Chapter 7: Development.
Perspective: ???
There's something curious in this world.
Everyone here fights as if they understand why they do it. They kill, obey, run from one place to another… but they don't actually know what they're protecting.
I don't know either. But at least I admit it.
Their stadium turned into a fortress. Everyone follows a strict schedule. Some look at me strangely, as if they suspect something. But they don't say anything.
There are schools. Firearm training. Harvesting. Dog exercises. There's always someone shouting orders, but not in a mean way, more like it's just another daily routine in this place.
They say it's worse outside. That there's another faction standing against them. But I didn't come here to take part in their war.
I don't care about their cause.
I'm only looking for someone.
You vanished suddenly… as if the earth had swallowed you whole.
I don't know if I'm behind you… or if I already passed you without noticing.
Though I don't mind waiting.
I've always been good at playing a role… until the moment arrives.
And I know that moment is getting closer.
…
Perspective: Kiyotaka Ayanokouji.
The sun barely peeked through a clouded sky, gray and heavy. It wasn't raining, but the air smelled of moisture, as if the earth itself refused to forget what happened last night.
I walked along the inside of the wall, between pools of dried blood and scattered shell casings. The ground crunched under my boots.
The consequences were smaller than I expected.
The wall held.
The traps worked.
But that didn't erase the uncomfortable silence hanging over everyone.
One of the towers still had burn marks on its wood. The generator beside it sparked with intermittent failures. A couple of people worked on it, speaking in whispers.
Farther ahead, a body covered by a blanket. Hands sticking out, stiff.
A teenager. I saw him last night. He shot nervously, but without stopping. He was fast.
Now he's dead.
"They say it was six," someone nearby commented, not speaking to me. "Six civilians. Two guards."
I climbed back up the wall. From there, the field was an improvised graveyard. Bodies of infected in different states of decay, some still smoking. Others just scattered remains.
I observed it all calmly.
Time Skip.
I had just finished cleaning the edge of a knife when I heard the door open.
No knocking. No warning.
Light footsteps. A tongue click. Then a familiar voice, shameless and unfiltered:
"Oohhh… so this is your secret bunker! How disappointing, I expected something more… psycho."
I turned. Ellie was already inside, the door wide open behind her. Her backpack hung from one shoulder, her hair tied up, and her expression playful, not hiding it for even a second.
"Who let you in?" I asked, without moving from my chair.
"The door wasn't locked. And well, I'm guessing that's an invitation, right?"
"Or a trap," I replied.
"Mmm… interesting. Sounds like you'd like to trap me."
She stepped further in. Walked straight toward the desk, nudged some papers with her fingertips and read aloud.
"Patrol routes. Names. Estimated travel times… Are you some kind of perfection geek?"
"Funny you think that. Are you some kind of mediocrity geek?"
"Don't answer a question with another question. That's very psychopath of you. Confirms my suspicions."
I watched her for a moment. She wasn't armed—at least not visibly—but she was comfortable, far too comfortable. Her eyes scanned my improvised shelf, the maps, the perfectly made bed.
"Your pillow is folded with psychopath precision. Do you sleep curled up or completely straight like a mannequin?"
"Sleeping is just a necessity. Not a ritual."
"Wow. Poetic. Depressing. Totally you."
She crouched in front of a box in the corner. I opened it a few days ago and left inside a flashlight, three cans of food, and a rope. She pulled them out one by one like she was in a gift shop.
"You have nothing fun. Nothing. Not even a deck of cards. This is… clinical. You should decorate with skulls. Or pictures of dead people. At least it would match your personality."
"Are you done?"
"Not until I see your dirty laundry. Let me guess… sorted by color?"
She stepped toward the wardrobe, but I put my foot against the door before she could open it.
"You have five seconds to step back before I do something you'll regret," I said, tone neutral.
She raised both hands, pretending innocence.
"Aww, are you blushing, soldier boy?"
"No."
"Then why won't you let me see?"
"Because you're being annoying."
"Everyone tells me that. But you're the first to say it without a gram of emotion. I feel… flattered."
She finally sat on the edge of my bed. Jumped once, bounced.
"Comfortable. At least you have good taste in mattresses."
"Did you come to inspect my house, or did you have an actual reason?"
"Actual reason. I wanted to know why you're always so… stoic. Quiet. It's scary. But also… makes me curious."
"And this was more effective than asking?"
"Asking is boring. Invading is way more revealing."
