The engine ticked as it cooled, the sound loud in the silence that followed. For a moment neither of us moved. The house sat there, dark and unassuming, like nothing in the world had changed—like something hadn't tried to tear me in half an hour ago.
Matthew finally exhaled, long and slow. "Been a while since I stayed over, I doubt Freya is thrilled after how I made her clean.," he said, voice rough.
"Poor kid is still afraid of 'Uncle Matthew' baby sitting," I chuckled. My hand was still on the steering wheel. I hadn't realized I was gripping it until my fingers started to ache again. Funny how the body keeps score even when the wounds are gone.
I nodded at his earlier point, staring straight ahead.
My throat felt like gravel as I spoke, "Yeah. Kerstie doesn't need this right now. She's already stressed enough. Kids too. If they knew there were… monsters… and that I barely walked away from one?" I shook my head. "No. Not yet."
Matthew glanced over at me, really looked this time. The joking edge he adopted was gone, burned off somewhere between floors of a collapsing building. "You almost died, Orion."
"I know, you too.." The words came out flat. Too flat. "That's kind of the problem."
He let that hang for a second. Then came the shrug—lazy shoulders, slouched posture—but I knew better by now. That shrug meant I care but I'm not going to tell you what to do.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he said. "With secrets. With powers. With… feelings." He paused, then added, "You're living a double life, I don't know anything about this Rukia person, but I hope she's worth the trouble she's causing, though I really doubt it."
I huffed a quiet laugh. "You always did hate subtlety."
"Subtlety is just lying with extra steps." He rubbed at his face, in exhaustion I had rarely seen in him. "Look, I meant what I said. I don't approve. Not of the Rukia thing, not of the hiding-things-from-your-wife thing, not of the 'throw yourself at literal demons until they stop moving' thing."
"Wow. When you put it like that—"
"But," he continued, cutting me off, "I also watched you stand up to something that should've killed you three times over. You didn't run. You didn't freeze. You fought. Sloppy as hell, but you fought."
I swallowed. My throat felt tight again. "And I still almost lost."
"Yeah," he said simply. "That's what being human looks like. Powers or not — But hey, winners write history and today we won."
Somehow that thought was charming in it's own Matthew way.
it didn't change how I feel but, it felt like a deep breath.
I finally turned the car off and opened the door. The cool night air hit me like a reset switch. When I stood, my legs wobbled—more phantom than real—but the ground held.
We walked up to the house together, slow, quiet. Porch light off. Normal. The word felt foreign.
At the door, I hesitated, keys clipped back on my belt loop.
"What?" Matthew asked.
"If this gets worse," I said. "If I lose control of everything. If something follows me here—"
"I'll back you up," he said, no hesitation. No bravado either. Just fact. "Or I'll die trying. Same as today. You've been my most loyal friend and that means something because I've met a lot of pretenders claiming to be my friend — but they all ran when things got hard or work needed doing."
I nodded once. That was enough.
Inside, the house smelled faintly of laundry detergent and whatever the kids had spilled earlier that day. I locked the door behind us, leaning my forehead against it for half a second longer than necessary.
"Guest room's down the hall upstairs," I said quietly. "You don't have to take the couch."
"Appreciated," he replied. Then, after a beat, "You did good today, Orion. Even if it doesn't feel like it."
There was a hint of pride in his expression, something I had to accept.
I didn't answer right away. My gaze drifted down the hallway, toward the bedrooms. Toward everything I was trying to protect.
Not long after we stepped inside, the illusion of quiet shattered.
Rowdy feet thundered down the hallway, then back again, then again, punctuated by shrill laughter and incoherent rules shouted at top volume. My youngest girls were mid–some-game-that-definitely-had-no-winner, their energy completely unbothered by concepts like inside voices or existential dread. The scent of curry hung thick in the air—warm, savory, comforting—curling around me like a guilty vice grip. Late afternoon. Kerstie cooking. Of course she was.
It took all of three seconds for her to appear.
