Foxhole

by Parallaxm

You can hide, but you can't run. In which Miura Haru learns trench warfare. Mafia AU (violence and mature content)

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part one

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She had always been easy to read.

Three months after dropping out of university to join the Vongola for the rest of her life, however, Haru slipped into a near-catatonic state, responding only to Giannini's technical instruction and the occasional prodding to eat.

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Prior to cutting off her ties with her classmates and friends, she had retained a Panglossian sense of humor, meeting with Kyoko and I-pin in turns at local restaurants as they filled her in on matters of the underground. Even when Kyoko fell asleep halfway through a particular Sunday chat, cheek sinking into a pale pink cashmere forearm, Haru had smiled softly and ordered a small slice of chocolate cake, boxed and all, tucking it into her friend's purse.

The brunette was prone to overthinking and overanalyzing, but she was just as susceptible to shaking her worries off with the grim resolution that things would work themselves out. Sure, she'd encountered some vaguely life-threatening situations over the years—it was never a safe idea to dabble with the Mafia—but she had emerged unscathed, proof that she could untangle herself from similar mishaps in the future. She had taken the pains to learn Italian, to apply for a resident visa in Italy, to apply for admission to an Italian university, to her father's dismay.

Gokudera had been—she would admit grudgingly—of much help in the process. He'd speak Italian with her as he met her at the entrance of Midori High, walking with her to meet the others on the grounds of Namimori High. He always—always—pointed out her grammatical or pronunciation mistakes with an irritated scoff. She received the rebuke earnestly while glaring, flushing and committing the correction to memory, desperate not to humiliate herself unnecessarily.

His censure was cutting, but he never mocked her when she asked him, often through gritted teeth, to slow down or repeat a phrase.

He would never admit it, but she spoke more fluently than anyone else among the high school students—he suspected the Italian murder mystery novels peeking out of her backpack had a thing or two to do with it. (That, and he'd catch her mumbling phrases like, "where should we dispose of the body?" under her breath when she thought no one was listening.) Takeshi never made an effort to curb his Japanese accent, inflecting the Italian vowels with a jocular lilt that made it impossible for any self-respecting Italian to take him seriously. He even had the nerve to suggest that perhaps if Gokudera exercised more patience, his learning curve would make a steep ascent.

Tsuna had picked up Italian more or less from Reborn, while Kyoko had sought out Bianchi. Ryohei was a lost cause. He rolled his "r"s with a gusto that simulated the ignition of an engine—but that was the extent of his abilities.

According to Reborn, it was vital that the Vongola master the language in order to move back to Italy to maintain close communication with CEDEF, as Tsuna had passed into adulthood and would be shown no mercy by fellow Mafiosi, who had previously withheld (to some degree) violence against a child.

The Vongola had suffered its share of trials and tribulations, never once bowing in defeat. It would not crumble while Tsuna and his friends had anything to do with it.

Or so she'd thought.

Haru had been studying for a programing final when the doorbell of her small, second-floor studio rang, jolting her out of her concentration.

Padding to the door on fuzzy sock-clad feet, she opened it curiously.

An unaddressed envelope was on the ground.

The programmer gingerly crept back into the warmth of her studio, locking the door and humming to herself. Plopping into her swivel chair and sliding closer to her desk lamp, she reached into the envelope and extracted the letter.

You'd better cut ties with the Vongola if you know what's good for you.

Written in a formal, black cursive script.

She scrambled for her phone, cursing when she realized she had no way of communicating with Kyoko without jeopardizing her safety. Glancing morosely to the chunks of code on her screen, she hesitantly scripted a message in the guise of junk email, hoping Kyoko would know what to do with the strange writing.

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Kyoko tutted disapprovingly in response to the red rose Shamal dangled below her nose. They had smelled his presence before its appearance—the citrus musk of Dolce & Gabbana announced itself like a first child straining for attention upon the arrival of the second.

"What will Maria think when she sees you handing a rose to every woman you cross?"

"Ah, but I don't," Shamal leaned back, rocking on his heels. "Not to every woman. Only the beautiful ones." He winked at Haru, whisking out another flower from behind his back.

The brunette shrank away from the single rose, noting its thorns. She had grown used to his shameless sense of humor long ago, but only recently had she began to notice the emptiness it unveiled. He had a habit of walking in with various shades of lipstick stains on his cheek, like it proved something.

"You're bleeding," she murmured, staring at the red pooling in the webs between his fingers.

"Bleeding love, darling." He wiggled the rose, and it drooped a centimeter.

Shamal had actually purchased the roses three days ago, but the sweet woman sitting two seats down at his favorite bar had simply smiled uncomfortably and replied that she was flattered, but engaged. He shouldn't have been surprised, but the soles of his feet wouldn't budge even when he chuckled reasonably and nodded, bid her a good day and good life and all, and turned to leave. At the last minute, almost compulsively, he had pivoted on his heels to offer to buy her a congratulatory drink, but she had begun making conversation with the woman to her right.

Haru wanted to laugh, but something about the cold kitchen tiles beneath her bare feet and the way he waltzed in like a breeze that knew no loyalty made her suddenly ache for an anchoring warmth.

She didn't want to be adored. She wanted to be understood.

Kyoko dutifully bandaged his fingers while he regaled them with exaggerated accounts of his recent conquests and how they all left him one by one because he was too bracing, too much like vertigo, like severely acidic Barbaresco wine best taken in small sips.

"Young people these days," he sighed theatrically, "don't know a damn thing about romance."

Gritting her teeth and squelching the scream in her lungs, Haru politely excused herself.

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Dear Mom,

I'm doing well. There aren't many bakeries around here, so you can rest easy about my health. I haven't thought about raising another dog—I don't think the inner city is the best place for one. It would be nice to have larger parks and forests around here. How are your sunflowers doing?

The question mark did not show up on the lined paper, and Haru etched the sign in several times, deepening its contour. Grunting impatiently, she tossed the blue pen into the metallic waste bin beneath the desk. It seemed that the moment she ran out of ink she had also wrung dry her last drop sanity. Not that the letter mattered much, in the end; she was forbidden to send personal material through the mail—it would only be intercepted and used against her.

The underground complex was their safe haven, but lately, it had begun to feel like a prison.

With no natural light, she woke each morning to the sixty watt fluorescent lightbulb overhead. She dressed in view of her own shadow on the walls with the odd sensation of being in a puppet show.

Haru refilled the water boiler and folded her arms across her chest, leaning against the granite countertop. An ornate antique analog clock hung in the kitchen—Tsuna had received it as a house-warming gift from Basil when they reclaimed the base after it had been briefly infiltrated and assumed by a gang from the north four years ago. The Vongola had hired a cryptanalyst when the city became so inundated with spies that each member of the family resorted to communicating in code. As it turned out, the cryptanalyst they'd trusted had also been one. She'd had trouble sleeping for the first month afterwards, knowing that the same hallways her comrades walked and laughed and cried through had been trespassed by men who would have them all dead.

Tsuna's decision had been worth it, in the long run, however; Haru soon assumed the cryptanalyst's title and now had a functioning role in the family next to that of "caretaker."

The water boiler beeped twice, and as she started from her reverie, she flinched involuntarily upon noting the silver-haired man before her, pouring himself a cup of black coffee.

"Something on my face?" He fished a spoon out from a drawer and stirred as he spoke.

"...Do something about Shamal."

He snorted. "You want me to put the man out of his misery?"

She balled her fists, glaring at the ground, a hazy grey in the shadows to contrast the overcompensated hallway, which was glaringly well-lit. "I don't know. Just do something. He's losing his mind."

Shrugging indifferently, he eyed her through a sidelong squint. "I don't see why it's your problem. Don't you pine for special treatment? He's been giving you plenty."

He caught her wrist before it could follow through.

"You're sick," she hissed, eyes misting. "We're a family. We look out for one another." Sealing the response in his lungs before he could exhale it, she barreled on, "I know. I know it didn't save Bianchi. But—hey. Hey. Look at me."

He had turned away from her, jaw taut.

"You can trust me," she spoke to his back, in the lost tone of a young girl addressing the moon from her bedroom window, offering to share its loneliness.

"Oh yeah?" He scoffed. "Tell me that in five years if we all get out of this alive."

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The brunette stared at the lavender photo frame resting on her dresser, endeavoring to reacquaint herself with its subjects.

Two girls wearing grins. Two girls who knew nothing.

Five men smiling grimly. Five men who knew too much.

Bianchi had taken the picture.

Bianchi, who had been their fortress without their awareness of the fact.

Bianchi, who had held two girls in warm arms when their lives had been reduced to a game of cat and mouse.

Bianchi, who had been daydreaming about Reborn when they broke down the front entrance and snatched Chrome, still recuperating in the infirmary, before she could even muster a scream. Bianchi, who had taken the bullet because Gokudera didn't think they'd actually invade the base, raze its security and slink in like viruses keen on propagating disease. Because Gokudera trusted Haru and Giannini to keep chaos at bay, because Gokudera trusted Ryohei and Takeshi and Hibari to keep the men from reaching the main entrance. Because Gokudera trusted himself.

Haru reached out to touch Lambo's cheeks through a sheet of glass, fondly tracing its arch. The boy had overworked himself recently, landing himself in the infirmary for a pulled muscle. They had been laying low for seven months, as several families in the area had recently formed a pact against the Vongola, seeding the streets with scouts. They could not cross one block without passing an outpost through which they were being spied on. The effect was as psychologically confining as it was physical; the Vongola had its integrity and prestige, but no family could withstand a blitz attack alone for long without buckling.

Giannini had been attempting to get in touch with the Varia and CEDEF, to no avail.

They had been blacklisted—by black market smugglers, no less. It had been a rather unprecedented turn of events, considering the Vongola's influence in the region. Then again, resentment was a powerful incentive. When the other bosses caught wind of Tsuna's "policing" habit of exposing scandals to the public through key media witnesses, they began expanding their markets to edge his out, drawing aggressive support from their black market cohorts. They seethed at the Vongola tenth's rebuff of Omerta and vengeance. A mafia boss, wanting to legitimize their trade? Blasphemy.

Hibari suggested that perhaps the Varia had chosen to side against them, but Tsuna would have none of it. Stubbornness was a defining quality of their family, and in Tsuna it manifested through adamantine idealism. Earlier, the men had departed from a meeting in a dour mood, and Haru recalled the thick tension suspended in the air at the first note of disagreement.

"It's one thing to fight for an ideal, and another to idealize a fight." Hibari stood, his slacks rustling. "It's about damn time you realized not everyone wants to keep their word as much as you do." We're not running a goddamn Utopia here. Wake up.

"Sit back down," Yamamoto appeased from his left. "We can talk this through, Kyoya."

Bristling at his placating tone, Hibari strode out of the room, leaving the remaining four men to stew in the bitter silence left behind.

Haru leapt back from the door as he exited, catching his sleeve.

A gleaming black button on his cuff came loose as he wrenched away, clattering softly to the ground.

"What do you want?" he snarled.

"We received a cipher—Giannini thinks it could be from CEDEF, but I'm not so sure. CEDEF always inserts preselected keywords randomly throughout the message, but none were present this time."

Hibari assessed the closed meeting room door, then the brunette's steely gaze.

"Show me."

He paused without comment as Haru stooped to the ground to pick up the button, following her as she made her way to the enclosure she had called home for the past five years.

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"What?"

"Keep it a secret from the boss," Hibari repeated.

"But—" Haru sputtered, fumbling with the notepad in her lap, "He ought to know." Tsuna ought to know he is not alone. He ought to know what I've spent the past three weeks decrypting with Giannini. God knows how many transpositions we went through trying to nail that sucker down. While they typically relied on computers to decrypt incoming messages, Haru had been too impatient to sit around doing nothing while the computer churned through the possibilities, taking matters into her own hands.

In the end, the encryption had boiled down to a single ominous sentence: HELPONITSWAY.

"I said," he leaned in, breaths ghosting her face, "Keep it from the boss. Is there a part of that you don't understand?"

"Look, I know you're worried Tsuna might—"

"I could break your wrist in a heartbeat," he hissed, his thumb insistent against her pulse point.

"Kyoya."

Both heads turned at the third voice.

"Tsuna already knows," Kyoko intoned steadily, directing her gaze towards Haru's wrist in his grip. "You'd better let her go now."

Hibari released the brunette immediately, as though repulsed. Striding towards the Donna with fire in his steps, he growled, "You told him?"

Haru scrambled to intercept the man, and he halted, thankfully, before he collided with her.

