They stood beside one another as strangers.
Strangers in the most complete and merciless way possible. They possessed no past to offer each other, no shared memory to anchor their meeting, no history to explain why the silence between them felt so heavy. And yet, in that absence, there existed a feeling. A feeling that could not be explained through memory, because memory was no longer theirs.
They were empty.
And yet they were not hollow.
The boy regarded her with an expression caught between curiosity and embarrassment, as though he feared that staring too long might be considered improper.
"I wonder," he said after a moment, "how it is that two people may meet for the first time, and yet feel as though they have already committed some unforgivable discourtesy toward one another."
He laughed quietly at himself.
"I beg your pardon. That was not a particularly cheerful observation to impose upon a lady."
He hesitated again, then cleared his throat.
"There is, however, somethin' I wished to ask of you, if you would be so kind as to indulge me."
He gestured vaguely toward the upper decks.
"I am told there is to be a formal supper this evenin'. A magnificent affair, reserved for the most distinguished passengers aboard this vessel. Silver cutlery, crystal glasses, roasted meats prepared by hands more talented than any I have ever known."
His smile became sheepish.
"I should very much like to see it. To taste it, even if only once."
He lowered his eyes.
"But I am, regrettably, of rather humble origin. A rat of the sewer, as some would say. I fear my presence would not be welcomed among such company."
He looked back at her, hope flickering in his expression.
"But you, miss…"
He hesitated, as though afraid the request itself might be offensive.
"…you look as though you belong to their world."
He offered his hand, not touching her, but inviting.
"Would you help me steal a moment among the stars?"
The girl answered simply.
"Yes."
He smiled.
But because she had chosen to stay.
He led her across the deck, his steps lighter now, as though the simple act of walking beside someone had made the world more bearable.
And as she walked beside him, something began to return.
Fragments.
The way he spoke.
The way he smiled without expecting anything in return.
The way his loneliness did not demand to be seen, and yet could not hide itself.
It was familiar.
And because it was familiar, the memory inside her began to move.
The shape memory had once occupied.
When they reached the entrance to the grand dining hall, its golden doors towering like the gates of heaven itself, she stopped.
He turned back to her.
She asked him,
"How much will you hate me when your eyes see what I am."
He did not answer.
Because they stepped through.
And the world changed.
She was not standing beneath chandeliers.
She was sitting at a wooden desk.
The classroom was old, but cared for with a stubborn kind of love. Sunlight filtered through tall rectangular windows whose glass bore the faint waviness of imperfect manufacture, casting uneven rectangles of gold across the floor. Dust drifted lazily through the light, visible only when it chose to reveal itself. The walls were painted a tired shade of cream, chipped in places where careless hands or restless years had worn it away. A chalkboard stretched across the front of the room, its surface scarred by countless lessons, faint ghosts of past writings refusing to be fully erased.
The desks were arranged in orderly rows, each one bearing the small wounds of childhood. Carved initials. Scratches. Tiny declarations of existence left behind by hands that feared being forgotten. The air smelled faintly of chalk, paper, and the quiet warmth of bodies gathered in shared routine. It was a place that existed not to inspire greatness, but to preserve normalcy in a world that had long since abandoned it.
She wore a uniform.
She knew this place.
Her eyes moved across the room.
And found him.
He sat at his desk, his head lowered, his shoulders trembling, he did not wish anyone to see.
She stood and walked to him.
He noticed her too late.
He turned away quickly, wiping his face with the sleeve of his uniform.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"…It is nothin'."
"You look lonely."
"I am not."
He kept his face turned away.
She did not leave.
She asked again.
"What's wrong?"
His voice broke.
"…My parents…"
He swallowed.
"…they have been reported missin'."
Silence.
He laughed weakly.
"They told me that means I am to be brave."
His hands clenched.
"They told me brave boys do not cry."
His voice became smaller.
"…I do not feel very brave."
He wiped his face again.
"…I do not know where they are."
Silence filled the space between them.
She spoke softly.
"I questioned you one question. Now return another question to me."
He frowned, confused.
"…I do not understand."
He looked at her.
And the hopelessness inside him reached out.
Because he needed to.
"…Would you," he asked, his voice fragile, "care to play chess with me?"
He lowered his eyes.
"…I do not wish to be alone right now."
She answered.
"Yes."
The chessboard appeared between them without either of them placing it there.
