Chapter Text

Author's Note

(I just got the random need to go back over everything and edit my old writing cause it sucked... letting y'all know, lol)

Hey there, JoJo fans! This is my first dive into fanfiction writing, so bear with me as I find my groove. I'm pouring my heart into this story, and I hope you'll join me on this bizarre adventure!

What you're getting into: This is an AU where you (Y/n) get mysteriously transported into the Golden Wind timeline. But there's a twist! Just note that there won't be the heartbreak of the original ending. Both our beloved gang members AND the villains get to stick around for the chaos. 

Story Details

Reader POV: Y/n is written as female, but feel free to imagine otherwise, this story is for everyone

Setting: You'll start in Germany before the main Golden Wind events unfold

Pacing: Expect 4-5 chapters of character development and world-building before you're thrust into the heart of Passione's madness

Content: Strong language throughout (because let's be honest, these are Italian gangsters)

Romance: Oh, it's coming. Multiple options, slow burn, all the tension you could want, but patience, dear reader

reading guide

Italics = Y/n's internal thoughts and observations. I'm still experimenting with formatting, so if something seems off, just roll with it!

One last thing, I know the "reader insert" genre gets mixed reactions, but I'm genuinely trying to craft something special here. Your feedback means everything as I grow as a writer.

Now, are you ready to awaken your Stand and dive into this golden experience?

Buckle up. This is going to be one hell of a ride.

Chapter Text

Y/n had always believed she was cursed.

Not in some mystical, supernatural way, just cursed with the absolute worst luck imaginable. And nowhere was this more evident than during her shifts at McDonald's, where she'd somehow become the unofficial Grimace Shake cleanup crew.

The job itself wasn't terrible. Free fries at the end of her shift, the occasional "accidental" apple pie that found its way into her bag, and decent enough coworkers. For a brief, shining moment, Y/n had actually thought her luck might be turning around.

Then the Grimace Shake happened.

At first, it seemed innocent enough, just another limited-time menu item that people ordered like normal human beings. But then the TikTokers discovered it, and Y/n's life became a purple-tinted nightmare.

Day after day, hour after hour, she found herself blending shake after shake, only to watch groups of teenagers pour them all over the parking lot for internet clout. And somehow— somehow —it was always during her shifts that they showed up.

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Y/n pressed her forehead against the cool window, watching another group of content creators gather in the parking lot like vultures. Her reflection stared back, tired eyes, hair escaping from her work cap, the expression of someone who'd seen too much purple beverage carnage.

"Oh, come on," she muttered, watching them crack open their phones and position the camera. "Not again."

Ten minutes later, after the usual performance of fake deaths and exaggerated screaming, the group finally dispersed, leaving behind a Jackson Pollock masterpiece of purple chaos across the asphalt.

"Hey, Y/n!" Tori's voice cut through her misery as her coworker appeared beside her, mop already in hand. "Let me guess—another 'tragic Grimace incident' in the parking lot?"

Y/n had mixed feelings about Tori. They'd only started talking after Y/n had accidentally destroyed the ice cream machine during a particularly stressful rush, and Tori had covered for her with management. Since then, they'd fallen into an easy friendship, if you could call someone who constantly flirted with you and used pet names just a friend.

"Look at this disaster," Y/n said, gesturing toward the window. "It's like a crime scene out there. A purple, sticky crime scene that I get to clean up."

Tori leaned against the window frame, grinning. "You know what I think? I think you're cursed. Like, specifically cursed when it comes to milkshake-related incidents."

"Don't even joke about that," Y/n groaned, grabbing her mop from the supply closet. "I swear they have some kind of radar for when I'm working. Did you see a single TikToker here before I clocked in today?"

Tori shook her head, still grinning.

"Exactly! It's like they can sense my presence." Y/n kicked at an imaginary puddle in frustration. "I have the worst fucking luck in the universe."

Outside, the purple carnage waited. Y/n pushed through the glass doors, immediately hit by the humid afternoon air and the sickly-sweet smell of spilled milkshake baking in the sun.

"Okay, this is actually disgusting," she said, surveying the damage. Purple liquid had somehow managed to splatter across nearly a quarter of the parking lot, with concentrated pools near the dumpster where the TikTokers had staged their 'deaths.'

"Hey, hey," Tori said, following her out with her own mop, "don't stress about it, babe. Your knight in shining armor is here to help."

There it was again, the casual flirtation that Y/n never quite knew how to respond to. Tori had a way of making everything sound like an invitation, her voice dropping just enough to make simple words feel loaded with meaning.

"You don't have to help," Y/n said, though she was already grateful for the company. "This mess is officially above and beyond the call of duty."

"What kind of friend would I be if I let you suffer alone?" Tori bumped Y/n's shoulder playfully, causing her to stumble slightly. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you don't have a complete breakdown over purple milkshake."

They worked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the rhythmic swish-swish of their mops creating an oddly meditative soundtrack. Y/n found herself relaxing despite the gross nature of the task, stealing glances at Tori as she worked.

Maybe her luck wasn't entirely terrible, she thought. After all, she could be cleaning this up alone.

Some forces in the universe, it seemed, were about to make Y/n's terrible luck look like a blessing in disguise.

Chapter Text

"I hate this fucking job."

Y/n's muttered complaint echoed across the empty parking lot as she surveyed her handiwork. What should have been a fifteen-minute cleanup had stretched into a full hour—thanks to Tori abandoning her after exactly five minutes to serve the nonexistent dinner rush.

Her back screamed in protest as she straightened, joints popping like bubble wrap. "God, I'm turning into an old woman at seventeen," she groaned, pressing her palms against her lower spine.

The setting sun painted the cleaned asphalt in shades of amber and rose gold, and despite her exhaustion, Y/n felt a small surge of satisfaction. The parking lot looked pristine; no trace of purple chaos remained.

She allowed herself a moment to breathe, scrolling through her phone as the city slowly came alive with evening lights. The urban landscape of her small German city twinkled to life, buildings illuminated against the darkening sky. Time to face the music, she thought, trudging back toward the glass doors.

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"Look who's back!" Tori's voice rang out the moment Y/n stepped inside, mop in hand. "Holy shit, you actually cleaned that entire disaster zone!"

Y/n barely had time to react before Tori launched herself into a bone-crushing hug, squeezing tight enough to make Y/n's spine pop again.

"Okay, okay—" Y/n wheezed, patting Tori's back. "Air. I need air. And don't you have customers to serve?"

"Nope!" Tori released her with a grin that was equal parts mischievous and proud. "Manager's letting us out early. Haven't had a single customer since five, and it's already six! Which means—" Her eyes lit up with an almost predatory gleam, "—we can finally go to your place and finish Golden Wind!"

Y/n's stomach dropped. She'd been dreading this conversation all day. "Actually, I can't tonight. I'm babysitting my brother's dog while he's out of town, and she's... let's just say she has trust issues." She bared her teeth playfully and made clawing motions with her hands.

Tori burst into laughter, about to respond when the community TV mounted near the dining area suddenly crackled to life with breaking news.

"Good evening, this is Channel 7 News reporting live from downtown. We're here with an extraordinary story about entrepreneur Bel Joe, one of Germany's wealthiest citizens, who has announced plans to preserve this remarkable urban forest."

The camera panned across what looked like an impossibly dense forest growing right in the heart of the city, towering trees surrounded by concrete and glass.

"Whoa," Y/n breathed, moving closer to the screen. "Tori, are you seeing this?"

"That's... weird," Tori said, following Y/n's gaze. "I've lived here my whole life and I've never seen those trees before. Have you?"

Y/n shook her head, transfixed. Something about the forest felt familiar in a way that made her skin crawl. The trees seemed to shimmer slightly, like heat waves rising from summer asphalt.

Click. The TV went black.

"Hey!" Y/n spun around to find Tori holding the remote, smirking.

"Come on, babe, nobody cares about boring local news." Tori tossed the remote aside and headed toward the back room. "Just remember—I'm coming over tomorrow whether you like it or not! We are finishing JoJo!"

The door slammed behind her, leaving Y/n staring at the blank TV screen. She shook her head, grabbed her things, and headed for the time clock.

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"What a fucking day," Y/n muttered, pushing through the front doors into the cool evening air. Her temples throbbed with the beginning of a headache as she made her way across the parking lot to her small red Honda.

At seventeen, she technically wasn't supposed to be driving alone after dark, but she'd worked her ass off for this car and license. If the cops wanted to chase her down, they were welcome to try.

She dug her keys from her pocket and pressed the unlock button.

Nothing.

"What?" She pressed it again. Then again. "No, no, no—come on!"

Panic crept up her throat as she frantically jabbed the button. "Don't tell me the battery's dead. Not today. Not today."

In a fit of rage, she kicked the door, immediately regretting it as pain shot through her toes.

"Fuck! God, I'm such an idiot!" She hopped on one foot, cursing her own stupidity. At least there was no dent in the door.

Okay, calm down, she told herself. Manual unlock. People did it for decades before key fobs.

She spotted the keyhole and carefully inserted her key, turning it slowly—

SNAP.

Y/n stared in absolute horror as half her key remained in her hand while the other half stayed lodged in the lock.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!" Her voice echoed across the empty lot as she grabbed her hair in both hands. "What is my fucking luck?! WHAT IS IT?!"

She had a full breakdown right there in the McDonald's parking lot—kicking at nothing, pulling her hair, screaming at the universe. After five minutes of pure rage, she finally deflated.

"It's fine," she said to no one. "It's totally fine. I'll just... walk home. No big deal."

Her phone was dead, she'd spent her lunch break in the bathroom reading fanfiction, and asking Tori for help felt like admitting defeat. Besides, she probably needed the exercise anyway.

"I swear I have the worst luck in the entire fucking universe," she muttered, shouldering her bag and starting down the busy street.

Y/n's apartment was right in the heart of the city, surrounded by the eclectic mix of old and new buildings that made up her small German hometown. It was a shoebox of a place that barely contained her and her four cats, but it was hers, the first thing that had truly belonged to her since her parents had kicked her out.

The walk would take at least an hour, through neighborhoods that got progressively sketchier as the sun disappeared completely.

"This is going to be one hell  of a long walk," she said, stepping into the flow of evening pedestrians.

But Y/n was too busy cursing her luck to notice that the universe was about to flip her world upside down in the most bizarre way possible.

Chapter Text

Time had become meaningless.

Y/n's feet moved mechanically across the pavement, each step echoing in the strange silence that had descended around her. Her headache pounded with the rhythm of her heartbeat, and when she finally looked up from the sidewalk, the world had changed.

"What the hell?" she whispered, spinning in a slow circle.

The bustling evening crowds had vanished. No more chattering pedestrians, no honking cars, no distant sounds of city life. Even the ever-present hum of traffic had disappeared, leaving behind an eerie quiet that made her skin crawl.

"It's like everyone just... evaporated," she muttered, her voice unnaturally loud in the stillness. "This is some horror movie bullshit."

But the real horror hit her when she tried to get her bearings. The familiar storefronts and street signs that should have guided her home were nowhere to be seen. Every direction looked the same, empty sidewalks stretching into shadows.

"No, no, no..." Panic clawed at her chest. "How could I be this stupid? I wasn't even paying attention!"

Her breathing became shallow and rapid, vision tunneling as the weight of being completely lost crashed down on her. She broke into a desperate sprint, sneakers slapping against concrete as her thoughts spiraled—

THUNK.

A small rock bounced off her skull, and somehow the sharp pain cut through her panic like a knife. Her breathing steadied, vision cleared, and she stumbled to a halt.

"What the—" She spun toward the source of the projectile and froze. "You've got to be kidding me."

Where a normal city block should have been, an impossibly dense forest loomed before her. Ancient trees stretched toward the sky, their canopy so thick it blocked out most of the moonlight. The forest seemed to pulse with its own dark energy, shadows shifting between the trunks in ways that defied the still air.

"A forest. In the middle of downtown. Because of course there is."

Y/n spotted a weathered sign half-buried in the undergrowth at the forest's edge. Squinting, she could make out the faded text: "PRIVATE PROPERTY - BEL JOE ENTERPRISES - NATURE PRESERVATION PROJECT."

The news story from earlier came rushing back—the eccentric millionaire, the urban forest, Tori turning off the TV before Y/n could learn more. At the time, it had seemed like just another rich person's bizarre hobby. Now, standing before the impossible grove, it felt like something far more sinister.

A cool breeze rustled through the trees, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and something else—something metallic and strange that made her stomach turn.

Y/n backed away from the forest edge, looking around for any landmark that might help her get home. Her eyes landed on a streetlight about twenty feet away, and a desperate plan formed in her mind.

"This is disgusting, but..." She spat into her palms, grimacing at the necessity. "I need to see where I am."

Y/n had always been proud of her fitness level, hours at the gym and years of playing sports had given her strength that most people her age lacked. She wrapped her arms around the metal pole and began to climb, using her legs to maintain grip as she pulled herself up hand over hand.

The cold metal bit into her palms, but she pushed through the discomfort until she reached a height that gave her a clear view over the treetops.

"Yes!" she shouted, spotting the familiar outline of her apartment complex on the far side of the forest. "There it is!"

From her elevated position, she could see that cutting straight through the woods would save her at least an hour of walking around the perimeter. The forest looked dense but manageable, just trees and shadows, nothing she couldn't handle.

"My luck's finally turning around," she said, sliding down the pole with practiced ease. "Straight shot through the trees, and I'm home free."

Standing at the forest's edge, Y/n felt a moment's hesitation. The darkness between the trees seemed almost solid, and that strange metallic scent was stronger now. But exhaustion weighed heavier than fear, and the promise of her warm apartment and soft bed called to her.

"Alright, creepy rich guy forest," she said, cracking her knuckles. "Let's see what you've got."

Chapter Text

The forest was eating her alive.

That was the only explanation Y/n could come up with as her feet stumbled over unseen roots, her vision blurring and refocusing like a broken camera. Her head felt stuffed with cotton, thoughts moving sluggishly through a mind that seemed to be shutting down piece by piece.

Something darted between the trees ahead, a flash of color that didn't belong in this dark, twisted place. Y/n's eyes tried to track it, but the figure moved with impossible grace, appearing and disappearing like a mirage.

"What... what was that?" she whispered, her voice cracking.

The figure paused behind a massive oak, and for a heartbeat, Y/n caught a glimpse of something that made her breath catch. Light. Not the sickly glow of the tree symbols, but something pure and radiant, like captured starlight.

She forced her legs to move, stumbling toward the tree with desperate hope. But when she rounded the trunk, there was nothing—just more shadows and the oppressive silence that seemed to mock her growing desperation.

"I'm losing it," she said to the empty air. "I'm actually losing my mind."

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Time meant nothing in this place. Y/n had been walking for what felt like hours, her McDonald's uniform clinging to her back with sweat, every muscle in her body screaming in protest. The forest seemed to be draining her strength like a vampire, leaving her weaker with each step.

"W-what's happening to me?" she gasped, leaning heavily against a tree trunk. "Why do I feel so..."

The word 'dying' stuck in her throat. She couldn't say it out loud, couldn't give voice to the terror that was slowly consuming her rational mind.

Above her, the canopy had grown so thick that only scattered fragments of moonlight broke through, creating a patchwork of silver and shadow on the forest floor. Every direction looked the same, an endless maze of twisted branches and undergrowth that seemed to shift when she wasn't looking.

"I-is this it?" The words tumbled out before she could stop them. "Am I really going to—"

"NO!" She slapped herself hard across the face, the sharp pain cutting through the fog in her mind. "Come on, Y/n! You're not dying in some psycho rich guy's forest!"

Her eyes fell on a towering pine tree nearby, its branches reaching toward what she hoped was the canopy. "If Bilbo could climb out of Mirkwood, so can I," she muttered, grabbing the lowest branch.

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Fifteen minutes later, Y/n hung from a branch thirty feet up, her arms trembling with exhaustion and her vision fading in and out like a dying lightbulb.

"Climbing trees is way harder than it looks in movies," she groaned, fighting against the weakness that seemed to be seeping into her very bones.

With the last of her strength, she hauled herself up to the final branch that could support her weight and pushed through the canopy into the blessed moonlight.

The transformation was immediate. Cool night air filled her lungs, the oppressive weight on her mind lifted, and her vision snapped back into crystal-clear focus. She gasped, drinking in the sight of the full moon like a drowning person breaking the surface of water.

"The trees," she breathed, understanding flooding through her. "They were poisoning me somehow."

But her relief turned to despair when she looked out over the forest. She'd barely made it a quarter of the way through. The dark canopy stretched endlessly ahead, and behind her lay an equally daunting journey back.

"Too late to turn back now," she said grimly, steeling herself for the descent.

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The fall from the tree left Y/n with a badly twisted ankle and a scream that echoed through the forest like a banshee's wail. She lay on the damp earth for precious minutes, gasping and fighting back tears of pain and frustration.

When she finally managed to stand, limping forward on her injured foot, she saw the figure again.

This time, she was ready for it.

The being moved like liquid light between the trees, its form somehow both substantial and ethereal. In the scattered moonlight, Y/n could make out details that stole her breath, crystalline armor that seemed to be carved from captured rainbows, each facet catching and reflecting light in impossible ways.

"Hey!" she called out, desperation making her bold. "Wait! I know you're there!"

The figure paused, and for a moment, Y/n thought she saw it turn toward her. Then it bolted, moving with inhuman speed through the underbrush.

"No, you don't!" Y/n gave chase, her injured ankle sending spikes of agony up her leg with every step. "You're not leaving me here to die!"

She could see it clearly now as it moved, definitely humanoid, but crafted from what looked like living crystal. Its armor bore the unmistakable design of ancient Nordic warriors: layered plates, intricate knotwork, and the distinctive silhouette of a shield-maiden's gear. A massive bow was slung across its back, and a crystalline sword hung at its hip, both weapons seeming to pulse with their own inner light.

The being made a sudden sharp left, and Y/n, pushing too hard on her injured ankle, lost her footing on the slick forest floor. She went down hard, pain exploding through her body as she rolled into a patch of thorny undergrowth.

"Damn it!" she sobbed, watching the figure disappear into the shadows. "Please don't leave me here!"

But the forest had already swallowed her mysterious guardian, leaving her alone with the crushing silence.

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Ten minutes of painful limping brought Y/n to a sight that seemed torn from a fairy tale.

A perfect circular clearing opened before her, ringed by ancient trees whose branches formed a natural cathedral ceiling overhead. The ground was carpeted with flowers that seemed to glow softly in the moonlight, blues and purples and silvers that pulsed gently like sleeping heartbeats.

And in the center of it all stood an ancient stone well.

"Of course there's a well," Y/n muttered, limping forward. "Because every creepy forest needs a creepy well."

The structure was clearly ancient, weathered limestone blocks held together by crumbling mortar and centuries of moss growth. The wooden covering had long since rotted away, leaving the opening exposed to the night sky.

Y/n's throat felt like sandpaper, and the thought of water—any water—made her mouth water with desperate need. "Please don't be one of those cursed wells," she whispered, approaching the stone rim. 

The moment her fingers touched the weathered stone, electricity shot through her body like lightning. Not painful, exactly, but shocking in its intensity, as if the well recognized her somehow.

"What the hell?" She jerked her hand back, staring at her fingertips. They were tingling with residual energy, and for a moment, she could swear she saw tiny sparks dancing between them.

Ignoring the warning signs screaming in her head, Y/n leaned over the well's edge and peered into its depths.

The darkness below was absolute, not just the absence of light, but a tangible void that seemed to swallow even the moonbeams that fell into it. There was no water, no bottom, just an endless black that made her stomach lurch with vertigo.

SNAP.

The sound of breaking twigs made Y/n spin around, her heart hammering against her ribs.

And there, standing in the full moonlight like something out of a Norse legend, was the crystal warrior.

Up close, the being was breathtaking. Every inch of its form was crafted from what looked like living gemstone, not cold and lifeless, but warm and pulsing with inner fire. The armor was clearly feminine in design, fitted for curves that matched Y/n's own build exactly. Intricate Celtic knotwork was etched into every plate, and the shield strapped to its arm bore runic symbols that seemed to shift and change when Y/n wasn't looking directly at them.

The warrior's face was hidden behind a crystalline mask carved in the likeness of a fierce Nordic goddess, but its eyes, golden and brilliant as captured sunlight, were visible through the eye slits.

"Um... hello?" Y/n managed, raising one shaking hand in greeting.

The warrior raised one gauntleted finger and pointed directly at Y/n, then at the well behind her.

"Care to elaborate on that?" Y/n asked, though her voice came out as barely a whisper.

The crystal being began walking forward, each step making the softest chiming sound, like wind bells made of starlight. Y/n grabbed a fallen branch, holding it out defensively.

"Stop right there! I don't know what you want, but—"

The warrior ignored her completely, approaching with slow, measured steps until it stood just an arm's length away. This close, Y/n could see the incredible detail in the armor, every scale, every rune, every carefully crafted joint that allowed for fluid movement.

Slowly, almost reverently, the being reached up and removed its mask.

Y/n's world tilted sideways.

The face beneath the mask was her own.

Not similar. Not close. Exactly, perfectly, impossibly identical. Every feature, every freckle, every tiny scar she'd earned over seventeen years of life, all reproduced in living crystal with such precision that it was like looking into the world's most beautiful mirror.

"That's... that's impossible," Y/n breathed, her legs suddenly feeling like water.

The crystal version of herself smiled, Y/n's own smile, but somehow more radiant, more confident, more complete than she had ever felt in her life. It extended one gleaming hand toward her, palm up in invitation.

"You want me to...?" Y/n stared at the offered hand, her mind reeling.

The crystal warrior nodded once, slowly, its golden eyes never leaving Y/n's face.

Every instinct screamed at her to run, but something deeper, something that felt like recognition—whispered that this being wasn't her enemy. It felt like... coming home. Like finding a part of herself she'd never known was missing.

Trembling, Y/n reached out and placed her hand in the warrior's crystalline palm.

The texture was indescribable, neither hot nor cold, but somehow both. Like touching liquid starlight, or the surface of a dream. The warrior's fingers closed around hers with gentle pressure that somehow conveyed both infinite strength and absolute protection.

Then the grip tightened.

"Wait—" Y/n tried to pull back, but the crystal fingers held her fast. The warrior's other arm swept around her back, pulling her against armor that chimed like cathedral bells.

The embrace was crushingly tight, stealing the breath from Y/n's lungs, but there was something achingly familiar about it. Like Tori's bone-crushing hugs, but deeper somehow. More fundamental. As if this being had been waiting to hold her for longer than time itself.

"What are you doing?" Y/n gasped as the warrior began walking toward the well, carrying her along. "No—no, don't you dare!"

The ancient stone rim grew closer with each step, the void beyond yawning like a hungry mouth.

"I'm too young to die!" Y/n screamed, thrashing against the crystal arms that held her. "NO please don't! I'm to young to DIE!!"

The warrior reached the edge of the well and stopped.

For one terrifying moment, Y/n was sure she was about to be thrown into that endless darkness. But instead, the crystal was looking down at her with those golden eyes, her own eyes. And then, instead of throwing her into the well, the warrior stepped backward.

Into the stone.

Through the stone.

Taking Y/n with her into a swirling vortex of light and sound and sensation that tore reality apart at the seams.

You yell out, thinking it's going to drop you in the well but it ends up doing something even worse...

Chapter Text

The fall began the moment reality shattered.

One second Y/n was standing at the edge of an ancient well, held in crystalline arms that felt like coming home. The next, she was plummeting through a void so complete it seemed to devour light itself. Her screams tore from her throat involuntarily, raw and primal, echoing back at her from impossible distances until the sound became a torturous symphony.

She tumbled end over end, her body a ragdoll in the grip of forces beyond comprehension. Up became down became sideways became meaningless. Her McDonald's uniform whipped around her like a straightjacket as she spun, the taste of french fries and terror rising in her throat.

Where was the crystal warrior? The being that had pulled her into this nightmare had vanished the moment they crossed the threshold, leaving behind only a lingering tingle of electricity that danced across her skin like phantom fingers.

"HELP ME!" The words erupted from her lungs, but they only created more agony as the sound waves crashed back into her eardrums like physical blows. "SOMEBODY HELP ME!"

Each scream triggered a feedback loop of pain, sound bouncing off invisible walls in the void, amplifying and distorting until even her thoughts seemed to echo. The ringing in her ears grew so intense she could taste copper, could feel her sanity beginning to fray at the edges.

I have to stop screaming, she thought desperately, but even her internal voice seemed to reverberate through her skull. But I can't—the pain—I can't control it—

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Time became elastic in the endless dark.

Y/n's eyes had sealed themselves shut against the void, but behind her lids she could see phosphorescent patterns, fractals and spirals that spoke of dimensions her human brain wasn't equipped to process. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird, its rhythm the only constant in a world gone mad.

The fall felt eternal. Minutes stretched into hours, hours into days, until Y/n began to wonder if she'd died in that forest and this was hell, an endless plummet through nothingness, accompanied by the symphony of her own terror.

Her stomach churned constantly, the sensation of free fall never letting up. Every few seconds her body would flip violently, sending her tumbling head over heels until she couldn't tell which way was up. The McDonald's shift meal she'd grabbed earlier clawed at her throat, demanding release, but somehow she kept it down.

Her heartbeat began to slow. Not from calm, but from exhaustion.

Thump...

The pause between beats grew longer.

Thump...

Longer still.

Thump...

Just as Y/n began to wonder if her heart would simply stop from the strain, light exploded across her vision.

Not the gentle dawn of sunrise, but a cosmic brilliance that burned through her closed eyelids like X-rays. Her eyes snapped open involuntarily, pupils contracting painfully as she beheld something that defied every law of physics she'd ever learned.

Nine stars hung in the void like impossible suns.

Each was massive beyond comprehension, not the distant pinpricks she was used to seeing from Earth, but celestial bodies the size of moons, close enough that she could make out the roiling of their surfaces, the solar flares that danced across their coronas like aurora.

Eight of them blazed in colors that had no names: deep crimson that spoke of ancient anger, electric blue that hummed with untold power, violet that whispered of mysteries beyond mortal understanding, and emerald green that pulsed with life-force so intense it made her teeth ache.

But it was the fifth star that captured her attention completely.

Golden beyond description, it burned with a light that seemed to reach directly into her soul. Unlike the others, which cast their radiance outward like beacons, this star drew light inward, as if it were the center around which all other illumination revolved.

And she was falling directly toward it.

The nine stars hung in perfect alignment, a celestial pathway stretching across the cosmos. The golden star sat precisely in the center, the fifth in the sequence, like the keystone of some divine architecture.

"Oh God," Y/n breathed, her voice tiny against the vastness surrounding her. "Oh God, oh God, oh God—"

The golden star grew larger with each passing second, its surface becoming visible in terrifying detail. She could see solar storms the size of continents, magnetic field lines that twisted space itself, prominences that erupted thousands of miles into the void. It was beautiful and terrible and absolutely, utterly lethal.

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Impact.

The moment Y/n touched the star's surface, reality became sensation without meaning. She was drowning in liquid gold, breathing fire, her very atoms coming apart and reforming in patterns that spelled out truths she couldn't comprehend.

At first, it felt like floating in warm honey, the stellar material flowing around her like a cosmic embrace. But then the heat hit.

Every nerve ending in her body lit up at once. Her skin began to bubble and char, peeling away in strips that immediately regenerated only to burn away again. She watched in detached horror as her arm transformed before her eyes, flesh dissolving to reveal muscle, muscle evaporating to expose bone, bone itself beginning to glow white-hot.

"MY SKIN!" she screamed, the sound somehow carrying through the star's substance. "IT'S MELTING!"

Blood boiled in her veins, turning to steam that escaped through her pores in crimson clouds. Parts of her McDonald's uniform disintegrated instantly, the polyester blend no match for temperatures that existed at the hearts of suns. But somehow, impossibly, she remained conscious, aware, experiencing every microsecond of her molecular disintegration.

And then, just as her consciousness began to fragment into component pieces, the gold gave way to blue.

Cool, blessed blue, like diving into arctic water after being trapped in a furnace. Y/n found herself tumbling through open sky, white clouds streaming past her like cotton candy. The sun, a normal, comprehensible sun, blazed overhead, and she felt tears of relief streaming from her eyes.

"Sky," she sobbed, her voice raw from screaming. "It's just sky."

But relief quickly gave way to fresh terror as she realized her situation hadn't improved; it had simply traded one form of death for another.

Below her, the world spread out like a painted map. But this wasn't the familiar landscape of her German hometown. The buildings that rushed up to meet her were painted in shades of gold and amber and honey, a Mediterranean palette that spoke of ancient stones and southern sun.

"Italy?" she whispered, though she had no idea why that word came to her.

The architecture was unlike anything she'd seen in person, red tile roofs, cream-colored walls, narrow streets that wound between buildings like ribbons. It looked like a postcard, almost too picturesque to be real.

And she was falling toward it at terminal velocity.

Her trajectory carried her toward a narrow alley between two buildings, the kind of cramped urban space that would turn her into paste the moment she hit the pavement. But there—

"A dumpster!" she screamed, hope and desperation warring in her voice.

It sat at the mouth of the alley, overflowing with black garbage bags that looked soft as pillows from her current height. It was a tiny target, the margin for error microscopic, but it was the only chance she had.

Y/n spread her arms and legs, trying to steer her descent like a skydiver, watching the altimeter in her head tick down with terrifying speed:

1000 feet—the buildings took on individual character, windows becoming visible

666 feet—she could see laundry hanging from balconies, potted plants on windowsills

135 feet—people on the street looked up, pointing and shouting in a language she didn't recognize

19 feet—the dumpster filled her vision, black bags glistening wetly in the afternoon sun

5 feet—

CRASH.

Chapter Text

Every inch of Y/n's body felt like it had been stung by a thousand angry wasps.

She groaned as consciousness clawed its way back, her vision swimming as she tried to focus on her surroundings. The smell hit her first, a nauseating cocktail of rotting fish, spoiled vegetables, and something that might have been decomposing meat. She was sitting on a garbage bag that squelched wetly beneath her weight.

"Fuck," she croaked, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I actually landed in the trash. But I guess... thanks for saving my life?"

She patted the bag beneath her with her right hand, then immediately felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. Did I just thank a pile of garbage? What the hell is wrong with me? The fall must have scrambled my brain.

A sharp lance of agony shot through her left arm, making her gasp. Slowly, dreading what she might see, Y/n turned her head to look.

"Oh God. Oh God. It was real."

Tears welled in her eyes as she stared at what remained of her left arm. Where smooth skin should have been, only bone remained, the pale white of her radius and ulna gleaming wetly in the dim alley light. Strips of pink muscle tissue clung to the bones like grotesque ribbons, and she could see the dark hollow where her bone marrow should be. Her stomach lurched violently.

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(yes this is a drawing I made of your arm, I just wanted to give you a better visual on how your arm looks...ignore the hand :/ )                 

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The pain should have been unbearable. By all rights, she should have been unconscious, possibly dead from shock. But somehow, impossibly, she could still move the limb. She watched in fascination and horror as her skeletal fingers flexed, the exposed tendons sliding over bone.

"That's... that's not possible," she whispered. "The tendons are gone. The muscles are mostly gone. I shouldn't be able to—"

That's when she saw it beginning to form.

Starting at her shoulder and flowing downward like liquid starlight, the same crystalline material from the forest warrior began to encase her ruined arm. Not healing it— replacing it. The crystal was translucent as fine glass, allowing her to see every detail of what it was constructing inside.

New tendons formed from threads of pure light, weaving themselves through crystal bone. Veins materialized as delicate ruby tubes, and Y/n watched in mesmerized horror as her own blood began to flow through them, the red liquid visible through the transparent walls.

The crystal skin that formed over it all was breathtaking, a swirling aurora of colors that shifted and danced with each movement. Pink faded to gold, gold to silver, silver to the palest blue. It was like wearing a piece of the northern lights.

"Beautiful," she breathed, flexing her new fingers. They moved perfectly, the crystal conducting nerve signals as if it were her original flesh. "But how—where did you go?"

She looked around frantically, searching for the crystal warrior, but the narrow alley held only shadows and the ever-present smell of decay.

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 Still sitting in garbage. Right.

Y/n hauled herself out of the dumpster with a disgusted shudder, pieces of unidentifiable refuse clinging to her McDonald's uniform. The gray t-shirt and black leggings she'd forgotten to change out of at work were now decorated with coffee grounds, burn marks and something that looked suspiciously like marinara sauce.

"Great," she muttered, brushing frantically at the stains. "I smell like a fish market threw up on me."

From her pocket, she retrieved a small bottle of perfume, a habit from her McDonald's days when she'd constantly reeked of grease and sweat. She sprayed it on her wrists, rubbed it on her neck, then walked through a cloud of the sweet scent.

The familiar ritual was comforting, a tiny piece of normalcy in a world gone insane.

"Cosa ci fa una bella signora come te nel mio vicolo? "

The voice was rough as sandpaper, speaking words that Y/n's brain scrambled to translate. Two years of high school Italian kicked in, parsing the meaning slowly: Pretty lady... my alley... what are you doing...

She turned, and her blood turned to ice.

The man standing behind her looked like something out of a nightmare. His eyes were bloodshot crimson, the pupils dilated to pinpricks. Greasy hair hung in strings around a face marked by needle tracks and sores. In his right hand, he held a pistol that looked ancient but functional. In his left, a plastic baggie filled with white powder.

"Vuoi comprare la droga? "

Drug... buy... he wants me to buy drugs, Y/n's mind translated frantically. Her throat felt like sandpaper as she tried to speak, her limited Italian clumsy on her tongue:

"Scusa, sono solo di passaggio. " [Sorry, I'm just passing through.]

The words came out as barely more than a croak, but the man's expression shifted from predatory hope to rage so quickly it was like watching a switch flip.

"Come osi! Fottuta troia! " [How dare you! Fucking whore!]

The gun swung up toward her chest. Time seemed to slow as Y/n watched his finger tighten on the trigger. She could see every detail, the scratches on the pistol's barrel, the yellow stains on his teeth, the way the afternoon light caught the oil slick of sweat on his forehead.

BANG.

Y/n threw herself sideways without conscious thought, her body moving with impossible speed. The bullet whined past her ear, close enough that she felt the heat of its passage. She hit the ground hard, rolling behind the dumpster as another shot punched a hole through the metal inches from her head.

"AIUTO! " [HELP!] she screamed, her voice echoing off the narrow alley walls. "Per favore, qualcuno, AIUTO!" [Please, someone, HELP!]

Footsteps approached slowly, deliberately. The man was savoring this.

"Vieni fuori, tesoro, " [Come out, sweetheart,] his voice oozed false sweetness. "Prometto che farà male solo per un secondo." [I promise it will only hurt for a second.]

Rage flooded through Y/n's system like molten metal. Not fear— rage. She'd survived falling through the heart of a star, had her arm melted to bone, crashed from impossible heights, and now some two-bit drug dealer thought he could end her story in a filthy alley?

"Like hell, " she snarled.

Y/n launched herself from behind the dumpster, her crystal arm leading the charge. She aimed for where his voice had been coming from, putting every ounce of her fury behind the blow.

Her fist connected with something that felt like wet cardboard.

When she opened her eyes, the drug dealer was gone. Not knocked out— gone. Where his head should have been, there was only a ragged stump of neck, blood fountaining in arterial spurts that painted the alley walls crimson. His body stood for one impossible moment before toppling backward, the gun clattering harmlessly across the pavement.

Above the corpse, the crystal warrior floated in perfect silence.

The being looked exactly as it had in the forest, but somehow more real in the urban setting. Its crystalline armor caught the light filtering between buildings, casting rainbow patterns across the blood-splattered walls. Those golden eyes—her own eyes—gazed down at the body with something that might have been satisfaction.

"You did that," Y/n whispered, looking between her crystal arm and the floating warrior. "You saved me."

The being's head turned toward her, and for a moment, Y/n thought she saw it nod. Then it was looking past her, its eyes widening in what looked like alarm.

That's when the pain hit.

Y/n looked down to see a spreading circle of crimson across her gray McDonald's shirt. The fabric around her lower abdomen was torn and dark with blood that pumped out in rhythm with her heartbeat.

"When did he—" Her legs gave out. The drug dealer had gotten off one last shot before her Stand decapitated him. She'd been so focused on the impossible violence that she hadn't felt the bullet tear through her intestines.

The world began to fade at the edges, colors bleeding away like watercolors in rain. She was falling backward, the blood loss finally catching up with her exhausted body.

But she never hit the pavement.

Strong arms caught her, cradling her against a chest that radiated warmth and the faint scent of expensive cologne. Through her dimming vision, Y/n saw a face that made her heart skip what might have been its final beat.

Chin-length black hair with straight bangs and an intricate braid along the crown. Pale skin marked by what looked like a small scar near his hairline. Dark eyes that held both compassion and steel. A white suit decorated with circular studs and zipper details, the chest open to reveal what might have been an intricate tattoo beneath.

It was a face she'd seen countless times in manga panels and anime screenshots, but never expected to see in three dimensions.

"B-Bruno Bucciarati?" she whispered, using the last of her strength to speak the name.

Chapter Text

The disrespect was palpable.

Bruno Bucciarati sat at the head of the restaurant table, watching his team barely acknowledge the blonde teenager he'd brought to join them. Giorno Giovanna sat with perfect posture despite the cold reception, his green eyes observing everything with an unsettling maturity for someone his age. The kid had potential, Bruno could sense it in the way he carried himself, in the quiet confidence that radiated from his slight frame.

But his team? They were acting like children.

"Listen, everyone!" Bruno's voice cut through the ambient chatter of the restaurant, drawing sharp looks from Narancia, Mista, and Abbacchio. "I went out of my way to bring him here. Show him some respect!"

The words carried the weight of command, honed by years of leadership in Passione's brutal hierarchy. Bruno's dark eyes swept over each of his subordinates, noting the way Abbacchio's jaw tightened with barely concealed resentment, how Mista shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and the way Narancia looked everywhere except at Giorno.

"Signore Bucciarati." A waiter appeared at his elbow with the practiced invisibility of someone accustomed to serving dangerous men.

Bruno suppressed a sigh. The timing couldn't be worse; he needed to establish Giorno's place in the team, not deal with whatever crisis had emerged now. But duty called, as it always did.

"What is it?" His tone was polite but clipped.

"You have a phone call, sir."

"Right. Thank you."

Bruno rose from his chair, the movement fluid despite the frustration building in his chest. Someone always needed his help, always required his intervention. It was the burden of leadership, one he bore willingly, but that sometimes felt like carrying the weight of Naples itself on his shoulders.

He pointed at his team with the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. "Now then, all of you properly introduce yourselves. Capito? "

His gaze lingered on each face, making sure his message was received. Then he turned to Giorno, and his expression softened almost imperceptibly. The boy reminded him of himself at that age, alone, determined, carrying secrets too heavy for young shoulders.

"I'll be right back, Giorno. You should get to know your fellow team members while I'm gone."

The waiter led him through the restaurant's warm lighting toward a quieter corner where a black telephone waited. Bruno could feel the weight of curious stares from other patrons, his distinctive white suit with its zipper details and studded accents made him impossible to ignore. In Naples, everyone knew better than to stare too long at men who dressed like he did.

"They're waiting for you," the waiter said softly, his voice carefully neutral.

"Grazie."

Bruno lifted the receiver, the cool plastic pressing against his ear as he composed himself for whatever crisis awaited. "Bucciarati here."

The voice on the other end delivered news that made his blood run cold. Polpo was dead. The massive Stand user who had tested Giorno, who had been a cornerstone of their operation for years, gone. And if Polpo was dead, that meant someone had discovered the secret of his Stand, had outmaneuvered one of Passione's most dangerous members.

"Understood," Bruno said, his voice carefully controlled even as his mind raced through the implications.

"Is something the matter?" the waiter asked, genuine concern in his voice.

Bruno forced his features into a calm mask, the same expression he'd perfected over years of hiding his true thoughts from enemies and allies alike. "No."

"Bucciarati! Bucciarati, do you have a moment?"

The familiar voice made him turn toward the window. Signora Menini stood outside, her weathered hands pressed against the glass, her usually kind eyes clouded with worry. Beside her stood another elderly woman Bruno didn't recognize, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks.

"Oh, Signora Menini, hello." Bruno replaced the phone and moved toward the window, his concern shifting from organizational crisis to personal tragedy. "What's on your mind?"

"If you have time, lend me an ear. And speaking outside would be best."

"Yes, of course, ma'am."

The afternoon air carried the scent of the nearby harbor, salt and fish and the faint underlying smell of urban decay that never quite left Naples. Bruno stepped out onto the narrow sidewalk, his polished shoes clicking against the worn stones that had seen centuries of footsteps.

Both women looked up at him with the desperate hope of people who had nowhere else to turn. In their eyes, Bruno saw the same trust that had been placed in him countless times, the faith that he would protect the innocent, that he would stand between the darkness and those who couldn't protect themselves.

"Bucciarati, this is one of my dearest friends in the world." Menini's voice trembled as she took her companion's hand, offering what comfort she could.

"Her troubled son has recently started beating her, and she's quite distraught. Aren't you?"

The second woman nodded through her tears, her whole body shaking with the effort of containing her grief. Bruno felt something twist in his chest, the same rage that had driven him to join Passione in the first place, the fury at seeing the innocent suffer while the corrupt prospered.

"I see. Well, no wonder you're upset."

Bruno crouched down until he was eye level with both women, bringing his imposing height down to their level. It was a gesture he'd learned long ago, how to make himself approachable despite the dangerous life he led, how to show respect to those who deserved it.

"I'll make it clear he crossed the line. What's your son's name?"

"Thank you so much! Deep down he's a good boy, but those damned drugs—they hurt him!"

The word hit Bruno like a physical blow. Drugs. That meant this woman's son was caught in the web that Passione helped maintain, the very system Bruno worked within while fighting against its most destructive elements. The irony tasted like ashes in his mouth.

"Bucciarati, I have lived in this neighborhood for the past fifty years. In all that time, I've never been filled with such worry. What would make him do such a thing? I don't think I've ever been this scared."

The woman's voice broke, and Bruno felt sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. These were his people, the citizens of Naples he'd sworn to protect, the innocents who looked to him as their shield against the darkness.

"Please, you'll keep all of us safe, won't you, Bucciarati? You're one of us, aren't you? I need to hear you say the words!"

The desperation in her voice cut through him like a blade. Bruno Bucciarati, who could face down the most dangerous Stand users without flinching, who had stared death in the face more times than he could count, felt his heart break for this grieving mother.

"Yes," he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his chest. "You can rest easy. I'm going to fix this."

"AIUTO! Per favore, qualcuno, AIUTO!"

The scream tore through the afternoon air like a siren, raw with terror and desperation. Bruno's head snapped up, his body already moving before his mind had fully processed the sound. A woman's voice, close, too close.

"Ma'am," he said to the elderly women, his tone urgent but gentle, "I will do everything in my power to help your son. Right now I must go and help the one who calls for aid. But don't fret—I will help."

Both women nodded, understanding written in their eyes. Menini waved him away with shaking hands. "Yes, please, Bucciarati! Don't let another one of our citizens fall into despair! Now go! Go!"

Bruno ran.

His expensive shoes pounded against the cobblestones as he followed the echo of that desperate cry. Years of combat had taught him to pinpoint sounds with deadly accuracy, and this one led him toward the narrow alleyway that connected the restaurant district to the older residential area.

He reached the mouth of the alley and stopped, his breath catching in his throat.

A young woman stood with her back to him, her body swaying dangerously. She wore what looked like a McDonald's uniform, gray shirt, black leggings, the kind of outfit that spoke of ordinary life, of working for minimum wage and going home to small apartments.

But there was nothing ordinary about the creature floating above a headless corpse at her feet.

Bruno's took in every detail of the being hovering in the air, crystalline armor that caught the light like a prism, weapons that seemed to be carved from living gemstone, and eyes that burned like captured sunlight. It was beautiful and terrible, a warrior goddess made manifest.

"Is that a..." he whispered, recognition dawning.

A Stand. A civilian with a Stand, and from the looks of the decapitated drug dealer on the ground, a incredibly powerful one. Bruno had seen enough violence to recognize precision when he saw it, this hadn't been a lucky blow or a crime of passion. This had been execution, swift and merciless.

The crystalline warrior dissolved into sparkles of light, flowing back into the woman's body like reverse rainfall. She wavered on her feet, and Bruno saw the dark stain spreading across her shirt, the way her legs began to buckle.

He moved without thinking, years of protecting others overriding every other consideration. His arms caught her just as she began to fall, cradling her against his chest with the careful strength of someone accustomed to handling fragile things in a violent world.

She was warm and surprisingly light, her body fitting against his as if it belonged there. Bruno found himself noticing details he shouldn't, the way her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks, the soft curve of her lips, the faint scent of perfume that somehow managed to overpower the smell of blood and death.

Her eyes fluttered open, focusing on his face with obvious effort. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper, but the words hit him like a thunderbolt.

"B-Bruno Bucciarati?"

His mouth fell open in shock. This stranger, this young woman with a Stand powerful enough to decapitate a man in a single blow, knew his name. Had spoken it with recognition, with something that might have been relief.

Before he could respond, her eyes closed and she went limp in his arms. Bruno stood frozen for a moment, processing what had just happened, then shifted her weight to examine her injury.

The gunshot wound was clean—through the soft tissue of her lower abdomen, missing major organs but bleeding steadily. Dangerous if left untreated, but not immediately fatal. His hand moved without conscious thought to brush a strand of hair from her face, marveling at how young she looked, how peaceful despite the violence that surrounded them.

"Sticky Fingers!"

His Stand materialized beside him, its blue and white form a familiar comfort. With precision, Sticky Fingers placed zippers around the edges of the wound, sealing it closed. It wasn't healing; that was beyond his Stand's capabilities, but it would stop the bleeding and stabilize her until proper medical attention could be arranged.

Bruno gathered her closer to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of her breathing against his ribs. Whatever her story was, wherever she had come from, she was under his protection now. In his arms, she felt like something precious, something worth protecting at any cost.

The headless corpse and the pool of blood told their own story, but Bruno found he cared less about the dead drug dealer than about the mysterious young woman who had somehow known his name, who had survived what should have been a fatal encounter through the power of her remarkable Stand.

As he carried her toward safety, one question burned in his mind above all others:

Who are you?

Chapter Text

The woman was surprisingly light in Bruno's arms, too light, he realized with growing concern. Blood loss could do that, could make a person's body feel hollow, fragile. He adjusted his grip, drawing her closer to his chest in a gesture that felt more protective than strictly necessary.

It was odd. In all his years of helping injured civilians, Bruno had never held anyone this intimately. Usually, it was a quick assessment, a rapid deployment of Sticky Fingers to stabilize wounds, then a swift handoff to medical professionals or allies. But something about this stranger made him reluctant to let go.

Her head rested against his shoulder, hair spilling over his white suit jacket like silk. Even unconscious, there was something about her that demanded his attention, that made him want to shield her from the world's cruelties.

"Bucciarati, is the girl okay?"

Signora Menini's voice startled him from his thoughts. He'd been so preoccupied that he hadn't realized he'd walked all the way back to the restaurant entrance. The elderly woman and her friend still stood where he'd left them, their concerned faces turned up toward him.

"Yes, she's quite alright," Bruno lied smoothly, his voice carrying the casual confidence of someone accustomed to managing difficult situations. "A man was trying to rob her and she passed out. I arrived just in time."

The deception came easily; far better to spare these innocent women the truth about gunshots and decapitated drug dealers. Some burdens were his alone to carry.

"Oh my, that poor girl. I hope she'll wake soon. Take care of her, Bucciarati!"

Bruno nodded, already moving toward the restaurant's entrance. The familiar weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders as he pushed through the doors, but this time it felt different, more personal.

The interior was unusually quiet. No sound of Fugo's lecturing, no complaints from Mista, no childish laughter from Narancia. Bruno's brow furrowed as he made his way through the dining room, the woman still cradled against his chest.

Had his team actually behaved themselves in his absence? The thought seemed almost too good to be true.

"Maybe he's afraid to drink it because he doesn't want to be one of us!"

Mista's distinctive voice carried from around the corner, dispelling Bruno's momentary optimism. Of course something was happening. His team couldn't manage five minutes without creating some kind of drama.

Bruno quickened his pace, rounding the corner to find his men clustered around their table like vultures. Giorno sat in the center of their attention, holding a cup of what looked like tea, though the liquid inside was an alarming shade of yellow.

"Now what's going on here?!" Bruno's voice cut through whatever scheme was unfolding, causing Narancia to jump and Mista to adopt an expression of exaggerated innocence.

