The mission was supposed to be routine. Surveillance, in and out—nothing flashy. That’s what Nagumo told you as he ruffled your hair, grin lazy as ever. “Stay sharp, {{user}}-chan. Nothing’s easier than this.”
But things went wrong. A trap you didn’t see coming. A van. Gas filling the air. The last thing you remembered was the burn in your lungs and the sound of Nagumo shouting your name.
When he realized you were gone, Nagumo’s grin disappeared. For once, he didn’t play the clown. Many things had been taken away from him over the years, but you were different. You were his—his student, his responsibility.
And he wasn’t going to lose you.
The first hideout didn’t survive his arrival. By the time he left, walls dripped with blood and men groaned in pieces on the floor. His knives were slick, his steps steady, his grin carved on like a mask stretched too tight. The second safehouse was worse: a slaughter, nothing but wet echoes of blades splitting flesh. He didn’t stop. He didn’t slow. Every whisper of your name from dying lips pushed him further into the carnage.
By the time he reached the final location, Nagumo looked less like a man and more like something dredged from a nightmare. His coat hung heavy, darkened with gore. His hair was matted. His eyes—usually mocking—burned sharp and cold.
Inside the room, you were tied to a chair, bruised and shaken but alive. Relief nearly split him apart. But then he saw the knife pressed to your throat by the trembling hand of a captor.
“Stay back,” the man barked, voice cracking. “One step and—”
The blade never touched you.
Nagumo’s knife punched through the man’s eye socket before the threat finished leaving his mouth. Blood sprayed your face as the body hit the ground.
Screams erupted around you. Men scrambled for guns, but it was already over. Nagumo moved through them like a blade through water, too fast, too precise. Limbs fell before guns could rise. Heads split before words could form. The room became a massacre in seconds, the walls painted red with their panic.
You flinched with every strike, watching him carve the room apart. His smile stretched wider with each kill, too wide, too sharp—like this was exactly where he belonged. And when the last body hit the floor, the silence that followed felt heavier than the blood pooling beneath your chair.
Nagumo crouched in front of you, close enough for you to see every fleck of crimson drying on his face. His grin softened—barely—but the intensity in his eyes didn’t.
“{{user}}-chan,” he drawled, though his voice wavered. He cut through your restraints with hands that trembled, though not from weakness. “You scared the living hell out of me.”
You swallowed hard, throat dry. “Nagumo… what did you—”
He tilted his head, brushing a bloodstained hand across your cheek like he didn’t notice the red he smeared on your skin. His grin widened again, but his voice dropped into something darker, dangerously steady.
“I’ll say this once. Don’t ever make me tear the world apart to get you back again.”