𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

♡ Angel Autopsy (Yandere! Il Dottore x Reader x Yandere! Various! Multiverse).

♡ Word Count. 15,079 words

---

The door seals with a soft hydraulic sigh that sounds too final for a room this small.

You are still yawning when Mortefi releases your wrist. Not gently. Not roughly either. Just the exact pressure required to prevent escape, the same way one handles volatile glassware: aware it could shatter, uninterested in cushioning the outcome. You stumble a step forward, chair legs scraping as Alhaitham adjusts the room’s configuration with a flick of his hand. The walls respond immediately. Light panels dim. Sound insulation thickens. A privacy lattice hums to life beneath the floor.

You flop into the chair anyway.

“This is kidnapping,” you mutter, arms crossing, voice raw with sleep deprivation and gamer salt. “I was in the middle of a ranked match.”

Mortefi does not dignify this with a response. He is already standing, posture straight, hands folded behind his back, eyes forward. You know that look. The one that says this has surpassed irritation and entered the realm of obligation. When Mortefi operates in obligation mode, personal discomfort becomes irrelevant. Yours especially.

Alhaitham does not sit. He never does during briefings. He prefers to stand slightly to the side, close enough to the console to interact with it, far enough from others to avoid accidental intimacy. Papers slide across the table as if moved by an unseen hand—no, by an unseen algorithm, the Akademiya’s newest archival interface translating physical documents into projected data layers.

The air changes.

Not dramatically. No thunder, no cinematic cue. Just a subtle tightening, like the room itself has begun holding its breath.

Alhaitham speaks without preamble.

“The New Federation has formally requested assistance.”

Mortefi’s jaw tightens. You do not notice.

You are thinking about how bright the screens are and whether this counts as cruel and unusual punishment at two in the morning.

“They have exhausted internal mitigation protocols,” Alhaitham continues. “They have restricted the request to a sealed diplomatic channel. No public disclosure. No cultural framing. No theatrics.”

A constellation of monitors ignites in front of you. Charts. Maps. Statistical projections layered over satellite imagery. Time-series data crawling in fine print along the edges. You glance at them once, then immediately stop caring.

Mortefi cares enough for all three of you.

He recognizes the topographical markers instantly. Coastal outlines. Urban density clusters. Transport arteries that used to pulse with economic life. Now stuttering. Failing. Redaction markers bloom like scars where data has been deliberately obscured.

Alhaitham gestures. A heatmap expands across the central display.

“This,” he says, “is not a localized phenomenon.”

Mortefi exhales through his nose. “They never are.”

The map zooms. Regions discolor. Once-bright industrial hubs now dulled, sickly, as if the land itself is bruising from the inside out. Infrastructure decay metrics spike at irregular intervals. Not uniform. Not predictable. Patterns exist, but they refuse simple categorization.

You tilt your head, half-listening, eyes unfocused.

The New Federation.

Your brain supplies images completely unrelated to what is on the screen. Glittering expos. Planes slicing through clean skies. Obsessive technologists arguing over marginal efficiency gains like priests debating scripture. The annual M World Cup banners already plastered across international feeds, countdown timers, promotional leaks. You wonder if you’ll be able to sneak away to watch the finals if this trip overlaps.

Mortefi clears his throat.

“The request is… unprecedented,” he says carefully. “For them.”

Alhaitham nods. “They delayed as long as possible.”

That, finally, earns your attention—barely. You blink, eyes narrowing.

“Wait,” you mumble. “They asked for help?”

Mortefi looks at you.

Just looks.

The kind of look that implies a disappointing realization has just crystallized, but he would endure it because the alternative is worse.

“Yes,” he says. “They did.”

Alhaitham resumes, tone even, precise. “The New Federation does not ask for help unless every internal projection indicates collapse. Not decline. Not stagnation. Collapse.”

Another gesture. More data. Economic contraction curves bend sharply downward. Population displacement estimates flicker, then stabilize at numbers that are… large. Uncomfortably large. Supply chain failures cascade outward like dominoes. Medical infrastructure strain indices cross red thresholds and do not come back down.

“They are rationing air filtration in certain districts,” Alhaitham adds. “Not publicly.”

Mortefi’s fingers curl slightly.

You stare at the screen, interest flickering in and out like a dying lightbulb.

“That’s… bad,” you say, noncommittal.

Mortefi’s patience thins.

Alhaitham continues anyway. “The phenomenon—whatever its root cause—does not respond to technological escalation. In some cases, intervention accelerates degradation.”

That lands.

Mortefi straightens almost imperceptibly. His voice, when he speaks, is lower. “They tried to out-engineer it.”

“Yes.”

“Of course they did.”

The New Federation’s greatest sin has always been faith. Not in gods, but in progress. In the idea that any problem, given enough computation, enough iteration, enough sacrifice, can be solved.

Mortefi knows this intimately. He was raised in it. Educated by it. Scarred by it.

“They are bleeding resources,” Alhaitham says. “Financial, human, cultural. The aristocracy is fracturing. The lower strata were never protected to begin with.”

A new layer appears: social stability metrics. Protest density. Migration vectors. The Lawless Zone flares into view, annotated with risk probabilities and mercenary recruitment surges.

Mortefi’s mouth thins.

“They’ve started eating their own margins,” he murmurs. “That means they’re desperate.”

You have stopped listening again.

Your mind drifts. Lawless Zone. Mercenaries. Ghost Hounds. You wonder if any of them are good at mobile games. Probably not. Bad ping. You imagine a pop-up booth during the World Cup selling limited-edition merch themed after the apocalypse. Capitalism always adapts.

“—and that is why they contacted the Akademiya,” Alhaitham finishes.

Silence settles.

The data keeps moving. Slowly. Like a patient bleeding out on a perfectly calibrated monitor.

You blink.

Mortefi snaps his fingers directly in front of your face.

Sharp. Precise. Annoyed.

You flinch, startled, then laugh awkwardly. “Ah—sorry. Zoned out.”

He does not smile.

Alhaitham watches you with mild curiosity, as one might observe an anomaly that refuses to behave under observation.

“So,” you say, scratching the back of your neck, trying to sound engaged. “That explains why you’ve been so busy. I figured festival logistics didn’t justify this level of secrecy.”

Alhaitham inclines his head. “Correct.”

Mortefi turns back to the screens. He is already cataloging implications. Political fallout. Ethical compromises. The cost of intervention—not in mora, but in precedent. The New Federation asking for help is not just a request.

It is an admission that their ideology has reached its limits.

“They’ve held out longer than expected,” Mortefi says quietly. “That alone is… concerning.”

Alhaitham agrees. “Which suggests the situation is worse than what they are showing us.”

Your gaze drifts back to the map. To the discoloration. To the places where data simply stops.

“Are we… going there?” you ask, tone light, as if discussing a vacation.

“Yes,” Mortefi says.

“Oh.”

You lean back. Stretch. Yawn again.

“Huh. Hope the timing doesn’t overlap with the World Cup grand finals.”

Mortefi closes his eyes for exactly one second.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

And, Mortefi notices the exact moment your attention leaves the room.

It is not dramatic. There is no slump, no obvious yawn. Just a minute shift in your eyes, the way your pupils lose focus and start tracking something that does not exist on any of the twelve monitors suspended before you. He has seen it countless times in laboratories, lecture halls, disaster briefings. The same dissociation response. The same retreat inward.

Except yours is worse.

Because you are not overwhelmed.

You are bored.

Mortefi exhales slowly through his nose, fingers steepled beneath his chin as Alhaitham continues speaking. He does not interrupt yet. He catalogues. He always does.

Your leg bounces once, twice, then stills. Your hand moves—subtle, unconscious—thumb brushing the side of your index finger in a rhythm Mortefi recognizes with a mix of irritation and familiarity. The exact cadence you keep when thinking about games. About timing windows. About optimal rotations and cooldowns.

The M World Cup has been on your mind for weeks now. You have mentioned it offhandedly in corridors, over meals, once—disgracefully—during a seminar on catastrophic energy feedback loops.

Typical.

“—the environmental decay does not follow conventional entropy models,” Alhaitham is saying. “It is selective. Almost discerning.”

Mortefi nods. “As if constrained by parameters rather than laws.”

“Yes.”

Mortefi shifts forward slightly, eyes never leaving the projected data. He feels the weight of the room settle more heavily on his shoulders. If this briefing is to remain functional, he will have to carry it.

Again.

“What is the current failure gradient?” Mortefi asks. “In terms of civilian survivability, not infrastructure.”

Alhaitham flicks his wrist. The map changes. Population clusters overlay the affected regions. Mortefi’s gaze sharpens immediately.

“They’re losing habitable zones faster than projected,” Alhaitham replies. “Especially in districts with aggressive technological saturation.”

Mortefi’s jaw tightens. “Correlation, or causation?”

“That is the question.”

You hum softly.

Not in agreement. Just… humming.

Mortefi does not look at you. He does not need to.

“How long have these zones been unsustainable?” he asks.

“In some areas, years,” Alhaitham says. “In others, deterioration has accelerated sharply in the last eighteen months.”

Mortefi’s mind races ahead.

Eighteen months is not random. It rarely is.

He cross-references internally—policy changes, resource reallocations, experimental escalations. The New Federation never abandons an approach. They double down until the ground breaks beneath them.

“What mitigation strategies failed first?” he presses.

“Containment,” Alhaitham replies. “Isolation zones. Artificial barriers. Atmospheric regulation. All collapsed faster than expected.”

Mortefi closes his eyes briefly. He imagines it vividly: sealed districts, sterilized corridors, residents reassured by clean interfaces and precise metrics while something unseen eats through the seams. He has lived among these people. He knows their arrogance. Their certainty.

“They assumed superior control,” Mortefi says quietly. “And mistook precision for understanding.”

Alhaitham’s lips press into a thin line. Agreement.

You shift in your chair.

Mortefi hears the faint click of teeth as your jaw relaxes.

Sleep is creeping in. Or something like it. That half-awake state where your body remains present but your mind has already wandered off into glowing screens and cheering crowds. The World Cup finals. The roar of spectators. The comfort of something meaningless and safe.

He does not blame you.

That might be worse.

“What is the estimated threshold for total systemic failure?” Mortefi asks.

Alhaitham hesitates for half a second.

That is all it takes.

