The black box stayed in the corner.

  It didn’t move.

  It didn’t announce itself.

  It simply existed the way a storm existed on the horizon—silent until it wasn’t.

  Tōkaidō did her best to stop looking at it.

  Not because it frightened her.

  Because looking at it too long made her feel like she was standing near a shrine gate in the rain—aware that there were rules she didn’t know, and that breaking them would be rude at best and catastrophic at worst.

  So she kept her eyes on Kade instead.

  He slept.

  Sedation did that: it gave the body what it demanded and stole the mind’s ability to argue.

  Kade’s face, usually sharpened into its sarcastic menace mask, was slack and younger when he was unconscious. His brow wasn’t knit in constant calculation. His jaw wasn’t clenched. He looked, for the first time in a while, like someone who had once been a kid.

  Tōkaidō sat in the chair by his bed, hands folded, posture polite as if the concept of “watch duty” still deserved ceremony.

  Outside, Horizon moved.

  Somewhere in the distance, metal hammered. A crane groaned. A forklift beeped angrily at someone who wasn’t paying attention. Rain tapped intermittently on prefab roofing like the island was still deciding whether it wanted to be kind today.

  Fifteen minutes passed.

  Then Kade spoke.

  At first it was so soft Tōkaidō thought she’d imagined it—just a breath shaped like sound.

  Then he spoke again.

  And again.

  Not coherent sentences.

  Fragments.

  Words tossed up from whatever dream-state the sedation had sunk him into.

  “…paperwork,” he murmured, voice rough and young. “…stupid… forms…”

  Tōkaidō blinked, ears twitching.

  Kade’s lips moved again.

  “…Vestal… she’s gonna… kill me… if I climb… that again…”

  Tōkaidō’s mouth twitched faintly, humor flickering and dying quickly because the next words weren’t funny.

  “…don’t let them… call you that…”

  His brow furrowed.

  His hand twitched under the blanket.

  “…asset… no… stop…”

  Tōkaidō leaned forward slightly, unsure whether she should respond. She’d heard KANSEN talk in sleep before—rarely, because most of them didn’t truly “sleep” the way humans did unless they forced themselves into it. But Kade slept like a human, and when humans talked in their sleep, it was usually harmless.

  Usually.

  Kade’s voice shifted again, softer.

  “…Tōkaidō…”

  Her ears flicked sharply at her name.

  He didn’t open his eyes.

  He didn’t look at her.

  He simply said her name the way someone said “home” without realizing they were saying it out loud.

  “…stay… close… please…”

  Tōkaidō’s cheeks warmed, sudden and stupid. She looked away reflexively like that would hide her fluster from a man who was unconscious.

  “I am here,” she whispered, even though she wasn’t sure he could hear it.

  Kade’s brow eased by a fraction.

  Then his dream shifted, and the fragments turned unfamiliar.

  “…lanterns…” he murmured.

  Tōkaidō stilled.

  Kade’s voice dipped into something softer, older, like he was speaking from a place that wasn’t this prefab at all.

  “…shrine road… where… where are you…?”

  His fingers curled.

  “…Mizuno—”

  The word cut off, swallowed by a breath.

  Tōkaidō’s eyes widened slightly.

  She didn’t recognize the reference.

  It didn’t sound like anything from this world’s geography. It didn’t sound like a base name, a fortress city, a chain, an atoll, a bay.

  Kade’s lips moved again.

  “…hey… hey, don’t… don’t go… I’m looking…”

  His voice tightened, strained.

  “…I’m here… I’m—”

  Then the dream changed abruptly, like someone had yanked him out of warm lantern light and thrown him into cold water.

  Kade’s body jerked.

  Not a small twitch.

  A full, sharp spasm—his shoulders rising, his head turning as if something had grabbed him in the dream and physically pulled.

  His breath hitched.

  Then he cried out.

  It wasn’t loud enough to wake the entire prefab row.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  But it was loud enough to freeze Tōkaidō’s blood.

  It wasn’t a word.

  It was the sound of someone being stabbed.

  Kade’s eyes stayed shut.

  His face twisted into pain.

  His hands clenched hard enough that his knuckles went white even under the blanket.

  He thrashed once, twice, as if fighting something invisible.

  Tōkaidō stood up so fast her chair scraped.

  “Kade-sama—” she began, then caught herself, unsure whether she was allowed to use the honorific in a situation like this. The fluster was gone now. Replaced by alarm.

  He jerked again.

  His lips parted.

  A strangled sound came out, half breath, half panic.

  “No—”

  Then, louder:

  “Stop—!”

  His body moved like he was trying to rip free of restraints that weren’t there.