"Nothing, everything's fine," Giorno replied calmly, raising the cup to his lips. "He just went to the trouble of making a special cup of tea for me."

Bruno's eyes narrowed. Something was definitely wrong. The tension in the air was palpable, and his team's barely contained anticipation suggested they were waiting for some kind of payoff.

Before Bruno could intervene, Giorno tilted his head back and drained the entire cup in a series of quick swallows. The liquid disappeared with mechanical efficiency, leaving not a single drop behind.

The reaction was immediate.

"That's nasty as hell!" Narancia shouted, his voice cracking with disbelief.

"What did you do?! Speak up!" Bruno demanded, his authority reasserting itself as he glared at each of his subordinates in turn.

"Holy shit! He guzzled down every ounce of it!" Narancia continued, his dark eyes wide with shock.

Mista burst into laughter, pointing at Giorno with undisguised admiration. "Puff! Ha ha HA! You're going to be fun to have around! Major props, bud!"

Even Abbacchio looked surprised, his usually stoic expression showing cracks of genuine bewilderment. Whatever they'd put in that tea, they'd clearly expected it to have a very different effect.

"There's no way you actually drank that stuff, right?! Go ahead and tell us how you did it," Fugo pressed, his analytical mind already working to solve the puzzle.

"If you tell me, it'll be our little secret! Spill!" Mista added, his grin widening.

Giorno set down the empty cup with a soft clink, a subtle smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Can't recall, but you all are keeping abilities under wraps as well, aren't you?"

The words hit like a revelation. Bruno watched recognition dawn on his team's faces as they realized what Giorno was implying, that he knew about their Stands, that he possessed abilities of his own.

"Can you transport matter?" Fugo asked urgently.

"Open your mouth! There has to be a hidden cavity!" Mista demanded.

"I still can't believe he drank it!" Narancia added, his voice filled with a mixture of disgust and admiration.

Bruno found himself genuinely impressed despite the circumstances. Whatever test his team had devised, Giorno had passed it with flying colors. There was something about the boy's calm confidence, his ability to turn their hazing into an opportunity to demonstrate his worth, that marked him as leadership material.

"You think before you act. A smart habit," Bruno observed, watching as Fugo and Narancia settled back into their chairs, their initial hostility replaced by grudging respect.

"Have you told Bucciarati?" Mista asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"Kind of," Giorno replied with that same enigmatic smile.

Bruno felt a moment of satisfaction. They weren't exactly a cohesive team yet, but progress was being made. In their line of work, trust had to be earned quickly, there was no time for gradual relationship building when death could strike at any moment.

"Bucciarati, what's with the girl?"

Abbacchio's question jerked Bruno back to the present. He'd become so absorbed in watching his team's dynamics that he'd momentarily forgotten about the unconscious woman in his arms. All eyes turned toward him, curiosity and speculation written across their faces.

"Whoa, what's that thing on her forearm? It almost looks like a huge gemstone engraved in her skin..." Fugo's sharp eyes had immediately spotted the crystalline formation that Bruno had somehow missed earlier.

Bruno looked down, and his breath caught in his throat. Fugo was right—what appeared to be living crystal had formed over the woman's left arm, creating a translucent casing that revealed the bone and tissue beneath. It was beautiful and unsettling in equal measure, like looking at an anatomical diagram rendered in precious stones.

How had he not noticed this before? The crystal seemed to pulse with its own inner light, and he could swear he saw blood flowing through delicate veins made of ruby.

"Not gonna lie, she's a hottie~" Mista commented with his characteristic lack of filter.

"Mista!" Bruno snapped, surprised by the intensity of his own reaction. The possessive edge in his voice caught even him off guard.

He forced himself to regain composure, adopting the tone he used for mission briefings. "Listen, everyone. I found this girl in an alleyway. She was shot, with a man's dead body in front of her—his head missing from his body."

The table fell silent. Even Mista's perpetual grin faded as the implications sank in.

"This girl has a Stand. I saw it with my own eyes." Bruno continued, his voice steady despite the memory of that crystalline warrior floating above its victim. "Now, I don't know if she's connected to the mafia, but we need to keep her here with us until she wakes up. I plan on—"

"Now what's the point of keeping this girl with us?" Abbacchio interrupted, his bitter tone cutting through Bruno's explanation. "I say you just drop her off at the hospital. Even if she's a Stand user, it's not our job to investigate that shit."

Bruno felt his jaw clench. Abbacchio's pessimism was useful in many situations, but his timing was terrible. "Listen, Abbacchio. She's staying with us until she wakes up. She may be a spy or an enemy working against the mafia, and we need to question her. Besides, it was her Stand that did this to her arm. Her abilities could be useful..."

"Don't tell me you're thinking about letting her join our team! She's just a—" Fugo began.

"Shh!" Bruno cut him off, unable to suppress a small smile. "It's a possibility."

"Woo! Not only one but two new members joining our team!" Narancia jumped from his seat, his childish enthusiasm infectious despite the serious circumstances.

"Well damn aren't we lucky, were gonna have a big booty Latina join ou-"

SMACK.

Fugo's hand connected with the back of Mista's head before he could finish the sentence, the sound echoing through the restaurant.

"Ow! Fugo, what the hell! I'm only stating the truth!" Mista protested, rubbing his head.

Fugo's response was swift and brutal, an elbow to Mista's gut that sent him toppling backward in his chair, crashing to the floor with a grunt of pain.

"You are such a pervert mista! And don't assume her race she may not be a Latina! You need to learn to respect women!"

"Fugo, she's literally unconscious. It's not like she can hear anything I'm saying," Mista grumbled as he struggled to right his chair.

"Mista's got a point there, Fugo!" Narancia chimed in, clearly enjoying the chaos.

"See, Fugo? Narancia gets it!" Mista added with a goofy grin.

"That's not THE POINT!!" Fugo exploded, his voice reaching a pitch that made nearby diners glance their way nervously.

Bruno watched the familiar dynamic play out, Abbacchio observing with detached amusement, Fugo's temper boiling over, Mista and Narancia feeding off each other's energy like overgrown children. It was chaotic, unprofessional, and somehow exactly what he'd come to expect from his makeshift family.

But Giorno remained apart from the chaos, his body turned in his chair to face Bruno—or rather, to face the woman in Bruno's arms. Those distinctive green eyes were fixed on her face with an intensity that made Bruno's protective instincts flare.

The boy's lips parted slightly, his usual composure cracking as recognition dawned in his features. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, cutting through the argument like a blade

"Bucciarati I know this girl..."

Chapter Text

The Mediterranean sun blazed mercilessly overhead as Y/n clawed her way back to consciousness, every nerve ending screaming in protest. The gentle rocking of the boat felt like violent earthquakes after everything her body had endured, the impossible fall through dimensions, the crystal formations that had saved and scarred her, the gunshot wound that still ached despite Bruno's miraculous healing.

This is real, she thought, panic and wonder warring in her chest. I'm actually here. In their world.

Seagulls shrieked overhead like harbingers, their cries piercing through the haze of her fragmented memories. Bright blue sky stretched endlessly above, dotted with clouds that looked too perfect, too animated to belong to her original reality.

"Don't get too comfortable, brat."

The voice hit her like a physical blow, deep and sardonic and achingly familiar. Her heart stopped, then began hammering against her ribs with enough force to crack bone. She knew that voice, had dreamed about it, fantasized about it, never believing she'd actually hear it directed at her.

"Abbacchio?!"

Her hands dropped from her eyes as she turned toward him, drinking in every impossible detail. He lounged on a beach chair like some fallen angel, his imposing figure a study in controlled menace. The serrated headpiece caught the sunlight, casting shadows across his angular features. His long, silvery hair seemed to move with a life of its own, each spike defying gravity with artistic precision.

But it was his eyes that stopped her breath, those heterochromatic orbs of violet and gold that seemed to see straight through her soul.

Every detail is perfect, she realized with growing hysteria. From his purple lipstick to the way he holds himself like he's perpetually annoyed with the world's existence.

"Are you done eye-fucking me, brat?" His voice carried that familiar edge of disdain, but there was something else underneath, curiosity, maybe even interest. "Tch... damn weird girl."

Heat flooded her cheeks. She hadn't realized how obvious her staring had been. This was Abbacchio; of course, he wouldn't let her get away with anything.

"Sorry for appreciating the view," she muttered under her breath, then immediately cursed herself for the words.

His expression darkened like storm clouds gathering. The magazine in his hands crumpled as his grip tightened, and she watched him pull down his headphones with deliberate slowness.

"What did you just say to me?"

The words were spoken quietly, but they carried the weight of a death threat. Y/n felt the blood drain from her face as Abbacchio rose from his chair with predatory grace, every movement calculated to intimidate.

Before she could react, his hand shot out and grabbed the front of her McDonald's uniform. God, she was still wearing that ridiculous thing, hauling her up until their faces were inches apart. His grip was iron, unforgiving, and she could smell his cologne mixed with cigarettes and something uniquely him.

"I asked you a question, brat." His breath was hot against her face, his eyes boring into hers with frightening intensity. "And I don't like repeating myself."

Y/n's gaze dropped to his bare chest, following the intricate lacing of his coat, the way the dark fabric contrasted with his pale skin. Her eyes traced every detail, the bell-bottomed pants, the golden "A" on his belt buckle, the casual way he wore clothes that would look ridiculous on anyone else but somehow made him look like a gothic fashion icon.

((Fuck, I'm back into my abbacchio faze.))

Focus, she told herself desperately. Don't let him see how much he affects you.

But when he gripped her chin and forced her to meet his eyes, she was lost. Those mismatched orbs held depths of pain and anger and something that might have been loneliness. Her heart did something complicated in her chest, and she felt herself falling into old patterns of admiration and desire.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you."

"Trust me," she said, her voice coming out breathier than intended, "I'm looking."

For a moment, his expression flickered through a range of emotions, surprise, confusion, irritation, and something that might have been intrigue. His grip on her chin tightened almost imperceptibly.

"You've got some nerve—"

"Now, now, what seems to be the problem here?"

Bruno Bucciarati's voice cut through the tension like a blade, smooth and authoritative. Y/n's attention snapped to the team leader as he emerged from the lower deck, and her breath caught all over again.

Jesus, they're all so much more intense in person.

Bruno was exactly as she remembered from the anime, but somehow more, more commanding, more beautiful, more dangerous. His white suit was immaculate despite the sea air, every zipper and stud catching the light. The open chest revealed intricate patterns that might have been tattoos or might have been part of his natural design, and his dark hair fell in that perfect bob that framed his face like a work of art.

But it was his eyes that made her stomach flutter, those impossibly blue orbs that seemed to see everything, understand everything, forgive everything.

Abbacchio released her with obvious reluctance, his fingers trailing along her jaw in a way that made her shiver. He returned to his chair with theatrical disdain, snatching up his magazine and cranking the volume on his headphones.

"Typical," he muttered. "Can't even handle a simple conversation without the capo coming to her rescue."

Bruno approached with quick, concerned steps, and Y/n found herself mesmerized by the way he moved, like a dancer, like a predator, like someone who commanded respect without effort.

"How are you feeling?" His hands hovered over her as if he wanted to check for injuries but was restraining himself. "Any pain from your wounds? How's your arm where the crystal formed? I need to know if you're experiencing any discomfort."

The genuine concern in his voice made her chest tight with emotion. This was Bruno, the man who'd saved her life, who'd taken her in despite not knowing anything about her, who'd looked at her with kindness even when she was covered in blood and babbling about impossible things.

"I'm... I'm okay," she managed, though her voice shook slightly. "Thank you for everything you did for me."

Something shifted in his expression, became softer, more personal. He took both her hands in his, and she was startled by how warm they were, how gentle despite the calluses that spoke of violence and hard living.

"I'm glad to hear it." He stood, pulling her up with him, and she was acutely aware of how close they were, how she barely came up to his shoulder. "I'm Bruno Bucciarati, though you seem to know that already."

A sudden wave rocked the boat, throwing her off balance. Bruno's reflexes were lightning-fast, his arms coming around her to steady her against his chest. For a moment that stretched like eternity, she was pressed against him, feeling the steady beat of his heart, breathing in his scent of expensive cologne and sea salt.

"Careful, cara mia," he murmured, his voice lower now, more intimate. His hands lingered on her waist longer than necessary before he stepped back. "The sea can be unpredictable."

So can you, she thought, studying his face for any hint of what he might be thinking.

"Let me introduce you to the others," he said, his professional mask sliding back into place. He gestured toward Abbacchio, who was studiously ignoring them. "You've met Leone, though perhaps not under the best circumstances."

"Hey, brat," Abbacchio said without looking up from his magazine, but she caught the slight smirk that played at the corners of his mouth.

"Leone, please," Bruno sighed. "Show some manners."

"These are my manners," Abbacchio replied dryly. "You should see me when I'm being rude."

Bruno led her toward the left side of the deck, but Y/n's attention was immediately caught by the figure sitting motionless nearby. Giorno Giovanna was staring at her with an intensity that made her skin crawl, those emerald eyes tracking her every movement like a predator studying its prey.

How long has he been watching me? she wondered with growing unease. And why does it feel like he's looking at me like I belong to him?

"Here we have Giorno and Fugo," Bruno announced.

Fugo was still napping peacefully, his strawberry-blonde hair falling across his face, but Giorno rose with fluid grace that reminded her uncomfortably of a snake. He was taller than her by several inches, and he used that height advantage to look down at her with something that might have been affection and might have been possession.

He took her free hand with old-world courtesy, bringing it to his lips in a gesture that would have been charming if not for the way his eyes never left hers.

"Ciao, bella," he said, his voice like silk over steel. "I'm Giorno Giovanna. And you... you're Y/n L/n."

It wasn't a question. The certainty in his voice made her blood run cold.

"How do you know my name?" The words came out sharper than she intended, edged with the panic she was trying to suppress.

"Do you not remember me, N/n?" His use of her nickname, the one only her closest friends back home had ever used, sent another wave of confusion through her.

What the hell? How does he know that?

Bruno watched their interaction with polite interest, seemingly unaware of Y/n's internal panic.

"I'm sorry, Giorno, but I don't remember. Could you help refresh my memory?"

A shadow of disappointment crossed his angelic features, but he smiled nonetheless—a expression that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Of course. Do you remember when we were children? Those boys who used to torment me every day after school?" His voice took on a wistful quality, as if he were recounting a cherished memory. "They would beat me, throw stones, leave me bruised and bleeding on the sidewalk while everyone else just walked by..."

He paused, his green eyes growing distant. "Until one day, you appeared like an avenging angel. I'll admit, when I first saw you fighting those bullies—leaving them bloody and beaten—I thought you might hurt me too. But when you turned to look at me, I could see the kindness in your eyes. You were different."

His voice softened, becoming almost tender. "You were so gentle with me afterward. You believed in me when no one else did, helped me with everything. Wherever you went, I followed, and wherever I went, you were always there... Don't you remember us spending every day together? Playing in the park, sharing gelato, talking about our dreams?"

Y/n's mind raced. This story... it sounded familiar, like something from a dream she'd had long ago. A dream about meeting young Giorno, protecting him, spending time with him...

That was just a dream I had back in my world, she realized with growing unease. But here, in this reality, it actually happened? My presence here is changing things, creating memories that never existed...

"It broke my heart when you moved away," Giorno continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "But here you are, standing in front of me again. Do you remember our promise?"

The hope in his eyes was almost painful to witness. Y/n made a quick decision, if her being here had somehow created this shared history, she might as well embrace it.

"Yes," she said softly, watching as his entire face lit up with joy. "I remember everything. I'm sorry I had to leave you..."

The lie felt like poison on her tongue, but Giorno's reaction was immediate and overwhelming. He swept her into his arms with a desperation that spoke of years of longing, his embrace so tight she could barely breathe.

"I knew you would," he whispered against her hair, his hands roaming her back. "I knew you couldn't forget our bond."

But then his head dipped lower, his lips finding the curve of her neck, and Y/n froze. His kisses were soft, reverent, but possessive in a way that made her pulse spike with equal parts arousal and alarm.

What is he doing? she wondered, her cheeks burning as she felt his lips press gentle kisses along the column of her throat. His hands began to wander, one moving to rest on her stomach, rubbing in small, possessive circles.

"Now, Giorno," Bruno's voice cut through the moment like a blade, his tone carrying a subtle warning. "Let's keep our hands to ourselves, shall we?"

Y/n felt Bruno's firm grip on her hand as he pulled her away from Giorno's embrace, positioning himself slightly between them. Giorno's expression shifted from contentment to obvious disappointment.

"Sorry, Bruno," Giorno said, though his tone suggested he wasn't particularly sorry at all. "I just missed her so much. It's been years since I've seen her."

He stretched his arms toward Y/n with an almost childlike gesture, making grabbing motions as if he could will her back into his arms. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, Y/n had to bite back a laugh at the sight.

"She needs to meet the rest of the team," Bruno said firmly, his protective stance unmistakable as he guided her toward the back of the boat.

As they walked away, Y/n glanced back to see Giorno settling onto the beach chair next to the still-sleeping Fugo, his emerald eyes never leaving her figure. Even from a distance, she could feel the intensity of his gaze.

"Y/n L/n," Bruno mused as they walked. "Such a lovely name. I'm glad to know it now."

They approached the stern of the boat where two more familiar figures sat. Guido Mista was absorbed in reading a magazine, his distinctive arrow-shaped headgear casting shadows across his face. Beside him, Narancia Ghirga had headphones plugged into a boom box, his whole body moving to the rhythm of whatever song was playing through the speakers.

But before they could reach the other team members, Bruno suddenly stopped and gently backed Y/n against the ship's railing. His hands came up on either side of her, effectively trapping her in place as his expression grew serious.

"Y/n L/n," he said, his voice dropping to a more interrogative tone. "I've never heard that name mentioned in our territory, yet Giorno clearly knows you well. From what I've observed, I'm assuming you recently moved back to the area. Correct?"

Y/n felt sweat begin to bead on her forehead under his intense scrutiny. This was Bruno in full capo mode—the calculating leader who couldn't afford to take chances with unknown variables.

He's right to be suspicious, she thought. I can't exactly tell him I fell out of the sky from another dimension. I need to stick with Giorno's story.

"That's... that's right," she managed to say.

"Perfect." His blue eyes never wavered from her face. "Now, when I found you in that alley, there's no mistaking what I saw—there was a Stand with you. It disappeared into your body before vanishing completely. I can only conclude it was your Stand. So tell me, Y/n—are you part of the mafia? And what exactly are your Stand's abilities?"

Y/n's heart hammered against her ribs. This was dangerous territory, but she had to navigate it carefully.

My Stand... that crystal Viking warrior I saw back home, the one that brought me here and saved me from that attacker. I have no idea what its powers are beyond creating crystal formations. And yes, I need to convince him I'm with the mafia, or this could go very badly.

Taking a deep breath, she met his gaze directly. "Yes, Bruno. I recently joined the mafia, and that was my Stand. But I only just manifested it—I honestly don't know what its full abilities are yet. I promise you, I'm not lying."

Bruno moved closer, close enough that she could see the flecks of lighter blue in his eyes. The intensity of his stare was both intimidating and oddly mesmerizing.

God, he looks incredible when he's being serious like this.

The intrusive thought almost made her smile, but Bruno's proximity drove it from her mind as he stepped even closer, forcing her to sit back on the railing. His hands moved to her knees, gently parting them so he could step between her legs, his chest nearly touching hers as he leaned down until his face was beside her cheek.

"Ah, I understand now," he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. "Like Giorno, you must have undergone Polpo's test to join the organization. His Stand Black Sabbath must have pierced you with the arrow, which granted you your ability. That would explain why you're unfamiliar with its powers—they'll reveal themselves with time and experience."

His thumb brushed across her cheek, wiping away the perspiration that had gathered there, and Y/n found herself holding her breath.

"Now, Y/n," Bruno continued, straightening slightly but not moving away, "I've been considering your situation. I assume you're not part of a team yet, and I'd like to extend an invitation for you to join mine. I've already discussed it with the others—they're all in agreement. Well, except for Abbacchio, naturally." His smile was warm and genuine. "What do you say?"

Y/n's heart soared. This was beyond her wildest dreams—being invited to join Bruno's team, to be part of their family.

"Yes!" she exclaimed without hesitation. "I would love to be part of your team, Bruno!"

In her excitement, she forgot about their compromising position and threw her arms around his neck, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as she pulled him into an enthusiastic embrace. For a moment, Bruno seemed startled by her exuberance, but then his arms came up to return the hug, holding her securely against him.

"Perfetto!" he laughed softly. "I know you'll be a wonderful addition to our family. Now, let me finish introducing you to the others."

As he began to pull back, a sudden turn of the boat threw Y/n off balance. She felt herself tipping backward over the railing, the wind whipping through her hair as gravity took hold. Her heart stopped as she realized she was about to plunge into the churning ocean waters below.

But Bruno's reflexes were lightning-fast. His hand shot out and caught hers, his grip iron-strong as he hauled her back onto the deck with surprising ease. Y/n collapsed against him, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might burst from her chest.

"I'm so sorry," Bruno said, his voice filled with genuine remorse as he held her steady. "I shouldn't have put you in such a precarious position."

Y/n couldn't look at him, couldn't do anything but focus on the solid deck beneath her feet and try to control the nausea that was making her stomach churn. Whether it was from the near-death experience or seasickness, she couldn't tell.

"It's okay," she managed to whisper. "Don't worry about it."

Bruno kept a protective hand on her arm as he led her to the back of the boat, where Mista looked up from his magazine with interest. His dark eyes gave her an appraising look before a characteristic smirk spread across his face. Narancia, meanwhile, was still completely absorbed in his music, oblivious to their approach.

They walked toward the stern where two more familiar figures waited. Guido Mista looked up from his magazine with interest, his dark eyes giving her an appraising look that was frankly appreciative. Beside him, Narancia Ghirga was absorbed in his music, his whole body moving to whatever rhythm was pounding through his headphones.

"Mista! Narancia!" Bruno called out. "Come meet our newest team member."

Mista set aside his magazine and rose with fluid grace, his unique outfit even more striking in person. The arrow-shaped headgear cast interesting shadows across his features, and those tiger-striped pants were somehow both ridiculous and incredibly attractive.

"Well, well," he said, his voice carrying that distinctive flirtatious undertone. "What have we here? Ciao, bella, I'm Guido Mista." His dark eyes sparkled with mischief. "And you are absolutely gorgeous."

Heat flooded Y/n's cheeks at the blatant compliment, but before she could respond, Narancia had finally noticed their approach and was bouncing over with characteristic enthusiasm.

"A new team member?! Really?!" He practically vibrated with excitement, his purple eyes bright with curiosity. "I'm Narancia! What's your name? How old are you? Do you like music? Oh! Do you want to sit with us?"

His childlike enthusiasm was infectious, and Y/n found herself smiling despite the intensity of the last few minutes.

"I'm Y/n," she said. "And yes, I'd love to sit with you both."

Bruno patted her shoulder affectionately. "I'll leave you to get acquainted," he said. "But remember—we'll be reaching our destination soon, so stay alert."

As he walked away, Y/n settled between Mista and Narancia on the wooden bench, immediately aware of the way both young men adjusted their positions to accommodate her.

"So, Y/n," Mista said, his voice dropping to a more intimate register as he leaned closer. "Tell me about yourself. What brings a beautiful girl like you into our dangerous world?"

"Dangerous circumstances," she replied, which was certainly true enough.

"Ah, a woman of mystery." His grin was positively wicked. "I like that in a woman."

"Hey, hey!" Narancia interrupted, not wanting to be left out. "Do you want to listen to music with me? I've got this great song—"

"Wanna listen to some music with me?" Narancia asked eagerly, but before she could even respond, he'd unplugged his headphones, letting the song blast from the boom box speakers.

Y/n's eyes widened as she recognized the familiar tune. "Canzoni Preferite" filled the air, and she couldn't suppress her grin.

The torture dance song! I spent so many hours practicing that choreography in my bedroom back home. If that scene actually happens, maybe I'll get to dance with them...

"Narancia, I love this song!" she said with genuine enthusiasm.

"Really?!" Narancia's face lit up like Christmas morning. "I love it too! We've been talking for five minutes and we already have so much in common!"

His excitement was absolutely infectious, and Y/n found herself charmed by his childlike enthusiasm. She studied his youthful features—the messy dark hair, the purple eyes that sparkled with mischief, the slim tank top and pants contrasted by his lighter accessories: the bandana, wrist bands, and that distinctive short orange and yellow skirt.

He's so adorable, she thought warmly. But so young, they all are. And they're all going to go through so much pain...

The thought made her chest tight with an emotion she couldn't name. These weren't just characters from an anime anymore, they were real people with real feelings, real dreams, real fears. And if she was here, if she had somehow become part of their story, then maybe she could change things. Maybe she could save them.

"You okay?" Mista's voice broke through her reverie. "You looked like you went somewhere sad for a minute there."

"Just thinking," she said, forcing a smile. "About how much everything is going to change."

"Change can be good," he said, his dark eyes serious for once. "Especially if it brings beautiful women into our lives."

His hand covered hers where it rested on the bench, warm and slightly callused from handling his gun. The contact sent a little thrill through her, made more intense by the way his thumb rubbed across her knuckles.

"Mista's right," Narancia chimed in, apparently oblivious to the tension building between the other two. "Change is good! Like getting a new team member! Hey, could you get us some drinks from the cooler? I'm really thirsty!"

"Of course," Y/n said, grateful for the distraction.

She moved to the ice chest beside Narancia's position, bending to open the lid. Behind her, she was acutely aware of the sudden silence, of the weight of two sets of eyes on her figure. The attention made her skin tingle with awareness.

"What would you like?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. "Cola or Sprite?"

"Cola!" Mista called out, his voice slightly strained. "No wait—Sprite! I want to see the bubbles!"

She could hear both boys trying to suppress their snickers, and she couldn't help but smile. Even in this impossible situation, surrounded by dangerous mafioso in a world that shouldn't exist, there was something endearing about their juvenile behavior.

"Narancia?" she asked.

"Cola! Definitely cola!"

Y/n grabbed the coldest cans she could find and closed the cooler, turning back to find both boys studiously avoiding her gaze—Mista was suddenly very interested in the ocean view, while Narancia had buried his face in his hands.

This definitely never happened in the anime, she mused with amusement.

She settled back between them, handing Mista his Sprite and watching as his cheeks showed the faintest hint of pink.

"Grazie, Y/n," he said with a slightly sheepish grin.

As she placed Narancia's cola beside him, she noticed Mista lean across her toward the boom box. He caught her eye and winked before deliberately pouring some of his Sprite onto the side of the electronic device while Narancia was still distracted.

"Here's your cola, Narancia," Y/n said, trying to keep her expression neutral even though she knew exactly what was coming next.

"Grazie, Y/n!" Narancia beamed, his face still flushed as he popped open the can and took a long drink. "I love cola so much!"

He had barely finished speaking when the boom box began to glitch, the music slowing to a distorted crawl before cutting out entirely.

"What the hell?!" Narancia exclaimed, frantically pressing buttons and adjusting knobs. "Why did it stop playing?! This doesn't make any sense! I just bought this thing! That son of a bitch sold me a piece of junk! That cheap old bastard isn't getting away with this!"

Y/n bit back a laugh as Narancia continued his tirade, while Mista sat back with obvious satisfaction.

"Such a shame," Mista said with mock sympathy. "And it was such a nice song, too."

Before Narancia could respond, Mista was calling out to Bruno. "Hey, Bucciarati! I think we've had enough surprises for one day. Where exactly is this boat taking us?"

"We're far enough out now," Bruno replied, his voice carrying clearly over the sound of the waves. "It's safe to tell you."

Mista jumped up and headed toward the front of the boat, while Narancia grabbed Y/n's hand and pulled her up to the upper deck level where they could see better. His grip was warm and slightly sweaty with excitement, and she found herself charmed by his enthusiasm.

From their elevated position, she could see the others gathering, Fugo finally waking from his nap, Abbacchio and Giorno rising from their positions, all attention focused on their leader.

"Our destination," Bruno announced, "is Capri."

"What's waiting for us there?" Abbacchio asked, his voice sharp with suspicion.

"I assume we're not going sightseeing," Fugo added dryly.

"No," Bruno said simply.

Mista sighed and put his hands on his hips. "So what's the point of all this? Just lay it on us, Bruno."

Bruno's expression grew grave. "This morning, Capo Polpo... killed himself."

The announcement hit the group like a physical blow. Y/n had to suppress a laugh as she glanced at Giorno, noting his carefully controlled expression. Of course, she knew the real truth, that Giorno had orchestrated the capo's death using his Stand ability.

"He did what?!" Narancia exclaimed.

"No way!" Mista added.

"That's impossible!" Fugo protested.

"Why would he—" Abbacchio started to say.

Bruno held up a hand to silence them. "The why doesn't matter. Polpo was an influential capo who courted danger every day of his life."

His gaze lingered on Giorno for a moment, and Y/n noticed that she and Giorno were the only ones who didn't seem shocked by the news.

"Hold on," Fugo said, his analytical mind already working. "What's the connection between his death and our trip to Capri?"

Here comes the big reveal, Y/n thought.

"Polpo had been accumulating a vast personal fortune over the years," Bruno continued, building the suspense. "A treasure worth ten billion lire!"

The effect was immediate and dramatic. Every face registered shock, then quickly shifted to excitement and avarice. Narancia's grip on her hand became almost painful in his enthusiasm.

"Ten billion?!" Abbacchio exclaimed, his usual composure completely shattered.

"That treasure belongs to us now!" Bruno declared. "And with that kind of capital, we can claim the right to become capo ourselves!"

"YES!" Narancia shouted, nearly launching himself off the deck. "We're gonna be rich!"

Y/n smiled along with the others, but inside, dread was building. She knew what was coming next, the attack. The enemy Stand user would target Narancia first, and since she was sitting right next to him...

Shit, she thought, her heart rate accelerating. I forgot about this part. I'm about to get dragged into whatever pocket dimension that Stand creates.

"Where is it?" Narancia demanded eagerly, his grip on her hand growing even tighter in his excitement. "Where did you hide that kind of treasure on Capri, Bucciarati?"

"I can't say yet," Bruno replied seriously. "The famiglia has been spreading rumors for years. Until we secure the treasure, we must remain—"

Pain.

Sudden, vicious, overwhelming pain as something sharp pierced her thigh. The world tilted sideways as the air was sucked from her lungs, and she heard Narancia's strangled cry beside her as the same attack hit him.

His panicked grip on her hand became crushing, desperate, and she realized with growing horror that they were both being pulled into something impossible, something that shouldn't exist.

"Bruno!" she managed to gasp, her vision already starting to fade around the edges.

She saw his face transform with terror as he pointed at them, his mouth moving but no sound reaching her ears. The last thing she registered before consciousness fled was the feeling of falling, not down but inward, into a space that existed between spaces.

My Stand, she thought desperately as darkness claimed her. I need my Stand. I need to protect him. I need to—

Nothing.

Chapter Text

Y/n gasped violently as consciousness slammed back into her, her lungs burning as they desperately pulled in air. She sat up too quickly, immediately regretting it as the world spun sickeningly around her. Her eyes dropped to her thigh, and she had to suppress a wave of nausea at the sight of the small but gaping hole that pierced straight through her leg.

That bastard's Stand, she thought grimly, pressing a hand to the wound. The warm blood between her fingers was sickeningly real. At least we're out of that pocket dimension nightmare.

Before she could fully process their escape, rough fingers tangled in her hair, gripping tight enough to make her scalp burn as they shook her head from side to side with cruel force.

"Pathetic," Abbacchio's voice hissed from behind her, dripping with disdain. "You were on the team for less than an hour and you immediately went down like a sack of shit. I knew we should've never let you join—you're weak, brat."

White-hot irritation flared in Y/n's chest. She'd just survived being trapped in an enemy Stand's ability, had helped protect Narancia through whatever hell they'd endured together, and this was the thanks she got?

She slapped his hand away with more force than necessary, her palm stinging from the contact. "Get your fucking hands off me, you asshole."

Abbacchio's heterochromatic eyes flashed with something dangerous, surprise, maybe even a hint of respect at her defiance. His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smirk as he leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear.

"There's some fire in you after all," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "Maybe you're not completely useless."

Before she could process the shift in his tone, Y/n felt a gentle tug at her sleeve. She turned to see Narancia beside her, small tears tracking down his cheeks, his purple eyes wide with residual fear and something else, gratitude, maybe even adoration.

Even hurt and scared, he looks so young, she thought, her anger at Abbacchio immediately forgotten. How could anyone want to hurt him?

Without hesitation, she pulled him into her arms, feeling his hands clutch at her shirt as if she were his anchor to reality. His head hung down, and she could feel the tremors running through his small frame.

"Y/n," he whispered against her shoulder, his voice breaking slightly, "you stayed with me in there. When everything went dark, you didn't leave me."

The raw emotion in his voice made her chest tight. "Of course, I didn't leave you, Narancia. I'd never abandon you."

He pulled back slightly to look at her, his purple eyes shimmering with unshed tears and something deeper. "How does it look back there? Give it to me straight."

Y/n gently parted his dark hair, her breath catching when she saw the massive bump at the base of his skull. It was easily twice the size of her own injury, angry and swollen.

Jesus, that's huge, she realized with growing concern. Much bigger than I expected.

Fugo approached them with his characteristic analytical demeanor, though she could see the worry creasing his features as he examined Narancia's injury. When he reached out to touch it, Y/n caught his wrist.

"Don't," she said firmly, their eyes meeting. For a moment, she was struck by the intensity of his purple gaze, the way his pupils dilated slightly when she touched him. "It'll just hurt him more."

"Your right," Fugo said quietly, his voice softer than usual. His thumb brushed across her knuckles where she still held his wrist. "You're... very protective of him."

In his pain and frustration, Narancia turned and began savagely kicking Zucchero's headless body where it lay sprawled on the deck.

"Maledetto bastardo!" he screamed, each kick punctuating his words. "You gave me this fat knob on my head! So it's only right that I make you suffer!"

Y/n watched with a mixture of amusement as Narancia continued his assault. Zucchero's severed head lay nearby, his mouth zipped shut by Bruno's Stand, his eyes wide with terror as he watched his body being brutalized.

I should probably feel bad for him, Y/n mused, but honestly? After what he put us through, he deserves every bit of this.

"Getting attacked doesn't feel so good, does it?!" Y/n found herself saying as she moved to join Narancia's impromptu revenge session, her blood singing with adrenaline. "Well, too bad—here's some more!"

She cracked her knuckles with satisfaction, feeling a dark thrill as she brought her foot down hard on the bastard's ribs. The satisfying crack that followed made her grin.

Fugo joined in, his kick to Zucchero's gut calculated for maximum impact. "Did you really think you were better than us?!"

"You're a fucking asshole!" Narancia hissed, bringing his heel down on Zucchero's ankle with enough force to hear bone crack. "You're going to regret stabbing me!"

Even Abbacchio couldn't resist joining their group therapy session, his kick sending Zucchero's body flying several feet through the air before it crashed back down to the deck with a wet thud.

"Stronzo!" Abbacchio snarled, his usual composure cracking to reveal the violent man underneath.

As they finished their impromptu beating, Y/n found herself breathing heavily, her cheeks flushed with exertion and adrenaline. She looked up to find all three men watching her with varying degrees of interest and approval.

"Bene," Abbacchio said, his voice carrying a note of grudging respect. "Maybe you do have what it takes after all, brat."

Narancia was looking at her with open admiration, while Fugo's gaze was more complex, as if he was seeing her in an entirely new light.

"Oh, something fell from him," Giorno's calm voice interrupted their moment. He was examining an ID card with clinical interest, but Y/n noticed how his emerald eyes kept drifting to her flushed face. "Mario Zucchero. Says he's from Rome... what's a Roman thug doing out here?"

Mista approached Zucchero's severed head with the deliberate slowness of a predator, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by something cold and calculating. But when he glanced at Y/n, his expression softened into something appreciative.

"Enjoying yourself, principessa?" he asked with a wicked grin. "You looked like you were having fun."

The nickname made her cheeks flush even more, especially with the way he was looking at her—Damn flirt.

"Is that a piece of trash stuck to your face?" Mista continued, turning his attention to Zucchero with mock concern. "On second thought, maybe it's seaweed. Yeah, I'd much rather it be seaweed. But there's something about it that screams plastic to me."

Y/n decided she'd seen enough of the preliminary torture and wandered over to where Bruno stood with his binoculars. As she approached, she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched with stress.

"Bruno," she said softly, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Are you alright?"

He turned to look at her, and for a moment, his professional mask slipped. She could see the weight he carried, the impossible decisions that kept him awake at night.

"You fought well back there," he said quietly, his blue eyes intense as they searched her face. "But you were reckless, throwing yourself into danger to protect Narancia."

"He needed help," she replied simply.

Something shifted in Bruno's expression, became warmer, more personal. 

"You have a good heart, cara mia," he murmured, his voice lower than usual. "But in this world, a good heart can get you killed."

"Then I guess you'll have to protect me," she said without thinking, then immediately felt heat flood her cheeks at her boldness.

Bruno's pupils dilated slightly, and for a moment, Y/n thought he might lean closer. But then Giorno appeared at her other side, and she felt the temperature drop several degrees.

"Bucciarati," Giorno said quietly, but there was steel beneath his polite tone. "We should map out a route to the island."

Bruno's returned his attention to his binoculars, but Y/n could feel the lingering tension between the three of them like a physical thing.

"We're in the clear for now," Bruno said finally, "but I want to know who told that bastard about the secret fortune. The way he knew about our plans... he had to be working with someone."

He's absolutely right, Y/n thought. Zucchero's partner is already waiting at the harbor. But I can't just tell them that—I need to let events play out naturally.

The sound of muffled screaming drew her attention back to the ongoing interrogation. Mista had rigged up a fishing hook through Zucchero's eyelid, suspending the severed head from the sail's rigging.

"Time for some fun," she murmured to herself, hopping up to the upper deck where she could get a better view.

She settled beside Fugo at the boat's edge, watching as he gazed out at the endless blue expanse with something approaching serenity.

"Isn't the sea beautiful..." Fugo murmured, his purple eyes reflecting the dancing light on the waves.

Y/n found herself studying his profile instead of the ocean, the way the wind caught his distinctive strawberry-blonde hair, how the sunlight brought out flecks of gold in his eyes, the gentle curve of his lips when he wasn't scowling.

He looks so peaceful like this, she realized. It's easy to forget how dangerous he is.

"It is beautiful," she agreed softly, though she was still looking at him rather than the water.

Fugo turned to meet her gaze, and for a moment that stretched like eternity, they simply looked at each other. Y/n could see a faint blush creeping across his cheeks, barely noticeable but unmistakably there.

"You know," Fugo said quietly, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant, "when we were trapped in that Stand's ability... I was worried about you."

"Just worried?" she asked teasingly, leaning slightly closer.

His blush deepened, and she could see his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. "More than worried," he admitted, "For more you and Narancia."

Before either of them could say more, the familiar strains of "Canzoni Preferite" began blasting from Narancia's boom box. Y/n turned to watch as he began the opening moves of what she knew would become the legendary torture dance.

This is it, she thought with barely contained excitement. This is actually happening.

Mista joined in with his characteristic swagger, his movements precise despite the casual brutality of the situation. When Fugo rose to participate, he caught Y/n's hand and pulled her up with him.

"Dance with us," he said, smirking at her.

She hopped up and positioned herself beside Fugo, letting muscle memory and countless hours of practice guide her movements. Up, down, left, right—she twisted and turned in perfect synchronization with the others, crossing and uncrossing her legs, flicking her forearms in rhythm as she threw her arms out straight and tossed her head back.

The choreography was burned into her soul from hours of obsessive practice in her bedroom back in the real world. Cross arms over chest, head to the side, left foot forward, spine curved—every movement flowed naturally into the next until they reached the dramatic finale, all four of them frozen in identical poses.

Y/n was completely out of breath but grinning like a madwoman. I just did the torture dance. I actually just did the torture dance with them. This is the best day of my life.

"If you won't fess up about your partner's name and abilities," Mista said conversationally to the suspended head, "then I suppose we're done here."

The fishhook held Zucchero's eyelid open as the focused sunlight literally began burning his exposed eyeball, the smell of cooking flesh adding a grotesque punctuation to Mista's threat.

"You might want to start worrying about your good eye," Mista continued with cheerful malice. "You hear what I'm saying, you bobble-headed turd burglar?"

"How long are you idiots going to dick around up there?"

Abbacchio's sharp voice cut through their celebration, drawing everyone's attention to the lower deck where he stood beside the boat's communication equipment.

"Get down here and look at this—he was using the boat's radio!"

Bruno immediately moved to investigate, followed by the others. Y/n found herself standing beside Giorno as Abbacchio's Stand, Moody Blues, materialized in Zucchero's form and began replaying the enemy's actions.

"So Moody Blues found something interesting," Bruno observed. "Let's see what our friend was up to."

As they investigated the radio situation, Y/n found herself standing beside Giorno.

"Giorno! Y/n!" Abbacchio barked suddenly. "You two haven't earned my trust yet, so you don't get the privilege of looking. Turn around—you're lucky I'm even letting you hear this."

Y/n bit back her automatic response and turned away with obvious reluctance, Giorno doing the same with his characteristic grace. They walked to the stern of the boat, leaning against the railing as the replay continued behind them.

"So, cara mia," Giorno said quietly, his emerald eyes studying her profile with unsettling intensity, "when you left me all those years ago... where did you go?"

Y/n felt her stomach clench with anxiety. This was dangerous territory, one wrong answer could unravel everything.

Think, she told herself desperately. What would make sense? What would he believe?

"Germany," she said finally, which was at least partially true. "I went to Germany."

Giorno's eyebrows rose with interest as he moved closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "Germany... that's very far from here. Did you like it there? Were the people kind to you? Did you... did you meet anyone special?"

There was something possessive in the way he asked that last question, something that made Y/n's skin crawl even as it flattered her ego.

"No relationships," she said carefully. "Still single, as always." She turned to face him more directly, noting how close he'd gotten. "Why do you ask? Is there a reason you're so curious about my love life, Giorno?"

She leaned closer as she spoke, bringing their faces within inches of each other, and was rewarded by the sight of sweat beading on his forehead and a distinct blush coloring his cheeks.

"Is it so wrong that I missed my best friend?" he asked softly, his breath ghosting across her lips. "It's been so many years since I last saw you. I only want to catch up... you understand, don't you?"

His hand found her waist with practiced ease as he straightened to his full height, looking down at her with an expression that was equal parts tender and predatory. Y/n found herself caught between attraction and unease. Giorno was beautiful, there was no denying that, but there was something almost obsessive in his attention that made her nervous.

Before the moment could progress further, Mista's voice rang out across the deck, breaking the spell.

"He's a die-hard mafioso," Bruno was saying as Y/n and Giorno rejoined the group. "Getting him to talk is going to take time—time we don't have. Even if he did cooperate, we don't know if he's seen his partner's Stand. It's likely his ally kept that information secret."

The stress was evident in Bruno's voice, in the way sweat beaded on his forehead despite the sea breeze. Y/n could see the weight of leadership pressing down on him, the impossible decisions he had to make with incomplete information.

"Then where does that leave us?" Mista demanded, still holding Zucchero's head by the hair. "Let's just go to the harbor and take the bastard down! Imagine what'll happen if this guy figures out Zucchero isn't alone on this boat!"

"Mista's right," Fugo added, his analytical mind cutting straight to the heart of the problem. "We have to move fast. We only have an hour to get this boat to Marina Grande. If we don't, Zucchero's partner will know something went wrong. Once that happens, we can kiss that fortune goodbye—hell, we'll be lucky to make it back to Naples in one piece."

Y/n watched Bruno's face as the full weight of their situation settled on his shoulders. Every second they delayed was a second closer to disaster, and he knew it.

"It's your call, Bucciarati," Abbacchio said quietly. "What's our next move?"

For a moment, Y/n thought Bruno might crack under the pressure. But then Giorno stepped forward, moving to the boat's edge with characteristic confidence.

"Before this boat reaches the harbor," he said, pointing toward the distant island of Capri, "someone needs to get there first. Taking out Zucchero's partner before he knows we're coming is our best option."

Everyone stared at him like he'd lost his mind. Narancia was the first to voice what they were all thinking.

"Just what the hell are you talking about, newbie?! You must be out of your damn mind if you think one of us can get to that island faster than this boat! How would we even do that—swim?"

"Yes," Giorno replied simply.

The single word hit the group like a physical blow. Y/n had to bite back a grin as she watched their expressions cycle through disbelief, confusion, and dawning comprehension.

Giorno sat on the railing and lifted one foot to touch the life preserver hanging nearby. "I'll use my Stand to turn this life saver into a fish. It can pull someone through the water faster than this boat can sail. Since it's my Stand, I should be the one to go."

The life preserver transformed before their eyes, becoming a large, powerful fish that immediately began thrashing around the deck. Narancia gasped and jumped back as the creature flopped near his feet.

"Nothing is going to stand in the way of my dream," Giorno continued with quiet intensity. "I want that ten billion lire. We'll use it to make Bucciarati a capo, to work our way up through the famiglia until we can change everything from within."

"Giorno..." Bruno's voice carried a note of pride and something deeper—hope, perhaps, or recognition of a kindred spirit.

Abbacchio's laughter shattered the moment, harsh and mocking as he approached Giorno with predatory intent.

"Got a death wish, golden boy?" he sneered, jamming a finger into Giorno's chest. "You've dreamed up some clever plan, too bad you don't have a clue what this guy looks like or what his name is. The port of Capri is crawling with tourists—how exactly do you plan to find him in that crowd?"

"Actually," Mista interjected, pulling his gun from his boot, "I'm with Giorno on this one. So what if we don't know who this asshole is? If he's waiting for Zucchero to arrive on this boat, we've got a fighting chance. We take the initiative instead of waiting for him to make his move."

His Sex Pistols emerged from their holster, the tiny Stand entities chattering excitedly as they prepared for action. "So about that fish—how many people can it carry, Giorno? My Stand is specifically designed to kill from a distance."

"Two, maybe three people," Giorno replied, creating a second fish from his shoe. "I'll make another one to be safe."

Both creatures flopped helplessly on the deck, their transformation from inanimate objects to living beings somehow both miraculous and disturbing. Y/n stared at them for a moment, then made a decision that surprised even herself.

Time to test my Stand's limits, she thought, rolling up her sleeve to examine the crystal formation that had replaced her injured forearm. The gem-like structure was seamlessly integrated with her flesh, functional but alien. She'd been careful to keep it hidden from non-Stand users, knowing that seeing through the illusion to the bone beneath would cause panic.

I still don't understand how my Stand works, she admitted to herself. But if it could create this crystal cast and bring me to this world, maybe it can do more. Only one way to find out.

"I'm coming too," she announced, surprising everyone. "My Stand can create a small raft for the fish to pull. Instead of swimming and exhausting ourselves, we can ride while they do the work."

Without waiting for arguments or objections, Y/n climbed onto the railing and looked down at the churning Mediterranean waters below. She could hear Giorno calling her name behind her, but she was already committed to the leap.

Please work, she prayed desperately as she jumped. Please, please work.

Instead of hitting the cold water, Y/n landed with a solid thunk on something hard and smooth. She opened her eyes to find herself sitting in a small raft made of what appeared to be crystallized light—translucent but solid, shot through with veins of red, pink, and yellow that caught the sunlight like stained glass.

Holy shit, she thought with wonder. I didn't even feel my Stand manifest, but it created this in seconds. And I can see straight through the bottom—there's a school of fish swimming underneath us.

"Y/n! That was incredible!" Mista's voice came from above as he prepared to jump down to join her.

She looked up at the boat to see everyone staring down at her creation with varying degrees of amazement. Even Abbacchio looked grudgingly impressed, though he was trying to hide it behind his usual scowl.

Mista landed beside her with a heavy thud that nearly capsized their small vessel, his enthusiasm infectious as he settled in next to her.

"Is this your Stand's power?" he asked, running his hands along the crystal surface with obvious fascination. "Creating objects from gems? I mean, I'm not judging—this is incredible—but I didn't even see your Stand appear!"

"This is just one of my abilities," Y/n replied with more confidence than she felt. "You'll have to wait to see the rest."

I hope there is more, she thought. What I've got now is pretty cool, but in this world, you need every advantage you can get.

Giorno's landing was much more graceful, the small raft barely rocking as he settled into the remaining space. "Scusi," he said with a charming smile, "are you both ready for this ride?"

