The cold, loneliness of the stone walls seemed to creep into his skin as he walked through the corridor to the isolated cell he had been hesitant to visit for weeks now. Of course, he forgave her after all her actions in their simplest form were just the result of trauma and the lack of a loving environment, but that did not take away the pain. He wasn't even sure why he was there, the others had told him it wasn't a good idea and part of him wanted to just turn around and never look back but his heart wouldn't let him. The clinking of his boots against the stone floor echoed in the empty corridor, each step pulling him closer to the confrontation as his fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides. He stopped short of the heavy iron door, watching as the prison guard punched in the code. The door unlocked with a heavy metallic groan, the sound reverberating in the silence like a warning bell. He hesitated, his breath hitching as the guard gave him a sideways glance, his face impassive but his voice low with disapproval.
"Five minutes," the guard muttered. "No more." He gave a short nod, his throat too dry to form words. As the door creaked open, the dim light from the corridor spilled into the cell, illuminating the figure within. She was seated on the narrow cot, her shoulders hunched and her hands bound loosely in her lap. Her head was bowed, the cascade of her disheveled hair obscuring her face. She didn't move, didn't acknowledge the intrusion, as if the sound of the door was just another cruel reminder of where she was.
He took a tentative step forward, the weight of his decision heavy in his chest. The door slammed shut behind him, the sound ringing out like the finality of a gavel. She flinched at the noise, her shoulders tensing as she slowly raised her head. Her frame looked smaller and all the life had been drained from her eyes when they met his.
"Why are you here?" Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it carried an edge of disbelief. She didn't sound angry—just tired, as though any fight she once had had been extinguished long ago.
For a moment, he didn't answer. The words he'd rehearsed on his way here seemed to scatter like ashes in the wind. His heart ached seeing her like this, but he couldn't tell if it was guilt, pity, or something deeper that held him rooted in place.
"I don't know," he admitted, his voice breaking the thick silence. He stepped closer, noticing the faint tremble in her hands and the way she seemed to brace herself as if expecting a blow—not physical, but emotional.
She let out a bitter laugh, one devoid of any humor. "Then you're wasting your time." Her gaze dropped back to her lap, the dismissal clear in the slump of her shoulders.
"I don't think I am," he replied, forcing himself to keep his tone steady. "I—I needed to see you. To try to understand."
"Understand what?" she snapped, the sudden sharpness in her voice catching him off guard. Her eyes flashed with something akin to anger, but it was fleeting, quickly swallowed by a wave of despair.
"I want to know what changed your mind. Why did you help us in the end," he asked leaning against the wall and watching her closely as if that would give him an answer.
The cell fell silent for a moment before she pulled her knees up to her face and mumbled into them. "Because I realized you were never to blame for that goddamn snake."
Letting out a sigh of frustration he had to remind himself that she had never been open to telling the truth right away and getting pushy would only make her close off even more. "I know there's more to it than that. Look you don't have to tell me, I just wanted to ask if maybe, somewhere deep down, you didn't want to go through with it. Not completely."
Her head tilted slightly, though she didn't look at him. Her fingers fidgeted against the fabric of her pants, her breathing shallow and uneven. "It wasn't that simple," she said finally, her voice so soft he had to strain to hear her. "It's never that simple."
He nodded, letting her words sink in. He hadn't expected her to lay everything bare, but at least she was speaking. That was a start.
"I know it wasn't simple," he said, keeping his voice low. "None of this has been. But it doesn't change the fact that you saved us. You risked everything in that moment. And I need to know why."
She let out a heavy sigh and leaned her head back against the wall, her eyes fixed on the cracked ceiling. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me," he challenged gently, moving to sit on the floor across from her.
Her gaze flicked to him, wary and hesitant. "You think you know what it's like to be… disposable? To feel like no matter what you do, it'll never be enough? Like the world's already decided you're the villain in someone else's story?"
Her words hit him harder than he'd expected, and he felt the lump in his throat grow. "No, I don't," he admitted honestly. "I can't pretend to know what that's like. But I do know what it's like to feel alone. To feel like you're carrying something too heavy for anyone else to understand."
Her lip quivered for a brief moment before she pressed it into a thin line. "I didn't do it for you," she said, though the crack in her voice betrayed her words. "Or them. I just… I couldn't live with the guilt anymore. Knowing what would happen if I let it go any further."
"That's enough," he said, his voice soft but firm. "That's enough of a reason."
Her brows knitted together, her expression a mix of confusion and disbelief. "How can you say that? After everything I've done—everything I've put you through?"
"Because everyone deserves a chance to make things right," he said. "Even you."
