Dark Empath

Red eyes followed the battle between the Vulpix and Dragapult. Ruìsāng stood a silent sentinel, his arms crossed, his gaze sharp with scrutiny. Occasionally, his voice would slice through the air, a command or piece of advice for his Pokémon. Yet, he largely let them spar on their own terms. This wasn’t detachment; it was a deliberate choice. Trust was a two-way street — to earn theirs, he needed to show his own. He observed their techniques and temperaments, seeking to understand and adapt their strengths to his strategy.

These training sessions were brief in duration, but they offered Ruìsāng some respite. In these moments, he could shed any façade, his gaze piercing the air with a focused intensity that was almost unnerving. Here, in the shadows, he found space to simply exist — to breathe.


But the solace of training always had to end, and he would return home. Home, where the boy he had grown unexpectedly close to would be. Vince had become a lifeline, a stabilising force against the destructive whispers that sometimes haunted Ruìsāng’s thoughts. He was a reason to stay.

Ruìsāng slipped through the door of his home, the Vulpix trailing quietly behind. The Dragapult vanished through the walls. As he navigated the silent house, a sense of unease crept up his spine.

“Vince?” he asked, his voice tinged with worry as he approached the bedroom. His eyes darted frantically to the scene before him — the half-packed bags, the figure of Vince, curled up and crying on the bed.

Ruìsāng halted in the doorway. He longed to step forward, to comfort Vince, to ask what was wrong. But fear gripped him — the fear that Vince simply wanted to leave.

Ruìsāng had always had a deep fear of abandonment, of being left behind by the rare few who managed to penetrate the fortress of his emotional defences. It was a fear so ingrained, he half-expected, almost predicted, such losses, hoping the foresight would dull the pain. Thus, upon seeing the bags, a familiar dread welled up inside him, his heart sinking even as a resigned voice in his mind whispered, See? I knew this would happen.

But then Vince's apology pierced through, propelling Ruìsāng to act. Never had he pleaded for anyone to stay – not his father, not his mother, no one. Yet now, he found himself teetering on the edge as he sat down beside Vince. He reached out, placing a hand on Vince's arm.

Despite his logical side suggesting that Vince's distress implied more than simply leaving, Ruìsāng was gripped by uncertainty, afraid of voicing the wrong words, more afraid of learning the truth behind Vince's decision to pack his bags.

“What happened?” he finally asked, the unspoken why left hanging in the air.

There was the bitter realisation that even Lìeyàn's strength hadn’t been enough to protect Vince. A part of him was tempted to unleash his frustration on the Mawile, to find an outlet for the seething anger within. But he knew better. Lìeyàn had done her utmost; she had fought valiantly, just as he had instructed.

Vince's words pierced through Ruìsāng's turmoil, each sentence a hammer blow to his already racing heart. The anger within him swelled, threatening to engulf his reason, creating a sense of detachment from the world around him. His hands twitched with a primal urge to act, to unleash the fury simmering beneath the surface.

A dark whisper clawed at the back of his mind.

Destroy those who bring harm upon those you care for.
As Vince recounted his fear, his desire to flee to protect them both, Ruìsāng's soul was torn. He didn’t want to leave. The pain in Vince's voice was unbearable.

“I’m so sorry,” Ruìsāng whispered. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes. Words failed him, lost in the emotions that demanded action, demanded retribution.

Yet, a sinister clarity began to form within him, a solution whispered by the darkness.

Destroy that which stands in our way.
The thought of retribution was intoxicating, all-consuming. He could almost feel the resolve hardening within him, the resolve to annihilate any who threatened Vince. Even if he’d lose him for it.

“This should not have happened,” he said, his voice soft yet laced with a chilling rage. The air around them seemed to grow colder, though the space between him and Vince remained untouched by the frost of his fury.