  Tōkaidō’s heart hammered.

  She didn’t know what to do.

  In battle, she knew what to do.

  In raids, she knew what to do.

  In sorties, she could be shot at and remain calm.

  But this—

  This was someone drowning in his own mind.

  Tōkaidō moved to the bedside instinctively.

  She leaned over him, hands hovering for a second like she was afraid touching him would make it worse.

  Then she remembered something simple:

  People didn’t calm down when you stayed distant.

  They calmed down when they knew they weren’t alone.

  So she put her hand on him.

  Lightly at first—fingers resting on his shoulder through the blanket.

  Kade jolted—

  Then stilled.

  Not immediately.

  Not completely.

  But his breath changed.

  His thrashing slowed as if the touch gave his body something to lock onto.

  Tōkaidō swallowed, then pressed her palm a little more firmly.

  “It is okay,” she whispered, Kyoto cadence making the words soft. “You are safe. You are here.”

  Kade’s face remained tense, but the sharp pain expression eased by degrees.

  His breathing steadied.

  His fingers unclenched slightly.

  He murmured something—barely audible.

  “…don’t leave…”

  Tōkaidō’s chest tightened.

  “I won’t,” she whispered.

  Her hand remained on his shoulder, steady, warm, patient.

  And as if that was all the dream needed—proof that something real existed outside it—Kade’s body finally settled back into the bed.

  His brow eased.

  His mouth relaxed.

  The nightmare faded.

  Tōkaidō remained there a long moment, not moving, listening to his breathing.

  She realized, with a quiet shock, that her touch had calmed him faster than sedation did.

  Not because she was special.

  Because he had let it.

  Because some part of Kade—under all the sarcasm and menace and stubborn feral refusal to let people close—trusted her.

  Enough to anchor.

  Enough to stop fighting.

  Enough to come back.

  Tōkaidō didn’t know what to do with that realization, so she did the only thing she could:

  She stayed.

  Her hand remained on his shoulder until she was sure he was fully settled.

  Then she slowly withdrew, returning to her chair with the careful quiet of someone stepping away from a sleeping bomb.

  She looked once toward the black box.

  Then back to Kade.

  And understood something she hadn’t fully understood before:

  Whatever was sealed inside that box…

  Whatever life he’d lived before this one…

  It had carved him into a shape that the world kept trying to use.

  And somewhere along the way, he had learned that trust was dangerous.

  Yet he trusted her anyway.

  Enough to stop shaking.

  Enough to stop bleeding in his mind.

  Enough to breathe.

  Fairplay was still awake.

  Fairplay was still furious.

  And Fairplay was still learning, the hard way, that Vestal didn’t negotiate with wounded idiots.

  “No,” Vestal said for what might have been the tenth time.

  Fairplay glared from her bed like she could set fire to steel with eye contact alone.

  “I’m fine,” Fairplay snapped.

  Vestal’s expression didn’t change.

  “Your shipform manifested mangled,” Vestal replied flatly. “Your rigging was shredded. Your bloodstream is currently trying to remember how to keep you upright. You are not fine.”

  Fairplay bared her teeth.

  “I’m going to stand up.”

  Vestal stepped closer.

  Fairplay stiffened.

  Vestal leaned in just enough to make the threat clear without making it theatrical.

  “If you stand up,” Vestal said calmly, “I will sedate you and strap you down.”

  Fairplay stared.

  Vestal stared back.

  Fairplay blinked first.

  “…You’re evil,” Fairplay muttered.

  Vestal’s mouth twitched.

  “I’m a medic,” she corrected.

  Fairplay’s glare didn’t soften.

  But she didn’t stand.

  And somewhere outside, Wisconsin River’s voice could be heard barking construction coordination into existence as the Worcester’s superstructure assembly took shape like a new spine being built for someone who refused to die.

  The three Iowa siblings—plus the Iowa-class conversion that everyone still insisted on counting as “family” when convenient—had gathered in one of the semi-finished communal prefabs.

  Minnesota sat with her back against a support beam, tail flicking lazily, expression bright even in the middle of exhaustion. She looked like someone who could walk into a funeral and still ask if anyone wanted to go fishing afterward.

  Iowa sat half-slouched in a chair like it was a throne, arms crossed, posture aggressive by default. Her wolf ears kept twitching at every noise, as if her body refused to accept that Horizon was allowed peace.

  Wisconsin stood off to the side, arms folded, armor still on, gaze scanning the room like he didn’t know how to “hang out” without treating it like perimeter defense.

