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˚₊‧꒰ა 🗡 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Two Time wasn’t a fool.
Though to many, their figure seemed laughable—perhaps even uncomfortable—due to their fervent devotion to the Spawn, they never needed validation. They weren’t seeking the group’s acceptance, nor the understanding of those who, incapable of seeing past the surface, labeled them as a hopeless fanatic. Those people, like so many others, simply ignored them. And that was fine. No one else could comprehend the sacred connection they felt, the deep bond that tied them to the force that had chosen them, that had gifted them with a unique vision. A vision that let them see what others missed, to read emotions and gestures as if they were living scripture etched in fire across the skin.
The Spawn had granted them a gift—one that went far beyond flashy powers or brute strength. It was a silent blessing: the ability to read body language, to notice the twitch at the corner of a lip, the tension in a back trying too hard to stay straight, the too-quick blink that hid a storm of emotion.
They had seen how Shedletsky, the administrator, clenched his fingers every time a certain killer's name was mentioned. How his eyes turned cold, filled with restrained resentment. It was more than an old grudge. It was betrayal. Pain. Perhaps even guilt.
They had observed how Chance would subtly shrink whenever Noob approached. It wasn’t obvious, of course not. But for someone who knew the microexpressions of latent threat—the slight tremble in the fingers, the evasive gaze that dissolved into nothing—it was impossible to miss. To Chance, Noob wasn’t merely an ally; he was a reminder. Something had marked him deeply, and no words of camaraderie could erase it. Yet Chance never said a word. He just laughed with an empty voice and pretended everything was fine.
Elliot. Ah, Elliot. The healer. The emotional pillar of the group, always smiling, always offering comfort and optimism like an endless spring. But Two Time knew even springs could run dry. They had seen how his gaze unfocused when he thought no one was watching. How his hands shook when he thought too much. How he spoke faster, as if afraid silence would summon thoughts he wasn’t ready to face.
And Dussekar. The disdain wasn’t subtle. Every time Two Time mentioned the Spawn, Dussekar’s eyes turned to blades. His expression was one of someone suppressing nausea. But Two Time bore him no grudge. Some hearts harden not out of malice, but out of fear.
Because of all this, Two Time had learned to remain silent. To see, to observe, and not to interfere. Because in the end, it wasn’t their problem. Not unless help was asked. Not unless the signals turned to screams.
But then came 007n7.
The ex-exploiter. The outcast. The stain no one wanted to look at directly. Even Two Time had felt a certain unease toward him at first. The way he walked—like drifting through fog. That neutral, empty expression, like he only half-existed. His presence was disconcerting, and mistrust was almost a reflex. But one detail—one small, almost insignificant detail—changed everything.
The way he averted his gaze when entering a room. The way he never spoke first. How he always sat close to the exit.
While Two Time, with their devotion to the Spawn, was considered odd, strange, even annoying—they were never truly excluded. They always had a seat at the table, a bed in the barracks. But 007n7… he slept apart, in a lonely cabin hastily built by Builderman, with no warmth or sentiment. It had been a vote. Democracy, veiled in fear. Everyone voted to isolate him. Even they did. Because at first, Two Time believed he was a ticking bomb. But with time—and the relentless observation they couldn’t turn off—they understood the truth.
007n7 was a bomb.
But not for them.
Not for the group.
The explosion would be inward.
And it would destroy what little was left of him.
The first sign was the food.
At first, he collected his rations. Always silent, head down. He never stayed. There was only one time he dared sit at the table. The stares pierced him like blades. No one said anything. They didn’t have to. The tension was so thick the air itself was hard to breathe. After that, he stopped showing up altogether. At first, he took the food back to his cabin. Then, he just… stopped eating.
Two Time noticed. They brought it up—once, twice. No one took it seriously. “Maybe he already ate,” they said. “He probably stashes some rations.” But they knew better. They had seen him leave empty-handed, day after day. It wasn’t disinterest. It was rejection. Of himself. As if he believed he didn’t deserve to eat.
The second sign was even more disturbing.
A complete lack of self-preservation.