"Don't make things harder than they need to be," Haru bit out, chest heaving. "I know you're only thinking of our safety, but right now what we need most is solidarity."

"Holding hands and praying isn't going to solve anything," he spat.

"We need to take a chance, Hibari, in order to move forward. Tsuna knows that."

"It could be a trap."

Kyoko muffled a snort (or the ladylike equivalent of one). "It's always 'it could be a trap' with you, Kyoya. We've gotten this far, haven't we?"

Yes. We've gotten this far. We can't lose now. Not yet.

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"Interim boss?" Gokudera echoed, brows furrowed. "Is this really the right time to—"

"There will never be a right time," Tsuna interrupted grimly. "As long as I'm not too late, anytime will suffice." His father had taken a great risk in informing him of his mother's sudden ailment. In their current situation, admitting Sawada Nana to a public hospital was out of the question. Haru had painstakingly decrypted the message, pulling two all-nighters in a row. Tsuna had to force down the surge of indignant hopelessness at having received news from his father without a promise of help. Could it be that Iemitsu disproved of his son's collaboration with the authorities, and wanted to cut all ties with him?

Most likely, his father wanted to wait until they reunited to discuss any details.

He rose gracefully from the beat-up leather armchair, buttoning up his black overcoat. "I've left some documents on my desk. Your desk, for now. Should an emergency occur, notify me through Haru." The boss turned then, appraising the brunette with a soft gaze. "You'll have many responsibilities to bear, Haru. I have full faith in you. Take care of yourself."

Glancing back to his right-hand man, he nodded once. "If all goes well, I'll see you in six months."

The door opened and closed.

A young Bovino stared at the door, eyes steeped in trepidation.

Haru reseated herself beside Lambo, rubbing his back soothingly. "We aren't alone, Lambo. Look around you. Your family is still here. Tsuna's taking a necessary business and personal leave. When he returns, he'll want to find that we carried on successfully."

The teen trembled, eyes darting to Haru's. His stiff posture relaxed as he shook his head and sighed resignedly. "No roast beef for six months."

Haru retracted her hand. "What?" She laughed at the ridiculous nature of the whine. "Come on, Lambo. Kyoko can still make you her signature dish—" but where was Kyoko? The cryptanalyst swiveled around to find that Kyoko had left soon after Tsuna.

No… she couldn't be…

Haru darted up from the couch and made a beeline for the door when someone moved to block her.

"Don't," he muttered. "It's her choice. She's a nurse. She'll be useful to his mother."

"Her life will be in constant danger—"

"We're all in constant danger."

"He could bring I-Pin." Her voice sounded tinny and distant to her ears. It doesn't have to be Kyoko. I-pin can heal, fight, and protect herself.

"We need I-pin here. You know that. Fuck it, I'm not going to argue with you. Just let her go."

Haru slipped into the corridor, fighting the sting of humiliation as she retreated to the library. The aisles of towering shelves eclipsed her frame, immovable as mountains. She flicked on a lamp and reached for the reference text on the table, where she'd last left it. Finding the dog-eared page, she gently smoothened out the fold and began reading, booting up her laptop as she commenced the hacking exercises. Giannini had encouraged her to try hacking into their own system (constructed by himself) as a way to expose the kinks in its armor as well as strengthen her experience.

Her mind wandered as her fingers moved instinctively. She had never been separated for a long period of time from Kyoko. Without realizing it, she had developed a sense of belonging when Kyoko was around. Having the amiable woman alongside her as the bloodshed continued outside made the hallways less menacing at night. Knowing Kyoko was present calmed her nerves.

You're depending on her too much. Get a grip, Haru.

Tsuna had vehemently forbade Gokudera from disclosing any sensitive information to Kyoko, for the woman's safety. At the time, Haru had to squelch the petty thought that he obviously cared less for her safety if he was willing to involve her. It was highly unreasonable for her to think, as she had more or less demanded and proven her part. She'd made her bed. Now she had to lie in it.

It had been difficult at first, calling the base a home. It had been difficult, to convince herself to choose sleep over staring her ceiling down, to believe any of it was really happening to her. She had no familial connection with any of the Vongola. She had no real place in the mafia. When they smiled at her and welcomed her with open arms, she had felt like she was donning a mask, a role she didn't quite fit into but grew into anyway, like a soldier adjusting to boots two sizes too big. Of course she wanted to support her friends. Of course she wanted to be a part of their lives.

But it had been hard, knowing just which "part" she could feasibly play.

"So this is where you hide."

She recovered from her surprise without turning. "If you think I've been wallowing, you're mistaken."

He snorted, settling in the desk across from hers. "Lambo's the only one who can afford to wallow."

"He's just a kid." She curbed the defense edge in her voice but it still bled through.

"We need a game plan. Meet me in the debriefing room at nine."

He left without a trace, like a ghost.

Haru felt the air shift as he started down the hallway, footsteps growing inaudible.

They were all so alone.

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The Vongola been under siege for over half a year.

But she still had to go out occasionally, of course.

It was always somewhat of a bitter pill to swallow that whatever undercover work she was assigned stemmed from the fact that their enemies didn't acknowledge her existence. The family had realized as much, and employed her as their wild card from time to time.

But she didn't even get reconnaissance duty. She did their grocery shopping, for Christ's sake.

Because any one of their men going out to buy a loaf of bread would be shot.

Ever since Bianchi died, they'd been unable to maintain the greenhouse. Some sort of virus had afflicted the tomatoes and lettuce, dotting their leaves bright yellow. They had taken it as a bad omen and left the place alone thereafter, too weary to revive it.

Haru eased her svelte figure between two closely parked Giuliettas in the parking lot and made it past the convenience store doors unscathed, forcing herself not to look back. Half of the bread aisle had been cleared to make way for heart-shaped chocolates. Haru found herself staring as two schoolgirls giggled and eyed the Valentine's Day chocolate dreamily. Another girl walked into the store, head bobbing beneath a pair of enormous neon pink headphones. She glanced up at intervals to navigate the aisles while texting.

Haru suddenly remembered who she was.

You are no longer one of them. This is the path you have chosen.

Haru knew none of her high school classmates would've wanted to trade places with her. Sure, they had swooned over bad boys in foreign action films, but they would never actually want to live in one. They would've ridiculed her with some pity on the side, sniffing, "What were you thinking, quitting your job for a life in the shadows? How utterly ungrateful you must be to throw it all away, your schooling, your standing, your future."

She self-consciously buttoned her navy blue corduroy jacket up to her chin, noticing the frayed hole in her wool sweater underneath for the first time. As the girls at the check-out station exited the store with white grocery bags in both hands, Haru moved forward mechanically, leaning down to pick up a basket and making a beeline for the canned foods.

After filling the basket with just enough cans to suggest she was a poor college student binging on instant meals and not an errand-runner stockpiling nonperishables for her Mafia compatriots, she selected a few round and smooth fruits, licking her lips as she imagined the tangy juice of an orange and how heavenly it would taste compared to porridge (a euphemism for sludge).

After facing the cashier with a wad of twenty Euros and a brilliant smile, she wove through the cars outside again, counting the number of steps it took to reach home. The brunette took extra care to pat down her pockets, ascertaining that no two-hundred Euro banknotes had fallen out.

She always had more money than necessary. Whenever she passed the local flea market, she would be disconcerted at the sight of street folk setting up shop or cleaning up at the end of the day with empty coin jars. The bills in her pocket always felt heavier after that. She had asked Tsuna if she could exchange the two-hundred and five-hundred Euro banknotes for smaller denominations, even cents, but the boss had advised her against it, as the bankers would take note of the same woman who came in to exchange hefty quantities of money every month.

It was disturbing, living without traces—like she wasn't really even there.

Tsuna was strict about the handling of money, but the underboss was less morally-minded.

The right-hand man had fewer qualms about seizing dishonest money from the hands of dishonest men for the family. In contrast, Tsuna nearly always donated the money immediately—due to his kindness, Kyoko reassured—but Haru had a suspicion the large sum of scammed money made the boss so uncomfortable he had to be rid of it as soon as possible.

Gokudera often spent the seized sums on reinforcing their infrastructure: updating their security, medical equipment (even though I-pin rarely used the same machines Bianchi had in the infirmary), and gradually building a significant safety fund for the day they all had to make a run for it, with new names and faces and lives to fabricate.

Ever since Tsuna had legitimized all of their business practices, their monthly income had dwindled from excessively lavish (in the hundred thousands) to moderately so (in the ten thousands). Since the blacklisting, it had fell further to an amount scarcely enough to support the daily needs of a dozen people. If not for Gokudera's habit of saving the money they came across, they would be in a real bind.

Kyoko and I-Pin often urged her to get herself some new clothes—to use the money instead of letting it sit on their consciences. But she couldn't admit to them that she was afraid to step into a changing room stall alone in a foreign place, afraid of hearing footsteps without seeing faces, afraid of the greeting she might receive upon unlocking the stall door, and how it might all resemble a nightmare.

She passed three more blocks before she heard it.

Irregular footsteps.

That paused when she paused.

Shit.

She feigned a stumble and dropped a bag, bending over to retrieve the rolling cans and fruits with what she hoped was a convincingly sour expression. She took perhaps a minute too long, dusting the specks of gravel and dirt off the oranges, which had rolled some distance away. Sweeping the streets with a cursory glance, she straightened and diverged from her original path, heading toward the destination they had agreed upon in the event that she was followed.

It was hard to swallow, and she licked her lips anxiously. You were tasked with shopping. You were tasked with shopping and you messed it up. What a goddamned pathetic mess I've made. She gripped the plastic handles tighter as her palms sweated. She forced herself to think about all the snide remarks Gokudera would have in store for her instead of the mild whorl of cigarette smoke wafting her way (she could tell Blues, Reds and menthols apart now—she blamed Gokudera and his insistence that she recognize his; last time she smelled a different brand approaching her from behind, she'd nearly clubbed his head off with her laptop).

Haru froze as a little girl in pigtails zipped past on her bike, missing the brunette's toes by centimeters. Pitching backward, she found her footing, but failed to prepare herself in time for the appearance of her follower, who had gained some time with the distraction.

"Terribly sorry about that, miss." A tall figure smiled toothily. "My daughter isn't very observant."

He grinned in a manner that purred gotcha.

With goosebumps prickling her arms, Haru stammered, "I-it's no problem; I should've paid more attention." She was in no mood to make small-talk, but saw no shortcut out of the maze she'd unwittingly walked into. The man was clearly not on an evening stroll; his formal shirt and slacks gave him away. He had forgone the black tie and loosened the top button on his collar, but to Haru's trained eye, every bit of him screamed Mafioso. The wolfish grin didn't do him any favors.

He scratched his chin, nodding to the street ahead. "You live around here?"

With a casual mien, Haru shook her head. "Guess you can tell, huh? I'm just visiting an old friend."

With unsettling alacrity, the man pressed, "Who? I could point you in the right direction."

Glimpsing her window of opportunity, Haru donned an air of diffidence. "Oh, I don't want to trouble you… I'm sure I can figure out where Lina lives."

The man beamed in recognition. "Ah, Lina! The old woman who makes the best meatballs in town. Yes, I know her. Shall I walk you there?"

The brunette glanced in the direction the little girl had gone. "Are you sure? It'll be getting dark in an hour or so—shouldn't you fetch your daughter soon?"

"Lucky for you, Lina lives just across from our house." He presented his toothy grin a second time, and Haru had the notion they were both very much aware of the game being played at present.

"Then I would be most grateful," she relented, forcing a diplomatic smile. Reaching into her coat pocket, she pressed four numbers into a miniature keypad, then reached for the bags she had set down.

"Oh, shall I help—?"

"I've got it, thank you." She had yielded enough ground already. The base was their only remaining barrier between safety and imminent danger; she would not jeopardize that any more than necessary.

"Right this way, then." The man had a lumbering stride that bobbed to a swaggering pulse, and Haru resentfully wondered if he was only in such a sprightly mood because he thought baiting her to be a piece of cake.

They arrived at a humble yellow cottage with lush oleander bushes strewn across a densely populated flowerbed. It was an explosion of bright color that Haru would have loved to stop and admire at any other time. As it was, she barely spared it a glance.

She rang the glowing orange doorbell and waited.

For a woman with the epithet "meatball master," Lina did not have much meat on her bones. Small yet lively, she had a raspy laugh and sunken cheeks made more prominent by an omnipresent smile. She was often seen around town with a fork in her topknot, pinning her wild grey hair in place.

"Why hello, Akemi!" Lina greeted her in a comely blue dress with sunflowers printed on its skirt.