She fell silent for a second. Watched me with one eyebrow raised.
"You don't have anything on the walls. Not a single picture. Do you have family?"
"That's irrelevant."
"Wow. I must be making progress, because before you would've lied with something more convincing."
I walked closer, took a sheet from the desk and folded it calmly. She stayed there, sitting, staring at me as if waiting for me to say something I'm not programmed to say.
"I like you, Kiyotaka," she said suddenly.
…
This time she had actually caught me off guard.
"Not in a romantic way, eh. Don't get excited. I like you because you make me uncomfortable. And that doesn't happen often."
"Then you'd better not get used to it," I replied.
"Oh, I already did," she smiled, standing up. "I like making uncomfortable people even more uncomfortable. It's like watching two mirrors facing each other. Ugly, but fascinating."
She walked toward the door, stopping right before leaving.
"See you, little soldier. Next time, lock your door."
And she left.
Only when the door closed did I exhale slowly. I checked to make sure she hadn't stolen anything. Everything was in its place.
Time Skip.
The mud under my boots cracked softly with each step, damp and soft after last night's rain. The sky was still covered by thick clouds, and the wind moved the leaves with a whistle that felt both familiar and foreign. Jackson was still standing. A miracle… if one believed in them.
I walked without a destination. As if I needed my legs to remember they existed for something other than running, fighting, or killing. In this town, the war felt like a story told from far away, though just days ago, the blood was still fresh on the ground.
I stopped in front of a wooden fence separating two streets. Then I heard it.
"It's him! The guy who kills Clickers!"
A kid shouted it. Not with fear. With admiration.
Five or six children came running from behind a house. Their boots splashed mud, their backpacks hanging half-open. They carried sticks, a pan lid as a shield, a broken toy gun. They were armed with imagination… and my name in their mouths.
"You're Kiyo… Kiyota…?"
"Kiyotaka," I replied, without urgency.
"That! That one! The guy who saved my dad!"
"My dad said you killed a Clicker without even looking at it. You just heard it and—bam!" another yelled, making a clumsy motion with his stick.
A girl stepped closer, frowning as she examined me like I was a painting.
"Aren't you scared?"
I didn't know whether to lie or be honest.
"Yes, I am," I lied deliberately.
A small silence followed.
"But you don't look like it," she said, crossing her arms.
"That doesn't mean it's not there," I answered.
The kids started forming a small circle, marking the ground with branches, pushing each other while laughing.
"Fight us!"
"You against all of us!"
"Like in the stories!"
For a second, my mind dragged me to the past. To the White Room. To the brutal logic of every confrontation. To the complete absence of emotion.
And yet…
Here were these children, asking me something without fear. Without hate. Just to play. Their world was small, but in that world, I was something big.
One of them offered me a stick. I took it.
They charged toward me, screaming and laughing. I moved gently. Dodged. Tapped their shoulders and "eliminated" them; they fell to the ground pretending to be wounded, laughing their lungs out. I let myself get hit once. The smallest one tapped my foot with his stick, and I pretended to fall.
"We beat him!" they shouted, jumping on me as if they'd taken down a legend.
The girl of the group saw me, approached, and extended her hand to help me up. I took it.
There, I felt something strange.
A kind of tingling. Not on the skin. In the chest.
A phrase resurfaced from deep in my memory, like a leaf floating in a river of thoughts:
"People learn what warmth is when they touch one another. It's a very beautiful sensation. The warmth of another human being is not unpleasant at all. Please, keep that in mind."
Sakayanagi said that once, with a look different from the ones I used to witness. A genuine one.
Here I was, covered in mud, defeated by children, surrounded by sincere laughter.
Was this it?
Was this what she meant?
It wasn't weakness. It wasn't distraction. It wasn't a "flaw" of humans. It was what kept them sane. What kept them existing, even in a world full of monsters.
Without thinking, I smiled.
The children celebrated. Their laughter was a language without grammar, yet completely understandable.
One of them asked me to show him how to spin the stick without dropping it. Another wanted me to explain how to hear the infected before seeing them. I showed them, taught them. Still without emotion, but without rejecting their attention.
That smile was gone already, yet that sensation remained.
"Are you coming tomorrow?" they asked as the sun began to break through the clouds.
I didn't answer. Because I didn't know. Because answering meant commitment.
But I stayed there a while longer, watching them run, already imagining they would be the new generation of Jackson.
And for the first time, I felt full.
End of Chapter.