The first thing I notice when I wake is that the storm hasn't stopped.
It never stops.
The rain drums against the tower windows like a thousand impatient fingers, steady, relentless. The thunder rumbles low through the stone, a vibration in my ribs, as if the whole world is humming some endless funeral hymn.
I lie there a moment, staring at the ceiling. For a second, I forget where I am. Then the cloak catches my eye — folded across the chair at the desk, its black fabric broken by those jagged red clouds.
I sit up, rub grit from my eyes. The room feels too clean, too empty. A bed. A desk. A lamp. Space enough to pace myself crazy. It's less a home and more a holding cell dressed in furniture.
Still, my gaze drifts back to the cloak.
I reach out and pull it toward me, letting the fabric spill across my arms. Heavy, thicker than it looks, lined to endure Ame's endless chill. When I throw it over my shoulders, the weight settles around me like a verdict.
I catch my reflection in the window glass. For a moment, with the storm at my back, I almost look like I belong. Like one of them.
Almost.
I smirk at my reflection, tugging the collar higher. "Yeah, that's right. Big bad Akatsuki member. Watch out, world."
The joke tastes hollow in my mouth.
I wander the room, restless. The stone is cold beneath my feet, the lamp flickers with weak chakra-light. I press my ear to the wall, half expecting to hear something — voices, footsteps, anything. But all I hear is the storm pressing down on Ame like a punishment.
Eventually, I pull the door open and step into the hallway I've been granted. The corridor stretches wide and bare, torches sputtering in the damp air. It smells of rain and stone and nothing else. No life here. No warmth.
I walk it anyway, cloak dragging faintly, echoing with each step. I count the doors I pass. All locked. All empty. This entire floor is mine, Konan said. A gift. A privilege.
It feels more like a gilded cage.
I reach the far end and stand at the window overlooking Ame. Sheets of rain slice the air, the streets below blurred and dark. The people move like shadows, their umbrellas small dots swallowed by the downpour. I wonder if they ever look up at this tower. Wonder if they pray to it. Fear it. Hate it.
I rest my forehead against the glass, let the cold seep into me.
"Home sweet home," I mutter.
But even as I say it, the thought gnaws at me: this isn't home. This is captivity. A leash. And the only thing heavier than the storm outside… is the storm inside me, building, waiting, demanding I figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do now.
The storm wakes me before hunger does, but eventually my stomach wins.
I shuffle to the little corner Konan had stocked with basics: rice, dried fish, and a kettle. Nothing fancy, nothing warm like home cooking — just fuel. Still, after weeks of surviving on scraps in Ame's alleys, it feels like a banquet.
I set the kettle on, listening to the faint whistle while I fry the fish over a chakra flame. The smell fills the room — sharp, salty, a little bitter — but it's enough.
I sit at the desk by the window, plate in front of me, cloak draped over the back of the chair. Ame sprawls beyond the glass, washed in gray, the rain making rivers down the pane. The city looks less like a home and more like a wound that never closes.
I pick at the rice with chopsticks, chewing slowly, staring at nothing. And of course, my brain won't shut up.
This world. This timeline. Where am I, really?
I glance down at the cloak — at the red clouds stitched across the fabric. Akatsuki's mark. A storm of its own.
Konan. My thoughts drift to her without meaning to.
If I had to guess… thirty-one? Thirty-five at the oldest. Though she doesn't look a day over twenty-four. Skin smooth, eyes sharp, movements graceful enough to make paper dance like petals. Timeless in a way that makes me forget she's lived through three wars.
I smirk faintly into my rice. Rule number one from my old life still applies: never, ever tell a woman she looks older than she does. Even if she's an S-rank terrorist.
But if I'm right about her age… then that means the events I know — the "story" I remember — must be close. Pain's invasion. Naruto's rise. The world is shaking itself apart.
I set my chopsticks down, staring at my reflection in the window.
"Soon," I murmur. "It all starts soon."
The storm outside pounds harder, almost like the world itself is confirming it.
And me? I'm sitting here with a plate of fish and rice, a cloak hanging off the chair, pretending I belong in a story I was never meant to enter.
I push the plate away, appetite gone, and just sit there, hands folded under my chin, staring into Ame's endless rain.
The storm fills the silence so completely that I don't notice her until she's already in the room.
