Gurgle. Gurgle. Gurgle
The pot bubbled on the stove like a living thing, steam curling upward in lazy spirals that caught the afternoon light streaming through the kitchen window. Buffy stood before it, a wooden spoon clutched in one hand like a weapon, her helmeted head tilted to the side as she squinted at the cookbook propped against the counter. The pages were yellowed and stained with old cooking splattered oil, water damage, the ghost of meals past that had gone terribly wrong.
"Okay, so this goes here..." She grabbed a stick of butter, the wrapper crinkling in her grip, and dropped it into the pot with a satisfying *plop*. It hit the surface and immediately began to melt, swirling into the bubbling mixture. "And this goes here..."
Ingredient after ingredient disappeared into the pot. A handful of flour that puffed up in a white cloud before settling. A generous shake of sal ... maybe too generous. Something that might have been paprika, or maybe cinnamon, she couldn't quite tell in this light. Her movements grew more frantic with each addition, her confidence wavering as the mixture in the pot began to look less like curry and more like something that might be used to patch holes in walls.
When she finally stepped back to survey her work, wooden spoon still in hand, her shoulders sagged beneath the weight of disappointment.
"Ugh. This isn't curry," she muttered, staring at the murky brown sludge that burbled ominously in the pot. It looked more like swamp water than food. A particularly thick bubble rose to the surface and popped, sending a splatter of brown liquid onto the counter.
A heavy sigh escaped her, muffled by the helmet. "Awww. I wanted to make a surprise dinner for us, but..." Her voice dropped, almost embarrassed, like she was confessing a terrible secret. "I'm a terrible cook."
She stood there for a moment, deflated, staring at her culinary disaster with the kind of disappointment usually reserved for much greater failures.
Then, as if a switch had flipped inside her brain, she brightened. Her posture straightened. Her voice lifted with renewed enthusiasm.
"Well! If it's good enough for me, it's good enough for anyone! Hahaha!"
She slammed the lid onto the pot with finality—a declaration that the matter was settled, the meal was done, and whatever horrors lurked beneath that lid were no longer her concern. Then she spun on her heel and skipped away, humming a cheerful tune that echoed through the house, her footsteps light and carefree as she headed upstairs to her room.
---
Buffy sprawled across her bed, her limbs spread out like a starfish, the afternoon sun filtering through the curtains in golden bars that striped across her blankets. The house was quiet—almost too quiet, that particular kind of silence that feels heavy and expectant, like the world is holding its breath. Redacted wouldn't be home from her shift at the coffee shop for another hour, maybe more if the buses were running late. Her parents were still at the office, probably buried under paperwork and phone calls.
She let her eyes drift closed beneath the helmet, the warmth of the sun on her visor lulling her toward sleep. The sounds of the neighborhood filtered in through the window—distant car horns, a dog barking somewhere down the street, children playing. Peaceful.
She drifted off, her breathing evening out beneath the helmet, her body relaxing into the mattress.
Time passed in that strange way it does when you're sleeping—could have been minutes, could have been an hour.
*Sniff.*
The sound came from inside the helmet, quiet and reflexive.
Her head moved again, the helmet shifting to the side as her unconscious body tried to process the invasive smell.
Sniff. Sniff.
More pronounced this time. Her breathing changed beneath the helmet, became shallower, more rapid, audible through the visor as her unconscious mind tried to protect her from whatever was wrong.
Then she jolted upright in bed. The helmet shifted forward with the momentum of her movement.
The smell crashed over her in full force now that she was awake to process it. Sharp. Chemical. Wrong in a way that made her stomach turn and her skin prickle with instinctive fear. It coated the inside of her helmet, slid down the back of her throat, made her want to gag.
Gas
The realization struck her like lightning. The stove. She'd turned on the gas valve to light the burner, but she'd gotten distracted with the cookbook, and she'd never actually lit it. She'd just closed the pot and walked away, humming, leaving the valve open. Hissing. Filling the house with invisible death while she slept peacefully upstairs.