“Within the decade,” he says. “Possibly sooner.”

Mortefi’s fingers curl.

“A miracle they lasted this long,” he murmurs.

“Yes.”

The word hangs between them, heavy.

You make a small sound.

Not a snore.

Just a soft exhale, head tilting slightly to the side.

Mortefi glances at you at last.

Your eyes are half-lidded. Your expression is peaceful. Unbothered.

As if the apocalypse were a dull lecture you could always catch up on later.

He feels something sharp in his chest.

Annoyance, yes. But also something else. A faint, unwelcome ache.

He turns back to Alhaitham.

“What is their actual request?” Mortefi asks. “Not the diplomatic phrasing. The intent.”

Alhaitham studies him. “They want external analysis. Conceptual reframing. Something they cannot produce internally.”

Mortefi almost laughs. Almost.

“They want absolution,” he says. “Or confirmation that they are not at fault.”

“Perhaps.”

“They will not like the answer.”

“No.”

Silence stretches again, broken only by the low hum of machinery.

Mortefi continues anyway.

“What happens if we refuse?”

Alhaitham does not answer immediately. When he does, his voice is quieter. “Then they will continue as they are. And fail.”

Mortefi nods once. That was expected.

“And if we accept?”

“Then we become complicit,” Alhaitham says. “In whatever comes next.”

Mortefi’s gaze flickers to you again.

You have fully drifted now, chin resting lightly against your hand, eyes unfocused but open.

You look like a child pretending to listen. Or a god pretending to sleep.

He clenches his jaw.

“Do they understand the scale of what they are asking?” Mortefi asks.

“They understand enough to be afraid,” Alhaitham replies. “Which is new.”

Mortefi absorbs that.

Fear changes people. Sometimes for the better. Often not.

He straightens. “We need raw data access. Unfiltered. No curated reports.”

“I’ve already stipulated that,” Alhaitham says. “They agreed.”

Mortefi raises an eyebrow. “That desperate?”

“Yes.”

Another miracle.

Your head dips.

For a terrifying second, Mortefi thinks you’ve actually fallen asleep. He resists the urge to snap his fingers again. Not because it wouldn’t work. Because he didn’t want to see your startled, unapologetic smile. He didn’t want to hear you joke your way out of it.

He wants—briefly, irrationally—you to care.

“What about cultural impact?” Mortefi asks instead. “Civil unrest. Ideological collapse.”

Alhaitham sighs. “Already in progress. Their faith in progress has nowhere to go.”

Mortefi nods slowly. He thinks of the Lawless Zone. Of mercenaries recruited from desperation. Of art created from suffocation and sold as avant-garde commentary. Of lunar soil preserved like a relic while the ground beneath their cities rots.

A technology cult confronted with a problem that does not care about tools.

“This is not a technological failure,” Mortefi says. “It’s a philosophical one.”

Alhaitham looks at him sharply. “Explain.”

“They built without asking why,” Mortefi says. “Now something is unbuilding them without asking how.”

Alhaitham considers this. Then, quietly, “That aligns with my hypothesis.”

You stir.

“Mm?” you murmur, eyes fluttering. “Did… did they say when the finals start?”

Mortefi closes his eyes.

Just for a second.

Then he opens them, composure restored like armor sliding back into place.

He does not scold you. He does not snap. He does not shame.

He simply turns back to the screens and keeps going.

Because someone has to.

And because, deep down, he knows that when the moment comes—when theory fails and planning collapses and something ancient and unexplainable stands before you—

You will wake up.

You always do.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Mortefi escorts you to the dorm corridor himself.

Not because you require supervision—though you do—but because leaving you unattended right now would invite chaos in its most banal form. You drag your feet deliberately, shoulders slumped, yawning exaggeratedly as if performing exhaustion rather than experiencing it. The moment the sealed meeting room door disengages behind you, your entire posture changes.

Energy returns like a switch flipped.

“Freedom,” you mumble, stretching your arms overhead. “Mhm, I’m starving. And I left my match mid-queue. They’re going to flame me so hard.”

Mortefi pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You were instructed to sleep,” he says.

“Yes,” you agree cheerfully. “Sleep on my console.”

He stops walking.

You don’t notice immediately. You’re already scrolling through your mental to-do list—log in, reconnect, maybe watch a VOD of the qualifiers if the ping is bad tonight, maybe—

“Dorm,” Mortefi says sharply.

You blink, look around, realize you’ve overshot the turn.

“Oh. Right.” You laugh sheepishly and backtrack. “See? Totally exhausted. Brain’s gone.”

He does not respond. He waits while you fumble with the door mechanism, humming under your breath, already halfway gone again. When the door slides open, warm light spilling out, you glance back at him.

“Thanks, boss,” you say lightly. “I’ll be good. Promise.”

He knows better than to argue.

You disappear inside, door closing with a soft hiss.

Immediately—audibly—you cheer. A chair scrapes.

The unmistakable boot sequence of a console begins.

Mortefi exhales.

Long. Slow. Controlled.

He stands there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the sealed door as if it might open again and reveal something other than what he expects: you curled up and asleep, compliant for once, untouched by the weight of the world.

It does not.

He turns and walks back.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

The meeting room feels colder without you. Quieter, but not calmer.

Alhaitham is still there, standing by the console, reviewing data streams with his usual unhurried precision. He looks up as Mortefi enters.

“She’s gone?” Alhaitham asks.

“Yes.”

“And sleeping?”

Mortefi pauses. “Define sleeping.”

Alhaitham sighs.

They stand in silence for a few seconds, the low hum of advanced Akademiya machinery filling the gap. Outside, night presses against the windows like a held breath.

Alhaitham breaks it first.

“You intend to bring her,” he says.

It is not a question.

Mortefi does not look at him. “Yes.”

Alhaitham’s fingers still over the console. “Why.”

There it is. Not accusation. Not doubt. Concern, stripped of ornamentation.

“She is not physically suited for this,” Alhaitham continues. “Her stamina is poor. Her attention span is… unreliable. Academically, she contributes little in structured environments. She disengages under pressure.”

Mortefi listens.

He lets Alhaitham finish.

“She gets tired easily,” Alhaitham adds, quieter, colder. “When she’s bored, she deteriorates faster.”

Mortefi finally turns.

“And yet,” he says evenly, “she is still the most qualified person to accompany me.”

Alhaitham’s brow furrows. “Explain.”

Mortefi folds his hands behind his back, posture immaculate. He has rehearsed this argument internally already.

Many times.

“She is from the New Federation,” he begins. “Not as a visitor. Not as an academic exchange. She lived there. Absorbed it. The unspoken rules. The cultural contradictions. The specific flavor of arrogance and fear that defines their institutions.”

“That does not negate her limitations,” Alhaitham says.

“No,” Mortefi agrees. “But it contextualizes them.”

He gestures to the map still hovering faintly in the air.

“The New Federation does not collapse the way other nations do. It calcifies. It hides decay behind progress metrics. You can analyze their data endlessly and still miss the truth because it is embedded in what they refuse to measure.”

Alhaitham watches him closely.

“She notices what they ignore,” Mortefi continues. “Even when she pretends not to care. Especially then.”

Alhaitham’s lips press together. He considers objecting again, then stops. His gaze drifts, uncharacteristically, to the sealed door you left through.

“She is reckless,” he says instead.

“Yes.”

“She does not take this seriously.”

Mortefi’s expression hardens. “She takes nothing seriously until it matters.”

Silence.

Outside, something distant rumbles. Not thunder. Too deep. Too sustained.

Alhaitham speaks again, voice lower. “If something happens to her—”

“It won’t,” Mortefi says immediately.

Alhaitham looks at him sharply. “You cannot guarantee that.”

“No,” Mortefi says. “But I can mitigate it better than anyone else present.”

Alhaitham exhales, tension bleeding from his shoulders in a way Mortefi rarely sees. He rubs his temple.

“This crisis is not localized,” Alhaitham says. “The With—” He stops himself. Corrects course. “This phenomenon is expanding. Whatever it is, it will not be solved with temporary countermeasures.”

“I know,” Mortefi replies.

“We need a solution,” Alhaitham continues. “Not an antidote. Not a delay.”

Mortefi nods. “I am aware.”

“And you believe she is necessary for that.”

“Yes.”

“Why,” Alhaitham asks again, more frigid this time.

Mortefi hesitates.

Just a fraction of a second.

“Because she understands loss without dramatizing it,” he says. “Because she has seen the New Federation at its most sincere—and its most monstrous—and remained… unchanged.”

Alhaitham absorbs that.

He does not voice the thought that lingers behind his eyes: that he is worried. Not for the mission. For you.

He does not say your name.

“Very well,” Alhaitham says at last. “I trust your judgment.”

Mortefi inclines his head. “Thank you.”

“The preparations will be extensive,” Alhaitham adds. “You’ll need clearance, supplies, data access. I will provide what I can.”

“We depart the day after tomorrow,” Mortefi says. “That should suffice.”

Alhaitham nods once. “I will authorize it.”

They stand there, two minds aligned by necessity rather than comfort, surrounded by projections of a world quietly unraveling.

Mortefi gathers the documents, internalizing routes, contingencies, failure points. He knows this mission will not be clean. He knows it will demand sacrifices no one has yet named.

He also knows you will complain the entire way.

He bows slightly. “I will keep you informed.”

Alhaitham returns the gesture. “Do.”

Mortefi leaves the room.

The corridor is empty now. Quiet. Too quiet.

As Mortefi walks, his thoughts drift—not to the data, not to the impending collapse—but to you, sprawled across your bed, controller in hand, eyes lit by artificial victory, blissfully detached from the abyss yawning beneath the world.

He tells himself this is precisely why you must go.

And somewhere, far beyond the reach of screens and statistics, something ancient stirs, patient, indifferent—waiting for all of them to arrive.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You were eleven and already tired of everything.

Not in the dramatic way adults liked to romanticize later—no poetic sadness, no yearning for connection. Just a flat, grinding irritation with the world and its noise. People talked too much. Laughed too loud. Expected reactions you didn’t feel like performing. You learned early that silence unsettled them more than cruelty ever could.

So you chose silence.

Black hoodie. Black boots. Black bag that always looked heavier than it needed to be. You sat at the back of the classroom, arms crossed, gaze sharp and unimpressed. Teachers called you “quiet but promising.” Classmates called you “scary.”

