...04/10/2009 Sunday; Dark Hour...
Akihiko doesn't speak.
He just runs. Drops to his knees beside Shinjiro with a force that should hurt, but he doesn't feel it.
He feels nothing but the ice spreading through his chest, his fingers trembling as they touch Shinjiro's shoulders.
"SHINJIRO!"
Hiro's shout explodes behind him, and then Hiro is there too, on the other side, eyes wide, hands already moving without knowing where to go.
Akihiko grabs Shinjiro by the shoulders. He feels the fabric — wet, slippery. He feels the weight of the body, lifeless.
"Hiro!" Akihiko's voice comes out hoarse, broken. "Help me turn him!"
Hiro nods, urgently placing his hands on Shinjiro's torso.
Carefully, the two of them turn his body, as if every second lost is life slipping through their fingers.
Shinjiro rolls onto his back, and there's blood everywhere, pouring from his stomach, from his back, forming pools that glisten under the full moon.
Ken feels the weight lift.
He crawls backward, his back scraping against the concrete, his eyes still locked on the body now lying on the ground, until his back hits the alley wall and there's nowhere left to go.
"Stay with me, Shinjiro." Akihiko's voice is breaking. "Stay with me!"
Hiro looks at Shinjiro's stomach — and sees the gunshot wound, still bleeding endlessly. His shirt is unrecognizable, soaked, clinging to his skin.
Hiro presses his hands against the wound before he even thinks.
He pushes down with everything he has. Blood slips through his fingers, spills from the sides, soaks his hands, but he doesn't let go. He can't.
His heart is pounding so fast it feels like it might burst.
He can't think. Can't process. All he can do is press and hope it's enough.
Shinjiro hears everything as if underwater.
It's hard. The ringing in his ears is louder now, and his vision is closing in like a curtain slowly being drawn shut.
But he hears them. Feels Akihiko's hands on his shoulders, Hiro's fingers pressing into his stomach, trying to hold back the blood that won't stop flowing.
"What happened?!" Hiro's voice is desperate. Confused.
Shinjiro tries to answer.
Air comes in — or tries to. It scrapes his throat like shards of glass, and the sound that comes out is wet, rough, a rasp that barely sounds human.
His chest rises and falls in short, rapid movements, and each one spills more red onto the ground.
His vision blurs. The colors fade first — the red of the blood turns gray, Akihiko and Hiro's faces become shapeless stains.
Then his head moves.
Slowly. With an effort that costs what little air he has left.
His eyes find Ken.
The boy is curled against the wall, knees pulled to his chest, eyes wide, locked on him.
His pale face is stained with blood — Shinjiro's blood — and his hands are still red, trembling, as if they no longer know what to do.
And Shinjiro looks at him.
At the child whose life he destroyed without meaning to. At the boy who spent years feeding a hatred he never chose.
At those eyes now fixed on him, filled with something Shinjiro can't name.
And Shinjiro... just smiles.
It's a small, crooked, difficult smile. Blood runs from the corner of his lips as he does. But it's there. A smile.
Because he knows... that at least he managed to save someone.
"What's with... that face now?" His voice is heavy. Every word costs something he no longer has.
Before he can continue, he starts coughing.
The cough is short, violent, spraying droplets of blood into the air.
His eyes remain locked on Ken's.
And there's something there now that wasn't before. Something that almost feels like... irony.
"Isn't this... what you wanted? To see me dead?"
Hiro watches the blood seep without stopping between his fingers.
With every word Shinjiro speaks, more blood gushes from the wound, staining his forearm with a liquid, insistent sound that seems to have no end.
He squeezes tighter. Harder still. Until he feels his own bones ache.
It doesn't matter.
None of this matters.
He made a promise. On the dormitory rooftop, that day when Shinjiro told him about Ken, about the time he had left.
Hiro promised he would help him. He promised he would be there, right by his side.
And now the blood is running through his fingers and he can't do a thing.
"Shut the fuck up, dammit!" Hiro's voice comes out desperate. Frustrated. "You have to stay quiet!"
His eyes dart everywhere—the alley wall, the bloodied ground. Anything that might save Shinjiro.
Until he sees it.
At the alley entrance, silhouettes of people running. It's the rest of S.E.E.S.
He spots Mitsuru in front. Behind her, Fuuka, her eyes wide, likely frightened by the gunshots that echoed.
"GET OVER HERE!" The scream tears from his throat. It comes out laden with something that isn't just urgency—it's pain. "SHINJIRO'S DYING!"
The voice echoes through the alley, ricocheting off the walls. The group's footsteps quicken.
Shinjiro doesn't look at them.
His eyes are still on Ken.
The smile is still there—crooked, bloodied, but strangely calm. He knows.
He can feel the hatred burning in the boy's chest, that rage he never asked for, that was planted in him before he could understand what it meant.
Maybe Ken won't stop.
He'll probably keep hating, keep carrying that knife in his heart for years, decades.
And that... is enough.
"But it's all right..."
His voice comes out heavy, slurred. "Hold onto that anger in your heart." Shinjiro's eyes glimmer for a moment. "Let it be... your strength. You've still got... your whole life ahead of you..."
Ken hears every word; they embed themselves in his mind like nails that will never come out.
His teeth grind together so hard they feel like they'll crack. His nails scratch against the asphalt, scraping up bits of concrete, leaving red marks on the ground.
His entire body trembles.
Rage. Fear. Despair. Sadness.
All at once, right under the skin, all about to explode.
He doesn't know which one is real. Or he doesn't know which one he should feel. Or what to do with all this that's overflowing inside him.
"Right... kid?" Shinjiro's voice sounds, gentle.
Ken's eyes widen, feeling them burn.
