The mood inside the bunker was calmer like the childhood that settles after laughter.
Everyone had changed out of their costumes. The air smelled full of dust, candle wax, and the cheap perfume Grace had used to "freshen" the bunker earlier.
Grace walked in wearing her long brown coat over a modest dress, her version of "fancy." The survivors, sitting around the hall, were gossiping in quiet excitement, still replaying moments from the play. Some laughed about Vera's dramatic robot scene; others whispered about Elior's "kingly speech."
Inside one of the smaller rooms, the group had gathered. Rosario leaned back in a creaky chair, Arlong half-asleep with his leg hanging off the bed, Johan sitting cross-legged on the floor with a biscuit between his teeth. Elior rested near the table, one arm on his knee. Tom sat beside him, still holding the small teapot Grace had just brought.
Grace set down the tray with quiet care, the steam from the tea curling into the air.
"Here," she said, smiling. "Try not to spill it this time, Johan."
Johan squinted up at her. "That was one time and the floor looked thirsty, I couldn't handle its suffering...."
Grace rolled her eyes, the faintest grin crossing her face, then walked out again, the tails of her coat swaying behind her.
The moment the door shut, the gossip resumed with soft chuckles, fragments of plans for tomorrow dawn, a few jokes about
Johan's "dramatic emperor face."
Except Vera. He sat by the corner, arms crossed, quietly observing them all. His expression calm, almost like a statue, but his eyes gave away that quiet contentment only found in small, shared moments like these.
Tom stirred his tea absentmindedly, his eyes narrowing at the rising bulb. Something clicked in his mind. An idea with even curiosity. He stared at the teapot.
"Hmm," he murmured.
Rosario noticed. "Don't tell me you're gonna talk to it."
"No talk," Tom said. "Control."
He stretched out his hand and pointed a finger, his focus became sharper. The air around the teapot shimmered faintly. A visible swirl of wind began to spin around it, trembling slightly like the bunker was holding its breath in the spot together.
The pot lifted. Slowly, carefully, as if it were being held by invisible fingers.
Rosario's eyes widened. Arlong blinked awake noticing it.
"That is cool! " Johan whispered. "He's actually learning it."
The teapot floated, turning slightly in the air. Tom smiled faintly, a quiet pride glinting in his eyes.
Elior leaned back, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
"Not bad." he said. "Keep going like that, and you'll surpass me someday."
Tom chuckled. "If that ever happens, I'll make you my assistant."
"Assistant?" Elior scoffed. "Over my dead—"
He lifted his cup, took a sip—
—and immediately hissed. "Hot—hot—HOT!"
He jumped to his feet, half coughing, half choking, his expression the picture of agony and disbelief. The others burst into laughter as Elior stumbled toward the door, flailing like a man at war with his own mouth.
"Careful, Sailor!" Rosario shouted between laughs. "Your Majesty's under attack! You need to Sail the ship!"
Elior kicked the door open dramatically, yelling, "IT'S LAVA, NOT TEA!" and stormed outside, leaving a trail of laughter resounding behind him.
The room shook with chuckles. Even Vera cracked a brief smile.
Johan leaned back, grinning. "That's the face of the man I'm supposed to take orders from."
Tom smirked, still watching the door Elior had slammed open. "Guess, even heroes can't handle a hot sip of tea from a gentlewoman."
Rosario wiped a tear of laughter from his eye. "Yeah, but at least he exits like one."
The survivors outside still chatted under the flickering light, the night calm and quiet once again.
The Moon's yellow light spilled like honey across the cold sand, painting everything with a strange beauty that felt both peaceful and haunted.
Grace sat on the dune just outside the bunker, legs folded close, her coat wrapped around her shoulders. The wind brushed through her hair, and the sound of it.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the broken moon. Her thoughts weren't.
Should I tell him?
Her heart whispered it again and again.
She liked Elior. Not the way you admire someone strong or follow someone brave. She loved him the way heart loves a heartbeat. The way stars love the dark sky that lets them shine.
But how could she tell him?
Would he even understand? Would he reject her, smile kindly and turn away? Or pretend not to notice, out of pity?
She pressed her hands together and breathed out, her mind spiraling.
Maybe I'll tell him tomorrow, she thought. When everything is over, quiet…. when it's just the two of us.
Then a quiet voice came beside her, almost blending with the wind.
"You think too loud."
Grace jumped slightly, turning around.
Elior was sitting right next to her. Calm as if he'd been there forever, his eyes fixed on the same moon.
"How long have you been here!?" she asked, voice rising a little.
He shrugged. "Just now or a while as you can say."
Elior chuckled under his breath. "The sky looks strange tonight," he said softly, ignoring her fluster. "It's horrifying.… but beautiful too."
She followed his gaze. The clouds around the moon were like wounds of gold in the blackness. "Yes," she said quietly, "like both sides of a story."
Silence lingered between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.
Grace wanted to say everything.
Her heart kept shouting, Tell him, tell him now.
