Page 210 of Mercy Written in Blood

Outside, the university had become quiet. Rain had begun sometime during the night — not heavy, a fine mist that softened the courtyard lamps and silvered the stone paths between buildings. Renji stopped beneath the archive entrance. Haruki stood beside him. Neither opened an umbrella. For several minutes, they watched rain collect along the edge of the roof and fall in a steady line before them.

The journal remained inside. That should have made it easier. It did not. Renji still saw the handwriting — his own, yet not his. Hana's final words. The names of children he had saved and then forgotten. Memory held outside his body. He had imagined recovering the truth would feel like restoration. Instead, it had created a second loss. Now he knew what was missing.

Haruki shifted the folder beneath one arm.

"I can drive you home."

"That is unnecessary."

"I know."

Renji looked at him. Haruki's expression was tired. The archive lights had sharpened the shadows beneath his eyes; his hair had fallen slightly across his forehead. He looked less like the head of the Ishida Family and more like a man who had remained awake because leaving someone alone felt wrong.

"You have been here for six hours," Renji said.

"So have you."

"I do not require the same amount of sleep."

"You still require some."

"Occasionally."

Haruki's mouth moved faintly.

"That sounds medically irresponsible."

"I am a doctor."

"Which makes it worse."

Renji looked back towards the rain. He had no desire to return to his apartment. The thought surprised him. Usually, home meant relief — order, silence. Tonight, silence seemed less like peace than absence.

Haruki seemed to understand without being told.

"We could walk," he said.

"In the rain."

"It's barely rain."

"It is visibly falling."

"You own an umbrella."

Renji glanced towards him.

"Hiroshi will consider that further proof."

"He no longer needs proof."

"That remains an extraordinary failure of secrecy."

"Your greatest mistake was choosing practical accessories."

Renji almost smiled. The sensation stopped before reaching his mouth — not because the comment lacked humour, but because laughter now felt dangerous in a new way. Haruki noticed the change. He did not mention it. That restraint had become one of the things Renji trusted most.

He opened his umbrella. Haruki stepped beneath it without waiting to be invited. The umbrella was made for one person. Haruki's shoulder pressed against Renji's as they left the shelter of the archive. Neither suggested finding another.