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POV: Izana
The smell of coffee was sharp against the copper and cordite that still clung to the air from yesterday's massacre.
I leaned on the rust-bitten railing of the west watchtower, my red jacket draped over one shoulder, sleeves of my black shirt rolled up to the elbows, smoke curling from the cigarette I hadn't lit yet.
Kaede-san approached quietly, her apron still on, a cloth in her hands. She'd been cooking and managing supplies since before dawn. The others might not notice, but I did.
Every corner that held together in this hellhole of a world—Kaede had touched it. Held it. Held us.
"You're up early," she said, voice soft but weathered.
I chuckled. "I'm Yakuza, Kaede-san. Sleep is for men without ghosts."
She smiled at that. One of those tired smiles people gave when they didn't know how else to respond to tragedy.
But she stayed.
I offered her the cigarette. She declined. "I quit ten years ago."
"Shame," I muttered, lighting it anyway.
We stood there for a while. Watching the rooftops. Listening to the birds try and remember what morning used to sound like.
"I used to think my job as a wife and mother was the hardest thing I'd ever face," she said suddenly. "Turns out... surviving the end of the world with teenagers is harder."
I let out a dry laugh. "At least they don't ask you to hide bodies in the river."
She looked at me sideways, arching an eyebrow.
"That a confession?"
I winked. "Depends. You like bad boys, Kaede-san?"
She didn't laugh. But she didn't look away either.
"I like honest ones."
That shut me up for a second.
I flicked the cigarette. "You know I ain't good with softness. I'm a blade, not a pillow."
"And yet," she said, taking the spot beside me, resting her arms on the rail, "you're the only one who checks on me at the end of every shift."
She didn't lean on me.
She didn't have to.
I stood there with her, the silence between us saying everything.
Maybe tomorrow, I'd kiss her.
Maybe she'd slap me.
Maybe both.
But for now?
This was what I wanted.
POV: Hiroki
The workshop was quiet now.
Ayumu-chan sat across from me, the glow from the welding torch dancing across her face like sunlight through shattered glass.
She was focused—eyes narrowed, fingers tightening the bolts of her refurbished Kukri handles. I could watch her work for hours. Hell, I had.
"You ever get tired of fixing shit just so it can get bloody again?" I asked.
She looked up, smirking. "You ever get tired of bleeding for people who don't say thank you?"
Touché.
"I say thank you."
She laughed, a little too fast. A little too awkward. "You're different."
We paused there. Just... lingered.
I scratched the back of my head. "You know, I've been thinking... maybe we could—"
She stood, walked over, and cut me off with a kiss.
Not desperate.
Not sudden.
Just warm.
Sure.
"I don't need you to say it," she whispered, pressing her forehead to mine. "I already chose you, Hiroki-kun."
My throat caught.
Goddamn, I'd fought monsters for this girl—and she just knocked me flat with a sentence.
I pulled her close. Wrapped her up. Let her heartbeat echo against mine.
The world outside? Still fucked.
But in this room, with the iron and the sweat and the sparks?
We had peace.
Even if it was just for tonight.
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POV: Takashi
The training yard was still warm from the morning sun, but the heat clinging to my skin wasn't from the weather. It was from her.
Mizuho Kazami moved like a soldier but breathed like a storm. Everything about her was sharp—her gaze, her body, her words. And every time she barked a correction at me during hand-to-hand drills, it hit harder than her punches.
"Again," she snapped, her boot planting beside my face as I laid on the mat, catching my breath.
I sat up, wiping sweat from my jaw. "You enjoying this too much."
"I don't enjoy watching a grown man get rag-dolled."
"Then stop hitting like a damn wrecking ball."
She rolled her eyes and offered me a hand. I took it. Big mistake.
She yanked me forward—too hard—and I stumbled right into her. My chest met hers, and we were suddenly too close. My hand on her side. Her breath hot on my neck.
"Is this part of the training, Kazami-san?"
She didn't let go.
"You're not half bad when you shut up and move your feet."
"I could say the same about you."
Her eyes flicked down to my lips.
Fuck.
Then she pushed me away—playfully. "Don't get cocky, Komuro-kun."
"You keep throwing me like that, and I'm gonna need a safe word."
She snorted. "Idiot."
But she didn't walk away.
She circled me again, slower this time.
And this time, when we sparred, it was almost a dance. Less about dominance, more about rhythm.
Less about violence.
More about trust.
When we finally stopped—sweating, panting, bruised and grinning—she handed me a towel.
I caught her watching me from the corner of her eye.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing."
She turned. "Shower before dinner, Komuro-kun."
"Wanna join me?"
She didn't answer.
But I swear I saw a smirk.
POV: Kohta
The shooting range smelled like oil, gunpowder, and trouble.
And Asami Nakaoka was all three.
She was adjusting her grip on a modified M4, eyes locked on the target ahead. I stood behind her, watching the muscles in her arms tense as she squeezed the trigger.
Bang.
Bullseye.
Again.
And again.
"Holy shit," I muttered. "You ever miss?"
"Only when I'm distracted."
"Oh?"
She looked over her shoulder. "Like when a nerd with a crush is staring at my ass."
I choked. "N-Nani?! I—I wasn't—!"
She laughed. Not a polite giggle—a sharp, raspy, "gotcha" laugh.
"Relax, Hirano-kun. I've been shot at by real assholes. You're cute."
I blinked. "You think I'm cute?"
She shrugged. "You got guts. And you don't flinch when things get ugly."
"Only when girls flirt while armed."
That got her smirking again. She stepped closer, brushing her shoulder against mine. "You like strong women, huh?"
"I like you."
Dead silence.
Then she sighed. "You better not die."
"I wasn't planning to."
"Good."
She turned back to the rifle.
"Because if you do," she added without looking, "I'll resurrect your nerdy ass just to shoot it myself."
And damn it if that wasn't the hottest threat I'd ever received
Later That Night
We were all around the central fire pit again, dinner done, weapons cleaned, the smell of roasted meat still lingering. A rare lull.
Takashi was sitting beside Mizuho now, not speaking, but comfortable.
I sat with Asami, our arms brushing occasionally. She didn't pull away.
For once, the world felt almost bearable.
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