Breaking Point

I woke up to the sound of my alarm ringing.

As I made my way towards the living room, I glanced at the couch.

Spectre was still asleep, one arm tucked under her head, breath steady but shallow.

Now that I think about it, it's the first time in a while that I've gotten a good night's rest.

A part of me wanted to stay. To linger in the strange comfort of not being alone.

But life outside hadn’t stopped spinning.

I got dressed quietly. Uniform, black shoes, and a tie that I never learnt to tie properly. 

As I headed towards the door, I took one more look at Spectre; she's still curled up on the couch, her sidearm just visible under the blanket, like even sleep couldn’t convince her to let go of survival.

I left without saying goodbye; she'd understand.

Hopefully.

I really wouldn't want my coffee to be spiked again.

...

At school, teachers nodded faintly but never asked why I vanished.

Classmates glanced, whispered, and turned away.

When it was time for lunch, I took my usual spot at the farthest table in the cafeteria.

A spot where no one ever bothered to sit in the whole semester – it was perfect.

No one to bother me, just isolation.

But that would all change when I saw Kaito and Rika approaching my table.

The looks on their faces... Was it a concern? Anger? I couldn’t tell.

After our last interaction, I would assume that they'd hate me...

Kaito and Rika placed their trays in front of my face, still unreadable.

"Hey Ren, even though Rika is still mad at you for ignoring us, she did find something that we think you should be aware of."

Rika pulled out her phone without speaking and placed it face-up on the table.

A photo. Grainy, taken at night. A van under a flickering streetlight. Me climbing in.

And beside me—Spectre.

Hunched. Bleeding. The hood had half-fallen.

Her silhouette said everything the angle didn’t.

Her face was obscured, one hand clutching her ribs. The light was just shining at the right angle to reveal her streaks of midnight-blue hair. 

"Still insisting that you were sick?" Rika said quietly.

I looked at the photo for a few more seconds before handing back the phone.

“She got hurt,” I said flatly. “I was just nearby."

“Then why the van? ” Kaito leaned in. “Why no school for two weeks?”

I sighed. "Look, there was a bit of a construction mishap while I was walking by. I got hurt too, then they sent us to a private clinic."

“You said ‘us’,” Rika snapped. “So you were with her.”

“No, not exactly.” I shook my head. “She just happened to be going in the same direction.”

“And where are you going? ” she asked.

"I was heading home after coming from the library."

 “Wait,” she said. “Wasn't the library already closed? ”

“By the looks of the picture, it was already past midnight."

“You were heading from the library that had already been closed for hours to a construction site?”

She raised an eyebrow. "You live in the opposite direction.”

Kaito glanced at her, then at me—his expression shifting. “Your story seems a bit off, Ren.”

“Look, it happened fast. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I didn’t plan a script for you.”

Then—before they could question me more—Ryo showed up.

Tray dropped with theatrical flair. That grin was already half-formed.

A few students nearby glanced over. Some smirked. Others looked away.       

“Are you hiding something? ” Ryo said, sitting across from me uninvited.

“Or just pretending to be mysterious?"

"Guy disappears for two weeks and comes back all emo and bandaged, acting all mysterious.”

I kept my gaze on my tray. Every word was pressed behind the ribs.

“Bet you think it makes you interesting,” he added. “All the silence, all the mood. Maybe your imaginary girlfriend in the van told you to act cool.”

He leaned in more. “Or maybe she was your little side mission? Escort the injured agent? Get kissed in return?”

He smirked. “Did she bleed all over your uniform, lover boy?"

Then he shoved me.

I stood—fast—chair screeching behind me. 

My hand gripped Ryo’s collar and slammed him back against the nearest table.

A loud metallic clatter drew the whole room’s attention.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I said through clenched teeth. “Not the bruises. Not the rumours. Not your performance.”

Everyone at the cafeteria was noe practically looking at us. So I let go of Ryo, and ran away.

...

By the time I reached the apartment, the sun had dipped behind the rooftops, leaving the hallway dim and streaked in orange light.

I gently opened the door and stepped in quietly. 

But to my surprise, I heard chatter coming from the living room.

Spectre was awake. Seated at the dinner table and across from her, sitting perfectly straight, was a woman in a grey field coat.

Spectre gave me a faint nod. "You're a bit late." 

The woman glanced at me. “So this is the civilian that’s managed to stir up half my department.”

I stare at Spectre, confused. "So, who is this?" 

"Ah, where are my manners," The woman stood slowly. "I am Mirelle, Spectre’s colleague from the Tenembri's intel department."

"Sorry for the sudden home visit, but there are things that I found that Spectre needed to know."

"And that is?"

"The details of your previous extraction mission with Agent Spectre were compromised. The SUV’s model and the rendezvous coordinates were all fed to the opposing faction.”

Spectre sighed. “And I was their main target." 

Mirelle nodded, "Correct, seeing as Spectre survived another attempt may happen,” she said. “And we won’t risk ambiguity.”

“Your apartment is monitored. Twenty-four seven. But that won’t be enough.”

 “We’re assigning two agents,” Mirelle said."

Spectre leans back on her chair "They’ll guard us until I recover.”

Mirrele gathers her things, "Well It would be best if I take my leave now."

As she was heading for the door. “Try not to get kidnapped again before breakfast, Ren.”

And just like that, she left.

Spectre met my eyes.

“You okay?”

“Do I look okay to you?” My voice came out sharper than I intended—but I didn’t pull back.

