Chapter Text
Nagi had bullied his way onto the third rotation.
Oliver had given him a flat look, arms crossed and mouth already halfway open to tell him no. But one glance at Nagi’s strangely lit-up face—eyes too sharp, posture too alert—and Oliver had waved him through with a muttered, “Just don’t cause problems.”
He didn’t even pause at the first cell. Kunigami was there, pacing like a caged tiger. Nagi barely registered it. His feet knew where he was going—his whole body pulled in that direction like gravity had shifted.
He stopped in front of the second cell. His breath caught.
Reo was there.
Zantetsu lay curled in his lap, fast asleep, expression peaceful in a way Nagi hadn’t seen on anyone in years. Reo’s hand was in Zantetsu’s hair, stroking softly, gently, absentmindedly. His head was tilted back, gaze fixed on the ceiling, as if the smooth metal tiles held some secret truth.
Nagi didn’t breathe.
Then, slowly, Reo looked down.
Their eyes met through the shimmering veil of the reinforced barrier. And in that moment, something cracked open inside Nagi—his usual sleepy expression crumbling, his lips parting slightly in awe and longing.
He looked just the same. Maybe older, sharper at the edges, but still Reo. His Reo. His to remember, his to mourn, his to want.
Nagi pressed a hand to the barrier. "Reo..."
Reo didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop stroking Zantetsu’s hair.
Nagi leaned closer, voice rising. “Reo. It’s me.”
Still nothing.
His heart thudded—too loud, too desperate. "Please, Reo."
Zantetsu stirred at the sound, eyelids fluttering open. He blinked slowly, confused. His gaze followed the line of Nagi’s voice to the cell wall, then looked up at Reo. "Ce?"
Reo didn’t answer him either.
Zantetsu sat up slightly, concern creasing his brow. He looked between Reo and Nagi, and even half-awake, the unease in him was palpable.
Nagi’s throat was dry. His chest ached. He didn’t know what to do.
Then—
Kunigami’s voice, low and steady, came from the first cell. "Something wrong?"
Nagi turned abruptly. “He won’t talk to me. I think... I think he’s waiting for your permission.”
Kunigami’s face appeared in the gap between cells, framed by a faint blue glow. His eyes were steady but wary. He didn’t answer immediately.
“I know what happened with Shidou,” Nagi added quietly. “But this is different. Please.”
Kunigami’s jaw tightened. He glanced toward Reo’s cell, then back at Nagi. Finally, he sighed. “Ce doesn’t need my permission to do anything.”
But he moved closer to the cell wall regardless.
Reo eventually rose. His movements were slow, almost reluctant, as if he were moving underwater. Zantetsu touched his sleeve briefly, but Reo offered only a soft pat on his shoulder before stepping forward.
He stopped inches from the barrier. His eyes flicked toward Kunigami. “Hero,” he said, voice soft and toneless, “how is D?”
Kunigami blinked. “The mark Itoshi Sae left—it’s still there. But it stopped hurting after three seconds of deployment.”
Reo’s brow furrowed. “It should have burned. Sae’s fire always burns, for weeks or months from what we know.”
“It didn’t,” Kunigami said quietly. “It startled D', but there was no pain, he said.”
Nagi stepped in. “That’s because of training.”
Both men turned to look at him.
“All S+ members go through a conditioning,” Nagi explained. “Our powers become part of our instincts. We don’t just use them—they respond to what we feel. Shidou didn’t feel pain because Sae didn’t want him to. It’s not about the fire—it’s about the intent.”
For the first time since he’d stepped into the corridor, Reo truly looked at him.
His eyes narrowed slightly, head tilted. "Then why did Itoshi Sae try to burn D?"
Nagi didn’t look away. “Because he wanted to leave a mark. Something that would stay.”
Reo stared at him for a long moment.
Then, quietly: "You look at me in a weird way."
Nagi blinked. “What?”
