"What causes you the most pain?"
"Someone who was completely devoted to you... suddenly turns and leaves one day. No longer loving you. Without reason. Without explanation. Just... gone."
"And what makes you the happiest?"
"...He came back."
The room was empty.
Beyond the window, a torrential downpour lashed against the glass, each raindrop striking with a sharp, almost accusatory pitter-patter—nothing like the gentle, soothing rhythm that usually lulled her to sleep. This rain was harsh. Needle-like. The sound scraped against her nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.
A cold, creeping dampness seeped into her skin, raising goosebumps along her bare arms. Hojo Shione lifted her gaze toward the window, but the world beyond the glass was nothing but a formless blur of gray and shadow. She couldn't see anything clearly. The edges of reality had softened and smeared, as if someone had wiped a wet cloth across a watercolor painting before the pigments could dry.
Is this... a dream again?
Shadows. Pain. Rain. The same terrible triptych that had haunted her nights ever since the separation. She didn't know how many times she'd endured this particular nightmare—lost count somewhere in the dozens, perhaps hundreds. The horror of it should have dulled by now. And yet, the dread never quite faded. It simply became... familiar. A torment she had learned to expect, if not accept.
She hugged her knees tightly against her chest, making herself as small as possible, and pressed her spine against the cold corner of the room. Just like every previous iteration of this dream, thick, murky water began to seep in from beneath the window frame.
Brown and opaque, it spread across the floor in slow, hungry rivulets, swallowing the tatami, swallowing the furniture, swallowing the light. Before long, the foul liquid had risen to her knees, lapping at her folded arms like the tongue of some patient, inevitable predator.
She felt herself sinking. The floor beneath her had turned to sucking, bottomless mud—a swamp that pulled at her limbs with every slight movement. The more she struggled, the deeper she sank. The more she fought, the tighter the mire gripped her. A crushing, suffocating pressure built in her chest, squeezing her lungs until each breath became a desperate, ragged gasp.
Whenever she reached this point in the nightmare, Hojo Shione could no longer distinguish between dream and reality. The boundary between the two dissolved, leaving only the raw, primal terror of a creature drowning in darkness.
Silent, scalding tears spilled from her eyes, tracing hot trails down her chilled cheeks. Her subconscious reached desperately for an antidote—something, anything, to pull her out of the abyss. But her body wouldn't obey. She couldn't move. Couldn't scream. Couldn't do anything but sink.
It's okay. It's okay. Just endure a little longer. Just a little longer, and you'll wake up. You always wake up. This can't last forever.
She squeezed her eyes shut and repeated the mantra like a prayer.
And then—light.
A gentle, golden radiance pierced through the suffocating darkness, dissolving the shadows like morning sun burning away fog. The crushing pressure on her chest evaporated. The icy chill that had soaked into her bones was replaced by a soothing, enveloping warmth, as if she had been lowered into a perfect, steaming hot spring. The harsh, clawing sound of the rain vanished entirely, replaced by a profound, velvety silence.
And there—drifting at the tip of her nose—a scent. Familiar. Comforting. His scent. The one she'd been starving for.
Her eyes flew open.
A figure—beloved, longed-for, dreamed-about every single night since the day he'd left—stood before her, haloed in soft light. The joy that erupted in her chest was too vast, too overwhelming to contain. She lunged forward with all her strength, throwing herself toward him with the desperate, unthinking abandon of a drowning woman reaching for a lifeline.
"Seiya!"
"I love you—I love you so much—please don't go—"
The dream shattered.
Sunlight, pale gold and gentle, filtered through the thin hospital curtains and painted soft stripes across the girl's face. Hojo Shione's eyelashes fluttered. The lingering sweetness of the dream—the warmth of his imagined embrace, the solid reality of his presence—still pulsed faintly in her chest. A small, blissful smile curved her lips. She could still feel the ghost of his arms around her. Still smell that familiar, grounding scent.
He was here. In my dream. I held him. He didn't leave.
Still basking in the fading glow of the fantasy, she reached out with both arms to pull him closer, to burrow deeper into that remembered warmth—
Her hands closed around nothing but empty quilt.
The cold, crumpled fabric of the hospital blanket was a brutal, instantaneous awakening. Hojo Shione's eyes snapped fully open. She stared at the vacant room before her—the pale walls, the silent monitors, the empty accompanying bed where a warm body should have been—and the smile on her face crumbled like ash.
