Kun's extremities had become insensate—reduced to the frail consistency of sodden paper. Each inhalation grated like sandpaper across the raw lining of his throat. The downpour was no longer a sensation but a persistent state, his body now soaked through to its marrow.
He bent over, convulsing, his body wracked by dry heaves. Only acidic bile surfaced. The residual effects of Sai's impossible transportation gripped him in waves of vertigo and nausea; his hearing was distorted by a persistent ring that made the world feel distant and hollow.
His physical form was frigid, yet paradoxically, his heart pulsed with searing intensity. It was not the heat of health or vitality, but something fevered and erratic—as if grief and fear were combusting inside him, burning whatever will he had left.
Blinking against the ashen overcast sky, Kun struggled to maintain awareness. The perimeter of the rooftop tilted erratically in his blurred vision, like a derelict carousel spinning out of alignment. Rain lashed against his cheeks and eyelids like the sky itself was scolding him.
He reached forward, one trembling arm dragging him inches across the soaked concrete. The skin of his palms abraded against the coarse surface, slick with moss and rain. He slipped again—hard—his chest colliding with the floor, the impact driving the air from his lungs.
"Mom..." he whispered, his voice thin and fragile, more breath than sound.
His fingers twitched, curling into the concrete.
"Mom..."
His throat, raw with effort, tightened with every syllable.
"Mom—"
The rooftop door slammed open, reverberating like a gunshot against the concrete walls. A cold wind swept through, scattering water droplets like shattered glass.
"Kun!"
Aya's voice cut through the veil of rain like a knife. There was panic in it—real, unfiltered panic.
She was drenched, her usually sleek hair plastered against her face and neck, her coat heavy and clinging. Her shoes slipped dangerously with every step, but she ran anyway. Behind her, a security guard stood frozen, his mouth slightly ajar as he surveyed the impossible scene.
Aya dropped to her knees beside her son, heedless of the water soaking her stockings and the growing puddle around them.
"I'm here," she breathed, cradling him against her. "It's okay now—I've got you."
Kun turned toward her sluggishly, eyelids heavy and slow.
"I... I didn't jump," he croaked.
"I know," she said, her voice trembling as she brushed his wet bangs away from his face. "I know, sweetheart. Thank you for staying."
She felt the tremors in his limbs, saw the vomit on his shirt, the grayish tint to his skin. Her calm cracked.
"Help me!" she screamed to the guard. "We need to get him to the hospital—now!"
The guard rushed forward. Together, they lifted Kun's limp frame, Aya holding him as if he might dissolve if she let go.
As they carried him down the stairwell, Aya glanced back at the door.
Still locked.
They'd needed a key to open it.
So how had Kun gotten out there?
---
The Hospital Room
The emergency room was too bright, too sterile. Every corner buzzed with activity. Aya sat by Kun's side as nurses moved swiftly, administering IV fluids, checking vitals, taking blood.
Kun lay motionless, eyes closed, a warm blanket pulled over him. Machines beeped steadily. One nurse gently inserted a thermometer behind his ear.
The attending physician spoke to Aya quietly in the hallway.
"It appears to be a stress-induced collapse. He's dehydrated and likely malnourished. No signs of concussion or physical trauma, though the vomiting caused some abrasions in the throat. He just needs rest."
Aya nodded, but the words felt thin. Unconvincing. She pressed her fingers to her temple, trying to breathe.
Later that night, when the storm outside calmed to a drizzle, Aya sat beside her son's bed, one hand wrapped gently around his.
His fever had gone down. His face was less pale now, but his brows were furrowed even in sleep, as if the nightmares hadn't left him alone.
"Kun," she whispered.
He stirred.
"Kun."
His eyes opened—slowly, cautiously.
She leaned in. "I need you to tell me what happened. How did you get on the roof?"
His gaze slid away from her, settling on the wall.
"I don't remember," he said, softly but firmly.
Her grip on his hand tightened.
"Don't lie to me."
Silence.
Kun swallowed. The weight of the truth sat on his chest like a stone. Telling her meant exposing Sai—and if Sai could throw him onto the rooftop, what else could he do? What if she got hurt next?
So he answered with a different question.
"How did you know I was there?"
Aya hesitated. "Your backpack was on the ground near the gate. I couldn't find you anywhere. Then… a student approached me. Hood up. I didn't see their face. They told me you were on the roof, near the edge."
She blinked. Her voice softened. "I didn't hesitate. I just ran."
Kun said nothing, but the chill that crept up his spine confirmed his suspicion. Sai. Who else would send her into panic while claiming to help?
Aya's expression crumpled. Tears welled in her eyes.
"What were you thinking, Kun? I thought you were doing better. I thought we had time. And now you're just—just gone one second and on the roof the next?! What was I supposed to think? Do you think this is funny?!"
Her voice cracked and rose, anger slipping into anguish.
Kun's chest tightened. His voice broke into a whisper.
"I'm sorry, Mom. I'll do better. We'll fix this. Together."
Aya looked at him—really looked. His face was calm, but behind the calm, the tremble hadn't stopped.
She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him.
"Oh, Kun... I don't know how to hold you together anymore," she whispered. "But I'll never stop trying."
---
The next morning, back at the school, Ichiko Hazuya sat stiffly in a chair across from one of the senior teachers.
"We're not making any accusations," the teacher said gently. "But the administration needs to know if Kun Lleigh has shown any... troubling behavior."
Ichiko's fingers clenched on his knees.
"He's quiet, but kind. He doesn't lash out. He just... keeps everything in."
The teacher nodded. "Would you be willing to keep an eye on him? Just for a while. You're his friend."
Ichiko bowed slightly. "I will."
As he exited the faculty room, Ichiko passed by one of the janitors on the stairwell.
"That door's still locked," the man muttered, rattling his key ring. "Guard said it was opened from inside? No way. Hinges don't move unless it's unlocked. This place gives me the creeps."
Ichiko froze. Slowly, he turned his gaze upward.
The rooftop door stood still at the top of the stairwell.
Something cold tightened in his chest.
---
That night, in the quiet hush of his hospital room, Kun lay in silence.
The rain had stopped entirely.
Moonlight spilled through the window blinds in soft slits, painting the walls in faint silver.
Kun turned toward the wall, blanket pulled tight around his shoulders. His lips parted, barely audible.
"Sai..."
No response.
No whisper. No shadow. No hand brushing his cheek. For once, the silence was just silence.
He thought he should feel relief.
But it felt like mourning.
For the first time in weeks, he was truly alone.
Or so he believed.
At the foot of the bed, silent and unseen, stood a figure that did not belong to this world.
A pair of pale, almost translucent hands folded quietly.
A presence.
Watching.
Waiting.
As always.