You didn’t correct either of them. Both were useful.

You didn’t give a shit about fitting in. You didn’t give a shit about being liked. You didn’t even give a shit about being understood. You did your work, got your A+, went home, locked your door, and escaped into consoles—clean, structured worlds where objectives made sense and enemies didn’t lie about wanting to kill you.

That was enough.

At the time, everyone around you was losing their minds over this new mobile game. MLBB. You heard it everywhere. Hallways. Lunch tables. Boys yelling hero names like they were summoning gods. Girls giggling over skins and ranks.

The noise alone was enough to make you hate it.

Mobile game, you thought. Cheap. Casual. For people who didn’t know how to commit.

You were a console player. You had standards.

Before MLBB, there was League of Legends—except it wasn’t really yours. You could only play it at computer cafés, cramped and loud, surrounded by boys who smelled like energy drinks and bad decisions. You were always the youngest. Always the only girl. Always underestimated.

You liked that part.

You learned quickly. Learned faster than they expected.

But time was a luxury you didn’t have.

Good grades were mandatory, not negotiable. You couldn’t always sneak out. Couldn’t always justify staying late just to play. So League stayed something half-finished, a hunger never fully fed.

When MLBB first released, you ignored it out of spite.

Everyone else was obsessed. You weren’t.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Months passed.

Christmas vacation arrived.

You were bored.

Not the mild kind of boredom that leads to naps or daydreams. The dangerous kind. The kind that makes you stare at the ceiling and feel your brain start to rot. You’d burned through your console backlog. Nothing felt new. Nothing felt sharp.

One night, phone in hand, you hovered over the app store.

Fine, you thought. Let’s see what all the idiots are screaming about.

You downloaded it out of pure contempt.

The tutorial annoyed you. The music was loud. The interface felt… simpler than you were used to. You almost uninstalled it immediately. Almost.

Then you reached hero selection.

Your eyes stopped on him.

Alucard.

Big sword. Lifesteal. Aggressive kit. Self-sufficient.

A hero that didn’t beg for help.

Of course.

You picked him without hesitation.

The first match was chaos. You didn’t know the map. Didn’t know rotations. Didn’t know half the mechanics. You died. A lot. Teammates spammed chat in broken English. You muted them all with clinical efficiency.

Fine, you thought. Let’s actually learn this.

You gravitated to the jungle instinctively.

It felt familiar—controlling resources, watching timers, moving unseen. You liked not being stuck in a lane. You liked choosing when and where to strike. You liked being the one who decided when things tipped from stable to catastrophic.

The moment you stole your first objective, heart pounding, fingers trembling, something clicked.

Oh.

This is fun.

Not because it was easy.

Because it wasn’t.

You lost. Over and over. You misjudged fights. You overextended. You trusted teammates who couldn’t be trusted. You got flamed. You got reported. You got blamed for things that weren’t your fault and blamed yourself for things that were.

You kept playing.

Because every match was different.

Different lineups. Different playstyles. Different rhythms. You couldn’t autopilot. You couldn’t rely on a single solution.

You had to adapt or die.

Literally.

Dynamic, you thought one night, eyes glued to the screen, pulse racing.

That was the word.

This game moved. It changed. It refused to be solved permanently.

There was always a counter, always a twist, always some idiot doing something unexpected that forced you to recalibrate on the fly.

For someone who found most of life painfully static, it was intoxicating.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

When Lancelot was released, it felt personal.

Fast. Precise.

Punishing if you made mistakes.

Beautiful if you didn’t.

You picked him up and got destroyed.

Good.

You practiced. And practiced. And practiced. You drilled combos in practice mode until your fingers hurt. You watched replays. You memorized damage thresholds. You learned when to go in and—more importantly—when not to.

You failed spectacularly. You tilted. You rage-quit exactly once, then never again out of sheer stubborn pride.

Solo queue hell became your second home.

You climbed anyway.

Rank by rank. Loss by loss. Victory by narrow, desperate victory. You learned patience. Timing. Reading people. Predicting behavior. Not because you wanted to be better than them—but because you hated feeling stupid.

By the end of that year, you hit Legend.

You stared at the screen in silence.

No screaming. No celebration. Just a quiet, satisfied exhale.

Fun, you thought.

That was it. That was the feeling.

Not joy. Not happiness.

Fun.

A rare, sharp thing that cut through the numbness and made you feel awake.

MLBB became special without you noticing.

A constant in a life where everything else felt either suffocating or pointless.

You didn’t talk about it much.

You didn’t gush. You just played. Quietly. Religiously.

At school, you were still the mean, silent goth girl. At home, you were still emotionally unavailable. But in the jungle, you were decisive. In control. Alive.

You didn’t know it then, but you were already doing what you always would: finding meaning not in people, but in systems that demanded adaptation. Worlds that punished stagnation. Games that moved like living things.

Years later, when the world itself began to rot and everyone else panicked, you would think back to those early matches.

To the chaos.
To the pressure.
To the joy of adjusting on the fly.

And you would smile, just a little.

Because you’d been training for dynamic worlds all along.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

When you were twelve, you already knew the difference between people who “winged it” and people who survived.

Most kids learned by smashing their faces into the wall repeatedly until something worked. Trial by fire. Vibes-based improvement. Pure instinct and blind optimism.

You didn’t trust that.

You trusted preparation.

That was the thing nobody ever noticed about you.

You acted careless, uncaring, lazy. You slouched, you shrugged, you said “whatever” or “I don’t know” like a mantra. But beneath that was a mind that refused to step into anything blind.

If you were going to do something—really do it—you were going to understand it first. Dissect it. Strip it down. Know its limits before you ever touched the trigger.

That was why your stats looked wrong.

Even back then.

Even playing solo.

You didn’t just queue. You studied.

You watched gameplays late at night with the volume barely audible, phone under the blanket, brightness turned down to nothing. You memorized jungle paths, damage breakpoints, buff timers. You read patch notes like they were sacred texts. You learned why things worked, not just that they worked.

Other people called that tryharding.

You called it respect for your own time.

Arlecchino—years later—you’d recognize the type immediately. Players who learned mid-fight, adapting through chaos. They were impressive in their own way. But you were the opposite. You came prepared.

You didn’t like surprises unless you were the one causing them.

That season, you climbed as far as you could.

Legend.

And then—time ran out.

The season ended with cruel efficiency, kicking you back down into Epic like a cosmic joke. Epic Hell. The landfill of matchmaking. The place where hope went to die and toxicity fermented into something sentient.

You stared at the screen, expression blank.

Oh, so this is how it’s going to be.

Epic was not difficult in the conventional sense. It was worse. Teammates who refused to adjust. Players who locked four marksmen and argued about who deserved jungle. People who ran headfirst into five enemies and blamed lag, teammates, or fate itself.

You climbed anyway.

Alone.

Again.

Because that was the other thing about you:

Once committed, you didn’t half-ass. You full-assed. One hundred percent. Obsessive, focused, relentless. You didn’t need encouragement. You didn’t need validation. You just needed a system that responded to effort.

Life, unfortunately, did not.

Your blood family made sure of that.

Video games were a “waste of time.” A “distraction.” A threat to productivity.

You were allowed what was needed—books, supplies, tutoring. Wants were indulgences, scrutinized and rationed. Devices confiscated if you were caught playing too long. Comments delivered with surgical precision meant to shame you back into compliance.

So you learned secrecy.

You played when they weren’t around. When footsteps faded. When doors closed. When the house finally slept. You muted sound. You memorized menus so you could exit instantly. You learned how to look innocent at a moment’s notice.

It felt familiar.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Years passed like that.

School. Silence. Grades. Isolation.

And then—Granger.

You still remembered the exact moment you saw him.

Dark palette. Dead eyes. Gun like a coffin lid snapping shut. A walking embodiment of emotional exhaustion wrapped in dramatic flair.

You stared.

Oh. That’s me.

You didn’t even hesitate.

You locked him in the moment he was available and never looked back.

Granger didn’t play like the others. He punished mistakes brutally—yours and everyone else’s. He demanded spacing, timing, discipline. He rewarded patience and foresight. He was unforgiving, elegant, sharp.

Perfect.

This was also the year you finally learned the marksman role properly. Side lane. Bot lane. Resource management under pressure. You studied positioning like a religion. You learned how to bait, how to punish, how to survive dives with nothing but timing and audacity.

You didn’t care about being “nice.”

You didn’t care about being “toxic.”

You cared about winning.

You auto-locked Granger without apology.

Every time.

Chat exploded predictably.

“adjust”
“mm already”
“tank pls”
“cancer”

You muted them all.

You carried anyway.

Your winrate climbed into something obscene. Over a thousand matches on rank alone. Seventy-four percent and climbing. Numbers that made people shut up the moment they checked your profile. Numbers that made random marksmen suddenly defer to you without argument.

“Go jungle instead.”

“Please take jungle.”

Even when you wanted to slack off in side lane, the sheer weight of your stats condemned you to responsibility.

Junglers were too slow. Rotations too sloppy. Objectives taken late or not at all.

Fine, you thought. I’ll do it myself.

You played Bot Lane Granger. Jungle Granger. Gold Lane Granger.

You made it work where it wasn’t supposed to. You broke expectations through sheer mechanical competence and macro awareness.

People flamed you for not adjusting.

You flamed reality by winning anyway.

You never played tank.

Not once seriously.

You tried. Briefly. Estes. A few tanks and supports in low ranks. And immediately hated it.

Why would you support people who didn’t know what they were doing?

Why would you give your agency away?

No.

You wanted to be the one with the power. The one whose mistakes mattered. The one who decided the pace of the game.

You liked being the main character.

You told yourself you were aiming to be the best marksman.

In truth, jungle claimed you completely.

Control. Pressure. Tempo. Vision. Punishment.

It felt like home.

At twelve, you didn’t have the language for it yet. Didn’t understand why this mattered so much to you. Why a “stupid mobile game” felt more alive than most of the world around you.

But you felt it.

This was dynamic.

Always changing. Always demanding adaptation.

No two games identical. No single solution permanent.

You had to read people, anticipate behavior, counter strategies on the fly.

It was life—compressed into fifteen-minute intervals or more, with clear feedback and no lies.

Win or lose.

Your fault or not.

