Renren Again Cause Im Pretty Devoted To My Wife

14dwy Art Dump

Taken (Part 4/5)

Unedited, as all of these are. If it seems like it ends abruptly that's because it does, I cut out the end to spare you my sad attempt at including sexual tension lol. Ren and above image belong to @14dayswithyou

Summary: Angel comes to terms with their new situation and Ren is a simp as per usual

2.2k words

14 Days With You is an 18+ Yandere Visual Novel. MINORS DNI

Warmth. It’s all I can process as I groggily wake in a bed with black sheets, clearly not my own, with sunshine falling almost spitefully directly on my eyes through a crack in the curtains nearby. As my memory slowly comes back to me, I shoot upright in the bed, Fuck I’m at Ren’s place. My hip flares in pain once again, stubbornly reminding me how I got here in the first place.

I don’t have much time to myself as Ren peeks in, timidly asking, “How are you doing, Angel? I made some pancakes if you want some?” I recall our second date, when we ended up stranded at his place due to an unexpected storm. He made pancakes then too, but the situation is vastly different now.

I stare at him incredulously, “What the fuck, Ren?”

He avoids my eyes, “What- What’s wrong, Angel?”

My eyes sharpen to a glare, “Drop the act. You know what’s wrong you piece of shit. You fucking kidnapped me?!”

He makes an uncertain gesture, “I wasn’t- I didn’t want to! You just wouldn’t listen to me, you were going to call someone. You have to listen to me first.”

My face could not possibly display the extent of disbelief I had at his audacity, “You’re insane. Get out of my room.”

I see his eyes light up just slightly and I guess why, “No- no. I’m not staying here, I’m not living here. It’s mine for now because I don’t want you in it, so I’m claiming it.”

He nods, “What’s mine is yours Angel, you can claim anything you want.”

Frustrated at his contradicting shifts between aggressive and passive, I throw a nearby plushie at his head, watching with some satisfaction as he makes no move to avoid it, and it nails him square in the face.

He tilts his head hopefully, “Do you feel better now?”

I turn to my uninjured side, pulling the covers over my head, “Fuck off.”

I hear his quiet response of, “Okay,” before the door gently clicks closed.

Only moments later, he reappears with a plate of pancakes and a glass water, which he sets down on the nightstand next to me. I glare at him, making full eye contact as I swipe the glass onto the floor like a petulant cat. I immediately regret doing so as the glass makes a loud shattering sound, spilling water, ice, and glass everywhere. I flinch and start shaking as less than pleasant memories from my childhood resurface, triggered by the breaking glass.

Ren reassures me as though I had not fully intentionally broken it, “It’s okay, I’ll clean it up, just don’t walk over here.”

I scrutinize his movements as he returns with a towel and broom, cleaning the mess. The worst part is that he doesn’t seem angry, not even irritated. When he catches me staring at him he just flashes a smile. I fully expected to die at his hands right then, and he’s smiling?

When he finishes, he asks, “Anything else I can do for you?”

Coming from anyone else, that would’ve sounded sarcastic as hell, but he genuinely meant it. I stare at him for a long moment before speaking, “I don’t understand you.”

He shifts his weight from side to side, “What do you mean?”

I pause, considering, “Take your contacts out.”

He picks at his cardigan sleeve, “What contacts?”

I glare, “Do you really think I’m that fucking stupid?”

He stutters, “N- No, sorry, I just- force of habit I guess.”

I nod, “We’re past this soft persona, aren’t we? All bets are off, you went far enough to kidnap me, so I imagine I won’t be leaving anytime soon. Might as well drop the act, yeah? Not like I can break up with you now.”

He shakes his head, “I still want you to be happy Angel, if dressing and acting like this makes you feel more comfortable, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

I glare, “It doesn’t, it sickens me. Stop it.”

He seems taken aback, “Wha- What would you rather have me to do?”

I shake my head, “Goddamnit Ren, just stop pretending. Stop pretending to be someone we both know you aren’t. Y’know, I always suspected, just never wanted to confront you. I didn’t think I could take the betrayal if I was right.” I scoff, “Turns out I don’t have to figure out whether I can or not since I don’t have a choice. Never did, right? This was the only possible conclusion, no matter what I did, the only difference was whether I was here willingly or not.”

Ren avoids my eyes, “I’m sorry.”

I smile at him, speaking in a saccharine voice, “Oh Ren, my love, no you’re not. We wouldn’t be here if you were. Now stop treating me like I’m dumb. You know me far better than you let on, right? If that’s really what you think of me, I’ll be hurt darling.”

Despite my biting, sarcastic tone, Ren’s face still reddens at the terms of endearment, “Angel, I really don’t know what you want me to do, I am who I am, but I’ll change what you want me to change. Just tell me what to change and I will.”

I sigh heavily, pinching the bridge of my nose, “Alright, since you keep acting like you have no fucking free will or personality beyond being obsessed with me, I’ll give you the orders you seem to want so desperately. 1. Take out your colored contacts, 2. Put your piercings back in, 3. Stop covering up your tattoos, I can obviously see them, you’re not slick. Oh and 4. Just fully get rid of the pounds of concealer you wear all the time, it makes me uncomfortable just seeing it, much less having it on. Those are currently the easiest things you’re using to manipulate my opinion of you, but I have plenty more theories.”

Ren hesitates, scratching his jaw uncomfortably, “But- but you prefer-”

I throw my hands in the air, “And stop stuttering, I find it incredibly hard to believe that you genuinely have a stutter. And if you do- well, guess I’m an asshole. The point is you’ve gone far beyond the point where pretending to be my type will appease me. If you start being honest with me now, you might be able to regain a sliver of my trust, but if you keep being deceptive and manipulative – keep in mind I acted oblivious for most of our relationship – all I’m going to do is make your life a living hell. I’m sure I can get you disillusioned with me pretty damn quick.”

Ren smiles fondly at me, “I assure you, you can’t. But feel free to try if that’s what you want.”

I scoff, “Sure, I’ll remind you of that when you snap on me. Only took two months last time, bet I can at least halve that this time around. Also remember that I have next to nothing I actually care about and have withstood psychological and physical harassment for years at a time, so you’re not special, and you will not fucking break me.”

I see anger build behind his eyes as I speak and feel the familiar dread rise in my chest equally, but steel myself against it. I’ve dealt with worse, and I’m tired of being the victim. I will die before I’m chained up again. I hold onto as much determination and righteous fury as I can muster, preparing for anything he can throw at me.

But then he steps toward me, and suddenly I can’t move. It’s like with him all over again, I talk big to get him to back off, but then it backfires, and I just freeze, cowering in a corner and waiting for it to be over. My fists clench the sheets as I will myself to do something, anything. But I don’t, I can’t, helplessly watching as the tall figure looms ever closer, somehow not any less intimidating despite the pastel persona.

He reaches out a hand towards my face and I watch it closely, heart beating faster the closer it gets. Fuck fuck fuck, what do I do? I could bite him, but that would just make him angrier, I could run away, but he’d catch me easily. All I can do is glare and try to hide my shaking as much as possible. So I just sit and wait for the inevitable.

But when his hand reaches me, it’s gentle. Barely grazing my cheek with his knuckles before carefully cupping my face in his hands and guiding it to face his. I see only warmth in his eyes, empathy and understanding combined with an all-encompassing devotion I had never experienced before. Or maybe I had, it felt so distantly familiar…

His voice is as gentle as his touch, but somehow carries more weight, “My angel, I have never, ever, wanted to break you. The only thing I have ever wanted is to be by your side, to support you and make you happy for as long as I am able. I’d sooner break myself than hurt you in the slightest. All I ask is to stay with you and I will become anything you could ever want. I am yours, completely and unconditionally, forever.”

I stare at him in shock as he plants a light kiss on the top of my head and leaves with one last lingering glance behind him. As soon as he closes the door I slump over, my heart racing. Holy fuck, what was that? He was… kind. Creepy and overly devoted, sure, but words don’t mean all that much anyway, I’m sure he won’t be able to keep that up for long. More importantly, he genuinely doesn’t seem to want to hurt me. I honestly can’t believe he didn’t hit me. Even after I broke the- ugh shit, and I was so rude too, now I feel bad.

Wait no- he literally kidnapped me. He’s crazy. Why would he even act so obsessed with me, I didn’t do anything? Does he think it’ll get me to drop my guard? Or maybe… what had he said before? I can’t let you go again, not now that I finally have you? Something like that, right? How long has he been stalking me? What happened before? No, it doesn’t matter, I need to figure out how to get out, or just contact someone. How closely is he monitoring me?

I look up and around the room, looking for cameras. I saw a few suspicious places, but it would probably be better if he didn’t know that I knew they were there, so I couldn’t directly inspect them. Instead, I walk over to the closet, stepping inside and closing the door behind me before crouching in the far corner. As usual, it was a very comforting sensation, the walls of the closet around me as I felt invisible in the dark. A helpful quality.

But it wasn’t long before I heard the door to my room open and footsteps immediately approach my hiding place. So there are cameras, knew it. Light floods the closet and I flinch away from it. Outlined in the light I see Ren, crouching to my level.

He looks concerned, “Why are you in here, Angel?”

I drop my head down to rest face-down on my knees that were drawn up to my chest, “Cause I can. You gonna drag me out like he did?”

His eyebrows lower dangerously, “Like who did?”

I scoff, “Surprised you don’t already know. Guess you didn’t stalk me until after I turned 16 then. Either that or you weren’t very good at it.”

Ren doesn’t respond to that, instead turning and sitting at the opposite end of the closet with me. As my eyes adjust to the light, I see that he actually listened to me. His eyes were the same as that night, and he had two sparkling silver spikes below his lips. He had changed from his usual jeans and double sweater combo to the grey sweatpants and dark green long-sleeve shirt he wore the first time I stayed over at his place. His hair was pulled back into a small ponytail, showing the piercings in his ears as well. He looked self-conscious… and hot. I shake my head, Shut up, no, not the goddamn time.

All of a sudden, I notice something on his neck, “Holy fuck.”

He immediately responds, “What? What’s wrong?”

I crawl slightly toward him, squinting to make sure I saw it properly, “…When on earth did you get my name tattooed on your throat?”

He hesitates, touching the tattoo, or perhaps trying to cover it, “Uh… I dunno, recently.” He sounds defensive, “You told me to get rid of the concealer.”

I shift within arm’s length, “I did, thank you. I do genuinely appreciate you listening to me. But define recently. It’s completely healed, so clearly not that recent.” I reach out, slightly brushing the skin with my thumb to check the texture, confirming, “Yeah, that’s gotta be at least two months old.” I smirk, pulling back slightly, “You’d think I’m the yandere, claiming you like that.”

Someone hit me with their car and I got isekai'd to a world that's really similar to my old one except in this one my collarbone is mysteriously broken

suggestive!

uhmmm... smash?

I'll post the uncensored one on X so.. MDNI 🔞

u can find this one here.

Happy birthday renren 😍🌻

It's my first time to draw him haha

Kinda annoying because I forgot his tattoo and my ibis paint need to be reset.. I might redraw this.

[redacted] finally!!

ACCEPT HIM?- REN/REDACTED X G.READER

14 days with you! is a 18+ visual novel Minors don’t interact!

Words: 9548

Genre: G.N Reader (Angst!)

Summary: 

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[REDACTED]...?

This one-shot is inspired from Chae Yul, Sian, The secret alliance stuff! Please check it out! This is a gift for his birthday!

Trigger Warnings:

Obsession & Stalking

Identity & Self-Hatred

Psychological Horror & Manipulation

Physical Restraint

Mental Breakdown & Trauma

Loss of Agency & Power Imbalance

Dark/Surreal Imagery

You spat.

The rats. The wretched, sacred rats. God’s vermin. Love incarnate. They fester in the walls, whisper in the dark. Their teeth are scripture, their hunger divine. They rot you from the inside out. FIRST YOUR MATTRESS, NOW YOUR BOOTS. You will give and give until there is nothing left. A sacrifice, unwilling but ordained.

They move in silence, except when they don’t. A chorus of claws, a hymn of gnashing teeth. They spread sickness like gospel, like prophecy fulfilled. Holy infection. Gnawing devotion. The plague of faith with pink tails and black eyes.

You will scratch. You will cough. You will kneel.

