DISCLAIMER: This scene contains themes of emotional distress, self-destructive thoughts, and intense guilt. Reader discretion is advised. If you are sensitive to themes of self-harm or mental anguish, please proceed with caution.

This portrayal is meant to emphasize Oikawa’s internal struggle and the weight of his choices, but it does not glorify self-destruction. If you or someone you know is struggling, please seek support. You are not alone.

Oikawa pushed the door open, wincing slightly at the faint creak of the hinges. It hadn’t been locked—of course, it hadn’t. Everything had happened so fast earlier. They had been too busy running, too busy trying to escape the inevitable.

He stepped inside, his bare feet silent against the cold floor.

And then—

The scent hit him.

Strawberries and gasoline.

His own, faint but still lingering in the air, mixed with the sharp, unmistakable smell of him.

Iwaizumi.

His stomach twisted violently.

It was too much. The familiarity of it, the way it wrapped around him like a ghost of the past—like the home he had just destroyed with his own hands.

Oikawa swallowed hard and forced himself to move, his eyes scanning the room. It was a mess—tools left scattered, chairs overturned, signs of their rushed departure still painfully evident.

And then his gaze landed on the desk.

Iwaizumi’s desk.

His heart pounded as he took a step forward, fingers hesitating over the surface before gripping the edge.

He knew what he was looking for.

Contacts. Plans. Anything that could help him fix this.

Because if there was even the smallest chance—if there was anything left to save—

Then he had to find it.

Oikawa’s hands moved frantically, pulling open drawer after drawer, rummaging through scattered papers, old receipts, loose bolts—anything and everything that could hold the answers he needed.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing—

Until the last drawer.

His fingers curled around the handle, yanking it open with more force than necessary, and that’s when he saw it.

A worn-out notebook, its edges frayed, the spine barely holding together.

His breath caught as he reached for it, his fingers ghosting over the familiar handwriting scribbled across the cover. He flipped it open, his eyes scanning the pages—messy notes, coordinates, blueprints of their races, safe house locations, contact numbers scrawled in rushed handwriting.

Iwaizumi’s sharp, precise notes.

Hanamaki’s slanted, lazy scrawl.

Matsukawa’s teasing remarks written in the margins.

Suna’s curt, calculated observations.

Sakusa’s occasional, almost clinical corrections.

Everything.

Everything that made them ROD.

His vision blurred as he turned another page, and something slipped out, fluttering to the ground.

A photograph.

Oikawa’s breath hitched.

It was them.

Iwaizumi in the center, arms crossed, his usual scowl softened into something amused. Hanamaki and Matsukawa flanking him, grinning like trouble. Suna and Sakusa standing slightly off to the side, looking unimpressed but undeniably part of them.

And Oikawa—

Oikawa, standing right there beside Iwaizumi, a cocky grin on his face, still sweaty from the adrenaline of his first win.

His first real race.

The one Iwaizumi had taught him how to run.

A sharp, wrecked sob tore from Oikawa’s throat before he could stop it.

It felt like grief—like mourning something that was still alive but just out of reach.

Like losing everything all over again.

Oikawa didn’t even realize his knees had given out until he felt the rough, cold pavement beneath him. He let himself sink onto it, his whole body trembling, his clothes soaked through—whether from the rain or his own sweat, he didn’t know. And he didn’t care.

The notebook lay open beside him, the photograph clutched tightly in his fingers, but his vision was too blurred to make out their faces anymore. His sobs came in violent, shuddering waves, his chest caving under the weight of it all.

He had no one to blame but himself.

The moment he sat across from Meian in that café, the moment he agreed, the moment he sealed the deal—he had made his choice.

And he could have told them.

God, he could have told them.

He could have run straight to Iwaizumi, could have thrown himself at ROD’s mercy, could have let them in on the truth before it was too late. They would have hated him for it, maybe even cut him off entirely, but at least they would have known.

