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Maybe it was a mission gone wrong in some rural prefecture.
Maybe it was a moment’s miscalculation.
Maybe it didn’t matter.
Maybe fate had written Nanami’s death in permanent ink.
But it was the ones who lived who had to read it, over and over.
His death was inevitable.
And Shoko... she knew it. That’s what made it worse.
Because she was the one who signed his mission clearance.
She was the one who patched him up time and time again.
She was the one who knew the fragility of the human body more intimately than anyone, and yet she had still hoped that maybe—just maybe—he’d be the exception.
The sky was grey that day, an almost mocking neutrality.
No rain. No sun. Just clouds—flat and indifferent, like the higher-ups who would file Nanami’s death under acceptable loss.
Shoko was anticipating the report would read something sterile: Fatal encounter with a Grade 1 curse. Mission failed. Body recovered.
Nothing about how tired he’d been. How many times he had stayed not because he believed in the cause, but because they needed him—Because she needed him.
Now, the cigarette in her hand trembled slightly as the embers burned too close to her fingers. It had been 5 years since she quit smoking, and this situation caused her to relapse. Shoko was staring at nothing, lost in the empty space he used to fill.
Gojo stood nearby, silent. For once, his words meant nothing. His humor, gone. His presence—irrelevant.
Because, what could he say? What could he possibly offer her that she hadn’t already lost? Despite having lost Suguru too—he couldn't say anything.
“Next time,” she said, voice barely a thread, “I won’t sign it.”
He couldn't say anything because he knew.
He knew what it meant to lose someone slowly—not in the instant flash of a battlefield death, but in the creeping realization that the world had quietly rearranged itself, and someone you loved was simply... missing from it.
Because he himself had to kill the person he loved.
Gojo looked down at the ground, where a single cigarette butt lay half-buried in the dirt beside Shoko’s feet. The wind didn’t bother to carry it away.
“I told him to take a break,” Gojo finally said. It wasn’t an excuse, or a defense. Just a fact, like gravity. Like death. “Told him he’d earned it.”
Shoko didn’t answer.
“He told me...” Gojo started. “He told me breaks were for people who had something to come back to.”
And that hit Shoko.
It hit her like a scalpel slipping from steady hands—sharp, unexpected, and impossibly precise.
Her grief was surgical—contained, and devastating. The kind that cut deep without bleeding, yet that cut will always bleed.
No frantic phone call. No cursed surge that rippled through the veil of the world. Just a dispatch. A status update. A time of death. Just as she had expected.
By the time the call reached Tokyo, his body had already been retrieved.
There was no rescue mission. No last-minute miracle. Just protocol. Just silence.
Shoko stood at the door to the morgue once more, her reflection caught faintly in the window—half-ghost, half-goddamn doctor, and neither of them good enough to stop this.
Inside, his body was laid out with the kind of clinical reverence only she could offer. Straight limbs. Closed eyes. That stubborn crease between his brows still faintly there, as if even in death, Nanami couldn’t quite relax.
She stepped forward slowly, her shoes echoing against the tile. No gloves this time. Just her.
The tag on his toe read his name like it was any other.
Kento Nanami.
Nothing about the man. Just the label.
She reached for his hand. It was cold. Of course it was cold.
“Kento,” she whispered, a brittle laugh breaking through her tears.
Her voice cracked then, splintering under the weight of a grief she’d kept pressed beneath logic and duty and autopsy reports.
“I could’ve stopped you,” she said. “I should’ve stopped you.”
But that wasn’t true. Not really. Not with Nanami.
He was the kind of man who never asked for permission to carry weight that wasn’t his, and never accepted being told no when someone else needed him.
He would’ve gone anyway. Because it was never about the mission. It was about the people who might suffer if he didn’t.
The ones he'd never meet. The ones who'd never know his name.
Shoko sank into the stool beside the table, elbows on her knees, her fingers still loosely curled around his. Her forehead dropped to their joined hands, and for the first time in years—since Suguru, since the war that left them all bleeding in different ways—she prayed.
Not to a god. Not to anything divine.
Just a whisper. A hope.
That wherever Nanami was, he had finally put the weight down.
That he’d found peace.
That he knew—he had to know—that he wasn’t just a weapon. Not to her. Not to Gojo. Not to anyone who had ever known him properly.
He was the man who brought coffee without asking. Who gave quiet advice when no one else could. Who never laughed loudly, but always smiled when it mattered.
He was human. He was so achingly human.
And Shoko would carry that truth in her chest like a second heartbeat, for as long as she lived.
She stayed there until the lights flickered off on their own.
