Work Text:
The video shakes, the screen tilting slightly before a voice comes through, tentative and awkward.
“One, two, three… test, test, hi?”
The video cuts off abruptly, then resumes.
“God, I feel so old checking this audio,” the voice mutters, a sheepish laugh following. “Kinda dumb of me to even bother, huh? Knowing this phone’s from the Vice-Captain, it’s probably top-of-the-line. Must’ve cost a fortune. Haha…”
The camera steadies, revealing a familiar figure sitting cross-legged on a futon in an almost painfully tidy apartment—too tidy, like someone ready to leave it behind. The man glances at the lens, then waves casually.
“There, there. Heya.” His tone is light, but it doesn’t match the heaviness in the air. “If you’re watching this… well, I guess that means I’m gone. I made this video for that, you know? Just in case.”
He smiles then, and it’s that smile—the one that twists something deep in their chests. It’s soft, almost apologetic, and it cuts sharper than any blade. How dare he smile like that, like he didn’t just leave them behind?
“I don’t know if you’re mad,” he says, his voice dipping softer now. “But, knowing you guys… yeah, you’re mad. Probably pissed, huh?” He chuckles faintly, trying to lighten the mood.
“Hey, stop being mad. Stress makes your hair turn white. Especially you, Ichikawa.” He leans closer, mock serious. “Your hair’s already silver. If it turns white, you’ll become the KitKat in this winter. Haha.”
The joke lands clumsily, his chuckle trailing into silence. For a moment, he just stares into the camera, a thin smile tugging at his lips. A thin smile on his lips staring at the camera “I’ll miss you guys,” he murmurs at last, his voice soft and heavy.
“But don’t miss me, okay? Grieving’s just a heavy burden on your shoulders, and you don’t need that. Not for me.” He smiled, smiled, like everything is fine.
Its not.
The man leans forward slightly, resting his jaw in his hand as though in thought. “What was it I wanted to say again? Oh, yeah!” His face lights up with a smile—a smile so painfully familiar to those watching, yet it feels wrong in this context.
“You guys are getting a new set of weapons!” he says cheerfully, like the words don’t carry a weight they can’t bear, like the weapons weren’t made from him.
His laugh is awkward, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, uh… thinking about the new sets being made from my body kind of gives me chills. But, hey,” he forces a grin, “I’ve made peace with it.”
That smile—too thin, too steady—makes it all worse. He looks into the camera like he believes everything will be okay, like he’s convinced they’ll believe it, too. It’s not okay. It’s not going to be okay. Stop smiling! The First Division Captain’s clenched fist trembles, nails biting into his palm.
The man continues rubbing his neck, awkwardly dragging out the silence before speaking again. “You’re probably wondering, ‘How did he die? Why did he die?’” His casual tone feels like a knife. The questions he voices have been haunting the Defense Force since they saw his name on the casualty list.
He chuckles again—a small, guilty sound, as if he knows he’s breaking their hearts. Because he is. Because he has. He left them.
“You see,” he begins, voice quieter now.
“after the fight with Kaiju No.9, I noticed something… off. My core was flickering. It felt strange—uncomfortable, even. My body got weaker, headaches hit me like bricks, and sometimes…” He pauses, the memory raw in his expression. “Sometimes I’d throw up everything I ate.”
Then, as if it’s nothing, he shifts to show his back. The camera picks up the crimson stain bleeding through his shirt, the unmistakable mark of blood. “my skin starts to..burns? I don’t know. But it starts to fade and showed my kaiju scales.” Then he stops. His hand is fidgeting.
“And then,” he continues, “when the executives sent me to clean up Kaiju No.9’s base, something strange happened. One of its creations approached me. It… spoke.” His voice falters slightly, disbelief lacing his words.
“It said, ‘The kaiju that created us is bound to you. It absorbed the daikaiju of the Meireki Era—the one that destroyed your ancestors’ homes, their loved ones. You saw it. You know it.’”
He pauses again, his smile slipping into something emptier, something that feels wrong. Stop smiling. Stop pretending this doesn’t hurt. The blonde-haired girl watching can feel the heat of tears threatening to spill.
“The daikaiju of the Meireki Era… was the nemesis of the kaiju that possessed me,” he adds, his tone oddly detached. “the kaiju that possessed me, are made because grudge. Because revenge.” He said again.
He exhales slowly, the next words weighing heavy. “The kaiju laughed. Then it surrendered—human-style, you know? Hands raised.” He forces a small laugh, like he thinks it’s funny. It’s not. None of this is. Infact, no one laughed. But a silver haired boy force up a chuckle, to appreciating the joke.
The man’s gaze shifts off-screen for a moment, his expression distant, as though he’s back there, facing that creature.
“It told me something else. It said, ‘If our creator dies, so do you. It’s surprising you haven’t already. Maybe the human part of you still clings to life. But look at yourself now.’” He inhales sharply, his voice quieter, almost resigned. “‘You’re not human anymore. You don’t have a heart—it’s a core. Like us. Like kaijus.’” Your not tho? The vice captain said. Your perfectly human, not a kaiju. A whisper of comeback are heard from him, if anyone heard, they just stayed silent.
