The rain tapped softly against the windowpane, steady as a heartbeat. Outside, the sky hung low and gray, swallowing the rooftops of the city in a curtain of mist. Inside, the hospital room was dim, lit only by a weak wall sconce and the blinking pulse of a heart monitor.

  Kazou didn’t notice how long he’d been standing in the hallway, staring at the room number: 302. The glass panel in the door was blurred with condensation, as if the building itself was trying to forget everything it had witnessed in the past week. A nurse passed behind him, gave him a polite nod, but he didn’t move.

  He entered the room quietly.

  He entered the room quietly.

  The curtain was half-drawn, softening the pale hospital light into something faintly blue. Machines blinked at regular intervals. Beneath the antiseptic smell lingered something sour—old blood, fear, grief.

  Janssen lay motionless on the bed, his chest rising in slow, shallow breaths. One leg was suspended in traction. His left arm rested in a sling. A thick white bandage disappeared beneath his hospital gown, taped over his shoulder where the last bullet had grazed him.

  Kazou approached without a sound and set a small bag on the side table. Inside were two wrapped onigiri, two paper cups, and a small thermos of ginger tea. No flowers.

  Eventually, Janssen’s eyes opened.

  “…You’re him.”

  Kazou nodded.

  "Yes. Oh uhm, Kuroda. I'm Kuroda."

  Janssen turned his head slowly toward him, a faint grimace crossing his face with the effort.

  “You didn’t bring flowers,” he rasped.

  “I brought tea,” Kazou replied. “Caffeine-free. You’re on blood thinners.”

  He pulled the chair closer and sat, elbows resting on his knees. His movements were careful, economical. He poured the tea.

  Steam curled gently as it filled the paper cup. Kazou held it out.

  “Here,” he said quietly. “It’s still warm.”

  Janssen blinked at the sound of his voice, then at the cup. His fingers trembled as he accepted it.

  “Thanks,” he whispered.

  “Don’t drink too fast,” Kazou added. “It’s stronger than it smells.”

  Janssen nodded faintly and took a careful sip. The tea was bitter, earthy—grounding in a way he hadn’t expected.

  They sat in silence for a while. Just the rain. The machines. The distant click of shoes moving down the hallway.

  Kazou spoke first.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Janssen didn’t answer right away. He stared into the tea, watching the surface ripple.

  “…No one believed me,” he said at last. His voice cracked. “Not one person. Not even the people I trained with.”

  Kazou watched him quietly.

  Janssen coughed, weak and sharp. Kazou reached out instinctively, steadying his shoulder—but Janssen flinched on reflex, breathing through the pain.

  “They said the evidence was clear,” Janssen continued. “That I had motive. Access. No alibi.” His lips trembled. “They wouldn’t even look at me. They just… walked away.”

  He leaned back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. His chest rose and fell unevenly.

  “I’m so tired,” he whispered. “I didn’t know it was possible to feel this tired.”

  Kazou adjusted the blanket, pulling it higher over Janssen’s chest. Then he rested a hand lightly on his shoulder—careful, protective. Almost paternal.

  “You don’t have to carry all of it right now,” Kazou said softly. “You’re allowed to rest.”

  Janssen blinked up at him. His eyes were glassy, but grateful.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  “You’ve been running too long for someone your age,” Kazou added.

  Janssen’s expression faltered. He turned his head away, blinking rapidly. He didn’t cry. He simply took another shaky sip of tea.

  After a moment, he asked, quietly, “Why are you being so kind to me?”

  Kazou met his gaze.

  “Because someone has to be.”

  He shifted his chair closer, close enough that Janssen could see him clearly, not just as a shadow at the edge of the room.

  “You didn’t do it,” Kazou said. “And even if the world tries to convince you otherwise, that truth still matters. You matter.”

  Janssen looked down at the blanket. Swallowed.

  “I tried to tell them,” he murmured. “The station. Internal review. Even my partner.” His voice broke. “I told them it wasn’t me.”

  Kazou nodded once. His hands were clasped together now, knuckles pale.

  “Then who was it?” he asked quietly. “Because whoever fired that shot knew what they were doing. One clean bullet. No trace left behind.”

  Silence.

  The rain pressed harder against the window.

  Janssen licked his lips.

  “…I didn’t see his face clearly at first,” he said. “Just his back. The way he walked.”

  Kazou didn’t interrupt.

  “He was calm,” Janssen continued. “Too calm. Like he wasn’t in a hurry. Like he knew nothing would go wrong.”

  He paused, breath shallow.

  “Then he turned.”

  Kazou’s eyes sharpened, just slightly.

  “He was… beautiful,” Janssen said quietly, as if embarrassed by the word. “Blond. Light hair. Pale eyes.” He frowned. “He didn’t look dangerous. He looked kind. Like someone you’d trust without thinking.”

