Chapter Text
When the double doors of the operating room closed behind the gurney, cutting them off from Kafka, the corridor sank into a thick, almost tangible silence. The red light above the door flicked on with a soft click, casting a ghastly glow over the pale, terrified faces of the members of the 3rd Division.
Chaos born of shock reigned in the mess hall. No one cleaned. No one gave orders. They simply stood in the pool of their friend’s blood, which was slowly beginning to congeal on the floor, becoming a macabre, gleaming monument to catastrophe.
“He was joking… five minutes ago he was joking about my chopsticks,” Iharu Furuhashi whispered, staring at the empty spot where Kafka had been sitting just moments before. His voice was hollow, stripped of emotion.
Reno stood over the bloodstain, his entire body trembling. The final moments kept echoing in his mind. Kafka’s laughter. His attempt to brush off the nosebleed. The image of the spreading stain on his shirt, as if it were devouring the fabric.
“This is my fault,” he burst out suddenly, his voice hoarse with suppressed tears and panic. “We all saw he was exhausted after the fight! All of us! And I… I kept pushing food on him! I laughed that he was old and needed to keep his strength up! God, he was trying to tell us, and we were too stupid to listen!” He slammed his fist into the wall, feeling no pain—only an all-consuming wave of guilt. “What if he dies? That’ll be my fault!”
“Stop it, Ichikawa!” Kikoru snapped, but there was no strength in her voice. She herself looked like a ghost. Her pristine suit was smeared with blood. She looked down at her boots, where red droplets were drying. Hibino’s blood. The blood of a man who was like an annoying but beloved uncle to her. A man who had just saved her life and was now dying two hundred meters away. She doubled over, bracing her hands on her knees, and vomited onto the bloodstained floor. The trauma hit her with full force, stripping her of all pride and the aura of a genius. She was just a terrified teenager who had seen far too much.
Mina Ashiro, always composed and cool, stood with her fists clenched, her knuckles white. “We’re all to blame,” she said quietly, her voice hard as steel but trembling at the edges. “I’m his captain. I should have noticed. I should have forced him to undergo a full examination right after the fight. I failed as a commander.”
In the corridor outside the operating room, Isao Shinomiya leaned against the wall. He didn’t hear the chaos in the mess hall. He didn’t see the terrified faces of his subordinates. His entire world had shrunk to that single red light, which seemed to mock his helplessness. He raised his hands. Kafka’s blood had dried on them, forming a stiff, red crust. He could smell it with every breath. He didn’t want to wash it off. It was all he had left of him.
“I checked three times.” The memory of his own words from a few hours earlier struck him like a slap. He had assured Kafka of safety, told him they were alone. He had drawn him into his world, into that stolen intimacy, only to watch it all collapse in a bloody finale.
The kiss. The warmth of his body. That quiet, contented hum when Isao slipped his hand beneath his shirt. All of it had happened in the same clothes that were now being cut away by surgeons and soaked through with blood.
“General.” Soshiro Hoshina’s voice was quiet but firm. He stepped up beside him, staring at the doors. “You need to wash up. The kids need to see you holding it together.”
Isao slowly turned his head, his eyes burning with cold fire. “Don’t tell me what they need,” he hissed, his voice dangerously low. “They need the man who held them together not to bleed out on an operating table. And I… I can’t do anything.”
“You know that’s not true. You did everything you—”
“Everything?!” Isao laughed bitterly, the sound utterly devoid of humor. “I watched him smile, knowing something was wrong! I felt that he was lying about those ‘scratches’! But I let him, because I wanted to believe in his strength! Because it was easier! I just wanted to get back to my office and hold him in my arms again!” His voice broke on the last words. He slammed the back of his head against the wall, tears of rage and fear glinting in his eyes. “He promised me, Soshiro. He promised he’d be careful.”
Hoshina fell silent. He had never seen his commander like this. He understood then that whatever bound the general and the ordinary recruit together was something far deeper than anyone had ever suspected.
