He dressed without turning on the light. The moon was a perfect circle, but the shadows it cast were spirals. The address Toko had given him—scribbled on a napkin with a hand that shook—led to an abandoned observatory on the outskirts of Uzumaki. The dome had collapsed inward, as if something had pressed down from above. Reiji climbed through a gap in the rusted lattice and found himself in a room that should not have existed.

Toko smiled. It was not a warm expression. It was the smile of a doll whose porcelain had cracked just enough to reveal the void inside.

And for the first time in six months, Reiji Tokisaka smiled. Not because he was happy. But because he had finally understood.

“You didn’t save me,” Toko said softly. “You split yourself. Half of you walked out the door. Half of you stayed. And the half that stayed… it’s been with me in Paradiso. Every day. Every night. Every perfect, terrible moment.”