Night embraced the city with a slow, gentle calm, softening everything as if wrapping the world in a protective blanket. Streetlights flickered. Curtains fell shut. The distant hum of traffic faded until only the breeze and the soft tick of clock hands remained.
Inside Tadashi's room, the warm lamp on the bedside table cast a soft glow over the scene.
The storm of emotions that had flooded the room earlier— fear, panic, and hope were now replaced with something peaceful.
Something warm.
Tadashi slept, breathing evenly, covered up to his chin with blankets. His face was relaxed in a way no one there had seen for days. Not since the fever started.
Not since the nightmare timeline he would never remember fully.
Nao sat beside him on the floor, leaning against the side of his bed. Her shoulders had slumped with exhaustion the moment she was certain he was out of danger. Her eyes were half closed, but she stayed by his side, fingers lightly touching his hand every few minutes to be sure he was still warm.
Across the room, Hikaru scribbled the last line of the day's events in a small, battered notebook.
"I have concluded," he muttered to himself,
"that Tadashi's survival rate defies all statistical models. Adjusting predictions: ninety-nine percent chance he gives me another heart attack in the future."
Haruto lay sprawled over a beanbag, barely awake. He lifted one hand lazily.
"I told you… he's too stubborn to die."
"That is not the medically accepted term," Hikaru grumbled without looking up.
Kei lay on the couch upside-down, legs hanging over the backrest, flipping through a magazine that was absolutely the wrong way up.
"Stubborn, lucky… I'll allow the two."
Rin, who had been cleaning up used towels and empty medicine bottles, shot him a glare. "You're exhausting."
Kei grinned.
"You say that like I'm going to stop."
Nao quietly pulled a blanket over Tadashi's arm.
"…I'm just glad he's okay."
Hikaru finally closed his notebook.
"We should sleep. If Tadashi wakes up and finds all of us unconscious from exhaustion, he'll think we're the ones who need medical care."
Haruto groaned in agreement. Nao looked at Tadashi one last time before standing.
"Goodnight… Tadashi."
They slipped out of the room quietly — a shuffle of soft footsteps, a click of the door.
Inside, the lamp dimmed automatically.
Tadashi remained asleep.
Peacefully.
The kind of peace he had earned the hardest way possible.
Far beyond Tadashi's quiet room, beyond the world he slept in, beyond the sky and the stars themselves, something else stirred awake.
A vast black plane stretched endlessly — not a void, not a dream, but a vantage point that existed above reality.
The ground reflected the faint glow of distant, unknown light, smooth like darkened glass. At the center stood a circular table of stone, polished so perfectly it looked almost liquid.
Seven tall pillars stood in a ring around it.
Each pillar bore a single carved symbol — one for each subject of the grand experiment. Some glowed with strong, unwavering light, some pulsed faintly, And one radiated a near-blinding brilliance.
Simon stood among them. Not the version Tadashi knew — the coat-wearing, sarcastic guide who smirked at every complaint.
Here, he was different.
Older.
Heavier.
Focused.
The air around him shifted subtly, hinting at wings he kept hidden. He stepped toward the brightest pillar. The symbol pulsed like a heartbeat.
"Subject One," Simon murmured.
"Unmatched. As always."
There was no excitement in his voice.
No fear.
No admiration.
Just truth.
He placed his hand on the next pillar. Then the next. Their symbols glowed in response.
"Subjects Two through Six… all finished their trials. Efficiently. Predictably."
His tone remained steady.
He didn't linger.
Only when he reached the final pillar did he pause. The seventh symbol flickered weakly, its glow unstable — sometimes brightening for a heartbeat, then dimming again. Simon rested his fingers against it.
"Subject Seven," he said softly.
"The last one to finish."
A faint image shimmered above the pillar — Tadashi stumbling through rain, pushing through fear, surviving on will and instinct alone.
Simon watched it fade.
"…The weakest of the seven," he whispered.
"By every measure."
He didn't mock the statement, but simply stated it.
"But still capable."
A small breath escaped him — not frustration, but relief.
"You made it. Against the odds."
Soft footsteps echoed across the reflective floor. Kei and Rin approached, wearing their celestial robes — no trace of their human disguises from earlier. Kei's robe was crooked, too loose. Rin's was perfectly aligned. Simon didn't turn. He already sensed them.
"You saw him awaken?"
Kei walked closer, hands in his sleeves.
"Of course. He hugged Rin so suddenly I thought she was going to stab him."
Rin shot him a sharp look.
"I was surprised. That's all."
Kei smirked.
"Sure."
Simon looked over his shoulder.
"Did he remember anything?"
"Not directly," Rin said.
"No clear memories. But…"
she hesitated, looking down,
"…you can tell something stayed with him."
Kei nodded.
"He woke up different. Lighter. Like something clicked inside him."
Simon turned back to the weakly glowing pillar.
"Good. Instinct is more important than memory."
Rin moved closer, her arms tightening across her chest.
"Simon… the others finished years ago. Tadashi was the last one by far."
"Six completed," Simon confirmed.
"And they've proven themselves strong."
Rin's voice lowered.
"And one… barely scraped through."
Simon tapped the pillar gently. Tadashi's symbol flickered.
"He is the weakest," Simon agreed.
"But weakness is not the same as insignificance."
Kei raised a brow.
"Then what is it?"
Simon gave a quiet, thoughtful smile.
"Potential."
The word echoed through the plane.
A faint tremor rippled across the space. Rin's eyes flicked upward. Thin, delicate cracks of faint white light shimmered in the darkness above — like distant cracks in a sky far, far away. Kei's expression changed.
"That… don't tell me…"
Simon nodded calmly.
"The earliest sign."
Rin's jaw tightened.
"So it begins."
"Slowly," Simon added.
"Painfully slowly. It will take years before the worlds drift close enough to touch."
Kei let out a breath of relief.
"So Tadashi has time."
"Yes," Simon replied.
"All subjects do."
The cracks above flickered once more, then faded away entirely. Quiet returned to the plane. The pillars pulsed softly — seven lights beating faintly in sync.
"Let them rest for now," Simon continued.
"The peace of these years will shape who they become."
Rin lowered her gaze.
"…And when the time comes?"
Simon placed both hands behind his back and looked at Tadashi's faintly glowing symbol.
"When the time comes," he said gently,
"the weakest may matter more than the strongest."
Kei blinked.
"…That's supposed to make us feel better, right?"
Simon didn't answer as the pillars dimmed softly. The distant cracks vanished. The cracks settled back into silence.
And far below…
Tadashi slept.
Unaware of the distant storm forming years away.
Unaware of the strength he'd one day need to find.
Unaware that the next time he opened his eyes…
his real story would begin.