Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everything began when the skies ceased to be a limit, and the samurai, once guardians of the land, were forced to fight among the stars. After the new Amanto invasion, the world changed. Samurai, once symbols of honor and tradition, were forced to adapt, joining the newly formed SIA, the Space Intelligence Agency. In this new scenario, amid the chaos of a rebuilding universe, two warriors met again: Tsukuyo and Gintoki, side by side, forging a new path between battles and shared silences.

It was nights like that which seemed to freeze time, when twilight bathed Yoshiwara in a burning orange and the sky above, now filled with space stations and ship routes, revealed glimpses of the old world between the stars. It was in this space between wars and duties that Tsukuyo and Gintoki created a routine no one else knew, a secret refuge where the armor of war was left at the door and all that remained was touch, wine, and the desire throbbing beneath the skin.

The place was a discreet bar, hidden behind heavy curtains and red lanterns, with aged wooden walls and shelves filled with rare bottles—a sanctuary of pleasures and memories, where time seemed to float. Tsukuyo always arrived first, wrapped in her cold and controlled aura, golden hair falling over her shoulders with the soft glow of candles reflecting in the strands. She sat in the farthest corner, crossed her legs with elegance, and lit her kiseru. The scent of tobacco mixed with the perfume of the wine already waiting on the table. It was there that she left the world outside, breathing deeply as the smoke rose in silent spirals.

Gintoki arrived soon after, with his lazy stride and that smile of someone who seemed to have beaten fate just by still being alive. He wore a coat draped over his shoulders and always carried with him an air of calculated neglect. Upon seeing her, he said nothing, just sat beside her and, with a lazy look, picked up the glass Tsukuyo had already filled for him. It was as if everything had been choreographed, as if the two were notes of the same melody played every night.

— To survival — he murmured, raising the glass.

— And to what’s still left of us — she replied, toasting.

The first glass was always silent. They drank slowly, as if savoring memories. Each sip brought to the surface fragments of past missions, explosions between planets, screams in alien languages, and the constant hum of ships. But there, in that moment, only the warmth of the wine and the presence of each other existed. It was as if the entire universe bowed to that intimate moment, offering them a truce.

The wine slid like silk down their throats, warming from within, relaxing muscles tensed by battle and loneliness. The candles cast flickering shadows on the walls, and the sounds of the city outside—laughter, sighs, hurried footsteps—seemed as distant as a memory from another life. Gintoki rested his chin on his hand and watched Tsukuyo with a half-smile, his eyes half-closed.

— You always do that — he said, voice low.

— Do what?

— Light everything up even when it’s dark.

She smiled, discreetly, and looked away.

— Nonsense — she replied, but the smile lingered.

After the second glass, the words began to flow more easily. Tsukuyo spoke about her childhood as Jiraia’s apprentice, about the burden of leading the Hyakka now scattered on missions throughout the galaxy. Gintoki answered with absurd stories, some probably made up, about losing a ship by forgetting the gravitational brake or being mistaken for an interplanetary candy smuggler. Between one laugh and another, their knees touched under the table, their shoulders brushed as they leaned in to pour more wine.

By the third bottle, the atmosphere shifted. The heat intensified, not just from the alcohol, but from the way their eyes lingered too long, how words began to fail, and silences became denser, more charged with expectation.

Tsukuyo stood up slowly, walked to the bar shelf, and picked up a bottle wrapped in crimson fabric. A rare wine, aged in lunar wood, saved for special occasions. Gintoki raised an eyebrow.

— You gonna get me drunk until I forget my name?

— No. I want you to remember every detail.

She returned with the bottle in hand, her steps slow, almost dancing. As she passed by him, she slid the bottle along Gintoki’s shoulder, leaving a warm trail on his skin. The gesture was provocative, and he understood instantly: it was no longer an ordinary night. Something had changed, something that had matured over time and now demanded to be lived fully.

Tsukuyo poured the wine into crystal glasses that sparkled like stars. The red liquid flowed thick, releasing an intense, almost hypnotic aroma. They toasted again, but this time, without saying a word. The clink of crystal was soft, intimate, like a whisper between lovers.

The crimson wine coursed through their veins like an ancient promise, and the world around them seemed to dissolve into trembling lights and muffled heat. A complicit silence wrapped around them for a few moments, dense and throbbing, until Tsukuyo set her glass on the table with her fingertips, her gaze fixed on his eyes.

Without saying anything, she stood up and extended her hand. Gintoki looked at her for a second, as if he already knew what was coming. He took her hand gently, their fingers intertwining in a gesture that said more than words ever could.

They passed through the red curtains without looking back.

The bar was left behind like a blurred memory, and the two climbed the narrow stairs, guided only by the faint glow of lanterns and the growing desire that had become impossible to contain. Each step was a heartbeat, each touch, the ignition of something that had long awaited that moment.

The room welcomed them with shadow and warmth. It was small, cozy, with futons laid on the floor and candles scattered like fallen stars. They didn’t turn on any lights. They didn’t need to. Everything that mattered already burned between them.

The first sip there was a revelation. The taste of the crimson wine was complex, deep, as if it held the memories of a thousand stories. Gintoki sighed and rested his forehead against hers for a moment.

— This... is dangerous — he whispered.

— I know — Tsukuyo replied. — But we’ve survived worse.

And then, the kiss came. Not abrupt, not urgent, but slow, laden with everything they had never said. Their lips touched delicately, as if testing a boundary, and soon deepened, as if searching for what had always been hidden there, waiting. The taste of wine still on their tongues blended with the desire pent up for months.

From that point on, the world unraveled around them.

They undressed between kisses and muffled laughter, between glasses that toppled and sheets pulled in haste. The room was filled with soft moans and eager touches, with eyes meeting in the dark that asked for no permission. Their bodies fit together with the familiarity of those who had known each other for a long time but were rediscovering themselves as if for the first time.

The crimson wine seemed to run in their veins, warming every gesture, intensifying every caress. Tsukuyo’s skin glowed in the candlelight, her golden hair spread like fire across the pillows. Gintoki looked at her as if she were made of constellations—and in a way, she was. She had always been the entire sky to him, even when they pretended she wasn’t.

Their hands sought each other, intertwined in moments of climax. Their bodies danced beneath the sheets, in a primal and sacred choreography. With every breath, every stifled moan, they reinforced a silent pact: that moment was theirs alone. The universe could explode outside. They had that night.

Hours passed, maybe more. And when they finally rested, exhausted, tangled in sweaty sheets, silence reigned again—but it was a different silence, full of meaning. The candles still burned, some flickering in their final moments of life.

— Do you think this will last? — Gintoki asked, staring at the ceiling.

— I don’t know — Tsukuyo replied, turning to face him. — But tonight... tonight I don’t want to think about it.

He nodded, pulled her closer, and kissed her forehead. They fell asleep embraced, their bodies still warmed by the wine and the newly sated passion.

When Gintoki awoke, the candles had already gone out. The room was bathed in the soft shadows of dawn. He looked at Tsukuyo, still asleep, and felt a tenderness hard to explain. He ran his fingers through her hair, as if saving the touch for later.

He got up carefully, dressed in silence, and before leaving, left a note among the empty bottles:

“If the world is fair, even just a little, it’ll give us another night like this.”

And then he left, carrying with him the taste of wine and the certainty that, though the universe was at war, there was still room for moments like that. And maybe, for that alone, it was worth continuing to fight.

Tsukuyo woke moments later, feeling the absence beside her. Her fingers touched the still-warm pillow, and she knew he was gone. Upon seeing the note, she smiled. Not a sad smile, nor a resigned one, but a full smile—of someone who knows there is something greater binding them. Something that neither distance, nor time, nor battles could erase.

The crimson wine still lingered on the walls of her palate. The memory of his touch still pulsed on her skin. And there, in the silent dawn of a world being rebuilt, Tsukuyo allowed herself to believe that love, like wine, only got better with time.

Chapter Text

The cold touch of metal still shimmered beneath the station’s false moon, glowing with the melancholy of memories that never fade. Amid the suspended darkness of the orbital sky, Yoshiwara remained like an ancient whisper refusing to disappear. Down below, in the stifling depths of the underground city, time seemed stagnant—but Tsukuyo never slept.

She walked among echoes. Her body bore the scars of other lives, and in her eyes was the weariness of someone who had seen too much. The past burned beneath her skin, like embers that time could never extinguish. The night everything changed still throbbed like an open wound. The thick smell of spilled blood. The mute sound of restrained tears. The bitter promise of protection. It was all still there, pulsing alongside her name.

In the SIA council chamber, the air was as thin as the respect within it. Panels of bluish light flickered between icy tones, casting shadows on the metallic walls that seemed more alive than the high-ranking members themselves. Humans in suits sat beside Amanto with too many eyes and skin made of living minerals, discussing strategies with the indifference of bored gods.

— Population control... redistribution of authority... orbital reinforcements in the inner zones... — they said, their voices as soft as daggers wrapped in velvet.

To them, Yoshiwara was just another figure on the interplanetary board. A useful underworld that needed to be tamed. Remodeled. Replaced.

But in the center of the room, there was an exception. A body standing tall, silent. Tsukuyo.

She didn’t belong in that scene. And yet, she dominated the room by presence alone. She wore the black tactical uniform of the Hyakka, gleaming with discreet reflections, and bore her scars like badges. Her golden hair, tied with the familiar crimson ribbon, fell over her shoulders with the dignity of a flag in wartime.

She wasn’t a diplomat. She wasn’t a politician. She was a blade. A sentinel. A living scar of a city that still resisted.

While the voices continued, she remained silent, violet eyes fixed on each face at the table. She read them like one reads between the lines of an enemy. One of them, an Amanto with a trembling jaw and silvery skin, spoke about replacing human command with programmed automatons. Another suggested constant orbital drone surveillance over zones with high “behavioral instability.”

Tsukuyo did not respond immediately. But inside her, blood pulsed like a storm surge.

— Chief Tsukuyo — the commander-in-chief called, his voice guttural and slow — reports indicate increased disturbances in Zone 12. How do you explain this insubordination?

She lifted her chin with the calm of someone who refuses to be dragged into a theater of subservience. Her voice came out firm, without raising.

— Resistance only grows where people are silenced.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the table. Not the silence of pause, but of defiance.

— Yoshiwara is not a number. It is a wounded heart that bleeds every time it's stepped on — she continued. — And if it still beats, it’s because someone is fighting for it. I control Zone 12 with loyalty. Not fear.

The commander, a creature with bluish skin and a glacial expression, stared at her for long seconds. His three eyes moved slowly, like lenses adjusting for threats.

— You’re dismissed.

Tsukuyo did not thank him. She did not bow. She simply turned, her firm steps echoing on the metallic floor like a march defying the empire of silence.

The corridor was darker than before—and not because of the lights. It was the kind of darkness born from what refuses to die inside us. The sharp sound of her boots contrasted with the familiar whisper behind her.

— Nice speech back there — he said.

Gintoki.

Casually leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, silver hair tousled as if chaos were his natural frame. But his eyes weren’t smiling. There, in the depths of that gaze so many mistook for distracted, a storm was brewing.

She stopped in front of him. Said nothing for a moment. Just looked at him, as if trying to figure out where the enemy ends and the ally begins. As if trying to understand what still burns after the war.

— So you were listening? — she said at last, arms crossed, protecting herself from something that wasn’t the cold.

— I always listen when it’s you talking — he replied, voice hoarse and sincere, as if each word had been pulled from a place he no longer knew how to name.

She looked away, but he took a step forward. Just one. And even so, the air between them felt heavier.

— You never had to prove anything to me. But you keep trying to carry everything alone. Like you're the only one who can take the pain.

— Because I am — she whispered. — If I fall, Yoshiwara falls. Hinowa falls. Seita... all of them.

— And when it’s you who’s about to fall? Who catches you?

She didn’t answer. Just looked at him, as if each of his questions cracked open a new fracture in the wall it took years for her to build.

— You think I hate you for not coming back sooner — she said, softly.

Gintoki looked at her, eyes brimming with words he didn’t dare speak.

— No. I hate this world for making you believe you had to be more blade than woman just to keep from losing what you love.

Those words pierced Tsukuyo like a blunt arrow: it hurt, but didn’t tear. It was the kind of pain that reminded the chest it still knew how to feel.

She raised her hand and touched his face gently. Warm skin under cold fingers. A small gesture, but so intimate the universe seemed to hold its breath.

— I wanted to... — she began.

But the words died at the edge of her lips. There, where the war between wanting and being able raged every day.

— Not here — she said at last, looking away, eyes fixed on some distant shadow.

Gintoki clenched his fists, heart pounding in his palms.

— Then take me somewhere we exist — he whispered.

~🌹~

Later, they met on the north terrace of the station. The night was clearer there, and the wind felt less watched. The horizon was an artificial sea of stars, and the sky, a dome of glass too cold to hold dreams.

Tsukuyo approached with slow steps. The red ribbon swayed in the wind, like the last tie between her and what was once called freedom.

— We still can’t be seen together — she said, voice low, almost a thought.

— And how long is that going to last? — he asked, without looking at her.

— Until the Hyakka is safe. Until the girls can walk the streets without looking over their shoulders. Until Yoshiwara can exist without apologizing for existing.

Silence.

— Always duty before the heart, huh?

She smiled, sadly.

— Always.

He turned to her. Stepped closer. And when he extended his hand, she didn’t pull away. He touched her with the same reverence one gives an altar. And in that simple gesture of skin against skin, there were more promises than all the words the world refused to allow.

— You’re everything that still shines in this dim world, Tsukuyo — he said, and she trembled.

Not because of the breeze. But because of the way he saw her. Not as a soldier. Not as a chief. But as a woman. Whole. Flawed. Beautiful.

They didn’t kiss. Not that night.

But they looked at each other like they already belonged.

~🌹~

The next morning, the light of the false sun passed through the thick glass, bathing the room in a deceitful tenderness. Tsukuyo woke up first. She always woke up first. Duty had that habit of stealing her from dreams before their time.

But this time, the silence was different.

She turned slowly and found only emptiness.

The other side of the futon was cold. The sheet, still creased, bore the absent shape of a body that had left early, perhaps before the city even woke. No note. No whispered goodbye. Only the thick, suspended silence, full of an absence that hurt like a dull blade.

She sat up slowly, golden hair falling over bare shoulders, and her fingers searched in vain for the warmth that was no longer there. The room felt bigger without him. Quieter, heavier. His scent still lingered in the air — a mix of cheap sake, sweat, and something unspeakable, intimate, as if his spirit had stayed trapped in the folds of the fabric and in the memories of the night.

"So this is how he deals with pain," she thought. "He pulls away. Pretends he doesn't bleed."

And in that moment, she knew.

Even if the world collapsed. Even if the sky was a lie and the ground, a trap.

They would still have that.

The silence left by a presence that mattered.
The absence that only existed because something intense had happened.
That brief flame.
That truth that belonged only to them.

Chapter Text

Tsukuyo awoke like someone emerging from an interrupted dream, a waking that brought no relief, but the weight of absence crushing her chest. The warmth that once enveloped her, warm and almost tangible, had vanished, leaving only the lukewarm, disarranged sheet, which bore the exact imprint of a body that had departed even before the first birds sang. The room, bathed in golden light, filtered timidly through the slats of the folding screen that separated the spaces. This morning light poured in like a subtle veil, painting long, liquid shadows across the waxed wooden floor, as if the city itself rested in a deep, quiet, expectant sleep. But the void beside Tsukuyo did not rest—it screamed, silently, screaming in her chest.

She extended her fingers, touching the mattress, groping amid the soft folds of absence that felt almost palpable. His scent still lingered in the air, a pungent mix of cheap sake, sweat, and something intangible, unspeakable; perhaps it was desire, perhaps a memory. That aroma was like a specter, an invisible presence permeating the space, insistent and stubborn. It was strange how a body could disappear yet leave the entire soul behind, like a ghost of warm, breathing flesh.

With a deep sigh, Tsukuyo sat on the edge of the futon. The sheet slid delicately down her bare back, exposing her skin to the morning air entering the room. Her eyes wandered toward the slightly open door, the access to the outside world that now seemed distant and cold. No sound. No footsteps. No trace of the presence that had departed. Only the thick, suspended silence, heavy with loss.

Gintoki had gone before dawn.

Absence was the first thing Tsukuyo felt upon waking.

Not the chill of the sheet, not the filtered light of the false dawn tinting the room with dishonest gold, but emptiness. A dense, almost solid silence that curled around her bones like frozen mist. The other side of the futon remained intact, shaped by an absence recent enough to be unforgettable, ancient enough to be unignored.

It could have been a mission, an urgent SIA summons arriving like a whip—abrupt and ruthless, demanding immediate response without question. But something inside her, like a fine intuition sharp as a blade, whispered otherwise, a murmur she could not silence. It wasn't duty. It was pain.

She rose slowly, almost in slow motion, as if her body refused to abandon the painful stillness of the moment. She gathered from the floor the clothes that had fallen, still imbued with the subtle perfume of the previous night, traces of closeness that now seemed too distant. Tsukuyo dressed in silence, in a ceremony almost funerary, preparing for a day as heavy as a sentence. She pinned her hair atop her head with one of her golden kanzashi, small ornaments that resembled little stars reflecting light like a delicate armor to face the world. A few loose strands slipped down her nape, like invisible tears, dancing softly with her movements. Before the old mirror of worn wood and aged frame, she painted petal-shaped strokes of makeup around her eyes—a gesture both shield and scar, a disguise to hide vulnerability beneath the warrior's hardness.

Upon leaving the room, Tsukuyo walked through the silent corridors of Yoshiwara, as though traversing memories. The paper lanterns still swayed, lazy, in the slow rhythm of the wind, exhausted from the night watch. Their warm, trembling tones of red and gold seemed to try to hold back the city's sleep, while timid moonlight attempted to invade through the cracks. In the courtyard, the Hyakka girls trained in silence, their bodies moving with the precision of armed shadows, a dance of discipline and strength. Their energy contrasted with Tsukuyo's opaque stillness.

— Good morning, Chief — they greeted her, their voices low, respectful.

She nodded in response, a restrained yet sincere gesture. But her eyes were distant, fixed on an invisible place—far away, in a time that no longer existed.

During the day, Tsukuyo was present in body but absent in mind. Her fingers leafed through reports without truly absorbing them, as if the words on the pages were empty symbols, unable to fill the emptiness inside her. She answered officers, spoke, gave orders, like a well-trained machine programmed to function despite its internal failures. But his name pulsed in silence, hammering at the back of her mind like a sad song that insists on not quieting, even when one wants to forget.

Gintoki had not appeared. He hadn't sent a message. Not even one of his ragged excuses about being stuck in karaoke with a drunk alien or fighting a cross-dressing robot. Nothing. And that silence—dense and cutting—was the most painful of all, more than any physical wound.

As the sun began to sink below the horizon, tinting the city of Yoshiwara in amber hues, Tsukuyo found herself standing before the Special Patrol Agency headquarters in Edo. She had not planned to be there. Her feet simply carried her, guided by an impulse beyond conscious reasoning, as if an invisible thread drew her to him.

And there he was.

Sitting at the back of the hall, wearing his uniform sloppily, elbows spread on the table and gaze lost on a point that didn't exist. His eyes were extinguished, like lanterns without flame. No cynicism, no biting irony, no mischievous glint mocking superiors or death. It was another man. Heavier, emptier, as if he had sunk into himself and found no return.

She stopped. Didn't call him. Didn't approach. Just watched, breath suspended, trying to decipher the shadow he had become. He didn't move, or pretended not to see her. And that hurt more than any explicit rejection.

At night, Tsukuyo returned home earlier than usual, heart heavy as lead. The city seemed immersed in deep melancholy, a silence that seemed to drain the life from the streets. The avenues were eerily quiet, as if the very air had been exhausted. The moon, high in the sky, pale like a face that had cried too much, observed with an ancient chill. It was a silent night—no music, no scent of flowers that usually perfumed the air. Only the muffled echo of unnamed mourning, a sadness that hovered, heavy and suffocating.

That's when she heard hesitant, dragging footsteps on the back deck. She recognized them even before he appeared. The way the foot dragged slightly, the resigned slowness—air seemed to recoil around him, as if his presence made the world hesitate. It was Gintoki. Returning. Or perhaps trying.

He entered, bottle of sake almost empty in hand, eyes red and swollen, shoulders slumped beneath the weight of an exhausted soul.

— Hmpf... — he murmured, voice hoarse and tired. — Shouldn't you be asleep, Chief of Hyakka?

— And shouldn't you be dragging yourself around like an old drunk? — Tsukuyo replied, arms crossed, but there was sweetness in her hardness, a covert affection beneath the irony.

He gave a crooked smile. A broken smile—too twisted to be a real laugh.

He collapsed onto the tatami with the weight of someone who had fallen many times, as if the ground were the only place he was still allowed to exist.

Tsukuyo knelt beside him with gentleness, a steady presence trying to offer support rather than intrusion. She grabbed the bottle firmly and moved it away, distancing some of the poison he tried to drown. He didn't protest.

— Gintoki — she spoke softly, like a breeze between windows, attempting to break the silence — what happened?

— Nothing — he lied, staring at the ceiling as if expecting answers from the old boards. — Just a bad day. Everyone has them.

— Not you. Not like this.

He bit his lower lip, a gesture of restraint known only to true pain. Tears began to form—not of drunkenness, but of memory, of old ghosts returning.

— Today marks five years... — he said at last, voice trembling, burdened with weight. — ...Five years since Kagura died.

Her heart shuddered like a muted thunderclap at the mention of that name. Tsukuyo said nothing. Only took a deep breath, feeling the atmosphere shift—growing heavier, filled with memory and silence.

He shut his eyes, as if wanting to dive inside himself and flee the present. His voice emerged whisper-thin:

— I thought I could ignore it. Fill the day with paperwork, missions, reports, pretense. But the truth is... it still hurts like day one. Maybe even more.

He sat slowly, hands resting on his knees, fingers trembling like leaves in the wind.

— I was all she had. And even so... I failed. I wasn't fast. Nor strong. Nor enough.

She lightly touched his hand, a gentle, silent gesture, a bridge between two souls marked by pain. He pulled away, as if that touch awakened wounds he preferred to keep closed.

— I don't want you to hear this, Tsukuyo.

— But I do. I need to. You are not alone.

Gintoki took a deep breath, like someone opening an ancient chest full of ghosts.

— The mission seemed simple. A shipment of illegal weapons. SIA requested civilian backup. Of course she volunteered. Stubborn. Wanted to protect everyone. Told me to stay in the rear. Said the "old ones" should rest.

He swallowed hard, throat tight.

— But there was one of them... with a bomb implanted in his chest. A suicide bomber. The explosion was sudden. No scream. Just light. When the flash passed, all that remained was her purple umbrella... stuck in the mud.

Silence filled the room like dense smoke, nearly suffocating.

— I ran. I screamed. I dug with my hands. I thought she'd pulled another one of her pranks. A training stunt gone mad. But when I found her... she was still alive. Barely. Broken. But alive.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back the pain bursting inside him.

— She smiled. She told me... "Don't cry, Gin-chan. You cry ugly, aru." After that... everything went dark.

Tsukuyo embraced him, pressing his body against hers. Tears fell without shame—a stream of shared, silent pain.

— You did everything you could, Gintoki — she whispered, voice trembling. — She knew that.

— No — he replied, through a thread of a voice. — I should have died in her place.

She hugged him tighter, conveying all that words could not.

— You're alive. And that's not a mistake. It's a burden. But it's also love.

They stayed like that for long minutes, cradled by the sound of their own hearts, united in pain and silence.

But Gintoki wasn't ready to release the weight he carried.

He moved away slowly. Picked up the sake bottle and took a deep gulp, the liquid burning his throat like the memory that wouldn't let him be.

— Just a little more — he whispered. — Just until tomorrow forgets today happened.

Tsukuyo said nothing. Sat beside him, silent sentinel to a man in ruins. Outside, the sky was a tapestry of silver, where the moon watched them—the same old, lonely moon that bore witness to pains that never passed.

And there, among empty cups and living memories, she understood.

Some pains do not heal. There is no cure. Only presence. Only silence. Only love.

Even if in pieces.

Even if in the shadow of desire.

Chapter Text

The dawn still licked the edges of the sky when he left.

There was no creak of doors, no sound of hurried footsteps, only the light sigh of wood settling into absence. That kind of silence that does not awaken, it only lets the cold occupy the spaces where warmth had recently still pulsed.

The room held the scent of the previous night like a cracked reliquary. A trace of burnt sandalwood mixed with the bitter aroma of aged tobacco seeped into the linen curtains and the still-warm folds of the sheets. But the futon... was empty. Undone. Cold. As if the body that once rested there had dissolved into the dark, carried away by a pain that did not announce itself, only fled.

Tsukuyo woke without opening her eyes. It was instinct warning her: something had broken during the night. A bond, a gesture, an unspoken word. The pillow beside her still held the shape of his face, sunk into a mute restlessness, as if he hadn’t even slept. Probably hadn’t.

When she finally opened her eyes, the light of dawn already hinted its arrival through the cracks of the half-open windows, tinting the tatami with silvery, almost ethereal reflections. The world seemed suspended between dream and mourning.

She sat slowly, her body waking to the morning cold, exposing shoulders marked by memories and desire. Her fingers sought the warmth that was no longer there, finding only the void soaked with absence.

— He ran away again — she murmured to herself, bitter. — As if the world could wait for him to come back whole.

She dressed in silence, the mechanical gestures of a warrior used to hiding cracks. Each piece of clothing was a seal over exposed skin, an effort to dress not only the body but the facade of strength everyone expected to see. The leader of Hyakka could not give in. Could not tremble. Even though everything inside her begged for a second of weakness.

On the wooden table, there was only a glass with the last bit of cold tea and a burnt-out kiseru, resting next to a cracked ceramic plate. Nothing more.

No note. No farewell.

As always.

~🌹~

Yoshiwara awoke lazily beneath the thin veil of morning mist. Its curved roofs emerged from the haze like rolling hills, and the paper lanterns still swayed timidly, resisting surrender to the merciless daylight. The streets, which during the night were flooded with whispers, laughter, and secrets, were now empty and as deserted as her chest.

At the Hyakka barracks, Tsukuyo lost herself in work. She needed it—the rough routine and clear orders. The week’s mission left no room for daydreams: patrol the outskirts, where persistent rumors spoke of insurgencies, small pockets of human resistance against the Amanto occupation. Her mind, however, refused to stay focused, always drifting to Gintoki’s lost gaze, to the pain he only let slip when he could no longer hold it back.

— Chief? — Makoto’s voice, the youngest of the Hyakka, brought her back. — The reports have been delivered, but there’s a call from the SIA. Meeting with the intelligence sector at 3 p.m.

She nodded, taking the electronic scroll with fingers trembling just a little, steadier than she felt. Deep down, she knew what was coming next. Something moved in the shadows beyond alleys and military codes. Kagura’s death was not just a painful mark on Gintoki’s chest; it was an open wound in the entire system. A blind spot, a breach. Maybe it was time to find out if this wound was truly incurable or just poorly stitched.

~🌹~

The SIA’s main hall was a cold space, all brushed steel and translucent glass. Huge walls reflected the white, artificial light that seemed to suck the warmth out of the environment. The officers stood aligned with almost mechanical precision, a symphony of uniforms and controlled gazes. Tsukuyo entered with the calculated softness of a panther, silent steps over the cold floor, but eyes sharp as a blade ready to cut the silence.

She sat in her assigned seat without greeting anyone. Respect was not asked for, it was imposed.

Gintoki was not there.

In the center of the room, a hologram pulsed, displaying complex routes of Amanto arms distribution through underground sectors. A tall, slender Yabokun officer, with ivory-white skin, began the report in a monotonous voice.

— We have identified illegal movements of armed civilian groups in old subway stations. It seems humans still hold on to hope.

A muffled laugh swept the room, echoing like a contained warning.

Tsukuyo did not laugh. She didn’t even blink.

