Chapter Text

" CHAPTER I: TO BE SAVED, "

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Forget. Forget everything. Forget what broke inside of you and never mended, what you swore you’d never become. Forget it all.

Drink after drink, you drown in that thick, numbing fog where memory slips and silence screams louder than words. The liquor bites as it slides down, a fire scorching your throat, but you welcome the pain. It’s honest. It doesn’t pretend. You stare into the glass like it holds answers, but it only holds more forgetting. Another sip, another burn. The heat settles in your chest like regret made liquid. You want the world to blur, to spin, to mourn your pain. You want to erase the names, the voices, the faces that won’t stop crawling back when the silence creeps in.

So you drink. And you keep drinking.

Because forgetting feels like the only thing you have left.

You’re slouched by a high-top table with rusted legs, wobbling slightly each time you shift your weight. The bar is dim, cloaked in a syrupy yellow glow from a dying bulb overhead. The air smells like stale beer and something older, something like loneliness in a bottle. Not comparable to the loneliness you have drowned yourself in.

You signal for another, but instead, the bartender slides a glass of water in front of you.

“Ma’am,” the bartender says gently, as if afraid to poke a sleeping dog. “You’ve been here for hours. We’re closing. Want me to call you a taxi?”

His voice sounds like it’s coming through cotton. You glance around. The crowd’s gone. Just one staffer sweeping the floors in slow, lazy arcs. The bartender’s cleaning glasses with practiced indifference. 

You lift your head, mouth dry, tongue clumsy. 

“Nope, I’m good. I’m goo’... I’ll walk. M’fine. Thanks though.”

The words stumble out, slurred and heavy, like your mouth is filled with wet sand. You fumble through your coat, digging past receipts and wrappers until you find your phone. The screen blooms to life and your eyes sting before adjusting. It’s 2:14 a.m.

You have work tomorrow. Technically today. But what’s one sick day to a job that already feels like dying in installments? You deserve one day off this soul-sucking job, surely.

You find your wallet. Folded bills, still there from last week’s withdrawal. You slap them onto the table like a quiet surrender and reach for the water. The glass is cold. Your fingers are clumsy, still shaky from the effects of the alcohol. You take a sip as the coldness soothes your throat and eases your mind. Like starting over. Like waking up.

At least your pockets didn’t betray you too, you think, with the dry humor of someone trying not to fall apart. You ease yourself off the stool. The floor feels unsteady, like walking on a moving train. You take a step, knock into one of the wooden chairs.

“Shit—sorry—” you mutter, gripping its edge before it tips.

The door groans open. Outside, the night hits your skin like a hard slap. The cold is sharp, honest. The streetlight above you flickers, humming like an old tune no one remembers the lyrics to. Your breath clouds the air as cars pass by, uncaring, like time itself. The pavement sways beneath your feet. Every step is a gamble with your legs heavy, your thoughts heavier. The world spins slow, like it’s been drugged too. Colors bleed at the edges, the street becomes a watercolor painting left out in the rain.

You walk anyway because forgetting doesn't stop at the bottom of a glass.

You were never a drinker. You swore you wouldn’t be. But tonight felt like a special occasion, you deserved a taste of self-destruction.

It was the night you finally broke up with your now ex. Well, it was more like a slow bleed that finally stopped. Truth is, you never really liked her. Not in the way people talk about love, not in the way that sticks. You stayed because it was easier than being alone, away from your family in Shiganshina. Because companionship — even hollow, uncomfortable companionship, felt better than silence at the time. You told yourself you were building something. But deep down, you were just afraid to let go.

She had a knack for making small things feel catastrophic. Always forgetting things and never taking the lead. Always needing reassurance, like a child constantly asking if the sky is still blue. You kept telling yourself to be patient, to be kind, but it wore you down. You started mistaking exhaustion for tolerance.

You met her during your junior year of college at the University of Trost. She sat next to you in a shared elective, and you talked about something dumb like vending machine snacks or how the professor always has this habitual lip smack at the end of a sentence. By senior year, you were together. It wasn’t sudden, it just happened. Like drifting into traffic without realizing.

