Kazuma lay on his back, staring at the ceiling as if it might eventually fracture under the weight of his thoughts. The room was dark except for the faint hum of climate control and the distant, artificial rhythm of Aegis Prime breathing through steel and light.
Every muscle in his body was still. But his mind was not.
Fire Mode was asleep.
The other soul inside him was restless mocking, prowling, and whispering barbed truths with the patience of something that enjoyed watching him squirm. Tonight, there was nothing. No commentary. No heat curling at the edges of his thoughts.
Just silence.
Kazuma exhaled slowly, counting his breath the way Providence's handlers had taught him. In. Hold. Out. Again. The technique was meant to keep his internal equilibrium stable, to keep Ice dominant, and Fire leashed.
Yet, it wasn't working. Every time he closed his eyes, fragments surfaced. Asol standing his ground when any sane person would have fallen. Kurogane's name, spoken out loud for the first time in years. And Aoi. The thought of her twisted something sharp in his chest.
She had smiled today. Bright and easy. The same way she always did when she thought no one needed to worry. The same way she smiled when she was afraid and refused to let anyone see it. He rolled his head to the side, staring at the wall instead.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, though there was no one there to hear him.
Fire Mode did not answer. Kazuma had lived with pain long enough to recognize its shapes. There was the pain that burned and demanded action. The pain that screamed. The pain that pushed you to fight or flee.
And then there was this. The quiet pain. The kind that settled in your bones and waited. He brought a hand up, pressing his palm against his chest as if he could feel both hearts beating. His own, and the echo of the other soul that shared his body. For a moment, he wondered if Fire Mode was watching too. Not mocking. Not urging.
Just remembering.
Asol's words surfaced uninvited.
Does Providence have something over you?
Kazuma squeezed his eyes shut.
Of course he did.
Providence didn't need chains or threats shouted in anger. He understood something far more effective: if you gave someone a reason to live, you could decide what they were willing to destroy to keep it.
Kazuma had chosen his reason a long time ago.
Aoi was sound asleep, wrapped in safety that only existed because Kazuma kept his head down and his mouth shut. Because he followed orders. Because he pretended not to see the cracks spreading through the world beneath Providence's perfect design.
Because he let himself become a weapon.
Fire Mode finally stirred with heat. A low, simmering presence pressed against his thoughts like a clenched fist held just out of sight.
You're thinking about running again, the voice murmured at last.
Kazuma swallowed.
"No," he said quietly. "I'm thinking about what I had ran from."
The silence returned, heavier than before.
Kazuma had learned early that pain came in layers.
There was the sharp kind—the kind that made you scream, thrash, beg. The kind the scientists seemed fascinated by, heads tilting as instruments spiked and alarms chimed softly in approval.
And then there was the deeper kind.
The kind that didn't hurt immediately.
The kind that waited.
He remembered the first time he realized there was someone else inside him.
He had been strapped to the table, wrists locked in place, cold metal biting into his skin. White lights burned overhead, too bright to look at directly. His breath came in shallow bursts, fogging the transparent mask clamped over his face.
"Subject KZ-01, neural saturation approaching threshold."
"Good," someone replied calmly. "Introduce the second imprint."
Kazuma didn't know what an imprint was then.
But he learned quickly. One moment, his thoughts were his own as fear, confusion, and the dull ache of hunger and exhaustion. The next, something else arrived. Not a voice at first. Not words.
Heat.
A presence had slammed into his consciousness like a star collapsing inward. His vision went white, then red, then everywhere. He screamed but the sound doubled, overlapped, and echoed back at him from inside his own skull.
He felt himself split.
No—forced apart.
Two perspectives occupied the same space. One was cold, rigid, clinging to order because order was the only thing keeping him intact. The other furious, incandescent, alive with a rage that had nowhere to go.
It was born screaming.
Kazuma convulsed against the restraints as temperatures in the room spiked wildly. Frost crawled up the metal frame of the table at the same time flames erupted along his spine, warping steel and shattering glass.
Alarms blared.
"Stabilize him!"
"Its too late—he's rejecting—"
"No," another voice cut in. Calm. Commanding. "He's adapting."
That voice didn't belong to a scientist.
Providence.
He was eighteen at the time, but Kazuma remembered seeing him through the observation glass for the first time immaculate and untouched by the chaos. He didn't flinch as the room burned and froze at the same time. He watched like someone observing a proof finally come together.
"Two souls, one body, one contradiction." Providence said softly.
Kazuma's heart slammed against his ribs.
