The group's uneasy quiet stretched into the afternoon, the hours marked only by the occasional groan of the ruined building settling under its own weight and the distant, guttural cries of the undead outside. Inside, it was a different kind of suffocating.
Saya never strayed from Imura's side. If he so much as shifted, she clung tighter, brown eyes darting nervously as though the world might swallow him whole if she loosened her grip. She had even stopped speaking much, her voice saved only for hushed murmurs against his chest—small pleas, promises, or fragments of dreams she barely realized she was voicing.
Rin was a storm bottled up, and the glass was cracking. She prowled the edges of the room, gray eyes flicking constantly toward Saya and Imura, then away, then back again. Her restlessness was palpable, the friction between what she told herself she felt and what her body betrayed gnawing at her.
And then there was Natsumi.
She didn't cling. She didn't lash out. She simply watched.
Her auburn hair caught the dim light whenever she moved, ragged strands falling across her face. She had cleaned herself up a little—wiping some of the grime from her cheeks, tightening her torn jacket around her slender frame—but she remained rough around the edges, her sharp eyes calculating even when she seemed still.
Imura noticed everything, of course. Every glance, every flinch, every unspoken thought written in the curve of their shoulders or the way they breathed. He was patient, letting silence stretch, letting them stew in themselves. Pressure made diamonds—and it made cracks.
Finally, Rin broke first.
She shoved away from the wall with a sharp motion. "This is insane," she snapped, her voice loud in the stale air. "We can't just sit here letting him—" Her hand jerked toward Imura—"act like he owns everything. We should be moving, finding food, finding people, not—"
Her words cut off when Imura stood without hurry, Saya still clutching at him like a child to a parent. His eyes found Rin's, steady, unblinking, his smile faint but steeped in authority.
"Not what?" he asked, calm, almost lazy.
Rin faltered, her fists tightening. "Not… whatever this is."
He stepped closer, not threatening, just filling her space until she felt his presence like heat against her skin. "You think you're still deciding for yourself," he said softly. "But tell me, Rin—why are you still here?"
Her breath hitched. She wanted to answer. She wanted to scream that she hated him, that she was staying for survival, that she'd rather die than give him what he wanted. But nothing came out. Her throat locked, and all she could manage was a broken exhale.
Saya's grip on him tightened, as if to remind Rin who had already chosen.
And then Natsumi spoke.
"Because she doesn't know what she wants yet."
Both Rin and Saya froze, heads snapping toward her. Natsumi hadn't moved from her spot, but her eyes were sharp, unwavering, dissecting the moment like a knife.
Imura tilted his head, smirk widening just slightly. "Interesting."
Rin glared at her, cheeks burning. "You don't know a damn thing about me."
"No," Natsumi admitted, her tone even, "but I know people who fight hardest against what they feel usually end up falling the hardest." Her gaze flicked to Imura then, quick but deliberate. "And he knows it too."
Silence stretched, heavy and cutting. Rin's chest rose and fell fast, her nails biting into her palms hard enough to draw blood. Saya clung tighter, muttering something broken against Imura's shirt. And Imura himself only stood there, letting the words simmer, letting the fractures deepen.
He stepped back at last, breaking the taut string of tension, and settled down again with Saya in his lap. "You're more perceptive than most, Natsumi," he said lightly. "But you're holding back. Why?"
Her lips pressed together. For a moment she looked almost cornered, then her sharpness returned, though it was tempered now with something else. Curiosity. Wariness. Need.
"I don't trust easily," she said simply. "Not after… everything."
He chuckled. "Good. Neither do I. But unlike you, I don't need to."
His words hung in the air like a promise and a threat all at once.
The hours wore on. Tension ebbed and surged in waves, but the current was constant: Saya's trembling dependency, Rin's simmering conflict, and Natsumi's quiet, assessing gaze. Imura sat at the center of it all, his patience unshakable, his control only tightening with every passing moment.
By nightfall, the group had shifted without realizing it. Rin no longer barked or moved far from him. Natsumi had inched closer, close enough that she no longer seemed separate from them. And Saya—Saya had fallen asleep on him again, clutching him as though her life depended on it.
Imura's smile was faint but satisfied. Threads were tangling. And soon enough, they would be knotted so tightly none of them could ever break free.