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Chapter Text

Her eyesight was near perfect—20/18—but at this moment, all she could see was the wind and sea spinning together in a dance at the ship’s edge. Calloused fingers curled around the thick rope strung along the bowsprit—her only lifeline as she leaned forward, selfishly searching the horizon. It was a new day, and she wanted to be the first to spot land.

“Try as you might, but throwing yourself off the ship won’t get us there any faster ,” came a voice—sharp, dry, familiar.

Snap.

Kohaku didn’t need to turn; she knew that tone. A wry smile touched her lips as she made a mental note, filing the sound under one truth:

“ Always trust a sailor’s instinct .”

As Kohaku descended from the bow to the deck, their gaze held fast, unbroken. “Ten more days till America, and I’m already sick of salt, wind, and your smug instincts.” Ryusui’s gaze drifted past her, settling on the horizon where the sea burned gold beneath the rising sun. For a breath, the world was still. The glow reminded him of home—Japan, the land of the rising sun—and for the first time in weeks, the ache of distance pressed heavy against his chest.

Ten more days.

Ten more days of ocean, wind, and unknowns before they reached America.

“ Yeah, well, why don’t you pat yourself on the back for that matter .” They never shared eye contact again, instead, they both shared the moment just staring past the bowsprit. Ryusui rested his hands on his hips, his gaze softening. “ I could tell your loyalty for him runs deep, one that a captain could only dream of for his crew .” The corner of her mouth twitched—just enough to betray the warmth blooming in her chest. She wasn’t used to recognition, especially not from someone like Ryusui. “ It’s not about loyalty—it’s about knowing who’s worth believing in. Senku’s one of the few who never gave me a reason to doubt .” 

The hearty chuckle of his lifted the atmosphere tenfold as he turned around almost military style, his trench coat almost hitting her. – snap – He held his fingers up, his back now turned to her as his expression turned cold. “ Take care of yourself too, Kohaku. You’re not a one-person army .”

The moment Kohaku stepped inside, the air felt heavy with the scent of saltwater, resin, and the distinct, almost metallic tang of freshly worked minerals. The makeshift lab aboard the ship was an eclectic mix of progress and chaos—wooden beams arched above her, their surface polished smooth from the constant ebb and flow of the ship. The walls were lined with shelves crafted from the same sturdy wood, and resting on them were jars of minerals, crushed stones, and polished crystals, each serving a unique purpose in the experiments Senku was tirelessly conducting.

Tables were cluttered with unfinished projects—glass flasks, some filled with liquid or strange powders, others empty and waiting to be filled. Small glass beakers, made from fire-hardened sand, sat alongside wooden tools carved with precision. There was an elegance to the disorder here, a delicate balance between the rawness of nature and the ingenuity of human creation. Senku, of course, was right in the center of it all, his focus absolute as he bent over a newly assembled wooden frame, his hands deftly adjusting something that looked almost ready to collapse.

Kohaku paused, taking in the sight of him. She could see the faint streaks of chalky residue on his arms, evidence of his ongoing experiments. His goggles, now perched atop his head, had seen better days, the straps slightly frayed from repeated use. He was immersed in his work, completely unaware—or uncaring—of the mess that surrounded him.

She quietly placed the plate of food onto a nearby table, next to a stack of already existing plates, all but forgotten in the chaos of Senku's latest project. The meal was simple—dried meat and wild greens—but it was enough to sustain them through the day. Her eyes flicked briefly to Senku, but he didn’t look up. The silence in the room was palpable, and for a moment, she considered whether she should speak—thank him for his tireless work, ask if he needed help, or simply offer a word of encouragement. But she didn’t.

Instead, she let the silence stretch out, knowing that disturbing his concentration would only derail whatever it was he was working on. She turned to leave, her thoughts swirling with an unreadable mix of emotions. But just as she reached the door, she heard the unmistakable sound of Chrome’s voice, his energy carrying through the hallway and reaching her ears before she could even see him.

“ Senku! Senku! I’ve got an idea for a new experiment! ” Chrome called out, his voice filled with his usual enthusiasm.

Kohaku’s expression darkened at the interruption. She didn’t need to be around for another one of Chrome’s morning brainstorms. She exhaled quietly, her face hardening with the all-too-familiar sense of frustration, and she slipped out the door without a word. Her footsteps were soft against the wooden deck as she moved away from the lab, her thoughts still tangled in the strange tension she’d felt earlier.

As the door creaked softly behind her, Senku’s eyes flicked toward the space she’d just vacated. He didn’t move, didn’t call out. His gaze lingered on the spot where she had been, and for a brief moment, his hands stilled over the project before him. But then, as quickly as it had come, the thought faded. He returned his focus to the task at hand, the quiet hum of the ship and the low murmur of Chrome's voice in the distance offering the only interruption to his work.

Outside, Kohaku stood still for a moment, her back against the wooden frame of the door. She didn’t fully understand the feeling that had settled in her chest—something between irritation and longing—but it gnawed at her. She had never been good at understanding the quiet spaces between people, the unspoken words that lingered in the air. She wasn’t sure why it bothered her, but something about Senku’s quiet, focused presence made her feel distant, like she was a part of the world he was constantly leaving behind.

Kohaku didn’t trust Moz—not even for a millisecond. But with Tsukasa and Hyoga nearby, she could manage his presence without driving her blade through his throat.

In her past life, she’d ruled over the men in her village—not with charm, but with skill sharpened by necessity. Every move she made had been trained with one truth in mind: survival didn’t come from strength alone. It came from being smarter, faster, colder.

The gazing never stopped.

But she learned not to flinch.

Let them look.

She knew how to turn their eyes into weapons—distractions, bait, leverage. And in this latest game with Moz, every lingering glance was another string in her hand. Moz tilted his head, a smirk tugging at his lips as he stepped forward, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“ I take it, it is my turn to battle this beauty? ”

Kohaku didn’t blink. She met his gaze head-on, posture relaxed—but every muscle ready.

“Careful,” she said coolly, “some beauties bite.”

Her smile was polite, but her eyes held the glint of someone already three moves ahead. She wasn’t flattered. She wasn’t flustered.

She was hunting.

And if Moz wanted to underestimate her? Even better. The makeshift ring was a simple rope circle on the deck, but the air inside it was tense and expectant. He spun his weapon lazily and grinned.

She didn’t dignify it with a response—just twirled her spear once in a clean, swift motion, her eyes narrowed, her posture set. The crew backed up. They knew how this would go. What she hadn’t expected, though, was the weight of another gaze.

Off to the side—half-shaded under a raised tarp and leaning with casual detachment—Senku watched. Those unmistakable red eyes locked on her. She felt it.

Even as Moz lunged, Kohaku's breath caught—not from the attack but from the heat of that stare.

She twisted, dodged cleanly, letting Moz’s spear pierce through air before redirecting it with a sharp swack of her own. Her body moved on instinct, but her mind flickered—Senku hadn’t looked away. Not once. Moz came at her again, heavier now, using his strength to force an opening. She blocked, ducked low, swept his leg—missed. He recovered, grinning, clearly enjoying himself.

But it wasn’t him she was thinking about.

Kohaku struck back—high, low, spinning her spear in a controlled blur. Moz grunted under the pressure, barely keeping up, but her rhythm faltered just slightly. Not from fatigue.

From him.

From the amused curve at the corner of Senku’s mouth. From the knowing smirk that said he was analyzing her form like an equation he already knew the answer to.

She gritted her teeth.

He was distracting.

And that irritated her more than Moz ever could.

Moz swung wide. She ducked, drove forward, and slammed the butt of her spear into his thigh, sending him stumbling to one knee.

Her spear was at his throat in a breath. “I fall last ,” she said through clenched teeth—though she wasn’t sure who she meant it for. The power team started to applaud as Moz awaited her hand to help him up. Kohaku chuckled snively, ignoring his plea, and left the arena. It would be Kinro vs Ginro next. 

“ Lioness .” 

She wiped at the bead of sweat rolling down her temple. “ Not a lioness .” Kohaku gripped the bamboo flask tightly, the cool liquid running down her throat as she hydrated in slow, measured sips. The salty breeze tugged gently at her hair, strands dancing as the ship creaked beneath her.

At the helm, Ryusui stood tall, gesturing grandly as Minami tried to catch a photo of him gripping the wheel like some legendary explorer. His laughter carried easily on the wind.

Kohaku leaned against the edge of the ship, resting her elbows on the railing. Her eyes lingered on the blonde navigator, gaze thoughtful—distant—as her mind wandered back to their exchange that morning.

The way he had spoken to her. The way he had seen her.

Beside her, Senku followed her line of sight. His smirk—the one he almost always wore like armor—slowly faded, replaced by a flat, unreadable line.

He said nothing.

But the air between them shifted.

Just slightly.

“ Senku? ”

“ Mm? ”

What is it to chase a dream you know will always slip through your fingers?

Could my heart, hardened by years of survival, ever truly surrender to something as fragile as love?

Did he see her as more than just a companion? Did he see the depth beneath the surface, the things she kept hidden?

Had the loyalty she offered ever become something deeper, something that could make the impossible real?

The questions swirled in her mind, but the answers stayed just out of reach—like the endless horizon before her, always near, yet never quite attainable.

“ Ten more days till America, huh..? ” 

 Senku’s gaze never wavered, his attention now solely on her. Yet Kohaku couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. There was something in the intensity of his stare, a tenderness woven through his usual scientific sharpness, that made her heart skip a beat. The way he took in every detail of her side profile, like he was memorizing it, felt... almost too personal.

His index finger twitched as if tempted to reach out, to run his hand through the strands of her hair, the ends swaying slightly with the breeze.

“ Thanks to that prowess of an eyesight; we have you to thank for that, Lioness. ”

Kohaku opened her mouth to correct him, but he was already speaking again.

“ I couldn’t be more happy. ”

Her breath caught. She blinked, and only then did she realize just how close he was. How vulnerable he seemed, standing there so near. The dark circles beneath his red eyes looked even more pronounced now, a stark contrast to his usual unshaken confidence. His hair, once perfectly straight and sharp, had started to lose its usual crispness. Some strands sagged, weighed down by fatigue, and she could see the subtle, unseen toll this journey had taken on him.

From afar, Senku had always been the brilliant, untouchable mind everyone relied on. But here, at the edge of the ship, with the wind pulling at them both, Kohaku saw something different.

She saw the weight of the voyage. The exhaustion. Not just in his body but in his spirit. Her cheeks redden at the closelessness but she wasn’t a fool to shy away from this once in a life time moment. An unspoken trade of vulnerability lay amongst them as she itched for him as well. There was a strange pull between them, one that neither spoke aloud but both felt. Kohaku’s heart beat just a little faster as she held his gaze, feeling something stir beneath the surface—something she hadn’t allowed herself to acknowledge before now.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the ship, knuckles pale, but her mind raced elsewhere. Why did it feel so hard to breathe when he was this close?

Senku didn’t move, still standing there, but his presence loomed like a tangible force, drawing her in. It was as if the distance between them was no longer just physical. He was close enough to touch, yet it felt as if there was an entire universe between their unspoken words.

She opened her mouth to say something—anything—but the words stuck. The quiet lapping of the waves against the hull filled the silence, the world outside of them moving without care. And still, neither of them spoke.

Her thoughts drifted to the battles they’d fought, to the way their lives had been woven together through survival. But it wasn’t just survival anymore, was it? There was something more, something hidden just beneath the surface.

His eyes softened for a moment, and she could have sworn she saw the slightest flicker of something behind those red orbs. Something... human. Something vulnerable.

But before she could give it any more thought, he broke the silence with a casual, almost teasing comment.

“ You really don’t make this easy, do you? ”

His voice was light, but the edge of something deeper lingered in his tone. She could feel it.

For a heartbeat, neither moved, the weight of everything unspoken hanging in the air. Kohaku’s breath caught once more. Maybe it was time to stop pretending she didn’t feel it, too.

Senku looked away first, his usual cool demeanor slipping back into place like a mask. He cleared his throat as though shaking off the moment.

“ Right then ,” he said, sounding almost relieved, “ I’ve got more important things to do than stand around staring. Don’t go getting distracted, Lioness .”

He walked away, but not without the faintest glance over his shoulder—his gaze lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

Kohaku remained still, her heart pounding in her chest, unsure whether to chase after him or to let the moment fade.

But for now, she stayed where she was, staring out at the sea. The wind tugged at her ponytail, and as the ship cut through the water, she couldn’t help but wonder—was that the beginning of something more, or was it just another fleeting moment lost to the endless horizon? 

From the far side of the deck, Ryusui watched the exchange between them with quiet intensity. His eyes shifted between Kohaku and Senku, reading the unspoken tension like a book. He said nothing, but his smirk tugged ever so slightly, the glint in his gaze suggesting he knew more than he let on.

Chapter Text

Lanterns swung restlessly along the common room walls, casting wavering light on a crew swaying in rhythm with the sea. Ryusui’s instincts were their compass through the storm. In a quiet corner, Senku sat with Chrome, observing as Taiju’s booming voice rolled through the space like thunder, weaving stories of the old world between shipmates. But Senku’s gaze always drifted to the empty spaces—the ones left behind by those who never cared whether they lived or drowned. The ones that wouldn’t question dying for the cause, for any of his orders. 

His fists clenched, this role was bit by bit hacking at himself. Senku barely touched the food in front of him. The stew was warm, and the room was filled with laughter and clattering spoons, but it all sounded distant—like he was listening through thick glass.

How many of them would I send straight into the jaws of danger again if it meant progress?

The thought came sharp and unwelcome but honest. That was the worst part—it was always honest.

He leaned back slightly, resting his head against the cool curve of the wooden wall. Lantern light flickered over the faces around him. They trusted him. They followed him. Sometimes, without question.

Is that leadership? Or just... convenience?

Senku had done the math more times than he could count. Risk vs reward. Probability of failure. Margin of sacrifice. No matter how many times he ran the equation, the answer always came back the same: the future demanded more than safety. It demanded courage. Action. Sometimes... loss.

If it came down to one life or the future of humanity, I’d still choose the future.
And that guilt, that sick twist in his gut—it never got easier.

He glanced sideways. Chrome was beside him, slurping loudly, somehow still smiling despite the pitch of the storm groaning just outside the hull. His hair was messier than usual—static from the rain and tension, probably—but his eyes were bright, sharp. Watching.

Chrome caught his glance and grinned. “ You’re thinking too much again. ”

Senku huffed. “ I think just the right amount .”

“ Yeah, yeah ,” Chrome waved his spoon. “ But you’re also acting like we’re all glass. We knew what we were signing up for when we stepped on this boat .”

Senku didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. Chrome leaned in, voice lower.

“ We’re not here because you ordered us. We’re here because we believe in the same thing you do. That future? We want it, too. And we’re not planning to die for it. ” He paused, then added with a crooked smile, “ At least, not all of us .”

Senku snorted under his breath. A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Yeah… maybe not all of us. Maybe this time, we’ll beat the odds.

The thought didn’t erase the weight on his shoulders, but it made it bearable—for now.

Outside, the world was nothing but wind, water, and willpower.

Tarps stretched over the aft deck snapped violently in the storm, straining at their ropes like wild animals. Rain hammered down in sheets, soaking everything not shielded, and even the tarp’s cover only muted the sting. Beneath it, Kohaku crouched low, her golden hair plastered to her face, fists clenched around the wet fabric of her cloak.

She wasn’t afraid of storms. Not the wind, not the waves. But she hated how the sky had swallowed the sun whole. She kept glancing upward, searching through the shredded gray for even the thinnest break—just a shard of light, a whisper of gold behind the clouds. It never came.

Beside her, Tsukasa sat unmoving, the storm slipping off him like it respected his stillness. His gaze was locked on the horizon, steady as the ship beneath them rocked and groaned. He, too, was looking for the sun. Not with his eyes—but with his presence. With that unspoken faith that it would return, even if they couldn’t see it yet.

“ Do you ever question it? ” Kohaku asked, her voice barely audible above the wind.

Tsukasa turned to her, patient.

“ Following him ,” she clarified. “ The risks he takes. The ones we choose to take with him. ”

A moment passed. Then, calmly: “ Yes. ”

Kohaku turned to face him fully, the rain streaking across her cheeks like tears that hadn’t asked permission. “ And you still follow? ”

“ Because even in storms like this ,” Tsukasa said, eyes still fixed on the endless dark, “ he’s the only one who never stops searching for the sun. Even when no one else can see it, he believes it’s there .”

Kohaku exhaled, slow and heavy. That familiar ache in her chest returned—not from fear, but from the stubborn, impossible hope that maybe… just maybe… they would make it through.

Under the snapping tarp, the two warriors sat in silence, side by side, eyes on the sky. And though no light broke through the clouds, their search never faltered.

Because if there was even a chance that dawn still waited beyond the storm—
They would be the ones to greet it. 

The storm didn’t slow, but Kohaku rose anyway, pushing the tarp aside as another gust slapped her full in the face. Tsukasa didn’t try to stop her—he simply met her gaze with a quiet nod. He knew her well enough by now. She couldn’t sit still in moments like this.

The deck was slick beneath her feet, wind clawing at her cloak and hair like wild hands. Rain blurred the world into shades of black and gray, but she moved forward with purpose, climbing the steps toward the helm with practiced balance.

There, she found him—Ryusui—hands locked around the wheel like it was part of his body, eyes narrowed against the spray. His coat flared behind him like a flag torn at the edges, and yet he stood tall, grinning through clenched teeth as the ship fought against the sea’s rage.

He didn’t look surprised to see her.

“ Came to enjoy the view? ” he shouted over the wind, his voice full of that same irreverent fire, even now.

Kohaku didn’t answer right away. She stepped beside him, bracing herself against the railing, and followed his gaze. There was nothing but darkness ahead, but his eyes were locked on it, like he knew where the sun was, even if no one else could see it.

“ You really think it’s still out there? ” she asked, voice low, barely carried by the wind.

Ryusui chuckled, deep and sure. “ Of course it is. We’re not steering toward a fantasy, Kohaku. The sun doesn’t disappear just because we can’t see it. It’s always there—same place it’s always been. And I’ll get us to it. ”

His grip tightened on the wheel as another wave slammed the hull. The ship groaned but didn’t falter.

Kohaku studied him for a moment—the soaked hair plastered to his face, the raw focus in his eyes, the relentless way he held his course despite the odds.

She didn’t say it aloud, but she felt it deep in her chest: They were all chasing the same light. Just in different ways.

And right now, Ryusui was the one guiding them toward it.

She stood by him in silence, letting the storm rage around them, and for the first time that night, the cold didn’t bite quite as hard.

Kohaku stepped up beside Ryusui, her hand braced against the slick railing as the ship shuddered beneath them. Rain lashed against her face, but he didn’t seem to notice. His grip on the wheel was firm, eyes narrowed against the storm, hair whipped wildly by the wind. And—of course—he was smiling.

“ You look like you're enjoying this, ” she said, not hiding the disbelief in her voice.

Without turning, Ryusui let out a short laugh. “ What’s not to enjoy? The sea’s alive, the wind’s singing, and I’m standing at the helm of the greatest ship this world has seen in thousands of years. This is the pinnacle of sailing .”

She raised an eyebrow, glancing at the black waves crashing around them. “ Most people would call this madness.”

“ Then it’s a good thing I’m not most people .”

He shifted the wheel slightly, gaze still locked on a horizon that didn’t exist. Just darkness and fury ahead, but something about the way he looked at it made it feel like he could see past all that—like he knew where they were going.

“ You really believe that by pure instinct we could just sail towards it? ” she asked.

“ I don’t believe ,” he said, voice quieter now, more focused. “ I know. The sun doesn’t vanish—it just hides. And I don’t need to see it to follow it. That’s the kind of sailor I am .”

Kohaku was silent for a moment, then asked, “ Even if it means sailing blind into danger? ”

His answer came without hesitation. “ Especially then. Anyone can steer when the skies are clear. But this? ” His smile returned, smaller this time, but no less sure. “ This is where it counts. This is when we prove we’re worthy of the future Senku’s chasing .”

She studied him as the wind howled around them. There was no false bravado in his voice—just conviction. And something else. Something heavier beneath the showmanship.

“You sound like someone who isn’t afraid to die .”

Ryusui’s expression shifted, his voice lowering. “ I’m afraid of something worse—failing this crew. Letting them down. Letting him down. ”

The ship rocked violently as a wave slammed the side, sending a spray of seawater across the deck. Kohaku didn’t flinch. She stepped closer to the wheel, her eyes fixed forward.

“ Then I’ll stand with you ,” she said, firm. “ Until the sun shows itself again. ”

Ryusui glanced her way, his smirk returning, this time softer—grateful. “Heh. Warrior and captain. No storm stands a chance .”

They didn’t need to say more. The wind would howl. The sea would thrash. But their course was set—and together, they would chase the light until it found them.

From behind them, a voice rose above the wind—flat, unimpressed, and unmistakably Senku’s.

“So we’re putting our lives in the hands of a guy chasing the concept of the sun now? Wow. Peak scientific methodology, Ryusui. Truly inspiring .”

Kohaku turned, finding him standing just below the helm, soaked through and squinting upward with that familiar half-scowl of his. The wind had plastered his hair to his forehead in wild angles, and his arms were crossed tight against his soaked coat.

Ryusui scoffed, not looking back. “ You're welcome, by the way, for keeping your floating science lab in one piece .”

“ And you’re welcome ,” Senku fired back, “for being the one who doesn’t navigate with poetic instinct and blind optimism.”

He started climbing the steps to the helm with deliberate steps, each one slick with rain and salt. When he reached Kohaku’s side, his voice dropped a little, though the sarcasm didn’t vanish.

“ Since we’re still alive—barely—I’m taking that as my cue. Kohaku, I need you below deck. Chrome’s prepping the radiant sodalite sample and can’t handle it solo. If we get even a fraction of light through the clouds by morning, we’ll need that mineral aligned and ready to channel. ”

Kohaku blinked, torn for a moment as the storm raged behind her. “ You’re sure? ”

Senku gave her a look—dry, knowing. “ I don’t ask you to do things I’m not sure about. We’re going to need that sodalite crystal if we want to harness anything remotely resembling focused light. And Chrome needs someone with actual coordination to keep it from cracking in half .”

Ryusui leaned slightly toward them, grinning. “ So much for standing together at the helm, huh? ”

Senku rolled his eyes. “ You’ve got a death wish, fine. I’ve got a science wish—and mine doesn’t involve dying dramatically in the rain. ”

Kohaku gave Ryusui a nod, firm but not cold. “ Try not to sail us into a wall of water while I’m gone.”

Ryusui raised a hand in mock salute. “ No promises. ”

And with that, Kohaku turned, cloak whipping behind her, and disappeared into the storm once more—toward the belly of the ship, where minerals glowed faintly in the dim lantern light and where the future waited to be shaped by hands steadier than fate.

Senku lingered at the helm for a moment after Kohaku disappeared below deck, arms crossed again as he watched her vanish into the rain.

Ryusui raised an eyebrow, glancing sideways. “ You going to stand there all night judging my sailing technique, or was that your version of concern? ”

Senku didn’t bite. His eyes were still fixed on the lower deck where Kohaku had gone. “ She never hesitates ,” he murmured.

That caught Ryusui off guard. His grin faltered slightly, curiosity flickering through the stormlight. “ You say that like it’s a bad thing .”

“ It’s not ,” Senku replied, tone even. “ It’s just… predictable. Reliable. ” He exhaled slowly, the wind pulling at his coat. “ Even when I send her straight into a storm, she doesn’t flinch. She trusts me more than I deserve. ”

Ryusui let that settle for a beat. “ You’re not used to that, huh .”

Senku shrugged. “ Trust is one thing. But she moves like she already knows the outcome. Like if she runs fast enough, she’ll make sure everything turns out okay. That’s not science. That’s something else entirely. ”

Ryusui kept one hand steady on the wheel, the ship groaning beneath them. “ She believes in people, not just plans. That’s her edge. And yours, whether you admit it or not. ”

Senku glanced at him, one eyebrow raised.

“ Look, ” Ryusui continued, more serious now, “ you build the future with math and minerals, and sure—your brain’s a miracle of evolution or whatever. But her? ” He nodded toward the stairwell. “ She builds it with her hands. Her gut. She moves people .”

A beat passed.

“ Even you .”

Senku looked away, jaw tight for half a second before replying. “ It’s inconvenient, ” he muttered.

Ryusui let out a quiet laugh. “ Yeah. That’s how you know it’s real .”

The two of them stood in silence then—only the wind speaking between them. And somewhere below, the ship’s heartbeat pulsed on: science, instinct, and trust, all moving forward through the storm.

By morning, the sea had grown quiet.

Not calm, not entirely—not yet. The waves still rolled with the weight of a night’s fury, but the wind had softened, no longer screaming through the sails. The rain had thinned to a fine mist, and in the low hush of dawn, the ship rocked with something almost like peace.

Below deck, the faint blue shimmer of sodalite pulsed softly in Chrome’s hands.

Kohaku stood beside him, shoulders stiff from hours of work, fingers lined with fine cuts from shaping the fragile mineral. But it was ready now—fixed into its wooden frame, angled just as Senku had instructed. She glanced toward the sliver of clouded sky visible through the hatch and waited.

Then—it happened.

A beam of gold, thin as a thread, pierced through the parting clouds. It struck the sodalite with perfect precision, scattering a burst of refracted light across the walls like a prism waking from sleep.

Kohaku blinked against it, stunned for a moment. It had been so long since she’d seen light that wasn’t gray or broken.

Chrome grinned beside her, wide-eyed. “ It’s working. Holy crap, Kohaku—we did it! ”

Up on deck, the cry spread fast. Not panic this time. Not orders. Just one word—“ Sun! ”—shouted from sailor to sailor as boots hit the wooden boards and hands pointed skyward.

Senku was already there, shielding his eyes as the golden light slowly broke across the deck. His expression was unreadable for a moment—then softened into something rare. Quiet. Almost... reverent.

Kohaku stepped up from below, blinking in the warmth, and caught his eye.

Senku didn’t speak, but he gave the faintest nod—the kind that said, Yeah. You did it.

And Kohaku, for once, didn’t reply. She just tilted her face toward the sky, watching the sun climb free from the storm.

It hadn’t abandoned them.

They’d chased it. Found it.

And now it was theirs again.

Kohaku found herself walking the upper deck alone again, though the silence wasn’t empty this time. It was full—thick with the aftermath of survival and the things no one had the breath left to say during the storm.

She’d meant to head below, to rest, to peel off the tarp-stiff cloak still clinging to her. But instead, she stopped by the port side, where sunlight shimmered off the soaked wood and the sea stretched endlessly, golden and unknowable.

She didn’t hear Senku come up behind her.

“ You look like someone who didn’t just save everyone’s asses .”

His voice was casual. Too casual. She didn’t turn around.

“ I didn’t do it alone .”

“ No, ” he agreed, stepping up beside her. “ You never do. That’s the problem .”

She blinked, finally facing him, eyes sharp. “ What’s that supposed to mean? ”

Senku didn’t meet her gaze right away. His attention was somewhere out past the edge of the world again. Always there, in that place beyond reach.

“ You throw yourself at danger like it’s personal ,” he said. “ Like it owes you something. Even when I don’t ask you to .”

“ You don’t have to ask ,” she replied. “ You never do .”

That made him pause.

The wind picked up, brushing wet strands of hair across her face. She didn’t bother pushing them back.

“ I follow your orders because I believe in them ,” she said. “ But I stand in front of the storm because you never will. ”

His eyes flicked toward her at that. Quietly. Sharply.

“ That’s not bravery ,” he said. “ That’s recklessness .”

“ Maybe .” She leaned on the railing beside him, letting her shoulder just barely graze his. “ But it keeps you alive .”

Senku didn’t respond for a long moment. Then, without looking at her:

“ I hate it .”

That caught her breath.

“I hate that I need you to do it, ” he added. “I hate that if I asked you not to, you’d still go. And I hate that a part of me would let you .”

Kohaku’s throat tightened. She turned her head, close enough now to see the shadows beneath his eyes, the weight he always carried but never admitted to.

“ You don’t control us, Senku, ” she said, softer now. “ That’s why we follow you. ”

Something flickered in his expression—tired. Grateful. Scared, maybe. Just a little.

And then he said, almost like it hurt: “ If you’d been lost in that storm… I don’t know if I would’ve kept going.”

Kohaku swallowed hard. Her heart betrayed her—stepping forward before her body ever did.

“ But you would’ve, ” she whispered.

He met her gaze. This time, he didn’t look away.

“ Yeah ,” he said quietly. “ I would’ve .”

Their eyes locked in the open air, sun breaking through salt and silence. She didn’t say anything else. Neither did he.

Because both of them already knew—if they ever crossed that line between them, there’d be no going back.

And right now, the world still needed them exactly where they were.

Just... not too far.

Not too close.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

Kohaku was starting to feel differently about the sun.

It beat down on her like a second opponent—blinding, relentless. Sweat traced along her jaw and down the line of her neck, soaking into the fabric of her dress and leaving a dark bloom across her chest. Her katana felt heavier than usual, not from fatigue, but from the tension coiling in her shoulders.

Hyoga’s spear was already in motion again.

She barely had time to adjust her stance before the kudayari swept low, forcing her to leap back with a sharp breath. The tip passed inches from her legs—too close. She grit her teeth, adjusting her grip and trying to ignore the way the light caught off the polished spearhead, throwing off her vision.

He never came at her head-on. Always off-center. Always patient. As if waiting for her to make the mistake.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

She came at him hard, slicing downward in a swift arc meant to throw him off balance, but he twisted—effortless, fluid. His cloak flared behind him as he shifted, the long, sleeveless length of it brushing the deck. No shirt, only scars and shadows and the steady rise of his chest.

“ Too wide ,” he said calmly, parrying with one hand and redirecting her blade with the shaft of his spear. “ You’re letting the heat distract you. ”

Kohaku landed with a grunt, spinning out of reach.

“ I’m not distracted .”

He tilted his head slightly, like a falcon studying a wounded hare. “ Then you're losing your edge. ”

That stung more than it should have.

Kohaku lunged again.

Steel rang.

Wood splintered slightly beneath them.

But it wasn’t just the sun or the heat or even Hyoga’s maddening stillness that weighed on her—it was the memory of Senku’s voice, the echo of words that hadn’t left her since the storm.

“If you’d been lost… I don’t know if I would’ve kept going.”

She shook it off, barely ducking another strike.

Focus. She had to focus.

But Hyoga was circling again, always in control. Always watching.

And damn it—she hated how much that made her want to win. The clash of steel against reinforced wood sent a shiver through her arms. Kohaku twisted, narrowly avoiding the upward thrust of Hyoga’s kudayari. The edge of the spear kissed the fabric at her side, slicing a clean line through it without touching skin.

She didn’t flinch. But she felt the cool air rush in, brushing across damp skin like a whisper.

Hyoga’s expression didn’t change. Calm, unreadable. That only made it worse.

She spun low, trying to take his legs out from under him, but he jumped— just high enough that her blade missed—and came down with a pivot that left his cloak trailing against her arm, the faint drag of it surprisingly cold against her overheated skin.

“ Still wide ,” he murmured, voice low, breath steady.

Kohaku’s eyes burned with focus. “ Still standing .”

They circled again.

The sun above them was merciless, forcing both of them into a sheen of sweat, their skin glinting with it—his chest rising and falling beneath a mess of old scars, her arms taut with motion. Strands of damp hair stuck to her cheeks. The fabric of her dress pulled with every movement, plastered to her frame in ways she didn’t care for—not now, not like this.

She went in for another strike, and this time, he caught it. Not with his spear—but with his hand.

Gloved fingers closed around her wrist. Firm. Unyielding.

Time stilled, just a moment.

Their breath mingled, heat between them not entirely from the sun. His grip was strong, but not painful. Her blade hovered inches from his throat, his spear tucked behind her back, too far to reach before she moved first.

They stood in deadlock. Neither yielding.

“ You’ve improved ,” Hyoga said, quiet. “ But your body betrays you .”

She didn’t pull back. “ So does yours .”

A twitch of something passed through his eyes—interest, maybe. Or challenge.

Kohaku leaned in just enough to drive the point home. “ If you’re going to lecture me, Hyoga, at least do it after I beat you .”

Then she twisted out of his grip with sudden force, yanking her wrist free and ducking low beneath his arm, the wind of her movement stirring his cloak behind her. She didn’t glance back, but she heard him shift. Reset.

Still composed. Still watching.

But not untouched.

Not anymore. 

The clash had slowed. Kohaku’s grip was firm, her stance solid, but her eyes… not where they should be.

She saw the flick of white across the deck—Senku, stepping into sunlight with Chrome on his heels, juice flask in hand, pencil tucked carelessly behind his ear. The curve of his grin as he leaned against Francois’ counter, sleeves rolled, collar loose. The rare moment of ease in him—unguarded, just a man among friends.

It threw her.

A misstep. A breath too shallow.

And then—

The shaft of Hyoga’s kudayari struck her collarbone—not hard enough to bruise, but sharp. Sudden. A reminder.

“ Focus ,” he said flatly.

Kohaku blinked, her body tensing.

“ I was —”

“ No ,” Hyoga cut in. “ You weren’t .”

He lowered his spear with practiced precision, not a single movement wasted. The tip kissed the deck with a quiet thud.

“ This is a waste of time. ”

Kohaku narrowed her eyes, bristling. “ Excuse me? ”

“ If you can’t commit your mind to the fight, there’s no point continuing, ” he said. “ I don’t spar with half-measures .”

There was no malice in his tone. No insult. Just fact.

She stepped forward, breath quickening, fists clenched—but Hyoga had already turned away. Dismissed her.

“ To fight distracted is to die distracted ,” he added over his shoulder. “ I thought you knew that. ”

It landed heavier than it should have.

Kohaku stood still, heat rising—not from the sun now, but from something more volatile. Shame, maybe. Or fury. Or both.

Her fingers itched for the hilt of her blade. But she didn’t move.

And across the deck, Senku was laughing at something Chrome said, hand waving animatedly mid-sentence, his drink still untouched beside him. Kohaku stood there for a long moment, her chest rising and falling too fast. The heat of the sun felt oppressive now—like it was smothering her thoughts. Her sword, still clutched tightly in her hand, seemed heavier than it should have.

She wanted to say something, to snap back at Hyoga, but the words got lost in the frustration building up her throat. He didn’t care. He never cared. He only valued discipline, and she knew that.

But it didn’t make it sting less.

Her muscles burned from the fight, but it wasn’t the exhaustion that made her want to step forward again—it was the sheer will to prove him wrong. To show him she wasn’t distracted. That she could focus. That she wasn’t weak.

But her gaze flickered back across the deck, instinctively.

Senku was still there, laughing at something Chrome had said. His hands were gesturing wildly, that unmistakable spark in his eyes as he moved through their conversation. The same Senku she had fought beside for so long. The one who pulled her into the storm, who never asked for anything in return but gave —constantly, tirelessly, everything of himself.

And for that brief, vulnerable second—Kohaku couldn’t help it.

She was distracted again.

Her knuckles whitened on the hilt of her blade, but she turned her back to them both.

There was nothing for it. She had to walk away. To shake it off.

On the other side of the deck, Senku didn’t notice the subtle shift in Kohaku’s posture as she stepped away from the sparring ring. He was too busy lecturing Chrome on the exact chemical composition of the juice he was drinking and why it was superior to any “messy fermentation process” that the rest of the crew had tried to experiment with.

“ …so, all in all, not a bad idea, Chrome. But if you’re looking for a real ‘kick,’ we should look into the amino acids from —”

His eyes flicked briefly toward Kohaku as she moved off, a quiet tension in the way her shoulders were set, but he didn’t linger on it. He raised the flask to his lips, sipping the cold juice, then set it back down on the crate.

The moment passed. He turned back to Chrome, continuing his rant about the molecular structure of food preservatives. He had bigger things on his mind. Like, if he could figure out how to synthesize a better refrigerator for the ship.

But somewhere beneath his casual exterior, a small part of him—something he wouldn’t admit out loud—noticed. Kohaku’s distraction, the tension in her stance, the way her eyes had flickered toward him before she walked off.

She’s not herself, Senku thought again, his fingers idly tapping on the edge of his flask. His mind raced as he tried to analyze it, but he kept coming back to that one nagging feeling. He didn’t know what was going on with her, but he knew something had shifted.

Focus, he told himself, shaking his head. He didn’t need distractions now.

But before he could lose himself in his thoughts, Moz’s voice broke through.

“ Hey, Senku, mind if I steal you for a drink? ” Moz’s laid-back grin flashed, his posture a relaxed contrast to Senku’s calculated presence. He slid into the seat next to Senku, but his eyes didn’t follow Senku’s gaze—no, they were locked on Kohaku, standing at the edge of the ship, her back straight and her hands gripping the railing.

Senku’s eyes flicked toward her, but he quickly turned his attention back to Moz. He was already irritated, but Moz was relentless.

“ You know, ” Moz said, taking a slow sip from his flask, “ I think I’m starting to get why you always look so tense. It’s not the science, is it? It’s her, right? ”

Senku stiffened, his fingers tightening around his flask, but he didn’t let it show. He kept his voice steady. “ What are you talking about? ”

Moz let out a small chuckle, his eyes still fixed on Kohaku as if she were the only thing in the room. “ Oh, you know exactly what I’m talking about. ” He leaned back in his seat and took another long sip, his smirk widening. “ Kohaku. She's got that fire in her, doesn’t she? You see it too, don’t you? ”

Senku’s chest tightened, but he forced himself to stay composed. He knew better than to show weakness. “ You're imagining things, ” he muttered, though his voice wasn’t as confident as he wanted it to be.

Moz didn’t look away from Kohaku. He didn’t even seem to notice Senku’s discomfort. “ Nah. I’m not imagining anything. ” His tone was light, but there was a glimmer in his eyes that made Senku feel unsettled. “ It’s clear as day, man. The way she stands there, so strong... so aware. But I bet you already know that, huh? You've been up close to that fire for a while now. ”

Senku clenched his jaw, his patience wearing thin. “ Stop talking like you know her, ” he snapped, his tone sharper than he intended.

Moz finally tore his eyes away from Kohaku, locking eyes with Senku for the first time. The teasing glint in his gaze didn’t fade. “ Oh, I know enough. ” His smirk was mischievous, sly. “She’s a force. You’ve seen it, right? And I’m not talking about her strength. I’m talking about how she looks at you sometimes. It’s almost like she wants to— but you already know that. ” He let the words hang in the air, his grin growing wider as he took another drink.

Senku’s heart skipped a beat, but he refused to let it show. “ You’re wrong, ” he muttered, a little too quickly.

Moz leaned forward, his voice dropping in a low, almost conspiratorial tone. “ I’m not wrong, Senku. And hey, don’t take it personally. I mean, I could probably convince her to— ” He paused, watching Senku’s expression carefully. “ —pay me some attention if I wanted to. It wouldn’t be hard. She’s a lot more open than you think. ”

Senku’s stomach tightened. He wanted to snap back, wanted to tell Moz to get lost, but instead, he just sat there, grinding his teeth together. “ You’re full of shit, ” he muttered, trying to force the words out with more authority.

Moz’s grin widened, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “ Maybe. Maybe not. ” He leaned back in his seat again, looking at Senku as if he’d already won. “ I’m just saying, though... don’t take too long to make up your mind. Or someone else might. ” He gave a mock shrug, as if it was no big deal, but the implication lingered heavy in the air.

Senku stood up abruptly, his body rigid with frustration. “ Enough. This conversation is over, ” he muttered, his voice colder than before.

Moz didn’t seem phased. He just took another leisurely swig from his flask, eyes still flicking toward Kohaku. “ Sure thing, Senku. ” His voice was light, but his smile never wavered. “ I’m just saying... you might want to pay a little more attention to what's right in front of you. ”

Senku turned his back, walking away from the bar before Moz could say anything else, but the words stayed with him, clinging to him like a shadow. He could still feel Moz’s eyes on him, but more than that—he could still feel the tension between him and Kohaku, even if neither of them had said a word.

Maybe Moz was right, Senku thought for just a moment, but then he shook it off.

There was no time for distractions. Not now. Not ever.

Senku stared at the snapped pencil in his hand. The crack hadn’t been loud, but the silence that followed felt deafening. Moz’s words echoed in the back of his skull like a faulty gear grinding in a machine—grating, unnecessary, and impossible to ignore.

“I wonder if she’d notice me the way she notices you.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. The pencil tip rolled off the table. He didn’t bother retrieving it.

Instead, he pulled another from the roll tucked into the folds of his belt and bent back over the crude schematics splayed across the wood counter. The rudder wasn’t working the way it should—too much drift, too much tension in the rope-pulley rig, and the new composite wood they'd used was warping in the salt air.

He sketched another angle bracket, labeling it with fast shorthand. Reinforce axis → braided fiber tension line → shift torque load to stern crossbeam.

Easy.

Logical.

Predictable.

Not like whatever the hell was happening twenty paces away.

Senku’s fingers moved automatically as he measured out proportions on a hand-cut ruler, drawing arcs and weight distributions. He should have been thinking about force load and angular resistance.

Instead, he was thinking about the way Kohaku had smiled—barely, subtly—when Moz got in close. Not the kind of smile she gave to friends. Not even the kind she gave to him when she thought he wasn’t looking.

It wasn’t affection.

It was challenge.

And that somehow made it worse.

A breeze kicked up, flapping one of the blueprint sheets over. Senku caught it with his elbow before it could fly off, muttering under his breath. “Damn unstable crosswinds…”

He meant the weather.

Probably.

“ Need help with that? ” Chrome asked, approaching with a gearwheel in hand, oblivious to the storm Senku was holding inside.

“ No, ” Senku replied, voice clipped. “ Just trying to prevent the ship from drifting off course next time we steer south. The rudder assembly keeps overcompensating —”

Chrome leaned over to peek at the plans. “ Ah, that’s what that squiggly bit is. Looks like you’re trying to solve all the ship’s problems solo again. ”

Senku shrugged. “ Better than letting someone else screw it up .”

Chrome snorted. “ You sure that’s all you’re focused on? ‘Cause you haven’t redrawn this same corner four times in a row since we were trying to make a steam engine out of plumbing parts .”

Senku didn’t answer.

Instead, he scrawled a note beside a curve on the page:
→ Reduce reactive tension during crosswind pressure shifts.

He tapped his pencil once. Twice.

Then sighed.

“... You ever feel like your own brain’s trying to run two separate programs at once? ”

Chrome blinked. “ Uh… I mean, all the time? Why? ”

“No reason.” Senku waved it off like it was nothing. “ Just running background equations .”

But he wasn’t.

He was trying to figure out why Moz’s words had landed like shrapnel.
Why the sight of Kohaku sparring—of her flushed cheeks, shining with effort, her hair wild and sweat-slicked—had burned itself into his brain.
Why he couldn’t focus for more than ten seconds without hearing her voice echoing from memory. “But it keeps you alive.”

Senku pressed his palm to the blueprint, grounding himself.

Focus.

He was a scientist. He had one job: bring back civilization. Keep them alive. Solve the problems. Make the future.

He didn’t have time for tangled emotions or petty rivalries or watching someone else circle around her like she was just another challenge to conquer.

Even if that someone kept looking like he was one step away from trying.

Even if Senku felt one step away from stopping him.

He picked up his pencil again.

And kept drawing.

But this time, the lines weren’t quite as steady.

The sound of clashing metal rang through the ship’s deck, a rhythm that had become all too familiar. Kohaku’s katana sliced through the air, aiming for Moz’s chest with a deadly precision. He sidestepped effortlessly, just a step too quick, his grin never faltering. He was enjoying this—too much, Senku thought. Too damn much.

From above deck, Senku watched, trying to focus on the rudder design sprawled in front of him. Chrome sat beside him, busy with his own scribbled ideas, but Senku was far from present in the moment. His eyes drifted below, tracking every movement of the fight.

Kohaku was fast—she always had been. But Moz… Moz moved like a predator, always a step ahead. His shirtless body glistened in the sunlight, the stone pauldrons on his shoulders gleaming with each evasive maneuver. His every movement seemed calculated, more like a display than a sparring session.

She’s too good for him, Senku thought, trying to convince himself. But every time Moz ducked or dodged her strike with ease, Senku’s heart skipped. Every time Moz sidled up just a little closer to her, Senku’s pulse raced.

Kohaku was relentless. She wouldn’t stop until she had him pinned. But Moz? He wasn’t trying to win; he was playing a game.

“ Your strikes are predictable ,” Moz taunted, his voice low but cutting. “ You need more finesse, Kohaku. It’s not about brute force—it’s about control. ” His eyes never left her, studying her movements like a predator. “ Here, let me show you .”

In a swift motion, he lunged, but instead of evading, he grabbed her wrist mid-swing, stopping her strike in its tracks. Kohaku grunted, her muscles straining, trying to break free from his grip. The tension between them thickened, the air charged with something electric.

Senku’s eyes darted back to the blueprint, but his mind was miles away. Focus, he told himself. The rudder. The engine. The future. Just focus.

Moz’s grip on Kohaku’s wrist tightened as he pulled her closer. “ I’m just showing you how to really control the fight ,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. His other hand pressed gently against the small of her back, guiding her into a close, intimate hold that sent a spike of irritation through Senku.

Senku’s grip on his pencil tightened so much it nearly snapped. What the hell is he doing? he thought.

Kohaku, however, wasn’t having any of it. She twisted her body and used his own momentum against him, her knee driving into his midsection with enough force to push him back. Moz staggered but quickly regained his stance, a mocking laugh escaping his lips.

" Impressive ," he said, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. “But if you’d just loosen up a little...”

Senku’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t take it anymore. Not with Moz’s hand lingering where it shouldn’t be, not with Kohaku giving him the opening he wanted. He watched as Moz’s eyes shifted lower, his hand resting just a little too close to her waist again.

“ Enough ,” Senku muttered under his breath, his irritation flaring. Focus on the rudder. You’re better than this. She’s strong enough to handle him.

But even though he kept telling himself that, he couldn’t look away. His attention kept drifting back to the sparring match below. Kohaku was fuming now, her eyes narrowed in frustration. Moz was toying with her, moving just out of reach, forcing her to overextend.

“ Come on, Kohaku ,” Moz goaded, his grin widening. “ Show me what you’ve got .”

Kohaku’s eyes flared with determination. Her blade sliced through the air again, faster this time, with more power behind it. Moz blocked with his kudayari spear, but the force of her blow made him stagger slightly, a grin still playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Not bad, ” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “ But let’s see if you can really land a hit. "

Kohaku’s gaze hardened. “I don’t need to land a hit to make you regret it,” she said through gritted teeth.

Senku’s heart skipped as the two clashed again, their weapons ringing with the impact. Moz’s hands were now a little too familiar on her body, just a touch too close to her sides as they danced around each other. Every move seemed calculated to get under Senku’s skin, and every time Moz brushed against her, Senku felt it like a jab straight to the chest.

And then, it happened.

Moz moved too quickly—he lunged forward, catching Kohaku off guard with an unexpected feint. His arm shot out, fingers brushing across her side, just below her ribcage, a bold and intimate touch that sent a jolt through her. For a brief moment, Kohaku faltered, throwing her off balance.

Senku’s breath hitched.

But Kohaku wasn’t done. She recovered with lightning speed, spinning around to land a sharp kick to Moz’s side that sent him stumbling back. She stepped back, breathing heavily, but her eyes were fierce. “ Don’t think you can throw me off that easily, Moz. ”

Moz smirked, wiping his lip where he’d bitten it during the impact. “I’m just getting started.”

Senku had reached his limit. He wanted to scream, to throw himself down there and pull Moz off of her. He could feel his heart racing, his hands shaking. But he couldn’t do that. Not now. He had to keep working . He had to keep building the future . His job was to stay composed, to be the pillar that everyone else leaned on.

Even if it felt like he was about to snap in half.

Kohaku’s breath came in heavy pants, but she didn’t break eye contact with Moz. She stood her ground, the flicker of determination in her gaze never wavering. Every muscle in her body was ready to spring, to fight again, but she knew she had to wait. Moz’s grin was still wide, that smug, cocky attitude not faltering, despite the fact that he had just taken a solid blow from her.

Senku could hardly concentrate on his blueprint anymore. His mind was on the deck below. His eyes tracked the movements of the fighters, the way their bodies twisted and turned, the way Moz’s hand kept drifting . It was too much. The pencil he held in his hand snapped in half as his grip tightened around it, his focus broken.

Chrome looked up at Senku, brow furrowing at his sudden tension. “ You okay there, Senku? ”

Senku snapped back, shaking his head, trying to gather himself. “ Yeah, just… working. ” His words were forced, his tone far too tight.

“Right… ” Chrome eyed him with suspicion, but let it go, turning back to his work.

Meanwhile, the battle below had reached a fever pitch. Moz was relentless now, fully pushing Kohaku to her limits. The smugness was gone, replaced by something more serious, even more dangerous. He wanted to see just how far she would go, just how much she could take before she snapped.

He lunged again, this time with a speed that had Kohaku on the defensive, her movements slower now, her arms starting to feel heavy from the continued exertion. Moz’s spear came dangerously close to her side, but she twisted out of the way just in time, the tip of the weapon grazing her arm in a near miss. She winced, but the pain only seemed to fuel her.

“ That’s it, Kohaku. Show me more ,” Moz urged, his voice low and husky as he circled her. He was enjoying this—too much. Every move she made, every second of her struggle was like a challenge to him, and he wasn’t about to let up.

Senku’s eyes flicked to the side. It was like the world had slowed down, just for a moment. He was aware of everything—every footstep on the deck, every breath from Chrome, every shift in Kohaku’s stance. But it was the way Moz’s fingers hovered over her side again, grazing her arm as he pressed forward, that sent a sharp twist through Senku’s chest.

Kohaku was strong . She was capable . She didn’t need anyone to defend her, least of all someone like Moz, who was making a game out of her pain. Senku’s mind raced, but he stayed rooted to his spot. He was needed here. He had to finish the rudder design. But every time Moz laid a hand on her, he felt his restraint cracking.

“ Can’t keep up? ” Moz teased, his words dripping with mock sympathy. “ Don’t worry, Kohaku. You’ll get there. You just have to loosen up a bit .” He took another step forward, his fingers brushing over her side again, this time deliberately slow, his touch lingering.

That was it.

Kohaku spun on her heel, her katana aimed straight at his chest, a vicious counterstrike meant to end the duel right there. Moz’s eyes went wide as he stepped back just in time, but not without a grin—he liked this.

“ That’s the Kohaku I remember ,” he said, panting slightly, his voice lower now, as if genuinely impressed. “ But you’re not finished yet, are you? ”

Kohaku’s chest heaved, but she held her stance, unwavering. “ I’m not done until you stop touching me like I’m a damn challenge for you to win, Moz. ”

Senku could feel the heat rising in his chest, the frustration building. He wasn’t the type to act on emotion, not like this. Not now. His job wasn’t to get in the middle of Kohaku’s fight. It wasn’t his place to stop Moz.

But God, it was so damn hard.

He turned back to the blueprint in front of him, trying to concentrate. He scribbled something, but it was messy—his mind was elsewhere. Every line he drew felt off-center. Every idea he had seemed to falter the moment he thought about what was going on below.

Moz wasn’t backing off. And worse, Kohaku wasn’t either. She was too proud, too stubborn to admit defeat, and maybe that’s what Moz knew all along. She wouldn’t stop until she won.

Senku clenched his jaw. It wasn’t just about the fight anymore. It wasn’t about her winning or losing. It was about her .

He couldn’t let Moz get any closer.

“ Enough, ” Senku muttered under his breath, but his voice was too quiet, too soft. He wasn’t sure anyone heard him. Moz, mid-movement, dodged Kohaku’s strike. His eyes flicked up, catching Senku’s gaze across the deck.

It was an electric moment—a wordless exchange that thrummed through the air. Moz didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The intensity in his stare said it all. It was as though he was daring Senku to move, to react. To do something .

Senku’s breath caught, and for a split second, he almost forgot to breathe. His pencil felt heavier in his hand, his grip tightening involuntarily. That smirk on Moz’s face, the one that always seemed to mock him, now felt like a silent challenge—a provocation Senku wasn’t sure he wanted to acknowledge.

But he stayed put. He had to.

Moz, still holding that look, turned back to Kohaku, not breaking the contact, as if Senku were just another part of the scenery. Kohaku, on the other hand, remained unfazed, her focus locked solely on her opponent.

Moz’s words, low but clear, broke the tension. “Alright. Let’s wrap it up. But you’re not done yet.” His tone was all teasing confidence, aimed at Kohaku, but the underlying message—clear to Senku—was one of control. He was enjoying this. And he knew Senku was watching.

Kohaku’s eyes flashed. “I’ll finish this my way.”

She lunged forward again, faster, more precise. Moz shifted effortlessly to match her, his earlier cocky grin fading just slightly, replaced with a concentration that was only made more intense by the proximity of her movements.

But Senku didn’t look away. His attention was divided, torn between his work and the battle unfolding below him. Every instinct told him to get down there, to step between them, to tell Moz to back off. But he didn’t.

He stayed seated. Pencil in hand. His focus, however, was anything but steady.

Moz might not have spoken to him, but that eye contact—it had cut deep, unraveling him in a way that made his blood run colder than the drink he hadn’t touched.

Senku wasn’t sure what Moz wanted from him. But he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing him break.

Not yet.

The battle had reached its peak. Kohaku’s movements were faster, sharper now, her body moving with the precision of someone who had spent a lifetime honing her skills. Moz, though skilled, had begun to falter—just a bit. His smirk had faded, replaced by a sharp intensity as he tried to keep up with her relentless pace.

And then it happened.

In the blink of an eye, Kohaku feigned left, twisting her body to the right with lightning speed. Moz reacted too late, and with a swift motion, she swept his feet from beneath him, sending him crashing to the deck with a thud. 

Kohaku stood over him, her katana at the ready but lowered in a gesture of victory. She wasn’t gloating; her expression was one of determination, tinged with the quiet satisfaction of a fight well fought.

Moz lay there for a moment, panting, the wind knocked out of him. His eyes, though, never left Kohaku.

The audience held their breath for a beat, then exploded into cheers.

Ginro’s voice rang out above the rest. “ I knew she would win! Totally called it! ”

Senku’s eyes, though still focused on his blueprint, darted briefly toward the scene. The cheer was like a wave crashing against the ship’s deck, but it did little to calm the uneasy tension simmering in his chest.

Hyoga, who had been watching the match closely from the sidelines, stepped forward, his arms folded across his chest. His sharp gaze flicked from Kohaku to Moz, and then back again, before he made his judgment.

“ Kohaku ,” he said, his voice cutting through the noise, “ you win .”

There was no hesitation in his voice, but if one listened closely, the faintest note of something deeper seemed to underlie his words. He’d seen it too—Moz had let her win. The fight wasn’t over, not really. But the moment Kohaku had the upper hand, Moz had chosen to yield. Whether it was out of respect or something else, Hyoga didn't know. But it was clear to him.

Moz didn’t respond immediately. He simply stood, brushing himself off, and gave Kohaku a respectful nod. There was no shame in it, just a quiet acknowledgment of the fight’s end.

The crew continued to cheer, some clapping, others shouting her name, while Ginro continued his enthusiastic commentary. “ She did it! I always knew she was the best! ”

Kohaku, still catching her breath, allowed herself a small, victorious smile. She turned back to the crew and raised her fist, her victory solidified in the cheers and admiration of everyone around her.

The crowd slowly quieted, the energy of the moment starting to settle. Senku, finally taking his eyes off the blueprint, allowed himself the briefest of glances toward her—Kohaku, victorious, standing tall as ever.

For a moment, he almost wished he could join the others in their celebration, but his job wasn’t done. He had one mission. Build the future.

Even if the future felt a little more complicated now.

The night was settling in, the air crisp and cool as the crew gathered below deck for a well-deserved meal. The common room hummed with laughter, the clinking of utensils, and the satisfying murmur of full bellies. But Kohaku, though she sat among them, couldn’t quite focus on the conversation.

Her eyes kept drifting to the empty seat across from her—Senku’s usual spot. He wasn’t there. It wasn’t unusual for him to get lost in his work, but tonight… tonight it felt different. The absence of his presence, that familiar sharp energy, made her feel oddly off-kilter.

She ate in silence, but her mind was elsewhere. She couldn’t shake the worry that had crept into her thoughts. What was he doing up there? What was so important that he couldn’t take a break, even with the crew enjoying some peace?

Pushing her plate aside, Kohaku stood up without a word and quietly made her way to the deck. The ship creaked and swayed in the gentle night air, the ocean’s waves lapping against the wood as she ascended to the upper deck.

There, she found him. Senku stood alone at the edge of the ship, his back to her, lost in the sea of blueprints scattered across the table before him. The moonlight bathed him in a soft glow, casting long shadows beneath his sharp features. He didn’t notice her approach at first, and for a moment, Kohaku just watched him from behind.

The sight of him standing there, so absorbed in his work, a flicker of exhaustion hidden beneath his usual determination, made her heart ache in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

“ Senku?” Her voice was soft, tentative, like a whisper against the vastness of the ocean.

At her voice, Senku’s shoulders tensed slightly. It wasn’t a surprise—he could likely sense her even before she spoke. But it wasn’t until she was right beside him that he finally turned his head, his gaze locking with hers.

He gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod. “ Finished eating?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual, as though he’d just woken from a deep thought.

Kohaku’s heart sank. She knew he’d been working himself too hard, as always. She tried to hide the concern on her face, but it was hard to mask it. “ Yeah ,” she said, her voice softer than before. “ But I noticed you weren’t there. Everyone’s worried about you, Senku .”

He didn’t reply at first, his eyes flicking back to the blueprints before him, his brow furrowed in concentration. Kohaku could see the weight of the world hanging on his shoulders. She could feel it too. That constant tension in him, the burden he never asked anyone to share, but somehow, she could sense it just by standing beside him.

She didn’t say anything for a moment, just standing there. And then, without thinking, her hand reached out, touching his shoulder gently. It was a light touch, almost hesitant, but it was enough to draw his attention.

Senku didn’t flinch this time, but he did look at her, his expression unreadable. There was something in his eyes, something hidden behind the mask of indifference he always wore. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he looked at her hand on his shoulder and then back at her face.

Kohaku’s breath caught in her throat as she held his gaze, and for a moment, the world felt like it had paused around them. The ship creaked in the distance, the waves continued to crash, but everything else seemed to fade away.

