The three of them walked in stride — or rather, two walked while one sauntered like the world owed him a smoother sidewalk.
The street was painted in evening light, the last amber threads of the sun brushing rooftops and power lines, casting long shadows that shifted with every step.
The air buzzed faintly with the low hum of cicadas, mixing with the distant echo of bicycle bells and vending machines dispensing fizzy drinks to no one in particular.
Azrael led the way, if only because he insisted.
His tail flicked high, head lifted like royalty surveying a kingdom he was too dignified to care about. Pedestrians gave him a wide berth without realizing why — some shivering as he passed, others blinking as if they'd just forgotten what they were doing.
If they noticed him at all, they didn't remember.
Behind him, Haru kept his hands in his pockets and his gaze slightly downward — not brooding, just avoiding.
The occasional glance toward Miyu was always quick, always casual, never held too long.
Of course, she noticed anyway.
She walked beside him with that easy, bouncing gait, her ponytail swaying like it had its own tempo.
Every few steps, she looked over at him, like she was checking for cracks in his armor.
Then, with a grin:
"Your hair's grown out."
Haru blinked. His hand instinctively rose to touch the white streak hanging near his brow.
"…Yeah."
"And you dyed it."
She tilted her head, eyes dancing with playful accusation. "Just a little, but I see it. Some copper in the braid? Who even are you?"
Haru shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I was just… trying something different."
"Well," she said, teasingly poking his shoulder, "Leonidas is gonna love that."
Haru exhaled through his nose, not quite a laugh. "Yeah, I know."
"You know he hates when anyone changes their look without telling him first," she added, mock-deepening her voice. "'Uniformity is unity.' Remember that lecture?"
"I was trying to enjoy my break," Haru muttered.
"A long break," Miyu shot back, bumping his hip lightly with hers.
"I had a lot to think about."
Her steps slowed just slightly.
"…Yeah," she said after a beat, "you always do."
They walked on.
"While you were thinking about whatever you were thinking about," she continued, voice lighter again, "we were out there busting our butts on missions."
Haru glanced at her. "Who was leading?"
Miyu made a face, somewhere between a smirk and a wince. "Depends on the mission. Sometimes, on the odd occasion even Leonidas took over. Sometimes we just kind of figured it out on the fly. I even got a chance to lead once."
He raised a brow. "And?"
She gave a mock sigh, brushing her bangs back with exaggerated drama.
"It was a mess."
Azrael, still ahead, gave a dismissive flick of his tail. "Understatement."
Miyu rolled her eyes. "Okay cat dad, relax. I didn't crash the mission."
"Barely," Azrael murmured.
She turned back to Haru. "We got it done. Mostly thanks to Abel. His planning saved us. He pivoted the whole strategy mid-mission. I just… kind of tried not to make it worse."
"You're not that bad," Haru said quietly, yet with a slight hint of teasing in his voice.
She looked at him, smile softening. "I'm not a leader. But I am kind of essential. Y'know… chaos glue. I keep things moving. Keep things weird."
He nodded. "That's true."
Silence passed again — but it wasn't awkward.
Just full. Like something was waiting.
They reached the train station just as the light began to dim, the sky deepening into shades of blue and violet, the clouds smudged out like finger paint.
The station platform was tucked between the usual maze of buildings — small, elevated, and open-air. Fluorescent lights hummed quietly overhead, flickering just enough to remind you they were due for maintenance. The tiled floor was worn smooth by a thousand quiet evenings like this one.
Azrael perched atop the rail beside the safety line, watching the tracks with narrowed eyes like he didn't trust them not to betray someone.
A mechanical chime sounded overhead. Then a voice. Calm. Unemotional.
The next train was approaching.
Miyu stepped closer to Haru, leaned against the railing beside him, her eyes on the glowing timetable — but her attention was clearly elsewhere.
"…Did you ever plan to come back?"
The question was light. But the pause after it wasn't.
Haru didn't answer.
Not with words.
He stepped forward as the train began to arrive — glowing headlights cutting through the dusk, engine humming low and smooth as it slowed along the track. The sound of metal against metal echoed out in perfect rhythm — clean, sharp, controlled. The doors aligned with the platform like choreography, hissing open in a cloud of cold air.
