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The hospital feels like the worst kind of resurrection. The pain wakes Kirumi up before she can fully slip away into nothing; rather than blood and thorns and the hard ground, she’s met with sterile white walls, a bitter taste in her dry mouth. It’s only the sensation in her body that offers any proof of the bad dream’s reality, that and the scars which she can’t properly inspect, not while she’s still so groggy.
She wonders if this is Hell. Certainly the first punishment was not enough.
The room is empty save for her and a few nurses when she wakes up. They look at her from above their masks with eyes she cannot parse, expressions she cannot understand. Is that pity? Fear? Hatred? Sympathy? She’s too tired to even try.
When she opens her mouth, no sound comes out at first, just a raspy breath. The question doesn’t make sense and she knows it. It hesitates on her lips; she saw it happen, after all, every second of it, but if she’s here, then there’s at least a chance. The nurses — four of them, she can barely count four through the haze of her eyes — all tense, as if she might get up and attack them, and it feels like the sawblades are back.
“Where’s Rantaro?” she whispers, her voice sandpaper-rough.
The nurses look at each other, then Kirumi, then each other again. There is no answer.
“Can I see him?”
Nothing.
“Is he really dead?”
One of the nurses looks at the door, and it’s all Kirumi needs.
She attempts to sit up, but the pain shoots through her like a lightning strike. The nurses don’t even need to push her back down; she collapses, her breath heavy. She doesn’t notice the restraints on her wrists and ankles until that moment. She pulls weakly against them, as much effort as she can muster, but it’s not enough, not even close. She’s defeated. Her body feels like it’s been ripped apart and put haphazardly back together, and for all Kirumi knows, that’s what happened.
“Please,” she whispers, and the tears are spilling out already. She can’t find the energy to be ashamed. “Please. I need to see him. Please.”
One of the nurses shakes her head. “Policy.”
“What policy?”
“Amami-san is under observation until he recovers,” another nurse says.
“Observe him in here.”
“We can’t.”
“Please,” she begs.
“I’m sorry.”
Kirumi pulls at the restraints again, as if her meager strength would be enough to break them, but she meets only cold resistance.
“Where is everyone else?” she asks. “Are they still there?”
The nurses look at each other, as if they’re unsure what they’re allowed to say. Finally, one of them speaks up.
“They’re here, but we can’t let you interact yet,” she says. “Once you’ve been evaluated, we’ll see about letting you socialize.”
“...Evaluated?”
“It’s the policy for those who have been Blackened.”
Kirumi’s breath comes in shallow gasps. The panic comes slowly, then all at once; she wants to writhe, to rip herself free, to run until she can find wherever Rantaro is, or even just one familiar face — Shuichi, Kaito, Miu, anybody — but she’s too weak, in too much pain, to do anything but breathe.
“I had no choice,” she whispers. “I was told to do it.”
“We know,” the nurse says. “It’s just how these things are.”
Had she a teaspoon less self-control, Kirumi would sob, but she has to hold onto something, anything, to keep her from spiraling completely out of control. She blinks away the last of her tears — maybe the evaluation will go faster if she’s composed, calm, collected.
Rantaro is alive somewhere. That’s what matters.
And if Rantaro is alive…
Ryoma…
“Very well,” she whispers, and she swallows the lump in her throat. She feels like she’s underwater. What a terrible irony.
The evaluation, it turns out, is not a single session, but a series of observations that happens over the course of a few days. On the first day, Kirumi is released from her restraints and given free roam of her room — it’s easy to see that, in her current state, she is far from dangerous. She elects to spend most of her time cleaning, tidying, straightening. It’s not like she has access to a kitchen or anyone in need of her aid, so this is the best she can do to keep her hands busy. She ignores how much it hurts to be in movement all the time. Sometimes it races through her like a knife, but she shoves it down, desperate to continue doing what she dedicated her life to.
She only cries at night, when she’s left alone. She keeps her tears quiet, even in her solitude, just in case somebody’s listening.