He lets the words hang in the air, his forced smile barely holding together, as if he doesn’t notice the devastation he’s leaving behind. “Then I was like, ‘Ah, maybe that’s why I felt so... wrong.’” He chuckles weakly, pressing his palm against his forehead, the weight of his own words pressing harder.
His expression shifts, the smile fading into a rare seriousness. He stares into the camera, his brows furrowed.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you guys,” he says. He’s not forgiven! The female captain said, rage is within her eyes, but the rage are accompanied by utter sadness, after all, he promise to fight beside her. He broke it.
his voice dropping into a near whisper. “I just… I don’t know why my pathetic ass couldn’t say it. I guess it’s just—” He breaks off, rubbing at the back of his neck. Then, suddenly, he smiles again, but this time it’s different. Real.
“When we finished that war, you guys were still in shock. The loss was too much.” His smile falters for a moment, sweat beading on his forehead as if just saying the words is painful.
“You were all grieving, holding each other up. I couldn’t bear to add one more thing to your shoulders.”
He takes a breath, visibly trying to lighten the mood, his voice lifting. “But hey! When I died, it wasn’t for nothing. But hey! When I bit it, it wasn’t for nothing, alright? One sacrifice for the big picture, right?” He forces a laugh, though it feels hollow. “Imagine this! Okonogi-san told me that my kaiju form let out a fortitude of 9.8! Almost a perfect 10!” His tone is unnervingly cheerful, like he’s announcing a major achievement.
His hands wave excitedly for a moment before falling still. His smile lingers, but his eyes betray something deeper. “Sorry, though,” he adds, quieter this time. “I could only divide it into five weapons. That’s all I could do.” He bows his head slightly, as if the apology means something. It doesn’t. He shouldn’t be apologizing. He shouldn’t have to.
"For the viewers, if you’re part of the Defense Force, or if you know the Defense Force, just do me a solid and pass this message on to Ashiro Mina, the Captain of the Third Division, Soshiro Hoshina, the Vice-Captain, Kikoru Shinomiya from the First Division, Ichikawa Reno from the Third Division, and last but not least... Gen Narumi, the First Division Captain."
The man laughs awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. "Yeah, um, just... tell them ‘thanks.’ Seriously, thank them. Thank them for everything." Then he cough “also, don’t throw my things away, donate them.”
Then, the video cuts, but not before they catch a glimpse of him. A single tear falls from his eye, snots hanging from his nose, but he’s fighting it. He’s holding it back, like he’s trying to make sure he doesn’t fall apart in front of the camera.
The big screen flickers, then goes black.
It’s over.
Silence.
The weight of it presses down on everyone in the room. The video, his final words, still hanging in the air like smoke. Then, the Captain of the First Division stands, his body stiff, his gaze icy as he locks eyes with the executives before him. The guilt on some faces is obvious, but others—others show nothing but emptiness.
"I object," he says, voice like ice, but the tracks of tears on his face betray the cold exterior. "As the Captain of the First Division, I request that Kaiju Number 8—no, Hibino Kafka’s body—be buried. Not turned into weapons."
His voice breaks, but he doesn't let it show, standing tall as the words cut through the room.
Then, the Captain of the Third Division stands too. "Me too," she says, her voice sharp with determination.
One by one, the others follow suit. The silver-haired boy, the blonde-haired girl, leaving the dark violet-haired man sits on his chair, devoid of any emotion.
A single executive, his face stoic as stone, watches them all, his lips barely moving as he lifts an eyebrow. His fingers snap, and two men enter, carrying large tubes filled with dark scales, the faint glow of teal energy pulsing from within.
"Sorry to disappoint you," the executive says, his voice flat, emotionless. "But this was Hibino Kafka’s personal request—to turn his body into a weapon."
The words hang in the air, and then—chaos erupts.
They were fucking heartless monsters.
Her fists clenched, nails biting into her palms so hard she could feel the blood rising.
God, could she just kill them all right now?
The audacity. The nerve. The lie.
What the hell is a "personal request"? Kafka would never—he wouldn’t just leave them like this. He promised. He promised her, promised to stay. After her dad was killed by that damned Number 9 Kaiju, Kafka swore he would stay with her.
He stayed.
Even when Shinomiya lost her damn mind, screaming at the Kaijus she vowed to kill, throwing tantrums, starving herself, ignoring him—he stayed. He always stayed.
But this? This video, these words? It’s a lie. Right? It’s edited. He didn’t really say that. Did he?
Her heart clenched in a way that made it hard to breathe, a twisting, gut-wrenching pain that threatened to tear her apart.
But no. She couldn’t let her emotions run wild. Think.
Use logic. Her brain worked harder, faster, pushing the pain to the side. This couldn’t be real. Kafka wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t just—he wouldn’t... right?
The video—his words—had to be manipulated. There was no way he would choose this.
Shinomiya Kikoru clenched her jaw, fighting back the flood of emotions threatening to overtake her. The video, the lies—it didn’t make sense. Kafka wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t just leave them, especially not like this. Not when they had so many memories together. She had to find the truth, had to confirm it with her own eyes.
And so, she found herself standing in front of Kafka’s apartment—the place they once stayed in together. She could still remember it clearly. The mission had drained them all, and Kafka had suggested they crash at his place. He, Ichikawa Reno, and her. That night was supposed to be a quiet reprieve from the chaos of their lives.