“ Senku… ” Her voice was quieter now, barely above a whisper, but the intensity of her words was unmistakable. “ You’re not alone. You don’t have to carry everything by yourself. ”

He didn’t respond right away, his eyes never leaving hers. The weight of his silence pressed on her chest, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was familiar—his quiet way of processing things. After a long moment, he finally exhaled, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

“ I know ,” he said, his voice barely above a murmur. “ But I can’t stop now, Kohaku. There’s too much left to do. I can’t let anyone else down .”

She didn’t know what compelled her to do it, but she took a step closer to him, her body aligning with his as she stood just slightly beside him. Her fingers lingered on his shoulder, an anchor in a sea of uncertainty.

“ You won’t let anyone down, Senku. You’ve already done so much .” Her thumb traced the fabric of his coat, a subtle, comforting gesture. “ You don’t have to carry it all alone. ”

There was a long pause, the air thick with unspoken words. And then, almost imperceptibly, Senku leaned into her touch, just a little. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to send a surge of warmth through her chest.

The stillness between them felt like everything, like a secret only they shared. It was quiet, too quiet, and the intimacy of it sent Kohaku’s heart racing in her chest.

Suddenly, her breath caught as something massive appeared on the horizon—a towering shape against the darkness of the night. Kohaku’s heart leaped into her throat, and she instinctively pulled back, her eyes wide with sudden fear.

“What is that? ” she asked, voice laced with panic, her fingers retracting from his shoulder.

Senku’s eyes flicked up, scanning the distance, and then, to her surprise, a soft laugh escaped him. “ It’s just an iceberg ,” he said, his voice gentle but amused. “Nothing to worry about. We’re far from it .”

But Kohaku’s heart still pounded in her chest as she stared at the massive silhouette. She tried to calm herself, but the size of it was staggering. She felt foolish for reacting so strongly, but in that moment, she couldn’t help it.

Before she could say anything else, someone from below deck called out urgently, “ Everyone, get up here! You’ve got to see this! ”

The sudden movement of the crew rushing toward the deck startled Kohaku. As the ship’s crew poured out of the doors, Kohaku found herself pressed closer to Senku, the crowd jostling around them. She instinctively took a step back, but there was no room. She found herself flush against his side, her hand brushing against his arm.

For a moment, it was just the two of them again. In the midst of the chaos, there was a quiet space between them, filled with that unspoken tension that neither could acknowledge, but both felt so deeply.

All she could focus on was Senku—his presence beside her, his warmth against the chill of the night. She didn’t know how long the moment would last, but for now, it was enough.

As the crew crowded around them, pushing to get a better view of the iceberg, Kohaku stayed close to Senku, her side pressed against his. It wasn’t much, but in the crowded chaos, it felt like the most intimate thing in the world.

And for just a moment, it was only them. Only her and Senku, sharing the night and the weight of the world together.

Chapter Text

The blows came slow.

Not in speed, but in cadence— measured , like the sea before a squall. Kohaku stood just beyond the circle drawn into the ship’s weathered deck, arms folded, gaze narrowed. Tsukasa and Matsukaze moved through their spar like dancers caught in some ancient rhythm, bare feet shifting with a predator’s grace. One strike met another with a flat clap of skin on wood. Neither flinched.

This wasn’t a fight. This was a lesson. And Kohaku was the only one studying.

They did not speak. No need. Their bodies conversed in silence—every faint twitch of the shoulder, every narrowed eye, every angle of approach. Matsukaze moved with the exactness of tradition. Tsukasa, with the inevitability of force. There was no showboating here. No need for applause.

Only perfection honed by war and time.

A breeze rolled off the sea and curled through Kohaku’s hair. She didn’t notice.

" You know ," came a voice like velvet behind her, " there’s a certain kind of person who watches that intently and calls it learning, when we both know it’s a little more… yearning ."

She didn’t jump. Didn’t blink.

Gen stepped beside her with all the subtlety of a silk scarf catching the wind. His robe was half-open, of course, and he carried himself with the confidence of someone who had never once lifted a weapon and never needed to.

“ I’m watching form, Gen ,” she said coolly. “ You should try it sometime. It may save your life .”

“ Mmm, but where’s the fun in that? ” He smiled, too easily. “ Besides, my battlefield is less… splinters and blood, and more… words, wine, and well-timed distractions .”

“ You’re saying this while watching two men try to break each other’s ribs .”

“ Oh, I’m not watching them .” Gen’s eyes flicked sideways—pointedly—to her.

Kohaku scowled. “ Speak your business .”

Gen only smiled wider. “ Why, party business, naturally. One day till landfall. Supposedly. According to the sacred scrolls of Senku’s ever-smug brain. ”

She exhaled slowly. “ You want to throw a party. ”

“I want to save morale. Spirits are anxious. Even Tsukasa is quieter than usual, and when he starts brooding, people start sharpening spears for no reason. ” Gen twirled a finger. “ So. I propose beer, music, dancing, light seduction where appropriate, and absolutely no life-or-death discussions until morning .”

“ You’ll get three out of five, if that ,” Kohaku muttered.

“ That’s three more than yesterday ,” Gen beamed. “ Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go convince the Kingdom of Science that fermenting barrels doesn’t count as ‘slacking off’ .”

He turned in a flourish of robes and wit, gliding toward where Chrome, Kaseki, and the others were elbow-deep in tools and theories. Kohaku watched him go, amused despite herself.

A crack rang out behind her—flesh slamming into flesh. Matsukaze landed hard, breath knocked from his lungs. Tsukasa offered him a hand.

Kohaku’s fists tightened. Not from tension. From intent.

Tomorrow, the world would change again. But tonight, there was still time to train.

Gen found the Science Team exactly where he expected: elbow-deep in something half-built and probably halfway explosive.

Chrome crouched near an array of coiled tubes and flasks, sweat beading at his temples as he adjusted a flame with an almost religious focus. Kaseki loomed nearby, arms crossed, eyes bright behind heavy brows. Ukyo lounged on a crate in the shade, absently adjusting the fletching on one of his arrows, while Yuzuriha sewed with that effortless grace she carried even when the deck rocked underfoot.

“ Hello, hello, noble titans of steam and soot ,” Gen sang, throwing his arms wide like a stage actor entering the wings. “ What say you to a brief intermission in your scientific epic? ”

Chrome didn’t look up. “ Please don’t touch anything. ”

“ Perish the thought ,” Gen said smoothly, tiptoeing around a pipe that hissed softly. “ I merely bring news of the only kind that matters at sea: a party is imminent .”

Kaseki chuckled, deep and raspy. “ You serious, boy? ”

“ As a potassium nitrate explosion ,” Gen beamed. “ We’re a day away from land—allegedly—and nerves are tighter than taut rope. The crew needs relief. Laughter. A bit of fermented glory and some wildly off-key singing wouldn’t hurt, either. ”

Yuzuriha glanced up from her stitching, thoughtful. “ They’ve been quiet lately. Focused. Maybe too focused.”

“ Exactly my point .” Gen clapped once, sharp and theatrical. “B efore we storm this New World with our wild hair and test tubes, we toast the journey. Tonight. Beer, dancing, music made from trash and tension. I’m working with what I have .”

Ukyo’s voice drifted over, calm and dry. “ And I assume you want the science team’s blessing before the chaos. ”

“ I’m nothing if not considerate ,” Gen said with a flourishing bow. “ Besides, what’s a party without proper brewing oversight? ”

Chrome finally looked up, blinking through the steam. “ Wait… do we even have enough ethanol? ”

“We have enough hope ,” Gen said sagely. “ And enough fruit to fake it. Give me a little time and I’ll have people thinking vinegar is a delicacy .”

Kaseki let out another amused grunt. “ You always were good at spinning gold from garbage .”

“ And spinning nerves into merriment .” Gen gestured vaguely toward the rest of the ship. “ Give them something to look forward to. They’ll need it. Whatever’s waiting out there—it’s not going to welcome us with cake and confetti .”

As if conjured by name, Senku’s voice cut in from nearby, flat as always.

“ No one’s drinking anything unless it passes inspection. Last thing we need is a ship full of drunk morons puking off the starboard side. ”

Gen turned, unsurprised. Senku stood at the edge of the group, arms folded, expression unreadable, half-shadowed by the sun overhead. He looked like he hadn’t moved from his calculations in hours—and probably hadn’t.

Chrome scratched the back of his head. “ It’s just for morale, Senku. Not like we’ll go wild or anything. ”

Senku’s gaze slid from him to the boiling glasswork on the table. “ Keep the batch clean. If it’s not distilled properly, don’t touch it. ”

Gen pressed a hand to his chest with faux solemnity. “ Ah, the scientist approves! Let the record show this is an officially sanctioned gathering. ”

Senku didn’t answer. He just walked past them, heading back toward the stern, wind tugging his coat. But he didn’t say no.

And that was all the permission they needed.

From the moment he’d made the decision, it had been clear to Gen that the party wasn’t just a means to alleviate the tension aboard the ship—it was a finely tuned instrument, one he would play with precision, knowing exactly what it could achieve.

After all, when you’ve lived as long as he has, you learn to read people. You learn to predict how they’ll move when they’re cornered, when they’re uncertain. And the tension between Senku and Kohaku had reached a boiling point that even the ocean’s rhythm couldn’t calm. There were unsaid things between them—things no one spoke, things that lurked behind the sharp glances and the crackling atmosphere when their paths crossed. And Gen? Well, Gen had no intention of letting that simmering pot go unspilled.

He’d been watching them for days—observing the way Senku’s eyes lingered just a moment too long on Kohaku when she wasn’t looking, the way her posture tightened whenever he was near. There was a crackling, unspoken energy between them, and Gen, devil that he was, could feel it as clearly as the ship swaying beneath his feet.

So what better way to stoke the fire than with a little distraction?

The party, of course, had been his idea—what else could it be? He had a flair for dramatics, and an even greater flair for making sure people knew it was all his idea. His voice had been the one to float through the halls, his infectious enthusiasm a convenient smokescreen for the real goal. To give them an escape, yes. But more than that—to give them a stage. A moment. A tiny pocket of time where everything else could be forgotten and the distance between them could close, just for a heartbeat.

Senku might not admit it aloud, but Gen could see it. He could always see it. That subtle attraction he had for Kohaku, buried deep beneath his scientific focus and his refusal to indulge in anything remotely human. Kohaku, too, wasn’t immune to it. She’d fight it all she wanted—she could disguise it behind her warrior’s mask, her unwavering loyalty to the cause—but it was there. He’d seen it, felt it in the air whenever they were near each other.

The party would provide the perfect opening.

Gen had never been one to wait for things to happen by themselves. No, no. He was the orchestrator, the puppeteer with invisible strings tied to their hearts, and he wasn’t about to sit idly by. He’d set the scene with carefully placed suggestions, with timing that was just right, with just enough chaos to make Senku’s control slip.

Gen's mind swirled with possibilities, the web of manipulation he had crafted slowly taking form. He was already imagining the tension, the moments he’d orchestrated, and the subtle shifts in the air that would turn the evening into something unforgettable. A little bit of chaos, a little bit of temptation, and the whole ship would be caught in the undertow. Senku and Kohaku—the perfect players, unknowingly pulled into his design.

But just as Gen allowed himself to savor the thought, that hand fell back onto his shoulder, heavy and familiar.

The grin that had been playing at his lips faltered for a split second.

He didn’t even need to look up to know who it was. Ryusui—always there, always present , like an uninvited guest who knew just enough to stir the pot without taking a single step out of line.

“ Gen ,” Ryusui’s voice purred, “ You’re playing with fire, you know that? ”

Gen’s gaze flickered upward, meeting Ryusui’s eyes. The other man’s expression was a mix of playful amusement and something deeper, something that tugged at the edges of his words. He tilted his head, studying Gen carefully, a smirk forming at the corners of his lips.

“ It’s all well and good, making plans and setting up little sparks here and there, ” Ryusui continued, voice smooth and confident. “ But have you thought about the consequences? ” He leaned in closer, voice lowering, as if he were sharing a secret only they could hear. “ Senku and Kohaku… they’re not the kind of people who handle things like this lightly .”

Gen’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, his smile turning into something more guarded. Ryusui wasn’t one to pass judgment, but there was something in the way he spoke—something that cut through the layers of confidence and playfulness.

“ I’m not sure you’re seeing the full picture here, Gen ,” Ryusui said, his tone now quieter, more serious than before. “ You’re setting them up for something dangerous—emotionally, I mean .” His eyes locked onto Gen’s, piercing with an intensity that wasn’t usual for Ryusui. “ There’s a line, you know? Pushing people into something that’s not ready to happen... it can backfire. It’s not just about creating tension or stirring things up—it’s about timing, about the emotional weight of it all. ”

Gen took a step back, feeling the subtle pressure of Ryusui’s words. He had expected a playful challenge, a light jab—but this? This was different. This wasn’t about Ryusui simply trying to control the game; this was something else. It almost sounded like... concern?

“ I’m not a fool, Ryusui ,” Gen replied smoothly, but the edge in his voice betrayed something. “ I know exactly what I’m doing. Tension is a weapon. And they’re already caught in it, whether they realize it or not. ”

Ryusui’s gaze softened, but only a fraction. “ Yeah, but there’s a limit. Senku’s not the type to let emotions rule him, and Kohaku’s... well, she’s not as cold as she seems, but she’s stubborn as hell. Forcing them into something they’re not ready for? It’s unfair. Not just to them, but to you too .”

Gen’s mind raced as Ryusui’s words dug deeper, like a needle pressing into the skin. He had always known how to control a situation, how to lead the players where he wanted them to go—but now Ryusui was making him question whether this particular game was worth the risk.

“ You’re suggesting I pull back? ” Gen’s voice was quiet now, carefully controlled, but the underlying tension was palpable.

Ryusui’s smirk returned, but it was tempered by something genuine. “ Not pull back. Just think it through. Maybe this moment isn’t the one. Maybe there’s something else at play here that needs time to unfold naturally. You can’t force people to fall into the roles you want them to play, not when their hearts aren’t in it. Especially with those two. ”

For a long moment, Gen stood there, the weight of Ryusui’s words pressing down on him. It wasn’t like Gen to hesitate, but something about Ryusui’s warning struck a chord. He had always believed in controlling the narrative, but this was different. Kohaku and Senku weren’t just pieces to be moved—they were people, and even Gen could acknowledge that some lines shouldn’t be crossed.

Ryusui seemed to sense the shift in Gen’s expression, his smile lightening just a touch. He gave a casual shrug, as if to brush off the serious conversation. “ Anyway, just something to think about. You’ve got your reasons, I’m sure. But if things go sideways, don’t say I didn’t warn you .”

And with that, Ryusui turned, fading back into the crowd with the same effortless grace that he always had. Ryusui’s hand fell from Gen’s shoulder, and in a single, fluid motion, his fingers snapped with a sharp, definitive crack. The sound echoed briefly, like a punctuation mark at the end of an unspoken warning. But the weight of the conversation remained, a silent undercurrent to the evening’s festivities.

Gen stood there, watching Ryusui disappear into the chaos, his mind still churning. There was no denying that Ryusui’s words had planted a seed of doubt—something that made him pause, just for a moment.

Was he pushing too far?

The soft thud of staffs against wood echoed in the quiet of the sparring area, but Kohaku barely registered the sound. Her cheek rested on the cool, weathered rail of the ring, her eyes drifting between Ginro and Kinro—two young men who, despite their rough edges and clumsy movements, still fought with a sense of purpose.

Their sparring wasn’t graceful. Ginro was a bit too eager, swinging wildly, while Kinro, ever the disciplined one, met each of Ginro's strikes with calculated precision. It was awkward—yes—but there was a certain charm in the way they mirrored one another. There was something refreshingly honest about their fight. Something pure. But Kohaku knew it wasn’t just playfulness between them. Beneath the carefree jabs, both carried the weight of the world.

Even Ginro, who often tried to hide it behind his humor, carried the burden. He had his doubts, his fears, just like everyone else. And Kinro, who tried so hard to appear serious, was no different. They all carried it. Every single person on this ship, in their own way. The knowledge that they weren’t just fighting for their own survival, but for the survival of the future itself. That kind of responsibility wasn’t something anyone could escape, no matter how lighthearted they tried to make it seem.

Kohaku blinked, her thoughts pulling her back to the present, but the weight of Gen’s words lingered. The party. She could almost still hear his voice, the way he had made it sound like a simple thing. Just a celebration. But even then, she’d felt something else in his words—a deeper agenda, one that she couldn’t quite pin down but had no doubt was there.

He had just told her about it, hadn’t he? In the midst of all the sparring, all the preparations, he had walked up to her with that casual, almost devilish grin, speaking of the party like it was just another trivial distraction. But she knew better. There was more to it. He was scheming something, like always.

And what about Senku? Kohaku’s stomach twisted, the thought of him lingering in the back of her mind. Senku, who was so focused on the future, who always looked ahead, never allowing himself to indulge in the present. Would he even participate in something as frivolous as a celebration? Or was it simply another tool for him to manipulate the crew’s morale—another tactic in his ever-present chess game with the world?

She exhaled slowly, feeling the cold bite of the air. It wasn’t just about survival. Kohaku knew that. The party, whatever it would become, wasn’t really about enjoyment or letting loose—it was about something else entirely. Something unspoken. It was about moments. Moments like the one between her and Senku, when their gazes lingered too long or when the air around them felt too charged. Would this party finally break the tension? Or would it only deepen it?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the snap of fingers—Ryusui’s snap. The sharp, precise sound cut through the air, pulling her attention away from the sparring match. Her gaze flicked towards him and Gen, standing off to the side. Ryusui’s hand had just fallen away from Gen’s shoulder, the snap sharp and deliberate, like a warning.

For a brief moment, Kohaku could have sworn she saw something shift in Ryusui’s eyes—something almost too calculating, too aware. And Gen, that smirk still playing on his lips, seemed to have a certain glint in his gaze, one that made her wonder how much of the party was really about fun, and how much was about pushing the inevitable closer.

Kohaku’s fingers tightened around the rail, her mind churning. The snap of Ryusui’s fingers echoed in her ears, like a signal, a cue for something that was about to unfold. She couldn’t quite place it, but she knew the stakes were higher than they seemed.

With a deep breath, Kohaku forced her thoughts to focus. Ginro had managed to land a blow on Kinro, and the younger brother let out a loud, triumphant shout, even though Kinro’s expression remained stoic as ever. Kohaku allowed herself a small smile at the sight, before her gaze turned once more to the distant figure of Senku, standing by himself, looking out over the horizon.

Why didn’t he ever let himself live in the moment?

Was it because he thought everything had to be about the future? Or was it because, deep down, he was afraid of what could happen if they did stop, even for a moment, to breathe? The thought gnawed at her.

The sparring continued—Kinro disarming Ginro with a quick sweep of his staff—and Kohaku blinked slowly, the fog of her thoughts lifting as she refocused on the present. She knew she couldn’t stay lost in this swirling sea of uncertainty. Not now.
The party was coming, and no matter what it meant for Gen, no matter what his plans were, she knew it would change something. Whether it was for better or worse, she couldn’t say.
But one thing was certain.
It was time for something to break.

And yet—

Her cheek remained pressed to the railing, eyes trailing the clumsy but heartfelt rhythm of the fight before her. The Kinro-Ginro dance was always the same: strength meeting nervousness, discipline clashing with improvisation, frustration tangled in laughter. But it wasn't a joke, not really. For all their simplicity, Kinro and Ginro carried the weight too. Just differently. They weren’t leaders or inventors, weren’t the minds that shaped the path forward. But they had marched just as far, given just as much. When the world had needed bodies to stand and faces to smile, they had never hesitated.

And that realization lodged itself deep into her chest.

How selfish would it be—
To think of herself now?
To ask more, to take more, to reach for something soft in the midst of so much ache?

She had spent her life moving forward, protecting others, becoming steel because she believed she had to. But lately, something softer in her had begun to stir. Not weakness—no, never that—but something she didn’t know the name of. She felt it in the way her hands twitched when he spoke, in the strange silence that filled her when he wasn’t there.

But how could she ask for more, when the ones before her were still fighting just to stand?

And then she looked. Not to Ryusui, but past him. Almost like instinct. Her gaze sought out one man.

Senku.

He stood at the edge of the crowd—where he always lingered, apart but never absent—hands shoved into his pockets, head tilted ever so slightly as if he were listening to a frequency only he could hear.

Their eyes met.

It wasn’t startling, not anymore. There was no drama to it, no sudden flare. Just the quiet weight of understanding, a space where thoughts passed without sound. Kohaku didn’t look away. Not this time. She held his gaze with a quiet question pressed to the front of her chest, unspoken but unmistakable.

Should I…?

Can I?

But Senku, as ever, gave her no answer. Only a single nod. Crisp. Measured. As if they’d already had the conversation somewhere in a different life, and this was simply the punctuation.

The nod said: I see you.
The nod said: Not now.
The nod said: Still… I see you.

And it was enough. Or it had to be.

She turned back to the ring, lifting her head from the railing as Kinro helped Ginro to his feet. Laughter erupted, loud and unfiltered, and for a moment, it almost sounded like peace.

But Kohaku’s pulse hadn’t slowed. If anything, the stillness inside her had deepened. A storm behind calm eyes. The party was coming. The air was changing. Something was unraveling, thread by thread.

And she was done pretending not to feel it.

The room was quiet. Blissfully so. For the first time in what felt like days, Kohaku had found herself alone—not on a swaying deck surrounded by laughter and bustling bodies, not at the sparring ring with calloused palms and sweat-slick hair. Just silence, save for the muted rustle of wind at the seams of the wooden hull.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, tuning her breath like one might tune a blade: with discipline, precision, and a ghost of reverence. The party preparations buzzed somewhere above like distant thunder—torches being lit, bottles shifted and tested for fizziness, laughter rolling in uneven bursts—but none of it reached her here. Not yet.

Kohaku had retreated there after stringing up the last of the streamers, her body humming with the ache of overuse and the anticipation she refused to name. The party was only hours away now, and the deck had taken on the surreal look of a dream—too much color, too much laughter, like they were trying to seduce the future itself. Her fingers idled at the hem of her dress, frayed from use, stubborn in its refusal to let her forget where she came from. Not a queen, not a lady. Just a fighter. A scout. The girl who threw herself at everything first so others didn’t have to.

But here, within the wooden walls of her small room, things still made sense. She had her flask of water, her spear leaning in the corner, her rough woven tunic still damp at the hem from sea spray. She had her breath, her solitude.

For exactly three and a half seconds.

The door slammed open with a creak and a gust.

“Kohakuuuu.”

The voice was almost musical in its menace.

Kohaku blinked once. “ No .”

Yuzuriha stepped inside like a vision conjured by the gods of fashion and merciless intent. Her usually serene expression was replaced by something far more dangerous: unshakeable determination. In her arms was an explosion of color—woven coral and golden amber, trimmed in white thread that glimmered like frost. It was less a dress and more a declaration.

“ Oh yes ,” Yuzuriha said cheerfully, shutting the door behind her with a soft click that sounded, somehow, like a lock on a cage.

“ Absolutely not ,” Kohaku tried again.

Yuzuriha raised a perfectly threaded brow. “ Would you rather wear the fish-scale tunic from two months ago? I think I saw mold growing near the collar .”

Kohaku glanced instinctively at her current attire. Salt-stained, sun-bleached, and stretched in all the wrong places, it looked like it belonged more as a flag to the ship than a girl. Which was fitting. But the dress… it looked like it belonged to a different version of her. One she wasn’t sure she had the right to become.

“I can’t wear that to a party ,” she muttered. “ I’ll look like I’m trying to seduce the entire ship. ”

Yuzuriha tilted her head, her smile calm and terrifying. “ Good. ”

“ Yuzuriha .”

“ Look, ” she said, suddenly softening. She took a step forward, gently holding the fabric up between them like a peace offering. “ I made this because I wanted to remind everyone—not just the men—that we’ve survived. That beauty has a place in survival too .”

She paused.

“ I made it because I thought… maybe you forgot what it felt like to be seen. Not for your strength. Just for you. ”

Kohaku looked at her then—really looked. At the careful braid at Yuzuriha’s temple, the ink smudge on her knuckle, the faint sheen of sweat on her brow. She was an artist, yes, but also a warrior in her own right. Someone who stitched hope into scraps and dared to call it a future.

Still. Kohaku crossed her arms. “ Is this about Gen’s stupid plan? ”

Yuzuriha gave the world’s most suspiciously innocent blink. “ Plan? What plan? ”

“ I know that look in his eyes ,” Kohaku muttered. “ Like he’s about to light a match and blame the wind .”

Yuzuriha laughed then, a true laugh. “ No one’s forcing you, you know. But Gen did say—very vaguely, very annoyingly—that certain… connections on this ship might need a nudge .”

“Connections? ”

“ Oh you know. Tensions. Repressed feelings. Star-crossed almosts .” Her tone was light, but her eyes were too knowing.

Kohaku looked away. “ That’s not real. We have more important things to focus on. ”

“ Maybe. But pretending you don’t feel something doesn’t make you stronger .” Yuzuriha’s voice softened. “ It just makes you lonelier .”

The wind scratched gently at the porthole. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Yuzuriha stepped forward again, gently, like one would approach a wary animal. She placed the dress into Kohaku’s hands and whispered, “ Just try it. No one has to know anything. But maybe it’s time someone did .”

Kohaku stared down at the garment. She saw the battlefield it represented—not one of blood, but of choice.

And as if summoned by fate itself, from far beyond the cabin door came a sharp, unmistakable snap of fingers.

She knew that sound. Knew it like muscle memory.

Ryusui.

Even through the walls, she could hear his booming, ridiculous voice declaring something theatrical to the stars above.

She smirked in spite of herself. “ I swear, if this ends in disaster… ”

Yuzuriha was already backing toward the door. “ Then at least you’ll look amazing doing it .”

And she was gone.

Kohaku exhaled through her nose. Alone again, but the silence had changed. It hummed now—tingled against her skin like rising air before a storm.

She looked down at the dress again. It shimmered like sunlight on river water. Her fingers gripped the fabric.

And slowly, carefully, she began to undress. She stood still for a moment after Yuzuriha left, the hush of the cabin pressing in like a question she hadn’t answered yet. One hand rested over the cloth in her arms; the other lingered at the ties of her dress.

A breath in.

And then—fingers pulled.

She undid the ties of her dress with steady hands, even as her breath tangled slightly in her throat.

The room was quiet—no crackling fire, no distant footsteps, just the wooden creak of the ship gently rocking beneath her. As the fabric peeled away from her shoulders, the air touched her skin like a secret. Cool. Curious. It slid down her back like water, kissed the hollows of her collarbones, and made her pulse beat just a little louder in her ears.

She paused. Half undressed, her reflection caught her.

Not a fighter. Not just yet.

There were bruises along her ribs. A faded cut on her hip. Her arms, strong from years of swordwork, still bore the golden hue of days beneath the sun. But there was softness, too—barely remembered, almost startling in its quiet presence.

The dress lay on the bed like an unopened letter. Bright, daring. Something not meant for the version of herself who led scouting missions or wrestled wildcats in riverbeds.

Still, she reached for it.

The fabric slid between her fingers like cool fire. Silken, featherlight, made from threads Yuzuriha must’ve woven with patience and precision during moonlit hours. Kohaku lifted it, stepping into it slowly—one leg, then the other—pulling the bodice up across her torso.

It hugged her like a secret, holding snug at the waist before flowing outward in soft waves of coral and deep gold. Slits opened high along both sides, slicing up her thighs like parting water, and for a moment, she stood frozen, unsure whether to pull them closed or let them be.

She let them be.

She wasn’t hiding tonight.

Her hair was still tied—hastily knotted at the back of her head in the way she always wore it, practical and proud. But something about it now felt… like armor. And armor wasn’t what this called for.

She reached up, tugging at the tie. The moment it loosened, her hair tumbled down—not gracefully, not with cinematic flair—but all at once, wild and blunt and real.

It didn’t frame her face like it did in other women. It stuck awkwardly in places, tangled at the ends. Still, when she looked at herself again, she saw a version of Kohaku she’d buried beneath dirt and duty.

Not weak. Not soft.

Just… different.

Her fingers brushed her hips, then moved down the slit to her thigh. A small laugh escaped her throat—half disbelief, half awe.

“What are you doing? ” she whispered to herself. But there was no judgment in it.

Only quiet wonder.

A knock at the door made her flinch, but no one opened it. A servant voice called gently that lanterns were being lit. The party would begin soon.

Kohaku turned back to the mirror.

And this time, she stood a little taller.

ELSEWHERE ON THE SHIP

The sky was in the throes of shedding its light, peeling back its golden layers to reveal a bruised, intimate twilight.
Orange bled into violet, violet into blue, until the horizon held its breath between day and night—an open wound of time.
The sea drank it all in, dark and endless, its surface stitched with the first glints of lanternlight swaying from the rigging.
Each flame flickered like a trapped star, desperate to imitate the firmament that had not yet arrived.

And the ship breathed beneath it all—alive with the murmurs of footsteps, the clink of mugs, the faint pulse of makeshift drums echoing from the stern.
The air was thick with yeast, salt, plumwine, and a laughter too easy to be real.

Senku stood alone near one of the side tables, a bottle of beer cradled loosely in his hand.
The bubbles hissed quietly within, like it, too, had thoughts it refused to share.
He watched the foam settle with the kind of focus he gave to dying stars or ancient ruins—
not because the beer mattered, but because distraction did.

His shirt, for once, was clean. Not pressed, not styled—but clean, sleeves pushed up above his elbows, revealing forearms inked faintly with charcoal stains and old scrapes.
His collar was open, barely—but the gap at his throat looked accidental, like something unguarded had slipped through.
It was the only concession he made to the idea that tonight was different.

He didn’t sip the bottle. Just let it sweat in his grip, glass catching the lanternlight like a captured moon.
His eyes, ever calculating, skimmed across the deck like sonar—reading expressions, noting absences,
skipping over faces that didn’t matter, until—

A pause.
He blinked.
And looked away.

That was when Ryusui appeared, as if conjured by instinct, or fate, or some mischief god with a sense of timing too perfect to be kind.

“Not drinking?” he asked, casual as a breeze, lifting a mug of his own and letting it slosh golden at the rim. “That’s rich. You brewed the stuff yourself.”

Senku didn’t look at him. “Still monitoring the experiment.”

Ryusui let out a low chuckle. “You say that like you’re not the experiment too.”

He leaned against the same table, posture easy, effortless. But his eyes were sharp—too sharp for a party.
He drank deeply, theatrically, and smacked his lips. “Not bad. Little sour. Bit of bite.”

“Fits the theme,” Senku muttered.

Ryusui’s gaze drifted to the gathering crowd. “Gen put all this together, of course. Said it was for morale. But I’ve seen that glint in his eye. He’s a matchmaker with a martyr complex.”

Senku’s mouth twitched, nearly a smirk. “What an efficient use of time.”

“Oh, you’d be amazed what chaos he can cause with a smile and a toast.”

Senku finally turned, only halfway. “And what’s your theory?”

Ryusui raised an eyebrow. “About you two?”

A stillness folded itself between them. The music drifted closer now—muffled drums, a lilting woodwind, laughter fraying at the edges.
Senku didn’t answer. He just stared at the bottle like it might do the talking for him.

Ryusui’s voice softened. Not teasing. Not cruel. Just quiet.

“You and I both know what it’s like to be born with no time to waste. When every hour is borrowed from the collapse. You start to see everything in costs.”

Senku’s jaw ticked—so slight it might’ve been nothing.

“People like us,” Ryusui went on, “we’re taught early that desire is a distraction. That love is a luxury. That to reach the new world, someone has to stay cold.”

“Romance,” Senku said, voice low, “is not an efficient use of energy in the rebuilding of civilization.”

Ryusui turned, full-on now, one hand gripping his mug like it tethered him.

“No,” he said. “But then again—neither is hope. Or dreams. Or music. Or parties.”

He stepped forward, gaze locked on Senku’s.

“Science was never about efficiency. Just inevitability.”

Senku didn’t speak. He didn’t flinch.
But his silence rang louder than any answer.

Ryusui’s voice dropped to a murmur.

“It’s not fair, you know. That some people don’t get to choose. That the ones who build the future may never live inside it.”

Senku’s gaze drifted. The bottle in his hand was trembling now—just faintly, just enough for someone like Ryusui to notice.

“Then maybe,” he said at last, “they just keep building. Even if it costs them something they can never get back.”

A beat.

Two.

Ryusui didn’t push. Just nodded once, slow and grave.

Then, almost without thinking, he lifted his free hand and—

Snap .

A sharp crack of fingers. Not meant for Senku.

A habit. A signal. A reflexive beat against the drum of the moment.

But Senku’s head turned, like a marionette pulled by string.

And Ryusui saw his eyes freeze.

And smiled—but not the kind of smile he usually wore. This one had reverence in it. And resignation. And the faintest curl of defeat.

“ …Well, ” he whispered, letting the words fall like a curtain.

“ Damn. ”

Gen had always prided himself on knowing when .

Not just what to say, or how to say it—but when to let silence reign, and when to break it like a spell. Timing was everything, after all. In magic, in theater, in diplomacy—and especially when it came to human hearts.

So he didn’t interrupt.

He saw Ryusui's hand fall to his side after the snap, saw the shift in Senku’s shoulders—the straightening of a man who had just heard something louder than thunder. He saw the way Senku’s eyes locked on something unseen, somewhere beyond the lantern-lit swell of bodies now crowding the deck.

And he felt it.

The click of inevitability. The moment just before something ruptured.

Gen leaned against the ship’s rail, arms crossed, a mug cradled like a prop he hadn’t decided how to use yet. He didn’t sip from it. Just traced his thumb along the rim, watching the scene unfold from the shadows—half-part illusionist, half-part voyeur to the gears of fate.

He could guess, of course, what—or who —Senku had seen.

He followed the path of Senku’s gaze without turning his head, his intuition a precise compass. Somewhere behind him, a door had opened. Somewhere, a thread had been pulled taut enough to hum.

And yet—Gen stayed where he was.

Because even the most cunning hands couldn’t tamper with certain spells once they’d been cast.
You had to wait .

Senku didn’t move. Not toward the voice or the presence he’d clearly sensed. He only stood still, bottle in hand, jaw clenched like a man holding back the end of the world. And Ryusui—ever the pirate, ever the romantic cynic—tilted his mug skyward and drank like he’d already accepted the outcome.

Gen’s lips curled around a soundless breath.

So, the winds are shifting.

And yet, as much as he loved watching dominos fall, part of him hesitated.

He remembered Ryusui’s warning— “Think twice.”
He’d scoffed at it at the time. Dismissed it as the guarded bitterness of a man who’d seen too many stars fall too close. But now, in the way Ryusui stared into his mug and not at Senku, Gen saw something… heavier. A caution carved from truth, not fear.

Still, his own heart hadn’t changed.

Not really.

Because Gen, unlike the others, didn’t believe that building the future meant burning all the bridges behind them.

He believed— desperately , irrationally—that you could still steal a little warmth from the fire. That in the ruins, you could plant something that bloomed. Even if it was stupid. Even if it was doomed.

Even if it hurt .

The music swelled faintly behind him, voices rising in laughter, plates clattering as someone tried to balance a tray of glazed fruit and boiled roots. The party had truly begun—but no one here had shown up for the beer.

Not really.

And certainly not him.

Gen’s eyes flicked to Senku one last time, and for a moment, he saw him not as the scientist, not as the messiah of the stone world, not as the symbol—

But as a boy.
A boy standing very still in the middle of a celebration that had nothing to do with joy.

A boy staring at something just out of reach, pretending not to need it.

Gen’s voice was almost too low to hear—even by himself.

“…So, what’ll you do, Senku?”
Avert your eyes? Or look too long?

He smiled then, soft and rueful, as he turned away from the rail.

His timing was always good. But this time?

This time, he’d let the scene play itself.

And the world could watch.

Senku stood still, a shadow among the lanterns, hands gripping his bottle like it could anchor him to the present.
His gaze, as sharp as always, held on the edge of something he wasn’t ready to face. Something too heavy to hold in his thoughts for long. Not when the world was so fragile, and the future was built from a thousand tentative steps.

And yet, there she was.

Kohaku had entered the fray.
The door had opened—and she stepped into it like the tide itself had called her.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her silhouette framed in the doorway of the captain's cabin—distinct, vivid, even before the lanterns caught her. The ship’s dim light played off the edges of her form, creating a halo of warmth around her that he couldn’t ignore.

She wore the dress Yuzuriha had pulled from thin air—a thing of color and daring, an impossible concoction of fabric, the fabric of a woman who had lived a thousand lives on this ship. The dress clung to her body in all the right ways, but not too tightly. It allowed her to move with the grace of someone who belonged to this world—wild, untamed, free—but now, dressed in something that let her embrace the part of her that the world didn’t always see.

Her hair, once pulled into a neat ponytail, cascaded down her back in a tumble of gold. It didn’t fall perfectly, but it didn’t need to. The unkempt beauty of it was as real as the woman herself. Every strand of it was a declaration that she, too, was something that could not be contained.

His breath caught in his chest. For a moment, he couldn’t remember how to breathe at all.

But he didn’t turn to look. Not yet.

Because Senku knew—if he looked—he might never be able to stop.

Not when her presence was a storm in itself, a quiet force that demanded the very air to shift.

And then, she was closer.

She hadn’t come to him, not directly. She didn’t need to. But there was no mistaking it.

The space between them—the unspoken distance—felt like an insurmountable thing. She moved with purpose, her footsteps steady, like each one was a claim on the space she inhabited. But the way her eyes, the slightest flicker, caught his?

It was enough to make the world outside this small corner of the ship fall away.

Senku’s pulse drummed louder, the hum of his thoughts interrupted by the smallest of gestures.

Just a single, imperceptible nod.

It was all he gave. And it was all she needed.

Their eyes locked for a moment too long—a moment too heavy.
But neither of them flinched. Neither of them broke it.

And just like that, she moved on, seamlessly blending into the crowd, the dress catching the light in a way that made every other person in the room seem dim.

His chest tightened with something he couldn’t name.

The night wrapped itself around the ship, soft as a lover's touch. The lanterns glimmered with a quiet warmth, casting pools of amber on the deck, flickering like stars in a constellation that didn’t quite match the one above. The party swelled with life, but it felt distant, like the music and laughter were coming from a world just slightly out of reach. Kohaku leaned against the rail, her hand resting lightly on the wood, feeling the faint pulse of the ship beneath her fingertips.

She let out a long breath, letting the weight of the evening wash over her, the soft rustling of the wind threading through her hair. The scent of the brew and stew mixed in the air, and the sounds of clinking mugs and easy conversation echoed around her. It was a night for revelry, for letting go—and yet, there was a heaviness she couldn’t quite escape.

Her dress, loose and flowing with its vibrant colors, caught in the breeze, and the fabric brushed against her bare legs, sending a shiver through her. The slits in the skirt revealed her thighs, the cool air against her skin both thrilling and strange. She shifted slightly, feeling the way the dress moved with her, and a small, quiet part of her felt the sensation of being seen . Of being noticed, not just for her strength, but for something else—for the woman she was when she let go of the armor she wore.

She wasn’t used to this. Not the admiration. Not the way the men around her looked at her like she was something other than the lioness they knew her as. It was as if they were seeing her for the first time, as if they were seeing something she rarely let anyone touch.

Moz had been the first to approach her, his grin broad and carefree. He’d complimented her with the ease of someone who was used to paying attention to every detail. But there was a warmth in his words that made her feel alive in a way that had nothing to do with the battles she’d fought.

“Goddess, huh?” she’d teased him, but the smile had been real.

Then Ryusui had flashed her that charming grin of his from across the deck, his glass held high, the slight gleam in his eyes making her feel like an audience to his performance. “Looking stunning, Kohaku,” he’d called, his voice ringing out over the clamor of the party.

It wasn’t the first time he’d said something like that to her—Ryusui had always been flirtatious, easy with his compliments—but tonight, it landed differently. His eyes had lingered just a little too long, and something in the air shifted around them. Maybe it was the dress. Maybe it was just the night. But Kohaku couldn’t help but feel the weight of his words settling into her chest. The way he said it... It’s like you were made for this.

She shook the thought away. He wasn’t the one she was thinking of tonight.

Would he come?

She didn’t know what answer she wanted. Only that the question lived in her chest, alive and unfinished.

Senku. Would he break formation, cut across the fray, reach for something neither of them had named? Her fingers twitched at her side. The wind teased her hair into her eyes.

Would he come to me?

The thought didn’t form itself as a wish, not fully. Wishes were for people with time and choices. She only had instincts, and tonight, they were conflicted.

Part of her—deep, bruised, and too alert—didn’t want to be the one to move first again. She’d saved his life more times than she could count. She’d stood between him and blades, between him and his own stubbornness. She was always the one who ran.

Tonight… if it mattered, he would have to cross the space between them.
Tonight, she wanted—

No, needed —to lose herself.

So when someone offered her a wooden cup, the beer still sloshing from a rushed pour, she didn’t hesitate. She took it in both hands, felt the coldness of the brew and the warmth of the touch that had handed it off. She nodded once, gratefully, to whomever it was—it didn’t matter. It wasn’t him .

And then she drank.

It tasted sharp, fermented too fast, probably. But it was strong. And it dulled something. Not enough to erase—but enough to blur.

A second cup found her hand not long after. She didn’t ask. It came the way gifts do at a feast: without question, freely, with a smile behind it. She smiled back, teeth showing. Somewhere behind her eyes, the lioness stirred—but she did not rise.

Not yet.

Laughter cracked the air like kindling. She felt it rush over her. Lanterns overhead danced in wild rhythm, and every color seemed to saturate more deeply now—firelight, the blues of the sea, the bronze of skin, the red of mouths open in song. Someone pulled her toward a spinning circle of bodies, feet thudding against wood, hips twisting to mimic long-lost steps.

Kohaku let herself be taken.

She didn't look back. Not yet.

But as she spun, skirts flaring like banners at war, she wondered—just faintly, quietly—if he watched her.

If he would come.

And if he didn’t, then maybe, just maybe… she’d forget what it meant to wait.

Tonight was for losing.

And for once, that didn’t feel like surrender.

It felt like relief.

The warmth of the beer had settled in her stomach like a low-burning ember, patient and sweet. It softened the edges of the world, of her thoughts, of the knot she always kept tied at the base of her spine—the one forged by duty, danger, and everything she'd ever chosen to bear in silence.

She had learned how to walk on airless nights without faltering, how to kill without mourning, how to hold up a civilization when others slept. But no one had taught her this: how to dance simply because she could.

And so she did.

Her hair, loosened earlier with a careless tug, fell in thick waves down her back, wild and damp and salt-streaked. It didn’t fall like the heroines in Gen’s stories—it was no soft golden curtain or halo of silk. It was fierce, heavy, and imperfect. But it was hers. It brushed the curve of her shoulder blades with every sway, and she let it cling to her neck without pulling it away.

The music rose—drums, plucked strings, someone whistling off-key—and Kohaku let it carry her. She was barefoot, her soles blackened from deck wood and ash and spilled cider. The dress clung to her in ways she was not used to—fabric hugging the slope of her waist, the swell of her hips, slits up the thighs that flirted with every step she took.

She should have felt bare.

Instead, she felt seen.

Not in the way men sometimes looked at her when she fought—awed, afraid, a little eager to be destroyed—but in the way the firelight looked at her now, unapologetic. Reverent.

Yuzuriha had made her beautiful, but it wasn’t just the dress. It was the way she moved in it. The way she allowed herself to exist in it.

She laughed. Not because someone told a joke, but because her body was weightless and her chest hurt from the sheer, reckless joy of it. Her cheeks were flushed, her breath quick and warm as she spun and let her limbs follow the rhythm, unthinking.

Ginro tripped toward her, clearly already drunk, and offered her a hand with the confidence of a man who had nothing to lose and no shame left to keep. She accepted, and the poor boy nearly swallowed his tongue. He tried to twirl her and promptly stepped on his own foot, sending them both into a fit of laughter.

Kinro rescued them with a stiff, formal bow. “ Would you allow me? ” he asked, already sweating.

“ Of course, General Kinro ,” she teased, and took his hand.

He was surprisingly gentle, but he held her like a weapon—like he was afraid she might go off in his arms. She liked that. The awareness. The respect. When they parted, he was red to the ears, and she kissed his cheek just to watch him short-circuit.

She didn’t look for Senku. She refused to.

Even though she could feel him like a gravity somewhere beyond the firelight—like a pressure drop in her lungs, like the static before a storm.

Let him watch, if he was watching.

Let him wonder what it felt like to be pursued instead of always holding the map. She was not a chemical reaction waiting for his spark.

Tonight, she would be her own ignition.

And then Tsukasa stepped into her orbit.

It was subtle, the way he approached—like he’d been waiting for the tides to shift. He offered no invitation, only held out his hand, palm up, as if asking for nothing more than what she already intended to give.

She took it.

They moved together in a rhythm that was less dance, more breath. Tsukasa wasn’t smiling, but his expression had softened—somewhere between curiosity and mourning, like he saw something in her he wished he could forget.

“ You’re radiant, ” he said, simply.

Kohaku didn’t answer. But her fingers tightened slightly in his.

She leaned into him—not in desire, but in release.

And just before the music changed again, she looked up. Not toward the drums. Not toward the moon.

But toward him.

Toward the one who hadn’t come for her. Who wouldn’t.

Her eyes found Senku.

He was still at the edge of it all. Still the storm wall, still the stone. His face unreadable, lips tight. Someone was saying something beside him—Ryusui, probably—but Senku wasn’t listening.

He was looking at her.

But she didn’t look away this time.

She smiled, slow and reckless, then turned from him completely and let herself fall backward into the arms of someone else.

Hyōga, this time. Cool hands, sharp as glass. He caught her without flinching.

“You seem different,” he said, voice low.

“I’m just drunk,” she murmured, though she wasn’t sure it was true.

She rested her head briefly against his chest, closed her eyes, and let herself forget how many people had told her what she had to be.

Tonight, she could be anything.

Even a girl in a dress, lost in the firelight. Even a whisper the lioness had silenced long ago.

Even... wanted.

Senku didn’t breathe as she spun.

He stood at the edge of the chaos like a variable refusing to resolve, his fingers loose around a half-drunk bottle, the glass long gone warm from the heat of his palm. The party had bloomed into something primal now—more music than math, more skin than silence. Laughter crackled under the stars, mugs clinked like windchimes, and lantern light kissed every sharp cheekbone and sweat-damp collar.

But his eyes followed only one.

He had tried not to. Had anchored himself to the edge of the crowd with all the stubborn logic that usually bent the world to his will. He told himself this was data—observation—just more information to archive in the living library of rebuilding civilization.

And then Kohaku had smiled. Not at him. Never at him. She had smiled at them.

She had let herself go—not the warrior, not the protector, not the girl with blood on her knuckles and calluses on her palms—but something else. Something terrifying.

Something free.

He watched her now, dress clinging to her like a second breath, thigh flashing with each step, golden hair unbound and swinging like wild sunlight across her back. She was flushed, flushed and laughing in a way that made his chest feel like someone had scooped out all the air and replaced it with static.

She danced. She stumbled. She let Ginro twirl her and Kinro hold her too carefully and Tsukasa touch the curve of her waist with the reverence of a man reading scripture. And then Hyōga— Hyōga —caught her like a god catching lightning.

Senku’s jaw tensed.

“ She’s got quite the gravity tonight ,” Ryusui murmured beside him, not looking his way. He swirled the plum brew in his glass, watching the vortex spin lazily in its little universe. “ Hard not to fall in. ”

Senku didn’t reply.

“ Though I suppose it’s easier when you’ve already fallen and just pretend you haven’t. ” Ryusui took a sip, smirking faintly. “ Still. I expected at least one move from you. Maybe a sarcastic toast. A dry insult. Anything, really, besides the sulking .”

Senku’s fingers flexed around the bottle. His voice was low. Controlled.

“ She’s allowed to dance. ”

“ Of course she is ,” Ryusui said mildly. “ But are you allowed to want to be the one she dances with? ”

Senku shot him a glance sharp enough to cut, but Ryusui only shrugged and leaned back, tilting his head toward the stars as if they might answer faster than the scientist beside him.

“ You know, ” he added after a pause, “ most people fear heartbreak. But you—you’re more afraid of the variables. What might happen if you reach out and it changes everything .”

Silence. Then, almost too quiet:

“ I’m afraid of what doesn’t change .”

Ryusui turned to him.

Senku’s eyes hadn’t left Kohaku—not when she dipped into a spin, not when she laughed against Hyōga’s shoulder, not even when she stood, momentarily alone, her hand lifting to brush the sweat from her brow, face tipped to the sky like she was daring it to rain.

“ What doesn’t change ,” Senku said again, “ is that I’m the one who keeps the world moving. Not her. Not them. Me. I don’t get to want anything unless I can carry it and still move forward .”

Ryusui exhaled through his nose. “ Then I hope for your sake she doesn’t look back. Because if she does, and she sees you standing still… ”

Senku finally drank. It tasted like smoke and overripe fruit.

He didn’t say anything else.

He couldn’t.

Because the firelight flickered—

And she did look back.

Not for long. Just a flick of her eyes, as if something in her ribs had twitched and told her: He’s watching.

Their gaze locked across the party. The world fell quiet in that single second, every light, every sound, every body slipping out of sync.

She didn’t beckon him.

She didn’t smile.

She just saw him.

And then she turned away.

Senku stood in the ruin of that moment like a scientist watching the stars blink out, one by one.

And he thought—

So this is what it feels like when the lioness doesn’t bare her teeth. When she simply walks away.

Senku set the bottle down on the edge of a barrel, the glass clinking with finality. His footsteps moved away from the light, away from the laughter, away from her . No words passed between him and Ryusui as he left—only the echo of restraint, the friction of unspent desire hanging in the space like gunpowder air before a storm.

Ryusui didn’t follow. He simply exhaled and tipped the last of his brew back, the liquid catching in his throat like a truth he didn’t want to swallow.

He waited. He always did.

And right on cue, a shadow peeled from the mast’s edge with theatrical dismay.

“ You unbelievable pirate, ” Gen said, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “ You’re ruining my experiment. ”

Ryusui didn’t look at him. “ Oh, I thought we were running the same trial .”

“ Hardly ,” Gen sniffed, stepping into the fire’s amber fringe. His kimono swayed with each step, loose and soft like a silk lie. “ I was orchestrating a moment of intimacy—carefully timed, perfectly balanced. Not… that. ” He gestured vaguely toward the horizon Senku had vanished into.

Ryusui cracked a grin. “ You mean the part where he almost snapped and kissed her in front of half the ship? ”

“ No, ” Gen said flatly. “ The part where he didn’t. ”

A beat. Then Ryusui laughed, low and unrepentant, the sound sliding

Gen narrowed his eyes, arms folding as he watched Senku's retreating back disappear into the shadows between masts.

“ You knew, didn’t you ,” he muttered, his voice smooth as ever, but with an edge—like silk hiding a blade. “ You saw the match burning and decided to blow on it .”

Ryusui didn't look at him right away. He swirled his cup, watching the way the dregs slid in slow, hypnotic circles. “ I merely ensured the stage had good lighting. That’s not starting a fire—it’s... ambiance .”

Gen scoffed. “ You’re playing Cupid with a flint and steel, you overgrown romantic. ”

“ And you’re not? ” Ryusui arched an eyebrow now, turning slightly toward him. “ Come on, Gen. Don’t look so betrayed. We’re both in the meddler’s guild. ”

“ That’s not the point, ” Gen hissed, stepping closer, voice low enough that only the sea and the mast ropes heard. “ The point is that I had a method. Timing. Flow. A controlled environment. You just— ” he gestured loosely toward the chaos of dancing bodies, the swelling music, the girl in the dress and the man who didn’t chase her “— you just tossed it to fate and called it a strategy .”

Ryusui grinned.

“ Guilty .”

Gen gave him a look of pure exasperation. “ You’re impossible .”

“ I’m irresistible .”

“Worse .”

“ You’re welcome .”

They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the drums, to Kohaku’s laughter threading through it all like something untouchable. Then Ryusui finally dropped the smirk.

“ Listen .” He took another sip, slower now, less performative. “ I know what it costs them. Hell, I know better than most. I’ve walked away from wanting before—needed to. Because sometimes the ship you steer can’t carry both your ambition and your heart. ”

Gen blinked. It was rare, hearing Ryusui sound like that— grounded. Real.

“ So ,” Gen said, softer, “ why poke at it? ”

Ryusui looked out toward the stars—the ones even the lanterns couldn’t outshine. His voice came out like confession.

“ Because I want to believe they can find a way to carry both. Because if they can do it… ”

He trailed off.

Gen’s mouth twisted. “ You mean there’s hope for the rest of us? ”

“No ,” Ryusui said, almost smiling again, but with a gentler tilt. “ I mean we don’t have to keep pretending we weren’t born to want. ”

Another pause passed between them—one without banter, without the easy flick of wit or the armor of arrogance. Just two men watching a story unfold they could only nudge, not write.

Gen let out a long breath, the tension bleeding from his shoulders. “ You know, ” he said, almost to himself, “ sometimes I wish I’d stayed a magician. At least then, I could pretend the trick worked .”

Ryusui clapped him on the back, the force of it knocking the breath out of him.

“ Please ,” he said. “ You are still a magician. But the best tricks… ” His eyes glinted with something between mischief and mourning. “ The best ones always come with a cost .”

Gen didn’t respond. He just stared at the dancing lanterns, at the girl with sunlight for hair moving through shadows.

And somewhere inside him, something whispered:

Let them burn. Or let them build. But let them choose.

Chapter Text

They passed beneath the Golden Gate Bridge at dawn.

It loomed from the fog like the ribs of a long-dead god—its great towers rusted hollow, cables sagging with time, its once-fiery paint stripped to bare metal and weeping streaks of mossy green. Vines snaked along the steel like veins through a corpse. Beneath one arch, a lone seabird spiraled, then vanished into the pale mist, as if swallowed by the breath of something ancient.

No one spoke.

They were still cradling the echoes of last night’s celebration. The party had been loud, fierce, and foolish—the kind born at the edge of fear, where laughter comes too easily and sorrow waits just outside the lantern light. Chrome and Gen had brewed something acidic and wild, sharp enough to make them forget they were sailing into the unknown. For one night, they’d pretended they had arrived somewhere worth arriving.

And now, morning had come to collect its debt.

Kohaku stood at the bow, spine unbent but breath shallow, the wind threading through her hair like fingers through unraveling silk. Her grip on the railing was firm, not for balance but for discipline. She refused to sway—even as her head pulsed with the consequences of joy.

Behind her, Senku stood silent. He hadn’t drunk beyond a token sip—" a biochemically idiotic use of ethanol, " he’d muttered—but something about him felt just as raw. His hands were in his pockets, his eyes fixed on the bridge as though trying to calculate how many centuries it had taken for the world to forget what humanity once built.

Near the mast, Gen lay sprawled in theatrical defeat, one arm draped over his eyes, a canteen cradled like a relic. His tinted glasses were pure affectation—there was no sun, just a bleached, grey sky and the hush of water slapping against the hull. Chrome sat beside him, head bowed to the rail, still and pale, like a boy hoping the ocean would take pity on him.

“Landfall, ” Ryusui called out, voice far too crisp for a morning like this. It cut clean through the fog, confident as ever. “ At the edge of the world! ”

From above, Homura’s voice floated down—clear, clipped.

“ There are statues .”

Silence dropped like a stone into the sea.

Eyes turned toward the cliffs beyond the tree-choked shore. And there they were—half-buried in green, nestled between roots and stone. Statues. Dozens. Maybe more. Some upright, some toppled, all caught in their final, frozen moments. A woman with her arms around a child. A man with one hand raised to shield his face. A figure mid-leap from a rock that no longer existed.

They did not look like survivors.

Gen pushed himself upright, moving slow, like everything suddenly weighed more. His smile came late—thin, brittle.

“ Well ,” he said quietly, “ so much for hoping .”

He didn’t have to explain.

That whisper had followed them every mile across the sea. Maybe someone made it. Maybe another kingdom rose from stone. Maybe America had its own flames burning in the dark. Maybe, for once, the answer wouldn’t be just us.

But the bridge stood alone. No towers. No ruins. No welcome.

There was no city to greet them.

Only trees.

This had once been San Francisco. That much they knew. But it bore no resemblance now. Forests had claimed the streets, swallowed the land whole. What hadn’t been uprooted had crumbled to dust. Nature had rewritten the map—new rivers, split cliffs, entire hills risen where there had once been glass and steel. Civilization had been erased so completely it might never have existed.

Only the bridge remained, rising from the earth like a defiant scar.

Gen’s voice was softer now.

“ We told ourselves stories. Kingdoms of the west. Parallel people who remembered fire. Songs sung in languages we never taught them .” He exhaled and looked up, the wind tugging at the corner of his coat. “But this… this is the same silence. Just wearing a different face. ”

Kohaku said nothing. Her gaze hadn’t moved from the shore. She hadn’t spoken at all that morning—not since waking half-wrapped in her own blanket, Ryusui’s coat draped over her shoulders, the bitter taste of drink still in her mouth and the memory of dancing still warm in her chest. Laughter echoing. Chrome trying to balance on a barrel. A world that, for one brief hour, had felt alive again.

Senku exhaled, sharp and low.

“ We’re not here for hope ,” he said. “ We’re here for answers .”

But his voice lacked its usual edge. It rang hollow, as if the words were scaffolding—something to cling to in a place where everything else had already fallen.

Behind them, the ship creaked as the sails dropped. The water stilled.

And ahead, the forgotten continent waited, silent as stone.

The crew began to scatter—some to the ropes, some to the barrels, Chrome muttering about needing dry land before his stomach declared mutiny. Gen slinked off with the practiced grace of a man seeking a dark corner in which to dramatically recover. Even Ryusui, forever starbound, gave them a moment, his footsteps fading below deck.

Senku stayed.

So did she.

Kohaku hadn’t moved since they’d first glimpsed the cliffs. The statues still clung to the edge of the world like ghosts watching them come ashore. Her jaw was tight. She hadn’t blinked in a while.

Senku slid a hand into the folds of his coat, pulled out a small glass vial. No words. Just the soft clink of glass against glass as he turned it over in his palm. The liquid inside was golden, viscous, catching the light like honey drawn from some ancient hive.

He offered it, the gesture quiet.

Kohaku glanced only once. “ What is it? ”

“ Fermented pine sap and orange peel, ” he said. “ Technically, a degenerate byproduct of Gen’s last experiment. Not dangerous. Probably .” A beat. “ Good for nausea .”

Kohaku looked at the vial for a moment, then took it wordlessly. She didn’t drink, but she held it, staring at the way the liquid curled inside like it had a pulse.

