Between the wire and the fire

The sound of the front door closing behind her was too loud to be the sound of an ordinary return home.

Ayumi slowly removed her shoes, her gaze fixed on the tatami. Her fingers were still clutching the hem of her school uniform skirt. Her heart, which had raced before, now beat as if it had lost its way.

The kitchen still smelled of butter and green tea. But instead of comforting her, the scent made her eyes sting.

Her mother looked at her in silence. She didn't ask anything. Just placed an extra teacup next to her own. And then, in a calm, low voice — the kind one might use when speaking to the wind to change its course — she said:

"Sometimes, those who have been hurt forget how to accept a hand reaching out. But don't ever stop extending yours. Not for him. For you."

Ayumi didn't respond right away. That sentence felt like something to be kept safe — like the seashells she used to collect as a child by the ocean: beautiful, but fragile. She repeated it in her mind over and over that night, almost trying to memorize it. Maybe she didn't fully understand it — but she knew one day, she would.

In the days that followed, life resumed its rhythm. School, classes, the same streets. But every time she walked past the villa, Ayumi didn't lift her eyes.

The gate was always shut. The air around that house seemed colder, as if the sadness or anger of whoever lived there had infected even the plants.

She didn't dare knock again.

Sometimes she thought:

"Maybe he was just tired."

"Maybe he had a fight with someone."

"Maybe… something really happened."

And with those maybes, she quietly stitched together a form of forgiveness inside herself.

One afternoon, coming back from school, she saw him.

He was outside, in the villa's garden. Standing still, like a shadow that had taken shape. He was wearing those same dark clothes, far too heavy for the season. His gaze was lost in the void, as if watching something no one else could see.

Ayumi paused for a moment. Her heart began to beat again in her throat — but this time, the beat was fragile, broken in two. She looked at him. Then, almost in a whisper, she greeted him.

"Hi…"

Just that.

Feitan turned slowly. His eyes landed on her, but not with surprise. It was as if he had expected that weakness. That human foolishness.

"Don't talk to me."

His voice was dry, flat, as if reciting a sentence long decided.

"Leave me alone. You shouldn't have come near me."

Ayumi was left breathless.

It felt like being pushed without hands. Like falling from stairs she hadn't even climbed. Her eyes filled with something she didn't want to let fall.

She didn't reply. She turned slowly. And walked home, step by step, like someone who had just lost something that was never really theirs.

But inside her, like a spark that keeps burning even in the rain, remained her mother's voice:

"Not for him. For you."

--- Feitan..---

"Hi…"

One word. One syllable. Nothing more. But to Feitan, it felt like a splinter beneath the skin — tiny, useless, annoying. And yet, there. He didn't even look at her with hatred. Hatred required engagement. No, she stirred only irritation in him. Like a noise that keeps returning. Like a fly that won't quit.

He didn't understand what was wrong with that girl. Or maybe he understood it too well: she was kind. One of the lowest forms of weakness. She had dared to greet him. Again. After rejection, after silence. She had smiled. She had hoped.

Feitan hated hope. It was a disease. An illusion that made the weak believe they had power. And he hated even more that she clung to his mind like an unwelcome thought. Like she wanted to save him. From what? Himself?

He snapped the door lock shut with a sharp motion and walked back inside. The cookie tin was still on the table. He hadn't touched it in days. But he couldn't throw it away. Not out of sentiment — he didn't feel affection — but out of a dark need for control. Keeping it there meant he owned it. Dominated it. Kept it underfoot.

He sat cross-legged on the floor. Around him, the walls seemed to breathe in the dim light.

That evening, he had to move with Chrollo and the others. Big hit in the city. An entire family to erase. Clean, silent. No distractions.

And the day after — the bank.

A timed mission. Precision was everything. No feelings. No hesitation. Nothing.

And yet… that girl.

That greeting. That warm breath in the cold air.

Feitan closed his eyes and let the rage seep beneath his skin like a necessary poison. He couldn't afford useless thoughts. Emotions were nothing but brakes. Dead weight. He had spent his entire life cutting every thread that tied him to anything human. And now a girl — with her apron and cookies — wanted to stain his mind?

He took a long, deep breath. Then reached for a blade from the sheath hanging on the wall and gripped it tight, feeling the metal alive in his palm.

That was real. The pain. The control. The goal.

He wouldn't think about her again. He wouldn't think about anything that wasn't necessary.

Feitan stood.

Chrollo and the others were waiting.

And in blood, there was always the peace he sought.

---Ayumi...---

That day, the air felt stranger than usual.

Ayumi walked along the sidewalk with her books clutched to her chest. The sky was dull, but it wasn't the gray of clouds — it was something else. A suspended tension, invisible yet pressing down on her without a name. A premonition. But of what?

Her legs moved on their own, already familiar with the way home. She had just turned the corner near the bank — only a few minutes left. Just enough time to cross the street and...

It all happened at once.

A black car blocked the road with a heavy thud — then another. Voices, screams, gunshots. Figures in dark clothing jumped down like sharp shadows, weapons in hand. The bank windows shattered — screams from inside, screams outside. People running. People collapsing.

Ayumi didn't even have time to understand. A hand grabbed her from behind.

"NO! NO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

She screamed, struggled — but it was like fighting the air. A hood was violently pulled over her head. Darkness. Only sound. Loud, broken, chaotic.

Clips snapping into place. Bullets fired. The whistle of metal through air. A knife slicing something — someone? And screams. So many screams. From women, men, children.

They shoved her. Her legs gave out. She stumbled. Male voices shouted orders in a language she didn't understand. Then they dragged her. Into a van — or it seemed like one — the smell of gas, rubber, sweat, fear. Someone was crying. Someone else trembling in silence.

Ayumi screamed."Please, let me go! I have to go home, my mother's waiting for me! I didn't tell her I'd be gone! Don't do this, please!"

Her voice cracked. Tears ran down her face. But no one answered. No one even listened. She was just a thing — a body moved from one place to another. A number. An insignificant presence lost in the chaos.

The van came to an abrupt stop.

She was yanked out wordlessly, like a sack. Bare feet on rough cement. The smell of mold and metal.Someone pulled the hood off — the artificial light stung her eyes. She collapsed onto the floor.

There were others. Men, women, even a boy. Some mute, some in shock — wide eyes, open mouths with no more sound.

Ayumi looked at them, searching for a familiar face. But they were all strangers. All, like her, hostages. Bodies tucked into a corner of the world that no longer made sense.

Her hands trembled. Her throat closed. Her mind a whirlwind."This is really happening. It's not a dream. I can't wake up. I can't run. I can't go home."

She couldn't feel her legs. She couldn't feel her heart.Only emptiness in her chest — as if reality had drained itself of meaning.

Who were they? Why her?

She thought of her mother. That afternoon in the kitchen. The cookies. The voice that once told her:

"Not for him. For you."

And now?

Who would save her?