The kiss ended slowly.
Not because either of them meant to stop, but because they both needed air.
Yui pulled back first, just a little, her lips still tingling.
She kept her forehead against his for a second longer like she wasn't ready to lose the closeness completely. Her cheeks were still flushed, eyes red from crying, lashes damp.
Haru didn't move right away. He was breathing a little heavier than before, staring at her like he was trying to memorize the way she looked right now — messy, teary, real.
Then he blinked and looked down at her leg.
"…Does your ankle still hurt?" he asked quietly.
It came out almost too normal. Too practical.
Yui let out a small, uneven breath that might've been a laugh. "Yeah," she admitted. "It really does."
Haru nodded, like that was the most important thing in the world. He shifted closer, careful not to jostle her, and leaned down to look at it again.
The purple swelling had darkened. His jaw tightened.
"Don't move it," he muttered, voice soft but serious.
His expression tightened immediately. "Can I look at it?"
Yui hesitated for half a second — not because she didn't trust him, but because it still throbbed even when she wasn't moving it. Then she nodded again. "Okay. Just… be careful."
"I will," he said quickly.
He shifted closer, moving slowly so he wouldn't jostle her leg. His hands hovered first, like he was mapping out where to touch without causing more pain. He gently lifted the fabric near her ankle, studying it.
The bruising had spread in deep purple tones, but the swelling wasn't as angry as before.
"It looks… a little less swollen than earlier," he murmured, mostly to himself. His thumb brushed lightly near her calf, avoiding the worst of it. "Still bad, though."
Yui let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "That doesn't sound reassuring."
"It's not," he admitted. Then softer, "But it's not worse."
He adjusted her foot slightly — careful, slow — watching her face more than the injury. The moment she winced, he stopped.
"Sorry."
"It's okay," she whispered. "It just aches."
Haru nodded, jaw set in concentration.
His hands were steady now, more confident, but there was still something gentle in the way he handled her leg — like she was fragile in a way he didn't want the world to see.
After a moment, he leaned back slightly, eyes still scanning for anything he might've missed.
"You're not walking on it," he said firmly. "Not unless you want it to get worse."
Yui gave him a faint, tired smile. "I wasn't planning to."
Haru studied her ankle again, the dark metal of his gauntlet hovering just above the bruised skin.
The purple had spread, staining the area beneath the edges of her armor greaves. Even through the transformation's protection, the fall had been brutal.
"It's still unstable," he said quietly.
Yui nodded, jaw tight. "I can feel that."
He glanced around the fractured passage. Pieces of broken stone and warped metal lay scattered from the collapse — fragments of Limbo architecture that looked almost like shattered battlements.
"Don't move," he told her.
"I won't."
He moved quickly but carefully, picking up two narrow shards of flattened metal from the debris. They weren't sharp — just bent strips from what used to be part of the tunnel's support structure.
He returned and knelt in front of her.
"This might hurt," he warned.
She gave him a tired look. "That's becoming a theme."
He positioned one strip along the outside of her lower leg, the other along the inside, bracing them against the armor to keep her ankle from shifting. His hands were steady despite the tension in his shoulders.
"Tell me if it's too much."
"It's already too much," she breathed — but she didn't pull away.
The plating around her ankle had split slightly, faint fractures running through the metal. It hadn't protected her from everything.
He reached behind his shoulder and tore a strip from the inner lining of his dark cape. The fabric came free with a quiet rip.
He wrapped it firmly around her leg and the metal braces, securing them tightly enough to hold but not enough to cut off blood flow.
His fingers lingered for a second as he tied the final knot.
"Try moving your toes."
She did. It hurt — but the sharp, loose instability had dulled into a contained ache.
"…That's better," she admitted.
"It'll keep it from twisting," he said. "You still can't run."
She gave him a weak smile. "Wasn't planning on it."
He sat back on his heels, scanning the splint one more time like he was memorizing it.
Even in armor, even in Limbo, even after everything — he looked like a kid who had just decided he was going to fix something with his bare hands and refused to fail.
He carefully helped her shift her weight, supporting her waist.
"We'll test standing in a minute," he murmured. "Not yet."
Haru shifted back onto his feet slowly.
"Okay," he said, brushing his hands against his armor. "Let's see if you can stand. Just—don't put all your weight on it."
Yui looked at him like he'd just asked her to jump off a cliff.
"You're staying right there," she said.
"I am," he replied immediately.
He moved closer anyway.
He slid one arm around her waist, the other steadying her forearm. She sucked in a breath and braced herself against him, fingers curling lightly into the front of his chestplate.
"Slow," he murmured.
Pain flared sharply up her leg and she winced, instinctively leaning more into him.
Haru tightened his hold without thinking, anchoring her before she could tip sideways.
