Emi's body hit the floor hard, blood soaking through her clothes and pooling beneath her. The sword was still embedded in her stomach, protruding from her back—every breath a knife twisting in her lungs. Her vision pulsed with black edges, but she was still conscious. Barely.
A weak groan escaped her lips as she tried to move. Her arms trembled violently. She planted her palms against the floor, pushing up… only to collapse again with a choked gasp. Fire shot through her core. Her forehead struck the cold concrete with a dull thud.
But she didn't stop.
I have to move. I have to get out. If they come back—if another group shows up…
She could barely think through the haze of pain, but one thought screamed louder than the rest: If I stay here, everything over.
She gritted her teeth, forcing herself onto her elbows. Her knees scraped the floor as she began to crawl, her blood smearing across the ground. The sword shifted with each agonizing inch, grinding sickeningly inside her.
Every breath was a razor in her chest.
The hallway stretched out before her like a tunnel—spinning, tilting—but at the end, past the broken door and shattered glass, was salvation: her car.
Just reach it. Get out. Go.
She dragged herself forward, one trembling hand at a time. The world narrowed to pain and movement. Inch by inch. Breath by broken breath.
She reached the door, barely. Her blood-slicked hand fumbled for the handle. Once. Twice. The third time, the latch gave with a metallic click.
The door creaked open.
Emi collapsed against it, her body folding at an awkward angle. Her forehead rested against the doorframe, sweat and blood dripping from her face. She gasped, air rattling in her lungs, and used the edge of the car door to pull herself up.
Her legs trembled violently, knees nearly buckling beneath her. Her knuckles turned white as she clung to the frame. With a final surge of everything she had left, she dragged herself into the driver's seat, collapsing hard. The sword twisted against the steering wheel with a sickening screech of metal and flesh.
She cried out, barely audible, teeth clenched.
Blood soaked into the seat beneath her. Her hands moved on instinct. One finger reached up—click.
The engine roared to life.
Her vision doubled, then tripled. She blinked slowly, like it would help. It didn't. Her hand reached for the gear shift. The car jerked forward. Tires screeched against the curb. Her body swayed with the motion, head slumping, but she forced her hands to grip the wheel again.
She kept driving.
The clock on the dash glowed: 3:04 a.m.
The streets were empty. Her luck held—for now.
She drove like a ghost, bleeding and broken, barely clinging to consciousness.
Every bump in the road was a fresh stab of agony. The sword ground against her bones. Her breath came in ragged gasps.
She ran a red light. Hit a trash bin. Clipped a curb.
But she didn't stop.
The streetlights blurred past her. Her eyes were half-closed, her skin pale and clammy. She tasted blood in her mouth. Her right hand trembled violently on the wheel.
Still, she kept going.
One destination burned in her mind: his house.
The only place left. The only one who would understand. Who would listen.
She turned into the quiet neighborhood, the car swerving as her strength gave out. The tires squealed on the pavement. Her arms jerked, losing the last ounce of control.
The vehicle slammed into the stone steps with a crash.
The impact launched her forward. Her forehead hit the steering wheel with a heavy, final thud.
BEEEEEEP.
The horn blared.
Her body didn't move.
Blood trickled down from her brow, onto the wheel, down her chin. Her head remained slumped. The sword jutted grotesquely from her ruined frame.
Inside the house, lights flickered on.
A window creaked open above. Her superior leaned out, squinting into the night.
Then he saw it.
The wrecked car.
The driver slumped over the wheel.
The sound of the horn—constant, unrelenting.
"...Emi?" he whispered, suddenly wide awake.
His heart dropped.
He vanished from the window. Seconds later, the front door slammed open.
He ran toward her, barefoot on the cold stone, the sound of the horn still screaming into the night.
"No! Emi!" he shouted, reaching into the car and pulling her forward as gently as he could, ignoring the sword, ignoring the blood soaking through his shirt. He pressed two fingers to her neck. A pulse. Faint, thready.
But still there.
He grabbed his phone with bloody fingers and dialed emergency services.
"This is Detective Chief Inspector Renji Kurosawa. I need an ambulance immediately—Code Red. Female, mid 20s, severe trauma, possible internal bleeding. She's still breathing... but barely. Hurry!"
His voice cracked, raw with desperation. He cradled her head in his lap as the horn finally died, leaving only the eerie quiet of the sleeping street. Somewhere in the distance, sirens began to wail.
"Hold on, Emi," he murmured, voice breaking. "Just hold on.
Her eyes fluttered open, just barely. Her vision was clouded with tears and blood, everything a blur. But she saw him. The silhouette of the man who had mentored her, protected her, believed in her.
Her voice was a rasp, nearly lost under the sound of her choking breath. "S-Sir…"
He leaned in, eyes wet now. "I'm here. I'm right here, Emi. Stay with me—don't you dare close your eyes."
She coughed hard, blood splashing onto her chin. Her trembling hand reached toward her blood-soaked jacket, but slipped down again before manage to grab anything. Emi know, she don't have any energy left.
Her voice barely audible.
"The… data… they—they were targeting civilians… Please…"
"Renji?! What's going on?!"
His wife, Ayane, appeared in her nightgown, rushing down the steps barefoot. Her eyes fell on the car, and then on Emi—and her breath caught.
"Oh my God… Emi?!"
Her scream echoed into the night.
She raced forward, falling to her knees beside the girl she had once called her daughter. Her hands trembled violently as she pulled Emi's hair back gently, trying to soothe her.
"She's burning up—she's lost too much blood!" Ayane cried.
Tears streaming down her face. "Stay awake, sweetheart. Don't give up on me. You hear me?!"
Emi's lips parted, a pained smile trembling on her face. "Mama… Ayane…"
Ayane choked, holding Emi's face between her hands. "I'm here, baby. We're here. You're going to be okay. Just stay with us."
But Emi's head drooped forward.
Her breathing slowed.
Her fingers slipped from Takeda's wrist.
"No… No, no, no—EMI!" she shouted, shaking her gently. Her voice cracked.
"Don't do this. You've come too far."
Ayane was already applying pressure to the wound, her hands soaked red, whispering prayers through broken sobs.
Above them, the distant sound of sirens began to rise.
But inside that car, on that blood-soaked seat, time had stopped—for two people who loved Emi more than she ever knew.