“Don’t leave. Stay here, with me. Tell me everything. Are you hurt?” he implored, struggling to suppress the tempest of rage and focus on Vince’s needs. He wanted to provide comfort, to be the protector Vince deserved, yet he couldn't shake off the monstrous identity he felt himself slipping into – a harbinger of chaos, as the voice had named him. Perhaps that was worse than a monster.

As Vince revealed the extent of his injuries, only his head and wrists hurting, Ruìsāng's response was a mixture of relief and burgeoning rage. His eyes fell upon the burn marks on Vince's wrists, and his jaw clenched involuntarily, a new wave of protectiveness and fury washing over him. H

e took Vince's arm gently, avoiding the tender areas, his mind's eye painting a vivid, distressing picture of the restraints that had caused such wounds. The anger within him simmered dangerously, his teeth grinding against each other as thoughts of retribution swirled in his head.

However, Vince's words of self-reproach brought Ruìsāng back from the edge of his vengeful thoughts. Releasing Vince's arm, he shifted slightly, his hand coming up to tenderly cradle Vince's cheek. With a gentle swipe of his thumb, he tried to erase the traces of pain and doubt. “You are not useless, Vince. None of this is your fault,” he said firmly, his voice imbued with conviction. He couldn’t stand to see Vince internalise the blame; he wanted to envelop him in safety, to shield him from further harm, without making him feel trapped or powerless.

“You’re incredible, but your father… he's crossed a line,” Ruìsāng continued, his thoughts briefly flickering to the idea of confronting Vince's father.

“Come here,” he softly urged, gently coaxing Vince to move closer. Ruìsāng hoped that Vince would seek solace in his embrace, a stark contrast to the way he had been sitting. He made a mental note to ask Lìeyàn to fetch some ice for Vince’s wrists in a second.

In that moment, as Ruìsāng wrapped his arms around Vince, the world seemed to narrow down to just the two of them. His fingers brushed gently against Vince's upper arm, a soothing rhythm that brought a fleeting warmth to the chilly air of tension surrounding them. This simple act of comfort allowed Ruìsāng to momentarily push away the dark thoughts and looming threats, focusing instead on the man he held close.

Vince's worry regarding what his father might do upon discovering Ruìsāng sparked a soft, reassuring smile from him. “Don’t worry about me, bǎobèi. I’ve faced far greater dangers than your father,” he said, his voice a gentle but firm reassurance. Ruìsāng had survived encounters with true monsters and even formed an alliance with a dark, powerful entity. To him, a man, no matter how powerful, was still just a man.

“Do you have any idea what he’s attempting to accomplish?” His inquiry was careful, probing for insights that might help them navigate the perilous situation. Meanwhile, he signalled to Lìeyàn for some ice. The Mawile paused, a momentary confusion crossing her features, until her gaze settled on Vince’s wrists.

“It’s not about being in danger because of you, but taking that risk for you. Which I will do,” Ruìsāng clarified with a measured calmness. The distinction was crucial in his mind; ‘because of’ implied fault, and in this situation, there was none to be assigned. If Ruìsāng was tethered by a leash, it was one he had willingly handed over to Vince.

As Vince detailed the progression of the attacks — from an attempt to intimidate to what now felt like an outright death sentence — Ruìsāng's expression darkened considerably. The idea that Vince's father would resort to lethal means simply because Vince chose a different path in life was unthinkable.

“He would go to such extremes just because you’re living your own life?” he questioned, disbelief tinged with a rising tide of anger. “He’s the one who deserves such a sentence,” Ruìsāng muttered, his voice a venomous hiss.

As Vince explained the twisted logic behind his father's actions, Ruìsāng's expression grew stonier. The initial plan – to coerce Vince back to Baesin to assume his father's mantle – had morphed into something worse. Now, Vince was viewed as a liability, a threat to a carefully cultivated reputation, with his death deemed necessary for his brother's ascension. To Ruìsāng, such cold calculation was abhorrent, a clear sign of a man who saw his children as mere chess pieces in a power play. A person so consumed by their own machinations was beyond redemption; they were blind to reason and empathy. Such an adversary couldn’t be reasoned with – only defeated.

