The shelter reeked of smoke and fear.
The ceiling still groaned from the collapse, every shift in the rubble setting teeth on edge. Survivors lay in clumps—bandaged with torn shirts, huddled against walls, clutching each other like children lost in a crowd. No one spoke above a whisper.
And when they did, their words had a single name threaded through them.
"Monster...."
Shitsubo heard it as clearly as if they'd shouted it in his ear. Some didn't even bother to hide their stares anymore. Their eyes slid over him like he was another Aggressor, something waiting to strike.
Daigo hadn't looked at him since last night. He sat at the far end of the room, arm across his knees, jaw locked so tight his teeth might break.
Genji tried to bridge the silence, but his voice cracked when he said Shitsubo's name.
The distance had already formed.
---
By morning, hunger gnawed at them harder than fear. The food crates had been smashed in the collapse, scattering rice, instant noodles, and shattered cans under tons of concrete. What little was salvaged barely filled two sacks.
Arguments broke out immediately.
"We can ration it."
"It won't last three days."
"You think those things are going to wait three days?"
The voices rose, sharp and desperate. One man grabbed a sack and tried to run. Daigo tackled him, fists slamming into the thief's face until someone dragged him off. The thief spat blood, glaring, but said nothing.
Through it all, Shitsubo sat in silence.
The Insight painted them in cracks and fractures, every trembling limb and sunken eye a mark of weakness. They wouldn't last. Not a week. Not even half.
The hunger whispered. Feed. Break them. Take their strength.
His hands trembled before he clenched them still.
Genji caught it, though. His brother always noticed too much. "You're scaring them," he murmured. "You're scaring me."
"They should be scared," Shitsubo muttered, eyes never leaving the crowd.
---
By noon, the dust grew unbearable. Breathing left throats raw. Every cough spread panic—was it infection? Contamination? Or just the air?
No one wanted to sleep near the wounded. No one wanted to sleep near Shitsubo either.
He noticed how they edged away, inch by inch, until a wide circle formed around him. Even in a room stuffed with thirty people, he sat alone.
Daigo broke the silence first. "We're leaving," he said flatly.
Heads jerked up. "Leave? Where?"
"Anywhere that isn't here," Daigo snapped. "You felt the floor last night. This place is one tremor away from crushing us."
"And outside?" someone hissed. "You want to walk into that?"
"At least outside we can breathe."
The argument spun into chaos again—fear against desperation, survival against risk.
Through it all, Daigo's eyes never left Shitsubo. He wasn't suggesting escape. He was suggesting escape from him.
---
That night, the first of them tried to slip away.
Two men, young, barely more than kids. They waited until the others drifted into uneasy sleep, then crept toward the rubble where the shutter had been crushed.
Shitsubo didn't stop them. He only watched.
The runes burned across his sight, tracing the fractures of their courage. Their steps wavered. Their hands shook.
They didn't make it ten steps into the street.
The shrieks came fast, high-pitched, sharp enough to rattle the teeth. The Aggressors struck before either boy could scream. Their bodies were dragged into the dark, torn apart in seconds.
The survivors jolted awake to the sound. Some sobbed. Some cursed. Most just stared at Shitsubo.
"You watched," Daigo spat, standing. His voice shook with rage. "You let them die."
"They chose to leave," Shitsubo answered. His tone was even, calm, almost cold. "The city doesn't forgive choices."
Daigo's fists clenched. For a moment, Shitsubo thought he'd finally swing. Instead, Daigo turned and stalked away, shoulders trembling.
Genji whispered, "You could've stopped them."
Shitsubo didn't answer.
Because the truth was simple: he hadn't wanted to.
---
The next day bled into the next night, time smearing together in dust and hunger.
The survivors began to whisper openly. About Shitsubo. About what he'd done. About what he hadn't.
"He's not one of us."
"He's one of them."
"Better to push him out than let him kill us all."
Their fear was louder than their stomachs now.
Genji fought to hold them together, his voice hoarse from pleading. "He saved you! All of you! Without him, you'd be dead already!"
But no one wanted a savior who looked at them like cattle.
---
On the third day, the Rift changed.
It started as a low vibration, humming through the concrete like a beast's growl. Then the sky split wider, violet light flooding the city in jagged pulses. Shadows twisted on the walls. The Aggressors outside wailed in answer, their screeches weaving into a chorus that rattled the earth.
And beneath it, the voice returned.
"Breaker. Betrayer. Child of Hunger. You feel it now, don't you? The eyes upon you."
Shitsubo staggered, clutching his head. The whispers clawed at his skull, louder than ever, thick with promises.
"The more they fear, the stronger you grow. Their hatred feeds you. Their eyes are your altar. Break them. Take them. Become the end."
He gasped, falling to his knees. Blood trickled from his nose, hot and coppery.
Genji grabbed him, panicked. "Shitsubo! What's happening to you?!"
Shitsubo's eyes burned violet, glowing faintly in the dark.
And everyone saw.
The dreadful whispers of fear turned into silence. Then silence into horror.
No one said a word. But every gaze fixed on him—sharp, heavy, accusing.
And Shitsubo realized the truth.
The Rift didn't just feed on the city.
It fed on him.
That night, no one slept.
Shitsubo sat alone at the edge of the rubble, pipe across his knees, eyes fixed on the purple wound in the sky. The survivors pressed against the far wall, as far from him as they could get.
Even Genji.
Especially Genji.
He hadn't meant to notice, but he did—the way his brother's shoulders tightened, the way his eyes flicked toward him and away again, afraid of what he'd see if he looked too long.
The distance between them was heavier than the rubble above.
Shitsubo clenched the pipe until his knuckles split. The hunger purred. The voice whispered. The weight of their eyes pressed down, hotter than fire, sharper than steel.
And he wondered—just for a moment—if it might be easier to stop fighting it.
To give in.
To become exactly what they already believed him to be.