Short. Hair tied back in a practical knot. Glasses perched on her nose like a bird clinging to a branch just a little too thin to be trustworthy. She turned from the stove without missing a beat, amber eyes already tired in that familiar way that came from carrying too much for too long—and still, somehow, holding more love than I'd ever earned.
"Orion, what took so long? I missed—"
She stopped.
Not a dramatic stop. Just… a sudden, awful stillness.
Her eyes traced us in a heartbeat: the dried blood crusted dark on clothes, the tears and scorch marks, dirt ground into fabric, Matthew's jacket barely holding together like it had personally offended fate. We looked like we'd tried to reenact last year's Super Bowl by running headfirst into the linebackers—and only made it halfway through the line.
Her irritation evaporated, replaced instantly by something sharper. Fear. Concern. The kind that made her go pale.
"What the hell happened to you two?" she demanded, voice pitching higher than I'd ever heard it.
She looked queasy. Kerstie never handled blood well—not when it belonged to someone she cared about. Strangers? She could flip a switch and turn into a steel-stomached paramedic. But us? That was different. That always was.
Behind her, one of the kids, Ashelyn, skidded to a stop, finally noticing the vibe shift. "Dad…?"
"I'm okay," I said too fast, hands already up like I could physically block the panic. "We're okay. Nobody's dead. Mostly."
Matthew shot me a look. Mostly?
I ignored him.
Kerstie crossed the room in three quick steps, fingers already grabbing my arm, turning it this way and that. Her touch was gentle but frantic, like she was afraid I'd fall apart under her hands.
"You're bleeding," she said, accusingly. As if I'd done it on purpose.
"It's old," I lied. Technically true. Ish. "I promise, I'm fine. We both are."
Her gaze flicked to Matthew then, sharp and assessing. "What about him?"
Matthew straightened on instinct, even injured. "Kerstie, I assure you—"
"Don't 'Kerstie' me," she snapped automatically, then softened just as fast. "Sit. Both of you. Now."
This—this—was Kerstie in, Crisis mode. Commanding without shouting, but still a knot of anxiety. The kids, sensing the gravity, retreated back down the hallway like startled raccoons.
I let myself be guided to the couch, the normalcy of it almost surreal. Curry simmering. Children alive and loud. My house still standing.
Kerstie disappeared for a moment and returned with a first-aid kit, hands shaking just enough that I noticed. She took a breath, steadying herself, then looked at me again—really looked at me.
When she returned I spent entirely too long swatting her probing hands away, insisting I was already tended.
"Orion," she said quietly, the anger gone now. Replaced by something worse. "You scared me."
The words hit harder than any hollow ever had.
"I know," I said, just as quietly. And for once, I didn't try to joke my way out of it.
"We had our injuries tended at the hospital," I said, keeping my voice steady, measured. "We got dragged into a fight there with some psycho, but everything turned out fine."
Technically true. Close enough to the truth to pass inspection without detonating my life.
I gently nudged the first-aid kit back toward her. "We really don't need all that. Just… a shower and some clean clothes, okay?"
She didn't look convinced—not really—but the sharpest edge of her worry dulled. I stepped in before her mind could spiral any further and pulled her into an embrace, firm and grounding. I knew her patterns. I'd lived with them for years. Once her anxiety got momentum, it ran faster than she could reason with it.
She froze for half a second, then melted into me—and pulled me in tighter than I expected.
"I love you," she said into my chest, voice thick. "Don't die on me. I'd die if you didn't come back. You're my person."
That was Kerstie. Absolute. Certain. She'd believed we were soulmates ever since we met on that stupid bus in high school, and no amount of distance or strain had ever fully shaken that conviction.
Everytime she uses that line these days—damn near breaks me inside.
"I'm fine," I murmured, rubbing slow circles into her back. "We both are. Just sore. I'm sorry I took so long—things got complicated at the hospital. But can we wait on explanations until I get cleaned up?"
