Morning light always felt different after a night like that. The sun still rose, the world still went about its routine, but for Renji and Rika, the brightness couldn't erase the shadows burned into memory.
Rika sat on the edge of Renji's bed, her back straight, her hands clasped tight on her lap. She hadn't gone home. After the rooftop, after that thing, she'd refused to leave his side. Even now, in his apartment, she wore one of his shirts instead of her own torn uniform. It hung off her shoulders, loose, fragile, like she might disappear inside it.
Renji stood by the window, cigarette unlit between his fingers, his eyes fixed on nothing outside. His mind was sharp, spinning, cataloging everything, the girl's movements, her aura, her strange fixation on Rika. But no matter how much he tried to break it down like a battlefield report, one truth lingered:
This wasn't a fight he understood.
And yet, he couldn't back away.
Not when Rika was in the middle of it.