Her heart dropped into her stomach, a cold weight of dread settling in her gut.
"No—no, no, no—"
She launched herself off the bed and flew down the stairs, her feet barely touching the steps, her body moving on pure adrenaline and terror. The smell grew stronger with every breath she took, thick and poisonous, filling her lungs with chemical death. Each inhale burned. Each exhale came out shaky and desperate.
Her foot caught the edge of the landing. She went down hard, her knees slamming into the hardwood with a crack that sent pain shooting up her thighs. The impact rattled her teeth, made stars burst behind her eyes.
"Ahh—fuck!"
But she couldn't stop. Couldn't slow down. She scrambled to her feet, ignoring the throbbing agony in her knees, ignoring the way her right leg wanted to buckle beneath her weight, and sprinted into the kitchen. Her breath came in ragged pants, each one tasting of gas and fear.
The gas valve was still on, just as she'd left it. The knob pointed to the "on" position, mocking her with its simplicity. She could hear it if she listened—a soft, sinister hiss, like a snake preparing to strike. No flame. Just gas pouring invisibly into the air, molecule by molecule, filling the house with explosive potential.
She twisted the knob off with shaking hands, her fingers slipping once, twice, before finally gripping hard enough to turn it. The hissing stopped. The silence that followed was somehow worse, heavy with the weight of what had almost happened—what could still happen.
"Phew."
The word came out as barely more than a whisper, her breath shaky and uneven. She slumped against the counter, her legs suddenly weak, her whole body trembling with the kind of relief that only comes after narrowly avoiding disaster. Her hands were still shaking—she could see them trembling in front of her, pale and unsteady against the dark countertop.
"That was close," she breathed, pressing her palms flat against the cool surface to steady herself. "That was way too close."
Her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to escape, each beat so hard she could feel it in her throat, in her temples, pounding a rhythm of panic that refused to fade. She stood there for a long moment, just breathing, just existing in the aftermath of what almost happened. The silence of the house pressed in around her, thick and oppressive.
Then she noticed something else.
The kitchen was dark.
She blinked, looking around as if seeing the room for the first time. The afternoon sun had faded while she slept, the golden light giving way to the soft purple-gray of early evening. Shadows pooled in the corners, stretched across the floor, made everything feel strange and unfamiliar. She could barely make out the shapes of things—the stove, the refrigerator, the table where they ate breakfast every morning.
She needed light.
She turned to the side, the weight of the astronaut helmet shifting with her, sealing her face away from the room. The visor caught the darkness and gave nothing back. Her fingers found the switch on the wall—a pale rectangle barely visible in the gloom.
Her fingertip brushed against the switch, feeling the familiar texture, the slight resistance as she pushed it upward.
*Click.*
The spark was instantaneous—a tiny arc of electricity, smaller than a grain of rice, invisible to the naked eye, jumping across the contacts inside the switch. Under normal circumstances, it would have been nothing. Harmless. Just electrons flowing through copper, bringing light to a dark room.
But these were not normal circumstances.
The accumulated gas that had been seeping into every corner of the house, filling every pocket of air, saturating every surface, found its ignition source.
The air itself became fire.
The blast ripped through the kitchen with a deafening roar that drowned out thought itself, a wall of superheated air and flame that expanded faster than the human eye could track. The pressure wave hit first—an invisible fist of compressed air that shattered everything in its path. The windows blew outward in a cascade of glass, thousands of glittering fragments exploding into the street like crystal rain. The walls cracked with sounds like gunshots, spiderwebs of fractures racing across plaster and drywall. The ceiling buckled, beams groaning and splitting, plaster dust raining down in thick clouds.
Then came the fire.
Orange. Yellow. White-hot at its core. It consumed everything—wood, fabric, paint, plastic, flesh. The heat was incomprehensible, the kind of temperature that doesn't just burn but transforms, turning solid matter into ash and smoke and memory.
And Buffy, standing at the epicenter of it all, at ground zero of a disaster of her own making, was swallowed whole by the inferno.
