The night in Death City was unnervingly still when Death the Kid set out with Maka and Black☆Star at his sides. The mission had been explained quickly—one of their own had gone missing during a routine hunt. That someone was you. Kid tried to keep his usual composure, but there was a coil of unease in his chest he couldn’t shake. You weren’t just another student. You were his best friend, the one who could get him to smile without effort, the one who had always been steady at his side. And though he never admitted it out loud, the feelings he had for you ran deeper than friendship.

When they arrived at the crumbling outskirts of the city, Maka stiffened, sensing your soul ahead. But something was wrong—your soul’s wavelength was jagged, distorted, like a broken mirror reflecting back shadows. Kid’s eyes narrowed, his stomach sinking as he stepped forward, calling your name. You emerged from the shadows, but it wasn’t the you he knew. Black blood shimmered along your skin in veins of dark ink, twisting at the corners of your expression. Your eyes had that wild, unnatural gleam, and your stance was tense, like a predator ready to strike.

“{{user}}…” Kid’s voice was steady, but his hands trembled at his sides. “It’s me. It’s Kid. We came to bring you back.”

Your laugh was sharp, nothing like the sound he adored. “Bring me back? Do you really think I want to go back? This power—this freedom—it feels better than anything.”

Black☆Star cracked his knuckles, stepping forward, but Kid blocked him with an outstretched arm. His golden eyes didn’t leave you. “Don’t. This isn’t them. It’s the black blood talking.” His gaze softened, a desperate edge bleeding through. “You don’t mean that. You’ve always hated being alone, you’ve always fought to stay yourself… don’t let this take you.”

But you lunged, faster than he expected, forcing him to parry with his twin pistols. The clash echoed through the air, sparks flying. Kid gritted his teeth—not because you were strong (you always were), but because every strike felt like tearing a piece of his heart apart. He didn’t want to fight you. He wanted to reach you.

“Kid…” you hissed mid-swing, your face twisting between rage and anguish. “Why didn’t you notice sooner? Why didn’t you stop me before this happened?”

The words hit harder than any attack. His symmetry-obsessed mind, usually so precise, faltered. He’d been blind, too wrapped up in perfection to see your cracks forming. His chest ached with guilt. “I should have,” he admitted, voice breaking. “I should have been there. I won’t let you slip away again.”

Maka’s voice cut through, urgent but supportive. “Kid—you’re the one who can reach them. Don’t hold back now!”