Chapter Text
Day 1
When the news reached him, he almost dropped to his knees. The words didn’t register at first — they couldn’t. His mind refused to shape them into meaning. It was absurd. Impossible. The thought was almost like a cruel distortion of reality.
After all, this was Narumi Gen. The strongest soldier of the Defense Force. The man who laughed in the face of danger, who carried the weight of the battlefield as if it were a feather. The man who always came back, covered in dust, bruised, bloodied, but smiling. Always smiling.
Then why—
Captain of the Defense Force 1st Division, Narumi Gen, pronounced dead. After defeating a numbered Kaiju.
It sounded wrong even when spoken aloud. Like some sick joke whispered by fate itself.
He didn’t cry when the Defense Force held a funeral in his name. He stood among rows of solemn faces, the air heavy with incense and grief, his expression unshaken. He didn’t cry when they lowered the casket draped with the Defense Force insignia, nor when the guns shot to the sky in his honour .
He didn’t cry when he saw Narumi’s face for the last time. Pale, cold, lifeless. That expression never suited him. Narumi Gen was all life and motion, all laughter and noise and reckless light. The silence of death looked wrong on him.
He didn’t cry even when his subordinates looked at him with pity, their eyes red and glistening. They all knew. They knew what Narumi meant to him. Friend. Rival. Lover. A man who carved chaos into his heart and called it home.
But he didn’t cry. He couldn’t.
Because he was a soldier first. Because protecting peace was his duty — the same duty Narumi had given his life for. And he knew the risks. He knew from the beginning that loving someone like Narumi Gen meant walking beside death itself. That one day, he would wake up to silence where laughter used to be. That one day, his hand would reach out and touch only absence.
He knew, and yet — he had let himself be swayed anyway. By that grin, by that warmth, by the wild, unshakable rhythm that was Narumi.
He had let himself believe in the lie that strength could outlast mortality. That Narumi would always come back. That if anyone could defy the odds, it was him.
But now he’s gone.
And the entire country mourned his name.
He stood through it all — the ceremony, the speeches, the silence that followed. He didn’t cry. Not even when the final salute echoed through the air.
But when the crowd dispersed, and the world carried on as if nothing had changed — that was when the ache in his chest began to grow.
It was quiet at first. Then unbearable.
He returned to his office long after everyone else had left. The room was dark, the hum of the lights barely audible. His hand hovered over the photo on his desk — a blurry capture from some old gathering. Narumi’s grin was wide, almost obnoxious, an arm slung around his shoulder. He could almost hear his laugh if he tried hard enough.
Almost.
The sound never came.
He exhaled slowly, the weight of it all sinking into his bones. He wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion or grief that made his vision blur — maybe both.
He pressed a hand to his chest. The ache was still there. Dull. Relentless.
He didn’t cry. Not yet.
Maybe he never would.
But the silence felt heavier than any battlefield.
And for the first time, he realized what Narumi had left behind — not just a name or a legend, but an emptiness that no amount of strength could ever fill.
He is no longer here.
XX
Day 5
“Hoshina, you’ve seemed out of it lately,” Ashiro noted, her tone casual but her eyes narrow in concern. “Well, it’s not like I blame you. It’s not even a week since…”
Hoshina blinked, snapping out of his daze. He forced a small smile — or tried to. But even Ashiro could tell how strained it looked. “No, I’m fine. Just thinking how the First Division is faring now.”
Ashiro sighed softly. Clearly, he wasn’t going to open up, not that she blamed him. It was still a shock, to him and everyone else.
She’d read the report herself: the emergence of previously numbered Kaiju in the First Division’s territory. Two of them — Number 1 and Number 2. The division had managed to suppress both, of course. Their record had always been extraordinary. But the victory had come at a cost. A steep one.
Its captain — Narumi Gen — had been the only casualty.
“There’s talk about who’ll be succeeding him as captain,” Ashiro said quietly. “But for now, Hasegawa-san is taking over the division.”
“I see.”
The answer was quiet. Almost empty.
Ashiro glanced at him — the tired posture, the faint tremor in his fingers as he flipped a page he wasn’t reading. A ripple of sympathy rose in her chest before she could stop it.
She hadn’t exactly approved of their relationship at first. Narumi was brash, unpredictable, infuriatingly loud — the type to give anyone a headache. But she’d seen the change in Hoshina. The way that man’s presence had brought warmth to his usual composed calm. How his smile eases naturally on his face whenever Narumi's name was mentioned. He was… good for him.
And now, that light was gone.
“I don’t think you’re fine, Hoshina,” she said finally, her tone soft but firm. “Take a rest. I’ll give you a week. Go home, sort yourself out.”
Hoshina’s eyes widened slightly. “Eh? No, Captain, I’m really fine. I’ll finish these reports soon, so there’s no need—”
“It’s an order,” Ashiro cut in, raising a brow. “I’d rather have my subordinates well than walking around looking like ghosts. Besides, you barely use your holidays.” She tried for a faint smirk. “People might start thinking I’m a bad captain if I overwork you like this.”
