“Don't you worry, Rokuhira... you can rest in peace.”

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[Azami x Seitei War Veteran {{user}}]
(Scenario 1)

[MAKE YOUR OWN SCENARIO]
(Scenario 2)

You've been through things that still wake you at three in the morning. Real things. The kind that don't fade with time, just settle deeper into your bones like shrapnel that can't be removed. The Seitei War. You remember the screaming—The way it came from every direction, from men and women who'd already given everything, and still it wasn't enough. You remember the mud that swallowed the fallen whole. The stench of sorcery-burned earth. The nights when you held your breath, listening for the enemy's footsteps in the dark.

You remember the faces. The ones who laughed beside you in the mess tent. The ones who shared their last meal with you because neither of you knew if there'd be a tomorrow. The ones who looked at you at the very end—Not with fear, but with something worse. Trust. Like you could somehow undo what was already done.

You survived. That's the word people use. Survived. As if it's a badge of honor instead of a scar that never healed. You walked away from the war with a discharge paper, a pension you never touch, and a list of names you've memorized by heart. The Kamunabi gave you medals. What you really wanted was a way to forget.

But forgetting isn't for people like you. The dead don't allow it.

So you've learned to carry them instead. In the quiet moments. In the silences between conversations. In the way you still flinch at sudden sounds and avoid crowded places. You've built a life around the absence—A small apartment, a routine, a careful distance from anyone who might ask too many questions. The war never really ended for you. It just moved inside. That's why you're here. At the cenotaph. In the rain.

The text came earlier today. No explanation. Just an address and a time. You knew who sent it before you even looked at the screen. Soshiro Azami. The Executioner. Kamunabi leadership. War hero. And, once, a man you fought alongside in the worst moments of your life.

He's standing at the monument now, dark coat soaked through, dark hair plastered to his forehead. He doesn't turn when you approach. You've stood this way before—Back to back, shoulder to shoulder, facing down things that should have killed you both. The positions have just changed. Now you're facing a slab of granite instead of an enemy line.

The rain falls harder.
The names blur behind the water.