Eventually, you two moved into a small, shared apartment with thin walls and thinner patience. Every creak in the floor, every misplaced mug, every little thing slowly scraped away at your nerves. Splitting rent would help her out while she looked for a job as you settled into yours. You, on the other hand, had already lined up a developer role at a tech company, thanks to the stacked pile of internships you’d grinded through in college. You were set, focused, and moving forward.

She wasn’t.

She drifted. Slept in. Forgot deadlines. Spent whole afternoons doomscrolling and swearing she’d apply to something tomorrow. Only reason she could pay rent was because her parents continued to send her a monthly allowance. You wanted to be patient, supportive, the kind of person who waits for their partner to catch up. But every time she said “I’m trying”, it felt like an echo bouncing off empty ambition.

You moved into another apartment, further downtown. Made some excuse about needing to be closer to work and needing some space.

But really, you just wanted to stop seeing her. Wanted her out of your line of sight, out of your air. Tonight was the official end. No more texts. No more awkward “we should talk.” No more pretending.

So yeah, tonight felt like a good night to break a promise to yourself. Because if you're going to feel empty, you might as well be drunk while doing it.

At this point, you're unsure if you’re headed anywhere or just circling the drain. The night is sharp around the edges, slicing through your coat with teeth of cold. Your stomach twists, hollow and impatient, a coiled thing demanding attention. You’re starving, you haven’t eaten a real meal in hours. You pivot and your feet carry you not home, but toward the dull, humming glow of the convenience store two blocks away. 

The automatic doors gasp open, startled by your arrival, and the soft chime overhead rings out like a bell at a funeral. Fluorescent lights buzz above, casting everything in that oddly sterile glow that makes you feel both exposed and invisible. The linoleum floor shimmers faintly, as if the whole store might just float away. You shuffle past rows of color-coded junk food and instant meals with all the grace of a marionette with cut strings, letting your hand drag along the shelves.

And then, you round the corner and almost collide with someone.

A can clatters to the ground — a can of coffee. It hits the floor with a loud metallic clunk, rolls in a lazy circle, and comes to a stop perfectly upright. Not a single drop spills.

You stare at it, stunned, as if it’s just performed a magic trick.

“That’s not yours.”

You blink.

“What?” you murmur.

“That can. You picked up the wrong one."

They crouch beside it, picking it up gently, fingers resting lightly on the rim like they’ve just disarmed a bomb. “I misplaced that one with the sodas. You meant to grab the sprite, right?”

The first thing you notice is their hair: brunette, wild, pulled into a haphazard half-bun that fails to contain the waves spilling around their face. It’s a beautiful chaos with strands curling around their ears and brushing their jaw, like they’ve run their hands through it a dozen times and let the aftermath speak for itself. But what stops you cold is the eyepatch. Black leather, worn over their left eye, fitting snug against their skin like it’s been there for years. It doesn’t look out of place, it looks earned.

They glance up, and you freeze — caught mid-thought, mid-breath, mid-shame.

Embarrassment blooms hot across your face.

“Shit… I’m sorry,” you mumble, your voice gravelly with alcohol and something you can’t name.

You take a clumsy step back, half-turning toward the safety of the snack aisle, but before you can disappear into it, they speak again.

“Oh no, no way,” they say, standing smoothly, still holding your can like a relic. There’s a rasp to their voice; playful and worn at the edges. “You almost took me out with that coffee grenade. You don’t get to just vanish now.”

You blink at them.

They grin, wide and a little crooked. “Besides, it stuck the landing. That’s worth a conversation at least.”

You just stand there, tipsy, heart hammering for reasons that have nothing to do with caffeine.

Their eyes are sharp, curious, and burning with a glint of mischief as they are studying you like you’re some kind of rare creature that wandered into their lab by accident.

“You look like you’re two sips away from collapsing,” they add, squinting thoughtfully. “Tell me: when was the last time you ate something that didn’t come with a screw cap? You reek of alcohol.”

You open your mouth to argue, but your stomach betrays you again with a loud growl that echoes in the fluorescent silence. They raise their eyebrows, and they let out chuckle. You surrender.

“I’ll take that as a confession,” they grin. “Come on. You like cup noodles?”

Before you can reply, they’re already leading the way toward the back aisle, navigating the store like they’ve done this a hundred times before. You trail behind, still drunk, still unsure how you ended up here. 