The train was long and silver, windows slightly tinted, interior lights a sterile white. Inside, rows of plastic seats lined the walls, hand straps swaying gently above like empty promises.
A few scattered passengers sat quietly — eyes down, headphones in, shoes neatly tucked.
Without a word, Haru stepped in.
The air was cool and sterile and smelled faintly of electricity.
He moved toward the nearest seat, sat by the window, and let the silence swallow him.
Miyu stood outside for a second, watching him.
Then she followed — slipping in with a soft tap of her shoes against the floor, flopping into the seat across from him.
Azrael padded in last, tail flicking like he resented the whole idea of public transport.
He hopped onto the seat beside Haru with an exaggerated sigh, curling up like a coiled shadow.
One glowing eye stayed open.
The train doors closed behind them. The platform faded away.
The soft hum of movement began.
Miyu stretched, arms over her head, jacket riding up just slightly as she let out a loud, exaggerated yawn.
Then leaned forward, chin in her hands, staring straight at him.
"…You didn't answer me," she said, tilting her head.
Haru looked out the window.
Lights flicked past. Reflections shifted. His own face came and went in pieces across the glass.
No one spoke.
Not even Azrael.
But in his head — in that quiet, protected place where no one could tease or ask or guess — the question echoed.
Did I ever plan to come back?
He didn't know.
Maybe he still didn't.
But here he was.
And that had to mean something.
The train hummed on.
The train swayed gently as it moved, the rhythmic clatter of the tracks underneath filling the silence between them. The city outside had blurred into evening shadows, lights flickering like distant stars, but neither of them were looking out the window anymore.
Haru exhaled softly, fingers tapping once against his thigh.
"…I'm not sure," he said, voice low — like he was only just admitting it to himself. "If I was going to come back."
Miyu's gaze didn't waver.
He glanced at her — then away again.
"But you came to find me," he added, quieter now. "And that means I can't ignore it anymore. I'll have to face it."
She smiled — not wide, not teasing this time. Just soft.
"I figured."
She leaned in then, closer than he expected — closer than he was ready for. Her knees brushed his. Her hand, small and warm, settled gently over his.
"I know you had it rough," she said, her voice soft, words careful. "But… the team doesn't want you gone. Not really."
Her breath hit his skin — warm and sweet like bubblegum and mischief.
"At least… most of us," she added, smile quirking again.
Haru swallowed. His cheeks tinted faintly pink.
She was too close.
Too vivid.
Too real.
He didn't move his hand. Didn't pull away.
But he did glance to the side — anywhere but her eyes.
Azrael, still coiled in the seat beside him, lifted his head slowly, one golden eye half-lidded in judgment.
"I hate to interrupt this touching hormonal display," he said dryly, "but the train is about to stop."
Miyu didn't flinch. She pulled back just enough to let Haru breathe again — her hand still resting on his.
Haru muttered, "Yeah, yeah…" and slowly turned his left hand over.
There, etched just beneath the knuckles like a scar that never healed, was the number:
87.
A soft green shimmer pulsed through it — faint, rhythmic, like a heartbeat waiting to quicken.
Across from him, Miyu turned her right hand palm-up and held it beside his.
23.
The numbers glowed faint violet.
They looked at each other.
Then back down.
Then back at each other.
No more teasing. No more banter.
Just a quiet understanding.
Haru nodded once.
He knew exactly where he had to go.
"Eighty-seven."
Miyu met his gaze, her lips parting with a small breath.
"Twenty-three."
The moment the words left their lips, both numbers flared.
Hers — a sharp, flickering violet, full of kinetic spark.
His — a deep, emerald green, steady and clear.
The train hummed louder for just a second, then—
Silence.
Not the natural kind.
The unnatural kind.
The kind that swallowed everything.
Haru blinked. Miyu sat up straighter.
Every passenger was gone.
Not just moved — gone. Vanished.
The train was still there. The seats. The lights. The straps swaying gently overhead.
But not a soul in sight.
Not a conductor.
Not a whisper.
