The Moment Without Red Eyes

For the first time in weeks, Renji was gone.

It was only for a few hours—his subordinates whispered that the boss had to “settle” some matter downtown—but to Aoi, the silence felt like freedom.

The absence of crimson eyes watching his every move, the absence of heavy footsteps shadowing his fragile ones… it made the air taste different.

He stood in the center of his toy-filled room, clutching his stuffed rabbit tight. His snow-pale hair fell into his eyes as he whispered to it.

“…He’s gone. Really gone.”

The rabbit, as always, didn’t answer. But Aoi imagined it nodded.

The mansion wasn’t empty, of course. Shadows still moved in the halls—Renji’s men, stationed like statues. They weren’t allowed to talk to him, weren’t allowed to look at him, but Aoi knew they were there. Watching. Guarding.

But still… Renji wasn’t here.

And that made all the difference.

Aoi padded to the door. He placed his ear against the wood. Silence. Carefully, he turned the knob. It clicked softly, and the door creaked open.

His heart pounded like a child sneaking cookies before dinner.

One step. Two steps. His small feet touched the polished floor of the hallway.

The guards at the far end stiffened but kept their eyes rigidly forward, trained into blankness. Renji’s command still held. Do not look at him. Do not speak to him.

Aoi’s pale eyes narrowed with a flicker of cunning. If they couldn’t look, they couldn’t stop him.

He moved like a ghost down the corridor. His childlike mind spun with half-baked plans. He remembered fairy tales where heroes escaped castles by tricking monsters, and he thought: Renji is the monster. I’m the hero. Heroes always find a way out.

The front door was impossible—too many guards, too heavy. The windows were barred like a cage. But the servants once whispered about a back gate near the gardens, small enough for deliveries.

He clutched his rabbit tighter and shuffled toward the stairwell.

Every guard he passed stiffened but did nothing, their eyes glued to the walls. Aoi’s small heart thrilled with triumph. See? They can’t stop me. If I’m quiet, if I’m small, I can slip away.

The garden smelled of wet earth and roses.

Aoi’s eyes widened—he hadn’t been outside in weeks. The fresh air felt like candy, like ice cream, cool against his pale skin. He almost forgot why he was sneaking out, almost dropped into the grass to play like a child, but then he saw it.

The gate. Rusty, iron, half-hidden behind a curtain of ivy.

He gasped, stumbling forward. His little fingers scrabbled against the cold metal, pulling, tugging. It rattled faintly. A chain wrapped around the handle, thick and cruel.

“No…” Aoi whispered, panic rising. “No, no, no…”

He shook it harder, the chain clanking loudly.

A sound split the air.

Bootsteps.

Aoi froze, rabbit clutched to his chest. A shadow fell across the grass.

A guard. Tall, suited, silent. His eyes stared blankly past Aoi, as though he didn’t exist.

But his presence alone was a wall.

Aoi’s breath hitched. He wanted to scream. He wanted to beg. But Renji’s rules wrapped the guard like chains—he would not speak, he would not move, unless Renji ordered it.

Which meant… he was both jailer and statue.

Aoi’s childlike mind scrambled. Slowly, trembling, he shuffled away from the gate, his rabbit limp in his arms. The guard didn’t follow. He simply stood, unmoving, a sentinel of silence.

Tears burned Aoi’s white lashes as he fled back inside.

That night, Renji returned. His crimson eyes glowed like embers as he entered the bedroom. Aoi sat rigidly on the bed, his rabbit clutched so tightly its seams strained.

Renji’s gaze softened instantly. “Did you miss me?”

Aoi’s lips trembled. “…Y-Yes.”

Renji smiled, leaning down to press a kiss against his snowy hair. “Good boy. You waited.”

Aoi’s small heart hammered. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know I tried…

But Renji’s red eyes lingered on him a moment too long, as though reading the fear in his face. His hand cupped Aoi’s chin, gentle but inescapable.

“You didn’t… wander, did you?”

Aoi shook his head quickly. “N-No… I was good. I waited.”

Renji’s smile deepened, sweet and terrifying. “That’s my angel.”

Aoi forced a smile back, burying his face against Renji’s chest to hide the trembling.

But inside, one thought screamed louder than all the others:

Next time… next time, I’ll find a way. Even if the whole world is made of chains, I’ll find a way out.

The morning after Renji’s return, the mansion seemed quieter than ever.

Aoi sat cross-legged on the carpet, a pile of toy blocks spread before him. He stacked them carefully, humming under his breath, pretending his rabbit was helping him build a castle. The childlike rhythm calmed his trembling heart — but only on the surface.

Because Renji hadn’t left for his study. He hadn’t gone to the balcony for his usual cigarette.

He was sitting in the armchair, watching.

Always watching.