Her breath hitched, and for a moment, he thought she might cry, but she blinked back the tears and returned to her expressionless form. "Can you leave now? I'm tired and don't feel like talking." He hesitated, his heart aching as he watched her retreat into herself once more. The rawness of her words lingered in the air like an open wound, but he understood. She wasn't ready—maybe she never would be—but that didn't mean he couldn't give her the space she needed. He knew this wasn't the moment for more questions or more probing.
"I'll go," he said softly, standing up and brushing the dust off his pants. "But I'll be back. You don't have to say anything, but I won't just walk away this time."
She didn't look up, her eyes still locked on the floor, but there was a subtle shift in the tension of her shoulders, a brief moment of something softer, something human, that he clung to as he turned and walked toward the door.
The guard, who had been silently watching from the corner, gave him a stern nod as he punched in the code again. The door creaked open, but before he stepped through, he glanced back one last time.
"I'm not giving up on you," he said quietly, his voice full of determination. She didn't respond, but something in her posture told him she heard him, even if she didn't want to admit it.
The following week, he found himself walking the same cold, familiar path, his boots clicking against the stone floor in the quiet corridor. The weight of the promise he'd made hung heavily on him, but it wasn't the kind of promise that could be easily broken. He couldn't erase the image of her—fragile, isolated, and weighed down by something far beyond his understanding. And while the others continued to warn him, telling him that his efforts would only be in vain, he refused to be swayed. When he reached the iron door once again, he didn't hesitate. The cold metal still echoed with the same haunting groan as the guard punched in the code, unlocking the barrier between them. This time, though, there was something different in his chest—a mixture of determination and something softer, almost like hope. His fingers were steadier as he grasped the door handle, pushing it open and stepping inside.
She was in the same position, seated on the cot, her posture still slumped and defeated. The shadows of the cell had become familiar, and yet the sight of her never felt any less painful. She hadn't moved since the last time he saw her, or so it seemed. Her eyes, when they met his, were just as empty as before, though there was something in them that made his heart tighten.
"How are you?" he asked, his voice quieter than he intended, but it felt like the only thing he could offer at that moment.
She didn't immediately respond. Instead, she stared at him with a detached sort of indifference, as if he were a distant memory she wasn't quite sure how to place. Her lips parted, and for a moment he thought she might speak, but all that came out was a shallow exhale.
"Did you come to lecture me again?" she asked the edge in her voice barely there. It wasn't the defiance he remembered—just exhaustion, like she was done with everything.
"No," he replied, stepping further into the cell, his gaze not leaving her. "I didn't come to lecture you." He paused, unsure of how to proceed. "I came to ask if you'd be willing to talk. Not about… everything. Just about you. How you're really feeling."
She scoffed lightly, but it lacked venom. "Does it even matter?"
"It matters to me," he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His chest felt tight again, and he took a step closer, now just a few feet from her.
For the first time since he entered, she shifted on the cot, her eyes flickering to the side, unwilling to meet his gaze fully. "Oh Lloyd, your unconditional kindness is going to get you killed."
"I've made it this long, I think I'll be fine," he said, trying to ease the tension with a small, self-deprecating smile. His eyes softened as he looked at her, his voice gentle. "I'm not going to give up on you. I know you don't believe me right now, but I'm not leaving."
She let out a small, hollow laugh, the sound almost too sad to bear. "You're stubborn, you know that? Everyone who's ever cared about me has regretted it."
Lloyd crossed his arms and leaned against the cold wall, his expression steady and unwavering. "Maybe they have," he said softly, "but I won't. I don't regret believing in people, no matter how hard it gets."
She glanced at him, her eyes narrowing slightly as if searching for any hint of insincerity. Finding none, she shook her head and looked away. "You're wasting your time."
"Maybe," he admitted, his tone calm. "But it's my time to waste, isn't it?"
Her fingers fidgeted again, her knuckles white as she clenched her hands together. The silence stretched between them, thick and almost suffocating, until she finally let out a shaky breath. "You don't get it, do you? I want you to stop caring. It'd be easier that way."
"Easier for who?" he asked, his voice still soft, but now with a hint of challenge. "For you? Or for me?"
Her jaw tightened, and for a moment, it seemed like she might lash out, but instead, she slumped further into herself. "For both of us," she muttered, her voice barely audible. "I'm not worth it, Lloyd. I never was."
He pushed off the wall and took a careful step closer, lowering himself to her level. "You're wrong," he said firmly. "You're worth it, and whether or not you believe that doesn't change how I feel."
Scoffing, she stood up and walked over to the little table that despite its size and being pushed up into the corner still took up a lot of space in her cell. "If you believe anything I say, let it be this. I am not worth your time and effort. I can't change what happened and even if I could who can guarantee that I won't just turn around and cause more damage."
Lloyd watched her carefully, his arms crossing as he leaned slightly forward, his tone steady but unwavering. "You can guarantee it."
