He held me close, every inch of his body radiating a dangerous heat that made my fear twist into something unrecognizable-desire, relief, terror, all tangled together. Smoke clawed at my lungs, fire licked the edges of the room, but I felt safe in his arms. Safe... and yet not.
His face was near mine, lips brushing my hairline. "Hold on," he murmured, his voice low and sharp, cutting through the chaos. "I won't let anything happen to you."
I wanted to believe him, but the memory of last night-the ache of his rejection-still throbbed like a live wire inside me. My heart quivered in a strange rhythm, trapped between fear and longing, between hate and love, between surrender and self-preservation.
He ran through the smoke-filled corridors with the effortless power that always made me tremble. The heat of the fire seared the walls, but my eyes were fixed only on him. I couldn't stop the way my body leaned against his, couldn't stop the tremor of my fingers clutching his jacket as if I were afraid he might vanish like a phantom.
Finally, he slammed open a door into a safe room, and the world beyond it was nothing but chaos and screaming fire. He placed me down, keeping one hand on my shoulder as if I might crumble without him.
"You... you saved me," I whispered, voice trembling.
He didn't smile, didn't answer immediately. His eyes, dark and stormy, bore into mine, and in them I saw a thousand emotions I could not name-rage, guilt, need, and something like devotion twisted with obsession.
"You were never safe," he said finally. "Not from them... not from me... not from yourself." His words were a confession and a warning, all at once.
I didn't understand. My chest heaved as I tried to breathe through the terror and the longing. "Why... why do I feel like I belong to you... even when you hurt me?"
His gaze softened for just a heartbeat, almost tender, almost unbearable. "Because you do," he said quietly. "And because you'll never be able to resist me completely... just like I can't resist you."
The fire roared outside, but in that small room, the world narrowed until it was just us-just the rhythm of our heartbeats, just the pull of something dark and primal, something that neither of us could deny.
I wanted to run from him. I wanted to hate him. I wanted to scream at the cruelty of my own feelings. And yet... I didn't move. I let him hold me, let his shadow fall over me, let him take over the corners of my mind where fear and longing tangled into a dangerous, beautiful chaos.
Then, he leaned closer, lips just inches from my ear, whispering, "If I could burn the world down and take you with me, I would. If I could drown in fire and still feel you in my arms, I would."
A shiver ran through me-not of cold, not of fear-but something more. Something that tightened my chest, that twisted my blood with the ache of wanting someone I knew could destroy me.
I reached for him-not fully understanding why-and he didn't pull away. Instead, he let me, let me lean against him, let me surrender to the storm that was him.
Outside, the base was burning. Inside, my world had collapsed into a single, shattering truth: I belonged to him. And he... he might belong to me in some dark, impossible way that would cost me everything.
But in that moment, I didn't care about cost. I only cared about the way my heart beat against his, the way his hand held mine, the way the fire of fear, of desire, of obsession, made the world around us irrelevant.
I could feel him in my soul. I could feel myself in his. And for the first time, the darkness didn't scare me-it consumed me completely.
Akira's arms gripped me like iron, my body pressed to his chest as he ran through the chaos. Smoke choked the night air, fire lit the burning base in hellish orange, and the wails of soldiers mingled with the deafening explosions. Every step he took was calculated, his focus absolute, and yet I could feel his heart hammering as violently as mine.
Ahead, the ground trembled-warcraft descended violently from the dark sky, disgorging soldiers of the Manchurian army. They spread like shadows, guns blazing, cutting down anything in their path. The Japanese soldiers returned fire, but they were outnumbered, pinned down by the relentless onslaught.
Akira's hand tightened around me. He had only his pistol in his pocket, yet he didn't falter. He pressed my body against his, shielding me with his own as bullets zipped past, cutting through the air like vipers. Sparks flew when a round grazed the wall beside us. My breath hitched.
"Stay behind me, Amane!" he growled, voice low and rough with urgency. "I won't let anything touch you!"
I could feel the heat of his chest, the tense coil of muscles under my hands, his fingers digging into mine as he pulled the pistol from his pocket. His aim was deadly precise, every shot forcing a small path through the enemy ranks. I clung to him, trembling, caught between awe and terror. Every bullet he fired was a promise: I will not let you die.
He barreled through the chaos, soldiers falling on either side. Sparks and smoke clouded vision, the acrid smell of gunpowder stinging my nostrils. A man lunged from the shadows, but Akira's shot tore through his chest. Still running, still protecting me. My hands gripped his shoulders so tightly I thought my fingers would break.
Finally, he spotted a small underground cottage, half-hidden in the wreckage. Without hesitation, he carried me inside, setting me down gently.
"Stay here," he commanded, voice urgent but gentle, eyes scanning the doorway. "I'll come back. Do not move."
I nodded, tears streaking down my face, but before he could leave, a bullet struck his back. He stumbled, twisting instinctively to shield me. My scream caught in my throat as he swayed, taking another round through his arm. Blood soaked his uniform, a crimson testament to his sacrifice.
Through the haze of pain, he pulled his pistol from his pocket with trembling hands, ignoring the agony. A bead of sweat mixed with blood ran down his temple as he aimed. The shot rang out. One precise, deadly moment-the enemy soldier fell, struck in the heart. Akira's breathing was ragged, his body shaking, but his eyes-those storm-dark eyes-never left the battlefield.
I fell to my knees, crying his name over and over. "Akira! Come back! Please come back!" My voice echoed, hopeless yet defiant in the burning night.
He turned briefly, eyes meeting mine through the smoke. His jaw was clenched. Then, without a word, he moved back into the inferno, leaving me trembling in the small cottage. One of his companions appeared, grabbing me gently but firmly.
"You can't go out there!" the man warned, blocking my path as I tried to run toward the battle. "He'll come back-he's a warrior. Trust him."
But I shook my head violently, trying to push past him. I had to reach him. I had to be with him. Every fiber of my being screamed, but his companion held me fast, a human barricade between me and the hell outside.
Meanwhile, Akira fought like a force of nature. Gunfire cracked like thunder, explosions threw men and debris into the air, and yet he moved with impossible precision. When his pistol ran empty, he didn't hesitate-he seized weapons from fallen enemies, throwing himself into the fray with nothing but his raw skill, his fury, and his will to survive. Bullets ripped past him, sparks ignited the ground, but he pressed on, a whirlwind of determination and blood.
I could only imagine it-Akira, wounded, bleeding, yet unstoppable, every movement a declaration: I will not die. I will not let her die. Nothing will stop me.
And somewhere, in the smoke, in the terror, I knew one truth above all: no matter what hell unfolded around us, my heart would follow him, aching, desperate, and hopelessly his.