Page 14

14

Between Fire and Ash

TATSUYA

I should’ve kept walking.

The moment I saw her stumbling through the alley, her eyes too wild, too unfocused, my first instinct was to turn around and disappear into the night. There were enough people in this town with problems, and I’d already had my fill of them.

But she wasn’t just any drunk girl stumbling home from a bar. She was one of the temptations, a demon placed in my path to make me stumble, to make me fall away from everything I vowed to be.

I tried to ignore the tightening in my chest, the nagging pull that urged me to step forward, to step in, to do something. I despised that feeling. Detested the way it always seemed to drag me back into the mess I was so desperately trying to avoid.

But she wasn’t like them. She wasn’t like any of the women I’d seen before.

I kept my distance, leaning against the corner, watching her fight to stay on her feet, the wild look in her eyes as she scanned the empty street, searching for something I wasn’t sure she even knew. Her lips parted as she muttered something, too slurred for me to make out, before she nearly tripped over her own feet.

That’s when I knew she wasn’t going to be okay.

I approached cautiously, ignoring what I assumed was a drunk or homeless person on the ground. I kept my feet light, not wanting to alarm her more than she already was. She didn’t hear me at first, her focus too consumed by the blur of the world around her. When I finally spoke, her head snapped toward me, and I saw the flash of recognition—at least, I thought I did—before it faded into confusion.

"Hey," I said, keeping my voice low, trying not to startle her. "Are you alright?"

For a moment, she just stared at me. And then, as if it had taken her this long to process the question, she let out a low, mocking laugh.

"Do I look alright to you?" Her words were slurred, but there was something sharp in them. Something dangerous.

I hesitated, my eyes scanning her for any signs of real danger. She was barely holding it together, but she wasn’t out of control yet. And part of me—too much of me—wanted to step in.

I shouldn’t have. I knew I shouldn’t have.

"You’re drunk," I said, a flat observation. But it was more than that. I could see the wreckage in her eyes. The kind of wreckage that came from years of being drowned in things worse than alcohol.

Her lips twisted into something bitter. “No shit. You got any better insight, Tatsuya?” She staggered closer, her words dripping with disdain, but there was something underneath it all. Something I couldn’t quite place.

For a moment, I just stood there. My instincts screamed at me to walk away, to leave her to whatever mess she was caught in.

But then something inside me—something I didn’t want to acknowledge—shifted.

I took a step forward. "You need help."

She scoffed. "Help?"

There was a fire in her eyes now, flickering and burning with more intensity than I’d expected. And yet, despite the bitterness in her voice, I couldn’t ignore how she was leaning into me now, as if drawn to me, her breath coming faster. The space between us was shrinking, and it wasn’t because of the alcohol.

It was something else.

"I’m fine," she muttered, her body swaying, but her voice held a strange sharpness. “I’m always fine.”

I clenched my jaw, torn between keeping my distance or doing what I couldn’t seem to stop myself from doing—helping. It was the one thing I hated about myself. The thing I never wanted to feel again. The thing I had promised myself I’d never do.

"You're not fine," I said, my voice low. My fingers twitched at my side, desperate to do something—anything—besides stand there and watch her spin further out of control.

For a moment, there was silence. Then she grinned—a sad, twisted smile.

I watched her sway on her feet, the alcohol clearly taking its toll. Her eyes were unfocused, a mix of anger and something darker swirling in them. As she took another shaky step, I instinctively reached out, my hand hovering near her arm, just in case she lost her balance.

But I didn’t expect what came next.

In a split second, she jerked away, her hands shooting up, punching me back with surprising strength. I dodged, but her fist hit my shoulder. She staggered forward, her movements erratic, but before I could step in to steady her again, her elbow swung toward me, narrowly missing my jaw.

"Hey—" I started, my voice calm, trying to defuse the situation before it escalated.

But she wasn’t listening. Her eyes were wild, her body tense, ready to strike again. I felt the sting of her words still echoing in my mind, but I had no time to focus on that. I needed to focus on her, on stopping her from going any further down this path.

"You’re right. I’m not fine. I’m fucking broken." Her voice cracked through the air, and for a brief moment, I could hear the pain beneath the venom. It cut deeper than I thought it would, and my chest tightened in response. "But I don’t need a damn monk to fix me."

The words hit me harder than anything physical could. They were sharp, full of resentment, but beneath the anger, I could feel the rawness of her vulnerability. The hurt she wore like armor, hiding whatever fragility she kept locked away.

Her next move came too fast for me to react. Her fist connected with my chest, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make me stumble back. I kept my distance, trying to avoid escalating it, trying to avoid getting caught up in a physical fight I didn’t want.

"Stop," I said, my voice low but firm, reaching for her again, but she was already stepping back, preparing for another hit.

She was clearly struggling, and though my instincts screamed to protect her, to stop the violence before it got any worse, I couldn’t let myself get lost in the fight. Not in this way. Not with her.

