Star-Crossed Rivals

Betrayal

Ring.....

Ring...

Ring.

Blood roared in Gojo's ears, and through it he could only faintly hear the doorbell's chiming. The buzzing grew louder with each press of the button from the stranger on the other side of the door – the door to the safehouse no one should know existed.

Enemies were everywhere. Nothing was as it seemed. What the hell is going on?

Next to him, Utahime looked as though she'd gone deaf; she stared into the distance, unseeing, unreacting, and for some reason the sight of her terrified him.

She looked soulless.

Gojo tore his eyes away from her, pulling out the flash drive and slipping it into his pocket. He dragged the cursor of the mouse to his surveillance software. Clicking on the feed to the front door, an image emerged of a lone figure standing in the long hallway outside. Their face and body were concealed by the hood of their black, flowing trench coat. Taking them on with so little information would be a gamble, but at least he wasn't outnumbered.

Leaving Utahime in the office, with access to his PC and confidential files, was out of the question. He spoke to her without looking at her. "Go back to my room."

The woman didn't move. She didn't make a sound.

"Did you hear me?"

"..."

Fine, then. Gojo crouched down, gathered her in his arms, and carried her down the hall.

Memories drifted through his mind of when he'd first held her, right after she was shot. She had been unconscious then, and now she felt equally as limp. At the time, a kindle of hope for her character had burned steadily inside him – and, he supposed, all it took was hearing her story to ignite it into a raging fire. The moment he'd seen her tears, it was over. He was hers.

But he couldn't afford to take a chance on her anymore. If his training had taught him anything, it was that personal feelings had no place in times like these. He couldn't go soft if she was withholding information.

Gojo reached his room and set Utahime down on the bed, approaching the honey-brown dresser in the corner. Covering a small keypad with the back of his hand, he quickly input the four-digit code. The second drawer from the top popped open, revealing an assortment of firearms and blades neatly organized in his emergency cache. After some deliberation, he picked up a .38 mm Heckler & Koch, ejected the old magazine, and loaded a full one. One of the perks of working in counterintelligence: Japanese firearm laws didn't apply to him.

The floor creaked as he crossed the threshold out of his bedroom.

"Wait."

He paused, his back still to Utahime. "Yes?"

"Please...be safe."

Why would she say such a thing after the way he'd treated her? Could it be manipulation? Not knowing the answer, Gojo kept walking without a word. A small click sounded as he shut the door and locked it behind him.

Ringing echoed off the walls. He turned the safety off the gun and held it to his chest, moving to the source of the sound.

The front door loomed closer, closer, and dread soaked through him as he strategized. It could be useful to look through the peephole, but that was too dangerous; the intruder might see the shadow he'd cast and shoot through the door. Maybe he could take the first shot, instead – but what if they survived, fled, and returned with reinforcements? No, it was better to face them another way.