(The fire continued to burn for nearly four hours before finally gradually dying out, leaving behind only a pile of warm, grayish-white ashes and a few scattered, flickering sparks.
The night breeze blew through the abandoned factory, kicking up a bit of ash like black snow that drifted onto Kuchiba Hiro's shoulders and into his hair. That soft touch felt as if an invisible person had lightly brushed past his face, leaving with a faint, almost imperceptible sigh.
During this time, Kuchiba Hiro left for a while to buy a bottle of shochu at a nearby convenience store—the kind Hiratsuka Shizuka loved and drank most often when she was alive.
He unscrewed the cap and slowly poured the clear, pungent liquid in front of the warm pile of ashes. The liquor seeped into the ash with a faint sizzling sound, and the air filled with the distinctive scent of alcohol.
The bottle was soon empty, with only one last sip remaining.
Kuchiba Hiro held the bottle and hesitated. He had never drunk alcohol and had no interest in it. But at this moment, an indescribable emotion drove him—perhaps it was a farewell, perhaps a form of empathy, or perhaps he just wanted to experience what his teacher's favorite thing tasted like.
He tilted his head back and downed the last sip of shochu from the bottle.
"Cough! Cough, cough!" The pungent, stinging liquid surged down his throat like he'd swallowed a ball of fire, making him cough uncontrollably. His entire face scrunched up as if he'd been punched hard in the stomach. He barely managed to keep from throwing up.
"How can anyone like drinking this stuff?" he couldn't help but grumble in a raspy voice.
However, after that intense discomfort passed, a strange warmth slowly rose from his stomach and spread through his limbs. His body, which had been somewhat stiff from the cool night breeze and the coldness in his heart, seemed to relax slightly, and his breathing felt smoother. A hazy, slightly tipsy warmth enveloped him, dispelling some of the late-night chill and the gloom in his heart.
The experience was unfamiliar, not exactly comfortable, but not entirely unpleasant either. Sensing this strange change, Kuchiba Hiro even subconsciously thought, "Maybe... I should have another sip to 'experiment' more?" But he quickly suppressed the thought.
He knelt down and carefully picked out the large, unburned bone fragments from the warm ashes, then gathered as much of the fine bone ash as possible, solemnly placing it into the empty shochu bottle he had just finished. A layer of grayish-white powder soon coated the glass walls.)
In the real world, Hiratsuka Shizuka watched her final "resting place" through the light screen. Seeing it was a bottle from her favorite cheap shochu, she was stunned for a moment before bursting into laughter, chiding with a laugh, "This kid... he's actually using a liquor bottle for my ashes? That's so informal! Haha..." She flicked her cigarette ash, her tone devoid of any blame, instead carrying a hint of wry amusement. "I don't mind, but I wonder if that shochu distillery would be willing to pay me some endorsement fees?"
The other three in the Service Club didn't respond. Hachiman Hikigaya, Yukinoshita Yukino, and Yui Yuigahama watched the light screen in silence, quietly feeling the complex emotions conveyed in the scene—that clumsy yet sincere farewell, that seemingly cold but deeply hidden sorrow and reluctance.
At this moment, their impression of Kuchiba Hiro inevitably underwent a subtle and complex change. He wasn't a pure killing machine; his heart seemed to possess a warmth that was difficult for ordinary people to perceive.
The images on the light screen continued.
(Kuchiba Hiro gripped the shochu bottle filled with Hiratsuka Shizuka's ashes and decided to take her "home."
In his mind, he recalled the scene from when he first entered school, where Hiratsuka Shizuka stood on the podium and boisterously introduced herself:
"My name is Hiratsuka Shizuka! I'm your Homeroom Teacher and Student Counselor! If you ever run into any trouble—whether in school or outside—you can come find me anytime! Don't be shy! Here's my home address, make sure you all remember it; you might need it someday!"
At the time, he thought the teacher was a bit odd, even noisy. But now, that address he had once ignored surfaced as clearly as if it were engraved in his mind.
Kuchiba Hiro transformed into an Urban Ghost again, leaping and weaving between skyscrapers at a speed that left only faint shadows in the night sky. Soon, he stopped at the edge of a rooftop of a high-rise residential building.
Looking down, he saw a Dojo-style building with a distinct traditional Japanese flair sitting quietly on a street corner next to a small but exquisitely landscaped park, looking out of place among the surrounding modern residences. That was Hiratsuka Shizuka's home.
Warm light still shone from the Dojo's windows, and the faint, intermittent sound of suppressed crying could be heard, sounding exceptionally clear in the silent night.
Kuchiba Hiro stood on the edge of the roof like a frozen statue, waiting quietly. He chose not to go down and disturb them at this time.
He waited like that, listening as the crying gradually subsided until it vanished. He waited as the lights in the Dojo went out one by one, finally merging into the surrounding darkness. He waited as the moonlight was obscured by passing clouds, and the entire world seemed to fall into a deep sleep.
This wait lasted from the middle of the night until the dead of the early morning.
Only when the surroundings were left with nothing but the dim yellow glow of the streetlights, with no more voices or lights, did he leap from the rooftop like a falling leaf, landing silently on the path in front of the Dojo.
He crossed the silent road and walked up to the heavy, ancient-looking wooden gates.
He didn't knock or ring the doorbell; he simply placed the shochu bottle containing the ashes gently and upright on the stone steps in front of the gate.
Having done this, he didn't linger and turned to leave.
However, at the very moment he turned and took his first step—
An old, raspy voice, yet one containing an indescribable sense of steadiness and power, came from inside the gate without warning, clearly penetrating the heavy wooden door and reaching his ears:
"Young man... won't you come in for a bit and talk?")
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