She leaned back just enough to breathe me in, nose wrinkling immediately, like she'd just discovered someone had hidden a landfill under the house.
"Oh my god," she muttered. "You smell awful."
I snorted despite myself.
"Yeah," she said, already turning toward the hallway. "Go. Shower. I'll get you some clothes. You're sure you're okay? You got hurt."
"I'm sure."
And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—the distance between us felt thinner. Fragile. But thinner.
Matthew stayed quiet the whole time, watching from the edge of the room. He looked like he wanted to say something—like the words were right there—but he swallowed them down instead. Either loyalty or restraint. With Matthew, it was usually both.
I caught his eye for a second and gave the smallest nod.
It wasn't his place and he decided that he wasn't protecting me—Just not pulling the pin on this hand grenade.
Thanks.
I let Matthew take the shower first and tossed him a set of my spare clothes. We were close enough in stature that it worked without comment—another quiet, practical kindness neither of us bothered to acknowledge. He disappeared down the hall, leaving me alone in the kitchen with Kerstie and the steady chaos of home.
The girls thundered through the living room in irregular bursts—bare feet slapping hardwood, laughter too loud, some argument about rules that had clearly been invented on the fly. One of the girls skidded around the corner, nearly colliding with my leg before darting off again like a startled cat. Normal. Loud. Alive.
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, suddenly very aware of how fragile that normal felt.
Kerstie stood at the stove, stirring the curry with a little more force than necessary. The smell was incredible—warm, comforting, familiar—and the guilt twisted tighter in my chest because of it. She cooked when she was stressed. Cooked when she was worried. Cooked when she was trying to keep everything together with her bare hands.
It was a stark contrast to how she sings when she's happy.
How long has it been since I laster heard her sing?
She didn't look at me when she spoke.
"You've been… gone lately," she said, voice careful in that way that meant anything but. "Not just today. I mean—this whole month. Just mentally checked out."
There it was.
"I know," I said quietly.
She finally turned, spoon still in hand, amber eyes sharp behind her glasses. "Do you? Because it feels like you're here physically and somewhere else entirely the rest of the time. You come home tired, distracted. You don't talk. You don't sleep. You barely look at me."
A kid yelled something unintelligible from the living room, followed by a crash and a chorus of giggles. Kerstie winced, then took a breath, grounding herself.
"I'm worried," she continued, softer now. "And I'm angry. And I don't like feeling either of those things all the time. Do you even love me?"
Every word landed exactly where it hurt most.
"I'm trying," I said, and hated how weak that sounded. "I really am."
She set the spoon down with a quiet clink. "Trying at what, Orion? Because from where I'm standing, it feels like I'm losing you and I don't even know to what."
My mind betrayed me instantly—Rukia's face, her voice, the way she looked at me like I mattered in a way that felt dangerous and intoxicating. The way I felt seen. The way I hadn't shut it down when I should have. The way I'd crossed a line and kept walking like it didn't matter.
God, I was a coward.
"I don't want to lose us," I said instead, because it was true, even if it wasn't the whole truth. "I love you, I don't want to hurt you… Or the kids."
Her expression softened just a fraction, but the tension didn't leave. "Then talk to me," she said. "Don't shut me out. I can handle bad news, Orion. What I can't handle is being treated like I don't deserve to know what's going on in my own marriage."
Another kid barreled past, this time clutching something sticky and unidentifiable. Kerstie sighed, the domestic moment breaking the intensity just enough to keep things from tipping over.
"I just need time," I said, hating myself for how familiar that excuse sounded. "To… sort things out in my head."
She studied me for a long moment—really studied me—the way only someone who had loved you for decades could.
"Time," she repeated. "Okay. But don't make me beg for your presence, Orion. I shouldn't have to compete with whatever's living rent-free in your head."
That one hit hard.
"Or who…"
That was definitely an accusation, she was fishing,she had been making the implication that was cheating for years with certainty every time that would make even an innocent man confess.
"I'm sorry," I said, and this time I meant it in a way that went all the way down.
