The soft, rhythmic clinking of metal on metal filled the air, broken only by the occasional creak of an unsteady workbench. Mazanka's hands were trembling as they fumbled over the delicate pieces in front of him. Tools, tiny springs, and gears were scattered like a battlefield, a chaotic mess of his thoughts mirrored on the table. He had never been this jittery before—not even during field ops or confrontations with high-class Mutations. But this? This was something else.
Ryozenji was gone.
Not missing—gone by choice. Slipped through the veil into the human world, soul intact but cracking at the seams. He had crossed a line they had all sworn not to cross, a law rooted in their existence. Mazanka stared down at the unfinished mechanism in front of him. His fingers flexed uselessly around a tiny gear.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
A deep breath rattled in his chest before he exhaled sharply, slamming the gear onto the bench. It bounced once before clattering to the ground. He didn't bother picking it up. The silence that followed was too loud.
Then, a soft knock on the door—more of a courtesy than a real question. He didn't move.
"I thought I'd find you here."
Mazanka blinked and glanced over his shoulder. Arashi stood in the doorway, her silhouette familiar as the breath in his lungs. She didn't wait for permission to enter—she never did—and stepped into the room with that steady gait of hers. The weight of her presence grounded the space around her. She always moved like she belonged in every room she entered, but with him, there was something… gentler.
"You've made a mess," she said casually, eyes scanning the debris of tools and half-built contraptions scattered across the workbench. "More than usual."
Mazanka gave a hollow laugh. "I was trying to build something. Ended up breaking everything instead. Including my nerves, probably."
She arched a brow, stepping closer, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of dried plum blossoms clinging to her cloak.
"You? Nervous?" Her tone was teasing, warm. "That's new."
Mazanka huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Don't get used to it."
"I'm kind of enjoying it," she said with a small smile.
He side-eyed her, lips twitching just slightly before fading again. "It's Ryozenji," he said, voice dropping. "He left. Crossed over. To the human world."
Her expression softened. She knew what that meant. What it could mean. And more importantly, what it meant to him.
Mazanka stared at the wall across from him like it might answer the question echoing in his head. "I don't know what to do. If I report him, they'll come for him. If I do nothing, he could—hewill—lose himself."
Arashi didn't speak right away. She let the silence linger just long enough for the weight of his words to settle between them before she reached out and gently brushed her fingers against his. The touch was brief but warm. Anchoring.
"You could always talk to Kurosawa," she said softly.
Mazanka blinked, then groaned, leaning heavily on the table. "Ugh. The old man?" He scoffed faintly. "You think he'll do anything besides glare at me and call me irresponsible?"
She smiled, nudging him lightly with her shoulder. "He only glares because you remind him of his younger, reckless self."
"That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"Yes." Her smile deepened. "Besides, if anyone can help figure this out without turning it into a death sentence for Ryozenji… it's him. You know that."
Mazanka stared down at his hands, her words curling around his anxiety like a balm. "Yeah," he muttered. "Maybe you're right. I just… I don't want to lose him. Not again."
There was a silence between them then—comfortable, familiar. The kind only two people who had grown up side by side could share. Mazanka looked at her, really looked at her, and felt that familiar ache settle low in his chest. Arashi had always been a constant in his life. Strong. Grounded. Beautiful in a quiet, effortless way that he could never quite put words to.
She caught him looking and tilted her head, a knowing glint in her eyes. "You okay?"
He looked away quickly, shrugging like it didn't matter. "I will be. Once the universe stops trying to fall apart."
"You always say that."
"And I'm always right, eventually."
She chuckled under her breath. "Well, if you do go talk to the old man," she said, "I'll back you up. Whatever you decide—I trust you."
Mazanka turned back to her, his chest tightening at the sincerity in her voice. "You always have."
"Always will."
The look they shared then was quiet but charged—like an old song only they knew the lyrics to. Something unsaid, something waiting. But neither of them reached for it.
Instead, Mazanka bumped her shoulder with his. "You're too good to me."
"Probably," she said, nudging him back.
And just like that, the heaviness in his chest lifted—just a little. Her warmth lingered, even when she pulled away.
She headed toward the door, but paused in the frame, glancing over her shoulder. "Come find me if you need someone to walk you through that conversation with Kurosawa."
Mazanka grinned faintly. "What, you offering to hold my hand?"
Arashi gave him a sly look, one brow raised. "Maybe. If you ask nicely."
He opened his mouth to reply, but the words caught somewhere between banter and something softer. She smiled again—half playful, half knowing—and slipped out, her presence leaving the room warmer than before.
Mazanka stared at the door long after she'd gone, lips parted in a silent breath.
He'd talk to Kurosawa. He'd figure something out. For Ryozenji.
But as he looked at the space Arashi had just left behind, he couldn't shake the way her touch still lingered on his skin—or the way her voice softened when she said his name
The morning air was heavy with dew, a fine veil draped over the winding stone paths that led toward the upper districts of Kyōgai. Lanterns still burned low along the arched walkways, their pale light flickering against the mist as if reluctant to let go of night. In the distance, the ancient trees that rimmed the outer wards whispered in the wind—soft, deep voices carried through canopies that had stood longer than time had names.
Mazanka walked beside Arashi in silence, shoulders tense, eyes locked on the path like each step pulled something heavier behind him. He hadn't spoken since they left the quarters. Not really. Just short mutters. Half-thoughts.