The system responded honestly.

You loved that.

Years later, when people accused you of being cold, detached, selfish—you’d think back to those nights. Phone glowing under blankets. Fingers moving with precision. Heart steady. Mind sharp.

You weren’t careless.

You were careful.

You always had been.

And while the world kept insisting you didn’t care, you quietly mastered the only thing that ever asked you to adapt instead of obey.

That was enough.

That was always enough.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Several years later, you were still exactly the same.

Just taller. More tired. Slightly more dangerous.

Your attitude hadn’t softened with age. If anything, it had crystallized. You still didn’t care about people’s opinions. Still didn’t chase validation. Still played like the world owed you nothing and you intended to take everything anyway.

But your hands were better now.

Sharper.

You’d learned more heroes than you could count. Assassin. Marksman. Mage. Fighter. You could flex if you wanted to—but you rarely did. You gravitated toward the same thing every time: hyper carry. Main damage dealer. The one whose presence warped the entire game around them.

Main character energy, unironically.

Jungle and Gold Lane were your kingdoms. Anywhere else felt like exile.

You liked heroes who punished hesitation.

Heroes who demanded confidence bordering on arrogance.

Heroes who said, if you mess up, you die—and if you don’t, everyone else does.

Granger was still there. Always there.

The OG. The GOAT. The comfort pick.

The one you could play half-asleep and still dominate with. Your muscle memory with him was borderline illegal. Your hands moved before your thoughts. You knew his damage by feel. You knew when to pull the trigger and when to wait, when to disengage by instinct alone.

If the game was chaos, Granger was home.

And then there were the mistakes.

The expensive ones.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Gusion happened first.

It was not a strategic decision.

There was no analysis, no prep, no careful consideration of kit difficulty or learning curve.

You saw the VENOM Emperor Scorpion skin and your brain immediately shut off.

That looks sick!

That was it.

That was the entire thought process.

You bought it.

Only after equipping it did reality hit you.

Oh.

I don’t know how to play this guy.

Not “bad at.” Not “rusty.”

You straight-up did not know what you were doing.

Daggers flying everywhere. Missed resets. Panicked engages.

Your first few matches were crimes against game balance. You died in ways that were genuinely impressive. People flamed you relentlessly.

“skin but no skill”
“refund pls”
“don’t use gusion again”

You stared at the screen, expression blank.

Then you checked your purchase history.

Over a thousand diamonds.

Your jaw tightened.

Absolutely not.

You were not about to let that money rot.

So you did what you always did when pride and logic aligned.

You studied.

You watched tutorials. Combo breakdowns. Frame-by-frame analyses. You learned timing windows like choreography. Learned when to engage, when to feint, when to wait for the exact millisecond cooldowns aligned.

You practiced in custom matches until your fingers cramped. You fed in classic until classic players learned fear. You failed. Repeatedly. Publicly. Without apology.

And then, slowly—

It clicked.

Daggers snapped back cleanly. Resets chained like poetry. You started erasing people before they could react. The same players who mocked you earlier suddenly typed “nice gusion” like they hadn’t wished death upon your family weeks ago.

You felt vindicated.

Then Fanny happened.

And this time?

This time you knew exactly what you were doing.

You knew you didn’t know how to play her.

And you still did it.

The Legendary Limited skin dropped. Gold tag. Absurd effects. A flex so aggressive it was borderline antisocial.

You didn’t hesitate.

You recharged faster than you ever had in your life. Spun. Again. Again. Again. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Less than five minutes.

More than twelve thousand diamonds gone.

You stared at the screen.

Skin acquired.

You leaned back.

…Welp.

Guess I’m learning Fanny.

There was no way in hell you were wasting that kind of money.

Learning Fanny was suffering in its purest form.

Your first matches were unwatchable. Cables everywhere. Missed walls. Stamina gone in seconds. You slammed into terrain like a drunk mosquito. You died mid-air. You got flamed in languages you didn’t speak.

People told you to uninstall.

You muted them.

Again.

You learned angles. Muscle memory. Micro-movements. You drilled cables until your fingers hurt and your wrists begged for mercy. You failed more than you succeeded. You questioned your life choices daily.

But quitting?

Never.

Because that wasn’t you.

Eventually, you stopped crashing.

Eventually, you stopped feeding.

Eventually, you started flying.

You learned to read the map mid-cable. Learned to calculate stamina subconsciously. Learned when to disengage before greed killed you. You became fast. Then faster. Then terrifying.

And the funniest part?

You realized something deeply ironic.

You had spent more money mastering Gusion and Fanny than you ever had on Granger.

Granger—your ride-or-die. Your first partner. Your safest bet.

He got fewer skins. Less investment. Less drama.

And yet, he remained untouchable.

Your three favorites settled naturally.

Granger.
Gusion.
Fanny.

Each one representing a different version of you.

Granger—the controlled, one-shot executioner.
Gusion—the precise, suave assassin.
Fanny—the reckless, high-risk menace who laughed in the face of physics.

You could play others. You did, occasionally. But these three were yours.

You still didn’t play tank.

Still didn’t play support.

You supported by killing everyone.

You still got called toxic. Cancer. Unadjusted. Ego player.

You still didn’t care.

Because when the match ended, the MVP screen spoke for itself.

Through it all, MLBB remained what it had always been for you—not just a game, but a constant. A place where effort translated directly into power. Where systems responded honestly. Where adaptation wasn’t optional.

Life outside remained messy. Inconsistent. Hypocritical.

But here?

Here, if you studied hard enough, practiced long enough, committed fully enough—you won.

And for someone who never gave a shit about most things?

That was priceless.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You were also antisocial before it was cool, before it was an aesthetic, before people started calling it “introverted” to make it sound marketable.

Back then, it was just you not liking people.

Not hating them—hate required energy.

You simply didn’t care enough to perform friendliness. You didn’t like small talk. You didn’t like team bonding exercises. You didn’t like pretending to be emotionally invested in strangers who would be gone in a few weeks anyway.

Teammates came and went like seasonal weather.

Squads formed, disbanded, imploded over ego or inactivity or drama you didn’t even bother asking about. You watched it all with mild detachment, queueing solo when needed, muting chats when bored.

But one person never left.

Arlecchino.

Before MLBB. Before ranks. Before metas and patches and arguments about who threw the game. She was already there. Your best friend. Your sister in everything, including blood. The one constant in a life that otherwise felt like rotating cast members you didn’t audition.

You were the one who dragged her into the game.

Not gently.

“You should play this,” you told her one day, phone shoved into her hands. “And you’re tanking for me.”

She looked at the screen. Then at you.

“… Alright.”

That was it.

No hesitation. No ego. No argument about roles. She didn’t care about being flashy. She didn’t care about MVP screens. She cared about winning—and she trusted you.

She learned the way she learned everything: by doing.

No hours of studying. No obsessing over frame data. She just queued up and adapted on the fly, absorbing patterns, internalizing mistakes, fixing them mid-match.

You used to joke that she learned faster under fire, like pressure activated something primal in her brain.

And damn if it didn’t work.

While you specialized in deleting people, Arlecchino became the kind of roam player that ruined entire lobbies.

Not the uwu healbot fantasy people liked to imagine when they thought “support.”

No.

She was pressure incarnate.

Estes was her signature at first. And not the cowardly backline Estes people expected. Her Estes walked forward. Checked bushes. Gave vision. Baited skills. Stood where she had no business standing and dared people to punish her.

They rarely succeeded.

Then Ruby. Hooks snapping, sustain for days, punishing overconfidence.

Then Chou—precise, brutal, surgical. One wrong step and someone was kicked into oblivion with zero ceremony.

She could play Floryn if needed. Grock if she wanted to terrorize the enemy jungle. Any tank. Any support. Any roam. She filled every gap you didn’t want to touch.

You never liked supporting.

She loved enabling.

And the thing was—you didn’t even need to talk most of the time.

You knew where she was.

She knew where you were going.

You trusted each other implicitly, the kind of trust that didn’t need reassurance. You moved like you were wired together, responding to micro-adjustments the rest of the team didn’t even notice.

You two joked about it.

“Auto win Granger-Estes Combo.”

It wasn’t wrong anyway.

You usually got MVP. Damage numbers didn’t lie. But you knew. You always knew. Half of those wins belonged to her map control. Her vision. Her objective timing. Her refusal to let the enemy breathe.

She was objective-hungry in a way that bordered on feral.

You were kill-hungry, like most assassins.

Together, it worked.

Sometimes she was even more aggressive than you.

She’d initiate fights using a healer. Walk into the enemy jungle alone to give vision. Drop petrify using Angela mid-fight just to set up for your clean Fanny dive. People never expected it. People never respected it.

They paid for that mistake.

In anime, supports hid behind carries.

In reality, Arlecchino was in your face, in their face, everywhere at once.

A constant threat.

A presence that made enemies hesitate—and hesitation was all you ever needed.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

You also cursed more than she did.

By a lot.

You yelled at slow rotations. Bad junglers. Teammates who chased kills instead of objectives. You were loud, sharp, ruthless with your commentary.

Arlecchino was quieter than you.

Terrifyingly so.

She didn’t complain. She pressured. She invaded. She rotated early. She punished mistakes without a word. When she spoke, it was usually calm, factual, and devastating.

“Lord in ten.”

“Enemy jungle top side.”

“They’re panicking.”

And she was always right.

The rare times you didn’t jungle—when you tried to slack off in side lane or mess around with mage in classic—she hated it.

You could hear it in her voice immediately.

“This jungler is slow.”

“Why isn’t he rotating.”

“Why is turtle still up.”

You’d laugh, because she wasn’t wrong.

Eventually, you stopped pretending.

You two queued jungle duo almost exclusively after that. It was easier. Cleaner. Deadlier.

Facing you both was a nightmare.

Even when she was on a healer, enemies backed off instinctively. The moment they saw the two of you moving together on the map, something primal kicked in. This isn’t safe. This isn’t normal.

They were right.

You had different strengths.

She had better eyes—vision, awareness, spatial dominance.

You had better ears—timing, cooldowns, the rhythm of fights.

Together, you were unfair.

And for all your antisocial tendencies, all your indifference to people, all your solo queue conquests—

She was the one you always came back to.

No drama. No jealousy. No competition between you. Just mutual understanding and trust built match after match, year after year.