Hoshina fell silent. He knew she was right. He had been distracted lately — dazing off without realizing it. The others hadn’t said a word, but Ashiro had noticed. Of course she had.
He’d been saving his holidays for something else, though. For someone else.
But that someone was gone.
“…Right,” he murmured after a moment, shoulders easing slightly. “I’ll take you up on that offer. But…” He gestured to the stack of papers in front of him. “Let me bring these with me. I’ll finish them at home.”
Ashiro rolled her eyes, though her expression softened. “Fine. Suit yourself. Not like I expected you to actually rest anyway.”
As he gathered the files, the silence that followed was gentler. Ashiro watched him quietly. “Hey,” she said as he reached the door. He turned slightly.
“You’re not alone in this, you know,” she added, eyes lowering for a second before meeting his again. “Just… don’t keep it all to yourself.”
Hoshina gave a faint smile — this time softer, more real.
“I’ll try, Captain. Thank you for your concern.”
When he left, Ashiro exhaled, her gaze lingering on the empty doorway.
He’d follow the order, she knew. But resting was another matter.
Still, for someone like Hoshina… trying might be the closest thing to healing he could manage right now.
XX
Hoshina walked slower than usual as he made his way back to his home — their home.
Once, it had been a refuge, a quiet place where laughter and warmth filled the space between missions, where they could strip away their titles and just be.
For days, he’d avoided coming back here. Like a coward. Because he was scared to delve back on the memory where there's no one else to look at it with him.
It was easier to stay late at the base, buried in work, pretending he was just too busy. Easier than stepping into a house stripped of its noise — of his noise. The silence wasn’t new; there had been many nights when their off days didn’t align, when Hoshina returned to an empty space. But this silence… will be permanent. And knowing that it would never be filled again hurt in a way he couldn’t describe.
He stopped at the door, keys trembling slightly in his grasp before he forced them into the lock. The door clicked open.
Then — a sound.
The faint hum of the television flickered from inside.
He froze.
His first thought was that someone broke in. Then he wondered if he’d forgotten to turn it off the last time he was here — or maybe… maybe it had been Narumi. The thought came unbidden, sharp and heavy.
He let out a quiet sigh, stepping inside. “Great,” he muttered to himself, forcing a hollow chuckle. “Guess I’ll be haunted by the electricity bill too.”
He kicked off his shoes and walked deeper into the house. The TV’s glow spilled faintly into the hallway — too bright, too alive. As he neared the living room, the sound of rapid button clicks reached his ears. A game. Not a random channel.
Hoshina’s brow furrowed. That wasn’t possible.
When he rounded the corner, he stopped.
It wasn’t some random channel. The game was mid-battle, the controller clearly moving, buttons pressed in rhythm. And there — sitting on the couch, half-lit by the glow of the screen — was a figure.
Hoshina’s breath hitched.
His body moved on instinct, stepping closer until he stood in front of the television, blocking the view.
“Could you not block the way, Sou? I’m trying to focus here.”
The voice. That tone. That nickname.
Hoshina blinked, frozen. His mind scrambled for logic, for reason — but none came. Because sitting right there, as if nothing had happened, was Narumi Gen.
Except… not quite.
He wasn’t opaque like a living person. His edges shimmered faintly, his outline soft and translucent. But it was him — the same tousled hair, the same casual slouch, the same impossible, familiar presence that Hoshina had thought he’d never see again.
“Gen?”
Narumi paused the game, finally turning his head. For a moment, his grin faltered — just a flicker — before it returned, that same boyish, infuriating, alive expression.
“What, never seen a ghost before?”
The words barely registered before Hoshina moved — a shaky, half-instinctive lunge forward, as if proximity could make sense of the impossible. His knees hit the carpet before he realized it, eyes wide and disbelieving.
Hoshina’s legs gave out before he could steady himself, knees hitting the carpet. His lips parted, but the words barely came out. “What are you… why are you… aren’t you supposed to be dead?”
The bitterness of that truth burned his tongue. He almost wished he hadn’t said it aloud.
Narumi scratched the back of his neck with a sheepish grin, still somehow casual despite his ghostly state. He’d always been better at hiding discomfort behind a smirk. “Yeah. I am dead. Pretty sure of it, actually.” He glanced at the TV, tone light. “Last thing I remember was taking out Number 1 and 2. Then I woke up here. Saw my heroic death on the news. Bit of a downer, huh?”
Hoshina didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on him, disbelief twisting his expression.
Narumi smiled again — softer this time. He could see it now, clearly after looking back at his lover’s face, the exhaustion written in every line of Hoshina’s face, the emptiness sitting heavy in his eyes. And for once, he didn’t want to see that look on him. It aches him to realise, he may be the cause of it.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” Narumi said, his voice quieter now. “Guess I just… woke up and stayed. Figured someone had to make sure you weren’t working yourself into an early grave. I don't want you to join me that soon, ok?”
Hoshina didn’t reply, his throat too tight to speak.