But then, those words. She didn't need a monk. She didn’t need anyone, especially not a broken man who warred with himself. And that realization, more than her fists, cut through me.

"I’m not trying to fix you," I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. "I’m just trying to keep you from hurting yourself."

But she wasn’t hearing me. Her next punch came faster this time, and I had no choice but to block it, catching her wrist in my hand and holding her there for a moment. I could feel the heat radiating off her skin, the tension in her muscles, and for a split second, the fight between us was almost palpable as if it wasn’t just her fists that were striking out—it was everything she was holding inside, everything she was too afraid to face.

"Let go of me!" she hissed, trying to break free, but I wasn’t about to let her get herself caught up in something worse.

"I’m not letting go," I said quietly, the words a promise I wasn’t sure she’d ever understand. "Not until you calm down."

Her breath was ragged, her chest heaving as she struggled against me, and for a moment, I saw the storm in her eyes, the confusion, the pain, the frustration that she tried so hard to keep buried. And as much as I wanted to pull away, to leave her to whatever mess she was determined to make of herself, I couldn’t.

I couldn’t walk away from this. Not from her.

"I’m not your enemy," I added, softer now, the words carrying the weight of something I wasn’t sure I had the right to say. "But I can’t stand by and watch you destroy yourself."

Her fighting didn’t slow—it only intensified. She pushed harder, faster, more determined now, as if every punch was an effort to break something within me, to make me feel the fury she carried inside. The moment her fist connected with my chest, I felt the heat of her anger, the raw desperation in her every movement. It wasn’t just physical anymore; it was something primal, something fierce.

I had no choice but to block her hits, dodging as her blows came faster than I expected. She moved like a storm—wild, relentless, her body a weapon, and the force behind her strikes almost made it impossible to avoid them. I could feel the burn in my muscles as I shifted and parried, but no matter how much I tried to deflect, she kept coming, her eyes wide with rage and something darker.

Her body was closer now, her breath ragged and sharp, each movement a mixture of fury and something else—something I couldn’t name, but I could feel it in the way her chest brushed against mine when she threw a punch too hard. The tension between us was thick, suffocating, and I knew that the fight we were having wasn’t just physical. It was everything we had been avoiding, everything we couldn’t say.

I caught her wrist again, my grip firm, trying to hold her still, but she wrenched free, her other hand flying at my face. I leaned back just in time to dodge, the edge of her knuckles grazing my jaw. I could feel the heat of her skin, the fury in her veins, and something dark twisted in my gut. Her rage was consuming, but there was something about how she moved, how he didn’t back down.

Her eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that took me by surprise. I didn’t know if she was trying to kill me or tear me apart in some other way. My heart pounded in my chest, every instinct screaming to fight back, to show her how badly I wanted her to stop and calm down.

But I couldn’t let myself get lost in the heat of this. The last thing I wanted was to give in—to let this dangerous pull between us turn into something I couldn’t control.

"Stop," I growled, but my voice cracked under the weight of everything. "This isn’t you."

“You don’t know me,” She growled.

She didn’t stop. She was a whirlwind, her anger now matched by something else—something hotter, something more desperate. She took a step closer, raising her fist, and before I knew it, she was right in front of me, our faces inches apart, her breath mingling with mine.

The rage, the tension, the heat between us—it was impossible to ignore now. My grip on her wrist tightened, but I didn’t pull away. Instead, I met her eyes, and for a brief moment, the world outside of us vanished.

Her lips parted, her chest rising and falling quickly as we stood there, too close, too tangled in everything unsaid. My pulse raced, and the space between us charged with something raw, something I couldn’t deny.

"Let go of me," she spat, her voice trembling with something darker than just anger.

I should have released her. I should have stepped back, walked away. But I couldn’t. Not now. Not when she was this close, not when every part of me screamed for her to let me in, to stop hiding behind the rage.

But I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to hold on much longer.

Before I could respond, she suddenly lurched toward me. The shock of her sudden movement caught me off guard, and for a moment, I thought she was going to headbutt me or maybe scream at me again.

But then her lips were on mine.

It was brief. A quick, unexpected collision of warmth and alcohol, of desperation and something more. Her body pressed up against mine, not gentle but urgent, reflective of trying to drown herself in something that wasn’t the void she’d been living in. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t a kiss of affection.

It was something else entirely.

I froze. My brain scrambled for something—anything—to say, but my grip on her loosened and she immediately grabbed the fabric of my robe, pulling me against her.

I couldn’t push her away. I didn’t want to.

In that moment, everything I had worked so hard to suppress, everything I had denied, started to crack open. The line between helping her and wanting her blurred. Her kiss—unexpected, fiery—tore through the walls I’d spent years building around myself.

I could’ve stepped back, walked away. I should’ve.

But I didn’t as the demons in my head cackled with mirth and wicked satisfaction.