Vines emerged from his hands, already connected to both fish, and immediately the crystal raft lurched forward as their aquatic guides began pulling them toward Capri at incredible speed. Y/n turned to wave at the team they were leaving behind, catching Bruno and Narancia's return waves, Fugo's warm smile, and Abbacchio's characteristic glare.

"Well," Mista said, stretching out and making himself comfortable by laying his head in Y/n's lap, "this is going to be quite a ride. Might as well get comfortable."

He closed his eyes and laced his fingers behind his head, the picture of relaxation despite their dangerous mission.

"Fine, Mista," Y/n said with fond exasperation, "but just this once. Don't get too comfortable, or I might decide to push you overboard."

His dark eyes snapped open, giving her a look of mock offense before closing again. "I trust you enough to know you won't do that... right, principessa?"

"Mmm, you never know, signore," she replied with a teasing smile.

Looking ahead, she caught Giorno's sharp glare directed at where Mista was preparing to make himself comfortable in her lap. His emerald eyes flashed with something dark and jealous, but he said nothing, for now.

As Mista settled more fully against her, Y/n found herself studying his relaxed features. His distinctive hat cast shadows across his face, and she was struck by the almost overwhelming urge to lift it and see what lay beneath. The mystery of Mista's hair—or lack thereof—was one of the great debates among fans, and here she was with the perfect opportunity to solve it once and for all.

One day, she promised herself. One day I'll satisfy that curiosity.

She looked ahead to where Giorno sat at the front of their small vessel, noting how Mista's legs were pressed against his back in the cramped space. I probably should have made this thing bigger, she realized with amusement.

The island of Capri grew larger on the horizon, its ancient cliffs and hidden harbors promising both treasure and danger in equal measure. Y/n felt a thrill of anticipation mixed with very real fear, she knew what was waiting for them on that island, knew the enemy they would face and the battles that lay ahead.

But for now, in this moment, racing across the Mediterranean on a raft made of crystallized light with two of her favorite characters from the anime she'd loved so much, Y/n allowed herself to feel something she hadn't experienced since falling into this impossible world:

Pure, unadulterated joy.

Whatever happens next, she thought as the sea spray misted her face and the sun warmed her skin, at least I'm not facing it alone.

Chapter Text

The boat ride to Capri's Marina Grande had been surprisingly smooth, cutting their travel time in half compared to swimming. Now crouched behind jagged rocks near the dock, Giorno maintained careful surveillance through his binoculars, scanning the bustling boardwalk for suspicious movement among the throngs of tourists.

Y/n didn't bother with reconnaissance; they had arrived with over thirty minutes to spare before Zucchero's partner would grow suspicious. She tried to find a comfortable position, but the sharp rocks jabbing into her spine made her wince and shift restlessly.

Moving away from the rocky outcropping, she settled on a flatter stone beside Mista, her shoulders hunching forward unconsciously. Back in 2023, she'd always struggled with posture, perfect when she remembered to focus on it, abysmal the other ninety percent of the time.

What happened next completely shattered her understanding of physics.

Mista began extracting what appeared to be an entire restaurant from his boots. First emerged a pristine white tablecloth, which he smoothed over the rock surface with practiced precision. Then, impossibly, he pulled out a complete metal serving tray, followed by, and Y/n had to blink several times to confirm she wasn't hallucinating. A full wine bottle.

How is this even remotely possible? she wondered, staring in bewilderment. Maybe the tray could fold somehow, but that wine bottle? There's absolutely no way that fits in a boot! Unless...

She shook her head, deciding not to question the bizarre logistics of anime physics. Her stomach turned as she realized all this food had been stored inside Mista's sweaty, undoubtedly aromatic footwear.

"Oh God," she muttered, covering her nose with her sleeve. "Please tell me you didn't just pull an entire feast from your foot prison."

Mista had now arranged the complete spread, fresh bread, assorted crackers, and what appeared to be expensive salami, all displayed with surprising sophistication. Wine glass, fork, and knife completed the setup, transforming their rocky hideout into something resembling a five-star dining experience.

"Seriously, Mista?" Y/n asked, torn between amusement and horror. "Did you plan to have a romantic picnic in the middle of a mafia assassination?"

She turned toward Giorno, who continued muttering observations while scanning the harbor through his binoculars.

"We made good time getting here," he said, lowering the binoculars momentarily. "Your crystal raft saved us considerable effort, Y/n. Without it, this journey would have taken twice as long." He paused, checking his watch. "But we still only have about forty minutes before our target expects Zucchero. We need to move efficiently."

Y/n sighed internally. Even with extra time, Giorno pushed for maximum efficiency, preferring to complete objectives with time to spare rather than cutting things close.

"So, Giorno," she said, finger-combing her wind-tousled hair, "any luck spotting our mystery man in that tourist maze?"

Their eyes met briefly, her concerned gaze meeting his intense emerald stare, and she noticed his cheeks flush slightly before he quickly raised the binoculars again.

"No success yet," he admitted, his voice slightly strained. "Abbacchio was correct about the tourist situation; there are people everywhere. Half appear to be waiting for someone, though most are probably expecting arriving ferries." He lowered the binoculars with a frustrated expression. "Forty minutes to identify this individual. Do either of you have a strategy, or should we improvise?"

When Giorno turned back toward them, his expression shifted to incredulous disbelief. Y/n watched with fascination as Mista used his knife to slice the salami into perfect strips, completely absorbed in his impromptu meal preparation.

Giorno approached them, his shadow falling across their makeshift dining area, and Y/n suppressed a shiver at how intimidating he appeared silhouetted against the sun.

"What the hell are you doing, Mista?" Giorno's voice carried a sharp edge of irritation.

Mista glanced up casually, completely unbothered by Giorno's annoyance. He checked his watch before responding with characteristic nonchalance.

"Haven't you noticed it's way past lunchtime? I'd love to visit one of those waterfront restaurants, but everyone knows they serve overpriced tourist garbage." He gestured toward the crowd with his knife. "I don't know what our enemy looks like, but he's probably seen my face by now, and yours too, Giorno. Hell, anyone would be able to spot Y/n's pretty face in a crowd."

He winked at Y/n, who rolled her eyes good-naturedly while Giorno's jaw tightened with barely concealed jealousy.

"I'm not following your logic," Giorno said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We may have forty minutes, but if this individual is paranoid, we might only have thirty. Maybe twenty if he's particularly anxious. The moment that boat fails to arrive on schedule, he could realize something happened to Zucchero and vanish. We can't afford to waste time—"

"What part of 'lunch break' don't you understand?!" Mista interrupted with exaggerated exasperation. "It's lunchtime, so I'm eating lunch! Check any establishment in Italy—they'll tell you the same thing. Nobody works on an empty stomach." He paused dramatically. "Well, I'm obviously tougher than most people, but these little guys take the tradition very seriously."

Y/n watched in amazement as Mista opened his revolver's chamber, releasing his Stand. Six tiny, yellow humanoid creatures emerged, chattering excitedly about food and lunch schedules. They resembled a cross between mischievous imps and tiny demons, and despite their somewhat unsettling appearance, Y/n found them oddly endearing.

"I'm hungry!" "It's lunch time!" "Give us the food!" they chorused, reaching desperately for the salami slices as Mista held them just out of reach.

"Settle down, you'll all get your portions," Mista said with paternal fondness. "Premium Salami Toscana for everyone!"

Y/n couldn't suppress her laughter as the Sex Pistols devoured their meal with enthusiasm, shouting "Delicious!" and "This is incredible!" between bites. Even Giorno appeared fascinated, probably never having considered that some Stands required actual sustenance.

The peaceful meal was disrupted when Number 3 began bullying Number 5, stealing food and making the smaller Stand cry pitifully.

"Come on, Number 3! Cut it out!" Mista scolded firmly. "You're monopolizing all the meat and making Number 5 cry! There's plenty for everyone."

"Each one believes he works the hardest," Mista explained to his companions, "so they all think they deserve the largest portions. I make sure nobody gets left out."

As if to contradict his words, Number 3 immediately punched Number 5 in the face, sending the smaller Stand scrambling for safety. Number 5 leaped onto Y/n's hand and scurried up to her shoulder, using her hair as protective cover.

Y/n burst out laughing. Without thinking, she snagged a piece of salami from Mista's arrangement and offered it to Number 5, who accepted it with a grateful "Thank you so much!" before settling into her palm to eat contentedly.

"Who knew your Stand could be so social, Mista!" she said, gently stroking Number 5's tiny head and tickling his miniature stomach. Soon, all six Pistols had abandoned their original positions to crowd around her hands, each one competing for her attention.

"They're absolutely adorable!" Y/n cooed, completely absorbed in playing with the miniature Stands.

What she failed to notice was Mista's face turning an impressive shade of crimson as he watched his Stand, his very soul made manifest, gravitate toward her with obvious affection. Giorno crouched beside them, extending his own hand hopefully, but the Pistols remained firmly attached to Y/n's fingers.

"Interesting," Giorno observed, though his tone suggested he found the situation anything but pleasant. "Your Stand really seems to favor Y/n. How many do you have? It appears there are ten clinging to her hands."

"Hey, don't call them 'things'—that's disrespectful!" Mista protested. "They get seriously offended when people treat them like pets. There are six total, but you won't find a Number 4, which brings nothing but catastrophic bad luck. I have one for each bullet in my revolver."

As they prepared to move, Y/n still had all six Pistols clinging to her fingers, refusing to return to their user.

"I think they prefer me over you, Mista!" she teased, missing both Mista's deepening blush and Giorno's increasingly dark expression.

The implications weren't lost on either young man. Stands reflected their users' deepest desires and emotions. If the Sex Pistols were drawn to Y/n, it meant Mista's subconscious feelings were stronger than he'd admitted.

"Mista..." Giorno's voice carried a warning edge, jealousy radiating from him like heat.

Y/n finally detected the tension, chuckling nervously. "Okay, I know you're both getting impatient, but they're just so—"

"Alright, I hear you," Mista interrupted, though his voice remained rough with embarrassment. "But we need to focus. Y/n, could you retrieve that radio from the black bag by your crystal raft?"

Y/n looked toward the dock where their transportation sat abandoned, the fish had reverted to their original forms as a life preserver and Giorno's shoe, leaving only the crystalline raft bobbing in the water.

While Giorno retrieved the radio, Mista turned to Y/n, his cheeks still dusted pink.

"Guys, playtime's over—we have a mission," he told his Stand firmly.

The Pistols groaned and complained: "No! Y/n's comfortable!" "We want to nap!" "Five more minutes!"

Y/n smiled at their protests, then had an inspiration. "Hey, little guys, if you help us complete this mission successfully, I'll let you all nap in my hands afterward. Deal?"

The Pistols grumbled but eventually agreed, reluctantly returning to Mista's revolver. Mista gave Y/n a grateful nod before sprinting toward the guard shack, taking position in the shadows.

Y/n joined Giorno as he configured the radio, watching through binoculars as the guard emerged to announce: "Mr. Zucchero has an urgent message for someone!"

All the tourists looked toward the announcement, but nobody approached the structure. Y/n tried to recall this section of the episode, but she'd been making popcorn during this scene when she'd watched it with her friend back in 2023.

"Damn, nobody's responding," Y/n muttered, biting her nails, a nervous habit she'd developed over the years.

She felt anxious not knowing what to expect, one of the few times she was going in completely blind.

The radio suddenly crackled to life.

"Hey, Zucchero, did something happen? Why did you request an announcement? Is there a problem? Over."

Y/n and Giorno exchanged shocked glances, nobody had visibly entered the shack, but someone was clearly inside responding to their trap.

"There he is!" Y/n exclaimed, grabbing the binoculars. "He must have used a rear entrance! We need to warn Mista!"

She passed the binoculars to Giorno, who confirmed her observation with a curse.

"Damn it! You're absolutely right—there must be a back entrance he knew about. It's too dark to make out his features, and Mista hasn't noticed yet!"

Both of them waved frantically at Mista, but he misinterpreted their gestures, thinking they meant someone was approaching the front. Instead of remaining hidden, he moved directly in front of the window where the enemy could see him.

"Mista, he's in the window! Stop! Look at the damn window!" Y/n screamed, but the distance was too great; their warnings couldn't reach him.

Watching helplessly as their plan crumbled, Giorno grabbed the radio.

"On your left! Mista, he's already inside on the radio!"

They watched Mista aim at the window and fire before disappearing into the structure. By the time Y/n and Giorno reached the building, both Mista and their target had vanished, leaving only blood stains leading toward a back exit.

"Blood trail... and tire tracks," Giorno observed grimly. "Mista and the enemy are already mobile, probably heading for higher ground. Even if we could follow on foot, we'd never catch up in time."

Y/n scanned the area frantically, then spotted something that made her heart leap, a pathway cutting through the buildings, leading directly up the mountainside.

"Giorno!" she called out, pointing toward the route. "There's a shortcut through those buildings—it leads straight to the summit! If I take that path and you find another route up, we can converge on them from different directions!"

Before Giorno could protest, she was already moving.

"Y/n, wait!" he called, but she was already pushing through the crowd of tourists.

"I can make it up there quickly—thank God for high school track and field!" she muttered to herself, feeling energized despite the dangerous situation.

The uphill sprint through crowded streets proved more challenging than anticipated. Tourists with dogs, families with strollers, people absorbed in phone conversations—she had to weave between them all while maintaining her pace.

"Excuse me! Scusi! Sorry!" she called out repeatedly, trying to avoid collisions while the Mediterranean sun beat down mercilessly. Sweat dripped down her back as each uphill step became increasingly difficult.

Breathing heavily, she approached a busy intersection with relatively few pedestrians, a welcome relief from the crowded streets below.

That's when she saw him.

A young man talking animatedly on his phone stepped into the crosswalk without looking, completely oblivious to the delivery truck barreling toward him at dangerous speed.

Shit! That truck's going to hit him! Y/n's mind raced. She was supposed to be helping Mista, who could be in mortal danger right now. But she couldn't just watch someone get killed, mission or no mission.

"HEY! MOVE! TRUCK!" she screamed, already sprinting toward the intersection.

The man barely had time to turn his head before Y/n tackled him clear of the crosswalk, both of them hitting the asphalt hard as the truck roared past, horn blaring angrily.

Breathing heavily, Y/n pulled the man to his feet and guided him to safety on the sidewalk, her hands shaking slightly from the adrenaline.

"Okay, first—what were you thinking?! You have to look both ways before crossing!" she panted, catching her breath. "And second—are you hurt?"

The man was still gripping her hand tightly, trembling from the near-death experience. As Y/n got her first proper look at him, her blood turned ice-cold.

He appeared to be in his early twenties, with distinctive freckles scattered across his youthful cheeks and unusual pink hair visible beneath a black baseball cap—some strands loose, others woven into small braids that emerged from the back. He wore a light-colored sweater with strange gash-like openings that exposed his midriff, loose jeans decorated with golden studs along the thighs and ankles. A black mesh shirt was visible beneath his sweater.

But what truly made Y/n's heart stop were his eyes—heterochromatic in a way that could only mean one thing. For just a moment, she glimpsed one brown eye, one green.

No way, she thought, her grip involuntarily tightening on his hand as realization hit her like a freight train. This is Doppio. Which means... this is also Diavolo. I just saved the main antagonist of Part 5.

The man—Doppio—blinked, and when he looked at her again, both eyes were their normal brown color. The shift was so subtle she almost missed it.

"Y-yes, I'm okay," he stammered, putting his phone away with shaking hands. His voice was soft, almost childlike in its innocence. "I guess I wasn't paying attention to traffic... Thank you so much for saving me, miss."

Y/n studied his face carefully, the genuine gratitude, the innocent confusion, the way he looked at her like she was some kind of angel. This was purely Doppio, not a trace of Diavolo's malevolence visible.

I should have let the truck hit him, she thought grimly. It would have saved so many lives down the line. But... Doppio himself isn't evil. He's just a victim caught in Diavolo's web.

"You're welcome, but seriously—you need to be more careful! If I hadn't been here..." she trailed off, not wanting to finish that thought. But his stand would've saved him anyway.

Doppio's face crumpled with guilt and embarrassment. "You're absolutely right. I'm always so clumsy and scattered..." He looked down at their still-joined hands, his cheeks flushing pink. "I really don't know how to thank you properly. You literally saved my life."

There was something so genuinely sweet about his flustered gratitude that Y/n felt her heart soften despite knowing who else lived in that body.

"It's really okay—anyone would have done the same thing," she said gently.

"No, no! Most people would have just kept walking!" Doppio insisted, his grip on her hand tightening. "Please, let me repay you somehow! There's this amazing gelato place nearby—could I treat you? Oh!" His eyes widened as he realized something. "I'm being so rude—my name is Doppio."

Y/n's heart sank. She genuinely wanted to spend time with this sweet, innocent version of the man who would cause so much devastation, but Mista was still in danger.

He must be here about the treasure situation after Bruno becomes capo, she reasoned. That would explain his presence on Capri.

"I'm really sorry, Doppio, but I'm kind of in a rush right now," she said reluctantly. "Maybe... if we ever meet again, I'd love to get gelato with you. I'm Y/n, by the way."

Doppio's face fell with such genuine disappointment that Y/n almost changed her mind. He looked like a kicked puppy.

"Y/n," he repeated softly, as if testing how her name sounded. "That's a beautiful name." He hesitated, fidgeting with his phone. "Before you go, Miss Y/n... this might be forward, but could I maybe get your phone number? I'd love to text you about that gelato rain check."

The hopeful, nervous expression was impossible to resist, even though Y/n knew her 2023 smartphone probably wouldn't be compatible with 2001 technology.

"Sure," she said, rattling off her number quickly. She watched as Doppio carefully entered it into his device, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration.

This sweet little guy actually got my number, she thought with reluctant affection. Too bad it probably won't work across two decades of technological advancement.

Finally releasing her hand, and seeming to realize he'd been holding it the entire conversation, Doppio rubbed the back of his neck with a bashful smile.

"Well, um, Miss Y/n, I really can't wait until we meet again! I'll definitely text you soon!" His entire face lit up with genuine joy. "Thank you again for saving me. Bye-bye!"

As Y/n resumed her uphill sprint, she glanced back to see Doppio already back on his phone, speaking in animated whispers. For just a split second, she caught a glimpse of one brown eye, one green, before she turned away with an involuntary shiver.

Fuck, I probably talked to him for ten minutes, she realized with growing panic. The fight could be over by now! But I'm so close to the summit—I have to try.

Rounding the final corner, she reached the mountain's peak, which offered a spectacular panoramic view of the entire island. That's when she spotted it—a truck careening up the mountainside like a madman was behind the wheel.

Made it just in time, she thought with relief.

Y/n sprinted down toward the road, cutting directly across the hillside to intercept the vehicle. Crashing through vegetation and bushes, she vaulted over a stone wall and landed directly in the path of the oncoming truck.

"Just my luck!" she yelled, closing her eyes and bracing for impact.

But the collision never came. Opening her eyes, she found the truck had stopped mere inches from her face, close enough that she could feel heat radiating from the engine. Looking up at the driver's seat, she was shocked to see a random civilian behind the wheel, and Giorno in the passenger seat.

"Giorno?"

Before she could process what was happening, Giorno had jumped out and pulled her into the truck, settling her securely on his lap as they continued their journey.

"What the hell is going on?! Where's Mista?!" she demanded, still disoriented from her near-death experience.

The truck driver answered before Giorno could respond, his voice gruff and irritated: "You talking about that crazy bastard with the gun? Yeah, he was fighting some psycho on my truck roof. Shot the guy right in the head... complete fucking maniac."

Both Y/n and Giorno's eyes twitched with annoyance at the casual description.

"Where is he now?" Y/n asked sharply.

"Christ! He's at the bottom of the mountain! Jesus!" the driver replied, rolling his eyes dramatically.

Y/n slumped back against Giorno, exhaustion finally hitting her like a wave. She'd sprinted up an entire mountain, had multiple near-death experiences, saved the future main villain, and now they had to travel all the way back down.

"Drive us back to the bottom," she sighed, too tired to argue anymore.

As the truck began its descent, Y/n became acutely aware that she was still sitting in Giorno's lap and tensed up, suddenly self-conscious. But Giorno's hands settled gently on her waist, steadying her against the truck's movements with surprising tenderness.

"That sprint looked incredibly intense—I can tell you're exhausted," he said softly, his voice closer to her ear than she'd expected. "You should rest for a moment. I'll wake you when we reach the bottom."

Y/n found herself relaxing into his embrace, feeling surprisingly safe and protected despite everything that had happened. Looking into Giorno's concerned emerald eyes, she managed a tired smile.

"I hope Mista's okay," she murmured, letting her eyes drift closed as the truck bounced down the mountain road.

Giorno's arms tightened around her protectively, and for a moment, all the chaos and danger seemed far away.

Chapter Text

The taste of salt and exhaustion clung to Y/n's tongue as consciousness slowly returned. Hard wooden planks pressed against her spine, and the gentle rocking motion that had lulled her to sleep was now just a memory. She tried to sink back into sleep's embrace, but—

"AHHHHHHHH, HEYYYYYY!" Mista's voice shattered the morning quiet like glass against stone.

Y/n jerked upright, immediately regretting it as her body protested with a symphony of aches. She'd somehow ended up on a weathered bench overlooking the Mediterranean, and now momentum was carrying her sideways off it onto unforgiving concrete. The impact sent a sharp sting through her scraped elbow.

"Merda," she hissed, examining the fresh wound before a shadow fell across her.

"Scusa, Y/n." Giorno crouched beside her, and for a moment she forgot about the pain entirely. Golden hair caught the early sunlight like spun silk, creating an almost ethereal halo around his features. Even exhausted and disoriented, there was something otherworldly about him in the morning light; like an angel who'd descended just to check on her wellbeing.

"I said I'd wake you when we reached shore," he continued, rubbing his neck sheepishly, "but you looked so peaceful. I thought the bench would be more comfortable than the truck bed."

The genuine concern in his green eyes made her irritation melt away completely. When he offered his hand, she accepted it without hesitation.

"Thanks for letting me sleep. I needed it more than I realized."

As he pulled her up, she stumbled slightly into his chest. His grip lingered a moment longer than necessary, and she caught that small, satisfied smile before stepping back. Heat crept up her neck at the contact.

Smooth, Giovanna. Real smooth.

"Basta with the flirting!" Bruno's voice cut through their moment like a blade. "We have business to attend to."

Y/n straightened, falling into step beside Giorno as they approached the public restroom where the others had gathered. The building was small and weathered, typical of coastal tourist stops—concrete walls stained by sea spray and decades of use. Fugo nodded acknowledgment from where he leaned against the wall, while Abbacchio's dark eyes tracked her movements with what might have been concern.

Since when does Abbacchio worry about anyone?

She bit back a smirk as Bruno cleared his throat, commanding attention with the natural authority that made him such an effective leader.

"Ascoltate," Bruno began, his voice carrying the weight of command. "Yesterday's success belongs to all of you. We survived the crossing, neutralized our pursuers, and recovered our prize." His gaze swept over them, lingering meaningfully on Y/n and Giorno. "For our newest members, completing your first mission alive is no small feat."

Y/n felt a flush of pride at the acknowledgment. In just a few days, she'd gone from falling through a well in 2023 to surviving her first real mission with Passione. The thought would have been absurd a week ago.

"Then let's go!" Narancia bounced excitedly, spreading his arms wide and closing his eyes as if embracing invisible riches. "There's no time like the present—our ten billion lire treasure awaits!"

Y/n couldn't help but giggle at the sight. Even facing mortal danger daily, Narancia maintained that childlike enthusiasm that made him impossible not to love.

"Enough suspense," Abbacchio interjected, his husky voice filled with uncharacteristic excitement. "Where did you hide it? A secret bank vault? Some cave on the island?"

Y/n stared in surprise. Even Abbacchio seemed genuinely excited about the money—though really, who wouldn't be? She found herself curious too, remembering how this scene had played out in the anime. When she'd been watching with Tori back in the real world, she'd missed this part, returning from making popcorn just as Trish was ordering Fugo around.

Wait... when does Trish even show up?

The thought struck her with sudden urgency. It had to be soon, within minutes, if she remembered correctly. But when exactly?

Bruno's voice snapped her from her thoughts. He sighed, checking his watch with deliberate precision. "I need you all to wait a little longer."

Y/n scoffed, crossing her arms in annoyance while the others gasped quietly. Fugo, ever suspicious, was first to voice their collective confusion.

"Where's this coming from? Why do we need to wait around?"

Y/n opened her mouth to add her own complaint, but the soft scrape of bristles against concrete made her freeze. Beside her, Narancia tensed, raising a finger to his lips.

"Shhh."

The group fell silent as Narancia moved toward the sound, Y/n close behind. They squinted as they emerged into blazing sunlight, the heat immediately pressing against their faces like an unwelcome blanket.

Two figures swept the small patio area; an elderly man working methodically in the corner, and a younger woman directly ahead. Both wore simple maintenance uniforms that seemed almost too convenient.

"Scusa," Narancia approached the woman politely, hands raised in a peaceful gesture. "Could you come back later? There are still people inside."

The woman straightened slowly, gripping her broom like a weapon. Behind green sunglasses, Y/n could sense a glare sharp enough to cut steel. Something about her posture screamed danger—too controlled, too ready.

"Oh, you must be 'La Toilette,'" the woman said, voice dripping with calculated disdain.

Y/n's jaw clenched. Excuse me?

"Che cosa?" Narancia blinked in genuine confusion. "What do you mean by that?"

"If your name is 'La Toilette,'" the woman gestured dismissively at the sign above the restroom entrance, "then this is your house. Otherwise, you have no authority to order me around."

She started toward the entrance with purposeful strides, but both Y/n and Narancia moved to block her path. Y/n's instincts screamed that something was wrong; this wasn't just some random janitor with an attitude problem.

"I don't think so," Y/n said firmly, positioning herself directly in the woman's way.

"What part of 'later' didn't you understand?" Narancia's knife appeared at the woman's throat with practiced ease, his usual playfulness replaced by cold determination.

Everything happened in a heartbeat.

The woman dropped her broom and moved like liquid mercury, twisting with impossible grace. Y/n watched in horror as she caught Narancia's wrist and wrenched his arm backward, redirecting the knife's edge toward his chin. Narancia cried out in pain as she applied pressure, forcing him to bend backward.

"Let him go!" Y/n lunged forward, rage flooding her system like molten fire.

The woman suddenly froze mid-motion.

The temperature around them dropped by several degrees as something magnificent and terrible materialized behind the attacker. Y/n felt her breath catch as her Stand rose from the ground like a warrior queen ascending from the underworld.

The crystalline figure was breathtaking and terrifying in equal measure. Every facet of its crystal armor caught and refracted the sunlight into thousands of dancing rainbows across the concrete, but there was nothing peaceful about its presence. The Stand wore the helm and mail of a Viking shield-maiden, each piece carved from what looked like living gemstone that pulsed with inner light.

Every crystal in its body throbbed with violent crimson, casting blood-red shadows that seemed to writhe with malevolent life. Through the eye slits of its helmet, twin flames of pure golden fury burned with an intensity that made the air itself tremble.

"Dio mio," Fugo breathed from the bathroom doorway, his face pale with awe and terror.

The others had emerged at the commotion, but now stood transfixed. Abbacchio's perpetual scowl had given way to open-mouthed shock. Mista's hand hovered over his gun, trembling slightly. Even Bruno looked stunned by the raw, primal power radiating from Y/n's Stand.

"Incredible," Giorno whispered, his mind clearly racing to categorize what he was seeing. "It's like nothing I've encountered before."

But Y/n barely heard them. The world had narrowed to the woman trapped before her Stand, who now found herself encased in a web so intricate it looked like spun starlight. Hundreds of hair-thin crystal threads had woven themselves around her body in seconds, each strand sharp enough to slice through steel. The slightest movement would reduce her to ribbons.

I didn't call it. I didn't even think... it just acted on its own.

Y/n forced herself to breathe deeply, fighting to regain control as her fury gradually cooled. As her emotions shifted, so did her Stand's appearance—the violent crimson faded to deep sapphire, then to a calming aquamarine that seemed to whisper of ocean depths and hidden wisdom.

"Y/n," Bruno's voice cut through her concentration, calm but urgent. "You need to release her. Now."

"I'm trying!" Frustration bled into her voice as she stared at her crystalline warrior. The Stand's head had twisted unnaturally, owl-like, to maintain unblinking eye contact with its prisoner. "It won't listen to me!"

When Bruno took a step forward, Y/n felt her Stand's hostile intent spike like a physical blow. She grabbed his arm, pulling him back with desperate strength.

"Don't. It'll attack you too."

"Madonna," Abbacchio muttered, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. "What the hell kind of Stand is that?"

"It's beautiful," Narancia said softly, still holding his bleeding chin but staring in fascination. "Like a crystal goddess of war."

"A very dangerous goddess," Fugo added nervously, adjusting his tie. "Those threads could cut through anything. The precision is incredible."

Y/n faced her Stand directly, meeting its golden gaze through the crystalline helmet. The moment their eyes locked, a wave of pure, overwhelming protectiveness crashed over her—not her own emotions, but her Stand's fierce desire to eliminate any threat to its user.

You will obey me, she commanded mentally, pouring every ounce of willpower into the thought. I am your master. Release her. Now.

Her Stand tilted its head, and for a terrifying moment, she could swear it was smiling beneath the helmet. Then—slowly, beautifully—it began to dissolve.

But instead of shattering violently, the crystal warrior came apart like morning mist touched by sunlight. It dissolved into millions of tiny diamond fragments that caught in the air, spiraling upward in a hypnotic dance before flowing back into Y/n's body like living starlight.

The display was breathtaking. Even Abbacchio lowered his cigarette to watch the glittering cascade return to its master.

"Bellissimo," Giorno breathed, wonder clear in his voice.

Y/n staggered as the last fragments merged with her skin, then quickly moved to catch the unconscious woman before she could hit the ground. Guilt gnawed at her chest as she checked the woman's breathing.

Her pulse is steady. Good. She didn't deserve that, whatever she was trying to do.

"Quite impressive, young lady."

Y/n spun toward the elderly janitor, who was now approaching with measured, deliberate steps. Bruno immediately straightened, and she felt the shift in everyone's posture; a sudden tension that spoke of recognition and respect.

"Show your respect," Bruno commanded quietly, his voice carrying absolute authority. "This is Capo Pericolo of Passione."

The blood drained from Y/n's face. If he's the Capo, then this woman...

With trembling fingers, she removed the sunglasses from the unconscious woman's face, revealing emerald eyes that seemed to glow even in unconsciousness. Pink hair escaped from beneath the worker's cap, catching the light like rose petals.

Trish. I just attacked the Boss's daughter.

"Wait, wait, wait," Mista interrupted, looking between the unconscious girl and the elderly man with growing alarm. "You're telling me this is—"

"The Boss's daughter," Pericolo confirmed gravely. "Trish Una. Your new assignment."

The words hit like thunderbolts. Fugo's jaw dropped, his face cycling through several shades of pale. "We just tried to stab the Boss's daughter?"

"She tried to stab me first!" Narancia protested, then winced as everyone turned to glare at him. "What? It's true!"

Y/n felt the world spinning around her. In her attempt to protect Narancia, she'd nearly killed the most important person in Passione. The irony wasn't lost on her; she'd come to this world to save everyone, and instead, she'd almost murdered the Boss's daughter within her first week.

The girl stirred in her arms, consciousness returning slowly. When those emerald eyes met Y/n's, she saw confusion, fear, and something else; a vulnerability that caught her completely off guard.

Before Y/n could process what was happening, Trish had pulled herself up to Y/n's shoulder, arms wrapping around her neck with surprising strength. The proximity was overwhelming—she could smell Trish's perfume, feel the warmth of her breath against her ear.

"Take me to the restroom," Trish commanded softly, her voice carrying that imperious tone Y/n remembered from the anime.

Y/n stared in shock as Trish blinked those doll-like eyes at her with calculated sweetness. Heat flooded her cheeks as she realized everyone was watching this intimate display. The embarrassment was crushing.

Wait. How long was I zoning out? Did Pericolo already explain everything? Did they already retrieve the money?

Panic flooded her mind as she spotted the bag in Pericolo's hands—ten billion lire that she'd missed seeing Bruno retrieve. She'd been so lost in her thoughts about the timeline that she'd missed crucial plot points.

SNAP.

She blinked at the hand that had just snapped in front of her face.

"I'm not going to ask again," Trish said with growing impatience, her arms still draped around Y/n's neck.

"Right," Y/n groaned, carefully lifting Trish and carrying her toward the women's restroom. She kicked open a stall door and gently placed the other girl down on the toilet seat, studying her face for a moment to ensure she was truly okay before stepping outside the stall and leaning against the wall.

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The women's restroom felt like a sanctuary after the chaos outside. Y/n listened to the rustle of clothing from the stall, trying to figure out how to apologize for nearly killing the most important person in their world.

The silence stretched until she couldn't bear it anymore. "Trish—"

"How do you know my name?"

Shit. Right. "Lucky guess?"

More silence. Y/n tried again, her voice softer. "Look, about what happened out there... my Stand acted on its own. I didn't mean for any of that to happen. I know you don't know me from anyone, but I swear I wasn't trying to hurt you."

The stall door banged open, revealing Trish in an elegant outfit that somehow managed to make her look both sophisticated and impossibly young. She studied Y/n for a long moment, those green eyes seeming to see right through her.

"No one's ever apologized to me like that before," she said quietly. "Your Stand... it was terrifying, but it didn't actually harm me." She paused, touching her throat where the crystal threads had been. "It was protecting you, wasn't it? From what it thought was a threat."

Y/n blinked in surprise. "You... understood that?"

"I'm not stupid," Trish said with a hint of her characteristic sharpness before softening again. "I assume your team will be protecting me for the foreseeable future. It might be... nice to have another girl around."

There was something painfully vulnerable in her voice, a loneliness that Y/n recognized all too well. "Because of your father," Y/n said gently. "It's been hard to make real connections."

Trish's facade cracked slightly. "I haven't had a real conversation with someone my age in..." She trailed off, wrapping her arms around herself. "It's complicated."

She's just a scared, isolated kid, Y/n realized. All that attitude, all those demands—she's never learned how to ask for what she needs.

"Are you asking if we can be friends?" Y/n asked gently.

"I suppose I am."

Without thinking, Y/n pulled her into a fierce hug. Trish went rigid for a moment before melting into the embrace, her arms coming up to clutch desperately at Y/n's shirt like she was afraid she might disappear.

When they separated, Trish's cheeks were flushed pink, her carefully styled hair slightly mussed from the hug.

"Your hair's a mess now," Y/n teased, watching Trish's hands fly to her head in horror.

"If you tell anyone I showed weakness, I'll end you," Trish muttered, but there was no real heat in it—just the reflexive defensiveness of someone who'd learned to protect herself through intimidation.

"Your secret's safe with me. I'm Y/n, by the way."

"Trish Una." She paused at the sink, meeting Y/n's eyes in the mirror. "That Stand of yours... what do you call it?"

Y/n hesitated. She'd never actually named it—had barely understood what it was until this moment. "I... don't know yet."

"It looked like a valkyrie," Trish mused, fixing her hair with practiced efficiency. "Something powerful and protective." She glanced at Y/n through the mirror. "You should think of a good name. Something that strong deserves respect."

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Outside, chaos reigned. The moment they emerged from the bathroom, Y/n was immediately surrounded by her teammates, all talking at once.

"That was the most terrifying thing I've ever seen," Fugo said, his usual composure completely shattered. "The way it moved, the precision—"

"Are you kidding? It was incredible!" Narancia bounced excitedly despite his bandaged chin. "Did you see how the crystals formed? Like they were alive!"

"The control was remarkable," Giorno added thoughtfully, his analytical mind clearly fascinated. "Every thread positioned perfectly to immobilize without causing permanent harm. Your Stand has incredible precision, even when acting independently."

Mista nodded enthusiastically. "And the way it dissolved! Like snow melting in sunlight, but beautiful. My little guys are still talking about it." He patted his gun affectionately. "They've never seen anything like it."

Even Abbacchio seemed grudgingly impressed, though he tried to hide it behind his usual gruffness. "Not bad for a rookie," he muttered around his cigarette.

Bruno approached last, his expression serious but not unkind. "We need to discuss what happened here, Y/n. A Stand that acts independently can be dangerous—to enemies and allies alike."

"I know," Y/n said quietly, the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders. "I'm still learning to control it. Today... it protected me, but what if next time it sees someone as a threat who isn't?"

"We'll work on that," Bruno promised, his voice carrying the steady reassurance that made him such an effective leader. "For now, you did well. No one was seriously hurt, and you protected your teammate. That's what matters."

The warm approval in his voice made her chest tight with emotion. These people were becoming more than just characters from an anime—they were becoming family.

Trish chose that moment to assert her newfound authority, pointing imperiously at Fugo. "You. Remove your jacket."

Y/n bit her lip to keep from laughing as Fugo's face went through several interesting color changes. The poor guy had no idea what he was in for.

"Just take it off," Trish continued with ruthless efficiency. "I assure you, I have no interest in your physique."

Brutal. Y/n watched Fugo's soul leave his body in real time while the others tried to hide their snickers behind their hands.

"Why does she need my jacket?" Fugo asked weakly, looking like a man contemplating all his life choices.

"Because I need to dry my hands, and you're convenient," Trish replied coolly, using his jacket as a towel before tossing it back to him with casual dismissal. "Also, I need handkerchiefs. And nylons. And makeup. And mineral water—French, not that swill they serve here."

Fugo stared at the damp jacket in his hands with the expression of a man reconsidering his entire career path.

"Welcome to babysitting duty," Abbacchio said dryly, patting Fugo's shoulder in mock sympathy.

When Y/n approached Bruno, she noticed he seemed distracted, lost in thought about their next moves. The weight of leadership was always heavy on his shoulders, but now he was responsible for the Boss's daughter as well.

"What's our next move?" she asked, waving a hand in front of his face to get his attention.

Bruno blinked, focusing on her with visible effort. "Scusa, Y/n. My mind was elsewhere." He smiled, reaching out to ruffle her hair with surprising gentleness; a gesture so paternal and affectionate that it made her heart skip. "We'll return to the boat and head to a safe house. Time to rest and regroup."

The casual warmth in the gesture made her chest flutter. After the chaos of her Stand's violent emergence, Bruno's steady presence was exactly what she needed.

"Sounds perfect... Bruno."

His expression softened at the use of his given name, a small smile playing at his lips. "Bene. I'm glad you trust me enough for that."

As they prepared to leave Capri behind, Y/n couldn't shake the feeling that everything was about to change. She'd survived her first real test as part of Bruno's team, but she'd also revealed just how dangerous and unpredictable her abilities could be.

Glancing back at Trish, who was now imperiously directing Fugo's shopping expedition, Y/n made a silent promise. Whatever happened next, she wouldn't let her Stand's protective instincts put any of them in danger again.

She just hoped she'd be strong enough to keep that promise when the real battles began.

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Author's Note 

Thank you for your continued readership and dedication to this story. Your support is deeply appreciated.

I sincerely apologize for the delay in the release of this chapter. The extended timeline was necessary due to significant real-life demands and the extensive planning required to conceptualize your character's 'Stand.'

I am pleased to present the accompanying artwork, which is a culmination of over four hours of dedicated drawing and design. This piece is intended to give readers a clearer, visual representation of the Stand's appearance within this series. Capturing the intricate gem-patterned details proved challenging, but the resulting array of colors is specifically intended to evoke the essence of a radiant gem. I encourage you to zoom in to better appreciate the finer elements of the design.

I truly hope you enjoy the artwork, which was created to enrich your reading experience and offer a definitive look at the Stand's aesthetic.

───────────── ⚝ ─────────────

Please Note: All accompanying artwork is my original creation. Unauthorized reproduction or reposting on any other platform is strictly prohibited. Thank you for respecting my work.

Chapter Text

The scene before Y/n was straight from hell itself.

Flames devoured everything in their path with violent hunger, their orange tongues licking at crumbling stonework and sending black smoke spiraling into the darkening sky. The acrid smell of burning debris mixed with something far worse: the metallic tang of spilled blood that pooled in dark puddles across the street, reflecting the dancing flames like crimson mirrors. 

Chunks of concrete and twisted metal lay scattered like the bones of some massive beast, while the heat was so intense it made the air shimmer with deadly mirages.

In the center of this inferno stood two figures locked in their deadly dance.

Formaggio's body was a canvas of destruction; skin peeling away from muscle tissue in angry strips, bubbled welts spreading across his torso where the flames had kissed him with cruel affection. 

His athletic frame, which should have been imposing in its mesh shirt and studded leather jacket, now looked broken and vulnerable. Yet he still stood, gray eyes blazing with defiant fury even as his body betrayed him.

Narancia, by contrast, appeared less untouched by the chaos than she'd initially thought. Multiple cuts and scratches crisscrossed his exposed arms, and she could see where shrapnel had grazed his cheek, leaving a thin line of blood that mixed with the soot and sweat streaking his face. Aerosmith's precision had kept him alive, but not unscathed. 

He looked like a young warrior who'd walked through fire and emerged victorious; battered, but unbroken.

Seven seconds, Y/n's mind screamed as she sprinted toward them. I only have seven seconds before—

She could barely hear their harsh words over the roar of flames, could only catch fragments of threats and challenges hurled between them like weapons. But she could see the tension coiling in both their frames. 

The way Formaggio's fingers twitched toward his Stand while his gray eyes calculated distance and angle, the way Narancia's entire body had gone rigid with focus, Aerosmith's tiny propeller already spinning with intent. Both men were wounded, exhausted, but far from finished. This was the moment that would decide who lived and who died, and Y/n could feel the weight of that decision crushing down on her lungs as she fought to reach them in time.

A flash of light erupted between them—the signal Y/n had been dreading.

"NARANCIA!" she screamed, her voice lost in the chaos as both fighters launched themselves into what should have been their final exchange.

Formaggio's Stand leaped forward with desperate speed, its form barely visible as it sought to deliver a killing blow. But even wounded and exhausted, Little Bomber's precision was absolute. Bullets tore through the air with accuracy, finding their marks in Formaggio's chest, neck, and legs; every shot was placed to ensure maximum damage to vital organs.

The assassin's body hit the ground with a sickening wet sound that made Y/n's stomach lurch.

"Narancia!" Y/n crashed into him from behind, her arms wrapping around his small frame as relief and adrenaline fought for dominance in her system.

"The hell?" Narancia spun in her arms, confusion clear on his soot-streaked face. "Wait, Y/n? How'd you get here?"

She held him tight for a moment, feeling the rapid hammering of his heart against his ribs as her own breathing gradually slowed. Over his shoulder, she watched something that made her blood freeze.

The pool of blood around Formaggio's motionless form was moving, flowing inward like it was being drawn by some invisible force. But as Y/n watched more closely, something impossible became clear; the blood wasn't blood at all. It was billions of microscopic ruby crystals, flowing together so smoothly and seamlessly that they perfectly mimicked the appearance of spilled blood. His body took on a crystalline appearance for just an instant before shattering silently into fragments that caught the firelight like falling stars before disappearing into the smoky air.

My Stand acted on its own again...

"I thought you might need help with the shopping," Y/n managed, her voice carefully light as she gently cupped Narancia's face with both hands, deliberately angling his head away from where Formaggio's body had been moments before. "But I can see you had everything under control."

She could feel the adrenaline still coursing through him, could see the way his pupils were dilated from the rush of combat. The last thing she wanted was for him to look back and see the empty space where his opponent should have been lying dead.

The devastation around them told a different story. What had once been a peaceful residential street was now a war zone of twisted metal and collapsed masonry, flames still dancing hungrily through the wreckage.

"I lost everything," Narancia whispered, his voice thick with frustration and shame. "Bruno gave me such a simple mission and I completely screwed it up!"

His hands balled into fists, and Y/n could see the familiar pattern of self-recrimination that always followed Narancia's victories. No matter how well he performed, he always found ways to blame himself for things beyond his control.

"Hey, hey," she said gently, catching his hands in hers before he could work himself into a full spiral. "You're still here. You're alive, and that's all that matters. Look, why don't you go back to Bruno and tell him what happened? I'll take care of cleaning up this mess. Don't worry about the groceries."

Narancia's face cycled through several emotions before settling on reluctant acceptance. "Yeah, I suppose you're right. But are you sure you don't need help? I made... well, kind of a big mess here."

Y/n glanced around at the destruction with wry amusement. "I've got this handled. But you—" she reached up to ruffle his hair with gentle affection, "—you look exhausted. Go back now. I'll be fine."

She watched him jog away, his usual bounce gradually returning to his step as the immediate stress began to fade. Only when he'd disappeared around the corner did she turn back to examine the empty space where Formaggio's body had lain.

"Now to figure out what the hell just happened," she muttered, crouching beside the pool of blood that seemed far too small for the wounds she'd witnessed.

She was reaching toward the dark stain when a familiar flash of light appeared behind her, followed by the soft thump of something hitting the ground.

"Narancia, if you came back to try and scare me, I swear—" Y/n spun around and found herself face-to-face with very much alive Formaggio, his gray eyes wide with terror above a gag that had been stuffed deep in his mouth.

"Holy shit," she breathed, shooting to her feet.

This was definitely the real Formaggio—she could see the precise wounds from Narancia's bullets, though they looked far less fatal than they should have been. His leather jacket was torn and bloodied, his mesh shirt singed from the flames, but he was undeniably breathing.

My Stand must have pulled him out during the fight, she realized, pieces clicking into place. But if this is the real one, then what Narancia shot was...

Sunlight suddenly reflected off something behind Formaggio, nearly blinding her. Y/n raised her hand to shield her eyes, irritation flaring before she caught sight of what was causing the glare.

Her Stand materialized fully, its crystalline armor catching and fracturing the light into prismatic rainbows that danced across the alley walls. But something was different—its usual vibrant coloration had faded to an almost transparent clarity touched with the faintest hint of red.

"You," Y/n said, understanding flooding through her. "You're the one who created that flash of light before the fight started."

She watched in fascination as her Stand moved with deliberate purpose, crouching beside Formaggio and placing one armored hand against his shoulder. The transformation was extraordinary—crystal flowed like liquid over its form, reshaping features, adjusting proportions, even mimicking the exact texture and color of skin, clothing, and hair.

Within seconds, a perfect replica of Formaggio stood before her, identical down to the smallest detail of battle damage.

"Incredible," Y/n whispered, her scientific mind racing with the implications. "You can create perfect copies just by touching someone. That's how you did it—you made a duplicate to fight Narancia while pulling the real one to safety."

Her Stand—still wearing Formaggio's appearance—tilted its head in what might have been acknowledgment before the disguise dissolved back into its natural crystalline form.

A low groan from the ground reminded her of more pressing concerns. Formaggio was stirring, consciousness returning despite his obvious pain and exhaustion.

"Right," Y/n said, addressing her Stand directly. "Help me get him somewhere safe. Gently—he's already hurt enough."

Her Stand nodded and carefully lifted Formaggio's bound form, cradling him with surprising tenderness as they moved out of the flame-lit street into a dimly lit alley across the way. The narrow space smelled of old garbage and stagnant water, but it was hidden from the main road and the approaching sirens of emergency responders.

"Put him down here," Y/n instructed, and her Stand gently placed Formaggio against the brick wall, positioning him so he could lean back comfortably despite his restraints.

Looking down at the unconscious assassin, Y/n felt an unexpected pang of sympathy. In the anime, Formaggio had been just another obstacle for Narancia to overcome. But seeing him like this—bloodied, vulnerable, human—made everything feel far more real and complicated.

The gag came free with a wet sound that made her grimace, followed by a small stream of saliva. Y/n tossed the sodden cloth aside and examined the crystal restraints her Stand had apparently created.

"Can you break these?" she asked, and her Stand obliged with a single precise strike that shattered the bonds into glittering dust.

Using strips torn from her shirt sleeve and a half-full water bottle retrieved from a nearby dumpster, Y/n began the delicate work of cleaning Formaggio's wounds. The burns were severe, and she could see him wince even in unconsciousness as she dabbed at the damaged skin.

Looking down at herself, Y/n realized what a sight she must make. Her McDonald's employee uniform—already disheveled from her earlier adventures—was now completely destroyed. The polyester shirt was torn in multiple places, singed at the edges from running through the flames, and stained with blood, soot, and God knew what else. The name tag hung by a single corner, and her black pants were ripped at both knees.

I look like I've been through a war, she thought wryly. Which I suppose I have.