It rested upon the desk as though it had always belonged, its wooden surface polished by invisible hands, its pieces already arranged in perfect formation. White and black faced each other in silent opposition, an army divided by color, by purpose, by one side must inevitably destroy the other in order to justify its own existence.
The boy stared at it.
"I do not recall bringin' this," he said quietly.
The girl did not answer.
He reached forward hesitantly and picked up the white king, holding it between his fingers as though it were something fragile.
"This piece," he said, his voice thoughtful, "is the most important one on the board."
He laughed softly.
"And yet it is also the weakest."
He looked at her.
"Does that not seem unfair to you?"
"No."
"No?"
"It only needs to be the last thing left."
He placed the king back down.
"…Then I shall protect it," he said.
They began to play.
White Pawn to E4.
Black Pawn to E5.
White Knight to F3.
Black Knight to C6.
White Bishop to C4.
Black Bishop to C5.
White Pawn to C3.
Black Knight to F6.
White Pawn to D4.
Black Pawn takes Pawn at D4.
White Pawn takes Pawn at D4.
Black Bishop to B4.
White Pawn to D5.
Black Knight to E7.
White Pawn takes Pawn at C6.
Black Knight takes Pawn at C6.
White Bishop to D2.
Black Bishop takes Bishop at D2.
White Queen takes Bishop at D2.
Black Bishop to D6.
White Castle King Side.
Black Castle King Side.
White Pawn to H3.
Black Bishop to E6.
White Queen to D3.
Black Queen to D7.
White Knight to G5.
Black Pawn to H6.
White Knight takes Bishop at E6.
Black Pawn takes Knight at E6.
White Pawn to F4.
Black Pawn takes Pawn at F4.
White Rook takes Pawn at F4.
Black Pawn to G5.
White Rook to F2.
Black Pawn to F6.
White Pawn to E5.
Black Pawn takes Pawn at E5.
White Pawn takes Pawn at F6.
Black Rook to F7.
White Queen to H7 Check.
Black King to F8.
White Queen to H8 Check.
Black King to E7.
White Queen takes Rook at G7 Check.
Black King to D8.
White Queen to F8 Check.
Black Knight to E8.
White Queen takes Knight at E8 Checkmate.
The boy stared at the board.
His king remained standing.
Surrounded.
Alone.
With nowhere left to go.
He smiled.
"You are quite skilled," he said.
"That's what the queen piece is," she replied.
Because she did not know if she was trying to win.
Or trying to lose.
The classroom began to change.
The walls stretched upward, their pale paint deepening into polished mahogany. The tall windows lengthened into towering arches, their sunlight refracted into cold brilliance through crystal and glass. The wooden desks merged and expanded, their surfaces joining into long dining tables dressed in white cloth and silver. The chalkboard splintered apart into fragments of light that reassembled themselves into chandeliers, their brilliance harsh and magnificent.
The classroom had become the grand dining hall.
But the chessboard remained.
Still between them.
Still finished.
The boy looked around in wonder.
"Well now," he said softly, "this is far more splendid than I imagined."
He looked back at her.
"But I find I no longer care for supper."
His eyes fell to the board.
"…I would rather finish this."
She realized then what he was.
He was a piece.
So was she.
The ship groaned.
Far away, something vast and ancient pressed against its side.
The sound of tearing metal echoed like a scream swallowed by the ocean.
The boy froze.
"…What was that?"
She answered.
"Ice."
The word fell between them like judgment.
He laughed nervously.
"Well then," he said, his voice thinner now, "I suppose we ought not to linger."
But he did not move.
Because the chessboard would not let him.
He looked at her again.
His smile had changed.
It was sad now.
"…Tell me, miss."
He hesitated.
"…If a piece is removed from the board…"
His fingers trembled.
"…is it still part of the game?"
"No."
"I see."
He looked at his hands.
They were becoming heavier.
"…Then I suppose," he whispered, "I was never meant to reach the other side."
The ship tilted.
The chessboard shifted.
Pieces slid.
White and black fell together.
Kings and pawns.
Queens and knights.
Mixed.
Indistinguishable.
The board no longer cared who they had been.
Water began to pour into the hall.
It did not rush all at once.
It seeped first, quietly, through the seams of the walls and the cracks between the floorboards, thin streams that coiled like veins across the polished surface. Then it came faster.
It spilled from the doorways.
It cascaded down the grand staircase.
It fell from above like rain that had forgotten the sky.
The guests did not scream.
They stopped moving, breathing and being all at the same time.
