Chapter Text
It’s always the same routine everyday.
Wake up. Work. Get Paid. Repeat.
But it’s not like he can’t escape it.
He’s trapped in this endless cycle of blood—that he chose.
The rain poured down from a sky thick with dark clouds, each drop of rain streaking the glass window.
He stood under a flickering streetlight.
Neon signs blurred into the shadows, green and red smearing across the city.
His coat was drenched, hands unnervingly steady.
He grabbed a handkerchief that he had stolen from the hotel, wiping his hands before tossing it into the canal.
Dark hair with dyed red streaks—the color smearing into the black, damp from the rain.
Guilt should’ve been expected.
Though he had gotten used to this life.
Was it thrilling?
Maybe.
But who could blame him?
Perhaps he craved the intense stimulation, the enthusiasm he had from violence. Or maybe it was his repeated exposure that just dulled his emotional response, his acts feeling more like a habit rather than a flaw.
Maybe it’s because normal life felt too flat, bland, ordinary.
As the rain softened, each drop growing steady, he adjusted his coat before walking off.
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By the time he reached his apartment, his entire body had already begun to suffer from exhaustion.
His place was small, empty, messy—functional enough for him to live in. He slumped onto his couch—the kitchen still carrying the faint smell of instant noodles, his desk cluttered with paperwork. (He’s just procrastinating guyz)
He’d finish it tomorrow—thought the next day he’d say the same excuse.
Work was hard to find without a degree.
He sighed—standing up. Dropping his keys onto the counter, he leaned against it, hands resting on the counter as his gaze drifted to the ceiling.
…
His phone buzzed.
Grumbling, he picked it up.
A message from his sister.
Kab:
You alive? :P
He chuckled softly, typing back with one hand.
Clown:
Unfortunately
Three dots flickered.
Kab:
You should visit someday yk?
its nice here :D
Clown glanced around his apartment.
Clown:
Busy
Kab:
Again?
He set his phone down onto the counter.
That was always his answer.
She’d left the country years ago. New job, new friends, new life. He was proud of her—genuinely. Their calls were brief, barely lasting 20 minutes, each message a simple greeting like they were just strangers who happened to share the same last name.
Exhaling, he walked towards his fridge, grabbed a can of coke, cracked it open before heading towards the balcony.
Resting his hands on the railing, lips taking a sip of the drink—below, the city sprawled, restless and alive, vibrant lights bleeding into the night.
Above, the sky had cleared.
Stars shone, scattered across the darkness.
As his gaze lingered, one caught his eye. A constellation—Leo—stretching across the sky. The lion, a symbol of strength, royalty, courage, and leadership.
And then—a familiar voice rang in his head—his sister’s from years ago.
𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭.
He scoffed, lifting his drink in mockery.
“Goodluck,” he muttered. “Yeah right.”
…
He didn't know why he said it—the words just slipped out.
“I wish,” He muttered under his breath, barely audible over the city noise. “that my life will change.”
…
Silence.
The stars, predictably, did nothing.
Clown finished his drink, before eventually going back inside, locking the balcony door behind him.
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Clown couldn’t sleep.
Not because of guilt, but because stillness made his thoughts too loud—impossible to ignore.
So, he grabbed his coat, and left.
Maybe a quick walk would quiet his mind.
The streets were quieter at this hour. Shops closed, no neon signs blinded his eyes.
This was the part of the night he liked best.
Just walking and silence.
His footsteps echoed as he roamed, hands shoved into his pockets. The world felt distant. People occasionally passed by, drunk, night workers—but none bothered to look back at him twice.
…
Then, he heard it.
Soft footsteps behind him.
Clown stopped.
The sound stopped too.
He frowned slightly, turning around.
Nothing.
He continued walking forward.
…
Again, he paused.
He glanced back at it again—and this time, there he saw…
A cat?
Its fur was white, sitting neatly beneath a street lamp. Too clean for a stray. It was watching him.
Clown gestured his hands dismissively, before turning, and this time, walking faster.
…
He stopped again.
The cat blinked.
Then—it tilted his head.
That was when he finally noticed the color of its eyes.
Purple…?
Is that rare?
He shrugged it off.
He stood there longer than he meant to, studying it. The cat didn’t flinch nor run, just watched him.
Clown narrowed it's eyes, gesturing for it to go away again.
The cat yawned.
…
He was growing irritated at this point.
He sighed, and resumed walking.
The cat followed.
Every turn, every stoplight, every shortcut.
“Geez.” He murmured.
By the time he reached the building, he stopped at the entrance and looked down.
The cat sat at his feet.
Staring up at him.
“You’re not coming in.”
The cat stepped closer.
“No.”
That cat ignored him, looking past him—directly at the building’s door.
Then back at him.
…
Seconds passed.
Finally, Clown exhaled. “Fine.”
The cat stood immediately, and walked inside.
He shut the door behind him with a soft click.
He was certain letting this stray in was a mistake, but at this point, it was too late to undo it now,
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Clown woke up.
Because he felt something staring at him.
He didn’t move.
He kept his breathing slow, steady.
Someone was there.
He opened his eyes.
…
Purple.
Purple eyes were staring back at him, unblinking.
White hair fell loosely from its head.
Cat ears perched on top of it, a tail moving behind its back, whiskers twitching at the edge of its face.
An oversized shirt hung off one shoulder, revealing a collarbone, black baggy pants completed its outfit.
A boy sat legs crossed, directly in front of him on the bed.
Clown’s hand instinctively moved towards the knife near his desk.
Empty.
…
The boy smiled.
“Good morning!”
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