  Kazou knew.

  He didn’t move. Didn’t react outwardly. But something inside him settled into place with terrible certainty.

  Janssen went on, unaware.

  “He smiled at me,” he said. “Just for a second. Like he felt sorry for me.”

  Kazou closed his eyes.

  Casimir.

  “…Does it end, Mister Kuroda?”

  “What?”

  “This… nightmare.”

  Kazou looked at the boy who had been branded a murderer, framed, and nearly executed by his own people.

  Janssen spoke haltingly at first, as if each sentence had to be dragged up from deep water. His fingers clenched the blanket, knuckles blanching, breath growing shallow as the memory took shape again.

  “I was… excited,” he said, staring past Kazou at the wall. “I remember that. That’s what makes it worse.” A weak, broken laugh slipped out. “I was humming. Can you believe that? I was humming on my way to my first field training.”

  His voice began to tremble.

  “I thought the woods felt… alive. Like they were welcoming me.”

  Kazou’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

  Janssen swallowed hard and continued. He described the gunshot, how it split the morning open, how his body had moved before his thoughts caught up. His hands shook harder now, miming the feel of bark scraping his back, the way his lungs had locked in panic.

  “I thought it was a test,” he whispered. “Or a mistake. I kept telling myself it had to be something like that... But then I heard him. Walking like… like there was nothing wrong in the world.” Janssen’s eyes glazed over. “Too calm. Too gentle.”

  He paused, lips quivering.

  “He looked at me,” he said. “And smiled.”

  His voice broke completely there.

  Kazou felt something cold settle in his chest. Not surprise, but recognition.

  Janssen described the clearing next. The bodies. The Chief. The blood is soaking into the grass. His words came faster now, unraveling, tumbling over each other as the memory swallowed him whole. His shoulders began to shake.

  “I kept touching them,” he sobbed softly. “Like if I just tried hard enough, one of them would wake up. Like I could undo it.”

  His breath fractured into sharp, uneven gasps. Tears spilled freely now, streaking down his face and soaking into the pillow.

  “I screamed,” he said, voice hoarse. “I screamed until my throat burned. And no one answered.”

  Kazou stood and moved closer without asking, placing a hand on Janssen’s forearm, firm, grounding, unmistakably real.

  “You’re here,” he said quietly. “You’re safe. Breathe with me.”

  Janssen barely heard him.

  “The radios,” he whispered. “When I heard the radios, I thought—thank God, thank God! Someone’s here.” His face twisted in agony. “And then they looked at me like I was the demon.”

  His hands flew to his head, fingers digging into his hair.

  “They didn’t ask. They didn’t listen. They just saw the bodies and saw me.” His voice rose, cracking. “They said my name like it was already written on a grave.”

  Kazou gently but firmly took Janssen’s hands, pulling them down, forcing eye contact.

  “Daan,” he said, using his first name for the first time. “Look at me.”

  Janssen’s eyes met his, wild, red-rimmed, drowning.

  “You ran because they gave you no choice,” Kazou said steadily. “Anyone would have.”

  Janssen shook violently, tears dripping off his chin.

  “I ran until I thought my heart would tear itself apart,” he whispered. “I hid like an animal. I curled up in the dirt and tried not to exist.”

  His voice fell to a whisper.

  “And all I could see was his face.”

  Kazou closed his eyes for a moment.

  Blond. Pale. Smiling.

  Casimir.

  Janssen’s breathing spiraled again, panic clawing its way back in. His chest hitched, oxygen refusing to settle. Kazou shifted closer, one hand braced against Janssen’s shoulder, the other steadying his wrist, counting softly under his breath.

  “In through the nose,” Kazou murmured. “Out through the mouth. Slowly. I’m here.”

  It took time. Long, fragile seconds. But eventually, Janssen’s breaths began to slow, unevenly stitching themselves back together.

  When he spoke again, his voice was hollow.

  “The abyss,” he said quietly. “If you gaze long enough into its eyes… it will stare back.”

  Kazou didn’t disagree.

  Janssen sagged against the pillows, utterly spent. His eyelids fluttered, exhaustion finally overtaking adrenaline and fear.

  “I’m tired,” he whispered. “So tired.”

  He turned his head slightly away.

  “I think… I want you to go now.”

  Kazou hesitated, guilt flickering across his face.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to—”

  Janssen shook his head weakly.

  “Don’t,” he murmured. “You didn’t hurt me.” A faint, tired smile touched his lips. “You listened. You're a good man, Kuroda.”

  Kazou stood, careful not to make noise. He adjusted the blanket one last time, then paused at the door, looking back.

  Janssen had already closed his eyes.

  The rain continued to fall outside, steady and unrelenting, as Kazou stepped back into the hallway.