The afternoon sun burned through my eyelids when I finally woke up. A sudden panic gripped my chest like a hammer. Akira.
I threw the blanket aside and sprinted toward the door, barefoot, my breath sharp and uneven.
The moment I stepped outside, my heart froze.
The camp, usually filled with voices, footsteps, soldiers polishing weapons, and the echo of orders, stood empty. Silent. Motionless. Dust stirred more than any living soul. It looked like a graveyard pretending to be a military camp.
"Akira?" My voice cracked, swallowed by the emptiness.
No answer. Not even an echo.
I rushed outside the gates. If he wasn't here, there was only one place he could be: the warfront. My hands shook as I strapped a heavy gun around my waist. The metal felt cold against my torso, far too big for me. I shoved a sword into my belt. Its handle pressed painfully against my side, but I had no time to adjust anything. I had only one thought screaming inside me:
Find Akira.
They said yesterday that the border of Tokyo would be the battlefield.
Only ten minutes away by foot.
I didn't walk. I ran. I ran until my lungs burned, until the gun dragged at my hips, pulling me down, slowing me—but I pushed harder. The world blurred around me. Every heartbeat felt like it was bursting inside my chest.
And then I heard it.
The distant rumble of bombs, the sharp cracks of gunfire, and the trembling ground beneath me. My soul shivered. My legs wanted to stop and turn back, but my heart dragged me forward.
When I reached the border, I faced hell.
Smoke filled the sky. Flames licked the edges of wrecked vehicles. The air tasted like metal and fire. I crawled on the ground, pressing low, trying to avoid becoming just another lifeless body in this nightmare.
Bodies lay everywhere—some twisted, others still gripping their weapons. Blood soaked the dirt, forming dark, sticky pools that clung to my skin as I moved. The stench—death, gunpowder, burned flesh—pierced my senses.
Tears began to fall without my consent.
"Please, God… not Akira. Not him… I beg you… don't take him away from me…"
I whispered it over and over, hoping every word could change fate.
Then I saw faces, familiar ones. Soldiers from the camp. Lifeless eyes staring into the void. My chest tightened—every beat louder, every breath shorter. My heart felt like it was breaking into pieces.
Only a few Japanese soldiers were still standing. The enemy had more—too many—but they charged forward like a wave of rage and destruction.
And then I saw him.
Akira.
Standing in the midst of chaos, firing with the calm fury of a man who had abandoned fear.
Standing in the middle of chaos, he fired with the focused rage of a man who had let go of fear. His shots were precise and deadly. Each one struck an enemy soldier. He fought alone, like a legendary warrior, the last hope between Japan and disaster.
A brief sense of relief washed over me.
I ran toward him. Our eyes met.
In that moment, he lost focus.
A bullet tore through his shoulder. Another struck his leg. His body jerked and collapsed to the ground, blood pouring from him like a faucet had been turned on.
"AKIRA!" My scream erupted from my throat, tearing at my soul.
I fell beside him, cradling his face with trembling hands. "Don't worry. I'll take you to first aid. Please, Akira—"
He pushed my hands away, his voice shaking with pain and anger. "I told you not to come! I told you to stay away. LEAVE! GET OUT!"
But I wouldn't move. I couldn't.
He forced himself up again—somehow—grabbed his gun, and shot with fierce determination. Then a bullet struck his stomach.
He collapsed again, hard, his blood splattering onto my arms.
I caught him before he fell completely.
"I'm not letting you die," I sobbed, my voice breaking. "If you want to die… then die with me. I'm not leaving you, Akira."
I tried to drag him, but his weight, his blood, the uneven ground, everything worked against me.
The enemy approached, their eyes sharp like hunters who had found their biggest prize. Akira wasn't just any soldier. He was Japan's top general. Capturing him meant victory.
I snatched the gun from my belt and fired wildly around us. I didn't care where the bullets went. I just needed to keep them away from him.
"HELP! SOMEBODY HELP!"
Finally, a soldier from our side ran toward us. Together we pulled Akira into a small concrete tunnel, a war hideout.
Inside, I tore off his shirt. Blood streamed from his stomach, shoulder, leg, everywhere. I ripped my own shirt in half, my hands shaking, and wrapped the fabric around his wounds. I didn't care that I stood there in just my bra. My body didn't matter. My dignity didn't matter. Only Akira.
Only him.
Akira lifted a weak hand, signaling the soldier toward him.
"Yes, sir?" the man asked, kneeling.
Akira's voice was faint. "Take her back to the camp."
"No!" I screamed, grabbing Akira's arm. "I'm not leaving—don't send me away—AKIRA!"
But the soldier pulled me back. His grip was iron-strong.
"No—NO!" I fought him, kicking, pushing, clawing, but he lifted me like I weighed nothing and ran out of the tunnel.
Before darkness took him from my sight, I heard Akira stand up. I heard his roar, full of fury and patriotism and pain:
"WE HAVEN'T LOST YET! FIGHT FOR THE NATION!"
He grabbed his gun again, even with blood gushing from him.
Then—
A grenade hit the ground several meters away.
The explosion was deafening.
The shockwave slammed into me, throwing me back. My body hit the earth with brutal force. My head cracked against a stone—white pain exploded behind my eyes.
My vision blurred.
Through the haze, through the smoke, I saw one last image:
Akira.
Falling.
Slowly.
Lifelessly.
Then darkness took me completely like someone blew out the last candle in a storm.