What You Carry II

The low hum of a nearby generator seeped through the wall. Aki had repurposed the storage room into an improvised command center—folding chairs arranged in uneven rows, plastic crates serving as side tables, and a central desk where faded maps sprawled beneath dried-out markers.

A single fluorescent tube buzzed overhead, its light harsh and uneven, casting long shadows across the maps. Near the far wall, Ren hunched on a bench, staring downward. Muffled voices and footsteps leaked through the door—alien sounds after the past few days.

A single scuff mark on the concrete floor had become his universe, holding his attention as minutes stretched into what might have been forever.

Yuka…

The name pulsed in his skull, a splinter he couldn’t extract. He saw her again—perched behind her desk, round frames sliding down her nose as she scribbled notes in quick, decisive strokes.

His fingers curled into his palms until the nails bit flesh. He could’ve done it differently. Now she lay dead somewhere because he’d been too scared to act. His jaw tightened until something popped. But saving her meant risking everyone else—didn’t it? The justification rang hollow against the drumbeat of truth. I should’ve done something. Self-loathing rose at the stranger he’d become.

A voice cut through his thoughts, distant at first, then sharper.

“Ren?”

He didn’t move.

“Ren.” A weight settled on his shoulder, grounding him. “I need you with me right now, dear.”

He blinked. The storage room came back into focus piece by piece. Aki stood before him, lips pressed into a thin line, taking him in, reading every flicker of expression.

“I’m here,” he managed. “Just… thinking.”

Her touch skimmed his temple, a reflex born of concern. “You’re freezing.”

The truth caught behind his teeth. Yuka’s face flickered behind his eyelids. The same failures, circling back again. He only shook his head.

“You’re thinking about her. That woman, Fujimori-san.”

The muscles in his jaw bunched visibly.

“You mentioned her before…”

“Yeah,” he said, each syllable brittle as dried leaves. His throat constricted around what came next. “She should still be here.” His focus drifted to the floor again. Somewhere out there, Yuka’s body lay abandoned, staring up at an indifferent sky.

Aki reached across, steadying his shaking hand. “This isn’t your fault.”

A sound caught in Ren’s throat but never formed. The urge to argue rose and died in the same breath. He turned away.

“Have you heard from the old man?”

Something flickered across Aki’s face. She drew a sharp breath, shoulders lifting, then sagging. “No,” she said. “The first day, he called once. I missed it. With everything happening… I tried calling back, but…”

Her silence told the story—guilt and exhaustion carved into every line.

“Hayate reached out to me too. I promised to keep Haruka safe.”

Aki squeezed his hand.

“You kept your promise.”

The walls seemed to press in. The generator’s hum filled his ears like static.

“So why am I here, really?”

Her hand slipped from his.

“We’re in trouble, Ren. All of us.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I need to tell you something but you can’t tell a soul, not yet.” Her voice cracked like glass. “It’s about—”

The door slammed open.

“Mom!”

Haruka burst into the room, face flushed with anger. Sakura appeared behind her, arm outstretched to catch something already beyond reach.

“Haruka, please—”

But she was already storming forward. Her words cut through the air before her mother could stand.

“So he gets answers while I’m left in the dark?”

“Sweetheart—”

“What? I’m supposed to just wait? Until when exactly—until we’re all dead?”

Sakura caught her wrist, whispering something, but Haruka tore free. Behind her, Midori hovered at the threshold, one hand half-raised, as if to intervene but unwilling to cross that final step. When their eyes met, his expression folded into apology.

Aki exhaled—slow, measured—and when she did, the temperature of the air seemed to drop. She absorbed the outburst without visible reaction, though her shoulders stiffened.

“The door,” she said, each syllable precise as a scalpel. “Close it. Now.”

Sakura’s gaze flicked between them as she reached for the handle. “You,” she said to Midori. “Join us.”

Midori hesitated, then crossed the threshold. The door whispered shut. Ren caught it then—Aki’s glance meeting Sakura’s for less than a heartbeat, a silent message flashing between them.

