AN: forgot to update here! Also, sorry if the formatting sucks I'm doing this from my phone.
He didn't know hospitals had chapels like this. Before he pushed the doors open, he expected to see cheap gray carpeting and fluorescent lights. The sort of stale waiting room someone tossed a few bibles into and called it a holy place. Instead, he's met with the real deal: tall ceilings, stained glass, rows of polished pews.
He doesn't feel like he belongs here. He doesn't. The fact that he hasn't burst into flames yet is a small miracle on its own. He wanted to high-tail it out of the scene of the crime to call Mukuro and see what the fuck he was supposed to do next, but right as he tried to leave he found himself facing an open door to the back seat of a government vehicle.
From a graveyard to a chapel; like he's on his own strange pilgrimage.
The lone man sitting near the front with his back to him can be none other than Governor Kasumi. Mugen slides in across the aisle from him.
"It's nice to finally meet you, Mugen."
"...Right."
Well, he didn't waste any time finding out who he is. Mukuro's insistence on keeping him in the dark has him on edge. He and Shiren had their heads bent together for weeks, hammering out details of a plan he thought he had no part in. He wasn't thinking about that when he agreed to help. He was thinking of the money they could make.
Now he's in a hospital chapel sitting across from the fucking city Governor. He can count the beats of silence like the ticking of a clock. Literal ticking. The Governor's wristwatch. His paranoia is telling him that he must know that it was no coincidence that Mugen was there. Somewhere along the line, Mukuro fucked up like he always does. They found out the dead guy is connected to him somehow. They're digging into his past.
A lifetime of schooling his features to look careless comes in handy. It helps that they're not looking at each other; they're facing an altar where late-day sunshine spills in from outside through the rainbow-colored glass, painting colorful fractals against a crucifix.
"I received dozens of applications from men all eager to take the position guarding my daughter." The Governor begins conversationally, "All of them are well-connected, upstanding members of society. Plenty of experience—And yet, I have been struggling to settle on one." He pauses, "Put yourself in my position; can you imagine why I'd be hesitant to offer the job to any of them?"
Mugen thumbs through one of the bibles in the pocket of the pew in front of him. Something to keep his hands busy while his mind whirls through the possibilities of why he's been brought here instead of a police station. Wasn't expecting a fuckin' pop quiz. The silence stretches between them until finally, he relents.
"Can't trust anyone."
Can't trust me either.
"Yes, that's one reason. Ulterior motives are dangerous. How could I trust someone to watch over her when they're solely focused on what I could do for their career in the future? I had nearly given up. Then you show up as you did…Are you a spiritual man?"
The words on the page he lands on jump out at him:
…and he who breathes out lies will not escape.
He scoffs, snapping the book shut.
"Hell no."
Surprisingly, the older man chuckles at this.
"I confess I am and I can't help but feel your showing up was no coincidence. Perhaps God saw the need to intervene on behalf of my inaction."
He's right about one thing: it wasn't a coincidence. It was a poorly coordinated series of events, as all Mukuro's plans are.
A few years earlier he covered for Mukuro when he owed money to a loan shark. There's always some lender waiting in the shadows for him. Mugen is a good liar, but his bullshitting can only get him so far. Eventually, lies have a way of catching up to you, spilling from your pockets, becoming obstacles to trip over. He didn't know what the shark knew. Had no idea that Mukuro claimed Mugen had the money. They showed up one day at his old job and proceeded to break his nose and a couple of his ribs searching for it. Mukuro claimed that he couldn't be held responsible for it. He was strung out of his mind. Too fucked up to know better. His favorite excuse.
Maybe it's for the best that he's been kept in the dark about the whole thing. Just this once. He really has no clue what Mukuro's been planning beyond what happened this afternoon. A plan that he never mentioned would end up with a dead man behind the wheel.
"So where does that leave me?"
