So reading the title it's pretty obvious what it's about and if you have requested just leave a comment or in this case request ask and if it's a lemon or fluff ask anyway enjoy the book.
Also I don't own helltaker like Lmao
The closet door groaned as Y/n pulled it open, dust swirling into the warm afternoon sunbeams filtering through the window. The room was a mess—clothes strewn across the floor, cardboard boxes spilling their forgotten contents, scraps of old memories and clutter buried knee-deep. It was the kind of chaos only a deep clean could birth: a search for something long lost, maybe even undefined.
His fingers brushed past old school notebooks, half-shredded posters, and the yellowed remains of handwritten letters. And then—there it was. A stack of vinyl records, warped and dusty, tucked in the farthest corner. Y/n pulled one out carefully. It was one of his favorite albums once. The kind that used to play late at night when the world felt too heavy. Its faded cover art brought back a familiar warmth, but before he could inspect it further, something else caught his eye.
A small cardboard box, unassuming and weathered, nestled between piles of forgotten years.
He knelt slowly, placing the record aside. His hands hovered for a moment before lifting the lid.
Inside: an old Walkman, scratched but intact, resting on a bed of cassette tapes—homemade mixes labeled in pen and fading ink. He stared at them in silence.
A breath hitched in his throat.
Then came the rush. Memories surged forward like a rising tide—of walks under autumn skies, of bus rides with headphones in, of nights crying quietly while this music reminded him he wasn't alone. The weight of nostalgia pressed into his chest, and his lips parted in a breathless smile. The sting of tears welled up behind his eyes, and for a moment, he felt... pure.
Euphoric.
He stood abruptly, clutching the Walkman and tapes, and made his way to the living room. The couch welcomed him like an old friend as he sank into it and popped one of the tapes in. The gears clicked softly, and then—music.
A gentle, harmonic melody filled the room.
It was that song. The one his mother used to hum while cooking. The one she played when he couldn't sleep. The one that soothed the pain when the world turned cruel. The sound filled the room like incense—slow, sacred, familiar. He leaned his head back, eyes fluttering closed, letting the music carry him somewhere far away.
Memories floated up—faces of childhood friends, sunlit kitchens, the gentle lull of her voice, always humming along. He didn't notice the tears until they rolled freely down his cheeks.
The house was still asleep.
Upstairs, the quiet stirrings of the girls could now be heard. Doors creaked open. Bare feet padded softly over the floor as they roused from their dreams and noticed Y/n wasn't in bed.
Curious, they followed the trail.
They found his room first—and gasped.
Trash, laundry, open boxes, nostalgia scattered like puzzle pieces. But no Y/n.
They made their way downstairs one by one, led by Lucy, until they found him curled on the couch, eyes closed, Walkman in hand, cheeks streaked with silent tears—but smiling, faintly. Peacefully.
Concern flickered across their faces.
Lucy approached first, kneeling beside him. She reached up and gently patted his head.
Y/n stirred, eyes opening slowly. He blinked, then smiled at her.
It caught her off guard. She blushed.
Still, she returned the smile. She leaned in and wrapped her arms around him without a word. One by one, the others followed, encircling him in warmth, comfort, and quiet understanding. No one spoke—there was no need.
After a long pause, Lucy broke the silence with a soft grin.
"You guys want pancakes?"
"Sure!" they all chimed in, almost in unison.
All eyes turned to Y/n.
He sniffled, then wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand.
"That would be nice," he murmured.
He rose to his feet, setting the Walkman down with care.
His gaze lingered on the music for just a moment longer. Then he whispered, almost inaudibly:
"Mom... I really hope I'm making you proud."
And with that, he turned toward the kitchen.
The scent of syrup and laughter would soon fill the house again.
Another chapter closed, quietly.
But another had already begun.
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