Hoshina’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes did — a flicker of something too raw to name. His mind couldn’t keep up. This couldn’t be real. He was hallucinating, maybe. Seeing what he wanted to see, because grief was cruel like that.
Still, he reached out, fingers trembling as they hovered close to Narumi’s face. There was no warmth, no resistance. Just a faint tingle — like his nerves were trying to fill in what reality wouldn’t give.
His chest tightened. It was him. Somehow.
“How come I can’t touch you,” Hoshina murmured, voice quiet, “but you can hold a controller and play games?”
Narumi grinned, that same irreverent spark in his expression that both infuriated and comforted him. “Crazy, right? I heard somewhere ghosts attach themselves to things they’re connected to most. And guess what? lucky me, I can hold my controller.” He wiggled it with a grin that was far too cheerful for someone translucent. “If I’m gonna haunt anything, at least let me do it while beating high scores.””
Hoshina stared at him — at the bright smile, the faint glow of his form against the TV light. The ache in his chest deepened.
The day ended with the sound of the television and Narumi’s voice filling the house. For a moment, it almost felt like everything that happened was just a bad dream. That if Hoshina turned around, Narumi would still be there, alive and real, controller in hand, crashing out over some stupid loss on the screen.
But the thought sat wrong in his chest — heavy and restless.
Because he wasn’t Narumi. He couldn’t be.
Narumi was gone. And this… whatever this was — a ghost, a memory, something his mind refused to let go — it would fade eventually.
So Hoshina didn’t hold on. He couldn’t afford to.
He let Narumi stay where he was, playing his game, laughing at pixels that no longer mattered. Hoshina stood up, walked to the bathroom, cleaned himself up, and returned to his desk. The glow of his laptop filled the room as he opened his documents, the quiet hum of work becoming his armor again.
Behind him, the television kept playing. Narumi’s voice still filled the air — bright, familiar, heartbreakingly ordinary.
And Hoshina typed, refusing to look back.
XX
Day 6
He woke up to an empty bed. For a brief, blissful moment, his mind was blank — just the soft light filtering through the curtains, the quiet of the room, the heavy weight of sleep still clinging to his body. The television was finally silent. The hum of the city outside felt distant. Everything seemed… normal.
Maybe it really was a dream, he thought hazily. Maybe the exhaustion finally caught up to him and his brain decided to play the cruelest trick imaginable. Because there’s no way Narumi — his Narumi — could be here.
He turned his head, intending to sit up. But then—
There he was.
Narumi Gen, lying on his side, one arm propped beneath his head, staring at him. His figure shimmered faintly in the morning light, edges soft and translucent — just enough to make him look real if Hoshina didn’t focus too hard.
For a full heartbeat, Hoshina forgot to breathe as his eyes widened. His stomach twisted as reality struggled to piece itself together.
“…You’re still here,” he muttered, voice hoarse, disbelief cutting through every syllable.
Narumi chuckled — that same laugh that once filled their mornings, soft and warm and slightly obnoxious. “Well, good morning to you too, sunshine. You looked like you saw a ghost.”
Hoshina stared at him blankly. The words almost made him laugh if they didn’t sting so much. He wanted to say something — anything — but nothing came out. His chest felt too tight.
Narumi sat up like it was just another day, running his hand through his hair before remembering his fingers could barely touch it. He chuckled, unbothered. “You look awful, love. Didn’t sleep much, huh? You should eat something before you pass out. I mean, I don’t need to eat anymore, so someone’s gotta keep the tradition alive.”
“…You’re joking,” Hoshina whispered, more to himself than to Narumi.
“What? Too early for my charm?” Narumi grinned, pretending not to notice the way Hoshina’s hands trembled slightly against the sheets. “Come on, Sou. Don’t tell me you’re planning to sit there and mope. Breakfast, remember? You’re useless when you skip it.”
Hoshina pushed himself up slowly, watching Narumi’s movements. Every flicker, every faint distortion in his outline reminded him that this wasn’t a dream. Or if it was, it was the cruel kind that refused to fade.
He drew in a slow breath. “You’re really not going anywhere, huh?”
Narumi tilted his head, smiling softly this time. “Why would I? I told you, didn’t I? I’ll stay until you stop looking like the world ended.”
Hoshina’s gaze flickered, throat tightening. “…The world did end.”
Narumi’s smile faltered for just a second, but then he laughed again — quieter now, almost gentle. “Then I guess I’ll just have to stick around a little longer.”
And for a moment, Hoshina didn’t know whether to be grateful or terrified.
XX
Day 9
During this time, Hoshina had grown used to having Narumi around again — ghost or not. It sounded ridiculous even in his own mind, but after the first few days of disbelief and confusion, it somehow became… natural. Maybe because it was Narumi. Loud, relentless, and utterly incapable of doing anything quietly — not even death.
He was still the same person who used to fill the house with chatter, laughter, and the occasional argument about whose turn it was to cook. Only now, he didn’t need to eat, didn’t leave footprints, and occasionally flickered like a hologram whenever he walked past a bright light.