All family members slipped into an alias when interacting with the townspeople.

Haru itched to exhale in relief, but merely glanced emphatically to the man on her right. What is he still doing here? Don't tell me he got here before I did with his men…?

"Oh, you brought a visitor?"

The man bowed. "I'm Alessio, pleased to meet you."

"Well, come in, the both of you." Lina turned and shuffled back into the kitchen where she made and sold daily batches of spaghetti.

She almost cried out upon seeing Hibari descending the rickety wooden stairs. Her calves ached to run to someone familiar after walking all this way with the essence of unfriendly unfamiliarity. Making her way over to him casually, she sought his gaze.

His irises were a vicious coal black that twisted her up inside.

That's right. He shouldn't have to be here. But he's here. Which means you screwed up.

"Ah yes, Norio arrived just ten minutes ago. He was upstairs fixing my old computer. Do you two know each other?"

"He's a neighbor of mine," Haru murmured thoughtfully. "I didn't know he liked Italian food."

Alessio straightened and stuck his hand out. "The name's Alessio, pleased to meet—"

Hibari ignored the gesture and walked out the door. He paused suddenly on the last tier of the stone steps. It was as close as he would get to waiting for her.

"I'll see you around, Lina!" She had purchased two kilograms of spaghetti as not to appear purposeless.

Red in the face, Haru made her exit, noting Hibari's unwavering glare even as she reached him. It dawned on her that there was a minute chance he had been glaring at Alessio the whole time, and not her. She dismissed the thought, knowing she would face his ire sooner or later. His hands rested on his two Browning pistols in their leather holsters as he accompanied her to their next agreed upon destination. For two scathing minutes they walked in silence punctuated by footfalls. The brunette's breathing grew shallower by the minute. She tossed and turned among the unrelenting waves of anxiety in her mind. Alessio saw me with Hibari. He'll assume I'm related to the Vongola somehow. He must know that Norio is an alias. He'll tell his men that I can't be overlooked. We've lost our leverage. And it's all my fault.

"I know I messed up... I'm... I'm sorry." she whispered at last. She didn't really know how she was to be held responsible for being followed, only that it had happened on her watch. She should have lost her followers, but she had noticed too late to shake them off her trail.

He said nothing, but not for her benefit. He simply had nothing to say.

They turned onto a deserted street, having just left Lina's neighborhood. The district they were entering grew shadier as they walked on, off-white and gritty yellow street signs swarming with illegible graffiti and broken glass scattered over the sidewalk like glitter. Haru walked carefully to avoid the tinted green and brown shards.

"Hey, wait up!"

Hibari drew his gun and whipped around to face Alessio, who had run after them. Raising both hands in the air, Alessio laughed. "Why so hostile? I just want to talk."

"Leave now or die here."

Startled, Haru quelled her fluttering nerves and forced her mouth into a flat line. This is what they do, Haru. They fight. They pull guns. They shoot. This is who they are, too.

"Where do you get that confidence?" Alessio whistled low, tucking both hands into his pockets. "I wouldn't be so cocky, you know. It could be your undoing."

From the four-way intersection, three men emerged.

They were surrounded.

Haru jabbed the keypad with the predetermined coordinates of their location. Prior to her excursion, Gokudera had meticulously graphed the city's streets on two planes, arbitrarily assigning the origin (to conceal the location of the base). He had assumed she would be able to memorize the Cartesian coordinates of all the major intersections and streets—and she had. She was still doing everything in her power to salvage the situation, but the fear that gripped her was unshakeable, clawing its way into her heart. She was willing to do almost anything to resolve their predicament (to redeem herself, because maybe this black hole of failure would just go away if the evidence went away—if they went away).

Her eyes darted to Hibari's second pistol testily, almost greedily. Suddenly aware of what she had been thinking, she forced her gaze elsewhere, ashamed by how quickly she had discarded her fundamental respect for life. The shame ignited a still greater fear and her chest was a bonfire of hurt.

But Hibari had noticed, and casually pressed closer to her, hand snaking behind his back to press the gleaming firearm into her clammy fingers. Haru glanced to him, eyes wide. What the hell are you—? No no no no—I don't want it.

He narrowed his eyes at her before turning away slowly. You wanted it. Don't back down now. Had it been a two-way intersection, he would not have entrusted his weapon to her. But as they were flanked on all sides, they had no choice but to cooperate. Either that, or Haru would wind up with numerous gunshot wounds.

Hibari did not want to have to explain that to the boss.

Ryohei had been assigned to contain Alessio while Hibari escorted Haru. That Alessio had caught up with them could only mean one of two things: that Ryohei had failed, or that Alessio had brought more men than Gokudera had predicted.

Haru's fingers were slow sliding up the grip, as though seeking permission from the pistol. Her gut lurched as her flighty digits found their proper grip. Out of the corner of her eye, she swore she saw Hibari smirking at her.

As if to taunt, can you do it? Can you become one of us? You can't, can you?

But she could. She would. Because he trusted her with his back turned.

She had never fired a gun before.

But she had watched the others fire plenty, and committed their form to memory. She straightened her wrist and let her thumb rest easy on the top of her middle finger as her index finger curled around the trigger. In spite of her father's continual efforts to educate her in his pacifist ways, Haru had always harbored a tendency towards physical conflict resolution, be it raising her voice or delivering an elbow jab to the solar plexus.

She told herself that the four men surrounding them were not monsters, nor enemies—just men, with mothers, fathers, siblings—perhaps even kids. They were the same.

The same.

And what she was about to do was very, very wrong.

She told herself she didn't hate them, because it is impossible to truly hate a stranger, only what they represent. That she didn't curse them to fates worse than hell after Tsuna walked in one night with an undead, stricken expression. "They've got Kyoko," he'd croaked, finally, after she coaxed it out of him with three cups of green tea. That she didn't feel her gut tremble viscerally when she saw their leery faces and nicotine-stained teeth, when she heard their braying laughter, when they cracked lewd jokes about the waitress over at table four, when she hissed in her head that they didn't deserve to be happy, not like this, not ever, not while they sucked it out of others like leeches out for blood.

She told herself she didn't hate herself every night before she closed her eyes for the mere fact that her existence was not enough to negate theirs. She told herself she didn't hate them for making her meals tasteless and vapid, even with Kyoko's secret recipes—that she didn't loathe their innards for the parasitic paranoia that shadowed her every step, that she no longer smiled when she heard the giggles of children, because it felt too early to smile when there was so much to lose, so much at stake.

She told herself she did not feel a heady thrill as her fingers closed around the source of power.

It was only adrenaline.

Only adrenaline.

"We don't want any trouble," Alessio chortled as his men closed in, guns cocked. "So you can come with us and it'll be nice and easy. No shootin', no blood, no nothin'."

Hibari paused. The single action was a testament to his growth in the past few years; as a teen, he would have shot Alessio without hesitation.

"What exactly is the meaning of this?"

Alessio's men lowered their guns as he wiped on a lopsided smirk. "Oh, now you want to talk? You wanna have a sit-down? Well sure, we can have a sit-down. How's tonight at seven, the diner across from the deli on fifth?"

Surprised, Haru took her attention off of her target for a moment to glance to Hibari. She had not expected this turn of events, but it was a crucial turning point nonetheless. Gokudera had not predicted the Millefiore would offer a compromise, of all things.

And they hadn't.

Fool, she would think later. Never take your eyes off the enemy.

There was a bang.

There was a yelp of pain.

It took one second for Hibari to recognize that the scream was distinctly female. It took only a millisecond for him to pull the trigger as he aimed for the heart of the two men in his field of vision, grimacing as bullets pierced his sides. He could not stay in place to cover Haru—it would do no good to protect her by getting hit himself. Skidding to the ground, he coughed amid the smoke and assessed his injuries. Only two bullets had reached him, but many more rang out in the alley, many more that did not strike him. Eyes narrowing, he lurched to his feet and whipped his head around—

—and saw no men standing.

Haru was panting heavily, staring at the pistol in her hands. She had not aimed for their hearts. She had aimed for their hands; it made more sense. But it just so happened that their hands were held perpendicular to their hearts. She was glad for their unspoken black dress code. She did not see their blood spurting out as it did in the movies and comics. She saw a bloom of maroon and no more. But—she couldn't trust her aim, nor her shaking hand, so she trusted the cartridges, and the sheer number she sent into their skin. The scent of gunpowder hung heavy in the air, acrid and musty.

It had been too easy to kill with a gun. She did not have to claim any physical responsibility for the deeds done, nor did she have to feel the weapon sinking into the victim with her hand still on it—she only had to pull her finger back and steady her quaking arms.

By some miracle, she had come out with only a stomach wound and superficial leg wounds. In the back of her mind, she wondered if they had gone easy on her on account of her gender.

Glancing down to the savage puncture in her belly, she abandoned the thought.

Hibari reached over, briskly snatching the pistol from her hands, avoiding her eyes. He reached into his own pocket to reload the pistols, but came up empty. He glanced to the ground. Several empty magazines were scattered at her feet. His eyes roved over the bodies of the men, noting the extensive bullets embedded in their skin, patterned like Swiss cheese.

"You..."

...Wasted my bullets, she heard him mutter.

She could not move her fingers so he crouched and withdrew the keypad from her red, red, red, pockets, wiping the surface with his clean sleeve before typing four numbers into the device, pocketing it thereafter. She could not move at all so he fired a shot into the sky and she was jarred into wakefulness, clamping a hand to her stomach and biting back a groan. She was lightheaded, nauseous and losing a startling amount of blood.

He did not offer to help her walk.

They did not speak to one another as they limped for another two blocks.

Haru's eyes locked onto the end of the street with tunnel vision, blurring everything to the sides: all the untrimmed bushes, ransacked homes and broken fences, the bloody footprints she left behind, the corpses of the men she left behind—her pulse spiked but immediately evened out as she remembered the pact the Vongola had made with the gangs in the neighborhood; they would aid in the disposal of evidence on their territory, assuming the Vongola were responsible. She pictured four bodies dyeing the water downstream and clapped a hand against her mouth so as not to vomit.

The blood on her hands reached her tongue.

She lurched to a side, retching onto the pavement on all fours.

Her lips were cleansed with her tears as they fled down her cheeks. She steadied herself with a hand on the ground and another holding her hair back. Hibari stood motionless across from her, silent.

Ryohei met them at an intersection, alarm brimming in his eyes as he glimpsed more blood than skin. He glanced sharply to Hibari, but the vitriol withered on his tongue at the man's unusually drained gaze. "I was held up by Alessio's men. They said they'd kill you if I followed so I just alerted Gokudera and fell back to our next rendezvous point. I saw in the tracker that you were close by."

Hibari entered an update into the keypad and the three of them headed home, at last, with Ryohei carrying two plastic bags of gunpowder-scented cans, spaghetti and fruit.

.

.

.

Ryohei would not let Gokudera see Haru.

"She needs space right now," he stated firmly. "Interrogating her won't help. We already have the groceries. Hibari killed four in self-defense—Tino's men. Tino won't miss them much; bastard's got no appreciation for life."

The strategist and boss-in-training sighed, massaging his temples. "Was Alessio one of them?"

"Yeah. That a problem for us?"

"It's a big, fucking problem. Alessio was the only one able to bribe his way into a city council seat—it's how the Millefiore smuggle cigarettes in, now that the industry has shifted to e-cigs. When Tino finds out, steam will be shooting out of his ears."

Takeshi ventured warily into the kitchen, nodding to the men as they inclined their heads in greeting.

"Is Haru alright? I-pin wouldn't say much."

"I-pin?" Gokudera's gaze slid to Ryohei's. "You didn't report any injuries other than Hibari's." I-pin had become their de facto nurse since Bianchi's death two years ago. It had taken them some time to get used to the traditional Chinese medicine and treatments, but she was certainly qualified.

"It… was her first time watching Hibari kill," Ryohei muttered, eyes downcast. "Figured talking to a female assassin would do her some good."

"She only watched?" The underboss narrowed his eyes, drumming his fingers on the time-wearied wooden table. Haru had seen him kill before. Haru had seen Takeshi kill. She would not lock herself away from them just for that, he knew.

"What are you implying?" Takeshi pulled a seat, tone confrontational. "Haru would never—"

"Takeshi," Ryohei cut in quietly. "You don't under—"

"You don't believe me?" he asked with a wounded expression.

"Never mind," Gokudera sighed. "That's moot now. We'll let her rest for tonight. There won't be any time tomorrow for rest; I need to talk to her, and that's final."

