The hospital room had settled into a fragile quiet after Shiratori Seiya arranged the admission paperwork and retrieved the prescribed medication from the night pharmacy.
The frantic energy that had crackled through the group for hours had finally begun to dissipate, leaving behind only the sterile hush of the ward and the distant, rhythmic beeping of monitors in neighboring rooms.
Hojo Suzune ended the call with her mother, her small face drawn with exhaustion and something heavier—a complicated tangle of emotions she was still too young to fully untangle. She looked up at Shiratori Seiya, her dark eyes carrying the particular weight of a child who had been forced to grow up too much in a single night.
"I told Mom exactly what you suggested, Seiya. That Nee-san is stable, that the doctors say she just needs rest, and that coming tomorrow morning would be better than rushing here in the middle of the night." She paused, her fingers tightening around her phone. "She wanted to come immediately. I had to tell her three times."
"Mm. Good. That's the right call. A frantic arrival at 2 AM helps no one—least of all your sister."
He nodded, then fell silent for a moment. His gaze drifted toward Takahashi Mio, who was leaning against the corridor wall nearby, her arms crossed and her eyes half-lidded. She yawned—a wide, unguarded yawn that she didn't bother to cover—and blinked slowly at the fluorescent lights overhead.
Shiratori Seiya's attention returned to Suzune. His voice was gentle but firm. The voice of someone who had already calculated the optimal path forward and was now simply laying it out.
"Suzune, you still have to return to Kyoto for school soon, don't you? The new semester isn't going to pause for any of this. The hospital room only has one accompanying bed, and tonight that should be me. You should go back to the hotel and get some proper rest in an actual bed. You'll need your strength for tomorrow."
He turned slightly, his gaze finding Takahashi Mio. "Mio. Could you take Suzune back to the hotel? I'd go myself, but..."
He gestured vaguely toward the closed door of the recovery room, toward the silent figure lying in the bed beyond the window. "...someone needs to stay. If anything happens on the way, if there are reporters or any trouble, call me immediately."
"I—"
Hojo Suzune's eyes went blank for a moment, her protest forming on pure instinct.
Leave?
Leave Seiya alone with Nee-san?
Leave when everything is still so fragile and uncertain?
The refusal balanced on the tip of her tongue, sharp and ready.
But before she could voice it, Takahashi Mio pushed herself off the wall with a fluid motion, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand like a sleepy child. Her voice emerged in a low, tired mutter.
"It's already past midnight... way past midnight. I've been wanting to escape this hospital and find a real bed for ages now. Hospitals give me the creeps."
She walked over, her steps unhurried, and stopped beside Hojo Suzune. Looking down at the smaller girl, a faint, unreadable smile curved at the corner of her lips. With her eyes half-lidded and her tone carrying a velvet edge of challenge, she asked softly:
"Well? Are you coming, or are you planning to haunt this hallway all night?"
Hojo Suzune's gaze snapped up to meet hers.
For a suspended moment, the two of them simply stared at each other—Mio's knowing, faintly taunting smile against Suzune's sharp, assessing glare. The air between them crackled with an unspoken tension that neither would acknowledge aloud.
Then Suzune's eyes flicked away. She glanced at Shiratori Seiya—who was watching the exchange with a carefully neutral expression—and then through the window at her sister, who lay motionless in the pale hospital bed, her dark hair spread across the pillow like spilled ink. Her heart twisted, but she bit her lip and nodded.
"I understand."
Truthfully, if it had been anyone else asking—her mother, her sister, even Fukada Fuyuna—she wouldn't have budged. She would have planted herself in that plastic chair and refused to move until someone physically carried her out.
But Seiya had asked.
And despite the tangled, aching confusion of her feelings, she didn't want to appear stubborn or unreasonable in front of him. Not now. Not when his expression still carried that shadow of guilt he couldn't quite hide.
Still, before turning to leave, she couldn't stop herself from reaching out—her small hand brushing against his sleeve—and offering the only comfort her exhausted heart could manage.