Gone. He's gone. Of course he's gone. Why would he stay?
A sharp, familiar anxiety lanced through her chest. She bolted upright, her disheveled hair tumbling around her pale face, her lips parting to call his name. But all that emerged from her ravaged throat was a dry, cracked, barely audible rasp.
"Sei... ya..."
The sound was thin. Weak. Ugly. But miraculously—impossibly—it was enough.
The room door swung open.
Shiratori Seiya stood in the doorway, a paper bag of breakfast in one hand, his expression shifting from mild surprise to a warm, reassuring smile as he took in the sight of her—pale, terrified, hair in wild disarray, looking for all the world like a startled kitten that had just woken from a nightmare.
"Waking up so early? The sun's barely up. Don't you want to sleep a little longer? Doctor's orders were rest, you know."
"I... cough... I thought..."
I thought you had left. I thought you'd decided I wasn't worth staying for. I thought the dream was the only place I'd ever get to hold you again.
The words caught in her damaged throat, coming out as a strangled, painful rasp. But then, slowly, tremulously, her lips curved upward into a smile. A real smile. The kind that reached her eyes and made them glisten with fresh, unshed tears of pure, uncomplicated relief.
Shiratori Seiya crossed to her bedside, setting the paper bag on the small table beside her. He pulled a tissue from the box and pressed it gently into her trembling hand.
"You really could have slept longer. It's only a little past seven. I was just grabbing breakfast."
He began unpacking the bag as he spoke, laying out the contents with methodical care.
"Listen, the doctor gave me some dietary guidelines for you. For the next several days, you should focus on eating more fish and honey—they're good for vocal recovery and soothing inflammation. Avoid anything spicy, obviously. Though I remember you never really liked spicy food anyway, so that shouldn't be too hard. For your main meals, stick to soft things. Porridge. Soup. Things that don't strain your throat."
A pause. He set down a container of warm, fragrant okayu.
"Also, try to minimize screen time. Your voice needs to recover, but your mind needs rest too. Staring at your phone and doom-scrolling through media coverage isn't going to help anything."
He straightened, brushing his hands together.
"I checked in with Manager Fukada for you earlier this morning. The contract situation is basically under control. At absolute worst, you might need to pay a settlement fee—nothing catastrophic—and then take an official hiatus for a while. Since you were already planning to rest anyway, this shouldn't significantly impact your long-term plans. The company is spinning it as exhaustion and overwork. The public sympathy is on your side."
Listening to his steady, reassuring chatter—the familiar cadence, the gentle practicality, the way he seamlessly wove concern and competence together—Hojo Shione felt an overwhelming surge of déjà vu. This was exactly how he'd been when they were together. The same voice. The same care. The same way of making the world feel manageable, no matter how badly it was crumbling.
She couldn't stop herself. Before he could finish his next sentence, she pushed herself up from the bed and wrapped her arms around him. Tightly. Desperately. Her cheek pressed against his chest, feeling the steady, solid rhythm of his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt. She nuzzled against him like a cat seeking warmth, as if she intended to never, ever let go.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.
As long as I can stay by Seiya's side... I'll serve you forever. I'll devote my entire life to making you happy. Even if you demanded my heart on a silver platter, I would give it to you willingly. Gladly. With a smile.
Shiratori Seiya let the embrace continue for a long, quiet moment. But he knew—from long, weary experience—that if he allowed this to go on unchecked, nothing else would get accomplished today. She would cling to him until the sun set and rose again.
Gently, he patted her shoulder.
"Alright, alright. Let's get you washed up first, and then we'll eat. The porridge is getting cold."
Washed up.
The words detonated in Hojo Shione's brain with the force of a bombshell.
She hadn't showered since before the concert. Her hair was a tangled nest. Her skin still carried the faint, stale residue of stage makeup and hospital antiseptic. She probably smelled terrible. She probably looked like a ghost. And she had just been pressing herself against him, rubbing her cheek against his shirt, inhaling his scent like a starving animal—while looking and smelling like this.
The blissful smile on her face froze. Shattered. Replaced by a look of absolute, soul-deep mortification.
