The air between us was sharp enough to cut. I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears, my breath too shallow, too fast, but I didn't look away. Not this time.
I squared my shoulders. "You killed them."
His face didn't change.
A flicker of something—too fast to catch—passed through his eyes, but it was gone before I could name it.
"I did."
A confession.
Just like that.
No hesitation. No excuses. No justifications.
Just cold, quiet fact.
I felt sick.
"You—" My throat closed up. "You don't even care, do you?"
He exhaled slowly, tilting his head, studying me. "Would it make a difference?"
My hands clenched into fists.
"Vee is dead because of you."
A pause.
Then, softer—"I know."
My breath hitched.
He knew.
He knew.
And yet, he had done nothing.
Said nothing.
He had just watched as my world collapsed. As I tore myself apart trying to understand—trying to grieve.
And he had known. The entire time.
Something hot and ugly burned in my chest.
"You should've died that night," I whispered. "That man should've killed you."
His eyes flickered.
And for the first time—
He actually looked hurt.
It was gone in an instant, wiped away by something unreadable, something heavier, something I didn't have the strength to decipher.
His fingers twitched at his side. "I know."
The admission knocked the breath from my lungs. I wanted to scream.To hit him. To make him feel even a fraction of the pain ripping me apart from the inside out.
But my body had other plans.
The exhaustion crashed into me all at once, my vision tilting, my knees suddenly buckling. His eyes widened.
I barely registered the rush of movement before the floor disappeared beneath me, before his arms caught me, before everything blurred.
I tried to speak, but my lips felt numb.
A voice—low, strained—murmure
" Kaze..please "
And then—
Darkness.
I woke up to the weight of silence.
Not the kind that fades when you open your eyes.
Not the kind that lingers in the corners of a room.
No—this was different.
It was the silence after a disaster.
The kind that waits—not because everything is fine, but because everything isn't.
I sat up too fast. My head spun. My body ached. The fever had passed, but something heavier had taken its place.
The truth.
I remembered everything.
The fight.
The words.
The way I looked him in the eye and said it.
"That man should've killed you that night."
And now—I was still here.
I turned my head slowly.
And there he was.
Sitting in the chair by the window. Silent. Watching. His hands steepled, fingers pressed together in a way that almost looked thoughtful. Almost.
I swallowed. My throat was dry. My mind was worse.
Neither of us spoke.
Not yet.
But there were no more games. No more pretending.
I exhaled, my voice hoarse. "Why am I still here?"
His gaze flickered, but he didn't answer immediately.
I wanted to push. To demand. But my head was still heavy, my body still too weak to fight him like I wanted to.
So I forced myself to sit still. To wait.
Seconds stretched.
And then—softly, coldly, like it was just another fact—he said, "You passed out."
I stared. "And?"
He tilted his head slightly. "And you're here."
I let out a sharp breath, eyes narrowing. "You should've let me go." Something unreadable passed through his expression. "You weren't in a state to leave."
I hated that. Hated that he said it like it was logical. Like it was obvious. Like it was that simple. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. "You don't care." My voice was steady, but something underneath it trembled. "Not about me."
Silence.
I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. "So tell me, then—why did you say it that night?"
His expression didn't change. "Say what?"
I swallowed. My stomach twisted.
"You said I mattered."
His fingers twitched. Just barely.
But I saw it.
For the first time, he didn't have a quick answer.
And for some reason—that was worse.
I forced myself to hold his gaze. "You didn't mean it, did you?" My voice was quieter now, the words pulling at something raw. "It was just another lie. Just another way to get inside my head."
He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
And then—
"No."
The word was quiet. Firm. Unshakable.
Not a lie.
Something about the way he said it made my stomach turn, made my breath catch, made my hands curl tighter around the blanket.
Because if it wasn't a lie—
If he really meant it—
Then
what the hell did that mean for me?