What You Lost III

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. The smell of tatami and old cedar hung in the room—sharp and faintly sweet. Somewhere far off, the mountain still burned, a dull smear of orange smoke that refused to fade.

Reina perched at the bed’s edge, spine a gentle arc, 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. Below, the empty street held abandoned cars at odd angles while scraps of paper tumbled across the asphalt in halfhearted gusts. Everything had stopped—the kind of stillness that isn’t peace, but absence.

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 like a luxury he couldn’t afford. The universe had taught him its lessons well enough. What you love, you lose. Why expect mercy now?

Still, the same question clawed at him, carving its familiar wound deeper with each return. 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. The house spoke in its own language—wood joints creaking with the warming day, a whisper of breeze against the eaves. When he looked up again, Reina was watching him.

Her voice broke the quiet like a stone dropped in still water. “The bed’s big enough for both of us, you know.”

“The floor suits me fine.”

Reina offered a small, weary look of amusement. “We can share, you know? 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 like sugar in water, but not before easing the tension between them. “Yeah,” she said, brushing a stray lock behind her ear. “You’re right about that.”

Their reflections met in the dresser mirror: Reina caught in a shaft of sunlight that ignited her red hair into something molten, 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,” she murmured.

He scanned the room—taking in the too-perfect futon creases, the countertop scrubbed to an unnatural shine. “I feel it too.”

“Everything’s wrong.” Her attention flicked to the window, then back, urgency flickering in her expression. “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, pulling tight.

She looked at him for a long, heavy moment. Her next words came almost too soft to hear. “Tell me the truth, Ren.”

He held her stare, waiting.

“What’s happening to you?” she whispered.

His body 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 word faltered. Her look held him, made lying impossible. “I’ll be fine,” he said at last, the lie bitter on his tongue.

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

Something inside him crumbled. The weight of his secrets pressed against his chest like a fist. She saw only the man before her now—not the monster beneath his skin, not the blood on his hands, not the darkness 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 like a blade.

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

Reina flinched, her head snapping toward the door. The fragile moment fractured. She exhaled, voice low. “Coming,” she called back, though it barely reached.

Ren rose slowly, one hand braced against the wall. Dust clung to his fingers, leaving pale trails across his jeans. Across the room, Reina looked back at him—filled with everything they hadn’t said, suspended in a silence neither dared to break.

━━━━━━━━━━𝑾𝑪𝑨━━━━━━━━━━

A house this size should have creaked, whispered, sighed—but as Ren followed Reina into the hallway, the stillness pressed against his ears like cotton.

Side by side, they descended the stairs. Morning filtered through rice-paper windows, casting honey-colored squares across the floor. Tomoe stood at the kitchen counter arranging the last bowl on a tray. When she turned, her expression snapped into place too quickly. Her fingers worried the edge of her apron. “Finally joining us,” she said, voice pitched high and brittle as cracked glass. “I’d almost convinced myself you’d both disappeared in the night.”

Reina’s lips curved upward, a polite reflex that never reached her face. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Nothing fancy,” Tomoe said, nodding toward four bowls steaming on the low table. Behind her, Genji slouched in his chair, rolling an unlit cigarette between thumb and forefinger, his grin spreading slow as a bloodstain.

“Sleep well?” he asked, his stare sliding from Ren to Reina, where it lingered with uncomfortable precision. “Must’ve been cozy upstairs.”

Ren said nothing. He pulled out the chair opposite Reina before sitting. Steam curled from the bowls of rice and miso; fish glistened on the grill plate. The eggs gleamed a sickly yellow. 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 with deliberate care. Ren 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 Ren’s nerves like fingernails on chalkboard. Beside him, Reina’s shoulders tightened at each wet chew and swallow from across the table.

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

Reina’s chopsticks paused mid-air. Ren’s knuckles whitened around his own. “We’ve managed this far,” he said, voice deliberately flat.