"I ordered background checks on every applicant. Yours was most surprising. Petty theft, a few cases of aggravated assault. You've been flirting with jail time for most of your life. Before this afternoon I didn't consider you a viable applicant. I was wrong. The fact remains: I had half a dozen agents with us today. Not a single one put themselves in danger for her as you did. I'd say that leaves you with the job if you'll take it."
No one jumped up to save her because they didn't know she was in danger. Mugen knew. He just had to be in the right place at the right time with his eyes on the girl.
He sees her in his mind now: wind blowing her ponytail over her shoulder as she stares down the oncoming vehicle. Not an ounce of self-preservation in her body. Had he turned back like he wanted to, she would have gone a worse way than the bastard driving the car. He was at least in one piece when his body was pulled from the wreckage. Her death would have been far more gruesome and worse: live-streamed.
He glances at the Governor and for the first time feels that their thoughts are bobbing along on the same wavelength. The reality of how easily she could have ceased to exist. The reason for this meeting isn't to intimidate him. He hasn't found him out. It isn't suspicion or wariness buried in the lines of his face; it's gratitude . It finally dawns on him that this man really thinks Mugen is a certified hero—heart of gold and all that shit. He's offering him the job because from his point of view what else can he offer?
Mukuro's plan actually worked for once. He's got the job.
And despite it being everything he needs, something doesn't sit right with him.
"So just like that." he says slowly, knowing that he's pressing his luck by asking, "Even with the shitty background. You're gonna let me have it?"
Rarely does he ever get accused of being better than he is. If he does exist, it wasn't God who placed him at that intersection.
"There is no price I could pay that could be worth what you've done for me today. Think of this afternoon as an impromptu interview. You wanted the job. You showed you could handle it. It's yours."
He goes through the job description again. What he'll be doing. That he'll be considered live-in help. He'll send a car to pick Mugen up in the morning. A helpful aide comes in and hands him a stack of bills with a bow before announcing that he's ready to be driven home. He follows him out in a daze to the same government car as before. He briefly shakes hands with the Governor. It's all a blur because he still can't believe it.
He enters his apartment an hour later, still holding the stack of bills in his hand.
Mukuro jumps to his feet, knocking a few beer cans down as he does. He mutes the TV.
"What happened? Did you get—"
Mugen raises a hand to silence him.
"Who was driving the car?"
"You got the job didn't you?" he says, apparently choosing to ignore the murder in Mugen's eyes, looking him up and down like he can't believe his luck, "We're in! This is incredible –"
"Who was driving the fucking car?"
If he's going to continue helping with this little operation, he needs more information. No more getting left to grapple in the dark.
"Do you really care? It's not like it was anyone you know."
He has to keep himself from punching him in his stupid face. It's only ever a problem if it affects him directly.
"I care about not going to prison. You fucking failed to mention this plan involved someone dying," he spits. "So who was it?"
"Aw shit, will you relax? Shiren said there were people who wanted the inside scoop on Kasumi. He was one of their guys."
Something prickles at his intuition. Strange that a fucking janitor could forge so many useful connections. He's never trusted that rat and now even more so.
"So they don't care that one of their guys ended is in the morgue?"
Mukuro shrugs.
"For the record, the idiot driving was supposed to swerve out of the way at the last second and speed off. It's no one's fault but his for not following directions."
He howls in delight as he plucks the money from Mugen's hand.
"Look at that! Just enough to pay me back with interest."
He doesn't fight him on it; he knows Mukuro too well. He already pocketed a chunk of it before he came inside. He shoves past him so that he can collapse onto the couch, exhaustion finally settling into his weary body.
"Make sure your sister gets something to eat," he mutters pointedly.
"Step-sister."
He hates when he makes that distinction. It's unnecessary. They all grew up together. They've even been mistaken for brothers before. Something about the darker skin and problems with authority. Neither of them has ever fit in anywhere. Always an extra pair of eyes on them wherever they go. Koza's mom was more of a parent to the two of them than either of their dads ever was; spending their rent money on pachinko and booze, disappearing for weeks at a time. Until one day neither one came back.
