Chapter Text
MEDICAL LOG — DR. TEIERI, A.
Patient: Itoshi, R. | Classification: Lead Operative, Unit 09
Date: [REDACTED] | Clearance: CLASSIFIEDEDR-Σ suppressant (Lot #CX-47) administered 6h 14m post-confirmed exposure.
Initial presentation: elevated heart rate (112 bpm), slight tremor, baseline pupil constriction, mild epistaxis.
Post-dose observations over first 90 minutes:
– Pulse reduced to 98 bpm; rhythm stabilised.
– Tremor subsided to within operational tolerance.
– Motor control unimpaired; fine dexterity intact.No signs of cognitive impairment at this stage.
Subject retained situational awareness, verbal clarity, and full command presence.I am recording this as a technical success. Privately, I am watching for the moment the compound slips.
— Dr. Teieri, A.
NO ONE WAS WALKING NEXT to who they used to be. Maybe that was a stupid thing to notice. But in the silence and lingering cold of the rain, you felt that everyone had rearranged. Like everyone didn’t quite function the same anymore. Like no one knew who to follow.
Karasu was up front. He hadn’t said a word since you’d started walking again, fuming and raw.
At the back of the group, Rin was equally quiet. A bruise was starting to bloom over his jaw. He was barely keeping up. You kept having to look over your shoulder to make sure he was still there.
Otoya wouldn’t make eye contact with anyone. Yukimiya had told him not to carry it, but his steps were still heavy. His eyes were red—he would wipe them with his sleeve when he thought no one was looking.
Everyone else just looked tired. Haunted. Like the darkness shrouding those tunnels had traced their features and wouldn’t wash off. You were all moving, but it didn’t feel like you were going anywhere.
It just felt like you were leaving something behind.
Eventually you found a rock outcropping to make camp under. Everything was too damp to make a fire with. Kurona did his best though, blowing on the kindling until a small flame appeared. He cupped his hands over it even though it looked like it was barely hanging on.
You sat with your back to the rock, the scent of smoke and wet earth sinking into your jacket. Across the circle, Kunigami was curled in his coat. Barou had given up his pack as a pillow. Ness had offered the rest of his mulberry. Still, he was shivering—fine tremors in his jaw. His breath came shallow.
You were so close to Blue Lock. Of all times to get sick, why now?
Kunigami had to make it. You couldn’t even consider an alternative. He just had to.
“Holy hell, it’s freezing,” Shidou muttered, shuffling over next to Kurona to warm his hands. “I’d kill for something hot to eat.”
“I heard beetles make good stew,” Bachira tried to joke. No one laughed.
Kaiser didn’t look up. He was fiddling with his rifle, his profile lit orange by the fire, shadowed where his jaw clenched.
When you glanced at Rin, his knees were drawn to his chest, eyes lost in the dark.
No one spoke after that. It was just the crackle of damp wood, the occasional cough, and the sound of Isagi quietly checking supplies like he could fill the silence with organization.
You watched your hands, flexed your fingers. There was still dirt under your nails. Still the phantom press of Yukimiya’s grip ghosting across your palm.
His glasses were still in your pocket. You reached for them, but didn’t take them out.
Kunigami coughed again. Low. Short. Like he was trying not to make a sound. But you still heard it. It was the kind that didn’t come from your throat—it came from somewhere underneath.
He shifted closer to the fire, wrapping his arms around himself like that would stop the shivering. His hair was damp at the temples. You couldn’t tell if it was rain or sweat.
Isagi glanced over from where he was checking inventory. His mouth opened, like he was going to ask something. Then he saw your face and stayed quiet.
You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, watching Kunigami from across the flames. He caught your eye—barely—and gave a tight smile.
It didn’t reach anything.
“You good?” you asked quietly.
“Just cold.”
His voice was hoarse. Cracked. Like the cough had scraped something out of him.
He rubbed at his ribs absently. The same side that had been injured back at the hospital. Had they ever fully healed?
You stood and crossed the circle. Crouched next to him and reached for his forehead. He didn’t pull away.
He was too warm, and it wasn’t from the fire.
You frowned. “You’ve got a fever.”
Kunigami looked away. “It’s not bad.”
Ness looked up from his spot nearby. “We don’t have enough mulberry left. We’re down to the last strips. Not that I’m sure they were even working.”
“It’s fine,” Kunigami muttered. “Just rest. You don’t all have to look at me like that.”
“Like what?” Barou asked.
“Like I’m not gonna make it.”
The fire crackled. No one spoke.
Your fingers twitched toward your medkit. You knew what was in it. You also knew what wasn’t.
A few bottles of expired antibiotics. One half-dose of morphine.
Yukimiya had had more space to carry medical supplies in his pack. But you hadn’t been able to retrieve it back at the tunnels.
