The night crept in slowly, the ruined store settling into silence broken only by the distant shuffle of the dead. The survivors huddled together in uneven patches of shadow, but no one slept as soundly as Saya. She clung to Imura as though welded to him, soft breaths escaping her lips, her slender frame curled against his chest like a child who had finally found sanctuary.
Rin lay against the far wall, but her gray eyes refused to close. She kept glancing at them—at him—her jaw tight, her fists clenched. Every sigh, every brush of his hand through Saya's hair was another thorn under her skin. She told herself it was disgust. She told herself it was pity for Saya. But her body's heat betrayed her, and every denial only burned deeper.
Natsumi was different.
She sat on a broken chair, her back straight, her auburn hair falling across her face in loose strands. Her eyes never left Imura—not with the fear Saya had, nor the resistance Rin clung to, but with something sharper. Calculating. Curious. Watching him not as prey, nor as savior, but as puzzle.
Imura had been waiting for this moment.
When Saya finally drifted into deeper sleep, her grip loosening just enough for him to move, he lifted her gently onto a folded jacket. She whimpered faintly but didn't stir. Rin's gaze flicked instantly to him, suspicion flashing across her face, but she didn't move or speak.
Instead, he stood and crossed the ruined floor toward Natsumi. His steps were unhurried, but deliberate, every inch of his presence filling the broken space.
Natsumi didn't flinch. She leaned back slightly, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. The sharpness in her eyes was intact, though he caught the faintest flicker beneath it—uncertainty, anticipation, hunger she hadn't named yet.
"You've been watching me since the moment I found you," he said softly. His voice wasn't raised, but it carried, steady and controlled. "You've seen more than most would admit. So tell me—what do you think I am?"
Her lips parted, then closed again. She studied him in silence, the flickering candlelight painting shadows across her face. Finally, she answered, voice low and deliberate.
"Dangerous."
Imura's smirk widened. "True. But that's not the whole answer."
Her breath caught, just slightly, betraying her composure.
"You're also… something else," she admitted, her tone faltering now, betraying the fracture beneath her steel. "Someone who bends people. Someone who makes them… need you."
His gaze sharpened. He leaned closer, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath, his voice dropping to a murmur.
"And what about you, Natsumi? Do you need me?"
Her eyes widened, her body stiffening against the chair. She wanted to deny it—every inch of her screamed to—but the words caught in her throat. She clenched her fists, forcing herself to look away, but he caught her chin between his fingers, tilting her face back toward him.
The touch was light, not forceful, but it froze her all the same.
"You're not here because you trust me," he continued softly. "You're here because you know without me, you won't last. You've already chosen, Natsumi. You just haven't admitted it yet."
Her pulse raced under his touch. She swallowed hard, lips trembling as she whispered, "You're wrong."
But the way her body leaned ever so slightly toward him betrayed the lie.
Across the room, Rin turned her face away, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, while Saya shifted in her sleep, murmuring his name like a prayer.
Imura released Natsumi at last, his smirk lingering as he straightened. He didn't press further—not yet. He had drawn the first crack, and he knew she would break herself open soon enough.
"Sleep," he told her calmly, turning his back as though he already knew she couldn't resist. "Tomorrow, you'll understand better."
Natsumi sat frozen, her breath uneven, her body trembling faintly with a mixture of fear and something she didn't dare name.
The threads tightened. Another piece was slipping into his grasp.