The next morning, he didn't go out.
He didn't touch any weapons.
He didn't speak to anyone.
He just watched.
Through the binoculars, like always.
But not to keep watch.
To stay close.
He saw her.
Ayumi.
Wearing a tracksuit, hair clumsily tied, sleep still soft on her face.
Beautiful.
The kitten ran up to her.
She welcomed it with a laugh, stroking its face.
She knelt down.
Talked to it.
As if it were a child, a little friend, a fragile part to protect.
Feitan couldn't stop watching.
The scene was simple.
Innocent.
But to him, it was pure violence.
It was too much.
It was everything that had been denied to him.
Feitan had stopped hoping as a child.
He grew up in the sewers of a nameless village,
in a world where children were sold before they even learned to speak.
He had learned that hands were for killing.
That food was a luxury,
that eyes never looked at you with tenderness.
He had seen his companions die.
He had stopped crying before he ever learned how to smile.
And now…
that smile on Ayumi.
That voice talking to the kitten.
It was too real.
Too far away.
Too beautiful.
And yet, when she picked up the cat,
when she walked toward his house…
he opened the door.
Just like the first time.
Only now, there was no contempt in his eyes.
There was surprise.
And something else.
She didn't speak right away.
She gently offered him the kitten.
He didn't take it — just looked at it.
Then looked at her.
And for the first time, he didn't hide.
— "Why… do you keep coming back?"
Feitan's voice was dry, but cracked.
Ayumi looked at him.
With those eyes.
Her eyes.
— "Because you didn't close the door on me. And I didn't close my heart to you."
Feitan stared at her.
In silence.
Something inside him loosened — just a little.
Slowly, he lowered his gaze.
Took the kitten into his arms.
And for the first time, he didn't push it away.
Ayumi stepped back half a pace.
Feitan followed her with his eyes.
— "Can you… stay?" he whispered.
Almost without realizing.
She didn't answer immediately.
Then she nodded.
Slightly.
Sincerely.
And she stayed.
Beside him.
A little closer.
The door closed behind her.
Quietly.
There was no wind, no rush.
Only presence.
Feitan's house — the same one Ayumi had looked at with longing as a child — now seemed different.
Less dark.
Less distant.
The lights weren't bright, but they were enough.
The dust seemed to have stepped aside.
As if even the rooms, for the first time, had decided to breathe.
The kitten jumped on the table.
Ayumi smiled.
Pet it again.
She was touching something small and alive.
And she felt that he was watching her too.
With those eyes that were beginning to recognize calm.
She turned.
Feitan was there.
Sitting.
Still.
Staring at her.
Not with threat.
With attention.
With need.
Ayumi lowered her gaze.
And in that instant, she understood.
She understood that behind every sharp word,
every hard silence,
every dull stare…
There was a child who had learned not to ask.
Not to hope.
Not to cry.
And because of that…
She decided to do something small.
But real.
She opened the fridge.
Not much inside.
Four, maybe five things.
One egg.
A bit of milk.
Cheese.
Two tomatoes.
A piece of stale bread.
"Alright," she thought.
"I can make something."
She turned on the stove.
Feitan got up.
Followed her.
In silence.
She spoke about random things.
In a soft voice.
Like you'd speak to a frightened cat, or a dream that's just waking up.
— "My mom makes something like this when she's tired after work… says simple things are good for the heart."
Feitan was behind her.
She could feel him.
He made no sound.
But he was there.
Strongly.
He stayed there, arms crossed.
Said nothing.
But watched her.
Watched how her hair fell over her face as she leaned over the pot.
How her hands moved calmly, with quiet care.
How she hummed — a breath of melody — as she stirred.
And she talked.
Softly.
Without looking at him.
As if she were speaking to the room. Or to herself. Or to someone who had forgotten how to listen.
She talked about school.
The wind that morning.
The smell of rain on asphalt.
About nothing. And everything.
She wasn't afraid.
Not anymore.
Feitan said nothing.
But his body… was speaking.
With all the silence he had left.
They had dinner in silence.
Or rather: she spoke.
And he… listened.
Ayumi was a stream of warm, light words.
She talked about friends who made her laugh, garden parties, imaginary trips, movies she wanted to watch, the times she failed math, and the thousand little things that make a life.
Feitan didn't say a word.
Not out of rudeness.
But because he didn't know how.
How to speak, when no one had ever taught you it was worth doing so.
In front of him was something he couldn't decipher:
A person who wasn't afraid of him.
Who looked at him.
And who stayed.
He ate everything she had made.
Every bite, in silence.
As if he were learning to accept something that had been denied to him all his life:care.
After dinner, Ayumi chased the kitten around the house, laughing softly.
It jumped, hid under chairs, purred as if it knew that house better than anyone.
Feitan watched her.
From the hallway.
From the dark.
With a hunger different from any he had known.
A hunger for peace.
For presence.
For her.
When she sat on the couch, kitten in her arms,the light was soft.
Time seemed to pause there, between those walls that had been cold for far too long.
---Feitan…---
He hadn't touched her.
Hadn't helped her.
Hadn't said a single word.
He had just watched.
Standing in the corner of the room, eyes fixed on her hands.
Hands that moved gently.
That chopped, stirred, warmed.
Hands that knew how to care even in the middle of ruins.
And he wondered — why.
Why was she here?
Why didn't she hate him?
Why did she speak like he was capable of understanding?
He found no answers.
And the silence inside him was too vast to contain them.
Her voice struck him softly.
It wasn't loud.
It didn't seek attention.
But it had the same effect as a finger running across cracked skin.
Feitan listened without reacting.
Each word settled on his body like fine dust.
A relief that hurt.
A wound that no longer burned.
He hadn't slept in days.
Maybe weeks.
Missions on missions.
Blood under his nails.
Bodies broken like dry branches.
Eyes that pleaded — then faded.
And then…
that voice.
Her hands stroking the kitten with a gentleness that didn't belong to him.
The way she adjusted the sleeves over her fingers.
The way she sank into the couch, as if none of this was wrong.
Feitan sat beside her.
Without a sound.
At a distance.
But close enough to feel the warmth.
She kept talking.
About simple things.
Her favorite tea. A dream she had last night. About nothing.
But for him, it was everything.
Every word a balm.
Every pause a breath he didn't know how to take.
Feitan didn't want to give in.
Not here.
Not in front of her.
But his body wouldn't obey anymore.
Not after so many nights spent awake with a knife in his hand and his heart locked away.
And so, slowly, without a sound…
he fell asleep.
His head gently tilted.
His shoulders finally free of tension.
It wasn't collapse.
It was surrender.
As if, for one night,
the world no longer asked anything of him.