Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was no fanfare, no bright light, no swirling vortex. Just… warmth. And the scent of something fresh and clean.

Satoshi opened his eyes to the sight of a pale wooden ceiling. The air was crisp and cool, the room simple and clean—a bed beneath him, a window next to it with half closed curtains and a low table at the far end. His limbs felt strange, too light, too fluid. He sat up slowly, watching the sleeves of a hoodie fall over unfamiliar, slender wrists.

It wasn’t his body, not even close. But it didn't feel unfamiliar, not really. He immediately noticed this wasn’t a dream. Or if it was, it was doing a damn good job of pretending otherwise.

Then he saw the tablet, neatly placed beside him, on the bed. Sleek. Modern and out of place.

A small blinking message read: Welcome, Contractor. Press here to begin.

“Oh no,” he muttered, the memory creeping in like condensation on glass. “I did the stupid catalog thing, didn’t I?”

Curiosity, that was all it had been. Just curiosity. He had filled out the Waifu Catalog interface as a joke—trying to make something wholesome in a setting infamous for being the exact opposite. Worm. God, of all the worlds. He hadn’t expected anything to actually happen.

He didn’t even remember dying before being isekaed. And that was what usually happened, right?

Shaking his head, he pressed the prompt. The screen flicked to life, and text flowed like a list of sins.

Isshiki Satoshi. Tier 2. Talent Stack: Body Tune-Up, Time Savers...

Satoshi blinked. “I… really picked Isshiki Satoshi? From Shokugeki no Soma? I mean, sure, he’s nice, but—”

Perks: Calming Up, No Bindings, Intact Weaknesses, Entrances: Random…

“Oh my God, I really went full hopepunk,” he whispered, scrolling.

Then he found the part that made him pause:

Companions: EMIYA (T7). Ralts - Female (Pet).

He snorted ind disbelief. “EMIYA and… Ralts?”

A voice replied before he could process the absurdity. “Yes. It’s me.”

Satoshi flinched so hard he almost dropped the tablet. He twisted around on the bed and standing behind him was a small green and white Pokémon—Ralts—smiling shily but still cheerful, like this was just another lovely morning.

Beside her stood a tall, red-clad man with white hair and a glare sharp enough to cleave stone.

“…Oh,” Satoshi said weakly.

“You picked me,” EMIYA said, his voice clipped, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “You used that system to pull me out of that place and drag me here.”

The full realization clicked into place. EMIYA wasn’t some light version. This was the real Counter Guardian. The one shackled to Alaya. The one who knew what the Company was.

“Crap,” Satoshi breathed and EMIYA's gaze sharpened. The atmosphere thickened.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Satoshi scrambled up on his knees, palms out in panicked defense. “Just—just listen for a second! You’re not bound to me. There’s no binding perk! No contracts. No obedience clauses. Nothing like that!”

The white-haired Counter Guardian narrowed his eyes but didn’t move. Still. Watching.

“I—I chose you because of Alaya,” Satoshi said quickly, words spilling from his lips like rice from a cracked pot. “Because I knew what being a Counter Guardian meant. Because if there was even a tiny chance I could get you away from that… I wanted to try.”

The silence stretched.

“And—and also, I’m not that into men,” he added in a rush. “I mean, I’m bi, sure, but I didn’t choose you because of—like, attraction or anything. I just thought—I don’t know! You seemed like someone I could help!”

Another pause. Still no movement.

“I didn’t even think it would work!” Satoshi waved the tablet with one hand like it would absolve him. “It was just a curiosity thing. I filled it out, played around with the options—tried to build something wholesome in Worm, which I now realize was probably the dumbest idea I’ve ever had, but I didn’t think I’d actually get isekai’d!”

He inhaled sharply, starting to panic again.

“I’m sorry. I really am. If I can find a way to get you back to your own world, I will. I promise. I didn’t mean to take you away from—”

EMIYA raised a hand and Satoshi stopped mid-babble, the words dying on his tongue.

The Servant let out a long, exasperated sigh. “I didn’t kill you the moment I saw you because I already knew some of that.” He glanced at Ralts, who was still humming peacefully beside him, completely unbothered. “Your aura helps. And… you really don’t feel like a threat.”

Satoshi deflated in relief until EMIYA gave him a sideways glance. “If you’re not into men, though, why didn’t you pick a woman?”

Satoshi groaned into his hands. “Because I’m still a mortal and very much a normal man, okay? I didn’t think I’d end up in The Company for real. But I also didn’t trust myself not to fall head over heels if I picked someone beautiful and emotionally vulnerable. I mean—”

He gestured vaguely.

“Temptation is real. I’ve turned down weed even when it was offered to me because I was scared of getting addicted. Even though it was legal. Even though it was probably fine. I just… I didn’t want to find out how weak I was.”

He looked up, a little pink in the face.

“I figured choosing a guy—especially you—would keep me focused.”

EMIYA stared at him. Then closed his eyes and muttered, “And this is my master.”

“…Sorry.”

Ralts patted Satoshi’s back in sympathy and offered him an egg.

.

EMIYA finally broke the silence with a dry, "So… what's your plan?"

Satoshi blinked at him. “Plan?”

“You dragged me across dimensions,” EMIYA said, arms folded again. “You must have had some kind of strategy.”

“I mean—I didn’t expect any of this to actually happen,” Satoshi said, flustered again. “I thought it was just a fancy roleplay setup. Like a creative writing prompt, you know? ‘What would you do with the Waifu Catalog?’ That kind of thing.”

EMIYA raised a brow.

“But…” Satoshi added quickly, looking down at the tablet in his lap, “I think I checked a couple of missions. Some that weren’t—uh—too insane.”

EMIYA leaned slightly forward, interest sharpening. “The Company gave me a basic download of the world we're in, but nothing more. If you've got information, I’d like to hear it.”

Satoshi hesitated, then nodded. “Right. Okay. So, we’re in Worm. You might’ve heard about it—gritty, hopeless, everyone’s traumatized. Think magical realism meets Kafka, with capes. Canon starts around 2011, and right now it’s… 2007? So, about four years before hell kicks off.”

He scrolled down the tablet as he talked. “And the big deal is, I did pick a few missions. Stuff I thought might help make the world a little less awful.”

EMIYA raised an eyebrow. “What kind of missions?”

Satoshi’s head shot up. “Not the lewd ones!” he said, maybe too quickly. “Seriously, some of them—just reading the names made me want to bleach my brain. I went straight for the safest-looking ones.”

EMIYA gave him a look that screamed ‘Uh-huh.’

“No, I swear! I went full hopepunk. I just—I wanted to help. I thought maybe I could use the setup to make a difference. You know… something good.”

He tapped a section on the screen. The mission list appeared with a soft chime.

Satoshi frowned in concentration. “Let’s see… I remember picking ‘Pull it all the way into hopepunk.’ That was a must. And then something about reforming Bonesaw… and help Amy Dallon? By raising her, maybe?”

EMIYA, now genuinely intrigued, came closer and leaned slightly to glance at the screen.

Satoshi kept scrolling. “Oh yeah, and ‘Eliminate the Big Three Gangs.’ That one seemed manageable if we do it smart. And I remember one about helping Endbringer survivors.”

“You really did pick the tamest ones,” EMIYA muttered.

Satoshi flushed. “Hey, I wasn’t trying to turn this into a dating sim. I just… wanted to help.”

Ralts clapped her little hands cheerfully beside him. Her red horn flashing brightly for a second, like a vote of support.

EMIYA stared at the screen, then at Satoshi. “You might be naive, but at least you’re honest.”

Satoshi offered a sheepish smile. “So… truce?”

EMIYA exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders finally easing just a little. “For now. Also, The Company gave me a basic information packet. Downloaded straight into my head.”

Satoshi tilted his head. “Like… a briefing?”

“More like a crash course. Enough to survive. Just enough, though.” He turned back toward Satoshi. “I know what capes are. I know the PRT exists, along with Endbringers, the whole ‘space whale and magic golden man’ situation, and that this world is headed straight for collapse.”

Satoshi winced. “Yeah. That tracks.”

“But nothing specific,” EMIYA said, frowning. “No names, no timelines, no cities. It’s obvious they wanted me dependent on you. Or at least… tethered.”

Satoshi grimaced. “That’s shady, but not surprising for The Company.”

“And I’ve got a tattoo, too,” EMIYA added flatly.

Satoshi blinked. “A what?”

“Tattoo. Branding, really.”

His stomach sank. “Like… like command seals?”

He asked it with such hopeful dread, like a man teetering between panic and prayer.

But EMIYA shook his head. “No. Nothing that gives you control over me. There’s no magical binding. No orders. But it’s still a mark. I don’t feel any compulsion… but it’s clear who they think I belong to.”

Satoshi cringed. “I’m so sorry.”

EMIYA shrugged, but there was a razor edge to his tone. “You didn’t choose to brand me. But they did. Whether you meant to or not.”

There was a pause.

“…Where is it?” Satoshi asked, unable to help himself.

EMIYA arched an eyebrow. “You want to see it?”

“I—nope! Nope!” Satoshi shook his head rapidly, holding up his hands. “Just… professionally curious!”

“It’s on my stomach.” EMIYA gestured vaguely toward his navel, beneath the red coat. “Lower abdomen. Centered. Very deliberate.”

“Yeah, that sounds like something they’d do,” Satoshi muttered, then added under his breath, “Weird corporate creeps.”

Trying to shift away from the rising tension, he cleared his throat. “So, uh… where are we?”

EMIYA didn’t miss a beat. “Check the map on your tablet.”

“Oh. Right.” Satoshi glanced down again. The tablet’s interface slid easily under his fingers, and a small GPS icon blinked in the corner. He tapped it.

A map unfurled, pixel by pixel. Small town. Midwest. Trees. Snow. Mountains not too far off.

The screen labeled it simply:

Location: Northern Nebraska — 23 miles from [REDACTED S9 ACTIVITY ZONE]

Satoshi stared. Then slowly looked up. “…We’re near the Nine, aren’t we?”

After a raised eyebrow from EMIYA, Satoshi tells him about the Nine. Emiya after reading what's on the tablet, shrugs before saying, “So, what's next, ‘Master’?”

Ralts cheerfully clapped again with a soft hum.

"Please don't call me that. Though should we scout or something?"

EMIYA nodded, tightened one of his gloves and moved toward the door. “I’ll check the perimeter. Get a sense of the land. If this is our home base for now, I want to know its blind spots.”

“Got it,” Satoshi nodded. “I’ll dig into the news, see what I can find.”

With a nod, EMIYA slipped out silently, the door sliding closed behind him.

Satoshi tapped the tablet again, Ralts nestling on his lap with a soft chirp. Her head tilted curiously as she peered at the screen, like she was reading what was on it.

“All right, let’s see what kind of messed up timeline we’re in,” he muttered, fingers moving quickly.

He started with a name search: Bonesaw.

Not much. At least not yet. The usual PHO speculations and paranoid rants. No confirmed atrocities—not like the ones that would come in the next few years. But she had been spotted. Small mentions here and there: “the Slaughterhouse Nine’s new recruit”, “young girl with a white mask,” “rumors of a tinkering prodigy.”

“She’s already with them…” Satoshi murmured. Ralts drooped a little as she leaned against him in quiet sympathy.

He kept scrolling, switching tabs to the PRT’s public database, then to PHO, until—

Breaking News (Pinged 1 hour ago): “Civilians are advised to avoid the area near Lorton, Nebraska. Slaughterhouse Nine activity confirmed. PRT strike teams en route from Lincoln and Omaha. Due to distance and travel conditions, response time may be delayed. Remain indoors. Reinforcements are expected. Please remain calm.”

Satoshi stared, his stomach flipping as he compared the map he had been given by The Company with the address given by PHO. “They’re here. Right now.”

The door opened, and EMIYA stepped inside, brushing snow from his shoulders.

“We’re the only house in miles,” he said, eyes flicking to the tablet. “Two small towns nearby. One’s lit up, looks intact. The other… total blackout.”

Satoshi looked up, eyes already wide with dread. “Is the blackout town to the west?”

EMIYA paused. “…Yes.”

Ralts straightened, cheeks puffed up with righteous energy.

Satoshi stood, the tablet clutched in one hand, fire blooming behind his eyes. “Then we have to go. The Nine are there—and they’re probably killing people right now.”

Ralts cheered beside him, tiny fists pumping, but EMIYA didn’t move. He watched Satoshi with a steady, unreadable gaze.

“You’re not a fighter,” he said flatly.

“... I know.”

“You don’t have a plan.”

“I’ll make one.”

“You’re not ready.”

“I’m never going to be ready,” Satoshi said, stepping toward the door. “But I’m still going.”

“Do you have any fighting experience?” EMIYA’s voice was flat, demanding.

“I…” Satoshi glanced down at his hands. Slim. Steady. Callused not from swords, but knives. “I’m a chef.”

EMIYA crossed his arms. “Then how are you planning to help?”

The question hit him harder than it should have. He could feel the sting in his eyes before he could even think of answering. He blinked quickly, jaw tightening.

“I don’t know,” Satoshi whispered. “But I have to help. At least try.”

“Why?”

The word hit like a hammer.

“W-Why?!” he echoed, voice cracking. “Because it’s wrong not to! Right, Ralts?”

Ralts gave an emphatic nod, walking forward with clumsy steps to place a warm, small paw on his knee.

“Will you help me, Ralts?”

She nodded again, her fringe moving slightly, showing the fire in her gentle eyes.

Satoshi smiled at her, grateful. Then looked back to EMIYA, his expression faltering.

“…Will you help me, Emiya?”

His voice asked for help, but his posture—determined, trembling, but upright—said he was going either way of his answer.

EMIYA sighed. Deep and tired. “You don’t know what’s happening over there. You’re going in without a plan. You’re not a combatant. Have you thought about what would happen to us—to me, to Ralts—if you died?”

That stopped him. Satoshi's eyes dropped to the tablet on the bed. He didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Or remember. But I’ll be careful. Don’t worry.”

Another sigh. Slower this time. Resigned. EMIYA moved to the window, cracked it open, and cold air spilled in. Without a word, he knelt and motioned to his back.

“Climb on,” he said. “Let’s go then, Master.”

Satoshi hesitated. “…You do know I’m not your master, right?”

He reached for the window, pulling himself up onto EMIYA’s back. “You can call me Satoshi, if you want.”

EMIYA didn’t reply.

And then they were gone.

The wind howled in his ears, whipping through his hair, rushing past his face in a blur. The world below was snow and shadow, but they soared over it anyway—three small lights racing toward something far darker.

Chapter Text

The wind cut across his face like a blade, but EMIYA barely felt it.

He ran swift and silent through the forest, each step measured, each breath even. The weight on his back shifted slightly—Isshiki clinging tighter as the terrain grew rougher—but it didn't throw him off. He adjusted without thinking.

Ralts was secured to his front, strange and soft and utterly absurd, she was clearly wary of whatever she felt coming from the town, tensing even more as they approached. Yet she hadn't panicked once. A rare quality. He respected it.

The trees began to thin and the air shifted. And then, when they crossed the threshold, everything changed. The darkness wasn't just an absence of light. It felt deliberate. A swallowed hush. No streetlights. No glow from windows. Power lines sagged like broken ribs over the skeletal town. Houses loomed like tombstones.

Then came the screams.

Faint. Muffled. Distant, but unmistakable. He could distinguish at least two women, one child, and someone gargling through blood. The spacing between them told him there had been more earlier. Most had already fallen silent.

He slowed to a halt at the edge of a frost-covered ridge overlooking the town's outer limits.

Carefully, he knelt.

Isshiki slid off his back with a soft grunt, boots crunching against the snow. Ralts hopped down beside him, her previous happy face pinched now in worry. The chef was shaking—trying to hide it, but EMIYA could feel it in the way he'd gripped him during the ride.

He was clearly not built for this, he thought. And yet, he didn't run.

EMIYA scanned the town. His eyes picked out heat signatures, movement, flickers of unnatural shadows cast by firelight somewhere inside the blackout zone.

"I hear at least four active zones," he said, voice low. "Three concentrated. One scattered. That must be the Nine."

He turned his gaze toward Isshiki.

"We do this smart," he said. "You stay here."

"What—"

"I'll scout ahead." His tone left no room for argument. "I'll locate any surviving clusters. Once I find where the injured are, I'll come back. You and Ralts go in and stabilize them. I'll handle the Nine."

Isshiki's expression twisted—fear, guilt, frustration—but he nodded. "Alone?"

EMIYA didn't flinch. "I was a Counter Guardian."

Isshiki looked down, eyes on his trembling hands. No bravado. No false courage. Just a quiet kind of determination that unsettled EMIYA more than the usual heroic bluster did.

"…Okay," Isshiki said at last. "I'll do what I can."

That much, EMIYA believed.

He turned toward the town. "If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, stay put."

And then he ran—into the dark, where his kind belonged. The snow muffled everything, even the screams, even the flickers of gunfire and the low, mechanical whir of something bioengineered crawling through the alleyways, all seemed dulled beneath the weight of winter.

But EMIYA heard it all.

His footsteps barely disturbed the ground. He moved like a shadow between buildings—one roof to another, one broken wall to the next—eyes cataloging every detail. Two bodies in a yard. Three huddled survivors under a collapsed porch. One group locked inside a church basement with blood smeared over the door handle—still warm. No sign of the girl Isshiki called Bonesaw yet, though he guessed the biotech must be hers. The other members were easier to pinpoint by their laugher and the screams that came from their direction.

He filed it all away with clinical efficiency, but his mind, traitorous thing that it was, kept wandering back to the absurdity of it all: Waifu Catalog.