You sat beside Kunigami, your shoulder brushing his.
I’ll get you to Blue Lock. No matter what.
Had that been arrogant of you to say?
Should you have known better?
As though he was reading your thoughts, Kunigami said, “It’s just a cough, Commander. I’ll be alright.”
Everyone was always saying they would be alright. That they would be fine. That there was nothing to worry about.
The outbreak had stolen those words from everyone, you thought.
No one remembered what they were supposed to mean anymore.
That night you couldn’t sleep.
The rain had turned to mist again—soft, cold, lingering. When you looked up at the sky, all of the stars were gone. There were only more low-hanging clouds, dark and threatening.
You snuck over to Ness’ bedroll and slipped the map out of his pack. It was too dim to read under the outcropping, so you shuffled closer to the dying embers of the fire, frowning at Ness’ annotations in the gloom.
He’d circled Mount Akagi and scrawled Blue Lock — 5 days underneath it.
Were you really still that far out? A few days you could handle, but five days? That could easily stretch into a week. Despite how he tried to downplay it, more time was going to make Kunigami worse, not better.
The embers hissed behind you. You whipped around. Bachira raised his hands, sheepishly crouching down next to the fire.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to put it out.”
He tried for a few minutes to coax it back to life, but the embers faded and then went dark.
“It’s fine,” you said. Too sharp. “It was dying anyway.”
Bachira stiffened at the edge in your voice.
Isagi spoke up from his bedroll. He must not have been able to sleep either. “You didn’t have to snap.”
You looked up. “I didn’t.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You did.”
You stared at him. It was hard to see each other but neither of you moved to light the lanterns.
Bachira gave a small, awkward laugh. “Hey, hey. Let’s not do this. We’re just tired, right?”
When neither of you replied, his smile dropped.
“Why don’t you talk to us anymore?” he asked. “You used to. You used to check in. You used to say something.”
Your chest tightened. “I don’t know,” you said. “There just hasn’t been time.”
Bachira frowned. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then say what you mean.”
Isagi left his bedroll. His voice was quiet, but there was weight behind it. “We’re not a team anymore. You realize that, right?”
“We’re the same as we’ve always been,” you said.
“Are we?” Isagi asked. “Because it feels like we’re just walking in the same direction and waiting for the next person to die.”
You felt something crack in your chest at the words. But you didn’t react. You just looked down at the map.
Bachira’s voice cracked. “Why don’t you ask us for help anymore? We want to help.”
You laughed. Short. Bitter. “What could you have done?”
The words hung.
“You weren’t in the tunnel. You didn’t see Yukimiya get crushed. You didn’t hear what he said. Just leave it be.”
Isagi’s jaw clenched. “Don’t act like you’re the only one grieving.”
“When did I say that? I’m just telling you to leave this alone. We don’t have time for this right—”
Isagi shoved you. It wasn’t hard. But the breath caught in your throat as you staggered.
Bachira reached out—but stopped short.
“What the hell,” you hissed.
“Stop doing that,” Isagi said. “You keep doing it, and I’m sick of it.”
You tried to keep your voice down, aware of everyone sleeping nearby. “What am I doing?”
“You act like you’re the only one who knows what’s going on. You act like you can’t trust us because we’re going to break whatever it is you’re carrying. We’re not stupid. We’re not incompetent. We’ve been surviving this outbreak the same as you. You can’t keep everything in until you collapse.”
“I’m not going to collapse,” you gritted out. “If you don’t need to deal with something you won’t. I’m trying to keep you focused.”
“But why are you deciding that?” Bachira asked. “We’re not kids. You don’t have to keep us in the dark.”
“Knowing won’t make things better.”
Isagi’s words were a blunt knife against your ribs. “Can’t you see that you’re going to shut down? You’re at your limit. Stop acting like just talking is going to kill you.”
“You make everything sound so simple,” you snapped. “You don’t know the half of this outbreak. If we don’t keep going, we’re not going to make it. This isn’t a camping trip.”
Bachira’s eyes were wide. “Commander, that’s not what we’re saying—”
“Will admitting that I’m upset fix anything? Will the infected stop attacking just because I’m having a bad day? If I’m not talking, that means it doesn’t matter. So just drop it.”
“This isn’t about the outbreak, this is about you,” Isagi said.
“Maybe I just don’t want to talk to you.” You got to your feet. Stuffed the map back into Ness’ pack. “Maybe I don’t tell you anything because you’re just going to make a stupid joke or say something obviously fake and placating. If I didn’t have to drag you along, Kunigami would already be at Blue Lock. You know that, right?”
You thought saying those words out loud would make things feel better.
But they didn’t. They just left your mouth feeling scorched and raw.
“So that’s all we are,” Isagi said woodenly. “Dead weight. Stupid civilians who just waste supplies and get bitten.”