"Seiya... please don't be sad, okay? This isn't your fault. None of this is your fault. Nee-san... she just..."
She just loves you too much. We both do. And it's destroying us.
The words caught in her throat. She swallowed them down and forced a small, trembling smile instead.
Shiratori Seiya returned the smile—or at least, the approximation of one. It was faint. Flickering. The kind of smile that didn't reach the eyes but tried anyway.
"I'm fine. Don't worry about me. Go get some rest. You can come back tomorrow morning and take over the watch. I'll be counting on you then."
"Mm..."
She nodded, and then—reluctantly, with a backward glance at every third step—she allowed Takahashi Mio to guide her down the corridor. The two silhouettes, one tall and one small, gradually receded into the dim white glow of the hospital hallway, their footsteps fading until the silence swallowed them entirely.
Shiratori Seiya stood alone before the door of the recovery room. He stared at the handle for a long, suspended moment. His reflection in the polished metal looked back at him, ghostly and indistinct. Then, with a quiet breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The moment he crossed the threshold, his gaze met Hojo Shione's. She had been watching the door—watching him—through the interior window the entire time. Her dark, luminous eyes followed his every movement, her expression so focused, so utterly absorbed in his presence, that she seemed almost unaware of her own body lying in the hospital bed.
When she saw his face, a faint, fragile smile bloomed across her pale features. It was the same smile she always wore when she looked at him. The one that said, no matter what happens, as long as you're here, everything is bearable.
Shiratori Seiya closed the door behind him with a soft click. He crossed to the small bedside table and poured her a glass of hot water from the electric kettle, the steam curling upward in lazy wisps. Even though the doctor had just finished explaining—calmly, repeatedly—that there was no physical damage to her vocal cords, that her voice would return with rest and psychological care, he still couldn't fully quiet the anxious voice in the back of his mind.
So he had done what he always did when faced with uncertainty: he turned to the System. One hundred thousand yen. A single appraisal card. The familiar interface bloomed behind his eyes, and there it was—Hojo Shione's status panel, clear and undeniable.
Her talent remained S-rank. Her Singing Skill was approaching Level 4. The numbers didn't lie. Whatever had happened tonight, whatever had broken inside her, the foundation was still intact. She was still extraordinary. She just needed time.
The relief that washed through him was profound enough to loosen the knot in his chest.
He set the glass of water on the bedside table and lowered himself into the accompanying chair beside her bed. Looking at her pale, drawn face—so different from the radiant, untouchable goddess who had commanded the stage just hours ago—he reached out almost without thinking. His palm pressed gently against her forehead, checking for fever.
Cool. No sign of illness beyond the exhaustion and the medication still working through her system.
"I asked Mio to take Suzune back to the hotel. She's fine. She's safe. Don't worry about her." His voice was low and steady, the kind of voice you used to soothe a frightened animal. "Your mother will come to stay with you tomorrow morning. She wanted to come tonight, but I told Suzune to ask her to wait. It's better that way. More manageable."
A pause.
He withdrew his hand and folded it in his lap.
"For now, you should focus on resting. Nothing else. Don't think about work, or the company, or the tour, or the media. None of that is your concern right now. We'll handle everything that needs to be handled. And it's not as catastrophic as it probably feels from where you're lying. Trust me."
He continued talking—rambling, really, the words flowing out in a steady, soothing stream—covering everything from the concert's reception before the incident to the doctor's positive prognosis to the fact that the public relations team was already drafting a supportive statement.
Hojo Shione listened to every word.
She didn't try to interrupt, didn't reach for her phone to type a response. She simply lay there, her moist, glistening eyes fixed on his face with an intensity that bordered on reverent.
Occasionally, she would blink. Occasionally, she would nod—a small, fragile dip of her chin—to show she was still with him. But mostly, she just... watched. As if memorizing every detail of his presence. As if she could never, would never, get enough of simply looking at him.
Shiratori Seiya talked until his throat felt dry and his mind had run out of reassurances. Glancing at his phone, he saw the time glowing back at him: nearly one in the morning.
