Araragi fell asleep before the sun rose.
Or passed out. Hard to say.
His breathing was steady. His color was off. But he would heal—if "healing" still applied to someone like him.
I didn't try to rest.
My ribs ached. Not broken. Not quite. But bruised in ways I'd never felt before. Whatever was protecting me—this half-formed, half-stolen power—I was starting to think it didn't care about comfort.
I washed my hands in the cracked sink of the cram school bathroom. The blood came off in ribbons. Mine. His. Theirs. I couldn't tell anymore.
The mirror above the sink was too dusty to reflect anything clearly.
That felt appropriate.
Kiss-shot didn't call me.
She didn't ask to see me.
But when I stepped onto the roof, she was already there.
Sitting at the edge.
Bare feet dangling over concrete and air.
The city stretched beneath her like something she'd already outlived.
I stood by the doorway.
She didn't turn.
She didn't need to.
"You moved differently tonight," she said.
Her voice was soft. Not cold. Not warm.
Just… weighted.
I didn't answer right away.
She continued. "You phased."
Still I said nothing.
She turned her head slightly. Just enough to look at me with one golden eye.
"You've done it before."
A statement. Not a question.
Still.
I didn't respond.
"You know," she said, "for someone who insists on being unreadable, you bleed more meaning than most men scream."
I stepped closer. The rooftop creaked.
"Is this the part where you accuse me?" I asked.
She shook her head. "No. If I accused you, you'd lie. If I punished you, you'd vanish. I'm not here to control you."
"Then why are you here?"
She looked out at the sky.
It was dull and bruised with sunrise. A bleeding sort of gold.
"Because you've made yourself part of this," she said. "And that makes you dangerous. But not in the way I thought."
I leaned against the short concrete ledge beside her.
Let the breeze move between us.
"What kind of danger did you think I was?"
"The passive kind," she said. "The kind that distorts by existing. The kind that stares too long and warps the story around it."
"And now?"
"Now," she said, "I think you're worse."
I glanced at her.
She wasn't smiling.
"You acted," she said. "You changed something."
I swallowed that.
It sat in my throat like glass.
"I didn't do it for him," I said.
"I know," she replied. "That's what bothers me."
That took the breath out of me.
"I don't care about your reasons," she added. "I care about your effect."
"And what effect is that?"
She turned to face me now.
All of her.
Small body, ancient presence.
"You've made a story that doesn't belong to you change direction," she said. "That means this world will fight back."
"Against me?"
"Against all of us."
I sat down.
Legs over the edge like hers.
We didn't look at each other.
She said, "Do you think I'm afraid of you?"
"No."
She nodded slowly. "Good. Because I'm not."
"I know."
"But I'm starting to realize," she added, "that I don't understand you. And that is unacceptable."
"Why?"
"Because things I don't understand tend to rewrite themselves into problems."
I nodded.
That felt fair.
A long pause.
Then:
"I've been here before, you know," she said. "This moment. This kind of fracture. Where the rules begin to slip and the people you thought were solid start bending like fiction."
"You think that's what I am?" I asked. "Fiction?"
She didn't answer.
But she didn't say no.
The breeze picked up.
She closed her eyes.
And for a moment—just a moment—she looked tired.
Not weak.
Not worn out.
Just... tired.
In the way gods must be, when worship stops being enough.
"I'm not your enemy," I said.
"Not yet," she whispered.
Another long silence passed.
Then she stood.
Her balance perfect on the edge.
"Keep your secrets, Lucien," she said. "But don't forget: secrets cast shadows. And eventually, everything in shadow is seen."
She stepped off the ledge—
And vanished.
No sound. No movement.
Just gone.
I stayed there a long time.
Longer than I meant to.
And when I finally went back inside, I saw Araragi sitting up, his eyes wide, his breathing sharp.
He looked at me.
Like he'd had a dream he didn't want to remember.