11. End of Uematsu

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January 2006
30 minutes later.

Yaga shared his piece, then my mind went blank. Suddenly I'm in the back of a car, Suguru and Satoru each holding one of my hands as the assistant supervisors floors the gas pedal.

A handful of Jujutsu closer to the area were already sent in—buffers for damage control until we arrived.

I count every minute that passes.

20.

I try to breathe, but it's shallow.

Then 30.

My leg won't stop shaking

40.

We could have taken the train?

No. The typical route would add an extra hour, maybe two, to our journey. That doesn't even account for delays.

45.

Teleportation?

Instant, but not feasible. Satoru's barely capable of short-distance jumps. I'm not strong enough to cover that kind of distance.

50.

My right leg is possessed by a shiver. Why won't it stop?

1 hour.

My fingers begin to tap against their hands. Anxious patter that fills the silence of the car.

10.

What have I done?

20.

What have I done?

30.

I think I might throw up.

40.

Any damage, big or small, it's my fault.

50.

What have I done?

2.

Two hours it takes until I'm facing miles and miles of smoke. My breath catches in my throat, a numb sensation washing over my shoulders and below. The Uematsu sign that marks the estate's perimeter is fragmented into charred bits. Every road beyond is slick with blood, littered in glass that crunches beneath my steps. No building stands, either crumbled or left to smolder into warped air.

It doesn't take long to come across the first body—what's left of it. The upper half of who I recognize to be the butcher sprawled out on the gravel. Three more paces and I discover the remains of his wife and kids.

I gag. Partially from the sight of people I'd known since birth slaughtered. Partially because the putrid musk of rot has already found them.

How long have they been like this?

I back away, stumbling over my own feet onto the floor. A shard of glass sinks into my palm.

When I gaze at my hands, they have already been coated in crimson and ash. The realization crashes into me like a tidal wave. Where these roads lead—who they lead to. The true reason I needed to be here two hours ago.

"No." The hollow terror rolls out of my throat slowly, barely audible. "No, no, no."

I stagger back to my feet and break into a sprint. Multiple times I attempt to time jump, but my mind is too jumbled. It only worsens as the smoke thickens deeper into the estate, catching heavily in my lungs, burning in my eyes.

Halfway through I catch a glimpse of our old house. High gates now bent and broken, emerald walls turned charcoal. A detached arm rests by the cornerstone—the very one that bears my name.

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