What kind of joke system names itself that and then turns out to be horrifyingly real?

A multiversal trafficking scheme dressed up as a horny gamer fantasy.

He was now technically "property." Marked. Not bound, no contracts… but that brand on his lower abdomen was no illusion. He'd checked it in a cracked mirror before he left to scout the first ime. Smooth and arcane. The Company's symbol, stamped like an ownership label.

Isshiki hadn't meant to bind him—he could tell that much. His aura had made lying difficult, and the man's panic was real. Honest, even. But that didn't make EMIYA feel safe.

No bindings for now. But who knew how long that would last?

The Company could easily dangle the option later: "Complete a mission, get a perk." All it would take was one moment of temptation, one decision made out of fear or desperation. And suddenly EMIYA wouldn't be free anymore.

He clenched his jaw, crouched atop a low store roof, and exhaled into the cold air.

He had been pulled from the Counter Guardian role. That much was true. Alaya's tether was gone. The soul-scarring weight of millennia of extermination no longer clung to him like lead chains.

But in its place there was a new collar.

He glanced toward the town's western quarter. Fires glowed there—orange and violent. That's where the main group was. And nearby…A faint sound. Breathing. Wheezing. Children.

EMIYA moved again.

.

He found the pocket of survivors nestled behind a collapsed warehouse—an accidental trench formed when the building buckled inward instead of out. Crates and steel beams had formed a partial barricade, and someone had wedged a school bus across one opening, blocking the view from the street.

It wasn't perfect but it would do.

Eight people huddled together inside. Four adults, three children, and one barely breathing teen with a shattered leg. No heat. No food. No way out. The adults flinched when EMIYA dropped down from the roof, coat fluttering, eyes cold.

He didn't speak. Just assessed. One breath. Two. Then he left.

He retraced his route like a ghost, weaving back through alleyways and shattered glass, back toward the woods where he'd left Isshiki and the small creature still humming softly beside him, calmer than before.

As he moved, his mind wandered again.

This is my life now.

He still didn't know what to call it. He wasn't a Counter Guardian anymore, yes. There was no tug in his chest, no cold void of Alaya watching his every move. But he wasn't free either: A new world and a new "master." A mark branded on his skin. A system that looked like satire on the surface, but was horrifyingly functional beneath it.

And worst of all?

He couldn't even hate the idiot who brought him here.

Isshiki hadn't chosen bindings. Hadn't treated him like property so far. Had looked more apologetic than anyone ever had any right to be. EMIYA had seen nobles summon Servants and treat them like blades with voices. At least Isshiki was trying.

Still.

Trying didn't make a leash disappear. It just meant it hadn't been fastened yet.

He reached the clearing just as Isshiki turned, startled by the sound of his approach.

EMIYA landed softly, straightening.

"I found a spot," he said curtly. "A collapsed building, some intact walls. Survivors are huddled in a warehouse pocket about a half-mile out. Close enough that we can defend it if needed. But hidden."

Isshiki nodded quickly, moving to gather his things—what little he had (like The Company's tablet and some first aid) they had put inside a satchel he found out in the house.

"I'm taking you there now," EMIYA continued as he saw Ralts coming closer, alert. "I'll move injured people to you once you're set up. No need to drag you across a battlefield every time someone's bleeding."

Isshiki blinked. "You're… going to carry them?"

"I'm not going to trust you to wander into unknown combat zones," EMIYA said dryly.

Isshiki flushed, but said nothing.

EMIYA adjusted his gloves. "You'll be safer there. And more useful."

He didn't say and easier to protect.

He didn't need to.

.

The wind bit colder as the night deepened, but EMIYA barely noticed.

He moved through the ruined streets like a phantom, his coat flaring behind him, arms occasionally burdened by unconscious weight—broken limbs, bloody torsos, frostbitten fingers clinging weakly to the last flickers of life.

He carried them all back to the shelter.

One by one.

And each time he returned, he saw the same thing:

Isshiki, sleeves rolled up, kneeling beside the injured with trembling but steady hands. Ralts at his side, red horn glowing with soft, healing light as her paws glimmered with energy.

The green and white creature did most of the heavy lifting—healing deep wounds with a light hum and that strange, horn-borne energy. But Isshiki didn't sit back. He worked alongside her, bandaging lacerations, splinting broken arms, sterilizing wounds. He gave water. Shared food. Whispered comfort like it was a skill.

He was sweating. Pale. Exhausted. But he didn't stop.

Not once.

EMIYA watched from a rooftop during one of his supply runs—blood on his gloves, the weight of another unconscious teen in his arms—and saw Isshiki coax a crying child into drinking water while Ralts softly healed a woman's collapsed lung beside them.

The scene was almost unreal. Something from a storybook.

EMIYA narrowed his eyes.

How long will it last?

Isshiki looked like a genuinely good person. Earnest. Kind. The sort of idealist EMIYA used to be. But ideals had sharp edges and he'd known too many men and women like that—before. Before the betrayals. Before the burning villages. Before the compromises and the compromises after the compromises. Before Alaya.

He had once believed in saving people too... And look where it got him.

So EMIYA was wary. Careful. Not hostile. Not cold, not exactly. But distant. Because kindness wasn't the same as goodness. And goodness didn't always survive contact with the cruelty of the world.

Still, he did his job.

He moved quickly, efficiently. Located survivors. Avoided the Nine where he could. Scouted possible entry points for later strikes. Made mental notes of Bonesaw's growing influence—twisted tools, surgical leftovers, humming drones.

And always, always, he came back to that warehouse trench.

And Isshiki and Ralt were still there.

Still trying.

.

The last of the survivors that could be moved—a man missing part of his leg but still breathing, still blinking—was lowered gently onto a makeshift cot beside Ralts. She pressed her glowing paws against his chest, and the shallow gasping slowly deepened into steadier breaths.

Isshiki, already stained with blood not his own, wiped sweat from his brow as he offered the man a flask of water and a trembling smile. Isshiki's eyes were red, but he didn't cry. He just nodded at EMIYA, gratitude unspoken but clear.

EMIYA stepped back, gaze sweeping the shelter.

Forty-three people now. Most of them injured. Most of them broken in ways healing powers couldn't fix.

He turned toward the chef. "I'm going."

Isshiki straightened. "Going? Where—oh." His voice caught. "You're heading in."

EMIYA nodded once. "I've done what I can here. The Nine are still active. If there are any victims still alive, any I can pull out…" His eyes narrowed. "I'll try."

Isshiki stepped forward instinctively, then hesitated. He looked like he wanted to argue—but there was no argument to make. Not here. Not now.

"Take care," he said quietly. Sincerely.

EMIYA gave a short nod. Then turned, coat billowing as he walked into the darkness once more. He moved without hesitation, tracing the map he had built in his mind—alley by alley, shadow by shadow—until he heard it.

A scream. Not one of fear. One of agony. Short. Gurgling.

He turned toward the sound. The air shifted. He felt it in the pit of his stomach. A wrongness, slick and inhuman.

And then he saw it: The beast. Blood dripped from its claws like ink. Its striped form shimmered with invulnerability, moving through the darkness like a tiger born of nightmares.

EMIYA stopped.

He didn't draw his blades, not yet.

But his focus sharpened.

Time to hunt monsters.

Chapter Text

The cold had long seeped into his bones. Not even the faint, flickering fire they'd managed to light with scrap wood could drive it away anymore. Satoshi's fingers were stiff, stained with dried blood, and shaking for reasons he didn't want to examine too closely.

Ralts worked beside him—tireless, warm, humming gently as she laid her glowing paws over a man's cracked ribs. The light from her healing pulse lit the shadows around them like soft candlelight.

Satoshi wiped his brow with a blood-stained sleeve and tried not to look at the man's face. It was easier that way. There were over three dozen people here now. Some conscious. Some barely. Some already silent.

He had done what he could. He had bandaged wounds. He had cleaned blood. He had boiled snow for water and shared what little food they'd had. He'd calmed crying children and murmured empty reassurances he wasn't sure he believed himself.

And still—He felt useless as he sat beside Ralts, watching her do what he couldn't—what no human could—and tried not to tremble.

He wanted to stop. He wanted to curl up under the thickest blanket he could find and cook something warm and sweet and safe. Something that would smell like cinnamon and rice, and pretend the world wasn't burning outside.

But he couldn't. He couldn't live with himself if he did.

He glanced at the door again. Still closed. Still no sign of EMIYA.

"Please be safe," he whispered.

Ralts chirped beside him, a soft, comforting note. Her paw touched his side again—just like she had when he first panicked.

He smiled, just a little. Then stood, rolling up his sleeves again.

"Let's check on the old man with the leg wound."

Ralts nodded, and they moved together across the shelter, soft light trailing behind them in the dark.

Even if he couldn't fight. Even if he couldn't save the world. He would stay and help the ones who could still be saved.

.

It didn't take long for the shelter to become quiet.

Too quiet. It was the kind of silence that pressed against your ears just before something awful broke it.

Satoshi was crouched beside a young boy, maybe six, whose hands were scraped raw from running barefoot over gravel. He'd given the child the last of the boiled water, and Ralts had bandaged his palms while softly humming.

"Will the man in red come back?" the boy asked, voice trembling.

Satoshi smiled—small, but steady. "He will," he said. "He's very strong."

The boy clutched a blanket Emiya brought around his shoulders tighter and nodded, eyes shining with brittle hope.

Then he heard it.

A soft, unnatural click from the far side of the shelter. Metal against concrete. A hiss, wet and sharp. Gears, maybe. Or… lungs?

Satoshi's heart dropped as he turned—and saw it. Something wrong was crawling over the edge of the trench. Small, about the size of a dog. Too many legs. Part flesh, part jagged metal. Its face was a cluster of whirring lenses and surgical tubing, and it stared at him with inhuman intent.

One of Bonesaw's creations.

The survivors started screaming as Ralts stepped in front of him, stubby arms raised protectively, but the thing didn't attack. Not yet. It just stared. Satoshi trembled. His hand reached blindly for anything—something—until his fingers closed around a rusty pipe lying against the wall.

He stepped forward, shaking, heart pounding. He wasn't a fighter, he knew, but he couldn't let this thing hurt them. However, as he raised the pipe—The thing screeched. High-pitched and piercing like a dying modem drowning in blood. It echoed off the walls of the shelter, and somewhere in the distance, other machines answered.

Satoshi's breath caught in his throat.

He'd failed.

Then he felt Ralts' paw on his side. She nodded at him—calm, determined. Then her stubby paw tapped his satchel.

The tablet.

He blinked, mind catching up. There was a file about everyone—he remembered now! He hadn't read the details when it appeared, too panicked from waking up in a new world. Hands fumbling, he yanked the tablet from the bag and pulled up the screen. His thumb tapped through menus.

Companions > Ralts (Pet) > Ability Set

He stared when instead of four moves, there was a full sheet, listed in neat little rows:

Heal Pulse. Confusion. Teleport. Light Screen. Disarming Voice.

It wasn't much, but it was enough.

Satoshi exhaled, steadying himself as he looked at Ralts.

"Okay," he whispered. "Let's make a chance."

.

It started with one.

Then three.

Then too many.

The screeching echoed from every corner as Bonesaw's twisted creations poured into the trench. Crawling over broken walls. Skittering through shadows. Climbing from holes like insects erupting from a corpse.

Satoshi stood with Ralts in front of the injured, pipe gripped in both hands. They didn't have walls And the injured didn't have powers, so they only had each other.

"Ralts—Disarming Voice!" he shouted.

Ralts let out a melodic cry, her voice trembling the air with radiant pink energy. The nearest cluster of creatures staggered, metallic limbs twitching as the emotional force of the move disrupted their systems. Several crashed into walls, convulsing.

"Light Screen!" he barked when he saw some of the creatures approaching the injured. A shimmering barrier shimmered into existence in front of the huddled survivors. The glow bent light like a heat mirage—filtering incoming fire, shielding the most vulnerable from harm.

Still, the machines kept coming.

Satoshi stepped forward and swung the pipe as one lunged at Ralts from the side. The blow landed with a crunch—metal and synthetic flesh cracking from the impact. His arms ached. His knuckles burned, but the thing stopped moving.

Another jumped the barricade. Two more followed.

"Confusion!" he shouted.

Ralts took a deep breath and let out a wave of power. The effect rippled across the field. Some of the biomechanical horrors slowed. A few stumbled mid-leap, crashing into each other. One collapsed entirely, twitching as its brain—whatever passed for it—fought the induced confusion effect.

Satoshi's ears rang. His lungs hurt. His arms shook with every swing, but he kept moving. He kicked a twitching crawler aside, then shoved another back with the pipe.

A young woman with a torn coat stood up beside him, clutching a bent crowbar. Her hands trembled, but she swung anyway, striking one of the stunned machines in the head.

Then another survivor stood.

And another.

Until a half-circle of the least injured had formed behind him, weapons improvised, teeth bared in fear and fury.

"Ralts!" Satoshi gasped. "Use Disarming voice for the ones near you, and keep using Confusion to slow them down so we can—"

He didn't have to finish. Ralts was already moving, eyes locked, voice ringing out again and again as she used Confusion in between breaks. Satoshi and the others struck with whatever they had.

The shelter became chaos.

Screams. Clangs. Glowing pink pulses.

And by the time the creatures stopped coming…

By the time the last one twitched its last…

The floor was littered with blood and broken steel.

Satoshi leaned against the wall, breathing hard. The pipe slipped from his fingers with a clatter. His sleeves were soaked, his legs weak. But he didn't fall. Ralts limped to his side, one end of her hair singed, a cut trailing along her side.

She smiled as Satoshi placed a hand on her head, heart still hammering.

"Good girl," he whispered as the last of the wreckage stopped twitching.

The survivors—no longer just huddled bodies but fighters, however shaky—now moved through the shelter with cautious urgency. Some checked the injured, others helped drag the biomechanical husks away from the makeshift sleeping areas. One or two had collapsed entirely, too overwhelmed to do more than breathe.

Satoshi wiped blood from his hands—he wasn't sure whose—and forced himself upright again. Every muscle ached. His arms were lead, and his knuckles stung with every movement.

Then he saw Ralts. She was limping toward one of the children who had gotten a scrap in the crossfire. It wasn't serious but her paws started glowing again.

"No, no—wait." He reached out gently and caught her shoulder. "Ralts… please. You need to rest."

She looked up at him, wide eyes flickering with stubborn determination. Then she opened her mouth to respond—and the sound that came out was raw. Her usually soft hum rasped like sandpaper across glass, breaking halfway through.

Her voice. All that voice attacks—those waves of Disarming Voice—had pushed her far past her limit.

Satoshi's heart clenched.

"Stop," he said softly, squeezing her paw. "You've done enough. You're tired. You're allowed to be tired."

She hesitated, limbs drooping. What he could see of her eyes, welled slightly—not with tears, but with exhaustion. Reluctant. Guilty.

"It's okay," he said gently, guiding her toward a clearer space near the fire. "Come on. Sit. Just for a moment."

She finally nodded, leaning against him as he helped her down. He rummaged through what little they had left, found the cleanest pot, and scooped snow into it with his sleeves. He lit the makeshift burner again and let the snow melt down, steam curling into the air.

He set it beside her and poured the warm water into a tin cup.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as he offered it. "I wish I had something for you to eat. Just… something better."

Ralts shook her head and smiled.

As if to say, Don't worry. You're here.

Satoshi stared at her, throat tight, then bowed his head as she sipped the water slowly, paws trembling slightly.

And for a few precious seconds, the world was quiet.

Chapter Text

The night was a curtain of frost and silence—broken only by the rhythmic crunch of EMIYA's boots on snow-covered concrete.

And the thing walking toward him.

The creature shimmered in the dark. Its body was striped in black and white, like something primal had crawled from the bones of the world and decided to play predator. It didn't speak. It didn't posture. It just moved.

No wasted effort. No hesitation.

EMIYA stopped in the center of a ruined street, cracked pavement stretching between two half-collapsed buildings. His breath came out in a slow, pale stream. The cold had no bite as he reached behind him, hand closing around air—

"Trace… On."

Twin blades shimmered into being—Kanshou and Bakuya, the married swords, familiar and balanced. He slid into stance.

The creature watched. Silent. Curious, maybe. Or just patient.

EMIYA darted forward, fast but not too fast. A test.

She moved to meet him. However, when he slashed the blades hit nothing. They passed through her like mist over steel. No resistance. No friction. No impact.

EMIYA landed, skidding back a few meters, eyes narrowing. "Intangibility?"

The creature tilted her head as he tried again. Faster this time. Changed angles. Mixed timing.

Nothing landed, every strike phased.

She swiped at him once—casual, almost bored—and the force behind it carved a gouge into the asphalt, like a steel beam had been dragged through it.

That wasn't for show.

He leapt back, flipped once midair, and landed atop a shattered bus.

"Alright," he murmured, watching her advance slowly. "This isn't a fight I can win through brute force."

He traced a pair of projectiles this time—shimmering spears of hardened mana, simple constructs. He hurled them at her, but they passed through.

He clicked his tongue.

"She's not just intangible. She's selectively intangible. Or invulnerable. Some kind of field? Conceptual armor?"

She leaped and crashed through the bus like it was tinfoil when he dodged.

EMIYA hit the ground rolling, barely avoiding a swipe that shattered a nearby lamppost and sent the metal spiraling into the sky.

She was fast. Too fast for her size. And deliberate. She was not berserking, but calculating.

He landed behind a car, took one breath.

"Alright," he exhaled. "I've seen enough."

