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The early afternoon sun cast long shadows across the outer courtyard of Fortress One. The clack of bamboo practice swords echoed in steady rhythm. Sweat gleamed on foreheads. Muscles strained. Breaths came sharp and short.
And in the middle of it all stood Chika Kogure.
Twintails tied tighter than usual, she wore a makeshift training outfit—a black sports top, loose combat pants borrowed from Ayumu-chan, and reinforced gloves that didn't quite fit.
Across from her stood Saeko Busujima, calm and still like a statue of war.
Behind her, Ayumu Yame watched with a soft smile, hands on her hips.
"You're doing better," Ayumu offered gently.
Chika dropped her guard and gasped for breath. "Better? I just… got wrecked in five seconds."
Saeko stepped forward. "You held your stance longer than yesterday."
"I tripped over my own damn feet, Busujima-senpai."
Saeko raised an eyebrow. "And got up again. That's the important part."
Chika sat heavily on the edge of a training mat, wiping sweat from her brow with the bottom of her shirt.
"…I don't belong here."
Ayumu blinked. "Huh?"
Chika looked down at her gloved hands. "I don't know anyone. I didn't go to Fujimi. I didn't fight anything until that gas station. Everyone here's done shit I haven't even imagined."
She sniffed, frustrated.
"Rei-chan used to be a bōjutsu champ. You—" she pointed to Ayumu—"you said you trained judo for four years. Saeko-senpai is a damn goddess with a sword."
"I was just a background character in someone else's story."
Saeko crouched beside her, eyes thoughtful.
"You're still alive, aren't you?"
Chika looked up.
Saeko nodded slowly. "You survived. You resisted. You escaped. That matters."
Chika bit her lip. "I didn't resist much. I just… froze. They tied me up. One of them said they'd take me later. Like I was… like I was nothing but…"
She trailed off, her voice breaking.
Ayumu knelt on the other side. "That doesn't make you weak."
"Yes it does," Chika snapped, her voice shaky. "Everyone here has done something. Saved someone. Killed something. Built things. I just got saved."
She looked away.
"…I'm the weakest one here."
A silence fell over them.
Then Saeko stood and extended a hand. "Then let's fix that."
Chika hesitated.
Saeko's voice dropped low. "If you were truly weak, you wouldn't be here at all. Weakness isn't staying down. Weakness is refusing to get up."
Chika stared.
Then she grabbed the hand, stood, and tightened her gloves.
"…Again. Let's go again."
They sparred. Again. And again.
Chika's movements were sloppy, but sharper. Her footwork still needed work, but she was learning.
Ayumu shouted encouragement while cleaning the practice mats.
Chika slipped once and hit the ground hard, but rolled and got back up before anyone could offer a hand.
Her knees were bruised. Her arms ached. Her hair clung to her neck.
But her eyes—her eyes were burning.
"I'm not gonna be dead weight," she muttered under her breath. "No fucking way."
Saeko smiled faintly. Ayumu clapped from the side.
"Well said, Kogure-san!"
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While Chika's sweat dripped onto the training mat, While Chika's sweat dripped onto the training mat under the burning midday sun, three very different men were busy in the garage of Fortress One, elbow-deep in oil, steel, and the strange camaraderie born only in warzones and junkyards.
Izana Kuroinu, in his signature red jacket now tied around his waist, leaned over the hood of the Suburban with a wrench in one hand and a lit cigar in the other, muttering to himself in rapid-fire Kansai slang.
"Fuckin' turbo housing's too damn loose... gotta remount that bracket before we throw a rod."
Hiroki Mori, sleeves rolled up, sweat dripping off his brow, was balancing a stripped-down MP5SD on the workbench, sorting suppressors, scope mounts, and magazines like a surgeon preparing for trauma surgery.
And Kohta Hirano? He was in his damn element. Surrounded by boxes of ammo, parts, and firearms. Eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning.
"Yo, Hiroki-kun!" Izana barked, banging a wrench on the frame. "Get me the #14 hex bolt set from the yellow crate. We're reinforcing this bitch's front armor."
Hiroki tossed it without looking. "Got it."
Izana caught it midair and smirked. "Tch. Good hands. You sure you ain't Yakuza material?"
Kohta snorted from behind a crate of 5.56mm rounds. "Nah, he's too pretty to be in the family. No scars yet."
Hiroki smirked, not breaking eye contact with the bolt he was tightening. "Give it time. You too don't have one."
The three laughed.
Izana opened a crate of specialty vehicle parts. Inside: run-flat tire kits, bulletproof glass panels, underside blast plating, and a weird device labeled in Russian.
"The fuck is this?" Izana held it up.
Kohta blinked. "Looks like a... portable EMP net?"
Izana grinned. "Ohoho~ Now that's spicy."
By mid-afternoon, the Suburban had new modular plating over the wheel wells, a winch bumper, a hidden rear smuggler compartment, and run-flat rubber inserts.
Kohta had added infrared laser sights to two AR-15s, fitted a side-folding stock to Hiroki's Kriss Vector, and rigged up a suppressed bolt-action .308 for high-range overwatch.
"Shit's looking good," Kohta muttered. "Real good."
Izana stood behind him, arms crossed. "Tell me, Hirano-kun. What's your kill count now?"
Kohta shrugged. "Twenty-five. But who's counting?"
Izana chuckled darkly. "That's cute. I ran a crew in Kabukichō. I lost count after my fiftieth raid."
Hiroki wiped sweat from his neck. "So, what kept you alive?"
Izana lit another cigar. "Simple. Never trust anyone who smiles too much. Keep your gun clean. And fuck only when the door's locked."
The others paused.
"...that last one's oddly specific," Kohta said.
"Experience, kid," Izana muttered, tightening a bolt. "Experience."
Kohta sat back and cracked his knuckles. "You know, it's weird. When this all started, I thought I'd be one of the first to die. Chubby nerd with a gun obsession? Easy zombie snack."
Hiroki sat on a crate, sipping water. "Yeah. And I was a bullied judo dropout with a protective sister and no backbone."
Izana looked between them, then at his reflection in the armored car's door. "And I was a criminal trying to sell guns to foreigners. Ain't life a bitch?"
Silence settled for a moment.
Then Hiroki smirked. "And now we're the defense line for a fortress full of survivors."
Kohta nodded. "Fucking poetic, isn't it?"
Izana flicked ash off his cigar. "Nah. It's just war. War makes brothers of the damned."
The door opened behind them, and Kyoko stepped in with her tablet.
"Boys. Marco-kun wants an update before dinner."
Kohta stood up. "Tell him everything's good. Guns are lubed, cars are mean, and we're still assholes."
Izana grinned. "Tell him I want a smoke break before I help rewire the armor mounts."
Hiroki walked past her. "And tell Marco-san he's welcome to join us next time. Training's one thing—but down here? This is where the real shit gets done."
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