Nezumi blew out a breath as Shion ran around like a headless chicken, collecting his coat, gloves, and hat while Inukashi's rangy mongrel ran amok around them. The kid gets an invite from Inukashi, and suddenly their fight was forgotten and Nezumi no longer existed.

What a hassle.

Nezumi had never been someone who was quick to anger; before Shion, only the thought of No. 6 brought any sort of strong emotion out of him. But there was something about Shion that always lit a fire in his veins. It seemed like the other teen had been born with the ability to push his buttons just so—and worse, lately it seemed like Shion had been pushing those buttons on purpose.

It was like he enjoyed seeing Nezumi mad.

Maybe Shion was going stir crazy at last. It couldn't have been easy for him to make the transition from his posh, uneventful life in No. 6 to the harrowing day to day of West Block. Nezumi was surprised Shion had made it this far without a complete meltdown.

Or maybe I'm starting to rub off on him.

Nezumi furrowed his brow at the thought. It caught him somewhere between amusement and worry.

"Excuse me," said Shion, gesturing to the door.

He had apparently collected everything he needed, and now stood before Nezumi grinning, his dark eyes sparkling under the brim of the hat he'd shoved haphazardly over his head.

Nezumi's stomach tightened and the hair at the back of his neck prickled. He had begun to experience this unsettling visceral reaction when faced with Shion more and more as of late. It was the source of most of his anger toward him, the reason he kept wanting to shove Shion and snap at him.

But this time, he held himself in check, and took a step back so Shion could escape out the door. The pressure in Nezumi's chest eased once Shion had disappeared into the hall and the echo of his clumsy footfalls on the stairs faded.

Nezumi sighed—and grimaced immediately.

He hated sighing, and yet, he kept doing it. Nearly every time he and Shion fought now, Nezumi would stalk away to cool down, and before he knew it, he was sighing and cursing himself. Sighing expended precious breath that could be put to better use elsewhere; it was the most useless way of dealing with hardship. Same with crying. Both did absolutely nothing but expend energy and waste time.

The old woman had taught him that lesson, and Nezumi had never forgotten it.

Nezumi shook his head and turned for the door, but a soft squeak gave him pause. Hamlet sat by his feet, his little body shivering with quick, exhausted breaths. Nezumi hadn't seen the brown mouse since last night when he sent him to bring Shion's mom news of Shion's continued safety.

Hamlet chirped again, and began to climb Nezumi's pant leg, but it was slow going, and halfway through the process, Nezumi took pity on the mouse and scooped him up. Hamlet nuzzled his palm and then spat a capsule out onto it.

The light in the room seemed to dim, as though a cloud were passing overhead. A new heaviness seeped into Nezumi's limbs and pressed down on his shoulders. His sixth sense for danger had been finely honed over the years, and the capsule in his hand was giving off an aura so foreboding that Nezumi wanted to burn it on sight.

He crossed the room and placed Hamlet down on the bed, so the exhausted mouse could get some well-earned rest. Then Nezumi gingerly unfurled the pale blue note. Cold creeped over his skin as he read the words.

Safu was taken away by the Security Bureau. Help. -K

Shit. Nezumi clenched the note in his fist and screwed his eyes shut.

Safu. She was Shion's friend from No. 6, wasn't she? He remembered Shion mentioning her a few times. She was one of the reasons, apart from his mother, that Shion still held any fondness for the parasite city he called home. If she was taken by the Security Bureau, she must have caused trouble, and if that were the case, then there was only one place she would be brought: The Correctional Facility.

Safu was long gone by now; no one who set foot in the Correctional Facility returned. Nezumi had an idea of what happened to most of them. Even if he could get Safu out, it might not be all of her.

Knowing this, what should he do with the note? Nezumi's instincts told him to chuck it in the trash. The chances that the girl was alive were shit, and besides, he didn't know her. She meant nothing to him.

But she meant something to Shion.

Nezumi knew what Shion would want if he saw the note: To go charging after her, Deadlands and danger and slim chances be damned. Even if Nezumi told him it was a bad idea and explained all reasons why it would be pointless, Shion would still go, because he was a fool and a masochist that wouldn't accept the truth unless he was staring into its merciless eyes.

Shion would rush after his lost friend and get himself killed trying to rescue her.

So what?

Shion was old enough to make his own choices. If he was stupid enough to go on a suicide mission, then he deserved the end that came to him. Nezumi had taught him how to shoot and told him time and again how to live to survive—what Shion chose to do with that knowledge was his prerogative. Nezumi's debt to Shion should be well and fully discharged by now. He had already paid the idiot back tenfold by safeguarding him, and feeding him, and teaching him all these months.

Good. It's settled, then.

Shion would go off to be a big damn hero and Nezumi could finally go back to life as usual. No more squirming for space and blanket during the night; no more fussing about whether he had scraped enough together for food every week; no more incessant questions or complaints or silent longing looks. Nezumi would finally have his quiet back.

Nezumi's eyes traced the room from the empty chair, to the battered book Shion had dropped, to the dull shadows of the bookcases, and his chest felt carved out. Nezumi had always thought his underground hideaway was cozy, just the right size for someone who had never wanted or expected much. But suddenly, it seemed cramped and confining. The air was stagnant and cold, and the dust tickled the back of his throat.

