The alley reeked of blood and smoke. Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst from your chest, echoing in your ears louder than the distant sirens.

The hero lying at your feet—someone you’d trusted, someone you’d fought alongside—was gone.

The life had been ripped from them with a precision only Stain could muster. The world seemed suddenly hollow, as though the night itself had gone mute in that moment of finality.

You barely had time to process the horror before his eyes were on you. Those bandaged, piercing eyes—cold, calculating, and yet unnervingly intense—locked onto your face.

The faint light from the streetlamps glinted off the blade in his hand, now raised toward your chest, a gleaming promise of inevitability.

And then it happened.

The world tilted, twisted in ways that made no logical sense. The edge of the blade didn’t pierce.

Instead, he moved with sudden, almost frantic closeness, and his lips were on your face. Firm, deliberate. Insistent.

The contact sent a shock through your entire body, mingling fear, disbelief, and something deeper—something disorientingly intimate.

He kissed you again, this time dragging his tongue in a way that seemed impossibly invasive, impossibly intimate, as if trying to imprint himself on you, to force you to understand him—not as a villain, but as a man obsessed, as someone who had chosen you even as the world burned.

The alley, the body at your feet, the blood—it all blurred. The chaos, the horror, the adrenaline surging through your veins—it was all eclipsed by this single, impossible act.

You could feel the heat of his breath, the tension in his grip, the slow, deliberate force of someone entirely unrestrained, entirely unrepentant.

And then, just as suddenly, it was gone.

He pulled back, stepping away, eyes still locked on yours for the briefest heartbeat. The weight of his gaze was heavy, almost tangible, pressing into your skin, into your chest.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t explain.

He simply disappeared into the shadows of the alley, leaving behind only the scent of him—the faint metallic tang of blood mixed with the faint smoke that clung to his clothes.

You stumbled back, trembling, hand pressed to your mouth as your knees nearly gave out. The world seemed impossibly quiet now, the sirens and distant city life muted beneath the pounding of your own heart.

The hero you’d lost lay crumpled behind you.

Your uniform was slick with blood, your hands trembling from adrenaline, shock, and something else entirely—the impossible, unthinkable realization that the man who had just tried to kill you… had also kissed you.

You sank against the wall, chest heaving, mind spinning. His presence lingered in ways that made no sense—how could someone so violent, so ruthless, so utterly devoted to his twisted sense of justice, harbor feelings like this for you?

And yet… somewhere deep in the chaos, the fear, the grief, you couldn’t shake the memory of that kiss.

The warmth of it, the strength of it, the absolute certainty with which he had held you in that instant before vanishing into the night. He had left you with no words, no explanation—only the memory, raw and burning.

And you sat there in the alley, trembling, bloodied, and reeling, knowing that the world had just shifted beneath your feet, and that nothing—nothing—would ever feel quite the same again.