The nights were growing colder, and with it, a creeping sense of inevitability settled over Anteiku. The peaceful days of hiding in plain sight were slipping away. Each passing moment felt like the calm before a storm, and I couldn't shake the feeling that the quiet tension between Touka and me wasn't just a personal struggle—it was a reflection of the larger conflict we were about to face.
Touka had been spending more time outside of Anteiku, gathering information and, I suspected, trying to prepare for something big. She had always been driven, but there was a certain desperation in her actions lately that worried me. She'd come back late at night, often covered in dirt and grime, her eyes tired but determined.
One evening, as the clock struck midnight and the café had long since closed, I found her alone on the rooftop. The soft glow of the streetlights cast long shadows across her face, making her look even more distant than usual. I climbed up after her, trying not to disturb her with too much noise.
"Touka," I called out softly, stepping onto the rooftop.
She didn't immediately turn, her eyes focused on the empty street below. The wind tousled her hair, making her look almost ethereal in the dim light.
"I thought you'd be in bed by now," she said quietly, her tone almost neutral.
I stepped closer, taking a seat next to her. "I couldn't sleep. Figured I'd find you here."
Touka didn't respond at first. She just stared ahead, her posture stiff as she crossed her arms. The silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable.
"Are you okay?" I finally asked, unable to hold back the concern in my voice.
Her jaw tightened, and she shot me a quick glance. "I'm fine," she said, her tone betraying her. "Just thinking."
"About what?" I asked, trying not to sound too intrusive.
She looked away again, her gaze softening as she spoke, almost as if she was speaking to herself. "About the future. About everything I've done. Everything I have to do."
I could see the weight of her words, the burden she carried, and I didn't know how to make it lighter. I wanted to say something that would reassure her, but the words felt hollow.
"I don't know what it's like," I began, "but I know you're carrying a lot. You don't have to do it alone."
Touka's eyes flicked to me, and I could feel the vulnerability she was trying to hide beneath her tough exterior. "I'm not like you," she said quietly. "You still have a chance at a normal life. I don't."
I opened my mouth to argue, but the words wouldn't come. She was right, in a way. The moment I'd stepped into her world, everything changed. I'd walked away from my past without realizing the cost. I didn't know if I could ever go back to the life I once had.
"I never wanted a normal life," I said finally, the words coming out more honest than I intended. "I chose this—chose you."
Touka's expression softened, and for a brief moment, I saw a flicker of something between us. It wasn't just the fight or the danger that bound us together. It was the shared understanding of loss, of what it meant to survive in a world that had no mercy.
Her hand brushed against mine, and she looked at me, her eyes searching my face. "You say that, but what if you get hurt?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "What if I can't protect you?"
I took her hand, squeezing it gently. "I can protect myself. But I don't want to do it alone. I want to be by your side, Touka. Always."
For a long time, she didn't say anything. Instead, she just stared at me, her grip tightening around my hand as if it was the only thing keeping her grounded.
"I can't promise you that everything will be okay," she said after a long silence. "But I can promise that I won't let anything happen to you. Even if it means I have to fight until the end."
I nodded, knowing that her promise was as much for herself as it was for me. We both understood the stakes. There was no going back.
The wind howled around us, but the quiet between us felt like a shared understanding. Despite everything that had happened—and everything that was coming—I felt like I was no longer just a bystander in her world. I was part of it. And that, in itself, was both terrifying and beautiful.
"Thank you," I whispered, my voice barely audible above the wind.
Touka didn't answer, but she leaned her head on my shoulder, her warmth a comfort I hadn't expected. I closed my eyes, letting the moment last just a little longer before reality came crashing back. The calm couldn't last forever.
And then, just as I feared, the phone rang. A sharp, urgent sound that shattered the fragile peace between us.
Touka immediately pulled away, her expression hardening as she grabbed the phone. She listened for a moment, her face tightening with every word.
I could feel the change in her—the moment the weight of responsibility settled back onto her shoulders.
"It's time," she said, her voice steely.
Without another word, we stood up, moving quickly down the stairs. We didn't need to say anything more. We both knew the battle was coming. And we would face it together.