“ I thought I’d feel something ,” she said finally. Her voice was low, half-buried in the mist. “ When we landed. When we saw the shore .”

“ You do feel something ,” Senku replied. “ It’s just not what you expected .”

She turned toward him then, eyes flint-bright but unfocused. “I kept thinking… maybe there would be people. A flare in the distance. A voice. Something. And now they’re just stone. The same as everywhere else.”

Senku didn’t answer immediately. He leaned on the railing beside her, close but not touching. The salt wind caught the edges of his hair.

“ The world doesn’t owe us signs, ” he said. “ Doesn’t owe us survivors, or answers that make sense. ” He looked out at the cliffs, the trees rising from the bones of the old world. “ All it owes us is the truth. Whatever it is. And we’ll dig it up, piece by piece .”

Kohaku let out a slow breath. “ You’re very good at saying the right things .”

“I’m not ,” he said, not quite smiling. “ But I am good at saying the true things .”

They stood like that for a while—just two outlines against the fog. The wind tossed the mist around them, sea and silence and ghosts.

Then Senku added, voice almost casual, “ You were dancing last night .”

A flicker of something crossed her face. “ I don’t remember that. ”

“ Liar ,” he said, and this time, he did smile—just barely, just enough to be seen if she was looking.

Kohaku didn’t answer. But after a moment, she unstoppered the vial, took a small sip, and grimaced.

“ …That’s awful .”

“ Welcome to science .”

She made a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh, low in her throat.

Then her hand found the railing again. Not clenched this time. Just there. Steady.

“Let’s find the truth, then, ” she said, eyes sharp again. “Whatever’s left of it.”

Senku nodded once.

“No matter how deep it’s buried .”

They didn’t speak. None of them did.

The ocean wind had quieted, as though reluctant to cross the threshold between water and land. Even the waves seemed to hush themselves against the shore, curling inward like whispers. From the deck above, the main ship loomed still, sails half-furled and mast creaking in the breeze, tethered just beyond the swell. The Golden Gate Bridge arched in the distance like a skeleton turned to prayer—its cables sagging, its rusted joints caught in the embrace of green vines. Time had not killed it, only hollowed it.

The air smelled of salt and earth and something older—like ash that had long since cooled.

Kohaku was the first to rise. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as though sudden motion might offend the silence. She stepped off the boat and onto the land, heels of her stone-crafted footwear sinking a fraction into the softened loam. The shore gave under her weight but did not falter. She looked ahead, past the bramble and moss, to where the land disappeared into ancient green.

A single bird cried out above them, wheeling once through the pale sky before vanishing into the canopy.

Senku followed. He carried no weapons, only a bag slung over his shoulder and that unreadable expression he wore when his mind was moving faster than his body. His boots touched the soil like they meant to test it, as if science alone could wake the bones beneath their feet.

Behind him came Gen—slow, theatrical, sunglasses perched low on the bridge of his nose, a canteen pressed to his temple like it might draw the fever out. The remains of their celebration clung to him like a poorly worn coat: slurred laughter, glowing bottles, the taste of sour citrus and poorly aged something. Even now, his breath held the ghost of it.

Chrome emerged next, squinting against the light. He’d rallied, but only just. His walk was uneven, burdened by a satchel of tools and the weight of waking up to a world that didn’t want to remember itself.

Ryusui brought up the rear, his stride jaunty in defiance of the quiet. He looked as though he meant to call out something grand, something triumphant, but the words caught before they could form. The stillness pressed down on him too.

They were not explorers here. Not conquerors. Just survivors, walking into a graveyard.

Homura dropped soundlessly from a nearby ridge, landing in a crouch beside them. No one had seen her go, or return.

“There are more inland ,” she said, nodding once toward the cliffs.

It took a moment before anyone asked what she meant.

“ Statues ,” she clarified. “ Dozens. Maybe more .”

They turned slowly, eyes scanning the ridgeline above. And there they were: frozen in place, embedded in the cliffside like fossils. Human forms half-swallowed by vines and rock. One woman, her face upturned as if toward some final sun. A man with a hand outstretched mid-stride. A child perched on what must once have been a ledge—now only a stump of stone. Their presence felt unnatural and deeply familiar all at once.

Chrome’s breath hitched. Senku didn’t look up. He had crouched already, fingers sifting the soil. A sample. A beginning.

They began to walk. Slowly.

Kohaku took the lead. Her steps made no sound but carried authority, the kind that doesn’t ask for permission. Her heels crushed moss, sank into the soft ruin of what might once have been a road. Beneath the greenery, patterns still whispered—old stones arranged in forgotten grids, hints of civilization overtaken by time’s slow mercy.

There were no buildings here. No signs. No broken cars or shattered glass. The city had not fallen.

It had been devoured.

Trees rose where towers once stood—thick, ancient things with roots that cracked through the last concrete bones of the past. Wildflowers bloomed through the ribs of fallen rebar. Ferns unfurled from the mouths of rusted hydrants. The air was rich with green and growth and ghosts.

They passed another statue. A woman, caught mid-turn, arms shielding her face.

Gen stopped in front of it, his lips twisting into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“ Do you think she saw it coming? ”

Senku stood a few paces behind him.

“ No, ” he said quietly. “ No one did .”

Chrome stepped around the base of a tree that had grown through the remnants of what might have once been a bench.

“ So this… this is San Francisco? ”

“ It was ,” Gen said.

Kohaku didn’t turn. She kept walking, her gaze ahead.

Ryusui adjusted the pack on his back, looking up at the sky.

“ No towers. No survivors. Just the old bones. ”

Senku ran a hand through his hair. “ We didn’t come here to be greeted. ”

“Still would’ve been nice ,” Chrome muttered.

Kohaku paused. The trail had narrowed, the forest thickening around them. Up ahead, a fallen sign lay half-swallowed in the dirt, only the top curve of a letter visible—once part of a name, now just shape and rust.

She spoke without looking back.

“ We’re not the first to walk here. But we might be the last .”

The others stopped behind her.  Senku stepped forward again. Always forward.

“ No ,” he said. “ Not the last .”

He dropped to one knee and placed a flat black disc against the ground—his latest invention. It whirred faintly. Measured. Recorded. A thin line of light blinked along its rim.

“ We’re the first chapter of what comes next .”

Kohaku glanced back at him. Their eyes met—brief, silent.

Then the wind stirred the trees again, and they moved on.

The water shimmered in fractured gold beneath the morning sun, a trail of wake splitting it clean as the two boats cut downstream—one sleek and powerful, the other squat and humming with quiet intent. The mobile lab floated like a slow, thinking animal, its bow lined with makeshift glass instruments and harnessed panels catching the light. Ahead of it, darting with the ease of predatory grace, the speedboat tore through the current—slicing past long-submerged ruins now devoured by roots and moss, the skeletons of a fallen age.

No one spoke for a while.

The forest was loud in the way untouched things are loud. The canopy groaned and whispered above cliffs that had once been freeways, now a cradle of green teeth. Insects sang. Somewhere, a bird cawed once—sharp, echoing, like a warning shot.

Kohaku knelt near the prow of the speedboat, wind pushing against her cheekbones, one hand braced against the metal hull. Her golden eyes were narrowed, but not from the light. She wasn’t looking at the river. Not exactly.

She watched the way Tsukasa stood at the helm, motionless except for the tilt of his head as he read the current like scripture. The sun caught in the ends of his wild hair, but it was the fur cloak—weathered, thick, soft with wear—that caught her attention. It moved oddly with the wind, not in the rhythm of cloth, but like something remembering what it had once been. She stared at it for too long, as though searching for something unspoken. Not weakness. Never that. But something old. Something quietly human.

The others were scattered behind her—Hyoga still as a coiled reed, Matsukaze sharpening the point of his spear with deliberate friction, Ginro arguing in low tones with Kinro, who ignored him in the practiced way of older brothers. Homura lounged near the edge, her hair flicking in the wind like flame, eyes sharp and distant. Moz watched the treeline, not because he was ordered to—but because something had unsettled him.

It was Kirasame who said it first. Quiet. Almost lost to the engine’s growl.

“ ...Something moved .”

No one laughed. No one dismissed her.

Kohaku stood slowly, her hand falling to the hilt of the stone blade at her back. Her eyes scanned the surface. The river was thick with silt and shadow, but for a moment, she thought she saw it too—a bloom beneath the water, dark and rising, as if something vast had shifted.

Behind them, the second boat trailed through the river’s curve, its pace steady, unhurried, deliberate. Ryusui manned the controls with one hand and the practiced ease of a man born to helm the sea, calling something over his shoulder to Gen. Above the cabin, the hatch creaked open. Senku emerged in a fluid motion, bracing himself against the edge with arms folded, eyes narrowed against the wind as he scanned the shifting river. Ukyo crouched beside him, body still, head tilted—not watching, but listening, every muscle attuned to sound, to movement, to things the rest of them could not yet hear.

They weren’t looking at the water. Not yet.

Kohaku took a breath. The air smelled old, like iron and green and something else. Something wrong.

Her fingers curled.

Three thousand seven hundred years of silence did not mean the world had slept.

And something beneath the surface had begun to wake.

The stillness broke.

Not with a ripple. Not with warning.

The water exploded.

From the deep, ancient crocodiles launched upward like submerged nightmares. Their massive jaws broke the surface first—gnarled, algae-slick, teeth like sunken stone. One slammed into the underside of Senku’s lab boat, sending it lurching with a metallic groan. Another surged alongside the floating structure, its tail cracking against the side as it tried to clamber over.

There was no deck. No helm. Only the tight corridors and outer ledges of Senku’s mobile lab—barely wide enough for two to pass, and now drenched with river spray and the raw stink of predator.

Gen cursed and stumbled inside, already pulling Chrome by the sleeve.
“ Out of the way, out of the way—!”

Senku had climbed through the top hatch a moment earlier, crouched against the roof’s curve, eyes narrowed against the sunlight. The impact made the whole lab shudder beneath him, but he didn’t flinch—he was already calculating the pressure distribution, the likelihood of hull breach, the fastest way to reroute power to the stabilizers.

Ukyo had emerged alongside him, crouched low, bow already notched. He listened—then loosed an arrow straight up.

The sky cracked.

Kohaku saw it.

By the time Tsukasa veered the speedboat around, her boots were already striking the edge. Her body arced midair, sunlight flashing off the pale fur behind Tsukasa’s back—the same fur she'd been staring at moments earlier, thoughts unreadable.

She landed on the lab’s narrow upper platform with a thud that rattled the entire frame. Her heels skidded slightly on the wet surface, but she didn’t fall. Her blade drove down—clean, surgical—into the eye of the first crocodile trying to scale the side.

Another shape shot overhead.

Homura.

Her ponytail curled skyward like a blood-petaled flame, her body whirling low in a spin before she planted herself against the rear edge of the lab. She didn’t wait for room. She made it. Her daggers flashed out, biting into scaled flesh as another crocodile rose from the river mouth.

Hyoga dropped beside her, his long blade a punctuation mark. Together, they danced—an arc of steel and silence. Homura struck to mislead. Hyoga struck to end.

Then Moz came.

He didn’t leap; he landed —a vertical descent from the power boat that broke the water’s rhythm with sheer presence. He drove his blade into the second beast’s flank as if splitting wood. Kirasame was at his side before the ripple had finished traveling, her blades twirling once, twice—then cutting deep into tendon and joint.

The mobile lab rocked hard as another crocodile slammed into its far side.

Ginro screamed.
Kinro shoved him backward, shield up, golden spear out.

“ Don’t let them touch the hull! ” Senku snapped above them. “ One breach and this thing sinks like a rock! ”

Matsukaze moved without sound. He dropped from above—narrow footfalls landing square on the back of one creature, blade slicing in an unbroken line down its spine. The creature twisted, gurgled, and stilled.

Then—
BANG!

A shot rang out from the speedboat.

Yo was standing at the bow, legs shaking with adrenaline, gun clutched in both hands. His face was pale and wild-eyed, but he fired again, aiming for the beast’s open maw.

“ Take that, swamp nightmare!! ”

He missed. The bullet skipped off the water with a splash, ricocheted off a half-submerged tree trunk, and very nearly struck Moz—who didn’t flinch, but did shoot him a glare sharp enough to shear metal.

“ I’m helping! ” Yo yelled defensively. “ You’re welcome !”

Kohaku didn’t look back. Her focus remained on the next predator breaching the surface, her spear spinning with cold, brutal grace.

Blood sprayed into the river. The air stank of algae, iron, and heat.

On the speedboat, Tsukasa stood motionless beside Yo, the fur at his shoulders catching the wind.

He didn’t move to join.

He didn’t need to.

“They’ll hold, ” he said, voice quiet. “ The science team will live. ”

The riverbed, still damp with the residue of the recent skirmish, shimmered faintly beneath the hard light of the afternoon sun. Crocodiles—hulking, ancient beasts—lay motionless now, their gnarled bodies dragged ashore, glistening like wet leather under the sky. The air was thick with salt, blood, and the coppery sting of exertion, but it was quiet, finally. The kind of quiet that follows only after a storm.

Their numbers had held. No one had been lost. But the price of survival lingered in the slump of their shoulders, the sweat that soaked through fabric and bark and leather, and the gnawing in their bellies—a hunger not just for food, but for reprieve.

Senku stood at the water’s edge, his eyes weren’t on the crocodiles, but on the crew. Chrome with his hands on his knees, chest rising and falling. Ukyo, a faint wince as he rotated his arm. Even Kohaku, unbowed and proud, stood a hair more still than usual, her strength banked like a flame.

Senku exhaled, slow and quiet.

“We’ll use the meat ,” he said.

There was no declaration in his tone. Just a decision—measured, precise, inevitable.

The words rolled across the group like a tide, unspoken relief unraveling in its wake. They were scientists, warriors, survivors—but they were still human. And hunger, in the end, was a language they all spoke.

Senku didn’t linger. He stepped back, giving way to the ones who knew how to carve and clean, to make something useable out of bone and sinew. Matsukaze was already at work, Hyoga beside him with characteristic quiet. Even Ginro—usually the first to shirk hard labor—had found a knife.

And then there was Ryusui.

His gaze, ever skyward, now turned groundward—decisive, efficient. He reached for the makeshift communicator: a crude, genius construction of salvaged coils and amplification plates, lashed together with wire and stone, more warhorn than telephone. It crackled to life with a static buzz, oscillating like the throat of some ancient beast.

He brought it to his lips and grinned like a man calling down the gods.

“ François ,” he said, voice bold, commanding, as though addressing the heavens. “ Your chef’s hands are required. We’ve got crocodile on the menu. Come to the riverbank. I expect perfection .”

The static sputtered. A beat passed.

Then came the reply—refined, warm, as crisp as a pressed napkin.

“ Understood. I’ll be there shortly. And rest assured, monsieur Ryusui... even crocodile shall taste like triumph .”

Ryusui lowered the communicator with a smile of perfect satisfaction. He looked over his shoulder at the camp beginning to stir—tools drawn, fires kindled, blades glinting as they worked—and gave a small, approving nod.

The sun had begun its slow descent behind the canopy, casting long shadows across the bank. A fire was lit—not for light, but for warmth, for cooking, for spirit. Around it, the crew took shape, bone-weary but alive. There were no grand speeches, no victory cries. Just motion. Quiet, precise, necessary motion.

Senku sat with his elbows on his knees, watching the sparks rise.

The crocodiles would not be remembered. But the moment might. Not for the kill. Not even for the meal. But for what it gave them:

Another day.

Another chance.

And, perhaps, the first real taste of home since they’d left the sea behind.

The crocodile's body lay across the riverbed like some ancient beast dragged out from myth—its belly upturned to the sky, limbs splayed, the bulk of it still refusing to yield entirely to death. Its thick tail had already been claimed—hacked off cleanly by Hyoga’s spear and hauled aside for smoking, the muscle expertly scored in tidy, diagonal slashes. The ribcage, half-flayed, yawned open like the hull of a sunken canoe, abandoned generations ago and only now unearthed by purpose. Each blow of the axe was met with methodical knife-work—sharp, rhythmic, quiet. There was no ceremony to it. Only the strange reverence that comes from survival.

Kohaku was crouched low, knees firm in the silted riverbank, her hands already stained dark with effort. Her blade—flint, long as her forearm—slid between sinew and joint with the confidence of someone who knew how bodies worked in motion and in stillness. There was no hesitation in her cuts, no waste. Her golden hair clung to her jaw in damp, escaping strands, half-freed from its confined ponytail. Her stone platform heels, mud-caked but resolute, never once slipped.

She moved like a force of nature. Not urgent. Just inevitable.

Beside her, Tsukasa carved through bone with his stone axe, each strike deliberate and unhurried. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, forearms streaked with the red and ochre marks of labor, though his expression remained unchanged—calm, focused, like the meat was simply another puzzle the world had asked him to solve.

“ You’re surprisingly delicate with your cuts ,” Kohaku said at length, not lifting her gaze. Her tone was easy, but not idle—it carried the familiar ring of a hunter acknowledging another.

Tsukasa didn’t look up. “It’s an animal. Not an enemy. ”

Kohaku's lips tugged sideways. “ A distinction you make often? ”

“ When it matters .”

She exhaled, amused. Not a laugh, exactly—but the closest thing to one that didn’t interrupt her work. “ Well, I’m just relieved Senku wasn’t the first to reach it. He’d be halfway through a lecture on reptilian kidney function by now, while the rest of us starve to death on principle .”

“ Accurate ,” said a voice—crisp, sun-dry, and smugly timed. “ Though I maintain you’d die enlightened .”

Kohaku turned, already knowing. Senku stood just behind them, half-leaning against a downed log like a figure someone had accidentally whittled out of thought. One foot crossed lazily over the other, arms folded. His white coat was rolled up past his elbows, smudged with travel and soot. Somehow, his hair still flared skyward, defying not only gravity but the general weariness of the day. It caught the fading light like a crown—silver with a defiant streak.

He wasn’t watching her, not directly. But his gaze skimmed the edges of the camp—the fire ring, the stacked tools, the shadows that moved behind trees. Ever calculating. Always elsewhere.

Kohaku tilted her head. “I thought you’d be fussing over the lab boat. Not loitering like a tragic character from a forgotten epic .”

“I don’t loiter ,” Senku replied evenly. “ I oversee .”

“ You look like you’re brooding .”

“I calculate in silence. It just happens to look cinematic. ”

Tsukasa let out something that wasn’t quite a laugh—more like a breath carrying the shape of one. His axe came down again with a satisfying crunch.

“ You came to check the meat? ” he asked without looking back.

Senku shrugged one shoulder. “I came to ensure no one ruptured a bile duct and turned our dinner into a chemical weapon. And maybe to stretch my legs. You people hoard all the fun.”

Kohaku gave a soft, sardonic noise. “ Trade you. You carve, and I get to fiddle with sulfur and hope it doesn’t explode .”

Senku arched a brow. “ I already handle cold-blooded monsters daily. It’s called leadership. ”

That coaxed a rare huff from Tsukasa—a quiet exhale, brief and dry, as if even he couldn’t help it.

Senku’s gaze drifted to the horizon, where the last blush of sun slipped behind the trees and the evening began to claim its hour. The air cooled around the edges. He shifted, but didn’t move from the log. Still poised. Still apart.

“ François should be here soon ,” he said, more to the trees than to the people. “ Ryusui was yelling into that megaphone like a deity. If it didn’t echo back to the Perseus, I’ll give up my leadership to Magma .”

Kohaku smiled faintly. “ I hope Suika comes too. Camp’s always brighter with her around .”

Senku’s expression didn’t change. But something behind it did. His voice, when it came, was quieter.

“ She makes it easier to remember what we’re trying to save. ”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It settled over the camp like a shared breath—light, heavy, warm.

And in that moment, Senku remembered.

The night of the festival. The firelight licking gold along the river’s edge. Kohaku dancing—not for anyone, not even for herself, but for the memory of a world she had never seen. He had watched her then, from the fringe of celebration, trying not to be seen watching. Her movements had been wild, radiant. Not rehearsed. Not pretty. Real.

And it had struck him—not with romance, not with awe, but with the sheer, impossible weight of it all.

She was alive. And this was the world they were trying to rebuild.

He had never said a word about it.

He never would.

But the image lived in him like science did—in full, merciless clarity.

Now, she sheathed her blade and made her way to him, not as a soldier returning, but simply as herself. She dropped onto the log beside him without preamble, close but not touching, her knees muddied and her arms streaked. She didn’t lean. She never did. But the nearness of her felt intentional.

Senku didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to.

Tsukasa’s voice broke the quiet. “ The meat’s clean. Enough for everyone. Twice over, if we’re careful .”

Senku nodded once. Still watching the dark between the trees. “ Then we wait .”

But it wasn’t idle waiting—not here.

It was filled with the flick of flint and the clatter of stone. The quiet coordination of people who knew one another in the way only survival could teach. Chrome let out a mild curse as something collapsed in his makeshift grill. Hyoga muttered an adjustment. The scent of river and smoke curled upward like incense for a god no longer watching.

And somewhere beyond the trees, there was the faintest tremor. Wheels over root. A distant voice rising.

François was coming.

Civilization approached—not with fanfare, but with flavor.

And dinner, at long last, would be worthy of the fight it took to earn it.

Night fell slow and amber, like honey poured too long—thick and glowing, the kind of dusk that felt earned after a day of sweat and sun. It melted into the skin, into the dirt, into the lungs of those who had carved their survival from tooth and fire. The riverbank exhaled with them—quieting now, softened to the rustle of drying leaves, the sleepy snap of bark splitting in fire, the whisper of flames tracing the underbellies of logs.

Above the low crackle, sparks rose and wandered—drawn skyward in fits, forming momentary constellations no one had names for yet. And maybe they never would. Laughter waned to murmurs, the kind that didn’t need meaning. Just presence. Just people still alive. Bellies full. Knives sheathed. The taste of charred meat and smoke still rich on every tongue, holding in it something ancestral—something that said, we lived again today.

But Senku had not rested.

Not even with the others softening into sleep or firelight ease. He stood apart from the circle, half-shadowed near a thicket of reeds, crouched low with one arm braced to his knee. The other hand gripped a crude but clever thing: a bulb of handblown glass, threaded with copper filament and laced to a thermal pack that pulsed faintly at his hip. It flickered like a captured star—its light strange and golden, neither fire nor moon.

Gen had sworn it wouldn’t explode.

Gen had also taken two steps back, arms crossed and eyes narrowed with theatrical concern.

Senku, for his part, was unconcerned.

He tilted the light upward, and the reeds hissed with motion. Moths—dozens of them, pale as breath—lifted in startled spirals. They caught the light like torn silk, each winged body feathered with minute orange dust. In the hush, their fluttering was loud as pages turning.

Senku’s mouth curved. “ Lepidoptera melanocornis, ” he whispered, half to himself, half to the air. His voice carried just enough to rouse curiosity, but not enough to invite interruption. “Migration pattern confirmed. And those wing stains—no question.”

Behind him, Chrome shuffled into view, rubbing a palm across his face as he chewed on the last strip of crocodile tail. “You naming bugs again, or doing that thing where you talk to yourself and pretend it’s not weird?”

Senku didn’t look away. “They fed on corn,” he said, and his tone changed—sharpened, charged, electrified. It was that tone he only used when he was standing inches from a world-altering truth. “See that pigment? The way it clings to the wing veins? That's not wild pollen. That’s anthocyanin. Engineered. Zea mays. ”

Chrome blinked, sluggish, chewing slower. “Which means…?”

“It means they came from a field,” Senku said, rising now, the flashlight trembling faintly in his grip—not from instability, but from the sheer rush of it. “A field , Chrome. Of cultivated corn.”

Even the firelight seemed to lean in.

“That’s agriculture. That’s not some leftover grove or accident. That’s intent. That’s a brain and a hand and a plan. That’s humans. Alive. Organized. Farming. Now. ” He turned, eyes wide, grin feral, voice lowering to something hoarse with restrained awe. “We’re not just close. We’re breathing their air. ”

Back by the fire, Kohaku stirred from where she’d been seated, quiet, observant. Her gaze, feline in its alertness, slid toward him. The flames etched her in bronze and shadow—muscle, tension, the steel beneath her beauty. “So someone’s been farming here,” she said softly.

Senku met her eyes and nodded, a heartbeat of silence between them.

“And they’re smart enough to grow corn on American soil,” he said. “That’s no small feat. That’s knowledge. That’s data. That’s civilization waiting to be rediscovered.”

He turned, the next thought already halfway to his lips, meant for Tsukasa—

But Tsukasa was no longer at the fire.

He stood apart now, at the edge of the tree line, cast in half-silhouette—statuesque and still, as if carved by what he heard.

Head tilted. Listening.

The fire popped.

The reeds shifted.

And then it came.

A sound too thin for the Stone World. Too precise. Not bird. Not breeze. Not wood. Not fire.

A crack .

Not loud.

But true .

Tsukasa’s spine straightened, muscles winding taut as drawn cord. His eyes sharpened like wet obsidian. The camp froze, though most didn’t yet understand why.

Then it came again.

Crack.

And now even the ones who had never heard it knew.

A voice older than memory. Mechanical. Merciless.

Not a branch breaking. Not a predator’s footfall.

A sound that had once belonged only to gods of war.

A sound that should have died with the last rusted barrel of the old world.

A report.

Gunfire.

Tsukasa turned, his voice slicing across the camp like a drawn blade. “ Retreat. ”

No panic. Just iron.

Several heads jerked up—confused, slow.

But not Kohaku.

The chaos erupted like a split atom—an explosion of screams, gunfire, and splintered ground. But all of it dimmed, muffled like he was underwater. The world narrowed to a pinhole, collapsing in on itself until there was only her .

Kohaku.

She was moving with the others, retreating—but he saw it before she did. That open stretch of land. That too-slow turn of her head. That subtle shift in her shoulders.

She realized it a heartbeat too late.

Senku’s legs had already launched him forward, mouth open, the air already torn from his lungs before his scream could break free.

"KOHAKU!"

But it came too late.

He should have known.
The terrain. The layout. The likelihood of hostiles following predictable ambush paths. He had the schematics of the terrain memorized, the friction coefficients of loose soil underfoot.
He should have known.

But there had been no time.

Now, the scream left his throat like shrapnel.

“KOHAKU!”

The gunfire cracked the horizon open, and in that fractal second before the first bullet hit, Senku calculated the chamber cycle: 750 rounds per minute, muzzle velocity 820 m/s, with a 6.5 kg receiver and estimated recoil dampened by elevation.
Reload time: 4.6 seconds. Enough. Barely.

Then the shot connected.

Her body jerked—shoulder first—blood blooming like a solar flare caught in motion, and for a fraction of time, everything froze.
The math vanished.
There was only her.

The second bullet slammed into her sword arm, her body wrenching violently, muscles misfiring in real time. Her weapon clattered to the dirt, fingers twitching against the grass. She staggered—never fully down—until the third impact twisted her frame with a final, merciless violence.
And then—

She collapsed.

It felt like gravity snapped in half.

Senku's knees hit the ground, the momentum pitching him forward as if reality itself couldn’t hold him upright. He crawled, crawled, the raw bark of stone chewing his palms as he dragged himself across twenty meters of sheer unforgivable time.

By the time he reached her, she was no longer standing.

She was a smear of blood and breathless defiance on the grass, her golden hair tangled across her face like a final veil. Her arm, her shoulder—they gushed arterial red with an urgency that outpaced thought.

He gathered her—crushed her—to him. Her head lolled, hair catching on the stubble of his jaw. Her blood seeped into the lines of his skin like ink.

“Don’t you dare,” he choked. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Her lashes fluttered—barely.

And when her eyes opened, wide and shivering and shot with red, there was no panic. No desperation.

Just that stillness.
That fatal stillness.

“Don’t… let go,” she whispered, voice tissue-thin.

Not a plea. A farewell.

“I won’t,” he breathed, but even as he said it, she was already slipping.

Behind him, the world convulsed. The rat-a-tat of gunfire resumed—but slower. He counted:
Eleven shots. Three-second pause. The gunman was on his last clip.
He had to be.

Time left: 4.6 seconds.

Senku surged up, calculations be damned, lifting her against his chest. She was heavy with blood-loss, heavy with finality. But she was still.

Still breathing. Barely.

He ran.

Each footfall was a seismic rupture. His heartbeat synchronized with the chambered burst of automatic fire: one-two, one-two-three. And then—he heard it.
The rhythm paused.

Reload.

Now.

“RYUSUI!”

A silhouette cut through the smoke—hand extended.

Senku hurled himself toward the lab boat, Kohaku locked in his grip. Hands pulled them in. The hatch slammed. Water swallowed the boat whole.

Silence dropped.
But it was not peace.
It was the silence of grief not yet earned.

Senku sank to the floor, cradling her. Blood pooled beneath them like a second river.

And for a long, frozen moment, he did not speak.

Kohaku drifted.

It was like floating through warm black silk, her body weightless, her mind feather-thin. The pain had begun to dull—no, not dull, just distant. Her arm, her shoulder, her chest—they throbbed like things that no longer belonged to her. Detached, far away.

The voices around her were muffled. Blurry . Shapes of sound, swelling and breaking like waves crashing against a distant shore. Two voices. Familiar. Urgent.

Yelling.

Senku. Ryusui.

They were shouting. Screaming, almost. The water trembled with it, the current disturbed. It rolled over her like thunder underwater, crashing, pulling her in and out of consciousness.

"Hold her down!"
"She’s going into shock!"
"Don’t you think I KNOW THAT?!"

Senku’s voice cracked through the static in her skull. Frantic. Ripping. She had never heard him like that. Not even in battle. Not even in loss. There was something broken in him now, and he didn’t care who saw it. Didn't care that Ryusui was yelling back just as loud.

“We need to stop the bleeding—Senku—SENKU!”
“Get me pressure packs—right NOW—no, fuck it, hand me the silver nitrate! And morphine, just—keep her awake!”

Their shadows swirled above her like gods at war, frantic and devastating. She felt a searing pressure at her arm. Screamed, or maybe just thought she did. The pain snapped her back for a moment—just long enough to see him.

Senku.

His hands were red, soaked in her blood, slipping across her skin as he tried to find a way—any way—to plug the wound. His gloves had long since been ripped off, his fingers raw, trembling. His face—Gods, his face —was something she'd never forget. Eyes blown wide, jaw clenched, jaw shaking .

A tear slid off his cheek, vanishing into the wound.

“You're not dying here.” His voice shook as he ripped open a packet with his teeth. “You’re not. I didn’t come this far just to lose you—not like this. Not when I never—”

He cut himself off. She could barely hear him over the roar of her own pulse. Her eyes rolled back again.

And then—hands. Cold at first. One on her jaw. One on her heart.

A pressure against her mouth.

A kiss.

But not gentle.
Not a farewell.

It was wild.

Unforgiving.

A scream funneled through his lips, a prayer disguised as passion, a scientist's trembling attempt at resurrection with nothing but his mouth and madness to anchor her back to life.

His lips crushed against hers—hard, wet, open—desperation bleeding into desperation, blood into breath, breath into want. Their mouths collided, parted, collided again, teeth grazing, lips slipping. It was messy. Too much. Not enough.

And somewhere between the chaos,
saliva spilled—slick and silver as it clung to their mouths, stringing between them when he pulled back only a fraction, then surged forward again.

Kohaku’s cracked consciousness snapped. Her pulse, faint and flailing, ignited.
Her body couldn’t move—but her lips responded. A flicker. A twitch. Parting just enough to taste him—salt, metal, heat—his agony, his guilt, his trembling fear. He wasn’t breathing for himself anymore. He was trying to breathe her back into existence.

She saw him through a haze of red and light.

Not the mind that bent nature.
Not the tactician who could speak to the stars.

Just a man with wet lashes, a split lip, and the taste of blood and saliva and grief on his tongue.

His forehead dropped to hers, sticky with sweat and breath and the heat of something dangerously close to madness. His voice came low, guttural, stripped to nothing.

“You were always stronger than me…”
A pause. A shuddering inhale against her cheek.
“Even now. And I—I sent you in like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter. Like I could just—”

He broke.

Head bowed. Shoulders trembling.

“Like I could keep pretending this wasn’t the only thing I ever wanted.”

His hand—shaking—came to her face again. Thumb sliding across her cheekbone, smearing blood and tears and the mess of it all like paint. His other arm pulled her in tighter, fingers splayed across her back, her skin hot beneath his even though she was still barely conscious. Still barely holding on.

The world narrowed to just breath and mouth and trembling mouths—hot, open, tasting, begging. He kissed her again, wetter this time, deeper. Like he didn’t care who was watching. Like he needed her lips, her warmth, her heartbeat thudding faintly against his chest, to convince himself she wasn’t already gone.

Their mouths moved like fire consuming wood—gasping, cracking, unstoppable.
Saliva coated their lips, their chins, stringing when their lips parted, breathless and slick.

Kohaku’s lips twitched against his.
Then parted.
Alive.

Just a sliver of movement—but it was enough to send his heart into a frenzy, into orbit. Her breath touched his cheek, shallow and raw.

And he exhaled like a man being un-drowned.

Behind them, no one moved. Ryusui turned away—not out of shame, but reverence.

Senku’s hand curled at the base of her neck now, his thumb stroking the hinge of her jaw, his forehead still pressed to hers as if physical distance might snap her back into darkness.

“You absolute idiot,” he whispered, voice breaking over her lips like waves over stone. “You beautiful idiot. You think I wouldn’t burn down the world to keep you breathing?”

Then he kissed her one last time—so slow, so deep, their mouths locked, trembling—before he pulled back an inch. A trail of saliva clung to his bottom lip, connecting him to her.

Her mouth was still open.
And her pulse was still beating.

“You idiot, ” he choked, voice cracking again. “You always run ahead. Always throw yourself in the fire first—because you knew I wouldn’t. Because you knew I was too much of a coward.”

He leaned over her again, pressing gauze to her wound so hard his own knuckles turned white. His voice dropped lower, not to her now, but to Ryusui behind him.

“Her pulse is dropping—I'm not gonna let her bleed out, not like this—grab the hemostat—NOW!”

Ryusui’s voice returned, panicked but clearer.

“We can cauterize with the laser filament—Senku, we need to move fast.”

“Then DO it. Cut what you need. She’s losing blood faster than we can replace it, and we’re running out of goddamn TIME—”

Another wave of pain shattered through her, and she gasped, arching, choking on the scream that didn’t come.

Senku pressed his face against hers again.

“Stay with me. Stay with me. You don’t get to leave before I tell you. Not until I say it. Not until I—I”

Her fingers twitched.

Her eyes opened again.

For one moment—one heartbeat—she saw him.

Lit by the cold glow of science and desperation.

Beautiful. Wild. Hers.

Her mouth was still open.
And her pulse was still beating.

Senku froze. For one shattered second, he just watched her.

Blood still bloomed across her shoulder, dark and arterial, spreading down his shirt like a signature he couldn’t wash off. But her lashes had fluttered. Her lips had moved. And her chest—Gods, her chest—was rising, shallow and uneven.

“Okay,” he whispered, voice still shaking, still wet with her breath. “Okay. You’re here. You’re still here.”

Then—like the world had slammed back into him—he moved.

All heat vanished from his face. It calcified into purpose.

His hands left her reluctantly, lingering a heartbeat too long on her skin before he pulled back and became science again. The man vanished. What was left was a machine of thought, calculation, survival.

He tore open a side drawer on the mobile lab’s counter—splash of glass, cotton, dried reagents. His brain ran equations faster than his mouth could breathe:

Exit wound ratio: shallow. Not through and through. Internal bleed possible.
Bullet speed: 400 m/s.
Distance: 13 meters. Time of impact: 0.0325 seconds.
Reload cycle: every 6.2 seconds.

“Chrome!” he barked, voice hoarse but unyielding now. “I need the plasma torch. Ryusui—hold her arm at a thirty-degree elevation. We can’t let the brachial artery dump everything.”

“But—” Ryusui started.

“Now.”

There was no hesitation in his voice. Only thunder. Only war.

Chrome appeared with the plasma tool, face white. “We’re cauterizing?”

“We’re not losing her.”

Senku dropped to his knees beside her again, now soaked in blood, in sweat, in the fading heat of a kiss that had not saved her—but bought her seconds.

His hands didn’t tremble now. They couldn’t.

He found the entry wound—clean, if anything could be called that—and poured alcohol over it. Kohaku jolted beneath his fingers, barely conscious, but reacting. Good. Pain was good. Pain meant nerves. Nerves meant the spinal cord wasn’t—

Focus.

He applied the torch.

And she screamed.

A sound so ragged, so raw, it cracked through the lab like lightning. Not a gasp, not a whimper—but a warrior’s scream, ripped from the furnace of her gut. It wasn’t just pain—it was fury. Survival. Refusal.

Senku clenched his jaw. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
The hiss of cauterized flesh roared in his ears—but her scream cut deeper.

Her body arched, one leg spasming, teeth gritted against the next wail that broke loose—and Senku, still holding the torch, dropped his forehead to hers, his voice breaking in real time.

“I know. I know it hurts—I’m sorry—I’m so fucking sorry—”

He would have taken it from her if he could. Every inch of it. Every burn. Every bullet. Every scream.

But she was the one bleeding. She was the one he hadn’t protected.

Her hands had always been weapons. But now—twitching, trembling—they were just hands. And she used them both to grab his shirt, white-knuckled and blind, clutching him like an anchor in the firestorm.

Her scream quieted—but only because she was choking on it.

His voice cracked. “You’re not dying. Not for me. Not now. I won’t let it—”

He pressed the torch to the second wound.

And again—she screamed.

It wasn’t as loud this time. Her throat was already shredded. But it still forced Chrome to flinch, Ukyo to turn away, Ryusui to hold back a curse.

Senku stayed.

Even when her nails dragged down his chest. Even when the smell of seared flesh punched through his every thought. Even when his own eyes blurred, water brimming just enough to catch the glow of the plasma in reflection.

The wound hissed. Sealed. Stabilized. 

“Blood pressure’s tanking,” Chrome murmured.

Senku was already ahead. His hands moved to the IV flask they’d built three weeks ago—a contingency for infection, not hemorrhage, but they’d make it work. A mix of saline and glucose. A makeshift tube, tightened with a sterilized glass needle, pierced the crook of her elbow.

“You’re going to hate the taste of this,” he muttered, voice low, distracted—but still her. “But I need you conscious. I need you to breathe, Kohaku. Not just for me—for science. For humanity. For that dumb promise we made, remember?”

Her lips twitched.
Her throat moved.
A breath pulled through her chest, shallow—but hers.

Senku swallowed hard. His mouth still tasted like her. Blood, salt, tears. His lip was cut where their teeth had met, and a single string of saliva still clung to the corner of his mouth.

But all of that—his panic, his guilt, his desire—had no place here now.

He was a scientist again.
And he would not lose her.

Not to a bullet.
Not to blood.
Not when the last kiss still lingered between them like a promise not yet broken.

And so he stayed beside her—hands steady, heart undone—fighting not against death, but for the right to love her in a world that still dared to live.

Chapter Text

The first thing she knew was fire.

Not the kind that danced with purpose no—forge, no torch, no benevolent flame. This one crawled beneath the skin, settled in sinew and nerve, a silent predator waiting in ambush.

Kohaku did not stir.

Not yet.

Stillness was the only gift left to her body. Her senses crept back like tidewater, cautious and cold. The world returned in fragments: salt in the air, cloth beneath her cheek, the bitter aftertaste of fever.

And pain—always pain. Not sharp, not even loud anymore. Just a presence. A smoldering, ironweight thing curled into the hollow of her shoulder, as if someone had left the sun burning inside her and forgotten to put it out.

Something shifted nearby. Soft.

Not the stumble of panic or the clamor of command. Measured. Intentional. A presence cultivated by silence.

A hand—gloved brushed a damp strand of hair from her brow. The motion was clinical. But not unkind.

Her lashes fluttered. The breath she drew next was shallow, involuntary, but real. Her throat caught on it like splintered wood.

Francois did not react with surprise. Their face was composed, as always, though Kohaku could not yet see it. There was a stillness to them that felt ancient.

“ You’re awake .”

A whisper, but precise. Not praise. Not relief. An observation—perfectly timed, like tea brought at precisely the moment it is needed.

Kohaku’s brows knit. Her mouth opened, cracked, and wordless. A rasp of breath spilled through clenched teeth. She tried to lift her head.

Her body refused.

She faltered, a flash of stubborn muscle twitching—and agony bloomed. Raw, blinding. Her shoulder burned as if it remembered the flame and wanted her to remember too. She flinched, then fell back with a gasp so sharp it cleaved the air.

Francois was there before the sound had finished.

“ Do not move. ” Again, a whisper, but firmer now. Their hands adjusted the damp compress at her brow, another at her neck. “ You’ve lost more blood than you can afford. The pain will lie to you. Listen to me .”

Kohaku blinked. Her eyes focused—barely. The world was gauze and color and the faintest silhouette of silver hair and a steady gaze.

“ Sen —” The name shattered on her tongue, fragile and half-born.

Francois’s expression did not change.

“ He is nearby ,” they said. “ But I insisted he continued his plans with the others. You may direct your outrage toward me later .”

A pause.

Then, softer, “ You lived. Which was not guaranteed .”

Kohaku closed her eyes. Only for a moment. Her breath caught, caught again. She searched for something in the darkness behind her eyelids—a thought, a question, a purpose—but the pain was a veil, and the fever an ocean, and her strength a single stone sinking beneath both.

“ …how bad? ”

Francois’s hands did not pause, but the silence that followed was answer enough.

 “ You were shot twice. One round passed cleanly. The other... not so clean. We were forced to cauterize. I imagine you felt it .”

She let out a quiet, humorless sound. A breath that remembered laughter but lacked the will.

“ Yes ,” she rasped.

“ Good ,” Francois said simply, tucking the blanket higher against her collarbone. “ Pain is inconvenient, but useful. It means you have not slipped beyond our reach .”

A silence settled again, companionable in its severity. Outside, the ship creaked against its mooring, water slapping gently at the hull.

“ Would you like me to summon him?” Francois asked at last.

Kohaku did not answer. Her eyes were open, but distant. She did not nod.

She did not need to.

The door creaked, and then, for a moment, the world stilled.

Senku entered without ceremony, his silhouette framed by the dim light that filtered through the slats of the ship. He stood there for a heartbeat, eyes sweeping over Kohaku—his gaze calculating, narrowing, not quite softening, but somehow there in a way it hadn’t been before. She could hear the shift in his breath, like the weight of the universe settling in his chest, a subtle tension in the quiet between them.

For the briefest second, his eyes darted to the makeshift bed where she lay, gauging. Then they moved to the window, to the space beyond her. Anywhere but her face.

“ Francois ,” he said, voice clipped, cool—barely a murmur. “ How is she? ”

Francois didn’t respond immediately. Instead, their gaze flickered from Kohaku to Senku—perhaps a moment of quiet judgment, perhaps an understanding that passed between them in the soft fold of their expressions. Then Francois stepped back, bowing slightly, as if to say, This is your fight now.

“ You may assess her condition, Dr. Senku ,” they said with a small, knowing glance toward Kohaku. “I have done what I can .”

Kohaku’s body shifted just slightly, and she forced her head to turn toward him. She knew that silence would be all Senku needed to read the room. But her voice rasped, thin and ragged, pushing through the burn in her throat.

“ Senku... ” Her voice cracked on his name—both an accusation and a plea, a soldier’s rallying cry from somewhere deep inside the fog of pain.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t flinch when he heard her say his name like that. His eyes—those damned eyes—flicked to hers, calculating every little thing that was wrong with her in that moment. But there was a sharpness in them, something raw and untethered that caught her breath.

“ Yeah. It’s me ,” Senku answered, as if his presence was the least of her concerns. His hand, ever steady, rested on the edge of the bed, his fingers curling as though they could absorb the heat from her wounded body. “ You’re lucky you didn’t bleed out .”

She hated that he could sound so cold, but in a way it was just like him. A scientist. A strategist. One who counted losses before ever feeling them. Yet his eyes? His eyes were a different story.

Her chest heaved in frustration. “ I didn’t need your pity, Senku .”

His jaw tightened. His lip flicked upward just a hair, as if trying to find some control in a world that had none left. He took a step closer, his presence a calm storm at the edge of her broken world.

“ Lucky for you, I don’t pity anyone, ” Senku said, his voice dropping, thick with something she couldn’t quite place. “ This is... this is a failure. I should’ve —” He bit back the words, shaking his head, clearly struggling to keep composure.

She didn’t need his apology. She never had. But the weight of it hung there, between them.

The tension in the room surged, something unspoken and thick, building like thunder in the air.

And then, just when the silence seemed too heavy to bear, she spoke again. “ You’re always so sure. ”

Senku paused, a twitch in his eye. “ What? ”

Her lips parted, but her breath caught, a sharp pain lancing through her side. She gritted her teeth, pushing past it with a bitter grimace.

“ You... you think everything’s calculable, ” she continued, her voice hoarse, but still fierce. “Every move you make, every calculation, every plan. You think the world will bend to your will, but you’re wrong. Not everything can be fixed with your science, Senku. Some things just break.”

He flinched this time—only a fraction, but enough to make her see it. There was something fragile in him now, buried under layers of armor, something that cracked just a little beneath her words.

Kohaku held his gaze, her chest rising and falling with the effort of remaining conscious, but she wouldn't look away. She didn’t need to look away.

“ Some things ,” she whispered, “ can’t be fixed .”

Senku opened his mouth as though to say something, anything. But nothing came. He only stood there, silent, for what felt like a lifetime.

Finally, he moved. Reaching out, he took her hand—not with his usual calculated precision, but with something less familiar, less certain. His fingers curled around hers, and for the first time in the hours since she’d woken, she felt a steadying presence. Not an answer. Not a solution. Just him —raw and unguarded.

“ You’re wrong, Kohaku .” His voice was quieter now, almost a whisper, as though her words had knocked him down and only this— this —could bring him back.

She met his gaze again, her pulse quickening, heart hammering against the weight of everything she couldn’t say, everything she didn’t dare to voice.

“ I don’t know what I’d do without you ,” he said, his fingers tightening around hers just slightly. “ But I’m not losing you. Not after everything we’ve fought for .”

And then, in a fleeting moment where neither of them knew how to bridge the chasm between the words they hadn’t yet said, Kohaku closed her eyes. She let the burn of the wound dull in the heat of his touch, even as it flared once more, deep inside.

“ I’ll be fine ,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a rasp. But the softness there—she let it be. Let herself believe it, for just a moment.

“ I know you will. ”

And for once, for once, it felt like a promise, not a calculation.

Senku hadn't moved since taking her hand, and for a long time, neither of them spoke.

The silence between them wasn’t hollow—it pulsed, a breath held between two people who had danced too close to death. But eventually, duty stirred in Senku like gravity, inevitable and relentless. He let go of her hand, not coldly, but with the precision of someone severing a thread before it could pull him under.

“ I need to bring you up to speed ,” he said, shifting just enough to set a battered notebook onto the table beside her bed. Its edges were smudged with soot, as if he hadn’t let it leave his hands all night.

“You’ve been out for nearly 5 days ,” he began, tone clipped, eyes still not meeting hers. “ While you were unconscious, we were spotted. ”

Kohaku’s brow twitched faintly. Her mouth parted, but no protest came—not yet. Her body still hadn’t caught up to her will.

“ It wasn’t a regular scouting balloon or drone ,” he continued. “ This was different. A plane. Crude, yes, but modified. Armaments strapped beneath the wings—metal projectiles. Not industrial precision, but enough to matter. Enough to kill .”

A beat.

“ We’re grounded ,” he added, more bitterly. “ Speedboat’s shot to hell. Mobile lab’s intact but not fast or stealthy enough to make another approach. We’ll need time to repair .”

She tried to sit straighter, but the burn in her shoulder pulled her back like a chain.

Senku didn’t stop her. He just watched.

“I had Ukyo confirm ,” he went on. “ The trajectory, the engine echo. It wasn’t recon. It was a warning shot. They saw us, they tracked us, and they let us know .”

His voice flattened, bitter as ash.

“ They’re not allies .”

Kohaku’s jaw tightened. Even weak, even barely clinging to the edge of herself, her eyes flashed with the fire of readiness. The urge to leap, to move, to strike.

Senku’s gaze locked with hers then—finally—and there was no science between them in that instant, only truth.

“ I know that look, lioness. Don’t .” His voice cut low, almost gravel. “ You so much as try to stand, and you’ll rip open everything we just closed. ”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Her silence was a vow, sharp as steel.

Senku stood, pacing once, hands lacing behind his back, posture a fraction more soldier than scientist. “ We’re preparing a small team. Advance reconnaissance. Not an attack. Not yet. Just intel .”

He didn’t say what they both knew: that her name would’ve been the first on that list. That she would have led it without hesitation.

But the room itself seemed to resist the idea of her being left behind.

“I’m going ,” she rasped, voice barely carrying.

Senku’s head snapped toward her. “ No. You’re not. ”

“ You need me. ”

“ I need you alive. ”

The silence cracked like lightning, but neither of them flinched this time.

Senku stepped closer again, voice quieter now—measured. “You threw yourself in front of a gun, Kohaku. You didn’t hesitate. You let the numbers fall apart because you assumed I’d hold the equation.”

She opened her mouth, but he cut her off.

“ And I didn’t ,” he said. “ I didn’t have an answer ready. I didn’t calculate for what happens when you fall .”

That silenced her.

“I can’t make the same mistake twice ,” he finished. “ Not with you .”

For a long time, there was only the creak of the ship in the water. Then, Kohaku looked away, her fingers twitching toward the sheets as if they might steady her.

“ What will you do? ”

Senku’s gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat longer, as if he wanted to seal her conviction with something—an equation, a promise, anything measurable. But nothing about her had ever obeyed the laws he could chart.

So he straightened, spine taut, voice resuming its sharper edge.

“ The scouting party’s already decided ,” he said. “ Chrome and Gen .”

Kohaku blinked, the choice unexpected. Chrome she understood—tenacious, endlessly curious, foolish in the way only the brave could afford. But Gen?

Senku caught the flicker in her expression and answered it before she could ask.

“ Gen’s the closest thing we have to a negotiator. If by some stroke of luck we encounter someone willing to talk instead of shoot, he’ll buy us time. ” A pause. “ And you know Chrome. He’ll find the truth under the soil even if it’s buried in hell .”

She nodded slowly, but her brows drew tight. “ They’re not scouts .”

“ They’re scientists ,” Senku said. “ That’s the whole point. This isn’t a fight—not yet. It’s a hypothesis. I need data. Terrain, population signs, tech level. And someone who can track with your eyes .”

Kohaku’s voice was still hoarse, but steady. “ Who’s replacing me? ”

Senku didn’t answer at once. That hesitation was brief, but loud.

“I haven’t chosen, ” he admitted. “ Because there isn’t a good match .”

She tilted her head slightly, reading between lines.

“ You thought of Homura .”

His silence confirmed it.

Kohaku gave a soft exhale—close to a scoff, or maybe a laugh strangled by injury. “ She sees detail. Pattern. Not movement .”

“ She sees enough, ” Senku replied. “ And she’s fast. You know it .”

“ She doesn’t have instinct .”

“I’m not asking her to fight, ” he said. “ Only to track. Relay. Get Chrome and Gen home in one piece .”

Kohaku’s voice softened. “ She’ll follow her own rules .”

Senku’s eyes flicked to her again, sharp and unreadable. “ Then it’s good she’s scared of Tsukasa .”

That earned a ghost of a smirk.

He moved toward the desk, fingers brushing the edge of a rough map spread open and tacked down by glass beakers filled with soil. He didn’t say I’ll stay here, but the shape of the plan made it obvious.

Kohaku’s gaze pinned him. “ You’re not going with them .”

“I’m needed here ,” he said, eyes not leaving the map. “ Mobile lab’s crippled. The speedboat’s still being repaired. We’re not launching anything without at least two working engines and a field-ready power core .”

She didn’t call him on it. Didn’t name what she knew: that every calculation, every decision, was built on the raw edges of what had happened to her.

But her hand shifted just enough to reach the edge of the blanket, gripping it. As if that gesture alone could anchor her to the strategy unfolding around her.

“ How long until they leave?”

“ By sundown ,” Senku replied. “ That gives us four hours. ”

Kohaku turned her face toward the small round window above her bed, the bruised sky outside already slipping into shades of storm and dusk.

“ Four hours ,” she repeated.

There was something unsaid in her tone—something Senku caught, but didn’t press. He only moved closer again, resting one hand on the edge of the bed’s frame, voice dropping low.

“ You’d tear your stitches for one more hour out there .”

She looked at him then, fierce and tired, golden gaze sharp even in the shadow.

“ You’d do the same ,” she said.

Senku didn’t deny it.

Instead, he shifted his weight, pulling the rig from where he’d set it down—a bundle of straps and padded fastenings, neat in its brutal logic. “ I built this before the fever even broke ,” he said, holding it up like it spoke for him. “ Did the math on how fast you'd try to leave bed. Gave you one full day more than my original estimate, by the way. So congratulations—you're unpredictable by a margin of twenty-four hours .”

Kohaku’s lips twitched. Almost a smile. But her face didn’t soften.

“ You made me a harness ,” she said. “ Is that what passes for courtship now in the age of science? ”

Senku raised an eyebrow, already unwinding a roll of fresh bandage from the tray Francois had left. “ If it was ,” he said dryly, “ you’d be flattered out of sheer utility .”

She gave him her arm without further protest.

His fingers found the edge of the old dressing, slow and clinical—but when they brushed the skin near the cauterized wound, something flickered. Not pain. Not exactly. She watched the way his jaw ticked, the way his breath caught for a fraction too long before he exhaled again and continued.

It was happening again.

The kiss—still buried under hours of blood and fire and guilt—rose like heat from the forge. Neither spoke of it. But every accidental graze, every subtle shift in distance, was haunted by the weight of it.

He worked in silence, the way he always did when his thoughts were louder than his words. She didn’t interrupt. Not until his knuckles skimmed the side of her neck while tightening the final strap. Her pulse jumped.

So did his.

He didn’t apologize. Just looked at her, and for one taut second, the room felt impossibly still.

It was in the way her breath shallowed, in the subtle tension at the corners of her mouth. And it was in his eyes—calculating, always—but now burdened with something else. Like the moment their lips met had rewritten his understanding of risk.

His hands dropped to the rig’s final fastener. Her chest rose beneath his fingers as he tied it off, fabric pressed tight across her ribs. His touch didn’t linger—but it didn’t rush either.

“ You’ll be able to walk ,” he said, voice low. “ But not far. The brace takes pressure off the shoulder, but if you trip, the fall will still tear the muscle .”

Kohaku’s eyes met his. “ Then I won’t fall .”

He let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh.

“ I should know better by now than to argue .”

She stood. Gingerly. The weight of her own body felt different now—more contained, more fragile. She hated it. But she tolerated it. And when her balance tipped slightly, there was his hand again, ready before she even reached.

That steady grip. Familiar. Unflinching.

“ I’ll walk ,” she said. “ Not run .”

Senku’s reply was softer this time. “ For once .”

He let her go, eventually.

But the air between them still hadn’t settled. The room still felt half full of something unsaid. The kiss, the one they hadn’t spoken of—not in daylight, not in words—hung between them like a promise deferred.

And both of them, for now, pretended it didn’t.

The door yielded with a reluctant creak, sunlight spilling into the room like a tide too bright to bear. For a moment, Kohaku didn’t step through it. Her good hand hovered at the frame, fingers curling in the wood as if it were the only thing anchoring her in the present.

Then she took one step.

And another.

The rig at her shoulder pulled tight with each breath, a web of tension and support that Senku had built for her—an embrace in disguise. She hated how much she needed it. But she wore it like armor.

The hallway of the infirmary was quiet, save for the distant sounds of work: someone sanding wood, the occasional clatter of glass, Gen’s laughter bleeding in from afar like smoke on a breeze. Civilization continued. Even when she didn’t.

Her bare feet touched the deckboards with reverence. Every step was both ache and blessing. She could feel the air again—the real air. The sea’s brine, the crisp edge of forest wind rolling off the cliffs. The world smelled wide .

And changed.

The path curved toward the central dock, where the mobile lab—what was left of it—lay in partial disrepair. A jagged tarp covered half the equipment, soot-streaked and silent. Scorch marks blackened the edges of a nearby crate. She followed the damage like a trail of blood.

Then she saw it.

The plane.

Sleek, patchwork, war-painted with purpose—its wings folded like a predatory bird waiting for the sky to call it again. Chrome was beneath it, half-submerged in the opened undercarriage, muttering to himself in that way he did when new science clawed at his brain faster than he could organize it.

Gen was nearby, legs crossed over a stack of salvage, sipping something steaming from a flask that looked far too elegant for the end of the world.

Kohaku’s arrival didn’t go unnoticed.

Chrome’s head popped out, smeared with oil. His grin cracked wide and startled. “ Kohaku?! You’re up?! ”

Gen didn’t speak at first. He set his flask down gently, unfolding himself from his perch with a kind of theatrical grace. But there was a note in his expression—half relief, half apology—that struck deeper than his usual charm ever did.

“ Back from the dead, lioness? ” he said softly.

Kohaku blinked. The nickname. But not from Senku’s mouth this time.

Her voice was rough with disuse. “ Not quite .”

Chrome scrambled to her side before she could argue. “ Should you be walking? Senku said —”

“ Senku knew I’d walk ,” she said, cutting gently. “ He made sure I could .”

Gen tilted his head at that. His sharp eyes flicked once down to the brace—its design, its weight, the telltale touches that bore Senku’s blueprint of concern disguised as logic.

“ I see ,” he murmured. “ And what does the brave plan to do now that she’s standing again? ”

“ I want to know what I missed .”

She turned toward the plane, toward the horizon it had come from. Chrome’s smile faltered. Gen sighed. The shadows between them shifted.

Gen gestured loosely. “ You missed a flight over the camp, military in nature. More firepower than we’ve ever seen before. Not primitive. Not friendly .”

“ They were scouting? ”

“ They were threatening. ”

Chrome rubbed the back of his neck. “ The speedboat’s toast. The mobile lab, too. We barely got the plane intact because Ukyo spotted it in time. ”

Kohaku’s jaw clenched. “ So it’s war .”

Gen didn’t answer. But the way his eyes drifted toward the horizon was answer enough.

“ Senku’s organizing a scouting mission ,” Chrome added. “ We need more intel before we commit to anything. He wants Gen and me to go first—soft approach. He’s debating who else might go. Someone with good eyes. Fast feet. He mentioned… ”

He trailed off.

Kohaku raised an eyebrow.

“Homura? ” she guessed.