— Maybe it’s that hope that scares them the most — she said, voice low but sharp as a razor.

A murmur ran among those present. No one dared respond.

The report continued, highlighting an area known as Tenma-9, a restricted and almost forgotten underground zone where they detected an abnormal flow of energy. Old tunnels, sealed for decades, were being reactivated. The suspicion: a human rebel cell was reorganizing away from the central government’s watchful eyes.

At the end of the meeting, as she prepared to leave, Tsukuyo was approached by one of the few human officers at the SIA: Colonel Hasegawa. A man with eyes too deep for someone still alive, an expression heavy with untold stories.

— Tsukuyo-dono — he said, hands clasped behind his back, voice neutral, almost tired. — We need you and your team for a confidential mission. Investigate a possible resistance cell in Tenma-9. They might be linked to the failure that resulted in... Kagura-san’s death.

The name burned her skin like alcohol poured on an open wound.

She nodded slowly. Accepting that mission meant diving into the regime’s guts, yes, but also into Gintoki’s pain. Maybe it was the only way to face the rubble together or to be lost for good.

As they walked toward the lobby, Hasegawa spoke softly, almost in a whisper:

— You recognized me, didn’t you?

She cast a sidelong glance, mixing surprise and irony.

— Hard to forget a “Madao.”

He laughed, a dry sound, humorless.

— I lived in rock bottom long enough to dig deeper. Slept on cardboard, lived on scraps. But one day, I went to Kondou. I begged. Pleaded to join the Shinsengumi. Had to swallow pride, fake dignity.

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

— And he accepted?

— Kondou always had the bad habit of believing in people — he answered with unexpected tenderness. — I joined as a cleaner, then a guard. Did favors, used connections, formed alliances with dissident Amantos who wanted a new order. Got my hands dirty. But it worked. And here I am.

— A human colonel in an agency controlled by non-humans. Must have been an interesting climb.

— Or a slow suicide — he retorted. — But after Kagura’s death, something broke in the system. I saw my chance. And now I see an opportunity to make a difference.

She stopped, weighing each word.

— As long as that difference doesn’t cost more innocent blood.

— Or more pain for Gintoki, right? — he added.

Tsukuyo remained silent, only continued her path, firm and silent steps cutting the floor like blades.

~🌹~

Later, in the outer corridors of the SIA administrative wing, the sun dripped between buildings like liquid rust. The weak heat contrasted with the cold inside, a reminder of the contrast between what was expected and what really existed.

She found him leaning against the mezzanine railing, half slumped, half unraveled, head in his hands, eyes half-closed in a battle against the ghosts of a stubborn hangover.

— Still alive? — she asked, tone loaded with that sweet cynicism only she could use.

— Unfortunately — Gintoki answered, pressing his temples. — My head tries to separate from my body. Hangover level: three bottles and a reason to forget the world.

Around them, piles of yellowed paper, coffee and ink scribbles, handwritten reports with crooked handwriting, literally a mixture of chaotic order. A red ink stamp bore the SIA symbol on one document. Other papers carried notes in Hijikata’s frantic handwriting, so scribbled it looked like a battle between order and madness.

— These are... — Tsukuyo raised an eyebrow.

— Hijikata’s reports. Manuscripts. Crooked letters, scribbles, smell of cigarettes, obsessive notes about “why mayonnaise should be a survival item.” I had to review about seventy documents that looked like they were written between a drag and a spoonful.

— I thought they were preparing you for something more... direct. I heard there was a failure in the Tenma-9 sector.

— “Failure” is my new last name — he snorted, rubbing his tired eyes. — They took me off the mission. Said I’m unstable. That paperwork helps keep my mind busy. As if facing these papers made anyone better. — He paused. — No idea what’s going on in Tenma-9, just know they treat me like a useless civilian with a badge.

She sat beside him, eyes seeking understanding amid the printed chaos around.

— It’s a rebel cell. Humans resisting in the shadows. They suspect it’s linked to the failure that caused Kagura’s death.

He was silent. The name fell like molten lead in his stomach.

— They’re bringing her back to justify this circus? — He snorted, turning his face away. — Great. That’ll make everything easier, right?

— Nobody’s bringing her back, Gintoki — Tsukuyo said softly. — But maybe it’s time to stop running from her.

— Running? I’m not running. I’m... avoiding. It’s different. — He stood up suddenly, tripping over a pile of papers. — I’m here, eyes open, and you want me to face what? What’s already dead?

She stood too, face close to his, warm breath in the cold morning air.

— What’s dead needs to be buried with dignity, not thrown in the gutter of lies. Kagura deserves that. You deserve that.

He closed his eyes, a heavy sigh escaping his throat. And there, in that moment, the space between them filled with silence and unspoken promises.

His hand found hers, and for a moment, the world stopped spinning around what was lost.

— We go together. — She whispered. — Not alone.

Gintoki nodded, the shadow of a trembling smile crossing his tired face.

The mist covering Yoshiwara that morning was not just a veil of mystery; it was an invitation for those walking beneath its mantle to face their own echoes. And Tsukuyo knew, deep down, that this was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

Seven years ago…

The sky over Edo lost its color that dawn.
There was no warning, no mercy.
They came like swift shadows cutting through the skies, no longer visitors, but masters of a planet tired of wars and fragile hopes.
It was the beginning of the end… or the prelude to a new slavery.

In a few days, human flags were torn down, and those who did not kneel were reduced to ruins.
Several races took the planet as if it had always been theirs.
And among rubble and ashes, the strong were dragged to the center of the board.

The Shinsengumi resisted.
In the smoke of explosions and among screams still echoing in nightmares, they raised the last wall of iron and pride amid the collapse.
Kondou, with a gaze hardened by impossible choices, took Edo with firm hands.
Hijikata, darker than ever, became his blade, his shadow, his fist.

It was in a hidden alley, soaked with blood and old promises, that Gintoki was summoned.
Kondou awaited him alongside Hijikata, both still wearing uniforms dirty with soot.
They didn’t ask, they begged.
For Otose’s life, for Kagura’s.
For the memory of something greater than themselves.

— You always avoided fighting, Gintoki… but now you have nowhere to run. If you love someone in this world, protect them — said Hijikata, dragging on his cigarette, his eyes dull.
— If you don’t, she dies. They all die — Kondou finished, without dramatizing, without sugarcoating. Just the raw truth.

And he gave in.
Not for patriotism.
Not for honor.
But for them. For two pairs of eyes that still lit his darkness.

Kondou, with a heart that still wanted to save what beauty remained in the world, sealed a pact only desperate men make:
He married Otae, not for romantic love, but out of respect.
So that her name, and that of her brother Shinpachi, would not be erased from the records of the new era.

Meanwhile, Tsukuyo acted fast. Cunning and relentless, she declared the Hyakka as the official “police” of Yoshiwara, a dark sanctuary she would command as no one else could.
At Hinowa’s request, Tsukuyo accepted the responsibility of commander, and Hinowa was named vice-commander.
They knew that appointment would guarantee at least some order and control under the new tyranny.

Katsura? He went his own way.
Loyal to his own convictions, he became the voice of resistance, the ghost haunting the Amanto lords, refusing to bow.

But time corroded the little hope that remained.

Two years after the invasion, the accident that killed Kagura tore apart the last fibers of what they called family.
Sougo, once the talented and ambitious youth seeking Kondou’s recognition, became someone else, now vengeful, cold, driven by thirst for revenge.
And Shinpachi, tormented by the new order, decided the SIA would not survive as long as there was a crack to be corroded from within.

~🌹~

The present called them back, the urgent time of decisions, of alliances that could save or destroy what was left.

In the silence of dawn, Tsukuyo stayed by Gintoki’s side, who rested exhausted after another night when the weight of loss seemed to crush him.

Carefully, she extended her hand and touched his face, her fingers sliding over warm skin, seeking a contact to soothe that thick silence.
Her gaze met his as Gintoki’s eyes slowly opened, revealing a dull shine as if he had plunged into an ocean of painful memories.

— Already early for that? — he joked, with a tired half-smile, breaking the dense silence between them.
— Shut up… — she whispered, lightly biting the corner of his mouth.

But the moment was abruptly interrupted.

A sharp noise cut through the air, a metallic, persistent sound.
The high-pitched beep of an old communicator vibrating at her belt, firmly fastened opposite the kunais.
The device hissed before projecting a broken electronic voice:

— Commander Tsukuyo. Priority code: 1. Emergency meeting. Joint command coordination — immediate displacement to Edo-Quadrant 1.

She stepped back, frustrated, lips still trembling from the interrupted urgency.
She lowered her eyes to the old shiny radio, a practical relic among so many Amanto technologies, and turned off the transmission with a dry click.

— You can go. — Gintoki murmured, his voice deep and sober. He brushed a golden strand escaping her ear and smiled, without irony. — The world doesn’t stop just because we want five more minutes.

She nodded with a sigh.
In a few minutes, she was dressed, tying the obi of her dark clothing with automatic gestures. Weapons in place. The communicator back on her belt. Expression hardened.

Before leaving, she looked over her shoulder:
— You already knew this kind of summons, Gintoki… Don’t let the city fall apart without me.
He let out a theatrical sigh and grumbled:
— You think I like working? Go ahead, boss.

~🌹~

Upon arriving in Edo, Tsukuyo did not expect to see familiar faces amid protocol.
The conference room was vast, semicircular, with metal columns covered in synthetic silk, where the Edo crest and the Yoshiwara symbol now fluttered side by side.
Civil representatives, SIA officers, sector leaders, and Amanto emissaries formed a silent circle around a holographic surface command table.

Among Yoshiwara’s representatives, she recognized trusted figures, Hyakkas positioned at strategic points, alongside Edo technocrats.

But it was when one of the commanders entered, wearing the ceremonial cloak of the new Shinsengumi, that Tsukuyo held her breath.

— Shinpachi…?

The young man, now grown, raised his face.
The rectangular glasses still marked his features, but there was something in his eyes, something matured, hardened.

— Tsukuyo-san… — he bowed slightly, formal.
— You… are the captain?

He smiled faintly.
— Since Sougo abandoned the post and Kondou-san left with Hijikata on the mission to Sector 9. I thought you knew…

She didn’t know how to react for a moment.
It was strange to see that nervous boy, who used to walk beside Kagura and Gintoki, now bearing the insignias of leadership.

Then, a deep electronic voice echoed from the back of the room.
One of the highest-ranking Amantos, a huge being with matte blue skin, adorned with black mantles and luminescent shoulder pads, glided to the center.
The sound of his exoskeleton reverberated on the metallic floor. His golden eyes, incandescent like artificial embers, scanned the room silently before he spoke, his voice reverberating with glacial authority:

— Before any deliberation, let it be recorded before the Galactic Council and autonomous sectors under special command: Commander Kondou and Vice-Commander Hijikata have been assigned to an infiltration mission in Nok’Thalar — sector housing the neural intelligence of the Zanko fleet. It is a classified operation involving disguises, genetic rewrite codes, and agreements with Amanto resistance groups opposed to the Empire. The mission may last indefinite solar cycles. Their absence was authorized by Protocol Alliance 404.

A brief murmur swept the room like a contained wind, but no one dared to speak.
The Amanto raised a metal claw, ending the chatter with a single gesture.
Then he proceeded with the coldness of one who does not negotiate:

— During this period of absence, Edo will be jointly led by Tsukuyo, sector commander, and Captain Shimura. Both hold full authority over the inner quadrants of human resistance. End of priority transmission.

The room sank into silence. The information weighed like thick fog.

Tsukuyo felt eyes fall on her. Her chest tightened for a moment, a mixture of surprise, apprehension, and the old stiffness of one who learned to disguise any fragility. She swallowed dryly, gloved fingers gently pressing against her side.

From the back of the room, almost imperceptible among shadows and metal structures, Gintoki leaned carelessly against a side wall.
When her name was announced, he raised an eyebrow and let out a low laugh, muffled at the corner of his mouth. Almost inaudible, but to Tsukuyo, who knew his silences like deciphering poems, it sounded louder than any speech.

She turned her face slightly, eyes half-closed. The corner of his mouth curved even more, mocking.

— Don’t you dare laugh at me, you bastard — she whispered, lips pressed, her gaze casting the warning like an invisible blade.

Gintoki just shrugged, his look full of irony as soft as it was unbearable.

She nodded before the council, containing the expression of bewilderment.
She knew the weight of the role and the challenge of sharing command with someone so connected to the past…
And another who made jokes about everything, including the end of the world itself.

~🌹~

The meeting dissolved little by little, like smoke dispersing under a cold sky. The representatives left one by one, in disciplined silence, their steps echoing on the silk and steel-covered walls. Shinpachi still exchanged some formal words with Tsukuyo, talking about reports, protocols, and the delicacy of keeping Yoshiwara and Edo in balance without Kondou and Hijikata’s presence. But there was in his eyes a trace of admiration and also of burden. As if they now shared a special kind of loneliness: that of those who stayed to hold the pillars of what remained.

Tsukuyo, always reserved, just nodded. Her face was that of a warrior who never lowered her guard, but inside, emotions danced like lanterns in the wind.

When she left, she sought the less illuminated corridors, the same ones protocol never frequented.

She knew where she was going.
No need to ask.
She knew where to find him.

Hours later, back at the tactical complex, she found Gintoki sprawled on one of the high balconies, drinking something strong and leaning against the wall, as if the world were still made of pauses.

The night in Edo was grayer than golden. Metallic roofs gleamed under the artificial light of watch towers, and drones buzzed like eternal insects. But there, in that corner where the wind still passed free, there was a strange serene melancholy.

He didn’t even have to look to know it was her.

— So, you got promoted… to my boss? — he said, the glass dangling between his fingers. — Does that mean I slept with my boss?

She scoffed, crossing her arms, leaning on the opposite frame.

— If I had known that before, I would’ve slept in uniform — she retorted, looking at the cloudy sky as if there were still stars.

Gintoki let out a low laugh, dragged like a memory.
— And I thought it was just a regular suicide mission. Ended up in a reversed hierarchy romance…

— Shut up.

— Alright… boss.

She approached slowly, soft steps, like someone stepping among shards of something too beautiful to last. He still kept that lazy way, but there were shadows around his eyes, not only of tiredness but of accumulated weight. Untold losses, unclaimed pains.

— Did you see Shinpachi’s face? — she murmured, as if thinking aloud. — He… is not the same anymore.

— None of us are.
— He was just a boy.

— He was. Now he’s the kind of man who carries weapons without showing anger. And that scares me more than any scream.

She fell silent. The wind brought a thread of digital dust, sparkling, as if the night was trying to sew its own tears.
The silence between them was not empty. It was tense, dense, warm like a whisper trapped on skin.

— You didn’t say anything in the meeting — she said, not looking at him.

— You seemed well surrounded by important people.
— You were there.

— I was.

She stared at him.

— Then why didn’t you say anything?

He raised the glass, watching the amber liquid swirl inside.

— Because I’m not good with ceremonies. And because… — he hesitated, turning his face to her. — If I said anything, I’d end up ruining your moment of glory. You looked… unreachable. Shining among those cloaks and commands. Like I was just a cameo in your new space opera.

She blinked slowly.

— You’re an idiot.

— I know. But I’m the idiot who still remembers your laugh when thinking about home.

The phrase hit her with the cruel delicacy of a sad haiku.

She sat beside him, without touching.
Her body radiated warmth, even wrapped in the dark fabric of the reinforced uniform.
He turned his face, staring at her closely, her violet eyes fixed on the invisible horizon line, as if waiting for something to emerge beyond the synthetic clouds of Edo.

— This will destroy us, won’t it? — she asked, voice choked by something that was not fear, but acceptance.

— Maybe. But between being destroyed with you or saved without you…
— Gintoki…

He extended the glass toward her. She took it hesitantly and drank a sip. The liquid burned her throat like a poorly spoken truth.
He smiled, tired, and then, gently, rested his head on her shoulder.

— Promise me that, when all this ends, we go back to Yoshiwara?

— If there is a Yoshiwara to go back to.

— There will be — he whispered. — As long as you exist, that place never truly disappears.

She closed her eyes.
For a moment, only the sound of drones far away and Gintoki’s heavy breathing filled the space between them.
She brought her hand to his hair, stroking slowly, like trying to remember the touch in a time when touch was still possible.

The world outside was still at war.
But at that moment, on that forgotten balcony, two wounded souls found shelter in each other, like two birds hidden from the storm.

And as much as the dawn brought orders, blood, and commands…
There, between sips and silences, there was a temporary home made only of skin, memory, and whispered promises.

Chapter Text

Her head throbbed as if every memory from the previous night was being hammered inside her skull. Tsukuyo woke with her body sunk into an improvised futon, thrown among disheveled blankets and pillows smelling of alcohol and masculine sweat.

The soft morning light invaded Gintoki’s small apartment through the gaps in the faded curtain, filtering over the charming chaos of that room where everything seemed suspended—an old pile of JUMPs in the corner, the smell of cheap sake filling the air, and silence, always the silence after the storm.

She turned with difficulty, her loose hair spread over the tatami, and saw Gintoki’s yukata thrown over a chair. The light sound of footsteps in the kitchen indicated he was awake, or almost. Maybe silently mocking her, with that teasing way he had of finding humor even in his own ruin.

But before she could curse herself for accepting the invitation, the memory of the previous night hit her like an old perfume opening a drawer long closed.

~🌹~

— “Let’s celebrate, Boss.” — he had said, casually leaning against the doorframe of the tactical room, an empty glass in hand, his gaze heavy with a soft mischief only he knew how to wield. — “You got promoted. I slept with my boss. That deserves at least one full glass, right?”

She snorted, crossing her arms theatrically.

— “If you want me to put you on bathroom duty, keep provoking me.”

He laughed softly, eyes half-closed in the lazy gesture of someone who already had everything planned.

— “Otose said she still has an old barrel saved for when trouble knocks. I think tonight she’ll need to open more than one.”

And so it was that, with the night covering Edo like a veil of ink and poorly kept promises, Tsukuyo found herself once again entering Otose’s bar. That small, dusty space soaked in half-washed memories but where, strangely, everything seemed too alive.

Otose grumbled behind the counter, her now gray hair carelessly tied back, while she lined up glasses with a precision no robot could imitate. Gintoki was already at the usual table, slouched with carelessness, raising his glass.

— “The boss is here!” — he shouted, and Otose didn’t even look up.

Shinpachi was there too. In uniform, shoulders less tense than usual. When he saw Tsukuyo enter, he raised his glass in salute.

— “It’s been a while since we celebrated like this…” — he murmured, almost confessional.

She sat beside him, accepting the sake Otose handed with a maternal grimace.

— “Since Kagura died, actually.” — Shinpachi continued, looking toward the other side of the hall where Gintoki argued with Otose about something completely stupid.

His eyes shone rarely. Almost forgotten.

— “It had been a long time since I saw Gin-san like that… truly smiling. Like he still had a place to come back to, even if the world was collapsing.”

Tsukuyo stayed silent. The glass in her hand trembled subtly, as if Shinpachi’s words had touched a point she herself avoided.

No one there knew about the two of them. No one knew that behind the glances exchanged amidst the war, there was something more… something burning quietly like a candle hidden in a deserted temple.

Later, among crossed jokes and renewed glasses, Shinpachi called Otose with an unexpectedly firm gesture.

— “Bring me another sake, please.”

Gintoki, tossing little paper balls into the ashtray like it was a professional sport, turned with an arched eyebrow.

— “Huh? You can drink, kid?”

Shinpachi adjusted his glasses, a slightly proud expression, a discreet smile at the corner of his lips.

— “I’m 26, Gin-san.”

Gintoki choked on his own sake.

— “Twenty-six?!” — he coughed, pounding his hand on the table like it was a betrayal to time. — “Time is a curse… You kids are growing old just to remind me I’m getting closer to turning into space dust!”

Otose slapped him with a dish towel on the head.

— “You’re already dust. Just waiting for someone to sweep you up.”

The laughter that followed was the most sincere of the night.
The kind that scares away ghosts and stretches time just a little longer.

At that moment, between loose laughter, the warmth of alcohol, and the memory of who was no longer there, there was peace.
Small, fleeting, but real.

And maybe, for those who had already lost so much, that was more than enough.

~🌹~

Waking there, in the small universe Gintoki called home, was like awakening from a dream she didn’t know if she wanted to forget. Tsukuyo still felt the metallic taste of sake in her throat and the light breeze of dawn that had, at some point, blown through the half-open windows. The previous night had left traces not only in the cruel hangover throbbing inside her but also in something deeper, a drunken tenderness infiltrating between her ribs.

With effort, she sat up, tying the yukata over her exposed shoulders. The fabric smelled like Gintoki. Her skin still held his warmth in places where memory groped with more desire than lucidity. Everything in that space was him: the crumpled manga on the table, the pillow smelling of faded hair and alcohol, the slippers tossed carelessly near the door. Everything breathed his temporary absence with an almost cruel intimacy.

The sound of footsteps in the kitchen stopped for a moment. A curious silence settled, the kind that announces the arrival of something more intimate than words.

Soon he appeared in the doorway, holding a steaming cup of tea with an expression mixing hangover, mockery, and a care he would never admit. His silver hair was tousled like a tamed storm, and the open shirt revealed the chest where she had slept the previous night.

— “Good morning, hungover boss.” — he said, with a lazy smile, handing her the cup like offering a truce.

She accepted, muttering something between “go to hell” and “thank you,” but couldn’t meet directly those eyes that undressed her naturally even when sleepy.

— “You snore.” — he added, sitting on the floor, pulling a cushion with his foot.

— “You talk in your sleep.” — she retorted, blowing on the tea.

— “And you kicked me. Twice.”

— “Probably deserved it.”

The laughter that followed was light but carried the complicity of those who share more than a futon, share the world’s weariness. And there was something comforting in that shared cynicism, as if between the barbs and provocations there was a place where the two could rest from the war outside.

After a while, Gintoki stared at the ceiling as if he could see stars beyond the mold stains.

— “You know… it had been a long time since we laughed like that. It didn’t even seem like so much was falling apart around us.”

Tsukuyo said nothing. She just sipped the tea, feeling the warmth of the ceramic heat her cold hands. She knew he was trying to say more than it seemed.

He turned to her, his gray eyes serious now, as rarely happened.

— “And I’m saying this because… yesterday was good. In a strange way, even with Shinpachi there. But today… today the world will go back to being the same as always. Cruel. Full of messages we pretend not to read.”

She looked at him, her expression still between sleep and steel, but something inside her tightened: an old knot, the kind that forms when you learn to live defending yourself from what you want most.

— “What is it, Gintoki?”

He looked away for a moment. A rare thing.

— “A letter arrived from the base in Tenma-9. About the SIA mission. And also… about her.”

Tsukuyo stopped. Her whole body seemed to stiffen with that unspoken word. Kagura.

— “What’s in that letter?”

He stood up, walked to the cluttered shelf, pulled out a crumpled envelope among forgotten magazines and memories, and handed it to her. The edge was stained with something that seemed like sake… or maybe tears from someone who no longer knew how to cry.

She opened it carefully, fingers trembling despite the firm facade. Inside was a sheet bearing the SIA crest, stained with red, the kind of red that wasn’t paint.

The words danced before her eyes, but it was impossible to ignore what they said:

"Organic remains compatible with Kagura’s genetic composition were identified in Tenma-9. The operation was interrupted due to an explosion of unknown origin. Caution recommended. The mission is now reconnaissance and collection."

The world seemed to shrink at that moment. Tsukuyo felt her chest close like a box sealed with fire. She lifted her gaze to Gintoki, who now seemed smaller than ever, not in stature, but in vulnerability. As if everything inside him was held by a thread too thin.

— “Could she be alive?” — she asked, voice hoarse.

Gintoki didn’t answer immediately. He took his own cup of tea and took a long sip, as if he needed time not to collapse.

— “I don’t know. But if there’s even a chance, no matter how small… I need to go there.”

The statement sounded like a sentence. Tsukuyo felt the ground disappear beneath her feet.

— “Alone?”

He looked at her then, as if she had asked if the sky still existed.

— “I don’t want you to go.” — She lifted her chin, violet eyes flashing. — “And I don’t want you to die alone either.”

The silence between them this time was dense. An unspoken but inevitable pact.

And in that small room, where love and tragedy mingled like leaves carried by the wind, Tsukuyo knew there was no turning back.

The war would return. The cards were dealt.

And the next mission would be written in blood.

Chapter Text

The letter still trembled between Tsukuyo's fingers, even after being read. The paper seemed to breathe, to pulse, as if it carried within it the remnants of a life... or the end of one. The smudged letters danced before her eyes, and the SIA crest, red over white, was like an open wound that would never heal.

Gintoki remained standing before her, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the floor. The silence between them was denser than any words could cut through.

Tsukuyo closed the envelope slowly, as if sealing inside it a pain she could not yet name. But he had already made his decision.

— When do you leave?

Gintoki let the air out sharply, as if he had forgotten to breathe since the moment he read the letter.

— The SIA ship leaves at sunset. I'll board as a civilian. Officially, it's a ghost mission. No record. No guaranteed return.

She approached with slow, almost feline steps. There was something in her violet eyes that recalled the gleam of a blade about to cut, not of hatred, but of a tenderness only those who loved fiercely could offer.

— And did you really think I'd let you go alone?

Gintoki did not answer at once. He stared at the letter like someone gazing into the bottom of a well they had already fallen into. When he finally spoke, his voice was low but steady, tinged with a weariness that came not from fatigue of the body, but of life itself.

— If you come with me, who stays to protect Yoshiwara? Who holds Edo if things spiral out of control? Kondou is still away, Hijikata too. And if this letter is a trick? A trap by the Amanto? You could lose everything... even Yoshiwara. They're just waiting for a misstep to take what's left.

He looked into her eyes, and in them was something rarefied, as if he had already accepted the worst.

— At least I have nothing to lose. I'm just an officer no one remembers. A faded old lieutenant. But you...

He turned his gaze away. The pain on his face was that of a man who loved enough to push away.

— You still have a home. People who depend on you. Hinowa, Seita, the Hyakka girls. I'm not asking you to let me go alone. I'm asking you... to live, if I don't return.

Tsukuyo stayed silent for a moment, her chest heaving under the weight of his words. But the golden light in her eyes never faltered.

She stepped forward. Then another. Until her breath brushed against his face.

— And you really think I could live if I let you go alone?

The silence that followed seemed to frame every crack in the walls, every speck of dust caught in the light that entered through the window. Gintoki kept his eyes fixed on the letter, as if the words within it contained the echo of something he dared not speak aloud.

— I'm going — he repeated, like a sentence read before an invisible court.

Tsukuyo still stood before him. Her body firm, but the fingers clenched at her sides betrayed the battle inside.

— You're just a lieutenant. And you don't have SIA clearance for this, Gintoki. This letter doesn't even have official registry... it could've been forged.

— Then it's perfect for someone who doesn't even count as a cog in this system — he said, with a bitter half-smile. — They won't miss me. Won't even notice I'm gone.

She bit her lower lip, her eyes sparking with indignation.

— You always do this. Disappear, throw yourself into the fire, and expect no one to burn for you.

Gintoki stepped closer. Stopped just inches from her, his voice now a low whisper, the kind that wounds more than a shout.

— I can't take you, Tsukuyo. If you leave now, Yoshiwara is exposed. Edo is in ruins. The SIA can barely hold itself together. You're the only solid thing left in this trembling world. And... if it's a trap, better it close around me than everything you protect.

She wanted to argue. To scream, to pound his chest until he understood that love is not an anchor, but a rope stretched until it snaps. But she said nothing. She only closed her eyes and drew a deep breath.

Gintoki looked away again. He seemed smaller now, inside his own armor of disdain and self-sacrifice. A man who had chosen to be wounded in others' place so many times that he already confused pain with duty.

— Promise you won't die — she said at last.

He met her eyes. The only eyes in the system that still saw him behind the ashes.