He walked back to his bedroll. He dragged it away from you, closer to the edge of the camp.
You tried to speak, but it felt like your tongue was coated in ash.
“You always listen to us, Commander,” Bachira said, his voice small. “Doesn’t that mean you’re supposed to understand us? Why are you acting like you don’t know us at all?”
You grabbed your pack. You weren’t going back to sleep, so you’d take over watch.
You waited for Bachira to ask you where you were going.
He said nothing.
Rin was sitting just past the camp perimeter, where the mist bled into trees.
His lantern was low. A small, flickering light cradled between his boots. He was hunched forward, scribbling in his field journal. You still didn’t know how he had space left to write in it. Aiku had said Rin had been using it since they were assigned during training ops.
You drew your jacket closer to yourself. You stopped a few paces behind him.
“I can take over watch for you,” you said. “How long have you been out here?”
Rin closed his journal. “A while. I couldn’t sleep anyway.”
You stood there a moment longer, then stepped closer and sat down beside him.
The silence was brittle. You hated that it was.
“Were you arguing with Bachira and Isagi?” he asked.
You nodded. Somehow, you didn’t see the sense in lying when it was still dark.
“They wanted me to open up more,” you said. “But I just couldn’t. Not because I don’t trust them. I just don’t know if they’d get it. And I don’t really know how to talk. I didn’t want to disparage them, but… I couldn’t explain, and now I just seem like an asshole.”
“You’re not an asshole,” Rin said.
“I’m sorry if we were loud. Maybe that’s why you couldn’t sleep.”
“No. I’ve never slept well. The suppressant made it worse. I haven’t been able to sleep for more than two hours since—” Rin noticed the expression on your face and stopped.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Even though they were words you’d wanted to say for a long time, you still hesitated. “I should’ve been there. When you were exposed after Operation Mirror. I should’ve followed through. I shouldn’t have let you go alone.”
Rin’s next words caught you off guard.
“But you did.”
You looked at him. His expressions lately had become muted, as though his muscles were too tired to arrange themselves anymore.
“You told me to,” you said.
“But I didn’t expect you to listen.” Rin brushed back the hair from his temple, the burn scar dark in the lantern light. “My pistol was empty. I didn’t know until I tried to shoot. I didn’t move for a long time after the gun went off. I thought you would come to check on me. At least make sure that I was gone. Then I could’ve gone back with you. Or you could’ve ended me for good.
“But you didn’t. The sun went down and it got dark, and you never came.”
“Because I was scared,” you whispered.
“And I wasn’t?”
You shook your head. “I didn’t know. It sounded like a real shot. I thought you were gone.”
Rin’s voice hardened. “But you should’ve checked. What if I was still alive? And even if I wasn’t, you were just going to leave me? I don’t even get to be laid to rest?”
“That’s not fair, Rin.”
“If it had been you, I would’ve gone back. You know that. I would never have left you.”
Your voice thinned. “That’s not fair, Rin.”
“No, it’s not. Because I could give you my jacket, but you couldn’t even give me a goodbye.” Rin exhaled. “I know what they think of me. I’m slipping, and everyone can see it.”
You didn’t answer.
“I never should have suggested the tunnels. I should’ve seen it.” His voice was too steady. Too quiet. Like he’d been rehearsing these sentences all night and still didn’t know how to land them.
“But I wanted to give you something… actionable. Something you’d stay for. I don’t know why, but I’m still trying.”
You looked at him. “I did stay.”
Rin didn’t blink. “Not for me.”
The wind whispered through the trees. Your breath caught in your throat.
He shifted, pulling his knees in tighter. The lantern flickered between your boots.
“You waited, but so did I,” you said. Not loud. Not soft. Just tired. “You could’ve died. But you didn’t come back for me either, Rin.”
The words hung between you like ash.
Rin’s jaw clenched. His shoulders didn’t move.
You waited.
He didn’t speak.
The silence was worse than any apology either of you could’ve given.
Rin stood. “I’ll get someone else for watch.”
He didn’t look back when he left. You pulled your jacket tighter and didn’t stop him.
The sky was starting to lighten into grey when Rin found Kaiser. The others were still asleep. Kunigami was curled on his side, Chigiri tucking a blanket tighter over him. Everything else was mist and smoke and the hush of things not yet decided.
Kaiser didn’t look up from the gear pile. “Is there something you want?” he asked, voice low, too casual.
“I need to talk to you.”
Rin inclined his head away from the group. Maybe it should’ve hurt that Kaiser shouldered a rifle before following, but Rin couldn’t even blame him anymore.
When they were out of earshot, Kaiser gave him a level look. Rin stood with his arms crossed. He wasn’t defensive so much as trying to hold himself together.
“I don’t know what to do now,” Rin said. His voice cracked like a stone under pressure.
