"You look like a dead fish," she laughed, light and careless, patting him firmly on the back. Her hand lingered just below her head as if she had nowhere else to put it.
He tried to smile. It came out thin, but genuine enough.
"I'm fine," he said.
And he meant it—at least in the only way that mattered in that moment. Not the body, not the exhaustion. Just the strange comfort of being here, watching her go through the files and notes she had laid out across the table like she was building a future out of paper and memory.
Adam sat quietly, listening.
Not like a participant.
Like a supervisor listening to a report about a company that no longer existed—nodding at structure, at progress, at plans that had nowhere to land.
But there was no company.
No ownership.
Only her.
Only Yuruki.
It became obvious, slowly, that all of it—every map, every plan, every reconstructed system—had been done alone. No team. No guidance. No shared hands.
And then she looked up.
"Oh? You think I did this by myself?" she said, tilting her head, a faint, playful edge in her voice. "That I didn't need anyone?"
The smirk came easily. Too easily.
Adam blinked.
For a moment, he didn't answer.
Then she leaned back slightly, as if enjoying the silence.
"I even have a certificate in human psychology, you know."
"…And who gave you that certificate?" he asked.
She didn't hesitate.
"It was simple. The Mother AI gave us courses. Exams too." Her fingers tapped the edge of the table once. "They prepared us for everything. All possible fields. All possible outcomes. A holistic education system… in case anything happened to the facility."
Her voice softened at the last word.
Then she stopped saying it.
The air shifted, almost imperceptibly.
"…Must've been hard," Adam said.
Yuruki smiled, but didn't respond immediately.
Not agreement. Not denial.
Just presence.
Then, after a pause—
"But are you alright?" she asked.
"…Physically, I'm fine," he replied. "If that's what you're asking."
A silence followed that answer too cleanly.
"Are you scared, Adam?" she asked, smiling again—gentle now, almost curious.
Yuruki?
The thought came unspoken.
Have you changed?
The world before this… before the collapse of whatever "before" meant… he felt like he had barely known her.
"…Are you afraid I've changed?" she asked, as if she had read it directly.
(It was terrifying. Living in that dead world. Protecting your friends... It was even harder to extract anything in that depricated world where there is nothing)
Yuruki laughed softly, as if brushing something off.
"Don't be. Change is natural."
She shifted, sitting properly now, hands resting near the table. The camera between them—a replica, old design—caught faint reflections of the overhead light.
"Remember how you named me?" she asked.
"I named you?"
"Sort of," she corrected lightly. "What do you think?"
A holographic map flickered on the table—an entire land layout. The facility at the center, its infrastructure branching outward like veins into distant villages.
"My name, Yuruki, will never change," she said. "Even my hair won't. Or at least… I don't change in the way you think I do."
Adam looked away.
"And you?" she added, voice softer now. "Are you afraid of something else instead?"
A pause.
Yuruki leaned forward slightly, studying him—not intruding, just observing, giving space while still closing distance enough to be heard.
"Those beings outside the buildings…" she said.
She settled back into her chair, tired now, eyes shifting toward the surveillance feeds—people moving near the gate, fragments of lives trying to push through the edge of containment.
"You mean the humanoids outside the multifunctional facilities?" Adam asked.
"…Yes," she replied simply.
She watched the screens for a long moment, expression unreadable.
Then she turned back to him.
"What do you want me to do with them, exactly?"
Not judgment. Not instruction.
Just a question placed carefully into the space between them.
Adam's hands tightened slightly, opening and closing without purpose. She noticed. Of course she did.
"…Do you care about those people?" he asked.
Yuruki tilted her head.
A faint smile returned—but smaller this time.
"I don't hate them," she said.