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He watched with satisfaction as he pulled the sword out of his partner's chest. Chance's blood pooled onto the grass, staining the green with a sickly red.
"How.. could you..?"
Chance weakly lifted their hand, reaching out for ITrapped. Such a pathetic creature. Yearning for love, even after seeing their partner betray them. ITrapped couldn't understand why they still acted this way.
However, he didn't pull away. He let Chance hold onto him in their final moments, their warm hand against his cold one. ITrapped wasn't in a rush today. He knew that when Chance finally passed away, he could safely retrieve the key to the Banlands and free his real friends. He smiled to himself, feeling Chance's grip slowly fade away before their hand collapsed onto the floor, unmoving.
”Trap… I still love you.”
ITrapped froze for a moment, his smile still plastered on his face. However, he quickly covered it up by sinking his blade into their neck, not sparing another breath for them. He yanked it out, watching the blood drip from their newly opened wound.
ITrapped let out a long sigh. He flicked the blood off his obsidian sword and sheathed it. They had to be dead by now. He grabbed the key from them and twirled it in his hand. He began walking away from the scene, giving his dead friend one final glance.
A knot twisted in his stomach. Guilt? Regret? Shame?
Whatever it was, he shook it off immediately. Chance's death was all planned, so there was no need for such weak emotions. He would free his friends, reunite with them, and everything would be normal again.
* * *
He could see a barren wasteland ahead—the Banlands. It was designed so that no one could get in, but more specifically to prevent people from escaping. You could only pass the barrier if you were someone special or had the key. He couldn't even imagine how Caleb and Ellernate spent their time in such an environment. At least they didn’t need to wait any longer.
What if they’re already gone? What if they can’t wait anymore?
ITrapped gritted his teeth, clenching the key in his fist. The mere thought of failing after all his planning frustrated him. He picked up his speed, approaching the barrier faster and faster. He was so focused on saving his friends that he didn't notice the increasing pain in his lungs.
Before ITrapped could even reach the Banlands, he doubled over in pain. He dropped to his knees, coughing violently as one hand stopped him from falling face-flat onto the grass.
What’s happening?
The key dropped from his palm, now hidden in the grass. How annoying. Looks like he had to find it again.
ITrapped tried to get back up, but the pain was almost impossible to ignore. It felt as if something was blocking his lungs and throat. It felt as if something had grown there.
As if flowers had grown inside his lungs.
His mind spun with possibilities, but there was only one logical answer—the Hanahaki Disease. Except—that didn’t make sense? ITrapped doesn’t like anyone, and he certainly doesn’t do romance. Love was just a waste of time.
Or maybe Chance knew about my plan all along and decided to poison me before they died, he thought, a crease forming between his brows.
That possibility was disproven when the man felt a burning sensation on his tongue and gagged, something pink falling from his mouth. His vision blurred for a moment as he processed what exactly had fallen on the ground. It tasted bitter, and that sharp pain on his tongue still hadn't subsided. ITrapped's vision cleared slowly, revealing what he was looking at.
Foxgloves. Bright pink, poisonous foxgloves. They sat there, all pretty and gorgeous while ITrapped coughed and wheezed like a dying cat. He sat up carefully, still painfully aware of what lived inside his lungs.
I don't like anyone.
I don't like anyone.
So why am I throwing up flowers?
He knew a few people who had the Hanahaki Disease, and they all died pathetically—using their last moments to confess their love while the other cried about not being able to love them back. He wasn't like those people. He definitely will not die confessing his so-called love to someone. He will not die to flowers before saving his friends.
ITrapped felt around the grass, searching for his lost key. However, it wasn't long before he puked again, more foxgloves fluttering to the ground. The searing sensation was stronger now—impossible to ignore.
Poisonous flowers, of all things! he thought furiously. If they weren't poisonous, he could have endured the suffocation without being reminded of his burning tongue every time he breathed!
Above all things, one question still remained in his mind. Who did he like? ITrapped only knew a handful of people, and was only close with three two.
Ellernate.
No. Definitely not. If he did like him, he would have realised long ago.
Caleb.
Also no. In fact, if it were any of the two, he would have known ages ago.
His thoughts were interrupted as foxgloves spilled from his mouth once more. The blurry vision came back again, attacking his body alongside the disgusting flavour. His heartbeat had slowed noticeably, but like the arrogant man he was, he dismissed it. One more person was left in his mind.
Chance?
No. It can't be.
Chance.
He only used them to save his friends. It couldn't be them.
Chance.
His head spun as he gave up hope of supporting himself and flopped onto the grass. ITrapped's ice crown—the crown he had stolen—dropped onto the ground beside him. The translucent blue material caught the moonlight, making it glow faintly.
Chance...
Yes. Even if he did only use them to save his friends, even if he denied his love for them at all—it had to be them.
Yes. ITrapped never intended to enjoy Chance's company. When he first learnt that they had the key, his first thought was to steal it, or trick them into handing it over. And to trick them—he required planning. Meticulous planning.
He could have just stolen it. But such a valuable item was heavily guarded, and stealing it wouldn't have been easy. So, he changed his plan: Approach them kindly. Befriend them. Be by their side. Trick them into handing over the key.
The plan did work, in a way. He managed to convince Chance to bring the key when they met up, then killed them before they questioned anything.
But ITrapped was never supposed to fall in love.
There was no hope of finding the key now. ITrapped’s strength had depleted ages ago, eaten away by the poisonous flowers. His breaths were shallow and weak. He lay on the grass, watching a gentle gust of wind blow some foxgloves away.
He accepted it—he loved Chance, and they loved him. But without Chance, no one was left to love him back.
He was blind. He was ignorant. He could have saved his friends without killing Chance.
They were gone now. And in due time, he would be gone too.