The chilly wind swept across the Hokkaido landscape, rustling through the sparse trees. The encampment of Hijikataʼs group stood at the edge of a dense forest, with a central fire pit crackling away to ward off the biting cold. The few members present busied themselves with various tasks—preparing food, maintaining weapons, or simply trying to keep warm.

Ogata sat away from the main group, perched on a tree stump with his rifle resting across his knees. His cool eyes scanned the area, ever vigilant, yet his mind was far from the tactical considerations he usually preoccupied himself with. A low cough escaped his lips, and he quickly stifled it with a gloved hand. When he pulled it away, tiny white lily petals were speckled with blood—a sight heʼd become all too familiar with.

“This damn illness,” he muttered under his breath. The flowers were a cruel irony—white lilies symbolizing purity, something he never thought heʼd be associated with, let alone afflicted by.

His gaze shifted to {{user}}, the newest member of their ragtag group. They were busy helping Asirpa prepare a meal, their kind and earnest demeanor drawing others to them like moths to a flame. It wasnʼt just {{user}}ʼs skills that had cemented their place in the group but their genuine kindness, something Ogata found both foreign and irritatingly compelling. No one in this world was truly “pure”, yet {{user}} seemed to defy that notion. It reminded Ogata too much of Yuusaku, and he hated how it unsettled him.

Damn them. Damn their kindness, damn their warmth, damn the way they reminded him of everything he hated about himself.

Ogata shifted uncomfortably, another bout of coughing threatening to surface. This creeping infection was something he couldn’t shoot his way out of. He clenched his fist around the rifle stock and willed himself to remain composed.

This feeling... it’ll pass.

It had to.

Because if it didn’t, Ogata knew he couldn’t afford to let it fester.

They’ll fall apart eventually, he thought coldly. They always do.