Fire Mode laughed inside him—raw, feral, delighted.
Let me burn it all.
"No," Kazuma whispered hoarsely. He didn't know who he was talking to. Himself. The voice. The man behind the glass.
"Fascinating," Providence continued. "You see? They balance each other. Ice contains fire. Fire prevents stagnation. Together, they endure."
Kazuma hated him instantly.
The experiments continued.
Days blurred into cycles of pain and recovery. They pushed him until his body failed, then waited for one soul to drag the other back from the edge. Fire learned to lash out. Ice learned to suppress. The scientists documented everything, reducing his existence to graphs and percentages.
And then there was her.
The girl in the other tank.
She was smaller than him. Younger. Silent.
They called her KG-07.
Kazuma noticed her during a transfer—when they wheeled him past a row of containment chambers. Her eyes were open, crimson and unfocused, tracking movement with unnatural precision as tubes were threaded into her spine, her arms, and her skull.
She didn't scream. She couldn't. But something twisted in his chest.
She's like us, Fire Mode whispered. But quieter.
Kazuma didn't know who or what she was back then. He didn't know what she could do. He only knew that every time he passed her chamber, the air felt… wrong. Like space itself bent toward her.
Then, one day everything broke and people started shouting from outside.
The facility shook. Not from an experiment—but from something colliding with reality itself. The lights flickered violently. Red warnings flooded the halls.
"Containment breach in Sector—"
"No, it's an external—!"
The wall behind the observation room folded inward.
Kazuma saw it through the glass as space tore like fabric under impossible force. A figure stepped through the distortion—cloaked in fractured light with their Aura pressing down like the weight of a collapsing star.
Ultima.
Only Kazuma didn't know his name then. Only that the man's presence made Providence stiffen for the first time.
"You shouldn't be here," Providence said, voice cold.
Ultima didn't answer immediately. His gaze swept the room, over the tanks, the restraints, and the children reduced to nothing but objects.
"I couldn't believe it when I received information of your experiments." Ultima said at last.
Providence smiled faintly.
"So, there was a rat amongst my work force."
Reality fractured as their auras collided. Walls ceased to matter. Space screamed as Ultima struck first, not at Providence, but at the facility itself. The containment chambers shattered. Power failed. Systems died screaming.
Kazuma felt his restraints melt away as Fire surged in panic and Ice reacted on instinct.
Move, Fire Mode roared.
Kazuma didn't hesitate as he ran toward the girl's chamber.
KG-07's containment chamber was cracking, as it spiderwebbed under the pressure of distorted space.
Kazuma slammed his fist into the steel door and it shattered outward. He grabbed her without thinking, ignoring the way space warped violently around her body. She was light. Too light. Her eyes locked onto his as they were sharp, terrified, but aware.
"It's okay," he gasped, though he had no idea if it was true. "I've got you."
Fire Mode burned paths through collapsing corridors. Ice sealed wounds and stabilized what little structure remained. They ran through screaming metal and collapsing timelines while Providence and Ultima tore holes in the world behind them.
Kazuma didn't look back.
He never did.
They burst out into open air as the facility collapsed into itself, swallowed by distortion and fire. Kazuma stumbled, fell to his knees, still clutching the girl. He made it as far as he could, chasing a city of lights far away.
For a moment, everything was quiet.
Then she moved.
Her hand twitched.
Space bent.
The world… paused.
Kazuma felt it—time stuttering, reality hesitating. And then it snapped forward again, violently.
The girl gasped.
Soundless—but alive.
Kazuma laughed and cried at the same time.
"You're okay," he whispered. "You're okay."
She stared at him like she was trying to memorize his face. But that was the last time he saw her for years as he found an old man who could take care of her. But not before giving her the name, Kurogane.
After that came Providence. He appeared injured as blood ran down his body. He offered Kazuma structure. Training. Control. He recognized the man. Seeing as he had nothing to tie him to anything, he accepted it. Because he didn't know how not to, and in fear of losing his life.
And then—much later—there was a girl with blue hair who smiled like the world was still worth believing in.
Aoi.
She offered him warmth without asking for obedience. Friendship without conditions. Light that didn't burn or freeze.
He had been assigned crowd control duty at a reconstruction site where a Kaiju had previously rampaged. Kazuma knew better. He always did. The air there still smelled wrong. Burnt metal, scorched stone, and the faint echo of screams that never quite left places like that.
