もののけ | monster | soshiro hoshina (Kaiju No. 8) (COMPLETE)

EPILOGUE

もののけ | kaiju | monster

1 year later

Soshiro, (34 years old)

MY HEART'S ABOUT TO EXPLODE, hammering so hard I can barely breathe. It's just me, the pastor, my little girl, and her—the woman who's about to be my wife. Finally. After everything, after all the hell we've crawled through, we're here. This isn't just a wedding; it's us claiming every broken, bloody piece of ourselves and putting them together, making something whole.

Kiyomi Hoshina. Damn, that sounds so good. Like it was always meant to be. Like every second of the pain was worth it, every scar just a chapter in our story. In a few minutes, she's gonna have my name, and I'll be damned if that doesn't feel like the best thing in the world.

All fucking mine. Finally.

I'm standing here in a damn plain white polo, white slacks, and sandals—nothing fancy, just a watch as the only accessory. My hair's freshly cut and my face shaven clean, but I swear to God, it feels like I'm wearing a whole fucking suit. The sweat's threatening to break out, even though it's cool as hell today. The ocean waves crash in the distance, the sun's bright as hell, and the wind's blowing, but it's not enough to calm the nervous wreck inside me.

Pinned to my plain white polo is a single white carnation, small but perfectly chosen. The flower sits right above my heart, tucked against the fabric with a subtle elegance, just enough to say, this is the real deal. It's simple, no fancy arrangement, just the delicate petals of a carnation—pure white, symbolizing loyalty, love, the kind of promise you don't break. Kenji suggested it last minute, said it'd add that final touch. And he was right.

Nervous? Yeah. Scared? Fuck yeah. But I've been practicing this moment for weeks with Kenji and Gen, running over every word in my head, making sure I don't fuck it up. I've been through hell and back, and this? This is nothing. I can do this. I have to do this.

I hold my breath the second I see her. The world narrows down, shrinking until it's just her, walking towards me, each step hitting me like a tidal wave. My eyes are glued to her—if there's glue strong enough to hold a man's gaze forever, it's whatever is in this moment. She steps across the mahogany floor of the bungalow, petals scattered beneath her, soft colors of white and blush pink against the dark wood, like a path laid just for her.

Candles flicker all around, their light casting a warm glow across her figure. The place is nothing fancy—a home, our home—but it feels like a sanctuary now. Petals are scattered on the floor, each one like a piece of our story, leading her to me. The balcony at the end of the room is wrapped in garlands, and past the pastor waiting there, the view stretches to the open sky, the sea crashing gently against the shore in the distance. The soft, cool breeze flows in, carrying the scent of salt and flowers, as if the earth itself decided to celebrate this with us.

She's in a satin dress, pure white, long and elegant, flowing down her like it was made for her alone. Simple, but damn, it doesn't need a single extra detail. The satin hugs her frame, catching the light in a way that makes her glow. Her raven hair is swept up, with a few soft strands left loose, drifting in the breeze. Small, delicate carnations are scattered through her hair, adding a touch of white to the black waves that frame her face and flow down her back. She's holding a bouquet—a wild assortment of deep red roses, delicate baby's breath, and a few carnations like the one pinned to my chest. Her fingers grip it gently, but with purpose, each step making the bouquet sway.