The room was a sepulcher six feet under. Nezumi imagined living in it alone and a pall settled over his heart.

Life without Shion… What did that look like again? Nezumi could only remember that time in snatches. It came to him more as impressions than specific moments: the drudgery, the burning indignance and bone-numbing indifference. Nothing could reach him—not pain, not love, not remorse. The only thing he felt with any regularity was the deep-seated anger that reminded him why he had to keep going. It was empty living, but it was living nonetheless. It was safe and he knew what to expect.

Life with Shion was nothing like that. The anger was still there, simmering deep and occasionally rising to the surface in explosive bursts, but it hadn't consumed him in the same way. There was so much more to distract him now. He never knew what to expect. Shion was like a child, looking at the world through wide, wondering eyes, and Nezumi had to keep grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and pulling him out of the messes he had good-naturedly walked himself into.

But Shion was more than that—if he wasn't, Nezumi would have cut ties with him long ago.

For all Shion's tenderness and naivete, he was made of hard stuff. No matter how many times the ground was torn out from beneath him, no matter how many times he was knocked down, Shion got back to his feet. He never stopped fighting or questioning, and although he groused about Nezumi's tone or methods, he never ran from the challenges put before him.

Despite what Nezumi told himself and accused Shion of, Shion was not a coward, nor was he a burden. He didn't back down when he believed in something, and he wasn't afraid to speak his mind, even when he knew it would bring him into direct confrontation with others. It had been so long since Nezumi had had a conversation that didn't revolve around money or food. Too often these days he found himself holding his breath, waiting for the inevitable moment when Shion lowered his book, and his face took on that introspective quality that signaled he was about to give Nezumi the third-degree.

Nezumi hadn't realized how stagnant his life had been until Shion elbowed his way into it.

When Shion spoke, he was all passion and conviction. He was blinding and Nezumi had lost count of the amount of times he was blind-sided by Shion's righteous indignation. And sometimes, when Shion got really fired up, for a moment Nezumi believed Shion could really achieve all the good he waxed romantic about.

But the world made no exceptions for goodness. It was rotted to the core, and Nezumi knew that society would never live up to Shion's expectations. Basic human nature wouldn't allow it. There were people like Shion out there, but they were not in the majority. Those with the power to make the changes Shion dreamed of were without conscience or kindness. They would crush Shion underfoot as swiftly and surely as a boot would an errant insect.

And that's why Shion was so exhausting, and why Nezumi wished he would absorb his lessons better and act more like a hardened citizen of West Block, instead of the starry-eyed altruist he'd grown up to be. He wanted Shion to lose his childish ideals and face reality.

But he didn't want to lose Shion. That would hurt too much.

Nezumi's heart leapt in his chest. It would hurt? What am I thinking? I don't need him.

He didn't need Shion, true, but if Shion died, Nezumi knew that something inside himself would break irreparably. And what would be left behind wouldn't be the bleak, bleary-eyed numbness that filled him after he had put the old woman down. He would suffer. The pain and remorse would burn through him like hellfire, making life as usual impossible to bear.

Nezumi could live alone before because he had never known anything else. The old woman had been surly and never loving, but Shion was bright as the sun and just as generous with his light. The darkness without him would be true dark, the depths of which even a rat like Nezumi had never traversed.

Nezumi didn't think he could go back to the existence he lived before Shion. No one to share warmth with under the blankets; no one to come home to and eat meals with; no one to discuss literature with or who would care if he lived or died. Nezumi had grown accustomed to these comforts and he didn't want to be without them.

He had grown attached to Shion.

Shit. Fear crawled up the back of Nezumi's throat. I'm fucked.
Of all the rules Nezumi had set for himself, this had to be the stupidest one to violate. Attachment was hell. It made you sloppy and foolish, and it set you up to be hurt time and again, until the suffering hobbled you so badly you laid down and waited for death to claim you.

Nezumi had a years-long revenge to enact; he couldn't afford to be dragged down before then. He wouldn't allow distractions. Shion was a weakness, and his desires an obstacle to Nezumi's aim. If he gave Shion the note, he wouldn't have to make any choice, because Shion would make it for him.

Shion would leave and Nezumi would be free. He would suffer, but he wouldn't die. He couldn't say the same if he kept Shion by his side. And yet, the longer he looked at the empty room, the deeper the ache in his chest grew, until Nezumi could taste the loneliness like poison on his tongue. He swallowed it down and felt his body tremble.

It's too late, isn't it? It's way too late.

The door handle gave a subtle squeak as it turned. Nezumi squeezed the note in his fist and shoved it into his pocket just before Shion poked his head into the room.

"Nezumi?" Shion's brow creased in concern. "Are you coming?"

Nezumi schooled his features into blankness. "Yeah. Hamlet came back and looked like he was about to give up the ghost, so I was just putting him on the bed to rest with the others." Nezumi snatched his jacket from the book bench and zipped it up to his chin.

"Poor little guy… He came back from No. 6, right? Any messages?"

Nezumi wound the superfiber around his neck one, two, three times before turning to meet Shion's eye.

"No. Nothing."