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The old hotel they spotted earlier rose from the dissipating fog like a ship stranded in time. Ivy choked its gilded façade, and dust blinded the tall windows. The sign above the entrance, spelled in flaking gold letters, creaked on a single rusted bolt. Ritsuka Fujimaru limped through the broken revolving door, one hand pressed to the dull ache in his ribs. The hall beyond was a cavern of faded splendor. A chandelier hung like a cobwebbed constellation, its crystal prisms furred with grey. The air smelled of rust, and old perfume.
Behind him, boots clicked against the checkered marble floor. Jeanne Alter followed, her cloak torn at the shoulder, her black armor dulled by soot and ash, and her sword covered in Blood. Her expression hovered between her usual defiance and a deep, settled fatigue. They had spoken little since the barrier sealed behind them, cutting them off from the others. The silence felt heavier than any wound.
Jeanne Alter stood on the threshold, her armored boots planted on the marble. "A gilded cage," she said. Her voice was flat, stripped of its usual heat.
"It's got a roof." Ritsuka’s own voice was also rough with fatigue. He stepped on the faded red carpet, his boots leaving dark prints on the dust that had settled. "Whatever is keeping that barrier up must be on the other side with the rest of our Team. We'll just have to wait it out." He moved past the concierge desk, his fingers trailing over the dark wood. "Let's see if the lights work."
He found a metal panel, its face studded with dead switches. He placed his palm against it. A faint, familiar warmth bloomed in his chest, a trickle of energy flowing down his arm. The panel gave a series of solid clicks. From deep within the walls came a low, grinding hum. A sconce on the far wall flickered, its bulb glowing a weak, jaundiced yellow. Then another. They pushed back the shadows, revealing the water-stained curtains of the walls.
"Partial circuit," Ritsuka said, pulling his hand back. He flexed his fingers.
Jeanne’s armor creaked as she shifted her weight. "A waste of energy."
"Hot water isn't a waste. Food isn't a waste." He turned from the panel. "Kitchen's probably this way."
The kitchen was a tomb of steel and cold marble. His efforts here produced a low hum from one of the industrial stoves. The walk-in pantry’s seal broke with a hiss. Inside, the air was chill and dry. Most shelves were bare, but one held sealed jars of tomatoes, glassy with condensation, and tins of oil. A wine rack also stood in the corner, bottles sleeping under a grey coat of dust.
Ritsuka held up a jar. The red inside caught the weak light. "See?"
She scoffed, through her eyes softened almost imperceptibly. “You humans and your comforts. Warmth. Taste. Sleep. You chase them even at the edge of hell.” He slid past her with ingredients in hand. “Maybe that’s how we remember who we are.”
While a pot of water began to simmer, Ritsuka ventured further. He found the hotel's boiler room and, after some coaxing, managed to awaken the ancient system. The sound of water rushing through pipes echoed through the silent building like a sudden heartbeat. "Hot water, too," he reported when he returned, his hair damp with effort. "Found a service map in the Boiler room. There are guest suites upstairs. You should clean up. I'll hold the fort here."
Jeanne regarded him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. The offer was simple, practical, yet it felt like a profound gesture in this dead place. She gave a curt nod and disappeared up the grand staircase.
Alone, Ritsuka cooked. The simple act of sautéing garlic in oil, of crushing dried herbs between his fingers, reminded him of simpler times, before he became a master at Chaldea. The rich, savory scent of tomato and basil slowly filled the kitchen, displacing the scent of dust. He found a portable gramophone in a nearby office and a box of records, their vinyl surprisingly well-preserved. He sorted through them and chose one. A soft, orchestral. The music, scratchy and distant, wove itself into the fabric of the silence, giving it a new, less lonely texture.
When Jeanne returned, she was different. She had shed her armor, now dressed in the simple black clothes she wore beneath it. Her pale hair, usually a defiant mane, was damp and clung to her neck. The absence of her imposing black shell made her seem younger, but just as fierce. The ever-present tension in her shoulders was still there, but it was less of a fortress wall and more of a weary burden.
"The dining room," Ritsuka said, picking up two steaming bowls of pasta and a bottle of wine. "Might as well do this properly."
The dining hall was vast, a forest of white-draped tables. He chose one by a tall window overlooking a tangled garden. Dawn was a thin, grey line on the horizon. He wiped the dust from the table with his sleeve, the cloth coming away grey. He set down the bowls, the china clinking softly. He uncorked the wine and poured. The liquid was a deep, bloody purple.
They ate without speaking. The only sounds were the scrape of forks and the hiss of the old record. The light through the window slowly gained strength, turning from grey to a pale, watery blue. It caught the dust in the air, illuminating swirling constellations.
"This… faith you have," Jeanne said suddenly, her voice low, breaking the quiet. She swirled the wine in her glass. "In humanity. In… your Servants. It's illogical. You've seen the depths to which humans can sink. You've seen the cruelty, the pettiness. You command a woman who is the embodiment of that betrayal."