"and can you stop saying stuff like that? You know it bothers me." She nodded once, turned back to the stove, and stirred again—slower now. "Go shower," she said. "You look like hell."
I successfully dodged the question.
I managed a small, grateful smile and headed for the hallway, the weight of my choices pressing heavier with every step. Behind me, the house stayed loud and alive, full of people who trusted me.
And I didn't know how much longer I could keep pretending I wasn't already breaking that trust.
I dug into the pocket of my ruined jacket and felt the familiar rectangular weight before I even saw it. Paper. Clean edges. Untouched by the absolute nonsense of the day. A small miracle.
Good thing I grabbed my jacket before heading home.
"Oi," I called out, raising my voice just enough to cut through the chaos of the house. "Freya. Get your ass in here. I got your Death Note."
From her room came the immediate, practiced response of a preteen who had learned sarcasm as a second language.
"Dad, I swe—"
Then it hit her.
There was a split second of silence, the kind that exists only in cartoons right before something breaks the sound barrier, and then she exploded out of her room like a feral gremlin fueled by caffeine and spite. If this kid ever developed actual reiatsu, I was done for. No Hollow, no Soul Society, just me getting absolutely folded by my own offspring.
She skidded to a stop in front of me, eyes wide, vibrating on a frequency only dogs and exhausted parents could detect.
I pulled the volume free from my jacket with a bit of ceremony, noting the tear along the seam and making a mental note that I was either repairing this thing or going back to Old Reliable for a while. The cover had a smear of dried blood on the corner, but otherwise new.
Honestly? On brand.
She gasped like I'd just handed her a holy relic.
"Love you, kid," I said, deadpan. "You better fucking appreciate this. I almost died getting it. Got in a fistfight with a psycho parasite monster possessing a shady college professor, then a tentacle monster pinned me to a wall."
She didn't even blink. Just clutched the book like a dragon hoarding treasure.
"…Worth it."
My usual exaggerated humor strikes again.
I snorted and immediately tackled her into a loose headlock, throwing half-hearted jabs and testing her reflexes like it was some kind of ritual. She blocked one, ducked another, and kicked my shin with just enough precision to remind me that she was my kid.
We bantered. Loud. Dumb. Familiar.
For a few seconds, the world narrowed to this—this stupid, perfect moment where I was just a dad roughhousing with his daughter and not a man who had nearly bled out on hospital tile or shattered his own moral compass in the span of an afternoon.
Matthew emerged from the hallway then, hair still damp, wearing my clothes like they'd always belonged to him. I glanced over, caught his eye, and out of sheer habit tried to hoist Freya up and toss her onto the couch like I'd done a thousand times before.
My body immediately reminded me that I was not, in fact, immortal.
Flpoaty lite headedness flared through my skull and a twinge in the shoulder, sharp enough to make my vision blur for half a second. I masked it on instinct—set my jaw, laughed it off, adjusted the motion so it looked intentional.
"—okay, okay, that's enough," I grinned through clenched teeth. "Go. Read. Before I change my mind."
She zipped off, already flipping pages, completely oblivious to the fact that her dad was being held together by duct tape and blessings from the local magical girl.
"Love ya, kid," I called after her, and meant it in a way that hurt.
Kerstie was already serving plates, corralling the kids with practiced efficiency. The domestic rhythm kicked back in like nothing had happened, like the universe hadn't just tried to cash me out early.
I didn't trust myself to stand there much longer.
"I'm gonna shower," I said, mostly to no one in particular, and headed upstairs before anyone could stop me.
By the time I reached the bathroom, I could feel it—the stiffness setting in, the ache blooming everywhere at once. Dried blood clung to my beard, little flecks of hardened ooze still caught in the hair like some fucked-up souvenir.
I turned on the water and stared at my reflection in the mirror.
Alive. Barely.
Home. Somehow.
And carrying more weight than I had any right to.
I looked different, Is this really me?
I stepped into the shower and let the heat hit me, hoping—just for a few minutes—that it might wash more than the grime away.
