Act 2 - Part A: What You Lost

Reina’s knuckles struck the lacquered door—a hollow sound that died before it could echo. She waited, then knocked again, harder.

The porch light sputtered alive, distorted glow bleeding through dusty glass. Moth wings beat a frantic rhythm against the bulb. Reina’s hand froze mid-air as the deadbolt scraped open from within.

A couple in their fifties stood framed in the doorway. The woman’s kimono was immaculate, her silver-streaked hair drawn into a perfect knot. The man beside her wore a starched work shirt, creases sharp enough to cut. They shared the same expression—polite smiles that never reached their eyes, dulled by caution.

“Are you hurt?” the man asked.

“Bites?” The woman’s voice sliced the night. “Scratches?”

Reina sagged against the porch post, eyelids heavy. “No. Please. We’re tired and just need to rest.” She motioned to Ren slumped against the wall, head tilted, staring at them as if deciding whether they were real.

“Were you with anyone? A group?”

“We were. We got separated after the explosion.”

Something passed between the pair—quick, electric. The man leaned forward, voice lowering. “Up in the valley,” he said slowly. “That was you?”

“Yeah,” Reina whispered, barely louder than the insects outside. “I don’t know what happened. One second, things were fine… the next.”

The woman’s nails tapped the doorframe once—a sound like a beak ticking glass. Her lips curved upward. “Better come inside, then,” she said, stepping back into the hallway’s shadows.

━━━━━━━━━━𝑾𝑪𝑨━━━━━━━━━━

The couch’s vinyl upholstery protested under Ren’s weight with a squeak like new shoes on polished floors. When he shifted, dark streaks from his clothes stained the pristine surface. The woman’s gaze flicked to the marks before she forced her smile to hold.

The man—Genji Furuya , as he’d introduced himself with a bow too formal for the end of the world—gripped Ren’s elbow with calloused fingers and eased him down with surprising strength.

Reina hovered close, words tumbling between shallow breaths: the faint glow they’d followed through the streets, the miracle of finding intact walls and a roof when their legs had nearly given out.

He barely heard her. His pulse was still stuttering. Tremors—brief lights behind the eyes. Each heartbeat echoed in his head. Mana. It clung to his nerves like static, humming soundlessly beneath his skin. Less than before. He told himself it was nothing. He could sleep it off. He always did.

“When everything went bad,” Tomoe Furuya said from the kitchen doorway, each syllable slow and syrup-sweet, “people scattered like roaches when the light comes on. The wise ones burrowed in. The rest?” She made a fluttering motion with her fingers. “Off they went—into the trees or back to the city. Didn’t matter which. Both were deathtraps.”

“That blaze lit the valley like dawn,” Genji said, mouth twisting somewhere between smile and grimace. “We saw you two coming through the mist against all that fire. Like spirits walking out of hell.”

He studied the living room. Not a speck of dust marred the floorboards’ shine, no fingerprints smudged the brass. Framed certificates filled the walls beside bland landscapes that matched the furniture. In every photograph, Genji and Tomoe stood at attention—identical smiles frozen across decades.

Beside him, Reina’s voice softened into gratitude. “Thank you again. It’s no wonder you’re alive. It’s so quiet here.”

“We preserve it carefully,” Tomoe murmured, her glance flicking toward the window. “Those things hunt by sound. We’ve watched them from behind the curtains—packs of them chasing a birdcall.”

Ren looked past her shoulder, toward that same window. His reflection stared back—washed out, hollow-eyed. He flexed his hand. Don’t think about it.

Genji’s grin widened above his steaming cup. “You two look close. More than travel companions, maybe?”

Reina sputtered. “We’re not—” she managed between coughs, color flooding her cheeks.

Genji’s laugh rolled through the room. “Ah, these days—who can tell with the young?”

Tomoe’s expression didn’t change; her glare was glacial. She set her cup down with the delicate finality of a blade finding its slot. “My husband forgets himself.”