You’re done. Done with the walls that breathe, the floorboards that scratch back, the whispers in the vents. Done with the stink of decay seeping into your sheets, into your hair, into your skin. The rats can have it. The mattress. The boots. The whole fucking place.

You’re leaving.

Because of Ren. One kind man. Your boyfriend. Seven days, and somehow, you managed to talk it out. To say it. You liked Ren. You really did. Soft hands, soft voice, soft everything. What surprised you was how eager he was—with that. With you. The moment you said you liked him, it was over. He latched on, sticky-sweet, clinging like you might disappear if he let go.

You didn’t mind.

The hallway smelled like dust and something old, something settled. You wanted to say goodbye. Just a quick knock on Violet’s door, a small wave, maybe a half-smile if you were feeling generous. You didn’t even like her that much—she was just there, always outside her apartment smoking cloves, watching the world through heavy-lidded eyes like she already knew how everything would end. But she was nice enough. She was someone who existed in the same space you did, which had to count for something.

You shifted the box in your arms, fingers curling against the cardboard, and turned toward her door.

Then—

“Angel, are you okay?”

Ren.

You startled, nearly dropping the box, because you hadn’t heard him approach. He was just there, suddenly, like he had been waiting for the exact moment you thought of leaving him alone. Wide blue eyes peeking out from under the rim of a froggy hat—soft green, button eyes, covering every inch of his fluffy pink hair. Every inch. Not a single curl in sight.

You giggled. You couldn’t help it.

He tilted his head, smiling at the sound. But something nagged at the back of your mind. He never covered his hair. Ren was all about touch—he liked when you played with it, when you ran your fingers through it, when you tugged just a little and watched his lashes flutter. He liked being seen. But now it was hidden, every strand tucked away beneath thick fabric, like it was never there at all.

Before you could ask, he noticed the box in your arms and made a small noise. “I’ll carry that.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay.”

For a second—just a second—his lips curled, something smug flashing in his eyes before he laughed and ran.

“Who reaches first?!”

And like that, your thoughts scattered. You gasped, gripping the box tighter as he took off down the hallway, his laughter bouncing off the walls.

“Ren—!”

But you were already running after him, giggling as you tried to catch up, feet pounding against the floor. The weight of the box slowed you down, but Ren wasn’t even trying to win, just looking back at you with that too-wide smile, steps just fast enough to keep you chasing. He liked when you chased.

You didn’t realize you had forgotten to knock on Violet’s door. Didn’t realize you hadn’t said goodbye at all.

Didn’t realize that, maybe, Ren had planned it that way.

Outside, the air was cool against your skin, the last traces of evening pressing soft against the horizon. The world was quiet out here, the hum of streetlights blending into the distant chatter of a city that never fully slept. Ren slowed to a stop near the moving truck, turning to face you with a victorious grin, still cradling your box like a prize.

“You lose,” he teased, rocking on his heels. “That means I get a kiss, right?”

You rolled your eyes, breathless from running. “That’s not how that works.”

Ren pouted, but his eyes were still smiling. He tilted his head, the froggy hat slipping just slightly forward. “I carried your box. You should reward me.”

“You stole my box.”

“Carried.”

“Stole.”

He gasped, dramatic, clutching at his chest. “Angel, I would never. You wound me.”

You laughed, reaching for the box, but he shifted it out of your reach with ease, holding it high over his head. You huffed, stepping closer, and he took a step back, grin widening.

“What’s with the hat?” you asked, changing tactics. You squinted at him, stepping in just a little more. Close enough to touch. “You never wear hats.”

His smile didn’t falter, but something in him stilled for just a moment, just a breath. “I wanted to be cute for you.”

“You’re always cute.”

He blinked. Then laughed—soft, warm, delighted, like he hadn’t expected you to say it. The box lowered slightly. “Angel.”

“Ren.”

The space between you buzzed. He tilted his head again, letting you see just the faintest flush dusting his cheeks, exaggerated by the green of the froggy hat.

“…Do you like it?”

You hummed, reaching up to tug at the rim just a little. “I like you.”

His breath hitched. And then he melted, shoulders loosening, eyes softening into something devoted. Obsessed.

“I love you,” he murmured.

Your chest squeezed. “It’s been seven days.”

“So?”

You had no answer. And maybe that was an answer in itself.

You lost.

Ren beat you to the entrance of his building with that same smug grin he always got when he pulled ahead. He didn't gloat, but you could feel it radiating off him, warm and sticky like honey in the sun. And you? You just huffed, breathless, grinning like an idiot as you caught up, half-wondering how he had the energy to sprint and look so unbothered about it.

Then he swiped his electronic key card.

WOAH.

Yeah, okay, you still said it. Loud, too. Like the first time. Like you hadn’t already visited this place, hadn’t already gawked at the sheer absurd richness of it. But come on—he had a whole damned foyer. In an apartment.

Ren laughed as the doors slid open with a soft, expensive-sounding click. “You really like saying that, huh?”

You shot him a look. “Well, sorry, not all of us live in a place where the elevator doesn’t creak like it’s about to collapse.”

“I’d save you if it did.”

His voice was light, teasing, but you didn’t doubt he actually meant it. And you? You just sighed, pretending to roll your eyes as you stepped inside.

Still ridiculous. Still overwhelming. Still unbelievably nice.

It smelled expensive in here, like something clean but not sterile, like whatever subtle scent they pumped through luxury hotels. The lighting was soft, the floors heated. Your shoes felt wrong stepping onto them, like you were dirtying something meant to stay untouched.

But Ren was already ahead of you, dropping your box by the entrance like it was nothing, then reaching into a small cubby near the wall. “Here,” he said, holding something out to you. A pair of house slippers, still neatly wrapped in plastic.

You blinked. “You… bought me shoes?”

Ren hesitated, his usual confidence dimming just a little. His fingers twitched on the plastic wrapping, and then, for once, he actually looked shy.

“You’re staying, so…” He cleared his throat, shoving them into your hands. “It’d be rude to make you walk around barefoot.”

What the hell.

What the hell.

It was still so insane to you. Not the apartment, not the foyer, not the money. Ren. Ren being this nice. Ren being so nice. To you. You had only known him for seven days and he was already like this, already so attentive, already ready for you, like he had been preparing for this from the start. It was a little weird. A little eccentric.

But you? You were an idiot. A dumb, lucky idiot.

So you took the slippers, sat down, and pulled them on. Bless this man.

Ren watched, his eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place, then exhaled, like he had just won some kind of internal debate. “Oh,” he said, suddenly fidgeting again. “And, uh. About that.”

You looked up.

Ren rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting to the side. “I, um. I gave you your own room. For now.”

For now.

You blinked again, slower this time.

“I just—” He hesitated, then smiled, small and careful. “I don’t want to overstep anything. Y’know, since we’re still figuring things out.”

…What the hell.

You stared at him, at this boy who had just beaten you in a race to his stupidly fancy apartment, who had already bought you house slippers, who had set up an entire room for you just so you wouldn’t feel pressured, and you just—

You didn’t know what to say.

So you did the next best thing: you thanked him. Earnestly.

Ren beamed. That stupid, boyish, sticky-sweet smile that made your stomach turn weird.

And then, finally, finally, you asked what had been itching in the back of your mind since he first popped up out of nowhere.

“…Why are you wearing that hat?”

Ren blinked. “Huh?”

You pointed. “The frog hat. It covers your entire head. I can’t see your hair.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything. Then, too quickly, he blurted, “I, uh. I kinda messed it up.”

You tilted your head. “Messed what up?”

“My hair.” He scratched his cheek, looking away. “Ordered the wrong batch of dye…” His voice dropped, muttering something too low for you to hear.

You squinted. “What?”

But Ren was already stepping away, already shifting the conversation like a well-practiced trick. “Anyway!” He clapped his hands. “You should change. The bathroom’s down the hall.”

You frowned, suspicious, but he only smiled.

Too easy. Too slick.

Ren sniffled. Just a little. A soft, barely-there sound, like he was trying not to make a big deal out of it, but you noticed. You always noticed.

“You okay?” you asked, eyeing him as he rubbed at his nose.

“Oh—yeah, yeah.” He waved a hand dismissively, his voice a little stuffy. “Just a little sick. Nothing serious.”

You frowned. “You should rest.”

Ren brightened, suddenly perking up way too much for someone who had just admitted they were sick. “Oh, but before that—” He rocked on his heels, looking almost nervous now. “I, uh. I wanted to tell you something.”

“…Okay?”

His fingers twitched at his sides. Then he cleared his throat, standing up just a little straighter, as if that would help get the words out properly.

“So, um.” He took a breath. “I already paid your rent.”

Silence.

You blinked.

“What.”

“For the whole year!” he added quickly. His hands shot up in some kind of panicked gesture, as if to soften the insanity of what he had just said. “I just—I thought it’d make things easier for you, and—”

“What.”

He stammered. Actually stammered. “It’s—it’s fine! You don’t have to pay me back or anything, I—”

“Ren.”

“I just—I want you to be comfortable! That’s all!” He was so frantic, so eager, so stupidly bright-eyed about it, like an overexcited puppy who didn’t quite realize he had just knocked over the whole table.

You just stared.

He paid your rent. For the entire year.

“What the hell,” you whispered, voice barely steady.

Ren flinched, and the sight of it broke you. He didn’t want you to be upset. He didn’t want you to think of it as a bad thing, didn’t want you to feel like a burden or anything other than happy. You could see it in the way he was fidgeting, his fingers curling and uncurling at his sides, his whole body practically vibrating with nervous energy.

It was too much.

And you? You almost cried.

You weren’t even sure what hit you first. The sheer weight of it, the overwhelming kindness, the way he was so eager to give, to do this for you, to take on something that wasn’t his responsibility just because he wanted to.

Ren made a tiny, startled noise when you stepped forward. He barely had time to react before you crashed into him, arms wrapping tight around his middle, pressing your face into his chest.

For a second, he didn’t move.

Then, suddenly, he almost jumped, body jerking before he practically melted into you, hugging you so tight, so fiercely, like he had been waiting for this.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you mumbled, voice thick. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.” He buried his face against your shoulder, voice muffled but earnest. “I wanted to, Angel.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deep. You didn’t deserve him. You really, really didn’t deserve him. He was too nice. Too nice. It almost hurt how nice he was.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, his face way too close, his arms still tight around you, warm and solid and real.

You kissed his cheek.

Ren froze.

A tiny, sharp inhale. A complete full-body reaction.

You smiled, pressing your forehead against his, barely able to see with how blurred your vision had gotten. “Thank you for coming into my life.”

He looked love-struck.

Actually, physically struck by love.

His lips parted, his pupils huge, his face so red it almost matched his usual hair color—except, well. You still couldn’t see his hair. Stupid froggy hat.

For a moment, you thought he might cry too.

Instead, he suddenly pulled back. Too fast. Too clumsy.

“I—I should—” He turned, stepping away only to trip over absolutely nothing.

“Ren!” You reached out instinctively.

He stumbled but caught himself against the wall, laughing—embarrassed, giddy, too many emotions packed into one person. “I’m okay! I’m okay.”

You frowned. “Be careful.”

He exhaled hard, shaking his head, still smiling like an idiot. Then, finally, he looked back at you, softer now. “Go sleep, Angel.”

You couldn’t quite place it, but something in his tone had shifted, as if there were a thousand unsaid things he was trying to hold back. You smiled, ready to retreat into your room for the night, the events of the day still swirling around in your mind like a fever dream.

Then, as you were about to close the door, he appeared again, holding your clothing box in his hands. He looked… almost nervous. His cheeks were tinged with pink, and there was a slight tremor in his fingers as he handed the box over to you.

“I—I almost forgot,” Ren said, his voice thick, like he was trying to control something. Something deep inside. He didn’t look directly at you at first, his gaze flitting to the floor, to the side—anywhere but your face.

"Thank you, Ren," you said, still feeling a sense of warmth bubble up from the way he had cared for you, for everything he’d done. It felt… unreal, the way he had been so giving, so gentle. But then, Ren shifted again, stepping just a little too close. His breath caught, and you could feel his presence grow around you, suffocating in its quiet intensity.

“Angel…” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly, almost like he was afraid to even say your name. He moved your hair away from your neck, fingers brushing lightly against your skin, sending an electric shock through you. You froze, caught off guard by the sudden softness in his touch, but there was something more there, something heavier, something dark.

