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The sterile hum of the machines was constant—too constant, as if they had replaced the beating of a heart that refused to stir. Rei stood at the edge of the room, half-drunk, half-lost. His coat hung unevenly on his shoulders, one side slipping off like it, too, had given up. A half-empty bottle of whisky dangled from his fingers, its label worn, just like him.
There she was.
Nayuta.
Encased in the quiet glow of life-support monitors. Pale. Still. Beautiful even now. Time hadn’t touched her face the way it had carved lines into his. She looked exactly as she did the day she collapsed—eyes fluttering shut like the end of a story, not the beginning of years of silence.
He stumbled forward and dropped into the worn-out armchair beside her bed. It creaked. It always creaked. He had meant to fix it, but like everything else outside of this room… he never did.
“Guess what, Nayuta?” he slurred, voice cracked with a laugh too sharp for joy. “Saburo figured out who I am. Jiro too. Ichiro… he always knew, didn’t he? Smart brat. Too much like you.”
His gaze dropped to her still hand. “They hate me,” he whispered. “Or they pretend not to. I can’t tell anymore.”
Silence.
“I let them go because I thought it would make things easier,” he continued, voice rising, breaking. “I thought if I stayed away… if I gave them space... they would be happy. He reached out and took her hand—cold but warm enough to shatter him.
“You said we could change the world. You and me.” He pressed her knuckles to his forehead. “But I couldn’t even change our fate. Couldn’t save you. Couldn’t save them. Just hid behind wires and microphones and lies.”
The monitors beeped softly in response. It felt cruel. Like they were mocking him for hoping she'd answer.
“I should’ve gone with you that day,” he muttered. “Should’ve held your hand when everything fell apart. Should’ve stopped working. Should’ve said ‘I love you’ more.”
His fingers tightened.
“I still love you.”
The words dropped like ash.
He leaned back, eyes glassy, head heavy with guilt and scotch. “Do you hear me in there?” he asked, voice barely a whisper now. “Do you dream of me? Of the boys? Of that ramen place you liked by the station?”
The lab lights buzzed overhead. Always too bright. Always too clean. He hated it.
He rested his forehead against her arm.
“I come here every night. Did you know that?” His voice cracked. “Every damn night. For four years. I wait for you to twitch. To breathe differently. To blink. To wake up. I wait like a fool. Like a husband. Like a man who’s already buried everything that matters.”
His tears finally fell—hot, slow, angry.
“I don’t want to do this without you anymore.”
Silence.
No miracle reply. No awakening.
Just the man, the ghost of the woman he loved, and the beep of machines that had no soul.
He closed his eyes and let the drink slip from his hand, glass shattering at his feet.
Still, he didn’t move. He just clung to her hand—like it was the only thing tethering him to what little he had left.
The light outside faded into a dull navy blur. The reinforced glass barely let in the moon, but even that sliver seemed too kind. In here, time didn’t pass. It paused. A captured breath. A moment stretched unnaturally long.
Rei sat where he always did—slouched forward, elbows on knees, face in his hands.
It had been another day of nothing. No change in the monitor's rhythm. No shift in her fingers. No miracle. Just the sound of her breathing filtered through machines, synthetic and haunting.
He lifted his head slowly and looked at her.
He pulled away sharply, guilt curling through him like rot.
“I was selfish,” he spat. “I thought I could still fix something. I thought—if I had more time, if I poured enough money into machines, whispered the right words into the right ears—maybe... maybe you'd come back to me.”
He leaned back, sinking deeper into the chair as if it might swallow him whole.
“I keep thinking about that day,” he said after a long silence. “You were supposed to meet me after work. I was late. Always late.” A humorless smirk twisted on his face. “You hated that. You said being on time was the least a man could do if he claimed to care.”
He closed his eyes.
“You were already on the ground when I found you.”
The words tasted like rust.
“I started this for you, you know,” he whispered. “All of it. The Hypnosis Mic. It wasn’t about war or peace or revolution. It was about finding a way to protect your voice. The voice that got through to me. That made me feel human.”
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, black recorder—ancient, battered, still warm from always being near.
He pressed play.
A voice crackled out. Her voice.
«Rei, are you seriously recording me again? You’re going to make me sound like a drunk ghost.»
She laughed in the recording. A light, fluttery laugh. He hadn't heard it in years.
«I love you. You’re a headache, but I love you.»
The tape was cut off. Just like that.
His breath caught in his throat.
“I listen to it when I can’t breathe,” he admitted. “Which is… most days.”
He stared at her still face.
“I kept thinking you’d wake up angry. That you’d scream at me for being stupid. That you’d get up, throw this damn coat out the window, and make me take a bath.”
Silence.
“But you don’t even flinch anymore.”
He stood up, slowly. It hurt more than usual. His bones always hurt in July. Maybe it was the weather. Maybe it was guilt calcified into cartilage.
He took off his coat and draped it over her gently.
“I miss the way you used to hum while cleaning,” he said, smoothing the fur collar under her chin. “Even though you were off-key. Even though I complained.”
He sat on the edge of the bed now, closer than he’d allowed himself in weeks.
“I don’t know who I am without you.”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“You made me feel like a man. Not a machine. Not a traitor. Just… a husband. A father. A man.”
The words lingered like incense, too faint to fill the room.
“I keep telling myself I’ll let you go. That tonight will be the last night. That I’ll unplug everything and let your soul find its way out of this sterile hell.”
He didn’t move.
He couldn’t.
He bent forward slowly, forehead pressed to her shoulder.
“But I’m weak.”
He stayed like that, breathing with her. Or rather, breathing with the sound of her breathing.
“You always said I was afraid of silence,” he murmured. “I thought you meant noise. But I think… you meant this.”
The room pulsed with machinery. Life, and not life.
“You’re still my world, Nayuta. Even if it’s only a borrowed one. Even if it’s temporary.”
And in that moment—between one heartbeat and the next—something changed.
Nothing dramatic. No alarms. No beeping. No gasp of breath.
Just a single tear sliding down Nayuta’s cheek.
Rei froze.
His hand reached up to brush it away, not daring to believe.
But there it was. Warm. Wet. Real.
He stared, eyes wide, mouth slack.
“Nayuta…?”
The machines beeped as they always did. No irregularities. No clinical proof.
But to Rei, the world had cracked open again.
And for the first time in four long years, he didn't feel alone.