The boxer ushered his friend out, leaving their stand-in leader to chew on hypothetical scenarios.

Gokudera nursed his black coffee between the droning ticks of the second hand. It was never a good sign when Ryohei's reports were too concise and vague. The man wasn't prolix to begin with, but he was detailed when it counted, and Gokudera had counted on it tonight. His excessive brevity usually meant there had been a critical flaw in his strategy, and that someone had been unnecessarily wounded as a result.

He fumbled for a Dunhill Menthol, lighting up with a quick flick. Ice frosted down his throat, and he let the chill overtake him as he planned out their next move.

He wouldn't be getting much sleep that night anyway.

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.

.

Haru's room had originally been a large storage closet. She'd taken a liking to the square walls; all of the other quarters were enclosed by long, thin rectangles.

Her sheets were warm, too warm for a murderer to lie still in good conscience.

She felt that the blankets had swallowed her whole and come morning the mattress would spit her out like child evicting a loose tooth—mouth drawn in a grimace—leaving only an imprint in memory. She would crawl back under the covers the next night, deluding herself with the false comfort of sleep. But another tooth would grow in. Another day would be hers to bear. As words hid in mouths, so Haru hid in her bed, curled in a tight ball with her feet flat up against the wall, until it felt more like a stretcher and she the patient who could not be resuscitated: electric shock, epinephrine, everything, nothing.

Only the dim, bitter awareness of sinking, like corpses in a riverbed.

She hated that bed.

But her limbs had begged to differ, jellying upon contact like a sigh.

Haru flinched when the door creaked open, fisting the light grey sheets and pulling them up around her neck, piling as much warmth and cover as she could between herself and reality. She exhaled when I-pin entered, smiling guiltily, embarrassed. Her friend's entrance introduced a sliver of white, unnatural light to the pitch black room. That was another thing that irked her about the lack of windows—she could never guess what time it was. The light never roused her gently. It was all blackness—then blinding light.

I-pin didn't return the smile. Settling at the edge of her bed, she took Haru's hands into her own. "Be honest. The red marks on your hands… aren't an accident, are they?" When Haru neglected to reply, she continued, "I never liked guns… They bite you back when you bite the enemy, and by the time your skin gets used to it, you've gotten used to the idea of killing."

The brunette turned away. She wanted to be self-sufficient, to generate her own body heat and keep her bed warm on a windy, howling night. She wanted to be her own voice of reason, reaching out to the quivering girl inside her, quieting her screams with a loving hand. But there were no other voices in her head. Her crass attitude had abandoned her, left her bereft of solid ground on which to stand. Everything was abruptly physical, contained to her body and its weaknesses. Every sore muscle was an enemy she had to face with a stoic wince.

"Haru," I-pin breathed softly, "You're one of us. We are the mafia. There is no strangeness in what you did, especially if it meant defending your life."

Slowly, as if fishing for words in a viscous well of infinite depth, she managed, "I know you won't judge me, but Kyoko will. She'll never see me the same way again, and neither will Tsuna. Why would he? Tsuna would've put a bullet in their dominant hands and left it at that. He would've never... so excessively..."

"Hibari told me you used up three magazines."

Blanching, Haru wrenched her hands from I-Pin's. "Well... I..."

Smiling wryly, I-pin rose to the small nightstand, reaching for the teacup she'd brought on a platter. "He didn't rat you out, though. I weaseled it out of him in a fair fight. Don't get up—I'll bring it to you."

Haru blew gently on the herbal tea, fingers tingling as they cupped the porcelain. "Thanks."

The martial artist turned to leave, lingering in the doorway. "Besides, you've wanted this for so long, haven't you? To stand by their side, not behind them. There's a price for everything."

The tea seared ugly truths into her lips but she forced the liquid down, tongue and throat burning.

Haru kicked the covers aside and scooted towards the unopened cigarette case hidden beneath, stomach clenching with the exertion of movement. She slammed the edge of the box into her palm a dozen times, packing it fully. It was her first cigarette; she didn't want her rasping and coughing to give it away. Not in front of him. She'd seen him packing his boxes enough times to know the drill. He liked his half-packed—more flavor, that way.

What am I doing?

.

.

.

She knew he'd come for her.

So perhaps it wasn't the most innocuous idea, pickpocketing his favorite brand and having a smoke before he arrived. Maybe she wanted to skip all the tiptoeing around the issue and launch into the storm, the shouting.

He was the only one who would shout at her. She wasn't afraid of it. Or if she was, she still reaped some twisted sense of satisfaction from the release it granted her. Everyone else was always careful with her, forbearing to the point of patronization. He didn't give a shit about her feelings, which had galled her when she was an overconfident, brazen teenager. As a young woman operating on low patience and under high pressure, she found it saved time and energy, dealing with him.

She didn't have to pretend.

There were two terse raps on her door.

"Come in," she murmured, her voice oddly alien to her ears. She took a draw, masked a cough, and exhaled shakily. The minty tinge of menthol soothed her nerves, and she grudgingly understood then how he went through so many in a single day.

Gokudera cut into the chamber in long strides, flicking a desk lamp on. He turned and froze, staring at the cigarette dangled between her index and third finger. Without a word, he snatched the cigarette and crushed it beneath his heel.

"Don't do that again."

Don't do what? Kill? Or smoke?

Haru felt a bubble of infantile shame well up in her gut and her knuckles tensed as she forced her breathing to even out. She'd wanted to give him another excuse to be angry at her to distract him from the matter at hand—but all she'd succeeded in was adding to his burden.

Her wool skirt shifted as she crossed her legs. The thick fleece vest she'd donned over her blouse hid her wound well; the scent of gauze and blood was still detectable through the blouse, so she'd had to cover it somehow. She was doing it all to remain strong, to remain good, useful, and all that she held dear. She didn't know why it all felt nauseating despite that. Why it felt like she was drowning herself when she ached for air. It felt wrong to withhold information from him—and it was wrong, she recognized, for their situation at large. He needed to know the specifics to continue strategizing.

She slicked on a layer of confidence. "What do you want to know?"

He swung her desk chair around and settled in it backwards, arms folding over the back. "Everything. Start from the beginning." He reached into his pocket instinctively to withdraw a cigarette. Catching himself, he sighed, his arm falling back to his side. The brunette tossed him the pack guiltily, and he caught it, offering a small smirk.

Haru fidgeted on her bed, suddenly unable to find her voice. It was all well and good when Hibari and I-Pin were the only two who knew. Telling him, she knew, would change everything. For once, she had no idea how he would react. And because not knowing seemed too high a risk to take, she settled for knowing.

And conveniently left her sins out of the story.

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.

.

She averted her eyes from Takeshi's solicitous stares. If Giannini noticed the remarkable amount of time it took for her to cross the room to his desk whenever he needed to consult her, he didn't mention it. He treated her with the same politeness he always did, the same smile followed by a hasty wipe of the forehead with his handkerchief, the same poke to the bridge of his glasses whenever he was deep in thought.

Wednesday morning, she donned her high heels to prove a point and felt the stiches literally holding her together with every step. Her hair had been a little spitfire that morning, and she'd only just managed to tame it into a low ponytail, leaving her more frustrated than warranted.

"I'm going to run this by the boss," the other cryptanalyst murmured, breezing past her. "If we're lucky, he'll let us reply so we can get some more clues as to how this cipher works. We need more words."

Waiting until the doors parted with his exit, she kicked off her navy blue pumps and sighed in relief.

She didn't know how the men wore their work gloves so casually, and took them off just as casually. One minute they were adjusting their ties and securing their handguns, and the next they were laughing over Ryohei's impression of some ringleader—like schoolboys on a field trip, exchanging ghost stories past curfew. Takeshi had mentioned something about that once; something about soldiers and jokes and how they symbiotically meshed to infuse the other with more life when it was sorely lacking.

The brunette felt the deed coating everything she touched. Cooking with Kyoko had never seemed more threatening. The knife in her hand became unsteady as she gripped it too tightly, slowing her chopping pace. She'd taken pride in the rapidity with which she chopped vegetables before, the thump thump thump of the blade making contact with the cutting board, even and rhythmic. But her hands were stiff now, wary of nicking her fingers by accident. What's this, she thought to herself darkly, are you taking a page out of Dostoevsky now? It's not a good time to come undone, Haru.

I-Pin knocked on her door that night.

"I have a... counter-intuitive idea," she ventured. "I know you're trying forget, but maybe... maybe you need to confront it head-on. Ever thought of asking Hibari for a few pointers?" When the brunette paled considerably and dropped the pen in her hand, I-Pin added, "I've talked to him, so he won't be too hard on you. He's at the shooting range right now... if you're interested."

Haru choked on a bark of spurned laughter.

You think I'm suddenly a soldier now? That I've passed some initiation test? I can't aim to save my life. The thought was sobering. If it weren't for those extra magazines... I wouldn't be here right now.

I'm not who you think I am. I'm not even who I think I am.

"Ah... thank you, I-Pin."

She felt uncomfortable letting her friend's offer go to waste, however, so she paraded herself into the elevator and jabbed the ninth subfloor button before she could change her mind.

She told herself the jitters in her stomach were from a lack of sleep.

.

.

.

"You shouldn't be here."

Haru nearly stepped back into the elevator, but stood her ground out of sheer habit.

"I-Pin said you... you could... help?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Hibari grunted. "Damn her. Making me go out of my way..." Sensing her hesitance, he snapped, "I'll say it again. You don't belong down here. Your aim's shit and your mind's not cut out for it. Don't kid yourself into thinking you've got the talent just because you have a wound to show off."

She was always chasing for their acknowledgement.

Always one step too far behind.

"You're right," she said, stone-faced, and he glanced at her then, for the first time since she arrived. I'm useless down here. Only... why do I want to be belong here? Why do I want it so badly that it terrifies me? I like the work that I do. I really like it. But do I like myself?

"Sorry for wasting your time. And bullets."

She held his gaze as the elevator doors hissed shut.

"But don't you dare pity me," she muttered into the silence, absently examining the angry red hammer bites between her thumb and index finger. "Don't even think about it."

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.

.

Dear Mom,

I'm already dreading my twenty-fifth birthday. It's a number stuck in between young and not-as-young-anymore. I know, I know. That's not the way to look at it. But lately I've been wondering if my circumstances are changing me, or if I didn't entirely know myself to begin with. I—

Her pen failed her again, and she crumpled the unfinished letter, expecting to see it vanish beyond the rim of the recycle bin. When it fell neatly into the bin but still remained in sight, she realized that she had written and tossed out so many letters that the bin was completely full.

Slumping in her chair, she allowed herself three seconds to brood in a well of depthless misery before forcing a determined frown onto her face.

You are not allowed to wallow, Miura Haru. You may not be that kind of soldier, but you're still a soldier.

Soldier on.

When she could not take two steps without moaning and clutching at her stomach (she had not rested like I-Pin advised her to—that was too conspicuous), she popped two painkillers in her mouth, molars crushing the tablets with self-effacing roughness.

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.

.

The brunette knocked softly on Gokudera's door, trying the doorknob when he didn't respond.

Her brows rose in surprise as the door to his office opened without resistance. Had he forgotten to lock it last night? After the last invasion, Tsuna had made him swear to lock the door if he was working while the others slept. The right-hand man had obeyed fastidiously, of course.

Except this time.

All thoughts choked to a halt when she spied him leaning over his desk, papers astray beneath his elbows. His head rested on top of a stack of portfolios half a foot high. A sharpened pencil stood upright in his right hand; she approached him silently, plucking it from his fingers and setting it on the desk.

Upon closer inspection, she noticed two smudges of graphite on his left cheek.

Unwilling to cross the thickly-scored line between touching a pencil and touching his face, she turned around instead, surveying his study. The lamp light flickered erratically, and she wondered how many all-nighters he had pulled recently. Their shadows were projected onto the forest green paint, over the laminated map tacked onto the wall.

Her eyes instinctively sought the time as she glanced to her left wrist: it read 1:14 AM.

She retreated to the door, turning the key in the deadbolt (she'd fished it out from the first drawer of his desk). At the sound of the lock sliding in place, he stirred, rubbing his eyes. Haru glanced to him just as he caught sight of her, and there was something heavy in the way he looked at her that amplified and slowed every action, that made locking the door somehow provocative, somehow ambiguous. An odd calm fell over her despite his unnerving gaze. They had ten years of bickering between them—ten years of disagreements smoothed over by small, often silent, gestures of consideration.

Swallowing thickly, she approached him. "I... wanted to see how your planning was coming along."

