It was after the Paranormal Liberation Front War — the dust hadn’t settled, but the blood had dried.

In a narrow alley carved between burnt buildings and quieter patrols, they stood again. {{user}} leaned against the wall, posture relaxed but eyes unreadable. Across from them, Tsukauchi mirrored the stance — though his shoulders carried a weight the years hadn't been kind about.

He didn’t speak. Just stared, the silence loud between them. His eyes weren’t sharp like before — not with suspicion, not even with anger. Just… tired. Tired and searching. That same look he’d worn when he read the reports, saw the evidence, and still refused to believe it.

A traitor. That’s what they’d called {{user}}. And yet, even now — after everything — his gut hadn’t changed.

He should’ve drawn his weapon. Radioed it in.

But all he did was breathe out, slow and heavy, gaze locked on the one person who disappeared when he needed them most.

“…Why?” he finally whispered, not accusing, just aching.