“He won’t win,” Ruìsāng declared with steely conviction. While he couldn’t guarantee a path devoid of pain, he was resolute in ensuring that Vince's father would not achieve his vile objectives. In his arsenal was the ability to sell his soul to the devil. Surely, that counted for something.

“What will his next move be?” Ruìsāng inquired cautiously, hoping Vince might have insights into his father’s strategy. As he spoke, Lìeyàn reentered the room, nudging his leg gently. Gratefully, Ruìsāng leaned to retrieve the ice she brought, giving her a firm but affectionate pat on the head. He then showed it to Vince, hoping he’d offer his wrists so he could hold the ice against them and offer some relief.

Ruìsāng absorbed every word, his mind racing to devise a strategy that would prevent a third strike. His fingers traced absent-minded circles on Vince's arm, a comforting gesture as he held the boy close, a silent vow of safety. Guilt gnawed at him for not being there during the previous attacks. He should have been present, should have shielded Vince from harm.

The possibility of Vince's father taking even more drastic steps, perhaps coming in person, sent a chill down Ruìsāng's spine. He pressed the ice gently against Vince's wrist, his movements controlled but his mind ablaze with barely suppressed rage. Deep down, part of him yearned for the confrontation, for the chance to turn the tables on this menacing figure. Like his previous encounter with the monster, Ruìsāng was ready to face this threat head-on, ready to do whatever it took.

“Don’t even think about running. Stay with me, okay? I’ve got you,” he urged softly, his voice a mixture of resolve and a plea. The last thing he wanted was for Vince to bolt into danger, to think that fleeing to his father would protect Ruìsāng. He was determined to end this, one way or another. Even if the aftermath saw Vince turning away from him, at least he would be safe, free from the clutches of a father who viewed him as nothing more than a pawn.

“Unless, of course, you yourself wish to leave,” he added softly.

Ruìsāng pondered whether he should caution Vince against making such promises. Their relationship, if it could even be labelled as such, was delicate, unspoken – one that existed in the spaces between words, between unacknowledged feelings. It was a connection neither of them had dared to define or question.

Yet, Vince reiterated his resolve not to leave, to remain by Ruìsāng's side. It was an unfamiliar position for Ruìsāng, to be the one someone else was afraid to lose. As Vince spoke, a mix of hope and scepticism danced in Ruìsāng's mind. He knew all too well the ruthless nature of men like Vince’s father, and a part of him feared that this situation might not resolve without dire consequences.

“I hope you won’t regret that decision,” Ruìsāng whispered, his voice tinged with a softness rare for him as he gently brushed a stray lock of hair from Vince's face. If Vince could truly accept all the hidden shadows within Ruìsāng, perhaps there was a glimmer of a shared future. Yet, the thought of Vince eventually uncovering the full extent of Ruìsāng's darker nature loomed over him like a spectre.

“Don’t let him dictate your life. Focus on your New Year’s resolution. By year’s end, make a mark with your music, and believe he’ll be out of your life for good,” he advised, a note of resolve in his voice.

Vince's turmoil over his father's cold calculation was clear, and Ruìsāng felt a surge of empathy for him. The realisation that one's own parent could regard their child as nothing more than a chess piece was a bitter pill to swallow. At Vince's suggestion that it would be for the best if his father would relinquish his power, Ruìsāng let out a derisive scoff. “Men of his ilk would rather sink than see their dominion crumble. To them, a life without control is no life at all,” he observed with a grim certainty. In their world, the game and the control it granted were of utmost important, every player and piece expendable in the pursuit of victory.

Hearing Vince express a desire to return to writing, caused Ruìsāng to hum softly. “I can arrange a desk for you in the… other room. It’ll be your corner, free from interruptions, if you want,” he offered.