...06/10/2009 Tuesday; Night...
The door creaked—a low, intimate sound, as if the room knew it wasn't just anyone entering.
Hiro pushed the wood with the tips of his fingers. The hallway light bled inside like an unwelcome visitor, revealing what remained. Or rather, what didn't remain.
The room was empty. Not the emptiness of someone who had left for a few days and would soon return.
It was the definitive, surgical emptiness of someone who no longer belonged anywhere.
The wardrobe doors gaped open onto bare shelves. The bed, without a mattress, displayed only its skeleton of wood and metal—the springs exposed like the ribs of a dead animal.
The walls were bare. No photos. No notes. Everything Shinjiro had touched, used, possessed, had been removed by efficient hands. Hands that didn't tremble. Hands that didn't feel.
The Kirijo Group had left nothing behind.
Hiro entered. His feet touched the floor and the sound echoed, dry. The air in the room was still—air that hadn't been breathed in days, that smelled of dust and silence.
He let his eyes wander, searching for something, anything that still held Shinjiro's presence.
His chest was heavy. Each heartbeat was a muffled punch against his ribs.
On the desk, a case.
Hiro approached slowly. His fingers touched the cold leather of the lid, where the S.E.E.S. crest was stamped in bas-relief.
The symbol Shinjiro had carried even when he distanced himself from the group, even when the suppressors were already stealing his strength.
"Yeah... Shinjiro..." Hiro's voice came out in a bitter smile. Heavy. The words dragged out of his throat as if each syllable had thorns. "...what the hell happened to get to this."
He opened the seals. One by one. Each metallic click reverberated through the empty room. The lid rose slowly, revealing the contents.
Shinjiro's Evoker rested on a lining of dark velvet. The metal of the grip reflected the hallway light in a dull flash.
Beside it, the S.E.E.S. armband—red, with the group's crest and the Gekkoukan High logo at the top.
And below the crest, the number 2.
Shinjiro's number.
Hiro's eyes grew heavy. The burning rose up his throat and settled behind his eyes, throbbing. He reached out and touched the armband with his fingertips. The fabric was rough.
Shinjiro had worn that. He had fought, sweated, bled with it.
Hiro closed his eyes. The image of Shinjiro smiling—even fallen, even bleeding—cut through his mind like a blade.
Brother. That was how he saw him.
And now the room was empty.
He lowered his head and turned to leave. There was nothing left there.
Just a case, an armband, an Evoker. Just—
Hiro stopped.
His eyes locked onto the gap behind the door. There was something there. A dark silhouette, outlined against the wall, motionless.
He furrowed his brow and moved the door carefully, letting the light reveal what was hidden.
It was Shinjiro's battle axe, leaning there.
The wide, heavy blade rested against the wall like a sleeping warrior. The long metal handle still bore the marks of those who had wielded it.
The edge of the blade caught the hallway light and returned it in a white gleam, almost alive, as if the weapon was still waiting.
Waiting for its master to return.
Hiro's eyes widened. His mouth opened, but his voice took a moment to come out.
"You..." The word escaped in a breath of disbelief. He swallowed hard. "...you're still here?"
Hiro reached out. His fingers closed around the axe's handle—feeling its weight.
He lifted the weapon out from the gap behind the door, the heavy blade capturing the hallway light and returning it in a cold gleam.
He studied it.
The metal had small scratches. Marks of battles Hiro knew—because he had been there. In every one of them.
The memory flash came like a punch.
The Werewolf Shadow. The howl that had torn through the air in the middle of the street.
Hiro driving his kukri into the palm of the creature's claw, the blade stuck in the black flesh.
And then Shinjiro's voice—"Hiro!"—and the axe spinning through the air, flying toward him.
Hiro had caught it in midair. Had felt the weight. Had watched Shinjiro take the attack head-on, his body slammed against the ground.
And then... blood boiling. Rage exploding through every muscle. The axe rising and falling, carving an arc of fury, ripping the Shadow's paw off in a single blow.
Hiro placing himself in front of Shinjiro, chest heaving, teeth clenched.
"STAY AWAY FROM HIM!"
The memory dissolved.
Hiro gripped the axe handle tightly. His knuckles turned white. And then, without him being able to stop it, the tears fell. Hot. Silent.
They dripped onto the head of the axe, right over the Gekkoukan symbol engraved on the metal, and ran down the blade like rain down a window.
He breathed deeply. He raised the axe and, in an almost ceremonial gesture, pressed his forehead against the flat part of the weapon's head. The metal was cold. Still. But Hiro felt something—a warmth that didn't come from the steel.