Koza's mom made sure all three of them were fed. She couldn't convince him to go to school every day but she gave him a place to crash when his dad landed in jail. Eventually, she stopped inviting him over and it was just kind of expected. After she died he felt a rare sense of responsibility for Koza. Sort of like repayment for years of taking up space in their lives. Mukuro must have felt some responsibility too, but not how he expected.
His protectiveness over her has always bordered on strange. It's the sort of thing he's chosen to keep a close eye on without really knowing what to make of it. All he can do is watch.
"Just make sure you don't blow it all." he snaps. "I don't wanna come back here to see everything trashed. Don't need anyone snooping around here if we're gonna pull this off. She's still in school—they'll notice if she's not eating."
"What're you talking about?"
Koza enters, her school bag hoisted on her shoulder, held by a few threads stretched to their limit.
"He's making sure I don't let you starve while he's gone." Mukuro says and then frowns at her, "where the hell have you been?"
"Late club meeting." She says absently, her bag slipping down her shoulder and to the ground.
"So it really worked? You're her bodyguard now?"
She seems just as surprised as he is.
"Guess so," he says.
He turns back to watch the news replay from the afternoon like it's scenes from someone else's life. It's more disjointed on TV with the number of crews there. No one gets the whole picture. No one catches the moment he throws himself forward, pushing her out of the way. One catches the sickening jolt to her head–a glimpse of it. There's one of a woman shrieking as the car slams into the van behind her. Another shows a camera being hoisted into place to catch the smoke rising in black clouds. The cameras continuously cut to the Governor's face over and over and only briefly onto his daughter when she's being carried away.
You'd think he was the one who almost got run over.
After a few minutes Mukuro and Koza stop talking about it. He registers the door slamming shut when Mukuro leaves for work. Koza's door shuts but never locks when it's just the two of them. He wonders about the dead guy in the car. Why he didn't slow down. What he was promised in return. If it was worth dying for.
He dreams of being behind the wheel instead. When he sees the girl he floors it; teeth gritting together until he tastes the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. Every detail is painfully sharp, overly sharp and saturated until at the last second he realizes it's not the Governor's daughter–it's Koza. He tries to swerve but the wheel is locked in place.
His phone rumbles from beneath his face and he jerks awake. He didn't even realize he'd fallen asleep. He checks the time and curses to himself, spending the next few minutes yelling at Mukuro to wake up, stomping around the place looking for something to pack. He slept nearly 12 hours. Long enough that Mukuro left and came back from the night shift.
He pulls out a duffel bag, swinging his arm trying to get some blood flowing after sleeping on it all night. He glances around the apartment, realizing how little he actually owns. There are only two other rooms. Mukuro's and Koza's. Mugen has always slept on the cramped couch. A few pictures of Mukuro and Koza as children hang on the wall, yellowed by time and cigarette smoke. There's none of them in their teens.
He puts in a few pairs of jeans, swiping up discarded t-shirts from the ground to throw inside. He tosses in a charging cable that's been repaired with electrical tape on top before zipping it back up. His phone is in his back pocket along with a worn-down leather wallet. That's everything he has to his name.
"He's got his sights set on running for Prime Minister," Mukuro says with a yawn, relating another late-night conversation he had with Shiren at work, "They're looking for anything to make him look bad. I said, 'skies the limit', we got you on the inside now."
Skies the limit because it's not his ass being risked.
"You learned all this while scrubbing toilets?"
"Shiren has been there longer. He said he told them what's happening. Apparently, they're seriously impressed that we've got someone on the inside now. They're fine with playing the long con. All you gotta do is get comfy while we wait for more instructions."
He and Mukuro make a tentative plan to meet in person once a week to exchange information. They agree to keep from texting anything important. For now, he'll get a feel for Kasumi's home and routines before they make their next move.