Until the morgue was dark again.
Until there was nothing left to do but let go.
But she didn’t.
Not yet.
Because grief, like love, has no deadline.
It’d been days—no, weeks, Shoko guessed, since Nanami’s death. She wasn't able to properly write his file, and so she hadn't submitted it yet. Head in her hands, she had silently broken down at the morgue once more.
A silent cry. A silent plea. Grief is truly the worst thing she has ever had to experience—not once, but twice.
Her shoulders shook, but no sound came out. The morgue was sterile and cold, and yet her palms were sweaty, trembling as they pressed against her temples.
The scent of antiseptic lingered, failing to mask the lingering echo of Nanami’s presence.
That quiet dignity he carried—even in death—made it worse.
Shoko hated how clean death was here. How sanitized. There were no screams, no blood-soaked floors. Just stainless steel and flickering lights and silence so clinical it made grief feel like an inconvenience.
She should’ve gotten used to it by now.
Shoko stared at the clipboard in her lap, at the unfinished report. His name was written in neat ink at the top—Kento Nanami, Age 28. She'd written it herself, like she always did. Like it was just another routine documentation.
But she couldn’t bring herself to finish it.
Because the last line demanded something she didn’t have left to give: Final remarks.
What could she possibly write?
She stared at the blank space beside “Final Remarks” as if words would appear on their own. Like if she waited long enough, maybe Nanami would walk through the door, lean against the wall with that tired expression, and tell her she was overthinking it.
But he wouldn’t. And she wasn’t.
There was no template for this kind of goodbye. No protocol for the weight of a man who carried more than his share until the very end.
Final remarks.
Her pen hovered above the paper, hand trembling—not from fear, but from the unbearable pressure of permanence.
He was tired, she wanted to write. And we let him stay tired.
Or maybe: He was the kind of man who knew the cost and paid it anyway.
Or maybe nothing at all. Maybe silence was the only honest tribute for someone who lived so quietly and died even quieter.
But that wasn’t fair. Nanami deserved more than silence.
So she started slow, the words forming as if from muscle memory, from the part of her that still remembered how to be a doctor. How to be someone who bore witness to the end.
“Kento Nanami served with unwavering diligence. He was precise, dependable, and deeply human in a world that demanded inhuman things of him.”
She paused, staring at the words. Too clinical. Too cold. Not enough of him.
She drew a line through the sentence.
Tried again.
“Kento Nanami saved more people than any report will ever show. He worked not for glory, or gratitude, but because someone had to. And he was always the one who did.”
Better. Still not enough. But better.
"He was everything to me."
She underlined it.
A tear fell onto the paper, staining it.
And then she set the pen down.
She set the pen down like it weighed more than it should have—like it had absorbed everything she’d been holding back. The ink had barely dried, but the words were already etched into her bones.
That was all she would write.
That was all she could write.
No speech. No full eulogy. Just truth, stripped bare.
She closed the folder, the soft click of the metal clasp louder than it should've been in the silence.
It was done now. Irrevocable.
That made it real.
Shoko sat there for a long time after that, hands folded neatly in her lap, as if still waiting for someone to come in and tell her the paperwork wasn’t needed after all. That it had all been a mistake.
That Nanami was fine.
But no one came. No one ever did.
The silence settled back over her like a second skin, and she let it. She had nothing left to fight it with.
Eventually, the door creaked open behind her. She didn’t turn.
“I’m not ready,” she said softly, more to herself than to the person standing there.
“I know,” came the quiet reply.
It was Ijichi.
He stood awkwardly at the threshold, holding a folder against his chest like a shield. “They’re asking for the report.”
Of course they were.
She didn’t look at him when she held it out, the paper still damp at the edge from where her tear had fallen. “Give them this. If it’s not enough, tell them to write it themselves.”
Ijichi soon left, knowing the gravity of the situation and how it affected her.
Shoko sat still for a long time, elbows on her knees, head lowered—like the whole weight of Nanami’s absence had settled in her spine. She had carried so many bodies through this place. Tagged so many names. But this one… this one would stay in her hands, under her fingernails, behind her eyes.
She didn’t notice Gojo in the doorway. He didn’t say anything.
Just looked at her with that same haunted gaze he wore after Suguru. A quiet kind of devastation, the kind that didn’t scream—it just settled.
He didn’t move, didn’t step closer, as if afraid that even proximity would break her more than she already was. There was nothing left to fix. Nothing to say.
They were all bleeding in different ways.
Shoko wiped her face with the sleeve of her coat, smudging mascara she hadn’t realized she was still wearing.