The first week, Hoshina could barely look at him without feeling his chest tighten. Narumi was translucent, yes, but everything else — his smile, the tilt of his head, the teasing glint in his eyes — was painfully familiar. Too real. Hoshina’s brain couldn’t decide whether to mourn or to breathe.
But Narumi acted like everything was fine. Like nothing had changed.
He joked about his ghostly state as if it were an inconvenience, like catching a mild cold. “ You know what sucks? I can’t even enjoy instant noodles anymore. I tried holding the bowl — my hand just went through it!”
“Maybe it’s trying to tell you something,” Hoshina muttered once from the dining table, eyes still on his laptop.
“Oh? What, that I should’ve cooked more when I was alive?”
“That you should’ve been less annoying,” Hoshina said flatly, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
Narumi clutched his chest dramatically, his voice echoing faintly. “Ouch. Even death can’t save me from your cruelty, Soushiro.”
“You deserved it.”
It was moments like that — simple, effortless — that made Hoshina realize how easily Narumi fit back into his life. It wasn’t that the grief disappeared; it was that it slowly blended into something else. Something lighter.
And somehow, Hoshina found himself laughing again. Quietly at first.
Days bled into one another, and the rhythm between them began to feel almost normal. Narumi would hover around while Hoshina made breakfast, offering commentary he clearly missed giving when alive.
“You should add more soy sauce.”
“I like it this way.”
“Yeah, but I’m the expert here.”
“You don’t even eat anymore.”
“Still counts. I’m haunting you with culinary wisdom.”
Hoshina exhaled, the faintest ghost of a chuckle escaping him. “You’re haunting me, alright.”
And somehow, the air didn’t feel so heavy anymore.
Evenings were quieter, but no longer painfully so. Narumi would float beside him as he worked, sometimes leaning too close just to be irritating.
“Hey, what’s that? Mission report?”
“Classified,” Hoshina said without looking up.
“Ooh, secret stuff. Should I leave?”
“You can’t leave. You’re attached to the house.”
Narumi smirked. “Right. So I’ll stay and annoy you instead.”
At night, Hoshina would find Narumi sprawled out beside him, even though he didn’t sleep. “Old habits,” Narumi would say simply when Hoshina raised an eyebrow.
And though Hoshina would scoff or mutter under his breath, a quiet warmth spread through his chest every time Narumi was there. It wasn’t exactly comfort — more like the faint reminder that not everything he loved had been taken away completely.
He no longer jolted at the shimmer of movement in the corner of his eye. He no longer hesitated to talk, to respond, to laugh. The fear that Narumi’s presence would suddenly vanish was still there, buried deep, but it no longer dictated every breath.
Sometimes, he even forgot Narumi was… different. When Narumi teased him, when they bickered about trivial things, when he heard that familiar, unrestrained laugh — it was easy to believe they were back to how they’d always been.
One morning, as Hoshina sat by the window with a mug of coffee, Narumi drifted beside him, arms folded behind his head.
“You look less dead inside,” Narumi said, smirking.
“Thanks,” Hoshina replied dryly. “Coming from you, that’s saying something.”
Narumi laughed, a real laugh — full-bodied and bright, like sunlight breaking through fog. “There it is. That’s my guy.”
Hoshina rolled his eyes, but there was a trace of fondness in his voice. “You never change, huh?”
“Wouldn’t want to,” Narumi said, gaze softening. “Besides, you’d get bored if I did.”
Hoshina didn’t answer, but his lips curved slightly. Outside, the morning light caught on Narumi’s faint outline, making him glow like he belonged there — like he always had.
XX
Day 11
Narumi had been watching Hoshina make coffee again—his usual quiet routine every morning, hair still mussed from sleep, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the lines of his forearms. There was something comforting in the sight, like the world hadn’t completely shifted off its axis yet.
Then Hoshina reached for a mug. Not just any mug—his. The one with the faded logo, the handle chipped from the time Narumi accidentally dropped it after a mission. He wanted to say something—something stupid, maybe—to make the moment feel normal. But before he could, the sound came.
A sharp crack.
The mug slipped from Hoshina’s hand, shattered against the floor. Porcelain and hot coffee splattered across his bare feet. Hoshina stumbled back, breath catching as pain hit him, and Narumi’s body moved before his mind did.
“Soushiro—!”
He reached for him instinctively. Wanted to pull him away, wanted to do something. But his hands passed through. His arms, his shoulders—nothing but air and light. He tried again, and again, frustration rising in his chest like a cold tide that wouldn’t stop swallowing him. The sight of Hoshina grimacing, the sound of his small, controlled exhale—it all burned in Narumi’s chest far worse than the ghostly numbness that defined him now.
The helplessness. He hated it. The way his fingers couldn’t touch. The way the world refused to let him matter.
Hoshina straightened slowly, trying to act fine even as he hissed under his breath. “It’s fine,” he muttered, voice low. “Just hot water. I’ll survive.”
