Chapter Text
The wind cuts across the rooftop like a dull blade, carrying the faint metallic stink of distant Trash Beasts and the ever-present rot of the Ground. You stay crouched, knife steady in your grip, heart hammering so hard it feels like it might crack a rib. Every instinct screams at you to lunge—to end whatever this is before it can speak again—but your body won’t move. Not yet. Because that voice… that voice you haven’t heard in four years, but you’d know it in your sleep.
The figure steps forward—slow, deliberate, boots scraping softly against cracked concrete. Moonlight catches the edge of his hood first, then the sharp line of his jaw, then the dark, messy hair that’s longer now, streaked with silver at the temples. He stops five paces away. Hands still visible, empty. No weapon drawn. No threat made.
But you know better.
Relic pulls his hood back fully.
Older. Harder. The lines around his mouth and eyes carved deeper, like someone took a knife to the man who once crouched in front of a starving ten-year-old and offered a hand instead of a fist. His dark eyes are the same—unreadable, bottomless, the kind of dark that swallows light instead of reflecting it. He looks at you the way he always did: like he already knows every thought in your head before you’ve finished thinking it.
“Found you,” he says again. Softer this time. Almost fond.
Your knife doesn’t waver.
“Relic,” you rasp. The name tastes like rust and old blood.
He tilts his head—just a fraction. A small, familiar gesture that used to mean approval. Now it feels like a leash tightening.
“You’ve been hard to pin down,” he says. Voice low, calm, the same gentle tone he used when you were small and bleeding and scared. “I’ve been looking. Quietly. Didn’t want to spook you. Didn’t want you to run again.”
You feel the ring burn against your skin—hot, insistent, begging to be used. You don’t call on Proof. Not yet. You’re not sure you want to see what it would show you right now.
“What do you want?” you ask. Flat. Cold. The way you learned to speak when you were his weapon.
Relic exhales through his nose. Almost a laugh, but too quiet for that.
“What I’ve always wanted,” he says. “You. Back where you belong.”
You laugh—short, jagged, bitter.
“Belong?” you echo. “I walked away. I didn’t belong anywhere near you after—”
“After Katsuro,” he finishes for you. Gentle. Too gentle. Like he’s handling broken glass.
The name hits like a fist to the sternum. You suck in a breath. Knife hand trembles—just once—before you lock it down.
“Don’t,” you warn.
Relic doesn’t flinch. He takes one careful step closer.
“I know what happened,” he says. “I know how it broke you. I know you buried him under scrap so deep even I couldn’t find the spot. I know you stopped being my shadow the day you stopped believing anything could last.”
You feel your throat close. Feel the old grief rise like bile.
“Stop.”
He doesn’t.
“He was good for you,” Relic continues. Voice soft. Almost tender. “Made you smile. Made you soft. Made you believe in things I never could. And the Ground took him anyway. Because that’s what it does. It takes. It always takes.”
He pauses. Lets the words settle.
“But I never took from you,” he says. “I gave. I raised you when no one else would. I kept you fed. Kept you safe. Kept you sharp. I never asked you to change. Never asked you to be anything other than what you were. And when you left… I let you go. I didn’t chase. Didn’t punish. I waited.”
You stare at him.
Feel the ring pulse harder.
“You waited,” you repeat. Voice cracking despite yourself. “You waited to drag me back.”
Relic’s eyes don’t waver.
“I waited because you’re mine,” he says. Simple. Certain. “You always were. My shadow. My blade. The best thing I ever made. And you’re wasting it out here—alone, bleeding, pretending you don’t need anyone. Pretending you don’t need me.”
You feel something crack inside your chest—small, sharp, painful.
“I don’t need you,” you whisper.
Relic steps closer still. Close enough that you can smell the faint smoke on his coat, the same cheap tobacco he always smoked.
“You do,” he says quietly. “You need purpose. You need direction. You need someone who sees you for what you are and doesn’t flinch. Someone who won’t die on you. Someone who won’t leave.”
He lifts one hand—slow—palm up. The same way he did when you were ten.
“Come back,” he says. “Let me give you that again. Let me give you a reason to keep breathing. You’re drowning out here, Y/N. I can see it. Everyone who gets close sees it. That girl—Riyo—she sees it. That blond idiot with the umbrella sees it. They all want pieces of you. I want all of you. The way it used to be.”
Your knife hand shakes again—harder this time.
“You used me,” you say. Voice raw. “You molded me. You made me kill for you. You made me believe I was nothing without you.”
Relic’s expression doesn’t change.
“I made you strong,” he corrects. “I made you untouchable. And when Katsuro died, you blamed the Ground. You blamed yourself. You never blamed me. Because deep down you know—I would’ve kept him safe if you’d asked. I would’ve kept you safe. I still will.”
The ring burns so hot it feels like it might sear through skin.
You finally activate Proof—deliberate, angry, desperate.
The shimmer starts.
You see him.
Heartbeat steady. No spike of deception. Pupils normal. Breath even.
He believes every word.
He’s telling the truth.
He really thinks he can fix you. Really thinks he owns you. Really thinks you’re still his.
And the worst part?
Part of you—the small, scared, ten-year-old part—wants to believe him too.
You lower the knife—just an inch.
Relic sees it.
His hand stays out.
“Come home,” he says. Soft. coaxing. “Let me take care of you again. Let me make it stop hurting.”
You stare at his open palm.
Feel tears burn behind your eyes—hot, furious, helpless.
You remember Katsuro’s hand—warm, steady, sliding the ring onto your finger with shaking fingers.
You remember Riyo’s small hand clutching yours when she was nine and scared.
You remember Relic’s hand—reaching for a starving kid in the shadows.
All of them offered something.
All of them took something.
You feel your throat close.
“I can’t,” you whisper.
Relic’s eyes darken—just a fraction.
“You will,” he says. Not a threat. A promise. “Because you’re tired. Because you’re bleeding. Because the Ground keeps taking and I’m the only one who never has.”
He takes one more step.
You don’t move.
The knife stays low.
The ring keeps burning.
And somewhere deep inside, the scared little girl who once took his hand wonders if maybe—just maybe—he’s right.
You don’t answer.
You just stand there—knife in hand, heart in pieces—while Relic waits.
Patient.
Certain.
Home.