What You Lost (3)

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.

His attention drifted to the window. He thought of Hayate—the old man’s voice echoing in his skull, telling him to keep moving. Of Aki and Tetsuya. Of Haruka, Midori, Lilly.

Were they still alive? He wanted to believe it, but something cold settled in his stomach. Hope felt more of a luxury he couldn’t afford. The universe had taught him its lessons well enough. What you love, you lose. Why expect mercy now?

His fingers twitched. That electric current beneath his skin hadn’t faded since last night—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.

He 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.”

She offered a small, weary look of amusement. “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.”

She laughed—a brief sound that dissolved, but not before easing the tension between them. “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, her expression alive beneath it. He sat half-swallowed by shadow, only fragments of his face and hands were touched by that same light, rendering him spectral—already fading from the world he still inhabited.

“Something about this house doesn’t sit right with me.”

“I feel it too.”

“We shouldn’t stay another night.”

“We won’t.”

The walls seemed to inch closer. Her reflection caught him again—the bruise-dark shadows beneath her eyes, the white-knuckled grip on the blanket’s edge. A knot formed somewhere between his ribs.

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

He tensed. For one suspended moment, his thoughts scattered like startled birds—only her question remained, reverberating through his head. When he finally looked at her, her image seemed to split: the woman before him and the ghost of another.

“I’m…” The words faltered. Her look held him, made lying impossible. “I’ll be fine,” he said at last.

Reina’s smile trembled at the edges. “Just this once,” she whispered, “Talk to me. Please?”

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, Reina looked back at him—filled with everything they hadn’t said, suspended in a silence neither dared to break.

━━━━━━━━━━𝑾𝑪𝑨━━━━━━━━━━

Morning filtered through rice-paper windows. 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.

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?”

“We’ve managed this far.”

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

Reina’s mimicked the act—more habit than humor.

No toys. No drawings on the fridge. No mess.

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.

Ren set his chopsticks across his bowl. “We need to leave after the meal. 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. Nothing comes free these days.”

“What kind of favor?”

“There’s a section of fence that collapsed when some fool crashed through it,” he said with a shrug. “Need someone with your build to reset the posts, hammer things back together. Can’t leave gaps for those things to wander in.”

“You’ve had infected this close to your home?”

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

Tomoe leaned forward, her smile returning. “The men can handle the heavy work,” she said. “You and I can prepare provisions for your journey. You must be running low on supplies.”

“The fence is just out back,” Genji added. He gestured toward the 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.

“Alright.”

“That’s what I like to hear!” Genji’s grin widened.

Tomoe gathered the dishes with swift, her back straight as a blade. “Reina,” she called over her shoulder, voice honeyed, “I could use your help with the vegetables once you’re done. Something warm for the road.”

“Happy to help.”

━━━━━━━━━━𝑾𝑪𝑨━━━━━━━━━━

A red emergency light sputtered above the counter, washing the convenience store in crimson pulses. Each flash revealed more details Lilly wished she couldn’t see—hairline fractures across the tiles, dark smears dragged along the walls. The air smelled of rust, gasoline, and something rotten.

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.

The 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 wander,” 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, then drifted toward 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.

Her thoughts spun. Even before the world ended, her mother had whispered stories about the Makabe clan—how their bloodline stretched back to the shogunate, how their ancestors had served in shadow, blades for hire who vanished between wars. “Never trust a Makabe,” her mother would say, bitterness coating every syllable. “They smile with one hand on the knife.”

Those warnings had once left her lying awake at night, imagining daggers hidden in sleeves. But now, with the world in ruins, such suspicions felt like luxuries of another life.

Shion had saved her—twice. There was a steadiness to her, 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.”

Exhaustion had hollowed her voice, leaving only the hard edge of someone who’d seen too much.

Haruto’s body trembled.

“Look, I was just—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.

“Sakura-san?”

Haruka stepped into view. The woman’s posture faltered. Her finger slid from the trigger. Lips parted. “Haru-chan?” Her eyes glassed over.

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.

Haruto slid down the wall until his knees nearly touched the floor, a shaky breath escaping him that could’ve been a laugh.

Lilly didn’t watched. Each sob seemed to carve something loose inside her chest. 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.