Koza sits next to him wearing the same pajamas she had when he first met her years ago. An oversized threadbare T-shirt, the colorful logo on the front faded to obscurity. She unzips his bag, poking over the contents. He pulls it out of her hands. He hates when she hovers like this.
"What's she like?"
"Who?"
"His daughter."
He thinks of the way she just stood there in the intersection, waiting for it to happen. It's the exact kind of passive bullshit he hates. The worst thing someone can do is stand there and just take it.
He remembers staring down at her afterward, trying to shake her awake while the world erupted in chaos around them. Too many people hesitating, asking stupid questions. For a second he worried he caused her to hit her head too hard. When she opened her eyes, it wasn't even like she realized what happened. She just looked at him. Like, really looked at him. Like she was trying to figure him out. He still doesn't know what to make of it.
"I dunno. Typical rich bitch. Shouldn't be hard to handle."
She adds a pair of socks on top that he forgot about, carefully zipping his bag closed once more.
"I heard she's pretty."
"She's a kid. Like you."
He takes some of the money Kasumi gave him last night, pausing to glance back and make sure Mukuro isn't looking before passing it to her.
"Don't tell him about it." He murmurs, "and don't do anything stupid. Once I start gettin' paid better, I'll get you more. Don't be like your brother; be smart with it."
She nods, tucking it aside as she glances back once.
"You're not going to fall in love with her, are you?"
"What? No. Get that crap out of your head."
He pretends not to notice her relief. He doesn't know what to make of that either.
"Whether or not this alleged murder attempt on Governor Kasumi's daughter is connected to the murder of his wife is still unclear at this point. Some experts speculate that the crime is connected to a growing network of dissatisfied–"
She scrolls past this video and lands on another where his opponents are currently arguing that it wasn't an attempt on her life at all.
"Some nut job runs a red light and suddenly it's an assassination attempt? Governor Kasumi's dramatics are at play once again. It's outrageous that we're wasting time on his—"
She's gotten used to these sorts of arguments over the years. Nothing they say really bothers her anymore. There's rough callous beneath the shiny mask she wears. She's too busy scrubbing over footage of the accident on her phone, trying to find a trace of the man who saved her life.
It's hard to find anything helpful. It's mostly repeat videos of her father: kneeling over her, shouting for help, copious close-ups of his panicked expression. It's intercut with more admiring words on his ability to make decisions under pressure (or inability, depending on which news source is reporting on it). Occasionally she gets a glimpse of tanned arms holding her or the mop of messy hair.
She hasn't stopped thinking about the enigmatic young man. She hears his urgent voice, sees his face filled with a puzzling amount of resentment. She wonders if she should try to track him down and thank him. She composes a letter for him on her phone and deletes it.
Does he blame her? Does he regret getting involved? She might if she were him.
Maybe he was just a nice guy in the wrong place at the wrong time, trying to do the right thing. He probably recognized her father afterward. A stranger that understands the cost of getting involved with her family.
She turns over in bed, wincing at the throbbing pain still drumming in her head. There's a gash that required stitches near the top of her head where she hit the curb. It's a good thing she usually wears her hair up, she'll be able to hide it. A minor concussion and a few days excused from having to go to school. She's especially thankful for that. There's no telling what sort of rumors they're exchanging about her now.
You wouldn't know she's unpopular in school. Overnight her home began to be overrun with stuffy flowers bearing cards wishing her a speedy recovery but none of them are really for her. They're from her father's work associates and numerous kiss-asses who want to make a good impression. The only one that graces her nightstand is a single fat sunflower in a jar sent from Shino, the woman her father pays to clean the house once a week.
Her phone dings in her hands.
Come to my office.
She sighs, hoisting herself out of bed. She never goes into her father's office. Even when it's just the two of them in the home. She'll just text him if she needs to say something and she always gives the door a wide berth on her way back to her bedroom. Since they returned from the hospital, her father has locked himself there. He said very little to her on the drive home aside from asking her how she felt. She said she was fine.