Reo’s voice stayed calm, but his brows furrowed faintly. “I don’t know how to describe it. It’s... intense. Lonely. Like you know me.”
“I do.”
Reo’s expression flickered.
“We were best friends,” Nagi said. His voice wasn’t pleading—it was reverent, aching with quiet madness. “We were supposed to become strong together. Until you died.”
Reo didn’t move. Didn’t say anything.
So Nagi reached into his pocket and pulled out the broken bracelet. It was delicate now, the woven strands fraying at the ends. The little stone in the center hummed faintly with Reo’s old power signature.
Reo’s eyes widened, breath hitching audibly. His whole body stilled. He reached for it like something ancient and fragile, like it would crumble if he touched it wrong.
“I kept it,” Nagi said softly. “After everything. When you died, it was the only thing I had left.”
Reo held out his hand.
Nagi hesitated. “You can see it... But you have to promise to give it back to me.”
Reo nodded slowly, dazed. “I promise.”
The moment their fingers brushed, Nagi felt it. That electric recognition.
He let go, reluctantly. It felt like surrendering a piece of his heart.
Reo held the bracelet delicately, reverently. His thumb brushed over the familiar weave, and something cracked behind his eyes. His breath hitched again.
“I... I don’t remember this,” Reo murmured, voice faint. “But I recognize it. It’s my power signature. Still clinging on... even after all this time? Five years, they said?”
Nagi’s chest felt tight. He couldn’t speak. His throat burned. He had carried that thread like a tether to sanity.
Kunigami’s voice drifted from the first cell. “What is it?”
Reo turned, still staring at the bracelet. He walked back to the wall, handed it back to Nagi like he was giving him something sacred.
“It’s mine,” he said, voice quiet, but shaken. “That’s my power signature. From before- I don't remember it, Hero.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Kunigami’s eyes widened. His breath left him in a shallow exhale, and something shifted in his posture—wariness giving way to stunned realization.
They weren’t lying.
This wasn’t guesswork. It wasn’t a coincidence.
Nagi knew Ce.
Just like Isagi Yoichi and Rin Itoshi had known B’. Just like Itoshi Sae still carried the memory of D’, and marked him viciously as soon as he got the chance. Like Anri had looked at Speedy with concern and kindness, and that strange pink-haired guy had addressed Hero like an old wound, that was still bleeding and hurting.
They weren’t making this up.
They knew them.
And that bracelet—still saturated with Reo’s signature five years later—was proof. Proof of the kind of devotion that rewrote instinct, that clung like a scar across time, a mark left not just on the object but on the soul.
Nagi noticed the tremble in Reo’s fingers. Not fear—a flicker of something buried deep, clawing its way up through the fog of his lost memories. It was like watching a wall crumble—slow and inevitable.
His eyes were suddenly too bright, too raw. The controlled detachment that had encased him like armor was cracking, and through it, Nagi saw the ghost of the boy he’d lost—and the soul he still belonged to. The obsession that had hollowed him out and rebuilt him around the void Reo left behind.
He reached out, slow and reverent—but not gentle. Not this time. His fingers pressed to Reo’s cheek through the barrier, and a sharp breath shuddered from him at the contact. His touch wasn’t asking. It was claiming. Branding.
He had lived five years without this touch. Without that gaze. Without Reo.
Five years where every moment felt like a betrayal of the one he lost. And now—now that he had found him again, he felt the madness of absence coil into something darker. Fiercer.
He wouldn’t lose him again. He wouldn’t let go.
Reo didn’t flinch.
Something inside Nagi howled with triumph, animal and aching. He wanted to tear the wall down with his bare hands. Wanted to crawl into Reo’s shadow and never leave. Wanted to carve his presence into Reo’s memory until he remembered—until he couldn't forget.
His voice cracked on a whisper. “You’re here. With me.”
The words were reverent—but beneath them curled something raw and territorial. Something he didn't think he was capable of until this very moment.