Tomoe’s laugh was brittle as she pushed rice around her plate. “Pay him no mind,” she said lightly. “My husband just likes to talk.”

Reina’s answering laugh was small—more habit than humor—and vanished almost immediately.

Ren studied what the house lacked. No toys underfoot, no drawings on the fridge, no faint thumps overhead. The ceiling above was silent.

Too clean. Too quiet.

Tomoe’s chopsticks hesitated mid-air. “The children are still upstairs,” she said, voice light as rice paper. “With everything that’s happened, we thought it best they eat separately.” Her lips curved into a perfect crescent that cast no warmth. “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,” he said, tone low but steady. “There are people waiting for us.”

A pause. Tomoe’s glance shifted toward Genji. He gave a barely perceptible nod, a private exchange. “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.” His grin stayed thin. “Nothing comes free these days.”

Reina’s shoulders stiffened. “What kind of favor?”

“Just 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.”

Ren’s jaw flexed. “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 sweetly. “You and I can prepare provisions for your journey. You must be running low on supplies.”

Reina glanced at Ren, a silent question in her look.

Genji chuckled, rough and low. “You’ll still see each other,” he added, the corner of his mouth twitching. “The fence is just out back.” He gestured toward the window above the sink.

Beyond the glass stretched the property’s edge—an expanse of overgrown yard giving way to a wooden barrier. Near the center, one section leaned inward like a broken tooth, its fractured planks barely clinging together. Sunlight caught on the exposed nails, tiny silver glints watching from the splintered wood.

Ren’s focus shifted from the fence to Reina. She met his stare and nodded once. “We’ll help,” he said, voice even.

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

As they rose, Tomoe gathered the dishes with swift, precise movements, 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.”

Reina nodded. “I’d be happy to.”

Before following Genji to the back door, Ren sought her eyes one last time. She smiled—thin, uncertain—but enough.

The door swung open under Genji’s hand, and a rush of chill air invaded.

━━━━━━━━━━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, ash-gray dust settling over abandoned merchandise. The air smelled of rust, gasoline, and something rotten.

No one spoke. Every syllable felt like a risk, measured against the chance of drawing them—those things outside. Satsuki had vanished into the bathroom, the sound of running water echoing too loudly through the hollow 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 weighed in Lilly’s palm like a stone. Her stomach had twisted into a hollow knot since morning, yet the thought of eating made bile rise in her throat. Her attention kept drifting to the rust-colored stains by the register—the trail of half-erased footprints disappearing behind the counter. Beyond the windows, broken signs swayed in the wind, their metal joints crying with every gust.

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 without looking at him.

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’s focus tracked his retreat, then drifted toward Shion. The older woman 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.

Lilly’s thoughts spun where her mouth couldn’t. Shion Makabe. The name alone made her stomach tighten. 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 steadiness might one day rub off on her.

The bell jingled again.

Haruto backed through the doorway, palms raised. A woman followed close behind, the barrel of her pistol pressed to his spine. Streaks of gray ran through her hair. Deep lines etched around a pair of tired eyes. Soot and grime darkened her sleeves. Her look darted from face to face, measuring threats, her finger hovering a breath from the trigger.

“Everyone stays exactly where they are.”

The woman’s words fell flat in the stale air, worn smooth like river stones. Exhaustion had hollowed her voice, leaving only the hard edge of someone who’d outlived too many sunsets.

Haruto’s fingers trembled. “Look, I was just—I didn’t mean to—”

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

A whisper came from behind the shelves.

“…Sakura-san?”

Haruka stepped into view, her silhouette trembling under the flickering light.

The woman’s posture faltered. Her finger slid from the trigger. Lips parted. Her eyes glassed over. “Haru-chan?” The pistol hung forgotten at her side.

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, raw and cracking.

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 move. Each sob seemed to carve something loose inside her chest. Reunions weren’t supposed to hurt like this. But then again, nothing was supposed to be like this anymore.

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.