face was pale. Eyes hollow. He hadn’t blinked once.

He grinned with all his teeth showing, but not a single part of that smile was alive.

A paper sat in front of him.

He dragged his fingers down it slowly.

“Ah…” His voice came low, smooth. The kind of voice you’d hear in a casino as someone lost their entire savings and thought maybe—maybe—they could win it back with one more try.

“One lucky little bastard, huh?”

There was a soft sound. A photo slammed onto the table, pinned in place by the sudden thunk of a knife.

It was Chance.

Still smiling in the photo. Slightly crooked hat. Red cap under a black helmet. That same coin dangling from his fingers.

The figure behind the desk let out a small laugh.

“I love the ones who smile. The cocky ones. They think they’re ghosts, slipping past the cracks, running off with prizes they didn’t earn.” His gloved fingers tapped the knife handle.

“Thing is…” he leaned in, voice dropping to a near-whisper, “they always forget one thing.”

He tilted his head sharply.

“The Sonnellino house doesn’t lose.”

Behind him stood four shadows, each straight as statues.

“Run while you still have legs to run with.”

Chapter Text

The back room of the casino was dark and hushed, lit only by the faint flicker of an old hanging lamp. Smoke curled in the air. At the long table sat four shadows—figures with names, reputations, and roles. Behind them, standing in the center like a statue carved from silence, was the boss.

They called him Don Sonnellino. No one dared say it twice in one sitting.

First, slouched in a chair with his boots kicked halfway up on the table, sat the youngest of the crew. His name was Wire. Headphones blinked with quiet neon pulses at the sides of his head, in sync with whatever beat was playing. A contractor by title, but a digital bloodhound in action. His toolset wasn’t a gun or a knife—it was a wooden stick and a wiry brain that thought five moves ahead.

He didn’t have the cold stillness of the others. He bounced his knee. Fidgeted with his stylus. Kept glancing at the Don like a kid waiting for a nod that never came. He was all energy, all nerve—but always gave it everything he had.

People on the floor looked at Wire with pity. Too young. Too eager. Too loud. But the boss never corrected him, never scolded him, never gave him more than a brief glance. And somehow, that stung more than any slap.

Second was Cane, the consigliere. He stood as soon as the Don did, tall and cold like an ice sculpture. A white top hat shaded his eyes. Monocle in one hand, tablet in the other. He spoke quietly and only once per turn.

Third was Beartrap, thick-jawed and built like a brick wall stuffed into a coat. He didn’t blink. He didn’t speak. He just sat with arms crossed, breathing like a bear hibernating in plain sight. Everyone knew what happened when he was let loose.

Last was Echo, the caporegime. Tall, polished, a sleek cut of discipline and violence wrapped in sunglasses and a headset. His hands were always behind his back. His gaze, unreadable.

The boss Don, who had stood in still silence, finally moved. He spoke, voice like gravel over velvet.

“They think distance buys them time. That fog buys them safety. That kindness will protect them.”

He stepped toward the table. One slow step at a time. His shadow spilled over the map laid out before them.

“Problem is… that coin he flipped?”

He reached into his coat and pulled it out—a coin. Not Chance’s coin, but a twin of it. Gleaming. Scarred.

“It never left my table.”

He flipped it. The clink echoed.

It landed on a photo. Chance, mid-smile.

Tails.

“Start the sweep.”

His voice was calm. Final.

“Wire.”

Wire perked up fast, nearly falling out of his chair. “Already scrubbed floor security from the night of the job. I ran thermal bleed on the machines—someone piggybacked the system during the jackpot. Couldn’t find a backdoor, but…”

He glanced at the Don.

“…There’s no sign of cheating. Not the usual kind.”

Echo raised a brow. Cane frowned.

“You’re saying it was clean?”

Wire shrugged, mouth twitching.

“Cleaner than I like.”

He hesitated.

“…either this guy’s blessed, or someone knows how to fake luck better than we thought.”

The Don didn’t respond. Just watched him.

“Location?”

Wire winced a bit. “Closest ping I got puts him just outside the East Fogline sector. Could be static. Could be him. Could be junk.”

Cane adjusted his monocle. “I’ve sent feelers to the transport companies. No official exits. No purchases. If he fled, it wasn’t on anything we own.”

Beartrap grunted once.

Echo finally spoke, calm and clear. “Sweepers are ready. Give the word and I’ll deploy a net along the Fogline.”

The Don leaned down.

Picked up the photo under the knife.

“You don’t run from my table without paying your tab.”

He let the photo drop.

“You don’t win without putting something on the line.”

He turned the coin over in his hand. The same kind Chance once flipped. But this one… was older. Scratched. Weighted.

He flipped it.

Clink.

It hit the table. Spun. Landed.

Tails.

“Sweep the line. South and East. I want boots in the fog. Talk to locals. Bribe rats. Scare birds.”

His eyes flicked to Wire.

“And you. Keep scraping. If he’s still nearby… you’ll be the first to know.”

Wire nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t let your fingers freeze, kid. This fog’s colder than loyalty.”

Wire tried not to smile. The others moved without a word.

As the room emptied, the Don stayed behind.

Fingers resting lightly on the old coin.

Staring at the table.

Still tails.

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The morning light crept through the blinds, drawing thin golden lines across the hardwood floor of Elliot’s small apartment.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Elliot shifted slightly, his back cold now. His hand brushed over the spot beside him—empty.

The weight was gone.

He blinked open his eyes slowly, the memory of the night before still hazy in his mind. The soft breathing. The warm pressure on his spine. Chance… hugging him?

He sat up and rubbed his neck. Weird dream?
Except, no. There was a folded piece of paper on the kitchen table across the room, next to a coffee mug. His coffee mug.

Elliot padded over in his socks, hair messy and visor half-off. He picked up the note, immediately recognizing Chance’s barely legible scribbles:

“Yo sleepyhead,
Didn’t want to wake ya.
I got home safe (I think). The wind on your bike was WILD. Felt like a shampoo commercial.
Thanks for the ride. Don’t forget to feed your plant (it looks dead).
– The Luckiest Man Alive ✨”

There was a little drawing of a smiley face flipping a coin.

Elliot snorted softly. “He really is an idiot.”

He stared at the note for a moment longer than necessary, then placed it back on the table with a little smile. The warmth from the night before still clung faintly to his back, a ghost of the hug.

He turned to the window. Outside, the sun was climbing higher, casting long shadows of traffic signs and rooftops. It was a rare morning where he didn’t feel like rushing to work right away.

Usually, breakfast was just another slice of leftover pizza—cold or not, he didn’t care. Pepperoni, sausage, anchovies, pineapple (don’t judge)—he’d eaten it all before 9 AM.

But today… something felt a little different. Not bad, just… different.

Maybe he could try something new.

After all, the pizza shop wasn’t opening until noon today. Early repairs. A chance to eat out for once didn’t sound so crazy.

Ten minutes later, Elliot was dressed in something casual—yellow pizza hoodie, joggers, and his ever-present visor. The streets buzzed softly with morning life. He walked past the corner mart, waved at a delivery drone zooming overhead, and found a small breakfast diner tucked between two apartment buildings.

His boots tapped gently against the sidewalk.

One step at a time, he walked.

A little hungry.
A little tired.
And just barely starting to wonder…

What was Chance really running from?

As he arrived at the diner.

It had bright blue walls, a neon “OPEN” sign blinking quietly, and the smell of eggs, toast, and burnt coffee coming from inside.

“No pizza smell. That’s already weird.”

He stepped in, took a seat near the window, and ordered something simple—pancakes and hashbrowns. Something about syrup that didn’t come from a pizza sauce packet felt like a luxury.

He sat quietly, head resting on one hand, eyes drifting out the window. Across the street, he spotted someone walking fast—wearing a suit and shades.

For half a second, he thought it was Chance.

They were too fast as Elliot was about to call out for him.

But it wasn’t ? Chance already left.

Maybe is someone that look like him.

He shook the thought off. He’s probably back home already… right?

As he poked at his food, Elliot couldn’t help but wonder—was Chance alright? Why’d he crash last night like that? Why didn’t he want to Uber? Something about the way he hugged him stuck around longer than expected.

It wasn’t romantic. Not really.

Just… close.

Too close?

Like he was afraid.

Chapter Text

The sun was already peeking between buildings when Elliot finished the last of his breakfast. He didn’t really enjoy it—not because it tasted bad, but because his thoughts had wandered too far, too fast.

His fork scraped across the empty plate.

He’d chewed so slowly the food had gone cold halfway through, and he hadn’t even noticed. With a soft sigh, Elliot pushed the plate aside, and stood up.

Something was bothering him.

Maybe it was the way Chance had left earlier, slipping out silently before sunrise and leaving that ridiculous note on the table. The handwriting had been crooked, like a dice roll mid-air. Full of hearts and awkward arrows, like some schoolyard doodle. It made Elliot laugh—but something about the way it was written stuck with him.

Still…

“It’s nothing,” Elliot muttered to himself. “He probably just didn’t wanna wake me.”

But the unease didn’t quite fade.

He took a long breath in.

And let it out slowly.

“Guess I’ll head to work,” he mumbled.

Is he worry too much?

Maybe he just wanted to feel normal.

Maybe thinking having breakfast out would help him forget the nagging weight in his stomach. Maybe a change of scenery would help get him out of his head. He normally just ate leftover pizza in the morning anyway—something new, something cheesy, maybe a pineapple and mushroom combo that only made sense to him.

Today, he tried something different.

But different didn’t taste better.

Elliot paid quietly, tucking a few Robux under the plate, and stood up with a soft exhale through his nose. His eyes blinked against the sunlight as he stepped outside.

The gentle jingle of the café door bell was the only sound as he walked out, stretching a little, his breath fogging faintly in the morning air. As he greeted by the usual flickering neon signs and NPCs going through their morning paths like wind-up toys.

The Robloxian world was… surreal, sometimes. Predictable in the strangest ways. Unpredictable in others.

And lately, Elliot had started to feel like maybe he wasn’t keeping up.

He stuffed his hands into his hoodie pockets as he walked down the sidewalk. The air was cooler than he liked, and his breath fogged faintly as he passed the alleyways and storefronts. Everything looked normal. Too normal.

Not really the words he was looking for. But maybe that was what made it worse.

He stared ahead, seeing the sidewalk stretch into the distance.

And that’s what unsettled him.

Because he knew what could happen.

What had happened.

He blinked slowly, eyes locked on the cracked pavement as his feet moved on their own, like his body knew where to go even if his mind was elsewhere.

It had been months since the fire at Builder Brothers Pizza.

Months.

But he still saw it every time he closed his eyes too long.

Flames crawling up the walls. Ovens exploding in bursts of oil and dough. Pepperoni sizzling on the floor like it was laughing at him. The burning smell in his lungs. The panicked scrambling of customers trying to escape. The sound of the fire alarm being drowned out by laughter.

Not human laughter.

Not even Robloxian.

That glitchy, crackling, corrupted laugh.

Elliot clenched his jaw.

His place got attack

Noli.

That freak in the tragedy mask, with the glowing eyes and the jagged crown. His glitch star burning like it was alive in his hand. That purple skull-grin like something that never stopped smiling, even when it shouldn’t have.

And beside him—

007n7.

Silent. Staring. Like a broken toy that had crawled out of a digital graveyard. That dumb Burger Bob hat. That Thomas the Tank Engine shirt that made no sense and somehow made it all worse.

They’d stood there. Watched. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just let it all burn.

He remembered standing there, frozen as the pizza ovens collapsed behind him, the world around him melting like plastic under a magnifying glass.

Elliot had gotten everyone out. He remembered that. He remembered yelling, shoving people toward the exit, ignoring the burns on his own arms just to make sure nobody got left behind.

No one died.

But it still didn’t feel like a victory.

Because when he looked back, he could still see their eyes. Still see the flicker of the void in Noli’s grin, and 007n7 smirk.

They are mocking him.

It burn.

Still smell the smoke.

Still hear that laughter.

And he didn’t know why they had done it.

He didn’t understand.

And that made it worse.

The new pizza shop was rebuilt. It stood on the corner now, bigger, cleaner, with new floors and new signs and safety posters everywhere like stickers trying to cover a bullet hole.

But the shadows still hung over it.

At least for Elliot.

He walked slower as the building came into view. His feet dragged just a little. Not because he didn’t want to go in—he had to. This was still his job. He still had to clock in, mop the floors, take the orders, spin the dough, smile at the customers.

But that weight in his chest didn’t go away.

That something still felt wrong.

Like maybe he was walking straight back into a memory that hadn’t finished playing out.

He paused across the street from the shop, staring at the familiar red awning. The window was clean. The door was unlocked. The new manager had left him a message earlier about the soda machine needing restocking.

Everything was normal.

But Elliot stood there, unmoving, just for a second longer than usual.

And whispered to himself—

“I don’t think it’s over.”

The wind shifted gently around him. A few leaves scattered down the sidewalk.

And somewhere, in the back of his mind, he swore he could still hear that laugh.

Faint.

Almost forgotten.

But not gone.

Never gone.

Loud slap

“OUCH, stop it Elliot you have to forget the past”

“I gotta stop thinking about that,” he whispered. “That’s all in the past.”

But he didn’t walk any faster.

As the pizza sign came into view again, flickering a bit like it was trying to blink at him, Elliot realized his heart hadn’t stopped racing since breakfast.

The bell above the door chimed softly as Elliot stepped into the quiet pizzeria, still adjusting the red visor on his head. The faint scent of dough and tomato sauce from yesterday’s leftovers clung to the air like an old memory. The lights buzzed overhead. The floor tiles were cold beneath his sneakers. But even with all that stillness—there was a spark in Elliot’s eyes.

He stood in front of the dusty mirror by the lockers and gave himself a big thumbs-up.

“Alright! Time to be the best employee this town’s ever seen!” he told his reflection.

Never mind the fact that he was the only employee left at Builder Brother’s Pizza. After the whole… incident—you know, the fire, the chaos, the void-wielding freaks—nobody really wanted to come back. But Elliot did. Every single day.

His red uniform was clean and pressed, visor slightly crooked, black pants tucked neatly into his boots. He wore it like armor. The smile on his face? Like a shield.

“This one’s for you, Dad, little sis” he whispered, placing a photo of his family behind the register—a picture from when he was just a little Robloxian, his dad holding him and his sister up in front of the original Builder Brother’s Pizza sign. His mom was in that photo too… her hand on Elliot’s shoulder. But now, she was just a memory.

He inhaled deep. Then, he got to work.

⸻

8:01 AM — The Grand Opening of Another Pizza Day™

Elliot zoomed from counter to counter, sweeping the floors with dramatic flair, flipping dough in the air that nearly hit the ceiling fan, then ducking under it and catching it mid-spin.

“Hah!” he cheered for himself.

He wiped down the tables, checked the soda machine (still sticky), then wrestled with the ancient pizza oven like it owed him money.

“Come on, come on, don’t explode this time,” he muttered, flipping switches like he was defusing a bomb. The oven coughed, then roared to life. “YES! Pizza gods, bless me today!”

⸻

8:15 AM — First Customer:

A kid no older than five marched in with a crayon-scribbled coupon in his tiny hands and a trail of snack crumbs in his wake.

“I want the triangle pizza with no green things!!” he screamed immediately.

“Triangle pizza—coming right up! Hold the green doom!” Elliot beamed, saluting.

The toddler plopped into a booth and immediately spilled juice on himself. Elliot was there in seconds with napkins and a smile, kneeling like a knight in red and wiping the sticky battlefield.

“Pizza isn’t just food, little dude. It’s an adventure,” he said solemnly. The toddler gasped. Elliot gave him a wink.

⸻

8:43 AM — Second Customer:

Two teens shuffled in, all black hoodies and purple hair dye, barely speaking. One of them muttered, “I guess we’ll take… the dark sausage pizza.”

Elliot lit up. “Ah, the Goth Supreme! Excellent choice! Do you want the sauce in the shape of a broken heart or a spiral of endless despair?”

The girl blinked. “…The spiral.”

He nodded gravely. “Spiral of despair it is. Extra melted cheese of loneliness?”

“…Yeah.”

⸻

9:10 AM — Third Customer: The Grandpa with Strong Opinions

A bent old Robloxian came in with a cane, mumbling, “Back in my day, pizza was one flavor. Just cheese! None of these fancy… pineapple mushrooms fusion nonsense!”

“Good news, sir!” Elliot shouted, practically sliding up beside him with a tray. “We serve the exact same old-school cheese slice—crust just the way the 80s intended!”

The old man squinted. “Hmm… You got the folding kind?”

Elliot folded the slice with perfect New York precision and handed it over with a smile. The grandpa grunted, nodded once, and sat down with a sigh of approval.

⸻

9:37 AM — A Kid’s Birthday Party, Apparently?

A group of rowdy kids suddenly stormed in. Elliot wasn’t even told a birthday was happening, but within five minutes, he had slapped on a party hat, set up a table of extra breadsticks, and was spinning pizza boxes on one finger.

“WHO’S READY TO DO THE CHEESE SLIDE?” he shouted.

“YAAAY!!”

Elliot dove onto the checkered floor, sliding on his knees with a cheese tray balanced in each hand, spinning around like a pizza ninja.

⸻

10:30 AM — Back Behind the Counter

After serving, sweeping, singing “Happy Birthday” twice (once in reverse because a kid requested “creepy style”), Elliot slumped behind the counter with a tired, warm smile.

His fingers were covered in flour and pizza grease. A paper crown from the birthday leftovers sat crooked on his head.

He glanced at the “Employee of the Month” frame. It had his face in it, drawn in crayon. No one else worked there. But he still made it feel like a full team.

“All in a day’s work,” he whispered to himself.

The bell jingled again.

He stood up fast, still smiling. “Welcome to Builder Brother’s Pizza! What can I get started for you today?”

Because even after all the chaos, the fires, the villains in weird half-skull masks, and the creeping fear that something’s off…

…Elliot still had a job to do.

And he’d do it with a smile.

Even if no one else noticed it trembling just a little.

Elliot was panting behind the counter like he just ran a marathon inside a pizza oven. His face was flushed, his visor was crooked, and there was a suspicious flour handprint on his shirt that he didn’t have time to wipe off.

He had just finished making five pizzas at once, cleaned a spill, calmed a crying kid, restocked the cheese supply, and helped an elderly lady figure out the soda machine—all in the last thirty minutes. There was no one else working, of course. There never was. It was just him. And his pride.

As he leaned against the counter to breathe, the front door opened with a cheerful little ding!

“AH—!” Elliot flinched so hard he almost fell over the napkin dispenser.

“Whoa! Dude!” came a voice. “Didn’t mean to spook you!”

Elliot blinked rapidly, heart still racing. Standing in the doorway was a young guy with loose energy spilling out of him like a shaken soda can. Big headphones blinked with soft neon pulses around his ears, and a stylus spun between his fingers like he’d been fidgeting since the moment he was born.

“S-Sorry,” Elliot huffed, straightening up. “Didn’t see you come in. You, uh—okay? I mean—I mean, I hope I didn’t make things weird. I just got a little—”

The young guy raised both hands in peace, laughing. “You’re good! You look like you just sprinted through a pepperoni warzone. Respect.”

Elliot chuckled softly, adjusting his red visor. “Something like that.”

Wire—though he hadn’t introduced himself yet—glanced around the place with curious eyes. “Is it just you in here?”

Elliot nodded. “Always has been. It’s… sort of a one-man operation.”

“Dang,” Wire said, visibly impressed. “No wonder you look cooked. You’re like, what, twenty…?” His voice trailed off as he squinted, trying to guess.

“Twenty-nine,” Elliot said, and watched as Wire’s face morphed in real-time from playful to what.

“HUH?! Bro, I thought you were like—twenty-one max!”

Elliot blinked. “That’s… flattering. I guess.”

Wire scratched his neck awkwardly. “I mean, no offense! You just got that vibe. You know. The ‘woke up at noon, lives off cereal’ kinda vibe.”

“I’ve been awake since five,” Elliot replied flatly, trying not to sound like a disappointed dad.

“Man.” Wire let out a whistle. “That explains the energy. I respect the grind.”

Despite himself, Elliot smiled. “Thanks. What can I get started for you?”

Wire glanced up at the menu and pointed rapidly. “Lemme get a big combo. Like, family size. Two pepperoni, one cheese, one sausage-mushroom, and—uh—yeah, you got root beer?”

“I do,” Elliot said, scribbling it all down. “And you sure you’re eating all that yourself?”

“Yeah,” Wire grinned. “It’s been a long day. Got a lotta brain cells to feed.”

Elliot raised a brow but didn’t push. He disappeared into the back, and in a whirlwind of motion, sauce, and oven timers, the pizzas were boxed and steaming on the counter within fifteen minutes.

Wire dug into his pockets, pulling out a crumpled handful of bills and coins. He counted quickly, then frowned. “Ugh. Hold up. I’m like… thirty robux short.”

He looked up. “Lemme just put one back—”

Elliot shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. You’re good.”

Wire blinked. “Wait, really?”

Elliot gave a soft, tired grin. “Yeah. You hyped me up when I looked like I was gonna pass out. That earns a discount.”

Wire looked touched. “Dude. Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

For a moment, the two stood there. One quietly proud. The other quietly surprised.

“You know,” Wire said, picking up the boxes, “this place is kinda cool. Has that… real vibe. Old school. Heart. Like if a hug made pizza.”

Elliot snorted a laugh. “That’s the weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten. Thanks.”

Wire laughed too. “You ever need an extra hand, lemme know. Not saying I know how to make a pizza, but I could totally clean a floor like a pro.”

Elliot raised a brow. “You got experience?”

“Pfft, nah. But how hard can it be? It’s like mopping a crime scene. Except with cheese.”

Elliot opened his mouth to question that, then closed it.

Wire winked and headed toward the door. “Keep it up, man. You’re killin’ it.”

And just like that, he was gone—boxes stacked high, humming some song only his headphones knew.

Elliot stood there for a moment, blinking. Then he turned back to the kitchen.

His stomach still hurt from the sprint earlier, and his arms felt like wet noodles… but his heart?

His heart felt lighter than it had in days.

“What a nice kid.”

___

The sound of a street sweeper hummed low as the city yawned under the foggy night. Somewhere tucked between rusted vents and flickering neon signs, a manhole creaked open.

Wire clambered out, arms full of food bags tied together with a twine loop, grease dripping off the side of one. His white sneakers hit the pavement with a splat, a fry slipping loose and tumbling into the gutter.

“Restock successful,” he mumbled, brushing crumbs off his sleeves. “Mission: fast food—cleared.”

He darted between cracked brick walls, weaving through the back alleys with a rhythm only he could keep. The other three were waiting—hidden in the recess of a broken subway stairwell, shadows curled under hoods and coats.

“Back in record time,” Wire grinned, tossing Beartrap a heavy sack that thudded like a body. “Try not to choke on the nuggets this time.”

Beartrap didn’t blink. He opened the sack, picked out a single nugget, and stared at it with the intensity of a sniper. Then he bit it—slow, chewing like it owed him money.

Cane, perched against the wall beside a busted vending machine, holding the pizza cheese with clean fingers and a watchful eye. His tall white hat somehow remained spotless despite the filth around them.

“You could’ve gone cleaner,” Cane muttered, inspecting the wrinkled wrapper.

Wire popped a fry into his mouth. “Yeah, well, the clean places don’t serve the ones with secret sauce.”

Echo stood apart, arms crossed. His headset buzzed softly as he monitored signals that didn’t show up on normal maps.

“No chatter on city lines. Whoever we’re tracking—he’s not using anything we can trace.”

Wire leaned back on the concrete railing. “That just means he’s getting nervous. Or smarter. Or both.”

Cane didn’t look up. “Or he knows we’re this close.”

A pause. The weight of their job lingered between steam vents and cold concrete.

Echo finally spoke, voice low. “We split again. Same radius. Quarter the grid. If he’s running, he won’t make it far.”

Beartrap grunted in agreement.

Wire finished his soda with a slurp. “Dibs on the east side. I like the lighting better.”

“Stick to the alleys,” Cane warned. “And don’t play with people this time.”

Wire mock-saluted and turned heel with a flick of his headphones, blue neon lights pulsing faintly. “No promises.”

.___•

The night was getting heavy.

Behind a crooked phone booth, lit only by the dying neon of a noodle sign, Caporegime Echo stood with his coat pulled tight.

Rain was threatening to fall. The clouds above churned like boiling smoke, and the city below didn’t notice.

A voice buzzed through his headset. Static. Another false lead.

He clicked it off. “Still no signal trace,” Echo said, voice quiet but sharp. “He’s moving again. Fast.”

Beside him, the younger wire Contract Hat Henchman leaned against the wall, tossing a coin in one hand. He looked out toward the city streets—eyes sharp, yet somehow still full of wonder. His headphones pulsed faint blue.

“We’ll find him,” the young henchman said. “I’ve been watching him long enough to know his move.”

“You talk like you admire him,” the beartrap replied, unimpressed.

The kid shrugged. “Hey, he got guts. We never win that prize from the boss’s game, y’know?”

There was no laughter. Just silence.

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The coin flipped. Heads.

“Lady Luck must be on my side tonight”

Somewhere, Chance had woken up.

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“You are reckless as always.”

A figure in a long blue coat stood in a dark alley holding an umbrella .

His soft fur icy in the night like a diamonds crown

A different pair of hands locked together—far away from alleyways and static signals.

A voice laughed under the nights, steps fast and full of mischief. Another figure stumbled beside him, breathless from running, yet somehow smiling under those black glasses too.

But that’s for later.

Right now, the hunt continued.

And the city… was holding its breath.

Chapter Text

A different pair of hands locked together—far away from alleyways and static signals.

Laughter echoed through the nearly empty streets. The sun hadn’t fully warmed the pavement yet, but already, one figure was skipping ahead like the day was his alone. His boots clacked sharp against concrete, steps too quick to be nervous, too full of thrill to be safe.

“Tell me that wasn’t the best score of my life,” Chance said, flipping a coin high into the air, watching the sunlight catch the edge. His grin was wide enough to slice his face in half.

Another figure stumbled up beside him, smoother in movement, but not as breathless. Fancy. Regal. Tired.

iTrapped.

He wasn’t laughing. His hands were in his coat pockets. His crown tilted slightly under the brim of the alley’s shadows as they stepped through a side door of a forgotten bar tucked under a stairwell—his hideout, quiet and clean.

The inside smelled like dust and old sugar. Lights hung low, flickering. A piano in the corner hadn’t been touched in years. The shelves held nothing but old glasses and memories of deals that went quiet.

Chance flopped into one of the booths, coin still flicking between his fingers. “Nobody followed, right?”

“I made sure,” iTrapped said. His voice didn’t sound tired—but it felt it. Flat, smooth, carried like fog on marble. “Sit still for once. You act like they aren’t looking for you.”

“They always are,” Chance smirked, kicking his feet up. “That’s the fun, isn’t it?”

iTrapped didn’t respond right away. His eyes had drifted—not to the coin, but to the thing wrapped in cloth on Chance’s side. The prize. It wasn’t large. Could’ve been anything. But even the cloth looked like it weighed more than it should.

“You know,” iTrapped said slowly, “That wasn’t just any rigged game. That table was sacred. Even the dealer looked scared.”

Chance chuckled, leaning his head back against the booth. “I saw him blink. That was my sign.”

“It wasn’t a sign,” iTrapped said, voice almost amused. “It was fear.”

Chance turned the coin in his hand and threw it again. This time, it hit the table with a dull click. Heads.

“You should disappear,” iTrapped added, walking over to the shelf and grabbing a dusty glass. “Farther than here. Change your name. Bury that thing.”

“But then I’d miss you,” Chance winked.

iTrapped didn’t even glance his way. He poured something dark and uninviting into the glass. “You won their blood. You realize that, don’t you? That prize—it wasn’t for taking. It was for showing off. You think they’ll let it go?”

“I think…” Chance hummed, tapping his boot heel against the booth, “I’m not done flipping my luck.”

“That’s not luck.” iTrapped finally turned. He brought the drink over, setting it down with a gentle clink. “That’s a curse waiting to rip your throat out.”

Chance stared at the glass. Then picked it up. Swirled it around like a connoisseur, then downed it all in one reckless gulp. He slammed the empty cup down and laughed. “Still better than paying rent.”

iTrapped smiled. Not too wide. Not too obvious. Just enough to fake concern. “One of these days, your joke’s gonna be your eulogy.”

“And you’ll give the speech?” Chance asked with a half-bow from his seat.

“I’ll light a candle,” iTrapped said gently, “Maybe cry. Once.”

Chance laughed again, but his knee bounced a little. His fingers tightened on the coin before tossing it one more time.

Tails.

The laughter died just a little.

“You could’ve left it,” iTrapped said, sitting across from him now. The distance between them was small. The air felt colder.

“But I didn’t.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Then Chance pulled out a small roll of cash from his coat and flicked it across the table.

“For the ride. I’m heading out. Gotta stretch my luck in another direction.”

iTrapped caught the cash, not even glancing at the amount. “How generous.”

Chance smiled. “You always like when I spoil you.”

“I do,” iTrapped said with that same soft, amused voice. “Makes pretending easier.”

Chance didn’t hear that part. He was already on his feet, cloak swishing behind him, coin in hand, mouth grinning like a man who thought he could beat gravity.

“Don’t die too quick,” iTrapped added as he watched him go.

Chance lifted the coin without looking back. “No promises.”

The door shut with a clatter. The light swung gently overhead.

iTrapped stayed in his seat, holding the roll of cash, his eyes slowly drifting toward the bar’s dusty mirror. His reflection didn’t smile.

But he whispered, almost fondly, “Let the dice fall hard.”

He tucked the money away.

And never looked back.

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— Elliot —

It had been a week since Chance vanished.

Not a he’s busy kind of missing. Not even the radio silence means danger kind he used to joke about.

No—this was intentional.

A slow burn of being ignored, edged with the sting of seeing that final message marked read with no response.

Elliot hadn’t said anything dramatic. Just a simple message:

“Let me know you’re okay, yeah?”

It wasn’t much. But it was everything.

He’d left the phone on silent since then. Every buzz felt like it might be him, but it never was. The ache had settled into Elliot’s bones. It followed him through the shop, into the cold walk-in fridge, even home in his coat pocket. He didn’t even check notifications anymore. Just stared.

“One of those weeks, huh?” he’d muttered to himself earlier, while folding napkins. He wasn’t talking to anyone.

The bell over the shop door rang with a little ding, and instinctively, Elliot stood up straighter.

“Yo! Pizza legend! You alive back there?”

Elliot blinked. The tension in his shoulders didn’t go away, but it softened. A familiar burst of chaotic energy had just entered his world again.

Wire.

The youngest regular. The only person who still came to his shop like nothing strange was happening. Still bounced in with that wide smile and shiny headphones flashing soft blue lights that matched nothing else he wore.

“Extra mushrooms. No onions. I can smell it already,” Wire declared, tapping a rhythm on the counter like a kid who couldn’t sit still in church.

Elliot smiled despite himself. “Supreme with the weirdest specs on the planet,” he said. “Coming right up.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it, man!”

As Elliot turned to grab the box, Wire continued babbling—about some bug in a game, or a playlist that slapped harder than the last one. The kid always talked in fast-forward, and Elliot found himself laughing once or twice, shaking off the fog that had clouded him all morning.

It felt good to laugh. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it.

And yet—he glanced toward his phone on the counter, face-down and cold. Wire didn’t notice. The young man leaned across the counter now, animatedly gesturing about how pepperoni was overrated and “chewy in a weird way.”

Elliot almost said it out loud. Have you seen him? Have you heard anything?

But that would be weird, right? Wire was just some regular with too much time and too little filter. Not connected.

Definitely not involved in anything bigger.

Right? ⸻

— Chance —

The taxi was quiet.

Too quiet.

Chance leaned back against the window, letting the city roll by like scenery in a dream. His legs were crossed, foot tapping faintly in rhythm. One hand spun his coin with casual flicks, the soft click of metal bouncing off his knuckles. A kind of nervous habit, if he were honest.

He flipped it. Heads.

Again. Tails.

Again. Heads.

He smirked faintly and took out his phone, scrolling lazily through messages.

There it was. Elliot’s last text.

“Let me know you’re okay, yeah?”

Chance stared at it for a moment. His thumb hovered.

The truth was, he missed the kid. More than he expected to. He liked the way Elliot cared, even if it was in quiet texts and awkward silences. Chance didn’t get much of that kind of thing—no one had ever waited on him before.

He thought about writing something back. Just one word.

Soon.

He didn’t get the chance.

The car was moving too smoothly. Too steadily. Like it wasn’t dealing with potholes or traffic. The driver hadn’t turned on the radio. He hadn’t asked for directions. He hadn’t said a single damn word since Chance gave the location.

Builder’s Point. Elliot’s pizza shop.

A quiet visit. Nothing heavy. Just a hello. Maybe a smile. Maybe—hell, maybe even a hug, if the guy wasn’t still mad.

But something felt wrong.

Chance’s eyes shifted to the rearview mirror.

The angle was off—tilted just enough so he couldn’t see the driver’s eyes. That wasn’t normal. Neither were the gloves. Thick, black, tactical. Who wore gloves like that in a cab? Or the cologne. Sharp. Militaristic.

Then the voice came.

“So… visiting someone important?”

Flat. Uninterested. Familiar.

And wrong.

Chance froze. Only for a second. But his smile curled up like armor, a little too bright.

“I might be,” he said, flipping his coin again. It landed on his palm. Tails. “Might be just hungry.”

No response.

The driver’s head didn’t move much. But it moved enough. Too slow. Too smooth.

Chance looked out the window again, then forward, then at the hands on the wheel.

The fingers were too steady.

Beartrap.

He remembered that stillness. That trained composure. The man barely blinked, barely spoke, but when he showed up, people disappeared.

Chance swallowed a laugh.

This was definitely not a normal taxi.

So he leaned back, relaxing into the seat like he didn’t notice a thing. “Well,” he said cheerfully, pocketing his coin, “at least the meter’s not running.”

He stared out the window with a soft smile. But his pulse was ticking just beneath the surface. This wasn’t a ride to visit someone.

This was a message.

And somewhere in that shop, with a phone still waiting, was the only person who didn’t know how deep this ran.

Chapter Text

Inside the Car

Chance slumped low in the passenger seat, legs stretched, arm draped lazily across his stomach like he hadn’t just been dragged from a near-death situation two nights ago. His fingers tapped lightly against his leg, slow at first, then quicker.

Beartrap drove without speaking. The engine hummed low. The city passed them by in broken flickers of streetlight.

“…So where the hell is everyone?” Chance finally asked, voice casual.

Beartrap didn’t look over. “Echo and Cane are where they need to be.”

Chance turned his head, eyes narrowing.

“And Wire?”

A long pause.

Beartrap smirked. “Important duty.”

Chance snorted. “Lemme guess. Spying? Killing? Shopping?”

“…Lunch.”

Chance’s head tilted slowly. “You’re shitting me.”

Beartrap shrugged, one hand on the wheel. “He’s picking it up.”

Chance sighed, rubbing his eyes. “We’re really sending the human flamethrower to get sandwiches…”

But then Beartrap spoke again—flat, final.

“And once we meet up with Cane and Echo…Mafioso will be waiting to see you.”

Chance went still.

His body language changed in an instant.

His foot tapped faster. His jaw clenched. A muscle twitched near his eye. His hand curled into a fist against his thigh.

Beartrap caught all of it through the rearview mirror. Quiet. Calculating.

“You nervous, buddy?” Beartrap said. “You should be.”

No response.

Then:

“Fuck him,” Chance muttered.

Beartrap’s eyes flicked to the mirror again. “What?”

“I said—” Chance suddenly grinned, wide, teeth showing, “—fuck Mafioso.”

And then he lunged.

Beartrap didn’t even have time to curse before an elbow slammed against the side of his headrest.

The car jerked violently.

“Son of a—!”

Beartrap twisted the wheel just in time to avoid slamming into a parked van, tires screaming against asphalt.

Chance was already halfway over the center console, hands grabbing for Beartrap’s gun as it left the holster.

Beartrap wrestled with one hand while steering with the other.

The gun went off.

BANG!

The bullet tore through the seat inches from Chance’s spine, splintering leather and stuffing. Blood sprayed. A graze.

Chance didn’t care.

He laughed.

That loud, cracked, gleeful kind of laugh.

“Oh man,” Chance gasped, “I forgot how fun this is!”

Beartrap looked at him like he was seeing a ghost. “You’ve lost your fucking mind—”

Chance slammed a knee into his ribs, twisting the gun barrel toward the roof.

BANG!

The windshield cracked. The car swerved into incoming traffic—horns screamed, lights blinding.

Beartrap reached across, hand grabbing Chance by the throat, shoving him back against the window.

“You little SHIT—!”

But Chance was still grinning through the choke, even as his neck strained.

He jammed his fingers into Beartrap’s eye.

“ARGH!”

Beartrap let go just enough.

Chance yanked the wheel—

—and the car screamed across the street, mounted the sidewalk, and slammed through a chain-link fence into an empty lot.

The vehicle skidded across dirt and concrete chunks, sparks flying as it crunched through trash bins and old metal scraps.

Both men crashed against the dashboard, blood smearing across the cracked windshield.

Beartrap tried to recover—

—but Chance was already on him again, this time behind him, having climbed into the back seat during the chaos.

He yanked Beartrap’s collar and pulled him straight backward over the seat into the back with a vicious snap of the belt.

The two men landed in a heap, fists flying.

Beartrap punched him across the jaw. Chance spit blood and grinned wider.

“You’re not gonna make me cry, old man—!”

“You’re insane!” Beartrap growled.

They thrashed, bruised, covered in glass and dust, the car engine still rattling faintly.

Beartrap got his hand around Chance’s throat again—but this time, Chance grabbed something from the floor.

A tire iron.

He swung.

CLANG!

It slammed against Beartrap’s shoulder. A bone popped.

“AAUGH!”

Beartrap rolled away.

Chance, panting, bleeding from the mouth, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and laughed again, wheezing through his teeth.

“You think I give a shit about dying anymore?” he said, voice hoarse, eyes wild. “I’ve been dying since the day I signed up with this goddamn life of a prize….. You think I’m afraid of Mafioso?”

He spat blood on the car floor. “He’s just another boogeyman in a suit.”

Beartrap stared at him—silent. His breathing heavy. Disbelief in his eyes.

“You are a sicko…”

Chance just gave him a look. One you couldn’t quite place. Not broken, not brave—just somewhere in between. Like a kid that had seen too much and decided to laugh at the worst parts.

“Let dance.”

Meanwhile – Across the Street

Cane lowered the binoculars.

“The car’s off-route,” he muttered. “Way the hell off.”

Echo adjusted his jacket. “Looks like Beartrap’s losing control.”

“Of course he is,” Cane snapped. “We send a psychopath to babysit another psychopath. What did we think would happen?!”

He turned to the rooftop behind them where a figure sat calmly in a folding chair.

Mafioso.

Still, silent, pale suit pristine. His voice was like cold glass when he finally spoke.

“They’re going off course, yes. But look where they’re headed.”

Cane’s eyes flicked to the GPS tracker. “That’s…near the pizza place.”

Mafioso smiled thinly. “Then perhaps it’s time for a…happy coincidence.”

Cane frowned. “You want me to call Wire?”

“Call him,” Mafioso whispered. “Let’s see if our little firebug can…greet the delivery.”

Cane hesitated. “You think he’ll be ready?”

Mafioso’s grin stretched too far. “Does it matter?”

Chapter Text

The bell above the pizza shop door jingled, then slammed shut again as a gust of wind swept through Builder Brother’s Pizza. Elliot flinched, glancing up from the oven where a cheese pizza sizzled—burnt at the edges again. He hadn’t been able to focus much lately.

He rubbed his temple and muttered, “Okay, Elliot. Don’t think about it. He’s probably just…busy. Or hiding. Or dead. But probably not dead.”

The silence from his phone was its own brand of violence. Still no messages. The last one still marked as “read.” No response. No emoji. No explanation. Nothing.

He didn’t check it. He refused to.

With a sigh sharp enough to cut dough, Elliot shoved his phone under the register and groaned, “God, I’m so pathetic.”

“HEYYYY!” a familiar voice rang out across the counter.

He startled. “Jesus, Wire.”

The youngest of the crew—at least in looks and attitude—bounced up to the counter, his headphones blinking like a walking rave. He held up a menu dramatically.

“My man! I’m here for you if you need—but also I want soda right now. A lotta soda.”

Elliot exhaled a small laugh despite the knot in his chest. “If you drink all the syrup again, I swear I’m banning you.”

“You’d never,” Wire said with a stupidly big grin.

And maybe Elliot wouldn’t.

He boxed up the pizza. Tried not to look like he was glancing toward the register. Tried not to wonder if maybe Chance changed his mind. Or got scared. Or got hurt. God, what if—

Wire held the box in one hand and, in the other, slyly checked his phone behind his hoodie sleeve.

One new call. From Cane.

Wire didn’t blink. But something in his eyes hardened.

“You alright?” Elliot asked, seeing something strange pass through the kid’s expression.

Wire blinked, then lit up again like a switch was flipped. “Oh yeah. Just hungry. See you next time, Boss!”

He practically danced out the door.

Elliot stared after him, the hairs on the back of his neck crawling. Something—he didn’t know what was shifting. Like he was standing in the eye of a storm that hadn’t hit yet.

His finger lingering on the phone.

But it was coming.

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Rubber screamed against the concrete.
Chance’s elbow smashed into Beartrap’s face, sending his head slamming into the window with a loud, splintering CRACK. Blood smudged across the glass like a bad smear of paint. The car fishtailed under them, headlights swinging wildly into the storm drain walls as chaos owned the wheel.

Chance didn’t stop to think. Thinking was for dead men.

He ducked as Beartrap came back hard with a punch that could’ve unhinged a damn door. The air trembled with the force behind it. Chance’s forearm caught it—barely—his bones singing under the pressure. “Fuck—” he hissed, but the grin never left his mouth. It widened, split across his face, crooked and wild. Blood on his teeth.

“You really want this seat next to the boss, huh?” Chance laughed, breath ragged but full of thrill. “You gotta earn it, sweetheart!”

The pain in beartrap shoulder still painful, as the joint went sideways with a wet snap, and Beartrap still didn’t go down. The man was an animal.

Beartrap roared, spitting blood, and yanked his gun out with the good hand. “I liked you better when you shut the fuck up.”

BLAM!
The first shot tore into the leather seat where Chance’s head had been a half-second earlier. Chance rolled across the back seats, one hand gripping the roof handle, twisting his torso around and pulling his own gun from inside his jacket suit.

A revolver. Six shots. No more, no less.

BLAM!

BLAM!

Two clean shots at Beartrap’s arm and leg. He ducked behind the passenger seat, gun still hot, muttering, “Three left…”

But Beartrap was already counting.
“Two more,” Beartrap muttered low, almost to himself, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his sleeve. “You fired four. Just two left in the drum. You’re gonna click empty next, you smug shit.”

Chance grinned wider. “You counting for me? Damn, you do care.”

Then the two lunged at each other again. No pause. No break. Beartrap’s teeth were clenched like a pit bull’s. He threw a knee into Chance’s ribs hard enough to make him bark out a cough, but Chance twisted with it, wrapping his legs around the man’s waist, slamming his elbow again and again into Beartrap’s neck and shoulder.

Gun barrels scraped against each other mid-swing. Both fighting over each other’s wrists, fists, whatever wasn’t broken or bleeding.

Beartrap finally landed a shot.

Right into Chance’s side.

The revolver boomed in the tiny metal coffin of a car.

Chance hissed. “FUCK—shit, that burns—”

Still, he laughed. He laughed.
His body slumped for a second, blood seeping through his coat, but the grin stayed frozen, almost unhinged. Beartrap blinked, disturbed.

“You’re cracked, man,” Beartrap growled.

Chance coughed, then spat blood. “Maybe. But you missed anything vital. Which means—”

He slammed the revolver’s barrel into Beartrap’s face, knocking a tooth loose, and then kicked him backward with both feet.

Neither of them were driving anymore.

The wheel jerked violently. The car spun like a rabid animal on the wet bridge pavement, scraping against the metal rails.

Lights flared.

The city roared.

Beartrap glanced up just in time to see the edge—the guardrail ripped open by the front bumper. Concrete barrier shattered as the car skidded toward the drop.

Chance didn’t think.

He grabbed Beartrap by the collar and kicked the window out.

“Out—NOW!”

They both launched themselves through the shattered glass, landing hard on the cold pavement as the car pitched over the side—flipping, twisting, and finally crashing into the shallow canal below with a violent, screeching splash.

Chance rolled once.

Twice.

Then lay still, face up, bleeding and smiling at the sky like it had told him a great secret.

Beartrap groaned nearby, coughing, dragging himself up on one elbow, blood coating the side of his face like warpaint. His dislocated shoulder was a grotesque shape, and he wasn’t even blinking right.

But they were alive.

.

But who to say is it fair for a tie?

The world rang sharp and thin, the metal tang of blood curling on Chance’s tongue.