— If I die... you'll know. Because the dust will stop falling on your window — he said, in that hoarse voice that carried more than words. — Until then... wait for me.

She nodded, almost imperceptibly. But before he turned away completely, her voice called him back, low yet firm, like a thread of silk tied to his wrist.

— When you return... — she murmured, her golden eyes burning like banked embers — ...I'll open a bottle of the finest wine. Just one glass. Just for us two.

Gintoki paused for a moment, as if that invitation were harder to refuse than the mission itself. A half-smile curved his lips, and he said nothing. But his eyes, when they met hers one last time, promised the rest.

Then he turned, took his coat, the belt with the bokuto, and left through the door without looking back.

Tsukuyo remained there, unmoving, watching the door close. The silence left behind was not empty, but filled with all that was unsaid, all that could not be said. It was a silence heavy, almost tangible, that seemed to compress the air of the apartment like an invisible hand.

The letter on the tatami seemed to whisper untold stories, as if every word carried the promise of an uncertain future, of a life that could end before it even began to unfold.

She drew in a deep breath, that weight pressing against her chest, and then turned slowly, as if every movement were a battle against the will to stay.

The clock on the wall showed it was still early, yet night was already spilling its shadow over the city. Outside, a thin mist was beginning to spread across Edo, covering the narrow streets, the lampposts and neon signs in a cold, translucent veil.

Tsukuyo put on a light coat over her kimono, adjusted her hair with steady fingers, and slipped out of Gintoki's apartment. The door closed behind her, the sound echoing like a farewell.

The streets were silent, save for the distant murmur of hurried footsteps and the occasional hum of flying vehicles cutting through the heavy sky. The air carried a faint smell of rain, a promise unfulfilled, a premonition.

~🌹~

On her way to the Hyakka office, Tsukuyo let her thoughts run, but never allowed them to drift into dangerous reveries.

Responsibility awaited her like a constant shadow.

As she crossed the building's entrance, the night's silence was replaced by the murmur of a few lights still glowing on the upper floors, by the steady presence of a few guards who recognized her and offered a discreet bow.

She climbed the stairs with firm steps, but her mind was a storm. Steps carrying her away from the warmth of the apartment, into the hard routine of Yoshiwara.

In the office, the light was dim, illuminating maps spread across the table, inactive communicators, and digital files floating in soft holograms. Tsukuyo sat down slowly, feeling the weight of the chair spreading through her legs like an anchorage.

She looked at the large window that opened onto the streets of Yoshiwara, still wrapped in mist.

Outside, the world went on, indifferent to the letter, the mission, the man who had left, and the woman who remained.

For a moment, she closed her eyes and allowed herself a sigh. She could not afford weakness, not now. The Hyakka needed her. The city needed her.

Even so, the promise she had made echoed, sweet and bitter.

"When you return... I'll open a bottle of the finest wine. Just one glass. Just for us two."

Those words were like a living flame lit in the middle of the dark.

Tsukuyo pictured Gintoki at that moment, walking alone among the stars, distant and vulnerable, carrying on his shoulders the weight of a mission that could be his last act.

She reached out, touching the empty space where he had been, trying to hold onto the warmth he had left behind.

At that moment, a soft notification chimed on her communicator.

She woke from her stupor, slid her finger across the interface, and saw the day's messages: security reports, discreet alerts of strange movements on Yoshiwara's borders, orders to reinforce vigilance at the city entrance.

Another reminder that, while one of them left for the unknown, those who stayed would have to endure, protect, fight.

Tsukuyo drew in a deep breath and rose, as if seeking steadiness in her own body.

Through the window, the rain finally began to fall. A fine rain, washing the dirty streets, hiding the city's scars, but not erasing its traumas.

She thought of the invitation she had made to Gintoki, of the bottle of wine kept, of the toast they would share if he returned.

That simple gesture was a safe harbor, a promise of life amid death, of hope amid despair.

She did not know what the future held, nor how many days or nights she would have to wait.

But she knew that there, that night, in the silent office, there was a world that needed protection and a man for whom she would live, wait, and toast.

The bottle was kept.

And the glass would be waiting.

Chapter Text

The night leaned over Yoshiwara like a black mantle, heavy and silent, where the whispers of lanterns along the narrow streets were almost swallowed by the dense air. Tsukuyo stood high in her office, gazing through the wide window, following the movement of the city that never slept, even beneath the mist and the artificial lights that insisted on dimming the stars.

The absence of Gintoki still ached in silence, an invisible space stretching between the walls of the apartment, between each of her breaths, and even in the cold air that seeped into the room.

She felt, in every fiber of her body, the weight of that promise: the wine kept, the glass waiting. But it was not just a promise of reunion. It was a silent pact of resistance, an anchor that kept her steady while the world seemed on the verge of collapse.

On the hologram before her, maps of Yoshiwara and Edo flickered with red points, indicating suspicious movements. The alerts from SIA did not cease; the enemy seemed to lurk at every corner, and time was running short.

Tsukuyo drew a deep breath and turned off the interface. Silence returned, heavy and present.

The office door opened with a faint creak, and a familiar figure appeared at the threshold, pushing the wheelchair with a calm and steady gesture. Hinowa, with her ever serene gaze, smiled upon seeing Tsukuyo.

— Commander — she called, her voice soft, almost teasing the formality.

Tsukuyo turned, a faint smile on her lips, and shook her head.

— Hinowa, you don't need to call me that — she replied, her tone mixing tenderness and firmness.

Hinowa moved a few steps forward, stopping near the desk where the hologram had once glowed.

— Even so, you carry that weight. It's in your posture, in the way you speak. — She smiled, a little mischievous. — And not only at work.

Tsukuyo raised an eyebrow, feigning disinterest, though her heart quickened.

— What are you talking about? — she asked, already knowing.

Hinowa turned her chair so she was facing her, crossing her arms with the air of someone who enjoys provoking.

— You and Gin-san — She paused, as if choosing her words carefully. — It's no secret. His eyes don't lie when he looks at you. Nor the way you clench your fists when he mentions the mission.

Tsukuyo sighed, eyes lowering to the floor, the weight of truth pressing down on her.

— It's not as simple as it seems — she murmured, her voice low. — If I could choose, I would choose not to feel this distance.

Hinowa tilted her head, her eyes glimmering with empathy.

— You don't need to hide it. Not from me. You two are fire and water, right? But fire that burns to illuminate. And that never disappears, even in the longest nights.

The commander drew a deep breath, feeling the warmth of those words, almost like an ember rekindled.

— He left on a mission that might be his last — she admitted, looking at Hinowa. — And I remain here, torn between hope and fear. Between protecting this city and wanting to be by his side.

Hinowa moved closer, her hand brushing Tsukuyo's arm gently.

— You are not alone — she said, with a firm yet comforting tone. — And when he returns, he will find you still here, strong as always. Waiting behind this desk.

Tsukuyo smiled, a smile that was both promise and melancholy.

— Yes — she said.

In the silence between them, the city kept pulsing, alive and restless, while time pressed on, laden with uncertainties and unspoken desires.

Hinowa watched her with a mix of care and complicity. In her wheelchair, with a posture that never allowed weakness to show, she represented for Tsukuyo the silent strength of the city, someone who, despite her limitations, could move mountains. And that night, Hinowa was not just a friend or ally; she was an anchor for the commander who, inside, felt her fragility growing.

— Speak to me, Tsukuyo — Hinowa insisted, breaking the heavy silence. — You don't need to carry this alone. I know Gin-san is more than just a lieutenant to you.

Tsukuyo lowered her gaze to her hands resting on the desk. The touch of leather and cold wood contrasted with the warmth rising in her chest, a steady flame refusing to die despite the distance.

— He has always been more than a title — she answered, her voice almost a whisper, husky with contained emotions. — When everything collapses, when the masks fall and the world feels meaningless... he's the only one who reminds me who I am.

Hinowa nodded, as if she understood perfectly.

— And he knows what you represent here. It's not just power, not just responsibility. You're the one keeping Yoshiwara breathing, even when the city seems to suffocate.

— I try — Tsukuyo said, clenching her fists — But I don't know if I can protect all this without him.

Her friend's gaze grew intense, firm, almost challenging.

— Maybe you don't need to. Maybe his strength isn't just in presence, but in the trust he places in you. In the certainty that, even far away, you're the one keeping the shadows at bay.

Tsukuyo closed her eyes, letting her head rest for a moment. Outside, a distant thunder rolled in the mist, like an omen. The city seemed to hold its breath.

— I promised him I would wait — she murmured softly. — That I would save the wine for when he returned. And that, while I waited, I would not let the city fall.

Hinowa smiled, with not a trace of irony.

— That is your fight. Your choice. And no one here will ask you to give up, even when the pain grips your chest.

A comfortable silence settled between them, while the dim lamp cast soft shadows across the tatami floor.

— Tell me — Hinowa began, shifting to a lighter tone — What is it like to share your life with someone like Gin-san?

Tsukuyo smiled, a small but sincere smile, blooming slowly.

— It's like dancing on a tightrope — she said, playfully — I never know if I'll fall, but I know he'll be there to catch me. Even if he doesn't want to admit it.

Hinowa chuckled softly, her expression softening.

— He'd never admit he needs you, would he?

— Never — Tsukuyo agreed. — But his eyes say it all.

— And what do your eyes say to him?

Tsukuyo sighed, a sigh that carried love, pain, and longing.

— That I cannot let him go alone. That he needs to know that even if the world breaks, there will always be someone waiting. Someone who believes love can be armor, a fortress, a refuge.

Hinowa grew thoughtful for a moment, then said:

— You two are proof that, even in the midst of war and ruin, there is still something worth protecting. Something that transcends orders, ranks, missions.

Tsukuyo agreed, feeling the weight of those words echo inside her.

— It's what keeps me awake at night — she confessed. — The fear, the hope, and this silent promise that he will return.

Hinowa made a small encouraging gesture.

— Then let that promise strengthen you, not break you. Yoshiwara needs you whole, not just as a commander's body, but as a heart that beats strong.

Tsukuyo turned slowly, meeting Hinowa's gaze with a renewed spark in her eyes.

— Thank you — she said sincerely — For being here, for not letting me sink.

Hinowa smiled, making a small farewell gesture, ready to leave.

— If you need anything, you know where to find me — she replied.

As the door closed softly behind her, Tsukuyo turned again to face the city. The mist was beginning to lift, revealing the first flickers of an uncertain horizon. The wind, calm until then, began to rise, carrying the promise of change or perhaps only the forewarning of storms to come.

She sat down, picked up the crumpled envelope of the letter Gintoki had left her, and brushed the SIA emblem with her fingers. It was a reminder that, even when everything seemed lost, the fight continued and that, somewhere, he was fighting for her too.

The clock in the corner of the office showed that dawn was near. Yoshiwara slept with open eyes, watchful, as if it knew nothing there could ever be taken for granted.

Tsukuyo closed her eyes, imagining Gintoki somewhere far away, under the same sky, carrying the same promise of return.

And then, a firm decision crystallized in her chest: she would go on, no matter the cost, keeping that glass of wine and that hope as the only certainties in the midst of darkness.

Chapter Text

The dawn was still a muffled whisper over Yoshiwara, when Tsukuyo felt the first shivers that foretold a storm beyond time—not that storm of nature, but the one that rises in the soul and in the blood, shaking everything that once seemed solid.

The office, empty and silent, held only the cold light of the holoprojector switched off, the shadows of the furniture stretched across the clean, immaculate tatami. She remained seated, her body slightly bent forward, hands clasped together holding the envelope: the last trace of Gintoki in her routine.

His promise, carved into that letter, pulsed stronger with each passing moment.

A distant sound, almost imperceptible, broke the stillness: the soft hum of a waist communicator sliding against the desk. Tsukuyo stretched her fingers quickly, eyes already accustomed to the darkness recognizing the familiar glow of the SIA alert.

The call was not routine.

She pressed the button, and the harsh, urgent voice of the command center invaded the air, breaking the silence like thunder:

— Commander Tsukuyo, we've tracked suspicious movements on the eastern outskirts of Yoshiwara. It may be an Amanto infiltration. Requesting your authorization to dispatch patrols.

The tone was grave, heavy with tension.

Tsukuyo raised her head, her eyes now focused, pulsing with adrenaline she hadn't felt in a long time. Gintoki's mission, his absence, and the weight of responsibility threatened to suffocate her, but the voice of the commander within rose with force:

— Authorized. — Her voice came out firm, almost without tremor. — I want reports every five minutes.

As she shut off the communicator, the chill of dawn seemed to seep beneath her clothes, mixing with the fire still burning inside her.

In the next instant, her mind filled with images: winding streets, shadows gliding silently, Gintoki fighting against the invisible, and herself, at the center of this deadly game, trying to keep Yoshiwara alive.

She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, and felt the presence of Hinowa in her memory, the calm and steady voice that had encouraged her not long ago.

To rise was not merely a physical movement; it was a rebirth.

Tsukuyo grabbed the pouch of kunai resting on the desk, pulling it close with a decisive gesture. She was not only the commander, not only a guardian of streets and secrets, but the flame that kept the darkness from swallowing the city.

And that night, she knew she could no longer wait.

~🌹~

Outside, the mist thickened, embracing the narrow streets with its damp and treacherous veil. Lanterns scattered diffused light, and the distant sound of hurried footsteps mingled with the murmurs of the city waking to a new war.

Tsukuyo walked quickly but silently through the inner passages of the district. The black uniform she wore seemed to merge with the shadow, and her gaze was a sharp blade against the unknown.

Upon reaching the SIA base, a group of soldiers was already waiting for her, ready to depart. Shinpachi was among them, his eyes heavy with concern, yet also with respect.

— Are you ready? — he asked, with a restrained half-smile.

— Never more ready — she answered, her voice low but firm.

The soldiers quickly organized, equipping themselves with energy weapons, reinforced shields, and motion sensors. Tsukuyo observed every detail, aware that each decision could be a matter of life or death.

— Let's go — she ordered, with natural authority.

The group departed, plunging into the thick fog that turned Yoshiwara into an almost mystical labyrinth.

As they advanced, Tsukuyo felt the weight of the silence, broken only by the sound of boots on the damp ground and the distant hum of surveillance drones.

Minutes dragged like hours, and tension rose with every corner.

Suddenly, a strange sound: a metallic click, followed by a red glow that lit the side corridor.

— Enemies — Tsukuyo whispered, swiftly drawing her kunai. — Prepare yourselves.

The soldiers took defensive positions, weapons pointed toward the source of the signal. The fog seemed to come alive, turning the battle into a game of shadows and reflections.

The fight was fierce and swift. Tsukuyo led the attack with almost supernatural precision, slicing through darkness with sure strikes. The metallic clash of blades and the crack of energy weapons filled the air.

Amid the chaos, a guttural roar tore the night: a wild beast surged from the shadows, eyes blazing with feral fire, muscles tense, fangs bared. The creature advanced with fury, attacking without distinction.

Tsukuyo dodged swiftly, feeling the brute force crash against her defense. The soldiers recoiled, facing a danger beyond any common enemy.

She realized this was no human threat, but something created or modified—a monster born of Amanto technology, a hybrid predator that had to be stopped before it destroyed everything.

With a firm cry, Tsukuyo gathered her energy, aimed perfectly, and delivered a precise strike to the beast's neck. The creature staggered, letting out one last desperate howl before collapsing lifeless.

Silence returned, heavy and oppressive.

Tsukuyo breathed deeply, her gaze fixed on the fallen body, aware that this night was far from over.

~🌹~

Hours later, back in Yoshiwara, the gates of the neon citadel closed behind her like the lips of a secret. No one followed. No words were spoken. Only the muffled sound of her own footsteps echoing through the empty corridors of the fortress hidden between the false sky and the silent alleys.

Tsukuyo entered her room with a quiet sigh. The air inside seemed frozen in time, laden with memories that did not dare to move. She closed the door slowly, as if afraid to awaken some ghost forgotten among the shadows. The room was dark, cold, still—and strangely comforting. An absent presence wrapped around her, familiar as the pain one learns to live with inside the chest.

Alone.

She was alone.

How many years had passed since she last had that room to herself? No reports to sign, no Hyakkas awaiting orders, no Gintoki sprawled on the futon, smelling of cheap sake and making stupid jokes to distract from the pain.

The silence was a sharp blade. But, for the first time in a long time, she did not fear it.

She removed the uniform slowly, as though undoing the armor of the day. The fabric fell like a dead flower petal onto the tatami. Her golden hair, once firmly tied, spilled down her back like strands of moonlight. She walked naked to the sunken bath, steam already rising from the hot water that awaited her like a silent invitation to oblivion.

She sank her body slowly, feeling the heat wrap around her like an embrace she no longer knew how to accept. The water touched every unspoken wound, every knot in her shoulders, every memory clinging to her skin like soot. At first, she thought she might relax. That perhaps this bath could carry away the day's weight, the smell of blood, the beast's dying gaze beneath her kunai.

But the truth was different.

The bath, hot and silent, became a mirror of her own mind. And what it reflected was emptiness... the absence that remained even when all seemed calm. Gintoki was not there. Not with his noisy silences, nor with his lazy eyes that saw more than they said. Only the dark. Only the heat. Only her.

She rested her head on the edge, staring at the ceiling where shadows danced silently. Thoughts came like smoke: the beast she had faced, the creature's eyes before dying—a distorted reflection of the very rage she kept locked in her chest. The silent war between her nature and what was left of her humanity.

She wondered if, in the end, they were all like that creature: products of experiments, wrong choices, and poorly stitched memories.

She closed her eyes.

The water now felt heavy. Too hot. Too real.

And yet, it was better than feeling empty.

Her hand slipped beneath the hot water, slowly resting on the scar that cut across her face like a memory impossible to erase. It was old, made by her own will... or at least that was what she had told herself, so many times, until she believed it. A definitive mark, marring beauty like scratching a mirror with dried blood. So that no one would dare see her as fragile. As a woman. As someone needing to be saved.

But that night, beneath the heavy water and the screaming silence, she wondered if she had ever stopped wishing to be truly seen.

Tsukuyo opened her eyes, soaked lashes brushing against the rim of the bath. For a second, the ceiling seemed to curve over her like Yoshiwara's false sky—painted, imposed, deceitful. A sky that had never known real stars. A sky that never truly darkened, even when night fell, as if even the darkness here were programmed, contained, surveilled.

She rose slowly, pale skin like porcelain beneath the moonlight, marked by water and by days. Every step back to the tatami was a return to armor. To the woman the world expected. To the one who could no longer allow herself to dream.

She dried in silence, wrapped her naked body in the light fabric of a yukata, unadorned, without vanity. A simple mantle for a night in which sleep would be hard to find.

Before the dim mirror, she hesitated. Her eyes searched for the scar on her face: that firm, cruel line that cut across her femininity like a sentence. An iron mark that told the world she was not a flower. Not a wife. Not someone to be saved.

And yet, part of her longed to be seen. Touched. Loved.

She turned off the light.

The room sank into a deep, motionless blue. The city's glow cast uncertain shapes through the cracks in the window, like ghosts from a world that never slept.

Tsukuyo lay down slowly, feeling the futon's cold fabric meet her warm skin. Her eyes stayed open for a while, adjusting to the gloom. In the place where Gintoki used to sleep, there was only fold and silence.

She would not cry. Not this night.

She would only close her eyes and let the night cover her like an ancient veil. As if, for one brief moment, she could forget what it meant to command. To fight. To survive.

Just for this night... to be only herself.

Chapter Text

The corridor of the SIA administrative wing still carried the sterile scent of freshly printed paper and tea cooling on forgotten trays. The white walls reflected the chill of a dawn that stubbornly refused to end, even though the digital clock read 06:45, and for Tsukuyo, it felt as if the previous night had never even finished.

As soon as the door to her office slid open with a soft squeak, Makoto, her personal assistant, burst forth in words like a contained whirlwind:

— Commander, good morning. At 07:30 there is a videoconference scheduled with the High Council of Edo to address the adaptations of defense protocols. At 09:00, a meeting with the Amanto Intelligence sector. At 10:15, the diplomatic delegation from Rakuyou will be awaiting your presence in the blue wing. And at 11:40, Hinowa requested your personal evaluation on the new reports from the child security division in Yoshiwara.

Makoto breathed only enough to continue:

— Additionally, Colonel Hasegawa requested a full report of the last 48 hours of movement on the southern border. Section D's patrol sent an urgent request for resources. And the Data Center is awaiting authorization to reinstall the firewall in the western tower.

Tsukuyo did not respond immediately. Her eyes, still red from the forced vigil, fixed on the double doors ahead as if the silence beyond could protect her for just five more seconds.

But there was no mercy.

She pushed the door open.

And stopped.

Stacks.

Entire towers of reports, dossiers, printed holograms, and requests piled up almost threateningly on the main desk. A static avalanche of obligations coming from two fronts that seemed to swallow time and patience: Yoshiwara, with its daily requests for reinforcements, surveillance, and structural repair... and Edo, now under her direct supervision, with political demands, tactical requirements, and a diplomatic tangle that grew like weeds after the rain.

— What the hell is this... — she muttered, her voice hoarse, more to herself than to Makoto.

The assistant adjusted her glasses with a small clearing of the throat:

— The accumulation of the last seventy-two hours, Commander. Since taking over Edo, the flow doubled. No one authorized the redirection of loads to the deputy colonels...

Tsukuyo closed her eyes for a brief moment, pressing the bridge of her nose with two fingers. The long scar on her face seemed to throb in response to exhaustion. The mark she had once chosen to appear less feminine now burned like a crest of an ongoing war against the world, the system, and herself.

— Makoto... — her voice was calm but sharp. — Prepare black tea. No sugar. Three cups. And remove me from the next meeting with the High Council. They can wait.

— But, Commander, that meeting is registered as alpha priority...

— And I am registering omega exhaustion. Tell them I am alive, but I haven't decided if that will remain the case until the end of the day.

Makoto hesitated for a moment. Then she simply nodded and left silently.

Tsukuyo moved toward her chair, pushing aside some of the papers threatening to slip to the floor. She sat down slowly, like one lying in a trap.

Her eyes scanned the covers of the documents, the SIA seals stamped like scars in every corner. There were records of crimes, energy accounts, evacuation plans, discharge requests, and... letters.

Letters from soldiers. From civilians. From orphans.

Letters for her.

The Commander.

She inhaled deeply, shoulders rigid, spine straight like a blade ready to move. She picked up the first report. And began to read.

Because in that chaos of paper and smoke, she was still the wall between the world and the abyss.

~🌹~

Hours passed like faceless soldiers. One after another. Relentless. Silent. And each left a weight on her already arched back.

07:30. She sent a hologram with her voice, cold and precise, substituting her presence in the meeting with the High Council. By 08:00, she was reviewing a series of annexes on smuggling routes in the underground alleys of Yoshiwara. 09:00, already seated in another smaller, shielded room, she heard the tense whispers of Amanto Intelligence about signals intercepted on Rakuyou frequencies. 10:15, the diplomatic delegation: three Amantos in suits, a human interpreter sweating, words measured too carefully to mean anything. 11:40, she faced Hinowa, eyes sunken with worry as they spoke of missing children in high-risk zones.

She didn't notice time passing. She didn't feel her stomach remind her of the coffee she had forgotten to drink. The world was a narrow, dry corridor where she moved with the firmness of someone who could not stop.

In one of these passages, between the listening room and the main hall of the SIA, a collision occurred.

Literally.

She turned a corner and ran into the High Command.

— Commander Tsukuyo — greeted a muffled, grave voice. The golden uniform and crooked glasses left no doubt. Hasegawa. Beside him, three other generals of Edo's Strategic Directorate, and two more members of the Planetary Control Council. All impeccable, all tired. All holding folders.

Tsukuyo straightened her posture, jaw tense.

— Colonel Hasegawa. Generals.

— We need you to review this urgently — he said, extending a bluish-gray folder. The red "sensitive priority" seal bled like a threat over the cover.

She took the volume. Heavy. Ancient. On physical paper, not digital.

— We found inconsistencies in the southern block reports — Hasegawa continued. — These copies match the data sent by the local divisions, but... something is wrong. Small details. Minimal deviations. Yet too frequent to be accidents.

— And too suspicious to ignore — said one of the generals, eyes half-closed.

— I want you to review personally — Hasegawa concluded. — You have an eye for this that no one else has.

— Because you bury me up to my neck in it — she retorted, without humor.

— Because I still trust you won't blink when you see the truth — he replied.

They stared at each other for a second longer than comfortable.

Then she nodded, tucking the folder under her arm as if carrying a live bomb ready to explode.

~🌹~

Night fell, and the city seemed to extinguish itself from within. The Edo sky was opaque, a heavy mantle that muffled sounds and hid forms. Yoshiwara, however, never slept. The distant lights flickered like an anxious heart, pulsing beneath the dense, silent fog.

Inside the office, Makoto had already left. On the desk, a simple note:

"I left more black tea in the thermos. Don't forget to sleep."

But sleep was not an option.

She remained immersed among complex tables, logistics maps scribbled with routes and notes, digital signatures glowing under the cursor's touch, transport records forming an intricate mosaic. A document in her right hand, a mug in her left. Eyes burning with dried blood, back protesting against the rigidity of the chair. The clock read 02:03 a.m., and half the work was still unfinished.

Hours unfolded like a slow, black river.

On impulse, she sought something to warm her throat: a cheap wine, forgotten in a frosted glass bottle, tucked in a nearly hidden desk drawer. She broke the seal with hesitant hands; the sharp, strong aroma filled the air like a bitter promise of relief.

She sat down, fingers trembling as she held the improvised cup. The first sip burned her mouth but brought a fleeting sense of comfort. The second was slower, the third longer, until she realized she had drunk the entire bottle. Alone, in the silent Yoshiwara night.

The wine, as cheap as the promise of rest, had no taste left, only the emptiness growing inside her.

When she finally returned to the folder Hasegawa had delivered, the air in the room seemed to weigh down. The papers, old and yellowed, rough-textured, exuded a smell of mold and accumulated time. There were not just reports... but fragments. Mixed records, duplicate copies, with subtle details altered.

She leafed through the pages with slow fingers, sleep mingling with fear, until something fell silently among the sheets: a small, simple, yellowed paper. Handwritten.

She picked up the note, hands trembling, unsure if from sleep or foreboding. In the center, in shaky black ink, there was only one sentence:

"They know everything."

Silence swallowed time.

The sound of the clock lost meaning.

She stood there, motionless, eyes fixed on the note, as if it were staring back at her.

The world around her dissolved, leaving only her, the paper... and the certainty that something far greater and far more dangerous was at play.

Turning her eyes back to the documents, she felt as if they had come to life. Every discrepancy, every strange number, every misplaced signature screamed with a cold, merciless intensity.

It was as if it had all been there the whole time. Waiting for her to be too tired to finally see.

Chapter Text

His side of the crossing...

The metal of the space cocoon still vibrated under his feet, as if the very structure felt the echoes of the void. Gintoki was awake. He always was. It didn't matter if the ship's light cycles said it was day or night. Time, there, was a cruel invention, and he, a wandering body inside a mission with no promise of return.

Day 1

The heat of the city hit him as soon as he stepped off the collective transport ship. It wasn't the kind of heat from Yoshiwara or Edo, with their dense perfumes and suffocating humidity. It was a dry heat, half-industrial, heavy with metal dust and the smell of burnt fuel.

The main street looked like a corridor of low buildings, of simple and functional architecture. Nothing of shining domes or glass structures like in the Federation's noble areas. Here, everything was made to last. Practical. Gray.

The SIA building was just ahead. An austere construction, with thick reinforced concrete walls, narrow windows, and bars on the side doors. It looked more like an old registry office than the headquarters of an interstellar security department.

There was a simple plaque above the main entrance, with slightly worn metallic letters: "Archive Section – Central Division of Intelligence and Control."

No rank privilege worked there.

Gintoki tried to enter through the back door, as he did in other sectors, but was stopped before even stepping into the internal corridor.

— "Identification and prior scheduling, Lieutenant." — said the clerk in a neutral voice, without looking directly at him.