Something warm runs down his face—it isn't blood, it's something else, something he doesn't know how to describe.
The grunts escape on their own. Hoarse, choked sounds that slip out through clenched teeth as he tries, with all his might, not to fall apart.
Shinjiro closes his eyes.
The smile remains.
"From now on..." His voice is a thread, something unraveling in the air. "You're on your own, kid..."
Ken's hand presses into the ground. His fingers scratch at the concrete as tears begin to stream down his face.
"But..." His voice comes out choked, broken. "I can't..."
S.E.E.S.'s footsteps echo in the alley.
Mitsuru arrives first, her eyes scanning the scene—Hiro with bloodied hands pressing against Shinjiro's stomach, Akihiko kneeling beside him with a terrified face, the blood spread in a circle that already reaches their knees.
The metallic smell hits everyone at the same time.
It's the kind of thing that makes your stomach turn, that climbs up your nose and lodges in your throat, that leaves everyone nauseous before they even understand what they're seeing.
Mitsuru runs to Shinjiro.
She kneels beside Hiro, looking at Shinjiro with worry.
"Aragaki!"
Her voice comes out frightened. It's a tone few have ever heard from her—barely contained desperation.
Everyone runs to Shinjiro, except Fuuka, who goes to Ken.
The boy is huddled against the wall, his back scraping the concrete, his hands completely red.
His eyes are glassy, tears streaming down his dirty face, and he trembles. He trembles as if he's freezing.
Fuuka stops beside him and kneels down.
Gently, her hands find his shoulders, trying to bring his mind back.
"Amada-kun..." Her voice wavers, but she forces the words out. "Calm down..."
Yukari kneels beside Akihiko. Her eyes roam over Shinjiro's body—the wounds, the blood, the black veins covering his entire face.
"My God... What..." Her voice comes out in shock. "What happened?!"
Hiro doesn't take his hands off the wound. The blood keeps flowing, hot, insistent.
"I... I... I don't know! Akihiko and I got here and found Shinjiro like this!" His voice comes out confused, desperate, the words stumbling over each other.
Shinjiro opens his eyes.
The world is blurred, almost all the colors have faded, but he can still make out the faces around him.
Hiro, stained with blood up to his elbows. Akihiko, wide-eyed, holding Shinjiro's head. Mitsuru, in shock at the sight of his condition.
Koromaru comes closer.
The dog rests his head against Shinjiro's limp hand, his eyes fixed on him, and lets out a low whine—a small, sad sound at seeing Shinjiro like this.
Shinjiro forces his arm.
The movement takes an eternity. The arm weighs a ton, but he manages it.
His hand finds Koromaru's head, his fingers sink into the white fur, and he begins to pet him, trying to soothe the dog.
Koromaru whines again, but stops trembling.
Shinjiro looks at Hiro. Then at Akihiko.
He sees the desperation in them. The worry, the denial that is still trying to cling to any hope, no matter how small.
He knows.
Even if it's painful... this is how it was meant to be.
With what strength remains, he raises one hand.
His right hand finds Akihiko's, their fingers intertwine, and Akihiko squeezes it tight.
His left hand rises.
It's fingers find Hiro's neck. It's not a forceful gesture—it's light, almost gentle.
His palm touches the skin, his thumb presses against the side, and Hiro feels the touch, cold, trembling, yet firm.
It's an embrace. The last one Shinjiro can give.
"There's no point... in using Takeba's healing on me..." His voice comes out calm. Gentle. As if he were comforting them both.
Shinjiro's eyes travel across the faces around him. One by one. As if he wanted to memorize each one before he goes.
"Even if you heal me... I'm going to die by my own Persona."
Shinjiro's eyes meet Hiro's and Akihiko's. One last time.
"So... please... Take care of Amada..."
Akihiko feels his heart clench inside his chest.
Shinjiro's words still echo, hanging between them, and Akihiko wants to deny it.
Deny that it has to end like this.
But he sees Shinjiro's eyes.
He sees the weariness in them, and at the same time... a peace. Someone who accepted long ago what was to come, and was only waiting for the inevitable.
Akihiko squeezes Shinjiro's hand, as if he could transfer a little of his own life to the friend who is dying.
Akihiko's eyes well up. His vision blurs. But he doesn't look away.
"I will." His voice comes out choked, broken. "Don't worry."
The smile that spreads across Shinjiro's face is the calmest thing Akihiko has ever seen.
Shinjiro turns his head toward Hiro.
He's right there. His eyes wide with desperation. There's fear there—something deeper, rawer.
Shinjiro remembers the promise they made.
On the dormitory rooftop, when Hiro said he would help him, no matter what.
His hand squeezes Hiro's neck.
It's a weak squeeze. But it's a last goodbye.
"This is how it..." His voice is soft. So soft. Heavy, but soft. "...should be..."
Shinjiro's eyes begin to close.
Slowly. Like someone finally resting after a long journey.
The hand that was squeezing Akihiko's loosens. The fingers slip away, one by one, until his palm falls to the ground with a soft sound that echoes around them.
The hand that touched Hiro's neck slides down. It slips along the side, until it too falls to the ground.
Shinjiro's body goes still.
His chest no longer rises. His eyes are closed, and there's something in his face that wasn't there before—a peace that none of them has ever seen.
Until, just as Shinjiro's hand fell...
DONG...
The Tartarus bell echoes in the distance, signaling the end of the Dark Hour.
The sound spreads through the sleeping city, deep, solemn, like a requiem no one asked for.
The greenish hue that tinged everything begins to dissipate—first at the edges, then in the alleys, then on the faces of those standing there.
The light of dawn begins to creep in.
TO BE CONTINUED...