She charged again. And again, his blades phased through her like she wasn't there. No friction. No blood. No weakness.

But EMIYA wasn't done testing. He dropped Kanshou and Bakuya mid-dodge, reaching into his mental arsenal. Something different. Something that didn't deal with the body, but the essence.

"Trace… On."

The sword that formed was alien to this world. Its edge shimmered not with steel, but with something deeper—shaped thought, sharpened intent. A conceptual blade designed to wound the metaphysical.

He slashed and she flinched. It wasn't pain. It wasn't even damage. But something in the way her posture shifted—how her form flickered ever so slightly—told him she'd felt something.

Not immunity. Not quite.

There was a thread. A weakness.

He stepped forward, pressing the angle.

And then—

There was screech. It echoed through the town like a siren, high-pitched and layered with pain and distortion. A mechanical scream. No words—just a beacon of chaos. It came from the direction of the shelter.

His grip faltered just for a moment.

The Siberian moved fast. Her claws swept toward his side, so fast even his honed reflexes barely registered it in time. He twisted, gritted his teeth as the edge of her claw carved through the fabric of his coat and grazed his arm with it.

Blood sprayed across the snow.

He landed hard from the innertia, skidding backward. The sleeve of his coat was gone. The skin underneath burned and split—but he was okay.

No more playing, then.

His mind went cold.

"Trace… On."

A Black Key formed in his hand—long, sleek, and consecrated. Not for killing bodies. For pinning souls. nHe twisted his wrist and hurled it—not at her, but at the ground beneath her.

The moonlight above was thin, fractured by the drifting clouds. But it was enough as the Black Key struck her shadow. And held.

The creature froze mid-motion, limbs jerking slightly as though tethered. Not full paralysis, but it gave her pause—resistance, at last and EMIYA didn't waste it. He dashed in, bringing the metaphysical blade down in a wide arc, aiming not for the body but the essence that puppeteered it.

The strike landed—and this time, she recoiled. Her form flickered violently, but the clouds were moving. The moonlight was waning. He could already feel the grip on her shadow weakening.

This wouldn't last.

And worse—he didn't know what was happening to Isshiki. That scream—

He glanced to the west.

He had to make this fast.

However, before he could move to finish her, he sensed it.

A presence. Small. Wrong.

It wasn't killing intent—no, that was too crude for this. It was the absence of fear. The silence between a scalpel's first touch and the moment flesh gives way.

He turned slowly.

And saw a boy.

No older than thirteen, pale and dressed in a nondescript winter coat. His hair was slate-gray, his eyes dull. He stood barefoot in the snow, unshivering, expression unreadable.

He tilted his head as he looked at the creature. Then at EMIYA.

"She's not supposed to stop," the boy said softly. Not with fear or alarm. With curiosity. As if watching a toy malfunction.

EMIYA's eyes narrowed. He didn't know who this child was. But the instinct that flared in his chest was older than logic. Older than life.

Wrong. Dangerous. Not human.

The boy took a step closer. "You pinned her. But it won't work forever." His tone was calm. Emotionless. "You should run now. Before she moves again."

EMIYA didn't speak. Not yet. His eyes flicked to the faint shimmer of the Siberian's outline—still distorted by his conceptual strike, but already stabilizing.

He had maybe ten seconds.

"You're not scared," EMIYA said evenly.

The boy shrugged. "I don't feel scared. I don't feel much of anything anymore."

The answer was too calm. Too clinical. And then EMIYA understood—not from deduction, but from pattern. The aura. The words. The eerie familiarity.

The Gray Boy.

A name he had skimmed past briefly in the Company's data. One of the worst. A child who trapped people in infinite loops of time and pain. Who played with souls like puzzle pieces.

His grip on the blade tightened. But there wasn't time. Not for this.

Not now.

He stepped back—not in retreat, but in prioritization.

"Stay out of my way," EMIYA said.

The boy blinked slowly. "I wasn't in it. I just wanted to see what you'd do."

EMIYA didn't answer. He turned, fluid and fast, and leapt onto the roof of a nearby ruin. Snow scattered under his boots as he ran, blades shimmering and vanishing mid-stride.

He didn't look back.

He didn't need to because as he vanished into the dark, he could feel the Gray Boy watching. Not with malice. Not with hate.

But with interest, like a child trying to understand the rules of a new game.

Luckily he left when he did because the grip on the creature's shadow broke. Not that he gave it much thought as he ran through ruined alleys, past scorched streets. When the shelter came into view, he didn't see monsters.

He saw her. A girl. Eight, maybe nine years old. Blonde curls. Wide, empty eyes, similar to the Gray Boy's but without the malice he could feel from the boy. There was a grin too big for her face that looked more from practice than for real pleasure. Her coat was pink. Her shoes were covered in blood.

And in her arms?

Weapons.

Claws. Scalpels. Whirring needles. Surgical gear twisted into cruel playthings. She was approaching the shelter, watching the shadows inside with rapt fascination, like a child peering into a dollhouse.

Bonesaw.

He didn't hesitate or give her time to turn. He merely struck her at the base of the neck with the hilt of his blade—not too hard, not lethal, but enough.

She dropped like a ragdoll and he caught her before she hit the ground, slinging her unconscious body under one arm. Her tools clicked and jittered in protest. Then he climbed down into the shelter.

The air hit him like a wall—metal, blood, burned plastic. The smell of survival.

Everywhere he looked, there was wreckage. Half-scrapped creations. Crushed cybernetics. Makeshift barricades stained with black oil and red blood.

And in the center—Isshiki.

Bruised. Exhausted. Kneeling beside Ralts, coaxing her to sip warm water with shaking hands. He looked like hell—like he'd given everything and still wanted to give more.

He looked up as EMIYA approached, relief bloomed across his face, tempered by weariness.

"You're back," he breathed, rising slowly to his feet.

Then his eyes dropped to the small form under EMIYA's arm. "…Is she?"

"Yes," EMIYA said flatly. "She's Bonesaw."

The name rippled through the shelter like a cold wind.

Murmurs. Gasps. A couple of injured survivors tensed, some pale, others reaching instinctively for makeshift weapons. But Isshiki just stared. His eyes locked onto her face—soft, round, slack in sleep.

And Isshiki whispered, voice raw, "She's so young."

EMIYA glanced down at the girl then back at Isshiki.

"Yes," he said quietly. "She is."

He laid the girl down gently. It was disturbingly easy. She was light, like she'd never eaten enough to grow properly. Her expression remained eerily peaceful, like someone who'd just been tucked into bed.

But her tools—those he wasn't gentle with. He disarmed her with practiced efficiency. Blade after blade, needle after needle. Things no child should ever carry, let alone wield. Retractable scalpels, chemical injectors, a finger-mounted bone saw, and something that looked like a modified taser sewn into her palm.

By the time he was done, the ground beside her looked like the inside of a psychopath's toolbox.

Isshiki watched in silence, bandaging the cut across his own arm. Ralts sat in his lap, head resting against his chest, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

EMIYA stood and turned to him.

"I'm going to look for more survivors. Not more of the Nine," he added, catching Isshiki's eyes. "You and Ralts are in no condition for another fight."

Isshiki looked down at Ralts. She stirred softly, her tiny arms wrapped around his sleeve like a child clinging to a parent.

"…You're right," he said finally. "Helping is more important than chasing a fight."

EMIYA nodded. "Rest. Recover. If I don't return soon, check for any police or PRT updates through the tablet."

Isshiki gave a tired thumbs-up, already reaching for the satchel.

EMIYA turned, preparing to vault back out of the shelter, but he heard the whirring and froze. His hand went to the hilt of a traced blade on instinct as he concentrated on the faint sound of rotors. Mechanical. Precise.

He raised his head.

A drone hovered into view just beyond the lip of the trench. Sleek. White. Marked with an insignia he didn't recognize, but the design was too clean, too modern, too advanced to belong to the local authorities.

EMIYA's stance shifted immediately. Every line of his body coiled with tension.

Isshiki looked up at him, confused—then followed his gaze.

His eyes widened—then relaxed as he straightened up and called softly: "...Dragon?"

The drone paused mid-air. Then its forward lens adjusted and focused on them.

It pinged once and then a warm, synthetic voice echoed from its speaker. "Affirmative, Dragon speakin. I'm here to inform you that the PRT officers will be here soon."

A wave of relief went through everyone.

Chapter Text

The drone hovered lower, rotors humming softly. Its camera adjusted, scanning the shelter with cool precision. "This is Dragon, remote-access drone unit five. Situation report requested."

EMIYA instinctively stepped in front of Isshiki, just slightly. Habit. Ralts stirred on Isshiki's lap, her horn twitching faintly as the drone's presence registered.

He didn't trust it. The clean design, synthetic voice and the well-hidden weapons tucked into the frame was too dangerous to ignore.

But before he could speak, Isshiki gently touched his arm.

"She's on our side," he said quietly. "Dragon's a Tinker. Hero-aligned. Works with the PRT, but she's one of the good ones."

EMIYA glanced at him. Cautious. Irritated. But he nodded once and stepped aside.

Isshiki approached the drone, stopping a respectful distance away to be heard without the injured hearing. "We live nearby," he said, gesturing to EMIYA and Ralts. "Saw the alert on PHO and… couldn't ignore it. We decided to help."

He looked back at EMIYA, who crossed his arms and sighed.

"I scouted the town first," EMIYA said. "Found survivors scattered. I moved the ones with a chance to live to this location. The others…" He didn't finish the sentence.

The drone's camera flicked to the unconscious girl laid gently against a broken crate and EMIYA followed its gaze.

"When I engaged one of the Nine—striped creature, fast, invulnerable—I was mid-fight when I heard a screech from the shelter. Returned immediately. Found her," he said coldly, signaling to Bonesaw. "Approaching and knocked her out before she noticed me."

There was a pause. The drone didn't move.

"Yes, the subject matches the appearance of a new Nine member: Bonesaw."

Then its lens swiveled slightly, back toward Isshiki and Ralts. "How did you stabilize the wounded?"

Isshiki smiled gently, tiredly. "Ralts can heal," he said, running a hand over her head. "And I know first aid. That's all."

There was a long silence from Dragon. "Help is en route. ETA: eighteen minutes. But we must assume Jack Slash will notice Bonesaw's absence. He may already be moving."

EMIYA tensed.

Of course. They weren't done yet.

Isshiki's jaw tightened, but he didn't flinch.

"I won't give her up," he said quietly. "She's just a child."

The drone's voice lowered slightly. "She's also a killer."

Isshiki didn't look away. "She doesn't even look ten. Who knows what Jack Slash has done to her?" His voice shook. "She didn't choose this. She was made into it, I'm sure."

Ralts leaned her head against his arm, eyes sad and shimmering. EMIYA closed his eyes for a brief second.

Isshiki didn't have to say it out loud, but the meaning was clear.

"So I'll save her. Even if no one else will."

The drone's lens flicked from Isshiki to EMIYA, then to Bonesaw again—still unconscious, still dangerous. "What are your long-term intentions regarding the captive?"

Before either could answer, a voice rang out from the ruined streets beyond the trench. Loud and mocking.

"Booonesaaaw! C'mon, brat! I know you like to hide but you better not be chewing up any meat without me!"

A pause.

Then a laugh. Sharp. Clipped. Drunk on the hunt. "You got dibs on the lungs last time. Let me have the next toy, yeah?!"

The survivors froze. Ralts immediately climbed into Isshiki's lap, clutching his shirt tight while the man himself sat straighter, reaching toward Bonesaw, worry flashing across his face. But EMIYA extended a hand—firm, stopping him.

"No," he said lowly. "We don't know her powers. Waking her now could make this worse."

Isshiki hesitated. His hand trembled slightly… but he nodded. "Okay."

EMIYA turned to the drone, eyes flat. "I'll engage whoever it is. Hold the line until backup arrives."

Dragon didn't interrupt. Her lens whirred softly as EMIYA turned to Isshiki, leaned in—low, close, as he gave his back to the drone deliberately. He moved his lips near Isshiki's ear, voice a breath. "Check the tablet. See if we've been given legal identities. If we haven't… we need a story."

Isshiki blinked, startled. He flushed slightly at the closeness but nodded, eyes serious.

"…Be safe," he whispered.

EMIYA stepped back, his face unreadable. But the faintest ghost of a nod passed between them.

He turned to Dragon again. "Authorization to kill the intruder?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Calculating. "The Slaughterhouse Nine are considered Class-S threats. All official members are under kill orders."

A quiet breath left him. "Good."

Then he turned and climbed out of the trench, blades forming in both hands as he rose to meet the next monster. The snow crunched beneath his boots. The clouds above had shifted again, letting slivers of moonlight through—just enough.

The one waiting for him stood near a mangled light post. He was taller than EMIYA and only wearing pants as he let his hulking red muscles visible for everyone to see. He grinned wide, teeth sharpened into points, eyes gleaming with a haze of narcotic pleasure.

The moment their eyes met, EMIYA knew that he was not someone to play with.

The hulking man moved first—fast, like a missile. His blade met his fist—once, twice. On the third clash, EMIYA's arms shuddered from the force. He barely sidestepped the fourth blow, which carved a groove into a parked car behind him.

Too strong. Too close.

But the monster kept coming. No flair, no showmanship—just raw, brutal aggression. EMIYA ducked another strike, rolled, and retreated ten paces in a blink. "Trace—on."

The blade vanished and a longbow shimmered into his hand instead—deep red wood, taut with energy.

A trio of glowing arrows appeared between his fingers as the other charged again.

EMIYA fired.

The arrow hit its mark and the man staggered, but he didn't fall. He straightened—body trembling, one leg dragging—and grinned. "That all you got, pretty boy?"

Then he sprinted. His speed was worse now—faster. More fluid. More feral. Like blood had oiled his joints and set fire to his nerves.

EMIYA narrowed his eyes, stepped back, fired two more arrows—Crimson dodged one and let the other skim his ribs without pause, but his intention was not to hit him, but his shadow.

He shot it low, precise, and pinned Crimson's form with an echoing chime of steel into frost-bitten asphalt. The man staggered, then gasped—the tether catching something vital beneath the skin. Their body jerked, unable to move forward.

"Wha—what the hell is—"

A second blade followed, not a Key this time, but a longsword of EMIYA's own make—pure killing intent shaped into steel.

The blade swung and in one clean stroke, Crimson's head hit the ground before he could finish his sentence.

However, before he could relax, EMIYA felt it—a ripple in the air like taut string plucked by unseen hands. Too quiet. Too still.

Then the snow stopped falling and the world turned gray. No sound. No movement. Just a muted stillness so absolute it turned breath to ice in his lungs. He felt it at once. The power was subtle but precise. Targeted. Not brute force—but control. Spatial. Temporal.

A loop.

His fists clenched as realization bloomed, cold and sharp.

"EMIYA!" Isshiki's voice rang from behind—muffled and distorted, like yelling through glass—but it was too late. Everything was already repeating. The wind re-caught in his hair, the blood on his gloves evaporated, only to reappear. Ralts twitched faintly, her form slightly off, like a puppet tugged by delay.

He turned—and there he was. Gray Boy wearing the same winter coat. Same blank stare as he stood just outside the trench now, pale face angled toward EMIYA in open, cold curiosity.

"Is that all you can do?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "Slice. Pierce. Kill." He blinked. "It's not very creative, is it?"

EMIYA didn't respond. He already knew what came next.

Another loop. The world snapped—light distorting, sound crackling like broken vinyl. Then silence again.

"Over and over, you'll move, and I'll rewind. I want to see what you do when you're stuck." His tone was mild, almost thoughtful. "What happens if I cut that blonde's arm off? Or just the small-creature's voicebox?"

Another flicker and EMIYA didn't speak. He didn't shout or ask. He just reached for his bow, the air cracking with purpose. His hand moved in practiced calm as mana shaped itself into a spiral of cursed crimson and divine fate. Gáe Bolg. It shimmered with lethal certainty, humming softly in the colorless air—an impossible lance destined to pierce the heart before the weapon even moved.

He aimed. Drew. Gray Boy blinked. "Oh, you're—"

He fired and the loop broke.

Reality shattered like glass under the weight of certainty. The lance hit center mass before Gray Boy could even move, skewering his chest in an explosion of red and golden light. For one agonizing second, the boy's expression flickered—not pain. Not fear. Just confusion.

Then it was over. The color snapped back into the world like breath into lungs. Snow fell again. The blood on EMIYA's gloves reappeared and stayed. Ralts gasped awake in Isshiki's arms. The wounded groaned, stirred, blinked in confusion.

The drone spun violently in place as its systems caught up with the time skip, sensors flashing red.

EMIYA didn't move.

He stood in the snow, eyes locked on the boy's falling body, now impaled to the ground by fate and divinity and resolve shaped through killing.

EMIYA didn't regret it.

Because this time, the child hadn't screamed. He hadn't even begged. He had just asked a question.

And EMIYA had answered the only way monsters understand.

The wind picked up again, swirling the snow in lazy spirals around the trench and Gray Boy's body lay still. Pierced. Silent. No final breath. No theatrics. Just absence. EMIYA stared at the boy's corpse, his stance still tight, bow still in hand. Gáe Bolg had vanished in the aftermath, scattered back into conceptual dust, but the weight of it still pressed against his spine. Heavy. Familiar.

Behind him, there was motion. Footsteps.

Isshiki approached quickly at first, boots crunching sharp and fast through the snow, posture tense. Angry, surely. EMIYA didn't turn. He didn't need to. He could feel the heat rolling off him.

