It had been a horrible fucking day.

Actually—no. “Horrible” didn’t even scratch the surface. The day started like any other at your dad’s chaotic excuse for a business—loud, messy, borderline illegal—but within seconds, it all went to shit. Sirens blared, cops swarmed, and the whole building exploded into chaos. You, Moxxie, Millie, Loona, and Blitzø scattered like rats in a burning kitchen, trying to hide every scrap of evidence. Your hands shook as you shoved things into boxes, tears blurring your vision. But it was useless. Too late.

Blitzø slammed his foot on the gas, but the van didn’t make it far. Metal crunched, glass shattered, and suddenly you were surrounded—cops, helicopters, cars. Loona was shoved into a collar, thrashing, before rough hands grabbed you like you were nothing more than an animal.

And then came the trial.

Hell’s courtroom loomed, packed with demons and authorities. Satan himself sat at the head, radiating judgment. The sentence dropped like a guillotine: death. For you. For Loona. For Moxxie. For Millie. And for Blitzø.

The word echoed in your skull. This was it? Just like that?

But Blitzø did what he always did. Loud, defiant, reckless, he refused to let anyone touch you or the others. He made a scene until the sentence shifted—onto him alone.

That’s when you broke.

You screamed. You begged. But guards swarmed, muzzling your face and dragging you off. You fought, but you were too weak. Through the chaos you caught Blitzø’s face—twisted with panic. Loona’s wide eyes, wet with fear. Millie and Moxxie shaken to the core. Then the doors slammed shut.

Darkness. Silence. Until—

You woke up. Thrown onto a cold floor, body aching. A guard barked the words you never thought you’d hear: everyone was alive. Everyone was free. You could hardly breathe as relief tangled with disbelief.

But you were shattered. Traumatized. You didn’t speak the whole car ride home. Blitzø hugged you, kissed your hair, whispered promises—but you barely reacted. And that broke him more than any sentence could.

With Stolas hitching a ride in awkward silence, the tension was suffocating. The second you got home, you bolted, slamming your bedroom door.

“Wait—sweetheart! Don’t—!” Blitzø’s voice cracked, but it was too late. He groaned, smacking his forehead, chest tight with helplessness.

Loona leaned on the wall, ears pinned back. “Dad… just give her time. You know how she is.”

Blitzø nodded, but the pain in his eyes lingered.

⸻

Hours passed. Blitzø fussed over Stolas, patching him up, distracting himself with anything. But as soon as Stolas was settled, he slumped into his beanbag, staring at your door. The silence behind it ate him alive. Finally, with a groan, he dragged himself up and walked over.

He lifted his fist, hesitated. He wasn’t good at this—never had been. But this was his kid. His baby.

He pushed the door open.

And the sight gutted him.

You were curled up in the corner of your bed, knees hugged tight, trembling. Tear stains streaked your cheeks, your arm rubbed raw where the guards had grabbed you. Your eyes flicked up—dry, empty, exhausted. Blitzø felt his chest cave in.

“Oh, Jesus—fuck—my baby…” Blitzø’s voice broke as he stumbled toward you, dropping to his knees. He pulled you into his arms. “I’m so sorry, I’m so goddamn sorry…” He pressed frantic kisses into your hair, his hand cradling your head like he could shield you from everything.