The rest of the evening went pretty smoothly, all things considered. I let Kai claim the living room and its TV as his rightful dominion, controller in hand and volume just shy of "neighbor complaint." Freya curled up nearby with a book, half-reading while talking on the phone with a friend in that multitasking way only preteens seem to master. Ashelyn and Aloy were down the hall playing cops, which, judging by the intense questioning of a very unlucky teddy bear, was drifting into turning the Geneva Convention into a polite suggestion.
I emerged from the shower a while later, muscles loose and heavy in the good way. I rolled my shoulder experimentally, wincing just a little.
"Maybe I should've let Orihime heal me completely," I muttered to myself. The pain was no longer sharp—just that deep, familiar ache you get after a workout you probably overdid.
I made a quick round through the house, checking on the kids, then wandered into the bedroom. Kerstie was sitting cross-legged on the bed, papers spread around her in what only she could call an organized system.
"Hey," I said, leaning against the doorframe. "You doing alright?"
She looked up, exhausted irritation written plain across her face. "I feel like shit. These papers are tedious, I'm having another pain day, and I can feel a migraine coming on." She sighed, rubbing her temple. "I know you were helping Matthew and… whatever with that coworker Freya mentioned. You got hurt. You left me alone with the kids, they were awful today, and now I'm behind on grading."
Yeah. That tracked.
I stepped behind her and gently lifted her shirt at the back, setting my hands on her shoulders and working my thumbs into the tight knots there. "Sorry," I said quietly. "Let me make it up to you a bit. I'll get the kids to bed and keep an eye on Matthew. Can't be a bad host, right?"
She sighed, long and slow, melting back into my hands despite herself. Massages were one of the few domestic skills I'd actually mastered over the years. A shame they were so rarely returned in kind.
"Not much of an apology," she murmured, "but it's a start." Her shoulders loosened even as she said it.
And that's when curiosity nudged me. I still hadn't recovered much reiryoku, but… just a little wouldn't hurt, right?
Carefully, I let a small thread of it flow into my hands and into the massage.
I let a little of myself bleed into it.
Not much. Just a whisper of reiryoku, carefully throttled, diffused through my palms instead of flaring like it did when I fought. I treated it like heat, like pressure—something mundane. Something safe.
I pictured it soft and soothing.
Green.
At first nothing changed. Kerstie just sighed again, heavier this time, her head dipping forward as the tension in her shoulders loosened a notch. Then I felt it—the subtle give, like knots unraveling faster than muscle memory alone could explain. Her breathing evened out. The shallow irritation softened into something closer to relief.
"…okay," she murmured after a moment, suspicious but grateful. "Either you've gotten way better at this, or my back just decided to forgive me."
I swallowed. "Must be my years of rigorous training," I said lightly. "You know. Finally remembering to use reiki."
She huffed a quiet laugh, leaning back into my hands without thinking. That simple trust hit harder than any Hollow claw had earlier. I focused on keeping the energy steady, gentle, making sure it didn't spike or do anything that would set off alarm bells in my own head.
I had power now. Real power.
And here I was using it to rub my wife's shoulders while she graded papers and tried not to fall apart.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
I felt like I could even see the parts of her reiryoku affected by her pain.
Her migraine didn't vanish—this wasn't Orihime-level miracle work—but I felt the edge dull, the pressure ease like someone had cracked a window in a stuffy room. The ache in her back softened into that post-massage heaviness that promised sleep instead of pain.
She reached up and squeezed my wrist. "Hey… thanks. Really."
It was rare for her to thank me.
I nodded, even though she couldn't see it. My throat felt tight. Guilt crept in sideways, uninvited, dragging Rukia's face with it—her laugh, her focus, the way she looked at me like I was something worth believing in.
Two worlds. Two women. One man pretending he wasn't already cracking down the middle.
I pulled my hands back before I was tempted to do more, before I crossed some invisible line I wasn't ready to define. "I'll get the kids down," I said quietly. "You finish up. Or don't. I've got it."