She'd need new clothes before returning to the team if she wanted any hope of blending in. The last thing she needed was Bruno asking uncomfortable questions about how she'd gotten so thoroughly destroyed while supposedly just "cleaning up" after Narancia's fight.

These burns are bad, she thought, guilt gnawing at her chest as she continued her careful ministrations. Narancia really did a number on him.

She'd just sent her Stand off to find proper medical supplies when Formaggio's gray eyes fluttered open, locking onto her face with an expression of profound confusion.

"Well, good morning sunshine," Y/n said, unable to keep a slight edge from her voice.

She continued working on his leg wound while he gathered his bearings, watching his face cycle through pain, recognition, and finally wariness.

"You—" he started, his voice a dry rasp. "You're that new member. Y/n, from Bucciarati's team."

Halfway through the sentence, he doubled over in a coughing fit that brought up flecks of blood. When he glared at her through the pain, some of his old defiance had returned.

"Why the hell are you helping me? Should've just left me to die! I won't tell you nothing!"

To emphasize his point, he spat blood directly at her face.

The warm droplets splattered across her cheek, and Y/n felt something cold and dangerous stir in her chest. Very slowly, she wiped the blood away, her smile taking on a sharp edge that would have done Abbacchio proud.

"If I wanted information from you," she said conversationally, grabbing his collar and hauling him up to eye level, "I would be torturing you right now, not playing nurse."

Formaggio's eyes widened at the casual threat in her voice.

"Listen carefully, Formaggio. We both want the same thing—the Boss dead. My team just doesn't realize that yet. Soon they will. And my goal is to keep you and your assassination squad alive until then. Because in the end, if we combine forces, we might actually be able to defeat him without losing anyone."

She released his collar and let him slump back against the wall, patting his head with mockingly gentle affection. "Understand?"

Formaggio stared at her in shock, his usual calm demeanor completely shattered. "What?! Same cause?! Then why the hell are we fighting? You know my whole team is out to kill you guys!"

More blood came up with his words, staining his lips and chin.

"It all has to play out this way," Y/n explained patiently. "Everyone thinks you're dead right now—my team, your team, the Boss. Everyone. And it needs to stay that way. Once I get you patched up, you need to stay hidden and lay low. But I also need you to keep in contact because we have to save Illuso next."

Formaggio's hand shot up to grab her shirt, pulling himself up with desperate strength. "How the hell do you know about Illuso?!"

He studied her face for a long moment before letting go with a pained sigh. "Doesn't matter, I guess. What you're saying... it makes sense. And I—" his voice grew quiet, almost vulnerable, "—thank you for helping me. I would've died in that fight if your Stand hadn't pulled me out."

Y/n felt her chest tighten at the genuine gratitude in his voice. "I'd advise no sudden movements. Your internal organs are mostly intact but badly bruised. Your left leg is sprained, arms are fine, but your whole torso is covered in burns from the fire—"

A brilliant flash of light filled the alley, cutting off her medical assessment as her Stand returned with an armload of supplies. Formaggio quickly covered his eyes with a curse.

"It's the same light from earlier!"

"Hey," Y/n said gently, accepting the bandages, water, and pain medication from her Stand. "It's not going to hurt you. Sometimes I think it has a mind of its own, but it still obeys me. And I want you alive and healthy."

Formaggio lowered his hands cautiously, watching her Stand with wary fascination as she distributed the supplies.

"Take it slow," Y/n warned as she handed him fresh water. "I don't want you throwing up on top of everything else."

"Damn, this is good stuff," Formaggio chuckled after draining the bottle. He accepted the ibuprofen tablets gratefully. "Professional grade medical care from the enemy. What's the world coming to?"

Working methodically, Y/n wrapped his sprained leg with careful precision, then moved on to bandage the worst of the burns on his arms and shoulders. The work was meditative in its way, and she found herself lost in the rhythm of it.

"Grazie, principessa," Formaggio said when she finished, his voice carrying a teasing lilt despite his pain.

Y/n looked down at him with a small grin. "It's Y/n. Maybe someday you'll earn the privilege to call me princess."

She helped him to his feet, noting how he favored his injured leg but managed to stay upright through sheer stubborn determination.

"I'll stick to your plan," Formaggio said, offering her a genuine smile. "You seem smart enough, doll. I'll trust you with my life—it's the least I can give you after what you did."

"Good. Thank you for being on my side. I'll try to keep in contact, but it'll have to be private. Remember to stay hidden." Y/n watched as her Stand quickly formed a pair of crutches from light blue sapphire crystal. They would be uncomfortable due to their hardness, but functional.

Formaggio tested the crystal crutches, chuckling as he found his balance. "You really have been an angel helping me out here. I'll do my best for you, principessa."

Despite her earlier correction, Y/n found she didn't mind the nickname when he said it with such warmth.

"I need you to head to Pompeii," she said, her voice growing serious. "If I'm remembering correctly, Giorno, Fugo, and Abbacchio will be going there to find a key. Illuso will die there if we don't intervene. But I have a plan, and your Stand's abilities will be crucial. Got that?"

"Yeah, I get it. I'll meet you there as fast as I can." Formaggio paused, studying her with curious eyes. "But Y/n... how the hell do you know all of this? Can you see the future?"

Y/n smiled mysteriously, patting his shoulder. "Let's just say I've seen everything that's supposed to happen, and I want to change the ending."

As her Stand dissolved back into her body, she looked back at him one final time. "Be safe, Formaggio. I'll see you soon!"

With a wave, she sprinted back toward the main street, but made a quick detour when she spotted a small clothing store with its door hanging open; probably evacuated when the fires started.

Sorry about this, she thought, slipping inside quickly. She grabbed a simple yet cute styled t-shirt, and some dark bell-bottom jeans, leaving her destroyed McDonald's uniform in the changing room. The new outfit was more in line with what someone in Passione would wear, and infinitely less conspicuous than her battle-torn work clothes.

She left some crumpled bills on the counter—not enough to cover the full cost, but all she had—before heading back out into the organized chaos of the emergency response.

───────────── ⚝ ─────────────

By the time Y/n reached the scene of the battle, the Vigili del Fuoco had arrived in full force. Fire trucks lined the street, their crews working efficiently to douse the remaining flames while investigators began the preliminary work of determining what had caused such extensive destruction.

Y/n slipped through the organized chaos unnoticed, her thoughts already turning toward the next phase of her plan. Following the same path she'd taken on her desperate sprint into town, she made her way back through the winding streets and up the dusty dirt road that led through the vineyard.

───────────── ⚝ ─────────────

The villa came into view just as the sun was beginning to set, painting the terra cotta walls in shades of gold and amber. The team's van was parked outside, and she could see figures clustered around it in animated discussion.

Perfect timing, Y/n thought, recognizing the urgency in their postures. They must have just received the Boss's message about Pompeii.

What had started as a fast sprint had degraded into something more resembling a pathetic jog by this point. Her chest heaved with each breath, sweat plastering her hair to her forehead as she fought to maintain forward momentum.

"Guys! WAIT!" she called out desperately as she saw Giorno, Fugo, and Abbacchio climbing into the van.

They froze at the sound of her voice, turning to watch her stumbling approach. Bruno was the first to reach her, his expression shifting from relief to stern disapproval as she collapsed onto the dirt road to catch her breath.

"Y/n, Narancia told us what happened," Bruno said, his voice carrying that particular parental tone he used when he was trying to balance concern with discipline. "But you shouldn't have run off like that. It was incredibly dangerous."

Y/n pulled herself back to her feet, meeting his stern blue gaze with what she hoped was a suitably contrite expression. "Sorry, Bruno. I just wanted to help."

She paused, then put on her most winning smile. "Can I go with Giorno and the others to Pompeii? I can help!"

Bruno's expression didn't change. "No. You're staying here to help tend to Narancia's wounds."

"Oh, come ON!" Y/n protested, then quickly added, "No offense, Narancia."

Narancia, who was leaning against the van looking tired but otherwise intact, just shrugged good-naturedly.

Before Y/n could launch into a more detailed argument, Abbacchio's gruff voice cut through the conversation.

"Actually, Bruno, I think Y/n should come with us. It would be a good opportunity to learn more about her Stand abilities while we retrieve the key."

Y/n stared at him in shock. She'd fully expected Abbacchio to be the one arguing most strongly against her inclusion. Instead, here he was advocating for her.

Bruno considered this for a long moment, weighing the risks against the potential benefits. Finally, he sighed. "Fine. You can go, Y/n. But don't cause any trouble."

"YES!" Y/n rushed toward the van before Bruno could change his mind. "I call shotgun!"

She threw herself into the passenger seat with triumphant glee, finally allowing herself a moment to relax after the day's chaos.

"Sorry, Y/n," Giorno's gentle voice made her look up to find him standing beside the open door, map in hand, and an apologetic smile on his face. "The person with the map needs to sit up front to help navigate."

"Ugh, fine." Y/n hauled herself out of the comfortable seat, deliberately not making eye contact with Giorno as he settled into the passenger position.

She slid into the back seat next to Abbacchio, who spared her only the briefest glance before returning his attention to the window. While Bruno finished giving final instructions to Mista and Narancia outside the van, Y/n saw her opportunity.

"Hey, Abbacchio," she whispered, leaning toward him slightly.

The man sighed without turning. "What do you want?"

"I don't want anything! I just wanted to thank you for convincing Bruno to let me come. That was really nice of you."

Abbacchio scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest in his typical defensive posture. "Don't get the wrong idea. I wasn't doing it because I wanted you along. I'm just curious to see what your Stand looks like in actual combat. Don't get your hopes up."

With that definitive statement, he turned away to stare out the window, effectively ending the conversation.

Yep, that's the real Abbacchio, Y/n thought with amused fondness. Always pissed off about something.

Fugo climbed into the driver's seat, but before they could pull away, Y/n noticed something that made her bite back a laugh.

"Hey, Fugo," she said, leaning forward to tap his shoulder. "Come here for a second."

Fugo turned in the driver's seat, his face still carrying a faint flush that had nothing to do with the evening heat. "What is it?"

Without warning, Y/n reached forward with her thumb, gently wiping at the corner of his mouth where a faint trace of her lipstick had transferred during their brief, chaotic kiss back at the villa.

"Sorry about that," she said softly, showing him the pink smudge on her thumb. "And sorry about... well, the whole kissing thing. I was desperate to get past you, and it was the first thing I thought of."

Fugo's face went from pink to bright red, his usual composure completely abandoned. "I... you... that's..." He cleared his throat, adjusting his tie nervously. "It's fine. You were worried about Narancia."

"Still," Y/n said with a gentle smile, "I should have asked permission before kissing anyone, even in an emergency. Forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive," Fugo managed, though his voice came out higher than usual. "Really."

Abbacchio watched this exchange with growing irritation, though he couldn't quite put his finger on why the sight of Y/n being gentle with Fugo bothered him so much.

"Are we going to sit here all night discussing your romantic escapades?" he grumbled. "Some of us would like to get this over with."

Y/n turned to him with a raised eyebrow. "Jealous, Abbacchio? I could kiss you too if you want."

The words were clearly meant as a joke, but something about the teasing glint in her eyes made Abbacchio's breath catch. "In your dreams," he shot back, but the response lacked his usual venom.

From the front seat, Giorno had been watching the entire interaction with barely concealed jealousy. His hands tightened on the map as he watched Y/n interact so easily with his teammates—touching Fugo's face, teasing Abbacchio, making them both react in ways that Giorno desperately wished she'd direct toward him.

Focus, he told himself firmly. You have a job to do. Y/n waved back at Bruno, Mista, and Narancia as they pulled away from the villa, her mind already racing ahead to the challenges waiting for them in the ancient city. But as they settled into the drive, she couldn't help but notice the tension that had developed in the van's confined space.

Giorno kept glancing back at her through the rearview mirror, his green eyes lingering on her face before quickly returning to the map. Fugo was still visibly flustered from their earlier interaction, occasionally touching the spot where she'd wiped away her lipstick while driving. And Abbacchio... well, Abbacchio was doing his best impression of someone who absolutely did not care about anything happening around him, which somehow made his awareness of her presence even more obvious.

"So," Y/n said, breaking the slightly awkward silence, "anyone want to fill me in on what we're looking for in Pompeii? Besides 'a key,' I mean."

Fugo glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "The Boss was... characteristically vague in his instructions. We're to locate and retrieve a specific key that will lead us to the next phase of protecting his daughter."

"Mysterious," Y/n commented. "I'm starting to think this Boss of ours has a flair for the dramatic."

"You have no idea," Abbacchio muttered under his breath, earning a sharp look from Fugo.

"What Abbacchio means," Fugo interjected smoothly, his composure gradually returning, "is that the Boss values secrecy above all else. Even we don't know his true identity."

Y/n nodded thoughtfully, though internally she was screaming. If only you knew how right you are to be suspicious. And if only you knew what he's planning for his own daughter.

───────────── ⚝ ─────────────

Abbacchio's Perspective

Forty minutes into the drive, and somehow Y/n had managed to stay quiet for most of the journey. Maybe his earlier words had been too harsh?

No, Abbacchio told himself firmly. No special treatment.

Up front, Fugo was droning on about the historical significance of Pompeii, his voice taking on that lecturing tone that always grated on Abbacchio's nerves. From the corner of his eye, he could see Y/n struggling with the same irritation, her eyelids growing heavy as Fugo's monologue continued.

Eventually, she lost the battle with exhaustion and fell asleep, her body gradually going limp as the stress of the day finally caught up with her.

Typical, Abbacchio thought, watching as she unconsciously spread out across the middle seat, taking up far more space than someone her size should logically require. Of course she's a messy sleeper.

He tried to focus on the passing scenery, letting his mind wander to safer topics than the girl currently monopolizing half the back seat. But his attention was dragged back when he felt a gentle weight against his shoulder.

Y/n's head had found its way to his shoulder, her face peaceful in sleep, her breathing soft and even against his neck.

"Oh..." The word escaped him in a whisper.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, Abbacchio felt something other than anger or cynical amusement. Looking down at her relaxed features, he was struck by how young she looked, how vulnerable. The fierce determination that usually animated her expression had given way to something softer, more innocent.

I should push her away, he told himself, raising his hand with that intention. But when he gave her a gentle nudge, she only mumbled in her sleep and settled more firmly against him.

Something warm and unfamiliar stirred in his chest; a protective instinct he'd thought long dead. The feeling was so unexpected, so unwelcome, that it made him angry with himself.

What the hell is wrong with me?

"Fugo, it seems we needed to turn right back there, not left," Giorno announced from the front seat.

Abbacchio barely had time to process the words before Fugo slammed on the brakes in reaction. Y/n's sleeping form started to pitch forward, and without thinking, Abbacchio wrapped his arms around her, pulling her securely against his chest.

She's warm, was his first thought, followed immediately by confusion at his own protective reaction.

"Isn't it a little late to be telling me that?" Fugo's voice was rising with familiar rage. "Tell me, what good does it do to inform me of a turn after the fact!"

"You're absolutely right. I'm sorry. Next time I will—" Giorno tried to placate him.

"Did I say anything about next time, new kid?! I'm talking about NOW—"

Abbacchio kicked the back of Fugo's seat hard enough to rattle the entire van. "Check your emotions. We're in a hurry, so calm down."

"You don't think I know that?" Fugo hissed, but he took a deep breath and began the process of turning the van around.

Without really thinking about what he was doing, Abbacchio adjusted his hold on Y/n, one hand supporting her head while the other remained firmly around her waist. She fit against him perfectly, he realized with alarm, her smaller frame tucking into his larger one like they'd been designed to complement each other.

I shouldn't be doing this, he told himself even as he found himself stroking her hair with gentle fingers. This is wrong.

But it felt right in a way that terrified him.

His gaze drifted to the front seat where Giorno sat with the map, and Abbacchio felt his jaw clench with familiar irritation. There was something about the blonde boy that rubbed him wrong; too perfect, too confident, too willing to take risks that could get them all killed.

Eventually, he's going to screw up big time, Abbacchio thought darkly. And his mistake might get us all killed.

A soft sound made him look down, and his heart nearly stopped when he found Y/n's eyes open and looking directly into his.

Fuck.

He jerked back instinctively, almost launching her off his lap in his haste to create distance. His heart was racing, face burning with embarrassment at being caught in such an unguarded moment.

"I'm sorry," Y/n said quietly, her voice still thick with sleep. "I didn't mean to fall asleep on you. I didn't want to bother you..."

She started to move away from him, but something made Abbacchio speak before he could stop himself.

"It's... it's okay. Fugo was driving rough, and I didn't want you to get thrown around."

Smooth, Leone. Real smooth.

Y/n's soft laugh made him look at her despite his embarrassment. She was running her fingers through her tousled hair, trying to restore some order to the mess.

"Aw, Abbacchio," she said with a teasing smile that made his chest do something uncomfortable. "I didn't know you had a soft spot for me."

The comment hit too close to the truth for comfort. Abbacchio felt anger, fear, and something else—something he refused to name—bubble up inside him. With a scoff, he gave her a gentle push back toward her own seat.

"In your dreams," he muttered, though the words lacked their usual venom.

"Enough chitchat," Fugo announced from the front. "We're here."

Abbacchio climbed out of the van, grateful for the distraction, and walked toward the entrance to Pompeii. Behind him, he could hear Y/n stretching and yawning as she emerged from the vehicle.

Don't look back, he told himself. Don't—

He looked back.

Y/n was stretching her arms above her head, the movement causing her shirt to ride up slightly, revealing a strip of skin. Her hair was still mussed from sleep, and she had the slightly dazed expression of someone who'd woken up in an unfamiliar place. Damn, she's-...

From across the van, Giorno was watching her with the same fascination, his green eyes tracking every movement with obvious appreciation.

Great, Abbacchio thought with bitter amusement. The kid has a crush. That's all we need.

"Good old Pompeii," he said aloud, forcing himself to focus on the imposing entrance to the ancient city. "Haven't set foot here since I was a kid."

Fugo checked his watch and gestured for them to move. "Abbacchio, Giorno, Y/n—let's hustle. Time isn't on our side."

"Wait," Y/n said, catching Giorno's arm gently as he moved past her. "Thank you."

He paused, those green eyes focusing on her with laser intensity. "For what?"

"For navigating. For keeping us on track." She smiled at him, and he felt his heart skip in a way that had nothing to do with their dangerous mission. "I know it's not easy dealing with Fugo when he gets frustrated."

From behind them, she heard Abbacchio make a sound that might have been a snort of amusement, while Fugo protested, "I wasn't that bad!"

"You threatened to stab him with a fork that doesn't exist," Y/n pointed out with a grin.

"The fork was metaphorical," Fugo replied with wounded dignity.

"The anger was not," Giorno said quietly, but there was a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Abbacchio watched this easy camaraderie with satisfaction. Despite everything, the danger they faced, the pressure of their mission, and the complicated dynamics developing between his team members, they were growing closer as a unit. Y/n had brought something to their group that had been missing: the ability to defuse tension with humor and genuine care for each other.

She's good for them, he thought. Good for all of us.

"Come on," he said aloud, leading them toward the ancient archway that marked the entrance to Pompeii. "Whatever we're looking for in there, we need to find it before dark. And something tells me we're not going to be alone in there."

Chapter Text

Y/N's POV

The ancient stones of Pompeii stretched endlessly under the Mediterranean sun, their weathered surfaces telling stories of a civilization frozen in time. Marble columns reached toward the azure sky like accusatory fingers, while statues gazed eternally from their pedestals with expressions caught between serenene tranquility and profound sorrow.

But Y/N couldn't focus on the archaeological wonder surrounding her. Her mind raced through calculations, probabilities, and the crushing weight of foreknowledge that felt like carrying the world on her shoulders.

She needed a plan to save Illuso—and fast.

Purple Haze's virus would kill him in the original timeline. But maybe, in that crucial moment before the final blow, she could use Formaggio's stand to shrink Illuso to pocket size while her own Stand took his place. Her crystalline warrior could create the perfect illusion of death, fooling Giorno and Fugo completely.

The timing would have to be flawless. Split-second precision with no room for error. But she had faith in her abilities, and more importantly, she had Formaggio's reluctant cooperation.

The only problem was finding the assassin without her teammates detecting her movements.

"Y/N, something troubling you?" Giorno's gentle voice cut through her frantic planning like a warm blade. He nudged her arm softly, those emerald eyes studying her face with the kind of focused attention that made her heart skip involuntarily. There was something deeper in his gaze—a familiarity that spoke of shared childhood memories she couldn't quite grasp.

"I'm fine," she managed, forcing a smile that felt brittle as glass. "Just... thinking about the architecture. It's incredible how well-preserved everything is after all these centuries."

The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, but Giorno seemed to accept it. His expression softened with what looked like fond recognition, as if he'd seen that exact expression of distracted contemplation countless times before.

"You always were fascinated by old things," he murmured so quietly she almost missed it, a wistful smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Yes, yes, enough sightseeing," Fugo interrupted sharply, his voice carrying that familiar edge of impatience that masked deeper anxieties. "Our destination is approximately one hundred meters ahead. We should retrieve what we need and return to base camp within thirty minutes. Any longer and we risk unnecessary exposure."

As Fugo spoke, Y/N's eyes swept the ruins systematically, cataloguing every shadow and alcove where an assassin might be hiding. Her pulse quickened when she spotted something that definitely didn't belong in ancient Pompeii—a glint of sapphire blue leaning against a weathered stone pillar.

The crutches I made for Formaggio. The crystal supports were unmistakable, their faceted surfaces catching sunlight like beacons. He was here, somewhere close, his broken leg still healing from his encounter with Narancia's flames, waiting for her signal.

But as she turned her attention forward, her blood turned to ice water in her veins.

There, mounted on the wall directly in front of Fugo, was an ornate mirror that gleamed with unnatural brightness. Its silver surface seemed to ripple like disturbed water, and Y/N could swear she saw movement in its depths; predatory and patient.

Illuso.

Shit, I wasn't paying attention and it's already happening!

"Abbacchio, Giorno, Y/N," Fugo's voice dropped to a tense whisper, his purple eyes fixed on the mirror with laser focus. "Eyes up. We have company."

Y/N could see tension coiling in his shoulders like a spring ready to snap, his hand already moving instinctively toward where Purple Haze waited in the dimensional space just beyond his consciousness.

"Well, that didn't take long..." Abbacchio muttered under his breath, immediately shifting into a defensive stance that spoke of years of combat experience and too many close calls.

"How many?" he continued, taking a calculated half-step closer to Fugo while his dark eyes swept their surroundings for additional threats. His hand hovered near his chest, ready to summon Moody Blues at a moment's notice.

"Just one, at least for now," Fugo whispered back, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead despite the cool afternoon air. "He's watching us from behind that pillar."

Both Y/N and Giorno turned to examine the pillar Fugo indicated, but Y/N's heart sank as she saw Giorno's genuinely confused expression.

"And by 'that pillar,' which one do you mean exactly?" Giorno asked softly, his voice carrying the careful tone of someone trying not to alarm a potentially unstable situation.

"Open your damn eyes, Giorno!" Fugo's voice cracked with frustration and rising panic, his usual composed demeanor fracturing like glass under pressure. "There's only one pillar there—how can you not see him?!"

Abbacchio's expression grew increasingly grim as he studied the area Fugo indicated. "Fugo, you're definitely right about the pillar being there. But there's... no one watching us."

Beads of sweat rolled freely down Abbacchio's weathered brow, and Y/N could see the exact moment he realized they were dealing with something far more dangerous than a simple ambush. His jaw tightened with the kind of tension that came from years of seeing the impossible made manifest.

"I know what I'm looking at, dammit!" Fugo's breathing became increasingly rapid and shallow, his usual analytical composure cracking under the pressure of seeing threats his teammates couldn't perceive. "He's closing in!"

"Fugo, there's nothing ther—" Y/N started to say, playing her part in the tragic farce, but Fugo cut her off with a sharp gesture.

He spun around and pointed directly at the pillar, his voice breaking with desperation. "Right there! Right THERE!"

But when his eyes followed his own pointing finger, she watched confusion and dawning horror cross his features as he realized the space was indeed empty to everyone else's perception.

"I—I know I saw him..." Fugo's voice dropped to a whisper of disbelief, his analytical mind struggling to process the contradiction. "The guy just came out from behind that pillar! I saw his every movement with this mirror!"

He pointed frantically between the mirror and the pillar, his usual strategic composure completely shattered. When he looked back at the mirror, she could see his pupils dilate with primal terror.

"W-what the hell?! There he is!! Look there, he came out!" Fugo's voice climbed in pitch as he gestured wildly between the mirror and the empty space, his breath coming in short gasps.

Y/N watched with growing dread as understanding finally dawned in Fugo's eyes. She could see him putting the pieces together—the figure only visible in reflections, the way his teammates couldn't see what he was seeing.

"Wait... is he stalking us in the mirror?" The words came out as barely more than a breath, and Y/N felt her chest tighten with sympathy for the terror she could see building in his expression.

His breathing became dangerously erratic, his chest rising and falling at a rate that made her worry he might hyperventilate. Then his eyes went wide with pure panic, the kind of fear that stripped away all pretense and left only raw survival instinct.

"He's manifesting his Stand! One of you, attack—!"

"Hey, just take a beat!" Abbacchio interrupted sharply, moving into a more defensive position. Y/N automatically mirrored his stance, her body responding to his combat experience even as her mind raced through the implications. "Nothing you've said in the last few minutes has made any sense!"

"Is something the matter with the mirror, Fugo?" Y/N asked, injecting just the right note of concerned confusion into her voice. Inside, she was screaming—she knew exactly what was happening, knew what was about to unfold, and felt sick with the knowledge that she couldn't prevent it without revealing her impossible foreknowledge.

"SHIT! He's coming in for the kill!" Fugo suddenly lunged forward, his strong hands gripping Y/N's shirt as he bodily shoved all three of them away from the mirror. His fingers dug into the fabric with desperate strength. "You HAVE to get away from the MIRRORRR!"

For a split second, Y/N's eyes met the reflection in that cursed mirror, and her heart nearly stopped. There was Illuso—exactly as she remembered him from the anime, with his distinctive quilted outfit and those cold, calculating eyes. His shoulder-length hair was tied in six neat pigtails, and holes in his vest revealed pale skin marked with what looked like tattoos or scars. But what made her blood freeze was the unmistakable expression of predatory satisfaction on his angular features, like a cat that had cornered its prey.

Holy fuck, why can I see him?! Is he going to drag me into the mirror world too?!

The realization hit her like a physical blow—if she could see Illuso in the mirror, it meant she was vulnerable to his Stand's power. She was about to be pulled into that nightmare dimension along with Fugo.

A brilliant flash of light erupted around them, and then came the pain.

It was unlike anything Y/N had ever experienced—a sensation of being torn apart at the molecular level, as if someone had taken a massive sword and cleaved her in half with surgical precision. The agony was so intense and immediate that her vision exploded into white-hot stars that burned across her retinas.

She hit the ancient stone floor with brutal force, her body unable to absorb the impact properly. Groaning, she tried to push herself up from her stomach, but something was wrong; terribly, impossibly wrong.

The pain wasn't fading. If anything, it was getting worse, spreading through her lower body like liquid fire. Her head felt light and disconnected, as if she were viewing the world through a fog of shock and blood loss.

When she managed to flip herself onto her back and tried to lift her legs, nothing happened. Her brain sent the signals, but her body refused to respond. It was like trying to move phantom limbs that no longer existed.

Wait... why isn't my body responding? And what the hell is this fucking pain?

With several agonized groans, she managed to lift her head up, and her heart stopped completely at the sight before her.

"M-my legs... they're gone!"

The scream that tore from her throat was pure animal terror. Where her legs should have been, there was nothing but ragged, bleeding stumps where they had been severed just below the hips. Her jeans had been shredded into makeshift shorts, the denim dark with blood. Crimson pooled beneath her in an ever-widening lake, and she could see her own pulse in the way the blood continued to flow in rhythmic spurts.

Hot tears cascaded down her cheeks as her chest heaved with panicked breathing. Everything around her started to become fuzzy, black dots clouding her vision like static on an old television. The metallic taste of shock filled her mouth, and she realized she was close to losing consciousness.

When she reached down instinctively, her hand came away covered with hot, sticky blood that made her stomach lurch violently.

"M-m-my legs..." she gasped, each word a struggle against the shock threatening to drag her under.

Looking at her trembling hand, she saw it painted crimson with her own life force; warm and viscous, carrying the copper scent of mortality. The sight and texture made her gag violently, but she was too weak to actually be sick.

"Ngh... gahh-! No... f-fuck! Aghh-!" The sounds escaped involuntarily as waves of agony crashed through her nervous system. She tried to hold back the moans of pain, to maintain some dignity, but it was impossible. Her body was going into shock, and she could feel herself wanting to just close her eyes and let the darkness take her.

But then she felt cold, crystalline hands at her chest, and her eyes snapped back open.

Her Stand was crouching over her, its Viking warrior form magnificent and terrible in the afternoon light. Its crystal armor caught the sun and threw prismatic rainbows across everything, but for the first time since she'd discovered its existence, Y/N could see something that looked almost like emotion in its golden eyes; a fierce determination mixed with what might have been regret.

The Stand's form was more defined now than ever before, stress and desperation sharpening its manifestation. Where before it had been somewhat translucent, now it appeared solid as stone.

Gently, it placed its armored hands on her severed stumps. As its palms began to glow with soft, warm light, Y/N watched through a haze of agony as her Stand began the impossible task of rebuilding her shattered body.

Crystal threads, finer than spider silk but stronger than steel, began weaving through her torn flesh and exposed bone. The sensation was indescribable; like having molten glass poured into her wounds, but somehow healing rather than burning. Her blood, which had been flowing freely, began gathering itself into streams of flowing ruby that her Stand carefully guided back into her circulatory system through newly formed crystal veins.

The legs that took shape were works of art—translucent quartz bones that caught and refracted light, diamond joints that moved with mechanical precision, and a network of ruby veins that pulsed with her heartbeat. The feet were crafted with delicate attention to detail, each toe articulated and functional. Where crystal met flesh, her Stand had created a seamless interface of living tissue and mineral, the connection points sealed with what looked like liquid starlight.

The process felt like it took hours, but was probably only minutes. When crystal feet finally materialized where her legs had been severed, Y/N could barely hold back a cry of relief mixed with continued pain.

The new limbs were functional but foreign; she could feel sensation through them, but it was different. Cool and sharp, like walking on shards of ice. Every step would be a reminder of what she'd lost and what she'd gained.

"H-how could this have happened?" she gasped, her voice raw from screaming. "I-I don't understand! I saw Illuso a second before he pulled Fugo in. He must've tried to pull me in too, but then I saw your flash of light and I—"

Taking a shuddering breath, she looked around at her surroundings and felt her mind struggle to process what she was seeing.

She was no longer in Pompeii; no longer in any physical place she could identify. The space around her was brilliant beyond description, so bright it was almost blinding. Colors swirled through the air like living things; every hue imaginable flowing and mixing in patterns that seemed to follow their own cosmic logic. It was like being inside a rainbow that had been scattered by a prism and set into eternal motion. The very air seemed to hum with potential energy.

While she stared in mesmerized confusion at this impossible realm, her Stand began creating something beside her. Small gems materialized in the air and arranged themselves into words that floated past like the opening crawl of a Star Wars movie, each letter carved from a different precious stone:

'I am sorry, Master. When Illuso grabbed your legs to pull you into his mirror world, I tried to stop him. I had only a split second to act, so I brought your upper body into my dimension—a space that exists between the physical world and pure light. He managed to pull your legs into his mirror realm while I pulled your torso into mine. The severing was caused by this dimensional split. I am deeply sorry.'

As the crystal words dissolved back into sparkling dust, Y/N stared in stunned silence.

"Y-you... you have a consciousness of your own, but you're still connected to me," she whispered, her mind reeling with the implications. "You can read my thoughts and follow my commands, but you also act independently to protect me..."

She tried to sit up and immediately yelped in alarm when she looked down and saw nothing below her—just more of the swirling, colorful void. The sensation was like floating in space, completely untethered from gravity or physical reality.

"H-holy fuck, are we floating?! I—God, this doesn't make any sense!"

Her Stand flickered to get her attention, its form pulsing with soft light, then created more words that sparkled like captured starlight:

'This dimension is connected to the physical world. Master is currently positioned where Fugo pushed you back, but your eyes cannot process this level of concentrated light. Everything appears as void, but if you stood and reached out, you would feel the walls that exist in the physical realm. We are invisible in this dimension—Y/N is safe here.'

"That's amazing, but no!" Y/N struggled to her feet, her new crystal legs responding but sending waves of sharp, cold pain through her torso where the hard gemstone interfaced with her living flesh. It felt like having icicles driven into her bones with every movement, the crystal conducting sensation in ways organic tissue never could. "I have to get back out there! My plan—everything depends on finding Formaggio!"

Her Stand created more words, each letter tinged with what might have been concern: 'Y/n lost significant blood. I saved what I could, but you are still in critical condition. However, I can take you to Formaggio.'

With surprising gentleness, her Stand picked her up bridal-style, its crystal armor warm against her skin despite its mineral nature. She could feel the power thrumming through its form; raw potential held in check by its protective instincts.

The Stand began moving through the dimensional space, and Y/N watched in amazement as it navigated obstacles she couldn't see; stepping over invisible barriers, turning at specific points, jumping over structures that existed only in the physical realm. Its golden eyes seemed to see through multiple layers of reality simultaneously, processing information from dimensions that human perception couldn't grasp.

The Stand's ability to perceive both dimensions simultaneously was extraordinary, like having a guide who could see through walls and across realities. It moved with purpose and grace, never hesitating, never stumbling, as if the pathway through this impossible space was as clear to it as a well-lit road.

Suddenly, it came to a halt and gently set her down.

'Formaggio is hiding behind a wall approximately forty feet from where the others are positioned. He witnessed what happened to you and is extremely distressed. Warning: once you leave my dimension, I will not have enough energy to bring you back. I have expended too much power on your reconstruction. However, I will remain in this dimensional state and follow you wherever you go. I am always watching over you, Master.'

The Stand drew its diamond sword from its belt—the blade singing as it cut through the air—and sliced through what appeared to be empty space, creating a small rift in the fabric of reality itself. The edges of the tear sparkled like broken glass, and through the gap, Y/N could see Formaggio leaning against a stone wall.

Even from a distance, she could see he was still healing; bandages wrapped around his torso where Narancia's flames had burned him, his broken leg supported by the crystal crutches she'd made. His hands covered his face in obvious distress, and his entire body shook with what might have been suppressed emotion or shock.

Y/N looked back at her Stand one final time, meeting those golden eyes that seemed to hold depths of wisdom and fierce protectiveness.

"You know the plan," she said softly.

With a confidence she didn't entirely feel, Y/N stepped through the dimensional rift.

───────────── ⚝ ─────────────

The landing was jarring; her crystal legs struck the ancient stone with a sharp, clear note that rang through the air like a bell. The sound was beautiful and haunting, like wind chimes made of starlight.

Formaggio startled violently, spinning around with a pistol already in his hands, the weapon trained on her head with practiced precision. For a moment, they stared at each other in silence. His gray eyes were wide with a mixture of recognition and disbelief, taking in her changed appearance with obvious shock.

Slowly, recognition dawned in his weathered features, and he lowered the gun with a visible effort. His face went through several expressions in rapid succession; relief, horror, fascination, and finally something that might have been grudging admiration.

"Y/N!" His voice cracked slightly, the usual casual confidence replaced by genuine concern. "Your goddamn legs are gone! Christ, I can see the blood moving through your veins in those crystal things! Oh, I think I'm gonna be sick!"

He turned away, making exaggerated gagging sounds that would have been funny under different circumstances. Despite everything, his concern seemed genuine; there was no mockery in his voice, only shock and sympathy.

Y/N chuckled despite everything, walking up to him with her new crystal legs clicking against the stone with each step. The sound was rhythmic and oddly musical, like a drummer keeping time with gemstones. "Nice to see you too, sunshine."

She calmly took the pistol from his trembling hands and slid it back into the holster on his belt. "You won't need the gun. It's too loud and would give away your position to my team."

Formaggio looked from her translucent legs to her face, his expression cycling between concern and morbid curiosity. There was something almost respectful in the way he studied her makeshift limbs; a recognition of the willpower it must have taken to survive what she'd experienced.

"Does it hurt?" he asked quietly, his usual cocky demeanor replaced by genuine worry. "I mean... I saw what happened. I thought Illuso was just going to drag you into the mirror world, but then there was that flash of light and..." He stopped, visibly struggling with the memory. "Your bloody legs just hit the floor like... like pieces of meat. For a second, I thought you were dead."

His voice grew stronger, and that familiar cocky smirk began to return, but it was tempered now with something deeper—respect. "But I see now—you really are one tough bitch, aren't you?"

Y/N found herself genuinely warming to his rough charm. In the anime, Formaggio had been just another enemy to defeat, but in person, she could see the complexity beneath his casual brutality; the way he'd genuinely been worried about her, the respect in his eyes as he looked at her makeshift legs, the careful way he supported his weight on the crutches she'd made for him.

"So what's the plan, principessa?" he asked, settling into a more comfortable position against the wall, being careful not to put too much weight on his healing leg.

Y/N carefully moved to peer over the edge of their hiding spot. The scene that greeted her was exactly as she'd expected, but no less disturbing for its familiarity.

Her severed legs lay in a growing pool of blood that had already begun to darken in the afternoon heat, the flesh taking on the waxy pallor of death. Her jeans, now reduced to ragged shorts, were dark with dried blood that told the story of her violent separation.

Giorno was kneeling beside her remains with an expression of absolute devastation, his usual composed demeanor completely shattered. His golden hair had come loose from its elaborate styling, falling around his face like a curtain as he hunched over her legs. His hands were wrapped around one thigh, just under the knee, his face pressed to the area of the inner thigh as his entire body shook with barely contained emotion. He breathed deeply, as if trying to memorize her scent, his emerald eyes bright with unshed tears.

Abbacchio stood nearby, and even from this distance she could see the way his hands shook slightly; with rage or grief, she couldn't tell. His usually stoic expression had cracked, revealing glimpses of the pain he tried so hard to hide. There was something almost protective in the way he positioned himself, as if guarding Giorno's grief from the world.

Purple Haze had already manifested, its violet form hunched and drooling as it waited for commands from its absent master.

"There's not much we can do at this exact moment," she murmured, her heart aching at the sight of Giorno's obvious anguish. The sight of his grief hit her harder than she'd expected; seeing someone care so deeply about her, even if it was based on childhood memories she couldn't fully access. "They all think I'm dead right now, and it's probably best it stays that way until we can execute the rescue."

Turning back to Formaggio, she felt that familiar surge of determination that had carried her through every impossible situation since falling into this world.

"Alright, here's what we're going to do..."

───────────── ⚝ ─────────────

Giorno's POV

It happened so fast that Giorno's mind couldn't process it in real-time. One moment Y/N was standing beside him, her eyes bright with that mysterious intelligence that always seemed to see more than she let on—just like when we were children, his heart whispered—and the next moment, there was Fugo's panicked shout, that impossible flash of light, and then—

The sound Y/N made as she was torn apart would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.

Her severed legs fell to the ancient stone with a wet, meaty impact that seemed to echo in the sudden silence. The blood was so red it looked almost black in the afternoon shadows, already beginning to pool and spread across the weathered stones like spilled wine on marble.

"NOOOO!" The word tore from his throat as he lunged forward, his hands reaching desperately for the two separated appendages as if he could somehow put her back together through sheer force of will.

The blood was still warm on his fingers, soaking through his pink suit. The sensation made him gag involuntarily, but he couldn't let go; these were all that remained of the girl who had somehow become the center of his world in such a short time. The girl from his memories, his only childhood friend who had vanished one day and left him with nothing but dreams and half-remembered laughter.

She's gone, his mind whispered with cruel clarity. She's actually gone.

Memories flooded through him; not just from their recent adventures, but from deeper places in his mind that he'd thought were just wishful dreams. Y/N's laugh when they played together as children, the way she'd shared her lunch with him when other kids wouldn't even look at him. Her fierce determination to help everyone around her, even then. The way she'd looked at him sometimes, like she could see straight through to his soul and somehow found it worthy of love.

But now she was gone, just like before. Just like when they were children and she'd moved away without warning, leaving him alone with bullies and a world that saw him as nothing more than trouble. He'd promised himself that if he ever saw her again, he'd tell her how he felt. He'd find the courage to say the words that had been trapped in his throat for years.

Now it was too late. Again.

"Mio Dio, how could I have let this happen?" he whispered, his voice breaking like glass. "She was the only one... the only one who truly understood me..."

Hot tears spilled down his cheeks as he hunched over her remains, his shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. Everything felt surreal, like he was watching someone else experience this nightmare. The scent of her skin still lingered on the torn fabric of her jeans, and it made his chest tight with loss.

I promised myself I would keep her safe, the thought circled through his mind like a curse. After losing her once, I swore I'd never let anything happen to her again. And now she's—she's—

His usual composure, that carefully maintained facade of calm control, crumbled completely. Pathetic whimpers escaped his lips as he held one of her legs closer to his chest, not caring that her blood was soaking through his suit. His face pressed against the soft flesh of her thigh, breathing in her scent while tears mixed with the dark stains spreading across his clothes.

The obsession that had been quietly growing in his heart since he'd recognized her now bloomed into something desperate and consuming. If he couldn't have her alive, he'd guard these precious remains with his life. No one else would touch them. No one else would take them from him.

Suddenly, a strong hand gripped his shoulder and yanked him backwards. Y/N's legs tumbled from his arms as he looked up to see Abbacchio's face—and was shocked to realize the older man's eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"Abbacchio, I know it's—"

"Get your newbie ass over here!" Abbacchio cut him off harshly, pulling Giorno to his feet with rough efficiency. But Giorno could see him quickly wipe at his eyes, could hear the way his voice cracked slightly despite his attempt at his usual gruff demeanor. There was something almost paternal in the way he handled Giorno's grief; protective and understanding in a way that spoke of his own losses. "We're running out of time! Move it now!"

Giorno looked back at the scene of destruction and felt his blood turn cold. Beyond Y/N's severed legs, a Stand was manifesting; hunched in a ball of purple smoke, huffing and drooling like some kind of rabid animal. But even in his grief, his tactical mind was working. He carefully gathered Y/N's legs back into his arms, cradling them possessively against his chest.

"What are we being attacked by?!" Giorno exclaimed, immediately summoning Gold Experience while pulling Y/N's legs closer to him. Dead or not, I'm not letting anything else happen to any part of her. These are mine to protect now.

"No, kid! Stand down now—that's not the enemy!" Abbacchio's voice carried a note of genuine panic that made Giorno's blood run cold. "That's Fugo's Stand!"

"Unless you wanna die, quit digging around and get back!" The fear in Abbacchio's voice was unlike anything Giorno had ever heard from the usually unflappable man, but it was edged with something else—grief that mirrored his own. Even Abbacchio had cared about her more than he'd admitted. "Move away from Purple Haze! Hurry, fool!"

Giorno pulled Y/N's legs closer to his chest, trying to ignore how much cooler they felt already. The blood had stopped flowing, coagulating into dark, sticky patches that stained everything they touched. He could feel her pulse in the wounds—or thought he could. Maybe it was just his imagination, his mind refusing to accept the finality of death.

Slowly backing up to where Abbacchio waited, Giorno kept his eyes fixed on Purple Haze's hunched figure. The Stand was panting like a wild animal, and thick drool was already beginning to gather at the corners of its mouth.

"He materialized his Stand, which means he's alive—at least for now," Abbacchio muttered, his voice tight with controlled tension. "But I can't say the same for Y/N, I—"

He stopped abruptly, looking away as if he couldn't bear to finish the sentence. There was genuine pain in his weathered features, the kind that came from losing someone who mattered.

"Dammit, where the hell did he go? How's he going to protect himself without backup?"

Purple Haze slowly rose to its feet, its entire body trembling with barely contained fury. Every movement spoke of violence held in check by the thinnest of threads.

"Get back, Giorno! You're still too close!" Abbacchio grabbed his shoulder again, trying to pull him further away, but his grip was gentler now—understanding. "Fugo almost never manifests his Stand unless he's completely out of options. He's probably fighting for his life this very second!"

But something about Purple Haze's behavior was bothering Giorno. There was a pattern to its movements, a purpose behind its apparent random agitation.

"I told you to get back!" Abbacchio's voice rose to nearly a shout.

"You're not making sense!" Giorno shoved Abbacchio's hand off his shoulder, his grief and confusion boiling over into anger. The weight of Y/N's legs in his arms made him feel protective and desperate. "Something's wrong with that mirror—we have to find Fugo and the rest of Y/N! Until we know exactly where they are, nothing else matters—"

Before he could finish, Abbacchio grabbed him by his collar and yanked his head up to eye level, their faces inches apart.

"I'm really getting tired of that mouth of yours, you piss ant! You're an annoying brown-noser, but I thought I'd be nice and give the poor newbie a heads-up!"

Purple Haze suddenly crashed into a nearby wall, lashing out in all directions with blind fury. Abbacchio immediately began retreating, pushing Giorno back with him.

"It's attacking! Giorno, get moving!"

The capsules on Purple Haze's knuckles shattered, releasing thick clouds of purple smoke into the air. Almost immediately, a flock of crows that had been flying overhead was caught in the toxic fog.

The birds didn't even have time to cry out before they fell to the ground, their bodies bubbling and decomposing as their own cells turned against them. Within seconds, they were nothing but puddles of organic matter on the ancient stones, steam rising from the dissolving remains.

"It's a lethal virus," Abbacchio explained, his voice tight with fear and respect for the deadly power on display. "That's Purple Haze's ability—it's a ghastly power."

"But how is that possible?" Giorno asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the horrific sight of the dissolving crows.

"Look at its hands," Abbacchio instructed.

Giorno examined Purple Haze more carefully and saw the large yellow capsules mounted on each of its knuckles. One had already shattered and released the current cloud of death.

"When its fists strike something, the capsules shatter, releasing the infectious agent inside into the air. Once airborne, the virus infiltrates the body through respiration or skin contact. It multiplies violently, viral pathogenesis sets in, and then..." Abbacchio gestured toward the remains of the crows. "Death. Any living organism is subject to its devastating effects—your body's metabolic functions fail as you decompose from the inside out, along with your Stand."

"And what's the range?" Giorno asked, taking a cautious step backward while unconsciously tightening his grip on Y/N's legs.

"Five meters for the virus. Since Fugo can still control his Stand, he must be within five meters of it as well."

"What about the infection radius?"

"We're safe at this distance. The virus breaks down when exposed to light—even indoor lighting will eventually neutralize it. Sunlight should have those crows disinfected before too long."

A low, groaning hiss drew their attention back to Purple Haze. The Stand was grimacing, thick drool gathering at its chin with disturbing consistency.

"Stay alert! That beast blasts its victims with viral clouds of death, then melts them into nothing. What you're looking at is the embodiment of Fugo's fury!"

Suddenly, a large drop of drool fell from Purple Haze's chin and landed on its thigh. The Stand immediately gasped and began frantically rubbing at the wet spot, trying to clean itself with obsessive determination.

"What's it doing?" Giorno asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Trying to wipe the drool off its leg. That angry grimace is its signature expression—it's extremely neurotic. The slightest bit of grime bothers it."

Purple Haze pulled its hand away from its now-clean thigh with a satisfied grunt, but then noticed that the dirt had transferred to its wrist. Gasping in horror, it began frantically rubbing one wrist against the other, only succeeding in spreading the contamination further.

In desperation, it began licking at its own wrists, but this only made things worse as more drool dripped down onto its clean thigh.

Giorno found himself almost wanting to laugh at the absurd sight, but the weight of Y/N's cold legs in his arms kept him anchored to the horrible reality of their situation.

"It doesn't seem very bright," he observed.

"We're only seeing the manifestation of Fugo's most savage impulses," Abbacchio explained. "Since that's the case, it stands to reason that Fugo can't actually see Purple Haze right now—which means he's having trouble controlling it. He would never let it act like this otherwise."

Purple Haze suddenly froze mid-motion, then lunged forward and slammed its fist directly into the mirror on the wall. The ancient glass exploded in a shower of glittering fragments that rained down like deadly confetti.

"I knew it! Fugo's lost his grip on his Stand! It's randomly attacking things in a fit of rage!" Abbacchio turned away, clearly intending to retreat. "We need to get out of here, Giorno! Now!"

But Giorno was studying the scene more carefully. Purple Haze's attack hadn't been random at all—it had struck that mirror with precise, deliberate force.

