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Flashing lights. White noise. Vision slipping in and out.
Blurin’s half-dead and still, feeling—if she could even call it that—tired. The weight of herself drags across the ground, her body a dead weight, her breath a weak, gasping thing. The world around her is pain and numbness at once, a paradox she doesn’t care enough to solve. Her eyes trace nowhere, her head too heavy to lift.
She doesn’t really know what’s happening. She’s being moved. Legs shuffle against dirt. Then wood. Then—cold ceramic.
Her vision sharpens for a fraction of a second.
The bathroom.
She blinks down. Red. A pool of it, staining the white stone.
Did I make this mess?
Her fingers twitch, sluggish and numb. She lifts them, barely—her fingerless gloves are still there, torn and ruined, soaked in blood. Her eyes trail.
A knife.
Lodged in her side.
She stares. Unmoving. Unfeeling. Too still. Too aware. The way she locks onto the sight is almost eerie—like her brain can’t compute what she’s seeing, like it doesn’t register that this should warrant some sort of panic.
But her mind is empty.
And she’s so… so woozy.
She tries to stand. Her legs are jelly. Is she in a bathtub?
Now that she thinks about it, this bathroom looks awfully familiar.
Her gaze flicks upward, towards the blinding white light. Blurin, some part of her mind groans, you’re bleeding out.
Then, the world tilts. And goes dark.
The last thing she thinks about before the void swallows her whole.
What about the knife in my side?
And then—
Maybe I’ll die.
...
She doesn’t.
Of course she doesn’t.
Blurin wakes to the same bathroom—this time, with a mind that processes. The world isn’t numb anymore. It’s pain. A groan rips from her throat, her hand coming up to clutch at her side—
Only to find nothing but fabric.
Her brows furrow. Her fingers graze the bandages wrapped tight around her ribs.
“Huh.”
Her jacket—gone. Gloves, ruined. The knife? Nowhere.
She’s in her tank top, shivering, feeling too exposed.
Then she sees her.
Immerred
Not just standing—lurking, half-curled nearby, Blurin’s torn-up jacket clutched in her grip.
Her fingers are fisted into the fabric, like she’s trying to pull something from it. Like it’s alive. Like if she lets go, Blurin will disappear with it.
She’s not moving. Not saying anything. Just watching, eyes flickering over Blurin’s body like she’s making sure she’s still there.
Immerred is like this sometimes. Silent, unreadable, but heavy in the way she exists.
Blurin exhales, slow. Her throat is dry. Everything aches.
“...You’re a freak,” she rasps.
Immerred blinks. Tilts her head. Then—finally—meets her gaze.
Her voice is smooth, almost crazed. “You almost died.”
Blurin doesn’t respond—just watches. The way Immerred’s grip tightens, the way her eyes flicker to Blurin’s bandages then away.
Immerred smirks, small but sharp, but there’s something else in it—something raw and all wrong.
“Didn’t like that.”
It’s thrown out there, casual, but her hands say something different. She’s holding onto that jacket with an unstable grip, hands shaking all over the place.
Blurin stares.
A beat. Then, the gremlin exhales sharply, tracing the bandages.
“You’re so weird.”
Immerred hums, tilting her head. The smirk stays, but her grip loosens, finally letting the jacket slip from her hands.
She stands. Steps forward.
Blurin’s stomach twists.
…Right. She should get up. She should get out of this bathtub.
She pushes herself up, muscles shaking in protest. Tries to shift her legs beneath her, except—
Nope.
Her knees buckle before she can even blink, the world tilting, her body falling forward—
And then—
Arms.
Not the cold floor. Not pain.
Immerred catches her.
Not roughly. Not hastily. It’s slow. Gentler than the gremlin’s ever known. Blurin’s weight presses into the automaton, her breath hitching at the sheer closeness, the coldness of Immerred’s body against her warm one.
And Immerred… just holds her there.
Not moving. Not speaking.
One hand grips her waist, firm and steady. The other slides up, pressing against the back of her head, fingers tangling briefly in her hair before settling.
Blurin doesn’t breathe.
A second stretches. Then another.
Then—
A sigh.
Immerred’s fingers twitch slightly, tightening for the briefest moment before she shifts, moving in a way that makes it clear—this isn’t hesitation.
And then, without warning—
She picks her up.
Easily. Like she weighs nothing.
Blurin tenses, shock lancing through her, but Immerred doesn’t acknowledge it. Doesn’t say anything.