Gen gave a helpless shrug. “ She’s… agile. And morally ambiguous enough to be persuasive. ”

Kohaku gave a short, sharp nod. “ Good choice .”

“ And you? ” Gen asked. “ What would you do, if it were your call? ”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze swept across the wreckage. The plane. The sea. The faint sound of Senku’s voice farther down the path, giving quiet instructions.

Her voice, when it came, was low and steady.

“ I’d do whatever it took .”

Chrome and Gen were still watching her—one with concern threaded into his brow, the other with the kind of wry intuition that had always known how to read what people didn’t say.

So she said it.

“ I’m replacing Homura .”

The words were quiet. Not a whisper, not a shout—just the kind of statement that had no room for argument because it had already been decided. She wasn’t asking. She was informing.

Chrome’s eyes widened. “ Kohaku —”

“ She won’t be fast enough ,” she said. “ Not for this. She doesn’t care about the Kingdom of Science the way we do. She’s still figuring out which side she’s on .”

“ And you think you’re in any condition to be sprinting through forest trails and evading potential hostiles? ” Gen asked lightly, but the steel underneath was obvious. “ Your arm —”

“ My eyes are intact ,” she said, cutting him off gently but without flinching. “ My ears. My legs. I don’t need to fight. Just to see. Just to know .”

Gen considered her for a long moment, lips pressing together. His eyes dipped toward the brace at her shoulder—Senku’s work, all logic and care disguised as cold precision. He shook his head faintly.

“ I won’t go now ,” she said, voice low but firm. “ In 4 hours .”

Chrome exhaled like he’d been holding something tight inside. “ And what do you want from us? ”

“ A distraction, when the time comes. Coverage. Enough noise that I can slip through the break unnoticed .”

Gen leaned back against the railing, arms folded, looking up at the sails that rustled above like heavy leaves.

“ I assume this is non-negotiable? ”

Kohaku didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

Gen sighed, fingers drumming against his sleeve. “ You know, this reminds me of something ,” he said slowly, with a trace of that familiar, resigned amusement. “ That time on the Perseus—when Magma had that look in his eyes. When he decided he had to be the one to shoot Ibarra .”

Chrome winced. “ He almost died .”

“ He would’ve ,” Gen said. “ If by some miracle everyone didn’t agree to his morbid plan .”

Kohaku’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “ You helped him? ”

“ Oh, I helped him ,” Gen said, smirking faintly. “ I just made sure he didn’t die without proving a point .”

A beat passed. Then another.

Kohaku’s expression didn’t soften, but her gaze did.

Gen straightened, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves. “ So. You’ve told us your plan. You’re going to sneak off, replace Homura, and scout enemy territory with your shoulder held together by glorified bark and engineering brilliance. ”

“ I am .”

“And you expect us to say what? ‘Go ahead, we’ll draw straws for who distracts the scientist king when he finally notices his fiercest knight is gone? ’

“ I expect you to understand ,” she said quietly. “ Because you’ve both known him as long as I have. And you know he’d never let me go if I asked .”

Chrome glanced at Gen.

Gen was already looking out toward the forest.

“ ...It’s starting to feel like that time again ,” he said softly.

Then, without waiting for a reply, he tipped his head toward her in a slow, almost theatrical bow.

“ We’ll be ready .”

Kohaku didn’t return to the infirmary.

Not right away.

The ship was quieter now. The kind of quiet that came only when a crew had settled for the night but couldn’t quite sleep. Footfalls were softer. Voices muffled behind timber walls. Somewhere below deck, someone had begun tuning a string instrument out of habit rather than intention—the notes warped by sea air and salt.

Kohaku walked the corridors without being seen. Or, if she was seen, no one stopped her.

Senku’s contraption held fast around her—wrapped with bandages re-tied in calculated precision, cradling her shoulder and torso like armor sculpted for a woman who refused fragility. The straps creaked softly as she moved. Every tug against the brace reminded her of what it was keeping in place.

Senku had known. Of course, he had. He’d seen it in her eyes the moment she sat up.

He’d built the harness before she ever asked.

She crossed through the hallway that edged the ship’s main lab, the scent of distilled chemicals still faint in the wood. Past that was the galley, where Francois had cleaned every surface within reach, and now only the soft rattle of windchimes—made from old flasks—filled the space.

Kohaku paused there.

Not to think. Not to second-guess. But to feel.

The ship tilted slightly beneath her feet—barely noticeable, but enough. She braced with her uninjured arm against the wall, head bowed for a moment as she let the sway of the sea settle through her bones. This ship had carried them across half the world. It had been a sanctuary, a battleground, a workshop, and a home. She would miss it. She would miss them.

But this mission wasn’t theirs.

It was hers.

Her path was narrower than the others’. She had known it for a while now—ever since her fingers first brushed against the cloth of Senku’s coat and he hadn’t flinched. Since the moment Chrome pressed a knife into her hand, already resigned to what she would do with it.

She moved on, down a narrower passage toward the lower hull where the gear was kept. Tools lined the shelves—everything from hand-carved compasses to experimental lenses. She selected only what she needed.

Then, with a sharp exhale, she cinched her belt, slid the knife into its sheath, and moved to tie her hair back.

The sea sang against the hull.

Footsteps echoed overhead—light, fast, unmistakably Gen’s. She could almost picture him leaning too far over a railing, grinning into the wind as he spotted something only he would care about. Chrome would be beside him, not grinning. Already calculating. Already aware.

She would speak to them. Soon.

But not yet.

Kohaku returned to the small chamber where she’d been sleeping—more storage room than infirmary now, a bed barely wide enough for someone her size. She sat, flexing the fingers of her uninjured hand, then rested her palm on her thigh.

She listened.

Above, the ship groaned like it knew she wouldn’t be there by morning.

The map room was quiet save for the rustle of papers and the occasional clink of a glass beaker sliding against the wood. Ryusui leaned over the center table, finger tracing river lines and elevation marks with a sailor’s familiarity, while Senku stood at the edge, arms folded, gaze razor-sharp and unmoving.

Between them, strategy had unfurled like clockwork—precise, modular, efficient. The mission would launch in an hour. Coordinates had been locked. Supplies counted. Roles assigned.

And still—

“ Something’s off ,” Senku muttered. “ We’re missing visual coverage on the southeast. Homura would’ve had eyes there .”

Chrome had been sitting with them for fifteen minutes and hadn’t heard a single word since the last map was laid out.

He stared hard at a topographical sketch of the coastline—ink lines running like veins across old paper. Ryusui was talking about wind currents. Senku was already a step ahead, calculating terrain visibility, plotting where the mobile lab could make rendezvous. Every few seconds, Chrome nodded like he was listening, but his stomach was twisted into knots.

His shirt clung to him under the arms. His palm left damp prints on the edge of the table. He hadn't sweated this much since the old village had thought he'd caught a fever from licking a glowing rock.

He could feel the moment coming. A pressure, building in his chest that would either break him or leave him suffocating.

He’d promised he wouldn’t say anything.

“ I have to do this my way,” Kohaku had told him. “Senku can’t know yet. He’ll try to stop it.”

And she’d been right. Of course, she’d been right. Senku would stop it. And that’s exactly why Chrome had to say something.

Because if she went without them knowing—if something happened and they weren’t ready—he’d never forgive himself.

He glanced across the table at Senku. The scientist was silent, still, except for the ticking in his brain you could practically hear if you got close enough. His arms were folded, attention fixed forward, but not relaxed. He looked... like he already sensed something was off.

And Ryusui—who usually had that cocky smirk plastered on his face even in the worst conditions—was now all tight shoulders and narrowed eyes.

This was the last chance.

Chrome opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Rubbed his palms on his pants.

Then forced the words out through the heat building behind his ribs like a storm cloud.

“ She’s not gonna stay. ”

Ryusui looked up first. Then Senku. The temperature in the room dropped, even if Chrome still felt like he was sweating through his spine.

“She said she’s going instead of Homura. She’s leaving .” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “ She said it’s the only way this works .”

“ You mean Kohaku? ” Senku said, low and lethal.

Chrome finally looked up. His jaw was set, guilt written plainly across the angles of his face. “ She came to me and Gen earlier this morning. Said Homura wouldn’t make it—wouldn’t be trusted to stay loyal once she saw what’s really happening down there. Said it’d be easier if she went alone. ”

“She’s injured, ” Senku snapped, stepping forward.

“She’s Kohaku, ” Chrome fired back. “ You think she was ever going to stay behind when she heard there was a hostile settlement taking root in America? When someone opens fire on us, what do we do? We brought their plane back? We both knew you’d never let her go. ”

Senku’s jaw tightened. He didn’t speak. Ryusui ran a hand through his hair, sighing, then looking sharply at Senku.

“ She’s still on the ship? ” Ryusui asked.

“ For now ,” Chrome said. “ But she’s packed. Dressed for terrain. She’s just waiting until you’re gone. ”

Senku’s hands came to rest on the edge of the table. His knuckles were white.

“ You leave in thirty minutes ,” he said coldly. “ If she’s not standing on this deck with the rest of us by then… ”

He didn’t finish. Just turned and stalked toward the door.

Ryusui followed after him, voice quiet but edged in curiosity. “ What’ll you do if she isn’t? ”

Senku didn’t answer.

Because he already knew.

The air in the corridor was colder than the war room, but Senku didn’t feel it.

His boots were sharp against the deck as he moved, not fast—never frantic but with a purpose that carved through each turn of the Perseus like a blade. Lantern light flickered down the narrow hall, casting his shadow long behind him. Ryusui kept pace just behind, but didn’t speak again.

He didn’t need to. Senku’s silence was heavy enough for both of them.

She was injured. No matter how steady her legs looked now, no matter how tight the bandage held, there was healing still undone in her shoulder, her side. The wounds might have been bound, the pain buried—but the cost hadn’t been paid yet.

And still she would go.

Senku’s jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. He felt it in his temples. In the veins threading across the back of his hand.

Because Chrome had been right. Of course, he had.

Kohaku was never going to stay.

And somewhere in the back of his mind—no, not the back, the center —he had known. The way she’d looked at him in the infirmary. The quiet way she’d shouldered past him without asking. The heat of her skin beneath his hands when he’d helped lace the brace into place.

The memory of their kiss flickered like a blade’s glint—never named, never touched, but always there. Hovering.

She would go, even if it tore the last sutures in her body and in him.

Senku turned the corner and paused.

The hallway ahead was empty. Quiet, save for the creak of the sea beneath the hull and the soft hum of machinery in the walls.

If she’d gone already…

No. She wouldn’t have. She wouldn’t leave without seeing the shore. Without checking the packs. Without making sure every route was memorized and every blind spot traced into her mind like a map.

He took the stairs to the upper deck two at a time, Ryusui’s footsteps still behind him, though more cautious now, hesitant, even.

“ Lioness ,” Senku called, sharp and low, not a yell, but a warning.

The deck was quiet. Still.

Then, from the far end—near the tethered remnants of the speedboat—came movement. A figure, unmistakable even layered in terrain leathers and a cloak, hair pulled back, braced arm strapped neatly against her side. A spear slung behind her back.

She turned.

And Senku stopped.

Even Ryusui, for once, said nothing.

She was a storm held in a silhouette. And she looked, as she always did, like someone who’d already made peace with what came next.

She didn’t move when she saw him. Didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. Just straightened—taller, steadier—as if to meet something inevitable.

Senku crossed the deck toward her in measured steps, his tunic catching the wind that pulled at the moorings. Behind him, Ryusui lingered in the shadowed curve of the ship, arms crossed, silent and watching.

“ You really thought I wouldn’t notice ,” Senku said, low, almost without breath.

Kohaku didn’t answer at first. Her hair was tied high tonight, wild and pulled tight, a golden ponytail that caught the wind like a lioness’s mane—sharp, untamable. She looked every bit the warrior she always was, though the brace on her shoulder said otherwise.

“ I knew you would ,” she replied at last.

There was no fire in her voice—just clarity. As though she’d already come to terms with how this moment would unfold.

Senku stepped closer. Slowly. Carefully. His eyes never left hers.

“ No one gave you orders .”

“No one needed to .”

She was packed. Her gear was strapped neatly to her side, and her cloak shifted with the weight of preparation. Maps. Rations. She wasn’t sneaking out. She was walking out.

Except—he couldn’t let her.

His hand brushed the edge of her brace, knuckles grazing the worn leather strap he had crafted himself. She didn’t pull away, though her breath hitched just slightly. Not at the pain, but at his touch. It echoed something unsaid, something remembered. The way they had leaned too close in his room. The weight of her against him after the bullets struck. The way his mouth had found hers once, and never again.

He didn’t let her linger there.

“ I should tell you to stand down ,” he murmured.

“ You won’t ,” she replied.

She was right. Of course, she was right. That was the curse of her—of them.

His other hand shifted slowly behind him, into the inner pocket of his tunic. His fingers curled around the syringe, warm from where it had pressed against his body all morning.

Senku looked at her—really looked.

And then, in one swift motion, he stepped in.

His hand reached her waist as the other moved to the back of her neck—holding her gently, reverently—and he kissed her. Not like a man overwhelmed, but like a man who already knew he would never forgive himself. A kiss meant to stall thought. A kiss filled with every silent confession he had refused to voice.

Kohaku’s eyes widened in the space of a heartbeat. Her fingers caught on the collar of his tunic, her body pressing forward on instinct, lips parting with the stunned, aching knowledge that this was real.

And then the needle touched her skin.

A pinch. Subtle. Clean. Her breath hitched again—but this time, her body faltered.

Her knees buckled.

Senku caught her before she fell.

“ I’m sorry ,” he whispered, holding her tightly against his chest as her limbs grew heavy. “ I’m so sorry, lioness .”

She struggled faintly, golden eyes fighting to stay open. Her lips shaped his name, not in rage. In betrayal. In something softer, deeper, worse.

But she was too far gone to answer. She was heavier in his arms than she’d ever been. Not because of weight—Kohaku was all lean muscle and fire—but because her body had gone slack with sleep, and Senku could feel every ounce of the trust he’d just betrayed.

Her breath came softly against his collar. Shallow, steady. The sedative was clean. Safe. It would wear off in a few hours with no harm. That was the science. That was the plan.

But it didn’t stop his grip from tightening around her legs, the cradling bend of his elbow pulled tighter beneath her back.

He didn’t speak. Not even when Ryusui stepped out of the way.

The deck was cold underfoot, wood faintly slick with mist. The low hush of waves lapped against the ship’s hull as they rocked in place, unmoving, but never still.

Senku’s coat flared behind him in the breeze. Kohaku’s hand twitched faintly in his grasp.

He walked in silence to the infirmary. Past silent crew members who averted their eyes. Past Francois, who stood at the edge of the corridor, a cloth pressed in their hand, eyes narrowing ever so slightly in a look that read not judgment, but understanding.

They opened the door before he had to.

Inside, the room was quiet, sterile in the way only field hospitals could be. The bed she had slept in before was still there, sheets half-folded, untouched since she’d risen to defy him.

Senku laid her down gently.

He adjusted her brace. Fixed the hem of her tunic where it had ridden up in the scuffle. Brushed a strand of hair back toward her lion’s mane of a ponytail. He almost smiled. Almost.

Instead, he placed her arm across her chest, watching it rise with each breath.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, the soft rustle of the sheets betraying his movements. Kohaku was still, as though she were miles away, and yet her presence filled the room with a quiet intensity that almost suffocated him.

Senku laid his head down on the bed, just beside her arm, his hair falling across the cool linen. The sharp scent of antiseptic mixed with the faint trace of Kohaku’s own scent—the wildness of the forest, the sharp tang of sweat, and the salt of the sea.

For a long moment, he just stayed there, his thoughts swirling in a torrent of regret and longing, like the storm outside. The sound of her breathing, slow and rhythmic, was the only thing that anchored him to the present. His eyes closed, and for the first time that night, he allowed himself to breathe deeply, slowly, to let the guilt ebb away just enough for him to feel something other than suffocating responsibility.

“ I’m sorry, Kohaku ,” he whispered again, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. He reached out, letting his hand rest on her arm, careful not to wake her. “ I’m sorry for making you trust me .”

But there were no answers. Only the steady rise and fall of her chest, her body still in its fragile peace. And Senku lay there, beside her, knowing that when she woke, she would have questions. She would want to know why he had made the choices he did, why he’d kept her from the mission.

And when the time came, he would have to face it all.

For now, though, he stayed. Silent. As guilty as he had ever felt, but willing to be there, even in the smallest way, for the woman who had always stood by him.

The night stretched on, and Senku, despite everything, let himself drift into a restless sleep.

Chrome walked silently, his steps heavy as the rest of the group moved ahead. The Perseus was now a distant presence behind them, unmoving, as the team made their way through the dark terrain. The ship would stay where it was, anchored in place, while they continued their mission on foot, scouting ahead for the Americans and the corn fields.

The air felt colder than it should, and Chrome couldn’t shake the knot in his stomach. Kohaku wasn’t with them. She wasn’t there beside him, as she should have been. She wasn’t anywhere near, and the emptiness of that fact weighed on him, sinking deeper the longer he walked. He hadn’t been able to stop it. She’d made up her mind, and now, they were here, without her.

He glanced back once, almost expecting her to be standing there on the ship’s deck, watching them. But of course, she wasn’t. She was where she needed to be. In the infirmary, likely resting, but to Chrome, it felt like abandonment.

Gen walked beside him, quiet, but the subtle shift in his posture said enough. Gen understood. He didn’t speak, but the unspoken empathy between them hung in the air. Neither of them had the heart for words, not now.

Homura, leading the way ahead, didn’t look back. She never did. But Chrome noticed a subtle tension in her shoulders—maybe something he could read in the way her footsteps quickened, as if she was already ahead, already moving forward without a second glance.

And as they continued down the path, Chrome’s gaze lingered on the horizon, the Perseus now far behind them. The guilt he carried felt like an anchor, and no matter how far they walked, it wouldn’t be left behind.

For now, there was nothing but the road ahead.

Chapter Text

Three Days After the Incident

The ship had never felt emptier.

With Gen, Chrome, and Homura gone — swallowed by the horizon and their mission — the walls had started to creak differently, long groans of wood that sounded almost like mourning. Even the river itself seemed muted, its endless sighs brushing against the hull like fingers against a coffin lid.

Senku sat alone at a long, battered table in the common room, the bowl before him untouched. Steam rose in slow, lazy curls that wavered in the stale air, dissipating into nothing.

The spoon rested limp between his fingers.

He wasn't hungry. Hadn't been in days.

But habits were hard to break, just like guilt.

The door swung open with a soft whine.

He heard it first — the shift of the air, the faint scuff of platformed heels against the floor.
Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t even lift his head. Some small, stupid part of him thought: Maybe if I don't look, it won't hurt.

But the heart wasn’t rational. It yanked his gaze up of its own accord.

Kohaku stood there, framed by the doorway like a ghost unwilling to cross into the living world.
In her hands, a tray — simple food, a steaming cup balanced carefully, too carefully, as if she had needed something, anything, to anchor herself before stepping inside.

For a moment — a heartbeat stretched into eternity — they stared at each other across the room.

Senku's chest constricted.

There were no flames in her eyes now. No shouting, no snarling.
Just the cold, brittle sharpness of betrayal, drawn so taut it might shatter at the lightest touch.

She moved — barely. A falter in her stance. A fractional tightening of her grip on the tray, so small it could have been imagined.
But Senku didn’t imagine it. He cataloged it, precisely, helplessly — the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed something down, the way her shoulders squared themselves like armor reforged.

Slowly, like a glacier grinding against stone, she turned.
Not a word.
Not even a breath wasted on him.

As she pivoted, her heel caught the edge of the floorboard, just slightly, and the tray shifted dangerously — a cup nearly slid off, teetering.

Senku started to rise without thinking.

But Kohaku caught it — quick, mercilessly graceful — and in the same motion, pinned him with a glare so searing, so venomous, that it made him sink back down without a fight.

Don't.

That glare said more than words ever could.
Don't you dare pretend. Don't you dare reach for me.

And then — just like that — she walked out.
The door swung shut behind her with a final, aching sigh.

Leaving him alone.

Senku sat there for a long time afterward, listening to the walls creak and groan, listening to the distant pull of the river, listening to the unbearable howl of the empty spaces she had left behind.

The bowl in front of him had long gone cold, but he couldn’t find the will to move.

A scientist could measure heat loss in degrees, water displacement in milliliters, and sound in decibels.
He could map the stars, split the atom, and breathe life into stone.

But this silence between them —
There was no unit of measurement for it.

No experiment to undo it.

Just the cold fact, bitter as iron on the tongue:
He had betrayed the only person who had ever truly stood beside him.

And now he was reaping exactly what he had sown.

The war room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a lantern swaying gently in the corner. The cluttered table was a mess of blueprints, notes, and half-empty cups of cold coffee—evidence of hours spent working without pause. Senku’s face was a study in concentration, eyes narrowed as his hands moved mechanically across the table, sketching plans and scribbling calculations. He wasn’t tired. Not yet. But the tension in the air felt thick enough to strangle him.

Across from him, Ryusui was equally absorbed, tapping away at a metal contraption with a delicate precision, his fingers moving fluidly over the device. Every now and then, he’d pause, tap his chin thoughtfully, then continue, undisturbed by the mounting weight of the situation.

The two of them had been at it for days, making their plans, laying out contingencies, and trying to stay one step ahead of the Americans. The pressure had been unrelenting, and for all his genius, Senku was starting to feel the weight of it. Ryusui’s presence had been a constant, a steady force that Senku hadn't realized he needed until it was already there.

“ Senku ,” Ryusui’s voice broke through the quiet. His tone was casual, but there was a focus beneath it. " We’re close. But the Americans aren’t slowing down. We need to send the next update to Chrome—before they catch wind of anything ."

Senku didn’t look up. His pen hovered above a sheet of paper, but his thoughts were elsewhere, fixated on a new problem that had cropped up. The frustration gnawed at him, but he didn’t let it show. Not yet.

“I know ,” Senku muttered, the words barely audible, more to himself than to Ryusui. He was aware of the urgency in the air, but the fog of exhaustion was clouding his sharpness, just enough to make him more irritable than usual.

Ryusui, unbothered, leaned back in his chair and stretched, eyes flicking to the phone sitting on the table between them. “ You know how this works. We can’t send anything directly. We’ve got to use the code .”

Senku’s eyes flicked over to the phone, then back to his notes. His mind raced through the mechanics of it. The Wabun code—verbal transmission. It was a risk, sure, but it was the best they had. Every letter, every word had to be perfect, and the Americans would never know what hit them.

" Right. I’ll handle it ," Senku replied, the words more of a reflex than a decision. The strain in his voice wasn’t lost on Ryusui, but he said nothing, just grabbed the phone and held it out to him.

“ Go ahead, ” Ryusui said, flashing his usual carefree grin. “ You’re the genius, after all .”

Senku’s hand shook just slightly as he picked up the receiver. His thumb hovered over the buttons. It wasn’t that he didn’t know the code—it was second nature to him at this point. But something about the weight of the moment, the knowledge that every word spoken could be the difference between life and death, set his nerves on edge.

Ryusui was leaning back, watching with an almost detached amusement. He knew Senku had this under control, but there was a sense of camaraderie in the silence that stretched between them.

“ Alright, here we go ,” Senku muttered, taking a breath. His voice was steady, but the effort to maintain that calm was obvious. He placed the phone against his mouth and began.

“ Ka, ki, ku, ke, ko ,” he began, enunciating each syllable with careful precision, his tone clipped and measured.

On the other end of the line, Chrome was already waiting. They had practiced this, drilled it enough times that it was almost routine. Each sequence of letters, each phrase, meant something far greater than just a string of sounds. It was a lifeline. And it had to be perfect.

Senku continued, his voice steady, although his mind was miles away, calculating the risks of this transmission. He was always thinking ahead—how much time they had, how long it would take the Americans to notice their movements. The urgency was in his voice, but Ryusui could tell he was doing everything to hide it.

“ Sa, shi, su, se, so ,” Senku continued, the Wabun code flowing as he relayed the message, each word slipping past the receiver like a secret. Ryusui leaned forward slightly, his eyes flicking to the door, ensuring no one else was listening in.

It was a careful dance. The phone was barely a link between them, but it was enough to keep their messages encrypted. And with the Americans on their tail, there was no room for error.

“ Ta, chi, tsu, te, to .”

The pause was brief but loaded with meaning. Ryusui glanced at Senku, who was now visibly tense. He could feel the pressure mounting. It wasn’t just the mission, it was everything. The weight of betrayal hung over them both like an unseen fog.

As Senku continued the transmission, Ryusui shifted in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck. The tension between them, subtle but undeniable, was starting to get to him as well. It had been days since they’d shared a moment outside of work, since they’d had a conversation that didn’t involve the next plan, the next move, the next hurdle.

“ Ha, hi, fu, he, ho ,” Senku’s voice remained steady, but Ryusui caught the faintest crack in it—a flicker of something just beneath the surface.

It wasn’t enough to break his concentration. It never would be. But the hours of work, the endless pressure of making sure every step was calculated—it was taking a toll.

“ Mu, me, mo, ya, yu .”

The sequence continued, the words flowing into each other. With each transmission, Senku felt the weight of what they were doing. They were two friends, yes, but right now, they were more than that. They were lifelines to each other, each one depending on the other to make it through.

As the message came to an end, Senku took a long, steadying breath.

“ Ri, ru, re, ro .” He finished the last few letters with a sense of finality in his tone.

He placed the phone down slowly, his hand lingering on the receiver for a moment longer than necessary. The air felt charged, heavy with the quiet weight of what had just transpired.

Ryusui didn’t speak immediately. He didn’t need to. Senku's gaze flicked up from the phone to meet his, and there was a mutual understanding there. They were done. But the work was far from over.

Without saying a word, Ryusui stood, stretching again. " Well, that’s done for now. Let’s get back to it ."

Senku nodded, his eyes already darting back to the next set of calculations on the table. It wasn’t over. It couldn’t be. Not yet.

And so, they fell into their rhythm again, the world outside still pressing in, their shoulders still bearing the weight of everything they had to do.

Senku’s fingers danced across the table, scribbling down more numbers, more data, an unrelenting stream of equations that bled into each other. His mind raced faster than his hand could keep up, but it was the only thing keeping the gnawing emptiness at bay. The hum of his work—his science—was the only thing that made sense now.

Ryusui, opposite him, was scribbling too, but in a different way. His notes were less about precision and more about ideas, thoughts flowing freely in scattered directions, a testament to his style of thinking. As Ryusui continued to talk, the words washed over Senku without registering at first, but when they did, they sparked something deeper.

“ It’s all just noise, isn’t it? ” Ryusui said, flipping through his notes, his voice soft but weighted. “ The outside world, the sound of the waves, the work we’re doing… It’s all just a distraction. And yet, we keep going. For what, exactly? ”

Senku didn’t look up, but his hand stilled for a second. His jaw clenched, and his gaze flicked to the calculations that now seemed to blur in front of him. He had to focus—he couldn’t let himself spiral, not now.

“ You know what this is, ” Senku muttered, his voice hard, his focus pulling back to the equations. “ The solution is the same as it’s always been. We keep moving. One foot in front of the other. Everything else is just... distraction .”

But Ryusui knew better. He knew that under the ice-cold exterior Senku always wore, something was bubbling beneath, something raw and unsettled. It had been there for days, weeks, even, and Ryusui could feel the weight of it pressing against them both, even when they weren’t talking about it.

“ We keep moving ,” Ryusui echoed, his voice quieter, almost thoughtful. “ But there’s something you’re not seeing, my friend. Or maybe you don’t want to see it .”

Senku’s fingers tightened on the edge of the paper, frustration flaring for just a second before it was locked away again. “ What are you talking about, Ryusui? ”

The silence stretched, Ryusui’s eyes narrowing just slightly as he studied Senku. He wasn’t going to push him, not now. But Senku’s internal battle, the one he’d been trying to hide for days, was as plain as day. Ryusui had seen it from the moment it happened—the way Kohaku’s absence had twisted something inside of Senku.

“ You know, we’ve got to figure out what’s best for all of us, ” Ryusui said after a beat, leaning back in his chair. “ For the mission, for the future. But you’re not going to get anywhere if you keep pretending like there’s no problem between you and Kohaku .”

Senku’s jaw tightened at the mention of her name, but he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. The words, the excuses, they were all trapped inside him like a knot he couldn’t untangle.

Ryusui sighed, running a hand through his hair. “ Look, I’m not going to tell you what to do about her. It’s your mess to clean up. But just... stop letting it distract you from what’s in front of you. We need you whole, Senku. We need you here. And we need that mind of yours working, not buried in guilt or pride .”

Senku exhaled sharply through his nose, the heat of his breath palpable in the stillness between them. But Ryusui was right. It was always about moving forward, about keeping their eyes on the prize, no matter what else came in their path. Still, there was no denying that the weight of what he’d done hung over him, and it gnawed at him in ways that no amount of science could solve.

“ Right ,” Senku said finally, his voice low but with an edge of determination cutting through the weariness. “ We’re not done yet. We’ve got a team to save. And that’s all that matters. ”

Ryusui gave a slow nod, his eyes briefly flicking to the side before locking onto Senku. “ Exactly. No one’s asking you to have all the answers, but you’re not alone in this, Senku. Remember that. ”

The room fell into a quiet rhythm once more as the two men worked side by side, their voices merging with the hum of technology and science. But even as the plans took shape on paper, something unspoken lingered between them—a truth neither of them could deny, no matter how many numbers they wrote down.

Kohaku was still out there, and the silence between them, unacknowledged and untended, was just as loud as the constant hum of the ship around them.

Hours dragged by, each tick of the clock like a heavy weight pressing down on Senku's chest. He felt like a walking corpse, every part of him sluggish, his mind racing, but his body too tired to keep up. The endless calculations, the nonstop work with Ryusui, the stress of keeping everything together—it had all taken its toll. His body was running on fumes, moving purely on instinct now.

He wandered through the dim hallways, his footsteps dragging, the lights overhead flickering with a quiet hum, casting long shadows on the walls. His room was just up ahead, but his mind was somewhere far beyond that. There was nothing for him to look forward to. The weight of his decisions felt heavier than ever, the silence between him and Kohaku a chasm too wide to cross.

He hadn’t even realized he was walking directly into her path until it was too late.

Kohaku was there, in front of him, her silhouette barely visible in the dim light of the corridor. She was moving past him, her footsteps almost inaudible against the creaking of the ship’s wooden frame. Her posture was as straight and determined as ever, but Senku could see it—the way her shoulders were stiff, the tension in her gait. She was avoiding him, but she was still there, close enough to touch.

His mind wasn’t fully there, not in any rational way. He was sleep-deprived, emotionally drained, and lost in the haze of everything that had happened. But before he could stop himself, his hand shot out—more instinct than thought—and grabbed onto her arm.

Kohaku’s body tensed immediately at the contact, but she didn’t pull away. She didn’t even flinch. Instead, she froze, her body rigid under his grip. Her good arm was still free, the one unmarked by injury, and Senku felt the warmth of her skin. 

His fingers tightened slightly, though not enough to hurt her, and he struggled to find the words. He was too tired to think straight, too consumed with guilt and regret. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his voice came out ragged, almost a whisper.

“ Kohaku… ” His voice was hoarse, and his mind raced to make sense of everything. “ I… I didn’t mean for it to happen like this .”

Her eyes were unreadable, fixed straight ahead, not meeting his gaze. She didn’t speak, and for a long moment, the air between them was thick with the unsaid. He could feel her body trembling slightly under his grip, though she didn’t pull away. She just stood there, as still as stone, her silence deafening.

Senku’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say. Every explanation felt insufficient, every apology hollow. She was angry, hurt, and he couldn’t fix any of it with words.

“ I… I thought I was doing what was best for everyone ,” he mumbled, his fingers loosening slightly, but still holding her in place. “ I thought I was protecting you. ”

For the first time, she slowly turned her head toward him. Her eyes locked onto his, and there was no anger in them—not anymore. Instead, there was something far worse: the distance. The coldness. The realization that nothing would ever be the same between them.

“ You didn’t protect me ,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, but it hit him like a physical blow. “ You shut me out .”

Senku’s chest tightened painfully, and he had no response. No words that could fix this, no way to explain the mess he had created. He had thought, if he kept pushing forward—kept working, kept thinking —he could fix it. But that was the problem. He hadn’t been thinking about her. Not truly.

His hand, still gripping her arm, suddenly felt like it was burning. Like a chain wrapped too tightly around his wrist, anchoring him to a place he didn’t want to be. But he couldn’t let go. He couldn’t.

“ I’m sorry ,” he whispered, though the words felt like a weak, empty breath escaping from his lungs. “ I didn’t mean for you to feel like that. But I thought… I thought you’d understand .”

Kohaku didn’t answer right away. She just stood there, her gaze fixed on him for a long moment, studying him as if she were looking for something-some trace of the person she had trusted. Finally, she broke the silence.

“ I can’t just understand ,” she said, her voice low but firm. “ I thought we were partners in this. But you made the choice for both of us. You didn’t trust me .”

Senku felt the sting of her words like a physical blow, but he couldn’t deny them. He had made the choice for both of them. He had tried to shield her from the truth, from the pain, but in doing so, he had driven a wedge between them that might never be bridged again.

Kohaku shifted slightly, the tension in her arm, under his grip, slowly fading. She could pull away anytime, and for a moment, Senku was sure she would. But instead, she stood still, her presence as firm as it had ever been.

“ I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this ,” she said quietly, her voice softer now, but still carrying a weight that Senku couldn’t shake.

And then, without another word, she gently pulled her arm from his grasp, her fingers brushing against his skin as she stepped back.

Senku’s hand hung in the air for a moment, useless, empty. His body wanted to chase after her, to explain, to make it right, but he knew that he couldn’t. Not yet. Not like this.

Kohaku walked away, her platformed heels clicking softly against the floor, and Senku stood frozen, watching her disappear into the shadows. The silence between them, once so heavy, now felt like an unbearable weight—one that Senku wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to lift.

Kohaku’s footsteps were soft on the floor, the click of her heels on the cold wood echoing like a hollow heartbeat, a rhythm without purpose. The hallway stretched before her, and yet, it was a narrow, suffocating tunnel, one that closed in on her with every breath. Her body, though strong, felt weighted with a fatigue she could not escape. It wasn’t the exhaustion of physical battle but something far deeper—an aching weariness of the soul.

The wound in her shoulder, once a sharp and undeniable sting, had begun to gnaw at her, a constant reminder of her failure. It was a cruel thing, that pain. It whispered to her, drawing her deeper into a darkness she didn’t know how to confront. Every step was an effort, her muscles screaming in silent protest, her arm heavy as if it were made of stone. Yet, even the pain was not enough to distract her from the greater ache—the one that settled in her chest, a relentless pressure that refused to be ignored.

Her mind, in its quiet torment, replayed the moment again and again. The way Senku had looked at her, as if she were something he could no longer bear to touch. It hurt more than the wound on her shoulder. It was a wound no bandage could heal, no salve could soothe.

She hated it. She hated herself.

The door to the infirmary loomed ahead, and with it, a semblance of refuge, a place where she could shed the weight of the world, if only for a moment. But even here, in the sterile quiet of the medical space, she felt the suffocating weight of her own inadequacy.

As she crossed the threshold, the faint scent of antiseptic filled her senses—sharp and sterile, like the cold, indifferent embrace of a world that had no patience for weakness. She moved toward an empty cot, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for the thin blanket, but it wasn’t the cold that caused her to shudder. It was the knowledge that she was no longer the same Kohaku who could stand tall beside Senku. She was no longer the lioness.

Laying herself down, her body throbbed in protest, and yet it felt like a relief, as if the ground beneath her was the only thing left solid enough to anchor her in this sea of uncertainty. But even here, in the silence of the room, the weight of the world pressed down on her chest.

Her fingers curled into the blanket, the rough fabric biting into her skin, and she bit back a sigh—half exhaustion, half frustration. The wound, dull but persistent, tugged at her arm like a cruel anchor, reminding her of what had happened, reminding her of what she had lost.

She was no longer the person she once was. The warrior. The protector. The one Senku could rely on without question. No, now she was just a woman with a broken heart and a shattered sense of self.

Kohaku closed her eyes, but it was no escape. Her mind kept returning to him— Senku —the one who had pulled away from her, the one who had abandoned her in the moment she needed him most. His eyes had been filled with something she couldn’t name—fear, yes, but also something else. Something colder. Disappointment. And that was the thing that gnawed at her, more than the blood that oozed from her wound, more than the ache in her shoulder. That look— that look —had carved a deep gash into her soul, deeper than any weapon could have ever reached.

Her breath hitched. She wanted to scream. To tear at something, anything, to rid herself of this suffocating feeling. The fury rose within her again, a blaze hot enough to melt the ice around her heart. But where could she direct it? Where could she throw it?

She clenched her fists until the pain in her hands became more palpable than the ache in her chest, but still, it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

" I’m not weak ," she whispered to the empty room, though she didn’t believe it. " I’m not weak ."

Her body, bruised and battered, seemed to argue otherwise. The wound on her shoulder—the one Senku had noticed, the one that had almost been her undoing—was a constant reminder of her failure. It burned, not from the physical injury, but from the hollow void it had left inside her.

I’m supposed to be more than this. More than just a broken woman who can’t protect herself...

She swallowed hard, her throat tight with the words that never seemed to reach the surface. The silence, oppressive and suffocating, filled her ears like a thousand unspoken words, each one more painful than the last. She had wanted to be the one he trusted. The one he could lean on, the way she had always leaned on him. But now, it felt as if she was nothing more than a shadow, forgotten in the corner of his mind.

Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, the frustration building until it felt like she might shatter from within. She wanted to blame him. To scream and lash out, to make him see the pain he had caused her. But even as the anger burned inside her, she knew the truth: it wasn’t just his fault.

She had allowed herself to depend on him too much. Had allowed herself to believe that they were something more than what they were. And now, she was paying the price for it. The price of believing that someone could see her as more than just a weapon. The price of letting herself care.

And so, as the minutes passed in the quiet of the infirmary, Kohaku lay still, her eyes staring into the shadows. The gnawing wound in her shoulder throbbed in time with her broken heart. She wasn’t sure what hurt more—the wound or the truth.

But one thing was certain: she was no longer the same woman who had once stood beside him, unwavering and strong.

And in that emptiness, she didn’t know who she was anymore.

Morning broke in shades of dull gray, a weary kind of light that seeped through the ship’s small, salt-streaked windows — not with the triumphant blaze of a new beginning, but with the reluctant sigh of another day survived.

The Perseus stirred awake with low murmurs, the creak of rope, the tread of boots softened by exhaustion. Somewhere, someone hammered together a new crate. Somewhere else, someone laughed too loudly at a joke that wasn’t that funny. Life went on, staggering forward, even as fractures spiderwebbed beneath its surface.

Senku woke at his desk, a smudged blueprint clinging to his cheek, a line of drool connecting the corner of his mouth to a half-finished set of formulas. His body protested as he straightened, a thousand pins and needles of soreness reminding him just how far past human limits he had pushed himself.

No one said anything when he staggered out of the common room, steps dragging, hair a mess of stiff angles. No one asked why the commander of their expedition looked half-dead. They all knew better by now.

The hallways stretched before him, narrow and dim, every groan of the wood underfoot loud in the morning hush.

Somewhere behind a closed door, Ryusui’s voice filtered out — sharp, focused, already tackling the next dozen emergencies. Somewhere further down, the medical room, silent except for the rhythmic drip of water collecting in a cracked basin.

Senku paused outside the infirmary without meaning to.

A thin line of light spilled from the cracked door, golden against the ship’s battered floorboards. It smelled faintly of antiseptic, of salt, of blood that was no longer fresh.

He didn’t need to look.
He knew she was inside.

He could picture her perfectly: sprawled on the cot with her hair tangled and wild, her wounded arm bandaged clumsily but firmly against her side. Breathing shallow, every breath a stubborn claim on existence.

Senku’s hand hovered at the doorframe.

A heartbeat passed. Two.

Then he turned away — a mechanical pivot, a man saving himself from drowning by not looking at the ocean.
He pressed on, his footsteps hollow and slow.

There were circuits to design.
There were enemy transmissions to intercept.
There was a civilization to rebuild.

There was no time — no room — for guilt that bloomed like rot in his chest.

And behind the infirmary door, Kohaku lay still, her eyes open, staring at the cracked ceiling.
The pain in her shoulder flared and flared again, a dull rhythmic ache like a drumbeat inside her bones.
But worse was the deeper wound, the one she couldn't find or bind.

The one she wasn't strong enough to tear out.

The day spilled from her grasp like water through trembling fingers.

Kohaku lay motionless, marooned within a body that had betrayed her. Every breath splintered through her chest — not from her shoulder, though the wound gnawed with mindless persistence — but from a deeper, blacker hollow that gnashed and howled inside her ribs.

The ship breathed around her: the slap of waves against the hull, the weary groan of wood bending under the sun, the low murmur of voices threading the corridors.
It should have anchored her.
It didn’t.

Five Days After

The world had moved on without her.
Senku had moved on without her.

The memory of his hand — steady, inescapable, impossibly kind — still seared into the place where her strength had once lived.

If she had only leaned into him —
If she had only said something —
If she had not stood there like a fool, paralyzed by a fear she could not name —

The shame scalded hotter than any fever.

Slowly, inch by inch, Kohaku dragged her battered frame upright. The room tilted wildly, spun around her like some cruel child's toy, but she bit down on her nausea and bore it.

You are not a child.
You are not weak.
You are not—

Her hand, trembling, found the edge of the cot and gripped it until her knuckles bleached white.

She hated herself for recoiling.
Hated the pride — stupid, desperate, hollow — that had leapt up to shield her the moment she needed no armor.

He had reached for her.
Not as a commander.
Not as a scientist.
As something rarer.
As something raw .

And she — coward, fool — had looked away.
Had turned herself into brittle stone, easier to shatter than to yield.

Because anger was simpler than fear.
Because resentment was safer than need.

Kohaku squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing the ragged sob clawing up her throat.

Where could she put this rage, this helpless, flailing thing inside her, bruising itself against the walls of her chest?

There was no battlefield for it.
No enemy to vanquish but herself.

Senku had done nothing wrong.

He had protected her the only way he knew how — with words sharpened to a scalpel's edge, with walls he built between them even as he reached across them.

It was her own failure that poisoned her now.

Still — gods, still —
She wanted him.

She wanted him to walk through that door, to stand before her, to reach out again and close the unbearable distance she had carved between them.

She wanted him to say she wasn't broken.
That he still trusted her.
That she still mattered.

But the hours bled by.

And the door stayed shut.

And the silence stretched, taut and merciless, pulling her thinner and thinner, until she thought she might tear apart from the inside out.

By late afternoon, the ship sagged beneath the weight of the heat, the sky outside a dull iron sheet.

Kohaku forced herself upright, every movement sparking pain that lanced down her side. She dressed like a woman pulling on burial clothes — slow, clumsy, grim — her bandages binding her with every breath, the sling cutting into her bruised shoulder.

She moved through the infirmary like a ghost exiled from her own life, gathering what little the world had left her:
A cracked comb.
A worn flask.
A cloth-wrapped bundle of sunflower seeds — Senku’s gift, once thrust into her hands without a word, now tucked like a talisman deep into the folds of her belt.

When she crossed the threshold, the ship’s smell enveloped her: salt, damp rope, sun-warmed wood.

Somewhere above, Ryusui’s laugh rang out — too loud, too brittle, as if daring the world to doubt his bravado.
Somewhere nearer, Ukyo’s voice murmured from the comms station, precise and low, threading through the heavy air like a blade.

The world moved on.

And she stumbled after it, one slow, splintered step at a time.

Kohaku’s vision blurred, not from the pain clawing her shoulder, but from the pressure coiling inside her chest — volcanic, unspeakable.

She wanted to scream.
To drive her fists through the walls, through the beams, through the very bones of the ship, until the world shattered and remade itself around her grief.

But she kept walking.

Because what else could she do?

There was no room here for broken things.
No space for sorrow.
No shelter for the weak.

Not in Senku’s world.
Not in the future they were tearing out of the earth with bloodied hands.

And if she could not be strong —
If she could not be useful —

Then what was left of her?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

Kohaku’s legs were shaking, but she didn’t stop.

The ship seemed to grow larger around her, the air thinner, as though the world had noticed her hesitation, and was now pressing down on her every step. The creak of the floor beneath her feet sounded like a warning. Don’t go.

But she couldn’t listen.

She was drawn to the deck, the sun piercing through the low, dismal clouds, an unblinking eye that scorched her skin. She walked on, dragging her wounded body along as if every inch she moved was a battle against the weight inside her chest. The pain in her shoulder had turned into a dull throb, a constant reminder of the wound she could not seem to escape, but it wasn’t the physical pain that made her stumble. It was the other ache — the one that wouldn’t let go, the one that tightened around her ribs with every step, with every breath.

She had to see him.

Had to.

It didn’t matter what she was carrying inside her. It didn’t matter that the weight of everything — of what she had failed to say, of what she had failed to do — was enough to crush her in one fell blow. All she wanted was to look at him. To see him. To have him see her.

The ship felt like a maze. Every turn, every corner, brought her closer but farther from where she needed to be. She walked, dragging her feet, not knowing whether her legs would carry her to him or collapse before the journey was through.

When she reached the deck, the sunlight blinded her. It burned her skin like a thing alive, searing its way into her chest. She blinked, her vision blurred by more than just the harsh light, but she didn’t stop.

She was so close.

She scanned the deck, searching the figures that moved across it like ghosts. Ryusui’s form stood tall, laughing too loudly, leaning against the rail. Ukyo was there too, his attention fixed on the comms station, his back turned to her. But where was he?

Where was Senku ?

Her heart beat so loudly in her ears it drowned out the hum of the ship, the wind rushing in her face, the frantic pulse of her own desperation. She walked faster now, her body protesting with each step, her feet tripping over the uneven floor, but she kept going. Her eyes darted from one person to the next — but none of them were him.

He wasn’t there.

She reached the far edge of the deck, feeling the cool wind bite against her raw skin. Still, no sign of him.

The agony in her chest swelled. Where was he?

Her legs buckled, and she collapsed against the ship's rail. Her breath caught in her throat, a sob caught in her chest, threatening to tear her apart. Her hand, still trembling, reached out against the smooth wood, as though the ship itself might offer her the answers she couldn’t find.

For a moment, the world stilled.

And in the quiet, she could almost hear his voice. Almost.

But it was fading, a whisper in the distance, slipping from her grasp as she reached for it. He was a ghost, a specter that had drifted just out of reach. She had been trying to hold onto him, to feel him — but the harder she grasped, the more his presence slipped through her fingers like sand, thinning and blurring until he was no more than a faint, untraceable memory.

Senku...

The name burned her lips, a soft prayer.

He wasn’t here. He wasn’t with her. Not like he had been, not like she had imagined. Not like she had needed.

She clenched her fists, her body wracked with silent tremors. The world was so loud around her — the crew moving past her, their laughter and shouts, the creak of the ship as it cut through the waves, the sharp air slicing into her lungs — but none of it could drown out the hollow ache in her chest. The silence between her and the one person she thought she could count on, the one person who was now as distant as the stars above them, unreachable in the vastness of the world they were trying to rebuild.

Kohaku turned, defeated, as if the very sight of the sunlit deck, empty of the one person she had been searching for, had stolen the last bit of strength from her.

She wanted to scream. Wanted to tear at the sky and demand he come back. But her voice caught in her throat, lost in the emptiness between her and everything that used to matter.

And so, she walked away, her steps heavy, her heart too full of things she couldn’t name, things she didn’t know where to place. Kohaku’s feet moved, but her mind felt anchored in place, suspended in the moments before everything had gone wrong. Every step took her further from Senku and deeper into the quiet storm brewing inside her.

The air was thick with the weight of her guilt. It was a thing that clung to her skin, soaked into her bones. The guilt of not leaning in . Of turning away when he had reached out, when he had been right there with her. It had been there in the heat of their argument, in the flash of his gaze, in the weight of his hand, not in command but in something else .

But she had pulled back. Not just once, but over and over, as if she could outrun the pull of the gravity between them.

If she hadn’t, maybe things would be different. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have retreated into himself, wouldn’t have shut her out as she had shut him out.

Why didn’t I just let him in?

Her breath hitched, the sting of that question cutting through her chest like a jagged blade. It was a wound she couldn’t bind, couldn’t heal.

Her fingers curled into fists, and she pressed them hard against her sides as if she could squeeze the hurt out of her, the frustration, the confusion. Every part of her wanted to scream, but there was no release. No one to hear her.

And no one to answer her.

You are not weak. You are not weak. You are not weak.

The mantra echoed in her mind, but it was growing hollow. She had always been strong, had always prided herself on being the one others could rely on. But now, with Senku— with him —she had felt something she hadn’t expected. Something fragile. Something that terrified her more than any enemy ever had. And she had responded by hardening herself. By turning him away with that wall of pride.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

She had thought she could be everything without needing anyone. Thought she could fight on her own. But somewhere along the way, she had been lying to herself. Because now, more than ever, she needed him. Needed his steady hand. Needed his understanding. His sight .

And the worst part was that she hadn’t even let herself admit it. Not to him. Not to herself.

She had let him reach for her, and she had turned away. When he had tried to understand, she had shut him out. And now, every moment since that decision had been a reminder of how badly she had failed him.

Her vision blurred, but she didn’t care. The pain in her shoulder, the ache in her heart — they had become one, a slow, inevitable throb that wouldn’t stop. She could still feel his hand, soft but firm on her arm, and she cursed herself for not meeting it halfway.

If I had just...

If I had just leaned into him, if she had allowed herself to be vulnerable, to admit that she, too, was afraid, too, was fragile, too, needed him as much as he needed her — things might have been different.

But now it was too late.

Senku had stepped away, and she had no one to blame but herself.

She thought of the way he had looked at her when she had made the decision to retreat. That expression, soft and unreadable, but so... distant. So far away. It had felt like the very earth had shifted under her, and in that shift, they had both been pulled into different orbits, spinning out of reach of each other.

She had wanted him to need her. She had wanted to be his right hand. But more than that, she had wanted to be seen. To be looked at the way she had looked at him in those fleeting moments when their eyes had locked, when everything had felt like it was about to change. She had wanted to be more than just the lioness, more than just the fierce warrior who would charge into battle at his side.

She had wanted to be the one he could depend on, but in doing so, she had built a wall between them — a wall that now stood taller than any stone structure she had ever built.

And now, even as she searched for him, even as she stumbled across the deck, her legs shaking with each step, she knew it was too late.

The ship moved beneath her, the creak of wood, the rush of wind — but none of it mattered. It was just noise. Empty noise. And Senku... Senku was nowhere to be found.

He was fading from her, like the dim light of the morning, slipping out of her reach. And she had no one to blame but herself. Kohaku's legs shook, the cold wood beneath her feet suddenly unfamiliar as she walked the narrow corridor. Every step was a burden, each one heavier than the last. Her body felt like it belonged to someone else—someone weak, someone who couldn't carry the weight of everything she had chosen to hold inside.

The ship continued its low, groaning hum, and the world seemed to move around her, like a current she couldn't quite grasp.

Her fingers tightened on the fabric of her dress, trying to stop the rising swell of emotions threatening to break free. But it was that syringe. The memory of Senku's needle—the sharp, cold prick of it as it broke her skin—pierced her mind once again.

He had done it to save her. She knew that. He had injected her to protect her, to keep her from falling into some deeper abyss. And yet—God, yet—the vulnerability she had felt when that needle had gone in... the sting of his action had been like a cruel reminder of her own helplessness.

She had wanted to fight. Wanted to hold her ground, to stand strong before him. But instead, she had collapsed. And he had seen it, hadn't he? He had seen her weakness, and instead of backing away, instead of treating her like she wanted, as some fierce warrior who could never fall, he had stepped in.

His hands had been gentle, too gentle for someone who lived in a world of survival . Too steady for someone who had no right to coddle. But that’s what hurt the most, wasn’t it? It wasn’t the syringe itself—it wasn’t the act of him doing what he thought was necessary.

It was that in that moment, he had reached past her pride, past her bravado, and done the thing she couldn't do herself. He had seen her fear, her fragility, her inability to handle it all. And he had reacted—not with command, not with that sharp intellect of his, but with something softer. With care.

And that was the part she couldn’t stand.

Because in that moment, she had wanted to throw herself into him. Wanted to lean into his hands, to let him be there for her, to admit that she wasn’t the lioness, wasn’t the untouchable warrior, wasn’t the fierce protector of them all.

But instead, she had drawn back. Had steeled herself against the weakness his touch had exposed. Had allowed her pride to push him away.

Why hadn’t I just leaned in?

The question gnawed at her, the sting of it deeper than the physical wound on her shoulder. She had seen the worry in his eyes, the way his brow furrowed when he had given her the injection. He hadn’t done it with his usual calculation. There had been something raw about it. Something human.

But she hadn’t let herself see it. She hadn’t allowed herself to feel it.

She had looked away.

Now, as she walked the halls of the Perseus, the shame of that moment crushed her chest, suffocated her lungs. She had wanted to be strong. Wanted to be everything he needed. But in that one moment, when he had stepped past her defenses, past the walls she had built around herself, she had failed him.

You are not weak.

But the mantra rang hollow now. How could she not be weak? How could she not fall apart when everything about that moment had exposed her as something broken?

The syringe had reminded her of all the things she hadn’t been able to protect herself from. Of all the ways she had been vulnerable in front of him, and how she had recoiled from that truth.

How she had recoiled from him.

The ship creaked, and for a moment, she thought she could hear his voice, soft and hesitant, asking her if she was alright. It was just her mind playing tricks on her, but the ache in her chest only grew.

Why didn't I let him stay?

She wanted to scream it out, to rip through the air, but there was no sound, no space for the roar of frustration she was choking on.

She had pushed him away, and now, she couldn’t find him.

And with every corner she turned, with every shadow she crossed, Senku seemed to slip further from her grasp. Fainter. More distant. Like he was a memory, something she was grasping at but couldn’t hold.

A Week Passed

A week had passed since the wound on Kohaku’s shoulder had closed up, the stitching secure but still swollen and tender. Her movements were no longer stiff, but they weren’t free either. The weight of her shoulder, the faint throb when she stretched too far, reminded her of how far she still was from full strength. The pain had dulled, but a different ache lingered in its place: the frustration of being sidelined.

She sat in the infirmary again, this time not for treatment, but for a change of pace. The air felt different tonight—thick with the smell of oil, wood, and metal, the cool night air seeping through the cracked window. Outside, the ship hummed with activity, the distant sounds of the crew hammering away, voices blending with the persistent clinks of tools on metal. But here, in this room, the only sound was the steady ticking of the wall clock.

Kohaku sat, staring blankly at the wall. Her gaze wasn’t focused on anything in particular—just the dimly lit wood, the slight ripple of shadows in the corner. Her mind wandered to places it hadn’t been willing to go lately. She wasn’t sure when she’d slipped into this detached, vacant state. It wasn’t like her. But here, now, it felt safer than confronting what she couldn’t change. The weight of her guilt, her frustration, and her growing sense of uselessness was easier to push away this way.

The door creaked open, breaking the silence. Kohaku didn’t move, didn’t even glance up. She knew who it was before he even spoke.

“ Staring at the wall, huh? ” Ryusui’s voice was light, teasing, but there was an edge to it—a playful awareness that something was amiss. He leaned in the doorway, his posture casual, a wide grin on his face. “ I gotta say, that wall’s pretty unremarkable. I always thought you had better taste in things to fixate on .”

Kohaku didn’t respond immediately, her gaze still fixed ahead. The rhythm of his footsteps as he entered the room was a grounding force in her otherwise wandering thoughts.

Ryusui stepped inside fully, his eyes assessing her with a mixture of curiosity and something gentler—recognition, maybe, of the tension that coiled inside her. He chuckled lightly, clearly undeterred by her silence. “ You know, I’ve seen some strange things in my time, but ‘wall-staring’ as a pastime? That’s a new one. Care to share what’s so captivating about it, or should I just assume you’ve gone off the deep end? ”

Finally, Kohaku lifted her eyes, narrowing them with the faintest hint of irritation. “ It’s not as exciting as it sounds ,” she shot back, her voice a little too dry. “Just... figuring things out, I guess. Not everything’s about grand adventures, Ryusui .”

Ryusui raised an eyebrow, the playful grin never leaving his face. He tilted his head slightly, as though considering her words carefully, but not enough to take them seriously. “ Well, if you’re done contemplating the mysteries of wall decor ,” he said with a shrug, “ I’ve got something that might catch your interest. A bird told me something this morning. One of those fat, plump ones with the white tips on its wings. It flew right by me and gave me a message .”

Kohaku looked at him, confusion flickering in her expression. “ A bird? What are you —”

“ An onsen ,” Ryusui interrupted, his tone light, yet there was a certain playfulness in his eyes. “ Out there, outside the ship, hidden a little ways in the forest. Word’s out that the creator spent ages on the recon and building, making sure everything’s just perfect .” He flashed her that mischievous smile again. “ Seems like it’s meant for someone like you, actually. Might be worth checking out. A little peace away from all this. ”

Kohaku blinked, momentarily stunned, before she let out a small, breathless laugh. “ An onsen? Out here ?” she repeated, her voice softer now, but with an incredulous note.

Ryusui’s grin widened, the casual ease of his posture betraying his true awareness of her tension. “ Yep. I figured you’d be interested. Could be the perfect place to... I don’t know, get away for a bit. A little escape from the madness of ship repairs and whatever else is going on in that head of yours .”

Kohaku hesitated, the image of a hidden sanctuary growing in her mind. It wasn’t like her to shy away from things, but after everything—her injury, her distance from Senku—it felt like too much to ask for. Still, the thought of a place just for her, where she could wash away the weight of it all, seemed too good to ignore.

“I didn’t know something like that even existed ,” she said quietly, more to herself than him.

“ You’ll find it,” Ryusui said with a nonchalant shrug. “ Just don’t get too lost out there. And hey ,” he added, pausing at the door, “ if you’re still planning on hiding away in here forever, you know where to find me. But, uh... you might want to try that onsen first. Could be a good way to get your head right. ”

Kohaku gave him a half-smile, the first genuine one she’d shown in days. “ Sure, Ryusui. Maybe I’ll take you up on that .”

He flashed her a wink, the door clicking shut softly behind him as he left her alone in the dim light of the infirmary. The quiet settled around her again, but this time, it didn’t feel as oppressive. The idea of the onsen lingered in her thoughts, a quiet escape from the war inside her own mind.