Their bodies lifted as the water rose, their limbs drifting in slow suspension, their eyes open and empty.
They floated past the chandeliers and the dining tables, their fine clothes billowing around them like burial shrouds.
The boy and the girl remained seated.
They did not move as the water climbed their legs.
They did not move as it reached their waists.
They did not move as it reached their chests.
They did not move as it reached their necks.
The water was cold.
The boy spoke. "My hate," he said quietly, his voice trembling with something too vast to be contained inside something as fragile as a throat, "cannot be justified."
He looked at her. His eyes were not the eyes of a child anymore.
"But I cannot put down that flame."
The water rose to his chin.
"Because in my mind…"
His voice cracked.
"…you had replaced her."
The water swallowed his mouth. His hands rose from beneath the surface. They were no longer hands. They were mechanical. Steel fingers. Jointed plates. Weapons. The same hands Kamina had given him.
Water filled his mouth.
Still he spoke.
He would never know how much he would come to loathe her body.
Not her.
Never her.
"But it," he said, and the word came out in a trail of bubbles that did not rise, but hung in the water like suspended mercury. "The thing… that would wear her shape."
His steel fingers curled.
"The thing that would take her voice… her warmth… her familiar silhouette…"
His head lowered.
"…and twist it into the unholy."
The water pressed against his face, distorting it, bending the fragile shape of the boy into something that already resembled the thing he would become.
"My hatred for it would not be a flame," he said.
"Flames can die."
His chest shuddered.
"I would hate it like a star."
"A dying star… collapsing inward… until every atom in me screamed beneath the weight of it."
He looked at her.
Through her.
Beyond her.
"I would hate it tenfold. A hundredfold. More than any man was ever built to hate."
His jaw trembled.
"I would never stop."
"Not after the first time I saw the thing wearing her skin."
His mechanical fingers twitched.
"Not after the second."
His head tilted.
"Not after the thousandth time I woke choking on the memory of her voice…"
His voice cracked.
"…and heard its voice instead."
The water sealed over his eyes.
Still he saw.
"I would hate the thing in her body forever."
"…and still it would not be enough."
"I would hate what it did to her."
The desk split.
"I would hate what it made her become."
"I would hate the way it forced me to remember her laugh…"
"…only to bury it beneath the sound of its hollow mimicry."
The water deepened.
Darkened.
"I would hate the world for letting it take root."
His shoulders trembled.
"I would hate myself for not stopping it."
His hands rose.
Weapons.
"I would move because of hate."
"It would be the only reason my body kept moving."
The water swallowed the last warmth in his tone.
"The only thing strong enough to drag me out of bed."
"The only emotion I had left to give."
"I would hate everything that made Bruno change."
"Everything that turned the girl I knew…"
"…into the thing I faced."
The pressure grew.
The walls bent inward.
"And I would carry that hatred."
His fingers opened.
Empty.
"Alone."
His voice echoed.
"Unending."
The glass shattered.
"Unsoftened."
The ocean rushed in.
He did not resist.
"Shmuel would hate that moment for as long as he continued to breathe."
"And he would hate the breath itself… for daring to carry the memory."
"I would hate how her voice still lingered…"
"…like an echo that refused to rot."
"I would hate that the world continued moving."
"…mocking me with its indifference."
"And I would hate that I could not make it stop."
"I would hate the thing that took her."
"A hate that blistered."
"That festered."
"That thrashed like a wounded animal inside my chest."
"A hate that was alive."
"In ways I wished I wasn't."
"I would hate her body for becoming a cage."
"And I would hate myself…"
"For still searching for her inside it."
"I would hate hope."
"I would hate its cruelty."
"I would hate the thing wearing her skin."
"I would hate the twitch of its fingers."
"I would hate the way it breathed."
"I would hate every law of nature."
"I would hate every moment."
"I would hate…"
"…until hate itself feared me."
The girl did not drown.
From the center of her chest, something forced its way outward, pushing through flesh that no longer remembered how to be flesh. There was no blood. There was no wound in the human sense. What emerged instead was shape and meaning, a crystallization of something that had been building long before this moment, something that had been waiting for the precise instant when her body could no longer contain it.
Her heart burst free into the water.
It did not drift like an organ.
It hung there.
Suspended.
Fractured.
It looked like broken glass.
Not shattered outward in violence, but split along deliberate fault lines, each surface reflecting a time period of her, each angle catching a different memory, each edge holding something that refused to die even now.