But at what cost?

Even if they ran, even if they hid, even if they fought back, Meian wouldn’t stop. The people after them wouldn’t stop.

ROD was already a target. Iwaizumi was already a target.

If Oikawa had warned them, all it would have done was push them into a faster, bloodier ending.

And he—he just wanted them to live.

He didn’t know when exactly things started to spiral, when simply surviving had turned into this—a never-ending cycle of running, fighting, barely scraping by. But he had seen it in Iwaizumi’s eyes, the exhaustion creeping in. He had felt it in the way Hanamaki and Matsukawa had started talking about contingency plans, in the way Suna and Sakusa had started keeping their guards up even in supposed safe zones.

ROD was breaking.

And Oikawa had been the final blow.

He had traded everything—his loyalty, his dignity, even his freedom—for what?

A chance? A hope that this would be enough?

But the truth was, nothing was enough.

Meian wouldn’t stop. Not even with Oikawa willingly caging himself in his world. Not even with Oikawa ripping ROD apart from the inside out. Meian had said it himself—he would destroy them, hunt them down until there was nowhere left to run.

And Oikawa had helped him do it.

A choked sound ripped from his throat, his fingers digging into his own damp skin as if trying to hold himself together.

He had wanted to save them.

Instead, he had been the one to take them down.

He had sacrificed everything—his freedom, his dreams, his very soul—thinking that maybe, just maybe, it would be worth it.

But now, kneeling in the cold, empty shop, surrounded by the ghosts of the only people who had ever truly cared for him—

He realized he had never felt more lost.

Oikawa’s sobs tore from his throat, raw and broken, his body curling in on itself as if that would somehow lessen the ache spreading through his chest. He pressed his forehead against his knees, gasping for breath, but no amount of air could fill the void inside him.

Because this wasn’t just grief. This wasn’t just regret.

This was guilt.

The kind that burned into his skin, crawled beneath his ribcage, and settled into the marrow of his bones. The kind that whispered, This is your fault. This is all your fault.

But was it?

Oikawa never wanted to betray them. God, the very thought of it made him sick. But what choice did he have? If he had told them—if he had confessed everything to Iwaizumi the moment he made the deal—then what?

They would have fought back.

They would have gone down swinging, stubborn to the very end, just as they always did.

And then they would have died.

Because Meian was not the kind of man who let people slip through his fingers. He was the kind who burned everything to the ground just to prove a point.

Oikawa knew that. He had always known that.

So what was he supposed to do? Let ROD suffer in a war they had no hope of winning? Watch them throw their lives away because of his mistake—because of the moment he ran, he got into Iwaizumi’s car, he dragged them into a fight that was never theirs to begin with?

No.

He couldn’t let that happen.

He thought—God, he thought—that maybe if he was the one to make the sacrifice, if he gave Meian what he wanted, it would be enough. That if he walked away—if he locked himself in that mansion, if he played the part of the perfect, obedient fiancé—Meian would be satisfied.

But he should have known better.

Meian was never after just him.

Oikawa had been naïve to think he could negotiate, that he could strike a deal where no one else got hurt. He had given Meian everything—his compliance, his silence, his own freedom—but it still wasn’t enough.

Because Meian didn’t just want him.

He wanted Iwaizumi.

And now—now it was too late to stop what he had started.

The image of Iwaizumi, handcuffed, drenched from the rain, his face twisted in betrayal and hurt, was burned into Oikawa’s skull. So was Hanamaki’s shaking rage, the way his bloodshot eyes had glared through him like he wasn’t even human. So was Matsukawa’s silence, the way he clenched his jaw so tightly it looked like it hurt.

They knew.

They knew he had been the one to turn them in.

Oikawa squeezed his eyes shut, fresh tears slipping down his cheeks. He wanted to rip himself apart. Wanted to claw at his skin until he felt something other than this crushing, suffocating agony.

He had thought he was protecting them.

