Peace at the bottom

The wind brushes against him—not biting, just tired—a muted whisper of winter. Above, clouds hang low and heavy, stripped of thunder, drifting like they've forgotten how to be anything but gray.

Snowflakes fall in lazy spirals, hesitant to reach the ground. They settle on Atsunori's shoulders, melt, vanish—like the resolve he forces into each step.

His boots scrape up the stone stairs up the hill, low enough he trips once and falls face-first. For a moment, he stays there, waiting for something—pain, anger, shame. Nothing comes.

He drags himself back to his feet and continues.

The estate looms ahead, the familiar wall rising through, but every foot forward feels wrong. As if he's climbing toward a place where he no longer belongs.

There are no guards stationed at the gates—only silence, and a lone servant. Vacant lanterns sway gently, unlit, rattling in the weak wind.

She approaches. No greeting. No bow. Just a carefully blank expression and a sealed paper held out at arm's length. As soon as Atsunori takes it, the servant withdraws, doors closing behind her with a hush that feels final.

He stares down at the letter longer than necessary, breath clouding faintly as he breaks the seal stamped with the family mark.

The handwriting is pristine.

━━━━━━━━━━

To Munakata Atsunori,

It is with gravity that I inform you:

The Elders are gone.

You were entrusted, explicitly, with their protection.

Their loss lies squarely in the shadow of your actions.

I regret to acknowledge that this marks not a single lapse in judgment,

but the culmination of many.

Until such time that you may personally present either:

- Avery Bennett, returned and compliant,

or

- The remains of the traitor known as Kairi,

you are not to approach this estate, nor claim its shelter or name.

May your future decisions reflect the responsibility you once vowed to uphold.

Sincerely,

Munakata Tomoe

━━━━━━━━━━

The paper hangs trembling in his hand, though the cold alone isn't to blame.

He had been ready for this. Prepared for the worst. Resigned to it.

The lines of ink bleed together.

Atsunori blinks hard, once. The words hold still only for a moment, then blur again.

He folds the letter slowly, carefully—then it crumples under his grip, the stiff paper biting into his palm. Shoulders square, he turns away from the gates.

His steps down the stone path are measured, deliberate. A soldier's march. But the discipline fails to reach his eyes. He sniffs once, quietly, like he can still swallow the loss before it spills.

A flake melts against his cheek. Or maybe it doesn't.

Snow gathers faster now—blanketing rooftops, softening the world. His footprints smear behind him, already fading under the white.

Movement continues, automatic. No collapse—only the silent tremor running through him, the tightening in his throat, and the fragile control he clings to like a final order he cannot bear to disobey.

By the time he reaches the base of the hill, the street in front is almost unrecognizable from the morning—blurred through snowfall and something he refuses to name.

Still, he walks on.

Alone.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The streets are nearly empty. Most lights are out. Warmth is confined to the homes he passes, windows glowing behind drawn curtains. He moves like a dry leaf, unnoticed, wandering without purpose.

A vacant playground comes into view. Swing sets creak in the faint wind, slits glint cold under the snow. For a moment, he can almost see it—children, laughing and running. Life continues somewhere beyond him. If only… things had been different. If only he had been enough.

Pressing forward, the empty streets stretch on forever. Faint neon hints at life, but nothing stirs. In the distance, the amusement park rises—lights dimmed, rides motionless, catching snow. Avery.

If she were here, she would have spoken. Encouraged him. Told him not to give up. That failure wasn't the end.

He waits for her voice to follow the thought.

But it doesn't.

Names surface instead. Faces. Moments he should have handled differently.

Mistakes.

People who won't rely on him—not anymore.

The Munakata family comes to mind now like a deer struck in the neck—bleeding and trapped in agony. And Avery… even if he found her—

The thought doesn't finish. Kairi finishes it.

A river comes next, dark and flowing. Ice drifts along the surface, never stopping, never staying. Water moves, endlessly changing yet always the same. His arms fold across the bridge railing, eyes staring at the current below. Unlike the river, he has become stagnant, like the rocks buried at the bottom.

