Dawn came gray and thin, light seeping through the jagged skyline like blood through a bandage. The survivors moved quietly, shoulders hunched, eyes low. The night's fire had burned out, leaving only cold ash.
Shitsubo led, his steps silent on the broken pavement. Daigo followed close, his spear slung across his shoulder. Behind them trailed the others—ragged silhouettes, clutching scraps of weapons, bags, or nothing at all. Juro walked near the middle of the group, his expression unreadable.
Their destination was the subway station at Shinsaibashi. Flooded tunnels and drowned rails, but rumors whispered of vending machines still intact, offices with locked cabinets, forgotten caches of food or batteries.
As they descended the cracked steps into the station, the air changed—damp, cold, carrying the sour tang of mildew. Water lapped at the lower steps, reflecting the faint shafts of daylight above. Shadows stretched long across the walls, bending into strange shapes.
"Quiet," Shitsubo hissed, raising a hand. His eyes scanned the gloom.
The survivors obeyed, their breaths shallow. Only the drip of water broke the silence, echoing like distant footsteps.
For a time, they moved carefully through the tunnels, flashlights flickering weakly. A few scavenged cans were found, dented but sealed, tucked into bags with trembling hands. The tension eased—just a little.
Then a voice, hushed but sharp, cut the air.
"We should head toward Namba," muttered one of the younger survivors, clutching a crowbar. "If there's even a chance the rumors are true—"
Shitsubo froze mid-step. His head turned, eyes narrowing. "You're still clinging to that fantasy?"
The survivor faltered but pressed on. "It's better than dying down here, picking scraps like rats. Maybe Juro's wrong. Maybe there is—"
"Stop."
It was Juro's voice. Calm, precise, delivered into the silence like a knife pressed to a throat.
He didn't shout. He didn't sneer. He simply spoke as though the tunnel itself demanded truth.
"If there were a refuge," he said, "we would not be here." His words echoed in the dripping dark, each syllable slow and heavy. "Look around you. We scrape for cans, sleep in filth, bleed in shadows. Do you think those in Namba—if they exist—would not notice the rest of Osaka rotting alive? No one builds walls and lights while the city burns. Not unless they mean to keep you out."
The younger man swallowed, eyes darting toward the ground.
Juro stepped forward, the water rippling around his boots. "Hope is fine. But false hope will lead you further into the dark than any Aggressor. Better to starve on truth than choke on lies."
His tone was even, unflinching. Yet Daigo, walking behind him, saw the way his shoulders tightened, the brief tremor in his fingers as he adjusted his grip on his flashlight. Fear. Hidden well, but present.
Shitsubo's lips curled into a thin smile. "You talk like a scholar counting bones. Tell me, Juro—do you feel proud when you crush their dreams? Or is it just that you're too afraid to act?"
The survivors stiffened. Their eyes flicked between the two men.
Juro's reply came like a scalpel. "I act every time I speak. I choose to face the world as it is, not as I wish it to be. That's more courage than swinging your curse around like a hammer."
Shitsubo's chest tightened, the curse in his veins whispering, hungry. He imagined drowning Juro in the stagnant water, silencing him forever. But Daigo's glance caught his eye again—steady, warning.
The group pressed deeper into the tunnels. A rusted shutter gave way to a staff office. Inside, they found a stash of water bottles, half-collapsed but sealed. Relief rippled through the survivors, their whispers soft, almost joyous. For a moment, the tension thinned.
But Juro, standing near the doorway, spoke again—quieter this time, almost weary.
"You see? This is survival. Not rumors, not fairy tales. Just hands, searching in the dark, finding what's real."
His words weren't cruel. They were matter-of-fact, stripped of ornament. Yet they carried more weight than any sermon.
The survivors looked at him, then at Shitsubo. A silent comparison. One offered fear, one offered truth. Neither offered hope.
The group packed their spoils and moved on. But the air between Shitsubo and Juro thickened with every step.
At the far end of the tunnel, they paused. Water stretched ahead, deeper now, swallowing the tracks. The way forward was half-flooded, half-collapsed. The survivors hesitated, shuffling nervously.
Shitsubo turned to them. His voice cut through the stillness, dark and sharp. "You heard him. He thinks you should crawl through filth forever. Me? I say we carve our own path. Power doesn't wait. It takes."
A murmur rose. Some nodded, drawn to his conviction. Others looked back at Juro, whose calm stare hadn't faltered.
"You'll follow him," Juro said quietly, "because he promises strength. And when that strength devours you, you'll wonder why no one spoke against it. Remember this moment. Remember that I told you the truth."
The tunnel fell silent again. Even the water seemed to hold its breath.
Shitsubo turned away sharply, his jaw clenched, hatred coiling tighter inside him. Juro hadn't shouted, hadn't postured—but somehow, his quiet defiance felt heavier than steel.
And Daigo, trailing behind, saw it again—the flicker of fear in Juro's hand as he steadied his flashlight. The calm was a mask, and beneath it, the man was terrified.
But he spoke anyway.