The crash still echoed, twisted metal screeching across the bridge. Steam hissed from the broken engine like the car itself was screaming. The world tilted sideways as Chance stood, one boot grinding into the gravel, the other sliding back for balance.

Beartrap lay nearby, groaning—his leg bent wrong, red soaking through his jeans.
Chance’s revolver pointed steady as stone at his chest.

“…One bullet left,” Chance muttered, chest heaving with laughter between pained exhales. He pulled his jacket off his shoulder, revealing the fresh, blooming bruises and blood from the earlier fight. His lip was split. One eye already swelling shut.

Beartrap spat, dragging himself up against the busted side of the car. “You gonna shoot me now? This how you treat old friends?”

“You weren’t ever my friend,” Chance muttered, turning his face aside just for a second. Not for regret—just tired. “You were just another piece of the fucked-up board.”

“You’re hesitating,” Beartrap said, voice hoarse. “Why?”

“Because someone once told me,” Chance said, recalling Itrapped’s cold words like a whisper through his skull, “If something’s in your way, make sure it stays dead.”

He raised the revolver.

The barrel clicked as Chance exhaled, finger tightening—

—WHAP!

A pizza box slammed full-force into his face.

Chance reeled back, the box tumbling to the ground with cheese still steaming inside.
“What the fu—”

Before he could curse, a blur shot forward. Wire. That too-young face, always grinning, was now twisted with wild fury. He wasn’t smiling this time.

“You’re not touching him!” Wire snarled, gripping a broken chair leg like a bat.

Crack.
Wood smashed into Chance’s ribs, spinning him sideways. He stumbled, coughing, and caught himself on one knee.

He looked up, slow.

“Kid…” he wheezed, brushing blood from his mouth. “…You brought me a pizza?”

“Shut up!” Wire screamed and rushed in again.

“Get away from him!!” Wire screamed, fury bursting out of him like a live wire.

Chance barely had time to react before CRACK—the stick slammed into his ribs.

Chance gasped as air rushed out of him. He stumbled again, coughing blood.

Wire didn’t stop.

WHACK. SMACK. CRACK.

Each hit landed with purpose. Fast. Clean. Desperate.

He slammed the stick across Chance’s shoulder, then swung upward into his jaw.
Chance’s sunglasses flew off. His head snapped back. Blood flew from his mouth.

Beartrap tried to move, dragging himself forward. “Wire! Back off! He’s baiting you!”

But Wire didn’t listen.

He swung again—Chance blocked this time, grabbing the stick with one hand.

“You got guts, kid,” Chance growled. “I’ll give you that.”

Wire yanked the stick back and jabbed forward, catching Chance in the side again.

But Chance was laughing now.

Really laughing. A wild, high laugh, like he didn’t feel pain anymore, like he liked it.

“Danger’s the only thing that makes me feel alive!” Chance roared.

He lunged.

Wire dodged left—too slow.

Chance headbutted him, breaking the bridge of his nose.

Wire stumbled, the stick falling from his hands, blood pouring down his face.

Chance pounced, punching him across the jaw, then kneeing him in the gut. Wire coughed, trying to catch his breath—then elbowed Chance hard in the temple.

Both stumbled apart.

Beartrap tried to crawl closer, dragging himself with one arm. “Wire—don’t stop fighting!”

Wire groaned, head swimming. But he picked up the stick again, spit blood to the side, and looked up at Chance through blurred eyes.

“I’m not scared of you,” he growled.

Chance wiped blood from his chin, sneering. “You should be.”

Chance stood tall again, staggering, swaying like a drunk but with murder in his bones. His revolver lifted—empty.

Click.

The revolver lifted again.

Empty.

Then—Chance grinned and opened his mouth, letting one hidden bullet roll out from under his tongue.

He was hiding the 7 bullet in his mouth the whole time.

That psycho motherfuck-

“Lady luck’s on my side tonight, sweetheart,” Chance grinned wide, voice dark as thunder.

BANG.

The gun cracked through the still air, and Wire folded, the bullet sinking into his stomach with a choked cry. His legs crumpled under him. He hit the ground hard, one hand gripping his side, blood blooming between his fingers like a flower.

“Shit!” Beartrap roared, dragging himself uselessly across the bridge. “Wire!”

Chance stood over them, the revolver limp in one hand.

Wire’s eyes were wide. He was still breathing—but just barely.

“Could’ve walked away,” Chance muttered, crouching. His other hand wrapped around a heavy rock, smooth and cold.

“Don’t—!” Beartrap screamed. “You’ll fucking kill him!”

Chance’s eyes flickered toward him. His voice dropped into something empty. “Maybe I should. One less hound on my back.”

He raised the rock.

Wire looked up at him, blood pooling under his body, eyes dazed. Terrified.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

The rock came down.

CRACK.

Blood spattered the broken asphalt. Wire’s head jerked to the side and he went still.

Beartrap let out a strangled sound. “WIRE!”

CRACK.
The rock hit again. And again.

Then—silence.

Wire didn’t move. He wasn’t dead, not yet. But he wasn’t going to get up any time soon.

Chance stood over him, panting. The rock dropped from his fingers.

His face—the part you could see through the shattered sunglasses—looked cracked in two. A half-mad grin and half-ghost. And something behind it—guilt? Regret? Maybe fear.

He looked off the bridge. A car was parked far away. Not just any car.

Mafioso’s car.

Chance froze. His body coiled, and then—without another word, he turned and bolted.

He ran off the bridge, boots pounding hard, limping slightly from his own wounds, blood trailing behind him. He didn’t look back.

Beartrap just knelt over Wire, clutching his shoulder, breath trembling. “Damn it, kid…”

The night hung overhead. The bridge groaned. And a shadow loomed from that black car in the distance.
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The dust was still settling. Shattered glass littered the roadside like jagged snowflakes, glinting beneath the bridge’s flickering lights. The car, now a smoking wreck pressed halfway through the guard rail, hissed and popped like a ticking bomb waiting for someone to breathe wrong.

Cane’s boots skidded hard against the pavement as he rounded the wreck, Echo just behind him. Neither of them knew what they expected to find—but it wasn’t this.

Beartrap was hunched over near the edge, blood leaking down his leg, his massive body twitching from pain. His hand was pressing against Wire’s stomach, trying to slow the bleeding. The kid lay unconscious, groaning faintly, his jacket soaked through with red.

“Don’t just stand there—!” Beartrap’s gruff voice cracked, raw with desperation. “Get him help! Now!”

Echo didn’t argue. He was already moving, tapping his headset.

Cane’s brows furrowed. He’d never heard Beartrap like this before. The man had taken bullets before without blinking—but now? Now, he sounded scared.

Mafioso arrived last.

Silent.

Dignified.

He stepped out of the backup car, adjusted his cufflinks, and took one long look at the scene. Broken bones. A wrecked vehicle. Blood on the cement. And the one they needed to catch… gone.

“Chance,” he said quietly, brushing glass from his sleeve like it was dust. “Again, he escapes.”

His gaze traveled down to Wire’s limp form, then to Beartrap’s destroyed leg. The smile didn’t vanish—but it changed. Tightened. Less pleased. More… amused.

“Call an ambulance,” Mafioso said, snapping his fingers to a boy standing at the back of the car.

The boy fumbled with his phone, dialing with trembling fingers.

As the scene quieted and the sirens started to echo in the distance, Mafioso’s eyes caught something—something that shouldn’t have been left behind.

A broken phone, screen shattered like a spiderweb.

Still vibrating.

Still ringing.

He crouched beside it slowly, like someone picking a rare flower.

The caller ID flickered on the screen:

Elliot 🍕💛

He tilted his head, reading it aloud with amused curiosity.

“Elliot,” he repeated softly, tasting the name like it was wine. “Someone important to our runaway gambler, hm?”

He stood, holding the phone delicately between two fingers like it might bite. The shattered glass made the name barely legible now, but he could still see that little heart emoji at the end. That cute little detail.

Something personal.

Too personal.

“Chance…” he said under his breath, his grin curling dark. “You really should’ve kept this close.”

He looked out at the city skyline beyond the bridge, and the wind caught the edges of his coat.

“Now I wonder,” he mused aloud, letting the phone fall back into his palm. “If your dear Elliot… bleeds the same color as you.”

The phone stopped ringing.

Chapter Text

Elliot (nervously holding a microphone):
Uh… hey everyone… so, bad news… um… we’re being told the story’s gotta stop here.
scratches head
Apparently the budget ran out because someone—looks offstage—used it all on “casino aesthetic lighting” and like… seven fog machines.

[Chance slowly steps into the spotlight, sipping a soda with sunglasses on indoors.]

Chance (shrugging):
Look, in my defense, the fog really tied the vibe together.
Besides, who needs a full story arc when you got charisma and vibes, baby?

Elliot (looking at the script):
It says here we were supposed to have a “dramatic rooftop showdown” next… with explosions?

Chance (peeking at the script):
Yeah, no way that’s happening. I asked the director if we could at least get cardboard cutouts—he gave me a broom and told me to act.

[A dark figure steps out from the shadows. It’s Mafioso. He’s still wearing his creepy smile.]

Mafioso:
It’s true. The money’s gone. I confiscated it.

Elliot:
Wait, what?? You stole the budget?!

Mafioso (shrugging):
Family business, kid. No hard feelings.

Chance (grinning):
Honestly? Respect.

Elliot:
So… what now?

Mafioso (pulls out a folded paper):
We read this final line together. It’s in the script. Very emotional.

[They all gather and read awkwardly off the same page.]

All Three (flatly):
“Thank you for watching. The story may end here, but the memories… they’ll respawn in your heart.”

[Beat. Silence. Then…]

Chance (breaking character):
Who wrote this? This is corny as hell.

Mafioso:
I like it.

Elliot (wiping an imaginary tear):
…I felt that.

[They bow dramatically to the audience. Stage lights flicker and fade out with the sound of a broken cash register and distant fog machine hissing.]

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Thank you for enjoying the story..everyone.

THE END…
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Chapter Text

The call ended with a dull click.
No voice. No response. Just the silence that always came after.

Elliot sighed as he lowered the phone from his ear, staring down at the screen as it dimmed—
Name still glowing faintly before fading:
🎲 Dummy 🎲

It was Chance’s nickname. A little joke between them.
Because no matter how chaotic Chance acted, to Elliot… he was just a dummy who got himself into messes and laughed through them like it was a game with some half affectionate.

The silence of the pizza place settled around him like a blanket. Fluorescent lights buzzing above. The mop in his hands left a trail of water as he slowly swept across the tile. The chairs were all up, ovens off. Another long night. Another night with no answers.

Chance hadn’t replied in days. No texts. No calls back.
Elliot tried not to panic. People ghosted. Got busy.
But Chance wasn’t like that—not to him.

Chance never went completely silent like that. He was loud, impulsive, always had some snappy remark ready—especially for Elliot. And even when he was in trouble, he cracked a joke before asking for help. That was just… him.

But this?

This wasn’t him.

Elliot stood still in the pizza shop for a long moment, phone still loose in his hand, mop dripping quietly on the tile floor behind him. Outside, it was already dark. Neon from the shop’s sign buzzed quietly in the windows, painting the chairs and counters in a soft red glow.

Then his phone buzzed again.

His heart skipped.

📲 Incoming Call – Dummy

He picked it up fast, faster than he meant to—like it might vanish if he took too long.

“Hello?? Chance?”
His voice came out shakier than he wanted.

But the line was… wrong.

Too quiet.
Not silent, but wrong.

There was breathing.
Low, slow, steady. Not ragged. Not panicked. Just watching.

Elliot’s spine tingled.

He tried again. “Chance? Are you okay? What happened? Talk to me, please…”

Still no answer.
Just that same breathing. Like the phone was alive, but the person holding it wasn’t going to speak.

“…This isn’t funny,” Elliot whispered, more to himself than anything. “This isn’t like you…”

A whisper of movement—cloth brushing, maybe someone shifting their grip.
He almost thought he heard… chuckling? No, maybe not. Maybe his ears were just panicking.

And then—click.

The call ended.

Elliot stood frozen, phone pressed to his ear long after the line went dead. His hands felt colder than they should’ve. The shop was warm, but the inside of his chest suddenly wasn’t.

Something was wrong.
He knew it.

And that second call… why would Chance call back and not say anything?
Unless it wasn’t him?
No
It must be him
Right ?

Elliot’s fingers tightened around the phone.

No texts. No updates. That was already bad. But now—creepy silent phone calls?
That wasn’t Chance.
That wasn’t his friend.

Something had happened.

He stood tall, tossed the mop to the corner without even rinsing it, and locked up the shop in a rush. He grabbed his red helmet off the hook and jogged out to his motorcycle, heart pounding harder now.

Maybe it was just paranoia.
Maybe Chance was pulling some elaborate prank.

But deep down, Elliot knew—
Chance might be a dumbass, but he never ignored him like this.

“You gonna give me a heart attack again-“

⸻

The road ahead blurred in streaks of headlight and shadow. The city wasn’t loud tonight. Just quiet enough to make the wind feel heavier.

Elliot’s bike hummed under him as he passed through the familiar turns of his delivery route. Past empty convenience stores. Past the donut place they used to stop at after late shifts. Past the dark alleys where Chance liked to joke he “left pieces of his soul.”

And then—
Flashing lights ahead.

He slowed.
Pulled to the side.
Killed the engine.

A crowd of police.
Caution tape flapping.
One car totaled—completely bent in, front end smashed like it had hit something head-on or exploded from inside. Glass spread like stars across the road. A faint haze of smoke still hung in the air.

Elliot removed his helmet slowly and move close toward the mess, heart heavy in his chest.

Two officers stood near the wreck, talking low. Elliot paused just out of sight behind a road sign, listening.

“…Wasn’t just a crash. Witness said one car was chasing on purpose or hit the wrong way when being chase, and then they both swerved off. Looked like someone got thrown out during the fight.”

“…Fight in the car?”

“Yeah. Like full-on struggle. Blood’s everywhere. Might’ve been gang-related, not sure yet. Whoever walked away left fast.”

Elliot’s throat tightened.
He didn’t know who had been hurt, but… a voice in the back of his mind whispered something he didn’t want to hear.

What if it was him?

He took a few steps closer, boots crunching on broken glass. The smell of burnt metal and rubber stung his nose. A few civilians were still there, murmuring to each other, and one of them looked up at Elliot.

“Hey, you okay, kid?”

Elliot blinked.
He nodded quickly. “Y-Yeah. I just… I thought maybe someone I knew—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t know it was Chance. He didn’t want it to be Chance.

But why did this feel like something he would’ve been caught in?

The scene was starting to clear out. Officers taking photos. One man rolled out yellow cones to mark a strange pattern of blood dots—like someone limped far, then was gone.

No body.
No final answer.
Just a question burned into the pavement.

Elliot stood there for a long time.
The wind tugged gently at the sleeves of his uniform.
Behind him, his motorcycle hummed faintly as the cooling engine ticked.

Then, at last, he turned away.
Helmet on. Kickstand up.

He didn’t go home right away.
He drove around the city once.
Past the old casino where the lights never turned back on. Past the alley where Chance once waited for him, flipping a coin and saying “You’re late, Ellie-boy.”

But no sign of him now.

Just that one call. That one missed voice.
That one name on the screen that he didn’t want to disappear.

“Dummy.”

How many call he did this night?

So many

Waiting

And tonight had been nothing but silence.

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Click.

Chapter Text

Buzzzzz

The street lights flickered as Elliot sped through the city, his red helmet glinting like a beacon in the dark. It was past midnight now, but sleep was the last thing on his mind. His tires cut sharp through the empty roads, neon signs flashing over his face—Open 24 Hrs, Laundry, Pawn Shop, Missing Posters. Too many faces, too many stories. But only one name haunted his thoughts right now.

Chance.

Or as his phone still said:

🎲 Dummy 🎲

That dumb contact name had been showing up just to read the message . And now, it mocked Elliot like a bad joke.

He checked again.

No new messages.

He’d already texted a dozen times:
• Where are you?
• Just say anything.
• This isn’t funny.
• Please reply.

The “Read” mark was there under a few of them. Read at 1:00 am. That’s what it said.

But not a single reply.

Not even a meme. Not even a “lol shut up.” Just the quiet, miserable blue ticks staring back at him like ghosts.

“Come on, Chance…” Elliot muttered to himself, pulling over beside a broken vending machine. “If you’re alive enough to read it, you’re alive enough to say something back.”

The city hummed around him.

He opened the call log. His finger hovered over the contact.

“Alright, one more time, dummy,” he whispered, trying to make light of it. “If I hear your dumb laugh, I swear I’m gonna punch you and cry.”

He pressed Call.

The phone rang once… twice… and then—

Click.

Connected.

His heart jumped.

“…Hello??”

No voice.

Just breathing.

Again.

Same as before. Steady, low, just like someone was listening and didn’t care to answer.

“…If this is you, Chance, I swear—this joke isn’t funny anymore,” Elliot said, voice wavering. “I’m getting really close to calling the cops, and you know how much I hate paperwork.”

A soft sound came through. A slight, noise or wait…… or was that a chuckle?

“Are you laughing at me?!”

Now Elliot was half shouting. “Dude, seriously! You’re hiding out somewhere reading my messages like I’m your ex and I’m NOT DEALING WITH THAT ENERGY RIGHT NOW.”

More breathing.

Then—

Click.

Disconnected.

“…Great.” Elliot stared at the screen. “You ghosted me like I’m some kind of side character in your villain arc.”

He leaned back against the vending machine, hands dragging down his face.

Maybe it was just a prank. Maybe this was Chance’s messed-up idea of fun.

But something was off. Really off.

And the read messages just made it worse.

He lifted the phone again. This time, his thumb hovered over a different number.

911.

“I’ll just tell them someone might be missing,” he whispered. “Just a welfare check. That’s all. Just in case.”

But he paused.

Would the cops even take it seriously? What if they said, “He’s an adult, he can vanish if he wants to”?

And what if Chance was really fine, just being a jackass? Elliot didn’t want to get him dragged into legal trouble over being dumb and cryptic.

Still…

He did read the texts.

He did pick up once.

That meant something, right?

Elliot sighed and ran a hand through his hair, pacing.

“Alright. Screw it,” he muttered.

He tapped the number.

Calling emergency services…

It rang.

One.

Two.

Three.

Then—someone picked up.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

Elliot opened his mouth.

“I need to report a—”

BANG.

A gunshot ripped through the night like thunder.

The phone slipped from his hand.

Everything froze.

His heart didn’t beat. His lungs didn’t pull air. It felt like time forgot how to move.

He looked down.

His white shirt was blooming red from the center of his chest. Warmth poured down his stomach. His legs gave out.

He hit the pavement.

Hard.

Blood splattered across the vending machine beside him, painting the shattered glass with a sick shine.

His breaths came out ragged.

Shallow.

Like the wind was being stolen from his lungs one piece at a time.

The cold crept in.

But even through the blur, he saw something.

Too far to see the face.
Too dark to see the eyes.

But the outline was wrong. It wasn’t Chance.
It couldn’t be.

But the black fedora…

“C…hance…?” he wheezed, blood dripping from the corner of his lips. His vision swam in red and blur.

The figure didn’t answer.

Elliot’s hand reached forward, fingers twitching.

Standing across the street.

Tall. Motionless. Cloaked in shadow.

The face hidden. The body just… watching.

Like it had been there the whole time.

Elliot tried to speak again. No sound came.

The only thing he could do… was stare.

And slowly, the world started to fade. The blood loss soaked his limbs in numbness. His vision went soft and dark.

His last thought was—

I should’ve gone to the cops sooner.

“Dummy” flashing on a screen, and that awful, awful silence.

And then—

Darkness.
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⸻

Elliot sat up with a gasp, drenched in sweat.

He blinked wildly, lungs heaving, heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. His eyes darted around, trying to remember where he was—what just happened—

His room.

The warm smell of pizza grease and detergent.

His posters still on the wall. His stupid lava lamp flickering lazily in the corner.

He was home.

Safe.

Alive.

A nightmare.

Just a nightmare.

He collapsed back onto his bed, hands gripping the sheets, trying to steady his breathing.

“Holy hell…”

He pressed a palm over his chest. No blood. No bullet. Just sweat. Just terror.

The clock read 4:06 AM.

Outside, the city was quiet.

Elliot stared at the ceiling, heart still racing.

“…Okay. Okay. Just a dream. Just a dream,” he whispered to himself. “But if I ever get pranked again, I swear I’m throwing hands.”

Still shaken, he rolled to the side, pulling his phone off the nightstand.

No new messages.

His thumb hovered over Chance’s contact again.

🎲 Dummy 🎲

He didn’t press it.

Not yet.

Because even if it had been a dream…

That silence on the phone earlier?

That was real.

And so was the fear still stuck in his gut.

Chapter Text

Morning rolled in slow and dull. The clouds hung heavy, like a ceiling trying to cave in.

Mafioso sat in the back of the car, legs crossed, a cup of hot espresso balanced in one gloved hand. His coat was perfectly pressed, not a wrinkle in sight. The broken phone rested on the seat beside him, cracked screen still faintly glowing.

He already knew the name.
Elliot.

He knew the voice too—heard it once in a shaky voicemail still left on Chance’s burner line before it stopped ringing. It was warm. Naïve. Like someone who believed in better tomorrows.

Someone who hadn’t yet learned the rules of the table.

He took a long sip of the espresso. No sugar. He didn’t like things sweet unless he was the one souring them.

Now to find is the location

…

He didn’t like guessing games.

He liked control.

But that emoji pizza was a little helpful to them

And he does remember a pizza box was throw by his henchmen after the fight with Chance.

Echo sat up front, driving, quiet as always.

“Echo,” Mafioso said calmly, “where’d Wire go when he snuck off for food?”

Echo glanced at the mirror. “Some pizza shop in Sector 5. Rebuilt place. Used to be garbage before the fire. Now it’s cleaner, bigger. Safety posters everywhere like stickers trying to cover a bullet hole.”

Mafioso raised a brow. “Huh. I thought he hated pizza.”

“He does,” Echo replied. “But he said their pizza recipe food slapped. Try to drag Beartrap there sometimes. I think he liked the guy behind the counter. Said he had jokes.”

Mafioso smile. Not really. Just the tiniest twitch of amusement.

Wire always had a thing for people who smiled like they didn’t know the world was ending.

“You know his name?”

Echo shrugged. “Nah. Wire only said the dude wore a red visor and remembered his order.”

“Hmm.”

He stared at the phone again. Elliot. A name like that sounded harmless. Soft even. But Mafioso didn’t believe in harmless.

Especially not when someone could leave voicemails like that and live to disappear.

He closed his fingers slowly around the phone.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Let’s pay the place a visit.”

Echo started the car.

—

They arrived ten minutes later.

The new pizza shop stood on the corner—Builder Brothers Pizza

The posters were bright. Cheerful. Almost desperate.

Like someone was trying to forget what happened here.

Mafioso didn’t step out yet. He stared out the tinted window, watching a delivery kid cross the street, then disappear into a nearby alley. No Elliot. No red visor. The storefront was empty for now.

He turned to Echo. “You ever seen the boy?”

“Nope,” Echo said. “Only Wire ever talked to him. We never came here. This place was one of his favorite right now, I think.”

Mafioso narrowed his eyes. “So we don’t know how close he really was with Chance.”

“Not exactly. Just that Wire thought he was funny. Maybe even trusted him.”

“Wire is very cautious, so Chance may have easy bond with the Elliot person sir.”

Mafioso let that sit. He tapped a finger on the armrest.

“I see..Which means Wire was sloppy,” he said finally. “And this ‘Elliot’ might be more than a joke.”

Echo didn’t answer.

Outside, the wind picked up, tugging at the shop’s new banner.

Mafioso sighed and adjusted his collar.

“Well then,” he said softly. “Let’s go say hello.”

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 Sneezed

The scent of marinara clung to his sleeves like a second skin. It was quiet now, the kind of quiet that followed a storm—tables half-wiped, a mop leaning tiredly in the corner, and the pizza oven humming like an old friend trying to stay awake.

Elliot adjusted his red visor with a tired sigh. The edges of his sleeves were flecked with flour, grease stains on his apron telling the story of a morning already too long. His back ached, his feet throbbed, and his smile—well, that was still there.

Always.

It had to be.

The place felt lonelier now, even with the music from the old jukebox spinning soft jazz through the shop. Some part of his brain was still chasing shadows—flashes of that night, the chaos, the scream of tires and shouts and—

Gunfire.

He inhaled sharply. Shut it down. Not now. He shook his head like it would knock the memory loose.

“No one wants to see a frown in a pizza shop,” he muttered, forcing the corners of his lips up again, stretching the smile until it felt almost real. “You got this, Elliot.”

He had dropped two wrong orders that morning—accidentally gave a vegetarian kid a pepperoni slice and swapped two sodas with soap water because he was thinking about that again. The memory. The alley. The flash of a muzzle in the dark.

He’d laughed it off in front of the customers, of course. Joked that it was “experimental foam soda.” But inside?

He still heard the bang.

He still felt the air crack.

He should’ve died that night.

But he didn’t.

Nightmare

And so, he worked.

Even if the world kept getting darker, he would still shine here. For his dad. For his sister. For the memory of his mom. For the photo tucked carefully behind the register.

He tossed the mop back into its bucket and wiped his brow with a napkin. The lunch rush had calmed down, and for once, the shop actually felt like it was breathing again. So did he.

Just a minute. That’s all he needed. A minute to close his eyes, maybe.

The bell above the door jingled.

He opened his eyes.

“Welcome to Builder Brother’s Pizza!” he said automatically, voice bright as sunshine, snapping his posture upright and brushing his hands on his apron.

Then he saw the black fedora.

His heart jolted in his chest like someone pulled the wrong wire.

He nearly said it.

“Ch—?”

But no. No, no, no. This man was not Chance.

This man was taller. His coat swept the floor like it had a mind of its own, and his presence was… sharp. Too clean. Too perfect. His shadow fell long across the floor tiles.

And that smile…

Elliot blinked.

It wasn’t a smile made of joy or charm. It was the kind of smile you see in old noir films—something wide and practiced, curling with unspoken promises and impossible-to-read thoughts. It didn’t reach the eyes. It never would.

For a moment, Elliot froze. His instincts kicked up hard. He could feel his stomach twist. Was this—

Was this another threat?

Was it happening again?

He cover his head hurting from the memory of seeing him somewhere before.

But then… something else kicked in too. Something Elliot wore like armor.

His smile.

It didn’t falter.

Instead, it brightened.

He took a small step forward and tilted his head with cheerful curiosity.

“Oh! Sorry, for a second I thought you were someone else,” Elliot said, chuckling lightly, voice as casual as morning toast. “My bad—must’ve been the hat.”

The fedora man paused. Just… paused.

For a heartbeat too long, he stared at Elliot like he’d just spoken a different language.

Elliot caught that hesitation and ran with it, cheerful as ever.

“But hey! New face, huh? First time visiting us?” he asked, already reaching for a menu. “You picked a good day—fresh dough, no oven explosions today, and only one soda mix-up this morning, so we’re on a roll.”

The man tilted his head slightly. His eerie grin didn’t move, but something in his posture flickered—something cold. Calculating. But Elliot didn’t blink. He’d dealt with all kinds of customers. Scary dads. Grumpy teens. Weird birthday clowns.

This guy?

Just another face.

Just another reason to smile.

He handed over the menu across the counter. “Now, I’ve got deep-dish, thin crust, triangle, square, star-shaped—okay, not really star-shaped, I was just seeing if you’d blink—and I can do light sauce, no sauce, triple cheese, meat mountain, vegan heaven, and yes, I can put pineapples on it if you’re brave enough.”

The man didn’t speak yet. He just… studied Elliot.

His grin had not changed. Not one bit. But his thoughts were racing.

Because this wasn’t what he expected.

Mafioso had walked in here ready to make judgments. To measure a threat. To see if this “Elliot” was some kind of weak link Chance had tucked away.

But instead…

Instead, he was being handed a menu by someone with the audacity to joke about pizza shapes and soda accidents.

Instead of fear, there was friendliness.

Instead of suspicion, there was warmth.

Instead of weakness—there was light.

Elliot rested his elbows gently on the counter, chin in his palm, casual and easy.

“So, mystery guy,” he said with a grin. “What’ll it be?”

Mafioso finally blinked.

Just once.

…

The silence lingered like steam from a just-boiled kettle.

Mafioso’s eyes, shaded and unreadable beneath the brim of his pinstripe black fedora, flicked briefly to the menu Elliot held out. His wide, permanent grin didn’t shift—not in mockery, not in reaction. Just… there. Etched on him like a mask.

But behind that sharp, carved expression… his thoughts buzzed.

Too bright in here.

Too clean.

Too warm.

He hadn’t expected this. Not from a place once wrapped in police tape, once filled with shattered glass and charred counters. And certainly not from someone this bright-eyed, this unshaken.

“…I’ll take the Family size combo…it for my “buddy”…he visits here a lot” Mafioso finally said, voice low and dry, like a knife being drawn an inch from its sheath.

His tone was completely different from Wire’s high-speed rambling.

Where Wire’s words were eager, tumbling and tripping with excitement, Mafioso’s came slow. Heavy. Like he didn’t care what he was ordering so much as who he was ordering from. His eyes didn’t leave Elliot’s, not even for a second.

Elliot didn’t flinch. He gave the man another cheerful nod and spun the order pad like a coin between his fingers.

“Family size combo, got it!” he chirped. “Let me guess—big night? You guys must be hungry hungry.”

Still no answer. Just that grin.

The awkwardness could’ve choked someone less practiced. It was like two people from completely different universes trying to share the same space: Elliot’s bright, lived-in warmth versus Mafioso’s icy, calculated chill. Sunshine across fresh dough clashing with the long shadow of a crime lord’s coat.

Elliot, of course, noticed none of that.

He tilted his head as he scribbled down the order. “Hey, actually—your buddy, uh…” He snapped his fingers. “Fidgety headphones guy? Came in a while back. What was his name again? Wire! Yeah!”

Mafioso’s eyes narrowed slightly at the mention.

“He was really excited,” Elliot went on, undeterred. “Said something about needing fuel for a big group party. Got the same thing, in fact. I remember because he kept bouncing while I was taking the order—guy’s got energy, huh?”

Elliot let out a short laugh, turning toward the kitchen window. “Didn’t even stick around to talk. Zipped out like he was in a race.”

Mafioso nodded. Just a single one. No words. His gaze followed Elliot as he moved to the kitchen.

And something strange settled over him.

The boy worked alone.

Not a single other worker in sight. Not a line cook, no server, not even someone folding boxes. Just Elliot—whirling behind the oven, flour on his arms, humming to himself as he spun pans and slid pizzas onto hot stones.

All this, managed by one person.

Mafioso had seen loyalty before. He’d demanded it. Bought it. Broken it. But this?

This wasn’t loyalty. This was…

Devotion.

And it wasn’t just to the shop. The way Elliot moved—his rhythm, his attention to detail, the neat way he wiped a smudge off the soda machine between flips—it all felt too… personal. Like he was carrying something invisible on his back.

Mafioso’s fingers tapped slowly on the counter.

Was this what Chance protected?
Was this who Chance called before he disappeared into blood and wreckage?

His smile, usually empty, shifted just the tiniest fraction.

The pizzas were boxed up quickly—too quickly. Elliot’s motions were like clockwork, complete with floury flair. Four boxes in total, corners taped tight and labeled with Sharpie scribbles and smiley faces.

“There we go!” Elliot declared, wiping his hands on his apron. “One mega pizza pack for one mystery fedora guy.”

He slid the boxes forward and smiled again—still that same worn-but-sincere expression, like the kind someone had to choose to wear every day, no matter how heavy it got.

Mafioso pulled out a sleek, jet-black card and handed it across without a word.

Elliot took it, swiped it, and handed back the receipt with a wink. “Don’t worry, no secret mafia tax or pizza laundering on this one. I’m still a law-abiding slice slinger.”

Mafioso blinked. Again.

Jokes. This boy made jokes.

He turned to leave, already reaching for the boxes when—

“Oh! Wait!”

Mafioso stopped mid-step.

Hand moving close to his weapon.

But no.

Elliot dashed behind the counter again and came back holding a cardboard six-pack of root beer.

“Almost forgot. Wire said he loved this brand. Took three the last time and called it ‘brain fuel.’” Elliot laughed lightly, holding it out with both hands. “On the house. Kinda a ‘thank you’ for ordering the party pack.”

Mafioso stared.

He hadn’t told Elliot anything. Not the information about Wire was hospitalized by Chance. Not that he was anyone but a tall man in a long coat. And certainly not that he was the kind of man who would be offended by such simple kindness.

Yet here Elliot was—offering a drink with no price. No strings.

“People gotta eat,” Elliot said simply. “And if they gotta eat, might as well make it the best pizza they’ve had all week, right?”

Mafioso didn’t reach for the root beer immediately. His hand hovered. Then, after a heartbeat…

He took it.

Nodded once.

And turned.

Outside, the sun hit like heat from an open oven. His goons—Beartrap, Cane, Echo—stood by the black sedan parked at the curb, waiting like wolves for orders.

They blinked in surprise when their boss emerged not with a hostage, not with a gun drawn, but with a stack of pizza boxes and a root beer six-pack.

No one said a word.

Mafioso walked right past them, straight to the car, placing the food inside without a glance.

But something was wrong.

Something was off.

His chest… felt tight. Not like pain. Not like stress.

Like…

A thump.

Like something stirred in his ribcage. Something he hadn’t felt in years.

A pulse.

A beat.

Warm.

He looked back once through the glass door.

Elliot was still inside, adjusting the visor on his cap, smiling toward another family walking in.

Still shining.

Still standing.

Still unknown.

And Mafioso hated unknowns.

But this one?

He didn’t know if he wanted to destroy it.

Or protect it.

Chapter Text

Elliot POV

As the bell jingled softly and the black-coat stranger exited through the front doors of Builder Brother’s Pizza, Elliot’s expression didn’t change.

Not at first.

He kept smiling. A practiced, warm, sunshine-on-a-rainy-day kind of smile. He even offered a polite wave through the window.

But the moment the car pulled away…

His knees nearly buckled.

He ducked behind the counter, gripping the edges like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His visor fell crooked over his eyes.
His heart, which had been thumping steadily throughout the encounter, suddenly decided it wanted out of his chest. Preferably through his throat.

He inhaled once. Shaky.
Twice. Useless.
Third time—calm, Elliot, calm.

“Just a regular customer,” he muttered aloud. “Big coat. Big appetite. Regular customer. He didn’t even do anything! No threats, no weapons, no cryptic riddles. Just… creepy eyes. Intense silence. Grin from the underworld. Totally normal.”

He peeked over the counter like a nervous meerkat.

The pizza boxes were gone. The drink too. The payment had gone through. No secret button-pressing, no strange packages left behind. Just… a visit.

Then his brain caught up with him.

“Oh no. What if that card was stolen? What if I just accepted mafia money? Is that a federal offense or a moral offense?!”

He leaned against the soda machine, which was still sticky from a kid’s party spill two hours ago, and sighed.

The image of that customer—tall, calm, cold as a walk-in freezer with a fedora to match—burned into his brain like a branding iron.
But more than the appearance, it was the feeling the guy left behind.
That strange silence.
That unspoken… heaviness.

It was the kind of presence that stayed after the person left.

The same way nightmares do.

Elliot looked at the register, then at the faded photo of his family behind it.

He forced the smile back on.

“…I’m just being silly. A customer’s a customer. People gotta eat.”

He rubbed flour off his hands and went back to cleaning like he hadn’t just served a root-beer-sipping crime boss.

⸻
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Mafioso POV

The inside of the sleek black car was silent.

For once, no tactical updates. No whispered exchanges. No orders barked.

Just silence.

Mafioso sat in the back seat, pizza boxes stacked beside him, the root beer six-pack resting gently in his lap—untouched.

His eyes were locked forward, but they weren’t seeing the road.

They were back inside that pizza parlor. Back across the counter. Back where a boy with flour on his face and hope in his voice had smiled without hesitation.

And said his name wrong.

But that not important

Not his name. Someone else’s.
Chance.

But they have finally got information, the pizza boy. Elliot and Chance are close.

…

Very close for that pizza boy to call out to him as Chance…
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A name like a paper cut. Tiny. Quick.
Painful in a way you don’t realize until you touch it again.

Mafioso shifted slightly. The movement finally broke the silence.

What is this felling.

Cane, seated beside him with his pristine white hat and a calm presence, cleared his throat gently.

“Boss… you alright?”

No answer.

From the front passenger seat, Echo, still in his headset and tactical sunglasses, looked over his shoulder.

“He hasn’t spoken in fifteen minutes. That’s either good or very, very bad.”

Beartrap didn’t say anything. He just turned from the driver’s seat and stared at Mafioso with his usual expression: somewhere between confused and ready to punch through a wall.

Cane glanced at the root beer.

“That’s… the same brand Wire obsesses over, isn’t it?”

Echo blinked.

“Wait. Did the pizza guy give him that? For free?”

Cane nodded slowly.

“What I saw inside the window, With both hands. Like he was offering an olive branch… made of carbonation.”

Beartrap’s brows furrowed.

Echo leaned forward, deadly serious.

“Boss. With all due respect… is the pizza guy an informant? Undercover agent? Possibly immune to fear? Maybe even trained in psychological warfare?”

Beartrap let out a grunt. Possibly agreement. Possibly indigestion.

Cane folded his arms.

“Let’s think about this logically. He recognized your presence. That much was clear. But he didn’t break. Didn’t sweat—until we left. That’s classic resistance training. I’d wager he’s been briefed on you.”

Echo’s voice lowered.

“What if… he’s the real boss of this operation? Not Chance. Him.”

Cane:

“A deep-cover strategist. Biding his time. Camouflaged as a humble pizza boy.”

Beartrap cracked his knuckles.
He nodded slowly.

Echo tapped on his tablet with increasing concern.

“He even offered root beer diplomacy. That’s a move I haven’t seen since the Cola Peace Treaty of ‘22.”

Cane stroked his chin.

“Indeed. Strategic kindness is often the sharpest blade.”

They all turned to Mafioso.

Still silent.

Still staring.

Still holding the root beer like it was made of glass.

After a long, unbearable pause…

“…He smiled,” Mafioso finally said. Voice low. Barely audible.

Echo blinked.

“Sir?”

“He smiled… and didn’t ask for anything.”

The three goons looked at one another.

Then Beartrap, for the first time in months, made a sound.

“…Wholesome.”

Silence again.

Cane tilted his head, choosing his next words carefully.

“Sir… shall we intervene?”

Mafioso didn’t answer at first. Then, finally, he placed the root beer on the seat beside him like it was something precious.

“No. Not yet.”

The car began to move again, tires humming along the street.

Mafioso didn’t look back. But his thoughts?
They hadn’t left the shop.

That strange little flame, working the counter.
Smiling through fear.
Joking with death.

He didn’t know if the boy was brave… or simply unaware of the world’s darker corners.

But either way…

He was interesting.

And interesting was dangerous.

Chapter Text

The front door of his mansion clicked shut behind him with a low, deliberate thud.

Chance leaned against it for a second, letting the solid weight of the wood hold him up. His whole body ached. Not in the “good fight” kind of ache, but the sort that seeped into your bones and clung there like smoke. His suit jacket hung off one shoulder, torn. His tie was knotted halfway down his chest, blood stiff in the fabric.

He shut his eyes and took a breath.
The metallic taste was still there. So was the ringing in his ears.

The couch wasn’t far. But each step over the polished marble floor felt like wading through molasses. His boots tracked faint red footprints. He didn’t bother taking them off.

By the time he collapsed into the cushions, his coat was on the floor, his belt halfway unbuckled, and his holster tossed onto the coffee table. The revolver landed with a hollow clunk. Beside it, a coin spun on its edge before lying flat.

Heads.
Of course.

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Flashback –

(The memory didn’t ease in. It slammed back into him all at once.)

The inside of Beartrap’s car had smelled like old leather, cigarettes, and the faint tang of rusting metal.
Chance was slouched low in the passenger seat, eyes half-lidded, tapping fingers against his leg like this was just another boring drive.

Beartrap didn’t speak for a while. The man could drive for miles without a word, and Chance would let him—most days. Not tonight.
“…So where the hell is everyone?” Chance finally asked.

The conversation started calm enough. But when Beartrap mentioned Mafioso waiting to see him… something in Chance tightened.

He didn’t even remember deciding to fight. It just happened. One second he was smirking. The next, the car was swerving into oncoming traffic, both of them trading gunshots, elbows, knees—
—and laughter.

Chance laughed when the bullet grazed his spine. He laughed when Beartrap slammed a hand around his throat. He even laughed when the revolver round tore into his side and the fire of it bloomed through his ribs.

Not because it didn’t hurt.
Because pain was proof he wasn’t dead yet.

The crash came next—fast and violent. Glass exploded. The guardrail gave. They jumped just before the car dove into the canal.

They weren’t breathing easy for long. Wire showed up with a pizza box in one hand and a stick in the other, swinging like a kid possessed. And for a moment—just a moment—Chance thought it was hilarious. Until the kid actually landed a few hits.

Then it was just dangerous.

The fight turned ugly. Brutal. Personal.
Wire was scrappy, Beartrap was crawling toward him, and Chance—Chance was burning with that wild, coin-flip kind of luck that always tipped in his favor.

Until the bullet hit.

Wire went down. Bleeding. And when Chance’s hand closed around that rock, something in Beartrap’s voice cracked for the first time.
It didn’t stop him.
Not until Wire was still.

And when Chance looked up—Mafioso’s car was there. Waiting. Watching.

That was the moment he ran.

⸻

Present Day

The memory snapped away like a rubber band.

Chance rolled his shoulders, winced, and peeled his shirt over his head. Bloodstains had dried into the fabric. He dropped it to the floor with the rest of the mess. His mansion was spotless most of the time, but tonight? Tonight it looked like a hotel room after a three-day bender—clothes, boots, holsters, empty coin rolls scattered across the path from the door to the couch.

He moved with the same casual laziness he’d used after a job gone right, even if this one had gone sideways in ten different ways.

His Black Sparkle Time Fedora sat crooked on his head, tilted back as he loosened the Clockwork Headphones around his neck. The shades stayed on for a beat longer, hiding the swelling under one eye, before he dropped them on the table beside the revolver.

That coin caught his attention again. He picked it up, flicked it into the air, and caught it without looking.
Tails.

“Guess you’re in a mood too,” he muttered to it.

⸻

From somewhere deeper in the house came the soft sound of claws on hardwood. Then—light thumps, like tiny drums, getting closer.

Spade hopped into the living room.
The giant black-furred bunny blinked up at him with an unshakable calm, ears twitching like she’d been listening in the whole time.

“Hey, girl,” Chance murmured, lowering a hand to scratch between her ears. She leaned into it, nose twitching.

He sat back on the couch, letting her climb up beside him, the weight of her big body pressing warm against his hip. She smelled like hay and something sweet he couldn’t place. For the first time tonight, the tight coil in his chest loosened a little.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said with a half-smile. “Yeah, I screwed up. Again. But we’re still here, right?”

Spade didn’t answer. Bunnies rarely did.

He let his head fall back against the cushion, one arm draped over the back of the couch, the other lazily stroking her fur. He could feel the dried blood cracking on his knuckles. He could hear the faint hum of the coin as it spun once more on the table before slowing to a stop.

Heads again.

He smirked.
“Guess I’m not out yet.”

But in the back of his mind, he knew his family would notice the bruises, the limp, the smell of smoke in his hair.
And they’d ask questions.
Questions he didn’t feel like answering.

For now, the mansion was quiet.
And Chance intended to keep it that way.
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After a while, his head finally eased up. The pulse pounding in his ears dulled, and the tight knot in his shoulders loosened just enough to let him breathe. For the first time in hours, the fog lifted—and with it came a face.

“Elliot 🍕💛”

The little pizza slice and heart made him snort without meaning to. He’d put it in there as a joke

He found himself humming, a low tune without words, while the memory played in his head. The way Elliot’s laugh shook out of him—short, genuine, unpolished. The way he’d tilt his head when Chance tossed him some lazy flirt, only to shake it off and keep talking like nothing happened. The kid was dense. Painfully so. Chance almost forgot how much he missed that.

Almost.

Without thinking, his hand dipped into his pocket. His fingers brushed fabric. Empty.

“Huh.”

Other pocket. Nothing. Coat pocket—zip. Back pockets—nope.

His smile turned sharp and thin, the kind you wear when you’re trying not to panic.

He started slow. Patted down his chest, his sides. Checked the jacket again. And then the panic hit like a wave.

The search became frantic. Shoes came off. Socks inspected like they might be hiding state secrets. He tossed his jacket onto the floor, crouched to check under the couch, even stuck his head under the table like maybe the phone had grown legs and walked away.

Spade, his giant black-furred bunny, sat in the corner chewing hay after being push off by Chance, her nose twitching lazily. She did not move. She did not help.

Chance stripped off his shirt next, muttering under his breath. Then the pants. Standing there in his underwear, he glanced down like maybe—just maybe—it was hiding in there. It wasn’t.

Is just his golden shine back.