"Move it!" Abbacchio's voice was getting more desperate. "We have to go!"

Giorno turned to face him directly, his grief transforming into cold determination. His emerald eyes blazed with an intensity that made Abbacchio take a step back.

"Move to where, exactly? You don't seriously mean to abandon Fugo and Y/N here to die while we go look for some key, do you?"

The expression that crossed Abbacchio's face was one of pure fury, more intense than anything Giorno had seen from him before. But underneath the anger, there was pain—the kind that came from making impossible choices.

"I strongly suggest you watch your mouth, kid." Abbacchio stepped close enough that their bodies were almost touching, jabbing a finger hard into Giorno's chest. "Listen well—our mission is to retrieve that key and safely deliver the girl to the Boss. That's our first priority! I want to save Fugo and Y/N just as much as you do—hell, maybe even more! But getting that damn key is more important than our personal feelings!"

His voice grew quieter, but somehow more intense, carrying the weight of years of loss and hard-earned wisdom. "If it were me trapped in that mirror instead of them, I'd want you to make the exact same choice!"

Giorno met his glare without flinching, his arms instinctively tightening around Y/N's remains. "With all due respect, that's bullshit. Fugo and Y/N are in serious danger, but that doesn't mean it's over! It's our duty to bring them back safely. But first, we have to figure out how this enemy is attacking us, or we might as well surrender right now."

"WRONG! If you think this is bad, wait until all four of us are taken out! AGAIN—we are leaving NOW!"

"I won't!" Giorno's voice carried a note of steel that surprised even him, his grief giving way to fierce determination. "Finding Y/N and Fugo and defeating this enemy—that's the plan! Trust me, none of us will be safe otherwise!"

Abbacchio's hands shot out to grip Giorno's collar, hauling him up so they were face to face. The motion caused Y/N's legs to tumble from Giorno's arms, and he felt his heart break a little more as they hit the stone with a sickening thud.

"I outrank your stupid ass, you newbie prick! What I say goes! Are you still refusing my direct order?!"

Giorno said nothing, meeting Abbacchio's furious glare with steady determination. His eyes flicked down to Y/N's legs on the ground, and something possessive and desperate flashed across his features.

After a long moment, Abbacchio shoved him backward with a sound of disgust.

"Fine! It's your fucking funeral, Giorno! You'd better be prepared not to survive this fight!"

With that, Abbacchio turned and ran, heading in the direction of their original objective. Giorno watched him go with a mixture of anger and understanding; he couldn't really blame the man for choosing duty over sentiment. But he also couldn't abandon the people he cared about. Especially not her.

Turning back to Purple Haze, Giorno carefully picked up Y/N's legs again, cradling them against his chest like precious artifacts. They were noticeably cooler now, the blood having dried into dark stains, but he couldn't bring himself to abandon them. These were all he had left of his childhood friend, his first love, the girl who had understood him when no one else would.

If these were all he had left of her, he would guard them with his life.

Purple Haze was approximately fifteen feet away, still engaged in its obsessive cleaning ritual. From what he'd observed, the enemy must use reflective surfaces to drag people into some kind of mirror dimension. That's why only Fugo could see him before being taken; and since Purple Haze was here in the physical world, it meant Stands couldn't be pulled into that mirror realm.

Giorno's analytical mind began working through the tactical implications, grief temporarily pushed aside by the need to act. If I can get into that mirror world, I might be able to find Y/N. Maybe she's not completely gone. Maybe there's still a chance.

Coming up with a plan proved more complicated than anticipated, but when Purple Haze sent another devastating punch into a nearby wall, reducing ancient stone to rubble, inspiration struck.

The brick fragments gave him an idea that was either brilliant or suicidal.

If I transform a piece of debris into a living organism while it's inside Purple Haze's viral cloud, it will develop natural immunity to the disease. I can then use the organism's blood as an antibiotic after deliberately infecting myself with the virus.

It was insane, but it was also their only chance. He would allow himself to be infected, then let the enemy pull him into the mirror world. Once inside, he could infect his captor while using his immunity-granted organism to heal himself. And maybe—just maybe—he could find some trace of Y/N in that dimensional space.

Moving behind a partially collapsed structure, Giorno gently placed Y/N's legs in a sheltered spot, his hands lingering on them for a moment longer than necessary. The skin was growing pale and cold, but he couldn't stop himself from tracing the familiar curve of her thigh with trembling fingers.

"I promise," he whispered to her remains, his voice breaking with emotion. "I'll bring everyone back safely. I won't let your sacrifice be meaningless. And if there's any part of you still out there, I'll find you. I swear it."

While Purple Haze was distracted by its neurotic cleaning, Giorno sent Gold Experience forward. Carefully selecting a brick from the rubble, he began the delicate process of transforming it into a snake while positioning it within the viral cloud.

At first, the snake lay motionless, the virus overwhelming its newly formed biological systems. But slowly, incredibly, it began to move. Its cells had adapted, developing the immunity he'd hoped for.

"Yes!" he breathed, then immediately held his breath as he maneuvered Gold Experience closer to the toxic cloud.

He allowed the virus to touch just the tip of his pinky finger, feeling the immediate burn of infection spreading through his system. Phase one complete.

Suddenly, something tapped his back. Turning, he found Abbacchio's severed hand lying on the ground, the cut fresh and still bleeding. When he pried the fingers open, there was the key they'd been sent to retrieve.

Abbacchio had succeeded in his mission, even while being attacked. The dedication—and the likely sacrifice—hit Giorno like a physical blow. Despite their argument, the older man had still completed their objective.

A shimmer in his peripheral vision made him look up. A glass shard was flying toward him, and before he could react, his arm was grabbed and pulled into the mirror.

The sensation of crossing dimensional barriers was indescribable—like being turned inside out and reassembled in a single instant. When his vision cleared, he found himself in a space that seemed to exist between reflections, all silver surfaces and impossible geometries that hurt to look at directly.

The enemy Stand immediately grabbed him from behind, holding him in a grip that spoke of absolute confidence.

"Welcome to my world!" The voice belonged to a man with shoulder-length hair tied in six pigtails, wearing a distinctive quilted outfit. His pale eyes gleamed with sadistic satisfaction, and there was something cruel in the way he smiled. "I am Illuso, and you've just made your final mistake!"

Illuso held a mirror shard up to Giorno's throat, his expression one of pure predatory joy. "Any last words before I slice you apart piece by—"

Giorno's infected hand chose that moment to rupture. Bubbles that had formed on his skin burst simultaneously, releasing a concentrated cloud of purple viral death into the confined space of the mirror world.

Illuso jerked backward, his confident expression transforming into one of shock and growing horror.

"W-what?! No way, that's impossible! You infected yourself with that purple-haired bastard's virus!" His voice cracked with disbelief. "You crazy son of a bitch!"

"The key stays with me," Giorno said with grim satisfaction, allowing himself to fall to his knees as the virus spread through his system according to plan. His voice carried a cold fury that made Illuso take another step back. "And mark my words—before I'm done, I'll bring back Fugo, Y/N, and Abbacchio safe and sound!"

"You stupid brat! How dare you bring that filthy disease into my domain!" Illuso backed away frantically, but it was already too late.

The viral infection was spreading through the mirror world's closed atmosphere with terrifying efficiency. Within seconds, welts began appearing on Illuso's exposed skin.

"Arhhh-! You golden-haired idiot, you infected me too!"

"Ah," Giorno couldn't resist a small smile despite his own pain, watching with satisfaction as his enemy began to suffer, "you have the same nasty symptoms I do. Purple Haze's virus takes about thirty seconds to consume the entire body. Your life is over now—the writing was on the wall the moment you decided to pull me into your mirror world."

"T-this can't be happening!" Illuso was beginning to drool, tears forming at the corners of his eyes as panic set in.

"Damn you to hell!"

Giorno followed Illuso's desperate gaze to a mirror shard on the ground. The assassin was planning to escape, abandoning the mirror world rather than die with it.

"Don't celebrate just yet, bastard! I haven't been beaten—I just need to extract myself from this battle!" Illuso leaped toward the mirror shard, summoning his Stand with desperate fury. "Mirror Mirror, allow me to leave this hellhole! Me and only me!"

But as his body began to merge with the reflective surface, his expression changed to one of horrified realization.

"However," he gasped, his voice rising to a scream of agony, "I can't let any part of my body contaminated with the virus escape!"

With a sound that would haunt Giorno's nightmares, Illuso began to tear off his own infected flesh, his hand dissolving into bubbling organic matter as he forced his way through the mirror.

"If that cocky bastard can cut off his own hand to deliver a key," Illuso screamed through his agony, his voice echoing through the mirror world like a wounded animal's cry, "then I'm willing to do the same thing!"

"The glorious PAIN!"

At that moment, Fugo materialized beside Giorno, looking haggard but alive. His clothes were torn and bloodstained, and he moved like someone who'd been through hell, but his eyes were sharp with determination and relief at seeing his teammate.

"Giorno! Grab him before he escapes!"

But Illuso's Stand had already dissolved the muscle tissue and flesh from his arm, leaving only bone behind as he slipped through the mirror to freedom.

"He's gone..." Fugo's voice was heavy with defeat. "I pushed you to risk your life coming in here, and for what?!"

"Not necessarily," Giorno replied, his voice steady despite the viral agony coursing through his system. Despite everything, hope flickered in his chest. "If he's abandoned the mirror world, then it will collapse—and Purple Haze will be able to track him."

He gestured toward the pile of infected flesh Illuso had left behind. "I had a feeling he'd try to escape rather than die with his ability. By stepping outside his mirror world, he may have inadvertently saved both our lives."

"Fugo! Now that he's in the physical world, Purple Haze can follow him. Finish him off!"

Fugo's expression crumbled with self-recrimination. "I'm sorry, Giorno... I wish I could, but I can't tell where he is from inside here! I have no way to attack him—I'm useless!"

His voice cracked with frustration and guilt, but Giorno was already ahead of him.

A brick near Fugo's feet began moving across the floor with serpentine motion.

"I know exactly where he is. Earlier, Gold Experience transformed that brick into a snake. Snakes can detect infrared radiation from warm bodies—including human ones."

They watched as the brick-snake slithered through the mirror world, finally coming to rest at a specific point that corresponded to Illuso's location in the physical realm.

"I've got him!" Fugo's expression transformed from despair to fierce satisfaction, his purple eyes blazing with controlled fury. "Purple Haze has him pinned against a wall. Time to deliver the final blow!"

The mirror world dissolved around them, returning them to the ancient ruins of Pompeii. Purple Haze stood directly in front of them, and at its feet was what remained of Illuso—a pile of bubbling, steaming flesh that barely retained human characteristics.

"We did it!" Fugo's voice carried a note of triumph. "We broke out of that mirror hell and eliminated him!"

But then his expression shifted to one of concern as he looked at Giorno's infected hand.

"You're still infected... Once Purple Haze's virus is in your bloodstream, there's nothing I can do to stop it."

"I know," Giorno replied calmly. "But everything worked out exactly as planned."

He walked toward the pile of dissolving flesh, his movements deliberate despite the pain coursing through his system. "His refusal to admit defeat turned out to be my lucky break. Bringing my diseased body into the mirror world was the nail in his coffin. Fortunately, he recalled his powers just before I was about to succumb."

He gestured to the snake at his feet, which remained completely unaffected by the toxic purple cloud surrounding them.

"That snake was created from a brick that was immersed in Purple Haze's viral atmosphere. The virus was part of its natural habitat from birth, so it developed complete immunity."

Understanding dawned in Fugo's eyes. "Brilliant! It has natural defenses—if we extract its blood and cells, you can create an antiviral serum!"

"Exactly. Gold Experience!"

His Stand's fingers plunged into the snake's body, extracting the precious immune blood. Then, with careful deliberation, Gold Experience injected the serum directly into Giorno's chest.

The pain was indescribable—worse than the virus itself. Giorno threw his head back and screamed, collapsing as the antiviral serum battled the infection throughout his system. He rolled on the ancient stones, his body convulsing as two microscopic armies waged war in his bloodstream.

When the agony finally began to subside, he found himself on his hands and knees, struggling to breathe. Fugo stood nearby in something approaching a military salute.

"Giorno! You went above and beyond to save us. You have my eternal respect!"

But Giorno shook his head weakly, his thoughts immediately turning to the people they'd lost. "No, Fugo... I just did my part, but I'm not the one who truly risked everything. The real hero was Abbacchio—he sustained serious injuries delivering that key. If he hadn't succeeded, we'd all be dead right now."

His voice grew more urgent despite his exhaustion. "And Y/N... I thought she might be in the mirror world, but I didn't see her there. You need to find her, Fugo! Don't worry about me—Abbacchio and Y/N need urgent medical attention—"

Black spots swam across his vision as exhaustion finally claimed him. The last thing he saw before consciousness fled was Fugo's concerned face, calling his name.

───────────── ⚝ ─────────────

Y/N's POV

From her hidden vantage point, Y/N watched Illuso's battered form suddenly materialize in the physical world. He was limping badly, clutching his destroyed wrist as blood poured from the self-inflicted wound. His confident demeanor had been completely replaced by desperate survival instincts.

The quilted fabric of his outfit was torn and stained with his own blood, and even from a distance she could see him talking to himself—probably trying to process the shock of nearly dying to his own arrogance.

Beside her hiding spot, she could see Formaggio's head peeking around the corner of their concealment. Sweat beaded on his weathered forehead, and his usually relaxed demeanor had been replaced by nervous tension. The crystal crutches she'd made for him gleamed in the afternoon light, supporting his still-healing leg.

If I was in his position, I'd be terrified too, Y/N thought. He's going to have to get within striking distance of Purple Haze—one mistake and he's dead.

Suddenly, Illuso turned, his attention caught by something moving toward him. The brick-snake Giorno had created was slithering across the ancient stones, following Illuso's heat signature with unerring precision.

The assassin gasped and straightened as he felt the distinctive breath of Purple Haze rolling over his shoulder like a wave of superheated death. It took only a split second for the Stand to appear behind him, its powerful hand wrapping around Illuso's throat and slamming him against the nearest wall.

Purple Haze lifted him effortlessly, holding him suspended by his neck alone. Illuso's legs kicked frantically, but he was completely at the mercy of Fugo's deadly Stand.

Y/N watched with grim satisfaction as Purple Haze drew its fist back for what should have been the killing blow. This was the moment—the split second when everything would be decided.

Illuso's eyes darted desperately to a small shard of mirror glass embedded in the wall beside them. His Stand materialized from the reflective surface, its hands shooting out to grab Purple Haze's incoming punch.

The mirror-based Stand managed to stop the blow just centimeters from Illuso's head. For a moment, the assassin's face lit up with triumphant laughter—he thought he'd found his escape route.

But his celebration was premature. The yellow capsule on Purple Haze's knuckle cracked from the impact and began to rupture.

That's when Formaggio struck.

Moving with the speed and precision of a professional killer, he rushed from their hiding place despite his injured leg. His Stand, Little Feet, manifested and stabbed Illuso in the leg with its needle-like appendage.

The shrinking effect was instantaneous—Illuso's body compressed to pocket size in milliseconds, too fast for Purple Haze to register what had happened.

As the viral capsule finally burst and filled the area with deadly purple smoke, a brilliant flash of light erupted from Y/N's position. Her Stand materialized in Illuso's exact location, having transformed itself into a perfect physical replica of the assassin.

The crystalline warrior screamed in Illuso's voice as Purple Haze's fists hammered into it again and again. Y/N felt each blow as a dull ache in her own body—her Stand was absorbing and redirecting the damage, but she could still feel echoes of the impacts rippling through her consciousness.

As her Stand "died" under the viral assault, it dissolved into millions of microscopic ruby fragments that flowed together to perfectly mimic spilled blood. The performance was flawless—even she had to admire the artistry of the deception.

The fake corpse bubbled and dissolved exactly as the real Illuso would have, leaving behind only a puddle of crystalline "flesh" that looked indistinguishable from the real thing.

As Fugo and Giorno materialized back in the physical world, Y/N's Stand vanished in another flash of light, its mission complete.

"Perfect," she whispered, watching her teammates examine the fake remains.

Now came the hardest part—staying hidden while Formaggio convinced the miniaturized Illuso to cooperate with their plan.

─────────── ⚝ ───────────

At their predetermined meeting point behind an ancient stone structure, Y/N found Formaggio holding the tiny, furious form of Illuso in his palm. The assassin was gesticulating wildly, his voice too small to carry beyond Formaggio's cupped hands.

"Excellent work, Formaggio," she said, giving him a congratulatory punch to the shoulder that made him grin despite the tension. "Not a single mistake. I watched the entire performance."

"Ah, I told you I could handle it, principessa," he replied with that cocky smirk she was beginning to find genuinely charming. His gray eyes sparkled with satisfaction and something warmer—pride at having earned her approval. "Now you owe me that kiss I asked for earlier."

He winked at her, and despite everything that had happened, Y/N felt her cheeks warm slightly.

"We'll see about that reward later," she said, turning her attention to the tiny figure in his palm. "Hello there, little Illuso. I'm guessing Formaggio already explained everything, but I can see you're still upset..."

"Yeah! Of course I'm fucking upset!" Illuso's voice came out in adorable squeaks that completely undermined his attempt at intimidation. "I just lost my hand and almost died to that psychotic Stand's virus! And I'm not thanking either of you for 'saving' me!"

Y/N laughed, taking him from Formaggio's hand and bringing him up to eye level. Her gaze met his tiny form with unmistakable authority.

"Well, Illuso, your life was worth saving. But make no mistake—if I wanted to take it myself, that would be child's play." Her smile was sweet, but her voice carried steel that made even the miniaturized assassin flinch. "You tore my legs from my body. As punishment, you'll stay without your hand unless I'm feeling generous. Which I'm not. So it's simple—cooperate with us and stay hidden, or die. Your choice."

Illuso turned away, his tiny foot tapping against her palm in frustration.

"UGH! From what Formaggio told me, I guess you really do want to keep our team alive. But this whole Boss situation is confusing! I don't understand how your team will eventually want to kill the Boss like ours does, but only after you've killed all of us first! We could save resources and lives if we just worked together from the start—"

"That's the thing," Y/N interrupted, pointing between herself and Formaggio. "We will be the ones saving your team's lives. All you need to do is stay hidden and off the radar. I'll keep in contact with both of you... Now, can you do that for me, Illuso?"

He hissed and pulled at his hair in frustration before finally meeting her eyes again, his expression sullen but resigned.

"Fine! But only because Formaggio convinced me, not you! I'm not an idiot—of course I value my life!"

"Good. Formaggio, return him to normal size."

With a nod, Formaggio summoned Little Feet again. As Y/N placed the tiny Illuso on the ground, the Stand reversed its effect, returning him to his original height.

"Shit! Ughhh!" Illuso groaned as his body expanded, the pain from his severed hand returning in full force.

He lost his balance and would have fallen if Y/N hadn't caught him, gently lowering him to lean against the wall. Despite his nasty attitude, she couldn't leave him in such pain.

"You're lucky, Illuso. I'm feeling merciful today."

She summoned her Stand, which immediately began crafting a replacement hand from pure quartz. The process was intricate and beautiful; first came the bone structure, formed from flawless diamonds that caught and refracted the light. Then came the joint mechanisms, crafted from sapphires that would never wear or break. Veins of ruby threaded through the transparent flesh, ready to carry his blood. The fingernails were perfect pearls, and the skin was living crystal that would respond to his nerve impulses.

Illuso watched in fascination and horror as his blood began circulating through the transparent veins of his new hand. The sensation of feeling returning to fingers he'd thought lost forever was overwhelming.

"W-what the hell is this stuff?" he stammered, flexing his crystal fingers experimentally. The hand moved perfectly, responding to his thoughts as if it had always been part of him.

"I gave you back your hand," Y/N replied simply, then pulled up the sleeve of her jacket to reveal how her own forearm had been replaced by the same crystalline material; the skin had been burned away down to the bone, leaving only her Stand's reconstruction. "I suggest wearing a glove to hide it from others."

She helped him to his feet, noting how he stared at her with a mixture of confusion, gratitude, and something that might have been respect.

"Thank you..." he mumbled, so quietly she almost didn't hear it.

"Don't worry, Illuso," Formaggio chuckled, nudging his teammate's shoulder. "You'll learn to love her eventually."

His wink made Y/N turn away to hide her blush. Damn Formaggio and his relentless charm!

But her embarrassment was quickly replaced by urgency as she remembered what came next.

"Alright, listen up," she said, her voice growing serious. "Pesci and Prosciutto are next on the list. I don't have a complete plan yet—I don't even remember exactly how they die—but I know it happens on a train."

She looked between the two assassins, one confident and grinning, the other confused and wary.

"You'll need to discreetly follow my team without being detected. We'll finalize the plan once we're on the train. Understood?"

Formaggio nodded enthusiastically while Illuso just looked around in bewilderment.

"Hey, wait! How do you know all this is going to happen?" Illuso demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at her.

"I told Formaggio, and I'll tell you the same thing," Y/N replied mysteriously. "I've seen everything that's supposed to happen, and I want to change the ending."

She turned to leave, then paused to look back at them one final time.

"Just meet me at the train station. And good luck, you two."

"Don't worry, principessa!" Formaggio called after her. "We'll be there!"

As she walked away, Y/N couldn't help but smile. Formaggio's enthusiasm was infectious, and even Illuso seemed to be warming up to the idea of working with her. Maybe, just maybe, she could actually save everyone.

─────────── ⚝ ───────────

Walking back toward where Purple Haze had supposedly "killed" Illuso, Y/N could see Giorno lying unconscious on the ground while Fugo knelt beside him in obvious panic. But what made her heart clench was the sight of her own severed legs cradled in Fugo's arms like precious artifacts.

Why does he have my legs? she wondered with humor. Well, actually, it's good that he does. When we get back to Bruno, he can use Sticky Fingers to reattach them properly.

The crystal legs her Stand had created were becoming increasingly painful where the hard gemstone interfaced with her living flesh. It felt like her body was rejecting the foreign material, and she could see fresh drops of blood seeping from the connection points. The interface was raw and tender, like having splinters driven deep into her bones.

She wiped some of the blood on her fingers and smeared it across her face for effect. Her shirt was already soaked with blood from the initial injury, and her jeans had been transformed into ragged shorts by the violent separation, the torn edges dark with dried blood.

Taking a deep breath, she limped out from her hiding place behind the wall, her crystal legs clicking against the ancient stones with each step.

"Fugo!" she called loudly.

He jumped and nearly dropped her legs, letting them fall to the stone as he spun to face her. His expression cycled rapidly through shock, relief, and overwhelming concern.

"Y/N! What happened to you?! I—I didn't even know anything was wrong until Giorno told me something had happened to you and Abbacchio, I—"

His voice broke as he looked down at her crystal legs, his face pale with horror and something deeper—a kind of anguish that spoke of genuine care.

"Then I found... your legs behind a wall. I almost threw up at the sight... Are you okay? I can see you've somehow..."

He gestured helplessly at her translucent lower limbs, clearly struggling to process what he was seeing.

"I'm okay, Fugo," she lied smoothly. "I had my Stand create temporary legs. It still hurts like hell, but I'll survive."

Immediately, Fugo's hands came up to cup her cheeks, his purple eyes scanning her face with intense concern. His thumbs gently wiped away the blood she'd smeared there, and she was startled by how tender the gesture was. She hadn't expected him to care so deeply, hadn't prepared herself for the warmth in his touch or the way his eyes held hers.

"No, you're not okay. Tell me what really happened, Y/N." His voice was soft but firm, and his gaze remained locked on hers with an intensity that made her heart race. There was something almost desperate in his expression—as if he needed to understand, needed to process what had happened to her so he could somehow fix it.

His thumbs continued their gentle motion against her cheeks, and she found herself drowning in the genuine care and worry she saw in his purple eyes. Her heart began racing, and she felt heat rising in her cheeks that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the unexpected intimacy of the moment.

"I—what happened was, Illuso tried to pull me into the mirror world along with you. But my Stand tried to pull me back at the same time. When Illuso closed the portal after taking you, it severed my legs... then I—"

"Shh," he interrupted softly, placing a finger against her lips. The gesture was so unexpectedly intimate that it made her breath catch. "I understand. Don't strain yourself anymore..."

Y/N blinked, her eyes darting away from his intense gaze and somehow landing on his lips instead. The moment stretched between them, charged with unspoken emotions and the aftermath of trauma.

A soft chuckle escaped him, and she could hear the fondness in it.

"What's this, Y/N? You can't look me in the eyes, but you're staring at my lips instead?"

His thumbs continued their gentle motion against her cheeks, and his voice dropped to an intimate whisper that made her pulse quicken.

Why is he acting like this? I didn't know he cared so much about me...

The intensity of the moment was overwhelming. There was something raw and vulnerable in Fugo's expression that she'd never seen before; as if seeing her injured had stripped away all his usual emotional barriers. His purple eyes held a depth of feeling that made her chest tight.

Y/N gently pulled her face away from his hands, looking down at the ground as her cheeks burned with embarrassment and something deeper she wasn't ready to name.

"W-we should check on Abbacchio..." she mumbled, trying to regain her composure.

"Oh, Madonna, you're right!" Fugo immediately refocused, his concern shifting to their missing teammate, though his eyes lingered on her face for a moment longer. "I want you to stay here and don't strain those legs anymore. I'll go find Abbacchio and we can all head back to the van together."

"But I—"

He silenced her with another gentle shush, his hand briefly touching her shoulder.

"Please, Y/N. Let me take care of this. You've been through enough." There was something almost desperate in his voice—a need to protect her that went beyond simple teamwork.

He walked away to search for their wounded teammate, but not before glancing back at her one more time, his expression unreadable.

Left alone with the unconscious Giorno, Y/N couldn't help but smile slightly despite everything. She carefully moved to his side and gently positioned him flat on his back, studying his peaceful expression.

"Wake up, sleeping beauty," she whispered, giving his cheek a light tap.

When that didn't work, she tried again with a bit more force.

"Come on, we don't have all day!"

But he remained deeply unconscious, his body still recovering from the viral infection and cure.

With a resigned sigh, Y/N found herself studying his features more closely. His golden hair had come partially loose from its usual elaborate styling, and she couldn't resist reaching out to touch the silky strands.

"So soft..." she murmured, carefully repositioning his head on her lap; being mindful of her crystal legs.

As she began gently unbraiding his tangled hair, she found herself genuinely relaxed for the first time since arriving in this world. There was something meditative about the simple task, something that reminded her of a more innocent time before Stands and assassins and life-or-death battles.

His hair was longer than she'd realized, reaching just below his shoulders when freed from its constraints. The golden strands caught the late afternoon light beautifully, making him look almost ethereal.

"You know, you'd look like a literal angel if you wore your hair down more often," she said softly, beginning to rebraid it in a more comfortable style.

She was humming quietly to herself when she felt arms wrap around her lower back, making her jump.

"What the—?!"

"Y/N..." Giorno's voice was soft and drowsy, his emerald eyes looking up at her through heavy lids. His cheeks were slightly flushed, and there was something vulnerable in his expression she'd never seen before—a raw need that made her breath catch.

His arms tightened around her, pulling himself closer with a desperation that spoke of someone who'd thought they'd lost everything.

"Giorno, are you okay? I—"

"Please," he whispered, his voice catching in his throat with emotion so intense it made her heart ache. "I thought you were dead... I'm so incredibly happy to see your beautiful face again."

His hand reached up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing across her lips with heartbreaking tenderness. There was something almost worshipful in the gesture, as if he was trying to convince himself she was real.

Y/N froze at the intimate gesture, her heart hammering against her ribs. The look in his eyes was so intense, so full of longing and relief and something deeper that it made her feel exposed and treasured all at once.

"I'm sorry I worried you," she managed to say. "My legs will be fine once Bruno reattaches the original ones..."

But Giorno wasn't listening to her words. His eyes remained fixed on hers with an intensity that made her feel like he could see straight through to her soul. There was something almost fevered in his gaze; the look of someone who'd stared death in the face and found salvation.

"Y/N, I—" His voice was thick with emotion, years of suppressed feelings threatening to spill over. "I thought I'd lost you forever, just like when we were children. I can't... I won't let that happen again."

His grip on her tightened, possessive and desperate.

"Y/N! Giorno! Glad to see you're both alive and well," Fugo's voice cut through the moment like a blade, though there was something strained in his tone as he took in their intimate position. "I found Abbacchio. It's time to go!"

He approached carrying the unconscious Abbacchio in his arms—a feat that impressed Y/N given the size difference between them. But she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened as he looked at Giorno's arms around her.

"Fugo, I don't know how you can lift Abbacchio," she said, trying to lighten the suddenly tense mood. "That man weighs a ton!"

"I'm stronger than I look," Fugo replied with a slight smirk, though his purple eyes never left the sight of Giorno's possessive hold on her.

Giorno reluctantly released her and struggled to his feet, still somewhat unsteady from his ordeal. Y/N stood as well, wrapping a supportive arm around his waist as he swayed slightly.

"I might be a little dizzy, but I'm feeling much better," he assured her. "The virus is completely gone from my system."

Y/N summoned her Stand to retrieve her severed legs from where they'd fallen, the crystalline warrior handling the grisly task with its usual efficiency.

"I'd call this mission successful," Fugo declared as they began moving toward Pompeii's exit. "Despite the injuries involved."

"I'd say this was my first and last visit to Pompeii," Y/N replied with humor. "I'm never coming back here again!"

As they walked through the ancient ruins toward their waiting van, Giorno remained close to her side, his arm around her waist ostensibly for support but lingering longer than strictly necessary. His hand drifted lower along her waist, fingers tracing where her jean pants had been cut into shorts, feeling the smooth crystal surface of her new legs through the torn fabric. The sensation seemed to fascinate him, the contrast between warm flesh and cool gemstone.

Fugo walked slightly ahead, carrying Abbacchio, but Y/N could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he glanced back at them with an expression she couldn't quite read.

Behind them, the setting sun cast long shadows through the archaeological site, painting everything in shades of gold and crimson that seemed oddly appropriate for a place where so much blood had been spilled.

It was going to be a long ride back to base; but they were all alive, and that was what mattered.

Now she just had to figure out how to save Pesci and Prosciutto before their next deadly encounter.

As they reached the van, Y/N couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted between her and her teammates. The way Giorno looked at her now; possessive and desperate. The protective intensity in Fugo's eyes. Even unconscious, Abbacchio seemed more relaxed in their presence than she'd ever seen him.

She'd saved Illuso and Formaggio, but in doing so, she'd also revealed more of herself than she'd intended. The bonds forming around her felt both comforting and suffocating; a web of care and obsession that would either protect her or consume her.

Only time would tell which.

Chapter Text

"See what I told you, Abbacchio?" Bruno's voice, laced with a soft hiss of frustration, broke the heavy silence that had settled over the isolated safe house. He crouched beside Y/N, the metallic whine of "Sticky Fingers" echoing as golden zippers materialized around her severed leg. "I knew you'd get into trouble, Y/N, but I didn't expect the same from him. I'm such an idiota. I should never have let you go with them."

The reattachment process was painful but mesmerizing. 

Y/N watched in fascination and agony as Bruno's Stand carefully aligned bone with bone, nerve with nerve. The golden zippers sealed flesh together with supernatural speed, but her body still registered every reconnection as fire racing through her nervous system.

A soft wince escaped her lips as the warmth of her blood returned, coursing through the newly reconnected veins like liquid lightning. The sensation was indescribable. Part relief, part torture, as her severed limb came back to life. She leaned back against the cold concrete wall, avoiding Bruno's intense gaze as his dark blue eyes studied her face for signs of distress.

Her eyes drifted past him, settling on Abbacchio, who leaned against the opposite wall, clutching his own reattached wrist with careful fingers. The silver-haired man's face was a mask of stoic endurance, but Y/N could see the telltale signs of pain in the way his jaw clenched and his breathing remained carefully controlled.

His violet eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, his lips pressed into a thin line that spoke of years of swallowing discomfort without complaint. He's in more pain than he's letting on, Y/N thought, watching as he attempted to wiggle his fingers experimentally. The movement was stiff, unnatural. A reminder that even Sticky Fingers' miraculous abilities couldn't completely erase trauma.

Abbacchio's gaze drifted down to her legs, where Bruno was now working on reattaching her right limb with the same methodical care. What's he feeling? Y/N wondered, studying his expression. Regret? Guilt? For his arm, certainly, but there was something deeper in his eyes when he looked at her. A protective concern that he'd never admit aloud.

It's not his fault I lost my legs, Y/N reminded herself firmly. If anyone's to blame, it's Fugo, for grabbing me when Illuso pulled him into that cursed mirror. But even as she thought it, she knew the blame game was pointless. They were all just trying to survive in a world where one wrong step could mean death, or worse.

"There," Bruno said softly, his Stand dissipating as the final zipper sealed shut. "Try moving them slowly."

Y/N scoffed lightly, more at the situation than at Bruno's gentle instruction, and grunted as she sat up straighter. Her newly reattached legs felt foreign, like borrowing someone else's limbs. She inspected the connection where Bruno's power had worked its miracle, running her fingers along the angry red scar lines that marked where the zippers had sealed her flesh back together. Permanent reminders of how close she'd come to losing everything.

Wiggling her toes in her torn shoes, the leather split and stained with dried blood, she sighed with a mixture of relief and frustration. Damn, I really need new clothes. These holes are ridiculous. The thought struck her as absurdly mundane given what she'd just survived. Her jeans had been reduced to ragged shorts by Illuso's dimensional attack, the frayed edges a testament to how close she'd come to losing far more than just her legs.

But fuck, it feels so good to have feeling back! The sensation was overwhelming. Pins and needles that gradually gave way to proper sensation, warmth spreading through limbs that had been nothing but crystal and determination mere hours ago.

She leaned her head back against the wall with a deep sigh of relief, closing her eyes for just a moment. The simple pleasure of having two working legs again was almost enough to make her forget the danger they were still in. Almost.

A soft chuckle interrupted her moment of peace, warm and fond in a way that made her chest tight. Looking up, she met Bruno's gaze. Those dark blue eyes seemed to see straight through to her soul, filled with relief, concern, and something deeper that made her pulse quicken.

"Y/N," he murmured, his voice carrying that particular intensity that made her feel like the most important person in his world, "you're going to have to be more careful on our missions." His thumb brushed against her ankle. Ostensibly checking the reattachment, but the gesture felt more intimate than medical.

Turning to Abbacchio, Bruno's expression grew stern. "I do not enjoy reattaching limbs, especially when the injuries could have been prevented."

Abbacchio's response was a grunt that could have meant anything, but Y/N caught the flash of something that might have been remorse in his violet eyes.

With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of too many close calls, Bruno stood and offered Y/N his hand. His fingers were warm and steady, calloused from years of combat but gentle as they wrapped around hers.

She took his hand gratefully, letting him pull her to her feet. The moment her legs bore her full weight, a sharp hiss escaped her lips. Pain shot through both limbs. Not the screaming agony of separation, but the deep, throbbing ache of tissue that had been traumatized and forced back together.

Her legs trembled like a newborn colt's, muscles confused by the sudden return of sensation and responsibility. She took a tentative half-step, wincing as her weight shifted, then another. Each movement was careful, deliberate, a test of Bruno's miraculous repair work.

Before she could take a third step, two pairs of arms wrapped around her, supporting her weight with surprising gentleness. She looked up in surprise to find Bruno and Abbacchio flanking her, their faces set with identical expressions of determination.

"Abbacchio, you shouldn't—" she started, her eyes flicking to his injured wrist. "Your hand—"

"Yeah, yeah, it's just my hand," he grumbled, but his voice lacked its usual sharp edge. His arm around her waist was solid and warm, taking her weight without complaint. "You had both your legs cut off. If anyone needs help, it's you."

There was something almost tender in the way he lifted her slightly, taking pressure off her healing limbs as they made their way toward the exit. Y/N found herself caught between them. Bruno's steady strength on one side, Abbacchio's protective bulk on the other, feeling safer than she had since the whole nightmare began.

They emerged from the safe house into the open air, surrounded by endless rows of grape vines stretching toward the horizon. The isolated house sat like a lonely sentinel among miles and miles of vineyard fields, chosen specifically for its distance from prying eyes. But after Narancia's fight with Formaggio in the nearby town, they all knew their time here was limited.

The white van waited out front, its paint job gleaming in the afternoon sun. Bruno opened the back doors with practiced efficiency, revealing the rear seats with enough space for their wounded teammates.

"Let's put her in the back," Bruno said to Abbacchio, his voice carrying the authority of a leader who'd made too many medical decisions. "There's more legroom for her to stretch out."

Abbacchio nodded, his usual argumentative nature subdued by genuine concern. He gently handed her over to Bruno, who lifted her with surprising ease and placed her in the corner of the back seat. The vinyl was cool against her skin, and she had to resist the urge to curl up and sleep for a week.

"Thanks for the help," she said, turning to both of them with a small but genuine smile. Despite everything, the pain, the fear, the impossible situation they found themselves in, she felt a warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with her healing injuries. "My legs will be sore for a few hours, but I'll be fine soon!"

Bruno's answering smile was soft and relieved, transforming his usually serious features into something almost boyish. "Rest while you can. We still have a long journey ahead of us."

"Yeah, don't get used to it though," Abbacchio grumbled, but there was no real bite in it. "You're not getting anymore special treatment."

He headed to the front of the van, settling into the passenger seat with a barely audible wince as his injured wrist protested the movement. Bruno checked his watch. A simple gesture that carried the weight of their urgent timeline.

"I'll get Trish and the others," he muttered, already moving back toward the house. "We need to leave. We've been here too long. Every minute we stay in one place increases the risk. Narancia's fight drew attention, we have to assume enemies are closing in."

Y/N leaned back against the seat, finally allowing herself to stretch her aching legs. The simple act of extending her limbs, feeling the pull of muscles and the flex of joints, was a miracle she'd never take for granted again.

She watched Bruno disappear back into the building, his figure silhouetted against the doorway. Even at a distance, she could see the tension in his shoulders, the weight of leadership that never seemed to leave him.

A yawn escaped her as her eyelids grew heavy. The adrenaline that had carried her through the crisis was finally fading, leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion that threatened to pull her under.

───────────── ⚝ ─────────────

"UGGGHHHH! That HURT, dumbass!" A loud yell snapped Y/N awake with all the gentleness of a slap to the face. She flinched, rubbing sleep from her eyes as the van's interior came back into focus.

The vehicle was now full, cramped with bodies and tension. Mista and Fugo sat in the back seat across from her, while Trish had somehow squeezed in beside her. The pink-haired girl's green eyes were wide with concern as she studied Y/N's face.

"You're such a drama queen!" Narancia's voice rang out from the middle row, his tone mixing exasperation with amusement. "I'd be happy if my hand had any feeling at all!"

Y/N looked forward, seeing Giorno in the driver's seat, his golden hair catching what little light filtered through the van's windows, while Narancia twisted around Bruno from the middle seats to point accusingly at Abbacchio in the passenger seat. The silver-haired man was glaring at a small key he'd apparently dropped, his pale fingers trembling slightly as he picked it up.

"Well, it's only been reattached for thirty minutes, idiot!" Abbacchio snarled, holding the key up toward the van's ceiling as if examining a precious artifact. "Of course it hurts. But enough of that—listen to this."

His voice took on a formal tone as he read from the inscription visible within the key's jeweled surface. "You safeguarded my daughter's life, and therefore you have my gratitude. Go to platform six at Naples station. Look for the turtle at the water fountain, and use this key. You are to take her to Venice by train. Hmm, postscript says directives will cease once we've arrived in Venice."

He lowered the key, fixing Bruno with a questioning stare. "What the hell are we supposed to find at this water fountain?"

Giorno's knuckles were white on the steering wheel as he navigated through Naples' increasingly busy streets. Bruno answered from the middle seat, his voice steady, "Don't know. But the Boss said it's a way to travel under the enemies' radar. It'll be risky, but we have to trust him."

Shit, I completely forgot! The thought hit Y/N like a physical blow, cutting through her post-sleep haze with sharp clarity. I should be thinking of a plan too! How am I going to save Prosciutto and Pesci? My brain's not functioning right now!

The internal panic must have shown on her face because Trish immediately touched her arm, her voice soft with concern. "Y/N, are you alright?"

"Yeah, just... still waking up," Y/N managed, forcing a smile.

Before the conversation could continue, Narancia's excited voice cut through the tension. "Wait, guys! Do you think the Boss is already there? Like, waiting for us in Venice?"

"That doesn't concern us right now," Bruno said firmly, his eyes meeting each of theirs as he turned in his seat. "Our focus is on the mission. There's a train to Florence departing in ten minutes, and we need to be on it."

He looked toward the back. "Mista, are we alone?"

Mista had been unusually quiet, his dark eyes scanning the streets through the rear window with professional paranoia. "Looks clear for now," he said, his voice carrying a note of unease. "But the station will be crawling with snitches. We'll be exposed the moment we step onto that platform."

"Hey, Y/N..." Trish said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her green eyes held a mixture of curiosity and worry as she studied Y/N's face. "No one would tell me what happened in Pompeii. They just said there was some kind of accident..."

Y/N felt all eyes in the van turn toward her, the weight of their collective attention almost physical. She could see the concern in their faces, the careful way they were all avoiding looking directly at her legs.

"Trish, don't worry," she said, patting the girl's knee with what she hoped was reassuring confidence. "I'll be honest with you. I got my legs chopped off."

The silence that followed was deafening. Trish's mouth dropped open, her face cycling through shock, horror, and disbelief.

"What?!" she finally managed to squeak out. "You tell me not to worry, then say THAT?! That's definitely something to worry about!"

"No, no, I didn't finish," Y/N said quickly, pulling up the torn hem of her shorts to show Trish the angry red scar lines where Bruno's zippers had reattached her limbs. "Bruno reattached them with 'Sticky Fingers'! Good as new!"

"Good as new?!" Trish exclaimed, staring at the vivid scars with a mixture of amazement and lingering horror. "You can't just casually mention losing body parts like that!"

THUMP!

The van lurched suddenly as Giorno hit the brakes, sending everyone forward in their seats. Fugo, who hadn't been bracing properly, was launched from his seat directly into Y/N and Trish.

Fugo's face pressed against her chest, his hand landing squarely on Trish's. 

"Please, Trish, Y/N! Forgive Fugo! He didn't mean to come off as an over ego horn dog!" Mista immediately grabbed Fugo's shirt, hauling him backward with desperate strength. His voice was breaking with panic and secondhand embarrassment.

"I know it seems like we hit the breaks so my man here could peek at those chanti jiggle sacks but I give you my word that's not it! " Mista continued, his words tumbling over each other in his haste to explain. "Blame is weakness in the face of boobs—"

"Just shut up, would ya!" Fugo hissed, his face burning red as he jabbed Mista hard in the chest. "I was bracing for impact, and you're making it sound like I was trying to caught a feel!"

Mista fell to his knees in the cramped aisle between seats, hands clasped together in supplication. "Just promise me whatever you do you won't tell the bossss!"

Fugo grabbed Mista's collar, slamming him back into his seat with more force than strictly necessary. "I'm sorry," he said stiffly to Y/N and Trish, his purple eyes avoiding direct contact. "It's my fault for not wearing my seatbelt properly."

Y/N exchanged a look with Trish, who was trying very hard not to giggle at the absurd display of masculine panic happening in front of them.

"It's okay, Fugo," Y/N said with theatrical seriousness, watching as a bead of nervous sweat trickled down his cheek. "But if it happens again..." She paused for dramatic effect, enjoying the way his eyes widened with apprehension. "We'll do something prettyyyy bad to you. It'll be a surprise, but you'll hate it. So buckle up!"

Fugo's face went from red to pale in record time, and he immediately began fumbling with his seatbelt with unprecedented urgency.

Turning toward the front of the van, Y/N called out, "Giorno, how much longer until we reach the station?"

"At least fifteen minutes," came his calm reply, though she caught the slight tension in his shoulders that suggested he was fully aware of the chaos his driving had caused.

Y/N groaned dramatically, settling back into her seat. Looking at Trish, she could see the girl was still processing the casual insanity of their situation. The missing limbs, the supernatural healing, the accidental groping, all treated as just another day in the life of a Passione team.

She looks bored already, Y/N observed, noting how Trish was starting to fidget in the confined space. Might as well make the best of this.

"Hey, guys," she said to Mista and Fugo, who were still recovering from their embarrassment, "let's play a game!"

"A game?" Mista perked up immediately, his earlier panic forgotten. "What kind of game?"

"Yeah, I'm curious too," Trish added, leaning forward with interest.

"Twenty Questions," Y/N said. "I think of something, and you guys have to guess what it is by asking yes or no questions."

"Sounds easy enough," Fugo said, though his mind was already working. "You go first."

───────────── ⚝ ─────────────

Giorno's confident estimate of "fifteen minutes" stretched into fifty-two minutes of stop-and-go traffic through Naples' congested streets. What should have been a simple drive became an endurance test of patience and cramped limbs.

Y/N had taken charge of entertainment, teaching her teammates a variety of games from her world. Word games, riddle contests, and mental challenges that helped pass the time. She won eighteen out of twenty games, mostly because she had to explain the rules as they went along.

"How do you know so many games?" Fugo asked after losing spectacularly at Twenty Questions for the third time. His mind was clearly frustrated by the unfamiliar patterns.

"I read a lot," Y/N lied smoothly. "Picked them up from various places."

"Well, you're clearly better at this than us," Mista laughed, not seeming bothered by his losses. "Though I bet I could beat you at Russian Roulette."

"That's not funny, Mista," Trish said, though she was smiling.

"What? I'm just saying, some games favor different skills!" He grinned at Y/N. "Maybe you could teach us more games sometime? You know, when we're not running for our lives."

Is he flirting? Y/N wondered, catching the playful tone in his voice. She rolled her eyes but smiled back. "Sure, if we survive this."

Narancia had joined in enthusiastically, his childlike excitement making even the simplest games feel like grand adventures. Trish proved surprisingly competitive, her strategic mind making her a tough opponent despite her privileged background.

By the time they finally reached Naples station, the cramped van felt more like a mobile living room than a vehicle. The games had broken down barriers, creating an easy camaraderie that would be important for what was coming.

"Finally," Giorno muttered, pulling into a parking space with visible relief. "Everyone stay alert. From this moment forward, we're in enemy territory."

The station was a monument to Italian architecture and human chaos. Soaring ceilings supported by marble columns, vast spaces filled with the constant motion of travelers, and enough hiding places for a dozen assassins. The afternoon light slanted through high windows, creating dramatic patterns of light and shadow across the polished floors.

Thirty minutes later, they stood outside a conductor's office on the platform, tension radiating from every member of the group. 

Narancia and Mista had resumed their eternal bickering, this time over who was carrying whose luggage. Trish picked at her perfectly manicured nails, a nervous habit that betrayed her anxiety despite her composed exterior. Fugo stood lost in thought, probably running tactical calculations in his head. Abbacchio had retreated into his music, headphones creating a barrier between him and the world.

How am I going to save them? Y/N's mind raced as she scanned the crowded platform. Somewhere in this maze of people and pillars, Prosciutto and Pesci were already positioning themselves for attack. Illuso and Formaggio are here too, she reminded herself. Good thing I told them to bring ice. The plan's risky, but it might just work.

"Is something wrong?" Giorno's voice broke through her racing thoughts. He was looking at Bruno, who had crouched down beside an ornate water fountain at the center of the platform.

Y/N's heart leaped. He grabs the turtle and takes us inside! This was it, the moment that would change everything.

"Everyone, huddle up," she said quickly, pulling the others into a tight circle. "Something's about to happen."

"What? Y/N, what are you talking about?" Fugo asked, his purple eyes sharp with confusion.

Before anyone could protest or ask more questions, Bruno's voice rang out with discovery. "Found it!"

He grabbed Giorno's hand, and Giorno immediately reached out to grasp Y/N's shirt. The chain reaction was instantaneous—everyone connected just as the world dissolved around them in a flash of golden light.

The sensation of being pulled through dimensions was like being sucked through a straw made of starlight. Y/N felt herself tumbling through impossible space, reality bending and shifting around her until—

THUD.

She landed upside down on something soft and cushioned, the breath knocked from her lungs. A familiar weight crashed down on top of her—Mista, naturally, his elbows digging into her ribs.

"The key wasn't made to fit in a keyhole, but it fit perfectly in the shell of this turtle," Bruno's voice explained as Y/N roughly pushed Mista off her with a hiss. "Somehow that activated the turtle's special ability—the key seems to function as an alternate portal to another space. One where we can remain unseen."