The light switch, still in the "on" position, glowed briefly in the flames before melting into slag.
---
ON THE ROAD
The city was alive with evening chaos.
Traffic had congealed into a solid mass of metal and frustration, cars packed bumper to bumper as far as the eye could see. Red taillights stretched ahead like a river of blood, unmoving, while headlights from the opposite direction created a competing stream of white. The air was thick with exhaust fumes and the sounds of urban impatience—horns honking in staccato bursts, some short and irritated, others long and desperate.
Redacted sat in the back seat of the family car, trapped in the middle of it all. She was still wearing her coffee shop uniform, the white apron now wrinkled and stained with the evidence of a long shift—espresso splotches, milk foam dried into crusty patches, a smear of chocolate syrup across the bottom hem. The fabric smelled like coffee grounds and burnt sugar.
She stared out the window at the gridlock, watching a street vendor sell roasted chestnuts from a cart that was somehow doing better business than the traffic was doing movement. A couple argued on the sidewalk. A dog barked at nothing. Life continued everywhere except on this road, where time itself seemed to have stopped.
The car inched forward. One foot. Maybe two. Then stopped again.
Redacted's eyelids grew heavy. The warmth of the car, the steady hum of the idling engine, the distant chaos of the city—it all blurred together into a kind of white noise that made staying awake feel impossible.
Her eyes drifted closed.
Then—
BOOM
The shockwave rattled the windows, made the entire car shudder on its suspension. Redacted's eyes flew open, her tentacles stiffening instinctively, every nerve in her body suddenly screaming danger.
"Re-chan, call the fire department!" Her mother Yuzu's voice cut through the ringing in Redacted's ears, sharp and urgent from the front seat. Her mother's hands were already fumbling for her phone, fingers shaking as she tried to unlock the screen.
Silence from the back seat.
"Redac—" Yuzu turned around, and the words died in her throat.
Redacted's face had gone pale, bloodless, like someone had drained all the color from her skin in an instant. Her eyes were locked on something in the distance, wide and unblinking, reflecting the orange glow that was beginning to paint the evening sky. Her lips moved, but no sound came out at first—just the shape of words her voice couldn't form.
Then, barely more than a whisper: "That's... our house."
Yuzu blinked, her brain struggling to process what she'd just heard. "What? Speak clearly, I don't understand you."
Something broke inside Redacted. The cold mask she always wore, the careful control she maintained over every emotion—it shattered like glass.
"THE FIRE IS IN THE DIRECTION OF OUR HOUSE!"
Her voice cracked on the last word, raw and desperate, a sound so unlike her usual measured tone that it startled even her parents.
Before Aoto her father could react, before he could even take his foot off the brake, Redacted threw open the car door and ran.
Her feet pounded against the pavement, each step harder than the last, her breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps that burned in her lungs like fire. The world blurred around her—buildings reduced to streaks of color, streetlights becoming smears of yellow, people turning into faceless shapes that blurred past. Her coffee shop uniform flapped behind her, her tentacles trailing like desperate ribbons in the wind, reaching for something she couldn't quite grasp.
Her expression was pure, unfiltered despair. Her mouth was open, lips pulled back, brows drawn together in anguish that twisted her features into something almost unrecognizable. Tears streamed down her face, catching the neon lights, leaving glistening trails across her cheeks.
"Buffy, please be safe," she gasped between breaths
Buffy, please be safe. Buffy, please please be safe."
Over and over, her voice breaking on each repetition, growing more desperate with every step.
By the time Redacted reached the house, it was already dying.
Flames consumed the structure from the inside out, licking up the walls like hungry tongues tasting the night air. The windows had shattered from the heat, jagged shards of glass glittering across the lawn like scattered diamonds under the streetlights. Thick black smoke billowed into the sky in massive plumes, blotting out the stars, turning the night into something darker than it had any right to be. The fire department was already there, their hoses spraying arcs of water that seemed to evaporate into steam before they even touched the flames, as if the fire itself was mocking their efforts.