“Where the hell—”

Spade paused mid-chew to watch him squat down and check the waistband like a man possessed. Her ears tilted slightly back, not in alarm, but in the heavy, weary posture of someone witnessing peak stupidity.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he grumbled.

She blinked, slow.

Then the thought hit.

He froze. The air in the room seemed to thicken. His smile fell away, leaving only the barebones of it—an empty expression trying to mask the gut drop.

He’d dropped the phone.

Not just anywhere—there. In the street of the bridge . The exact moment Mafioso’s car rolled up earlier. Right before he’d bolted.

“…Oh,” he muttered, voice flat. “Ohhh.”

His head tilted back, eyes closing in disbelief. “Elliot is cooked—”

Spade’s chewing resumed, but slower now. Her whiskers twitched once. She let out a long, soft bunny sigh, the kind that could be translated perfectly into, You absolute moron. The audience was worried about Elliot, and you just made it worse.

Chance sat back hard in his chair, still in his underwear, staring at the ceiling like maybe it could give him an answer. Spade kept watching, her quiet judgment filling the silence.

Somewhere out there, his phone—and maybe Elliot—were in the wrong hands. And the worst part? He had no idea how bad it had just gotten.

Chapter Text

Three days passed.

At Builder Brothers Pizza, life rolled on like nothing had happened. The ovens still rumbled, the delivery bikes still coughed out smoke, and customers still trickled in with greasy hands and impatient voices. The scary man in the fedora—the one whose shadow still clung to Elliot’s mind like soot—never came back. No broken glass, no men lurking outside, no sign of that grin that looked sharp enough to cut skin.

For Elliot, those days were almost… normal.

He took orders, wiped down tables, swapped jokes with co-workers. The nervousness he’d carried after the alleyway incident slowly, almost reluctantly, slipped away. He even caught himself humming while stocking dough, his visor tilted back, eyes relaxed. He told himself: See? It was nothing. Just some weird night. People like that don’t hang around pizza places. I’m fine. The shop’s fine.

But late at night, when the bell above the door stopped ringing and the mop sloshed through the quiet, he’d think of Chance.

And then his phone buzzed.

He glanced down between orders. A message.

Not from 🎲 Dummy 🎲. Not from the number he’d been staring at every night, waiting, half-dreading. No—this was a different number. Unknown.

The message said:

“Yo. It’s me. Lost my phone. New number. Save it now.”

Elliot blinked. His stomach tightened, his heart leapt. Chance.

For a split second, he froze. It was relief and nerves tangled together. Chance—finally, after all the silence—was texting him again. His first instinct was to reply instantly, but something about it made him hesitate.

Lost his phone? That was possible. Chance was reckless. Elliot had seen him shove it into his back pocket, leave it on counters, almost drop it in the fryer once. But still… why not borrow someone else’s phone sooner? Why not come by in person?

Elliot chewed on his lip, staring at the ID. Blank, just numbers. He didn’t trust blank numbers.

“Who is this?” he typed back anyway, cautious fingers pressing each letter.

The reply came quick. “It’s me, dummy.”

Elliot’s brows lifted. Nobody else called him that. Not at least in Chance’s… tone. But the phone still wasn’t saving in his head. He typed again:

“Prove it.”

And that’s when the photo came in.

A blurry mirror selfie—Chance leaning against some run-down bathroom wall, holding up two fingers in a lazy peace sign. The same messy grin, the same scar on his brow, the red bandana tied sloppy at his neck.

Elliot’s breath caught. His chest eased. The doubts melted away.

“Oh my god,” he muttered under his breath, tapping to enlarge the photo. It wasn’t new-new, but it was real. Definitely him. Elliot felt stupid for even doubting.

He saved the contact: “Chance 🌩️” (different from the old 🎲 Dummy 🎲, but hey, new number, new look).

And just like that, relief washed over him.

He texted back, fingers almost shaking: “Idiot. You scared me. Thought you ghosted me.”

The reply came, smooth, casual: “Nah. Just busy. I’m still around. Don’t worry.”

“There so much I need to catch up with you.”

It was simple. Almost too simple. But Elliot wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe Chance was fine, alive, and still thinking about him.

And for the next three days, things fell into a rhythm again.

Chance 🌩️ texted him here and there. Quick one-liners. Jokes that sounded like Chance. Elliot even laughed once or twice reading them on break. He assumed Chance was just busy with whatever crazy life he had. Dangerous or not, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was safe enough to text.

Everything seemed fine.

⸻

On the fourth night.

The pizza shop was empty. Elliot flipped the sign to “Closed,” the clink of the lock echoing louder than usual. He stretched, back aching from the day, visor tilted. The neon hum of the sign outside mixed with the faint rattle of the soda fridge.

His phone buzzed.

He fished it out, thinking it was one of his coworkers, maybe his dad reminding him about some supply pickup.

But no.

-Chance 🌩️-

Message:
“Yo. Meet me by the alley of this location. Need to talk. Urgent.”

Elliot’s stomach tightened. He read it twice. Then a third time.

His mouth went dry. The alley? At night?

He actually muttered aloud, scrubbing a hand down his face:
“Dude, this is how horror movies start.”

He paced, mop still leaning against the wall. He could just ignore it. He could just go home.

“This is exactly how horror movies start,” he said to himself. “Dumb kid walks into an alley and—bam—credits roll.”

Chance 🌩️ : “ I do owe you an explanation of why I was absent for so long.”

Oh.

But it was Chance. And it had been too long. Elliot sighed, rubbed his neck, and gave in.

“Fine,” he muttered. “One bad horror movie decision won’t kill me.”

He grabbed his red helmet, slipped it over his head, and rolled his motorcycle out into the night.

⸻

The streets were nearly empty. The city looked hollow at this hour—streetlights buzzing, shop windows blank, the sky cloudy. Elliot liked it that way, usually. Solitude meant peace.

The alley loomed when he turned the corner, a strip of cracked pavement and shadows. A single lamp flickered above, stuttering weak light over bricks stained with time.

He cut the engine, swung his leg off, and stood with the helmet tucked under his arm.

The air smelled like wet cement.

“Chance?” he called quietly.

No answer.

His phone buzzed again.

Chance 🌩️ → “Inside. Door’s open. Surprise.”

Elliot blinked at the screen. Then at the old building beside him. Its paint peeled, its windows shut tight. But sure enough, the front door stood cracked open, darkness spilling out.

“Surprise,” Elliot muttered, his voice wobbling. “Yeah, sure, because creepy abandoned buildings are my favorite.”

Still, he pushed the door. It creaked, swinging wide to reveal a dusty stairwell.

Step by step, he climbed. His sneakers squeaked softly. His phone buzzed every few seconds with new texts, guiding him like breadcrumbs.

“Upstairs.”
“Almost there.”
“Room 17.”

At the top, the hallway stretched long and narrow, wallpaper rotting, ceiling lights dead. He found the number stenciled faintly on one door: 17.

The knob turned easily under his hand.

The room inside was dark. Too dark.

His phone buzzed again.
Chance 🌩️: “Look around 😉”

Elliot, swallowing hard, lifted his flashlight app and swung the beam.

And froze.

His breath caught.

The walls.

Covered in pictures.

His pictures.

Polaroids, screenshots, printouts—all taped, pinned, tacked. Him laughing at work. Him walking home. Him locking his bike. Even one from inside the pizza shop, when he thought he was alone. And mixed in—pictures of him with Chance. Private ones. Ones no stranger should have.

But it wasn’t just photos. Notes, scribbled on scraps of paper. His name circled again and again. Arrows pointing. Strings connecting. A map of his life spread like prey on the wall.

Elliot’s stomach flipped.

“This… what the hell—” he whispered.

His phone buzzed. A voicemail notification.

Shaking, he lifted it to his ear.

The voice that came through was not Chance’s.

It was low, gravelly. Slow.

“You trust too easy, pizza boy.”

Elliot froze. His chest locked. The phone slipped in his grip.

Behind him, the air shifted. Heavy footsteps.

He turned—just in time to see the shadow loom.

Mafioso. Fedora tilted low, eyes glinting cold. His fist came fast, brutal.

The punch cracked against Elliot’s jaw. He hit the floor hard, gasping, the phone skittering across the wood. His vision blurred, cough rattling his chest.

Through the haze, he saw it—the phone in Mafioso’s hand. The one with the contact 🎲 Dummy 🎲. Chance’s real phone.

And in that second -Chance 🌩️- fake one, everything clicked.

The new number. The photo. The easy texts. All of it a trick. Mafioso had played him—played them both.

Elliot’s last thought before the blackness swallowed him was bitter, sharp punch.

His body trembling on the floor, Mafioso’s shadow stretching long, Chance’s stolen phone glowing in the dark.

Chapter Text

Elliot gagged, coughing up copper. The warm taste of blood clung thick in his mouth, iron and salt rolling down his tongue. He could barely catch his breath before the next wave of pain crashed into him. His ribs screamed, his cheekbone throbbed, and still he couldn’t lift himself from the floor.

The weight of a gloved hand yanked him up by his red shirt collar. He was nothing in that grip, dangling like a ragdoll. Then—another blow.

Crack.

The punch ripped through him, snapping his head back. His visor nearly flew off, the little red brim hanging crooked now as his world spun sideways. He collapsed onto the hardwood with a wet thud, blood splattering the dusty floorboards. His lungs clawed for air, ragged, shallow.

He barely got one word out, his voice breaking.

“W–wait—”

The word cut through the heavy silence. The hand raised above him, ready to strike again, froze mid-swing. Mafioso’s silhouette loomed, his coat hanging like the shroud of a nightmare. His grin never faltered.

Elliot forced his eyes up. His chest heaved, his lips trembling.

“Please,” he rasped, the sound barely human. “Please don’t kill me. I’ll do anything—please!”

The grin widened—if that was even possible. Mafioso’s shadow stretched long across the floor, swallowing Elliot whole. For a second, the only sound in the room was Elliot’s ragged breathing, and the faint drip of blood from his split lip tapping against the wood.

In that moment, Elliot’s mind spun, frantic. Why him? Why was this happening? He didn’t run bets, didn’t owe debts, didn’t deal in anything darker than overcooked Pizza work. The only connection—

His stomach sank.

The memory hit him quick: the first time the fedora man had walked into his shop, shadow spilling across neon light, smile carved like it was chiseled into his skull. Elliot had greeted him with his usual cheer, pad spinning, voice steady even as the man’s stare pinned him in place.

Family size combo Pizza. That’s what the man had ordered. Just another customer, right? Just another face. Except the way those eyes had lingered, locked onto him—not the menu. Not the food. Him.

That night had burned in Elliot’s memory, even when he tried not to think about it.

Now it all clicked in jagged pieces, and panic swelled in his chest. Was this about bad service? Did he say something wrong? Did he smile too much? Too little? Was it all a trap the whole time?

Tears stung his eyes, spilling down his bruised cheeks. His voice cracked as he begged, words tumbling raw.

“What did I ever do to you?! I never asked for money—I’ve never done anything! I don’t even know who you are!” His voice rose, desperate, splitting into a scream. “This is so unfair! W-why me—”

“Quiet.”

The word landed like a gunshot. Cold, sharp. Final.

Mafioso’s voice was nothing like Wire’s excitable chatter, nothing like Cane’s calm rhythm. This was a voice carved out of stone, heavy with power, unhurried because it didn’t need to rush. The kind of voice that could smother a room.

Elliot’s plea died instantly in his throat.

In one fluid motion, Mafioso slipped his tie free from around his own neck. Black silk gleamed faint under the dim light as he wound it around Elliot’s wrists, yanking them behind his back. The knot tightened until Elliot hissed in pain, shoulders wrenched awkwardly. The fabric bit into his skin, no give, no mercy.

Mafioso tilted Elliot’s chin upward with one hand, his grip iron around the smaller man’s jaw. Elliot could feel the strength in those fingers, not squeezing yet but promising they could crush if they wanted.

“Poor little rat…” Mafioso murmured. His grin hovered inches from Elliot’s face, unwavering, eternal. The words rolled slow, savoring. “Thought I was doing this over your debt.”

Elliot’s chest seized. He shook his head frantically, tears blurring the world. “I don’t—I don’t owe you anything—!”

“Well.” Mafioso leaned closer, his breath brushing against Elliot’s cheek, cold despite the heat in the room. His voice dropped lower, like a whisper sliding along the edge of a blade. “You’re right. You don’t owe me nothing.”

For a fleeting second, relief flickered in Elliot’s chest. Maybe—maybe he would be spared. Maybe this was a mistake.

But Mafioso wasn’t finished.

“…But.”

That grin never broke, never shifted. His eyes, shaded under the brim of his pinstripe fedora, gleamed with something unreadable, something dark and unrelenting.

“‘Chance.’ You know him, right?”

The name slammed into Elliot like another punch.

His heart seized. His lips parted, but no sound came.

Mafioso still holding the phone. Black case, faint scratches. Elliot recognized it instantly. His breath caught in his throat.

It was Chance’s phone.

Mafioso held it up casually, like a toy. He shook it once, letting it dangle in his hand. The screen lit up, that familiar nickname flashing: 🎲 Dummy 🎲.

Elliot’s blood ran cold.

Mafioso’s grin widened, if that were possible. “Your friend,” he said smoothly, “stole something of mine. Something important. And now he’s on the run.”

He dangled the phone just out of Elliot’s reach, like bait before a trapped animal.

Elliot trembled, chest heaving, mind spinning in circles. He understood now. He was nothing more than leverage. A piece on a board he didn’t even know he was playing on. Chance was the one Mafioso wanted—but Elliot was the one caught.

Still

Elliot’s lungs burned with every shallow gasp. Limp and trembling. He couldn’t tell which pain was worse—the sharp ache in his ribs where Mafioso’s fist had landed, or the sick weight settling in his chest as the realization dawned that he wasn’t going to talk his way out of this.

The tie binding his wrists cut cruelly into his skin. Every tug only made the silk bite deeper, the knot impossibly tight. His shoulders screamed, nerves sparking from the awkward angle. He couldn’t move, couldn’t crawl, couldn’t even lift a hand to wipe the blood dripping down from his split brow into his eye.

Mafioso crouched in front of him, coat falling around him like the wings of some black bird. His gloved hand clamped Elliot’s chin one again, forcing his head up. The grin carved across his face never shifted, but his eyes—dark, shadowed beneath the brim of his fedora—stayed locked onto Elliot’s. Unblinking. Unyielding.

“And one more thing,” Mafioso drawled, voice smooth as oil. His grip tightened, fingers digging into Elliot’s jaw until it hurt to breathe. “One of my henchmen ended up in the hospital… because of your friend.”

Elliot blinked through tears, his vision blurring. He couldn’t even process the words at first. Hospital? Henchman? His mind scrambled for meaning through the fog of panic.

Mafioso yanked his chin, twisting Elliot’s head toward the dark corner of the room. Shapes shifted.

From the shadows stepped three figures.

Echo. Sunglasses glinting under the dim light, headset crackling faint static. Calm, but tense, his posture straight as a blade.
Cane. Hands folded neatly behind his back, the tall hat giving him that dignified air of a scholar, but his sharp eyes were cold, assessing.
And Beartrap. Massive, hulking, his ushanka shadowing his face. He leaned against the wall with crossed arms, but even at rest he looked like a statue ready to move, all brute strength waiting for a command.

They weren’t here to fight. They were here to watch. To bear witness.

Mafioso’s grin widened. He tilted Elliot’s face back toward him. “Wanna know why? Wanna know what your precious friend did?”

Elliot’s heart pounded against his ribs, loud enough he thought the whole room could hear it. He shook his head weakly, tears threatening again. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to picture it.

Mafioso leaned closer, voice dropping to a rasp meant just for him. “At our last meeting, as we all thought he was cornered and finally ready to give back what he stole…” He paused, savoring the moment. His smile didn’t flicker. “He ran. Still tried to run. Injured one of my men. And the other?”

His grip on Elliot’s chin grew tighter, bruising. He stared into Elliot’s eyes, smile stretching into something almost inhuman. “…Life threatening.”

Elliot’s breath hitched, stomach twisting. His body wanted to fold in on itself, but Mafioso’s hand kept him pinned upright.

Mafioso’s tone dropped lower, darker. “He went to kill.”

The room felt colder all of a sudden.

Mafioso let the words hang in the air for a beat before continuing, voice deliberate, cruelly slow. “Picked up a rock about the size of your head… and smacked it into him.”

Elliot’s eyes widened, horror freezing him in place. He couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped his throat.

Behind them, Echo and Cane didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Beartrap’s jaw clenched, just barely, the muscles twitching in his scarred face.

Mafioso’s grin didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened. “Wire. You know the boy, don’t you? He came to your pizza often. Order the big combo Two pepperoni, fidgeted with that little stick of his.”

Elliot did know him. That energy boy, that bright smile when he accepted an extra soda Elliot slipped into his box. Wire had been there more than once, a familiar face, even if he always act loudly, eyes darting.

And now—Elliot pictured him broken, bleeding, his skull cracked by Chance’s hand.

Mafioso finally released Elliot’s chin, letting his head drop forward. Elliot gasped in air like he’d just surfaced from underwater, but his chest still hitched with sobs.

“You must be shocked too, huh?” Mafioso purred, his voice dripping mock sympathy. He rose back to full height, towering over Elliot, coat brushing the ground. “Are you happy your friend did this?”

The words hit like daggers. Elliot shook his head violently, tears spilling down his bruised cheeks. His voice broke in a raw scream. “No! I didn’t— I didn’t know! Please, I didn’t know!”

But Mafioso wasn’t listening. His hand grip Chance phone tighter, retrieving Chance’s phone once more. He held it up almost breaking it, screen glowing faintly.

The tears finally spilled fast down his cheeks, hot against his battered skin. He tried to speak, but his voice broke into jagged sobs.

“Please… I don’t know where he is—I don’t—I can’t help you—”

Mafioso only chuckled, low and rumbling. His gloved hand land grip on Elliot’s throat tightened, forcing his head still, forcing him to look into that endless, hollow smile.

“Oh, I don’t need your help finding him,” Mafioso said, almost kindly. “I’ll find him myself.”

His eyes glinted, sharp as broken glass.

“But you? You’re the kind of reminder men like him don’t forget.”

The meaning hit Elliot all at once. His chest constricted, his stomach twisted, his whole body trembling as the weight of it sank in. Mafioso wasn’t here to kill him. Not yet. He was here to bleed him, break him, and leave him alive just enough to make Chance watch.

The blood dripping from Elliot’s lip hit the floor again, each drop loud in the silence.

“Then again…” Mafioso mused, tilting the device between his fingers, “your friend is still in hiding. These past few days, not a whisper, not a warning. Funny, isn’t it? Almost like he knows I would be here...appear in your place... waiting.”

The phone lit up with a faint notification. Mafioso’s grin gleamed in its glow.

“You know how it goes,” he said smoothly, pressing the phone against Elliot’s chest before pulling it away again. Then, with one gloved finger, he jabbed sharply at Elliot’s sternum. Hard enough to make him wince. Hard enough to drive the words in.

“Someone’s gotta pay the price.”

Elliot shook his head wildly, choking on sobs. “No—no, please, not me—!”

Mafioso bent down, his smile so close now Elliot could see the faint gleam of teeth in the dim light. His words were quiet, but each one was weighted like a stone dropped in water.

“And that someone… is you.”

Elliot’s entire body convulsed with the force of his sobbing. He was trembling so hard his shoulders shook, wrists raw against the tie’s binding. The hopelessness settled heavy in his chest, drowning him, smothering him.

Mafioso tilted his head. In his own silent mind, his heartbeat thundered, not from rage, but from something darker. Watching Elliot’s tears streak down his battered face, watching his chest rise and fall in panicked gasps—it sparked something cold and electric in him.

Cute, he thought, grin stretching. The sight of innocence crumbling, of light flickering beneath his shadow—it made his smile feel almost alive.

“Oh well.”

The words were casual, careless, as if discarding Elliot’s life was no more significant than flicking ash from a cigar.

The fist came down.

Elliot wasn’t ready. He couldn’t brace, couldn’t even flinch in time. The blow crashed into his stomach, knocking the air from his lungs in a strangled yelp. His body curled instinctively, but Mafioso’s other hand shoved him upright again, not letting him collapse.

Another punch.

Then another.

Each one landed heavy, deliberate, timed. Not wild strikes, but measured ones. Designed to hurt, not kill. To break him slowly.

Elliot’s cries echoed through the room, weak and raw, each yelp cut shorter as his breath faltered. His legs gave out, but Mafioso didn’t let him fall—he kept him upright just enough to take the next blow.

Echo, Cane, Beartrap—none moved. None spoke. They just watched.

Elliot’s vision blurred, tears mixing with blood, his cries turning into weak whimpers. His body shuddered violently, the room spinning around him. The taste of iron coated his tongue, dripping down his throat.

And still—Mafioso smiled.

Chapter Text

Elliot didn’t remember the moment Mafioso finally stepped back. He only remembered the sound—like waves in his skull—the crack of knuckles on bone, the wet sting of copper on his tongue. Then silence, almost deafening after the storm. His breath rattled, shallow but steady, every inhale a whimper pressed between his teeth.

Mafioso stood over him, tall and unmoved, though his chest rose faster than usual. The shadows bent around him, the streetlights weak against the weight he carried. He flexed his hand once, knuckles raw and smeared in Elliot’s blood. Then, almost absently, like it wasn’t even a choice but an instinct, he raised it to his lips.

The taste was sharp. Metallic. But beneath the iron bite lingered something else—warmth, fragility, a hint of sweetness swallowed beneath pain. He closed his eyes for half a second, letting the taste spread, and his pulse throbbed harder in his throat. Obsession wasn’t honey, wasn’t wine. It was blood. Sharp enough to hurt, rich enough to haunt. A reminder of what belonged to him the moment he touched it.

Mafioso’s tongue swept clean across his knuckles, slow. Deliberate. His smile didn’t widen, but his eyes burned with something close to hunger. Cute, he thought again, watching Elliot trembling in the dark, curled on the broken pavement like a discarded thing. His heart kept beating faster, like a drum he couldn’t still.

Behind him, Cane crouched lower, brows drawn. Echo leaned against the wall still, unbothered, arms folded like he’d already seen enough. Beartrap shifted his weight, grunting, but didn’t move forward either.

“You think Chance comes back for him?” Echo asked finally, his tone as flat as a stone skipping water. “That lunatic didn’t even look behind him last time. Doubt he cares.”

Beartrap spat to the side, jaw tight. “He looked back. Don’t tell me you missed it. That split-second, he froze when he saw the car. Maybe he’s not coming for the boy, but don’t fool yourself—he’s not gone either.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mafioso’s voice cut through, low and certain. “Chance will crawl out eventually. He always does. When he does, he’ll know exactly what’s waiting.”

He turned, his coat brushing the pavement as he started walking away, the others following without hesitation. All but Cane.

Cane’s eyes lingered on Elliot. The kid’s chest rose in unsteady rhythm, his face swollen and painted with bruises, blood smeared across his lip and cheek. He wasn’t going to die—not tonight—but every bruise screamed of what could have been. Cane’s jaw tightened. He muttered something under his breath, then knelt down beside him.

“Stay down, kid,” he grunted, not unkind, his voice low so only Elliot could hear. His hands moved with rough efficiency, putting on a the jacket he have, tugging it Around Elliot’s body fixing jacket straight, pressing fabric against a bleeding cut to slow it. “Ain’t no hero shit here. Just keeping you breathing.”

Echo tilted his head, amused. “Since when do you play doctor, Cane?”

Cane didn’t look back. “Just patching him up enough for the boss to keep going later.” His tone was gruff, dismissive on the surface, but the way his hand steadied Elliot’s shoulder told a different story.

Beartrap let out a low chuckle. “You’re wasting your time. Boy’s already marked. Everyone sees it.”

Cane glanced up once, meeting his eyes. “Maybe so. But not all of this mess is his fault.”

The others didn’t argue. They didn’t need to. Mafioso hadn’t told Cane to stop, and in their world, that silence was permission enough.

By the time they moved out, Elliot was still there, curled and broken, but his pulse steadier thanks to Cane’s rough fix. Mafioso walked ahead, calm as a saint, but every beat of his heart still pounded like the echo of fists. He didn’t look back once. He didn’t need to.

Because in his head, Elliot wasn’t gone. He was still there, trembling. Still his. Still waiting for the next time.

And to Mafioso, that taste would never leave his tongue.

.
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Elliot fumbled with his keys, knuckles stiff and swollen, every movement sending sharp little sparks of pain up his arm. The key finally slid in, the lock clicked, and he leaned his whole body weight against the door to push it open.

The apartment greeted him with silence. No humming refrigerator, no dripping faucet—just the groan of the hinges and the faint creak of the wooden floorboards under his shoes. He staggered inside, barely able to lift his feet.

The place was small—one bedroom, a bathroom, and a living room that doubled as a kitchen. Pizza-themed plushies covered the couch. The faint garlic smell clung to everything no matter how many candles he burned. Normally it was home. Tonight, it was just another box to collapse in.

He coughed hard, doubling over, one hand pressed to his stomach where the bruises throbbed like fire under his skin. The jacket Cane had draped over his shoulders was still on him. It wasn’t his. It smelled like smoke and leather, a sharp scent that made his nose twitch, but it was warm, and he couldn’t bring himself to take it off. The thought of removing it made him feel exposed, fragile.

His bathroom wasn’t far. He staggered toward it, every step heavier than the last, until he caught himself on the sink. His breath rattled, his eyes stung, but he forced himself upright enough to look into the mirror.

The reflection made him freeze.

His lip was split wide, dried blood crusted in dark lines down his chin. One eye was swollen nearly shut, bruises blooming purple and yellow across his cheekbone. His shirt was stained through, stuck to his body in patches where blood had soaked and dried.

And there—bright against the pale of his skin—were the finger-shaped bruises around his neck.

Mafioso’s grip.

Elliot’s hand shot up instinctively, brushing against the mark. The skin was tender, burning even from the lightest touch. He flinched back immediately. It felt less like a bruise and more like a collar, still squeezing, reminding him who had been holding him there.

He reached for the drawer beneath the sink, pulling out a Medkit. The case rattled as his shaking fingers fumbled to open it. Bandages, alcohol wipes, a little tube of ointment tumbled onto the counter. His breath came shallow as he started to clean himself up.

Each wipe stung, the antiseptic biting into cuts and raw skin. He hissed, jerking away, then forced himself to keep going. Slow. Careful. His hand trembled so badly that the tissues came away soaked with blood almost as fast as he could press them down. The trash bin filled with red, a pile of crumpled reminders of just how much he was bleeding.

When he finally taped a bandage over the worst cut on his temple, he dared to look up at the mirror again.

It hadn’t changed.

The same bruised face stared back at him, his eyes ringed dark, his lips trembling. He looked weak. Defeated. Even cleaned, even patched up, he was still the same broken mess Mafioso had left behind.

His breath hitched. His throat burned. He tried to swallow, but it felt like the bruises tightened against his windpipe, like invisible hands were still there, choking him. His chest heaved as the air came in short, shallow bursts. His knees buckled, and he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the cold tile.

He wrapped his arms around himself and let the sobs come.

They were quiet at first, small gasps that slipped through his teeth, but soon they grew louder, rawer. His shoulders shook, his chest convulsed with the effort of holding them back. But the more he tried to swallow it down, the more the tears broke free.

The flashbacks came next. The sound of Mafioso’s voice, low and smooth as he pressed his grip into Elliot’s jaw. The heat of his breath. The weight of the fists slamming into him again and again until Elliot thought his body would cave in. The helpless sound he had made—the begging—echoed in his ears now louder than anything else. He had begged for it to stop. And Mafioso had smiled.

He curled tighter into himself, pressing his forehead to his knees. The shaking wouldn’t stop. His body remembered even when he wanted to forget. Every muscle felt coiled, tense, waiting for the next blow that wasn’t coming.

“Would this be my life?” he whispered hoarsely into the fabric of Cane’s jacket, the words muffled.

The thought clawed deeper into his chest. Would every night end like this—him on the bathroom floor, patching himself up alone, trembling until sleep finally dragged him down? Would Mafioso come back, again and again, until he decided Elliot wasn’t useful anymore? Until Elliot was just another broken body on the floor?

He thought of Chance.

His stomach twisted. What had Chance gotten himself into? What had he gotten them into?

Mafioso’s words cut through him again: “You know the boy? Wire. He came to your pizza often. Are you happy your friend did this?”

Elliot squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn’t happy. God, no. He couldn’t picture Chance’s hand on a gun, couldn’t picture him bringing a rock down again and again on someone’s head—and yet, Mafioso’s description had been so vivid it was burned into his mind. He could see it even though he hadn’t been there. Chance grinning with blood on his face like some monster from a nightmare.

Chance had never meant to kill, Elliot told himself. He couldn’t have. But intent didn’t matter when the result was the same. Wire was in the hospital because of him. Elliot had seen Wire before, had handed him pizzas with a polite smile, never knowing the man would end up bleeding out because of someone Elliot trusted.

The debt wasn’t his. It was Chance’s. Mafioso had said so himself—“the price he stole.” But fairness didn’t matter in Mafioso’s world. Someone had to pay, and if Chance wasn’t here, Elliot was the easier target.

He pressed his fists to his eyes, shaking. His chest hurt, not from the bruises but from the fear itself, raw and gnawing.

Would Mafioso keep coming back? Would Elliot spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, waiting for the next time the shadows in the alley weren’t empty?

A sob tore out of him again, and he curled tighter, forehead pressed against the floor this time. The tile was cold and hard, but it grounded him, at least a little.

Cane’s jacket slipped slightly from his shoulder. He gripped it and pulled it back close. It wasn’t comfort, not really, but it was something. Proof that at least one person hadn’t left him to die in that alley. He didn’t know why Cane had helped, why he’d given him this, but it was the only thread keeping him together.

Still trembling, Elliot shut his eyes. His body was exhausted, but his mind wouldn’t rest. Mafioso’s voice lingered, his grip, his smile.

Would this be his life?

The question stayed with him long after the sobs quieted, echoing in the silence of the small apartment, heavier than any bruise on his skin.

-His nightmare becomes a reality -

Chapter Text

Bunny world,

Elliot was a round, soft lop-eared bunny, sitting in the meadow with a carrot almost as long as his whole body. He munched happily, floppy ears bouncing with every bite. Sweet berries lay beside him like a snack pile he’d carefully gathered.

From behind the bushes, Chance bounded in—a sleek, scruffy jackrabbit with long legs and twitchy whiskers. He launched himself right onto Elliot, wrapping his paws around him.

“Kid,” Chance hummed, burying his nose in Elliot’s fur, “you have no idea how warm you are.”

Elliot blinked, tilted his head, then just went right back to crunching his carrot. He didn’t seem to mind the sudden cuddle attack.

That’s when a shadow fell over them.

Don Sonnellino, a tall and intimidating black Flemish Giant rabbit, stepped into the clearing. His fur was dark, his eyes sharp, and he never blinked. With one swift move, he knocked Chance aside with a heavy paw.

Before Chance could even bounce back, Don lowered his massive head and pressed his teeth to Elliot’s neck, not biting to kill, but just enough to leave a dark mark in the fur. Then, with surprising gentleness for his size, he picked Elliot up by the scruff and carried him off.

Chance scrambled up, ears pinned back, whiskers twitching furiously. “Hey! Put him down—you overgrown top hat!” He lunged, trying to claw Elliot back.

Don didn’t even look at him. He just kept walking slowly, the carrot dangling from Elliot’s paw as Elliot calmly kept chewing. Crunch. Crunch. Berry.

Elliot, dangling there between the two rivals, seemed completely unbothered—just enjoying his carrot like nothing unusual was happening.

The meadow filled with hisses, stomps, and thuds as Chance and Don fought over him, but all Elliot thought about was: “This berry is actually pretty sweet.”

The meadow was chaos—thumps, growls, and fur flying as Chance the jackrabbit and Don Sonnellino the giant Flemish rabbit clashed over poor, dangling Elliot.

But then Elliot wriggled free, landing with a soft plop in the grass. He padded over, still holding the half-eaten carrot between his teeth. Without a word, he leaned in and began gently licking Chance’s fur, smoothing down the scruff where Don had knocked him.

Chance froze. His ears twitched, his tail gave a nervous flick, but he didn’t move.

Then Elliot turned, just as calmly, and started licking Don’s fur too—right along his massive shoulder. Don went completely still, ears standing tall, eyes unreadable.

The two rivals who had been seconds away from ripping each other’s whiskers out now just… stared at each other. And then, without meaning to, they both slowly lowered themselves to the grass.

Elliot nestled right between them, still grooming their fur with slow, patient licks. Chance relaxed first, letting out a long sigh, while Don—stone-still at first—finally closed his eyes.

The meadow went quiet.

Two fierce rabbits lying in the grass like kits again, and Elliot right in the middle, keeping them calm without saying a word.

Crunch. Crunch. He took another bite of carrot.

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Bonus:
The storm came sudden and fierce. Snow piled high across the meadow, the wind howled through the trees, and the world turned white and silent.

In the middle of it all, Elliot had dug a small cave into the drift, just big enough for three. Inside, his warm fur pressed against both Chance and Don Sonnellino, holding them close as the storm raged outside.

Chance shivered, ears twitching. “Kid… you’re warmer than any blanket I ever gambled for.” He tried to laugh, but his teeth chattered.

Don said nothing. He just pressed closer, massive body curled protectively around Elliot, like a wall against the wind.

Through the long night, Elliot kept them both warm. His steady breathing and soft fur were the only things keeping the cold from sinking too deep. Chance dozed for a while. Don stayed awake, watching over them both.

When the sun finally rose, the storm had passed. Light filtered into the little cave.

Chance stirred first, shaking frost from his whiskers. He nudged Elliot’s side, whispering, “Hey… hey, kid. Wake up. Sun’s up.”

Elliot didn’t move.

Don leaned in, nudging too, more firmly. “Up. Now.” His voice was low, almost pleading.

Still nothing.

The truth crept in slow, like the morning light. Elliot’s warmth had faded. His smile would never return.

Chance froze, ears stiff, eyes wide with panic. “No… no, no, no, kid—this isn’t funny—come on…” His voice broke into a whisper.

Don, the giant who never blinked, pressed his nose to Elliot’s fur and closed his eyes for once. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

The two of them stayed there, curled around Elliot’s still body, as the meadow outside woke to a new day.

And for the first time, neither Chance nor Don felt warm at all.

Chapter Text

Its been a long day.

Elliot sat hunched on his couch, the blanket wrapped so tightly around him it felt more like armor than comfort. The painkillers dulled the ache in his body, but they couldn’t touch the weight in his chest or the flashes that ripped through his head when he shut his eyes. Every creak of the old floor, every gust of wind against the window made him flinch.

He had locked everything—doors, windows, even the tiny bathroom latch. Curtains pulled shut, lights dim, the place felt less like a home and more like a bunker. He buried himself deeper into the blanket, clutching a pizza plushy against his chest like it might protect him from the shadows.

The thought of calling the police came and went, but he shoved it down. They wouldn’t help. They’d only bring more eyes, more danger, maybe even drag his dad into this mess. He couldn’t risk that. Not for himself. Not for his family.

So he sat there, shaking in silence, listening to his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, praying Mafioso’s shadow wouldn’t find its way back through his door.

Elliot had always been the guy who kept moving, even when things were bad. That was the only way he knew how to live—smile, serve, and move forward. But these days at home had nearly broken him.

He lost count how many.

The apartment had felt smaller with every passing hour, the walls pressing in like a cage. He’d cleaned, then cleaned again. Slept too much, then barely at all. The mirror became his worst enemy—each glance catching the swelling on his face, the bruises on his neck, the purple fingerprints that no amount of concealer could erase.

He hadn’t even cooked. Cooking meant energy, and he didn’t have any. Just boiling noodles, slapping vegetables between bread, chewing without tasting. Half of it went cold before he remembered to finish.

But worse than the bruises, worse than the food, worse than the silence, was the constant feeling that he wasn’t alone.

That he was being watched.

He swore he heard footsteps when he opened the fridge. Shadows moving behind the curtains. The same black car parked across the street for too long. Every night he lay awake, clutching the edge of Cane’s jacket even though he’d promised himself not to depend on it. Mafioso knew where he lived. He knew. And any second, that door could open again.

By the fourth day, Elliot couldn’t take it anymore. He forced himself out, hoodie pulled low over his head, red visor tucked deep under the brim. The grocery store was packed, voices bouncing off the tiled walls in harsh echoes. He moved slowly, basket swinging from his hand, grabbing whatever was simple—packaged noodles, sliced bread, a couple vegetables that looked easy enough to boil. He ignored the frozen pizzas. Too on the nose.

People stared. He felt it. Their eyes caught on the marks he couldn’t hide, the yellow skin painted purple and green at the edges. He tugged his hood down farther, heat flushing his neck. Let them think he’d been in a fight. That was easier than the truth.

He paid quick, head down, and bolted back out into the cold.

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The bag of groceries sat heavy on the counter, plastic still clinging to the damp edges where condensation had formed. Elliot’s hands shook as he unpacked them one by one—carrots, green onions, a bundle of packaged noodles, a cheap broth packet first. He set them down carefully, like they might break if he moved too fast.

The knife felt cold in his grip when he picked it up. He pressed the carrot flat to the board and began slicing, slow and uneven. His fingers trembled so much the pieces came out jagged, but he didn’t care. Anything to keep moving. Anything to keep from thinking too hard.

But then—he froze.

His eyes caught his own reflection in the blade. Just a blur of pale, sleepless skin and the visor pushed up off his forehead. A faint purple bruise still wrapped around his neck like the memory of hands that had nearly crushed it. His breath caught, shoulders stiff.

How much more of this could he take?

The knife wavered in the air as he lifted it higher, staring into his own reflection. His pulse thumped louder, louder, until all he could hear was his heartbeat against his ears. His hand shook so badly the blade almost slipped from his grip. For one terrifying moment, his thoughts weren’t on vegetables or noodles—they were out of somewhere darker, heavier.

Then—chop.

The carrot snapped in half beneath the blade, and Elliot sucked in a sharp breath, like surfacing from underwater. He blinked, forcing himself to keep cutting, pretending the pause hadn’t happened. Slice after slice, until the board filled with uneven orange circles.

He dropped the vegetables into the pot, added broth, stirred. Steam curled up into his tired face, but it didn’t comfort him. His movements were mechanical. He ladled the noodles into a bowl, sat at the table, and ate quietly. Each bite felt tasteless, just something to fill the hollow ache in his stomach. His eyes weren’t on the food, not really. They kept drifting to the window, to the locked door, to shadows that weren’t there.

Afterward, he sat with pen and paper. The calendar on the wall already had days marked off, scribbled in red pen, counting time since that night. His notes filled the page in messy lines: Chance missing. Mafioso. Debt. stolen item. Location?

He tapped the pen against the paper, staring at the words. His throat tightened.

Where was Chance now? Was he hiding? Running? Did he even know what was happening to him? Elliot pressed the pen harder until it tore the page. Did Chance know that his friend—the one who always waited with a dumb grin and pizza jokes—was bleeding in his bathroom, trembling every night, covering his windows with blankets just to feel safe?

Did Chance even care?

Or had he just left him—crippled, bruised, and terrified—to deal with this alone?

Elliot’s hand slipped, the pen leaving a long, broken line across the paper. He stared at it, chest heavy. He wanted to believe Chance would come back. That Chance would fix this, explain everything, maybe even say Elliot’s name like it mattered.

But the silence on the other end of the line was unbearable.

Elliot crumpled the page in his fist, his knuckles white. He tossed it into the trash with the others—dozens of torn notes, broken questions, useless thoughts.

The room was quiet again. The only sound was the faint hum of the fridge and his own uneven breathing.

Elliot leaned back in his chair, his eyes sinking into the dark circles beneath them, his body too heavy to move. The blanket lay abandoned on the couch, the plushy still propped where he left it. His heart felt stuck somewhere between fear and exhaustion, a place where no amount of noodles or notes could reach.

He closed his eyes. Just for a moment. Just long enough to not think.

The days kept passing, and the marks on the calendar grew. But the silence never changed.

And in that silence, Elliot wondered if he mattered at all.

….

The alley smelled of rain and garbage, but all Elliot could smell was smoke. Not his own—he never smoked—but the bitter drag of Don Sonnellino’s cigarette, curling around his nose, choking his lungs, making it harder to breathe as the hand tightened around his throat.

One hand. That was all it took.

Elliot’s body slammed against the brick wall, head snapping back, vision blurring. His feet kicked uselessly at the ground, searching for leverage that wasn’t there. The glove pressed harder, leather against skin, and Elliot gasped, clutching desperately at the wrist pinning him in place. His visor slipped sideways, useless, his eyes wide and wet with terror.

“Chance,” Mafioso murmured through the smoke, voice smooth as poison. He exhaled slowly, the ember at the tip glowing bright. “Your little gambler friend is very clever. He’s gone now—far, far away. Left you behind.”

“Choosing the easy way out…”

The words cut sharper than the chokehold. Elliot tried to shake his head, tried to make a sound, but Beartrap’s massive hand clamped down over his mouth, silencing every plea. His muffled whimper only made Don smile.

“Disappointing,” the boss whispered, as if speaking to himself, but his dark eyes never left Elliot’s face. “All alone. No one to help you. And yet…”

The grip on Elliot’s throat tightened until black spots danced in his vision. He clawed uselessly at the glove, his nails scraping against leather. His lungs burned. His chest heaved.

“…you bleed so beautifully.”

Elliot’s stomach dropped.

The cigarette lowered. Slow. Almost tender. Don Sonnellino’s (mafioso) gaze lingered on the terrified flicker in Elliot’s eyes, as though he wanted to drink in every ounce of fear before the pain.

Then—contact.

The burning end pressed into the side of Elliot’s neck.

White-hot fire seared his skin, and Elliot bucked violently against the wall, screaming against Beartrap’s smothering palm. The stench of charred flesh filled the alley, mixing with smoke. His eyes watered, his body shook, every muscle tensed in pure agony. His muffled cries turned into broken sobs, tears streaming down his face as his legs gave out.

Cane, quiet and calculated, moved forward—not to stop the torture, but to gently cover Elliot’s eyes with a steady hand. “Shh. Don’t watch. Just listen.”

But the darkness only made it worse. The pain didn’t stop. His imagination filled in everything he couldn’t see.

Mafioso finally pulled the cigarette away, flicking the ash aside like Elliot’s pain meant nothing. He leaned close, so close Elliot could feel the heat of his breath.

Elliot’s knees buckled as the hand on his throat released. He crumpled to the ground, clutching his burned neck, coughing violently as air tore back into his lungs. His whole body shook, his chest heaving, his uniform stained with dirt and tears.

And then—something soft.

A single rose, red as blood, was placed gently on his chest. Its petals brushed his chin, delicate against the raw burn on his skin. Don stepped back, straightening his coat. Echo signaled, and the henchmen moved in perfect formation, leaving Elliot gasping on the ground.

The black car door slammed shut. The engine roared. Tires splashed through the puddles, carrying the mafia away, their laughter faint against the night.

And Elliot…

Elliot lay there trembling, a rose pressed against his chest like a cruel joke, smoke still stinging his eyes, the taste of ash and blood in his mouth. His hands shook as he tried to push himself upright, but his body wouldn’t listen.

The only thing he could hear, over and over, was (Mafioso) Don Sonnellino’s voice—calm, deep, and sickeningly certain:

“You bleed so beautifully.”

Chapter Text

The ceiling was white.

Too white. Too bright. The kind of white that didn’t let you sleep, no matter how many times you blinked or turned your head. It hummed with the faint buzz of fluorescent tubes, and every time Wire cracked his eyes open, the glare stabbed through his skull like a hot needle.

He hated it.

“Feels like heaven,” he muttered hoarsely, shifting on the stiff hospital bed. His voice was weak, rasping against a throat that hadn’t spoken in days. “Nah. Scratch that. Feels like hell.”

The throbbing in his stomach told him exactly where he was — not dead, not gone, but stuck somewhere between the two. The bullet hole burned beneath the bandages like someone had left an iron pressed against his skin, and the memory of the fight replayed whether he wanted it or not.

Chance’s wild grin. The gunfire. The rock smacking the side of his head so hard the world went black.

Yeah. Heaven or hell? Wire figured he’d gotten lost on the way to both.

The doctor had told him he was “lucky.” Wire didn’t think so. Lucky would’ve been walking away with only a scratch, or maybe not running into that crazy gambler at all. But here he was — breathing, hurting, chewing down on bland hospital food that tasted like cardboard dipped in salt water.

He poked at the gray lump on his tray with the plastic fork, frowning. “They call this food?” he grumbled to no one. “I swear, if the boss sent me here just to punish me for messing up, he won.”

The nurse had come in earlier, rattled off things about “bed rest” and “medication schedules.” Wire hadn’t heard a word past “no soda.”

Now it was quiet. The kind of quiet that made him feel small. He hated quiet, too. It gave his mind too much space.

He thought about Beartrap, big and burly, bullets chewing through him like he was made of iron plates instead of flesh. He thought about Echo barking orders, Cane keeping calm even when everything went to hell, Mafioso’s voice steady as stone in the storm.