Straightening his black blazer, he sat upright in the wooden chair, coming to his senses.

"Right. Well. I'm assuming Tino already knows Alessio's dead, in which case we'd better be on the lookout for more bloodshed. He's not a senseless man, though, and he'll realize what he needs is to get another lackey in the council, not feed his bloodlust."

He started to organize the papers into separate stacks. "But if he somehow learns of the boss' absence, I have no doubt he will take full advantage of it. Revenge and leverage all in one stone. We need to reach out to CEDEF somehow. I can't afford to trust the Varia when the stakes are this high. With Xanxus hospitalized, I have no idea who's holding the reins over there."

"Surely Tino wouldn't pack all his eggs in one basket?" Haru murmured pensively, eyes following the red strings tracking continental trade lines of various families across the map. "I mean, Tino had more than Alessio on his side. He's got the city police on his side now, too. That and a thriving casino chain."

The interim boss rubbed his lower lip thoughtfully. "His cigarette business is on its last legs, in spite of all that. E-cigs are taking over, but of course Tino thinks e-cigs are for pansies. Alessio was his last chance."

Haru's breath caught abruptly in her throat. Had she been the one to shoot Alessio? Had it been Hibari? She couldn't recall. She had killed two men and she could not even recall their faces.

"If Tino—what the hell?"

Haru managed to catch herself before her head hit the glass coffee table, hands hot against the cool surface. She wanted the tears to come, unbidden, and wash everything away. But all she felt was dry, frozen and dry, liked cracked lips in the cold. A sting in her stomach gradually settled the goosebumps rising on her arms, and she was grateful for the pain, for the proof that she could still feel.

For a form a punishment she would bear if it cleansed her hands.

"I'm fine." She raised her head slowly, tucking her bangs behind her ears. "Go on."

Glancing at her skeptically, he began again, "If Tino plans to take advantage of the boss' absence, he'll definitely try to follow up on the shooting. With the cops on his side and the onslaught of gunfights recently, they'll do anything to reassure the public that they're capable."

"So he'll try to put us behind bars?" Haru mused. "A docile tactic for a man like him."

"He'll try for the death penalty."

Haru froze, eyes locking onto his. "But it's been banned for years."

"Not in Japan, it isn't." Coughing into his fist, he murmured darkly, "Not all of us are Italian."

"But that's illegal," she whispered. "You can't extradite convicts if they're going to be on death row."

"No one will object to the death of a mafia family, Haru." His tone flattened her convictions.

"So he can kill however many men he wants, but when one of his is killed, he'll call up a lawyer?"

Gokudera laughed. "Tino doesn't give two shits about Omerta. He's a profiteer who believes the end justifies the means." He tented his fingers, adding, "Bottom line: we can either take him out of the picture, or get him to cool his head enough to talk it over. I'm inclined to attempt the latter first, as his death would be trouble than it's worth."

"Talk it over?" she echoed. "I don't think that'll go over very well."

"He won't give us the time of day right now, of course. And we wouldn't be able to meet him with the boss gone. With a little added pressure from CEDEF, he'll be more incentivized. So that'll be our first order of business. Contact CEDEF immediately with a cipher you've never used before."

He was trusting her again. He was also trusting CEDEF to be able to crack it in time.

She would not fail this time.

"So we're going to play the compromise game?"

He sighed, forehead wrinkling. "It's the only game with rules he'll play by. We'll probably have to form a temporary partnership until his profits recover from the blow it's sure to take."

Haru pushed off the hard, wooden chair and gestured to her face. "You've got, um, some graphite smudges on your cheek." She turned awkwardly to the door. "And don't forget to lock up this time."

He rubbed his cheeks with a sleeve, and when he looked up again, she had left. He reached into the first drawer but the key was not in the secret compartment below his notebook. He glanced to the piles on his desk, noting that the key was on top of the tallest one.

How did it get there?

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.

.

Public key ciphers were out of the question. They took too many resources (including time) to crack mathematically, and CEDEF would have to know the preselected parameters and have the private key on hand at the time of decrypting.

Vigenère ciphers it was then. A preselected keyword was all it took to make the polyalphabetic substitution. The keyword would be placed directly below the message and repeated on end to encrypt the plaintext message. It all came down to the keyword. A word or phrase only the Vongola and CEDEF were privy to.

A noun would be too risky. A proper noun even more so. Haru jumped out of her swivel chair, dashing to the elevator to the lowest subfloor—the archives.

She rubbed her chin thoughtfully as the elevator whirred to life. The CEDEF headquarters had been renovated in recent years to accommodate parallel computing; the last time she visited, she'd spent a whole afternoon in the room full of stacked computers, each delegated with a separate but correlating task. CEDEF had received the generous sum from a rogue ex-governmental agency that hired them to crack "unsolvable" ciphers and codes. The brunette shook her head, dismissing the fond memory. She should assume CEDEF was operating under extenuating circumstances as well, to optimize the cipher's chance of being decrypted in time for Tsuna's return.

After two exhaustive hours of dredging up the Vongola's bloody history all the way back to Sicily, she fell against the bookcase, stumped. Sure, their history was guarded, but history was, objectively, public property—potentially accessible as long as it was extant, as long as it was physically recorded. She needed something personal.

Haru thought of Basil's Elizabethan predilection and reached for her laptop.

.

.

.

She tested the worthiness of her cipher by letting Giannini take a stab at it.

In the end, she'd encrypted the message from a line of a Shakespearian sonnet. The sonnet was a red-herring, really—only an indicator that the sender knew the CEDEF personally. Within the sonnet a single letter "M" was embedded, understood as "let's meet up, you decide the time and place." The keyword changed with every word of the message, cycling through female leads in Shakespeare's plays.

After three hours, he sighed, pushing away from his desk and stretching. "The keyword," he mumbled, pulling out his handkerchief. "It's all useless without knowing the keyword."

Haru smiled to herself.

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.

.

Lambo groaned in frustration, clawing at his mane of hair. "How're we supposed to meet CEDEF when the neutral territory has been revoked? There's nowhere to go where we won't be seen!"

"We could use a messenger," Takeshi pointed out, reaching for a stale bread roll from the basket on the coffee table. Luckily, the bread rolls had been protected by a sheet of plastic, spared the heady scent of gunpowder.

"You've received the encrypted coordinates, right?" Gokudera's gaze shifted onto the brunette.

"Yep. Last night. Turned out to be a decrepit movie theater in an old part of town."

Haru had been verily impressed (albeit grudgingly) that they'd cracked her cipher and responded in kind within four days. She had been shooting for a week, two weeks tops. The random keyword was not plugged throughout the message she received, however, so she had her reservations about the sender's identity. CEDEF was known for its consistency. They were not radicals—they were hardline traditionalists.

The brunette cleared her throat. "Um, there's something—"

"Wouldn't they want to settle on a more conspicuous place?" Ryohei interjected, confused.

"Sounds sketchy," Lambo grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. "Don't go, Haru."

"Eh? Who said I was going?" She blurted, and all eyes zeroed in on her diminutive form on the roseate armchair, a deer in the headlights.

"Odd, I never took you for a coward."

Haru's blood simmered beneath her skin as she turned to face Hibari, barely repressing a snarl.

"There's something else," she spoke levelly. "I can't say with absolute certainty that the message was sent by CEDEF. Sure they guessed the keywords correctly, but they didn't respond with the traditional insertion of random past keywords in plaintext throughout the message."

The right-hand man took a sip of coffee from a mug as black as its contents. It seemed to Haru that he was pouring liquid void into his mouth. From nothing into something. "Is it possible they took precautions to maintain anonymity in the event that it was intercepted?"

The brunette pondered this for a moment. "Unlikely, but I guess… I guess that's possible." Another thought occurred to her. "But last time, I was seen. Is it wise to send me out again?"

"It would be wiser to send you out at regular intervals to give the impression that you are an everyday citizen, rather than a handy tool we employ in dire straits," Hibari deadpanned.

Gokudera glanced between them, making note of the brunette's tensed shoulders and the hitman's narrowed eyes. "Hibari's right," he admitted, ignoring the betrayed glare she sent his way. "We'll be close behind. This is the best way to go about it. If you're willing, that is."

"Of course I'll do it," she sighed. "But will Ryohei and Hibari be able to remain undetected?"

Gokudera smirked faintly. "Leave that to me."

Unease scaled the notches of her spine one at a time, circling her neck and pulling tight. A flare of pain burgeoned in her chest, taut and sharp. You're spreading them too thin, Haru. Don't mess up again. Don't make someone else clean up your messes. Wipe that goddamned weary smile off of his face and replace it with a real one.

"Did they specify a time?"

She nodded. "Two days from today."

"Great." He set the empty mug on the glass table, and Haru was struck with the thought, from nothing to nothing. "We need to prepare something for you to say. If they're really CEDEF, they should pick up on the keywords we used in conversation last time."

A knock on the door startled them from their discussion.

"Come in," Gokudera called.

I-pin bowed respectfully. "Lunch is ready."

Ryohei stood, glancing to Gokudera for dismissal.

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.

.

The topic of Gokudera's sleep deprivation was a sensitive one.

A trigger point, so to speak.

Tsuna had voiced his concern one night and Gokudera had snapped at him. It had been the first time he'd shown any unwarranted irritation towards the boss, and he'd realized the same before vehemently apologizing, beseeching the boss to mete out punishment as he saw fit.

By the time the right-hand man was done planning, it would be far too late to think about getting a decent amount of sleep. He usually hit the bed around two, and lay awake for another hour just stalling the coming day. Time passed in a wink during sleep—but he could draw it out in semi-alertness, offering himself the only reprieve he could afford before plunging back into chaos.

So he lingered in the space of semi-consciousness, in the exquisite stillness of temporary peace.

He knew it was pathetic. That he needed more sleep to function at full capacity. But he possessed more than enough will to function independent of sleep. The brunette had tried to tamper with his alarm clock, once, just so he would get another hour of rest. She had blamed it on daylight savings when he confronted her, but he'd called her bullshit and she'd snorted and replied that she was tired of his irrational pejoratives and was fully convinced they stemmed from fatigue.

She'd been right.

He was overcompensating for his bone-weariness with a scale-up in temper. Because anger kept him on his toes, kept him alert when a peaceful moment threatened to buckle his knees and sweep him under.

They relied so much on him.

He could not afford one miscalculation. He forced himself to think through the worst cast scenarios involving Haru's meeting with CEDEF and began planning for extreme measures.

His mind was not a palace, treasure chest, or any token of grandiose charm.

His mind was a mausoleum where idealism went to die, cultivating fields of paranoia.

It was the only way to be fully prepared.

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.

.

Haru woke to an overcast Monday, clouds dark and portent. Of course, she had not known this when she opened her eyes—she had only felt something foreboding in the absolute darkness of her room, a horrific species of foreboding that had evolved without precedence, mutating overnight. As she dressed quickly, she could not shake the feeling that she was in a Hitchcock movie and the birds were coming.

Not wanting to be alone, she took the bus to the outskirts of town and walked the last mile to the rendezvous point, skirt flapping in the chilly breeze. February had been a kind month to them, weather-wise. Too bad they spent its entirety underground. The first day of March had arrived, and with it an ominous change in skies.

The theater had not aged well; the once velvet-red awnings had multiple tears and several strips of canvas hung loose, which Haru had to duck under, wiping her dusty fingers off afterwards. Several block letters in the theater's name had fallen off, and the brick building now read CIA instead of CINEMA, which she found mildly ironic (Mafioso meeting at CIA headquarters? Only if they're traitors). Strands of half-destroyed spider webs hung loosely from the door handle to the ground, and she had to suck in a deep breath before reaching out to push, stepping into the theater.

There was very little natural light inside, as a theater hadn't much use for it. She switched on her flashlight and called carefully, "Hello? Anyone there?"

A voice—female—answered, "In here. Take a left and you'll see the room."

Haru followed the dusty maroon carpet and took a left at the first intersection, spotting a small office that was lit from the inside. She turned her flashlight off as she drew closer to the open door.

A blonde woman with blood red lipstick smiled in invitation. "Pleased to meet you, Haru."

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.

.

Haru stared at the woman as if she'd sprouted fangs. "P-Pardon?"

The woman laughed shrilly. "My apologies, I've gotten ahead of myself. I'm Vanessa. CEDEF recruited me last month. Have a seat."

The brunette slipped into the—clean, she checked—metal chair and flinched at its frigid touch.

"Why didn't your cipher contain any random keywords, as per usual?"

"My, my, you're quite forward. Well, that'll save me some time." She rose from the table between them, striding to the doorway. "Follow me."