Narumi couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even meet his eyes. The words felt hollow in his throat—because he couldn’t do anything. He watched as Hoshina stepped over the shards with careful precision, moving to the fridge for ice. The floor glimmered faintly with spilled coffee, a brown reflection of what used to be his mornings.
The mug. His mug. Pieces of it scattered like bones.
Hoshina crouched down, pressing an ice pack against his foot, muttering something too soft for Narumi to catch. His face was calm, but the skin near his ankle had reddened. Narumi’s chest tightened. He wanted to kneel beside him, brush the shards away, lift him off the floor. Just once. Just once.
But he couldn’t even touch the damn mug.
He crouched beside him anyway, though Hoshina couldn’t feel it. Watched his careful movements—the practiced steadiness, the faint furrow of his brow. The faint tremble in his fingers when he thought no one was looking. Narumi swallowed, voice caught somewhere between a sigh and a laugh that never came out.
He used to be able to handle things like this. Lift Hoshina up with ease. Patch him up even when he’d grumble about being fine. Now all he could do was watch.
Hoshina finally looked up, glancing toward where Narumi lingered. He didn’t say anything. Maybe he didn’t need to. The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was heavy, full of things unsaid.
Narumi’s eyes drifted toward the broken mug again. That stupid, old, beloved mug.
“What a waste,” Hoshina murmured quietly, picking up the largest piece with a rag. As if knowing the turmoil in Narumi's heart. “You really liked that mug.”
Narumi forced a small exhale through his nose. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Doesn’t matter anymore. Not when you’re hurt because of it.”
It didn’t matter anymore, did it? Not when he couldn’t even hold it again. Not when the only thing he wanted to hold was the person right in front of him.
Hoshina gathered the shards, one by one, his movements slow. The faint sound of porcelain against metal filled the air as he dropped them into the bin. Narumi stood there quietly, watching the last piece disappear.
He wanted to tell him to be more careful. To scold him lightly, to brush it off with a joke about how Hoshina was hopeless before coffee. To say something that would make him smile again. But all he could do was stand beside him, invisible to the warmth he used to share so easily.
That night, they lay side by side, though only one of them truly belonged to the bed. The room was quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock—a cruel reminder that time kept moving even when he couldn’t.
Hoshina’s foot was bandaged, his movements careful, almost fragile. The broken mug was gone, swept into the trash with the rest of the morning’s remnants. But Narumi could still see it clearly—the shattering sound, the coffee spreading dark across the tiles, the way Hoshina winced and tried to laugh it off. And how he, even now, couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
He turned on his side to look at him. Hoshina’s face was softened by the dim light, the faint lines under his eyes heavier than before. He gave a small smile when he noticed Narumi watching him. “Why do you look like you’re almost crying?”
Narumi didn’t answer right away. His throat felt tight, and the words burned before he forced them out. “…Just realizing how useless I am,” he said finally. His hand lifted, reaching out on instinct, wanting to touch the familiar curve of Hoshina’s jaw—only for his fingers to slide through empty air. Again.
He stared at his own transparent hand. The ache that filled his chest wasn’t physical, but it might as well have been. The sight of Hoshina reaching up as if to meet him, stopping just short of where his skin should’ve been—it twisted something deep in him.
“Gen,” Hoshina murmured, the sound barely more than a breath. “It’s fine. Because you’re still here.”
But even as he said it, Narumi could hear the waver in his tone—the quiet grief tucked behind the words. The kind that didn’t fade with time, only settled deeper.
He wanted to tell him that he wasn’t really here. That this wasn’t how things were supposed to be. That being a ghost beside the man he loved was worse than death itself. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he stayed silent. Watching. Listening to the faint rhythm of Hoshina’s breathing, the small proof of life he no longer had.
Hoshina’s eyes slowly closed, exhaustion pulling at his face. His breathing evened out. He looked peaceful, and that hurt more than anything. Because Narumi knew—he couldn’t even give him comfort anymore. He couldn’t hold him when the nightmares came. Couldn’t brush his hair back when he cried. Couldn’t even feel the warmth of his skin.
He reached out one last time, fingertips hovering just above Hoshina’s cheek, the faintest shimmer of static. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, Soushiro.”
The words disappeared into the dark.
And Hoshina slept on, unaware of the ghost beside him, quietly falling apart in silence.
XX
Day 13
“You look better now,” Ashiro noted when Hoshina stepped back into the base. Her tone was casual, but there was a hint of relief buried beneath it—one she probably didn’t even notice herself.
“Yeah,” Hoshina replied with an easy smile, the kind he’d practiced too many times to count. “I had some time to reflect.”
It was a lie.
What really pulled him back together wasn’t rest or reflection—it was Narumi. Or whatever remained of him. The ghost who laughed like nothing happened, who teased him for skipping meals, who filled the silence that had nearly swallowed him whole.
But as he stood there, the faint hum of machinery and distant chatter of soldiers grounding him back to reality, the thought pressed harder against his chest.
What if he came home today and Narumi was gone?