"You didn't even try to talk to him," Isshiki said. Not shouting. But there was strain in his voice. Strain and disbelief as he walked until he could see him. "He looked like a kid, EMIYA—"

He stopped and EMIYA finally looked at him and away from the corpse. Isshiki's expression shifted. The anger… fell away. Slowly. Not all at once. But something in EMIYA's face—he didn't know what—had broken whatever fury Isshiki had started to build. Then he took another step forward. Then another. His hand reached out gently, fingers wrapping around EMIYA's wrist—not to pull or restrain. Just… to anchor.

His grip was warm. Unshaking. There was no judgment in his eyes now. Just something softer. Something worse.

Pity?

No. Not pity.

Sympathy .

And EMIYA didn't deserve that, not after what he'd just done. Not when his hands were still metaphorically bloody, not when he hadn't even hesitated. Not when he'd killed a child without flinching. Again.

"I—" Isshiki started, but stopped. His throat worked as if he couldn't decide what he wanted to say. Then, quietly: "It's going to be okay."

EMIYA said nothing. His jaw locked. His shoulders stiffened. He didn't pull away, but he didn't lean in either as Isshiki stepped closer, arms rising gently until they rested around EMIYA's back in a loose hug—not tight, not insistent. Just present. Soft. Grounding.

"I'm sorry you had to do it," he said, so quiet it barely registered.

EMIYA didn't answer. He couldn't. He just stood still, unmoving, his arms at his sides like carved stone. The wind brushed through his coat. The world went on.

But inside, something whispered: Me too.

Chapter Text

The snow outside still rumbled with the distant crack of violence—echoes of something breaking. And then something else.

Satoshi sat near the unconscious girl—Bonesaw—and tried not to think about the weapons EMIYA had stripped from her. Or the fact that another Nine member was out there fighting the closest thing this world had to a magic murder bodyguard.

Instead, he opened the tablet while Dragon's attention was on the fight.

It was simple enough. A few swipes through the administrative menus—classified, government-tinted stuff that shouldn't have been accessible, but apparently, the Company didn't believe in subtlety. Or firewalls.

A personnel dossier blinked open:

Name: Isshiki Satoshi

Age: 25

Nationality: Japanese

Occupation: Chef

Current Residence: Lincoln, Nebraska (temporary)

Immigration Details: Relocated following Leviathan's Kyushu strike

Companion of Record: Emiya Shirou

Relationship Status: Married

He blinked.

Wait. What?

Fingers suddenly trembling, he tapped open EMIYA's file.

Name: Emiya Shirou

Age: 27

Nationality: Japanese (Naturalized British Citizen)

Primary Residence: London, United Kingdom

Immigration Details: Accompanied spouse, post-disaster relocation

Current Residence: Lincoln, Nebraska

Marital Status: Married

Spouse: Isshiki Satoshi

Religious Affiliation (Marriage Certificate): Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (FLDS)

Documentation: Attached.

There was even a scan of a damn marriage certificate, complete with their names in flowery cursive, and a pixelated, smiling stock image of someone's wedding party—thankfully not theirs.

Satoshi stared at the screen.

He stared longer.

Then—He shut the tablet like it had personally insulted his ancestors.

"Shit," he whispered.

Ralts floated up from where she'd been curled up beside a groaning survivor, blinking blearily. She made a soft, inquisitive chirp and tilted her head to peer at the tablet's now-dark screen.

Satoshi dragged both hands down his face like he could scrub the embarrassment off his soul.

"Oh god. Oh no. He's going to kill me. Not literally, but emotionally. Verbally. With precision and probably judgmental eye contact."

Ralts blinked again and tilted closer, her horn pulsing gently in confusion.

He peeked down at Bonesaw—still unconscious, still tiny, still curled up like an angelic gremlin.

"Why couldn't it have just been mildly illegal refugee chef and emotionally unavailable bodyguard?" he hissed.

Ralts patted his arm, sympathetically.

"…Thanks," he sighed. "That helps. Emotionally."

He sat back, heart pounding like he'd committed tax fraud and identity theft at the same time.

Outside, the battlefield quieted. The tension in the air shifted, which meant EMIYA would be back any second now.

And Satoshi was not ready for this conversation. Not even close.

.

Everything was gray. Muted, deadened, wrong.

One moment Satoshi was staring at his hands—trembling, blood-streaked, covered in healing balm and ash—and the next, time lurched. Like the world had been rewound just a fraction of a second.

He blinked. The firelight dimmed. The wind stopped. He couldn't hear anything. Not even his own heartbeat. However, he felt the repetition. The same flicker. The same breath. The same twitch of Ralts' paw, over and over.

A time loop.

His blood ran cold.

No—no no no—

He stood too fast. Ralts gasped beside him, clutching at his coat as he stumbled forward, eyes wide. Not here. Not them. Not the injured—

"EMIYA!" he shouted, just as the world shattered. Color rushed back like a crashing tide—and so did the sound. The crack of displaced air. A crimson streak through silver mist.

And there, in the middle of the road, stood EMIYA. His bow still drawn and Gray Boy—dead. Pierced clean through the chest by a glowing lance that radiated finality. Not just death. Judgment.

The boy's body was small. Fragile. Empty.

Satoshi's breath caught.

He knew who Gray Boy was—what he'd done. The Company's files hadn't shied away from the truth. He had killed thousands. Trapped them in time loops. Tortured them forever... But he still looked like a kid.

Satoshi's hands clenched, and before he could think better of it, he stepped forward, fury rising hot in his throat.

"You didn't even try to talk to him," he said—sharp, raw. Not yelling, but close. "He looked like a kid, EMIYA—"

He stopped because EMIYA didn't react. Didn't flinch. Didn't even breathe, it seemed. He stood like a statue. Bow lowered now, but still in hand. Snow dusted his coat. His face was blank—not cold. Just... vacant. Like the body was here, but the soul had stepped out for a minute.

Like something inside him had shut the door and walked away.

Satoshi felt his anger falter. Stumble. Fold in on itself.

That wasn't victory on his face.

It wasn't even satisfaction. It was nothing.

He took a slow breath. Let it out, shaky. Then he moved forward—slowly, gently—like approaching a wounded animal, or someone sleepwalking through a nightmare. He reached out and took EMIYA's wrist. Warm. Tense.

"Hey," he said quietly, "It's going to be okay."

And before EMIYA could pull away, argue, or retreat behind those unreadable eyes, Satoshi stepped closer and hugged him. Not tightly. Not demanding. Just a loose, quiet wrap of arms around someone who needed to feel human again.

"I'm sorry you had to do it," he whispered into his chest.

EMIYA didn't return the hug or move, but Satoshi felt it anyway—that slight shift in the way EMIYA's breath caught. The smallest twitch in his arms. Like a man remembering how to breathe after forgetting what lungs were for.

He didn't answer. Didn't say a word just stayed in place and let himself be hugged.

Satoshi didn't let go right away. The snow kept falling—soft, quiet, uncaring—like the world hadn't just watched a child die. Like it hadn't just stolen something from EMIYA he didn't even realize was still there.

Satoshi's cheek rested briefly against his shoulder. The blood on EMIYA's coat was cold.

Still holding him, still gentle, Satoshi spoke. Not loudly. Not to the world. Just to him. Just close enough that his breath barely stirred the air between them.

"They gave us names, paperwork and a history," he murmured and felt EMIYA tense slightly.

"Lincoln, Nebraska. I supposedly moved here after the Leviathan strike on Kyushu. You're twenty-seven. I'm twenty-five. We met in London. Lived there for a while."

No response. Not even a twitch. Satoshi kept going, his voice a slow current. Soft. Careful. Like threading a needle through cracked glass.

"It's all very neat. Very legal."

Still no reaction. Just breath—measured and quiet. Satoshi paused because there was more he could say. One last detail that clung to the back of his throat, but EMIYA wasn't ready.

He could feel it—the edge EMIYA stood on. The silence wasn't peace. It was armor. And pushing too hard now would only break something fragile. So Satoshi didn't say it. Not the part about the marriage certificate. Not the part about how it was filed under the FLDS—a cruel, half-understood joke of a system that the Company had stamped into their digital lives.

Not yet. He just pulled back slightly. Still holding EMIYA's wrist. Still grounding him.

"We have a story now," he said quietly. "We're not just anomalies. That's something."

A faint sound escaped EMIYA—could've been breath, could've been nothing.

Satoshi stepped back fully, finally letting go. He didn't smile or joke. He just gave EMIYA space and stood beside him.

Not pushing.

Just there until the blankness on EMIYA's face went to that usual stoic, slightly exhausted look that said "I just killed a person but I'm emotionally over it."

"How is everyone?" he asked, tone clipped.

Before Satoshi could answer, Dragon did. "Before we continue, I require a formal identification. Civilian or cape name. For both of you."

EMIYA didn't respond immediately. His eyes flicked to Satoshi, waiting. Satoshi swallowed. "Cape name… Archer," he said quickly, pointing to EMIYA. "And I'm Isshiki Satoshi."

The drone whirred softly, scanning its internal database. "There is no active cape listing under 'Archer.' However…"

A pause. A click.

"There is a civilian identity: Isshiki Satoshi, Japanese national. Arrived in the United States one month ago. Immigrated following Leviathan's Kyushu attack. Profession: culinary arts. Married—"

Satoshi froze.

"—with one Emiya Shirou."

There was a silence. A long, cold, suffocating silence.

Satoshi slowly turned his head and found EMIYA staring at him.

No expression. No words. Just slow, almost mechanical head movement.

The weight of that look from EMIYA was like gravity—sharp, silent, and absolutely lethal. His lips pressed into a thin line. The faint twitch at his brow wasn't anger. Not yet. But it was a promise that there would be words, later.

For now, EMIYA turned back toward the drone and Satoshi did the same. They were both pretending very hard that Dragon hadn't just read off their marital status like it was a grocery list.

"Archer," Dragon repeated, as if filing the name into a new folder. "Not registered with the Guild, Protectorate, or Wards. No public debut. Underground or unaffiliated status?"

"Unaffiliated," EMIYA said evenly, voice perfectly neutral.

Satoshi could've kissed him. He didn't, of course. Mostly because he wanted to live.

"Noted. Last question," Dragon continued. "Your face. It's been logged in my system. Did you intend to keep a public identity, or was this unintentional?"

EMIYA blinked. He reached up and brushed his fingers over his cheek, as if just realizing he wasn't wearing any kind of disguise. And, Satoshi, trying to be helpful, offered softly: "It kinda fell off during one of the fights. You were a little… busy."

Dragon's voice didn't change. Still calm. Still polite. "If you desire, I can issue a temporary identity mask for non-registered field operatives."

EMIYA hesitated. Just for a second. Then he nodded.

The drone beeped once in confirmation. "Mask deployment authorized. Sending beacon to secure your visual ID now. ETA three minutes."

Then silence again. Satoshi nodded awkwardly and stepped back beside Ralts, who tugged on his sleeve with a small chirp. He looked down at her, then back at EMIYA.

Still no words. Just another look.

The drone pinged softly again, its lens flicking back to EMIYA before addressing them both.

"I have received updated information from regional PRT command. Reinforcements have entered the outer perimeter of the town. ETA: four minutes to trench. I advise you prepare for immediate contact."

Satoshi let out a long breath and almost sagged with relief.

"Finally," he murmured. "Real help."

Ralts chirped softly beside him, echoing his mood.

He nodded, rubbing a hand through his hair—dried blood, sweat, and stress making it all stand weirdly on end. "We'll hold until then. Not moving her," he added, gesturing to the unconscious Bonesaw. "Safer if she stays out cold."

EMIYA didn't respond, but he stood at ease now, swords vanished, posture straightened. He had that distant edge again—like he was already halfway analyzing the next ten minutes, just in case.

"I will notify the approaching team of your presence," Dragon continued. "They will arrive with both medics and containment personnel."

She paused. "You've both done more here than could reasonably be expected of a civilian."

Satoshi gave her a tired, grateful smile. "Thank you. For the warning, and… for everything."

There was a quiet pause from the drone, almost like acknowledgment. Then it hovered upward slightly, positioning itself as a beacon above the trench.

Satoshi looked out across the snow-covered battlefield.

The wind had died down.

The shelter was quiet again, lit only by the dim glow of portable lamps Dragon had deployed and the flickering fires from ruined buildings beyond. Satoshi had started to doze, Ralts curled beside him like a little weighted blanket of soft warmth and empathy.

Then he felt it: A shift. A breath. A small, raspy exhale.

He opened his eyes—and saw Bonesaw stir. The girl made a small sound as she shifted. Her hands twitched, then flexed. Her expression shifted from blank peace to groggy confusion. For a second, she looked… normal. Just a tired child waking up after a long nap.

Then her eyes snapped open. Wide. Unblinking.

Satoshi tensed, slowly rising from his spot as Ralts perked up beside him. Bonesaw's eyes darted wildly around the shelter, taking in the injured, the ruined biomechanical husks, and the survivors who were still being tended to.

She didn't scream, she just smiled a fake smile.

"Did I win?" she asked innocently.

Satoshi felt his stomach twist.

"No," he said softly, stepping forward. "You didn't."

She sat up, or tried to—then blinked, realizing her arms were bare. Her hands had been wrapped in cloth and bandaged where EMIYA had removed the surgical tools. Her smile faltered until she noticed Ralts. The little Pokémon floated forward slightly, cautious but curious, her red eyes shimmering. Her presence was calm, warm, gentle. A soft wave of empathic comfort radiated from her like the echo of a lullaby.

Bonesaw blinked at her.

"What's that?" she asked, sounding more fascinated than afraid.

"She's Ralts," Satoshi answered. "She's my friend."

"She's… not scared of me," Bonesaw said.

"She's scared for you," Satoshi corrected gently.

Bonesaw blinked again. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out for a moment. Ralts floated closer and placed a tiny hand on her bandaged wrist as she smiled. The girl flinched like she had forgotten how a positive touch felt—but didn't pull away.

Satoshi knelt beside them, watching quietly. "Do you remember your name?"

Bonesaw tilted her head. "I'm Bonesaw," she said. "That's what Jack calls me."

"…Do you remember what your name was?"

That gave her pause.

"…Riley," she said softly. "Riley Grace Davis."

Satoshi nodded. "Hello, Riley."

Ralts let out a soft hum and closed her eyes, sending another calming pulse through the space.

Riley now looked tired. "…Are you going to kill me?"

Satoshi shook his head slowly. "No."

She looked down at Ralts again. "...She's really warm."

Satoshi reached over and gently set down a thermos of warm water. "So are you. You just forgot."

Chapter Text

Riley's fingers trembled as she reached out to brush them along Ralts's soft cheek. Her gaze flicked between them—Satoshi and the strange little creature by his side—as though trying to figure out what kind of dream she was having.

"She's… warm," she murmured again, almost dazed. "She should be afraid of me."

Satoshi didn't move. He kept his voice low and even. "Why do you think that?"

Riley's lips twisted into a crooked smile. Not the practiced grin she wore earlier, but a twitching, uneasy thing full of something too big to be just one emotion.

"Because I cut people open," she said, louder now. "I laughed when they screamed. I enjoyed it. I made things—things that crawl, that talk, that scream when you break them—because Jack said it was funny. Because I wanted to be a good girl—"

Her voice cracked. "—and he loved me more when I was awful."

Ralts flinched. The air shimmered with a burst of raw panic and Satoshi leaned forward just as Riley's breath began to hitch. "He said I was his little artist. That I was good at making pain! And I am! I am! I made a machine that turns screaming into music and—"

She gasped mid-word.

"You don't have to do it, if you don't want to, Riley," Satoshi said, but those were the wrong words to say because the dam broke in her.

Riley curled forward on herself, tiny fists clenched in her lap, rocking as sobs started to force their way out between words. "I can't stop. I can't! It's like—like a song stuck in my head, and if I don't take people apart, if I don't see what's inside, I—I feel like I'll go crazy, I—"

"Riley."

Satoshi didn't raise his voice. He just moved forward and pulled her into a hug. He didn't think. Didn't analyze. Didn't flinch.

Ralts hovered up and gently floated into her side, pressing against her opposite shoulder.

The moment their warmth wrapped around her, the sobbing stopped—not immediately, but like a knot had suddenly loosened inside her chest. Her breath hitched again, shallow and fast. And then she collapsed into him, tiny arms clung to his coat, shaking.

He held her tighter.

"It's okay," he whispered. "You're safe now. You're not with him anymore."

Ralts hummed gently, her presence a balm over raw nerves. The empathic wave pulsed through Riley's mind, slow and steady.

Riley didn't say anything. But for the first time…She didn't smile, either. She just cried quietly and honestly.

Satoshi didn't let go. Not when her sobs started to weaken or when her fists unclenched. Not even when her voice broke into hiccups that cracked the silence in the shelter. He just stayed there, kneeling in the dust and blood with Ralts pressed gently to Riley's side, offering nothing but steady warmth.

No judgment.

No anger.

Just the presence of someone who didn't leave.

"…I didn't mean to be like this," Riley whispered, her voice so small it barely existed. "I just wanted someone to be proud of me. I wanted someone to look at me and think I was special."

"You are," Satoshi said softly.

Her shoulders tensed again.

"I mean it," he continued. "But not for what you made. Not for the pain. You're special because… you're still here. You're still trying to feel something that isn't just control."

"I'm scared of going to sleep," she murmured. "Sometimes I wake up and I don't remember what I did the night before. Sometimes I do and I wish I didn't."

Satoshi rested his chin lightly atop her hair. "You don't have to be scared tonight."

Ralts let out a quiet, soothing note, her psychic field pulsing again—calm, safety, stability.