Mista's body tumbled to the floor with a hard thump.

"OW! Hey, what gives, Y/N?" he grumbled, rubbing his head as he glared up at her.

But Y/N's gaze was locked on Narancia, who was staring up at the impossible ceiling above them with wonder and amazement.

"So... the turtle is the Stand user?" Narancia asked slowly, reaching his hand up. His body suddenly disappeared from the room, before spawning back in the same chair he was in before with a low groan.

"Holy shit, this place is the bomb! This turtle is like a lounge spaceship!" He laughed like a child.

Hmmm... This place really is nice, Y/N thought, sitting up and touching the cushion of the red couch. It was soft and fluffy—so weird to exist inside a turtle. Looking to her side, she watched as Fugo touched the wall of the small room they were all in, examining it with wonder.

"At first, I thought this room was some sort of illusion... but it's a real physical structure, and all the furniture is real too!" He looked around in amazement as Abbacchio approached the small fridge in the corner of the room, checking inside to see an array of cold drinks.

"Hell, even the drinks are cold," he chuckled softly, as Bruno peered over his shoulder, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Perhaps the Boss is responsible for these accommodations. For the most part, turtles will remain quiet and still in dark places. In other words, we should be able to travel to Venice without issue," he stated softly to everyone. "Feel free to move about, but for safety measures, no one leaves the turtle."

Y/N nodded and everyone followed suit. Standing, she headed to the small fridge, crouching down next to Abbacchio. Grabbing two cold Cokes from inside, she opened one, chugging down the brown sugar liquid with a refreshed sigh. Walking back to the red couch, she tossed the other at Mista, who barely managed to catch it before it hit his face.

"My apologies for the push," she chuckled, feeling slightly bad for pushing Mista off her earlier. But he smiled.

"Nah, it's all good, Y/N! I knew you were only playing around!" He laughed, opening the Coke with a soft click as he chugged it down. Standing up, he headed to Narancia, tossing him the leftover can.

"Here, saved you some. Courtesy of Y/N."

Narancia smiled, bringing the can to his lips as he held his tongue out, shaking the can to get even a drop, but to no avail.

"Mista... there's not a fucking drop left in here?! The hell is your problem, giving me your trash so you don't have to deal with it!" Narancia hissed, grabbing Mista's shirt as he threatened him, though Mista was laughing during the whole process.

There it goes, the two beginning to argue again for the tenth time this day. Y/N only groaned, rolling her eyes at the sight, suddenly feeling the couch dip beside her.

Looking to her side, she saw Giorno settling down on the couch next to her, leaning back with casual grace.

"Is this seat taken, Y/N?" he chuckled softly, gazing into her eyes.

"Only by you, lover boy," she snorted, rolling her eyes as he gasped, holding a hand to his chest in mild defense.

"If you're gonna call me lover boy, then at least call me il tuo ragazzo amante."

She froze at his words, staring at him with wide eyes. Did he really just... he did just fucking say that! Giorno, oh Giorno, I think you might be taking our playful friendly flirts too far, or... maybe I've just been seeing it wrong this whole time.

Zoning out, she felt her cheeks start to burn with that sensation she only felt when she got heavily embarrassed, or worse, flirted with.

Feeling a hand gently touch her arm, she flinched back before realizing it was just Giorno and relaxing.

"Y/N, are you oka—"

"In your dreams!" she suddenly huffed out, turning the other direction when she heard Giorno's soft chuckle.

"Oh, I'll take that as a challenge, Y/N..." he purred ever so softly, only for her ears to hear. His voice sent a slight shiver down her spine. He's never spoken like that before... This boy! Why the hell is he acting like this? Does he not realize we're about to be in a life-and-death situation?!

She pouted, crossing her arms over her chest as she looked away from the golden-haired boy.

"Buy me some new clothes, then we'll see where it goes, Giorno."

He hummed softly at her request, and she could practically feel his gaze burning into the back of her head. "Anything you wish for, il mio fiore."

"Oh, shut the hell up, Giorno!" Abbacchio scoffed, suddenly appearing on her other side, glaring over at Giorno with a look that could kill. "You speak as if you know how to treat a woman, but you're still a fucking child."

"What? When did you get here?" Y/N asked, startled.

"Shut it, Y/N, I'm trying to lecture Giorno," he whisper-yelled at her.

"I know exactly how to treat her," Giorno shot back, his usual calm facade cracking slightly. His emerald eyes flashed with something possessive. "Unlike some people who hide behind insults instead of actually showing they care."

"You arrogant little—" Abbacchio started.

"Oh my god, both of you need to chill," Y/N interrupted, but they ignored her.

Grumbling, Y/N leaned back in the sofa, finding herself sandwiched between them as the plush cushions seemed to consume her form. The warmth of the turtle's interior, combined with the rhythmic swaying of the train, was making her eyelids heavy despite the testosterone-fueled debate happening on either side of her.

"She's been through hell today, and all you can think about is flirting with her? Show some damn respect."

"I'm showing her exactly the respect she deserves," Giorno shot back, his voice sharp with emotion. "Unlike you, I'm not afraid to actually express how I feel about—"

"Oh, spare me the teenage romance bullshit—"

Both of you, shut up, Y/N thought groggily, but couldn't muster the energy to say it aloud. She mumbled something incoherent, throwing an arm over her eyes. "I'm trying to sleep..."

But they ignored her, too caught up in their territorial dispute. Abbacchio jabbed a finger toward Giorno across her.

"She deserves someone who can actually protect her, not some newbie who's been on the team for five minutes."

"And yet I was the one who eliminated Illuso while you were busy losing your hand," Giorno replied coldly.

Ugh, men, was Y/N's last coherent thought before their voices faded into white noise and sleep finally claimed her, her consciousness drifting away from the cramped turtle room and into blissful darkness.

───────────── ⚝ ─────────────

What feels like hours later, but is probably only minutes, something tiny and cold pressed against her ear, making her flinch awake.

"Principessa, wake up," came a familiar voice, barely above a whisper.

Her eyes snapped open to find a miniaturized Formaggio perched on her shoulder, no bigger than her thumb. His gray eyes were serious, lacking their usual cocky glint. The mesh shirt and studded leather jacket he wore were perfectly detailed even at this tiny size.

"What the hell—" she started, but he quickly pressed a tiny hand to her lips.

"Shh! Don't wake the others," he gestured around the room with his free hand.

Y/N carefully looked to either side of her. Giorno had slumped against her left shoulder, his golden hair with those distinctive three curls falling across his face as he breathed deeply in sleep. His ornate pink suit was slightly rumpled from the uncomfortable position. On her right, Abbacchio had finally passed out against the armrest, his long light-colored hair falling over his face, his chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of exhaustion. The others were scattered around the room in various states of unconsciousness. Narancia curled up on the floor, Mista sprawled across a chair, Fugo with his head on the small table.

"Formaggio, what are you doing here? How did you even get in?" she whispered, carefully sitting up without disturbing Giorno's head on her shoulder.

"Through the mirror above the couch," he explained, pointing to a small reflective surface mounted on the wall behind them. "Illuso's waiting inside with all the supplies you requested. We need to talk, now. The ice, the plan, everything's ready."

Her heart began to race as reality crashed back. The train. Prosciutto and Pesci. The deadly aging ability that would soon turn everyone into withered husks.

"Right now?" she asked, her eyes flicking nervously to Giorno's sleeping form pressed against her side.

Formaggio smirked from her shoulder, his cocky attitude returning for a moment. "He can't see me at this size. Perfect for covert operations. But you need to get him off you and get to that mirror before anyone wakes up. It can't be helped, principessa, but we're running out of time."

Very carefully, Y/N began to shift, gently easing Giorno's head off her shoulder and onto the cushion beside her. He mumbled something in Italian, something that sounded like her name, but didn't wake. His hand had been resting near hers, and she carefully moved it aside. Abbacchio snored softly on her other side, completely out.

She stood slowly, her newly reattached legs protesting but holding her weight. The red scar lines pulled uncomfortably, but she gritted her teeth and pushed through it.

"Let's go, principessa," Formaggio whispered, his voice carrying a note of urgency. "Time's running out."

Y/N took one last look at her sleeping teammates. At Giorno's peaceful face, those three golden curls that framed his forehead, the way his chest rose and fell in gentle rhythm. At Abbacchio's rare moment of vulnerability, his usually stern features softened in sleep. At all of them trusting her to keep watch while they rested.

I'm doing this for them, she reminded herself. To keep them all alive.

Then she looked up at the mirror above the couch. 

Through the reflective surface, she could see movement, a figure waiting in the silvered depths. Illuso stood there in his distinctive quilted outfit, watching her with those calculating red eyes. His shoulder-length hair was tied in those six neat pigtails, and even through the mirror, she could see the crystal hand she'd forged him catching the strange light of the mirror dimension.

He raised his hand toward the surface, reaching out to her from within the glass. His expression was serious, focused, ready for what was about to come.

Y/N reached up, her fingers trembling slightly as they approached the mirror's surface. The moment her fingertips touched the cool glass, she felt Illuso's crystalline fingers wrap around hers. They were surprisingly warm despite being made of quartz, and his grip was firm, steady.

"Hold on tight," came his muffled voice through the mirror. "And keep that little pest from falling off your shoulder."

"Hey!" Formaggio protested from his perch. "Who're you calling a pest?"

But Y/N didn't have time to respond. Illuso pulled, and reality inverted around her as she was drawn through the mirror's surface into the dimension beyond.

───────────── ⚝ ─────────────

The mirror world was exactly as Y/N remembered it, a distorted reflection of reality where everything existed in reversed symmetry. She tumbled through the surface, Formaggio still perched on her shoulder as Illuso caught her with his good hand, steadying her before she could stumble.

"Welcome back, principessa," Formaggio said, hopping off her shoulder and expanding back to his normal size with a sharp crack of displaced air. He rolled his shoulders, working out the kinks from being miniaturized. "Took you long enough."

"I had to wait for everyone to fall asleep," Y/N hissed, her heart still racing from the close call. Through the mirror's surface, she could see her sleeping teammates, blissfully unaware of her absence. Giorno's head had rolled slightly to the side where she'd left it, his three golden curls catching the dim light of the turtle room.

Illuso's red eyes studied her with calculating intensity. "The ice is prepared. Formaggio secured enough to fill several coolers." He gestured to the corner of the mirror dimension where three large coolers sat, their lids propped open to reveal bags upon bags of ice.

"Good," Y/N breathed, her mind racing through the plan she'd been forming since they'd boarded the train. "Prosciutto will activate The Grateful Dead soon. We need to be in position before—"

"Before he turns everyone on this train into withered corpses?" Illuso finished dryly. "Yes, but you still haven't explained how you know all this will happen. You keep saying you've 'seen' our deaths, but that makes no sense."

Y/N's jaw clenched. She'd told them she was from another world, that she'd watched their story unfold like a television show, but the explanation still sounded insane even to her own ears. "I've explained this already. I'm from a different world, a world where all of this is a story. I watched it happen. I know how you die, how Prosciutto dies, how Pesci dies. And I'm going to change it."

"Still sounds like you've lost your mind," Formaggio said, though his tone was more amused than skeptical. "But you saved me and Illuso, so I guess I'll trust your crazy predictions, principessa."

"When does it start?" Illuso pressed. "This aging attack?"

"Soon. Maybe seven minutes. Prosciutto is already moving into position." Y/N closed her eyes, reaching inward for that familiar crystalline presence. Come on, girl. I need you.

The air beside her shimmered, refracting light like a prism, and her Stand materialized. The Viking shield-maiden stood tall, her entire form composed of living crystal that caught and reflected the mirror world's strange illumination. Today, the gems that comprised her body pulsed with deep amber and gold, determination mixed with anxiety.

"Beautiful," Formaggio whistled low. "Every time I see her, I'm impressed. What's her name?"

Y/N opened her mouth to answer, then froze. Wait. What IS her name? I've never actually named her. I've just been calling her my Stand this whole time.

"I... I haven't named her yet," she admitted, feeling oddly embarrassed. "I've been so focused on learning her abilities that I never thought about it."

"You haven't named your Stand?" Illuso raised an eyebrow. "That's like not naming your own child. She's a part of you."

"I know, I know!" Y/N said defensively, looking at her crystal warrior who seemed to tilt her head with what might have been curiosity. The Stand's faceted eyes seemed almost expectant, waiting. "I'll think of something. After we save Prosciutto and Pesci."

"You better," Formaggio chuckled. "She deserves a proper name, principessa."

Y/N filed that away for later consideration. Right now, they had more pressing concerns.

"Here's the plan," she said, stepping closer to the nearest mirror surface which showed a view of the train's exterior. "When Bruno throws Prosciutto off the train, my Stand will open a portal—a dimensional pocket that exists between light and physical space. It's different from Illuso's mirror world. It's made entirely of light and crystal."

"Different how?" Illuso asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.

"Your mirror dimension reflects the real world. Mine is... pure energy. Pure light refracted through crystal. It's hard to explain, but everything there is made of light and gems. Time moves differently. Space works differently."

She pressed her palm to the cool mirror surface. "When Prosciutto falls, the portal will open beneath him. To anyone watching, it'll look like he hits the train wheels. But really, he'll fall through into my crystal dimension."

"And then?" Formaggio pressed.

"Then my Stand creates a crystal duplicate of his body, mangled, bloody, exactly what everyone expects to see in those wheels. Bruno and the others will believe he's dead."

"While the real Prosciutto is safe in your dimension," Illuso finished, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Dolcezza, that's actually fucking brilliant. Morbid as hell, but brilliant."

"There's one problem," Y/N said quietly. "The energy cost. Creating a dimensional portal, maintaining it long enough to catch a falling body, then creating a crystal duplicate detailed enough to fool multiple Stand users—including Bruno who'll be looking right at it..." She shook her head. "That's going to drain me completely. My Stand might not have enough power left to save Pesci afterward."

"Can't you rest between saves?" Formaggio asked.

"There won't be time. Pesci's death happens too soon after Prosciutto's. If I'm unconscious when Bruno defeats him, I won't be able to intervene."

Her Stand shifted beside her, the crystal warrior's form pulsing with swirling colors, amber determination bleeding into violet concern. The Stand couldn't speak, but Y/N felt the wordless communication between them, the warning that this would push her beyond her limits.

"If you pass out, we can't help you," Formaggio warned. "We have to stay hidden. If your team sees us alive, the whole plan falls apart."

"I know." Y/N straightened her shoulders, meeting their eyes with steel in her gaze. "But I didn't come this far to give up. We're saving them both, and no one on my team can know. That's non-negotiable."

A slow smile curved Illuso's lips, transforming his usual smug expression into something approaching genuine respect. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. Most people wouldn't risk everything for enemies they barely know."

"They're not enemies," Y/N said quietly. "Not to me. In my world, I watched you all die. Every single one of La Squadra. Sorbet and Gelato tortured and killed. You, Formaggio, Illuso, Prosciutto, Pesci, your whole team—all dead. And I couldn't do anything about it except watch and cry and wish I could change it." Her voice hardened. "Well, now I'm here and I can. So I'm going to."

Formaggio and Illuso exchanged a look—something passing between them that Y/N couldn't quite read. Respect, perhaps. Or recognition that they'd stumbled into something much bigger than a simple mission.

"Alright, principessa," Formaggio said finally. "We're in. But we do this smart. I've got more experience making people disappear than you do."

"Fair enough." Y/N glanced back at the mirror showing her sleeping teammates. Giorno had shifted again, one hand reaching unconsciously toward where she'd been sitting. Her chest tightened painfully. I'm sorry. I'm doing this for all of you, even if you'll never know it.

"Five minutes until Prosciutto activates The Grateful Dead," Illuso announced, checking his watch. "We need to get into position. Formaggio, you'll shrink down and stay on Y/N. When Mista needs the ice, you'll guide her to him."

"Got it." Formaggio cracked his knuckles, then reached into one of the coolers and pulled out a bag of ice. "I'll take this with me, shrink it down. That way we've got emergency supplies right there."

"Good thinking," Y/N said.

"And Prosciutto?" Illuso asked. "When he falls into your crystal dimension, what happens to him? Will he just be floating there alone?"

Y/N nodded. "My Stand will be with him. She'll tend to his injuries, keep him stable. To him, she'll probably look like... I don't know, an angel or something. He'll be dying, disoriented. The crystal dimension is all light and color—it'll be overwhelming."

"Will he be able to breathe?" Formaggio asked practically.

"Yes. The dimension might look like empty void, but it's connected to the physical world. Air, gravity, all of that still works. He just won't be able to see the solid surfaces—everything will look like floating in space to him until his eyes adjust."

"Trippy," Formaggio muttered.

"Sixty seconds," Illuso warned. "Y/N, get back in position. Formaggio, shrink down. This is it."

Formaggio's Stand, Little Feet, activated with a subtle shimmer. He began to shrink rapidly, his body compressing down until he was once again thumb-sized. In his tiny hands, he clutched the equally miniaturized bag of ice.

Y/N held out her hand, and he climbed onto her palm, settling on her shoulder with practiced ease.

"Ready?" he whispered, his tiny voice barely audible.

"No," Y/N admitted. "But let's do it anyway."

She pressed her hand to the mirror surface showing the turtle room's interior. The glass felt cold against her palm, then suddenly warm, then liquid. Illuso's power pulled her through, the sensation like diving into water that existed in four dimensions at once.

She emerged silently in the turtle room, her feet touching down on the plush carpet without a sound. Around her, her teammates slept on, Giorno's head still resting on the cushion where she'd left it, Abbacchio snoring softly against the armrest, Narancia curled up like a child.

Moving carefully, Y/N settled back onto the couch, positioning herself exactly as she'd been before. Giorno's head was inches away, close enough that she could see the individual lashes against his cheeks, the slight part of his lips as he breathed.

For just a moment, she let herself study his peaceful face. The three distinctive curls that framed his forehead, the elegant bone structure, the way his expression softened in sleep. He looked younger like this, more vulnerable. More like the boy from his childhood memories that she still couldn't fully access.

Forgive me, she thought, not for the first time. Forgive me for the secrets I'm keeping. For the lies I'm about to tell. For everything I'm doing that you'll never understand.

And then, through the walls of the turtle dimension, she felt it, a warm wave of power washing over the train like invisible fog. The Grateful Dead had activated.

"Here we go," Formaggio breathed from her shoulder, his tiny hand holding a piece of miniaturized ice against the back of her neck. The cold touch would keep her body temperature low enough to avoid the worst of the aging effect.

Through the turtle's shell, Y/N could sense the change in the air. The temperature seemed to rise, but not in a refreshing way, in a way that spoke of time accelerating, of life draining away, of flesh withering on bone.

Somewhere on the train, passengers were already beginning to age. The child crying for his mother. The teenager watching in horror as his hands wrinkled and spotted. The businessman collapsing as his heart, suddenly eighty years older, struggled to keep beating.

Hold on, Y/N thought desperately. Just hold on a little longer. I'm coming.

Beside her, Narancia stirred, letting out a soft groan. Y/N's eyes snapped to him just in time to see his face begin to change, the smooth skin of youth creasing slightly, his thick dark hair showing the faintest hints of gray at the temples.

"No," she whispered, horror crawling up her spine. It was one thing to know this would happen, to have seen it in the anime. It was another thing entirely to watch it in real time, to see her friend, her friend, aging before her eyes.

But it was slow. Much slower than she'd remembered from the show. Narancia's aging was gradual, almost imperceptible from moment to moment. Not the rapid transformation she'd expected.

Narancia's eyes fluttered open, confused and unfocused. "Wha..." His voice came out slightly rougher than normal, but not decades older. "What's... happening..."

"Everyone wake up!" Y/N called out, trying to sound like she'd just woken herself. "Something's wrong!"

Chaos erupted in the turtle room.

Giorno jerked awake, his eyes flying open with sharp clarity. Even though his face showed the beginning signs of aging, faint lines around his eyes, a slight grayness to his golden hair.

"A Stand attack," he said immediately, his voice steady despite the roughness. "Everyone stay calm."

"Calm?!" Fugo's voice cracked from across the room. He'd been sitting at the small table, but now he stumbled to his feet, staring at his hands which showed pronounced aging. "We're aging! How the hell are we supposed to stay calm?!"

Bruno was already on his feet, moving with the determined efficiency of a leader even as his body aged around him. His dark hair had begun to show streaks of white, his face gaining the lines of middle age.

"It's discriminating," Giorno said, his eyes moving from person to person, analyzing, calculating. "Narancia, Fugo, Abbacchio, and I are aging. But Y/N, Trish, Mista, and Bruno are barely affected."

"Body heat," Y/N said 

Y/N looked around and realized he was right. Mista, who'd been lounging in a chair, looked perfectly normal, no aging at all. Trish, sitting nervously in the corner, appeared untouched. 

"Body heat," Y/N said quickly, remembering the explanation from the anime. "It must be targeting people based on body temperature. Women generally maintain more consistent temperatures, which is why Trish and I aren't aging as fast. And—"

"And I had a cold Coke earlier," Mista finished, holding up the empty can. "So did Abbacchio and Trish. We grabbed them right before everyone fell asleep."

"So body temperature is the key," Giorno said, his analytical mind already working through the implications despite the crisis. "Which means whoever is doing this wants to spare certain people. Probably Trish."

"Then we need ice," Bruno said decisively. "Mista, you're still the most mobile. You need to find the source of this attack and neutralize it. But first, try to activate the air conditioning. The cold air might slow the effect for everyone."

"On it, boss!" Mista was already moving toward the exit, grabbing the last two ice cubes from the small fridge. "Just point me at these bastards so I can put a bullet through their skulls."

"Be careful," Giorno warned, but Mista was already gone, vanishing from the turtle dimension with the desperate urgency of a man watching his teammates age.

The room fell into tense silence. Y/N could hear her own heartbeat, feel Formaggio's tiny weight on her shoulder, hidden beneath her hair. Around her, her teammates were living through a nightmare, watching themselves age in real-time, feeling their bodies betray them, knowing that every second brought them closer to death.

"There has to be a way to fight this," Fugo muttered, his hands clenching into fists. His normally young face had gained crow's feet and worry lines. "A Stand ability can be defeated. We just need to find the user and—"

A soft thump interrupted him. Everyone's eyes snapped to Narancia, who had slumped forward onto the table, his breathing labored.

"Narancia!" Trish cried out, rushing to his side. Her hands shook as she touched their friend's shoulder. "He's still breathing, but barely. Bruno, what do we do?"

Bruno's jaw clenched, his aged face setting into grim lines. "We wait. We trust Mista to find the enemy and—"

"And what if he doesn't?" Abbacchio cut in harshly. Though he wasn't aging, his voice carried the weight of someone who'd seen too many plans fail. "What if we all just die here, trapped in a fucking turtle?"

"We won't," Y/N said firmly. She had to believe that. Had to trust that Mista would do his part, that her plan would work, that she could save them all. "Mista's going to find them. He has to."

Through the walls of the turtle dimension, she could feel Mista moving through the train. Could sense him approaching the air conditioning button, the trap that Pesci had laid so carefully. In moments, Beach Boy's hook would pierce his hand, the line would begin its deadly journey toward his brain, and—

And I'll be ready, Y/N thought grimly.

"Y/N, are you alright?" Giorno's voice, aged but still carrying that note of concern that made her chest tight. "You look pale."

Actually, as he studied her more carefully, his eyes narrowed slightly. "You're not aging at all. Not even a little. Why is that?"

Y/N's mind raced. Shit. He noticed. "I... maybe women really do resist the effect better? Trish isn't aging much either."

"No, it's different," Giorno said, his mind working even through the crisis. "Trish is showing some signs—very faint, but there. You're showing none. Your skin, your hair, everything—it's exactly the same as before."

On her shoulder, hidden beneath her hair, Formaggio held tiny pieces of ice against her neck. The constant cold touch was keeping her body temperature low enough to completely avoid the aging effect.

"I don't know," Y/N lied, looking away from Giorno's penetrating gaze. "Maybe my Stand is protecting me somehow? She does strange things I don't always understand."

It was plausible enough. Giorno seemed to accept it, though she could see him filing the information away for later consideration.

"Lucky you," Abbacchio muttered from his corner. "Some of us aren't so fortunate."

Bruno moved to check on Narancia, his weathered hands gentle as he felt for a pulse. "He's stable, but we're running out of time. If Mista doesn't find the source soon—"

A gunshot echoed through the train, muffled but unmistakable.

"Was that—?" Trish started.

Another shot. Then a third.

"Mista," Giorno breathed, his aged face tight with worry.

Y/N's heart hammered in her chest. This was it. Mista had been shot three times in the head by Prosciutto, saved only by Sex Pistols Number Five deflecting the bullets at the last second. He'd be crawling to the bathroom right now, barely conscious, aging rapidly.

"I'm going out there," Bruno said suddenly, moving toward the exit.

"Bruno, wait—" Fugo started.

"I won't watch my men die without fighting back," Bruno said firmly. His aged voice carried absolute conviction. "I don't care what it costs me."

That's exactly what I'm counting on, Y/N thought, her stomach twisting with guilt. Because she knew what was coming. Knew that Bruno would go out there, would fight Prosciutto with everything he had, would make that terrible decision to throw himself and the enemy from the train.

"Then I'm coming too," Y/N said, standing quickly.

"No!" Giorno's hand shot out to grab her wrist, his grip surprisingly strong despite his aged condition. "It's too dangerous! You're one of the few not affected—you need to stay here and protect Trish!"

"Giorno's right," Bruno said, his dark eyes meeting hers with authority. "Stay with Trish and the others. That's an order."

Before anyone could argue further, Bruno was gone, vanishing from the turtle dimension.

The room fell into ominous silence. Y/N could feel her heart hammering against her ribs, each beat counting down to the moment when everything would change.

"Should we go after him?" Fugo asked, already moving toward the exit.

"No." Giorno's voice was firm despite his aged appearance. "Bruno gave us an order. We stay here and protect Trish."

"But—"

"Fugo." Giorno's eyes were hard. "We trust our Capo. He knows what he's doing."

No he doesn't, Y/N thought desperately. He's about to sacrifice himself because that's what Bruno does. He throws himself into danger to save his team, and damn the consequences.

Through the walls, she could sense it—Bruno confronting Prosciutto, their Stands clashing, the deadly dance of two skilled fighters locked in mortal combat.

"Something's wrong," Giorno said suddenly. His hand was pressed to the wall, a small flower growing between his fingers to sense the outside world. "The aging effect... it's not weakening. Even though Bruno's fighting someone, it's not stopping."

"Which means there are two of them," Y/N said quietly. "One to maintain the aging, one to fight directly."

Everyone's eyes turned to her.

"How do you—" Fugo started.

"It's the only explanation that makes sense," she said quickly. "One Stand can't do both simultaneously at this level. There has to be—"

A violent lurch threw everyone sideways as something impacted the train. Through the chaos of scrambling bodies and shouted curses, Y/N felt it, the moment when Bruno made his choice.

He's throwing himself off the train. Taking Prosciutto with him.

"I have to help!" Y/N shouted, already moving toward the exit. "Bruno's—"

"Y/N, wait!" Giorno's aged hand caught her wrist again, his grip desperate. "You can't go out there alone! It's suicide!"

"So is sitting here waiting to die!" She pulled free, her eyes meeting his with desperate intensity. "I have to try, Giorno. I have to!"

"Then I'm coming with you," he said, already trying to stand.

"No!" Y/N pushed him back down, perhaps more roughly than she intended. "You can barely stand! Stay here, protect the others! I'll be fine—I have my Stand!"

She didn't wait for permission. Couldn't wait. Because outside, Bruno was falling, Prosciutto was falling, and if she didn't move now, if she didn't get into position—

Y/N burst from the turtle dimension into the train car's chaos.

The air hit her like a physical force, thick with the power of The Grateful Dead. Around her, aged passengers lay crumpled in seats or sprawled across the floor, their withered bodies testament to Prosciutto's ruthless efficiency.

"Principessa!" Formaggio hissed from her shoulder. "The bathroom! Mista's in the bathroom!"

She could sense him, slumped against the bathroom wall, three bullet wounds in his head that should have killed him but hadn't, thanks to Sex Pistols' last-second intervention. He was alive but unconscious, his body rapidly aging from The Grateful Dead's effect.

The ice. I need to give him the ice.

But first—

Through the train car's windows, Y/N saw it, but not what she'd expected.

Bruno wasn't simply locked with Prosciutto in a deadly embrace. The situation was far more complex, far more desperate.

Prosciutto dangled from the side of the train, his body suspended over the deadly wheel machinery below. But he wasn't falling, not yet. Beach Boy's fishing line had hooked into his hand, the invisible cord pulled taut as Pesci desperately held his brother from certain death.

And Bruno, Bruno hung from Prosciutto's ankle, his fingers digging into the assassin's pants with desperate strength. The three of them formed a deadly chain. Pesci at the top, holding the line; Prosciutto in the middle, caught between salvation and death; Bruno at the bottom, using his enemy as a lifeline.

Time seemed to slow as Y/N watched the scene unfold. She could see the strain in Pesci's aged face, the way his hands trembled as he tried to reel in what he thought was his dying brother. Could see Prosciutto's cold calculation even in this desperate moment, his purple eyes narrowed as he assessed his options. Could see Bruno's grim determination, already planning his next move.

Then Bruno's Stand manifested.

Sticky Fingers' hand shot out, creating a zipper directly on Prosciutto's palm where Beach Boy's hook had embedded itself. The zipper opened, and the fishing hook fell free, tumbling toward the wheels below.

In that split second, everything changed.

Bruno switched their positions, pushing Prosciutto down while using the momentum to swing himself up. The assassin's eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening in what might have been a curse or a cry, as gravity claimed him.

Prosciutto fell.

And Pesci, feeling the weight on his line suddenly shift, began reeling in, thinking he was saving his brother, not knowing he was pulling up his brother's killer.

NOW!

Y/N's mind crystallized. No time for hesitation. No time for doubt.

"Valkyrie's Vow!"

The name burst from her lips like a battle cry, and her Stand—her Stand, with a name that felt right and true and powerful, materialized in a blaze of prismatic light.

The crystal warrior didn't hesitate. She phased through the train wall like light through glass, moving faster than Y/N had ever seen her move before. 

Valkyrie's Vow flew through the air, her crystalline form leaving trails of refracted light in her wake like a comet's tail. Her diamond sword sang as she drew it from her belt, the blade already moving before it cleared the scabbard.

One slash. Clean. Perfect. Precise.

Reality screamed as the sword cut through the fabric of space itself, creating a tear between dimensions. Not large, it didn't need to be large. Just big enough. Just in the right place. Just in time.

Through that tear poured light, pure, white, blinding radiance that exploded outward like a solar flare. The brilliance was overwhelming, searing, impossible to look at directly.

Above, Pesci threw up his arm to shield his eyes, crying out in shock. His grip on Beach Boy's line never faltered, he was still reeling in, still thinking he was saving Prosciutto.

Below, Bruno squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught, his free hand instinctively moving to cover his face.

And Prosciutto—

Prosciutto fell through the portal.

One moment he was tumbling toward the crushing wheels, his distinctive braided hair streaming behind him, his black suit with its spider-web pattern whipping in the wind. The next moment he was plummeting through impossible space, through a dimension made entirely of light and crystal and colors that had no names in any human language.

His scream echoed through multiple dimensions as Valkyrie's Vow dove after him, her form blazing like an avenging angel. She caught him halfway through the fall, her crystalline arms wrapping around his body with surprising gentleness for something made of living gemstone.

Back in the physical world, in that exact instant, another form materialized in the train wheels.

The sound was sickening. Metal on flesh. The crunch of bone. The spray of blood that painted the undercarriage in arterial crimson.

Through the windows, through the blinding light that was already beginning to fade, anyone looking would see exactly what they expected. Prosciutto's body caught in the machinery. His distinctive blond hair, braided into four mats, tangled in metal. His black suit with its spiderweb pattern torn and bloody. His face, his cold, severe face that never smiled, frozen in an expression of shock and pain.

What they wouldn't see was the impossible perfection of the corpse. Wouldn't notice that the blood caught light like liquid rubies, slightly more luminous than blood should be. Wouldn't notice the faintest iridescence in the torn flesh, like shattered quartz catching sunlight.

They would see only death. Brutal. Final. Absolute.

Inside the train, Y/N staggered, her legs nearly buckling as the energy cost hit her. Creating the portal. Splitting dimensional space. Crafting the crystal duplicate in that split second. Maintaining Valkyrie's Vow's presence in both dimensions simultaneously while the Stand caught and carried Prosciutto to safety.

It was like having her soul ripped out through her chest, set on fire, and scattered across multiple realities.

Her vision swam. Black spots danced at the edges of her sight like vultures circling. She caught herself against the wall.

Gasping for breath that wouldn't come, Y/N pressed her forehead against the cool metal wall. Her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to escape her chest. Every nerve in her body screamed for rest, for sleep, for the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness.

Not yet, she thought desperately, though the words felt distant, like they belonged to someone else. I still need you. Pesci's still out there, and—

Mista.

The bathroom.

The ice.

Right. Focus. One thing at a time.

She forced her legs to move, stumbling toward the bathroom door. Her body felt like it belonged to someone else, every nerve screaming in protest.

The bathroom door hung half-open. Inside, Mista lay crumpled against the wall, his face peaceful in unconsciousness despite the aging that had accelerated across his features. He wore his distinctive knit cap, the one he never took off, pulled low over his head.

Without thinking, Y/N reached out and carefully removed the cap.

Soft brown curls spilled out, cut short but undeniably present. Despite all the jokes, despite the way he always kept his head covered, Mista did have hair, beautiful, thick, curly hair that was now streaked with gray from the aging effect.

"You've been hiding this?" she whispered, running her fingers gently through the curls. They were softer than she'd expected, silky despite the aging. Her fingertips traced over his scalp, feeling for the bullet wounds.

There, three small indentations where the bullets had impacted. Her fingers ghosted over them with feather-light touches, and she felt her chest tighten. So close. He'd come so close to dying.

His gun had fallen from nerveless fingers, and the Sex Pistols hovered anxiously around his head, their tiny voices high with panic.

"Boss!" Number Five cried out. "Boss isn't moving! We saved him from the bullets but he's aging so fast and—"

"I know," Y/N said softly, dropping to her knees beside Mista's unconscious form. Every movement sent waves of exhaustion through her body, but she pushed through it. "I'm going to help him."

Number Three zipped forward, its tiny face scrunched with worry. "Is Boss gonna be okay? He looks really old! Like, grandpa old!"

"He'll be fine," Y/N promised, though her voice shook slightly. "I just need to cool him down."

From her pocket, or rather, from the miniaturized Formaggio still on her shoulder—she pulled out the bag of ice. As Formaggio's Stand released its effect, the bag expanded to normal size in her hands, cold and solid and blessed.

"This will help," she murmured, opening the bag.

But as she looked at Mista's aged, peaceful face, at the soft curls now streaked with silver, an idea struck her. A terrible, risky, absolutely insane idea that would definitely cross some lines but might save him faster than anything else.

The ice melts too fast when just applied to skin. But if I could get it directly into his system, cool him from the inside...

"Principessa, what are you doing?" Formaggio hissed from her shoulder. "Just give him the ice and let's go! You're wasting time—"

"Shh," Y/N breathed. "There's a better way."

"A better way?" Formaggio's tiny voice rose with suspicion. "What better way? Principessa, don't you dare—"

But Y/N had already placed a piece of ice in her own mouth, letting it melt slightly, the freezing water pooling against her tongue. Her heart hammered as she leaned forward, tilting Mista's head back with gentle hands.

"PRINCIPESSA, NO!" Formaggio practically shrieked in her ear. "What about me?! I've been flirting with you for days! You saved my life! I'm helping you save people! And you're just going to kiss HIM?!"

Y/N ignored him, pressing her lips to Mista's.

The kiss started clinical, medicinal, just a transfer of ice-cold water from her mouth to his. But the moment their lips connected, something shifted. Mista's lips were soft despite the aging, warm against her cold ones, and she felt the water slide between them, down his throat.

She pulled back slightly to get another piece of ice, but Formaggio was having none of it.

"This is ridiculous!" he hissed. "I'm right here! Literally on your shoulder! This is so disrespectful! When I get back to normal size, we're having a serious conversation about—"

Y/N placed another ice chip in her mouth and leaned in again. This time, as the cold water transferred, she felt Mista's body register the temperature change more strongly. His breathing hitched slightly, and—

His hand moved.

Still unconscious, still aged, but some instinct made his weathered hand reach up. His fingers tangled in her hair, not pulling, just... holding. As if even in unconsciousness, some part of him knew she was there, knew she was saving him, and didn't want her to leave.

Y/N's heart stuttered. This was supposed to be medical. But with his hand in her hair, with the surprising softness of his lips against hers, with the intimacy of breathing life-saving cold into his mouth, it felt like something else entirely.

She pulled back, quickly placing another ice chip in her mouth. But this time, as she leaned in, Mista's other hand joined the first, both threading through her hair with surprising gentleness for someone unconscious. The kiss deepened slightly, and she had to remind herself, firmly, that he wasn't awake, wasn't aware, this was just reflex...

But damn, what a reflex.

The cold water would absorb into his bloodstream faster this way, would cool his core temperature more efficiently than external application. It was working, she could see it. The aging was slowing, his breathing becoming less labored, color returning to his weathered cheeks.

"I can't watch this," Formaggio muttered darkly. "This is torture. Actual torture. I'm being tortured by watching the girl I like kiss some beanie-wearing flirt who doesn't even have the decency to be conscious for it!"

On the fourth transfer, Mista's eyes snapped open.

For one heart-stopping moment, they stared at each other, her lips still pressed to his, ice water dripping down his chin, his hands still tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, his dark eyes wide with shock and confusion and something hot and intense that made her stomach flip.

Slowly, deliberately, Mista's grip in her hair tightened just slightly, and he pulled her even closer, deepening the kiss for just a heartbeat longer than necessary. His tongue caught a drop of ice water from her lip, and Y/N felt electricity shoot down her spine.

Then his eyes fully focused, awareness flooding back, and he released her with a sharp intake of breath.

Y/N pulled back quickly, her face burning like she'd been set on fire. "I—it was medical! The ice, it works faster if—"

"Did you just..." Mista's aged voice cracked, his expression cycling through confusion, realization, and then a slow, delighted grin that looked bizarre on his weathered face but somehow still managed to be charming. His hands slowly slid from her hair, fingers trailing down her neck in a way that made her shiver. "Did you just kiss me? Multiple times? With ice?"

"It was medical!" Y/N repeated, more insistently, trying desperately to ignore the way her lips still tingled, the way she could still feel the phantom touch of his hands in her hair. "The Grateful Dead's effect is based on body temperature, and I thought if I could cool you directly, internally, it would—"

"That," Mista interrupted, his grin widening despite the dire circumstances, his dark eyes gleaming with something that looked almost predatory, "was the sexiest medical procedure I've ever experienced." He reached up and touched his own lips, as if savoring the memory. "And you took off my hat. No one's seen my hair in years, bella."

"It's beautiful hair," Y/N blurted before she could stop herself, then immediately wanted to die of embarrassment. "I mean—it's fine hair. Normal hair. Very... curly."

"You think my hair is beautiful?" Mista's grin somehow got wider, more insufferable. He ran a hand through his gray-streaked curls. "You know, I could get injured more often if this is the treatment I get. Maybe next time you could—"

"You have three bullet wounds in your skull and you're dying of rapid aging!" Y/N hissed, even as heat crept up her neck. "This is not the time for—"

"Always time for that, bella," he said, but then his expression softened, turned serious. His hand found hers, squeezing gently. "But seriously... thank you. I thought I was done for. When Prosciutto shot me, when I felt the bullets hit my head, I thought..." His voice caught. "I thought I'd never see your beautiful face again. Never hear your voice. Never get the chance to tell you—"

“Stop”, Y/n muttered, rubbing her face. The raw honesty in Mista's voice made Y/N's chest tight. She pressed another piece of ice against his lips, more conventionally this time, trying to ignore the way his eyes never left her face, the way he sucked the ice from her fingers with deliberate slowness that made her breath catch. "Shut up and cool down. You need to lower your temperature more before the aging fully reverses."

He took the ice obediently, but his eyes never left her face. There was something in his gaze that she'd never seen before, a vulnerability, a gratitude, a hunger that made her look away.

"The aging is slowing!" Number Five reported, hovering excitedly around Mista's head. "Boss's temperature is dropping! It's working, it's really working!"

"Good," Y/N said, relief making her voice shake. She needed to change the subject, needed to get away from Mista's intense stare and Formaggio's jealous grumbling and her own racing heart. "Because we're not done yet. Pesci is still out there, and he's about to—"

A violent jolt shook the train car. Through the walls, Y/N could sense it, Bruno had returned from his fall, was fighting Pesci with renewed determination, the young assassin's confidence growing with every moment that Prosciutto's aging effect continued despite his brother's apparent death.

"Shit," Mista muttered, already trying to stand despite his weakened state. His hand caught her wrist, holding her steady as much as steadying himself. "Bruno's fighting alone. I need to—"

"No." Y/N pushed him back down with surprising strength, trying to ignore the warmth of his hand on her wrist, the way his thumb brushed against her pulse point. "You're still too aged to fight effectively. Stay here, keep applying ice. The effect will wear off once we defeat the Stand user."

"We?" Mista's eyebrows rose. His grip on her wrist tightened slightly, almost possessively. "Y/N, you can't—"

"I have a Stand, remember?" She stood, though her legs trembled with exhaustion. Her Stand—Valkyrie's Vow, she reminded herself, the name still feeling new and right—was back with her now, having deposited Prosciutto in the crystal dimension. The warrior looked exhausted, her colors muted and swirling with deep blues and purples, but she was still there. Still ready. "And right now, Bruno needs backup more than you need a babysitter."

"I don't need a babysitter," Mista said, his voice dropping to something low and heated. "But I wouldn't mind if you wanted to stick around and give me more 'medical attention.'" He punctuated this with a wink that should have looked ridiculous on his aged face but somehow still made her stomach flip.

"Mista!"

"What? I'm just saying, if you ever need to practice your medical skills again, I volunteer as tribute. Enthusiastically. Repeatedly."

Y/n chuckled, shaking her head as she turned away.

"Principessa, wait!" Formaggio's tiny voice held a note of warning, though it was still colored with jealousy. "You're already drained from saving Prosciutto. If you push yourself further—"

"Then I push myself further," Y/N said firmly, but she whispered it so quietly that only Formaggio could hear. "I'm not letting Pesci die either."

"At least take more ice!" Mista called after her. Then, louder, "And when this is over, we're talking about that kiss! All four of them!"

"It was medical!" Y/N shot back, already moving.

"Your tongue says otherwise, bella!"

"I'M GOING TO KILL HIM," Formaggio muttered darkly.

"You're being ridiculous," Y/N whispered as she stumbled toward the door.

"I'M being ridiculous?! You just made out with him! With ice! FOUR TIMES!"

"It was medical—"

"That's what everyone says! 'Oh, it's just CPR!' 'Oh, I'm just checking his pulse with my MOUTH!' Save it, principessa!"

She stumbled out of the bathroom, her legs feeling like water, her vision swimming slightly at the edges. Every step was agony, her body screaming for rest, but she forced herself forward through sheer determination.

Behind her, she heard Mista call out weakly, "Hey, who were you talking to? Y/N?"

She didn't answer, couldn't answer. If he knew she'd been whispering to a miniaturized assassin on her shoulder...

As she moved down the corridor, Y/N carefully lifted Formaggio from her shoulder, cupping him gently in her palm. His tiny face was still scrunched up with jealousy, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Formaggio," she said softly, "I need you to do something important."

"Oh, NOW you need me," he grumbled. "After making me watch you swap spit with that trigger-happy flirt."

"It was medical," she repeated for what felt like the thousandth time, "and I need you to go get Prosciutto from my Stand's dimension. Valkyrie's Vow has finished patching him up with her power, and I need you to bring him into Illuso's mirror world."

She pulled out a tiny shard of mirror from her pocket—barely larger than her fingernail—and held it out to him. "Use this to get into Illuso's dimension."

Formaggio's expression softened slightly, the jealousy giving way to understanding. "You really did save him then. Prosciutto's alive in your crystal world right now?"

"Yes. But I need you to move him before I can save Pesci. I don't have enough energy to maintain a portal for so long."

"Alright, principessa." He climbed onto the mirror shard, then paused, looking back at her with an expression that was equal parts fond and frustrated. "But we ARE having a conversation about this later. About boundaries. And proper flirting etiquette. And maybe about the fact that I saw you FIRST."

"Formaggio—"

"I mean it! I don't save just anyone's life, you know. That should count for something. Like, kiss-with-ice privileges or whatever."

Despite everything, Y/N felt her lips twitch into a small smile. "Just go get Prosciutto, you jealous idiot."

"I'm not jealous, I'm INVESTED," Formaggio corrected. "There's a difference."

Then, with a theatrical sigh, he activated Little Feet and shrank even further, small enough to slip through the mirror shard's reflection.

Y/N held her other palm out flat, focusing what little energy she had left. Valkyrie's Vow manifested weakly beside her, the crystal warrior's form flickering like a candle in the wind. Together, they created a tiny portal, barely the size of a coin, that opened onto her crystal dimension.

She dropped the tiny mirror shard through the coin-sized portal, watching it tumble through swirling light and crystal before the opening sealed with a soft chime like distant bells. Y/N sagged against the bathroom wall, breathing hard.

Pesci. Hold on. I'm coming.

She forced her exhausted legs to move, stumbling toward the train's exit. Every step sent waves of pain through her body, but she pushed through it. She'd come too far to fail now.

The train door hung open.

Y/N emerged onto the tracks beside the stopped train to find Bruno and Pesci facing each other in the fading afternoon light.

The scene was apocalyptic. Behind them, Prosciutto's crystal duplicate lay mangled in the wheel mechanism, blood pooling beneath twisted limbs. The fake corpse was devastatingly realistic, Y/N's Stand had done its work too well.

But what made her blood run cold was the current standoff.

Pesci stood perhaps ten feet from Bruno, Beach Boy's rod gripped in white-knuckled hands. But the cowardly, uncertain man from before was gone. Grief had transformed him into something dangerous, something ruthless. His aged face was set in lines of cold fury, tears still wet on his cheeks but his stance steady, determined.

Bruno looked exhausted, his aging finally beginning to reverse but still moving stiffly. Sticky Fingers stood ready beside him, zippers forming in the air.

And there, Y/N's heart seized, Beach Boy's invisible line was extended, already hooked into something. She could see the way the rod bent slightly, the tension in the line. The hook was inside Bruno, seeking his heart.

"You killed him," Pesci said, his voice quiet but carrying across the space like a death sentence. "My big brother. The man who believed in me when no one else did. You threw him to his death like he was nothing."

"I did what I had to do," Bruno said steadily. "To protect my family."

"Your family." Pesci's laugh was bitter, broken. "Big Brother always said that. That the strongest men are those who protect their families." His grip tightened on Beach Boy's rod. "Even dying, crushed in those wheels, he kept his Stand active. I felt it. Felt him holding on with everything he had. That's what a real man does."

Beach Boy's line twitched, and Y/N saw Bruno wince as the hook moved inside him, tying around his heart.

"So I'm going to show him," Pesci continued, his voice dropping to something cold and determined. "Show Big Brother's spirit that I learned. That I became the man he wanted me to be." His eyes hardened. "I'm going to fish your heart right out of your chest, Bucciarati. And you're going to die knowing you failed to protect your family."

Y/N saw it then, saw Bruno's plan forming. Saw Sticky Fingers' hands moving subtly into position. Bruno had grown up around fishermen, knew their techniques, knew their weaknesses. He was about to grab Beach Boy's line and pull hard, knowing Pesci would instinctively pull back harder instead of reeling in.

And that slack in the line would snap Pesci's neck.

Y/N gasped, forcing her legs into a stumbling run. "Pesci! PESCI, YOUR BROTHER ISN'T DEAD!"

Everything stopped.

Beach Boy's line went slack immediately as Pesci's concentration shattered. Bruno's hands, already reaching for the line, froze mid-motion. Both men's heads whipped toward Y/N.

She staggered to a halt between them, breathing hard.

Pesci stared at her, his expression cycling through shock, confusion, desperate hope. "What... what did you say?"

"Your brother," Y/N repeated, meeting his eyes steadily despite her exhaustion. "Prosciutto. He's alive. I saved him."