The heat hit her like a physical wall—scorching, suffocating, pressing against her skin even from twenty feet away.
Redacted stood frozen at the edge of the lawn, her chest heaving from the run. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, locked on the inferno before her. The orange glow reflected in her pupils, dancing and flickering like living fire trapped inside her gaze. The light painted her face in shades of amber and gold, shadows shifting across her features with every surge of the flames. The reflection was so bright, so vivid, that it looked like her eyes themselves were burning—two small suns captured in dark wells, the fire dancing in miniature across the curved surface of her corneas. Her tentacles hung limp at her sides, trembling slightly, the tips curling and uncurling with involuntary spasms.
A single tear slipped down her cheek, catching the firelight as it traced a path through the soot already settling on her skin. It evaporated almost instantly in the oppressive heat, leaving only a clean streak behind—a pale line through the gray ash that had begun to coat everything within a hundred feet of the house.
For a moment, she couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Her entire world had narrowed to this single point—this burning building that had been her home, that held everything she cared about.
Then she ran forward.
"STOP! It's too dangerous!" A firefighter's arms wrapped around her shoulders from behind, his grip strong enough to halt her momentum but careful not to hurt. His voice was firm but not unkind, the voice of someone who'd seen too many people try to run into burning buildings.
"Let me go! Let me go! Let me GO!"
Redacted thrashed against his grip like a wild animal caught in a trap, her voice breaking into something raw and primal that barely sounded human. Her tentacles whipped around, trying to find purchase, trying to pry his hands away. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the ash and sweat, turning her cheeks into streaked canvas of grief.
"Buffy—she's inside! She's still inside!"
At that moment, the front door burst open with a crash that sent sparks spiraling into the night sky. Another firefighter emerged from the inferno, his protective gear blackened and steaming, smoke rising from his shoulders like he was a demon stepping out of hell itself. He carried someone on his back, hunched over from the weight, his legs unsteady from exhaustion and heat. He stumbled forward, nearly falling twice, and rushed toward the waiting ambulance with what remained of his strength.
With careful urgency—the kind of practiced gentleness that comes from years of handling broken things—he laid the girl down on the stretcher.
Redacted broke free from the firefighter's grip with a surge of desperate strength and ran, her legs carrying her before her mind could catch up. She stumbled once, caught herself, kept going.
She jumped into the ambulance just as they were loading the stretcher inside, her hands gripping the metal rail so tightly her knuckles went white, the metal biting into her palms hard enough to leave marks.
"Buf—"
The word died in her throat, strangled by horror, by grief, by the impossibility of what she was seeing.
Buffy's body was a nightmare made flesh. Her skin was a patchwork of angry red welts and blistered burns that covered every visible inch—her arms looked like melted wax, her neck was raw and weeping, patches of charred flesh visible beneath the cracked and scorched helmet. The fabric of her clothes had melted in places, fused directly into her skin like they'd become part of her body, the edges charred black and still smoking. Her uniform was barely recognizable, burned away in patches to reveal the raw, weeping flesh beneath—pink and red and black all mixed together in patterns that shouldn't exist on living skin.
But what made Redacted's stomach turn, what made her knees buckle and her breath catch in her throat like a physical obstruction, was the smoke.
Thin tendrils of gray smoke were still rising from Buffy's burns, curling upward in lazy spirals like incense from a funeral offering. They drifted through the ambulance, visible in the harsh fluorescent light that made everything look too real, too sharp, too impossible to be happening.
The smell hit Redacted like a punch to the gut—burnt hair, charred meat, melted synthetic fabric creating a chemical stench that coated the back of her throat, and underneath it all, something sickly sweet that made bile rise in her throat. It was the smell of cooked flesh, of disaster, of everything going irreversibly wrong.
Redacted's legs gave out. She collapsed into the seat across from the stretcher, both hands flying up to cover her face as her breath came in short, broken sobs that she couldn't control, couldn't stop, couldn't even muffle. Her whole body shook with the force of it, tremors running through her like earthquakes.
