Chapter 24: Breaking Point.
After Suzuki finished treating Akeshi's wounds, silence settled like ash across the room.
We were split-me, Father, and Iruma on one side. Mother, Rukia, and Miko on the other.
Suzuki methodically checked for other injuries on Akeshi, scanning his arms, his temple. Her son, Emiya, stood beside her, quietly handing over what she needed. Efficient. Focused.
The rest of us sat motionless. The kind of silence that doesn't just fill a room-it suffocates it. It was the sound of things held back: guilt, anger, blame.
I glanced toward Rukia. Her hands were balled into fists on her lap, knuckles pale. Her head hung low. You could read everything she felt in that posture-shame, rage, grief-and all of it directed inward. If she kept squeezing, her hands would go numb.
I knew Nino could hear us from the other room.
This building had thick walls. It's designed for private conversations. High-profile guests. Political figures. Criminals. All of them came here to whisper things the world should never hear.
But what mattered now wasn't who had stayed here in the past.
It was how to stop our family from falling apart in the present.
"I'll begin with something simple," I said, the weight of my words pushing against the silence. "No information leaves this room. We are not in a position to fight Source Users-either in strength or influence."
My voice tightened. "They're untouchable. So this... stays here. Agreed?"
Nods. Murmurs of "yes" followed. Not loud. But clear enough.
My eyes drifted to Akeshi.
He sat quietly, shoulders heavy, face unreadable. There was a cloud hanging over him-a familiar one. I've seen it before. Depression doesn't scream. It seeps. It clings to your ribs and makes everything heavier.
People think you can fight depression by "staying strong."
But it's not a fight.
It's a drowning.
"I think it's time we left," I said, rising from my seat.
"...Are you serious?" Mother asked, startled.
"I am. I'll book rooms in this hotel for the rest of us. Nino deserves privacy. Space to breathe. That's how healing begins."
Miko stood sharply. "We can't! What if she does something? What if she-"
"She won't," Father said. Calm. Measured. "She's grown. She has to face this. And if something does happen, we're nearby."
"I still think someone should stay behind," Iruma added, voice low. "We may not get back fast enough if something changes."
He was right.
We all knew it.
Rukia tried to stand. "Then... I'll stay."
But her knees buckled.
Suzuki caught her just in time. Rukia had been running on fumes-grief and adrenaline. There was nothing left in her.
"I think I know who should stay," Emiya said suddenly.
We all looked at him. His voice had the kind of weight that drew attention.
Who? I thought. Surely not himself. He wouldn't say that.
Mother was exhausted. Iruma wouldn't suggest her. Suzuki hadn't slept in three nights due to an emergency operation. Miko? Maybe. But she was fraying too.
"... Tarazune-san," Emiya said, his voice steady.
All eyes shifted to Akeshi, who blinked in surprise.
"Why?" Suzuki asked.
Emiya didn't hesitate. "He's used to staying awake. He's been up since 3 a.m., working. He's stable. And most importantly... he cares."
Akeshi looked up. Nodded once.
"I'll stay," he said. "I've endured longer nights than this."
"Then it's settled," I said. "Let's give her space. We'll head out. I have to check the local branch early tomorrow anyway."
••••••
Later that night, Koji sat on the edge of his hotel bed.
He'd showered, brushed, even tried to read something light on his phone-but his mind wouldn't slow down.
He scrolled through old pictures until he stumbled on one.
Nino at eight years old, grinning as she clung to his side. The joy in her face was so bright it almost burned.
Another photo: her first birthday. He remembered gifting her a tiny bear. She'd clutched it like it was sacred.
Another: she was three, saying "Dada" for the first time. He'd cried then. Ugly cried.
Another: she wanted to be like her mother-a lawyer. "I'll punish bad guys," she'd said, eyes fierce.
Another: Nino showing him a test paper, proud of her 99/100. He'd taken her out for cake that night.
Another: age seventeen, confessing she had a crush. Laughing as she told him about the boy. "I investigated him first," she said. He'd doubled over with laughter. Of course she did.
That girl... that version of her... she felt like a ghost now.
Koji walked into the living room. Sat down. Cracked open a beer.
But the alcohol didn't help. Not really.
He sat in the dim glow of the table lamp. And for the first time in hours, the mask cracked.
The rock. The anchor. The dependable father figure.
Gone.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands shaking as he clutched his head.
He'd failed her.
He hadn't seen it coming.
Hadn't protected her.
The memories only deepened the guilt. Every version of her-laughing, innocent, stubborn, hopeful-passed before his eyes. Each one was a reminder.
He began to cry.
He began to cry.
No sound. Just breathless sobs, shoulders shaking violently. Tears hit the floor like apologies he'd never get to say.
Still, he was glad no one saw him like this.
That wasn't who he was allowed to be.
But he couldn't keep pretending.
Not this time.
'I can't count on Source Users. Or Starlets. Or Spiritualists.
'But... there's someone else.'
'The man with no name. The one they call Nameless.'
He wiped his eyes, steadied his breath.
'I'll ask him.'