Chapter 1: Unsent Letter
Chapter Text
"Dear Kieran,
I don't know why I'm writing this. You won't read it. You can't. But maybe I just need someone to listen, and you’re the only one I know who might understand.
You're fifteen here, maybe sixteen. Everything still feels sharp and heavy and impossible. You're tired all the time, but you keep smiling in photos. You still believe that if you win one more award, if you play the violin better, if your fencing stance is perfect and you memorize every textbook cover to cover—maybe then, they'll say they’re proud of you. Maybe then, they'll let you breathe.
They won’t.
Not really.
I wish I could tell you that it gets better in the way you want it to. That one day, they realize you were just a kid trying your best. That they take you out for ice cream or sit with you at the piano without correcting your posture. But that never happens. You don’t graduate. You don’t get the internship. You run.
And I’m proud of you for it.
You won’t have anything when you leave. Just a half-packed bag, a bruised shoulder, and your name, Kieran, which will feel heavier than your suitcase. You’ll end up on a cracked bench at some bus stop, watching the sky fall in on itself. That’s where you’ll meet Eunoia.
Eunoia won’t ask where you came from. She' ll just ask if you want to go somewhere else.
You’ll say yes.
I wish I could tell you the place they take you is safe, but it isn’t. It’s loud. Disorganized. You’ll hate the noise. You’ll flinch at shouting. You’ll freeze in meetings when people look at you too long. But it’s different. The kind of different you’ll grow into, slowly.
You'll grow your hair out. It’ll annoy you at first—always in your eyes—but it’ll feel like freedom. Like something you chose.
You’ll be surrounded by people who confuse you. Caporegime will frustrate you. He’s bold, stubborn, physical. Everything you weren’t allowed to be. You’ll catch yourself watching him. Just... watching. Your thoughts will spiral and you’ll overanalyze every word he says to you. You’ll start leaving him hints. Just small ones. You won’t even know why you care if he notices.
You’ll respect Mafioso. You’ll follow his orders. You’ll understand him the way you understand a complicated text—dissecting, interpreting, forming theories. You won’t know how to talk to him like a person, but you’ll still care. All of this will matter to you more than you expect it to.
The others—Soldier, Contractee—they’ll baffle you. They’ll make you laugh when you shouldn’t. You won’t tell them anything about your past. Not ever. You’ll nod when they call you a robot. It’s easier.
You’ll still be the weakest in the group, physically. You’ll still hate loud sounds. You’ll still overthink everything.
And yet—
You’ll find moments of peace in the chaos.
You’ll organize the supply closet just because it helps you think.
You’ll read philosophy books in the kitchen at 2AM while the others sleep.
You’ll feel something that might be… belonging.
Not perfection. Not acceptance on a report card.
Just something warmer than silence.
I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but the version of you that’s writing this? He’s still figuring things out. He doesn’t have everything together. But he doesn’t want to go back.
Not even for a second.
Stay strong.
You get out.
You make it."
— Consigliere
Chapter 2: "When The Noodles Turned Red"
Summary:
soldier has a nightmare
Notes:
if you're reading this then don't forget to eat food and drink water and take care of yourself 💗
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The dream came gently, as if it wanted to fool him.
Soldier found himself in the cramped kitchen of his childhood home, the peeling wallpaper, the chipped table, even the faint smell of damp wood exactly as he remembered. A thin light leaked in through the crooked blinds, soft and golden, not the harsh glare of battlefield flares or the crack of fire. For once, there was no shouting, no sirens, no guns. Only the clatter of chopsticks.
His sibling sat across from him, hunched over a steaming bowl of noodles. They were laughing—really laughing—at how a strand had smacked against their chin and left a greasy stain. Soldier felt the corners of his own mouth lift, awkward and stiff from disuse, but real. He couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled like that. Not in years.
It was ordinary. Too ordinary. And yet, it was everything.
They talked about nothing—little things. What to do tomorrow. How the cat had gone missing and come back three days later with burrs in its tail. How Soldier always burned rice, no matter how carefully he tried. Every word was soaked in warmth, like a blanket he didn’t know he still longed for. His chest hurt with it, but in the kind of way that made him want to stay.
For a moment, he let himself believe.
But then—
The noodles darkened.
It was subtle at first. The broth thickened, turning murky. His sibling’s chopsticks clinked against porcelain, pulling up strands slick with something dark, too heavy to be soup. The smell hit him next—copper, sharp, metallic. His stomach twisted.
When Soldier looked up, the change was already spreading. His sibling was still smiling, but the expression had gone wrong. Too wide. Too still. Their eyes glazed over, pupils clouding, skin turning pale beneath a sheen of sweat. Blood dripped from the corner of their mouth, staining their chin where the noodle stain had been seconds before.
Soldier lurched forward, reaching for them. He wanted to hold them, to stop the image from unraveling. But as soon as his fingers brushed theirs, the warmth evaporated. Their form dissolved into smoke, collapsing into the sound of gunfire echoing in his ears, distant but relentless.
The kitchen vanished.
All that remained was the smile. Bloody, broken, carved into his vision like a scar.