But, of course, their "quiet night" had been interrupted. Narumi Gen, the ever-dramatic first division captain, had barged in, spouting nonsense about how they were "worrying him" by not returning to base. He had insisted on staying. Then, just when they thought they’d escape the madness, the bowl-cut vice-captain, Soshiro Hoshina, came looking for Kafka. Apparently, he was “searching for him” because Kafka hadn’t shown up for his daily training session.
In the end, the five of them had ended up having a sleepover, a ridiculous situation considering their ranks. But it was funny, really, looking back.
Narumi Gen, the captain of the strongest division in Japan, one of the wealthiest men in the country—surely, he had money. But if you asked him, he’d probably deny it. He was always asking Shinomiya for money for his gaming habits. Still, the man had assets—there was no denying that.
Then there was Soshiro Hoshina. The vice-captain of the third division, a man with the name "Hoshina" who hailed from one of the most prestigious and wealthy families connected to the Kaijus. Whenever he wore casual clothes, you could practically feel the money radiating from him. The man oozed old money vibes.
And then there was Shinomiya Kikoru herself. She was an orphan now, but she was the face of the Shinomiya family. She was the prodigy, the one everyone in the Kaiju defense force looked up to. Hell, even the first division captain asked her for money. She wasn’t rich in the way most people thought, but she was far from struggling. So yeah, it was pretty funny seeing all these important, powerful people wearing branded clothes and still crashing at a medium-sized apartment.
That night, though, everything had felt... normal. Fun, even. They had all played Kafka’s games, eaten his cooking, and just... relaxed. Shinomiya had taken the main room, of course, because Kafka always treated the girls with that old-fashioned chivalry—oblivious as he was. She still remembered the way Hoshina had flirted with her, only for Kafka to laugh it off and rub his neck awkwardly. He had been so Kafka about it.
Then there was the moment when Narumi Gen pinned Kafka against the kitchen shelf. The only reason there wasn’t a fight was because Hoshina had been in the bathroom at the time. If he’d been around, Ichikawa and Kikoru didn’t want to imagine the chaos that would’ve ensued. It was funny, in a way. They were all so messed up, yet they still managed to find moments of peace in between it all.
But now? Kafka was gone. The video, the lies, everything—it didn’t add up. Shinomiya shook her head. She wasn’t going to let it end like this. Not without knowing the truth.
Shinomiya stood frozen at the threshold of Kafka’s apartment, her heart pounding in her chest. The room was untouched, everything exactly as it had been the last time she was here. His futon still lay in the same spot—now empty. The boxes, scattered around the room, were a painful reminder of all the plans they’d made together, of the normalcy they had tried to cling to, even amidst the chaos of their lives.
“Who is it?” Ichikawa’s voice came from the kitchen, breaking through the suffocating silence.
“Shinomiya,” she answered sharply, her eyes scanning the apartment. It felt like a ghost had taken residence here. Kafka’s presence lingered in every corner—his warmth, his laughter, his clumsy attempts to cheer them up when the weight of the world had been too much. But now, there was nothing. Just emptiness.
Ichikawa appeared in the doorway, his eyes briefly flicking over her, but saying nothing. His face was unreadable, but she could see the tension in his shoulders.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, a hollow edge to his voice.
Her heart twisted in her chest. “What are you doing here?” Her words were barely more than a rasp, thick with the anger she was fighting to suppress. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides as she glared at him.
Ichikawa met her gaze without flinching, but something about how he looked at her—too distant, too cold—made her gut churn. “Maybe the same thing you want to do,” he answered, his voice too casual, too detached. He turned toward Kafka’s room without waiting for her reply.
She followed him, every step dragging her deeper into the memories she wasn’t ready to confront. The walls felt like they were closing in around her as she stepped into the room—his room, the room that had been their home, their refuge, their place of peace amidst the chaos.
The memories hit her like a wave, crashing over her with a violent force she wasn’t prepared for. Kafka’s smile, the warmth of his presence, the stupid arguments they had, the way he would always make sure she ate even when she refused to take care of herself. He promised. He promised he’d stay.
No. He didn’t want to leave them like this. It was all a lie. The video… the words… everything.
“I thought we all agreed,” she muttered, voice cracking. “That if he died, it would be for something. Something bigger. He… he chose to die. But not like this.” The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them, a desperate plea to hold onto the version of Kafka she wanted to believe. The one who was still out there fighting for them, even in death.
Ichikawa didn’t answer immediately. He just kept walking, until he was standing in the middle of the room, his gaze distant, unfocused. “We all know he chose this,” he said at last, his voice low and rough. “But I don’t care about the choice he made. I can’t… I can’t accept it.”
Shinomiya’s heart cracked wide open at his words. Her hands trembled as she reached out, gripping the nearest object for support—his game console. Kafka’s game, the one he’d always play late at night with them. She turned it over in her hands, the weight of it like the weight of a thousand unspoken regrets.
“Why?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Why are you still here if you know? If you know the truth, why can’t you accept it?”