As she approaches, muffled voices float out from beneath the door. Her father's rasp is followed by the low tenor of another voice she doesn't recognize.
Her father is sitting behind his desk. It's like the one at his office but more cluttered. Stacks of papers, manilla envelopes and discarded pens. The worn-down high-backed leather chair has always given her the feeling of approaching the principal to be scolded.
"This is my daughter, Fuu," he says and then nods behind her. "This is Mugen, the man who saved your life."
She jerks around to look and winces at the sudden movement.
She bows, hands clasped in her lap, glad for the excuse to look away. She wasn't expecting to see him again. Not after the way he looked at her. She thought it would be harder to track him down, that she'd have a few more days to compose her thank-you message.
"Oh—right. Thank you. If…if there's any way I could ever repay…you..."
She notices a rumpled duffel bag by his feet and glances back at her father.
"I don't understand," she says slowly. "Did you invite him to stay here?"
"Mugen was one of the applicants to become your bodyguard. I've decided to hire him."
She blinks, feeling as though she's been blindsided by a car for the second time in two days.
He's nothing like the men who usually follow her father around. Government employees waiting for their next step up the ladder. They're always perfectly groomed, in boring black suits, with boring expressions. The only thing this man seems to have in common with them is the lack of a smile. His dirty jeans and leather jacket make him look more like a delinquent than a government hired bodyguard. His sharp eyes size her up at the same time and she looks away in alarm. The thrum of something electric in his presence hums, striking her rattled nerves like a chord.
"Can we talk about this first?"
His fingers cross together patiently.
He expects her to say it in front of him? She casts an uneasy look at the stranger before walking forward and leaning into his desk. She lowers her voice.
"Dad, we don't even know him."
"I know that you wouldn't be standing before me if he hadn't acted."
"And so he's suddenly qualified to protect me?"
"Sometimes, people come into our lives for a reason."
She sighs. For such a politically-minded person, her father is surprisingly superstitious. He would call it spiritual . Her mother used to tease him about it. She never subscribed to his beliefs and he never made her, but when he listens to God, his ears are closed to her.
"I don't want anyone to follow me around anymore and who says he's even able to—"
"This is the decision I've made." he says, his voice bearing a bitter bite of finality, "It's done. If you step foot outside of this house, he will be there to accompany you."
She bites her lip, nodding woodenly. She leaves before he can say more. As she leaves she feels the strangers eyes on her. She doesn't look up to see if it's still filled with hate.
Mugen turns out to be quiet. Unnervingly so. She leans against her door, listening to the delicate pressure of the wooden floors creak as he walks past her room at night. She's shut herself there for the past few days.
Her father messages her about him as if any of it would make her feel better about the situation. She doesn't want to hear his justifications or why she should give this guy a chance. Before the accident, she used to argue that she didn't need anyone to follow her around. Now she has no leg to stand on. She's less upset that she was almost roadkill and more angry that it's set her back to being ten years old again, wondering why she isn't allowed to stay late on the playground like the other kids.
You were raised better than to judge someone by their appearance.
Guilt ties her stomach in an unpleasant knot. It's not that she's judging…okay, she's judging a little. Along with thinking her father has lost his mind, she's just confused why someone like that would even want the job to begin with.
Someone like that. There she goes again, making up her mind before she's even talked to him. Just like how she made up her mind that he hates her. All these invisible arguments that make her decisions for her, so she never has to act.
The sunflower on her nightstand has begun to droop its heavy head as if it's disappointed in her too.
When she feels like she's thoroughly coached herself enough on how she'll act, she decides it's time to face him. She brushes her teeth, and combs her hair, making sure she's presentable. Casual . She enters the living room and is surprised to see him there, lounging on the couch, flipping through the TV stations.
"Oh. Good morning," she says, as though she's just realized he's there.
As though she hasn't spent the last three days agonizing over how to talk to him.