But her lips stayed sealed. She bit them gently, trying to control the trembling in her chest.
Elior reached down suddenly, picked up a handful of sand then, without hesitation, tossed it into his mouth.
Grace blinked. "Elior? WHAT are you doing!?"
He chewed once, made a face, and spat it out. "Hmm. Tastes about the same as last time."
She stood up, hands on hips. "Why the hell are you eating sand!?"
He laughed softly, brushing his palms. "I don't know. Guess old habits die hard."
Grace groaned, covering her face. "Say what you want to eat, I'll cook something. Don't just start munching the planet!"
He looked up at her, still smiling, but his tone changed—quieter, distant.
"I have eaten worse," he said. "When I first spawned into this world, sixty-seven years ago…. our survivor team was starving for seven days… and seventy nights of waiting for help that never came."
Grace's expression softened immediately.
Elior's eyes darkened as he spoke, like he was watching ghosts.
"People went mad. They killed the older ones first. Then the children. We told ourselves it was mercy. We ate to live. But I can still remember the taste. You don't forget something like that. Survival's a bitch that made me eat innocence raw, just because I was an idiot that time."
Grace said nothing. Her chest felt uncomfortable, words caught somewhere between pity and pain.
Elior exhaled, breaking his gaze from the moon. He reached into thin air, his fingers touching a faint shimmering screen, the system window. His hand went through it like water, and he pulled something out from his inventory.
A small wristband woven from tiny, faded flowers, each petal tinted with gentle colors. Pink, blue, gold, white. Despite the age, it still glowed a lot, alive somehow.
He held it carefully, like something very
precious. "I found this on a side quest," he said quietly. "When Johan, Tom, and Arlong went for the Twilight Sect's camp. The locals said it brings luck and new beginnings and…. symbolizes beauty of nature."
He smiled faintly and reached for her wrist. Grace froze, watching his rough hands tie the small band gently around her.
The petals shimmered in the moonlight, catching bits of yellow glow.
"For you," he said simply. "You'll need more luck than I do."
Her voice came out small. "Why?"
"Because you still believe in people," he said. "That's the hardest thing to do in this world."
Grace looked down at the bracelet, blinking fast so tears wouldn't fall. Her heart felt too full.
She tried to say thank you, but all that came out was, "You.… such an idiot sometimes."
Elior chuckled. "Takes one to know one."
They sat there under the fractured moon, the sand whispering around them.
Grace leaned slightly closer, just enough for their shoulders to brush.
Before that,
Elior stood up all of a sudden, brushing off his coat. Grace looked up, still holding her wrist where the little flower band shimmered faintly.
He smiled, quiet but sure. "We still have a lot of work to do," he said. "Can't sit under moons forever."
Grace nodded, a little disappointed but trying not to show it. ".…You're right," she murmured.
Elior gave one last look at the sky, then turned toward the bunker. His shadow stretched long across the sand, breaking in the uneven dunes until it disappeared behind the hill.
Back at the bunker window, three figures crouched awkwardly whom faces were half-squished together.
Johan had one eye pressed against a crack in the metal frame. Rosario was biting his knuckle to stop from laughing, and Tom, poor Tom was holding up a cooking pot lid like it was a telescope.
"Look at 'em," Johan whispered, grinning. "That's the "I'm about to confess but can't" posture. Classic."
Rosario snorted. "Nah, she's too nervous. Watch she is doing that little coat-tug thing again. It's over, she's done for."
Tom shook his head seriously. "You guys don't get it. This is peak romantic tension. He's gonna wait, wait! He's standing up! He's standing—"
The reflection on the pot lid showed something behind them.
A familiar silhouette.
They turned slowly behind.
Elior was standing right there. Arms crossed. Expression eerie and unreadable.
No one breathed just acting like nothing happened.
"Enjoying the show?" he asked, voice calm but sharp enough to cut glass.
Rosario instantly straightened up. "Oh, hey boss, we were just.... uh.... admiring the, uh, structural integrity of the bunker window. Very impressive craftsmanship."
Tom saluted for no reason. "Sir, yes sir, best window I've ever spied through— I mean, seen— I mean I have seen through."
Johan sighed, facepalming. "....We're dead, aren't we?"
Elior's expression stayed still for a few seconds. Then, finally, he smirked just barely.
"Next time you want to watch a romance," he said, turning away, "at least bring popcorn. Also bring me one before spying."
The three exhaled in unison as he walked off, the door swinging behind him.
Rosario wiped his forehead. "Man.… I almost ascended to the afterlife for real this time."
Tom groaned, burying his face in the pot lid. "And here I thought stealth was my specialty."
Johan chuckled, leaning back against the cold wall. "At least we confirmed it."
"Confirmed what?" Rosario asked.
"That our fearless leader has zero clue what's happening right in front of him."
The three of them burst into muffled laughter, the sound resounding quietly through the metal hall as the moonlight streamed slightly through the shattered glass.