RED STRINGS | ITADORI YUJI X FEM!READER

31

The air was thick—almost sentient—with dread. A maelstrom of cursed energy coiled around you like a noose pulling tighter with each breath. They came at you—one after another—maddened phantoms born of your own fractured soul, your own cursed residue. The moment blurred—flesh, talon, fang, shriek—everything aimed to tear, to slice, to devour.

You couldn't focus.

There were too many.

Too fast.

Too loud.

Every sense you had screamed as you pivoted, dodged, flinched too late, bled too early. Curses lunged without rhythm or reason—just rage. Their rage. Your rage. Twisted into autonomous beasts no longer tethered to your will.

You tried to command them. Tried to reel them in with sheer desperation, but they didn't listen. Why would they? You were the creator, yes, but not the master. Not anymore.

Your cursed energy trembled, unruly and wild, like a tempest with no horizon in sight. Panic coiled up your spine, ice and fire and thunder all at once. Your chest burned with backlash—internal and external, spiritual and physical. You couldn't keep it stable. You couldn't keep yourself stable.

And somewhere in the middle of the chaos, in the whirlwind of claws and teeth, his face flashed before you.

Masachiro.

The last kind face.

The last kind voice.

The last soul who looked at you not as a weapon, not as a ticking bomb under the higher-ups' leash—but as a child. A scared, angry, mourning child.

And now his body lay in pieces.

Scattered.

Crimson-stained.

His expression—horrifyingly serene.

As if even in death, he forgave you.

You staggered back, a curse's claw slicing across your thigh. Warm blood gushed down your leg, slick and pulsing. Another came from behind, jaws agape, and you barely ducked in time—but not before the edge of its tongue lashed your arm, leaving blistering marks that sizzled.

Pain exploded down your side. Your vision blurred.

He had tried to stop you. You remembered now. He had screamed, lunged toward you when you were about to absorb that curse. The one festering deep within the forest, pulsing with old hatred and human malice. He had warned you. Pleaded.

But you didn't stop.

Because power was the only thing you had left.

Because you were tired of being the victim.

And now he was gone.

"Masachiro-san..." you whispered, coughing blood.

Another curse dove. You flung a wave of cursed energy, but it ricocheted erratically, only grazing the creature. Your control was slipping.

Who now?

Who's left?

After Suguru left you, fractured and abandoned in a war he started and walked away from.

After the higher-ups took you in like a stray dog, collaring your power while whispering your brother's sins behind your back.

Masachiro had been the only one who didn't speak like you were a time bomb.

And now, as you stood bloodied and battered in the center of a battlefield carved from your own damnation, you let yourself fall. Not from exhaustion—but surrender.