n a quiet corner of the city, Elsa and Naive stood side by side. The light was dim, and the air was still. They silently watched the people around them, everything waiting for the next decision.
Finally, Naive spoke, breaking the silence. His voice was low but sharp, like someone who knew that what he was about to say would not be forgiven easily:
"I know you reject what's happening inside you. I know this contradicts everything you believe in. I also know that you see in this plan a blatant betrayal of what remains of our humanity. So I won't ask you to accept it, nor will I ask you to believe in it. What I ask is that you look at it as it is, without emotion, as a cold equation and nothing more. These people are doomed to die, whether we act or remain still. The demons approaching us don't care about their intentions or their weakness—they will kill them one by one, just as they have taken others from the cities. If we don't die first from lack of supplies, that is. The only difference between us and them is that we know this, and we know that waiting is not neutrality—it's a hidden choice for death. Your decision won't create the tragedy; the tragedy already exists before us. All your decision will do is change its direction. If we let things proceed on their own, we will all die—slowly, randomly, without meaning, and with no chance to break the chain. But if we intervene, we will turn chaos into something controllable, even if the cost is great, even if the cost is ourselves. I'm not asking you to be a partner in killing, but a partner in preventing total annihilation. If you refuse, we all fall. If you accept, they fall and we remain. This is not a choice between good and evil; it is a choice between complete extinction and a distorted survival. I am ready to be the guilty one in this story, ready to be hated, ready to be remembered as a monster. What matters is that someone stays alive to hate me. If you hesitate now, we won't preserve your innocence, we'll lose everything, and you'll lose the chance to protect those who can survive among us, the Noima users—even if it means carrying this burden for the rest of your life."
Elsa remained standing in place, as if Naive's words hadn't reached her ears but had fallen directly onto her chest. Her eyes slowly widened—not in surprise, but in something closer to harsh understanding. She understood before she could object. She understood before she could cry. And that was the worst.
Heavy seconds passed.
Then she tilted her head slightly.
Then more.
Then it broke.
Her voice came out first like trapped air. A mere trembling exhale. Then a small shiver ran through her shoulders, as if her body was trying to hold itself together without permission. Then the tears came. Not in a sudden rush, but in a slow, silent, humiliating seep.
"You… aren't asking me for something simple."
She said it weakly, as if confessing a crime.
She lifted her eyes to him. They were full, glassy, swollen from fear before grief.
"You're asking me to be the cover. To be the voice that reassures them while you push them toward the abyss."
Naive didn't shy away from her gaze. He did not soften his tone.
"I'm asking you to save what can be saved."
She laughed. But it wasn't a laugh. It was a hiccup gone wrong.
"Save? At what cost? Their faces? Their names? Their tiny dreams that still believe we are human?"
She stepped toward him—not in threat, but in collapse.
"You know what it means to hold a scared woman's hand and tell her that everything will be alright just because I said so. You know what it means when a child looks at me and smiles because they believed me."
Her voice began to rise—not a scream, but a suppressed, overflowing pain.
"You're not asking me to be strong. You're asking me to be beautifully traitorous."
Naive replied in a heavy calm:
"And you know that blatant ugliness kills faster than quiet betrayal."
She stepped back, as if the words had slapped her.
"Don't turn this into philosophy. Don't even steal my right to break."
A large tear fell to the ground. Then another.
She raised her hand and wiped her face harshly, but the crying didn't stop.
"You will stay here, planning, calculating, measuring. And I will go out to them. I will see their faces every day. I will hear their thanks. I will bear their looks. Then, when they disappear, I will be the last person they trusted."
Her voice softened. It became closer to a hoarse whisper.
"You make the decisions. I bear the guilt."
Naive paused longer than usual. Then he said:
"Because I cannot bear it alone."
She lifted her head quickly.
"So you admit it?"
"I admit that I don't have the luxury of being innocent. And I don't have the luxury of being alone in this."
Silence.
Then he added in a deeper voice:
"And I admit I chose you because you are the only one who will hate me and do it at the same time."
Her entire body trembled.
"This isn't a choice. This is a delayed execution."
She stepped closer, until the space between them felt suffocating.
"You will make me live in a place where I cannot hate you openly, nor forgive you secretly. You will make me smile at people while preparing them for absence."
Her crying now poured out clearly. She no longer tried to hide it.
"I will become something else. Not human. Not a demon. Something worse. Someone who knows the truth and covers it daily."
Naive said softly:
"And I will remain the person who knows I did this to you."
She raised her trembling hand and tapped her chest lightly, as if pointing to her heart.
"This place will not forgive you. Even if we survive."
She fell silent for a moment.
Then took a long, deep, broken breath.
It was the breath of someone saying goodbye to her old self.
"I will do it."
She said it slowly, as if signing a contract in blood.
"Not because your plan is right. Not because I believe in it. But because I cannot bear the idea of dying—of you, Ashura, or Zorim—and I am standing, screaming about morals."
She looked at him with a sharp, wounded gaze.
"But listen carefully. Every person I reassure, every child who smiles at me, every hand that clings to me—they will be knives in my back. And I will carry them with you."
Naive did not respond immediately.
Then he said in a quiet, broken voice:
"And I will carry that you were forced."
She lowered her head and let out a short laugh full of tears.
"This doesn't lessen anything… Okay, tell me your plan."
Naive answered Elsa with a piercing look:
"The mind cannot handle pure chaos, but it can handle disaster when it has reason and limits. People disappearing without explanation turns the city into an open trap, because everyone begins to see themselves as the next in line. But when the matter is linked to the nearby Rift, and it is made clear that its appearance has distorted causality in its surroundings, and that what happens is neither targeting nor choice, but a temporary rebound from a larger flaw, fear changes shape. It does not disappear, but it ceases to be absolute. It becomes a phenomenon, not a curse. It becomes something the mind can place somewhere instead of letting it consume everything."
He then explained that this explanation was not an end in itself, but the foundation on which she would build her work. When people know that what happens is caused by the Rift, and its effect is unstable, they begin to respond to it as a person would respond to illness or a storm. Danger exists, but it has a source, a time, and a chance of subsiding. Only at this point does engagement become logical—not as an escape, but as a way to redistribute attention. The danger does not disappear, but it recedes and ceases to occupy the center of thought.
He told her that her role was not to make people forget the Rift exists, but to prevent it from being the only thing in their minds. When a person knows the cause is known and the effect is temporary, they can allocate part of their awareness to daily life without feeling they betray reality. Daily work here does not erase the terror, but it puts it in its natural scale. Nothing is greater than life itself unless left without limits.
He added that the city does not need reassurance, but balance. The Rift represents danger, and routine represents continuity. What Elsa would do is make these two lines run together without one devouring the other. People would remain afraid, and this is necessary, but fear would transform from a paralyzing force into a mental state that accompanies them without preventing movement. Then they would not forget the Rift, but they would stop living inside it.