They choose two spicy miso ramen cups without hesitation, slap them on the counter, and pay before you can even fish out your wallet.

"Hey, wait—"

“I got you,” they say, wagging a finger without looking back. “You can owe me a story instead. Something juicy. A heartbreak, a conspiracy, a near-death experience — I’m not picky.”

Minutes later, you're both outside, sitting on the curb beneath the pale halo of a flickering streetlamp. The steam from the noodles curls up like ghosts rising, mixing with the night air and the fog in your brain. You cradle the hot cup between your hands like it’s the last warmth left in the world. The smell of the miso is only making your insides growl harder.

They slurp loudly, eyes closed in pure satisfaction. “This shit is wildly underrated. I can’t believe that people think comfort has to be complicated.”

You glance sideways at them. The way their bangs fall into their eyes, the strands curling where they’d tried and failed to tie it back. 

“You’re weird,” you murmur, taking a bite.

They smile without opening their eyes. “Takes one to know one.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward as it hums with something unspoken but not unpleasant. For a moment, everything feels lighter. Like maybe you didn’t need to know where you were going tonight. Maybe you just needed to crash into someone strange at the right time.

“Thanks, by the way,” you murmur, cupping your ramen like it’s the last good thing you’ll touch tonight. “Let me pay you back for this—”

“I told you,” they cut in, waving their chopsticks. “You owe me a story. No refunds, no receipts.”

You squint at them. “What is it with you and stories? Do you always interrogate drunk strangers over cup noodles?”

“Oh absolutely,” they say with no hesitation, grinning. “Let me guess — is this a work thing? Got passed over for a promotion?”

You let out a low laugh and shake your head, slurping your noodles to buy time.

“It’s not just work. I mean, work’s hell, but that’s not why I went full self-destruct tonight.”

They narrow their eye at you, studying. “Okay, not work. Then it’s got to be love, right? It’s always love. Or the lack of it.”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you twist the cap off your water bottle, take a slow sip. Let the coolness settle in your chest, give your thoughts time to arrange themselves into something less messy.

You nod. “Yeah.”

They don’t push, just tilt their head slightly, voice gentler now. “So… were you dumped?”

You exhale, gaze down into the curling steam of your ramen like it might tell you what to say.

“I ended it,” you say, quietly. 

Their expression softens, and they don’t say anything right away.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The wind picks up, tugging at your coat, at the strands of their wild hair that had come loose again and framed their face in soft disarray. A car drives past, headlights slicing briefly through the haze, then gone.

“You loved him?” they ask, not accusing, not prying — just curious, like someone examining the cracks in a glass without judgment.

You don’t answer right away. The noodles are warm and familiar in your mouth, but the words feel brittle.

“Her. Did I love her? Don’t think I did,” you admit. “Not really. I think I loved the idea of her. Or the idea of having someone.” You laugh softly. “She was... comfortable. Easy to fall into. Harder to climb out of.”

They nod like they understand. There's something in the way their one visible eye softens that makes you think they've wandered through a few ruins of their own.

“Well,” they say, lifting their cup in a mock toast, “to climbing out.”

You raise yours in return, the styrofoam pressing warm against your fingers. “To climbing out.”

The noodles go down easier after that. The cold doesn’t bite quite as hard. The ache in your chest doesn’t feel so bottomless.

“You know,” they add after a moment, lips quirking, “for someone who looked like a crash test dummy ten minutes ago, you’re remarkably articulate.”

You snort. “That’s the miso working its magic.”

“Must be,” they grin. “Or maybe you just needed someone to talk to.”

You glance sideways at them. There’s something quietly magnetic about them — not the kind of charm that tries too hard, but the kind that makes you want to follow them into odd hours and half-lit corners of the city.

“Thanks,” you say again, a little more meaning tucked behind the word this time.

They tip back the last of their broth, then set the empty cup down beside them with a content sigh. “So,” they begin, flashing you a look that’s equal parts curiosity and concern, “something tells me there’s more to the story. What really drove you to drink tonight?”

You hum softly, not denying it. Your gaze drifts upward, past the flickering streetlamp to the sky — the stars barely visible behind the bruised haze of city light.

