Chapter 07 — The Weight of Silence

The building's gate wasn't just broken; it was violated. Its twisted iron bars writhed in agony, like the exposed ribs of a giant body crushed from within. On the cement, deep gouges: immense claws, or the trail of something unspeakable that had ripped open the entrance to their home. A cold shiver ran down Daisuke's spine. This was no human work.

The air was impregnated. A thick stench of muck, old blood, and sewage, so acidic that nostrils burned and stomachs churned. It was an odor that didn't just smell; it stuck to the skin, infested the mouth, left a taste of fear and rust on the tongue. Daisuke felt his throat go dry, a gasp caught between his ribs. He tried to breathe, but the stench seemed to fill every cell.

Even with the distant city noise — sirens, screams, gunshots — there was a sound coming from the garage that stood out. Something between a wet chewing and a subterranean rumble, like a deep throat emptying itself. It had been a long time since Daisuke felt his heart beat like that: a heavy, erratic drum against his ribs. He clenched his fists, jaw tight. But still, he pressed on.

He got out of the van, the smell of ozone and burning still lingering from the open doors. Behind him, Riku appeared, as discreet as ever, his shadow almost swallowed by the growing darkness. Riku's gaze was a mix of caution and a grim determination, his eyes scanning the surroundings like a predator.

— I left Shun looking after the van. And, of course, Mayra looking after Shun — he said with a strained half-smile, a thread of normalcy trying to resist the chaos. Riku tightened his grip around the baseball bat he carried hidden.

Daisuke just nodded, his eyes fixed on the darkness of the gate. It wasn't a time for jokes, but Riku's silent confirmation was also a way of saying: "Thanks for being here. Even in hell, thank you." For a brief moment, they were just brothers, side by side.

They both walked around the side of the building, treading carefully on the damp gravel. Each step was an echo amplified by the oppressive silence of the neighborhood. They reached the fire escape, an old, rusted structure. The iron steps creaked with a muffled lament under their weight, each creak a warning for what was inside. Daisuke gripped the cold railing, his knuckles white.

When they reached the first floor, Daisuke peeked through the window of his brothers' apartment. It was ransacked, with overturned furniture and belongings scattered as if a storm had passed through. But it was empty. No blood. No sign of a struggle. Just ordinary clutter, disguised as relief. He breathed, the air still dense with the smell of the street, but here, a little less deadly. A nearly imperceptible sigh escaped his lips.

Riku, observing the apartment next door, commented: — Matsuda's place looks the same. Seems like they left in a hurry. — Riku showed no relief, just a cold observation.

On the second floor, Riku stopped. He looked at the door of his own apartment there. He had to go in. His belongings, clothes, maybe something that connected him to the world before. — I'll grab some clothes and supplies. Quick. — Riku's voice was a whisper, but the urgency was clear. Daisuke noticed the glint in his friend's eyes; it wasn't just for survival, it was to keep a piece of himself.

Daisuke nodded, his head already turned towards the third floor. Time was precious. The KIBO apartment was... the same. A familiar mess. Empty bottles, magazines on the floor, a sock hanging from the fan. It was strange how it brought a painful comfort, the memory of laughs and lost nights before the end. The smell of stale coffee and dust mixed with the street's odor, creating a bizarre dissonance.

He moved quickly, his movements precise, almost mechanical. He tossed canned food, water bottles, and flashlights into large garbage bags. The few empty boxes were filled with old deliveries, and the KIBO group never had suitcases — they never had to think about traveling; functionality always came first. Each can that fell into the bag made a dull thud, but too loud in the apartment's silence. He went up to the rooftop, grabbed tools and equipment from Mr. Daiko, heavy and dusty, and returned in a few minutes. The city outside seemed like a distant agony of boiling chaos, but here, the silence was even more oppressive, a silence that weighed on the soul.

At the window, Riku was already waiting with Shun beside him. They carried visibly heavy bags and boxes, a testament to having collected as much as they could from their own space.

— Done? — Riku asked, his voice a little hoarser. — Supplies and equipment — Daisuke replied, placing the bags on the ledge. His muscles screamed, his back aching, but he ignored them. The urgency to get out of there was greater than any physical pain.

Shun looked at him incredulously, eyes wide. — YOU DIDN'T GRAB CLOTHES?! — The question almost sounded like a shout, breaking the silence.

Daisuke frowned, confused: — I'm dressed... — The sarcasm was a cheap defense against the absurdity of the situation.

Shun huffed, a gesture of exasperation that sounded almost childish amidst the terror. — You're an animal, I swear. If this lasts days, we're going to need dry clothes. You, me, everyone. — He didn't wait, turned, and started to go back in.

Daisuke grabbed his arm, his voice low but firm: — Not alone.

Shun stopped, reluctant. The young man's blue eyes met Daisuke's, and a silent understanding passed between them. It was fear, the vulnerability that united them. — Fine. But help me then.

