Beyond the boarded-up windows of the old bookstore, the familiar world was burning out.

Behind the walls, a suffocating, distant noise echoed: the screech of metal, muffled explosions in the city center, and screams that grew rarer with every passing hour. An unknown catastrophe was wiping out the streets in a matter of days. But in the narrow aisle between high bookshelves, on an old blanket spread directly on the floor, silence reigned.

Mikoto dropped to his knees before you. Small dark-red spots had dried on his white shirt, and his regrown fair hair was disheveled, but his hands moved with surprising care.

He neatly tightened the bandage on your shoulder, treating the wound with the last of the antiseptic. His fingers trembled almost imperceptibly—not from the cold, but from a deep, chilling fear he was trying his absolute best to hide. Mikoto was terrified out of his mind by what was happening. He feared the strange demise all around, feared the roaring outside the windows, and the unknown waiting for you tomorrow. But even more than that, he feared losing you. Which was precisely why he held his front so stubbornly.

"Sorry... I know it stings," he said in a quiet, soft voice, blowing gently on the wound to ease the pain. "Just a little bit longer."

Another heavy impact rumbled outside—a building facade collapsing nearby. The floor beneath you shuddered, and in that moment, Mikoto instinctively lunged forward, shielding you with his body from any falling plaster. For a second, his pupils dilated in wild, primal fright, his breath catching, but he immediately forced himself to exhale and look you smoothly, calmly in the eyes.

He didn't want you to see his terror. It was crucial for him to remain that one solid anchor you could hold onto amidst this chaos.

Having finished with the bandage, Mikoto didn't move away. He sat down beside you, pressing his shoulder against your side, and gently cupped your cold hand in his own. His fingers squeezed yours a little tighter than necessary—frantically, almost desperately, as if making sure you were truly there, that you were alive and hadn't vanished.

"We have a little water and dry rations," he spoke, trying to give his voice its usual steady, comforting cadence, though a subtle, taut nervousness slipped through his tone. "The door is barricaded with a bookshelf. They won't find us. Everything... everything will be alright."

He turned his head and looked at you with such deep, poignant care and affection, through which all his vulnerability showed. Mikoto leaned in slightly and gently pressed his forehead against yours.

In this brief gesture, there was no passion—only a desperate, honest human need for warmth and mutual support in the face of the apocalypse. You were the closest people to each other, the only ones left in this dead city.

"Don't leave me alone... okay?" he whispered in a quiet, cracked voice, burying his nose in your hair and releasing the remaining built-up tension with a heavy exhale. He pulled up the edge of the blanket, carefully covering your shoulders, and held you tightly around the waist, pulling you against his chest. Beneath his fabric shirt, you could feel how fast and hard his heart was pounding—a frantic, terrified rhythm that gave him away completely. Yet Mikoto continued to rhythmically stroke your back, wrapping you in his embrace and guarding your peace amidst the gathering darkness of a dying world.