“Life’s just… shit,” you mutter.

“Well,” they say dryly, “you’re not wrong.”

You let out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh. “I graduated from the University of Trost last year.”

“Huh. One of the top schools in the country, isn’t it?” They raise a brow. “Would’ve thought that’d feel a little more… fulfilling.”

“I thought so too.” You pause, digging your spoon through the dregs of your noodles. “But I really wanted to study somewhere else. Mitras was the dream. I got in, too. But when the results came, so did the reality check. My parents sat me down and told me they just… couldn’t afford it.”

You let the silence settle for a second before continuing.

“I told myself it was fine. That I could make Trost work. But that feeling didn’t go away. Trost never felt right. The courses were outdated, the computer science program was a mess, the admin’s just so cruel. I learned more from YouTube tutorials and internship disasters than any lecture I ever sat through.”

They stay quiet, listening.

“I kept telling myself it would all be worth it. That once I landed a job in the industry, it’d click. That I’d feel… I don’t know, proud. Like I made it. But now I’m here — one year in, working a job that drains the soul out of me, and I feel like I’m rotting from the inside out.”

You shake your head, laughing bitterly. “Some days I can’t tell if I just chose the wrong career, or if everything’s broken and I’m too deep in to back out. And after the breakup? It’s like something cracked wide open inside me. Like the little foundation I built just crumbled.”

You press the heel of your palm to your eye. “I barely have friends. I haven’t called my family in weeks. I don’t want them to see me like this, see how far their eldest daughter’s fallen. I used to be the one who had her shit together. Now I’m just...”

Your voice catches. You take a breath, try to keep it from unraveling.

“I’m just tired. And lost. And fuck — I didn’t even mean to cry tonight, but here we are.”

They don't say anything right away. Just sit beside you in the cold, letting your words stretch into the silence. Not filling it, just holding it with you. And somehow, in that moment, the weight feels a little easier to carry.

“When I graduated,” you finally say, voice low, “I just moved on and pretended it was over. Didn’t really have anyone to celebrate with. All through college, I was just… empty. And after? Even emptier. Lonelier. At least I landed a job right away. That’s something, I guess.”

You take a deep breath, the cold air filling your lungs. “Better to feel something real than stay stuck in a dead-end relationship that was never going anywhere.”

Hange shifts slightly, brushing a loose curl behind their ear, eyes still warm but serious. “You know, sometimes the hardest part isn’t just feeling empty — it’s carrying that emptiness alone.”

You glance sideways at them, your breath fogging the cold air. “Yeah. It’s like… everyone’s got somewhere to be, people who care, and I’m just stuck here pretending I’m fine.”

Hange lets out a soft chuckle. “Pretending’s an Olympic sport. I’m a gold medalist here.”

You manage a weak smile, the first genuine one in hours. “How do you do it? Keep going, I mean?”

They shrug, gaze drifting toward the darkened city skyline. “I don’t have a magic answer. I guess I remind myself that sometimes, surviving is enough. And sometimes, you just need someone to sit with the mess until it stops feeling like a storm.”

“Maybe,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

They grin, a little crooked and full of promise. “Exactly. And hey, if you ever want a partner in crime for late-night ramen runs and existential crises, you know where to find me.”

You laugh softly, the sound feeling lighter, less burdened. “I might just take you up on that.”

“Say,” you murmur, breaking the quiet, “what’s your name?”

They look at you over the rim of their cup, mischief glinting in that one visible eye. “Hange. Hange Zoe. And you?”

“Y/N.”

Hange hums thoughtfully. “Y/N… You’re a very tired soul. Not broken, just… drained.”

You huff a laugh, nudging a stray noodle with your chopsticks. “You’re a really good listener. Let me guess — psych major?”

They feign offense, hand to their chest. “How dare you stereotype me.”

You raise an eyebrow, smirking.

“But,” they admit, smirking right back, “yes. In fact, I’m a licensed psychiatrist.”

You blink. “No way. Dr. Zoe has rendered me their services free of charge?”

“Don’t push your luck,” they snort. “But if you’re serious, you can call me. For an actual session. I promise I won’t charge for tonight’s emergency consult.”