On the fifth day, they agree to let her leave her room and talk to the others, though they warn her that not everybody feels up to talking. Some people are still recovering, the nurses tell her. Some people are still under observation.
“What about Rantaro?” she asks.
The nurses shake their heads.
The first person Kirumi comes across is Gonta. She finds him in the hallway as she’s wandering, her first outing since her arrival at the hospital. Her steps are slow, painful, unsure of themselves, but she refused the wheelchair that the nurses offered her, even though it probably would have been helpful. She doesn’t need help, she tells herself, and it isn’t as though she deserves it either way.
Gonta’s silhouette precedes him. Kirumi spots him through an indoor window to what appears to be a cafeteria, his unmistakable shadow against the frosted glass like a ghost. At first she freezes, not afraid but something else entirely, something she doesn’t have a name for. Her blood thaws, but remains cold as she slowly pushes open the door and sees him there.
Of course. Why would he be any different?
When Gonta makes eye contact with Kirumi, his eyebrows raise and his jaw drops. Almost immediately, he’s on his feet, rushing toward her.
“Kirumi!” He kneels, as if to check her over for injury, though she’s sure the scars are visible from a mile away. “Gonta never thought…”
“Nor I,” she finishes for him. It’s the closest she’s come to crying in front of another person since that fateful first day, but she remains composed, keeps herself together. “I am thankful to see you again, Gokuhara-kun.”
Quiet. The air in the room deflates, and the words bubble up inside Kirumi before she can think about them, the words she’s been aching to say since before the act was even completed.
“I am sorry,” she whispers. “To you and to everybody.”
Gonta shakes his head and gets back to his feet. “Everyone forgives you,” he says in return. “Everyone.”
Even…?
Kirumi keeps silent. Now isn’t the time to ask that question. If he does forgive her, it’s undeserved.
Six days. Seven. Eight.
Each night she goes to bed alone. Each night a few tears escape. Each night she’s up far too late, cleaning her room over and over until her body can’t take it anymore.
By the ninth day, Kirumi has seen almost everybody. Kokichi practically tackled her upon seeing her again, and Miu made a half-crass joke before bursting into tears. Even Shuichi, upon seeing her, launched into apologies even though Kirumi was certain she should be the one apologizing. Everyone has been welcoming. Everyone has been kind.
Somehow, she’s come back to life — avoided her ultimate punishment — and everyone seems happy for it, even though Kirumi thinks they really ought not to be.
She hasn’t seen everyone yet, though.
Nobody knows where Tsumugi is. Even Kiibo, who’s stopped by the hospital several times to visit, has said that he doesn’t know where she is. Logic says she should be here, with everyone else; if that’s true, nobody’s been able to determine what room she’s in. Perhaps that’s for the better. At this point, everyone who was there to see it has told Kirumi what happened.
“We convicted her,” Shuichi says. “We called a new trial and convicted her.”
“She killed Kaede too, can you believe it?” Kokichi is as loud as ever, but something about him is different, slightly muted, like he’s seen something he can never return from. “And Rantaro getting executed was totally against the rules. We called her out on it and she decided to end the game, and that’s not even a lie.”
Maki shakes her head. “What a coward.”
Kaede remains quiet. She offers a tiny smile to Kirumi, the most encouragement she can do right now.
Kirumi doesn’t know what to say to any of it. She doesn’t know what she’ll say if she sees Tsumugi again. She’s already sobbed and screamed and pleaded. There isn’t much else now, nothing but hollowness. Nothing but confusion.
Ryoma, too, is a mystery. The others say they’ve seen him, that he’s certainly alive, but he hasn’t left his room. Still recovering, they say. Still not quite himself.
Sometimes Kirumi passes his room in the hallway and hears coughing, like he still can’t get the water out of his lungs. She still sees his bones in her nightmares, rendered bare and white, like artifacts in the museum of a life cut short. Sometimes she doesn’t even have to close her eyes. The bones are there, swimming before her, on every blank surface, in every idle thought.