Daisuke nodded. Without waiting for a reply, he re-entered the KIBO apartment with Shun, who rummaged through rooms, throwing clothes into bags. Daisuke helped him, but his eyes were restless, scanning the dark corners. Meanwhile, Daisuke and Riku went downstairs.

Downstairs, Mayra was talking to Mr. Guru. He kept his hands behind his back, standing tall, but his gaze revealed a weariness that went beyond the physical, an exhaustion of the soul. His face, marked by age, seemed even more lined with worry.

— I'm glad to see you're well — he said, with an almost paternal voice, but scratched by sadness.

Daisuke went straight to the point, his patience exhausted, his voice tense: — Guru... do you know where my brothers are?

— They went in search of safety. And your brother... he helped a lot of people get there. — Guru's voice was soft, but carried the authority of one who knew.

Mayra added, her eyes heavy with concern, a lump in her throat: — They all went to Daiko's. To his warehouse, I think...

Guru nodded, a slight gesture of approval for Mayra's answer. — I stayed to warn you. I imagined you wouldn't wait. That you would act on impulse. That's how you are. I was with Daiki, yes, at Aoi Wave. I helped some people we knew get out. But I knew my place was here, waiting for you. I just arrived.

Riku gave a brief, humorless laugh, a dry sound that was lost in the heavy air: — You really know these guys. — There was a veiled respect in his voice.

Then came the scream.

— Riku! — It was Shun's voice. It wasn't a scream of anger or pain, but of terrifying disbelief. The sound echoed up the stairs, cold and sharp.

Daisuke went up again. He went up fast, the premonition chilling his spine, a premonition that materialized with each step. He found Shun standing on the second floor, his eyes red and his hands trembling, clasping each other as if trying to contain a seismic tremor. He said nothing. He just pointed, his finger extended and trembling.

The window overlooked Mayu's apartment. And what they saw... was blood. Not just stains, but a grotesque canvas, painted in dark red, covering the walls and floor. A metallic, sweetish, nauseating smell hung in the air.

Everywhere.

Riku arrived shortly after, the bat in his hand, ready for whatever came next. He saw it. He felt the weight of the scene. His shoulders slumped, and the air seemed to be sucked from his lungs. He felt his stomach churn, a wave of nausea mixed with pure horror.

— Hina was the only one who could have been there — Shun murmured, almost voiceless, the word a whisper of pain that tore at Daisuke's soul.

Riku placed a hand on Shun's shoulder, his voice firm despite the shock, trying to be his friend's anchor. — Gather the things and go downstairs. We'll check.

Mayra climbed the stairs, her face pale as wax, her eyes fixed on the scene. She stood beside Shun and helped him down, hugging him, her own lips trembling.

Daisuke was already inside the apartment. He didn't wait for Riku. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to enter.

It was like stepping into a nightmare. No, it was worse. It was like stepping on the body of a shattered dream. The floor damp, sticky, under his boots.

Riku entered behind him, the large butcher knife he had taken from the KIBO apartment now clutched in his hand. The smell hit them like a sledgehammer: muck, blood, rotting flesh. An ode to death that grabbed their throats, burning their lungs.

And then, sounds. Chewing. Scraping. Cracking. The sound of life being ground down, bones being broken. A macabre melody.

The living room was covered in dried blood, creating a dark pattern on the carpet. At the kitchen entrance, a black pool spread like a hole in reality, glistening with an oily sheen under the faint light filtering from the hallway, a distorted reflection of their own horrified faces.

Three hunched silhouettes gorged themselves in the kitchen's gloom. They weren't animals; they were grotesque forms, with limbs bending at impossible angles, joints cracking. Mouths that didn't chew, but swallowed, with a wet, voracious sound, like giant suction cups sucking life. What remained of a body lay there, unrecognizable. Eyeless. Face mutilated. Belly open. Arms missing.

One of them gnawed on a leg with a teeth-grinding sound that chilled the blood. The other two gorged on organs, as if eating without understanding what eating was, with spasmodic, repulsive movements, a sickening frenzy.

Daisuke didn't hesitate. Rage, cold and sharp as a blade, washed away any hesitation, replacing fear with a savage fury. A silent scream tore from his throat.

He charged. The first kick smashed one of the monsters' heads against the floor. The sound was wet, hollow, repulsive, like a watermelon crushed with force. The body didn't even fall — it was already dead, an inert, shapeless mass that slid in the blood.

The other two reacted. With an animalistic growl, but with abnormal and predatory speed, they leaped at him. Claws tearing at Daisuke's back, his cotton shirt shredding, his skin burning under the attack.

Riku, without thinking, grabbed one by the nape of its neck and hurled it forcefully into the center of the room, where it crashed against a bookshelf with a dry thud, knocking down books and objects that scattered like silent witnesses to a crime. The monster grunted, stumbling, its whitish eyes focusing on Riku.

Daisuke tried to pull the other monster off his back; it clung like a parasite, its teeth dangerously close to his neck. Pain radiated from his back, mixing with the adrenaline pumping through his veins, a chaotic orchestra of torment.

