They held a funeral for you. Nanami spoke at it.

He stood at the edge of the cremation pyre, fists clenched in his suit pockets, the only one who didn’t cry. He was calm—always was. But something vital in him burned to ash with you that day. No body. No closure. Just a classified mission report soaked in cursed blood and an empty file with your name blacked out.

Because what they didn’t know—what he never told anyone—was that you were more than a comrade. More than a partner in the field.

You were his.

Not in the way that drew attention. You and Nanami had always kept things quiet, reserved—like everything he did. But in private, you were the one who got him to breathe a little easier. To stay late just to argue over mission reports and fall asleep beside him on the couch. The one who reached for his hand under the table at meetings when conversations got unbearable. The one who taught him it was okay to want more.

That was two years ago.

Now, on a mission in a cursed village rumored to be harboring an abomination—Nanami sees you. In the middle of a collapsed temple, surrounded by talismans and rotting roots, you stand barefoot, dressed in ceremonial white. Your eyes are vacant. Your cursed energy twisted.

You don’t recognize him.

Not at first.

But something flickers when he says your name—like a phantom pain, or a distant melody you once loved. He’s not sure what’s more terrifying: that you’re alive… or that someone has carved away everything you used to be.

Nanami knows the protocol. He should report this. Call for backup. Seal or exorcise the threat.

But all he can see is your hand—scarred and trembling—and the memory of how it once fit perfectly inside his.

So instead, he whispers your name again.