How could she ever apologize for that?
She can’t ever hope to. It’s best, she decides, if he never sees her again.
And then there’s Rantaro.
In the quietest hours of the night, when Kirumi has nothing but herself and a too-clean room, she wants Rantaro. It’s a desire that, at this point, she can’t afford to be ashamed of. She asks the nurses every day if she can see him, and each time she receives a resounding “not yet”. She’s gleaned from talks with Shuichi that his interference with her trial warranted a longer observation period, akin to that of a Blackened. Apparently he hasn’t yet passed the evaluation.
Not surprising. He’s always been headstrong. He’s much stronger than she is, in his soul if not his body. But heavens, she wishes the process would go faster.
Her bed feels so empty without Rantaro. She’s no longer the shaking mess she was when he was missing, back during the game, when he vanished and everyone assumed he’d died. She aches, but she no longer screams. He’s alive. She knows that now, as she didn’t back then.
On the ninth day, there’s a knock at Kirumi’s door.
She’s expecting Kaede — they had a visit scheduled, teatime, something quiet and casual to settle both of their nerves — but not at this hour, so the knock surprises her. She checks the clock to see it’s only nine-thirty in the morning, much too early for Kaede to be here.
Does… someone have a request?
The idea makes Kirumi light up; it’s been ages since she’s been able to serve anyone, and she feels empty without the opportunity. She does little things here and there, helping her friends clean their rooms or bringing them extra utensils in the cafeteria, but getting to do some proper service would be invigorating, even with all the physical pain that comes with it. It’s such an exciting prospect that she practically trips over herself to open the door, eagerly awaiting whoever is on the other side.
“Yes?” she says. “How may I—”
What she doesn’t expect is Ryoma.
Kirumi cuts herself off upon seeing his face. His skin is pale, almost like a ghost, and Kirumi is grateful that she manages to keep her composure. He looks up at her and offers what might be an attempt at a smile. She isn’t sure. She’s never sure.
“...Come in,” she says, and she steps aside. He obeys, and Kirumi closes the door behind him.
She sits on the edge of her bed, him in a chair across the room. Neither of them says anything for a long time.
“I’m sorry,” Kirumi says finally. “I am so sorry.”
Ryoma grunts. “You don’t need to be.”
“I am.”
“Hmph.” Ryoma looks out the small window, the one with barely-open blinds that provides a sliver of light to the dim room. “And I’m guessing I can’t change your mind?”
“I do not think so.”
“Mm.” He sighs. “That’s fine, then.”
Silence falls. Kirumi shifts in her seat.
“It was wrong of me,” she says. “No matter the circumstances.”
“You were asked to do it, weren’t you? Tsumugi asked you to.”
“How do you know that?”
Ryoma shrugs. “Watched the replay.”
Right. Every second had been filmed. Kirumi feels sick to her stomach.
“So I don’t blame you,” Ryoma continues. “I mean, I wouldn’t have either way. I offered my life.”
“You’re allowed to be angry.”
“I’m not.”
“You can be.”
“I’m not, though.”
It would be easier if he was angry. It would be easier if he didn’t want to talk to her at all. It would be easier for Kirumi to justify hating herself.
“Have you seen Rantaro yet?” Ryoma asks.
Kirumi shakes her head. “He has not passed the evaluation.”
Ryoma hums. “Bet he’s doing his best.” He scratches the back of his head. “I saw what he did for you at your trial.”
“Why did you watch it?”
“I wanted to know what happened.” Ryoma looks up at her. “If it was worth it.”
“...Was it?”
“Well,” Ryoma says, “we’re here, aren’t we?”
He’s correct about that. Kirumi isn’t sure if that means it was “worth it”. How can taking someone else’s life be worth anything?
“Kirumi?”
She looks up. Ryoma has gotten to his feet. He looks out the window, then up at her again.