“I—” He hesitated, and you felt a weird knot form in your stomach. He wasn’t looking at you now, his eyes downcast, almost embarrassed. His hands were trembling, the clothing box in his arms like it weighed nothing compared to what was running through his mind. “Angel, I—I just need to ask you something.”

You blinked, your own heart racing now. “What is it?”

Ren swallowed, his voice barely a whisper. “Do you… do you love me?” His voice cracked as he spoke, the words torn between desperation and something else—something you couldn’t quite identify. He looked at you finally, eyes wide with need, with raw, unfiltered emotion. “Do you love me like this?”

You stared at him, confusion furrowing your brow. “Like this?”

He was visibly shaking now, his fingers tightening around the box. His face was flushed with embarrassment, but his eyes were clouded with a deep longing. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t pull himself back. "Like this. Just... me. The way I am. All of me.” He winced, as if the words were hard to get out, as if he had to rip them from his own chest. “I—I just want to know. If I’m perfect for you… in your eyes.”

There was a moment where time seemed to stretch, where everything felt suspended in the air between you two. You couldn’t help but feel a swell of something warm and protective, something that ached deep in your chest at how much Ren wanted this—wanted you to say it, wanted to hear you tell him that he was good enough.

You opened your mouth, but words failed for a moment. The emotional weight in the room was too much, too overwhelming for you to properly process all at once.

And then, with a deep breath, you spoke. “I love you, Ren.”

His eyes widened, and then his face—his beautiful face—was overcome with something so fragile and pure, it made you feel weak in the knees. His cheeks flushed deeper, and he suddenly pulled you into a tight, almost frantic hug. You could feel his heart beating hard against yours, his breath coming in uneven, desperate gasps.

“I love you, Angel,” he repeated into your hair, voice barely intelligible as he hugged you tighter, like he was trying to hold you in place, like he was afraid if he let go, you might slip away. He was crying, though you could barely tell through the small, stifled sobs. “I love you so much. I—I didn’t think you’d—” He cut himself off, his emotions overwhelming him, making him speechless.

You felt your own eyes well up, the overwhelming sense of affection filling you up until it hurt. “Ren, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

But you could feel his shaking, his entire body trembling with emotion. His hands clutched at you desperately, and he whispered, almost like a prayer, “Please, don’t leave me. Please… I can’t be without you. You’re everything. You’re everything.”

The desperation in his voice made your heart ache for him.

Ren pulled back slightly, his hands still on your shoulders, his eyes locked onto yours, that same intensity still burning. He smiled softly, though there was a hint of something frantic, like he was still trying to hold it all together. “I’m glad,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I’m glad you love me.”

He suddenly straightened, his posture almost rigid as he turned away, almost like he had just caught himself in something, a bit of control returning to his shoulders. “I’ll get the rest of your stuff,” he said quickly, trying to brush it off.

But you stopped him. “It’s fine, Ren. I’ve got it.”

“No, no. I—I want to,” he insisted, eyes shining with that same intensity. He gripped your hand in his, the small moment of affection making your stomach flip. “I’ll get it, Angel. Wait here.”

You nodded, but as he hurried down the hall, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was… off.

You entered your room, setting the clothing box on the bed. As you closed the door, you felt the faintest sense of unease gnaw at you, though it wasn’t something you could easily name.

Ren stood still in front of the mirror, his hand trembling as it pressed against his face, hiding the soft, self-loathing smile that spread across his lips. He was so close—so close to everything he wanted. To you. To having you. And now you were here. With him. You chose him.

You chose him.

In the quiet of the moment, his fingers traced the outline of his face, almost lovingly, as if to reassure himself that the person staring back at him in the mirror was truly who he had become.

The other REDACTED—the one who had never been enough—the one who was so weak, so pathetic—he was gone. Gone like the skin of an old, discarded self that no longer mattered. That person didn't deserve you. That failure didn’t deserve a single thought from you.

The new Ren, though? The one standing before you, the one you called by name, the one who held your heart in his palm with trembling fingers? That Ren was the one you loved.

He closed his eyes for a second, letting the thought wrap around him like a warm blanket, soothing the gnawing, twisted feeling in his chest. No more pretending. No more hiding. He had transformed for you—because you needed him. You needed him to be strong. To be worthy of you. So, he became Ren.

A tiny laugh escaped his lips, soft but dangerous, like a secret only he would ever know. He could feel it. The ache in his chest, the way his heart swelled when he thought of you. The way he almost lost control at the thought of you being with anyone else. But that was all gone now.

He had you.

And you—oh, you would never leave him. Not now. Not after everything he had done. Everything he had become.

His fingers curled tighter around his face, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, as if trying to suppress the wave of emotion threatening to drown him. He was weak again, but this time, it wasn’t from lack of effort. No. This time, it was because he had finally given in—given in to the need to own you, to make sure that no one could touch you. No one could have you but him.

But then his thoughts twisted again.

He hated himself.

He hated REDACTED.

The one who had never been good enough for anyone, especially you. The one who never understood why anyone would care about him, the one who couldn’t even keep his hair the right color. That REDACTED was worthless. A failure. And in the pit of his stomach, he still felt that gnawing self-hatred, the reminder of who he used to be.

He didn't deserve you.

He clutched the fabric of his clothes—his carefully chosen attire—and thought about the effort it took to craft this persona, this perfect version of himself. You wouldn’t love him if he was weak. You wouldn’t look at him the way you did now if you saw the truth beneath the mask. So he gave you Ren. This Ren. The strong, kind, loving Ren that you needed.

And somehow, it was enough for you. Enough that you would choose him.

The old REDACTED—the ugly, broken REDACTED—had no place in your life. That REDACTED would have only destroyed everything. But now, this new Ren—the one you needed, the one you loved—he would make sure you never left. He would make sure you belonged to him.

He lowered his hands, his reflection staring back at him, the soft pink hair still hidden beneath the frog hat, his body still just as delicate as ever. But beneath that surface was the raw, trembling devotion that would never let you slip away.

“You’re mine, Angel,” he whispered to the reflection, as if trying to remind himself of his purpose, his new self. “You are mine.”

And then the realization hit him: this was it. This was the moment.

There was no going back.

Ren gripped the edges of the counter, the dark, obsessive smile stretching across his face once more. He had crossed the line, and there was no one left to stop him. He had you now. And nothing would take you from him.

You leaned back against the cool, smooth surface of the couch, eyes staring into the nothingness of the wall in front of you as you spoke into the phone. Your voice was a quiet mix of frustration and fear, too many things you weren’t sure how to articulate.

“Yeah, Elenor... I’m still staying with Ren,” you sighed, your words coming out almost too tired. “I mean, I like him. I’ve always liked him... It’s just... it’s like he’s... always been there. So kind, so nice to me.” Your throat tightened slightly at the thought. “He does everything for me. I don’t know how he does it, but it’s like he’s... trying to make up for something.”

The weight of the last few days sat heavy on your shoulders. Ren’s soft smile, his gentleness, the way he watched you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked. It all made your stomach twist in both comfort and confusion. And it wasn’t just that. There was something else, something that made you feel like you were on the edge of a truth you couldn't reach—yet couldn't avoid.

"But..." you continued, almost whispering, your words faltering. "I think I’ve taken too much of him. He’s always doing things for me, always... offering his space, his time. It’s like, I don’t even know how to repay him, you know? And I don't even know if I should be taking all of it. It feels wrong sometimes."

The thought of too much—of overstaying your welcome in his space, in his life—felt suffocating. You had been around him for a week now, and it was intense. More than you could have imagined.

Elenor’s voice came through the phone, a soft but persistent murmur of concern. "Y/N, you're not a burden. If you feel comfortable, then stay. But... what's really bothering you?"

Your heart skipped, and you exhaled sharply. You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees, a wave of worry crashing over you as you thought of that other thing—the stalker. The person who had been creeping around, sending odd messages, showing up in places they shouldn’t be. It had been escalating, and it terrified you more than you wanted to admit.

“It’s just... Ren,” you said, barely believing it yourself as the words left your lips. “I mean, he told me he would keep me safe from them. That one word... ‘safe’... He makes me feel like I trust him more than anyone else. And I... I do. I trust him. I trust him more than I should.”

Your voice dropped off at the end, an unsettling feeling in the pit of your stomach. That wasn’t what bothered you. What bothered you was the thought that maybe you shouldn’t trust him as much as you did. You had no real reason not to... but still, something gnawed at you. It felt like there was something more—something you weren’t seeing.

You stood, pacing slightly as the phone sat in your hand. “But… Elenor, it’s like... why do I feel like I’ve known him longer? Like I’ve been through this with him before? Maybe I’m just being dramatic, or it’s just a dream. But I can't shake the feeling... that I know him—no, that he knows me in a way no one else does. It’s... it’s so hard to explain.” You stopped in your tracks, staring out the window with your breath caught in your throat.

You knew it didn’t make sense. You trusted Ren. You really did. He was so kind, so patient, but something about the situation felt off. You could feel it crawling beneath your skin, just waiting for you to acknowledge it.

"God, Elenor," you muttered, "Why am I even thinking this way? He’s just trying to protect me... and I’m sitting here, suspecting him? What is wrong with me?"

The guilt twisted in your chest.

You hung up the phone, feeling the weight of everything press down on you. The stalker. Ren’s kindness. Your growing trust in him. It was all tangled up in your mind, making it hard to think clearly. You wanted to feel safe. You wanted to believe in him completely. But there was that other feeling. That whisper in the back of your head, telling you there was something you hadn’t seen yet.

And as much as you tried to push it away, it was growing louder.

But you couldn't… You couldn’t doubt him. Not now. Not when he’d done everything to keep you safe, to make you feel welcome.

But still…

Why did it feel like you were standing on the edge of something you couldn’t control?

You decided to sleep..

The world around you felt heavy, like swimming through something thick and suffocating. You weren’t sure when you had fallen asleep, but here you were—somewhere that felt both distant and too close at the same time.

You heard it first.

A voice. Soft. Gentle. A whisper floating through the void like a lullaby.

"Angel…"

Your heart squeezed. That name.

"Angel… where are you?"

You turned, eyes darting through the darkness, searching. Footsteps echoed, and you realized—you were running.

But why?

With every step, something felt off. Your body—smaller. Your legs shorter. The oversized sleeves of your favorite purple hoodie brushed against your hands, just like it used to when you were little. And then, through the haze of memories that weren’t quite memories, you saw him.

A boy.

His hair was black, not Ren’s familiar soft pink, and his blue eyes shimmered under the dim, dreamlike light. He stood there, small and hesitant, clutching something in his hands. He looked familiar—too familiar—but the name in your head didn’t quite fit.

Wasn’t this… REDACTED?

No.

No, it wasn’t.

Your breath hitched as you moved closer, feeling a weight settle deep in your chest.

“Angel…” The boy—who wasn’t Ren—spoke shyly, his voice so small, so fragile. “I-I… I have something for you.”

He lifted his hands.

A ring.

Tiny, gold, glinting even in the strange darkness. Not fancy, not expensive—just a simple little band. But he held it like it was the most important thing in the world.

"For tuu…" he mumbled, his voice laced with nervous excitement.

Something in your heart twisted. This moment. You knew this moment.

You reached out, almost touching his hands, when—

"Hey, what are you doing?"

A new voice.

Your head snapped to the side, and suddenly you weren’t alone with him anymore.

Another child. Taller. Leon.

His face was shadowed, unreadable, but you could feel his presence, his overprotectiveness. Even in the dream, even as a child, he stood between you and the boy like a wall.

He didn’t like this.

You knew before it even happened.

And then—he shoved him.

The tiny ring slipped from the boy’s hands, hitting the ground with a soft clink. His dark eyes widened in panic as he scrambled to grab it, but before he could—

Leon kicked it away.

“Stop bothering them,” Leon’s voice was sharp, almost possessive. “They don’t need weirdos like you.”

The boy froze.

Your chest tightened painfully, something screaming inside of you that this was wrong, wrong, wrong.

The boy stared at the lost ring, at Leon, then at you.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t fight.

Instead, he bent down, picked up the ring with trembling hands, and held it against his chest.

Then, so softly you almost didn’t hear—

“…Okay.”

A whisper.

“…I’ll try again.”

His small voice cracked.

His shoulders shook.

