(It's the time after Jay Jay gets kidnapped by ram)
JAY'SPOV :
I woke up to noise. Someone was talking—but my head felt stuffed with cotton, like someone had shoved a wet rag into my skull. The world was a blur of shapes and shadows, and the air smelled stale, like old metal and dust.
"…She's awake," a man said.
I forced my eyelids open, but everything swam. The room wobbled around me, edges flickering like a glitchy screen. Then, slowly, the blur sharpened into color and form.
"Jay!" a voice shouted.
"Wake up, sleepy head!" another snapped.
My vision finally cleared enough to see the idiot who called me 'sleepy head'.
Ram.
I glared at him, pupils still stinging from the light. Then it hit me—everything rushed back like a collapsing building: the kidnapping, the hand clamping over my mouth, the suffocating cloth, the sickly sweet sting of chloroform crawling down my throat.
"You're the one who gave me chloroform, idiot," I rasped, voice rough.
I tried to move, but my arms wouldn't answer. My wrists were bound behind the back of the chair, rope biting into skin.
"You have the worst taste in hospitality."
He chuckled, hands tucked into his pockets like he was strolling through a mall instead of holding me hostage.
"Kidnapped and still talking," he said. "Look at the camera. Your friends can see you."
He lifted a phone toward me, the screen glowing. A video call. Section E. I could see Keifer and Yuri, both faces twisted in anger. I didn't react. I locked my jaw and stared blankly, as if nothing about this surprised me.
"Ram! What do you want?!" Yuri shouted from the screen.
Keifer snatched the phone from him. He looked furious—no, beyond furious. There was something else beneath it: worry. Real, raw, ugly worry. I hoped it was true. I needed it to be true.
"Maybe you can visit your friend here," Ram said, tilting the phone so the camera took in more of the room.
"But I only accept a few visitors. Only four people."
He wanted them to come. Four against however many of his men were lurking in the shadows. Stupid, reckless, and exactly the kind of move that would get them killed.
"If I were you, I'd hurry up," Ram added. "I don't like being impatient."
He brought the camera closer to my face, close enough that my pupils flared under the light. My jacket was half‑unzipped, the neck folded back slightly, and the side of my neck was exposed—right where the cracked heart tattoo snaked along the curve of my jawline, jagged branches crawling like frozen lightning across my skin. It felt like a third eye watching him.
"Don't worry about me," I said, eyes locked on the camera. "I'll be safe. But you better bring an ambulance, because I might kill someone out of irritation."
Ram chuckled. I meant every word. He smirked wider, clearly thinking this was all a joke. I was serious. He was one of my most annoying enemies. I had to kill him. And I would.
"You know, you're too brave for someone who got kidnapped," he said.
I smirked back.
"I just know myself."
"We'll see how long you'll be like that," he shot back, then turned the camera toward the room.
"You know where to come," he said, and ended the call.
The screen dimmed to black.
The second the phone went dark, I started working on my ropes. My fingers twisted, my wrists twisted, my shoulder screamed—but I ignored it. The rope around my hands had loosened a little from the earlier struggle; I just had to widen that gap.
Ram turned back to me, arms crossed, still watching me like I was a bug in a jar.
"I'll like your braveness," he said. "But it won't last long."
"Tss. You talk too much," I shot back.
His smirk flickered and collapsed into anger. In one motion, he stepped forward and slapped me so hard my head snapped sideways. The impact roared through my jaw, and the chair rocked, legs skidding against the floor. The chair almost tipped, but it didn't fall. The sound echoed through the room, hollow and sharp. Damn. It hurt.
But good hurt. Because the slap had jerked my arms just enough to further loosen the rope. The fibers had frayed, the tight knot slipping. I felt it around my wrists—tiny, precious give.
"You're so confident that they'll come, huh?" Ram said, pacing away.
"I can rape you right away, you know. I can rape you without waiting for them."
He stopped, turning back to me slowly, eyes glinting.
"But I'll wait for them to come and then rape you. In front of them. And show them with whom they're dealing with." His voice dropped, low, vicious. "But if you talk too much, I'll rape you now."
He walked off, boots thudding against the concrete. The second his back was fully turned, the rope around my wrists finally gave. The fibers snapped, the bindings loosened, and my hands broke free. I let the rope hang loosely, so it still looked like I was tied, then slowly flexed my fingers.
"Yes," I whispered to myself. "Got you."
"Ram!" I called out.
He stopped and turned, brows raised.
"If you think I'm brave because of them, then no," I said, voice calm. "They're not the reason I'm not scared of you."
I pushed myself up, the chair tipping back as I stood. The rope slid down my arms like a dead snake. The room lurched for a second, my knees threatening to buckle, but I locked them in place. The jacket slipped lower off my shoulder as I straightened, the zipper opening fully, the sleeves sliding up.