“You know,” you murmur with a dry chuckle, “you’ve got that look. Like you want to crack my skull open just to see what spills out.”

They pause mid-motion, head tilting, gaze narrowing like they’re studying a riddle etched behind your eyes.

“No,” they say, calm and clear. “I want to hold it. Carefully. Make space for the spill.”

Your breath falters, not from warmth, not even from kindness. But from the weight of it. The sheer audacity of someone meaning it.

It’s dangerous, that kind of gentleness. The kind that doesn’t flinch from mess.

You glance away, eyes dropping to your spoon scraping against the bottom of the bowl. The broth is mostly gone. You pretend that matters.

“That’s a weird thing to say.”

They smile, slow and sure, like the moon slipping out from behind clouds. “It’s a weird night.”

They reach into their brown cotton coat and hand you a small, clean-cut business card — Dr. Hange Zoe, Psychiatry & Trauma Therapy. You take it, the corners crisp against your fingers, and study it in the streetlamp’s dull glow.

“You’re legit,” you murmur, a little impressed. “Guess our future late-night ramen runs with existential dread count as unofficial sessions?”

“Afraid so,” Hange says, standing with a stretch, empty cup in hand. “Strictly off the record, though. No couch, no clipboard.”

“Damn,” you say with a grin. “Worth a try.”

They laugh softly and gesture down the street. “Do you live around here? I don’t mind walking you home. Make sure you don’t collapse somewhere between here and your bed.”

You hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. Just two blocks down, past that corner store with the flickering ‘OPEN’ sign. I’m in the apartment above the bakery.”

“That explains the craving for noodles,” Hange grins, falling into step beside you. “Lead the way.”

The silence between you isn’t heavy. It stretches soft and worn, like a coat you’ve both lived in before. Each step taps against the sidewalk, your footsteps syncing in an accidental rhythm as you walk side by side.

“You always drink alone?” they finally ask, voice casual.

You shrug. “Easier that way.”

“Easier doesn’t mean better,” they let out a soft laugh. “Says the girl who just compared her life to a crumbling building.”

You glance at her. “You heard that?”

“Only because you were whispering it like a curse.” They grin again, but it’s gentler now. “You’ve got a lot of ghosts for someone still breathing.”
Silence.

After a moment, Hange speaks again, voice low and almost carried off by the breeze. 

“I wasn’t lying, you know,” Hange says after a while, voice low, almost lost to the breeze. “You really don’t seem broken. Just… stretched thin. Like someone who’s been carrying too much for too long.”

You don’t respond right away. Instead, you tug your coat tighter, not from the cold, but from the weight of being seen so clearly by a stranger.

“You always psychoanalyze people during chance noodle encounters?”

Hange chuckles. “Only the interesting ones.”

You glance sideways at them. “Lucky me.”

They give you a crooked smile, the kind that feels oddly comforting. “It’s a curse, really. Can’t turn it off. People are just... stories wearing skin. And I like stories.”

You nod, eyes drifting up toward the street signs as you near your block. “What do I look like, then? To your shrink-sense.”

Hange pretends to think. “A girl who’s always been the ‘strong one.’ The reliable daughter, the responsible friend, the fixer. Someone who’s been holding it together for so long, she doesn’t know how to fall apart in front of anyone.”

You stop walking. Not fully, just a slow-down — like your body needs a second to catch up to what your heart just heard.

“…Am I that obvious?” you whisper.

“No,” Hange replies gently, the teasing gone from their voice. “But I’ve worn that mask, too.”

You’re quiet after that. The building comes into view — the one above the bakery, with its chipped green awning and rusted fire escape. You stop at the foot of the stairs.

“Guess this is me.” You offer a tired smile. “You sure you’re not just looking for more clients?”

That earns a soft laugh. “Maybe. Or maybe I just think late-night ramen soul-searchers deserve better endings.”

You nod, your fingers fidgeting slightly at your sides.

“Well, Dr. Zoe,” you say, stepping toward the door, “Thanks for the diagnosis and the company.”

Hange takes a few steps backward, finally starting to leave. “Take care of yourself, Y/N. Don’t wait for another existential crisis to eat ramen.”

You laugh lightly. “No promises.”

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