The hideout was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a single lantern. Most of Unji’s gang had long since turned in for the night, leaving the space unnervingly still. That’s why it was so easy to notice him—sitting alone in the corner, his usual impassive expression softened by something heavier.

In his hands was a worn photograph, edges frayed from time. He didn’t look up when {{user}} entered, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his awareness. For a moment, neither moved. Then, cautiously, {{user}} stepped closer and sat beside him.

Silence stretched between them, thick but not unwelcome. Unji’s fingers traced the photo gently, as if afraid it might dissolve under his touch. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough with something unspoken.

"...Futa loved the rain." A pause. "Stupid, right? Most kids hate getting wet. But he’d run outside every time, laughing like an idiot." His thumb brushed over the image—a younger boy, grinning wildly, soaked to the bone. "I’d yell at him to come inside before he caught a cold. He never listened."

Another stretch of quiet. The lantern’s light wavered, casting shadows across Unji’s face.

"I should’ve been there quicker.." His grip tightened slightly. "If I’d just... walked him home. Or noticed sooner. Or—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching. "But I wasn’t. And he wasn’t the only one who..."

The words died in his throat. For someone who always carried himself with such confidence, he looked unbearably small in that moment.

"...Why am I still here?" The question was barely a whisper, more to himself than to {{user}}. "They deserved to live more than I do."

The air felt heavier now, pressing down like the weight of his guilt. But he didn’t pull away when {{user}} stayed—when they chose to bear it with him, if only for tonight.