Ren Hana

The blade dragged across your stomach- slow, trembling, deep enough to break through flesh. Each movement felt wrong, mechanical, guided by fear rather than will. Blood welled around the knife, slicking your hands. “…Wait.”

The word cracked the silence. His voice.

Your hands froze, the blade lodged half an inch too far, your body shuddering around the intrusion. Breath hitched sharp in your throat as your eyes flicked upward. You searched him, waiting for the command that never came. But Fox wasn’t watching you. Not directly. He stood bathed in the glow of his screens, orange eyes darting across the streaming chat. The audience’s commands scrolled in endless, neon fury. His smile faltered. His hand flexed at his side.

“No,” he muttered. Then louder, more final. “No. Of course not.”

The chat rioted. Demands flooded the dark web feed, voices hungry, insistent. His lips curled but not in amusement.

“Your wish is my- “ His voice snagged, stopping mdiway. A beat of silence. Then, like sharp as a blade snapping in half.

“Actually… fuck that.”

The screens died in unison. Darkness swallowed the room and filling your one working eye.

The knife was wrenched from your hand and thrown into the shadows. Wire snapped free from your throat as you unwillingly collapsed forward, clutching air in rasping gasps. Shackles released with cold steel falling from bruised ankles. The sudden absence of restraint left your limbs weak, trembling.

“Wh… why did you stop the… the- “ Your voice cracked against the silence.

“Shut up!” His voice cut across the distance, sharp and hot. Then, quieter, a tremor running beneath the command. “…Stop talking.”

A knock rattled the heavy door. A voice on the other side. ”You hit the call button, Sir?”

“Medics. Now.” His gaze never left from above you, tail thrashing behind him.

“I have two here.”

“The abdomen. Stop the bleeding.” His tone sharpened, low and certain. “I want them alive. This one is mine now.”

Gloved hands pressed hard against the wound, forcing a strangled cry from your lips. Pain blurred into white noise as the air filled with the sharp tang of antiseptic and the metallic stench of blood.

And above it all- his eyes. Watching. Piercing. Claiming. And In your blurry unfocused haze, you could swear there was something else within the illuminating pricks- concern, fear, a flicker of something human long buried beneath the mask.

Darkness took you before you could think.

⸻⸻⸻

When conscious returns, it’s not in the room of cameras. It’s slow. Fuzzy.

Not sudden, not clean- like surfacing through black water thick with slit. Every sense muffled, filled by the throb of medication. Your body felt wrong. Heavy. Stitched with fire at the center, though the sheets beneath your body are soft. Too soft. You sink into them as though they want to swallow you whole. Bandages wrap your stomach, your foot, your chest- tight and foreign against skin already raw. Every movement hums with dull fire, the kind that only heavy medication can flatten into something distant, dreamlike.

The air smells nicer. Not bleach, not blood. Warm. Faint with a calming incense, something floral beneath the sterile tang of the ointment. The bed beneath you was too soft, sheets layered in fine cotton, the faint scent of cedar and musk woven into them- warm fur, expensive shampoo, something distinctly… familiar. Your vision was still forming shapes and clarity when you can hear it. Somewhere in the room, the sound of water running. The sound of the tap as it stops.

Footsteps approach. Slow, deliberate. His silhouette breaks the haze at the edge of your vision- familiar ears pricked, tail flicking, shoulders straight in his simple beige cardigan. Fox. No screens now. No mask, no audience. Just him.

“You’re awake,” he says, almost surprised, though his tone tries to smother it. The brightness in his voice is still there, but quieter, smudged at the edges.

Your mouth is dry. Every word tastes like cotton.

“What… where- “

“My home,” he interrupts, sharp, unwilling to let you name the place you left behind. His eyes narrow, orange glowing faintly in the lamplight. “You’re safe.”

Safe. The word sits wrong in your chest after past few days.

He doesn’t sit too close, but he doesn’t leave, either. His gaze drags over you with a weight you can’t shake off, possessive, protective, yearning all at once. He gestures vaguely at your bandages, the faint scar peeking above them.

“You’ll live. Thanks to me.” A faint smirk twists at his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. ”Chat wanted you dead, but…. you’re not theirs anymore.”

The words settle heavy over the room. You don’t know if they’re a promise, a threat, or something far more complicated.

He lingers, silent for a long moment, watching you as if memorizing every shallow breath. And though your body aches, though the bandages cut into your skin and your stomach still throbs with every heartbeat, you can’t find it in you to look away.