  Wisconsin River was there too, but only partially—papers in hand, eyes flicking to the door every few seconds, because she was balancing “family moment” and “Fairplay’s Worcester build schedule” at the same time.

  A few other Horizon KANSEN and KANSAI had joined them to pass the time.

  Nagato sat with a book open but wasn’t reading it. Her stoic face was calm, but her eyes tracked Wisconsin with quiet assessment—the way a veteran leader sized up a new weapon and decided whether it would break the base or save it.

  Atlanta leaned against a wall, arms crossed, trying very hard to look uninterested while also listening to everything. Her tsundere energy radiated in a way that made the room feel like it had static in the air.

  Shinano… existed in the room like a sleepy cloud. She was curled up in a chair that looked too small for her posture, eyes half-lidded, expression soft. She had a cup of tea in hand and looked like she might fall asleep mid-sip.

  Minnesota broke the silence first, because Minnesota always did.

  “So,” she said brightly, looking at Wisconsin, “you survived the north!”

  Wisconsin’s gaze flicked to her.

  “I did,” he replied.

  Minnesota grinned.

  “Was it cool?”

  Wisconsin stared at her like she’d asked whether trauma tasted good.

  “…It was cold,” he said.

  Minnesota laughed.

  Iowa snorted.

  Atlanta rolled her eyes.

  Nagato’s mouth twitched faintly, almost amused.

  Shinano blinked slowly.

  “That counts,” Minnesota decided cheerfully. “Cold means you did it right.”

  Wisconsin’s eyes narrowed slightly, but there was the faintest hint that he wasn’t entirely offended.

  Nagato spoke next, voice calm.

  “Your presence will strengthen Horizon,” she said, straightforward.

  Wisconsin met her gaze.

  “That’s the point,” he replied.

  Nagato nodded once, satisfied.

  Atlanta huffed softly.

  “Tch. As if we needed another big ego battleship stomping around,” she muttered, eyes angled away like she wasn’t watching him.

  Minnesota’s ears perked.

  “Atlanta,” Minnesota sing-songed, “don’t be mean. He’s new.”

  Atlanta’s face flushed faintly.

  “I’m not being mean!” she snapped. “I’m just saying—!”

  Shinano’s sleepy voice drifted in like a pillow.

  “He is… loud,” she observed softly.

  Wisconsin glanced at her.

  “…I haven’t said much,” he replied.

  Shinano’s eyes half-lidded further.

  “Your armor is loud,” she clarified.

  A pause.

  Then Minnesota burst out laughing, loud enough that even Iowa’s mouth twitched.

  Wisconsin stared at Shinano for a second longer.

  Then, unexpectedly, he inclined his head slightly.

  “…Fair,” he said.

  Atlanta blinked.

  Nagato looked mildly impressed.

  Minnesota looked delighted.

  Iowa’s tail flicked.

  Wisconsin River, who had been quiet until now, spoke up briskly.

  “Try not to scare the workers,” she said flatly, eyes still on her paperwork. “They’re already afraid of Nagato and Bismarck. We don’t need a third intimidation factor.”

  Nagato’s expression remained stoic.

  “I am not intimidating,” she said calmly.

  Atlanta made a choking sound like a laugh.

  Minnesota grinned.

  Iowa muttered, “Yes you are,” under her breath.

  Nagato did not react.

  Wisconsin’s eyes flicked to Wisconsin River briefly.

  “…Noted,” he said.

  Then Iowa leaned forward, grin sharp.

  “So,” she said, voice full of wolfish curiosity, “you gonna start doing dumb shit like Kade too? Climbing masts? Fixing things upside down? Biting medics?”

  Wisconsin’s gaze sharpened.

  “I don’t bite medics,” he said flatly.

  Minnesota laughed again.

  Shinano blinked slowly.

  Atlanta’s face flushed again just from the word “bite.”

  Nagato’s eyes narrowed faintly.

  Iowa grinned wider.

  “Yet,” she said, smug.

  Wisconsin’s jaw tightened.

  “…Yet,” he admitted reluctantly.

  Minnesota was still laughing.

  And for a moment—just a moment—the room felt almost normal.

  Horizon normal.

  Which was to say: chaos, stubbornness, warmth hiding under rough edges, and people who had survived too much choosing to sit together anyway.

  Because that was what Horizon did.

  It held on.

  Even when nightmares tried to drag people under.

  Even when the sea stole daughters.

  Even when commanders bit medics.

  And somewhere in a prefab down the row, Tōkaidō sat watch beside a sleeping Kade, her hand still faintly warm from calming him down, while outside the base kept building a new ship for Fairplay and quietly preparing for the impossible task of bringing Vermont home.