One blink, it's just me and the rain. The next, Konan is lowering herself into the chair across from me, her movements so quiet it feels like she stepped out of the shadows themselves. Paper rustles faintly at her back, wings folding and settling.
I nearly choke on air. My brain seizes up, short-circuiting like a faulty wire. How long has she been standing there? Watching me brood like some idiot protagonist in a drama?
"—Oh," I croak, voice cracking like I'm thirteen again. "You— uh. You do that ninja thing. Silent. Just— yeah. Totally normal."
Konan doesn't respond. She just sits, hands folded neatly on the table, eyes fixed on me. Steady. Unblinking. Rain drums against the glass, thunder rolls low, and still she says nothing.
I can feel my skin heating under her stare. I fumble for words, anything to break the weight pressing down on me. "So, uh… breakfast. Rice. Fish. Nothing fancy. Five-star Ame cuisine." I stab a piece with my chopsticks, shove it in my mouth, and immediately regret eating under inspection.
She tilts her head slightly, like she's cataloging me. Studying me the way she might a new paper fold, weighing its strength before she bends it.
I force a laugh that dies in my throat. Say something clever. Anything. Don't just sit here melting under her stare like a wax doll.
But my mind refuses to cooperate. It just replays the image: Konan, angel of Ame, sitting across from me like this is normal. Like she belongs in my morning.
Finally, she speaks. Her voice is quiet, calm, carrying easily over the storm."You think too much."
It's not a question. It's a statement. A truth.
I nearly drop my chopsticks. "I—what? No. Me? Thinking too much? Nooo. I think the perfect amount. Totally regulated. Certified safe levels of thinking."
Her expression doesn't change, but something in her eyes sharpens. Almost amused. Almost pitying. Definitely seeing more of me than I want her to.
I shove the plate away, cloak rustling at my shoulders, and lean back in the chair, trying to play it cool. "Fine. Maybe I think a little. Can you blame me? Storm outside, mystery door down the hall, world's most terrifying roommate situation…" I wave my hand vaguely. "Lots to process."
Konan doesn't answer. She just watches. Silent, immovable, like the storm given human shape.
And somehow, that's worse than anything she could say.
Konan lets the silence stretch between us until I want to crawl out of my own skin. Then, finally, she folds her hands, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Pain and I have spoken," she says. Her voice cuts as clean as a blade, but not unkind. "It is time you learn more about Akatsuki. What we are. What does that mean for you?
My stomach knots. I force my face blank, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar but pretending innocence. "Right. Sure. Orientation time. Do I get a pamphlet?"
No smile. No twitch of her lips. Just the storm behind her eyes.
"Do you remember what I told you last night?" she asks. "That Akatsuki's goal is to bring peace to the world."
I nod quickly. "Peace. Right. World peace. Unicorns, rainbows, the whole deal."
Her gaze sharpens, but she continues smoothly, unfazed."We will achieve it. The path is decided. To end war, we must unite the nations beneath a single fear so absolute they will not dare lift their blades again."
I lean back, eyebrows raised, playing dumb. "Sounds… intense. What's the plan, then? Bake everyone cookies until they agree to stop fighting?"
Her voice does not waver."No. We will capture the nine-tailed beasts. All of them. And forge their power into a weapon that can shatter nations with a single strike."
I feel my face freeze — and it's not entirely acting. My brain screams: Here it is. The real plan. The whole Moon's Eye pipeline is starting to move.
But outwardly, I let my jaw hang dumb, blinking like I don't understand a word. "Uh. Tailed beasts? Like… animals with bad tempers? Giant foxes with attitude problems?"
She tilts her head slightly, studying me again, and for a heartbeat, I worry she can see through me. But then she exhales, patient, almost teacher-like.
"You do not know of them," she says softly. "Then listen."
Her eyes drift past me, as though she's looking into memory. The storm outside fills her pauses.
"There are nine. Each one is a living mass of chakra given form. They are called the Bijū—tailed beasts. Their tails are how we mark them, from the weakest to the strongest."
One Tail – Shukaku, though she wouldn't say the name.
"The One-Tail takes the form of a monstrous tanuki. Sand and wind bend to its will. It was sealed in the boy from Sunagakure — Gaara."
Two Tails
"The Two-Tails is fire given flesh, shaped like a great blue cat. Its host comes from Kumogakure."
Three Tails
"The Three-Tails resembles a turtle with a spined shell, dwelling in the mist. The Mist shinobi hunt it, seal it, lose it, and hunt it again. Their weapon… their curse."