Arashi didn't press. Not at first.
She walked beside him like she always had—measured, calm, a quiet lighthouse to the storm twisting beneath his ribs. Her cloak swayed gently with her steps, and every so often she'd glance his way, brushing stray strands of white hair behind her ear.
"I can feel you thinking too hard," she finally said, her voice soft, laced with the smile she wasn't yet wearing.
Mazanka gave a small huff, eyes still ahead. "Thinking's all I've got. Can't punch my way out of this one."
"No," she said, "but if you could, I'm sure the wall would lose."
He cracked a small smile despite himself.
"You always do this," she added. "When you're scared. You overthink it until you're pacing holes in your own soul."
Mazanka exhaled, slowing slightly as they approached the stairway to the sanctum—Kurosawa's domain, perched high above the rest of the sector like an old, watching crow.
"He could report him," he murmured. "Kurosawa. He could actually—"
"He won't," Arashi said, more firmly. "You trust him. So do I."
Mazanka glanced sideways at her, the morning light catching her profile. She looked so certain, like she'd carved the world into something manageable just by believing it could be. He envied that.
"We've known him our whole lives," she continued. "If anyone can find a way through this that doesn't end with Ryozenji chained to a post or dragged back in pieces… it's the old man."
Mazanka let the silence stretch again as they reached the final steps. He paused at the top, hand lingering just above the wooden door carved with the seal of their House.
He turned to her, voice low. "You'll stay with me?"
Arashi smiled, warm and unwavering. "Always."
And that was enough.
He opened the door.
The sanctum smelled of ink and cedar. Scrolls lined the walls in tall, curved bookcases, some fraying at the corners like they'd been read and re-read through centuries. Wind shifted faintly through the open panels, stirring the long banners that bore the marks of the Kenshiki-no-Kage—the same symbol that branded each of them, etched in ink and Ka'ro beneath their skin.
Kurosawa stood at the far end, his back to them, sleeves hanging loose as he fed incense into a small bronze burner. The smoke curled like rising water spirits, scenting the air with sandalwood and ash.
He turned before they could speak.
"Arashi. Mazanka," he said with a voice like cracked granite softened by time. His face bore deep lines—some from battle, others from thought. But his eyes remained sharp. Knowing. Tired.
Mazanka didn't wait for formalities.
"It's Ryozenji," he said. "He's gone."
Kurosawa didn't react.
Mazanka stepped forward, fists clenched. "He crossed over. Into Kōraku. His Ka'ro was steady, but he—he chose it. He left everything. He's—he's with a human. And I don't know if he'll come back."
A long silence.
Kurosawa turned slowly, arms folding into his sleeves. His gaze drifted from Mazanka to Arashi, lingering just a beat longer on her as if measuring the weight she carried in just being there.
"I see," he said finally, voice low. "And you're certain?"
Mazanka nodded. "I followed him. I saw it myself."
More silence. Then, a sigh.
"The consequences of this choice," Kurosawa said gently, "are not yours to bear alone, Mazanka. Ryozenji is… beloved. By many. He will not be forgotten or abandoned lightly."
Mazanka stepped forward. "So… you'll protect him? Keep this from the Council?"
Kurosawa studied him. For a moment, it felt as if the air itself stilled. Then—
"Yes," he said, placing a hand on Mazanka's shoulder. "Leave it with me. I will handle it."
Relief spilled into Mazanka's chest like water after drought. His shoulders sagged, and the tight coil around his heart finally loosened.
Arashi stepped beside him, placing a hand lightly against his back. He glanced at her and smiled, weary but grateful.
"But you," Kurosawa continued, "need rest. Clarity. This burden has frayed you, Mazanka. And your fire—while potent—burns brightest when tempered."
Mazanka blinked. "You're telling me to take a break?"
"A short one," Kurosawa nodded. "With someone you trust."
His eyes flicked to Arashi. She met his gaze calmly.
Mazanka's heart stuttered in his chest, a thousand unsaid things rising in the quiet. The way she stood beside him. The way her hand still lingered on his back, warm and steady.
"…Maybe," he murmured, eyes on the floor. "Might be nice."
Kurosawa's expression softened. "Then go. Breathe. Let the world remind you there is more to live for than rules and war."
Mazanka hesitated only a moment longer before nodding. "Thank you… old man."
A flicker of a smile tugged at the elder's mouth. "Try not to break anything while you're resting."
The hallway outside was brighter than when they came in. The mist had begun to lift, casting slants of golden light through the open panels. Arashi walked beside him in silence, their steps slow, unhurried.
"You good?" she asked after a while.
Mazanka looked up at the sky, then sideways at her.
"Getting there."
"You want to talk about it?"
He shrugged, smirking. "Nah. I'd rather sit somewhere quiet with you and pretend the world isn't falling apart."
Arashi laughed gently, brushing her shoulder against his. "That can be arranged."
Mazanka's hand brushed hers as they walked. Not once, but twice before they found their hands intertwined. Neither of them pulled away.
And for a moment, beneath the gilded weight of morning light and unspoken things, Mazanka let himself believe the world was still whole.
He didn't see the way Kurosawa lingered in the sanctum's doorway, watching them disappear down the steps—his face calm, unreadable, as he turned back inside and reached for a comm-scroll lined with the seal of the Inner Circle.