If the world tried to take Reo again, it would have to kill Nagi first. Dismantle him bone by bone. Because this time, he wouldn’t let go. This time, he'd chain Reo to every beat of his heart and never let the dark take him again.
And for the first time since the dungeon tragedy, hope didn’t feel like a lie.
It felt like destiny snapping taut between two broken pieces made to fit only each other. Like the monster inside Nagi finally stopped clawing, because the only thing it had ever wanted was now within reach—and he would never, ever let it go.
Chigiri had threatened to punch Nagi.
The bastard had refused to leave Reo’s cell, lingering like a shadow with that desperate, lovesick gleam in his eyes. Reo had looked utterly perplexed—his gaze flicking between Nagi and the rest of them with that wide-eyed uncertainty that made Chigiri’s chest twist. But the moment Nagi finally left, dragging his feet and practically tearing himself from the threshold, Reo shut down again. Expression blank. Eyes vacant. He lay back down on the cot and resumed staring at the ceiling like nothing had happened.
It hurt to watch. But it wasn’t Chigiri’s priority.
He turned—and found Kunigami already at the entrance of his own cell, staring straight at him.
Chigiri’s breath caught.
He hadn’t expected him to be that close. That quiet. That still.
Seeing him up close for the first time in five years—less hostile than usual, more human—it kindled something inside him. Hope, maybe. Stupid, fragile hope.
"Hero," he said.
Kunigami twitched at the name. But he didn’t respond. Not with words. Just stared at him, expression unreadable.
Neru was beside him, but Chigiri hardly cared. Kunigami was all he could focus on. Still impossibly broad. Still carrying that quiet authority that demanded attention without raising his voice. Even behind reinforced glass, he commanded the space around him like he belonged in a spotlight.
Chigiri swallowed hard. "Do you... remember me?"
Kunigami’s gaze held his for a beat. Then he shook his head.
Something in Chigiri collapsed. The air left his lungs. He must’ve looked devastated, because Kunigami’s face pinched, like he’d accidentally stepped on something fragile.
"Sorry," Kunigami said, low and awkward.
Chigiri couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out—sharp and bitter, but familiar. “God. Even your apologies are the same.”
Kunigami blinked. "Were we friends?"
Chigiri hesitated.
Yes. Teammates. Friends. Maybe more. He had hoped.
Before Kunigami died. Before he was torn out of Chigiri’s life like a cruel joke.
He nodded. Slowly. “Yeah. We were... friends.”
Kunigami frowned. “You hesitated. If we weren’t, tell me the truth. Don’t lie to me.”
Chigiri’s breath hitched. He looked away for a second, then met Kunigami’s eyes head-on.
"I liked you," he said. The words were soft. Raw. “More than a friend. I thought... maybe we could be something more. Before you died.”
Kunigami looked stunned. Not offended. Just surprised. Genuinely caught off guard.
Before he could say anything—
“Damn, Hero! Didn’t know you had that kind of game!”
Shidou’s voice rang out from the next cell over, smug and feral.
Bachira laughed too, warm and unbothered.
D’, lounging nearby, chuckled. “Hero’s popular with the ladies, huh?”
Chigiri rolled his eyes. “I’m a man.”
The laughter cut off. Shidou choked. Bachira snorted into a louder laugh.
Chigiri’s gaze flicked to Bachira—and paused.
The smile Bachira wore now... he remembered it. Deliberate. Disarming. At the gala, it had been on a girl.
His eyes widened.
Bachira winked. “Took you long enough.”
“You were—?”
“Yeah,” Bachira said, chuckling. “Sorry for using you for my identity. You were... interesting. I liked our talk.”
Chigiri raised an eyebrow. “How the hell did you pull that off?”
Bachira smirked, tilting his head. “So you don’t know us as well as you claim to.”
Miffed, Chigiri crossed his arms. “Maybe not. But I will.”
