Fugo was running after Bartolomeo when his mind finally caught up to his feet. When the boy had grabbed his hand and started pulling him towards the woods he'd appeared from, he'd just started following before he thought about it, truly thought about it.

And even then, he kept going.

Because even though he'd been taught to question everything anyone says, to think before acting, to hesitate, he remembered where that had led him just a few days ago. How he could've killed one of his closest friends for a cause he couldn't quite bring himself to believe in. He was tired of blindly adhering to the rules of Passione without questioning them. That was the difference, right? That was part of why everyone else had gone without regrets? Maybe he needed to try acting on his heart rather than his brain.

And if there really was a little boy about to die and he needed help, then Fugo wanted to help. It's what everyone else would have done. It's what Bucciarati would have done.

He didn't know the situation, what if there wasn't time to tell the others? What if those precious minutes meant the difference between an innocent child's life and death? And what if, despite his own beliefs, no one went at all? What if this was wrong?

Fugo couldn't question this any longer or he'd break down before even getting there.

"What happened?" he asked as he sped up to fall into pace just a few steps behind Bartolomeo.

The boy was breathing hard already, clearly running as fast as he could, but he managed to stammer out, "A tree… fell… hit Beni."

That wasn't really what he'd expected to hear but it made sense. He'd spotted quite a few dead trees in the surrounding wood when he'd been there with Narancia, unable to stop himself from surveying their surroundings even when things were at their relatively safest. If the kids had set up camp beneath one, it could easily have toppled over if it was rotting on the inside. And a child was unlikely to be able to lift it, even if it was already dead.

"Alright," he said, really wishing that he had Narancia with him. He wasn't used to being around young children and it was a little uncomfortable; how do you comfort a kid?

"It'll be okay," he said carefully, trying to choose the right words. "We'll get him out."

When Bartolomeo looked back at him with that terrified expression, he flashed him what he hoped was a supportive smile. He probably looked more psychopathic than comforting but hey, he was trying.

"I'm sorry…"

That was a little confusing, what was he sorry for? Coming to get help from him instead of others? It made sense to Fugo, they were camping out and if it was truly to practice boy scout skills, then they would be farther away from where they lived. The safehouse wasn't far from the woods and Bartolomeo knew where it was and that people were there so it was logical that he would choose to go somewhere that he was certain would have help.

He was about to ask when the boy slowed down, clutching Fugo's hand tightly as he pointed to a bit further in the trees and said, "It's just up ahead, Signor."

Fugo nodded, wrapping his fingers around the child's clammy, trembling hand and followed close behind.

Just as they got to a clearing, Bartolomeo suddenly squeezed his hand as tight as he could, whispering a barely audible, "Please be okay," before they stepped through the trees.

Ah.

It all suddenly clicked.

This was a set up. He'd been lied to.

There was indeed a campsite, remains of a small fire and the shreds of a ruined tent obscured by the three figures standing before them. A little boy, Benito, was held tight in one of the men's grip, visibly shaking as the group turned to face the new arrivals.

"So it was this after all."

Fugo hadn't wanted to believe that it could be a set up, although the thought had crossed his mind multiple times in the past ten or so minutes he'd spent running there. That children were capable of such things. But of course they were, he himself knew how they'd act when pushed too far; after all, he was no different at that age.

And he couldn't blame the boy, not really. They had weapons. They had his brother.

He couldn't leave. He wanted to, oh God, did he want to, that roiling feeling building in his gut as the cold, hard dread that something was terribly wrong sprouted in his chest. But he couldn't just run off because that wouldn't be right, because it wouldn't fit with how he was trying to change… because these children were innocent. Just like Trish.

"I-I brought him! Let B-Beni go!"

The three men seemed to regard Bartolomeo with barely a second glance before who Fugo assumed was their leader, a buff man in ugly polkadot leggings with dreadlocks, burst out laughing, with the other two lackeys quickly joining in.

"Be quiet," the man growled as he turned to face Fugo. "I don't give two shits about some piss-soaked brat barely weaned from his fucking mom, so keep your trap shut or I'll blow his fucking brains out."

Bartolomeo looked like he wanted to protest but wisely held his tongue, shrinking away from Fugo's side with a nervous glance at the blond before fixing his gaze on his brother.

"As for you-" he looked at Fugo as he said this, "-you're the best one outta the six of ya that coulda come. The coward who switched sides twice already. What a fucking joke."

Breathe, Fugo told himself, deep breaths, stay calm, don't explode, not when there's children around, not when Haze can't control his capsules yet, not when everyone could die if he lost his cool. He dug the fingers that he wanted to smash into this goddamn fucker's face into his palms, grinding his teeth in rage.

Now that he could see the man's face, he recognized him as a low ranking capo from Passione who was in charge of a fairly large team of non-Stand users.

"Pissface, wasn't it?" he asked innocently, knowing full well that wasn't the man's name.

"It's Pistacchio," he growled, dark yellow eyes alight with an anger that brought Fugo great delight. "And you're the poison fucker who likes t' think he's smarter than everyone else."