During a particularly intense match, Two Time, Elliot, and 007n7 were the only survivors. Jason—the killer—was hunting. Two Time had already been wounded once. 007n7 was hurt, barely able to stand. And yet, when he found a medkit, he handed it to Two Time.
“I can ask Elliot for a slice later,” he said in a flat voice.
But he never did. Because he wasn’t thinking about himself.
Then, when Jason found them, Two Time expected 007n7 to use his escape ability. He had it. He could’ve gotten out. But he didn’t. He stepped forward. Took the hit. Bought them a few seconds. Silence. Pain. Sacrifice.
From that point on, every gesture from 007n7 became, to Two Time, a silent plea. Not for salvation—but for dignity. When he asked Elliot for a slice of pizza, it was like begging for scraps. He always offered an easy way out, as if asking for too much. With Builderman, with Dussekar—it was the same. He didn’t ask for help. He pleaded for it.
And that made them angry.
A little.
Because it shouldn’t be like that.
They knew it. Protocol stated that Builderman, Elliot, and Dussekar were obligated to assist him. It was their responsibility. But 007n7 acted like he didn’t deserve anything. Like he already knew, deep down, he was doomed. And Two Time, with their gift, couldn’t ignore the evidence anymore.
He wasn’t a danger to them.
He was a danger to himself.
And then came the final sign. The most alarming.
He started covering his arms.
Before, even though he had visible, old self-inflicted scars, he made no effort to hide them. Not out of pride—but because he didn’t care. Then suddenly, his clothing changed. Long sleeves. Gloves. As if his skin had become a source of shame. As if something new had appeared. Two Time suspected. They noticed how he refused Guest’s offer to heal him. Guest, the most neutral of them all. The most professional. He rejected him because it meant showing his arms.
That confirmed their fears.
They weren’t old scars.
They were new.
Fresh.
Self-inflicted.
Silence was no longer an option.
They couldn’t just sit in their corner and observe like another shadow. They had to act.
No one else would.
And if they didn’t do something soon…
It might be too late.
Two Time wasn’t a fool.
And now, they wouldn’t be a coward either.
˚₊‧꒰ა 🗡 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Two Time thought about it far too much.
Too much even for someone like them, someone who already tended to analyze everything around them with the clinical eye granted by the Spawn. The situation was delicate. They knew that. It wasn’t just about what they’d seen—the averted gazes, the covered arms, the rejected food, the barely-contained sighs—but the invisible weight pressing down on 007n7’s shoulders, a shadow so heavy that even without mystic powers, anyone should’ve felt it.
How could they approach him? How could they break through that wall of apathy and distrust he’d built around himself? How could they do it without making him feel invaded—without being perceived as just another person here to pity or shame him?
They knew if they made the wrong move, said the wrong word, forced the moment… 007n7 would shut down. Completely. And they would lose their only chance to reach out.
So they thought it over for days, pretending everything was normal while they analyzed every tiny movement others would overlook. And they reached a conclusion: they couldn’t do it in public. Not even around the other members of the group. They couldn’t tell Elliot, or Guest, and definitely not Shedletsky or Builderman.
The topic was too intimate. And the shame 007n7 carried for his hidden wounds was evident. It was a burden he bore like a secret sentence. To expose it in front of others would be like ripping the skin from his bones in front of a crowd.
No. This had to be between them.
Just them.
That’s why they decided they would do it after the next match. They’d ask to speak with him. Not amidst the chaos, not in crowded hallways full of watching eyes. They’d invite him to their cabin. There, where only silence would bear witness.
˚₊‧꒰ა 🗡 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Mealtime arrived with its usual organized chaos. Elliot, as always, supervised the preparations with boundless energy—even if his eyes hinted at exhaustion. Guest, meticulous, ensured every portion was perfectly balanced, while others maintained order with near-authoritarian efficiency. It was a familiar scene. Routine. Comforting.
But Two Time wasn’t there for food.
They approached the table, as always, but instead of serving just one plate, they took two. One for themselves. One for 007n7.