And Chance. Always Chance. That smile, that danger. Wire’s chest tightened, bitterness mixing with fear. “Almost killed me,” he whispered. “Crazy bastard probably doesn’t even remember my name.”

He sighed and let his head fall back against the pillow.

“Wish I could go back,” he mumbled. “Back to work. Back to the family.”

The walls smelled like bleach and medicine. He missed the smell of gunpowder, cigars, and rain on concrete. He missed laughing with Beartrap even if the guy didn’t talk much. He missed proving himself to Echo, pestering Cane with questions, showing Mafioso he wasn’t just the rookie anymore.

Hell, he even missed the pizza from that little shop. The one run by that red-capped guy who always smiled, even when Wire stuffed half the menu in his face.

He was about to close his eyes when the door creaked open. Wire groaned. “If you’re the doc with another needle, I’ll—”

A hand grabbed his cheek and tugged hard.

“Hey—!” Wire’s eyes shot open. The world spun for a second, then cleared, and there they were.

Beartrap. Cane. Echo.

And they weren’t empty-handed. A fruit basket swung in Beartrap’s fist like it weighed nothing.

“Holy—” Wire’s voice cracked into laughter, relief flooding his chest. “You guys! You actually came!”

Beartrap smirked, or at least Wire thought he did — hard to tell with that poker face. He set the basket down, and Cane immediately took over, peeling an apple with surgeon-like precision.

“Eat,” Cane said simply, slicing neat wedges onto a paper plate.

Wire grabbed one, chomping down like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Juice dripped down his chin as he grinned wide. “Better than that trash they call food.”

“How you hanging on?” Beartrap asked, voice rumbling low.

Wire puffed out his chest, chewing loudly. “Like a champ. Bullet didn’t stand a chance!” he bragged, mouth full.

Echo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Chew. Swallow. Then talk.”

“Yeah, yeah—” Wire waved dismissively, then sucked in the wrong way. The fruit lodged in his throat. His eyes bulged.

“—ghhhhk!”

He gagged, coughing wildly, face turning red.

“Idiot,” Echo muttered.

Beartrap moved fast, slamming a firm hand between Wire’s shoulders. One, two, three pats, and the chunk flew free, bouncing across the sheets.

Wire wheezed, then laughed breathlessly. “See? Not even fruit can kill me. I’m invincible.”

Cane arched an eyebrow. “You’ll choke yourself into the grave if you’re not careful.”

Wire laughed again, but inside, his chest warmed. This was what he missed. The teasing. The scolding. The weight of family filling up all the empty spaces.

For a while, they talked lightly — about recovery, about Beartrap’s patched wounds, about Echo barking at the new recruits. Wire soaked in every word like sunlight. He didn’t even notice the silence creeping in, until he asked the question himself.

“So… any leads on Chance?”

The room went still.

Cane’s knife paused mid-slice. Echo’s jaw tightened. Beartrap’s eyes flickered toward the window.

Wire blinked. “What? What’d I say?”

Finally, Cane set the knife down and folded his hands. His voice was calm, but heavy. “We found someone close to him.”

Wire’s stomach flipped. “Close? Like… family?”

“No,” Echo said flatly. “A friend. Someone he’s been seen with. Someone important.”

Wire leaned forward, excitement sparking. “Ooh. Use ‘em as bait, huh? Drag Chance out by the collar! Smart move.” He chuckled at his own joke.

No one laughed.

Wire’s grin faltered. “…Wait. You’re serious?”

The silence said it all.

A cold bead of sweat rolled down his temple. His voice dropped. “Who?”

No one answered at first. Then Cane, quiet as ever, spoke the name.

“The pizza boy.”

Wire froze. The words didn’t register at first. The pizza boy? The guy with the visor? The one who smiled even when Wire ordered too much food?

He blinked, half-smiling in disbelief. “Come on. You’re kidding. Right? The pizza guy? My pizza guy?”

No one was kidding.

The silence pressed down until Wire’s chest hurt more than the bullet wound. His fingers curled tight around the blanket.

“We don’t… we don’t gotta hurt him, right?” Wire asked quietly, almost pleading.

Beartrap finally looked at him. One look. Heavy. Wordless. Final.

And Wire understood.

Debt was debt.

Wire’s throat went dry. He forced a shaky smile, nodding slowly. “Right. Of course. I’ll join you soon as I’m back on my feet. Gotta pull my weight, yeah?”

No one answered, but they didn’t need to. They knew he would. He was family.

Even if it broke him inside.

The door opened again, and the air shifted. Everyone straightened.

Mafioso stepped in, tall and dark, his usual smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers are not here. But his presence enough to filled the room instantly, a weight Wire both feared and admired.

“Wire,” Don Sonnellino said smoothly. “Still breathing, I see.”

“Yes, boss,” Wire rasped, forcing his back straight despite the pain. “Won’t quit that easy.”

Mafioso’s eyes softened just enough to be noticed. He reached into his coat and pulled out something small.

Wire’s breath caught.

His headphones. His hat. The ones shattered in the fight.

Now fixed. Clean. Whole again.

Mafioso placed them gently in Wire’s hands. “Broken things can be mended,” he said quietly. “So can loyalty.”

Wire’s throat tightened. He slipped the hat on immediately, the weight familiar, comforting. His chest swelled with pride, drowning out the fear gnawing at his stomach.

“For you, boss,” Wire whispered. “Always.”

The family stood together in the white room, fruit basket forgotten, silence heavy but strong.

Wire knew then — there was no heaven or hell.

There was only this.

The family.
The debt.
The boss.

Chapter Text

-Outside-

The night was supposed to end with laughter, not this.

Two friend walking out from a party, one yellow like the sun and one was white as snow.
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Noob was still giggling about the party as they twirled in their dress, the glitter from the streamer poppers still clinging to the fabric. They had been joking with Guest6, holding his hand as they walked down the quiet streets. Their steps echoed, light and bouncy, cutting through the silence of the late hour.

“That DJ was terrible,” Noob said with a laugh, swinging their free arm. “I mean, come on, who plays the same song three times in a row?”

Guest6 smirked faintly, adjusting the brim of his red Roblox cap. His black jacket absorbed the chill of the night. “You still danced to it.”

“Yeah, but that’s because I’m amazing at dancing. Even bad songs become good songs when I’m on the floor,” Noob replied proudly, puffing out their chest.

Guest6 rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth curved upward. He didn’t say much—he never did—but Noob had learned to read the subtle shifts in his face. A smirk here, a sigh there. It was enough.

Their steps slowed as the alley opened ahead of them, shadows stretching across puddles left from earlier rain. Noob wrinkled their nose. “Ugh. This smells gross. Let’s go around.”

But then—Noob froze.

Their foot had nudged something soft. Not trash. Not cardboard. Something heavier.

“Guest…” Noob whispered, their voice trembling.

Guest6’s gaze sharpened instantly. He tugged Noob behind him and crouched down, his dark clothes blending into the shadows. His eyes adjusted, scanning. At first, he thought it was just another drunk who had passed out in the alley. But then he saw it—skin blistered, uniform stained with dirt and blood, chest rising in sharp, uneven breaths.

Not drunk. Hurt. Badly hurt.

Noob’s usual silly grin vanished. Their eyes darted over the figure, panic climbing into their chest. “Oh no. Oh no, oh no. He’s—he’s alive, right?”

Guest6 checked, kneeling down beside the body. He pressed two fingers carefully to the side of the boy’s neck. A faint, rapid pulse fluttered beneath burned skin.

“He’s alive,” Guest6 said, voice quiet but firm. Relief washed over Noob’s face, but their hands fidgeted restlessly, energy buzzing through them in nervous jolts.

The boy stirred, a weak cough rattling from his chest. His visor was cracked, his red pizza cap fallen to the side. His yellow skin looked almost pale under the streetlight, sweat clinging to his temples.

Noob crouched down too, nearly tripping in their rush. “W-what do we do? Should we call someone for help?” Their voice came out too fast, too high-pitched, like the words were trying to race each other.

Guest6 hesitated. The boy’s injuries weren’t just random scrapes from a fall. The burn mark seared across his neck, the bruises along his jaw, the finger-shaped red prints circling his throat—they all told a different story. A violent story. Someone did this to him. Someone dangerous.

If they called the wrong people, this boy might be in even worse trouble.

“…First, we keep him alive,” Guest6 muttered, pulling off his jacket and folding it to press gently against the burn. The boy flinched but didn’t wake fully.

Noob scrambled in their bag, hands moving too fast as they dug through it. “Okay, okay, uh—bandages, wipes, tissues—no, that’s gum wrappers—ugh, I can’t think!” Their voice cracked with frustration, but they shoved a small first-aid kit into Guest6’s hand anyway.

“Why are you even carrying gum wrappers?” Guest6 muttered under his breath.

“Don’t question my system right now!” Noob snapped, their words rushed and sharp, though not angry. “Just—fix him!”

The man winced as Guest6 pressed the damp napkin gently to his neck, covering the burn as best as he could. His breathing hitched, but he didn’t cry out. Instead, he clenched his jaw and stared at the ground, eyes unfocused.

Noob leaned closer, their worry twisting into frustration. “Why would anyone do this? He looks… he looks like he’s been through a war.”

Minutes passed like hours. Finally, the boy coughed again, stronger this time, and his eyes fluttered open.

“…wh—where…” His voice cracked, raw from the choking. He tried to push himself up, but his arms trembled too much to hold his weight.

“Hey, hey, don’t move!” Noob said quickly, pressing lightly to his shoulder. “You’re hurt! Really hurt! Just… just stay still, okay?”

The boy blinked at them, confusion clouding his gaze. His visor slipped further down his cheek, and with shaking fingers, he pushed it back into place. For a moment, he seemed to remember where he was.

“No. I’m fine,” he rasped, forcing a weak smile that only made Noob frown harder. “Just… just a scratch.”

Guest6’s brows furrowed. Scratch? The man’s entire neck looked like it had been pressed with fire. His shirt collar was stiff with dried blood. He was barely holding himself upright.

Noob shook his head, muttering fast under his breath. “That’s not a scratch. That’s not even close to a scratch. That’s like, twenty scratches stacked together—” Then, louder: “You were lying in the alley like you were dead!”

“I’m fine,” the boy repeated, his voice steadier, but his eyes avoided theirs. He was hiding something.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Noob said quickly, their words rushing out. “We’ll fix you up, and then, um… I dunno, call someone? A doctor? Or the police—”

“No police.” His voice was sharper this time, panicked. His eyes locked on Noob’s with sudden desperation. “Please. No police. Promise me.”

Noob froze, their leg bouncing nervously against the pavement. “But—but—”

Guest6 glanced at him, then at Noob, then back again. His expression was unreadable, but he didn’t argue. He just kept wrapping the bandages, movements efficient and precise.

“Fine,” Noob stammered. “No police. But at least… let us help.”

The man looked at them, his face softening for just a heartbeat. Then he smiled. A weak, tired smile that didn’t belong on someone with wounds like his.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Noob’s stomach knotted tighter. They didn’t even know his name, but something about that smile made their chest twist.

When the last bandage was tied, the man sat up slowly, trembling all the while. He reached into his pocket with shaking fingers, pulled out a crumpled wad of cash, and pressed it into Noob’s yellow hand.

Noob blinked at it in shock. “Wha—what’s this for?”

“For the trouble.” His voice was quiet, strained.

“No!” Noob squeaked, shoving the money back at him. “We don’t want your money! We just—just wanted to help! You don’t pay for kindness!”

But he closed their hand around it anyway, gentle but firm. “Please. Take it.”

“What? No! No, I don’t want your money!” Noob protested, fumbling with the bills. “You need help, not—”

But the boy was already staggering to his feet.

Guest6 rose too, steadying Noob who lurched forward to follow. The boy’s steps were uneven, each one sharp with pain, but his determination was stronger. He wanted to leave. Needed to.

The boy paused at the mouth of the alley. His shoulders shook as though the weight of the night pressed down on him all at once. For the briefest moment, he turned his head just enough that the streetlight caught his battered face.

“…Thank you,” he said softly, almost too soft to hear. Then he ran.

“W-Wait!” Noob took a step after him, but Guest6 caught their arm, holding them still.

“No,” Guest6 said quietly. His tone wasn’t cruel, but final. “He doesn’t want us to follow.”

“But—but he’s hurt! What if he collapses again? What if he—”

Guest6 shook his head. “If we force him, it’ll only make it worse.”

“We gonna leave him all there alone?”

Guest6’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer, not right away. His gaze lingered on the retreating figure, on the way the man’s shoulders hunched as if the world had pressed all its weight on them. Finally, he sighed, low and heavy.

“He chose to be,” Guest6 said at last.

The words sank deep, and Noob’s chest ached in a way they didn’t understand. They clutched the crumpled bills in their fist, staring at the alley where the man had vanished, wishing they could do more.

But all they could do… was stand there.

Chapter Text

The curtains opened to reveal the stage.
There was Elliot, lying peacefully in a glass coffin, dressed in a frilly outfit that screamed “discount Snow White.” His visor glinted faintly under the lights as he mouthed his lines silently, rehearsing in his head: “Oh Prince, awaken me…”

From the left, Chance entered as the “Prince.” His suit didn’t quite fit the part—fedora, shades, and all—but he had a paper crown taped on top of it. He kneeled dramatically by the coffin, smirking.

“Alright, kid,” he whispered, “showtime.” He leaned in for the “kiss”—

🚨 WHOOSH! 🚨

A wooden sword flew past his head, almost clipping his fedora.

Chance flinched. “HEY! Who’s throwing props at me—?!”

From backstage stormed Don Sonnellino, still in his full mafia getup but with a cape added for “fairy-tale flair.” Behind him, Beartrap and Echo were squeezed into a sagging two-person horse costume, the poor thing’s legs wobbling dangerously. Echo, in the back half, barked: “Faster! Faster! The boss needs his entrance!”

Meanwhile, Cane stood off to the side, dressed head-to-toe in brown and green as a tree. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just raised a single eyebrow, silently questioning why his life had come to this.

Wire popped onto the stage next, wearing a floppy beard as the “dwarf.” He waved at the crowd nervously, voice cracking: “Uh—hi! I’m… uh… Sneezy? Or Sleepy? One of those!”

The audience roared with laughter.

Back at the coffin, Elliot finally sat up, brushing imaginary dust off his uniform. He looked straight at the viewers, visor catching the spotlight.
“Hello, everyone,” he said warmly, as if none of the chaos around him existed. “Thank you for coming. We’ve been very excited to share our new play with you.”

Behind him, Chance was running circles around the stage trying to dodge Don’s wooden sword swipes, Beartrap and Echo’s horse stumbled sideways into Cane (who refused to break character as a tree), and Wire accidentally tripped over his own beard.

But Elliot? Elliot just smiled. Calm. Patient. Like the real star he was.

“You all can ask us anything!”

Chapter Text

The bathroom tiles were cold beneath Elliot’s knees. He gripped the sides of the toilet, chest heaving as he retched. Bitter acid burned up his throat, splattering against the water. His body shook like a machine out of sync, muscles twitching, trembling. The smell made his eyes water, made him gag again until there was nothing left in him but dry heaves and shallow gasps.

He slumped against the wall, sweat dripping down his temples. His reflection in the bathroom mirror was pale, sickly, the shadows under his eyes darker than bruises.

“Get up,” he muttered to himself. His voice cracked.

He reached for the sink, rinsed his mouth, and turned to the shelf where his medicine bottles sat in a cluttered row. Painkillers. Sleep aids. Old prescriptions he’d never finished. He didn’t care which was which.

The bottle slipped from his hand, plastic rattling as it hit the floor, pills scattering across the tiles like tiny bones. He cursed under his breath, knelt down, and scooped a handful into his palm. He popped them into his mouth all at once, too many to count. He didn’t even check the labels.

It didn’t matter. Painkiller, sedative, anti-anxiety—it was all the same. All he needed was the numb.

His throat was raw as he swallowed them dry. He leaned against the counter, chest rising and falling, the edges of his vision swimming. For a moment, he thought he might collapse right there, sink into the floor and never get up again.

But then he remembered. Work.

Pizza boy. The one mask he couldn’t take off.

He wiped his mouth, brushed his teeth, pulled on his clothes like armor. Hoodie, sleeves down to hide the bruises. Helmet hanging by the door.

When he opened the door, the morning light hit him like a punch, too bright, too sharp. His breath hitched.

And there it was.

A red rose, wrapped neatly in black ribbon, sitting on his doorstep like a gift.

His stomach dropped. He didn’t need to look twice to know who had left it. Don’s roses always looked the same. Perfect. Sharp. Alive with color, dead with meaning.

His fingers shook as he bent down to pick it up. He held it like it might explode, staring at the petals, at the cruel neatness of the bow. He could smell it—clean, sweet, fresh—and underneath it, he swore he smelled smoke.

His hands trembled harder.

Elliot shoved the rose inside, tossed it onto the counter, and slammed the door.

Helmet on. Keys in hand.

He couldn’t be late for work.

⸻

Builder Brothers Pizza looked the same as always. Bright sign overhead, windows glowing warm against the dull streets. A place that should have felt like home.

Today, it felt like walking onto a stage where everyone else had rehearsed their lines and he hadn’t.

He stood outside for too long, helmet still in his hand, chest tight. The air around him was too quiet, too heavy.

Finally, he forced himself forward. Inside, everything was familiar—the smell of tomato sauce, the clang of the ovens, the chatter of customers. He tied on his apron, washed his hands, and started kneading dough like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t almost died. Like his throat wasn’t still raw from choking. Like his skin wasn’t burned from a cigarette.

The motions came easy. Muscle memory. Roll, press, fold. But his mind was scattered, every sound amplified.

The clang of the oven door made him flinch so hard the ladle slipped from his hand and clattered against the floor. He bent to pick it up, fingers trembling, breath unsteady.

A laugh from a nearby table rang out too loud, too sharp. His stomach twisted.

The phone in the back rang, shrill and cutting, and he jolted so violently he slammed his shoulder against the counter.

He tried to laugh it off, but the sound was hollow. His new hire coworkers didn’t even notice. Or maybe they did, but didn’t care.

He forced the smile on his face tighter. He had to.

⸻

By noon, the place was packed. Families filled booths, couples leaned in close over shared plates. The smell of garlic knots wafted through the air, kids pressed their faces to the glass display case, pointing at desserts with sticky fingers.

Elliot clung to those moments. To the normalcy.

“Large pepperoni, extra cheese,” he recited automatically, sliding the box down the counter. His hands shook, but he willed them steady. He focused on the orders, on the small smiles when people got their food. That was safe. That was simple.

The door chimed. Another customer walked in. A family.

The father—a broad man with fading battle scars across his arms, He has True Blue Hair, wavy blue hair that is combed to the right, dressed now in casual clothes instead of uniform. A veteran, Elliot thought instantly. The mother, long brown hair, a cyan sweatshirt, gentle but sharp-eyed. And the kid, with the same hair, wearing pink and blue, bouncing with energy.

Elliot forced another smile, nodding as he started their order. The father’s laugh was loud but not sharp. Warm. Elliot’s chest eased, just slightly.

For a moment, he almost believed he was okay.

⸻

Then it happened.

A man at the counter slammed his fist against the register.

The crack of skin against metal echoed through the shop, louder than anything else.

“I said EXTRA toppings!” the man shouted, his voice booming, furious. “Are you kidding me? Do you people even listen?”

Elliot froze.

The sound ripped through him like a gunshot. His body reacted before his brain did—stiff, rigid, his hands tightening around the pizza box he was holding until it slipped, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

His chest seized. His throat locked.

“Sir—” he tried, but his voice broke.

And then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it.

Through the front window.

Wire.

Just standing there. Watching.

His heart slammed against his ribs, faster, harder. His breath came short, too fast, too shallow.

Not here. Not here. Not now.

The man slammed his fist again. “This is ridiculous! I’m not paying for this trash!”

The words blurred into background noise. It wasn’t about the words—it was the tone. The volume. The sharp edge of it.

Mafioso’s voice echoed in his skull. He went to kill.
The burn on his neck throbbed.
The pressure of leather gloves returned to his throat.

The air in the restaurant felt heavy, too thick to breathe.

His knees buckled. His palms slipped against the counter. The room tilted, lights overhead flickering in his vision.

The box slipped from his hand, hit the floor. Customers gasped.

“Hey, whoa—what the hell’s wrong with him?” the angry man muttered, stepping back.

Elliot couldn’t answer. He clutched his chest, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. Tears blurred his vision, hot and unrelenting. His hood slipped back, exposing the bruises, the burn, everything he’d tried to hide.

Voices swirled around him.

“Call someone—”
“Get him water!”
“Oh my God, he’s panicking—”

And then, hands. Gentle. Steady. The veteran father guided him toward a booth, helping him sit down. His wife rubbed his back, whispering soft words. Their daughter clung to her mother’s side, wide-eyed with worry.

The old couple—regulars—hovered close. The man shouted at the rude customer to leave. The woman pressed a napkin into Elliot’s shaking hands.

“It’s alright, son,” she whispered, her voice soft but firm. “Breathe. You’re safe. Just breathe.”

Safe.

The word stabbed deeper than any wound.

He wasn’t safe. He would never be safe. Mafioso’s roses, Wire’s shadow, Don’s voice—they would always follow.

The sobs ripped out of him, unrestrained. His sleeves soaked with tears as he buried his face, shame mixing with panic until it all felt the same.

The world blurred, voices too loud, hands too close. He wanted to run, to disappear, but his body wouldn’t listen. All he could do was cry.

The angry customer was gone, guilt written on his face as he backed out the door. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Wire was gone too, vanished from the window like he’d never been there.

But Elliot knew better.

They were always there. Watching. Waiting.

And he was breaking—right there in the middle of Builder Brothers Pizza, the mask torn away.

The easy smile.
Who bled.
Who couldn’t outrun his own fear.

And all he could think, through the tears and the tremors, was one desperate wish:

That someone—anyone—would carry the weight for him, just this once.
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I didn’t take my bike home tonight.
It’s still parked outside Builder Brothers, probably freezing under the flickering neon sign. I couldn’t bring myself to ride it. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and the thought of the engine growling under me, the streetlights passing in blurs—it all felt too loud. Too fast.

So I walked.

The streets are almost empty this late, just the occasional car rushing by, headlights cutting through the dark. My breath fogs the air in uneven clouds, sharp in the cold, like I’ve swallowed the night itself and it’s trying to claw its way back out.

There’s a spot I always end up at when I walk. A bright one in the middle of nowhere, a pool of light under a broken streetlamp buzzing faintly above me. Everything around it is swallowed by dark. I stop there, every time. Like it’s waiting for me.

I slip my phone out of my pocket. My thumb hesitates, but it finds the number anyway.

Dad.

The screen glows against the night, the dial tone humming in my ear.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Then the click.

Voicemail.

The voice is familiar but distant, rehearsed for every caller who doesn’t get through. “This is the office of Builder Brothers Pizza. CEO Mr. Builder is unavailable right now. Please leave a message after the beep.”

Beep.

I don’t say anything. I never do. I just listen to the silence on the line until it times out. Then I slide the phone back into my pocket.

I don’t blame him. He’s busy. He’s always been busy. And I’ve always told myself that’s okay. That I don’t need him to pick up, not really. That I can carry this weight alone. That maybe it makes me stronger.

But tonight, for some reason, it feels heavier.

I pull a cigarette from the crumpled pack in my pocket and light it. The flame briefly warms my face before the wind snuffs it out. The smoke curls into the night air, tangling with my breath. It burns on the way down, but at least it’s something I can feel.

I watch it drift away until it’s gone, and when it’s nothing but ash between my fingers, I crush it out and toss it into the trash can nearby.

Then I walk to the balcony.

It’s quiet here. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you notice the sound of your own blood rushing in your ears. I set my hoodie down on the concrete, then my keys, then my wallet, like I’m shedding pieces of myself. The cold air bites into my skin.

My hands grip the railing. I hoist myself up, one leg steady on the inside, the other swinging over to the other side.

And just like that, I’m there.

Standing on the edge.

My fingers curl tighter around the metal as I stare down.

The waves are restless tonight. The water looks black, shifting, endless. The wind stings my face and my eyes blur, not sure if it’s from the cold or the thoughts pressing in on me.

I could fall. Right now.

It doesn’t even scare me.

I take a deep breath. The air is freezing, sharp, filling my lungs until it hurts. When I exhale, the cloud of my breath floats up, vanishes into the night. For a second, it almost looks like smoke again.

The bandage on my neck loosens. Flutters. Then slips away completely, carried by the wind. The burn underneath stings in the cold, raw against the air. My bruises feel heavy, dragging at my skin.

Every mark on me feels like a reminder. Every scar feels like a weight.

I close my eyes.

Do I regret anything?

I want to say no. That I made my choices, lived my life. That even if it wasn’t much, it was mine. But the truth? The truth is murkier. I regret so much, I don’t even know where to start.

I regret the things I never said to the people who mattered.
I regret the smiles I faked, the times I told everyone I was fine when I wasn’t.
I regret being weak enough to be left behind, yet too stubborn to admit I needed help.

Mostly, I regret that I’m standing here and none of it feels like enough reason to stay.

For a moment, the thought flickers—what if someone cares? What if someone would miss me? But it’s a fragile thought, thin and quiet, drowned out by everything else.

And then I let go.

My fingers slip from the railing.

The rush of air steals the scream from my throat before I can even make one. The wind slams against my body, whipping past my ears, freezing against my skin. My stomach lurches, weightless, like I’ve left it behind.

And then—impact.

The water is ice. It hits me like glass shattering, slicing, wrapping around me until I’m swallowed whole. My lungs seize, my chest burns.

But for a moment—just a moment—I feel free.

The weight is gone. The noise is gone. It’s just me, drifting, sinking deeper into the cold silence.

My vision blurs, the darkness spreading, and all I can think is maybe this is what I wanted. To stop fighting. To stop carrying. To stop hurting.
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Through the haze, before my eyes finally close, I see something.

Someone.

A figure cutting through the water, swimming toward me. Arms reaching. Close. Closer.

And then everything goes dark.

Chapter Text

The first memory Mafioso carried with him was not a lullaby, not the softness of a mother’s hand. It was the weight of eyes.

He had been no older than seven when the family gathered in the old stone hall. Candles burned low on the walls, shadows restless, the scent of wax and smoke clinging to the air. Black coats lined the long table, men and women whose gazes pierced sharper than any knife. Their silence wrapped around him, heavy, suffocating.

On the table before him rested two things.

An apple, polished until it glowed crimson beneath the candlelight.

And a blade, long and thin, its steel catching the flicker of flame.

His teacher, a giant of a man with a chest like a wall and hands calloused into stone, beckoned him forward. His voice was gravel, rough from smoke and whiskey.

“Choose, ragazzo(boy),” the man rumbled. “The apple, or the blade. A life of peace, or a life of blood.”

The boy’s hand wavered over the apple. It was beautiful, perfect, a promise of sweetness. For a heartbeat, he imagined warmth—he imagined being normal, whatever that meant.

Before his small fingers touched it, a heavy boot crushed the apple into pulp. Juice sprayed across the table, seeds scattering like teeth.

The boy lifted his head.

His father stood over him. Towering. Scarred. Tattoos coiled up his neck like serpents. His eyes were shards of ice, sharp enough to cut into bone.

“No son of mine will be weak.” His father’s voice was iron striking iron, leaving no room for softness.

The boy did not cry. He did not plead. He looked once more at the ruined fruit, then back at the blade. Slowly, carefully, his hand closed around the hilt.

The teacher gave a short nod. Murmurs rippled through the family. His father’s mouth tightened—not pride, not joy, but something harsher. Approval.

That was the first step. From that night, his childhood was not his own.

⸻

His father molded him like steel, in fire and pain.

They woke him before dawn, dragged him into the snow barefoot, ordered him to stand until his skin turned blue. They dunked him in water until his lungs screamed for air. They beat him until bruises bloomed purple and green, then demanded he stand and continue.

“Fear is death,” his father told him. “Pain is nothing. Weakness is unforgivable.”

The boy nodded. He did not dare ask why.

When he was ten, they put a knife in his hand and ordered him to fight older boys. He lost the first time, bleeding from the lip and temple. His father backhanded him across the face and forced him back into the ring. “Again.”

By the third round, he had stopped thinking. Stopped hesitating. The knife slid into the other boy’s arm. The blood was hot. The other child screamed. Mafioso only smiled, teeth stained red.

That smile never left him. Not after fists split his skin, not after lashes carved lines into his back. The family whispered about it. That eerie grin that never slipped, not even when he bled.

By twelve, he realized something was different about him. He didn’t know the name then—prosopometamorphopsia, demon face syndrome—but the world of people was not the same to him. When he looked at faces, they blurred, twisted, red blotches hovering like targets. Eyes were not eyes, mouths not mouths—just shapes. Just prey.

It detached him. He didn’t care for laughter or sorrow. A man begging for his life looked the same as one snarling in rage. Just another mark. Another smear of red.

And so he was efficient. Detached. Unwavering.

By fifteen, he had spilled his first blood for the family.

A debt collector had failed to pay. They sent him as a test. The boy returned with his blade dripping, his coat spattered, and his smile as wide as ever. He did not tremble. He did not boast. He simply nodded and said, “What’s next?”

From then on, the family called him Il Ragazzo Rosso. The Red Boy.

house of the Sonnellino family.

but he like the name Mafioso instead.

⸻

Years built him into a weapon. But even weapons attract followers.

It was in the frozen outskirts of Russia that he found the first: Beartrap.

The gang had been running children like cattle, locked in a warehouse. Mafioso cut his way through the sellers, blade flashing, leaving corpses cooling in the frost. And there, chained to a post, was a boy already tall for his age, his wrists raw from iron cuffs.

Mafioso’s shadow fell over him. The boy did not flinch. Did not cry. He only stared with sharp, unwavering eyes.

“You fight well,” the boy said, thick accent rolling the words heavy.

Mafioso tilted his head. “Do you want freedom?”

The boy shook his head. “No. I want to fight.”

A grin cut across Mafioso’s face. “Then you follow me.”

From that day, Beartrap never left his side.

Cane came later. A thin boy with clever fingers and eyes that calculated everything—odds, debts, angles. Mafioso first saw him in a gambling den, running cons against men twice his age. When the men caught him, they dragged him into an alley to break his hands. Mafioso intervened, blade flashing in the dark. He offered the boy a hand up.

“You’re good with numbers,” Mafioso said.

“I’m better with survival,” Cane replied.

“Then survive with me.”

Echo was born from blood. Mafioso was sent to kill a man—a drunk, abusive coward who had crossed the family. When Mafioso slit the man’s throat, he found a boy cowering in the corner, bruised, lip split, eyes wide.

“Please,” the boy whispered, “don’t hurt me.”

Mafioso crouched. He wiped the blade clean on the corpse’s shirt. “He hurt you.”

The boy nodded.

“Then he deserved it. Come with me.”

Echo followed without hesitation.

Wire was the last.

The mission had ended in massacre—another family got involved by mistake and wiped out, blood soaking the floors. Among the dead, Mafioso heard the faint hum of static. He found a child sitting in the corner, headphones too big for his head, staring blankly as tears slid down his cheeks. His parents lay in pools of red around him.

Mafioso stood for a long moment. He could have left. Should have left.

Instead, he knelt and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“What’s your name?”

The boy sniffed. “…Wire.”

“Then Wire, you belong to me now.”

Wire looked up, eyes swollen from crying, and nodded.

⸻

One by one, they became his. recruits. soldiers. Sons (his family).

He trained them as he had been trained—but not only with brutality. He gave them food, warmth, purpose. They slept under the same roof, bled in the same fights, shared laughter between scars. Mafioso clothed them, gave them ranks, gave them loyalty.

Each of them became his debtors. Each owed their life to him. And so they were loyal. Fiercely. The four of them wore no uniforms at first, only the scars of their survival. They were his family.
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His parents’ deaths came quietly, almost anticlimactic. A job gone wrong. Injuries too deep. His mother passed first, then his father. Mafioso stood at the funeral, watching the coffins descend, his smile never faltering.

He bowed. He placed a hand on the wood. And then he left. There were no tears. No prayers. Only silence.

The casino his parents had run now belonged to him. He rebuilt it, polished it, made it his kingdom. Velvet carpets, golden chandeliers, tables stacked with chips and drinks. Here, blood and money mingled. Here, he became not just a killer, but a Don.

That was when Chance entered his life. A gambler with a fedora and a silver tongue. At first, Mafioso tolerated him. Even liked him. The man brought charm, noise, life to the tables. But then came the night of betrayal. A game rigged, a prize not meant to be won. Chance won anyway. Worse—he never gave it back. He ran with it.

The betrayal cut deeper than money. It was a wound of pride, of principle. The Sonnellino family did not forgive theft.

From that night, Chance became prey. Mafioso sent men after him. Sent messages written in blood. But Chance was slippery, laughing in the dark, always one step ahead. He hurt two of Mafioso’s best men and vanished again.

Each time his name was spoken, Mafioso’s jaw tightened. Each time his men returned empty-handed, Mafioso’s blade itched.

And then, in chasing Chance, he found something else.
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The Builder Brothers Pizza. A big, rebuilt place on a quiet street. Mafioso entered one evening, expecting a simple errand. A hostage, perhaps. An easy lead.

But inside, there was only one man.

Elliot.

The pizza boy worked alone, spinning pans, flour dusting his arms. He hummed as he cooked, sliding pizzas onto hot stones, wiping sweat with the back of his hand. Mafioso stood at the counter, watching.

There were no workers, no backup, nothing. Just this one man.

Yet he smiled. Warmly. Genuinely. As if nothing in the world could take it from him. Mafioso ordered like anyone else, took his food, and left. But as he rode in the black car, something gnawed at him.

For the first time, when he looked at someone, their face was clear. Not a red blur. Not a target. Elliot’s face was visible. Human.

And beautiful.

Mafioso’s chest pounded. His hand twitched. He hated it. He wanted to rip that smile off, to crush it until it bled. And yet… he wanted to see it again.

So he returned. Again and again. Until one night, his fists finally gave in. He beat Elliot, bruises blooming like roses, blood dripping from lips, choking gasps filling the air. Mafioso watched, panting, heart thundering.

It should have been satisfaction. It should have been power. But it wasn’t.

It was obsession.

When Elliot lay on the ground, coughing, struggling faintly even through blood, Mafioso’s chest ached. He dropped a rose, red as the wounds he’d left, and walked away.

His vision blurred. His smile stayed. But inside, something twisted and burned.

For the first time, Mafioso was not sure if he was winning… or losing.
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The night was colder than it should have been. The kind of cold that crawled into your coat even with the collar turned up. Don Sonnellino walked at the head of his men, shoes clicking against the concrete like a metronome for the family trailing behind him. Wire was limping but kept pace, Cane was calm and quiet, Echo always scanning, Beartrap silent as stone.

They moved together, always together. That was what made them family.

Mafioso drew a cigarette from the case, rolling it between his fingers before lighting it. The flame flared, caught, and the smoke curled in a thin ghost around his face. He pulled in deep, the burn down his throat sharp and grounding. He let the silence stretch. His men never pushed him to speak unless it mattered.

But then Wire’s voice cracked the quiet.

“Boss.”

Mafioso’s steps slowed just enough to show he was listening.

“Would you…” Wire hesitated, then his young eyes lifted to the fedora’s shadow. “…would you feel love? At that moment?”

The boss stopped. Smoke trailed upward, the ember glowing in the dark. He didn’t answer at first. His men shifted behind him, uneasy.

Finally, Mafioso tilted his head, voice smooth but edged. “And what do you mean by that word, Wire? Define it. Don’t throw words like stones.”

Wire swallowed hard, but he met the boss’s gaze. “Maybe it’s when you finally got someone to care about. To protect. To… love. Like it ain’t weakness. Like it’s worth something.”

For a long time, Mafioso just stared at him. The city hummed far away, but here, there was only their breath and the faint hiss of the cigarette burning down.

Then—he laughed. Soft, low, dangerous. “A funny joke.”

Wire flinched, but Mafioso stepped closer, exhaling smoke near his cheek. “Love,” he said, voice deep and calm, “is weakness. You lay low for love, you bury yourself. You care too much, you bleed too much. And I don’t bleed for anyone.”

He dropped the cigarette to the ground, crushed it beneath his shoe with a slow twist. A quiet answer. His way of saying the conversation was finished.

“Enough,” he said simply, his tone like steel shutting a door.

Wire lowered his eyes, muttering nothing more. Cane’s gaze flicked to him but stayed silent, and Echo barked an order to keep moving. Beartrap remained unreadable.

Mafioso walked on, coat swaying at his heels, mind already back on debts, on Chance, on the empire built by blood and fire.
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Then why?
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why when he saw it.

Ahead, at the edge of the overlook, the figure stood. The pizza boy. Elliot.

Mafioso’s chest tightened, though he didn’t understand why. He slowed, watching from the shadows. The boy’s red hoodie lay discarded by the rail. His body leaned too close, one hand holding the balcony, his leg already over. The bandages at his throat fluttered in the wind like paper surrender.

The boss’s breath froze in his chest.

And then Elliot let go.

The sound was nothing but wind. The boy’s form cut through the night, swallowed by darkness before the splash echoed upward.

Mafioso’s feet moved before his mind did. Faster than his men had ever seen, the tall fedora-wearing figure ran, his coat flying open.

“Boss!” Echo barked, his voice sharp. “What are you—?”

But Mafioso didn’t hear. Didn’t care. His men called after him, but their words scattered like ash. His chest pounded, his throat dry, every step pulling him closer to something he should’ve let go. He had let men die before—he’d ordered it, demanded it. Why was this different? Why now?

He dove.

The water hit like knives. Ice bit into his skin, cutting through layers of cloth. His hat was gone instantly, his coat dragging him down, but he pushed deeper. He saw him—Elliot—limp, drifting, caught in the weeds and broken metal that littered the dam’s bottom.

Mafioso’s hands tore forward, grabbing, pulling, but the boy’s body was tangled, bound in the debris. His lungs burned, chest screaming. He clawed and yanked at the rusted scrap cutting his glove fingers raw.

Too slow.

Too heavy.

And then—another shadow plunged into the water. Beartrap. The soldier ripped the metal with brute force, bubbles erupting around them. Together, they freed the boy, and Mafioso pulled him up, wrapping his arm around Elliot’s chest and kicking toward the surface with everything left in him.

The cold seared his lungs as he broke through the water, gasping, dragging Elliot’s slack body against him. He swam with furious strength, every muscle screaming, until the edge was within reach. Echo and Cane reached down, grabbing Elliot, hauling him onto the ground. Mafioso pulled himself up after, coughing, soaked, still nothing bother him or it do but refusing to show it.

The boy didn’t move. His chest was still.

“Boss,” Cane said sharply, his calm voice cutting through. “He’s not breathing.”

Mafioso dropped to his knees beside Elliot. His hands pressed to the boy’s chest, pushing, pumping, harder and harder, the wet fabric squelching beneath his palms. Nothing. He pressed again, faster, desperate.

The family stared—silent, stunned. Don Sonnellino, the man who claimed love was weakness, doesn't afraid to see other die... now on his knees, his hands trembling over a dying boy.

But they not judging they will do anything to help their leader.

“Boss!” Wire’s voice rang from above the bridge running down too slow not faster than the other. “You gotta breathe for him! CPR! You gotta!” panting.

Cane shouted instructions beside, clear and precise. Mafioso didn’t hesitate. He bent down, pressing his lips to Elliot’s, forcing air into his lungs, then pumping again. He repeated, relentless, each second heavier than the last.

“Come on,” he muttered under his breath, words no one had ever heard from him before. “Come on, damn you.”
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Then—a cough. A sputter. Water spilled from Elliot’s lips as his chest heaved. His body trembled, shallow breaths returning, weak but alive.

Relief hit Mafioso so hard his vision blurred. He sat back, panting, coat clinging heavy to him, his hair dripping into his eyes. He didn’t care. He didn’t understand why he cared. But Elliot was alive.

Echo checked his pulse, then his breathing, nodding quickly. “He’s alive. Barely. Needs warmth, fast.”

Beartrap was already ripping off his heavy jacket, throwing it over the boy. Echo did the same. Wire scrambled down, jacket in hand, face pale with fear. Cane knelt, steady as ever, wrapping the boy tighter.

Mafioso just stared, chest heaving, his hands still pressed with phantom memory of pumping, of giving breath.

He finally rasped, voice hoarse, “Get the car. Medical ready. Now.”

No one argued. They moved instantly.

"Yes boss!"

And him, tall and soaked, bent down and lifted Elliot into his arms. The boy’s head lolled against his chest, breath shallow, skin cold as stone.

The boss walked, every step heavy, carrying more than weight. His men followed, jackets flapping, boots slamming the ground. Not one of them spoke.

Because they had seen it.

The Don Sonnellino, the man who crushed anyone that get in his way sign of ending conversation, had broken his own rule.

Love was weakness. That was what he always said.

So why had he jumped?

Why had he fought the water, ripped his hands bloody, do anything to him alive?

The night didn’t answer. The family didn’t ask.

But as the car doors opened and the heat from inside spilled against the cold, Mafioso knew one thing:

Weakness had never felt so heavy.

And he was carrying it in his arms.

Chapter Text

The car ride was a blur of wet coats, hurried orders, and the faint sound of Elliot’s shallow breathing. Don Sonnellino sat in the back seat with the boy in his arms, the boy’s head pressed against his chest. His coat was thrown aside; his shirt clung to him, damp and cold. He didn’t notice. He only noticed the way Elliot’s breath rattled, unsteady, too faint.

Mafioso’s arms held him tighter than he meant to. His men sat rigid, eyes forward, pretending not to notice. Echo drive, Cane checked his watch, Beartrap cracked open the window to let in the sharp night air. Wire sat closest, his knee bouncing, hands twitching. He looked once—just once—at Elliot’s pale face before quickly looking away.

Mafioso never looked away. His eyes stayed locked on the boy’s bruised skin, the flutter of his eyelids that never opened. His grip never loosened, not even when the car jolted over rough road. It was the grip of a man who feared something could be stolen from him again the second he let go.

The drive ended at an iron gate tucked away beneath the cover of the city. The car rolled down a slope, into the heart of the Mafioso estate. From the outside, it looked like little more than an abandoned warehouse. Inside, it was a fortress—warm lights, polished floors, reinforced walls. Not a mansion, but something steadier, safer.

The heavy doors opened, and the family poured inside. Echo and Cane moved immediately, barking orders. The hidden infirmary was readied in minutes—oxygen, heated blankets, medical supplies lined on the counter. Beartrap guided the Don firmly by the shoulder.

“You’ll drown yourself in wet clothes, Boss,” his voice low and rough. For once, Mafioso didn’t argue. He let the soldier push him toward another room where dry clothes awaited.

By the time he returned, wearing a crisp black shirt and a new fedora, Elliot was stretched on the bed in the infirmary. His chest rose and fell beneath a warm blanket, faint but steady. Wires were attached, a tank of oxygen hissing softly at his side. Echo checked his pulse. Cane adjusted the mask. Wire lingered by the doorway, eyes darting, restless.

“He’ll live,” Cane said, his calm voice carrying quiet weight. “But he won’t wake yet. His body needs time.”

“How long?” Mafioso asked, his tone flat but sharp.

Cane exchanged a glance with Echo. “No one can say, Boss. Hours. Days.”

The Don’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer, only nodded once. He pulled the brim of his hat lower, hiding his eyes. His men didn’t push. They gave their reports, their reassurances, then filed out one by one as the boss order them to rest. Even Wire, after a last worried glance, was ushered away by Echo’s firm hand.

The door closed.

Silence.

Mafioso stood alone at the bedside, the hum of machines filling the air. He slowly pulled out a chair, the scrape of wood against tile loud in the quiet, and sat down.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. His eyes roamed Elliot’s body, tracing the marks he knew by heart—because he’d left them there. The bruises across his ribs, the faint burns at his throat, the split lip, the dark shadow around his eye. Every scar sang his own violence back to him, and for once, he couldn’t look away, even if they were heal now.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fedora shadowing his face. His breath came heavy, slower than before.

“You stubborn little fool,” he muttered, his voice low, almost too soft to be his. “Why jump? Why fall? Why make me…” He stopped, swallowing the words back.

The night stretched.

When the oxygen mask hissed too sharply, he reached to adjust it, careful, steady. When the blanket slipped, he tugged it higher. He checked the boy’s pulse more times than he needed to, fingers pressing lightly at his wrist, waiting for that steady thrum.

Hours passed. The house above moved on, the family keeping their distance. But in the infirmary, the Don never left.

At one point, Elliot’s hand twitched, shifting against the sheets. Mafioso’s breath caught. He caught the hand instinctively, wrapping it in his own before he realized what he was doing. The skin was cold, damp with fever. He held it tighter, thumb brushing against bruised knuckles.

“You’re still here,” he whispered. His voice cracked. He cleared his throat sharply, forcing the strength back into it. “Good. Stay here.”

The clock ticked on. Midnight passed. Then one. Then two. Mafioso didn’t move from his chair. His hat tilted forward, but his eyes stayed open, trained on the boy’s chest rising and falling.