Behind him, a crimson silhouette took shape. Faint as smoke. Fleeting as a sigh. Shinjiro had his back to Hiro, his shoulders broad, his posture relaxed.
He was smiling—a gentle, peaceful smile, the same smile Hiro had seen so many times in their conversations, when Shinjiro thought no one was looking.
The silhouette took a step. Then another. It passed through the door. And vanished.
"Hiro..."
Someone's voice cut through the silence like a velvet knife. Serene. Careful.
Hiro pulled the axe away from his forehead and turned, surprised to see who it was.
Mitsuru stood in the doorway, her hand still on the doorknob, her eyes fixed on him. She saw the tears in his eyes, the wet marks on his face, and felt her chest tighten once more.
He wiped his face with the sleeve of his clothes, in a brusque gesture.
"Ah... Mitsuru." His voice came out hoarser than he would have liked. "Sorry. I didn't know if I was allowed to come in here."
Mitsuru smiled. But it was a sad smile—the kind that doesn't try to hide the pain, only shares it in silence.
She knew it wasn't easy for anyone in the group. But she also understood, perhaps better than anyone, that Hiro needed help. Something not even she knew how to name.
She entered the room slowly, her footsteps echoing softly on the empty floor. "It's fine. I just wasn't expecting anyone to be here."
Hiro adjusted the axe in his hands, keeping it close to his chest as if it were a shield. "It's just... when I was about to go into my room, I saw this door was half open... so..."
"You don't need to apologize." Mitsuru approached the desk, her fingers touching the red armband still inside the case.
She lifted it carefully, as if it were made of something more fragile than fabric. Her thumb brushed over the number two. "I came here to take these things to storage."
She stood there for a moment, her fingers motionless over the armband. Then she placed it back in the case with almost reverent care. The lid closed with a soft click. The sound filled the empty room.
Hiro watched everything in silence. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do.
The axe in his hands was the only solid thing in the world at that moment. He swallowed hard.
But he also couldn't deny what he felt.
"I... miss him."
Hiro's voice came out heavy. He didn't look at Mitsuru—his eyes were fixed on the axe, on the blade, on the Gekkoukan symbol.
Mitsuru felt her chest grow heavy. Her eyes burned—she blinked quickly, trying to contain what threatened to overflow. She had to hold on.
But in that empty room, with Hiro holding Shinjiro's axe, holding on was harder than anything they had faced in Tartarus.
"Yes..." She turned to Hiro, nodding slowly. "Me too. It's not easy thinking that I... couldn't help him before all of this happened."
Hiro glanced sideways and saw her lean against the desk. Mitsuru's fingers massaged her own eyelids, pressing against her eyes as if she could push the exhaustion back inside.
The dark circles were there. He noticed she wasn't well—and probably hadn't been since the first day.
"If only I had gone after him with Akihiko..." Mitsuru sighed, her disheartened voice escaping between her fingers. "...he wouldn't have killed himself slowly with those suppressors. But there's no point blaming ourselves for that."
Hiro raised his eyes to her. "Even if it's hard..."
"It is." Mitsuru nodded, returning his gaze. Her eyes were moist, but not downcast. "And it certainly hurts a lot."
Mitsuru took a deep breath and let her eyes rest on the axe in Hiro's hands. The metal gleamed under the dim light of the hallway, but what she saw wasn't the weapon.
It was the memory.
The day Shinjiro had come back to S.E.E.S.—silent, withdrawn, carrying guilt on his shoulders like someone carrying an invisible coffin. And beside him, Hiro. It had been Hiro who convinced him to return.
She had never forgotten that.
"But we can't stop." Her voice came out heavy, but not fragile. "We have to keep fighting."
She moved away from the desk. Her steps were careful. Each one closed the distance between them. When she stopped, she was close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him, to see the marks the tears had left on his face.
Mitsuru's hand rested on Hiro's shoulder.
They looked at each other. And in that look, something rekindled. The same connection as before—the one that existed in the times they were alone, in the exchanges of glances during battles, in the moments when words were unnecessary. It was there. Intact.
"I don't want you to be like this." Mitsuru's voice came out a little nervous, but firm. Her eyes didn't stray from his. "I know it's complicated to get over someone's death. But... you have to keep standing, Hiro."
Hiro's heart beat faster. Mitsuru's words passed through him like a beam of light—not to blind him, but to wake him.
She was right. He couldn't stop. Not now. There was only one Shadow Arcana left. The Dark Hour was near its end. And Takaya... Takaya still had to pay.
Hiro smiled. Not the bitter smile from before. Not the forced smile he used to reassure the others.