They picked a single slice of pizza for the second plate. Nothing more. Not because they didn’t want to give more—but because they understood a weakened body couldn’t handle heavy meals. They’d learned that the hard way, back when they too had suffered through moments of collapse. It wasn’t about satisfying hunger. It was about reintroducing the body to nourishment—gently. With care.
Before leaving, they left their own plate on the common table, as usual. But this time, with a small addition: a note.
“Two Time’s food. Discover what I can do with the dagger if you touch it ♡”
It was a playful warning. Or maybe not. Shedletsky had a reputation for “sampling” others’ plates, and this time, Two Time wouldn’t allow it. The note was both a threat and a distraction—a way to keep attention away from their true purpose: the second plate.
With it in hand, they left the dining area. No one stopped them. No one asked.
Who would worry about 007n7, after all?
No one noticed his absence.
No one missed him at the table.
Two Time followed the path to the lonely cabin—the structure that felt more like exile than refuge. Every step reminded them of the abandonment forced upon the man they were now trying to reach. The cabin wasn’t far, but the walk felt like a procession.
They knew what they were about to do had no turning back.
When they arrived, they stopped at the door. They didn’t just walk in.
They knocked.
Three times.
Softly.
Several seconds passed before the door creaked open. 007n7’s silhouette emerged on the other side—faint, almost ghostlike. His eyes, still dull, widened at the sight of them. And his whole body—his entire posture—tensed like a string on the verge of snapping.
Words weren’t needed. Two Time had already seen it: the covered arm, the defensive stance, the evasive gaze…
But most of all—
A thin red line peeking from the cuff of his jacket.
Blood.
Fresh blood.
Their stomach clenched. They knew. They’d feared it.
And still—seeing it confirmed hit them like a hammer to the chest.
It looked like their plan would have to happen sooner than expected.
˚₊‧꒰ა 🍔🗡 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Everything was too much for him.
It was a burden he didn’t know how to keep carrying. No matter how many times he tried to pull himself together, the weight of his existence — or what was left of it — crushed him again with the same violence. Like a dark ocean that never calmed. Like every attempt to breathe pushed him deeper, further down, closer to the bottom.
He could still remember with nauseating clarity the moment his son disappeared. It was as if something inside him had broken, but not suddenly — not with the drama of an explosion, nor with the dignity of a tear — but slowly and cruelly. Like a rope tightening until the flesh burned. Like the crack of a bone breaking without anesthesia. He felt he could return to the exact instant everything changed. The sound of silence after the scream, the sudden absence of footsteps, how the air had grown heavier ever since.
What came after was a downward spiral he knew all too well.
He started drinking again, with more desperation than ever. Not for pleasure, but out of the need to dissolve. Until he passed out. Until he ceased to exist. Food lost its taste, its purpose, and his body began to reject it violently, as if his organism understood he no longer wanted to keep functioning. Sometimes, when he managed to swallow something, he would vomit almost immediately, his stomach aching as if punishing him for trying to stay alive.
And then there were the scars.
At first, they were accidental. A scratch here, a cut there, without much thought. But soon they became ritual. The only way to release some of all that endless pain. The blade against his skin was cold, cruel... but honest. Every red line that opened on his arm reminded him that he could still feel something. Even if that "something" was pure suffering.
All of that ended when he pulled the trigger.
Suicide had been his way to give up. To accept there was no redemption for him. He could still hear the blast echoing in his head some nights. Not as a memory, but as a persistent echo, as if the sound had lodged itself in his brain. A shot that didn’t close the story but threw him into a worse sentence.
Purgatory.
He never would have imagined that after dying, he would wake up in a place like this. That his punishment would be to live forever with the consequences of his actions. With his failure as a father. As a human being. Here, even among other damned souls, he was an outcast. A stain too visible to ignore. People avoided him. Some openly hated him. Others simply ignored him with the most painful indifference.
Only two people approached him neutrally. Neutral. Not even with compassion. Nor warmth. Just... without rejection.
He lived on the margins. Literally. His cabin was far from the others, as if physical distance was necessary to keep him apart, to remind him he didn’t belong. And every time he made a mistake — something as simple as a wrong move, a misplaced word — he could feel every gaze piercing him. They didn’t say it outright. They didn’t need to. Their eyes said it all: “You again. Always you. When will you learn?”
