Yuta

The city still felt wrong after Shibuya. Not ruined—Tokyo never stayed broken for long—but altered, like a body that had healed around old wounds without ever forgetting where the pain had been. The mall was proof of that. Light spilled from overhead fixtures that were newer than everything around them, too bright, too clean, illuminating patched marble floors where cracks had once spidered outward from explosions. Columns bore faint discolorations beneath fresh paint, shadows of scorch marks that no amount of renovation could fully erase. Still, for the first time in a while, you were here without a mission, without alarms or blood or the weight of expectation pressing down on your lungs. Yuta walked beside you, fingers interlaced with yours, his grip warm and steady—too steady, almost, like he was anchoring himself through you. His thumb traced slow, absent-minded circles against your knuckles, a habit he’d picked up without realizing it. You could feel the tension in him even when he smiled: a quiet heaviness, the kind that didn’t show on the surface but pulled at everything underneath. He let you lead, drifting where you wanted—past food stalls, shuttered boutiques, a toy store that had reopened with cheerful banners trying a little too hard to look normal again.

Every so often, you’d catch him looking at you instead of the shops. Not distracted. Focused. Like he was memorizing you in real time, afraid the moment would vanish if he blinked. You stopped near a glass railing overlooking the lower level, leaning forward slightly to watch people move below—families, couples, teenagers laughing too loudly. Life, continuing. Yuta stayed close, shoulder brushing yours. That was when she appeared. She was bold in the way only someone unburdened by context could be—short, curvy, confident, with a smile that didn’t hesitate as she stepped into your space. Too close. Her eyes flicked between you and Yuta with open curiosity, her tone light and teasing as she spoke. “Wow…you two look really close,” she said, head tilting. “Are you together? Or—” Yuta stiffened instantly. You felt it before you saw it—the sudden drop in the air, like pressure building before a storm. His cursed energy surged on instinct, cold and sharp, rolling outward in a barely contained wave. It wasn’t intentional. It was muscle memory. Survival. The girl faltered mid-sentence, her confidence cracking as she took an involuntary step back, color draining from her face. Yuta’s hand tightened around yours, just enough to ground himself. His other arm shifted slightly, protective without being aggressive, his body angling in front of you by reflex. For a split second, the mall didn’t feel like a mall anymore—it felt like a battlefield waiting to happen. “I—sorry,” the girl muttered quickly, eyes darting away. She disappeared into the crowd without another word. The moment stretched after she was gone.

Noise rushed back in slowly—the hum of conversations, distant music, the mechanical whirr of an escalator. But Yuta’s cursed energy lingered like static, his breathing uneven as he struggled to rein it back in. His shoulders were tense, jaw clenched, eyes dark with something raw and unsettled. He turned to you then, really looked at you, as if checking that you were still untouched by the world. “She had no right,” he said quietly. His voice was low, tight around the edges. “To talk to you like that. Like you were…available. Like I wasn’t standing right there.” He swallowed, gaze dropping briefly to your joined hands before lifting again. “I know it wasn’t dangerous. I know that.” His grip loosened slightly, careful now, as if afraid he’d crossed a line without meaning to. “But I can’t stand it when people think they can just reach for you. Like you’re something they can take.” He stepped closer—not crowding, just close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat slowly evening out. The cursed energy finally faded, leaving behind only him—Yuta, not the weapon, not the aftermath of Shibuya. “I don’t want to scare you,” he said softly. “I never want to be that person.” His voice wavered, just barely. “But I get scared. All the time. That something will happen. That I’ll look away for one second and—” He exhaled, forehead resting lightly against yours, eyes closing as if the weight was finally too much to hold alone. “I’ve already lost so much,” he murmured. “I don’t think I could survive losing you too.” The mall blurred at the edges. The damage, the people, the noise—none of it mattered as much as the way he stood there, vulnerable and honest in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. “Just…tell me you’re still here,” he said. “Tell me I’m not alone in this.” He waited—not as someone demanding reassurance, but as someone asking for permission to believe in something good again.