Chapter 440: Unhappy Ending

Nash opened his eyes, feeling like he’d only slept forty minutes even though many hours had passed.

He laid there for a bit, staring at the ceiling with his arms spread wide, just enjoying the silence of the suite. Damn, the silence was heaven. Especially when your head is pounding like a drum. No doors slamming, no one rushing around, and definitely no more of those not so annoying "piiii". He waited another thirty seconds, before finally sitting up.

He stretched. His neck cracked loudly and his shoulders groaned, man, he felt old for a second. In the corner of his eye, that damn Quest interface was still hovering there, looking threatening, but he just brushed it away.

Well, shit, he thought. Good job. Maybe next time give me someone with a happy marriage? Will be fun.

He walked out of the bedroom. The living room was glowing with this soft pink and blue light from the night lamps. He noticed the plates from last night were gone, and Chloe’s notes had been neatly stacked with a little metal pen holding them together. He glanced at the clock on the furniture. Almost ten.

"Ten o’clock..." he grumbled. "Great."

He walked over to the big glass window and watched the city wake up fifteen floors below. Then, almost like a habit, he checked the front door.

There, in the hallway right by the entrance, was a big laundry basket. Inside were his black jeans, a white t-shirt, a bra, and some beige lace panties. On top of it all, wrapped in fancy tissue paper, was a pair of pale pink socks. The express laundry service had delivered. The receptionist had actually done his job for once.

Nash grabbed the basket, tucked it under his arm, and turned around—only to jump nearly out of his skin.

Chloe was just standing there in the middle of the living room. She’d appeared out of nowhere, silent as a ghost, still wearing her nightgown with one hand still gripping the door handle of her room.

They stared at each other for a long heartbeat. Then, it seemed like Chloe remembered she wasn’t as brave as she wanted to be, and her natural shyness came rushing back.

She turned pink. Not bright red like Aiko, but a soft, delicate pink—like skin that’s been exposed to the cold. Her hair was a mess on one side, her eyes were a bit puffy from sleep, and she was clutching a swimsuit in her other hand.

"...Hey," Nash said.

"H-hey," she replied.

The silence that followed was so thick you could have studied particle physics with it.

"I have..." He lifted the basket. "They brought your clothes back."

"Ah... Yes... Thank you."

"No problem."

"Hm."

They just stood there, on opposite sides of the room, staring at the furniture. *Like, wow, these chairs are actually really elegant when you really look at them,* Nash thought. He stared at a random spot between the lamp and the wall; Chloe stared intensely at her own toes.

"Nash."

"Yeah?"

"I..." She took a deep breath. He saw her fingers squeeze the swimsuit tightly. "I want to apologize."

He started to open his mouth, but she cut him off.

"No, let me finish. Please. I spent the whole night thinking about it, and if I don’t say it now, I’ll never say it."

She took one single step toward him. Then, she bowed her head deeply.

"I acted... unacceptably last night. You welcomed me, you fed me, you gave me a place to sleep, you were kind from start to finish, and I..." Her voice cracked. "I came into your room with a lie. I threw myself at you. I forced... that on you. You said ’no’ for me, because I couldn’t do it myself. You did the right thing, and I’m ashamed. Truly. From the bottom of my heart. I am so sorry."

She stayed there, bent over and motionless, her ears turning bright red.

Nash didn’t say anything.

He had opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. The truth was, he didn’t even know why he’d stopped the night before. The Quest was right there, the counter was waiting. She had been ready, or almost ready, and he’d had his hands on her hips, for god’s sake. And he’d said no. There was no notification, no penalty, nothing forcing him to stop.

So who had made that decision? Why? And why the hell did the image of Jinzo pop up whenever he thought about Rain?

Every word Chloe spoke just added fuel to the fire. The more she apologized, the more he felt she was perfect exactly as she was. She probably had a great life, and Rain was a good guy, nothing like the past captain of Blacklist. Rain had even mentioned facing him at the playoffs. He was basically a "bro." And the more Nash thought that, the less he wanted to steal her away.

Maybe that was it. Maybe his whole internal struggle just boiled down to this.

If she was with Rain and happy, he had no desire to wreck their relationship. He wasn’t in any position to act smart or do anything at all.

Chloe slowly lifted her head. He was still silent.

"...Nash? Say something. Please. Anything." Her voice was trembling. "Get angry. I deserve it. I’d rather you hate me, at least then I’d know where I stand."

He looked at her. Her eyes were glistening, her chin was shaking, and she was practically crushing that swimsuit in her fingers. She was about to start sobbing in his living room at ten in the morning just because he was overthinking too much.

Fine. Philosophy can wait.

"You’re right," he said with a serious tone. "You should apologize."

She turned pale.

"...Yes?"

"I was deeply traumatized," he said, his voice sounding like a soldier who’d seen too many battles.

He sat down on the armrest of the sofa, the laundry basket resting on his lap. He stared into the distance, looking like he’d just come back from the front lines of a war.

