Chapter Text
Kenma doesn’t believe in miracles. Even if it means enlisting the devil’s help.
He’s seen too much of the world to believe in something as frivolous as salvation. Wealth, power, manipulation—they’re the only currencies that matter. Miracles, in his experience, are nothing but elaborate illusions crafted by those who can afford them.
And yet, if there’s one thing that could ever make him reconsider, it’s Shoyo.
From the first day he was assigned to the boy, Kenma had known this life would consume him. Shoyo was everything Kenma wasn’t: soft where the world was sharp, bright where shadows lingered. But the boy was trapped, just like Kenma, behind the gilded bars of a mansion too vast and too cold to ever feel like a home.
He’s been Shoyo’s servant since he was ten, though the word “servant” has always felt too formal, too distant, for what they are to each other. Babysitter, maybe. Bodyguard, in moments of desperation. Or perhaps—though Kenma would never dare to say it aloud—something closer to a friend.
But friendship, like miracles, is a dangerous thing to believe in.
The Hinata family mansion looms like a monument to isolation. Impossibly vast, it stretches outward in a labyrinth of gleaming marble and heavy oak doors, each one a barrier to the outside world. Kenma knows every inch of it by now: the echoing halls, the manicured gardens, the library where Shoyo spends his afternoons reading books about places he’ll never visit. He knows the way sunlight filters through the high windows in the east wing, soft and golden, as if mocking the life hidden away inside these walls.
He knows all of it. And yet, today, something feels off.
Shoyo isn’t in the library. He isn’t in his room, either, where he’s supposed to be waiting for his afternoon medication.
Kenma sighs, tucking his hands into his pockets as he steps out into the garden. The wild grass beyond the estate’s manicured hedges sways in the wind, a sea of green that stretches toward the distant treeline. It’s quiet here, save for the faint rustle of leaves and the hum of cicadas.
Then he hears it: the unmistakable sound of Shoyo’s voice, muffled but urgent.
Following the sound, Kenma rounds a corner and stops short. There, amidst the tall grass, is Shoyo—his bright orange hair a beacon against the endless green. He’s crouched low, his hands parting the grass as if searching for something precious.
“What are you doing out here?” Kenma calls, his tone more exasperated than anything else. He steps closer, watching as Shoyo glances up, his cheeks flushed with effort but his eyes gleaming with determination. “You’re supposed to be inside.”
“My rabbit got out,” Shoyo says, as if that explains everything.
“Your rabbit?”
“The white one,” Shoyo explains, scrambling to his feet. “I think I left the cage open this morning. He ran off, and I can’t—”
“—find him,” Kenma finishes, sighing again. “Of course.”
Shoyo’s pet rabbit is one of the few living things in the mansion that isn’t bound by rules or expectations. Kenma can’t say he’s surprised that Shoyo adores it.
“You shouldn’t be running around like this,” Kenma says, already scanning the grass for any sign of the rabbit. “You’ll exhaust yourself.”
“I’m fine,” Shoyo insists, brushing past him. “I can handle it.”
Kenma doesn’t argue. He’s learned that it’s easier to let Shoyo burn through his stubbornness than to try extinguishing it himself. Instead, he follows a few paces behind, keeping a watchful eye as Shoyo darts between the tall grass.
It doesn’t take long to find the rabbit. The small creature is nestled beneath a shrub near the edge of the garden, its white fur almost glowing in the dappled sunlight. Shoyo sees it, too, and for a brief moment, his face lights up with unrestrained joy.
Then he bolts.
“Wait,” Kenma calls sharply, but Shoyo is already too far ahead.
The rabbit startles and flees, disappearing into the grass. Without hesitation, Shoyo chases after it.
Kenma curses under his breath, quickening his pace to catch up. By the time he catches up, Shoyo has come to an abrupt stop, his chest heaving with shallow, ragged breaths. His hand clutches at the fabric of his shirt, and his face is pale beneath the faint flush of exertion.
Kenma’s heart clenches. He steps forward, steadying Shoyo with a firm hand on his arm. “I told you not to run,” he mutters, his voice low with worry. “Sit down. Now.”
Shoyo shakes his head, his eyes darting toward the direction where the rabbit disappeared. “But—”
“Sit.”
This time, Shoyo listens, sinking into the grass with a reluctant sigh. Kenma kneels beside him, his sharp eyes assessing every detail: the rapid rise and fall of Shoyo’s chest, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. His pulse is quick but steady, nothing to panic over. Still, the sight of Shoyo like this—a boy who wants so desperately to live but is bound by a body that betrays him—stirs something deep and unnameable in Kenma’s chest.
“You’re impossible,” Kenma says quietly, though his tone lacks any real bite. He stands, brushing dirt from his knees. “Stay here. I’ll get your rabbit.”