She stared at it.
And she began to speak.
"I remember," she said softly, though the words did not travel through water, did not rely on air, but existed simply because she needed them to exist.
Her eyes did not leave the heart.
"The old me loved you."
"She poured love into this."
The glass heart pulsed.
"She poured love so heavy it cracked the ribs around it. Love so fierce it refused to fade even as everything else inside her dimmed. She shaped that love with the last threads of will she still possessed. Every beat became love. Every pulse became love. Every trembling contraction became a stubborn declaration of love."
The boy did not move.
He could not.
"She repeated it," the girl said. "Again and again. Love for you. Love for the boy who sat beside her. Love for the only person who ever made her feel like she was more than a piece."
The water trembled.
"She pushed it deeper. She engraved it into the muscle. She bound it to the rhythm so tightly that not even forgetting could wash it away."
Her hand reached toward the floating heart.
"She wanted it to scream love whenever you came near."
Her fingers hovered just short of touching it.
"She wanted it to hammer with love. To resonate with love. To hurt with love."
Her reflection stared back at her from the fractured surfaces.
"She wanted it to remind me of you."
Her voice grew quieter.
"Even if I no longer remembered why."
"She was dying," the girl said.
The heart pulsed again.
"Everything was collapsing. But love still moved inside her chest. A wounded engine that refused to stop."
Her fingers finally touched it.
It was warm.
"She poured more into it."
"She imagined standing in front of you again."
Her voice faltered.
"Changed."
The word barely existed.
"Beyond recognition."
"But with her heart still thrashing with love."
"Frantic with love."
The boy's form flickered.
"Desperate with love."
"She had been many things."
Her voice softened.
"A daughter."
A crack formed in the ceiling.
"A piece."
"A successor."
The ocean pressed inward.
"But none of it mattered."
Her hand pressed the heart against her chest.
It did not go back inside.
It stayed outside.
Exposed.
Offered.
"She loved you."
The words sank.
"She loved you quietly."
Her voice became smaller.
"She loved you fearfully."
The boy's silhouette trembled.
"She loved you in ways she did not understand."
His mechanical fingers loosened.
"She loved you in ways she was not allowed to."
The water stilled.
"And when she died."
"She loved you with everything she had left."
The heart glowed.
She looked at him.
At the boy.
"She left this for you."
She held it out.
"Love buried in muscle."
The water cracked.
"Love guarded in the dark."
The ship screamed.
"Love waiting."
The ocean trembled.
"Love as her last rebellion."
The abyss split.
"Love as her last truth."
She took one step forward.
"Love as the final move."
She placed the broken glass heart into his steel hands.
"Of a Queen Piece."
"Who had nothing left."
"But love."
The heart touched his hands.
His fingers closed.
His eyes changed.
The steel receded just enough for a face to exist again.
Shmuel stepped forward.
Bruno did not step back.
He swung first.
His mechanical hand cut through the water and drove toward her throat.
She turned her body sideways. His fingers grazed her shoulder. She grabbed his wrist with both hands and twisted. Metal joints locked. He drove his knee into her stomach. She folded and slammed her forehead into his face.
He staggered one step.
She shoved him.
He slid across the floor, shoes scraping against wood that did not care about the ocean around it.
He lunged again.
His right hand opened and closed. The fingers reshaped into a blade. He slashed horizontally.
She leaned back. The blade passed in front of her eyes. She stepped forward into his reach and drove her palm into his chest.
He grabbed her arm.
Twisted.
She spun with it and kicked his side.
He caught her leg.
She jumped on her other foot and drove her elbow down into his shoulder.
He released her.
He swung again.
She ducked.
He turned.
She stepped inside his guard.
He grabbed her throat.
She grabbed his face.
They froze.
Then he threw her.
Her back hit the wall.
She pushed off the wall and ran toward him.
He ran toward her.
They collided.
His hand pierced through her shoulder.
Her fingers dug into his neck.
He pulled his hand out.
She slammed her head into his chin.
He staggered.
She pushed him down.
He grabbed her waist and rolled.
They hit the floor.
He climbed on top of her.
She locked his arm.
He drove his forehead into hers.
She loosened.
He pulled back his fist.
She grabbed his wrist.
They stopped.
Their faces inches apart.
His grip trembled.
Her fingers tightened.
He pulled away.
She followed.
He slashed.
She stepped forward.
He stabbed.
She held his arm.
He tried to pull back.
