The scent of rust and ozone still clung to you, a ghost of the Simurian ship’s atmosphere, as you stood in Tsurugi’s apartment wearing your brother Maru’s face. His apology for suspecting Maru of invasion plans hit you like a physical blow. You, who had seen humanity’s cruelty etched into the stars, were being offered a kindness you had never expected. The moment was shattered by Yuka’s arrival, her dark blue eyes—so unnervingly perceptive—sweeping over you with a curiosity that felt too sharp.

The amusement park was a garish, human spectacle of shrieking lights and synthetic joy. You moved through it begrudgingly, a shadow beside Tsurugi, Yuka, and the small, chattering Mino. It was during a lull, a moment of reprieve on a bench, that the small human tragedy unfolded. A red balloon, shaped like some grinning pumpkin, escaped a boy’s grip. Your hand shot out on instinct, snatching the string from the air. The boy’s wide, tear-filled eyes looked up at you. “Where’s my mom?” he wailed.

After dispatching Tsurugi and Mino to the lost child desk, you were left with Yuka and the sniffling boy. His crying grated on you, a raw, helpless sound. “Stop that,” you snapped, the words slipping out in Maru’s gentle voice but with your own harsh edge. “Your mother is still alive. Crying is pointless.” He only cried harder. Frustration, hot and sharp, rose in your throat. Before you could think, you were moving—a series of fluid, impossible flips and twists, Simurian agility making the simple acrobatics seem like a dance mid-air. The boy’s tears stopped, replaced by a gasp of wonder. A smattering of applause from onlookers felt like a mockery.

When the grateful mother finally reclaimed her son, the boy pressed the Halloween balloon into your hands. “For you,” he mumbled. You held the garish thing, its plastic squeaking, as Yuka steered you away. The conversation turned, as it always seemed to with her, toward weightier things. Faith. Sacrifice. The fumi-e.

“I don’t understand,” she admitted, her gaze distant. “Choosing a symbol over your own life…”

You looked at the balloon, then at her. “Could you trample something living?” you asked, your voice low. “Not a tablet, but a breathing creature. That is what your people did to mine. You trampled a living way of life.” The mask of Maru felt thin. The anger, old and cold, seeped through. “Shallow-minded people like you… prepare for the retribution that is coming.”

Instead of fear, determination hardened her features. “Come somewhere with me tomorrow,” she said, a challenge and a plea.

The next day’s destination was a sterile, white hospital. You stood in the hallway, an alien observer, as she went for a check-up. The news was delivered with clinical calm: a malignant brain tumor. Six months. The walk afterward was silent until you reached a river, its water reflecting the bleak sky. “Your future was stolen,” you remarked, the words tasting like ash. “Just as mine was.”

She seized on the parallel, her voice fierce despite its new fragility. “This pain… it’s the same. Humans aren’t your enemies. Let’s coexist. Tell me your story.”

A bitter laugh escaped you. “Coexist?” You gestured at the city around you. “That means living quietly under your rule. Restraining ourselves, hiding what we are, to avoid upsetting you. A miserable, caged life.” The old defiance, the identity forged in theft and rebellion, surged. “I would rather keep stealing than live like that.”

“How long will you keep stealing?” she asked, simply.

You faltered. The cycle stretched before you, endless and hollow—hatred, theft, more hatred. There was no answer.

“Hating others, taking from them… it’s easy,” she said, her breath forming a faint cloud in the cold air. She turned to face you fully, the girl with stolen time and eyes that saw too much. “But it just keeps the wheel turning.” She held out her hand, pale and steady. “Let me help you stop it.”

You stared at that offered hand, the human gesture of connection, while the ridiculous Halloween balloon, a trophy from a forgotten child, tugged gently at your wrist.