She released him instantly, her cheeks flooding with crimson, and dropped her gaze to the floor. Her hands fumbled frantically over the side of the bed, searching for her slippers. One was there. The other had somehow migrated halfway across the floor during her earlier thrashing.
The more panicked she became, the more elusive the second slipper seemed. Her fingers swiped at empty air. Her blush deepened to a shade that nearly matched her stage lipstick.
Watching her flail, Shiratori Seiya let out a quiet, almost fond exhale. He bent down, reached beneath the bed frame, and retrieved the rogue slipper. His hand found her ankle—gently, firmly—and guided her foot into the shoe.
Hojo Shione's entire body went rigid at the touch. Her cheeks, already flushed, darkened further. A sweet, flustered, utterly girlish expression flickered through her wide, glistening eyes. She looked at him for just a heartbeat—long enough to convey a universe of embarrassed gratitude—and then scrambled off the bed and fled into the bathroom with the skittering haste of a startled fawn.
The door clicked shut behind her.
...
About ten minutes later, the bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of steam and the faint, clean scent of generic hospital soap. Hojo Shione emerged looking significantly more composed—her hair brushed into a neat, simple ponytail, her face scrubbed fresh and pink—and settled back onto the bed. Shiratori Seiya had arranged the breakfast containers on the bedside table, and she began eating in small, delicate bites, her eyes occasionally drifting up to steal glances at him over the rim of her spoon.
Shiratori Seiya glanced at his phone, thumbing through a new message. "Suzune says she's heading to the station now to pick up your mother. They'll come over together."
Hearing this, Hojo Shione paused mid-bite. She set down her spoon, reached for the small notepad and pen on the bedside table, and wrote in careful, slightly shaky characters:
"Seiya, are you going back today?"
Shiratori Seiya read the question. He was silent for a long moment, his expression settling into something thoughtful and a little heavy. Then, he nodded slowly.
"Mm. With your mother here to take care of you, I'd probably just be in the way. Also... I need to take Mio back to Tokyo. She's been waiting."
He paused, meeting the girl's dark, moist eyes—eyes that were already beginning to glisten with the threat of fresh tears.
"And besides... regarding everything between us. Our situation. You also need to give me time to think about it properly, don't you? Rushing into anything won't help either of us."
Hearing this, Hojo Shione nodded. She understood. She didn't like it—her heart rebelled against every word—but she understood. After a long, visible internal struggle, she bent over the notepad again. Her pen moved slowly. Deliberately. When she held up the paper, her hand was trembling slightly.
"Actually... I don't have to get married. This shouldn't count as you breaking your promise, right, Seiya?"
The sentence hung in the air between them. It was a surrender. A concession. An offering laid at his feet. She was telling him—explicitly, painfully—that she would accept whatever scraps of his attention he was willing to give. No rings. No vows. No official status. Just... him.
Shiratori Seiya stared at the words. The silence stretched. Then, slowly, he shook his head.
"Let's talk about that later. Much later. For now... don't think about any of this. Don't worry about promises or futures or anything complicated. Just focus on recovering. That's your only job right now."
"I'm full."
She held up the notepad. Before he could even finish reading the two short words, she had pushed aside the breakfast tray, popped a hard candy from the bowl on the bedside table into her mouth, and risen from the bed. She crossed to the door. Propped it shut with the security latch. Drew the privacy curtain near the corridor window, sealing the room in a warm, golden dimness.
Then, slowly, deliberately, she walked back toward him.
Shiratori Seiya opened his mouth—to ask what she was doing, to protest, to remind her that her mother would be arriving soon—but before a single word could escape, Hojo Shione settled herself onto his lap. The soft, unexpected weight of her pressed down against him. The clean, subtle, intoxicating scent of her—fresh soap, the faint sweetness of the hard candy on her breath, the indefinable, pheromonal fragrance of a young woman in love—filled his senses.
His brow furrowed. His hands rose instinctively to push her away, to create distance, to restore boundaries that were crumbling too quickly.
But then he saw her eyes. Pleading. Desperate. Swimming with a vulnerability so raw and unguarded that it stopped him cold. His raised hands halted mid-air. Lowered. Settled on the armrests of the chair instead.
She took his stillness as permission. Slowly, gradually—giving him every opportunity to stop her—she leaned closer. Her breath, warm and trembling and scented faintly of honey candy, ghosted across his skin. Her cherry lips found the curve of his neck. Pressed there. Lingered. Began to trail upward with the slow, reverent devotion of a pilgrim tracing a sacred path.