Soldier snapped awake with a choke. His body jolted upright, sheets clinging damp to his skin. He couldn’t breathe at first—lungs stuttering like they had forgotten the rhythm. Sweat trickled down his temples, soaking into his hair, his shirt.
For a long, terrible moment, he didn’t know where he was. The shadows in the room crawled toward him like enemies in the dark, the silence pressing too loud in his ears. He pressed a shaking hand against his mouth, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound. If he made a noise, if he admitted the dream had shaken him, then the grief would split him open.
He curled forward, elbows on his knees, fists pressed against his forehead. His heart pounded like a war drum, each beat dragging up memories he had spent years burying: the smell of gunpowder, the screaming, the sight of his sibling falling—always falling—over and over again.
He told himself he was used to this. He had survived worse. He had been trained to survive worse.
And yet—his hands still trembled. His breath still came in shallow bursts. The image of his sibling’s smile lingered behind his eyelids, twisted and bloodied.
It had been so real. So warm. For just a moment, he’d had them back. And now the loss burned in him twice as sharp, like losing them all over again.
He stayed like that for what felt like hours, silent in the dark, sweat cooling against his skin.
By morning, no one would know. He’d wash his face, tie his gloves, carry himself with the same quiet discipline he always did. No one would see the boy inside him, broken and reaching for a sibling who would never reach back.
But for now, alone in the shadows, Soldier let his eyes sting.
Notes:
poor soldier
Chapter 3: "Oops, I Broke Everything Again"
Summary:
After a mission nearly costs Soldier his life, Contractee is consumed by guilt and panic. Mafioso’s steady presence grounds him, while the team’s mix of anger, support, and care forces him to confront his fear. For the first time, he begins to open up, finding safety and belonging within their family-like bonds.
Notes:
too busy to read it all I'm tired lol sorry if it doesn't name sense
hi starclove berry
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The team moved through the dimly lit corridors, tension buzzing like static. Every step, every shadow could hide a threat. This mission was crucial, and Contractee felt it deep in his chest—an itch, a restless energy he couldn’t ignore. He wanted to prove himself, to shed the label of “the youngest, the chaotic one.”
Mafioso trailed a step behind, eyes sharp on him. He didn’t speak—he rarely did—but the slight tightening of his jaw and the way he held his hands at his sides were enough to communicate his concern. Push too hard, he thought. Don’t overstep.
Contractee’s resolve snapped like a brittle wire. Without thinking, he bolted forward, cutting through a side corridor. The shortcut he’d been eyeing for minutes seemed perfect in his mind. Perfect—until an enemy soldier spotted him.
“Merde!” Mafioso hissed under his breath, lunging forward. He moved fast, but not fast enough.
Soldier’s body slammed into him just moments later, taking the hit that was meant for Contractee. The sound—thud, grunt, the crash of bodies—made Contractee’s stomach drop.
“Soldier!” he yelled, panic rising. Chaos erupted. Mafioso quickly covered both of them, suppressing the advancing enemies while guiding the rest of the team out of immediate danger. Shots rang out; voices shouted; the mission spiraled into improvisation.
By the time they reached a safe zone, Soldier was unconscious, pale and battered. The team was exhausted, furious.
“Do you even think before you move?” Caporegime barked, voice sharp as steel.
Contractee forced a laugh, masking the tremor in his hands. “Ah, you know me—always keeping things interesting.”
Consigliere’s cold gaze didn’t move from him. Silence weighed heavier than Caporegime’s words.
Mafioso stepped closer, hand lightly pressing against Contractee’s shoulder. “You’re lucky,” he said, voice low but firm. “And I mean it. Don’t test your luck like that again.”
Contractee’s laugh cracked, betraying the fear and guilt he couldn’t hide. Inside, he was crumbling. He had nearly cost Soldier his life, nearly destroyed the mission, and now the weight of it pressed down on him like a heavy stone.
He could feel Mafioso’s concern, steady and unwavering—a reminder that, despite his mistakes, he wasn’t entirely alone. But even Mafioso’s calm couldn’t stop the tremor in his chest, or the sense that he had failed the people who mattered most.
And somewhere deep inside, a seed was planted—a seed of fear that would grow into something harder to control if he didn’t learn to face it.
Back at the safehouse, the air felt heavier than usual. The team moved quietly around Soldier, tending to his injuries with hushed instructions and careful hands. The mood was tense, the silence pressing.
Contractee lingered in the doorway, unnoticed. He tugged at his hair, biting his nails until his fingers were raw. He wanted—needed—someone to notice him, to ask if he was okay. But no one did. Not Caporegime, not Consigliere, not even Soldier lying unconscious on the cot.
Mafioso’s sharp eyes landed on him instantly. He didn’t scold, didn’t speak. He simply held Contractee’s gaze, a silent command to step aside and breathe. For a moment, Contractee resisted, feeling the weight of shame pressing down on him. Then he quietly shuffled over to Mafioso, leaning just slightly against him, seeking the unspoken comfort that came with Mafioso’s calm presence.
