Rain's POV :
For a second, the world drops out. Silence. Stillness.
And then—a sound rips through the quiet. A strangled, raw, impossibly close scream.
Everything inside me seizes.
He's there. Standing. But drenched in blood. Dark, sticky, gleaming across his clothes, his skin, his hands. It coats him like a second skin, and my chest constricts so sharply it feels like I can't breathe.
How is he even walking? How can he still be standing?
Every instinct screams—move, reach, do something—but my mind can't form words. My body moves before thought, rushing to him, driven by terror I can't name.
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't speak. Just lets me guide him to the floor, his weight pressing against my hands like a stranger I'm supposed to steady, expression blank—like he half-expected nobody would even move toward him.
There's no blood.
Just a graze on his shoulder—thin, angry, bleeding but shallow.
My breath catches. My vision blurs.
I stare at him, eyes burning, mouth open like I'm about to say something—anything—but nothing forms. The words collapse before they reach my tongue.
That blood wasn't his.
That's good.
But if it's good, why does my stomach twist like this?
Why can't I breathe?
Whose blood is it then?
The thought hits me like a punch, and my legs nearly give out. The room tilts, sharp and disorienting.
A sound breaks out of me—small, shaky. A sob.
Then another.
And then the dam breaks.
I fold over him, crying into my hands, crying into the space above his chest, crying because I don't know what the hell else to do. A whole minute—maybe less, maybe more—passes in a blur of salt and shaking ribs and air that won't go in properly.
He doesn't say a word.
Doesn't reach out.
Just watches me—quiet, unreadable—like he doesn't understand why anyone would cry for him.
And that makes me cry harder.
Eventually something inside me just… detaches. Goes still. I wipe my face, my movements robotic, and start tending to the graze. It's not deep. Not dangerous. Something simple I can fix.
He's okay.
He's alive.
Relief crashes through me so violently it feels like pain.
And then—without thinking—I slap him.
Hard.
The sound cracks through the room.
All the fear and confusion and fury burst out at once:
"What if something happened to you?"
"You were just going to leave me alone? Again?"
"This is ridiculous, Danny—why do you keep a gun?"
"What do you mean you were going to take care of it?"
And then the worst question—the one that crawls out of my chest like something with claws:
"Whose blood is that?"
It hangs in the air between us.
Thick. Heavy.
Alive.
I can still feel the wetness drying on my hands. I can still see the streaks on his skin. And suddenly I don't know what terrifies me more—
The idea that he's hurt.
Or the idea that he's not.
He tilts his head slightly, just enough to meet my gaze for a moment. The faintest twitch of surprise, of incomprehension, crosses his face, like he's trying to register why I'm here, why I'm doing this. And then he settles, letting me be the one in control, just… letting it happen.
He doesn't say a word.
Just stares. Unflinching.
A wave hits me—nakedness, exposure, vulnerability so sharp it claws at my chest.
There's a wall between us now, solid and unyielding, and I can feel every brick of it pressing against me.
Jake lingers in the background, hesitant, caught between curiosity and caution. His eyes flick between us, unsure if he should intervene or disappear.
I point at him, voice tight but firm. "You—get out. I want to speak to him alone."
Jake hesitates, caught in the weight of the moment. He doesn't move.
Not until Danny gives the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod. Then, finally, Jake retreats, leaving the two of us in the heavy silence.
I glance down at my hands—smeared with blood, sticky and cold against my skin. My forearms burn from the grime, the tension, the hours of chaos. I feel… dirty. Exhausted. Hollow.
I need focus. I need energy. If I'm going to get through this conversation—if I'm going to reach him, understand him, hold him accountable—I can't collapse here. Not now.
"I'm going to take a shower… can I get some clothes?" My voice feels alien, hollow.
"Yeah. I'll leave something for you."
I strip in the washroom and let the warm water wash over me, scrubbing off blood, headache, tears—every trace of chaos clinging to my skin. A soft knock.
"What is it?"
"Clothes. On the bed."
I dry quickly, pull on the loose shorts and oversized T-shirt he left. No thought, no hesitation.
I step out. He's there. Standing, watching, trying to speak, but I stop him.
"Take a shower," I tell him, and he just nods, leaves.
I move through the house, scanning for something to eat. Ordering isn't safe; who knows what's out there. I find Oreos, open the pack, and eat a few, mechanically.
Then I see him—white T-shirt falling neatly over broad shoulders, grey boxers revealing strong, muscular legs that used to be lanky, thin. His skin has color now, warm and alive, not the pale boy I remember.
" sit " he sits on the chair opposite to me.
I offer him the packet and he takes one without hesitation.
The bite hits me with a weird, piercing déjà vu.
Sitting here. Sharing food. Him sitting across from me.
The boy I used to fight with at the kitchen table, argue over who got the last cookie, patch things up over laughter, over bites, over warm hands brushing flour off each other's arms.
And now he's here. Blood, violence, chaos surrounding us, and yet… he's here. Eating an Oreo. Alive. And somehow, it makes the world feel less like it's about to collapse.
I hand him another cookie. He takes it, and for a moment, the rest of the world falls away.
The past and present crash together in that small, ridiculous, grounding moment. And for the first time since I arrived here, I can breathe.
I lean back in my chair, letting the memories wash over me, letting the absurdity of this small, stolen normalcy anchor me.
"Now," I say, eyes locked on him, "you start talking. Or I'm walking out right now."
I catch it then—his eyes sharpen, hard and precise, every line of his face tense, alert. There's a weight behind that gaze, a calculation I can't ignore. Something in me tightens, a warning I can't shake. I know, without him saying a word, that this isn't going to be easy.
This is just the beginning—and whatever comes next, it's going to be a very long conversation.