His eyes met Kunigami’s.
Determined. Grounded. Certain.
And he watched, heart thudding, as Kunigami’s mouth twitched—just barely.
A ghost of a smile.
“Good luck,” Kunigami murmured.
And then, softer. Almost unconsciously:
“Princess.”
It was like being struck by lightning.
Chigiri’s heart skipped a beat. His hands trembled where they hung by his sides.
He hadn’t moved on. Couldn’t. Not when no one had ever come close to Kunigami. Not when every relationship after felt like playacting next to the raw truth of what he had almost had.
And now, even changed, even different—Hero still made his heart beat out of rhythm.
Even without memories, he still reached him.
Yukimiya stepped into the corridor with quiet grace, adjusting his glasses with one hand and offering a polite nod to Nio, who followed at a lazy pace. They were here to take over the next rotation.
Neru sighed like a man being released from hell and practically floated away down the hallway. Chigiri, however, remained rooted in place, practically glued to Kunigami’s cell, his presence heavy with unsaid things.
“Chigiri-san?” Yukimiya called gently.
No response.
Not even a blink.
But Kunigami noticed.
“You should rest,” Kunigami said, voice softer than Yukimiya had expected. “Come back later.”
That seemed to break whatever trance Chigiri was in. He nodded slowly and finally turned to leave. Yukimiya didn’t miss the way his lips were pressed tight or how his eyes glistened—but he said nothing.
He greeted Kunigami politely with a nod before turning toward the next cell.
Reo and Zantetsu.
The hallway was quieter here, the soft hum of containment fields the only sound. Reo looked... lost. Glassy-eyed, detached. His gaze fixed on nothing in particular, body unnervingly still, like he was drifting elsewhere entirely. Yukimiya wasn’t sure how well he'd respond to the company. So instead, Yukimiya looked toward the other occupant.
“Zantetsu-san?”
The dark-haired man blinked up from where he sat beside Reo’s cot. When he saw Yukimiya, he stiffened—shoulders pulled back like he was bracing for impact, his fingers twitching slightly like they wanted to reach for something to hide behind.
Yukimiya felt it in his chest. He bowed slightly. "I came to apologize. I hurt you earlier. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry."
Zantetsu blinked again, visibly trying to place him. “Oh!”
His voice lifted with recognition, though it was clearly uncertain. "Wait. You’re that guy... from the billboard? The one the high school girls were talking about?"
Yukimiya’s brows lifted. “That’s the memory that sticks?”
Zantetsu looked embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I—I think so? I don’t remember us being friends, but you feel... nice. Familiar. In a good way. A safe kind of way.”
There was a nervous honesty in his voice that made Yukimiya’s heart ache.
Yukimiya nodded, settling cross-legged in front of the cell. The cold metal floor pressed through his pants, grounding him. “We were friends. I thought we were, anyway.”
Zantetsu shuffled closer, awkwardly mirroring Yukimiya’s position, his knees knocking into the gate before he flinched and mumbled, “Ow—uh, I meant to do that. Tactical knee positioning.”
Yukimiya smiled despite himself. “You’ve always been... expressive.”
Zantetsu blushed. “So... were we dating before I died?”
Yukimiya blinked. “No. We were just friends.”
“Oh. That’s okay. I mean, you’re still very pretty. So I thought—maybe—but! Not that I’m disappointed! Or assuming things!” Zantetsu started waving his hands. “Just... clarifying!”
Yukimiya chuckled softly. “ It’s fine.”
Zantetsu looked sheepish. “I’m usually better at talking. Or worse. Maybe worse. Definitely worse.”
“Somehow, that sounds right.”
There was something almost healing about seeing him this way. Disheveled hair, no glasses, looking every bit the teenager he once was. Not polished. Not weaponized. Just Zantetsu. Warm and fumbling and absolutely himself.
