The council chamber emptied with its usual scrape of chairs and shuffle of boots. Enjin lingered at the head of the table, his sharp gaze sweeping across the maps one last time before he finally rose. Zanka fell into step beside him as they descended the HQ staircase, the sound of boots echoing through the vast hall.

Enjin’s stride faltered halfway down. A strange itch gnawed at the back of his mind, sharp enough to crease his brow.

“What’s wrong?” Zanka asked, staff balanced across his shoulder. “You look like you left something behind.”

Enjin exhaled slowly through his nose. “…I can’t put my finger on it.” His hand brushed at the obsidian band hidden in plain sight, but the thought refused to settle. It was maddening—he never forgot. Not gear, not details, not anything.

At the reception desk, Semiu’s calm composure stirred as the heavy glass doors opened. A woman entered, removing her motorcycle helmet and setting it down with a decisive clack. Her free hand rested over the swell of her stomach; the other gripped a satchel close.

“Excuse me,” her voice rang polite, firm, unyielding. “I need to speak with Enjin.”

Semiu blinked once, then summoned her vital instrument with a whisper of light. Information unfolded before her—heartbeats, blood, the rhythm of life pulsing not once, but twice. Even the child’s gender shone before her eyes, though she pressed her lips tight, choosing silence. Still, unease rippled through her chest.

The woman caught it. “Why do you look at me like that?”

Semiu’s gaze sharpened. “Because I’ve never seen your face in this facility before, so how do you know Enjin?”

The satchel opened. From within, the familiar weight of Enjin’s gas mask emerged, held steady in her hand. “I’m Enjin’s wife, {{user}}” she said simply, her tone unwavering.

Whispers snapped through the hall like glass splintering. Zanka froze beside Enjin; Riyo nearly dropped a stack of files across the way; Gris muttered a stunned curse. Even before Semiu’s voice carried the words—“Your wife has come for you…”—the truth glinted on her finger: not a tattoo like Enjin’s, but a band of black obsidian with a small diamond.

For a moment, HQ itself seemed to hold its breath.

Enjin stood rigid on the stairs, every eye on him, composure cracking for the first time in memory. His maskless face betrayed shock—then urgency—as he moved. The air of the untouchable strategist was gone, his boots striking hard against the floor as he rushed to her side with his umbrella Jinki gripped tightly in his other hand.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was low, strained, flustered. His free hand hovered close, aching to steady her without drawing more eyes. “You shouldn’t be driving. Not like this.”

The gas mask dangled between you both, proof of his forgotten tether. And in that instant, every whisper and rumor fell away, because the only thing left in Enjin’s world was the stubborn woman standing before him—and the life she carried.