The day stretched long inside the ruined store, as if time itself had grown sluggish. Dust motes floated in the air where sunlight filtered through shattered windows, glinting in streaks of gold. Outside, the world roared with danger—the guttural cries of mutants, the distant crash of collapsing structures—but inside, the atmosphere was different. Heavy. Personal.
Imura sat at the center of it all, calm and steady, while the three girls around him each came undone in their own ways.
Saya hardly left his side. Wherever he moved, her steps followed—small, hesitant, but constant, like a shadow afraid to be torn away from the light. She clung to the hem of his shirt when he stood, tugged at his sleeve when he reached for supplies, curled against his arm when he sat. Her big brown eyes were glassy, her lips often quivering with unspoken fear. Every glance at Natsumi tightened her grip, every look at Rin made her bury her face harder against him.
"Don't… don't forget me," she whispered more than once, her voice thin as paper.
And every time, Imura's hand settled into her hair, stroking, reassuring, steady. "I won't. You're mine."
The words soothed her instantly, though they also deepened the pit inside her. She didn't see it. Imura did. He always did.
Natsumi, by contrast, was restless.
She busied herself with pointless tasks—straightening debris, sharpening the knife she rarely used, adjusting her clothes in nervous little tugs. Her auburn hair was tied back now, her sharp features set in a tight mask, but her swollen lips and the faint redness at her throat betrayed her. She avoided Imura's eyes whenever Saya was near, guilt and pride warring in her expression.
Yet when she thought no one was watching, her gaze drifted. To his hands. To his shoulders. To the place where Saya pressed against him. Every look lingered too long, her breath shallow, her fingers trembling faintly.
The memory of his touch haunted her. She could still feel it, like fire under her skin. And worse—she wanted it again.
She hated herself for that. But the hate wasn't strong enough to extinguish the hunger.
Rin, meanwhile, was a storm bottled too tight.
She kept her distance, leaning against the far wall, arms folded, eyes sharp and cold. She hadn't spoken much since dawn. She didn't need to. Her glare was constant, searing through him, through Natsumi, through Saya—especially Saya.
The youngest's soft whimpers and desperate clinging made Rin's jaw tighten until it hurt. Every broken whisper of "Don't leave me, Imura" was like a needle under her skin. And worse, Imura's calm reassurances weren't lies. He meant them.
That was the part Rin couldn't bear.
She hated his calm, his confidence, his control over all of them. She hated how her eyes kept sliding back to him anyway, how her chest burned hotter every time his gaze lingered on her too long.
It was during midday, when the light outside burned brightest, that the tension inside cracked further.
Saya had dozed off against Imura's chest, her soft breathing warm against him. His hand idly stroked her hair, slow and deliberate. Natsumi sat nearby, pretending to sharpen her blade, though her eyes flicked toward them every few seconds.
"You're making her dependent," Rin said suddenly, her voice sharp, cutting through the silence.
Imura glanced at her. Calm. Amused. "She already is."
Rin's gray eyes narrowed. "You're using her weakness."
"She came to me," he replied smoothly. His hand never stopped stroking Saya's hair. "She clings because she knows I won't drop her."
Natsumi's knife slipped, the scrape of metal against stone too loud. She froze, biting her lip, guilt flashing across her face.
Rin caught it. Her glare sharpened. "And you?" she snapped at Natsumi. "You gave in too."
Natsumi's breath hitched, her pride sparking. She gripped the knife harder, staring at the floor. "…Shut up."
"Pathetic," Rin spat, though her voice trembled faintly.
Imura chuckled softly. The sound wasn't mocking. It was certain, low, threading under all their nerves. "You speak like you're above them, Rin. But you've already cracked."
Her entire body jolted. Her glare shot to him, blazing, defensive. "I haven't—"
"You're lying to yourself," he cut in, voice steady, unshaken. "You haven't slept. You've been watching me all night. And now, you can't take your eyes off me."
Rin's chest heaved. Her fists trembled, her gray eyes burning with fury—and something else. Shame. Fear. Longing.
"Soon," he murmured again, the same word as before, calm and inevitable.
Her breath hitched so hard it hurt. She tore her gaze away, turning her back to them, pressing her forehead to the wall as her whole body shook.
But the word lingered.
It lingered the rest of the day. It lingered as Saya whimpered in her sleep, as Natsumi chewed her lip raw, as Imura's steady presence anchored them all.
And Rin knew—whether she admitted it or not—that the crack inside her was widening.