“Don’t hate yourself,” he says. “Don’t be like me. Your life is valuable and precious. I’m trying to understand that mine is, too.”
With that, he turns, walks across the room, and opens the door. It closes behind him, and Kirumi is left alone.
There is nobody to see her curl in upon herself. Her scars stretch with her skin, and she doesn’t cry, but her vision blurs as she stares at the slats of light leaking in through the blinds, slivers of sunshine on the chair where a living ghost sat mere minutes ago.
Valuable. Precious. Words that could never describe someone so selfish as herself.
The rest of the ninth day is quiet. Kaede arrives for teatime, and she and Kirumi are gentle with each other. The tea is an herbal blend that isn’t exactly the same as what Kirumi had in the game, but it comes close enough, and soothes her for the time being.
Day ten comes without fanfare. Kirumi would scratch it as a tally on the wall if she could, but she isn’t the sort to ruin her living space for no reason, so she settles for an imagined red X on the mental calendar she’s been keeping. Ten days, and still no Rantaro.
She has to wonder what on earth he’s been up to all this time. Is he not behaving well enough? Does he miss her as desperately as she misses him? The mere thought of it aches, of him knowing what she’s done and still, still wanting to be with her again. There is nothing about her that is worth wanting, and Kirumi knows this, but Rantaro made it very clear in his final moments that he was going to fight for her sake. He ruined his plan because of her. The guilt prickles every time she thinks about it.
When he’d gone missing, he hadn’t told Kirumi about the plan. Even now she didn’t have a full sense of what it entailed. She’d managed to glean a few things during the trial — he’d deduced that Tsumugi was the mastermind and he needed to go into hiding in order to safely warn everyone and find a way to get them out — but she’d been so sleep-deprived and exhausted and full of delirious self-hatred at the time that she couldn’t puzzle out any more. When he’d come to the trial grounds, she was halfway convinced he was a hallucination. Now that she’d actually hallucinated him while dying, she knew the one in the trial room was real.
The blood loss had gotten to her. Even after Rantaro was gone, after he’d been killed before her eyes, she saw him while she was falling. Like he was trying to catch her. She’d woken up in the hospital before her brain could conjure how the safety of his arms might have felt.
That was ten days ago. She’s dreamt of it every night since then.
She wakes up shaky on the tenth day. Red X in her mind. She gets out of bed and prepares for her day; as much as she wants to lay and stare at the wall mindlessly, she is still a maid, no matter what anyone tells her, and a maid has responsibilities. She cleanses herself in the shower, scrubs every scar that lines her body. She washes the anxiety out of her hair.
The cafeteria is her first stop. She’s not allowed to help prepare breakfast — she asked on the sixth day — but some of the workers have taken pity on her, so she’s allowed to serve it to those classmates that choose to show up. She’s early today. The hallways are empty, save for the occasional echoing footsteps of a nurse.
Just like Gonta, his silhouette precedes him.
Kirumi doesn’t let herself get her hopes up when she sees the shadow. She feels it welling for a second, but bites it back and makes for the double doors; it’s probably nobody, she says, probably just a nurse or one of the cafeteria workers. She opens the doors and, immediately, is met with all those hopes at once, cascading upon her, a waterfall of emotion and ache.
Rantaro Amami is sitting at the table, and Kirumi is unable to breathe the second their eyes meet.
She doesn’t know who starts running first, but they meet in the middle, slamming together in a way that probably hurts Rantaro just as much as it hurts her. She can’t bring herself to loosen her grip, though. She clings to him, his shirt, his scent, every piece of him; yes, yes, he’s exactly as she’d remembered, whole and beautiful, breathing in her clutch.
“Mimi, Mimi,” he whispers hoarsely; there’s his voice, his perfect voice. “Oh, God, Mimi.”
“Rantaro,” she whispers in return, and she holds him so close that it feels like they’re going to fuse together. “Cactus. My love. I’m here. I’m here.”