He tried to be useful. He really tried.
He tried to stop thinking about himself. To stop being selfish. He knew his skills were limited: he could only help himself in combat, which made him seem useless, a burden. So he decided his body could serve as a shield. That his life, even if it was worth little, could at least stand between pain and others. He started taking hits for others. Throwing himself to the front to protect those who could really make a difference. Every medkit he found, every Bloxycola, he handed over without hesitation. Even if he was bleeding.
It didn’t matter if he died. At least that’s what he thought. His only use was that. And hopefully, if he died quickly, he wouldn’t add extra time to the round. Because that too was his fault, right? Existing was already a problem. One more body to worry about. One more plate to fill. An uncomfortable presence.
And on top of that… seeing what his son had become.
That was what broke him completely. Seeing him there, turned into a corrupted shadow. A monster. Not the child he remembered, not the laughter that once lit up his days. A specter. A twisted reflection. And every time he saw him, his heart bled a little more. Because deep down, he felt it was his fault. That he had failed so much, so deeply, that even death wasn’t enough punishment.
The thoughts returned. The ones that had pushed him to the edge the first time.
“It could be easy,” he thought.
Stealing Chance’s weapon. Loading it when no one was watching. Shooting himself again.
Or simply going into the kitchen. Taking one of the knives. Doing it quickly.
Or hanging himself. The sheets were there. The beam was strong. A good knot would suffice.
And it wouldn’t be so bad, right? He’d be doing everyone a favor. One less worry. One less body to care for. One less voice to bother.
But the fear…
The fear that the cycle wouldn’t break. That he’d just come back as always. With more pain. More shame. The terror of failing even at that. Of someone finding him. Of being looked at with even more contempt. Or worse… with pity.
So he returned to the only method that seemed to work.
Cutting himself.
It gave him a strange sensation. Not pleasure, not happiness... but silence. A moment’s pause. As if his mind shut off. As if he could finally stop thinking. Sometimes he bled so much he fainted. Guest or Chance would find him later and just touch his shoulder, asking him to wake up, that a round would start soon.
He started wearing gloves. Jackets. Long sleeves. Anything to cover the freshest scars. The old ones didn’t matter anymore. But the new ones... those spoke too loudly.
And today, like many other days, he repeated the ritual.
He didn’t eat. Not because there was no food, but because he didn’t deserve it. His stomach growled, but he ignored it.
He locked himself away. Took out the blade.
The first cut was shallow. The next ones, not so much. One after another, like each was an unsaid word. A muffled scream. A plea for help no one heard.
Until one was too deep.
Drip. Drip.
The blood flowed with more force. The pain was sharper. And for the first time in a long time, panic set in.
“Shit…”
The thought stabbed through his chest.
“What if it gets infected?”
“What if this time…”
He didn’t finish the mental sentence. He cursed himself silently. Took a cloth. Tried to clean the blood. But it didn’t stop. It kept coming. Pouring out. Red on red.
Drip. Drip.
And then, a knock on the door.
Dry. Soft. But enough to pull him out of his trance.
Frozen, his eyes opened wide with fear. Who was it? Who decided to ruin their own day by seeing him?
He grabbed a jacket nearby. Quick. Clumsy. Covered his bleeding arm as best he could. Prayed no one would see it.
He prayed it was something trivial.
He opened the door.
And there was Two Time.
˚₊‧꒰ა 🍔🗡 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
They both stared at each other for a few seconds that felt longer than any round. The silence between them was thick, almost tangible, like it could be cut with the same knife 007n7 had hidden minutes before. The tension vibrated in the air, suspended by the weight of the unsaid, by astonishment, by the pain accumulated over weeks, maybe months.
007n7’s eyes slowly dropped to the plate Two Time held in both hands, as if afraid it might vanish if he looked too quickly. A slice of pizza. Still warm, with the cheese slightly melted and that familiar, almost insultingly domestic smell that made 007n7’s stomach protest with a low growl. He hadn’t noticed until that moment. He had ignored hunger so long that his body no longer knew how to ask for food without shame.