Just Azrael, still curled up — now stretching like this happened every day.
"Looks like we're arriving at our destination," he said, tail flicking once.
Haru turned slowly toward the window.
And stopped.
Where the city had been…
…was now space.
Endless and raw.
Not black — but alive with color.
Purple streaks swirled between glowing nebulae.
Golden orbs hovered like wandering thoughts.
Threads of silver light crisscrossed the void like highways for angels.
It was beautiful.
And terrifying.
And familiar.
Miyu let out a soft breath beside him, her eyes wide, already glowing faintly with the same violet as her number.
"Same as always," she whispered.
Haru didn't speak.
He just looked out at the stars.
Things moved fast.
One second, space stretched out around them — infinite and silent.
The next, they were moving through it, light streaking past the windows in radiant, fluid streams — not as beams, but as threads, woven like a tapestry unraveling around the train.
Gravity meant nothing here.
Up and down were suggestions, not laws.
Reality folded and unfolded in loops of prismatic motion as they crossed between dimensions.
Then —
As if stepping through a veil —
It appeared.
The train curved through the clouds, flying high above a world that looked too breathtaking to be real.
From above, the city unfolded like a divine painting — vast and gleaming, a harmony of ancient tradition and unfathomable future. Skyscrapers stretched toward the heavens — not just tall, but colossal, piercing the heavenly clouds with grace and purpose.
They shimmered in soft platinum and radiant white, etched with glowing lines that pulsed like veins of energy.
Some towers were sleek and curved, others adorned with vertical gardens and rotating rings of light, orbiting slowly like satellites around their cores.
Each structure was unique — not just in size or shape, but in spirit.
They weren't built to match; they were built to sing in harmony.
Dozens of them. Hundreds.
Too many to count.
And beneath it all, water.
Brilliant, still, endless canals — reflecting the impossible skyline above like a dream mirrored twice.
The city sprawled in every direction, layered in levels — floating parks and aerial roads, spiraling railways and crystal bridges that arched between towers like gossamer threads.
Temples with curved roofs stood proudly alongside luminous domes and platforms where airships hovered without sound. Traditional spires rose from islands of green, modernized but untouched in soul — ancient geometry fused with interstellar design.
This wasn't just a city.
This was a citadel.
A center of universes.
A sanctuary of power, art, and intelligence, alive with purpose.
The train soared between the towers like it belonged there — no tracks, no wires. Just motion and will.
Inside, Haru stood from his seat, adjusting his blazer.
"I'm getting off at Leonidas' office," he said, voice calm but a little tighter than usual.
Miyu looked up from where she was now stretched out on her seat like a cat in the sun.
"Already? You just got back."
"He'll want to see me," Haru said. "I figured I should report in."
Miyu gave a mock sigh, rolling to her side so she could look at him properly.
"Good luck," she said. "He's not exactly a 'welcome back' kind of guy."
Haru smirked faintly. "He's got a soft spot for me."
She pouted, eyebrows drawing in with exaggerated jealousy.
"Ugh, lucky. He yells at me when I'm two minutes late."
"That's because you're always two minutes late," Haru replied.
"Details," she muttered.
Outside, the glow of the city faded slightly as the train began to descend. The windows, once flooded with starlight and skyline, dimmed — turning opaque black, a signal they were nearing station.
The ride slowed.
A soft chime rang from above.
Azrael lifted his head again, eyeing the door like it had personally offended him.
"Try not to get vaporized," he murmured.
Haru gave him a sideways glance. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
Miyu sat up now, brushing her hair behind her ear, her violet eyes catching the final gleam of the city lights.
"Tell the general I said hi."
"I'll tell him you said sorry."
"Tell him you begged me to come back."
The doors hissed.
The train came to a stop.
And Haru stepped out — into the heart of what seemed impossible.
The moment Haru stepped out of the train, he wasn't in a terminal.
He was in the office.
The floor beneath his feet shifted seamlessly from the polished metallic plating of the train to a dark, glassy obsidian with gold filigree etched in flowing, almost circuit-like patterns.
The walls curved upward in a sweeping arc, floor-to-ceiling windows pouring soft daylight into the space — though it wasn't any sun Haru knew.
