Chapter Text
throughout your entire career as an assassin, your greatest asset was undoubtedly your exceptional powers of observation.
your acute spatial awareness, honed to razor-sharp precision over years of tireless practice, enabled you to deftly navigate even the most treacherous of situations with unparalleled precision. whether you were meticulously counting the number of foes hidden within the shadows, or swiftly scanning your surroundings for any telltale signs of surprise attacks lurking around every corner, your unflagging attention to detail were the primary reasons why you had earned your place among the elite special forces of the illustrious ORDER.
with this esteemed title came an immense sense of pride, for you knew that your remarkable sensitivity to the smallest details had elevated you to a level of skill that was considered nothing short of formidable.
however, as with all things in life, even your greatest strength proved to be your biggest weakness at times.
as time went on, you found that your exceptional spatial awareness could be a curse as much as a blessing. it had led you astray and caused you to falter. it was a humbling realization— one that made you question whether your skill was truly an asset or a liability in the world of assassination. you had come to view your talent with a sense of dread, knowing that it had killed you in many ways.
and it was all because of one person.
nagumo.
"it's no use— the enemy regenerates any damage inflicted on him. attacking won't do." sakamoto says, twisting his joints, and stretching his forearms. despite his grievous wounds bleeding profusely on his forehead, he remains exhibiting a remarkable display of fortitude.
"perhaps we should attempt a more strategic approach," sakamoto suggests, his voice laced with a note of contemplation. "[name], how about you observe the rate at which the enemy's wounds heal, and as soon as they do, i’ll inflict cellular damage. is that okay with you?"
. . .
“[name]?”
sakamoto finally turns his attention towards you. he observes that you are sitting amidst a scattered pile of shattered glass panes, your body in a state of complete disarray after the intense battle with the enemy. your condition appears to be far more severe than sakamoto's, as your dazed expression and weakly hanging limbs convey a sense of utter exhaustion and physical debilitation—
—wait.
no.
sakamoto suddenly realizes that he had mistakenly used the wrong adjective to describe you. upon closer inspection, he notes that you are not, in fact, dazed— rather— your eyes exhibit a focused intensity on a singular object, as though you are admiring something akin to a dreamlike vision.
—wait.
no. it was not an object.
“[name]. it won't be long before nagumo regains consciousness, don’t worry about him.”
sakamoto had noticed your unwavering gaze directed towards nagumo, recognizing that there is something about the situation that has captured your attention in a profound way. however, sakamoto was too lazy to read your opaque expressions. in his ignorance, he assumes that your interest in nagumo is simply a reflection of your deep concern for your fellow partner.
deep within the recesses of your soul, you could sense an ineffable truth that had been stirring within you for some time. though you had tried to ignore it, the weight of this truth had become impossible to ignore.
in your heightened state of spatial awareness, you were aware of nagumo's struggle to regain consciousness just meters away from you. his groans echoed in your ears, each one a testament to the sheer brutality of the battle that had brought you all to this place. as you moved to reach out to him in concern, another detail of awareness has brought you to be blank.
your attention was drawn to the intricate tattoos that adorned his exposed bicep. as his jacket hung loosely off his shoulders, it revealed a complex web of interlocking designs and symbols, each one imbued with a sense of deep significance and meaning.
despite the urgent call of duty, you found yourself drawn to nagumo's figure, examining every detail with a strange fascination. his tattoos, in particular, captivated your attention. you couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt at your momentary distraction— and yet— the allure of nagumo's tattoos was too strong to resist.
perhaps it was the shock of seeing nagumo so exposed, without his usual oversized shirts and jackets to cover him up. you had always known about the mathematical tattoos on his hands and fingers, but seeing something else inked on his bicep felt almost illicit, as if you were intruding on a deeply personal part of him.
as you gazed at nagumo's body, you couldn't help but feel a sense of guilt at your own voyeuristic tendencies. he was completely unaware of your presence, lost in the throes of unconsciousness, yet here you were, studying every inch of him as if he were a work of art.
and yet, despite your misgivings, you couldn't help but be drawn to nagumo's body, admiring the way the tattoos on his bicep seemed to accentuate his muscular frame. it was as if he had been sculpted from marble, each curve and contour a testament to his physical prowess.
“[name]! we need to regroup—, now—!”
you suddenly felt a jolt of panic as you heard sakamoto calling out your name in urgency. it was as if a spell had been broken, and you were jolted back to reality.
“s...–sakamoto!”
but it was too late, the last thing you saw was the enemy closed in on sakamoto with alarming speed, launching a brutal projectile attack that sent him hurtling through the air once again.
you realized how lost you had become in your own thoughts, so much so that you had almost forgotten the gravity of the situation.
in that moment, you were aware of the glaring flaw in your powers. your ability to observe and scrutinize even the tiniest details had always been your greatest strength, but now it was a double-edged sword. you wanted to assign blame— to lash out at nagumo for distracting you— but deep down you knew that the fault lay solely with you.
shame washed over you, like a tidal wave crashing against a rocky shore, as you recognized your own culpability in the unfolding disaster.
to any assassin worth their salt, admitting defeat was the ultimate sin, a cardinal offense that was tantamount to a death sentence. you found yourself unable to continue the fight. all you could do was gather the unconscious bodies of your partners and retreat from the scene of the brutal battle. as you walked away, you could feel the mocking laughter of your opponent echoing in your ears, a constant reminder of your failure and your shame.