"Get her," he snapped.
His men moved.
I ducked the first punch, twisted, and drove my elbow into the man's ribs. The second swung a chair leg at my head; I dodged, grabbed the wood, and yanked it from his hands, using the momentum to kick his knee out from under him. The chair crashed to the floor, splintering, and he howled.
My hands were bare now, the jacket hanging open, the sleeves sliding up as I moved. On the back of my right hand, the scribbled smiley‑face tattoo stared up, one eye crossed out, the other cracking like broken glass, the mouth stitched into a jagged, grinning mess. Ink‑splattered and chaotic, it looked exactly like the punch‑drunk, furious soul I'd become.
I broke a man's nose with a brutal uppercut, spun past a kick, and socked another in the stomach. My movements were rough, not trained, but instinctive—animal‑fast, fueled by adrenaline and rage. The left sleeve of my jacket tore completely as I twisted it over my head, the fabric ripping to reveal the full length of my arm: the black rose tattoo stretching from forearm to upper arm, petals smudged like spilled ink, the stem sharp and thorny, dripping dark.
The room was half chaos now. Men were stumbling, shouting, blood already blooming on someone's lip. I was almost winning.
Then something slammed into the back of my skull.
Impact. Fire. A rush of white noise.
An iron pipe. It had to be. The force punched through my neck and spine, my knees buckled, and I dropped to the floor. I caught myself on my hands, head throbbing so violently it felt like my skull was splitting.
"Ugh…" I groaned, pressing my palm to the back of my head, fingers brushing something wet and warm.
I pulled my hand away.
Blood. Dark, slick, staining my fingers and the black rose tattoo on my forearm. The ink‑splash design blurred under the red, the petals turning almost indistinguishable from the sticky mess.
My vision blurred. The edges of the room melted into each other. The voices came next—like static from a broken radio, hissing through my skull.
"You're useless…"
"You're a whore…"
Everything snapped.
---
AUTHOR'S POV :
The moment the blood registered—the slick, dark red smearing across her knuckles, dripping down her forearm, pooling under her nails—everything in Jay went quiet.
The room stopped. The voices in her head stopped. Even the pain stopped.
Her eyes went blank, pupils blown wide and glassy, like someone had unplugged her soul and left only the body behind. She didn't scream. She didn't snarl. She just moved.
Her first punch caught a man in the jaw mid‑swing. His head snapped to the side, teeth cutting into his lip, and he dropped like a sack. Jay used his falling body as a pivot, twisted, and swung a heavy uppercut at the one behind him. The impact snapped his head back, and he collapsed without a sound.
Someone grabbed her wrist from behind, trying to yank her back. She didn't pull away. She twisted toward him, using his grip as leverage, and drove her shoulder into his chest. The jacket around her arms ripped further, the fabric tearing at the seams, and as she spun, the whole thing slid halfway down one arm, sleeve hanging in tatters.
The next attack came too fast to dodge cleanly. A man swung a chair leg at her head. She ducked, the wood whistling over her, and then straightened into a brutal palm‑strike to his nose. He howled, but she didn't pause. She grabbed the back of his shirt, yanked him forward, and slammed his face into the chair leg still in his hand. The wood cracked, shards flying, and his body dropped.
Another man lunged with a pipe. She caught it, the metal biting into her bare forearm, the black rose tattoo standing out in stark contrast against the red streaks as blood dripped down from the split skin. The abstract dark‑symbol tattoo on her upper arm flexed as she wrenched the weapon from his hands, then brought it down on his shoulder with a wet crack.
The jacket was barely holding on now. One arm was completely free, the other half‑trapped in the sleeve. The next time someone grabbed her collar, the last bit of fabric snapped, the jacket sliding off entirely and falling in a crumpled, blood‑stained heap on the floor.
She didn't look down. She barely noticed.
Her arms were bare now, the full length of her forearms and hands exposed. The black cross tattoo on her forearm flashed under the light as she punched, a rough, brush‑stroke cross smeared with blood. The scribbled smiley‑face tattoo on the back of her hand stared up, one eye crossed out, the other cracked, the mouth stitched into a jagged grin that looked like it was laughing at the slaughter.
She moved like a machine. Every punch, every kick, every slam was without hesitation. She didn't dodge cleanly; she took hits, shrugged them off like they were nothing. A fist slammed into her ribs; she barely flinched, just drove her knee up into the man's groin and then smashed his face into the concrete. Someone grabbed her from behind; she dropped her entire weight backward, dragging him with her, and when they hit the floor, she twisted, slammed her elbow into his throat, and kept going.