Ritsuka considered this, his gaze drifting to the breaking dawn. "I've seen that, yes. But I also saw a farmer in Orleans share his last loaf with a stranger. I saw a king in Uruk weep for his people." He looked back at her, his expression calm. "My faith isn't based on ignoring the darkness humanity can bring forth. It's about choosing to see the light, even when it's just a flicker. Like those lights we turned on. The darkness was here first, and it'll be here later. But for now, we have light. And pasta."
A faint, almost imperceptible sound escaped Jeanne's lips. It wasn't a laugh, but it was the ghost of one. "A simplistic analogy."
"But is it wrong?" he asked gently.
She didn't answer. Instead, she took a sip of her wine. "I was born from hatred and a wish for vengeance. My very existence is a refutation of the faith my original held. What place do I have in your worldview?"
"Everyone has a place," Ritsuka said. "You're not just 'an Alter.' You're Jeanne. You fight alongside us. You complain about my cooking, you grumble about missions. But you still protect the people at Chaldea in your own way. That's not a concept. That's a person. And I have faith in the person sitting in front of me."
The words hung in the air, simple and devastating. Jeanne looked away, out the window. The pink was deepening, chasing the indigo from the sky. The derelict garden was slowly taking shape, revealing overgrown rose bushes and a cracked stone fountain.
"Kindness," she said, the word foreign on her tongue. "It's a weakness. A flaw in the armor that an enemy can exploit."
"Is it?" Ritsuka leaned back in his chair. "I think it's the opposite. Cruelty is easy. It's a simple, destructive impulse. Kindness… that takes work. It takes strength. To be kind, even when the world is falling apart, to make pasta and find music in a dead hotel… that's one of the hardest things to do. Especially in singularities like these. It's the ultimate act of defiance."
He reached over and, with a quiet gesture, refilled her wine glass. His fingers brushed against the base of the glass. Jeanne didn't flinch. She watched the movement, the simple human care in it, as if it were a complex puzzle.
The music from the gramophone had changed to a solo piano piece, the notes clear and lonely, yet beautiful. The dawn light was stronger now, streaming in through the tall windows, illuminating the vast room in long, sharp shafts. It caught the dust in the air, turning the entire dining hall into a camera obscura, filled with swirling galaxies of golden motes. The faded opulence of the room—the gilded mirrors, the crystal decanters, the rich velvet drapes—glowed in the soft radiance, not with its former glory, but with a quiet, dignified grace.
Jeanne slowly unfolded her arms, placing her hands on the table. The defensive posture she had maintained since they arrived was finally easing.
"I don't understand you, Master," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
"You don't have to," he replied, his voice equally soft. "You just have to believe that I mean it when I say I'm glad you're here."
They sat like that as the sun finally crested the horizon, flooding the room with pure, liquid gold.
Jeanne Alter, the avenger born of flames and spite, looked at the young man across from her. He was silhouetted against the dawn, his face tired but peaceful. He had simply made her dinner, poured her wine, and given her a quiet, defended space to exist. In the economy of her soul, built on transactions of pain and power, this simple, unasked-for kindness was a currency she had no frame of reference for.
And as the light warmed her skin, she thought that perhaps, just perhaps, beginning to understand it was a form of strength all its own. The hope was quiet, fragile as the dust-lit air, but for the first time, it did not feel like a lie.
By morning, the unnatural storm outside had passed. A pale, clean light filtered through the tall windows, gilding the dust motes in the banquet hall. Ritsuka stood by the window, adjusting his communication device. The signal crackled—static, then a voice, thin and broken.
"—Fujimaru? This is Da Vinci. The Barrier is down. Repeat, Barrier down. Can you read—"
He exhaled, a sharp release of breath. "We're alive. Jeanne Alter and Me, reporting in."
Jeanne joined him, her arms crossed tight over her chest. Her gaze swept the mist-choked horizon beyond the garden, while her Master and Da Vinci were planning on where to best group up and reunite with the other servants
When the comms went silent again, Ritsuka reached into his pocket and pulled out two chocolate bars. He offered one to her.
Jeanne blinked. “Still feeding me? You are a strange man, Ritsuka Fujimaru. You treat even a ghosts like she can be saved."
He offered a faint smile. "Maybe that's the point."
She looked away, but not before he saw the tension around her eyes ease, the ghost of something other than a scowl touching her lips.
"Where did you even get these from?" She said while looking at the stretched out hand offering her a treat.
"Secret." he said winking, patting the pockets of his mystic code.
She took it, her fingers brushing against his. Wordlessly, she pried the plastic wrapping open. Together, they ate in silence as the sunrise washed the ruined banquet hall in amber light. The world outside remained broken, but here—among the ghosts and the gilded ruin—something fragile had survived. Not victory. Not peace.
But understanding.
And maybe, if the gods were merciful, a beginning.