HUMAN RELATIONS

A gentle breeze rolled over the open fields, carrying the scent of fresh grass and ripened fruit. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the porch, where Yukimura lounged, one leg dangling off the side, a lazy tabby cat sprawled beside her. The warmth of the wooden planks seeped through her clothes, lulling her into a state of blissful relaxation.

Near the small vegetable garden, her mother stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the plants with a critical eye. With a practiced motion, she plucked a ripe tomato from its vine and tossed it into a wicker basket at her feet.

"You should consider settling down, you know," her mother teased, brushing dirt from her hands. "You can't run away from marriage forever."

Yukimura, who had been lazily sipping her tea, nearly choked. "You're bringing that up again?" she groaned, tilting her head back dramatically against the railing.

Her mother smirked. "Of course. It's my duty as your mother to remind you that your biological clock is ticking."

"Wow, biological clock? That's rich coming from you, mom," Yukimura shot back, waving a hand dismissively. "Besides, I'm too busy for all that. Who even has time for marriage?"

Her mother clicked her tongue. "Busy doing what, exactly? Sitting on your backside all day?"

Yukimura gasped in mock offense. "Excuse me! I'm engaged in a very important activity—supervising. Someone has to make sure you're working hard."

Her mother rolled her eyes. "Supervising, huh? Then maybe Madam Supervisor can supervise herself into helping me pull some weeds."

Yukimura immediately swung her legs onto the porch and leaned back further, stretching her arms behind her head. "Ahhh, you know, I'd love to, but I think I might be developing a rare condition… Chronic Relaxation Syndrome."

Her mother scoffed. "More like Chronic Laziness Syndrome." She pointed a dirt-covered hand at Yukimura. "If you don't get up and help, I'm cutting off your tea supply."

Yukimura gasped. "You wouldn't."

Her mother arched a brow, clearly unimpressed. "Try me."

With a dramatic groan, Yukimura flopped onto her side, resting her head on her folded arms. "You really are ruthless, you know that?"

"That's a mother's job." Her mother smirked before turning back to her garden.

Yukimura stayed quiet for a moment, watching her mother carefully pluck another tomato from the vine. A warm breeze rustled the leaves. The scent of soil and fresh produce filled the air. The countryside was so peaceful, so alive.

She let out a sigh, a small, content smile playing on her lips. "Hey, at least admit that I got my troublemaking genes from you," she quipped.

Her mother paused, looking over her shoulder. "Oh, you mean the genes that caused the incident at the farmhouse?" A mischievous glint flickered in her eyes. "You almost burned the whole thing down."

Yukimura groaned. "That was years ago!"

"And yet, here we are, still talking about it."

"You'll never let me live that down, will you?"

"Not a chance," her mother chuckled. "That's also a mother's job."

Yukimura sighed dramatically, but there was no real exasperation behind it—only warmth.

She could stay like this forever.

Then—

The warmth faded.

The world around her blurred at the edges, colors bleeding into an unnatural haze.

A sharp, distant beeping pierced the air, growing louder.

Yukimura blinked.

And suddenly—

She was back in her office.

PRESENT [5 days after the incident with Petrov]

LOCATION : RADIO STATION

The soft glow of a computer screen illuminated the dimly lit room, casting long shadows over the scattered papers on her desk. Yukimura groaned as she stretched, feeling the stiffness in her shoulders. She had fallen asleep again.

Rubbing her temples, she leaned back in her chair, letting out a slow breath. The weight of reality settled onto her shoulders, heavier than before.

Outside her office, the radio station was already alive with its usual rhythm—muffled voices discussing scripts, the distant whir of broadcasting equipment, and the occasional burst of static from a live transmission.

She pushed herself up, running a hand through her hair as she stepped out into the hallway.

A coworker passed her with a tired nod, another waved from behind a stack of papers. The familiar morning bustle was in full swing.

Then—

"Yukimura," a voice called out.