Ichikawa turned back to her, and for a moment, she saw a flicker of something—vulnerability. But it was gone before she could grasp it. “Because it doesn’t change how much it hurts,” he said, his voice tight. “The truth doesn’t make it any easier, Kikoru. It doesn’t make the fucking emptiness go away.”
Shinomiya’s breath hitched. “It’s not supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to just leave us. He wasn’t supposed to choose this.” Her voice rose with the intensity of the feeling crashing through her. “He promised. He promised me he wouldn’t leave like this, not like some—some weapon. I trusted him. I—” She choked on her words, unable to finish the sentence.
Her chest burned with the pressure of all the unshed tears. She didn’t want to break down. She couldn’t. But everything was unraveling. The grief, the rage, the betrayal. It was all too much to hold inside anymore.
“You think I don’t know that?” Ichikawa’s voice was raw, like the words were cutting him open as he spoke them. “I’m just as fucked up as you are, okay? I want to believe he didn’t leave us like this. I want to believe it’s all some twisted mistake. But it’s not.” He paused, taking a long breath as if bracing himself for something. “Kafka made his choice. And I… I don’t know how to live with it. I don’t know how to live with him gone.”
Her knees buckled beneath her, and she collapsed onto the futon, clutching it as if holding onto it would somehow bring him back. “He didn’t want this. He didn’t choose this… not like this. This wasn’t his decision,” she sobbed, her voice cracking. “He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.”
But the truth was there, hanging between them. Kafka had chosen to end his life, to end the battle. He’d made that decision, knowing it would break them. But he never wanted them to know. He never wanted them to feel this. This emptiness, this constant gnawing ache that would never go away. But they feel it anyway.
Ichikawa crouched beside her, his face softening with the kind of sorrow she didn’t know how to cope with. “I know,” he whispered. “But the pain is still here, Kikoru. It’s still here for all of us. And I don’t know how to let go of that.”
The words she wanted to say stuck in her throat. How could she let go of him? How could she let go of the Kafka who had promised to stay? How could she accept that he had made this sacrifice, not for them, but for a world that would never know how much it cost?
She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Not yet.
Not ever.
They stay there for some solid minute until alarm go on, and its near the apartment.
The alarm blared through the apartment, signaling the imminent chaos just outside. Shinomiya’s chest tightened, and her thoughts raced as she suited up, the cold metal of her suit fitting snugly over her body. She moved with practiced urgency, pulling her weapon from the bag, its black scales gleaming under the dim light. The energy within it pulsed with a familiar yet unfamiliar force.
Ichikawa paused for a moment, grimacing as he fastened his weapon’s holster. “Unfortunately, yes. The weapon I used was kinda damaged, and the executives forced me to use this.” His tone was flat, as if the words themselves tasted bitter in his mouth. “What about you?” he asked, turning to her with a mixture of unease and understanding in his gaze.
Shinomiya didn’t answer immediately. She simply frowned, her fingers curling tighter around the axe’s handle. The pulsing energy surged through her hand, filling her with a strange unease, as though Kafka’s presence lingered in the weapon itself. She wanted to scream, wanted to throw it aside, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. This was Kafka’s wish, wasn’t it?
Before she could say another word, Ichikawa placed a hand on her shoulder. His touch was soft, a rare moment of comfort in the midst of the chaos. “It’s okay,” he said quietly, his voice softer than it had been all evening. “Maybe when you use it, you’ll feel that overwhelming guilt. But maybe, if the video is true, if Kafka really wanted this, we have to accept it. We have no choice.”
Shinomiya stared at him for a long moment, the weight of his words sinking in. If Kafka wanted this. The thought was suffocating. Kafka’s body, turned into a weapon. His soul, twisted into something they couldn’t even recognize.
“Yeah,” she muttered under her breath, more to herself than to Ichikawa. “Maybe.”
Ichikawa picked up his black rifle and turned to leave, his face set with grim determination. “We’ll do this for him, Shinomiya,” he said, his voice carrying a strength she hadn’t expected. “We’ll finish this fight.”
Without another word, he left the apartment, stepping out into the night with a fluid motion. Shinomiya quickly followed, feeling the pulsing energy from her axe grow more intense as she moved. The overwhelming presence of it made her skin crawl, but she knew—she had to move. They had to fight. They had to survive.
As she leaped through the window and onto the roof, the city lights blurred in her vision, a strange mix of urgency and fury burning inside her. Kafka’s voice. Be careful.
Her heart skipped a beat, but she couldn’t focus on that now. Not now.
The swarm of kaiju in the sewer was overwhelming. But Ichikawa was already in the thick of it, his rifle firing with deadly accuracy, each bullet landing with perfect precision at the hearts of the monstrous creatures. Her own axe thrummed in her hands, the black scales of the weapon almost alive, responding to her every movement.
But then, that voice.
Shinomiya.
She froze, mid-jump, her feet barely skimming the ground. She heard it again, clear as day—Be careful. Kafka’s voice. His voice, despite everything, despite his death.
She shook her head violently. It couldn’t be him. He was gone. This wasn’t real.
But her heart screamed with the desperate need to believe, to hold onto the fragile hope that Kafka was still there, still watching over them.
The kaiju were closing in. She could feel them, smell the stench of decay and destruction in the air. She couldn’t stop now. She couldn’t stop for the faint whispers in her mind. She had to fight. She had to protect.