"You're lying." But Pesci's voice cracked like breaking glass. "I saw him fall. I saw the body in the wheels, all that blood—"

"A fake," Y/N said, pulling out her mirror shard earring. "My Stand created a duplicate. The real Prosciutto is alive, recovering. Ask him yourself."

She tossed the earring toward Pesci. Beach Boy's line whipped out on instinct, catching it with perfect precision. Pesci pulled it close to his face with shaking hands.

Illuso made Prosciutto visible in the tiny mirror.

The older assassin looked rough—pale, bruised, bandaged—but undeniably alive. Behind him, Formaggio and Illuso stood in the mirror world.

"Pesci," Prosciutto's voice came through, cold and authoritative. "Stand down. Now."

"Big Brother!" Pesci's voice broke completely. He fell to his knees on the gravel, tears streaming down his aged face. "You're alive! But how? And Formaggio, Illuso—they're all—"

"She saved us," Illuso said simply. "When she had every reason not to."

"I said stand down," Prosciutto repeated, his purple eyes locking onto Y/N through the mirror with piercing intensity. "This girl saved my life. Faked my death. I don't understand why, but—" A pause. "I intend to find out. Deactivate Beach Boy. Immediately."

"But the mission—"

"Is over," Prosciutto said firmly. "We've lost. But we're alive, Pesci. Thanks to her."

Y/N watched the war play out on Pesci's face, duty versus gratitude, training versus relief.

"Bruno," she said quietly, not taking her eyes off Pesci. "Don't attack. Please."

"Y/N, what the hell is going on?" Bruno's voice was sharp with confusion, but also, underneath, dawning understanding. "How did you—"

"Because I'm tired of watching people die," she said simply. "Tired of the cycle. So I'm breaking it."

Beach Boy slowly retracted, the fishing rod vanishing as Pesci deactivated his Stand. He remained on his knees, clutching the mirror shard like a lifeline.

"What do I do now?" Pesci asked, his voice small and lost.

"You live," Prosciutto said. "You survive. That's what I want."

Bruno stepped forward, and Y/N tensed. But he only fixed Pesci with a hard stare.

"Tell your brother I respect his determination," Bruno said. "Keeping his Stand active even dying—that takes strength." He paused. "But if I ever see either of you again, if you threaten my family, I'll finish what I started. Understood?"

Pesci nodded rapidly. "I understand. And... thank you."

"Don't thank me," Bruno said. "Thank her. Though I think she's insane."

Pesci looked to his brother through the mirror.

"There's a window on the train behind you," Prosciutto said. "Reflective enough. Illuso can pull you through."

"But—"

"That's an order, Pesci."

Slowly, Pesci stood. His hand went to his jacket, and he pulled out Coco Jumbo—the small turtle he'd kept hidden, his last resort, his final card to play.

Y/N's breath caught. Inside that turtle, her entire team was trapped, aging, helpless.

Pesci looked down at the turtle in his hands, then at the mirror showing his brother's face. His grip trembled.

"I... I was going to destroy it," he whispered. "To hurt you, Bucciarati. To make you feel what I felt." His voice cracked. "But Big Brother is alive. And she—" He looked at Y/N. "She saved him when she didn't have to."

Carefully, almost reverently, Pesci knelt and placed Coco Jumbo on the ground between himself and Bruno. The little turtle blinked slowly, completely unaware of how close it had come to destruction.

"I'm sorry," Pesci said quietly, backing toward the train. "For... for everything."

He turned and climbed back onto the train, moving to a window. His palm pressed against the glass, and Y/N saw the moment Illuso's power activated—when reality bent, when Pesci began sinking through.

"Wait," Bruno said suddenly.

Y/N's heart stopped. No—

"I'm not attacking," Bruno said, his eyes hard. "But Y/N—this is the last time. No more saving enemies. No more secret plans. No more hiding things from the team." His voice dropped dangerously. "If you keep making these decisions alone, eventually it'll get you killed. Or get one of us killed. Understood?"

"Understood," Y/N said, though guilt twisted in her stomach.

Bruno studied her face, and Y/N had the uncomfortable feeling he knew she was lying.

Then he turned back to Pesci. "Go. Before I change my mind."

Pesci didn't hesitate. He sank through the glass like water, gone in seconds. The window rippled, then went still.

Silence.

Then, the aging stopped.

Y/N felt it like a physical release. The oppressive weight of The Grateful Dead lifted. The air lightened. Temperature returned to normal.

"He did it," Y/N breathed, her legs finally giving out. She caught herself against the train's exterior wall, sliding down to sit in the gravel. "Prosciutto deactivated his Stand."

Bruno looked at his hands, watching decades melt away. His hair darkened to black, wrinkles smoothing, strength returning.

"It's working," he said wonderingly.

"Y/N!" Mista's voice called from inside the train. "The aging just stopped!"

He appeared in the train doorway, looking normal again—young, energetic, his beautiful brown curls fully visible. The Sex Pistols hovered around him excitedly.

"Boss got better!" Number Three announced.

"What happened?" Mista called, spotting them outside. "Where's—" He froze, seeing Coco Jumbo on the ground. "The turtle! How did it get out here?"

He jumped down from the train, running over to scoop up the small turtle carefully.

"Long story," Y/N managed.

"You'll explain now," Bruno corrected, moving to crouch beside her.

A flash of golden light from Coco Jumbo's shell, and suddenly people were emerging—Giorno first, no longer aged but looking exhausted. Then Fugo and Abbacchio, supporting Narancia between them. Finally Trish, her green eyes wide with confusion.

"Bucciarati!" Giorno's voice carried relief and concern. His emerald eyes found Y/N immediately, scanning for injuries. "Thank God. We felt the aging stop, and then we were suddenly outside and—" He took in the scene—Bruno crouched beside Y/N, Mista holding the turtle, no visible enemies, Prosciutto's mangled corpse in the wheels behind them. "What happened? Where are the assassins?"

"Dealt with," Bruno said simply.

"Dealt with how?" Abbacchio asked suspiciously. "Because I see one body in the wheels—"

"Prosciutto," Bruno confirmed. "Caught when I threw us both from the train. He kept his Stand active even dying, but eventually..." He trailed off meaningfully.

"And the other one?" Fugo pressed.

"Pesci," Bruno said. "I defeated him after Prosciutto died and the aging finally gave out. He's..." A meaningful glance at Y/N. "He's been dealt with."

Deliberately vague. Could mean anything.

"Where's the body?" Abbacchio pressed.

"Does it matter?" Bruno's voice carried finality. "The threat is ended. The assassins are gone. We're alive. That's what's important."

Abbacchio's eyes narrowed but Giorno placed a calming hand on his arm.

"Bucciarati's right," Giorno said quietly, though his gaze never left Y/N. "We should get back in the turtle, regroup, assess injuries."

"Right," Fugo agreed reluctantly.

"Go," Bruno said gently. "Make sure everyone's alright. Y/N and I will be there in a moment."

The others hesitated, but eventually climbed back into the train. Mista lingered longest, his dark eyes on Y/N with concern and something warmer.

"Don't forget," he said with a grin, "we need to talk about those medical procedures."

"What medical procedures?" Giorno's voice carried an edge.

"Nothing!" Y/N said quickly.

Giorno's eyes narrowed but he followed the others.

Then they were alone.

Bruno studied her in the fading light. "Thirty seconds before I need to be a leader again. Talk fast. What really happened?"

Y/N took a shaky breath. "I saved them. They're alive, hidden with Illuso and Formaggio."

"I figured." Bruno's expression flickered. "The crystal duplicate, your Stand's work?"

She nodded.

"And Formaggio, Illuso, you saved them too?"

Another nod.

Long silence.

"Why?"

"Because I couldn't watch them die. Because I have the power to save them, and that means responsibility. Because this war doesn't have to consume everyone."

"You're either the bravest or most foolish person I've ever met," Bruno said. "I haven't decided which."

"Can I be both?"

A ghost of a smile. "Probably." Then it faded. "But you can't keep doing this. Can't keep making these decisions alone. It's dangerous."

"I know. But I couldn't tell you beforehand. You would have stopped me."

"Damn right I would have." But something in his voice might have been understanding. "These men tried to kill us. Kill Trish. And you saved them anyway."

"Yes."

"Why should I trust they won't come after us again?"

"Because they think they're dead," Y/N explained. "La Squadra lost their four strongest. They'll give up the hunt. It's not worth it anymore… for now."

Bruno considered this. "Unless it makes them more desperate."

"That's a risk. But worth taking if it means fewer deaths."

Bruno studied her, then placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I don't agree with what you did. You took enormous risks. But—" His voice softened. "I also can't say I wouldn't have done the same if I had your power. So I'm not condemning you."

"Bruno—"

"But this is the last time you do this without telling me first. Not the team, me. I'm your Capo. If you're making crazy, dangerous plans to save our enemies, I need to know. Understood?"

"Understood," Y/N said, relief flooding through her.

"Good." Bruno stood, offering his hand. "Now let's get you back before you pass out."

Y/N took his hand, letting him pull her up. Her vision swam and she staggered. Bruno caught her immediately, arm around her waist.

"Easy. I've got you."

"M'fine," she mumbled.

"You're not. You exhausted yourself." His voice carried warmth and concern. "Rest now."

They made their way slowly toward the train, Y/N leaning heavily on Bruno.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For understanding. For not telling the others."

"Don't thank me yet. You still owe the team an explanation. And it better be good."

"I'll think of something."

"Just... try not to make it a complete lie. The team deserves some truth."

Y/N nodded, already dreading the conversation to come.

I'll have to lie. At least partially. Tell them enough to satisfy them, but keep the dangerous secrets hidden.

They climbed back into the train and made their way to where Coco Jumbo waited. Bruno helped Y/N through the portal into the turtle's interior dimension.

───────────── ⚝ ─────────────

The turtle room was chaos.

Narancia was bouncing around excitedly, fully recovered and loudly recounting what little he'd experienced of the battle. Mista was sprawled in a chair, his beautiful curly hair still on full display, the Sex Pistols hovering around him and dramatically reenacting his near-death experience with exaggerated sound effects. Fugo stood by the small table, his arms crossed and his expression troubled. Abbacchio leaned against the wall with his headphones in, but Y/N could see his eyes were open and watching everyone.

And Giorno—

Giorno sat on the red couch, his emerald eyes fixed on the doorway like he'd been waiting for her to appear. The moment she stumbled through with Bruno's support, he was on his feet and moving toward her with quick, graceful strides.

"Y/N!" His hands reached for her, cupping her face gently as his eyes scanned for injuries with frantic intensity. "Are you hurt? What happened out there? When you left the turtle and didn't come back, I thought—"

His voice cracked slightly, and Y/N saw the fear in his eyes. The same fear she'd seen in Pompeii when he'd thought she was dead. Raw and unguarded and heartbreaking in its intensity.

"I'm fine," she lied, even as Bruno carefully transferred her weight to Giorno's support. "Just tired. Using my Stand that much takes a lot out of me."

"You're not fine," Giorno said, his thumbs brushing across her cheekbones with heartbreaking tenderness. "You're pale, shaking, and you can barely stand. That's not fine."

His eyes dropped to her lips for just a fraction of a second, and something dark flashed across his features. "Are your lips... chapped? They look irritated."

Y/N's face flamed. The ice. The kisses. Of course her lips would show signs of—

"It's from the cold," she said quickly. "I was using ice to help cool down the aging effect. Must have irritated my skin."

"Mmm." Giorno's thumb brushed across her bottom lip, his touch feather-light but possessive. "You should be more careful. These lips are precious."

The intimacy of the gesture, the heat in his eyes, made Y/N's breath catch. Behind them, she heard Mista make a choking sound.

"Giorno—"

"She needs rest," Bruno interrupted, his voice carrying authority. "And we all need to debrief. Y/N, I want you on that couch. Sitting. Not moving. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Y/N said with a weak attempt at humor, grateful for the interruption.

Giorno carefully guided her to the couch, his arm around her waist supporting most of her weight. He settled her into the corner of the plush red cushions with surprising gentleness, arranging pillows behind her back before she could protest.

"Wait," Mista said suddenly, sitting up. "Where's my hat?"

Everyone turned to look at him, taking in his exposed curls for the first time.

"MISTA HAS HAIR!" Narancia shrieked, pointing dramatically. "REAL HAIR! IT'S SO CURLY!"

"Of course I have hair, you idiot!" Mista snapped, his face flushing. "I just prefer to keep it covered!"

"It's actually quite nice," Fugo observed. "Why do you hide it?"

"That's none of your business!" Mista's hands flew up to his head self-consciously. "Y/N, where's my hat? You took it off in the bathroom!"

All eyes turned to Y/N, who realized with horror that she had no idea where Mista's distinctive beanie had gone. She must have dropped it when she ran out to save Pesci.

"I... might have left it in the bathroom?" she offered weakly.

"You left my hat?!" Mista looked genuinely distressed. "That's my lucky hat! I've had it for years!"

"I was busy saving your life!" Y/N protested.

"With kisses," Narancia added helpfully. "Number Five told us all about it. Four times! With ice! That's so romantic!"

The room fell into stunned silence.

"You KISSED Mista?" Giorno's voice was very quiet, very controlled, but Y/N could see his knuckles turning white where they gripped the back of the couch. "Four times?"

"It was medical!" Y/N and Mista said in unison.

"Medical kissing," Abbacchio repeated slowly, his tone dripping with skepticism. "With tongue, according to the Sex Pistols."

"That was an accident!" Y/N's face was burning. "I was transferring ice water mouth-to-mouth to cool his core temperature! It's a legitimate medical technique!"

"I've never heard of that technique," Fugo said, his analytical mind clearly skeptical.

"Well you just haven't experienced it in the field," Y/N improvised desperately. "Different medical practices." 

"Your world has a lot of convenient medical practices," Abbacchio observed dryly. "Mouth-to-mouth ice transfer. Crystal leg replacements. Dimensional portal creation. Quite the comprehensive healthcare system."

"Can we please focus?" Bruno's voice cut through the chaos. "Y/N's medical methods, however unorthodox, saved Mista's life. That's what matters."

"Thank you," Y/N breathed.

"Though we will be discussing appropriate boundaries later," Bruno added, his eyes moving between her and Mista with a look that promised a very awkward conversation.

Giorno was still standing beside the couch, his hand resting on the back mere inches from Y/N's shoulder. His expression was carefully neutral, but Y/N could see the tension in his jaw, the way his emerald eyes had gone cold and hard when he looked at Mista.

"Giorno," she said softly, "are you okay?"

"Fine," he said, his voice clipped. "Just... processing. You risked a lot out there."

"She saved my life," Mista said, his voice carrying genuine gratitude despite the awkwardness. "Whatever method she used, I'm grateful. And for the record—" He looked directly at Giorno, his expression serious for once. "It was medical. Y/N's not like that. She was trying to save me, not... anything else."

The tension in Giorno's shoulders eased slightly. "I know. I just—" He looked down at Y/N, his expression softening. "I don't like seeing you put yourself in danger. Seeing you drained like this. It makes me feel... helpless."

"You're not helpless," Y/N said gently. "You healed everyone. That's important too."

"Not as important as what you did," Giorno said quietly. His hand finally settled on her shoulder, warm and grounding. "You're always the one running into danger, sacrificing yourself. Someday I want to be the one protecting you."

"You do protect me," Y/N said. "Just by being here. By caring."

The moment between them stretched, intimate and charged, until Narancia fake-gagged loudly.

"Okay, this is getting sappy! Can we please debrief now? I want to know what happened!"

"Alright everyone, listen up," Bruno's voice cut through the moment, drawing all eyes to him. He stood in the center of the small room, his posture straight and commanding despite having just recovered from rapid aging and a near-death experience. "We need to debrief what just happened. Starting with the assassins."

"They're dead, right?" Narancia asked, his voice carrying hope that the threat was over. "You killed them, Bucciarati?"

"Yes," Bruno said, and Y/N felt a twist of guilt at how smoothly the lie came. "Both Prosciutto and Pesci are dead. The threat from La Squadra is ended."

"How did they die?" Fugo pressed, his analytical mind clearly cataloging details. "What were their Stand abilities? What weaknesses did you exploit?"

Bruno glanced at Y/N, a silent question in his eyes. She gave a tiny shake of her head. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Prosciutto's Stand was called The Grateful Dead," Bruno explained. "It aged everyone in a wide radius based on body temperature. The hotter you were, the faster you aged. That's why Mista, Abbacchio, and Trish were spared, they'd had cold drinks that lowered their core temperature."

"And Pesci?" Abbacchio asked, his eyes sharp. "What was his ability?"

"Beach Boy," Mista supplied, touching the back of his head where the bullet wounds had been. "A fishing rod Stand. The line could pass through solid objects and hook people from inside. Nearly got my heart."

"But you defeated him," Fugo said, looking at Bruno. "How?"

Bruno's expression grew serious. "Prosciutto fell from the train and was caught in the wheel machinery. But even dying, he kept his Stand active. Pesci, inspired by his partner's determination, became much more dangerous. His confidence grew, his skills sharpened. In the end—" He paused. "In the end, I had to kill him. There was no other choice."

The lie sat heavy in the air. Y/N could feel it, thick and cloying, and she wondered if the others could sense it too.

"Where's the body?" Abbacchio asked, predictably suspicious.

"I threw him from the train," Bruno said smoothly. "After the kill was confirmed. We couldn't leave corpses in the passenger cars—too many witnesses, too many questions. The body fell into the countryside. By the time anyone finds it, we'll be long gone."

It was a good lie. Plausible. The kind of tactical decision Bruno would absolutely make. Abbacchio's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't press further.

"And what about Y/N?" Giorno asked quietly, his hand still resting on her shoulder. "What was her role in all this?"

All eyes turned to her. Y/N felt the weight of their attention like a physical pressure, and her exhaustion made it hard to think clearly. She needed to say something. Something that explained her actions without revealing the truth.

What do I tell them?

"I... helped where I could," she said carefully. "When I left the turtle, Mista was unconscious in the bathroom, aging rapidly, basically dead. I used ice to cool him down—transferred it mouth-to-mouth because it's faster and more effective than external application. The cold water absorbs into the bloodstream quickly that way."

"Very quickly," Mista agreed, his grin returning. "Extremely effective technique. Would recommend. Ten out of ten."

"Mista," Bruno said warningly.

"What? I'm just providing feedback!"

"After that, I tried to help Bruno," Y/N continued, keeping her voice steady despite her racing heart. "My Stand—Valkyrie's Vow—" The name still felt new on her tongue, but right. "She can create crystal constructs. Shields, weapons, distractions. When Bruno threw himself and Prosciutto from the train, I used her to create a blinding flash of light. It disoriented them, gave Bruno the chance to zip back into the train while Prosciutto fell into the wheels."

It wasn't entirely a lie. She had created a blinding flash. Just... not for the reason they thought.

"Your Stand has a name now?" Giorno asked, his eyes lighting up with interest despite the exhaustion. "When did you name her?"

"Just now, actually. In the heat of battle. It felt wrong to keep calling her 'my Stand' when she's... she's a part of me. She deserved a proper name."

"Valkyrie's Vow," Trish repeated softly, having been quiet through most of the debriefing. "That's beautiful. It suits her."

"Your Stand," Fugo said, leaning forward with interest. "We've seen her defensive capabilities, but you're saying she can create complex structures? And generate blinding light? How detailed can these abilities get?"

Too detailed, Y/N thought, remembering the perfect replica of Prosciutto's corpse. Detailed enough to fool everyone.

"Pretty detailed," she said aloud. "I'm still learning her limits. Every time I use her, I discover new abilities."

"Like what?" Abbacchio asked, his violet eyes sharp and assessing. "What else can your Stand do that you haven't told us about?"

Y/N hesitated. This was dangerous territory. If she revealed too much, they'd start asking questions she couldn't answer. But if she revealed too little, they'd grow more suspicious.

"She can create portals," Y/N said finally, deciding on a partial truth. "Dimensional spaces. It's... hard to explain. But it's exhausting."

"Portals?" Giorno's eyes widened slightly. "To where?"

"To a dimension that exists between light and physical space," Y/N said, repeating the explanation she'd given Formaggio and Illuso. "Everything there is made of crystal and refracted light. It's like... existing inside a prism, I guess. But I can only create small rifts, small distortions. Nothing major. And it drains me completely."

"That's incredible," Fugo breathed, his analytical mind clearly racing through possibilities. "The tactical applications alone—you could create escape routes, hide supplies, generate diversions—"

"If I had the energy for it," Y/N interrupted quickly. "But I don't. Using it even minimally nearly knocked me out. I can't use it casually."

"Then why did you use it today?" Abbacchio pressed, his tone suspicious. "What was so important that you'd drain yourself completely?"

Shit. He's too sharp.

"I thought it could help save Bruno," Y/N said, meeting his eyes steadily despite her exhaustion. "He'd thrown himself off a moving train with an enemy. I saw them falling and I panicked. I created that dimensional rift—that flash of light—hoping it would disorient Prosciutto enough for Bruno to escape. And it worked. Bruno used Sticky Fingers to zip back into the train while Prosciutto fell into the wheels. If I hadn't done that, Bruno might have died too."

The emotion in her voice was real, even if the specifics were lies. She had used her power to save someone from the wheels, just not the person they thought.

Abbacchio studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he looked away. "Fine. Just don't make a habit of nearly killing yourself. We've got enough problems without having to scrape you off the floor every mission."

It was probably the closest thing to concern Abbacchio would ever express, and Y/N felt her chest tighten with affection for the prickly, damaged man.

"I'll try," she promised.

"See that you do," Bruno said, his voice carrying finality. "Now, everyone—take stock of your injuries. Giorno, can you heal anyone who needs it?"

"Of course," Giorno said, reluctantly taking his hand from Y/N's shoulder to stand. "Though the aging effect seems to have reversed completely once the Stand was deactivated. Most of our injuries are superficial."

"I've still got marks on my head where the bullets hit," Mista pointed out, running his fingers through his curls. "They don't hurt, but they're noticeable."

"Then I'll start with you," Giorno said with a small smile. Gold Experience manifested, golden and beautiful, ready to work its healing miracles.

As Giorno moved toward Mista, Y/N caught the way his eyes lingered on Mista's exposed curls, the slight tightening of his jaw. Jealousy, she realized with a start. Giorno was jealous of Mista. Of the kiss. Of the intimacy, however clinical it had been.

"Your hair really is nice," Giorno said as Gold Experience's healing touch worked on Mista's scalp. "You should wear it down more often."

The compliment sounded genuine, but Y/N could hear the edge underneath it. The unspoken But keep your lips away from Y/N.

"Thanks, GioGio," Mista said, seemingly oblivious to the tension. "But I prefer my hat. Speaking of which—Y/N, you owe me a new one if that one's lost forever."

"I'll get you ten new ones," Y/N promised, just grateful for the change of subject.

As Giorno finished healing everyone's injuries, Y/N felt the exhaustion finally catching up with her. Her eyelids grew heavy, the voices around her starting to blur together. She'd done it. She'd saved Prosciutto and Pesci. She'd lied to her team, with Bruno's help, and they'd believed her. For now, at least.

But as her consciousness began to fade, she caught Abbacchio watching her from across the room. His violet eyes were thoughtful, calculating, like he was putting together a puzzle she'd rather keep scrambled.

He suspects something, she realized dimly. He doesn't believe the story completely. I'll have to be more careful around him.

"Y/N?" A soft voice pulled her back from the edge of sleep. She opened her eyes to find Trish settling onto the couch beside her, the pink-haired girl's expression concerned. "Are you okay? You look really pale."

"Just tired," Y/N murmured, managing a small smile. "It was a rough fight."

"I wish I could have helped," Trish said quietly, her green eyes troubled. "I just sat here in the turtle, useless, while you all risked your lives to protect me. I hate it."

"You're not useless," Y/N said firmly, reaching out to squeeze Trish's hand. "You're the reason we're all here. The reason we're fighting. That's important."

"Is it?" Trish's voice was small, vulnerable. "Sometimes I feel like I'm just... cargo. Something to be delivered. Not a person."

"You're a person," Y/N said, squeezing her hand again. "A strong, brave person who's handling an impossible situation with grace. Don't sell yourself short."

Trish's eyes grew suspiciously shiny. "Thank you. For saying that. And for... for everything. For being someone I can talk to. Someone who treats me like a friend instead of a mission."

"Always," Y/N promised, her heart aching for the girl who'd been thrust into this nightmare through no fault of her own.

Trish smiled, then carefully shifted closer, resting her head on Y/N's shoulder. "Can I stay here? Just for a little bit? You seem like the only calm person in this chaos."

"Of course," Y/N said softly, letting her own head rest against Trish's. The simple comfort of human connection felt precious after the violence and deception of the day.

Across the room, she caught Giorno watching them, his expression soft and wistful. When their eyes met, he smiled, small and genuine and achingly tender. Then he returned to putting away his Stand, but Y/N could feel his attention returning to her again and again, like a compass finding north.

"You know he's in love with you, right?" Trish whispered, so quietly Y/N almost missed it.

"What?"

"Giorno," Trish said, her voice barely audible. "He looks at you like you're the only person in the world. Like you're the sun and he's been living in darkness his whole life. It's... kind of beautiful, actually. In a sad sort of way."

"You're imagining things," Y/N said, but her cheeks felt warm.

"I'm not," Trish insisted gently. "I've been watching everyone. It's all I can do in this turtle. And trust me—Giorno's not the only one."

"Trish—"

"Mista flirts with you constantly, and after that kiss—medical or not—he's going to be even worse. Fugo gets this look in his eyes when you're around, like he's trying to solve an equation and you're the missing variable. Bruno is protective of you in a way he isn't with anyone else—like you're special. Even Abbacchio, who hates everyone, seems to tolerate you better than the rest of us." Trish paused. "And Narancia looks at you like a best friend, but also... like he's hoping for something more someday."

Y/N's head was spinning, and not just from exhaustion. "You're reading too much into things."

"Maybe," Trish conceded. "Or maybe you're not reading enough into them. Either way—" She lifted her head to look Y/N in the eyes, her expression serious. "You should be careful. Having that many people care about you that deeply... it's dangerous. In this life, especially. People do stupid things when they're trying to protect someone they love."

"I know," Y/N said quietly, thinking of all the secrets she was keeping, all the lives she was trying to save, all the ways this could go terribly wrong. "Believe me, I know."

"Good." Trish settled her head back on Y/N's shoulder. "Just... don't break their hearts, okay? We've all been through enough pain already."

"I'll try not to," Y/N promised, though she wasn't sure it was a promise she could keep.

The conversation died down as everyone settled into a more relaxed state. Bruno checked his watch, frowning at the time.

"We're approaching Florence," he announced. "We'll need to stay alert for any additional threats, but hopefully the worst is behind us."

"Do you think La Squadra will send more assassins?" Narancia asked nervously.

"Not immediately," Bruno said, though Y/N could hear the uncertainty in his voice. "They've lost four members in rapid succession. They'll need time to regroup, reassess their strategy. But we can't let our guard down."

They will send more, Y/N thought with quiet certainty. In a day or so, maybe two. But by then, we'll be ready. And maybe... maybe I can save them too, I believe its Melone who comes next.

But she couldn't say that. Couldn't explain how she knew. So she stayed quiet, letting Trish's warmth against her shoulder anchor her as exhaustion finally began to claim her.

"Y/N?" Giorno's voice, soft and concerned. "Are you falling asleep?"

"Mmm... maybe," she mumbled, her eyes already drifting closed. "Just... really tired..."

"Then sleep," Bruno said, his voice gentle. "You've earned it. We'll wake you when we reach Florence."

"But I should help keep watch—"

"You should rest," Giorno interrupted firmly, moving back to the couch. He carefully adjusted the pillows behind her, making sure she was comfortable. "Let us handle things for a while. You've done more than enough."

His fingers brushed through her hair, the gesture so tender it made her chest ache. She was too tired to protest, too exhausted to push him away, too drained to maintain the careful distance she usually kept.

"Giorno," she whispered, her eyes already closed. "Thank you. For caring. For being here. For everything."

"Always," he whispered back, and she felt his hand linger in her hair for just a moment longer than necessary. "Sleep now, cara mia. I'll keep watch."

The Italian endearment washed over her like warm honey, and she was too tired to analyze what it meant, why it made her feel safe and cherished and terrifyingly vulnerable all at once.

As consciousness faded, Y/N's last coherent thought was of Formaggio and Illuso, safely hidden in the mirror world. Of Prosciutto and Pesci, reunited against all odds, both alive when they should be dead.

Four lives saved. Four deaths prevented. Four futures changed.

It was worth it. Worth the exhaustion, worth the lies, worth the guilt. She'd do it again in a heartbeat.

───────────── ⚝ ─────────────

In the mirror world, Illuso watched through a shard of reflective glass as the girl who'd saved his life finally succumbed to exhaustion. Beside him, Formaggio was still grumpy, muttering under his breath about "medical procedures" and "boundary issues." Prosciutto sat propped against the wall, bandaged but alive, his sharp eyes thoughtful. And Pesci hovered anxiously nearby, still processing the miracle of his brother's survival.

"She's insane," Illuso said quietly, but there was respect in his voice. "Completely, utterly insane."

"Yeah," Formaggio agreed, though he still sounded sulky. "But she's OUR kind of insane. The kind that refuses to give up on people everyone else has written off."

"She saved us," Pesci said, wonder still coloring his voice. "Saved us when she had every reason to let us die. When it would have been easier, safer, smarter to just let nature take its course."

"She's going to get herself killed someday," Prosciutto said, his voice rough from his injuries but strong with conviction. "That kind of mercy, in our world? It's a death sentence."

"Maybe," Formaggio said, watching Y/N sleep through the mirror, his expression softening despite his jealousy. "Or maybe she's exactly what this fucked up world needs. Someone crazy enough to believe people can change. Can be saved."

"Either way," Illuso said, turning away from the mirror, "we owe her. All of us. And I don't like owing debts."

"Then we pay it back," Prosciutto said simply. "When the time comes—and it will come—we help her. Protect her. Even if it costs us everything."

"Agreed," the others said in unison.

"Though I'm still mad about the kiss thing," Formaggio added petulantly. "Just for the record."

"Get over it," Illuso said with an eye roll. "She saved your life. That should count for more than who she's kissed."

"It's the PRINCIPLE of the thing!"

"You're ridiculous."

The train rumbled on through the Italian countryside, carrying its cargo of secrets and lies and impossible hopes toward an uncertain future.

And Y/N slept, dreaming of a world where no one had to die, where everyone could be saved, where mercy wasn't weakness but strength.

A world that didn't exist yet.

But maybe, just maybe, could be built, one saved life at a time.

Chapter Text

A sudden shudder jolted Y/n awake on the plush sofa inside Coco Jumbo's room. Her whole body ached with a bone-deep exhaustion that came from overusing her Stand. Valkyrie's Vow had been manifesting almost constantly for the past few days, and the strain was catching up to her. 

She blinked away the haze of sleep, disoriented by the sudden stillness. The vehicle they were now traveling in, having left the train had stopped—no, crashed, judging by the voices filtering through the turtle's dimensional barrier.

"Mista, check the perimeter," Bruno's calm authority cut through the confusion.

Y/n sat up slowly, her heart hammering. Through the room's strange perception, she could sense movement, the team was leaving the turtle. 

Bruno sat in a chair across from her, his expression concerned, while Trish remained on the sofa beside her, looking exhausted and rattled from the crash.

"Are you alright?" Bruno asked quietly, his blue eyes assessing.

"Fine," Y/n lied, rubbing her face. "Just... tired."

She looked up and around, noticing where they were, a rest stop. Middle of nowhere. Perfect.

Her mind raced through the timeline she'd memorized from binge-watching the anime. Melone. Baby Face's attack. Giorno would be holding the turtle soon, vulnerable outside. And after that—God, after that, Melone would die from that dumb venomous snake unless she did something.

But first, she needed to check on the others. It had been three hours since she'd saved Prosciutto and Pesci. Were they okay? Had Prosciutto's injuries from Bruno's Sticky Fingers gotten worse?

Y/n pressed her palm against the cool wall of the turtle's interior room, steadying herself.

Then she felt it, that familiar pull in her chest, Valkyrie's Vow stirring with urgent warning. She looked at the nearest reflective surface, a decorative mirror on the room's wall, and saw him.

Illuso. His face in the glass, eyes wide, mouthing something she couldn't hear through the dimensional barrier.

Danger. Now.

Y/n was on her feet before conscious thought caught up. "I need to use the bathroom," she said, already moving toward the exit. "Like, right now. Female emergency."

Bruno's eyebrows rose slightly, but he nodded. "Be careful. Stay close to the building."

Trish gave her a knowing look. "Want me to come with?"

"No!" Y/n said too quickly, then forced a smile. "I mean, it's fine. I'll be quick."

She waited, counting heartbeats, until she heard Giorno's voice outside: "I'll keep watch with Coco Jumbo."

Now.

Y/n slipped toward the turtle's exit, her footsteps silent. As she emerged into the cool night air of the rest stop, she found herself face-to-face with Giorno, who stood several feet away, the turtle resting in his palm. His turquoise eyes widened slightly in the darkness, illuminated by the flickering fluorescent lights overhead.

"Y/n? Where are you—"

"Bathroom emergency," she blurted, perhaps too quickly, gesturing vaguely toward the rest stop building. "You know. Girl stuff. Female emergency. Very urgent."

Giorno's cheeks colored faintly, and he glanced away with that characteristic awkwardness he always displayed around her. Even now, after everything, he couldn't quite meet her eyes when she mentioned anything remotely personal.

"Ah. Of course. Be careful."

She felt a pang of guilt for lying to him—to the boy who'd been her only childhood friend before she'd "moved away" in his memories, before this universe had rewritten itself around her presence. But there was no time.

Y/n hurried toward the rest stop building, her sneakers—so out of place in 2001 Italy with their modern design—scuffing against the gravel. Her cut-off jean shorts, remnants of when her legs had been severed, showed skin in the darkness. Her shirt was still blood-stained and ripped from previous battles, styled now more out of necessity than choice.

The structure was typical of Italian highway stops, weathered concrete, flickering fluorescent lights, and grimy windows that reflected her anxious face as she passed. The night air was cool against her skin, carrying the distant sound of crickets and the occasional passing car on the highway. She pushed through the entrance, immediately scanning for what she needed.

There—a bathroom mirror, cracked at the corner but serviceable.

She locked the bathroom door behind her and faced her reflection. In the harsh lighting, she looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes, her hair a mess from sleeping in the turtle. The fatigue from overusing her Stand showed in the slight tremor of her hands.

"Illuso," she breathed, pressing her fingertips to the cold glass. "I know you can hear me. What's wrong?"

For a moment, nothing. Then the mirror's surface rippled like disturbed water, and a hand—quilted fabric over pale fingers—reached through and grabbed her wrist before pulling her in.

The world inverted.

Y/n stumbled through into the mirror world, that bizarre parallel dimension where everything existed in perfect replica but utterly devoid of life.

Illuso caught her elbow, steadying her with a grip that lingered a moment longer than necessary. His quilted outfit caught the strange, muted light of the mirror world.

"Dolcezza," he said, but his usual smugness was replaced with genuine concern. "It's Prosciutto. His wounds are worse than we thought. He's been hiding how bad it is, but he collapsed an hour ago."

"What?" Y/n's stomach dropped. "Take me to him. Now."

"Follow me."

The mirror world's rest stop stretched before them, identical to the real one but eerily silent under the night sky. No humming lights, no distant traffic sounds, just their footsteps echoing in the emptiness. Illuso led her through the building and out toward the parking lot, where a shimmering portal-mirror hung in the air, showing the truck's abandoned hulk.

Through another mirror, into a commandeered maintenance room they'd been using as a hideout.

The space was cramped, a storage area filled with cleaning supplies and industrial shelving. But her saved assassins had made it work, blankets spread on the floor, a makeshift cot constructed from pallets and tarps. Formaggio lounged against a wall, his studded jacket discarded, worry evident on his usually relaxed face. Pesci sat on an overturned bucket, fidgeting with Beach Boy's fishing rod, his eyes red-rimmed.

And there, unconscious on the cot—

"Prosciutto."

The blonde assassin was pale, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air of the mirror world. Someone, probably Pesci, had removed his spider-web jacket, revealing the extensive bandaging wrapped around his torso. Dark stains seeped through the white fabric.

"He won't let us help," Formaggio said quietly as Y/n rushed to the cot. "Keeps saying he's fine, that we need to focus on the mission. But Principessa, he's not fine. Those injuries from Bruno's Sticky Fingers—the zippers that opened him up, never properly closed. He has giant gashes across his torso. We don't have the medical supplies for this."

Y/n knelt beside Prosciutto, her hands hovering over his bandages, afraid to touch and cause more pain. "How long has he been like this?"

"He collapsed about an hour ago," Pesci said, his voice thick with emotion. "Just... fell over while we were planning. He's been conscious on and off, but—"

"I'm conscious now," Prosciutto's voice rasped, eyes cracking open to fix on Y/n. Those purple eyes were hazy with pain and fever, but still intense, still sharp. "Stop... hovering."

"Shut up," Y/n said, relief and anger warring in her chest. "You're literally dying and you're still being stubborn."

"I've had worse."

"That doesn't make this okay!" She pressed her hand to his forehead, burning hot with fever. "God, you're burning up. Infection, probably, or internal bleeding, or—I need to see the wounds."

Prosciutto's hand caught her wrist weakly. His grip was hot, trembling slightly. "Don't... waste your energy. Save it for... the others."

"There won't be others to save if you die," Y/n snapped, gently extracting her wrist. "Formaggio, I need clean water and any medical supplies you can find. Pesci, see if there's anything we can use for fever reduction—ice, cold water, anything. Illuso—"

"Already searching, Dolcezza." The quilted assassin moved to the shelving, rifling through supplies.

Y/n turned back to Prosciutto, her voice softening. "I'm going to remove the bandages. It's going to hurt."

"I know how injuries work," he said, but there was less bite to it now.

"Then humor me." She began unwrapping the bandages carefully, trying to ignore how her hands shook. Her fingers brushed against his fevered skin, and she felt him tense beneath her touch. The sight beneath made her stomach lurch.

The injuries were brutal. Deep gashes across his ribs and torso where Bruno's Sticky Fingers had opened him up, zipper-like wounds that had never been properly closed. The edges were raw and angry, purple-black bruises spreading across his skin. But worse, much worse, were the signs of infection. Red streaks radiating from the wounds, the tissue hot and swollen.

"Merda," she whispered. "This is septic. You need antibiotics, probably surgery—"

"Which we don't have," Prosciutto said flatly. "So do what you can."

Y/n's mind raced. This should be a hospital trip, IV antibiotics, proper wound care. But here? In 2001, hiding in a mirror dimension with assassins who couldn't risk real medical attention?

She looked at her Stand, Valkyrie's Vow manifesting beside her with that crystalline armor gleaming. The warrior's form seemed to pulse with her determination, colors shifting from worried blue to fierce violet. An idea formed—crazy, probably impossible, but—

"My Stand can create anything from crystal," she said slowly. "What if I could create... medicine? Antibacterial crystals, something to draw out the infection?"

"Can you do that?" Formaggio asked, returning with water and clean cloths.

"I don't know. I've never tried." She looked at Prosciutto, whose purple eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch. "But I have to try."

"Risky," Prosciutto murmured. "If it doesn't work—"

"If I do nothing, you die. So we're trying it." She summoned Valkyrie's Vow fully,  "I need you to trust me."

For a long moment, they stared at each other. Then Prosciutto nodded once.

Y/n placed her hands over the worst of the wounds, Valkyrie's Vow moving with her, its crystalline fingers hovering above the infected tissue. She focused, thinking about everything she'd learned from medical dramas, from googling wound care, from that one semester of biology in high school.

Antibacterial properties. Silver had those, didn't it? And certain crystals were supposed to have healing properties, not that I believed in crystal healing back home, but here, with Stands that defied physics, maybe belief mattered.

Valkyrie's Vow's hands glowed, soft blue light emanating from the crystals. Slowly, carefully, microscopic crystal structures began forming on the wounds, not covering them, but integrating with the damaged tissue, creating a matrix that Y/n desperately hoped would fight infection.

The strain was immediate. Her vision blurred, exhaustion crashing over her in waves. Creating the fake corpse of Prosciutto earlier, opening my Stand's portal dimension, it had all drained me, and now this, working on a cellular level, trying to save a life with a power I barely understood—

"Y/n," Illuso's voice, concerned. "Your nose is bleeding."

She tasted copper. "I'm fine."

"You're not," Prosciutto said, and suddenly his hand was on her face, thumb brushing away the blood trickling from her nostril. His touch was gentle despite the tremor in his fingers, and the intimacy of the gesture made her heart stutter. "Stop. Don't hurt yourself for me."

"Too late," she managed, but the crystal work was done. The glowing faded, leaving behind a thin layer of silvery-blue crystal integrated with his wounds. "There. That should... should help. Maybe."

She swayed, and multiple hands caught her—Formaggio on one side, Pesci on the other, easing her down to sit on the floor beside Prosciutto's cot.

"You're an idiot," Prosciutto said, but his voice was rough with emotion. His hand found hers, fingers interlacing despite the blood and sweat, his grip stronger now. "A brave, stupid idiot."

"Yeah, well." She wiped at her nose, smearing blood. "You're not allowed to die. I didn't save you from those train wheels just to lose you to an infection."

Formaggio pressed a wet cloth into her hand. "That was incredible, Principessa. Reckless, but incredible."

"Will it work?" Pesci asked anxiously, his young face pale with worry as he watched his mentor—his brother figure—lying there.

"I don't know," Y/n admitted. "I've never done anything like that before. But the crystals should have antibacterial properties, and I designed them to dissolve slowly, releasing silver particles. In theory. If I did it right. Which I might not have."

"You did it right," Prosciutto said with surprising certainty. He squeezed her hand, pulling her attention back to him. "I can feel it working. The pain's less already."

"That might be shock."

"Or it might be your impossible power saving my life. Again." His thumb traced small circles on the back of her hand, such a small gesture, but intimate in its tenderness. "Thank you."

The simple words, combined with the warmth of his hand, made Y/n's throat tight. "You're welcome."

They sat like that for a moment, hands clasped, and Y/n found herself studying his face, the sharp lines softened by exhaustion, the way his jaw clenched against residual pain, the intensity in those purple eyes that never quite left her face. There was something magnetic about him, something that drew her in despite the danger, despite the impossibility of their situation.

Prosciutto's gaze dropped to her lips, lingered there for a heartbeat too long. "Tesoro," he murmured, the endearment—treasure—rolling off his tongue like a caress. "You make it very difficult to maintain professional distance."

Heat flooded Y/n's face. "Professional distance? You're literally holding my hand right now."

"Mm. A lapse in judgment." But his grip tightened, contradicting his words. "Or perhaps the fever talking."

"Definitely the fever," she said, but her voice came out breathier than intended.

His eyes darkened with something that had nothing to do with pain. "If it's the fever, then I should warn you—I'm feeling very feverish indeed."

"Prosciutto—"

"You know what they say about near-death experiences," he continued, voice dropping lower. "They make a man... reckless."

Before she could respond, he pulled her closer, gently, giving her time to resist, until their faces were inches apart. She could feel his breath, hot with fever, stirring against her lips. Her heart hammered wildly.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered, "and I will."

Y/n's mind spun. This was insane. He was injured, feverish, possibly delirious. But God, the way he was looking at her, like she was something precious and impossible, like she'd hung the moon just for him—

Then Illuso cleared his throat, deliberately loud, shattering the moment.

"Dolcezza, as much as I hate to interrupt this very moment," his tone was dry, but there was an undercurrent of something sharp—jealousy, perhaps—"we have a problem."

Y/n pulled back, flustered, and Prosciutto made a sound of frustration deep in his throat. His hand slipped from hers reluctantly, fingers trailing across her palm in a way that sent shivers up her arm.

Y/n looked up, trying to catch her breath and gather her scattered thoughts. "What problem?"

"Melone. You mentioned saving him before you rushed over here to play doctor. If the timeline's still running, he's got maybe thirty minutes before—"

"The snake." Y/n's attention snapped back to the mission, though her hand still tingled where Prosciutto had touched her. "God, I almost forgot. We need to move."

"You're exhausted," Prosciutto protested, struggling to sit up. "You just—"

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding from your nose and can barely sit up straight."

"I'll manage." She squeezed his hand, reluctant to let go. "Rest. Let the crystals work. I'll be back before you know it."

"Y/n—" His grip tightened, pulling her closer again, and suddenly they were face-to-face once more, his purple eyes burning with intensity. "Be careful, Tesoro. Please."

The raw emotion in his voice, fear, need, something deeper, made her chest ache. She turned her face into his palm, letting herself have this moment. His skin was still hot with fever, but his touch was steady, grounding.

"I will. I promise."

"Promises," he murmured, his free hand coming up to cup her other cheek, cradling her face between his palms. "You make so many of them."

"And I keep them." She covered his hands with hers. "You're going to be okay. The crystals will work."

"Because you will them to." His eyes searched hers. "You're going to burn yourself out for us, aren't you? For people who don't deserve—"

"Stop." She pressed her fingers to his lips. The moment she made contact, he stilled, his eyes darkening further. Then, deliberately, he pressed a kiss to her fingertips—soft, reverent, but with an edge of heat that made her breath catch. "You deserve to live. All of you."

Formaggio cleared his throat loudly. "Okay, breaking this up before Prosciutto decides to ignore his gaping wounds and do something really stupid." There was amusement in his voice, but also protectiveness. "Not that I'm against romance, but Principessa needs to get back before her team sends out a search party."

He stepped closer, his usual relaxed demeanor sharpening into something more focused as he met Y/n's eyes. "Besides, if we're talking about kisses for medical purposes, I think I deserve one too. I helped, didn't I?"

Y/n laughed despite herself, the tension breaking. "Formaggio—"

"What? I'm just saying, Principessa." He grinned, but there was genuine affection beneath the teasing. "You save our lives, heal our wounds, bleed yourself dry for us—the least we can do is make sure you know you're appreciated."

"I appreciate you too," she said, standing with his help. On impulse, she leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. "There. Happy?"

Formaggio's grin widened. "Ecstatic. Though I was hoping for something more like what Prosciutto was about to get—"

"Don't push your luck," Prosciutto growled from the cot, though his eyes held amusement along with the warning.

Pesci had been quiet through the exchange, but now he spoke up, his voice soft but earnest. "Thank you for trusting me. And for... for saving Prosciutto. I don't know what I'd do if—" His voice cracked.

Y/n turned to him, seeing the vulnerability in his face, the way his hands twisted nervously around Beach Boy's rod. She moved to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to thank me, Pesci. And you were amazing with Beach Boy. You're stronger than you think."

He looked up at her with those wide eyes, something like worship in them. "You really think so?"

"I know so." She squeezed his shoulder, and he ducked his head, but not before she caught the pleased, almost shy smile.

Then Illuso's hand found her waist, fingers splaying possessively across her hip. "Ready, Dolcezza? Or do you need to make the rounds and kiss everyone goodbye?"

The teasing edge in his voice didn't quite mask the genuine question beneath, or the hint of jealousy. Y/n looked up at him, noting the way his jaw was tight, the intensity in his eyes that had nothing to do with the mission.

"Illuso—"

"Just making sure you haven't forgotten about the rest of us," he said lightly, but his grip on her waist tightened fractionally. "Prosciutto's not the only one who'd like to... express his gratitude."

Before she could respond, he leaned in close, his breath ghosting over her ear as he whispered, "Though unlike him, I'm not currently bleeding out. Which means I can be much more... thorough... when the time comes."

Heat flooded her face. "You're all impossible."

"And you love it," Formaggio called out, laughing.

But as Y/n glanced back at Prosciutto one more time, she found him watching her with an expression that made her breath catch, possessive, protective, and something deeper that she wasn't quite ready to name. But then he closed his eyes, chest rising and falling more evenly, the silver-blue crystals on his wounds glowing faintly.

Please let it work, she thought. Please.

Then Illuso's hand was on her waist, yet again, guiding her toward the makeshift mirror portal. 

"Ready, Dolcezza?"

"As I'll ever be."

───────────── ⚝ ─────────────

Mirror-hopping was like being flushed through a kaleidoscope while someone shook your brain like a snow globe, except this time it was worse because Y/n was already running on empty. Her stomach lurched as they passed through surface after surface, a car window, a shop display, a puddle on cobblestones, each transition a jarring shift in perspective and gravity.