“What does that mean?”
“If this is where I’m supposed to make a decision… I don’t know how.”
That made Kaiser pause. Something flitted across his gaze too quickly for Rin to make out.
“You’re the Lead,” Kaiser said. “You always know.”
Rin shook his head. “Not this time.”
Kaiser ran a hand through his hair. Rin waited for the gloating—for the sharp, knowing remarks that slid like scalpels under his skin.
Rin had wondered more than once why he’d stayed Lead Operative after Kaiser was brought on. Designations were fluid within Blue Lock units. If you could perform the role the best, you were given it. It wasn’t like they had people to pick from otherwise.
Kaiser had always been more decisive than Rin. It felt like he never made mistakes. Or if he did, he knew how to frame them as something else. Why had Ego or Sae never given him Lead? How different would things be if they’d been following gunmetal instead of smoke?
Kaiser stayed silent. Rin might have been seeing things, but Kaiser’s eyes had started to more closely reflect the sky the longer they went on—less blue and more overcast.
Rin sighed. “Take them.”
Kaiser blinked. “What?”
“You said the south path was faster. Take Kunigami and whoever else you think you can move fast with.”
Kaiser narrowed his eyes. “Why me?”
“Because you’re not falling apart.”
And I am, Rin almost said.
Kaiser crossed his arms. “Are you giving me orders?”
“I’m giving you permission. You were going to do this anyway.”
Kaiser was silent for a long time. “They won’t like it.”
“I know.”
“Are they going to understand?”
Rin looked at the trees, at the mist winding through the branches.
“They don’t have to. But the Medical Specialist needs to stay with the immune subject. They have to go—”
“Go where?”
Rin didn’t notice you were there until you spoke. You pulled your jacket closer to yourself, your brow wrinkled.
“Sleep well, Spatz?” Kaiser asked lightly. You were the only one who could lift the practiced weight in Kaiser’s voice into something almost boyish. Rin didn’t know if he should hate it or not.
“Go where?” you asked again. “Are we changing the route? Did something happen?”
Kaiser didn’t look at Rin when he spoke. “We’re taking that south path. Kunigami is running a fever. He needs to get to Blue Lock before it’s too late.”
You nodded. “Okay. We can tell the others—”
“I can’t take everyone,” Kaiser interrupted. “You, me, Ness, and Kunigami. Potentially Karasu to watch the rear and Kurona to keep things straight.”
“You’re splitting the group?”
“It’s the fastest way. Ness says we won’t get to Blue Lock for another five days. The south path will get us there in two if we travel smart.”
“Then all of us can go. I don’t see how—”
“Spatz. We’re not abandoning anyone. It’ll be easier to travel with six people. Kunigami is only going to get worse from here. And you’re not at full strength either. If anything happened, you would stay with me. You said that.”
Rin didn’t meet either of your eyes, looking down at his boots instead.
Spatz. Did either of you notice how carefully Kaiser said it? Like it was a key he didn’t know would still fit into its lock?
“Don’t make this about me,” you said.
“Then for Kunigami. Two days against five. Pick your odds.”
You rubbed your wrist and glanced at Rin. “You’re okay with this?”
“I’ll stay with the rest of the group on the north path,” he said mechanically. “It’s better if Kaiser gets to Blue Lock first. They might be… confused if they see me.”
“But maybe—”
“Just go. Don’t argue about this. If we slip now, we lose everything. You’re the Medical Specialist. Get Kunigami to Blue Lock. You can worry about the rest of us once he’s secure.”
You hunched your shoulders. The choice was obvious. But it was his earlier words that were weighing you down.
If it had been you, I would’ve gone back. You know that. I would never have left you.
He shouldn’t have said that. Not while there was still an objective to complete. Stupid of him.
It was language he hadn’t used in months, but its curt lines and rigid cadence made it easy to slip back into.
“As your Lead Operative, I’m ordering you to go,” Rin said, injecting steel into his voice he didn’t feel. “Escort the immune subject to Blue Lock with Operative Ness and Kaiser. Ensure that he is secure and brief command on the current situation. I will follow up with the rest of the civilians in three days.”
You pressed your lips together. “Rin, don’t—”
To Kaiser, he said, “Inform the group of our updated objective. You will move out in two hours. There is no reason to delay.”
Kaiser didn’t react to the change in tone. A cue had been dropped. He was only running the blocking now.
He straightened his shoulders. “Understood. Further instructions?”
Rin shook his head.
Kaiser turned and walked back to the group.
“I hate that you feel like you have to do that,” you said quietly. “Do you feel like I only listen to you when you order me to?”
Rin didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t think that. You might’ve been the only person who actually cared about what he had to say outside of commands.
The truth was, the orders were for himself. His voice was too flimsy. Without the structure, he wouldn’t know what to follow.