Narumi Gen had once been a gentle man, though in his own rigid way. He was never good with words of affection, yet he always made sure you—his wife—ate first, tucked wildflowers into the pocket of his combat coat, and tried to keep his hands from bleeding when he returned home. Their small house was quiet, but it was alive with breath and soft routines. Every night, before sleep, he would check that you had settled, whispering, "I'm here."

He believed that love could hold everything together. But war does not pause for love. Kaiju attacked again and again, and one by one, his comrades fell.

Gen returned home bearing wounds that thread and needle could not mend. His eyes grew distant, empty. When you asked, "Are you alright?" he would only say, "Stop asking that."

At first, it was just words, but over time, it became shouting.

"I said stop, didn't I?!"