But that wasn’t what really confused him.
Why Two Time? Why now? Why him, of all people?
Maybe… maybe they cared?
His mind tried to reject the idea immediately. No. He shouldn’t get his hopes up. He couldn’t. He repeated those words in his head like a twisted prayer. He didn’t deserve that kind of attention. Not from someone like Two Time. He was the outcast. The pariah. The leper. No one here — not even the “good guys” — treated him with anything other than condescension or silence.
And yet…
The smile.
That smile Two Time gave him was… different. Not the tight, awkward, diplomatic smile people gave when they didn’t want to seem cruel. No. It was a soft, sincere smile, a serene curve of the lips, accompanied by warm, attentive eyes that didn’t judge him. That looked at him as an equal.
And that disarmed him.
He didn’t know what to do with that feeling. It even seemed painful. Like that simple expression of humanity tore his scars out by the roots from within. His throat caught, and he had to force himself to swallow. He didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him.
“Hello, dear 007n7,” said Two Time, in that almost liturgical tone, though filled with unusual tenderness. “May the Spawn bless you. I come bearing some of the food we’ve prepared.”
Their words were measured, kind, without a trace of mockery. On the contrary, they carried a reverential weight, as if they truly believed what they said. They showed the plate with the slice of pizza like it was a sacred offering. And in a way, it was. Not because of the food itself, but because of what it represented: attention, presence, care.
007n7 blinked, stunned. His lips parted as if looking for something to say, but all that came out was a clumsy whisper:
“I… I already ate. You don’t have to worry tha—”
The sentence hung in the air, broken by Two Time’s firm but gentle interruption.
“Lies are something the Spawn despises,” they said without losing their calm—“I know very well you haven’t eaten in a good while, my dear 007n7. I’ve been watching. And now…”—they paused, tilting their head slightly in a sign of respect—“I would like your permission to come into your dwelling. I want to talk about this… and other bad habits.”
The silence that followed was different from before. It wasn’t tense, but fragile. Like a bubble about to burst.
007n7 felt as if time had stopped.
Had he heard right?
Had they been watching?
Did they know…?
His chest tightened. A knot of emotions formed in his throat. Part fear. Part relief. Part shame.
His first impulse was to refuse. To tell them to leave. That he didn’t need their pity. That he had no time for sermons or charity disguised as compassion.
But something inside him — something very small, almost dying — wanted to open that door. Not just the physical one. The other. The one he had been locking with a padlock from the inside for months, years.
He swallowed hard, trembling.
“It’s… messy,” was all he managed to say, as if that could justify not wanting them inside.
Two Time simply nodded, understanding. Without judgment. As if they understood that “messy” referred not only to the inside of the cabin but the chaos that was his soul.
“I don’t care about the state of the furniture,” they replied in a low voice. “I only care about the state of your mind.”
And that phrase. That simple phrase.
Broke something inside him.
007n7 looked away and silently stepped aside. He allowed Two Time to cross the threshold. They did so quietly, without pomp, without invading, moving with the caution of someone entering a wounded sanctuary.
The cabin smelled of confinement, dried blood, and metal. The curtains were drawn; the light coming in was dim. Clothes on the floor, empty bottles, a dirty, poorly folded sheet in a corner. On the table, an unwashed blade. And in the air… something that couldn’t be defined in words, but felt like a silent scream.
Two Time said nothing about it.
They set the plate on the table carefully, as if laying a flower on a grave.
007n7 stood by the door, fists clenched. His jacket hung off one shoulder, and beneath it, a red stain slipped down his wrist.
Two Time saw it. And said nothing. Didn’t make a face of horror. Didn’t scold him. They just approached slowly and kneeled before him.
“May I?” they asked, pointing at the stained jacket.
007n7 didn’t answer. He only nodded, eyes lost.
Two Time carefully removed the fabric, as if unveiling a secret. The wound still bled. It wasn’t lethal, but it was deep. And the worst wasn’t the blood.
It was the number of old scars and the recently made ones.
There were so many… some white and thin, others pink, others still red. Some parallel. Others crossed.
