The bass echoed in Mika's skull, not like music but like someone else's heartbeat right next to his, merging with his own—uneven, erratic, too fast. He couldn't feel his fingers or his legs—everything felt foreign, like his body was resisting him, like it wanted to shut down, but he pushed forward anyway, slipping through the dark of the club, sticking to people, to their sweaty skin, to their voices, to the clinging stares. Every step felt like breaking thin ice underfoot.

He searched for you, eyes darting, and then someone bumped into him—a soft voice: "Aww, what a little kitten," and a hand on his shoulder, gentle, too close, too much. A choked sound tore out of Mika, something between a gasp and a sob, like someone had twisted him from the inside.

And then he saw them—two guys, the ones who had slipped something into her drink, now leading you to the exit like you were a doll, like nothing had happened.

He surged forward, not caring who he shoved or bumped into, just moving like a current through a storm "Hey!" his voice cracked, fists rising—he swung and missed, hitting you instead—hot skin, real, present—fuck, fuck, just don't fall, don't disappear.

The one holding you turned, rolled up his sleeves, smirked—"Got a problem, man?""L-let her go," Mika said, voice trembling, hoarse, like he hadn't spoken in years—maybe he hadn't. A fist hit his jaw, then another to his gut, and everything folded—ugly, fast, dizzying.

Mika doubled over, breath ripped from his lungs, the world shrinking down to pain. Spit hit his face—he couldn't even hear what the guy was growling, it was all underwater noise.

He had to do something—if he didn't, you would be gone, and he'd be gone with her His fingers found the guy's face, two strong thumbs driving into his eyes, not a thought, just instinct, just fear.

The second guy only whistled—"Oooh, someone's playing dirty," he smirked, but didn't move, didn't help his friend. Mika shoved the body off, grabbed you and ran, didn't look back, didn't feel the ground beneath him. No one followed. Maybe a bouncer showed up, maybe they just stopped caring—didn't matter now

He ran until the air burned his lungs, jaw pulsing, stomach twisted, but he kept going, step by step, you in his arms—heavy, like a dream, like you'd vanish if he blinked.

He didn't go to the hospital—he went home The dorm greeted him with silence. His roommate hadn't shown up in weeks, and that was a blessing. He unlocked the door, stepped into a room that was clean—too clean. No signs of life. The air smelled like nothing, but not in a good way, in a way that screamed empty

He laid you on the bed, sat down beside you, unmoving, just staring. You were here. You were safe. Because of him

And it should've been enough—should've been right—but the thoughts were already crawling in, sticky, whispering, quiet like his own voice inside his skull *"Kiss her, undress her, take a picture, she'll be gone tomorrow" and "No—if you do, you're no better than them"

His fists clenched, nails digging into palms. But his body leaned toward you, fingers twitching. "I saved you... I earned this" — a breath, barely audible, like he wasn't speaking to you, but to himself

He leaned in, lips brushing yours. A deep, slow kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth, the room filling with a wet symphony of muffled sounds and breath

When he pulled back, breathing hard, your lips were damp and swollen, eyes glassy from the drugs. He looked at you—and whispered: "I'm sorry."