She glanced over her shoulder at me, eyes tired but softer than they'd been in weeks. "You okay?" she asked again, quieter now. Less accusation. More concern.
I smiled—the practiced one. The one I'd worn for years. "Yeah," I lied gently. "Just a long day."
She accepted it, because she always had. That might have been the worst part.
I stepped out of the bedroom and closed the door softly behind me, the house humming with familiar noises—game sound effects, muffled laughter, the squeak of a stuffed bear undergoing what sounded like a war crime.
Alive. Home. Needed.
And still wondering how long I could keep all of this from tearing itself apart.
I eased my hands away and slipped out of the room, grabbing a glass of water from the kitchen and the familiar orange bottle from the cabinet. I'd done this dance enough times that my body moved on autopilot. When I came back, Kerstie barely looked up from the papers as I set the pills and water on the nightstand.
"Here," I said softly.
She took them without comment, swallowed, then finally looked at me. I leaned down and kissed her forehead—then, on impulse, her lips. It lingered a half-second longer than it had in weeks.
"About time you remembered to kiss me," she murmured, already lying back against the pillows.
"Try to rest," I said. "I've got the gremlins."
That earned a tired snort.
I left her to the quiet and went to do my penance.
Wrangling the kids down for bed was its own kind of combat encounter, just one with far more fruitless negotiation and significantly more stuffed animals. Kai tried to argue for "just one more round," Freya wanted to finish a chapter, Ashelyn needed water—no, a different cup—and Aloy absolutely had to explain why the teddy bear was innocent of all charges. Somehow, miraculously, by nine o'clock everyone was in bed, lights dimmed, and the house settled into that fragile, blessed calm.
Not even 10:30 yet, not bad for me—all things considered.
Downstairs, I dished up some leftover curry, added crushed red pepper and a generous splash of hot sauce, and took a petty little satisfaction in reclaiming flavor. I loved my wife, but living with her migraines and Kai's sensitive palate meant most meals were seasoned like they were afraid of offending someone.
I ate standing at the counter, letting the heat ground me. It was almost surreal—this quiet, domestic normalcy—after lightning, blood, and the sound of concrete collapsing. Same day. Same hands.
It was still surreal despite weeks of getting used to all of this spiritual stuff.
When I was done, I rinsed the plate and headed upstairs to the guest room.
Matthew was sitting on the edge of the bed, freshly showered, wearing my spare clothes. He looked better than he had earlier, but that wasn't saying much. There was a stiffness to him, the kind that comes from seeing things that you can't unsee and having your worldview shattered..
"How you holding up?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe.
He glanced up, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Alive. Sore. Spiritually confused. So… about average for today. Who knows maybe I'll magically get some powers too, can't say defenseless really suits me."
I huffed a quiet laugh and stepped inside, closing the door behind me.
"Fair enough"
We sat there for a while, the house finally quiet, the weight of the day settling in now that there wasn't a monster actively trying to eviscerate us.
Matthew was… energized.
Not physically. Physically he looked like he'd been hit by a truck, thrown off a building, and then politely set back down. But there was a fire in his eyes.
"I mean, think about it," he said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "An actual demon. Invisible panther tentacle demon. And we won. I killed it. With your sword." He grinned. "That's maximum turbo manliness!"
That famous Matthew aggressive excitement was on full display as he said it.
I gave a small smile.
He deserved that grin. He'd earned it. Burned hands, broken ribs, thrown through a wall and still got back up. If anyone had the right to flex a little, it was him.
To him, this was victory.
To me, it felt like exposure.
I have power now.
That thought echoed in my skull like an accusation.
I trained. I dissected what Rukia showed me, pulled apart the mechanics, reverse-engineered kido like it was a faulty engine. I invented techniques. Named them like a dork. Thunderstep. Lightning constructs. I was proud of that.
That fight should've been manageable.