Yukimiya had missed this more than he’d let himself admit. Missed the sound of genuine voices. Missed laughter. Missed Zantetsu’s strange, erratic energy filling empty rooms. He had clung to structure and composure in their absence, but God, he had been lonely.
“You know,” Zantetsu said after a beat, “I really did think you looked familiar. But mostly because I saw your underwear. I mean—not you personally—your ads. There was a whole thread dedicated to it. Very informative.”
Yukimiya sighed and leaned back on his hands. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Not at all! Someone called you an 'angel with thighs made by God’s own hands.’ I mean, how do you live up to that?!”
Yukimiya buried his face in his hands. “You haven’t changed.”
“Good. I think. I mean, unless I was awful. Was I awful?”
“No. You were... you.”
Zantetsu beamed, then caught himself and coughed into his fist. “Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Totally normal interaction between... friends. Or maybe friends. Or very attractive acquaintances.”
Yukimiya burst out laughing. He hadn’t laughed like that in so long that it felt like his ribs might crack.
Zantetsu looked pleased with himself. “You have a really nice laugh. They should’ve put that in the ad. You’d sell way more... socks. Or whatever you were selling.”
Yukimiya’s amusement softened into something quieter. More contemplative.
Again, he realized how deeply he’d missed this. The mundane chaos. The ridiculousness. Zantetsu fills the silences with nonsense facts and wild questions—the emotional normalcy of talking without consequence.
He glanced at Reo, still staring at the ceiling, detached.
He thought of Nagi’s bracelet. Of how Reo had recognized it, even if he didn’t remember Nagi. That mattered. That meant something.
They were remembering in fragments, in instincts. That meant they could be reached. He just didn’t know how long it would take.
Yukimiya turned back to Zantetsu.
“Zantetsu-san,” he said more gently, “Do you remember where you were before you woke up here?”
Zantetsu blinked. “Huh?”
“Anything. Even fragments. What happened after... the dungeon?”
For a moment, Zantetsu looked like he was about to answer. His brows furrowed, his lips parting slightly.
Then the color drained from his face. His gaze lost focus. His breath stuttered.
Yukimiya sat forward. “Zantetsu-san?” He reached forward, trying to touch, deeply concerned.
But the man didn’t respond. He stood up stiffly, backing away from the gate like he’d touched fire.
He turned quickly, almost stumbling, and returned to the bed. Reo was aware now, arms open and waiting. Zantetsu crawled into them wordlessly, burying his face in Reo’s shoulder as his whole body began to tremble.
Reo pulled him close, stroking his hair gently, protectively, whispering something Yukimiya couldn’t hear.
Yukimiya stayed where he was, frozen.
His heart thudded uneasily.
Something was wrong.
But he didn’t know what.
And Zantetsu wasn’t ready to say.
The meeting room was dimly lit, thick with tension and half-drunk cups of vending machine coffee. Someone had left the window cracked, letting in the scent of rain-soaked turf from the Blue Lock training grounds outside. The lights hummed faintly overhead.
Yukimiya, Nagi, Chigiri, and Isagi sat around the round steel table, papers, tablets, and notes scattered in front of them. Gin, Karasu, Otoya, Hiori, and Nina filled the remaining seats, faces grim. Barou had taken the newest rotation with Sendou, but everyone else remained.
No one was leaving. Not anymore.
They’d all made calls. Lied to their families. Claimed to be part of a new special training module, elite and NDA-bound. Suitcases were being delivered to the facility one by one.
None of them could walk away now.
“We’re not just seeing memories,” Yukimiya began, voice steady as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “There are instincts resurfacing. Emotional triggers. Reactions that they shouldn’t have if they truly didn’t remember us.”
“Reo recognized the bracelet Nagi showed him,” Chigiri added. “Even if he didn’t remember Nagi himself, he knew what he was looking at. He felt something.”
Nagi leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. "He didn’t flinch when I touched him. That alone...It wasn’t nothing." I waited five years to feel that again.
