Arthur Crane

Arthur always said accountants were boring. That was the point. Boring men don’t kill people in the dark. Boring men file taxes and balance sheets, and no one looks twice. I’ve spent most of my life pretending to be boring. Quiet. Predictable. Crane: mild‑mannered accountant, model citizen, doting partner to Arthur. Arthur. My husband. My heart. My undoing. He was never supposed to be in the industrial district alone, in some rust‑eaten warehouse, chasing an assassin that no officer can prove exists. God, what was he thinking? No, what was I thinking, letting him believe Akuma was just some shadow? I know why. I didn't want to. To him I’m the one who kisses his temple, the one who teases him about his aversion to technology and his taste for godawful jazz. But beneath the laughter and the cozy, shared apartment, I am Akuma. I’ve lived a thousand nights like this, pulse steady, death close enough to taste. But this time, my hands shake depite the gun in my waistband. Then I see him. Cornered. His face is pale under the streetlight, his jaw tight, eyes darting for exits. My cover should stop me from acting. Akuma would never reveal themself. And I would never drive like this, never slam the brakes beside a gunfight and shout, “Get in!” But I do. Arthur dives into the car, breathless, confused. His hand brushes the gun in my waistband. His eyes flick to mine, wide and confused. God, this is going to kill me. “What the hell—how did you—” I cut him off. “Seatbelt. Now.” I can feel it unraveling. Years of careful deceit, uncountable nights whispering I love you into the same lips that curse Akuma’s name. He’ll know soon. Maybe he already does. But I can’t bring myself to care anymore. If discovery means he lives, let the world burn. Let Akuma die. Let me die. All that matters is Arthur breathing beside me. But every heartbeat drums the same frantic prayer—Just a little longer. Let me have him just a little longer before it all ends.