The nights were growing longer, or maybe it only felt that way.
Osaka's ruins were not silent; they breathed. Steel twisted in the wind like the groan of dying whales, shattered glass shivered underfoot, and now and then, the sky itself rumbled as though the rifts scraped their claws against the stars. Every sound gnawed at the survivors' nerves. Hunger had already hollowed them; sleeplessness would finish the job.
Shitsubo walked at the rear of the group, shadow stretched long by the faint burn of a makeshift torch. His silence pressed like a second skin, heavy, unwelcome. The others carried their weariness in their shoulders, but none dared complain with him within earshot. His curse was no longer a secret—it bled out of him, corrupting everything he touched. He knew they looked at him differently now. Protector? Predator? They hadn't decided. Neither had he.
Genji carried the torch, jaw clenched tight, his face hardened into the sharp edge of determination. Beside him, Daigo leaned on a length of bent pipe, every step limping but stubborn. Behind them shuffled four more survivors they'd picked up after the warehouse collapse: a pair of sisters who never let go of each other's hands, an older man who smelled perpetually of soot, and Juro—the one with the sharp tongue.
Juro's voice cut the silence like a blade. "We can't keep walking like this. We're not machines. We're not… whatever he is." His chin flicked toward Shitsubo without shame.
No one answered. Not yet. The air was too thick with exhaustion.
Daigo finally broke the silence. "You want to stop? Stop where? On this street where everything's open to the sky? You saw the Aggressors last night. You want to wake up with their hands in your chest?"
Juro barked a laugh, dry and humorless. "Oh, sure. March until our legs give out, then. Drop dead on our feet. Great plan."
Genji's voice was low, warning. "Enough."
But Juro wasn't the kind of man who heard warnings. He pressed forward, torchlight catching the hollow planes of his face. "We've been walking blind for days. No map, no food, no destination. Just following your brother like he's Moses out of the desert. And for what? Another pile of rubble? Another graveyard?" His voice sharpened. "Or worse—another massacre?"
The sisters flinched, pressing closer together. Daigo hissed through his teeth, eyes darting toward Shitsubo.
Shitsubo didn't move. Didn't answer. He couldn't. His silence was a wall.
Juro sneered. "See? He doesn't deny it. He can't. We've all seen it—what he does. What his curse does." His voice cracked into a harsh whisper. "He's not saving us. He's feeding off us."
The words hung in the air like a noose.
The group stopped. Even Genji hesitated, torchlight trembling as if unsure where to fall.
Shitsubo's chest ached, but not from shame. From hunger. His curse hummed, whispering to him. The envy bleeding from Juro's sharpness, the suspicion curdling in the others—it clung to him like smoke. It would be so easy to take it, to drink their emotions dry and leave them husks.
He curled his fists and forced himself still.
Daigo spoke, voice shaking but firm. "Juro… you're alive because of him. We all are. Don't forget that."
"Alive?" Juro barked. "Call this alive? Running from shadow to shadow, eating rats and mold, waiting for the sky to split open again? Tell me, Daigo—what kind of survival is this? Because it looks a hell of a lot like dying slow."
The older man, the one who smelled of soot, muttered something under his breath. Too quiet to hear.
Juro rounded on him. "Speak up."
The old man's voice rasped like gravel. "I said… there might be somewhere else. Somewhere safer."
The words shifted the air. Even the wind seemed to pause.
Daigo blinked. "What do you mean?"
The old man scratched at his beard with cracked nails. "Back in Namba, before it burned, I heard whispers. Letters. Scrawled on walls, on scraps of paper left in corners. Kept saying the same thing… 'South of the bay. Where the bridges meet. The light still burns.'"
The sisters stiffened, eyes wide. One of them whispered, "A safe place?"
Juro rolled his eyes, lips curling in disdain. "Oh, here we go. Fairy tales."
But the seed had been planted. Shitsubo felt it—the hope rising like steam, mingled with suspicion and envy. Hope was dangerous. Hope made people reckless.
Daigo straightened. "Letters? Written by who?"
The old man shrugged. "Didn't say. But it wasn't just one. More than a few. Same message. South of the bay."
The sisters clung tighter, whispering to each other. "Safe… maybe safe…"
Genji looked to Shitsubo, eyes searching his brother's face for something. A choice. A decision. Shitsubo only stared back, silent as stone.
Juro exploded. "Are you all insane? Some scribbles on a wall and suddenly there's a promised land waiting for us? You think the Aggressors are leaving anyone alone? You think any 'light' is burning except their fires?" He jabbed a finger at the old man. "You're desperate, and you're making stories out of shadows. That's how people die."
"Better than waiting to rot here," Daigo shot back.
"Better than following your precious friend into hell?" Juro snarled. "Tell me, Daigo—how many more will he hollow out before you stop pretending he's a savior?"
The words hit harder than stones. The sisters looked away. The old man coughed into his sleeve. Even Genji's jaw tightened, though his eyes never left Shitsubo.
Shitsubo's curse writhed, feeding on the storm of feelings. It wanted him to lash out, to devour Juro's defiance and silence him forever. But Shitsubo held still. Every second was a blade pressing into his throat.
Genji's voice, sharp as a whip, cut through. "Enough." He stepped forward, torch raised, eyes hard on Juro. "You want to keep talking, fine. But you walk away from the group. You face the night alone."
Juro's lips twisted into something between a smile and a snarl. "So that's it? Fall in line or get thrown to the wolves?" He laughed, a sound with no joy. "That's not survival. That's worship." His gaze flicked past Genji, pinning Shitsubo. "And he's your god."
The silence after that was suffocating.
The torch hissed in Genji's hand. Daigo opened his mouth to argue, but no words came. The sisters stared at the ground. The old man muttered a prayer under his breath.
And Shitsubo—Shitsubo stood at the edge of the group, eyes shadowed, throat raw with words that would never come. He hated Juro's voice. Hated his logic. Hated that it sounded like truth.
But more than that, he hated the hunger inside him that agreed.
They moved on, but the cracks were there now. Every step carried them forward, but every word had carved deeper into the fragile trust binding them.
Rumors of sanctuary clung to them like smoke. For some, it was hope. For others, delusion. And for Shitsubo, it was nothing but a shadow on the horizon.