Ren hadn’t moved in what felt like hours. He sat with his back to the wall, one knee drawn up, arm draped loosely over it, staring at the sliver of daylight creeping through the curtains. Reina perched at the bed’s edge, fingertips wandering the blanket’s seams.

  Dawn had found them both still awake, their eyes gritty with exhaustion. Between them hung a silence heavy as held breath, acknowledged only in the careful way they avoided breaking it.

  He thought of Hayate, the old man’s voice echoing in his skull, telling him to keep moving. He thought of Aki and Tetsuya, of Haruka, Midori, Lilly. Were they still alive? He wanted to believe it, but something cold settled in his stomach. Life had taught him its lessons well enough.

  What you love, you lose.

  Why expect mercy now?

  That electric current beneath his skin hadn’t faded like before, a pulse tracing the map of his veins, vibrating through marrow and muscle. He opened and closed his fist, watching the tendons shift beneath the skin, and dropped his chin to his chest, eyelids heavy.

  When he looked up again, Reina was watching him. “The bed’s big enough for both of us, you know.”

  “The floor suits me fine.”

  “We can share. I can turn around, sleep with my feet facing the other way. Problem solved.”

  “We both know neither of us is getting any sleep.”

  “Yeah,” she said, brushing a stray lock behind her ear. Their reflections met in the dresser mirror: Reina caught in a shaft of sunlight that ignited her red hair, him half-swallowed by shadow. “We shouldn’t stay another night.”

  “We won’t.”

  “Tell me the truth, Ren. What’s happening to you?”

  His thoughts scattered like startled birds. The image of her seemed to split: the woman before him, and the ghost of another.

  “I’m…” The words faltered. “I’ll be fine,” he said at last.

  Reina’s smile trembled at the edges. “Just this once,” she whispered, “I wish you’d talk to me.”

  The weight of his secrets pressed against his chest. She saw only the man before her now, not the blood on his hands, not the loss that had taken root. The truth would snuff out that light inside her forever. He drew breath to speak, a knock at the door sliced through the moment.

  “Breakfast’s ready,” Tomoe’s voice called, soft but insistent.

  Reina flinched, her head snapping toward the door. She exhaled. “Coming,” she called back.

  He rose, one hand braced against the wall. Across the room, she looked back at him—eyes filled with everything they hadn’t said.

  * * *

  Tomoe stood at the kitchen counter, arranging the last bowl on a tray. When she turned, her expression snapped into place too quickly. “Finally joining us,” she said, voice pitched high. “I’d almost convinced myself you’d both run away.”

  Reina’s lips curved upward, a polite reflex. “Sorry, we didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

  “Nothing fancy,” Tomoe said, nodding toward four bowls steaming on the low table.

  Genji slouched in his chair, rolling an unlit cigarette between thumb and forefinger, his grin spreading slow as a bloodstain. “Get any sleep?” he asked, his stare sliding from Ren to Reina, where it lingered. “We try to keep the guest rooms cozy upstairs.”

  Ren pulled out the chair next to Reina before sitting. Steam curled from the bowls of rice and miso; fish glistened on the grill plate. A folded newspaper lay beside a mug whose tea had formed a thin skin across its surface. Reina pressed her palms together, murmured thanks, then lifted her chopsticks. He mirrored the motion mechanically, his own utensils hovering above untouched rice.

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  The small noises of eating filled the room. Metal on ceramic, grains shifting, dishes rubbing wood. What should have been the harmless rhythm of a shared meal scraped against his nerves. His shoulders tightened at each wet chew and swallow.

  Genji tilted his chair back on two legs, eyes fixed on Ren’s full bowl. “Your food’s getting cold,” he said. “Need your strength if you’re planning to keep that pretty girlfriend of yours safe, don’t you?”

  Tomoe laughed as she pushed rice around her plate. “Pay him no mind. My husband just likes to talk.”

  Reina mimicked the act—more habit than humor.

  Tomoe’s chopsticks hesitated mid-air. “The children are still upstairs,” she said. “With everything that’s happened, we thought it best they eat separately.” Her lips curved into a perfect crescent. “I’m sure you understand.”

  Reina dipped her chin. “Of course.” Only the refrigerator’s drone filled the gap that followed.