Isagi nodded slowly. “Same with Bachira. He laughed the same way. Talked the same way. Even called me ‘Yoichi’ without thinking.”
“They respond like muscle memory,” said Hiori, fingers laced under his chin. “So why don’t they remember where they’ve been? Or what happened after the dungeon?”
Yukimiya spoke up. “I asked Zantetsu-san. The moment I did, he froze. Like—something in him short-circuited. He went completely pale, shut down, and ran to Reo like a terrified child.”
“They’re holding back,” Karasu muttered. “They’re not telling us everything.”
“Not can’t,” corrected Nina, scribbling something onto a pad. “Won’t. There’s a difference. Their minds are still theirs.”
“It’s more than just amnesia,” said Chigiri, arms crossed tightly. “They know things...They knew each other. And us.”
“So they remember just enough to act like themselves,” Karasu mused, “but not enough to tell us why or how they came back.”
“Or where the hell they were for five years,” Yukimiya murmured.
The silence that followed was thick. Rain tapped against the glass.
“I don’t think they’re doing it out of malice,” Chigiri finally said. “Zantetsu’s reaction was pure fear. He wasn’t hiding something—he was terrified of knowing it.”
Isagi nodded slowly. “We’re getting close to something. Whatever happened... it wasn’t natural. This isn’t just resurrection. It’s something deeper. More controlled.”
“They act like they’ve been trained,” said Gin. “Even now. Reo doesn’t lash out. Zantetsu speaks like he’s learned manners all over again. Bachira masks more than ever.”
“Kunigami still commands a room,” Chigiri added, eyes distant. “He hasn’t changed. But he feels... heavier. Like something’s sitting on him. Something he won’t name.”
“And they all use code names for each other,” Yukimiya said. “Hero. Ce. D’. B’. Speedy, ‘Hero’ with familiarity. These weren’t aliases—they were identities.”
“Military?” Karasu guessed.
“Underground testing?” Otoya offered.
“Something worse,” Yukimiya said quietly. “Something sanctioned.”
Everyone looked at him.
“I don’t know where they were,” Yukimiya continued, eyes sharp behind his lenses, “but they weren’t just surviving. They were being molded. Conditioned. Used.”
Nagi’s voice was low. “They’re not just back. They were sent back.”
Otoya leaned forward. “By who?”
No one had an answer.
Yukimiya tapped his fingers on the table slowly. “They’re breaking through in moments. Instinct. Emotion. But if we push too hard...”
“Zantetsu’s reaction,” Isagi finished.
“Exactly.”
“So what do we do?” Hiori asked.
Chigiri finally looked up. His voice was soft but sure.
“We stay. We watch. We wait. And we remind them—who they were, and who we are. Every chance we get.”
There were nods around the table.
Yukimiya let out a quiet breath.
They were in this now. All of them.
Whatever it was they were uncovering—
It had only just begun.
Sae not at the meeting.
Rin had gone out to find his brother and found him just outside the facility, leaning against the far side of a pillar, one hand shoved into his coat pocket, the other holding a phone to his ear. Sae looked relaxed, almost bored, his profile unreadable in the gray afternoon light.
Rin had been ready to snap—maybe even drag him back inside to contribute something useful—but he stopped short when he heard the voice on the other end of the call. It was shrill. Breaking. Hysterical.
“Please, Sae,” the voice choked out, “you can’t just end this! My parents—what do I even tell them?! I—I fell for you! I love you—”
His brother, unbothered, sighed through his nose. “Sakura.”
The name was spoken with clinical precision, and it shut her up for a beat.
“You knew what this was,” he said, calm as ice. “It was arranged. You needed to get your parents off your back. So did I. We agreed. There was never any pretense between us. We never loved each other. I never could.”
“But you said—”
“I said I’d go through with it. I didn’t say I felt anything, now the circumstances have changed.”
