The days passed slowly, bleeding into weeks and then months. Some of their memories began to restored bit by bit, but still very ambiguous. Time inside the facility felt different—isolated from the outside world, cocooned in a quiet stillness that neither Izumi nor Daichi dared to disturb. The stark metallic halls had become their sanctuary, a place where the weight of humanity's collapse could be momentarily forgotten.
Outside, the world was rebuilding. Cities rose cautiously from the ruins, their foundations fragile, like a child taking its first uncertain steps. But even as humanity began to pick up the shattered pieces, an invisible tension lingered—a collective unease, as though the air itself whispered warnings of a coming storm.
The observation deck was where Daichi often retreated. It was a vast, dome-shaped room with reinforced glass panels offering an unbroken view of the endless horizon. The sunsets here were breathtaking, streaks of fiery red and gold bleeding into the cool blues of the sky. But Daichi rarely seemed to notice the beauty.
Izumi would find him there almost every evening, standing motionless as he gazed into the distance. His expression was always the same—distant, conflicted, like a man caught between the present and a memory he couldn't quite grasp.
One evening, as the sky darkened and the stars began to peek through the veil of twilight, Izumi stepped into the observation deck. Daichi stood at the far end, his silhouette framed by the fading light. She hesitated for a moment, leaning against the doorway as she watched him.
"You'll get lost in your thoughts if you keep staring out there," she said softly, her voice breaking the silence.
Daichi didn't turn around. "Maybe I already am."
Izumi frowned, stepping closer. "Daichi…"
He finally glanced over his shoulder, offering her a faint smile. "Sorry. I didn't mean to worry you."
"You always mean to worry me," she replied, trying to inject some levity into her tone, though the concern in her eyes betrayed her. She crossed the room and stood beside him, following his gaze. The stars glittered faintly, like scattered fragments of glass in an endless sea of black.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked after a moment of silence.
He hesitated, his brow furrowing. "Everything. Nothing. I don't know…" He trailed off, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. "I just keep wondering if what I did—what we did—was enough."
"Of course it was," Izumi said firmly, though her voice wavered slightly. She reached out, placing her hand gently over his. "You saved the world, Daichi. You gave everything you had. No one could ask for more."
"But it's still broken," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Even after all that, it feels like nothing's changed. The people out there—they're rebuilding, but they're still afraid. And I… I can't shake the feeling that I missed something. That we missed something."
Izumi bit her lip, her heart aching at the anguish in his voice. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that they hadn't missed anything, that they had done everything they could. But the truth was, she couldn't be sure. She felt it too—that nagging doubt, the sense that their fight wasn't truly over.
"You're not alone in this," she said softly, squeezing his hand. "Whatever happens next, we'll face it together. You don't have to carry the weight of the world by yourself."
He looked at her then, his dark eyes meeting hers. For a moment, the distance in his gaze faded, replaced by something softer. "Thank you," he murmured. "For always being here. For… everything."
"Don't thank me yet," she replied, a small smile tugging at her lips. "You might regret it when I start nagging you about taking care of yourself."
He chuckled softly, the sound warm and familiar. "I think I've missed your nagging."
"And I think you're terrible at hiding when something's bothering you," she shot back, her tone teasing but laced with affection.
For a moment, the heaviness between them lifted, replaced by a fragile, fleeting warmth. But it didn't last.
The next evening, the peace they had clung to was shattered.
The control room was dim, illuminated only by the glow of dozens of monitors. Izumi sat hunched over the console, her eyes scanning the streams of data flashing across the screens. Daichi stood beside her, his arms crossed as he watched the information with a growing sense of unease.
Then, the first broadcast appeared.
A grainy news feed flickered onto one of the larger screens. The anchor's voice was frantic, their words barely coherent over the chaos unfolding in the background. Images of empty streets and abandoned homes filled the screen. Tearful families clutched photos of loved ones who had vanished without a trace. The phenomenon was spreading again.
"No…" Izumi whispered, her blood running cold.
Daichi's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "It's happening again," he said, his voice low and heavy with dread. He took a step closer to the screen, his eyes narrowing as he took in the haunting images. "I thought we stopped it. I thought… I thought my sacrifice was supposed to end this."
Izumi swallowed hard, the memory of that moment flooding back. The blinding light. The way he had looked at her, his eyes full of resolve, before dissolving into pure energy. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. "We did stop it," she said, her voice trembling. "At least… we thought we did. But—"
"Something's still wrong," Daichi finished for her, his tone grim. He turned to her, his expression hardened by a resolve she had seen many times before. "Whatever this is, we'll figure it out. We'll stop it. For good this time."
Izumi's heart ached at the determination in his voice. He had already sacrificed everything once. He shouldn't have to do it again. "Daichi…" she began softly, reaching out to him. "You don't have to do this alone."
He looked at her, his gaze softening for just a moment. "I know. I'm not alone anymore." He reached out, lacing his fingers with hers. "We'll face this together, Izumi. Like we always have."
Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away, nodding firmly. "Together," she said, her voice steady despite the fear twisting in her chest.
As the broadcasts continued to play, the weight of their mission settled between them. The Vanishing was spreading faster than before, and they had no idea how much time they had to act. But as Izumi looked at Daichi, his hand warm and solid in hers, she felt a flicker of hope.
No matter what was coming, they would face it together.
And this time, they wouldn't fail