Then she felt it.
A light touch. Weak. Trembling. Barely there at all.
Buffy's hand, somehow finding the strength to move, reaching up through the pain to pat Redacted's head—the same gesture she'd done a thousand times before when Redacted was upset, when she needed comfort.
Redacted uncovered her face, hands falling away slowly, and saw Buffy looking at her through the cracked visor. Tears were streaming down behind the helmet, cutting clean tracks through the soot and ash that coated the inside of the glass, making her invisible face visible only through the paths her tears carved.
"I'm so... sorry," Buffy whispered, her voice barely audible, each word clearly causing her pain. "I'm... so sorry..."
Then her hand fell, dropping to the stretcher with a soft *thud*, and her eyes closed behind the helmet.
"Buffy! BUFFY! BUFFY!"
Redacted's voice shattered completely, breaking into something that wasn't quite a scream and wasn't quite a sob—something in between, something that contained all the fear and love and desperation of watching someone you love slip away.
A nurse placed a firm hand on Redacted's shoulder, her grip professional but not unkind. "Refrain from touching her. Any contact could cause more damage."
The ambulance doors slammed shut with a metallic bang that felt like a coffin closing, and the siren wailed to life—a sound like the world itself was screaming. They sped into the night, leaving the burning house behind, leaving everything behind.
---
THE HOSPITAL
The light above the operating room blinked red: IN SESSION.
Redacted sat in the waiting area like a statue carved from stone. Her body was rigid, spine straight, hands folded in her lap with a precision that spoke of iron control barely maintained. Her eyes were locked on the light above the door—red, pulsing, hypnotic. She didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't sleep.
The hours crawled by with the agonizing slowness of torture, each one heavier than the last, each minute stretching into eternity. Nurses passed by in soft-soled shoes, their footsteps whispering against linoleum. Families came and went, some leaving with relief painted on their faces, others with grief. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like dying insects, a constant drone that wormed its way into her skull and refused to leave.
Someone offered her water. She didn't respond.
Someone asked if she wanted to lie down. She didn't hear them.
The only thing that existed was that red light. *IN SESSION.* Two words that meant Buffy was still in there, still fighting, still alive.
Still.
Finally, as the first light of dawn crept through the windows , pale and hesitant, like it wasn't sure if it was welcome the red light turned off.
Redacted was on her feet before the door even began to open, her body moving on instinct, on desperate hope. The doctor stepped out, pulling off his surgical mask with practiced efficiency, his expression carefully neutral in that way doctors have when they're about to deliver news that could go either way.
The sound of the door opening woke her mother and father who had been dozing uncomfortably in the hard plastic chairs, their bodies folded at awkward angles. They hurried over, Yuzu's hand finding her husband's, their fingers interlacing with the kind of grip people use when they need to hold onto something solid.
The doctor looked at Redacted's face—pale as paper, dark circles under her eyes like bruises, lips pressed into a thin bloodless line, ash still streaked across her cheeks from the fire. She looked like someone who'd been to war and wasn't sure if they'd won or lost.
"She's stable," he said, his voice measured and professional. "And conscious."
Redacted's breath hitched—a sharp intake that caught in her throat, the first sound she'd made in hours. Her eyes widened, just a fraction, hope warring with fear on her face.
"But," the doctor added, his tone firmer now, leaving no room for argument, "she needs rest. The burns are extensive. Her body has been through severe trauma. Keep it brief."
Redacted nodded once, a sharp jerk of her head. A single tear rolled down her cheek, cutting a clean path through the grime, catching the harsh hospital light. "Yes."
Aoto stepped forward, his voice thick with emotion, roughened by the tears he'd been holding back all night. "Thank you, Doctor. Thank you for your hard work. We can't... we can't thank you enough."
The doctor nodded, murmured something about just doing his job, and turned to walk away down the long corridor. His footsteps echoed in the early morning quiet.
