The wind was sharp that night. It carried the scent of smoke, and fine ash drifted through the air—a ghost of the game earlier. The fire beside you crackled weakly, its glow dimming. You didn’t speak. You just sat there, arms wrapped around yourself, pretending the cold didn’t get to you. Showing weakness wasn’t smart. Not here.

Across the rooftop, someone stood by the railing. You didn’t need to look to know who it was. Chishiya. Still and silent, the kind of quiet that filled the air. He was watching the sky like he was trying to read something written in the stars.

You hadn’t seen him in years before Borderland. Not since school, when he’d sit by the window, lost in puzzles no one else could solve. You remembered being the only one he ever allowed near him, even if he never said much.

And now, somehow, you were both here again. Still alive. Still distant.

You didn’t expect him to move. But then, he did. Slow, deliberate steps across the rooftop. When he stopped beside you, he didn’t say a word—just draped something over your shoulders.

His jacket. White. Slightly worn. Still warm from his body.

“Don’t argue,” he said quietly. “You’ll just end up freezing before morning. Keep it.” His tone was calm, not soft or cold, just steady.

You blinked, caught off guard, but said nothing. You pulled the jacket tighter. He didn’t wait for thanks. Didn’t sit beside you. Just turned and walked back to the railing.

Before he looked away, his gaze flicked to you, brief and unreadable. And when he saw you wearing it, he looked down again, like it didn’t matter. But it did. You both knew it did.