The days passed slowly, blurring into weeks, then months. Some of my memories trickled back in fragments, but they remained hazy, like faded photographs I couldn't fully make out.
Time inside the facility felt… different. It was like we were sealed away from the rest of the world, trapped in an endless stillness neither Daichi nor I dared to break. The sterile, metallic halls had become our sanctuary—our fragile, temporary refuge from the weight of humanity's collapse.
Outside, the world was rebuilding. Cities were rising again, hesitantly, as if afraid the ground beneath them would shatter at any moment. Streets that had once been empty now carried cautious footsteps. People were trying to stitch their lives back together, but an invisible unease lingered in the air, like a whisper of something unresolved—something waiting.
And I could feel it too.
The observation deck was where Daichi often went when he thought I wasn't looking. A vast dome-shaped room, lined with reinforced glass, offering a breathtaking view of the endless horizon. The sunsets here painted the sky in fiery gold and crimson, slowly melting into the cool blues of night.
But he never really looked at them.
Every evening, I would find him there—standing motionless, his figure silhouetted against the fading light, staring out at something I couldn't see. His expression never changed. Distant. Conflicted. Like a man trapped between the present and a past just out of reach.
Tonight was no different.
I hesitated in the doorway, watching him as he stood at the far end of the room. His shoulders were tense, his hands curled loosely at his sides. Even without seeing his face, I knew what he was thinking.
"You're going to get lost in your own head if you keep staring out there like that," I said, my voice soft as I stepped inside.
Daichi didn't turn. "Maybe I already am."
I frowned, closing the distance between us. "Daichi…"
At last, he glanced over his shoulder, offering me a small, tired smile. "Sorry. Didn't mean to make you worry."
"You always mean to make me worry," I countered, forcing a lightness into my tone. But the concern in my eyes betrayed me. I stopped beside him, letting my gaze follow his. The stars had begun to appear, tiny flickers of silver scattered across the darkened sky.
"What are you thinking about?" I asked after a moment.
He hesitated. His fingers twitched before tightening into fists. "Everything. Nothing. I don't know…" His voice was quiet, almost like he was afraid to say the words out loud. "I keep wondering if what I did—what we did—was enough."
My chest tightened. "Of course it was," I said, but even I could hear the faint waver in my voice. I reached out, my fingers brushing over his clenched hand before wrapping around it. "Daichi, you saved the world. You gave everything you had. No one could have done more."
His grip remained tense. "But it's still broken." His words were barely a whisper. "Even after everything… it doesn't feel like anything's changed. People are rebuilding, but they're still afraid. And I—" He exhaled sharply. "I can't shake the feeling that we missed something."
I swallowed hard.
Because I felt it too.
That lingering shadow. That gnawing doubt that told me we hadn't truly stopped it.
"You're not alone in this," I said, squeezing his hand. "No matter what happens next, we'll face it together. You don't have to carry this burden by yourself."
For the first time that night, he really looked at me. The distance in his eyes faded, just for a moment, replaced by something softer.
"Thank you," he murmured. "For always being here. For… everything."
"Don't thank me yet," I said, managing a small smile. "You might regret it when I start nagging you about taking care of yourself."
He chuckled—a quiet, warm sound that sent a tiny flutter through my chest. "I think I've missed your nagging."
"And I think you're terrible at hiding when something's bothering you," I shot back, playfully nudging his arm.
His lips twitched in amusement, and for a fleeting second, the weight between us lifted. The past, the uncertainty, the heaviness of our choices—it all faded into something lighter.
But it didn't last.
The next evening, everything changed.
The control room was dim, bathed in the eerie glow of dozens of monitors. Streams of data flickered across the screens in rapid bursts. I sat hunched over the console, my fingers moving over the keys, scanning the endless information pouring in.
Daichi stood beside me, arms crossed, his eyes sharp with an unease neither of us wanted to acknowledge.
Then—
The first broadcast came.
A grainy news feed flashed onto one of the larger screens. The voice of the anchor wavered, barely coherent over the chaos unraveling in the background. My breath caught in my throat. The images flickering before us—empty streets, abandoned homes, crying families clutching photographs of loved ones—
It was happening again.
I felt my blood run cold. "No…"
Daichi's jaw tightened. His fists clenched at his sides. "It's happening again," he said, his voice low and heavy with something darker than fear. He stepped closer to the screen, his eyes scanning the desperate faces staring back at us. "I thought we stopped it. I thought… my sacrifice was supposed to end this."
My hands trembled against the keyboard. The memory crashed into me with the force of a tidal wave—
The blinding light.
The way he had looked at me in those last moments.
The quiet resolve in his eyes before he was swallowed by it.
I gritted my teeth, forcing the memory back. "We did stop it," I insisted, though the words felt fragile even as they left my lips. "At least… we thought we did. But—"
"Something's still wrong." Daichi's voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. His expression hardened, the hesitation from last night gone, replaced by unwavering resolve. "Whatever this is, we'll figure it out. We'll stop it. For good this time."
I sucked in a breath. My heart ached at the determination in his voice.
He had already sacrificed everything once.
He shouldn't have to do it again.
"Daichi…" I whispered, reaching out to him. "You don't have to do this alone."
He turned to me then, and in that moment, the weight of the world pressed down on us both. But he reached out—his fingers slipping between mine, warm and steady.
"I know," he said softly. "I'm not alone anymore."
The warmth of his hand sent a small, fragile flicker of hope through my chest.
"We'll face this together, Izumi," he said, his voice steady. "Like we always have."
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded, gripping his hand tighter. "Together."
The monitors continued to flicker, the eerie broadcasts filling the silent space around us. The Vanishing was spreading faster than before. We had no idea how much time we had left.
But as I stood there, Daichi's hand in mine, I made a silent promise.
This time, we wouldn't fail.
This time, we would find the truth.
Before it was too late.