She turned to see her friend and coworker leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. Their expression was half-amused, half-concerned.

"Did you sleep in the office again?"

"Not on purpose, Emily," Yukimura muttered, rubbing the back of her neck.

Emily sighed. "You should take some time off. You've been pushing yourself too hard."

"I'm fine," she replied—too quickly. "I have a lot on my plate. Besides…" She trailed off, glancing down at the station floor where producers and technicians worked tirelessly to keep the broadcast running.

"Work keeps me busy."

Keeps me distracted.

Her friend didn't press further, but the way she looked at her said enough.

Yukimura offered a half-smile before retreating back to her desk. As she settled into her chair, her eyes landed on the small framed photograph beside her keyboard.

Her and her mother. Taken years ago.

The edges of the frame were slightly worn from where her fingers had traced them too many times.

She reached out, hesitating—just for a second—before adjusting it ever so slightly.

Then, with a quiet sigh, she turned to her computer screen.

Inbox flooded. As always.

She scrolled through the messages, her fingers idly tapping against the desk. Most were nonsense—some outright perverted, others filled with fake news and conspiracy theories.

A few had come in via the radio-wave transmission system, crackling into the station's local server in bursts of garbled data before auto-converting into text. Others were delivered manually, collected by couriers from the outskirts where communication was still unreliable.

She sighed, rubbing her temple. This part of the job was exhausting.

"Another batch of fan mail came in," a coworker called out, dropping a small stack of printed messages on her desk. "Some from the restored networks, some from the usual couriers."

Yukimura barely glanced at them. She already knew what to expect—more of the same.

Sometimes, she wondered if it was even worth it.

But then—buried between the usual garbage—there were messages from real listeners.

People who tuned in every day.

People who found comfort in her voice.

She exhaled, straightened up, and got to work.

LOCATION: A RUNDOWN APARTMENT BUILDING, NEON LIGHTS FLICKERING

The thump of bass-heavy music vibrated through the thin walls of the apartment building, mixing with the distant hum of neon lights flickering outside. The streets below were alive—drunken laughter, muffled shouts, the occasional sound of a bottle shattering against concrete.

Inside, the hallways smelled of sweat, cheap alcohol, and old machinery. The building was falling apart, but no one cared. As long as the music played and the lights stayed on, it was still a place to escape reality, even if just for a while.

A dimly lit apartment. Cluttered. Lived-in.

Scattered across the small space were old comics, faded band posters, and a few half-broken musical instruments leaning against the walls. A guitar missing a string. A keyboard collecting dust. A stack of vintage magazines, untouched but cherished.

In the center of it all, Sayor, a young man in his mid-twenties, lay sprawled across his unmade bed, arms stretched over his face. He was exhausted—whether from partying, work, or just existing, it didn't matter.

Just as he was slipping into much-needed sleep, the landline rang.

A groggy groan. He blindly reached for the receiver, knocking over a can of something half-empty in the process.

He pulled the phone to his ear, eyes still shut.

"Woah! Well, look who finally remembered I exist," he said, stretching his arms. "Missed my kisses too much, bbg?"

"Fuck you too," Arin replied dryly.

"Damn, at least take me on a date first before you talk dirty," Sayor shot back, smirking.

Arin sighed. "This is why I don't call you more often."

"Lies. You love me. Admit it."

"I'd rather admit myself into a psych ward."

"Yeah? Well, good luck finding a spot. I heard the last bed got taken by that one chick who thought you were attractive."

Arin scoffed. "Which one?"

"Exactly."

Sayor laughed, while Arin just exhaled, shaking his head from wherever he was.

"You're insufferable."

"And you're just mad 'cause Maya gets to have me in her life, and you don't."

"I hate you."

"Maya doesn't."

"That makes one of us."

Sayor grinned. "Bet she talks about me more than she talks about you."

"You want me to reach through this phone and strangle you?"

"Kinky. Finally, we're getting somewhere."