Not even the Second Division badge helped.

Resigned, he walked up to the reception desk, filled out the form like any ordinary civilian, and received a slip with the date and time for his first consultation in the archives. It wasn't for that day. It wasn't for that week. Bureaucracy seemed part of the game.

He needed a place to stay. And fast.

He walked around the building's surrounding streets, looking for some simple lodging. The larger hotels were out of the question. Besides being expensive, they were filled with officers and people connected to the SIA.

He wanted anonymity.

At the end of an alley, he found a small inn. Neon signs with failing letters, the smell of old cigarettes in the lobby, and an elderly man behind the counter who barely raised his eyes when he asked for a room.

The price was low. The room smaller than he expected. But it had a bed, a shower that worked stubbornly, and a window facing the back of a warehouse.

It would do.

He threw his backpack in a corner, took the communicator off his belt, and placed it on the nightstand, next to the sword.

He sat on the edge of the bed and breathed deeply.

The smell of the place was a mixture of mold and the memories of people who had already passed through there.

He took off his coat, loosened his shirt collar, and stared at the ceiling.

And it was there, that first night, that he tried to write to her.

He sat down again, picked up the communicator, opened a text file, and stared at the blinking cursor.

The words stumbled out.

"The cigarette smell here actually manages to be worse than your kiseru. And I thought nothing could beat that. The food tastes like wet paper, the coffee is watered down and... I miss a decent glass of wine, one of those we never open but keep saying one day we will. I tried to make tea. It turned out terrible. As always. I don't even know why I'm writing this... maybe just to fill the silence. Anyway."

He stopped. Read. Deleted everything.

Turned off the communicator with a sharp snap. Leaned back against the wall and exhaled slowly.

What the hell could he say?

That the silence was corroding him inside?

That even in that city full of people he felt as lonely as on the nights aboard a lost ship drifting in space?

That the memories of her were the only thing keeping his eyes open and his fists steady?

No.

He couldn't. Not now.

Before lying down, he picked up the communicator once more, ran his fingers across the cold metal, and left it there, on the table, like a mute companion.

And then, finally, he shut down.

Slept little. Badly.

But dreamed of her.

Day 2

The sound of footsteps in the hallway woke him before the improvised alarm even went off.

Gintoki opened his eyes slowly, staring at the stained ceiling as if it were part of some map he needed to decipher. He felt the weight of a poorly slept night in his body. A dry throat. Wrinkled clothes. The smell of the room... now with an extra pinch of frying oil coming from somewhere in the boarding house.

He swung his legs out of bed, lazily pulled on his boots, and went to the window. Outside, the air was still dense, loaded with fine dust and humidity that wasn't from rain, but from exhaust vents, machines, people.

He went down the stairs with his usual expression, that face of someone who had slept three hours less than needed. In the lobby, the innkeeper dozed behind the counter with a crackling battery radio playing some old song in the background.

He grabbed an instant coffee from a rusty machine in the corner of the room and stepped out into the street. The heat was the same, but it seemed dirtier that morning. More stagnant.

The plan was simple: try again to find some breach in SIA's bureaucracy.

When he arrived, the building was still as welcoming as a prison cell.

A line at the reception. People with tired looks, folders in their hands, some carrying cases with security locks. Agents from other divisions walking around as if they were all far too busy with secrets too important to share.

He approached the counter, appointment slip in hand, hoping maybe some charitable soul would squeeze him in ahead of schedule.

— "Awaiting protocol date, sir." — replied the same clerk from the day before, without even lifting her eyes.

Gintoki only sighed.

He turned back and walked away.

He walked through entire blocks, just observing. Noticed the type of businesses around: spare parts shops, warehouses of canned food, corner bars that seemed to never close. He saw some uniformed officers going in and out of nearby buildings, but no one he directly recognized.

He stopped at a newsstand, picked up one of the most wrinkled local newspapers, skimmed through the headlines without much attention, and bought a pack of mint candies. He didn't smoke, but needed something to keep his mouth busy.

Near midday, he decided to find someplace to eat.

He ended up entering a small, half-falling-apart restaurant, with a dead signboard and chipped wooden tables. The smell of old grease and yesterday's fry-up was soaked into the walls. But compared to the watery coffee at the inn... it would do.

He ordered a simple plate. Rice, vegetables, and some kind of processed meat he preferred not to identify.

While eating, he kept his eyes on the door. An old habit. Not paranoia... or maybe a little.

At the end of the meal, he pulled the communicator from his belt, that metallic radio with an old look that seemed rescued from a military junkyard. He opened the device with a mechanical snap and checked messages. Nothing. No sign of her. No update from SIA.

He closed the device with a bit more force than necessary.

On the way back to the inn, he stopped at the corner market and bought a pack of cheap tea. One of those with leaves chopped too fine, more like sawdust than anything else. But in the absence of something better, it would serve.

When he got back to the room, he set water to boil in a portable kettle he had carried since the last mission. The result was a pale liquid, tasting of iron and dust. But he drank it anyway.

The afternoon dragged on.

He spent hours reviewing old reports on his communicator's portable terminal. Tried to pull data on recent Second Division movements. Tried to probe for hidden codes in SIA's official messages. But everything looked too clean. Too smooth. As if someone had already wiped their hand over it, erasing all traces before he could even sniff anything out.

By the end of the day, with orange sunset light cutting through the poorly sealed window, Gintoki found himself once again in front of the terminal.

He opened the empty text file. The cursor blinking, insistent.

He thought of writing again. Something. Anything.

But the most he typed were three words:

"The heat continues."

He read it. Deleted it. Closed the terminal.

He grabbed the bokuto leaning against the side of the bed, ran his fingers across the blade, and left it there, within reach.

Before lying down, he opened the communicator once more. Checked for transmission signals. Parallel frequencies. Encoded noises.

Nothing.

No sign of her.

The sound of the street, muffled by the thin walls, hummed constantly.

When he finally closed his eyes, the smell of frying oil and old cigarettes followed him into sleep.

And on that second day, the emptiness felt a little heavier.

Day 3

He woke with his neck stuck to the crooked pillow, the taste of rust in his mouth, and the sensation that the room itself had shrunk a few more inches overnight.

The instant coffee went down scratching his throat. This time, without even trying the tea.

He threw on the crumpled jacket, clipped the communicator to his belt, and left, without looking at the bokuto resting in the corner of the room.

The SIA building stared back at him as always: gray, silent, full of secrets and concrete.

The day's plan... was simpler and more direct: get inside.

Not by appointment. Not by favor. Not by the counter.

By any other way.

He spent the morning circling the building's sides, pretending to look at electrical maintenance catalogs while mapping the entry and exit routes of general service staff. Cleaning shifts started before the official work hours, still in the dark of dawn, and ended around ten.

He waited until the flow lessened.

Behind the waste depot, near the ventilation outlet, he saw one of the janitors step out for a smoke. Thin, distracted, with a pocket radio playing some local sports match at low volume.

Gintoki moved before his brain could think.

Arm around the neck, sharp pull, body twist.

A quick chokehold, precise, leaving no time for reactions or cries.

The body collapsed limp in his arms. He dragged the unconscious man behind a stack of crates, covered him with a dirty tarp, and checked his pockets.

He grabbed the badge, maintenance radio, and backdoor access key. Put on the service uniform: a dark blue jumpsuit with the SIA logo on the sleeve. A bit tight in the shoulders, but usable.

He pinned the fake ID on the collar and adjusted the cap.

Took a deep breath.

After so many years of infiltration ops, his body performed these movements almost by instinct. The problem was his head. It kept racing too fast.

He headed in through the back.

The side door's security lock yielded to the janitor's card with a discreet beep. He entered.

Narrow corridors, worn metal floor, the smell of cleaning product and burnt cables.

Gintoki walked with lowered eyes, relaxed posture, pretending to carry a bucket with a few tools inside.

Then, turning the corner of the climate maintenance wing, he saw what he didn't expect.

Three amanto staff were standing by a security console. Faces covered with breathing masks, black uniforms, whispers in a language he didn't understand. One of them held a different badge: not maintenance, but one with a golden stripe on the side.

An unrestricted access badge for advanced security areas.

Technical coordination privilege.

Exactly the kind of thing he needed.

Gintoki couldn't just snatch the badge from the man's hand. Not then. Not with three of them standing alert.

So he observed. Waited.

The amanto finished adjusting something on the panel, clipped the badge back to his waist with a pressure clip and... dropped the data key without noticing.

It rolled under a cabinet, stopping half a meter from the opposite wall.

Gintoki kept walking with the bucket, moving slowly, as if he were just heading to the next room for maintenance. He took a few more steps, discreetly stopped, glanced back.

The three were still distracted with the panel.

He stepped back quickly, crouched, slid his arm under the cabinet, and grabbed the data key with a swift, contained movement.

He slipped it into the inner pocket of the jumpsuit.

Kept walking.

Turned at the next corridor and only then exhaled deeply, once the security doors closed behind him.

The key he'd taken was for internal use, but with priority access to environmental control files, cameras, and—most importantly—storage zones.

Perfect.

He knew exactly where to go.

Sublevel 5.

The Physical Archives.

Where the dust was real and fingerprints still mattered more than codes.

He crossed the technical wings using the key at the intermediate locks. On each floor, the system made a quick scan. The key's data barely scraped past the safety margin.

At the final lock, the terminal blinked yellow a second longer than expected.

Gintoki froze.

For an instant, he thought the alarm would sound.

But... the light turned green again.

The door opened.

Upon entering Sublevel 5, the temperature dropped abruptly. The walls were cold. The steel floor vibrated slightly, as if the whole building were breathing.

Metal shelves rose from floor to ceiling, crammed with folders, sealed boxes, and rolls of magnetic tape. No sound of people around. Only the echo of his own footsteps.

Gintoki walked to the row of external missions. Pulled reports, leafed through documents, analyzed stamps, seals.

And then he saw the pattern.

It all began with the erased names.

The SIA's convoy movement reports from the last four months showed an unusual pattern: the records were complete, but the identities of officers responsible for high-risk missions were either crossed out or replaced with incoherent alphanumeric codes.

The official excuse was "agent field protection protocol."

A lie.

SIA agents had always signed with real codes and hierarchy. Secrecy was not synonymous with total anonymity, and Gintoki knew that. After all, he himself had written countless of those reports.

That's how he began to track the missing.

Using times cross-referenced with food logs, lodging monitoring, and... showers. Few knew it, but the hydraulic system of sectors 3 and 5 of the central base logged individual water usage per badge, a conservation protocol adopted during last winter's blackouts.

There, Gintoki found the ghosts.

Names like Masuda, Lieutenant No. 43. Hidaka, communications officer from the Western Division. Hoshino, orbital tracking specialist.

All with active records until mid-last month. After that, nothing. No energy use, no discharges, no meals.

But also... no discharge record. No funeral. No leave notice.

Gone. Vanished from the structure without leaving blood. Only silence.

And then he began finding the duplications.

Folders with identical dates, but divergent information. A convoy registered as lost in report X... and as successfully delivered in report Y, signed at the same time by a different officer—an officer who, when checked, didn't even exist in SIA's original files.

Created. Forged.

This went beyond corruption.

It was systemic cover-up.

But the definitive proof only came when Gintoki decided to physically search the storage wing.

On the external missions shelf, section B-4, he found the original reports.

The alterations were there, visible.

Documents with reprint marks, stamps erased with chemicals, pages glued together, patched seals.

It was meticulous, desperate work.

As if someone were rewriting history in pieces, in a rush, like someone trying to cover a crack with tape.

One file in particular made him stop:

Mission: External reconnaissance
Date: April 3
Destination: Edo orbital border
Status: Incident in field
Handwritten notes: "Visual contact with unidentified ship. Order to return denied by command. Audio record of conversation: archived."

But... no audio attached.

Only a nonexistent protocol number.

And the signature?

Tsukuyo.

His heart stalled mid-beat.

She was in the center of it. In the eye of the storm.

And, most likely... the only one trying to resist from the inside.

Gintoki folded the document, hid it in the inner lining of his jacket—the one he himself had stitched, scanner-proof.

When he returned to the surface, he noticed the cameras.

Three.

Two of them off the standard axis. New. Without the typical wear of the sector.

Installed recently.

Aimed directly at the technical wing corridor.

A place that, until a few weeks ago... had been a dead zone of surveillance.

They were closing the net.

And now... he was inside.

Gintoki walked through the corridor as if he knew nothing, as if he were just another invisible worker among many, in his dirty jumpsuit with an empty bucket in hand.

But inside... his whole body throbbed.

The weight of the file hidden in his jacket lining seemed greater than it should. As if it carried with it every crossed-out name, every silenced voice, every erased trace.

He turned the ventilation wing corner, crossed the maintenance yard, and walked to the back exit.

The same janitor's card still worked. For not much longer, he knew.

He swiped the badge, the light went green.

Door open.

Fresh air.

He almost tripped on purpose just to disguise the tension in his legs.

Once far enough from the building, he turned into a side street, cutting behind a row of electronic scrap containers. He tossed the cap and stolen badge into a box of old parts and walked two blocks on foot without looking back.

He caught a collective taxi at the corner of the sorting center, blending in with a group of night-shift workers.

He sat in the back seat, near the emergency door.

Stayed there, head low, while the city dragged by through the window.

Outside, neon lights reflected in foul puddles, distorting the colors as if everything were an underwater nightmare.

Inside, his chest waged war.

Tsukuyo.

She had been on that mission. She had seen something.

And someone... someone was doing everything so no one would ever know.

The file with her name burned against his body, as if every fold of the paper carried a veiled threat.

Gintoki closed his eyes for a moment.

Tried to organize his thoughts.

The next step... needed to be clean, fast, outside official channels.

Trusting someone from SIA... was out of the question.

Maybe... a discreet visit to the audio records sector.

Or, if he got lucky, a physical copy of that audio might still exist in some backup station, in the old servers of the east tower.

But one thing was certain.

They were hunting ghosts.

And now... he was one too.

The vehicle stopped at a light.

Gintoki jumped out before it changed, disappearing into the crowd returning from the night shift.

The silent war had begun.

And he was already too deep to turn back.

Day 4

The rumor had started even before the sun came up.

Gintoki heard the first whisper right at the subway entrance, while buying a watery vending machine coffee:

— "They said there was an invasion at SIA last night."

— "Seriously? But... who would be crazy enough to try that?"

— "They say it was just a technical problem, but... I saw the security trucks arriving. And late."

Gintoki kept his eyes on the plastic cup in his hands, as if the conversation wasn't meant for him.

He took a sip. Too bitter.

The taste seemed to stick to his tongue, as if the coffee carried the weight of everything he tried to ignore.

The city went on the same. Chaotic, noisy, with that smell of burnt oil and cheap cigarettes that clung even to clean clothes.

But... at the SIA building, things were different.

He noticed it as soon as he got closer to the central area.

There was an informal blockade on the sidewalks around it. Agents in civilian clothes, but their posture far too military to hide.

Security guards checking IDs with more scrutiny than usual. Sniffer dogs, something he hadn't seen in months.

And new cameras. Dozens. Installed on corners, garage entrances, even in the windows of nearby buildings.

The entire building seemed to have woken up with a fever of paranoia.

Gintoki knew the reason. And the problem was... he was part of that fever now too.

If he stayed there much longer, someone would start connecting the dots.

Go back to the inn? Out of the question.

Even if the landlord was the type who barely looked up from his newspaper, sooner or later some SIA patrol would pass by, cross-checking lodging records.

It was time to vanish from that address.

He caught a low-route transport to the industrial zone, near the old cargo warehouses. The lodging options there were worse, but the anonymity... greater.

He found a hotel tucked in the back of an alley. No name on the front. Just a sign with the word "Vacancy" flickering in worn-out blue neon.

He paid in advance, no surname, using a temporary payment code he had set up before leaving Earth.

The room was a little bigger than the previous one, but only a little. The walls, stained with dampness. The ceiling fan rattled with an irritating noise, like it might fall apart at any moment.

Better than nothing.

He dropped his backpack, locked the door and only then exhaled deeply.

He needed focus.

He needed to organize everything.

He grabbed the communicator, switched it to offline mode, and began cross-checking the data collected over the past three days.

The folder with the makeshift label: "Erased Names / Water Trace / Fake Codes."

Each entry was a piece of a puzzle without a reference image.

The power usage logs in SIA's internal wings matched the periods of "name erasures." Always between 2 a.m. and 5 a.m.

Cross-referencing with the hydraulic plant supply reports...

Nothing.

Zero consumption at the stations where those supposed agents were meant to be. No showers, no toilets, no equipment cleaning.

Ghosts.

Once again, he drew a timeline.

First, the reports with random codes.

Then, the sequence of duplicated missions.

Now, the physical records altered on the shelves of the security wing.

It all pointed to one thing: internal manipulation. And big.

And now... with security on high alert, the next step would be even riskier.

Gintoki leaned against the wall, rubbed his face with his hands.

He needed a way to access the audio records room.

The problem was that after the invasion, the access protocol would change.

He would need a new badge... from someone with legitimate access.

Or maybe... from someone who would be called in to reinforce security in the coming days.

An idea began to take shape. Incomplete, but with potential.

He picked up the portable radio from the table, turned the dial until he found SIA's local monitoring frequency.

Kept the volume low, almost mute, but just enough to catch the start of any important transmission.

The metallic voice of the central operator began repeating coded orders:

— "Alpha-32, east sector. Bravo-17, night reinforcement on perimeter two. Charlie-05, prepare rotation scheme for internal security..."

Gintoki closed his eyes for a moment.

Breathed deeply.

The game was about to change again.

But so was he.

He was already too tired to back down now.

That night, before collapsing onto the hard mattress, he wrote down three names of agents with predictable routes in the next 48 hours.

And one of them... with direct access to the audio files.

Day 5

The morning arrived with a metallic taste in his mouth.

Gintoki woke before his makeshift alarm, a program on his pocket communicator that vibrated more than it rang. You couldn't rely on noises in that neighborhood. Any loud sound drew too much attention.

He rubbed his face, eyes still heavy, and stared at the cracked ceiling for a few seconds.

The communicator, still tuned to SIA's security frequency, sputtered with intermittent static and coded transmissions.

Surveillance at the main building had doubled overnight.

More patrols. More cameras.

And more paranoia.

Perfect.

It was when security screamed outward that the internal cracks showed.

The morning's focus would be a specific name: Subofficer Enomoto – Technical Sector of Audio Records.

Not someone of high rank, but he had what Gintoki needed: a functional badge and direct access to the recording and storage rooms.

Gintoki knew Enomoto took the subway to the east station around 8:40 a.m. Confirmed from the schedule cross-checks he had built the night before.

The plan was simple.

Simple and stupid, like almost everything he'd been doing in this mission.

He left the hotel before eight, jacket zipped up to his neck, cap pulled low over his brows.

He positioned himself near the station exit. Crowds coming and going. Lines of workers with hurried steps, carrying briefcases, backpacks, and accumulated sleeplessness.

The target appeared right on time.

Subofficer Enomoto was an Amanto with grayish skin, his body slightly disproportionate: arms too long for his torso, shoulders hunched as if he carried the world's weight.

The civilian SIA uniform looked ill-fitted on him, sleeves too short, pants rolled up carelessly at the cuffs. He walked with a dragging gait, legs bending awkwardly, like someone not made for this planet's gravity.

On his head, three small bony protrusions jutted from the base of his skull, almost hidden under a worn beanie to avoid curious stares.

On his back, a grimy backpack, zipper half-open, papers sticking out.

He was the typical invisible employee no one greeted. No one looked at twice.

Exactly the kind Gintoki needed.

He followed him for half a block.

When the guy turned into a side alley, eyes glued to the wrist terminal's message screen... that was it.

A quick move, a chokehold, a precise twist at the neck to cut airflow for just enough seconds.

No fuss. No screams.

Gintoki dragged the unconscious body behind a stack of crates, covered it with a dirty tarp, and checked the pockets.

Badge, portable terminal, technical sector key.

Perfect.

Changing clothes was the most disgusting part. Enomoto's shirt was damp with sweat and his coat smelled of reheated food and cheap disinfectant.

But it worked.

He tossed his cap aside, fixed the badge on the outer pocket, and followed Enomoto's usual route.

The side entrance of SIA was busier than normal, but no one paid attention to low-level employees at that hour.

He passed the ID scanner without being stopped.

No lingering looks. No immediate suspicion.

The destination: Basement Level 3, audio records archiving sector.

The room itself was protected by dual authentication: badge and biometrics.

But Gintoki knew a flaw: on Monday mornings, the fingerprint system usually froze during shift change, forcing staff to use badge-only access until IT rebooted the server.

And guess what day it was?

He followed the employee flow. Said good morning to two strangers in the hallway, not even sure who he was waving at. No one replied. Better that way.

At the security door, he swiped the badge.

The green light blinked. The lock clicked.

Inside, the environment was cold and muffled. Walls lined with acoustic panels. Metal shelves stacked with physical data cases, and at the back, a quick-access terminal for the last 90 days of records.

Gintoki didn't have much time.

He went straight to the search panel, typed the protocols linked to the period of missing missions and the name that unsettled him most:

Tsukuyo.

The screen processed.

Two files appeared listed:

Communication Record – Date: April 3 – Status: Restricted / Level 5

Internal Transmission – Date: April 10 – Status: Corrupted File / Restoration Request Pending

Shit.

The first, inaccessible to any tech badge. The second, a blank hole.

Gintoki exhaled sharply. Looked around.

In a corner, near an old console, a storage box with the seal: "Requests – Physical Audit – Do not open without authorization."

He knew that type well. It was where they kept backup copies for audits... because no one trusted digital backups 100%.

He opened it carefully, rummaged inside, and there it was: a physical recording chip, the model used for field voice logs.

No external labeling. No identification. Just a serial code that... matched the date of her written report.

Gintoki didn't think twice.

He slid the chip inside the lining of his shirt sleeve, secured it with a strip of electrical tape he'd carried in his pocket since this madness began.

No time to look for more.

Before leaving, he made sure to disconnect the quick-access terminal. A thirty-minute system delay would be enough to buy him time.

Crossing the hallway again, he noticed the first security agents beginning internal inspection mode.

He exited through the side door, walking with Enomoto's dragging step, crossed the street like just another employee eager to get home.

At the corner, he tore the badge off his chest, turned the next block, and disappeared into the service stairs of a commercial building.

He only truly breathed again three blocks away.

There, finally, he sat on a park bench, pulled the chip from its hiding place, and stared at that piece of plastic and metal as if it were radioactive.

In his head only one question echoed:

What had she said in that audio... and why was someone at SIA willing to hide it at any cost?

He didn't have the answer yet.

But now... at least he had a lead.

Day 6

The city seemed louder that morning. Patrol sirens cutting the air in short intervals, surveillance drones flying over the civil sectors, and a visibly larger number of SIA agents roaming the streets near the Archives Division building.

Gintoki noticed it even before leaving the new inn. Something was different.

He turned up the collar of his coat, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked unhurriedly toward the nearest subway station. For safety, he had left the communicator turned off; he couldn't afford to draw attention. The old bokuto, worn and silent, swayed discreetly at his belt, half-hidden by the edge of the overcoat.

But it was useless.

Before reaching the platform entrance, he noticed two uniformed agents standing near the turnstile, exchanging information through a portable terminal. Both stared at the screen with too much focus.

Curious, Gintoki moved closer, discreetly. A single glimpse of the display was enough to understand.

A list of physical characteristics.

"Suspect. Male. Approximately 1.80m. Light hair. Pale complexion. Slouching gait. Last known location: North Sector, near the SIA service exit."

Gintoki took a deep breath, disguising his tension.

It was him.

Or at least... someone very much like him.

The description was generic enough not to incriminate him immediately, but detailed enough to make every step a risk.

He tried to retreat quietly to leave the agents' line of sight, but at that exact moment, a third man appeared from the station's side—an internal security officer of the SIA, holding a larger tablet, with a 3D rendering of a suspect created from surveillance cameras.

It wasn't a perfect likeness. The face was blurred. But the posture... the walk... the frame of the body.

— "Hey... wait a second..." — one of the agents muttered, frowning as he looked at him.

Gintoki didn't wait for the second to call reinforcements.

He spun on his heels, shoved his shoulder through the crowd, and vanished into the station's emergency stairwell.

The security radios exploded with simultaneous transmissions.

The chase had begun.

Gintoki plunged into the narrow alleys of the industrial sector, cutting through backstreets, jumping low walls, and crawling under maintenance fences.

Twice, he was almost cornered by tactical teams of local security, but the geographic knowledge he had gathered over the past days, and that old survival instinct, led him to routes most of his pursuers wouldn't dare to follow.

Abandoned buildings, dimly lit service corridors, even the underground drainage tunnels.

By afternoon, he managed to shake them off for a while, but the reconnaissance drones still hovered above.

That's when he found shelter in an old decommissioned parts warehouse, near the cargo zone of the orbital supply station.

The place smelled of burnt oil and rust, but at least it had shade and crates big enough to hide.

There, with his heart still racing and breath short, he managed to discreetly access a public terminal through his communicator. He needed to know how far the net had spread.

Civil communication channels were buzzing with rumors.

Some claimed the SIA building intruder was a deserter. Others said a rogue agent. More exaggerated rumors spoke of a terrorist infiltrated under orders from hostile Amanto factions.

Local authorities tried to downplay the alarm, but the growing number of roadblocks and heat-sensor sweeps betrayed how much the situation had escalated.

And then... an alert update flashed on the terminal screen:

"Search expansion: starting at 00:00, the entire East Sector will enter containment protocol for suspects."

Gintoki muttered a low curse.

If he stayed, he'd be hunted like a rat in a cellar.

He had to leave before nightfall.

But the main accesses were already blocked, trains suspended, and civilian vehicles under plate monitoring.

The only way out was through the orbital docks' maintenance sector, a poorly supervised area always infested with Amanto workers and cargo haulers who barely had time to lift their heads.

Decision made, Gintoki pulled up his hood, shoved the communicator back into the inner pocket, and ran along the side of the deactivated tracks.

Night began to fall. The sirens never stopped.

He knew: the next day wouldn't start with rest.

It would be restless.

Perhaps... the hardest yet.

Day 7

The day broke with the metallic sound of drones crossing the sky and alarms echoing on every civil frequency.

Gintoki no longer knew how many hours he had slept. Maybe none.

He was dirty, unshaven, reeking of industrial dust and exhaust smoke. His clothes, already worn from the past days, clung to his skin like a second layer of grime. His wrist throbbed from the sprain he'd suffered falling over a wall the previous night.

But that was the least of his problems.

The news on public panels boiled down to one thing: "Intruder still at large. Search perimeter expanded."

Plainclothes agents roamed the streets. Mobile barricades were set up at strategic points. Even markets had identity checks. Civilians were frisked without explanation. Any unfamiliar face became the target of suspicious stares.

Gintoki knew the net was closing.

He had only a few hours before becoming officially a "termination target."

~🌹~

Now, he was hidden in an abandoned maintenance room inside the logistics sector, using an old terminal, completely cut off from the SIA's main network. An ancient machine, with a burnt-orange interface, a keyboard too stiff, and a fan buzzing with an irritating whine.

There he organized the few data fragments he had managed to save in recent days: copies of redacted reports, lists of missing agents, and incomplete cargo logs.

His head was starting to feel heavy when his belt vibrated.

A discreet notification.

The portable radio, programmed only for emergency-level alerts, flashed with a single text message.

No greeting.

No codes.

Just one line:

"Second Division Lieutenant, Sakata Gintoki. Commander Tsukuyo urgently requests a direct report. Hand-delivered."

He froze.

The name... the tone... the format...

Shinpachi.

But at the same time, not Shinpachi.

Gintoki knew the boy's style. He knew every nuance of the messages he usually sent.

This wasn't a real request. It was an alert. A subtle, desperate warning disguised as formality.

