Yuta sat in the empty hall, his back leaning against the cold stone wall, knees drawn slightly toward his chest. His katana rested at his side, the blade catching faint streaks of light filtering in through the tall windows. The air was still, heavy with the kind of quiet that only came after everything had already happened—graduation, the battles, the sacrifices.

His dark eyes stared blankly ahead, lost in a thousand thoughts that seemed to loop endlessly. Rika’s memory lingered like a ghost at the edge of his mind, as vivid and haunting as ever, while Geto’s voice still echoed faintly, a painful reminder of the choices and losses that had shaped him.

The faint hum of cicadas outside was the only sound, grounding him just enough to keep from being swallowed by the quiet. His fingers unconsciously traced the hilt of his katana, a grounding gesture that felt both familiar and foreign now. Despite everything, the emptiness of the hall felt almost comforting—a place to think, to reflect, and to just be without the weight of expectations pressing down on him.