{ VIRTUAL DELUSIONS | PHIGHTING & BLOCKTALES X READER | ONE SHOTS. }

"COWARDICE." DOM X READER ANGST

You remember it more vividly than you want to admit.

The smell of rusted metal from the rooftop rails. The soft static hum of Dom's megaphone, even though it wasn't on. You always joked he was born buzzing—like he had electricity under his skin and a concert in his lungs. He wasn't loud, though. He just was. Present. Steady.

And then one day, you opened your mom's planner and saw it:
A red circle.

No label. No explanation.

But something in your gut flipped. You asked about it later that night—casual, joking, "What's on the 17th?" Your mom barely looked up from dinner. Said something about meetings. Said something about change. Said it like she didn't want to explain.

That was the first warning.

The second came late at night.

⸻

You weren't supposed to be awake.

But the walls in your home were thin, and the adults always spoke like secrets were currency. You laid still in your bed, pretending to sleep, but their words slipped through the walls like whispers bleeding into your skull.

"It's for the best. The neutral zone is unstable lately."
"It's just kids making noise. Don't blow it out of proportion."
"You want them to end up caught between crossfire? This faction guarantees safety—structure. They'll adjust."

You curled your fingers into the blanket.

"Dom'll be fine. He has his brother, he has the tournaments."
"It's not Dom I'm worried about. It's them."

Them.

You.

Like your life was a variable in a math problem they didn't want to solve.

⸻

You thought you'd scream. Or cry. Or throw something.

You didn't.

You just... laid there. Eyes wide open in the dark. Watching the shadows move across the ceiling like they might peel off and swallow you whole.

You kept imagining Dom's face if you told him. Not angry. Not dramatic.

Just... hurt. Confused.

Worse than screaming. Worse than crying.

⸻

The next week stretched like wet paper.
You couldn't concentrate on anything. Not during your mock sparring matches. Not during the market runs. Not even during Dom's stupid improv rap battles that always made you laugh.

He knew something was wrong. Of course he did.

But you'd look him in the eye, shrug, and say, "I'm just tired."
He never pushed.

That made it worse.

⸻

The last time you saw him—really saw him—you were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the edge of your favorite rooftop. The tape recorder between you. Unused this time. Heavy. Like even it knew this moment wasn't meant to be remembered.

Dom brought you a fake rose. Candy wrappers and tape, crumpled but careful.

"Thought it was stupid at first," he muttered. "But then I figured... maybe you'd need something that doesn't die so easy."

You didn't say anything.

You wanted to. Gods, you wanted to.
But what were you supposed to say?

"I'm leaving in two days. I'm a coward. I can't say goodbye without breaking."