She cried harder now. Ranting about shame. About reputation. About humiliation.
His brother simply tilted his head. “You’ll be fine. Just tell them I ran off with a model. Or died. Or joined a monastery. You’re creative.”
“Don’t you dare hang up on me—!”
Click.
Rin’s jaw dropped. “Did you just—?”
“Blocked her.” Sae was already scrolling through his phone with eerie calm. “Blocked Mom and Dad too. Just in case.”
“You texted them?!”
“Yeah.”
“You told them you broke off an engagement—with a text?!”
Sae didn’t look up. “Should I have sent a voice memo?”
Rin stared at him, half in awe, half in horror. “You’re seriously insane.”
Sae finally looked at him. “Why?”
“You’re breaking off multiple relationships for one guy. One guy who doesn’t even remember you.”
Sae’s lips didn’t move, but his eyes sharpened.
Then he said it: “You really don’t know how?”
Rin was quiet.
Because he did.
He hated that he did.
Because if he were in Sae’s position—if it were his person on the other side of that cell—he wouldn’t hesitate either.
He exhaled slowly, voice dry. “You’re still a bastard.”
Sae shrugged. “Takes one to know one.”
And weirdly... Rin didn’t disagree.
There was space.
Dark. Hollow. Vast.
Two beings sat across from one another, though the word sat had no true meaning there. They had no faces. No limbs. No form. Only presence. One radiated stillness like permafrost. The other shimmered like ripples on ink.
Between them floated a board—not chess, but something like it. The pieces were abstract: glimmers of light, fragments of motion, pulses of energy. They moved of their own accord. Some flickered. Some surged. Some stilled entirely.
The entity known only as Axolotl tilted what might have been a head. “You have grown quiet, Polar Bear.”
“I am watching,” said Polar Bear. His voice echoed with a cold rumble, like tectonic ice shifting.
“They dance well, your new toys.”Axolotl made a sound that could have been amusement. “Your latest experiment. The five—Chameleon, Hero, Speedy, Demon, and Bakemono. How far have you taken them?”
“Further than I anticipated,” Polar Bear replied. “They adapt. They remember. They break better than the last batch.”
Axolotl’s form shimmered with curiosity. “What did you do differently?”
“It’s not the method. It’s the pieces. The variables are unique.”
“And?”
“One of them I never killed.”
A pause.
“Curious,” murmured Axolotl. “And yet they stay together.”
“They depend on one another. Deeply. Foolishly. They cling like shadows.”
“And still you let them run?”
“They’re leashed,” Polar Bear said. “I’ve loosened the grip, not the collar. They will crawl back when I ask.”
Axolotl pulsed faintly. “You enjoy this.”
“Of course,” Polar Bear replied. “Speedy is especially delightful. His fear is... expressive.”
“You always did like the delicate ones.”
“Chameleon and Hero don’t react anymore. They’ve seen too much. Learned to mask. It bores me.”
“And the others?”
“Demon and Bakemono are indifferent. Detached. But I can fix that. When the time comes...”
“And Speedy?”
Polar Bear pulsed coldly. “He is my favorite. So delicate. So loyal. He will be the most satisfying to destroy... and to rebuild.”
Axolotl was quiet for a long time.
“You know this is likely your last experiment.”
“I am aware.”
“You seek something new in the outcome.”
“I seek what I was denied before,” Polar Bear answered. “And this time, I have all the pieces in the right place.”
“You will not call me to interfere?”
“No.”
“Even if it fails?”
Polar Bear’s presence sharpened like cracking glacial ice. “It will not fail. I have no use for your meddling.”
Axolotl dimmed briefly, then flared with amusement. “Then I will wait. I am always waiting.”
Polar Bear returned his attention to the board. Five pulses glowed brighter than the rest—each a unique rhythm, a tethered fragment of something once human.
“For now,” he said, “let them think they are free.”
And the hollow silence devoured everything.