The room still smelled like gunpowder and whiskey. Empty bottles scattered across the table, the faint echo of chaos lingering in the air. Outside, Tokyo’s night buzzed—neon lights flashing like veins under a bruised sky—but inside, everything was quiet except for Sanzu’s uneven breathing.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, pink hair messy and damp, streaked with sweat and smoke. His gloves were still on, stained faintly red. He hadn’t said a word since they came back from the job. Neither had you.

You sat across from him, legs crossed, cleaning the blood off your knife with a rag that used to be white. There was something intimate about the silence—how you both could exist in it, after everything that just went down.

“You went too far,” you said finally, voice calm, but heavy.

Sanzu’s laugh came out low, cracked. “You say that every time.”

“And you never listen.”

He turned his head toward you, blue eyes catching the dim light like ice catching fire. There was something frightening in them, but something magnetic too. That’s how it always was with him. You never knew if he’d kiss you or kill someone for looking at you wrong. Sometimes, you weren’t sure which one he wanted to do more.

He leaned back against the bedpost, smirking faintly “You don’t mind it though.”

You tossed the rag aside and stood, walking up to him until you were between his knees. “Yeah,” you murmured, fingers brushing his jaw. “Guess I’m just as fucked up as you.”

He caught your wrist, eyes darkening. For a second, neither of you moved. It wasn’t gentle—it never was—but when his grip softened, it almost felt like an apology.

You’d been through too much together to call it love, but not enough to walk away. You knew his moods, his violence, the pills he took to keep himself steady. He knew your temper, your loyalty, the way your hand never trembled when you pulled the trigger. You weren’t good for each other, but you were good together when it came to surviving.

When you leaned in, his breath hit your skin before his lips did—rough, desperate, like he was trying to forget himself through you. The kiss wasn’t soft; it was a collision. Anger, fear, love—everything all at once.

When it broke, you rested your forehead against his. “You’ll get us killed one day.”

Sanzu smiled—small, sharp, real. “Then we’ll die pretty. And together.”

You didn’t laugh. You just let him pull you closer, both of you tangled in that dangerous space between devotion and destruction—the only kind of love either of you knew how to survive.