Her hands were slick with blood, knuckles split open, arms streaked with red, but her eyes stayed empty. She didn't look at the bodies, didn't count the faces. She just moved toward the next threat, the next patch of movement, the next warm body that tried to touch her.
Ram tried to get up once, coughing, reaching for something. Jay saw him out of the corner of her eye, and the world narrowed to his shape. She crossed the distance in three strides, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, dragged him upward, and slammed his head into the wall. Once. Twice. Three times. He slid down, limp, and she stepped over him without a second glance, the bare, jagged skin of her arms and the heavy black ink on her skin the only things defining her in the chaos.
The room fell into a surreal kind of silence except for the sound of her breathing—rough, shallow, animal—and the occasional groan from someone who was still alive enough to feel it.
She didn't stop. Not until there was no one left standing to stop her.
---
KEIFER'S POV :
Why? Why was I scared like this?
My heart pounded against my ribs like it was trying to tear its way out. My palms were slick, my breathing too fast, almost rattling through my chest. I felt like I was seconds away from ripping someone's head off.
I wasn't scared only of Ram. I was scared of Jay.
Jay was too confident. Too reckless. Too loud when she should have been quiet. The part of me that hated it was screaming at me to shut her up. The part that loved it was screaming at me to get to her before she got herself killed.
"Keifer," Yuri called, voice tight. "I need to ask you something."
I didn't answer. I stared at the screen where Ram's face had been, the last image of Jay—pale, bloodied, but still smirking—burning behind my eyes.
"…What happened back in the Amusement Park?" Yuri asked. "I know Jay‑Jay was with you when we were at the Horror House."
I froze. My jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
I… didn't know. And I didn't want to know.
"…Do you… like Jay‑Jay?" he asked quietly.
The question hit me like a bullet. I felt my answer die in my throat before it could form.
I felt I was falling for her. I didn't know when it happened. I didn't know how it happened. I just knew it was too late to stop.
"Before I answer that…" I said, voice rough, "…let me ask you first."
He looked at me, eyes searching.
"…Do you like Jay‑Jay?"
The silence that followed stretched for an eternity. I already knew I didn't want to hear his answer. I was sure it would be poison. If he said yes, there would be a war between us.
He stared at me.
"No," he said.
For a second, the world went quiet.
Yes. Thank god. No love triangle. No shared obsession. Just me and my own mess.
"You don't like her?" Yuri asked, tone sharper. "You're just doing this for your fucking plan?"
I couldn't answer. The plan meant nothing now. It was a ghost. I didn't care about the scheme, the mission, the revenge. I cared about Jay. I hated that I cared. I hated that I couldn't say it.
"I… don't. I don't like her," I lied.
The words tasted like ash.
I sounded like I was choking on them.
He opened his mouth to say something else, but the others came in—Section E scrambling toward us, voices overlapping. We moved without deciding to, feet carrying us toward the old factory, the same hollow building Ram's group had lured us into.
But when we got inside, none of them were there.
The room was empty. Dusty. Quiet.
I got scared. A cold, crawling kind of fear.
What if they'd already done it? What if they'd taken her somewhere else? What if—
No. I know Jay. She would fight. She'd scream. She'd kick, scratch, bite. She'd never give in. I knew her.
"Guys," I whispered, throat dry. "Keep moving."
We went up the stairs, sectioned off, checking rooms. The sound of our footsteps echoed like ghosts. Then, faintly, I heard something else.
Beating.
Flesh hitting flesh. A dull, sick thud over and over.
We followed the sound, creeping toward a half‑open door. The light spilled out in jagged slices across the floor. I pushed the door wider.
The scene inside froze everything in my chest.
On the floor, at least three men lay unconscious, limbs splayed, blood smeared across the concrete. In the middle of the room, a girl stood over one of them, fists raised, knuckles split open, blood dripping down her arms.
She was covered in blood. Smears on her face, streaks across her neck, red all over her. The jacket was gone, abandoned in a ragged, blood‑stained heap near the wall. The torn sleeves lay around her feet like flayed skin.
The black rose tattoo coiled around her forearm, petals smeared with crimson, the ink‑splash design bleeding into the real blood.
On the back of her hand, the scribbled smiley‑face tattoo was half‑hidden under red, but the stitched grin still stared up, mocking and wild.
The black cross and abstract dark‑symbol tattoos on her arms stood out under the light, harsh and unflinching.
The worst part?
It was Jay.
Our Jay‑Jay.
Her eyes were empty. Pupils wide and glassy, like a possessed doll. She looks lifeless. She looked like she wasn't in her body. Like someone else was wearing her skin. She didn't look at any of us. Didn't react. She just kept swinging, hitting the man on the floor again and again, even though he wasn't moving.
Below her, sprawled beneath her boots, was Ram.