Her hands gripped the axe tighter, the energy inside her surging. The pulsing power overtook her, and she let go. Her mind went blank. The world blurred around her.
Berserk.
She charged into the fray, her axe swinging with brutal force, cutting through the kaiju like a hot knife through butter. The weight of the weapon felt right in her hands as she cleaved through monsters, the steel blade singing a deadly tune. Each swing, each strike, was fueled by the raw, chaotic emotions ripping through her. Grief, anger, loss—all twisted into a deadly storm.
She wasn’t thinking anymore. She wasn’t even aware of her actions. All she knew was the surge of power, the weight of the weapon in her hands, the sound of destruction as she tore through the swarm of kaiju.
But through it all, through the chaos and the bloodshed, she couldn’t escape the echo of Kafka’s voice. Be careful.
Narumi’s week had been nothing short of a disaster.
His room was a mess, his body drenched in the stench of days without a shower, and his mind tangled in the endless loop of Kafka’s death, the video, and the damn kaiju-kafka, weapon forced on him. It was Kafka’s request, apparently—a final, twisted act from the man who had once been alive and, for a brief moment, a part of his world.
The weapon had been modified with his parts, and it felt like Kafka had left a piece of himself inside it, forever tying Narumi to the nightmare of his death.
One week. One week since he had seen the video. Since the truth hit him like a freight train. And here he was—stuck in a room, playing games to escape, drowning in self-pity and guilt, all while carrying the burden Kafka had left behind.
He already have a kaiju weapon-it’s a suit- BUT HE DOESN’T NEED IT!. He didn’t want it. He had never asked for it. Hell, he didn’t even want to touch it. But that didn’t matter. Higher-ups had decided it was his responsibility to bear it. Kafka had requested it before his death, a final demand from beyond the grave that felt more like a curse than anything else
"At least if you’re going to leave a piece of yourself, Hibino Kafka," Narumi muttered bitterly, the words escaping his lips as if they were nothing but acid. "Take it with you. Leave no trace. But no, you had to leave a part of you in my weapon—my job—you had to make sure I carried that goddamn piece of you around."
Very smart move, Hibino kafka.
Fuck thinking his name makes Narumi annoyed.
He slammed his hand down on the console in front of him, frustrated and desperate for anything to drown out the thoughts—the memories—that wouldn’t stop haunting him.
BRAK BRAK BRAK
"Go the fuck away, I’m on vacation!" Narumi shouted, barely looking up from the screen in front of him, but the flickering light from the sword in the corner of his eye made it hard to concentrate.
BRAK BRAK BRAK
The knocking persisted, loud, insistent, and it only made him want to snap.
BRAK BRAK BRAK
Finally, after the relentless banging, Narumi took a deep breath. Silence. Silence is always the best answer.
But then—"Hoy, useless teacher." A voice broke through the silence, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps entering the room. Narumi’s eyes narrowed as his gaze landed on the figure in the doorway.
It was Shinomiya Kikoru. His disciple. The daughter of the man he had promised to protect. The girl he had sworn to shield from everything until she became strong enough.
"What do you want, Shinomiya?" Narumi replied, his voice lifeless, devoid of emotion.
A clap echoed through the room, and he winced at the sound. Shinomiya’s voice followed, too calm, too confident. "Perfect answer. Maids, clean this room."
Narumi felt his heart tighten as footsteps followed the command. Cleaning? He hadn’t done anything to deserve this level of care. His room wasn’t that messy—was it? But then he remembered. Kafka. Kafka had been the one to keep everything neat, everything in its place. Fuck. Stop thinking about him!
The maids moved around him, and Narumi just wanted to scream. I don’t need your pity.
Shinomiya’s voice broke through his thoughts again. "You haven’t taken any missions. Luckily for you, others are coping by destroying kaijus. They’re moving forward, Narumi. You’re just standing still."
"My presence is unneeded," Narumi said shortly, but the words felt hollow. He couldn’t deny it—he was standing still. He had no purpose, no drive anymore. Kafka was gone. It felt hollow, doing anything suffocates him.
"Or you just don’t want to touch your own weapon." Shinomiya’s words cut through the silence with surgical precision.
Narumi stiffened. That was it, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to touch the damn weapon. Every time he did, a voice echoed in his mind. A voice that sounded like him.
‘Narumi-san, your room is a complete mess! Clean it!’
The voice. It had been Kafka’s voice. And in that moment, Narumi had felt the crushing weight of loss all over again. The tears had come, despite his best efforts to stop them. I never got to tell you, Kafka. I never got to say it...
He clenched his fist, his nails digging into his palm. The pain was sharp, real, a fleeting distraction from the overwhelming ache in his chest. He thought of that night—of the breakdown. Of the screams. Of the promises he had made to Kafka. And none of it had been enough.
None of it had brought him back.
The console in his hands cracked under the pressure of his grip, but he didn’t even care.
And shinomiya stands there, behind her captain and stares as his shoulders shaken. And sobs could be heard.
It’s a water-type kaiju—a tough one, but nothing Soushiro can’t handle. After all—
“The core is in the ventral parts of its body, Vice-Captain.”