Four Tails
"The Four-Tails is a beast of fire and earth, its form closest to a great ape. Rumors say its strength can shatter mountains. Iwa once claimed it."
Five Tails
"The Five-Tails resembles a white horse with the horns of a dolphin. It was once Kiri's burden. They spoke of it as untamable."
Six Tails
"The Six-Tails is a slug, its body secreting acid and mist. Its presence poisons the battlefield. Its host was hunted, like all the rest."
Seven Tails
"The Seven-Tails resembles a great insect, a beetle with wings that blot out the sky. It was last seen in Takigakure, one of the smallest villages — yet burdened with such a beast."
Eight Tails
"The Eight-Tails is a monstrous ox with tentacles for tails. Kumogakure chained it, tried to control it for generations. Many jinchūriki died in failure."
Nine Tails
"And the Nine-Tails… the strongest. A fox with nine flowing tails, each one carrying the strength of storms. Its rampage once brought Konoha to its knees. "
Her eyes settle on me again, sharp as paper blades."Together, they are the most destructive force in the shinobi world. Sealed in hosts. Jinchūriki. Living weapons bound by their villages. We will take them. One by one."
I let my eyes widen, feigning confusion, forcing a half-smile that feels too stiff. "So… let me get this straight. You want to catch nine walking natural disasters, bottle them up, and turn them into a doomsday cannon? For peace?"
Konan's expression doesn't shift."Yes."
Her certainty hits me harder than any push Deva could've thrown. There's no hesitation, no flicker of doubt. Just iron will wrapped in paper wings.
Inside, I'm reeling — because I know how this ends, and it's nothing like peace. But outside, I scratch my cheek, playing the fool.
"Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Sounds totally achievable. Not terrifying at all."
Konan doesn't rise to the sarcasm. She just studies me a moment longer, then says quietly: "In time, you will understand."
Her gaze lingers on me, and for a second, I think she might see past the act. Past the smirk. Past the dumb mask. But then she stands, paper fluttering faintly, and turns toward the door.
Leaving me with my half-eaten breakfast, the storm, and the weight of nine beasts roaring just beyond the horizon.
She hasn't even left the room yet. One step toward the door, paper rustling faintly — then she pauses. Turns back. Her expression has shifted; the edges are sharper now, but not cruel. More like she's pressing me into place, setting me on the board.
"You asked before what your role would be."
I straighten in my chair, chopsticks forgotten, rice cooling. My heart kicks, but I force my face blank. "Yeah. You mentioned 'guard.' Sounded like a vague job description."
Konan steps closer to the table, folding her arms. The storm behind her casts her in silhouette, but her eyes catch the light, unblinking."Yes. A guard. That is what you will be. Not on the battlefield, not roaming the world on missions. Here. In this tower. With us."
"With you and Pain," I echo, voice softer than I mean it to be.
She nods once. "This tower is the heart of Akatsuki. The hub of all operations. What happens here will decide the future of the world. It must be protected."
I shift in my seat, cloak slipping from my shoulders. "Protected from what? Rain leaks? Termites?"
Her eyes narrow slightly — not in anger, but in focus."From anything. From anyone. Do not pretend to misunderstand."
I lift my hands, palms out. "Okay, okay. Guard duty. Sure. Makes sense. But…" I lean forward, tilting my head like I don't know where the punchline is. "What am I actually guarding? The tower itself?"
The question hangs. For the first time since she entered, her expression flickers. A pause. A softening at the corners of her mouth, almost imperceptible.
Her gaze drifts past me, toward the hall beyond my door — toward that door, the one at the end.
"Something important," she says quietly.
Her voice is different. Not the clipped tone of command, not the practiced calm of indoctrination. Something warmer. Fonder. A softness that feels out of place in this storm-beaten tower.
I blink, caught off guard. My mind races with what I already know — Nagato Uzumaki, the true core, the god behind the curtain. The forbidden door. The machine. The fragile body feeds power into six corpses.
But outwardly, I play the fool, tilting my head like a clueless rookie. "Something important, huh? Cryptic. You guys ever just… say what you mean?"
She doesn't answer. Just looks at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable except for that strange, fleeting softness. Then she turns again, wings brushing the air, moving toward the door.
And this time, she doesn't stop.