Shoyo looks up at him, his amber eyes wide and filled with something raw and fragile. “You don’t have to—”
“I’ll get it,” Kenma repeats, already walking away.
The rabbit isn’t hard to find. It’s huddled beneath another bush a few yards away, its nose twitching as Kenma approaches. He crouches, scooping the small creature into his arms with care.
When he returns, Shoyo is sitting cross-legged in the grass, his breathing steadier but his expression distant. Kenma places the rabbit in his lap, watching as Shoyo’s hands instinctively cradle it.
“You’re too reckless,” Kenma says after a moment, his voice softer than he intends.
Shoyo doesn’t respond right away. He strokes the rabbit’s fur, his gaze fixed on the horizon. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”
Kenma frowns. “What is?”
“Staying here,” Shoyo says, gesturing vaguely toward the mansion. “Living like this. I mean, I know it’s supposed to keep me safe, but… sometimes it feels like I’m not living at all.”
The words hang heavy in the air, and for once, Kenma doesn’t know what to say. He looks at Shoyo, at the way the sunlight catches on his hair, and thinks of all the things he’ll never say out loud.
“You’re stronger than you think,” Kenma says finally, the words coming out softer than he’d intended.
Shoyo turns to him, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Kenma wonders if he’s overstepped, if he’s said too much. But then Shoyo smiles—a small, genuine smile that feels like a spark in the cold, empty world they inhabit.
“Thanks,”
Kenma doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to. Instead, he helps Shoyo to his feet, steadying him with a hand on his arm as they make their way back to the mansion.
As they step through the garden gate, Kenma glances back at the wild grass swaying in the breeze.
Kenma didn’t believe in miracles. But for Shoyo, he’d make one. Even if it meant breaking every rule that bound him to this place.
“You’re just a servant! You’re not paid to catch rabbits! Look what happened to him!”
The words echoed through the hall, sharp and unyielding, like the crack of a whip. Just a servant. Kenma had heard that phrase countless times in the years he’d lived here. It no longer stung the way it used to, but it always left a faint bitterness lingering in its wake.
But this time, he didn’t flinch. He couldn’t blame Shoyo’s parents, no matter how harsh their words might be. It was his duty to protect Shoyo, after all—not his rabbit. Still, Kenma couldn’t shake the thought: wasn’t protecting Shoyo also about safeguarding the things he loved?
He stood with his head bowed low before Mrs. Hinata, her gaze piercing, her arms crossed in frustration. “It won’t happen again, Mrs. Hinata,” Kenma said.
“It better not,” she snapped, her tone colder than the marble floors beneath their feet. “Now, go to Jiya and get Shoyo’s medicine. And make sure he actually takes it this time.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kenma murmured, bowing once more before retreating down the hallway.
He made his way to the clinic, a familiar route he had walked countless times over the years. When he arrived, he paused at the door, his hand hovering over the polished wood before he knocked softly.
Jiya wasn’t just a nurse—she was an extension of the Hinata family’s control. She ensured Shoyo received his medicines, administered the injections that were said to make him better, and maintained the façade of care that surrounded his condition. But Kenma often wondered: were these treatments truly meant to heal Shoyo?
He wanted to ask, to argue, to demand answers—but he was just a servant.
Shoyo had been diagnosed with Primary Immunodeficiency (PI) when he was ten. That was the same year Kenma entered the Hinata household as a young servant, assigned to the boy who once shone brighter than the sun. Back then, Shoyo had been full of life, his laughter echoing through the halls as they played together. They were almost the same age, with Kenma just a year older, and for a time, they had been more like friends than master and servant.
But as Shoyo’s condition worsened, everything changed. His parents decided he was too fragile to leave the house, isolating him from the outside world. His education became limited to private tutors, his interactions restricted to Kenma, Jiya, and the occasional visit from the family doctor. By the time Shoyo turned eighteen, Kenma was officially made his personal guard, the only servant allowed to stay by his side.
Now, Shoyo was twenty, and the boy Kenma had known was slipping further and further away.
Kenma knocked again, still receiving no response. He stepped into the clinic, his gaze immediately falling on a folder lying amidst the clutter of pills and syringes. HINATA SHOYO. CONFIDENTIAL. FOR AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
The words pulled at him, heavy with unspoken truths. Kenma hesitated, his hand reaching out almost instinctively. If he opened it, would it confirm the doubts that had gnawed at him for years?
“What are you doing?”
Jiya’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and accusing. Kenma flinched, snatching his hand back as she entered the room, her piercing eyes narrowing at him.
“I—uh—I came to get Shoyo’s medicine,” he stammered, stepping away from the table.
Jiya’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before she turned back to her work, her movements brisk as she arranged the pills onto a tray. She handed it to him along with a glass of water.