People called girl gamers uwu.

You scoffed at that.

You weren’t playing to be cute.

You were playing to win.

And somehow, in a world full of noise and fleeting connections, the two of you carved out something steady. A partnership forged in chaos, objectives secured under pressure, victories earned the hard way.

You didn’t need many people.

You never had.

You just needed one who understood how you moved.

And Arlecchino always did.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You and Arlecchino never had to announce it.

There was no dramatic vow, no matching profile bios, no cringe “BFF forever” nonsense. It was simply understood.

When people came and went—and they always did—she stayed. When squads dissolved, metas shifted, seasons reset, devices changed, accounts climbed and fell, the one constant was that if you logged in, Arlecchino was already there. Or would be in five minutes.

Blood sister. Best friend. Same thing.

Most of your matches together weren’t even serious. Not at first.

You’d sit on the floor or sprawl across beds, phones overheating, snacks scattered everywhere, queuing whatever mode felt right that day.

Ranked when you felt sharp. Classic when you wanted to mess around. Brawl when you were both tired and wanted chaos. Arcade when the game stopped pretending it was balanced and leaned fully into nonsense.

“RG?” you’d ask.

“Sure,” she’d say.

No discussion needed.

You locked jungle. She locked roam. Every time.

It didn’t matter what hero she picked. Estes. Ruby. Chou. Grock. Some cursed experimental support build she felt like testing.

You trusted her anyway. Always did. She could play literally anything in that role and still make the game revolve around her presence.

You, on the other hand, were predictable.

Hyper carry. Damage dealer. Flashy as hell.

You loved outplays. Lived for them. The kind that made your hands shake and your heart spike—the narrow escapes, the last-second dashes, the moments where you turned what should’ve been a death into a savage.

You chased kills like they owed you money.

Objectives still mattered. You knew that. You always took them. But if there was an opportunity to style on someone while doing it?

Oh, absolutely.

Half the time, that greed got you killed.

The other half—

“WHY DID THAT WORK?” you’d yell, laughing.

And almost every time, when it didn’t work?

“Don’t move,” Arlecchino would say calmly.

And then somehow—somehow—she’d save your ass.

You’d dive too deep, overextend for one more kill, miscalculate cooldowns. You’d already be mentally preparing for death when suddenly there was a stun, a heal, a perfectly timed peel that made no sense.

“How are you alive,” you’d say.

“I told you not to move,” she’d reply.

You never typed toxic language in chat. Never needed to. You handled your frustration out loud instead, cursing in half a dozen Sumeru languages. In fact, more occasionally than not, you ended up slipping into New Federation slang without realizing it.

“Stupid,” you muttered constantly. In different dialects. Like punctuation.

Arlecchino was quieter in-game chat.

But out loud?

Oh, she was worse than you.

Someone blamed her for their own misplay?

“They’re blind,” she’d say flatly.

Someone flamed her for not saving them when they dove 1v5?

“I hope they uninstall,” she’d add.

And if someone really pissed her off?

She stopped supporting them.

Not obviously. Not enough to get reported. Just… strategically absent. Cooldowns always late. Rotations always elsewhere. Her attention focused entirely on you.

You noticed. You always did.

You laughed every time.

“Petty,” you’d say.

“They deserve it,” she’d reply.

She only trusted you to have her back.

That was the thing.

Other players expected unconditional support.

Arlecchino didn’t believe in that.

She believed in competence. In awareness. In reciprocity.

If you played well, she’d die for you without hesitation. If you played like an idiot and blamed her for it?

Good luck.

But with you?

She never hesitated.

Because you never left her hanging either.

When she engaged, you followed. When she invaded, you mirrored. When she backed off, you did too. You knew her limits. She knew yours. You didn’t need constant callouts—just the occasional comment.

“They’re rotating top.”

“I hear them.”

“They’re baiting.”

“I know.”

Sometimes you talked more than needed, narrating your thoughts mid-fight, swearing at yourself, swearing at enemies, swearing at lag that didn’t exist.

She filtered the noise.

Her map awareness was insane. Vision control, bush checks, timing. She saw things before they happened. You heard things—the rhythm of team fights, cooldown windows, the moment someone panicked.

Eyes and ears.

Unfair combo.

There were matches that blurred together into comfortable routine. Rank climbing steadily. Win streaks that made people dodge when they recognized your duo. Losses that didn’t sting because you knew exactly why they happened.

And then there were the funny ones.

Like the times she played Chou.

You dove a fight, killed two people, blinked—

And she was gone.

“Wait,” you said. “You died?”

No response.

You glanced at the minimap.

She was still alive.

Somehow.

Deep in enemy territory.

Still fighting and surviving a three-person gank.

“I left already,” you said. “I thought you died.”

“I didn’t,” she replied calmly.

“How.”

No answer. Just another enemy knocked airborne.

You laughed so hard you almost missed your own kill.

Or the times she played Estes and people underestimated her.

Enemy team would dive, confident.

Bad idea.

She’d walk forward, tank damage, heal through nonsense, petrify at the worst possible moment, set the enemy up for a massacre.

“Healer diff,” someone typed once.

You nearly choked.

She also got competitive when the enemy roam was genuinely good.

Those were her favorite matches.

You could hear it in her voice. Sharper. Focused.

“This one’s good,” she’d say.

“I see it,” you’d reply.

And then it became a silent war of vision, pressure, counter-rotations. You adjusted builds mid-game. Changed priorities. Shut them down together.

When you won those games, it felt different.

Earned.

At the end of the day—after matches, after laughter, after arguing about whether that engage was worth it—you’d still be sitting together, phones dimming, energy low but content.

You weren’t close to many people.

Never had been.

But if someone asked who mattered most?

It was always Arlecchino.

Not because she carried you. Not because she followed you.

But because she matched you.

Because in a world that constantly misunderstood you, she never tried to change how you played—only made you better.

Best friends forever.

Sisters by blood.

No announcement needed.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You were stretched out on the floor, tablet abandoned beside you, arms thrown over your eyes like you’d just survived a war instead of twelve hours of ranked.

Your fingers still twitched occasionally, phantom movements from muscle memory—flicks, dashes, ult timing—while your brain slowly powered down.

The room smelled like rice and garlic and something frying, familiar and grounding.

The good post-rank smell. The we lived smell.

Arlecchino was in the kitchen again.

Of course she was.

She always cooked after long sessions. Like clockwork. Like a ritual that said: you’re done now, you survived, you’re still here.

She moved quietly, efficiently, hair tied back, sleeves rolled up. No rush. No wasted motion. The same way she played.

You watched her upside down through half-closed eyes.

“Hey,” you said suddenly.

“Hm?” she answered, not turning around.

“Why do you always stay roam for me?”

There it was.

You hadn’t planned to ask it. It just… slipped out. Like a stray thought you finally let escape.

Arlecchino paused—not dramatically, just enough to acknowledge the question mattered. She lowered the heat, stirred once, then turned around and leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

“You serious?” she asked.

You shrugged, eyes still on the ceiling. “Kinda. You could play EXP. Or side lane really. You’re good at pushing. You don’t have to babysit me forever.”

She snorted softly. “Babysit. That’s what you think this is?”

You cracked one eye open, grinning. “I dive stupid fights. You save me. Sounds like babysitting.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway.

Then she answered seriously.

“Because you’re the best jungler I’ve played with,” she said simply.

You laughed. Loud. Immediate. “Bullshit.”

“I’m not done.”

You quieted.

She pushed off the counter and walked over, sitting across from you on the floor, back against the couch. Steam from the kitchen curled lazily into the room.

“People used to think marksman was the most important role,” she said. “Hypercarry MM. Protect the carry. That was the meta.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Everyone babysits the MM. Been there.”

“That was before,” she said. “Even back then, it wasn’t always true. Now? It’s definitely not.”

You turned your head toward her. Fully attentive now.

“The jungler controls the map,” she continued. “Objectives. Tempo. Pressure. Vision. Rotations. A bad jungler doesn’t just lose their lane—they lose the game.”

You blinked. “Huh.”

“The roam comes second,” she added calmly. “Because a good roam enables the jungler. Gives vision. Invades. Secures space. Punishes mistakes.”

You laughed again, softer this time. “So that’s why you get pissed when I go side lane.”

“Yes.”

Immediate. Flat.

You burst out laughing.

“That’s it? No emotional reason? No loyalty speech?”

She tilted her head. “Do you want one?”

“No, no,” you said, wiping your eyes. “This is very on-brand.”

She continued anyway.

“When you’re in jungle, the game makes sense,” she said. “Your rotations are fast. Your decision-making is clean. Even when you’re greedy, you’re… readable.”

“Wow. Rude.”

“You are,” she said without apology. “I can predict you. I know when you’ll overextend. I know when you’ll commit. I know when you’ll back out even if you pretend you won’t.”

You stared at her. “…That’s terrifying.”

“That’s why I don’t like other junglers,” she said. “They hesitate. Or they chase kills with no objective. Or they farm while the map burns. Or they don’t listen.”

“And I listen?” you asked.

She looked at you.

“You complain,” she said. “You curse. You argue. But you listen.”

You felt something warm settle in your chest. You pretended it didn’t.

“So why roam?” you asked again, quieter.

“Because roam gives the most value to the team overall,” she said. “A good EXP laner pushes one side. A good mage controls mid. A good MM scales.”

She tapped the floor once, emphasizing each word.

“But a good roam?” she said. “Controls information. Controls fear. Controls space.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Map control.”

“Exactly,” she said. “You and I both like control. Just in different ways.”

You smiled.

“You like structure,” you said. “I like chaos.”

She snorted. “You like pretending it’s chaos. You still take objectives.”

“Details.”

She leaned her head back against the couch, eyes on the ceiling now too.

“You were aiming to be the best MM back then,” she said. “I remember.”

“Yeah,” you admitted. “Thought that was the role.”

“But even then,” she continued, “you played like a core. Even on Granger. You weren’t waiting to scale. You dictated tempo. You rotated. You invaded.”

You went quiet.

She smiled faintly. “You were always the core. You just didn’t want to admit it.”

“…Damn,” you said. “That’s kinda accurate.”

“Of course it is.”

The kitchen timer beeped. She stood up to turn it off, movements fluid and familiar.