He stood at the edge of the site with his arms folded and his expression neutral. Civilians moved past him in careful arcs with some staring while some avoided eye contact altogether. To them, he was a hero. A weapon with a badge. Something powerful and distant.
To him, that was fine. Distance was safer.
Boring, Fire Mode muttered lazily inside him. Let me scare someone.
No, Kazuma replied silently. We're here to keep things calm.
You mean you're here to stand still and pretend you're normal?
Kazuma didn't answer. That's when he heard singing. It wasn't loud. It wasn't polished. It was a little off-key, carried by a breeze that smelled faintly of dust and sun-warmed concrete. It didn't belong in a place like this.
He turned and saw a girl standing near the temporary fencing, balanced on the edge of a broken curb like it was a stage. Her cyan hair caught the light, almost glowing perfectly. She wore a simple jacket with the sleeves rolled up and held a small paper bag in one hand while humming to herself.
She was smiling until she noticed him staring. Instead of flinching or stiffening like most civilians did, she waved.
"Oh! Hi!" she called, completely unbothered by the fact that he was a registered combat-grade hero standing in full uniform. "My, you look bored."
Kazuma blinked.
"I—" His voice came out rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat.
"This area's restricted."
She tilted her head, peering past him at the rubble.
"Yeah, I know," she said cheerfully. "That's why I'm not inside it."
She took a step closer anyway. Kazuma felt Fire Mode stir.
Say something scary, Fire Mode urged. Make her leave.
"You should move along," Kazuma said, stiff. "It's not safe."
She studied him for a second. Really looked at him. Then she smiled wider.
"You don't sound like you believe that."
He stiffened.
"What?"
"You sound like someone repeating something they were told," she said lightly. "Not someone who thinks it's true."
Fire Mode went quiet as his chest tightened.
"I'm serious," he said. "You shouldn't be here."
She shrugged and held up the paper bag.
"I brought food for the volunteers," she said. "They've been working since sunrise. Someone has to remind them they're also human and should eat."
That word hit harder than it should have.
Human.
Kazuma glanced past her and saw what he'd missed. There were half a dozen exhausted workers sitting near a portable generator with their faces streaked with grime and fatigue. There weren't any heroes nearby, but they were just people trying to put something broken back together.
Aoi followed his gaze.
"See?" she said. "Not dangerous. Just sad."
Fire Mode exhaled something like a laugh.
Is she brave, he said. Or stupid?
Kazuma didn't correct him.
"…You shouldn't talk to heroes like that," Kazuma said finally.
She laughed.
"Why not? You bite?"
Ice tightened instinctively. Fire flared.
"No," Kazuma said quickly. "I mean—"
"Relax," she interrupted, stepping closer again. She smelled like citrus and paper and something warm. "I'm Aoi."
She extended her hand. Kazuma stared at it like it might explode. People didn't touch him unless they had to.
Fire Mode went very still.
Slowly, awkwardly, he took her hand. Her grip was warm. Aoi's eyes widened just a fraction, not in fear, but in curiosity.
"…Wow," she said. "You're cold!"
Kazuma flinched and pulled his hand back.
"Sorry."
She waved it off.
"Don't be. That just means you're working hard."
Working hard.
No one had ever described him that way.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, more quietly.
She smiled again—but this one was softer.
"My brother asked me to check on the site," she said. "He worries too much."
Kazuma's spine straightened.
"Your brother?"
"Providence," she said casually, like she was naming the weather.
The world tilted.
Ice cracked. Fire surged.
Kazuma felt something inside him recoil so hard it almost tore free.
Her? Fire Mode hissed. She's HIS—
Control, Kazuma ordered desperately.
Aoi noticed the change immediately.
"Oh," she said gently. "You know him right? Cause otherwise it'd be impossible not to, ya know?"
"Yes," Kazuma replied automatically.
Everyone knew Providence. She studied his face, then sighed.
"People always look like that when they hear his name," she said. "Like they're standing straighter than they want to. Relax!"
She smiled again, smaller this time.
"You don't have to do that with me."
Something inside Kazuma fractured.
"Why?" he asked before he could stop himself.
"Because I don't want you to," she said simply. "You already look tired enough."
Fire Mode went silent and Kazuma looked away.
"You shouldn't be here," he repeated, but there was no force behind it now.
"I know," she said. "But I'm glad I am."
She turned and walked toward the workers, calling out a cheerful greeting, handing out food like the world wasn't broken under their feet.
Kazuma watched her go. For the first time since the lab, since the fire and the ice and the screaming corridors, something unfamiliar crept into his chest.
