The air reeked of ash and rotted wood. What was once a towering office complex now leaned sideways like a dying tree, its upper floors crumbling inward. Smoke drifted in heavy plumes, black against the overcast sky.
Kanata was the first to hear it.
A sob.
Not a groan. Not a scream. But the distinct, trembling cry of a child.
"That way," he muttered, gripping the bat tighter despite the searing ache in his ribs.
"Kanata, wait!" Serizawa called out, but he was already moving.
They found her near the stairwell, curled beneath a collapsed beam. She looked no older than eight, her knees drawn to her chest, dirt smeared across her cheeks. A stuffed rabbit was clutched in one hand. Her other arm bled from a shallow cut.
Zombies loomed near the entrance. Five of them, shambling and snarling.
"Dammit," Kanami hissed. "Too many."
Kanata didn't stop. He charged forward.
Serizawa's eyes widened. "Kanata!!"
He ducked under a swinging arm, slammed his bat into another skull. Two more lunged at him, and he twisted, kicking one into the wall. But the pain from his wound slowed him. One zombie grabbed his shoulder—
BLAM.
A nail struck it through the eye. Kanami reloaded with shaking hands.
Serizawa swept in from the left, driving a broken pipe into another corpse's gut. They cleared the hall in seconds. The final zombie dropped with a sickening crunch.
Kanata collapsed to one knee, panting.
The girl stared at him with wide eyes.
"It's okay," he said softly. "You're safe now."
She didn't speak. But she reached out and grabbed his fingers tightly.
Kanami knelt. "Sweetie, what's your name?"
The girl looked around nervously, then pulled a marker from her jacket pocket. She wrote shakily on a burnt clipboard nearby:
Koko
Serizawa exhaled slowly. "Koko. Got it. You're with us now."
The building trembled again. Rubble from above began to rain down.
"This place is going to collapse," Takiya warned. "Move, now."
They raced through the cracked corridors, past broken offices and shattered glass. Kanata carried Koko, shielding her from debris. Godou-sensei limped slightly but kept up, aided by Kanami.
When they finally burst into the open street, the tower behind them groaned—and then came down with a thunderous roar.
Dust choked the air. Everyone dropped flat. Kanata wrapped his arms around Koko and held her close until the rumble faded.
They settled in the back of an abandoned train car to recover. Serizawa wrapped Kanata's arm, trying to hide how much her hands were shaking.
"You could've died," she whispered.
Kanata looked down at Koko, who was now curled beside him, still clutching his sleeve. "I didn't."
"But what if you had? What would I... what would we have—"
"Then I would've died protecting a child who needed help."
Serizawa didn't respond. Her lips trembled.
Across the car, Takiya leaned against the door, arms crossed. Watching. Frowning.
Later, when Serizawa stepped out to breathe, Takiya followed.
"You let him run into that building alone."
Serizawa turned, startled. "What?"
Takiya's voice was tight, angry. "You say you care. Then why didn't you stop him? Why didn't you cover him?"
"I did. I went after him—"
"You hesitated. And he almost died."
Serizawa's eyes blazed. "I was trying to protect everyone, not just him!"
Takiya stepped closer. "If you cared that much, you'd never have let him go in alone."
The tension between them cracked like lightning.
"And you?" Serizawa snapped. "You think your glances, your soft words don't show? You think I don't see the way you look at him too?"
Takiya didn't reply. Just stared.
Then quietly: "Yeah. I do. And I won't apologize for it."
They stood there in silence. The only sound was the distant groan of the dead in the ruined city around them.
Inside, Kanata gently pulled a blanket over Koko. Her breathing slowed, finally peaceful. Kanami sat beside him, her voice soft.
"She looks up to you already."
"She shouldn't," he said. "I'm not strong enough."
Kanami smiled faintly. "You're wrong. We all follow you. Even when you don't know it."
He closed his eyes.
Outside, the wind picked up, carrying smoke and sorrow.
And the promise that none of this was over yet.