"Koyuki, Koyuki..."
Kazama Aoi was dragged from the depths of chaos by a low, persistent calling.
Koyuki? Who is that?
Her consciousness was still submerged in a heavy stupor, her vision a darkness so thick it felt physical.
With great effort, Aoi forced her eyes open. Before her stood a man with rugged features. He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a training uniform with the characters for Soryu emblazoned across the back.
At that moment, he was kneeling beside her, his face etched with profound worry. "Koyuki, are you feeling any better?"
Confusion swirled in Aoi's mind. Where is this? Who is this man? And why does he keep calling me Koyuki?
A sharp pain lanced through her head. She realized with a jolt that she couldn't remember anything.
The man held a bowl of steaming ginger soup, his rough, calloused palms carefully avoiding the heat of the rim as he offered it to her. "Drink this while it's hot. If you can break a sweat, this cold will pass sooner."
"Thank you... Father," she ventured, testing the words and hoping she hadn't guessed wrong.
Keizo set the bowl down and reached out, clumsily ruffling Aoi's hair. His voice was thick with a choked rasp. "Aye... good girl. Good girl..."
Aoi breathed a mental sigh of relief. She hadn't guessed wrong. For now, she had to play along with this identity to survive; in this entirely alien world, this man named Keizo was her only lifeline.
Three days later, Aoi's fever had fully broken, but her body remained incredibly frail. The slightest movement of her limbs sent waves of ache and weakness through her. Most of her time was spent confined to her futon.
Aoi tried to sit up on her own, but before she could even steady herself, a dragging, dull pain flared in her abdomen. Her vision swam with black spots, and she was forced to collapse back onto the bedding.
The constitution of this body was abysmal. Instinctively, she felt that her body wasn't supposed to be like this.
Aoi bit her lower lip, staring at her thin wrists—so frail the blue veins were clearly visible. A surge of inexplicable frustration rose in her chest.
Refusing to give in, she tried to lift her arm again. She only made it as far as her shoulder before her limb began to tremble uncontrollably. A dull, throbbing ache seeped into the very marrow of her bones, forcing a sharp gasp of pain from her lips.
"Koyuki!"
Keizo's voice rang out from beyond the door. Aoi looked up to see him entering, accompanied by a boy who was covered in bruises.
He looked to be about fifteen or sixteen, dressed in rags so tattered they were essentially patches holding other patches together, stained with mud and dried blood.
His face was badly swollen and his lip was split, yet he kept his chin up, refusing to lower his head. His eyes were startlingly bright—like stars tempered in fire, radiating a fierce, unyielding stubbornness.
Keizo spoke to the boy beside him. "This is my daughter, Koyuki. Her health is poor and she needs someone by her side at all times. Since I have to work to earn a living, I can't always watch over her. I'll be troubling you to look after Koyuki from now on."
The boy snapped his head up, a flash of astonishment crossing his eyes, as if he hadn't expected such a request from Keizo.
Noticing his hesitation, Keizo patted the boy's shoulder. The touch was firm yet comforting. "I'm not asking you to do anything difficult. Just keep an eye on her, bring her water, or help her with her medicine."
Finally, the boy nodded, accepting the task.
Seeing this, Aoi braced herself with her weak arms and sat up, offering the boy a faint, gentle smile.
The boy froze at the sight of her smile, looking away awkwardly, as if unsure how to respond.
Keizo watched the interaction with a happy grin. "That's right! Koyuki, he's called... actually, he hasn't told me his name yet! I'll leave that task to you." He scratched his head and let out a boisterous laugh before turning toward the door. "I'm off to work!"
The wooden door was pulled shut, leaving Aoi and the boy alone. They stared at one another in silence.
"Um..."
Aoi spoke first, her voice carrying the soft, slightly muffled quality of someone who had just woken up.
She looked at the boy's tensed shoulders and clutched the edge of her quilt, trying to make her tone sound as natural as possible. "What is your name?"
The boy's frame went rigid. He clearly hadn't expected her to initiate the conversation.
He hesitated for several seconds before slowly turning around. When his piercingly bright eyes met hers, he unconsciously reigned in some of his hostility. "My name is Hakuji."
"Hakuji," Aoi repeated. She curved her eyes into a smile. "That's a beautiful name."
Being praised so directly caused the tips of Hakuji's ears to turn bright red. He snapped his face away, replying in a muffled, gruff tone. "...Yeah."
The atmosphere lapsed into silence once more. Suddenly, a wave of vertigo hit Aoi. Her chest felt as if it were being squeezed by an invisible hand, and a crushing sense of suffocation rushed over her.
Before she could cry out, her vision went black, and her body pitched forward uncontrollably.
Hakuji's reflexes were monstrous. Almost the instant her body began to tilt, he lunged across the room, catching her slumped form just in time.
The boy's palms were broad and warm. Though they were covered in rough callouses, his grip was unexpectedly steady.
He knelt down, carefully lowering her back onto the futon. "Are you alright?"
Aoi gasped for air, her fingertips deathly cold.
She waved a hand, wanting to say she was fine, but her throat felt as if it were stuffed with cotton. She couldn't force out a single syllable.
Hakuji saw the pained furrow of her brow and reached out to check her forehead. The heat radiating from her skin made his heart skip a beat.
Without a second thought, he turned to run for help, but Aoi's weak hand snagged the hem of his sleeve.
"Don't... don't go..."
Hakuji's footsteps faltered. Turning back, he saw the hazy, unfocused look in her eyes, and he felt a sharp pang in his chest.
He remembered his late father, who had lain in bed just as weak and fragile. The memory struck him like a physical blow, a surge of bitterness and sorrow rising until his nose ached with the threat of tears.
Hakuji knelt back down by the bed. He didn't mention calling for help again. Instead, mimicking the way his father had once soothed him in his memories, he reached out and gently patted Aoi's back.
In her clouded state, Aoi only knew that the hand patting her back was steady. The warmth of his palm seeped through her thin clothing, driving away some of the bone-chilling cold.
She instinctively leaned toward that warmth, her grip on his sleeve never loosening for a second.
Hakuji brought over some water and wiped her sweat-drenched forehead. He remained kneeling by her side, guarding her until she finally woke.
When Aoi opened her eyes again, the sky outside the window had faded to dusk.
She moved her fingers and realized she was still clutching Hakuji's sleeve. The boy was still there, sitting on the floor with his back against the cold wall. His head was tilted toward his shoulder, his breathing shallow and rhythmic.
A sliver of moonlight filtered through the gaps in the paper window, landing perfectly across his face. It smoothed away the hostility in his features, revealing the raw, youthful softness of a boy his age.
Aoi didn't wake him. She simply watched him in silence. She could clearly hear the heartbeat in her own chest—steady, rhythmic, and full of life.