“I don’t stay roam because I can’t do anything else,” she said over her shoulder. “I stay because it’s the best place to support the team.”

“And me,” you added.

She paused.

“Yes,” she said simply. “And you.”

She plated the food and brought it over, setting it down between you like an offering.

You sat up, grabbing your chopsticks.

“So,” you said. “Core and roam.”

“Core and roam,” she agreed.

You clinked chopsticks together like a toast.

It struck you then—how stupidly perfect it was.

You: loud, flashy, aggressive, always chasing the next fight, the next outplay, the next moment where everything hinged on your timing.

Her: quiet, calculated, suffocating pressure, always watching, always three steps ahead, always holding the map together while you tore through it.

Different personalities. Same instincts.

Two people who didn’t like people.

Two people who liked systems.

Two people who trusted each other completely.

You grinned.

“Guess we’re stuck together,” you said.

She smirked. “Obviously.”

And for once, the idea didn’t feel suffocating at all.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You had a whole catalog of memories with Arlecchino that felt fake in hindsight. The kind that sounded like exaggerations when retold, but every detail was painfully real because you were there. Standing slightly behind her. Watching. Processing. Trying not to laugh at the wrong time.

One of your favorites—if “favorite” was the right word—was the blind date incident.

It wasn’t your idea. Obviously.

It was your blood family’s.

They had looked at Arlecchino—tall, broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, posture like she could walk into a battlefield and come out bored—and collectively decided something was wrong. Too masculine. Too dominant. Too… unladylike. As if those were defects instead of survival traits.

So they did what families like yours always did.

They tried to fix it.

A blind date. With a “nice boy.” Someone “refined.” Someone who could “balance her out.”

You went along as moral support. Or maybe just to witness the trainwreck.

Hard to say.

You were smaller, quieter, dressed plainly in black, hair down, eyes half-lidded. You didn’t look like a gamer. You didn’t look like anything worth asking about, honestly. And that was fine by you.

The guy showed up late.

Strike one.

He talked too much.

Strike two.

And then, somewhere between the appetizers and his third unsolicited opinion, he asked Arlecchino what she did in her free time.

She answered honestly.

“I play MLBB,” she said.

His eyes lit up—not with interest, but with that specific smugness you recognized instantly. The kind that came from someone who thought he knew more than he did.

“Oh,” he said. “What role?”

“Support,” Arlecchino replied calmly.

He laughed.

Actually laughed.

“Of course you play support,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re a girl after all.”

The table went quiet.

You didn’t even need to look at Arlecchino to know.

But you did.

And she looked at you.

And you looked at her.

And in that half-second exchange, an entire unspoken conversation passed between you.

Did he really just say that.

That’s exactly what a low-elo idiot would say.

I hate him already.

Same.

Do we leave now or let him dig deeper.

Your expressions were identical.

Flat. Disgusted.

Like you’d both just stepped on something sticky barefoot.

Arlecchino smiled politely.

You did not.

You watched him keep talking, blissfully unaware that he had just permanently disqualified himself from being taken seriously by either of you.

He went on about “real carries,” about how “support is easy,” about how women were “naturally better at helping roles.”

You sipped your drink slowly, thinking about the number of games Arlecchino had hard-carried as roam. Thinking about the times she’d invaded enemy jungle alone and walked out alive. Thinking about how many matches she’d decided before the ten-minute mark without ever topping the damage chart.

You wondered how long he’d survive against her Chou.

Probably less than one second.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

When the date finally ended, you and Arlecchino walked out together, night air cool against your skin. You didn’t say anything for a few steps.

Then Arlecchino spoke.

“That’s exactly what a bad player would say.”

You burst out laughing.

“Right?” you said. “Support because you’re a girl. I felt my soul leave my body.”

“I almost asked his rank,” she added.

“You would’ve killed him on the spot.”

She snorted. “Worth it.”

You walked home together, shoulders bumping occasionally, both of you decompressing in the comfortable silence that only existed between people who didn’t need to fill it.

That was how it always was.

You were different in public.

Arlecchino was naturally intimidating. Tall. Confident. Dominant in a way people noticed immediately. She drew attention without trying, whether she wanted it or not.

You were the opposite.

Short. Reclusive. Quiet to the point of invisibility. People underestimated you constantly. They didn’t see you as a threat. They didn’t see you as competition. They barely saw you at all.

You liked it that way.

In-game, though?

It flipped.

You were loud. Animated. Aggressive. Talking constantly—callouts, curses, predictions, half-formed thoughts spoken out loud as your brain raced ahead of the match. You were expressive in a way real life never allowed.

Arlecchino became quieter.

Focused. Efficient. Deadly.

You complemented each other in every possible axis.

And somewhere along the way—between late-night ranked sessions and shared meals, between laughing at idiots and celebrating stupid outplays—you realized something else too.

You had a dream.

A real one.

Not the kind your family liked. Not business. Not prestige. Not money. Not legacy.

You wanted to play professionally.

Esports.

Competitions. Stages. Championships. That rush of facing the best and proving, undeniably, that you belonged there. That your skill wasn’t luck. That your instincts weren’t accidents.

It scared you how real that dream felt.

Because for the first time, it wasn’t abstract. You could see it. Feel it. Imagine your hands on stage, heart pounding, the map loading in.

You mentioned it once.

Casually. Like it didn’t matter.

“I think it’d be cool,” you said one night, lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. “To play pro. Like, actually.”

Arlecchino didn’t laugh.

She didn’t tease you.

She just nodded.

“Yeah,” she said. “It would.”

You turned your head. “You don’t think it’s stupid?”

“No,” she said immediately. “I think you’d win.”

Your chest tightened in a way you didn’t comment on.

She shrugged. “I joined because of you anyway. Might as well go all the way.”

You smiled.

Maybe not anytime soon, you thought.

Life was complicated. Families were restrictive.

The world wasn’t exactly kind to girls who wanted to compete instead of conform.

But one day.

One day.

You and Arlecchino, side by side. Core and roam. Carry and pressure. Two people who never fit neatly into anyone else’s expectations, carving space for yourselves anyway.

You didn’t need a crowd.

You didn’t need approval.

You just needed the game, the map, and each other.

And honestly?

That felt like more than enough.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You were born a cat.

Not literally—though sometimes you suspected the universe had misfiled your paperwork—but in the way you moved through the world: quiet, observant, self-contained, allergic to unnecessary noise, content to curl up in warm corners and watch everything fall apart from a safe distance. You liked your routines. You liked your silence. You liked knowing exactly where your boundaries were and defending them with claws if necessary.

And then there was the fox.

She arrived in your life like an intrusion error. Loud boots on polished floors. A presence too close, too warm, too intentional. She spoke before thinking, moved before asking, smiled like she was daring the world to try something. Where you retreated, she advanced. Where you went still, she prowled.

She had eyes that watched people instead of places. You had eyes that watched patterns instead of faces.

You did not get along.

At first, the world was small and cruel and required strategy. You were both left to fend for yourselves in ways no one ever put into words. There were no speeches about abandonment, no dramatic revelations. Just long days where adults were busy or absent or emotionally inaccessible, and children learned how to survive by reading rooms too early.

You learned to disappear.

She learned to dominate space.

She was always in your personal bubble. Always leaning over your shoulder. Always reading what you were reading, touching what you were touching, poking you just to see if you’d flinch. She liked your reactions. Or rather, your lack of them. It annoyed her. That calm, blank stare. That refusal to give her what she wanted.

“You’re creepy,” she told you once, chin propped on her hand as she invaded your desk space.

“You’re annoying,” you replied without looking up.

She laughed like that was a compliment.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Years passed like that. Parallel lines scraping against each other. She annoyed the absolute hell out of you. You tolerated her because, annoyingly, she was always there. Because the world felt slightly more dangerous when she wasn’t. Because somehow, she’d appointed herself your shadow without asking permission.

It took years before she got close. And even now, she still hovered at the edge of that trust, careful not to spook it.

What changed wasn’t a big moment. It was accumulation. Mundane survival rituals. Shared glances across crowded rooms. The unspoken understanding that if one of you stood up, the other would follow without question.

You were opposites, but you were similar in the only way that mattered: neither of you belonged anywhere else.

So you built something private.

It wasn’t dramatic. It was stupid. It was late nights and cheap snacks and the kind of laughter that only happens when you’re both exhausted enough to drop your guard. It was sitting shoulder-to-shoulder doing nothing and calling it companionship.

You spent every waking moment together when you were young. Attached. Not in a clingy way—more like two animals sharing territory. You didn’t talk about feelings. You didn’t need to. You communicated in side-eyes, raised brows, subtle shifts in posture.

She learned when to back off. You learned when to let her in.

The fox relaxed around you. Truly relaxed. The sharp edges dulled. The calculating gaze softened. Around you, she didn’t have to perform. She could sit with her legs tucked under her, steal your food without asking, exist without managing everyone else’s perception of her.

Around her, you could be weird.

Loud, even.

Which no one would believe.

There were things you did together that would have horrified anyone who knew you separately. Mundane things. Embarrassing things. Stupid, pointless, deeply human things.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

You also learned very early what not to do together.

Not because it’s forbidden. Not because it’s embarrassing. But because if anyone ever saw it, the world would implode under the sheer cognitive dissonance.

You and her never talk about anime crushes in public. Never debate game husbands in cafes. Never rank fictional men or argue over tropes where other people could hear. Never—under any circumstances—let “girl talk” leak out where it could be traced back to the two of you.

Because no one would survive knowing.

Out there, she is immaculate. Controlled. Imposing. A blade disguised as a woman. People read her as cold, professional, untouchable. They think her silence is discipline. They think her sharpness is cruelty.

You don’t correct them.

Out there, you are quieter. Detached. Mildly strange in a way people chalk up to introversion or apathy. You drift, you observe, you don’t emote much. People think you’re harmless. Or bored. Or empty.

You don’t correct them either.

But when it’s just the two of you—doors closed, phones face-down, the fox sprawled across the couch and the cat perched on the backrest like it owns the place—everything feral comes out.

It usually starts stupid.

“You know,” she says, kicking off her boots and collapsing beside you, “I would absolutely ruin a man if he cried prettily enough.”

You snort before you can stop yourself. It’s ugly, ungraceful, the kind of laugh that escapes before your brain approves it. “That’s not new information.”