Riley's trembling slowed and her breathing evened out.

"…You're warm too," she mumbled.

Satoshi smiled, though it trembled at the edges. He waited until she went still. Not with fear or panic, but with exhaustion. Her fingers curled into the front of his coat, clutching it tight like a lifeline. And slowly, quietly, she fell asleep. Right there in his arms, head pressed to his chest, tears still drying on her cheeks.

Satoshi held her like she was something fragile, something breakable—not because she was a monster, but because maybe no one ever treated her like she was just a child.

Ralts drifted to her other side, watching over her like a silent sentinel as Satoshi whispered one last thing: "…We'll figure this out. I promise."

However, the quiet didn't last long. First came the low hum of approaching engines. Then heavy boots crunching over broken concrete and ice. Voices. Barked orders. Radios crackling.

The PRT had arrived.

Satoshi looked up, eyes adjusting to the blinding white of floodlights sweeping over the shelter. A drone flew overhead, tagging the shelter's position with a signal beacon. Moments later, black-clad officers and medics began filing down the slope in an organized rush.

Ralts tensed when Riley stirred.

Satoshi kept one arm around her, hand cradling the back of her head as he raised the other in a slow, non-threatening gesture.

"I'm with her. She's asleep. Be careful," he said.

A medic approached, flanked by two armed containment agents.

"Sir, we need to move her," the woman said—calm, practiced, professional. "For everyone's safety. She's one of the Nine."

Satoshi's grip tightened.

"She's not a threat right now," he said. "She's a child. And she just fell asleep."

"Sir, protocol—"

"She just stopped crying. She finally let herself rest. You're going to make her panic if you drag her off like she's a weapon."

Riley shifted in his arms. Her grip on his coat clenched tighter. Her breathing quickened.

She woke even when he whispered his words, not even sleeping for ten minutes. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated. Every muscle in her body locking up as her gaze darted from Satoshi's face to the PRT agents, then to the drawn weapons, the containment gear.

And she screamed. "No—NO! Don't take me! Don't let them—Jack will be mad—he'll cut me open this time—!"

Satoshi held her tighter, trying to soothe her. "Riley, it's okay—it's okay, you're not going back to him—"

"They'll throw me in a cell! They'll burn me like he said before! Please—please I'll be good I swear—!"

"Riley!"

She was shaking violently now, her voice cracking in panic as Ralts floated into her arms and pressed against her, humming a desperate psychic lullaby.

Satoshi turned sharply to the medic and agents. "She is not leaving my arms. Not like this. If you want to help her, you back up and lower your damn weapons."

The medic froze, uncertain. One of the agents stepped forward—And from behind them, a low voice rang out: "Stand down."

They glanced back.

EMIYA stood at the edge of the shelter, arms crossed, calm as stone. The expression on his face was unreadable, but his tone was unshakable. "He said she stays. That's all that matters."

The tension crackled in the air like static.

Riley clung to him, shaking like a leaf, her breath ragged, her small hands fisted in his coat as though letting go would mean death. Ralts cooed softly, pressing her forehead against Riley's, trying to stem the panic still radiating off her like heat from a burn.

The agents didn't lower their weapons. Not yet.

"I support the civilian's judgment."

The drone hovering above tilted downward, its voice clear and confident.

"Isshiki Satoshi engaged the Nine under extreme risk. He personally helped stabilize over three dozen survivors with the help of his companion. Furthermore—he has demonstrated appropriate restraint, compassion, and decisiveness under threat. He was the first to reach Riley Davis and the only one she allowed near her. Until further assessment can be made, I recommend she remain in his care."

There was a beat of hesitation among the PRT agents, then the medic turned to glance at her commander, who had just arrived on the edge of the shelter.

The commander took one long look at Satoshi—bloody, bruised, pale but resolute, shielding a sobbing girl and floating psychic child—and then gave a slow, reluctant nod.

"Stand down," the commander ordered.

Weapons lowered and Satoshi finally let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

Riley buried her face in his chest again, quieting but still clutching tightly.

Dragon's voice returned, gentler now: "She's scared. But she's not lost."

Satoshi stroked Riley's hair with one hand, his other arm still wrapped around her shoulders.

"Thank you," he murmured. "All of you."

He waited until the officials and medics started moving around, before allowing himself to relax. He didn't realize how badly he was shaking until the adrenaline started to fade. His fingers were stiff. His shoulders burned. His ribs—probably bruised—throbbed with every breath. There was dried blood on his temple and under his nails. Everything ached.

But Riley was still curled in his lap, and Ralts hadn't stopped holding her. So he stayed still.

Eventually, one of the medics stepped forward, cautious but concerned.

"We need to check your injuries, sir," she said gently. "You're pale and possibly concussed. We can't afford to leave internal trauma untreated."

Satoshi opened his mouth, ready to agree, but Riley tensed immediately. Her arms tightened around his middle. Her breath hitched.

"No," she whispered, barely audible. "Don't let them take you."

The medic paused. Held back. And Satoshi sighed, reaching up to pat Riley's back. "It's okay. They're not taking me anywhere. Just want to check me over."

But it was no good. Riley's panic was simmering again.

That's when a familiar sigh cut through the air. Heavy, resigned and just a little bit annoyed.

"Back up," EMIYA said, stepping down into the trench.

The medics looked to him. "Sir—"

"I know enough to handle his wounds. You can monitor from a distance if you're worried."

He was already walking over, arms rolled up, his expression carefully unreadable. Riley peeked up, blinking at him. Then at Satoshi. Satoshi smiled. "He's a friend. Though you really don't have to—"

"I know," EMIYA said flatly. "Sit still."

Satoshi opened his mouth again. Then shut it.

He sat still.

Riley loosened her grip slightly, watching EMIYA curiously now rather than fearfully. Ralts floated off to let him work, drifting to Satoshi's other side with an approving hum.

"Alright," EMIYA muttered, kneeling beside him. "Let's see what stupid part of you got broken first."

Satoshi smiled, despite everything. "…Thanks, Shirou."

EMIYA paused for half a second.

Then, without looking at him, he said:

"…Don't push your luck."

Chapter Text

The PRT shelter was a re-purposed community center at the edge of town that still smelled faintly of mildew and scorched drywall. However, it had heat, working lights, and beds that weren't made of concrete and ash. That alone made it a miracle.

The medics had offered him a cot in one of the side rooms. Ralts had already curled up on the pillow like it was a prize. Riley hovered at his side, silent, clutching a folded blanket too big for her.

Satoshi smiled gently, brushing a hand through their hair.

"I'll just be a minute," he said. "There's something I want to do."

He left the cot, gave a little wave to EMIYA—who had stationed himself like a watchtower at the corner of the room—and headed toward the scent of something not blood or smoke.

The makeshift kitchen was barely a room: four folding tables, a couple of propane burners, and a donated stockpile of cans, boxed pasta, and other foodstuffs. A volunteer looked up in surprise as Satoshi entered.

"I can help," he said, already rolling up his sleeves.

The volunteer blinked. "You're injured."

Satoshi smiled, tired but firm. "I'm a chef. This is how I rest."

He was already moving before she could argue—sorting vegetables, soaking rice, checking supplies with practiced ease.

A few moments later, there were soft footsteps behind him.

He turned to see that Riley had followed him, blanket dragging slightly behind her. She said nothing, just shuffled over and hovered nearby, eyes flicking between his hands and the food.

Satoshi gestured to a second cutting board. "Want to help me wash some of these?"

She nodded silently and moved closer. And just like that, she was peeling carrots with trembling hands, focused, like if she stopped she'd wake up back in a nightmare.

Satoshi didn't stop her. He just peeled beside her in silence.

From the other side of the room, he felt EMIYA's eyes on him. Not close enough to interrupt. Not far enough to be casual. Just… watching.

Eventually, he spoke—calm, low. "You should be resting."

Satoshi smiled faintly, without looking up. "This is resting."

There was a pause. Then EMIYA sighed again—the kind that sounded like it had been passed down from centuries. "…You're an idiot."

But his voice was softer. Almost fond.

.

Satoshi didn't mean to go overboard. He really didn't. But the moment he picked up the knife—felt its weight settle into his palm like an old friend—something shifted. Muscle memory took over. Movements smoothed out. Timing became instinct. Not just skill. Not just practice. Something deeper. Something anchored.

Isshiki Satoshi was a chef from a world where food wasn't just sustenance. It was comfort. Connection. Healing. And as he moved through the makeshift kitchen, surrounded by dented pots and scavenged ingredients, something came alive in him.

He wasn't just cooking.

He was mending.

He started with onions—caramelized low and slow until golden. Potatoes and carrots followed, chopped with rhythmic ease, each stroke steady, certain. Whatever meat the PRT had salvaged—canned, cured, or frozen—he seared to bring out umami before folding it into the simmering pot.

Spices bloomed in the oil. Stock cubes melted. A thick roux came together in the pan, improvised from scavenged butter, flour, and curry powder. When he combined it all, the scent that rose was rich, earthy, and deep.

Japanese curry stew. Heavy with warmth. Soft with sweetness. Just enough spice to chase the cold out of tired bones.

He didn't stop at the basics. Whatever extras he found—diced apples for sweetness, soy sauce for depth, even a splash of instant coffee—he used with care, weaving together something more than the sum of its parts.

Three massive pots for more than fifty portions.

Hot. Filling. Real.

He didn't decorate the plates. He didn't need to. The steam rising off each bowl was its own kind of presentation. The smell was enough to draw survivors from their quiet corners, nurses and agents alike pausing just to breathe it in.

And then he served it.

To everyone. The injured, the exhausted survivors, the wary PRT agents, the medics, even the command staff. Each received a bowl or plate—no favorites, no hierarchy.

He worked quietly, focused, hair tied back, apron borrowed and already stained.

Riley followed him like a duckling with perfect posture, holding trays with Ralts floating beside her to steady them.

People didn't speak. Not at first.

They took their first bite—and then the room changed. Eyes widened. Mouths opened. Some people let out soft gasps, some groaned under their breath. One of the more hardened agents physically stepped back like he'd been stabbed with flavor.

The medic who'd tried to treat him earlier whispered, "Is this heaven?" and held the bowl like it was a newborn.

A recovering teenager with a broken arm cried. Cried.

The commander sat down heavily after a single mouthful, looked into his bowl with a haunted reverence, and muttered, "Id he was one of us, I would promote him."

Satoshi didn't say anything. He just smiled, cheeks flushed from the steam, hands still moving as he plated the next round.

This was his world now. And in this moment, he was exactly where he belonged.

Eventually, the rush slowed.

Bellies were full. Conversations softened. A kind of peace settled into the shelter—fragile but real.

Satoshi sat on a crate just outside the kitchen, a bowl of curry in his hands and a quiet ache in his shoulders that was more satisfying than painful. Riley was tucked beside him, slowly eating from her own bowl like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to enjoy it. Ralts sat on her lap, eyes closed in bliss.

Then a shadow fell over them. EMIYA didn't speak. Just sat beside them on another crate, setting down some documents with quiet finality before accepting the bowl Satoshi handed over.

He took one bite then blinked. Chewed. Swallowed. And stared at the bowl like it had personally healed a childhood trauma.

"…What the hell did you put in this?" he muttered.

Satoshi frowned, brows scrunching. "It's just what I could scavenge."

EMIYA took another bite, this time slower. Thoughtful. Cautious, like the bowl might vanish if he didn't savor it.

Riley leaned into Satoshi's side, content and half-asleep, chewing with the bliss of someone who hadn't tasted comfort in years.

For a while, none of them said anything until EMIYA spoke again—quiet, clipped.

"…So. About the whole 'marriage' thing."

Satoshi winced. "…Yeah."

Ralts opened one eye, sensing the shift.

Satoshi stirred his stew, not meeting EMIYA's gaze. "I didn't choose it. I mean—I didn't know I was choosing it. It must've been part of the background package they gave me. The Company, I mean. I just thought you'd be listed as my companion. Not… spouse."

EMIYA raised an eyebrow.

"They forged legal immigration records for us. Together. Under domestic partnership laws."

"I know," Satoshi groaned. "Believe me, I saw."

A pause.

"…Are you mad?"

EMIYA didn't answer right away. Then, slowly, he said, "I've been forcibly bound to people before. I've had my body, mind, and will hijacked by systems that treated me like a tool."

He took another bite of stew. "I'm not mad that this happened. I'm mad that I didn't get to choose even if I'm not surprised."

Satoshi swallowed thickly. "That's fair."

Riley, quiet, blinked up at them both. "You're married?"

Satoshi flushed.

EMIYA gave a long, slow exhale. "We are now."

"…Cool," Riley said, slurping her stew again.

Satoshi let out a tiny, embarrassed laugh. "It doesn't have to mean anything."

"It already does," EMIYA said, but his voice wasn't angry. Just… tired and a little resigned.

They ate in peace for a while. The kind of silence that wasn't awkward, just full. Comforting. Even Riley seemed content, nestled between him and Ralts, the bowl resting on her knees.

Then EMIYA spoke again, quiet but thoughtful.

"If you're going to keep cooking like this," he said, "I might stop resenting our legal entanglement."

Satoshi snorted softly. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Low bar."

"Still counts."

Another pause. Then, almost reluctantly, EMIYA added, "Would you teach me?"

Satoshi blinked. "…Teach you?"

EMIYA nodded, still eating. "I know how to cook. I'm not bad at it. But whatever you just made? That wasn't 'good.' That was... transcendent."

Satoshi blinked again—then beamed. "Well, yeah! I mean—I'd love to. I mostly stick to Japanese cuisine, since that's what I trained with, but I love to mix styles. I'm not big on rigid tradition. I like finding how flavors talk to each other, you know?"

He started to gesture as he spoke, the words coming faster, more animated. "Like, French sauces with Japanese broths? Italian simplicity with Korean spice profiles? And don't even get me started on regional Southeast Asian stews, because—"

He yawned mid-sentence. Then blinked slowly.

Riley and Ralts both looked up sleepily at him, but he didn't stop talking even if the excitement dimmed a little. His next sentence slurred slightly. "—I mean, miso's amazing, right? You can do, like… earthy or sweet, or aged, and the fermentation layers—it's like… ngh, magic…"

Another yawn broke through as he leaned back against the wall, eyes drooping, smile still on his face.

EMIYA raised an eyebrow. "You're falling asleep."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm just… conserving energy between flavor-based hypotheticals…"

"You're slurring."

"M'fine."

Riley yawned next to him and tugged gently at his sleeve. "We can rest now. You fed everyone."

Saroshi blinked down at her—then gave a crooked smile and nodded. "…Okay. But you're all on dish duty tomorrow."

EMIYA watched him for a moment, then spoke quietly. "You need to sleep."

That seemed to cut through the fog more than anything else had. Satoshi blinked, eyes half-lidded but a little more focused. "Yeah… yeah, you're right."

He looked down and gently lifted Riley, who was dozing off with her arms wrapped around Ralts like a stuffed animal. She didn't stir, just breathed softly against his chest.

She wasn't heavy—not really, but Satoshi's limbs felt like lead. The adrenaline had long since worn off, and every step now was an effort of will more than strength. He looked toward the sleeping area and then down at Riley, before ask for help or even say a word, EMIYA was already moving. Strong arms slid under Satoshi's knees and shoulders, and before he could react, he was lifted clean off the ground—bridal style—with Riley still cradled in his arms.

Satoshi yelped, a high-pitched noise escaping before he slapped a hand over his own mouth.

"Let her sleep," EMIYA murmured, deadpan.

"I wasn't ready—!"

"Clearly."

Satoshi flushed but didn't argue further. Not with Riley tired and falling asleep against his chest, and not with Ralts quietly humming beside her. So he let himself be carried. Not for his own sake, but for hers.

Chapter Text

He didn’t sleep. He hadn’t since he’d died.

Or maybe it was since he’d stopped being Shirou. It was hard to tell when one became the other. When the boy with a dream became a blade, and the blade became a ghost—shaped only by the weight of what it had been asked to cut.

He sat near the edge of the cot, one leg propped up, the Company-issued tablet balanced on his knee like a shield he didn’t have the luxury of putting down. Beside him, Isshiki breathed softly. Curled protectively around Riley and Ralts, all three of them knotted up in warmth and blankets and the fragile trust of people who still believed that kindness could be a shelter.

He didn’t know why he watched them. Or maybe he did. Maybe it was easier than closing his eyes. Easier than finding out what sort of nightmares would crawl out of whatever corner of his soul still hadn’t been burned clean by Alaya.

So he read and scrolled through the Company’s terminal like it was scripture carved in rot. Each flick of his finger laid out another line of synthetic normalcy—legal records, false histories, emergency documents, visa stamps. An entire life manufactured for two people who hadn’t existed until someone clicked “Confirm.”

A domestic partnership. A modest immigration story. A shared trauma tucked neatly behind forged relocation files and hospital records. All so they could slip into this world unnoticed.

He almost laughed. It was too clean. Too calculated.

Then came the rest and the deeper he read, the colder he became. The Waifu Catalog wasn’t subtle. It was a spreadsheet of people. Catalogued. Sold. Bent.

There were toggles for obedience, sliders for intelligence, checkboxes for consent. Options to rewrite memory, suppress free will, rewire affection. You could dial someone’s love to “unwavering,” reduce their mind to “simple,” remove trauma, remove independence, remove resistance.

It wasn’t a catalog. It was a butcher’s manual for the soul.

EMIYA stared at the screen, unmoving, as his own name came up again. Slotted. Tagged. Labeled by power class and attractiveness, reduced to a block of data and a carefully selected promotional image. Not his real face—one of the fake ones, filtered and postured. His body: idealized. His smile: edited.

