7; History

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Track 7; Good Girl by K. Flay

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The wind was cold, just like the rest of Chicago in the middle of winter. It was the dead of night, nothing but a set of headlights piercing through the billowy white snowflakes that fell in droves from the abysmal black sky. The inside of the vehicle was dark, lights on the dash dim almost invisible. The road was primarily empty except for a few cars parked along the curbs, buried in humongous drafts of snow that had been shoved to the side by snow plows. Neighborhoods were hushed at 2:19 AM; at least in this suburb of Chicago. The chains on the everbalding tires crunched over black ice as the small, outdated car came to a stop at the bottom of the driveway with a particular mansion at the top of a hill.

"Okay. Under any circumstances, do not leave this car. Do you understand me?"

"What are we doing here?"

"Release the e-brake when I get to the bottom of the hill, okay?"

He couldn't believe this. First, you had woken him from a dead fucking sleep and told him to get dressed and get in the car. It was 2:00 in the morning. He had school in...just under six hours, same for you. Second, there was a bunch of snacks, blankets, and pillows in the backseat. And finally, you were pulling a bandana up over your chin to conceal your mouth and nose.

In your dominant hand was a bottle of some type of liquid with a rag stuffed inside the cap.

Clutched between your pinky and the side of the bottle was a golden zippo with a letter on it: D.

Before your fingers wrapped around the hook that opened the drivers door, Inosuke grabbed your arm holding the bottle.

"INO—" You swallowed your shout and quickly switched the bottle to your other hand. "Be careful!"

"What are we doing here, (Y/N)?" His knuckles were pale on the grip he had on the sleeve of your black, puffy winter coat.

Two sets of green eyes met in the dark, Chicago night.

"I'm saying goodbye."

"To who?"

"Nobody."

"This house doesn't look like nobody, sis."

You let a short breath of air escape your nose. Inosuke wasn't one to intervene unless he thought it necessary. He was always up for your chaotic, fuck-shit up mentality.

But...this?

He had watched you put yourself through a lot of shit for the two of them. He hated watching you do it, too: taking up part-time jobs, holding signs on street corners while he went to school, stealing gloves from the mall because he almost got frostbite one night. You'd protested, squared off with cops twice your size when they cornered him, taught him how to stand up to the bullies. Sure you had done reckless things, but they were always for good reason. He had always been able to tell what was going on inside your head while you did it, too.

Where do you think he learned it all from?

How do you think he had mastered it so quickly?

All Hashibiras work the same, after all.

Though this moment right now was an entirely different story. He couldn't tell what was going on inside your head. Your pupils were blown yet your eyes were unsteady, like you were deciding whether to fight or run. You had always been a fighter, so the fact that he could see 'run' written all across your face made his chest twist.

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