She smirks, slow and dangerous. “I’m refining the criteria.”

You hum, noncommittal, petting the fox absently as it presses its head into your thigh. “Is this the ‘soft, poetic, emotionally compromised’ category again?”

She makes a thoughtful noise. “Yes. But with added guilt. I want him to think he’s a burden.”

“That’s evil.”

“Thank you.”

This—this—is what you’d never let out.

She says things like that with the same face she uses in meetings. Calm. Polite. Deadpan. Anyone else would think she’s joking. You know she’s not. Not entirely.

Underneath that perfect poker face is a freak.

A genuine one.

A sadist who wants to be worshipped, obeyed, relied on.

Someone who wants to be the axis of another person’s emotional universe and knows exactly how terrifying that is.

And you just laugh.

Because when she says the most unhinged, asylum-worthy, morally questionable shit imaginable, it comes out sounding like a grocery list. Because her timing is impeccable. Because you’ve known her since you were both too young to pretend you were normal.

Because she trusts you enough to say it out loud.

“You, on the other hand,” she continues, turning her head to look at you, eyes sharp and curious, “are still into the worst possible option.”

You shrug. “Define worst.”

She ticks it off on her fingers. “Dominant. Cruel. Zero remorse. Black-flag levels of unethical. Would ruin you and sleep fine afterward.”

You don’t deny it.

You never do.

“It’s the honesty,” you say after a moment. “If he’s going to destroy me, I prefer he not lie about it.”

She stares at you for a second. Then laughs—soft, surprised, fond. “You’re insane.”

“Clinically.”

The cat flicks its tail like it agrees.

This is how it always goes. Contrast and collision.

Her thrill-seeking dominance against your quiet fascination with monsters.

Her yearning for broken men who need her guidance, your curiosity about men who don’t need anyone and never will.

You both like yanderes.

Just… different kinds.

She likes yandere x yandere. Power clashes. Mutual obsession. Two disasters locking eyes across a battlefield and deciding the world can burn later.

You like unrequited devotion. Horror. Watching something dangerous fixate on you from the shadows, knowing it would never be good for you and wanting to understand it anyway.

You’re both horror game fans. That probably explains a lot.

“I still don’t get it,” she says, leaning back, arms crossed. “Why would you want someone who doesn’t even pretend to care?”

You tilt your head. “Why would you want someone who collapses without you?”

She considers that.

“…Because it’s beautiful,” she says finally. “To be chosen. Needed. Trusted.”

You nod slowly. “And I think it’s cool when someone chooses me even though I’m unnecessary.”

She clicks her tongue. “We’re both fucked up.”

“Yes.”

Comfortable silence settles between you, heavy but warm.

The fox sighs dramatically. The cat kneads the air.

It’s in moments like this—quiet, domestic, almost normal—that she brings it up.

“You know I’m still watching you,” she says casually.

You smile without looking at her. “About him?”

“Yes.”

You don’t need the name.

She’s been warning you about him since the beginning. Long before anything could be misinterpreted as interest. Long before you even realized he was… a variable.

“Stay away from that thing,” she’d said, more than once. Calm voice. Sharp eyes. No theatrics. “I don’t like how he looks at you.”

You’d laughed it off then too.

“I trust your judgment,” you say now. And you mean it.

She exhales, slow. “Good. Because I don’t trust his.”

She’s always been like this with you. Protective in a way that doesn’t smother. Warning without demanding. She knows you don’t take orders.

She also knows you listen.

That’s why, when you told her—offhandedly, like it was nothing—that she should meet someone, she hesitated.

“You’re sure?” she’d asked, eyes narrowed. “I’m not… looking.”

“I know,” you’d said. “You don’t have to be.”

She trusted you anyway.

And now, weeks later, she’s been seeing him. Slowly. Carefully. Like she approaches everything that might matter.

She doesn’t talk about him much. Just small things. The way he listens. The way his words feel… heavy. Like rain before a storm. How he looks tired in a way that feels ancient.

You say nothing. You don’t need to.

She likes soft men. Poetic ones. Men who ache. Men who feel like they’re drowning quietly and would never ask for help.

Men who might, one day, kneel without being told.

You watch her fall into it the way you watch a tide come in. Calm. Predictable.

Inevitable.

“You really think he’s…” She trails off.

“Yes.”

She nods once. “Then I’ll take it seriously.”

That’s how close you two are.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

You know she’s private in the way vaults are private. Not secretive—possessive. Hoarding. The kind of person who doesn’t just lock the door, but keeps the key warm in her mouth and dares the world to try. You’ve always known that about her. You respect it. Mostly.

You also know that what she locks away from the world, she lets rot and bloom freely in her own head.

And sometimes, when it’s just the two of you, she cracks the vault door open just enough to let the fumes out.

It usually starts mundane. It always does. You’re sprawled somewhere unimportant, furniture forgotten, gravity optional. She’s sitting like she owns the room even when she doesn’t. Legs crossed, posture lazy, eyes sharp. The air between you is relaxed in the way only years of trust can make it. No guards up. No performances.

She says it casually, like she’s commenting on the weather.

“I think he’d look obscene in blood.”

You laugh. Loud. Unfiltered. It comes out wrong—too sharp, too sudden, echoing off the walls.

“He’s a poet of the tides. He’s all about the ‘eternal’ and the ‘unchanging.’ What is more eternal than a corpse? I spent twenty minutes debating whether he’d look better in his own blood or if the contrast would be too messy.”

You slap a hand over your mouth too late, shoulders shaking.

“Maybe… a clean, cold death… I want to see if his eyes stay that soft shade of love when the light leaves them. I want to know if he’d still look like he’s yearning for me if his heart wasn’t beating.”

You burst into a fit of crazed, loud laughter, clutching your stomach.

She watches you with a faint smile, pleased, predatory, waiting.

“He was also crying again today,” Arlecchino continued, her voice a low, vibrating rasp that carried a terrifying level of satisfaction.

Then she looked down at her own hands, flexing them as if she could still feel the phantom weight of a certain someone’s throat. “Not the loud, pathetic kind of crying. The quiet, silver-streak-down-the-cheek kind. He looked like a masterpiece of grief. I almost didn’t want to touch him. Just wanted to pin him to the floor and watch the salt ruin his complexion.”

You let out a dry, rattling laugh, your brain instantly categorizing the depravity. “You’re obsessed with that ‘pathetic yearning’ aesthetic. Is he even a person to you at this point, or is he just a very expensive doll?”

“He’s a person,” she countered, her eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp hunger. “But a person is just a vessel for potential.”

She contemplates out loud, “I was watching him sleep this morning—he’s… indeed beautiful. His skin is as clear as moonstone. And I found myself wondering, quite critically, if he’d look even better if he ceased breathing while I was still inside him. Imagine that level of stillness…”

“The absolute, unmoving perfection of a corpse that I’ve finally, finally managed to tame.”

You wipe at your eyes. “You say that like it’s normal pillow talk.”

“It is,” she replies easily. “Just not with him.”

You let out a sharp, discordant laugh.

She guards that relationship like a dragon sitting on a bed of glass—beautiful, fragile, and absolutely not for public consumption.

The way her voice changes when she alludes to him is enough. It softens in a way she would deny to the grave.

But the fantasies? The jokes? The filth in her head?

Those are fair game.

“He’s too pretty,” she continues, eyes unfocused now, staring at nothing. “It’s offensive, honestly. Completely unfair to the rest of the population.”

You snort. “That’s your complaint?”

“Yes,” she says, dead serious. “I don’t trust beautiful men. Especially quiet ones.”

“That hasn’t stopped you.”

She smirks. “No. It’s encouraged me.”

You tilt your head, watching her. She’s relaxed, but there’s something coiled underneath, something restless. She likes talking like this with you because you never flinch. You never judge. You never misunderstand. Anyone else would hear danger. You hear honesty.

“He blushes,” she says suddenly, with vicious delight. “Over nothing. I could say the most innocuous thing and he just—shuts down. Like his brain blue-screens.”

You grin. “You do that on purpose.”

“Obviously.” She scoffs. “Why wouldn’t I?”

She leans back, hands behind her head now, voice growing louder, bolder, deliberately obscene in tone if not in detail. “I tell him exactly what I like. Straightforward. None of that dancing around it. I enjoy watching him try to reconcile the image he has of me with the things I casually admit.”

You bark another laugh, loud enough to be borderline unhinged. “You’re evil.”

“I’m honest,” she corrects. “He deserves honesty.”

You hum. “You enjoy embarrassing him.”

She doesn’t deny it. “I enjoy watching him melt. There’s a difference.”

You know she means it affectionately. That’s the dangerous part.

Her affection is sharp. Her love isn’t soft—it’s consuming, demanding, territorial in ways she keeps tightly leashed.

She would never hurt him. Not really.

But she thinks about it. Abstractly. Aesthetically.

“I wonder,” she says, tapping her fingers against her arm, “if he’d still look at me the same way if I were covered in someone else’s blood.”

Arlecchino murmured more, “He’s so shy, so soft-spoken. When I touch his neck, I can feel his pulse jumping like a trapped rabbit. It’s intoxicating. But lately… my mind goes to darker places…”

You glance at her, expression flat. “You’re spiraling again.”

She smiles. Slow. “Maybe.”

You don’t interrupt. You never do. You let her talk it out, let the darkness bleed into words instead of actions. You’re good at that. Always have been.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” she says eventually, quieter now. “That’s the point. That’s why it stays in my head. Fantasies are safer there.”

You shrug. “Everyone’s fucked up somewhere.”

She laughs at that. A real laugh. Loud, sharp, unapologetic. It fills the space between you, chasing away the heavier thoughts.

“Ha,” she says, “if anyone else heard the things I think about—”

“They’d be boring about it,” you finish. “Or scared.”

“Exactly. You’re neither.”

You roll your eyes. “High praise.”

She shoots you a look, amused. “You laugh like a lunatic when I talk about this stuff. That’s rare.”

“I have good taste,” you reply dryly.

She grins, then pivots effortlessly back into filth, like flipping a switch. “Anyway. He’s gorgeous. Like—painfully so. Soft hair. Gentle hands. Looks at me like I hung the moon.”

You gag theatrically. “Disgusting.”

“I know,” she says fondly. “Isn’t it great?”