When the machines beeped too sharply, he adjusted the wires. When Elliot’s lips cracked from dryness, he dampened them with water on gauze. When his fever rose, he swapped the cloth at his forehead again and again, dipping it into cool water, pressing it gently back.

He said nothing. Not to Elliot, not to himself. Only once did words slip through, a whisper like smoke.

“I should’ve let you sink.”

His hand trembled as he wrung out the cloth. “Should’ve let you go. Debt paid. Problem gone.”

But when the boy stirred faintly, a small sound escaping his throat, Mafioso leaned in instantly, hand brushing Elliot’s hair back.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Easy now.”

The boy didn’t wake. His body calmed again, falling back into that stillness. Mafioso sat back, exhaling, chest tight.

By dawn, the Don looked worn for the first time in years. His shirt clung damp to his shoulders, his eyes bloodshot from refusing to close. But still he stayed. Still he waited.

And when the first light of morning seeped into the cracks of the blinds, Don Sonnellino remained at Elliot’s side, fedora shadowing his tired eyes, hand resting close to the boy’s.

The family could whisper what they wanted. Weakness. Contradiction.

But in that room, there was only one truth:

The Don would not leave him.

Not tonight, or other night.

or many day have pass..

Not until he opened his eyes.
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The sun was warm on his face.

Elliot stood in the middle of a flower field, petals swaying in the breeze like soft waves. Colors bled into the horizon—yellow, red, pink, white—as if the whole world had been painted by a gentle hand. The air smelled sweet, fresh, untouched by smoke or gasoline. His chest felt lighter than it had in years.

Someone touched his hair, brushing it back carefully, fingers delicate and familiar.

“Elliot,” his mother’s voice murmured. “You shouldn’t sleep in the sun, dear. You’ll get a headache.”

He turned, and there she was—her smile warm, her eyes crinkled at the corners the way he remembered. Her hair caught the light, glowing gold. She looked the way she had when he was small, before the hospital visits, before the quiet dinners where his father stared at empty chairs.

“Mom…” His voice cracked. He hadn’t said that word in so long, it hurt on his tongue.

Her smile widened as if she had been waiting years for him to say it again. She held out her hand. Without thinking, Elliot took it. Her palm was soft and warm, like she had never left.

They walked together through the flowers, sunlight chasing their steps. She hummed something faint, a tune he almost recognized but couldn’t place. His chest ached—not from pain, but from the way it felt too good, too right.

“Mom?” he asked softly. “Am I… dreaming?”

She laughed, that soft laugh he used to hear when he made silly mistakes. “You’re always dreaming, Elliot. Even when you don’t realize it.”

He squeezed her hand tighter. “I don’t want this one to end.”

They stopped at a patch of daisies. She knelt down, picking one and twirling it between her fingers. Then, with that same teasing smile, she looked up at him.

“I have a riddle for you,” she said.

Elliot sat down beside her, curiosity bright in his eyes like he was a child again. “Okay, hit me with it.”

“What grows without roots, shines without fire, and warms without touch?”

He frowned, scratching his head. “Uh… the… stars? No, wait, those burn.” He thought harder, biting his lip. “The… wind?”

She laughed softly again. “You always guess too fast. Don’t rush.”

He groaned, flopping back into the flowers. “Fine, I give up. What is it?”

She leaned down, her hair brushing his forehead as she whispered: “The sun. The same one you shouldn’t fall asleep under.”

He opened his eyes to her grin and found himself laughing too, shaking his head. “You got me. That was too easy.”

But her expression softened then, as if she were holding back a secret.

“There’s something else, Elliot,” she said quietly.

He sat up straighter, curiosity flickering in his chest. “What?”

“You’re going to be a big brother.”

For a moment, the words didn’t register. Then they did, and his smile broke wide, brighter than the sun above them. “Really? You mean it?”

She nodded, her eyes gleaming with pride. “Yes. You’ll be wonderful. I know it.”

His laughter rang out in the field, unrestrained, unbroken. He threw his arms around her, and she caught him, spinning him in the air like he was small again. The flowers blurred into streaks of color around them, his world nothing but her voice, her warmth, her promise.

But then—

The edges of her smile cracked. The sky above fractured like glass, spiderwebbing lines tearing through the light. The colors bled into black, dripping away until only darkness remained. Her hand slipped from his, her form fading like smoke in the wind.

“Mom!” he cried, reaching out, but she was gone. The field collapsed into nothingness.

And he was falling.

Falling into a void of silence.

He curled inward, trembling, clutching at his chest. Alone. Always alone.

But then—arms. Strong arms wrapped around him, holding him steady, halting the endless fall. He couldn’t see who it was, but the embrace was firm, grounding, dragging him toward light.

And then—

He opened his eyes.

The ceiling above was unfamiliar, pale, shadowed. His throat burned as if sand had been poured into it. He blinked slowly, his body heavy, weak. His lips cracked as he whispered, voice raw:

“…is this heaven?”

The silence that followed was sharp.

His head turned, sluggish and slow. Shapes came into view— faces, hovering over him. Not angels. Not family. His blurred vision cleared enough to see. Beartrap, his broad figure stiff with surprise. Echo, usually unreadable, caught with his mouth slightly open. Cane, mask of calm cracking at the edges.

Elliot blinked again, the truth sliding into his chest like a blade. His body ached. His skin burned with old bruises. His throat tasted of salt and smoke. This wasn’t heaven. It couldn’t be.

His gaze drifted back to the ceiling, and a bitter breath rattled from his lungs.

“…it’s hell.”

The words dropped like lead, heavier than his body, heavier than the silence in the room.

He wished he had stayed in the field.

Chapter Text

The noise tore Mafioso out of his sleep.

A crash, then a clatter, voices raised in hurried panic. He stirred on the couch, blinking, the blanket sliding from his shoulders. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but exhaustion had crept up on him, his body sinking into stillness after days of watchfulness. Someone—Cane, most likely—had draped the blanket over him.

Another sound followed—louder, sharper. Not just an accident. A deliberate strike.

Mafioso was on his feet immediately. His large frame moved down the dim hall with quiet, deliberate strides. When he reached the door, he didn’t knock. He pushed it open, and the sight stopped him cold.

Elliot was cornered against the wall, trembling so hard his knees nearly buckled beneath him. His face was pale, his lips cracked, his throat raw. But terror drove him, made him throw anything within reach. A cup. A pillow. The tray Echo had left on the table. Each object clattered uselessly, but he didn’t stop.

Then—a frying pan. Where he had found it, Mafioso didn’t know. But the boy hurled it like a weapon.

Mafioso’s hand shot up, catching it mid-air with a hard smack. The clang rang through the room like a bell.

He lowered it slowly, his head tilting, his expression unreadable except for the wide smile stretched across his face. It was his mask, his habit, his only version of calm. Smooth. Unsettling. Practiced.

“Elliot,” he said, voice low, steady as stone.

The boy flinched as though struck. His wild eyes locked on Mafioso, breath shortening, chest seizing. His lips trembled, his body pressing tighter into the wall as if it could swallow him whole. His hands shook so violently the next object slipped from his grasp before he could throw it.

Mafioso stepped forward, calm, measured. His hands slightly out, not fists, not threats. But the smile on his face twisted the gesture into something worse. Not comfort. Not safety. To Elliot it was monstrous—familiar, haunting.

“Why are you here?” Elliot rasped. His voice was broken, raw from disuse and tears. His eyes glistened, wide with terror. “Why am I still here? Why didn’t I die?”

Mafioso’s smile didn’t falter, though inside, something heavy pressed into his chest. Unbidden, memory flashed—the bridge, the fall, the freezing current that had swallowed Elliot whole. The dead weight of his body in Mafioso’s arms as he fought the water, the dread that had clawed at his gut when Elliot hadn’t breathed.

It was the first time Mafioso had known something close to fear. Not fear for himself. He’d never feared that. But for Elliot—watching the life drain from him—it had been unbearable.

But Elliot didn’t know that.

He only saw the smile. The calm. The man who had bruised him, burned him, broken him. Now reaching again.

“No… no, no…” Elliot whimpered, shaking his head frantically. His breath hitched faster and faster, spiraling out of control. His chest burned, his lungs seized. Panic swallowed him whole. He wanted answers, escape, anything—but his mind screamed only of the bridge, the fall, the wish that it had finished the job.

Mafioso reached forward. His hands closed gently but firmly around Elliot’s wrists, pinning them before the boy could hurl anything else. Their skin touched.

Elliot shattered.

A strangled cry broke from him, tears springing to his eyes. He thrashed weakly in Mafioso’s grip, his strength nothing against the iron hold. His body trembled violently, his breaths ragged, too fast, too shallow. Panic consumed him, every nerve raw with terror.

His mind spun backward—memories flashing—fists, bruises, choking hands, cigarette burns searing his skin. Mafioso’s face always smiling. Always calm. Always there.

Now, once again, Mafioso was holding him down.

“I—I can’t—I can’t—” Elliot choked, sobs breaking loose as his voice cracked. His chest hitched violently, his body begging for release, for air, for an end.

Mafioso’s grip loosened slightly, guilt pulling at him. But he didn’t let go. He couldn’t. His jaw locked. His voice lowered. “Listen to me—”

“STOP!”

The shout cut through everything.

The thrashing. The sobbing. The noise.

All eyes turned to the doorway.

Wire stood there, framed in the dim light, a plastic bag of food dangling from one hand. His chest rose and fell sharply, his face pale but determined.

He dropped the bag, its contents spilling out across the floor. He didn’t care. His gaze locked on Mafioso, then shifted to Elliot crumpled in the corner.

“Boss,” Wire said, his tone steady though his voice trembled with urgency. “Please. Let go of him.”

Mafioso blinked, thrown by the younger man’s sudden command. His smile twitched faintly. “Wire—”

“Boss.” Wire’s tone grew firmer, his words faster, almost stumbling over each other. “He’s terrified. He doesn’t understand. He’s—he’s not ready to see us like this. Not after everything. Please, let me try. Just—just trust me.”

The words came out harsher than Wire intended, too sharp in his desperation. The room bristled—Echo’s scowl deepened, Cane stiffened, Beartrap shifted his weight heavily.

But Mafioso… Mafioso didn’t move. He studied Wire quietly, his wide smile unshaken. He knew Wire. He had raised him, shaped him, watched him fumble and rise again. And he knew the difference between disrespect and desperation. This was no rebellion. This was loyalty, twisted with urgency.

Wire stepped further in, his posture protective, standing between Elliot and the others. His hands were open, his voice calmer now though the edge remained. “I’m not saying you can’t handle him, Boss. I’m not saying that. I’m saying—he doesn’t know yet. He doesn’t know what really happened that night. And right now, you scare him more than the water did. Please. Let me be the one. Just this once.”

His words hung in the heavy air.

Mafioso looked down at Elliot, trembling, broken, his breaths ragged. He looked back at Wire, his eyes sharp, his voice steady.

For a long moment, silence reigned.

Finally, Mafioso released Elliot’s wrists. He stepped back slowly, his smile still fixed but his chest tight. He turned slightly, his coat brushing the floor.

Wire swallowed, nodding quickly. “Thank you, Boss. I’ll take it from here.”

Echo muttered something under his breath. Cane’s eyes flicked to Mafioso, waiting for a signal. Beartrap cast one more glance at Elliot before moving to the door.

One by one, they filed out.

Mafioso was the last to linger. His tall frame filled the doorway, his smile still etched across his face, but his eyes—his eyes lingered too long on Elliot’s fragile form. Then he turned and left, the door shutting softly behind him.

Inside, only Wire and Elliot remained.

Wire exhaled, crouching at Elliot’s level. His voice dropped low, careful, gentle. “Hey. It’s alright. They’re gone. It’s just me. You’re safe.”

Elliot’s breaths still came too fast, but when his wet eyes flicked to Wire, something shifted. Wire wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t reaching. He wasn’t holding him down. He was just there.

Wire kept his hands visible, low on his knees. His words were steady. “I know it feels like hell. I know you don’t understand why you’re here. But you’re alive. That’s what matters right now. You’re alive, Elliot.”

The boy’s trembling didn’t stop, but the air shifted slightly. Just slightly.

For the first time since waking, Elliot let himself take a shaky breath.

And Wire stayed there, patient, speaking softly into the storm until the boy’s sobs weakened into silence.

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For a long, tense moment, Elliot didn’t move. His shoulders trembled with every breath, his body twitching like a string pulled too tight.

Wire swallowed, trying to sound steady. “Can I…?” His gaze flicked toward the bed across the room. “It’s warmer there. Softer. You don’t have to, but—maybe it’ll help.”

Elliot’s head shifted just slightly. His red-rimmed eyes flicked to the bed, then back to Wire. His lips parted as if he wanted to speak, but nothing came out—only the faintest of nods, jerky and weak.

Relief loosened Wire’s chest. He gave a small, encouraging smile. “Alright. We’ll do it slow.”

He inched closer, careful to keep his movements smooth, unthreatening. When his hand brushed Elliot’s arm, the boy jolted violently, flinching so hard his head struck the wall. Wire froze, instantly pulling back, hands retreating to his knees.

“Okay,” he said quietly, lowering his eyes. “No touching unless you want. I’ll just help guide you with words.”

That seemed to work. Elliot didn’t relax, but he didn’t bolt either. His ragged breaths kept coming, but he allowed Wire’s presence, allowed his voice to guide him forward inch by inch until he reached the bed. Elliot sank against the edge like gravity had doubled, curling himself into a trembling knot.

Wire eased himself onto the mattress nearby but left space between them. “Good,” he said softly. “That’s good.”

The room filled with silence again—only Elliot’s unsteady breathing and the faint groan of the old house settling.

Wire stood after a moment, crossing to the table to pour water into a glass. He returned and crouched again, holding it out carefully. “Here. Just a sip. It’ll help.”

Elliot’s hand trembled so badly when he reached that the water sloshed. Wire steadied the glass, letting Elliot feel most of the weight. The boy sipped once, then too fast, choking on it.

Instinctively, Wire’s hand brushed his shoulder. Elliot flinched again, and Wire pulled back immediately, guilt flashing across his face. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Just—making sure you’re okay. That’s all.”

Elliot gave a weak nod, his glassy eyes flicking toward Wire. His lips finally moved, voice raw and small. “Better.”

Something in Wire’s chest tightened painfully, but he let out a quiet breath of relief. “Good. That’s all I needed to hear.”

He gave the boy time, sitting with him in silence until the storm of shaking eased a little. Then, after a long pause, Wire leaned forward, resting his arms loosely on his knees. His voice stayed low.

“Elliot… do you remember me?”

The boy blinked, head tilting slightly, then gave a faint nod.

Wire exhaled quietly, almost like a sad puppy wagging its tail at the smallest mercy. At least Elliot hadn’t forgotten. At least his mind wasn’t shattered completely.

“Do you… remember what happened? Before you woke up here?”

Elliot’s face tensed. His lips quivered, but he didn’t speak.

Wire’s voice softened further. “It’s okay if you don’t want to say. But I think… you should know why you’re here.”

He waited, watching Elliot’s fragile form.

Seems like he not ready yet….

No matter…. He needs his rest from a long stressing day.

Chapter Text

The quiet in Elliot’s room was almost peaceful.

Wire had been speaking gently for nearly an hour, his words tumbling out like marbles across the floor. He’d tried every silly distraction he could think of: telling Elliot about the time he’d locked himself inside the trunk during a mission and had to text Beartrap to bust him out, humming an old Saturday morning cartoon theme completely off-key, even re-enacting Cane’s “epic” six-minute rant about taxes during a car chase. Anything to keep Elliot’s mind away from the pain, the fear.

And somehow, it worked.

The pizza boy’s watery eyes finally softened, lids drooping. His breaths grew heavier, his body sinking into the mattress. Wire hesitated, then carefully pulled the sheet up, tucking him in like a little brother. Nobody outside this room would ever believe him capable of that sort of gentleness, but here? It felt natural.

He lingered for a second, just watching the slow rise and fall of Elliot’s chest. The boy’s face was finally calm.

Good. He needed the rest.

Wire bent down to collect the mess of food he’d dropped earlier—a half loaf of bread, two apples, some rice spilling like sand across the floor, and one onion that kept rolling toward the corner. He snatched it up, stuffed everything back into the crumpled paper bag, and tiptoed toward the door.

The door creaked open.

Wire froze.

Mafioso was there.

His tall frame filled the hallway, shadows stretching behind him like claws. The brim of his fedora covered his eyes, but his grin was unmistakable—sharp, steady, unnervingly wide.

“Uh—boss.” Wire whispered nervously, clutching the bag to his chest like a shield. “He’s out. Finally.”

The grin didn’t move. Mafioso didn’t blink. But something in his stillness made Wire uneasy. The boss wasn’t calm because he was relaxed—he was calm like a predator who had decided not to move just yet.

“How is he?” Mafioso’s voice was low, smooth.

Wire scratched his neck. “Uh… you… you heard most of it, right?”

No reply. Just the grin, gleaming faintly in the light. Then a small nod.

Wire cleared his throat, whispering quickly, “He’s not ready to hear everything. Not tonight. Gonna take time.” His hand twitched into a nervous thumbs-up before he yanked it back down, realizing what he’d just done. “Sorry. Uh—habit. Won’t happen again.”

A creak of wood made Wire glance to the side. He groaned quietly.

There, stacked ridiculously high against the doorframe, were the other henchmen. Cane at the bottom, trying to look dignified while holding up Echo. Echo balancing awkwardly with his headset tilted. And Beartrap perched on top like a giant, grumpy gargoyle.

“Shhh!” Echo hissed, elbowing Beartrap. “Stop breathing so loud!”

“You’re crushing my hat brim,” Cane muttered from below.

The wood groaned. Then gave way.

With the inevitability of bad planning, the tower collapsed.

“Ah—!” Wire yelped, food bag spilling again as Beartrap’s arm smacked him in the shoulder. All four men crashed into the hall in a tangled heap of limbs, groans, and swears.

“Quiet, quiet, QUIET!” Echo wheezed, muffling Beartrap’s groan with his hand.

“Elliot’s gonna—” Wire began in panic.

A hand shot out.

Mafioso’s.

In one smooth movement, the boss caught Wire by the collar with one hand and braced Beartrap’s full bulk with the other. His grip was iron, effortless. He didn’t grunt, didn’t flinch. He simply held them all up like rag dolls.

Wire blinked up at him, stunned. “Thanks, boss. Uh—owe you one. Or ten.” He scrambled upright, pulling the others to their feet like nothing had happened.

The grin stayed, unchanged. Watching.

Wire lowered his voice, glancing at the door. “He’s asleep. Let’s not screw it up.”

The others shuffled awkwardly, pretending the fall hadn’t happened. Cane smoothed his suit. Echo adjusted his headset. Beartrap brushed dust from his ushanka.

“So… what now?” Echo muttered.

“We wait,” Cane suggested, his calm tone back in place.

Wire, however, had already raised the bag of food like a trophy. “I know what we do! We cook. Porridge. Classic, easy, comforting. Food heals everything.”

Echo squinted. “Do you even know how to cook?”

“Of course not,” Wire beamed, marching toward the kitchen. “But there’s a cookbook in there. We’ll figure it out!”

Cane groaned. Echo sighed. Beartrap followed silently, because Beartrap always followed food.

Mafioso lingered one last second at Elliot’s door, his grin never faltering. Then he drifted behind them, silent as a shadow.
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The kitchen of the Sonnellino estate had seen crimes, blood (fish or meat), and wine spilled like rubies across marble. But it had never seen this kind of horror.

Wire tied on an apron three sizes too big, sleeves rolled up. His eyes sparkled with determination. “Alright, gentlemen. Tonight, we cook… for Elliot.”

Beartrap grunted approval. Echo folded his arms, unimpressed. Cane sighed deeply, already regretting his existence.

Wire clapped his hands. “we need are ingredients!”

He dumped the rescued bag onto the counter. Out rolled a loaf of bread, two apples, a handful of rice, one stubborn onion, and a squashed tomato.

Echo squinted. “Where’s the milk?”

Wire grinned. “We’ll improvise.”

“With what?” Cane asked, skeptical.

Wire shrugged, already rifling through cabinets. “Something white and liquidy. We’ll figure it out!”

The Kitchen Trials: Begin

Wire’s Attempt

Wire puffed out his chest, tying his oversized apron tighter. “Gentlemen, allow me to demonstrate the art of improvisation.”

He slammed the cookbook down like it was scripture. The cover fell off immediately, scattering decades-old dust.

“Step one!” he declared. “Rice. One cup.”

He measured by eye, scooped up three overflowing handfuls, and dumped them into the pot. Rice grains skittered across the counter like tiny insects.

“Wire,” Cane said flatly, “that’s three times the amount.”

Wire waved him off. “Details. Cooking is about passion, not numbers.”

Next came “sugar.” He opened the cupboard, frowned, and found nothing. Then his gaze landed on the salt jar. “White powder, white powder—close enough!”

He poured it in with the flourish of a magician throwing glitter into the air. Salt rained down like snow over the rice.

Cane pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re doomed.”

Wire pressed on. He chopped apples into misshapen chunks, tossed in the bread like croutons, then glanced at the lonely tomato. “You, too, my friend.” Splat! Half the tomato slid into the pot, its juices bleeding into the mix.

Echo leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “This is less cooking and more… summoning ritual.”

Finally came the liquid. Wire’s eyes darted around the counter before settling on a bottle of white wine. He smirked, uncorked it, and poured half the bottle in with the gusto of a bartender at a nightclub.

The pot hissed. Not simmered—hissed. A rainbow sheen swirled across the surface, bubbles forming and popping in colors no food should ever display.

“Is it supposed to glow?” Echo asked, voice deadpan.

“Glow means it’s working!” Wire said proudly.

When the concoction was finally ladled into bowls, the four of them sat in silence. Beartrap, fearless as ever, took the first bite. He chewed slowly. Swallowed. His face betrayed nothing.

Wire’s grin split wide. “See? He loves it!”

Encouraged, Echo and Cane each took a small spoonful. Seconds later, both spat violently into the sink. Echo gagged, rinsing his mouth with tap water. Cane coughed so hard he nearly collapsed.

“Rainbow acid!” Echo wheezed.

Wire’s smile faltered. “What? It’s not that bad—”

Before he could finish, Beartrap’s eyes rolled back. He collapsed face-first into the counter with a dull thunk, spoon clattering from his limp hand.

Wire shrieked. “Beartrap! Speak to me!”

Echo solemnly placed a hand over his heart. “He lasted longer than us. A true soldier.”

Cane’s Attempt

After reviving Beartrap with cold water, Cane rolled up his sleeves. “Amateurs. Step aside. Precision will save us.”

He approached the pot like a surgeon. Each grain of rice was measured on a scale. Apple slices were cut into flawless, symmetrical wedges. His knife strokes were so precise they barely made a sound.

Wire whispered in awe. “It’s like watching a magician.”

Cane ignored him. He muttered calculations under his breath, adjusting water ratios by milliliters. Every stir was clockwise, exactly ten rotations per minute. His brow furrowed, beads of sweat forming, as though the lives of kings depended on this porridge.

Finally, he set bowls before them. The texture looked smooth, respectable.

Wire took the first sip. His expression crumbled. “It’s… it’s like eating… air.” Tears welled in his eyes. “Sad, glittery air.”

“Edible,” Cane corrected sharply.

“Edible?” Echo spat his mouthful into the trash can. “It’s like homework paper boiled in hot water! Who wants Elliot to eat homework?”

Beartrap sniffed, pushed the bowl away, and refused even a bite.

Wire forced himself to swallow, his throat twitching. “He deserves better than this, Cane. Elliot deserves flavor. Not… spreadsheets.”

Cane bristled. “Perfection is flavor.”

Echo rolled his eyes. “Perfection tastes like a math exam.”

Beartrap’s Attempt

The giant rose silently, his chair scraping across the floor. With a grunt, he shoved them aside. He didn’t ask. He simply began.

Into the pot went raw meat chunks, hacked apart with a cleaver. A jar of pickled vegetables followed. Then, to everyone’s horror, a handful of wriggling bugs he had hidden in his pocket like snacks.

“Beartrap—” Wire squeaked. “Bugs? Really?”

Beartrap said nothing, only stirred with grim purpose.

The kitchen filled with a smell like wet fur mixed with vinegar. The pot gurgled in protest, releasing steam that curled against the ceiling in foul tendrils.

When the stew was finished, Beartrap ladled a steaming bowl and shoved it toward Wire.

Wire’s loyalty betrayed him again. Trembling, he brought the spoon to his lips. One bite and his body convulsed. His face turned green. He swayed like a dying tree.

Echo and Cane grabbed his shoulders, shaking him until he spat the poisonous mass back into the bowl.

Beartrap, misinterpreting, patted Wire proudly on the back.

Wire groaned, half-conscious. “Why do I love you guys enough to risk this?”

Echo’s Attempt

“Step aside, idiots.” Echo shoved past, tying his sleeves up with deliberate slowness. He opened a cupboard and emerged with flour, butter, and sugar.

Minutes later, he returned with a tray of cookies. Golden, soft, steaming gently in the cold air. The smell was intoxicating, warm butter and caramelized sugar filling the kitchen like heaven itself.

Everyone stared, silent.

“…We were supposed to make porridge,” Cane muttered.

“So?” Echo took a bite. The cookie snapped perfectly. “These are edible. That’s more than I can say for your sewage experiments.”

Beartrap’s huge hand reached over, snatched one, and stuffed it whole into his mouth. He grunted, a sound dangerously close to approval.

Wire frowned. “But Elliot needs… comfort food. Something warm. Soup! Not… cookies!”

“Cookies comfort me,” Echo said flatly, reaching for another.

Wire puffed his cheeks. “That’s not the same!”

Echo ignored him, chewing slowly, savoring every bite. His smug satisfaction radiated across the kitchen.

Wire’s arms flailed in protest. “Elliot is fragile! He needs porridge, not biscuits! He’s not going to heal faster with chocolate chips!”

Echo raised an eyebrow. “You want him to smile or choke? Because these,” he waved a cookie dramatically, “are smiles baked into dough.”

Wire stomped his foot. “It’s not tradition!”

Echo smirked. “Neither is poisoning him with wine-porridge, Wire.”

Beartrap reached for another cookie. Cane, to everyone’s shock, picked one up, examined it like an artifact, then gave the smallest nod of respect before eating.

Wire groaned into his hands. “This is hopeless…”

…

The kitchen was still echoing with the crunch of cookies when the room shifted.

Not from noise—Mafioso never announced himself with noise—but from weight. A presence, heavy as smoke, pressed against their backs.

Wire, Cane, Echo, and Beartrap froze mid-bite. Beartrap’s jaw stopped chewing, Cookie half-dissolved between his teeth. Echo’s shades nearly slid off his nose. Cane’s normally calm composure cracked into a rare, sharp intake of breath.

All four turned in unison, like children caught red-handed.

Their boss was standing there.

Mafioso loomed in the doorway, shadow stretching across the flour-dusted tiles. His grin was the same as always: wide, sharp, unreadable. His fedora tipped low enough to hide his eyes, but they felt him watching.

The henchmen panicked.

Echo choked on his cookie, coughing violently. Cane slapped his back, though he himself looked seconds away from collapse. Wire dropped his half-cookie into the sink like it was contraband. Beartrap swallowed hard—too hard—and his throat audibly clicked like a lock snapping shut.

Nobody spoke.

The boss took a step forward. His shoes clicked against the marble, deliberate, patient. He looked around the chaos of the kitchen: the scorched pot from Wire’s rainbow rice, Cane’s bland glitter porridge still steaming faintly, Beartrap’s meat-and-bug catastrophe oozing down the counter, and Echo’s plate of cookies scattered like golden bribes.

His silence was worse than shouting.

Wire’s voice squeaked first. “B-Boss, we—we were only trying—”

Echo jabbed him with an elbow. “Shut up, he’s gonna kill us faster if you explain.”

Beartrap crossed his massive arms, trying to look stoic, but sweat dripped down his temples.

Then Mafioso reached for something.

A knife.

The sound of the blade leaving the rack cut through the room.

All four henchmen clamped their eyes shut, almost in perfect sync, like schoolboys awaiting the ruler across their knuckles. Cane even mustered a fake tear, squeezing it out with professional elegance. Wire whispered a prayer to no one in particular. Echo muttered, “If he kills me, bury me with my shades.” Beartrap just grunted once, low and resigned.

The seconds stretched long.

Then—chop.

Not flesh. Not bone.

Carrots.

Their eyes snapped open.

Mafioso had tied on a new apron. Neat, black, embroidered with faint gold thread—an apron they’d never noticed before, hidden away in some drawer like a secret weapon. The knife flashed in his hands, slicing through vegetables with terrifying speed and precision. His grip never faltered. Each cut was identical, perfectly measured.

The henchmen gawked.

Wire whispered, “Boss… can… can cook?”

Echo shoved him. “Shut up before he hears you.”

But Mafioso wasn’t listening. He was elsewhere—focused, intent. He laid the vegetables into a pot, added rice in the correct portion, poured milk (don’t ask where he get it) with careful restraint. He wasn’t guessing or winging it like them; every movement was deliberate, sharp, commanding. He didn’t look at a cookbook. He was the cookbook.

The smell hit them first.

Rich, savory broth. Creamy rice softening in milk, not drowning. Vegetables releasing sweetness, layered with hints of garlic and herbs. Mafioso reached for spices, sprinkling pinches like a painter adding strokes of color. A dash of salt—not a snowfall like Wire’s disaster. Just enough to wake the flavors.

The kitchen filled with warmth.

Echo sniffed, stiffened, then sighed before he realized it. “Smells like… home.”

Cane adjusted his hat, covering the tremor in his voice. “Yes. It does.”

Wire’s stomach growled loud enough for everyone to hear. He clutched it in embarrassment.

Beartrap leaned forward, nostrils flaring. His eyes softened, the closest thing to emotion his face usually showed.

Mafioso didn’t turn around. He never did. He just stirred, calm and patient. Then, when the porridge had thickened just right, he dipped a spoon, tasted it in silence, adjusted with another flick of seasoning, and tasted again.

Not once did his grin change.

The henchmen leaned in closer, practically drooling. Their earlier chaos—the shouting, the coughing, the rainbow-colored acid in the sink—felt like a different universe. This wasn’t comedy. This was reverence.

Finally, Mafioso ladled steaming portions into bowls. He set them onto the counter without turning. His voice, low and even, cut through the haze:

“…Taste test.”

No question. A command.

The henchmen scrambled. Echo elbowed Wire. Wire elbowed Cane. Beartrap elbowed all three and won the first bowl.

Beartrap took one bite. His huge shoulders stiffened, then loosened. His eyes fluttered shut. He let out the faintest sigh.

Cane followed, bringing the spoon delicately to his lips. He swallowed, blinked, and murmured, “Balanced. Warm. Precise.”

Echo scooped up a mouthful, chewed slowly. “…Better than cookies,” he admitted reluctantly.

Wire’s turn came last. He lifted his spoon with shaking hands. The flavor washed over him in waves—comfort, depth, safety. His chest tightened, eyes stinging. “It’s like…” He struggled for words. “Like when my mom… made soup when I was sick. Boss…”

He couldn’t finish. He just slurped again, greedily, cleaning the bowl until not a grain was left.

Within minutes, all four bowls were empty. The henchmen scraped at the bottoms, desperate for more. Cane, normally refined, licked his spoon. Echo muttered curses under his breath, furious that he wanted seconds. Beartrap grunted approval, tapping the counter for refills. Wire actually bowed toward the pot.

Mafioso finally turned, ladling one last serving into a clean bowl. He didn’t acknowledge their worship. Didn’t gloat. Just nodded once, satisfied.

He handed the bowl to Wire.

“Take it to him.”

Wire froze, wide-eyed. “Me?”

“Mm.” Mafioso’s grin stretched wider. “Don’t spill.”

Wire clutched the hot bowl like it was holy. “Y-Yes, boss!” His voice cracked with joy. He bolted toward Elliot’s room, careful not to trip, practically glowing with pride.

The other henchmen watched him disappear. Then, slowly, they turned back to Mafioso.

He was already cleaning the knife, apron spotless, as though nothing had happened.

The kitchen, still heavy with the smell of porridge, hummed with silence.

Chapter Text

The room was still. Not the calm kind of still, but the heavy, suffocating kind that pressed on your chest and made the air feel thicker. Elliot lay curled on the bed, small beneath the blanket he’d pulled up like a shield. His lips parted with uneven breaths, the sound faint but restless. Every inhale seemed like his body wanted to give in to rest, and every exhale sounded like it wasn’t ready to stop fighting.

The door eased open without a sound.

Wire stepped inside, careful, a bowl steaming faintly in his hands. The smell followed him into the room—rich, savory, gentle. Comfort. He lingered at the doorway for a second, watching Elliot sleep, then moved closer, each step, quiet.

He crouched down beside the bed. His voice was soft, careful, like he was speaking to something fragile that could shatter at the slightest wrong touch.

“Hey… sunshine,” he murmured. “Time to wake up. Just a little.”

Elliot stirred. His lashes trembled, then his eyes blinked open, slow and hazy, like the world was too sharp for him to look at. His gaze found Wire, confusion clouding the exhaustion in them.

“…Wire?” His voice was a rasp, barely more than air.

Wire smiled faintly, setting the bowl on the nightstand. “That’s right. Brought you something. You need to eat, yeah? Gotta get your strength back.”

Elliot’s eyes flicked toward the bowl. The blanket tugged tighter around him. His shoulders tensed.

Wire caught the hesitation instantly. He didn’t lean closer, didn’t push. Instead, he sat at the edge of the bed, his hands resting open on his knees, his voice steady. “It’s porridge. Nothing strange. Warm, soft, easy on the stomach. Nothing to be afraid of.”

Elliot’s lips parted, but no words came. His gaze stayed fixed on the bowl, suspicion and exhaustion mixing together in his expression.

Wire exhaled slowly, reaching for the spoon. He scooped up a small portion, blew on it until the steam thinned, then popped it into his mouth without hesitation. He chewed, swallowed, and opened his mouth wide like a fool, even sticking out his tongue. “See? Fine. No tricks.”

For a long beat, Elliot just blinked at him. His fingers tightened faintly on the blanket, but the suspicion ebbed a little, leaving only tired wariness behind.

Wire dipped the spoon again, holding it out, careful not to move too close. His voice softened. “Just one bite. That’s all I’m asking. If you don’t like it, I won’t make you.”

The room stretched quiet. Elliot’s gaze flicked between the spoon and Wire’s face. The silence dragged so long it almost hurt. But then, slowly, Elliot leaned forward, lips parting.

Wire guided the spoon gently.

Elliot took the bite.

The taste hit him—creamy, soft, seasoned in a way that felt deliberate, almost too careful. It sat heavy in his empty stomach, but not unpleasant. His lashes lowered, brushing pale cheeks as he chewed with a kind of slowness.

Relief loosened Wire’s shoulders. His smile grew, easy, warm. “There you go. Not so bad, huh?”

Elliot gave the faintest shrug. His voice was so small it nearly disappeared into the room. “…Warm.”

Wire chuckled, light and quiet. “Good enough for me.”

He scooped another spoonful, offering it again. Elliot hesitated less this time. His lips parted, and he leaned forward. Wire fed him carefully, his grin never slipping.

By the third bite, Elliot’s tired eyes lingered on him a little longer. Then, soft, his voice cracked out, unsteady. “…Sunshine?”

Wire blinked. “Huh?”

Elliot swallowed slowly. His gaze lowered. “…Why you call me that?”

Wire froze mid-motion, spoon hovering. His ears went hot as he rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “Oh. Uh. That.” He gave a nervous laugh. “I just thought it sounded wholesome. Y’know? Warm. Light in a dark place. Kinda… fits you.”

Confusion flickered in Elliot’s eyes.

Wire stumbled on, embarrassed now. “But hey—if the nickname cringe, I’ll stop. Just say so. Call you something else. I don’t wanna… uh… make you uncomfortable.”

Elliot’s head gave the slightest shake. His lips parted, voice so faint it was almost lost in the quiet. “…Don’t mind.”

Wire’s grin softened into something gentler. “Yeah? Then I’ll keep it. Sunshine suits you, even if you don’t see it yet.”

Elliot didn’t answer. But when Wire held the spoon out again, he leaned forward without hesitation.

The bowl grew lighter with each bite. Wire kept talking softly, filling the silence with warmth Elliot couldn’t muster. Nothing heavy, nothing sharp. Just little comments, meant to make the air feel safer.

“You know, I had to fight for this,” Wire said after a pause, scooping another spoonful. He caught himself mid-sentence, nearly slipping. “My boss cook—eh, I mean… the kitchen nearly exploded earlier. Don’t ask. Just trust me, this version’s way better.”

Elliot blinked at him. He chewed slowly, expression unreadable. For a second, something flickered at the corner of his mouth. Almost like a smile. But it was gone just as quick, replaced with the same quiet focus.

Wire grinned anyway. “I’ll take that as approval.”

Spoon by spoon, the porridge disappeared. Elliot’s movements grew steadier, less hesitant. His lips parted automatically when Wire lifted the spoon, no longer needing coaxing.

Wire’s voice softened. “I’m glad you’re eating.”

Elliot’s gaze lowered. He didn’t answer, but he opened his mouth again, letting Wire feed him without resistance.

By the time the bowl was scraped nearly clean, Elliot had eaten every bite. Wire tapped the spoon lightly against the rim and leaned back. “Look at that. Not a drop left. You’re tougher than you think.”

Elliot licked his lips faintly, sinking into the pillow. His eyes drooped, heavy with exhaustion. His voice cracked out, soft. “…Wire?”

Wire leaned in instantly. “Yeah, I’m here.”

There was a pause, then Elliot’s tired gaze met his, searching faintly. “…Head okay?”

Wire froze for a fraction of a second. His chest pulled tight. He forced his grin wider, steady. “More than okay. I’m fine, ahah….Don’t you worry about me.”

Elliot’s eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, then lowered. His lashes shut, and his breathing began to steady, sleep tugging him under.

Wire stayed quiet. He set the bowl aside, hands folded loosely in his lap. He watched the boy’s face soften into rest, still marked by shadows but calmer than before.

He didn’t say what he was thinking—that the food wasn’t his. That Mafioso had been the one to tie on an apron, slice vegetables with precise hands, stir the broth with careful attention, and taste it like a man who’d spent his whole life giving orders instead of care. Mafioso had cooked it. Mafioso had made sure it was good enough to feed to Elliot.

But Elliot didn’t need to know that. Not tonight.

Wire leaned back, letting the silence settle. A faint smile touched his lips as he whispered into the dim room, so soft only he could hear:

“Sleep easy, sunshine.”

He stayed there long after, guarding that fragile quiet the way he had carried the bowl—careful, steady, unwilling to let it slip.

.
.
.
.
.

The door clicked shut behind Wire as he stepped out, careful not to let the latch make too much noise. He leaned against the wood for a second, eyes closed, steadying his breathing. Elliot was finally asleep. Thank God. He’d managed to eat, he’d stopped shaking, and his face looked a little less haunted. Wire let out a small, tired breath.

Then—

“…”

Wire froze. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He opened his eyes slowly, dreading what he already knew.

Right there. Inches away.

Mafioso.

Tall, broad, looming like a shadow waiting to swallow him whole. Mafioso’s face was unreadable as always, his dark eyes boring down like he could peel Wire open without touching him.

Wire’s brain short-circuited. His body acted before his thoughts caught up.

He nearly screamed.

Only pure survival instinct kept his hand slapping over his mouth at the last second, smothering the squeak that came out. It was pitiful—too high, too startled, more like a spooked girl at a haunted house than a man who’d been through his share of gunfights. His back hit the door with a muted thunk. His heart jackhammered so hard he swore Mafioso could hear it.

For a long, suffocating second, the boss just stood there. Still. Silent. Staring.

Wire swallowed the lump in his throat, trying for words. “B-Boss. You—uh—” His voice cracked embarrassingly. “You scared the hell outta me. Don’t… don’t do that. People got weak hearts, y’know.”

A shuffle of shoes scraped against the hall floor. Wire glanced sideways, dread sinking in his gut.

Three silhouettes leaned casually against the wall like they’d been waiting all along.

Echo. Cane. Beartrap.

Oh no.

Not just waiting. Eavesdropping. Again.

Echo was the first to break, grin curling across his face. His voice was hushed, mindful not to wake Elliot, but no less sharp. “Smooth, Wire. Real smooth. ‘Sunshine’? Didn’t think you had that in you.”

Beartrap snorted so hard he nearly choked, elbowing Cane. “Next thing you know, he’s dressing them up in a princess gown and carrying him over the threshold.”

Cane smirked, arms crossed. “Wouldn’t even surprise me. He’s already got the blush down.”

Wire’s ears burned so hot they could’ve lit a cigar. He spun on them, flailing his arms wildly but whispering as harshly as he could. “Shut up! Shut the hell up! It’s not like that!”

The trio chuckled harder, muffled laughter shaking their shoulders. Echo slapped his own knee like it was killing him not to howl. Cane covered his mouth, shoulders trembling. Beartrap leaned against the wall, wheezing into his fist.

Wire wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Preferably into a pit with lava.

Then—he remembered. Mafioso.

Wire whipped back around. His boss hadn’t moved an inch. Still close. Too close. That unreadable stare locked on him like a hawk pinning prey.

The henchmen behind him sensed it too—the laughter tapered off into stifled snickers, eyes darting between Wire and the boss. The air thickened, heavy enough to choke on.

Wire forced a laugh, desperate, nervous. “Heh. You—you know how they are, boss. Just running their mouths. Don’t listen to a word—”

Mafioso leaned down slightly.

Wire’s soul left his body.

His boss’s voice was low, steady, like a blade dragging over stone. “Teach me.”

Wire blinked. “…Huh?”

“Reach him like that,” Mafioso said, tone flat as if stating a fact. “The way you did.”

The hallway went dead silent.

Behind him, Echo stiffened. Cane’s mouth parted, for once at a loss. Beartrap blinked slow, his usual grin faltering into something softer.

None of them laughed. None dared.

They weren’t mocking. They were… surprised.

And beneath that—something heavier. Respect.

Mafioso never admitted weakness. He never asked. And yet, here he was, wanting to learn the language of kindness, of warmth.

Wire’s stomach flipped. He panicked the only way he knew how: over-the-top.

His face lit up in a ridiculous, exaggerated beam, sparkles practically radiating off him. He clasped his hands dramatically, tilting his head up at Mafioso with puppy eyes so huge they should’ve been illegal. “Really, boss? You mean it? You want me to teach you?”

The light of his dramatics made the others squint.

“Too much, Wire,” Echo whispered, shielding his eyes.

“Dial it back before you blind us,” Cane muttered, but his voice carried no bite.

Beartrap snorted softly, shaking his head. “He’s ridiculous… but if anyone can show you, boss, it’s him.”

That was the difference. They teased Wire. But when they looked at Mafioso, their eyes were steady, serious. Respectful.

Mafioso didn’t flinch under Wire’s fake glow. He only stared, as if trying to make sense of the bizarre display. His brows pinched, almost imperceptible, like a man staring at a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

Wire ignored them, laser-focused on Mafioso. His grin stretched to breaking point. “Don’t you worry, boss. You came to the right man. Wire, master of wholesome communication, at your service!”

“Master of—” Echo choked, muffling his laugh in his sleeve.

Cane wheezed, thumping the wall for support. “Wholesome, he says—oh my God—”

Beartrap bent double, silent tears streaming down his face as he shook.

Wire whirled on them, red to the ears. “I said shut it! I’m serious here!”

"AHEM" Wire’s grin wavered under the weight of Mafioso gaze. “Uh… s-so yeah. I can, uh, set up some lessons? Gentle talk 101. Later. You know, when you’re free.”

Silence.

Mafioso said nothing.

But the three henchmen shifted again. Echo straightened, eyes softer than usual. “Boss… if you want this… we’ll back you. All the way.”

Cane nodded once, his tone even. “It takes strength to fight. It takes more to change. You’ve got both, boss.”

Beartrap grinned again, not mocking but loyal. “The world ain’t ready for you being soft, Boss. But we are. You lead, we follow. Always.”

Wire’s chest tightened. They weren’t laughing now. They were honoring the weight of what Mafioso had just asked.

Wire swallowed hard. His fake sparkle dimmed into something smaller, truer. A nervous but genuine smile. “…Guess that makes me your teacher, huh, boss?”

For a long beat, Mafioso didn’t answer. Then, finally, he gave the faintest nod.

Echo and Cane each grabbed one of Wire’s arms, gentle but firm. Beartrap pushed lightly from behind.

“Alright, Professor,” Echo murmured, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Class dismissed—for tonight.”

Wire flailed weakly. “H-hey—let me go! I didn’t even start yet!”

Cane’s smirk flickered. “Tomorrow. Elliot’s resting. Don’t ruin that.”

Beartrap gave Wire a small shove, his grin warm. “You got this, Wire. Don’t overthink it.”

They half-dragged him down the hall, his protests echoing softer and softer until only silence remained.
.
.
.
.

Mafioso didn’t move. He stayed rooted, staring at the space Elliot room door had been. The quiet pressed in.