Arin just sighed. "God, I regret this already."

Sayor chuckled, finally easing into the conversation. "Alright, alright, I'll stop making you question your life choices. How's Uncle holding up?"

"He's good. Same old, you know."

Sayor hummed. "And Maya? Still putting up with your emotionally stunted ass?"

"Somehow."

"Damn. That girl deserves a medal. Or therapy."

"Probably both."

They both laughed. It felt easy. Comfortable. Like they'd just spoken yesterday instead of however long it had actually been.

Then, the mood shifted—just a little. Sayor leaned back against the headboard and hesitated for half a second before asking—

"Any leads on Aunty and Sis?"

A silence hung between them.

Arin sighed. "No. Not yet."

Sayor didn't push. They both knew the truth—during the chaos of the Shift, Arin and Rajiv had lost sight of Arin's mother and sister.

And even now, a year later, they still had no idea where they were.

Sayor exhaled, voice softer. "We'll get them, man." His voice was steady, filled with a confidence he wasn't sure he actually had. But if Arin had to believe in something, Sayor would make damn sure it was this.

Sayor exhaled, leaning back against the headboard. "We'll get them, man." His voice was steady, filled with a confidence he wasn't sure he actually had. But if Arin had to believe in something, Sayor would make damn sure it was this.

Arin didn't respond right away.

Instead, he shifted the conversation. "Listen, I need to talk to you. In private."

Sayor raised an eyebrow. "Shit, sounds serious."

"It is."

Sayor glanced at the clock. Then smirked. "Sunday work for you? Got a date tonight."

"Yeah, yeah. Good luck with the date," Arin said.

"Luck? Please. I make my own."

Arin scoffed. "Right. Sure. Just don't get stabbed this time."

"No promises."

They both chuckled. Then, with a casual "Later", the line went dead.

Sayor set the receiver down, staring at the ceiling for a moment. The energy in Arin's voice—it wasn't normal.

As the call ended, Arin placed the landline receiver back on the hook with a small smirk still lingering from Sayor's usual antics. A brief moment of normalcy. Something rare these days.

But as the silence settled, so did the weight on his chest.

He rubbed his face, exhaling deeply. The exhaustion wasn't just physical.

The room was dimly lit, only the faint glow from outside seeping in through the window blinds. The soft hum of the radio played in the background—one of the few sources of entertainment left.

He glanced toward the bed where Maya lay, curled up under the thin sheets.

Her breathing was steady, peaceful. A sharp contrast to the worry that had been etched into her face ever since the incident with Petrov.

He hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on her forehead.

She stirred slightly but didn't wake.

"You worry too much," he muttered under his breath, even though he knew her concerns weren't unfounded.

He straightened up and turned toward the hallway.

As he passed his father's room, he stopped at the doorway.

The door was slightly open.

Through the dim light, he could see Rajiv sleeping—his figure stiff, his breathing slow and deep.

For a moment, Arin just stood there, watching.

His father had always been a strong presence, but the Shift had aged him in a way that had nothing to do with time. The exhaustion in his posture, the quiet sorrow in his expression even in sleep—it was a sight Arin hated to admit he had gotten used to.

There were nights he'd hear his father wake up suddenly, breathing heavily as if he had seen something in his dreams.

There were days where Rajiv would sit by the radio for hours, listening to the Lost Person Broadcast, even though he had promised Arin he wouldn't anymore.

And yet, no matter how much the world had taken from him, he still got up every morning.

Still worked.

Still moved forward.

Arin swallowed down the heaviness in his chest, gripping the edge of the door for just a second before letting go.

Then, without another word, he stepped away.

It was time for his run`

The early morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp concrete and the distant aroma of artificial food being prepared in nearby homes. The sun hadn't fully risen yet, and the sky held a dull, grayish-blue hue.

Arin tightened his shoelaces, exhaled sharply, and began his run down the familiar cracked pavement.