"I've got you," he said quickly.
"I know," she breathed.
She adjusted, easing just enough weight onto her injured leg to test it. The splint held. The cracked greave didn't shift the way it had earlier. It still hurt — deep and throbbing — but it wasn't the wild, unstable pain from before.
"…Okay," she said after a moment, surprised. "It's not as bad."
Haru watched her face more than her stance. "You're shaking."
Her good leg moved first. The injured one followed carefully, barely brushing the ground before she shifted her weight again.
After three slow steps, she stopped and exhaled.
"I can walk," she said quietly. "Just… not like before."
He exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the tunnel ahead.
"If we have to run," he said quietly, "I'll carry you."
Yui looked up at him.
"I'll make it work," he added, more firmly this time. "Don't even argue."
"I wasn't—"
"For now," he continued, already crouching slightly in front of her, "I'd rather you not put weight on it if you don't have to."
Yui hesitated for a second — pride flickering across her face — but the dull ache in her leg reminded her quickly that this wasn't the time to prove anything.
"…Okay," she said softly.
She stepped closer and carefully slid her arms around his shoulders. He adjusted his stance automatically, steadying himself as she climbed onto his back.
Her injured leg hung carefully at his side, avoiding pressure.
He hooked his arms securely under her legs, standing in one smooth motion. The added weight shifted him forward slightly, but he adjusted easily, boots scraping lightly against the stone.
Yui settled against him, her cheek brushing the back of his shoulder. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing through the dark plating.
Airi steadied herself the second the ground felt solid again and immediately let go of Kaito's sleeve, scanning the space around them. It didn't look like Limbo. There were no fractured walls, no shadows twisting in the corners, no faint hum of pressure in the air. The floor beneath them was smooth and pale, stretching in every direction without a visible edge. There was no sky above them, but there wasn't a ceiling either. It was just… open.
"Where are we?" Airi asked sharply.
Kaito took a few cautious steps forward, watching the ground carefully. It didn't echo. It didn't resist. It didn't even feel textured under his boots. He stopped and looked around again.
"This isn't Limbo," he said.
"How can you tell?"
"In Limbo, something always moves," he replied. "Even when it looks empty, it reacts. This doesn't."
Airi walked several steps in the opposite direction, turning slowly as she did. The space didn't shift around her. The distance between her and Kaito felt exactly the same.
"This is stupid," she muttered. "It's like we're inside a blank screen."
Kaito closed his eyes briefly, focusing. He tried to sense something familiar — the faint vibration he usually felt when time was moving around him, the subtle rhythm that came with being between moments.
There was nothing.
When he opened his eyes again, his expression was more serious.
"…I can't feel anything," he said quietly.
Airi stopped pacing. "Anything what?"
"Energy. Pressure. Time. It's just… flat."
She didn't like the way he said that.
"So we're trapped."
"For now," he answered.
Airi crossed her arms tightly, jaw setting. "Fine. Then we stop treating it like empty space and start treating it like a container."
Kaito nodded once.
That made sense. If they were inside something, it had to have limits — even if they couldn't see them yet.
They began moving more deliberately this time, counting their steps, watching for any change in texture or resistance beneath their feet.
They had been walking for several minutes when Kaito slowed down without saying anything. Airi almost kept going, still counting her steps under her breath, but something about the way he crouched made her stop.
"…Wait," he said quietly.
"What?" she asked, turning back toward him.
He didn't answer right away.
He brushed his fingers slowly across the surface beneath them. It still felt unnaturally smooth, almost textureless, but something was different here. His eyes narrowed as he leaned closer.
"There," he said.
Airi stepped beside him and looked down. At first, she didn't see anything unusual. The ground was the same pale, muted tone as everywhere else. Then she shifted slightly and caught it — a faint, almost invisible line running across the surface in a perfectly straight path.
"If this is your imagination, I'm going to be mad," she muttered.
"It's not," he replied.
He traced the line carefully with his fingertip. The moment his finger crossed it, there was the slightest resistance, like the air thickened just enough to notice.
Airi crouched beside him now, her expression sharpening as she followed the seam with her eyes. It stretched in both directions, disappearing into the blank distance.
"That wasn't there before," she said.
"It was," Kaito answered. "We just weren't looking for it."
She studied it more carefully, her earlier frustration shifting into something more focused. "So it's not endless."
"No," he said, standing slowly. "It's constructed."
Airi straightened as well, brushing her hands against her sides. There was a faint edge to her expression now — not panic, not relief. Calculation.
"If it's constructed," she said, "it has stress points."
Kaito nodded once. "And stress points can fail."
They didn't try to force it yet. Not blindly. But now they understood something they hadn't before. This place wasn't infinite. It was sealed. Built. Folded inward.
And anything built could be broken.