"You just threw yourself at me, Chloe. Just like that. In the dark. No warning. None." He slowly shook his head, a look of deep sorrow on his face. "I’ve never been so manhandled in my entire life. I’m scarred. I felt dirty... used. Like a tool."

Chloe’s eyes widened. "I—"

"I spent the entire night thinking about the twenty women waiting for me at home," he sighed, his voice breaking just enough to sound pathetic. "How am I supposed to look them in the eye? How do I explain this? ’Sorry girls, I was manhandled by a pink analyst. She said piiii.’ She said piiii, Chloé."

"I’m so, so sorry!" Chloé started waving her hands in a panic, looking like she was about to burst into tears. "I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t thinking, I... I’m horrible! I traumatized you! I—"

"And that’s not even the worst part," Nash interrupted.

"...It’s not the worst part?"

"No." He raised one finger, looking incredibly solemn. "The worst part is the underwear."

Chloe blinked. "...The underwear?"

"It’s ruined."

Nash looked down, grabbed the waistband of his boxers, and pulled them out just enough to show her. There was a dark, wide stain on the fabric that hadn’t dried yet.

"Look. It’s still wet. It spent the whole night trying to dry on my body, and it didn’t happen. Doctors call this a phenomenon. I had to give it a small funeral this morning; it fell in the line of duty. Look at this. Are you proud of yourself?"

Chloe stared. Her brain seemed to short-circuit for a few seconds. Then, her face went through every shade of red known to science, and then a few colors that didn’t even exist.

"P... P..."

"Piiii?" Nash teased.

"PIIIIIIII!"

She practically dove head-first into the swimsuit she was holding, crouching down on the spot like a turtle retreating into its shell.

Nash couldn’t take it anymore. He burst out laughing, a real, deep laugh that made his shoulders shake.

Seeing him laugh, Chloe jumped up instantly. Her cheeks were puffed out, her fists were up in the air, and she looked absolutely furious.

"You’re horrible! You’re a monster! I’m sincerely apologizing and you—"

She started pummeling him with tiny, weak fists on his arm, his shoulder, and his chest. She had zero strength behind it. Nash just stood there, laughing his head off with his hands in the air, letting her beat him up.

"You’re doing this on purpose," she grumbled, totally out of breath. "You’re making me laugh on purpose so I feel better!"

"Yep," he grinned.

"This is unbearable! You’re too... HMPH!"

"Last time you said that, you were dancing salsa on my—"

"I’m not listening, blablabla!"

She wiped her eyes with the collar of the swimsuit, half-laughing and half-furious. Nash could see her shoulders finally relax. The tension was gone; the knot had finally untied. They both ended up laughing, and the heavy air between them finally snapped.

When they finally stopped, Chloe was panting. Her eyes were sparkling, she had an involuntary smile on her face, and the "angry" look she was trying to keep was hanging by a thread.

"You’re impossible," she whispered.

"I know. Go get dressed. I’m ordering breakfast."

She disappeared into her room, slamming the door behind her. Nash stood in the middle of the living room for a moment, looking at his own hands, then up at the ceiling.

I’ll think about the rest later, he decided.

She had changed in her room. She wore her tight black jeans that hugged her ass perfectly, a bra, and a t-shirt. But the best part? She’d put on Nash’s jersey over everything. It was way too big for her, hanging down to her mid-thighs and slipping off her shoulders. Every time she laughed, the Blacklist number on the chest bounced along with her breasts.

Nash saw her and just stared. He didn’t say a word, but inside, he was loving it. Seeing her in his clothes felt right, like she a good joke for the Juggernauts.

Breakfast felt like a dream. They demolished a basket of pastries in ten minutes, drinking coffee and milk for Chloé. They talked about random shit, just like the night before, but the heavy tension was gone. They argued for a good half-hour about a TV show ending they both hated for different reasons, and it cost them two croissants in the process. Then, she tried to pay him back for the room. Nash refused three times. She narrowed her eyes at him, clearly not done fighting about it.

At one point, Nash realized something weird: he hadn’t even opened his System once. Usually, he needed his triggers to get along with people, but with her, everything was just flowing. He’d spent forty minutes talking about jam with a girl who turned bright red whenever he looked at her too long, and it felt completely natural. He felt... good.

When they stepped out of the hotel, it was past eleven. The city was already fully alive under the neon lights. The Hell Gates looked like a sleeping monster in the early morning light. Cleaning crews were picking up trash and torn posters. Nash pulled his hood up, and Chloé tucked the collar of the jersey up to hide the number.

The lost and found was just a scratched glass window guarded by three security guards in yellow vests. They were deleting donuts from existence, looking like guys who had already worked a month’s worth of shifts in one morning. One of them disappeared into the back and came back with a dusty pink bag.

Chloé let out a little scream of pure joy. She hugged the bag to her chest like she’d found a lost child in a supermarket. She dug through it and pulled out her dead phone, her wallet, keys, and the room key.

"Everything is here! Nash, it’s all here!"

But then she opened the wallet. She counted the money, then counted again. Her smile vanished.