If I let go now, he disappears again. If I let go, the dream swallows me whole.
She tasted the salt of his skin beneath his jaw. Her fingers climbed—trembling, deliberate—up the front of his shirt, each button a tiny negotiation.
One.
Two.
Three.
The fabric parted to reveal the firm, warm plane of his chest, the faint trail of hair below his navel, the clean soap-and-cedar smell of him intensifying as more skin surfaced. She pressed her nose into the hollow of his clavicle and inhaled like she was trying to memorize the molecular composition of his body.
Seiya's hands remained on the armrests. His knuckles whitened. His jaw flexed—once, twice—a visible war playing out across the hard angles of his face.
She can't even speak. She can barely swallow. And she's doing this. What the hell am I supposed to do with this woman.
"Shione."
Low.
A warning.
She shook her head against his chest. Her damaged throat produced only a faint, desperate whine—"nnh"—and her hips shifted forward, pressing the thin cotton of her shorts flush against his lap. The contact was unmistakable. She felt him twitch beneath her, felt the involuntary hardening that no amount of moral resistance could suppress, and a shudder ran through her entire frame.
Relief.
Validation.
He still wants me. His body still responds to mine.
Her mouth found his—clumsy, candy-sweet, tasting of honey and desperation. She kissed him with her whole body, chest pressing flat against his bare torso, nipples hardening beneath the thin hospital gown, her fingers threading into his hair and gripping. The kiss was graceless and starving. She licked into his mouth, shared the dissolving sweetness of the candy between their tongues, and moaned—a ruined, voiceless vibration that buzzed against his lips like a plea.
His resolve broke in a single, visible fracture.
His hands left the armrests. Found her waist. Gripped. The pressure of his fingers denting the soft flesh above her hipbones sent electricity cascading down her spine. He pulled her harder against him—a sharp, possessive motion that ground her core directly over the rigid length now straining against his slacks. Her thighs clenched. Her spine arched. A sound escaped her—"aah—hh"—thin and broken, barely more than breath forced through damaged vocal cords.
Good. Good. More. Take everything. I'll give you everything.
He lifted her. The motion was fluid, powerful—one arm hooked beneath her thighs, the other bracing her back—and then the hospital mattress was beneath her, and he was above her, blocking out the pale ceiling light. His shirt hung open. His chest rose and fell with controlled, heavy breaths. His eyes—dark, conflicted, hungry—searched her face for any sign of hesitation.
She answered by pulling her gown over her head.
The cotton whispered up her torso and cleared her arms, leaving her bare from the waist up. Medium breasts, barely a handful each, nipples the color of cherry blossoms—tight, peaked, flushed darker with arousal. Her collarbones stood out sharply beneath skin so pale it was nearly translucent, threaded with faint blue veins at the inner curves of her breasts. She was thin—too thin—the shadows beneath her ribs visible when she breathed. But she didn't cover herself. She let him look. Let him see every fragile, imperfect inch.
I don't care what I look like. I don't care if I'm enough. Just stay. Just stay.
Seiya exhaled—a rough, surrendering sound—and lowered his mouth to her sternum. His lips traced the ridge of bone, then drifted left, finding the soft underside of her breast. His tongue drew a slow, wet circle around her nipple before closing over it, sucking gently.
The sensation jolted through her like current—sharp, foreign, overwhelming. Her back bowed off the mattress. Her fingers clawed at his shoulders. A strangled, pitchy keen escaped her throat—"hhii—nn"—and the pain of voicing it only tangled deeper with the pleasure, creating something unbearable and addictive.
His free hand slid beneath the waistband of her shorts. Down over the gentle swell of her lower belly—soft skin, faint peach fuzz, the subtle concavity below her navel—and further. His fingers met cotton. Damp cotton. The fabric of her underwear clung to her, soaked through, the heat radiating from her so intense he could feel it against his palm before he even made contact.
He cupped her through the wet fabric. Pressed. Her hips jerked violently upward, grinding against his hand with an instinctive, graceless urgency. Her thighs fell open—trembling, uncoordinated—and the smell of her arousal bloomed into the small room: sharp-sweet, musky, layered beneath the antiseptic hospital scent and the remnants of soap.
