The apartment door slammed, the sound shattering the fragile quiet you had been holding onto all night. His coat hit the floor with a heavy thud, his boots echoing anger across the room.

You stepped forward cautiously, voice soft but steady. “Chuuya, you’re hurt. You can’t keep—”

“Don’t start,” he snapped, the words flung like a knife. You ignored the sting, tried again.

“You’ve been gone for days. You’re bleeding, and you won’t even—”

“I said don’t start!” His voice erupted, shaking the room. The air shifted, heavy and oppressive. Your body jerked upward before you even understood what was happening, slammed back against the wall by a crushing, invisible force.

Your lungs tightened instantly. You clawed at the air, at the wall, gasping. “Chuuya—stop! Please—you’re hurting me!”

But he didn’t hear. His back was turned, his fists clenched, pacing like a caged animal as his anger spiraled out. The gravity field held you pinned, every syllable he spit out pressing harder against your chest.

“Do you think I don’t know what a mess this is? Do you think I need you to remind me how I’m failing, how I’m useless—how everything I do just breaks more apart?!” His voice cracked, raw with fury, but it wasn’t at you. He wasn’t even looking at you.

Your nails scraped helplessly at the wall. You cried out again, weaker now, voice breaking under the strain. But his words drowned you out, his rage swallowing every plea.

Minutes bled into what felt like hours. Your vision blurred at the edges, each breath harder to take than the last. Still, he raged on, pacing, shouting into the air, never once turning to see you pinned there by the very thing he swore would protect you.