The storm swallows the sound of her footsteps until I'm left alone with the echo of her words.
Something important.
I glance toward the hallway, toward the door at the end I haven't dared open. My throat tightens.
"Yeah," I murmur to myself. "I think I already know."
The tower is too quiet.
I've walked the floor a dozen times, counting doors that lead nowhere, tracing the cracks in the stone, listening to the storm chew at the windows. It feels less like exploring and more like pacing a cage.
But eventually, my wandering always leads me here.
The door at the end of the hall.
It just stands there, heavy wood banded in iron, torchlight bending around it like the fire doesn't want to touch it. No sound leaks from behind it. No draft. Just stillness, heavy and suffocating.
Konan's voice echoes in my head: You must not enter it. Ever.
Which, of course, makes me want to open it more.
I swallow, step closer. Each pace feels louder than it should, my cloak brushing the stone like a whisper. My pulse quickens.
Up close, the handle is dark metal, polished smooth from years of use. It almost dares me to grab it.
My hand hovers over it. Just inches. If I touch it, if I twist, maybe I'll see him. Nagato Uzumaki. The crippled god at the center of it all. The man who makes corpses walk and nations fall.
Part of me screams Don't do it. Another part whispers you need to know.
I lick my lips, fingertips brushing the cool metal—
"Come."
I freeze.
Konan's voice. Calm, absolute, like she'd been standing there the whole time, waiting for me to make this mistake.
I spin, hand jerking back from the handle. She's there in the hall, wings folded, expression unreadable.
"We are leaving," she says simply.
No mention of the door. No accusation. Just an order, crisp as paper.
My throat works around a dry laugh. "Oh. Right. Leaving. Totally wasn't… uh… about to do anything stupid. Just, you know. Admiring the craftsmanship. Really solid door. Ten out of ten hinges."
Her gaze lingers on me a fraction too long. Then she turns, expecting me to follow.
I look back at the door once more, my fingers still tingling from how close I came.
"Guess you win this round," I mutter under my breath, and trail after her, the leash tugging tight again.
The climb feels endless, but then the stairwell spits us out into open air.
The balcony stretches wide, stone slick with rain, the rail worn smooth by storms that never stop. Ame sprawls beneath us, a city of iron pipes and jagged rooftops, drowning in its own sky. The rain falls harder up here, stinging my skin, plastering my hair to my forehead.
I step forward, both hands gripping the rail, staring down at the endless maze below. The streets glisten with water, shinobi patrols darting like black ants, civilians shuffling beneath umbrellas too small to matter. The whole city looks like it's bowing under the weight of the storm.
"So this is it," I murmur. "The grand tour. Ame in all its glory. I take it you're not showing me the gift shops?"
Konan joins me at the rail, her face turned toward the city like it's an old wound she's memorized. Her voice is calm, but carries over the storm."You will see the city. You will understand how it lives. How it suffers. And how we are changing it."
Her words sit heavy. I glance at her, at the faint edge of determination sharpening her profile. To her, this isn't a prison. It's a mission.
She closes her eyes, and paper begins to peel from her body, sheets unfolding like feathers, wings forming at her back with a whisper that's louder than the storm. Each page glimmers faintly, catching the light as they spread wide, angelic and terrifying.
I blink, slack-jawed for a moment. "...Okay. That's cool." I point, shameless. "That. Right there. I don't know how to do that."
Konan opens her eyes, one wing already flexing, scattering droplets of rain that hiss as they vanish into the night. She glances at me, expression unreadable."You don't need to."
I cross my arms, forcing a smirk to mask the awe. "Speak for yourself. That's gotta be the coolest party trick I've ever seen. You're telling me I'm stuck with walking and stairs while you get to swan-dive over the skyline?"
Her lips twitch, just barely, like she's fighting not to show amusement. "Perhaps one day. But for now, you will walk."
The paper wings beat once, scattering rain like silver shards. She steps onto the railing as casually as if it were solid ground. The city stretches beneath her, and for a moment, she really does look like something divine.
I swallow, staring up at her. Somewhere deep inside, a whisper of envy stirs. Because wings like that aren't just flight — they're freedom. And I'm still chained to this tower.
Konan hovers just above the balcony, her paper wings unfurling wider, scattering rain like a thousand silver needles. She looks less human in that moment, more like some divine messenger sent down to punish or to save.