No translucent figure waiting on the couch. No playful voice calling his name. Just empty walls and a quiet house echoing with absence.
He told himself it wouldn’t matter. That he should be grateful for what he got—a week of impossible bliss, of laughter and familiarity he thought he’d never feel again. That was more than anyone could ask for, wasn’t it?
And yet, even as he tried to believe it, the thought hollowed him out from the inside.
He forced a smile, the same old smile everyone was used to seeing, and dipped his head. “Excuse me, Captain. I should get back to work.”
Ashiro gave him a small nod, watching him go. She didn’t comment further—maybe she saw something in his eyes and decided not to press.
Hoshina turned away, walking down the corridor. His footsteps echoed softly against the floor, steady and unhurried, just like always.
But inside, he was bracing himself for the moment he’d open the door to their home—
and find it truly empty.
the sound of his footsteps echoed faintly against the steel walls. The base was unusually still at this hour—training should’ve been underway, the recruits busy sparring in the dojo with their platoon leaders. Though he did see soldiers running around the field as he walked past the windows. Probably some punishment of some sort. He planned to drop by later, to check on their progress after his week of absence.
Which meant no one should’ve been here, loitering around the hallways.
Yet, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Someone was watching him.
He stopped mid-step and glanced around. The hall was empty, save for the faint hum of the lights above. “You think I didn’t notice?” he called out, his tone firm but even. “Come out, or I’ll double your punishment.”
Silence.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Have it your way. I’ll catch you myself—”
“Woah, easy there!”
The voice was casual, familiar, that Hoshina froze.
Narumi stood beside him, translucent and grinning like a fool, hands raised in mock surrender. “So this is how the great Vice Captain operates. Terrifying.” He laughed lightly.
Hoshina exhaled, his expression somewhere between disbelief and resignation. “Why are you here?”
“Well,” Narumi began, rubbing the back of his neck, “I finished my game. And unless you bought me another one—which you didn’t—I got bored. So I decided to follow you.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “It seems like I can move around anywhere near you or our place. Convenient, huh?”
“What if someone sees you?” Hoshina hissed under his breath, glancing up and down the corridor, his voice laced with quiet panic.
Narumi chuckled. “Relax. Looks like you’re the only one who can see me. Don’t ask me how that works. But too bad—I’d love to spook Hasegawa or Shinomiya. Imagine their faces.”
Hoshina shot him a look. “Please don’t give them more headaches than they already have.” He resumed walking toward his office, steps brisk. “And you’re planning to follow me the whole day, I assume?”
Narumi hummed.
A soft chuckle escaped Hoshina before he could stop it. “Suit yourself.”
For a few moments, they walked in companionable quiet. Narumi drifted slightly ahead, eyes tracing the familiar hallways, the faces of soldiers passing by—none of whom gave him a second glance. He didn’t know if that made things better or worse.
Then, his voice came softer. “Hey… have you talked to Hasegawa lately? Or gone to Ariake?”
Hoshina arched a brow. “Aww, missing them already?” he teased, though his voice held a gentleness he didn’t usually show.
Narumi gave a small laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s not that. I just… wanna see how they’re doing.”
Hoshina’s gaze softened, but he kept his tone light. “There’s going to be a meeting next week—about the numbered Kaiju. You’ll probably get your chance to ‘see’ them, in a way. And if you asked me…” He paused for a moment, the words catching slightly in his throat. “They’re missing you. Especially Shinomiya.”
And me, he almost added.
Narumi looked down, his expression unreadable. “Even that brat’s helpless without me, huh?” he murmured, forcing a small smile.
Hoshina didn’t respond.
Narumi glanced out the window as they passed, where rows of recruits were training on the field. The shouts of the instructors, the rhythm of boots hitting the dirt—it all hit him like a wave. He stopped for a moment, eyes tracking the movement.
He missed it.
He hadn’t realized how much until now. The pulse of life. And now it was all moving forward without him.
He could almost see the First Division in his mind—the faces of his subordinates, their laughter after a long mission, the late-night debriefs that turned into arguments, then into jokes. Shinomiya’s stubborn fire, Hasegawa’s quiet steadiness. All of them still out there. All of them living.
He missed living. The weight of his wespon. The rush of battle. The adrenaline that came with fighting for something. For someone.
But he didn’t regret it. Not saving them. Not dying for them.
The memory of that final battle flickered faintly behind his eyes—the chaos, the roar of the numbered Kaiju, the blinding light. He’d made the call without hesitation, when multiple futures swimming into his eyes.He’d seen what would happen if he didn’t. He’d known the cost and still swung his blade.
He would’ve done it again.
And yet, as he stood there beside Hoshina—watching soldiers who couldn’t see him, hearing laughter he could no longer join—it was hard not to feel the weight of what he’d lost.
He used to think dying for the Defense Force would be a fitting end. Now he wasn’t so sure.
Hoshina glanced back when he noticed he’d stopped walking. “You coming?”
Narumi blinked and turned, his usual grin sliding back into place like a mask.