Maybe she would find it. Maybe she would let herself step away, even if just for a little while. 

She pushed open the door, and the night air hit her with a refreshing bite. The cool wind tugged at her hair, and for a brief moment, she felt the world outside the ship again. 

Kohaku’s footsteps were soft against the worn floorboards of the ship as she moved toward the exit. The clamor of the crew outside, hammering and shouting, filled the air with a frantic energy she couldn’t ignore, but it seemed far removed from her as she passed by. She walked briskly, trying not to let the weight of the ship's commotion pull her back into the chaos that had overtaken her mind. Tonight, she needed to step away.

The ship had always felt like a safe cocoon—a metal, oil-scented labyrinth—but now, each creak of the planks, each harsh shout, only reminded her of how she had distanced herself from everything. From Senku. From herself.

Her heels crunched against the wooden board leading down from the ship to the ground below. The air felt clearer, more alive. The quiet rustle of leaves and the occasional distant animal call replaced the hum of the ship’s engines, and she welcomed the change. For the first time in what felt like forever, Kohaku’s body relaxed slightly, her shoulders loosening as she descended toward the earth, feeling the familiar connection of solid ground beneath her. It was simple—just a walk down—but it was a feeling she’d taken for granted until now. The sensation of being rooted, unshackled by the walls of steel that had enclosed her for so long.

Earth, solid beneath her feet, was a sensation she dearly missed. The ground, the dirt—so far removed from the manufactured safety of the ship. There was a quiet pull in her chest, something primal that drew her toward the land. She exhaled slowly, tasting the air like it was the first breath of freedom.

A few lanterns were lit along the path, their soft glow casting gentle circles of warmth in the dark. The light flickered as a breeze passed, but the path remained clear—leading deeper into the forest. The trees loomed in the distance, casting their long shadows in the moonlight. Fireflies blinked in the air, tiny sparks of life dancing like scattered stars. Their soft glow flickered in and out of the darkness, leading her further into the forest as if the world itself were beckoning her forward.

The air here was different, too—fresher, scented with damp earth and the richness of the surrounding woods. Her senses heightened as she took in the stillness. There was something intimate about walking alone, guided only by the fireflies and lanterns that dotted the way. The quiet was profound, a sharp contrast to the constant noise she’d left behind. She couldn’t help but feel a small sense of peace wash over her, just from the absence of that relentless hum.

As she ventured deeper, the path became narrower, the lanterns more spaced out, but the fireflies were still there, guiding her forward like an ancient ritual. She had been walking for what felt like ages when she finally saw it—a wooden wall, partially hidden by the thick underbrush. It was unassuming at first, but the wooden beams were polished and smooth, their natural grains glowing softly in the moonlight. The wall enclosed something—something sacred, perhaps—and it wasn’t until she reached the last curve in the path that she saw the entrance, a gap in the wooden slats, inviting her in.

She hesitated for just a moment, then stepped forward, pushing through the opening. The air inside felt warmer, softer, as if it had been waiting for her.

Kohaku paused at the threshold, her heart quiet for the first time in what felt like ages. The onsen, nestled within the wooden enclosure, was more beautiful than she’d imagined. The water steamed gently, rising in wisps into the cool night air, the scent of minerals and warmth filling the space. The soft trickle of water, lapping at the stone sides of the pool, was the only sound that reached her ears. The world outside felt far away now, muffled by the wood, by the sanctuary she had found.

She stepped closer, eyes taking in the simple beauty of the place. It was serene, almost sacred, with wooden beams rising above her, framing the sky and the stars that peeked through the trees above. The fireflies outside flickered like tiny candles in the forest, and Kohaku felt her body relax further, as if the forest itself was whispering to her. The onsen was a refuge, a secret place just for her—away from everything. From the ship. From her struggles. From the weight she had been carrying for so long.

Her fingers brushed the smooth stone surrounding the pool, and for a moment, she could almost believe that the world outside had stopped. That everything was still. She could breathe here. She could just be.

And for the first time in days, she smiled softly, the tension in her chest easing as she dipped her toes into the warm water, feeling its soothing embrace. Kohaku stood at the edge of the onsen, the steam rising from the water, its warmth inviting her closer. She could feel the cool night air brush against her skin, and with a sigh, she started to undress.

She first slipped off her stone-like platform heels, setting them down softly on the wooden boards. The cool breeze that followed sent a shiver down her spine, forming goosebumps along her skin. She reached for the straps of her dress, tugging it over her head. The fabric caught for a moment, but with a quick movement, it was off, pooling at her feet in a heap.

Standing there in the cool night air, Kohaku let out a breath, the chill of the evening making her feel more aware of her skin. It was as though the weight of everything—her injury, her frustrations, the guilt—was slowly starting to lift with every piece of clothing she shed. She looked down at the dress for a moment, then stepped out of it, leaving it behind like another part of herself.

Her bare feet pressed against the cool wooden floor as she took a step toward the onsen. The fireflies continued their dance in the night air, and the lanterns around the area gave off a soft, gentle glow. She felt a tug of peace in the solitude, the space to be fully herself without the expectations that had been building around her.

Goosebumps riddled her skin, her nipples hardening almost painfully from the bitter air. A notion to hurry into the steaming heaven in front of her. 

With one last glance at the world around her, Kohaku slid into the warm water. The heat seeped into her muscles, relaxing her in ways she hadn’t realized she needed. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the water envelop her, letting go of everything she couldn’t hold onto any longer. The warm water enveloped her as Kohaku sank deeper, letting it seep into her muscles and her soul. It was heaven—every inch of her body welcomed the sensation, the weight of the world lifted by the soft steam curling around her. She leaned back, closing her eyes and tilting her head to the sky. The cool air on her face contrasted with the heat of the water, grounding her in a rare moment of peace.

Kohaku sank deeper into the water, letting it envelop her like a soothing balm for both body and soul. The warm steam rose around her, mingling with the cool night air, wrapping her in a contrast of sensations. She closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the smooth stone edge of the onsen, and exhaled a long, drawn-out breath, as if she could shed the weight of everything that had been pressing on her chest.

The water lapped gently at her skin, the sensation of warmth spreading through her body like a slow, steady tide. It was like a long-awaited embrace—something she hadn’t realized she was craving until now. The soft ripples against her skin felt almost... tender, a stark contrast to the relentless grind of the ship’s mechanical sounds and the harsh edges of her world. This place, this quiet haven, was a world apart, a reminder that for a fleeting moment, she didn’t have to carry the weight of everyone’s expectations or the ache in her shoulder.

Her fingers slid down her arms, tracing the contours of her body almost absently. The cool air made her skin prickle with sensitivity, a sharp contrast to the warm water enveloping her. It had been so long since she had allowed herself to feel something as simple as this—just being in the moment, feeling the stretch of her muscles without thinking of their limitations.

With her legs stretched out beneath the water, she bent her knee and let her hands travel to her thighs, lightly tracing the skin there, reveling in the sensation of her own touch. The pressure of her fingers, delicate and deliberate, was a reminder of her strength—and the softness she kept hidden beneath it. The softness that, for so long, she had buried beneath the armor of her role.

The water clung to her skin as she let herself relax further, sinking lower into the onsen. Her body was worn, yet it felt like it could rest here forever, washed clean of all the burdens she had carried. The tender ache in her shoulder, the frustration of feeling sidelined, all seemed to dissipate with each passing moment.

She let out a soft sigh, her chest rising and falling with each breath, as she closed her eyes and allowed herself to forget the world outside, the people waiting for her to heal, the person she had tried so hard to be for them. In this moment, there was only the sensation of warmth, of water, and the feeling of her own skin. Just this. Just her.

As Kohaku sank lower into the warm, inviting waters of the onsen, she could feel her body responding to the gentle caress of the heat. The tension that had been coiling in her muscles slowly began to unwind, as if the water itself was working its magic to soothe her weary body and mind. Her fingers continued their explorations, lightly tracing the curves and contours of her skin, savoring each new sensation. 

She let her hands glide upwards from her thighs, skimming over her stomach and ribcage, feeling the gentle give of her flesh beneath her fingertips. It was a reminder of her womanhood, of the softness she often forgot she possessed when she was focused on her duties and responsibilities. 

As her hands reached the swell of her breasts, she couldn't help but let out a soft moan, the sound carried away by the gentle lapping of the water against the stone sides of the onsen. Kohaku's touch became more deliberate as she cupped her breasts, feeling the weight of them in her palms. She circled her thumbs around her nipples, feeling them stiffen under her touch, begging for more. A jolt of pleasure shot through her body, making her arch her back slightly and press herself deeper into the warm embrace of the water. 

Her hands continued their exploration, sliding downwards over her stomach and hips, until they reached the apex of her thighs. She could feel the heat building there, a throbbing ache that demanded attention. Gently, almost tentatively at first, she let her fingers brush against her most sensitive area, feeling herself already slick with arousal. As she continued to touch herself, building a steady rhythm, Kohaku let out a soft gasp, her head falling back against the edge of the onsen. 

The combination of the warm water surrounding her and her own tender caresses was intoxicating, sending waves of pleasure crashing over her body. She felt like she was floating, drifting in a sea of sensation, untethered from the world outside this private haven. Her fingers moved faster now, circling and rubbing in all the right ways, drawing out moan after moan from her lips. The ache inside her grew more insistent, begging for release. She could feel the tension building in her core, a coil tightening with each passing moment, threatening to snap at any second. Just as she felt herself teetering on the edge, about to plunge over into oblivion, Kohaku's hand froze. A sudden realization hit her - this wasn't right. She couldn't do this, couldn't find pleasure in this moment of solitude. Not like this. With a frustrated groan, she pulled her hand away, letting it sink beneath the surface of the water. 

Her chest heaved with ragged breaths as she tried to regain control, to push down the rising tide of shame and guilt that threatened to engulf her. She had almost crossed a line, almost lost herself in a moment of weakness. 

And for what? 

A fleeting moment of pleasure that would only lead to more pain and regret in the end? Kohaku took a deep breath, then another, forcing herself to focus on the present moment. She was here, in this peaceful place, surrounded by nature's beauty. She needed to remember that, to cling to the sense of calm and peace that had brought her here in the first place.

 Kohaku sank deeper into the onsen, the warm water wrapping around her like a protective cocoon. The heat seeped into her muscles, easing away the tension that had built up over weeks of distance, both physical and emotional. The past few days had felt long, the silence between her and Senku growing harder to ignore. She had tried to distract herself with training, with sparring, with the endless tasks on the ship, but the moments of quiet were never truly enough. Not when she felt so alone in her thoughts.

It had been too long since she'd allowed herself to just feel—without the pressure of survival, of responsibility. The water lapped gently against her skin, soothing and peaceful, and for a moment, she closed her eyes, letting the silence wrap around her.

But then, she heard something—footsteps. She froze, unsure if it was her mind playing tricks on her. The sound was faint, barely perceptible, but unmistakable. Someone was approaching. Her heart skipped a beat. Could it be?

" Kohaku? " The voice—familiar, unmistakable—cut through the quiet.

Her breath caught in her throat. It was Senku.

She didn’t speak at first, just held her breath, listening to the slight shift of his footsteps, the sound of him pausing just beyond the wooden wall. She hadn’t expected this. Not now, not after all this time.

" Senku ," she finally breathed, the weight of his name on her lips carrying the quiet ache of longing she hadn’t allowed herself to acknowledge. She didn’t know what she expected. Maybe some kind of apology, maybe not. She wasn’t sure what she wanted, only that she needed him to see her. To really see her again.

On the other side of the wall, Senku went still. His voice came a moment later, cautious but still unmistakably him.

“ …You're here? ”

The question hung in the air, but it wasn’t just curiosity—it was the sudden recognition, the realization that after everything, he hadn’t expected to find her like this, in this private moment, with no walls left between them. The gap between them had always been there, but now it was palpable, as if he had just noticed it for the first time.

" Yes ," Kohaku said, her voice steadier than she felt. “ I needed some time... to myself ."

The words felt almost like a confession, and she was unsure if she was speaking about the onsen or about everything else—her emotions, her frustration, the longing that had been quietly festering beneath the surface. The silence stretched out between them again, filled with so many unsaid things.

“ I, uh ,” Senku’s voice came through again, now hesitant, with a quiet frustration that she couldn’t quite place. “ The onsen’s supposed to be restocked, but I’m... here with towels and soap. I’ll leave them outside if you’d prefer .”

Kohaku's heart fluttered with something she couldn’t quite name—tension, anticipation. She could hear him shifting again, likely holding the towels and soap, unsure of what to do.

But something inside her, something deep and raw, made her take a breath and answer.

“ No ,” she said firmly, surprising even herself with her directness. “ I’d rather you come in .”

There was a long, lingering silence from Senku’s side, and she could almost hear his internal conflict. Was he trying to make sure this was the right thing? Or was it the same hesitation that had been between them for the past few weeks—too much space, too many unspoken thoughts, too much that had gone unsaid?

“ I’ll avert my eyes ,” Senku said quietly, almost muttering, his tone lighter, but still careful, tentative.

But Kohaku’s words, her voice, were calm—almost challenging in their simplicity. “ You don’t have to .”

The words were out before she could stop them, and she felt a slight shift within herself. It wasn’t that she didn’t care about the situation—it was that, in this moment, she felt an undeniable pull toward him. A deep, aching need to bridge the gap between them, to erase the weeks of distance, of silence, of being so close yet so far apart.

Kohaku felt her pulse quicken, a mix of anticipation and uncertainty flooding her chest. She had said it—spoken the words that would bring him closer, that would close the gap that had been widening between them for weeks. She hadn't expected her heart to race this much at the thought of his presence, of him seeing her like this.

But there was no immediate response from Senku. The silence stretched out between them, each passing second more suffocating than the last.

Kohaku's breath hitched in her throat, her chest tightening with the weight of something she couldn't quite name. Had she been too bold? Too forward? She had been craving the connection, the warmth of his presence, and now, here he was, just beyond the wooden wall, and yet it felt like there was still so much distance between them.

Her voice faltered, a slight crack breaking through her composed exterior as she called out to him again. " Senku? "

Still, nothing.

Then, finally, she heard his footsteps—the slow, deliberate pace of someone walking, but without the familiar confidence he usually carried. The door creaked open, and she could feel him standing just inside the threshold, close but still so far. The water swirled around her body, the heat rising from the depths, but it couldn’t chase away the chill that had suddenly settled in her chest.

He was there. But not really.

She glanced up, expecting to meet his eyes, but Senku’s gaze remained fixed on the floor, his body stiff. His hands, holding the towels and soap, hung by his sides in an almost awkward manner, as if unsure where to place them. He didn’t look at her—didn’t even seem to want to acknowledge her presence in that way.

" Senku …" Her voice was softer now, tinged with something raw, something vulnerable. " I —"

But before she could finish, he cut her off, his tone as cold and detached as ever.

“ This isn’t a place for... distractions ," he said, his words precise and measured, devoid of emotion. " I’m just here to restock the onsen. Nothing more ."

Kohaku felt as if the ground beneath her had shifted, her heart sinking with each syllable.

She stared at him, feeling the sting of his words more than she cared to admit. A knot tightened in her throat. This was the reality of it—the harsh, unrelenting truth that she had been trying to ignore for so long. Senku wasn’t here for her. He wasn’t here to see her, to acknowledge the hurt she’d been carrying, the weight of the silence between them.

He was just here to do his job.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the stone basin, the cool water lapping at her skin no longer comforting. She wanted to say something, anything to break the tension, but she found that the words were trapped in her chest, lodged there by the sharp ache that had lodged itself deep inside her.

She had expected so much more, or maybe she had just wanted to. She had hoped—foolishly, perhaps—that this moment would be different. That this time, things might shift between them. That they might bridge the gap that had formed so quietly, so subtly, over the past weeks. But it seemed like she had been the only one waiting for that shift.

Senku shifted slightly, his gaze still avoiding hers. His posture, rigid and formal, screamed of someone in control—someone who was keeping a safe distance. Keeping everything in its place. She wasn’t his responsibility to care for. She was just another person on this journey. Nothing more. Nothing special.

" You... you don’t have to stand there ," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her words felt like they were slipping away from her before she could even fully grasp them. " If you’re just restocking, you can leave the towels here ."

Senku didn’t answer immediately. He hesitated, as if considering her words carefully. Then, with a quiet mutter, he placed the towels and soap on the stone ledge by the water, his movements stiff and controlled.

“ I’ll leave you to it ,” he said curtly.

Kohaku felt her chest tighten even more as he began to turn away, his retreat as cold as his entrance. She watched him go, the space between them widening once again, her pulse thudding painfully in her ears. His back was to her now, and she felt an overwhelming wave of frustration rise up in her.

She wanted to scream, to ask why—why was he so distant, so cold? Why couldn’t he just let go of his pride, of whatever walls he had built around himself? Why couldn’t he see her as more than just the soldier, the fighter, the one who always stood by him?

Kohaku’s fingers trembled against the stone ledge, the water around her suddenly feeling colder, more isolating. Her chest tightened with a mixture of anger, frustration, and something else—a vulnerability she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in front of him for a long time.

She couldn’t just sit there anymore, not after everything. Not after the weeks of silence, of barely a word between them.

“ Senku! ” she shouted, her voice trembling with pent-up emotion, raw and unrestrained. Her words echoed against the stone walls, ringing in the otherwise quiet onsen.

Senku froze in place, his back still to her, but she could hear the subtle hitch in his breathing. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t move a muscle. He kept his back straight, as if the walls of his mind had already formed an impenetrable barrier, one he had built for protection.

“ Why? ” she demanded, her voice rising with each syllable, cutting through the thick silence. “ Why did you betray me like this? ”

The question hung in the air between them, heavy and sharp. Her words were like daggers, and the sting of them seemed to pierce through the invisible wall Senku had erected around himself.

“ Why did you act like I wasn’t even here? ” Her chest heaved with the intensity of the emotions she could no longer keep bottled up. “ Why did you shut me out? Why did you act like all those weeks of silence were just... nothing? ”

She stood up from the water, not caring that the steam swirled around her, not caring about the fact that she was naked. The warmth of the water no longer comforted her. Her emotions were too hot, too overwhelming for it to matter. The anger burned through her like a fire that refused to be extinguished.

“ Was I nothing more than a soldier to you? Was I just some... some tool you could use? Something you didn’t have to think about? ” Kohaku’s voice broke slightly, the vulnerability creeping in despite her best efforts to hold it back. “ I fought beside you. I trusted you. And now, this? Now you act like I don’t even exist? ”

Senku remained still, though she could sense the tension in his posture. His hands clenched slightly at his sides, his jaw tightening. But his gaze was fixed firmly to the floor, avoiding her like he had been avoiding her this whole time. He didn't meet her eyes. Didn’t acknowledge her, not truly.

" I don't... I don't need you to yell, " Senku muttered, his voice strained, but still holding the coolness he always maintained. “I don’t need you to make this harder than it is, Kohaku ."

The words fell from his mouth like ice, like a barrier between them. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground, his posture rigid.

Kohaku’s breath came in sharp gasps. She could feel the familiar warmth in her chest, the rush of anger, frustration, and pain. The walls he’d built around himself were so thick, so unyielding. And it felt like no matter how much she wanted to reach him, he was determined to keep her at a distance.

“ No ,” she spat, her voice firm, even though her insides were shaking. “ No, Senku. You don’t get to hide behind logic now. You don’t get to pretend like this is some... some problem that’s too complicated for me to understand. I know you’re trying to push me away, but I can’t just... I can’t just sit here and pretend like nothing’s wrong. You’re the one who’s been shutting me out for weeks. ”

Her fists clenched at her sides, her frustration boiling over.

“ Why? ” she demanded again, the word hanging between them like a challenge. " Why can’t you just let go, Senku? Why can’t you just be with me, just... feel something for once? "

She knew, deep down, that this was a dangerous line of questioning. She could feel the heat rising between them, the tension like a storm ready to break. But she couldn’t stop herself. She needed answers. She needed him to face her, to face the truth of what had been growing between them—the distance, the walls, the unspoken things that had been left to fester.

Senku exhaled slowly, his chest rising and falling with the effort it took to control himself. His fingers twitched at his sides, and for a brief, painful moment, Kohaku thought he might turn around.

But then he shook his head, his voice low, and cold. “ I’m not here to argue, Kohaku. I don’t want this to become something it shouldn’t. I’m here to restock the onsen. That’s it .”

The words felt like a slap across her face, and the realization crashed over her with an undeniable weight. This wasn’t about her. This wasn’t about them. He was here because it was his duty. His role. Nothing more.

Her heart twisted painfully, and the lump in her throat made it hard to breathe.

“ That’s all I am to you, isn’t it? ” Her voice cracked, her chest tightening. " A duty. Something to be checked off. Something to manage ."

Senku stayed silent, and Kohaku’s anger flared again, a fierce burst of heat that shot through her veins.

“ I was there for you! ” she shouted, her voice thick with frustration. “ I fought with you, bled with you. I trusted you. And you... you acted like I was nothing! Nothing more than an inconvenience. You didn’t even look at me! ”

There was a long pause, a moment where everything seemed to freeze. Senku’s figure remained still, his body rigid, and Kohaku’s pulse hammered in her ears.

Finally, his voice broke the silence. But it was softer now, resigned, distant. “ I can’t. I can’t let it go. I can’t let myself... get distracted. This isn’t just about us, Kohaku. This is about something bigger. ”

Her eyes stung with tears, though she refused to let them fall. She wasn’t going to break in front of him. Not now.

“ Bigger? ” she whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of everything she’d held inside. “ What’s bigger than us, Senku? What’s more important than this? ”

Senku didn’t answer, and the silence between them felt like an abyss. Kohaku’s breath was shaky, and she had never felt more exposed. Senku’s expression, which had been as hard as stone, suddenly shifted. His jaw tightened, and the thin line of his lips betrayed the anger that was beginning to flare in his chest. His hands clenched at his sides, his fingers trembling, but not from fear—no, from a frustration he’d held in for far too long. The same frustration that had driven him deeper into his work.

" Why didn't you reach out, Kohaku?" he shouted, his voice cutting through the tension that hung in the air like smoke. His back was still to her, but the weight of his words was sharp, unyielding. " Why did you avoid me? Huh? You think it was easy for me to just... shut everything off? To keep my distance from you? I didn’t do that because I wanted to ."

He finally turned, his eyes meeting hers, but there was no softness in them. Only the raw edge of emotions long buried.

“ You think I didn’t care? ” Senku’s voice was lower now, a bitter rasp that echoed his exhaustion. “ You think I didn’t notice? You think I didn’t see how you pulled away from me too? I... I tried, Kohaku. I tried to show concern, to ask if something was wrong. But you didn’t respond. You didn’t talk to me .”

Kohaku froze, her breath catching in her throat as Senku took a step forward, his voice growing more urgent, more desperate.

“ And when I saw you shutting me out, I ...” He paused, his throat tightening with frustration. “ I buried myself in my work because I couldn’t handle the distance. I couldn’t handle you pulling away. I thought if I just focused on something else, I wouldn’t have to face it. But now ...” His eyes searched hers, full of raw emotion. “ Now I’m standing here, and you’re telling me you’re angry at me for doing exactly what you did to me .”

The air between them crackled with the intensity of his words, and Kohaku’s heart ached at the sheer weight of them. She had thought Senku was avoiding her, had thought he was choosing to focus on his work. But now she realized—he had felt the same way. He had tried to reach out, and she had pulled away, unknowingly pushing him further into his isolation.

“ I never wanted this to happen ,” Senku muttered, his voice now softer, though still holding that underlying frustration. “ But you didn’t let me in, Kohaku. And now you’re standing there, yelling at me like I’m the one who pushed you away. I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to... be this person .”

The bitterness in his tone faded, but the hurt remained, lingering like a heavy weight pressing down on him. He looked away for a moment, unable to meet her gaze directly. It was too much—too much to admit, too much to face.

Kohaku stood still, her heart hammering in her chest. The words Senku had said cut deep, but in a way, they also made her feel something else—guilt, yes, but also an understanding.

She hadn’t seen it. She hadn’t seen that he’d been just as lost as she was. That in trying to protect her, in trying to shield her from the burden of his work, he had inadvertently pushed her away.

And in the silence that followed his outburst, Kohaku’s own emotions finally began to surge to the surface. Her throat tightened, and her eyes stung as she met his gaze.

“ I didn’t know ...” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “I didn’t know you felt that way. I thought... I thought you were shutting me out because you didn’t want me around. That it was me who was the problem. ”

Senku shook his head, his eyes closing for a moment, as if trying to compose himself. “ No, Kohaku. You were never the problem. I was the one who couldn’t handle it. I was the one who buried myself in my work because I was afraid of... this. Of what we were becoming. Of what I was becoming. ”

Kohaku’s heart clenched at the vulnerability in his words. She had never heard Senku speak like this—not about his feelings, not about the burden of his isolation. It was raw, unfiltered, and it made her chest ache.

Senku stood there for a long moment, the weight of their words hanging in the air. He could see the anguish in Kohaku’s eyes, but there was something else too—a deep understanding of the truth they had just admitted to each other. He felt it, too—the overwhelming realization that their paths couldn’t cross in the way they both wanted, not now, not yet.

But still… he couldn’t leave her like this. Not tonight.

He moved toward the shelves, reaching for a towel. His fingers brushed the soft fabric, but he wasn’t thinking of the towel at all. His mind, for the first time in what felt like weeks, was focused on her—on the woman who had been there, fighting beside him, living beside him, and never asking for anything more than his trust.

Turning back toward her, he didn’t say a word, but his gaze softened, a silent question. She didn’t flinch as he approached, her eyes meeting his—still raw, still filled with that same unspoken ache.

Senku knelt before her, the towel now in his hands, but it wasn’t just a simple gesture. He wasn’t here to hide her body, to rush this moment. He was here to offer her something else, something more intimate than words could convey.

Slowly, gently, he began to wrap the towel around her, his fingers brushing against her skin as he did so. The contact was brief, but it was enough to remind them both of the distance they had been trying to hold, and how easily it could be closed.

But this wasn’t about what they couldn’t have—it was about the here and now. And in this moment, Senku wasn’t thinking of the future. He wasn’t thinking about all the things they couldn’t be. He was thinking of her—of Kohaku, and how much he cared for her.

When the towel was wrapped around her, Senku reached out, his hands cupping her face. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t even flinch. He just held her, his thumbs gently stroking the curve of her cheeks as he cradled her face in his hands.

“ You don’t need to say anything ,” he whispered, his voice soft, but firm. “ We’ll figure everything out. But not tonight. Tonight, we don’t have to pretend. We don’t have to carry the weight of the world .”

She could feel the tenderness in his touch, the sincerity in his words. And for a moment, just a fleeting moment, she felt the warmth of him—of them—without the pressure of their futures looming over them.

He leaned in then, just enough to close the gap between them. And under the light of the moon that filtered through the open window, he kissed her—softly, gently, with the weight of everything they couldn’t say. 

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t a declaration. It was just a moment. A simple, quiet moment where they could be together without worrying about what tomorrow would bring. Where they could exist in the present, in the peace they both so desperately needed.

Kohaku’s pulse quickened, her heart racing faster than she could comprehend. The ache inside her chest was unbearable now—years of unspoken emotions, of feelings buried beneath the weight of their responsibilities, threatening to explode.

Her hands, which had been resting by her sides, slowly reached up, resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her fingers. It was real. He was real. And he was here, with her, in this fleeting moment where neither of them had to carry the world on their shoulders.

The kiss deepened slowly, almost naturally, as if they had been waiting for this moment for far too long. Senku’s hands slid from her face to her shoulders, pulling her closer, his thumb grazing the line of her jaw. Kohaku’s breath hitched, and for a fleeting second, she felt a wave of panic, the kind that came with giving away too much. But then, Senku’s hand moved to the back of her neck, steadying her, grounding her, and that fear melted away.

His lips parted slightly, and Kohaku followed, her hands threading through his hair, pulling him closer, as though she couldn’t bear to be apart from him. The kiss was no longer tentative. It was urgent, filled with all the words they hadn’t spoken, all the things they had both been too afraid to admit.

She could feel his pulse, feel the tension in his body. He was just as desperate, just as caught in the moment as she was. It wasn’t about logic, about control—it was about this one, perfect moment where nothing else mattered.

The moonlight, the silence, the soft ripple of the water—it all faded into the background as Senku deepened the kiss, his hands sliding lower, over her back, until he pulled her into him entirely. Kohaku let herself fall into it, let herself be consumed by the warmth of his presence, by the heat of his touch.

But just as quickly as the moment had come, it was gone. The sound of Ryusui's loud, unrelenting voice broke the spell, shattering the intimacy of the moment.

“ Are you two lovebirds done yet, or what? It’s my turn! ”

Senku immediately pulled back, his body rigid as he turned away from her, the weight of the situation crashing over him. He couldn’t let this moment mean anything more. Not now. Not when they had so much work ahead of them.

Kohaku stood frozen, cheeks flushed and heart racing, trying to regain some sense of control. She quickly grabbed her dress, fumbling with the fabric as she hastily tried to pull it over her head. As she did, she tripped slightly, her heel slipping out of reach. She cursed under her breath, but when she saw Senku standing with his back to her, his stance stiff, her frustration melted into something else—a mix of confusion, hurt, and longing.

Senku's voice cut through the air, quiet but steady. “ You good? ”

Kohaku’s breath hitched, but she managed a nod, forcing a smile. “ Yeah .” Her hands continued to work on getting dressed, her movements hurried, as if she were trying to escape the weight of the unspoken things between them.

Senku kept his back turned, his mind racing. He wanted so badly to take her in his arms again, to not have to keep pretending that this was nothing more than a fleeting moment. But he knew—he had to focus. He couldn’t let anything complicate the future. Not when they had so much left to rebuild.

Outside, Ryusui’s voice grew louder. “ Hurry up, or I’m coming in! ”

Kohaku quickly finished dressing, slipping her heels back on, and before she could say anything, Senku grabbed her hand gently but firmly, his fingers wrapping around hers. His grip was reassuring, strong, even though the confusion and frustration of the moment still simmered beneath the surface.

“ We need to go ,” Senku said quietly, his voice softer now. He kept his gaze averted, though the longing was evident in the way his hand stayed wrapped around hers, holding her close.

Kohaku felt the weight of his words, of everything that had been left unsaid. She was painfully aware of how this moment, this fragile connection, was slipping away. She wanted more, wanted to tell him how she felt, but the truth was they couldn’t afford to indulge in this. Not yet. They had so much work to do, so much to rebuild. And if they ever got to a place where they could have more than this… it would take time. It would take patience.

They had no time for distractions.

Senku squeezed her hand lightly, his voice low as he whispered, “ Don’t confess anything to me, Kohaku. Not yet. We still have a future to secure .”

Kohaku didn’t answer at first. She simply nodded, her heart heavy but full of understanding. It was painful, but she knew it was the truth. They were star-crossed, two people destined to always stand apart, no matter how much they might wish for more.

The sound of Ryusui banging on the door broke the moment, and Senku immediately pulled her along. “ Let’s go before he decides to break the door down .”

Kohaku glanced back at him one last time, her hand still in his, and for a brief moment, she let herself lean into the warmth of his touch. They didn’t need to say anything more. They both understood.

Outside, Ryusui stood, a smirk on his face as he waited for them to emerge. He wasn’t surprised by their reluctance to leave—after all, it wasn’t every day that you got a front-row seat to a private moment like that. But as they burst out of the onsen, Senku pulling Kohaku along, Ryusui chuckled to himself, his thoughts only half-formed.

“ Oh, I know what’s going on ,” Ryusui muttered under his breath, watching them disappear into the night. The fireflies lit the air around him, their delicate glow tracing patterns in the cool night. “ One day, they’ll figure it out. But for now, it's just another victory for me .”

Ryusui grinned, watching the stars flicker above him, the fireflies drawing their glowing paths in the darkness.

" One day ..." he repeated to himself, shaking his head with a laugh.

Chapter Text

Somewhere above the screech of sanded wood and the sharp hiss of welded resin, the sound of bodies clashing rang across the deck.

Senku barely glanced up.

He was elbow-deep in the belly of the landing craft, tunic sleeves shoved up to the crooks of his arms, a fine sheen of oil glossing his forearms as he bent over the engine housing. Bolts gleamed like insect eyes under the filtered daylight. The frame was still skeletal, half-born, but he’d started hearing its potential in the backbeat of his mind—lift, wind resistance, center of gravity. The mechanics whispered clearly than people did.

Which was why the scuffle just beyond his periphery was background noise—until it wasn’t.

A low grunt, a breath like a huff of laughter, and the slap of palm against flesh.

“ Close enough for you, Hyoga? ” Ryusui purred, voice thick with mirth.

Senku sighed, tightening a wrench.

On the wide expanse of the main deck, Ryusui danced around Hyoga with his usual infuriating flair—shirtless, sweat dripping from the curve of his jaw, his skin dusted with grime from a half-day's labor. His body moved like it belonged to the sea itself: reckless, fluid, always invading space that wasn’t his. He feinted left, then spun in close—so close his breath brushed Hyoga’s ear.

Hyoga didn’t flinch. He pivoted on a dime, using Ryusui’s momentum against him, locking one arm around the helmsman’s shoulder in a practiced twist. “ If I wanted to gut you, I’d have done it twice already .”

Ryusui laughed, head tilting back, white teeth bared like a pirate out of myth. “ But you haven’t ,” he said, eyes glinting. “ Which means either you’re going easy on me—or you’re enjoying this .”

Hyoga shoved him backward with force, not violence. Ryusui let the motion carry him, rolling into the fall and springing back onto his feet with showman’s grace. He didn’t fight like a warrior—he fought like someone who’d danced his way through duels and diplomacy both, who liked the heat of a body close and didn’t care if that body bled.

“ Your form’s too clean, ” Ryusui said as he approached again, arms loose, cocky. “ All spine, no soul. Maybe I should get in closer. Learn how that frigid style of yours works from the inside .”

Hyoga’s gaze darkened. “ You mistake survival for restraint .”

“ No ,” Ryusui said, grin widening, “ I mistake your silence for permission. ”

Their next exchange was faster—close-quartered, and dirty. Ryusui ducked beneath a jab and stepped into Hyoga’s blind side, not to strike but to press his weight into the other man’s center of gravity. Skin met skin in a flash of sweat and grit as he tried to throw Hyoga off balance by sheer intimacy, shoulder against ribs, thigh brushing thigh. It was a tactic. And a dare.

Hyoga didn’t stumble—but his breath hitched.

“ You always fight like this? ” he growled, twisting free.

“ Only when it gets fun .”

From his corner, Senku let out a breath through his nose. “ Hey ,” he muttered to no one, or maybe the aircraft. “ If you’re gonna screw, just get it over with. Some of us are trying to prevent a catastrophic descent over enemy territory. ”

Tsukasa, who had been watching from near the rope spools, stifled a chuckle behind his hand.

But neither Hyoga nor Ryusui looked away from each other. Their spar wasn’t finished. Not yet.

The crack of flesh meeting flesh rang through the deck.

Ryusui ducked a high sweep and lunged forward, catching Hyoga by the shoulder to spin him off-balance. He didn’t follow up with a hit—just a palm pressed to Hyoga’s back with enough pressure to say: I could’ve ended that there.

Hyoga recovered quickly, rotating with a grunt. “ You're sloppy with your footing. ”

“ And you’re slow to adapt ,” Ryusui shot back, teeth flashing in a grin.

They collided again, boots scraping against wood, arms locking at the elbows. The strain rippled through their frames—Ryusui’s shoulders flexing, Hyoga’s lean torso winding like a coil. There was no hesitation between them, only an unspoken rhythm, a mutual push for limits. Sweat slicked their forearms, staining the deck below in a patchwork of hard-earned effort.

Ryusui leaned in close—not taunting, not overconfident—just closing distance like a born duelist. “ No spear to lean on now ,” he said lowly. “ What’ll you do, Hyoga? ”

Hyoga’s only answer was a sharp pivot, wrenching them apart and launching a quick jab that grazed Ryusui’s ribs. Ryusui exhaled sharply and responded with a wide sweep, forcing Hyoga to leap back, landing light on the balls of his feet.

They circled each other again, breathing hard.

This wasn’t hostility. It was camaraderie wrapped in friction.

A sharp kick. A wrist parry. A fake-out that nearly had Ryusui stumbling into a barrel before he caught himself with a bark of laughter.

“ Careful, ” Hyoga muttered, brushing sweat from his brow. “ Your showboating’s getting in the way of your balance .”

“ Balance is for tightropes ,” Ryusui panted, rolling his shoulder with a wince. “ I’m here to see if you fall .”

Then he charged again. No flourish this time—just a clean, grounded movement. He and Hyoga locked up at the center of the deck once more, pushing off each other with heavy breaths and tired arms.

Eventually, Hyoga stepped back, hands on his hips, not winded but clearly satisfied. “ That’s enough .”

Ryusui exhaled, his chest heaving. “ You always quit when you’re ahead? ”

Hyoga gave a dry look. “I quit before I waste energy .”

Above them, Tsukasa’s voice called down from the upper deck, calm and amused. “ Save the rest for the next drill. ”

Ryusui looked up, hand on his hip, sweat running down his temple. “ Only if you promise to spar next time .”

“ You don’t want that ,” Tsukasa replied smoothly.

Ryusui’s grin widened. “ Oh, I definitely do. ”

But before Tsukasa could retort, Kohaku had already rolled her shoulder and stepped into the open space. The fabric around her arm tightened as she flexed the muscle beneath it, the bruise a dull yellow and green. Ugly to anyone else, maybe, but to her, it was just proof that she was moving again.

Hyoga had already stepped aside with a short nod, and Ryusui, ever the showman, was back in the sparring circle, beckoning Kohaku forward with a confident flick of his fingers.

Kohaku stepped into the circle, her body already falling into a loose, relaxed stance. Her eyes gleamed with excitement, but there was a flicker of controlled intensity in her movements. The bruise still ached dully, but the wrap held firm, and she had already tuned out the faint discomfort.

Her body remembered what it had always known: motion.

“ Ready when you are ,” she said, voice low but eager.

Ryusui’s grin widened, predatory and knowing. “ You say that like I’ll survive long enough to make a second move .”

From his corner, Senku muttered, eyes narrowing in a mix of frustration and reluctant respect. “ You won’t .”

The moment Ryusui’s foot moved—just a feint to test her reflexes—the deck came alive with the sound of feet scraping against wood, the shuffle of quick movements, and the rapid rise of tension between them. The slap of their steps, the clash of their wills, filled the air as Ryusui lunged again, his movements a blur of athleticism. Kohaku didn’t back down, dodging with precision, her body flowing smoothly, ready to strike with every inch of her being.

Even with the bruised shoulder, Kohaku was a force in motion—and this match was already one for the history books.

Ryusui was shirtless and slick with sweat, his boots slapping the deck in time with the rhythm of his breath. His hair clung to his face in damp strands, but his grin was untamed. He danced backwards from her assault, laughing even as she nearly clipped his jaw with a spinning heel.

“Your shoulder’s injured ,” he said, feinting a step in. “ Should I be holding back?”

“ You should be praying ,” she growled, and drove forward.

They collided—shoulder to chest, skin against skin, and then scattered apart again, circling like a storm tightening around its eye.

Kohaku was tireless. She moved like firewood crackling—jagged and sudden and just barely contained. Her strikes came sharp, merciless. Not cruel, but clean. Ruthless. Calculated. More so than usual. Like she’d trained for this.

And maybe she had.

Ryusui ducked, barely avoiding her knee to the ribs. “Alright, new theory ,” he panted, dancing back with that pirate grin. “I’m not your opponent—I’m your glorified punching bag .”

Kohaku advanced without mercy. “ You're catching on .”

“ Oof ,” he chuckled, blocking a brutal kick. “ And here I thought I was special .”

She huffed, low and sharp, and lunged again.

He blocked her elbow with his forearm, only to find her leg hooking behind his knee. The two tumbled together, slammed into the deck, and rolled—her hair a blur of gold against sun-slick wood.

Ryusui scrambled to pin her. She twisted. They grappled, slipped, and locked again. Hands found wrists, bodies pressed close, then separated like magnets fighting polarity. For all his charm, Ryusui was strategic. He never let himself stay beneath her for long. But neither did he hold her down when he had the chance.

“ Tell me ,” he said mid-tussle, breathless now, “ do all your lovers walk away with bruised ribs? ”

Kohaku shoved his face aside with her palm and pushed off his chest. “ You’re not my lover .”

“ Oh, don’t worry. ” He laughed, rolling back to his feet. “ That’s Senku’s problem, not mine. ”

She froze for just a moment, enough time for him to think he had the upper hand—but he didn’t make the first move. He only tilted his head slightly, waiting, as if daring her to come at him.

The shift in her stance was subtle. Less a warrior’s instinct, more the weight of something deeper—a need to prove something not just to him, but to herself . She paused—not long, only a breath—but it was enough for something sharp to twist inside her.

He waited. He didn’t strike. He only tilted his head in invitation.

She moved.

But not as a warrior. Not as a woman.

As something in between—a creature forged in fire and duty, trembling not from weakness but from the weight of a promise.

Let me be his sword , she thought, chest tight, let me be the one who moves when he cannot, who defends what he dreams even if it means I bleed for it.

They collided again, harder this time—every strike an offering. Every block, every grapple, every breathless tumble on sweat-slick wood was a vow she etched into the air with her body: I will not fall behind. I will not fail him. I am not done.

With a grunt, Kohaku lunged, her body colliding with his in the center of the deck, moving with force and precision. Ryusui’s arms wrapped around her from behind, but in a fluid motion, she twisted, using his own grip to flip him over her shoulder. He caught her wrist mid-air, but she used the leverage to slam her elbow into his ribs. He wheezed, grinning despite the pain, and they both staggered.

“ Remind me never to cross you again, ” Ryusui muttered through clenched teeth.

She rushed him again. He dodged, just barely, but this time, he wasn’t quick enough to stop her. Kohaku slammed into him, her body like iron as she caught his waist, spun him around. The slick wood beneath their feet betrayed him, and they both collapsed into a heap— gasping for air, yet still locked in the intensity of the struggle.

Kohaku straddled him, chest heaving, her forearm pressing against his chest to keep him pinned. Her shoulder throbbed with the aftershock of their movements, but she didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Her focus was razor-sharp as she stared down at him, the weight of her resolve settling heavily on both their chests.

This wasn’t just a spar. It was everything she was willing to fight for. And beneath the sweat and steam, behind the bruises and banter, the truth still hummed through her veins like a sacred oath:

I am your knight, Senku. Even if you never ask me to be. Even if you turn away. I will fight for you. I will carry the world with you. I will never let go.

She didn’t rise immediately.

Still straddling him, her breath shallow and fast, Kohaku felt the tremor in her limbs growing more pronounced. Her injured shoulder burned—a cruel, sharp throb behind the adrenaline haze. It sang through her bones like a war drum, but her face stayed carved in marble.

“ I can still fight ,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

Ryusui didn’t move beneath her. His chest rose and fell against her forearm. He studied her—closely now, not as an opponent but as someone who had seen too many people push past the line, too many warriors grind themselves down for the sake of pride.

He reached up—not to grab, not to tease—but to still her. Just two fingers against the curve of her uninjured shoulder.

“ You’re shaking, ” he said.

“ I’m proving something ,” she said, breathless.

“ I know, ” he murmured. “ But you’ve already proven it .”

His words didn’t sting. They didn’t soothe. They landed somewhere deeper—like fingers pressing against a hidden bruise.

She didn’t answer.

So he made the choice for her.

With the ease of a showman, Ryusui suddenly threw an arm wide and shouted, loud enough to draw eyes from every corner of the ship:

“ Ladies and gentlemen! The lioness has claimed her kill! ”

Before she could react, he swept her weight upward in a half-roll and let himself fall back, groaning dramatically, one hand flopped across his face.

“ Tell Senku I died well! ” he gasped with theatrical flair. “ In the prime of my youth! Struck down by beauty and biceps! ”

The crew erupted in cheers and whistles. Laughter rippled across the deck. Someone howled something about a rematch. Someone else tossed a towel.

And just like that, attention broke from her.

Eyes turned away.

But Ryusui hadn’t.

His voice dropped low enough for her ears alone. “ Rest. Just for a second . Let them think .”

Kohaku’s jaw clenched. Her body screamed. But for once, just once, she let someone else cover the wound.

She nodded, barely, and rose with a stumble masked by momentum.

Ryusui rolled to his feet a beat later, arm flung over her shoulder like a victorious comrade. “ Someone get us drinks! ” he crowed. “ I demand at least three! ”

The crowd surged in like waves. She felt it wrap around her like a tide. But her eyes strayed past the blur of limbs and laughter.

To the one man who hadn’t laughed at all.

Senku hadn’t moved.

And even from here, even through the chaos Ryusui so expertly stirred, she felt the weight of his gaze like gravity—silent, scorching, impossible to mistake.

She straightened.

Her knees trembled.

But her spine stayed steel.

Because though Ryusui had pulled the curtain... Senku had seen everything behind it.

And that was enough.

Her feet had turned before she’d fully decided.

She told herself it was to check on the aircraft — just a passing glance, just another task. But each step carried her deeper into something she couldn’t name.

Toward him.

She hadn’t meant to stop.

Had only meant to check the aircraft — but the moment she reached the clearing where Senku worked, the world narrowed to a single breath.

He was shirtless — the top half of his tunic discarded and tied at his waist, soaked in sweat and motor oil. His shoulders moved in rhythm, lean muscle rippling with each adjustment of the frame, each crank, each twist of the copper wire cinched between his fingers. His back gleamed beneath the late sun, the faint shadows of old bruises moving like topography across a map only she seemed to read.

She’d seen stronger men. Far stronger.

Tsukasa moved like the world owed him fear. Hyoga, all wire and blade. Even Ryusui — polished arrogance carved into a swimmer’s build. They were cut from harder stone, all of them, shaped for impact.

Senku… wasn’t.

He was long angles and stubborn lines, all knuckles and tendons and lean, coiled resolve. His frame didn’t boast. It endured. He had none of their brute power — and yet, the progress he’d made was undeniable.

His waist wasn’t narrow anymore. Not like it once had been.

Years of brutal work and makeshift meals hadn’t wasted him — they’d forged something denser. Broader. His hips sat low and solid beneath the exposed edge of his tunic, his core thickened with the slow, deliberate build of someone who refused to break. His arms, once delicate and papery, now bore the unmistakable marks of labor — not sculpted for show, but strengthened where it mattered. Ropes of sinew ran from shoulder to elbow, tensing with mechanical precision every time he reached inside the engine bay.

And he didn’t seem to notice the way her eyes lingered.

Or maybe he did — and just didn’t care.

Senku’s face, half-shadowed beneath his wind-tossed hair, was set with a singular focus. Grease streaked his jaw. Sweat dripped from the hollow of his throat. But his hands never stopped moving.

He knew he looked different. Of course he did. He wasn’t oblivious.

But he didn’t preen, didn’t wink or flaunt or bask. He didn’t offer her the satisfaction of arrogance. He was far too busy forcing flight from earthbound ruin to indulge in vanity.

That made it worse somehow.

Made it harder to tear her gaze away.

She stepped forward before she thought better of it, the creak of wood underfoot drawing his attention. He glanced over his shoulder, brows lifting a fraction.

“ Need something?” he asked, voice low, distant — but not cold. Just occupied.

“ I… ” Kohaku blinked, then tilted her head. “ You’ve changed. ”

One of his hands paused briefly, copper wire slack between his fingers.

“ Good or bad? ”

“ Impressive ,” she admitted. 

He hummed — a soft, noncommittal sound — and returned to tightening a bolt, jaw clenched with quiet precision.

“ You’re still the weakest of them ,” she added, teasing out the words, testing the air between them. “ But someone seeing you for the first time might think twice about calling you fragile .”

A ghost of a smile flickered at the corner of his mouth.

“ They’d be wrong ,” he murmured, tightening the bolt until the metal sang beneath his palm.

She watched the shift of his shoulder, the flex in his lower back, and felt something she couldn’t name. Pride. Ache. A silent sort of loyalty.

He might never be the strongest. But he was hers to protect.

And God's help anyone who’ll ever forget that.

He paused mid-turn of the wrench, elbow still deep in the guts of the engine, a bead of sweat trailing down the arch of his spine. For a second, only the soft hum of the river and the muted clink of metal filled the air. Then, as if dragged by gravity more potent than the sun, he straightened and turned.

His gaze found her like a vector locking onto a target. No startled blink. No flinch. Just that sharp, clinical stillness he wielded like a scalpel — but slower now, more weighted. The grease on his cheek caught the light. So did the faint flush at his collarbone.

Kohaku didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Because she knew he saw it — her shoulder still trembling from the spar, the heat clinging to her skin, the weight in her stare she couldn’t quite name. She knew he registered every detail with that damned scientific precision. And still, he looked.

Looked — and kept looking.

His eyes drifted lower for half a heartbeat, down the mess of her hair, over the bruise blooming beneath her collar, before rising back to meet her gaze. Nothing crude. Nothing coy. Just awareness. Like he’d calculated a hundred versions of this moment and quietly chosen to let it happen.

“ I told you not to overdo it, ” he said finally, voice low, edged with gravel from too many hours of sun and silence.

“ You always say that .”

He exhaled through his nose — not a sigh, not quite a laugh — and stepped out from behind the aircraft’s shadow. The full light caught him now, bare skin gleaming, arms crossed over a chest no longer boyish, though still nothing like Tsukasa’s or Moz’s. He wasn’t built like a warrior, and never would be.

But gods, he didn’t have to be.

The silence hung between them, thick like the air before a storm. The rhythmic clank of tools was distant now, as if the whole world had pulled away, leaving just the two of them. She could feel his presence like heat pressed against her skin, stronger than the sun above them, more intimate than any touch.

Senku didn’t move closer, but he didn’t step away either. His gaze, intense and calculating as always, seemed to measure the very air between them — and yet, she could feel that slight flicker in his eyes, something like curiosity mixed with something harder to name. Something she wasn’t sure she wanted to analyze. She wasn’t sure she wanted to break it down and pull it apart, piece by piece, because then it might shatter.

He leaned back slightly, flexing his shoulder with a sharp, mechanical motion, as though to shake off the weight of whatever had settled between them. But that only drew her attention to his body — how his shoulders had broadened, how the muscle in his arms didn’t bulge like it used to, but flowed. More efficient. Leaner. Stronger.

Not the physique of a warrior, not yet — but the steady, controlled strength of someone who had fought, in his own way, every single day to survive. And that, she realized, was far more dangerous than any raw muscle. That was the kind of strength that had seen him through the trials of their world, and the kind that made her want to do whatever she could to stay in step beside him.

But she wouldn’t show him that. She wouldn’t let him see the way her heart hammered harder at the thought of standing by his side.

Instead, she tilted her chin, watching him with that same sharpness he wore so well. “It’s not about overdoing it. It’s about proving it .” Her voice was soft, but fierce in its own way, as if she were silently daring him to understand without needing to say more. “ Proving I’m still the right one. That I still deserve to be your knight. ”

Senku’s eyes flickered, then. A subtle twitch in the way his brow pulled, and for a fraction of a second, she saw the scientist — the sharp, detached mind — falter.

A slow exhale broke the silence, the kind that felt as if it was holding something back. His lips parted, but he said nothing for a moment. He just stared at her as if she were the only thing in the world he had to figure out.

The air thickened with the tension between them, suffocating and unrelenting. Kohaku could feel it in her every breath, the pull of the world narrowing down to just the two of them in this moment. His chest was bare, his skin glistening with the effort of his work—muscles flexing beneath the sheen of sweat, hardened by countless days of labor. She had never seen him like this before. She had seen him weak, fragile even, the fragile scientist who had stumbled into the forest, and into her life. Now, there was nothing delicate about him. His body was a testament to his resolve, to the sheer will that had kept him going even when everything seemed against him.

His hand, strong and precise, shot out, fingers sinking into her ponytail with a force that startled her. It wasn’t gentle. It was demanding, controlling. In an instant, he tugged her closer, pulling her face dangerously to his. The roughness of his grip contrasted sharply with the smoothness of his chest, the heat of him radiating into her, seeping into her skin. His breath was warm against her throat, and his gaze—sharp, unyielding—held hers in a silent command.

Kohaku’s heart thudded, but she didn’t pull away. She could have. She had the strength to do so. But there was something in the way he held her—something raw, something sure—that made her stay. His eyes, intense as ever, bore into hers, and for a fleeting moment, the world around them faded into nothingness. The only thing left was the two of them and the charged silence hanging thick in the air.

He wasn’t gentle with her. He wasn’t soft. And yet, there was something in that that made her breath hitch, something in that unspoken command that sent a shiver down her spine.

“ You never left your post, Kohaku, ” he said, his voice low, almost a growl, but steady, like the calm before a storm. “ You’re my strongest knight. Always will be .”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an invitation. It was an order, firm and certain, a command that resounded in her very bones.

His grip tightened, pulling her head back further, tilting her face so close to his that she could feel the faintest brush of his lips against her skin. He was inches away, and yet the space between them felt infinite.

She could feel the weight of his words settle over her. A reminder that she had never left her post. That no matter what she did, no matter what choices she made, she would always be his knight. She would always be the one who fought for him. For them.

Kohaku didn’t flinch. Didn’t shrink back. She met his gaze, unwavering, the heat between them only intensifying as his fingers remained buried in her hair, still pulling her closer.

But she didn’t stay silent. She couldn’t.

“ I’ll fight for you ,” she whispered, her voice thick with the weight of her promise. “ I’ll always fight for you, Senku. No matter what .”

The tension between them sparked, palpable, as if a fuse had just been lit. And then, in an almost imperceptible movement, Senku loosened his grip, his hand slipping away from her hair, leaving a lingering warmth where it had been. He took a step back, his eyes never leaving hers, the intensity in them just as potent, just as unwavering.

For a moment, the space between them felt impossibly charged, as though time itself had stopped. And then, he spoke, his voice carrying the same authority, the same quiet strength that had always been there.

“ Don’t make me regret it, lioness.”

Kohaku’s eye twitched.

That name again.

It had started as his private jab — half-teasing, half-something-else — but now it had spread like wildfire. Ukyo had said it just this morning while handing her a canteen. Hyoga used it in battle formations. Even Chrome had tested it once, sheepishly, before catching her glare.

She folded her arms. “You do realize everyone’s calling me that now.”

Senku, utterly unbothered, raised one hand to pick at his ear. “Yeah, well. Guess it caught on. Should’ve trademarked it.”

Kohaku scowled. “You’re insufferable.”

He flashed a grin — lazy, unapologetic, and far too pleased with himself. His hand raised to pick at his ear, “You make it work.”

And just like that, the breath in her chest stalled — not from flattery, but from the way he said it. As if it were fact. As if, under all the oil and steel and strategy, he saw something wild in her worth naming.

She turned her face away, hiding the faint heat blooming at her jaw.

It wasn’t a dismissal. It wasn’t affection. It was a challenge. And Kohaku, as always, rose to meet it, her chest rising with a steady breath.

For just a second, Senku’s expression flickered—something almost like acknowledgment, something like a silent promise that passed between them. But then, he turned back to the plane, his focus returning to the task at hand, the moment of intimacy dissolving into the cold practicality of their situation.

And Kohaku, though her body still hummed with the intensity of their exchange, did the same—returning to her duties, knowing, without a doubt, that her place by his side would never change. She would never leave her post. She would always be his knight.

The war room was dim, lit only by the harsh glow of the overhead lamp casting long, anxious shadows across the table. A crude map of the enemy’s base was spread out beneath Senku’s hands, weighed down by makeshift markers—stones, bits of broken glass, coiled copper wire. Around the table stood the chosen few. Tsukasa, Hyoga, Ukyo, Suika.

Senku stood at the helm, spine arrow-straight, voice cold and precise.

“ We’re splitting the board ,” he said. “ One wrong move and the king falls. So we don’t get to make wrong moves. ”

He tapped the map once, where Chrome’s last signal had originated. “ This is where they are. We assume surveillance. We assume hostile contact. We also assume they haven’t been compromised, because if they had, the enemy wouldn’t be quiet .”

Senku’s gaze slid across the room, slow and measured. “ That gives us a narrow window to act without exposing Gen’s position inside the base. This move needs to be clean .”

His eyes landed on Tsukasa. “ You’re leading the field team .”

Tsukasa nodded once, solemn and unreadable. His broad shoulders seemed to hold the weight of the mission already.

Senku continued. “ Ukyo, your hearing is what makes this viable. If there’s even a whisper of trouble, we adjust. You’ll move on sound alone if you have to. Trust it .”

Ukyo inclined his head. He looked calm, but Kohaku noticed the way his fingers rested near his bow like a silent habit.

And then there was silence. The heavy kind that falls not when people have nothing to say—but when they know exactly what’s at stake.

Kohaku stood still, arms crossed, breath shallow. She wasn’t part of the team being sent out. She wouldn’t be on the field. And yet, her body tensed with the memory of movement, of defense, of rushing forward—what she was built for.

Her eyes flicked toward Ryusui.

He leaned casually near the back wall, arms folded, looking far too unbothered for the magnitude of the moment. His eyes caught hers briefly. There was a flicker of something—maybe that same amused smirk he wore when they sparred, that damned glint in his eye when he'd dared to touch her waist, spin her, and talk like she was some prized storm to tame.

Her jaw tightened. He hadn't even tried to win that fight, not really. Just distract. Just provoke.

Her gaze wrenched away.

And landed on Senku.

He was still speaking, motioning over the terrain, laying down the plan in tight, clinical terms—timing, escape routes, fallback points. But the sound of his voice blurred for a moment, replaced by the memory of his hand tangled in her hair, the hard tug that pulled her toward him. His lips so close. That look in his eyes—not scientific, not logical.

Unraveling.

The kind of look that made her forget what she was even made of.

She blinked, hard. Her chest ached like she’d taken a blow. Now’s not the time. She forced her attention back to the table.

Senku was wrapping up. “ Hold position, if not prioritize extraction. Do not escalate. This is a chessboard—not a battlefield. We play slow. We play smart. ”

He looked directly at Tsukasa again. “ You don’t fight unless you’re cornered. I mean it. ”

Tsukasa nodded again, this time with grim understanding. 

Senku turned away from the map at last. “ Then we move. Tonight .”

No one spoke. The meeting dissolved with a gravity that hung over them all. The mission was in motion.

Kohaku lingered behind as the others began to leave. Her body still felt too hot beneath her clothes, her thoughts too loud for a room that was now silent.

She had to stay behind.

And yet—part of her, the reckless part, wanted to follow them all into the dark.