It was Nanami who used to remind her—gently, without judgment—to take care of herself. Drink water. Sleep. Quit smoking. She hadn’t done any of those things in days.
But as Shoko lit another cigarette with shaking hands, Gojo reached out—and gently plucked it from her fingers.
“No more of these,” Gojo said quickly, almost kindly. “For him.”
“You quit 5 years ago, remember?”
Shoko didn’t fight him for it.
Didn’t glare, didn’t curse, didn’t scoff the way she might have before—when her armor was still intact, when sarcasm was still a shield.
She just looked at him, eyes hollow and wide, and nodded like a child being told something she already knew but needed to hear again.
One Day Before The Mission
The morgue was quiet, as it always was—lit by the soft hum of overhead fluorescents and the colder glow of steel drawers lining the walls. Shoko stood at the counter, latex gloves already on, stitching a wound on a junior sorcerer’s arm. The student winced but stayed still, more out of fear than training.
Nanami stood nearby, arms crossed, jacket folded neatly over one forearm. He waited patiently, like always. He never interrupted her work. Never rushed.
Shoko finished, giving the student a quiet nod. “You’ll live,” she said. “Barely.”
The student muttered a “thank you” and scurried out like death was still nipping at their heels.
Nanami stepped forward.
“You’re early,” she said without looking at him, pulling off her gloves and tossing them into the bin. “Thought your train didn’t leave until tonight.”
“Change of plans,” he replied. “I wanted to leave before the traffic got bad.”
Shoko raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about traffic?”
He shrugged. “I don’t. Just wanted to get it over with.”
There was something in his voice. Not dread. Not nerves. Just… exhaustion. It lived in his tone like it had taken up permanent residence.
She finally looked up, eyes narrowing. “You’re not coming back, are you?”
Nanami didn’t flinch.
He didn’t lie either.
There was a pause—long enough for the silence to become its own presence in the room, a third thing breathing between them. Then, finally, he answered.
“I don’t know,” he said simply.
Shoko’s heart sank in a way she didn’t let show. She wasn’t surprised. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
“You always say that,” she muttered, turning to the sink and scrubbing her hands longer than necessary. The water was hot, too hot, and she welcomed the sting.
“I always mean it,” he replied.
She dried her hands and leaned back against the counter, arms folded. “You could say no. You’re not obligated to keep throwing yourself into these missions, Kento.”
“But I am,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “You know that.”
She did. That was the problem.
“You can’t save everyone,” she said, not unkindly—more like a reminder. A plea disguised as logic.
“No,” he agreed, “but I can save someone.”
There it was—the core of him. The reason he kept going. The reason he didn’t rest.
Shoko looked at him then, really looked. The tired slope of his shoulders. The lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there five years ago. The weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts pressing into the set of his jaw.
“You’re not a weapon,” she said.
Nanami gave a soft, bitter smile. “Aren’t I?”
She wanted to argue. Wanted to scream at the world that he was so much more than what they asked of him. But she didn’t. Because he wouldn’t listen. Because he had already made peace with whatever end awaited him. And that, more than anything, was what made her want to break.
So instead, she walked over and straightened the fold of his jacket. It was the smallest thing. Pointless. But it made her feel like she was doing something.
He watched her hands, then met her gaze.
“If I don’t come back,” he started.
“Don’t,” she interrupted. “Don’t say it like it’s already true.”
Nanami exhaled, the sound barely audible. “Alright.”
But his eyes said the rest.
They stood there for a moment—on the edge of something they both pretended not to see.
Then he said, “You’ll take care of them, won’t you? The students. Gojo. Everyone.”
“I always do,” she said softly. “But who’s going to take care of me, if not you?”
For a second, something cracked in his expression. Not a smile. Not quite.
Just… something softer. Something vulnerable.
“If I had an answer to that,” Nanami said quietly, “I wouldn’t be leaving.”
The silence that followed wasn’t sharp like the others. It was heavy, but warm in places. Familiar. Like the quiet you find at the end of a long day, when words are no longer needed, and all that’s left is presence.
Shoko reached up and touched his sleeve—not to stop him, not to hold him back, but just to remember. The fabric was rough, pressed and neat, like he always kept it. Like him—ordered, composed, deliberate.
“You’ll come back, won't you?” she said. Not a plea. Not a command. Just a wish. A selfish one. A silent tear had already fell, as if her body reacted and knew what was going to happen.
Nanami didn’t answer.
Not because he didn’t want to give her hope.
But because lying to Shoko felt like a cruelty he couldn’t bear—not when she already carried so many truths on her shoulders.