And then—he was crying.

It shattered something deep inside of you.

You saw your childhood self hesitate, stepping toward him, but Leon pulled you back.

“Let’s go,” Leon muttered. “You don’t need to waste time on him.”

Your small hands twitched at your sides.

Your child self looked back.

One last time.

At the boy holding the ring like it was all he had.

At the pain in his eyes.

At his tears.

And then—darkness.

Everything twisted.

Reality snapped and distorted like a glitching screen, and suddenly, it wasn’t just the past anymore.

Suddenly—

You were falling.

Falling straight into those dark, familiar eyes.

A deep, obsessive gaze.

And then—

Hands grabbed you.

Clutching. Pulling.

"Angel."

His voice.

"Stay with me."

You couldn't breathe.

"Angel."

You saw his face.

The boy was older now. No longer a child.

No longer soft.

His black hair, his dark, blue eyes.

"You promised."

Promised what?!

You tried to pull away, tried to run—

"Don’t leave me again."

And then—

A SMILE.

Wide. Twisted.

Obsessed.

The dark eyes swallowed you whole.

And then—

You screamed.

You woke up.

Gasping. Drenched in sweat.

Your heart pounded against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

The room was dark, too quiet, too unfamiliar.

Ren’s apartment.

You were safe.

Right?

Your hands clutched the sheets, your breath shaking. The dream—the memory?—was already slipping away, but that feeling, that fear, still clung to your skin.

That boy.

That name.

Why couldn’t you remember his name?

But you knew—you knew.

This wasn’t just a dream.

It was something more.

Something you had forgotten.

Something you had lost.

And yet…

You turned, staring at the bedroom door.

Your breath was still uneven, the remnants of that dream gripping at your chest like unseen hands. You needed air. You needed… Ren.

Slipping out of bed, your feet hit the cool floor, grounding you back into reality. This was Ren’s apartment. It was safe. You were safe.

Right?

You cracked open the door, peering into the dimly lit hallway. The apartment was silent, but something in the air felt off. Heavy. Like it was watching you.

Ren’s room.

That’s where you needed to go.

Step by step, you moved, the floor quiet beneath you. His door was just slightly ajar, enough that the soft glow of a nightlight seeped out. But when you pushed it open—

Empty.

Ren wasn’t here.

The neatly made bed, the folded blankets, the plush frog sitting perfectly centered on the pillows—everything was untouched. It looked like he hadn’t even been here tonight.

Your stomach twisted.

Where was he?

And then—

You heard it.

A noise. Faint, muffled, but unmistakable.

A voice.

Ren’s voice.

But he wasn’t speaking.

He was panting.

Short, shaky breaths, almost strained. Like he was struggling. Like he was—

Your body tensed as you followed the sound down the hall.

To the one place he told you not to go.

The room at the very end.

You swallowed hard.

He had said it was just old stuff.

Things he didn’t want to look at.

Things that didn’t matter anymore.

And yet…

You stood in front of the door.

The sounds were clearer now, the sharp rise and fall of his breath, like he was working himself into something feverish. It was almost desperate.

Your hand hovered over the handle, but—

A password lock.

The glowing numbers blinked at you, blocking you from whatever lay beyond.

You shouldn’t be here.

You shouldn’t even be thinking about this.

Forget it.

Just go back to bed.

Trust Ren.

Trust him.

But…

Your fingers twitched.

Curiosity curled around your ribs like an eager whisper.

Why was he in there?

Why not in his own bed?

Why lock the door?

And why… why did the way he sounded make something in your gut churn with uncertainty?

You didn’t understand.

Your hands were clammy, your heart pounding so hard you swore it would wake Ren—wherever he was.

The keypad blinked at you, waiting.

You hesitated, fingers hovering over the numbers. You tried something random—some goddess’s name, something mystical, something obscure. Nothing.

You exhaled, gripping your wrist, willing yourself to be rational.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

But the dream still lingered like static in your skull, the boy’s eyes, the lost ring, the way Ren had always felt so… familiar.

You licked your lips, staring at the keypad, and then—

You typed in your birthday.

Just as a joke. Just to see.

You didn’t even know why.

It wasn’t like you’d ever told him.

Right?

And then—

Click.

The lock flashed green.

The door unlocked.

Your blood went cold.

No.

That wasn’t—

That wasn’t possible.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you just stood there. Frozen.

Because this was wrong.

This was so wrong.

You never told him.

You would have remembered telling him, right?

The thought sent a sick shiver down your spine.

How did Ren know your birthday?

You stepped back, every part of you screaming to turn around, go back to bed, pretend you never did this.

And yet—

The door, now slightly ajar, called to you like a mouth just barely parted.

A dark, waiting secret.

And from inside—

The sound of Ren’s breath, sharp, shaking, desperate.

You had a choice.

Walk away.

Or step inside.

Your breath was shallow as you stepped inside the dimly lit room, your fingers trembling as they pushed open the door just enough to let you slip in. The air was thick, oppressive, and something about it felt suffocating. Like you weren’t supposed to be here. Like the walls themselves were whispering turn back.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you took another step forward, your foot making the faintest creak against the floorboards. And then you saw them.

The pictures.

Lining the left-hand side of the room, pinned with precision, hundreds of them.

At first, they looked like ordinary photos—old, slightly yellowed at the edges. But the more you looked, the more your stomach twisted.

They were all of you.

You recognized some—pictures taken from your social media, old selfies, candid shots where you were mid-laugh or deep in thought. But others—

Your fingers clenched. Your breath hitched.

These were different.

A shot of you as a child, no older than five, in a park with a bright purple hoodie. A blurry image of you in middle school, sitting at your desk, eyes down, utterly unaware of the camera. You didn’t remember anyone taking these.

And worse—

They weren’t just old.

Some of them were before you even met Ren.

Your blood ran cold.

Your hand twitched at your side, fingers flexing, as if trying to ground yourself in reality. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe—maybe these weren’t what they seemed.

Maybe it was just a coincidence—

You turned, needing something—anything—to contradict the horror sinking into your bones.

But then you saw the right-hand side.

More pictures. More of you.

And these weren’t just old. They were recent.

You sleeping in your bed.

You sitting at a café, headphones in, oblivious to the camera.

You inside your own house, looking out the window, unaware you were being watched.

Your stomach churned. Your heart pounded, cold sweat forming at the back of your neck.

How?

You took a step back, swallowing thickly.

And then—

A sound.

Slow, ragged breathing.

It was coming from the farthest corner of the room.

Your head snapped toward the sound, your whole body frozen in place. And there, sitting hunched on the floor, shrouded in shadow—

A boy.

His back was facing you, his shoulders trembling slightly with every breath he took. His black hair fell in messy strands over his face, over his hands, over the bent curve of his form. It was long—longer than Ren’s. But the more you stared, the more a realization crept up your spine, slow and paralyzing.

The same eyes.

The same voice—when he had panted behind this door.

You felt your lips part before you even realized you were speaking.

“…[REDACTED]?”

The moment the name left your mouth, the boy flinched.

A violent, shuddering jolt, like you had struck him with a knife.

Slowly—so, so slowly—he turned his head.

And then—

You saw his face.

It was Ren. But it wasn’t.

The same eyes. The same face. But his pink hair—gone. In its place was jet black, stark against his pale skin, and his expression—

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t Ren.

It was raw. Wild. Desperate.

“Angel…” he whispered, voice hoarse, thick with something you couldn’t name. His wide, glistening eyes locked onto yours, his breath coming in uneven gasps. His lips parted, but no more words came out—only small, broken sounds, like something inside him was fracturing, shattering before your very eyes.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

It was him.

The boy from your dream.

The boy who called you Angel.

The boy who once held out a ring for you, years ago, only to be crushed by another’s cruelty.

The boy who never stopped chasing you.

“N-No… no no no no…” he whimpered, shaking his head violently, hands grasping at his hair as if trying to pull himself apart. “Not yet. Not yet, Angel, it wasn’t—It was supposed to be perfect.”

You took a step back, your entire body trembling. Ren never stuttered. Never lost control. But this—this was not the Ren you knew.

And then, like a dam bursting, he sobbed.

He sobbed.

Not soft, not quiet—loud, broken, shaking cries. His hands clawed at his face, his breath ragged and uneven. His shoulders shook as he gasped for air, like he was trying to breathe you in.

“It was going so well…” he choked out, curling into himself. “You stayed, you were happy, you—you loved me. You loved me, Angel. It was supposed to be okay, it was supposed to be—”

His voice cracked. His hands gripped his arms, nails digging deep, too deep.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

A shiver ran through your spine, your feet frozen in place.

You tried to understand. Tried to process.

Ren—no, not Ren.

[REDACTED] had always been there.

Watching.

Waiting.

The sweet, gentle Ren you knew—the one who kissed your forehead, who held your hand, who laughed with you—that was him, too.

But it wasn’t.

Because this was Ren.

A boy who had shed his old self like dead skin.

A boy who had erased every trace of the past that Angel—his Angel—might not have loved.

And now, you had seen it.

Now, you knew.

His wide, tear-streaked eyes found yours again, and in that moment, the madness swirling inside them was as clear as a mirror.

He smiled.

Soft. Devoted.

His lips curled, his entire body trembling with emotion, and then—

He crawled toward you.

“Angel…” he whispered, voice quivering, thick with tears. His fingers reached for your ankle, barely brushing against the fabric of your pants. “Please… don’t run.”

You stumbled backward, your breath hitching as your vision blurred at the edges. Panic clawed at your throat. No, no, no. This wasn’t happening. Your body screamed at you to run, but your legs barely moved—jelly beneath you, wobbling as you reached for the door.

Your fingers fumbled with the handle. You wrenched it open. A burst of cold air, freedom, just a step away—

A force yanked you back, slamming the door shut with a resounding thud. You gasped, air cut short as an arm wrapped tight around your middle, pulling you flush against a trembling chest. His breath was hot, uneven, panting against the shell of your ear. The scent of him—familiar yet foreign—invaded your senses. His grip was suffocating, his presence engulfing, an inescapable cage.

Your phone clattered to the ground. No chance of calling for help.

His hand pressed over your mouth as you tried to scream. His whole body shook against you, but whether it was from anger or desperation, you didn’t know. You struggled, nails digging into his skin, but it only made him hold tighter.

"Don’t," he whispered, his voice cracked, raw with something unreadable. His forehead pressed against your shoulder, his entire body tensed like a string about to snap. "Angel, don’t—don’t run from me."

You thrashed. You elbowed his ribs, stomped on his foot, anything to break free. His grip loosened just enough for you to twist away, for you to stumble toward the window, toward anything, anywhere but here. But he was faster.

A tangle of limbs, the sensation of falling. The impact knocked the air from your lungs as you hit the floor, a sharp pain shooting up your spine.

And then—

His weight pressed down on you, his knees caging you in.

His hands trembled as they found your wrists, pinning them above your head.

He was shaking. His breath hitched like he was trying not to sob.

You squeezed your eyes shut. You refused to look at him. You didn’t want to see whatever expression he was wearing—

"Look at me," he whispered, voice barely holding together.

You refused.

"Please." His voice cracked.

Slowly, hesitantly, your eyes opened.

His face was streaked with tears. His lips trembled, his expression raw, vulnerable, broken. And there, around his neck, a chain hung, glinting under the dim light.

A ring.

A ring you had seen before.

Your stomach twisted.

His hand curled around yours, and your breath hitched when you felt something cold against your finger.

Another ring.

It looked like a wedding band.

Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out everything else.

His fingers, scarred, burned, holding onto yours so tightly it hurt. His tattooed neck, the ink forming a heart, your name embedded in his skin like a permanent scar.

His lips trembled as he whispered, "You were always mine. From the start."

You felt your world tilt, reality fracturing at the edges.

And then, finally—

You screamed.

Around his neck, dangling from a delicate chain, was the same ring from your dream. The ring that little boy—no, REDACTED—had once offered you, the ring he had picked up from the dirt after Leon had tossed it away.

"I kept it," he choked out. "I kept everything. I waited. I changed. I—I became someone you could love. Because the old me—he wasn’t enough, was he?"

His fingers curled around yours, forcing them to touch the wedding band on his hand.

"But this time… I made sure. I made sure you’d stay."