Riku ran to the sink, grabbed a large butcher knife, stained with old blood, and plunged it into the back of the creature attacking Daisuke.

It shrieked. A grotesque, broken sound, like metal being ripped from within, a screech that didn't seem to come from a living creature. It released Daisuke to attack Riku, turning with surprising agility, claws extended.

But Daisuke, fury in his eyes, pinned it against the cabinets with his arms, the strength of desperation coursing through his veins. He took the knife from his friend's hand and plunged it directly into the monster's skull. The body convulsed one last time before giving way, sliding to the floor with a wet thud.

The last monster, the one Riku had thrown, lay in the living room, just watching. It trembled, an uncontrollable movement that seemed to come from its own bones. Daisuke took a step towards it, ready to end it. It fled, slipping into the shadows, like a nightmare refusing to be seen, disappearing through the back entrance, the sound of its hurried, distant movements fading.

Daisuke wanted to follow, feeling the rage still pulsing. But Riku held his arm, his voice grave and urgent: — Wait. Look... — Riku's gaze was fixed on a specific spot.

He pointed to a devoured leg, unrecognizable, lying on the floor. On the ankle, the silver anklet — a small sun, studded with stones — that Mayu had given Hina. She never took it off. The memory of Hina laughing, the jewel sparkling on her ankle as Mayu adjusted it, tore at the little sanity left in Daisuke. An invisible punch to the gut, a silent scream that seemed to rip his insides apart. His knees buckled.

Daisuke grabbed a stained blanket he found on the floor and covered the body, a futile but necessary gesture. His fingers trembled, but not from fear. From guilt. The image of the anklet burned into his mind.

— I couldn't protect you... — His voice barely came out, a hoarse, broken whisper, the bitter confession of a failure that would weigh on him forever.

They went downstairs. Silent. Grief was a heavy veil that enveloped them, muffling any sound other than the beat of their own broken hearts.

Mayra asked, her voice choked, her eyes brimming with unshed tears: — Was it Hina?

Daisuke just nodded, head bowed, unable to look at her, unable to utter the word that would seal the tragedy.

Mr. Guru lowered his head, eyes moist. The pain of loss was visible on his face. — When everyone left, she wasn't in the building. I couldn't protect her... When I arrived, she was already gone. Or she hadn't come back to the building yet. I didn't see her, I couldn't warn her.

Riku touched his shoulder, understanding weighing in his gaze, an attempt at comfort for both. — She was on duty. She must have arrived after everyone fled. You couldn't have known, Guru.

In the van, Shun cried softly, his body trembling, huddled in the seat, his face hidden in his hands. The sound was more painful than any scream, a muffled lament that cut through the air.

Daisuke got into the driver's seat, his hands covered in blood and dust, and started the engine. The sound of the engine, once familiar, now seemed like a roar of protest, a mechanical lament.

— Let's go, Guru. — Daisuke's voice was icy, a cruel promise. There was no more time for hesitation.

— I... — The old man began, his voice failing, perhaps thinking of staying, of helping others.

— There won't be any others. Come. — Daisuke's voice was a command, irrefutable.

Guru got in, his body bowed by sadness, and sat in silence.

No one spoke. The air in the van was an almost unbearable weight, filled with losses and unanswered questions. With each kilometer, the burden seemed to grow.

Riku put his arm around Shun's shoulders, pulling him close, offering silent comfort, the presence of a brother amidst despair. Mayra watched Daisuke at the wheel. His posture was rigid, almost cold.

But she knew.

It wasn't coldness. It was pain in the form of control. A wall he built to keep from crumbling, each breath an effort to keep the pieces in place. She could see the tension in every muscle of his neck, the clench of his jaw.

Then she saw the blood.

His back, cut, bleeding slowly, staining the fabric of his shirt. A living reminder of the fight, of the pain he had endured.

— When we get there, I'm taking care of that. And I don't want any excuses — she said firmly, her voice cutting through the air, a reminder that they were still human, that they still needed to care for each other.

Daisuke grunted, a sound of resignation. She responded with a light tap on the back of his neck, a touch of reprimand and affection that, for a moment, broke the heavy tension, a small ray of humanity in the darkness.

The van drove on, the engine like a lament, tearing through the silence of the Old Neighborhood, leaving behind the pain and horror.

The streets of the Old Neighborhood were strangely silent, as if the city itself had held its breath in mourning. But as they approached the center, the roar of chaos became audible: lights flickering frantically, thick smoke rising in columns, ruined buildings casting ghostly shadows.

And there, the KIBO van wasn't just stuck. They were inside another world. A world of overturned cars, their shattered windows reflecting hell. People ran in a panic, aimlessly, their screams lost amidst distant explosions that shook the ground. The thick, acrid smoke obscured the sky, turning day into an eternal twilight.

The city... was no longer theirs. It was a wounded beast, and they, just another of its prey. A new reality, cruel and relentless, had just begun.