Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Megan Branford was absolutely, spectacularly...lost.

In her right hand, she clutched a crumpled sheet of paper scrawled with desperate, barely legible directions. In her left arm, she wrestled with her school bag—which, thanks to a brief surge of hubris that morning, was hanging wide open. It bulged with textbooks, notebooks, a pencil case determined to make a break for it, and a suspiciously heavy lunch she now bitterly regretted packing.

It was supposed to be a big day.

Her real first day.

After nearly two years in Japan—two years of being known in her neighborhood as "that the blonde, blue-eyed American in the bilingual program"—Megan had finally convinced her aunt and uncle to let her attend a traditional Japanese high school. No more hybrid curriculum. No English-language cushion. Just full immersion. Full throttle. Full teenager experience.

And she’d worked for it.

Six months of late-night kanji drills, tongue twisters whispered at her bathroom mirror, and grammar rules echoing in her head until they threaded into her dreams. Her last tutor, a university grad student with dark circles and no patience for excuses, had finally given her a curt nod of approval and said, “You won’t drown.”

High praise, by Megan standards.

Too bad none of that helped her actually find the school.

She stopped at the edge of a narrow intersection and frowned up at a cluster of block numbers nailed crookedly to a leaning utility pole:
“2丁目14番.” Her paper read 3丁目7番.
That felt…far.

“Not helpful,” she muttered to herself.

Japanese addresses, she had discovered, weren’t so much directions as they were riddles with a grudge. Buildings weren’t numbered in order, but by when they’d been built. Which meant you could pass 3-5-6, 3-5-11, and then inexplicably land on 3-5-2 without realizing you’d circled the block twice.

Turning in a slow circle, she searched for some kind of sign. Preferably a literal one. Her gaze snagged on a shop across the street: “Kobayashi Liquor & Gifts.”

That name stirred a faint memory. Hadn’t she passed it during the neighborhood walk-through a few days ago?

She thought about asking the old man at the bus stop, but he was deeply absorbed in his copy of Friday magazine—specifically, the centerfold. Megan grimaced. She’d already ruined enough mornings for one person today.

“Okay,” she whispered, exhaling slowly. “It’s fine. I can figure this out. I survived Tokyo Station during Golden Week. I can find one high school.”

She turned the corner.

And slammed into a wall.

Except—no. Not a wall.

A person.

A very large person.

Warm. Solid. Definitely not made of concrete.

“Ah!” Megan yelped, stumbling back. Her hand flew out of her bag mid-reach, and she lost her balance completely. Her knee smacked the pavement with a dull scrape as her school supplies burst across the sidewalk like confetti at a very sad parade.

And, to seal the humiliation, one of her pens landed with surgical precision on the polished black toe of a very expensive-looking shoe.

Oh good. Maybe she could just evaporate.

Face burning, Megan looked up.

The “wall” was a boy. Or more accurately, a teenager—though the sheer vertical scale of him made it hard to be sure. He towered above her, casting a long, cool shadow across the pavement.

His coat was black and heavy, the hem brushing his ankles as the breeze tugged at it. Gold buttons gleamed against the dark fabric—not decorative, but commanding. A heavy chain looped from the left collar, gleaming with a theatrical flair. It didn’t seem attached to anything. It just hung there, as though suspended by force of personality alone.

His hat—black, like everything else—melded into his thick, dark hair, the brim pulled low over sharp, unreadable eyes.

Green eyes.

Unusual. Striking. Especially here, where even the lightest brown stood out. That small detail alone might have caught her attention—if not for everything else about him.

His face looked carved, sculpted with too much precision for a teenager: a jawline like cut glass, cheekbones that deserved a warning label, a long, narrow nose that lent him an almost foreign edge. He didn’t quite fit into the sea of uniformity she’d gotten used to. Not completely Japanese, maybe. Not entirely anything she could name.

And then there was the way he stood: like someone long accustomed to taking up space. Not in the way people tried to. In the way they simply did, because the world had no vote in the matter.

He wasn’t just tall. He was composed. Coiled. Expensive.

His pants were pressed, tailored just enough to hint at strength beneath. His olive-green shirt was mostly hidden by the coat, but she caught the glint of two belts at his waist—arranged in a way that looked both chaotic and intentional. Even his shoes gleamed with a polish that suggested they’d left marks on people who deserved it.

Megan’s brain, still lagging several seconds behind, finally registered one deeply unhelpful thought:
Oh. He’s…annoyingly gorgeous.

Not that it mattered. Not that she cared. She absolutely did not care about hunter green eyes or razor-sharp cheekbones or the slight curl of hair peeking from beneath his hat. That would be ridiculous.

And yet—she stayed frozen, body lagging behind instinct.

She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.

“…Christ, you’re tall,” she breathed—in English.

The words slipped out before her brain could catch them. Unfiltered. Doomed.

He didn’t respond.
Not with words, anyway.

His gaze flicked down—just slightly—and one eyebrow arched with slow, almost offended precision. Not confusion. Not even annoyance. Just a vague, silent: What did you just say, and why should I care?

Megan flinched so hard she nearly dropped her bag all over again.
Oh my God. I said that out loud. I SAID THAT OUT LOUD.

Heat rocketed up her spine, flooding her face in a full-body flush of mortification. If the ground had opened up right then and swallowed her whole, she would’ve counted it a blessing.
She ducked her eyes at once and dropped into frantic motion, scrambling after her scattered belongings. Her voice tripped out in a panicked blur of Japanese.

“Gomen’nasai! Hontō ni gomen’nasai,” she stammered, bowing probably deeper than someone her age should. “I’m sorry—I, I speak Japanese too. I just—I just said, 'I hope you’re not hurt!'”

A lie. A small one. But necessary. He didn’t look like he understood English, and that was the hill she’d die on today—dignity first, truth later.

She paused to catch her breath, willing the blood out of her face by sheer force. Slowly, cautiously, she glanced up again.

He hadn’t moved.
Same spot. Same stare. He looked down at her like an annoying pop quiz a teacher springs on a Friday afternoon.
Not so much as a flicker. Not even the mercy of an awkward throat-clear—the reaction most people gave her when she embarrassed herself…which was often.

Was he not understanding her Japanese either?
Or worse: was he so unimpressed by her existence that silence seemed like the better option?

Her pulse surged. Fix it. Fix it. FIX IT.

She stretched a shaky smile across her face, bowed again, and said brightly, “But don’t worry! You don’t have to help. Really. I’ve got it. It was completely my fault.”

There.
Clear. Not pushy. Apologetic.

For a beat, nothing.

Then his mouth twitched. Not a smile. Just…a shift. The barest suggestion of an eye roll.

He stepped over her fallen notebook and kept walking. Long, even strides. The soles of his shoes clicked crisply against the pavement—click-click-click—as if he were crossing a movie set and she wasn’t in the scene.

Megan stayed frozen, stunned. The Super Mario Bros death jingle played in her head.

There it is, she thought bitterly. The universal “you’re not worth my time” walk.

She winced, brushing grit from her knee with the heel of her palm. Her skin stung under her fingertips.

I hope he’s not mad. Ugh, and I hope I didn’t scuff his shoes.

A fresh wave of anxiety crawled up her spine. Those looked like they cost more than her entire closet. Maybe more than her aunt’s, too.

Still burning with embarrassment, she got to work.

No whining. No theatrics. Just quick, careful movement. She’d learned that long ago: make a mess, keep your mouth shut, and clean it up—preferably before anyone could roll their eyes and tell you to hurry up.

She snatched a paper off the curb just before it fluttered into a puddle and shoved it back into her bag. Her hands shook a little, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t let herself stop.

At last she stood, bag zipped, face burning, dignity abandoned somewhere back at that corner store. She turned to leave.

But a shadow slid across her shoulder.

Ten feet away, just at the edge of her vision, he was still there.
Still.

That same freakishly tall, impossible boy.

Just…standing. Watching.

His hands rested lazily in his coat pockets. His posture slouched in that effortless way some boys mastered by fifteen, looking as if the world couldn’t touch them.

But his eyes—those unreadable, sea-green eyes—were locked on her.

Megan’s stomach twisted.

She froze. “Oh! Um…did you drop something?” she asked, blinking quickly. “I can help you look, if you want.”

No answer. Not even a blink.
Just one more long, unreadable beat of silence.

Then, as if nothing at all had happened, he tugged the brim of his hat lower, turned, and walked away. His coat swept behind him like a cape. Or a curtain. Or something else dramatic and painfully cool.

She watched him go, still hunched under the weight of her bag, trying and failing to untangle whatever the hell that had been.

“…Okay then,” she muttered, voice flat.

In her head, a thought surfaced before she could crush it:
I guess tall, brooding, and silent is the local flavor around here.

The absurdity nearly made her laugh. Almost.

Instead, she squared her shoulders, turned toward what she prayed was the direction of the school, and forced her legs to move.

*~*

By some miracle—and by “miracle” she meant sprinting, frantic street-sign checks, and pure spite—Megan did make it to school that day.

Late, yes. Breathless and vaguely resembling a heat-stroked Pomeranian, absolutely. But she made it.

When Megan pushed open the apartment door that evening, the smell of soy sauce and sesame oil drifted toward her like a warm blanket. The air was thick with steam and the hiss of something caramelizing in a pan. Pots clanged in the kitchen, and over the sizzle came her Aunt Susan’s distracted call: “You’re home!”

Danielle, Megan’s baby cousin, was already holding court from her high chair at the end of the table. Her chubby legs pumped against the footrest, bare feet smacking out a rhythm only she seemed to understand. The second her gaze landed on Megan, her whole face bloomed into a gummy grin, and she clapped with the kind of unrestrained joy usually reserved for fireworks and puppies.

“Somebody’s happy to see you,” Susan said, glancing over her shoulder with a smile as she wielded a spatula like an extra limb.

“At least somebody is,” Megan replied. She dropped her school bag by the entryway; the straps had carved trenches into her shoulders, and she rolled them back, wincing at the soreness. Crossing to the high chair, she tapped Danielle’s nose, earning a squeal and another delighted round of applause.

Susan turned down the burner and gave her a quick once-over, eyes flicking with that quiet, parental scan that always seemed to catch more than Megan wanted it to. “So,” she asked, voice light but braced in that way adults used when expecting bad news, “how was it?”

Megan hesitated, weighing her words. “Eventful?” she offered. It was true, technically, and still didn’t come close.

Susan’s mouth twitched. “You got lost, didn’t you?”

“I was taking the scenic route,” Megan said with mock dignity.

“You had hand-written directions and a neighborhood map, Megan.”

“Yes, and they were very clear…about how to get lost in style.”

Susan shook her head, laughing softly as she slid stir-fry onto a serving dish. “You are the only person I know who can turn a straight line into a scenic detour.”

Megan didn’t argue. The fact that she’d taken two wrong turns and briefly ended up at a stationery shop instead of a school spoke loudly enough.

She lingered in the kitchen doorway, watching her aunt move with the practiced rhythm of someone who could cook dinner one-handed while fending off a toddler with the other. For a few minutes, the chaos of the day thinned out, replaced by the soundtrack of home: Susan humming under her breath, Danielle babbling nonsense syllables, the savory-sweet smell of dinner clinging to every corner.

Megan let herself breathe, just a little. Tomorrow would be another gauntlet. Another day under the invisible spotlight that pinned her every step at school. But for now, there was stir-fry, a baby who thought she was the best thing since mashed pears, and the faint, fragile hope that maybe—just maybe—she could keep surviving this place.

Megan’s first couple of weeks at school had been…suffocating.

Not in any single dramatic way—just in the itchy, unshakable way of wearing a too-tight turtleneck in the middle of a heatwave. Socially claustrophobic. Every step through the school gates set a spotlight burning down on her, invisible but relentless, tracking her every move.

It became obvious within seven seconds that the otherwise uniform student body wasn’t used to someone like her. With blonde hair, pale skin, and bright blue eyes, she stuck out like she’d been air-dropped from the Caucasus Mountains straight into a sea of matching uniforms and dark-brown hairstyles. One classmate had whispered to another—loudly enough for her to hear—that she looked like a Western movie character. Megan hadn’t asked which one. She didn’t want to know.

By day three, she was already drafting her resignation letter from the role of Unofficial American Representative™️ .

At first, she’d tried to be friendly. Open. Polite. Smile when people glanced her way. But the attention never felt welcoming—it felt like surveillance. Her classmates didn’t know what to make of her, and Megan had no idea how to manage the humming anxiety of being observed without understanding the rules of the scrutiny.

When people did speak to her, they usually fell into two camps: the overly enthusiastic “let’s practice English” crowd, or the “interrogation disguised as curiosity” type. Every day brought a new volley of questions about America. Some were harmless: Did she have a dog? What snacks came from vending machines? Was prom really like the movies?

Others weren’t so charming. One girl had asked with perfect seriousness if Megan had ever been in a high-speed car chase.

The real kicker? At least two people had looked genuinely disappointed—crestfallen, even—that she didn’t own a ten-gallon cowboy hat or know how to ride a horse.

But sometimes, the questions shifted.

They weren’t the obvious kind anymore. Not about prom, fast food, or whether all Americans wore shoes indoors. These ones came wrapped in ribbons and sugar, their sweetness a veneer for something sharper. They were the kind of questions that started with a smile and ended like a slap. A test she hadn’t known she was taking until she’d already failed it.

“Why are American girls always so loud?” one girl asked, sing-song, her tone light but her eyes too sharp.

Megan had blinked, throat tight, words evaporating before they formed.

She didn’t speak above a whisper for the rest of the day.

Another student once leaned over during lunch and asked if American families really kept guns in the house. His tone was light, curious, like it was just trivia—but Megan caught the amused curl at his mouth, the disdain he didn’t bother to hide.

Or the time a classmate, laughing behind her hand, asked if Megan thought all Japanese people bowed “too much.”
No one else laughed. But no one stopped it either.

It wasn’t outright bullying. Never sharp enough to be named. But it scraped all the same—tiny cuts, over and over, until she ached. These weren’t questions; they were landmines, dressed up as casual conversation. And Megan walked into them again and again, too eager to blend in, too desperate to please, too blind to see the traps until they blew.

Still, she remembered the answers.

Even as her face burned with shame, even as she smiled, nodded, and mentally shredded herself for saying the wrong thing again, she tucked each exchange away like flashcards for a test with no end.

Don’t interrupt.
Speak softly.
Apologize first.
Bow deeper.
Don’t take up space.
Don’t speak unless spoken to.
Say I’m still learning.
Don’t be loud.
Don’t be annoying.
Don’t be American.

She carried those rules like armor. Thin, invisible armor forged from shame and overcorrection.

Because if she followed every one, maybe the staring would stop. Maybe the laughter would fade. Maybe she’d finally get to exist in peace.
Maybe she’d stop feeling like a walking mistake.

And then—there was him.

It wasn’t until about a week and a half into her trial-by-fire school life that she realized Mr. Unhelpful with the Low Hat also attended her school.

Apparently, he had a name: Jotaro Kujo.
Or, as the girls in her class referred to him—in tones ranging from reverent to borderline unhinged—“JoJo.”

She’d overheard the nickname at lunch, right as she bit into her onigiri. A knot of girls were swooning at their usual volume, tossing around words like tall, dangerous, and, “I swear he looked at me once and I nearly fainted.”

It took a beat for the context to click.

Wait. Wait. That guy? The brooding wall she’d body-checked outside the liquor shop? That was “JoJo”?

Color her surprised.

She hadn’t expected the World Champion Brooder to be known by a nickname that sounded like it belonged to a children’s cartoon mascot.
JoJo? Really?

And yet, the fandom around him was undeniable. Apparently, his fan club had official school recognition. As in: budget, faculty advisor, designated meeting space, actual recruitment fliers. One girl even kept her club badge in a plastic holder like it was government ID. Megan had seen less commitment from entire political movements.

Not long after learning his name, she spotted him in the hallway. Her stomach dropped with that instinctive dread born from years of expecting the worst. Was he coming over? Was this it? Was he finally going to scold her for the run-in outside the liquor shop? Demand compensation for shoe damage? Publicly humiliate her for being a clumsy foreigner?

Nope.

No scowl. No sharp words. Instead, he replayed the exact sequence she remembered: paused, stared at her with those unsettling green eyes—like she’d accidentally wandered into the wrong dimension—and then turned sharply, striding away.
No words. No expression. Just that blink-and-you-miss-it reaction, as though her existence had pressed “pause” on his brain for a split second before he resumed his day.

Megan froze like a prey animal and waited a full thirty seconds before daring to exhale.

From that point forward, her coping strategy was simple: avoid eye contact, neutralize your existence.

Every time she sensed him in the halls—or more accurately, felt the weight of that dark, imposing aura from twenty feet away—she lowered her eyes, kept her mouth shut, and tried to project “harmless ghost energy.” Not because she was afraid of him, exactly. But because drawing his attention felt like tempting fate.

Besides, she’d already been on the receiving end of some vaguely territorial side-eyes from upperclassman girls, and she had zero interest in sparking a high school turf war over who dared glance at the school’s resident walking enigma.
If anything, Megan was perfectly content to keep her head down, ace her classes, and be as invisible as humanly possible.

Well…as invisible as a blonde American in a Japanese high school could ever hope to be.

*~*

One afternoon, her aunt asked her to run a quick errand on the way home: pick up a nightstand lamp from a small repair shop across town. On paper, simple enough. What her aunt, once again, hadn’t factored in was Megan’s complete inability to navigate Tokyo’s subway system without suffering a low-grade existential crisis.

The Tokyo Metro was a sprawling, multicolored web, each line more confusing than the last. Transfer stations demanded the spatial awareness of a cartographer and the mental clarity of a monk. Megan—who once got turned around walking home from her own neighborhood school—was neither.

Still, she’d said yes. Of course she had. She never argued—especially not when her aunt was juggling an eight-month-old baby on top of the usual chaos. Megan understood her role as the teenage child living in a household that hadn’t planned on raising her: don’t complain, don’t make things harder. Be helpful. Be grateful. Above all, don’t be a burden.

And it wasn’t like she had anywhere better to be. There wasn’t exactly a waiting list of people eager to hang out after school, and trudging home to another quiet evening of pretending she wasn’t lonely didn’t sound much better.

So she’d thought: how bad could it be?

Spoiler: very bad.

She stepped off what she thought was the Ginza Line toward Shibuya, clutching a hand-drawn subway map that had gone soft at the edges from her sweaty grip. The underground air gave way to a breath of overcast afternoon light, and the second she surfaced, her stomach twisted.

The street was wrong.

Vinyl signs stacked haphazardly above narrow buildings. Garish lettering in pink and gold. Love hotels crammed shoulder to shoulder, their facades neon-bright and unapologetic. Hostess club ads plastered across every blank space, peeling at the edges.
The air carried cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and something else—something sharp, desperate, like decisions made at three a.m.

Her throat went dry.

Shit.

This wasn’t Shibuya. This was Shinjuku.
A rookie mistake. In Tokyo, practically unforgivable.

She glanced at her map again, then at the glowing signage that loomed around her: The Lover’s Den. Hotel Juicy. Not exactly the place you’d pick up a refurbished nightstand lamp.

Her pulse fluttered high in her throat. The leather bracelets around her wrists pressed warm against her skin, the familiar weight grounding her without her thinking about it.

“Okay,” she murmured, trying to breathe past the tightness in her chest. “Just go back to the station. Retrace your steps. Act like you know what you’re doing.”

She turned sharply on her heel, unfolding the map again, scanning the pencil marks she’d scrawled earlier that morning. If she could just puzzle out the transfers, maybe she could still salvage this.
Then came the voice.

“Hey, American girl.”

The English was thickly accented, pitched low enough that it might have sounded casual—but there was something coiled beneath it, something that made the skin on her hands prickle. The map trembled in her grip.

Megan froze. Slowly, she turned.

Three men stood in the shade of a narrow awning, its windows covered, its sign written in looping gold katakana. Their suits were well-cut, fabric catching the dim light with an expensive sheen—but not the kind bought with a paycheck. Their jackets hung unbuttoned, ties loosened, shoes scuffed from nights that had nothing to do with offices or schedules.

Her gaze fell before she could stop it. One man’s sleeve had slipped just high enough to reveal the curling edge of a tattoo. The lines were sharp, deliberate, the kind that told a story she didn’t need translated. Her chest tightened.

Yakuza? Maybe. Maybe not.

It didn’t matter.
Every instinct she’d honed screamed the same thing: high alert.

“Pretty American girl,” the man said again, this time in a singsong lilt, rolling the words on his tongue as if testing their weight. His eyes weren’t cruel exactly—but unnaturally still, as if he couldn’t decide whether he saw her as novelty or prey.

Don’t react. Don’t react. Don’t react.

Her mouth betrayed her before her brain could intervene. She bowed at the waist, low and deliberate. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said in her clearest Japanese, her voice draped in formal politeness meant to smother trouble before it started. “Please excuse me. I must return to the station. I’m trying to get home.”

Humble. Apologetic. Small.

The leader’s smile widened—not amused, but satisfied. Like a gambler pleased the game had more rounds to play.

“Well, look at that,” he said to the others in his native tongue, voice heavy with mock praise. “The American girl speaks Japanese.”

The other two chuckled on cue—not loud, just practiced, the kind of laugh born from habit rather than humor. The sound raised gooseflesh along her arms.

Megan edged a step back, the folded map slick in her grip, knuckles whitening around it. Keep moving. Keep polite. Keep breathing.

The man’s smile stayed fixed, but his eyes cooled as he moved closer. “Ever been to a bar, American girl?” he asked. “A kyabarē, maybe? We know a few nearby."

It wasn’t lewd. He didn’t lean in or lower his voice. But there was no question in it either—delivered like certainty, not choice.

She dipped her head again. “Thank you very much for the offer,” she said softly. “But I really must go. I’m very sorry.”

Another step closer. The other two shifted with him, not blocking her outright but hemming her in, the narrowing space as subtle and relentless as the pull of a tide. Megan's ears filled with a high-pitched hum, her pulse quickening until it felt detached from her body.

“Don’t be like that,” the leader said lightly. His hand lifted—unhurried, casual—toward her wrist where her bracelets peeked beneath her sleeve. “You’ll like it.”

The words were quiet, but his tone had the gravity of someone unaccustomed to hearing no.

That hand kept reaching—deliberate, inevitable. Her skin prickled, the leather at her wrists suddenly too tight.

Deep down, she knew: if those fingers closed around her, it wouldn’t matter where he led her. She wouldn’t come back the same.

Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.

Her mind scrambled for a reaction—yell, run, hit him, something—but nothing broke through the static roaring in her ears. The weight of the night pressed down heavy and suffocating, the kind of weight that promised you wouldn’t walk away whole.

Then—something flickered at the edge of her vision. A shard of color. Deep, cold blue, sharp as glacial ice. It rippled the air for an instant, distorting the space around it, then vanished before she could decide whether she’d imagined it.

The air shifted. Denser. Waiting.

Before the man’s fingers brushed her sleeve, another arm appeared. It closed around his wrist with precise, effortless force—so sudden, so certain, it seemed to jolt the space around them.

“Yare yare daze…”

The voice came from just beyond her shoulder, low and rough-edged, carrying the calm of someone who had no reason to fear what came next. “Are you really that thick-headed that you can’t tell when someone’s trying to ditch you?”

The words cracked through her panic. Recognition snapped her upright before her body caught up. She knew that voice.

She turned, heart already hammering with the answer.

Jotaro Kujo stepped out of the shadow of the station entrance. His long black coat swung with each deliberate stride, the gold chain at his collar catching a muted glint of light. He didn’t look rushed. He didn’t look winded. He just looked…immovable. Like a storm front rolling in, single-minded in its purpose: to ruin someone’s day.

Relief hit first—raw, overwhelming relief that someone, anyone, was here. But it twisted into dread almost instantly. Because it wasn’t just anyone.

This wasn’t a stranger she could thank and vanish from. This was someone she knew. Someone who knew her. And now, because of her, he was stepping straight into danger.