She caught glimpses of the real world between jumps. The parking lot where the team had stopped, lit by harsh fluorescent lights that created deep shadows. Giorno standing alone near a transformed motorcycle, his golden hair almost luminous in the darkness, the Baby Face stand must have already attacked him, she realized, the stand a grotesque homunculus evolving before her eyes in quick flashes. The creature was growing, evolving, becoming more dangerous. But Giorno's face was set with determination, Gold Experience moving with precise, devastating efficiency, and she knew—remembered—he would win this fight.

"Almost there!" Illuso called over the rushing sound of their passage. "Termini Station, coming up!"

They burst through a bathroom mirror in Roma Termini, stumbling into the fluorescent-lit space of the mirror world's replica station. Y/n caught herself against a sink, breathing hard, tasting blood again.

"That," she gasped, "was worse than anything."

"You good, Principessa?" Formaggio steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. They'd all followed through, Formaggio, Pesci, and despite his injuries, Prosciutto, who was leaning heavily against the wall, his face pale but determined. "You're looking rough."

"I'm fine." She looked at Prosciutto with alarm. "What are you doing here? You should be resting!"

"Not letting you risk your life without backup," he said tersely, though the way he gripped the wall betrayed how much the journey had cost him. The silver-blue crystals on his wounds glowed faintly through his bandages, pulsing with each labored breath.

"Stubborn idiot," she muttered, but warmth bloomed in her chest.

"Takes one to know one, Tesoro."

Illuso rolled his eyes. "If you two are done flirting, we have an assassin to save. Pesci?"

Pesci had moved to peer through the mirror into the real world. "Platform 7. I can see him—he just got off the express train."

"Focus," Illuso commanded, though his hand lingered at Y/n's waist, ready to catch her if she fell. "We grab him fast, pull him through, and leave a crystal body behind. Y/n, can you manage that? After what you did with Prosciutto—"

"I have to." She summoned Valkyrie's Vow, the Stand manifesting with colors flickering erratically—exhausted oranges mixed with determined reds. "Let's move."

They moved through the mirror world's station, following the platforms until they found the right one. Through the reflective surface of a ticket machine's screen, they could see the real world—passengers milling about, trains arriving and departing under the harsh artificial lights, casting long shadows across the platform.

And there, stepping off the express from Napoli, was Melone.

Y/n had forgotten how unsettling he looked in person. That transparent mask over his eye, the exposed right side of his bodysuit, the way he moved with predatory grace. He was reviewing something on his laptop-style Stand interface, muttering to himself while on the phone, his free hand gesturing animatedly.

"Creepy bastardo," Formaggio muttered.

"Be nice. We're saving him." Y/n studied Melone's position, calculating angles. Then she saw it. On the far side of the platform, barely visible in the shadows, a small cube of still-burning matter, Baby Face's remains, already beginning its transformation by Giorno's power. "There! That cube—that's what becomes the snake. We have maybe sixty seconds."

"Pesci, ready Beach Boy," Illuso commanded. "Formaggio, distraction. Y/n, the body. Prosciutto, you just try not to pass out."

"Noted," Prosciutto said dryly, though he was already activating The Grateful Dead at low power, just enough to make the nearby civilians feel sluggish and disoriented, a perfect distraction without killing anyone.

"Right." Y/n focused on Melone, memorizing every detail, the distinctive hair, the unsettling outfit, the way he carried himself. Her Stand's hands moved in preparation, pulling at the air itself, beginning to form the crystalline structure. "Ready."

Formaggio's Stand Little Feet activated, and suddenly a nearby luggage cart shrank to the size of a toy, toppling over with a crash that echoed through the real world. Melone's head snapped toward the sound, distracted for a crucial moment.

That's when Pesci struck.

Beach Boy's line shot through the mirror-barrier, phasing through the dimensional wall with the Stand's unique properties. The hook caught Melone's ankle, and before the assassin could even shout, Pesci yanked.

Melone flew toward a display window, his eyes wide with shock, his Stand's computer form flickering in surprise, and then through it, into the mirror world, into Illuso's domain.

He hit the ground rolling, surprisingly agile, and came up ready to fight, his Stand manifesting—Baby Face's computer-form. "What the fuck—Mirror world? Illuso?! You're alive?!"

"Long story!" Formaggio was already there, Little Feet tagging him and beginning the shrinking process. "Hold still!"

"Like hell!" Melone's voice pitched up as he rapidly decreased in size, his Stand trying to analyze the situation even as panic set in. "This is impossible! I saw the reports—"

"Reports lie!" Y/n shouted, already working frantically. Valkyrie's Vow thrust forward, pulling crystal from the air, shaping it with desperate precision. In the real world, the snake had fully formed, slithering across the platform.

Creating the body was agony. Every cell in Y/n's body screamed for rest, but she pushed through, building the construct layer by layer, skeleton, muscles, skin, clothes. Melone's distinctive features taking shape in crystalline perfection. She could feel her Stand's energy depleting, the colors flickering between exhausted orange and barely-there gray.

Her vision tunneled. Blood dripped from her nose freely now, spattering on the mirror world's ground. Her hands shook as she worked, trying to capture every detail, the transparent mask, the exposed bodysuit, the way his hair fell. It had to be perfect. It had to fool whoever would come and retrieve his body later.

"Y/n!" Illuso's arm wrapped around her waist from behind, supporting her weight. "You're pushing too hard!"

"Almost... done..." The crystal body was ninety percent complete, lying where Melone had been standing seconds ago. The snake struck—

But Y/n hadn't finished the throat yet. The construct was hollow there, incomplete.

The snake's fangs passed through the crystalline structure, finding nothing to bite.

"No, no, no—" Y/n's voice cracked. She forced more power into Valkyrie's Vow, completing the throat, the tongue, every detail. The Stand's colors flickered dangerously, shifting to a deathly pale.

The snake struck again.

This time, its fangs sank into the crystal flesh. The construct was solid now, complete, and the venom pumped uselessly into crystalline veins. To any observer, it would look like Melone had been bitten, had collapsed—

Y/n's legs gave out entirely.

Illuso caught her, easing her down to the ground as Formaggio grabbed the still-shrinking, still-protesting Melone. Pesci rushed over, his young face panicked. Prosciutto stumbled forward, his own injuries forgotten as he dropped to his knees beside her.

"Is she okay?!"

"Overextended," Illuso said, cradling her against his chest. His usual smugness was gone, replaced with genuine worry. His hand cupped her face, tilting it up to look at him, and she saw fear there—real fear. "Damn it, Dolcezza, you're going to kill yourself doing this."

"I'm fine," Y/n mumbled, even as darkness crept at the edges of her vision. Her Stand flickered out of existence, unable to maintain form. "Got him... saved him..."

Prosciutto's hand joined Illuso's, both of them touching her face, her hair, checking for injuries with a desperation that would have been funny if she weren't so exhausted. "You're not fine. You're never fine. Tesoro, you can't keep doing this—"

"Had to," she whispered. Her eyes were already closing. "Couldn't... let him die..."

"You did." Illuso's voice was rough. His thumb brushed over her cheekbone, the touch achingly gentle. "You incredible, stupid woman. You actually did it."

And then, as if the adrenaline finally gave up, Y/n passed out completely.

───────────── ⚝ ─────────────

She woke to arguing.

"—can't keep doing this! She's going to burn herself out!"

"You think I don't know that? But what else can we do? Let them die?"

"I'm just saying, there has to be a limit—"

Y/n's eyes fluttered open to find herself back in the maintenance room hideout, lying on a pile of folded tarps that someone had fashioned into a makeshift bed. Her head was pillowed on something soft—Prosciutto's discarded jacket, she realized, still warm and smelling faintly of expensive cologne and gunpowder.

The arguing stopped. Formaggio, Illuso, Prosciutto and Pesci were staring at her. And beside them, now full-sized and very confused—

"Melone."

The lecherous assassin blinked at her, his analytical mind clearly racing. His gaze traveled over her slowly, not lewdly, but with assessment, taking in every detail from her unusual clothing to the blood still staining her upper lip. His eyes lingered on her legs for perhaps a moment too long before returning to her face. "You. You're the one who—through the mirror—but the body was—how did you—"

"Here we go," Formaggio muttered.

Y/n sat up slowly, every muscle protesting. "How long was I out?"

"Ten minutes," Illuso said, crouching beside her. His hand found hers, fingers interlacing almost automatically. "Scared the hell out of us."

"I'm fine."

"You keep saying that. It keeps being a lie." But his hand was gentle as he helped her sit up fully, his other hand steadying her shoulder. "Water?"

Pesci pressed a bottle into her hands, where they'd gotten bottled water in the mirror world, she didn't question. She drank gratefully, buying time to organize her thoughts.

Melone was staring at her with that unsettling intensity, his head tilted like he was examining a particularly fascinating specimen. When he licked his lips unconsciously, Formaggio made a disgusted noise.

"Control yourself, Melone. She just saved your life."

"Which is precisely why I'm intrigued." Melone's voice was smooth,  but there was an undercurrent of genuine fascination. "Explain. Now. Why am I not dead? Why are you people alive? And who the hell are you?"

Y/n wiped her mouth, meeting his gaze. "Okay. Explanation time. But you're not going to believe me."

"Try me. I create life from blood samples and women. My bar for believability is pretty high."

Fair point.

"I'm from another universe," Y/n said bluntly. "A world where your lives—all of this—is fiction. An anime called JoJo's Bizarre Adventure, Part 5, Golden Wind. I watched it, I know the story, I know how it ends. And I'm trying to change it."

Melone's expression didn't change for a long moment. Then, "Prove it."

"You created Baby Face by taking blood from Bruno Bucciarati during his fight with Prosciutto and Pesci—" she gestured to the cot where Prosciutto had been lying, though he was now standing near her, pale but upright, his hand resting on the wall for support. 

"You used a woman on a train with a hot temper, told her you were a talent scout, took her blood sample. The homunculus you created attacked my team inside Coco Jumbo's turtle, fought Giorno Giovanna. Giorno won, destroyed Baby Face, and then used his power to transform the remains into a venomous snake that followed you here and killed you. Or would have, if we hadn't intervened."

Melone's eyes had widened progressively with each detail. He leaned forward, fingers steepling beneath his chin. "That's... impossible. No one should know those details. Unless—"

"Unless I'm telling the truth." Y/n leaned forward. "In the original timeline, you die tonight. So do Formaggio, Illuso, Pesci, and Prosciutto. Actually, your entire team—La Squadra Esecuzioni—gets wiped out. You're all just obstacles in the story, villains who exist to be defeated so the main characters can grow stronger. But I don't accept that."

"Why not?" Melone's analytical mind was clearly churning, his eyes never leaving her face. "If we're meant to die, if it's destiny—"

"Because destiny is bullshit," Y/n said flatly. "You're people, not plot devices. You have reasons for what you do, histories, relationships. You deserve a chance to live, to change, to be more than your worst moments. So I'm saving you. All of you."

Silence filled the mirror world maintenance room. Then Melone laughed, a slightly unhinged sound that made everyone tense.

"Di Molto," he breathed. "That's the most insane thing I've ever heard. And I believe you."

"You do?" Pesci looked surprised.

"Her Stand." Melone pointed at Valkyrie's Vow, which was flickering in and out of visibility beside Y/n, barely maintaining form. "The precision, the control, the ability to create perfect replicas—that's not something you develop naturally. The molecular structure alone would require knowledge beyond what any Stand user in our time should possess. Di molto interesting. And her exhaustion level suggests she's been overextending consistently, which matches a pattern of repeated high-level Stand usage." 

His gaze dropped to her sneakers, lingering with analytical appreciation. "Plus, her clothes. Those sneakers aren't from 2001. The materials, the design—the polymer composition is far too advanced. They're futuristic. And her speech patterns, her references—" His eyes traveled up her legs slowly, but with an edge of appreciation that made Illuso's grip on her hand tighten. "She's not from here. Fascinating specimen."

"Glad someone finally appreciates my Nikes," Y/n muttered. "And I'm not a specimen."

"Everyone's a specimen if you look at them right," Melone said with a slight smile that was both polite and unsettling. He leaned closer, invading her personal space with the confidence of someone used to ignoring social boundaries. 

"But you—you're particularly intriguing. A woman who can create life from crystals, who knows the future, who bleeds herself dry to save murderers. The genetic factors alone must be extraordinary. Your Stand's potential is... di molto. I'd very much like to study your abilities more closely. Perhaps take some samples, run some tests—"

"Back off, Melone," Prosciutto's voice cut through, sharp and warning. He'd moved closer to Y/n, positioning himself between her and Melone despite his injuries. "She's not one of your experiments."

Melone raised his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes never left Y/n. "I merely meant in a professional capacity. Though I must admit—" His gaze dropped to her lips, then lower. "—beauty and power in equal measure is a combination I always find... compelling."

The way he said it made Formaggio roll his eyes. "Down, boy. She just saved your life."

"All the more reason to be grateful," Melone said smoothly, his smile widening. "I always appreciate those who show me... special attention." He licked his lips again, this time deliberately. "Perhaps when you're feeling more recovered, bella, we could discuss your Stand's capabilities in greater detail. I have so many questions about the crystalline structure, the energy expenditure—the way your body responds to such strain..."

Illuso groaned. "Christ, Melone, read the room."

"I am reading it." Melone's eyes glinted with amusement. "I'm simply expressing my gratitude in my own way."

Y/n felt heat creep up her neck. "Can we focus? You're alive, you're safe—"

"And you're really from another world," Melone interrupted, settling back with that analytical gaze still fixed on her. The clinical mask had returned, but something heated lingered beneath it. "One where we're fiction. And you're trying to save everyone?"

"That's the plan."

"Even the Boss?"

Y/n hesitated. She'd been trying not to think about that endgame. "I... I don't know yet. Maybe. If I can figure out how to stop him without killing him. But first, I need to save my team and yours."

Melone nodded slowly, processing. Then he looked around at the others. "So you're all supposed to be dead? My teammates?"

"Apparently," Formaggio said dryly. "Welcome to the club. The Principessa here has a saving people complex."

"It's not a complex if it's working," Y/n protested.

"You passed out," Illuso pointed out. His thumb stroked over the back of her hand, the touch grounding. "That's not 'working.'"

"Minor setback."

"Your nose is still bleeding."

"Shut up." Y/n wiped at her face, finding he was right. "Look, point is—Melone, you're alive. You're safe here in the mirror world with the others. But you can't let anyone see you. As far as the real world knows, you're dead."

"Which means I'm stuck here." Melone looked around the cramped space, then at his teammates with something like relief crossing his face beneath the mask. "With people who understand. People who know what it's like to be expendable." Something vulnerable flickered in his expression before the analytical mask returned. "Could be worse."

"We're not that bad," Pesci said quietly.

Melone's expression softened slightly. "No, you're not. And I... thank you. For pulling me through. I didn't think..." He trailed off, and for a moment, the facade cracked completely, revealing genuine fear and gratitude beneath. "I felt the snake bite. I thought—I was certain I was dead."

"You would have been," Y/n said softly. "But you're not. None of you are. And I'm going to keep it that way."

Melone studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "Di molto. I believe you will." He paused, then added with a return of that unsettling smile, "Though I still want those samples later. For science, of course."

"Of course," Formaggio said sarcastically.

Prosciutto, who had been leaning more heavily on the wall, suddenly spoke up. "If what you're saying is true, if you know the future—you know what happens next. The next assassin to come after your team."

Y/n's stomach clenched. "Ghiaccio. He's on his way now. And then..." She looked at the group. "Then it gets worse. Much worse."

"Tell us," Prosciutto said, his voice steady despite the pain etched in his features. "Tell us everything. If we're going to survive this, we need to know what's coming."

Y/n looked at the assembled assassins, the people she'd saved, the villains she'd befriended, the impossible found family she was building across timelines and dimensions.

"Okay," she said quietly. "But it's going to be bad. Really bad."

"We've all basically died already once," Formaggio said with dark humor. "How much worse can it get?"

Y/n thought of Risotto, of the final confrontation, of the deaths she still needed to prevent. Of Abbacchio. Of Bruno. Of Narancia. Her throat tightened. "You'd be surprised."

She took a deep breath. "First, the Boss. His real name is Diavolo. No one knows this. He has a split personality disorder—the other personality is called Doppio, and he's... he's like a completely different person. Sweet, nervous, uses random objects as phones to talk to 'the boss' which is really just Diavolo talking to himself. They share a body, but Diavolo is in control most of the time."

The assassins stared at her in stunned silence.

"That's..." Prosciutto processed this. "That's why no one's ever seen him. Why there are no photos. Even his name is a secret because he literally transforms his appearance."

"Exactly. He literally changes his appearance. His Stand, King Crimson, can erase time. He sees what's about to happen, erases the time it takes for it to happen, and only he remembers it. It's... it's almost impossible to fight."

"Almost?" Melone leaned forward, analytical mind engaging. "But not completely?"

"In the original timeline, Giorno figures out how to counter it. But..." Y/n swallowed hard. "A lot of people die first. That's what I'm trying to prevent."

"Tell us about Ghiaccio," Illuso pressed. His hand had moved from her hand to her waist, holding her steady.

Y/n's hands started shaking. The memories were fuzzy, frustratingly incomplete. "I... I don't remember exactly. I fell asleep during that part. I was binge-watching at like 3 AM and I just..." She pressed her palms to her eyes. "God, I'm so stupid. I know there's ice. Venice, maybe? Mista and Giorno fight him. Mista kills him. But the details—how he dies, when, where exactly—it's all fuzzy. I can't—"

Her breath hitched. I'm going to fail. I'm going to let him die because I couldn't stay awake for one episode—

"Hey." Formaggio was suddenly beside her, hand on her shoulder. "Breathe, Principessa. It's okay."

"It's not okay!" Her voice cracked. "I'm supposed to know this! I'm supposed to save you all and I can't even remember—"

"Stop," Prosciutto said, and suddenly he was on her other side, his hand cupping her face and forcing her to look at him. His purple eyes were intense, burning with something fierce. "You've saved five of us already. Five people who should be dead. You can't know everything, Tesoro. You're not a god. You're just a woman trying to do the impossible, and somehow succeeding."

"But—"

"No." His thumb brushed away a tear she hadn't realized had fallen. "You've done more than anyone could ask. More than we deserve. And whatever comes next—we'll face it together. All of us."

"He's right," Pesci added quietly, moving closer. "You saved Prosciutto. You saved all of us. We're not going to let you do this alone anymore."

"Besides," Illuso murmured against her ear, his chest pressed against her back, arms wrapping around her waist from behind, "you've got a whole team of assassins in your corner now. We're not exactly helpless, Dolcezza. Let us help you for once."

Melone nodded, his analytical gaze softening slightly. "He's correct. Your knowledge is invaluable, but incomplete information is better than none. We can work with fragments. Adapt. Improvise. It's what we do."

"And if Ghiaccio shows up," Formaggio added with a grin that was all teeth, "we'll deal with him. We know his Stand, his tactics. We've worked with him. That gives us an advantage."

Y/n looked around at them, these assassins, these villains, these people she'd saved who were now offering to save her in return. Her throat was tight with emotion.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. Together."

Prosciutto's hand was still on her face, his touch warm despite the fever that still lingered. "Together," he repeated softly. Then, before she could react, he leaned in and pressed his lips to her forehead, a gentle, reverent kiss that made her heart stutter. "Thank you, Tesoro. For everything."

When he pulled back, Y/n's face was burning. Illuso's arms tightened around her waist, and she felt him smile against her hair.

"Showing favoritism, Prosciutto?" Illuso's tone was light, but there was an edge to it.

"Perhaps," Prosciutto said, unapologetic. "She did save my life. Twice."

"She saved all our lives," Formaggio pointed out. "Where's our forehead kisses?"

"Get your own," Prosciutto said dryly, though there was amusement in his eyes.

Pesci was blushing furiously, looking between them all with wide eyes. Melone watched the interaction with interest, though Y/n caught the way his gaze lingered on her flushed face.

"Fascinating group dynamics," Melone murmured. "The protective territoriality, the pack bonding around a central figure, di molto interesting."

"We're not a science experiment," Illuso said irritably.

"Everything's a science experiment if you observe closely enough."

───────────── ⚝ ─────────────

Half an hour later, Y/n knew she had to get back. Her team would be noticing her absence by now, and she couldn't risk suspicion.

"I have to go," she said, standing with only minor dizziness. Progress. Prosciutto had returned to the cot, his face still pale but his breathing easier. The silver-blue crystals were working.

"You'll rest when this is over."

"That's what people say before they collapse."

"I'll be fine." She turned to the others. "Prosciutto, those crystals should keep working for a few days. If they start to fail, if the infection comes back—Illuso, you find me immediately. Understand?"

Prosciutto's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "Understood."

"Melone, welcome to the Island of Misfit Assassins. Try not to creep everyone out too much with your Stand experiments."

"No promises, mystery girl." But he was smiling slightly, and there was genuine warmth beneath the clinical exterior. "Thank you. For saving me. For... believing we're worth saving."

Her throat tightened. "You are. All of you."

Formaggio stood first, and before anyone else could move, he pulled her into a tight hug, possessive, his arms wrapping around her completely. One hand splayed across her back, the other cradling the back of her head, holding her close enough that she could feel his heartbeat. 

"You're something else, Principessa. Completely insane, but something else." When he pulled back, his hands cupped her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. His expression was intense, more serious than she'd ever seen from him. "I was the first one you saved. Remember that. I've been with you from the beginning—watching you bleed yourself dry, watching you risk everything. That means something." His thumb brushed over her cheekbone, the touch lingering. "Be careful out there. And if you need us—for anything—you call. Got it?"

There was weight behind his words, a claim being staked, and Y/n felt heat creep up her neck at the possessiveness in his gaze.

"Got it," she managed, throat tight with emotion.

Pesci approached shyly. "Thank you for trusting me. With Beach Boy. I didn't think I could—"

"You did great," Y/n interrupted, giving him a genuine smile. "You're stronger than you think, Pesci."

He ducked his head, but she caught the pleased expression. Then, surprising her, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her in an awkward but genuine hug. "Thank you," he whispered. "For saving Fratello. For saving all of us."

Y/n hugged him back, feeling protective affection surge through her. "You're welcome."

Then Prosciutto was struggling to stand, and Y/n rushed over. "What are you doing? You need to rest!"

"I wanted—" He swayed, and she caught him, their faces suddenly very close. Up close, she could see flecks of lighter color in his purple eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, the way he was looking at her like she was something precious and impossible. "I wanted to thank you properly."

"You already did."

"No. I didn't." His hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing over her cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "You saved my life. Twice. You used your Stand until you bled to heal me. That's not nothing."

"I couldn't let you die," she whispered.

"Why?" His voice was rough. "Why risk so much for someone like me? An assassin, a killer—"

"Because you're more than that. You all are." Her hand covered his on her face. "And because... because I care. About all of you."

Something shifted in his expression, something raw and vulnerable and intense. His other hand came up to cradle her face between his palms, and suddenly the world narrowed to just them, just this moment.

"Tesoro," he breathed, his eyes dropping to her lips, and then he was leaning in, closing the distance—

"Whoa, hold on!" Formaggio's hand shot out, grabbing Y/n's shoulder and pulling her back—not roughly, but firmly, decisively. "Not so fast, fratello."

Prosciutto's eyes snapped to Formaggio, darkening with irritation and something more dangerous. "Formaggio—"

"She just saved your life three hours ago," Formaggio said, his usual playfulness edged with something sharper, more possessive. "I've been with her for days. Watched her save me first. Watched her nearly die for it." His hand tightened on Y/n's shoulder. "You can't just swoop in when you're barely conscious and—"

"And what?" Prosciutto's voice was dangerous despite his weakness. "You think you have some claim on her?"

"Maybe I do," Formaggio shot back. "I was first. That counts for something."

"She's not a prize to be won—"

"I know that better than you," Formaggio snapped. "Which is why I'm not trying to kiss her while I'm delirious with fever!"

"Boys," Y/n interrupted, her face burning. "I'm right here. And I'm leaving. Now. Before this gets any more ridiculous."

Prosciutto's jaw clenched, frustration and something darker flickering across his features. But he didn't try to pull her closer again. Instead, he caught her hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to her knuckles, a gesture that was somehow more intimate than a kiss on the lips. His eyes never left hers, burning with intensity and promise.

"Be safe, Tesoro," he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "And when I'm healed... we'll finish this conversation."

The promise in his words sent shivers down her spine. Then he released her hand with visible reluctance.

Formaggio still had a hand on her shoulder, and he used it to turn her toward him. His expression softened slightly as he looked down at her. "Principessa," he said quietly, then leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, tender but claiming, his lips warm against her skin, staying there for a long moment. When he pulled back, his hand cupped her cheek briefly. "Don't forget who had your back first."

Pesci was blushing furiously, looking anywhere but at the territorial display. Melone watched with fascination. "Fascinating group dynamics," he murmured. "Di molto."

"Shut up, Melone," both Formaggio and Prosciutto said in unison.

And Illuso—Illuso was watching from near the mirror portal, his expression unreadable but his eyes dark with something that made Y/n's stomach flip. There was a calculation there, a patience, like a predator waiting for the right moment.

"If you're all quite finished," he said coolly, "Dolcezza needs to get back before her team notices she's been gone too long." His hand extended toward her, beckoning. "Come. I'll take you back."

As Y/n moved toward him, she caught the look Formaggio and Prosciutto exchanged, some silent communication that promised this wasn't over.

But she was smiling despite the tension, warmth blooming in her chest despite the exhaustion, despite the danger, despite everything.

Illuso guided her toward the mirror portal, his hand possessive on her waist. "Ready, Dolcezza?"

"I guess..."

───────────── ⚝ ─────────────

The mirror world shifted, and they were alone together, passing through the dimensional barriers. The transit was smoother with just the two of them, and Illuso took them through a more leisurely route, or as leisurely as dimensional travel could be.

"You know," he said as they glided through a shop window's reflection, his voice quiet in the silver space between worlds, "you're playing a dangerous game."

"Which one? I'm playing several."

"All of them." They passed through a car mirror, suspended for a moment in that strange liminal space. "Especially with my teammates. Formaggio's been half in love with you since you saved him—did you see the way he pulled you away from Prosciutto? That wasn't just protective. That was jealous. And Prosciutto..." He made a low sound. "Prosciutto doesn't let people close. Ever. The fact that he was about to kiss you means you've gotten under his skin in a way I've never seen."

"Yeah..." Y/n's voice was barely a whisper. "But I wasn't trying to—"

"I know. That's what makes it worse. You're genuine." They emerged into another mirror, closer to the rest stop now. "You saved us all. And now we're all—" He paused, his grip on her waist tightening. "Do you know what you've done? The loyalty you've earned. The feelings you've stirred up."

"I didn't mean to—"

"I know," he said again, softer this time. "But Dolcezza, you kissed Mista four times—"

"That was literally medical!" Y/n protested, her face flaming. "I was transferring ice water to cool him down! It wasn't—"

"Formaggio was so jealous I thought he might actually shrink Mista out of spite," Illuso continued, amusement threading through his voice. "Watched you press your lips to another man's four times. Even if it was medical, even if it was life-saving—he saw it. We all saw it through the mirrors. And it drove him mad."

"He never said—"

"Of course not. Because you saved Mista's life. But it doesn't change what he felt watching you." His voice dropped lower, more intimate. "Prosciutto doesn't even know about that yet. When he finds out you've technically kissed someone before him..." He laughed quietly. "You're collecting hearts without even trying, Dolcezza. The golden boy Giorno who looks at you like you hung the moon. Your entire team wrapped around your finger. And now my team—" His breath ghosted over her ear. "All of our broken hearts."

"You're not broken," Y/n said firmly, trying to steer the conversation. "None of you are."

Illuso laughed softly. "See? That right there. That belief. That's why we're all half in love with you already."

Before she could respond to that declaration, they burst through into the rest stop bathroom, stumbling into the real world.

Y/n caught herself against the sink, breathing hard, her mind reeling. Half in love with you already. What was she supposed to do with that?

But Illuso didn't let her go this time. His hands moved from her waist to her hips, spinning her around to face him with deliberate slowness, then backing her up against the bathroom wall beside the sink. The cold tile pressed against her back as he caged her in, one hand braced beside her head, the other still gripping her hip possessively.

"Illuso—" she started, but the look in his eyes stopped her cold.

Gone was the smugness, the playful teasing. In its place was something raw, hungry, barely restrained.

"I've been very patient," he said quietly, dangerously, his voice dropping to a register that made her breath catch. "Watching Prosciutto nearly kiss you. Watching Formaggio stake his claim with that forehead kiss and those possessive touches. Watching them fight over you like you're a prize." His free hand came up to cup her face, thumb tracing her lower lip with agonizing slowness. "But you know what, Dolcezza?"

"What?" Her voice came out breathier than intended.

"I'm the one taking you back. I'm the one who's had you alone, in my world, multiple times now. I've watched you save people who don't deserve it. Watched you bleed. Watched you be impossibly, infuriatingly brave." His thumb pressed against her lip, and she could feel the calluses there, rough against her soft skin. 

"And unlike Prosciutto's almost-kiss, or Formaggio's stuipd forehead claim, I'm going to make damn sure you remember this. That when you go back to your pretty golden boy and your team of heroes, you'll feel me."

His thumb traced down from her lip to her jaw, then her throat, the touch possessive and claiming. "Stop me if you don't want this."

Her breath caught. She should stop him. Should push him away. Should maintain some kind of professional distance. Should—

But she didn't.

She didn't say a word.

Illuso's mouth crashed against hers with bruising intensity, and it was nothing like the kisses with Mista, nothing like gentle forehead kisses or tender hand kisses. This was consuming, claiming, a kiss that stole the breath from her lungs and made her knees weak. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, demanding entrance, and when she gasped, shocked by the intensity, he deepened the kiss, swallowing the sound.

One hand tangled in her hair, tugging just hard enough to angle her head back, giving him better access. The other slid from her hip to her lower back, pulling her flush against him until every line of his body pressed against hers.

Y/n's hands fisted in his quilted jacket, holding on as the world spun. He kissed her like he was drowning and she was air, like he'd been waiting for this since the moment she stumbled into his mirror world, like he wanted to brand the memory of this into her very soul.

When he finally broke the kiss to let her breathe, his lips immediately found her jaw, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down to her neck.

"Illuso—" she gasped, but it came out needy, wanting, nothing like a protest.

"Say it again," he murmured against her throat, his teeth grazing her pulse point in a way that made her shiver. "Say my name like that again, Dolcezza."

"We can't—" But her protest died as he sucked at the sensitive skin where her neck met her shoulder, hard enough to sting, hard enough to mark. "Oh God—"

"That's for Prosciutto to see," he said, satisfaction clear in his voice as he pulled back to admire his work—a dark purple mark blooming on her skin. "So he knows someone got there first." His hands slid down to her thighs, gripping firmly. "And this—" Suddenly he was lifting her, pressing her more firmly against the wall. "—is for me. Wrap your legs around me, Dolcezza."

She should refuse. Should stop this before it went too far. But her body obeyed before her mind could catch up, legs wrapping around his waist as he held her against the wall with his hips. And oh—oh, she could feel him. Feel exactly how much he wanted her, hard and insistent, pressed right against her core through their clothes.

"Feel that?" he murmured, rolling his hips in a deliberate grind that made her moan—actually moan, the sound escaping before she could stop it. "That's what you do to me, Dolcezza. What you've been doing to me since you first stumbled through my mirror with those wide eyes and that bleeding heart, since you saved my life." His mouth found hers again, this kiss slower but somehow more devastating, his tongue tangling with hers in a dance that mimicked something far more intimate.

His hands gripped her thighs, holding her steady, fingers digging into her flesh through her shorts in a way that would probably leave bruises. The other hand slid higher, dangerously high, fingers tracing patterns on her hip bone that made her squirm. Then that hand moved to cup her face, thumb stroking her flushed cheek in stark contrast to the raw intensity of his kiss and the hardness pressed against her.

He rolled his hips again, creating friction that had her gasping into his mouth, her head falling back against the wall. The angle let him kiss deeper, claim more thoroughly, and he took full advantage, licking into her mouth with single-minded intensity.

"Illuso," she gasped when he finally let her breathe, her head spinning, her body on fire. "We have to—I need to—"

"I know." But he didn't stop, trailing kisses along her jaw, down her throat. "But first—" His mouth found the other side of her neck, sucking another mark there, matching the first. His hips ground against hers once more, deliberately, and she felt him groan against her skin. "—everyone needs to know you're claimed."

"You're impossible," she managed, but her voice was shaky, breathless, ruined.

"No, Dolcezza." He nipped at her earlobe, the small bite of pain mixing with pleasure in a way that made her gasp. "I'm possessive. There's a difference." His tongue traced the shell of her ear. "And right now, I'm staking my claim. Prosciutto almost kissed you. Formaggio kissed your forehead. But me?" His hands squeezed her thighs possessively. "I'm the first one to really kiss you. The first one to mark you. The first one to make you moan my name."

He punctuated his words with another roll of his hips, another kiss to her throat, and Y/n couldn't help the whimper that escaped. She was on fire, burning up, her body responding in ways she couldn't control.

"That's it," he murmured approvingly, his voice rough with want. "Let me hear you, Dolcezza. Let me give you something to remember when you're lying in that turtle room with your team, pretending everything's fine."

His mouth returned to hers, this kiss almost brutal in its intensity. His tongue dominated hers, claiming every inch of her mouth, and she could feel his restraint fraying, could feel how much he wanted more, wanted everything. His hips moved against hers in a rhythm that had her seeing stars, creating friction that was too much and not enough all at once.

When he finally—finally—pulled back, they were both breathing hard. Y/n's legs felt like jelly, her lips were swollen and tingling, her body was still thrumming with unsatisfied need. He held her there for a moment longer, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath hot against her lips.

"Remember this," he said, his voice rough, wrecked. "Every time someone looks at your neck, every time you feel my marks, every time you shift and feel the ache I left behind—remember me."

Then, carefully, he lowered her back to the ground, though he didn't step back immediately. His hands remained on her hips, steadying her as her shaky legs tried to remember how to support her weight.

When she could finally focus, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and gasped.

Her lips were swollen and red, kiss-bruised and obviously well-used. Her hair was a mess from his hands. And her neck—oh God, her neck. Two dark purple hickeys stood out starkly against her skin, one on each side of her throat, placed perfectly where everyone would see them.

"Illuso!" she gasped, hand flying to her neck. The marks were tender to the touch, and she could feel them throb in time with her racing heartbeat. "How am I supposed to—"

He grinned—that insufferable, smug grin that was pure Illuso, back in full force now. "Not my problem, Dolcezza. Though I'd suggest a scarf." He leaned in close one more time, his lips brushing her ear. "Or just own it. Let them see. Let them know you're not as innocent as you pretend."

His hand came up to trace one of the marks almost tenderly, and she shivered at the touch. "And for what it's worth—" His thumb brushed over her swollen bottom lip. "—that was just a preview. Next time, I won't stop. Next time, I'll make you scream my name."

The promise in his words made heat pool low in her belly all over again.

Then, with a final brush of his lips against her temple, almost sweet in contrast to everything that just happened, he stepped back and slipped into the mirror, leaving her alone.

Leaving her trembling, marked, in the dingy bathroom with racing heart, weak knees, swollen lips, very visible hickeys, and the lingering feeling of him pressed against her.

Oh God. Oh God, what did I just do?

Y/n pressed her hands to her burning face, trying to calm her racing heart. She could still feel him, feel where his hands had gripped her thighs, where his body had pressed against hers, where his mouth had claimed her so thoroughly.

And the marks. The damn marks.

She pressed her fingers to them again, wincing slightly. They were tender, dark, and definitely not going to fade anytime soon.

Think. Think. How do I hide these?

The bathroom was barely stocked. No paper towels, no—wait. Her Stand. If she could create antibacterial crystals for Prosciutto, surely she could create some kind of cover.

Summoning what little energy Valkyrie's Vow had left, she created a thin, nearly-transparent crystalline layer over the marks—like makeup, blending with her skin tone. It wouldn't hold up to close inspection, and it certainly wouldn't last long, but in the harsh parking lot lights, maybe no one would notice immediately.

She splashed cold water on her face, trying to cool her flushed cheeks and calm herself. Tried not to think about how thoroughly Illuso had kissed her, how good it had felt, how her body was still humming with want.

Stop it. Focus. You have to get back.

She checked her reflection one more time. The crystal camouflage was holding over the hickeys, at least for now. Her lips were still obviously swollen, there was no hiding that, but maybe she could blame it on... something. Anything.

Time to face the music.

She emerged from the rest stop building to find controlled chaos under the fluorescent parking lot lights. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of exhaust and distant pine trees, and it did nothing to cool her overheated skin.

Giorno was standing near a red car they must have procured while she was gone, his golden hair almost luminous in the artificial light. Baby Face was defeated, smoking remains scattered across the pavement like evidence of the brutal fight that had just concluded.

And the team was gathering, clearly preparing to move out.

"Y/n!" Narancia spotted her first, relief flooding his young face. He ran toward her, his bandanna slightly askew. "There you are! We were about to send someone looking for you!"

"Sorry, stomach issues," she lied smoothly, falling into step with them. Her voice came out slightly hoarse, and she cleared her throat quickly. "What did I miss?"

"Giorno kicked ass, that's what!" Narancia's enthusiasm was infectious despite the exhaustion. He threw an arm around her shoulders, grinning widely. "This Stand—Baby Face—attacked us, actually attacked Giorno outside, but Giorno totally destroyed it! It was so cool!"

Giorno looked uncomfortable with the praise, his cheeks slightly pink. When his eyes found Y/n's, there was relief there, and something else. Something that made her remember Illuso's words, looks at you like you hung the moon.

But then his gaze dropped to her face, really looking at her, and confusion flickered across his features. "Are you alright?" he asked, moving closer with unconscious concern. His hand came up, hovering near her face but not quite touching. "You were gone a while. I was worried." His eyes narrowed slightly, taking in her flushed cheeks, her swollen lips. "And you look... flushed. Are you feeling ill?"

Oh no. Can he tell?

"Just bad timing for my digestive system," she said quickly, the lie tasting even more bitter now. "And I was running. To the bathroom. Very urgent. You know how it is." The words tumbled out too fast, and she forced herself to slow down. "I'm fine, really."

Giorno's eyes searched hers, clearly not entirely convinced, but he was too polite to push. Still, his gaze lingered on her lips a moment too long, and Y/n fought the urge to cover her mouth.

Bruno approached, his expression unreadable in the harsh lighting, and something in his blue eyes suggested he didn't entirely believe her excuse. His gaze was too knowing, too sharp, like he could see right through her. 

When his eyes met hers, there was a weight there—a reminder. He'd found out that she'd been saving the assassins. Had told her NO more saving the villains. Had told her to stop lying to him. And here she was, doing exactly what he'd forbidden, lying straight to his face again.

His gaze dropped briefly to her neck, and even though the crystal camouflage was holding, something in his expression shifted. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

But he said nothing, just gestured to the red car. "We need to keep moving. The attack proves they're still tracking us. We can't stay here." He looked at Giorno. "You'll drive with Mista in the back seat navigating. Everyone else, back in the turtle."

As he said it, his eyes found Y/n's again, and there was a promise there, they would be talking about this later.

As they prepared to leave, Y/n caught Giorno still watching her, his gaze troubled, lingering on her face in a way that made guilt twist in her stomach. His Stand, Gold Experience, flickered briefly beside him, beautiful and deadly, just like its user.

In the original timeline, he would've killed Melone tonight, she thought. Would've added another body to his count without hesitation.

But because of her, Melone lived. They all lived, Formaggio, Illuso, Pesci, Prosciutto, and now Melone. Five assassins who were supposed to die, now hiding in a mirror world, protected by a girl from the future who couldn't bear to let the story play out as written.

And now I'm marked by one of them. What am I doing? Fuck it, I want all of them… haha…

Mista sidled up beside her as they walked to the turtle, his easy grin in place despite the exhaustion of battle. His hat was back on, hiding his curly hair, his crop top revealing the bandages from earlier injuries. "Hey, you sure you're okay? You look kinda pale. Well, pale and flushed at the same time, which is weird. And your lips look—" He stopped, squinting at her. "Did you bite your lip or something? They look swollen."

Y/n's hand flew to her mouth automatically before she could stop herself. "I—yeah. Stress. I bite my lips when I'm stressed."

"Huh." Mista didn't look entirely convinced, but he shrugged. "Yeah, well, join the club on the stress thing. That Stand was nasty. But Giorno handled it like a pro." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I think he was extra motivated 'cause you were nearby. Guy's got it bad."

"Mista—"

"I'm just sayin'!" He held up his hands innocently. "Not judging. You're a catch, Y/n. Any guy would be lucky—"

"Mista, I swear—"

"Okay, okay, shutting up!" But he was laughing as he jogged ahead to join Giorno by the car.

Y/n shook her head, trying to calm her racing heart. Then she felt eyes on her and looked up to find Abbacchio watching from near the turtle, his expression unreadable beneath the dramatic makeup and white hair. When their eyes met, he didn't look away, just held her gaze with an intensity that made her wonder what he saw, what he suspected.

Then his gaze dropped, deliberately, to her neck. To where the crystal camouflage barely hid the marks. And something flickered in his expression. Knowledge. Suspicion. Something that made her blood run cold.

He knew. Or at least, he suspected.

Abbacchio had always been perceptive in the anime. Too perceptive.

"Y/n," Bruno called, holding Coco Jumbo. "Time to go."

She nodded, moving to enter the turtle's sanctuary. As she passed Bruno, he touched her arm lightly, just a brief contact, but loaded with meaning.

"We need to talk," he said quietly, for her ears only, his blue eyes boring into hers. "Soon. No more lies, Y/n. I meant what I said."

Her throat tightened. Bruno, with his unwavering sense of justice, his protective nature, his ability to read people like open books. Of course he suspected something. Of course he knew.

"I know," she managed. "Thank you, Bruno."

"Don't thank me yet." His grip on her arm tightened briefly, almost warning. "Whatever you're doing—whoever you're protecting—it better be worth it."

He studied her face for another moment, then nodded, letting her pass into the turtle.

───────────── ⚝ ─────────────

Inside Coco Jumbo's room, Trish was curled on the sofa, looking exhausted and stressed. Fugo sat nearby, his sharp features tight with tension. Narancia bounced in after Y/n, his energy somehow still high despite everything, though she could see the exhaustion beginning to creep in around his eyes.

The moment Y/n entered, Trish's eyes locked onto her, widening slightly. "Y/n, your lips, what happened?"

"Nothing," Y/n said quickly, sitting down beside her. "Just been biting them. Stress."

"That's more than stress-biting," Trish said, concern flickering across her features. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"That was so cool!" Narancia interrupted before Y/n could respond, waving his hands animatedly. "Giorno was all bam with the punches, and Baby Face was like argh—"

"Narancia, please," Fugo pinched the bridge of his nose. "Some of us have headaches."

"Sorry, sorry." But Narancia was grinning as he flopped onto a chair. "Y/n, you should've seen it! Giorno turned the Stand into a snake and everything!"

Y/n's stomach clenched. The snake. The one that killed Melone in the original timeline. That was currently dissolving in Melone's crystal corpse on a train platform. "Sounds intense."

"It was!" Narancia leaned forward eagerly. "Hey, you think my Stand could've taken Baby Face? I mean, Aerosmith's got those bullets—"

"Your Stand is an airplane, Narancia," Fugo said dryly. "Baby Face was able to morph into objects. The logistics alone—"

"But theoretically—"

As they bickered, Y/n sank deeper into the sofa beside Trish, exhaustion finally catching up with her. But it was more than just Stand exhaustion now. Her body still hummed with the memory of Illuso's touch, his kiss, the way he'd held her against that wall. Her lips throbbed, tender and swollen. Her neck ached where he'd marked her.

And under the crystal camouflage, she could feel the hickeys pulse with each heartbeat, a constant reminder of what had just happened.

The pink-haired girl looked over, concern flickering across her pretty features. Her eyes dropped to Y/n's neck, and even though the marks were hidden, Trish frowned slightly, as if sensing something was off.

"You look terrible," Trish said bluntly.

"Thanks. You're sweet."

"I'm serious." Trish lowered her voice. "Are you okay? You've seemed... I don't know, off lately. Distracted. And you look like you just ran a marathon. Or—" She paused, studying Y/n's face with surprising perceptiveness. "Or like something else happened."

"Just tired," Y/n lied for what felt like the hundredth time. "This whole thing—being on the run, the attacks, it's a lot."

"Tell me about it." Trish hugged herself. "Sometimes I wish I could just... I don't know. Have one normal day. No Stands, no assassination attempts, no—" She stopped, something vulnerable crossing her face.

Y/n's heart ached for her. Trish, who started this journey as a spoiled girl using snark as armor, now revealing the scared fifteen-year-old underneath. In the original timeline, she'd grow so much, become so strong. But the trauma—

"Hey," Y/n said impulsively, taking Trish's hand. "You're going to be okay. We're all going to make it through this. I promise."

Trish looked at their joined hands, something soft and surprised in her expression. "You can't promise that."

"Watch me."

A small smile tugged at Trish's lips. "You're weird, you know that? But in a good way." She squeezed Y/n's hand. "I'm glad you're here. It's nice having another girl around. Makes this whole thing feel less... I don't know. Less lonely."

Warmth bloomed in Y/n's chest. "I'm glad I'm here too."

They sat like that for a moment, hands clasped, and Y/n felt a surge of protective affection for this girl—this child, really, caught up in a war she never asked for. Then Narancia flopped down on Y/n's other side, his energy infectious.

"Group hug?" he suggested hopefully.

"Narancia—" Fugo started.

"Come on! We all just survived a Stand attack! We deserve a group hug!"

Before anyone could protest, Narancia threw his arms around both Y/n and Trish, pulling them into an enthusiastic embrace. Trish made an indignant noise, but Y/n caught the smile she was trying to hide.

"You're such a child," Fugo muttered, but there was fondness beneath the exasperation. He stood from his chair and, with a long-suffering sigh that didn't quite hide his smile, joined the embrace, his hand coming to rest on Y/n's shoulder.

"See? Fugo gets it!" Narancia declared triumphantly.

Fugo's hand squeezed Y/n's shoulder gently, but then he paused, his fingers shifting slightly as if he'd felt something. His eyes narrowed, and Y/n's heart jumped. Could he feel the crystal camouflage? It was thin, but—

"You feel tense," Fugo said after a moment, his analytical gaze studying her. "More than usual. Are you sure you're alright?"

"Just tired," Y/n repeated, forcing a smile. "Really."

Fugo didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. Still, when he pulled back from the group hug, his eyes lingered on her face—on her swollen lips, her flushed cheeks—with a thoughtfulness that made her nervous.

"Sure it is," Trish said, grinning now despite Fugo's observation.

Bruno and Abbacchio entered the turtle room then, and Y/n felt the atmosphere shift. Bruno's eyes found hers immediately, holding her gaze with that intensity that promised a conversation she wasn't ready for. Abbacchio leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his dark eyes tracking her every movement.

The weight of their scrutiny made her want to sink into the sofa and disappear.

As the car began moving, Giorno driving with Mista in the back seat navigating, carrying them toward Rome, Y/n let herself relax into the moment despite the tension. Narancia's easy affection, Trish's growing trust, Fugo's reluctant warmth, the sound of Bruno and Abbacchio's quiet conversation, though she caught them both glancing at her more than once.

This team. Her team. The people she was fighting so hard to protect.

Two families. Two groups that were supposed to be enemies. And Y/n, caught in the middle, trying desperately to save them all.

The weight of it pressed down on her, every lie, every secret, every impossible choice. Every mark on her throat that pulsed with each heartbeat, reminding her that she was playing a game she didn't fully understand. That she'd crossed lines she couldn't uncross.

Her fingers unconsciously touched her neck, feeling the crystal camouflage and the tender marks beneath. She could still feel Illuso's hands on her thighs, his mouth on her throat, his body pressed against hers. Could still hear his voice, "Next time, I won't stop."

And the terrifying part? Some small, reckless part of her wanted there to be a next time.

But as Narancia chattered about Stands and Trish gradually relaxed against her shoulder, as Fugo explained something complicated about Stand theory with his hand still occasionally touching her shoulder as if to reassure himself she was real, as Bruno watched over them all with that gentle but knowing expression, and Abbacchio's intense gaze occasionally found hers across the room—Y/n made a silent vow.

I'll save them. All of them. Bruno's team and La Squadra both. I'll rewrite this story until everyone gets the ending they deserve.

Even if it kills me.

Even if it costs everything.

Even if I lose myself in the process.

Because that's what you did for family. And somehow, impossibly, they'd all become hers.