He could almost hear the menu voice in his head.

[EMIYA: Nasuverse - Servants - Archer. T7-Class. Cost:100.]

He gripped the edge of the tablet so hard it creaked. Not because of anger. Not because of surprise. But because none of it surprised him. This had always been who he was—what he was. A tool. A blade. A pretty thing for someone else to wield. And this system had just made it literal.

He didn’t know how long he stared at the listing. Long enough that the screen began to dim. He swiped it away without thinking—reflexively—like brushing ash off his coat. And then he looked at Isshiki again.

The idiot. The moron who hadn’t picked bindings. Hadn’t touched the memory wipes, the affection toggles, the loyalty locks. Hadn’t wanted a servant. Hadn’t wanted a toy. Hadn’t even picked someone he was attracted to.

He’d picked EMIYA because he wanted to help someone cursed, someone broken, someone he thought he could save.

From Alaya.

From the machine that EMIYA had become.

And he’d done it blindly. Without knowing how much worse it could’ve been. Without knowing how easy it would’ve been to turn him into something silent and smiling and hollow. All because he was scared he’d fall in love with someone he shouldn’t. All because he didn’t trust himself with power over another person.

That, more than anything, made EMIYA feel ill. Because this was a nightmare. A game of control dressed in wish fulfillment. A system of chains made to look like silk.

And yet Isshiki had chosen to walk around the chains. Not out of a sense of nobility, but because he didn’t want to hurt anyone.

EMIYA looked back at the tablet. At his own name—at his own price—and felt nothing but a deep, bone-cold ache, because even if Isshiki hadn’t chosen to own him. Even if he’d chosen him to free him. EMIYA was still here.

Still tagged.

Still bought.

He set the tablet aside, hand lingering on it for a moment longer than necessary. The screen had long gone dark, but the afterimage still burned behind his eyes—data, tags, the shape of his own name wrapped in chains he could almost feel pressing against his skin.

He stood, stretching in silence. His joints cracked—not from tension, but memory. Phantom aches from lifetimes of battles fought on ruined plains and burning cities. The pain never really went away. It just lived quieter now. Buried.

The shelter was quiet.

Riley still slept beside Isshiki, her hand still curled tightly in his coat like a child afraid the world might vanish if she let go. Ralts was nestled against Isshiki’s side, small arms looped around his sleeve, horn faintly glowing with the residual echo of comfort.

They looked… safe. Peaceful.

EMIYA stared at the idiot and then bent down and, gently—so gently—adjusted the blanket over their chests. Pulled it a little higher against the chill. Just enough to keep the cold from seeping back in.

Isshiki stirred. Eyes cracked open, bleary and unfocused, but full of quiet warmth as they settled on EMIYA’s face. “...Why you awake...?”

EMIYA didn’t answer at first. His voice caught on something that didn’t quite make it to the surface. Eventually, he said, “Sleep.”

But Isshiki didn’t. He blinked slowly, then shifted just a bit, as if registering how much space he was taking up on the cot and scooted. Then, with all the grace of someone halfway submerged in dreams, he reached out and patted the empty space beside him. “Come. Come.”

EMIYA stared at him and didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

He wasn’t sure if he could breathe as Isshiki’s hand stayed there. Not demanding. Not pleading. Just… there. An offer. An invitation. The kind of thing people gave to others because of kindness, something he rarely received and thought he wouldn't receive after killing Gray-Boy.

Still, EMIYA didn’t move until Isshiki's fingers curled gently around his wrist. Just a touch. Just warmth.

A tether that made EMIYA swallow.

“Tch.” It came out like an exhale. Quiet. Frustrated. Resigned. “…My clothes are filthy.”

“Mine too,” Isshiki mumbled, already drifting again. “Don’t like sleeping in ‘em… but I was tired. And Riley...”

He yawned, slow and soft. Vulnerable in a way EMIYA hadn’t seen since before he died. Before Alaya. Before being a Counter Guardian. It made something twist in EMIYA’s chest as a chuckle escaped before he could stop it. Barely a breath. “Go to sleep.”

But Isshiki didn’t let go.

“You must be tired too…” he murmured. “C’mon…”

EMIYA stood frozen for another heartbeat. Then—against instinct, against conditioning, against every blood-soaked lesson the world had ever taught him—he sat. And then lay down.

The cot creaked beneath the weight. The warmth was immediate and shocking after so much cold. Isshiki murmured something unintelligible, barely shifting, too exhausted to move beyond recognition. Riley and Ralts remained nestled against his chest, the latter humming softly.

Riley didn’t wake. Her breath was even. Steady. The kind of sleep children were supposed to have.

EMIYA closed his eyes.

The ghosts didn’t leave. Not really.

But for the first time in centuries, they grew quiet.

He allowed himself—not forgiveness, but rest.

.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep that deeply. Not really. But the moment his body settled beside Isshiki’s, the warmth pressed in from all sides—Riley curled tight into Isshiki’s chest, Ralts radiating psychic calm like a hearth fire—he simply… shut down.

No resistance. No dread. And no dreams.

He didn’t remember closing his eyes. Just the moment everything inside him uncoiled. And when he opened them again, the world was soft and gray. Dawn hadn’t broken, not fully. The boarded windows let in only hints of morning light, thin and pale across the room. But the haze of night was gone.

And he felt okay. For the first time in… maybe forever, he’d slept without a single image of war, of ash, of screaming. There was no sword in his hand. No mission twisting in his bones. Just… quiet.

He blinked slowly, awareness crawling back in piece by piece. And then he realized—He was curled around Isshiki. Spooning him with one arm loosely draped across Isshiki’s waist. His chest pressed against Isshiki’s back, their breaths unconsciously aligned. His chin had dipped, just slightly, near the crown of Isshiki’s hair.

A small, disbelieving breath escaped him, before he went rigid. Not violently—but enough as heat flared through him, sharp with mortification.

What the hell.

But also…It was warm and so comfortable. And none of his joints ached. And the silence didn’t feel threatening.

He could’ve moved. He should’ve moved, but…The weight of the cot. The quiet exhale from Riley in sleep. The little wheeze from Ralts, curled like a comma between them. Isshiki’s breath, steady and unguarded.

Moving would be like breaking something delicate.

So EMIYA stayed just a little longer.

One hour passed.

Then—A shift. A breath. A sigh.

Isshiki.

EMIYA felt it the subtle tension change, the pull of muscles preparing for motion. A familiar cadence of a body returning to awareness.

He shifted back gently. Carefully, still close enough to feel the warmth, but no longer wrapped around him.

The cot creaked with soft protest as Isshiki yawned and stretched, groggy and tousled. His arms moved with practiced care, not waking Riley, not jostling Ralts.

“…Ugh. I feel gross,” he mumbled, voice raw with sleep. “Need a bath…”

EMIYA couldn’t help the soft, reluctant chuckle that escaped him.

Isshiki froze mid-stretch. Then, slowly, he turned his head and squinted at him over his shoulder, bleary and offended. “…Were you laughing at me?”

His voice cracked a little, caught somewhere between indignation and pillow-muffled sulk.

EMIYA raised an eyebrow. “…Maybe.”

Isshiki groaned and turned back around, pressing his face into the blanket.

“Rude. I’m too tired to deal with you right now.”

“Clearly.”

Another quiet breath. A flicker of peace.

And, for a moment longer, the world remained simple.

Then, after a couple of minutes, Isshiki stretched again, before glancing toward the direction the makeshift kitchen area was. His gaze lingered there a moment, like muscle memory was trying to steer him.

“…I should go make breakfast,” he murmured, voice rough.

EMIYA didn’t move.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he said quietly, voice low in the dim light. “You’re injured. You don’t work for the PRT. You don’t owe them a damn thing.”

Isshiki twisted slightly in the cot, just enough to pout at him over his shoulder, light hair messy, eyes still half-lidded. “But I like cooking.”

“Then cook later,” EMIYA replied, not unkindly. “After we deal with the PRT. Maybe Dragon, if she’s still on-site.”

He glanced down at the two still-sleeping figures curled between them—Riley half-tucked into Isshiki’s chest, Ralts cradled in her arms like a small, breathing pillow. Their breaths were soft. Steady.

“…Though it’s probably better to wait until they’re awake,” EMIYA added. “They’ll need food that isn’t field rations.”

Isshiki sighed, but it wasn’t annoyed. It was fond. “Okay, okay. You win.” He shifted back again, slumping with the resigned grace of a cat deciding not to move. His shoulder brushed against EMIYA’s chest again. Barely a touch. But it lingered. “…You’re kind of warm.”

EMIYA blinked.

There was no tease in the words. No flirtation. Not even awareness. Just a sleepy truth, spoken like an observation on the weather. It could have been said about a campfire, but still made EMIYA looked down at the man beside him. The man who’d chosen him not out of want, but out of compassion. Who risked himself for people he didn’t know, cried for a child he’d just met, and wanted to cook stew in the ruins of a warzone.

He could’ve pulled away. He’d done it before.

He didn’t.

“…So are you,” he said quietly.

Isshiki smiled, slow and drowsy, and didn’t say anything else.

And for a few more minutes, they stayed like that. Just existing. Breathing. Warm.

It was weird and suffocating in a good way, but so foreign that it made EMIYA want to fill the silence.

“I looked through the tablet last night.” His voice was low. Measured. But not cold. “The catalog. The shop. Everything.”

Isshiki hummed in acknowledgment, not quite awake. “Yeah?”

“There’s a lot more than just perks and talents,” EMIYA continued, eyes distant. “If you earn enough points, you can buy... a lot of things.”

Isshiki cracked an eye open. “Like?”

EMIYA hesitated for just a second. “You can improve yourself. Or others. Unlock powers. Change your body. Your mind. You can even…”

He exhaled slowly.

“…You can buy people.”

Isshiki blinked and shifted, pushing himself up just enough to look at EMIYA fully. His voice was quiet, but firm. “You’re serious?”

EMIYA met his eyes.

“I’m there. In the shop. Or I was. Maybe still am, in some version. Tagged. Rated. Like a weapon or a game asset.”

Isshiki stared at him—shocked, but not angry. Not horrified. Just… listening.

“…Well,” he said after a long pause. “I don’t think I want to buy more things for me. But maybe… we can use it to help others. Like… give someone a second chance.”

His gaze softened. “Like the one you can get here...right?”

Something in EMIYA tightened. There it was again. That wordless weight behind Isshiki’s voice. That maddening sincerity. He didn’t want to name what it stirred in him. Not grief. Not guilt. Something older.

So he deflected. “Am I not good enough for you?”

Isshiki blinked. Then gave him a deeply unimpressed look and muttered, “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

EMIYA let a faint, smug smirk twitch at his mouth. “I just like watching you flounder.”

Isshiki narrowed his eyes at him. “You really are the worst.”

But the moment broke. And the silence returned, a little easier now.

Then EMIYA asked, quieter now, more curious than teasing, “Will you select a woman?”

He watched Isshiki stiffen slightly.

“…I don’t want to test if I’m weak-willed,” Isshiki muttered, looking away. “So no. Maybe not now. So probably another male?”

EMIYA hummed. “Avoiding your type, then.”

Isshiki squinted at him, suspicious. “And you think you know what that is?”

“I’m guessing feminine. Soft voice. Pretty face. Big eyes.”

Isshiki’s ears flushed red instantly.

“I—I can appreciate a beautiful face,” he admitted, squirming. “But that doesn’t mean—!”

EMIYA raised a brow. “So your type is just ‘beautiful,’ then?”

“Er—I mean—Yes? No? Maybe?” Isshiki groaned. “Why are we even having this conversation?”

“To know what not to select,” EMIYA said evenly, voice cool as always.

Isshiki buried his face in the blanket again with a muffled scream. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” EMIYA said dryly, “we’re married.”

“Shut up.”

Riley stirred faintly behind them, and both of them froze. Then EMIYA reached over and gently pulled the blanket up to her chin. Ralts shifted but didn’t wake.

Isshiki exhaled quietly.

“…Okay,” he whispered, not moving from where he lay, cheek half-pressed against EMIYA’s arm. “Okay. So we’ll help people. If we can. But not like that. Not like Company wants me to.”

EMIYA didn’t respond immediately, but slowly, deliberately, he nodded. “…Not like them? I can live with that.”

Chapter Text

The knock came gently—but with purpose—against the frame of the makeshift shelter door. A voice followed. Firm. Polite. The kind of cadence only someone used to giving and receiving orders could pull off without thinking:

"Excuse me. Dragon would like to speak with you everyone here, if you're awake."

Beside him, Riley stirred, letting out a groggy whimper as she burrowed closer to his side. Ralts blinked open her crimson eyes from her perch across his arm and let out a soft, indignant warble, like the mere idea of morning offended her on a personal level.

Satoshi's hand moved instinctively to soothe her, brushing slow fingers through her soft hair.

EMIYA was already turning toward the sound and standing up, though he didn't move to open the door yet—just angled himself like he could assess the situation through willpower alone.

"Wait a moment," he called, sharp but not hostile.

The soldier didn't argue.

Satoshi sighed and forced himself upright, the cocoon of warmth they'd made already unraveling around him. His back ached faintly from the cot. Riley groaned and flopped over into the space he'd just vacated. Ralts followed, draping herself across Riley like a scarf made of sleepy psychic empathy.

"Too early…" Riley muttered. "Tell Dragon it's bedtime."

Ralts approved of her words through their bond—emotional and fogged with drowsy complaint.

Satoshi couldn't help it. He smiled, brushing a thumb along Riley's temple as she curled deeper into the blankets. "You two are a menace," he said fondly.

Across from him, EMIYA smirked—just a little. A rare thing. Dry and subtle. The kind of smile you had to know to recognize. He pulled on his jacket and slipped on the domino mask Dragon had provided the night before—functional, simple, and just annoying enough that Satoshi had refused his on the grounds of I'm not the vigilante here.

The mask settled into place with practiced ease, hiding just enough of EMIYA's face to keep him off facial recognition feeds.

Only then did EMIYA open the door.

The soldier on the other side stood at attention—tall, calm, well-trained.

"Ma'am Dragon requests a meeting," he said. "She said she'd prefer it before the next civilian processing round."

Satoshi watched as EMIYA's jaw ticked—barely noticeable. "Where?"

"She's using the repurposed mayor's office. Three buildings over. Southeast. She said your breakfast is already waiting."

Satoshi rolled his eyes fondly.

Of course it is.

EMIYA exhaled slowly. "Wait a few minutes. We'll be there shortly."

The soldier nodded once, then stepped back and out of view.

The door shut quietly behind EMIYA as he turned toward Satoshi—expression composed, posture already shifting into "strategic planning mode."

"We've got a few minutes," he said.

Satoshi was sitting upright now, still tousled, blanket pooled around his hips. Riley had taken over most of the cot, her small hand gripping the corner of his coat like a lifeline even awake while Ralts nestled beside her with her horn twitching faintly.

"They brought us breakfast?" Satoshi asked, amused. "And here I was thinking I'd have to impress them again with another miracle curry."

"Apparently not. We don't even have to dress properly—just jackets," EMIYA said, crouching slightly to pull on his gloves. "Dragon's efficient."

Satoshi laughed quietly. "Can't say I hate it. Still weird waking up and not cooking."

EMIYA gestured with his chin. "Grab the satchel. Bring the tablet."

Satoshi gave him a lazy, exaggerated salute, complete with bleary-eyed squint. "Yes, commander."

He stood with a stretch, rolling his shoulder. Then he bent to grab the satchel, slinging it over his arm. Behind him, Riley shifted and stood up, Riley following her movements.

.

The mayor's office had been hastily converted into a field command post. The walls were half-cleared of soot and smoke, and heavy cables ran under the carpet. Holoscreens were folded against the far wall, dim and dormant for now.

But what caught his attention was the couch.

Low, slightly dusty, and absurdly comfortable-looking. Satoshi made a beeline for it—not just because he was tired, though that was part of it—but because Riley was trailing behind him, eyes wide and hands fisting the hem of his coat.

Satoshi couldn't show how nervous he felt, not when she was trembling. So, he sat down and gently pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her small form. She didn't resist. If anything, she tucked herself in closer, like a rabbit in a thunderstorm.

Ralts hopped up onto her lap next, giving a soft little chirp as she pressed her forehead against Riley's chest. A ripple of calm shimmered through the air.

Across from them, Dragon's drone hovered at a polite distance—sleek white armor, a low voice that didn't echo, and eyes that glowed a gentle gold.

"Riley Davis," Dragon said gently. "I want to ask you a few things. Is that alright?"

Riley hesitated until Satoshi gave her a small squeeze and whispered, "I'm right here. We all are."

She nodded once.

Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. "…Okay."

"Tell me about your family," Dragon asked gently.

Riley flinched. Her grip on Satoshi's coat tightened. But she spoke. "My… my mom's name was Caroline. My dad was Harold. My big brother was Matt. He was twelve. We had a dog named Chai-Chai. She always slept on my bed."

A pause.

"He tortured them," she said. "Jack. I didn't understand what was happening at first. I just thought… maybe they were sick? Or hurt?"

She swallowed.

"I kept trying to help. He kept smiling. He said I had talent. That I was a 'little miracle.' So I tried to heal them. Over and over. Even when they screamed. Even when I didn't know how... I was six."

Ralts let out a soft, distressed whimper. Her aura pulsed.

Satoshi hugged her tighter. "I didn't know what I was doing. I just wanted them to stop hurting. But he kept hurting them again. And I couldn't keep up. I didn't know enough."

