Papercastl - Love At First Gunshot

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(set after season 2)

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The street was cold but never quiet. Distant car horns, a dog barking from some apartment window, the murmur of late-night conversations leaking from bars—all of it painted the familiar chaos of the city after dark. Karen walked with her coat pulled tighter, boots clicking against the damp pavement, eyes forward, thoughts elsewhere. It was routine. Predictable.

But the noise dulled as she veered off the main road, turning into a narrow alleyway—a shortcut she’d taken a hundred times before. The glow of the streetlamps gave way to flickering shadows. It wasn’t dangerous, not really. Just quiet. Too quiet. She wasn't someone who's easily scared but a girl has her weaknesses when it comes to unexpected situations. Or faces.

She was about to exit the alleyway when it happened. Karen didn’t hear the footsteps behind her—just the sudden, firm grip on her wrist and the jolt as her body was wrenched from the oncoming sidewalk glow into a pocket of shadow.

“Hey!” she yelped, breath catching, heart leaping into her throat. Her hand flew to her bag, instinct primed to defend, already reaching for the weight of her weapon.

“Shh,” came his voice—low, raw, and urgent. That voice. That goddamn voice that wrapped around her ribs like armor and made her knees go weak. His palm hovered in front of her chest, steady, protective, like a shield he was desperate to be, even now.

Her spine pressed into the freezing brick wall of the alley. Adrenaline blurred her vision until it adjusted, blinking away the spots. Then she saw him. Frank. Hood drawn tight, jaw clenched so hard she swore she could hear the grind of his teeth, his eyes jittery like his soul couldn’t sit still inside him.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, trying to slow the racing in her chest. “You scared the hell out of me. What the hell was that?”

He didn’t speak. He never did at first. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with shaking fingers, studying him like a language she once knew but was forgetting. The fidget in his stance. The rigid way he held himself, like a dam about to crack.

“What’s going on?” she asked, voice thinning. The alley held its breath. Frank’s gaze skated past her, refused to land. That avoidance twisted something deep inside her. “Frank,” she said again, gentler now, almost a plea. “Is someone after you?”

But before the words could finish bleeding out of her, he dropped the blade.

“I’m leaving town.”

It landed like a knife between her ribs. She flinched. “What?”

“I’m driving out tonight.” His voice was quiet. Brittle. Like every word was a splinter he had to push through his throat. “For as long as I can.”

Her arms wrapped tight across her chest, a makeshift brace for the blow. She blinked, fast and sharp, as if she could outpace the storm building behind her eyes. “Is this about your... business?”

He gave a single, heavy nod. The kind that said: Yes. And there’s nothing you can do to change it.

The silence swelled, aching and infinite. She couldn’t take it anymore.

“When will this end, Frank?”

His jaw ticked. Hands buried in his hoodie, clenched so hard the fabric trembled. “It won’t,” he said. “It never will. It follows me. So I follow it back.”

She closed her eyes. It was always this. This cursed loop—blood, duty, distance. It was the only road he knew how to walk. Her voice cracked. “I told you we’d figure it out together. I meant that. I can handle this, Frank, I can handle you. Why won’t you let me?"

His words haunts him back. There's no warm, cozy ending, not for me.

She asked him to choose someone else, instead of another war.

I don't want to.

His eyes snapped to hers then, ending the dramatic flashback. That was the closest she had ever come to talking about her feelings for him since their last encounter.

His demeanor cracked. One step. Just one. That’s all it took for the air to thicken, for her heart to scream in her chest. His stare burned. He looked at her like he’d been starving and just remembered the taste of her. Like she was the only soft thing in his broken world.

“Karen, hey,” he said, softly. Gently. The voice of a man unraveling. "Listen to me." His voice landed somewhere between a plea and a promise.

He reached for her—slowly, reverently—and took her hand like it was sacred. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, almost like he was trying to memorize them before the memory faded.

“It’s because I feel the same," he said, squeezing her hand. "Because I want there to be an after for you too. Yeah?” His voice wavered with the weight of a truth too painful to hold. “But you need to know that there’s no after for me," He paused his words as if it guts him to say it. "I just don't have one, Karen.”

He spat out the sentence as if it was obvious. As if it was a fact. What could she ever say to that? What could she ever say to a man that decides his own fate? Each word splintered against her chest anyway.

Her lip trembled. Her hands shook. Tears welled, furious and fragile, brimming in defiance. It was hopeless. She hated that she understood him. She hated even more that she felt for him anyway.

And it only got worse when he didn’t let go of her hand. He was gripping it tightly, like a desperate man. She remembered the time he held it similarly in the hospital bed. A man who needed comfort and she was the woman who gave it.

