Seigi's apartment felt smaller than usual that night. The hum of the fridge, the slow drip from the kitchen sink, even the tick of the old wall clock sounded like intruders trying to remind him that this was still a normal life. He sat at the table with the Veil's note folded neatly beside his cup, the words burned into memory whether the paper was there or not.
The badge on his desk glinted faintly in the lamplight. Next to it, an old notebook lay open, pages filled with sketches from years ago—arrows pointing to stick figures, words like focus and timing circled over and over. Childhood obsession and adult duty, side by side.
His phone buzzed.
Renji: You alive, partner? Haven't seen you at the precinct in days.
Seigi's eyes stayed on the text longer than necessary, the silence in the apartment pressing heavier with every second. Another message came through.
Renji: Don't tell me you're skipping out just to play superhero with those Guild weirdos.
Seigi's jaw tightened. He almost typed back something sharp, defensive, but the phone buzzed again before he could.
Renji: …Sorry. That was out of line. Long week. Just making sure you're good.
Then a follow-up, almost hesitant.
Renji: Kids miss seeing you. Wife says hello. Don't be a stranger, yeah?
Seigi hovered his thumbs over the keyboard. Words formed and vanished: I'm fine. You wouldn't understand. I wish I could tell you. None of them felt right.
At last he sent the barest truth.
Seigi: I'm managing.
The screen stayed empty. No reply came.
The silence from Renji felt heavier than any message.
He pushed the phone aside and rubbed his temples. For a moment he almost reached for a cigarette, though he didn't smoke. Maybe he just wanted to feel the ritual, to copy Sato's way of steadying himself against the weight.
The apartment seemed to close in further. A pile of laundry left unfolded on the chair. A ramen cup on the counter from a night he couldn't remember. On the shelf, a photo frame turned slightly askew—his parents at a festival, faces caught mid-laughter. He stared at it until his chest ached, then looked away.
The need to breathe different air pulled him to the balcony.
Tokyo stretched out, alive in gold and neon, restless even at this hour. The city didn't sleep; it only shifted weight. From up here, its pulse looked steady, but Seigi knew better. Underneath, pressure built in fault lines no one else could see.
"You've got that look again."
Hana's voice was soft but certain. She leaned against the railing like she'd been there the whole time, her coat brushing the wind.
Seigi didn't turn. "What look?"
"The one that says you're trying to balance two worlds without admitting one is already winning."
Her words cut, not unkind but unavoidable.
He exhaled slowly. "And which world is winning?"
"That's the wrong question," she said. Her gaze never left the skyline. "The right question is which one you'll let win."
They stood in silence for a long moment, the hum of the city filling the gaps.
Seigi spoke first. "Kurogami talks about symbols like they're weapons. About people being doors instead of people. I'm not sure if he sees me as someone worth saving… or just worth using."
Hana's eyes softened, though her voice carried steel. "Maybe both. But you're the only one who gets to decide which you'll be."
The words lingered, heavy and sharp, but steadier than his thoughts had been all night.
Below, movement caught his eye. A man stood at the street corner too long, head tilted toward the building, his cigarette burning down to ash without being lifted to his mouth. He moved on eventually, but not fast enough.
Seigi's hand tightened on the balcony rail until the metal groaned faintly.
"They're watching?" Hana asked quietly.
"They never stopped," Seigi muttered.
Hana touched his arm lightly, then let go. "Then don't give them the ending they expect."
When she left, the air felt colder. Seigi stayed at the railing, tracing the skyline with tired eyes. The note on his desk might as well have been tattooed on his skin.
Every thread is paid for. With hope, or with hurt.
The city below never slept. And neither, he realized, could he.