But you’re not their blade this time. You’re the one who watches the board. And waits.

She clenched her jaw. Because worse than any battle... was waiting.

The night hung low, thick with mist and the whisper of pine. It wasn’t the kind of silence that brought peace, but the kind that filled the lungs with iron and made every sound feel louder than it was.

Kohaku stood beside Senku just outside the line of torchlight, their shadows stretched long behind them. Ahead, four figures paused at the forest’s edge: Tsukasa, Hyoga, Ukyo, and Suika — the spearhead of the coming strike.

Tsukasa looked back once, jaw set. Senku stepped forward, his voice low, words meant only for the warlord’s ears. A final phrase. Likely something too rational to carry any warmth, but not without weight.

Tsukasa gave a small nod.

Beside him, Hyoga adjusted the gleam of his reconstructed spear, his posture lean and unreadable. Ukyo’s bow was already in hand, his ear tilted slightly to the wind, like he was already listening for dangers no one else could hear. Suika, small and steady, bundled in thick clothes for the long walk ahead.

No one said goodbye. It wasn’t needed. These weren’t children departing, save for Suika. They were the edge of the blade.

Then, without ceremony, they vanished — one by one into the tree line, until even their footsteps were gone.

Senku stayed still for a while. Kohaku did too.

“ They know the route, ” he said, arms folded, voice almost thoughtful. “ They’ll link with Chrome before sunrise .”

Kohaku nodded silently, but her eyes lingered on the dark.

The night closed in again — quiet, knowing. And the plan, at last, was in motion.

A beat passed.

Then—

“ So ,” Senku said, voice deceptively casual, “ you planning on sitting on anyone else anytime soon? ”

Kohaku blinked. “ What? ”

“ The spar ,” he clarified, turning slightly toward her. “ You know—Ryusui. Flat on his back. You, on top. Kind of hard to forget. ”

She bristled. “ It was a tactical maneuver .”

“ Sure it was ,” he drawled, reaching up to pick at his ear. “ I’m just saying—if you were gonna go for him, you should’ve gone for him. He wouldn’t have said no. Hell, most of the crew would've applauded. ”

“ I wasn’t going for him ,” she snapped.

“ Right. Just straddled him for science .”

Kohaku’s eyes narrowed, arms crossing. “ It’s how sparring works. You can’t back down just because your opponent’s too slow to defend himself. Sometimes you have to take control .”

He raised an eyebrow. “ Control, huh?”

“ Yeah, control .” Her voice dropped to a sharper, more focused edge. “ And if you really want to talk about it, why don’t you take control, Senku? Why not claim me in front of everyone? No one’s stopping you .”

Senku froze for a second, his casual air slipping for just a heartbeat. But he quickly masked it, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead and letting out a low chuckle. “ Guess I don’t do ‘public displays of affection.’ ”

“ Right. You keep it all nice and tucked away, locked up tight ,” Kohaku shot back, unblinking. “ No mess. No fuss. Just… order. ” The word hung in the air between them, heavy with something unsaid.

His lips quirked, and there was that gleam in his eye again, unreadable. “ You’ve got a lot to say for someone who didn’t go after Ryusui, then. Just all about control, huh? ”

Kohaku let out a breath, a little laugh escaping her lips despite herself. “ You’re impossible, you know that? ”

“ Impossible? Nah. Just realistic. ” He leaned against a piece of equipment, smirking lightly. “ You’re not someone who does things in half-measures, Kohaku. If you really wanted something, you’d take it .”

She felt her chest tighten slightly, but she stood her ground. “ Maybe I’m just waiting for you to make a move. Ever thought about that? ”

Senku’s eyes flickered toward her again, and there it was: that brief pause before he let out a low sigh, rubbing his neck. “ Maybe I just like the tension. Keeps things interesting.”

“ Does it, Senku? ” she murmured, taking a step closer, lowering her voice. “ Keeps you sharp? ”

The weight of her gaze, the challenge in her voice, cut through the air between them. And for just a second, neither of them moved, the heat of the moment simmering. The night stretched on, their words echoing in the cool air, unspoken truths hanging like a delicate thread between them.

Senku straightened, shifting slightly. “ You’re a handful, lioness. ”

Kohaku smirked. “ And you wouldn’t have me any other way .”

He didn’t answer, but his gaze lingered a moment longer than usual—an intensity that neither of them could deny.

Then, with a casual shrug, he returned his focus to the task ahead. “I’m just saying. It’s a lot easier when you don’t let things get complicated .”

Kohaku let the silence linger for a moment longer, then broke it with a soft chuckle. “ Yeah, Senku. Easier. ”

But the way she said it—like there was a storm brewing just beneath the surface—left him with a feeling that the true game had only just begun.

“ You’re clever enough to know why we can’t be together ,” he said, voice like flint in the dark. “ You saw the equation before I even ran the numbers .”

Kohaku’s jaw tightened. But she didn’t speak. She didn’t move.

So he did.

One step forward. Then another.

His fingers lifted to her chin — a touch too familiar, too easy, as if he’d done it before in a dream he’d never admit to. He angled her face up toward him, her breath stalling somewhere behind her teeth.

“ But if I did give in …” His voice dropped. “ If I ever let go of the logic, the mission, the weight of ten billion lives …”

He dragged his thumb just barely across her jaw — the barest ghost of a caress.

“ Well. You’d hate it ,” he said, smiling faintly. “ Because I wouldn’t stop at one kiss. I’d claim you. Entirely. And I wouldn’t care who saw it .”

Her breath hitched.

For one charged second, she looked ready to grab him by the collar and demand he prove it.

But instead, he let his hand fall away, casually brushing oil from his fingertips as though nothing had happened at all.

“ Lucky for us both ,” he went on, too smooth, too cruel, “ Ryusui doesn’t have the same burdens. No world to save. Just wind to chase. Might be the better match, if it’s a relationship you want .”

The word hung there, heavy.

Not an insult. Not a jab.

Just the bitterest kind of mercy.

Kohaku stared at him, the storm behind her eyes crackling.

“ I’d ruin you ,” he said plainly. “ You know that, don’t you? ”

Kohaku’s pulse thundered at her throat.

“I wouldn’t half-love you, Kohaku. I wouldn’t have the time or the decency to do it gently. You’d be at my side in name, but buried beneath the weight of the world I keep strapped to my spine. I’d need you to bleed for me. Again. And again. And again .”

“I’d never stop needing you .”

Silence wrapped tight between them.

He turned his back again, pacing a few steps toward the makeshift scaffolding, like that act alone could cool the air still burning between them.

And when he spoke again, his tone had changed—just enough to sting.

“ Ryusui’s not a bad alternative, you know. ” His voice was casual, almost clinical. “ He’d give you the sky. Probably name a continent after you while he was at it .”

Kohaku’s breath caught—this time in anger.

He went on, ignoring it. “ Not an upgrade, obviously. But he’d at least try to love you with both hands free .”

She stared at his back, throat tight. And for the first time, she realized—

He wasn’t saying any of this to push her away.

He was saying it to protect her.

Because if he gave her a door to hate him, she wouldn’t keep waiting outside one that would never open.

But it was too late for that. It had been too late for a long time.

Kohaku didn’t answer.

Not with words.

Her footsteps whispered against the earth—light, measured, deliberate. When he finally faced her, she was already there.

Close.

Closer than he expected.

Senku didn’t move.
Didn’t dare to.

She reached up slowly—fingertips brushing his collarbone, the bare skin slick with the remnants of sweat and oil. Her touch lingered like a threat, like a promise, eyes locked on his with that same fearless defiance that had once called her a warrior.

“ You’d ruin me? ” she echoed, voice low and dangerous.

Her palm flattened over his chest, right above his heart.

It pounded—traitorously loud.

“ I’ve faced death ,” she said. “I’ve faced gods and monsters and oceans that didn’t want me to live. You think you scare me? ”

She tilted her chin up, inches from his mouth now.

“ I’ve already bled for you, Senku. The only thing left is what you won’t take .”

His hand shot up—fist closing around her wrist.

But he didn’t push her away.

He just held her there. Tethered.

“And if I did? ” he murmured, gaze burning now. “ If I stopped being careful? If I said to hell with it and gave you what you wanted? ”

Kohaku leaned in, the warmth of her breath brushing his lips.

“ I’d take it ,” she said. “ Gladly. ”

His free hand settled low on her waist, fingers curling against the knot of her dress. “ You can lecture me about Ryusui all you want. But I don’t want someone who showers me with praise and pretty things. I want you. The hard parts. The fire. The gravity. ”

“ And if I burn? ”

She smiled. Slowly. Boldly.

“ Then I burn with you .”

Senku’s grip didn’t tighten. It trembled.

And for one second—for just one beat in the dark—he looked like he might give in.

Might close the space between them.

Might stop pretending.

But then he pulled her wrist away gently, not cold, not cruel—just achingly restrained.

“ You never play fair ,” he muttered.

Kohaku’s eyes gleamed.

“ Wasn’t that the appeal? ”

He stepped back, breath short.

“ Ten billion percent .”

And this time, when he turned away, it was with the weight of a thousand thoughts dragging behind him like a storm he couldn’t outrun.

She didn’t follow him. Didn’t call after him.
She just stood there, with her heart in her throat and her blood running hot—burning from a fire he refused to name.

Above them, the stars held their breath.
The wind didn’t move.
The earth beneath her feet felt unsteady in a way no battlefield ever had.

Because wars were simple.
Fights had rules.
But this—this was the quiet devastation of wanting what you could never claim.

She looked down at her hand, the one that had touched him, bold and unrepentant. It still hummed with the memory of him.

And somewhere inside her, the part that had always obeyed duty, that had always yielded to the cause—
That part cracked.
Just a little. 

The night resumed its shape.
Crickets sang.
Waves lapped gently against the hulls onshore.

But something had shifted.
Something had changed.

And though the world still turned…
They were no longer standing in the same place.

They had moved closer to a line neither dared cross.
And neither one of them would walk away unchanged.

Not now.
Not ever.

The Other Side of The Board

Stanley lay flat along the bough of a weathered tree, cradled in the crook of its ancient limbs like a weapon shelved between wars. Smoke curled from the cigarette tucked between his lips, a thin wisp dissolving into the branches above, vanishing into the humid hush of the canopy. The jungle breathed slow beneath him—alive, yes, but unaware.

Through the green-black stillness, the distant shape of the ship sat like a ghost on the water.

His eye to the scope.

His finger a hair's breadth from judgment.

The world funneled inward—until it was only the glass, the crosshairs, and the golden figure standing alone on the deck.

Kohaku.

His lip twitched. Not a smile. A sneer, maybe. Or perhaps the ghost of incredulity.

He remembered her collapse. The way her body had jerked mid-stride, the neat burst of blood from her shoulder, the clean echo of a shot well placed. The recoil had kissed his shoulder like an old friend. He'd made peace with the kill before her knees had even touched the ground.

But she hadn’t died.

She stood there now, the moonlight haloing her hair like a war goddess risen from the grave.

Alive.

Unbroken.

And somehow, that irritated him more than if she’d vanished entirely. The bullet hadn’t been off. He didn’t miss. That wasn’t what this was. No—this was something else. A crack in the script. A misalignment of fate.

She should be gone. Yet here she was, taunting him with her survival, breathing the air he’d written her out of.

Stanley exhaled, the smoke slithering past his teeth.

He activated his comm, voice low, barely more than a vibration of thought.
“ Missed target still alive. Not a priority… but she could be useful .”

No reply came—not yet. But he could already hear the silence of Xeno’s deliberation, the calculated pause before permission. Stanley didn’t need affirmation to let the thoughts unspool.

If Luna failed her end of the operation—and that was a variable Xeno had calculated—then fallback plans were already slinking through his mind like predators.

Kohaku was one of them.

She might be close to Dr. Taiju. Close enough, perhaps, to rattle the team if she dropped again. One clean shot to the leg or chest might be all it took to smoke him out. If not, then pain would be the next language. She looked like the type who screamed rarely—but when she did, it would mean something.

He could always take her. By the hair if necessary. Drag her out of their defenses like bait in a net, lay her at the center of the clearing, and watch who ran to her side.

He wouldn’t enjoy it. He wasn’t a sadist. But he would do it.

If Xeno gave the nod.

Stanley’s eyes narrowed, cigarette burning down to the filter as he watched her sway gently with the ship’s rhythm—completely unaware she was once again in his scope.

“ I could end it ,” he murmured. Not to himself. To the night. To the choice.

But he didn’t squeeze the trigger.

Not yet.

Let the pieces move. Let Luna play her part. Let Kohaku wander the edge of his sights, always seconds from oblivion. If she was close to Dr. Taiju, he’d find out soon enough. And if she wasn’t—well, that could be corrected.

Stanley tapped the ash from the tip of his cigarette.
It spiraled down into the leaves like a dying star.

And the forest held its breath.

Chapter Text

The girl had only arrived yesterday.

One day — that was all it took. And already Luna was laughing with the crew, slipping between clusters of them with that polished smile and eyes that saw more than she let on. Her strawberry hair caught the light like glass dust. Pink. Soft. Foreign.

Kohaku watched from the upper deck, half-shrouded in shadow, the wind clawing at her dress. The ship moaned beneath her feet — old timber and science stitched together like scar tissue. Below, filtered through ropes and rigging, voices drifted. Senku’s among them. His — and hers.

She didn’t stare. Not exactly. She studied.

There was a difference.

Luna sat close to him, not too close, but close enough to make it a shape Kohaku had never worn beside him. She leaned in when he spoke, all slight movements — the tilt of a head, the delicate fold of her legs, the way her laugh curved like an elegant question mark. Everything about her was smooth. Practiced. Measured.

Senku didn't flinch. He leaned, too. Just enough. He always knew when to lean.

They weren’t touching. They didn’t need to. There was a current between them anyway — invisible but undeniable. A tether of charged silence. Senku spoke with his hands, tracing lines in the air, theories made flesh, and Luna nodded like she understood every one of them. Kohaku knew she didn’t. Not really.

But she knew how to listen.

And that was more than most.

Kohaku gripped the railing. Her knuckles whitened, but she didn’t feel it. She watched as Luna laughed again — this time quieter, almost conspiratorial. Senku smirked in response, not his usual smugness, but the one he wore when he was sharpening a blade behind his eyes. He was working her. She knew that. Of course, he was.

She knew.

And yet…

The knife still twisted.

He hadn’t smiled like that in days. Not since they’d landed. Not since the mission had grown teeth and bullets and the ache of her arm still echoed somewhere deep in the muscle.

She shifted her weight, stepping further into shadow, letting the night swallow her. The lanterns below flickered, and in the amber hush, Kohaku could see how Luna watched him when he wasn’t looking.

Curious.

Not in awe. Not like the others.

She watched him like a puzzle — like she was trying to peel something open. And Senku let her.

Kohaku had never peeled anything from him. She took what he gave, and that was enough. It had to be.

But Luna was a question dressed like an answer. The kind of woman who spoke in suggestion and was answered without ever asking. She’d only been here a day.

A day .

Kohaku’s fingers slid from the railing. She turned, slow, quiet, the sound of the river folding into her steps. She didn’t need to see more.

She wasn’t jealous.

That wasn’t it.

She was… displaced. As if a tether had quietly frayed. As if the path she’d been carving with every quiet spar, every shared silence, had been redrawn without her consent.

And maybe that was fair.

Maybe that was the cost of following a man who never looked back.

The corridor swallowed her.

No one followed.

Her heels made no sound on the plank floor, just the breath of wood shifting under weight, the faint drip of condensation from the pipes overhead. The ship creaked — metal grafted into timber, wires curling like veins. Somewhere above, an engine churned low and steady, the ship’s pulse beating out the hours like a dying god too stubborn to lie still.

She didn’t know where she was going. Only that it was forward. Always forward.

Senku would say direction didn’t matter as long as the destination was right. But Senku had maps in his head. Kohaku only had instinct.

Her fingers skimmed the cold wall as she passed. The lights above flickered in and out of sequence. The ship breathed like a thing alive.

Luna.

Even the name felt engineered. Clean and false and beautiful. Like something you’d paint onto the side of a machine to make it feel more human.

She’d shown up yesterday, smiling like she already belonged. Spoke like she’d been speaking to them for months. Like she’d been waiting for the moment someone handed her a place. And the crew—fools, all of them—had obliged. Even Senku. Especially Senku.

It wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t built for distrust. Not when there were questions to be asked. Not when knowledge dangled in front of him like a lure.

She’s useful, Kohaku thought bitterly.

And she was.

Sharp, polite, unassuming. She asked about Dr. Taiju like it was casual, like the question hadn’t been humming at the edges of every conversation since she stepped aboard.

Kohaku had watched the way Senku deflected — smooth, aloof, perfectly timed. He gave her nothing, and still Luna kept circling.

Because Luna wasn’t stupid. And she wasn’t here for the food or the scenery.

She’s here for us.

She turned down another corridor, slower now. Water pooled underfoot. Her reflection broke in the ripples — a warped thing, lioness fractured by motion and silence.

The truth was, Kohaku had no idea where she stood anymore. She was muscle. A weapon. She had always known that. But lately, with every step Senku took further into the tangled web of this new world, she felt herself left behind.

She had bled for him.

She would again.

But tonight, standing in the dim corridor with the river pressing against the hull like breath against skin, Kohaku wasn’t sure he even noticed she’d left.

She paused in the gloom of the loading corridor, where the walls bowed inward like the ribs of a beast. Dim yellow light filtered through a cracked panel overhead, casting long shadows that swam against the rusted bulkheads. Her breath fogged faintly in the damp air. From somewhere aft, a pipe groaned.

He’s working her.

Kohaku closed her eyes. The thought came like a knife.

Of course he is.

She'd seen the way his voice changed around Luna — not softer, but looser. Careless, like a cat pawing at a thread. Pretending not to care where it led, when really, he'd already mapped out the spool.

He wanted to know about Xeno. About their power grid, their weaknesses, their hierarchy. But more than that, he wanted to know what Luna wasn’t saying.

Because Senku could smell omission like blood in the water.

And Luna? She bled carefully.

Everything about her — the syrupy voice, the guileless tilt of her head, the dress that never wrinkled — it was a costume. She moved like a woman used to being underestimated. A nurse, she’d said. Not a threat. But no one floated halfway across a ruined ocean with hair like that and a name she wouldn’t stop repeating.

Dr. Taiju.

She kept asking. Over breakfast. By the rail. In the engine room where she had no reason to be.

And Senku would just smile. Pretend not to notice the way her questions always circled back to the lie Gen had spun like sugar.

Kohaku leaned her head back against the steel. It was cold and wet. She didn’t flinch.

She understood the game. Senku was keeping her close — not out of affection, but for proximity. He was luring her into confidence. Pulling the seams of her cover apart one laugh at a time.

And it was working .

That was what stung. That Senku had seen through Luna from the moment she stepped aboard, had dissected her charm like a lab specimen, and still…

He was there. Smirking. Engaged. Letting her stand close enough to share his heat.

And Kohaku — she wasn’t in the conversation.

She wasn’t even on the page.

She moved without meaning to — her body tracing the dull rhythm of the ship’s bones. Each step was quiet, deliberate, as if she were walking inside a memory. The kind that flickered at the edges, always just before sleep.

The corridor narrowed. Overhead, a faulty lamp buzzed like an insect. Down the length of it, warm light spilled from a half-open hatch.

Voices.

Kohaku slowed.

She didn’t want to listen. But she did.

Senku’s tone came first. Cool. Even. Edged with that lilt he used when he was feigning disinterest. “ So, you still think Dr. Taiju was the brains of the operation? ”

Luna’s laugh floated back, sweet and slow, like cough syrup in tea. “ He is the scientist, right? You don’t think a guy like that could have brought your whole crew back from the Stone Age? ”

“ Sure ,” Senku said. He was smiling. She could hear it. “ That’s definitely something you should keep believing. ”

A pause. Then Luna again, softer now. “ I just think it’s… interesting. You know so much. Chemistry, mechanics. Your hands —” She cut off, giggled. “ They don’t look like a soldiers .”

Kohaku shifted into the doorframe.

Not enough to be seen. But enough to see .

There he was. The flicker of his outline in the golden spill of lamplight. Arms folded across a crate stacked with diagrams and jars. Luna sat across from him, posture pristine, gaze wide with pretend innocence And then—

He looked up.

Right at her.

Their eyes locked through the sliver of open air — no walls, no bodies, no light soft enough to dull it. Just the two of them, caught in the exposed filament of something unspoken and unspeakable.

It wasn’t long. Less than a second. A breath. A heartbeat. A knife’s whisper across bare skin.

But it burned .

His eyes — god, those eyes. That terrifying, beautiful red. Not warm like fire, not wild like blood, but sharp. Like a laser you couldn’t touch without leaving something behind. Intelligent. Unforgiving. And trained on her with such exquisite control that it felt like standing at the edge of a cliff and being told not to fall.

His expression didn’t change. Not really. Just the barest flick of his gaze. Not a command — no, he never used words for her when silence could cut deeper.

A breath. A blink. A near-invisible shake of his head.

Don’t interfere.

She felt it like a live wire strung between them — no words, just voltage. It licked across her skin, sparked in her teeth.

Kohaku didn’t look away. Couldn’t. Her body went taut, her fingers curling at her side — not in obedience, but to keep them from reaching out. From making contact. From shattering something too delicate to name.

He wasn’t angry. That would’ve been easier.

No, it was colder than that. Precise. Surgical. The kind of look that said I’m threading something fragile here, lioness. Don't sever it.

She understood. She always did.

Luna leaned closer in the corner of her vision, her laugh too practiced, too timed, like a bell rung on cue. Her hair caught the light just so, shimmering with the softness Kohaku had never worn. Her perfume still lingered in the air, like something meant to stick .

But none of it mattered. Because those red eyes — the ones that had once looked at Kohaku like she was the only constant in a crumbling world — now watched Luna like a puzzle he was already halfway through solving.

Because he was working her — Luna — with patience and pressure.

But what gutted Kohaku was the truth she couldn’t say aloud:

He hadn’t looked at her like that — with focus, with heat, with want — in days.

Only now. Only now, when he needed her to disappear.

As she stepped back into the corridor’s dim hush, the ship pulsed around her like breath. The world faded into hum and shadow. But in her chest, the sting of that red gaze lingered — cruel, brilliant, and impossibly far away.

The faint hum of the ship’s engines was the only sound breaking through the heavy silence that filled the room. Kohaku leaned against the cold stone windowsill, her fingers absentmindedly twirling a small dagger—a blade that Kaseki had crafted for her, its edge gleaming in the dim light. The hilt fit perfectly in her hand, smooth, balanced. She hadn’t let it leave her side since the day it was forged. It was a reminder of her strength, of the battles she’d fought, of the kingdom they were trying to rebuild.

But today, it felt like an anchor. She twisted the dagger between her fingers, the metal clicking softly against the stone. It wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t her weapon. Not anymore. Her mind was elsewhere, caught in the long shadows that stretched over the ship’s deck below.

There they were again. Senku and Luna, standing together on the lower deck. The contrast between them was striking, yet Kohaku knew their dynamic well. Luna's delicate figure, her movements too smooth, too careful. And Senku, always the scientist, always the observer. He didn’t trust Luna—not truly—but he was always so willing to work with her.

Kohaku’s gaze narrowed, the flick of the dagger in her hand matching the rapid pulse in her chest. She wasn’t fooled. She knew exactly what Senku was doing. He was playing her, peeling away her layers one by one, with precision and ease. He wasn’t looking for a friend in Luna; he was looking for information. For a way to move forward. For the Kingdom of Science.

It was so damn obvious.

Her grip on the dagger tightened slightly, the cold metal pressing against her palm. She shouldn’t be angry. She shouldn’t feel anything. After all, this was for the good of everyone. She understood that. But understanding didn’t make it sting less.

The silence in the room pressed against her, heavy and suffocating, until it was broken by a familiar voice.

“ Staring a little too hard, aren’t we? ”

Kohaku’s eyes snapped to the doorway, where Ryusui stood, leaning casually against the frame. His smirk was as easy as ever, but there was something in his eyes—something too knowing.

Kohaku didn’t reply immediately. She flicked the dagger in her hand again, the motion sharp, but her focus never left Senku and Luna below.

“ You know she’s a spy, right? ” Ryusui continued, pushing off the doorframe and stepping further into the room. His tone was light, but his gaze was intent, following Kohaku’s every move.

“ I know ,” she muttered, the words coming out flat. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him yet, her attention still drawn to Senku, who was talking to Luna with that smooth, calculating expression of his. He was working her, just like he always did with everyone. And in the meantime, Kohaku was being left behind. Forgotten, almost.

Ryusui chuckled, as though he’d expected that response. “ It’s not hard to tell. But the way he works her... it’s too perfect. If it weren’t so obvious, I’d almost believe he was genuinely interested .”

Kohaku felt a bitter laugh rise in her throat, but she forced it down. She didn’t say anything, her fingers still twirling the dagger, the silence between them stretching long and thick.

“ You’re frustrated ,” Ryusui observed, his voice softer now, almost sympathetic. “ And I get it. It’s hard, isn’t it? Watching him get so... involved with her. But, hey,” he said with a shrug, “he’s doing it for the kingdom. For us. For you, too. ”

Kohaku finally turned her eyes to him. There was a moment of raw emotion in her gaze—something between confusion, hurt, and resignation. Ryusui wasn’t wrong. She knew he wasn’t. But it didn’t change how it felt. She wasn’t sure if she could bear much more of this. Watching Senku weave his web of lies and manipulation. Watching him with Luna, when she wasn’t even the one he was trying to protect anymore.

“ Yeah. I know, ” she whispered, the words hollow in her chest.

“ Good .” Ryusui smiled, that knowing look back in his eyes. “ Just don’t let it eat you up. We’re all in this together, right? ”

She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded—slowly, but without conviction. She didn’t know if she could let go of this feeling, the ache in her chest that refused to subside. But she didn’t have a choice, did she?

Kohaku let the dagger fall from her fingers and into her palm with a soft clink . She took a deep breath, the weight of the weapon grounding her, pulling her back to reality. She had a duty. They all did.

And for now, that was enough.

The corridor flickered with a dying blue light—somewhere between moonlight and electricity. It made the condensation on the walls shimmer like oil. The air was humid from the nearby showers, heavy with the scent of steam, steel, and body heat.

Kohaku stepped into it like she belonged to the corridor. Barefoot. Towel draped around her neck. Her hair, still wet, clung in thick, dark gold strands to her shoulders. A thin line of water curved down her spine and disappeared beneath the low hem of the makeshift wrap she wore.

Luna collided with her at the corner.

“ Oh —!” she gasped, stepping back. The impact wasn’t hard, but it was enough. Enough to see her up close.

She hadn’t expected the warrior to be so quiet. Or so… hollow.

Kohaku turned to face her, slow as machinery warming up. And in the sterile blue of the corridor lights, Luna saw it—really saw her. The fine sheen of water on her skin, the sun-damaged lines at the edges of her eyes. The ring of dark circles beneath eyes that had once probably been vibrant. Now, they were dull glass—still bright, yes, that impossible bright blue—but like a sky locked behind stormclouds.

Beautiful. But tired. Like a statue left too long in the rain.

For half a second, Luna didn’t say anything. Just looked .

This was her? The girl Stanley told her about?

Failed target. That was the word he used. Too fast, too unpredictable. They’d missed the shot. A problem. One they’d never been able to properly resolve. And now, here she was, walking barefoot through corridors like a ghost. War-torn. Scarred.

And yet…

Still here.

Kohaku didn’t recoil. Didn’t move at all, really. She just paused mid-motion, towel in her hand, and turned her head. Slowly. Mechanically.

Her eyes were a muted blue. Not faded by color, but by depth. As if the light had stopped reaching them.

Luna felt herself freeze. She hadn’t seen her up close until now.

This was the lioness?

The girl Senku talked about like she was part hurricane, part myth?

This woman before her—this soaked, expressionless figure with bruised eyes and a scar dragging along her collarbone—she looked like someone abandoned on a battlefield long after the war was lost. Her skin carried the roughness of repeated healing. Her arm, though bandaged discreetly, was visibly stiff. She hadn’t even been told where the injury had been, and yet—

Luna's eyes lingered. “ That looks… painful. ”

Kohaku blinked once.

Luna nodded toward the shoulder. “ Your arm. The shooter —”

A stillness broke between them.

Kohaku’s voice, when it came, was low. Not hostile. Just flat. “ I never said there was a shooter. ”

Luna’s breath caught. “ Oh—Senku must’ve told me ,” she lied too quickly. “ I didn’t mean —”

Kohaku tilted her head. Her towel shifted slightly. And though her gaze didn’t harden, it grew impossibly heavy. Like she was staring through Luna to someplace else.

That silence dragged. Luna fought to fill it.

“ He talks about you a lot, you know ,” she said, trying to recover the warmth in her voice. “ Says you’re this beautiful wild lioness. A total force of nature. ”

Something flickered. Not pride. Not recognition. Just absence.

Kohaku’s mouth drew into a tight line. Her lashes dipped.

And suddenly Luna regretted saying it. Not because she thought it wasn’t true—but because the woman in front of her clearly didn’t believe it anymore.

No reply came.

Luna looked closer. Beneath the harsh lights, Kohaku’s cheeks were hollowed just enough to suggest hunger or insomnia—probably both. Her posture carried the stiff dignity of someone who had been holding herself together far too long. Her eyes were rimmed with sleepless dark.

She wasn’t a lioness.

She looked like something that had once been a lioness. Before the fire left her eyes. Before someone took the last bit of myth and fed it to the sea.

Stanley had said she was a failed target.

Looking at her now, Luna wasn’t so sure.

There was something else in that silence. Not strength. Not weakness. Just a kind of exhaustion that didn’t need words. The kind that made you dangerous.

“ I didn’t mean to pry ,” Luna said after a moment, softer now.

Kohaku shifted the towel once more, the damp cloth catching against the roughness of her skin. “ It’s fine .”

She stepped past.

No anger. No lingering stare. Just motion.

But as she passed, Luna caught one final look at her profile—wet hair clinging to her cheek, water still dripping down her spine, the barest edge of vulnerability wrapped in silence.

Kohaku moved like a ghost. One that remembered being alive.

And Luna, suddenly cold beneath the artificial lights, could only watch her go.

Kohaku’s mind raced as she moved through the ship, her bare feet making soft slapping sounds against the metal floor. The corridor stretched out before her like an endless tunnel, every step echoing the gnawing frustration in her chest.

What the hell is going on?

Just a few days ago, they were suggesting something more. He had been teasing her, his voice full of that easy, arrogant confidence she knew so well. "You’re still as reckless as ever, lioness." And she had teased him back, not holding back for a second. The heat between them had been undeniable— intimate almost. The playful back-and-forth, the way his eyes had softened for a moment before he’d pulled away.

And now? Now he barely even looked at her.

It was like something had shifted overnight. Where he had once been full of that sharp, playful energy, now he was distant, cold even. Every time she tried to catch his eye, he turned away, his focus elsewhere. She hadn’t even been able to get one of his usual quips out of him in days.

It was making her dizzy, this sudden shift. Her thoughts scrambled together in an attempt to figure it out, but everything felt wrong. They had always had this rhythm, this unspoken understanding, where words and glances danced between them. But now… Now she was the one who couldn’t even get a glance.

She clenched her fists, the damp towel still draped loosely around her neck. Was she supposed to just pretend like nothing had happened? That everything between them was the same as it had always been?

The teasing. The closeness. The playful intimacy. It hadn’t been one-sided, had it? He had wanted her too. She wasn’t imagining it. She wasn’t just some… girl to him.

Her breath quickened, a small wave of panic rising in her chest. She had always been confident, strong—used to men who either stayed distant or came too close. But Senku… Senku had always been different. They had this—this thing —between them. And now, it was like he was purposefully keeping her at arm's length, a stranger she was supposed to share a ship with, a mission with, but not much else.

Her hands tightened around the towel as her thoughts spiraled.

Why?

She had been through so much. She had fought wars. Survived everything from battles with monsters to the weight of a broken world. So why did Senku’s sudden coldness affect her this much? She should be used to it by now, shouldn’t she? To people pulling away, to things changing in ways she couldn’t control.

But no matter how hard she tried to convince herself otherwise, something about it hurt. It wasn’t just his distance. It wasn’t even the silence between them now.

It was the fact that she hadn’t been prepared for it.

In her mind, she could still hear the way he had spoken to her—challenging, teasing, laughing like they were the only two people alive, like nothing else in the world mattered except them. He’d wanted her then. There was no doubt in her mind. It was in the way his eyes had lingered just a second longer than usual. The way his voice had lowered. The way his lips had curled in that knowing grin.

Why the cold shoulder now?

She wasn’t about to let this slide without figuring it out. She couldn’t. This wasn’t like her.

And so, Kohaku stopped in the middle of the hallway, standing still for a long moment. She closed her eyes, pressing a hand to her forehead as she tried to calm the dizzying spiral of thoughts.

She opened her eyes.

Enough.

If he thought he could bury this under science and silence, he didn’t know her as well as he pretended to.

Kohaku turned sharply, her wet hair swinging against her back, leaving a cold trail across her skin. Her decision was sudden, final. Her feet slapped against the metal floor as she pivoted toward the lab. If he wouldn’t look at her, she’d make him. If he thought distance was safety, she’d shatter it like glass.

Let him calculate his way out of this.

Let him try.

The ship thrummed faintly under her, the heartbeat of a world still rebuilding itself from ash and petrification. She moved through it like a storm, towel clenched in her fist, the hem of her wrap fluttering against her thighs. The corridors blurred—humid air, dying lights, the scent of copper and heat.

And then—the door.

His door.

Closed, of course. She could almost hear the whirring of glass coils, the low hiss of vapor, the faint shuffle of test tubes and pages turning.

She didn’t knock.

Her hand hit the panel hard enough to echo.

Inside, Senku didn’t look up right away. He was bent over the table, goggles slung lazily over his eyes, hands deep in some chemical array glowing faintly blue. He was muttering to himself, a strand of hair hanging low between his eyes.

Kohaku stood in the doorway like a shadow that refused to be ignored.

He finally glanced up.

Their eyes locked.

Her voice was low and steady, though her heart pounded loud enough she was certain he could hear it. “ What happened? ”

Senku didn’t answer immediately. He looked back down, adjusting a flask like she hadn’t spoken at all.

That was it.

She stepped inside, the door sliding shut behind her. The hiss of it was final.

“ You don’t get to do that, ” she said, louder now. “ You don’t get to act like nothing happened .”

Still no reply. Only the quiet tap of glass on glass.

“ Senku .”

He sighed—just once—and set the beaker down with more force than necessary. Finally, he faced her fully. His eyes were darker than usual, shadowed by something she couldn’t name.

“ I’m busy, Kohaku .”

“ No, you’re hiding .”

That made him pause. His expression didn’t change, but his hands stilled. She took a step closer.

“ You think I wouldn’t notice? ” she said, voice quieter now, but harder. “ The way you won’t even look at me? The way you’ve gone silent, like we’re strangers again? ” 

Senku didn’t deny it.

Didn’t rush in with a snide comment or a deflection soaked in scientific metaphors.

He just stared at her—measured, neutral, the kind of stillness that was meant to keep people out. But Kohaku had already broken through worse.

“ You’re not a stranger to me ,” he said at last, voice low, roughened like it scraped something on the way out. “ That’s the problem .”

The words dropped between them like iron.

She folded her arms, refusing to look away. “ So your solution is to act like I am? ”

“ I needed her to believe it ,” he said. “ Luna. I knew from the second she stepped on the ship that she wasn’t here for peace. Every question she asked, every time she lingered too long near the comms, near you—it wasn’t hard to piece together. ”

“ So you distanced yourself .” Kohaku’s jaw tightened. “ Cut me out without a word .”

“ It wasn’t safe to explain ,” Senku said. “ Not when she was watching. Listening. ”

“I could’ve handled it ,” she snapped. “ I’ve handled worse. ”

“ I know you could’ve ,” he said, more fiercely than she expected. “ That’s exactly why I didn’t let you. ”

She blinked. Taken aback. “ What? ”

“ You don’t know how to pull back, Kohaku .” His hands moved restlessly at his sides, fingers twitching like they wanted to grasp something they couldn’t. “ You would’ve leaned in harder if I said a word. You would’ve made it obvious. She would’ve seen what I —”

He stopped himself. Swallowed the rest. The words he didn’t say hung heavier than the ones he did.

Kohaku’s throat felt tight. Her voice dropped. “ So what, Senku? You thought hurting me would save me? ”

He looked up at her then. Really looked. “ Yes .”

She hated how sincere it was. How unflinching.

Her breath caught. And then—biting, bitter—“ Well, Luna must’ve been convinced. She told me you talk about me a lot. ”

His gaze faltered, just briefly, before hardening. “ I had to give her something. If I ignored you completely, she’d know I was lying. If I pretended you didn’t matter, she’d know I was covering something .”

“So you made me a story ,” Kohaku said. “ You turned me into a charming anecdote for the enemy. ”

“ I had no choice .”

“ There’s always a choice .”

“ And I chose you living. ” The words came sharp now, his voice a flint strike. “ I chose you making it out of this, Kohaku. Even if that meant you'd hate me for it .”

She stared at him, the words slamming into her with dizzying clarity. Her pulse surged. Her lips parted, then closed again.

She turned from him, paced to the other side of the cramped lab, then spun back, her movement sharp as a blade drawn too fast. Her arms crossed, then dropped. Everything about her bristled—hair damp, shoulders rigid, lips parted in disbelief.

“ You twist me into some clever lie, and then you look at me like—like that—and expect me not to feel anything ?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Just watched her with that maddening calm that only stoked the fire in her gut.

“ You’re playing with things you don’t understand ,” she said.

“ No ,” he said coolly. “ You don’t understand .”

“ Oh? ” she laughed, short and breathless. “ Because you’re so much smarter, right? Because everything I feel must be some foolish misunderstanding .”

Senku exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. “ You’re angry because you think I’m playing with your feelings. But you’re the one who started this dance .”

Her eyes narrowed. “ Excuse me? ”

“ You think I don’t notice the way you look at me? ” he snapped, stepping forward now, his voice cutting through the air like tempered glass. “ The way you stare when you think I won’t catch it? You’re not some passive victim in all this, Kohaku. You confuse yourself and blame me for it. ”

Her mouth fell open—furious, wounded. “ Don’t you dare tell me what I feel .”

“ You think I haven’t been clear? ” His voice rose, and something frayed at the edges now—sarcasm buried under strain. “ I’ve said it more than once: I’m not looking for that. I told you I didn’t want —”

“ And yet, ” she snapped, stepping in, “ that’s not what I see with you and Luna .”

His eyes darkened. The accusation hung in the air like smoke from a gunshot.

“ That’s not what I see ,” she repeated, quieter now, but the words were knives. “ You let her in. You laugh with her. You let her touch you. You don’t pull away .”

“ That’s different ,” he said through gritted teeth.

She barked a laugh. “ No. That’s easier .”

He said nothing.

“ Tell me I’m wrong ,” she challenged, voice rough. “ Tell me you don’t hide behind Luna because she doesn’t scare you. Because she doesn’t matter the way I do .”

His lips parted, ready—maybe—to strike back.

But before either could land the killing blow—

Knock knock.

A light, singsong voice filtered through the door like syrup. “ Senku? Are you in there? I brought those notes you asked for —”

“ We’re busy ,” Kohaku snapped, louder than she intended, without looking at the door.

Senku’s hand shot out faster than Kohaku could react, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her towards him. The force of it left her breathless, her body jerking forward, but before she could recover, his face was inches from hers, his eyes blazing with an intensity that sent a jolt through her chest.

“ You’re being incredibly stupid, Kohaku ,” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. The words were sharp, like daggers, and they hit harder than she expected.

His grip on her arm tightened, his fingers digging into her skin, but it wasn’t pain she felt. It was the heat of his fury, the sheer weight of his emotions crashing against her.

“ You want to talk about Luna? You want to talk about me? ” Senku’s gaze burned with a rawness she hadn’t seen before—dark eyes wide, flashing with frustration, disappointment, and something else—something more painful than she could place. He mocked her, the bitterness evident in every syllable. “ You think I don’t care about you? You think I can just move on like nothing’s wrong? ”

Kohaku swallowed hard, but the words she wanted to say caught in her throat, trapped by the sudden surge of anger emanating from him.

“ You want me to admit it? ” he hissed, his voice tight with venom. “ Fine. I do care. I care more than I should. But you, Kohaku —” His lips twisted into a bitter smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “ You can’t even handle what I’m trying to do right now. You want to be a part of my world? You want a relationship with me? Then prove you can handle the truth. ”

She felt the sting of his words like a slap, but she didn’t look away. His hold on her arm was almost bruising now, but she didn’t fight it. She didn’t say anything, waiting, because she knew there was more.

“ You’re so caught up in your own jealousy, your own damn insecurities ,” Senku continued, his voice rising with each word. “ You can’t even see the bigger picture. You can’t even see what’s at stake .” His grip shifted, his fingers pressing harder into her skin. “ If you can’t handle this—if you can’t handle the danger, the mess I’m in right now—then you’re never going to handle a relationship with me. ”

Kohaku’s chest tightened, the words cutting deeper than anything physical. His face was so close now, his breath warm on her skin, and in his eyes, she could see a storm brewing—a storm he was so desperately trying to contain, but the pressure was too much.

" You want me to care about you ," he continued, his voice almost cruel, but the rawness of his pain bled through, making it all the more devastating. " But what I’m doing—what I’m fighting for—it’s not just about us. So stop pretending like you’re the only thing that matters. You want me to fall for you? You can’t even keep up with what I’m doing to make sure you have a future .”

His eyes bore into hers, the weight of his words heavy and suffocating. She saw something flicker there—something close to regret—but it vanished too quickly for her to grasp it.

“ You want a relationship with me? ” he repeated, voice tight with anger. “ Then understand this—it’s never going to happen unless you can handle the shit I’m dealing with. Because I can’t afford to pull you in and then watch you crumble under the weight of everything else. You’re not some fragile thing I can protect and shelter. I can’t afford that. ”

Kohaku opened her mouth, but her words caught. He was right. But it didn’t stop the ache in her chest, the frustration that threatened to explode. She didn’t ask for him to shield her. She never had.

Senku’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a dangerous calm. “ If you can’t handle that, if you can’t understand why I have to do this… then stop pretending like we can have anything more than what we have right now .”

His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go. He was still close, his anger a tangible thing that filled the space between them. His breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling with the intensity of everything he had just unleashed.

Kohaku stood there, her heart hammering in her chest. Her body wanted to fight him, to shove him away, but something inside her kept her frozen. This wasn’t about him being cruel—it was about him being honest in a way she didn’t want to accept.

She could feel the tears burning behind her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. Not yet.

“ Let go, Senku ,” she said quietly, her voice steady despite everything.

He hesitated—fingers still curled around her arm as if part of him was bracing against gravity itself—before finally, slowly, releasing her. She stepped back. The warmth of his grip faded instantly, leaving only the sting behind.

The room felt colder now. Unforgiving. Like the ship itself had recoiled from them.

Senku turned away, chest heaving, jaw locked tight. He reached the desk in two stiff strides but didn’t sit—just stood there, hands planted on the wood, as if bracing for impact.

Then he moved—jerky, aimless. Hands through his hair. Over his face. Back through his hair again. He looked like a man coming undone.

“ Fuck —” The word broke out of him like a crack in glass. “ Kohaku …”

He finally sank down onto the edge of the desk, burying his face in his hands, dragging them down hard over tired eyes, over the sharp cut of his cheekbones like he could scrape the guilt off his skin.

“ You came in here in a towel ,” he said suddenly, voice wild with disbelief. He glanced up at her with red-ringed eyes and laughed—sharp and bitter and wrecked. “ You came in here like that, and any other goddamn day I’d—hell, I wouldn’t have known what to do with myself .”

His voice cracked. “ But today… today I yelled at you .”

She stayed quiet. Arms at her sides, towel clutched a little tighter at her chest. But her eyes—those hurt, steady eyes—watched him unravel.

“ I didn’t mean it ,” he said again, more frantic now. “ I didn’t mean any of it. You’re not stupid. You’re not —” His breath caught. “ You’re the smartest person I know when it comes to the things that matter .”

He stood abruptly, pacing a tight, erratic line. One hand still in his hair. The other curled into a white-knuckled fist at his side.

“ I was scared. Okay? There. I said it. I was scared. Because if they see what you mean to me—if they even suspect it—they’ll use it. And I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you because of me. And instead of saying that, I—I lashed out. Like a coward .”

His voice lowered, trembling. “Y ou walked in here, looking like that, and all I could think about was how much I wanted to kiss you. Pull you in and never let go. And then I remembered what world we’re in, and I panicked. ”

He stopped pacing. Looked at her like she was the only solid thing in the room.

“ I’m sorry ,” he said, finally. Truly. “ For snapping at you. For making you think—for one second—that you don’t mean everything to me. ”

He stepped closer, slowly, as if approaching something fragile.

“I don’t get to want you. Not really. But God, I do. Every time I look at you, it ruins me .”

He stopped just short of reaching out. His hands hovered, then fell uselessly to his sides.

“ You unravel me, Kohaku ,” he whispered. “ And I’m so fucking tired of pretending that you don’t .”

She stared at him.

And for a long, splintering moment, she said nothing.

Senku stood there, barely breathing, as though the air itself might break further between them. His shoulders curled forward slightly, his hands limp at his sides — a scientist with no formula, no fix, nothing left but the wreckage of what he’d said.

Kohaku’s jaw worked, but no sound came out. Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, not quite—but with something heavier. Like the weight of disappointment wrapped in the outline of someone she had trusted.

“ You don’t get to say that ,” she said at last, her voice rough. “ Not after what you did .”

Senku flinched, the words hitting like acid.

“ You don’t get to tear me down just to admit you care. That’s not fair .”

“ I know ,” he murmured.

Her lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. She was still in the towel, still damp at the collarbone, and somehow, in that quiet, charged moment, it made him feel even worse.

She had come to him, vulnerable.

And he had yelled.

Senku exhaled sharply and ran both hands through his hair, dragging his palms down his face like he could scrub the guilt away. “ I didn’t mean to —” His voice cracked. He tried again. “ You showed up, and I panicked. I was already on edge, and the towel, and the argument, and Luna knocking —”

She raised a brow. “ And that gave you the right to humiliate me? ”

“ No ,” he said quickly. “ No. God, no. I just —” He groaned and sat heavily on the edge of his desk, elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. “ You walk into my room wearing nothing but a towel and I should’ve loved that. Any other day, I would’ve loved that. But I couldn’t see anything but how close I was to losing you. How easy it’d be for someone to hurt you because of me .”

Kohaku crossed her arms tightly, but her stance had lost its bite.

“ I snapped because I’m terrified ,” Senku said, voice muffled. “ And because you’re not supposed to matter this much. But you do. You do, and it’s unraveling me, and I don’t know how to be the version of myself who keeps you safe without pushing you away .”

He looked up at her. His eyes were red at the corners, raw.

“ I’m sorry, ” he said. “ Not just for shouting. But for making you think—for even a second—that you aren’t the only person who makes me feel like this .”

She stepped toward him.

Slowly.

He didn’t move, didn’t reach for her.

Her footsteps were soft across the wood, deliberate, and when she stopped, it was just within arm’s reach.

Her voice, when it came, was quieter than before.

“ You’re a coward .”

He blinked.

She didn’t soften the words. “ You think hurting me protects me. You think pushing me away is noble. But it’s not. It’s selfish. You don’t get to want me only in theory, Senku. I’m not some abstract variable in your lab .”

She stepped in closer. Her hand hovered between them—briefly—before fisting in the fabric of his shirt.

“ You make me feel like I’m everything ,” she whispered, “ and then you make me feel like a burden. You don't get to do both .”

Then, without waiting, she leaned in.

And kissed him.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It tasted like anger, like longing, like the ache of something she wasn’t ready to forgive but couldn’t keep buried either.

Senku made a sound—choked, startled—and then kissed her back, like he’d been holding his breath for years.

His hands found her waist. Hesitant. Reverent.

But even as they clung to one another, something fragile still hung between them—regret, still fresh in the air. And the knowledge that this moment, however electric, was built on an open wound.

When she pulled away, she didn’t look at him.

And he didn’t ask her to stay.

She left without a word.

The door clicked shut behind her, soft but final, and Senku stood there like a man struck.

His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven breaths, the ghost of her mouth still burning against his own. Her hand had been on his shirt, her breath against his cheek, her heart right there — laid bare — and then she was gone.

And he had let her go.

Again.

He pressed both palms to his face, groaning softly as he dropped back onto the edge of the desk. The wood groaned beneath his weight, and he welcomed it. A protest. A bruise. Something that at least made sense.

Because nothing else did. Not her arrival, wet-haired and wrapped in defiance. Not her voice, hoarse with hurt. Not the way she had kissed him like it cost her everything, like she still ached for him even after what he said.

Especially not that.

He stared down at his hands, like they might give him answers. They didn’t shake — he never shook — but there was a tremble in his ribs he couldn’t quiet, a faultline running from his gut to his throat that felt perilously close to breaking open.

“I’m an idiot ,” he muttered under his breath. “ A fucking idiot .”

She had come to him.

She had chosen him, again and again, across battlefields and across continents — even when it broke her, even when he gave her every reason not to. And tonight, she’d shown up with nothing but raw honesty and a towel, and he had yelled.

He’d seen the flinch. The way her breath hitched, the way her eyes flicked to the floor like she needed ground that didn’t betray her.

He had done that.

And then, somehow — somehow — she had kissed him.

A bitter, bruising kiss. Punishment. Confession. A crack in the dam.

Senku dragged his hands down his face again, then leaned back and stared at the ceiling like the answer might be hiding in the beams.

“ You unraveled me first ,” he whispered.

It wasn’t the towel. It wasn’t Luna. It wasn’t the mission.

It was her.

The way she trusted him, fiercely, without ever needing the proof. The way she saw through the posturing, the logic, the plans — and still stayed. The way her voice broke when she said he didn’t get to do both.

He didn’t. God, he didn’t.

And yet he had.

His laugh came low, bitter, the sound catching on something raw in his throat. " You were right ," he said aloud, to no one. " I am a coward ."

The towel. The kiss. Her silence.

She hadn’t forgiven him. Not really.

And the part that killed him most?

She shouldn’t.

Not until he figured out how to stop hurting her in the name of protecting her. Not until he could hold both: the world and her heart — without crushing either.

Not until he was brave enough to fight for her, not just beside her.

He looked to the door.

And for the first time in what felt like hours, he stood. Slowly. As if testing his legs.

She was probably halfway down the hall. Maybe already gone.

Still — he stepped forward.

Because for once, he didn’t want to hide behind logic. He didn’t want to push her away with half-truths and carefully measured distance.

He wanted to be the man who deserved that kiss.

Even if it meant letting himself break.

He reached for the doorknob with hands that still remembered the shape of her. The wood was cool beneath his fingers, grounding. Just a sliver of hallway—he told himself—just a second. Maybe she hadn’t gotten far.

Maybe—

The door opened.

And Ryusui was there, fist raised mid-knock, but frozen in place. No swagger. No smirk.

His usual glint of irreverent confidence was gone.

What stood in its place was something hard, something sharp, something deeply un-Ryusui: seriousness.

Senku blinked, caught off guard by the absence of his usual grin, by the weight behind his gaze. The two of them locked eyes.

Then Ryusui’s voice dropped—low, grim, with no room for banter.

“ We have a problem. ”

No jest. No dramatics. Just four words—flat and final.

Senku’s breath caught. Whatever had just passed in this room—whatever had broken open inside him—was now, abruptly, shelved. He straightened slowly, the scientist falling back into his bones like a coat he didn’t want to wear tonight.

Still, he wore it.

“ How bad? ” Senku asked, his voice steady, a far cry from the man who had nearly fallen apart moments ago.

Ryusui didn't flinch. His next words came like lead, 

“ Luna’s up there losing it—says she saw a scope aimed right at us. If she’s right, we’ve got a sniper trained on the ship. You better hope we’re not already in their sights .”

Kohaku's breath came in sharp, quick bursts as her feet pounded against the wooden floors of the lower deck. Her wet hair created a dark spot amongst her blue dress. The air was heavy with the smell of saltwater and the dampness of the ship, but none of it registered. Her heart raced, pounding against her ribcage like it was trying to escape. Not again. Please, not again.

She ripped open the hatch and stormed onto the deck, her mind still reeling from the argument with Senku, her pulse quickening for reasons that had nothing to do with the shouting match. The world spun in chaotic flashes, but all she could think about was the sound of Luna’s terrified scream—the urgency in her voice that snapped Kohaku into motion.

" Sniper! Get down! "

Her instincts kicked in before she could fully process the words. She didn’t need to understand everything—just the tone of terror in Luna’s voice was enough.

Without thinking, Kohaku threw herself flat onto the deck, the cool wood of the ship beneath her, her pulse thudding in her ears. Her mind spun with the sound of her own breath, panicked, as her body reacted on its own.

Luna’s voice screamed out again, sharp and desperate: " Kohaku, stay down! He’ll kill you! "

The words hit her like a slap. She should have listened, should have stayed hidden as Luna begged, but her body refused to obey. The storm of chaos around her was too loud, too overwhelming. Crew members scattered in every direction, some diving for cover, others cowering, their voices frantic as they searched for a place to hide. Where is he? Where’s the shot coming from?

Kohaku's pulse roared in her ears, and something in her snapped. It was the same feeling she’d had in the heat of battle before—a call to protect, to act. No. I won’t let this happen again. Not like before.

Her fingers gripped the deck, her knuckles whitening as she forced herself to crawl, slowly, deliberately, even though every instinct screamed at her to leap up and charge. Focus. Keep calm. You know this.

She felt the old ache in her shoulder flare up—the memory of the machine gun attack flashing through her mind like a blade. Her breath caught in her throat. Not again. Not here.

But this was different. She wasn’t the same person she had been in that field. She couldn’t be.

Kohaku’s gaze flicked over the deck, darting from one shadow to the next, searching for any sign of movement. The crew was still screaming, still desperate, but there was no sign of where the sniper could be hiding. Where is he?

Then, as if the world had frozen, she saw it—just the faintest flicker of light at the far end of the deck, a brief glint of metal that could only belong to the sniper’s rifle. It was barely visible, a tremor in the chaos, but Kohaku knew what it meant.

There.

Her breath caught again, but she kept her body low, refusing to give herself away. She pushed herself up slightly, crouching low to the deck, her movements calculated but fast. Stay hidden. Get to them before they get to you.

The wind whistled through her hair, but she didn’t flinch. I have to protect them. I have to.

Kohaku’s fingers clawed against the deck as she tried to rise, heart pounding against her ribs like a war drum. She couldn’t stay prone. Her instincts screamed to move , to protect, to fight—but then—

A sudden weight crashed over her.

" Wha—! "

She barely had time to protest before Senku's body slammed into hers, pressing her flat to the cold wooden planks. Her breath hitched, the world narrowing to the sharp, dizzying awareness of his limbs anchoring hers.

" Stay down, " he snapped, voice low, sharp, commanding.

The words struck her like a slap.

Stay down.
Just like before.

Just like that argument. His voice had been like this then, too—clipped, edged with that impatient steel. As if he couldn’t trust her to think. To be careful. To live. Her blood surged.

" Get off me, " she hissed, writhing beneath him. " You don’t get to— "

" Do you think I’d do this if I didn’t trust you? " he cut in, the words coming fast, hard, breathless.

His eyes were right there, above hers. Wild. Open. Desperate.

" I trust you, " he said again. " I trust you. "

The repetition caught her off guard. Her struggle stilled, hands going limp against the wood beneath her as her chest rose and fell beneath his. The scent of wet wood and oiled rope, his breath near her temple, his words— I trust you —pierced deeper than they should have.

" Then say it back, " he demanded. " Because if I get off you right now, and you get shot in the goddamn head, I swear to science— "

" I trust you, " she whispered.

And just like that, she deflated. Her fight evaporated into the air between them, thick with salt and smoke and panic. Her limbs sank back to the deck.

Senku’s grip eased.

For half a second, he lingered above her—his breath rough, chest heaving against her spine—before he pushed himself off in a swift scramble. His eyes darted around once more, calculating angles, shadows, the glint of the moonlight off metal.

" Ryusui, keep her down, " he barked over his shoulder. " Don’t let her move. Not even an inch. "

Ryusui dropped low beside her without hesitation, shoulder brushing against hers. " Don’t worry, lioness, " he said, attempting levity but missing the mark. " He’s only bossy when he’s scared. "

But Kohaku didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed fixed on Senku’s retreating form.

He was already darting across the deck, weaving between scattered barrels and overturned crates. Crew members crouched behind what little cover they could find, some sobbing, others frozen in terror. Luna was still crying out, crouched beside a younger crewmate, Kohaku noted, but it didn’t matter. Her voice cracked as she called:

" Kohaku, don’t move! He’ll shoot you—he’ll kill you! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean— "

Chaos reigned.

Kohaku’s shoulder pulsed with a phantom pain, a dull, familiar burn. Her mind betrayed her—flashes of the machine gun’s roar, blood against her skin, her body jerking on impact, Senku’s voice lost in the static.

She gritted her teeth. Don’t spiral. Don’t give in.

Instead, she forced herself to follow Senku’s movements with her eyes. She watched him reach Francois’ bar—makeshift, elegant even in disarray—vault behind it without hesitation, sending glass flasks clinking and sliding. His hands moved with speed and precision, grabbing cornstarch and water, already muttering ratios under his breath.

He’s making oobleck, she realized, mind flickering to the memories he’d planted in her like seeds. She could see it now—a dense, reactive liquid that stiffened under sudden force. Thick enough to stall a bullet. If he had enough of it. If it worked. If.

But above all, she trusted him.

Because he had said it first.

Smoke curled from Stanley’s cigarette in lazy spirals, embers glowing like dying neon against the steel-gray rain. Below, Luna’s frantic outline darted across the deck—her shrill panic a staccato beat that lit up every shadow. Amateur, he thought, exhaling a plume of smoke that blurred the world into wet chrome.

Through the scope, Kohaku surfaced: sapphire fabric clinging to her curves, hair like molten gold. His finger hovered at the trigger—breath measured, pulse imperceptible. Plan B, he reminded himself, smooth as the rain sliding down his barrel. Wound the asset. Flush the real target.

Then the world skewed. A flash of white-green hair, the cut of a clean-lined tunic—and Senku slammed into view, shoving Kohaku flat with balletic force. The girl vanished beneath him, replaced by that unyielding shield of fabric and defiance. Stanley’s scope rocked.

