They walked without speaking for a while.
The forest had thinned out, giving way to a wide stretch of moorland, bathed in late afternoon light. The wind stirred the tall grass around them, carrying with it the scent of pine, earth, and something faintly metallic—faint, but not forgotten.
Ren kept his hands in his pockets, head down, trying not to think about how close they'd come to being caught. He could still feel the tension in his limbs, the part of him that had been ready to snap, ready to tear. But more than that… he was aware of Ayame beside him.
She hadn't left.
That thought echoed more loudly than any footstep.
"I used to hate silence," she said suddenly, her voice quiet, almost like she was thinking out loud. "When I was a kid. I always thought it meant something bad was coming."
Ren glanced sideways at her. She wasn't looking at him. Her gaze was somewhere far ahead, lost in the horizon.
"Still feel that way?"
She shrugged. "Not anymore. Now I think silence just gives things room to breathe. Even pain."
He didn't know what to say to that. But somehow, it settled something in him.
They reached an abandoned cottage just before sunset—a crumbling shell of stone and wood nestled in a pocket of trees. The roof had mostly collapsed, but there was still one room intact, enough to keep the cold night air off their backs.
Ren stepped inside first, sweeping the shadows with his eyes out of habit. Empty. Safe. For now.
"You sure this is okay?" Ayame asked behind him.
He nodded. "I've slept in worse."
She smiled faintly and set her pack down. They moved together in unspoken rhythm—clearing space, checking corners. Survivors' habits.
When they finally sat, a gentle hush fell between them. The fire Ren had built crackled softly, casting flickering shadows on the walls.
Ayame leaned back against the stone, arms loosely wrapped around her knees. "You never told me where you're from."
Ren stared into the flames for a long moment. "I don't know if it matters anymore."
"It matters to me."
He swallowed. "A village. Small. Out west, near the edge of the old woods. Quiet place. My parents raised me there before… before everything changed."
Ayame waited, letting him speak at his own pace.
"I didn't know about the bloodline until it was too late," he continued. "One night I woke up and I couldn't stop hearing things—smelling things. I was… different. And people noticed. They were afraid. My father tried to hide me, but the Circle found out."
A pause. The fire cracked, a log shifted.
"They came in the night," he said. "Burned the village. Said they were cleansing it. I ran. I've been running since."
Ayame's gaze softened, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."
He looked at her. Not pity in her eyes—just sorrow. Understanding.
"It's not your fault," he said.
"Maybe not," she murmured. "But I've spent years hunting people like you. Never once stopping to wonder if they had stories like yours."
Ren looked away. "You were doing your job."
"That doesn't make it right."
For a long while, they sat in the quiet. No more words. Just the fire. The wind outside. The throb of old wounds, and the slow recognition of new truths.
When Ren finally spoke again, his voice was low, but steady.
"I don't know what I am anymore."
Ayame didn't hesitate.
"You're still you," she said. "And whatever comes next… we face it together."
And in that small room, lit only by firelight, something shifted. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just a quiet trust beginning to take root in the darkness.
And sometimes, that's all it takes.