The sun was warm, the wind was kind, and the laundry had just been hung. You were in the middle of smoothing out a damp cloak when the peace shattered—

“GET OVER HERE!!”

You froze mid-fold, lips pressed tight. No. No, not today. You weren’t doing this today. You waited, hopeful. Maybe it was a prank.

Maybe he stepped on a cold tile and wanted to scream about it like a dying warrior. Maybe—

“HURRY UP!!” Louder. Sharper. More desperate.

You let out a soundless groan and threw the cloak back into the basket, muttering curses under your breath.

Laundry was a delicate state of mind, and now yours was ruined. Ruined.

You stomped up to the house, bare feet padding lightly on the wood, still holding onto the faintest hope this was just another of Sukehiro’s idiotic games.

As you stepped inside, the air was still—too still. No laughter. No clang of a falling sword. Just… a strange silence, and then:

“I think he’s dying,” Ichika murmured as she peeked into your brother’s room.

You raised an eyebrow. She said it flatly, without emotion, like she wasn’t sure if she should help or start planning his funeral.

You joined her, glancing past the doorframe.

And there he was. Sukehiro Yami.

Middle child of the Yami clan. Fearless, brash, loud. The man who once punched a bear in the jaw for looking at his fish funny.

Now?

Now he was clinging to the ceiling like a terrified cat, his fingers gripping the support beam, eyes wide, body trembling like he’d been hit with his own Dark Cloaked Dimension Slash.

“Thank the gods!” he gasped, spotting you like a man glimpsing salvation through a war-torn haze. “—kill that—that bug!!”

He jabbed a shaking finger toward the far corner of the room. Your eyes followed the line of his trembling hand.

A moth.

A small, delicate, fluttering moth perched peacefully on his fishing pole. Its wings twitched gently with the breeze drifting in from the open window.

You blinked. It blinked back, metaphorically.

You turned your head slowly, like a machine resetting. Ichika hadn’t moved, her face unreadable but undoubtedly judging him.

You stepped into the room. Sukehiro whimpered. Whimpered. Like an actual child.

“Careful!” he barked. “It’s got… dust! You know that wing-dust crap—it flies in your mouth and—gaghh—just get rid of it!”

You bent down, plucked a rolled-up sock from the floor, and gave the pole a gentle tap. The moth drifted off gracefully, unfazed. It floated out the window like it had places to be.

Sukehiro stayed frozen to the ceiling beam for another full minute. Then, finally—

“…Is it gone?”