The photo lingered on Airi's phone screen like a curse that refused to fade.
Ren stared at it, lips pressed into a grim line. His fingers trembled—not from fear, but fury. This wasn't a coincidence. It wasn't a bluff.
It was a message.
He's watching us.
The silence between them stretched like a crack in glass.
Airi was the first to speak, but her voice was tight. "This isn't just about you anymore."
"I know," Ren said. "I'm sorry."
She turned to him, blinking hard. "I'm not asking for apologies. I'm asking what we're going to do."
They spent the night at Yui's apartment. She didn't ask questions when they showed up unannounced—just gave them blankets, made tea, and turned on soft music like it might guard them from reality.
Ren lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Airi curled up nearby, but neither of them could sleep.
"Do you think he's capable of… more?" she asked.
Ren didn't answer right away. "He always liked power more than people."
"That's not an answer."
Ren closed his eyes. "Yes. I think he's capable of hurting you. Of hurting us."
Airi's breath caught, but she nodded. "Then we need to decide: do we disappear… or confront him?"
The next morning, Yui brought them breakfast and news.
"I checked with a friend who works in cybersecurity. The number that sent that photo—it's untraceable. Probably a burner. But it was sent through a relay server with a Tokyo IP address."
"So he's nearby," Ren murmured.
Yui nodded. "Or he wants you to think he is."
"Doesn't matter," Airi said. "He crossed a line. He wants you scared, isolated."
Ren's hand tightened around his coffee mug.
"He doesn't get to win again."
They made a plan.
Ren would go to the police—not to press charges yet, but to begin documenting the harassment. They'd file a formal report if another message came.
Airi, meanwhile, contacted a lawyer she knew from work. Just in case.
But that wasn't the hard part.
The hard part was waiting.
That evening, they returned to Ren's apartment.
Airi stood by the window, watching the city shimmer under the first hints of twilight.
"I used to love the quiet," she said softly. "Now it feels like he's watching even the stillness."
Ren joined her, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind. She leaned back into him.
"I wish I could promise you it'll all go away."
"I don't want promises," she whispered. "I want us."
Later, they sat on the balcony. Ren had his sketchbook open, Airi resting her head on his shoulder.
He was drawing something different tonight—not shadows, not storms.
He was sketching her hands.
Gentle. Steady.
Capable of holding fragile things without breaking them.
But peace didn't last.
Around midnight, Ren's phone buzzed again.
No number.
Just a video.
He clicked it.
The screen showed him—last week—outside the hospital.
Walking alone.
Then the camera tilted slightly… revealing Masaki's reflection in a nearby glass door. Smiling.
Watching.
Ren's blood went cold.
Airi saw his face and reached for the phone. When she watched it, she didn't speak.
Not at first.
Then she whispered, "This isn't a warning anymore."
Ren nodded slowly. "It's a hunt."
The next day, he filed the report.
The officer wasn't dismissive—but he wasn't hopeful either.
"Unless there's direct contact or harm, we can't do much. It's harassment, yes—but unless he threatens physical violence, it's difficult to pursue legally."
Ren left the station with the paperwork clutched tightly in his hand, as if the thin sheets might offer protection.
They didn't.
Back home, the tension was thick.
Airi moved differently. Quieter. Her laughter, once bright and open, had dimmed to a nervous chuckle. Even her eyes—so full of fire—held something else now.
Fatigue.
Ren saw it.
Felt it.
And hated himself for it.
That night, he stood on the balcony again. Rain fell softly, barely more than mist, but he let it soak through his shirt.
Airi joined him, wrapped in a blanket.
"I want to go away," she said.
He turned to her.
"Just for a while. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere he can't find us."
Ren hesitated. "Running won't stop him."
"No," she agreed. "But maybe it'll give us time to remember what peace feels like."
Ren looked out at the city. He thought about the weight he carried—the childhood bruises, the nightmares, the twisted love his brother offered like a poison apple.
Then he looked at Airi.
And he nodded.
"Okay."
They packed the next day. Yui offered to house-sit and keep watch for any signs of Masaki.
Airi chose a coastal town a few hours away—quiet, slow, full of sea breeze and small bookstores.
As the train pulled out of the station, Ren finally exhaled.
Airi took his hand in hers.
He didn't speak, but his grip said enough.
But even distance couldn't mute the past.
At the inn, Ren woke in the middle of the night, heart racing, throat dry.
The dream had returned.
The hallway.
The footsteps.
Only this time, when he turned around, the person chasing him wasn't Masaki.
It was himself.
Older. Harder. With Masaki's eyes.
He stumbled into the bathroom, splashing water on his face.
Airi found him there minutes later.
"You're not okay," she said softly.
He looked at her reflection in the mirror.
"I don't know how to stop carrying him inside me."
Airi stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him.
"Then let me carry you until you can."