Heart Attack

Photograph

I watched through the window after giving Weiss what she needed to comfort Ruby and Yang. The house was quiet — too quiet for a place so full of life. Everyone was asleep; I had lulled Tim into slumber and calmed Oscar’s restless dreams. It was still dark, the hour where loneliness clings heavier than any blanket. That was when I saw Yang stir, her violet eyes faintly catching the dim light as she rose and walked away from her sister’s side. I floated behind her, silent, and slipped through the door just before it closed.

“Look, Ruby, I really don’t want to talk about it. Would you leave me alone, please?”

“Well,” I whispered gently, revealing myself, “I shall pass the message to her. But first, I wish to talk to you.”

“Kori…” she breathed, surprise softening her guarded posture.

“Hello. I may not know what transpired outside, but I wish to speak to you.” Her thoughts were loud — unguarded pain, anger, and guilt, especially guilt. Her mind replayed fragments: Blake’s absence, the White Fang, Adam’s red sword. It felt achingly familiar.

“You… you know?” she asked, half-afraid.

“Your thoughts are loud,” I said with a soft smile. “Just as Weiss’s were about your sister. Am I correct to assume you and Blake shared… a connection?”

“Yes,” Yang admitted, voice cracking. “I know she’s our teammate, but I’m not just gonna change my mind.”

“Nor would I ask you to.”

Yang hesitated, knuckles white as she gripped her arm — or rather, the prosthetic replacing what Adam had taken. “I’m sorry, but… I don’t think you know what it’s like to be left. You had a team. People who came for you. You only left because you graduated or whatever. My mom left me. Ruby’s mom left too. Dad was always busy with school, and Ruby couldn’t even talk yet!” The bitterness in her voice cracked into sorrow. “I had to pick up all the pieces. Alone.”

I sat beside her quietly. “We are more alike than you think.”

Her violet eyes flicked toward me, wary. “What do you mean?”

“My parents died, and I was crowned queen of Tamaran while still a child. I was expected to usher in peace… but my sister wished for my death.” Yang flinched slightly; even without words, she understood betrayal by blood. “She rebelled, and I fled to Earth. Heroes I barely knew fought for me, taught me their language, their ways. Among them was a boy named Dick Grayson — Nightwing.” My chest ached at the name, but I pressed on. “We grew close. Fell in love. And then…”

Yang’s jaw tightened. “And then?”

“He carried the world on his shoulders. Always asking for space. Always running to someone else when the weight grew too much. I loved him, even when it hurt. I loved him when it shouldn’t have been love anymore. Until I finally left.”

She stared at me — violet irises shimmering like a photo catching light — and whispered, “That’s… Blake. That’s exactly her.”

“Then you understand each other,” I said softly. “Two broken halves trying to make sense of the same pain.”

Yang’s hand trembled against her arm. “She ran because… she thought she made me lose this,” she muttered, staring at the prosthetic. “She thinks she’s dangerous to me.”

“And you?”

“I needed her here for me,” Yang sobbed suddenly, the dam breaking. “Why couldn’t she see that?”

I hugged her, warm and firm, as if a photograph of this moment would preserve it — two wounded souls realizing they were never truly alone. “Sometimes,” I murmured, “those we love are too blinded by their own guilt to see the love we hold for them.”

“I don’t know if she’s coming back,” Yang whispered.

“She will,” I promised. “Because you are proof enough she should.”

When she finally breathed steady, I stood and extended my hand. “Come. Let us join the others. I believe they need you — and you need them.”

---

Downstairs, Tim was already awake. He leaned against the table, eyes sharp despite fatigue. He noticed Yang’s red rims, my aura, even the faint shift in air where I floated instead of walked. “Rough night?” he asked quietly.

“Rough years,” Yang muttered.

Tim didn’t press — he rarely did — but I saw the way his gaze lingered on her prosthetic, then darted toward the window as though expecting movement. His mind never stopped working; patterns and motives danced behind those blue eyes. “There’s something coming,” he murmured mostly to himself. “Something bigger than Leo’s fake council call.”

“Your thoughts?” I asked.

“White Fang’s sudden hostility doesn’t add up. Attacking their own? That’s not chaos — that’s consolidation. Someone’s unifying them through fear.” He looked toward Blake’s empty seat. “And I bet Yang’s not the only one haunted by him.”

Before I could reply, the door creaked open. A girl stepped inside — black hair, bow hiding the ears beneath, monochrome attire heavy with dust from travel.

“Blake…” Yang’s voice cracked into a whisper. Her violet eyes widened, shimmering wet.

Blake barely had time to speak before Yang crossed the room in two strides and kissed her — desperate, raw, years of longing condensed into a single, shaking embrace. The others froze; even Ruby’s usual squeal of delight was lost in stunned silence.

I smiled faintly. A photograph in my mind. A memory worth keeping.

---

Introductions blurred — Blake stumbling through names, Tim offering a handshake with quiet respect, Oscar awkwardly explaining Ozpin’s presence in his soul. Ruby cried happy tears; Weiss crossed her arms but smiled; Nora clapped excitedly; Jaune quietly watched, something easing in his posture.

When talk shifted to the White Fang, Blake’s tone hardened. “They weren’t always like this. My father founded them to protect Faunus rights. Now they’ve become terrorists. And I think I know who’s leading them.”

“Adam Taurus,” Tim concluded before she could say it. His voice was calm, but his eyes — sharp, calculating — studied Blake’s flinch, Yang’s trembling fists. “It explains the tactics. The escalation. The personal vendetta.”

Yang’s violet eyes bled red as she growled, low and feral. “He’s the bastard who took my arm… and he’s Blake’s ex.”

Gasps rippled through the room. I placed a hand gently on Yang’s shoulder; the heat beneath my palm pulsed like a heartbeat, fury and love entwined. “Then,” I said softly, “this is not only war. This is personal.”

And as I watched them — this family forged not by blood but by choice — I realized something. Photographs may fade, memories may ache, but love endures in the spaces between battles. In the quiet hugs. In the songs we hum to keep from breaking. And perhaps, in time, even I would find something worth holding onto again.