She did not let go.
They stood there.
Holding each other's hands.
Their hands separated slowly.
For a moment neither of them moved. Rocking with the groan of a dying ship, carrying chairs and broken pieces of the past between their bodies like driftwood that did not belong to either shore.
Then Shmuel stepped forward.
His mechanical fingers flexed. The steel plates slid over one another with a sound that did not belong in any human place. He drew his arm back and drove his fist straight toward her head.
Bruno turned her shoulder and the fist passed beside her ear. The wake of it pulled her hair into its path. She grabbed his forearm with both hands and forced it downward, but he stepped in close and slammed his other fist into her ribs.
The impact forced the air from her lungs.
She staggered back.
He followed.
He did not hesitate.
His arm thrust forward again.
She retreated another step and her back struck the wall. Her hand brushed against something hard. Her fingers closed around it.
A sword.
It had been mounted there as decoration, untouched by rust, untouched by time, waiting for hands to use it.
She pulled it free.
The steel sang.
Shmuel's fist came down.
She raised the blade.
The metal hand struck the flat of the sword and the force drove her arm down, the vibration running through her bones into her spine. She gritted her teeth and turned the blade, sliding his hand off to the side. The moment his balance shifted, she stepped forward and cut across his chest.
The blade bit.
Not deep.
But enough.
He recoiled.
He stared at the line of red spreading across his shirt.
Then he attacked again.
His mechanical hand opened and closed and he grabbed the blade itself.
The steel fingers crushed it.
The sword bent.
She let go before it snapped and stepped back.
His other hand drove toward her throat.
She ducked and reached behind her again.
This time her fingers found wood.
A staff.
She tore it from its place on the wall and swung it upward.
The end of the staff cracked against his jaw.
His head snapped to the side.
She stepped in and struck again.
And again.
And again.
Each blow forced him back through the water.
He raised his arm and caught the next strike. The wood splintered under his grip. He ripped it from her hands and threw it aside. It spun away into the rising dark.
He rushed her.
She met him.
He drove his fist into her stomach.
She folded but grabbed his shoulder and pulled him down with her.
They fell together.
He rolled on top of her and raised his arm.
She caught his wrist with both hands.
The steel fingers trembled above her face.
He pushed down.
She pushed back.
Their bodies shook.
Water washed over their faces.
Their eyes never left each other.
He drew his other arm back and struck her across the face.
Her grip loosened.
He broke free.
She turned and kicked his leg.
He fell to one knee.
She lunged forward and drove her shoulder into his chest.
He fell onto his back.
She climbed on top of him and grabbed his mechanical arm with both hands and slammed it against the floor.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The metal rang each time.
He twisted his body and threw her off.
She slid across the flooded floor.
He stood.
She stood.
They faced each other again.
The water split.
Light fell from above like a blade driven through the ocean itself, carving a burning column between them. The flood recoiled from it. Waves bent away. Steam screamed where the brightness touched the rising cold.
Kamina stood at its center.
His body burned with brilliance. His cloak lashed and snapped behind him as though caught in a storm that existed only for him. His katana rested across his shoulder. His eyes moved from Shmuel to Bruno.
"I was gonna let the two of you sort things out," he said, voice carrying easily through the drowned hall, "but aren't you both lettin' your emotions get in the way of understandin' each other a bit too much, eh?"
Shmuel attacked him immediately.
The mechanical fist shot forward.
Kamina stepped in.
His blade flashed.
Steel struck steel.
He turned his wrist and guided the punch past his shoulder, then drove his elbow into Shmuel's chest.
At the same moment Bruno moved.
She came from behind him with the broken sword.
Kamina twisted.
Her blade met his.
He pushed it aside.
He switched between them.
Neither stopped.
Shmuel swung again.
Bruno thrust forward.
Kamina ducked under Shmuel's arm and kicked Bruno's wrist. The sword flew from her hand and spun into the water. He rose into Shmuel's guard and slammed his forehead into Shmuel's face.
"Hey," Kamina said. "Listen when I'm talkin'."
Shmuel answered with another punch.
Kamina caught it with both hands.
The floor cracked under his feet.
Behind him Bruno lunged.
He released Shmuel and leaned back. Bruno's fingers passed inches from his throat. He grabbed her sleeve and threw her past him.
She hit the wall and pushed off it instantly.
All three moved again.
Kamina stepped forward.
His sword cut between them.
Not to wound.
To stop.