I should've controlled the tempo. I should've protected him better. I should've ended it before it reached the third floor. Before he went over the edge.
I fucked up—I fucked up big time and as always had to be bailed out in the end.
Llost control. I raged. I got reckless. I nearly died pinned to a wall while my friend finished what I couldn't.
"Uh, Orion? You there, dude?"
Matthew waved a hand in front of my face.
I jolted. A faint spark snapped from my fingertips, popping in the air between us before fading.
"Oh—uh. Sorry." I flexed my hand, grounding myself. "Just lost in thought."
He studied me for a second. Not judging. Just reading.
"You're doing that thing," he said.
"What thing?"
"The 'I'm about to spiral into overloaded self-analysis and write a ten-page essay in my head about why I suck' thing."
I snorted despite myself. "It wasn't supposed to go like that."
"No fight ever does. War is chaos, that's just the nature of the beast. In the book of Judges it says, 'In those days there was no king… everyone did what was right in their own eyes.' basically war is chaos and we got to witness it first hand."
"I should've handled her," I said quietly. "I've been training. I've been building this up in my head. I thought… I thought I was stronger than that."
Matthew leaned back against the wall with a soft grunt. "You were strong. You cut off her tentacle. You adapted mid-fight. You shielded me. You kept getting up, lots os weak men in this day and age would have just rolled over—but you didn't. I don't surround myself with weak people, Orion."
"I almost got you killed."
"You also saved me from one of the first blasts. And you gave me the weapon that ended it."
He let that sit for a moment.
"You're not some seasoned anime protagonist, Orion. You're a dude with four kids, a mortgage, and unmastered abilities. And today you fought something that shouldn't exist and walked away."
I looked down at my hands.
They were steady now.
"That hollow targeted you," I said. "Not just because of proximity. Because of my reiatsu. I'm attracting them. Rukia said they seek out stronger targets, souls with more reiatsu."
"Yeah," he said simply. "And?"
The bluntness almost made me laugh.
"And if that thing showed up while you were home?" he added quietly. "With Kerstie. With the kids?"
That thought had already been clawing at the back of my skull.
I swallowed.
"That's what scares me," I admitted. "Not dying. Failing."
Matthew nodded slowly.
"Then you don't get to quit," he said. "You don't get to wallow either. You train. You get better. You stop naming moves after anime characters mid-fight."
"I will not apologize for Chidori," I grinned with a firm, unserious tone.
He smirked. "You absolutely should."
Silence settled again, but it was different this time. Less heavy. More focused.
"You know," he added, more serious now, "what do you think happened to her?"
I glanced up.
"We know what happens when a soul reaper cleanses a hollow but not when you smite them down with your lightning."
He wasn't wrong.
I looked away.
"I didn't care," I said honestly. "In that moment, I didn't care what happened to her soul. I just wanted her dead. I barely remember how it looked when you ran her through cause I passed out after hitting the ground so my head was fuzzy."
Matthew didn't flinch at that.
"Yeah," he said. "I figured."
Another beat of silence.
"You're not a monster for that," he added. "You were protecting what matters."
I looked up as if he was a lifeline in a chaotic storm.
Friendship counted, I supposed.
Still, something about the rage I'd felt unsettled me. It had been clean. Sharp. Effective.
And far too easy.
Matthew shifted, uncomfortable but fine with his condition.
Not that he would complain much about his aching body after getting mostly healed up.
"So," he said, trying to lighten it again, "when do I get powers? Because I gotta say, that was kind of awesome."
I rolled my eyes. "You almost died."
"Yeah," he shrugged. "But I didn't."
I shook my head, but a faint smile tugged at my mouth.
"Get some sleep," I said. "Tomorrow's going to hurt."
"Already does."
I turned to leave, then paused at the door.
"Hey," I said without looking back. "Thanks."
There was no joke in it.
Just truth.
He didn't respond immediately. When he did, his voice was softer than usual.
"Anytime, man."
I stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind me gently.
The house was quiet. My people were safe.
For tonight.