What are you doing here!? Leave. You need to leave. They’re dangerous. You’ll get hurt because of me.

The thought clawed at her throat, frantic and useless, as if sheer willpower might force him to hear it. Her mouth stayed locked, words too heavy to drag free.

Jotaro’s eyes swept over the three men in a slow, deliberate pass. His gaze narrowed into something suspended between boredom and readiness. The leader’s smirk faltered—barely, a twitch he probably didn’t even notice—but his stance tightened.

Jotaro didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The silence itself carried the warning: Leave. Walk away. Or learn what happens.

“What’s your problem, kid?” the leader said, the edge in his voice blunted by the first flicker of uncertainty. “This isn’t your business. Keep walking.”

The other two shifted behind him, closing in without rushing.

Jotaro’s hand stayed loose at his side, but the air thickened—quiet, heavy, charged with something dangerous.

Megan’s feet moved before her brain caught up, one instinctive step closer to him. Safety. Or as close as she was going to get.

“You should go,” he said, eyes still forward.

“Yup. On it.”

Her voice pitched higher than she meant, but she obeyed, turning fast and putting distance between herself and the tightening circle. She’d barely made it a dozen steps down the stairs when the sound hit her: fists colliding with flesh, the blunt thud of impact, a muffled grunt.

She froze.

They were fighting.

Jotaro looked strong—impossibly strong—but there were three of them.

Relief evaporated, replaced by a cold, gut-deep terror. She’d left him alone in it.

Her pulse spiked. She spun back, bolting up the stairs. Not away this time—toward the fight. Every nerve screamed to act, to do something, anything, to keep him from being swallowed whole.

And then—she saw it.

It wasn’t just around Jotaro. It was coming out of him.

A colossal figure blazed into being, lit in ultraviolet fire. Humanoid, but impossibly vast, its broad shoulders blending with the light of the streetlamps. Power poured from its form in sharp, crystalline lines. A stylized helmet framed its face, and its eyes—white, searing—locked forward with such intent her skin prickled.

It didn’t trail behind him. It was him. Every motion mirrored his perfectly…only faster, stronger, as if it already knew what he’d decide.

One of the men lunged. Megan’s mind reeled. Why? Why would anyone still charge forward after seeing this? What kind of hunger for violence could keep a person moving toward something so impossible?

The purple figure’s arm drew back, motion so fast the air itself seemed to contract. Then it shot forward with a force that cracked like thunder ripping down a hallway.

“ORA!” the creature bellowed.

The blow caught the man square in the jaw.

He didn’t just fall. He flew—lifted clean off the ground, body twisting midair before slamming into the pavement. He skidded across the concrete like a ragdoll hurled by a god.

Megan’s lungs forgot how to work.

What…was that?

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t even blink. Her mind stuttered, replaying the last two seconds on a relentless loop. Not only because it was impossible, but because something in it felt eerily familiar. That flicker of blue she’d glimpsed earlier, before Jotaro even appeared. The strange heaviness in the air. The prickle of heat racing over her skin.

It had felt…similar.

And now she couldn’t unsee it. Couldn’t unhear the way reality itself had just folded in half as if it were nothing.

The laws of physics weren’t broken—they’d been politely asked to leave.

And Jotaro Kujo—dodging another punch without even glancing—had somehow summoned this thing from within himself, a creature of impossible strength tearing through three grown men as though they were made of paper.

Her jaw slackened. Wide-eyed, she dissolved into one unhelpful, looping thought:
What the actual hell is going on?

A startled sound slipped past her lips before she could stop it.

Jotaro moved instantly—whirling toward her so fast the air itself seemed to fold. His arm and the violet figure’s mirrored the motion, cocked back in perfect, terrifying sync for a strike that could have taken her head clean off.

They moved as one: shadows in different shades of reality.

Megan’s breath locked. Her hands flew to her face, eyes squeezing shut until sparks of color burst against her lids. The air shifted again—sharp, tense, charged the way it feels just before lightning splits the sky.

And then—nothing.

Seconds stretched thin before she dared crack an eye open. Jotaro’s fist was lowering, slow and deliberate. The purple figure was gone, as though it had never existed. Only a faint ghost of violet lingered between them, unraveling like mist in sunlight.

Her arms dropped numbly to her sides, but she didn’t really move. She just stood there, dazed, vision blurred at the edges, pulse rattling like loose glass in her chest.

A beat. Then another.

“Hey.”

The word cut through her haze like a blade. Low. Rough. Heavy. It landed on her shoulders more than her ears.

She blinked hard, forcing her gaze up. Jotaro stood in front of her, broad and still, his posture making him seem taller than ever. His brow was drawn, his jaw clamped so tightly she could see the flex of muscle in his cheek. The ghostly edges of that violet apparition still shimmered faintly around him, burning away like mist off glass.

And he was angry. She could see it. Not yelling-angry. Not posturing-angry. The quieter kind—like glowing embers that could ignite into wildfire if disturbed.

Her stomach clenched. Of course he was pissed. Why wouldn’t he be? She’d ignored him. She’d run back up the stairs instead of leaving when he told her to. She’d dragged him into this mess in the first place.

“Didn’t I tell you to go?”

His tone was flat. Final. Less a question than a verdict.

The words landed exactly as she’d feared—not shouted, not sharp, but laced with a cold certainty that left no space for doubt. A command, immovable as stone.

Her mouth parted, but no sound came. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to apologize or argue—and either way, it wouldn’t have mattered.

Before she could choose, the air shifted again.

A sound pierced through the static in her head: rising, urgent, unmistakable.

Sirens.

Her head snapped toward the street. The wail grew louder, bouncing between buildings, threading through the alleys. Several officers were already jogging toward them—one pointing, another barking into a radio, voice sharp with urgency.

Her stomach dropped.

They were coming here.

Jotaro had just flattened at least two men—maybe three—and some of them were still groaning on the pavement. How many officers had seen it? How much would they believe? How much could they possibly understand?

He could get arrested. Maybe worse.

He saved you.
You can’t just walk away. You can’t let him take the fall for this.
This was your mess, whether you meant it to be or not.

Every instinct screamed at her to stay. To plant herself between him and the police if she had to. To explain to anyone who would listen that Jotaro Kujo wasn’t some violent delinquent looking for trouble. He’d been violent because trouble had found her. Without him, she might not be standing at all.

Her pulse rattled, but she forced her legs to move. One careful, deliberate step closer.

“But—”

“Now.”

The single word cut like a blade. Not shouted. Not even harsh. Just absolute—an order that left no air around it.

She didn’t move. Not yet.

Her gaze darted to the flashing lights in the distance, then back to Jotaro. Then to the police again.

Her thoughts warred, loud and relentless. One side snarled that she had to stay—that she had to do something—that walking away meant leaving him to take the fall for protecting her. The other side urged her to run, to not make it worse, to not give him one more thing to carry.

And beneath it all lay the ugliest truth: if she disobeyed him right now, Jotaro Kujo might make her regret it.

She looked at him one last time.
There was no fear in his face. No panic. Only the calm of someone who had already chosen what came next.

The realization struck cold. He knew he was going to be arrested. He’d accepted it. And still—he was telling her to go.

Her throat tightened. Guilt pressed down, hot and suffocating. She grimaced, her expression caught between apology and confession—I’m sorry for ruining your night, maybe your whole life—and then she turned and ran back into the station.

This time, she didn’t look back.

Not when the shouts cracked behind her—
“Hands where we can see them!”
“Face the wall!”
“Now!”

Not when the pounding of boots shook the pavement.
Not when she pictured the cold bite of cuffs snapping shut around his wrists.
Not when her vision blurred with tears.

She kept running.

Down the steps. Through the tunnel. Onto the platform.

The train doors slid closed with a dull, final clang, and she clung to the cold metal pole at the center of the car, holding it like it was the only solid thing left in the world. Her breath came fast, shallow, her chest aching with the effort of keeping herself upright.

But behind the rush of panic and guilt, something lingered.

That flicker of blue.

Faint. Protective.

Not Jotaro’s.

Hers.

She didn’t know what it was. She didn’t know what it meant. But for the first time since the nightmare began, she understood one thing with startling clarity:

It hadn’t been fear alone keeping her moving.

Chapter Text

The news of Jotaro’s arrest spread through the student body before the next school day even began.

By third period, the story had ballooned into something straight out of a gangster film: Jotaro Kujo singlehandedly taking down a dozen yakuza, including a local boss.

By lunch, one girl was swearing up and down that she was the reason for the fight—that Jotaro had saved her life, right after confessing she was beautiful. She even teared up at her own dramatic retelling.

Megan could barely summon the energy to be annoyed.
Her mind kept circling the same point, skipping like a damaged record: Jotaro.

Jotaro, stuck in a jail cell.
The punishment waiting for him—whatever it might be—for the simple crime of existing within arm’s reach of her when trouble found her.
The fact that she had put him there.

Through the merciless efficiency of the JoJo Fanclub Gossip Train—a network that made international news look sluggish—she eventually learned which station was holding him.

On the third day of Jotaro not showing up to school (not unusual for him, but still…), she finally worked up the nerve to go see him. She told her aunt a carefully minimized version of the truth: that she needed to check in on a classmate. Not entirely false, just…stripped down to the point of dishonesty. Megan had never been good at lying, so her only strategy was to rearrange the truth until it looked harmless.

At the station, she approached the front desk and asked—polite, tentative—if Jotaro Kujo was allowed visitors. The officer gave her a long look, then rolled his eyes with the weariness of someone who had dealt with far too many teenage crises.

“You a friend of his?” he asked.

“Umm…well, I mean, friend is kind of a complicated word if you really think about it—”

“Don’t care,” the officer cut in. “Maybe you can convince him to leave. We can’t keep him here forever. This isn’t a motel.”

…What?

She followed him down a narrow stairwell, the air cooling with each step, sharp with the tang of disinfectant and metal. The officer muttered the whole way—something about delinquent kids, entitlement, and “teenagers these days,” as if 1988 was powerhouse of debauchery and he hadn’t been one himself not long ago.

When they reached the cell, Megan’s brain stalled.

He’s alive. He’s not hurt.
Is he still furious with me? What’s he going to say when he sees me here?
And then—how in the actual hell did he get all of that into a jail cell?

An exercise bike. That was definitely an exercise bike.

And it wasn’t only that. A neat stack of manga volumes lined the bench, a half-finished can of iced tea sat beside them, and the remnants of a bento balanced on the corner of the sink. Jotaro sat in the middle of it all, leaning forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees like the place belonged to him.

Megan blinked, staring.

“How is this less depressing than my bedroom?” she muttered before she could stop herself.

The officer shot her a look like she’d just asked if the walls were edible.

Jotaro’s head shifted at the sound—just enough to catch her in his peripheral. His eyes, sharp and faintly narrowed, cut toward her in quiet recognition.

“Hey,” the officer called over, rapping the bars with his knuckles, “you’ve got a visitor. Maybe she can convince you to go home.”

When Jotaro didn’t respond, the officer exhaled in a long, theatrical sigh—the kind reserved for people who’ve reached their breaking point with teenagers—and muttered something about not having time for this nonsense. His boots clanged up the stairwell, each step echoing until the sound dissolved into the ceiling.

The cell block sank into silence. Not the calm kind, but the kind that felt loaded, coiled tight. Megan stood frozen, fingers laced together in front of her, uncertain whether he was going to ignore her outright or tear into her the second she spoke. Both seemed equally possible.

At last she swallowed, voice cracking as she forced it out.

“Are you o—”
“Leave.”

The word landed like a slammed door. Not a request, not even an argument—just an absolute command. He said it like gravity itself expected her to obey. Her muscles twitched, instinct nearly propelling her toward the stairs before she even thought about it.

But she stayed.

Whether it was stubbornness or guilt, she couldn’t tell. Every nerve screamed at her to give him the space he wanted, yet something heavier rooted her to the floor. She had to know he was all right. She had to undo the damage she’d caused, balance the scales she’d tipped so violently against him. It wasn’t even fairness anymore—it was arithmetic. Cosmic arithmetic, scrawled somewhere in her bones.

“I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry…”

Her voice came out thinner than she meant, trembling at the edges. Heat pricked behind her eyes. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him; instead she fixed on a faint scratch in the concrete between them, as if staring hard enough might let it swallow her whole.

This was all her fault.

Out of the blur at the edge of her vision, she caught the slow pivot of his head. She didn’t lift her gaze. She didn’t deserve to.

“You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me,” she blurted, the words tripping over each other. “I—I took the wrong train. I should’ve paid attention. It’s my fault this happened. And I’m sorry.”

The air seemed to clamp down around her. The hum of fluorescent lights, the slam of a door somewhere far above, even the scrape of her shoes—all of it felt magnified, unbearable in the silence that followed.

Then, finally, his sigh cut through the tension like a blade.
“Yare yare daze. You’re really an idiot if you think any of that was your fault.”

The words struck her like a stone tossed into still water, ripples exploding through her chest. Her head jerked up before she could stop herself, blue eyes locking with green. The force of his unreadable stare hit like a collision she hadn’t braced for, sharp and staggering.

Her mind immediately rejected what she’d heard. Not her fault? That didn’t make sense. How could he not be blaming her? How could he not want to fling one of those Shonen Jump volumes straight at her head—or at the very least tell her he never wanted to see her again, in that clipped, cutting tone he usually reserved for strangers who annoyed him?

The logic didn’t line up, and the absence of venom unsettled her more than if he’d shouted. Her stomach twisted, pulled between a relief she didn’t trust and the unshakable certainty that she still deserved consequences.

Restless energy pushed her forward a step. Standing still was unbearable, her head buzzing with questions she couldn’t untangle. Why wasn’t he furious? Why wasn’t he hurling the blame back at her where it belonged?

That’s when his voice cut in again, lower but edged like glass.
“Don’t come any closer.”

Another command. But this one was different. Not the lazy certainty of someone used to being obeyed—it snapped tight, like a tripwire yanked. Panic? No…Megan couldn’t picture Jotaro Kujo panicking. But there was tension under the surface, unmistakable. A warning.

She froze mid-step. The toe of her shoe scraped the floor, the sound startlingly loud in the stale air.

The space between them thickened, oppressive, as if the room itself was holding its breath. Megan’s mind raced, clawing for context, for some reason behind the sudden shift.

“Jotaro, I don’t understand—” she started.

“Nothing to understand. You just need to leave.”

Same words, but this time they carried a finality that slammed shut like a lock. Conversation over.

But her mouth jumped ahead of her thoughts. “Are you hurt? Are you in danger? If so, let me help you.”

His gaze iced over, cutting sharper than before.

“Are you deaf? I told you to leave, you annoying bitch.”

There it was. The treatment she deserved.

She’d braced for it, expected it, but the sting still landed hard and hot beneath her ribs. Some small, foolish part of her—childlike, desperate—had hoped for someone who wouldn’t confirm her worst expectations. Someone who wouldn’t hand her exactly what she thought she’d earned. Maybe Jotaro could’ve been that person.

But no.

She shook her head sharply, forcing that thought back into the dark where it belonged.

Upstairs, the door banged open. The echo carried down the stairwell, followed by the low murmur of voices approaching.

“What? He’s being released already?” The first voice was older, edged with anxiety but softened by warmth. And accented—subtle missteps in pronunciation Megan recognized instantly. She’d spent years memorizing those errors so she wouldn’t repeat them herself.

“Well, we can’t keep him here forever,” answered the station officer who had grudgingly escorted her down here.

“By the way, ma’am, your Japanese is very good. How long have you lived in Japan?” a younger male voice chimed in. Megan didn’t know him, but the compliment still sparked a flicker of smug pride, even now.

Inappropriate for the moment? Absolutely. But she couldn’t help it.

“Twenty years!” the woman replied, her voice bright with pleasure.

“Ah, no wonder,” the officer said.

Footsteps grew louder. Three figures appeared at the top of the descent, and Megan tensed, shoulders tight.

“Your son is just up ahead,” the second officer explained.

Son?

Her gaze darted toward Jotaro. Him?

Before the thought had fully formed, a woman’s voice rang out, high and urgent:
“Ah! Jotaro!”

Both officers gasped. Heels clattered sharply against the concrete as the voice echoed down the stairwell, calling again and again, each syllable ricocheting off the walls.

“Jotaro! Jotaro! Jotaro!”

A figure rounded the corner—a tall, elegant woman with shoulder length strawberry blonde hair , striding forward with the kind of practiced urgency that came from both panic and long habit. Her eyes locked on Jotaro the instant she saw him.

He glanced back briefly before snapping, his voice slicing through the static hum of the fluorescent lights.
“Shut the hell up! You’re so damn annoying, you bitch!”

Megan’s eyebrows shot up before she could stop them. Oh. So this was his mom. And apparently, the “annoying bitch” thing wasn’t some special nickname reserved for her after all.

Her gaze flicked back to Jotaro, involuntary, greedy for details her brain seemed determined to hoard: the stubborn curl of hair that defied his cap, the hard, deliberate lines of his jaw, the startling green of his eyes beneath the harsh fluorescent glow.

Not that she was paying attention. Obviously. And even if she was, it wasn’t like it mattered.

“Okay~!” the woman sing-songed, utterly unfazed.

All Megan could do was blink at her, slow and owlish, like her brain had temporarily lost power trying to process the disconnect between that cheerfully singsong voice and the reality of a holding cell.

The officers exchanged glances—the kind that admitted, without words, this was firmly above their pay grade.

Jotaro’s mother stepped toward the bars with a confidence that felt strangely out of place here. Her expression was open, guileless, warm as sunlight through glass—so much so that Megan almost wanted to shield her eyes. It was…a lot.

“He’s actually a very sweet child,” the woman told the officers, her voice unwavering as she buried her face in her hands. “He’s not capable of doing something so appalling.”

Megan bit the inside of her cheek to keep quiet. Sweet? She’d literally seen him put a grown man through a pile of crates last week. Splinters and all. The memory was still so sharp she could almost hear the crack of breaking wood.

“Sweet” was…one way to put it. Generous, at best.

Jotaro didn’t comment. He simply lowered himself onto the cot, turning to face the wall like the matter was settled.

“Hey! Don’t fall asleep, Kujo!” one of the officers barked, frustration edging his words. “You’re being released. Get out!”

He didn’t so much as stir.

Does anything get to him? Megan wondered, half-baffled, half-exasperated. The boy could probably be told the building was on fire and just sigh about the inconvenience.

“What part of ‘go home’ don’t you understand?!” the officer snapped, his voice bouncing off the concrete.

Jotaro finally rolled back, propping himself up on his forearm. One knee bent, the other leg stretched long—casual in appearance, but there was a readiness in it too.

“Mom, go home. I’m not going to leave here for a while.”

His voice stayed steady, but a darker edge threaded through it, pulling the air tighter between them.

“I’ve been possessed by an evil spirit,” he continued. “I don’t know what he’ll make me do. Even during the fight, it took everything I had to stop him. So don’t let me out of this cell.”

The words rippled through Megan’s thoughts, and her mind leapt back to Shinjuku—

A violet specter loomed in her mind—muscle like carved stone, eyes burning white-hot—moving in perfect sync with Jotaro’s every strike, as if it already knew his intent before he did.

Was that what he meant? Was that the “evil spirit”?

Before she could think better of it, Megan edged away from the wall. Her body moved first, her mind scrambling to catch up. She took a few careful steps toward his cell, drawn forward by the weight of his words and the absolute certainty threaded through them. Questions stacked up in her head, sharp and insistent, but the conviction in his tone pinned them in her throat.

Jotaro leaned back again, done talking. He crossed one leg over the other, hands laced behind his head in a posture that belonged in a park on a sunny afternoon—not in a holding cell.

One officer scratched at his scalp in visible frustration before muttering to the tall woman, “For crying out loud…See what I mean, ma’am? We’re trying to release him, but he refuses to leave.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice as though Jotaro couldn’t hear him perfectly from five feet away.
“Forgive me asking, but is your son all right upstairs?”

“This isn’t a hotel!” the other officer snapped, his gaze flicking between Holy, Jotaro, and Megan like he suspected all three were part of some elaborate joke.

That was when the woman’s gaze shifted past her son and landed squarely on Megan. Her face lit instantly, like sunlight breaking through heavy cloud.
“Oh! Hello there—are you a friend of Jotaro’s?”

Megan stiffened, caught off guard by the directness. The warmth in the woman’s voice was almost…unsettling. People didn’t usually speak to her that way. Her own mother? Not in a million years.

She swallowed. “Uh…sort of? I guess you could say that,” she managed, the words catching awkwardly on her tongue.

The woman stepped closer to her, as if kindness carried better at close range. “How lovely. I’m Holy Kujo.”

“Megan,” she replied automatically, dipping into a small bow. “Megan Branford.”

“What a pretty name. And you’re just as pretty yourself.”

The compliment hit like a gift she didn’t know how to unwrap. Strangers’ praise usually set off alarm bells in her head, a reflex to brace for the catch. But Holy’s tone was so guileless, so free of calculation, that it slipped past every defense.

“Uh…thanks,” Megan muttered, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. The motion only made her hyper-aware of everything else—her posture, her shoulders, the stiffness of her spine.

Before she could stumble through another reply, the scrape of shoes against concrete pulled her attention to the far side of the holding area.

Three prisoners clung to the gate, eyes wide, fingers straining through the bars as though sheer reach might earn them protection from the officers—or at least distance from Jotaro.

“Please! Let us change cells!” one of them begged, knuckles blanched white around the iron. His voice was high, urgent—the sound of someone who’d traded pride for the faintest chance of survival.

“He’s telling the truth!” another prisoner blurted, leaning so far through the bars it looked like he might try to wriggle between them—desperation stretching him closer to the officers like proximity alone could save him.

“There really is an evil spirit possessing him!” the third shouted, his voice cracking so violently it splintered mid-sentence. His gaze darted between Jotaro and the officers with the wild calculation of a cornered animal trying to guess which predator might be slower to strike.

“That’s enough! Quiet down!” one officer barked, slamming his baton against the bars. The metallic clang echoed through the block, but the prisoners didn’t so much as flinch. Their pleas tumbled over each other, frantic, as if words alone might outrun whatever lived in the cell with them.

Megan’s eyes snapped back to Jotaro—just in time to see him jab the tip of a pen into the bottom of a beer can, casual as anything.

Jesus Christ. He’s got alcohol in here too?

The sharp pop of punctured metal sliced through the tense air. Without even acknowledging his audience, Jotaro tilted the can and drained it, slow and deliberate, like this was his private lounge and the rest of them were just inconveniences.

The second officer’s face contorted, somewhere between disbelief and outrage. “Wh-What is that?”

“You’ve been locked up! How’d you even get that in here?!” the first demanded, his voice climbing like it was chasing an answer he knew wouldn’t come.

Jotaro swallowed the last mouthful, then crushed the can in his hand with a metallic crack that echoed finality. He exhaled, the sound just shy of a burp—so casual it made the moment feel stranger.

The three prisoners in his cell bolted to the far corner, stumbling over each other in their scramble to get as far from him as possible. Their shrieks bounced off the concrete.

“I told you. It’s the evil spirit,” Jotaro said as he flicked the can aside, his tone flat, unhurried. “The evil spirit brings things to me.”

A manga volume dropped neatly into his lap. Without comment, he opened to a marked page and began reading. The boombox at the foot of his cot crackled to life, blaring a sports broadcast.

Megan stared, her mind splitting into two stubborn halves: one demanding a full, detailed explanation (seriously, why an exercise bike? and how in God’s name had it fit through the bars?), the other whispering firmly that she really, really didn’t want to know.

The first officer clutched the bars like physical contact might somehow make this more real.
“H-He’s listening to a boombox and reading Shonen Jump!?”

Megan’s head snapped toward the cell. Sure enough, Jotaro was stretched out on his cot like it was a lazy Sunday afternoon, Shonen Jump open in one hand. The scene was so absurd she couldn’t decide if she should be impressed by the sheer audacity or irritated by how effortless he made it look.

