Change

Something was wrong.

Very, very wrong.

He was faster now. Stronger. More dangerous.

And somehow... less there.

His words—that calm goodbye from moments ago—echoed in my head.

Cold dread crawled up my spine.

I didn't have time to linger on it. He lunged again, swinging with the same force as before—no, even more—as if exhaustion no longer applied to him.

Yet dodging became easier.

No curves. No hesitation. No feints.

I slipped aside. A backhand followed—I ducked, rolled as his fist pulverized the wall behind me.

Between a sidestep and a stumble, I tried to speak.

"A-Atsun… are you there?"

Nothing. No change at all. His attacks didn't sharpen or shorten. They just continued—precise, relentless.

"Atsun! Please, answer me!"

His reply was a kick that shattered the ground. The tremor upset my balance—but that wasn't what made my hands shake.

I kept trying—all the while dodging his pursuit.

Each word cost me breath. Each breath dragged me closer to collapse. My chest burned. My legs screamed.

It was as if sound itself no longer reached him.

As if words had lost meaning.

Atsunori's hand tore past my head, close enough to rip my ear open. Blood sprayed hot and sudden, yet the pain meant nothing compared to the hollow ache opening in my chest.

He had given in.

Completely.

And worse—going by his last words, the way he'd looked at me…

He'd done it willingly.

My hands wiped at my eyes in the heartbeat between attacks.

I'm not giving up on you.

I forced my mind to empty and let my body move on instinct alone. I reached inward, desperately searching for that other ability—the one I'd sworn never to touch again.

If stealing his power was the only way to bring him back, then I—

My body lagged for an instant too long.

His shoulder slammed into me with a sickening crunch and the world exploded sideways. I was airborne before I could gasp.

The fall could kill me.

I panicked, commanding cushioning—and felt something half-form around me as the world spun.

Then the impact came anyway.

Softened by my magic, but violent nonetheless.

Pain swallowed everything.

I didn't get back up.

I wasn't sure I could.

My vision dimmed at the edges, breath coming in shallow, broken pulls. Somewhere distant, I knew I might be dying.

And that's when I saw it.

The way I'd seen Kairi's Blessing.

But different.

Atsunori and the red phantom weren't layered.

They were one.

No seam to cut. No human beneath the Yokai. No Yokai clinging to the human.

Just a single, indivisible existence approaching to end me.

There was no hidden power that could change this reality.

Just the distance between us—shrinking fast—and the certainty heavy in my chest like stone.

If I hesitated, I would die.

This wasn't about justice.
Or necessity.
Or what anyone deserved.

This was about responsibility.

Mine.

My breath hitched, lungs scraping like they were lined with glass. I tasted blood. Only the certainty of death kept me conscious through the ringing in my ears.

"I'm sorry." I almost choked, barely knowing what the words meant anymore.

My eyes locked onto his. Up close, there was nothing human left in them. Just function. Momentum.

I reached out with intent—for something solid, crude and certain.

Metal bloomed in my hands with crushing weight. A handgun. Cold, real—far too large, far too powerful to fire safely.

It wasn't symbolic. It wasn't elegant. Just a tool meant to end things.

Something I had hoped never to hold again.

Atsunori crossed the remaining distance in a single step. The floor cracked beneath his foot as his arms rose.

I lifted the gun with shaking arms, elbows locked because my wrists wouldn't hold it otherwise. The barrel climbed—from his chest to his neck, then higher.

Our eyes met.

For a heartbeat—just one—I thought I saw something flicker.

Not recognition or forgiveness, just… stillness.

Without looking away, I pulled the trigger.

A deafening blast and explosive recoil rattled my bones. White-hot pain cracked my wrists as the force hurled them back. My transformation unraveled even as his head vanished.

No final movement. The body was thrown backwards, then collapsed heavily to the stone.

Forever still.

The gun clattered away, skidding out of reach before dissolving.

Silence rushed in as I lay there, gasping, staring at what remained—at what I had done.

"I'm sorry."

The words wouldn't form. They echoed uselessly in my head.

"I'm sorry."

There was no one left to apologize to.

My forehead hit the floor. Tears streaked across cold stone.

"I'm sorry!"

A scream tore out of me.

Then I coughed blood. My head struck the ground again.

Silence returned, broken only by weak sobs.

My chest burned with every breath. My hands screamed where they lay, nerves flaring and fading in uneven waves—but I barely noticed. Pain had become background noise.

I stayed there.

Crying.

Letting it tear through me without trying to be quiet or composed or brave.

Pretending otherwise would have been another act.

And I was tired of acts, lies and secrets.

Eventually, the sobs thinned. My throat burned raw. Tears still slipped free, but there was nothing left behind them.

Enough.

Fabric scraped against my skin as I cleared my eyes, smearing blood with tears.

I'd cried enough.

Anything more would be trying to escape what I'd done—to turn it into something smaller, easier to carry.

That would be disrespectful.

To him.
To my choice.
To its consequences.

My neck protested as I forced my head up.

The room hadn't changed. The debris, the blood, the body—none of it looked away from me.

So I didn't look away either.

Inch by inch, I dragged myself toward Atsunori. Every movement sent sparks of agony through my ribs and arms. I welcomed it. It kept me here—awake and present.

When I reached him, I stopped.

I didn't touch him.

I didn't close my eyes.

I simply looked at the cost laid bare in front of me.

This was mine.

A memory I wouldn't flee from. One I would carry with me every day.

I killed someone.

Someone who understood me.

And I would not make a habit out of it.

If anything, it would slow me. Make me more careful. More unwilling to let things spiral to this point again. A lesson I would take to heart.

I pushed myself upright. My legs shook, nearly gave out—but I stayed up.

Then turned away from the body.

Not to forget or deny.

But because what came next required me to move.

Each step towards the cell demanded focus. My vision blurred, cleared, then blurred again as I forced my broken remains past fallen walls and shattered wards—the scars of a system that tried to hold forever.

They watched me.

No words.
No pleas.
No gratitude.

Nothing that would make me feel good about helping them—and I was fine with that.

They owed me none of it.

I stopped at a control panel. My fingers barely responded—numb and screaming at once.

To no one's surprise, a password prompt blinked on the screen.

It didn't matter.

What little power I had left gathered in my fingertips. White consumed my vision. I nearly blacked out then and there.

But I refused.

And asked clearly, decisively, for the circuits to change. For the screen to become the one that opened the cells.

It obeyed.

My knees gave out and I collapsed against the panel, barely catching myself. The button was right there. Red and final—a warning of a choice that could not be undone.

I hesitated—not from doubt, but because I understood exactly what this meant.

Uncertainty.

The old order would break violently. Whatever followed would be dangerous. Uncontrolled. No one could predict the amount of damage this choice might cause.

My thoughts drifted back to Atsunori. To the man who had stood here with me, understood what I wanted to do, and chose differently. I didn't blame him—instead, I carried him with me.

Then pressed the button.

The seals disengaged with a resonant hum. Light flickered, stuttered, died. One by one, the barriers dissolved and the doors slid open.

Nothing happened for a few eternal seconds.

Until one stepped forward. Cautious, as if expecting the ground itself to betray them. Others followed. Wary and silent—eyes never leaving me.

Whatever came next—fear, violence, chaos, reconciliation—I would face it.

Because the world that demanded willful ignorance ended here.

And the one that followed, unfinished and dangerous as it was, would not be built by looking away.

My footing was unsteady, like moving in a current.

But it carried me forward, into a future whose shape I did not yet know.