Night came quickly.
The joyful—and unhinged—behavior of the entire unit had mellowed after Beatrice's defeat. The raucous laughter faded. The shouting died. One by one, the soldiers retreated to their quarters, their earlier bravado replaced by something heavier.
Defeat had a way of doing that.
Hiro sat in the medical bay, watching a nurse wrap Yurei's ribs. The room smelled of antiseptic and old linen. A single lamp cast yellow light across the cot, illuminating the purple bruise already blooming across Yurei's side.
"You're insane," he said.
"You've mentioned that." Yurei didn't flinch as the nurse pulled the bandage tight.
"Jumping into a punch? On purpose?" Marian had already given him the summary of the fight—the way Yurei had stepped into Beatrice's blow instead of dodging, using the impact to close the distance.
"It was calculated."
"You calculated getting hit?"
Yurei winced as the nurse tightened the bandage. "I calculated that she needed to see her full power wouldn't stop me."
"And if you'd been wrong?"
She glanced at him. "Then you would have carried me off the field."
"That's what partners do, isn't it?"
Hiro stared at her. The lamplight caught the edge of her jaw, the curve of her cheek. Her crimson eyes were steady, unwavering.
Then he laughed.
"You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
The nurse finished wrapping and stepped back. She was an older woman, grey streaking her temples, with tired eyes that had seen too many fights. "Try not to get hit again. I'm running low on bandages."
"Thank you, Nurse."
The nurse sighed—a long, weary sound—and left, the door clicking shut behind her.
Silence settled over the room.
Hiro sat beside Yurei on the cot. The mattress was thin, the frame creaked, but neither of them moved. Through the window, the last light of dusk bled across the horizon—orange bleeding into purple, bleeding into black.
"Beatrice is going to be a problem," he said.
"No." Yurei leaned back against the wall, careful to keep pressure off her ribs. "Beatrice is going to be an asset. She just doesn't know it yet."
"And her soldiers?"
"They're not criminals." Yurei's voice was quiet. "They're survivors. There's a difference."
Hiro thought about Winston and Stanley. About their stories. The medicine. The gang. The choices that had led them here.
"Survivors," he repeated. "Yeah. I guess they are."
"Do you really think you can change them?"
Yurei was quiet for a moment. Her hand rested on the cot between them—close enough to touch, but not quite.
"I don't know," she admitted. "But I have to try. Because if people like Beatrice don't get a second chance… then what are we even fighting for?"
Hiro didn't have an answer.
But he reached over and took her hand.
She didn't pull away.
Hiro left the medical bay and wandered through the quiet corridors. The base was asleep—or pretending to be.
---
Later that night, Hiro sat on the steps of the base's main building, staring up at the stars.
The chaos had faded completely now. The soldiers were gone. The music had stopped. The only sounds were the distant hum of the barrier and the soft whisper of wind through the cracks in the walls.
He was alone.
Or so he thought.
"You handled yourself well today."
Hiro turned. One of the beast slaves—the massive man with the shaved head—sat down beside him. He moved quietly for someone his size, his footsteps nearly silent on the stone steps.
"Thanks," Hiro said. "I didn't really do anything."
"You stood your ground." The man extended a hand. "That's something. Name's Marcus. Been a slave for six years."
Hiro shook it. The grip was firm, calloused. "Hiro. About two weeks."
Marcus chuckled—a low, rumbling sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. "I can tell. You've still got that look."
"What look?"
"Like you're not sure if you made the right choice." Marcus leaned back, staring up at the stars. His eyes reflected the distant light—old eyes, tired eyes, but not unkind.
"I was a criminal too, once. Robbed a supply convoy." He paused. "Got caught, got sentenced, got offered a choice: prison or the army."
"What did you choose?"
"Obviously." He gestured at the chain tattoo on his neck. "Army's not so bad. Better than prison. Better than being dead." He glanced at Hiro. "And Sally treats me pretty decently."
"Sally? Who's that?"
"The vice captain of this fine establishment." Marcus's lips twitched. "She's not so bad, once you get past the resting murder face."
Hiro snorted.
Marcus's expression grew serious. "Your mistress. She's different, isn't she?"
Hiro thought about Yurei. About the way she'd spared Beatrice. About the way she'd looked at the illegal Imperial Gear—not with anger, but with disappointment. About the way she'd sat beside him in the medical bay, her hand in his.
"Yeah," he said. "She's different."
Marcus nodded slowly. "Hold onto that. Not all mistresses are worth dying for." He stood, patting Hiro's shoulder. "But the ones who are… they make everything worth it."
He walked away, disappearing into the shadows.
Hiro sat alone for a long time, staring at the stars.
---
Then he went inside to find Yurei.
She was in the makeshift command center, reviewing reports by lamplight. The room was cluttered—papers stacked on desks, maps pinned to walls, a half-empty cup of tea growing cold by her elbow.
She didn't look up when he entered, but her lips twitched slightly.
"How are you feeling?"
"Tired," Hiro admitted. He sat across from her. "And confused. And… hopeful?"
Yurei finally looked at him. The lamplight caught her face, softening the hard lines of command. "Hopeful?"
"Marcus said something. About mistresses worth dying for." He met her eyes. "I think I found one."
For a moment—just a moment—Yurei's composure cracked. A faint blush touched her cheeks. Her lips parted, as if she wanted to say something.
Then she looked back at her reports.
"Don't let it go to your head."
Hiro smiled.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Under the covers of his sleeve, the chain tattoo on his neck glowed briefly—a small but meaningful pulse of light.
Their bond had grown stronger.