"Alright. That's enough for tonight. Let's sleep. Things will look clearer in the morning. They always do."
He rose from the chair and crossed to the light switch. The fluorescent panels dimmed, then extinguished, plunging the room into a soft, velvety darkness broken only by the faint glow of medical equipment and the pale moonlight filtering through the window blinds. Hojo Shione made no move to stop him. She seemed, for the moment, content to follow his lead.
Settling onto the narrow accompanying bed—a thin mattress that creaked slightly under his weight—Shiratori Seiya lay on his back and stared up at the dark ceiling. The exhaustion of the past twelve hours pressed down on him like a physical weight, but his mind refused to quiet.
Too many thoughts. Too many complications. Too many ghosts.
His phone, resting on the pillow beside his head, suddenly lit up. The screen's glow painted his features in pale blue light. A Line message. From Hojo Shione.
[I'm sorry, Seiya.]
He turned his head.
Across the dim room, Hojo Shione was holding her phone, its glow illuminating her pale face and the faint, sad curve of her smile. She gave the phone a little wave—a small, almost playful gesture—then typed something else, her thumbs moving slowly across the screen.
She wants to talk. But she can't speak. So this is how we'll do it.
Shiratori Seiya stared at the message for a long moment. Then, his thumbs moved across his own screen.
[What are you apologizing for?]
The reply came almost instantly.
[Hojo Shione: I'm sorry for letting you down. For ruining everything. You came all this way to watch me, and I...]
He didn't let her finish the thought.
[Shiratori Seiya: That's all in the past now. Don't dwell on it. Seriously.]
A pause.
He typed, deleted, typed again.
[Shiratori Seiya: Besides, if we're talking about expectations... I didn't have any particular expectations for this single concert. This was just one small step. One milestone on a much longer road. My real hope—the thing I've always wanted—was to see you stand on your own two feet and shine. Brightly. Confidently. Not for me, not for anyone else, but for yourself. That hasn't changed.]
The ellipsis indicating that she was typing appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Finally, her response materialized.
[Hojo Shione: Stand on my own... I really thought I could do it this time. I was so sure. I practiced so hard. I told myself I was ready. But it turns out... I can't do it alone after all. I'm not strong enough.]
Reading those words, Shiratori Seiya felt something twist painfully in his chest. The familiar guilt. The familiar, helpless ache. For a long, stretched moment, he didn't know how to reply.
What could he say? You are strong enough?
She'd just proven, catastrophically, that she didn't believe that.
You don't need me? The evidence suggested otherwise, and lying to her now felt like a betrayal of its own kind.
But Hojo Shione, as if sensing his difficulty, didn't leave him hanging. Another message appeared, shifting the emotional terrain.
[Hojo Shione: Seiya, I've been thinking... I'm going to take a break. For a while. Maybe a long while.]
[It's not that I'm quitting. Not forever. I'll never stop singing—you know that. I'm just... so tired. So incredibly tired. I want to rest. Properly. Without schedules, without pressure, without the constant weight of expectations. You'll support me, won't you? Even if everyone else thinks I'm running away?]
The response came to him more easily this time. Genuine. Simple.
[Shiratori Seiya: Of course. After working this hard for this long, you've earned the right to rest. Anyone who says otherwise doesn't understand what you've been carrying. Take all the time you need.]
[Hojo Shione: Mm... Thank you. Truly.]
A pause. Then:
[Hojo Shione: No matter what happens, having you beside me, Seiya... it gives me the courage to keep moving forward. Even if I don't know where forward leads right now. Even if every choice feels terrifying. As long as you're here, I feel like I can face it.]
[It's getting so late. We should rest. Really this time.]
[Shiratori Seiya: Mm. Sleep well, Shione.]
[Hojo Shione: You too.]
The screen went dark. The room settled into silence. Shiratori Seiya closed his eyes and tried to let his breathing slow, tried to let the weight of the day pull him down toward sleep.