But in the end, all he had done was ruin them.

And the worst part?

There was no way to undo it.

There was no way to take it back.

Because even if he somehow managed to get them out, even if he threw himself at their feet and begged for forgiveness—

Would they even want to see him again?

Would they ever trust him again?

Or had he already lost them forever?

Oikawa let out a broken sob, his fingers digging into his scalp as he pulled at his own hair, the sharp sting barely a fraction of the pain clawing inside his chest. He gritted his teeth, shutting his eyes tight as if that would erase the images burned into his mind—the handcuffs, the cold glares, the betrayal etched into Iwaizumi’s face.

His breath hitched. His throat burned. His whole body shook.

It’s your fault.

His hands curled into fists before slamming against the cold pavement. Once. Twice. Over and over until the skin split, until his knuckles throbbed, until the pain finally caught up with him. His nails dug into his palms so hard that he swore he could feel them pierce through.

But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

Because nothing—nothing—could hurt as much as knowing that he had destroyed the only people who had ever cared for him.

He should have never run.

If he had just stayed, if he had just played along, if he had just accepted his fate from the beginning—none of this would have happened.

ROD wouldn’t have been hunted.

Iwaizumi wouldn’t have been arrested.

Hanamaki wouldn’t have looked at him like he was something disgusting.

Matsukawa wouldn’t have clenched his fists like he was holding himself back from swinging at him.

Suna and Sakusa wouldn’t have stood there, silent, like they were trying to process how their world had just crumbled around them.

All of it—every single thing—was his fault.

Because he was selfish.

Because he wanted freedom.

Because he ran away like a coward, thinking he could escape the life forced upon him without consequence.

And now?

Now, he was right back where he started—trapped. But this time, the weight of his chains wasn’t just from the industry, wasn’t just from Meian.

It was from the guilt.

It was from the people he had betrayed.

His breathing turned ragged, his body rocking back and forth as his fists pounded against his temples. He deserved this. He deserved every ounce of pain, every moment of suffering, every piece of himself that shattered under the weight of his own decisions.

This was his punishment.

And God—he welcomed it.

Oikawa sucked in a ragged breath, his body trembling as he pressed his forehead against his scraped-up knuckles. The sting barely registered—nothing did anymore except the suffocating weight of his own mistakes.

But he couldn’t stay like this.

He wouldn’t stay like this.

Because if there was one thing Oikawa Tooru refused to be, it was weak.

His whole life had been a fucking game of survival, and he had always managed to claw his way through, no matter how many times he had been pushed to the edge. This would be no different.

He had made the wrong move.

Now, he had to fix it.

It didn’t matter what it took. It didn’t matter if he had to crawl through hell, if he had to bleed for it, if he had to destroy every last shred of himself in the process.

He would get them out.

He would save them.

Even if it cost him everything.

His dignity? Gone the moment he sold his soul to Meian.

His name? Tainted the second he handed ROD over.

His freedom? Sacrificed the moment he stepped back into that mansion.

But his life?

That was the only thing left in his hands.

And if that was what it took to make things right—

Then he would give it up without hesitation.

Because this time, he wouldn’t run.

This time, he would fight.

Oikawa let out a shaky breath, lifting his head, eyes burning with something raw—something desperate. His body was battered, his heart torn to fucking shreds, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

If he had to bleed, then so be it.

If he had to crawl through fire, he’d do it without hesitation.

If he had to meet the devil himself, he’d shake his fucking hand and strike a deal that would drag him straight to hell—so long as it meant they would make it out.

He had already sold his soul once.

What was one more time?

Meian thought he had broken him. Thought that by chaining him back, by forcing a ring on his finger, by making him watch ROD get dragged away in cuffs, that he had won.

But he hadn’t.

Because Oikawa Tooru wasn’t done yet.

He would burn this entire world to the ground before he let this be the end.

Even if he had to destroy himself in the process.