She was shaking now. "When I gave up… when I couldn't anymore… I sat there and I watched my mom die."

Satoshi buried his hand in her hair, fingers trembling slightly.

"She said, 'Be a good girl.' Before she stopped breathing and...I tried." Riley let out a sob, curling into his chest. "I tried. I wanted to be. I wanted to be good."

Ralts was glowing now, the softest pink—calm, comfort, love, everything she could send.

Satoshi didn't speak. He just held her as he rocked her gently, murmuring quiet things that didn't need to be understood, because sometimes, being there was enough.

Dragon's tone remained steady—always gentle, always composed. "I'm sorry for making you relive thse things, but, Riley… can you tell us what happened during the last two years? With the Slaughterhouse Nine. With Jack Slash."

Riley's breath caught. Her voice dropped to almost nothing. "…He's scary. He's always smiling. Even when he's… not smiling."

She twisted the hem of Satoshi's sleeve between her fingers. "But sometimes, he was kind. Not nice. Not gentle. But kind. Like when I finished something and he said he was proud of me. Or when he gave me nicknames. He called me his 'little artist.'"

Her mouth quirked into something that wasn't quite a smile. More like the echo of one. "I just… I wanted to be a good girl for him. He liked when I made things. When I was Bonesaw."

She paused. "I don't regret the things I did."

Satoshi stiffened slightly. Ralts let out a low note, uncertain.

"I know I should. I know it's wrong not to. But I don't feel bad about them. I feel proud. Because I wanted to impress him. Because he said I was amazing."

Her eyes looked distant. Hollow. "I just wanted to be a good girl."

She looked up at Satoshi, and the hollowness gave way to something breaking.

"Is there something wrong with me?"

The words cracked on her tongue, but Satoshi didn't hesitate. He pulled her in close again, hugging her so tightly he could feel Ralts shift between them to press into her too.

"There is nothing wrong with you," he said firmly. "The only one in the wrong is Jack Slash."

"You were a child. He hurt you. He twisted your love into something awful, and then made you think it was your fault."

He brushed her hair back, gently. "Maybe what you need isn't punishment, you just need someone to understand. A new family that won't hurt you."

Riley sniffled once. Her small hands gripped his shirt tightly. "…Can you be my family?"

He blinked, throat tightening.

"I like you," she whispered. "And Ralts too."

Before he could answer, Dragon's voice cut in—still kind, but now firm. "Riley. I'm sorry, but I need to speak to Satoshi and Archer alone for a few minutes."

Riley's breath hitched.

"No," she whispered. "No, I don't want to—don't make me—"

Satoshi immediately leaned in. "Hey, hey. It's okay."

He gently took her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. "We're not going anywhere. I promise. Just outside the door, alright? Wait with Ralts. She'll stay with you."

Riley looked unsure, wide-eyed and shaking, but Ralts cooed and nuzzled her cheek.

"Just outside," Satoshi repeated, and smiled. "We'll come right out."

She hesitated, then nodded. Slowly, she slid off his lap. Ralts floated after her, one tiny hand in Riley's as the door opened with a hiss.

Satoshi watched them walk out until the door closed with a soft click.

The room felt colder without them and the silence after the door closed was thick, but Dragon wasted no time.

"Before we move on to Riley's long-term options," she said, voice polite but pointed, "I'd like to ask: what exactly is Ralts?"

Satoshi blinked. "She's… well. I guess you could call her a special kind of Case 53. I found her, or… maybe she found me. We bonded pretty quickly."

"Her powers?"

"She's an empath. She feels the emotions of others—more clearly when they're strong. She likes happy people. But she really likes helping people feel happy." He smiled faintly. "She can heal too, and she's protective when it counts. What she does for Riley isn't manipulation—if that's what you're thinking. She's just helping in the only way she knows how."

There was a pause. Dragon said nothing, her optics dimming slightly—processing. "Very well. However, that brings me to the next matter: Riley Davis. It's clear she will not respond well to separation. Nor would her mental state remain stable if she were forcibly removed from either of you."

Satoshi's heart thumped in his chest. He swallowed. "…Can I adopt her?"

That earned a rare pause from Dragon. "Shouldn't that be a decision you consult with your significant other?"

Satoshi flushed a little, opening his mouth to protest—when Dragon turned.

"Apologies for the breach of etiquette, but when I initially scanned your profile after seeing you unmasked, I looked into your identity. Emiya Shirou."

EMIYA, who had remained silent until now, crossed his arms slightly and responded with his usual deadpan tone: "…Just Emiya."

But he was looking at Satoshi now. Satoshi met his eyes and swallowed again. "…We can adopt her, can't we?"

There was a long, quiet beat. No drama. No tension. Just a moment where two strangers pretending to be a married couple faced the reality of what that might actually mean.

EMIYA finally shrugged. "Sure we can."

Chapter Text

Dragon, ever composed, tilted her drone's head just slightly. "I assume you're aware this adoption would come with certain legal, financial, and custodial responsibilities."

Satoshi nodded, already anticipating the question.

"We're both legally registered as having immigrated from Britain a couple of months ago," he said. "Unemployed for now, yeah, but that's temporary."

"Temporary how?"

"I'm a chef. My plan's to open a restaurant. We've got money saved up"—he glanced briefly at Emiya—"enough to live on for a couple of months while I scout locations. Once I sell the house we're currently registered to—"

"That small property outside town?"

Satoshi nodded. "Yeah. It's ours legally. Once we sell it, I should be in a better position financially."

He smiled softly. "And then… eventually? I'd like to open a soup kitchen. For people who can't afford good meals, but still deserve one."

Dragon was quiet for a moment. "That's a very… optimistic plan."

"Realistic," Satoshi said. "It's what I'm good at."

"Do you plan to stay in this region?"

Satoshi paused. Then looked at Emiya with a very dry expression. "Well, I've heard Brockton Bay is pretty cheap these days."

Dragon's optics dimmed slightly in concern. "It's also dangerous. The ABB and Empire Eighty-Eight have active territory conflicts. Not quite Boston's level, but still—"

"Luckily," EMIYA cut in, tone cool and clipped, "I plan to be there too."

Dragon turned slightly toward him. "Are you planning to register as a PRT cape? Or work independently?"

EMIYA shrugged. "I was going to be his restaurant's bodyguard."

Satoshi stifled a laugh. "Security chief," he corrected, mock-solemn.

"You don't seem interested in formal cape work."

"I'm not."

"Some powers—especially fresh triggers—find themselves drawn to conflict. It's not uncommon."

"I don't go looking for fights," EMIYA said calmly. "Fights just find me."

A pause. Then, evenly: "Don't worry about me, I'm not a fresh trigger."

Dragon's drone paused again, quiet whirring signaling she was recording everything. Then she spoke. "I'll prepare a preliminary file to submit for guardianship, but I'll need to confirm with the local PRT and child welfare authorities before any long-term placement decisions can be finalized."

Satoshi nodded. He'd expected that.

"In the meantime, you are permitted to return to your registered residence with Riley. The one outside of town."

Emiya inclined his head silently.

"You'll need to stay in-state. No cross-border travel with her for the time being. And keep your phones on. I'll contact you as soon as I have updates."

Satoshi let out a small breath of relief. "That's… fair. Thank you."

"I'll also have supplies delivered later today. Bedding. Food. Emotional support literature."

"Can't say no to free groceries, even if we will surely want Riley to choose her own stuff."

Emiya sighed beside him, clearly done with the conversation—but still present.

Satoshi stood, brushing his palms on his coat. "If there's nothing else…"

"You're dismissed," Dragon confirmed. "I'll keep you informed. Also, don't worry, your breakfast will be served shortly."

Satoshi turned and exited the office quietly, the door hissing softly behind him. Just outside, seated in a stiff plastic chair under the watchful but distant gaze of a soldier, Riley was clutching Ralts like a lifeline. The moment she saw him, her eyes lit up—nervous, but hopeful.

"Am I in trouble?" she asked quickly. "Do they wanna take me?"

Satoshi crouched down to her level and offered a small, warm smile. "No. You're coming home with us."

Her eyes widened. "Really?"

"For now, yes," he said gently, not wanting to overwhelm her. "You'll be staying with us in our house."

He paused. "We can't leave the state, though. And we have to check in from time to time."

"But I can… stay with you?" she asked again, as if needing to hear it twice to believe it.

Satoshi nodded. "Yes."

She didn't cry, but she launched herself forward and wrapped her arms tightly around his middle.

Ralts trilled softly, clinging to both of them.

And for the first time that day, Satoshi felt like maybe everything was going to be okay.

.

The house was… bigger than he expected. Nestled just outside the town limits, the modest exterior gave way to a surprisingly spacious interior once they stepped inside. Light filtered in through tall windows, dust motes dancing lazily in the air. The hardwood floors creaked under their feet, but they were sturdy. Lived-in, not neglected.

Satoshi stepped into the open foyer and looked around with cautious awe.

It was all here—furnished, functional, almost staged to feel like a real home. Kitchen to the left. Living room ahead. A wide staircase on the right led to a second floor. There were multiple bedrooms. More than enough space.

Enough for more than just the three of them.

Riley let out a small gasp behind him, stepping in slowly with Ralts perched on her shoulder like a tiny psychic scout.

"This is your house?" she asked.

Satoshi blinked. "Uh… yeah. I guess it is."

He took a few more steps inside, spinning slowly on his heel as he looked over the space and whispered to Emiya, "Feels weird, right? Walking into something that's legally yours, but you've never seen before?"

Behind him, Emiya entered last—boots soft against the floor. He didn't say anything, but his eyes scanned the place carefully, methodically. Every entryway, window, and structural point was being assessed like a battlefield.

Of course it was.

Satoshi caught him pausing to check the bolt on the back door and chuckled. "Planning your escape routes already?"

"Just making sure we don't get any surprise visitors."

"Sure. Totally normal homey stuff."

Riley wandered into the living room, trailing her fingers along the back of a wide, plush couch. "It's so… clean. Like, too clean."

"It's almost like a catalog house," Satoshi murmured. "Because, y'know, it is."

He ran a hand over the dining table. Polished. Not a speck of dust. No smell of must or mildew. Everything here had been prepared for them by the Company—down to the placement of the decorative salt shaker.

It was ready to sell.

And eventually, it would.

"We'll probably only be here for a little while," Satoshi said absently. "Once things settle, we'll look into moving to Brockton Bay. Sell this place, get something smaller near the restaurant—if the restaurant happens."

"It'll happen," Emiya said simply.

Satoshi glanced over his shoulder at him. "You really think so?"

"You're too stubborn for it not to."

Satoshi smiled faintly. "I'll take that as a compliment."

.

Satoshi leaned against the hallway wall as Riley skipped toward the bathroom with Ralts, who let out a cheerful hum.

"Take your time," he called after her. "Hot water's a gift, not a race."

Riley gave a thumbs-up before the door closed.

With the soft sound of water starting behind it, Satoshi turned to Emiya, who was peering at a vent like it might be hiding a bomb.

"While we wait," Satoshi said, gesturing down the hall, "wanna help me keep exploring? I kinda wanna know if this house came with clothes or if we're living like time-traveling hobos."

They retraced their steps to the first room Satoshi had woken in—a spacious, high-ceilinged master bedroom that now looked significantly less mysterious and more... lived-in.

The bed was king-sized. The blanket still ruffled from his earlier panic-waking. But what caught his attention now was the walk-in closet to the side.

He pushed the door open and stepped in. On the left: modern, comfortable clothes in his size. A few folded outfits on shelves. Socks. Underwear. Even house slippers.

Satoshi blinked in pleased surprise. "Well, what do you know. They thought of everything."

Then he turned to the right-side door.

"Wonder if this one's Emiya's," he muttered, opening it—

—only to freeze.

The first half looked normal enough: dark slacks, button-downs, a couple hoodies, workout gear. Functional.

But the other half—Lace. Glossy fabric. A red maid outfit.

Satoshi slammed the door shut and stepped back, heart racing.

He turned slowly—

Emiya was already there, behind him.

Deadpan.

Silent.

"…Was that cosplay and lingerie?" he asked flatly.

Satoshi's voice cracked. "S-sorry?"

Emiya exhaled, long-suffering. "Let's remove that before Riley finds it."

He turned. "And we're inspecting this whole house. Thoroughly. In case the Company left us other 'surprises.'"

"Please never say that word again."

Emiya was already walking away.

Satoshi sighed and followed. "Next closet's yours."

.

They started in the master bedroom.

Ten minutes later, they both regretted it.

"Well," Satoshi muttered, holding up a sleek black box from the nightstand drawer. "This is definitely not a remote."

Emiya didn't even blink. He was already digging through the other nightstand with the resigned efficiency of someone trained to search corpses. He pulled out a bottle. "…Lavender-scented."

Satoshi gave him a side-eye. "Why is everything scented?"

"Would you prefer unscented lube in your Company-issued drawer?"

"Please stop talking."

The main bathroom was next.

Satoshi opened the mirror cabinet—and immediately closed it. "…Nope."

Emiya reached past him, opened it again, and pulled out a branded Company 'romance starter pack."

Inside: lube, condoms, massage oil, and a—"Is that a feather duster?"

"I'm putting this in the burn pile," Emiya said flatly.

They moved to the guest bedroom. Satoshi opened the top drawer of the dresser and yelped. He slapped it shut like he'd just seen a ghost. "Vibrator."

"How big?"

"Too big."

They moved faster after that. Closets. Storage bins. A false bottom in one of the drawers with a set of fuzzy handcuffs and a note that read "Enjoy your honeymoon!"

"Why does the Company have vibes?" Satoshi asked as he tied a trash bag full of unfortunate discoveries.

Emiya shrugged. "Probably figured if you picked me, you had a thing for emotionally distant men, Isshiki."

Satoshi flushed. "That is an insane leap."

"But not incorrect."

"Shut up, Emiya. Also, call me Satoshi, please."

Emiya didn't answer, merely humming.

By the time Riley emerged from the bath—clean, fluffy-haired, and holding Ralts like a plushie—Satoshi and Emiya had already filled two trash bags.

"Whatcha doing?" Riley asked curiously.

Satoshi blinked, smiled, and swiftly set the bag behind his back. "Spring cleaning."

Emiya said nothing.

He just gave Satoshi a long, unimpressed look.

And took out the next trash bag.

Chapter Text

EMIYA kept the lube and the condoms. Not because he was expecting to use them—not any time soon, maybe not ever—but because he had a simple rule in life: Never throw away useful supplies. Especially the kind that could theoretically be bartered for antibiotics, emergency fuel, or untraceable favors in the middle of a collapsing society. You never knew how fast civilization could nosedive until you'd bled out on a battlefield in a world that forgot your name.

…Stil, the vibrator had been too much.

And the frilly maid outfit in his size? Straight into the burn pile. Satoshi had nearly tripped over his own dignity tossing it in.

Now, dressed in clean, fitted jeans and a black long-sleeve shirt that looked casual enough to avoid comment, EMIYA stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, knife in hand, helping prep vegetables with all the quiet efficiency of someone who'd once field-dressed rabbits during wartime.

Riley stood across from him, elbows up on the counter, peeling carrots with a concentration far beyond her years. Her hair was still slightly damp from the bath, tied back in a loose ponytail. Ralts sat nearby on the counter, humming gently and glowing with subtle happiness, like a contented teapot.

And Satoshi was at the stove humming a tune under his breath. A wooden spoon in one hand, moving with the unconscious grace of someone whose hands knew food better than anything else.

It was strange. After everything they'd done that morning—trash bags of inappropriate "gifts," discussions about child custody, and the ever-lingering cloud of legal relationship—this?

This was peaceful.

He sliced a bell pepper in even, efficient cuts.

Satoshi glanced over his shoulder. "You're scarily good with that."

"I've had practice."

"You say that about everything."

"Because I've had practice with everything."

Satoshi rolled his eyes but grinned anyway. "Just don't out-chef me in my own kitchen."

"I'd never try."

"You would, but I'd still win."

Riley giggled while Ralts twirled in place on the countertop like a happy dinner bell.

And EMIYA allowed himself to relax.

Just a little.

.

Lunch was simple, which was to say, Satoshi cooked like a Michelin-star chef who thought humility was an aesthetic choice. The meal was a delicate stir-fry with perfectly seasoned rice, steamed vegetables, and miso soup that somehow made time slow down when you tasted it.

EMIYA sat at the table across from him, chewing slowly. "You do know this is lunch, right? Not an audition for Iron Chef."

Satoshi arched an eyebrow. "Sorry. Muscle memory. Want me to burn something next time for authenticity?"

"I'd like to see you try."

"Careful. I've been known to weaponize tofu."

Riley giggled, halfway through her second helping already. "This is amazing!"

"I think I accidentally made too much," Satoshi said, placing another small bowl beside Ralts, who was nibbling delicately at tiny steamed dumplings. "Might need to open that soup kitchen earlier than I thought."

EMIYA sipped the miso in silence, letting the warmth settle in his chest. This kind of peace wasn't normal for him. Hadn't been for… longer than he could remember. And yet, here it was.

Warmth.

Laughter.

Food that didn't come in rations or get cooked over the back end of a tank.

Riley set down her bowl with a soft sigh, her face flushed from eating too fast. She looked around the table—at EMIYA, at Satoshi, at Ralts still glowing pink from contentment—and then…She smile a small smiled, fragile, but real. "…This is the best day I've had in years."

The words weren't dramatic. She didn't say it for effect. There was no waver in her voice. But they hit EMIYA like a hammer to the ribs. He saw the way Satoshi froze for a second, chopsticks hovering halfway to his mouth. How his throat worked around a knot of emotion he didn't say aloud.

