Darkness.
Silence.
Only the whisper of wind, as if the world itself had stopped breathing. Shina stood in a place she could not recognize. The sky was a dull orange, like a sunset drained of life. The ground beneath her was pitch black—cracked, dusty, and scorched. The scent of metal, smoke, and something older than fear crept into her chest.
This place… felt real, yet too distant to touch.
Her eyes fell upon the ruins of a village. Small homes burned and broken, stone walls reduced to rubble. Silent, faceless shadows merged with the debris. She felt weak, as if she herself was a fragment of that destruction.
And then, she saw the girl.
A young girl sat on the ground, her body covered in dust, her clothes torn, her face bowed as if she could no longer bear to look at the world. Shina stepped forward… or perhaps she was simply pulled toward the scene. She didn't know why her body moved, why her heart felt so heavy.
Then, a voice broke the stillness.
"...Are you alright?"
Soft. Male. But not unfamiliar.
Shina raised her face—or the girl's face, which somehow felt like her own—and looked at the figure standing before her.
A young man… standing tall in pitch-black combat attire trimmed with gold. No insignia. No rank. Just a silhouette like a shadow. But his eyes—his eyes glowed golden. Warm… and aware.
Shina's heart beat strangely. She didn't know him. And yet—why did his face… his presence feel so achingly familiar?
"Are you… my enemy?" the girl asked in a trembling voice, half breath, half wound.
The young man didn't answer. He simply lowered his head slightly and extended his hand.
"Your hand's shaking," he said softly. "That means you're still alive. That's enough for now."
Shina—as both the observer and the girl within the dream—could only stay silent.
That hand… it wasn't familiar in shape, but in feeling. A sensation long forgotten yet once deeply known. Like a childhood song returning only in the shadow of rain.
Tears fell down the girl's cheeks.
Shina could feel them.
Painful, but warm.
Slowly, the hand was accepted. And the world around them began to fade in a flash of silvery light. But before everything vanished, Shina caught one final detail:
A small scar on the young man's left wrist.
And his gaze—a gaze that asked for no sympathy, demanded no pity. It simply… was.
And then, everything disappeared.
---
Shina jolted in the dark. Not waking, but thrown out of the dream. Her consciousness still floated far from the waking world, yet her heart pounded faster.
Who was he…?
The voice inside her whispered without reply.
Why do I feel like… I've met him before?
The golden eyes, the scar on the wrist, the hand offered in the midst of ruin… all vanished with the next heartbeat.
And in the silence of the hospital room, Shina's body remained still.
But her eyes… quivered.
Slowly… gradually…
Her eyelids opened like leaves hesitating to touch the sun. White light from the ceiling pierced through, burning her vision briefly before her eyes adjusted. The scent of antiseptic, the chill of a thin blanket, and the faint beeping of monitors told her: this was a hospital.
But… why?
Her body felt heavy. As if her very bones had been struck by the world. But Shina Mariposa was no ordinary woman. Her muscles, trained through years of battle, began to force her body into motion. She pressed both hands against the bed, and with some effort, she sat up. The white blanket still covered her legs, and sweat beaded on her brow.
She rubbed her throbbing temple. Something… something was bothering her. But what? A dream? It was unclear. Faint. Already gone the moment she tried to recall it. Like dry sand slipping through her fingers.
She took a shallow breath and turned her head to the left.
And that was when she saw him.
Someone sat in the small chair near the window. A tall figure, relaxed but with subtle tension in his shoulders. Jet-black hair fell lightly over his brow, and a pair of glowing golden eyes looked back at her. A gaze that was hard to read—somewhere between boredom, concern, and perhaps… indifference?
Shina's heart nearly stopped.
Canis Majoris.
Her body reacted before her mind could catch up.
Her hand moved to the bedside table—and in one reflexive motion, she snatched the clean fruit knife and pointed it sharply at the man.
"What's your deal, Canis Majoris?!" she rasped, her voice hoarse, eyes blazing with threat. Her breath was heavy, but her stance was steady—like a wounded beast rising from its den.
Canis didn't move. Didn't retreat. Only his eyes narrowed slightly, and his voice came soft… but clear.
"I'm not your enemy, Shina Mariposa."
The tension in the air held, thin as a thread stretched between life and death.
Shina still trembled, from both her physical wounds and the strange ache gripping her chest. Whether from the dream she couldn't remember, or the presence of this man—someone she was supposed to know… yet suddenly felt so distant.
The knife remained in her hand.
But her fingers began to loosen.
And for a moment, only the hum of the machines and the sound of her heartbeat filled the white room.
{Chapter 39 end}