The silence in the alley stretched on, thick and suffocating. Izuma's breathing slowed, but his chest still ached, and his cheeks were damp beneath the mask. He didn't dare look up. The shame of his outburst pressed down on him, heavier than the mask itself.
What did I just do?
He replayed the last few minutes in his mind: the anger, the fear, the way his words had spilled out—some true, some twisted by panic and exhaustion, some just selfish wishes for everything to go back to the way it was. He'd lost control. He'd shown them everything he'd tried so hard to hide.
He wiped at his face, but the mask was in the way. He wanted to tear it off, to disappear, to take back everything he'd just said. But he couldn't. He was still here, still trapped in this world, still surrounded by two strangers who had every reason to walk away.
Regret gnawed at him, sharp and relentless. Why did I say all that? Why couldn't I just keep it together? Now they'll think I'm weak. Or worse, a burden. He pressed his hands to his face, wishing he could vanish into the shadows.
He heard Adia shift, the soft scuff of her shoes on stone.
"Izuma…?"
He tried to answer, but the words stuck in his throat. He felt small, exposed, like he'd ruined whatever fragile trust he'd built. He wanted to run away, to hide from the world and from himself.
"I'm sorry," he finally managed, his voice barely a whisper.
"I… I didn't mean to dump all that on you. I don't even know what I'm saying anymore. I just—"
His voice broke, and the tears started again, silent and hot, slipping from beneath the mask and dripping onto his hands.
"I don't know what to do. I don't know how to fix this. I just… I just want to go home."
For a moment, there was only the sound of his quiet sobbing, the city's distant noise, and the soft patter of tears hitting stone. Then Adia knelt down beside him, her face open and aching with empathy. She hesitated, then, as if something inside her decided for her, she wrapped her arms around him.
Izuma stiffened in shock. He hadn't been hugged like this in so long—like he was worth holding, like he was real. The mask pressed between them, awkward and cold, but Adia didn't let go. She just held him, her embrace gentle but unyielding, as if she could shield him from the world for just a moment.
But it was more than that. Adia's arms were warm, steady, and strong. She didn't just hold him—she enveloped him, and for the first time since he'd arrived in this world, Izuma felt truly safe. Her touch told him, wordlessly, that he wasn't alone. That all the pain, all the fear, all the things he'd lost and the burdens he carried—he didn't have to hold them by himself.
Adia spoke, her voice soft and sure, right by his ear. "It's okay, Izuma. You're here. You're safe. I promise, you don't have to carry it all alone. Whatever happens, we'll face it together. I know it hurts, but you're not broken. You're not lost. We'll find a way. I'll help you. Lira will help you. You're not a burden. You matter."
As she spoke, her words seemed to weave around his heart, gentle and healing. For a moment, the weight on his shoulders eased. The ache in his chest lessened. He could almost believe that everything could be fixed, that there was a way forward, that hope was real.
He broke. His shoulders shook, and the tears came harder, hidden by the mask but impossible to hide from her. Adia said nothing more, just held him tighter, her arms the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely. Lira stood a little farther back, arms crossed, her face unreadable but not unkind. She didn't say anything, but she didn't look away either.
Izuma clung to Adia, desperate and ashamed, but also—somehow—relieved. "I'm sorry," he choked out again, voice raw. "I just… I can't do this alone. I can't. I'm scared. I'm so scared."
Adia's hand moved up, gently rubbing his back. "You don't have to do it alone. Not anymore. You're allowed to feel this. You're allowed to need someone. And you're stronger than you know. You've already come this far. We'll get through this, Izuma. I promise."
For a long moment, they stayed like that—Izuma's pain and regret pouring out, Adia's arms the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely. The alley was silent except for his ragged breaths and the soft, steady comfort of her presence.
Eventually, his sobs quieted, leaving him drained and hollow but a little lighter. Adia loosened her hold, but didn't move far. She looked at him, her own eyes shining. "You're not alone. Not now, not ever. We'll figure this out, one step at a time. I believe in you."
Lira finally approached, her voice low and gentle. "Look, you can't change what happened. But you can decide what you do next. You want to keep hiding? Fine. You want to try again? We'll help. But you have to move forward. That's the only way."
Izuma took a shaky breath, then another. The tears had stopped, but the warmth of Adia's hug lingered—a reminder that he wasn't as alone as he thought. For the first time, hope didn't feel so far away.
He pushed himself to his feet, a little shaky but upright.
"I… I want to try. I don't know how, but… I'll try."
Adia stood with him, her hand lingering at his shoulder. Lira gave him a crooked smile.
"Good. Because this city isn't going to wait for you to figure it out."
They stood together for a moment, the awkwardness still there but softened by something like understanding. The world outside the alley was still dangerous, still strange, but maybe—just maybe—he didn't have to face it alone.
Lira glanced out at the mouth of the alley. "We should move. There's a safehouse nearby. We can get you food, maybe some new clothes. After that, we'll figure out what comes next."
Izuma nodded, his voice steadier now but his heart still raw.
"Okay. Lead the way."
As they slipped back into the shadows, Izuma felt the weight of his breakdown lingering, and the warmth of Adia's hug still with him—a small, fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, he hadn't ruined everything after all.
The alley behind them was silent, holding the echo of a pain shared and a comfort bravely given—a moment neither of them would soon forget...