Chapter 17: "Her Reason"
The sky above Shinjuku was a bruised violet, streaked with smoke and the dim silhouette of helicopters that never ca close enough to save anyone.
The group had holed up in an abandoned governnt archive building—thick concrete walls, broken windows, and faded posters for disaster preparedness programs from decades ago. The power was long dead. Only the faint flicker of solar lanterns they had scavenged gave any light to the shadows around them.
Kanata stood on the rooftop, looking down at the distant periter of Shinjuku Base. He didn't blink as a pair of searchlights swept past the streets below, illuminating a burned-out van and three shambling corpses dragging one leg each.
Footsteps approached from behind. Soft. Hesitant.
"You always run up here first," Serizawa said quietly. Her voice held no edge this ti.
He didn't turn.
"Easier to think alone," he replied.
She stepped beside him, her eyes scanning the distance. "You always liked quiet more than I did. I used to think it ant you didn't care. But now... I think it was who didn't know how to listen."
The silence stretched.
Then Serizawa turned to him. "Kanata. I need to tell you why I broke up with you."
He flinched. Just a little.
She kept going. "It wasn't because you did anything wrong. You never did. It was . I was scared. Scared of feeling sothing real. I kept thinking... what if you died? What if I lost you? What if it broke ? So I pushed you away first."
Her eyes glistened.
"Then the world fell apart. And now every ti I close my eyes, I see you dying in a dozen different ways. Bitten. Shot. Burned. I see it so clearly it's like it already happened. And I hate that it still hurts so much. So I ran. I ran like a coward."
Kanata finally looked at her.
Her voice cracked. "But I don't want to run anymore. Please. Just give a chance again. One more."
His gaze softened, but pain still flickered there. He stepped back, his voice low. "I don't know how to feel anymore, Serizawa. I really don't."
She didn't cry, but the quiet between them was heavier than grief.
Downstairs, Kanami dozed curled on a dusty couch, hugging an empty thermos like a plush toy. Takiya checked the boarded windows while Godou leaned against the concrete wall, her coat draped over her shoulders.
When Kanata returned from the rooftop, he winced and held his ribs.
"Still bruised from earlier?" Godou asked.
"Yeah. Roof beam slipped."
"Co here."
He sat on a folding chair. Godou stepped behind him, pulled his shirt up, and began wrapping fresh gauze around his ribs. Her fingers were sure, practiced—and yet trembling.
He didn't speak. But he felt it.
She leaned closer, breath warm against his shoulder. Then, her whisper:
"It hurts watching you with her."
His body stiffened.
"Even if I'm the adult," she continued, "even if I'm supposed to be the one who keeps it together... I want to be selfish too."
She tied off the gauze, then stepped away quickly, hands clenched.
Kanata stared at the floor.
Later that night, just after the moon had risen above the smoke, Kanami heard the sound of crying.
They found her behind a broken vending machine in the alley—a girl, maybe six or seven, covered in dirt and dried blood. She held a cracked locket to her chest and shook when they approached.
Zombies were on her trail. Takiya didn't hesitate. She swung her bat, clearing the narrow passage, while Kanata rushed forward and scooped the girl into his arms.
Back inside, she refused to speak. Only clung to Kanata's jacket and cried into his neck. They gave her water. Food. A blanket.
"What's your na?" Kanami asked gently.
No answer.
Serizawa stepped away from the group, pacing. Takiya watched her, tension rising.
Godou finally spoke. "We can't stay here long. The child might've led them here. We move at first light."
That night, as the little girl curled up beside Kanata, the others took shifts watching the windows. But no one truly slept.
Not with so many unsaid things.
And not with the fires of Shinjuku Base still burning in the horizon.
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