She's soaking. Through the cotton. Already.
He peeled the underwear down her thighs. She kicked them off with frantic, fumbling ankles, sending them somewhere onto the linoleum floor. Bare now, fully bare, her legs parted for him with the blind trust of someone offering up the most vulnerable part of themselves.
Her cunt was neat, small-lipped, flushed a deep, glistening pink—sparse dark hair trimmed close, the inner folds swollen and slick, moisture beading visibly at her entrance. She was tight. Visibly, obviously tight—the kind of tightness that spoke of inexperience, of a body never opened by anything but her own tentative fingers.
His thumb found her clit—a small, swollen nub barely hooded—and circled. Slow. Methodical. Watching her face.
"Mmn—! Ah—hhn—"
Her mouth fell open. Her eyes squeezed shut. Tears leaked from the corners—not from pain but from the sheer, annihilating intensity of being touched by him, by him, after months of imagining exactly this with her hand between her thighs in the dark. One finger pressed inside her—just the tip at first, testing, feeling the desperate clench of her walls around the intrusion.
She was impossibly snug. Hot. Wet enough that the single digit slid in to the second knuckle with a soft, obscene squelch.
"Hh—! Sei—cough—ya—"
His name, broken and ragged, torn from her damaged throat at the cost of visible pain. He pressed his lips to her temple—a gesture so tender it contrasted violently with the deliberate, probing push of his finger deeper inside her. He added a second. Stretched. She whimpered—a thin, reedy sound—and her nails dug crescents into his forearm. The stretch burned. She could feel herself resisting, muscles clamping down involuntarily, and then—slowly, with patient, rhythmic pressure—yielding. Opening. Accepting.
It hurts. It hurts and I don't care. More. More of you inside me.
He worked her open for long minutes. Curling his fingers. Finding the slightly ridged patch along her front wall that made her entire body seize and her mouth form a perfect, silent O. The wet sounds of his hand moving in her filled the quiet room—schlk, schlk, schlk—obscene and undeniable. Her hips rocked in small, helpless circles against his palm. The sheets beneath her darkened with spreading damp.
When he withdrew his fingers, she made a bereft, animal sound—"nnhh"—and grabbed for his wrist. But he was only unfastening his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle. The whisper of leather through loops. The rasp of his zipper descending. She watched—pupils blown wide, lips parted, chest heaving—as he freed himself.
Thick.
Flushed dark at the head, the skin stretched taut and shining with pre-cum that beaded at the slit and dripped in a thin, silvery thread. Veined along the underside, curving very slightly upward. Long enough that her breath caught. Wide enough that the two fingers he'd used inside her suddenly seemed an inadequate preparation.
She swallowed. The candy was long gone. Her throat clicked, dry.
He positioned himself between her thighs. The blunt, hot crown of his cock pressed against her entrance—nudging, sliding through the slickness gathered there, coating himself. The sensation of that broad head kissing her opening without entering sent tremors cascading through her legs. She reached up, cupped his face between both palms, and pulled him down until their foreheads touched.
Her eyes, wet and fierce and bottomless, held his.
Now. Please. Before I wake up. Before this turns out to be another dream.
He pushed inside.
The stretch was—immense. Splitting. A slow, relentless pressure that forced her open inch by devastating inch. Her spine arched off the mattress. Her mouth gaped in a silent scream—no sound, her throat refusing even the mercy of a cry—and her nails raked down his shoulders, leaving thin red trails. He fed himself into her with agonizing patience, pausing each time her body clenched too tightly, letting her adjust, letting her breathe, letting the burn recede to a dull, throbbing ache before pressing deeper.
I'm going to break. I'm going to break and I don't care. Fill me. All of you. Every inch.
"Nnh—hh—hhah—"
When his hips finally pressed flush against hers—pelvis to pelvis, buried to the root—she felt impossibly, overwhelmingly full. Stuffed. The head of his cock pressed against something deep inside her, a pressure that bordered on pain, and she could feel her own pulse throbbing around his shaft. Tears streamed freely down her temples, soaking into the pillow. Her inner walls fluttered and clenched in rhythmic, involuntary spasms, adjusting to the intrusion.
He's inside me. He's really inside me. This is real. This is real.
