𝑅𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇 𝑀𝑒 [ ObaMitsu fanfic/ R-(MA)] Kimetsu No Yaiba

Chapter 77 - Until I Die

❗️Disclaimer❗️

This chapter contains depictions of sexual use ones body. It is not descriptive but it's Implied. All actions and events are purely fictional and included only for storytelling purposes within the context of this chapter. I do not condone any of these actions or events, it is only for the story!

If this type of content may be triggering or uncomfortable for you, please consider skipping this chapter.

A/N - Really nervous to post this chapter but it is apart of the character journey.

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Later that Night

The cold night pressed into the Iguro estate like a shroud, suffocating and unyielding. The air was brittle with frost, every breath visible, and the silence stretched out, heavy and suffocating. Then the sound came—low at first, like whispers in the dark. But it soon grew into something far worse: harsh, guttural moans, raw and broken. The sounds carried through the Iguro estate, twisted and unrelenting, dragging on for nearly an hour. The cold seemed to grow deeper with each passing second, seeping into bones, rooting itself in the very marrow of Misaki's despair.

And then it came—A voice, cutting through the moans like a blade through silk.

"NEXT TIME HAVE MY MONEY ON TIME IF YOU WANT MY FUCKING HELP!" Doma's words were sharp, almost mocking as they bounced off the walls.

The room fell silent again as Doma adjusted his coat, brushing nonexistent dust off his sleeves. His manic grin was the only thing illuminating the dim, decrepit space. Without another glance at Misaki, he turned and strode toward the door.

Misaki didn't move. She stayed on the cold, hard floor, her body broken and trembling. Her red designer dress, once pristine and perfectly tailored, was torn into shreds, the fabric a cruel testament to her humiliation and broken dreams. The red was dulled now, soaked with sweat and blood, and clung to her battered body like the last remains of her dignity. Her hair, once glossy and styled with the utmost care, was a tangled, wet mess. It hung over her face like a curtain, shielding her from the oppressive air, shielding her from her own shame.

The bruises on her skin were vivid, deep, and unyielding. Her hands, trembling and bruised themselves, gripped at the floor as though trying to anchor her broken body, to keep herself from slipping. Her voice was gone, buried under layers of pain, suffocation, and despair. Her mind was no longer here, no longer fighting. It had retreated far beyond the cold stone, far beyond Doma's rage or the sound of cruel moans that still lingered in the air.

There was only one thought—sharp, cold, and unyielding—keeping her tethered to this world, to this moment: Obanai must die.

The door creaked open again. The sound was soft, hesitant, and Misaki barely reacted. But when she heard the faint shuffle of footsteps, her body tensed, and her head snapped toward the figure in the doorway.

It was Hakuji. His sharp, calculating eyes found her broken form immediately, and his presence sent a chill colder than the wind through the cracks in the walls. He was carrying a plastic bag, and the rustle of its contents—greasy takeout and forgotten comforts—sounded like the scraping of bones against stone.

He moved toward her slowly, deliberately, as though assessing his next move. His voice, when it came, was low, steady, and cutting. "How long are you going to keep doing this until you realize you're not going to win?"

Silence hung between them, heavy and impenetrable. Misaki didn't move. She didn't speak. Her body was a broken thing, wracked with exhaustion and anguish. His words cut, though not because they were new, but because they were true. She had been trying, always trying, and yet her efforts felt as fragile and hollow as the air that moved through the estate.

Hakuji crouched a few feet from her, the bag set on the floor beside him. He pulled out a bottle of water, a cheap takeout box, and a morning after pill, and as he did, Misaki could smell the faint, oily scent of fried food—an all-too-human, mundane thing that felt out of place in the darkness. His presence was clinical, cold, detached.

He leaned closer. His voice felt like a blade again, sharp and unforgiving. "Sit up."

Misaki flinched, every nerve in her body protesting, but she obeyed. She forced herself to sit, the muscles in her limbs aching under the strain. She could feel every movement, every scrape of skin against the stone, and it felt as though her body would shatter if she moved too fast. Her hand trembled as she took a napkin, a shaky, hesitant motion, and began wiping at her lower part; removing Doma's fluids.

Hakuji handed her the water and the pill, his gaze locked onto her as though trying to read her, trying to discern some shred of hope, some glimmer of defiance. His words felt sharp and cold as ice: "Clean yourself up."

The actions felt degrading, as though she were being stripped of whatever dignity she had left, layer by layer, piece by piece. Her fingers trembled as they wiped at the dirt, at the blood, at the evidence of her brokenness. She could feel his eyes on her, could feel his judgment, and yet she continued. She was hollow now, no fire left, no fight. The pill trembled in her hand, the water tasting bitter and cold.

"Do you even know what you're doing anymore? Or has your hate blinded you completely?" His words came again, unyielding.

Misaki looked at him, but there were no words. Her voice was too far gone, buried under the weight of everything. His words dug in deeper, slicing at old wounds, at old fears.

"You think Doma cares about helping you?" Hakuji's voice was sharper now. "He doesn't care, Misaki. You're just a pawn. When you're no longer useful, you'll be killed without a second thought."

Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of defiance sparking in her gaze. "And what the hell do you know about it?" she forced out, her voice shaking.

"I know using your body as a substitute for not giving him his money won't end the way you think it will."

"You think I have a choice?" Her voice cracked, bitter laughter escaping her lips. She coughed on it, each word raw and broken. "Don't pretend you're here to help me, Hakuji. You're just here for the money."

He said nothing. His gaze stayed on her, cold and steady.

"You're destroying yourself, Misaki," his voice finally broke the silence again. "And when you burn out, no one will put you back together."

Her laughter was a whisper now, soft, broken, and hopeless. "I don't need to be put back together. I just need Obanai dead, then I can die peacefully."

He rose, turning away from her as though the exchange had drained him. His voice was distant as he reached for the door. "If you really think this is the only way... then so be it."

The door closed behind him, and Misaki was left alone with her thoughts. Her broken body, the cold, and the blood in her hands felt heavier than the dawn that was beginning to creep in through the cracks. She looked at the small bag he had left behind: water, food, pills. She could take them, and for a fleeting moment, she considered it.

But she didn't. Instead, she lay back on the cold stone floor, a broken, hollow thing, and let the darkness consume her once more.

Obanai would pay.

And that thought was the only thing that mattered.