No Rest for the Wary

Hinata’s footsteps echoed in the alleys, an endless maze met by labored breaths. Her mental map warped as her eyes searched for an escape. The walls and the streets seemed to collapse around her into liquid crimson.

Boots stomped from all sides. Deafening. Human forms sprang from the shadows until they cornered her in a tight space. Her balance faltered as her shoes sank into what felt like blood-red quicksand.

The shadows lunged at her, one after another. Her fists snapped like whips, but she felt nothing. No semblance of life. It was easy, and then it wasn’t.

For every head, two replaced it. A Hydra in the depths of her psyche. Unfortunately, she was no Hercules.

The moment hit her like déjà vu.

Her knuckles bled, pain splitting through her fingers. Her shins began to crumble. And doubt slowly seeped into her bones.

She dragged the air in and out of her lungs. Even breathing hurt.

Then, she felt a small tap behind her. At first, it was cold. Unnoticeable. Then it burned the breath out of her.

Blood.

She looked over her shoulder. Her eyes widened.

There was a smile. One that looked both familiar and strange.

She had seen this before.

An outline of a man. A relaxed, lazy stance. A hand tucked inside its pocket. A half-smirk like it just cracked a joke.

Her vision spun. Darkness crept around the edges. Then her eyelids collapsed as she tumbled face-first into the pool of red.

— • —

Hinata’s eyes snapped open, gasping. Her heart stuttered in her chest. Sweat trickled down her temple.

For a moment, she didn’t know where she was.

The ceiling fan hummed overhead. Soft yellow light peeked through the curtains. A thick comforter wrapped around her, messy and bundled up.

And the faint smell of porridge lingered in the air.

Her fists clenched the blanket, as if clinging to the small crumb of peace that cradled her.

She sat up, ignoring the tightness in her chest. She moved before the warmth could pull her back down. Before this feeling of safety killed her instincts.

Without wasting a moment, she slipped into her hoodie. Her feet were light, keen on not leaving any sound or trace.

Then a door clicked, its joints creaking discreetly.

Crow shuffled into the living room, half-dreaming.

And there was Hinata, crouched by the door and lacing up her shoes.

“You’re leaving?” he asked.

She stayed silent.

There was a shift in the air between them. And it stung. He watched her as she tapped her shoes on the floor, unsure if he should say another word.

“I was gonna make coffee.”

Hinata’s eyes flicked to him, looking different from last night. “I have to go.”

Crow’s chest tightened. His lips opened, then closed, an arm stretching out halfway.

“You could stay for a little longer, if you want.”

She zipped her hoodie, shoved her hands into her pockets, and turned for the door without a glance.

“Don't worry about anything. I got you covered.”

Something in his voice made her pause. A plea. A desperate effort to ground her. She clicked her tongue.

“Are you really stupid? You don’t know anything about me,” she glared at him.

Crow bit his lip, trying to find the right words. He exhaled and looked away, nodding as if finally resting his case.

“It’s just… nice having you around. I mean, dry humor is better than dead air.”

His words gripped her. They were honest, sincere, and lonely. She glanced at him, but not long enough for him to catch.

“I kept the deal. That's enough.”

Crow swallowed his next protest. He would have tried harder had she not looked so determined.

He sighed, went to the TV drawer, and pulled something out.

A cap—faded green, soft with age, stitched with a classic yellow smiley face.

He walked over to Hinata and snugged the crown on her head, tugging it down firmly. Her eyes widened, partly shocked in disbelief.

“There,” he said with a pat. “It’s not much. But you’ll need a little shade.”

It’s a little too big. But for some reason, it fit her just right.

Hinata’s jaw tightened. For a moment, right there, she felt the urge to back down. She bit her lip; she had to leash herself.

“Stop it. That dumb trust will get you killed,” she said, lowering her head. Her eyes disappeared beneath the brim—along with everything she didn’t want him to see.

Crow tried to smile. “If you get lost, you can ask the neighborhood for the guy who talks too much.”

Her lips twitched—another insult on the tip of her tongue. But it died quietly.

“He’s not really listening, is he?”

She shook her head and stepped out—no coordinates, no plans.

Crow lingered by the door as it clicked shut.

A part of him wished the door would open again.

With a long sigh, he went to the fridge, scanning its insides.

A loaf of banana bread sat in it, with a carefully written "For You." in cursive.

“Writing that hurt,” he muttered. “Unforgivable.”

The apartment settled back into stillness, and Crow wallowed in it.

The silence she left behind wasn’t new. But this time, it was colder, more hollow.