  No toys. No drawings on the fridge. No mess. Ren set his chopsticks across his bowl. “We need to leave after this. There are people waiting for us.”

  “Sure, sure,” Genji said, scratching at his stubble. “But since you’ve enjoyed our hospitality, maybe you could return the favor before hitting the road.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “There’s a section of fence that I’ve been meaning to fix, some fool crashed through it. I need someone with your build to reset the posts, then I’ll hammer things back together. Can’t leave gaps for those things to wander in.”

  “You’ve had an infected wander through?”

  “Rare, but it happens. They follow the scent or the sound of living things—deer, dogs, whatever is left. Better to fix the holes before more find their way through.”

  Tomoe leaned toward Reina. “The men can handle the dirty work,” she said. “You and I can prepare some provisions for the road.”

  “The fence is just out back,” Genji said. He gestured toward the open window above the sink. An expanse of overgrown yard giving way to a wooden barrier. Near the center, one section leaned inward, its fractured planks barely clinging together.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not at all!” Genji’s grin widened.

  Tomoe gathered the dishes swiftly, her back straight as a blade. “Reina, honey,” she called over her shoulder, voice honeyed, “let’s start with the vegetables.”

  “Happy to help.”

  * * *

  A red emergency light sputtered above the counter, washing the convenience store in crimson pulses. Each flash revealed more and more details Lilly wished she couldn’t see. Hairline fractures across the tiles, dark smears dragged along the walls.

  Satsuki had vanished into the bathroom, the sound of running water echoing too loudly through the space. The rest crouched near the aisles, picking through half-open packages and shattered bottles, careful not to make more noise than their breathing allowed. A can of peaches sat in her palm. The thought of eating made bile rise in her throat.

  Haruto shifted. “I can’t hold it anymore,” he whispered, eyes darting toward the back hallway.

  Midori looked up from his creased map, finger still marking their position. “You want someone to go with you?”

  Haruto shook his head.

  “Don’t go too far,” Kurobane said. Haruto’s quick nod betrayed just how badly he wanted to get out. As he slipped toward the door, the overhead bell betrayed him with a soft metallic jingle.

  Lilly tracked his retreat, her eyes landing on Shion. She had positioned herself by the front window, resting against the frame. Their eyes met across the dim store. The corner of Shion’s mouth lifted, not enough to show teeth, just enough to acknowledge her.

  Even before the world ended, her mother had whispered about the Makabe clan—how their bloodline stretched back to the shogunate, how their ancestors had served as blades for hire. “Never trust a Makabe,” her father would say, bitterness coating every syllable. “They’ll greet you with a smile and an open hand, while the other hides a knife.” Those warnings had once left her lying awake at night, imagining daggers hidden in sleeves.

  Now, with the world in ruins, such suspicions felt like luxuries of another life. Shion had saved her—twice. There was a steadiness to that woman, an unshakable certainty in how she moved, as if even when the ground itself crumbled, she still knew where to step. Lilly could only hope that resolve might rub off on her.

  The bell jingled again. Haruto backed through the doorway, palms raised. A woman followed close behind, the barrel of her rifle pressed to his spine. Streaks of gray ran through her hair. Deep lines etched around a pair of tired brown eyes that darted from face to face, measuring threats, her finger hovering a breath from the trigger. “Everyone stays exactly where they are.”

  Haruto’s body trembled. “I was just trying to take a leak—I didn’t mean to—”

  The faint shift of her wrist silenced him. “Whatever weapons you’re carrying,” she said, “put them on the floor. Now.”

  A whisper came from behind the shelves. “Mrs. Sakura...?” Haruka stepped into view.

  The woman faltered. Her finger slid off the trigger. Haruto slid down the wall until his knees nearly touched the floor, a shaky breath escaping him that could’ve been a laugh. “Haru?”

  Haruka stumbled forward and collided with her. Their bodies folded together, clutching at fabric, at hair, at something solid in a world that wasn’t anymore. Their cries echoed against the grimy walls until they didn’t sound like fear at all—but relief.

  Lilly couldn’t bear to watch. Reunions weren’t supposed to hurt. Her focus drifted toward the window—the blood-colored light pulsing against the glass—and somewhere in that rhythm, a face she might never see again.