“H-How?! Th-This is a problem! This is a huge problem!” the second officer sputtered, his voice cracking like he’d just realized the clown car was, in fact, on fire.

“Hold it,” Jotaro said suddenly. His voice was low, almost quiet—but it carried.

He swung his legs off the bed and rose to his full height. For a heartbeat, Megan swore the air itself grew heavier, like the atmosphere had leaned in to listen.

“If you’re still thinking about releasing me,” he continued, tone calm enough to raise the hairs along her neck, “I’ll show you what a terror my evil spirit can be. Just so you’ll understand how dangerous it could be to let me out.”

As he spoke, he reached up and removed his hat, tossing it aside. The gesture was casual, but Megan froze at the sight of him bareheaded for the first time. Without the shadow of the brim, his features came into sharp relief—the clean lines of his jaw, the striking green of his eyes, the way it all came together into something…annoyingly gorgeous.

That part of her brain needed to shut up immediately.

Jotaro extended a hand, closing his left eye with deliberate focus.

A beat of stillness.

Then, with a sudden rush, smoke-like energy burst to life. Megan’s breath caught. The violet arm—massive, carved in muscle, lethal—shot forward with precision, reaching for the nearest officer’s holster.

Her gaze darted sideways. Holy’s eyes were locked on it too, tracking each motion, transfixed.

But the officers? They didn’t react. Their attention stayed fixed on Jotaro himself, blind to the apparition working in plain sight.

Why?

Could they not see it? Then why could she? Why could Holy?

Just what was this thing?

The purple arm’s fingers curled around the gun, slipping it free as if restraints meant nothing. In one seamless motion, the weapon landed in Jotaro’s waiting hand—barrel aimed at them.

“Ah! M-My gun! How?!” the officer yelped, hands jerking upward in panic.

Holy spun toward them, her face blanching, every line carved with shock.

“We’ve got trouble!” the other barked, his voice pitching high, as though shouting the obvious might somehow make it less terrifying.

Jotaro’s voice sliced clean through the air—sharp, deliberate.
“Well? Did you guys see my evil spirit just now?! If you didn’t, then…”

Megan’s gaze snagged on the glint of metal in his hand—then her blood froze.

He raised the gun.
Pointed it at his own head.

“What are you doing?!” The cry tore out of her throat before she could think, splintering halfway through his name. Panic cracked her voice raw. Her chest seized, every inhale shallow and jagged, air refusing to reach her lungs. The cell block seemed to shrink, collapsing in until all she could see was the black circle of the barrel pressed to his temple.

The gun cocked.

Megan couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Every muscle screamed at her to act, but her feet felt welded to the floor.

Do something!! her own mind shrieked, frantic, desperate. Stop this!

A flicker of blue sparked at the edge of her vision—sharper now, no longer a haze. It hovered there, solid, waiting, as if daring her to reach for it.

But doubt slammed into her harder than fear already had. She didn’t know how to call it forward—wasn’t even sure she could. She didn’t even know what it was. And with terror pressing hard against her ribs, the fragile strength that had started to rise slipped back under the surface.

“Jotaro!!” Holy’s voice cracked, her hands clutching at her chest, horror etched across her face.

The gun went off.

The crack of the shot detonated through the cell block, so loud it punched the breath from Megan’s lungs. She screamed, louder than she’d ever screamed in her life, the sound ripping her throat raw.

She folded over instinctively, arms wrapping around herself as though she could shield against the reality of what she thought she’d just witnessed.

The world clamped down around her, suffocating in its quiet. Her own heartbeat thundered in her ears, each heavy thud a cruel reminder she hadn’t stopped him.

When she forced herself to look, she saw it: violet shimmer, broad fingers pinching the bullet like it was no more than a bead. The figure loomed at Jotaro’s back, eyes blazing white-hot, shoulders squared. Then it released, letting the round fall with a muted ping against the concrete.

Jotaro’s chest rose and fell hard. Whether it was adrenaline, or some private disbelief at what had nearly happened, Megan couldn’t tell.

For the briefest fraction of a second, his gaze flicked to her. It wasn’t the careless, dismissive glance he usually tossed her way like spare change. This one was sharper. Focused. Measuring something she couldn’t name.

“There’s someone behind me,” he said, calm as if he hadn’t just pulled the trigger on himself. His arm lowered with deliberate control, flipping the gun upside down so the handle faced out. “It seems to have possessed me recently.”

Her knees nearly buckled. It took every ounce of strength not to collapse onto the cold concrete. Her fingers dug into the leather of her bracelets, still warm from the way she’d clutched them. That heat seeped into her skin, an echo of the panic still hammering through her veins. She knew—even without trying—that the image of that barrel against his temple was carved deep enough to follow her for a long time.

Jotaro said nothing else. He turned his back on all of them and crossed the short space to his cot. The springs groaned faintly as he sat, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor—on nothing. A wall sliding firmly into place.

Megan kept watching him, willing him to look up, to show some trace of what had just happened, some crack in the stone. But he didn’t.

Her breathing stayed uneven. Every inhale shallow, every exhale too quick. She swallowed hard and turned toward Holy.

Holy’s expression softened instantly. Her eyes—warm, steady, impossibly kind—met Megan’s tear-streaked gaze like an outstretched hand across a chasm. Not pity, exactly. Something gentler. Sympathetic. Understanding in a way that felt…familiar, though Megan couldn’t say why.

Her son had just put a gun to his head, pulled the trigger—and yet she was still reaching outward, still offering comfort to a stranger.

The kindness hit harder than Megan expected. Like a warm hand pressed to a bruise she’d been ignoring. It cracked the brittle shell she’d been holding together since she walked in.

Her throat tightened, vision blurring in that fragile instant before the dam could break. She ducked into a quick, clumsy bow, hoping it carried all the gratitude she couldn’t voice without shattering.

“I’m sorry…I-I can’t—” The words broke thin and uneven, crumbling on her tongue.

And then she moved. Fast. She had to. Before her face betrayed her further. Before that unexpected warmth tore down what little composure she had left. Before the full weight of the scene could hit like a freight train and scatter her in pieces across the floor.

A sob slipped free anyway, raw and unwanted. She pressed her lips together until they ached and climbed the stairs, each step echoing too loud in the empty block. One hand clamped over her bracelet, fingers curled tight around the leather like she could hold herself together if she just didn’t let go.

Behind her, the quiet settled again.
Jotaro stayed on his cot.
Holy stayed at the bars.
And Megan—for the second time in as many days—didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

It was Thursday afternoon when she saw Jotaro again—later in the week than she’d expected, and definitely sooner than she’d admit she’d been hoping for. The days in between had all blurred together anyway, her brain stuck on replay. That moment kept looping—his sharp command, that impossible flash of violet light, the gunshot slamming the air apart—until it stopped feeling like a memory and more like some half-lucid dream. But the way her shoulders locked up every time it crossed her mind told her it hadn’t been a dream at all. It had happened. All of it.

The school grounds were almost empty, most students already long gone. Megan cut across the courtyard, weaving past the empty bike racks and the long shadow of the gym. She’d only remembered halfway across campus that she’d left her gym clothes in her locker—clothes that seriously needed a wash after the so-called “light cardio” her PE teacher had ambushed them with earlier. Her lungs still hadn’t forgiven him for that lie.

She rounded the corner, still half-lost in wondering whether vinegar or baking soda would do a better job on that damp, locker-room smell. And then her thoughts just…stopped. Crashed like a dropped cassette.

It was Jotaro

He was hurt. Not falling-down hurt, but enough that her stomach lurched the second she saw him. Dried blood clung to the corner of his mouth in flaking patches, catching the light when he moved. His skin looked paler than usual, the sharp angles of his face pulled tighter than normal. His hands told the rest of the story: split knuckles, stained dark with old crimson. It looked like he’d been swinging way past the point where most people would’ve stopped.

On top of that, he wasn’t alone. Draped over one broad shoulder was another boy. Smaller, out cold, and clearly in worse shape. The green coat of his uniform hung limp, his arm swaying with every steady step Jotaro took.

Megan didn’t think. One second she was frozen; the next, her legs just decided for her and she was running.

“Jotaro!” The name broke out of her throat sharper than she expected, her voice thick with panic. The raven haired teen’s eyes cut to her in an instant, recognition flickering there for only a heartbeat before it dissolved into a slow roll of his eyes. The sigh that followed was heavy and thoroughly annoyed.

“You again,” he muttered, like the universe had played some cruel joke by dropping her in his path once again. “Get lost.”

And there it was again—that pull. His words didn’t just land; they carried weight, sliding under her skin like invisible hands straightening her spine. The command pressed against her nerves in a way that made yes, fine, I’ll go feel like the easiest, safest option in the world.

But once again, Megan didn’t move. Didn’t obey. Her gaze stayed locked on him: on the dried smears of blood at his mouth. On the faint grind of his jaw that said he was holding back more than words.

“You’re hurt! What happened? Did this man attack you? Are you taking him to the police?” The questions tumbled out too fast, colliding with each other. Her brain hurled them forward long before her mouth had any chance of slowing them down.

Jotaro stopped mid-step. He turned his head with deliberate slowness, the kind that made her instantly, painfully aware of just how much taller he was. His expression shifted—not by much, but enough. A ripple across still water. Something about her question had caught him off guard.

And then—nothing. No explanation. No brush-off either. Just his eyes on her. Not the half-lidded, bored look she’d seen him aim at others, like they weren’t worth the effort. This was sharper. Piercing. Like she’d been slid under glass and pinned there.

The silence stretched. Her heartbeat filled it, too loud in her ears, the sound crawling down her throat until it was all she could hear. Heat climbed up her neck. Not just embarrassment—something sharper. Frustration that stung like static. Why did he have to make everything so impossible? If he would just let her do something—anything—then maybe she wouldn’t feel like she was stuck at the edge of a cliff, waiting for the ground to drop.

Underneath the frustration was the real terror. If she couldn’t fix things, she couldn’t keep herself safe. Leaving him standing there injured, with no clue what he thought of her—whether he was annoyed, angry, or worse—was another loose thread dangling. Waiting to unravel. Someone being upset with her wasn’t just uncomfortable. It wasn’t safe.

Her lips parted. The apology was already rising, automatic: like a reflex wired into her bones. She hadn’t even done anything wrong, but his stare made it feel like she had. The words pressed hard at the back of her throat—sorry, sorry, I’ll leave, I’ll disappear—but she swallowed them down and clamped her jaw shut.

Not this time.

“Okay, fine. I can take a hint,” Megan muttered, her stance still angled for retreat but not quite surrender. The bite in her tone slipped out before she could reel it back. Her eyes gave her away, softening in spite of everything. She shot him one last look—the kind you gave someone heading straight into danger you couldn’t stop.

“Just…try not to get hurt any further, okay?” Her voice came quieter this time, stripped bare of sarcasm. Just the plea left behind.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even blink.

Megan exhaled slowly. The moment settled heavy between her shoulders, a weight she couldn’t shrug off. Turning away felt more like running, each step toward the school stretching out too long. Her footsteps ricocheted against the empty air, louder than they should’ve been.

“Hey.”

Just one word—but it hit like a hook. Her body reacted before her brain caught up, jerking her to a stop, pivoting so fast she nearly stumbled. His voice had been low, even, but weighted in a way that made ignoring it impossible.

Jotaro was still watching her. Different this time: deliberate. His gaze cut through her with a sharpness that left her feeling like she’d missed something vital. And she hated the way it made her want to fill the silence with words she didn’t have.

“You saw it, didn’t you?”

He didn’t need to explain. The memory lit up instantly: that blinding violet flare, the massive armored figure radiating impossible strength, moving in perfect sync with him. Like part of him, yet somehow not. Her skin prickled at the thought, fine hairs rising along her arms.

She nodded once, throat tight, swallowing hard.

Jotaro didn’t react. No confirmation. No denial. Just a pivot, silent as stone, before he kept walking like the conversation never happened.

Before she could even begin to untangle the question—(because seriously, what the hell was that?!)—he stopped again, glancing back over his shoulder.

“You coming, or not?”

Her feet answered before her mind had any chance to object. She quickened her pace, finding herself practically jogging to match his long strides.

“Where are we going?” she asked, breath catching more than she’d like.

“My house,” he said simply, not sparing her a glance. “There’s someone you should meet.”

Jotaro Kujo’s house was…big.
And calling it “big” was like calling the ocean “a little damp.”

The Kujo residence wasn’t ostentatious in the way she imagined other rich kids’ houses might be. It didn’t need to scream for attention. The place carried a quiet, unshakable authority, the kind that came from old roots and careful tending. The front path stretched in clean lines of stone, leading through a manicured garden where a pair of camellia bushes flanked the entry like silent sentries.

The house itself was entirely traditional. White plaster walls, latticed with dark wooden beams. Broad eaves that curved outward, their sweep giving the impression the roof might take flight if the wind pressed hard enough. Sliding shoji doors waited behind the lacquered entrance, their pale paper screens diffusing the light into soft, golden tones. Even the front door radiated gravity: heavy wood polished to a shine and fitted with simple iron hardware. It wasn’t a door you tapped on casually. It was a threshold you approached with intention.

Jotaro led her along the engawa wrapping around the house. Their footsteps fell soft against the smooth, honey-colored boards worn down by decades of use. On her left, the garden stretched out in careful pockets: stone lanterns tucked half out of sight among azalea blooms, koi water glinting somewhere deeper among the greenery. On her right, shoji screens opened onto rooms so immaculate they looked less like places people actually lived and more like exhibits in a museum.

Through the papered doors she caught glimpses of tatami glowing pale under the filtered light, low lacquered tables planted squarely in their centers, porcelain tea sets gleaming like display pieces. Everything was precise. Purposeful. Not a stray sock. Not even a forgotten newspaper.

The air inside was cooler than the garden, touched with incense. Somewhere deeper in the house, a wind bell chimed, its soft note too perfectly timed to feel like coincidence.

It wasn’t just a house. It was discipline made visible. A quiet declaration: this is who we are.

They turned a corner, and a voice drifted out from a room off to the right. Bright, warm, unguarded: like sunlight slipping through paper.

“I felt like I had a strange connection to my son just now!”

Jotaro didn’t pause. “I’m not thinking about you,” he replied, voice flat as he stepped into the doorway.

A startled cry rang out, followed by the clatter of something hitting the floor. Megan caught a glimpse of a framed photo skidding across the tatami before a woman spun around. Holy Kujo moved toward them, her face caught between joy and alarm. She froze at the sight of her towering son standing with another boy slung over his shoulder like unwanted cargo.

“J-Jotaro! What about school? And who is that?” Holy’s voice rose with panic, her gaze dropping to the stains on the boy’s uniform. “He’s covered in blood…D-Don’t tell me…you did that?”

“It’s got nothing to do with you.” Jotaro replied smoothly, adjusting the boy higher on his shoulder.

Megan hovered at the edge of the scene, every instinct telling her to fold in on herself. To shrink. To get smaller, quieter. Maybe invisible if she tried hard enough. She knew she didn’t belong here—in the polished center of a house that radiated control, order, belonging. None of which had anything to do with her.

But invisibility never worked for her the way she wanted. Holy’s gaze cut past her son’s shoulder and landed on Megan with unerring precision.

“Megan!” Holy’s whole face lit up, her voice ringing down the hall like a struck bell. “I’m so happy to see you again!”

Megan blinked, startled—not just at being remembered, but at being remembered with warmth. The recognition sparked something dangerous in her chest. Something that almost felt like pride. She smothered it fast, forcing a small, awkward smile and a courteous bow. “Hi, Mrs. Kujo—”

“She’s such a pretty girl, isn’t she, Jotaro? Don’t you think so?”

Holy’s smile was radiant, her eyes shining with that unmistakable oh no look—the kind that meant a mother’s imagination had just leapt three steps ahead.

The words hit Megan like stepping into a draft and a heat lamp at the same time. Her face burned, her pulse jumped. She couldn’t decide if she should say thank you, duck behind her hair, or just pray for spontaneous combustion. Against her better judgment, she risked a glance at Jotaro—

—only to find him ignoring it completely. His face was neutral, detached, as if the comment had never existed. Relief and insult tangled inside her chest, neither strong enough to win.

Without another word, Jotaro turned and started down the hall. Megan followed automatically, tossing Holy a quick apologetic bow before hurrying after him.

“I’m looking for the old man,” Jotaro said abruptly, snapping the thread of conversation back on track. “Hard to track him down in a house this size.”

Holy’s voice followed them, warm and lilting, just mischievous enough to give her away. “I think your grandfather’s in the tea room with Avdol!”

“Who’s Avdol?” The question slipped out of Megan’s mouth before she could stop it.

Jotaro didn’t answer. Shocking.

They had nearly reached the far end of the walkway when he slowed. Without warning, he turned  back slightly. His voice carried easily across the polished boards.

“Hey.”

Holy looked up, blinking. “Yes?”

“You look a little pale this morning.” His tone was flat as ever, but Megan caught it—something softer buried under the gravel. “Are you all right?”

Holy hesitated, surprise blooming faintly in her cheeks. “Ah…fine! Thank you!”

Jotaro gave a short nod. So small it might have passed for indifference if you weren’t paying attention. For that fraction of a second, she caught it: concern. Real concern, tucked carefully behind the hard edges of his voice.

The realization startled her more than she wanted to admit. He didn’t strike her as the kind of person who asked after anyone’s well-being unless it was life-or-death. The fact that it was his mother didn’t dull the surprise. If anything, it made it warmer. Like catching a thin slice of sunlight through heavy cloud cover.

Jotaro turned back without another word, already acting like the moment hadn’t happened Megan followed, glancing once over her shoulder at Holy, who still watched them go with an expression Megan couldn’t seem to fully understand.

*~*

The tea room was warmer than the shaded walkway. Sunlight sifted gently through the shoji, pooling on the tatami in pale, lazy rectangles. The air carried the earthy calm of steeped tea, undercut with a faint, sharper thread of incense.

Two men sat at the low table, and for a split second Megan forgot how to breathe.

They were both tall, broad-shouldered—the kind of men who looked built, not born. And, though she hated admitting it—even in her own head—they were…well, handsome.

The older one looked to be in his early sixties. Silver-gray hair neatly combed so it caught the light in soft strands. His eyes were vivid aquamarine. A shade bluer than Jotaro’s, but the resemblance was instant and undeniable. The square jaw. The sharp cheekbones. That solid, resolute presence that radiated command—like the world itself had spent decades getting used to giving him his way.

The younger man—late twenties, maybe—was harder to peg. Striking in a different sense, the kind that made Megan’s posture straighten on instinct. He wore layers of colorful robes, heavy jewelry chiming softly with every movement. His walnut-brown eyes, framed by neatly coiled bantu knots tied back under a white headband, were precise. Deliberate. Watching her with the kind of gaze that measured, weighed and catalogued. Every fidget she tried to hide probably just gave him more data.

The older man spoke first. “Who’s the girl? And why’s she here?”

Megan blinked, caught off guard for what felt like the tenth time today. English. He had spoken in clear, fluent English.

“Her name’s Megan,” Jotaro said as he entered, also in English. He knelt by the table, lowering the unconscious boy from his shoulder to the floor with a carefulness that didn’t match the clipped edge of his voice.

Her focus snagged on his words more than their meaning. Jotaro spoke English. Of course he did—she should’ve realized. His mother’s accent alone should have been a clue. Still, hearing her native language roll so effortlessly off his tongue startled her, like discovering something about him she should’ve already known.

Jotaro straightened, folding his arms across his chest as he turned back to the men. “And I brought her because she’s a Stand user.”

Her brain stuttered.

Wait, what?
“Wait, what?” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Three pairs of eyes turned toward her, each carrying its own weight.

The dark-skinned man’s intelligent gaze held steady on her, clinical in its precision. “You have a Stand?” The man’s voice was smooth, each word deliberate. It carried the quiet authority of someone accustomed to being listened to. However, Megan didn’t detect any sense of accusation in his question, only keen curiosity.

Megan blinked back at him, suddenly feeling like a deer caught too far from the trees. “A…Stand?”

The only stand she could picture was the one in her bedroom—the nightstand with the chipped mug and lopsided stack of paperbacks threatening to collapse. Somehow, she knew that wasn’t the right answer here.

“I'm sorry...I-I don’t—” she began.

“She saw Star Platinum when she visited me at the prison.” Jotaro’s voice cut clean across hers. He didn’t bother looking directly at her until the last second, his eyes shifting under the shadow of his cap. “And if I had to guess,” he added, a faint edge sharpening the evenness of his tone, “you saw it when I took out those gang members too. Didn’t you?”

She stared at him, the name ricocheting in her head like a pinball: Star Platinum. Was that what the violet giant was called? That impossible figure that had ripped itself out of Jotaro like it belonged to him—like it was him—and caught a bullet as though it had been drifting lazily through water?

Her fingers twitched. She clutched at her leather bracelets, automatic, telling herself it was grounding. But the truth pressed harder in her gut: that memory still twisted like a blade every time she let herself picture it.

All Megan could manage was a nod.

The dark-skinned man—Avdol, if she had to guess—also nodded, as though confirming a suspicion. His voice stayed calm, deliberate, but now carried a faint warmth.
“And your Stand? Tell us about it. What does it do?”

The question sounded innocuous if you didn’t understand. But the way asked it carried weight, and expectation. It felt as though the answer already existed and she was the only one holding it back.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Her spine locked stiff, every instinct telling her to shrink, disappear, slip between the cracks in the floor if she could. The tatami beneath her knees felt less like solid ground and more like quicksand.

“I—” Her voice snagged, thin. “I…don’t have one?” It tilted upward, half-question, half-plea, as if uncertainty might soften the blow enough to make them stop asking.

“Only Stand users can see other Stands, young lady,” the older man declared, his voice booming with sudden warmth. A broad smile spread across his weathered face, and the weight of it startled her. “Looks like you’re one of us!”

One of us. The phrase hit awkwardly in her chest—part welcome, part verdict.

Before she could figure out what that meant, he stepped forward and extended his hand. A Western handshake. Megan, still dazed, took it. His grip was steady, strong, but gentle. And somehow, before her brain had time to object, she found herself shaking it back.

“I’m Joseph Joestar,” he said, smile widening. “I’m Jotaro’s grandfather. And this here is my comrade, Mohammed Avdol.”

Avdol inclined his head in a graceful bow. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, each syllable deliberate. The weight of it made it sound like more than courtesy.

Megan swallowed, forcing her voice steady. “Nice to meet you both. I’m Megan Bran—”

“Hey.”

Jotaro’s voice cut through, sharp enough to silence the room. She was starting to recognize that tone of his: measured, but carrying the kind of gravity that didn’t leave space for argument.

“Let’s skip the introductions,” he said, his gaze sliding over her before locking back on the others. “And maybe focus on the actual Stand user that tried to kill me.”

The word actual dropped into her stomach like a stone. Not quite an insult, but heavy enough to sting. Heat flared in her cheeks—embarrassment sharp and hot—but tangled with it was something heavier. Something she didn’t have a name for.

Wait, kill?
So...it hadn’t just been a fight.

The men’s attention shifted instantly to the unconscious boy stretched across the tatami. Aside from the bruises and the dried blood, he looked disturbingly normal—like someone who’d simply dozed off for a nap in the wrong place. Joseph crouched near his head, cyan gaze narrowing as he studied every detail. Avdol lowered himself on the other side, calm and precise.

Megan stayed where she was. Her hands crept upward, fingers twisting into the fabric of her shirt until the seams bit into her skin. She tried to read their faces, desperate for some clue about what they were seeing. Their focus stayed locked firmly on the unconscious redhead.

Joseph leaned closer, brows knitting together. The cheer from earlier had drained completely from his tone. “It doesn’t look good,” he muttered, voice edged in something heavier. “It’s too late.”

Too late?

“He’s dying?” Her own voice sounded small, fragile. Even to her.

Joseph looked up just long enough to meet her eyes. The glance was steady and kind, but unflinching. Then his focus returned to the boy. “We can’t save him,” he said more firmly. “I give him a few days.”