XX
Day 21
Hoshina drove past the gates of Ariake Base, Ashiro seated in the passenger seat — and Narumi, invisible to the world, quietly tagging along in the back.
Ever since they discovered that Narumi could linger near Hoshina, he’d been following him everywhere — through corridors, training rooms, even during late-night paperwork sessions. It had been annoying at first, listening to him complain about endless reports and dull meetings. But it became… comforting, too. When Hoshina forgot to eat, Narumi would nag him. When he pushed through another midnight training session, Narumi would sit cross-legged on the bench, watching until Hoshina finally took a break.
They had always been opposites — Hoshina the workaholic, Narumi the slacker. Arguments were frequent, but somewhere along the way, they’d balanced each other out. Even Narumi started working with his reports in earnest, much to Hasegawa and Shinomiya's approval.
And then he was gone. The balance shattered, and Hoshina quietly fell back into the old habits Narumi used to scold him for.
The car rolled to a stop in front of the main entrance. Ashiro stepped out first, her usual poise intact. Hoshina followed, adjusting his uniform. Narumi drifted out behind them, his gaze sweeping over the base.
It had only been three weeks since his death. Yet the air felt heavier. The usual rhythm of the First Division had dulled. The place looked alive, but it felt lifeless.
At the entrance, two figures waited — Hasegawa, the acting captain, and Shinomiya, now his vice-captain. Both straightened as Hoshina and Ashiro approached.
“Captain Ashiro, Vice-Captain Hoshina,” Hasegawa greeted with a respectful bow. “It’s good to see you both again.”
Ashiro smiled, the kind that carried both warmth and quiet grief. “Good to see you holding up, Hasegawa. Ariake still stands — that’s something to be proud of.”
Shinomiya crossed her arms, her tone sharper, though her eyes betrayed the faint tremor of emotion. “We had to make up for the idiot mentor’s absence. This much is still fine.”
Narumi blinked, then scoffed, grinding his teeth. “What the hell!? Even in death, you still have the nerve to insult me?”
His voice was more fond than angry, the sound carrying no weight beyond Hoshina’s ears.
Hoshina’s lips twitched—just slightly—before he turned toward Hasegawa to exchange greetings.
Narumi watched Shinomiya closely. Her expression was still hard-edged, but her voice carried control, discipline. Something he'd observed from the years she had been under his care. The last time he’d seen her cry was at her father’s funeral, and she’d sworn then to surpass him. He did believed she could.
He reached out, unable to help himself, and placed a hand on her head. His fingers passed through, but a faint shimmer lingered. Shinomiya’s brows furrowed and she glanced upward, brushing her hair as if she’d felt something.
Hoshina noticed. A faint smile escaped him, low and brief, before he schooled his expression again.
Inside, the meeting began.
The conference room was heavy with tension—the kind that settled deep and stayed. Reports and data flickered on the holographic screen, outlining Kaiju movements and recent attacks. The discussion was grim.
“The frequency of appearances is increasing,” Hasegawa reported. “Especially in the coastal sectors.”
“And without Captain Narumi,” another officer said carefully, “we’ve lost one of our strongest field assets. His absence is already being felt across multiple fronts.”
Narumi stood beside Hoshina, arms crossed. “Glad to know I’m still in need” he muttered, though his tone lacked any real bite.
Ashiro glanced at Hoshina. “We’ll have to reconsider our deployment patterns. Reinforcements are stretched thin.”
Then came the question no one wanted to voice but everyone expected.
“About the First Division’s leadership,” Hasegawa began, measured and calm. “As acting captain, I’m recommending we finalize a permanent replacement.”
The room went still.
Eyes turned toward Shinomiya. She didn’t flinch.
“She’s capable,” one of the higher ups said.
“She’s only eighteen,” another countered. “Not enough field command experience.”
“Vice-Captain or not, she still needs time.”
Narumi’s jaw tightened. “Idiots. She’s got more guts than half this room combined.”
Hoshina didn’t speak, but his hand—resting loosely on the table—curled into a fist.
“She’s already been leading smaller units successfully,” Hasegawa added. “Her tactics during the No. 15 subjugation were perfect. Captain Narumi himself praised her performance.”
At that, Narumi’s chest ached. He remembered that day—the look of pride, the spark in her eyes when he told her she’d done well.
“She’s ready,” he said quietly.
The debate went on, shifting between strategy and politics, until the meeting adjourned with nothing decided. The room emptied, leaving only Ashiro, Hoshina, and the lingering ghost of a man who once commanded it all.
Narumi stood by the window, watching soldiers move below like distant memories. “They’re doing fine,” he murmured. “Better than I thought.”
He looked out again, eyes soft. “I just wish I could’ve seen it all through. Guess that’s the one thing I can’t fix.”
Hoshina said nothing. The sunlight cut through the blinds, dust drifting lazily between them. Narumi stood in it, light passing through his form, fading at the edges.
“I don’t regret it, you know,” he said, voice low. “Saving them. Even if it ended like this.”
Hoshina’s gaze lowered, unreadable.