Their eyes met: Senku’s, bright with unspoken challenge. In that sliver of time, honed by a thousand missions, Stanley recalibrated. There. The scientist had revealed himself.

He flicked the comm switch without hesitation. “ Xeno, I gotta ask, final say. ”
“ Proceed, ” came Xeno’s clipped reply through static.

Stanley didn’t chase the scientist with his scope.

Senku had broken from cover—he’d seen it. A flicker of white-green streaking through the chaos, slipping between half-toppled crates and shadows cast by loose rigging. The scientist moved with purpose, not desperation, disappearing somewhere near the bar—a makeshift shelter of barrels and salvaged paneling that might’ve once held laughter, now nothing but prelude to calculated violence.

It was a smart play. He was buying time. Stanley didn’t care.

He kept his sightline anchored to the point of contact—the place where Kohaku had dropped.

Not visible now. Obscured by another body, someone holding her down—he made a note of the build, the movement, the way that figure braced and shifted. Not important. A placeholder. A meat wall. The girl was beneath that. Somewhere.

Stanley couldn’t make out her hair. Couldn’t confirm her position. Couldn’t even see if she was breathing.

Didn’t matter.

She was the anchor. The constant.

And Stanley had learned long ago: you never take your eyes off the constant.

He lay prone, the cool bite of the rifle’s stock molded to his shoulder like a second bone. The reticle rested in stillness, waiting. Everything else faded—Luna’s distant cries, the dull ache behind his eye from hours of scope-work, even the buzz of the comm in his ear.

He was still. He was breath. He was aim.

And he was certain.

She would move.

They always did. The brave ones. The ones wired to rise. That little flicker of resistance, the thing that made martyrs and legends and graves.

Kohaku would lift her head. Maybe just an inch. Maybe just enough to look for the boy who ran. The one she’d throw herself in front of a bullet for.

And in that moment, Stanley would already be there.

Because Senku—he’d come running, too. That was the nature of it. A fixed equation. The girl peeks. The boy returns. The bullet flies.

Clean. Predictable. One shot. Two casualties.

The end.

Stanley adjusted his position by a breath’s width.

Wind negligible. Elevation optimal. No tremor in the platform. The world beyond his scope was noise. But in his eye—just that space of waiting. That thin corner of the deck. The stillness before cause and consequence.

He could feel it coiling.

Not adrenaline. Not nerves. But timing.

Just a little longer.

And then she’d do what he knew she would.

Just a peek. A heartbeat’s worth of courage.

And it would all be over.

…

…

…

There.

A whisper of motion. Not enough to trigger reflex, not enough to pull the trigger—not yet. But it was there. The faintest shift in the weight atop her, the way the pressure changed when the man shielding her repositioned. 

Stanley didn’t blink. He didn’t think.

He waited.

And then—like the eye of a storm parting its veil—she rose.

A subtle tilt. The smallest motion. Not even her full face—just the line of her forehead, the glint of golden hair dragged into view by instinct. That stone-age resolve, so primitive it burned modern. She was scanning. Searching. Looking for him.

For Senku.

Stanley knew that look.

She didn’t know she was giving it to him. But she was.

Just a sliver of a face, bisected by the reticle. Skin blued by distance. The sharp curve of a cheekbone lit with thin, ambient dusk. It wasn’t a perfect shot. But it didn’t need to be.

The perfection was in the equation.

She peeked. She revealed herself. Because she loved someone more than she feared death.

And right on time, like a chemical reaction—Senku came into frame.

A blur of motion from the left, fast and too late. Stanley didn’t even smile. He didn’t have to.

He had seen this pattern a thousand times.

Senku shouted something—inaudible through glass and distance—but the way his body lunged forward, the way he reached—Stanley understood. Not just protection. Not just desperation.

Sacrifice.

And so Stanley squeezed.

Not in anger. Not with hesitation.

He pulled the trigger like flipping a switch.

Clean.

Silent in his world, deafening in theirs.

The recoil barely registered. The rifle whispered its language of endings, and already his mind was running scenarios—what cover Senku might crawl into, how fast he could reload, if Xeno would want the body preserved.

He watched through the scope.

Not for guilt. Not for confirmation.

Just to see.

To watch the arc of inevitability.

To witness how stories end.

Because he had said it first.

That he’d protect her.

Not in declarations, not in the way others might. But in actions—precise, deliberate, maddeningly calm. He had slammed into her like a lightning strike, flattening her beneath his weight, arms caging her without a word. Shielding her. Then vanishing.

And Kohaku stayed down. At first.

She told herself to trust him. Told herself he would handle it.

But she couldn’t see him anymore.

The bar swallowed him—he ducked behind Francois’ counter, and now all she saw were the jagged shadows of glassware and overturned stools. He was somewhere in there, moving fast, she knew that. She could hear the soft clatter of ingredients, his breath a string of low calculations. But her heart didn’t understand ratios. Her lungs didn’t care for logic.

She couldn’t breathe.

Ryusui still held her, arms tight around her middle, anchoring her to the deck. She was shivering, but not from cold—her skin remembered the burn of bullets, the hot bloom of pain in her shoulder, the helpless way Senku had screamed her name.

She wasn’t shot now, she told herself. But her body didn’t believe it.

Her chest was a furnace. Her limbs twitched.

“Stop,” Ryusui hissed close to her ear, trying to still her. “Kohaku, don’t.”

But she had to see .

She had to know if he was alive. If he needed her.

She twisted, just a little. A tremor in her spine. Ryusui’s grip held, but her neck arched against it. Not to stand. Not to fight.

Just to look.

Just enough for her eyes to rise over the crate’s edge. Just enough to search the blur of shadows for the man who had vanished behind wood and silence.

And in that moment—
the air snapped.

A line traced through her bones, invisible and terminal.

Because somewhere above, beyond the scope of what she could know, a finger tightened.

And Senku was already running.

Straight toward her.

Her eyes locked to him like they never had before. Not as a comrade. Not as the scientist who could command a world’s worth of miracles. Not even as the man she loved.
But as a boy.
A boy holding everything he had—pressed to his chest, strapped to his thin frame like a desperate answer to an impossible problem.
The bag of oobleck.
Tucked against him like it could shield them both from death.

She couldn’t hear anything. The silence was overwhelming—like being submerged in cold water, far beneath the surface of a scream.

Her name was on his lips—she could see it. She could see the sharpness in the way his mouth opened, the urgent syllables breaking across his teeth. He was shouting at her, but she couldn’t hear it. Not a word.
The world had gone mute.

Senku’s tunic billowed as he ran, the animal skin catching the light like a flare in a storm. His eyes—sharp, fierce, so achingly alive—were locked on hers. He was running straight for her. No hesitation. No pause. Just forward. Always forward.

And that was when she realized it.
The mistake.

Her head had turned. Just slightly. Just enough to peer. Just enough to give Stanley the line he’d been waiting for. Just enough to damn them both.

No.

A scream tore from her throat, but she couldn’t hear it.
She could only feel it.
The rupture in her soul.

She thrashed against Ryusui's grip, her nails clawing at the wooden floor, dragging grooves into it as if she could tunnel through time itself to take it back. He was behind her, arms locked around her like chains, voice hissing in her ear—“Stay down. Kohaku, stay down.”
But she was deaf to everything but her own heart.
Pounding. Cracking. Breaking.

Because he was still coming.
Because he hadn’t stopped.

The fool.
The genius.
Her Senku.

He knew. Of course he knew. He always knew. And still, he ran—right into the crosshairs. For her.

Her body twisted with a violence she didn’t know she had. Her shoulder screamed. Her vision blurred. She tried to rise, to throw Ryusui off, to reach for him, to shield him—anything—but she couldn’t. The world was slow and cruel and slipping through her fingers.

Don’t take him. Please, not him.

She didn’t care about Luna. She didn’t care about the fight. She didn’t care that he had yelled, or that she had hurt him, or that her pride had bitten back when she should have just listened. She would have taken it all back. Every stubborn word. Every glare. Every stormy silence.

She only wanted him.

Senku’s eyes were still on hers when the world snapped again.

No sound. Just motion.

The sharp jolt through his shoulders, like a string yanked taut and cut.
The bag of oobleck burst against his chest—not heroically, not like salvation—just a sick, splattering bloom, heavy and thick. Like hope folding under the weight of inevitability.
Then his body hitched. Twisted. A strange, jagged stumble—like he wasn’t sure which way gravity meant to pull him.

And her vision tunneled.

Everything else fell away. The gunfire. Ryusui’s grip. The chaos of the world.

There was only him.

Only the way he staggered forward, the blood seeping dark and traitorous beneath the broken mass of failed science. Only the frozen horror in his eyes—eyes that still held hers, as if that connection might tether him to the earth just a moment longer.

Her scream clawed its way up her throat.

But she didn’t hear it.

She heard nothing.

Her ears rang with a silence so loud it erased everything.
Only her heartbeat remained—violent, aching, relentless. It filled her chest like thunder.
Like punishment.

She had peeked.

She had given them the line.

And now he was falling. Because of her.

She moved. She had to move.

Her body strained, twisted, dragged against Ryusui’s arms with a desperation that bordered on violence. She didn’t care if she dislocated something. She didn’t care if she broke. She would break herself in two if it meant reaching him.

But she couldn’t.

Ryusui held her like a man anchoring a storm.

“ KOHAKU—stay down! ”

She didn’t hear him.
She only saw Senku falling.

And she reached—uselessly, hopelessly—as if her arms could span the distance, as if her hands could close the wound.

As if love could reverse a bullet.

But she was too late. She had always been too late.

And Senku was already falling.

Because Senku had just been shot.

Because she had watched it happen.

Because she had led them to him.

And she would never, ever forgive herself.

Chapter Text

Hours after his stabilization

Kohaku sat in the infirmary’s dim hush, where the soft flicker of lanternlight traced trembling shapes across the warped wooden walls and rust-kissed beams. The ship creaked and sighed in the distance, a long breath in the lungs of something ancient and weary, and yet nothing moved here—not truly. Time had stopped the moment he collapsed.

Her knees ached from sitting too long on the hard floor, but she didn’t care. The world had reduced itself to the bed before her, to the man lying in it, and to the way his fingers, limp and pale, rested in her hands like something sacred.

She hadn’t let go. Not once.

The scent of metal and old blood lingered thick in the air, clinging to her clothes, to her skin, to the memory of his body falling. She hadn’t heard the shot. She’d only seen him move—saw him rise just enough to be seen. Just enough to give Stanley his line of sight.

Just enough to die for her.

No, not die. Not die . Her jaw tightened, and her fingers curled tighter around his. He was warm now. Alive. Luna had saved him. Somehow. After Kohaku’s voice, shattered and humiliated, had begged her.

She had dropped to her knees like a child lost in a storm, sobbing through her teeth, fists clenched, pride dead and buried. Not because she believed Luna would help, but because there was no one else left to ask.

And to her astonishment… Luna had moved. Her hands had shaken, her mouth had opened in disbelief—but she'd moved. That was all that mattered.

And now here they were, in this place that had once cradled her wounds. She remembered the ache in her shoulder, the way pain had colored the edges of every breath. But that was nothing. That pain had been clean, simple. This one was not.

This was agony shaped like silence.

The shadows danced quietly across Senku’s face, the light brushing the sharp edges of his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, the split in his lip. Each breath he took—shallow, slow—felt like it was bought with the weight of her soul.

He wasn’t just her friend. He wasn’t just her comrade. She didn’t have a word for what he was. Only this overwhelming need to keep him tethered here, to make sure the world didn’t take him like it took everything else.

Her hair was a mess, knotted and wild. Strands clung to her sweat-slicked face, her temples, her lips. She hadn’t looked in a mirror—hadn’t thought to. She didn’t care how pitiful she looked. She should look pitiful.

She hadn’t saved him. She’d handed him to the barrel of a rifle. And yet… he had still looked at her, in that last second, with no anger. No fear. Just that same maddening certainty—like she was worth dying for.

A soft sound broke from her throat, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Her fingers drifted up to brush his brow, tender and trembling. Why? Why had he done it? Why had he smiled like that—like it had always been part of the plan?

She wasn’t the strong one anymore. Not here. Not in this quiet, where all she could do was wait. Wait, and remember.

“ You look lonely ,” she whispered to him, the words barely a breath. “ I think I do too. ”

And for a moment, she imagined his voice answering back—low and dry, full of smug certainty. He’d say something brilliant and maddening, something sharp that cut through sorrow like lightning splits the sky.

But he didn’t speak.

So she leaned forward instead, resting her brow lightly against his hand. She stayed there, eyes closed, trying to steady her breath with his, as if matching his rhythm could call him back.

“ I’ll stay here ,” she murmured, voice almost too quiet to be real. “ Even if the world ends. Even if this is all there is now. ”

The lantern flickered.

But he was warm.

And that was enough—for now.

The corridor outside the infirmary was narrow, wood paneled and cold, lined with steel supports that hummed faintly with the pulse of the ship beneath their feet. The lanterns hung low, their dull amber glow flickering against the warped grain of the wood, casting shifting silhouettes that stretched and distorted with each quiet creak. It felt like time had slowed here—slowed and thickened, like syrup clinging to the air.

Ryusui leaned against the frame of the door, arms crossed loosely, his gaze distant. He didn’t speak at first. He didn’t need to. The silence already said too much.

Beside him, Taiju stood still as a statue, his broad shoulders barely fitting between the beams. His hands were clenched, then unclenched, then clenched again. He looked into the room, through the sliver between the half-opened door, watching.

Kohaku sat like a ghost in the lanternlight, her body curled toward the infirmary bed. Senku’s hand rested in hers, limp, fragile. She hadn’t moved since they placed him there. She hadn’t spoken. Her silhouette looked carved from grief.

“ She hasn’t left his side ,” Ryusui murmured, his voice low and smooth, like it had been buried under the hush of midnight. “ Even to breathe .”

Taiju shifted, his jaw tight. His eyes were glassy.

“ Can’t blame her ,” he said. “ He wouldn’t have either. Not if it had been her. ”

The lantern above them buzzed faintly, then dimmed for a moment. Ryusui tilted his head, the shadows shifting across his cheekbone.

“ Funny, isn’t it? You fight tooth and nail to build a new world... and in the end, it all hangs on whether one man wakes up. ”

“ He will ,” Taiju said without hesitation, but the words came out raw, like they were fighting through something in his chest. “ He’s Senku .”

Ryusui let out the ghost of a chuckle—barely there. More memory than sound.

“ Still, I think we all forgot what it would feel like if he didn’t .”

There was a long pause. The ship groaned softly under the river’s wind outside.

“ I have to leave soon ,” Taiju said, his voice slow, weighed down with something unsaid. “ The drill—we promised Chrome and the others we’d get it to them before nightfall. They’ll need it. It’s a long trek, and they’re already deep in the enemy base .”

“ Of course .” Ryusui nodded once. “ They’re counting on you. He’s counting on you .”

“ I know .” Taiju turned to look at him now, eyes brimming but steady. “ I’m putting him in your hands. ”

“ Then you’re putting him in the best ,” Ryusui said simply, but his gaze had softened, and there was no arrogance in his voice. Only certainty. “ We’ll watch over him. Over both of them .”

“ Kohaku hasn’t slept, hasn’t eaten —”
“ She’s in freefall ,” Ryusui murmured. “And he’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the ground .”

Taiju was quiet a long moment.

“ She begged Luna, you know ,” he said suddenly, like the words had been held inside too long. “ On her knees. I've never seen Kohaku like that. None of us have. And she didn’t hesitate .”

Ryusui’s mouth twitched, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“ That’s what Senku does to people ,” he said. “ Makes you want to throw away your pride if it means keeping the flame lit .”

“ Then we keep it lit ,” Taiju said, his voice breaking through the hush like a vow. “ No matter what .”

He looked back into the infirmary once more—at Kohaku hunched over that still body, her hair disheveled and her face blotched with grief—and then finally turned to go. His boots were heavy on the metal floor, like the ship itself could feel the weight of his departure.

Ryusui remained.

He stood there alone now, framed by the trembling light, the cold pressing against his back.

He exhaled slowly, long and even, then whispered under his breath,

“ Come on, Senku... open those brilliant eyes already. The world hasn’t moved since you closed them .”

The light above him flickered again, buzzing faintly. The corridor stretched on in either direction, empty and waiting.

The flickering light caught the edge of his jaw, the curl of his smile, the glint of tired fire in his eyes. He turned back to the doorframe and watched—just for a moment longer—as Kohaku stayed still in that tiny circle of light, her fingers wrapped around Senku like he was the last piece of the universe.

“ Rest up, my friend ,” Ryusui whispered. “ Your kingdom’s still waiting for its king .”

He gave another soft snap, quieter than before.

This time, it didn’t echo at all.

The world was grey when Kohaku stirred.

Not the warmth of morning, not even the shimmer of dawn, but the dim, stale quiet of metal and wood soaked in hours of silence. Somewhere above, the ship groaned. Life creaked back into its joints. Orders were shouted distantly. A bucket clattered on deck. The world had moved on without her.

Until something cold slapped her across the cheek.

“— mmph! ” Kohaku gasped, jerking upright.

A soaked cloth slipped from her face and flopped unceremoniously into her lap.

François stood beside her, utterly composed in their perfectly tailored uniform, their gloved hands neatly folded—except for the one holding the other half of the cloth.

“ If you're planning to stay draped over my master's patient like a collapsed scarecrow, ” François said, voice dry as salted parchment, “ do so somewhere that doesn't obstruct care. ”

Kohaku blinked at them, then at the room. The lanterns were still burning low, but the shadows had changed. Her body ached from the awkward angle she’d slept in, and her face felt stiff with dried tears. She wiped at them belatedly, half-mortified, half-confused.

“ Senku ...?” she rasped.

François tilted their head in a single efficient nod.

“ Stable. For now. Luna believes his condition will hold, so long as the dressing stays clean and we avoid infection. I’m operating under her instructions—and Ryusui’s orders. ”

They said this with a faint upward flick of their brow, almost to remind Kohaku that they were no physician, merely a servant repurposed into battlefield staff. There was no ego in their presence, only meticulous function.

“ Ryusui entrusted his life to me ,” They continued, pulling a small box of cloths from under the bed, “ and so, here I am. I assume you plan to do something other than wallow like a tragic heroine .”

Kohaku blinked harder this time, rubbed her eyes clear. The fog of grief hadn’t lifted, but the sheer normalcy of François—their discipline, their clipped patience—was like a slap in the face all its own. It grounded her.

She looked at Senku. He was still pale, still unmoving—but his breathing was no longer shallow. It was rhythmic, real.

He was alive.

“ Tell me what to do, ” Kohaku said hoarsely. “ Please .”

François paused. They opened a tin of herbal poultices—something Luna had mixed in a hurry—and handed Kohaku a fresh cloth.

“ Wipe down his arms. Gently. He’s fevered from the blood loss, and this might help .”

She knelt by the supplies, voice quieter now.

“ And talk to him. Luna says the mind hears more than we think. Not that he ever listens, even when conscious .”

Kohaku managed the smallest breath of a laugh—just a twitch of sound. Then she folded the cloth and got to work, her movements stiff but careful. She pressed the damp fabric to his arm and watched his skin shift faintly beneath it.

“I’m not leaving ,” she murmured. “I won’t let him wake up alone .”

François didn’t respond, but their hand paused for a beat as they sorted the next supplies. Then they resumed her work, brisk and efficient.

And the lanterns above flickered gently in the gloom, holding the silence between them like something sacred.

Their eyes flicked back to Kohaku as the girl sat up straighter, visibly dragging herself out of her daze. There was a strange satisfaction in that—subtle, but present. Ryusui had told them clearly,  She’s a warrior, not a maiden in distress. If you coddle her, she’ll crumble. Be sharp. Give her routine, give her work. Make her move, or she won’t get back up.

And François had seen it before—in nobles, in soldiers, in prodigies who cracked beneath the weight of grief. Kohaku didn’t need pity. She needed purpose.

So François had chosen their words carefully. Chosen the slap of the cloth. Chosen severity, not sympathy.

And it worked.

François watched her begin, noting how quickly she slipped into the task. Her fingers were shaky, her breath unsteady, but she was trying. And that mattered more than anything else.

Routine, François thought. Discipline is the first mercy.

Above them, the lanterns swayed faintly, shadows stretching across the metal struts and timber joints of the ship. And in the stillness, François returned to her own work—quietly, sharply, exactly as ordered.

The cloth was warm by now, soaked through from the heat of Senku’s skin, and Kohaku had already wrung it twice into the nearby basin. She moved methodically, as instructed, wiping his arms with soft, practiced strokes. It gave her something to hold onto—something that didn’t require her to think.

François hadn’t said much since then. They worked with a sharp, surgical quiet, only offering brief, crisp instructions. Kohaku didn’t mind. Words felt too fragile in this place.

The door creaked open behind them.

Soft footsteps echoed on the wood.

Kohaku turned her head slightly, strands of her tangled hair brushing her cheek. She recognized the scent before the voice—clean, like antiseptic and rosewater, somehow too refined for the bowels of this ship.

“... Is he still stable? ” Luna’s voice was quiet. It was always soft when she entered, like she was afraid any louder sound might be the one to break him.

François straightened but didn’t look back. “ Vitals remain consistent. We’ve managed the fever, thanks to your instructions .”

Kohaku stiffened, her hand frozen over Senku’s wrist for a moment too long.

Luna stepped inside, carefully shutting the door behind her. The lanternlight caught her hair, pink against gold, and for a moment, Kohaku felt that old flicker of jealousy again—sharp, familiar. But it faded as quickly as it came. It was pointless now.

Luna didn’t glance at her, at first. She moved to the other side of the bed and crouched next to Senku, fingertips resting on the edge of the cot like she needed the anchor too.

“ He always looks peaceful when he’s asleep ,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Kohaku looked down at the cloth in her hand, suddenly feeling clumsy again. “ He should’ve never been on the top deck .”

Luna exhaled, slow and measured. “ None of us should have .”

The silence held between them for a long moment.

François, standing at the cabinet, closed a drawer with a soft click. “ If you're going to speak, do it gently. I’d rather not see his heart rate spike on your account .”

Luna smiled faintly at that, a brief, flickering thing. She finally looked up at Kohaku.

“ I didn’t get to say this before... but what you did—asking me to help—I know that wasn’t easy. ”

Kohaku swallowed hard. Her eyes stung again, but this time she held it back. “ It doesn’t matter .”

“ It does to me ,” Luna said quietly. “ You saved him. Whether you think you did or not. ”

Kohaku shook her head slowly. “ You’re the one who saved him. I just —” Her voice broke, but she kept her hands moving. “ I just fell apart. ”

Luna looked down at Senku again. “ Sometimes that’s the only way anything gets done. Falling apart... it makes people move .”

François gave them both a glance over their shoulder, but said nothing.

The ship groaned again. A slow hum of life returning. Somewhere above them, the sun had crept into the sky—filtered through metal grates and cracks in the hull, it painted the infirmary in pale, smoky gold.

Luna brushed a stray lock of Senku’s hair back from his forehead.

And in that moment, between the shadows and the silence, between resentment and healing, Kohaku didn’t feel hatred.

Just exhaustion.

And the sharp ache of hope that hadn’t quite dared speak its name.

…

DAY 1 – 07:14 AM ( a week after his stablization) 

The infirmary was cloaked in the low murmur of life returning. Lanternlight bled against the ship’s ribbed walls in bruised hues—orange and gray like an open wound healing. Kohaku sat on the edge of the cot, her knees drawn in slightly, arms elbow-deep in a basin of warm water. The washcloth she pulled free dripped in soft trails, hitting the floor with a rhythm she had memorized.

François handed her a clean cloth in silence.

Senku's body had stabilized overnight, but he was still feverish. Still unconscious. Still breathing —Kohaku repeated that last part every hour.

She wrung the cloth tightly, then leaned over him, careful not to disturb the wires snaking from his chest to the quiet hum of medical equipment. The cloth pressed against his neck. Warm. Gentle. Her hand trembled anyway.

François adjusted a monitor behind her. “ Focus on under his arms. Then the lower back .”

“ I know ,” Kohaku murmured, eyes not leaving his face.

“ You missed a spot .”

Kohaku shot her a glare. François raised one cool brow, unbothered.

DAY 2 – 05:52 AM

A cold slap of damp cloth startled her awake.

Kohaku jolted, eyes flying open to dim lanternlight and the sharp, unimpressed silhouette of François hovering above her like a scolding wraith.

“ Get up, ” François said, voice clipped, arms folded with military precision. “ If you’re going to sulk, do it somewhere else. ”

The words hit her like a reprimand, though they lacked venom—just firm, functional. Still, they stung. Kohaku blinked, trying to orient herself. Her spine cracked as she sat up from the floor, stiff and aching from where she’d curled beside the cot. Her joints groaned. Her ribs ached where sleep had found her in a twisted heap.

She looked down. Her fingers had been curled around the hem of Senku’s blanket all night.

“ I wasn’t… sulking, ” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm. Her voice was gravel. “I was just —”

“ Brooding. Loudly, ” François said, arching a brow. “ You talk in your sleep .”

Kohaku flushed, turning away. Her hair, a tangle of sweat and knots, stuck to her cheek. Her body felt heavy. So did her heart.

“ What do you want me to do? ”

François didn’t hesitate. They reached for a basin of steaming water, freshly drawn, and held it out like a weaponized task.

“ Start with his legs. You skipped them yesterday. ”

Kohaku took the basin without protest, her fingers curling around the ceramic. The warmth soaked into her palms, soothing and painful at once.

She nodded, yawning halfway through, and dragged herself to her knees.

It was a slow routine now. Cloth to water. Water to skin. Soft, circular motions. She whispered silent apologies for every wince Senku made in his sleep—though there were fewer now. That meant something. It had to.

But she was still a ghost of herself. Still pale beneath the grime and dried tears. Her movements were sluggish, her grip unsure. She dabbed beneath his knees, working up his shins, careful around the bruises that hadn't yet faded. The cuts had been closed. Some left puckered trails she didn’t want to look at too long.

Behind her, François busied themself with a tray of supplies—bandages, fresh gauze, syringes. The clink of glass and metal was the only other sound, aside from Kohaku’s quiet breathing and the occasional creak of the ship hull.

Senku stirred once. Not much. Just a slight motion in his fingers. Kohaku glanced up, breath caught, and waited.

But it passed.

She swallowed it down and dipped the cloth again.

Luna would arrive later—she always did. François didn’t acknowledge it anymore. Neither did Kohaku.

Routine was the only thing tethering her now. And she clung to it like a lifeline.

DAY 3 – 12:23 PM

Luna slipped in like a rumor.

She always did. Never a knock. Never an announcement. Just the quiet hush of the infirmary door sighing open on old hinges and the soft click of polished shoes against worn wooden floorboards.

Kohaku didn’t look up right away. She was seated at the foot of Senku’s cot, legs folded underneath her, a soaked cloth wrapped around her fingers like gauze. Her arms were damp to the elbows. Her hair had fallen forward in wet, straw-colored curtains, sticking to her neck in places where sweat and steam hadn’t quite dried.

François looked up only briefly from the cabinet—their clipboard tilted against one hip, a pencil balanced between their knuckles. They marked something, clicked their tongue, and moved on. No greeting. No pause. It was as if Luna were just another piece of background noise—necessary, maybe, but not central.

Kohaku dragged the cloth along Senku’s calf in slow, circular motions. The antiseptic stung her nose, but she didn’t flinch. She was methodical now. Quiet. Efficient. The kind of focus that looked like care, but came from somewhere deeper—somewhere bone-tired and bruised.

“ He’s holding steady, ” Luna said, voice low, a practiced softness.

“ I know ,” Kohaku replied, not unkindly, just flat. Just hollow. “ I’ve been here .”

A pause.

Luna stepped forward, a flicker of movement in the lantern’s light. Her dress caught a breeze that didn’t exist. “ I wasn’t criticizing. ”

Kohaku blinked, realizing her words had barbs.

“ Sorry, ” she muttered after a moment. She wrung out the cloth in the basin with more force than necessary, the water splashing over her hands. “I’m just... tired. ”

Luna’s gaze lowered. “ So am I .”

And for a moment, something passed between them. Not forgiveness. Not understanding. But the quiet, lingering ache of two people trying not to unravel in the same room. Tension pooled in the silence like sweat—thick and warm and uncomfortable.

Senku shifted slightly, his arm twitching toward his side. Kohaku was on it immediately, holding his hand—not tight, not desperate, just enough to feel the heat of life still burning through his skin. His fingers didn’t curl around hers. Not yet.

Luna watched.

She didn’t stay long. She never did. After checking the vials François had arranged—perhaps more for routine than necessity—she turned to leave, her movements all grace and hesitation. But her scent lingered.

Rosewater and nerves.

It hung in the air long after she left. Kohaku’s nose wrinkled at it.

She went back to work.

DAY 4 - 10:30 AM

There was a moment—a small, stupid, borderline slapstick moment—when she nearly ended the entire morning in boiling water.

Kohaku turned too fast. Cloth in one hand, kettle in the other, balancing too many tasks and too little sleep. Her foot clipped the iron leg of the cot—Senku’s cot—and in the span of a breath, gravity claimed her.

The yelp she let out wasn’t heroic. It was startled, sharp, almost childish.

She hit the floor with a crash and a clatter, knees banging the wood, the kettle landing beside her with a slosh. Steam hissed upward. She jerked her arm back just in time to avoid a scald.

The wet cloth flopped sadly across her shoulder like it, too, had given up.

François didn’t flinch. They made a notation on her clipboard, their voice dry as bone.

“ You’re lucky you didn’t burn yourself. ”

“ I’m fine, ” Kohaku hissed, flushing pink from ears to collarbone. She sat on her heels, disheveled, damp, and humiliated. “ Completely fine .”

“ You say that every day .”

“ I mean it every day. ”

As she pushed herself up, a soft shift came from behind her. Kohaku froze.

Senku stirred.

It wasn’t much—a flicker beneath his eyelid, a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a minute flex of fingers like a ghost remembering how to move.

Kohaku was at his side in a flash, scrambling on hands and knees. Her face hovered over his, breath held. She leaned so close she could make out the fine detail of his petrification marks. Her hand found his wrist, fingers trembling just above his pulse.

He didn’t open his eyes.

Didn’t speak.

But his chest lifted, steady. His fingers stilled.

It was nothing. It was everything.

Kohaku let the breath out slowly. Her knees buckled again, but this time she folded into a sit beside the cot, resting her arms over his blanket as her forehead touched the edge.

The door creaked.

Luna arrived, five minutes late and cradling a tray of fresh syringes and saline. She stepped inside with her usual perfume of rosewater and sterilized nerves—and immediately caught the look on Kohaku’s face.

Kohaku didn’t lift her head.

Luna set the tray down gently, like the entire room might shatter if she moved too fast. “ What happened? ”

François answered without looking up. “ She tripped. Nearly boiled herself. ”

“It was almost heroic ,” Kohaku muttered into the blanket.

“ She hit the floor with enough force to wake the dead ,” François added.

“ Did it work? ” Luna asked quietly, her voice curling around the edges of a hope she didn’t want to name.

Kohaku lifted her face at last. Her eyes were puffy, but dry. Her mouth pulled into something close to a smile.

“ Almost ,” she said. “ Maybe tomorrow .”

The light crept in through the hull grates above them, painting slanted gold lines across Senku’s still body, and for the first time in days, Kohaku didn’t feel like she was drowning in silence.

She just felt... there.

Waiting.

Breathing.

And a little bit clumsy.

DAY 5 – 09:00 PM

Kohaku sat beside Senku, her fingers threading through his still-damp hair after another sponge bath. She had to clean his scalp more carefully this time—he’d grimaced faintly when she brushed too hard near the temple.

“ He made a face ,” she told François.

“ Then try not to scalp him next time ,” François said dryly.

The room was silent for a while.

“I used to think I was only good at fighting ,” Kohaku whispered. “ Turns out I’m okay at this too. ”

Senku didn’t answer. But his chest rose and fell, steady as a metronome.

And for now, that was enough.

DAY 6 – 11:00 AM

Yuzuriha sat on the low stool beside the cot, smoothing the folds in her dress. Senku’s hand lay still between them, resting on the thin sheet, knuckles pale and slack. Kohaku knelt across from her, arms folded, still and watchful as if guarding something sacred.

“ He hasn’t changed much, you know, ” Yuzuriha said quietly. “ When it comes to science, he’s still the same. Always excited. Always eager to explain something, even when no one asked .”

She smiled faintly, the memory warming her expression. “ He used to go on for hours about carbon chains or dark matter or lunar eclipses. It didn’t matter who was listening. He’d light up every time .”

Kohaku tilted her head slightly. “ Even before the world turned to stone? ”

Yuzuriha nodded. “ Especially then. But …” She trailed off for a moment, her fingers brushing against the side of the cot. “ Science wasn’t exactly admired by a lot of people back then. It wasn’t... celebrated the way it is now. People called him a nerd .”

“ A what? ” Kohaku blinked.

Yuzuriha laughed under her breath. “ It’s just a word. A bad one, mostly. It meant someone who was too smart, too obsessed with something ‘uncool.’ People used it to make fun of him .”

Kohaku didn’t laugh.

Her posture shifted, stiffened. Her expression darkened like a storm drawing close.

“ They shamed him ,” she said flatly, her tone dipping into something cold and unfamiliar. “ For being brilliant. ”

Yuzuriha hesitated, taken aback by the sudden change in Kohaku’s demeanor. “ Well… yeah. I mean, not everyone. Some people appreciated him. But back then, people were quick to mock what they didn’t understand. And science… it scared them. Or bored them .”

“ They were fools ,” Kohaku said. Her voice was a low hush, barely above a growl. “ Only a coward mocks what they could never hope to understand. ”

Yuzuriha opened her mouth, paused, then let it close again. The space between them felt heavier now—denser. The weight of old wounds not even hers pressing in from another world.

Kohaku looked back at Senku, her eyes hardening in contrast to the soft lines of his unconscious face. “ No one mocks him now .”

Yuzuriha glanced down. “ No, ” she said quietly. “ Now people follow him. Believe in him. They build a future around his ideas .”

Kohaku reached out and smoothed a strand of his hair from his brow, her fingers gentle despite the fire simmering just beneath her skin.

“ They should have seen it from the start .” Her voice cracked slightly. “ He deserved that long before the stone world .”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was full. Full of old regrets, unspoken loyalties, and the faint hum of machines keeping Senku tethered to the present.

Yuzuriha eventually broke it with a small, sad smile. “ I think… you see him better than anyone ever did before .”

Kohaku didn’t respond. But her hand stayed on Senku’s forehead a moment longer, fingers pressing lightly—as if trying to undo years of unspoken cruelties with the simple touch of care.

Yuzuriha’s gaze lingered on Kohaku.

There was a fire in the girl—no, the woman—that felt both ancient and startlingly modern. Her back was straight, shoulders squared in quiet defiance of everything that had ever tried to break her. Even seated, even exhausted, she radiated something untamable. Something raw and radiant.

Yuzuriha smiled to herself, almost wistful.

If she’d lived in our time…
She could almost see it.

Kohaku in a blue pleated skirt, hair tied up in the same wild mess of gold but with a regulation uniform. A backpack slung over one shoulder, bare legs bruised from sparring but proud of every mark.

Late afternoons spent shouting at boys twice her size, pinning them to the floor in a blur of technique and raw strength. Standing at the edge of the dojo with sweat on her brow and that same stubborn gleam in her eye.

She’d probably get detention every other week for climbing the school roof or leaping from balconies for no reason at all.

But she’d be popular. Not in the cute, bubbly way. No—Kohaku would be the kind of girl whispered about in awe. The one people watched from afar and never quite had the courage to talk to. She’d sit at lunch with chopsticks dangling between her fingers and say something deeply profound between bites of rice. And she’d never notice the people around her falling a little in love every time she spoke.

And still, somehow, Yuzuriha thought… she might’ve ended up in the science club anyway. Not because she was interested, not at first. But because Senku would’ve said something outrageous in class—something no one else could prove—and she would’ve followed him into the lab just to challenge it. Just to argue.

And never left.

She watched Kohaku now, gently re-wetting a cloth and running it along Senku’s arm. Careful. Focused. Tender in a way that made Yuzuriha’s chest ache a little.

“ She would’ve been unstoppable ,” she whispered under her breath.

Kohaku looked up. “ Did you say something? ”

Yuzuriha blinked, smile still caught in the corner of her mouth. “ Just thinking .”

Kohaku arched a brow. “ Dangerous habit. ”

Yuzuriha laughed. “ Only when you're in the room .”

Kohaku didn’t smile, but something softened in her eyes.

And for a moment, across worlds and centuries, Yuzuriha saw her again—the girl in a judo uniform, standing in the light of a summer window, legs planted firm, heart wide open, already fighting for the people she hadn’t met yet.

DAY 7 – 11:55 PM

The infirmary had exhaled.

François had gone—an hour, maybe more—vanishing down the corridor in a hush of silk and muttering, something about tea, or sleep, or the futility of either. Luna had slipped away into uneasy rest, throwing a blanket over Kohaku without words. A silent truce. A fragile kindness that meant I see you—but I can’t carry this with you .

Now there was only the two of them. And the ghosts.

Kohaku sat cross-legged at his side, bones aching beneath the quiet weight of hours. Her hair had come undone, tumbling down her shoulders like sunlight lost in ash. She hadn’t moved in what felt like days. Only her fingers stirred, brushing the frayed edge of his blanket—soft, useless circles, like she was tracing the outline of something already gone.

She didn’t look at him. Not fully. Her eyes stayed down, caught somewhere between what was and what never would be.

The lantern overhead flickered once. The shadows it cast crawled along the walls like memories clawing to be remembered.

When she spoke, her voice barely made it past her lips.

“ I keep wondering …” A pause. A catch in her throat, like the words were jagged things she had to bleed to say. “ What your life would’ve looked like… if none of this had happened. If the world hadn’t turned to stone. If I had never existed .”

Her breath shuddered in the silence.

“ I think… maybe you would’ve been happier .”

She watched his chest rise and fall—faint, maddening, cruelly steady. A rhythm too distant to reach.

“ Yuzuriha told me about your world. The one with the lights. The noise. The things that flew. ” A broken breath. “ She said you loved it. That you were always building. Always dreaming. That even as a boy, you looked past the world to what it could be. ”

Her mouth tilted into something like a smile, but it wavered, as if grief had taken the strength to finish the gesture.

“ She said the others didn’t understand you. That they mocked you. Called you something—‘nerd.’” The word came out strange in her mouth, foreign and sharp. “ I didn’t know what it meant. Still don’t. But it made me angry. Not just because they said it—but because they said it like it could lessen you .”

Her voice cracked, trembling around the edges.

“ I would’ve fought them ,” she said quietly. “ Even if I didn’t understand you. Even if your words were stars and I was stuck in the dirt. I would’ve stood in front of you and told them they didn’t deserve to speak your name .”

Her hand moved, just slightly, to rest over his. Not grasping. Just there . A quiet plea. A lifeline.

“I know I’m not from your world ,” she whispered. “ I’m made of stone and instinct. I fight. I bleed. But when you spoke, even if I didn’t understand the words… I understood you. ”

Her voice faltered.

“ If I could’ve lived in your time, I would’ve .”

She blinked once, twice. The tears didn’t fall yet—but they clung. Waiting.

“I would’ve worn your strange clothes. Watched your glowing screens. Laughed at things I didn’t understand. Just to be where you were. Just to know you, the way the stars knew you before the sky ever broke. ”

Her fingers moved—drifting up his arm, trembling.

“ I’m sorry ,” she breathed. “ For all of it. For not asking. For not seeing sooner. For letting you pull away when I should’ve held on .”

Her voice lowered, barely audible now.

“ I always thought you were the one person who wouldn’t break. And now here you are… and I don’t know how to put you back together .”

A silence stretched. Long. Absolute.

Then—her voice, almost gone:

“ I would’ve chosen you anyway. Even if you never looked back. Even if you never remembered my name. I would’ve followed you to the edge of the world .”

And the tears came. Not loud. Not wild. But the kind that broke in silence—clean and endless.

“ I hate this world ,” she whispered, teeth clenched. “ I hate how it ruins everything. How it makes love into war. How nothing is ever simple. Not for us. ”

She gripped his hand, knuckles white.

“ If I could’ve traded places with someone from your time… I would’ve. Just to live in a world where we didn’t have to fight for every breath. ”

Her voice cracked wide open.

“ Maybe then… maybe then we wouldn’t be cursed. ”

She broke then. Collapsed forward, trembling, her tears soaking the blanket above his chest. Her shoulders quaked, breath spasming. Her grief had no sound—only shape. A curled body. A bitten knuckle. A heart giving out in slow motion.

“ I would’ve loved that world ,” she whispered. “ Because it had you in it .”

And then—

Movement. Not imagined. Not some echo of hope clawing up from a dream.
But real. Measured. Human.

His hand—pale, trembling—rose like it had been submerged in still water for years.
Every inch it climbed through the air felt like a question.
And when his fingers reached her cheek, they answered everything.

A touch.
Weightless. Careful. Reverent.

Like she was made of something too fragile to bear the full truth of it.  And yet—his fingertips, coarse from the past and delicate in the present,
brushed away her tears with the gentleness of dusk kissing the sea.

Kohaku stilled.

The whole world dropped away in that moment.
The ship. The wind. The heaviness in her ribs.
Gone.

What remained was his hand on her skin. His breath, unsteady but there.
And the eyes—the eyes she hadn’t seen in endless days—slowly opening. Not all the way.
They were lidded with exhaustion, rimmed red, like the light behind them hadn’t quite remembered how to shine.
But they were his .

Deep. Fathomless.
Like the first sky she ever saw after waking from birth.

She didn’t breathe.Couldn’t.

Because when his gaze found hers, it didn’t search.
It recognized .

“… Kohaku .”

Her name, caught in his throat like a secret meant only for her. A murmur worn thin by pain.
But somehow—richer than anything she'd ever heard.

The sound cracked something open inside her.
Not the loud kind of breaking.
Not the kind that begged to be witnessed.

No—this was soft.
Private.
A collapse of walls she'd built too high, too long.

She leaned in before she could stop herself, a shuddered breath hitching in her chest, her hands rising as if pulled by tides
to his face—
to his warmth—
to the impossible, undeniable him .

And still, he reached first.
His hand, shaking but certain, lifted to her face.
Not to ask for help.
Not to seek comfort.
But to give it.

As though she was the one broken.
As though she was the one who hadn’t slept, hadn’t fought the ocean inside herself every night since he fell.

His palm came to rest at her jaw, a touch that felt like a promise.
That she had been seen.
That she had never been a stranger to him.

“ Don’t cry ,” he whispered.
The words brushed the air like the rustle of silk—
barely there.
But somehow, they echoed in her.

And still—still the tears came.

Not from grief now.
But from the unbearable ache of relief.

He traced one slowly down her cheek with his thumb, following it as if it were a map to something sacred. To something lost and just now found.

“ You look …”
A breath. Sharp. Labored. But he kept going.

“ …like the stars ,” he said, his voice unraveling into something soft.
“ When the sky’s finally clear. ”

Her lips parted. Not to speak. To breathe.

Because it felt like the sky really had cleared.
Like dawn had crept into the room unnoticed,
not through the windows, but through him .

Through the way he looked at her, like she was light.

And for a heartbeat—no, longer—she saw it in him too.

Not the scientist. Not the strategist. Not the untouchable mind.
But the boy who stared at stars like they might answer him.
The boy who dreamed of the impossible.
And still, still somehow chose to stay.

Her hand found arm. Just to hold. Just to feel.
The way you hold the railing of a ship in storm.
The way you hold hope when it feels too bright to be real.

She didn’t say a word. She just smiled.

A fragile, threadbare smile, stitched together from sleepless nights and too many things she never said aloud.

And his hand —
his hand stayed at her cheek, like it belonged there.
Like the sight of her had calmed the war inside his chest.

For a moment, there was no sickness.
No war.
No future.

Just two people—
lost and found,
wounded and whole, held together in the golden hush that lives between heartbeats.

And then, a flicker.
Not of pain. Not of memory.
Just something inside him, stubborn and insistent.
The thread that kept him tethered to this world, the one that wouldn’t let him rest, tightened and pulled him forward.

He shifted.

It wasn’t sudden, but Kohaku felt it immediately—the faint drag of muscle beneath fragile skin, the tremble in his arm, like gravity had grown heavier just for him.

“ Senku… ” Her voice was a breath, raw and soft.

He was trying to sit up.

It wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t frantic.
But it was unmistakable—the same fire, the same refusal to lie still, even when his body was barely holding together.

His jaw clenched.
A tremor rippled through his shoulders.
But still, he pressed his palm to the mattress, his elbows locking as though the act of rising was a vow, one he had no intention of breaking.

“ You shouldn’t —” Kohaku’s voice cracked, the words choking her.

He didn’t answer her with words.
He didn’t need to.
His eyes met hers, and something in them flickered. Not pain. Not pride. But something older. Warmer. Fiercer. A need to see the world again, a need to remember it from higher than a deathbed.

Kohaku moved fast, her hands at his back, steadying the tremble, and her other hand catching his wrist as it faltered.

He exhaled, a strained breath slipping from his lips. His brow furrowed, but it wasn’t a groan or a cry. It was the sound of someone fighting to rise, fighting to return to something, to someone .

“ You’re not ready ,” she whispered, forehead nearly brushing his.

But still, he pressed forward.
His body shook with the effort, gasping as he moved closer, until his temple brushed against her shoulder. For a brief moment, he stilled, half-upright, half-collapsed, breathing like just that simple act of moving was an act of defiance against everything that had happened. Against the world that had tried to break him.

Kohaku held him tighter, not to push him back, but to carry the weight he couldn’t bear alone.

The room fell quiet again, save for the soft sound of their breathing, the sound of fragile bodies fighting to stay together, to keep living .

And then, barely a whisper against her skin, Senku spoke,

“I wanted to show you something .”

Kohaku's heart skipped a beat. His voice was so faint, yet it carried the weight of everything that had been left unsaid. For a moment, she hesitated, unsure of what he meant. But she knew, instinctively, that this wasn’t just about seeing something—it was about him proving to himself that he could still stand, still move, still be.

He shifted, his body straining with effort, like he was trying to push against invisible forces. His breath hitched, and she caught a glimpse of the tension in his face—pain, frustration, and that fire she recognized so well, the one that refused stillness, even when his veins had turned to ice.

He wasn’t ready. She could feel it in the trembling of his hand, the way he grimaced as he tried to sit up. But he didn’t stop.

His arm draped across her shoulders, and before she could react, his weight shifted toward her, but she wasn’t worried. She knew her own strength. She knew that she could hold him up. They wouldn’t fall. Not now.

“ I can... I can walk, ” he grunted, his voice low but determined. His chest heaved, each breath like a struggle to keep going, but his eyes—his eyes were fixed ahead, like he refused to let his body fail him.

He shifted again, his legs strong enough now to support part of his weight, though still faltering. He took one shaky step, then another. He wasn’t fully stable, but his body moved, each movement slow, deliberate, a test of his strength. Kohaku could feel the strain, the way his legs shook as they tried to hold him up.

But he kept going, one step, two steps, his body leaning on hers, the weight on her shoulders steady but still too much to bear alone. He didn’t fall—no. Not yet.

“ I can do this ,” Senku murmured through gritted teeth. His voice was filled with a mix of defiance and exhaustion.

Kohaku’s heart clenched as she felt his arm grow heavier around her neck. She adjusted, her own feet moving to match his uneven pace. She kept him steady, her hands firmly placed at his back and side, but his weight was still too much to bear completely. He stumbled. His legs buckled, and he dragged himself forward, his breath coming in quick gasps.

" Senku ," she whispered, the worry creeping back into her voice, " You're not ready. "

But he shook his head, pressing forward despite the trembling of his limbs. “ I need to show you... something .”

She could feel his strength slipping, but his eyes—his eyes still burned with that unwavering determination. He wasn’t asking for help in the way she would have wanted him to. He was asking for something else: proof that he could still move, still stand, still fight.

She held him tighter, feeling the muscles in his body giving way to weakness, but he was still there, still pushing.

Another shaky step. And then another. His legs wobbled beneath him, but this time, he managed to straighten his back. His chest, still heaving, felt like it might collapse at any moment, but there was that fire in his eyes, steadying him as much as Kohaku was.

And then, just as it seemed he might actually make it, his knee buckled again, a slight stumble that almost tipped them both over. His arm tightened around her, pulling her with him, but she quickly adjusted, keeping him on his feet.

….

….

….

….

Senku’s breath came in shallow gasps, but he didn’t slow his pace. Every step felt like a battle, and yet he refused to stop. Kohaku moved with him, steady and unwavering, a silent support at his side. The weight of his body was still largely on her, but there was something in the way he moved now—his steps were more purposeful, more deliberate, though still heavy with exhaustion.

She could feel the tension in his muscles, the way they trembled with the effort, but his eyes were fixed forward, not on the infirmary behind them but on the path ahead. It was as if, with every step, he was trying to push the world around them into focus, to move through the haze of pain and fatigue that still gripped him.

They passed through the dimly lit corridors of the ship, the quiet hum of the engines the only sound surrounding them. The ship felt like a world of its own, a place suspended between the past and the future, and Senku, still half-dragging himself with Kohaku's help, was reaching for something beyond it all.

They reached the stairs leading to the deck, and Senku’s grip tightened around her neck, trying to steady himself. His legs were untrustworthy, and he swayed slightly, but Kohaku didn’t hesitate. She adjusted, moving in sync with him, guiding him up the steps. She could feel the weight of his arm around her shoulders, the way he tried to use her strength to carry him, and she didn’t mind.

The cold air from the outside began to seep through the ship’s walls as they reached the door, and Senku paused for a moment, catching his breath, the last steps weighing heavily on him. He didn’t look at her; his gaze was locked on the door ahead. She could see the determination still burning in his eyes, and it made her chest tighten with something unspoken.

Kohaku pushed open the door, and the night air rushed in, cool and sharp. The deck stretched out before them, the vast, open sky above them, with stars scattered across the black expanse like fragments of broken glass. The ship groaned softly beneath their feet, but the world felt still for a moment, the sound of the waves below barely audible against the hush that surrounded them.

They walked out onto the highest point of the ship. The wind tousled Kohaku's hair, and she could feel Senku lean slightly into her, his weight still too much for him to fully carry. But he wouldn’t give up. His steps were slower now, but there was purpose in every movement.

When they reached the railing, Senku paused. His breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling as he fought to stay upright, but Kohaku could see it—the sense of calm washing over him. His eyes, though still filled with exhaustion, were wide, taking in the stars above them, the endless horizon stretching out before them.

His arm trembled slightly as he shifted his weight, pulling away from Kohaku’s steady support. With a quiet grunt, he moved toward a wooden pillar nearby, its surface rough beneath his fingers as he leaned against it, steadying himself. He didn’t want to rely on her strength anymore, though the ache in his body made it difficult to stand tall on his own. But the pillar felt solid, grounding him as he faced the vast expanse of the sky.

The stars above them sparkled like distant diamonds, scattered across the velvet-black sky. A familiar ache gnawed at Senku’s chest as his eyes tracked the constellations, a map he knew like the back of his hand. The memory of them had been his constant companion in the quiet, restless nights of his recent coma. Now, standing here, they felt different—closer, somehow, as if the void between him and the stars had shrunk in the quiet, fragile moment they shared.

Kohaku stood nearby, her presence a silent anchor. She didn’t speak, allowing him the space to collect his thoughts, to drift into the depths of the silence.

For a long moment, Senku stood there, silent, the wind tugging at his hair as he stared at the heavens above. His breath, still ragged, began to steady as he focused on the constellations—the same stars he’d always dreamed of.

Senku’s hand rested lightly against the wooden pillar, the coolness of the surface grounding him as he gazed up at the sky. He didn’t need to say much, but the stars had always been his language. The same stars he'd watched for years, his constant companions during sleepless nights.

For a long moment, he just stood there, breathing in the night air, as if he could absorb the stillness of the sky. The stars above seemed to shimmer with a kind of energy, bright against the vast blackness, filling the air with a quiet intensity that reached into him, deeper than words could go.

“ I used to dream about this ,” he said finally, his voice soft, almost distant. “ The stars... they were always there, always waiting, always the same. I used to lie awake, staring at them for hours, thinking about how... how far they were, and how one day, maybe—just maybe—I could be up there too. ”

He paused, swallowing as his gaze lingered on the brilliant stretch of the Milky Way above them, the stars scattered across the sky like little pinpricks of light.

“ I always thought... if I could just get close enough, if I could just... touch them, then maybe everything would make sense .” He let out a shaky breath, one that trembled slightly from more than just physical weakness. “I guess... I guess that was my escape. The stars. And in a way, I think I still do. ”

His lips pulled into a faint, almost wistful smile, as if the very act of looking at them had brought him a small measure of peace. But then his expression faltered, and a deep ache tugged at his chest.

Senku’s eyes were fixed on the endless expanse of stars above him, the moonlight casting a pale glow across his face, making his features look soft, almost vulnerable. He took in a deep breath, the cool night air sharp in his lungs.

“I dreamt about them ,” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper against the silence. “ The stars. Every night. It was the only thing I saw, the only thing that didn’t change .”

His gaze stayed locked on the sky, as if seeking something in the distance, far beyond the reach of his words.

“ It felt like I was floating in space… weightless, untethered. Just drifting through the endless void. Everything else—everything down there, everything I left behind—it didn’t matter.” He swallowed hard, his throat tight. “It was just me, the stars... and the dark. It was all I knew. All I could feel .”

He leaned against the pillar, his hand gripping it lightly, as if the wood was the only thing holding him to the earth. His voice was soft, distant, as though remembering a dream he wasn’t sure he wanted to wake from.

“ Even in the worst of it, in the deepest part of the coma, I could see them. The stars. So bright, so endless. It was like they were pulling me, calling me to something I couldn’t reach. Something... bigger. My dad used to talk about space like that—like it was a place where everything made sense. I think... I think that’s why I kept dreaming about it. ”

His eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment, the weight of his words pressing down on him. When he opened them again, the sky seemed to be just as vast as it was when he first arrived here, but it no longer seemed so unreachable.

“ The stars were all I had. They were the only thing that felt... real, in a place where everything else was so empty .”

“ I dreamt of my dad, too ,” he murmured. “ Byakuya… He always said the stars were more than just lights in the sky. They were everything. They were the way forward. He’d always talk about space like it was a place where everything was possible. And... I guess I believed him. I wanted to believe him .”

His hand curled tighter around the pillar, the tremble in his fingers betraying the intensity of the longing that was coiled inside him.

“ I miss him ,” Senku said, his voice suddenly raw. “ I miss him more than I care to admit. I know he’s gone, but... when I look up at the stars, it’s like he’s still up there somewhere. Watching. Waiting. And I don’t know if that’s foolish or if that’s just what we do when we miss someone. We hold onto whatever we can. ”

He stood there in silence for a moment, just staring at the sky, as if the words were only now catching up to him. “ But no matter how much time passes, no matter what happens, I won’t ever stop missing him .”

Kohaku watched him quietly, giving him the space to say whatever he needed to say, her heart quietly breaking for him. It wasn’t often she saw this side of him—the side that still had so much left to lose, even in the face of all he'd fought through.

His voice dropped to a whisper, as if speaking the words to the stars themselves. “ I still want to reach them. The stars. I still want to make all those dreams I had as a kid real. For him. For me. ” He turned his head slightly to glance at her, eyes soft. “ Maybe that’s all I’ve ever really wanted .”

Senku didn’t say anything more after that, just stood there, leaning against the pillar, taking in the quiet of the night. The stars twinkled above, far and distant, but in that moment, they felt just a little closer.

Senku stared up at the stars like they were an old language he had once been fluent in, now barely remembering how to speak.

“I used to build rockets for fun ,” he murmured, almost smiling. “ Cardboard tubes. Pressurized canisters. Junk parts. When other kids were wasting time, I was calculating launch vectors with a ruler and some duct tape. ”

The laugh that slipped from his mouth was dry, breathless—fond and faraway.

“ They always exploded. Or veered off course. But it didn’t matter. Because for a few seconds, they flew. And for a kid who couldn’t stop looking up, that was everything .”

His hand gripped the edge of the railing as he took in the endless stretch of night sky, stars laid bare like truths he’d never quite said aloud.

“ I thought that if I could just reach them—the stars, the sky, the void—it would be enough. I wouldn’t need anything else. Just silence, and the hum of orbit, and the echo of my father’s voice telling me he believed I could make it. ”

A pause. He inhaled sharply through his nose.

“ And I almost did. I almost made it. I got so close .”

His eyes shimmered—bright, not with ambition now, but with something deeper. Fragile.

“ Then the world turned to stone.”

He exhaled, like the words had been waiting for years to leave his chest.

“ And suddenly, it wasn’t about rockets anymore. It was about fire, and medicine, and rebuilding a planet with my bare hands. Space stopped being a dream. It became… a ghost. Something I mourned.”

He looked down for a moment—shoulders hunched, knuckles white.

“But no matter how far it drifted, I kept chasing it. I had to. Because it was all I knew .”

He turned to her.

And his voice softened.

“Until you .”

Kohaku said nothing—her breath caught halfway in her throat.

“ You were supposed to be just another variable. A warrior. An ally. But you… you broke the rules. You crashed straight through every calculation I ever made .”

He stepped toward her—slow, careful. A tremor in his knees, but his eyes never left hers.

“ You were the one thing I couldn’t predict. The one constant I couldn’t factor in. I told myself I couldn’t afford it—couldn’t want it. Not when the world was crumbling. Not when I had a mission.”

He cupped her face then, both hands trembling slightly as his thumbs wiped at the old trails of dried salt on her cheeks.

“ But every time I looked at you, I felt that old ache again. That same ache I had when I looked at the stars .”

His forehead met hers.

“ And I realized… it’s the same dream. You’re the same dream .”

She didn’t move.

Neither did he.

“ I wanted to reach the impossible. And you—you were impossible. But now… ”

He took her hand and pressed it against his chest—against the weak, beating proof that he was still here.

“ I want to try. With you. Not as a scientist chasing a dream, but as a man—willing to fall into orbit around something he can't explain .”

The stars above remained the same.

But for Senku, something shifted.
His entire world—once measured by trajectories and physics—narrowed to the girl in front of him.
And for the first time in his life, for just a millisecond, he let go of the sky…

…so he could finally reach what had always felt just as distant.

Chapter Text

It started again with the stars.
But they weren’t right.