Megan’s throat tightened. She didn’t even understand why she felt like she could cry. This boy had attacked Jotaro—had tried to kill him. Yet lying here, weakened and battered, he didn’t look like an enemy. He looked…young. Maybe her age. Perhaps he was even younger.

The thought clawed at her. A life cut short before it had a chance to even unfold. Tragic no matter which side he’d chosen. And she knew too well how unfair death could be—how it stole the youngest, the undeserving. She shoved that thought down fast, before it could open its teeth.

Jotaro’s head tilted slightly, his brows narrowing. A silent demand for more.

“It’s not your fault, Jotaro” Joseph said gently. The reassurance carried weight, steady but without indulgence. He shifted against the tatami; the dry fibers groaned beneath him. “Look.”

Megan’s eyes flicked to the boy, searching for whatever Joseph had found. His naturally red hair matted even darker with blood. His chest rose faintly, his face slack. There wasn’t anything malevolent that leapt out at her. No eerie glint in his eyes, no villain’s scar. Just a broken teenager lying far too still. Her head tilted without her realizing, the way it always did when she was trying to solve a puzzle she didn’t understand.

Joseph lowered his hand, hovering it above the boy’s temple, his fingers steady despite the crusted blood tangling the red strands.

“This—” he murmured, brushing the hair aside, “—is the culprit.”

That’s when Megan saw something at the boy's hairline. Her whole body snapped back like she’d been struck, instinct curling her inward. Arms crossed tight over her stomach, as if she could shield herself from the sight alone. The sound that escaped her throat was raw and unfiltered, pitched too high and humiliatingly loud—closer to a banshee wail than anything human.

It looked like a bug. A grotesque, alien bug. Instead of legs, it sprouted slick, muscular tentacles that flexed with obscene precision. Its skin—if you could even call it that—was a mottled mix of sickly flesh tones and bruised purples, streaked with faint, unnatural pink. The thing writhed against his forehead like it was burrowing deeper, digging for a home. Or worse—feeding.

“The hell—?” Jotaro’s voice cut the air, sharp enough to make her flinch.

Understatement of the century. Megan’s heart thrashed so violently it felt like it was rattling her teeth. Every nerve screamed at her to get the hell out of there. She was honestly considering climbing up the wall just to get farther from that nightmare parasite.

Avdol’s steady voice sliced through the panic “That is a flesh bud, formed from Dio’s own cells. It connects to his brain. This organism was implanted to influence his thoughts, his decisions—his very will.”

Joseph’s voice pressed harder now, his tone weighted with force. His hands moved as if punctuating each word. “In other words, that flesh bud is a controller—it draws out dangerous devotion. The kind that makes soldiers obey dictators.”

Megan’s stomach flipped. She tore her gaze away but couldn’t stop herself from flicking back to it again. Just imagining that parasite twisting around inside her skull made her want to claw at her own temples. She tucked her hands under her arms, resisting the urge to shake it off like she could fling the thought away.

Joseph’s jaw locked, his fist clenching. “This young man admired Dio and swore loyalty to him. Dio is charismatic. Overwhelmingly so. He can sway others with his presence alone.”

Megan’s brow furrowed. She didn’t know much about this Dio. Only that his name had been dropping like lead each time he was mentioned. But, if this was his idea of persuasion, she was already checking the “no thanks” box on any invitation. There had to be a hundred clubs she’d rather join.

Joseph’s voice lowered to something slower and more deliberate. “He used that influence to order this young man—Kakyoin—to kill us.”

Kakyoin. The name dropped heavy into her chest before she could stop it. Having a name made him real. Human. No longer just a faceless attacker sprawled on the floor.

Jotaro’s response was blunt, almost casual. “So do an excision and pull it out.”

Megan’s head snapped toward him, her eyes wide before she broke into an eager nod. “Yes! That! Exactly that.” Her hand flailed vaguely toward Kakyoin’s temple, words spilling faster than she could check them. “And maybe we could also set it on fire? You know...just for good measure.”

Joseph’s eyes crinkled faintly, though the gravity of the moment held any real smile back. “The brain is delicate,” he said patiently. “If Kakyoin were to move during extraction, we could inflict permanent damage.”

Her momentum faltered. “Right. Brain damage. Not ideal,” she muttered, voice shrinking as her gaze flicked back to the pulsing parasite.

She risked another glance at Jotaro. Hearing him speaking English was still rattling in her head. His accent was faint, so faint it was almost invisible—like he’d grown up speaking it as commonly as Japanese. Which, she realized, he probably had. Raised between his mother’s foreign warmth and Japan’s steel edges. Somehow, it only deepened the strange contradiction he was: aloof, unreachable…and yet quietly fluent in things she couldn’t touch.

Avdol shifted where he sat. The subtle movement drew the room’s attention like a magnet. “JoJo,” he began, low and steady, his voice carrying a weight that settled over them. “What I am about to tell you happened four months ago, when I was in Cairo, Egypt: I, too, met Dio.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Megan caught the slightest change in Jotaro’s posture. Barely there—just the angle of his head, the faint turn of his shoulders. But enough to show Avdol had his full attention. Without realizing it, she mirrored him, leaning forward, curiosity twisting together with the thread of unease creeping up her spine.

“I am a fortune teller by trade,” Avdol continued, his words slipping into a slow cadence that made the tea room feel closer, smaller. “I keep a shop in Khan el-Khalili. It was the night of a full moon. Dio stood quietly on the stairs leading to my second floor.”

His voice darkened, shadowed by memory. “His gaze felt as though it could pierce my heart. Golden hair, skin pale as alabaster, and—most of all—a dubious sensuality. The kind you would never expect from any ordinary man.”

Megan’s brow arched before she caught herself. She bit the inside of her cheek to smother the quip buzzing at the edge of her tongue.

Dubious sensuality? Is he describing an enemy, or workshopping the back cover of a romance novel?

“I had heard about him from Mr. Joestar,” Avdol went on, “so I knew immediately who it was—Dio, risen from the depths of the Atlantic.”

His composure faltered now, voice tightening. “And it was then I found him truly terrifying. His words…they brought peace to my soul. They carried a dangerous sweetness. It was horrifying.”

Avdol steadied himself, though the memory still clung to him like smoke. “I ran for my life. I didn’t dare fight him. I was lucky. Had Mr. Joestar not warned me who he was, had I not leapt from that window and lost myself in the maze of streets I knew…” His gaze dipped to Kakyoin, his voice softening without losing certainty. “I would have ended up like this young man.”

Megan frowned. The words scraped against her thoughts like sandpaper. Pawns. Flesh buds. It all sounded like something from the horror novels she read on long train rides—but Avdol wasn’t spinning stories.

“But…how does one man even have that kind of power?” she asked before she could stop herself. Her nose wrinkled. “You said these—” she flicked her chin toward the parasite “—flesh buds are made from Dio’s own cells? How does someone even do that?”

Joseph’s voice cut in before Avdol could answer. Calm, but firm enough to straighten her spine. “Because Dio is an immortal vampire who’s lived for over a century.”

Her brain stuttered, thought grinding to a halt like a record needle catching on vinyl.
A vampire?

She blinked at him, half-expecting a punchline. Something to prove she wasn’t the only one in the room hearing how ridiculous that sounded. But Joseph’s expression didn’t waver. No humor. No doubt. Just the flat certainty of someone who had seen it firsthand.

Right. Okay. Vampires.
As if ghostly, musclebound fighters that could catch bullets weren’t enough, now she had to mentally open a fresh folder labeled Vampires (Apparently Real) and shove it into the expanding cabinet of Things I Guess I Believe Now.

“…Okay,” she said slowly, stretching each syllable like it might buy her time. “So can’t you just…stab him with a wooden stake? Throw garlic and holy water at him? That’s how it works, right?”

From the doorway came a quiet, derisive “tch.” She didn’t need to look to know Jotaro had rolled his eyes. Megan’s jaw tightened. They were perfectly reasonable suggestions, thank you very much. If Dracula and Interview with the Vampire counted as manuals, she was practically qualified to teach a college seminar.

Joseph shook his head. “Forget the old monster-movie tricks! Dio has only two weaknesses—sunlight…and Hamon.”

“Hamon?” Megan echoed, her brows pulling tight.

The corners of Joseph’s mouth twitched, like just saying the word tugged loose an old memory. “Hamon is a kind of energy control. Through breathing, you create a current that runs through the body—then conduct that energy into anything you touch. Against unnatural things, it’s devastating.”

Her frown deepened, chin tipping down. “Right…energy control.” She leaned back, arms folded tight, mentally adding it to the week’s absurd tally: ghost brawlers, vampires, and now breathing magic. At this rate, why not sea serpents? Talking swords? A secret council of werewolves? If the universe was handing out mythical curveballs, it should at least commit. If a unicorn didn’t stroll past her by next Wednesday, she was going to feel personally cheated.

Joseph’s gaze cut back to Kakyoin, his tone flattening with grim certainty. “If Avdol had been implanted with a flesh bud, like this young man, his brain would have been completely devoured. He would also have died.”

A chill traced down Megan’s spine. He didn’t dramatize it. He said it like someone pointing out the stove had been left on—matter-of-fact, inevitable.

“Died?” Jotaro’s scoff split the air, low and sharp.

Megan flicked a glance at him, expecting him to stop there. But his voice shifted, quieter, steadier—the kind of tone that demanded either agreement or retreat. “Let’s not jump the gun. Kakyoin’s not in great shape, but he’s not dead yet.”

Then he moved—suddenly, but not without intention. His right arm cut through the air in a clean arc, fingers flattening. The space around him thickened, shimmered—until Star Platinum unfolded into being at his side, like it had only been waiting behind a veil.

Even now, the sight left her caught between awe and unease. Up close, the Stand’s presence prickled her skin, lifting every fine hair on her arms. It wasn’t just power. It was precision sharpened into something alive. Dangerous.

Jotaro lowered himself beside Kakyoin, the brim of his cap shadowing his eyes. “I’ll pull it out with my Stand.”

Megan stared, the question spilling out before she could stop it. “You can…actually do that?” Her voice cracked somewhere between disbelief and reluctant hope—like she wanted him to swear it was possible but couldn’t imagine any hand, human or spectral, to be that precise.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even flick his gaze her way. His focus stayed locked on Kakyoin, as if her doubt was background noise—or as if the only response worth giving would be the proof itself.

His hands braced on either side of Kakyoin’s head. Star Platinum mirrored him perfectly, impossibly solid and fluid at once. The Stand’s massive fingers lowered toward the parasite, its thumb and forefinger aligning with surgical precision.

The sight made Megan’s stomach lurch—equal parts fascination and horror. Mostly horror. Ninety-three percent, minimum.

Both Avdol and Joseph lurched to their feet at once, the tatami groaning under their sudden shifts.

“No, Jotaro! Stop!” Joseph’s voice cracked sharp, shattering the charged stillness. He thrust out a hand toward his grandson. He held out his palm as if sheer will alone might stop him.

Jotaro’s teeth clenched, his jaw a hard line. “Back off, old man! I can remove this thing without damaging his brain. If my Stand can catch a bullet mid-flight, it can do this.”

Megan’s heart slammed once, sharp enough to hurt. She wanted to back him up—wanted to tell Joseph she believed him. That after what she’d already seen Star Platinum do, she knew he could. But the words knotted in her throat, trapped between the fierce pull of faith and the sharper terror that if she broke his concentration for even a second, they’d all watch someone die right in front of them.

Star Platinum’s enormous fingers closed tighter around the pulsing bud—

—and it reacted instantly.

A tentacle lashed out, slick and fast, with the precision of a striking snake. It punched into Jotaro’s hand with a sickening, fleshy shhk. The sound was so visceral Megan swore she felt it reverberate through her teeth.

“Jotaro!” His name tore out of her before she could think, high and thin against the suffocating silence. She stumbled forward two steps, useless, like proximity might somehow help—or at least prove she hadn’t just stood frozen while something tried to crawl into him.

“Shit!” Joseph’s voice barked from the far side of Kakyoin, taut with alarm. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth flashed white for a heartbeat.

“Jotaro, you have to stop! It’ll infiltrate the brain of anyone who tries to remove it!” Joseph snapped, his words bursting with urgency like live rounds.

Megan’s gaze dropped—then instantly wished she hadn’t. The tentacle was already spreading, crawling beneath his skin in jagged, unnatural branches. It writhed like a grotesque root system, burrowing higher with each pulse. Up his wrist. Toward his arm.

Jotaro’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second before narrowing into a glare of raw concentration. His teeth ground together, his jaw working like he could crush the parasite through sheer force of will. Muscles corded down his arm, every tendon straining tight.

The air itself seemed to vibrate—Star Platinum’s presence radiating outward in taut, invisible waves. It prickled across Megan’s skin, sank into her bones, pressure building like the instant before a thunderclap.

Kakyoin’s eyes snapped open. The suddenness jolted her almost as much as their color: deep, vivid amethyst, sharp against the slackness of his face. His gaze fell on the parasite writhing inside Jotaro’s hand, its obscene twitch mirrored faintly in the tension around his eyes.

“Why…are you…” His voice scraped out hoarse, raw with disbelief as much as confusion.

“Stay still, Kakyoin.” Jotaro’s tone was flat but forged in steel, each word dropping with the weight of command. “One wrong move and you’re a dead man.”

Megan’s heartbeat rattled her ribs so hard it stole her breath. The sound filled her skull, deafening, leaving nothing but the sight before her: Jotaro’s unyielding grip, Star Platinum’s exacting fingers, and that parasite still crawling under his skin like it meant to root itself there forever.

Do something. The thought clawed at her, sharp and frantic. Anything. Anything. But what?

Her vision stuttered—edges flickering with unnatural blue light. For half a heartbeat, she felt something inside her strain against invisible walls, coiled and pressing to break free. A kind of pressure rose in her chest, threatening to spill outward.

Her fingers twitched at her sides. The air felt charged, buzzing with a current that didn’t belong to Star Platinum. For one dizzy second, she thought—

No. There was nothing she could do. She wasn’t Jotaro. She didn’t have a Stand. She didn’t have the kind of strength it took to rip something like that out and win.

The light blinked out as quickly as it had come, leaving her with only the bitter metallic taste of fear at the back of her tongue and the relentless hammer of her pulse in her ears.

Star Platinum’s grip stayed locked, every pull slow and deliberate, each movement taut with restrained force. The parasite writhed violently, its tentacle burrowing deeper into Jotaro’s hand before slithering upward—creeping toward his face in a grotesque, gleaming line.

“No, Jotaro!” Avdol’s voice thundered, urgency vibrating in every syllable. It carried the kind of authority that demanded obedience. “The tentacle has already reached your neck! You have to let go!”

He moved fast, decisive, like he was ready to drag Jotaro back by force if that’s what it took. But Joseph’s arm shot out, stopping him cold.

“Wait, Avdol!” Joseph barked. His voice cracked like command, but underneath it was something warmer. Pride. His gaze fixed on Jotaro, narrowed with the practiced weight of someone who’d read men in battle for decades. “This is my grandson we’re talking about. It’s inside him, and still he’s calm.”

Megan’s eyes darted back to Jotaro. The tendons in his jaw stood out like steel cables, every muscle wound tight. His face was the same stubborn mask she’d become accustomed to—that quiet defiance he wore like armor.

The parasite crept higher, a slick pulse sliding beneath his skin, curling up the side of his neck until it brushed the sharp angle of his jaw. Megan’s chest seized painfully. Too close. One more second and—

Star Platinum roared, a guttural shout that cracked the air. In one brutal motion, the Stand wrenched the flesh bud free from Kakyoin’s hairline. The veined tendrils ripped loose from both host and attacker in a single, sickening pull.

Jotaro didn’t flinch. Not when the tendrils tore out of his own hand. Not when the parasite writhed in Star Platinum’s grip like it knew its end had come. The violet eidolon gave another fierce shout, muscles straining, and snapped the tentacles in two with a wet, decisive crack before hurling the pieces aside.

Joseph was already moving. His hand cut the air with practiced precision, his voice ringing with sudden force:

“Overdrive!”

Golden energy surged from the strike, crackling as it slammed into the parasite. The thing convulsed violently before collapsing in on itself, curling into brittle ash that drifted down to the tatami in weightless flakes.

Yup. Hamon was magic. Apparently.

Movement at the edge of her vision caught Megan’s attention. Kakyoin stirred, lashes fluttering like someone surfacing from deep water. His lavender eyes caught the afternoon light, fractured with unsteady focus. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, one hand braced on the tatami while the other lifted to his forehead, fingertips grazing the spot where the parasite had been.

Megan’s gaze slid instinctively toward Jotaro. Before she could stop herself, her hand lifted slightly, a reflexive urge to check him for injury tugging at her like muscle memory.

He was already walking toward the open shoji doors. His stride was loose, hands sunk deep in his pockets. Like he hadn’t just gone toe-to-toe with something that tried to crawl into his brain and make a home there.

A soft, startled sound made her turn. Kakyoin was staring after him, his expression shifting in fractured beats—bewilderment first, then something steadier. Quieter.

“Tell me…” His voice was hoarse, scraped raw, but the core of it held steady. “Why did you risk your life to save me?”

Megan’s brows pinched together, her attention flicking between them. She caught the way Jotaro turned more fully this time, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes as he met Kakyoin’s stare head-on. They held each other’s gaze in silence, the air taut with something Megan couldn’t name.

“Dunno,” Jotaro said finally. Flat, almost offhand…but not careless. “Can’t say I really know why myself.”

The words weren’t meant for her, but they struck anyway. Until now, Jotaro had been a wall: stern, unreadable. Everything locked behind doors he didn’t plan on opening. But here, with that quiet admission, something had slipped through. For the first time, she saw him not just as the unshakable force he pretended to be, but as…human. A good one. For one dangerous second, that realization tugged at her in a way she hadn’t prepared for.

Kakyoin’s eyes lingered on the doorway, confusion still etched in his frame, though it had already begun to soften. Megan hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek before leaning toward him.

“What you did back there…” she said softly in Japanese, careful with every word, “it’s become clear that wasn’t really you. Not the real you. You’re safe now.”

The words weren’t planned. They slipped out, pulled from the knot in her chest and the lingering image of that parasite burrowing under his skin. Just thinking about it made her shiver.

She shifted closer, lowering herself to kneel beside him. The tatami sighed beneath her weight, cool against her knees. Up close, she could see how pale he still was, the faint flush of effort or lingering pain coloring his cheeks. Tentatively, she set a hand on his shoulder—not gripping, not too familiar. Just enough to say I’m here. “Are you alright?”

He turned toward her. For a second, his eyes were distant, closed off. Then the sharp bewilderment softened, smoothing into something gentler. His mouth curved faintly—not carefree, but the kind of almost-smile that said thank you without words. Still, behind it was a question, unspoken but clear: Who are you?

“I’m Megan,” she offered, her voice steadier now. “Megan Branford.”

His faint smile widened as he inclined his head. “Kakyoin Noriyaki.”

She blinked at the weight of the full name. And before her brain could slam the brakes on her mouth, she muttered in English, “Christ, what a mouthful…”

The realization hit half a second later. Her eyes flew wide, heat rushing into her cheeks. “Oh my god—I didn’t mean—”

But Kakyoin’s laugh—quiet, genuine—broke through her panic. Not mocking, but warm. It startled her more than anything else had. After everything, hearing him sound so…normal felt almost surreal. And somehow that was worse, because it left her both relieved and mortified at once.

By the time Megan managed to settle, the tea room had shifted into a strange calm. Holy knelt with the effortless grace of someone who had been taught it since childhood, legs folded neatly beneath her. Her brown skirt pressed into the tatami as she laid a fresh bandage gently across Kakyoin’s forehead. Her touch was so feather-light, Megan thought she looked more like she was tending a child than a boy their age.

Avdol sat cross-legged opposite, hands resting steady on his knees. His gaze flicked now and then toward Kakyoin and Joseph. Joseph sat at Avdol’s right, arms folded across his chest in a way that could mean deep thought or universal judgment. Megan honestly couldn’t tell.

Jotaro was stationed at the doorway, hat brim low and silent as ever. He hadn’t moved much, but somehow he didn’t fade into the background either. It was like the room tilted around him, balanced on his presence whether he wanted it to or not.

Megan eased down beside Holy, though not in the flawless seiza Holy managed without even a twitch. Megan had tried that once in tea ceremony class. Fifteen minutes in and her legs had gone dead pins-and-needles. This time, she went with what she hoped counted as “feminine enough”: legs folded to the side, almost like sitting sidesaddle.

“All done,” Holy said in Japanese, her voice soft and reassuring.

“Thank you…for everything,” Kakyoin replied. His tone carried a subdued sincerity, weighted enough to make him sound older than he looked.

“Kakyoin, was it?” Holy tilted her head, smiling with the same gentle warmth. “I think you’re overdue for some rest. Why don’t you stay here tonight?”

The hesitation in Kakyoin’s posture was instant. His shoulders drew inward, the start of a polite refusal catching in his throat. But before he could so much as open his mouth, Holy turned toward Joseph and, in flawless English—

“Papa!” Her tone was light but commanding, the kind of voice only someone who had spent their entire life managing Joseph Joestar could pull off. “Go and get his futon ready!”

Joseph jerked upright, his palms smacking against the tatami like it had personally insulted him. “Huh? Why do I have to do it?” He hit the mat twice more for emphasis, his voice pitching between disbelief and outright tantrum. “I’ve never even liked the idea of sleeping on the damn floor!” Folding his arms across his chest, he huffed and turned away. “In fact, that futon in my room—I want it replaced with a real bed!”

“No, Papa,” Holy said firmly, though her voice still carried that lilting brightness. “You’re in Japan now. And here, we sleep on the floor. And besides…” She tilted her head, eyes dancing. “I’d prefer if you called me Seiko here.”

Joseph’s head snapped back toward her, outrage bursting across his face like a firework. “What!?”

From his post at the doorway, Jotaro didn’t bother speaking. He just turned his head, tugging his eyes shut with a slow exhale that radiated irritation more clearly than words ever could. Megan didn’t know him well enough yet, but she had the strong sense this wasn’t the first time he’d witnessed his mother and grandfather argue like this. Probably not even the first time today.

Holy’s tone softened as a bright smile stretched across her face, warm as tea being poured. “The Japanese also have a word for ‘holy.’ Here, the word is seinaru. So, they call me Seiko—for ‘holy child.’”

Megan’s chest warmed unexpectedly. It was…adorable, honestly. Not just the meaning, but the way Holy shared it—like it wasn’t just a name but a little piece of herself she was offering freely.

Then Holy’s gaze landed on her. “That goes for you too, Megan!” she said brightly, smiling with closed eyes in a way that radiated welcome.

The invitation hit harder than Megan wanted to admit. Maybe because it came from Holy. Maybe because no one had ever pulled her into their world so openly before. Heat rose in her neck and cheeks. She didn’t trust her voice not to crack, so she only nodded, holding the moment close like a fragile secret she didn’t want to break.

Behind them, Joseph’s voice rose again, see-sawing between mock indignation and real stubbornness. “What the hell! Holy’s a beautiful name. I gave it to you myself!”

The absurdity almost tugged a smile out of Megan—almost. But it faltered the instant she realized Jotaro was watching her again. Not glancing. Watching. There was stillness in his stare, a honed edge that pinned her where she sat. It wasn’t the detached dismissal she’d seen him aim at others. This was different. Something closer. Sharper.

Megan snapped her gaze away too fast to pass for casual. Heat flared across her face, entirely unrelated to the room’s temperature. Stupid blushing. It was like her body had been engineered to betray her at the worst possible moments. Why did blushing even exist, except to torture people? The harder she tried not to think about it, the hotter her face burned. Like her own skin was staging a vendetta.

Holy, apparently immune to the awkward current running through the air, ignored her father’s muttering and turned back to Kakyoin. The redhead sat perfectly still, polite as a student waiting on exam results. His posture was respectful, but not fully relaxed under her attention.