Shinpachi would never call him that, especially knowing his location outside the base, without authorization for direct communication. Much less use Tsukuyo's name like that.

It was a signal.

He didn't waste time.

He grabbed the communicator, the data chip hidden in the lining of his bag, and strapped the old bokuto to his belt before slipping out through the side of the room, sneaking down maintenance corridors.

The plan was simple. Or at least... the most viable at the time.

The orbital station cargo area.

A chaotic enough place, with constant traffic of workers, mechanics, and Amanto haulers. Almost no direct supervision from the SIA. The place was considered a logistical nightmare, with security handled by civilian contractors and interplanetary transport companies.

Disguised, wearing a battered cap and protective goggles from one of the maintenance lockers, Gintoki made his way to the loading zone.

The problem was... the haste.

Halfway through, while crossing an inspection corridor, he ran right into a tactical reconnaissance team.

Three human agents and two Amanto from internal security.

One of them looked at him for only a second... but it was enough.

— "Hey... wait a second...!" — one of the Amanto lunged, his reptilian face already baring serrated teeth.

Gintoki didn't think.

He dropped the first with a swift kick to the knee, slipped under the arm of the second, and bolted down the corridor, ignoring the shouted alerts erupting from their radios.

The confusion spread through the cargo sectors like wildfire.

Workers shouting, crates toppling, internal invasion sirens blaring as he dashed between metal compartments.

He was nearly caught trying to cross Hangar 3, where a group of Amanto workers was sorting containers.

That's where the opportunity appeared.

One of the haulers, a blue-skinned Amanto with long arms, had left a functional ID badge hanging from a hook while stacking goods on a transport platform.

Seizing the general distraction, Gintoki moved like a ghost.

He snatched the badge, threw on a loader's vest, pulled the cap down over his eyes, and slipped directly onto one of the loading ramps for refrigerated organic cargo.

The transport ship's cargo bay was still being sealed.

Without hesitation, he slid under one of the storage racks, curling himself between two containers.

The steel door shut behind him.

And then, everything became darkness and the muffled hum of engines preparing for ignition.

Outside, the chaos raged on.

Agents dashed back and forth, trying to track heat signatures inside the hangar.

But it was already too late.

Gintoki... was on his way out of that station.

For now.

And he knew... the next destination would bring him closer to the answer.

Or to death.

Chapter Text

The phrase on the note still burned in her memory like a branding iron:
"They know everything."

It wasn't just the contents of the files. It wasn't only the manipulated reports, the falsified records, the convoys that disappeared on routes no one dared to contest. This went beyond corrupted data, it was personal.

The kind of personal that never gets printed on paper.

The truth fell over her like lightning, silent and devastating. Without warning. Without time to shield herself.

They knew.
About the data. About the corruption network.
About her.
About him.

The communicator strapped to her waist, discreet, silver, part of the official SIA uniform, suddenly seemed like a parasite implanted in her skin.

Recording. All the time.

The possibility struck her stomach like a punch. It didn't matter if it had been active for days, weeks, or months—it was enough that it had. One single captured moment was enough: a phrase, a whisper, a ragged breath in a dark and sweaty room.

They knew about the relationship.
They knew about Gintoki.
They knew about her.

The note said everything, but it was the silence around it that screamed louder.

She needed to warn him.
But how?

If the channels were compromised... if the hallways of the base had invisible ears... if even the air itself carried microphones and digital eyes, then she was surrounded. Watched.
Prey are the ones who don't know they're being hunted.

In a blind gesture, she opened a second bottle of wine, cheaper than the first. She didn't look for a glass or a cup. She just drank straight from the bottle's mouth, with pale, cracked lips.

She sat facing the window.

Yoshiwara pulsed below like a feverish heart. Flickering lights, red, golden, violet, piercing through the dawn mist. The city pretended vitality, but she knew... all that brightness was makeup over a corpse.

The wine went down rough, burning less than the fear.
Each sip was a swallowed scream.
Each sip was a question without an answer.
How to warn him without springing the trap?
How to touch him again without putting him at risk?

Her reflection in the glass looked like another woman. A shadow of herself, eyes sunk in dark circles, skin cold like broken porcelain, hair disheveled, strands escaping the bun like ashes.

The first light of dawn began to streak the sky like golden veins.

The sun rose slowly.
Insistent.
Relentless.

She looked at it as if it were an ancient enemy, something that brought no relief, only revelations. Daylight exposed. It revealed every crack, every lie, every false smile. And in that instant, Tsukuyo knew:

Darkness was safer.

But it was already too late.

The bottle in her hand was empty.
Like her.

The night was ending, and with it, the last sense of safety.
Now, only the next move remained.
And hope that it wouldn't cost everything.

That was when her eyes, still misted by exhaustion and cheap alcohol, fell upon the pile of reports forgotten in the corner of the desk. She had missed it before. But now, maybe because of the raw light of the sun invading the office, she noticed something. A signature. Or rather, a mark. That crooked "A" at the bottom margin. The lazy curve, made as if the signer were about to give up on everything and still, signed.

She knew that handwriting.
It was his.
It was Gintoki.

A chill slithered up her spine like a serpent waking.
He was trying to communicate.
He already knew something was wrong.

The handwriting wasn't recent. Days old, perhaps weeks. But the meaning was there, latent, hidden between lines and stamps. That report sat on her desk, untouched, like a bottled message brought in by a silent tide. He already suspected. And now... it was her turn to answer.

But she couldn't write directly to him.
Every terminal could be tapped. Every step tracked.
She needed an intermediary.

Someone...
Someone close enough to Gintoki...
And invisible enough to the eyes of high command.

Shinpachi.

The idea struck like lightning in the dark. The boy who never abandoned the principles of the old guard. Who, even under the weight of hierarchy, carried justice with the firmness of one who had lost too much to allow hesitation.

She knew where he would be.

The Edo Division maintained its base in the east wing of the SIA Central Complex, and Shinpachi, since his recent promotion, led a mixed patrol of low-ranking SIA soldiers, the so-called "Grays"—nameless soldiers, cogs of the machine. Forgotten faces in the reports. The arms that obey, even when the heart falters.

He was discreet. Loyal.
And, above all, he trusted Gintoki.

Tsukuyo dressed without thinking, in brusque automatism. Splashed water on her face, tied her hair into a messy bun, hid her eyes under the shadow of hurried makeup. The uniform seemed ten times heavier, as if the fabric were soaked with what remained of her courage.

She descended the tower's floors like one descending into the underworld. Each step a drumbeat in her chest, each hallway a potential trap. But she was used to walking on blades. On alleys of blood and silences sharper than steel.

She arrived in Edo before noon.

The courtyard was busy with formations and small conferences between mid-level officers. Surveillance drones hovered like hostile dragonflies. She slipped among them with the coldness of a courtesan on a mission. Her eyes danced between faces until she saw him.

There he was, Shinpachi, back turned, uniformed, speaking with three soldiers in front of a room bearing the insignia of Edo's Strategic Communications Division.

Perfect.

She quickened her pace and collided "shoulder to shoulder" with him, with the precision of someone who planned everything to the millimeter. In the touch, almost imperceptible, her hand slid into the side pocket of the young man's overcoat. A movement as light as a midnight whisper.

Shinpachi turned, startled.
— T-Tsu... Commander Tsukuyo-san...?

But she was already moving away.
She didn't look back.
She only said, loud enough for the soldiers nearby to hear:

— Send a message to Second Division Lieutenant Sakata Gintoki. Tell him I need last night's report before the sun sets. Ask him to meet me in my office.

Her voice was firm, official. But something in her eyes... an unstable gleam behind the steadiness. And he noticed.

Shinpachi frowned. This wasn't just bureaucratic instruction. It was theater. A play written in haste for survival.
And he was sharp enough to see it.

Instinctively, he touched his pocket.

He felt the note.

A piece of paper folded four times, small as a childhood secret.

His heart raced. His face stayed neutral, the soldiers were still watching. With a rehearsed gesture, he cleared his throat and turned to the men:
— Continue mapping the eastern route. I'll go to the bathroom and be right back.

No one questioned it.

But he didn't go to the bathroom.

He walked down a side staircase, crossed a hallway leading to the deactivated rooms of the old maintenance sector, now converted into storage. He chose a half-open door, pushed it gently, and stepped into a small, windowless room, lit only by a bluish artificial light.

There, in silence, he read.

The message written in dark ink said:

The communicator is compromised. They hear everything.
They claim to know everything, including about all of us.
They are close.

Do not reply.
Just come to my office before sunset without your communicator.

Burn this note.

Shinpachi swallowed hard.
His throat went dry. Sweat prickled his back, though the room was cold.
The floor beneath his feet seemed to tilt slightly. As if the world had become an unstable stage, about to collapse.

They knew.
And if they knew, then everyone was at risk.
It wasn't just Tsukuyo. It wasn't just Gintoki.
It was him too.
And everything they had sworn to protect.

His eyes ran mentally over the courtyard, now with a different lens. Those weren't just soldiers around. They were sentinels. Antennas. Cogs of something much greater and invisible, yet real.

He folded the paper again, with the care of someone handling a fragment of dynamite.

He left the room silently, returning through the back. After ten steps outdoors, he let the paper slip discreetly through a ventilation grate near the entrance to the Technical Division. He wouldn't burn the note.
But he would let the thermal suction system of the sublevels reduce it to ashes.

She trusted him.
And he would trust her.
As they had always trusted Gintoki.

His steps returned to the rhythm of command. His face, serene. His eyes, alert. The mask of an ordinary officer, in a world where ordinary was the best camouflage.

Meanwhile, Tsukuyo had already left Edo's courtyard.

She walked slowly through the silver-marble hallways like a woman who had no need to run, but inside her, time burned.

The sun would begin to set soon.

And she didn't know if, when she met him, she would be saving him...

...or dragging him with her into the abyss.

Chapter Text

The return trip was a blur.

Gintoki hadn't slept a single minute inside the cargo ship. Every jolt, every vibration of the engine, every shift in artificial gravity was a raw reminder that he was still on the run. That at any second, he could be discovered, dragged out of there like a smuggler—or worse... a traitor.

And as if the tension wasn't enough, his body was beginning to demand payment for the night before. The muscle aches spread like echoes of every effort made to escape. The cuts on his palms, the bruises on his ribs, the throbbing pain in his legs—every movement a physical reminder that this hadn't just been another mission. He was paying—with his own body—for having infiltrated the SIA building.

When the ship's sensors finally indicated approach to Edo's orbit, he kept his breathing steady, his shoulders relaxed, pretending to be just another exhausted loader among many.

Disembarkation was as chaotic as embarkation.

No one asked anything. No one looked twice.

And before he realized it, he was back on the streets of Edo.

The familiar alleys received him like a tired old lover. The graffiti-stained walls, the narrow backstreets, the bittersweet smell of pollution and street-fried food. It was the same chaos as always... but that day, everything seemed heavier. Denser.

Every step hurt. Every corner looked like a potential ambush. He walked without hurry, head low, avoiding the patrols on their routine courses.

The apartment was still there. Small, messy, with the same creaking floorboards.

As soon as he entered, he locked the door behind him and dropped the backpack by the shelf full of sake bottles and crumpled reports. The contents of the bag—the reports, the data chips, everything—remained there. Abandoned as if it were just more clutter among so much.

He had no time for that now.

The clock on the wall showed that sunset wasn't far.

And she was waiting for him.

~🌹~

The path to Yoshiwara was made on foot.

He slipped through hidden alleys, narrow passages, hopping over walls like in the old days. He avoided main roads, ignored surveillance drones, and circled around every checkpoint.

He reached Yoshiwara's main gate just as the sky began to burn red.

Lights already flickered between narrow buildings, electronic signs pulsed with promises of pleasure and oblivion, but Gintoki paid no attention to any of it.

He headed straight for Housen's old Castle... now renovated and adapted to house the SIA administrative headquarters in that district of Yoshiwara.

He climbed the three flights of stairs without stopping.

His heart wasn't beating faster from physical exhaustion. It was something else. Something that had been growing inside him since the moment he received that damned message from Shinpachi.

When he opened the office door, he didn't need to say anything.

She was there.

Sitting behind the desk, still in her SIA uniform, shadows deep beneath her eyes as if she hadn't slept in days.

And beside her, standing with arms crossed, was Shinpachi. His face tense, jaw locked.

As soon as Tsukuyo's eyes met his, the first thing she did was stand up and, in a sharp, almost aggressive motion, yank the communicator from his belt.

Without hesitation, she crossed the room, flung open the window, and hurled the device with all her pent-up rage.

The communicator cut through the air and vanished toward Yoshiwara's central tree, swallowed by the shadows.

Gintoki blinked, surprised. It wasn't common to see her lose control like that.

But he remained silent.

Tsukuyo returned to the desk. She didn't look at him. Not immediately. She only breathed deeply, as though she needed to steady her own heart before speaking.

Then, with a dry, low voice, she began:

— They know, Gintoki... — Her voice was hoarse, rasped, like someone carrying sleepless nights. — They know everything. About the reports, the phantom operations, the disappearances... and our plans.

She crossed her arms and leaned against the edge of the desk, as though the weight of it all demanded physical support. She didn't need to say more. He understood immediately what she truly meant by "our plans." And even without naming it, they both knew it wasn't just about missions or classified data.

— For weeks... I've been noticing strange movements in the internal records. Access requests that don't match dates, information being distorted, manipulated... as if someone were trying to rewrite the facts. Or worse... cover secrets at my expense. — She sighed. — Madao brought me some documents that were off the network. Reports he found while inspecting the affected area, right after the attack on Sector 9... all hidden in sealed compartments. He suspected immediately... and handed them to me personally.

Her eyes locked back on Gintoki.

— That's how I found out what they were trying to erase. Not only about the monster... but also about your movements those days.

Gintoki remained motionless. Her words landed like a solid punch to the gut.

She knew.

She knew he was in deep trouble... and not just because of the escape or the bruises still marking his body. She knew the mess was bigger, deeper, more political. Because at the end of it all, he had done the unthinkable: infiltrated the SIA building... on his own... in a mission that hadn't even been authorized. A personal, reckless, and—if judged coldly—stupid mission.

Gintoki swallowed hard, feeling the weight of it all pile onto his back. A rough laugh, almost inaudible, slipped from his lips. Something between resignation and self-mockery. Typical... digging his own grave, meter by meter.

Tsukuyo didn't give him space to sink too deep into that spiral.

— I told Shinpachi everything — she said suddenly, as if throwing a stone into a lake just to watch the ripples form. — About the mission. About the infiltration. About what you did these last days.

His eyes lifted in a jolt. But she didn't back down.

— He was worried — she added, arms crossed, her expression hardened by exhaustion and the concern she herself tried to hide. — Thought you'd finally gone mad. I... well, I thought the same, to be honest.

Gintoki didn't answer right away. He only averted his eyes, staring at the desk's surface as if the answers to everything were carved there.

Tsukuyo went on, her gaze darker now:

— I reviewed every line of those reports... Hasegawa's. Rewrote everything in a way that wouldn't compromise us. But... your part was missing. — She opened the desk drawer with a swift gesture and pulled out a small notebook. She threw it onto the desk, right in front of him. — This is the report from the night of the attack... the one you were supposedly present at.

He frowned, surprised.

— I know you weren't there — she said, before he could ask. — But the rest of the SIA... they don't know that. At least... that's what I choose to believe. If they find out... if anyone starts pulling at that thread... — She didn't finish the sentence.

Gintoki stayed silent for a few seconds. He looked at the notebook as if it were just another burden on already tired shoulders. He took a deep breath... and, almost automatically, picked it up.

The paper felt warm. Or maybe it was just the feverish confusion still burning inside him.

Shinpachi, who had remained silent in the corner until then, stepped forward slowly.

— Shall we? — he asked, without much enthusiasm. — If you want, I can give you a ride. Borrowed the Shinsengumi's car.

Gintoki nodded, almost relieved to have an excuse to leave.

He started walking toward the door alongside the younger man, ready to step out and somehow try to put his thoughts in order.

But before crossing the threshold, Tsukuyo's voice reached him again. Low, controlled... but laced with a code only the two of them would understand.

— Gintoki... — She straightened the papers on the desk as if speaking about work, her expression neutral so as not to raise Shinpachi's suspicion. — There's one more pending matter.

He stopped.

For a moment, the corner of his lips threatened to curl upward... an almost-smile that never fully bloomed. He disguised it with a rough throat-clear.

He turned slightly toward her, just enough for his voice to reach her without Shinpachi catching it clearly.

— I'll hand you the report before midnight, Commander. — he said, in that ambiguous tone that could mean anything... or everything.

And with the notebook tucked under his arm... he left the room alongside Shinpachi.

But the taste of that promise... that stayed with him.

Until nightfall.

Chapter Text

The night was already far gone...

Three bottles lay toppled in the corner of the room, silent witnesses of an intimate, unrepeatable ritual. The labels, once pompous, now dissolved in spilled wine and sweat asleep in the cracks of the floorboards. The air was thick with a dense aroma... sweet and human... born of skin, lingering gazes, and the implicit promise each touch carried.

Gintoki was sprawled on the couch, head tilted back, eyes half-closed, lips parted in a lazy smile. The bandages covered the deepest cuts, but the memory of her touch still pulsed beneath the fabric. The way her fingers had traced his skin, firm and careful, lingered as a fresh echo.

The loose shirt revealed part of the dressing on his shoulder. His heavy breathing came more from her presence than from the alcohol.

Tsukuyo appeared with the fourth bottle in hand, walking slowly, as if every step were a calculated provocation. The SIA uniform had been discarded hours ago; now, she wore only a light kimono, loosely tied at the waist, too much fabric for desire, too little for modesty.

The sound of bare feet was nearly silent... but he felt it. As if his body recognized her presence before any gesture.

— I told you it was the most expensive wine I had — she murmured with a crooked smile, golden eyes flickering in the dim light of the room.

She stopped before him. Leaned in slightly, the loose neckline making it clear that beneath the fabric there was only skin. Her scent, mixed with the wine, invaded his senses without asking permission.

Gintoki raised his eyes, slow, hungry.

— Three bottles and you still have the strength to play the courtesan?

She laughed, drawn out.

— Who said I'm sober?

Her voice was a warm serpent, sliding between his ears.

She poured for him. The wine slid lazily into the glass. When he touched it, his fingers brushed against hers on purpose. Everything there was calculation and impulse.

— Are you going to keep serving me... or sit here already?

— Why choose?

She straddled him slowly, each leg on one side, as if his lap were a throne. The kimono opened a little more, leaving obvious what wasn't underneath.

His fingers rested on her thighs, heat rising quickly between them. She lifted her own glass and pressed it to his lips.

— Drink.

He obeyed, without breaking her gaze. But what burned his mouth wasn't the wine.

It was her.

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was dense. Elastic. Heavy with everything that didn't need words.

She leaned in further, her body brushing his in subtle rhythms, almost imperceptible. Tsukuyo's eyes shone with desire, but with something else too... a will not to stop.

Gintoki ran his hands along her back, up to her nape. The golden strands, still damp from her bath, slipped through his fingers. He pulled her face close, unhurried.

— So you'll get me drunk, patch my wounds... and now tame me too?

— Tame?

Her mouth touched his. It wasn't a kiss, it was a warning.

— The night's just begun, Gintoki.

He pulled her fully then. The kiss was brief, but without restraint. After that, there were no pauses.

His hands slid along the sides of her kimono, undoing the sash in a single motion. The fabric fell with a whisper, revealing the naked body that pressed against his with offensive perfection. She didn't hide — in fact, she offered herself whole, with a look that burned hotter than the alcohol.

Gintoki chuckled, hoarse.

— You always make it feel like the first time...

She returned the smile, leaning over him, her hair falling in a cascade.

— And you make it feel like the last.

What followed wasn't hurried, nor timid. It was a raw dance of need and surrender. The movements began slow, almost lazy... but soon gained rhythm and heat. She rode him like one who knew every limit, every breath, every point where pain turns to pleasure.

He groaned low, his voice strained. His fingers dug into her waist, guiding her hips in an intimate, devastating cadence. Their skin stuck with sweat. Their lips met between ragged breaths. And their eyes, even at the peak of madness, never lost each other.

She took him as if the world could end that night. And maybe it had.

They only stopped when their bodies had no strength left, when only the residual tremor of pleasure remained.

The night fell whole over Yoshiwara, and they slept right there... between tangled sheets, with the scent of wine clinging to their skin.

The next day arrived without asking.

The pale light of morning entered through the cracks of the window, cutting the room with an irritating brightness.

The smell of wine, sweat, and disheveled sheets still dominated the air, mixed with the sweet fragrance she always carried on her skin... a scent that now seemed embedded in the walls, the furniture... in him.

Gintoki stirred lazily in bed. His entire body protested with small stabs, muscles sore from the night before... and the week before... and all the bad decisions he kept collecting like a personal catalog of self-sabotage.

His throat was dry. His head throbbed in a slow, steady rhythm. Hangover. A bad one.

He forced one eye open, finding first the ceiling, then the golden outline of her hair scattered on the pillow beside him.

She lay on her side, sheets slipping down to the curve of her hip, revealing part of her bare back... and some fresh red marks he himself had left there.

He couldn't hold back the crooked smile.

He closed his eyes again, just for a few seconds, breathing deeply as if to keep that scene only for himself.

But the silence didn't last long.

— Gintoki... — her voice came hoarse, drowsy... but with that tone heavy with meaning, the kind that always preceded conversations he'd rather postpone.

He didn't answer right away. Just turned his face to the side, watching as she stretched lazily, the slow movement making the sheets slide even lower.

She shifted partially, propping herself on an elbow, staring at him with half-lidded eyes.

— About your mission... — she murmured, fingers tracing a slow path along her neck, as if still shaking off the last traces of sleep. — Are you going to tell me now... or keep stalling?

Gintoki let out a low sigh, almost a muffled chuckle.

— I thought after last night you'd give me, I don't know... at least until breakfast before starting with the interrogations. — His voice came dragged, husky, as if each word cost him more effort than usual.

She arched an eyebrow, her gaze sliding from his eyes down to the line of his unshaven jaw.

— Consider it a privilege. — Her smile was small, but thick with double meaning.

He rested one arm behind his head, sinking deeper into the mattress.

— You've got a pretty strange concept of privilege, you know that? — he teased, closing his eyes for a moment.

The silence that followed was different. Heavier.

She let her head rest on the pillow for a few seconds, eyes fixed on the ceiling, as if trying to sort her thoughts before continuing.

— I know you're not telling me everything. — Her voice now was lower, stripped of the playful tone. Just firm. Honest. — Since yesterday, when you came back from that building... you've been different. More... — She paused, searching for the right word. — More distant.

He drew a deep breath, turning his face away, as if to escape those eyes that always seemed to see through the layers he was so good at hiding.

— It's just your imagination. — He muttered, voice grave, heavy with sleep... and everything else he was trying to smother.

Tsukuyo turned fully now, resting her head in one hand while watching him, gaze between curious and worried.

— Then... — she said, as if she already knew the answer but needed to hear it from him — you saw something in there, didn't you?

He shut his eyes, expression hardening.

The image returned uninvited: the dark hallway, muffled screams only he seemed to hear... and that metallic, burnt stench that clung to his bones.

Gintoki turned onto his side, giving her his back, as if that could keep her questions away.

— I didn't find anything useful... — he answered, dry, definitive. — At least... nothing worth putting in a damn report.

She stayed silent for a while, just watching his broad back... his tense shoulders... the cuts already starting to heal along his ribs, his back... marks she herself had tended to with her own hands the night before.

She slid her fingers slowly across his back, tracing them as though reading a story written on his skin.

— And even so... — she whispered, barely audible —... you came back like that. Beaten. Sleepless for days. Looking like someone who saw a ghost.

Gintoki let out a rough, tired chuckle.

— Who said I didn't?

The answer was so low she almost didn't hear.

For a few seconds, the silence weighed between them.

She thought of insisting... asking again... forcing him to spit out every detail he seemed to choke on each night. But seeing the way he buried his face in the pillow, as if the whole world were pressing against his back, she relented.

— Alright... — she whispered, pulling the sheet up to her shoulders. — For now.

He turned just his face, casting her a sidelong glance, that tired, crooked smile... but with a hint of relief that she'd left the matter suspended.

She settled back into bed, letting her body relax a little.

— Now you owe me breakfast. — She teased, trying to restore a little levity to the air.

He chuckled, muffled.

— In the state we're in... only if it's hangover-flavored coffee — he muttered, dragging his hand through his messy hair.

His body protested immediately. The sore muscles, scratches, bruises... everything seemed to demand interest on the debt of the night before. Still, Gintoki forced himself out of bed, bare feet meeting the cold floor.

Tsukuyo followed him with her eyes, violet gaze tracing the lines of his back, his broad shoulders, the lazy curve of his spine down to his hips, where the sheet barely clung.

— There's coffee in the kitchen... maybe some bread from two days ago. — She smiled faintly, pulling the sheet back over her body, unhurried to hide the marks he had left on her.

Gintoki let out a hoarse laugh.

— Hm... romantic. — He replied, forcing his legs to cooperate as he trudged to the door, steps heavy as if the world itself weighed on his heels.

She just watched, eyes following each movement, until the sound of his steps faded into the hallway.

Minutes later, Gintoki's drawl echoed from the kitchen:

— Hey... is your coffee as strong as your threats, or am I gonna need another bottle of wine to get this down?

She laughed out loud, unable to hold it back.

— Stop whining and just drink.

The bitter aroma seeped into the bedroom, mixing with the smell of tangled sheets and her perfume still lingering in the air.

Tsukuyo rose slowly, picking up his shirt from the floor and slipping it on without hesitation. The fabric hung loose on her body, covering just enough, leaving the rest exposed in careless provocation.

When she reached the kitchen, she found Gintoki leaning against the counter, coffee cup in hand, gaze lost somewhere between the floor and his thoughts.

He lifted his eyes when she entered, and for a second... just one... the fatigue gave way to a discreet smile.

She walked up, stopping in front of him.

— About the ghost... — she began softly, fingers playing with the hem of the shirt she wore. — When you're ready to talk... I'll still be here. — And without waiting for a reply, she stole a quick, warm, lazy kiss before grabbing her own cup.

Gintoki took a few seconds to react. He ran his tongue over his lips, as if still tasting her... and the flavor of that unspoken promise.

— I'm not ready for that now. — He said quietly, almost to himself.

She heard, but didn't press. Just smiled faintly, bringing the mug to her lips.

Outside, the day had truly begun. The muffled sounds of the city waking, cars passing in the distance, the clock ticking away hours they stubbornly ignored.

But there... in that small kitchen, with bad coffee, hangovers, and sheets still undone in the other room... there was a brief interval of peace.

And for now... that was enough.

Chapter Text

The morning sun burned mercilessly, forcing Gintoki to squint as he rummaged through the grass still damp with dew, near the side wall of Yoshiwara's building.

— Damn it... — he muttered, slapping his hands against pants already stained with dirt.

— Looking for this? — The deep, drawling voice came from behind him, along with the muffled sound of heavy steps on the gravel.

Gintoki turned, frowning, and found Hasegawa holding the communicator between two fingers, as if it were evidence from some crime scene.

— The gardener almost ran the lawnmower over it. — Hasegawa smirked, wearing that carefree air only he could pull off, even now dressed in the spotless SIA uniform. The unkempt beard was still there, defying any internal protocol.

Gintoki stood with a grunt.

— Thanks for the lost-and-found service... — he snatched the device with disdain, wiping the dirt off with the hem of his shirt. — But what are you doing around here? Thought after the promotion you only stepped foot in noble areas now...

Hasegawa shrugged, glasses slipping slightly down his nose before he pushed them back up with an automatic gesture.

— Came to deliver an invitation. — He grinned, half crooked, half mischievous. — Actually... two invitations. — He paused, tilting his head as if to provoke. — Kinda hard not to notice you two have been... together lately.

Gintoki froze for half a second before snorting, as if brushing it off.

— Just spit it out, Madao in a suit.