Her head snapped toward him, her eyes sharp and bitter, though the tremor in her voice betrayed the façade of anger. "How can you possibly know that? You're not a seer, Lloyd. You can't just predict that I won't screw up again."
"I don't need to be a seer to believe in you," he replied simply, his gaze holding hers. "You made a choice when you didn't have to, and that means something. Whatever your reasons, you proved that you're capable of choosing differently, of doing something good."
Her laugh was sharp, hollow, and laced with self-loathing. "One good deed doesn't erase a lifetime of mistakes, of hurting people."
"No, it doesn't," he agreed, his voice calm. "But it's a start. And sometimes, that's all you need—a reason to keep going and a choice to be better tomorrow than you were yesterday."
Her fists clenched at her sides, her back to him now as she stood by the table. "You don't get it. I don't even know who I am without all of… this." She gestured vaguely around her, the weight of her words pressing down on the already suffocating space. "The lies, the schemes, the mistakes. If you strip that away, what's left of me? Nothing."
Lloyd stood up, his boots echoing softly against the floor as he took a cautious step closer. "You're wrong," he said, his voice stronger now. "What's left is you. The person who felt trapped and made bad choices because you thought there wasn't another way. The person who stepped up when it mattered, even though it terrified you. That's who you are underneath all of this."
Her shoulders shook, but she didn't turn to face him. When she finally spoke, her voice was small, trembling with a mixture of anger and grief. "Why are you doing this? Why can't you just leave me here and forget about me like everyone else has?"
"Because I don't want to," Lloyd said simply. "I know what it's like to feel like the world has already decided who you are. To feel like no matter what you do, you'll always be seen as something you're not. But I also know that you're more than the worst thing you've ever done. And I think, deep down, you want to believe that too."
For a long moment, the cell was silent except for the faint sound of her unsteady breathing. Finally, she turned slightly, just enough for him to see the glimmer of tears in her eyes.
"What if you're wrong?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "What if I can't change?"
Lloyd's expression softened, a faint but genuine smile tugging at his lips. "Then you'll stumble. You'll make mistakes. But as long as you keep trying, you'll prove to yourself that you can."
Her lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, she stared at him, her walls cracking just enough for him to see the fear and vulnerability she'd tried so hard to hide.
"You're relentless," she muttered after a long pause, wiping at her eyes quickly as if trying to reclaim some semblance of control.
"Maybe," he admitted, his smile growing. "But I think it's what you need right now."
She shook her head, a small, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her lips despite herself. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but Lloyd noticed, and it gave him hope.
"Don't make me regret this," she murmured, her voice barely audible.
"You won't," he said with quiet certainty. "I promise. I have a couple more minutes before I have to go, is there anything else you want to talk about, Rumi?"
Harumi rolled her eyes at the use of the nickname but a faint smile could be seen on her face. "So is it just a habit for you to use my nickname or do you hate me so much you don't want to say my full name?"
"Habit mostly, but I guess that's my way of showing you I care about you, even if you think I shouldn't," Lloyd replied, his tone light yet sincere. He stepped back to give her some space, leaning casually against the wall, his arms crossed. "Besides, I think Harumi's too formal. Rumi suits you better."
She raised an eyebrow, the faint smile lingering but tinged with skepticism. "Suits me? You're full of it, you know that?"
"Maybe," he said with a small shrug, his gaze steady. "But I think deep down, you kind of like it."
Harumi huffed softly, shaking her head as she turned her attention back to the table, her fingers absentmindedly tracing a groove in the wood. "You really don't know when to quit, do you?"
"Nope," Lloyd said simply, his voice carrying a hint of playfulness. "I've been told I'm annoyingly persistent. Ask anyone."
She gave a short laugh, the sound catching even her off guard. It was fleeting, but it was real, and it filled the cold space with a warmth that hadn't been there before. For a moment, the tension in her shoulders seemed to ease, and she glanced at him over her shoulder.
"I'm not making any promises, Lloyd," she said quietly, her tone softer now. "I don't know if I can do what you're asking."
"I'm not asking for promises," he replied, his voice steady and patient. "Just… give yourself a chance. That's all I want."
Harumi turned to face him fully, studying him with an intensity that made his chest tighten. For a moment, he thought she might push him away again, but instead, she sighed, the weight of her walls beginning to crumble.
"Alright," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But don't say I didn't warn you."
Lloyd smiled, the relief in his expression unmistakable. "Fair enough. I'll take what I can get."
She rolled her eyes again but didn't hide the faint blush creeping up her cheeks. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're stubborn," he shot back, a playful glint in his eyes. "Guess we're even."
For the first time in a long while, Harumi allowed herself to relax, if only a little. The heavy silence of the cell felt a little less suffocating, and though the path ahead was uncertain, she couldn't deny the flicker of hope Lloyd had planted.