It was a real smile—the same one Mitsuru had seen the day he visited her in the hospital. Open. Light. Alive.
He sighed and placed the axe against her chest.
"You're right... I can't stop yet." His voice came out lighter, almost carefree. "Here... you can take it."
Mitsuru lowered her gaze. The axe was in her hands now—heavy, cold, silent. The rest the weapon deserved. But she knew how much Shinjiro meant to Hiro.
And she knew that axe, in some way, was a part of Shinjiro that still remained. A part that hadn't been packed away in cases or taken by the Kirijo Group employees.
She smiled. And extended the axe back to Hiro.
His eyes widened. His body instinctively took a step back, as if refusing the idea. "Wait... are you sure?"
She nodded. Her smile widened—no longer sad. Full.
"I am. Aragaki would want you to keep it." She paused. "I think it's the right thing to do too."
Hiro looked at the axe in Mitsuru's hands. His eyes traveled over the blade, the handle, the battle marks that told stories.
He knew that weapon wasn't just metal. It was the last thing left of a brother.
When he opened them again, his hand moved with conviction. He took the axe from Mitsuru's hand and, with fluid motion, spun the weapon around his hands.
The handle danced between his fingers—a quick, precise movement—until he gripped it firmly with his left hand, the blade facing down.
His eyes examined every detail of the weapon as if reading a map.
Mitsuru watched it all with a smile on her lips. There was something different about Hiro now. Something she hadn't seen since that cursed night.
"For some reason... it suits you." Mitsuru said in an affectionate tone.
Hiro raised the axe and let the light dance over the blade. A smile appeared on his face—confident, almost playful.
"Yeah... seems like it was waiting for me." He spun the weapon one more time, testing the weight. "I'll just shorten the handle... to make it easier to use with one hand."
The two looked at each other.
And then, for no apparent reason, both blushed.
Hiro's face grew warm. He saw the flush rise up Mitsuru's cheeks and felt his own heart race, hammering against his ribs as if wanting to be noticed.
Why? He couldn't explain. He only knew that being near her... was comfortable and good.
Mitsuru, in turn, looked away. Her fingers found a strand of hair and began to twirl it in a nervous motion.
She didn't understand why it was suddenly so hard to face Hiro. It always had been. But now... now it was different.
A short laugh escaped both of them. Hiro scratched the back of his neck. Mitsuru twirled her hair around her finger a little more.
"Well..." Hiro's voice came out half embarrassed, half awkward. "...I guess we'd better get out of here before someone sees us."
"Yes... you're right." Mitsuru nodded without raising her eyes. Then, she hesitated. "...ah, and Hiro?"
He heard her. He felt the movement before he saw it. Mitsuru's hand touched his face and before he could process what was happening, she pulled him close.
Her lips touched his cheek. Light. Warm. Quick.
Hiro's face exploded in red, because he hadn't expected Mitsuru to do that.
Mitsuru pulled away, her own face flushed, an awkward smile on her lips. "Try... not to break it, okay?"
Hiro blinked. His mouth opened, but the words took a moment to come out. "Ah... yeah... uh... sure... I'll be careful."
Mitsuru smiled—relieved, perhaps, or simply happy. She turned toward the desk, picked up the case with both hands, and walked toward the door. Before leaving, she stopped. She didn't turn around.
"Ah... can you do me a favor?"
Hiro straightened his posture. His voice came out louder than he intended. "Ah... yes. What is it?"
Mitsuru hesitated for an instant. Her nervousness showed in the way her fingers tightened on the case's handle.
"Lock the door when you leave."
And she left without waiting for an answer.
Hiro stood still in the empty room, the axe in one hand, his other hand rising slowly to the cheek where Mitsuru had kissed him.
The skin still tingled. He hadn't expected that. Not at all.
He stayed there for a long moment, processing. The silence. The kiss. What Mitsuru had said. What she hadn't said.
Then his eyes turned to the axe. He raised it once more, feeling the familiar weight in his arms, and gripped the handle tightly. His soul, which for days had been fallen, finally rose.
"Don't worry... Shinjiro." His voice came out steady. At the same time, a lethal tone. "I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch."
He turned to leave. But at the door, he stopped.
He cast one last look at the empty room—the bare furniture, the bed without a mattress, the silence that had once been filled by the presence of a friend.
He took in that emptiness. Not with sadness. With respect.
And then Hiro closed the door.
The key turned in the lock with a metallic click—soft, but definitive. Like a period. Like a promise.
Now, Shinjiro could rest in peace.
TO BE CONTINUED...