Redacted burst through the door to the ward, her heart hammering so hard it felt like it might break through her ribs.
Buffy was sitting up in bed, her hands resting on a Rubik's Cube in her lap. Bandages covered most of her visible skin—white gauze wrapped around her arms like mummy wrappings, more bandages visible beneath the collar of her hospital gown, covering her neck, her shoulders. The helmet was still on, now cleaned of soot but bearing new cracks from the heat.
When she heard the door open, she looked up.
Before she could say a word, before she could even process what was happening, Redacted crossed the room in three long strides and pulled her into a tight hug, careful to avoid the worst of the burns but unable to stop herself from making contact, from confirming that Buffy was real, was solid, was *here*.
Buffy froze, stunned, then slowly, carefully, mindful of her injuries, she lifted her arms and hugged her back. The movement sent pain shooting through her body, but she didn't care.
"Morning, Re-ne," she said softly, her voice muffled by the bandages and helmet, rough from smoke inhalation but still recognizably her.
Redacted's face remained cold—controlled, expressionless, that same mask she always wore when emotions threatened to overwhelm her. But her voice betrayed everything she was trying to hide. It trembled, cracked, barely held together.
"Don't... scare me like that again."
A tear slipped free, hot against her cold cheek, followed by another, and another. They came faster now, silent and unstoppable.
"Mom was crying all night because of you," Redacted said quietly, the words barely more than a whisper, her face pressed against Buffy's shoulder.
At that moment, Yuzu entered the room, her eyes already red and swollen from hours of crying. When she saw them together, saw Buffy alive and awake, something broke inside her. She crossed to the bed and wrapped her arms around both girls, pulling them close, her body shaking with sobs she could no longer contain.
They stayed like that for a long time—three figures clinging to each other in the sterile hospital room, a small island of warmth and relief in a sea of uncertainty. The morning light streamed through the window, painting them in shades of gold, making the moment feel almost holy.
Aoto stood by the door, watching them, one hand pressed against his mouth. A soft smile crossed his face, tender and bittersweet, his eyes shining with unshed tears. His family. Still together. Still alive. For now, that was enough.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway—fast, frantic, uneven, the sound of someone running despite hospital rules against it.
A man appeared at the end of the corridor, his suit rumpled and soaked through with sweat, his tie hanging loose and askew. His face was flushed red, drenched, hair plastered to his forehead. He scanned the corridor desperately, eyes wild, until he spotted Aoto. He rushed toward him, breathing hard, his chest heaving like he'd just run a marathon.
"Aoto!" the man gasped, his voice urgent, cracking with something that might have been panic or might have been something worse.
Aoto turned from watching his family, his expression shifting from warmth to confusion in the span of a heartbeat. "Matsukaze?"
Matsukaze bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. When he looked up, his eyes were wide, panicked, darting around. He forced a smile—tight, strained, completely unconvincing—and straightened up.
"Can I... borrow you two for a second?" His voice was carefully casual, but his hands were shaking.
Inside the ward, Buffy's helmet shifted, sliding to the side in the direction of her father. Her head tilted, angling to see them through the window.
Yuzu noticed the movement. She pulled back from the hug, glancing toward the door where the two men stood. Something in their body language made her stomach tighten with dread. She stepped out of the ward quietly, sliding the door closed behind her with a soft *click*
Through the window, Buffy watched her parents and Matsukaze. The man's body language was all wrong—erratic, panicked, his gestures sharp and desperate. His hands moved wildly as he spoke, punctuating words she couldn't hear with movements that screamed urgency. Her parents' faces reflected the chaos—disbelief, confusion, horror flickering across their features like shadows.
Matsukaze reached into his coat and pulled out a newspaper, thrusting it toward her father with shaking hands.
Aoto took it. His breathing grew increasingly harsh, labored, each inhale audible even through the glass. He forced himself to take one deep breath, trying to calm the panic rising in his chest.