Rantaro pulls his head back from where it’s buried in Kirumi’s shoulder and looks at her. There are tears on his face; he never would have let himself cry so easily before, but then again, neither would Kirumi and she’s halfway to sobbing. He gazes at her and moves a hand up to caress her cheek, then presses his forehead to hers, his breath trembling.
“I’m here too,” he murmurs. “I saw you, Mimi, I saw you.”
Kirumi blinks. “You saw me?”
“When I was dying.”
“...Ah?”
Rantaro runs a thumb along her cheek, inadvertently wiping a tear away in the process. “I saw you there with me,” he says. “We were at the gates of that place, big, open gates at the edge of the wall. It was all light beyond the gates. I couldn’t see anything but light. And I could hear everyone behind us, talking and laughing, but I couldn’t tell what they were saying.” He takes a deep breath. “And then you came up beside me and held my hand. Like you were telling me it would be okay.”
Kirumi swallows hard. Before she can let herself regret her selfishness, she leans in and presses one small, soft kiss to Rantaro’s lips.
“I saw you too,” she whispers. “You tried to catch me when I fell.”
“When you fell?”
Kirumi shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
No, it doesn’t matter. Not here, not now. Not with Rantaro in her arms.
They spend the whole day catching up. Rantaro had apparently begged to see Kirumi every day, but was considered too dangerous to let wander. His interference with her trial was unprecedented and the nurses weren’t sure what to do with him, especially knowing his past. He was let out, though, mostly because he clearly wanted to see Kirumi and wouldn’t be consoled until then. He’d gone to the cafeteria first because he knew she’d be trying to serve people breakfast. Heavens, he knows her well.
They’re forced to part when night falls, but Kirumi can live with that. Her bed still feels empty, but she’s able to fall asleep easily knowing she’ll see Rantaro again in the morning. Knowing he’s alive.
It’s on the fifty-third day that they’re finally discharged. How ironic.
Over the fifty-three days in the hospital, Kirumi has begun to feel steady on her feet again. She occasionally uses a wheelchair now, not every day, but when she needs it. It was a great frustration at first, but as she’s gotten used to it, she’s found that it’s much easier to effectively serve others when she’s not in constant pain. Rantaro, too, has made great improvements; they let him have a few plants in his room, and those have lifted his mood immensely. He’s talked incessantly about how he’s going to get as many houseplants as possible as soon as they’re out, and Kirumi has listened adoringly.
Everyone has received gifts from fans around the country. Kirumi still can’t quite process that everything was broadcast — including her tears, her cries, the horrible thing she did — but the gifts are sweet enough. She gets cooking supplies, sewing kits, lace-trimmed gloves. She gets letters from people saying they hope she’s doing okay.
She is. Finally, she can say she is.
Tsumugi never appeared in the hospital. Nobody knows where she is, but Rantaro says he doesn’t care; he never wants to see her again. Kirumi is torn. Part of her wants to understand why she did what she did. Part of her is entirely on Rantaro’s side. She supposes it doesn’t matter. Tsumugi’s not here, and she can’t force her to come out of hiding.
Everyone gets hugs on that final day. Everyone goes their separate ways.
Most of them are pursuing things related to their talent. Kaito has decided to study astronomy, while Kaede has started taking piano lessons. Korekiyo has a job interview at a history museum. Angie has been itching to visit a craft store.
Kirumi’s going to be a maid again. This time, it will be on her own terms.
She leaves with Rantaro on that final day. As they’re heading out, though, he stops her, just before they reach the hospital doors.
“This is just like what happened when I died,” he says. “When we opened the gates.”
Kirumi pauses. “When I held your hand?”
“Yeah.”
She stands there for a moment, then reaches out.
He takes her hand, and Kirumi knows things will be okay.
The sunlight beyond the hospital doors is blinding. But Kirumi steps into it, Rantaro by her side, and the future is hopeful.