A Roof That Doesn't Ask Questions
First problem solved: I'm alive.
Second problem screaming for attention:
"I need a place to sleep."
I pulled the hoodie tighter and slipped deeper into Orario, away from Babel's light, away from main streets where gods wandered like bored cats. The city changed the farther I went. Cleaner stone gave way to cracked walls. Bright magic lamps thinned out, replaced by flickering lanterns and shadows that didn't hurry.
The air shifted too. Less perfume, more sweat. Less laughter, more muttering. This was where Orario stopped pretending.
"…Empty churches?" I muttered.
"Or the old war scraps…"
My mind landed on it instantly.
The aftermath of the Astrea war.
Everyone remembered the names. The tragedy. The blood. The justice that burned too hot and consumed itself. But what people didn't talk about were the buildings left behind—safehouses, chapels, half-destroyed outposts no Familia bothered to reclaim.
Places no god wanted to remember.
That was perfect.
I crossed into a quieter district, boots crunching over broken stone. Here, walls still bore scorch marks. Some buildings leaned like they'd never fully recovered from being pushed too hard. Time hadn't healed them—just covered them.
The smell hit me next—old ash, rain-soaked wood, something metallic I didn't want to name.
I stopped in front of a small stone church.
No lights.
No wards.
No Familia crest.
The door hung slightly crooked, wood cracked but intact. A faded symbol still clung above it—weathered to near nothing, but recognizable if you knew where to look.
Astrea.
"…Sorry," I whispered, more reflex than guilt. "Just borrowing."
I slipped inside.
Dust. Cold air. Old incense clinging faintly to stone like a memory that refused to leave. Broken pews lined the walls, shoved aside during some long-ago scramble. The altar was cracked, but the roof held.
Most important—
No one was here.
I exhaled for what felt like the first time all day.
"Good enough," I said softly.
I checked corners. Listened. Counted exits. Old habits from a life that had never been safe. Satisfied, I sank down against the wall and slid to the floor.
The stone was cold against my back. My legs ached. My hands still smelled faintly of blood and dungeon air.
The silence didn't feel hostile.
Just tired.
I pulled the magic stone from my pocket. Its faint glow reflected off the cracked stone floor, painting the ruined church in soft light.
"…You're real," I said again, just to make sure.
I tucked it away carefully and leaned my head back against the wall.
No Guild.
No Familia.
No god.
Just a roof that didn't ask questions and walls that had already seen worse than me.
Outside, Orario breathed on—laughter, footsteps, distant shouts. Inside, I let my eyes close for the first time since arriving in this world.
Tomorrow, I'd need valis.
Tomorrow, I'd need a weapon.
Tomorrow, I'd need to survive.
But tonight—
Tonight, I had shelter.
And in a city ruled by gods, that alone felt like a small victory.