✧˖°.⊹📖⊹.°˖✧
I woke up to the sound of metal sliding against cloth. I blink through the golden beams of sunlight from the windows. He's sitting a few feet away, hunched over on a chair, dragging a rag along his knife.
The steel gleams as he scrapes away the dark crust of dried blood. My stomach knots.
Terror freezes me to the spot, but part of me can't look away. I can feel it in my chest- that he's done this before, many times. And yet... there's something almost mesmerising about it. Dangerous. Deadly.
I swallow, my throat dry with thirst. "Who are you?" I ask.
"A weapon," he says flatly. "That's all I've ever been."
I blink. WHAT THE HELL? I ask this guy WHO he is, and he's telling me he's a weapon? Hasn't anyone taught him the difference between a proper noun and an object?
"Well... weapons break." I murmur, surprising myself with the boldness. "They get used up and replaced. People don't."
His movements falter. The rag stills.
"And... I was asking for your name, not a lecture on existential weaponry." I add, raising an eyebrow.
He doesn't answer at first, just tilts his head, studying me like the daily Wordle puzzle.
"Names don't matter," he says finally, voice low. "Not here. Not now."
I huff. "Of course, the mysterious, brooding guy refuses to share his name. Classic."
I swear for a split second, he almost smiles. But it fades too quickly to tell if it's real.
I chew the inside of my cheek, trying not to let my nerves show.
His eyes narrow slightly, and for a second, I see the faintest flicker of respect- or maybe annoyance. Hard to tell.
Growl.
I look at him... Then his stomach.
Growl again.
He looks at me... Then my stomach.
The corner of his mouth twitches. He's holding it back, but I can tell he's this close to laughing.
I stand, brushing dust off my jeans. Then I dig into my bag, pull out the half-loaf of stolen bread, and hold it up between us like a peace offering.
"Guess we're both not invincible to hunger," I say, trying to sound casual, though my voice comes out softer than I mean it to.
For a second, he just stares at the bread, like it's something foreign. Poisoned, even. His hands don't move.
"Take it," I insist, shoving it closer. "It won't bite."
Finally, he reaches out- slow, deliberate- and tears off a piece.
We chew in silence.
Still, it's the closest thing to normal I've felt in days. And for a moment, the world outside feels far away. Almost safe.
He stands, tucking the rest of the bread back into my bag.
I frown. "Are you... leaving?"
He doesn't answer. He steps outside into the sunlight. My stomach twists as I wait.
Minutes later, he returns, a small, battered metal cup in hand, filled with water. He hands it to me.
"Drink," he says. I take it gratefully, the cold liquid sliding down my barren throat.
"Where did you get that?" I ask.
He sips after me, eyes scanning the streets, alert as always. "A tap outside," he replies simply, voice flat.
I nod, watching him with confusion. He's dangerous, deadly... but somehow, strangely caring.