But a few minutes later—just as his consciousness had begun to blur at the edges—a soft rustling sound cut through the quiet. The whisper of bedsheets being pushed aside. The barely-audible padding of bare feet against the cold linoleum floor.
He turned his head. Through the dim, silver-shot darkness, he watched Hojo Shione's slender silhouette rise from her bed and move toward the hallway-facing window. Her hand reached up, found the curtain cord, and pulled. The fabric slid shut with a soft, decisive swish, sealing the room in complete, absolute darkness. The only remaining light was the faint, cold gleam of moonlight that managed to seep through the edges of the blinds, painting the room in shades of charcoal and silver.
And then, that slender silhouette began to move toward him.
Shiratori Seiya didn't move. Didn't speak. He watched as the figure drew closer, her bare feet making no sound on the floor, her hospital gown a pale ghost in the darkness. Finally, the mattress beside him dipped with the soft pressure of her weight. Hojo Shione lay down beside him—not in her own bed, but in his. On the narrow accompanying cot that was absolutely not designed for two people.
This time, Shiratori Seiya didn't refuse. He didn't shift away. He didn't gently disentangle himself and guide her back to her own bed. He simply lay still, feeling her thin arms wrap around his waist from behind, feeling the warmth of her body press against his back, feeling the soft, trembling exhale of her breath against the nape of his neck.
A look of profound, aching longing flickered in Hojo Shione's dark eyes—eyes that he couldn't see, but whose emotion he could feel radiating through every point of contact between them.
Feeling the solid warmth of the boy in front of her—the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the familiar scent of his skin, the way he didn't pull away—the girl's soft, slender body trembled with an emotion so intense it bordered on religious ecstasy. It was the trembling of someone who had finally, against all odds and after unimaginable sacrifice, achieved something they had desired with every fiber of their being.
Tears of overwhelming, crystalline joy welled up uncontrollably from her eyes. They slid silently down her pale cheeks, soaking into the fabric of his shirt, leaving dark, spreading patches that he could feel but not see.
Please... forgive my despicable, filthy, greedy, rotten heart.
Even if you never forgive me... even if you see through everything I've done and hate me for it... I don't care. I don't care about any of that.
As long as I can stay by your side. As long as you don't leave me behind. Even if you hate me—even if you despise the very sight of me—just don't go. Just don't disappear from my life.
Inhaling Shiratori Seiya's scent—that familiar, grounding, intoxicating scent that had haunted her dreams for months—Hojo Shione felt the cracks that had been splintering through her heart begin, slowly, tentatively, to fill in.
Her long, pale legs shifted, wrapping instinctively around his waist, tangling with his. Her cheek pressed against the firm plane of his back, nuzzling softly, reverently. Her arms tightened their embrace, pulling herself closer and closer, erasing every millimeter of space between them until there was nothing left but warmth and pressure and the steady, shared rhythm of their breathing.
Her thoughts grew hazy, her consciousness drifting like a leaf on a slow, dark river. Before she knew it, she had slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep—the first truly restful sleep she'd had in months.
But just a few seconds after her breathing evened out and her grip relaxed into the boneless heaviness of genuine slumber, Shiratori Seiya's phone lit up again on the pillow beside him.
He hadn't been sleeping. Hadn't even come close.
He picked up the phone, squinting against the sudden brightness. A new Line message. From Hojo Suzune.
[Seiya. I've been thinking about it the whole way back. She's clearly lying to you. Everything tonight—it doesn't add up. She was fine yesterday. She was fine during the first four songs. No one just suddenly loses their voice like that. You know that, right? You have to know that.]
Shiratori Seiya stared at the message. The words blurred slightly before coming back into focus. His eyes, in the pale glow of the screen, held depths of emotion too complex to name—weariness, grief, guilt, and something that looked almost like resignation.
He sighed. Quietly. So quietly that the woman wrapped around him from behind didn't stir.
His thumbs moved across the screen, typing a reply that contained far more weight than its brevity suggested.
[It doesn't matter anymore.]