Something thudded upstairs—followed by lighter, uneven steps. Genji glanced at the ceiling. “The children,” he said, smile stiffening. “Still learning the rules of our little sanctuary.”

He rose. “We’ll see to them. Make yourselves comfortable. Just don’t pocket the heirlooms while we’re gone.”

Tomoe smoothed her apron. “Enjoy the tea. We won’t be long.” The door clicked nearly shut, left ajar so sound could slip through.

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A thin vapor curled from Reina’s cup, veiling her reflection. “They’re… nice,” she murmured. “Guess some people really can hold it together.”

Ren’s eyes lingered on the door. “Maybe.” The wall clock ticked a half-beat off from his pulse.

He could feel the faint hum beneath his ribs again. It wasn’t pain exactly—more like a resonance trapped in bone. A cold ache. A quiet gauge of what he’d burned through—and what little remained.

Reina sank into the cushions, exhaling as though letting go of something she’d carried for miles. “After that explosion… you think anyone made it?” she asked softly.

Faces flickered behind his eyes: Haruka’s, Midori mid-laugh, Yuka’s steady smile. His throat tightened. “I don’t know,” he said.

“I’m worried sick about Lilly.” Reina’s voice trembled on the name. “Makabe-san—she’ll keep them safe. Right?”

Ren nodded once, a lie meant to hold her together. He wanted to believe it too. The cold hum under his ribs only grew louder. Stillness stretched between them, broken only by the uneven tick of the clock.

Her eyes met his, then darted away. “The world’s ending and I—” She twisted a loose thread on her sleeve. “Whatever you’re not saying, whatever you’re holding back… I’d listen. That’s all.” Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. “You don’t have to be alone.”

He turned toward her, words pressing against the back of his teeth. “You sound like Yuka.”

She frowned, gaze sliding across the spotless room before finding him again. “A few days ago I was worrying about exams. If someone had told me the world was ending, I’d have laughed. Now… I think I’d believe anything.”

His eyes traced the red strands framing her face. For a moment, her features blurred with another’s. She’s not her. He forced his gaze down. “How’s your head?”

Reina’s laugh escaped, brittle but wholehearted. “You’re making jokes… now?” She studied him, brows knitting. “Aren’t you scared?”

“I guess I am.”

“I’m not convinced.” Her voice thinned. “Nothing seems to touch you, Ren. Even now, you’re like a man behind glass. Don’t you fear dying? Or watching someone you care about die?”

“I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t.” His voice came out softer than intended.

Her mouth parted slightly, words forming then dying. She caught his gaze for a moment, her smile flickering like a candle in wind—there, then gone—before her attention retreated to the teacup cooling between her palms.

The hum inside him deepened—low, resonant, like the aftertone of a struck bell. The distance he’d kept cracked. He saw the copper in her hair, the pulse at her throat, the faint scar above her brow.

Ren stared at his hands, feeling the weight of all he couldn’t say. What scared him most wasn’t the monsters or even death itself.

What terrifies me is a world without you in it.

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He fought to keep his eyes open. Every blink dragged, and in those moments when his lids fell and rose again, the wallpaper seemed to pulse with slow, deliberate movement. The edges of things throbbed faintly, as if the world hadn’t finished cooling. He told himself it was fatigue, nothing more.

Wood creaked beneath an unseen weight. He looked to the hallway, catching a flicker of motion in the dark. Something peered through the banister rails—a child, with skin like paper and eyes that swallowed light. Hair hacked short, uneven. When he focused, the figure folded into the dark and was gone.

Reina’s whisper brushed his ear. “Ren? What is it?”

He didn’t move. “Just… one of their children, I think.”

“I thought they were all upstairs,” she murmured, leaning closer.

The overhead bulb stuttered, shadows jerking across the ceiling before the weak light steadied again. A smell drifted on the air—metallic, with a cloying sweetness beneath, like fruit left to rot in the heat. By the time he tried to place it, the scent had vanished.

Ren turned the empty teacup in his hands. The porcelain was warm but fading. He set it down.