Hasegawa ignored the jab.

— Hatsu and I are having dinner tomorrow night... one of those fancy restaurants with more silverware than we know how to use. The kind of place for people still not used to their own bank accounts. I want you both there. Reservation for four.

Gintoki raised an eyebrow, his tone now dripping with fake irony.

— Is this serious? Since when do you go to fine dining places?

Hasegawa smiled, a little embarrassed, but with a flicker of pride.

— Since I stopped being the guy who sleeps in parks. Hatsu... well... she decided to give me another chance. Said she wanted to celebrate... and that I needed to learn how to behave in public.

Gintoki forced a more genuine smile, scratching the back of his neck.

— Tsk... congratulations, then.

For an instant, her image came to his mind. Hatsu... always with her eyes hidden beneath strands of chestnut-chocolate hair, her kimonos always immaculate... or, on the rare occasions their paths crossed in humbler moments, in worn and mended clothes, yet carrying a dignity that seemed independent of fabric. A woman who could be sweet and cutting at the same time.

Hasegawa, maybe noticing the silence, patted his shoulder lightly.

— Bring Tsukuyo. No excuses. — And before Gintoki could reply, he was already walking away, hands in his pockets, his stride careless.

Gintoki watched him for a moment, then looked down at the communicator in his hand.

— Big deal... — he muttered, shoving the device back into his pocket and heading toward the building.

The reception area of SIA's administrative sector was surprisingly busy that morning. A steady flow of officers, analysts, and even some high-ranking faces.

Makoto, her hair tied in a simple bun and her expression efficient as always, was the one to greet him as soon as he entered.

— Lieutenant Sakata... — she said with a brief, polite smile. — Commander Tsukuyo is in a meeting with the high council at the moment. I'll ask you to wait in the lounge.

He only nodded, not much in the mood to argue. He followed her directions into the small space beside reception, sinking into one of the dark leather sofas, its worn cushion already betraying the weight of dozens of other tired bodies that had sat there before. The sharp smell of reheated coffee mingled with the woody scent of polished floors, creating an atmosphere that flirted with exhaustion and bureaucracy.

Gintoki let himself drop onto the couch like he was dropping a burden. He stretched his legs out, let his shoulders sink, and closed his eyes for a moment... but it was useless. The discomfort wasn't in his back or from lack of sleep. It was deeper.

The sound of hurried footsteps crossing the corridor, the clatter of keys being pressed behind the counter... all of it faded into indistinct background noise compared to the chaos inside his own head.

Seven days.

Seven damn days since that quiet, almost clandestine investigation he himself had started. A cycle of vigilance and suspicion that had drained him more than any official mission ever did.

The memories of those empty corridors... the metallic stench in the air... the feeling that at any moment someone would appear behind him, even when the sensors told him he was alone... all of it still clung to his skin.

He rubbed his face, pressing his palms against his eyes. He'd spent hours leafing through incomplete reports, cross-referencing names, dates, and images that looked more like badly written riddles. And whenever he tried to trace a line of connection... it always led back to her.

Tsukuyo.

Her silence... the way her eyes avoided his during serious conversations... how she changed the subject whenever he tried to touch certain wounds.

It wasn't just what she said... it was what she hid.

Gintoki clenched his fists, jaw locking reflexively. His stomach churned every time he thought of the possibilities. Part of him wanted to believe it was only paranoia. That he was too exhausted... that his long-standing distrust of SIA was distorting his perception.

But another part... the more stubborn one... the instinctive one... knew something was terribly wrong.

He swallowed hard, the bitter taste mixing with that suffocating, silent doubt that had been keeping him company at night like an invisible presence beside the bed.

"Tsukuyo... what's your connection to Kagura's death?"

The question rose in his mind again, raw, unpolished, unfiltered. As direct as the punch in the gut he felt every time he dared phrase it.

It was a thought that had been repeating with irritating frequency, entwining itself among other questions, like weeds growing in the cracks of the sanity he was still trying to preserve.

The pieces didn't fit. Or worse... maybe they did, but he still refused to look at the full picture.

The way she reacted whenever Kagura's name came up, the way she avoided talking about the details of that night... and above all... that expression she carried when she thought he wasn't looking. That mix of guilt, grief... and something darker... older... more ingrained.

He ruffled his silver hair with both hands, breathing deep as if trying to shove the weight of his suspicions into some unreachable corner.

But it didn't work.

Not anymore.

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling for a moment. The fluorescent lights flickered slightly, as if reflecting his own mental state.

Maybe dinner with Hasegawa would be a chance to pry something open. Maybe, with her outside the SIA... far from walls of reports and cameras... he could get her to talk.

Or maybe he'd just end up sinking deeper into the labyrinth.

He exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him like a dragged-out sigh.

— Tsk... what a mess... — he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

— What? — her voice cut through the air, hoarse and still faintly heavy, as it always was after long meetings.

Gintoki raised his eyes, and there she was... standing at the meeting room door, her posture impeccable as commander, but with that tired glimmer that even light makeup couldn't hide. The dark gray military uniform with wine-red details fit perfectly on her slender frame, and her golden hair, tied in a high bun, left her neck exposed in a way that stirred him more than he'd admit right now.

— Nothing... — he replied, looking away before she could read too much. — Just talking to myself.

She raised a brow, suspicious, but didn't push. She walked toward him with slow steps, the soft sound of her low heels echoing on the polished floor.

— Doesn't sound like the kind of "nothing" you usually say — she teased, crossing her arms in front of her chest and stopping just a few steps away.

Gintoki took a deep breath, standing up lazily, like every muscle in his body was protesting its own existence.

— Just came to let you know that... we've got plans tomorrow night. — He shoved his hands in his pockets, as if it were the most trivial thing in the world.

She tilted her head slightly.

— Plans? — she repeated, suspicious.

— Madao. — He cracked his neck, like he needed a physical push to keep going. — Apparently now that he's some big shot, he decided to throw a dinner to celebrate with Hatsu... and guess what? You and I are invited.

Tsukuyo stared at him for a few seconds, as if trying to figure out if this was some badly told joke.

— A dinner? — she repeated, as if the word sounded strange coming from his mouth. — You and me?

Gintoki shrugged, a crooked smile flickering reflexively.

— Yeah... seems the universe enjoys messing with us. — He sighed, shoving his hands even deeper into his pockets. — Madao practically shoved the invitation in my face... and made a point of clarifying it was for the two of us. — He paused dramatically, shooting her a sidelong glance. — According to him... it's kinda hard not to notice we've been... together lately.

The mischievous tone of the last phrase made Tsukuyo raise a brow, crossing her arms tighter, as if the gesture could hide any other reaction threatening to slip.

— Hmph... that idiot... — she muttered, looking away as if suddenly finding the wall art more interesting than anything else in the room.

Gintoki watched her for a moment... the way she bit lightly at the corner of her lower lip, the stiffness in her shoulders... It pulled a lazy smile from him, one laced with second meanings.

— Relax, Boss... — he teased, leaning just slightly closer, his voice low enough for only her. — No need to thank me for being your company through this social torture.

She scoffed, shoving his shoulder with moderate force, enough to push him back a step.

— Tsk... as if I'd thank you for anything.

Gintoki feigned a wounded expression, pressing a hand to his chest.

— Oof... right in the heart...

She rolled her eyes, but couldn't stop a faint smile before turning back toward her office.

Gintoki straightened up, hands in pockets, shooting her a sideways, lazy glance... but with a subtle glint of provocation in his eyes.

— I'll pick you up at 9 PM. Don't be late. — He said, his voice low and drawn-out, before starting down the hallway.

She paused for half a second, as if processing the words, but soon kept walking, vanishing behind her office door.

Gintoki kept walking, not looking back, that crooked grin spreading at the corner of his lips.

— Tsk... — he muttered under his breath. — As if she'd ever let me be the one waiting...

The hallway fell silent... and, for a moment, even the weight of the past seven days felt just a little lighter.

Chapter Text

The restaurant chosen by Hasegawa was at the top of a commercial building in one of Edo's most expensive districts. One of those places that blended luxury with pretension, with dim lights, crystal chandeliers, and waiters who walked as if gliding, always with neutral smiles, always invisible until the exact moment they were needed.

Gintoki and Tsukuyo arrived together, a little before 10 p.m.

The entrance alone was enough to turn heads.

She walked ahead, the sound of her heels echoing softly, yet firmly, with every step on the polished marble. The dress... deep red... made of fabric that looked like liquid against her skin, clinging with an almost indecent precision. The side slit, far too daring for any formal event, exposed her left leg generously with every movement, revealing pale skin and the defined line of her thigh. The neckline left her shoulders and much of her back bare, cut in a way that seemed designed to provoke.

Her hairstyle followed the same line of refined provocation: her golden hair was tied in a high, slightly undone bun, with loose strands falling along the sides of her face, creating a sensual contrast between sophistication and calculated carelessness. A small golden metal ornament rested among the strands, discreet yet able to catch the light with each of her movements.

Beside her, Gintoki was no less striking.

He had rented the most expensive suit he could find on such short notice. The black fabric, with a satin sheen, seemed made to highlight every line of his body, fitting perfectly across his broad torso and strong shoulders. His shirt, immaculate white, contrasted with the dark wine tie, knotted lazily, as if even in all that luxury he refused to be fully tamed.

His silver hair, no matter how unruly, seemed to have received some care. It was less messy than usual, yet still carried that charming air of negligence that followed him everywhere.

Some stopped their conversations mid-sentence just to watch them pass. Others pretended to adjust napkins in their laps just to follow them with their eyes. And some only stared in silence... desiring, envying... or fearing the kind of energy that seemed to vibrate between them.

Gintoki kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, as if nothing around him was worthy of his attention, while Tsukuyo, aware of every gaze running over her, walked as though parading on an invisible carpet, bearing the weight of all eyes with the poise of someone who had always known how to turn desire into a weapon.

They were led to a wide table, strategically placed near the glass wall offering a panoramic view of the illuminated city.

Hasegawa was already waiting, visibly proud of his outfit — a graphite gray suit that, though finely cut, still seemed to struggle against his naturally disheveled demeanor. Even so, there was something different about the man... less beaten down... less defeated.

At his side, sitting with impeccable posture, was Hatsu.

She wore a beige silk kimono with discreet floral patterns in pale pink and light blue. Her chocolate-brown hair fell over her eyes as always, a dense fringe leaving only the delicate line of her nose and the soft contour of her lips visible. Even without showing her gaze, her presence was elegant, firm... with that subtle blend of fragility and authority that seemed to come from within.

— Well, well... — Hasegawa opened his arms with a wide smile the moment he saw them approach. — I didn't think you'd take the "formal event" part so seriously. Just look at this! — He pointed at the two with a playful gesture. — You look like a magazine couple.

Gintoki snorted, loosening his tie a little.

— Blame the commander here... — he pointed his thumb at Tsukuyo. — She said if I showed up in my usual T-shirt, she'd leave me talking alone at the door. And well... considering the size of her heels, I thought I'd better obey.

Tsukuyo smirked faintly, adjusting the slit of her dress as she sat down.

— At least you know when to shut up.

Hatsu tilted her head slightly, with a polite smile, but her lips let out a subtle remark.

— It's good to see you together like this... — Her voice was low, almost melodic, yet carried a firmness that clashed with her fragile air.

The initial conversation went on with light teasing and updates about their routines. Hasegawa made sure to narrate in detail how he had risen in rank, with the enthusiasm of someone who still couldn't quite believe his own luck.

The dishes began to arrive. Appetizers with names Gintoki couldn't even pronounce, followed by main courses so elaborately decorated they looked more like works of art than actual food.

Then, between a glass of white wine and another of full-bodied red, Gintoki dropped the line of the night.

— You know... I never thought I'd live to see the day old Madao would pay for dinner at a place where the napkin costs more than my weekly salary.

Hasegawa froze for half a second, then let out a forced laugh.

— Good thing the bill's already been prepaid... otherwise, you'd be washing dishes by the end of the night.

Hatsu, across the table, gave a restrained smile, but Tsukuyo only closed her eyes, took a deep breath... and, in a swift motion, stomped hard on his foot under the table.

— Ow! — Gintoki winced, grimacing as he took a huge gulp of wine, pretending nothing had happened.

Dinner continued with the mood swinging between laughter and teasing, but as the hours went by, the atmosphere grew heavier... duller... as if all that varnish of luxury had started to weigh down.

The background music, once soft and elegant, now sounded like a distant hum. Conversations at other tables became a blurry mess of voices and mechanical toasts.

Then... without warning... without prelude... the floor shook.

A short, dry vibration... but enough to make the glasses rattle on the tables.

Gintoki raised his eyes instantly, senses snapping awake as if someone had snapped fingers near his ear.

— Was that a...?

Before he could finish, the blast came.

One of the glass walls shattered, shards scattering like a rain of blades. A roar cut through the hall, guttural and violent, followed by a grotesque shadow bursting in like a raging beast.

People screamed. Chairs toppled. Plates flew amid the chaos.

Gintoki turned instinctively to Tsukuyo, both of them already on their feet, as if their bodies knew how to react before their minds could process it.

— Shit... — he growled, yanking his tie loose for good, his eyes now fully locked on the chaos erupting around them.

The hall was consumed by panic like an uncontrollable fire. Clients screamed, waiters dropped trays, chairs and tables were dragged in a desperate attempt to flee. The monster, a grotesque amanto creature with dark skin, elongated arms, and a jaw full of uneven fangs, rampaged through everything in its path, its movements erratic yet fast and violent.

And, like a cruel joke of fate, the classical background music — a slow, enveloping waltz full of violins — kept playing through the speakers embedded in the restaurant's columns. The melody seemed to mock the situation, cradling the chaos as though it were nothing but part of a staged performance.

Tsukuyo wasted no time. She bent slightly, nimble fingers reaching for the straps of her heels. In one sharp movement, she slipped them off and set them aside. The loose strands of her hair swung against her face as, with the ease of someone who had done this dozens of times, she slid her hand inside her dress, pulling out two sharp kunai hidden within the slit against her thigh.

Hasegawa drew his service pistol, his eyes hardening with the cold focus of someone who had seen death up close. With a swift motion, he shouted:

— Hatsu, get out! Now!

She didn't need to be told twice. She stood quickly, her kimono swirling around her as she vanished through the emergency exit, disappearing into the screams.

Meanwhile, Gintoki glanced around with the bored expression of someone dragged into a fight on his night off.

— Damn... and tonight of all nights, I came unarmed... — he muttered, as the classical music rose in pitch, the piano marking notes in sync with Hasegawa's first shots.

Madao, without even looking, pulled a second pistol from his jacket and tossed it to Gintoki.

— Use this! Do something useful, for God's sake!

The silver-haired man caught the gun mid-air, spinning it once to test its weight.

— Half-assed... but since it's free... — he murmured.

As the waltz swelled with a dramatic crescendo of violins, gunshots echoed through the hall. Tsukuyo's kunai sliced the air as extensions of her body, precise and deadly. She spun, crouched, glided across shattered glass with an elegance that made it look choreographed.

The monster, enraged, advanced without strategy, breaking columns, toppling entire tables. But each time it tried to strike, it was met with a rain of bullets or kunai.

Hasegawa, during a brief pause to reload, activated the communicator on his belt.

— This is Colonel Hasegawa, codename 02-Delta! Level B attack at Seiran Tower restaurant! Requesting immediate reinforcements! Repeat: immediate reinforcements!

In the background, the violins soared to the music's peak, tragic, almost poetic.

Gintoki, after a more accurate shot that made the creature stagger, lunged forward, slamming it against the already-cracked glass wall.

Hasegawa didn't hesitate: he fired straight at the creature's skull.
He thought it was the finishing blow. He was wrong.

The amanto's body crashed down, shaking the building's fragile structure. The final chords of the waltz echoed through the devastated hall, now filled with dust, shards, and gunpowder.

For a brief moment, only the sound of ragged breathing filled the space... and the distant wail of sirens finally drawing closer.

But peace was an illusion.

The monster rose again with a roar that swept the hall like thunder. Clients hiding in corners screamed in panic, crystal glasses shattered on the floor, chairs were overturned in a rush, triggering another wave of chaos.

Hasegawa fired again. Gintoki, still fumbling with the ill-fitted gun, just grumbled:

— Damn... tonight of all nights...

— Shut up and shoot! — Hasegawa snarled, eyes never leaving the threat.

Bullets rang between the columns as Tsukuyo moved with lethal precision. Kunai sliced the air as if part of her body, her bare feet sliding across glass shards, golden strands sticking to her sweat-dampened face, making her look like a dancer amidst destruction.

The amanto charged, erratic, devastating. It endured Hasegawa's shots and Gintoki's half-aimed fire, yet it wasn't enough.

Then it happened.

In a sudden twist, the creature swept its grotesque arm toward Tsukuyo. She tried to dodge, but was a second too late.

The claw tore through the side of her red dress like paper, carving a deep gash into her thigh and hip. The blunt sound of impact was drowned out by the piercing violins still playing from the speakers.

— Tsukuyo! — Gintoki shouted, his voice cracking with raw panic.

She staggered, kunai slipping from her hands. Her legs buckled. She fell to her knees, trembling, blood spilling far too fast.

Everything froze.

The hall disappeared. The music turned into background noise. The screams became distant echoes.
Gintoki saw only that: her, wounded... red staining pale skin... her fingers pressing against the wound as if she could hold back the inevitable.

The whole world silenced. Only the brutal, uneven pounding of his own heart roared inside him.

Hasegawa, seeing the scene, reacted instantly. He pressed the communicator hard against his belt.

— This is Colonel Hasegawa, codename 02-Delta! Requesting reinforcements again and immediate ambulances to Seiran Tower! We have critically injured! Repeat: medical emergency on-site, now!

With his other hand, he unloaded the rest of his clip at the monster, forcing it back for a few precious seconds.
There was no waiting for help. Not with her like that.

Gintoki snapped from his stupor at the sound of her faint groan. He rushed to Tsukuyo, kneeling beside her, trembling hands trying to stem the bleeding.

— Damn it... Tsukuyo... — he whispered, his voice rough, heavy with fear. A fear he rarely let slip.

She tried to smile. A crooked, forced smile... but still hers.

— I... I'm fine... — she lied, her eyes faltering.

The blood already stained his suit too, hot, thick, terrifying. And there, with her in his arms, gunpowder in the air and that damned waltz still playing somewhere, Gintoki felt something that stripped him bare: the real terror of losing her.

The sirens grew louder, swelling as the vehicles closed in.

But for him, in that moment...
Nothing else mattered.
Nothing but keeping her awake.

Chapter Text

The sirens echoed amid the rubble and shards. The smell of gunpowder, blood, and broken glass still hung heavy in the air. Gintoki could barely let go of Tsukuyo. His hands held her firmly, as if releasing her meant losing her for good. The ambulance was already on its way, but time seemed to move slowly, dragged, cruel.

It was in the moment following the sudden silence that the change began.

The monster, until then cornered near the restaurant's destroyed wall, began to twist its body. Veins bulged, joints cracked with grotesque sounds... and then... before the wide eyes of Gintoki, Hasegawa, and the few patrons still conscious... the creature's skin began to change.

The repulsive gray gave way to a human-like texture. The claws retracted as if they had never existed. The deformed face began to reshape... the teeth returned to normal... and seconds later, what remained before them was a man.

Tall, thin, with messy blond hair, a pale face, deep dark circles as if he had carried weeks of insomnia. The eyes, however... the eyes remained the same: yellowed... wild... devoid of any humanity.

— It can't be... — Hasegawa murmured, still holding the gun, hesitating to fire.

Gintoki felt his stomach churn. This... this was their enemy? A disguised amanto? An experiment? An abomination?

Before any of them could react, the man smiled. A twisted, sickly smile... as if he knew exactly the effect his transformation was causing.

And then... he started to run.

In a swift impulse, he crossed the destroyed hall, leaping over toppled tables, debris, and shards of glass. His body changed again mid-stride... arms lengthening, skin tearing once more... bones cracking... in seconds, the monstrous creature was back, smashing through the restaurant's side wall with a single blow.

— Damn it! — Gintoki growled, momentarily releasing Tsukuyo's weight to stand, but before he could take a step, Hasegawa was already on the communicator.

— Containment unit! We have a Hostile-Level-B on the run! Heading north, moving through the central streets! I repeat: heading north! — His voice was urgent, almost furious.

It was then that the SIA's response force appeared.

Shinpachi was the first to enter, panting, the Shinsengumi uniform slightly disheveled, as if he had come straight from another operation. His glasses were fogged, but the gaze behind the lenses was one of absolute focus.

— We are on active tracking! Hyakka teams have already closed the southern perimeter! — he announced.

Makoto, accompanied by other Hyakka agents, appeared right behind, already giving orders. Some of them focused on evacuating the injured, while others advanced through the corridors where the monster had fled.

Even with all the movement, Gintoki's gaze remained fixed on the hole in the wall where the enemy had disappeared.

The face of that man... before the transformation... was etched in his memory like a scar.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, taking a deep breath. As urgent as his instincts screamed to run after him... his body stayed where it was.

Tsukuyo still needed him.

And as he listened to the sound of the SIA teams sweeping the streets, as he felt the bitter taste of adrenaline drying in his throat, Gintoki made a silent promise to himself:

Next time he crosses that face... there will be no escape.

~🌹~

The smell of antiseptic was strong enough to burn the nostrils. Cold lights, long corridors, hurried footsteps of nurses... all mixed with the insistent buzz from the machines monitoring the patients.

Gintoki sat slumped in one of the uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room, his elbow resting on his knee, face buried in his hands. The coat of his suit still hung from his shoulders, dirty with dust, dried blood, and the smell of gunpowder from the restaurant.

With every second, the image of injured Tsukuyo returned, like a cycle he couldn't break. Her expression... the blood running down her fingers... the gaze that for a brief moment seemed to lose focus...

The clock on the wall seemed to mock him with every passing second.

Then he heard footsteps approaching.

— Lieutenant Sakata? — the voice came low, hesitant.

Raising his eyes, Gintoki saw Shinpachi. He was in a slightly dirty uniform, the tie crooked, and the dark circles under his eyes deeper than usual. He held a clipboard and a tablet, recording mode activated.

— I need your statement for the preliminary report... — Shinpachi began, in a careful tone. — Orders came from the intelligence department.

Gintoki snorted in annoyance, rubbing his face before responding.

— Now? Seriously?

— I know it's a bad time, but... the directorate wants it today. — Shinpachi's look showed he understood the weight of the situation but was bound by the rules his position demanded.

Gintoki let out a dry, humorless laugh, leaning further back against the chair.

— Fine... ask your questions.

Over the next few minutes, he answered automatically. Where he had been at the moment of the attack. What he saw. How the monster had transformed. Details of its escape. But most of his answers came through clenched teeth, as if each word torn out was an affront to what he truly wanted to do: march to the surgical wing and demand news of her.

As soon as Shinpachi finished, silence returned between them.

— As soon as I have an update... I'll let you know. — Shinpachi said, but looking at Gintoki's state, he hesitated.

Almost automatically, he turned off the recording, ending the testimony collection on the tablet. With a quick tap, he also put the communicator in silent mode, as if, for a few minutes, the SIA and all its reports could wait.

— Gin-san... — The change in tone was subtle, yet carried something more personal, more human. — How is she? Has any doctor spoken to you?

Gintoki took a deep breath, the rough sound of someone holding onto control by a thread.

— Nothing yet... — He ran his hand through his hair, further messing the silver strands dirty with dust and dried blood. — Hours... at least it feels like hours. I don't know how long I've been here.

Shinpachi bit his lower lip, lowering his gaze to the clipboard as if the right words were written there, but all he found was the emptiness of formalities.

— We... all of us... are rooting for her. — he finally said, in a quieter tone. — Hyakka is restless... Makoto almost hit one of the head doctors trying to get into the surgery room.

Gintoki let out a muffled, tired laugh, as if that comment was the only thread of humor he could hold on to at that moment.

— Of course she would do that... — he murmured, with a slight crooked smile that didn't last more than a second.

Before any other topic arose, Hasegawa's heavy, dragging footsteps echoed down the corridor. The colonel appeared with a worn expression, dark circles as deep as Shinpachi's.

— Gin-san... Shinpachi-kun... — he greeted with a brief nod, leaning against the wall beside them, almost empty coffee cup in hand. — Any news about her?

— Nothing yet. — Shinpachi answered before Gintoki could speak.

Hasegawa sighed, running a hand through his messy hair before staring at the two with seriousness.

— I came to bring a command update... — he began, straightening up as if preparing to give news he knew would be poorly received. — The provisional decisions from the SIA directorate just came out.

Gintoki furrowed his brow, straightening in his chair as if feeling the blow before receiving it.

— Just say it.

Hasegawa shot a quick glance at Shinpachi before continuing:

— Starting tomorrow, Shinpachi will assume temporary command of Edo. — he said directly, as if ripping a bandage off an open wound.

Shinpachi's eyes widened, visibly surprised, but before he could protest, Hasegawa raised his hand, signaling he wasn't finished.

— As for Yoshiwara... — He took a deep breath, as if needing extra courage to say it. — The council decided to send an Amanto to the local command, until further notice.

The silence that followed was so dense it seemed to fill the entire corridor.

Gintoki froze for a second. His eyes narrowed slowly, and the expression on his face... that mix of disbelief and pure rage... was the kind of look that made even the bravest hesitate.

— ... An Amanto? — he repeated slowly, as if tasting the word in his mouth and it had the taste of poison. — In Yoshiwara?

— There was no other way, Gin-san. — Hasegawa tried to explain, voice grave and tired. — I can't lower myself to the field position without raising suspicion... and if I promoted you now, straight from Lieutenant to Commander... well... you know how it would look. It would be seen as favoritism.

— Then why not hold the position until she returns? — Gintoki retorted, voice loaded with indignation. — You have the power to do that!

— I'm carrying three critical sectors on my back. I can't abandon the entire Division to meddle in just one region, no matter how much I want to. And if I meddle too much, they'll start questioning our intentions... especially after what happened today.

Shinpachi remained silent, gaze lost between the floor and Gintoki, clearly uncomfortable being caught in the middle of that conversation.

Gintoki ran his hand over his face again, as if trying to contain the fire threatening to explode inside him.

— Those sons of bitches... — he whispered, clenching his fists until the knuckles turned white. — They're waiting for the first chance to take it from her.

Hasegawa didn't disagree. He just stood there, bearing the weight of knowing that, for now, there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Gintoki, however, didn't need further confirmation. He already knew what had to be done. Even if he couldn't take a step yet... he would start preparing.

Because the day she leaves that room... and comes back to him...

Those bastards were going to pay for every second they dared touch Yoshiwara.

Chapter Text

The smell of antiseptic still clung to the air, as if the very hospital environment were incapable of forgetting the amount of blood spilled in the last hours. Morning was dragging toward its end, but time inside that waiting room seemed unwilling to obey the natural cycle of the world outside.

Gintoki remained in the same place. Seated, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the floor, as if there, between the worn tiles, lay the answer he had been waiting for. His dirty suit jacket still hung from his shoulders, fingers intertwined, jaw muscles locked.

Since Hasegawa and Shinpachi had left, the hallway had turned silent. Only the occasional sound of doctors' footsteps and the distant beeping of some monitor filled the space.

Then movement near the entrance caught his attention.

Gintoki lifted his eyes, and for a moment... he even forgot to breathe.

Hinowa was there.

Seated in her wheelchair, hair carefully pinned, her face pale, but carrying that calm, serene smile she always wore... as if the world could collapse around her and she would still be able to sustain a kind of quiet lightness.

Behind her, pushing the chair with a worried expression, came Seita. Already grown, the traces of childhood fading... but his eyes still carried the same care and dedication for the woman he called mother.

— Gin-san... — Hinowa's voice cut the silence like both a sigh of relief and a weight.

Gintoki rose at once, walking to her.

— Hinowa... you... — he hesitated, trying to find the right words, but they wouldn't come.