Heh. Still calling me Vice-Captain even after death, huh, Hibino Kafka? Soushiro smirked to himself before stepping off the helicopter and diving headfirst into the kaiju’s open mouth.
“Sorry to make you worry, Kafka, but it looks like Kaiju Number Ten wants to have some fun first,” Soushiro said, glancing back at the helicopter with a grin. For a fleeting moment, he imagined Kafka was there, watching him with that familiar worried expression. Just like he always did.
Then another voice, harsh and guttural, interrupted his thoughts. “Where’s the vital organ to taunt this kaiju, Soushiro’s imaginary friend?”
It was that damned kaiju suit again. Soushiro slapped the chest of the suit with a sigh. “Shut it,” he muttered under his breath before repeating Kaiju Number Ten’s analysis aloud.
The response came not from him but from Kafka’s dagger, which moved as if possessed. The blade launched forward, slashing through the kaiju’s mouth, forcing a bloodcurdling scream from the beast. The kaiju jerked, tossing Soushiro out of its mouth with a violent spasm.
“HAHAHA! NICE!” Kaiju Number Ten roared with laughter as it lunged into the fray, its massive tail smashing into the smaller kaiju, scattering debris and water in all directions.
Soushiro grinned at the chaos, staring at the air in front of him as if Kafka were really there, smiling at him, waiting for one of his compliments.
'Be careful.'
“I will,” Soushiro replied softly, his voice carrying a rare warmth. “Now watch and see how I use the weapon you gave me, Kafka.” His smile lingered even as he charged toward the kaiju again.
If anyone asked if Soushiro had accepted Kafka’s death, they’d say yes.
But the truth? He hadn’t. Not even close. Too far from close.
He hated it. Every second of it. The memory burned like an open wound he couldn’t heal. But how could he admit that?
After all, he was the one who killed him.
The memory was vivid, haunting, a weight that Soushiro carried every day. He remembered everything—the lab, Kafka fully transformed, his body torn apart by the strain of Kaiju Number Nine. He looked like he was dying even then.
After watching that video, Soushiro knew. Maybe Kafka had been dying long before that day.
He wasn’t surprised when he heard it from Kafka himself—dying, bound to Kaiju Number Nine, his life tethered to the enemy’s existence. If Number Nine was destroyed, so was Kafka. It was a fate Kafka had made peace with, even if Soushiro never could.
He was there when it happened—when Kafka collapsed in his arms, his last words lingering like a curse.
"Don’t feel guilty over my dead body. Don’t turn me into a curse."
Soushiro was there when the scientists took Kafka’s body from his arms. He watched as they separated it into six pieces, dismantling the man he had loved in the name of science. He was there when they began forging weapons from those pieces—when Shinomiya’s axe was crafted from Kafka’s left hand, Ichikawa’s rifle from his right.
When Captain Ashiro’s suit was made from Kafka’s torso.
Soushiro felt a pang of jealousy then. Ashiro’s weapon meant she carried Kafka’s heart—literally, his heart. Soushiro hated that it wasn’t him, but he calmed himself. He remembered the lingering taste of Kafka’s kiss from when he was still human. That was enough, wasn’t it?
Soushiro stayed. He stayed when Narumi’s weapon was improved with Kafka’s left leg. He stayed even though he couldn’t bear it. He stayed until he could ask for just one thing.
A jacket and a dagger.
All Soushiro wanted was a jacket—something simple to cover his neck and chest. Because the truth was too gruesome for anyone to understand. but then they also upgrade one of his blade.
Soushiro had killed Kafka by severing his head.
And now, Kafka’s head was in Soushiro’s room.
It was creepy. He knew it was. Abnormal, grotesque, and wrong on every level. But the weapon made from Kafka’s body had been distributed to five people. The head? It was deemed useless. No practical value.
So Soushiro took it.
Maybe, just maybe, the kaiju part of Kafka could still communicate through it.
And it could.
Over time, that severed head became Soushiro’s constant companion. It spoke to him, taunted him, encouraged him, and haunted him all at once. Kafka’s voice, echoing in his mind, was both a comfort and a torment.
Soushiro blinked, snapping back to the present. He realized he had been standing in the middle of a battlefield, surrounded by the remnants of the kaiju he had just slain. The suit was covered in gore, Kaiju Number Ten’s voice booming in laughter somewhere in the distance.
“Great job, Vice-Captain.”
Soushiro’s lips curved into a bittersweet smile, a tear slipping down his cheek. He looked at the weapon in his hand, then at the empty air around him.
“It’s Soushiro, Kafka-nee,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Soushiro.”
And then he moved forward, carrying Kafka’s memory like a blade, sharp and unrelenting.
Guilt was normal.
Grief? Mina had faced it before.
But broken? This was new.
It was a feeling she'd never known, not until him. After all, he had promised her, promised her, that he'd always be by her side.
"He will be beside you, Ashiro Mina. He’s your brand-new suit now. He can be with you all the time."
She didn’t want a brand-new suit or weapon. She was perfectly fine with her old equipment! She was grateful for it. She didn’t need—didn’t want—this thing.
“Captain.” Soushiro’s voice cut through the suffocating silence of her room like a knife.
