Kiyomi turned her back to them and casually pulled off her jacket, switching into a dark tank top and loose pants. Her movements were calm, deliberate—normal for someone who did this every night.
"This is just a habit," she muttered, clearly loud enough to be heard. "Don't get any ideas."
She glanced over her shoulder, expecting some kind of reaction—maybe a flustered vampire, maybe a curious half-god kid.
But Seko didn't even blink. He was already lying back, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it had answers he'd been waiting centuries for.
The kid was fiddling with the bedside lamp, trying to figure out how the switch worked. "Huh… if I twist it like this, it makes a squeaky sound."
Kiyomi paused.
"…Seriously?" she muttered to herself.
Still no response from either of them.
She sat down with a quiet thump, folding her arms with an annoyed sigh.
"Not even a glance?" she whispered.
The kid turned to her, finally noticing her change. "You always wear that to sleep?" he asked bluntly.
Kiyomi smirked slightly, hiding it behind a tired glare. "It's comfortable."
Seko finally spoke, eyes still on the ceiling. "You're free to wear whatever you want. We're not the judging type."
"Yeah," the kid chimed in, already wrapped in a blanket. "I once slept in a tree inside out. This is fine."
Kiyomi blinked. "…Inside out?"
"I don't wanna talk about it."
She turned her face to the wall, biting back a smile she didn't want them to see. "Idiots," she whispered.
But for the first time in a while, it didn't sound bitter. Just… oddly warm.
As expected, within minutes, Kiyomi was out cold—face turned to the side, arms loose over the blanket, soft snores beginning to echo through the quiet room. Despite all her deadly precision and elite hunter instincts, she snored like a lazy cat stretched across a sunlit windowsill.
Seko glanced once, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. "She snores."
The kid blinked from his blanket cocoon. "Like a bear with asthma."
They both fell silent again. The night was still, a rare kind of stillness that felt heavy but peaceful. No danger. No noise. Just the sound of slow breathing and a city beyond the window trying to forget its own wounds.
Seko shifted on his bed, staring at the ceiling. "She's weird."
"So are we," the kid muttered, curling tighter. "But she's the good kind of weird."
"…Yeah."
And just like that, silence returned.
Not the kind that demanded tension, but the kind that invited sleep.
They all slept—one snoring, one half-dreaming of infinite branches, and one with hair messier than fate itself—together in a room where, for once, no one was hunting anyone.
The night clung to the room like damp velvet, thick and suffocating. Kiyomi jolted awake with a strangled breath, heart pounding violently against her ribs. Her vision was blurred—half by sleep, half by the ghost of her dream. Blood. Screams. Her sister's torn body limp in her arms.
She pressed a hand over her mouth, steadying the tremble.
The air felt wrong, heavy with silence. She needed to breathe—needed to move. Pushing the sheets away, she quietly rose, her feet cold against the floor. She made her way toward the window, the one place she always went to remember that she was still here.
But someone was already there.
Seko sat motionless, hunched near the glass like a shadow peeled away from the dark. The moonlight hit only part of his face, illuminating a sharp cheekbone, the outline of red eyes dulled by thought. He didn't acknowledge her presence—just kept staring at the city drowning in silence.
She froze, instinctively reaching for the knife at her hip before realizing who it was.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asked softly, her voice still raw from the scream that never left her throat.
Seko didn't look back. "Didn't even try."
She walked over, slowly. Her hands still shook, but she kept them clenched at her sides. Sitting beside him, she stayed quiet for a while. Watching him. Watching the world.
The weight of her nightmare still clung to her shoulders like chains.
"You ever see someone die… over and over?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Seko's eyes twitched slightly, but his face remained unreadable. "Every time I close my eyes."
A pause.
Kiyomi lowered her gaze. "But do they scream in yours?"
Seko glanced at her now, subtle and slow. There was something new in her tone. Not the usual steel. Not sarcasm.
Fragility.
"No," he admitted. "They're already dead by then."
Kiyomi swallowed. "You're lucky."
Seko studied her carefully. He could feel something coming off her—something darker than usual. She was always closed off, always controlled. But this… this was different.
"Who was it?" he asked after a moment, voice quiet but unflinching.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she shifted her gaze to the window, eyes hollow. "Someone who shouldn't have died like that."
The silence returned. It was oppressive now.
Seko didn't press further. His instinct told him that whatever this was… she wasn't ready. And maybe he wasn't either.
"You know," Kiyomi said suddenly, voice flat, "there's a moment… right when they die… where you think, 'If I had just moved a second faster.'"
Seko didn't move, but something flickered in his jaw.
"That thought never leaves," she whispered.
Seko leaned forward slightly, his voice low and almost cruel in its honesty. "It's not supposed to."
Kiyomi didn't flinch. She nodded slowly, accepting the truth like a blade she deserved.
"Is that how you live with it?" she asked.
Seko turned back to the window. "No. I just stopped asking for forgiveness."
Kiyomi looked at him then—really looked. Something unreadable passed between them. Not comfort. Not warmth.
Just recognition.
Two monsters who hadn't chosen to be. Two souls keeping vigil for ghosts neither of them would name.
And outside, the night remained unbroken.
Kiyomi and Seko both turned slightly at the soft voice that broke the silence.
The kid sat in the shadows near the doorframe, knees tucked into his chest, wide eyes catching the faint moonlight. He hadn't made a sound until now. They hadn't even noticed he was awake.
His voice was quiet—too quiet for someone so young. "You're lucky. You at least had them… for a time."
Kiyomi stared at him. Her expression didn't change, but something behind her eyes cracked. Seko's gaze dropped to the floor.
The boy looked between them, then rested his chin on his arms. "I don't even remember my mother's voice."
Silence fell again, but it wasn't empty this time. It was heavy, swollen with the weight of pain no one here had words for. Three lives—each frayed, scarred, stitched back together by sheer force of will—sitting beneath the same dying moon.
Seko exhaled slowly. "Maybe that's why we're all still breathing."
Kiyomi blinked, her voice barely audible. "Because we remember?"
Seko shook his head faintly. "Because we can't."
No one replied.
There was nothing else to say.
Just three survivors—haunted, hunted, and hollow—sharing one long, sleepless night.