The light here was brighter, whiter, clearer — like the pure glow of a star filtered through ancient crystal.
Floating monoliths drifted gently behind transparent walls, inscribed with languages older than time.
Digital displays hummed quietly in the air, suspended midair like hovering parchment, displaying reports, diagrams, and shifting interdimensional maps.
But the chaos was quiet — perfectly arranged, elegant in design.
This wasn't just an office.
It was a command post. A sanctuary.
A throne room of precision, built into the upper ring of the citadel — where decisions shaped the fate of countless worlds.
And at the center, leaning back against his desk like the room was a lounge and the fate of the multiverse could wait — was Leonidas Kingston.
He was tall. That was the first thing anyone noticed. Not just tall, but built like someone who had wrestled gods for sport and then shaken their hand after. Broad shoulders filled out a crisp, open-collared dress shirt — sleeves rolled neatly to the forearms, revealing strong, veined forearms dusted with tan.
His skin was a warm olive-brown, kissed golden by some distant sun. A short beard traced his jaw, neatly trimmed but never too sharp — just enough ruggedness to match the subtle mess of his wavy brown hair, swept back like he couldn't be bothered to style it but somehow always looked like he had.
His eyes — sharp, amber-hazel and full of spark — locked onto Haru the second he entered.
A smirk already tugged at the edge of his mouth.
"Well, well," Leonidas said, voice rich and warm, teasing in that I already know everything kind of way.
"I knew my little nephew would come crawling back eventually."
He stretched slightly, hands still resting behind him on the desk to prop him up.
"Let me guess… Miyu batted her eyes, and your grand plan of spiritual exile unraveled in five seconds flat."
Haru blinked once, deadpan.
"…That was the great plan of Leonidas Kingston?"
Leonidas laughed — that easy, smooth, laid-back commander off-duty kind of laugh that filled the room without pushing anyone out.
He stepped forward and, before Haru could dodge, pulled him into a firm, grounded hug.
Haru didn't return it — but he didn't resist either. He just stood there, stiff for half a second… and then let himself breathe.
Leonidas clapped a hand to his back before pulling away.
"It's been a long time, Haru."
"…Yeah," Haru muttered, eyes slightly averted. "It has."
There was a pause — not heavy, just full.
Leonidas gave him a once-over, arms now folded loosely across his chest.
"You look different," he said. "Bit older. Bit sharper. Not a big fan of the hair to be honest. But I like that whole 'I've been brooding in silence too long' thing going on."
Haru arched an eyebrow. "Isn't that the Tadashima brand?"
Leonidas grinned, tossing a small object into the air from his desk — a glowing silver coin — and catching it with lazy ease.
"Nah, just a you thing." He spun it again.
"But still. Glad you're back."
And for a moment — just a moment — the sarcasm slipped from his eyes.
And all that was left… was warmth.
Leonidas caught the coin one final time, then let it rest in his palm. He looked at Haru for a beat, head tilting slightly, reading the silence like a language he knew too well.
"So…" he said, voice dropping into something quieter — not heavy, but focused.
"Does this mean you're ready for the next mission?"
The words hung in the air.
Haru didn't answer right away.
He drew in a breath — slow and deep — like he was trying to steady something that had been shaking too long.
In the far corner of the room, where the shadows pooled just outside the reach of the crystal light, Azrael sat perched and silent — unseen by Leonidas, but very much present. His eyes narrowed, tail wrapped tight, as if bracing for something inevitable.
Haru exhaled.
"I've come to quit."
The words weren't loud. But they struck like thunder.
Leonidas didn't move. Not at first.
But something shifted behind his eyes — a flicker of surprise, cooled almost instantly into a calm, unreadable stillness.
His brow lowered. Just slightly.
Then his stance changed — shoulders squaring, arms unfolding as he stood up straight from the desk. He wasn't smiling anymore.
Neither was Haru.
Their eyes locked — nephew and uncle, captain and commander. Two people who knew each other too well to need explanations.
No anger.
No judgment.
Just a silent standoff layered with history.
And nothing else was said.
The room fell still.
And the stare held.