"I don't mean to think that, you just make it so easy," Fugo drawled, face a mask of faux nonchalance.

"Fucker! I'll fucking-" one of his lackeys grabbed their capo's arm and Fugo watched as Pistacchio whipped his head around to glare at the man before shaking his hand off. He seemed to try to calm himself though before saying, "Ya coulda stayed on the right side, y'know? Boss ain't gonna let ya go now, but don't worry, he won't hafta make the call, we'll do it for him!"

One of the men shifted next to the leader, whispering way too loudly for secrecy, "Capo, we don't have orders to-"

"I don't give two shits!" the man cut him off, smashing his fist into the man's cheek and sending him reeling. So he didn't take opinions well. That fit perfectly with what Fugo knew of the man. "They're all supposed to die, yea?! That's what he said, all'a Bucciarati's pathetic little brats, right?! And that includes this fucker."

Pistacchio was waving his gun around wildly during his tirade and Fugo was waiting, waiting for just the right moment to make his move because there were still two other guns trained on him. He couldn't use Purple Haze without risking hurting the children and his conscience would never allow that. He needed a distraction. He needed-

"Ah, I'm bored. Die already." With the lightning speed of a trained professional, Pistacchio pointed his gun at Fugo from where it had been in the air and fired.

"No!"

Just as he was about to bolt forwards, Fugo felt something slam into him from the side and it took him half a second to realize that Bartolomeo had shoved him away. He didn't have time to be surprised that a child was that brave, instead forcing himself to change his plan instantaneously, using that forwards motion to roll into a somersault, launching himself into the air with the last of that force and spinning his legs out as he balanced on his hands to kick Pistacchio's legs hard, sending the shocked capo flailing to the ground.

Three things happened all at once.

The first is that he dropped his gun, the clatter it made as it fell to the ground obscured by the sudden shouting. It was in Fugo's reach.

Pistacchio also dropped Benito, which was the main goal Fugo was hoping for. Vaulting himself off the ground, using the momentum to ram one of his feet into the face of one of the other men as he shot upwards, he grabbed the boy and the second he had footing on the ground, he threw the boy as hard as he could backwards, towards where he'd left Bartolomeo on the ground a few meters behind him.

He didn't have time to be sure the kid had a safe landing because the other two men weren't just going to stand there, and even as he kicked that one man in the face, they'd already trained their guns on him and fired.

Fugo used the spinning momentum he'd gained from throwing the little boy to dodge the bullets from the guy who was still standing, the one who'd had his foot in his face missing him by a mile anyway. With a well-placed step, he slammed his fist into the man's face, quickly following up that kick he'd given him with a deft right hook right in his nose.

As he buckled forwards, Pistacchio had begun to pick himself off the ground, looking for the gun he'd dropped. Fugo couldn't let him get it, twisting around to push off his first victim's chest with one of his feet which launched himself forwards and the man backwards, the blows to his solar plexus from the kick and the one-two combo to his face apparently knocking him out as he crumbled to the ground.

The other lackey was firing off again and Fugo barely had time to jerk his head to the side as one of the bullets whistled past his cheek, the other slicing through the soft flesh of his arm. He hardly felt it as blood bubbled up from the wound, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he kicked the gun out of Pistacchio's reach.

The capo cursed but reacted immediately by changing his trajectory and shooting his hand out for Fugo's legs instead, one of them wrapping around his ankle. Fugo cursed mentally; the guy must've had reinforced gloves on or something, normal human strength unable to cause that throbbing that had arisen along with the popping feeling he'd felt in the bone.

Fugo knew he'd expect him to go down for a punch, so as the other lackey closed in on him and the capo tightened his grip, Fugo jumped upwards, using the thick part of his skull to bash into the other lackey's chin with a vicious headbutt. It was enough to startle Pistacchio into loosening his fingers and that was all Fugo needed him to do, bringing his other foot down on the capo's wrist with a sickening crunch.

The man screamed and let go, the lackey stumbled back with blood pouring from his nose and Fugo leapt backwards and shot for the gun he'd kept tabs on the entire time.

His fingers closed around it just as the lackey regained his sense enough to aim at fire again, a tearing sensation filling Fugo's side with warm, sticky red. It took him a millisecond to decide it hadn't hit anything vital as he spun back around, using the stumble he'd had from being shot to steady himself into a back handspring, avoiding the rest of the shots with ease from his erratic movements.

He was within range of the lackey now, using his handspring to get close enough to grab the man's shoulders when he stepped out of the way to avoid being smacked by Fugo's legs. Swinging the man around in front of him just as Pistacchio recovered his unconscious ally's gun and shot, hitting his own lackey in the legs just as Fugo snapped his shoulder back, dislocating it with a popping noise that mixed with the man's screams.

Shoving the man towards his capo, Fugo used him as a shield as he darted forwards himself, counting out the six shots from the capo's recovered now-useless pistol. With nothing else to defend himself, he saw Pistacchio reach desperately towards a pocket of his jacket, likely to pull out a knife or maybe another gun, but Fugo was too fast for him.