So instead, he reached up and rested his hand over hers, the touch steady, grounding. For a moment, it felt like the world stopped spinning, held in place by that one quiet gesture.
“Right?” Shokos voice cracked, as if she were pushing him for an answer, and herself to speak up. “Nanami..” She started again. Not Kento. Nanami.
She always referred to him as Kento, until now.
He noticed that shift.
The way she called him Nanami—not in jest, not with professional detachment, but like she was trying to put distance between them just as he was about to vanish into it.
His hand stayed over hers. Steady. Warm.
He could’ve said yes. Could’ve lied. Could’ve given her the comfort she deserved.
But instead, he did what he always did—what she loved and hated him for in equal measure: he told her the truth, even when it hurt.
Nanami held her gaze, and for the first time in a long time, he looked unsure—like her words had found their way through the armor he wore so carefully.
“Shoko,” he said, her name soft in his mouth. Softer than she’d ever heard it.
She blinked, chest tightening.
“I don’t know,” he repeated. Almost like a whisper.
And then—because he was already halfway gone—he did something rare.
He pulled her into a hug.
Not the quick, awkward kind they shared in the past—those drunken, grief-laced nights after Suguru when all they had was each other and a bottle of something too strong to name.
No. This was different.
This was deliberate. Firm. Measured. A Nanami kind of hug.
He held her like he was memorizing the shape of her grief before it happened. Like he knew she would carry his absence like a scar, and he wanted to at least give her something warm to remember.
Shoko’s arms hung there for a moment, suspended like she didn’t trust herself. But then they wrapped around him too tightly, like maybe she could anchor him here with just her grip.
Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes closing as the world narrowed to the space between them.
“If you die,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his coat, “I’ll kill you.”
That earned the smallest sound from him. A breath of a laugh, dry and tired.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.
Then, slowly, he stepped back.
And in that one step, Shoko felt the weight of a hundred goodbyes crash into her.
He looked at her one last time—really looked—like he was trying to memorize the way she looked when she wasn’t pretending to be okay. And then, he prepared to leave.
She watched as he slipped on his jacket, adjusted his tie, and gave her one last look—something small in his eyes, something that might’ve been regret. Might’ve been love. Might’ve just been goodbye.
Then he left.
No dramatic parting. No words shouted down the corridor.
Just his footsteps, even and unhurried, fading down the sterile hallway like he had all the time in the world.
And Shoko stood there, alone again, her hand still suspended in the air like the warmth of his touch might linger a moment longer.
It didn’t.
It never did.
And when the door clicked shut behind him, she knew—on a level beyond logic and medicine and all her years facing death—that she would never see him alive again.
The Present – One Month Later
The apartment was still untouched.
Shoko had been the one to volunteer to clear it out. She didn’t know why. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was her way of saying goodbye on her terms. Or maybe she just didn’t want a stranger boxing up his life like it was a leftover file.
Everything was as he left it—minimalist, clean, meticulous. The bookshelf held exactly seven titles. His wardrobe: neutrals, crisp lines, ironed shirts. There was a half-used bottle of cologne by the sink, and a mug on the counter that still smelled faintly of black coffee.
No mess. No chaos. No proof that someone had lived here, except for the faint trace of routine.
Shoko found herself standing in front of his small desk, fingers trailing over the edge. There was a notebook left open—last page dog-eared. His handwriting neat, as always.
A list. Task-oriented. Practical. So Nanami.
Groceries (milk, eggs, rice)
Train ticket (return?)
Check in with Ijichi
Call Shoko — if late
Her throat tightened. If late.
He’d planned to come back. Or at least… he hadn’t ruled it out.
That mattered. That small, hesitant question mark. That tiny flicker of hope disguised as punctuation.
She sat down, pulled the notebook toward her, and wrote under the last line:
You were late. I waited anyway.
Then she closed the notebook.
She didn’t take anything from his apartment. Not the watch he always wore. Not the spare jacket she used to tease him about. Not even the book he once recommended and she never read.
She left it all. Because he hadn’t taken anything with him either.
As she locked the door behind her, she didn’t look back. But the memory of the place—of him—would follow her out anyway. Like cigarette smoke in her hair. Like the weight in her lungs that would never quite lift.
**
That night, she dreamed of Nanami for the first time.
He was sitting across from her in the morgue, reading a file. Calm. Alive.
“You’re late,” she told him.
He looked up, mildly apologetic. “The trains were bad.”
She smiled.
“Welcome back,” she said.
Just for that moment—just for a heartbeat—he was there.
And that was enough.