“How’s the pain, Kakyoin? Does it hurt?” she asked, her coaxing voice gentle enough to make honesty seem easy.

He gave the smallest shake of his head. “I’m fine.”

From the corner of her vision, Megan caught a shift—Jotaro tugging the brim of his cap lower. The motion was slow, deliberate, punctuated by a sigh that slipped from him like steam hissing from a kettle.

“Yare yare daze...”

No explanation. No glimpse of what he was actually thinking. He just turned and left, stride unhurried but weighted, until the doorway swallowed him whole and left only the faint echo of his steps echoing from the walkway.

Holy didn’t seem to notice. Her focus stayed fixed on Kakyoin, her expression brightening into a motherly smile that spread through the room like a warm blanket. “Okay, let’s get you out of that uniform!”

Megan blinked, startled by how casually it was said. Kakyoin froze beside her, as if his brain had just short-circuited. His cheeks flushed pink almost instantly. “Wh-what?”

“Go on! Take it off!” Holy urged, cheerful as ever, her hand brushing at his jacket like she’d start unbuttoning it herself if he didn’t move.

Megan bit the inside of her cheek hard to keep from laughing. Poor Kakyoin looked like he’d just been handed an impossible pop quiz. His posture had gone stiff, eyes darting anywhere but at Holy’s fussing hands, as though one wrong glance might doom him forever.

Before he could choose between compliance and death-by-embarrassment, Holy’s attention shifted again—this time locking onto Megan with full force.

“Oh, Megan!” she said warmly, her voice bright enough to melt steel. “Why don’t you stay for dinner? Then maybe Jotaro can walk you home.”

The words landed in Megan’s stomach like a stone. Holy’s warmth wasn’t fake, wasn’t forced, and wasn’t sharpened by obligation. She wasn’t her aunt or uncle, who cared out of blood and guilt. Holy’s tenderness was freely given. And that made it feel both wonderful—and vulnerable.

“Oh, no,” Megan said quickly, fingers fidgeting with her bracelets just to keep them busy. “I couldn’t inconvenience you like that. Besides, I should probably head home and, uh—” she latched onto the safest excuse she could find—“work on my homework.”

Holy waved the protest away like a puff of smoke. “It’s no trouble at all.” She leaned forward slightly, smile unwavering. “You’re welcome here any time.”

The insistence made Megan’s pulse skip. She shook her head, fumbling for a tone that sounded polite instead of panicked. “Really, I wouldn’t want to impose. You’ve already done so much for me.”

Back and forth they went—Holy offering, Megan dodging—until Megan felt her composure fray at the seams. She stood abruptly, smoothing her skirt with a nervous flick and grabbing her bag like it might anchor her. “I should be going,” she said, injecting more finality into her voice than she felt.

“Oh, alright then. Let me get Jotaro to walk you home,” Holy replied without hesitation, as though it were the most obvious solution.

Megan froze mid-step, every nerve sparking in mortification. The first wave came from Holy’s continued kindness: it was like standing in the sun too long, pleasant turning to burn. The second was worse: the image of Jotaro—tall, impossible and irritatingly good-looking—walking her to her aunt and uncle's door like that was completely normal. It wasn’t. She was fairly sure she’d trip over her own feet before they made it halfway down the street.

“Oh, it’s completely fine,” she blurted, hand shooting up in automatic protest. “It’s still light outside; I can walk home myself.”

“Are you sure?” Kakyoin asked gently, his tone so considerate it sounded like he’d ignore her refusal if it meant doing the decent thing. “I’d be happy to walk you home.”

Her answer came edged with a touch of sass she couldn’t quite swallow. “Need I remind you that you just had an octopus bug pulled out of your forehead?” She arched a brow, hitching her bag higher on her shoulder. “No, I’m fine to walk alone. Just…give me the clearest directions possible to the train station. The more dumbed down, the better.”

Holy didn’t argue further. Instead, she rose with practiced grace and crossed to a low cabinet. From it, she pulled a notepad and pencil. The soft scratch of graphite filled the silence. Even her handwriting looked elegant and looping. Too refined for something as ordinary as directions.

She didn’t just write instructions, either. She narrated each step in that same warm, sing-song tone she’d used since Megan first arrived, punctuating points with the light tap of her pencil. She described the walk back to the main road, noting the row of plum trees Megan would pass—bare now, but easy to spot because their branches leaned toward the streetlights. Then came the turns, the shop signs, even the block counts. By the time she finished, Megan realized Holy had covered every possible chance she might get lost.

When the page was torn free, Holy folded it neatly and pressed it into Megan’s hand with a small, ceremonial touch of her fingers to Megan’s palm. The gesture was simple. It still twisted something in her chest: that now-familiar discomfort of being given kindness she hadn’t felt she’d earned.

Holy walked her to the door herself, humming a soft tune under her breath. Megan slipped her shoes back on and tucked the folded note into her bag. The evening air brushed cool against her face. It felt like a reminder to the fact she was leaving the safety of this house behind. A safety she wasn’t sure she’d deserved.

As Holy slid the door open, Megan caught movement down the hall. Jotaro stood half in shadow, his hat brim casting his eyes into darkness. Still, it wasn’t enough to obscure the fact that he was watching her. Not curious. Not hostile. Just studying. That same sharp, unreadable focus that pinned her in place. Like he was trying to pin her in place in his mind, undecided what to make of her once he did.

Holy offered one last radiant smile, and Megan stepped out into the fading light.
The weight of Jotaro’s gaze followed her the entire way home.

Chapter Text

It started with the echo of her footsteps.
Quick, uneven beats against a floor she couldn’t even see, swallowed up by a hallway that stretched too far in both directions. The walls were nothing but shadow—tall, cold, pressing in closer, like they were breathing with her panic. In the distance, the ticking of a metronome taunted every shaky fall of her feet.

Something was behind her. She didn’t hear it so much as feel it—like gravity had flipped and was dragging her backward. She ran harder.

A child’s laugh rang out ahead of her. High. Bright. Completely wrong in the dark. Her breath hitched, her stride stuttering. She knew that sound. It used to play in her head as background noise to better days—until—

A woman’s scream split the air.
The kind of sound that made bones feel breakable.

Her stomach hollowed out, and before she could stop herself, she was running toward it.

She turned a corner—and froze.

Her hands and arms were drenched in blood. It pooled from beneath the cuff bracelets at her wrists, gathering at her fingertips. Dropping to the floor in dull splats. She wiped her arms against her clothes in a frantic blur, but the red only smeared wider.

“You’re worthless.”
Her mother’s voice, sharp and poisonous, bled from the walls like the hallway itself was alive and whispering at her.

“Worthless.”
“Lazy.”
“Stupid.”
“Can’t you do anything right?”

Each word sliced like the edge of a blade. Megan folded her arms across herself, clutching tight.

Somewhere, a girl sobbed.
Her own cries. Younger. Smaller. The sound swelled until it scraped raw in her ears. She clamped her palms over them, smearing red, but the crying cut off—

—and the dark shifted. And then, she saw her.

Holy.
Her body limp, her face twisted in pain. Strangled by thick vines tearing out of her back. They writhed like something alive. Biting into her skin, forcing her arms and legs into unnatural angles. The thorns gleamed wet in the strange light. Blood? Or maybe something worse.

Megan lunged forward before she could think, reaching for her.

The vines only cinched tighter. Holy’s lips parted in a breathless gasp before her head dropped to the side, lifeless.

Megan stumbled back, her heart battering so hard it rattled in her chest. Her breaths clogged in her throat, thick with shadows. With vines. With the pounding of her own body betraying her.

The vines jerked once more, dragging Holy into the dark.

And then came the voice.
Close. Too close.
Every word sharp as broken glass, venom dripping from the edges.

“It should have been you!”

Megan shot upright, a cry tearing loose before she could swallow it down. The sound cracked off the quiet walls, too loud, too sharp. Like it was announcing every weakness she tried to bury.

Her breath snagged.
Oh God.

She froze, every muscle pulled taut, listening—waiting—for proof she’d broken the silence, proof she’d woken the baby. But the house stayed hushed. No creak of floorboards. No small fussing down the hall. Still, her body refused to believe it. She held herself rigid, as if guilt alone might summon the punishment.

Bit by bit, her eyes adjusted to the dark. Her desk. The heap of clean laundry she hadn’t managed to put away. Curtains shifting faintly with the night breeze. The mattress let out the faintest groan when she shifted, and even that seemed loud enough to give her away.

She dragged in air, forced her hands to loosen their grip on the blanket. Her fingers resisted, stiff and aching, like she’d been bracing for impact.

The dream clung anyway. Hallways that went on forever, voices that sliced deeper than any blade, the sick inevitability of chasing something she should never have seen. The words: that final declaration, still lodged inside her like a shard of glass. She could press at it, test the edges, but it only drove deeper.

And through all of it, one image pushed itself forward, jagged and merciless.

Holy.
Unconscious, her face twisted in pain unlike anything Megan had ever witnessed. Vines ripping from her back, curling like predators, dragging her limbs into grotesque angles. They pulsed with a cruel rhythm, almost savoring the hold.

The memory made her chest ache with a heavy, wordless wrongness. She wanted to move. To call the Kujo house. To show up at their door. Anything, anything to make sure Holy was safe.

But reality smothered the impulse. It was the middle of the night. She didn’t even know Jotaro’s number. And barging into their home at this hour? They’d look at her the way everyone did when she overstepped—like she was strange. Troublesome. Too much.

Her jaw clenched as she stared into the dark, caught between choices that weren’t choices at all. All she could do was sit there while the adrenaline drained away, leaving her hollow, restless, ashamed for wanting so badly to act.

With a frustrated sigh, she eased back onto the pillow. The cool fabric pressed against her cheek, but it brought no comfort. Holy’s image lingered, carved too deep to fade.

Sleep only came when exhaustion finally forced her under, and even then it was uneasy, unwilling.

Megan took the long way on purpose. Or at least, that’s what she told herself.

Her steps carried the kind of stubbornness she usually saved for cutting laps in PE class. Yet here she was: threading through backstreets she hadn’t memorized, drawn toward the Kujo house as though pulled by a string. She muttered excuses under her breath, rehearsing lines like someone preparing for a play no one had asked her to audition for.

“I think I left my book here.”
“I just wanted to check on Kakyoin.”
“I was in the neighborhood.”

That last one made her wince. Ridiculously terrible, even for her.

And still—her feet carried her straight to the tall perimeter wall. She doubted she could retrace her steps if she tried, but maybe it wasn’t memory guiding her. Maybe it was something rawer, deeper—an instinct that sliced past the self-doubt waiting to trip her every few steps.

Her gaze skimmed the gatepost, expecting a buzzer. Instead, she found a cord dangling neatly from the eave, its braid tied in a precise knot. It felt…old-fashioned. Softer. Like the kind of thing you pulled if you were already a welcome guest. Not if you were announcing yourself to strangers.

Her fingers hovered momentarily, then closed around it. She tugged once. A muted chime echoed from somewhere beyond the wall.

The gate slid aside with a clatter of wood against wood.

Avdol filled the frame, his tall figure backlit by pale morning light.
“Oh—hello, Megan.” His dark eyes flickered with surprise. His tone stayed polite, but a frayed edge ran beneath it, as if he’d been pulled from something pressing and hadn’t finished setting it down.

Megan’s practiced smile snapped into place—the one she wore whenever she needed to look harmless. She dipped her waist in a small bow. “Good morning, Mr. Avdol. I hope I’m not intruding. I was hoping to see if I may have left—”

The words snagged, fell apart. It wasn’t his tone that stopped her. It was his face.

His mouth was set in a thin line, the corners pulled down—not in irritation, but with weight. His eyes held more than simple distraction. They carried the look of someone summoning the strength to deliver news no one wanted to hear.

Her stomach knotted. Her pulse skipped, bracing for a blow she couldn’t name.
She knew that look.

The question slipped free before she could stop it.
“Where’s Holy?”

Avdol’s eyes widened—a jolt of someone hearing words they weren’t prepared for. For a moment he only stared, as though she’d recited a password she had no way of knowing. He stepped forward, his hand lifting. The gesture was urgent, insistent in its need for her to stop and explain herself right now.

Megan’s heart faltered, and instinct surged in. She stumbled back, her heel scraping the packed dirt, then slipped past him into the courtyard before he could touch her. Gravel crunched under her shoes, each step too loud in the morning stillness.

“Holy…Mrs. Kujo…where is she?” Her voice came out thin, frayed at the edges, almost breaking. Her eyes darted across the engawa, over the rows of shoji doors, searching for movement, for voices…for anything. “Where are Jotaro and Mr. Joestar?”

The house was far too still. No soft chatter, no footsteps. Only silence, heavy enough to choke on.

“Megan,” Avdol said again, urgency running under his tone like wire pulled too tight. “How did you—”

She didn’t hear the rest. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning him out. The image from her dream—Holy’s face twisted in pain, strangled by vines—burned behind her eyes, refusing to fade. And the silence of the house felt like proof.

Her body moved before thought could catch it. She bolted for the engawa, shoes slamming wood in a rapid, hollow rhythm that ricocheted through the quiet. She didn’t know where exactly she was heading, only that she had to get there.

“Megan!” Avdol’s voice followed, deeper now, sharpened into command.

She didn’t slow. Couldn’t.

Her chest squeezed tight, every breath rasping against ribs that felt locked in place. In the corner of her mind, the old whisper clawed at her—you don’t belong here, you’re making a mess of things—but it shattered beneath the louder thought pounding through her: If something’s wrong, I have to see. I have to help.

She rounded the corner too fast—
—and slammed into something solid. Someone solid.

The impact tore the air from her lungs. She pitched forward, bracing for the sting of skinned knees, but two strong hands caught her mid-fall. For one suspended heartbeat she was held there, close enough to catch the faint tang of cigarette smoke and something like the ocean. Then she was righted, placed firmly back on her feet. His grip steadied her just long enough to keep her upright, before setting like iron against her arms.

“Yare yare daze,” Jotaro muttered, irritation woven through the words. “Wouldn’t kill you to watch where you’re going.”

The delivery was typical: clipped, dismissive. But underneath lay something taut, something off. The weight of distraction, coiled tight.

Her mouth opened, apology already halfway to her lips, but it snagged. Instead, the only question that mattered ripped free. “Jotaro…what’s going on? Where is everyone?”

Behind her, Avdol’s footsteps came in slow, measured beats along the boards. When he stepped into view, his eyes lingered on her with the same bewildered calculation as before. He looked at her like she’d solved a puzzle no one had given her the pieces to. Then his gaze shifted toward Jotaro, and the sharpness eased into something quieter. A kind of heaviness that suggested words he wasn’t free to say.

Jotaro gave no answer. Not to her. Not to Avdol. He turned instead, coat sweeping in a faint arc, and walked down the hall without a word.

Megan stared after him, confusion knotting her stomach. He paused just long enough to glance back. His eyes caught hers—steady, expectant. A silent command to follow.

She didn’t think; she just moved. Her legs tangled in her rush to close the gap, her heartbeat running wild as she fell into step beside him.

~*~

Jotaro slid the shoji door open with his shoulder, balancing a tray in one hand. Megan followed, carrying a second glass.

The room glowed softly, sunlight bleeding through the paper screens like watercolor brushed across silk. Holy sat upright on the futon, her hair gathered loosely over one shoulder, a touch of color warming her cheeks.

Relief surged through Megan so fast it left her dizzy. She’d braced for the worst—for something she couldn’t bear to face. But there was Holy: awake. Smiling, even. Alive. The relieved ache that bloomed in Megan’s chest was sharp enough to hurt. Out of the corner of her eye, though, she caught the faint pinch at the corners of Jotaro’s mouth, and the deeper grooves etched into Joseph’s face. If she’d learned anything this past week, it was that those expressions didn’t come easy. Whatever had happened still hung heavy in the room.

She wanted to speak—something, anything—but every option rang hollow. It’ll be fine sounded like a lie. I’m sorry felt useless.

Holy accepted the water glass from Jotaro with an easy smile. “Thank you, Jotaro. Really, I wonder what’s wrong with me…I can’t believe I took a fever and passed out.”

Megan froze, her eyes widening. Passed out? So there was something wrong with Holy.

The woman’s gaze shifted, landing on her. That warmth hit like sunlight sliding through her ribs, sharp and undeserved. “It’s so nice to see you again, Megan!”

Megan’s stomach flipped, bittersweet. She didn’t deserve that kind of brightness—not when Jotaro and Joseph were carrying their private worry like anchors beneath the calm. This was their circle, their crisis. She was only standing in it by accident. An intruder.

Still, manners pushed her forward. She bowed her head slightly, precise but hesitant. “I’m glad to see you’re awake again. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”

“You’re such a thoughtful young woman.” Holy’s smile stayed radiant as she turned to her son. “Jotaro, don’t you think so? When you finally bring home a girlfriend, I hope she’s just as lovely as Megan!”

Megan went rigid, heat rushing up her neck. She glued her gaze to the tatami, but she felt the change beside her all the same—the subtle stiffening of Jotaro’s frame, the hush settling between them. He probably wanted to roll his eyes, cut across the comment outright. But he didn’t. Not with his mother’s condition being potentially precarious. He let the moment hang.

Megan balanced on the edge of two impossible impulses: the desperate wish to disappear and the reckless thought that she’d just been called lovely in front of him. That single word was enough to send her pulse stumbling.

And then—something shifted. A flicker.

The vines.

They slid from Holy’s back just as they had in her dream, thinner now, less grotesque, but unmistakable in the way they coiled, dark against the pale fall of her hair.

A gasp tore loose before she could swallow it down. Her chest jolted with heat, her heel catching on the floorboards with a creak as she stumbled back.

Every head turned. Joseph’s sharp eyes widened. Avdol’s dark gaze cut toward her, probing, steady. And Jotaro—flat, unreadable—snared her breath worse than either of them.

“Megan?” Holy’s voice broke across the silence, gentle but tinged with worry. That softness only made the panic inside her feel sharper, more ridiculous. “Is everything alright?”

Her throat closed. The weight of the men’s stares pressed in, heavy on all sides. They didn’t have to speak—the message vibrated under the quiet like an electric current:
We know what you saw. Don’t say another word.

She froze a beat too long.

“Oh, uh…” Her voice came out too high, brittle as glass under pressure. “I’m sorry. I—I thought I saw a mouse.”

Holy startled, her eyes flying wide.

“A mouse?! There’s a mouse in here? Jotaro, we’ll need to call an exterminator!”

Megan’s stomach dropped, hard and fast. Of course. Her lie would collapse immediately, dragging her down with it. She shook her head quickly, words tumbling over themselves.

“No, no! My mistake. It was—uh—a loose string on my bag. I thought it was a tail.”

The quiet that followed was suffocating. The air itself felt too heavy, pressing against her skin. Every face turned toward her: waiting, judging.

Her eyes darted to Jotaro before she could stop herself, clinging to the hope of the smallest rescue, some flicker of reassurance. But his expression only cut her deeper. His features had drawn taut, as if he was enduring her humiliation secondhand. Like watching someone trip on the street and crash to the pavement—except here, the pavement was her dignity.

Heat burned up her cheeks. She wanted to vanish straight through the tatami.

“Well, alright then…” Holy’s voice came again, smoothing over the jagged moment with a kindness Megan didn’t deserve. She smiled gently, as if nothing strange had happened at all.

Gratitude tangled with shame until Megan couldn’t tell one from the other. She wanted to thank Holy. She wanted to disappear. Both urges clawed at her throat at once.

Joseph’s voice cut in like a lifeline, steady and practical.

“You gave me quite the scare, Holy. Come now—you’ve got to brush your teeth now that you’re up.”

What followed unfolded with quiet patience. Joseph moved like a man who had done this countless times—guiding his daughter to the washbasin, setting cup and toothbrush into place, helping her rinse and spit. He dampened a towel, wiping her face with slow, practiced strokes. Finally, he took up a brush, drawing it carefully through her hair until each strand lay smooth.

The simple intimacy of it made Megan’s chest tighten. That kind of easy care wasn’t something she could remember having—not for years, maybe not ever. Watching it now was like pressing against a bruise she hadn’t realized was there, a small, private ache heavy enough to sting at the corners of her eyes. She gave her head a small shake, trying to push the feeling back where it belonged.

When she glanced up, Jotaro’s eyes were already on her. His expression gave nothing away. She forced a small smile anyway, meant to acknowledge the moment—even if her chest still felt too tight.

Her reverie snapped when Holy’s voice rang out, cheerful and utterly unbothered. “Papa! Can you help me change my underwear, too?”

Joseph froze, color flooding his face. “Huh??”

Holy burst into laughter. “Just kidding!”

She shifted on the futon, carefully adjusting herself as if she meant to rise. “Well, alright then. Jotaro, what would you like for dinner?”

The question barely left her lips before Jotaro turned on her fully, his voice cracking through the air.

“Don’t move! Stay in bed!”

The sharpness rang through the room, startlingly loud in the stillness. Holy froze mid-motion, her brows lifting in surprise. Joseph flinched too, his hand half-raised, caught between soothing and intervening.

Megan’s chest seized. Her body reacted before her mind could catch up. The sudden bark of his voice pitched her backward in time. Her vision blurred at the edges, sound dulled, and the room seemed to peel away. She edged back until her shoulders touched the wall, curling inward instinctively, trying to make herself smaller. Each breath thinned to a whisper, as if quiet could erase her from notice. Her thoughts folded in tight, but the echo of his voice clung inside her skull, sharp and unshakable.

From the corner of her vision, she saw Jotaro’s shoulders sink. He tugged the brim of his hat lower, muttering stiffly,

“I-It’s just that you shouldn’t do anything until your fever goes down.” He turned from his mother, the words gruff and almost grudging. “Just shut up and get better soon.”

The storm in Megan’s chest eased, but only slightly. Her breathing stayed shallow, cautious. She dragged in a long breath and let it out slow, her hands trembling with the leftover adrenaline. It’s okay. I’m okay. Everybody’s okay, she told herself, as if repetition might force it true.

Holy settled back under the blankets with a faint rustle. “You’re right,” she murmured.

Joseph leaned close, tucking the blankets of the futon up beneath her chin with a tenderness that caught Megan off guard. Holy smiled faintly.

“I kind of like this. Everyone’s so nice when I get sick. Getting a cold…isn’t so bad.”

The warmth in her voice lasted only a heartbeat before fading. Jotaro’s eyes widened as her lashes lowered and she slipped back into unconsciousness.

“H-Holy!” Joseph’s voice cracked, startled and pained. “Sh–She lost consciousness again…”

He leaned over her quickly, his broad hand pressing to her forehead. His eyes closed briefly, bracing, then opened again—glossed with restrained tears.

“She’s acting cheerful,” he said thickly, “yet she’s burning up.” His gaze softened as it lingered on her face. “The way she acted confirms it: my daughter is aware of her Stand. She was actually trying to hide it from us. She didn’t want us to worry.” His voice wavered, pride and sorrow tangled together. “That’s the kind of person my daughter is.”

The words struck deep. Megan knew that kind of strength—smiling while pieces of you crumbled inside, carrying everyone else’s needs before your own. It wasn’t only kindness. It was survival. Her fingers slid along the familiar curve of her leather cuffs, the worn edges grounding her as the ache in her throat swelled.

Footsteps broke the air from the hall. Avdol appeared in the doorway, a thick encyclopedia balanced in his arms. “Mr. Joestar,” he said, his voice steady but urgent, “I’ve found it. I know where that fly is from.”

Joseph straightened fast, rising from his daughter’s side. Across the room, Jotaro shifted, turning toward Avdol. Megan stayed pressed into the corner, her attention stubbornly locked on Holy’s still form even as the conversation pressed forward.

Avdol opened the encyclopedia with deliberate care, flipping to a marked page before laying it flat for Joseph. His index finger tapped the illustration of an insect.
“It’s this one—the Nile tsetse fly. Native to the banks of the Nile River.”

Joseph’s brows shot up. “Egypt!”