She used two hands at that time, didn't want to let go. Now, her right hand ached with loneliness while her left hand was filled with his warmth. He's just holding one hand; maybe it was easier to let go. He was always full of intention, no matter what he did. That thought made her want to pull away.

Instead, she turned her face away—not because she didn’t want to see him, but because she knew he’d see her. Every fracture. Every unspoken word. Every desperate hope she was trying to swallow.

“Come on, Karen,” he said. Voice rough. Voice ruined. Yet so soft and gentle. “You deserve better than this. Hm?” Better than him. He bowed his head down slightly, just to try and catch her eyes.

That undid her. She turned back, slowly, like it physically hurt to move. Her eyes shimmered, lips parted, every inch of her screaming not to let him go. He felt it; her grief blooming like a bruise in the air between them. It hit him like shrapnel.

“What are we doing, Frank?” she whispered, barely above a breath. His thoughts flashed through a thousand possible answers yet, he still doesn't know. He doesn't know what she is to him, and what he is to her. It might be the only thing that keeps him sane, because naming it—giving it shape—would make it real.

And if it’s real, he could lose it. And if he loses it, he’s not sure what’s left of him. She’s the one thing that doesn’t fit into the war he’s built his life around. The one thing that doesn’t bleed or burn. She's light. She's home. And he’s a man who only knows how to leave both behind.

He stepped forward again, erasing more space. This wasn't the plan in the first place. He just wanted to say goodbye. But with Karen, Frank knew better than to expect control. She had a way of peeling back the layers, of making the war inside him feel quiet, even if just for a second. With her, he wasn’t himself. Not the weapon, not the ghost, not the man everyone feared.

With her, he remembered he had a heart and it terrified him. His calloused fingers rose to her cheeks and wiped away the tears tenderly. Hesitantly. Like each drop was precious and he was ashamed to be the one who caused them. He smiled then—sad and fleeting, a ghost of something that could’ve been.

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.” The weight of it crushed her. But it was still the truth, and it was enough for now. As if it was an instinct, she leaned in. Their foreheads touched. They stood locked in place, two broken people clinging to a moment too fragile to last. Their breath tangled. Their hearts refused to let go. It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t enough. But it was all they ever had.

In a moment like this, it always felt like the time froze. Reluctantly, she pulled back first. Because someone had to. Karen didn’t want to. God, she didn’t. But she did. Her eyes danced between his and the darkness behind him. But Frank wasn’t ready.

Not yet.

His hand found her waist and pulled her in—like a drowning man grasping the last branch above the current.

She gasped but melted into him, like her body remembered exactly where it belonged. Her arms wound around his neck, and she buried her face in his hair, breathing him in like a dying prayer. He held her too tightly. He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. Two hands, just this one time.

His grip trembled with restraint. He wanted to clutch her until the world ended. But even now, he denied himself what he wanted most. Because wanting her meant walking away.

He drank her in—her scent, her shape, her heat. He memorized the way her fingers curled against his nape, the rise and fall of her chest against his. He was in despair, knowing that she's home, and he had never stayed anywhere long enough to unpack.

When he finally let her go, it was like peeling skin off muscle. Every inch of space between them filled with cold and regret. He looked at her one last time, trying—begging—to etch every detail into his soul.

And then it hit him. Looking into her all-too-familiar, watery, strained blue eyes, his heart fell apart once more.

He couldn’t remember the last time he made her smile lines appear. The guilt crashed through him. Violent. Ugly. True. This is what I do, he thought. I destroy things. I destroy her. And I haven’t even touched her properly.

His eyes burned with the sting of realization, and for a moment, he looked at the ground, overwhelmed by the grief of what he’d become. He gathered the last ounce of strength he had, his voice a whisper of goodbye.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, barely audible.

Karen’s smile was wet, broken. But still real. She recognized those words. It felt like a mantra between them. “You too.”

He turned away first. He always did. All she could do was stand there, hollowed out, as his shadow slipped into the night. Her arms ached. Her lungs refused rhythm. Even the streetlights seemed dimmer now—like the world itself was mourning with her.

Only her heartbeat remained. And the sound of her sniffles, echoing in the empty alley.

She took a breath. And another.

And tried—tried—to believe it would all be okay in the end. Even if it never really would.

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tried my best to depict their personalities and habits into the story. it's actually so hard to make the dialogues sound like them. they have their own play of words in the series and it drives me crazy.

anyway, it's hurt and comfort but comfort is still in the drafts hehe. let me know what y'all think!

also, i take a huge inspiration from punkynemo from ao3. they write kastle so painfully and beautifully and just the best angst known to mankind, in my opinion!!