From within her cloak, she produces something small and pale — a mask, porcelain-white with no markings, smooth and empty. She holds it out to me.
"You will need this," she says.
I take it, turn it over in my hands. The rain slicks across its surface, running down like tears. "A mask, huh? Very Phantom of the Opera. Let me guess — it's not just about fashion?"
Her gaze sharpens. "When you walk in Ame as one of us, you are not yourself. You are Akatsuki. The mask makes that clear."
I shrug, slipping it on. The world narrows. The storm grows louder in my ears. My reflection in the balcony glass is gone, replaced by a faceless stranger in a black cloak.
"Creepy," I mutter behind the porcelain. "But kinda badass."
Konan doesn't reply. She extends one pale hand toward me, her wings beating slow and steady, keeping her suspended in the air.
The offer is simple. But it makes my stomach twist.
I look at her hand, then at the endless city below. Thousands of feet of storm and metal between me and the streets. Any sane person would hesitate.
"...Screw it," I say, and slip my hand into hers.
Her fingers are cool, steady, unshakable. The grip of someone who will never let go unless she chooses to.
The moment our hands lock, her wings surge, and we lift off the balcony.
Wind tears at my cloak, rain lashes my face, and the mask rattles against my breath. Ame falls away beneath us — streets shrinking to veins of light, rooftops jagged teeth in the dark. The storm swallows everything, endless gray and silver, and we cut through it like shadows on a canvas.
I can't help it — a laugh bursts out of me, half awe, half terror. "Holy—! Okay! This is insane! You people just… do this?!"
Konan doesn't answer. She just steers us through the rain, wings beating with impossible grace, her cloak streaming like a banner of war.
The city sprawls below us, endless and grim. Shinobi patrols move like dark stains on the streets, and civilians huddle beneath umbrellas that do nothing against the downpour. From up here, Ame looks less like a village and more like a wound carved into the earth, festering under the storm.
I tighten my grip on her hand, chest tight. The exhilaration and dread mix into something I can't name.
I glance up at her — rain sliding down her face, wings blazing like scripture against the night. And for the first time, I understand why the people below whisper her name like a prayer and a curse.
"Angel," I whisper, barely audible under the storm.
For a moment, I swear she hears it.
The wind howls around us as we cut through the storm. For a few precious minutes, I let myself forget everything — the leash, the tower, the door at the end of the hall.
All I can feel is the rush of air against my skin, the rain battering my mask, the cloak snapping like a banner behind me. Konan's hand is steady in mine, unshakable, her wings slicing the storm as if the sky itself obeys her.
From up here, Ame almost looks beautiful. The lights blur beneath the rain, streets glowing like molten rivers in the dark. Water cascades off rooftops, flowing into the canals that twist like veins across the city. For a moment, it's easy to pretend this is freedom. To believe we're not caged in a tower, but soaring above it all.
I laugh again, breath fogging the mask. "This is insane. You're—this is actually insane. Flying over an entire village in a storm like it's nothing. Do you have any idea how cool you look right now?"
Konan doesn't answer. She never needs to. Her silence is part of the spectacle. The wings, the poise, the way she seems untouchable up here — she doesn't need words to complete the image.
Then the wings shift, angling downward. My stomach lurches as we descend. The streets rush up at us, details sharpening: drenched stone, flickering lamps, figures moving quickly through the rain.
We land lightly in a wide plaza, the storm crashing down harder than ever. Konan releases my hand and folds her wings with a rustle, paper vanishing back into her cloak like they'd never been. She stands tall, the rain bending around her as if the storm itself refuses to touch her.
And that's when I see it.
The civilians notice her. One by one, faces turn beneath dripping umbrellas. Conversations stop. Movement slows. Men, women, and even children freeze in place.
No one cheers. No one smiles. They lower their gazes, bow their heads, and some retreat into doorways. It looks like reverence, at first. But the longer I watch, the clearer it is.
Not reverence. Fear.
They look at her the way prey looks at a hawk. With awe, yes — but awe sharpened into terror. Because Konan isn't just an angel. She's the enforcer. The paper storm that comes before Pain's judgment.
I stand there in my mask, cloak heavy on my shoulders, staring at these people who won't even meet her eyes. My gut twists.
"So this is it," I murmur behind the mask. "The angel of Ame."
The words are half admiration, half warning. And I know, with a sick certainty, that they're not seeing salvation when they look at her. They're seeing the knife that keeps them in line.
