WHAT BREAKS FIRST?

The thing that surprised Akiro most was how fast exhaustion became background noise.

Not a dramatic kind. No collapse in the rain. No single moment where he could point and say, that’s when I broke.

It was quieter than that.

A steady erosion.

At first, it showed up in small, almost reasonable ways. He forgot a password and shrugged it off. Forgot where he’d left his keys and blamed stress. Forgot the name of a classmate he hadn’t spoken to in years and told himself that was normal.

Then he forgot the faces he’d seen last week.

Then he forgot the order of events from the day before.

Time began to smear at the edges, like wet ink.

Emotions dulled too—not vanished, just blunted. Fear arrived late, like it had missed a train. Relief barely showed up at all, turning everything into a flat stretch of fine that never quite tipped into okay.

Rin noticed before he did.

“You’re drifting,” she said during one training session, her voice sharp enough to cut through the hum of the sealed utility room they were using that day.

“I’m right here,” Akiro replied, standing inside the chalk circle with his hands raised. “See? Very present and pleasant.” He winked.

“You missed the cue.”

“I didn’t—”

“Again,” Rin snapped.

He reached.

Nothing happened.

Rin’s eyes widened. “Akiro—”

The backlash came hard.

Not sharp this time. Heavy.

Like gravity had suddenly doubled its opinion of him.

He was knocked flat, breath punched from his lungs, the concrete rushing up to meet him with bruising enthusiasm. He lay there, staring at the ceiling pipes, blinking slowly as his body tried to remember how breathing worked.

“…sorry,” he said after a moment.

Rin was kneeling beside him instantly, one hand hovering near his shoulder, not touching. “You dissociated.”

“That’s bad, right?”

“Yes.”

He was quiet.

She helped him sit up, her grip firm, grounding. He noticed her hands were shaking slightly.

That scared him more than the pain.

They didn’t continue training after that.

They argued instead.

Not loudly.

Quiet arguments were worse. They are left too much room for meaning to echo.

They were in a half-abandoned office building that evening, sitting across from each other on opposite sides of a long, scratched conference table. The windows were darkened with seals, the city outside reduced to a muted glow.

“You’re pushing too hard,” Akiro said.

Rin leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. “You don’t have time.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Or because it’s convenient,” he said carefully.

Her eyes snapped to him. “You think I want this?”

“I think,” he replied slowly, choosing each word like it might explode, “that you’re afraid to stop.”

The room went very still.

Rin’s jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in her cheek.

“That’s not fair,” she said.

“Neither is losing pieces of myself every time I listen to you.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and brittle.

“You knew what this was,” she said eventually.

“No,” Akiro shot back. “I knew what you told me it was.”

She stood abruptly, chair scraping loudly against the floor. “And you think I told you everything?”

“I think you told me enough to keep me moving.”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

“Rin?” Akiro continued quietly. “That’s not confidence. That’s fear.”

Her voice dropped. “You don’t get to psychoanalyse me.”

“Then stop treating me like a project.”

That one landed.

Rin looked away first.

Later—much later—Akiro found himself on a rooftop.

He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d gotten there. He remembered climbing stairs. He remembered the door sticking slightly before giving way. The rest was hazy.

He sat on the edge, legs dangling over the side, the city glowing below like something far away and unreal. Traffic moved like veins of light. Trains slid through darkness. Somewhere, someone laughed.

A notification buzzed on his phone.

Rent Due Tomorrow.

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then laughed under his breath.

“Dammit.”

He leaned back on his palms, staring up at the sky. No stars. Just a faint orange haze reflecting the city on itself.

I’m worried about rent while reality fractures, he thought.

That feels…balanced.

Behind him, the rooftop door opened softly.

Rin stepped out, closing it behind her. She hesitated, then sat down a careful distance away.

“I hate heights,” she said.

Akiro snorted. “Then why—”

“I trust you not to fall.”

That startled him enough that he turned to look at her.

“That’s a bad habit,” he said.

She shrugged. “So is attachment.”

They sat in silence for a while, the wind tugging at their clothes.

“Do you remember what you were like before?” Akiro asked.

Rin didn’t answer right away.

“Yes,” she said finally. “Too clearly.”

He nodded. “I’m starting to forget.”

She closed her eyes.

“That’s why we fight,” she said quietly. “Not because I want to push you. Because if you stop now, the system doesn’t stop with you.”

Akiro frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means the seals are straining,” she said. “And the Unbound aren’t the cause. They’re a symptom.”

He absorbed that. “And me?”

“You’re…a variable.”

“A word I keep hearing, and there’s no ‘constant’.”

She glanced at him. “You’re still making jokes.”

“Dry observations,” he corrected, inhaling the harsh air. “Desperation.”

Her mouth twitched despite herself.

The moment passed.

Far below them, deep beneath old shrines and forgotten districts, something ancient shifted. Not breaking. Not yet.

But adjusting.

And Akiro, sitting on the edge of a city that pretended it was whole, felt it in his bones before he understood it with his mind.

The exhaustion didn’t leave.

It just learned how to stay quiet.