Rewritten

The bandages wrapped on my shoulders still itched.

I hadn’t been sleeping—not really.

Just staring blankly at the ceiling while the phantom sounds of gunfire echoed around.

Night after night.

Same rhythm.

I turned toward the window; the city looked so normal.

But I wasn’t.

Not anymore.

I didn’t return to school right away. 

Not because I didn’t want to—but because every time a car passed too fast or a door slammed too loud, my whole body braced for impact.

Stepping outside felt like walking into a war zone no one else could see.

But eventually... I made myself go.

Same crisp uniform. Same halls. Same gates.

Except everything felt different.

I moved through the corridors, not out of duty or habit—but because I needed something to feel normal again.

Whatever “normal” was supposed to mean now.

Opening my locker for the first time in weeks, I couldn’t help but notice the sharp gazes and whispers of students around me.

"Is that Ren?"

"I thought he transferred."

"Look at his arm—bandages?"

"Did he get into a fight? There are bruises all over him."

I decided to stay quiet; it's not like I can explain that I've got into a gunfight with a over some important political person.

I sat in homeroom, the low hum of morning chatter filling the space around me.

But my mind was still in that crumbling building, ears still ringing from gunfire, eyes still watching blood soak through someone's shirt.

Spectre’s shirt.

I hadn’t seen her since the van.

Not at the facility. Not afterwards. Not a single word.

I don't even know if she's still alive or not...

Spectre’s voice still lingered in my head: "Not planning on dying yet, Ren."

A part of me wondered if Spectre did actually die due to her injuries, would that mean they wouldn't need me anymore?

Then again, I did betray them.

The chance of me being silenced is still on the table.

It's only a matter of time, I guess.

...

After the first period, Rika and Kaito cornered me near the stairwell.

Rika eyed me down, arms crossed.
"You disappeared. No calls. No texts. And now you show up with..." Her gaze dropped to the white bandages peeking beneath my sleeve, "...this?"

"That’s not from falling off your bike, is it?" Kaito said, voice low.

I didn’t answer.

Kaito places his hand on my shoulder. "People are saying stuff. That you were seen getting into a black van a week ago. At night... were the rumours true?"

My stomach turned.

"You believe them?" I asked.

They hesitated. Then nodded once.

"After seeing your face today? Yeah... we kind of do." Rika exclaimed.

I sighed, "Look, I didn't go into a van, and no, I didn't join some gang like what you guys heard. I just got sick, okay?"

Then, without another word, I turned around and walked away.

After an exhausting day of class and ignoring my friends, the final bell rang.

...

It was past midnight, and I was staring out my window again, looking at the city while the rain slowly poured down the glass pane, when I heard a thud on my front door.

Then it unlocked.

I sat up slowly, muscles tense, hand unconsciously drifting to the dresser where I kept the knife I had never used before…

until now.

So they finally decided to silence me, huh...

But I'm not going down without a fight.

I made my way towards the door—but to my surprise...

A person with midnight blue hair, half-collapsed against the frame was there.

Her hood soaked from rain, breath shallow, one hand pressed tightly to her side. Blood seeped slowly between her fingers.

Spectre.

"You really should start double locking that door." she murmured, voice low and frayed around the edges.

I stared at her. She looked worse than the last time—bandages fresh, soaked near the edges, movements slower, like gravity had it out for her specifically.

She barely made it two steps before she leaned against the wall, breath hitching, clearly fighting not to drop.

"I won’t stay long," she said through gritted teeth. "Just need a place to crash. Two days max."

Asisting her into my apartment, I smirked, "I didn’t know you were still alive."

She smiled back, "I got tired of the lame infirmary room in the facility, so I decided to bleed someplace else."

I didn’t argue.

Just pulled the blanket off my bed and tossed it toward the couch.

"You’re impossible."

She smirked faintly, already lowering herself onto the cushions.

"You missed me, didn't you?"

I stayed silent. Not because I couldn’t respond but because I hated how she was right.

She let out a soft, dry laugh. It hurt her—she clutched her side—but she didn’t stop.

"Are you always this hospitable to half-dead operatives?"

I sat down on the floor near the base of the couch, "Only the charming, sarcastic ones who break in bleeding all over my rug."

She smirked. "Guess I’m special."

"Something like that."

She glanced over, "So, how are you holding up, Ren?"

I stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then down at the glass in my hands.

"I still hear it sometimes. The gunfire. Vaughn shouting. You..." I paused. "You looked half dead when I last saw you."

Looking at her I continued. "I haven't been sleeping properly, because every time that I close my eyes, I see a muzzle flash."

Spectre’s voice was quiet—quieter than I’d ever heard it. "That’s not weakness, Ren. That’s memory doing its job. Your body’s trying to keep you alive."

"Can I ask you something?" I hesitated.

"That guy… the one I shot. In the building." I swallowed. "He went down after the third hit. I never even saw his face until it was too late."

Spectre stayed quiet.

"I keep thinking... What if he had a family? A kid? Or someone special waiting and wondering why he didn't come home that night?"

"He pulled the trigger first," she said gently. "He was trying to kill you."

"I know." My voice cracked a little. "It still doesn’t feel like it makes it okay."

She lets out a sigh. "You'll just have to live with it; remember him, not as a foe, not with hatred, but as a person who was following orders."

After a brief pause, I asked Spectre. "So, Miss Laurent, how are you? Besides the bullet wound."

"Miss Laurent?" she echoed. “I already told you that's not my name; I only used that alias for the restaurant reservation.”

I gave her a look. "Well calling you 'Spectre' all the time just feels wrong, especially at a time like this."

She scoffed softly, her voice still faint from fatigue. “Well, aside from the extra ventilation in my side, I’m doing great. Gourmet instant noodles, a couch that’s somehow both too soft and too stiff, and the charming company of a teenager with survivor’s guilt.”

"Do you ever hate yourself for surviving?" I asked.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

"Every day."

I nodded slowly. "Does it ever go away?"

"After some time," she said. "But at random moments it'll just remind you that you survived and not them."

A beat.

"What about you?" I asked, voice softer now. "What keeps you going?"

"Regret. Mostly." — "And people like you."

That threw me off for a second.

"What do you mean?"

She looked at me then—truly looked. No masks. No smirks. Just honesty.

"You're the reminder there are people who understand the feeling of survival."

The words sat between us, fragile and grounding all at once.

For a while, neither of us said anything.
The silence felt earned.

...

The rain hadn’t stopped. It drummed lightly against the windows like a heartbeat—steady, persistent, inescapable.

Eventually she drifted off, sprawled on the couch, arm flung over her eyes, gun tucked under the blanket out of habit.

I lay down on my bed, eyes locked on the ceiling. My shoulder ached. 

But somehow... 

It was the first night I didn’t feel completely alone.

And I couldn’t decide if that scared me more than anything else.