Rain fell like needles, slicing through the smoke that curled from the station's ruined bones. The wind carried the faint, acrid scent of burnt ichor and melted steel. The convoy was no more—torn open, scattered. But amid the wreckage, children wept quietly, their thin shoulders trembling under emergency blankets as Ren moved among them like a shadow.
He paused beside Truck 3, where Yui sat on the edge of the bumper, her hands still glowing faintly. The gold in her eyes had dimmed, but not vanished.
"Yui," he said softly, kneeling before her. "Are you hurt?"
She didn't answer. Her gaze was fixed on her palms, stained with ash and something darker. Her voice, when it came, was barely above the whisper of wind through the ruined beams.
"I felt it… when he died."
Ren's breath hitched. He placed a hand gently on her head, smoothing down rain-matted strands of hair. "Hajime chose that end. He knew what was coming."
"But I could've stopped it," she murmured. "If I was stronger—faster—"
"No," Ren said, more firmly now. "You're not a weapon, Yui. Not for them. Not for me."
He pulled her close. She buried her face in his coat, and for a long moment, the war disappeared. There was only a father and daughter beneath a broken sky, wrapped in a silence too heavy for words.
Koji's voice crackled through the earpiece. "Evac drone's inbound. ETA twelve minutes. We need to move before Mother's scavengers sweep the perimeter."
Ren nodded, rising slowly. "Koji, take Serena and the kids. Mika and Hiroshi will cover the east exit. I'll bring up the rear."
No one argued. The loss of Hajime had carved a hollow into the team's rhythm, but there was no time to grieve—not yet. Grief required safety, and there was none to be found in the husks of cities.
As the group moved out—children huddled in tight lines between soldiers—the silence deepened. Only the quiet slap of boots in shallow puddles broke it, and the occasional low rumble of a distant thunderclap.
Ren lingered at the station's edge, glancing back. Shinobu's corpse lay untouched, her face exposed to the sky. She didn't look monstrous anymore. Just tired.
"Forgive me," he whispered, almost too quietly to hear. "You were right… I made you better. And I hated myself for it."
He turned away.