Aki’s lips thinned. “If you want to be treated like an adult, Haruka, act like one. This isn’t about you being my daughter. It’s about survival. Everyone here is hanging by a thread. One person’s fear becomes everyone’s panic. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

The sharpness in her tone faltered as she pressed her fingertips to her temples, shoulders sinking.

“I’m sorry. I haven’t slept in—” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Haruka’s defiance softened. “I understand,” she murmured. “I’m sorry.”

“No need for apologies, sweetheart. You’ve endured enough.” Aki’s voice gentled into a smile. She drew a steadying breath. “Perhaps I’ve been too precautions. After the final flare check tonight, I promise—you’ll hear everything.” Her smile dimmed. “I wish they were with us now,” she whispered, barely audible over the generator’s hum. “Your father… your grandfather…”

Haruka’s fingers twisted in the hem of her shirt. “Mom,” she said quietly, “you never told me where they are.”

Aki’s face drained of color. “We’ll talk later, Haru,” she said, pressing a hand to her temple. Her knees wavered.

“Mom?” Haruka lurched forward.

Ren half-rose from the bench, but Sakura was already at Aki’s side.

“Three days without sleep,” Sakura murmured, meeting Haruka’s worried look. “Running this place, worrying about you—it was bound to catch up eventually.”

Aki raised a hand in protest, but her chest hitched once, then steadied. “I’m just a little dizzy.”

“You should get some sleep, Sumire-san,” Midori said, his tone a quiet anchor in the charged air.

“I’ll take mom back with you.”

“Should I come along?” Midori asked.

“We’ll manage,” Sakura said, offering a smile.

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving a thin strip of light that died on the floor.

Ren stared at the empty space they’d left. The generator’s drone seemed louder now, filling the vacuum. Dust drifted in the stale air above the table, caught in the weak light, dancing to the machine’s mechanical heart. He stayed seated, listening to the quiet creak of metal.

“You can be a real ass sometimes, you know that?” Midori spoke first.

Ren looked up to find him watching, mouth curved in that almost-smile—the kind that never reached the eyes.

“Every time I think I’ve figured you out,” he went on, fingers tapping the side of his leg, “you’re suddenly a stranger again.” A pause. “What’s your history with them, anyway?”

Ren’s jaw tightened. “I wouldn’t be alive without them,” he replied finally, each word measured like medicine.

Midori studied him. “It all makes sense now. And here I thought—” He shook his head, almost smiling. “I guess it doesn’t matter what I thought. I never pushed for details about your life before. Figured some doors are better left closed.”

“They are.”

Midori made a small noise—half laugh, half sigh.

“I’m sorry about Fujimori-san.”

Something shifted in Ren’s expression. The room wavered—another time, another loss. Leon’s face superimposed over Midori’s, mouth forming different words: “I’m sorry about Sera.”

Ren blinked, and the present settled back in place.

“It was dark, and I was panicking. I kept looking back—trying to make sure everyone was there. But it happened so fast. They came out of nowhere and…” His voice cracked. “I froze. My body wouldn’t move. Not my arms, not my legs. Nothing. All I could do was watch her die, Ren. Kuro had to—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “He had to end it so she wouldn’t turn. And we left her there. We just left her body in the street. We fucking left her there.”

Midori’s breath hitched, his body curling inward. When the first sob broke free, he buried his face in his palms, fingers shaking as if trying to hold himself together.

“Mom and Dad probably went out the same way. Screaming. Torn apart…” The words dissolved into silence.

A vise closed around Ren’s throat. Comfort, wisdom, even empty reassurances—all abandoned him. Inside his chest, there was only the dull echo of too many losses—a bell worn smooth from overuse.

Midori dragged a sleeve across his face, leaving a muddy trail. His eyes, when he raised them, were red-rimmed. “Don’t worry about me. Not like we can afford breakdowns now. Always thought a good cry was supposed to clear your head. Bullshit.” He rolled his shoulders back, forcing steadiness. “I need some fresh air. Coming?”

He crossed to the door, cracking it open just enough for a sliver of light to spill into the room. The thin golden line trembled across the concrete toward Ren’s boots. He stood, wordless, and stepped into its path.