Two Time felt their heart squeeze. But their face didn’t change.
"I only meant to bring you the food, so I’m not exactly prepared for this."
Two Time’s voice was calm, but beneath their tone was a tightness. A held breath. The kind of restraint someone carried when walking a fragile line — between care and caution, between concern and intrusion. Their eyes flicked momentarily to the blood still seeping from the corner of 007n7’s sleeve, soaking slowly into the cuff. Crimson blooming like guilt across cloth.
"I’ll have to improvise," they added with a shallow breath. "Coming back from your cabin with blood on my hands and asking for bandages would only invite suspicion."
And suspicion was something neither of them could afford.
Without hesitation, Two Time reached down and, with swift precision, tore a strip of fabric from the bottom of their pants. The sound of the rip cut sharply through the stillness, like a line being drawn in the sand — something sacred, something irreversible.
They didn’t even flinch.
"Give me your arm," they said.
There was no force behind the command. Just quiet insistence. A request made with the kind of gentleness that didn’t need to be loud to carry weight. 007n7 obeyed, his movements stiff, uncertain. As if handing over a piece of himself.
He extended his arm — the wounded one — with trembling fingers. Not from the pain. That, he had long since learned to ignore. What made his skin crawl now was the act of being seen. Of being touched. Tended to. A part of him expected Two Time to flinch when they saw the damage. To change their mind. To pull away. But they didn’t.
Instead, they held his wrist with a steadiness that made something in 007n7’s chest ache.
They began wrapping the strip of fabric with a slow, meticulous rhythm — their fingers working with an ease that spoke of experience. They weren’t guessing. They weren’t experimenting. They had done this before. Maybe to themselves. Maybe to others. But every movement was sure. Deliberate.
And then, Two Time started humming.
It was quiet at first. Just a note. A breath shaped into sound. Then it built — slow and rhythmic, like a lullaby without words. There was something haunting in it. Something ancient. As if it belonged to the same place where pain went to sleep. A song you’d forgotten you knew.
007n7 didn’t recognize the melody. But it made his heartbeat slow. It made the nausea in his stomach settle.
He sat there, still as stone, while they finished tying off the makeshift bandage. The bleeding had stopped. His arm was warm under the wrapping. Safe.
But he didn’t feel safe.
Not really.
Not when Two Time had seen it. Knew.
He stared down at the fabric, trying to convince himself that maybe it was just instinct — that Two Time hadn’t actually understood what it meant. That maybe they thought it was just a training accident. A scratch from a round. Something accidental.
But deep down, 007n7 knew better.
They’d seen him.
And if they’d seen… maybe others had too?
Maybe—
A sudden warmth on his knuckles broke the spiral.
It was soft. Featherlight.
A kiss.
He blinked. Looked up.
Two Time had leaned in and pressed a reverent kiss to the back of his hand, the one not wounded. Their lips lingered for a heartbeat longer than expected — not with romance, but with a tenderness so gentle it felt sacred.
"I know you’re overthinking right now," they said, eyes lifting to meet his. Their gaze was not sharp. Not heavy. It was… steady. Unshakable. "I can see the fear in your face. You're wondering if I’ve told someone. If I’m planning to."
007n7 couldn’t breathe. His mouth was dry. His mind was already racing through the worst-case scenarios.
Two Time continued, their voice soft but unwavering.
"But I swear — by my devotion to the Spawn — I haven’t told a single soul. Not a whisper. Not even in prayer."
And somehow, it felt true.
Because Two Time wasn’t one to lie. Not about things that mattered. They weren’t one to speak lightly, either. And when they invoked their faith, it was never for show.
The silence between them became heavier, not uncomfortable, but loaded with unsaid things. 007n7’s mouth opened, then closed. He tried again.
"W-Why…?" he finally managed. "Why do you even care? You shouldn't. No one should. I don’t… I don’t matter."
His voice cracked halfway through the sentence. His gaze dropped to the floor. His fingers curled slightly, pulling the edges of his sleeves down, as if trying to make himself smaller. Disappear.
Two Time chuckled, but not mockingly. It was the laugh of someone who had stood in the same pit and found a ladder.