His face was a mess. Blood dripped from his nose, his mouth, his temple. One eye was swollen shut. He wasn't moving.
"Jay, it's enough," I said, voice breaking.
She didn't look at me. Didn't pause.
"JAY!" I shouted.
Her head snapped toward me for a fraction of a second, pupils flickering, recognizing something they didn't fully understand. Then she turned back and slammed her fist down again, harder.
I moved without thinking.
I closed the distance between us in three steps, grabbed her from behind, and wrapped my arms around her waist and chest, locking her arms between mine. She thrashed, elbows digging into my ribs, fists swinging, trying to wrench free.
"Stop," I growled, tightening my grip. "Jay, stop!"
"No one will hurt me," she whispered, voice hoarse, broken. "I won't let anyone hurt me…"
She kept repeating it, like a mantra, like a spell.
I dragged her back, my boots skidding against the floor, until I dropped backward, sitting, legs wide, her sitting between them, my arms still locked around her. She fought harder, legs kicking, hands twisting, but I held on.
"No one will hurt you anymore," I murmured close to her ear, voice shaking. "I won't let anyone hurt you."
Seconds passed. Then a minute. Then, slowly, she stopped struggling. Her body went limp against me, trembling, like a storm draining out of her. She closed her eyes, breathing ragged, her blood‑streaked face resting against my shoulder.
I reached into my pocket with one hand, pulled out a folded napkin, and brushed it gently across her cheek. The blood smeared under the paper, leaving faint streaks. Her skin was hot, slick, sticky.
After a moment, she opened her eyes halfway, pupils still glass Normally, but softer.
"…Keifer…" she whispered.
I loosened my hold slightly, but didn't let go completely. I didn't want to.
She turned her head a little, looking at Section E. Their faces were pale, like they'd seen a ghost. No—like they'd seen her as a ghost.
"…What happened?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
No one answered. None of us knew how to explain it.
She looked around slowly, taking in the room—the unconscious men, the blood on the floor, the chaos. Then she paused, eyes dropping to Ram's motionless body.
---
JAY'S POV :
My body hurt.
Every part of me felt like it had been dropped from a building and then stomped on for good measure. My knees and hands were shaking so badly I could feel the vibrations in my teeth. My head throbbed like a jackhammer was loose inside it.
I woke up as if I'd fallen somewhere, tumbled through a dozen steps, and only just now realized I was alive.
I tried to move, but strong arms tightened around me, pinning me in place. Someone was hugging me from behind, my back against their chest, my head resting on their shoulder. My arms were trapped between their arms and my body, so I couldn't move my hands. The hug was tight, almost suffocating, but in a way that felt safe.
I recognized him immediately.
"Keifer…" I whispered.
His grip loosened a little, just enough for me to suck in air, but he still didn't let go. I tilted my head enough to look around. Section E stood there, faces washed out, eyes wide, mouths parted. They looked like they'd just watched a demon wake up.
"…What happened?" I asked.
No one answered. They couldn't. They didn't know how.
I looked around again, slower this time. The room. The blood. The men on the floor. The chair near the wall, ropes still hanging from it. The jacket, now a torn, blood‑soaked pile at my feet. The blood on my hands, on my neck, on my tattoos.
Then everything slammed back into place.
The kidnapping. Ram. The chloroform. The chair. The rope. The fight. The pipe. The blood.
And then the voices.
I shuddered, my throat tightening.
I looked around frantically, searching for a body. A corpse. A sign I'd gone too far.
Ram lay on the floor, half under Keifer's leg, his face a mess but still breathing. Shallow, but there.
"…Did it happen again?" I whispered, voice fragile. "Did he die?"
"No," Keifer said quietly. "He didn't. Don't worry."
I laughed once, a dry, broken sound.
"I'd worry if he's still alive," I said.
Keifer looked at me, half‑shocked, half‑amused. Only if he knew. My mission had failed. I was supposed to be cleaner, colder, more controlled. Instead, I'd lost myself. I'd let the blood and the voices take me.
But it was okay. I'd deal with Ram later.
"Wow," Keifer muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You're a full‑time psychopath."
I smirked, even though my face hurt.
"And I'm proud to be," I said. "He deserves it anyway. He wanted to fuck me."
Keifer's grip tightened instantly, his arms locking around me like iron. I could feel the tension in his chest, the way his breath sharpened. He was furious. He was shaking with it. But I let myself sink into his warmth, into the solid heat of his body against mine. It was comfortable. It was safe. It was the only thing between me and the storm still raging inside my head.
I wanted to stay like this forever. I wanted to stay in this circle of his arms and never let go.
"Don't," I whispered, almost to myself. "Don't let go."
He didn't answer. He just held me tighter, as if daring anyone to try to take me.