Mina turned her head toward her vice-captain, her movements slow and heavy. Her eyes were hollow, her shoulders slackened, her usual commanding presence reduced to something… less.
“A large kaiju’s been spotted in the sky, meters from the base,” Soushiro reported, his voice as casual as if he were announcing the weather. “We wouldn’t want our brand-new base destroyed a second time, right?” He scoffed, a crooked smile playing on his lips, sharp fangs glinting.
For a moment, Mina stared at him, the weight of his words crashing down on her. Since that day, after they had all watched the video, she had often wondered: Does Soushiro even grieve Kafka?
The thought lingered, poisonous and bitter. But then the truth hit her like a train, and it was worse than she could have imagined.
Soushiro was the one who killed Kafka.
The urge to strangle him surged within her. The raw, unrelenting need to hurt him, to make him feel even a fraction of her pain, was almost overwhelming. But Mina knew better. She wouldn’t hurt Kafka’s beloved people. She couldn’t.
Because no matter how much it ached, Soushiro, Narumi, Ichikawa, Shinomiya… they were Kafka’s chosen. They were the five people he had entrusted with himself, with everything he had left.
“Lead the way, Vice-Captain,” she said, her voice as cold as steel.
Soushiro nodded, sparing her not even a glance as he turned to leave.
And that was fine. It was better that way.
Mina followed silently, her steps heavy with a burden she would never lay down. They walked and walked, their footsteps echoing in the hallway as they made their way toward the operator room.
It was still far.
“Why did you kill him?” Mina asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.
The question hit like a bullet, sharp and precise, but not at the target she intended. It was her heart that ached. She wasn’t the one who had killed Kafka, but asking Soushiro felt like pouring salt into her own wounds. Still, she repeated it, her voice trembling. “Why?” why? Why? Why? Why?
Soushiro glanced at her briefly before focusing back ahead. His face betrayed no guilt, no grief. “Because he asked me to.”
The answer was too simple. Too cold. Too clean. It made Mina’s blood boil.
“Tragic, you know?” Soushiro continued, his voice tinged with something she couldn’t place. “He stole my first kiss. Then asked me to kill him.”
Mina’s fists clenched, her nails digging into her palms as Soushiro’s words pricked at her like barbs.
“He was walking around the building that night,” Soushiro began again, his tone almost conversational. “At first, I didn’t know what he was doing. Then I got a closer look. His left hand had turned into that kaiju form, and his white shirt was soaked with blood. Gruesome. Definitely not something you’d want Ichikawa or Shinomiya to see.”
He chuckled. An unfunny, hollow sound.
“When I finally confronted him,” Soushiro continued, his voice taking on an edge of bitterness, “he told me. All of it. His plans. His reasons. I objected, of course. I disagreed. But…” Soushiro paused, his lips curling into a faint, bitter smile. “His hot-headed ass silenced me by kissing me. Just a small peck on the lips, but it shut me up, alright.”
Mina’s breath hitched, her hands trembling as the weight of his words bore down on her.
“He told me everything,” Soushiro said again, his voice quieter now. “So, when we watched the video, it didn’t surprise me. Not the way it surprised the rest of you.”
He glanced at her then, his sharp eyes gleaming like he’d won something. And maybe he had. Maybe he had won.
Kafka’s heart.
Soushiro smiled, but this time, it wasn’t humor. It was bitter. Hollow.
And god—Mina wanted to punch him. To wipe that expression off his face. To make him feel something.
“Captain! Vice-captain!” Okonogi’s voice rang out, snapping both Mina and Soushiro from the heavy silence of their walk. She turned her head toward the door, urgency in her tone. “Please prepare. The Third Division is already at the front line of the estimated place where the kaiju fell.” She gestured to the screen, where red dots clustered ominously. Far too many.
Mina and Soushiro exchanged a glance before wordlessly heading off to change into their gear.
For Mina, every step felt like a slog through quicksand. And then, there it was—the suit. Her suit. The one that had been crafted from the body of someone she loved. The thought alone made her stomach churn.
The silence in the changing room became oppressive, suffocating her. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she stared at the suit hanging before her. The room seemed to shrink, walls closing in until the weight of the grief clawing at her chest became unbearable. Her head pounded. The food she had eaten earlier churned uneasily, threatening to rise.
This is too much.
Outside the room, Soushiro lingered, a frown etched deep on his face. The quiet stretched unnaturally long, and a nagging instinct told him something wasn’t right. Knocking on the door, he called out, his voice steady but heavy with something unspoken.
“He’s already gone, Captain Ashiro. Let him go.”
The words felt hypocritical even as they left his lips. He hadn’t let go either.
Inside, Mina gripped the edge of the bench, her knuckles white. The words stabbed at her, but they didn’t bring comfort.
Then, faintly—soft as a whisper, but unmistakably clear—a voice reached her.
"It’s okay, Mina."
Her breath hitched. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest.
“K-Kafka…?” she called, her voice trembling, eyes wide as she looked around the empty room. The sound of his voice had been so real.
Soushiro’s voice cut through her fragile hope from outside.
“He’s gone, Captain.”
Eventually, with trembling hands, she reached for it. Sliding her arms into the sleeves, she felt the warmth—unexpected, unnatural, and cruel.