“Here. Make sure he takes everything,” she said firmly. “No excuses.”
Kenma nodded, muttering a quick thanks before leaving the clinic. Shoyo’s room was on the top floor of the mansion, tucked away in the farthest wing like some delicate artifact too fragile to be displayed. The journey there always felt longer than it was, the isolation palpable with every step.
When Kenma reached the door, he knocked lightly, more out of habit than necessity, before stepping inside.
The room was bathed in the soft, muted light of the late afternoon sun filtering through heavy curtains. Shoyo lay on the bed, his vibrant orange hair spread out across the pillow like the remnants of a fading sunset. He looked peaceful, his breathing steady—but Kenma knew better.
Setting the tray down on the bedside table, Kenma sighed. “You’re pretending to sleep again, aren’t you?”
Shoyo opened one eye, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “Caught me,” he admitted, sitting up slowly.
“You’re avoiding your medicine again,” Kenma said, his tone half scolding, half resigned. “Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused me today?”
“Did Mom lash out at you again?” Shoyo asked, his expression falling.
Kenma shrugged, sinking into the chair beside the bed. “She always does. Comes with the territory of being the servant of a wealthy pharmaceutical family.”
Shoyo’s gaze dropped to his lap. “I’m sorry. I’m the reason you’re always getting scolded.”
Kenma chuckled softly. “I’m being paid well, Shoyo. I don’t have the right to complain.”
But even as he said the words, a part of him bristled at their weight. He might be paid well, but money couldn’t erase the constant reminders of his place here.
Shoyo huffed, crossing his arms. “If I ever make my own money, I’ll get us out of here. You and me, Kenma. Somewhere far away.”
“Too bad you don’t,” Kenma replied lightly, though the idea settled uncomfortably in his chest. “At least your medicines are free. Courtesy of your parents.”
The words hung in the air, sharper than he’d intended, and he regretted them instantly. But Shoyo didn’t seem to notice. Instead, his gaze shifted to the tray of pills, his expression clouding with something unreadable. “Do you think I’ll ever get better?” he asked suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Kenma wanted to say yes, wanted to promise him that everything would be okay—but he couldn’t. Not when he didn’t believe it himself.
“You’re already better.” Kenma said carefully.
Shoyo’s smile was small but genuine, the kind that made something twist painfully in Kenma’s chest. He didn’t deserve to feel like this, not when he was little more than a shadow in Shoyo’s life. But even shadows had their uses. They protected what light couldn’t reach.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and unbroken, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt like the calm before a storm, a fragile peace that neither of them dared to disturb.
The following days passed like a normal routine for Kenma. He was used to this life—a cycle of quiet servitude, tending to Shoyo’s needs, and maintaining a watchful distance from the family’s secrets. Some days, he stayed in the mansion, a shadow in the background of Shoyo’s confined world. Other days, he ran errands outside the estate, a fleeting taste of the freedom Shoyo could only dream of.
It was during one of these errands that Kenma spotted a familiar face.
“Hey, Kenma! How are you doing?” Kuroo’s voice was casual but warm, cutting through the hum of the busy street.
Kenma glanced up and gave a small nod. “Hey, Kuroo.” He raised his fist for a quick bump.
Kuroo, one of the delivery riders who frequently brought shipments to the Hinata estate, had become one of the few people Kenma could call a friend. Most of their conversations were short and filled with teasing, but it was enough to keep Kenma grounded.
“How’s your master doing? Still looking like a tragic, delicate flower?” Kuroo smirked, leaning on his bike.
Kenma frowned. “Shut up,” he muttered, his eyes darting around to make sure no one overheard. “Also, don’t call him that.”
Kuroo’s grin widened. “Touchy, touchy. Let me guess, still haven’t confessed your undying love?”
Kenma stiffened, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “I don’t… I don’t harbor feelings like that,” he said flatly, though the slight hitch in his voice betrayed him. “I’m just a servant.”
“Sure you are,” Kuroo said, his tone dripping with mockery. “Keep telling yourself that.”
“Even if I did—which I don’t—it’s not like I can do anything about it,” Kenma said, his voice quieter now, tinged with resignation.
Kuroo shrugged, his smirk softening into something more understanding. “Tough life, I guess. Anyway, need help with anything?”
Kenma hesitated. He’d been toying with an idea all day—a reckless, impossible idea. What if he dragged Shoyo out of the mansion for just a few hours? Gave him a taste of the world beyond those gates? The thought was tempting, but the risks were too high. Not yet, he decided.
“I’ll text you if I need anything,” he said instead, turning back toward the mansion.
When Kenma returned to Shoyo’s room, he found Dr. Moriyama already there.