Avdol gave a firm nod. “We’ve narrowed it to the Aswan region. That’s where we’ll find Dio.”

A voice carried from the doorway, calm but edged.
“So he is in Egypt…”

Every head turned. Kakyoin stood framed in the hall light. Megan’s pulse still stumbled, remnants of her earlier panic clinging like smoke at the edges of her awareness. And yet, some of the tightness eased at the sight of him. Whether it was his composure or simply the familiarity, his presence steadied the floor beneath her feet.

Joseph stepped forward, voice edged with urgency. “Kakyoin…what do you mean by that?”

“The flesh bud was planted in my brain three months ago,” Kakyoin answered evenly. “That’s when I met Dio. I was traveling with my family. We were there, touring the Nile.”

Avdol’s eyes narrowed. “You were in Egypt as well? It seems, for some reason, Dio wishes to remain there.”

The words settled over them, heavy with implication. Megan stayed quiet. She remained in her corner, fingers curling against the edge of her leather cuff—half habit, half anchor—as the picture sharpened in ways she didn’t want to face.

Cold clarity cut through her. Her gaze flicked from Avdol’s stern face to Joseph’s, then back again.
“You’re going after him.” Her hand rose slightly, pressing against her chest as if to hold her heart in place.

The room shifted. Every head turned toward her. Avdol’s eyes lingered, carrying the pause that came before a difficult truth, the crease in his brow showing the weight of what he hadn’t yet said.

Joseph answered first, firm and urgent. “Yes. It’s the only way to save Holy. If we defeat Dio, we’ll stop her Stand before it consumes her.”

Megan nodded slowly, her eyes drifting back to Holy. The woman’s breathing was shallow, her face caught between sleep and strain. Someone like Jotaro’s mother, who radiated such quiet warmth, deserved more than to be undone by something cruel and unseen.

“Megan.”

Avdol’s voice cut through her thoughts like a blade. She flinched, adrenaline still quick to answer even now. His tone was calm, but steel ran under every syllable.
“I must ask you…how did you know?”

She blinked. “What…?”

“How did you know about Mrs. Kujo’s condition?” Avdol’s words stayed even, but their weight pressed down. “You asked for her the moment you arrived.”

Her mind rewound the morning in jagged fragments: the walk to the gate, the cord between her fingers, Avdol at the door. Holy’s name falling from her lips before she’d had time to think—before anyone had told her. The memory struck cold, like a hand pressing to the back of her neck.

Her throat went dry. “I—”

Joseph cut across her, his voice quick, tight in a way she’d never heard before. “Hold on, Avdol—are you telling me Megan just walked in here and went straight for Holy without anyone telling her a damned thing?”

Kakyoin’s voice followed, quieter but sharper, every word laid down with deliberate care. “What made you ask for her?” His amethyst eyes caught the light, their clarity almost unnatural. They narrowed slightly—not full distrust, not full confusion, but something balanced between. “Did someone tell you something before you came here?”

The questions boxed her in, pressing from both sides until her chest cinched tight. Her gaze darted between Joseph’s blunt demand and Kakyoin’s precise blade, searching for an escape that didn’t exist.

And then her eyes met Jotaro’s.

He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. Just watched—steady, unblinking. Calculation written in the silence. The weight of it prickled down her spine, the gaze of someone deciding if she was a piece of the puzzle…or a problem to cut away before it could take root.

Her mouth worked around air before sound came out. “You’re…you’re going to think I’m crazy.”

Joseph’s voice softened, though the pressure didn’t lift. “Nobody’s saying that. Just tell us what happened.”

The words ripped free before she could stop them. “I saw her…in my dreams. I saw Holy. Like this.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to touch.

Kakyoin spoke first, careful, measured. “…A dream?”

Every eye fixed on her. Waiting. Expectant. Their focus made her skin prickle, nausea rising fast and sharp.

Her gaze flicked to the futon—at Holy lying there—then dropped to the tatami. “It’s never happened before. Not like this. The dream felt real—like a warning.” She drew in a shallow breath. “She was lying there, but not like this. There were these…vines. Thick, thorny. They were coming out of her back—” her voice faltered “—and they wrapped around her. Tight. Like they were trying to crush her. She…she looked like she was in pain.”

The images wouldn’t leave her, no matter how tightly she tried to shut them out: thorns biting deep, Holy’s face contorted. Wrong, obscene, like light bent into shadow. This was the same woman who had smiled at her—bright as sunlight—for no reason other than Megan’s existence in the room. Who had called her lovely, and meant it. That kind of warmth didn’t belong tangled with the grotesque vision she’d seen. And it especially didn’t belong anywhere near the other voice that hissed through her nightmares, the one she tried so hard not to remember.

Her breath shook. “That’s why I came this morning. I know it sounds stupid, but…after something like that, I just had to make sure she was okay. That you all were okay.”

Her gaze drifted back to the futon—the faint rise and fall of Holy’s chest, the small crease between her brows even in sleep. Such a tiny detail, yet it caught in Megan’s throat like a splinter. Holy didn’t deserve pain like that. None of them did, but seeing it etched across someone so unfailingly kind made it unbearable.

Avdol’s eyes lowered, his tone thoughtful. “It could be the abilities of your Stand, manifesting through your dreams.”

Megan began shaking her head before he even finished. “Don’t you remember what I said yesterday? I don’t have a Stand.” She meant for the words to be firm, but there was a strange note under them. Something softer, almost wistful, and she didn’t know why.

Joseph didn’t hesitate. “If you can see them, then you have one. You just need to learn how to call it forth.”

Megan fell quiet. The thought wedged in her mind like a coin balanced on its edge—half of her tempted to believe, half refusing. It didn’t feel possible for someone like her. Not really. She was always the extra piece, the one people worked around, not the one with power. And yet…she couldn’t bring herself to dismiss it either.

Kakyoin’s voice came before she could respond.
“So, when do we leave? I’ll go with you.”

Jotaro turned his head, his brow dipping. “Seriously? Why would you want to do that?” His tone was the same flat evenness as ever, but Megan caught the faint trace of bewilderment buried beneath it.

Kakyoin answered without pause, calm but unreadable. “To be honest, I don’t know why. It just feels like something I have to do.”

Megan’s eyes darted between them, catching the way Jotaro’s jaw tightened before he gave a low, dismissive tch and turned away.

Kakyoin’s fingers brushed lightly at the bandage on his forehead. “Let’s just say you opened my eyes. That’s all.”

Joseph moved then, stepping forward with a heaviness that wasn’t only in his body. He lowered himself to his daughter’s side, each motion careful, deliberate. Megan instinctively shifted back to give him room, her gaze following with a tension she couldn’t shake.

“Holy…” Joseph’s voice dropped low, almost tender. “We’ll save you, no matter what. Don’t worry. There’s nothing to worry about…” He cupped her face gently, his hand rough but achingly soft in its intent. “We’ll make you better. You just take it easy.”

Kakyoin stepped farther into the room, his quiet confidence drawing Megan a little straighter without her meaning to. He stopped beside Avdol, his gaze fixed on Holy not with sympathy but with reverence.

“Jojo’s mother, Holy,” he said, voice calm but weighted, “has the ability to calm a person’s soul and put their mind at ease. People feel relaxed just by being near her. This may sound strange…but if I were ever to fall in love, I’d want it to be with someone like her.” His eyes softened, a faint crease forming at the corners. “I feel the need to protect her. I’d do anything to see her better…to see her smiling again.”

The words rippled through Megan, sinking all the way into her fingertips. She turned to Holy—pale, her breath shallow, her face caught in fragile strain. That same spark Kakyoin described had reached Megan, too. And once she felt it, the thought of staying in the background became impossible.

Her jaw tightened, resolve pressing at her ribs until it felt too big for her frame. She pushed off the wall, each step deliberate, like crossing a threshold she had no right to—but would anyway.

“I want to come, too,” she said. No falter, no hesitation. The choice was already carved into her.

Joseph’s brows lifted, his mouth twitching into something caught between surprise and pride. “Megan…” His voice carried a warmth that made her want to stand taller.

“No.”

The word cracked through the air like a slammed door. Every gaze snapped toward Jotaro, surprise flashing in different shades—some startled, some baffled—at the blunt finality of it. Megan’s chest tightened, but beneath the sting, a small spark lit.

“You have no business coming with us,” he said, flat, stripped of any room for debate.

Something twisted inside her. Before she could catch it, the words shot out, sharp and reckless.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize Tennō Heika had died and made you Emperor of Japan.”

The silence that followed hummed with tension. Megan froze, stunned at herself—at the fact she’d said it out loud. So did the others, their eyes flicking between them. Everyone except Jotaro.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t twitch. Just stared at her, unflinching. A single heartbeat passed before his voice cut across the air like a blade.
“You gone braindead or something?” His tone snapped flat, eyes narrowing in shadow beneath his cap. “You just finished saying you don’t have a Stand.”

The flicker in her chest—hot, sharp, unfamiliar—surged again. Maybe Mr. Joestar was right. Maybe there was something inside her after all, some buried shard of strength waiting to be unearthed.

Avdol touched his chin, posture thoughtful in a way that stilled the room without him asking. “I believe Mr. Joestar is correct,” he said at last, his words deliberate, carrying the kind of quiet authority people leaned toward without realizing. “The question isn’t whether she goes—it’s how we unlock Megan’s Stand.”

When his gaze shifted to her, his eyes softened. His mouth curved into the kind of smile that didn’t just see her, but accepted her. “If we can, I believe she will prove to be an indispensable ally.”

The word hit like a flare in the dark. Indispensable. It was something she’d chased her whole life, often at the cost of everything else. At home, her aunt and uncle loved her, she knew that much—but she’d always felt like another weight on their shoulders, one more obligation stacked onto already full plates. She’d learned to minimize her wants, downplay her needs, convince herself she was easiest to love when she took up the least space. To hear herself called not a burden, but essential—necessary—left her chest aching, her throat too tight to speak.

Jotaro’s scoff cut through. “Whatever.” He turned away, casual as if they’d been discussing the weather. “Your funeral.”

She didn’t flinch. If anything, the edge of his dismissal pressed her deeper into her resolve. She wanted to prove to herself she wasn’t content to be the extra piece in the background of everyone else’s story.

“A Stand is your body’s manifestation of your inner will and fighting strength,” Avdol explained, his tone even, deliberate. He stood beside Megan as she squared herself toward Jotaro, trying to muster the kind of courage that didn’t shake at the edges.

The five of them had gathered in the wide tsuboniwa of the Kujo home. Most of the day had been spent putting things in order. Megan and Kakyoin had both been urged to call their families.

Kakyoin, his voice calm but heavy with restraint, had declined. “I’ve already been gone for months. To call my parents now, only to tell them I won’t be coming home? I couldn’t do that to them.” His words lingered like a quiet ache.

That left Megan as the only one scrambling for an explanation.

The lie Joseph had spun leaned on her studies. With only “I like history,” and “I did well in psychology” as material, he wove a story with all the finesse of a practiced conman: a study-abroad internship, funded by the Speedwagon Foundation, focused on historical approaches to psychological disorders across Asia and Africa. He’d even dropped the phrase “such an already bright young lady” into the pitch like a salesman closing a deal.

“And you have to leave tomorrow?” her aunt Susan had pressed over the phone, her voice sharp with frustration.

Megan winced at the memory. Dropping a last-minute departure on her aunt only served to confirm Megan's fears that she was just another disruption in a life already stretched thin.

“It seems like it. Don’t worry, though. The program comes with uniforms, so I just need a few changes of clothes and supplies. I guess I have a lot of…um…paperwork to finish?” Megan fidgeted, stumbling over even that small falsehood. “So, someone from the foundation will come by to pick up my stuff.”

Another piece of Joseph’s elaborate scheme. Megan had protested fiercely, insisting she could pack her own things. But Jotaro had cut in flatly: “You’ll fold the second they start asking questions.”

Mortified, she’d offered to pay for the Speedwagon employee’s train fare herself—earning Joseph’s loudest laugh of the day.

On the other end of the line, Susan had gone quiet. Megan’s stomach twisted. One slip, one stammer, and the whole lie would unravel.

“…why didn’t you tell me you applied to something like this?” her aunt asked at last, her voice softer now, almost wounded.

Megan twirled a lock of hair until it frayed at the center. “I didn’t think I’d get it,” she admitted. Easier to lie when it was rooted in something that already felt true: she wasn’t the kind of person who got chosen for opportunities like this.

Susan sighed. “When are you going to start seeing yourself as the amazing, bright young woman you actually are? You got accepted, didn’t you? That has to count for something.”

“Yeah, last minute as a second-string participant. Hardly something to brag about,” Megan quipped, leaning into the safer terrain of self-mockery.

Her aunt sighed again, sadder this time. “Your dad would be proud of you,” she whispered, the words carrying the hush of a secret too fragile to say aloud.

Megan’s chest tightened, her grip on her hair yanking until the strands splayed at the middle. She didn’t reply. Couldn’t.

Susan let the silence hang before softening her tone. “Just…stay safe. Don’t go running into danger.”

About that… Megan thought grimly, guilt coiling in her gut.

“Yeah, of course,” she said quickly, eager to close the call. “I love you, Aunt Susan.”

“I love you too, honey.”

The receiver clicked back into place. Megan exhaled hard, the sound heavier than it should have been. What her aunt didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

Back in the courtyard, Megan tore her gaze from Jotaro’s unreadable stare and turned toward Avdol. She had changed out of her school uniform and into attire somewhat more appropriate for impromptu sparring: a black t-shirt, blue jeans, and high tops. Her blonde hair was pulled into a loose ponytail at her crown.

“Yeah, but what if you’re…like…not a fighter?” Megan asked, sporting a crooked smile with brittle edges. “What if you’re more of a background character? There for emotional support; occasional sarcasm? A human comfort blanket, if you will...”

Avdol’s expression didn’t flicker. If the joke landed, he wasn’t showing it. His composure was granite—measured, solemn.

From the side came a quiet chuckle. Kakyoin stood with arms crossed, but his posture carried no judgment—only patience. His gaze wasn’t amused at her, but with her, as if he already knew she’d surprise them, no matter how often she insisted her Stand had to be a mistake. That she didn’t belong here. That she was the fluke.

Before she could absorb that kindness, Jotaro exhaled, sharp and dismissive.

“Yare yare daze.” His voice crackled with disdain. “This is a waste of time. Dragging along someone who can’t even summon a Stand? Taking her to Egypt is idiotic. She’s going to get herself killed.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut. Heat surged up her neck, her stomach twisted tight. Something inside her sparked, begging her to bite back. To prove she wasn’t what he said she was. But the defiance sputtered before it reached her lips. She blinked hard, forcing the sting in her eyes down.

Useless. Weak. The thoughts hissed fast, merciless.

Her usual inner voice—quick with self-deprecating humor—turned darker, heavier. A storm of static filled her chest, pressing until it hurt to breathe.

“Avdol, could I speak to Megan for a moment?” Kakyoin’s voice broke the tension. Calm, warm—but carrying a firmness that left no space for refusal.

Avdol studied her for a beat, then inclined his head, stepping back.

Megan kept her eyes pinned to the scuffed toes of her sneakers, as if they were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the lavish courtyard. She didn’t look up when Kakyoin approached.

“He’s right,” she muttered, the words spilling in Japanese before she even realized. “This is stupid. A waste of everyone’s time.” She swiped at the corner of her eye with the heel of her hand, quick and sharp. “I should’ve stayed out of it. I don’t belong here.”

“Don’t count yourself out just yet.” Kakyoin’s reply was soft but steady. The kind of tone that wouldn’t shove her forward, but wouldn’t let her sink back, either. “Something tells me you’re hiding something special.”

Megan gave a short, humorless snort. “Yeah. Hiding how useless I am.” She slipped into English, her voice flat. “E-special-ly useless.”

Hopeless. Pointless. Dead weight they’d have to work around. Her thoughts hissed, louder than his reassurance. The storm inside her chest only rose, pressing harder against her ribs.

Kakyoin didn’t so much as blink.
“A warrior has to believe in their own strength before anyone else can,” he said gently. “Maybe your Stand isn’t showing itself because you keep locking it out.”

That made her pause. Slowly—cautiously—she lifted her eyes to his face. He was hinged at the waist, bringing himself level with her. His expression wasn’t just kind; it was steady, anchored. His amethyst eyes held a weight that told her he’d been in this place before, and he knew exactly how heavy it was.

“I know it’s hard,” he continued, “to believe in yourself when your own mind won’t give you a break. But that voice in your head—the one calling you weak, or worthless, or just the spare piece in someone else’s story? That voice doesn’t know a damn thing.”

Steel slid under the softness now, his certainty cutting clean through the storm of her self-hatred. “You found your way to Holy when she was in danger. You saw what no one expected. And right now, you’re still standing here—even while you think you don’t belong. That is strength, Megan. Not the loud kind. The kind that lasts.”

Her throat tightened. She swallowed, but the motion caught halfway down.
“I…” The rest stuck somewhere between her chest and her mouth, like a truth she wasn’t ready to let out.

Kakyoin didn’t press. He only smiled—genuine, patient. A smile that steadied without embarrassing her. That told her she was safe inside it.
“I believe in you, Megan. Can you try to believe in yourself, too? Even just a little. If not for you, then…do it for me.”

His voice tilted playful at the edges, a faint challenge woven through, but never at the cost of her pain.

Megan held his gaze. Not because she doubted him, but because something deep inside her ached to believe him. The warmth returned—gentle, insistent. Maybe it was her Stand stirring. Maybe it was just hope. But for the first time, she let herself consider the possibility:

Maybe she wasn’t useless.
Maybe she was just untested.

She gave a small, deliberate nod. The kind that sealed an unspoken pact. Her expression settled into something firmer—determination that felt new, but right. From the corner of her eye, she saw Kakyoin step back, his face unreadable now, giving her the space she needed.

Her chest steadied. Her stance did too. Her focus slid to Jotaro. He stood as always—hat brim shadowing his eyes, posture loose but immovable. If he noticed the shift in her, it didn’t show. His expression remained closed off. And somehow, that only sharpened her resolve.

She braced again. But this time, it wasn’t the twitchy, half-flinching kind of readiness that came from expecting a hit. This time, her feet planted with purpose.

She dragged a breath through her nose, smoothing her ponytail, tugging the elastic until it bit her scalp. Her fingers trembled, but she ignored it. She stepped forward, raising her hands in what she hoped passed for a fighter’s stance. Imperfect. Unpracticed. But hers.

Jotaro rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and slid into an offensive stance. The motion was so casual it felt less like a challenge and more like a warning.
“Can’t promise I won’t hurt you,” he said, voice flat.

It wasn’t cruel. Wasn’t smug. Just inevitable. Like the outcome had already been written, and all he had to do was read ahead to the page where she hit the ground. That certainty lit something deep inside her. Not rage. Not shame. Something sharper.

Kakyoin’s words lingered there, faint but steady, like embers waiting for a spark.

It had been years since she’d felt this—something clean, stripped of the endless grind to prove her worth. It wasn’t about being accepted. It wasn’t about praise. It was about proving someone wrong.

Her gaze locked on him. That flat, unreadable look of his—like glass—was about to change.

Jotaro advanced, each step measured, deliberate, as though even time itself fell in line behind him.

That is strength, Megan, Kakyoin’s voice echoed in her mind.

She didn’t blink. She didn’t back down.

Star Platinum flickered into being at his side, tall and lean, every motion honed to precision. Its arm coiled back, winding into the arc of a perfect hook.

I believe in you, Megan.

Her jaw clenched. Fingers twitched. Her feet stayed rooted.

The punch came—too fast to dodge.
But she wasn’t thinking of dodging. Somewhere deep inside, something refused to even consider being struck.

Can you try to believe in yourself, too?

“ORA!” Star Platinum’s bellow ripped through the courtyard.

And then—impact.

Except it never touched her. Not really.

Her vision exploded into blue.

A ripple shimmered into being, half a meter from her chest, the light deep and electric, the color of bioluminescent tidewater. Star Platinum’s punch slammed into it and stopped cold—mid-air—with a heavy, muffled thud, like the collision of two solid bodies deep underwater.

Megan stared, eyes wide, her body locked in place. Shock rooted her, but beneath it settled something heavier: awe, disbelief, and—buried deepest of all—a strange, anchoring certainty filling a space she hadn’t known was empty.

Star Platinum’s fist stayed there, pressed to the barrier’s surface. Blue light spilled across its knuckles, catching the gold trim of its gloves. The Stand held still for several seconds, as though testing her. Then it drew back and struck with the other fist, quick and ruthless.

The blow landed clean. The barrier didn’t waver. Megan felt it all the same: a deep pressure slammed into her ribs. The force reverberated inside her, not breaking her down but dissolving into her—claimed as her own.

Her eyes darted to Jotaro. She wanted—needed—to know if what she felt matched what he saw.

For the first time since she’d met him, his expression cracked. Not much. But enough. His mouth parted by a fraction. His eyes—usually sharp and impassive—widened just slightly. The change was so minuscule most people would’ve missed it. But she wasn’t most people.

That flicker—unguarded surprise—lasted only a heartbeat before it vanished, shuttered behind the immovable mask again. If she hadn’t spent years training herself to catch the smallest shifts—because sometimes the smallest shifts had meant everything—she might’ve believed she imagined it.

Behind her, someone inhaled sharply, the sound cutting the silence clean in two.

“The Queen of Cups…” Avdol’s voice was low, reverent, as if the final piece of a long-solved puzzle had just clicked into place. “Of course.”

Megan turned—first her head, then her shoulders—each motion weighted, as though the very air resisted.

And then she saw her, floating less than a meter away.

The figure was feminine, but not entirely human. She radiated an elegance too precise, too deliberate, to belong in this world. Layers of luminous robes wrapped around her form, colors shifting in a slow, hypnotic rhythm—violet bleeding into indigo, indigo melting into silvered moonlight. They didn’t just move; they drifted, as though gravity itself bent politely out of her way.

Her arms stretched outward, palms open in silent offering. Cradled in her hands was an ornate chalice, its surface carved from liquefied starlight—solid and fluid at once. It pulsed with the same deep blue glow as the barrier that had stopped Star Platinum’s strike, its rhythm syncing with Megan’s own heartbeat.

Her eyes—if they could be called that—were pools of sea-glass green. No iris, no pupil, only depth. Still, fathomless, but not cold. They fixed on Megan with such intensity it pressed against her skin. It was as though they weren’t just seeing her face, but everything underneath it.

She was beautiful.
She was fearsome.
And she was Megan’s.

Megan’s breath caught hard in her throat. She tore her gaze away, desperate for something grounding. Her eyes landed on the circle of onlookers.

Kakyoin.

Exactly where she expected him—arms folded, posture loose—but his expression had changed. His smile was wide, genuine, untouched by irony. His eyes shone, carrying more than simple wonder.

Pride.
Not pride in himself.
Pride in her.

Warmth surged through her chest, stronger this time, digging in like it had roots. A shaky exhale slipped out, part laugh, part disbelief. Her smile was small, stunned—but real.

Avdol approached at her side, each step measured and deliberate. No hurry, no tension—only the steady weight of someone who understood the gravity of this moment. He placed his palm against the glowing barrier. Blue light rippled faintly across his skin. For a long breath, he studied it with the quiet concentration of someone handling a rare, irreplaceable relic.

“The Queen of Cups represents compassion, wisdom, and emotional intuition,” he said at last, his tone even but resonant, every word falling with solemn weight.

Megan blinked, her gaze flicking between him, the barrier under his hand, and the figure hovering behind her. When Avdol’s mouth curved into a small smile, it wasn’t indulgent. It was approving. Certain. As though the pieces had finally settled where they belonged.

“Megan, this is great!” Joseph’s booming voice shattered the stillness. He clapped his hands together, grinning like a man watching a wager pay out in spades. “I knew you could do it, sweetie!”

Heat rushed into Megan’s face, so swift it almost staggered her. The instinct to fold in on herself was overwhelming. She half-turned toward him, forcing a smile even as every part of her wanted to sink behind the nearest solid object.