"Where are we going?" she asked, brows scrunched in confusion. They were no longer going by the script Gokudera had meticulously prepared. She had to improvise at this point. Sweat formed along the nape of her neck as she clenched her fists at her sides, nails biting her palms.

"You'll see."

Vanessa paused, feeling for a light-switch in the hallway. At a soft flick, the entire hall was illuminated by a string of single light-bulbs hanging from the middle of the ceiling. Haru internalized the structure of the building as they walked past another few offices. Had CEDEF redesigned the interior of the old theater to suit their needs? It certainly hadn't seemed secure from the exterior and lobby, but by the ease and confidence in Vanessa's stride, she assumed there had to be more she wasn't aware of.

When they began descending several flights of concrete steps, she felt a flutter of panic.

"Um, Vanessa—"

"Just wait. We're almost there."

She inconspicuously touched the thin recording device in the flower pinned to her headband, making sure it was on. Gokudera had brooked no loose ends in their preparation—he'd asked Giannini to design a smaller device and instructed Haru on its usage.

Just when the pinging clicks of Vanessa's heels on the steps began to resound in Haru's ears as a droning roar, they came to a stop. Haru had counted eight flights of stairs—they should be on the fourth sublevel. As she made to follow her through the door, Vanessa held out a hand. "Stop."

And without further warning, snapped her headband in two, crushing the flower beneath her heel.

"What the hell?!" Haru backed into the stair railing, eyes wide. "What was that for?"

"You know perfectly well what that was for. I'm about to reveal some very sensitive information. We wouldn't want anyone else getting a hold of it before you hand it in to your boss. If you want to make it out of here in one piece, you'd best leave all valuables behind." Vanessa turned and kept going.

After a moment of indecision, the brunette followed the woman into what she soon realized was an infirmary. Vanessa reached for her keys before room B403, unlocking it and swinging it wide.

On the bed lay an old man—at least sixty by the looks of his receding facial bones—with a plastic oxygen mask strapped over his mouth and an IV drip stand to the left of his bed. His cheeks were mottled with bruises, his jaw misshapen.

"This is the man responsible for Kyoko's abduction and the invasion several years ago."

Haru staggered forward, grasping the edge of a chair for support. "Why are you showing me this?"

There was a dull sense of profound powerlessness in discovering that the one who had wronged you in the past was now too feeble for the delivery of any meaningful retribution.

"He was shot seven times from his foot all the way up to his sternum. His heart was left untouched, obviously, but he'll never be able to walk again. It's a miracle he didn't die from blood loss."

The brunette's eyes were hollow, blank.

"Your boss did this to him."

The words reached her in a jumble of incoherency. Woodenly, she rasped, "What?"

"The Vongola bosses are all genial enough in times of peace, but when a loved one is threatened and time is ticking, they know no mercy."

"You're implying Tsuna… tortured him?"

"Implying?" Vanessa snorted. "See for yourself. The old bastard should've kept his mouth shut, but he couldn't resist baiting the boss with vile jibes about his wife and her whereabouts. Sawada had been searching for her for three weeks when this guy showed up and said he knew a thing or two.

"Of course, this isn't anything special." Vanessa settled in the chair beside Haru's, crossing her arms over her chest. "It's standard mob procedure, torture Q&A. But your boss did something unforgiveable that night, something else." She paused a beat. "Tsuna let him live. He let him live and that same night this fucker walked into my husband's bar across the street, stuck a kitchen knife in his jugular and then passed out. CEDEF wanted me to patch him up for questioning, but no fucking way was I going to hand him over. He's in my possession now, and I'll do with him as I please."

As Haru's jaw slackened, Vanessa continued, "My husband was an underboss-in-training at the time for a very obscure family in rural Italy. But he possessed something no one else in my family did at the time—a modern sense of business. He was working odd jobs at odd hours, but at the same time familiarizing himself with the city's nooks and crannies. He hoped to pull the family out of its fiscal woes, moving into the city he had opened a bar in. But of course, Brizio here wouldn't have any of that. Wanted the city for himself, or at least wanted to drag his competition down with him.

"Sawada's still too soft," she spat accusatorily, staring at the bedridden man with the acrid bitterness of someone left behind. "He's unfit for the underworld. More people will die because he is more merciful than merciless."

Blinking hollowly down at the fists clenched in her lap, Haru whispered, "I'm… I'm so sorry."

Tsuna hadn't spoken to anyone that night. He'd headed out on a lead Gokudera had warned him against trusting, frustrated after being unable to glean anything useful from Brizio. She had never seen him so desperate, so vulnerable. "So you left CEDEF and set up camp here?"

Vanessa laughed humorlessly. "You could say that. I stole a good chuck of CEDEF's egregious funds and took old man Brizio with me. Figured I might as well nurse him back to reasonable health before milking any information left. Being so old connotes a certain status of respect and experience. I'm sure I can use him to get to his people, somehow."

Haru glanced absently to Brizio's heart monitor. "Has Brizio been recuperating here all this time?"

"I'm not a doctor. I couldn't afford any better equipment than what you see here. I sewed some wounds shut, but had to let others heal naturally for a while."

"Then—you wanted to meet me because..."

Vanessa cleared her throat. "I saw what happened. I was there, you know."

"You were... where?"

"I was stopping by Lina's place for lunch and I saw you shoot those men."

The brunette's heart stopped for a precisely two beats. "I... that..." She gasped as it started up again.

"I was impressed. Didn't think you had it in you. Women in gangs these days are either whores, housewives, or psychos. As far as I can tell, you're none of the above. I could use a hand around here."

"You want me to desert my family?" she clarified, ochre eyes gleaming with a hostility that had not been there a minute ago.

"It's much more fun being rogue, you know," Vanessa grinned, unperturbed. "I even have connections in the Millefiore. They want all the intel on CEDEF that they can get."

At the mention of the Millefiore, Haru stilled.

"What's wrong, cold feet?" The blonde rose to switch on the coffee maker by the sink. "Are you really fine with how things are, Haru? Are you fine with being left behind? Are you fine with dying before realizing your full potential? With being coddled until your last breath?"

"I can't just leave them," she forced through her teeth. I should play along to find out what she knows about the Millefiore. I can't afford to get on her wrong side now.

"You don't have to leave them. They've already left you." At the brunette's genuinely bewildered gaze, she murmured, "It's true, Haru. If they really cared, wouldn't they be storming through the halls by now? Your men ought to have noticed you weren't recording anymore."

Appalled at her boldness, Haru wracked her brain for an informed action to take. Gokudera had promised that if the talk lasted more than an hour, he would send backup, just in case. It had been well over an hour, but no one had come. Had the base been attacked? It was unlikely. If the past half-year was anything to go by, the other families all wanted the Vongola to make the first move so they would be justified in retaliating. They had been sitting on their haunches, amassing their bloodlust. Just waiting for one misstep.

The parking lot had been deserted when she entered. But could Vanessa have planned this all along and called on her men to hold any other visitors off?

There were only three certainties at this point: Vanessa was not part of CEDEF, the message had been sent by Vanessa, and no Vongola men had been able to reach them.

"Why me?" she spoke at last. "What can I possibly do for you?"

"See what they've done to you?" Vanessa shook her head deploringly. "You should be asking what I can do for you. I'll show you who you can be. I won't shelter you. Won't suffocate you."

Where are you, Hibari? Ryohei? Takeshi? ...Gokudera?

"If I… If I agree to join you," she exhaled gradually, "would I be allowed to see the Vongola again?"

"There's nothing limiting you," Vanessa smiled widely. "Do as you like. Too much trust is fatal—you need to learn how to function without consulting others all the time. I only ask that you be decisive. There is no room for hesitation in our world. Caution is not synonymous with cowardice."

"So that's it? You'll accept me without any sort of… test?"

"You passed your test several days ago," the blonde murmured encouragingly. "Now go. I know you need a day or two to internalize all this. Here's my number. I'll be waiting." She pressed a folded piece of paper into the brunette's palm, closing her fingers over it.

With one foot out the door, Haru suddenly realized she had not asked about anything regarding the Millefiore. She had not wanted to raise any suspicion. Was that the only reason? The voice in her mind cackled, sick with glee. Could it be that you wanted to believe her? Could it be that you wanted to be special, wanted to be acknowledged, wanted to be chosen?

.

.

.

The parking lot was just as deserted as it had been two hours prior.

Haru boarded the bus, swiping her transit card and settling in a seat near the driver. The whir of the diesel engine rendered all thoughts incomprehensible as she stared unseeingly out the cracked window.

.

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.

"So she's not from CEDEF," Gokudera summarized, stirring his coffee.

"No. She's... she's a runner. Fled the Millefiore." She didn't know why she was lying. But she knew that if she told the whole truth and nothing but, she would also have to explain her status as a murderer. And she wasn't ready to do that. Gokudera would've been the last person to hold it against her, she knew, but that somehow made it even worse. She had managed to keep it together since the incident, but one word of reassurance from the silver-haired man and her strength would crumble like sand. "She said she needed some help getting back on her feet. She's… she's running a clinic, but rather short-staffed."

"And she wants to meet again," he leaned back in his seat, taking a small sip. "What for?"

"I told her I needed to go, since time was up. She still had much more to say, particularly about the Millefiore, but I couldn't… you guys didn't show up," Haru recalled suddenly. "What happened?"

Grunting in annoyance, the silver-haired man muttered, "Damn car wouldn't start. Giannini's taking a look at it. We couldn't all get on the bus; that would've been too conspicuous."

"So you... just assumed I would be fine?"

A malfunctioning automobile had been reason enough for them to forfeit her life. Get a grip, Haru. Would you have risked your entire family for a commoner if you were in his position?

He met her apprehensive gaze and snorted impatiently in his typical fashion.

"Is that what this is about? Check the inside of your collar."

Nonplussed, Haru reached up to her neck and withdrew a small chip with some tugging. "What…?"

"I had I-Pin tack it on your blouse. It's a tracker and pulse monitor. The signal went to shit midway through your talk, so we figured you were heading underground. But your pulse was steady."

"I-I see..."

Haru did not know whether this bothered or reassured her.

"Either way, we're not letting this opportunity go. Ask her directly about the Millefiore next time."

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.

The first thing she'd done when she returned from the theater was take two more painkillers. Her headache had somewhat subsided since then, but there was a white-hot throbbing in her chest that could pass for heartburn. Four hours had passed since her first dose. It was fine.

Two more pills, then.

"Those won't cure you, you know."

"W-what?"' She clutched the bottle behind her back, cursing the sound of the rattling tablets against the plastic vial. Her cheeks were burning up and her throat ran dry. She couldn't meet his eyes.

Gokudera rinsed his mug and set it in the drying rack. There was that infernal shrug again. "It's your funeral." He threw her a glance over his shoulder at the entrance of the kitchen, quicksilver eyes narrowing.

"Don't take more than six a day."

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.

.

Haru trembled beneath her cloudy grey covers.

She'd been given the day off, and had ventured out to meet Vanessa.

To ask if she could accompany her to the grocery market, of all things. Haru didn't want to cause any trouble for the Vongola again, but she also knew they had all been nutrient-deprived for too long. Vanessa had simply laughed and tucked a handgun into her purse. It was all very bizarre.

No one had followed her that time. No one had even glanced her way. She supposed two was less conspicuous than one in some ways.

But she also knew she was now in Vanessa's debt, and would not be able to ask this of her again without dispensing with a fair amount of dignity. Debts were not to be belittled; in Mafioso terms, a creditor could demand anything from the debtor. Even his life was fair game.

Haru clenched the sheets and swore softly as her mental dam burst. I should've never come here, I should've stayed behind in middle school, I'm not cut out for this, I'm in such deep shit I can't see the light at the end of the tunnel anymore, what if I hurt everyone, what if they blame me—stop it, shut up, suck it up Miura Haru, you are not done yet, you are not even close, you have so much more to do, to give.

The nights were long and she took up only half of the space in her single-sized bed.

.

.

.

She doesn't know where she is. Her vision is blurred in wanton proportions—the neon shop lights are crystal-clear orbs of color, enticing her with signs of welcome, but everything beyond the street corner is a greyish, purple haze. Indecipherable and impenetrably distant.

She passes an old cinema showing samurai movies too old for her to recognize, and wonders if this is some sort of joke. The streets are eerily bare, yet the road is flooded with the honks and groans of evening traffic. A ragged voice hails a taxi, and she is somewhat alarmed to discover her own arm raised as a yellow cab sidles up easily.