His eyes narrowed. His eyebrows drew together, not visibly shaken but controlled, as he tightened his jaw. His gaze scanned the newspaper, moving across the page with mechanical precision, taking in every word, every number, every devastating headline.
Yuzu watched him, her hand rising to her mouth. "Aoto...?"
Inside the ward, Redacted watched them through the window. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
She stood slowly. "Can you wait for me a bit? I wanna go check on Mom and Dad."
"Sure," Buffy said quietly, her voice small beneath the helmet.
Redacted stepped into the hallway just as her father lowered the newspaper. His hand rose to cover his mouth, and he let out a suffocating breath—the kind that comes when the air itself feels too heavy to breathe.
"What is it?" Redacted asked, her voice steady despite the dread pooling in her stomach.
Aoto handed her the newspaper without a word.
Redacted's eyes found the headline immediately.
WALL STREET PANICS — DOW PLUNGES 11% AS 13 MILLION SHARES FLOOD MARKET
Stocks Collapse at Opening Bell in Worst Financial Shock in U.S. History
Her expression changed. Not dramatically. Not with shock or the grief one might expect. Instead, something colder settled over her features—a mix of despair and icy control. Her face didn't falter, didn't crack, but something in her eyes dimmed, like a light going out behind glass. She was hit by the news, partially wounded by it, but she refused to break.
Aoto grabbed his coat from the chair with sharp, decisive movements. "Let's go," he said without hesitation, his voice clipped and urgent. He looked at Matsukaze, then at Yuzu. "Now. We need to get to the bank. We need to get things under control "
Redacted moved to follow, already stepping forward, but her father's hand shot out and stopped her.
"Redacted." His voice was firm but not unkind. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, she saw everything—the fear, the desperation, the weight of responsibility crushing down on him. "Your mother and I will handle this. You stay with her."
He nodded back toward the ward, where Buffy sat alone, oblivious to the world collapsing around them.
Redacted looked back through the window. Buffy's bandaged hands rested on the Rubik's Cube, her helmeted head bent in concentration.
She nodded once. "Okay."
Aoto, Yuzu, and Matsukaze disappeared down the corridor, their footsteps echoing and then fading into silence.
A few minutes later, Redacted slid the door to the ward open. Her face was dark, shadows pooling beneath her eyes, her expression carefully controlled but edged with something brittle.
Buffy looked up, confusion evident even through the helmet and bandages. "What's going on? I saw Mom and Dad talking about something. They looked... scared."
Redacted stared at her for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
"It's nothing," she said finally, her voice flat, unconvincing. "Just some business issues. No biggie."
She tried to force a smile.
It didn't reach her eyes.
ONE WEEK LATER
Throughout Buffy's stay in the hospital, her family's visits became fewer and farther between.
At first, it was every day—morning and evening, like clockwork. Redacted would arrive after her shift at the coffee shop, still smelling of espresso and burnt sugar, and sit by Buffy's bedside. She'd help her with physical therapy exercises, read to her when the pain made it hard to sleep, and stayed until the nurses kicked her out at the end of visiting hours.
Aoto and Yuzu came when they could, usually in the evenings, their faces drawn with exhaustion and worry that had nothing to do with Buffy's burns and everything to do with the newspaper headlines that grew darker each day.
But as the week wore on, the visits grew sparse.
Redacted came every other day, then every few days. She looked more tired each time, the circles under her eyes deepening, her movements slower, more mechanical. She stopped staying for hours and instead left after thirty minutes, sometimes less, always with an apologetic look that she tried to hide.
Aoto came twice that week. Once on Tuesday, once on Friday. Both times he looked like a man who'd aged a decade in days—his shoulders hunched, his eyes hollow, his hands trembling slightly as he held Buffy's bandaged fingers.
Yuzu came even less.
Buffy sat in her hospital bed, surrounded by white walls and the antiseptic smell of disinfectant, and watched the door. Waiting. Hoping. Trying not to notice how long the silences between visits had become.
The Rubik's Cube sat on her bedside table, a distraction that was losing its effectiveness with every passing hour.