Days passed, and the chill from Caporegime and Consigliere didn’t thaw. They continued to ice him out, their disappointment heavy in every glance and clipped word. Contractee tried to fight it, masking guilt with loud antics—cracking jokes, over-dramatizing, demanding attention—but it was obvious to everyone, especially Mafioso, who kept a steady, watchful eye on him.
Sometimes Mafioso would nudge him gently or pull him aside quietly, a brief word of reassurance that didn’t excuse the recklessness but reminded Contractee he wasn’t completely alone.
That night, the nightmares returned. Soldier’s body dropping, over and over, each impact echoing in his chest. Contractee awoke screaming, drenched in sweat, insisting he was fine even as his hands shook uncontrollably.
Mafioso was there before he even fully realized it, a steadying hand on his shoulder, grounding him in the moment.
“You’re safe,” he said softly. No coddling, no false reassurance—just firm, unwavering presence.
Contractee clung to him for a few trembling moments, allowing the vulnerability he’d been burying to surface, before reluctantly pulling back, still shaky but a little less alone.
Even as he tried to push the fear away, the guilt lingered, festering in the corners of his mind. Mafioso’s quiet protection, however, was a reminder that he had someone who saw him, someone who cared, even when the rest of the world turned cold. It planted a seed—small but persistent—that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to face all his fear and guilt alone.
The alleyway was tight, shadows pressed close, and the air smelled of damp concrete and fear. Contractee’s stomach twisted the moment he stepped inside—it was eerily familiar. Too familiar.
An ambush erupted, gunfire and shouted commands snapping through the corridor. Contractee froze. His chest tightened, each breath a sharp sting. In his mind, the memory replayed: Soldier’s body hitting the ground, over and over. Panic climbed like wildfire, suffocating him.
Mafioso was instantly at his side, a steady presence amid the chaos. His hand pressed lightly against Contractee’s back, grounding him without words, while his eyes scanned the alley for threats. He didn’t yell. He didn’t scold. He just stood firm, an anchor in the storm.
Contractee’s next task should have been simple—planting a device, covering a corner—but his hands shook violently, fumbling the equipment. Frantic apologies spilled from his lips mid-mission, adding to the chaos instead of easing it.
Mafioso stayed close, murmuring calm instructions, guiding him without ever belittling. Occasionally he took over a motion or adjusted a position, steadying the work without stealing it from Contractee. “You’ve got this,” he said quietly, more to anchor him than to instruct.
Then the mask broke. Contractee tried to joke through the tension, but his voice cracked under the weight of fear. The panic, the guilt, the memory of Soldier—it all poured out in one shuddering scream. He begged the team not to leave him, collapsing inward and outward at once.
Mafioso gripped his shoulders firmly, holding his gaze. “I’m not leaving. You’re not alone,” he said, steady, unwavering.
For the first time, Contractee let himself feel it all—the guilt, the fear, the trauma—without hiding. Mafioso held him there, solid and patient, while the alley continued to burn with danger around them.
When the firefight ended, the team saw him for the first time completely vulnerable. It was a turning point, a fracture and a bridge all at once: a moment where Contractee’s fear was acknowledged, and Mafioso’s presence reminded him that even in the chaos, he wasn’t facing it alone.
Caporegime cornered him as soon as the panic attack subsided, eyes blazing with a mix of fury and worry. Contractee stiffened under the weight of that glare.
“Why do you even keep me here?!” he snapped, voice cracking with frustration and guilt.
Caporegime’s reply was sharp, tight with emotion: “Because you’re family, idiot!”
Mafioso stood a few steps away, arms crossed, watching closely. He didn’t intervene—yet—but his gaze was steady, ready to step in if the confrontation escalated.
Caporegime stormed off soon after, leaving Contractee trembling. Consigliere approached, calm and deliberate, a stark contrast to the earlier anger.
“You’re not weak,” he said quietly, meeting Contractee’s eyes. “You’re scared. That’s different.”
Mafioso rested a hand lightly on Contractee’s back, firm and reassuring, silently reinforcing that he wasn’t alone. Contractee leaned into the touch for a brief moment, taking in the steadiness around him.
When Soldier finally woke, groggy and battered, the first thing he asked was: “Are you okay?” completely ignoring his own injuries.
The weight of care and concern crashed over Contractee all at once. He broke down, shaking and gasping, letting the guilt and fear spill out in front of Soldier and Mafioso.
Later, in a quieter moment away from the others, he admitted in a trembling voice: “If Soldier died, it would’ve been my fault. And I’d rather it be me.”
Soldier listened, expression softening, and pulled him close, offering reassurance without words. Mafioso stood nearby, silent but vigilant, giving them space while his relief was clear—Contractee was finally opening up.
In that room, the family dynamic crystallized: Caporegime’s fiery care, Consigliere’s calm support, Soldier’s selfless concern, and Mafioso’s quiet, steadfast protection.
For the first time since the mission went wrong, Contractee felt the possibility of processing his trauma, guilt, and fear—safe in the knowledge that he was not facing it alone. Mafioso’s unwavering presence underscored that, anchoring him firmly in a family that truly cared.
Notes:
I wanna go to sleep