It is difficult to distinguish the figure in the driver's seat from outside, and she is hesitant as she opens the back door, ducking inside as fear tickles her throat.

"Where to, miss?"

Baby blue eyes meet hazel in the rearview mirror and she lurches away from his gaze, panic-stricken.

The door locks with an ill-boding click.

Alessio twists in his seat and looks back at her, and there's something in the twitch of his lips and flash of his canines that resembles a hyena. "Aw, come on, Haru. Don't be like that."

Haru looks down and finds a Browning HP 9mm in her hands, hammer cocked and ready.

"Wh-what—"

Alessio makes a disapproving sound and unbuckles his seat belt, eyes never leaving hers. "You're so tense all the time. I'd have never guessed you were with the Vongola, by the looks of it."

"Don't get any closer," she warns, a clammy finger hovering over the trigger.

His eyes gleam with unspoken taunts and his lips twitch with the satisfaction of watching someone squirm. "You're no good like this, Haru. Go back to your middle-class life of studying for exams and working part-time jobs at local restaurants." He begins climbing over the arm rest, laughing to himself. "Why so scared? I'm not gonna hurt you."

"S-to—d-don't..."

She feels a hand clamp over her knee and she buckles, screaming, shoving the butt of the gun into his chest and pushing him off, screaming even louder he resumes laughing, screaming still when her finger jerks inward, spraying her with his blood as it balloons outward in the confines of the vehicle.

Blood trickles down the windows like rain, drops merging and racing.

Alessio lies limp, collapsed across her lap. Her breath jackknives when he spasms suddenly, murmuring in Vanessa's voice, "I'll show you who you can be," before gurgling on his own blood, spitting and coughing.

His warm weight is unbearable across her thighs, drenched in red.

The underside of her chin is hot with his blood, and she doesn't dare breathe lest she taste it too.

The aftertaste of murder was pungently metallic, coupled with a stillborn silence belied only by her labored breaths and trembling hands slick with sweat and blood, gripping the pistol as though it were her last lifeline.

Haru bolted up in bed, sweating furiously.

She panted into the dead silence for exactly ten seconds, then raised her trembling hands up to her face as the pants gave way to hiccups, fingers pressed shamefully against her eyelids in attempt to jail the tears that fled freely, burning rampant trails down her cheeks.

More than guilt, more than bitterness, more than shame, she was scared.

Of losing her mind.

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.

He froze outside her door.

It was half past midnight and everyone else was fast asleep.

Save for him, of course.

And apparently, her.

He squeezed his eyes shut as her ragged, heaving breaths echoed through the hallway. The real challenge began tomorrow, and he needed her mentally sharp now more than ever before.

She hadn't laughed in a long time.

He hadn't noticed the fact until Ryohei had slipped the word extreme into his response for the first time in years and failed to elicit any sort of positive reaction in the woman.

Not even an eye-roll or a weary smile. If anything, she had appeared closer to bursting into tears.

Tsuna would have knocked quietly or fetched I-pin to do so in his stead. Ryohei would have broken down the door and unassumingly wrenched her into his arms. Takeshi would've stroked her hair gently. I-pin would've brewed some tea and Kyoko would've made her something to eat.

But he could do none of those things.

He forced himself to continue walking towards his room, fumbling with the passcode as he reentered the digits for the fourth time.

.

.

.

"Morning," she greeted him from behind the door.

He took in the vaguely bruise-colored pools beneath her eyes and didn't respond.

At his usual aloofness, she eased into his office, releasing the doorknob silently.

"You're staying here."

Haru began to settle into her usual wooden chair, halting in midair when she realized what he'd said. With a painful slowness, she turned to face him, chin quivering as she spoke. "You're… kidding, right?" Even with no other option, you still won't trust me? "How else am I supposed to meet Vanessa?"

He tugged on a black leather glove, flexing his fingers. "Have you witnessed torture, Haru? Knife twisting in his gut and spilling his guts over the ground? Hot pokers to his eyelids, burning through skin?"

When she didn't reply, he continued, "Have you ever had so much blood on your hands you feared it would seep through your skin and stain your own?"

The brunette grimaced.

"Have you—"

She lost it.

"I'm sorry I don't have a tragedy to tell," she fumed, neck straining. "I'm sorry I haven't witnessed torture, haven't been burnt with a hot poker or beaten within an inch of death. I'm sorry I grew up in a mundane, suburban neighborhood. That my only knowledge of death was hoping for a heaven. I'm sorry I wasn't born into a bloody turf war. Would it make you feel better if I was? Would it make it you feel better if I told you I've had recurring nightmares for the past six years? If I told you I don't know if my parents are dead or alive? Would it make you feel better if my mom died too?"

His eyes snapped to hers, feral.

She barreled on, voice cracking, "Would you accept me then? Or find another reason why I can't be?"

"You're in over your head," he growled, approaching the door she blocked. "You want heaven? Then take it from a marked man—get a life. A legitimate one. There's nothing here for you but hell."

She bit down hard on her lower lip, but no blood would come. His words had never given her heart blisters before. She had always deflected them with heated rebuttals and a pride to match. She knew she resented him from the moment she laid eyes on him. Uncouth, sarcastic, and forcefully contemptuous—he embodied everything she had tried to deny while pining for a future of untarnished happiness.

Then why was it so painful, being told by him that she was unwanted?

"Move."

She shook her head, both hands clasped to the doorknob behind her back.

"You can't go out there alone."

He drew even closer, and she registered his proximity as a barrier in her airway, an asphyxiating breathlessness.

"I can, and I will."

He made to shove her out of the way when she shoved him first, snapping, "I don't give a damn if you think I'm worthless; if you go out there now you'll die, and then we'll both be worthless."

A patronizing laugh. "And what do you know about dying?"

"I lied to you."

Her tone was all ice, no warmth. There was an underlying deadness to the way she spoke.

His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I... I lied to you. There were four men around us. Hibari only shot down two."

"Then… the marks on your hand were—"

"Hammer bites. Not a stove burn."

"What the fuck?" Gokudera reeled back, eyes blank, jaws slack. "You actually…"

A moment of utter stillness passed.

No, Haru. There is no heaven for you.

"Then you were shot too."

Having expected an outburst, she stuttered, "N-no…"

He stepped in abruptly, scrutinizing her. "You're lying again." That explains her skittish behavior. And the pills. And Ryohei's evasive answers. And I-pin avoiding me. Fuck, if I'd only known—

"If I had been shot, I would still be in the infirmary."

He jerked her forward by the arm, and she stumbled into him, hissing in poorly masked pain.

"Where?"

"It's not a big—"

"Where."

"Why does it even ma—"

"LISTEN TO ME!" He commanded gruffly, glass green eyes boring into hers, "I need to know when one of us is unable to operate at full capacity. It is absolutely critical to my planning that I am updated, or I will vastly overestimate our resources and I'll be damned if anyone here dies at the hand of a shitty strategy.

"I need to know," he exhaled, stepping back a few paces and raking a hand through his hair, "when you're wounded. Fuck, Haru, I need to know these things so they don't happen again."

"I can still decrypt ciphers, you know," she bit out, knees shaking. "I'm not… useless."

"When did I ever say you were?"

She couldn't believe her ears. "You! You don't get to say that," she stammered, pressing into the door as though she would pass through it if she tried hard enough. "You don't get to pretend you don't know your own thoughts, and how they've carved rivulets in my mind. Don't you dare play nice with me."

Un-fucking-believable. He fixed her in place with an incensed glare, as if to telepathically reduce her to ashes. There was something lambent in his eyes—something like flames licking charred firewood, through the skin, to the core. An onlooker might've feared the fist he held trembling at his side, expecting it to swing up to her face, but instead he spat sardonically, "Aright, so you want to be useful? Why don't you traipse over to Millefiore, do some reconnaissance, earn their trust, and find out what the fuck is going on here in our little proxy war?"

Gokudera turned without assessing her reaction, massaging his temples.

"Fucking nightmare. They're just lurking in the shadows, forcing us to make the first move."

When her silence broached the threshold of uncharacteristic behavior, he glanced over to her. She had drawn her lips into a disciplined smile, a hint of hysteria in the upturned corners.

"I remembered to frisk the men after... Hibari dealt with them. I should be able to get in touch with a contact since I have ID. Gives me a chance to polish my acting, too. I've been rusty for a few years, holed up in the data center."

"You expect me to believe they won't suspect you at all?" He inquired, the arch of his brows implying an answer in the negative. "You're a shit actor. Always were and always will be."

"Your opinion is noted," she forced with admirable restraint, still smiling unnaturally. "I'll report when there's something to report. Good night."

If they hadn't been living off of brick-hard baguettes soaked in canned vegetable broth for the past three months, he would've laughed the idea off and rubbed his eyes to ascertain he wasn't dreaming.

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"Are you out of your mind?" Takeshi hissed.

Ryohei glanced to him discreetly, wary of his rapidly degenerating composure.

"We're already low on men as it is. Do you really want to send our tech support on a suicide mission?"

"It's not a suicide mission," Gokudera grunted, stirring from his slouch in the armchair.

"You want a woman who wears her heart on her sleeve to play double agent. Tell me that's not a suicide mission."

"You underestimate her, Takeshi." Ryohei rubbed his neck, glancing guiltily up to his friend. "It's not going to be easy, but she can do it. No one would suspect her."

"What happened to that overprotective-brother shit?" Gokudera mused, settling back down again. He didn't bother to correct Takeshi, since the man had obviously failed to notice that Haru had not been that outspoken happy-go-lucky girl since she dropped out of college to join the family permanently.

"We don't have a choice right now," Ryohei exhaled heavily.

"Would you still support the mission if it was Kyoko instead?"

"Enough," Gokudera growled. "Are you in or what, Takeshi? We don't have time for this."

Ryohei studied the ground at length, then admitted, "I wouldn't support the mission if it was Kyoko."

"What makes Haru different?" Takeshi inquired, eyes narrowing.

The swordsman's father had liked Haru. Said she had a gusto about her—a gusto in balance, not contradiction with, a tenderness—that would surely shape her into a woman to be reckoned with.

But they had been anything but tender with her.

She had joined them permanently at a critical point in time, when they had just gotten a grip of themselves and what their livelihoods entailed. It had been too inconvenient and dangerous for her to be seen with them in public and yet spend the majority of her time alone in university, unguarded. She had vehemently refused a personal bodyguard, and ended up working herself sick struggling to maintain her grade point average while serving the Vongola. It had been easy enough to boast of becoming a Mafioso's wife when she was fourteen. As an eighteen year-old desiring more out of life, it had been asking the impossible of her to give it all up for a society of killers.

It had been their first shootout with territory on the line, and the men—still boys, really—were traumatized and injured. Shamal and Reborn did their best in guiding them along, but ultimately, Tsuna alone was to fill the void left by his predecessors. And while Tsuna had been mentally prepared to bear the responsibility of protecting numerous lives from harm, he had not been well-versed enough with underground politics to keep up with the older, more experienced bosses.

So they needed her. Needed her to mend whatever patch came loose—as a cook, as a cleaner, a programmer, then as a cryptanalyst. Reality kept throwing punches at them and they leaned on her as they attempted to dodge, blocking her from harm yet forcing her to keep up their pace.

Gokudera pinched the bridge of his nose, grumbling under his breath.

"She... she's seen more of the front lines than Kyoko has." Ryohei's eyes pleaded for understanding.

Though still displeased, the answer appeared to mollify the taller man, who leaned back grumpily. "Well alright then. But we need to take extra precautions here. What's our strategy?"

Concealing a smirk beneath his palm, Gokudera leaned forward conspiratorially.

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Ryohei's hugs were tight, but quick, topped off with a firm clap on the back.

Takeshi's hugs always made her teary. Haru always dreaded them, because they softened her resolve. He mussed her hair fondly and smiled sadly. She didn't bother swatting his hand away this time.

She reached Gokudera at the end of the lineup, staring at her feet awkwardly. He didn't do hugs.

"You look like shit."

If he doubted her fire, he was in the wrong. If anything, she looked pissed and ready to rip his arm off.

"Thanks. Thanks for the support. I really fucking appreciate it."

His eyes widened at her uncharacteristic crudeness.

"Remember to tone down the bitchiness for the Millefiore."

"I know," she exhaled lowly, eyes downcast. "I won't let you down." She lifted them to meet his, pulse churning wildly in her ears, mouth drawn taut. "I promise."

As she strode away, he was stricken with the visceral urge to grab her arm and stop her but he couldn't.

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He dreamt of the past, that night.