"I believe no one should suffer alone," they said simply. "Especially not when that suffering leads them to hurt themselves. I’ve… been there."
They lifted their own arm then, revealing the pale skin of their forearm. Scars. Dozens. Thin, faded, crisscrossed like a web. Some nearly invisible. Others stubborn reminders. Not fresh — not angry — but present. And real.
"I walked that path once," they said. "And I thought no one would understand. That I didn’t deserve kindness. That I wasn’t worthy of healing. But I was wrong."
They tapped the side of the bed, lightly, twice. An invitation.
"So now I want to understand you, 007n7. Tell me—"
Their voice softened, more than before.
"What do you think about when you do it?"
Not an accusation. Not a demand.
A question asked gently, like offering a lantern in the dark.
"I won’t judge you," they added. "You don’t need to be afraid. I’m not here to fix you. I just want to… be with you. In this. Understand it. Understand you."
There was a beat of stillness.
007n7 didn’t move at first.
Then, slowly, as if fighting against a storm inside his chest, he sat down.
The moment he did, the dam cracked.
His hands curled inward. His shoulders collapsed. His body folded into itself, trembling.
Tears hit before he could stop them.
"I—It’s just—"
The first sob was sharp, sudden, like tearing paper. The next followed faster, as his voice fell apart. He tried to speak, but words kept breaking into pieces in his mouth.
"I feel like I’m broken. Like nothing I do is enough. Like… like I ruin everything. I ruin people. Places. I don’t even know who I am anymore. All I know is I wake up, and I hurt."
He wiped his face with shaking hands, as if ashamed of the tears.
"I thought… dying would fix it. I thought maybe if I was gone, it’d be easier for everyone else. That I’d stop being the problem."
Two Time didn’t interrupt. They just reached over and rubbed slow circles into his back. Gentle. Steady.
"I’m so tired of hiding it. Of pretending I’m okay. Of trying to act like I’m not falling apart inside. I just want— I don’t know what I want."
"You want rest," Two Time whispered. "And peace. That’s not a weakness."
"I feel disgusting. Weak. Useless—"
"No," Two Time said, more firmly. "You’re hurting. That’s different. You’re human. That’s all."
007n7’s shoulders shook. The floodgates were open now. He clutched the side of the bed, knuckles white.
"And every time I come back — every time I respawn — I hate it. I think: why? Why again? Why me? What am I even doing here?"
Two Time’s voice was low. Gentle.
"You’re surviving."
"But why?"
"So you can find a new reason to live," they said. "Maybe it’s not clear now. But if you give yourself the chance… you’ll find it."
Silence stretched again. But it wasn’t sharp. It was held. Cared for.
"Thank you," 007n7 whispered eventually, voice hoarse. "For… being here."
Two Time nodded.
"You don’t have to carry this alone anymore. I see you. And I’m not leaving."
And for the first time in what felt like forever — in this broken world of blood and echoes, shame and silence — 007n7 believed them.
˚₊‧꒰ა 🍔🗡 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Two Time’s room was small, but warm.
A refuge in a world that felt too big, too loud, and sometimes, far too cruel.
The walls were covered with clippings, worn ribbons, small handmade drawings, and a couple of Spawn symbols pinned like beacons in the fog. Everything bore the touch of someone who had learned to survive chaos by clinging to what they loved. To what gave life meaning.
The light was soft, filtered through an orange cloth draped over the window, casting the room in a gentle, almost dreamlike hue. Books were stacked on the floor, a blanket carefully folded over a chair, and the faint scent of incense—no longer burning—lingered in the air like a permanent trace of calm.
007n7 sat at the edge of the bed, arms resting on his knees, silently staring at an old folded paper letter Two Time had left him days ago. He hadn’t read it yet. He didn’t need to. The gesture alone was enough.
It had been some time since that night when Two Time discovered his wounds and wrapped them with that improvised fabric. Since then, many things had changed.
He no longer hid his scars.
Not out of pride. Not out of bravery. But because Two Time had taught him there was no need to hide them.
And against all logic, not only did he feel better... he felt alive.