This had become a habit—a remnant of his college days when he was training for an amateur boxing career. Even now, when his dreams of the ring had been forced into the past, he kept up with the routine. It was muscle memory at this point, a way to burn off the excess energy—the stress, the tension, the unanswered questions constantly weighing on him.

His mind was clouded, his focus slipping in and out of place as his feet pounded against the road.

As he ran, he noticed a cyclist behind him.

He didn't pay it much attention at first. Just moved aside, giving space. The cyclist pedaled past without incident.

Arin let out a breath, shaking the paranoia out of his system. Not everything was a threat.

He reached into the pocket of his worn-out track pants and pulled out an old phone. It was almost a brick by today's standards, but it served one purpose: the radio. He put in a single earbud, tuning into the Lost Person Broadcast of the Hour—a segment that listed out names of missing individuals, hoping someone out there had a clue about their whereabouts.

He did this every time he ran.

Because he didn't want his father to listen to it.

He had seen it too many times—that look of disappointment and quiet defeat whenever Rajiv sat through the broadcast, waiting for a name that never came.

Every day, Arin listened instead. Hoping.

Still nothing.

His jaw clenched as he increased his pace, his frustration translating into movement.

After covering his usual distance, he turned around to head back. On the way, he passed a few neighbors—people just beginning their day, some taking morning walks, others gathered in small clusters, talking in hushed tones.

Arin wasn't one for casual conversation, but Maya had been encouraging him to make an effort.

"All of these people lost someone dear to them," she had said once. "The very least we can do is be kind. Be friends with them."

That memory brought a faint smile to his face.

Then, another memory surfaced, this one of his father.

"So, when are you two getting married?"

Rajiv had said it casually, but Arin remembered feeling thrown off by the question. Marriage. The next step.

He had never thought about it much—not because he wasn't sure, but because… he was sure.

"Should I ask her?" he wondered to himself. "I mean… we're certain about it, right?"

His thoughts were interrupted by a voice.

"Morning, Arin."

He snapped out of it, turning to see Mr. Edgar Smith, one of his elderly neighbors.

Arin blinked before nodding. "Morning, Mr. Smith."

His voice was even, but the question still lingered in his mind.

"Should I ask her?"

The door creaked open, and Arin stepped into the apartment, drenched in sweat. His shirt clung to his skin, his breath came in steady but deep exhales. The morning run had done little to settle the storm in his chest.

Without a second thought, he moved to the center of the small living room and began to shadowbox.

His fists cut through the air, his movements sharp and controlled—yet each strike carried something more.

A left hook—for the helplessness.A right jab—for the frustration.A sharp cross—for the world that had stolen too much.A brutal uppercut—for the things he couldn't say out loud.

The room was silent except for his breathing and the sound of his feet shifting on the floor.

Behind him, a sleepy voice broke the stillness.

"Morning."

Arin slowed down, glancing over his shoulder to see Maya standing in the hallway.

Her hair was messy, her eyes half-lidded with sleep, and she yawned as she stretched. 

"Morning," he replied, rolling his shoulders to loosen up.

Maya rubbed her eyes before walking to the small kitchen corner to start making coffee.

Rajiv was still asleep, so it was just the two of them for now.

The sound of coffee brewing filled the space, blending with the lingering tension in the air.

After a moment, she walked over, holding out a towel.

"Here."

Arin took it, pausing as he looked at her. Even with her bed hair, even with the slight drowsiness in her posture, she was beautiful.

Maya noticed his stare and raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile forming on her lips.

"What?"

"Nothing," Arin said quickly, looking away as he wiped the sweat off his face.

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. She knew him too well.

"You're too cute for me, you know?" she muttered under her breath, grinning to herself as she turned back toward the kitchen.

Before Arin could respond, the landline rang.

Both of them froze.

The sound felt heavier than it should have.

Arin and Maya exchanged glances.

Then, Arin moved to answer it.