Finally, his lips moved. word not coming out, not quite. Just a murmur, testing the weight of it.

Then, as silent as he’d appeared, Mafioso turned and disappeared into the dark.

at least he like my cooking.

Chapter Text

Mafioso steps forward, coat swaying, shadow covering Elliot’s face. His hand rises, ready to bring down the scripted blow—

But instead, his grip freezes midair. His hand curls into a fist, then relaxes. With an almost awkward movement, he grabs Elliot’s shirt collar, hauls him up, and mutters through clenched teeth, “…No.’’ Hugging Elliot.

Elliot blinks, confused, visor tilting. “…What?”

📢 Director (off-screen): “CUT! CUT! Are you kidding me, Don? That’s the FIFTH time you’ve broken character this week! You’re supposed to hit him, not—whatever THAT was!”

Mafioso doesn’t flinch. He just keeps one arm around Elliot like it’s a perfectly normal mafia intimidation tactic.

Chance, off to the side, bursts out laughing and immediately dives in to wrap Elliot in another hug. “If Don gets a turn, I’m cashing in mine too, kid!”

Elliot, squished between them both, just mutters, “This isn’t in the script, guys…”

Meanwhile, iTrapped sits in a director’s chair he stole from props, sipping a soda noisily. Sllluuuurp. He lets out a long sigh, as if the whole fiasco is beneath him. “This production is doomed. Absolutely doomed.”

In the background, the henchmen shuffle together with their crumpled scripts.

Wire whispers nervously, “Wait, page 15 says ‘punch,’ right? Not ‘embrace?’”

Cane adjusts his glasses, calm as ever. “Yes. But it seems improvisation has won out.”

Beartrap grunts, unreadable as always.

Echo just pinches the bridge of his nose. “Unprofessional. Entirely unprofessional.”

📢 Director again: “Alright, take five! And somebody pry Chance off Elliot before we run out of film!”

Chapter Text

The morning bled into the city like ink into water. Gray light pushed against the mist rolling off the docks, staining the skyline with dull steel shadows. On mornings like this, most men clung to their beds, trying to squeeze warmth from another hour of sleep. But not Don Sonnellino.

This was his hour.

The tall boss in the shadows strode through the street with measured steps, black coat brushing his legs, fedora tilted low. His pocket watch chain clinked softly with each movement, the only sound against the hush of early dawn. Behind him, his family moved like phantoms, the Four Henchmen blending into alleys and stairwells.

The mission was simple: clear another name off the list. One of the fools who had dared to steal from Sonnellino’s table, men who thought they could skim chips from the casino and walk away laughing.

No one laughed at Don Sonnellino. Not twice.

The first target was found in a butcher shop, his hands still red with someone else’s meat. Echo slipped in first, his headset glinting in the dark. A sharp gesture, and Beartrap was already moving, his massive shoulders blotting out the light as he dragged the man into the freezer. No screams—Beartrap didn’t allow them.

By the time Mafioso stepped past the hanging carcasses, there was already silence, thick and heavy. Beartrap’s coat was flecked with blood, but his expression was the same as always—unmoved, almost bored.

Mafioso only nodded once, a silent approval, before moving on.

The city seemed to breathe with them, alleys yawning open as Cane guided the path. Calm, sharp-eyed, he read the streets like scripture, leading them from one den of thieves to the next. A few words here, a quiet plan there, and the crew flowed like water, cutting through resistance before it could form.

They left behind bodies, but never noise. The police wouldn’t wake for hours, and by then, all they’d find was red stains already turning brown.

Mafioso’s smile grew with each step.

Not because of the death. He’d seen too much of that to smile at it anymore.

No—the smile lingered because of what he whispered.

Wire’s words.

Little things the rookie had fumbled through teaching the night before. “Say something kind,” he’d urged, cheeks red, voice cracking. “Like—uh—compliment them, you know? Something wholesome. People open up when you soften the edge.”

Mafioso had listened. Not because he believed it, but because he respected the nerve it took for Wire to say it.

Now, as his enemies fell one by one, Mafioso mumbled the words under his breath. To himself. To the dying. To the blood-slick streets.

“You… you’ve got strong hands,” he said softly, crouching by a man choking on his last breath. “Bet you were good with tools.”

The man’s eyes widened in terror, his body shivering as though Mafioso had cursed him instead of complimented.

Mafioso smiled wider. “Your coat. Fine stitching. Someone cared enough to make it nice for you.”

The victim trembling, tried to crawl away, but Cane’s shadow blocked the path.

“B-boss,” Cane murmured, careful, “the way you say it… might be a little off.”

“Wholesome,” Mafioso whispered. “That’s what Wire said. Wholesome.”

He rose, boots crunching glass as they moved on. The dawn stretched thinner, pale light breaking over rooftops.

The next targets were cornered in a gambling den. Echo barked orders through clenched teeth, moving soldiers like chess pieces. Beartrap smashed down a locked door with his bare shoulder, scattering frightened men like rats.

Mafioso followed, calm, deliberate. His sword—a sleek custom blade with blackened steel—never left its sheath. He didn’t need it yet.

Instead, he crouched by another man trembling against the wall, lips moving with prayers. Mafioso tilted his head, shadows covering his eyes.

“You’ve got… a good voice,” he murmured. “Prayers sound strong when you speak them.”

The man whimpered, more terrified than ever, clawing the ground to escape.

Every word Mafioso spoke was meant to be kind. But the way his voice rolled, smooth and low, made them sound like eulogies.

By the time they reached the last name on the list, the streets behind them were painted quiet and red.

The final target hid in a tenement building, crouched behind a broken wardrobe in a bare room that smelled of mold. He clutched a pistol, hands slick with sweat, eyes darting at every sound.

But you couldn’t hide from Sonnellino.

The Don stepped into the doorway, his tall frame filling it whole. His smile hadn’t faded once.

“You,” he said softly, as if greeting an old friend. “You’ve got courage. Takes courage to hide.”

The man froze. His throat clicked.

Mafioso stepped closer, boots sinking into the warped floorboards. “Your breathing. Strong. Even now, it keeps steady.”

The target shook, confused, chilled to the bone. He thought the Don was distracted, caught up in strange words. He thought maybe, just maybe, he had a chance.

He lifted his gun, hand trembling—

CRACK.

Mafioso’s hand shot up, faster than the gun could rise. One twist. One snap.

The man fell in a heap, eyes frozen wide, pistol clattering uselessly to the floor.

The Don looked down at the body, his smile still soft, almost tender.

“…Gentle enough?” he whispered, to no one in particular.

Footsteps echoed behind him. Echo entered first, glasses catching light. Cane followed, adjusting his white hat with a steady hand. Beartrap came last, silent as ever, brushing dust off his coat.

Together, they stood behind their boss, the mission finished.

And then Wire stumbled in.

Late. Breathless. His neon headphones blinked wildly as he tripped over the doorway, crashing into the wall. He scrambled up, face flushed, hands stained red from earlier work.

He wasn’t as innocent as he looked. Never.

“B-boss!” Wire panted, eyes wide. “Did—did it work? Did the, uh… compliments… y’know…” He wiggled his bloody fingers, words fumbling. “Did it sound right?”

Mafioso turned, his shadow stretching long in the pale morning light. He looked at Wire, then back at the corpse at his feet.

The smile stayed.

“…I don’t know.”

And with that, the Don stepped past the body, coat trailing behind him, his crew falling into step.

The dawn had fully broken now, the sky streaked red and gold.

For the city, it was the start of another day.
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Blood washed down the drain in thick ribbons, swirling with soap until the water ran clear. Don Sonnellino braced both hands against the porcelain sink, the cracked mirror above him splitting his reflection into three. His long black coat was gone, fedora set aside, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

The water ran pink, then red, then pink again. He scrubbed until the scent of iron no longer clung to his skin. But no amount of cleaning could erase the map of scars carved into his arms, his shoulders, his ribs—marks from older jobs, harder days.

He turned off the tap. Silence filled the tiled room. Slowly, carefully, he picked up the rose lying on the counter. Its petals were the color of fresh wounds, velvet soft against his scarred fingers.

This was it. His new beginning. Wire’s words still echoed in his skull: “Show him something wholesome. Something that proves you’re not just scary. People need to see the soft stuff too.”

He inhaled once, exhaled, and pushed open the door. His boots carried him across the hall to Elliot’s room.

He paused at the threshold. The boy was inside, curled under blankets, shadows under his eyes.

Mafioso stepped in, rose in hand.

The scene cut like a knife.

—

Wire’s stylus tapped a wooden stick like a professor with a pointer. He stood in front of the Don, neon headphones flickering nervously.

“So, uh…” Wire cleared his throat. “How’d it go?”

Mafioso sat hunched in his chair, massive hands covering his face. For once, the boss looked small. His voice was muffled when it slipped through his fingers.

“…He cried.”

The henchmen exchanged glances.

Echo leaned against the wall, lips pressed thin. Cane crossed his arms, choosing silence. Even Beartrap shifted, uncomfortable in his own skin.

Wire swallowed. “C-cried? Like… good tears, or…?”

Mafioso dropped his hands. His shadowed eyes were darker than ever. “…Fear. He looked at me and… broke. Like I failed him before I even spoke.”

The room thickened with silence. Then, unexpectedly, Beartrap moved. The burly soldier, who rarely touched anyone except to kill, clapped one enormous hand on his boss’s shoulder. A silent gesture, solid and grounding.

Echo followed, softer. “Boss, it’s a first try. Nobody gets it perfect.”

Cane added in his measured voice, “Failure is proof of effort. No effort is worse.”

Wire panicked, tapping his stylus against his palm. “Okay, okay, no big deal. We just… uh… we’ll try something else tomorrow. Something smaller. Baby steps. Yeah. Baby steps.”

Mafioso only nodded, grim as if planning a murder, though this one was of his own reputation.

—

Day One: The Compliment

Morning sunlight cut through the blinds in Elliot’s room. He stirred, half-asleep, when the door creaked open.

Mafioso entered with quiet steps. His shadow stretched across the floor like an executioner’s blade.

He sat at the edge of the bed, massive frame dipping the mattress. Elliot froze, eyes wide.

“Your hair,” he rumbled, tone grave. “It… shines like threads I could cut at any moment.”

Elliot blinked once. Twice.

The Don leaned closer, smiling faintly. “It would be a shame to ruin something so soft before its time.”

Then flinched so hard he nearly fell off the bed. His hands flew to his head like he expected it to be ripped away.

Elliot whimpered, pressing himself back into the wall, trembling.

Outside the door, the henchmen winced.

Wire scribbled notes furiously. Compliments too intense. Dial it down.

—

Day Two: The Gift

Another rose. This time white.

Mafioso left it neatly on Elliot’s nightstand, no words, no looming shadow. Just a flower in a glass of water.

When Elliot woke, he stared at it for a full minute.

the note next to it said “…Do you like white rose instead? I can bring lilies. They are for graves.”

Then screamed.

Mafioso heard the sound from the hall. His face stayed unreadable, but his hand tightened on his coat sleeve until the seam nearly tore.

Wire chewed his lip. “Okay, okay, so flowers… maybe they’re, uh… too symbolic? New plan!”

—

Day Three: The Meal

Beartrap had helped cook stew. A rare event. but he only allow to chop the meat.

Mafioso carried the tray himself, setting it down at Elliot’s bedside.

“Eat,” he said. “You need strength… for what comes next.”

Elliot stared at the bowl like it was a bomb. He shook his head violently, curls falling into his eyes.

“…If I wished to poison you, you would already be gone.” Mafioso added, a reassurance.

Elliot’s face drained white. His hands shook so hard the spoon rattled against the bowl.

Wire buried his head in his hands. “Boss, no—! You can’t say it like that!”

Echo pinched the bridge of his nose. Cane muttered something about intent being lost in translation.

Mafioso sat in silence, watching the boy crumble. His expression never cracked, but his hand flexed against his knee like he was trying to crush the failure out of his bones.

—

Day Four: The Smile

Wire begged him to try something simpler. “Just… smile. That’s it. No words. No objects. Just… a smile. Gentle.”

Mafioso nodded. He understood.

He entered the room that night, silent as ever. Elliot glanced up nervously, curled against his pillow.

The Don pulled back his shadows and… smiled.

His grin was wide. Too wide. Teeth white, sharp in the dim light. His eyes remained cold, unblinking.

Elliot froze like prey under a predator’s gaze. He choked on a breath, heartbeat stuttering. His chest rose too fast, too shallow, panic seizing him until tears slid down his cheeks.

Wire slapped his forehead from outside the door. “Too much teeth, boss! Too much teeth!”

Mafioso turned away, jaw tightening. His smile died before it ever lived like upside down.

—

Day Five: The Story

Cane’s idea this time. “Words can soothe. Tell him something from your past. Not bloody. Something… human.”

Mafioso thought long, then entered Elliot’s room at dusk.

The boy sat rigid, eyes darting like he expected thunder.

The Don lowered himself into the chair. Voice calm, almost monotone.

“When I was a boy, I had a dog. Small. Black fur. He slept at my feet.”

Elliot blinked. Just blinked.

Mafioso continued. “He barked at shadows. One night, he ran into the dark. Didn’t come back. I looked. All night. Never found him.”

His jaw tightened, teeth grinding. “…I buried his collar.”

Elliot burst into tears.

Wire groaned, faceplanting into his stylus. “Oh my god, boss, that’s not wholesome! That’s tragic!”

Echo muttered, “Kid’s gonna need therapy twice over now.”

Cane sighed. “At least he shared. That matters.”

Beartrap patted the wire’s back again.

Mafioso just sat, head lowered, whispering, “…He cried again.”

—

Day Six: The Silence

Wire begged him: “Maybe… maybe don’t do anything? Just… sit with him. Quiet. No words. No shadows. Just… presence.”

So Mafioso tried.

He sat in the chair by Elliot’s bed for an hour. Two. Three.

Didn’t move. Didn’t blink often. Just… sat.

Elliot stared back, wide-eyed, terror growing with every passing minute.

By the fourth hour, Elliot shook so violently the glass of water on his nightstand spilled.

Wire yanked the boss out by the arm. “You can’t just loom at him for half the night! He thinks you’re planning his funeral!”

Mafioso tilted his head, genuinely confused. “…I was keeping him company.”

Wire’s scream echoed down the hall.

Day ???:

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The room was quiet. Too quiet.

Elliot’s eyes blinked open against the pale ceiling above him, that same ceiling he had been staring at for days now, trying not to think, trying not to feel. The infirmary bed smelled faintly of antiseptic and old linen. His body still ached from the ocean’s grip, from the way the water had pulled him down, and how he had wanted—no, begged—it to keep him there. But instead, he had woken up in this place. Not heaven, not hell. Somewhere worse.

The mafia’s house.

Every fiber of his being told him he didn’t belong here. Not with him. Not with the man whose fists, whose orders, whose shadow haunted his bones. Yet here Elliot was—dressed in soft clothes that weren’t his uniform, cared for in ways that felt more like shackles than kindness.

He couldn’t stay.

The thought crept into him like a whisper at first. Then louder. Then louder still, until it drowned out even the sound of his own heartbeat. He had to leave.

Why ? Why is he still haunting him?

Slowly, Elliot turned his head toward the door. The handle glinted faintly in the dim light. He pushed the blanket away, wincing as his stiff legs protested. His body was weak, but the fear was stronger. He moved like a shadow, one step at a time, bare feet pressing against cold floorboards.

His hand hovered on the handle. He half-expected it to be locked, a cruel reminder that he was trapped. But when he pressed down, it turned with ease.

Unlocked.

A cold shiver ran through him. Why would they leave it open? Was it a trick? A test? He didn’t know. But the open path was enough. He slipped out into the hall, closing the door behind him as quietly as his trembling fingers allowed.

⸻

The hallway stretched endlessly.

Elliot pressed his back against the wall, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. The air smelled faintly of smoke and iron—blood that had seeped into the walls over years of violence. The silence wasn’t comforting; it pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating, as if the whole house held its breath.

Door after door lined the hallway. Each one loomed like a mouth waiting to swallow him whole. He moved carefully, testing each handle, peeking through cracks.

One door led to a storage closet stacked with crates and bottles. Another to a dimly lit lounge, empty chairs arranged around a table stained with old wine. Another to a training room, the air heavy with the memory of sweat and shouts.

No exit.

The base was a labyrinth. He had no map, no memory, no sense of direction. His chest tightened with every step. If Mafioso—or any of his men—found him wandering here, what would they do? Would they drag him back? Laugh at his attempt? Or worse?

He swallowed hard and pressed forward.

⸻

Then he found it.

A door larger than the rest, framed with dark wood and etched with faint carvings. The handle was heavier, colder. Elliot’s hand hesitated. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t.

But something pulled him. Curiosity, maybe. Or dread.

He turned the handle. The door gave way with a low creak.

Inside was an office.

It wasn’t the cluttered chaos of the halls. Here, everything was deliberate. The room smelled of smoke and whiskey, of leather and ink. A massive oak desk dominated the center, papers stacked with precision, a glass ashtray resting beside a half-empty bottle. A black fedora sat neatly on the desk, its shadow stretching long in the low light.

The walls were lined with photographs.

Elliot froze.

Faces stared back at him—strangers, targets, men and women marked in red. Circles drawn around eyes, notes scribbled in a hand he recognized from orders barked in blood. Maps pinned with threads. Family pictures, some old and fading, others crisp and recent. A life cataloged in violence.

His stomach turned. He stepped closer despite himself, eyes dragging across every detail.

And then he saw it.

A photo that stopped his breath cold.

Chance.

His friend. His stubborn, reckless, coin-flipping friend. The gambler who always smiled even when the odds cut him deep.

The one that leave all the mess to him…

Pinned beneath the photo was a note. One word, written in thick black ink.

Found.

Elliot’s knees nearly gave. His hands shook as he reached out, almost touching the edge of the photo before he snatched his hand back. He didn’t have time to read the rest—the location, the details—because footsteps echoed in the hall.

Heavy. Slow. Too familiar.

Panic surged. Elliot’s eyes darted around the room. Desk? Too obvious. Window? Too high. Closet?

He moved fast, heart hammering so hard it hurt. He slid behind a shelf, pressing himself into the shadows, praying the darkness would swallow him whole.

The door opened.

⸻

Mafioso entered.

Don Sonnellino.

The sight of him nearly froze Elliot’s blood. The tall figure filled the doorway, long black coat trailing behind him, fedora in hand. His shadow swallowed the room before he even stepped in.

He walked to the desk with a slow, deliberate weight, the kind that made every step echo louder than it should. He set the fedora down, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and leaned back in his chair. His face was mostly hidden in shadow, but Elliot could see the sharp lines of his jaw, the scars on his hands.

For a long moment, he sat alone. Silent. Thinking. Drinking.

For a moment, Elliot thought he would sit in silence. But then—

The Don spoke.

“…He flinches every time I open my mouth.”

The words rasped low, almost a growl.

“…Every look I give him cuts deeper. Every gesture sends him further into himself.”

His scarred hand dragged down his face, covering his eyes. The glass clinked softly as he set it down.

“…I wanted to hold him together.” His voice cracked, soft but jagged. “But I only break him more.”

Elliot’s throat closed. He pressed himself tighter into the shadows, hardly breathing.

“…What do I say? How do I—?” Mafioso’s jaw clenched, knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the desk. “Words are blades when I speak them. I try, and he cries. I move, and he shakes.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“…I fail.”

The words sank heavy in the room.

Elliot’s chest ached. For a moment, he almost forgot his fear—until he remembered who was speaking. The same man who had beaten him down, whose world had driven him to that bridge. Why now? Why pretend?

The door creaked again.

⸻

Echo slipped in first, posture casual but eyes sharp. Cane followed, calm and steady, taking the chair opposite the desk. Beartrap filled the doorway with his bulk, silent as stone. Wire came last, fidgeting but forcing his shoulders straight.

They stopped, sensing the heaviness in the room. Mafioso’s hand still covered his face. The whiskey glass sat untouched now.

Finally, he spoke again, voice rough. “…Every word I speak frightens him. Every act I make breaks him further.”

Beartrap stepped forward, laying a steady hand on his shoulder. Echo’s usual sharp tone softened. Cane nodded once, slow and thoughtful.

And Wire—young, nervous Wire—summoned courage from somewhere deep.

“Boss… you don’t know how to sound kind yet. But you’re trying. That means something.”

The Don’s head lifted. His shadowed eyes softened just enough to see it. “…He cries every time.”

Wire’s lip trembled, but he forced his words steady. “Then we keep trying.”

The silence stretched long. Mafioso’s gaze swept across his men—his family—and at last, he gave a slow nod.

“…Tomorrow.”

Elliot hugged himself tighter in the dark.

Why?

Why try now? Why him?

He wanted to scream, to run, to demand answers—but all he could do was tremble in hiding.

Then Mafioso’s glass stopped halfway to his lips. He set it down slowly.

“…Someone’s here.”

The air in the room froze solid.

All four henchmen stiffened, eyes snapping to alertness. Echo’s hand hovered near his headset. Beartrap straightened. Wire’s fidgeting ceased.

Mafioso rose to his feet.

He crossed the room, footsteps heavy and certain. His hand reached for the closet handle. Elliot’s pulse thundered in his ears.

Please, not here. Please, not here.

The door swung open.

Empty.

Mafioso stared into the void, silent. Then, after a long pause, he muttered, “…The wind.”

The tension eased. The men relaxed. Plans shifted back to missions, targets, names. Their voices blended into background noise.

But Elliot didn’t hear them anymore.

He was already gone.

Somehow, without sound, without breath, he slipped from the room and into the shadows of the hall. His chest ached with the weight of fear, but his legs carried him forward. He didn’t know where the exit was. He didn’t know how much longer he could hide.

All he knew was he had to keep moving.

Because if they found him… he wasn’t sure what would break first. His body. Or his heart.
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Great he got fucking lost

Chapter Text

Elliot didn’t know how long he’d been running. His lungs burned, his legs ached, but the echo of his own frantic steps across the marble hallways pushed him forward. The doors had slammed shut behind him—he didn’t even remember if he’d pulled it closed or if it had closed on its own. All he knew was that he had to keep moving.

His legs shook. Every step felt heavier than the last. His chest still carried the weight of the ocean—cold, choking, dragging him down—even though his lungs were technically breathing. He rubbed at his arms as if he could warm them, but the chill never left.

And then—light.

Not the dim lamps strung along the corridors. Not the oily flicker of candles half-burned down. Something different. Softer.

He blinked, confused. His sneakers made a faint crunch as the ground shifted under him, no longer concrete but grass. Real grass. Damp, springy, alive.

A garden.

Hidden inside this place like some cruel trick.

Elliot froze at the threshold, breath caught in his throat. The space opened wide in front of him, bordered by stone walls but reaching impossibly high, toward an open ceiling where pale moonlight poured down. The air was cooler here, touched by earth and leaves. The faint chirp of night crickets whispered from the edges.

And roses.

Everywhere.

Red roses sprawled in thick walls, climbing trellises, blooming in neat rows and wild tangles alike. Their color was sharp, almost glowing in the moonlight—deep, wet crimson.

The sight hit him like a blade.

Red like every flower Mafioso had placed in a vase at his side—cut perfect, stripped of thorns, as if that erased the blood that had come before it.

He staggered into the garden, feet crunching over the gravel path. His vision swam from exhaustion. He wanted to laugh. Of course. Of course there would be roses here too. They were everywhere he turned, just like the man who kept showing up in his nightmares.

He needed to search for a way out. His eyes darted to every wall, every possible door, desperate for an exit. None revealed themselves.

He leaned against one of the rose bushes, letting the thorns bite into his palm. His hand bled quick, small drops running down his wrist. The sting was grounding. Real. At least pain reminded him he was still alive.

A voice slid through the night.

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

Elliot flinched so hard he almost lost his footing. The voice was smooth, low, soaked in amusement. Don Sonnellino stood a few steps behind him, shadow tall, face unreadable under the brim of his hat. He looked as if he’d been waiting there the whole time, watching Elliot wander into the trap. The roses framed him like a painting.

How did he already find him? Elliot’s mind raced.

“You always run in circles, Elliot,” Mafioso murmured, his coat swaying slightly as he stepped closer. “But somehow, you always end up back in my hands.”

Elliot swallowed hard, pulling his bleeding hand behind his back like it could hide his weakness. “Stay away.” His voice was raw, scraped thin from panic.

Mafioso tilted his head. He didn’t step closer, not yet. His eyes traced the way Elliot’s shoulders pressed dangerously near the thorns.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he said, his tone low, almost a warning.

Instead, he reached down to one of the roses, his fingers brushing petals. He plucked it carefully, as though the thorns didn’t exist, and brought it up to his mouth. For a moment Elliot thought he was going to smell it. Instead, he bit into the stem, lips brushing against the thorns, and let the blood bead against his teeth.

“Seems my roses frighten you,” he said quietly.

Elliot’s breath hitched. The man didn’t even flinch. He dropped the ruined rose at Elliot’s feet. The petals scattered like spilled wine.

Elliot’s every nerve screamed run. He shifted his weight, ready to bolt.

Mafioso’s voice broke the air like a gunshot. “Stop.”

Elliot froze, thinking the shout was meant for him—until a low growl curled from the shadows.

A sleek, black figure padded silently between the roses. Its fur shimmered like liquid midnight, its eyes catching the moonlight with sharp gold. The body, the muscles, the tail—all unmistakable.

A leopard.

Elliot’s heart stopped. He wanted to scramble, run, scream—anything. But his body wouldn’t listen. His legs were jelly, his arms weak, his chest locked tight. He thought, absurdly: so this is it. He kept me alive just to feed me to this thing.

But the leopard didn’t pounce. It snarled, circling, but held back. A leather collar gleamed against its neck.

A pet. Belonging to Mafioso. Of course.

The Don’s gaze flicked to the animal. “Bianca,” he said, voice like steel covered in velvet. “Down.” The leopard halted, tail lashing, but obeyed. His eyes narrowed at the beast—hurt him, and you will not eat again—though the words never left his lips. Bianca slunk back, but her golden stare never left Elliot.

Elliot collapsed in the grass, chest heaving, staring up at the roses towering above him. They loomed, too vivid, dripping in memory. The longer he looked, the more it seemed like the roses were bleeding down the leaves. His vision spun.

A hand, gloved, covered his eyes.

Elliot’s body jolted, but the grip held steady. Familiar. Too familiar.

A voice, deep and low, whispered above him: “Don’t move. Forgive me… for touching you.”

Mafioso.

Elliot’s chest hammered, panic trying to kick free, but the gloved hand stayed firm, not hurting, just blocking out the sight. Blocking out the leopard. Blocking out the blood-red roses that seemed to drip with his nightmares.

He could feel Mafioso’s body leaning close, not crushing, but solid, a wall of warmth and danger pressed against him. The man shifted his arm, moving Elliot’s bleeding hand away from the thorned roses, holding it like he meant to protect it.

Elliot couldn’t breathe right. His voice cracked when it finally came out, small and hoarse:

“…why are you being kind to me?”

“…why are you doing all of this?”

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Mafioso didn’t answer at first. His jaw flexed, his breath steady but heavy. Then, slowly, as if dragging the words out of himself, he said:

sigh.

“Do you want to know why?” His tone was quiet, but sharp. “Because the first time I saw you… you smiled.”

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Elliot blinked, dazed, barely comprehending. Mafioso’s voice kept going, smooth but heavy, like he was confessing a crime.

“The Builder Brothers Pizza. A worthless hole in the wall. I went there for business. For blood. But you were there. Alone. Flour on your arms. Humming while you worked. And when I looked at you—” his hand clenched against Elliot’s wrist, not tight but trembling—“your face was clear. Not a red blur. Not another target. Yours was the first face I could see.”

Mafioso’s jaw flexed. His voice darkened. “And I hated it. I wanted to rip that smile from you, to crush it until it bled. But I couldn’t. I came back. Again. Again. Until one night…” His words broke, just slightly. “My fists gave in. And I beat you. Bruises bloomed like roses. Blood poured like wine. And when I left you there, broken… you still breathed. You still existed.”

His gloved hand brushed the back of Elliot’s head, steadying him as if to stop him from pulling away. “And I’ve been burning ever since.”

Elliot’s breath came ragged, his throat raw. He wanted to scream at him, to curse him, but his voice failed. He could only whisper:

“…you should have left me.”

Mafioso stared at him, unreadable. Then he did something Elliot didn’t expect. He lowered his head, pressing his forehead briefly against Elliot’s, his voice a ghost of smoke. “I tried.”

The moment passed like a blade pulled away. Mafioso pulled back, his mask of control snapping into place. He rose to his feet, calling Bianca to heel. The leopard obeyed instantly, slinking back into the roses’ shadows. The Don looked down at Elliot one last time.
Elliot stayed on the ground, shaking, staring at the sky that seemed too far away. His hand was wrapped in white that wasn’t his, smelling faintly of smoke and iron.

But the Don wasn’t gone.

He crouched again, silent, watching Elliot’s body struggle against exhaustion. His gaze darkened, unreadable, before he finally spoke:

“You won’t make it back alone.”

Without asking, without hesitation, Mafioso slid his arms under Elliot’s body and lifted him. Elliot’s weak protests barely made sound, his fists beating once, twice against the Don’s chest before failing.

“Put… put me down…” His words slurred, more plea than command.

Mafioso didn’t answer. His coat shifted with the weight as he carried him steadily through the hallways. Each step echoed, slow and certain, like he was carrying not a boy but a vow.

Elliot’s head lolled against his shoulder, his vision half-fogged. But as they turned a corner, recognition stabbed through him.

The door. That door.

The bedroom.

The same one where Mafioso had left him to “heal.” The same one Elliot had crawled out of, bloody and broken, to escape.

Now he was being carried back into it like nothing had changed.

The Don nudged the door open with his boot and stepped inside. The room was dim, still, untouched—bed made, shadows stretching across the walls like waiting hands.

Mafioso lowered Elliot gently onto the mattress. His gloves brushed stray hair from Elliot’s face. He lingered a second too long, then pulled away.

He stood at the bedside, looking down at him, his shadow long across the sheets. His hand twitched once, as if tempted to reach out again, but he forced it still.

“You always run,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “And you always come back.”

He turned and left, the door closing with a soft click.

Elliot lay in the same bed he’d once escaped from, chest tight, skin crawling. The sheets felt colder than before. He wanted to move, to run again, but his body wouldn’t. His last thought before exhaustion dragged him under.

Back into Mafioso’s hands.

But he knew one thing for certain:

Mafioso was telling the truth.

And that was worse than any lie.

Chapter Text

Elliot’s POV:

I never thought silence could be so loud.

And yet, every time he sat beside me, my chest still locked up.

Tonight, it was the same. The chair scraped quietly against the floor as he lowered himself down, his long coat whispering against the wood. His gloves were already off. That always made me more nervous, somehow—bare hands meant closeness, meant he wasn’t hiding.

My right hand rested awkwardly between us, still raw from where the thorn had sliced deep. roses had left their mark, and now Mafioso was changing the bandage. He unwrapped the old cloth slowly, methodically, like he was peeling layers off of me.

I stared at the wall instead. I couldn’t watch. If I focused too much on the sting, on the sight of him being gentle, my head went places it shouldn’t.

Still, my fingers twitched, restless. Anything to keep from thinking too hard. Without realizing, I let my smaller hand shift, tangling lightly with his as he pressed the fresh bandage down.

The world stopped.

Mafioso froze mid-motion, his massive hand stiff under mine. His jaw flexed, and for a second I thought I’d crossed some invisible line. But then—I didn't saw it. A faint flicker of pink creeping up his cheek, half-hidden in shadow.

I swallowed hard, my brain scrambling for an excuse, any excuse, but all that came was something ridiculous: what the hell does this man eat to get this big? His hand practically swallowed mine whole. My fingers looked like twigs against him.

I tugged faintly, but he didn’t let go. Not rough, not forceful—just still. Like the moment itself had pinned him down.

The silence thickened, heavy with things I didn’t want to name.

And then—

creak.

My ears snapped toward the door.

A shadow lingered in the crack. A small head peeking through, headphones blinking faintly. Wire.

His grin was way too proud, like a kid watching his science experiment work. He gave me two thumbs up, mouthing, see? see??

Before I could react, two more heads leaned in. Echo’s shades glinting faintly. Cane’s hat tilting as if trying to get a better view.

And then the biggest head of all—Beartrap.

The doorframe didn’t stand a chance.

CRASH.

The four of them tumbled in like dominos, limbs tangled, the thud rattling the walls.

I jumped so hard I nearly yanked my bandaged hand away. Sweat prickled my neck. My wide eyes darted past Mafioso’s shoulder.

He didn’t even flinch.

Not. Even. A. Flinch.

His gaze stayed locked on my hand in his, his back broad enough to block most of the chaos behind him. He exhaled once, low and calm, and muttered, “The wind.”

The wind.

I swallowed the urge to laugh, because laughing would’ve sounded too close to crying. Instead I nodded stiffly. “...Right. Wind.”

Behind him, Wire scrambled to untangle himself, hissing at the others to move. They crawled back into the hallway like guilty dogs, and the door clicked quietly shut.

Mafioso’s focus never shifted. His hands finished wrapping the bandage, steady as stone.

I didn’t dare breathe too loud.
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Days blurred.

I healed, slowly. At least enough to move without feeling like my bones were made of glass. And when I did, I discovered something new.

Freedom. Sort of.

They told me I could leave the infirmary whenever I wanted. Roam the halls, stretch my legs. No locked doors this time.

It sounded like kindness.

But when I stepped out, there they were. Always. Mafioso. Echo. Cane. Wire. Beartrap. A wall of shadows trailing me wherever I went.

I tested it, once.

I gave Wire a long look, the kind of look that screamed, Are you sure about this? Am I really allowed to walk like a normal human being?

Wire just beamed at me like a proud puppy and threw me a big thumbs-up. His face said, Don’t worry, sunshine, the world isn’t ending.

But it felt like it was.

I walked, they followed. I sat, they lingered. I breathed, they listened.

Freedom was just another leash.

And then came the leopard.

I should’ve expected it.

One second I was sitting stiff on the couch in one of the side rooms, trying not to think about how much velvet and gold trim this place had, and the next… Mafioso appeared with Bianca in tow.

No warning. No buildup. Just a sleek shadow padding silently at his side, her golden eyes locked on me.

I froze, every muscle stiff.

“Sit,” Mafioso ordered quietly.

Bianca leapt.

Straight onto my lap.

The air shot out of me. My arms curled instinctively, but I didn’t dare shove her off. My throat locked up, pulse hammering like a drum.

Her weight was solid, heavy, pinning me down. She didn’t growl. She didn’t bare her fangs. She just… lay there. Staring.

Like she was waiting for the signal.

I swallowed hard, hands trembling at my sides.

Mafioso said nothing. He just stood there, watching. His eyes unreadable, his face unreadable.

I thought of the death so many time. The blood all over me. And now this predator, sprawled across my lap like a casual reminder that I was still prey.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t—

Bianca purred.

The sound rumbled through her chest, vibrating against my legs. Her head lowered, brushing against my hand.

Slow. Gentle.

It wasn’t safe. Not really. But somehow, against every screaming instinct in me, my fingers twitched. Then… moved.

I petted her.

Once. Twice. Her fur was softer than I expected, warm beneath my palm.

She leaned into it. The purr grew louder.

My chest squeezed tight. My throat burned. It almost looked like something sweet. Almost looked like trust.

But my body knew better. My spine stayed stiff.

It was training. Conditioning.

I was a mouse, taught to lie still while the cat slept.

From the outside, it probably looked gentle. Almost like a scene of comfort.

Even his men believed it—Wire grinning with pride, Cane giving subtle nods of approval, Echo hiding a faint smirk, Beartrap standing silent but softened.

To them, it was progress.

To me, it was survival.

Every smile, every twitch of my fingers, every quiet nod—it was all a performance. Because if I didn’t soften, if I didn’t bend just enough, I’d break.

I lay there, Bianca purring, Mafioso’s shadow watching, my body trapped between them both.

let stay a little longer
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The house now grown too familiar. Too quiet. Elliot had stopped jumping every time the floor creaked or when Bianca’s shadow padded past the hall. He still didn’t belong here, but his bones were starting to accept the walls, his lungs learning to breathe inside them.

Tonight, though, the silence pressed different.

The henchmen had taken the kitchen hostage, declaring they would “handle dinner.” Wire had run past Elliot earlier with a wooden spoon like it was a weapon; Echo had barked orders as though a roast was a battlefield maneuver; Beartrap carried the biggest pot in the house with no clue what was inside it; and Cane, ever the advisor, calmly insisted he could cook “by wisdom alone.”

Elliot sat stiffly on the couch beside Mafioso, his ears catching every clang, every hiss of steam, every muffled curse through the closed kitchen door. A pot crashed. Something sizzled too violently. Then, a short scream—Wire’s voice, definitely.

Elliot flinched, looking at the door, then back at Mafioso. The Don sat unmoving, calm as stone, his coat folded perfectly beside him. Bianca rested across the rug like a dark statue, tail flicking lazily.

“…Are they okay in there?” Elliot asked softly.

Mafioso’s head tilted, not toward the chaos but toward Elliot, as though the question itself was the noise he’d been waiting for. “They’ll survive.”

It wasn’t reassuring. Elliot’s eyes kept darting toward the door. Another crash. A smell of smoke. Wire shouting, “It’s supposed to be on fire, right?” followed by Cane’s hissed “no.”

Elliot sighed, like a worry mother. The Don didn’t look concerned in the slightest. To him, the mess in the kitchen was irrelevant. Elliot almost envied the calm.

But then his eyes drifted. Past Bianca. Past the rug. To the hallway.

The office door.

It was locked, he realized. He doesn't noticed it before, but this time the thought clung to him like dust. He need to know more......Chance

Elliot’s gaze lingered too long. Mafioso followed it.

“You’re curious,” the Don said quietly.

Elliot startled, looking away too fast. “No, I— I was just—”

But Mafioso didn’t press. He leaned back, one gloved hand resting on his knee. His eyes—shadowed as they always were—seemed to weigh Elliot’s silence heavier than any words.

Elliot shifted, nerves prickling. The quiet stretched until he couldn’t take it anymore. His own voice betrayed him.

“…Was it you?”

Mafioso’s head turned, sharp but not unkind. “…What are you asking?”

Elliot swallowed. His hands twisted in his lap. His throat burned, but the words pushed themselves out. “…The bridge. When I—” He faltered, pressing the word back down, ashamed. His chest ached remembering the fall, the cold rush of air, the crack of water. “When I jumped.”

The Don’s silence was answer enough.

Elliot’s eyes searched his face anyway. “…It was you, wasn’t it? You’re the one who pulled me out.”

Mafioso’s thinking—not visibly, slower. He didn’t nod immediately. He looked at Elliot instead, as though measuring how much truth he could place in his hands.

Then he nodded once.

Something inside Elliot finally feel like he hate him for that. He hated how it sounded almost like kindness. Almost like care.

He looked down, fingers curling against his knees, but Mafioso’s voice came again—lower, quieter.

“Do you remember the rest?”

Elliot blinked. “…The rest?”

The Don’s gaze flicked away for a moment, toward the wall, as if speaking was harder than any wound. His hand curled, then stilled. “When you stopped breathing.”

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Mafioso’s words dragged out slowly, reluctantly, as though confessing them was its own punishment. “…Lip to lip.”

.
!?

Elliot froze. “…What?”

“Air for air,” Mafioso murmured, almost clinical. “Until your body remembered. Until you returned.”

wait

WAIT

Elliot’s face went hot, too fast. He stared at him, eyes wide, the words not fitting into his head. “You— you mean CPR?”

Mafioso’s silence wasn’t denial.

Elliot’s breath stuttered. His skin flushed so fast it hurt. The weight of it—of the Don kneeling over him, pressing life into him—flooded his head until he couldn’t think.

“T-that was—” Elliot voice cracked. He felt his lips tingle with the ghost of something he hadn’t remembered until now. His chest caved. “That was my first…”

The room tilted. Elliot’s heart skipped, stuttered. His own lips burned with phantom memory, though he hadn’t been awake. He couldn’t process it, not fully. His hands curled tight against the couch, the air thick between them.

“That was— you—” Elliot’s voice broke, then stumbled into nothing. He pushed up suddenly, standing too fast. “I— I should—help in the kitchen—”

Mafioso moved as though to reach for him, then froze, gloved hand suspended midair. Elliot didn’t look back. His ears burned red. He slipped into the kitchen, heart hammering too loud, anything to escape the weight of that silence.

The kitchen was chaos. Wire had flour on his face, Beartrap was fanning smoke with a cutting board, and Cane calmly lectured Echo about the “philosophy of seasoning” while the pan hissed like a dying engine.

Elliot dove in, grabbing a spoon, shoving Wire aside gently. “Move, move—before you burn the house down—”

The henchmen groaned in unison, half-relieved, half-defeated, letting him take over.

Behind them, down the hall, Mafioso still sat on the couch.

Frozen.

His composure had cracked open just enough for heat to bleed through, staining his pale cheekbones. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe for a long while. His shadow loomed long and silent against the wall, hands curled too tightly in his lap.

Echo peeked back once, saw the Don unmoving, face red all over like he burning, and nearly dropped the pot. Wire panicked, whispering, “Is he sick? He looks sick—”

“No,” Cane muttered, narrowing his eyes at the boss. “That’s not sickness.”

Beartrap just "( °ㅁ°) !" face

Bianca yawned wide, showing sharp teeth, bored with all of it. Her golden eyes blinked slow.

Chapter Text

🍕 Elliot :
hands waving “Ah—um! If you guys ever draw us, I’d be super honored! Really! I don’t think I deserve it but… it’d make me so happy to see. Just tag it under Something’s Off With the Sauce so we can find it, okay? I wanna hang them up in the pizzeria!”

🎲 Chance :
leaning on his cane, smirk “Kid’s right. Tag it. Doesn’t matter if it’s Twitter, Tumblr, or wherever you’re hiding—just slap Something’s Off With the Sauce on there. I’ll scroll through while pretending I’m working. And if you make me look handsome? …well, I already am, but hey, extra points.”

Mafioso:
“…I don’t care what platform you use. Twitter. Tumblr. AO3. Scrap paper under a park bench. If you make art of this story, tag Something’s Off With the Sauce. Or just tell us your user name... I’ll know. I’ll find it.” he smiles, slow and unsettling “And I will appreciate it.”

Wire:
energetic, bouncing “Wait—fanart? Of us? Like—ME too??! Please do it!! Just, yeah, tag it, so I can show boss. Oh, uh—‘Something’s Off With the Sauce!’ Don’t forget that part!!”

Cane :
calm, adjusting his hat “If you wish your work to be seen, tag Something’s Off With the Sauce. Simple as that. We’ll keep an eye on it.”

Beartrap :
[silent, gives a thumbs up....nods slowly, points at the tag written on a sign: “Something’s Off With the Sauce”]

Echo :
monotone, headset mic on “Confirmed. Tagging art under Something’s Off With the Sauce will guarantee we see it. Mission success.”

Itrapped (sipping soda, deadpan):
“Yeah, yeah. Draw us. Tag it. Whatever. Just… make sure you spell the title right. I’m not scrolling through ten different typo versions. I’m tired enough already.”

Author: hiiii, happy that you all like to fanart it! i can't wait to see and show it in the story after i check them out!!

comment too if you ever want me to check it out!

Chapter Text

The house felt different after that night.

Elliot didn’t say it aloud, and Mafioso sure as hell didn’t either, but something had shifted between them. The awkward heat of that confession—that his first kiss had been stolen by accident—still lingered like smoke in the halls. Every time their eyes met, Elliot caught something strange in Mafioso’s composure: a pause too long, a gesture too careful, as though the Don had become acutely aware of the space between them.

But life went on. Mafioso and his men still left for “work,” returning late with smoke on their coats and silence in their boots. And Elliot, stuck in recovery, found himself with long, empty hours.
At first, boredom gnawed at him. The ticking of clocks, the endless waiting—it made him feel like a ghost in someone else’s house. So he found things to do.

The first time, he simply wiped down a table. Bianca padded after him, her golden eyes following each sweep of the rag. She wasn’t hostile anymore—just ever-present, a shadow at his heel. Elliot muttered, “Guess you’re my bodyguard now,” and the leopard only yawned, curling at his feet as if to confirm it.

It wasn’t much, but it gave him peace. So he kept at it.

⸻

When Mafioso and his men returned that night, the smell of food met them first. Elliot had put together pasta with garlic and oil—plain, quick, but warm. Wire darted in, eyes wide. “Boss, there’s food!” he shouted before shoving a forkful into his mouth.

Elliot crossed his arms, defensive. “Don’t get excited. It’s just pasta.”

The others trailed in—Echo raising a brow, Cane brushing flour from his sleeve, Beartrap looming silently in the doorway. Finally Mafioso appeared. His gaze swept the table, then landed on Elliot. For a moment, Elliot thought he’d overstepped.

But Mafioso only said, “Sit.”

And so they did. Quiet, steady, every plate emptied. No compliments, no thanks. But no one left a bite behind.

That small dinner became the start of something. Not a ritual, not quite tradition—but a rhythm that kept them from unraveling.

