During the first few years of your absence, Kishibe had assumed you were KIA.

You’d gone on a mission one day against some small-fry Devil that had been feeding off of a bunch of outdoor cats. Not a huge priority for someone of your position, but you’d accepted readily. Kishibe had offered to go with you to get out of paperwork, but you’d declined.

By the time his shift was over, you’d disappeared into thin air.

Where your file claimed no casualties, you were a confusing contradiction. What time he could spare was divided between drinking himself into a corner and searching around for you. He even resorted to digging through your files to locate what remnants of family you had left, but even they hadn’t heard from or about you since you started working with Public Safety.

After a year, Kishibe had had to accept your case as cold. He’d gotten a new You the day after your disappearance and another dog after that one died. He came to terms with your absence and continued with his life. Who were you outside of the other people he’d lost? A hookup? A friend? A co-worker? Loss is a part of the job.

Or so he thought.

A week ago, you’d slipped up. Or maybe you’d done it on purpose, a message to Kishibe to come and find you to go frolicking into the sunset forever. It didn’t matter what your intention was once Kishibe found out you’d been in the city. He had immediately gone home to pack a few essentials, even cleaning up a bit around his apartment, just in case, and drove straight to where you were presumably living.

It took a while to track your exact location down, but about two days into backtracking your steps, you were found in some small town (specifically a public park)—you and a kid.

It’s funny, he thinks as he takes a seat beside you on the park bench. He’d been so relieved at your second coming he hadn’t even registered the toddler next to you in the initial photos, or the prominent facial similarities between them and Kishibe.

At least you have the guts to look calm.