When Pistacchio moved out of the way of his second lackey as the man toppled to the ground, arm uselessly swinging behind him, Fugo sprung forwards and grabbed the man's throat. He used his momentum to push forwards, slamming the capo to the ground as well, the grip on his windpipe and the combined force of hitting the ground knocking the breath from the man.

Without a second to waste, Fugo had twisted the man around onto his stomach, straddling his back with his arms pinned behind it with one hand, the cocked gun he'd recovered in his other and positioned against Pistacchio's head.

"You- H-How-"

"How many."

"Wha-"

"How. Many."

"A-All my men!" Pistacchio stammered, apparently giving up on playing dumb. "T-Twenty or so! H-How did you- you're j-just a Stand user!"

Fugo cocked his head. Was that really all this man thought they did? Use their Stands to fight their battles? How naive.

Purple Haze appeared at his side, hissing and frothing just centimeters from Pistacchio's face, the man unable to even tell at all.

The Stand moved over to one of the lackeys lying unconscious in the ground, digging one of its hands into the man's hair with a grace Fugo had initially thought impossible and yanking it up so Pistaccho could see his man's face clearly. When he tried to look away in fear, Fugo grabbed his chin, fingernails digging into his cheeks as he pulled up his head and forced the capo to stare at his lackey.

With a sadistic grin on his face, Fugo leveled the gun with the lackey and hissed into Pistachio's ear, "I never needed a Stand to kill."

It was over with a single shot to the forehead, Haze dissipating as the man's limp body thudded to the ground, blood soaking onto the grass beneath him.

Pistacchio whimpered in terror, squeezing his eyes shut as Fugo quickly disposed of the second man as well. He felt Pistacchio's body flinch as the gunshot rang out, leaving him the only enemy left alive.

"You should have picked the right side," Fugo mocked as he finally turned the gun back on the capo. All it took was a single shot to the back of his head, the man's body jerking beneath Fugo's hips as the gun went off before lying still.

Once they were dead, blood spilling onto the ruined campsite and staining the ground crimson, he turned to run back to the house and- and stopped.

The two boys were still there huddled together, Bartolomeo holding his brother close to his chest to hide the boy's face, perhaps to spare him of the slaughter he himself had just witnessed, as he stared at Fugo with a mix of shock and horror. There was a small trickle of blood running down the boy's arm, and Fugo realized it must have been from that first bullet. From trying to protect Fugo himself.

When Fugo took a step towards them, the boy flinched back and Fugo stopped.

He thought about what he must look like, covered in blood that was both his own and others, dirt and mud plastered against his bare skin, blond hair stained red. Thought about what this child who couldn't be more than eight or nine had just seen. He had to remind himself that this reaction was normal, that he had no time to care about them, and forced himself to keep walking forwards despite the pang of guilt and sorrow he felt in his chest.

As he walked past the two boys, he heard a soft voice stammer out, "Y-You're h-hurt," and turned his icy gaze upon the older child.

"Go home," was all he said in response. "Go home and forget everything you just saw. Never tell a single soul."

When Bartolomeo nodded his head furiously, Fugo turned back and started running into the woods. He almost missed the whispered "thank you" from the terrified child watching him go. Almost.

He ran.

His chest hurt. Was it the gunshot wound or his own lungs that burned so badly from running with all his might? He didn't slow down.

Twenty. That's what he'd said. Twenty men versus the five left back at the house. Six if he counted Trish, but he doubted she could really kill someone. She was too naive, too innocent to do so. Her hands weren't red like his was.

That meant at best, each would have to take down four alone. And that was without the fact that Fugo had left his post. They would have no warning. Unless someone was awake by some lucky coincidence, the enemy would have the element of surprise.

Why hadn't he thought it through better? Why hadn't he considered the possibility that it was a trap - but he had and he'd determined it was worth it. But was it? If he arrived back at the safehouse and everyone was dead- what was that worth? Just his own foolishness? Just his idiotic naivety in hopes of changing? Why did that even matter to him right now? Why was he so stupid?

He ran.

He ran and ran and ran, desperately praying that he was going the right way, too frantic to truly process his surroundings and gain his bearings in the woods. There wasn't time for that. There wasn't time to watch where he stepped, stumbling over roots and stones, tree branches raking across his arms and face as he ignored them entirely. There wasn't time to worry about his own injuries, superficial as they were, about how this was the third time he'd had his chest split open in as many days. Giorno would-

If he was alive. If any of them were.

It felt like hours before he saw the trees thinning around him as he flew past them, strange cracking noises welling up from ahead of him. They grew louder as he approached, a flicker of light flashing through the trees that confused him.

The light grew bigger as he neared the break in the trees, the noises louder, the smell of something foul rising in the air. It was only when he'd reached the edge of the woods, finally able to see without branches obscuring his vision, that he located the source of the light, the noise, the smell.

The safehouse.

The safehouse was burning.