"He didn't need to understand. He just needed to live."
Ren sat across from the boy.
Azrin was chewing slowly — hands shaking as he held a half-warm ration bar like it was a feast.
He'd already finished the bread, the dried fruit, and half the clean water.
The Core fragment pulsed in Ren's hand.
Soft. Gentle.
Almost nervous.
AZRIN (between bites):
"Why are you helping me?"
REN (quiet):
"Because someone has to."
The silence stretched again.
This wasn't a battlefield.
No timelines snapping.
No space wars.
Just the smell of food. Dust. And a boy trying not to cry while he chewed.
Ren waited until Azrin finished eating.
Then he stood.
The core flickered once.
Then settled — its glow syncing with Azrin's breath.
REN:
"This... is something I wasn't meant to carry.
It needs a heart that won't try to control it."
He knelt in front of the kid.
Held the Core out.
REN:
"You don't have to use it. You just have to hold it.
Let it rest inside you. Keep it safe."
Azrin looked at it.
Then shook his head.
AZRIN (softly):
"I'm not important. You should give it to someone who matters."
Ren's heart cracked a little at that.
No dramatics.
No world-ending tension.
Just a child who didn't know his own worth.
REN (gently):
"You're exactly the kind of person who should hold it."
He placed his palm against Azrin's chest — over the heart.
The Core sank in.
No pain.
No burst of light.
Just a single deep breath.
Azrin blinked.
And something inside him pulsed twice.
Then it was quiet.
AZRIN:
"...It's warm."
REN (smiling slightly):
"Yeah. That's your second heart now."
He pulled out a small envelope.
Wrote quickly. Folded it once. Left it on the nightstand.
Azrin watched him stand.
AZRIN (quietly):
"Are you going to leave?"
REN:
"Yeah.
But you'll be okay now."
He stepped toward the door.
Then paused when he heard the boy speak again.
AZRIN (soft but steady):
"Thank you.
For saving me."
Ren didn't answer.
He just stepped out, closed the door gently behind him, and walked into the dark.
Inside, Azrin stared at the note.
He unfolded it with trembling hands.
Just one line, written in quiet, careful ink:
"You don't need to change the world. Just survive long enough to see it heal."