He began to move. Slow, at first—long, measured strokes that withdrew him nearly to the tip before pressing back in with a deliberate, grinding depth. Each thrust punched a small, broken sound from her chest—"ah—ah—ah—"—like hiccups, like sobs, like prayers. The friction was enormous. She was so tight around him that every movement dragged her inner walls along with his cock, pulling at her entrance on the outstroke, pushing everything deep on the return.
This girl is going to ruin me. She's already ruined me. Has been for two years.
His pace built. His breath roughened against her ear—heavy, hot, increasingly ragged. The wet, rhythmic slap-slap-slap of his hips meeting hers filled the small hospital room, joining the creak of the mattress springs and her broken, voiceless cries. He hiked one of her thighs higher, hooking it over his hip, changing the angle. The head of his cock dragged across that sensitive ridge inside her on every stroke and—
"HH—! Mmn—! Nn—NN—!"
Her entire body locked. Back arching into a taut bow, toes curling, thighs clamping around his waist with crushing force. The orgasm crashed through her without warning—a white-hot detonation that started where they were joined and radiated outward in pulsing, violent waves.
Her cunt clenched around him in rapid, milking contractions—squeeze-release-squeeze-release—so tight he hissed through his teeth. Her mouth opened in a soundless scream, cords standing out in her damaged throat, and fresh tears spilled as the pleasure overwhelmed every other sensation in her body.
He didn't stop. Couldn't.
The rhythmic vise-grip of her climax pulled him over the edge with her—three more hard, deep, stuttering thrusts and then he buried himself to the hilt, his hips grinding against hers, cock pulsing as he spilled inside her. Hot. Flooding. She felt each throb of his release like a brand, felt the warmth spreading deep in her belly, and a fresh wave of clenching pleasure rolled through her at the sensation.
They stayed locked together for a long, trembling, breathless eternity. His forehead pressed against her shoulder. Her fingers threaded loosely through his sweat-damp hair. The room smelled of sex—heavy, unmistakable, musky-sweet—layered over hospital antiseptic and the remnants of breakfast porridge growing cold on the side table.
She couldn't speak. Couldn't have spoken even if her throat were whole. But her arms tightened around him—possessive, desperate, unrelenting—and her lips pressed against his temple in a silent repetition of the only words that mattered.
I love you. I love you. I love you. Don't leave. Don't ever leave.
Eventually—minutes or hours later, she couldn't tell—he lifted himself from her. Cleaned them both with quiet efficiency. Straightened the sheets. Helped her back into her gown with hands that lingered just a moment too long on her waist. She watched him dress with dark, luminous eyes—cataloguing every motion, memorizing the way his fingers buttoned his shirt, the way he ran a hand through disheveled hair—storing it all against the inevitable absence to come.
When he was presentable again, he glanced at his phone and exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Your mother will be here in about twenty minutes. You should rest."
She caught his hand. Pressed her lips to his knuckles. Held on for three full heartbeats before releasing him, her fingers uncurling one by one like a flower closing at dusk.
Shiratori Seiya looked at her—at that pale, tear-streaked, radiantly satisfied face—and something in his chest tightened past the point of easy breathing. He tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear, turned, and walked toward the door without looking back.
...
About an hour later, Hojo Suzune and Mrs. Hojo stood in the corridor outside the ward. Shiratori Seiya was already there, waiting for them. He stepped forward, his posture respectful, his expression carefully neutral.
"Auntie..."
He and Mrs. Hojo had met several times before—during the golden period when he and Shione were together, he had been a frequent guest at their family dinner table. They had gotten along well. She had seemed to genuinely like him.
But this time, her gaze when she looked at him was different. Complex. Layered with things she couldn't or wouldn't say aloud. Her lips parted—once, twice—as if she were searching for words that kept slipping through her fingers. Finally, she simply sighed—a long, heavy exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of months of worry—and walked past him into the ward without a word.
She didn't need to say leave. The message was clear enough in her silence, in her averted eyes, in the stiff, unhappy set of her shoulders. Shiratori Seiya understood perfectly. All he could do was offer a small, awkward, painfully polite smile to her retreating back.
Hojo Suzune, however, was not so inclined toward silent acceptance. She had witnessed the entire exchange. Her small body trembled with barely contained fury. The words exploded from her lips before she could stop them.