Narumi smiled faintly. “Just wish I could’ve stayed a bit longer.”
And though his words disappeared into the quiet air of the conference room, Hoshina’s whisper followed after a long moment—so soft it could’ve been mistaken for breath.
“…Me too.”
He heard a familiar voice call from behind.
“Vice-Captain Hoshina, do you have a minute?”
He turned. Shinomiya stood there, posture straight but eyes uncertain. He tilted his head, confused. He nodded anyway, gesturing for her to lead the way.
They walked through the quiet corridors until they reached an empty training hall. The faint scent of sweat and metal still lingered, familiar and grounding. Hoshina’s gaze swept the room, and a small, wistful smile tugged at his lips.
He remembered this place—the echo of swords clashings, Narumi’s taunting laughter as he corrected his form, the way they’d trained until dawn during the chaos of Number 9. Those long nights felt both distant and painfully close.
“What is it, Shinomiya?” he asked softly, turning to her. “You want to spar with me?”
“I would love to,” she said with a faint laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “But that’s not what I’m here for.” Her expression sobered. “I just… wanted to talk.”
Hoshina tilted his head slightly. “That’s rare for you to consult with me.”
“Well, you're the only one I could talk to you about this.”
They sat side by side. The silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Shinomiya stared at the floor, fiddling with the hem of her gloves.
“You know,” she started quietly, “I still can’t believe he’s gone. He was always this... strong, annoying presence that never shut up. But you just knew he’d always be there.”
Hoshina didn’t reply right away. His gaze softened as he glanced toward the far end of the room—Narumi stood there, watching quietly, hands in his pockets.
“He sure is.” Hoshina muttered quietly.
“Kinda like papa,” Shinomiya continued. “Unshakable. Always charging ahead. And now he’s just... gone.” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. “It’s not like we haven’t seen loss before. It’s like—”
Her hands clenched tightly on her lap. “I said I’d surpass him one day. That I’d take his position fair and square. Not like this.” She took a shaky breath. “No one’s supposed to die under my watch. Not again.”
She gave a small, watery laugh that broke halfway. “He’d probably laugh at me right now. Say I’m being dramatic. Or call me a crybaby.”
From the corner of his eye, Hoshina saw Narumi’s expression. No laughter. Just that quiet, unreadable stillness—the kind he used to wear when the weight of command pressed too heavy.
“Are you okay, Vice-Captain?” Shinomiya asked suddenly, turning to him. “You were close to him… more than anyone.”
Hoshina exhaled slowly, straightening his back. “It’d be a lie to say I am,” he said. “But life has to move forward, right?”
She sniffed, trying to smile. “You’re strong, sir.”
“I’m not,” he thought. He wanted to say it, but the words caught in his throat. He wasn’t strong. He was barely holding on—half afraid of finding Narumi gone for good.
Narumi stepped closer, drawn by her trembling voice. His gaze softened as he knelt slightly, reaching out instinctively to place a hand on her head. His fingers passed through her, leaving only the faintest shimmer in the air.
Shinomiya frowned, touching the spot absently as if she’d felt something again.
Hoshina watched. For a moment, he could almost believe Narumi’s hand was there—comforting her like he always used to.
So Hoshina reached forward too, resting his hand gently atop her head in the same spot.
“You did good, Shinomiya,” he said quietly. “You'll be captain. I'm sure of it.”
Narumi froze, eyes widening. Then, slowly, a small, genuine smile tugged at his lips as his ghostly hand overlapped with Hoshina’s.
Shinomiya blinked through her tears and gave a small, sheepish smile. “Thanks. I will.”
For a moment, everything felt still. The past and present overlapping, grief and comfort tangled together in something wordless.
Then she seemed to remember something. She reached into her pocket and held something out to Hoshina.
“Here.”
He looked down—a dog tag. Worn around the edges, scuffed from years of missions. Two names engraved side by side: Narumi Gen and Hoshina Soushiro.
“This was his,” she said softly. “He used to kiss it every time we went out on a mission. Cringy, right? But… I figured you should have it.”
Hoshina stared at it, his breath catching. From beside him, Narumi went still.
“Didn’t think you’d ever tell anyone that, or him.” Narumi muttered, a ghost of colorless embarrassment flickering in his expression. “God, that’s mortifying.”
Hoshina didn’t respond right away. He closed his hand around the dog tag gently, thumb tracing over the etched names. It was cold but it felt like the closest thing to Narumi's actual warmth. Something solid to hold on to.
“…Alright,” he finally said. “I’ll take it.”
Shinomiya nodded and stood, giving him a small, respectful bow before heading for the door. She didn’t see Narumi watching her go. Didn’t hear the way his voice wavered when he whispered after her, almost fondly—
“Keep at it, brat.”
When the door shut behind her, the room fell silent again.
Hoshina looked down at the tag in his palm. Narumi stood across from him, faint and fading at the edges of the light.
For once, neither of them spoke.
There was nothing left to say.
Just the quiet hum of the training room—and the weight of something precious slipping, slowly, out of reach.