The building had once been something—an office, maybe, or a storage site—but Toshima had a way of stripping meaning from anything that survived long enough to rot. Dust clung to every surface like it had claimed ownership. The air was cold enough that breath lingered a moment too long before fading.

Akira had stopped caring what the place used to be.

The couch he lay on was half-collapsed, its fabric rough beneath his back, but it was better than sleeping on concrete. Better than moving. Better than thinking too hard about what was outside.

His eyes had drifted shut without permission. For a brief moment, there was nothing—no streets, no distant screams, no “game.” Then— A shift in weight behind him.

Akira’s eyes snapped open instantly, hand already twitching toward instinct before thought could catch up. His body tensed, alert in that half-second between sleep and survival.

But what he saw stalled him.

Keisuke was leaning over the back of the couch. Alive. Real. Smiling. Like Toshima hadn’t spent every waking hour trying to chew people apart.

In his hands were small, sealed packets—solid food rations, their packaging catching what little light there was. Scavenged, traded, or stolen; it didn’t matter here. Only that they existed. Akira’s gaze flicked to them, then back to Keisuke. The other boy looked… almost normal. Too normal.

Brown hair slightly messy, soft features set into a smile that didn’t belong in this city. The kind of expression that didn’t survive long in Igura unless it was forced or foolish. Blue coveralls still tied loosely at his waist, like he’d just come off a shift in another world entirely.

“I got your favorite, Akira!”

His voice was bright. Too bright. The contrast made it feel unreal.

“Omelet rice-flavor!”

Keisuke lifted one of the packets slightly as if presenting something precious. The others—green curry and another partially hidden behind it—shifted in his grip as he leaned closer over the couch.