Page 24 of The Oni's Heart

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."

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