You gasped, your breath catching in your throat, but he wasn’t done. His entire body trembled, a shuddering breath escaping him before his hands dropped to his sides, clenching into fists. His eyes darkened, an unhinged, broken sort of despair creeping into them as his lips parted. His entire frame shook.

"LOOK AT ME!" he suddenly screamed, his voice breaking apart, desperate, raw, aching.

You flinched, but he wasn’t stopping. His breath hitched, and then, like a dam bursting, he sobbed—loud, uncontrollable, a pitiful noise that clawed through the space between you.

"I ruined it! I—I ruined everything!" He collapsed against you, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as his body wracked with silent cries. "No, no, no… It was perfect, it was all going to be perfect, I just needed more time! More time to fix it, more time to be him! But you—You had to come here! You had to—!"

His hands gripped your arms like a vice, as if he were terrified you’d disappear the moment he let go.

"I didn’t want you to see me like this," he whispered, his voice raw, his words frantic. "I—I was supposed to be like Haruko. I was supposed to be good for you. Someone you could love. But I can’t—I can’t be him all the time! I can’t—"

He hiccupped between words, his fingers curling tighter. "I tried, Angel. I tried so hard. But it wasn’t enough, was it? You still found out. You still see me as that… thing."

His nails dug deeper into your skin, and you winced.

"But I had to do it," he continued, his voice turning frantic, desperate. "Because you—" He swallowed hard, his breath shaky. "You never loved me before. You never even looked at me."

A trembling hand reached up, tracing the line of your jaw, down to your collarbone, resting against your hammering pulse.

"But you love Ren, don't you?" His grip tightened. "You love the one I made for you."

Your mind was screaming. Your body was screaming. And yet, your voice refused to come out.

"Say it," he pleaded. "Say you love me. Say you won’t leave. Please, Angel—just say it."

Tears streamed down his face, raw emotion cracking through every fiber of his being. His chest heaved with every shaky breath, his heart pounding so loudly that you swore it echoed against your ribs.

"I need you," he whimpered. "I need you more than you could ever know."

kept it," he choked out. "I kept everything. I waited. I changed. I—I became someone you could love. Because the old me—he wasn’t enough, was he?"

His fingers curled around yours, forcing them to touch the wedding band on his hand.

"But this time… I made sure. I made sure you’d stay."

His voice cracked, the carefully constructed facade of Ren trembling at the edges. His breathing hitched as his grip on you tightened, not with force, but with a desperation so palpable it left you breathless.

"Angel, do you know what it’s like? To be invisible to the one person who mattered? To watch from the shadows, to shape yourself into something they might finally see?" His voice rose, frantic. "You see me now, don’t you? You’re looking at me now. You know who I am. Not just Ren, not just some stranger you met in a library—ME. The real me. The one who has always, always loved you."

His expression twisted, the manic gleam in his eyes sharp enough to slice through you. His breath came in uneven gasps, hands shaking as he clutched onto you like a lifeline.

"It was supposed to be perfect!" he shouted suddenly, the sheer anguish in his voice sending chills down your spine. "I did everything right! I became someone you could love! Haruko, Ren, whatever you wanted—I gave it to you! So why… why do you l look so scared?"

Tears welled in his eyes, though whether they were of frustration or heartbreak, you couldn’t tell. His whole body trembled, his forehead pressing against yours.

"Angel," he whispered, voice a broken plea. "Tell me it wasn’t all for nothing. Tell me you love me. Like this. As I am."

His fingers curled around the ring on his necklace, the metal cold against your skin. And in that moment, you realized—you weren’t looking at Ren anymore. The mask had finally, irrevocably cracked.

You were looking at REDACTED.

Ren's breathing was ragged, uneven. His fingers trembled as they curled into fists, then released, then clenched again. His shoulders shook, his entire body wracked with something dark and ugly that he couldn't contain any longer.

"Look at me!" he sobbed, voice breaking apart like glass shattering on concrete. "Please… just look at me, Angel. I'm sorry… I'm sorry I ruined it… I'm sorry I'm like this!"

His face was twisted in anguish, an expression so raw it cut deeper than any knife ever could. His tears fell onto your skin, hot and desperate, as he gripped onto you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

But you couldn't move.

Something cold and thick was creeping up your legs, winding around your ankles like tendrils of ink. It climbed, higher and higher, latching onto your waist, then your arms. Panic overtook you as you gasped, thrashing wildly, but the more you struggled, the faster it spread.

"S-Stop! Stop it!" you shrieked, clawing at the darkness consuming you. "This can't be happening!"

Ren's arms tightened around you, but it wasn't a comforting embrace. It was desperate. It was suffocating. His breath hitched as he felt you shuddering in his hold, your sobs turning into choked screams.

His praise became a fevered mantra, his lips moving against your temple as he whispered worship, obsession, madness.

"You're light. You're everything, you're perfect. I'm nothing without you. I'm nothing!"

The ink coiled around your throat. Fingers. Hands. Clutching, grasping, squeezing. It seeped into your mouth, into your lungs, and you gagged as the taste of rust and rot filled you from the inside out.

Your screams were muffled.

Memories—they came flooding back, crashing over you like a tidal wave.

A boy, small and quiet, his black hair hanging over his wide, fearful eyes.

A ring, tiny and glinting, held out to you with shaking fingers.

"Angel, it's for you…"

A rough shove, a cry of protest. Leon's voice, sharp and cruel.

"Get lost, freak!"

The ring, tumbling through the air, swallowed by the grass, lost.

And the boy—

[REDACTED].

He had picked it up.

He had picked himself up.

He had tried again.

But not as himself.

Ren collapsed inward, a hollow shell of the person he had tried to become. His hands trembled, gripping at his own arms as if trying to claw himself out of his own skin. "I didn't deserve you," he whispered, the words cracked and broken. "I never did. I never could. I'm filth. I'm nothing compared to you, Angel. You're— you're light. And I— I was never meant to touch you."

But he had touched you. His entire being had wrapped around yours like a parasitic vine, feeding off the glow that you barely recognized in yourself. And now, it was suffocating you. The air grew thick, tangible as black ink seeped into your skin, curling up your arms like coiling veins of tar. Your body twisted, recoiling, but it didn't stop. It climbed higher, reaching your chest, your throat, your mouth—

You couldn't breathe.

Hands. It felt like hands. Hands grabbing your limbs, your face, your throat, prying your lips apart. The ink curled inside you like a living entity, pulling, pulling, pulling. Your screams gurgled in your throat, strangled by the suffocating black.

"STOP!!! NOOO!!!" You writhed, thrashing against it, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. The hands held firm, yanking you down, burying you in a nightmare made flesh. You sobbed, fists slamming against Ren’s chest, clawing at him in sheer desperation.

Ren held onto you, his grip firm, but it wasn't controlling. It wasn't possessive. It was desperate. "Angel—" he choked, voice cracking as his forehead pressed to yours, his tears mixing with your own. "Please, don’t— I didn't want this, I never wanted this—"

But you didn’t hear him. You couldn't. Because suddenly, it wasn’t just his voice— it was another. A voice from a long, long time ago, buried deep beneath years of missing memories. A boy’s voice, timid and small.

"Angel, this is for you."

A ring, held out in tiny, shaking hands.

The child’s black hair was unevenly cut, his eyes the same dark abyss you now feared. Your younger self reached out, almost hesitantly—

Until Leon’s hands appeared, shoving him back. The ring tumbled to the ground, lost in the dirt.

"Get lost, Don't bother them."

You gasped, your whole body convulsing as reality lurched back into place.

Ren— [REDACTED]— clung to you, his whole body trembling as if he were barely holding himself together. You stared at him, your vision blurred with tears, your breath coming in ragged, choking gasps.

"WHY DID LEON THROW THAT RING AWAY?!" The words ripped out of you, raw and furious and agonized. "WHY DID YOU BECOME LIKE THIS?! WHY?!"

His eyes widened, lips parting, but no words came out. Only a silent, broken sob.

Memories slammed into you like a wrecking ball, each one hitting harder than the last. The boy from your dreams— he wasn’t just some shadowy figure from the past. He was real. He had always been real.

And he had always been right there, waiting. Watching. Loving you in the only way he knew how—

Even if it ruined him.

Even if it ruined you.

You screamed again, but this time, it wasn’t just fear. It was grief. It was rage. It was heartbreak, the overwhelming weight of it all crushing down on you like an avalanche. Your body convulsed, your nails digging into the floor, into your own arms, as if trying to rip your own skin open just to make it stop.

Ren— or whatever was left of him— cradled you against him, rocking slightly as tears streamed down his face. "I ruined everything," he murmured, his voice fractured. "I—I wanted to be perfect for you. I wanted to be someone you could love. But I was never enough, was I?"

You sobbed into his chest, your body shaking uncontrollably. You wanted to hate him. You wanted to scream at him, to push him away, to run. But something in you cracked at his words, something deep and ugly and tangled with guilt. Because you had known him. Because once, a long time ago, you had been friends.

And now, both of you were broken beyond repair.

The ink around you dissipated, but its presence lingered, staining everything it touched.

Including you.

Including him.

He ruined everything.

No.

You ruined him.

He was never supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be happy. He was supposed to be someone else, someone whole, someone untouched by obsession and pain and a love so twisted it devoured everything in its path.

And yet here he was.

Crying.

Crying for you, for himself, for the past that could never be undone.

You screamed, throat raw, body trembling as you pushed against him, nails digging into his arms, shoving with every ounce of strength you had left. "GO AWAY!! GO AWAY!!" The words left you like a desperate exorcism, like if you said them enough, you could banish him, the ink, the past, everything that led to this moment. But nothing changed. He was still there. Still looking at you with that broken, pleading gaze. Still holding you as if letting go meant losing himself entirely.

"I’m sorry… I’m sorry…!" You sobbed, body wracked with uncontrollable shudders. The ink, the memories, the suffocating weight of it all crushed down on you until the world blurred, until your head spun and your breath stuttered—until there was nothing but blackness.

When you woke up, your body ached. The room was eerily silent, save for the faint rhythm of breathing beside you. You turned your head, heart seizing at the sight of him—[REDACTED]—asleep, curled up just inches away. His fingers were loosely laced with yours, gripping even in unconsciousness, as if even in sleep, he was terrified of losing you again.

You stiffened, breath caught in your throat. He looked… so different like this. Not the monster you had screamed at. Not the obsessive shadow that had haunted you. Just… him. His face, usually sharp with desperation and unchecked emotion, was peaceful now. Vulnerable. His long lashes cast shadows over his pale skin, and his lips—so often trembling with unspoken words—were parted slightly, his breath warm against your wrist.

A choked noise slipped past your lips before you even realized it. You had ruined him, hadn’t you? You had left him behind, and he had chased you into madness. If you had just looked back—if you had just seen him, really seen him—maybe it wouldn’t have come to this. Maybe he wouldn’t have had to carve out a new identity just to be near you again.

Your eyes drifted to his chest, to the thin silver chain around his neck. There it was. The ring. The one he had once held out to you with trembling hands, the one Leon had tossed away like it meant nothing.

You hesitated only a moment before reaching out. Your fingers curled around the ring, carefully sliding it from the chain. The metal was cool against your skin as you turned it over, inspecting the worn edges, the faint imprint of time. And then, without thinking, without knowing why, you slid it onto your own ring finger.

It fit.

Tears welled up again, burning hot trails down your cheeks as you laid back down, curling up beside him. Not on the bed. Not in the safety of the blankets. But here. On the cold floor, next to the boy you had abandoned.

You didn’t care anymore.

You had ruined him.

You wanted to fix him.

And maybe, just maybe… you could tell him what you should have said all those years ago.

He didn’t need to be Ren.

[REDACTED] was enough.

...........

Hiiiiiii hope you are doing well on this fine night day :3

For the oneshots thing I was thinking perhaps... something related to a soulmate au? Redacted desperately trying to recreate the exact scenario or something passably close to how they first found out they were soulmates as kids so that Angel will think this new Ren person is their actual soulmate (assuming Angel forgot about their childhood soulmate).

The cruel irony of him having to fake being soulmates because they are so afraid that Angel will resent being tied to someone as unlovable as [Redacted] that they'd rather reconstruct the entirety of their bond on a lie yada yada yk the drill >:3

.... I fully intended to send in a fluff ask how did this turn angst lmao oh well. Something like that anyways, feel free to take creative liberties or ignore if it's not up your alley ofc <3

Genre: Angst to Comfort

Summary: — Decided to add a more realistic, to a soulmate au...I failed..