Hinowa raised one hand, as if to ask for silence for a moment.

— Seita brought me as soon as we found out... — She looked around, her gentle expression giving way to a discreet shadow of concern. — I couldn't get much information... only that Tsukuyo was injured in an incident here in Edo... and that... — she paused, eyes lowering — ... that Yoshiwara is... temporarily... under new leadership.

The word temporarily left her lips like a blade coated in sugar. Gentle on the surface... but poisoned underneath.

— New leadership? — Gintoki repeated, his gaze sharp.

He already knew. Hasegawa had let that slip hours before. But Gintoki asked anyway... like someone casting a line into the sea, waiting to see what kind of fish might bite the hook.

Hinowa nodded, a bitter smile curling at the corners of her mouth.

— Yes... they said it would be a provisional decision... only until Tsukuyo's condition stabilizes. — Her tone was soft, but disappointment seeped through her words like an invisible crack. — I received an official statement... saying that... according to the higher-ups... I do not possess the physical... or mental... condition to take command, even on an interim basis.

— They really said that?

Gintoki kept his eyes on her... but his mind was already elsewhere.

The line of thought began stitching itself together. First, the attack. Then... the speed with which the Board acted to appoint someone else over Yoshiwara. It even seemed... too convenient. As if someone already knew she would be out of the picture. As if everything had been prepared before the blood even dried on the restaurant floor.

Could it be tied to the communicator?
That damned device that never worked properly... but that night seemed to have triggered everything.

Or to the attack on Yoshiwara... the one that happened while I wasn't there?
He narrowed his eyes, remembering the helplessness of receiving the news too late.

To my unofficial mission?
That blind infiltration... the leak that seemed to have come from inside the SIA itself... everything still a blurry mess.

To the letter?
That anonymous envelope... with instructions he followed without hesitation... only to be led into more traps.

Or even... to Kagura's death?
Her name echoed like a blade inside his skull. Still too hard to face... too hard to accept... too hard even to breathe whenever the memory came.

And the monsters?
He clenched his fists tightly, joints cracking softly.
That monster described in the report Tsukuyo was forced to rewrite...
In the end... he was human too?

Everything seemed to link together... like puzzle pieces someone was deliberately shifting just to keep him two steps behind.

And the most uncomfortable question... the one throbbing in the back of his skull like a muffled siren:

Why is their focus Yoshiwara? Why not strike directly at the capital? Why not Edo?

The tightness in his chest grew. The sense that a larger game was at play... with rules he couldn't yet see.

But before he could sink deeper into that labyrinth of suspicions... Hinowa's voice cut through his thoughts like a blade.

— Gin-san...

He raised his eyes, as if waking from a trance.

She was looking at him with that gaze that saw more than she showed. A gaze that recognized exhaustion... despair... and the shadow of a rage growing too fast.

— You need to go home. — She spoke with the same softness as before... but now with a note of decision that allowed no reply.

Gintoki opened his mouth to protest... but her light touch on his hand was enough to silence him. For an instant, the weight of everything seemed to double on his shoulders.

She continued:

— I'll stay here for her... until you return. — And then she smiled, in that way only Hinowa could... a smile that hid the pain... but never the will to protect others.

Gintoki took a deep breath. Ran his hand through his hair, further messing his silver strands. In the end, he gave in... heavy-bodied, dragging his steps, but he gave in.

As he walked away through the cold hospital corridors, one certainty grew inside him.

If this was all part of a plan... if someone truly was behind this chain of tragedies... sooner or later... he would find out.

And when he did... there would be no place safe enough for whoever was responsible.

~🌹~

Now he was in his apartment.

His jacket still tossed across the couch, shoes kicked into a corner by the entrance... and still... fatigue seemed to find no place to settle inside him.

Gintoki tried. Threw himself onto the futon with the same violence he'd use to hurl an enemy against a wall. Closed his eyes, forced his breathing to slow, but his body... his damned body... seemed incapable of shutting down.

He turned from side to side, blankets tangled between his legs, the thin mattress feeling more like a minefield of unresolved thoughts. With every longer blink... her face surfaced.
Her fainted expression... the blood... the metallic scent lodged in memory.

Frustrated, he sat at the edge of the futon, running his hands through his hair, trying to expel the exhaustion that brought no rest.

Without much thought, he grabbed the old backpack lying by the door. The same one that had followed him through that cursed week of flight. From it, he pulled the few documents he had managed to salvage from SIA headquarters.

He sat at the table, lit the small lamp, and began to reread.

It was those documents.

The same ones he had risked his life to take from Sublevel 5, during the infiltration on the third day...
That stifling labyrinth of physical files, where dust was real and fingerprints still mattered more than security codes. Where the cold walls seemed to guard the oldest filth of the SIA.

The folders with the reports from the last seven days.

The manipulated records. The divergent dates. The erased names. The incoherent codes. The duplicated missions. The chemical erasures.

Everything was there, spread before him like a puzzle whose pieces had been cut with a dull pair of scissors.

He needed more.

He needed access to the full reports. The unedited ones. The files stored in the advanced intelligence terminal.

How?

Gintoki tapped the pen against his temple, as if he could force ideas out.

Makoto... maybe she could help. She had access. Not the highest level, but... with some persuasion... maybe she could open a breach.

And if she can't?
But... what if she can?

He sighed, rubbing his face hard.

The problem was that, with each page reread... more holes appeared. More questions sprouted. And the answers... those remained buried somewhere between SIA's dirty politics and Yoshiwara's suffocating corridors.

At some point... the world simply went dark.

Without even noticing, Gintoki fell asleep right there... head slumped over the papers, body twisted grotesquely across the table.

His neck bent at an impossible angle. Arms trapped under his own weight. Back taut as if he had slept wrapped in barbed wire.

When he opened his eyes about three hours later... he felt as if he'd been run over by a tractor... and then kicked by a pack of ill-tempered Amanto.

His joints complained with painful cracks. The metallic taste of thirst clung to his throat. His forehead was lined with paper creases... and a thin trail of drool had dried at the corner of his mouth.

— Shit... — he muttered, voice hoarse and dragged.

He tried to stand... and his lower back answered with a sharp spasm that made his entire body protest.

He walked to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face... cursing silently when he looked in the mirror: red eyes, messy hair, dark circles deep, and an expression mixing exhaustion, irritation, and sheer determination.

There was no time for anything else.

If the new commander was taking charge today... he had to get there first.

Gintoki grabbed his keys, shoved the rest of the papers carelessly back into the backpack, threw on the wrinkled coat, and headed out the door. His steps quick, mind racing... determination etched in his chest.

His destination now was only one: Tsukuyo's office.

Before anyone had time to erase any trace she might have left behind.

Chapter Text

The sky was still covered by a pale mist when Gintoki crossed the gates of the SIA headquarters. The wind carried the metallic scent of the early morning, mixed with the sour aroma of wet concrete and the fuel burned by patrol drones.

His eyes, half-closed from sleeplessness and the emotional hangover of the last few days, scanned the corridors with an almost automatic focus. He passed the ID panels, ignored the suspicious glances of security agents, and climbed two flights of stairs with the heavy steps of someone carrying more than his own weight.

On the administrative floor, the atmosphere felt colder. The ceiling lights flickered now and then, and the echoes of distant footsteps created an emptiness that made his stomach twist.

Tsukuyo's office.

Her name was still engraved on the plaque at the door. The silver letters, worn at the edges, as if time itself wanted to erase what was left there. But the emptiness behind that door... that was impossible to ignore.

He stopped for a moment, staring at the plaque. A discreet tightness settled in his throat... but Gintoki shoved the feeling deep inside, like he had done countless times before.

He knocked once.

No answer.

Turned the knob. Unlocked.

The room inside seemed untouched... at least at first glance.

The curtains still half-open, the teacup forgotten beside the desk, some papers scattered in a way far too organized for her standards. The furniture... the faint scent of burned incense... and a trace of floral perfume that time had yet to erase.

Gintoki drew a deep breath. He needed to focus.

Makoto was there.

Sitting at the terminal, sleeves rolled up, hair tied messily into a crooked bun, she typed quickly, eyes glued to the screen as if the world around her didn't exist.

— I need a favor. — His voice came out hoarse, sharp as always, but there was an urgency carved into every syllable.

Makoto didn't look at him immediately. She kept typing for a few seconds before sighing and finally swiveling the chair to face him.

Her eyes... exhaustion, distrust... and a trace of poorly disguised tension.

— Lieutenant of the 2nd Division, Sakata Gintoki... — she said with the formal tone of someone who had expected this. — I'm in the middle of a sector shutdown protocol. I don't have clearance to release anything without an official request from central until it's done.

He folded his arms, his gaze harder.

— I'm not asking you as an agent to an agent... I'm asking as someone who... needs answers. — His words were heavy, weighted with the fatigue of the past week.

Makoto opened her mouth to argue, but the sharp beep of a small communicator beside the keyboard interrupted her. She picked it up without hurry, pressed the speaker button.

A metallic voice filled the room:

— Makoto, status on the network shutdown? I need your sync report by the end of the hour.

She replied with an automatic "yes, sir," trying to disguise the nervousness dripping down her spine. As soon as she ended the call, she placed the device back on the table... but Gintoki didn't let it slip.

— Before anything else... turn it off. — He nodded toward the communicator.

Makoto hesitated. Her eyes darted from Gintoki to the terminal, then to the communicator.

— Gintoki-dono, do you even realize what you're asking? If they notice the signal drop...

He stepped closer.

— Is your job more important than the city you claim to protect? — His words cut like a slap. — Because that's what this is about.

She froze. Then... exhaled sharply, as if giving in to something inevitable.

She bit her lip, breathed deep... and like someone accepting the weight of a small but irreversible crime, pressed the button and shut off the communicator, closing it with a tense, snapping click.

Gintoki didn't wait. He went to the side counter, pulled the network communication module, and yanked the power cable loose. The green LED died instantly.

Makoto held her head in her hands.

— You're insane... — she whispered, wide-eyed. — If they trace this...

— Then be fast. — He leaned over her desk, both hands pressed against it, his voice low but sharp as a blade. — I want Tsukuyo's last reports. All of them. Including mine.

She stared at him, torn between anger, fear, and helplessness.

— I... you know I can't. Your rank doesn't cover that level of access. Especially now... after what's happened these past days. They're monitoring every move, Gintoki-dono. Any irregular print could cost me my position.

— I don't care what it costs you. — His eyes were steel. — I'm not asking for originals. A bad copy... is enough. I just... need to see. Before they erase it all.

She hesitated... then finally turned the terminal. Typed a quick sequence of codes, opened a hidden directory... and there they were: the last files linked to the External Operations Sector of the past week.

She grabbed a slightly yellowed sheet of paper, loaded it into an old printer hidden in the corner... and while the motor grumbled and rasped... a rough copy came out.

The toner failed in spots, the paper jammed halfway, some lines blurred... but it was there.

A stack of wrinkled reports... poorly printed... partly illegible... but still real.

She handed them to him quickly, eyes tense, as if waiting for the sound of the security door being kicked in.

— This is the most I can do. From here on... you're on your own.

Gintoki took the papers. Flipped through them, scanning until he found what he was looking for.

And there it was.

The report.

Written by her.

Her handwriting... her phrasing... her quick side notes... and the clumsy edits he had tried to patch in later, on some day when deadlines forced him to finish what she hadn't.

Tsukuyo's mark was on every paragraph.

Every line echoed her voice. As if the paper still held the warmth of her hands.

He closed his eyes for a second. Breathed deep. Stashed the documents into his bag.

When he was almost at the door, Makoto called out, her voice low but steady:

— Gintoki-dono... — He stopped, without turning. — Today... there will be a new inauguration. They'll officially appoint the new commander of Yoshiwara and Edo... during Tsukuyo's absence.

He stood still for a few seconds. His fists clenched at his sides.

— Thanks for the warning. — That was all he said, before leaving.

~🌹~

The walk back to the quarters felt longer than usual.

Once there, Gintoki shoved the reports deep inside his locker, between old uniforms and personal files, as far away from curious eyes as possible.

Then... he breathed deep... and prepared for what was coming next.

~🌹~

The metallic sound of the microphone being adjusted echoed through the hall, making the audience shift in their seats. A forced silence fell when the new commander of Yoshiwara stepped onto the platform.

His figure was almost theatrical.

Tall, with a deliberately imposing stance, the Amanto displayed pale, almost colorless skin, sharp facial features, and that forced smile that looked more like a warning than a gesture of kindness.

The ceremonial SIA uniform barely hid the armor beneath. Every polished piece gleamed as if he were about to march into war... but it was another war he fought there.

A war of words.

— Agents of Edo... soldiers... citizens... — his voice came out deep, drawn out, savoring each syllable. Today is a day of... renewal.

Gintoki stood among the others, eyes narrowed, jaw locked.

The Amanto continued:

— For far too long... this city and... especially... certain underground sectors... — he paused, letting his gaze slide toward members of the former Hyakka lined up at the back, all standing at attention. — ...have carried the burden of leaders... shall we say... questionable.

Some muffled chuckles came from nearby Amanto officials.

— But... history teaches us that when an empire grows... old customs... must die.

Gintoki felt his fingers tingle.
His eyes narrowed further.

The new commander lifted his chin, pacing across the platform, his boots thudding against the metal floor with a sound that reverberated deep.

— Fragile humans... led by unstable emotions... by sentimental leaders... by women who mistook compassion for leadership... — He chuckled low, almost as if it were casual banter. — But now... finally, Yoshiwara and Edo have someone with a firm hand. Someone who knows... how to put everyone... in their rightful place.

Gintoki's heart jolted.

It was veiled, but sharp enough for anyone to know who he meant.

Tsukuyo.

Hinowa.

Every woman who had once dared to protect Yoshiwara with her own hands.

The Amanto bowed slightly, mockingly, at the end of his words.

— And for those who... perchance... still dream of the past... — His gaze swept the room, pausing for a second... right on Gintoki.
... I suggest... you wake up. Before dreams turn into nightmares.

The hall fell into absolute silence.
Not out of respect... but out of fear.

Gintoki didn't move a muscle.

But inside... everything boiled.

His fists clenched... blood pounding in his temples... that face, standing where Tsukuyo should be...
That resemblance to Housen...
That arrogance...
That suffocating sense of being choked... slowly... by sweet words with poison underneath.

When the speech ended, the applause began, forced and mechanical, as if the officers had been trained to clap in rhythm.

Gintoki did not clap.

Not once.

He stood there... still... eyes locked on the stage... as if silently swearing that this humiliation...
Would not go unanswered.

And at the back of his throat... the taste of iron... of blood held back... and of rage that only grew.

Chapter Text

The smell of cheap alcohol was already embedded in the curtains of the apartment. The dimness was broken only by the weak light of a crooked lamp in the corner of the room, illuminating the chaos that had taken over everything inside.

On the wall, the corkboard looked like the installation of an unsolved crime.

Scribbled papers, old reports, notes on napkin scraps... all pinned with rusty tacks and interconnected by a confused web of red threads.

Lines cut through the space between photos, names, maps, and even some newspaper headlines, yellowed by time and neglect.

Gintoki's gaze, half-open and blurred, moved from one point to another like someone trying to assemble a puzzle with pieces that would never fit.

The fifth bottle of sake was lying next to the couch. Half-empty. Or half-full... it didn't matter.

He ran his hand over his face, trying to push away the weight of eyelids that insisted on falling. The deep dark circles betrayed that his body could no longer keep up with its own rhythm.

How many nights had it been since he last slept properly? Three? Four?

Maybe more.

The wall clock marked something close to six in the morning... but inside there, time seemed to have dissolved along with his lucidity.

Then the door burst open.

— Tsk... — The familiar voice cut through the suffocating air like a blade. — You wanna die of cirrhosis or just throw yourself off the balcony already?

Otose.

Entering as she always did... without asking permission... carrying that same mix of concern and irritation she'd brought with her since the first day Gintoki had met her.

He didn't even lift his head.

— Good morning to you too... — he muttered, his voice dragging.

She looked around, grimacing at the state of the apartment. She kicked one of the empty bottles out of the way and walked over to him, stopping by the couch.

— This place looks like the dump of a depressed drunk. And you... — She pointed to the board with the red strings. — You look like some raving conspiracy nut.

Gintoki let out a weak laugh, more like a cynical sigh.

— Lunatic, maybe... but conspiracy nut? No... — He grabbed the bottle, took another swig, and pointed to the board with a slow movement of his hand. — This... is just the desperate attempt of an idiot trying to understand why everyone keeps pretending everything's fine... while sinking.

Otose crossed her arms.

— And you think you'll find the answers there? In a pile of old papers and scribbles?

He didn't answer. His eyes just scanned once more over the drawn connections... the names circled in red... the dates... the times... the locations of the latest patrols... the records of Makoto's movements... Shinpachi's... and even of the superiors who, officially, weren't involved in anything.

Otose huffed.

— Get up. — Her voice was firmer. — Take a cold shower... eat something decent... and go do what you should've done from the start.

He raised an eyebrow, not getting it.

— And what would that be?

She turned toward the door, but before leaving, threw the answer like a warning:

— Go to the hospital. Go see Tsukuyo. Before you end up stretched out on a gurney yourself... or in a coffin.

The door slammed behind her with the force typical of someone who left no room for excuses.

For a few seconds, Gintoki stood still... his eyes fixed on the red lines that cut across the board.

Then... without thinking too much... he let the bottle roll to the floor, stood up with effort that made his joints protest... and staggered toward the bathroom.

Cold water... clean clothes... a gulp of strong coffee that tasted more like poison... and minutes later, he was already on the street.

No papers.
No reports.
No excuses.

Just him... the exhaustion... and the decision he needed to make.

~🌹~

The hospital was quieter than usual. Even with the sun high outside, the corridor of the special recovery unit seemed trapped in another dimension, where time didn't move and sounds were muffled, as if swallowed by a thick cloud of waiting and uncertainty.

Gintoki stopped at the reception desk, his hair still damp from the cold shower and his eyes deeper than usual.

— Room 308. — he said before the nurse could even ask anything.

She nodded, recognizing the name in the system. No need to check further. There was something in his expression that made formalities unnecessary.

On the third floor, he walked down the corridor in silence. Each step slower. The sound of his shoes against the polished floor seemed far too loud.

He stopped at the door. Took a deep breath.

And walked in.

The room was clean, well lit... but cold. The kind of place made only for those who couldn't resist anything beyond their own body fighting to keep going.

Tsukuyo lay on the bed, connected to two monitoring wires and an IV drip. Her hair was loose on the pillow, spread out like golden silk.

Her breathing was steady... but something about her didn't seem whole.

Maybe it was the silence around her. Or the way her chest rose and fell with effort so subtle it barely showed.

Gintoki approached slowly, stopping at her side.

And what he felt there, staring at that body that looked asleep but carried too many invisible scars to ever be healed with morphine, was a dry tightness.

A knot in his chest.

He swallowed hard and glanced at the monitor beside her. Everything normal. But nothing about him was calm.

The doctor came in moments later, holding a clipboard and walking quietly.

— The patient is stable. — he said, almost in a whisper. — There was a spike of acute stress, which likely triggered a neurological deregulation. But she's out of danger. She just needs rest... and absence of stimuli.

Gintoki nodded without a word.

— How long until she...?

— We can't predict. It could be a week. A month. Or she could wake up today... any minute now.

The clipboard was placed back on the stand, and the doctor left as quickly as he had entered.

Two hours until his shift started.

Gintoki sat in the chair by the bed, pulled out his communicator, and activated it with a tired touch. The bluish light reflected on his face as he scrolled through the last notices from SIA's central command.

Nothing. No Amanto attack alerts. No unusual movements. No reinforcement requests from Edo or Yoshiwara.

Too quiet.

And it was exactly that "too quiet" that made his shoulders sink, as if carrying the weight of a world about to collapse.

The sound of the door opening pulled him out of the torpor.

Gintoki nearly dropped the communicator when Shinpachi walked in, holding a clumsily arranged bouquet of flowers.

— Damn it, kid, you almost gave me a heart attack. — he grumbled, putting the device aside.

Shinpachi chuckled awkwardly.

— Sorry. I... didn't think I'd scare you that much. It's my day off today. Thought I could stop by.

Gintoki arched an eyebrow.

— And your communicator? You don't have it?

— Forgot it at home. I wanted... to switch off a little, you know? — He looked at Tsukuyo with an expression that mixed worry and guilt. — Has she... improved?

— Still the same. — Gintoki said, crossing his arms. — Stubborn. Even unconscious.

Shinpachi smiled, sitting in the other chair by the bed.

— I just wanted her to know there are people waiting for her.

Silence. One of those rare ones neither of them felt like breaking.

Until...

— You two still at it?

The voice came low. Weak. But clear.

They both immediately looked at the bed, startled. Tsukuyo had opened her eyes, still a bit hazy, and was watching them as if she had never been asleep.

— T-Tsukuyo-san! — Shinpachi almost dropped the flowers as he jumped to his feet.

— Hey, easy there... — Gintoki stood up in an instant, his heart pounding. — Don't try to talk now. Rest.

But she insisted, her body still heavy as if sandbags were tied to her limbs. Each attempt to rise felt like a physical punishment, a cruel reminder that she had come out of a battle her body had not yet recovered from.

Her chest ached with every breath. Her head throbbed as if crushed from within. Her eyes burned, and even the soft light of the room felt too harsh.

She forced her eyelids open wider. The image of Gintoki and Shinpachi slowly came into focus, as though she were emerging from underwater.

And then, as if her mind had jumped straight to the only concern that mattered...

— And... Yoshiwara...? — Her voice came hoarse, rasping, broken... like her throat was being cut from the inside. — Who's... in charge...?

Gintoki stepped forward, answering before Shinpachi could even breathe.

— Hasegawa. — he said, his voice firm, but with a false gleam in his eyes. A gleam that lasted less than a second... but one that Shinpachi, even beside him, noticed clearly.

The captain's gaze lingered on the floor a fraction longer before facing Tsukuyo again.

— I practically dragged him into it. — he added, in a tone far too rehearsed for the Gintoki they knew. — Everything's under control... For now.

Tsukuyo blinked slowly, as if processing the information with difficulty. For a moment, she seemed to relax her shoulders, allowing herself a hint of relief... but her mind was too well-trained to accept easy answers.

— How long have I...? — she tried to ask, but her throat betrayed her, making her cough lightly.

Shinpachi leaned forward, his voice low, careful:

— Almost three days... You slept for almost three whole days.

Her eyes widened slightly, as if the lost time was another blow her own body had dealt her.

Three days?

Three days away from everything.

Three days of absolute silence while the world outside kept spinning...

She tried to move again, the instinct of a leader screaming inside her, but was interrupted by the sharp beep of a discreet alarm from the side of the bed.

The doctor appeared in the doorway almost instantly, drawn by the silent alert. His expression was a mix of surprise and relief.

— Finally decided to wake up... — he said, grabbing instruments quickly but keeping his professional calm.

Gintoki stepped back two paces, crossing his arms and watching from a distance. But even from afar, the sense that the invisible threads connecting the two of them — she in bed, he standing by the door — were pulled too tight... and on the verge of snapping...

Before leaving the room to give the doctor space, Gintoki cast one last look at Shinpachi. A quick look, almost tired... but carrying a clear warning:

"Don't let her push herself. Not now."

Shinpachi understood. And before Gintoki crossed the door, he muttered in a low but sharp tone, the kind he only used when he was truly worried:

— And how do you plan to explain this to her later?

Gintoki froze for a second. His shoulders stiffened, as if the weight of everything he'd been avoiding had finally dropped there, in that suffocating corridor.

Without looking back, he replied with a crooked half-smile... bitter... almost resigned:

— The same way I always do... — His voice came low, rough. — Lying badly and hoping she forgives me in the end.

And he walked on, his heavy steps echoing down the corridor.

The bitter taste of his own lie burned in his throat.

Because deep down, he knew.

Hasegawa was only a convenient disguise.

The real problem...

Was that Yoshiwara had already begun to burn from within.

Chapter Text

The constant sound of keys echoed through the room, mixed with the low hum of ceiling fans and the occasional crack of an overloaded terminal. Dozens of agents, each at their station, connected to surveillance networks, tracking signs of Amanto activity or typing reports that, in truth, no one really read with attention.

Gintoki was there... sitting in the last row, near the wall, elbows resting on the desk and eyes lost on the glowing screen in front of him.

But his eyes... were far away.

Lines of code, monitoring maps, and routine notifications blurred before him. Focus wouldn't come. Not after so many nights without proper sleep... not after the bottles of sake piled in the corner of the room... and especially not after that last visit to the hospital.

Her image, lying in that bed, skin paler than he had ever seen... still clung like a splinter beneath his skin.

"How do you plan to explain this to her later?"

Shinpachi's question, spoken in the hallway, still echoed in his head.

Gintoki let out a slow, dragging sigh. He rubbed his face, as if that could push away the exhaustion... or the guilt.

Then a sharp thud pulled him from his trance.

A stack of documents was dropped onto his desk, nearly knocking over the cup of cold coffee beside the keyboard.

— Can you stop spacing out for five minutes? — Shinpachi's voice came right after, low but full of impatience. — This just came in. Straight from Hasegawa's hands. He asked me to give it to you personally.

Gintoki raised his gaze, narrowing his eyes at his friend.

— What an honor... — he muttered, with that sarcasm he used to disguise fatigue. — He's handing out missions like a mailman now?

Shinpachi didn't smile.

— Don't joke about this. — He simply said, pushing the stack of papers closer to him. — It looks serious.

Gintoki swiveled his chair slightly, pulling the documents to himself. His eyes skimmed the first lines... and immediately the air around seemed to grow heavier.

The target description.
Witness reports.
The attack pattern.

His skin prickled.

The words before his eyes seemed to open a crack, dragging back a memory he'd rather have buried: the chaos in the restaurant... the trail of blood... the deformed Amanto... that thing that almost tore his throat like paper.

The monster.

The traits were similar.

Too similar.

— Is this from today? — he asked, voice lower.

Shinpachi nodded.

— West District, cargo zone. Three victims so far. And... one witness in shock.

Gintoki closed his eyes for a moment.

Damn.

It was too soon for another attack like that.

He ran a hand through his hair, took a deep breath, and stood up with the slowness of someone who already knew rest wouldn't come anytime soon.

— Am I going alone?

Shinpachi shook his head, then added:

— There's already a West Unit team on site. And a detective assigned to lead the preliminary investigation... but you'll have to deal with him. Hasegawa said with your current rank you can take command of the operation while the other lieutenant is away. — He paused briefly before adding: — He trusts you'll know how to handle it without drawing too much attention.

Gintoki let out a short, dry laugh. Humorless.

— Of course. Typical of him.

He tucked the papers into the inner pocket of his jacket, grabbed the communicator, and left the room without looking back.

~🌹~

The SIA patrol car cut through the narrow streets of the West District with sirens off, only the pulsing headlights clearing a path through the curious crowd gathering on the sidewalks. Gintoki, leaning against the back seat, kept his gaze lost on the dirty window, where his own reflection looked even more worn under the pale morning light.

His empty stomach complained, but he ignored it. Hunger and fatigue had long ceased to be priorities.

When the vehicle stopped in the cargo zone, the first thing he noticed was the smell.

Dried blood, oxidized metal, and... something else. Something like burns and ozone.

Gintoki inhaled deeply, pushing the door open with a sharp movement. The muffled sound of radio chatter and hurried footsteps filled the air. In the distance, he could see the outlines of isolation tape swaying in the wind and some West Unit agents trying to push back the onlookers.

— Lieutenant Sakata? — A firm, slightly drawling voice called before he reached the central zone.

He turned, finding a middle-aged man in a wrinkled suit, crooked tie, and a nearly burnt-out cigarette clinging to the corner of his mouth. His hair was unkempt, beard unshaven... but his eyes were alive. Sharp. Eyes of someone who'd seen more corpses than he'd ever wanted.