"…Then we'll have more days like it," Satoshi said quietly.

Riley smiled harder. Ralts hummed in agreement.

EMIYA said nothing, but he reached for the rice pot and refilled her bowl.

.

The car was quiet they found out in the garage was simple but functional. Satoshi drove them to a small supermarket. Riley sat in the back with Ralts, who pressed against the window with wide eyes and a hum that resonated faintly with every passing tree and road sign. EMIYA rode shotgun, silent and watchful. He wasn't even trying to be cold—this just was him. Guard mode. Detached. There to intervene if things turned sideways.

But Satoshi kept glancing at him and eventually broke the silence.

"So, toothbrushes," he said, tapping the steering wheel lightly. "We'll need at least two for Riley. One for now and one backup."

"She's not going to eat one," EMIYA said flatly.

"You never know. Kids are unpredictable."

"I'll keep a tranquilizer dart ready."

From the back seat, Riley laughed. "I'm not a gremlin!"

Satoshi grinned. "Says the girl who tried to eat three servings of rice at once."

"That was different! That was delicious."

Satoshi gave EMIYA a sideways glance. "See? You're missing out. Be weird with us."

"I'm weird in my own way."

"Brooding in silence isn't a personality."

"Coming from a man who panicked at lace."

Satoshi's ears turned red.

"…Low blow," he muttered.

They pulled into the small town's general store twenty minutes later, the parking lot mostly empty, the old bell over the door ringing as they stepped inside. They moved through the aisles like a slow current. Towels. Socks. A set of pajamas Riley picked herself—oversized and lavender with little cartoon stars. Toothpaste, hairbrush, shampoo, and a bath bomb that she held like treasure.

EMIYA stuck close. A silent sentinel, pushing the cart until Riley reached up and placed a bottle of strawberry-scented conditioner into the cart beside some tea.

Emiya blinked. "You need that?"

Riley beamed. "I wanna smell like dessert."

Satoshi chuckled. "Hard to argue with that."

They passed a small toy rack, and Riley pointed to a simple, plush fox with bright blue eyes. "Can I…?"

Satoshi hesitated, then looked up at Emiya. "You're the one with the voice of reason here."

"…It's five dollars."

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a fox. It's harmless."

Riley hugged it tightly before they even made it to the checkout.

Emiya, arms crossed, watched her carefully—and didn't say anything when she clutched it tighter as they paid.

Outside, as they loaded the bags into the car, Satoshi leaned against the trunk.

"So. Not a bad outing, huh?"

"You didn't burn anything or cry," Emiya said. "I call that a win."

Satoshi snorted. "You're learning how to joke. Proud of you."

"I regret it already."

But he didn't really. Not when Riley smiled at him like she already considered him safe. Not when Satoshi kept looking at him like he wanted him to be part of this. And definitely not when the warmth in his chest didn't feel like a trap.

.

They ate leftovers in silence.

Mostly.

Riley was too tired to talk—half nodding off with a fork in her hand, her head drifting closer to her plate with every passing minute. Ralts had already curled up in her lap, humming low and sleepy.

The soup and rice were just as good as before, and even the stir-fried vegetables still had enough life in them to feel freshly made.

Satoshi was quiet, chewing slowly, elbow propped on the table. His eyes were half-lidded, but they flicked toward Riley now and then with a kind of soft vigilance.

"She's going to pass out," he murmured.

"She's already passed out," Emiya corrected, nodding at the fork that had now fully slipped from Riley's hand.

Satoshi chuckled under his breath. "Alright, you win."

He stood and helped Riley up, gently coaxing her to the bathroom. "Teeth first," he said softly, even as she grumbled.

When they returned ten minutes later—Riley now in her pajamas and blinking slowly like a dazed kitten—Satoshi led her to her room. He tucked her in beside Ralts, smoothed the blanket over her shoulders, and whispered something Emiya couldn't hear. Then he returned, quietly shutting the door behind him.

They met again in the living room.

It was quiet now. Late.

"…So," Satoshi began, rubbing the back of his neck, "sleeping arrangements."

EMIYA didn't even flinch. "We're married. And Riley is here. We can't not sleep in the same room."

Satoshi blinked at him. "I'm kind of surprised you're the one proposing that."

EMIYA shrugged.

"PRT. Social services. They're going to monitor us. Until the adoption is finalized, we have to look like a normal couple." He crossed his arms. "I'll sleep on the floor."

"Yeah, no," Satoshi said, giving him a flat look. "If we're sharing a room, we're sharing the bed. It's big enough for both of us."

EMIYA arched a brow. "You say that, but you look annoyed."

"I'm not!" Satoshi quickly shot back—then looked away. "It's just…"

A pause.

"…I usually sleep in the nude."

EMIYA blinked, heart skipping and expression carefully blank. "You're not sleeping nude with me in the bed."

"I know! That's why I'm annoyed. Not like you my type or anything, but—"

EMIYA's brow ticked. "So I am not pretty enough to be your type?"

"No," Satoshi said quickly. "You're too… manly for me."

It was a joke meant to be funny, but the words landed harder than Emiya expected. His face didn't change. Not a flicker. But something stung just beneath the surface.

"…Right."

Satoshi looked up and blinked, seeing the flatness in his eyes. "I didn't mean it like—"

"It's fine."

"It's really not—"

EMIYA turned toward the hallway. "Let's go. Long day tomorrow."

He didn't wait for an answer.

Just moved.

Quiet.

Efficient.

Unshakable.

Like always.

Chapter Text

The bedroom was quiet. The kind of quiet that was louder than any argument could've been.

Satoshi stood by the dresser, pulling open drawers in jerky, distracted movements. Every so often he'd glance over like he wanted to say something but couldn't quite find the handle on the words.

EMIYA sat on the edge of the bed, already pulling off his overshirt.

He watched for another moment. Then sighed.

"You can sleep in shorts," he said flatly.

Satoshi paused. "…Boxers?"

"Don't push your luck."

A beat.

"…But okay."

Satoshi beamed. "Yay!"

EMIYA turned sharply toward the closet before that stupid little smile could do anything to him. He grabbed the first thing that felt comfortable—loose, dark pajama pants and a plain black shirt—and changed quickly. When he turned around, Satoshi had already finished stripping down to a pair of soft, navy boxers and was now pretending to inspect the window to avoid looking directly at him.

It was…

A lot of thigh and too much naked back. And torso. And entirely not something Emiya should be noticing.

He cleared his throat and got into bed.

Satoshi did the same, sliding in under the covers and staying rigidly to one side.

The silence returned.

Thick.

Uneasy.

"So," Satoshi muttered, voice soft in the dark. "About that restaurant."

EMIYA let out a breath. "What about it?"

"I was thinking… not just ramen or sushi. Something more fusion-focused. Japanese base, but with international twists. Thai spices. Korean pickles. French plating."

"Pretentious food."

"Elevated comfort," Satoshi corrected. "Plus a chalkboard menu and a casual vibe. Make it approachable. Let people feel welcome."

EMIYA hummed faintly. "Name?"

Satoshi was quiet for a second. "I'm not sure... Homefire, maybe?"

EMIYA turned his head slightly toward him. "You've been thinking about this a while, but don't have a name ready yet?"

"Just a little," Satoshi admitted. "But after today… I kind of need it to happen now, so I need a good name."

There was another pause when he didn't receive an answer, so he changed topics. "You still good with being security?"

"I'd do the knives anyway," EMIYA said dryly.

"Just not the cooking ones."

"They're sharp. I respect them."

Satoshi snorted and for the first time since dinner, they laughed. Not lo and not long, but real.

.

He woke to warmth, which was strange, because warmth meant comfort, and comfort meant he'd relaxed, and relaxing meant letting his guard down—and that wasn't something EMIYA did.

But here he was, eyes slowly blinking open in the predawn dim, muscles heavy with sleep, and—

His arm was around Satoshi.

They were tangled together, sheets twisted between their legs, his chest pressed against the man's back, his breath brushing the curve of his neck.

And he didn't feel the immediate urge to bolt. Instead, what pulled him from sleep fully was something else. A presence, small and hesitant. He didn't turn toward it, but he could feel it—near the doorway. He barely had time to tense before the soft knock came.

Three tiny taps.

Then a whisper: "…I had a nightmare."

He heard Satoshi stir in his arms. A soft groan. A sluggish breath in. Then tension. A sudden shift in posture as realization hit.

EMIYA could feel the exact moment the man realized they were spooning.

"Can I sleep with you?" Riley's voice, quiet, uncertain. "Just for a little?"

All tension in Satoshi melted like candlewax.

"Yeah, sweetheart," he mumbled, voice thick and rough with sleep. "C'mere."

He shifted slightly—only slightly, because the bed was massive—but just enough to open a gap, which of course meant he moved further back into EMIYA.

It wasn't deliberate, but it was very much a thing that happened. And EMIYA didn't move. Didn't breathe for a second, not even when Riley padded in with Ralts nestled in her arms. She crawled up onto the bed like it was a sacred island, and immediately curled into Satoshi's chest.

Satoshi wrapped an arm around her automatically, half-asleep and murmuring something that sounded like "no pickles in the soup," before slipping under again.

Ralts sighed. Peaceful.

And EMIYA, next the three of them, was caught in a wall of warmth and breath and sleep and safety as he stared at the ceiling and told himself:

This is fine.

.

Morning came slowly. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting soft lines across the foot of the bed. Ralts was curled against the pillow, breathing slowly. Riley was tucked into Satoshi's chest, snoring just a little.

And EMIYA… was still very much trapped in the same position as hours ago, pressed against Satoshi's back with one arm lazily draped around his waist. It should've been awkward. Unbearable. Instead, it was just warm.

Satoshi shifted slightly, murmuring something unintelligible as he blinked blearily at the soft light peeking through the window. Then he looked over his shoulder, eyes catching EMIYA's half-lidded ones.

"…Sleep well?" he whispered.

EMIYA raised an eyebrow. "You tell me."

Satoshi smirked, quiet and smug. "You're very clingy in your sleep."

"You were the one who rolled into me."

"Probably looking for body heat. You're like a furnace."

There was a beat of silence.

Satoshi added with mock-thoughtfulness, "It seems you're only manly on the outside. Inside, though? A marshmallow."

EMIYA hummed, hand tightening slightly around the smooth line of Satoshi's waist. "You're the one who called me manly."

"In looks only," Satoshi snorted. "Apparently."

EMIYA's fingers pressed in a little more, tracing the hint of a hipbone. "Maybe you're the one who needs a bit more manliness."

Satoshi stiffened. Emiya saw the tips of his ears flush.

"I'm a chef," he hissed.

"That's not an excuse." EMIYA smirked faintly, voice dipping. "You're so small."

"I'm 1.80m! You're just a freakishly tall sword goblin!"

"You sound defensive."

"I am!"

EMIYA leaned in slightly—just enough to breathe against the back of Satoshi's neck. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Maybe, before searching for a 'feminine-looking companion,' you should take a good look in the mirror."

Satoshi went rigid. "What does that—"

He turned sharply, indignant—and nearly headbutted EMIYA. However, he froze because their faces were now very close.

EMIYA didn't move as they blinked at each other.

"…Are you guys fighting?" came a muffled, groggy voice from behind them.

Both men flinched.

Riley peeked up between them with sleepy eyes and wild hair, blinking in slow confusion.

"No," they both answered—at the same time, way too fast.

Riley yawned. "Okay."

Then she flopped down again, dragging Ralts over like a plush shield.

Satoshi buried his face in the pillow.

Emiya stared at the ceiling again.

This is fine, he repeated himself.

.

.

Breakfast had been quiet.

Well—quiet in volume. Not in content.

Riley had insisted on making her own toast. Ralts had stolen a tomato. Emiya had grumbled about someone "ruining the knife edge" and Satoshi, half-asleep with a mug of green tea, had declared himself emotionally unfit to referee condiment arguments before 9 a.m.

It was… normal. In the best kind of way.

Then his phone rang: Dragon.

He answered with a quiet "Hello?" as he rinsed the last dish.

"Good morning, Satoshi. I wanted to inform you the PRT has officially sent out an invitation for Emiya Shirou to participate in a preliminary power evaluation."

Satoshi blinked, hand still in the soapy water. "Power testing? Already?"

"He stood out. A lot of observers saw him during the Crimson encounter and the fight against Gray-Boy. He's flagged for priority evaluation, and I'd advise he attend."

He felt Emiya's eyes on him from the kitchen.

Satoshi glanced over. "Can I go with him?"

"You, Riley, and Ralts are all permitted to come. There's a recommended psychological evaluation for the three of you, too."

That made him tense. "Psych evals?"

"Nothing aggressive. But it will improve your adoption prospects. Showing a protective figure like Emiya is officially sanctioned—or at least trusted—by the Protectorate could greatly reduce resistance."

Satoshi frowned. "So it's… politics."

"It's leverage," Dragon replied. "Especially if Jack Slash retaliates. If Emiya is seen as Protectorate-aligned, Riley will be far safer under his watch."

Satoshi exhaled.

"A car will arrive just after lunch for psych evaluations," Dragon added. "He has until then to make his decision."

"Understood."

He ended the call and turned to see both Emiya and Riley watching him—Emiya with his usual unreadable calm, Riley mid-bite with her spoon halfway to her mouth.

"…What's wrong?" she asked.

Satoshi smiled softly. "Nothing bad. But can you take Ralts outside for a bit? Just ten minutes. I need to talk with... my partner."

She tilted her head, then nodded. "Okay."

Once she was out the back door, Satoshi exhaled and turned toward Emiya, crossing his arms as he leaned against the counter. "They want to test you."

Emiya didn't flinch. "I expected that."

"Power analysis. And psych evals for all three of us. After lunch. A car's coming."

Emiya raised an eyebrow. "You don't sound thrilled."

"I'm not against it. But I know what this is—it's a PR thing. If you're seen as a stable, strong, registered ally, associated with me... it looks good for custody. It also means they'll expect things from you. Favor requests. Presence. Association."

Emiya's voice was quiet. "And the pros?"

"You look like a bodyguard with government ties instead of a stray vigilante with a sword collection."

"…Fair."

Satoshi sighed and looked at him. "So? What do you think?

Emiya didn't think much. "I'll do it."

"Okay," Satoshi said after a moment, relaxing, "we need to talk power testing and how much to show."

Emiya raised an eyebrow. "You want to choreograph it?"

"I want to control the narrative. If you look too dangerous, they'll want a leash. If you look too essential, we lose the right to walk away. But if we play it right—strong but not irreplaceable—we get all the protection and none of the shackles."

Emiya considered this. "So what stays?"

"Your physicals," Satoshi said, glancing at the mental list he'd made after Dragon's call. "Keep your strength, endurance, and agility as they are. It'll land you in mid to upper Brute-tier. Pair that with your reaction speed and combat style, and you'll probably be read as a hybrid Brute/Striker or Thinker."

"And my swords?"

"Kanshou and Bakuya—fine. You already showed those off."

"No tracing new weapons?"

"No reality marble. No broken phantasms. Just the base pair and maybe a few neutral-looking projections. Something like..."

"Gáe Bolg?"

Satoshi glanced over. "You're not exploding hearts on camera."

"I can say I turn my swords into arrows."

"Perfect. That makes it a projectile technique, not a cursed spear with reverse causality."

Emiya smirked slightly. "Words matter."

Satoshi grinned. "Welcome to bureaucracy."

They continued in silence for a few seconds before Emiya added, "Do I use reinforcement?"

"You'll need to. But don't call it that. Let them figure it out from the numbers—they'll just call it a muscle-enhancing buff."

"No mention of magecraft?"

"None. That opens a can of worms we don't have a license for."

Emiya nodded slowly. "So… a durable swordsman with exceptional reaction time, magic-looking twin blades, and weaponized archery."

"And a 'quirky style' that can mimic and reshape weapons," Satoshi added with a grin. "They'll eat it up. You'll sound just weird enough to be classified without being flagged."

Another dish clinked into the drying rack.

"I'm impressed," Emiya said after a moment.

Satoshi blinked. "Yeah?"

"You're a very effective liar."

Satoshi laughed softly. "I prefer the term narrative sculptor."

Emiya glanced at him sidelong, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"…Still lying."

Satoshi hummed. "So, what are we putting on the forms?"

Emiya looked up from drying his hands. "Forms?"

"For the power registry," Satoshi clarified. "They'll want a cape name. You can't exactly put 'Emiya Shirou' on your ID badge."

A pause. Then:

"…Archer?" he offered, though it was more habit than suggestion.

Satoshi raised an eyebrow. "You don't sound sold."

Emiya looked away. "Too much history."

"Fair," Satoshi said, then started pacing slowly. "What about something that reflects your powers? Blade-related. Something sleek. Tactical. Like… Vanta, or Ghoststeel, or—wait, no, that one sounds like an MMO username."

"I'm not naming myself after a sword."

"You are the sword," Satoshi muttered, half-joking, then stopped. "Wait… Arsenal?"

Emiya turned to him, one brow raised.

Satoshi shrugged, casual. "You conjure weapons. You're a walking vault of blades. But it sounds official. Professional. Not too edgy. 'Arsenal' fits."

Emiya considered it for a moment, then gave a slow, thoughtful nod. "I like it."

Satoshi grinned. "Then it's settled. Meet Brockton Bay's new favorite security consultant: Arsenal."

"…You're going to put that on a name tag, aren't you?"

"Oh, 100%."

Emiya sighed, but he didn't disagree.