The family doctor’s visits were nothing new, yet they always unsettled Kenma. Moriyama had a way of moving through the room like he owned it, his sharp eyes darting between Shoyo and the notes on his clipboard. Kenma lingered by the door, his presence a silent reminder that he was watching.
“How have you been feeling?” Moriyama asked, his tone clipped and professional.
Shoyo hesitated. His amber eyes flicked briefly to Kenma before he answered. “Tired,” he said, his voice soft.
“That’s to be expected,” Moriyama replied, scribbling something in his notes. “We’ll be making some adjustments to your regimen. Your parents are monitoring your progress closely.”
Kenma’s hands tightened at his sides. He wanted to demand what “adjustments” meant, to ask why Shoyo never seemed to improve despite years of treatments. But he knew better than to challenge Moriyama outright.
The doctor turned to him. “Kenma, I’ll need a moment alone with Hinata.”
Kenma’s jaw clenched, but he bowed slightly and left the room, closing the door behind him. He lingered in the hallway for a moment, debating whether to listen at the door, but the sound of footsteps approaching forced him to move.
He wandered the halls aimlessly, his thoughts churning. His steps led him, almost unconsciously, to the clinic. The door was ajar, and inside, Jiya hummed softly to herself as she worked.
Kenma stepped inside, his eyes immediately drawn to the shelves of medication. Rows upon rows of bottles, each labeled with unfamiliar names. The sheer variety was staggering, and something about it made his stomach twist.
Jiya glanced over her shoulder and frowned. “Kenma. Shouldn’t you be with Shoyo?”
“I was sent to check on his next dose,” Kenma lied.
Jiya hesitated but didn’t press the issue. She turned back to the shelves, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. “Everything is in order,” she said, her tone dismissive.
Kenma didn’t leave. He moved closer, his gaze lingering on the bottles. Some were half-empty, others newly opened. The names on the labels blurred together, but the sheer volume was unsettling.
“Why does he need so many?” he asked, his voice quiet but firm.
Jiya stiffened, her hands faltering. “That’s not for you to question,” she said sharply.
Kenma stepped closer. “It doesn’t make sense,” he pressed. “He’s been taking these for years, but he’s not getting better. If anything, he’s worse.”
Jiya turned to face him, her expression guarded. “Kenma, you don’t understand,” she said, her voice low. “This is for his own good.”
“Is it?” Kenma shot back, his voice rising slightly. “Or is it for theirs?”
The room fell into a tense silence. Kenma could feel the weight of Jiya’s gaze, the unspoken truths hanging in the air between them.
“You need to leave,” Jiya said finally, her voice trembling.
Kenma held her gaze for a moment longer before turning and walking out. But the unease in his chest had solidified into something else—determination.
That night, Kenma and Shoyo lay side by side in the grass, the cool night air brushing against their skin. Above them, the stars shone brightly, their light cutting through the darkness.
“Do you ever wonder what it’s like? Beyond the gates?” Kenma asked suddenly, his voice barely more than a whisper. It wasn’t the kind of thing Kenma was supposed to say. Servants weren’t meant to plant seeds of rebellion. But then again, Kenma had always been a little reckless when it came to Shoyo.
Shoyo turned to him, startled by the question. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “When I was younger, I used to imagine it a lot. I’d dream about going to school, meeting people, doing… normal things.”
Kenma stared up at the stars, his mind racing. “What do you think you’d do if you could leave?” he asked softly.
Shoyo smiled faintly. “Something simple. Like working at a bookstore or a café. Somewhere I could meet people and hear their stories.”
Kenma smirked, his gaze flicking to Shoyo. “You’d get bored of that in a week.”
Shoyo laughed, the sound soft and genuine. “Maybe. But it’d still be better than this.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken longing.
Shoyo shifted slightly, his amber eyes searching Kenma’s face. “What about you? In another lifetime, what would you want to do?”
Kenma hesitated, his gaze fixed on the stars. “A pro gamer, maybe,” he said after a moment. “Or a volleyball setter.”
“Volleyball?” Shoyo asked, surprised.
Kenma shrugged. “It’s just something I’ve thought about. But gaming sounds less tiring, so I’d probably stick with that.”
Shoyo chuckled, his laughter soft and warm. “Then will you set for me?”
Kenma turned to him, his expression softening. “Always,” he said quietly.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The stars above seemed brighter, their light cutting through the darkness that surrounded them.
Kenma didn’t believe in miracles. But as he lay there beside Shoyo, he made a silent vow:
Shoyo might be caged, but Kenma would find a way to set him free. Even if it meant tearing down the walls of this house brick by brick. Even if it meant burning every lie to ash.
Because Shoyo wasn’t just someone to protect—he was someone worth saving. And for Shoyo, Kenma would do the impossible.