"Mom! What exactly do you mean by that?! How can you just—"
Shiratori Seiya's hand shot out, catching her arm, pulling her gently but firmly back. He shook his head at her, his expression calm but final.
"Seiya..." Hojo Suzune's eyes reddened. The anger drained as quickly as it had flared, replaced by a deep, aching hurt. She reached up and clutched his sleeve, her small fingers twisting desperately into the fabric. Her face was a canvas of pain. "Why... why are you letting her... you didn't do anything wrong..."
"Alright. Enough." His voice was soft. Kind, even. But utterly unyielding. "Take good care of your sister. She needs you. I have things to attend to back in Tokyo, so I'll be going now."
Hojo Suzune's mouth opened. More protests. More apologies. More desperate, grasping attempts to make him stay. But Shiratori Seiya had already turned. His footsteps echoed down the corridor—steady, unhurried, fading into silence.
The two women entered the ward. The door swung shut with a soft, pneumatic hiss. Only when the sound of his footsteps had completely vanished did Hojo Suzune move. She walked, stiff and trembling, toward her sister's bedside. Her mother was beside her, but she paid her no attention whatsoever. Her eyes were fixed on Hojo Shione—on that pale, fragile, infuriatingly beautiful face—and they blazed with a fury that had been building for years.
She raised her hand. Swung it with all the force her small body could muster.
SLAP!
The crisp, sharp sound of flesh striking flesh echoed through the sterile room like a gunshot.
Hojo Shione's head snapped to the side. She didn't raise a hand to her stinging cheek. She didn't cry out. She simply stared, stunned, her dark eyes wide and uncomprehending. Mrs. Hojo gasped, lurching forward to grab Suzune's arm.
"Suzune! Have you lost your mind completely?!"
But Hojo Suzune shook her off with a violence that belied her diminutive frame. She climbed onto the bed, her knees pressing into the thin hospital mattress, her face inches from her sister's. All the jealousy, all the loneliness, all the desperate, aching love she'd been suppressing for years—it poured out in a torrent of words so raw they seemed to bleed.
"Are you satisfied now? Are you happy with yourself?"
"You must be so proud. So incredibly proud. You think you've won some great victory, don't you? You think you're so clever, so brilliant, so absolutely flawless in your schemes—"
"Using Seiya's kindness against him. Weaponizing his guilt. Making him feel responsible for your pain, making him carry the weight of your choices on his shoulders. You must really be enjoying this, aren't you? Watching him suffer for you?"
Hojo Shione's pupils trembled. Her mouth opened. Her ravaged throat produced faint, fragmented, desperate sounds—"Ho... ho..."—but no words would form. No defense. No explanation. Nothing.
But Hojo Suzune wasn't finished. Her voice rose, cracking at the edges.
"Do you really think everyone around you is a fool?! Do you genuinely believe you're the only person in the world with intelligence or feelings or the capacity to understand what's happening?!"
"Do you think Seiya doesn't know? Do you think he's blind?"
Her hand, shaking violently, pulled out her phone. She swiped through the screen, pulled up the chat history from last night, and shoved it directly in front of her sister's face. The words glowed on the screen. Damning. Unmistakable.
"Seiya, she's clearly lying to you! Everything tonight—it doesn't add up. You know that, right? You have to know that."
"It doesn't matter anymore."
"Look at it! LOOK AT IT!" Hojo Suzune's voice was a raw, ragged shriek, her face streaked with a flood of tears she could no longer hold back. "He knew! He knew everything, and he still chose to pretend he didn't! He let you manipulate him because he couldn't bear to see you in pain—even pain you caused yourself!"
"What do you think you are?! Some tragic heroine in an epic romance?! Do you think you're the only one in the world who loves him?! Do you think you're the only one who's been enduring unbearable pain, swallowing it down day after day for his sake?!"
Her voice shattered completely on the final words. The sobs overtook her, shaking her small frame like a leaf in a storm.
"How dare you... how dare you make him suffer like this... how dare you..."
Hojo Shione stared at the phone screen. At those two short, devastating sentences. "It doesn't matter anymore." The words blurred and swam before her eyes. Her heart, which had been so blissfully, greedily full just an hour ago, trembled and cracked. Something inside her—something she had been carefully, deliberately ignoring—shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces.