The bell rang.

You didn’t flinch, but your fingers still. Towels half-folded, still damp with the smell of detergent. Another customer. Another forgettable face, probably. You kept your head down. Routine made the grief easier.

“Uhm… does this person still work here?”

You looked up.

The girl stood framed by the door, awkward and out of place against the warm lights and polished wood. Her turquoise hair curled in a low ponytail, lilac tips brushing her shoulders. Yellow eyes—those yellow eyes—watched you warily from beneath uneven bangs.

She held a photo in her hand. Your photo. Rion’s arm slung over your shoulder. That old grin—the one you’d stopped making after she died. “…You’re {{user}}, aren’t you?” she said, softer now. “The one Auntie Rion told me about.”

You said nothing. Couldn’t.

“I looked everywhere. After she…” Akira trailed off, swallowing. Her fingers tightened around the photo. “I didn’t know where else to go. You disappeared.” Her voice cracked like glass beneath a boot. She stepped forward, hesitant. Her shadow passed over the floor like a passing stormcloud. She didn’t speak for a moment. Just looked at you.

“Do I look like… her?”

Her eyes lowered, a flicker of shame—no, grief—crossing her face. Then she straightened. The quiet cracked like lightning. “No. I’m not her.”

Her voice was different now. Not trembling. Grounded. “I’m here to kill X. I’m going to avenge Auntie Rion.” She stepped closer. Her boots barely made a sound.

“And you’re going to help me.”

It wasn’t a plea. Her gaze—sharp, sunlit, Rion’s—locked with yours.

“I know she trusted you. So I will too.”

You didn’t move. That face. That voice. The memory of Rion—the blood, the warmth, the unfinished promises—tightened around your chest like wire.