It wasn’t the artificial heat of the advanced material. No, it was human, alive, him. It wrapped around her, clinging to her like he used to, like he was still here, like she wasn’t utterly alone.
Her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor, clutching at the fabric as though it could pull him back from wherever he’d gone. Her lips quivered, her voice breaking into the emptiness.
"It’s okay, Mina."
Her breath hitched, her eyes wide.
“K...Kafka?” Her voice was a whisper, a prayer, a plea.
But there was no answer.
The door creaked open, and Soushiro’s voice pierced the silence.
“Don’t stay drowning in your guilt.”
He stood in the doorway, his expression neutral, but the way his voice cracked at the edges betrayed him. He didn’t wait for her reply, just turned and left, the words lingering in the air like smoke from a fire they both couldn’t extinguish.
But those words weren’t just for her. Mina could tell. They were for him too. A desperate mantra to keep himself from sinking into the same endless pit of sorrow. From standing in the same place forever, stuck, crying, and... talking to Kafka.
Talking.
A small, broken laugh escaped his lips.
Mina stared after him, the suit’s warmth still pressing against her. Her fingers clawed at the chest of it, her nails digging in as her body shook.
It wasn’t okay. It would never be okay.
Come back.
Her voice cracked as she whispered it, over and over, to no one.
Come back.
She felt sick. She wanted to tear the suit off, to throw it away, to scream until her lungs gave out. But she didn’t. Because even now, it was all she had left of him.
And then, softly, almost imperceptibly, she heard it again.
"I’ll be here, Mina."
Her head snapped up, her breath catching. The warmth of the suit pulsed against her skin, cruel and taunting.
"I’ll be here, Mina."
The warmth of the suit seemed to pulse faintly, and for a fleeting moment, she could almost believe it.
“Tadaima, Senpai.” Ichikawa muttered under his breath as he stepped into the dorm, his voice too soft to fill the empty space. He slipped off his shoes, the faint sound echoing in the unnatural stillness.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
His chest tightened as his gaze swept over the room, the absence of his roommate unsettling, though expected. A bitter chuckle escaped his lips as his eyes drifted to the rifle in his hands.
“Okaerinasai, Senpai,” he whispered, the words hollow, almost mocking.
He carried the weapon with him into the kitchen, where he set it down with careful reverence. The cold, lifeless steel glinted under the dim light, reflecting his own weary face back at him.
The curry he’d bought earlier sat in its plastic container on the counter. Cheap. Instant. Lifeless—just like the dorm, just like him. He tore the package open and threw it into the microwave, the mechanical hum filling the silence.
It’s unhealthy to always eat instant food, Ichikawa.
The voice in his head was so clear it felt like it came from the rifle itself. His hands froze mid-motion, the familiar guilt twisting in his gut.
“Gomen, Senpai,” he muttered, the teasing edge in his tone failing to mask the crack in his voice. He picked up the steaming curry, carrying it to the small table as though the act itself might distract him.
The rifle sat across from him, its presence too heavy, too loud.
Ichikawa stabbed at the curry with his spoon, forcing a playful grin. “Nyam,” he said mockingly, raising a bite of the food to his mouth as if to taunt the imaginary voice.
But the taste turned to ash on his tongue.
The grin faltered, his hand trembling as he set the spoon down. He looked at the rifle, his chest heaving with uneven breaths.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, softer this time, the words breaking apart as they left him.
The rifle, of course, said nothing.
And yet, in the oppressive silence of the dorm, he could hear him. Kafka. Always there, always watching, always gone.
Ichikawa buried his face in his hands, the cheap curry long forgotten. His shoulders shook as he choked on the weight of the words he could never say, the words that would never be heard.
“Tadaima, Senpai,” Ichikawa whispered again, his voice cracking under the weight of loneliness.
The room stayed silent.
But in his head, a whisper followed. ‘Okaerinasai, Ichikawa.’
The words lingered, as if carried by a ghostly presence. He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head, and walked into the living room.
Setting the rifle down carefully on the sofa, he glanced at the empty spot beside it, his chest tightening. The memories played out without his consent—Kafka, sprawled out on that same sofa, snoring softly with the TV still flickering.
“You take too long cleaning yourself, Ichikawa. I might as well move in here.”
The voice echoed in his head, dragging a bitter smile from his lips. Kafka always complained, yet somehow always waited for him to finish, even if it meant dozing off.
"Maybe your ghost is bored, Senpai," Ichikawa muttered, his words catching on something sharp in his throat. "That's why I put you here."
He turned on the television, the hum of meaningless noise filling the empty space. It was almost enough to fool him into thinking someone else was there.
“I’ll be cleaning myself now, Senpai,” he said softly, his voice trembling as he forced a smile.
But the bitterness lingered in his expression, clinging to him like the weight of Kafka’s absence.
As he stepped away, he glanced back one last time. The rifle gleamed dully under the dim light, a weapon—but to Ichikawa, so much more.
So much less.
The bathroom door clicked shut, and the sound of running water drowned out the silence. But no amount of noise could quiet the ache in his chest, the feeling that the apartment was far too big for just one person.
He scrubbed his hands and face longer than he needed to, as if cleaning himself could wash away the guilt, the memories, the absence.
But nothing ever did.