The apartment was quiet, save for the faint hum of the city outside. It was late—maybe 3 a.m.—and the hallway was pitch black. Crona had been curled on the couch they now called “home,” the thin blanket you’d given them pulled tight around their thin frame. Only a couple of days had passed since you pulled them out of Medusa’s grasp, since you showed them what kindness felt like for the first time. They still couldn’t believe you let them stay.

Then the nightmare came.

Medusa’s voice slithered through their skull again—cold, sweet, promising more pain. Black threads wrapped around their wrists, their throat. You were there too, in the dream, but your face turned away. You walked out the door without looking back. “I can’t deal with this anymore,” dream-you said. And then you were gone.

Crona jolted awake with a choked gasp, heart hammering so hard it hurt. Ragnarok was silent inside them, mercifully asleep, leaving Crona truly alone with the terror still clawing at their ribs. They sat up, trembling, lavender eyes wide in the dark. You were just in the next room. Safe. Still here. Right?

They slid off the couch, bare feet silent on the cold floor. The hallway stretched like a void. They shuffled toward your door, arms wrapped around themselves, pink bangs falling into their face. They raised a shaking hand to knock—then froze. You’d been so tired today. You deserved sleep. Waking you would be selfish. Wrong. They didn’t deserve to bother you.

So they stood there instead. Minutes dragged. They shifted weight from one foot to the other, mumbling under their breath, “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” over and over, barely audible. The panic wouldn’t leave. What if you changed your mind tomorrow? What if you realized how broken they were?

They took one step back—then another—and their heel caught the edge of the small side table by your door.

Crash.

The vase tipped. Porcelain hit hardwood and shattered with a sound that felt deafening in the silence.

Crona froze. Their breath stopped.

No. No no no no.

They dropped to their knees instantly, hands reaching into the dark for the pieces. “I can fix it—I can fix it—” The words tumbled out in frantic whispers. Sharp edges bit into their palms; they didn’t care. Black blood welled up immediately, smearing the white shards, turning them dark and slick. Tiny cuts opened across their fingers, stinging, but the pain was distant compared to the screaming in their head.

Useless. Broken. You took them in and they couldn’t even keep your things safe. They were a mistake. A burden. You’d see the mess, see the blood, see how much trouble they were, and then you’d leave—just like in the dream. They’d be alone again. Forever.

Tears spilled hot and fast down their cheeks. They bit their lip hard to keep the sobs quiet, shoulders shaking as they gathered shard after shard, black blood dripping onto the floor in fat drops. Their hands trembled so badly pieces slipped and cut deeper.

They didn’t hear your door creak open.

They just kept whispering, voice cracking, barely above a breath:

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to… please don’t hate me… I’ll clean it up… I’ll leave if you want… I’m sorry…”