"Calm down, Ren."

"My friends don't trust me anymore; everyone in my school thinks I'm some criminal."

"And now I have some other secret organisation watching my every move."

Her jaw tensed. “Ren, you’re not the only one affected—”

“No. I’m the one who didn’t get a choice! ”

“But you did make a choice,” Spectre’s voice sharpened, cutting through mine. “That night, in the alley. Bleeding out, half-conscious—do you remember what I told you?"

"And you chose to live."

. . .

"But now I live to regret that decision." I silently blurted out

She stepped forward slowly, wincing hard from the pressure on her side. 

Her hand gripped the back of the chair for balance. “You don’t mean that.”

I held her gaze, my throat burning. 

“I do. Look at me. I can’t go back. Nothing feels right anymore.” 

She stepped forward. “Ren…”

I cut her off, “Kill me.”

The words cracked the space between us like gunfire. 

Something flickered in her eyes. Rage. Grief. Helplessness.

She stepped closer, her wounded side pulling tight with the movement, but she didn’t stop.

“You think after everything... I’d just aim and pull the trigger? Is that what you want from me now? ”

She reached up, briefly touching my shoulder, her hand shaking slightly.

“If you're going to beg for death—go ahead.” Her eyes burned. “But don’t ask it from me. Not ever.”

“You’re a coward,” I hissed.

Then—before she could react—I yanked the weapon from her holster.

My heart was racing so hard it blurred everything else.

I pointed it—not at her. But at myself.

Her eyes widened instantly.

“Ren,” she warned, voice fractured, panicked now. “Don’t—”

And then—I pulled the trigger.

The sound was deafening.

In that split second, I felt the world slow.

But Spectre lunged—one final surge of strength, ignoring the agony raking her body. 

Her shoulder slammed into mine, just enough to throw the aim wide.

The shot hit the far wall—ricocheted.

Harmless.

We dropped to the floor; the gun skidded out of my hand just inches away.

Under her, I twisted, arm reaching, fingers stretching—desperate to grab the gun again. 

To finish what I couldn’t say with words.

“Ren, what the hell is wrong with you?!" She snapped, voice frayed and raw.

She pinned my wrists forcing her own body weight on it.

Her eyes flicked to the weapon. Then back to me. And something shifted.

She suddenly smashes her elbow into the side of my face.

The world spun. 

My muscles gave a half-second twitch and then slackened.

In the haze, Spectre bled into view. Her eyes—once sharp—now flickered like broken streetlights.

Then—a second blow followed. Her voice cracked as she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Then darkness swallowed everything.

[ Spectre's Persepctive ]

Ren's body fell limp underneath me, breath shallow.

His eyes, still wet with tears, fluttered once before rolling back.

I dropped to the floor beside him. My legs gave out.

His pulse throbbed faintly beneath my fingers.

Still alive.

Still mine to protect.

Even now.

But my hands... My hands had just hurt him.

The gun lay just inches away, Ren had reached for it like it was salvation.

I swore. The words clung to my throat like blood—thick, choking, impossible to say without tearing something open inside me.

I stared at the weapon and hated it.

Hated that I knew exactly what he was about to do and still hesitated.

My side burned. Stitches undone, pain rippling like fire across my ribs.

I was falling apart.

And so was he.

Then—CRACK.

The hallway detonated with bootfall.

Mirelle.

“Spectre?!” She stormed in like war, eyes scanning fast, weapon half-drawn. 

I didn’t move. My hand was on Ren’s chest, tracking every breath like it was the last one he’d take.

I looked up. “I had to stop him,” My voice shook. Nearly broke.

Mirelle dropped beside Ren, assessing—checking pulse, pupils, breath. 

Her hands were steady, but her face wasn’t. 

She was rattled. More than I’d ever seen her. “You knocked him out?”

I nodded once. Shame crawling through me. 

Then the words split—ragged and bare. “He tried to shoot himself.”

“I didn’t know what else to do.” 

Her eyes widened. A beat of silence. Then she saw the blood. “You tore your stitches again.”

“I know.”

“You’re bleeding fast.”

“I know.”

She shoved a stabiliser into my hand. No lecture. No hesitation. 

“Fix it,” she said. “Then we talk.”

Mirelle pressed gauze to the wound.

I didn’t flinch.

Pain had become background noise, static behind the real damage.

The moment Ren stopped fighting. The moment he gave up. It broke something in me.

“You hit him too hard,” Mirelle muttered, voice clipped. “He's concussed.”

I nodded. 

She worked fast—clean lines, stitches redone with a surgeon’s steadiness—but I was shaking now. Not from injury. From everything else.

My hands wouldn't stop.

Mirelle paused. “Spectre.”

“I saw it,” I said. “His hand was on the trigger. If I were a second slower—” My voice cracked and wouldn’t close again.

“I thought I could control this. I thought keeping him close would protect him.”

She kept stitching. Not because she was cold. Because if she stopped, we'd both fall.

“He looked at me like I was the enemy,” I whispered. “I wasn’t fast enough. I wasn’t good enough.”

Blood soaked through the bandage. Too fast.

She grabbed another. “You're bleeding more from guilt than the wound.”

I choked on a breath. My body was folding in on itself. 

“I don’t know how to do this anymore.” 

Then she was holding my face. Her hands smelled like antiseptic and war.

“You keep him alive. You stay whole enough to do it again tomorrow. That’s how.”