Steam drifted slowly across the glass, turning the mirror into a pale, wavering blur.
Shura stood still in front of it for a long moment. His reflection felt slightly delayed, as if the person looking back wasn't fully synchronized with him.
His gaze shifted downward. The silver-threaded coat rested over his arm. Heavy in a way that wasn't physical.
His fingers stopped just before touching it.
Yura's face surfaced in his mind without warning.
Not loud. Not sharp.
Just quiet patience—like something that had always been there, waiting rather than demanding.
He remembered the way she once adjusted his collar without a word. Not correcting him, not instructing him. Simply fixing what he hadn't noticed was wrong. As if she had already accepted he wouldn't know how to do it himself.
Shura exhaled slowly.
The sound felt too close in the enclosed space.
He leaned back against the stone wall. For a moment, he stayed standing like that. Then his knees bent, and he slid down until he was sitting on the warm floor.
Steam curled around him in thin layers, softening the edges of the room.
"…I want to see her face again," he said quietly.
A pause followed—small enough to disappear into the steam.
"…If I can."
The thought didn't fade.
It simply stopped moving forward.
He didn't move after that. Not immediately.
Just sat there until the thought stopped echoing inside him.
Even then, it didn't feel gone.
Only quieter—like something waiting for a moment he wasn't aware of yet.
When he finally stepped out of the bathhouse, the air outside felt sharper. Cooler. More structured.
The woman at the counter looked up instantly.
It took him a moment to remember where he had placed everything.
Not at his face.
At the coat in his arms.
Shura walked forward and placed it on the counter with care.
"Can I leave my things here?"
One by one, he set them down.
The silver-threaded coat.
His identity papers.
The Vanguard badge.
A small stack of Copp coins.
And the mask.
Each item made a soft, distinct sound against the wood.
None of them felt like "his" in that moment.
Only things he was temporarily responsible for carrying.
For a moment, the counter looked less like furniture and more like a quiet record of a life being temporarily set aside.
The woman didn't speak.
Her eyes moved over the objects slowly—lingering just long enough to notice what they implied, then moving away again as if avoiding the weight of interpretation.
She didn't ask questions.
But her silence carried them anyway.
Shura didn't notice. Or maybe he chose not to.
After a moment, she asked, "What kind of outfit are you looking for?"
"Cheap," he said. "For travel."
A pause.
"Not for appearance."
She studied him briefly. "Any preference?"
Shura shook his head once. "Just something I can wear."
She turned without another word and moved deeper into the shop.
The space was quiet except for the soft rustle of fabric and the distant hum of the city beyond the walls.
After a short search, she returned holding an outfit.
the layered belts around his waist, the leather worn smooth from years of use.
Loose earth-colored trousers tucked into dark boots, practical enough for travel and quiet movement.
Nothing about his clothing stood out at first glance.
That was intentional.
Clothing made for movement, not presence.
Shura looked at it once.
"That one."
The woman blinked slightly. "No comparison?"
"I don't need more."
"…Fitting room," she said, pointing toward a narrow door along the side wall.
Shura nodded and stepped inside.
He didn't look back at the counter.
The room behind the door was small, dim, and quiet.
A single mirror hung against the wall.
It didn't feel like a different room.
Just another version of the same one—slightly less real.
For a moment, Shura simply stood there, looking at himself again.
He held it for a second longer than necessary before placing it aside.
Then he changed.
When he stepped out, the difference was immediate—but subtle.
The weight on his shoulders was gone.
The rigid outline of authority replaced by layered practicality. The clothes moved with him instead of against him.
No insignias. No visible rank. No identity markers.
Just fabric, leather, and function.
A traveler's shape.
Shura adjusted one sleeve lightly, testing the movement of his arm.
It responded without resistance.
He exhaled once.
"…This is better."
he said again, almost confirming it to himself.