The hours dragged by like eternity. The entire division gathered in the corridor. No one went to sleep. They sat on the floor, leaning against the walls, in a silence broken only by muffled sobs or the nervous tapping of fingers against the ground. Reno and Kikoru sat beside each other without a word, their closeness a form of silent support in shared trauma.
Suddenly, the red light went out.
Everyone sprang to their feet as one. Isao’s heart froze in his chest. The doors slid open with a hiss, and a surgeon stepped out, wearing a green gown stained with fresh blood. He removed his mask. He looked utterly exhausted.
Isao approached him first, his posture rigid as steel. “What’s his condition?” he asked, his voice foreign and devoid of emotion, as if it belonged to someone else.
The surgeon took a deep breath, looking at the gathered crowd full of hope and fear. His expression was grave. "He lost a massive amount of blood. The internal injuries were… catastrophic. Fragments of Kaiju armor tore the renal artery and punctured the liver. Frankly, given these injuries, the fact that he made it back to this base under his own power is a medical miracle. A normal human would have died within minutes."
The silence that followed was heavier than lead.
“But…?” Mina pressed, her voice trembling.
The surgeon looked at her. “His non-human physiology is fighting. We stopped the bleeding and stabilized him. For now. He’s in critical condition, in a medically induced coma. The next twenty-four hours will be decisive. We don’t know whether his body… whether his system still has the strength to regenerate.”
Relief mixed with terror. He wasn’t dead. But they could still lose him.
“Can I see him?” Isao asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“One person only. And only briefly,” the doctor replied.
Isao didn’t wait for anyone else’s permission. He brushed past the surgeon and entered the intensive care unit, followed by the scent of antiseptics and death. And there he saw him.
Kafka lay on the bed, pale as the sheet covering him. He was hooked up to a tangle of tubes and wires. Machines beeped rhythmically, the sound the only proof that life still flickered within that body. His chest rose and fell to the rhythm of the ventilator.
Isao stepped closer and carefully—afraid he might break him—took Kafka’s hand. It was cold. Unnaturally cold.
“You idiot,” he whispered, pressing Kafka’s hand to his own cheek. “You stubborn, caring, wonderful idiot. Can you hear me? You’re coming back. You have something to come back to. I’m here. I’m waiting.”
He closed his eyes, and a single bitter tear slid down his cheek, mixing with the dried blood of Kafka on his temple.
“I’m waiting for you.”
The silence in the intensive care unit was heavy and sterile. It smelled of disinfectant and fear. The only sound breaking the stillness was the steady, hypnotic beeping of the machines that stubbornly sustained the smoldering spark of life within Kafka. Each beep was both a promise and a threat. Isao sat on the uncomfortable chair beside the bed, refusing to let go of Kafka’s cold hand, as if his touch were the only anchor keeping him tied to the world of the living.
Out in the corridor, just beyond the glass doors, time flowed differently. Soshiro and Mina eventually forced most of the shaken recruits back to their quarters, promising they would be informed immediately if anything changed. Only the most stubborn remained.
Reno and Kikoru sat on the cold floor, their backs against opposite walls, lost in their own bleak worlds. They were like two charged particles, repelling and attracting each other at the same time.
“I hate this smell,” Kikoru muttered, more to herself than to him. “It smells like when Mom…” She broke off, unable to finish the sentence. The memory was too painful.
Reno pulled his knees up under his chin. “He always said I smelled like a wet dog after training,” he said quietly. “I’d give anything to hear him say that to me right now.”
They spent several minutes in silence, each drowning in guilt.
“I should have shielded him,” Kikoru said at last, her voice hard as ice. “I’m stronger. Faster. My suit has a higher output rate. That’s basic tactics. And I… I just stood there and watched.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Reno replied, looking at her for the first time. His eyes were red and swollen. “None of us would’ve reacted in time. He didn’t hesitate. He just did it. Because that’s who he is. He always thinks about everyone else—never himself.” He lifted his gaze to the glass doors, beyond which Kikoru’s father sat. “Always.”