"...Two hundred credits are missing," she pouted, "It was my emergency fund. Whatever, it’s a... lesson learned."

Nash put a hand on her shoulder and leaned toward the window.

"Excuse me, gentlemen. Did you see anyone touching this bag?"

"No, no, sir, we found it like that, we didn’t touch it..."

"Right... Well... Don’t worry about it. It’s a small amount. I’ll just use a bit of my influence to find the person who stole it. In the Underground, everyone knows everyone," Nash said with a wide smile. "And woe to whoever has that money."

He didn’t yell. He said it as casually as if he were talking about the weather. The three guards froze, donuts halfway to their mouths. One of them finally recognized the face under the hood.

"M-Mr. Blaze?"

The guard’s chair practically flipped over as he scrambled up.

"We’ll search everywhere! The staff, the lockers, the trash if we have to! We’re so sorry, sir, this is unacceptable!"

"Calm down. I know it’s a tough job with so many people." Nash pulled out a bill, folded it once, and placed it on the counter. "The lady insisted on paying me back for something, and I didn’t want to take it. So, take this as a gift from her for your trouble. Go get a real breakfast."

"What?!" Chloé turned to him, looking like she’d been shot. "No! Nash, wait, that’s my money... well, your reimbursement... I..."

"You don’t have a choice," Nash said without looking at her. "You wanted to lose money, well, here you go."

He gave her a wink.

She opened her mouth to scream, then shut it and pouted again, crossing her arms over the bag. The three guards stared at the bill like kids looking at a Christmas tree.

"Thank you, Mr. Blaze! We’ll find those two hundred! And if we don’t, we’ll pay it back from our own pockets!"

"That won’t be necessary. The lady is donating this money to God."

"Thank you, miss! Thank you for your generosity!" one of them added, bowing deeply to Chloé.

She forced a smile. It was wide, stiff, and perfectly polite, even though a vein was practically popping in the middle of her forehead.

"You’re very welcome," she said, her voice sounding like honey. "It’s fine. It’s just two hundred credits. Two hundred idiot credits. And this guy wants to play smart, alright. Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen. Bon appétit."

Nash watched her and couldn’t stop laughing. She punched him in the ribs, then the shoulder, and one last one on the arm just for good measure.

"You are impossible," she hissed, still smiling for the guards.

"Serves you right," he replied.

He grabbed her by the elbow and gently pushed her toward the exit. She let herself be led away, grumbling with every step.

They were walking down the long hallway toward the main entrance when Chloé suddenly stopped.

"Wait," she said. "My phone."

She dug through her bag, pulled out the device, and pressed the button. The screen lit up weakly: 1% battery. She opened the contacts.

"Give me your number."

Nash leaned in toward the screen.

"What for? So you can call me at three in the morning with some fake excuse? Or try to attack me again like yesterday?"

She went pale, then bright red.

"I— I didn’t... it’s not..."

"Because if that’s the plan, just so you know, I’m still wearing the boxers you ruined. I kept them as evidence. I’m thinking about framing them, maybe with a little plaque."

"NASH!"

Another rain of tiny punches hit him. He backed up against the wall, laughing with his hands in the air.

"Okay, okay! Sorry! I’ll give it to you, promised, sworn. On my stamina."

"You shouldn’t swear on that all the time!"

"It’s my most sacred attribute."

He dictated the number to her. She saved it as "Nash B." with a little basketball emoji. He didn’t say anything. Then, a notification popped up on the screen, 52 missed calls. The phone vibrated once and then died completely.

"Oh," Chloé said. "No more battery."

She tossed it back into her bag without a care in the world.

Nash, however, had seen it. A name, right above the number of missed calls. Four letters.

He didn’t say a word. They kept walking toward the light of the street projectors filtering in at the end of the hall.

They came out at the top of the big staircase, right in the middle of a conversation that honestly didn’t matter for shit.

"No, but wait," Chloe said, waving her bag around and getting all worked up. "A hot dog is a sandwich. It’s bread, there’s stuff inside, and you eat it with your hands. It’s not a real lunch!"

Nash couldn’t help but smirk.

"It’s a hot-Billy."

Chloe rolled her eyes, looking annoyed but cute. "You’re never going to let this go, are you?"

"Wait until I actually meet a Billy, it’ll be even worse."

"You are seriously unbearable," she huffed, giving him a little shove with her shoulder. "I’m drawing you a diagram tonight to prove it."

"Can’t wait," he replied.

Chloe started heading down the stairs first. Nash trailed behind, his eyes glued to the way her pink hair bounced against her back with every step.

"And about lunch," Chloe continued, glancing back at him, "even if you threw my money away, you’re not getting off that easy. We could... hah..."

Suddenly, she stopped dead. Her free hand flew up to cover her mouth, and her eyes went wide. Nash frowned, following her gaze down toward the sidewalk.

Standing there, completely still, was a guy. He was tall, thin, but had broad shoulders, and he was absolutely drenched in sweat.

It was Snow.