To divide.
"You're both idiots," he said.
Shmuel roared and drove his fist down.
Kamina raised his blade.
The impact rang like a bell.
"You," Kamina said, staring straight into Shmuel's eyes, "are so damn busy hatin' what she became that you forgot why you cared in the first place."
He shoved the mechanical arm away.
Bruno rushed him from the side.
He turned and struck the flat of his blade against her shoulder, forcing her back without cutting her.
"And you," he said, glancing at her, "are so damn busy tryin' to become somethin' that you forgot you don't gotta be anythin' except yourself."
They came again.
He met them.
Steel and flesh and light collided.
He moved between every strike.
He blocked Shmuel's fist.
He parried Bruno's grab.
He kicked Shmuel back.
He caught Bruno's arm.
He forced space between them again and again.
"You keep thinkin' identity is some neat little box!" Kamina shouted. "Like if the shape changes, the person's gone!"
Shmuel swung.
Kamina deflected.
"But that's stupid!"
Bruno attacked.
He blocked.
"People change! That's the whole damn point!"
He shoved them apart again.
His light flared brighter.
"The old Bruno ain't comin' back!"
"But that don't mean she ain't Bruno!"
Shmuel froze for half a second.
That half second was enough for Kamina to step forward and grab him by the front of his shirt.
"Listen to me," Kamina said.
"If she laughs different, then learn the new laugh."
He shoved him back.
"If she walks different, then walk beside her anyway."
He turned and pointed his sword at Bruno.
"And you!"
She stared at him.
"You don't gotta live up to some ghost!"
The water churned around his legs.
"You just gotta live!"
Kamina planted his feet between them and bared his teeth in a grin so wide it bordered on lunacy.
"JUST WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!"
His voice crashed into them harder than any blade.
Shmuel hesitated.
Bruno hesitated.
That was all Kamina needed.
He pointed upward, finger extended toward the unseen sky beyond steel, beyond water, beyond the impossible shape of the world.
"Imogen!" he shouted. "I'm borrowin' a bit of your explosive power!"
Far above, on the open crown of the ship, Imogen stood inside the collapsing pillar of light, her burning dress unraveling into embers that scattered into the night. Her mechanical eye bled red down her cheek. Her hands trembled as she held the radiance together by force of will alone.
She heard him.
And somehow, that was enough.
Kamina grinned wider.
[Synchronize E.G.O: Wedlocked].
It made no sense. Like seriously this did not make any sense at all.
Just Kamina deciding it would happen.
And so it did.
Light folded inward.
Fire bloomed outward.
His clothes burned away into ash and reformed instantly into something ceremonial. A black pastor's suit wrapped his body, lined with veins of molten gold that pulsed like a living heartbeat. Heat shimmered off him in waves. His katana melted and reformed in his hand, its blade running like liquid sunlight, dripping brightness that vanished before it could fall.
The ocean around them vanished.
Erased by the sheer presence of HIM.
The drowned hall returned. Air filled it. Light filled it. The impossible weight of the deep no longer touched them.
Kamina looked down at himself and scowled.
"…I don't like this outfit."
He glanced upward.
"Oi, brat! You mind changin' it?!"
Imogen's voice screamed down from the heavens, raw and shaking.
"STOP COMPLAINING AND FINISH THIS FAST, KAMINA! I CAN'T HOLD IT TOGETHER MUCH LONGER!"
He laughed.
"Yeah, yeah! Loud and clear!"
Shmuel moved.
Bruno moved.
Kamina moved first.
He stepped forward and swung.
The molten blade howled.
It struck both of them at once.
Light exploded.
They flew.
Their bodies tore through the walls, through steel, through memory itself, blasting out of the interior and onto the forward deck of the great ship. They crashed across the wooden boards, skidding under the open sky, under the stars, under the collapsing miracle holding their world together.
Kamina walked after them.
Each step left glowing footprints that faded behind him.
He rested the molten blade across his shoulder and looked at Shmuel.
Not as an enemy.
Not as a distortion.
Not as an abnormality.
But as a person.
His grin softened.
"Shmuel," he said.
"From now on…"
He pointed the sword at him.
"…you call me Bro."
The wind howled.
The ship groaned.
The light trembled.
And Kamina's smile became something fierce enough to challenge fate itself.
"Now get up."
He lowered the blade into his hands.
"Let's go do something great together."
He leaned forward.
"Because I had decided that our office will reach THE HEAVEN."