His crimson eyes followed every tilt of Aoi’s head, every twitch of his fingers.

It was too much. Too heavy.

“Why…” Aoi whispered finally, not daring to look up. “Why are you staring?”

Renji leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze unreadable. “Because you look guilty.”

Aoi’s small body stiffened. His white lashes trembled. “I… I didn’t do anything…”

The blocks slipped from his shaking fingers, tumbling noisily across the carpet.

Renji rose from the chair. Slowly. Deliberately. His footsteps thudded closer until his shadow swallowed the toy castle.

He crouched low, their faces almost level. His hand reached out — not to strike, but to cup Aoi’s chin again, forcing those pale eyes upward.

“You’re not lying to me… are you, angel?” His voice was soft, syrupy, but edged with something sharp. “I left yesterday. For hours. Did you stay in your room like a good boy?”

Aoi’s breath hitched. His childlike mind scrambled for an answer. His lips wobbled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yes… I played with Bunny. I waited.”

Renji’s crimson gaze searched him, peeling back layers of innocence like paper.

For a heartbeat, the silence was unbearable.

Then, he smiled. Slowly.

“That’s what I wanted to hear.”

He ruffled Aoi’s snowy hair, straightening to his full height. But the smile didn’t reach his eyes — not fully. A storm brewed there.

That night, Aoi noticed new rules.

The door to the hallway was locked from the outside.

Two guards now stood closer — right outside his bedroom, instead of at the stairwell.

And Renji didn’t leave the room to sleep in his own chambers. He climbed into the bed beside Aoi, an arm wrapped around the smaller boy’s fragile waist like a chain.

“You’re too delicate,” Renji murmured against his hair. “You can’t be left alone. You need me to protect you, always.”

Aoi didn’t reply. He kept his eyes shut, heart racing, pretending to sleep.

But inside, terror swelled.

He knew it. Renji didn’t believe him.

Renji could smell the attempt, even without proof.

The next chance to escape would be harder.

So much harder.

But Aoi’s mind — fragile, childlike, desperate — whispered to him like a lullaby as sleep tugged him under.

If heroes never stop, then I won’t stop either. I’ll try again. I’ll keep trying, until even the monster can’t catch me.

The days blurred together after Renji’s suspicions grew.

At first, Aoi thought it would pass — maybe Renji would forget, maybe he would soften. But instead, the walls of his world shrank, inch by inch, until there was nothing left but Renji’s presence.

The first loss was the servants.

One morning, Aoi toddled toward the kitchen, clutching Bunny, only to find the hall empty. No maids bustling, no quiet greetings. The silence was strange. He wandered through three rooms before Renji caught him.

“You don’t need them,” Renji said, voice smooth as always but with an iron edge. His crimson eyes glowed in the low light. “They only distract you. From me.”

That night, Aoi noticed: plates of food now appeared already set in his room. No one brought them in. No one stayed.

The second loss was the toys.

Blocks, puzzles, little cars, crayons — gone.

Only Bunny remained, tucked under his arm.

When Aoi had asked timidly, “Where’s my castle? I want to build it again,” Renji had knelt before him, both hands on his thin shoulders.

“You don’t need blocks. Or puzzles. You only need me.” His tone was patient, as though explaining something obvious to a child.

Aoi’s throat tightened. He wanted to scream, but the words wouldn’t come.

The third loss was freedom of space.

Renji began keeping him in the main bedroom almost all day. Curtains closed. Doors locked.

“You’re safe here,” Renji whispered when Aoi dared to ask, “Why can’t I play in the garden?”

“Outside is dangerous. Even the air out there wants to take you from me.”

He stroked Aoi’s snowy hair with tender reverence, but his arm around the boy’s waist was a steel band.

Aoi’s spirit strained.

He began to rock on the edge of the bed at night, humming to himself, clinging to Bunny. He whispered stories under his breath — fairy tales he half-remembered from long ago — as if to convince himself the world outside the velvet prison still existed.

But it was shrinking.

The room pressed closer each day. The shadows seemed heavier. Even Bunny’s button eyes seemed sad.

Once, Aoi pressed his small palm against the locked window, his breath fogging the glass. “The sky must be lonely,” he murmured. “Because I can’t see it.”

Renji came up behind him, sliding his arms around Aoi’s small frame, resting his chin on his shoulder.

“No, angel,” he said softly. “The sky is jealous of you. That’s why I keep you here. So it can’t steal you away.”

That night, Aoi wept quietly into Bunny’s fur while Renji slept soundly at his side. His tears soaked the toy’s ears, trembling lips forming broken promises only the stuffed rabbit could hear.

“I’ll try again, Bunny… I’ll find a way… even if it hurts…”

But in his chest, the truth pulsed like a wound.

Every attempt brought tighter chains.

Every failure made the prison smaller.

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