The second night bled into silence heavier than the first. Outside, the world was all groans and scraping claws against concrete, but inside the ruined store, the weight pressing down came from the people.
Saya was a constant shadow at Imura's side. Even awake, she hardly lifted her head from his chest, as though she feared vanishing if she lost contact. Her small hands gripped his shirt whenever he moved, her brown eyes glassy and dazed, whispering his name under her breath like it alone kept her sane.
Rin had retreated into the farthest corner, knees drawn to her chest, face turned away from them all. Her gray eyes burned with exhaustion and something more corrosive—jealousy, fury, shame, tangled so tightly it strangled her. Every laugh Saya breathed, every soft word from Imura, was a hook tearing deeper.
And then there was Natsumi.
She hadn't left since stepping forward, though her body was coiled like a spring, as if prepared to bolt at any second. She sat with her knees pulled up on the broken chair, auburn hair falling across her cheek, her sharp eyes fixed on Imura. Not in fear, not in longing—not exactly. She was trying to solve him.
Imura encouraged it.
He let her watch. He let her compare the helpless dependency of Saya to the furious resistance of Rin, and the silent unraveling happening inside herself. He didn't press too fast. He never did. He only gave small touches of pressure, nudges of words, and let the weight of her own need drag her closer.
It was working.
When Saya finally drifted into uneasy sleep, her body curled tightly against him, Imura shifted. He lifted her gently, placing her on the folded jacket again. She stirred but didn't wake. Rin's gaze followed him like a hawk, her jaw set, but she said nothing.
And then he moved toward Natsumi.
She stiffened, but didn't look away. Her hands clenched the fabric of her jacket, her pulse jumping in her throat.
Imura crouched in front of her, his dark eyes leveled on hers. "Still watching?" he asked softly.
Her lips parted, then pressed shut.
He smirked. "Careful. If you stare too long, you'll fall in."
"I don't fall," she whispered back, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
His hand brushed a loose strand of auburn hair from her face, the touch feather-light. She inhaled sharply, her body stiff, but she didn't pull away.
"You already have," he murmured.
The silence between them throbbed, thick and heavy. She clenched her fists tighter, eyes darting for a second toward Saya's sleeping form, then Rin's watching glare, before snapping back to him.
"This… thing you're doing," she said, voice breaking on the edge of steadiness, "you make them—" she jerked her chin toward the others—"cling to you. Lose themselves in you. And you're waiting for me to do the same."
Imura leaned closer, until she could feel the warmth of him, the sharp edge of his presence pressing into her.
"I don't wait, Natsumi," he said softly. "I decide. The only choice you have is whether you'll admit it now… or later, when you're too far gone to lie to yourself anymore."
Her breath came faster, her chest rising and falling. She wanted to deny it, to snap at him, to prove she was different—but her body betrayed her. Her knees shifted slightly apart, her pulse hammered in her throat, and her eyes locked on his lips before she yanked them back up to his.
Rin's fists tightened in the corner, her nails digging into her palms so hard she nearly drew blood. Saya murmured in her sleep, reaching unconsciously for the warmth she had lost.
And Natsumi whispered, her voice trembling but audible:
"…I hate that you're right."
Imura's smile deepened.
He didn't kiss her. Not yet. He leaned back just enough to let the tension twist tighter, leaving her trembling in her chair, her body screaming at her for something she refused to name.
"You'll learn to love it," he said calmly, rising again.
Rin turned her head sharply away, but the redness of her cheeks betrayed her. Natsumi sat frozen, her lips parted, her hands trembling against her knees. Saya shifted restlessly in sleep, murmuring his name again like a child's prayer.
And Imura, at the center, smiled faintly.
Three threads pulled taut. Three pieces tangled together. And all of them already his.