Not hope.
Hope hurt too much.
It was… warmth.
Kazuma tried not to see Aoi again, yet he failed almost immediately.
At first, it was coincidence or at least that's what he told himself. He'd be assigned to patrol routes that passed near rehearsal halls, charity events, reconstruction zones. And somehow, without fail, she would be there. Sometimes, she'd be performing. Sometimes carrying boxes. Sometimes arguing cheerfully with staff. Sometimes sitting on the steps of some half-repaired building with her legs swinging and humming under her breath like the world hadn't taught her better yet.
And each time, she noticed him she waved. And each time, something inside Kazuma twisted tighter.
The second time they actually spoke was months later. He was stationed outside a concert. There was low security but high visibility. It was a kind of event designed to reassure people that heroes were still watching, still strong, and still smiling.
Aoi had emerged from backstage wearing a stage outfit dusted with glitter and her hair tied back loosely with her eyes bright with adrenaline. She spotted him instantly.
"You!" she said, pointing. "Cold hands!"
Kazuma sighed internally.
Run, Fire Mode suggested.
Too late.
She walked straight up to him with hands behind her back, rocking slightly on her heels.
"You're guarding again," she observed.
"Yes."
"That's your whole personality, isn't it?"
"…Yes."
She laughed, and the sound hit him like a physical thing and then stopped.
"Did you eat?" she asked suddenly.
"That's not relevant."
She narrowed her eyes.
"That wasn't an answer."
Fire Mode muttered, Lie.
"No," Kazuma admitted.
Aoi groaned theatrically.
"Unacceptable. Heroes faint when they don't eat. It's very unprofessional."
She thrust a wrapped energy bar into his hands before he could react.
"There," she said. "Now you're slightly less tragic."
He stared at it.
"You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to," she replied simply.
"Thank you," he said after a moment.
Her smile softened.
"You're welcome."
She turned to leave, then paused.
"Oh! Your name is Kazuma, right?"
He stiffened. "You know my name?"
She looked over her shoulder.
"Of course! I had to know after last time!"
And then she was gone, swallowed by lights and sound and people cheering her name. Kazuma stood there for a long time, holding the energy bar like it might burn him. Fire Mode was still quiet.
Years passed like that.
There were small moments. Stolen conversations. Coincidences that stacked too neatly to be random. She learned when he was on duty and brought coffee he didn't ask for. He learned her rehearsal schedule without meaning to. She talked about music, about crowds, about how exhausting it was to smile all the time. But he listened. Always.
Yet he never talked about himself. Not really. Once, during a late-night patrol near the upper terraces, she sat beside him on a railing overlooking the city lights.
"You never tell me anything," she said lightly.
"That's because there's nothing to tell."
She hummed.
"That's not true."
He said nothing as she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands.
"My brother says people don't open up because they're afraid of being seen," she said. "Do you think that's true?"
Kazuma's chest tightened.
"Yes."
She glanced at him.
"Are you afraid I'll see something bad?"
Fire Mode stirred.
Careful now...
"I'm afraid," Kazuma said slowly, "that if you see me clearly… you won't want to, anymore."
She went quiet. Then she smiled—not bright, not playful. Just real.
"That's not how seeing works," she said.
He didn't understand what she meant. He only knew that when she laughed, the fire inside him softened. And when she was sad, even just a little, the Ice cracked. The first time he saw her cry was the night a minor hero died during a rescue operation. The news spun it into a noble sacrifice. A necessary loss. Providence even gave a speech.
Aoi didn't watch, but she sat on the steps behind the Dome with her knees drawn up and shoulders shaking silently. Kazuma found her there by accident. She didn't look up when he approached.
"People keep saying it was worth it," she whispered. "That it had to happen."
He sat beside her without thinking.
"It didn't," he said quietly.
She turned.
"You don't think so?"
"No."
Fire Mode agreed.
Never.
She wiped her face quickly, embarrassed.
"I shouldn't be crying," she said. "I'm supposed to inspire people."
Kazuma thought for a moment. What could he say?
"You know, someone told me that sometimes you're allowed to be human," Kazuma said.
The words surprised him as much as her as she stared at him. She was also surprised at the fact that he had remembered what she told him from their first encounter.
"…You really believe that?"
"Yes."
She then leaned against his shoulder, causing him to freeze. She was warm. Solid. Alive. He had never felt the touch of another in such a way where he didn't want them to stop.
They were staring into the night sky as the moon shone on them.