I didn't watch the whole thing.
When he leaned down, when she whispered something I couldn't hear, when her fangs sunk into his neck and his body stiffened like it had touched lightning—I turned away.
It wasn't out of respect.
It was out of fear.
I knew how this part went. The death. The scream. The resurrection.
I knew he'd wake up half-turned, incomplete, hanging in that fragile place between life and undeath. I'd seen it before, through a screen. I knew the beats. The order. The cost.
But living it—hearing the blood being sucked out of a teenager's throat—it hit different.
I sat back on the stair, heart thudding in my ears.
Why was I here?
What was I supposed to do?
This wasn't like watching anime with a bowl of instant noodles, nodding along like I understood something deep. This was real. Too real. And I didn't know what kind of story I was in anymore.
I looked down at my hands. Still shaking.
I didn't give her my blood. But I was here. I'd seen her. I'd spoken to her. I'd been willing to stay when someone else hadn't.
Because Araragi had come first.
He'd seen her before me. He'd been the one to find her—a dying myth with no arms, no legs, and no hope. And he'd run. Like anyone would. Like I probably would've too.
But then he'd come back.
That was the part that mattered. The choice. He didn't stumble into heroism. He ran from it and still turned around.
Me?
I just never moved at all.
And maybe that was worse.
I looked back toward them. Kiss-shot's torso, half-curled around his collapsed body. His face pale. Her lips still slick with his blood. She was already starting to look... stronger. Not whole, but less broken. Her chest rose evenly now. Her golden hair gleamed under the sickly yellow station lights.
Then I heard it.
Not a sound. Not a breath. Not a word spoken aloud.
A presence. A voice pressed into my mind, soft as velvet, sharp as glass.
"You knew."
I flinched.
She was looking at me.
Her one eye—clear, focused, glowing—was locked on mine.
"You... knew what would happen."
I nodded slowly. Swallowed the lump in my throat.
"I did."
"And you let him offer his life?"
That stung.
"Would you have let me offer mine?" I asked.
She didn't blink.
"No."
I exhaled, unsure if I was relieved or insulted.
She shifted slightly—just enough to indicate her body was returning to her. Bones knitting, veins reconnecting. Her healing had begun.
"You are not a hero."
"I know."
"Not a fool."
"No."
"Then what are you?"
I didn't have an answer.
But she didn't press. Instead, she let her eye slide shut again, as if satisfied just knowing that I couldn't name myself.
The platform was quiet again.
Araragi lay still. His transformation had begun.
And yet I couldn't help but feel...
...it was me she had marked.
Not him