Joseph stepped closer, his hands sweeping wide arcs through the air as if enthusiasm alone could shape the moment. “Now tell me—what were you thinking in that instant? That’s usually the key to unlocking a Stand’s power.”

“I—I don’t…” Megan faltered, her voice shrinking to almost nothing as her eyes dropped back to the glowing figure.

The Stand hovered in place—still, suspended, almost regal. Then Megan shifted—just the barest movement—and froze. The starlit figure moved with her.

She leaned to the left. It leaned with her.
She lifted her hand, tentative, testing. The Stand’s arm rose in perfect harmony.

The chalice, once cradled secure in its palms, floated free between them, untethered, suspended as though invisible threads held it aloft.

Her breath caught. It wasn’t just a mirror. It was more. The motions were hers, but magnified, distilled, as though stripped of fear and hesitation—rendered into something deliberate. Whole.

It felt like staring at herself in a dream. A reflection spun from silk and power.

“I guess I was just thinking…” she began slowly, eyes never leaving the figure, “…how badly I wanted to do this. To be this.”

“Perhaps the better question,” Avdol interjected, voice contemplative, “is not what you were thinking—but what you were feeling.”

Megan’s gaze darted toward him, curiosity edging past her nerves.

Hands clasped neatly behind his back, Avdol looked every bit the lecturer mid-lesson. “The Queen of Cups is not a Stand of brute force or rigid logic,” he said evenly. “She reveals herself to those attuned to depth of feeling. The card represents empathy, intuition, self-awareness—even psychic potential. Perhaps it was not thought that summoned her, but emotion—an instant unfiltered by fear or doubt.”

Megan fell quiet.

The weight she’d carried all day—the static, the pressure pressing against her ribs—rose sharp in her mind. But it hadn’t only been fear driving her. Not entirely.

Something inside her clicked, like tumblers falling into place.

Her eyes snapped to Kakyoin. His smile hadn’t faded, but now it carried an edge—subtle, sly, impossible to miss once you recognized it.

Megan narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion. “You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?”

“I had a feeling,” he said mildly, his voice feigning innocence but threaded with quiet amusement. “Lucky for you, I trust my feelings.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her, tugging upward. The warmth in her chest refused to leave, stubborn and steady, even as she turned back to Avdol.

“I think I was feeling…determined,” she admitted after a pause. Then, with the faintest grin, “And maybe a little…” Her eyes flicked sidelong to Jotaro. “…offended.”

The word slipped softer, sheepish—but her smile wasn’t entirely apologetic.

Jotaro didn’t move. Didn’t answer. Arms crossed, posture loose but steadfast, he stood in the glow of the barrier. The steel of his chain glinted in the blue light, his face shadowed beneath the brim of his cap. His brows drew together, his mouth set in its usual straight line.

But she caught it.

That flicker.

His eyes narrowed—not in annoyance, but in thought.

He wasn’t dismissing her anymore.
He was watching.

And somehow, that meant more than any praise.

Megan turned back to the shimmering wall of light, the pull of curiosity almost physical. Her fingertips tingled before she even touched it. She extended her hand slowly, palm hovering above the surface. Up close, the glow rippled like slow-burning flame—heatless, yet undeniable. Her hand didn’t meet resistance, but it didn’t pass through cleanly either. The sensation was strange, like dragging her palm through a current of static caught inside water: buzzing, alive, faintly warm.

I guess all it takes is being irritated enough to want to wipe that nonexistent expression off Mr. Low Hat’s perpetually obscured face.

A pause.

Then—a choked sound. Half laugh, half cough. Kakyoin, trying (and failing) to smother it.

Her eyes flew wide. Oh no.
Had she—?
Yes. Yes, she’d said that out loud.

Her hand flew to her mouth as though she could shove the words back in. She spun like someone caught trash-talking the boss—only to find him right there.

Jotaro’s eyes were already on her. One eyebrow lifted—barely—but the message was unmistakable: I’ve endured sharper insults from a vending machine.

The shield surrounding her gave a pathetic fizzle, blinking out of existence.

“Oh my god, I’m SO sorry,” Megan blurted. Heat flooded her face, rising fast until it burned in her ears. “I—I shouldn’t have said that! That was so rude of me, I don’t know what came over me—”

She faltered when it became painfully clear he wasn’t reacting. At all. No flinch. No glare. Just that steady, unmoving stare. The silence pressed harder with every second, until she wanted to fold in on herself and vanish.

And then—mercifully—Joseph Joestar’s booming laugh cracked the moment wide open.

“HA! That’s the spirit!” he roared, slapping his knee like she’d delivered the punchline to the world’s best joke. “That’s the fire we need!”

Megan groaned, dragging both hands over her face, fingers digging into her hairline like she could claw herself out of existence. If the ground opened up beneath her, she’d happily let it swallow her whole.

“Can I take it back?” she mumbled, voice muffled behind her palms. “Like…can I retroactively unsay it?”

“No.” Jotaro’s reply came quickly. Ruthless.

Her hands parted just enough for one eye to peek through—sheepish, testing the waters.

He was still watching her, expression unreadable. The brim of his hat shaded most of his eyes, but not enough to hide the shift—small, subtle. His eyebrow lowered again, and—just barely—the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

It was faint. Almost imperceptible. But it was there. The closest thing to a smile Jotaro Kujo might ever allow. Something in her chest gave a small, traitorous swell. Half disbelieving, half reluctantly pleased, she realized this was as close to a compliment as she was ever going to get from him. Maybe ever.

She’d take it.

Feeling just a little taller, she turned toward the robed, glass-eyed figure still hovering at her side.

“I think I’ll call you Cobalt Chalice,” Megan announced, firm and decisive, as if naming spectral warriors was something she did every day.

“She is known as the Queen of Cups,” Avdol corrected smoothly, his tone more reflex than rebuke.

Megan nodded like she agreed—and then barreled on. “Oh, I remember. But this group clearly has a ‘Card plus Color’ theme, and I refuse to be the odd one out. Besides, ‘chalice’ sounds more regal than ‘cup.’ If I’m going to have a Stand, she deserves a name that can walk into a royal banquet without apologizing for existing.”

Avdol’s expression flickered, caught somewhere between correcting her again and letting the corner of his mouth soften.

Megan gave him a lopsided grin before turning back to her spectral companion.
“What do you think, Cobalt Chalice? You like it, don’t you?”

She tipped her head in an exaggerated nod.
Cobalt Chalice mirrored the gesture flawlessly.

Megan spun back to the others with a grand flourish of her arms. “See? She likes it!”

“She copies everything you do,” Jotaro said, tone flat as pavement.

“Irrelevant details…” Megan flicked her wrist at him like she was swatting away a dull mosquito.

Kakyoin’s muffled snort broke through, followed by Joseph’s grin—warm, encouraging. And that was enough to make Megan square her shoulders just a little higher.

For the first time since this whole mess began, she wasn’t just the extra standing among them—
she was part of the play.

Chapter Text

The Speedwagon Foundation arrived at the Kujo house the next morning with clinical precision. White vans pulled up to the curb, discreet logos stamped on the sides. Men in suits filed out with a quiet purpose. They moved through the house like they had done this a hundred times before—efficient, practiced, their calm movements such a stark contrast to the chaos and helplessness of the day before that it almost made her dizzy.

Megan lingered in the hallway, her shoulder pressed to the papered wall as a pair of doctors carried in machines she couldn’t even begin to name. The sight should have been comforting—proof that Holy was in capable hands—but all Megan could hear was Joseph’s voice from yesterday: she doesn’t have long unless we defeat Dio. The words clung like burrs against her ribs, prickling deeper every time she tried to breathe.

When the Foundation men finished their careful sweep of the house, they ushered the group into a waiting car. Megan caught one last glimpse of Holy—still and unconscious in her bed—before the shoji slid shut. That image trailed her all the way to Narita Airport, heavy as guilt she didn’t know how to shake.

On the ride, Joseph filled the silence with something heavier than idle talk. He told her about Dio—about the Joestars, the cursed Stone Mask, how this blood feud stretched back for generations. Megan tried to keep her face still, neutral, but her nails carved crescents into her knees with every word. The sheer scale of it—the lineage, the inevitability—pressed down until she felt herself shrinking, like there wasn’t even enough oxygen in the car for her lungs. This wasn’t just about Holy anymore. This was a war older than all of them.

Yet Joseph’s voice carried a conviction that seemed carved into him, threading easily through the hum of the tires against the road. Megan found herself wondering how many times he’d repeated this story, and how much of the strength in his tone was real—and how much was forced performance.

The airport blurred by in a flood of loudspeaker announcements, clattering suitcases, the occasional glance from strangers at their bizarre little group. Then, they were airborne: Joseph fussing with his seatbelt, Avdol neatly tucking his carry-on beneath the seat, and Kakyoin settling a book open across his lap like this was just another Tuesday.

Megan twisted her leather cuff bracelets around her wrists until the edges pressed into her skin. The low, steady thrum of the engines wasn’t reassuring—it was a countdown in disguise. Each vibration reminded her she was thirty thousand feet up in a metal tube that only mostly obeyed gravity. Her stomach tightened with every beat, the thought whispering that she wasn’t built for this kind of journey.

She risked a glance at Jotaro. His eyes were closed, cap pulled low, expression unreadable. Blank as a shuttered window. If a wing tore off mid-flight, he’d probably just sigh and ask for more coffee.

Of course he would, she thought bitterly. He seems capable of handling anything. Meanwhile, I can’t even breathe right without looking like dead weight. Her mouth tugged into a scowl before she realized it.

Joseph’s voice cut through the steady drone of the engines. “So, tell me about yourself, Megan. How long have you lived in Japan? Your mother seemed quite nice on the phone.”

Megan blinked, her focus snapping away from her thoughtful daze. Heat pricked her palms, and she rubbed them down the thighs of her maroon pants, as if friction alone could wipe away the clamminess. “Oh, that wasn’t my mom,” she said quickly. Her voice caught halfway between casual and rushed. “I live with my Aunt Susan and Uncle Dale. And my baby cousin, Danielle.”

“Oh?” Joseph leaned an elbow on the armrest, eyebrows lifting with genuine curiosity. “And why’s that?”

Megan swallowed, the motion thick. “Uh…well…my dad died when I was seven. Brain aneurysm.” The words slid out flat, practiced, but a pinch of heat flared behind her sternum all the same. She pressed her tongue hard against the roof of her mouth, scraping at the dryness that had settled there like dust. The memory sat heavy and familiar—sharp in a way she couldn’t dull no matter how many times she repeated it. She couldn’t decide which was worse: being dragged back into that moment, or sitting here waiting for the next pocket of turbulence to yank the floor from under her.

Joseph’s expression softened, the lines around his eyes tightening with sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s okay,” Megan replied automatically, the reassurance rolling out smooth from overuse. Her fingers drifted toward the edge of her cuff bracelet, thumb rubbing a back-and-forth pattern along the seams. Habit. Anchor. “It was a long time ago.”

She didn’t turn her head, but she felt it—Jotaro shifting beside her. Not a full movement, just the subtle change in breath and fabric, the quiet weight of awareness. It pressed into her skin like static, heavy enough to remind her he wasn’t nearly as indifferent as he wanted her to believe.

Joseph hesitated before continuing, his words deliberate. “And your mother?” Every syllable seemed tested, as if he weighed each one in his palm before letting it drop.

“She’s, um…around.” Megan laid the words down one by one, like shards of glass she didn’t dare drop too fast. Her knee bounced once before she forced it still, fingers curling tight against her thigh. “In America, still, I think.”

Joseph’s brow creased. “You don’t know?”

“Not for sure.” Her throat pinched tight, the recycled cabin air thickening until it felt like cotton stuffing up her lungs. “Haven’t spoken to her in a few years.”

Heat crept up the back of her neck, prickling into her scalp, until she was certain the people behind her could see it radiating off her skin. The flush tangled with anger, restless and choking.

The steady white wash of the cabin lights blurred into something harsher—a harsh bathroom bulb. A sharp copper tang in the air. A door breaking open and slamming hard. Her aunt’s scream cutting into the air, sharp as glass.

Her stomach lurched. Megan snapped her eyes back to the patterned seat fabric ahead, staring until it stopped swimming. Her fingers found the metallic clasp of her cuff bracelet and pressed it firmly with her thumb. Familiar. Grounding. Proof she was here, not back there.

“And she just let you move to Japan with your aunt and uncle?” Joseph pressed. His tone wasn’t judgmental—only disbelieving, like he was still trying to reconcile the story with the sixteen-year-old girl squeezed between him and his grandson.

“Yup.” The word landed harder than she wanted, brittle as a snapped twig. She popped the p like punctuation, sharp enough to make her wince at herself. “That’s exactly what happened.”

To her right, Jotaro shifted. The scrape of fabric against the armrest. A quiet exhale that was too measured to be careless. The kind of sound people made when they were pretending not to listen while very much listening.

Megan kept her gaze fixed on the patterned seatback ahead, spine rigid as if that alone could keep her from unraveling. The silence stretched long enough that her pulse began to pound in her ears. Her brain sprinted ahead without permission, spitting out worst-case scenarios like a bad movie trailer: What if Joseph kept digging? What if he asked about the rest of her family? What if he figured out just how worthless she really was?

Then it hit—sudden and merciless, like plunging headfirst into icy water. A prickle traced sharp lines between her shoulder blades, each one pressing deeper until her breath stuttered. The weight of eyes—imagined or not—pinned her spine straighter. Megan quickly scanned her eyes around the cabin, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. She opened her mouth, ready to whisper something to Mr. Joestar—

—and his sudden intake of breath snapped the air taut.

“He saw us,” Joseph said, certainty carving his voice into steel. “I definitely felt Dio looking at us just now!”

Megan’s stomach lurched. That was it. The suffocating pressure clawing into her skin hadn’t been her imagination. Knowing it had a source didn’t make it easier—it made it worse, a truth she couldn’t push away.

“Yeah…” Jotaro’s low voice rumbled at her side.

She turned before she could stop herself. His eyes were open now, the brim no longer hiding the deliberate sweep of his gaze. Every shift was precise, clinical, as he scanned the rows, the narrow aisles, the far windows—cataloging faces the way other people sorted cards: threat or not. The muscles in his jaw flexed once, the only sign of strain.

Joseph leaned forward, voice pitched for them alone. “Be careful…the next Stand user may be on this plane.”

The words cinched around her chest like wire. The cabin shrank in on itself, air going stale and sharp in her lungs. Her breaths came shallow, loud in her own ears, and panic rose too fast to choke back. She knew what that meant—her Stand would crumble under her panic, brittle as glass.

She forced her thoughts into fists, tried to slam fear into something resembling determination. But the harder she pushed, the harder her anxiety pressed back. All she could summon was a flicker—a weak glint of blue at the edge of her vision, there and gone before she could hold it.

Pathetic. If there really is a Stand user here, what chance do I even have?

Her pulse rattled against her ribs, each beat sharp enough to echo in her ears. In this sealed metal capsule thirty thousand feet above the ground, that flicker of blue she’d managed wouldn’t save anyone—it barely even counted as proof she belonged with them.

Beside her, Jotaro rose. The motion was smooth, unhurried, yet it carried the quiet weight of inevitability, like he’d been waiting for this moment all along. His coat shifted as he straightened, fabric brushing against her arm for the briefest second before falling away. His eyes cut forward, green and hard beneath the shadow of his brim, narrowed in a focus so sharp it seemed to slice the air.

She followed his gaze—and instantly wished she hadn’t.

A beetle darted across the front of the cabin, its glossy black shell catching the harsh overhead lights in wet gleams. It was massive, prehistoric, its jagged legs moving with a kind of deliberate wrongness that made her stomach churn. Each thrum of its wings reverberated in the enclosed space, a vibration that dug into her ribs and teeth.

Perfect. Flying death trap, possible Stand user, and now Mothra’s understudy. At this point, the captain’s next announcement will probably be that we’re out of fuel.

“A rhino beetle?” Jotaro’s voice cut low, steady—almost bored. Then, after a beat, he corrected himself: “No…a stag beetle.”

Who cares what genus it is? It’s disgusting. The thought jolted through her, her shoulders pressing hard into the seatback as her pulse skittered unevenly.

Joseph leaned sharply forward, half-crouching toward Avdol’s seat. The leather of his glove creaked against the armrest as his grip tightened, knuckles blanching beneath the plastic. “Avdol, is that a Stand? Are we already encountering another Stand user?”

“It is very possible,” Avdol said. His deep voice carried a calm that rang worse than panic—like the stillness before a fire spread. “It could be a bug-shaped Stand.”

The beetle twitched—and then darted downward. The sound that followed was quick. Wet. A slicing note her brain refused to assign an image to. Bile crawled hot and sour up her throat.

“What the…” Joseph’s eyes darted over the rows. “It hid…in the shadow of the seats.”

Jotaro’s shoulders rolled back as he stepped into the aisle. Each movement was slow, deliberate—predatory. His gaze scanned the open cabin, his attention focusing on areas where the shadows pooled thickest, as though the darkness itself were giving him a trail to follow.

Megan pushed herself upright, fingers braced against the seatback for leverage. The motion came out jerky anyway, her knees locking with a tiny crack of sound as soon as she stood. She didn’t have the nerve to follow Jotaro into the open aisle—her body knew it before her brain did. Instead she edged closer to Joseph, the faint smell of his aftershave grounding her for half a heartbeat.

“Damn…” Avdol muttered, his deep eyes cutting across the cabin, scanning. “It could be anywhere.”

Megan tried to mimic his vigilance, moving her gaze in tight, clipped sweeps. Seatbacks. Overhead bins. Corners where the shadows thickened like traps. Her heartbeat stuttered with each pass.

Then—faint but unmistakable—a heavy buzz. It threaded beneath her skin, crawling up her spine and settling like static in her teeth. Her eyes snapped to Kakyoin just as his posture stiffened, his voice slicing the tense air.

“JoJo! It’s by the side of your head!”

Before the warning could even land, the stag beetle shot into view, hovering inches from Jotaro’s face. Its black shell glistened under the cabin lights like wet obsidian, its wings a rapid blur that sent vibrations straight into Megan’s bones. Foam beaded at its mandibles before the slow, gleaming emergence of a metallic claw extended like a switchblade.

Oh, that’s so gross. Her face twisted before she could stop it, bile prickling the back of her throat. Flying was bad enough—now a frothing, metal-mouthed monster had claimed their airspace.

“I’ve heard,” Avdol continued, his voice even as stone, “there is a user of an insect Stand who likes to rip out the tongues of their victims before they die.”

Megan froze. A cold rush tore through her chest, cinching her throat like a fist. “…That’s vile,” she whispered, the words thin and frayed.

“Focus,” Jotaro said without looking at her. “Don’t freeze up.”

“I’m not—!” Heat rushed into her cheeks, a flare of defensive anger even as the tremor in her hands betrayed her.

“Then prove it.”

Her retort snagged and died in her throat, tangled in the sharp truth of his words. If she froze now, she wasn’t a fighter at all—just a liability. A flailing burden they’d been unlucky enough to drag along.

“Star Platinum!”

The air flexed, pressure shifting as Jotaro’s Stand burst into being. Towering, muscular, its arrival vibrated through the floor and into Megan’s calves, like the whole cabin had braced itself around him. Star Platinum lashed out at the beetle with blinding speed—so fast her eyes barely tracked the movement.

But the bug was faster. It shot upward in a jagged blur, dodging at the last instant.

Avdol’s disbelief cracked through the droning hum. “I–I can’t believe it… it dodged! Faster than Star Platinum!”

Megan’s pulse thundered so loud it seemed to drown the engines. Star Platinum was supposed to be untouchable—Jotaro had caught bullets with it, for God’s sake. And if something faster than that was loose inside this plane, she didn’t know which terrified her more: what it could do to him… or how quickly it would expose her as useless.

Kakyoin’s voice cut taut, sharp as glass. His eyes swept across the rows. “Where is he? Where’s the one controlling it?!”

The beetle’s wings accelerated, the drone rising into a pitch that reminded Megan of helicopter blades—violent, deliberate. Foam spilled over the metallic sheen of its mandibles, and then its mouth snapped forward, firing the claw like a bullet. The spike slammed into Star Platinum’s outstretched hand.

“Crap!” The word ripped from Megan before she knew she’d spoken. Instinct surged. Light flared at her palms, and the Cobalt Chalice’s shield snapped into existence—blue, curved, humming against her skin. For a heartbeat it held, vibrations running up her arms like a current. Then it shuddered, faltered, and blinked out before she could brace it. The collapse hit like a slap, humiliation burning hotter than the fear she’d tried to mask.

“ORA!” Star Platinum roared, grip tightening around the writhing claw.

The beetle pressed forward, its jagged appendage grinding through the Stand’s palm, inching toward its face.

“No, damn it!” Jotaro’s voice cut through the whir of wings, sharp and raw—too raw to be strategy alone.

“Jotaro!!” Megan’s voice cracked, spilling out louder than she intended, fear unchecked and desperate.

In the next instant, Star Platinum surged—not back, but forward. Its head snapped toward the threat, teeth clamping down on the claw with bone-crushing force. The cabin rang with the wet crunch of impact and the grinding protest of metal.

Blood welled in both Stand and user, a dark smear tracing from the corner of Jotaro’s mouth. For the first time since she’d met him, his expression shifted—not shaken, but pierced by something unguarded. And just before the mask slammed back into place, his eyes flicked toward her. A glance, fleeting, almost imperceptible—yet it carried something she hadn’t expected: reassurance, steady as an anchor, as if to say he was fine.

Relief slammed into her, dizzying and unstable, loosening the knot in her chest—only for shame to sweep in after, heavier, filling her lungs hollow. She’d tried. She really had. But her Stand had guttered out like a dying bulb, leaving her with nothing but hot adrenaline, humiliation, and the echo of failure.

Avdol’s eyes narrowed, the weight of his stare sinking into the moment. “It’s just as I feared: it’s trying to go after Jotaro’s Stand’s tongue…” His voice deepened, every syllable deliberate, heavy. “It must be him. The Tower card of the Tarot—symbolizing destruction, calamity, and the interruption of a journey. This Stand is called…Tower of Grey.”

He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye, his words cutting through the din of the cabin like a verdict. “Tower of Grey is responsible for countless mass murders—disasters he disguised as accidents. That airplane crash last year in England, the one that claimed over three hundred lives—” Avdol’s gaze darkened further. “It seems he’s working for Dio.”

The words punched the air from Megan’s lungs. Perfect. Now our bug problem comes with a history of massacres. Her nails bit into the leather cuff at her wrist until the sting bloomed hot, grounding her only in failure.

In the aisle, Jotaro and Star Platinum stayed locked in place, teeth clenched on the metallic claw. Blood dripped steadily from palm and mouth, his muscles taut, jaw locked, unmoving even as the beetle writhed against him. Then it broke free. The insect streaked toward Joseph in a darting blur.

Megan didn’t think—her body moved on instinct. A crystalline shield flared up between Joseph and the oncoming Stand, its hum vibrating up her arms, steady and alive. The impact rattled her shoulders, pain sparking through her joints—but this time, it held. The beetle slammed against it and spun away, screeching.

She glanced back—and there she was. Cobalt Chalice stood in perfect sync, sea-glass eyes glowing calm where Megan trembled. Starlight robes rippled around her tall frame, shimmer rolling faint under the cabin lights. Untouchable. Otherworldly.

Joseph’s grin split wide. “Nice work, Megan!”

Her chest rose and fell in ragged bursts. “Don’t thank me yet—” Her voice cracked, brittle with the knowledge that this moment of strength never lasted.

Sure enough, the shield sputtered once. Twice. Then flickered out. Cobalt Chalice dissolved with it, leaving only the warmth in her palms and the sharp echo of loss hollowing her chest.

Of course.