Footsteps whispered along the floorboards. The same boy stood in the doorway, no older than ten. The oversized nightshirt slid off one shoulder; his gaze reflected nothing—dark wells that caught no light.

Reina straightened. “Oh—hello.”

The boy stayed silent. His gaze flicked from her to Ren, then lingered on the untouched plates. Slowly, he raised one hand, a single finger extended—not pointing at them, but up. He turned and climbed the stairs without a sound.

Ren blinked at the empty doorway.

“That boy,” Reina’s voice trembled. “His eyes…”

He didn’t answer. Laughter fractured the hush—too loud, too sudden. Genji’s voice filled the hall, too large for the room it entered. Tomoe glided in behind him, her expression identical to the one she’d worn an hour before.

“Apologies,” she said, drying her hands on a white cloth. “Our little ones forget what noise can cost us. They just needed a reminder.”

Genji’s teeth caught the light. “Children will be children,” he said. “By the way, you two never told us your names.” His attention drifted toward Reina as he took his seat again. “Shouldn’t speak to strangers without introductions.”

“Reina Aokawa,” she answered automatically. “And this is Ren Hanashiro.”

Genji rolled her name on his tongue, savoring it. “Aokawa… like the blue river. It suits you.”

Tomoe’s mouth barely shifted, but her eyes cut toward him—sharp and brief as lightning.

Reina inclined her head. “You’re truly kind.”

Tomoe’s lips curved again, a shape more gesture than emotion. “We couldn’t turn away survivors,” she said softly. “Not with what lurks in the fog.” Her fingers tapped once against the cup. “It’s nearly dawn. You should rest while you can. The day will bring… whatever it brings.”

He studied her face. There was weight behind those words—the kind people used when they were really giving orders.

Genji rose, the chair scraping across the polished floor. “The east wing has several vacant rooms,” he said. “Pick any you like. Just don’t wander. Old house. Easy to get lost.”

Ren pushed himself up, legs steady enough. Without thinking, his hand found Reina’s. “We’ll be sleeping together,” he said, calm but deliberate.

Reina flushed, eyes darting away to the floor. Genji’s laughter followed them up the stairs, too loud.

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Upstairs, the air smelled faintly of candle wax and scorched fabric. Their steps echoed, louder than they should have. The walls were lined with more photographs—Tomoe and Genji beside strangers in formal attire, the settings different, the smiles identical.

Reina traced her fingers along a frame. “They’re all the same,” she whispered.

At the corridor’s bend, a single door broke the symmetry—oak stained nearly black, with an iron handle. Beside it, a bookcase sat a shade askew—far enough to swing and darken the door completely. He paused, memorizing the placement before moving on.

At the far end, a paper lantern glowed faintly above the room Tomoe had mentioned. Their room.

Ren opened the door. The light switch clicked uselessly. Only the hallway’s amber spill cut through the dark, catching dust motes that drifted despite the still air. The scent of polish and soap was sharp, almost enough to sting the eyes.

Reina stumbled on the threshold. “I don’t know if it’s because of everything that’s happened, or because I can’t stop thinking about Lilly, but…” She wrapped her arms tight. “Something about this feels wrong.”

“Either way,” Ren said, “you should sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

“I don’t know that I can.”

“Just try. You hit your head pretty hard back there.”

She sat at the bed’s edge, eyes locked on the curtains. Beyond the thin fabric, fog pressed against the windowpane, swelling and retreating with each slow gust. Something shifted beyond it—a trick of the mind, maybe, or the drag of footsteps through leaves.

“What about you?” she asked. “Your legs were barely working an hour ago. With Lilly missing… if something happened to you too—” She stopped herself.

“Save your strength,” he murmured. “You need to sleep.”

She bit her lip. In the dim light, their eyes met. “Ren,” she said, voice breaking the hush. “When I was unconscious—how did we escape? Why are we the only ones who made it?”

His jaw tightened. “We survived,” he said. “Focus on that.”

He reached for the lantern’s switch. The light died, and darkness folded over them.