They didn’t twinkle. They trembled , as if trying to hold in screams. The constellations were wrong, twisted, misplaced—Orion’s belt unraveling into spirals, the North Star pulsing like a dying signal light. The whole sky jittered like a dying monitor. Fracturing.

Senku stood alone in darkness that had the texture of ink. The ground— if there was ground —shifted beneath him like paper burned at the edges. Time bled at the corners of his vision.

He blinked.

And suddenly the sky opened above him—blinding, sterile white. He was back on the Perseus . But it was empty .

Dead silence.

The scent of iron and ash.

His lab had been ransacked—tools scattered, blueprints torn and soggy from seawater. The corridors stretched longer than they should, warped with impossible angles, floorboards bleeding ink.

He limped toward the helm.

And that’s when he saw her.

Kohaku.

Standing beneath the mast, arms crossed, golden hair soaked and clinging to her jaw. But her eyes—gods, her eyes —they were knives. Blades of contempt.

“ You confessed ,” she said flatly. No warmth. No tremble. “ And you thought that would fix everything? ”

He tried to speak. His voice cracked like old wires. “ Kohaku, I —”

She raised a hand. “ You dream with your head. You calculate what people are worth. You only said those things because you needed me to stay .”

He flinched. “ That’s not —”

“ Did you think I wouldn’t notice? ” Her steps were deliberate. Each one echoed like footsteps in a tomb. “ You want me, but only in orbit. Like a moon. Something to circle you, never land. ”

His knees gave. The shrapnel in his dream-flesh twisted. He hit the deck.

“ No. I —” He tried to reach her ankle. His fingers passed through her like smoke. “ I didn’t mean — don’t say it like that .”

She leaned down.

Her voice was a whisper of broken glass.

“ You didn’t choose me. You chose certainty. And now you're dreaming of me because it's safer than waking up to the fact that I might not be waiting anymore .”

She turned her back.

Walked away into the storm.

And then the ship started to sink .

The boards shrieked, twisted, and cracked apart like ribs breaking open. Water gushed in from all sides—dark, cold, furious. His father's voice echoed somewhere above the mast, reciting constellations as they drowned.

“Andromeda, 00h 42m 44s…”

“You built your future like a rocket, Senku…”

“…but you forgot your landing gear.”

The world tilted.

He screamed her name.

Kohaku.

The water was up to his throat.

Kohaku.

He couldn’t see the stars anymore.

Kohaku.

And then—

A face.
Her face.

But not from the helm.

From the water.

She was below him—eyes open, mouth parted, unmoving, hair floating like seaweed.

Dead.
Because of him.

He tried to dive down.

But the ocean turned to glass.

And beneath it, frozen mid-scream— every soul he'd sworn to protect. Chrome. Gen. Yuzuriha. Taiju. All of them.

And her.

All watching. All waiting.

The sky cracked.

White-hot light poured through like an operating room floodlamp.

His own reflection appeared above him—blank-faced, empty-eyed, hand extended like a surgeon prepping the next cut.

" You should've stayed asleep ."

The world was spinning—slowly at first, like a merry-go-round, then faster, faster, and he couldn't hold on anymore.

He forced his body upright with the strength of a dying man clinging to his last breath. His hands pushed against the cold, smooth wood beneath him. Everything in his body screamed in protest, a grunt escaped him.

 " I can’t stay here. "

 The words came out rasping, broken. He was barely able to push his body into motion, barely able to force his eyelids open.

His breath was uneven.

The ceiling above him blurred into soft shapes—dim lamplight, worn wood, the faint scent of something familiar: lavender and smoke. Not the infirmary. Not the deck. He turned his head with effort, teeth gritted as pain lanced through his ribs.

A folded garment on a chair. A sword rested in the corner.

He knew this room.

Kohaku’s.

His brows knit as the weight of sleep peeled off him. His body felt underwater, his senses a beat too slow, like his mind had been rebooted mid-storm.

He shoved the blanket off. Cold air kissed his sweat-soaked skin. He was bare-chested, heavily bandaged, one leg trembling as he swung it off the bed.

He shouldn’t be standing. Every nerve screamed against it.

But—

He needed to move. Needed proof he was alive. That she was alive.

Senku staggered to the door, dragging his hand along the wall for balance. His vision wavered. The floor buckled beneath him like a ship caught in a swell.

His fingers reached for the handle just as the door opened from the other side.

And there she was.

Kohaku stepped in, carrying two glasses of water.

Her eyes widened the moment she saw him, half-sagging against the doorframe, a halo of sweat clinging to his hair, jaw set hard with effort.

“ Senku?! ”

Her voice cracked with disbelief. “ What are you — ? You shouldn’t be —!”

He didn’t say a word.

He was staring at her like she wasn’t real.

His red eyes flicked to the two glasses. Then to her face.

She had sat them down on the nearby nightstand with a clink!

Then slowly, painfully, his arm lifted— not to trap , not to threaten—but to press against the doorframe above her, giving him something— anything —to hold onto as the world spun beneath him.

Kohaku’s breath caught in her throat. They were close now. Closer than they’d been earlier on the deck.

“ I didn’t think I’d wake up ,” he said hoarsely.

His voice was raw. Shaken. Honest.

“ I thought ...” He swallowed. “ I thought I’d only get that one second. With you. Before everything went black .”

She said nothing, too stunned to move.

Senku looked down at her, gaze darkened by exhaustion, his brow slightly furrowed as he studied her face, like he was trying to confirm she was real, that this wasn’t some fever dream dragging him back under.

“ You carried me here? ” he asked, quieter now.

She gave a small, fragile nod. A long pause. His arm trembled against the wood.

" You didn’t leave? ”

“ I couldn't .”

Something in his eyes broke open at that—something quiet, and tired, and full. 

He shifted—barely at first. A slow, unsteady movement as he transferred his weight from his right arm to his left, the crook of his elbow pressing harder into the doorframe in front of him. Kohaku felt it before she saw it, a shift against her that made her still completely.

Then, his right hand—trembling with the effort—rose and brushed gently against her cheek. His palm was rough from years of work, but the touch was careful. Reverent. His thumb lifted beneath her chin, urging her to look at him.

She didn’t resist.

The dim lantern in her quarters cast long, golden shadows across the walls, flickering over the curves of her face as he tilted her head up. The quiet between them deepened. The rest of the ship felt impossibly far away.

And then she saw his eyes.

Red. Not cold, not calculating—tonight, they were something else. Raw. Luminous. The fire of them softened by exhaustion, but still burning with clarity. The color held her in place, as if the entire world had narrowed to that molten gaze. She couldn’t look away.

Her own eyes, ocean-blue and dulled by nights without sleep, reflected the light back at him. There was no armor left between them—no duty, no mission, no battlefield. Just that fragile line connecting their eyes in the hush of her room.

Outside, the wind groaned against the hull. The lantern flame trembled.

But his hand remained, cradling her face like she was a variable he couldn’t calculate and didn’t dare drop. He studied her in silence, eyes tracing hers like they held an answer he’d missed until now.

And she let him.

Her eyes searched his, quiet and searching, tracing the fragile thread that tethered them beyond words.

“I keep hearing your words from under the stars,” she murmured, voice barely more than a breath, “We’re bound now. You said it first.”

Slowly, as if pulled by a gentle current, her fingers reached out—trembling, hesitant—until they curled around his hand like a knight grasping the hilt of her sword.

The warmth of his skin sent a ripple through her, steadying the storm beneath her ribs.

Since the village… since that day, the feeling had kindled deep inside her—an ember glowing softly beneath the surface, growing brighter with every stolen glance, every unspoken promise.

She lifted her gaze, locking eyes with his—red flames tempered by quiet reverence—and saw reflected there a world she’d never dared to name.

“ You called me your favorite knight once ,” she breathed, voice trembling with something more than memory, “ a shield in the darkness .”

That title, heavy with meaning, settled over her like armor made of trust and silent vows.

“ It was never just protection ,” she whispered, voice folding into the stillness. “It was a bond, forged in shadows and light .”

Her fingers tightened around his hand, the touch both fragile and fierce.

“ There’s no turning back now. No shadows left to hide in. ”

“ If you meant what you said… then I’m here .”

A breath escaped her lips, soft and steady, carrying all the walls she’d built and now dared to tear down.

“ No more walls .”

No more silence.

No more pretending.

Before her words could fully settle, Senku’s voice broke the silence—soft, but firm, like a steady hand in the dark.

His eyes held hers, red flames steady and warm.

His fingers slid up, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, the touch light but deliberate, the hair on her neck rising to the feeling. 

“ We’re bound, yes—but not because it’s a chain to bear. ”

His palm came back to cradle her face, steady and sure.

“ It’s because I want to hold on .”

“ Not just for now. ”

“ But forever .”

Senku eased back from her, his hand falling away reluctantly as a faint grimace crossed his face. He pressed his palm gently to his ribs, the ache there sharp enough to remind him of his fragile state.

“ I’m sorry… for breaking the moment ,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges, like gravel under silk. The quiet ache in his torso wasn’t just pain—it was a reminder of how close he’d come to slipping away.

He shuffled over to the desk and leaned his weight onto it, steadying himself with slow, measured breaths. His eyes dropped for a moment, darkening as the weight of memory settled in.

“ I just woke from a nightmare ,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “ It felt like I was trapped again—lost in the dark, all alone, time slipping away like grains of sand. ”

He paused, fingers tapping lightly on the wood. The sound was a small, steady beat—like the ticking of a clock he couldn’t stop.

“ That dream… it made me realize something. The clock is still running .”

He looked back at her, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion.

“ How long was I out? ” His voice held no accusation, only quiet curiosity—and something like hope, that she’d been there, waiting.

Kohaku’s gaze softened, steady and sure as she met his eyes.

“ Fourteen days ,” she said gently, voice calm like a steady drum in the night.

Senku’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he muttered under his breath, the words sharp but quiet.

“ Two weeks …” He shook his head slightly, frustration and disbelief flickering across his features. “ Damn it .”

His fingers clenched briefly on the edge of the desk, the weight of lost time settling over him.

Senku’s frustration shifted, folding into a singular focus as his eyes drifted downward, fixating on the desk before him. His breath slowed, expression tightening as the fog of pain faded and his mind ignited with a storm of calculations, equations, and scenarios running at impossible speeds.

He barely registered the world around him, fingers tapping rhythmically as if counting out steps to a complex formula only he could see.

Then, something caught his attention—a small scrap tucked in the corner of the desk. His fingers brushed it away gently, revealing a childlike drawing: crude shapes, bright colors, a crude sketch of a smiling figure.

Kohaku’s cheeks flushed instantly, her eyes darting nervously between Senku and the drawing. “ That’s… uh, just something I made ,” she mumbled, voice uneven, like a secret caught in the light.

Senku glanced at the drawing briefly but didn’t linger. Without a word, he flipped it over to the less scribbled-on side, the paper crackling softly under his touch.

With a crayon he’d found nearby, he began to scribble quickly—lines, diagrams, notes—his mind already folding the drawing into a new kind of blueprint, one far from childish doodles.

Kohaku watched him in silence, a mix of embarrassment and something softer stirring deep inside her chest.

She stepped closer, her steps soft against the floorboards, until she stood just behind him. Her breath caught as she peeked over his shoulder, eyes scanning the jagged lines and sharp annotations that had replaced her drawing.

Circles overlapped with structural diagrams. Arrows carved across margins. Her childish sketch had become the foundation for something far more intricate—tactical, deliberate, alive.

“ What is it? ” she asked, voice low, barely brushing the air between them.

Senku didn’t look up. His hand moved steadily, the scratch of graphite against paper a rhythm as familiar as breath.

“It could still work, ” he murmured. “ They haven’t breached the ship. ”

He paused, circling a cluster of lines, his brow furrowing. “ If there’d been any real infiltration, we’d have seen signs by now. Panic. Controlled chaos .”

Another breath. A quick line bisecting a structural point.

“ They still think I’m dead .”

Finally, he glanced up, red eyes catching hers. There was a sharp gleam behind them—relief layered beneath the calculation. “ That’s why they’re waiting. Taking their time. Which means... we still have it .”

He tapped the page once, firm and final.

“ This window. And we’re going to use it. ”

A flicker crossed her expression. The memory hit suddenly: Taiju, slipping away into the dark hours of that same night Senku fell. No goodbyes. No trail. Just gone. At the time, it hadn’t made sense—now it did.

Her breath caught, a light igniting in her chest as her gaze snapped to Senku.

“ You …” Her voice was hushed, almost awed. “ We’re not waiting for an attack. ”

His lips tilted upwards, smirking. Just slightly. A spark of pride in his eyes—sharp, quiet, dangerous.

Kohaku’s mouth parted, realization dawning in her expression like sunrise through stormclouds.

“ We’re the bait .”

Senku gave the faintest nod, his tone smooth, approving. “ Took you long enough, lioness. ”

Kohaku exhaled, her voice a whisper of steel as the final piece fell into place.

“ We’re going to infiltrate Xeno’s base .”

Kohaku blinked, her breath hitching—not from fear, but from something far more complicated. She could feel it blooming in her chest: the full weight of the revelation, the risk threaded through every decision Senku had made while unconscious, or bleeding out, or half-breathing through a nightmare.

He hadn't just woken from the dead.

He'd woken with a plan.

Senku leaned back slightly, grimacing from the pull in his ribs, but his voice remained steady, focused. “If Ryusui and Kaseki stuck to the timeline… the aircraft should be flight-ready by now. Barebones, but functional. ”

He tapped another sketch on the paper, a rough silhouette of the craft mid-ascent.

“ I’m betting on them ,” he said. “ I always have. Kaseki’s hands. Ryusui’s piloting. There’s no better pair to build and fly a machine like this .”

His eyes darkened, the red in them gleaming like the edge of tempered steel under moonlight.

“ Xeno’s got one real knight left ,” he continued. “ And if he’s still with him… then we’re going to need the sky .”

He exhaled slowly, barely a whisper.

“ A dogfight. Between his last card and mine .”

Kohaku didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers curled around the edge of the desk, jaw tightening. She stared at him—not just at his words, but the shape of him. The torn strength, the exhaustion behind his sharpness, the gravity behind his certainty.

“ You planned all this …” she said slowly, barely above a whisper. “Even while dying. ”

He gave a half-smile, wry and crooked. “ What else was I supposed to do? Quit?”

But Kohaku didn’t smile. Not yet.

Her voice cracked slightly. “ You trusted us to hold out. You trusted Ryusui to build. You trusted me to stand watch. ”

A pause.

“ And now you’re telling me… You want me to go into the sky and fight your final war ?”

Senku’s smirk faded, something softer crossing his features. He tilted his head toward her, eyes never leaving hers.

“ No ,” he said quietly.

“I want my best knight at my side when I take the throne back .”

Kohaku stilled.

The breath in her lungs tightened, caught between disbelief and something warmer—older—like a chord pulled taut since the day she first crossed paths with him. And now, like the strike of flint, it sparked.

Not a command.
Not an order.
A calling.

Her post.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was the quiet rustling of the paper beneath his fingertips and the hum of her heartbeat rising behind her ears.

“ If this is my post …” she said, her voice low, reverent, “ then I won’t leave it. Not until it’s done. Not until you tell me to stand down .”

Her other hand lifted, and she placed it over his chest—lightly, just over the steady thump of his heart through the loosened gauze, “ You made your move under the stars. I heard it. I felt it long before you said it .”

Her voice faltered, barely.

“I am yours.”

Senku didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

There was a shift in the air between them—thick with understanding, charged with loyalty and something far more dangerous in its quiet tenderness.

And when she stepped back, it wasn’t as a warrior awaiting her mission.

It was as his knight.

Standing ready for war.

Senku stared at her for a long moment.

Something behind his gaze shifted—not calculation this time, nor that dangerous gleam of strategy when a plan clicks into place. No. What flickered in his expression now was something else entirely.

Soft. Human. Ache laced with admiration.

He stood slowly, straightening despite the pain in his torso, his full height rising like the tide before her—measured, steady. The lines of fatigue didn’t vanish from his face, but his voice came low and clear, stripped of its usual armor.

“There’s one part of the plan I haven’t accounted for, ” he said.

His eyes lingered on hers.

“ You .”

Kohaku’s brows drew in, faint confusion stirring—but she didn’t speak. She waited, sensing something heavy was about to drop. And it did.

“ I’m leaving, ” Senku said simply. “ With the power team. With Xeno. With whatever hell that follows .”

He turned slightly, glancing to the side as if visualizing the path already carved through stars and sky and chaos.

“ They’ll see him as a hostage. That’s our advantage. They’ll chase us, not the crew. The further we run, the safer this ship becomes. The others can stay behind—rebuild, fortify. Mend what’s been broken. ”

His fingers curled at his sides. Not quite trembling. But not still.

“ I’m not dragging anyone else into that. Especially not you. ”

The last words came quieter than the rest, but not weaker. He looked at her again. Eyes like red glass warmed by firelight, catching every flinch in her expression.

“ I already crossed the line once. Back there. With what I said under the stars. So now. ..”

He paused, breathing once—deeply, shakily.

“ This part? This is yours. I won’t ask you to follow. ”

The silence that followed was immense. As if even the night held its breath.

“ I’m giving you the out ,” he finished, voice near a whisper. 

He didn’t move, didn’t plead, didn’t retreat. He simply waited.

For her choice.

She reached for his hand—still trembling from earlier—closing her fingers gently over his, guiding it back to her cheek. Holding it there.

“ If you go, I go .”

Her eyes never wavered.

“ We are destined to see the stars together, remember? ”

Then, softer—like a vow carried through time: “ A loyal knight never leaves her king’s side .”

And just like that, her meaning was clear. Not a plea. Not rebellion.

Devotion.

Earned. Chosen. Absolute.

Her words lingered in the space between them like something sacred, something too powerful to break. His hand remained cradled against her cheek, held there not by force, but by her will. And for once, the scientist—always calculating, always a thousand steps ahead—found himself still.

Not because he didn’t know what to say.
But because his throat had tightened, and his chest ached in a way no equation could unravel.

A loyal knight never leaves her king’s side.

It echoed in his skull, louder than any explosion he’d ever rigged, more certain than gravity.

There had been a thousand moments where he thought he’d seen all there was to know of her: warrior, protector, survivor. But this—this vow—this quiet, blazing defiance, struck something deeper.

Something ancient. Something human. He felt it swell inside him, hot and sharp, like the tail end of a solar flare flaring just behind his ribcage. 

“ You really are …” he began, voice low, raw at the edges. He tried to smirk, but it faltered halfway through. His thumb brushed her cheek as if trying to memorize the curve of her conviction.

“… the greatest variable in my universe .”

He let out a breath, slow and shaken, and stepped toward her once more. Standing at his full height now, but looking at her like a man who knew where the true weight of his crown lay.

“ I thought I was protecting you by pushing you away ,” he admitted, voice like scorched silk, “ but I forgot one thing .”

He leaned in, forehead nearly touching hers.

“You’re the anchor I never realized I needed .”

His eyes burned with a fierce promise, and for a moment, time seemed to still.

But the night held its secrets close—no words followed, no further steps taken.

They lingered in the quiet, two souls tethered by unspoken truths, both knowing this was only the beginning.

Senku sat upright on the infirmary cot, bare-chested, gauze wrapped neatly around his ribs. Faint red seeped through near the sutures, evidence of where shrapnel had torn in. His ribs weren’t shattered, but each breath still reminded him of how close he’d been.

François worked silently for a moment, adjusting the wrapping just below his collarbone. Their fingers were steady, but the edge in their voice was unmistakable.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised ,” they said, “ but I am disappointed.”

Senku raised an eyebrow. “ That’s unusually emotional of you .”

François didn’t take the bait. “ Dragging a post-comatose patient down the corridor at night, with blood still drying under his bandages? You may have woken up, but that doesn’t mean you were fit to move. ”

“ He insisted ,” Kohaku cut in from where she leaned against the medicine cabinet, arms crossed. Her tone was even, but her posture was guarded—ready to argue if needed. “I wasn’t about to wrestle him back into bed. ”

“ Though it might’ve saved us all some trouble, ” François murmured, peeling away a strip of gauze with the care of unwrapping parchment. “ Your lung is still healing. You shouldn’t be upright this long .”

Senku shifted slightly. “ I’m not planning on running laps.”

“You walked a full wing of the ship, ” François said sharply.

He didn’t deny it.

There was a quiet beat before Kohaku added, “ He wouldn’t wait till morning .”

Senku’s gaze flicked to her, then away. “ We didn’t have the luxury. There were assumptions we needed to confirm. ”

“ And what exactly would have changed between midnight and sunrise? ” François asked, reaching for fresh bandages.

“ Enough, ” Senku said. His voice had quieted—not defensive, but absolute.

Kohaku looked toward the far wall. “ He’s already back to thinking five steps ahead.”

François dabbed a cooling salve onto the side of his ribs, movements efficient. “ He never stopped. That’s part of the problem. ”

Senku let the sting settle before answering. “ I’ve had worse. This was clean, all things considered .”

François gave him a look. “ It was a perforated lung and embedded metal fragments. ‘Clean’ is relative. ”

“ I said all things considered. ”

“ Right. And all things considered, I should sedate you .”

Before Senku could reply, the infirmary door creaked open. A soft clatter followed. Luna stood in the doorway, frozen mid-step, a bundle of linens and a few gauze packs now scattered at her feet.

Her voice caught. “ You’re—? You’re up? ”

Senku didn’t flinch. “ Evidently .”

Luna’s eyes darted between them, then to the bandages. “ I—I didn’t realize. I thought you were still under. I mean—barely talking, barely breathing yesterday …”

“I’ve improved ,” he said dryly.

Luna crouched to gather the supplies, visibly flustered. “ I wasn’t expecting to see you sitting up. Talking. Looking like—like yourself .”

Senku didn’t answer that. François bent to help her, offering the gauze stack without ceremony.

“ You might consider knocking next time ,” they said. “Especially when carrying half the storeroom .”

Luna nodded quickly. “ Right. Sorry .”

Kohaku watched in silence, her expression unreadable.

François returned to the cot, finishing the re-wrap with clean, firm precision. “ So. You’re awake. You’ve confirmed your variables. Now what? ”

Senku’s eyes didn’t leave the ceiling. “ Now we exploit what they don’t know .”

François raised an eyebrow. “ They still think you’re dead? ”

“ For now ,” he said. “If we’re careful. ”

Kohaku stepped forward. “ You still want to infiltrate. ”

Senku looked at her. “ I want them to see the wrong pieces. If they’re chasing shadows, they’ll miss what’s right in front of them .”

“ And us? ” she asked, tone quiet but clear.

He didn’t hesitate. “ We stay visible. Loud. Risky. Enough to keep their eyes off the flank .”

Kohaku nodded once, no trace of doubt. “ Distraction. Got it .”

François tied off the last bandage with a precise knot. “ Just try to make it back without opening those sutures again. ”

Senku cracked a smile. “ I’ll put it on the list .”

Kohaku’s voice was quieter now, but firm. “ Then it’s time .”

François exhaled, wiping their hands on a clean cloth. “ Just make sure this war doesn’t end in another infirmary visit .”

Senku’s voice, dry and certain: “ If it does, at least you’ll be ready .”

The shadows breathed with her.

Not alive, not dead, but something between—a coiled storm beneath skin and bone. She was no longer Kohaku, the woman, the soldier, the knight. She was the forest at midnight: wild, untamed, and merciless.

The scent of sweat and iron hung thick in the stale air as she moved—limbs a lithe machine of sinew and fury. The wooden dummy before her was nothing but an obstacle, a brittle echo of flesh she sought to rend. Each strike landed like thunder’s hammer, splintering wood, shredding silence. The thuds were heartbeats in a symphony of violence.

Her eyes—black pools of liquid fire—caught the flicker of distant light and burned with the hunger of the void itself. They did not blink. They did not waver. They consumed.

A predator’s breath escaped her, ragged and low, a warning whispered in the language of claws and teeth. Her fists—calloused, scarred—lashed out in a relentless tempest of fury. She was a beast that had tasted pain and had sworn to drown the world in it.

Then, the glint.

Cold and unforgiving as winter’s edge.

The katana, abandoned but never forsaken, waited like a serpent coiled beneath the leaves—silent, deadly. Her fingers curled around the hilt with an intimacy born of blood and battle, and the air thickened.

She drew the blade with a sound like a razor tearing the night itself.

The room fell into a silence that screamed.

Steel sang its deadly lullaby as she unleashed hell incarnate. Her form blurred in a maelstrom of strikes—each movement carved in shadows, each slash a promise of death.

The dummy shattered beneath her, exploding like a star in ruin. Splinters flew like shattered bones, fragments of a world she would remake in her image: fierce, unyielding, eternal.

Her breath came in ragged gusts, wild and primal, but her eyes held a calm unlike any other—a dark serenity born from a thousand battles fought and a thousand more to come.

She was no longer the protector; she was the reckoning.

A storm without mercy.

Moz’s breath caught in the depths of the shadows where he lurked. The beast before him was not a woman but the fury of a world that would not forgive. He felt the chill of death crawl up his spine.

If he dared to step forward, he would be torn apart.

Not by blades, but by the raw will that poured from her in waves—an unspoken threat older than kingdoms.

She moved like a demon possessed—every sinew taut, every nerve singing the song of war.

And yet, beneath that savage fury, he glimpsed something more—an unbreakable chain forged from loyalty and sorrow.

She fought not for glory, but for the ghosts that haunted her bones.

For the fragile hope that still clung to the ruin.

The katana flashed one last time, a sliver of moonlight cutting through endless darkness.

Then silence.

She sheathed the blade slowly, the sound a soft exhale in the void.

Her eyes closed for a breath.

The nightmare faded, but the storm remained.

And Moz, hidden and watching, knew the truth that no one else dared to speak:

The beast would not be tamed.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

And the world would tremble in her wake.

A hand came down on Moz’s shoulder.

He stiffened—just slightly—before turning to see who dared.

It was Ryusui.

The captain’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes… they glinted. Not with mischief, not with amusement. Something colder. Sharper.

Moz held his gaze for a beat too long—and that’s when it clicked. The man behind him wasn’t just flamboyance and flair. There was something feral in the way Ryusui stood, something crouched just beneath the silk and swagger.

Even he… was an animal.

A beast dressed in velvet, but no less capable of shredding.

Then Ryusui spoke—softly, almost admiringly, as if they weren’t standing in the middle of something volatile.

“ She really is magnificent, isn’t she? ” he said, eyes fixed forward now. “ Like watching a storm form at sea. Beautiful, until it tears the ship apart .”

Moz didn’t answer, and Ryusui didn’t need him to. He continued, voice smooth as wine but laced with iron underneath.

“ I’ve seen kingdoms rise and fall, watched men build empires and beg for their lives. But her ? ” He let out a quiet chuckle. “ She doesn’t build. She doesn’t beg. She just is. ”

His hand on Moz’s shoulder tightened—barely, but the weight behind it shifted. Less show, more warning.

“ She’s not a weapon you point, ” Ryusui said, tilting his head slightly, that sharp grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “ She’s a force you survive .”

He leaned in a fraction, voice lower now, almost confessional.

“ And if you’re thinking of testing her—don’t .”

A beat of silence.

Then Moz moved.

His hand snapped up, gripping Ryusui’s wrist, and shoved it off his shoulder with a force just shy of starting something. His face darkened, jaw clenching, shadows knitting hard beneath his brow.

Ryusui stopped.

Finally, finally, he took his eyes off Kohaku—and turned them on Moz.

The captain’s grin didn’t fade. It sharpened.

There was no surprise on his face. Just approval.

He leaned back slightly, giving Moz space. Or maybe giving him the illusion of it. Then, he leaned forward again, just enough for their foreheads to nearly align, and locked eyes.

A deliberate challenge. The stare of a wolf who’d just smelled blood on another.

Moz didn’t flinch.

“ Ah ,” Ryusui breathed, as if delighted. “ There it is .”

The smile that followed wasn’t showmanship—it was something closer to violence dressed in silk. A man too familiar with danger to fear it. One who liked knowing where the blades were hidden in the room.

“ You’ve got it too. I knew it .”

The moment stretched, taut and silent, both of them holding the line with their gazes alone. Neither blinking. Neither breaking.

Then Ryusui straightened, voice softening—just barely.

“ Good ,” he said, glancing once more toward the corridor, toward the places none of them were willing to name yet. “ Because if this ship gets overrun. ..”

A flick of his gaze back to Moz, not smiling now. Aware of what lies ahead, the clock ticking.

“ You’ll be one of the last lines of defense we’ve got .”

The makeshift gym was a steel box packed tight with weight racks, the stale scent of sweat hanging thick in the air.

Brody Dudley was working out beside Stanley, voice rough and ragged, rasping Dirty Cash by The Adventures like it was some kind of war anthem, raw and unpolished.

“I've no excuse, I just want you to use me

Take me and abuse me”~

His voice layered over the harsh clang of iron, skin slick with sweat, muscles taut beneath grimy tanks and faded grime.

Stanley didn’t join in. Didn’t even glance. His body moved like a well-oiled machine, pull-up after pull-up, powered by quiet fire and stubborn grit.

The overhead lights flickered, throwing stark shadows that caught the beads of sweat racing down his broad chest, tracing the sharp angles and planes beneath his soaked black tank.

His breathing was slow and deliberate—each inhale a steady, calming drumbeat in the heavy hum of the ship’s hold.

Brody’s voice dipped and soared with gravelly rasp, and Stanley dropped into push-ups, palms landing on cold steel with a dull smack , body coiling and releasing like a predator stalking its prey.

Then, cutting through the rhythm like a crashing wave, the heavy steel door hissed open.

Stanley froze mid-rep, chest hovering just above the floor, muscles taut and eyes sharp in the half-light.

Brody’s song died on his lips. He wiped his brow with the back of a hand and glanced toward the intruders with narrowed eyes.

Dr. Xeno stepped inside, as though he belonged to the shadows and smoke themselves—black coat draping over a lean, angular frame, hands shoved deep into pockets.

Stanley stayed frozen a moment longer, then pushed himself smoothly back into a standing position, muscles rippling beneath skin slick with sweat.

Without looking up, fingers found a cigarette tucked in his pocket.

A practiced flick of the lighter sparked a brief flame that cut through the dim hold.

He drew in a long, slow breath, smoke curling around him like a ghostly veil in the stale air.

His hand raked through his damp hair—slick, tangled from the workout, but somehow still sharp in its careless disarray.

The weight of the moment settled on him, thick and heavy, like the calm before a storm.

Behind him, the atmosphere shifted—shadows lengthened and uncertainty crept in like a living thing.

Gen shifted his stance, stepping closer to the guard beside him.

The man looked like he’d been pulled straight from the dusty American heartland: simple, worn clothes; sturdy boots scuffed with grit; a makeshift scarf wrapped tight around his face, hiding everything but a pair of sharp, alert eyes that flicked carefully over the room.

The scarf hid his features so completely it was impossible to guess who he really was.

Until something clicked in Gen’s mind—a quiet, sharp recognition that slid across his nerves like a thin blade.

A slow, cold smile crept over his lips as the pieces settled.

The realization hung in the air like a blade beneath a sheet of fabric—silent but deadly.

The conversation between Dr. Xeno and Stanley drifted into the background, their voices reduced to smoke curling and fading around the edges of tension.

Stanley’s eyes shifted slowly toward the guard.

Their gazes met and held—long, measured, a silent challenge charged with unspoken words.

Then, without a word, Stanley exhaled, broke the stare, and dropped back down into his workout.

The clanging of iron on steel filled the bay again, steady and relentless.

Brody’s gravelly voice rose once more, cutting through the thick silence, a soundtrack for a ship poised on the edge of something dangerous.

“Money talks, mm-hmm, money talks

Dirty cash, I want you, dirty cash, I need you, oh”

The music wrapped tight around the cold steel walls and shadowed corners like a warning—sharp, unyielding, inevitable.

Chapter Text

Senku wasn’t supposed to be walking this far.

Not because someone told him no. No, that would’ve been easy to obey. He wasn’t supposed to because his body had already made the decision for him — like an insubordinate machine quietly mutinying against the commands of its own mind. The right leg shakes like it’s got a vendetta against the whole idea of walking. Every step is like pressing a finger against the trigger on a grenade, waiting for the inevitable blast.

But the infirmary was too much tonight.

The antiseptic smell was worse than a punch to the nose. That sharp, clinical sting burned its way through the fog of his mind like bad coffee seeping into every corner. And then there was Luna’s perfume — a sweet, sterile scent that clung to the air like a ghost who refused to leave. Not Kohaku. The absence of Kohaku.

That absence was worse. It hit him like a punch to the gut, a screaming silence that swallowed everything else, dragged the air out of his lungs like someone had strangled the room. It was the silence where hope went to die, and the space Kohaku usually filled felt like a cold wound in the room.

So he’d pushed himself up. Ignored the pain — the rib-deep ache that was trying to tell him to shut the hell up and lie down. Because sometimes the worst kind of hell isn’t a raging fire. Sometimes it’s just sitting still, listening to your own failures echo in the walls, like a damn metronome counting out your dying breaths.

He didn’t even realize how far he’d gone until the soft creak under his boot reminded him: the ship doesn’t sleep. Not really. It waits.

His gaze found the corridor near the crew quarters — dim and cold enough to make his breath catch. Always like that — like the ship was holding its breath, waiting for something to go wrong.

He dropped a palm to the wall, skin pressed against cold metal, grounding himself. Steadying his ragged breaths that tasted like rust and exhaustion.

His fingers stretched out, tracing the cool surface like it might hold some kind of answer. Some sign. Anything.

It did.

He remembered her palm against his forehead last night — soft, hesitant, almost shy in the way it searched for a fever she never spoke aloud. Kohaku. Awake before him. Waiting on the edge of the cot like she was catching him mid-fall back into consciousness. Like a guardian angel who couldn’t afford the luxury of rest.

That woman doesn’t sleep.

And it was starting to show.

The thought settled like dust in his chest — right before another sound stirred the air. Footsteps, this time. Not cautious or aimless like his. Confident. Intentional. The kind that belonged to someone who still knew where they were going.

Senku didn’t bother turning.

“ Long way from your bed, ” came Ryusui’s voice. Smooth, casual — but not unserious.

Senku exhaled through his nose. “ What bed? ”

A soft chuckle, then silence. Not awkward. Just the kind that let things hang in the air long enough to be felt.

When Ryusui finally stepped into view, he didn’t look surprised. Just took one glance at Senku’s posture — the wall at his back, the color in his face drained to grayscale — and let out a quiet breath like he’d expected worse.

“ You standing, or are we doing the dramatic collapse thing again? ”

Senku lifted a hand and gave him the finger. The motion was half-hearted at best.

Ryusui smirked. “ So: standing. Good .”

He didn’t wait for permission. Just stepped in and took Senku’s arm, guiding it over his shoulder in one practiced movement. Senku didn’t fight it. Not really. Too tired. Too late.

Metal creaked under their steps as they turned down the hall. Somewhere distant, the ship let out that hollow sigh again — the kind that echoed like lungs expanding underwater.

Ryusui’s grip stayed firm. Not too tight. Just enough to remind him he wasn’t walking alone.

They didn’t talk.

Didn’t need to.

…

…

…

He didn’t ask if Senku could walk.
Just slung his arm over his shoulder like a foregone conclusion and started forward — slow, even steps like they had all the time in the world.

They didn’t. But Ryusui always moved like he did.

Senku’s boots dragged more than they landed. The floor hummed beneath them — that familiar vibration of machinery, like a distant heart murmur no one ever talked about. Pipes overhead. Condensation dripping somewhere near the air ducts. Low hiss. Subtle groan. The ship making itself known in pieces.

Every sound pressed against the quiet.

Senku kept his gaze on the floor tiles. Let them blur in and out of focus as he moved.
One foot. Then the other. Then again.

There was a rhythm in it — the kind your body remembers even when your brain’s shot to hell. His shoulder ached. His ribs still felt like they’d been replaced with broken glass. But the movement was meditative in a way. Unforgiving, but consistent.

Ryusui didn’t say anything.

Just kept them on track with that strange, steady calm he always wore when things were about to tip. Not casual. Not cold. Just practiced. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d walked someone down a corridor like this.

It wasn’t, probably.

They passed the auxiliary deck. A shuttered viewport caught the hallway light and reflected their silhouettes — two figures limping toward god-knows-what. Senku looked away before he could really see himself.

Everything here smelled like metal and sterilizer. Salt and something chemical.

The closer they got to the war room, the colder it got.
Pressure dropped. Lights dimmed to blue.

Senku tried not to shiver, but Ryusui must’ve felt it. His arm tensed slightly. Not much — just enough to steady the weight.

They turned the last corner.

And there it was — that door. The reinforced one with the manual override. Light bleeding from beneath it like something alive waited on the other side.

The war room didn’t creak or hum.
It listened.

Ryusui finally let out a breath, like he’d been holding it the whole way. He looked over, eyes sharp but not unkind.

“ You good? ”

Senku didn’t answer. Just rolled his neck once, cracked his knuckles against his thigh, and squared his jaw.

Didn’t matter if he was good. He was here.

Ryusui didn’t push. Just reached for the panel.

The door slid open.

Light spilled out.

And whatever waited inside — it already knew they were coming.

And there she was.

Kohaku.

He caught sight of her before Ryusui even spoke.

There she was — seated like a statue carved from patience and quiet strength. Legs crossed, one ankle resting lightly on the other, the kind of casual posture that felt almost deliberate, like she’d settled in for a long vigil.

The war room’s harsh fluorescent light threw sharp shadows across her face, carving out the lines that usually softened when she smiled. Tonight, though, there was no smile. Just a mask of calm that almost fooled the eye.

But not quite.

Her eyes.

They softened when they found him, flickering with something he hadn’t expected — relief.

Not the, I’m glad you’re okay kind. No, this was the kind of relief that clawed at the ribs, the kind that made a chest ache with weight and release all at once.

It was as if she’d been holding her breath, waiting in that chair, counting moments until he’d appear.

And now that he was here, the tension in her shoulders eased, just slightly, like a knot loosening but not undone.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, the dry scrape of his own voice catching in his chest.

The woman he’d been silently yearning for — the one he’d spent endless nights thinking about, memorizing the way her hair caught the light, the way her hands moved — she was here.

Not miles away, not just a ghost in his mind, but real and alive, sitting just feet from him like a gift he’d never dared ask for.

He cleared his throat, an awkward attempt at casual that barely hid the storm inside him.

“ Kohaku. ”

She met his gaze steadily, no hesitation, no flicker of doubt.

“ Senku .”

That single word was a heartbeat, a sigh, a confession wrapped in simplicity.

No more words were necessary. Between them hung the weight of everything — the battles fought, the silences kept, the distance bridged and the distance still there.

He felt it like a current, an electric pull drawing his fingers toward her. The urge to reach out, to close that little gap between them with a touch — just to remind them both that this was real.

But there was Ryusui. And the cold, methodical order of the war room.

So instead, Senku looked around and spotted a chair behind the desk, cluttered with blinking communicators and humming screens.

A little island of focus amid the storm.

He slid into it, adjusting the weight in his legs, but his eyes never left Kohaku’s.

They sat parallel, a silent conversation passing between them — two halves of a whole, still figuring out how to be together without breaking.

The silence stretched, thick and fragile, full of unspoken promises and aching questions.

Then Ryusui’s voice cut through the quiet.

“ Alright, enough staring contests .”

Half a joke, but with a sharp edge that pulled them both back to reality.

“ The landing craft’s finished .”

Senku blinked, the present crashing in like cold water.

Ryusui shifted, eyes gleaming like a kid who just stole the last slice of cake.

“ Did a quick test flight myself .”

Senku’s brow shot up, about to snap, What time? But before the question could form, Ryusui cut in—

“ Relax. Didn’t get caught. No alarms, no near-death experiences .”

He smirked like the devil himself had just given him a thumbs-up.

“ And yeah ,” Ryusui added, voice dipping just enough to sound cocky, “ the landing craft’s good to go. The plane flies. Like a bird .”

Senku let out a dry laugh, leaning back in the chair, arms crossed like he was ready to take on the world—because, well, he had helped build it.

“ Of course it does .”

His voice was sharp, almost arrogant. “ I helped build it. ”

That was all he needed to say. The unspoken Don’t doubt it hung in the air like a dare.

Ryusui just grinned wider, clearly loving the challenge.

The war room felt colder than it should, the sterile hum of machinery a sharp contrast to the heat in Kohaku’s voice.

“ They’re out there ,” she said, voice low but tense, eyes locked on the faint flicker of a map projected on the wall. “ Chrome, Suika, Gen — all of them. I can’t stop thinking about what they’re facing. How fragile they are out there .”

Senku’s jaw clenched. He knew. They all did. The team was scattered, running every edge of the island, fighting for every scrap of survival.

“ They don’t have the ship ,” Kohaku continued, her fingers tightening into a fist. “ No shelter. No backup. Just raw guts and science. And that makes them vulnerable. ”

Ryusui shifted, crossing his arms. “ Exactly why we can’t afford to fail here. The ship — it’s more than just metal and fuel. It’s the promise of safety. The bait we hang out to catch the hawks circling above. ”

Senku exhaled slowly, voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “ We’re the shield for the others. If we don’t hold this, everything falls apart. ”

The room was silent for a heartbeat longer than it should be. Kohaku’s eyes flicked to Senku, their shared burden an unspoken pact.

“ This isn’t just strategy, ” she said, her voice softer now, but no less fierce. “ It’s everything. Their lives. Our lives .”

Senku’s gaze sharpened, the arrogance replaced by something harder — responsibility. “ Then we make sure the bait’s worth it. They come for the ship, they lose more than they bargained for. ”

Ryusui didn’t grin this time. Didn’t posture or joke or throw on the usual show. He just leaned his elbows against the edge of the table, gaze flicking between the map and the two of them like he was calculating odds he wasn’t sure he liked.

“ In a battle of guns ,” he said, voice low, matter-of-fact, “ we lose .”

Silence greeted that truth. The kind that didn’t need agreement because everyone in the room already knew. The kind that felt like it was closing in.

“ But ,” Ryusui continued, “ close quarters? No firearms? That’s where we’ve got the upper hand.”

His fingers tapped against the edge of the table. A slow rhythm. Not casual.

“ I tested Moz myself. Wanted to see what kind of monster we had sleeping in our ranks. ”

He wasn’t exaggerating. Not even trying to dress it up. His tone was the same one you’d use to describe a predator you’d stumbled across in the dark and somehow walked away from.

“ Moz ,” Ryusui said, with a breath of dry laughter, “w as something else. Calculated, fast. Animal, but not… not feral. Not mindless. Controlled. The kind of fighter who knows exactly what he’s doing and chooses not to hold back. ”

He paused.

“ But not in the way you're thinking. ”

The air shifted. Just a notch.

“ I caught him watching you once, Kohaku. When you were sparring. ”

No flare in his voice. No joke layered underneath. He dropped it like intel, like any other piece of battlefield data. But Kohaku tensed like it was something else entirely.

Her jaw clicked slightly as she turned her head, not fully toward him, not fully away. Her hair swung against her cheek like a curtain pulled too fast. The movement was small, but the heat was already crawling up her neck.

Senku didn’t move at first. Didn’t speak. Just stared. His slouch didn’t shift, but there was a sudden stillness to him. Like whatever switch had flipped behind his eyes was not one that went back easily.

His gaze locked on Ryusui. Then Kohaku.

Stayed there.

Unblinking.

One side of his mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. It was something harder. Something sharp and dark, barely reined in. His eyes said it for him.

What the fuck.

Ryusui, for his part, didn’t flinch. Just lifted one shoulder in the lazy kind of shrug that wasn’t lazy at all.

“ Anyway, ” he said, dragging them out of the moment whether they wanted to leave it or not. “ Moz and Matsukaze. They’re our best bet if it comes to hand-to-hand. We’ve got our own joker card. Might as well use it. ”

He leaned back again, arms behind his head like he hadn’t just thrown a dagger into the middle of the room and called it strategy.

“ Just don’t let them catch us in open field. ”

Senku didn’t look away.

Not at first. Not even when Ryusui had moved on. Not even when Kohaku’s eyes dropped to the table like they could burn a hole through the wood. He kept staring like he was calculating something—something far more volatile than numbers.

And then, with the slow precision of a man restraining every impulse to shatter the air with something louder, he sat forward.

Just an inch.

“ Then we don’t let it come to that, ” Senku said, voice low, but laced in flint. “ No open fields. No room for a long-range shootout. We control the terrain. We bring the war to our terms .”

He dragged his hand across the map, tracing corridors, bottlenecks, fallback routes that weren’t fallback routes at all. They were traps. Close, claustrophobic choke points that would turn rifles into clubs and leave nothing but fists and instinct between the living and the dead.

“ We bleed them on proximity. Not principle ,” he said. “ We force them into a space where bullets don’t matter and blood does. ”

He didn’t look at Ryusui now. Didn’t need to. His eyes were already back on Kohaku.

And they stayed there when he said, “ Because Xeno isn’t just leverage. He’s the future. Our only shot at building something that outlasts this mess .”

His fingers stilled on the edge of the table.

“ This isn’t about revenge. Not anymore. This is about foundation. ”

And then he said it. The word that twisted in the air like a blade held just above the skin.

“ Sacrifice .”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t soften. He looked right at her when he said it. Not as an accusation. Not even as a challenge.

It was something else. A vow disguised as strategy. A confession buried in code.

Kohaku didn’t speak.

But her eyes—sharp, unswerving—locked onto his and didn’t look away. Not even for a second.

They burned with something purer than resolve. Not loyalty in the blind sense. Not duty. It was fiercer than that. Fiercer and heavier.

The look of someone who’d already made peace with every drop she was willing to spill.

And she was willing to spill all of it.

She didn’t nod. She didn’t need to. That look said everything.

Ryusui let out a slow breath through his nose. Almost like he’d forgotten they were still playing this game with pieces that bled.

“ Well ,” he muttered, quieter now, “ I guess we all know our stakes .”

Senku didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Not when every part of him—every breath, every flick of his eye toward her—already had.

…

…

The silence in the war room had a shape.
Sharp around the edges.
Not empty—just waiting.

Kohaku stood at the corner of the strategy table, her shadow slicing across the spread of maps and schematics like a blade hesitating before the strike. Her arms weren’t folded in defense—just anchored. Like if she didn’t hold herself steady now, she might drift into something irreversible.

Across from her, Senku sat, spine curved forward, fingers pressed on the map like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment. The harsh overhead light caught the angles of his jaw, casting shadows that made him look colder, sharper, less human. That’s what he needed to be.

But his eyes—those red eyes—gave it away.

“ You’ll leave the second we’re airborne ,” he said, voice quiet but hard, finger sliding over the east ridge. “ Right here. You move fast. Alone. Stay out of sight until you hit the tree line. Then head straight for the recon point. ”

Kohaku took it in with a slow nod. She didn’t ask why her. She already knew. The fastest. The sharpest. The one who wouldn’t hesitate.

Ryusui leaned over Senku’s shoulder, a frown that wasn’t about terrain creasing his brow. “ She’s not even getting a proper goodbye? ”

Senku didn’t look up.

“ She doesn’t get that luxury ,” he said. “ No one on this ship can know she’s leaving .”

Kohaku tilted her chin just a fraction. “ You want me to vanish.”

“ I want you to survive .”

The words were low. Bare. Too quick to catch unless you knew exactly what to listen for.

Then he looked at her.

And it was something else entirely.

His eyes found hers like gravity—fixed, unrelenting. Not cold. Not even close. Beneath all the logic, beneath the soldier’s edge, something molten simmered there. Something dangerous and raw. The kind of look that said I love you without ever saying it. The kind of look that said I’m trusting you with the only part of me I can’t afford to lose.

“ You don’t look back ,” he said. “Y ou don’t say anything. You walk out like you’re coming back in two minutes .”

His voice didn’t rise, but it landed like a command. She was the only one who could do this. So he had to say it sharp. Clean. Like it didn’t cost him.

But god, it did.

Kohaku’s lips parted—like she wanted to say something. Just to him.

But her jaw clenched a second later. Discipline over sentiment. She’d follow orders.

Still—she saw it.

The way he looked at her like this was the last time. Like he was memorizing the image of her standing there with warpaint eyes and silent strength. Like if he looked too long, he’d give himself away.

Ryusui rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “ Man… if it were me, I’d want a moment. A real one. ”

Senku didn’t flinch. But his next breath was tight.

“ That’s exactly why it can’t be you ,” he said.

The words were neutral. But his gaze hadn’t moved from Kohaku.

“ You vanish ,” he repeated. “ Leave like nothing matters. Like you don’t care.”

He swallowed, slow.

“ And when you hit that ridge—then you wait for me .”

She blinked once. Just once.

“ I’ll be there ,” he said, softer now. “ I will .”

It wasn’t a promise to her. It was a promise to himself.

That he would survive the takeoff, the chaos, the fallout.

That he’d make it back.

Because he had to.

Because if he didn’t—

“ Senku ,” Kohaku said finally, voice low. “ I understand .”

And she did.

Of course she did.

But that didn’t stop the way he looked at her like this was goodbye anyway.

It didn’t stop the way his knuckles whitened against the map’s edge, like touch was the only thing anchoring him to logic.

Ryusui exhaled, running a hand through his hair, stepping back toward the door. “Guess I’ll let you two finish up.”

Senku didn’t answer.

His eyes hadn’t moved.

And in the space between them—between her blue and his red—there was no need for anything else.

This wasn’t romance.

It was war.

And she was the only thing he wasn’t willing to sacrifice.

A few hours later, the ship’s hum was softer. The weight in Senku’s chest hadn’t lifted, but the suffocating tension of the war room had thinned, replaced by something colder—more distant.

He moved slower now, each step a reminder of bones still mending, wounds still aching. He wasn’t supposed to be wandering. Not like this. But staying put meant drowning in thoughts better left untouched.

So he followed a thread he couldn’t quite grasp, down the dim corridors, past empty cabins, until the distant sound caught him.

That sharp, rhythmic crack.

The kind that pulls you in before you even know why.

He heard her before he saw her: the sharp, rhythmic crack of wood on floor, a practice staff slicing through the air in broad, deadly arcs. The sound was steady, almost hypnotic — a brutal kind of meditation.

Her silhouette appeared, sharp and brutal in the weak light. Barefoot, sweat-darkened skin glowing faintly against the grimy window smeared with condensation and the last of the sun. She moved like a storm barely contained, every strike and parry a quiet fury. Kohaku training like the world wasn’t already trying to crush her.

She hasn’t seen him yet.

He folded his arms against his chest, leaning into the doorframe like a broken statue, lips twitching into something that might be a smile if you squinted hard enough.

There’s blood in his mouth — metaphorical this time — from the weight of it all. The devotion she throws into each movement punches deep into his ribs. Guilt? Awe? Love? He isn’t sure. Maybe all three wrapped into one bitter knot that sits heavy in his chest.

He should say something. Something stupid. Something funny. Something to cut through the thick silence.

He doesn’t.

Her next strike comes fast, brutal — two steps, a lethal snap aimed at crushing a trachea like it’s nothing.

She exhales hard through her nose. Form falters just slightly. Wrist wobbles.

He watches. Arms crossed.

The silence is so thick, you could drown in it. Like the air itself was holding its breath.

Every creak in the hull, every shift in the wind, makes his pulse thump like a drumbeat warning of the storm. The kind of steady, ominous beat that tells you trouble’s right around the corner.

Stillness like this is never good.

Kohaku finishes her sequence, holding the last pose two heartbeats too long. She knows he’s here.

“ You’re pushing your right side too hard. ”

Quiet. Almost gentle.

She exhales, eyes dead ahead. “ So are you. ”

He steps inside, slow. No more hiding the limp. He’s learned to mask the worst — but not with her.

“ You should be resting. ”

She says it like it’s a fact. No mercy.

“ I can rest when the trap’s sprung .”

She looks at him then. Hair a rough knot, face streaked with sweat and dirt. Eyes tired in the way only those who wait for violence know how to be.

No softness. No hope. Just the sharp edge of truth.

“ You think it’s coming soon ?”

Senku shrugs, easing down onto a crate, testing his balance like it’s a damn puzzle he’s been given without all the pieces. “ It’s already here. Just slow, like rot in floorboards .”

She steps closer. No performance now. No pretenses.

Only the two of them.

She crouches in front of him, eyes scanning every movement. Her hand hovers at his wrist but doesn’t touch — restraint louder than any concern.

“ Your ribs? ”

“ Less. Enough .”

She pulls his shirt up an inch, enough to see the bruises — deep purple, angry blooms still healing like some vicious flower.

She says nothing, just brushes the gauze’s edge with fingers soft enough to make him think she might break if she presses too hard.

He watches her fingers move.

“ You’re not sleeping. ”

“Neither are you .”

She stands, pacing small circles, taut and controlled but calculating every step and word like a damn chess game.

They’re a machine now, powered by shared panic and obsession.

Senku meets her eyes, dry humor trying to crack the tension. “ You ever think we’re the only two crazy enough to still be standing? ”

She smirks. “ Crazy is the new normal. ”

“ Crazy, tired, and pretending we have a plan .”

Her eyes flick to the window and back. “ We do .”

He raises a brow. “ Glad you believe that. ”

She shrugs. “ Have to. ”

Sometimes survival isn’t about strength or brains.

Sometimes it’s just belief.

He shifts, wincing as a stab hits his ribs.

She catches it instinctively. Her hand warm and steady against his side.

“ You’re pushing too hard .”

“I know.”

“ But what’s the alternative? ”

Her eyes soften, just a shade. “ Surrender.”

He laughs bitter. “ Not my style .”

“ Not mine either .”

Silence stretches, thick and raw.

The weight of all the unspoken words between them presses down like the heavy, humid air before a storm. A storm they both know is coming, but neither wants to name.

Senku leans back against the crate, his breath shallow, watching her carefully as she finally lets out a slow exhale, the tension leaking from her shoulders like steam.

“I hate this waiting ,” she says quietly. “ This feeling like the world’s about to fall apart and we’re just holding the pieces. ”

He nods, fingers twitching at his side, half wanting to reach out, half afraid of breaking the fragile truce that keeps them standing.

“ Yeah ,” he admits, voice low. “ But maybe the pieces are meant to fall. Maybe it’s how we rebuild that counts. ”

Her eyes meet his again — fierce, guarded, but maybe… hopeful?

“Maybe. ”

He smirks. “ You always this poetic when you think no one’s listening?”

She shrugs, a brief flash of a smile. “ Only when I’m tired enough. ”

They sit like that for a while, silence stretching but not heavy this time. Different. Comfortable.

Senku thinks maybe this is what survival looks like — not just the fight, but the quiet moments in between.

The air shifts, just a little. The faint hum of the ship, the distant drip of condensation somewhere deep in the bulkheads—it all feels like a soundtrack to their shared exhaustion.

Kohaku finally sinks down beside him, the crate creaking under her weight. She’s close enough that he can smell the mix of sweat and earthiness clinging to her skin, the scent grounding and unsettling all at once.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. There’s no need. Their silence is a conversation in itself—heavy with everything they’ve been too tired or scared to say.

Senku’s gaze drifts to her hands, scarred and calloused, the hands that never stopped moving, never stopped fighting, even when the rest of her wanted to break.

“ You ever think about what comes after?” he asks, voice low. “ After all this?”

She doesn’t answer right away. The only sound is her slow, measured breath.

“ Sometimes ,” she admits finally. “ But it’s hard to picture anything beyond just… surviving.”

Surviving. The word tastes bitter in his mouth. Like it’s not enough.

“ I want more than that, ” he says. “ I don’t know what it is yet, but—more. I think that’s why I’m still crawling my way through this mess .”

She looks at him then, eyes sharp, burning with something fierce and tired. “You’ve always been stubborn. ”

He lets out a humorless chuckle. “ Yeah. Well. Someone’s gotta be .”

Her hand brushes against his thigh, tentative but sure—like a lifeline tossed into the wreckage.

“Don’t push it too far, ” she warns, voice soft. “ I don’t want to lose you. ”

He almost laughs at the irony. The guy who nearly died more times than he can count, worrying about being lost now.

“I’m not going anywhere ,” he says, voice firm despite the tremor underneath.

She shifts closer, resting her head against his shoulder. It’s such a simple thing but it cracks open something inside him—a dull ache blooming into something that feels dangerously close to hope.

For a second, everything feels like it could be okay.

But then the pain hits again—sharp, a cruel reminder.

He winces, breath hitching.

Kohaku’s fingers are there in an instant, tracing the bruises on his ribs, gentle but insistent.

“ We’ll get through this ,” she says. “ Together .”

The word feels heavy with promise.

Senku lets his head fall back, eyes closing against the ache and the hope and the goddamn mess of it all.

Maybe this was what survival really meant.

Not just holding on.

But holding each other.

Without a word, she stands and walks back to the center of the room.

Grabs the staff.
Spins it once in her palm. Like breathing. Like violence is the only form of prayer left.

And then she moves.

Clean. Brutal. Fluid.

Every swing is sharper than the last. Precision born from sleepless nights and too many dead ends.

Senku doesn’t speak.

Just watches.

Counts each movement like a heartbeat.
One. Two. Step. Lunge. Twist.

She’s not fighting an enemy—she’s fighting off collapse.

It’s a quiet kind of desperation.
One he knows too well.

His gaze traces the tension in her shoulders, the slight hitch in her left knee from a fight three weeks back. She never talks about it. Probably forgot it ever hurt.

But he remembers.

He remembers everything. That’s the curse.

She spins again. A full-body arc. Staff whistling through air like a blade.

She lands hard. The floor groans beneath her.

Again.

And again.

Until sweat drips from her chin and darkens the floor. Until her breathing sounds like a warning. Until the fury smooths out into something worse.

Focus.

He knows that look.
He’s worn it himself.

It’s the look of someone holding themselves together with instinct and stubbornness because the alternative is falling apart in public.

Kohaku doesn’t cry. Not where people can see.

Not even him.

Especially not him.

She finishes the set and pauses, chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged pulls. Not winded. Just done .

“ Your wrist’s still off ,” he says.

She doesn’t look at him. “I know.”

“ That last swing left your side open. ”

“ Then I’ll die faster .”

His brow ticks. “ Hell of a tactic .”

She turns just enough for him to see the smirk pulling at her mouth.

“ Speed over longevity. You’d understand if you were a fighter. ”

He huffs through his nose. “ I’m not a fighter. I’m a scientist. ”

“ You’re both. Now. ”

That hangs there. Ugly truth. No one’s what they used to be. Not anymore.

She spins the staff again. Slow this time. A lazy threat.

And for a moment, she looks younger. Almost.