Rina didn't slow her pace.
That mattered.
Daiso matched her stride automatically, the pressure in his chest shifting as the intersection fell behind them. The sound—the wrongness—didn't fade. It stretched instead, thin and taut, like a wire pulled too tight across the morning.
They cut through a side street where the buildings leaned closer together. The light here was softer, filtered through fire escapes and laundry lines that swayed lazily in the heat. A cat watched them from a stoop, eyes unblinking.
Rina took another sip of her coffee. "You're not shaking as bad," she said.
Daiso glanced at his hands. She was right. The tremor had settled into something quieter. "It moves when I move," he said.
"Convenient."
"Not really."
She huffed a short laugh, then sobered. "Does it ever stop?"
He thought about it. About nights staring at the ceiling fan. About the constant hum under everything. "No," he said. "It just… changes shape."
They walked in silence for a block. The city filled the space for them—voices, footsteps, a distant siren threading through it all without landing anywhere.
Rina broke first. "So what happens if you don't step in?"
Daiso's mouth went dry. He saw the cyclist again, the wobble, the almost. He saw other things too—blurred, incomplete, things he never stayed long enough to watch finish. "Someone else does," he said. "Too late."
Rina stopped.
Not abruptly. Deliberately. She turned to face him, coffee forgotten, eyes level with his. "You're nine," she said. "You don't get to be the last line between 'almost' and 'after.'"
Daiso felt the wire pull tighter. "I didn't choose it."
"I know," she said. And for the first time, her voice cracked just a little. "But you're choosing to carry it alone."
Before he could answer, the sound spiked.
Not loud. Focused.
Daiso's head snapped toward the corner ahead. The street opened onto a small plaza—vendors setting up carts, kids cutting through on their way to school, a delivery truck easing backward without a spotter.
Time thinned.
The truck's reverse light flickered. A boy darted between carts, chasing a dropped cap. Someone shouted, laughing.
Daiso stepped forward—
Rina's hand closed around his wrist.
The contact startled him more than the danger. The wire inside him screamed, pressure surging as if the door were about to burst.
"Wait," she said. Not pleading. Commanding.
He looked at her, panic flaring. "Rina—"
"I see it," she said, eyes locked on the plaza. "Not like you. But enough."
The truck lurched back another foot.
The boy stumbled.
Rina raised her voice. "HEY!"
It cut through the plaza, sharp and undeniable.
The driver slammed the brakes. The boy froze, then scrambled clear. The moment collapsed—safe, ugly, loud.
People stared at Rina instead of Daiso.
Good.
Daiso's knees went weak. He sucked in a breath that felt like it scraped on the way down. The pressure ebbed, leaving behind a hollow ache.
Rina didn't let go of his wrist until his shaking slowed.
"You don't always have to be first," she said quietly.
Daiso stared at the plaza, at the people already moving on. "If you hadn't—"
"But I did," she said. "And next time, maybe someone else will too."
The thought terrified him.
It also warmed something he hadn't known was cold.
They stood there a moment longer, neither speaking, the city resuming its careless rhythm around them.
Rina finally released his wrist. "You should get to school," she said.
He nodded, then hesitated. "Will you—"
"I'll be around," she said, already stepping back. "You're not invisible anymore, Daiso. That's the risk."
As she walked away, the sound shifted again—not louder, not quieter.
Aware.
Daiso turned toward school, heart heavy with something that wasn't fear.
For the first time, the city had looked back.