Of a seven year-old stumbling along the streets of Palermo, having just missed the last boat to mainland Italy. Of course, he'd thought. My life is a tale of missed chances. Unwittingly wandering into an alleyway, he had hardly the time to scream before a filthy hand clapped itself over his mouth and a sudden pull yanked him to his knees.

"What've we got here, boys?"A gap-toothed man grinned under the dimly-lit canopy of a smoke shop.

"Fresh bait," another drawled, a boy barely older than himself, by the looks of it. They were close in age, but his current powerlessness set them apart by universes.

"Damn, he's got nothing on him. But your daddy would pay a pretty sum if it was over your head, eh?"

"Oh! He's that runt who goes weak in the knees at the sight of a piano in the salon!"

The men shared a collective snicker.

"Fancy yourself a pianist, do you?" The gap-toothed man leaned in, breathing smoke into his face.

Gokudera stared resolutely at his grimy shoes, fine leather weathered from a day's futile escape. He flinched when a shiny object flickered into view, gleaming dangerously sharp.

"It'd be unfortunate if..."

The blade edge crested innocuously over his knuckles.

"...you lost a finger, don't you think?"

His throat ran dry. He lost all sense of his surroundings as their scornful laughs merged with the pounding of his heart. In one swift movement, he kneed the man in the groin while twisting his arm away, diving for the pocketknife as it fell from the man's grip.

"Try it and I'll kill you," he panted, eyes glinting with animalistic threat.

"Where's your manners, boy?" The man wheezed, flicking out a smaller blade from his back pocket while steadying himself against the concrete wall. "That's no way to treat your elders."

Gokudera made a strangled, choked sound as the small blade twisted inside his stomach. He grit his teeth to stay the tears prickling at the corners of his wide eyes, afraid that a single sound from his lips wound manifest into a bloodcurdling scream, because fuck, it hurt like all of hell had just been drilled into him like a screw into a wooden frame.

"Leave his fingers alone," the man ordered, rounding up his men as they surrounded him gleefully. Through the distorted lens of his dream, he looked blearily towards his attackers as their grins pulled unnaturally wide, revealing two rows of jagged teeth.

"But leave him black and blue everywhere else."

The knife was wrenched out of his stomach with a sickening smoothness as a heel took its place, knocking him ten paces backwards into the alley.

He awoke to a body splintered into areas of varying shades of purple and red on a bed that reeked of cigarettes, cologne, and a faintly salty tinge he didn't want to know the origin of. Lifting his head slowly, he confirmed his suspicions at the sight of his mentor smoking on the balcony of his shitty little apartment.

Though his fingers remained pale and unmarked, he was unable to play for an entire year. When he touched the keys after a few months, memories of being stabbed and beaten would resurface, and he would convulse over the keys, incapable of controlling his movements, let alone phrasing the melody.

Andante, the tempo was marked. But his heart thudded to a Presto that knew no peace.

He couldn't even play his scales properly after that.

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Vanessa gave Haru's shoulder a reassuring squeeze as they entered a bar on the outskirts of town, decently maintained with its polished arch windows and freshly painted sign, reading Pasquale's Place in a rich, tomato red. The brunette consciously tugged her skirt lower, and, forcing a bright smile, Vanessa swatted her hand away. "Look frightened," she hissed, though she hadn't really needed to—Haru already looked the part. She was to play a nineteen year-old, and in preparation for her role, Vanessa had combed her hair into a high ponytail and dressed her as she would her own younger sister. Haru hadn't been able to look at herself in the mirror. It would all seem too farcical.

She felt his appraisal before spotting him.

She'd thought she would feel at ease among the local Italians, having lived around Gokudera for half of her life, but these people had an entirely different air about them, a bold hospitality she couldn't keep up with. She was more used to dealing with his aloofness than the buzzing warmth around her.

Gulping audibly before bringing her gaze up to the blond man rising from his bar stool, a small smile flitted across her face that he immediately returned. He navigated through the crowded tables with a glibness that called to mind the ease of a predator stalking its prey from the shadows.

"I hope we haven't kept you waiting long," Vanessa demurred, glancing up through thick lashes.

"Not at all," the man replied in a thick accent, urging them towards a booth in the back of the room, near the restrooms and emergency exit, Haru noted.

As they seated themselves on one side, the man slid into other, facing them with a grim look. He glanced to Haru, then back to Vanessa. "This is the refugee?"

Refugee?

Vanessa had not informed her of the cover story she would be adopting, sensing that the brunette would be more convincing if she had to improvise, since fear and hesitation would be logical reactions to have, according to her alibi of a runaway.

"Yes." Vanessa leaned in, drawing the man towards her. "She's being targeted by CEDEF for her father's crimes, of which she had no part. He up and fled the country, so they're trying to get to him through her. It doesn't help that she's also a technician and could plausibly be implicated for aiding his escape. CEDEF's one step short of placing a bounty on her head. You understand the situation she's in."

"Byakuran says there's no problem, but he wants to see her for himself."

Haru stiffened, eyes darting to Vanessa's unfailing smile.

He nodded to her then, shifting his gaze onto her. "So what's your name?"

"Yuka," Haru whispered, voice raspy as if from disuse. Then, a little louder, "Kouno Yuka."

"Kouno Yuka," the man echoed respectfully, then offered, "I'm Davide. You'll be safe with us."

A stretch of silence followed.

Haru wondered if he could read her mind, or perceive the waves of indignant skepticism she was struggling to keep her head above. Safe? With the Millefiore? Only when hell freezes over.

"I-I need to use the restroom," the brunette stammered.

"Door's just to your left," Davide provided, gesturing. Haru had no doubt he'd chosen a location near possible escape routes to keep an eye on her should she attempt to make a run for it.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, he turned to Vanessa, murmuring, "What was her father working on?" His fingers interlocked as he pressed his palms together over the table.

Glancing at the door as if to ascertain they would not be overheard, she answered, "He was constructing a virus. One that parasitizes its host computer and feeds its code into the host network so it can interact with other signals in disguise."

Davide whistled, rubbing his chin in interest. "Did his daughter inherit his ambition, by any chance?"

Vanessa laughed. "Yuka's certainly capable with computers, but she's too fascinated by the technicalities to ponder their potential uses. She's raw talent in need of a guiding hand." Fishing out a cigarette, she lit up and exhaled breezily. "It'd be a wise investment to make. You know that better than anyone else, don't you, Davide?"

The man met her challenge unflinchingly, knowing she was staring at the scar running from his left temple to the underside of his chin. He'd taken quite the beating after rejecting a potential recruit only to discover the recruit had actually been an informant from an esteemed family in Sicily. The recruit had been snagged by another family in the city, as he possessed undoubtedly valuable information. Davide had been suspicious of the reedy-voiced boy at the time, given his experiences with youth fabricating an alibi to get into a local family as part of a wager or just to fulfill a romanticized image of mob life.

The ice sulked in his cocktail as he swirled the glass lightly, staring hard into the wooden table.

"And another thing," Vanessa muttered, taking a deep draw before continuing, "Don't let anyone touch her."

Davide glanced up from the table with an exasperated look—I already have to risk my neck to house a fugitive and now you want me on bodyguard duty? "The family's made up of mostly men, Vanessa. I don't see how she'll be able to avoid any interaction. You should've told me she was high-maintenance sooner."

"Why? Did you change your mind?" She shifted in her seat, placing an elbow onto the table as she rested her chin atop her palm. "She's knows how to shoot a gun, you know. She's useful."

He choked on his drink, pounding his chest with a fist to clear his airway. "She what? How old is she?"

Haru emerged from the restroom just then, bringing with her the subtle scent of potpourri and citrus air freshener. As Davide and Vanessa stood to greet her, Vanessa patted her back encouragingly. "You'll be in safe hands, Yuka. I'll contact you with any news of your father if need be."

They made their way out of the bar, and the dark stillness that engulfed her on the shallow stone steps was a vacuum, sealing all lively chatter out of its airtight vacuity. A black Maserati pulled up by the curb, and as the window rolled down Haru had to fight the urge to recoil in anticipation of Alessio's grinning face and ice-blue eyes.

Interpreting her twitchiness as suspicion, her new acquaintance opened the back door. "You're safe."

Haru bit her bottom lip to silence any retorts, turning to wave farewell to Vanessa.

She thanked the heavens above that Davide opened the front door next and got in beside the driver, leaving her space in the back seats. She didn't dare look to the rearview mirror.

A light drizzle kept her company for the next hour and a half as they rode on in silence.

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She tried not to appear too interested in their surroundings (not that the night allowed her much insight), but whenever the car slowed at a busy intersection, she memorized the streets. The brunette didn't really expect them to drive her into their hideout; she was certain they would keep her stowed away from their main forces, at least until she secured their trust.

The driver slammed the brakes and Haru lurched into her seatbelt.

Davide swore under his breath.

"Checkpoint," he explained. "Wait here."

Unbuckling his seatbelt and exiting swiftly, Davide approached the two teenagers standing guard at the correctional facility back entrance.

Though it was dark, Haru could quite clearly tell that they were no older than eighteen. The white V-neck shirt hung loosely on the boy closer to the car, and his torn jeans scuffed the gravelly road. Davide was now arguing with the two boys as they shouted expletives in his face. Haru flinched when Davide moved to hold one in a choking grip, turning to the driver.

"What's going on?"

The old man answered warily, "The boys received instructions to let none pass. Davide outranks the capo in charge of the back entrance security though, so he's trying to override the command."

Another minute of jostling passed.

"Ah. Looks like Davide convinced them." The old man parked parallel to the curb and opened her door.

Davide ushered her into the facility with a hand on her shoulder. Haru dared a backward glance at the boys, noting one had a bloody nose. The other boy appeared considerably younger than the first. Their faces were alike; could they be brothers? Her brows scrunched as the younger boy reached out to his comrade only to be shoved away. Did the Millefiore really trust two young boys to guard their entrance?

A light shake of her shoulder renewed her focus. They were headed down a flight of stairs.

He paused to enter a passcode. The gate unlocked and they drew into a well-lit corridor. Davide gestured for her to start down first. At first glance, it appeared as a hotel, doors numbered and spaced in groupings of two. Davide unlocked door 005 and flicked on the lights. The chamber was sparsely furnished with a single bed, floor lamp and adjoined bathroom.

"Stay here for the night. We will come fetch you tomorrow morning after discussing your arrangement with the boss."

Haru nodded dazedly, feeling distant. "Thank you."

As Davide turned to leave, he warned softly, "Don't forget to lock the door."

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A few distinct clicks woke her in the middle of the night.

She had lived in enough dingy apartments as a college student on loans to know the sound of a lock being picked. Turning the lamp on, she merely waited.

The boys from earlier stared, frozen in her doorway.

The younger of the two shut the door silently behind them as the older crept forward, brandishing a knife, bloody from its last use, Haru guessed. She should have been frightened (and she was, if her pulse was anything to go by), but more than that she was disheartened. Was this the life the boys led? Was this their future?

"Got any money on you?"

The brunette searched her pockets, coming up with fifty euros and some coins. She had come prepared as a fugitive—that is, as a girl on the run with just enough money for a few meals. The younger boy ran up to the bed, inviting the stench of sweat as he snatched the offering from her outstretched hands.

"How about that watch?"

"What about it?" Haru hedged, defending the analog watch her mother had gifted her the spring she entered university.

"Give it here."

The brunette pondered her options for exactly three seconds.

Watch. Mission.

Mission.

She unclasped the watch.

"Wait," she called as they turned to leave. "What are your names?"

The older boy snorted. "Why, so you can report us?"

"I'm Yuka," she said simply. "I wish I could say it was nice to meet you."

"A word of advice, Yuka," the boy murmured dryly, pocketing his knife. "Don't trust anyone here."

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end of part one

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A/N: This story will be told in three parts. There were be more flashbacks in the coming parts to clarify some assumptions made in part one.

I will endeavor to have part 2 published within two months. I'm trying to test my limits so there might be some depiction of sexuality in part 2 and/or 3.

I understand it's widely accepted that it's extremely unlikely for Haru to take up fighting, and to some extent, I agree. But she has a rather violent and bold nature. I cannot imagine her holed up in a situation room all day, especially when her friends are in danger. I imagine the process of joining the Vongola to potentially be a traumatic one, especially since Haru doesn't really have any "real" reason to be there (no family relations, no training, etc.). If you were to remove Kyoko and Bianchi from her side, it's entirely plausible that she would undergo drastic changes and difficulties. I aim to flesh this angle out fully.

Thank you for reading.