He grunts in greeting.
She busies herself with making breakfast, pulling down a loaf of bread, and sliding slices into the toaster. She takes out strawberry jam and butter, peeking over her shoulder at him.
The awkward silence between them is so much louder than the muffled jingles and laughter that emanate from the TV in brief flashes. He switches past ads for laundry detergent, polite weathermen, and variety shows, never settling on one thing to watch for long.
He's sprawled across the couch and she's relieved to find he seems a little less intimidating like this. He doesn't look dangerous right now—just bored . He's dressed casually, wearing the same ratty-looking jeans and a stained, rust-colored T-shirt she first saw him in. She remembers that now: that he was a blur of red before the burst of fireworks. The longer she stares at him, the more interesting details begin to appear: the peek of an earring, a long pale scar on the forearm propping his head up. There's a hole in one of his socks.
The toaster pops up and she startles, gingerly snatching it.
"So," she says, adding jam to a piece of toast, "my father tells me you're a mechanic?"
"Mmhmm."
More jam. More scraping.
"And before that you–you were a bouncer ? Like at a club?"
"Yep."
So he's not entirely unprepared for a job like this. He must know how to handle rowdy crowds of people. He's just supposed to make sure he follows her in case another car decides to mow her down in the crosswalk. Oh, and as a bonus, he's a mechanic so maybe he can fix it after?
This stupid thought elicits one of her nervous bouts of laughter. She clears her throat.
"And…and so you decided to apply for this job because…"
Because you're passionate about helping people? Because you need the money for new socks?
His channel flipping abruptly stops when he lands on a pair of women wearing skimpy neon pink bikinis giggling together and splashing around in turquoise ocean water.
"Yeah, hey listen, girly," he says, sitting up to watch the screen with renewed interest, "I'm kinda busy. Unless you need a walk or somethin' I'd rather we didn't talk."
A walk.
Like she's a dog.
Her face goes hot. The temper she's been so thoroughly coached on suppressing flares dangerously to the surface. She drops the butterknife in her hand into the sink where it clangs loudly. For good measure she stuffs the toast she was making for him into her mouth, chewing furiously before swallowing.
"Lucky for you, I don't need a walk." She announces as she stomps past him, "and I don't need you either."
Her bedroom door slams behind her. Right back where she started.
So much for trying to get to know him. I'd rather we didn't talk . She huffs. Maybe it would have been better to have another stuffy boring old man following her around after all. Sorry for trying to be nice. I don't need a walk you jerk...
A sudden idea takes root.
It's been a long time since she's snuck out. The screen in her bedroom window pops out easily. Obviously, if he's too busy ogling girls on TV he won't be too concerned with her whereabouts. They've spent days avoiding each other; he probably won't even notice if she's not there.
She slips on a pair of sandals and grabs her bag before unlatching the window and removing the screen, carefully sliding down the roof toward one of the high concrete fences surrounding her home. She hops down, wincing when her body jolts at the impact. Once she's out on the street she grins to herself. It's been a long time since she's been allowed out by herself. He's right, she could use a nice walk. Alone.
The neighborhood is quiet. Their street is bordered by tall trees only just beginning to sprout bright green leaves, blossom buds still closed tightly. She makes a grand itinerary in her mind. Filled with shopping, cafes, her favorite bakery, a long walk in the park…
But by the late afternoon, this grand itinerary has petered out into sitting down alone on a park bench, a box of pastries beside her. The excitement at being alone has grown stale. She takes small bites of a rose-flavored macaron she picked up from one of the overpriced bakeries several blocks from her home, flicking off the bits of the gold leaf that flake away from the delicate cookie. She's always thought how stupid that was; edible gold. How wasteful. If she had a friend with her she'd turn to them and say, "It's pretty and all, but it tastes like nothing . They could have spent that money on dipping it in more chocolate!"