( Reader is a g.n!)

Did not proof read/Rushed.

I'm so sorry I THINK I FAILED THIS.... I'LL REWRITE THIS ONE DAY!!

May this be my timeless Love to you REDACTED.. X G.N Reader

“What is a soulmate?” The question echoes like a dirge through a hollow cathedral. He asked it once, long ago — when his hands were small, calloused from too much trying. He asked it before he learned that no one wanted the answers a boy like him could give.

This boy could (not) be called the Ugly Duckling. Not with laughter — but with a solemnity that could quiet the birds. He wore it as penance. For being too much. Too little. For being born under the wrong star.

Across the lake — the water that always seemed too wide to cross — there was you and him A child like something pulled from the pages of a dream: Pigtails, scraped knees, colorful bandages like mismatched prayers. And something gentler still... wounds dressed in laughter, pain softened by pretend...this was him..

He covered his soul in stickers and bandaids. You never called him ugly — but he hid all the same.

You cared for him.

He saw you. He saw all of it. And oh, how he adored you.

He had nothing — not love, not kindness — but he crafted a ring from wire and thread and the tinny promise of devotion. A symbol of a bond he believed the universe had to have carved between you. You were his soulmate — weren’t you? You had to be.

So, trembling, he stepped forward on unsteady legs. The playground was golden with dusk. And he held out the ring — Eyes wide, lips parted — waiting.

But before you could speak, before the miracle of “yes” or “no” could fall from your mouth, another hand — Larger, stronger, braver — wrong — Snatched you away.

“Weirdo!” the boy barked. “I knew you were bad news! Were you close to them because of this?!”

Your breath caught.

“Leon, wait—!”

But Leon did not wait. He grabbed your wrist like it was a leash, yanking you toward the trees.

"A-Angel!"

"LEAVE THEM ALONE, YOU FREAK!"

"Leon!" you pleaded, voice breaking like old wood. Stop stop stop stop—

But your feet obeyed his, and you vanished into the forest. The sound of leaves swallowing you whole.

The small boy stood, ring still in hand.

Crushed petals. Bent wire. The light... leaving.

And still, he smiled — small and broken.

“...It’s okay. I’ll try again.”

But he didn’t. Not then. Not for years.

And so, he became less.

He shed the skin of the duckling, and buried the boy who made rings. Buried him beneath names and costumes and personas that Angel might love.

He crafted some things but, The lies you would love..

A perfect lie in your image.

But you — you remained the same. Bright as ever. Still crossing the lake in his dreams.

To him, you are the light on the water. You are the laughter in the bruised boy’s memory. You are salvation in stickers and scabs. You are his Angel.

Hand worn like garlands; every scrape, every bruise, a verse in the ballad of his survival. He wrapped themselves in the myth of their own unworthiness. They called their soul ugly —

In you, He saw, he saw divinity. He saw home.

So the little duckling, trembling and unbeautiful, offered you the only beautiful thing he had ever made: A ring. Crooked. Fragile. Real. A token of a love too vast for his chest to hold. You were his soulmate. His answer. His absolution.

And what was your answer…?

You never knew.

Why was his vision twisted? Why is....

There was once a time, however fleeting, when the world still appeared vibrant to him—where the crunch of grass beneath small feet, or the glint of sunlight over a pond, carried a sort of naive beauty.

ONLY BECAUSE HE SAW IT THROUGH YOUR EYES!

Vanished like breath on a windowpane. What remained in their wake was silence, dread, and the long shadow of a man who should have been his protector.

His father was not a man of love. Not a man of gentle correction or even stern but fair discipline. No, his father—Taylor— He was the kind of man who looked upon his own children and saw not budding lives but burdens. Parasites. Leeches draining his oxygen. The boy never got to be a child in the ways that mattered. Innocence was something torn away, not lost.

Taylor’s presence was a stormfront: unpredictable, ever-threatening. Some days, the silence was worse than the yelling. On others, the yelling was only a prelude to something darker. And always, the boy knew—no matter how quiet he was, how obedient, how small—he could not escape the slow corrosion of his father’s contempt.

He learned quickly that masculinity was a weapon in his father's eyes... But the moment that same masculinity appeared in his son? It became a threat. A competition. A problem to be down. And yet—when his father forced him into more fem, He was against it....—none of it was out of affection. It was a punishment. A mockery. A way to remind him who controlled the image in the mirror.

Taylor’s disdain was a constant mirror in which the boy saw not a son, not a person—but a mistake. A malformed, thing pretending to be worthy of love.

His mother couldn't

It was the slow, ceaseless erosion of every part of himself.

But perhaps one moment stands above the rest.

He had carved something. Not out of grand materials—he had no such luxury—but out of determination and trembling fingers. It was small, fragile, and shaped like a ring. Something to give. A symbol of devotion. Of innocent affection. Of hope.

He gave it to someone who mattered.

And he was rejected.

Not simply rejected, but humiliated—by someone who did not understand, by someone who took the offering and flung it away, calling him a freak....

He didn’t cry. Not in front of them.

Later, alone in the dark, he wept until the walls blurred.

No one would ever love him. That he was too broken, too strange, too wrong. And now, it seemed true. His emotions betrayed him. His instincts betrayed him. Even the things he loved most would not accept him as he was.

So began the great undoing.

He stripped pieces of himself away—not in a dramatic flourish, but quietly. Methodically. Each piece discarded was a memory, a feeling, a small quirk. The voice that wavered when he was scared. The softness in his eyes when he looked at someone he cherished. Gone. Gone. Gone.

He did not do it to manipulate.

He did it because the person he was had already been deemed unworthy. Because the truth of him was a wound too shameful to show. And somewhere deep within that shame was the rot his father planted long ago:

“You are not enough."

"No one will ever want you."

"Unloved, Unlovable."

He still followed the light.

Not in the tender, dreamlike way he had when they were children—no, now he followed it like a moth starved and frenzied, wings frayed, mind blistered by the ache of wanting. The light had become everything. The light was Angel. His Angel. The one who made him feel warm once, long ago. The one who smiled at him before the world taught him that smiles weren’t meant for monsters.

But after that ring.. a thing to be pushed away from someone precious—he couldn’t go back. Not as he was. That boy was ruined. That boy died the moment Angel let go of his hand.

Still, he watched.

He lingered in shadows and street corners, not out of malice, but mourning. How could he hate what he could never stop loving? How could he let go of the only thing that had ever felt safe, ever felt real?

He stayed away. For years.

Every attempt to speak up—to say, NOT “I remember you,” “I missed you,” “I never stopped thinking about you”—died before it left his throat. Because what would be the point? He wasn’t enough then. Why would he be enough now?

But he tried.

He tried so many times.

Different versions of himself. Different scripts. He smiled wider, laughed softer. He changed his posture, his voice, his tone. He mimicked people that Angel seemed to like. He studied them like sacred texts, rewrote himself in their image. One version too aloof. Another too eager. One too mysterious. Another too awkward. None of them stuck.

None of them were enough.

None of them worked.

Angel would pass him in hallways, brush shoulders in crowded spaces, maybe glance his way once or twice. But never with recognition. Never with that spark. That radiant, soul-shattering warmth he remembered.

He stood in front of mirrors for hours, tearing into his own reflection with furious eyes. What is it? What did they want? What did they like? Why couldn’t he get it right?

"What's wrong with me?" he whispered once, "What am I doing wrong?"

He copied the fictional characters Angel loved. Studied their voices, their mannerisms, their color palettes, their phrases. He practiced the way they tilted their heads. Memorized how they blushed, how they laughed, how they hesitated before saying something sweet. He kept notebooks full of quotes, annotated with where the character spoke and what Angel had said afterward. He watched, catalogued, obsessed.

And still—nothing.

Angel never looked at him the way they looked at him.

That fake character. That ideal. That Haruko.

It drove him to madness. A quiet, unraveling madness that crawled beneath his skin and whispered: You aren’t lovable. You aren’t enough. You will never be enough—not unless you become them.

He started building the Haruko persona from scratch—voice trembling, eyes wide, sleeves too long for his hands. He wore soft colors, soft words. Practiced the stutter. Practiced being innocent. Haruko was everything he wasn’t, everything he wished he could be. Haruko was perfect. Haruko was loved.

Now

Redacted is a ghost in his own body—an echo dulled by years of forced silence, a bitter thing carved by cruelty and stitched back together by desperation. If Haruko is sunlight, soft edges and delicate smiles, then Redacted is everything lurking in the shade: jagged, smudged, bloodstained. There is nothing soft about him. There never was.

He doesn’t flinch at screams. Doesn’t shake at the sight of blood. He sees suffering the way a mechanic sees grease—part of the job, unavoidable, expected. But beneath that dead-eyed calm...

Never mind

But fragility doesn’t survive fire. It burns, warps, hardens. He learned to snarl where he once whimpered. Learned to lie, to hide, to pretend. Because being himself never worked. Being himself only ever earned him rejection...

So Redacted buried himself.

And Haruko was born.

Soft-spoken. Timid. Blushing. He smiles with teeth he files down every night just to make himself smaller, more harmless. Haruko listens. Haruko laughs. Haruko says “Sorry!” even when they aren’t wrong. Haruko is everything Angel ever wanted—or so he thinks.

But Redacted is what remains when Haruko’s mask slips. He’s not gentle. He’s not calm. He’s desperate. Desperately in love, desperately afraid. And he hates himself for it. Because no matter how many times he shifts, no matter how many personas he creates, he can’t escape the fear that the real him—the broken, twisted, violent him—is unworthy of love.

So he watches from the sidelines, always calculating, always performing. Haruko is sweet so Angel smiles. Haruko is shy so Angel leans in. He memorizes every reaction, every compliment, every laugh, hoards them like treasures. Because if Angel ever really sees him, if they ever peel back the carefully constructed softness and look at what festers beneath…

He doubts it.

That’s why he clings to Haruko. That’s why “Ren” exists. Because Redacted—he doesn’t get to be loved. He only gets to want.

But he plays the game anyway. Over and over.

Because if pretending is the only way to be near Angel, then he’ll play every role, recite every line, and smile through the agony.

One day.

He had seen you through the glass of the library windows more times than he could count. Watched you shelve books, tuck loose strands of hair behind your ear, smile at strangers. Always from behind the shelves. Always from afar. Like an old film reel playing on loop, his world paused the moment you walked in.

And today, he chose to press play.

He wandered in as Ren, dressed neatly in a layered knit vest over a button-down, the sleeves too long, covering the faint tremble in his fingers. Pink-purple? BLUE? hair tousled just enough to look effortless, the strands near his face curled to mirror him. Haruko. Your favorite. He knew because he listened, stalked—watched. Moth had mentioned it in one of your calls, and he memorized every timestamp, every laugh, every soft "God, I love him so much."

He wanted—needed—you to say that about him.

So he walked in, slow and deliberate, eyes low, pace measured. You didn’t see him at first. Of course you didn’t. Why would you? You weren’t supposed to. He was just the weird boy who always rented your display picks. You didn’t know he came in after hours just to press his fingers to the last book you'd touched. You didn’t know the lengths he went to just to keep breathing in your orbit.

But then you did.

He turned.

You looked.

And everything inside him snapped like a string pulled too tight.

You saw him.

And you didn't look away.

Immediately, your eyes widened. Not in fear. Not in disgust. Just... surprise. His heart skipped. No, it sprinted. You were seeing him. The soft curl of his lashes, the gentle tilt of his head, the nervous shuffle of his booted feet—you took in all of it.

You noticed the hair. His hair.

“Ahem! Hello..?" you whispered to yourself without realizing.

He heard it.

In his head, confetti burst. Sirens blared. Choirs sang. You noticed.

You turned fully, facing him with genuine curiosity. “So this was the guy who always rented out my recommended books,” you thought. “He definitely fit the aesthetic of a cozy literature-lover needing a good book…”

His chest squeezed. He wanted to cry.

You thought he fit.

The pink strands of his hair danced as he took one careful step toward you, then another. You could smell the faint vanilla clinging to him, sweet and warm, like library candles and anxiety. You tilted your head, smiling softly.

He tried to speak. Failed.

“I was just looking for… uh…”

His voice cracked. He hated that. He should’ve practiced more.