⸻
On other quieter days, Elliot turned to chores. He scrubbed the floors, dusted the shelves, polished corners no one noticed. Bianca followed, always close, her tail occasionally smacking his leg like a lazy reminder she was watching.

One afternoon, Cane appeared beside him with a bucket and rag. He knelt without a word, sleeves rolled neatly back, and joined him. Elliot blinked. “Uh. You don’t have to—”

Cane didn’t answer. He just worked in slow, perfect circles. His silence wasn’t cold—it was steady, grounding. After a while, Elliot filled it. “My dad used to say a floor should shine like a mirror if you respect the house that holds you.”

Cane’s rag never faltered, but the faint curve of his lips told Elliot he’d been heard.
⸻
Another day, Elliot found himself in the kitchen with a cake disaster. The sponge collapsed, the frosting melted. He sighed, ready to toss it—until Echo slid the tray away.

The capo tied on an apron, precise as ever, and set out ingredients again. “Watch.”

He moved with mechanical ease, each step efficient, each correction soft but exact. Elliot followed clumsily at first, until Echo nudged his grip, adjusted his whisking, and let him try again. Hours later, a golden cake cooled on the counter. Perfect.

Elliot grinned despite himself. “So… you’re the dessert guy.”

Echo smirked faintly. “Among other things.”

They ate a slice together at the table, silence lighter than usual.

⸻

The heaviest tasks fell to Beartrap. When Elliot struggled with a crate of firewood, the giant simply lifted it from his hands and carried it inside without a word. Elliot stood there uselessly. “…Thanks?”

Beartrap didn’t reply. But from then on, whenever something heavy appeared, he was there. Silent, steady, shouldering the weight Elliot couldn’t.

Wire often darted in alongside him, pretending to help, flexing exaggeratedly. “Look, solider ! I’m strong too!” he’d say, clinging to one corner of the load while Beartrap hauled the rest.
For the first time in weeks, Elliot laughed.

⸻

The house slowly shifted. Chores no longer felt like passing time; they felt like something shared. Cane’s quiet patience, Echo’s precise lessons, Beartrap’s silent strength, Wire’s reckless energy—they wove themselves into his days. None of it erased what had been done to him. The bruises, the fear, the blood—they hadn’t disappeared. But the silence wasn’t as suffocating anymore.

Mafioso let it all happen. He never interfered. But Elliot noticed his eyes always found him first when he came home.

At first, Mafioso lingered in doorways, arms folded, watching Elliot chop vegetables or scrub a surface. “...You’re staring,” Elliot muttered once.

“Making sure you don’t cut yourself,” Mafioso replied evenly.

The irony almost made Elliot laugh, though warmth slipped under his skin.

Soon the Don stopped hovering at the threshold. He stepped into the kitchen, sometimes placing dishes on the table, sometimes fixing a chair or leaving a folded blanket at the end of Elliot’s bed. None of it was spoken of. None of it needed to be.

Bianca shadowed all of it. She pressed against Elliot’s legs as he worked, purring when he scratched behind her ear. Mafioso noticed, and though his face rarely changed, his gaze softened at the sight.

⸻
One evening, Elliot dusted shelves in the library, humming softly. Mafioso appeared without sound, startling him. “You scared me,” Elliot said, hand tightening on the rag.

“I didn’t mean to.” Mafioso brushed a speck of dust from a book. “You like keeping busy.”

Elliot hesitated, then admitted, “It helps me think less.”

“And when it’s quiet?” Mafioso asked.

Elliot froze. “…Nothing good,” he said at last. “That’s why I clean.”

The Don didn’t push further. He simply placed the book back neatly, as if setting something in order. For reasons Elliot couldn’t name, his chest felt lighter.

⸻

Care showed itself in small, hidden ways after that. A fruit left on the counter. A new mug replacing his chipped one. Mafioso pulling out a chair at dinner like it was second nature. Elliot always muttered, “You didn’t have to,” and Mafioso always answered, calm and final: “I wanted to.”

It wasn’t forgiveness. Elliot knew better than that. But when their hands brushed one night as Mafioso set down a glass of water, Elliot didn’t pull away right away. His fingers lingered, just for a moment.

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Elliot didn’t even know when it started.

At first, Mafioso only gave him little things—an extra pillow for his bed, a lamp with a softer glow than the harsh overhead lightbulbs that buzzed in the halls. Elliot told himself it was nothing, just small comforts that made the stone mansion less like a cage. But it didn’t stop there.

A week later, Mafioso laid a folded blanket across Elliot’s bed. Dark velvet, embroidered with gold trim. It felt far too fine for him, and Elliot said so, tugging at the edge like it might unravel if he touched it too much.

“I don’t need it,” Elliot muttered, cheeks warm.

The Don didn’t argue. He didn’t even answer. He simply picked the blanket back up and draped it over Elliot’s shoulders. His voice was low, final. “Then take it for me.”

And just like that, Elliot was trapped. Wrapped in softness that wasn’t his, staring at the sharp lines of the man who gave it to him.

⸻

Then came the shoes.

They appeared one morning on the table, polished black leather that gleamed even in the low light. They looked like something someone important would wear, not a pizza boy who had spent half his life standing behind an oven.

Elliot stared for a long time before shaking his head. “These are too much.” He pushed them away like they might bite.

Across from him, Mafioso raised one brow. “You need shoes that don’t fall apart.”

“They don’t fall apart,” Elliot argued. He lifted his old ones as proof. The sole flapped open like a broken jaw.

The Don’s eyes narrowed in a way that made Elliot want to shrink into the chair. “That,” Mafioso said slowly, “is falling apart.”

Elliot pressed his lips together. His ears burned, but he didn’t push back. He knew that tone meant the conversation was over.

The next day, his old shoes were gone. The new pair sat neatly by his bed, polished again as though someone had taken care to keep them shining. Elliot slipped them on with a quiet sigh, knowing he’d lost this round.

⸻
The henchmen noticed before long.

One evening, Wire sat on the staircase railing, kicking his feet as Elliot passed by. Elliot wore a brand-new sweater, soft grey with silver threads woven faintly into the fabric. He tugged at the sleeves nervously. Mafioso had insisted he wear it because the mansion was “drafty.”

Wire’s eyes squinted. He leaned forward, watching closely. This isn’t normal, he thought. Boss doesn’t give out gifts often (not the normal type) . Not to anyone, not in his teaching of how to be friend Elliot.

He opened his mouth to say something when a sharp pat landed on his shoulder. Echo had appeared from nowhere, arms crossed. “Don’t question it,” he muttered.

“But—” Wire started.

Cane’s calm voice slid in next, smooth as oil. “Let them be. The boss deserves his happiness.”

Beartrap lumbered past, carrying a heavy chair under one arm. He didn’t speak, but his grunt was agreement enough.

Wire huffed, slumping back on the railing. “They’re not acting like friends, though…” His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. “…hmm.”(poor Wire that guy thought the boss want a friend not a lover)

He thought on it for a while, brows drawn together, then kept his suspicions to himself.

Different conversations happened in quiet corners after that. Cane spoke gently of balance. Echo kept his tone clipped, more protective than critical. Beartrap’s silence said more than words. Wire, though, muttered about “love” often enough that the others shoved him when the boss was near.

“So boss into boy type?-“

“SHUT UP”

⸻

The night had been long. The job was finished, debts collected, threats made in whispers sharp enough to cut. Mafioso walked the dark street with his coat buttoned high, his hat pulled low. His men followed a short distance behind—Cane quiet and calculating, Echo humming under his breath, Beartrap looming like a wall of muscle, and Wire pacing with restless energy, scanning alleys for shadows.

But Mafioso wasn’t thinking about the job anymore. His steps slowed as the city’s neon glow shifted, bouncing off rain-slick pavement. He paused in front of a shop window. A jewelry store, small but dressed to impress—glass cases sparkling with diamonds, rubies, and gold that caught every bit of light.

He stood there, still as stone, staring inside.

Cane noticed first and glanced at him. “Boss?”

Mafioso didn’t answer. His dark eyes traced the glittering display. The gems didn’t hold his interest—the bright rings, the thick bracelets, the gaudy watches. He hated noise. Hated things that screamed for attention. But then his gaze caught on something else.

A necklace.

Thin. Barely a shimmer of gold, so simple it might’ve been overlooked beside the more extravagant pieces. Yet it carried a quiet strength. Unassuming, but real. Exactly like the boy waiting back at the mansion.

Mafioso’s jaw set. He opened the door.

The shopkeeper nearly dropped the tray he was polishing when the bell rang and that towering figure walked in. Mafioso didn’t need to say who he was—his reputation moved quicker than words. The man scrambled upright, stammering, “S-sir, good evening, welcome, please—what can I—”

“Show me,” Mafioso said, voice low but commanding.

The henchmen stayed by the door, blocking out the night, their presence making the clerk sweat. Echo smirked faintly, clearly enjoying the tension. Wire, however, leaned close to the glass, whispering a hushed, “Shiny…”

The shopkeeper hurried to display tray after tray—rings encrusted with stones, ornate pendants, glittering tiaras. Mafioso’s expression didn’t change. His eyes cut over them once and then moved away, uninterested.

“N-no good?” the man asked nervously.

“Too loud,” Mafioso said. His tone was final.

The shopkeeper blinked, unsure what that even meant, but kept moving. Then, at last, he hesitated, pulling a velvet case from the side. Inside rested that simple gold chain. Slim, unadorned, gleaming faintly under the lamp.

Mafioso’s gaze sharpened. Finally.

He stepped forward, gloved hand brushing the air above it but not yet touching. For a moment, he pictured it—resting against Elliot’s collarbone, catching the light when the boy smiled.
“This one,” Mafioso said.

The shopkeeper swallowed. “O-of course, sir. Excellent choice. It is pure, no embellishment, no—”

“I know what it is,” Mafioso cut in.

The clerk nodded so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. He boxed it quickly, hands shaking. Cane glanced once at the necklace, then at his boss, his mouth twitching like he wanted to smirk but thought better of it.

“What would you like for Payment?” the clerk asked carefully, voice trembling.

Mafioso pulled a folded stack of bills from his coat—more than enough—and dropped it on the counter. “Keep the rest.”

The shopkeeper barely managed a nod before the Don turned on his heel, coat swirling behind him as he strode out into the street again. The men followed, silent.

Only Wire dared to whisper under his breath, “For Elliot…”

Mafioso didn’t correct him.
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What??

Elliot looked up at Mafioso as he was reading a book.

Mafioso bought a necklace.

It was simple—thin chain, no gems, no ornaments. Pure gold, understated in a way that fit Elliot’s quiet nature. Mafioso had chosen it for that reason, knowing Elliot would never wear something loud or heavy.

He held it out between his gloved fingers, the metal catching the light. “For you.”

Elliot froze. He looked at it the way a man looks at something too fine for his hands. “I don’t need this.”

“You don’t need to refuse either,” Mafioso replied.

Elliot shook his head, fingers trembling as Mafioso lean him the chain. It was heavier than it looked, a weight that pressed down on him even though it was small. “I’m not someone you should waste money on,” he whispered.

The Don’s gaze sharpened until it felt like the air had teeth. “You are exactly someone I choose to spend money on.”

Elliot’s throat closed up. The words sank deep, leaving him unable to argue.

Mafioso stepped closer, silent but sure, and lifted the chain. His gloved fingers brushed the back of Elliot’s neck as he fastened it in place. When the clasp clicked shut, the Don’s hand lingered, thumb tracing lightly along Elliot’s jaw.

“You’re beautiful wearing it,” Mafioso murmured.

Elliot’s face went hot. He looked down so quickly he almost stumbled.
“T-thank you..?”
⸻
The henchmen didn’t miss it when they were alone.

Echo leaned against the wall one night, arms crossed. “Careful, Elliot,” he whispered with a crooked smile. “If the boss keeps this up, you’ll be running the place.”

Cane smirked faintly, folding his hands behind his back. “Or at least running his heart.”

Beartrap passed by silently. But when Elliot walked close, the burly man paused just long enough to give him a nod. Respectful. Serious. Elliot nearly dropped the tray in his hands from shock.

Wire, on the other hand, looked like he was about to cry with pride. He clasped his hands together dramatically, whispering, “Love, oh love…”

Elliot rolled his eyes, his face burning red. He wanted to tell them all to stop, but words stuck in his throat.

He wasn’t sure of the answer himself.

⸻
At midnight, the mansion grew quiet of sleep.

The silence was heavy, broken only by the occasional groan of the old pipes or the faint rumble of Bianca padding through the halls. On those nights, Mafioso sometimes knocked on Elliot’s door. Not loud. Just soft, barely a sound at all.

Elliot always opened it. The Don stood there with his coat gone and hat in his hands, his shadow stretching long down the hallway.

“Can’t sleep?” Elliot asked.

Mafioso shook his head once. “No.”

Elliot sighed, stepping aside. “Come in, then.”

They would sit together in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. Mafioso claimed the chair, his frame relaxed, while Elliot perched on the edge of the bed. Sometimes they talked—about Bianca the leopard, about the stars scattered over the night sky, about little details Elliot noticed in the house. Other times, they said nothing at all.

The silence wasn’t sharp anymore. It was calm.

Elliot leaned back, eyelids heavy. His voice was softer than usual. “You don’t have to keep giving me things, Mafioso.”

The Don tilted his head. “I told you before have I not?”

“yes but…” Elliot hesitated. The words felt heavy in his chest. “Being here is enough. I don’t need all the gifts. I just…” His voice trailed off, embarrassed.

Mafioso leaned closer, so close that Elliot could feel his breath. “Say it.”

Elliot swallowed, his cheeks warm. “…I just like sitting with you.”

The room stilled. The quiet stretched so long Elliot thought he had said too much.

Then Mafioso lifted a hand, brushing Elliot’s hair gently back from his face. His voice dropped low, rough around the edges. “I understand. If that is what you wish.”

Elliot’s face burned so hot he thought it might catch fire. He turned away quickly, muttering, “You’re impossible.”

Chapter Text

The gold necklace caught the dim light as Elliot sat alone in the quiet of the guest room. It shimmered faintly against his chest, delicate and thin, a gift too precious for someone like him. He lifted it between his fingers, staring until his vision blurred. It had weight—not heavy, but constant. The kind of weight that reminded him every second who it came from.

Mafioso’s gift.

Elliot swallowed, letting it slip back against his skin. The chain was warm now, warmed by his body, as if it belonged there. But it didn’t. At least, not in the way Mafioso seemed to think.

It was nice here. That was true. Warm meals, clean sheets, peace in strange moments. He never went hungry. He never slept cold. Sometimes, he even laughed, though it always surprised him when he did. The henchmen—Echo, Cane, Beartrap, even Wire sometimes hovering—treated him differently now. They helped, quietly, like shadows paying penance. He cooked for them, cleaned for them, filled silence with little jokes, and though none of them ever said a word, he felt it: guilt pressed into every floor they scrubbed alongside him.

But still… he missed his own life.

Builder Brothers Pizza had been greasy, chaotic, and half-broken most days. The ovens rattled. The fridge door never closed all the way. Orders piled high until his arms ached from juggling them. But it had been his world. His home.

He wondered if the shop was okay without him. He’d hired new workers before his breakdown pulled him under, and for a while that thought comforted him. They didn’t need him. Not really. Still, ovens humming without him, grease on the counters he didn’t wipe down himself—it made his chest ache.

With his absence, maybe they thought he was on vacation. That would’ve been easier. Especially since his dad never said otherwise.

Dad. Mr. Builder. CEO. Always busy, never picking up Elliot’s calls. Not a bad father—just absent. Always absent. Elliot had gotten used to that, but sometimes, when he stared too long at the necklace on his chest, he wished his dad would seen it too. Just once.

He rubbed his thumb over the chain and exhaled.

How long had it been now? Weeks? Months? He’d lost track. Time inside the mansion was slippery, like sand running through his fingers. He tried counting at first, tallying days against meals, but it fell apart somewhere between the seventh pasta dish Mafioso insisted was “authentic” and the fourth batch of cinnamon rolls Echo taught him to make.

He was trapped inside walls that weren’t a prison, but felt like one.

Every time he asked to step outside, the answer was the same. Mafioso would find him in a hallway or corner, tilt his head down with that half-smile, and murmur:

“You’re safer here.”

And then arms would lock around him, heavy and certain, holding him like he might slip through Mafioso’s fingers. Sometimes their hands tangled. Sometimes Elliot let them. At first, it felt like comfort. Like safety.

Now, the words echoed different.

Safer here. Safer here.

But from what?

Or worse… from who?

Elliot leaned back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The chandelier above shimmered faintly, throwing fractured light across the walls. His chest tightened. He remembered the first time Mafioso pressed behind him, his voice low and soft, almost tender. Elliot thought it was normal then. He thought it was kindness.

But maybe he’d been wrong.

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Because memory of everything began to change the day he stumbled into that room.

The door had been larger than the rest, framed with dark wood, etched faintly with carvings. The handle had been heavier, colder. He remembered his hand hesitating, his heart telling him no, but something—curiosity, dread, something he couldn’t name—pulled him forward.

The office was deliberate, not cluttered like the halls. Smoke and whiskey lingered in the air. A massive oak desk, papers stacked with precision, a fedora casting its shadow across the surface. Walls lined with photographs.

He’d seen faces. Strangers. Targets. Circles drawn in red. Maps threaded with pins. A life catalogued in violence.

And then—Chance.

His friend. His coin-flipping, reckless, always-smiling friend. A note pinned beneath the photo:

Found.

Elliot had nearly collapsed. His hands had trembled so badly he could hardly breathe. He’d hidden in the shadows when footsteps approached, heart thundering so hard he thought Mafioso might hear it. He escaped then, but the memory burned.

And the door—locked now. Sealed. Never to be entered again.

But tonight, whispers drew him back.

From down the hall, past the heavy oak, voices carried. Low, deliberate. The kind of voices that made his stomach twist. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But Elliot found himself pressed to the crack, ear tilted, breath shallow.

Inside, Mafioso spoke. Calm. Cold.

The usual business: debts collected, names tossed out, numbers checked off. Elliot had grown used to the rhythm, awful as it was. But then—

Chance was list

“How much?”

Echo’s voice followed, calm but edged. “Six figures. The man’s running himself into the ground. Cards, dice, anything with a bet. He’s clever enough to keep moving, but the trail was clear.”

Another voice chimed in—Cane, with his blunt drawl. “He ain’t clever. Just lucky. Paris doesn’t make a man invisible. He’ll slip, and when he does, we’ll be there.”

A pause. Mafioso chuckled under his breath, but it wasn’t humor. “Paris…” The word lingered, heavy. “So that’s where he scurried off to. I expected something filthier. Amsterdam, maybe. But no. Paris.”

Beartrap’s laugh rumbled like distant thunder. “Romantic city for a rat.”

The table scraped faintly, papers shifting. Elliot pressed his ear tighter against the wood, heart in his throat.

Wire spoke next—soft, measured, like he’d been chewing on the thought before speaking. “Boss, the men say he’s gambling under false names. Moving from house to house. He’s not staying in one place. It’ll take more time.”

“Time,” Mafioso echoed, his smile audible in his voice. “And patience. Both of which I have in abundance.”

Elliot squeezed his hands into fists, nails biting his palms. Chance. They were talking about Chance.

Mafioso’s voice dropped colder. “When you find him, you don’t bring him in. You end it. No games. No negotiations. Dead.”

The silence that followed hit Elliot harder than the words. His chest tightened, air sticking in his throat. He bit back a sound, forcing himself still.

“Boss…” Echo’s tone carried caution. “What about the debts? Wouldn’t you rather—”

“No.” Mafioso cut him off, sharp enough to slice. “He had his chance. He took and took . That kind of betrayal is not repaid with coin. It’s repaid with blood.”

Elliot’s throat went dry.

Mafioso’s voice stayed low, but Elliot could hear the change. The smile woven into every word was there, then gone, replaced by something sharper, colder. Annoyance, maybe. Impatience. The henchmen’s reports ended in silence heavy enough that Elliot thought it might crush him.

So this was it. Mafioso wanted Chance dead.

Elliot’s chest squeezed. He couldn’t let that happen. He didn’t care how scared he was—negotiation had to be possible. Chance wasn’t perfect, sure, but he didn’t deserve this.

Elliot’s knuckles whitened against the doorframe as he made his decision. He’d step in. He’d talk. He’d beg if he had to.

But before he could steady his breath, the door cracked open.

And every eye inside turned toward him.

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The door was cracked open, and silence bled out into the hall. Elliot froze, caught in the glow of the office light and the weight of every gaze inside.

Mafioso’s eyes found him first—dark, sharp, unreadable. His lips curved into the kind of smile that didn’t belong in this moment. A smile that knew too much.

“Elliot,” the Don said softly, voice polite but layered with steel. “You shouldn’t be here.”

The henchmen’s stares pressed against him from all sides. Echo’s calm narrowed gaze, Cane’s sharp frown, Beartrap’s scowl, Wire’s startled flinch. All of them silent, waiting for the Don to move first.

Elliot swallowed hard, his throat dry. He should run, should mumble an excuse and flee back to the safety of his guest room. But his chest burned with something heavier than fear. He stepped forward instead.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice small but steady. “I didn’t mean to listen, but I heard. Chance… you were talking about Chance.”

At that name, Mafioso’s smile flickered. His eyes darkened, a shadow sliding over them. He didn’t look surprised. He looked… annoyed.

Of course Elliot would latch onto that.

Of course.

Inside, Mafioso cursed in Italian, low and vicious. Sempre quel nome. Sempre quel fantasma. Always that name. Always that ghost.

He folded his hands neatly on the desk, tilting his head. “This is business,” he said politely. “Ours. Not yours. You should leave.”

But Elliot didn’t move.

Instead, he drew a shaky breath, clutching the golden necklace at his chest. “No. I can’t. He’s my friend. Please—don’t hurt him. If it’s debt, or—whatever it is—I can talk to him. I can make him listen.”

Wire shifted uneasily, his eyes darting between them. He lifted his hand slightly, as if to intervene, but Mafioso raised one hand in the air—a simple, sharp gesture. The room stilled. No one moved.

Elliot’s words tumbled faster, desperate. “I know him. He’s reckless, but he’s not evil. If you just give me the chance, I can make it right. We don’t need violence.”

The silence that followed stretched like a blade.

And then—soft, low, a sound that didn’t belong—Mafioso chuckled.

Elliot blinked, confused. “Why… why are you laughing?”

Mafioso’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Do you think this is a joke, Elliot? That because you ask, because you pout with those wide eyes, I will bend?” His tone dropped lower, quieter. “Why should I—the Don, sonnellino—discard justice for your request?”

“I’m not asking for much,” Elliot pressed, his voice trembling but firm. “You always say you’ll give me anything I wish. Well—this is what I wish. Please.”

…

Mafioso’s face didn’t waver. “Not this time.”

The words were sharp enough to slice.

Elliot’s heart sank. His chest tightened. “What…?”

“You heard me,” Mafioso said, still smiling. “Not this time.”

For a moment Elliot couldn’t breathe. His legs trembled, but anger sparked in his chest, hot and sudden. He shook his head, stepping further inside.

“No. That’s not fair,” Elliot said. “You can’t keep me out of this. I have the right to know. I’m involved too—you brought me here, you—”

“Elliot,” Mafioso warned, voice still calm but edged.

But Elliot kept going. “Why won’t you let me try? It could be peaceful. No blood. No one has to get hurt if you’d just let me—”

“Basta.” Enough. Mafioso’s voice sharpened, but Elliot cut across it again.

“I could fix this! He’d listen to me! Why won’t you trust me with this?”

The henchmen exchanged uneasy looks. Echo’s mouth tightened, Cane rubbed his jaw, Beartrap’s brow furrowed. Wire’s lips parted in silent alarm, eyes wide as if begging Elliot to stop before it was too late.

But Elliot didn’t stop.

And then—slam.

Mafioso’s hand came down on the oak desk, splintering wood beneath his palm. Papers scattered, glasses rattled. The sound cracked through the air like a gunshot.

Elliot flinched, stumbling back, eyes wide. His heart leapt into his throat.

Mafioso rose slowly from his chair, towering. His veins pulsed hard beneath the skin of his hand, his smile fixed but his eyes carrying a storm. Step by step, he moved toward Elliot, each stride heavy enough to shake the room.

When he stopped in front of him, his voice was quiet. Too quiet.

“This is not your business,” he said, each word deliberate. “You have no right. Do you understand?”

Elliot’s chest heaved, his breath ragged. Fear rattled through him, but anger burned hotter still.

“Then why am I here?” Elliot burst out. His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop. “Is this what you wanted? To keep me locked up while you do this? To use me—play nice with me—while you kill my friends behind my back?”

The henchmen stiffened. Echo’s eyes narrowed, Cane winced, Beartrap looked away.

Mafioso’s smile faltered for a little . “What?”

Elliot’s voice broke, tears brimming. “Everything you do—it’s fake, isn’t it? All of it. Cooking for me, protecting me, holding me like I mattered—was it just a game to you? Toying with me until I broke?”

The words cut sharper than knives. Mafioso hadn’t expected them—not from Elliot.

For a flicker of a second, his smile slipped entirely. His chest tightened in a way he didn’t understand. Did Elliot really believe that? That he was a liar?

“Stop talking,” Mafioso said, low and warning.

But Elliot shook his head, shouting. “No. You can’t tell me everything’s real when you—”

“Enough!”

The word thundered from Mafioso’s chest, shaking the room. Elliot’s mouth snapped shut. His breath hitched, tears streaking down his face.
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Mafioso’s glare cut through him, sharp and dangerous. “If this is what you want me to act, then so be it,” he spat.

In one swift motion, he seized Elliot’s wrist. Elliot gasped, struggling against the iron grip, but Mafioso dragged him from the room. The henchmen stiffened—Wire stepped forward, opening his mouth, but Echo laid a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head once. Cane and Beartrap looked away, their faces grim. Wire’s hand dropped, defeated, his gaze falling to the floor.

The hallway blurred as Mafioso pulled Elliot along, his grip unyielding. Elliot tugged, twisted, his breath breaking. “Let go—please—”

No answer.

They reached the guest room, and Mafioso shoved the door open with force. He dragged Elliot inside and released him with a sharp push. Elliot stumbled, nearly falling.

The Don’s shadow filled the doorway as he spoke, his voice cold.

“Stay. And think about what crossing me means.”

The lock clicked as he turned the key, sealing Elliot inside.

“Wait!” Elliot cried, pounding the door. His voice cracked into sobs. “Please—don’t! Let me out! Let me talk to you—please!”

But the only answer was fading footsteps down the hall.

Elliot slid down against the door, sobs breaking free, raw and shaking. His hand found the golden necklace at his chest, clutching it so tightly it hurt.

Chapter Text

The knock at the door was soft. Too soft for this house.
Elliot barely shifted from the bed, face buried in the pillow, the necklace lying dull and cold on his neck. He hadn’t touched it since last night.

Wire’s voice floated through the crack. Calm, even.
“Elliot… time to eat.”

No answer.

A pause. The metallic click of a key sliding into the lock. The door creaked open, and Wire’s tall frame filled the doorway, a silver tray balanced carefully in his hands. The smell of soup and bread drifted in, warm and familiar, but Elliot didn’t even twitch.

Wire’s eyes softened. He shut the door behind him, his boots heavy on the wood, and carried the tray to the little table by the wall. He didn’t speak at first—just placed it down, arranging the bowls and utensils in quiet order.

Finally, he broke the silence with a sigh.
“...You should try something. It won’t help to starve yourself.”

“Boss didn’t mean it. He—” Wire faltered, searching for words that wouldn’t sound hollow. “…He means no harm. Not to you.”

On the bed, Elliot turned his head slightly. Not toward Wire—toward the wall. His voice was quiet, scratchy from hours without use.
“Why isn’t he the one saying that?”

Wire stilled. His hand lingered on the edge of the tray, the metal biting against his skin. He opened his mouth, then closed it. His throat worked, struggling with words that wouldn’t come.
Because he couldn’t answer that. Not without betraying something he shouldn’t.

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking awkward, the corners of his mouth pulling tight. His usual ease was gone; the quiet giant seemed suddenly too human.
Instead, he cleared his throat and shifted the subject, his tone careful.
“Boss and the others—we’re leaving tonight. Job in the city. Won’t be back ‘til midnight, maybe later. So I made sure there’s enough here for you. Soup, bread, bit of meat. Should keep you full.”

Still nothing. Elliot’s eyes just stared at the wall, as if it had more answers than Wire did.

Wire hesitated, then added, his voice a little softer, “There’s medicine too. For the nerves. You… you should take it. Help you rest.”

He pulled a small bottle from his pocket and set it beside the tray, pouring a glass of water carefully. His fingers trembled slightly—he hated that they did.

Elliot finally moved, sitting up slowly. His hair was a mess, his eyes red and tired. He glanced at the bottle, then at Wire.
“What kind of medicine?”

“Just something to help you sleep easier.” Wire forced the lie out gently, almost kindly. His eyes didn’t meet Elliot’s. “Boss thought it’d do you good. You’ve been… wound tight.”

Elliot stared at him for a long moment. Quiet. Then he reached for the pill, plucked it up between two fingers, and held it like he was weighing it. He didn’t argue. Didn’t ask more questions. Just took the glass from Wire’s hand, slipped the pill into his mouth, and swallowed it down with a gulp of water.

Wire’s chest tightened. He hated watching it.

“I’m not hungry,” Elliot said softly, setting the glass back down. “So I’ll just… sleep.”

He lowered himself back onto the bed, pulling the blanket up. His movements were slow, tired, as if he’d already given in. Wire lingered, watching him. The boy’s eyes fluttered, heavy, and soon he seemed still again.

Wire bent down, fixing the blanket around Elliot’s shoulders, tucking it gently. A small, human act in a house that rarely knew gentleness. He whispered, “Sorry,” the word catching in his throat.

Then he stood, turned, and walked out. The door clicked shut, and the lock turned.

The hall outside smelled of smoke and gun oil. The others were waiting—Echo leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, Cane spun a knife lazily between his fingers, Beartrap crouched near the stairwell. Their eyes flicked to Wire as he approached.

“Well?” Cane asked, voice sharp.

Wire nodded once. “He took it.”

Mafioso appeared from his office, coat draped across his shoulders, hat shadowing his eyes. He adjusted his gloves slowly, like a man with all the time in the world. “Good,” he said simply. “No distractions tonight.”

Wire hesitated, shifting his weight. “Boss… was it necessary?” His voice was quieter now, almost careful. “He’s not going anywhere. You could’ve—”

The Don’s gaze snapped up, cold and unblinking. “It was my choice. You follow orders, Wire.”

Wire’s jaw tightened. He dropped his eyes, defeated. “…Yes, boss.”

The group filed out, heavy boots echoing against the wood, the great door slamming shut behind them. The mansion fell silent, heavy with absence.

On the bed upstairs, Elliot’s lips parted. His chest rose slow and steady, the picture of sleep. But then—his jaw twitched. His tongue pressed. And with the faintest sound, wet and sharp, he spat the pill out onto his palm.

The little white thing gleamed faintly in the dim light.

His eyes snapped open. Clear. Awake.

He sat up, staring at the pill. He hadn’t trusted it. He hadn’t trusted Wire’s too-careful tone, the way his eyes didn’t meet his. And now he knew.

His fingers clenched. The pill crumbled between them, powdering into dust.

Elliot swung his legs over the bed, heart pounding. The lock on the door glared at him from across the room, iron and cruel. He padded toward it, barefoot, the necklace on his neck shine catching the dim glow again. For a moment he thought of holding it. Instead, he turned away.

The house was empty. For the first time since he’d been brought here, truly empty.

And Elliot had no intention of wasting it.
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The door loomed over him. Heavy. Cold. The lock glared like an unblinking eye, daring him to try.

Elliot pressed his forehead against it, his breath fogging the wood. His palms were clammy. He knew Wire had turned the key with a practiced twist—smooth, final. Mafioso’s locks weren’t flimsy things. They were meant to hold men twice his size, twice his strength.

But he had no choice.

His fingers brushed over the nightstand. The items he had: a glass of water, a spoon, books that lying where he’d dropped it before, and a lamp. That was it.

“Think,” Elliot whispered, pacing. His father used to scold him for forgetting the oven timer, for spacing out when things mattered. But he’d also once told him, “When you don’t have the right tools, make the wrong ones right.”

He picked up the spoon. Metal. Thin enough. He bent it against the edge of the nightstand until it curved slightly, forming a makeshift tension wrench. His hands shook, but he slid it into the lock. Too thick. He pulled it back out, bit his lip, and broke the handle in half against the floor. The sharp crack echoed, but no footsteps came. He worked the thinner piece back in.

It scraped. Stalled. His jaw clenched. He could almost hear demon voice in his head—mocking, patient, cruelly calm: “Locks aren’t for breaking, Elliot. They’re for keeping.”

“Shut up,” Elliot muttered to the empty room. He twisted. The metal bent wrong, nearly snapping, but then—
click.

His heart jumped.

He turned the knob. The door gave way with a whisper of air.

Relief poured through him, warm and dizzying. He nearly laughed, covering his mouth instead. No time to waste.

He slipped out.

The hall stretched wide and endless, shadows pooling in corners. The mansion always seemed alive when Mafioso was in it—footsteps echoing, henchmen murmuring, orders barked. But now, silence reigned.

Elliot padded across the carpet, bare feet sinking into its plush weave. Every sound—the creak of a floorboard, the rustle of his shirt—sounded like thunder to him. His pulse hammered, but he didn’t stop.

The office. He had to get to the office.

He remembered the way: past the grand staircase, down the west hall, second door on the left. The door larger than the rest, carved with faint etchings. He found it. His hand hovered over the knob.

Locked. Of course.

Elliot dropped to his knees again. He tried the same trick with his broken spoon-handle, but this lock was older, heavier. It resisted him like a stubborn beast. He twisted, pushed, pulled—sweat gathered on his brow. Nothing.

His breath grew ragged. He was too slow. Too weak. He thought of Chance—his laugh, his crooked grin.

he going to die.

“Come on, please,” he whispered, jamming the metal harder. The spoon bent uselessly. He almost slammed his fist against the door.

Then—a sound.

A low thump. Claws clicking against the floor. A growl, soft but unmistakable.

Elliot spun, heart in his throat. Out of the shadows padded Bianca. The leopard’s coat gleamed, muscles rolling beneath her spotted fur. Her yellow eyes locked on him, unblinking.

“No, no, no,” Elliot whispered, backing into the door. His knees hit the wood hard. “Please—don’t. I’m not— I just want to leave. Please.”

Bianca stepped closer. Her gaze pinned him in place. His chest heaved. He half-raised his hands in surrender, voice breaking. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want to see my friend. Please.”

The leopard stopped. She stared for a long, unbearable moment. Elliot’s heart beat so loud it drowned the silence.

And then—Bianca moved.

Not to pounce. Not to snarl. She lowered her head, teeth glinting as something metallic clinked against the floor.

A key.

It slid to rest at his feet.

Elliot blinked, stunned. His hand trembled as he reached down, closing around the cold brass. He stared at the animal. Bianca’s gaze softened—not friendly, not kind, but… expectant.

“You…” He let out a shaky laugh. “You’re not gonna kill me, huh? You’re helping.”

His fingers brushed the leopard’s head, tentative. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she pressed lightly against his leg, a weight both grounding and terrifying.

“I owe you one,” Elliot whispered.

The key slid into the lock. Turned. Clicked.

The door opened.

The office smelled the same as before—smoke, ink, leather. Shadows clung to the corners. The great desk loomed in the center, papers stacked with cold precision. The fedora still sat, waiting like a crown.

Elliot’s breath quickened. He had to be careful. If Mafioso came back and saw even a single page misplaced—

He forced the thought away and moved fast. Drawers slid open under his shaking hands. Files thick with names, photos marked in red. He swallowed bile and dug deeper. Nothing. Nothing—

Bianca nudged his leg. He turned. She’d pressed her paw against a lower drawer.

Elliot crouched, tugged it open. Inside—folders. Dozens. His hands shook as he sifted through them, eyes scanning the names. And then—

Chance.

His breath caught. He pulled the file out, hands trembling. Pages fluttered: notes on sightings, debts, allies. A map tucked inside, sprawling across Paris. Red X’s marked location after location, dozens of them.

He stared. His chest ached. At least there’s something. A start.

He folded the papers carefully, sliding them inside his shirt. He forced the drawer closed, arranging everything exactly as it had been. Mafioso would notice the smallest change—he couldn’t risk it.

At the door, he froze.

The necklace weighed against his chest. The gold chain, delicate and thin. A gift too kind. Too false.

His fingers clenched around it.

Then, slowly, trembling, he pulled. The chain bit into his skin, then snapped.

The sound broke something in him.

He laid it gently on the desk, beside the fedora. His breath shook.
“I guess that’s it.”

Bianca brushed her head against his hand, pulling him toward the hall.

Elliot lingered, eyes on the necklace one last time. Then he turned.

“Show me the way out, please” he whispered.

And Bianca led.
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The first rule of working around airports was simple: don’t run. People gave you looks if you did. So instead of sprinting like his brain wanted to, John Doe forced himself to shuffle forward in long, awkward steps. To any outsider, it probably looked like he was some cartoon sneaking across the floor, but in his head, it was a serious effort at discipline.

He clutched his uniform bag to his chest like it was about to explode, and his bandaged arms tightened against the fabric. He muttered under his breath, “Late, late, late…” The shy little words slipped out before he could stop them.

The staff building loomed ahead, glass doors reflecting the early sunlight. He slowed down, wiped sweat off his forehead, and pushed himself inside.

The smell of clean floors and coffee hit his nose. He ducked through the hall, opened the changing room door, and immediately spotted 1x1x1x1 leaning against the wall. The pilot cap sat on their knee, arms crossed, single glowing red eye fixed on him like a warning beacon.

“You overslept again, didn’t you?” 1x said flatly, their voice tired and half-bored.

John froze halfway into pulling his shirt over his head. “N-no,” he stammered. His voice cracked, and he turned away quickly to button his new pilot shirt. The fabric was stiff and neat, smelling like detergent. His heart was already thumping.

1x’s eye glowed faintly brighter. “You’re a bad liar.”

John hunched his shoulders. “Okay… yes. But—but it wasn’t my fault this time!” He fiddled with his tie, fumbling the knot. “The alarm clock… um… didn’t work. And then I… uh… tripped when I tried to run down the stairs…” His cheeks burned.

For a second, silence. Then 1x exhaled slowly through their nose, like steam escaping a vent. “We’re not late yet. So hurry up before you give me a reason to scold you.”

John’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Right. Thank you.”

He dressed faster, tugging on the dark blazer and sliding his pilot’s hat over his messy hair. He looked in the mirror briefly—yellow shirt covered, scars hidden beneath his uniform, the bandages peeking slightly under his cuffs. He gave himself a small nod. He didn’t feel like a real pilot most days, but at least he looked the part.

When he stepped out, 1x was already walking. John had to jog to catch up.

The two of them strode down the hallway toward the gates, trading quiet words.

“Do you ever get tired of this job?” John asked softly.

1x’s glowing eye flickered toward him. “Flying planes?”

John nodded.

“No,” 1x replied simply. “It beats being at home.”

John tilted his head, unsure if he should ask, but curiosity pushed him. “Because of your… father?”

A low sound came from 1x’s throat—something between a groan and a growl. “Yeah. Shedletsky spends all day sitting around, eating chicken buckets like the world owes him. Code on code, it’s disgusting. He’s gonna get fat.”

John pressed a hand to his mouth to hide a chuckle. “You care, though.”

1x’s eye dimmed slightly, almost softer for a second. “…Shut up.”

That only made John laugh harder. He lifted his hand like he was surrendering. “Sorry, sorry.”

They turned a corner, and that’s when he saw her.

Jane Doe.

She stood near the staff loading area, pink hair shining under the airport lights, her skirt uniform crisp and neat. Her ponytail brushed her shoulder as she bent to check over several massive bags stacked beside her. It looked like she had packed half the world into them.

The moment she spotted John, her face lit up. She rushed over, skirts swishing, and wrapped her arms around him without hesitation. Her perfume—light and floral—made his head spin. Then, quick as a spark, she leaned up and kissed his cheek.

“You finally made it,” she said warmly.

John froze, face turning bright red. His voice wobbled. “S-sorry, Jane, I—”

But she pressed a finger to his lips, smiling. “Hush. You’re here, and that’s enough.”

His throat tightened. He managed a nod.

Behind them, 1x coughed deliberately, like the glowing-eyed pilot couldn’t stomach the sugar-sweet moment.

Jane turned toward them and motioned at the bags. “Since you’re both here, help me load these onto the plane, please.”

John blinked at the mountain of luggage. “…All of these?”

Jane nodded with a mischievous smile. “Of course. I can’t go to Paris without my essentials.”

1x stared at her flatly. “This is not a vacation. We’re here to work.”

Jane puffed her cheeks and folded her arms dramatically. “Oh, come on. Can’t I joke once in a while? Besides…” She chuckled. “Who says we can’t enjoy ourselves while we’re working?”

1x sighed, muttering under their breath, “Why do I even try.” But despite the glare of his red eye, he bent down and grabbed one of the bags anyway.

John hurried to follow, hefting two smaller ones. His arms shook under the weight, but Jane’s approving smile gave him strength.

The three of them moved together toward the waiting airplane, chatter trailing behind them like a ribbon—about the flight, about their destination, about whether Paris would really feel like work or not.

And for a shy man like John Doe, walking between his loyal friend and his loving wife, the world felt lighter than it had in a long, long time.

The airport hall stretched wide, filled with echoes of rolling suitcases, murmured announcements, and the occasional squeak of children’s shoes against the polished tiles. John’s arms ached from carrying Jane’s luggage, but he refused to complain—not when Jane looked so happy humming beside him, and 1x trudged along without a word.

He rounded the corner too quickly.

And that’s when it happened.

Thud!

John stumbled back, eyes widening as his shoulder collided with someone else’s chest. The bag he was holding nearly slipped from his hands.

“Oh! I-I’m so sorry!” he gasped, words spilling out like water from a broken faucet. His heart pounded with guilt. “I wasn’t watching where I was going, I—I should’ve slowed down, I—”

“John,” Jane’s voice cut in, calm but warm. She reached out instinctively, her hand brushing against the stranger’s arm. “Are you okay?”

The man he had bumped into wore a plain hoodie, hood pulled up so low that his face was almost lost in shadow. For a second, John swore he saw sharp eyes glinting beneath, but then the stranger tugged the hood further down, hiding his features again.

“It’s alright,” the man said quietly. His voice carried a strange weight—tired, almost cracked—but not unfriendly. “I wasn’t paying attention either.”

John fumbled for words, still half-bowing in apology. “S-sure? You’re sure?”

“Yes,” the man repeated firmly, though his lips curved in a faint, fleeting smile.

Before John could step aside, the stranger pulled a folded paper ticket from his pocket. “Actually… could you help me? I need to know where the flight to Paris is boarding.”

Jane’s eyes lit up instantly. She plucked the ticket gently from his fingers and unfolded it, scanning the bold print. Her lips curved into a bright grin. “Paris? That’s perfect! We’re heading there too. You won’t even have to wander around. We’ll walk together.”

The hooded man blinked, visibly surprised. Then the tension in his shoulders eased, and a little relief slipped across his hidden face. “Really? That’d… help a lot. Thank you.”

John nodded eagerly, happy to see the gloom lift, even if only slightly. “O-of course! We’d be glad to help.”

Jane looped her arm through John’s, clearly delighted to welcome a new travel companion. The hooded man fell into step beside them, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

Behind them, 1x glanced at the stranger from head to toe. Their glowing red eye flickered faintly. No backpack. No suitcase. Just the clothes on his back and that crumpled ticket.

“…Strange,” 1x muttered under their breath, just loud enough for John to catch.

But John, still flustered from the collision, didn’t comment.

As they walked down the corridor toward the gates, conversation sprouted like grass after rain.

“So,” Jane asked, tilting her head curiously, “what brings you to Paris?”

The hooded man hesitated before answering, his fingers twitching slightly in his pocket. “…Meeting a friend. It’s important.”

“That’s sweet,” Jane said with a smile, her voice full of easy warmth. “A reunion?”

“…Something like that,” he replied softly.

1x finally spoke up, eye narrowing. “No luggage? Not even a carry-on?”

The man glanced sideways, lips quirking faintly as though caught in a trap but refusing to squirm. “I’ve got the essentials. Card. Phone. ID. Paperwork.” His tone hardened, just enough to close the door on further questions. “That’s all I need.”

John felt the edge in his words and raised his hands quickly, eager to smooth things over. “That’s… actually kind of impressive. I—I always overpack,” he admitted shyly. He gestured toward the stack of bags weighing down his shoulders. “Jane makes sure of it, too.”

Jane giggled and gave him a playful nudge. “Don’t blame me, John. You’d thank me when you forget your toothbrush.”

The hooded man chuckled softly, almost under his breath. For the briefest moment, his posture relaxed.

When they reached the gate, the rows of seats were already filled with passengers waiting, some dozing off, others flipping through phones or travel magazines. The big digital board above them still displayed: Flight to Paris — Boarding Soon.