Two Time had returned to him something he thought he had lost forever: the feeling of being worthy of care. Of affection. Of presence.
They became inseparable. First through shared silences. Then through words. Laughter. Confessions exchanged over tea, beneath clean sheets and half-melted candles. Two Time had a strange way of looking at the world. And even stranger was the way they looked at him.
And perhaps:though he refused to admit it aloud: 007n7 had started to fall in love.
But he didn’t dare believe it could be true.
Because how could someone like Two Time:who shone with a light that came from within, who spoke about the Spawn as if speaking to the universe itself: ever notice someone like him?
Someone broken.
Someone who once wanted to stop existing.
But tonight, something felt different.
Two Time was restless. Pacing back and forth, playing with a lock of their own hair. They murmured barely audible words, like they were preparing for something. As if… searching for a courage not even prayers could give them.
007n7 noticed.
"Are you okay?"
Two Time stopped.
Their eyes met. And in that exact moment, time seemed to pause.
They took one step closer. Then another. Stopped in front of him, and for a moment, the silence became thick, charged with something neither of them could name.
"I'm... okay," they finally said, with a smile that seemed to hurt. Their voice trembled slightly, but enough for 007n7 to catch it. "But I need to tell you something. And if I don’t say it now, I’ll keep holding it in and... I don’t want any more secrets between us."
007n7 tensed.
He feared the worst. Were they going to push him away? Say he had read too much into the looks? That he shouldn’t get the wrong idea?
But Two Time, as if they could read his soul, sat beside him. So close their knees touched. And for a moment, they said nothing.
They just breathed.
"Since that night," they began, their voice like a falling piece of paper, "since I saw your wound and you let me help you… something changed in me."
007n7 slowly turned his head, caught in the intensity of their gaze. Two Time was so close. So warm. So… real.
"I realized," they continued, "that I didn’t just want to take care of you because you were hurt. I wanted to be close to you because you’re you. Because when you speak quietly, I want to listen. Because when you walk, I like to follow. Because when you smile:even if it’s rare:I feel like I’m witnessing a miracle."
Silence returned:dense and trembling. Like the moment just before the rain begins to fall.
"I like you, 007n7."
There was no dramatic music. No fireworks.
Just that confession.
Simple. Honest. Irrefutable.
007n7 felt his heart tighten. Not from pain. But from fear of believing it. Of it all being a misunderstanding.
"I’m not saying this because I pity you," Two Time added quickly, as if they knew exactly what he was thinking. "And not because I need you to be fragile to care for you. No. I like how you look when you talk about something you like. When you make sarcastic remarks with that dead-inside expression. I like all of you. All of it. Scars and all."
There was a second of emptiness. And then another.
And then 007n7 broke the stillness with a strangled laugh, tearful.
"I thought that... you never would..." he couldn’t finish.
Two Time narrowed their eyes, sweet and patient.
"You thought I couldn’t fall in love with you. Didn’t you?"
He nodded. Vulnerable. Broken in a different way now. No longer from pain. But from surprise.
"I thought I couldn’t love again either," murmured Two Time. "But here I am. And you’re here. And everything feels a little clearer when I look at you."
And then, without words, without needing permission, without any drama...
They kissed.
It was clumsy at first. As if both were afraid of breaking. Their lips brushed like they doubted themselves, like they didn’t know what to do with all the feeling built up inside. But then, the kiss grew firmer. More certain. Not from desire, but from something deeper.
From acceptance.
Because in that moment, they both understood something that no rounds, no pain, no marks from the past had managed to destroy:
That they could begin again.
Together.
Two Time gently caressed his cheek as the kiss ended, their foreheads resting together. They breathed the same air, the same trembling, the same calm.
"Would you like to stay the night?" they asked softly.
007n7 nodded without hesitation.
"Yeah. I’d like to stay many nights. If you’ll let me."
And Two Time smiled. That calm, powerful way they always smiled when they spoke of the Spawn.
"I’ll let you. And I’ll take care of you. Always."
Outside, the night continued as always.
But inside that room, two people had found each other. Without masks. Without fear. And with the promise that, finally, they could begin to heal.
Together.
˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