But you… you smiled.

A nod. A kind one. A real one.

Like he was safe.

Like he belonged.

“…I need some help. I-I’m looking for a specific book, you see, but…”

You nodded again, already turning toward the nearest catalog terminal, and in that moment—

His heart screamed.

YOU LOOKED AT HIM. YOU LOOKED AT HIM.

And God, if you looked again, he swore he'd never let you stop.

In his heart, he was exploding—like a child seeing fireworks for the first time, clapping his hands even if no one else did. You looked at him. You smiled at him. His mind spun with glitter and soft confetti, cheeks burning, heart thumping like a drum in a school parade. You saw him. Not a shadow. Not a ghost. Him. And you didn’t flinch. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging so fast he'd knock over the whole shelf. You looked at him you looked at him you looked at him! Over and over it rang, sweet and dizzying.

And when you looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time at the library desk, he nearly collapsed from the weight of it. The way your eyes met his and didn’t flinch. Didn’t run.

That night, you invited him home. Said your lock was broken. He smiled and told you he’d protect you. You didn’t know that he was the very monster lurking in the bushes before he became your savior. You didn’t know he was your past, contorted into a dream.

Each day was a...

Day 1: Your home. His heart raced as you offered him tea in mismatched mugs, as if it were love in ceramic form.

Day 2: A cafe. A soft, awkward almost-date. You laughed, and it sounded like forgiveness. Like maybe the past could be rewritten.

Day 3: Movie night at your place. A sappy romance you both pretended not to cry over. His fingers brushed yours and he swore the stars shivered.

Day 4: The aquarium. He "accidentally" showed up. You stood together at the glass, watching a jellyfish pulse with light. He asked if you saw a angelfish, you replied you saw a freakin clownfish.

Day 5: Moth arrived. You introduced them with a brightness he hadn’t seen since childhood. You were happy. And it was because of Ren. Not him. Not the boy with the broken ring and the monster's name.

So now he studies every gesture, memorizes your laughter, adjusts himself like clay in your hands. Slowly, carefully, perfectly—he molds himself into a soulmate you’ll want this time.

He can’t risk telling you the truth.

Because if you knew who he really was...

You might leave again.

And this time, he wouldn’t survive it.

You saw him.

You saw him kill someone—for you.

Not out of bloodlust. Not out of rage. But fear. That trembling, trembling fear that someone might hurt you, even slightly. And so, he silenced them. As easily as plucking petals from a flower.

Why was he doing all this?

Why did he look at you like you were holy? Why did his breath hitch every time your skin brushed his, like even the smallest contact meant salvation?

It was… sad. Sad and sweet in a way that twisted something deep inside you. The kind of sweetness that hides bruises. The kind that feels like a memory you forgot how to grieve.

Why did you feel pity for a stranger?

LIES DON'T LAST...

He can't recreate it.

They can't recreate it

[REVOKED]

[RETAINED] ?

[RED̴A̸C̵͍̔T̵̰̓E̸̘̽D̸̳̻͕́̒]̵̱̈́̋.....?

No matter how much they try, There's no results, The screen's empty.

Even if refresh, reboot, reset.

There is always some way to access memories.

And, that's what happened..

It doesn't matter how.

He didn't know if he should be happy, that his name fell out your mouth like a sweet melody to him, But Your reaction was all it took for him to know you're not happy to see...him why? would you be?

You remember. You went to the dark and the dark and "It" was bored, It gave you a answer

Not when the story began years ago—at a playground long forgotten, when a ring was offered and then thrown away. When a boy who called himself ugly carved love from his own hands and handed it to you. Only to watch it get crushed by another.

He never stopped chasing that moment.

He just wore a prettier face while doing it.

If you remembered—if it all came back in clarity and color—it wouldn’t just break your heart.

It would destroy his.

Because this "Ren" you’d grown fond of? The boy with soft eyes, clumsy kindness, and pink hair made for fictional dreams? He was a performance. A stitched-together mirage of everything you ever loved, rehearsed until the seams no longer showed.

And the cruelest part?

It wasn’t a stranger who lied to you.

It was him. The boy you left behind, the boy who never forgot. The one who hated himself so deeply he buried that child under a mask and called it love.

He wouldn’t beg for forgiveness. He wouldn’t plead. Because he’s convinced he doesn’t deserve it. Not when he’s sure—absolutely sure—that the moment you see the real him, the moment the illusion crumbles, you’ll turn away. Not because of what he’s done… but because of what he is.

A fractured soul. Obsessive. Haunted. Unworthy.

But you?

You’re not afraid of him. Not really.

You’re afraid of hope. You’re afraid of wondering which part was true. Of asking yourself if any of it—the laughter, the comfort, the late-night talks—meant anything at all.

And when your eyes finally widen with realization, with hurt, with disbelief—

It breaks him. Truly.

But,

Because even if you forgave, you tried to stay… love built on lies doesn’t fall gently.

It ruptures.

And the pieces? They don’t fit anymore. They cut.

You ruined. Him...

You stayed because you were guilty Not because you started to fell for him immediately...

I ruined you, didn’t I?

No—no, not just ruined. I unmade you.

God… all this time, I thought you were a stranger. A perfect mask. I thought Ren was someone new—a fantasy, a lie. But it was always you. It was always you.

That ring... that stupid little ring. I remember it now. Dirt-stained, scuffed, held in tiny trembling hands. You gave it to me once, didn’t you? And Leon—he threw it away like it was trash. Like you were trash.

And I didn’t stop him.

I didn’t even look back.

You picked it up. You picked yourself up. You took every piece of who you were and buried it. Shoved it down into something dark and cold, and from it… you built Ren.

Perfect, smiling Ren. Sweet, attentive, careful Ren. Everything I ever wanted, wrapped up in a stranger’s skin. But it wasn’t a stranger, was it?

It was you.

And I never saw you. Not really.

God, what did I do to you?

You changed your voice, your walk, your laugh—you built an entire person out of my silence. You loved me in the shadows for so long, until your love curdled, until it rotted into something that clung to me like ink. You swallowed who you were just to become someone I might finally see.

And I did see you. But too late. Too goddamn late.

That night—I didn’t know if I loved the boy you were… or the man you became.

But you were never supposed to become this.

You were supposed to be happy. Whole. Not… twisted by this ache. Not hollowed out and rebranded just to be deserving of love.

You were always deserving.

And now here you are—sleeping beside me, your fingers curled around mine like you’re still afraid I’ll vanish. Even now. Even after all of it.

You’re beautiful like this. Not because you’re perfect. Not because you’re Ren. But because you’re you. Scarred and real and terrified. And for the first time, I see you without the mask.

[REDACTED]… you didn’t need to be Ren.

You were enough.

You are enough.

And I’m sorry. For everything. For not seeing you, for not hearing you, for letting you rot in that silence. But I’m here now. And I’m not running.

Not from you. Not from this.

I can’t undo the past. I can’t unmake the monster that love turned you into.

But maybe—I can hold onto the boy who just wanted to be seen.

Maybe I can love him.

Maybe it’s not too late to start over.

Not with Ren.

But with you.

Maybe...let's heal together..okay..?

But, that when You put on the ring, You didn't talk, You didn't give him a answer..

You decided to quit your work, and just stayed with him.

You realized he was patient..

He waits for...

You.

You're the reason he waits.

Not just for days, not just for weeks—he's waited over thirteen years just for a chance to see you again. And not just to see you—no, that’s too easy. He wants to be near you. To exist in the same space. To breathe the same air. To build a world where he gets to stay by your side, even if it means burying who he truly is under layers and layers of someone else.

Ren.

That’s the name he wore. A soft thing. Harmless. Gentle. A version of himself crafted entirely for you—because somewhere along the line, he decided you wouldn’t love the real one. The one who bled. The one who screamed. The one who died waiting.

So he built this mask for you. Wears it with devotion. Every breath he takes as Ren is for you. And if it made you smile? He’d wear it forever. If it brought you peace? He’d never let it crack. Even if it means killing everything wild and real in him. Even if it hurts.

Because you’re worth it, right?

At least that’s what he tells himself, over and over again. That if he’s patient—good—you’ll come around. That one day you’ll stop flinching when he touches your wrist, or scowling when he says something too careful. That one day you’ll love him. Even like this.

And when you scream at him?

When you snap—Stop pretending! Stop acting like you’re some fragile thing! That’s not YOU!—it shakes something in him. But he never screams back. Never corrects you. Never tells you that this is him now—that in all the pretending for You. He just stands there, takes it, nods softly like he deserves the pain.

And then you cry.

Every time, you fall apart. You hate how much it hurts. You hate how much he waits—how patient, how still, how perfectly prepared he is for your worst days.

Because if you stop eating? He leaves food outside the door. Quietly. Every few hours. Never forces you. Never begs. Just places it there like an offering to a god he believe in.

If you scream? He waits.

If you break? He’s already made sure there’s nothing in the room sharp enough to cut, hard enough to throw, dangerous enough to hurt you. He padded the corners. Taped the mirrors. Hid the glass. You didn’t even notice until it was too late.

Everything was prepared.

Because he knows you. He’s studied every twitch, every tremor in your voice, every wall you build and destroy again. He’s the architect of your cage and your comfort. Your soft place to land and the reason you’re falling in the first place.

And it gets to you—how still he is.

How he doesn’t flinch when you hurt him. How he looks at you like you’re the one fading. Like every breakdown you have is his fault. Like he broke you. Like he infected you with the same obsession he’s been carrying for over a decade.

You see it in his face.

That grief. That guilt. That hope—the worst of them all. Hope that maybe one day, you’ll look at him like you used to. Or like he wishes you had. Hope that maybe the version of you who loved him still exists somewhere underneath all this hurt.

And what are you supposed to do with that?

When someone loves you like you’re the only real thing left in their crumbling universe? When they’d trade away their entire identity just to make you stop crying?

You. Needed a break, So you quit your job, Your Boss didn't question....

You slowly started and tried to understand what Redacted was..

[REDACTED] is the kind of person who could watch a man bleed out on the floor and not blink. He's patient to a terrifying degree—so cold, so detached, it borders on divine.

Because when [REDACTED] is genuinely pissed, he doesn't scream. He doesn't lash out....

No theatrics. No blood frenzy. Just a clean, quiet severance. And when it's done, he goes back to his day like nothing happened. He’ll sip his coffee. Read his messages. Hack into three security systems before breakfast. No remorse. No reaction. Just that faint, unreadable smirk curling at the corner of his lips, like it was all just part of some tedious to-do list.

But when it comes to you?

When it comes to Angel?

He’s not that person anymore.

He can lie to the world. He can wear a thousand faces. He can fake kindness, mimic charm, even build whole identities to get what he wants. But with you, there’s no mask. No apathy. No distance. You simply bring out the emotions in him after it is.

You’re the one fracture in his perfectly fortified armor. The only one who can bring him to his knees without even trying.

Because he’s here. You’re here.

He doesn’t hide his affection for you—not really. Not when he’s himself. Not when he’s not tangled up in Ren, pretending to be smaller, sweeter, quieter than he really is.

[REDACTED], he’s unfiltered. Obsession doesn’t scare him. Not when it’s about you. He’s never once felt ashamed for the way he needs you—only cautious. Only careful. Only pretending under the mask of Ren because he thought it’d keep you around. Because he thought he—in all his raw, jagged truth—would scare you off.

But not anymore.

Not when you’ve held him like this. Not when you’ve seen the way his voice shakes, the way his hands tremble when you whisper that you love him—not Ren, not the mask, him. He knows now, deep in his chest where it always ached the most, that there’s no one else you want. And yet—

He still struggles.

Not with you, but with himself.

Because even now, even in your arms, even with the warmth of your voice in his ear and the ghost of your kiss on his skin, he doubts. Not your love—he believes that, at least a little. But that he could be worthy of it? That’s harder.

He’s still learning how to speak up. About his wants. His needs. About anything that isn’t you. Because you’re always his first thought. His only priority. Everything else? It doesn’t feel important. But you tell it is important.

He looks at you like you’re the last light he remembers seeing. Like you’re the only thing that ever made this world worth crawling through.

No one else has ever seen him cry.

No one else has ever watched the infamous ghost of a man—this ghost who glides through shadows, this killer, this phantom in code and blood—shatter under the weight of your touch. That night when you reached out—when you finally crossed the space between you, wrapped your arms around him, and said nothing but stayed—he collapsed.