Before she could curse herself, Star Platinum’s roar split the cabin. Each “ORA!” ripped out like a thunderclap, battle cries syncing with a lightning-fast barrage of fists. The air itself seemed to splinter under the rhythm, pressure cracking in sharp bursts as his punches strobbed the narrow space. The beetle’s metallic claw shattered mid-strike, fragments scattering across the aisle like shards of glass. But Tower of Grey blurred away, skittering out of reach before the last blows could land.

A jagged shard still jutted between Star Platinum’s teeth. Jotaro’s stony expression didn’t falter, but Megan caught the smallest tilt of his body—angled unconsciously between her and the rows where the beetle had vanished. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she imagined it. But the thought pressed heavy all the same.

“I–It dodged that attack too?!” Avdol’s disbelief cracked sharp against the drone of the engines, rare enough to send a prickle racing up Megan’s skin. “Its speed is incredible!”

Then a voice slithered through the air—high, warped, oily, sliding over the cabin like something alive. “Heheh! Even if you had ten guns firing from one centimeter away, they would not touch my Stand!”

Megan’s eyes flew wide. It talks? The thought stumbled out in a half-whisper, equal parts incredulous and horrified.

The laughter rolled on, sickly and smug, rattling in the recycled air. “Not that you could kill a Stand with a bullet, anyway. You’re all going to die with the rest of these weaklings.”

Her skin crawled. The user was here—close. Watching. Her gaze swept the cabin, pulse jittering as she tried to pin down anything out of place. Neck straining, she craned to see down the rows, but the beetle darted away, slipping into gaps between passengers.

“Where did it go?!” she hissed, panic threading the edge of her voice.

Kakyoin’s voice cut from behind her, sharp and precise. “It moved over there!” His hand shot up, pointing to the opposite aisle several rows back.

Tower of Grey’s laughter rippled again—thin, sharp, lingering like a knife across glass. The beetle perched on the head of a man sleeping in his seat, his head bobbing gently with the plane’s rhythm.

Avdol’s voice wavered—a sound Megan hadn’t heard from him before. “N–No… it wouldn’t—”

The beetle lifted from the man’s head and hovered for a split second—long enough to line itself with a perfect column of passengers. Then it shot forward.

Megan barely had time to blink before the horror tore through the cabin. Its body speared through skulls in a clean, merciless line, bursting out of mouths in a spray of red. Screams strangled mid-throat, blood spraying the seats in narrow arcs. When it reappeared, it dangled its prize from one claw: half a dozen human tongues, limp, dripping, obscene.

Tower of Grey’s voice sliced through the stunned air, oily and smug. “Hahaha! Bingo! Got their tongues! And now, for the best part!”

The beetle raised its claw higher, the severed tongues swaying like some grotesque ornament. Blood ran in deliberate rivulets, dragging arcs across the wall as though the creature took its time—painting with casual cruelty.

Megan’s stomach lurched. Her chest cinched tight, breath catching sharp in her throat. She turned her head fast, lips pressed together so hard they whitened, fighting the gag clawing up from her gut. The copper tang of blood thickened in the air, crawling across her tongue until she could taste it.

“Get it together, Princess.”

The words came low, just over her shoulder—cutting enough to slice through her nausea. Close enough she felt them against her skin. Her head jerked toward Jotaro before she could stop herself.

I’m sorry—what did he just call me?

He didn’t even glance her way. His eyes stayed locked forward, jaw clamped tight, as though her weakness had been weighed, accounted for, and dismissed. She knew he could be detached—stone-faced to the point of unreadable—but this wasn’t indifference. He wasn’t mocking her. He was pressing her, prodding at a place that stung until she wanted to rise to it.

Heat rushed up her spine, flaring hot enough to surprise her. Not shame—something sharper. Irritation. Defiance. The kind that startled her because it felt dangerously close to strength.

Her pulse thudded in her ears. “Excuse me?” she managed, voice low, sharper than she’d ever heard herself sound.

He didn’t move, didn’t twitch, didn’t even breathe louder. Just stood there, unyielding, as if waiting to see whether she’d crack under the pressure or hold. Which somehow made it worse. Like her objection had bounced off him without leaving a mark.

Her gaze snapped forward again—and froze. The message was already there, scrawled in wet, glistening red across the cabin wall:

Massacre.

Avdol’s jaw tightened, eyes boring into the beetle. “Fine! I’ll burn that bug alive! Magician’s Red!”

He moved with a single, deliberate intent—no wasted motion—and the air answered him. Magician’s Red erupted in a shimmer of heat, a tall, muscular figure stepping out of the wavering air. Its avian head was knife-precise, crowned with sharp ridges and burning eyes, flames coiling in its hands like living ropes. Heat rolled off it in visible waves; the cabin air itself seemed to bow away, the overhead lights haloing the shimmer. Ozone stung the edge of Megan’s nose, a metallic tang that made her throat tighten as if the plane had inhaled and held its breath.

Megan found she couldn’t look away. If her Stand was a shield, this one was a furnace—grand, dangerous, all-consuming. For a second she was grateful it wasn’t directed at her.

“Wait a moment, Avdol!” Kakyoin’s voice cut through clean and sudden, the sound like a sliver of glass.

Avdol paused and obeyed; Magician’s Red dissolved into a dissipating heat haze that slithered back into him as he stepped away. The presence left the cabin feeling cooler by degrees, but the after-smell of hot metal and ozone lingered, prickling at the hairs along Megan’s forearms.

An old man in a nearby row suddenly stirred, rubbing at his eyes like someone annoyed at being woken. “It’s so noisy… what’s all the ruckus…” He pushed himself up, wobbling as the plane gave a subtle shudder. “Guess I’ll go to the bathroom.”

Megan’s pulse jumped. Who the hell is this absolutely oblivious geezer with atrocious timing? She watched him automatically—part vigilance, part disbelief—one eyebrow lifting despite herself. The man shuffled down the aisle, one palm skimming the cabin wall as if using it for guidance. Without meaning to, his hand landed square on the wet, red scrawl across the panel.

“Oh? What’s this slimy stuff? M…A—” His voice trailed as his gaze rose. Eyes widened. “Ahhh!! I—Is it blood?!”

The shout knifed into Megan’s stomach. If he started screaming, the whole cabin could unravel into panic—fast.

“Atemi.”

Kakyoin’s hand was already moving. The chop landed so fast Megan barely registered a sound: the sharp crack of air displaced, a precise, practiced strike into the man’s neck. He collapsed back into his seat like a marionette with cut strings, unconscious before his body finished falling. Kakyoin straightened, expression clipped, urgent—nothing showy, only efficient.

Megan blinked, stunned by the economy of it. “Well… that was incredibly cool and James Bond–like,” she mused, unable to stop the surprised admiration from slipping out. Kakyoin’s eyebrow lifted the tiniest fraction, as if he didn’t quite get the reference—but he didn’t correct her.

He addressed them as a group, voice calm and urgent: “We have to defeat it before the other passengers panic.”

Before Megan could respond, the faint hum of wings yanked her attention back to the aisle. Tower of Grey streaked forward, its claw extended—aimed straight for Jotaro’s face.

The impulse hit before thought. Megan lunged, throwing herself into the line of attack, her body moving faster than her brain could stop it. In her periphery, she caught Jotaro’s head snap down toward her—sharp, sudden—as if the role reversal had jarred him. Her palms flared with sparks of blue light, energy prickling hot across her skin.

Too slow.

The claw slashed across her right arm just beneath her cuff bracelet. White-hot pain detonated through her nerves, stealing her breath in a ragged exhale. She staggered, clutching her arm as warmth bled fast down her sleeve, each drop pounding the reminder: too slow, too late, again.

The shield blinked into existence a beat after the damage was already carved into her, its hum vibrating faintly as though mocking her with proof of what she should have done sooner.

“Agh!” The exasperated growl ripped from her before she could choke it back. Blood slid in thin rivulets, soaking into her sleeves. She clenched her teeth, jaw tight against the sting, pressure building behind her eyes.

“Megan! Are you alright?” Kakyoin’s voice cut through the ringing in her ears, sharp with concern.

“Fine. Just flailing over here,” she muttered, forcing sarcasm to mask the tremor in her breath as she pressed her hand hard to the wound.

Kakyoin didn’t falter. His tone steadied, grounding. “You’re still in this. Don’t let it shake you.”

Her jaw locked, throat scraping the single word out brittle. “…Right.”

He turned fast, eyes narrowing as his voice clipped into strategy. “Avdol, an active Stand like Magician’s Red in this cabin could make it explode, killing us all. And JoJo—if your power tore through the fuselage, we’d be finished. My Hierophant Green is most suited to defeating it.”

The buzz snagged Megan’s attention again, cutting under her skin like a live wire. Tower of Grey hovered smugly, its wings droning at a pitch that felt deliberately taunting.

“Noriaki Kakyoin, eh?” Its voice slithered oily and confident through the cramped air. “I’ve heard all about you from Lord Dio. Don’t bother…your Stand can’t keep up with my speed.”

Kakyoin’s mouth curved faintly. “You think so?”

Megan’s breath caught as the redhead called forth his Stand. Hierophant Green shimmered into being—long and lean, its limbs stretching with an unnatural elasticity, emerald light pulsing through segmented armor like veins of electricity. The air around it seemed to tighten, humming low—not furnace heat like Magician’s Red, not brute force like Star Platinum, but something colder, coiled, unnervingly precise.

“Emerald Splash!”

A volley of glowing emeralds burst from its hands, slicing through the air with a sharp hiss. Tower of Grey twisted aside, weaving through them with effortless, practiced grace.

Kakyoin’s voice rang again, faster this time, sharper: “Emerald Splash!” Another barrage lit the cabin, and again the beetle blurred between the shots, each emerald grazing nothing but stale air.

Tower of Grey’s cackle was all teeth, drilling into her skull. “Fire a thousand, it won’t matter. You haven’t touched me once!”

Megan’s fists curled tighter until her nails bit crescents into her palms. Her heartbeat pounded so loud it drowned the hum of the engines. Beside her, Jotaro still hadn’t moved from where she’d thrown herself in front of him. His presence loomed steady at her side—solid, immovable, a weight she could feel even without looking.

The beetle darted again, its mouth claw shooting forward like a harpoon. It struck Hierophant Green dead-on, a crack splitting across its mask-like face.

“Urk—!” Kakyoin choked, blood spraying from his lips.

Megan’s gasp tore free, sharp and raw. “Kakyoin!”

Both Stand and user collapsed, the emerald glow dimming as Kakyoin hit the floor. Tower of Grey looped above them, wings buzzing with triumph.

“I’m just too fast for you!” it crowed, voice shrill with glee. “Kakyoin…” Foam bubbled wet between its mandibles. “…with my next attack, I’ll stab your Stand’s tongue with this Tower Needle and rip it out!”

“Not happening!” Megan’s voice cracked out before she knew she’d spoken.

Instinct flared, dragging her forward. Cobalt Chalice’s shield surged into place between Kakyoin and the oncoming strike. For a heartbeat, it held—its hum fierce, thrumming through her arms like it might anchor her there.

But then it splintered, bursting into blue shards that scattered across the floor before fading into nothing.

“You’re too reckless.” Jotaro’s voice cut hard from behind her, steel hidden in the rasp. “Wait for the right timing.”

The words stung—not cruelty, but command. Survival disguised as reprimand. Heat rushed her face as she snapped her head toward him.

“My apologies, Sensei. Forgive me for being new to this whole 'battle on board a flying death trap' thing.”

He didn’t look at her, but his eyes narrowed—brief, sharp acknowledgment. No smirk. No scowl. Just recognition, silent, filed away.

On the floor, Kakyoin smirked faintly at their exchange before shifting his gaze back to the fight, emerald light flickering weak but alive at his hands.

“Emerald Splash!”

Hierophant Green surged upright, emeralds firing in a blistering flurry. Tower of Grey slipped through them in tight, looping arcs, untouched.

“Don’t you get it?!” the beetle jeered, voice pitched high and needling. “You can’t touch me!” Its cackle drilled into Megan’s skull, winding her frustration tighter, tighter.

Her fists clenched, molars grinding together. Next opening, I won’t miss. I can’t. Not again.

Tower of Grey’s wings whined higher, crueler. “Once this rips your tongue out, you’ll go mad from the pain!”

It shot forward, froth bubbling, claw spearing straight for Kakyoin.

Megan’s body reacted before thought. Light sparked in her hands—but sputtered, half-formed, vanishing in a weak flicker. Her chest cinched, lungs tight.
“Oh, for crying out loud—” The words spilled out harsher than she meant, flimsy armor against the panic crawling icy fingers up her spine. Seriously? Stand-related performance anxiety?

Tower of Grey didn’t so much as falter, weaving around her failure. Its claw gleamed in the cabin lights, streaking for Kakyoin’s face.

But Kakyoin’s gaze sharpened, calm hardening into precision. His voice cut smooth: “My Hierophant Green will go mad, alright…”

Tentacles lashed out in an instant, exploding through rows of seats with a tearing shriek of fabric and metal. Emerald cords whipped forward, stabbing clean through Tower of Grey’s body.

The beetle spasmed violently, its wings thrashing in a blur, a grating screech rattling from its throat. “What?!”

Megan’s fist punched the air before she could stop herself. “Alright, Kakyoin!” she shouted, breathless, adrenaline flooding her chest in a dizzying rush of vindication.

“If it rips you apart,” Kakyoin went on, his voice almost conversational, “it’ll go mad, all right—” His mouth twitched faintly. “From joy.”

The tentacles twisted hard. Tower of Grey shrieked as its segmented body split apart, shards of shell scattering like shattered glass, Stand energy flickering out into the cabin air.

Down the aisle, the old man jerked awake, eyes wide and unfocused. His mouth sagged open—and his tongue unrolled unnaturally long, etched with beetle-like runes that pulsed once before splitting in two. The sound that followed was a wet, choking gurgle that seemed to sour the very air, metallic and sharp in her nose.

“What the?!” Joseph’s voice cracked through the stunned quiet.

The realization struck Megan like a sudden drop in altitude: the old man’s bumbling timing earlier hadn’t been clueless at all—it had been deliberate. A distraction.

He slumped back now, head lolling at an unnatural angle, his split tongue dangling grotesquely. A dark wound bloomed at his temple, spreading fast until his body sagged still. Megan couldn’t drag her eyes away. Relief should have come, but it curdled heavy in her chest instead, souring as the air thickened around her. The fight was over, yet her lungs pulled shallow, stale breaths that tasted of metal and old sweat. She hadn’t helped enough. She never did. Survival felt like someone else’s victory, one she had borrowed without earning.

The body had been propped into an aisle seat. Kakyoin, Jotaro, and Joseph stood nearby, already shifting their focus to aftermath. Avdol sat just behind the body, and Megan took the seat beside him—unfortunately giving her an unobstructed view of the slack jaw and the grotesque split tongue still hanging loose.

She hugged her arms tight across her chest, fighting the urge to curl smaller in the chair. “Shouldn’t we…I don’t know…get a blanket or something to cover him up?”

Jotaro exhaled through his nose, tugging the brim of his hat lower, shadow cutting across his eyes.
“Yare yare daze,” he muttered.

For a fleeting second, Megan indulged the deeply immature but immensely satisfying mental image of sticking her tongue out at him. She didn’t—but the picture was enough to blunt the nausea, to hold herself straighter, chin tilted, eyes narrowed at nothing.

“It doesn’t appear he has Dio’s flesh bud in his forehead…” Kakyoin observed, leaning closer to inspect the body.

“Tower of Grey was always evil,” Avdol said evenly. His tone was steady, but the weight of it carried. “He killed tourists by the hundreds, disguising it as accidents, and took payment for it. Dio was able to use him because he was easily bought and blinded by greed.”

At last, Avdol reached forward and drew a sheet over the corpse. Megan let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Then—the plane gave a long, groaning creak. Joseph’s brow furrowed. The cabin tilted just enough to make Megan’s stomach sway. A cup tumbled from a tray table, clattering dully against the carpet.

Joseph’s head snapped toward the sound. “Something’s wrong. I could be imagining it, but it seems like this plane is flying crooked.”

Another cup slid off a nearby tray table, rolling in slow, lazy circles across the carpet. Megan’s stomach lurched as though the floor tilted beneath her. Her hands shot out, gripping Kakyoin’s sleeve. His arm was steady under her clammy fingers. He glanced down at her once but didn’t move to shake her off.

“Crooked?” she echoed, voice thinner than she wanted. “No. Nope. Not liking that word being used to describe a plane’s flight pattern.”

Joseph didn’t answer. He spun and started up the aisle, long strides urgent.

A flight attendant stepped into his path, hands lifted in practiced professionalism. “Sir, where are you going? The cockpit is up ahead—passengers cannot enter.”

“I know that,” Joseph said, brushing her aside like she was nothing more than a curtain in his way.

“S–Sir, wait!” the stewardess stammered, stumbling to keep pace. Another attendant appeared, forming a shaky wall of navy-blue uniforms. The two of them exchanged a wide-eyed glance, hesitation written across their faces—whether to stop him more forcefully, or just get out of the way.

That hesitation shattered when Jotaro started forward. The air seemed to tighten instantly, the aisle shrinking around his broad shoulders and heavy steps. Megan trailed a few paces behind, watching as the attendants’ composure dissolved. Their cheeks flushed pink, eyes wide, professional resolve crumbling into something closer to daydreams.

Her jaw dropped, narrowing into disbelief. Oh my God, ladies. Swoon over him later!

Jotaro didn’t break stride. His voice came out low, flat. “Move, bitch.”

He shoved past with enough force to send them stumbling into the row of seats. Megan felt the flicker of an internal sigh. Fine—the brute-force approach worked. And when Jotaro used it, it was usually because he’d already decided there wasn’t another option. Still. Did it have to be that much force?

The attendants didn’t even look upset. If anything, their eyes glazed over further, cheeks hot with something dangerously close to infatuation.

Megan crossed her arms, shifting her weight onto one hip. “Unbelievable…” she muttered, voice sharp enough to cut through their swooning.

Before she could roll her eyes again, Kakyoin swept in as though he’d been waiting for the cue. With practiced ease, he caught both women before they toppled, one cradled in each arm like delicate glass. His smile came effortless, his posture almost theatrical.

“Whoa there. Pardon…” His voice dipped smooth, practically silk. “Sorry about that, ladies. His disrespectful behavior is incorrigible, but this is an emergency. Please forgive him…for me?”

The attendants’ startle melted instantly into open swooning, their earlier professionalism dissolving beneath the low timbre of his voice. “Okay…” they breathed together, dreamy, faint, completely derailed from the crisis at hand.

Megan stared, brain short-circuiting. You’ve got to be kidding me. Mid-crisis, and apparently it’s audition time for a soap opera.

Avdol stepped up behind her, gaze bouncing between Kakyoin, the attendants, and the chaos unraveling in the aisle. His expression was the very picture of bafflement, steadiness shaken. “What the…”

“My thoughts exactly, Avdol! Let’s go!” Megan snapped, her voice cracking sharp as she pushed forward toward the cockpit.

The door stood ajar. She stepped through—and froze, breath seizing in her chest.

The captain slumped over the controls, the two copilots sprawled in their seats like discarded mannequins. All three had their tongues ripped clean out, jaws stretched wide around gaping wounds raw with both dried and fresh blood. The metallic tang of it coated the air, thick and choking, crawling up her throat until she thought she’d gag.

“Damn it!” Joseph barked behind her, his voice cracking with fury and disbelief.

Jotaro stepped in next, broad shoulders filling the space. His gaze swept the carnage without a flicker of visible shock, expression sealed tight. His voice, though, edged darker. “Their tongues have been ripped out. That bastard killed the pilots before we even knew he was here.”

Kakyoin and Avdol followed, both halting for a beat before grim recognition settled over their faces.

Joseph leaned across the center console, gloved hands bracing on the controls. His face hardened, jaw set tight. “We’re losing altitude fast. The autopilot’s been destroyed as well. This plane’s going to crash!”

A spike of panic lanced Megan’s chest—so sharp it flipped her reflexes into motion. Without thought, the Cobalt Chalice Shield flared to life, a blue arc humming tight around her in the cramped cockpit. For a few glorious seconds, thrill replaced fear: instinct, pure and clean. No hesitation. No sputter.

Then the glow guttered. The barrier winked out, leaving only the warmth in her palms and a hollow ache spreading through her chest like she’d been scooped out from the inside.

She barked a short, humorless laugh. “Perfect. Three seconds of protection while we nosedive. That’ll save everyone.”

“Megan.” Jotaro’s voice cut low, brim shadowing his eyes. His tone carried the same weight as the plane itself—steady, immovable. “Focus. If there’s debris flying, you can protect the others.”

The command struck like a tether, yanking her out of the spiral. He wasn’t admonishing her, necessarily. He was anchoring her—steady in the way she never seemed able to be for herself.

Movement flickered at the edge of her vision. Megan turned sharply toward the cockpit door.

The Stand user stood there—still swathed in the blanket Avdol had thrown earlier, though it clung to him now like a burial shroud. His body was a ruin of blood and torn flesh, yet somehow he remained upright, shadow falling long across the threshold.

“I am Grey Fly,” the old man rasped, voice gurgling wetly through the ruin of his mouth. “I am the Stand that holds the Tower card… which represents accidents and the end of journeys. I’ll keep you from Lord Dio… if it’s the last thing I do!”

Megan’s stomach twisted—not at the threat, but at the absurd puzzle chewing her brain raw. How the hell is he even talking with his tongue split in half like that?

“Even if you survive this crash,” Grey Fly pressed on, his tone climbing into manic certainty, “you are ten thousand kilometers from Egypt! Dio’s loyal servants will pursue you relentlessly! There are Stands in this world that defy the very limits of imagination! Lord Dio has the power to reign over all of them! You’ll never reach him alive—you bastards will never reach Egypt!”

The last word shattered into a violent cough, and then his knees buckled. His body hit the floor hard and stayed there.

Behind Megan, a pair of gasps rang out—the flight attendants, frozen in the doorway like porcelain dolls.

Jotaro’s head angled back, his voice cool and flat as stone.

“You’re definitely professionals. Good thing you didn’t scream. That annoys me all to fucking hell.”

Jotaro moved toward them, the brim of his cap casting his eyes in deeper shadow. His voice dropped lower, weightier, making the narrow cockpit feel smaller around him. “Now—I’ve got a request. This heap’s going to hit water, and the old man’s gonna land her there. Get life jackets and seat belts on the other passengers.”

“Y-Yes, sir!” one attendant stammered, already half-turning to sprint down the aisle.

Jotaro turned toward Joseph. “Old man, you got this?”

Megan’s head whipped around so fast her neck twinged. “W–wait! You can fly a plane?”

Joseph scratched the back of his neck with the casual bravado of someone claiming they could also juggle flaming chainsaws. “Well…I have experience with propeller planes, but…”

“Propeller?!” Kakyoin echoed, disbelief spiking through his tone.

“But, Jotaro…” Joseph went on, voice rising, “this is my third time. Have you ever heard of someone being in a crashing plane three times?”

Megan felt the blood drain from her face. Her pulse thudded loud against her ribs, sharper than it had during the fight. Not from a Stand. Not from Grey Fly. But because her life was apparently hanging on Joseph Joestar’s part-time prop-plane résumé.

“Oh dear God…” she murmured.

“That settles it,” Jotaro said flatly. “No way in hell I’m ever riding in a plane with you again.”

Megan lifted her hand weakly in his direction, not even bothering to look at him. “Awesome. Love finding out my pilot’s basically on a punch card for plane crashes…”

For the briefest second, with her hand still raised, her eyes flicked sideways. Jotaro’s gaze had found hers—just a glance, quick and muted. But it was enough. His cap shadowed most of his face, yet she caught the flicker beneath: the barest acknowledgment that their sarcasm had landed together. That in the middle of blood, chaos, and a falling plane, they’d managed to agree.

Her lips pressed into the ghost of a smile before she turned forward again, hugging her arm tight to her chest. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

But for the first time since boarding, she didn’t feel entirely alone in her panic.