Kikoru followed his gaze. Seeing her father so broken and vulnerable was more shocking to her than all the blood. He was General Shinomiya, a legend. He never showed weakness. And now he sat there, holding the hand of an ordinary recruit as if that recruit were his entire world. It was… strange. Incomprehensible. And yet, somehow, right.
“He should rest too,” she said softly.
“Try telling him that,” Reno scoffed. “He’d arrest you for insubordination before you finished the sentence.”
Inside the room, Isao was unaware of their presence. His entire focus was on the man lying in the bed. Gently, with his thumb, he stroked the back of Kafka’s hand, feeling beneath his fingers the rough skin marked by hard labor.
“Do you remember the first time I saw you on the training grounds?” Isao whispered, his voice so soft it barely rose above the beeping of the machines. “I thought, ‘What is this old wreck doing here?’ You were clumsy, sweaty, barely keeping up with the kids. You were a laughingstock.”
A faint smile touched his lips.
“And then I saw you helping Ichikawa up when he fell. Explaining things to Furuhashi. Handing my daughter a bottle of water before she even had the chance to ask for it. And I understood. You weren’t there to become the strongest. You were there so that everyone else could become stronger.” He leaned forward, resting his forehead against their joined hands. “And then, that night in my office, when you finally dared to kiss me… your lips tasted of cheap vending-machine coffee and determination. You said that two old men with baggage deserved a little happiness too.”
His voice broke. “You were right, Kafka. We deserve it. So wake up and take what you’re owed. Wake up, you damn, big-hearted idiot.”
Suddenly, one of the monitors began to shriek—fast, sharp, furious. The red ECG line that had been moving in a steady rhythm now jittered chaotically.
Ventricular fibrillation.
Isao shot to his feet, his heart slamming against his ribs like a hammer. “Help! Now, something’s happening!” he roared, his voice echoing through the quiet ward.
The doors burst open. Two nurses and a doctor rushed in. “You need to leave! Now!”
“We’re losing him! Prepare the defibrillator! Epinephrine, one hundred milligrams, now!”
Isao was forcibly shoved into the corridor. Reno and Kikoru leapt to their feet, watching in horror as the medical staff swarmed Kafka’s bed. Through the glass, they saw everything—the chaos, the desperate movements, the defibrillator charging.
“Clear!”
They watched Kafka’s body jerk unnaturally as electricity tore through his heart. Once. Twice. Nothing.
“No response! Increase the charge!”
Isao pressed himself against the glass, his palms splayed on the cold surface. He watched them fight for the life of the man he loved, utterly powerless. Kikoru stepped up beside him, her arm lightly brushing his. She said nothing. She didn’t need to. Reno took his place on the other side. All three—father, daughter, and surrogate son—stared at the scene with the same terror, united in despair.
“Come on, senpai…” Reno whispered, fists clenched. “Fight.”
After the third shock, the chaotic line on the monitor calmed, returning to a slow but steady rhythm. The alarm fell silent.
The doctor exhaled in relief. “We’ve got him. He’s stable.”
Isao slid down the wall to the floor, burying his face in his hands as a choked sob of relief tore from his chest. Kikoru, in a gesture that surprised them both, sat down beside him and timidly placed a hand on his shoulder. Reno sat on the other side. They didn’t speak. They simply sat there together, in silence, keeping watch.
Inside, a nurse adjusted Kafka’s blanket. Her fingers brushed his hand. For a fraction of a second, she thought she felt his fingers twitch—very, very faintly. She frowned, dismissing it as a nervous reflex.
But it wasn’t a reflex. Somewhere in the deep darkness, Kafka Hibino heard a voice calling out to him.
And he began to fight his way back.