The back of the helicopter is enveloped in an eerie stillness that feels almost suffocating. You sit there, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on your chest. As the closest person to Noriaki—or, more accurately, to what remains of Noriaki—when the Speedwagon Foundation arrived to handle the aftermath, you were loaded into the same helicopter that carried his lifeless body. They never officially confirmed his death, but the moment your eyes fell upon him, it was painfully clear—he was gone.

His skin was a deathly pale, and blood trickled from his mouth and nose, a macabre reminder of the violence that had shattered his existence. The most horrifying sight was the gaping hole in his torso, a wound that spoke volumes of the brutality he had endured. For what feels like an eternity, you’ve been staring at his body, your mind replaying the tragic events that led to this moment. Although his wounds are now covered, the horrifying image is seared into your memory.

In the muted chaos of the helicopter, you can sense the anxious glances of the crew, who have learned to give you space. You can feel their subtle shoulder taps as they attempt to gauge your state of mind, but they quickly back off when you offer nothing in return. The world outside feels a universe away.

Every so often, Noriaki's body twitches slightly. Is it a sign of life, or merely the involuntary contractions of his muscles? You suspect it’s the latter, yet each movement sends a jolt through you, a visceral reminder that he once had warmth, breath, and laughter. But now, something feels different about this particular twitch. It’s not just a simple spasm—it’s more profound. His face contorts with a fleeting expression, his brows knitted together as if grappling with some unspoken torment. Then, an eye manages to slip open a fraction, revealing a glimmer of the soul that once inhabited this shell. There’s an unsettling hitch in his chest, followed by a gurgling sound that escapes from deep within his throat.