From his torn bag, he draws his ring pendant. Once a symbol of loyalty and commitment, it has long since been a crutch—a fragile talisman carrying his naive self through crises. Now exposed to the truth behind its mended line, the faded inscription that once inspired him feels hollow. Nothing but a bundle of lies and broken traditions. No longer a charm, just a useless burden.

Familiar, like staring straight at a mirror.

His fingers close around it. Tight. Crushing. Gold bends under the force and blood wells in his palm—dripping, mixing with the current below. The pressure grows, pouring every ounce of anger, every shred of regret, every weight of lives lost into the soft piece of metal.

When he opens his hand, the ring is a rugged, blood-tainted lump—warped and meaningless.

One flick of the wrist sends it arching into the river. The water swallows the junk, carrying it downstream to a place where it belongs: buried, forgotten, just like all illusions he once clung to.

The river continues, indifferent.

Atsunori stays. Even if he could move on, there's nowhere to go.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The bar smells of stale smoke and spilled liquor. Atsunori sits hunched over the counter, glass after glass in front of him, watching amber liquid swirl. Taste doesn't matter—only the dulling of aches, the silencing of thoughts.

His body burns through alcohol with brutal efficiency. Minutes after each round, the haze fades. Another glass empties. And another. Over and over. Hours blur, marked only by empty bottles and fading receipts.

Days pass this way—perhaps weeks. Time wasted moving from bars to fast-food joints to steaming baths that only briefly warm his limbs. Outside, winter deepens: frozen points reflect pale skies, garden branches sag beneath the weight of icicles—some already broken, snapped under their own frost.

Money burns without thought, uncounted and unconsidered. For decades he had saved, worked, denied himself, and now it means nothing.

One evening—or maybe it's early morning—a snowstorm roars outside. Atsunori sits at another bar, staring through the fogged up window. Streetlights struggle to pierce the blizzard, their glow a pale smear across the glass.

A thought starts to form: stand and go—

His body moves before it finishes. Whatever part of him might have questioned it fades, along with the barman's warnings, as the door closes behind him.

Outside, the cold hits immediately, fierce and biting. It burns his cheeks and throat, makes his joints stiff and fingers turn blue. Pain laces through him with every step.

There's no destination. He can't see past his arms other than the blurred, ambiguous lights of distant buildings. Just blindly moving forward, not knowing where or why.

Snow swirls around him, settling in his head, along his coat, in the seams of his neck. The city hums faintly behind the walls of his awareness. Cars moving, green lights shining, a siren that wails annoyingly then fades in the distance—none of it matters. It's all noise beneath the snow, beneath the ache in his bones, beneath emptiness he carries with him.

Slowly, the fire dulls. Muscles loosen. Breath slows.

This isn't right.

The thought flickers—thin, delayed—then slips away before the meaning can take hold.

He stops, lets himself sink, kneeling, then lying in the snow. Arms spread. Face up. The powdery ice swallows him, body melting into it. The sky above him is a blur of drifting flakes, soft shapes rushing by his sight, but gradually slowing. The few sounds that remain in the back of his mind quiet down completely.

His eyes close, the darkness behind his eyelids calm and infinite. In his mind, snow accumulates forever, layer after layer, softening every sharp edge inside him.

No worries. No duties.

Just this quiet nothing.

And he doesn't have the strength to care whether that's good or not.

…

Then—a shrill ring.

A phone call storms through his peace, uninvited. He ignores it. Whoever it is, it cannot be important. No one would count on him for anything anymore. The sound dies at last, and quiet settles back into him—for two whole seconds before the racket returns.

Clumsy, frozen fingers find buttons by touch alone, silencing the intrusion without looking.

The caller seems to catch the message. Their next call doesn't come back immediately.

Hopefully, he can now return to—

BRRRING.

Blast it all! Who's the son of a—

Avery.

The name flashes on the screen.

Not another second wasted, he answers.

"Hi hi Atsun!" Her voice bursts through the line, energetic and carefree, like she's just calling after a vacation.

Lips part, yet speech refuses to form. Tongue numb, lips frozen.

"Atsun? You there? Grunt if you can hear me."

Something instinctive escapes—a rough, automatic grunt.

"Okay, gotcha." She hums, unaffected by everything, by all that's happened. "Um… where do I start? So listen, I have, like… a surprise I'm sure you'll love."