𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙥𝙚 | 𝘢𝘬𝘪 𝘩. ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

039. | ʀᴇꜱɪɢɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

The room was sterile and cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and made you shiver. An eerie silence hung in the air, thick and oppressive, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Kishibe's shoulders slumped slightly, betraying the storm of emotions churning inside him, as he approached the table. His steps were slow and heavy, each one echoing in the stillness, until he stood over Touko's lifeless body, lying motionless on the examination table.

His voice, usually rough and bitter, held an uncharacteristic note of softness as he whispered, "Another one gone. You really went through with it, didn't you, kid?" He leaned in closer, his eyes scanning over her still face, taking in every detail — the curve of her lips, the delicate lashes resting against her cheeks — as if trying to commit her to memory one last time. The harsh fluorescent lights cast stark shadows, highlighting the finality of her stillness. Kishibe's heart ached with the weight of unspoken words and lost chances, the silence around him a cruel reminder of the life that had been snuffed out too soon.

Aki stood by the door, his clothes stained with Touko's blood, the vibrant red a stark contrast against the muted, lifeless colors of the room. His form was defeated, his shoulders slumped and his head hung low, as if the weight of the world rested heavily upon him. Each breath he took seemed labored, a struggle against the crushing grief that threatened to consume him. His eyes, red and swollen from the torrent of tears he had shed, now stared blankly ahead.

The evidence of his sorrow was etched into every line of his face, a testament to the agony he had endured. Exhaustion clung to him like a shroud, leaving him utterly shattered and empty. His hands, trembling and stained with the remnants of his futile attempts to save her, hung limply at his sides. The silence in the room was deafening, amplifying the sense of loss and despair that permeated the air. Aki's presence, once strong and unwavering, now seemed fragile and broken, a mere shadow of the person he once was.

Aki and Kishibe stood in the room together, the weight of their grief pressing in around them. The room was quiet, except for the steady ticking of a clock on the wall. After a few moments of silence, Kishibe spoke up, his voice gruff but laced with a hint of empathy.

"Aki," he said, his shoulders sagging. "You alright?" He knew it was a stupid question, the answer was written all over Aki's face, but he felt compelled to ask anyway.

Aki looked up, his eyes meeting Kishibe's for a brief moment. The older man's gaze was full of understanding, a rare display of humanity from the grizzled Public Safety devil hunter. Aki didn't respond, couldn't respond, his voice lost in the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to drown him.

Kishibe nodded, not expecting a response. He continued to stare down at the woman he had come to consider his daughter, his hands in his pockets, studying Aki for a few moments. "You did everything you could," he said eventually, his words blunt and honest.

Aki's eyes flickered, a flash of pain passing through them, but he didn't speak. Kishibe continued, his voice gruff but filled with a strange sort of empathy. "It wasn't your fault, kid. You know that, right?"

Aki's hands tightened into fists, his knuckles going white with the force of his grip. He wanted to believe those words, to cling to the idea that it wasn't his fault, but the weight of the blame was too heavy to shake off.

"I know," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "But it doesn't make it easier." His eyes fixated on the floor, his mind replaying the events that led to this moment over and over again. "If I had been stronger," he repeated, his voice cracking. "If I had been faster, smarter, better...maybe she'd still be alive."

Kishibe let out a deep sigh, shaking his head. "You can't think like that, kid. You'll drive yourself crazy. You did everything you could."

Aki closed his eyes, the weight of his guilt and grief almost too much to bear. "But it wasn't enough," he whispered, anguish etched into every syllable.