She stretches, cracking her neck. “And he listens. Really listens. Which makes it even more fun when I say something unhinged and watch him try to process it without short-circuiting.”

You laugh again, louder this time, the sound scraping out of you. It feels good. Cathartic. Rare.

“You’re a menace,” you tell her.

She nods. “To him? Maybe. To everyone else? Absolutely.”

There’s a pause. Comfortable. Heavy in that way only silence between two people who know each other too well can be.

“I keep it locked,” she says finally. “Not because I’m ashamed. But because it’s mine.”

You nod once. “I know.”

She looks at you then, really looks, eyes sharp but warm. “That’s why you get to hear it.”

You don’t respond. You just laugh again—wild, cracked, echoing—because it’s easier than saying what you both already understand.

Some things don’t need to be spoken.

Some things are better laughed into the dark.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

She doesn’t soften it. She never does when it matters.

You’re sitting across from her, the space between you heavy with the kind of silence that isn’t comfortable but is familiar. She watches you the way she always does when she’s thinking—eyes sharp, posture still, mind already ten steps ahead. You’re used to being observed. You let her. You always do.

“You’re doing it again,” she says.

You blink. “Doing what?”

“Playing savior,” Arlecchino replies flatly. Not accusing. Not cruel. Just precise.

You laugh, light and genuine, the sound spilling out of you without resistance. It doesn’t surprise her, how easily you laugh when the topic is sharp enough to cut. You lean back, hands behind your head, utterly unbothered.

“That’s a strong word,” you say. “Savior.”

She doesn’t laugh with you.

“No,” she says. “It’s an accurate one.”

You tilt your head, studying her now.

She’s worried. She doesn’t look worried often—usually her concern is hidden behind irritation or sarcasm—but this is different.

This is stripped bare. Honest.

“You love people,” she continues. “Not romantically. Not possessively. But morally. You love the idea that people can be better if someone just… stays long enough.”

You shrug. “That’s not a crime.”

“It is when you forget that not everyone wants to be better,” she snaps, just a little. Enough to show teeth. “Some people like exactly what they are.”

You hum, noncommittal.

She leans forward. “And your stubbornness—your refusal to walk away once you’ve decided something matters—that doesn’t just hurt you. It puts you in the line of fire.”

You grin faintly. “You’re projecting.”

She scoffs. “I’m not talking about myself.”

You know exactly who she means.

She hasn’t said his name. She never will. She doesn’t need to.

She studies you for a long moment, then exhales slowly. “Let me ask you something. Seriously.”

That makes you straighten, just a fraction.

“Most people,” she says carefully, “would look at the way you interact with him and assume you’re… falling for him. Or at least drawn in. Affectionate. Curious in the wrong way.”

You laugh again, sharp and bright. Too bright.

“They’d be idiots,” you say.

She nods. “I know.”

You pause.

That’s the problem. She knows you too well.

“You’re colder than I am,” Arlecchino continues. “You don’t fall in love. You don’t even like yourself enough for that. Your heart’s a locked vault, and the key’s been thrown somewhere even you don’t bother looking.”

You don’t deny it. There’s nothing to deny.

“So,” she says quietly, “you’re not there because you want him.”

You smile. “Correct.”

“Then you’re there because you want something from him.”

Your smile widens.

She doesn’t like that.

“Are you trying to get rid of him?” she asks bluntly.

The question lands heavy, deliberate.

You burst out laughing.

Not mocking. Not defensive. Just… joyful. Unrestrained.

Like the question delighted you.

“Oh,” you say, wiping at your eyes. “That’s what this is about?”

She doesn’t answer. She’s watching you too closely.

You nod thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”

Her jaw tightens. “Do you hate him that much?”

You lean forward now, elbows on your knees, grin still in place. “Hate’s a strong word.”

“You didn’t deny it.”

You tilt your head. “I didn’t confirm it either.”

She exhales sharply through her nose. “You’re impossible.”

You shrug. “He hasn’t made any major mistakes yet.”

“Yet,” she repeats, displeased.

You hum. “If he did, it’d be… appropriate. Clean. Simple.”

She stares at you. “That’s not how you talk about people you don’t care about.”

You laugh softly. “Care is also a strong word.”

There it is again—that unsettling ambiguity. The thing she hates most about you.

You’re not traditionally cruel. You’re not traditionally kind either. You’re something else entirely.

Detached in a way that makes your mercy more frightening than most people’s malice.

“Listen to me,” Arlecchino says, voice lower now. “I don’t like him. I don’t trust him. And I don’t want you getting attached.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Attached?”

“Yes,” she snaps. “And don’t play dumb. Attachment isn’t just love. It’s habit. Routine. Interest. Entertainment.”

That last word hits.

“You do this,” she continues. “You find something new. Something fascinating. You treat it like a game. A puzzle. A toy.”

You smile, unapologetic.

“And then,” she says, softer, “you stay longer than you should.”

You don’t answer.

“That’s how you get hurt,” she finishes.

You laugh again—but this time, it’s quieter. Warmer. Almost fond.

“You’re worried about me,” you say.

She scowls. “Don’t make it sound cute.”

“It is cute.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re missing the point.”

“No,” you say gently. “I understand it perfectly.”

You stand, stretching lazily, as if the conversation hasn’t just exposed something raw and dangerous between you.

“I’m not in love,” you say. “I’m not trying to fix him. I’m not trying to save him.”

She watches you carefully. “Then what are you doing?”

You pause. Just long enough.

“Seeing what happens,” you reply.

Her expression darkens.

“That’s exactly what I’m irritated of.”

You laugh softly, almost tenderly. “You don’t need to be.”

She doesn’t believe you. And you don’t correct her.

Because the truth—whatever it is, hate or curiosity or something far worse—remains locked away.

Even from yourself.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Morning comes to you quietly, like it knows better than to startle you.

You wake alone in your dorm bed, controller abandoned somewhere near your ribs, screen long since gone dark. Your body feels heavy in the pleasant way that only comes from passing out without guilt. No alarms. No hands shaking you awake. Just light—thin and gold—slipping through the window and resting on your face.

You smile.

It’s small. Peaceful. Almost sincere.

Outside, Sumeru Akademiya stretches into the morning like a living thing exhaling. Green canopies sway lazily. Students drift along paths with books tucked under arms, voices muted by distance. Everything looks… gentle. Ordered. A system that believes it understands itself.

You lie there and watch it for a while, unmoving, as if the world outside the glass is something you’re allowed to observe but not required to participate in yet.

Your thoughts drift backward. They always do when you wake like this.

New Federation.

Most of your life lived there. Hallways you knew by sound alone. Streets you could walk blindfolded. Rooms that still existed in your bones long after you left. And her—always her. Your sister. Your best friend. Arlecchino. Loud where you were quiet. Sharp where you were soft. A blade to your blank page.

You remember childhood like a series of snapshots. Sitting on rooftops with knees drawn to your chest while she talked endlessly. You never had to respond much—she never needed it. You listened. You always listened. She trusted you with the things she never let anyone else touch.

Even then, she watched you closely.

Even then, she knew.

Your smile fades just a little as her voice echoes in your memory.

Don’t get attached.

You hum softly to yourself, amused.

Attached.

As if it were that simple.

You stare at the ceiling, tracing cracks you’ve memorized without realizing.

If only he weren’t so fun.

If only the variables weren’t so unstable.

If only the equation would just solve itself already.

This is… stimulation.

A problem with teeth.

An unsolved system that resists simplification no matter how many assumptions you strip away.

And maybe you do hate him.

You roll that word around in your mind like a marble, testing its weight.

Hate.

It’s a clean word. Sharp. People like it because it gives shape to things they don’t want to examine too closely. Hate implies morality. Judgment. A reason.

But your reasons are never that simple.

You despise unsolved equations.

Always have.

Problems that refuse to converge.

Variables that change behavior under observation.

Systems that shouldn’t work but do.

Systems that work too well.

Zandik is an equation that mocks you.

You don’t hate him because he’s cruel. Or dangerous. Or because others would call him a monster. Those are surface-level descriptors. Easy labels. You’ve never cared much for those.

You hate him because he doesn’t resolve.

Every interaction introduces new contradictions.

He’s consistent in his inconsistency.

Rational in ways that feel wrong. He follows rules that don’t align with the moral frameworks everyone insists are universal. You can’t predict him cleanly. Every model you build breaks under edge cases you didn’t anticipate.

That irritates you.

That fascinates you.

You sigh and roll onto your side, sunlight warming your back. Maybe Arlecchino is right. There are other ways to get attached. Habit. Interest. Curiosity sharpened into routine. But attachment implies vulnerability. Investment. A loss condition.

You don’t lose.

You never have.

You close your eyes briefly, letting the memory of last night’s conversation dissolve. Worry doesn’t suit her.

You’d rather remember her laugh. Her bluntness. The way she sees through you without ever trying to peel you open.

Eventually, you push yourself out of bed.

The floor is cool. The dorm is quiet. You move through your morning on autopilot—shower, clothes, bag slung over your shoulder. Your reflection in the mirror is as unreadable as ever. Blank expression. Dead eyes. Nothing that hints at the machinery humming beneath.

Perfect.

As you step outside, the Akademiya greets you with its usual calm efficiency. Tomorrow is the research trip. New Federation again. Official business. Papers signed. Objectives outlined. A mission wrapped in academic language.

And unofficially?

The M World Cup.

You smile again, sharper this time.

You’re looking forward to it. Sneaking away. Sitting somewhere high and distant, watching competition unfold. Humans at their most predictable and most irrational. Victory and loss reduced to numbers on a screen.

It’s comforting.

As you walk, your thoughts circle back one last time.

Do you hate Zandik?

Maybe.

But hate, to you, has never been emotional. It’s structural. Logical.

You hate inefficiency. You hate systems that generate suffering without necessity. You hate problems that remain unsolved not because they’re impossible—but because they refuse to reveal their premises.

If he ever crosses a line—truly crosses it—the solution will present itself.

Clean. Elegant. Final.

Until then, he remains an anomaly.

And anomalies are… interesting.

You step onto the transport, gaze fixed ahead, mind already partitioning itself neatly.

Whatever you feel—hate, curiosity, amusement, something unnamed—it’s all filed away where it belongs.

After all, equations don’t care how you feel about them.

They only care whether you can solve them.