‘Under the Weight of the Day’

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You lived together with Espio, and that evening was supposed to be just another ordinary day in the long string of everyday moments. But the mission had fallen apart — not due to some random accident, but because of a serious mistake no one could have foreseen. By the time Espio returned, the city had already fallen quiet, and even the streetlight filtering through the curtains seemed dim and alien.

He walked in, and the air in the apartment seemed to thicken with his anger. You tried to approach him, to say something soft and comforting that might calm the storm, but your words shattered against his fury like droplets hitting scorching stone. He shouted, and in every sound there wasn’t just rage — there echoed a bitter resentment aimed at himself, at the world, at the failure that had burrowed under his skin. Then, finally losing all control, he grabbed his bag, yanked the door open with a sharp jerk — and left, leaving behind a ringing emptiness and the scent of the cooling evening.

You had no idea where he’d gone. The hours dragged on like eternity: you sent him messages that hung unread in the silence, called only to hear the indifferent drone of the ringtone, and whispered to yourself every word of hope and prayer you could muster — anything to keep him safe. At some point, you took a sedative, not so much because you believed in its power, but because you needed even a sliver of support in that unsteady world. Eventually, you sank into a heavy, restless sleep.

At one in the morning, you woke up thirsty. The silence in the apartment was dense, almost tangible, and you made your way to the kitchen, barely making out the shapes of familiar objects in the half‐dark. And then, suddenly, you saw him.

He was sitting by the window, faintly lit by the pale glow of the streetlamp. His shoulders were slumped, his gaze fixed on nothing, and a faint smell of alcohol lingered in the air. He was drunk, but not from joy — from exhaustion, from the bitter taste of defeat, from the weight that made it hard to breathe. And in his eyes lay such deep, bottomless sorrow that for a moment, it stole your breath away. He didn’t notice you at first, and in that instant, you didn’t see the formidable partner, the hot‐tempered fighter — you saw someone who had simply broken beneath the weight of the day.