Konan doesn't flinch under their stares. She doesn't soften. She just moves forward, and the crowd parts around her like the rain itself, silent and obedient.
I follow in her shadow, the leash tightening around my throat again.
We walk the streets together — or at least, I walk. Konan glides.
Even without wings, there's something in the way she moves, the way the storm seems to bend with her steps, that makes her untouchable. The rain hits me like knives, but it slides off her cloak like it's afraid.
The people of Ame notice immediately. Of course they do.
At first, it's subtle: umbrellas dipping, bodies pausing mid-step. Then the ripples spread. Heads bow. Voices die. Children tugged closer to their mothers. The whole street shifts its rhythm, the way a pond stills when a predator slides beneath the surface.
Konan doesn't look at them. She doesn't have to. They know.
I keep my mask on, but I can feel their eyes flick toward me, too. A stranger at her side, faceless, cloaked. Their gazes snap away the second I look back, but the weight of it lingers. Curiosity. Fear. The blade is sharp enough to cut.
So this is peace, I think, my fists hidden in the cloak's sleeves. Peace through silence. Peace through terror.
I watch as Konan pauses at a shopfront, its wooden sign half-rotted, kanji barely visible under layers of water damage. She exchanges a few words with the owner — quiet, efficient. The man bows so deeply, I think he'll snap in half. His hands shake as he passes her a sealed package.
She accepts it with perfect calm, no acknowledgment of his trembling, and moves on.
I fall into step beside her, whispering just low enough that only I can hear. "They look at you like you're a saint. But it's not worship, is it? It's fear."
Konan doesn't glance at me. Doesn't break stride. But the storm seems to hush for a heartbeat, like the whole city is listening.
"They don't see an angel," I murmur. "They see the blade hovering over their necks. You're not saving them. You're reminding them who holds the leash."
I almost expect her to snap, to cut me down with paper as sharp as her words. But she doesn't. She just continues, silent, every step cutting a path through the bowed heads and shuttered doors.
The civilians watch from behind curtains, from under umbrellas, from shadowed alleys. None speaks. Nonemett her gaze. And the longer I walk in her shadow, the more I feel it pressing down on me, too.
This isn't admiration. This isn't respect.
It's fear dressed up as obedience.
And Konan wears it like a cloak heavier than mine.
Konan's errands are simple, at least on the surface. A sealed packet here, a folded scroll there. Civilians bowing sso deeply thatthey nearly fold themselves in half. None of them dares ask questions. None of them even breathes too loudly in her presence.
I trail behind her, mask hiding my face, but I see everything. The way her hands tremble when they pass her supplies. The way children peek from behind doorframes only to be yanked back by their mothers. The way umbrellas dip lower, not to shield from rain, but to avoid catching her gaze.
Every stop is the same rhythm: silence, obedience, departure. Fear so thick I can taste it.
When she's done, she turns without a word and leads me back through the streets. The people part before her like the storm itself, then close in behind, swallowing us back into Ame's endless gray.
At the edge of a plaza, she stops. Her paper wings unfurl again with a sound like rain tearing itself apart. They shimmer in the lightning, each sheet catching flashes of light before folding perfectly into place.
She glances at me — a single sharp look — then holds out her hand.
I take it without hesitation this time. The ground feels too heavy after seeing those bowed heads. Maybe the sky will be easier to breathe in.
The wings beat once, twice, and suddenly Ame drops away beneath us again. The storm swallows us whole, rooftops shrinking into jagged shadows. My cloak whips in the wind, mask rattling against my breath.
For a while, it's just the rain and the thunder and the dizzying height. Then, her voice cuts through it, calm and absolute.
"Do you understand now?"
The question is simple. But it lands heavier than the storm.
I glance down at the city below. At the streets slick with rain, the people huddled like ants in the cracks of steel towers. At the silence that follows Konan wherever she walks, the way fear wears the mask of peace.
Behind the mask, I force a crooked smile. "Yeah. I understand."
But inside, my chest twists. Because what I understand isn't what she wants me to.
I understand that Ame isn't alive. It's controlled. Chained under the weight of two gods and an angel who enforces their will.
I understand that peace like this is just another kind of war.
And I understand that, one way or another, I'm chained to it now, too.
Her grip tightens, wings carrying us higher into the storm, and the city disappears into a blur of rain and shadow.