Elementary School

I don’t remember when the car stopped.

Only flashes.

The crunch of gravel under tires. The engine cutting off. The door opening.

Then his arms around me—steady, warm, lifting me out of the seat like I weighed nothing.

My forehead pressed against something solid—his shoulder? His chest? I wasn’t sure.

I blinked, tried to lift my head, but everything blurred into white.

The sky? No, too low.

Ceiling tiles. A corridor.

It stretched forever, long and pale and dust-choked, with open doors yawning on both sides.

Faded signs with chipped paint. A clock with stopped hands. Somewhere, the clack of Ryoji’s boots echoed like we were the last people left on earth.

A school? Was this a dream?

Time slid into syrup—thick, slow, senseless. I might’ve slept. Or just fallen inward.

The next time I opened my eyes, I was lying down. Not the car seat anymore—something flatter, softer, makeshift. I smelled dust, paper, something plasticky and sterile underneath it all—like old medicine cabinets.

Light leaked through broken blinds, striping a linoleum floor. Pale green walls. Faded medical posters, one peeling at the corner.

The infirmary.

A blanket over me. Camping mattress underneath. A folded jacket for a pillow. Supplies stacked neatly near the wall—our duffel half-open, Ryoji’s coat slung on a chair, a lantern glowing soft yellow in the gray. A bookshelf shoved sideways into a barricade.

He’d built a shelter. With what we had.

My whole body ached. Skin damp, fever still high. But there was comfort in the order of it all. Not convenience—care.

I let my eyes close.

Somewhere, in the hallway, I thought I heard his steps.

The next time I surfaced, it was to the sound of water being poured. A faint, steady trickle into something metal.

I blinked. My head throbbed in slow pulses. The air was warm, but I felt chilled.

“Don’t move,” came his voice — low, clear, but gentler than usual. “You’re still hot.”

I turned my head slightly. The motion ached.

Ryoji crouched beside me, sleeves rolled, shirt half-unbuttoned, pouring from a thermos into a tin cup. I tried to push myself up; my arms buckled. He caught me without hesitation.

“Easy,” he said. “You’ve been sweating it out for a while. Lost a lot of fluids.”

I blinked hard, adjusting to the dim room. Same blinds, same green walls, same dust drifting like static. But something felt off.

The fabric against my skin.

I glanced down.

A soft tank top. Thin. Loose. My own — but from the bottom of the duffel. Not what I’d been wearing in the car.

Beneath it, I could tell immediately — no bra.

My breath caught, just slightly.

My limbs were too heavy to fidget, but I tensed. Barely.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“You were drenched,” he said, without looking up. “I changed your clothes. Just the minimum.”

His voice didn’t flinch. It wasn’t defensive, or awkward, or apologetic. Just… clinical. Factual.

I swallowed. I didn’t look away.

And I didn’t say thank you. Not because I wasn’t grateful — but because somehow, that would’ve made it weirder.

Instead, I dragged in a breath, heat still simmering behind my cheeks. “So this is what it takes for you to get handsy, huh? A girl nearly dying and unable to protest.”

His eyes flicked to mine. Dry. Unamused.

I grinned faintly, too dizzy to commit to the bit, but too loopy to stop. “You’re a real gentleman, Ryoji. Waiting for me to be unconscious and barely dressed. Classy.”

“You’re delirious,” he said flatly.

“Mmm. Probably,” I muttered, settling back into the mattress. “But admit it… I make fever look good.”

He didn’t answer. But the corner of his mouth moved.

Just slightly.

That was enough.

I blinked. The pain in my legs — the deep, twisting ache from earlier — was gone. Not dulled. Gone. My joints weren’t heavy anymore. My skin still felt hot, but not on fire. It was more like… I’d had a little too much wine on an empty stomach. Floaty. Soft-edged.

“Did you… give me something?” I asked.

He nodded once, still in that maddening, matter-of-fact way. “An antipyretic cocktail.”

My gaze drifted to my thigh under the blanket. There was a faint sting near the outside of my leg. I hadn’t even felt it go in.

“Field-standard,” he added, as if reading my thoughts. “Fastest way to bring the fever down.”

“Right,” I mumbled. “Just casually packing military-grade pharmaceuticals in the trunk of a Toyota.”

“Glovebox,” he corrected.

Of course.

The momentary levity cracked—like a glass too thin for boiling water. It hit me all at once.

The chase. Krisha. My father. The garage. The Supra winding through empty mountain roads. The truck splitting off. Hiro’s voice on the radio. The cold breath of a ghost from the East gaining on us with every second.

I jolted. “We have to go,” I rasped, trying to sit up. “We can’t stay here. Ryoji, we can’t—she’s coming, she’s probably already—”

“Hey.” His hand came down gently on my shoulder.

I froze.

He leaned in, voice low but firm, the way you’d talk to someone teetering on the edge of a panic spiral.

“We’re safe. This place—this entire valley—isn’t even on most maps anymore. We’ve still got a lead.”

My breathing hitched, shallow and hot.

“She’s the best,” I murmured. “You said she’s the best.”

“She is,” he said. “But even the best needs time. And we gave her too many routes to pick from. She’ll be chasing ghosts for a while.”

I didn’t know if that was fact or just what he needed me to believe—but the way he said it, calm and steady, made me feel like I could breathe again.

He adjusted the blanket, then did something I didn’t expect.

He stayed—close—his arm still resting over my shoulder.

And I leaned in. Not on purpose. Not exactly.

But his shoulder was right there, solid and quiet and safe in a way I didn’t want to think too hard about. I rested my head against it, half-melted, half-exhausted.

“Ryo…” I whispered.

Not Ryoji. Not this time.

He didn’t correct me.

Just shifted his weight slightly, making sure I wouldn’t slip, and rested his hand over mine—just for a second.

And then—

Darkness.

Soft.

Quiet.

He didn’t leave.