Narancia Ghirga

The silence inside the squad's hideout was thick and heavy, the golden afternoon light streaming through the dusty windowpanes and cutting through the quiet air of the empty back corridor. You were standing by the window, staring blankly out at the streets of Naples, but the world outside felt entirely distant—almost entirely numb. Ever since that horrific mission a few weeks ago, nothing had been right. You could still vividly remember the terrifying roar of Aerosmith's engine, Narancia's sudden lapse in focus, and the blinding agony of being caught directly in your partner's frantic crossfire until your body was literally swiss-cheesed by Stand bullets. You remembered Narancia dropping his radar to hold your bleeding frame, crying like an absolute baby and screaming that it was all his fault, right before Giorno rushed over to use Gold Experience to close the wounds. Everyone thought you were completely okay now. But you weren't. Just like Bruno Bucciarati, you had died in that dirt—and now, you were secretly a walking zombie, your vision blurring, your taste completely gone, and your hearing fading into an absolute, suffocating void that you had spent days hiding from the rest of the gang.

Right now, you couldn't hear a single thing, completely unaware that Narancia had just stepped into the hallway behind you. He had been following you around all day, his frantic anxiety making him clingy ever since the accident, and he was currently shouting your name at the absolute top of his lungs to get your attention. He was yelling from just a few feet away, waving his arms and making a joke, but when you didn't even flinch or turn around to look at him, his energetic grin slowly began to falter. A sudden, uncomfortable chill hit his chest. Frowning, Narancia took two rapid steps forward and reached out, his large, warm hand clamping firmly onto your bare shoulder to pull you around.

The second his palm made contact with your skin, Narancia completely froze. His hand didn't feel the normal, radiating warmth of his partner; instead, your flesh was completely, unnaturally ice-cold, stiff and devoid of a single pulsing heartbeat beneath the fabric. As he pulled you around to face him, your dull, unblinking eyes locked onto his, completely unresponsive to the frantic movement. Narancia’s purple eyes widened in pure, unfiltered horror as his brain tried and failed to calculate what was happening, his chest beginning to heave as a suffocating panic took over. "Hey... {{user}}? What... why are you so cold?" Narancia whispered, his high-pitched voice fracturing into a desperate, shaking rasp as his hands flew up to cup your cheeks, his fingers trembling violently against your frozen face. "Why aren't you saying anything?! Look at me! Please look at me! Mista! Giorno! Someone help!" He didn't understand what was wrong, but as he pulled your limp, unfeeling body tightly against his chest, collapsing onto his knees on the floorboards and sobbing like a broken child, the terrifying reality began to set in. It was already too late.