By the time the light thinned from gray toward charcoal, Kyo could feel the building still negotiating its weight.
His shoulder rested against the office wall. It didn't hold steady. Not a sway—something subtler. A slow give, then a delayed return, like the structure answered pressure a fraction too late. Above them, something in the ceiling shifted and settled a beat after it should have, a soft drag of material finding a place it didn't quite fit.
The old office held together better than the rest of the station, but not cleanly. Four thin futons lined one wall, their fabric rough and slightly damp where they hadn't dried all the way through. The file cabinets breathed out old paper and dust; the smell thickened in the still air, then thinned again when the rain shifted outside.
The clock on the wall above Kyo's head ticked.
Pause.
Tick.
The second hand jumped, stalled halfway, then corrected with a soft click that didn't match the movement.
He didn't look at it again.
They sat on their borrowed beds. Damp socks lay in a heap by the door, giving off a low, sour heat that pooled near the floor. The rain struck the roof in uneven layers—closer hits sharp and quick, distant ones lagging just enough to blur the rhythm.
"They're… nice," Hana said.
The word came out quieter than she seemed to expect. She pressed her sleeve briefly against her mouth, as if to take it back, then lowered it. The skin at her lip looked raw where she'd been biting it. One hand stayed tucked under the fabric, not quite still.
"The humans."
Sumi snorted. She tipped her head back against the wall, then adjusted a fraction, finding a spot that didn't press as hard. Her arm rested along her side, loose on the surface, but her fingers stayed slightly curled, not fully relaxed.
"Give it a day," she said. "They all get weird eventually. Or dead."
A drop hit somewhere above them—loud, close—then nothing followed. The next one came late.
Ren lay on his back with one arm over his eyes. It didn't fully cover them; a thin line of light slipped through between his wrist and brow. His other hand rested on his chest, fingers not quite settled, shifting once against the fabric.
"The nice ones die first," he said.
The words came flat, but his shoulder tightened under them, a small pull toward his spine.
"I remember one—" He stopped. His fingers pressed once into his shirt, then eased. "Rain like this. Couldn't hear the step until it was already inside."
The clock ticked. Late.
Tick.
"The others," he said, after a beat, "live long enough to start cutting things open to see why."
Kyo's gaze stayed on the ceiling, but his weight shifted slightly against the wall, compensating for a slow give he felt more than saw.
"They fed us," he said. "Gave us a dry room."
The word dry caught on the air—wrong for a moment, with the damp rising off the socks and futons.
"Let us touch their beams." His mouth twitched, then flattened. "We don't pay them back by making them afraid to sleep in their own house."
The clock clicked.
Then, a second later, clicked again.
Sumi's eyes flicked toward it, then away.
"Tell grandma we're foxes in skins," she said, "and watch the hospitality evaporate."
She shifted onto one elbow, then paused halfway, adjusting again when the floor gave slightly under her weight.
"I tried that once," she added. "Different place. Old man smiled, nodded—kept smiling while he moved the knife closer to his knee. Didn't say anything. Just… waited."
She exhaled through her nose.
"Better to let them decide you're harmless on their own."
Hana chewed at her lip again, harder this time. The skin pulled white, then flushed.
"If she knew, she might—"
She stopped.
Her hand tightened under the sleeve. The fabric shifted with the motion.
"She might—" Hana tried again, quieter. "She might think—"
Incense. A priest. A call placed too carefully.
Her breath hitched once. She let it out slow.
The rain shifted. For a moment it sounded like footsteps along the outer walkway—light, uneven.
Ren's arm came off his eyes.
His head turned toward the door.
Silence held.
Then the rain resolved back into separate impacts, the pattern reassembling too neatly.
He didn't move for another second. Then his arm went back, but not as loosely as before.
"Hana," Kyo said.
He pushed his shoulder back into the wall, testing it. It answered with a faint, delayed give.
"We just blew up the one thing keeping that tower off the maps. We're already the loudest thing in this district."
The clock stuttered. The second hand jerked, froze, then skipped forward two marks.
"Give yourself one night," he said, "where someone looks at you and sees a tired girl."
The words settled unevenly in the room.
No one spoke.
The rain filled the gap, louder now on the near side of the roof, softer farther out. The damp heat near the floor thickened, then thinned again as air shifted through unseen gaps.
Space was tight. Their futons nearly touched.
When Sumi shifted to lie down, she did it in stages—hip first, then shoulder, then head—each movement small, controlled. Her bare arm brushed Kyo's as she settled. Her skin felt warm and damp, the scent of rust and soap faint but present.
She didn't pull away immediately. Not quite still, not quite moving.
Kyo exhaled.
His tail slipped free with it, the tension he'd been holding through the afternoon loosening a fraction too far. The fur dragged lightly along the fabric, then curved sideways. The tip brushed the back of Sumi's neck.
Her shoulders tightened—sharp, contained.
She turned her head just enough to look at him, eyes narrowed, measuring.
"Watch it, hero," she said. Her voice stayed low, but the angle of her head shifted, testing distance. "Tail like that's an invitation in some stories."
His ears flicked—quick, unguarded—then flattened halfway as he tried to recover.
"Then stop sitting in the strike zone."
Another drop hit above them. The ceiling answered late, a soft internal shift.
"Learn to put it away," Ren muttered.
He hadn't moved, but his ear angled slightly toward them, catching the small sounds.
"Some of us are trying to pretend for ten minutes."
Hana pulled her sleeve higher, covering her mouth as something like a smile tried to break through. Her shoulders shook once, then stilled as she forced it down.
The clock ticked.
Missed.
Tick.
Kyo felt the wall give again, just slightly, under his shoulder.
He didn't move.