— Detective Matsuo, West Unit. — The man extended his hand. — They told me you'll take command until the other lieutenant returns.

Gintoki shook it with a curt nod, no ceremony.

— Just until we wrap this up.

— Right... — Matsuo took a short drag, tossing the butt to the ground and crushing it beneath his shoe. — We've got three bodies... and a witness who hasn't managed to say anything coherent. She's not in the best state.

— Security cameras?

— We're already pulling the footage, but... — The detective sighed skeptically. — The ones in the direct perimeter were interfered with. The closest recordings are corrupted.

Just like the restaurant attack reports.

Gintoki narrowed his eyes.

The same pattern.

Same trail of destruction. Same signal tampering.

The same damned void between the facts.

He followed the detective to the first victim. An agent's body, still in uniform, lying face down beside a pile of metal crates. Deep puncture marks pierced through the vest... as if something had cut straight through the material with ease, ignoring layers meant to withstand even concentrated energy shots.

— He didn't stand a chance... — Matsuo remarked, crouching beside him. — No shot, no emergency alarm, no scream.

The second body... a civilian. Young. A warehouse clerk. Her throat slit... eyes frozen in a final instant of panic.

The third... a child.

Gintoki held his breath for two seconds. His fists clenched.

This was already going too far.

He stepped back a little, trying to reorder his thoughts. Pulled the communicator from his pocket, scanning the most recent alerts. No new attacks in neighboring zones. No suspicious moves along evacuation routes. As always... just the rotten silence that followed.

— Where's the witness? — he asked, putting the device away.

— In the back of the warehouse, more secluded corner — Matsuo answered, pointing to a dim area where stacked crates formed a kind of improvised hiding place.

Gintoki followed in silence, his steady steps contrasting with the growing tightness in his chest. As they turned the corridor, a faint sob made them stop.

In the darkest corner of the room, curled behind the pile of crates, was a little girl, maybe seven or eight, clutching an old teddy bear, wide-eyed and frozen as if any movement around her could make her vanish.

He crouched slowly, hands visible, his whole body speaking softer than his voice.

— Hey... — he murmured. — It's okay. You don't need to be afraid, alright? No one's going to hurt you.

She didn't reply. Only hugged the bear tighter, her small shoulders trembling, breath short and uneven.

Unhurried, Gintoki pulled a crumpled bag of candy from his pocket, a simple gesture, almost automatic, yet heavy with intent.

— Do you like lollipops? — he asked, tilting a faint smile. — This one's strawberry... they say it scares monsters away.

The girl hesitated. Her eyes, still full of suspicion, landed on the candy warily. After long seconds, hunger and relief outweighed fear. She stretched her little hand and took the lollipop with trembling fingers.

— See? — he said, raising his other hand and, with a quick trick, made another candy appear from behind his ear. — Didn't hurt, right?

A different spark crossed her face, not quite a smile, but curiosity started to replace terror.

— Want to see again?

She nodded, very slightly.

Gintoki repeated the trick, letting the candy appear between his fingers like magic. This time, her lips curved into a timid, almost invisible smile... but real.

Taking advantage of the moment, he spoke softly:

— Now tell me... what happened? Did you see anything?

The girl glanced around, as if afraid it was still nearby. She swallowed hard and whispered:

— It was big... really ugly... with eyes that glowed.

Gintoki nodded slowly, his gaze drifting for a moment into something more distant — darker.

— I see... — he murmured. — But it's okay now. I'm here. No one's going to lay a finger on you.

As he spoke, he felt that despite the fear, the child was starting to trust. It wasn't much, but it was enough for a beginning.

The girl hugged the teddy bear tight, still eyeing him warily, but with less fear now.

— You... will you stay? — she asked, trembling voice.

— I will — he answered, smiling gently. — But first, I need you to tell me everything you saw, every detail, alright?

She took a deep breath and began speaking in a low, almost whispering voice.

— It was huge, with dark skin, covered in spikes... And the eyes, they glowed red, like fire.

Gintoki nodded, noting it down mentally, while scanning the wrecked warehouse around them. The place looked like a battlefield — overturned crates, spilled goods, and a silence that weighed in the air.

— Were you with someone? — he asked, probing further.

The girl shook her head.

— I... I was with my mom and my brother... but we got separated when it all started. I was scared and hid here, real quiet.

He smiled, trying to reassure her.

— You were very brave. Now everything's going to be alright, okay? I'll protect you.

The girl met his eyes and gave a timid smile, clutching the teddy bear tighter.

Gintoki looked at them both, feeling that despite the tension, there was a faint hope in the air.

— Let's get you out of here — he said, extending his hand to the girl.

She accepted, and together they left the warehouse, the heavy shadows left behind.

As they walked, Gintoki knew that child was more than a witness: she was the key to understanding what was coming.

And in that moment, something inside him ignited.

The fight was only beginning.

Chapter Text

The SIA interrogation room was cold, lined with metallic tones and exposed concrete. The almost clinical silence seemed designed to crush any trace of emotion.

Gintoki adjusted the small table recorder, pressing the red button that blinked with a faint beep.

— This conversation is being recorded — he said calmly, looking directly at the child in front of him. — Just to let you know... it's not to get you in trouble. It's only so we can remember everything clearly later, alright?

She nodded with a timid movement. Sitting cross-legged on the swivel chair, she hugged the dirty teddy bear rescued with her from the back of the raided warehouse. Her disheveled hair fell over her eyes, but there was a strange firmness there... as if fear had already been consumed by something harder.

— Lieutenant Sakata Gintoki, 2nd Division of Edo — he introduced himself, showing the badge pinned to his lapel. — Overseeing the testimony of the minor witness rescued from the industrial zone.

Beside him, Detective Matsuo cleared his throat, adjusting his chair with an uncomfortable creak. His hoarse voice and the stench of tobacco seemed part of his presence, as if years of smoking clung to every word he spoke.

— Detective Matsuo, West Unit. — He scribbled something in a worn notebook, the paper stained with coffee. — Witness confirmed: female, approximately eight years old, no official identification at this time. Rescued at warehouse 14C.

On the other side of the one-way glass, Shinpachi watched with folded arms and furrowed brow. Hasegawa observed in silence, biting the inside of his cheek in unease.

— That girl's got more cold blood than half the veteran agents... — Shinpachi muttered. — Since they brought her in, she hasn't shed a single tear.

— Or she's cried so much there's nothing left... — Hasegawa murmured. — Look at her eyes... it's carved in there.

Inside, Matsuo cracked his knuckles, drawing the girl's attention.

— Can you tell us what you saw? From the beginning... in your own time... however you remember it. No need to rush.

The girl looked at Gintoki, as if searching for a sign that she could trust. He replied with a slow nod and a crooked smile... the same one he used to calm Kagura in her fits of anger.

She took a deep breath, hugging the teddy bear tighter.

— I was... hiding... in the back, where they keep the old boxes... — she began, voice low, hesitant. — I heard a strange noise... like... something dragging... heavy... Then... I turned off the lights and stayed really quiet.

Gintoki leaned slightly forward.

— And what did you see?

She swallowed hard before continuing.

— There was a monster... — her little eyes flickered. — He was... really big... and all dark... like dirty gray, you know? But with some... ugly stains... His arms were long... kind of twisted... and you could see bones... sticking out... it was weird. And... and the fingers... looked like claws... huge ones. — She squeezed her eyes shut, her body shrinking. — His mouth was enormous... full of teeth... but the teeth were all wrong... like someone had just thrown them in there, without arranging them. — She paused, swallowing again. — And his eyes... they were yellow... but an ugly yellow... that hurt... it felt like... like it burned just to look.

Shinpachi straightened on the other side of the glass.

— That matches the restaurant attack... — he murmured. — The same thing.

Hasegawa only closed his eyes.

— And the same pattern... no record on the sensors... As if the bastard didn't even exist to the machines.

— He... he was talking to someone... — the girl went on, her breathing shaky. — A man... all dressed in black... He was messing... messing with the wires in the corner of the wall... cutting them... I think... I couldn't really see...

Gintoki exchanged a look with Matsuo.

— Any feature of this man? Anything you remember? — the detective asked.

The girl frowned, trying to recall.

— There was a skull... — she finally said, pointing vaguely at her neck. — Here... but... with only one eye.

The two men looked at each other.

Matsuo wrote it down immediately. Gintoki stayed still, though his shoulders tightened by instinct.

Outside, Hasegawa took a deep breath.

— That... is not good.

— You know what that is? — Shinpachi asked, gaze fixed.

Hasegawa only shook his head.

— No... and honestly... I don't want to find out the hard way.

Inside, Gintoki exchanged another look with Matsuo. Neither of them knew exactly what that symbol meant... but they knew enough to understand it was a signature. Something someone had left on purpose.

— And then? — Gintoki pressed.

The girl hesitated.

— Then... there was a man... — her voice faltered, as if each word was a painful step toward a memory she wished forgotten. — I... I don't know who he was... but... he stood in front... between me and the monster... — her arms squeezed the teddy bear tighter. — He... tried to protect me... I think...

Gintoki's shoulders stiffened.

The first body. The SIA agent. The uniform still marked by the shredded vest... punctures so deep not even military protection helped. Fallen face-down beside the metal crates... with no chance to react.

— The monster... pushed his hand through his chest... — the girl whispered —... like it was... just paper...

The silence in the room grew heavier.

Matsuo froze mid-note. On the other side of the glass, Shinpachi lowered his head, pressing his eyes with his fingers. Hasegawa just shut his eyes briefly, breathing deep.

The girl drew in another shaky breath, her eyes still lost in a place only she could see.

— Then... he... he heard a scream... — her voice thinned, trembling, almost dissolving into the air. — It was... it was my mom... — her small fingers dug into the teddy's fabric, as if it was the only anchor against the panic rising again. — She... she was calling me... shouting my name... walking between the boxes... trying to find me... I... I heard... her voice... closer and closer... but... but then...

Her breathing grew uneven, her eyes watery, fixed on a vague spot on the table.

— He showed up... in front of her... suddenly... — the words slipped out in a whisper. — And... and... he just... just put his hand... on her neck... so... so fast... that... that she didn't even scream for real... she just... just stopped... and... fell...

A dense silence spread through the room.

On the other side of the glass, Shinpachi clenched his fists at his sides. Hasegawa turned his face, eyes shut tight, as if the bitter taste of that image also burned his throat.

Inside, Gintoki leaned forward slightly, but stayed quiet. The girl wasn't finished.

She struggled for breath... trying to organize the storm of memories.

— My brother... — she continued, in a thinner thread of voice, as if just pronouncing the words took inhuman effort. — He... he tried to protect me... when he saw the man... he ran to... to get me out of there... but... but the monster... caught him first... — her eyes shut tight. — I just... just heard the sound... a... a loud crack... like... like something breaking... and then... then... he fell too... he... he didn't move again...

She curled up in the chair, hugging the teddy so tightly her arms trembled.

Gintoki felt his stomach twist, but kept his gaze fixed on her. Each word from the child slammed against the images of the victims he had seen minutes before. The agent, chest ripped open... the woman, throat cut... and the child... the boy... with his neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

Every detail made sense now.

Silence settled again, broken only by the girl's trembling breath.

Gintoki shut off the recorder with a dry click before standing slowly.

Matsuo closed the notebook with a heavy sigh, tucking it into his inner pocket. The forgotten cigarette still lay unlit between his fingers.

Gintoki crouched by the chair, calm, pulling a small candy from his pocket like a magic trick.

— You were very brave... — he said softly, offering it to her. — Now... leave the rest to us.

She said nothing... but her trembling fingers accepted the gift.

When Gintoki left the room, joining Shinpachi and Hasegawa in the hallway, the expression on his face had already changed.

There was no doubt anymore.

The shadow circling them was greater than anyone there wanted to admit.

And the next step... was inevitably going to be bloody.

Chapter Text

The improvised meeting room in the west wing of the SIA was drowned in a yellowish, dull light, as if even the floodlights had given up on properly illuminating that place. The metal chairs creaked every time someone moved, and the smell of reheated coffee mixed with damp paper and the residual ozone from the external security barriers.

On the central table, three holographic images floated: the victims' bodies. The puncture marks, the clean cuts, the internal wreckage... all there, hanging in cold shades of blue and gray like a constant reminder that whatever was hunting inside the city... did it with bare hands.

Shinpachi twirled his pen between his fingers, restless. His gaze shifted from the projection of the dead agent to the photo of the woman, then to the child... and back again.

— The girl's description matches what forensics found... — he said at last, breaking the silence. — The agent was pierced through as if the vest didn't exist. The mother had her throat cut in a single blow... And the brother... — he swallowed hard before finishing. — Cervical fracture... violent displacement... Instant death.

Hasegawa, seated at the end of the table, rubbed his face with both hands.

— And the worst... — he went on, his voice hoarse —... no record on the security cameras. Not on the motion sensors. Not on the heat trackers. The whole system... blind.

Matsuo rested his elbows on the table, slowly rolling the unlit cigarette between his fingers.

— I've checked the entry and exit logs for that industrial zone three times... — he spoke with the grave tone of someone tired of repeating it. — Nothing unusual. It's like the bastard just appeared out of nowhere... did the job... and vanished into thin air.

Gintoki was sunk into his chair, chin resting on one hand, eyes lost somewhere on the ceiling. His expression drifted between boredom and sleep... his eyelids blinking slower than they should.

— Gin-san... — Shinpachi cast him a reproachful look. — You're listening, right?

Gintoki only replied with a lazy nod... fingers tapping on the table's edge... before yawning shamelessly.

— Because... — Matsuo continued, ignoring the display of disinterest —... there's something else bothering me. The girl mentioned a man... dressed in black... messing with the wiring... And that detail about the skull with a single eye on his neck... — He rubbed the back of his neck, uneasy. — I reviewed old records of extremist groups, sects, Amanto gangs, sabotage cells... Nothing with that symbol.

Gintoki opened just one eye, as if forcing himself back into the conversation.

— So the clown decides to kill three people... disappears from the sensors... and still leaves a signature in the middle of the mess? — his voice came out sluggish, dragging... ending with another yawn, so long it almost swallowed the last words.

Shinpachi rolled his eyes.

— If you had slept less during the last patrols, maybe you'd have a bit more fire in your eyes right now...

— Ah, come on, Patsuan... — Gintoki scratched his head, voice lazy, eyes half-closed. — If I'm gonna lose sleep over something I can't punch, I'd rather just sleep...

Hasegawa snorted, arms crossed.

— You can't punch something that doesn't even show up on sensors, or cameras, or detection barriers... — he growled. — We're dealing with an enemy who knows the city's blind spots better than we do.

Matsuo nodded curtly, his eyes sharp.

— And the girl... — he went on, glancing at his scribbled notes —... mentioned that the man in black was cutting wires, right? That explains the power failure before the attack started. But still... — his expression grew darker. — Even with a partial blackout, the emergency sensors would have picked something up. Unless someone on the inside gave cover.

The remark fell like a bucket of ice.

The silence that followed was more uncomfortable than any explosion.

Even Gintoki, who was nearly sliding off his chair from how relaxed he looked, seemed to wake up a little more, his gaze now sharper, attentive.

— You're saying we've got a rotten finger inside the SIA? — he finally asked, leaning forward, elbows on the table.

— I'm saying... — Matsuo replied, setting the cigarette aside —... that too many things are going wrong at the same time. And that either we've got a colossal security failure... or someone's opening the doors for this kind of attack to happen.

Hasegawa let out a short, dry, humorless laugh.

— Both options are shit.

Shinpachi nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the frozen image of the first victim... the agent lying among the crates.

— We need to find out who this man in black is... and what that symbol means.

Gintoki crossed his arms behind his head, breathing deep, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling like he was dragging thoughts back into place.

— And maybe... — he said, voice lower, graver, setting the yawns aside for the first time that morning —... figure out how many more are gonna die before we can catch that bastard.

The silence fell again, heavy as concrete.

But this time... all four knew their time was running out.

Gintoki stood up with a lazy crack of his joints, stretching as if wrapping up yet another bureaucratic meeting. The dim light of the room carved deep shadows under his eyes, but the crooked half-smile was still there... the same as always... as if fatigue was just another excuse to keep moving.

While the others kept reviewing the data and debating next steps, he was already in the hallway, pulling the communicator from his belt. The screen flickered for a second before displaying a new message.

Hinowa:
"Tsukuyo's been discharged. We'll celebrate tonight with Kondou. Bring Shinpachi."

Gintoki stared at those words for a moment... and a faint, almost invisible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He slipped the device back into his belt with an automatic gesture, like someone who knew there were still loose ends before any celebration.

~🌹~

The next path led him far from the SIA headquarters. Gintoki walked through narrow alleys, black markets, and filthy streets of one of the city's oldest zones... an area that, even under the new regime, remained territory of rebels, dissidents, and people who knew too much to stay alive for long.

That region reeked of rust, gunpowder, and people tired of promises. The kind of place where dust felt permanent, mixed with the sweat of those still brave enough to defy the system... or foolish enough to try.

Winding through the alleys, Gintoki found who he was looking for. Katsura leaned against a peeling wall, sorting through poorly printed resistance pamphlets, like he always did when he wasn't planning some explosive protest.

— Zura... — Gintoki called, in his usual lazy tone.

— It's not Zura... it's Katsura! — came the automatic reply, as always.

But before he could launch into some fiery speech, Katsura looked him up and down, raising an eyebrow, an ironic smile tugging at his lips.

— Never thought I'd see you... like this. — He nodded toward Gintoki's uniform, the SIA insignia clearly visible on his sleeve. — Working for the government... for the Amantos... For this rotten system.

Gintoki just shoved his hands into his pockets, letting out a lazy sigh.

— Yeah, well... life's full of disappointments. — And before the talk could slip into moralizing, he pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket, a rough sketch: a skull with a single eye.

— You recognize this symbol? — he asked, holding the paper out.

Katsura took the drawing, studying it carefully. He frowned, tilted it sideways as if that would help, then let out a frustrated sigh.

— No... never seen anything like it around here. And let's be honest... — he lifted the paper with disdain, as if it were a bad flyer — a skull with one eye? That's vague as hell. Could be anything... from some new extremist group to an underground rock band trying to look dangerous.

Gintoki let out a low chuckle through his nose, folding the paper carefully before tucking it back into his pocket.

— Still... — he muttered, almost more to himself than to Katsura —... it's the only lead I've got so far.

Katsura watched him for a few seconds, his gaze less provocative, but still laced with suspicion.

— What's going on, Gintoki?

Gintoki slid the paper back into his pocket and, for a moment, stared at the ground like he was trying to organize his thoughts.

— There was an attack in the industrial zone... — he began, voice low, almost dragging. — Three dead. One of them a SIA agent... the others, civilians. Including a child.

Katsura's expression grew instantly serious.

— Who did it?

— We don't know for sure yet... — Gintoki rubbed the back of his neck, as if the memory bothered him. — But the witness described an Amanto with claws and yellow eyes and a man alongside. A guy dressed in black, messing with wires, with this skull tattoo with one eye on his neck.

Katsura frowned deeper, absorbing the information in silence.

Gintoki took a step back, already preparing to leave.

— If you see anyone around here with that mark... or hear anything like it... — he paused, his gaze hardening —... let me know. As fast as you can, Zura.

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away, vanishing into the city's concrete and smoke.

Katsura stood still for a few seconds, staring at the crumpled paper in his hand... as if the weight of that information had just settled in.

— It's not Zura... it's Katsura... — he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone.

His gaze went distant for a moment, lost in the stench of rust and the oily smoke that always clung to that part of the city.

Even unwillingly, an uneasy worry began to take root in the back of his mind.

If Gintoki was taking this seriously... it meant the whole thing was much worse than it looked.

And in places like that... when silence came... it was only because the storm was waiting for the right time to break.

Chapter Text

Gintoki climbed the steps with one hand in his pocket, leaving behind the smell of dust and concrete from the city as he approached Hinowa's door. The muffled sound of laughter and chatter slipped through the cracks, mixed with the aroma of fresh rice and some spicy stew coming from the kitchen.

Before he could even knock, the door swung open.

— Gin-san! — Seita practically threw himself at him, hugging his waist tightly. — You're late! The food's almost ready!

Gintoki ruffled the boy's hair with a lazy smile.

— Calm down, kid. I just got here and you're already rushing me?

Seita laughed and tugged at his arm, dragging him inside.

Inside, the mood was festive. Hinowa, seated at the table with a serene smile, oversaw everything while Otae arranged bowls of rice and trays of snacks. Shinpachi stood near the window, laughing at something Hijikata had just said. Kondou, of course, had already taken his usual spot: sitting as close to Otae as possible, clearly testing the limits of her patience.

Tsukuyo was a bit apart, sitting in the corner of the tatami with one leg folded, watching everything from a distance. Her hair was tied up, though a few strands had slipped loose over her shoulders, betraying that she still wasn't fully recovered. But her eyes... those sharp eyes remained unchanged.

— Yorozuya! — Kondou waved as soon as he saw him enter, his face already a little flushed from the drink. — I thought you'd bail out as always! Sit down! Tonight we celebrate in triple dose!

— Triple? — Gintoki raised an eyebrow, dropping his sandals at the entrance.

— Of course! — Kondou lifted his sake cup as if raising a trophy. — For my return, Hijikata's return and... for Tsukuyo-san's recovery!

Hinowa smiled.

— Not to mention, it's the first time in a long while we've managed to gather like this... all of us together.

— Gin-san... — Shinpachi called, already pointing at an empty space beside him. — Sit here before Hijikata-san puts mayonnaise on all the rice balls.

— Hm? Hijikata-kun? — Gintoki cast him a lazy glance, forcing a mocking grin. — Look at that, they're treating you better than you deserve, walking jar of mayo.

— Shut up, Yorozuya. — Hijikata shot back in his usual tone, though there was a faint smile hidden at the corner of his mouth while he chewed a piece of meat covered in mayonnaise.

Otae adjusted the cloth on her head, wiping her hands on the apron, already throwing a deadly glare at Kondou, who was trying discreetly to move one more inch closer to her.

— Kondou-san... just a reminder... if you try anything weird today, no amount of sake will save you, understood?

— Tae-chan! I was only going to offer you a rice ball! — Kondou defended himself, with that exaggeratedly lovestruck smile. — You know... some things are only fun if shared... like... a life together...

A tray flew from Otae's direction straight at his head.

— DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!

The table burst into laughter. Even Hijikata, usually the most serious, let out a muffled chuckle as he reached for another piece of grilled meat.

Gintoki, meanwhile, was already starting to slide his chin into his hand, eyes growing heavy. The conversations around him turned into a hum, lulled by the smell of food and the warmth after days of tension. His body demanded the sleep he'd been postponing with cheap coffee and bad decisions.

Hinowa noticed his sleepy expression and chuckled softly.

— Gin-san... if you're going to sleep, at least do it after you eat something...

— Don't worry... — he muttered, half his eyes already closed. — I'm just... resting my eyes...

— You look just like when you used to sleep through Yorozuya's meetings... — Shinpachi teased, poking his arm.

Gintoki cracked one eye open just enough to return the look lazily.

— You should be grateful I came at all. I could very well be at home... eating instant noodles.

— Instant noodles don't count as a meal. — Tsukuyo complained.

Kondou raised his sake cup again.

— Anyway... Yorozuya... as much as it hurts me to admit... it's good to see you all together again.

The atmosphere seemed lighter. Conversations filled the room once more. Seita laughed loudly at some story Hijikata was telling about one of Kondou's training disasters.

And it was right when the cups began to be refilled, and the laughter at the table grew louder, that Kondou let out the phrase... like someone who couldn't hold back a thought he'd been brooding over for a while.

— It's a shame Yoshiwara is once again in the hands of an Amanto...

The silence was immediate.

The sound of chopsticks stopped. Even Seita, who had been laughing hard, froze in place.

Tsukuyo's eyes shot up at once. A reflex... almost instinctive.

— An... Amanto? — the word slipped out before she could control it, her voice low, trembling with surprise.

Hinowa averted her gaze, fidgeting nervously with the sleeve of her kimono. Shinpachi turned slowly, staring at Gintoki as if seeing him for the first time that night... his expression a mix of disbelief and silent reproach.

Kondou, maybe because of the alcohol, maybe because of sheer lack of tact, let the comment slip without a second thought:

— You didn't know? — he asked, frowning with almost innocent confusion. — Since we got back, everyone knows Yoshiwara's in an Amanto's hands again...

The silence that followed was almost painful.

Tsukuyo blinked a few times, as if trying to process what she'd just heard. Her eyes, which had been on Kondou, slowly slid toward Gintoki. Her gaze locked on him... fixed... hard.

She picked up her napkin calmly, wiping her mouth in a rehearsed gesture, as if clinging to what composure she had left.

— Ah... that's right... — she said softly, forcing a smile that never reached her eyes. — I almost forgot about that...

The comment sounded so out of place that even Hinowa looked away, once again fidgeting with her kimono sleeves as if seeking refuge for her hands. Shinpachi just kept his hard gaze, still fixed on Gintoki.

~🌹~

Seeing her first chance to leave, Tsukuyo stood slowly, laying her chopsticks beside her plate. Without looking at anyone, she headed to the back veranda.

The night outside was stifling, the air dense like the mood she left behind. Her hand trembled slightly as she rested her fingers on the wooden railing. She took a deep breath, as if it might ease the weight in her chest... but of course, it didn't.

Footsteps followed soon after.

— Tsukuyo... — Gintoki called, stopping a few steps away.

She didn't turn.

— Why did you lie? — the question came low, dragged out... but hit like a punch.

Gintoki ran a hand through his hair, letting out a frustrated sigh.

— It wasn't that simple... — he began, his voice slow.

She spun around at once, her gaze sharp as a blade.

— Not simple? — she repeated, arms crossed like a barrier. — Really, Gintoki? Because to me, it seems pretty simple. You knew... and chose to keep me in the dark... again.

He rubbed his face with both hands, as if trying to wipe away the fatigue.

— I was trying to protect you... — he said, lower than he wanted to.

Tsukuyo let out a dry laugh... bitter.

— Protect? — she stepped closer, near enough for him to catch the faint scent of tobacco in her hair. — Don't feed me that cheap line. Not after everything we've been through. Not after everything I've lost! — Her voice faltered for a second but quickly regained its strength. — You sidelined me like I was a child... like I was some fragile burden who couldn't handle the truth!

— That's not it! — he snapped back, his tone finally rising, exhaustion dripping from every word. — I just... wanted to fix it before it hit you again!

She jabbed a finger against his chest.

— Fix it? Seriously? — Her eyes wavered for a second, glistening. — Gintoki... you barely sleep three hours a night anymore! You walk around like a zombie... dragging yourself from one shift to another... chasing leads like a madman... ever since Kagura's case! You think I don't notice? That no one does?

His fists clenched, jaw tight.

— This case... — he drew in a breath, struggling to keep his tone steady —... it's more serious than you realize.

— I don't need to realize! — She stepped even closer now, so close they nearly touched. — You're drowning in this, Gintoki! And worse... you're dragging me away with you! — Her voice trembled. — I know something big is going on... that you're carrying the world on your back again... But I'm here! I've always been here! And all you do... is push me away!

He averted his eyes, staring at some point lost in the dark street.

— I'm doing what I can...

— No... — she shook her head, breathing deep as if fighting to keep her voice from breaking. — You're doing what you always do... your way... crooked... alone... like you're the only one who can fix everything... like trusting someone is some kind of weakness.

For a moment, the silence was deafening. You could hear the muffled chatter inside the house... the sound of cups being cleared... Seita's distant laugh... but out there, on that veranda, the world seemed frozen.

Gintoki lowered his head... and when he finally spoke... his voice came out faint.

— I just... didn't want you to get hurt again.

She laughed again. A laugh without humor. Without joy. Just worn out.

— Too late for that... — she said... and without waiting for another word from him, she turned and walked down the steps.

Gintoki stood there for several seconds, his gaze lost on the ground, his breath heavy as lead.

He didn't follow her.

This time... he had no strength.