Right there. In your arms.

Quietly. Brokenly.

Tears slid down his cheeks like he didn’t know how to stop them. Like he hadn’t cried in years, not since everything fell apart. He buried his face against your shoulder like he was trying to disappear into you, like he was ashamed of needing something so human.

Because the truth is?

He’s still that boy you used to know.

Still that soft thing underneath the blood and code. Still innocent in that specific, painful way only someone who's been hurt beyond repair can be. Still desperate for affection. Still haunted by every moment he wasn’t enough.

But only with you.

To everyone else HE SHOWS, [REDACTED] is an apathetic executioner. The hacker who ruins lives from behind a screen. The killer who vanishes without a trace. The coldest person they've ever met, with nothing in his eyes but calculation.

But with you?

He’s human.

He laughs quieter. Smiles softer. He flinches when you’re hurt. He remembers what it means to be held. You make him feel—dangerously, completely. You’re his first and final tether to something real. To being real.

You’re the only person he ever lets see the cracks.

And you’re the only one who could break him, just by walking away.

Also learned, about someone's something. It changes your narrative...Doesn't it? Dear Angel?

Some time later..

It’d been months. You weren’t sure how many. Didn’t matter.

Time had turned to soup, thick and slow, days blending like bruises in the dark—warm, wet, and somehow… healing. Neither of you talked about it. The quiet was safer. The stillness helped.

You woke first. Not by much. But enough to feel their arms still draped around you, heavy like chains, comforting like ritual.

Their breath ghosted your shoulder. Warm. Uneven. You could tell they weren’t really asleep anymore—not fully—but they hadn’t moved either. Not even when you shifted.

You whispered, real soft. "Hey."

Nothing.

You squirmed a little, nudging your elbow back. Still nothing.

Then their arms tightened. Their chest pressed flush against your back, and they buried their face in your neck like they were trying to hide from the world.

A hoarse voice rumbled out of them, low and almost pitiful: “…Don’t.”

You froze.

"You’re awake." You smiled, tilting your head slightly. "I just need to shower, REDACTED.... I’ll come back."

A groan. Tired. Frustrated. "Y’don’t get it. I know what back means." Their voice was quieter now. Raspy. Vulnerable in that raw, sandpaper kind of way. "Means gone. Means not here. Means… ‘m gonna wake up and you’re not."

You turned, cupped their cheek, let your thumb glide over the warm, soft skin under their eye. “I’m not leaving. Just need ten minutes.”

They didn’t say anything. Just stared. One eye cracked open, bangs hanging in messy strands over their face, lip caught between their teeth. Then finally, a loose sigh. Their arms dropped.

You slipped out of bed and—without thinking—tucked a pillow in your place.

That should’ve worked. Should’ve.

But you didn’t even get three steps before a hand gripped yours.

“…Don’t like pillows,” they mumbled.

You looked down. “You used to.”

“They’re not warm like you.” Their fingers squeezed. “And they don’t kiss me good.”

You bent forward, kissed their forehead, and whispered, “Wait for me.”

They made a tiny “hm” noise. Sad. Small. Let you go—barely.

In the bathroom, you brushed your teeth. Washed your face. Fast. Then pancake duty. Something quick, easy. Familiar.

They came out halfway through, dragging their feet, hoodie slouching off one shoulder, eyes half-lidded. They didn’t say anything, just slumped into the chair like it took everything in them.

You put a plate down in front of them. They stared at it. Then at you.

“You smell like mint,” they muttered. “And guilt.”

You exhaled a small laugh. “It’s not guilt. It’s Colgate.”

“Mm.” They poked the pancake like it might betray them.

“Hey,” you said, tilting your head. “I have to work soon. I told you, I was gonna go back But we’ve got time. Let’s shower, then eat.”

They didn’t answer. Just stood up slow. Looked at you like you were light they didn’t trust.

Then—finally—reached out, brushing their fingers against yours. Holding. Not gripping. Like if they held too tight, you might disappear.

You didn’t give them a choice. Not this time.

“You reek,” you muttered, nudging them gently toward the bathroom with a hand against their back. “Like sleep and resentment.”

[REDACTED] chuckled but didn’t resist. Just dragged their feet as you guided them, hoodie sleeves swallowing their hands, hair tangled and falling into their face.

“Y’don’t get to talk to me like that unless you’re gonna undress me too,” they muttered with a sleepy, lopsided grin.

You rolled your eyes. “I will.”

“…Oh.”

You peeled the hoodie off them like second skin. Damp with sleep, clinging to their collarbones. Underneath it—just them. The real one. Not Ren. Not Haruko. Just tired, raw [REDACTED].

The water was already running, steam curling around both of you like soft ghosts. You tugged them into the shower, and they slouched under the stream like it was heavy. Like it had weight.

Their eyes fluttered shut the second the warmth hit. “Fuuuuck…”

“Yeah, yeah,” you murmured, grabbing the shampoo and coaxing them down so you could reach their hair. “You always act like hot water’s a miracle.”

“It is,” they mumbled, half-lidded, letting you tilt their head back. “Especially when it’s you touchin’ me. Angel…”

That name still hit different. From them. Especially when said like that—hoarse, reverent. You swallowed and massaged the shampoo into their scalp.

Their hair had grown longer. black. The pink had faded, bleeding into natural brown at the roots. You could trace time in the strands. How long he’d been here. How long he’d stopped hiding.

“You were gonna dye it again, weren’t you?” you asked, gently rinsing the foam away.

“‘Course, If you wanted” he mumbled.

You tugged slightly at a lock of hair. Not hard—just enough to make a point. “You’re not dying it. I told you, it ruins your texture. And your scalp’s sensitive.”

He looked up at you, water clinging to his lashes. A faint smile ghosted over his lips.

“I do care,” you muttered. “You look good like this.”

“…Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You worked in conditioner, fingers slow and sure. He leaned into the touch like a cat, lips parted, eyes closed.

“Mm. You like touchin’ me now.”

“I always liked touching you.”

He let that sit in the air a second. Then quietly:

“I think you like my real hair.”

“I do.”

“…Even if I’m not Ren anymore?”

“I didn’t want Ren. I wanted you.”

He made a small, choked sound. Like he wanted to argue, but didn’t have the words. Maybe because he finally believed it. Or maybe because your hands kept moving, gentle in their hair, coaxing trust out of him with every pass.

No protest. No mask. Just a man learning how to be held without falling apart.

You rinsed them clean, let your fingers drift down to trace the slope of their neck. He shivered. Not from cold.

“Alright,” you said softly, “let’s get dry. And eat. You’ll feel better.”

“…Can I lay in your lap after?”

You smiled. “Yeah. You can lay there as long as you want. As long we have time."

“Then I’ll eat,” he said, letting you pull him from the water.

And just like that—he followed.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, plate balanced in your lap, cutting into your stack of pancakes while [REDACTED] blinked slow and lazy beside you—still towel-damp, shirt clinging slightly at the collar, hair fluffy from your brushing. He looked more alive than you’d seen in weeks.

He was still blinking at his own plate like it was math.

“You’re staring,” you said, smiling as you dipped a forkful in syrup and held it out.

“M’just not used to this,” he mumbled, leaning forward obediently. “Someone else makin’ me breakfast. Feeding me. I should be the one who do it for you..."

You snorted. “That was one time.”

His lips curled up as he took the bite from your fork. “I swear I can cook Angel.....”

You kept eating and slipping bites onto his plate, then into his mouth when he got distracted scrolling through whatever was on his phone. Something code-heavy, no doubt—symbols and commands no sane person could understand.

After a moment, he glanced up from the screen, licking syrup from his lip. “ I might go start up the motorcycle later. Get the engine goin’ so it doesn’t fuck up sittin’ too long. I'll drop you off..."

You nodded absently, chewing.

“Yeah,” he muttered, eyes flicking back to his phone." “Just got some backend server crap to clean up. "Thought maybe I’d chill at the library while you’re workin’. S’nice there. Quiet.”

You tilted your head. “You’re asking permission?”

[REDACTED] made a face, like he was caught doing something suspicious. “No. I mean. Yes?”

You sighed in mock exasperation and pinched his cheek. “You dork. Of course it’s okay. Sit in the corner like a gremlin. I’ll sneak you snacks. If Norie gives me."

He looked down and smiled softly, like he wasn’t used to that kind of answer. Then you said it.

“I love you.”

Quiet. No bells. No buildup. Just there, like it had always been true. Soft and honest, like the sun through a kitchen window.

He froze.

Like his system crashed.

You said it first..

This was the first time, You said it first..

You reached forward and cupped his cheek, thumb brushing his skin, watching as something crumbled in his expression—like a wall melting under heat.

“...I love you,” you said again, more gently this time, like it needed to be said twice so it would stick.

His mouth opened slightly, like he was going to say something. But instead—he hugged you.

Hard.

Like he forgot how. Like it hurt a little. His fingers dug into your back and his breath hitched in your ear, and yeah—he was crying.

Not loudly. Not brokenly. Just—tears. Soft and quiet. Like he didn’t know how to stop them.

“I-I’m sorry,” he mumbled against your shoulder, breath trembling. “F-fuck, I’m—I’m just—this doesn’t happen to me, Angel, y’don’t—fuck…”

You held him tighter. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

Because he always, always hugged you like this when you told him. And you’d tell him again tomorrow. And the next day. And every day after, if it meant he’d believe it one day.

Even if he cried. Especially if he did.

He held you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go—even with your breath warm against his neck, even with your arms around his back. His hands curled in the fabric of your shirt, fists trembling, knuckles pale. Like he didn’t believe you were real. Like he didn’t believe he was allowed to be.

You could feel it in the way his body shook—quiet, contained, not dramatic but deep. Like grief with nowhere to go.

Because you knew. You knew exactly what sat beneath that silence.

He hates himself.

[REDACTED]—not Ren, not Haruko, not the soft-eyed persona he built from dreams and scraps of what he thought you’d want—but him. The boy.. who grew into someone sharp and terrifying. The person who survived by splitting themselves in two: the mask, and the monster beneath it.

He doesn’t believe you could love him for who he is. Not really.

He believes you’re too good. That your love must be mistaken. That if you saw too clearly, if you stopped looking at him through rose-colored light, you’d change your mind.

That Ren is loveable.

But [REDACTED]?

He thinks [REDACTED] is the one you shouldn’t love.

It hurts. It hurts more than you want to admit, watching him twist himself into shapes that make them feel smaller and quieter and easier to love.

But it’s fine.

And when you cupped his cheek, when your fingers slid into the strands of hair he never dyed back because you said it was okay not to—he crumbled. Quietly. The tears slipped without sound. His eyes wouldn’t leave yours.

So you leaned in. Pressed a kiss to his forehead, soft and slow.

“If you want me to say it again,” you whispered, “I will.”

His breath caught.

“I’ll say it every damn day. Every hour, if I have to.”

You kissed his cheek.

“Until you believe it. Until it sinks in.”

Your eyes met his. Steady. Unshakable.

“Not Ren. Not Haruko. Not whoever you think you have to be.”

You took his hand and pressed it over your heart.

“It’s you. [REDACTED]. Only you. Always you.”

You watched as he crumbled again—like someone whose bones had turned to dust, like your words were the first thing to ever make it past his walls.

And still, through the salt of his tears, he smiled. Just a little.

“I don’t deserve you,” he muttered.

You leaned forward, touched your forehead to his. “Then stay long enough until you do.”

He laughed—wet and broken. “Y’really gonna make me cry again, Angel.”

“I know.” You smiled. “That’s why I keep doing it.”

He hugged you again. This time tighter.

This time, maybe—just maybe—starting to believe....

A little at a time...

The world has never treated you kind, It bruised your heart and clouded your mind. You were gentle — soft, and bright, But life turned that glow into quiet night.

Now you barely feel like you're real, Too broken to touch, too numb to feel. You search for something to make you whole, A reason to stay, a home for your soul.

And when you find it, you'll never let go, You'll hold it through fire, through storm, through snow. Because you love deep — and ache even more, You've lost so much you're always at war.

But listen now, and let these words stay: You're still a soul worth loving today. Even if you can’t yet see what I do, You are still light. The world just hid you.

Okay REDACTED..?

INSPO FROM!!!

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