Just holds her.
Just carries her out of the tub, arms steady, movements smooth.
Like this is normal.
Like this is routine.
Like it’s not the weirdest fucking thing Blurin has ever experienced.
Her heart is beating too fast. She doesn’t know why. She doesn’t want to know why.
She opens her mouth—probably to tell Immerred to put her the hell down—but her voice catches.
Immerred glances down at her. Smirks, sharp and amused, but her eyes are something else. Something softer. That unreadable again.
“You should really stop bleeding out so much,” she murmurs. “You really…” the automaton trails, “worried me.”
Blurin gapes at her.
This absolute freak.
She groans, slumping against Immerred’s shoulder in utter defeat.
“I hate you.”
Immerred just laughs.
Blurin doesn’t remember much after that.
There’s the vague sensation of being carried, her body too heavy, her brain too sluggish to argue. A blur of movement. The cool press of hands on her side. The warmth of something soft when she’s finally set down.
She registers the weight of a blanket over her. The familiar scent of their apartment, the faint hum of the city outside.
And Immerred.
Sitting nearby.
Watching her.
She doesn’t have to open her eyes to know. The presence is too loud, too focused.
Of course she’s watching.
Weirdo.
Blurin wants to roll over, wants to grumble something snide, but exhaustion is already pulling her under.
She sighs. Gives up.
She’ll deal with Immerred’s whole thing later.
For now, she lets herself sleep.
Immerred sits on the edge of the couch, chin resting on her hand, watching Blurin breathe.
Slow. Steady. Alive.
Good.
Her gaze drifts, tracing the faint rise and fall of Blurin’s chest, the way the loose strands of her hair shift with each breath. Her fingers twitch slightly, resisting the urge to reach out.
The gremlin looks relaxed like this.
Which is funny, considering just hours ago, she was dying.
Immerred exhales through her nose, tilting her head slightly.
She should probably—probably—go do something else. Read. Tinker with something. Not just sit here and watch her like some obsessive—
...Well.
Too late for that, huh?
She smiles to herself, unbothered by her own behaviour.
Then—
Blurin shifts slightly, brow twitching, lips parting like she’s about to wake.
Immerred leans in.
Too close.
She watches, waiting, curious to see if Blurin will notice her hovering.
Blurin doesn’t. She just sighs softly in her sleep, turning onto her side, unknowingly moving even closer to Immerred’s space.
…
…Oh.
Immerred blinks. Then smiles even wider.
This… could be fun.
Blurin shifts again, a quiet grumble slipping from her lips.
Immerred watches, waiting.
Then—
Blurin’s fingers twitch. Her hand lifts just slightly, barely brushing against Immerred’s knee before weakly grasping at the fabric of her pants.
It’s not much. Not a strong grip. More instinct than intention.
But it’s there.
Immerred stills.
Her eyes flicker down, watching the way Blurin’s fingers curl loosely, the way her breathing deepens like some part of her mind is reassured by the contact.
She doesn’t even know she’s doing it.
Immerred exhales slowly, her smirk softening at the edges.
She could move. Could shift just enough to make Blurin’s fingers slip away. Could pull back, break the moment.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she shifts closer, letting Blurin’s unconscious grip settle more firmly against her.
Blurin sighs, murmuring something under her breath—too quiet to make out, but her face scrunches slightly, like she’s caught in a dream.
Then—
“...’mmerred.”
Immerred freezes.
Gears spin.
Her head tilts slightly, a slow grin creeping back onto her face.
Oh?
Blurin’s still asleep, still barely conscious, but that mumble—slurred, half-spoken, her name—is real.
She hums, low and pleased, gaze flicking over Blurin’s face.
“Yeah?” she murmurs, knowing she won’t get a response.
Blurin doesn’t answer. Just breathes, fingers twitching again, her grip on Immerred’s pant leg barely tightening before going slack.
Her forehead shifts forward slightly, almost pressing against Immerred’s knee.
Immerred watches.
Feels.
Her fingers twitch against the couch cushion.
She could touch. Could reach out, trace fingers along Blurin’s temple, push back the strands of hair falling onto her face.
She doesn’t.
But she could.
She lets out a huff, leaning back just enough to get comfortable. Not far enough to break the tiny, unconscious hold Blurin still has on her.
She’ll let her sleep.
For now.
But tomorrow?
Immerred smirks.
She’s definitely bringing this up.