Jane guided their new companion toward an empty seat near the corner. She touched his sleeve gently. “Here—sit and rest. Boarding hasn’t started yet, so you’ll have a little time. Long flights are easier when you don’t wear yourself out beforehand.”

The man blinked at her kindness. For a heartbeat, his lips parted as though he might protest. But then, slowly, he nodded and lowered himself into the seat. “Thanks… really.”

Jane gave him a reassuring smile. “Of course.”

1x lingered only long enough to cast one last glance at the stranger. Their glowing eye gleamed, suspicious but unreadable, before they turned away.

John, however, couldn’t quite move on. He hovered a moment longer, fidgeting with the strap of his bag. There was something in the man’s posture—the way his shoulders slumped, the way his hands gripped the edge of his seat too tightly—that whispered of sadness.

He swallowed. “He… seems sad,” John murmured finally, half to himself, half to his companions.

Jane’s smile softened, touched with melancholy. “…I felt that too.”

1x gave a low hum, neither agreeing nor denying, their tired voice unreadable. “Maybe. Doesn’t matter. He said he’s meeting someone in Paris. If that’s true, he’ll find his happiness there.”

Jane reached over, squeezing John’s hand gently. “1x is right. Let’s trust that he will.”

John looked back once more at the hooded figure sitting quietly among the other passengers. Something tugged at his heart, an ache he couldn’t explain. But he forced himself to nod, to let it go.

“Yeah,” he whispered, as he followed Jane and 1x away from the waiting area. “I hope so.”

And the three of them walked off together, unaware of the hidden storm the hooded man carried in his chest—unaware of how tightly he clung to his ticket, not for the flight itself, but for the faint, fragile hope waiting on the other side.

Chapter Text

The boarding area had grown restless. People shuffled in their seats, glancing at phones, sipping the last of their overpriced coffees. Then Jane Doe stood, her uniform pressed crisp, the pink of her ponytail glinting faintly under the sterile airport lights. She took the small scanner in hand, her voice carrying just enough warmth to rise above the noise.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re ready to begin boarding Flight 174 to Paris. Please have your ticket and identification ready. We’ll check them here before you board. Thank you for your patience.”

The announcement flowed easily from her lips, a practiced melody of hospitality. Passengers rose immediately, forming a line that curved across the gate.

John lingered nearby, clutching the strap of his cap, trying not to fidget. He always thought his wife looked incredible in uniform—professional, commanding, and calm in ways he wasn’t. His chest swelled with pride, and his cheeks burned when he realized he’d been staring too long.

Beside him, 1x leaned lazily against a post, arms crossed. “She runs this place better than half the crew,” they muttered in their monotone, glowing eye half-lidded with fatigue.

John nodded shyly. “Y-yeah.” He wasn’t good at adding more, so he just smiled, shoulders hunched.

The line inched forward. Jane greeted each traveler with the same brightness, scanning tickets, checking IDs, offering a “safe travels” and a reassuring smile. Families bustled by, business travelers flashed impatient nods, young couples whispered excitedly about Paris.

Then, near the middle of the line, a man stepped up. His hood was drawn low, hiding most of his features, but when he passed his ticket and ID forward, Jane caught the name instantly.

Elliot Builder.

Her eyes flickered for just a moment, surprise tugging her expression. That last name. Unusual. It rang oddly familiar in the back of her mind, but she smoothed her face quickly, folding her professionalism back into place.

“You’re all set,” Jane said warmly, handing the papers back. “Have a wonderful flight.”

The hooded man inclined his head. “Thank you.” His voice was quiet, threaded with something heavy, but he moved on, disappearing into the tunnel that led to the aircraft.

John tilted his head slightly, watching him go. Something about the man seemed weighed down, though he couldn’t put his finger on why. He wanted to ask Jane, but she was already greeting the next passenger with her same bright smile.

One by one, the line thinned. Soon, the last group passed through. The gate closed behind them with a heavy click. Boarding complete.

⸻

Inside the aircraft, the atmosphere shifted to the low buzz of settling bodies. Bags clunked into overhead bins. Seatbelts clicked. Murmurs rose and fell as passengers claimed space for the long flight ahead.

Elliot slid into his seat by the window, shoulders tucked inward. He pressed his forehead to the cool glass, gazing at the glitter of lights outside. They blurred as his breath fogged the pane, and for a moment he let his eyes close. He’d made it onto the plane. That was one step closer.

Jane walked the aisles, checking belts, helping a mother stow her child’s toy bag, and offering water to a nervous older man. She noticed Elliot again—alone, staring out the window. There was a sadness about him, something quiet she couldn’t place. But she only smiled gently when she passed, continuing her rounds.

⸻

In the cockpit, John Doe tugged at his sleeves nervously. His pilot’s cap sat stiff on his head, and he stared at the gleaming array of buttons, dials, and screens stretched before him. The control panel always felt like a living thing: glowing lights breathing in sequence, switches waiting like rows of teeth.

He drew a shaky breath and reached forward.

Beside him, 1x was already working methodically, flicking switches in sequence, each movement practiced and precise. Their glowing red eye darted across readouts, monitoring every system with sharp efficiency.

“Fuel pumps on,” they murmured, clicking one switch, then another. “Hydraulics, check. Nav lights green.”

John mirrored, though his fingers trembled faintly. “Battery master on,” he said, voice too soft.

“Louder,” 1x said flatly, not glancing over. “Speak like the system won’t work unless it hears you.”

John swallowed, cheeks hot. “Battery master on!” His voice cracked halfway.

1x gave the faintest snort. “Better.”

Together they moved down the checklist. Overhead toggles clicked into position. The auxiliary power unit thrummed to life, vibrations humming through the cockpit floor. Screens flickered, illuminating maps dotted with waypoints, a bright line stretching across the Atlantic toward Paris.

John breathed a little easier as the rhythm of procedure carried him. This was what he knew. Still, his nerves clung—because soon, he’d have to speak into that microphone.

⸻

And then it was time.

John picked up the cabin mic with shaking fingers. His reflection in the glass showed wide, nervous eyes. He pressed the button.

“Uh, h-hello, ladies and gentlemen, this is… your, uh, captain, John Doe. We’re, um, flying to… Paris today, and—”

His words tripped over themselves. Passengers across the cabin glanced at one another, smiles spreading. A ripple of soft laughter traveled through the rows.

Jane closed her eyes and sighed, though a fond smile tugged her lips. She could imagine John’s red ears even from here.

“Give me that,” 1x muttered, plucking the mic from John’s hand. Their tired monotone rolled out steady, crisp, and clear.

“Good evening, passengers. This is your co-pilot speaking. We’ll be departing shortly on our direct flight to Paris. Estimated flight time: seven hours, fifteen minutes. Please remain seated as we complete final checks. Thank you, and enjoy your flight.”

They cut the mic and tossed it back onto the console. “Hopeless,” they muttered.

John hunched forward, wishing the seat would swallow him. But the laughter from the cabin wasn’t cruel—it was warm, amused. He allowed himself a small smile despite his burning ears.

⸻

“Beacon lights on,” 1x instructed.

John flipped the switch. Red strobes blinked alive on the aircraft belly and tail.

“Flaps set for takeoff.”

John guided the lever, listening to the mechanical whine as the flaps extended.

“Brakes released.”

The plane rolled forward smoothly, nose guiding down the taxiway. The lines of light on the pavement stretched before them like a path into the night.

1x handled the radio. “Tower, Flight 174 requesting clearance.”

“Flight 174, cleared to runway two-seven. Hold short for crossing traffic.”

John eased the brakes, bringing the jet to a stop at the line. He exhaled evenly, his hands steady on the tiller.

⸻

“Cleared for takeoff,” came the tower’s reply.

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The airplane hummed with life — a low, steady song of engines, chatter, and the gentle clink of luggage being tucked away. Jane Doe moved gracefully down the aisle, checking seat belts, smiling politely, her voice a calm thread tying order to chaos.

“Seat belts fastened, trays up — yes, ma’am, just like that. You’ll be safe and comfortable.”

Passengers settled in, the rhythm of pre-flight routine unfolding as it always did. John’s voice, quiet and nervous but warm, had just finished the announcement — his slight stutter making a few passengers smile rather than worry. 1x had smirked, muttering something under his breath, but even that small moment felt lighthearted.
Everything was normal.

For now.

Elliot sat by the window, hoodie drawn close, staring at the soft glow of lights outside. His reflection stared back at him — eyes tired, face pale under the dim cabin glow. His hands fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, tugging until the fabric wrinkled. He didn’t notice Jane walking past, checking rows, until she stopped briefly near his seat.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

Elliot blinked up, startled, before managing a small nod. “Yeah. Just… not used to flying.”

Jane smiled reassuringly. “You’ll be fine, Mr. Builder. Promise.”

He tried to smile back, though his chest felt tight.

Outside the cockpit door, John and 1x were finishing final preparations. The panels of light reflected off John’s focused face. Every switch he flipped, every checklist confirmed, gave him calm. Flying always steadied him.

“Flaps set. Cabin pressure steady,” he murmured.

1x leaned back, half yawning. “Finally. Smooth flight, smooth pay. No drama today, hopefully.”

John gave a short nod, the ghost of a smile touching his face. “Hopefully.”

Then the intercom cracked.

Not the soft click of their system — this one came with a deeper buzz, static thick and cold. A voice filled the cabin.

Not the captain’s. Not the crew’s. Something else entirely.

“Attention, flight crew of Flight 174,” the voice said — deep and controlled. Too calm. Too powerful. “This is a priority communication from the head office. Stop preparations immediately.”

Jane froze in the aisle. John’s fingers hovered over the throttle. 1x frowned.

“What the hell?”

The voice continued, echoing in every corner of the aircraft.

“You will cease all flight activity until further notice. A request has been made from a higher business associate to locate a passenger. The name—Elliot.”

There was a pause. The kind that swallowed air.

Elliot’s blood went cold.

He didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. Only his fingers trembled as they clutched the fabric of his hoodie, knuckles white, eyes wide under the shadow of his hood.

Jane’s heartbeat jumped in her chest. She turned her head, gaze scanning quickly down the rows of confused faces until her eyes caught on Elliot — the way his shoulders tensed, the way his breath shortened. It wasn’t just fear. It was recognition.

The voice crackled again, colder this time.

“Deliver the passenger to our representatives. Once the individual is confirmed, the flight may proceed. Delay will be tolerated. Defiance will not.”

Silence. The kind that hurt to listen to.

1x ripped the headset off. “Who the fuck was that?”

John’s brow furrowed deeply. “That… wasn’t airport control.”

Jane didn’t answer. Her gaze stayed on Elliot — his hands gripping his knees, shaking, eyes lowered. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t even blink when other passengers began whispering.

Outside the plane, within the airport tower, chaos had begun. A man in a long black coat — Don Sonnellino himself — stood over the desk of a trembling airline worker and his old friend, the chief executive officer, who glared at the Don in annoyance.

“What do you want this time, old friend?” the chief asked, not scared but clearly tired of being interrupted.

“You understand what I asked,” the Don said quietly, his accent like silk over steel. “You have the means to contact the plane. I only want the one named Elliot. No funny stuff. Just Elliot. Bring him to me, then the others can fly wherever they wish.”

“Do whatever he says,” the chief sighed, rolling his eyes.

The worker, sweating through his collar, nodded fast. “Y-Yes, Mr. Sonnellino. It’s… already done.”

The Don’s expression didn’t change. Only his fingers brushed the edge of the pocket where the necklace chain Elliot had left behind now rested. He turned toward the window overlooking the runway.

“Good,” he said softly. “We wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt… over one person.”

Back inside the plane, Jane tried to regain her composure. Passengers were restless — some murmuring, some glancing around nervously.

She swallowed hard and forced her voice to sound calm. “Everyone, please stay seated. We’re waiting for confirmation from air control. It might just be a technical check — nothing serious.”

John turned in his seat toward 1x. “Should we… call them back?”

1x’s glowing red eye flicked to the side. “No. That wasn’t airport protocol. That was someone else.”

Jane opened the cockpit door then, closing it softly behind her. Her usual professional poise was gone; she looked shaken.

“It’s bad,” she whispered. “They said some man came into the control room — someone high up in business ties — and made them stop us. He’s demanding to find… Elliot.”

1x blinked slowly. “The guy with the hoodie?”

Jane nodded.

John turned halfway in his seat, his quiet voice uneasy. “The one we saw earlier? The quiet one?”

“Yeah. Him,” Jane said, voice tightening. “And he — he looked terrified when the announcement came on.”

1x exhaled, leaning back hard in his chair. His voice was colder now. “So whoever that was… this isn’t just business.”

Jane’s silence was the answer.

For a few seconds, only the hum of the instruments filled the cockpit. Then 1x muttered under his breath, “This is bullshit.”

John hesitated. “What are we going to do?”

“We fly,” 1x said flatly.

Jane blinked. “What?”

He turned to her, expression dark. “You heard me. We’re not handing someone over to some creep who hijacks a tower speaker. They can fire me, ground me, whatever. They can’t touch me at all if they try — I’ll call Shedletsky himself if I have to.”

John’s eyes widened. “But—”

“I said we’re flying,” 1x repeated, his voice lower but sharper. “He wants this Elliot guy for something bad. You saw how scared he was. I don’t care who the Don is or who he knows — this plane leaves.”

For a long second, no one moved.

Then Jane nodded slowly. “I’ll calm the passengers. Just… don’t make us crash.”

1x gave a wry grin. “You wound me.”

John took a steady breath, his serious expression returning. “Engines still warm. We can lift before they send anyone to the ground.”

Jane opened the door, pausing only for a brief glance back. “You’re both insane.”

1x shrugged. “Maybe. But I’d rather be insane than complicit.”

She stepped back into the cabin, her heart still pounding but her face calm. Passengers were anxious now, murmuring among themselves.

“Everything’s fine,” she said smoothly, her practiced smile returning even as her stomach twisted. “Just a small system miscommunication. The flight will resume shortly.”

Elliot didn’t lift his head. He couldn’t hear her, but it was like her voice came from underwater. His hands trembled as he stared down at them, trying not to shake.

He could still hear that voice — the velvet tone of the Don — dripping from the speakers, soft yet heavy enough to crush. It followed him everywhere, even here, thousands of miles from where he thought he’d escaped.

Jane’s steps stopped by his row again. She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him — saw how tightly he hugged his arms to himself, the hoodie drawn up like a shield.

“Hey,” she said softly, kneeling a little. “We’re still flying. You’ll be safe, okay?”

Elliot lifted his eyes, and for a second she saw it — shock. Like he was asking why they were getting themselves in trouble.

He didn’t beg. Didn’t ask for help. Just nodded, small and silent.

Jane’s throat tightened.

“Everything will be alright,” she whispered again, even though she didn’t believe it.

Then she rose, turned toward the others, and began ushering calm words down the aisle — smiling, assuring, pretending nothing was wrong.

In the cockpit, the engines began to spool.

1x’s hands danced across the controls, voice sharp with determination. “Flaps at ten. Throttle ready.”

John adjusted the yoke, his calm returning. “Runway cleared.”

“Good,” 1x muttered. “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

As the plane began to roll, the intercom crackled again — but this time, it wasn’t a voice. It was static.

Elliot’s head turned slowly toward the window. The city lights blurred as the plane began to move. His reflection stared back, pale and frightened, but beneath it — something else.

Resolve.

Maybe he couldn’t run forever. But for now, at least, he wasn’t caught.

Jane steadied herself near the aisle, one hand pressed against the wall as the aircraft gained speed.

John’s quiet voice came through the cabin system, still a little shaky but firm this time. “Ladies and gentlemen… this is your captain. We’ll be departing now. Please remain seated.”

The engines roared. The plane lifted from the ground.

And as the world below grew smaller, Elliot exhaled — his trembling slowing, his eyes still filled with fear.

Far away, in an office lit by golden lamplight, Don Sonnellino’s smile faded into a hard, silent stare as he see the plane moving.

He tapped his pocket watch once.

Then whispered, “So you’re still running, Elliot.”
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The air traffic control tower was chaos.
The screens still flickered with data streams and blinking green lights, but every person in the room was staring at one feed — the plane that should’ve stayed grounded was now climbing through the clouds.

“Wh-What do we do?” the young worker stammered, his headset nearly falling off as he scrambled between consoles. “They’re— they’re actually taking off! Sir, they didn’t wait for clearance—!”

The chief of operations just rubbed his forehead, groaning like a man twenty years older than he was. “Of course they didn’t. Of course it had to be 1X.”

Behind him, Don Sonnellino stood with his gloved hands clasped neatly behind his back, eyes fixed on the glass window that looked out over the runway. His reflection stared back — tall, composed, unreadable — while the glow of the monitors painted half his face in red light.
When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet it almost didn’t match the storm brewing inside the tower.

“Who,” he asked softly, “is in charge of that plane?”

The worker hesitated, glancing at his boss. “U-Uh… pilot identification tag reads… 1X-Alpha. Co-pilot, John Doe.”

The Don’s mouth curved — not into a smile, but something thinner, something that made the worker swallow hard.
“I see.”

The chief sighed. “Don’t start, Sonnellino. I don’t want trouble in my tower.”

“Trouble?” Mafioso said, turning slowly toward him. “No. I’m simply collecting something that belongs to me.”

The worker looked between them, completely lost. “S-Sir, should I— should I try radio contact again?”

The chief pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just do it before he breaks something.”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

The worker leaned over his console, trembling fingers finding the comm switch. Static filled the speakers for a second before a faint crackle of connection opened.
“Flight 174, this is Tower Control,” the worker said, voice shaking. “Y-You’re not cleared to take off— please respond immediately—”

1X’s voice snapped through the line before he could finish.
“Save your breath, kid. We’re already up.”

The worker winced, turning to the chief like a child caught between fighting parents. “He—he responded—”

The Don stepped closer, his voice lowering to a silken growl. “Open the speaker wider. I want him to hear me.”

“Sir, I don’t—”

“Now.”

The worker obeyed before he could think better of it, turning the volume all the way up.

Inside the cockpit, the intercom crackled again.
John shot a nervous glance toward 1X, who was still gripping the yoke with one hand and the radio switch with the other. “They’re calling again,” John murmured.

“I know.” 1X’s lips curved in a grim grin. “Let’s see what the big man wants.”

He pressed the comm button. “Alright, tower control, I know you’re still listening. If this is about the inflight snack service, we ran out of peanuts. Over.”

“1X,” the voice that replied wasn’t the worker’s. It wasn’t nervous. It was smooth.

“You’re a bold one.”

1X leaned back slightly in his chair, raising an eyebrow. “And you must be the one with the ego problem.”

John gave him a look — the kind that said please don’t make this worse.

But the Don’s voice continued, calm as ever.
“You have something that belongs to me.”

“Oh?” 1X replied lazily. “Because last I checked, my co-pilot’s the only one who can claim me, and he doesn’t seem the type.”

Even John had to cover his mouth to hide a laugh — nervous, but still a laugh.

Mafioso didn’t take the bait. “There’s a passenger on your flight. Elliot. I suggest you return him before things become unpleasant.”

1X chuckled darkly. “Unpleasant? You hijacked my comms in front of a full cabin and tried to strong-arm my crew. You think I’m scared of your fancy coat and your deep voice?”

Behind the Don, his four henchmen shifted slightly — Echo folded his arms, Beartrap stared unblinking, Wire fidgeted like he wanted to melt into the floor. Cane sighed softly, muttering, “Boss, perhaps we should—”

The Don raised a hand, silencing him.
“Fear isn’t what I expect from professionals,” he said evenly. “Cooperation is.”

“Then maybe try asking nicely next time,” 1X shot back. “You think shouting through tower comms is gonna make me hand over a passenger like a lost suitcase?”

John whispered, “You’re gonna get us banned from flying, man.”

“Worth it,” 1X muttered. Then, louder, “You hear that, tower? Worth it.”

The Don’s eyes narrowed. “You misunderstand, Captain. This isn’t about orders. I am merely reclaiming what is mine.”

1X scoffed. “You sound like every ex I’ve ever had. ‘He owes me,’ ‘he’s mine’ — buddy, if you wanted to date him, just send flowers.”

Wire in the background was like (ummm he did but it did not work out)

Jane, listening from the cabin phone near the galley, nearly dropped the receiver at that.

Even the worker in the tower looked at the Don in horror, mouthing, why is he like this?

The Don’s aura darkened. Even through static, the temperature in the cockpit seemed to drop.
“Watch your words, Captain,” Mafioso said quietly. “You are playing in a field far above your pay grade.”

1X smiled wider. “Yeah? Well, up here, I’m the only one who knows how to land this tin can, so maybe you should watch your tone.”

The chief groaned, rubbing his face. “I can’t do this. I can’t. If Shedletsky finds out about this argument, I’m retiring.”

Wire whispered, “Boss, maybe we should—”

“Silence,” Mafioso said without raising his voice. Wire froze instantly.

In the cockpit, John could hear the faint hum of static pulsing between each word, like the comm system itself was nervous.
“You are defying a man who can make your career disappear,” the Don continued, his words razor-sharp. “You are aware of who I am, yes?”

“Oh, I know who you are,” (he lie) 1X replied, leaning closer to the mic. “You’re the guy who thinks he owns everything that breathes. Newsflash — you don’t own the sky.”

For the first time, Mafioso’s tone dropped lower — quiet enough to sound almost gentle.
“No, Captain,” he said. “But I own the people who make your engines.”

That silenced John for a heartbeat. Even 1X blinked.

But only for a second. Then he laughed — sharp, defiant. “Cute threat. But you’ll have to wait till we land to make it work. Assuming I ever land.”

The worker, practically crying now, whispered to the chief, “Sir, can I hang up—?”

“Not yet,” the chief said wearily. “He hasn’t had his meltdown yet.”

Mafioso sighed quietly through the speakers. “You amuse me, Captain. Truly. But understand — I will get Elliot back. And when I do, I will remember this conversation.”

“Then make sure you remember the part where I told you to shove it,” 1X said, his grin turning sharper. “Because I’m not letting you drag some scared guy off my plane just because your pride got bruised.”

The Don was silent. Too silent.
Even Echo shifted, uncomfortable with how still their boss had become.

Finally, Mafioso said softly, “You think you’re protecting him. You’re only delaying the inevitable. But I admire your spirit.”

“Yeah?” 1X said, “Put that in a Valentine’s card next time.”

“Tell me your name,” Mafioso asked suddenly.

“Why? You gonna send me chocolates too?”

“So I know what to carve on your tombstone.”

The static buzzed, sharp and brief — the sound of the Don’s patience thinning.

“Alright, that’s enough,” the chief cut in, stepping forward between the Don and the console. “This conversation’s over. I’m not having blood spilled over my flight tower. Sonnellino, out.”

He motioned to the worker, who fumbled for the switch.

But before the line could close, 1X’s voice came back one last time — bold and clear.
“Hey, Don? One more thing.”

The Don paused.

1X leaned into the mic, smirking. “Listen here, whoever you are,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “You can threaten me as much as you want—send whoever—”

He smirked, leaning closer to the mic. “—they can all kiss my—”

CRASH.
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The sound exploded through the cockpit. The speaker went dead instantly, the line cut with a violent crunching noise like metal crushed in a fist.

The entire plane went silent.

John flinched, eyes wide. “Was that—?”

“Yeah,” 1x said quietly, staring at the ruined comms. “That was him crushing the damn radio.”

Chapter Text

The color was a little washed out, like an old home video — edges blurred, sunlight too soft to be real. But two figures could still be seen sitting in the middle of a wide, blooming field.

Chance and Elliot.
Teenagers again.

The sky above them was that sleepy kind of blue that fades into white the higher you look, almost like the world itself didn’t know where to stop. A warm breeze rolled through the tall grass, making the daisies and roses bend together like they were whispering secrets. The sound of cicadas buzzed in the distance, a lazy summer hum that made everything feel endless.

Elliot lay flat on the grass with both hands behind his head, his visor missing — his eyes uncovered and soft, reflecting the clouds. His messy, half-clear hair glowed faintly in the light. Chance sat beside him, cross-legged, flipping a penny up and down between his fingers, catching it every time like it was muscle memory.

The penny flashed gold whenever it caught the sunlight — a tiny star in his hand.

Chance tilted his head toward Elliot.
“You ever think about what happens when we’re growing up?”

Elliot squinted at the sky, then laughed softly, his voice carrying in the wind.
“Hmm? You mean like… the future?”

“Yeah,” Chance said, the coin spinning again before landing in his palm with a light clink. “What do you think we’ll do?”

Elliot thought for a moment, smiling faintly. “I think I’ll work at my dad’s pizza place. Keep it going, you know? Make him proud.”

Chance chuckled. “That’s so you. Always helping someone.”

Elliot turned his head to look at him. “What about you?”

Chance leaned back on his hands, the grass flattening beneath him. “Easy. I’m gonna open a casino. Be the luckiest man alive.”

Elliot laughed harder this time, shaking his head. “You? Lucky? You can’t even win rock-paper-scissors.”

Chance smirked, tossing the penny up again. “Hey, luck’s just patience in disguise.”

They both laughed, the sound light and free. For a second, everything was simple — two boys with no worries, no future chasing them, just the sky, the flowers, and the quiet.

Then, after the laughter faded, Chance turned his head slightly, watching Elliot pluck at the grass beside him. “Hey, what’s your favorite flower?” he asked. “Like, if you had to take one with you forever.”

Elliot blinked, surprised at the sudden question. He looked around — daisies, wild roses, little white clovers scattered in the grass. His eyes softened when he spotted a small dandelion, bright yellow and slightly bent. He reached out and plucked it, twirling it slowly between his fingers.

“I guess… this one,” Elliot said, smiling to himself. “A dandelion.”

Chance raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Why that one? Isn’t it just a weed?”

Elliot laughed, shaking his head. “Maybe. But it’s still pretty. People think it’s useless, but it’s always there — even when everything else dies off. You can blow it away, but it always comes back.” He blew gently on the dandelion, sending its white seeds floating through the air. They sparkled like tiny stars as the wind carried them away.

Chance didn’t say anything. He just watched, his grin fading into something softer — quiet admiration. He’d never thought about flowers like that before.

Without really thinking, he reached down and broke the stem of a yellow rose nearby. It was bright, full, golden in the light — perfect, until a tiny thorn pricked his thumb. He winced quietly but said nothing, rubbing the blood on his shirt before gently removing the thorn. Then, almost shyly, he leaned over and tucked the rose behind Elliot’s ear.

Elliot blinked, startled, then laughed, brushing his cheek.
“What is this?”

Chance grinned, trying to sound casual but failing a little. “You look good in it.”

“Do I?” Elliot asked with a smirk, but there was color rising in his face.

“Yeah,” Chance said simply. “You do.”

They both laughed again, but this time it was quieter — the kind of laugh that sits somewhere between warmth and something unspoken.

The wind slowed. The tall grass swayed gently, brushing against their legs. The sun had begun to dip lower, painting the world in gold and soft orange.

Elliot tilted his head back, watching the colors change. “You know… this place kind of smells like ash when it gets too hot.”

Chance sniffed the air. “Yeah. Guess it’s all that dry grass. If someone lit a match, the whole field would go up in seconds.”

Neither of them said anything after that. The air grew heavier, but not in a bad way — more like the moment was pressing itself into memory, demanding to be remembered.

The orange sky deepened into red, glowing behind them.

Chance stood and brushed dirt off his pants. “C’mon, we should head back before it gets dark.”

“Yeah,” Elliot said softly, sitting up. Chance started walking ahead, his hands in his pockets, while Elliot lingered behind. He glanced down and saw something — a flash of red among the green.

It was a small red poppy, growing low to the ground. It looked lonely. Fragile, but stubborn.

He knelt and picked it carefully, staring at it in his hand. He didn’t know why he liked it. It wasn’t as cheerful as a dandelion or as bright as a rose — but it was beautiful in a quiet, sad way.

Elliot caught up to Chance, holding the flower loosely. “Hey,” he said, “you think people get to keep the flowers they like in heaven?”

Chance looked over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at his lips. “If they don’t, I’ll sneak mine in.”

Elliot laughed, slipping the poppy into his pocket. “Good. Then I’ll know it’s you.”

Chance grinned, flipping his penny one last time, the golden coin flashing against the setting sun. “Then don’t forget your dandelion, kid.”

“Hey, I’m not a kid!” Elliot laughed, bumping his shoulder against Chance’s as they walked.

“You’ll always be a kid to me,” Chance said, grinning — but there was a hint of fondness in his voice, something deeper than teasing.

As they walked toward the edge of the field, the wind picked up again, carrying the scent of flowers and dust. Behind them, the dandelion seeds floated higher, glimmering in the fading light.

Then the screen flickered — the image glitching, colors bleeding — and suddenly the boys were gone.

The field, now empty, swayed quietly in the wind.

Among the grass, three flowers stood side by side:
A yellow rose, a dandelion, and a red poppy.

The rose leaned gently toward the dandelion, and between them, one single red petal had fallen, trembling in the breeze —
a tiny memory of warmth, friendship, and something Chance had never quite said out loud.

Chapter Text

The glass clicks again — sharp, hollow — a tiny sound in the drowning quiet of the bar. It pulls me out of a half-sleep I didn’t realize I’d fallen into. My head aches like someone’s ringing church bells inside it. Paris nights have that kind of echo; even silence feels too loud.

I lift the wine glass and take what’s left. It’s gone sour. The red stains the rim, thick and bitter, like regret. I swirl it around anyway, pretending it still tastes like something worth keeping.

Someone bumps into me — laughter, perfume, a careless “pardon.” Their drink spills across my shirt, cold and sticky. They mean no harm, but when I turn — just one glance through the black lenses of my sunglasses — they stop laughing. Nobody sees my eyes, but everyone knows when they’ve gone too far. The body language does the talking. I hear them whisper “désolé” ( sorry)before they back away.

I’m not angry. Not really. Just… tired.

The bartender wipes down the counter again, glass sliding against the rag in circles. He knows better than to ask questions. He just replaces my empty glass with another one, wordless. The sound of it touching the counter feels almost kind.

“Merci,”(thank) I mutter, voice gravel-rough. He nods, moving on.

I sip. It burns good.

I miss him.

Not the bartender — Elliot.

I don’t say his name out loud, but it sits in my mouth like smoke. It’s been four months since I left him back there — four months since I ran and left him standing in that godforsaken place with no clue what kind of monster was watching him from the dark.

He doesn’t even know the Sonnellino family’s still hunting. Doesn’t know they want me — and maybe him, now, because of me.

Every letter I’ve sent — how many he can’t even count all of them — nothing back. Maybe they never reached him. Maybe stuck in the mail. Maybe he’s gone.

I swirl the glass again. “Je suis désolé, mon ami…” I whisper. (I’m sorry, my friend.)

The door creaks open behind me. I don’t have to look. I already know who it is — the rhythm of the footsteps, the faint click of polished shoes.

iTrapped — or “Trapped,” as everyone else calls him — walks in looking like he stepped out of a magazine instead of the street. Velvet coat, gold watch, that damn Ice Crown glinting under the bar lights. He’s too fancy for this place, too clean. The air changes when he sits down beside me.

He doesn’t say hello. He just orders his drink. Cognac, of course. Always the same.

“You shouldn’t be here so late, Chance.” His voice is smooth — calm, low, like static turned to silk. “People notice. You don’t want people to notice, do you?”

I chuckle weakly. “They’re just drunk, like me.”

He takes a slow sip, watching me from the corner of his eye. “That’s what they said about the ones who got caught, too.”

I hate how right he sounds.

I slouch back, tipping my hat lower. “You’re a real comfort, you know that?”

“I try.” He doesn’t smile. He never really does. Just a faint twitch of his lips — practiced, polite, empty.

The quiet stretches between us. He breaks it first.

“You’ve been sending letters again.”

“Maybe.”

“To that person again?.”

I pause. “You read them?”

“I don’t have to. You write like a man trying to be forgiven.”

“Peut-être.” (Maybe.)

He hums — low, almost amused. “You forget, mon cher, the mail can be traced. If the family finds one of those letters, they’ll know where you are. And where he is.”

My stomach knots. The thought of Elliot — gentle, clueless Elliot — in the crosshairs because of me makes my throat close.

“I just… wanted him to know I’m alive,” I whisper.

Trapped sets his glass down carefully, eyes still cold. “Alive isn’t always the kindest thing to be.”

The ice in Trapped’s glass clinks as he stirs it with his finger — slow, rhythmic, deliberate. The sound feels louder than the soft jazz leaking from the corner speaker.

He says nothing for a long time. That’s how he works — silence first, words after. He lets the air thicken until I start talking just to fill it.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I mutter.

“Do you?” His tone doesn’t rise or fall — just glides, smooth and unbothered.

“Yeah. You’re thinking I’m stupid.”

He lifts his gaze then, faint amusement flickering like a candle behind his eyes. “Non. Pas stupide.” (No. Not stupid.) He swirls his drink once more. “Just… sentimental.”

“Same difference,” I say.

He leans his elbow on the counter. “You always think everything’s about chance, don’t you? Flip a coin, win or lose, live or die. But the world isn’t a casino, mon ami. It doesn’t pay back what you risk.”

“That’s funny coming from someone wearing a crown.”

That earns me a glance — sharp, cold, beautiful. His expression doesn’t change, but something tightens under the surface, like a string pulled too far.

“The crown,” he says softly, “isn’t a reward. It’s a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“That even kings get buried.”

The words sink like lead. I take another drink to drown them, but it doesn’t work. My chest feels hollow — not from fear, but guilt. Heavy, choking guilt.

I shouldn’t have left Elliot there. He didn’t even know who the Sonnellinos were, or what I’d done. He just trusted me when I said I’d be back. I still remember the look on his face when I left to handle it alone.

Handle it. God, what a joke.

Now he’s probably sweeping up the old house, wondering why the letters stopped smelling like smoke.

“I wrote him again last week,” I whisper, half to myself. “Told him Paris was fine, and living well as he doesn’t need to worry about finding him.”

Trapped exhales through his nose. “You’re lying to him.”

“I know.”

He turns slightly toward me. The light hits his face in slanted gold — too perfect for a man without warmth. “Then why do you look like the one who’s been lied to?”

I stare at the glass. The red reflection in it looks like blood. “Because I deserve worse.”

Trapped doesn’t answer. He finishes his drink, motion slow and elegant. When he sets the glass down, he finally looks at me — really looks.

“Chance,” he says quietly, “you can’t save him.”

My head lifts. “What?”

“Even if you go back. Even if you tell him everything. The moment he sees you, the moment the family catches your scent again, he’s already dead. That’s how they work. You know this.”

The words cut deeper than I expect.

He’s right — of course he’s right. Don Sonnellino doesn’t forgive. He doesn’t forget.

But something in me refuses to listen. “He didn’t ask for this,” I say, voice cracking. “He didn’t ask to get dragged into my mess.”

Trapped’s fingers trace the rim of his glass. “Most people don’t.”

Then he stands, fixing his cuffs. The movement is sharp, practiced. He looks like a man made of control.

“Go home,” he says flatly. “Sleep. You’re no use to anyone like this.”

I shake my head. “You don’t get it, Trapped. I can’t sleep knowing—”

He cuts me off with a soft sigh. “Tu parles trop.” (You talk too much.)

He slips a few euros onto the counter, though I know I’ll end up paying the rest. He always leaves early — like a ghost pretending to be polite.

Before he walks away, I say it again, almost begging: “If they find him, it’s on me.”

Trapped stops at the doorway. He doesn’t look back. “If they find him,” he says, voice low and final, “it’s already on you.”

The door shuts behind him.

And just like that, I’m alone again.

The bar feels bigger now — colder. The music scratches like a dying record. I drink until the bottle’s half-empty, until the guilt turns to numbness.

“Je t’en prie, Elliot…” I whisper. (Please, Elliot…) “Ne me déteste pas.” (Don’t hate me.)

But even the echo doesn’t answer.

Outside, Paris hums — cars, rain, the sound of lives still going on without me. I toss a coin onto the counter and watch it spin. Heads: I drink more. Tails: I leave.

It lands on its edge.

Of course it does.
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Elliot’s eyes opened to the soft hum of the airplane cabin. His breath hitched. The world around him was dark except for the faint blue light running along the aisle ceiling — that dim, dreamy glow that made everything seem softer than it really was. He blinked rapidly, trying to get his bearings. For a second, the dream still lingered — the field, Chance’s laughter, the smell of flowers — but it dissolved like smoke the moment he realized where he was.

He was on the plane. Still flying.

Elliot sat up slowly, a hand pressed against his chest. His heart was pounding, his shirt damp from sweat. He rubbed his face, trying to calm himself down. The cabin was quiet now; most passengers were asleep or drowsy, their faces half-lit by the overhead lamps. A baby somewhere in the back cooed softly. The soft murmur of engines filled the background, steady, reassuring.

He glanced out the window. A blanket of clouds stretched below like crushed velvet. Above them, faint stars blinked lazily in the dark.

He sighed and shifted in his seat, grimacing as his back gave a dull ache. He hadn’t realized how stiff he was until now. Reaching for the recline button, he tried to adjust, mumbling under his breath, “I’m never sleeping like that again…”

He rubbed the back of his neck and sat up straight, pulling the hood tighter over his head. His fingers patting the pockets : His phone, ID card, and paperwork were all still there neatly tucked in the pocket, — a strange little habit he’d kept since long ago.

Then, the intercom clicked softly.

John Doe’s gentle, slightly shaky voice came through:
“Good… good evening, everyone. We’ll be arriving in Paris shortly. Please fasten your seat belts and make sure your belongings are secured. Thank you for flying with us.”

Even through the announcement, there was something warm in John’s tone. Nervous, yes — but kind. You could tell he cared about every single passenger. Elliot smiled faintly at the sound of it, finding it oddly comforting.

From the front of the cabin, Jane Doe’s familiar steps echoed softly as she moved through the aisle. Her ponytail swayed with each step as she checked on the passengers one by one. She smiled, polite and practiced, but her eyes softened every time she passed a child or an elderly person. When she reached Elliot’s row, she paused, her expression easing into something more genuine.

“Morning, Mr. Builder,” she said quietly.

Elliot looked up, blinking. “Oh… morning already?”

She smiled and nodded. “Almost. We’re just above France now. You slept for a while — must’ve been a good dream.”

Elliot chuckled softly, rubbing his eyes. “Maybe. Felt real, though.”

“Well, that’s the best kind,” she replied, straightening a bit. “Seatbelt, please.”

He nodded and buckled up as she continued down the aisle, her soft perfume lingering briefly.

Across the intercom again, 1x’s voice joined in — deep, smooth, and tired but confident.
“Cabin secured, captain. All systems stable. Guess we didn’t crash this time.”

The sound of John’s nervous laugh filtered faintly through the mic, followed by static. “Thanks, 1x.”

Elliot couldn’t help but smile again. Those two were such opposites — John, shy and polite; 1x, all gruff humor and quiet power. Yet, somehow, they worked together perfectly.

The rest of the flight went on quietly. Jane distributed warm towels and tiny cups of water. The cabin lights dimmed into a soft orange glow as they descended through the clouds. A few passengers clapped softly when the first streaks of dawn light spilled through the windows, painting everything in pastel gold.

And then, at last, the wheels touched the runway with a gentle bump.

“Welcome to Paris,” John’s voice came through again, a little more confident this time. “Local time is six forty-five in the morning. Temperature’s mild, skies clear. Thank you for flying with us — it was an honor having you aboard.”

The passengers broke into soft applause, laughter echoing as phones came out and chatter filled the cabin. The usual hum of excitement before everyone scrambled for luggage began.

Elliot, however, stayed seated. He wasn’t in a rush. He pulled his hood tighter, waiting until the crowd began to move. His fingers drummed quietly against his knees.

From the front, he could see John and 1x helping Jane gather her things — or rather, trying to. Jane had somehow managed to carry half her wardrobe in three oversized suitcases, and now both pilots were juggling them down the narrow aisle.

“Jane, I swear, you packed a small house in here,” 1x muttered, his glowing red eye dimly flickering with irritation.

“Don’t be dramatic,” she said with a teasing grin. “It’s just clothes.”

John, already sweating, tried to adjust one of the bags over his shoulder. “It’s… okay… we can manage…”

Elliot chuckled under his breath as he stood up, watching the small chaos unfold. As the three finally reached the exit, Jane noticed him and smiled brightly.

“Mr. Builder! You made it safely.”

Elliot nodded politely. “Yeah. Thanks to you all.”

Then he hesitated, his voice softening. “And… about before.”

1x stopped mid-step, glancing his way. His expression was unreadable.

Elliot continued, “The… incident with the intercom. The voice. I know it was a big deal. I wanted to say thank you.”

1x waved a hand dismissively, his voice gruff. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We were just doing our job.”

Elliot smiled knowingly. “Jane told me.”

That made 1x’s head snap toward Jane, his red eye flashing faintly. “You what?”

Jane shrugged, unbothered. “Oh, come on. You’re not exactly subtle, hero. He deserved to know.”

John hid a small smile, mumbling, “It was kind of obvious, though…”

1x groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You three are going to give me gray hair. Oh wait — I already have them.”

Elliot chuckled, lowering his hood for the first time. His face, finally visible in the soft morning light, made 1x pause. There was something disarming about him — tired eyes, a faint scar near his jaw, and yet a warmth that seemed to glow right through.

“You’re not surprised?” Jane asked 1x.

He shook his head, crossing his arms. “Nah. The second I heard that name, I knew. Shedletsky never shuts up about you.”

Elliot blinked, surprised. “The protector Admin?”

“Yeah,” 1x said flatly, though there was a small grin forming. “He calls you the ‘Pizza Boy with a Big Heart.’ Says you keep the legacy food alive. Always talking about how if I were smart, I’d marry someone like you.”

Jane gasped, stifling a laugh. John’s eyes widened as he tried to hold back a grin.

Elliot turned bright red. “He said that?”

1x groaned. “He won’t stop saying it! Every meeting. Every coffee break. ‘Oh, 1x, you should meet my friend kid. He’s got a good heart. Maybe he’ll fix yours.’”

Jane snorted so hard she nearly dropped a bag. “Well, seeing you two standing next to each other now… he might’ve been onto something.”

“Don’t start,” 1x warned, pointing a finger at her.

John, the quiet peacekeeper, coughed softly. “I think it’s sweet.”

“Not helping, John.”

Elliot rubbed the back of his neck, still blushing. “Well, uh… tell him I said hi, I guess. And that I’m not marrying anyone anytime soon.”

Jane giggled. “Too bad. Paris is the city of love.”

“Jane,” 1x gritted, “I will ground you.”

She laughed even harder as John tried to help with her bags, clearly used to this kind of banter. Elliot could only watch, smiling softly at the scene — the warmth between them, the way even the serious pilot couldn’t completely hide his fondness for his friends.

Then, the tone shifted slightly. 1x looked at Elliot, his red eye dimming a little. “You shouldn’t be here alone,” he said quietly. “Whatever’s going on with that Mafia guy… it’s not over. You know that, right?”

Elliot hesitated. “Yeah. I know.”

1x studied him for a moment longer but didn’t press. He just sighed. “You’ve got guts, kid. I’ll give you that. But keep your head down. Paris isn’t exactly safe ground when people are looking for you.”

Elliot smiled faintly. “I’ll manage. I always do.”

There was silence for a beat — that mutual understanding between people who had both seen too much and still found ways to keep going.

Then, in typical Elliot fashion, he reached into his pocket and pulled out three small coupons. “Here,” he said with a grin. “Discount pizza for the best crew I’ve ever flown with. On the house.”

John blinked, looking at the paper slips like they were gold. “Oh — no, we couldn’t—”

“Please,” Elliot said earnestly. “You’ve done more than enough for me. Let me at least feed you.”

Jane gasped dramatically. “Oh, I’ll take it. My husband lives for pizza.”

John chuckled softly, embarrassed. “Well, she’s not wrong.”

1x groaned, trying to sound uninterested — but when he saw Elliot’s hopeful smile, he gave up and took his coupon too. “Fine. But if this turns out to be bad pizza, I’m suing.”

“It’s Builder Brothers,” Elliot said proudly. “You’ll love it.”

1x smirked. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll see.”

Elliot gave them a final nod, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I should check in now. Thanks again — really. I’ll see you around soon.”

As he turned and jogged off toward the terminal, his hoodie bouncing lightly with his steps, Jane watched him go with a soft smile.

She turned to 1x, eyes twinkling. “You know, too bad. You two actually had chemistry. Maybe you should’ve married him.”

“Jane,” 1x said warningly.

John just nodded, still smiling. “It did seem like you two got along.”

1x groaned, running a hand down his face. “I hate both of you.”

Jane giggled, patting his shoulder. “That’s what love sounds like.”

As the morning sun spilled through the airport windows, painting the floor gold, 1x glared at her — but the corner of his mouth twitched, just slightly.

Outside, in the distance, Elliot vanished into the crowd — hoodie up again, moving quietly through the bustling Paris terminal.

Chapter Text

lovely fanart from
@sia-on-the-side in tumblr

if i missing anyone fanart can you guy give me your user platform?