She's not made to be stuffed into a cage under constant surveillance, but she's not made to be alone either. She'd try to go visit Shino, but she knows she's probably still working and she'd scold her for going off on her own. There's no one for her to turn to when she wants to get away. Getting away usually isn't an option.
She watches the people around her, wondering what their lives are like. Groups of girls walking home from school, gossiping in hushed voices, their walks in perfect sync with one another. There's a couple nearby on an obvious first date. All shy smiles and nervous giggles, their hands held unnaturally at their sides as if to tempt the other into holding it.
There's a guy she sees around school that she daydreams about. Shinsuke. He smiles at her sometimes in the hall and she smiles back. That's it. She doesn't really know him, he just looks like the nice sort of boy she should be interested in. Someone kind. Someone who doesn't care who her father is. She wants to go on walks in the park after buying overpriced pastries. She wants to tell someone all the dumb thoughts in her head and have them listen. They can laugh at her or tell her she's stupid; it doesn't matter as long as they listen.
She wants someone to agonize on whether or not they should hold her hand.
It trickles into her awareness so slowly that she doesn't recognize what it is at first. Her back straightens. She swallows the floral lump of cookie in her mouth. Her breathing quickens. Something feels wrong. Off.
She's being watched.
She gathers her box, stuffing it inside the shopping bag and begins walking back in the direction of her house, her pace just shy of a half jog. Nobody around her is familiar; they all seem to be going on their way without a second glance at her. After a while she lets herself breathe a soft sigh of relief, her steps slowing, thinking maybe she spends too much time around her catastrophizing father.
These are her thoughts until she feels herself nearly jerked from her feet around a corner and into an alley–the pink pastry bag falls, the cream puffs she saved for Shino roll out into the grit of the street. Her pleasant day out is stripped down to the ugliness of a stranger's rough hand covering her mouth, muffling the surprised squeak she lets out. He's pressed her against the wall, using his body as leverage. He is enormous over her; trapping her frozen limbs–iron grip holding her still.
Frigid terror races like poison from her heart to her stomach when the ghost of another hand moves suggestively against the hem of her skirt.
It's brief and terrifying; the need to call for help, to get her closed throat open wide enough to scream, knowing that she's put herself here, realizing the precariousness of her situation.
The tremor of a chuckle rumbles through his chest to her back.
"Looks like you do need me."
Recognition instantly burns away the fear, blooming into hot outrage as his hand leaves her mouth.
"W-what are you doing!?"
"Just showin' you how easy it is," Mugen says quietly, still pressed so close against her that she catches the scent of his cologne along with a faint trace of motor oil, "Think of everything I could do to you right now."
"Uhg, let go of me, you disgusting —"
He releases his grasp on her, letting her stumble away from him.
She blinks away the furious tears burning at the corners of her eyes. She's so angry that she can't even see straight, heart still flapping like a trapped bird in her chest. She glares at him, trying to decide what string of obscenities she can use to let him know how despicable she finds him. This is the man who saved me?
He takes a step toward her as she takes another back, bumping into the brick wall.
"I could take whatever the hell I wanted and you couldn't do shit about it. That means anyone else could too. Maybe think about that next time you get an itch to leave without sayin' anything."
"Oh, so now you're teaching me a lesson so that you can feel me up? You are such a creep!"
The way his eyes move carelessly over her is somehow even more violating than the way he touched her. His lip curls into a cold sneer.
"You got nothin' I want."
He turns and walks away, red T-shirt making him look like the walking red flag she should have known he was. He kicks aside one of her fancy cream puffs. She watches it roll away, fighting the urge to pick it up and lob it at the back of his stupid head.
"Hurry it up," he barks back at her, "Or I'll tell daddy you were bad and snuck out today."
Her mouth falls open and then snaps shut, her teeth clenched together. Once, she worried that he hated her. She doesn't care anymore.
The feeling is definitely mutual.
AN: St. Lukes International Hospital in Tokyo does in fact have a pretty chapel inside :)
Thank you for reading.