Record of Lorelei: Chapter 7

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When Rui regained consciousness, he found himself lying in a hospital bed.

Both his parents had been murdered, their home burned to the ground. He later learned that a volunteer firefighter, drawn to the blaze, had discovered Rui and carried him to safety. A cloth soaked in hydrochloric acid had been shoved into Rui’s mouth, leaving his oral cavity and throat in a horrifying state. Mucus seeped from the raw burns in his throat, clogging his airway with every labored breath. A rasping, gurgling sound escaped from his nose and throat with each excruciating inhale. Speaking, swallowing—even moving his tongue—was impossible. It felt as though he were holding fire in his mouth, the pain searing through him like an endless, jagged fissure.

They had administered morphine, but it barely dulled the torment. The extent of his injuries left him in such a fragile state that he was caught in a grim race: would he die of starvation, or would the pain kill him first?

The police arrived to question him. They told Rui the attack could have been carried out by any number of suspects: someone connected to his father’s alleged embezzlement case, a vigilante driven by moral outrage after reading the newspaper, an enemy exploiting the chaos for revenge, a thief who believed his father had stashed stolen money, or even arsonists looting in the aftermath of the fire. In short, there were too many possibilities, and no leads. Abukawa, his father’s secretary, had disappeared that very night, and his whereabouts remained unknown.

One day, an instructor from the flight training school visited Rui in the hospital.

"Are you coming back, Asamura?"

Rui hadn’t expected such an offer. He couldn’t speak anymore. How could someone who had lost their voice possibly serve as a pilot?

"If you’ve got the will, come back, Asamura," the instructor urged.

During Rui’s hospital stay, a tattered old newspaper found its way into his hands. Among its pages was an extra edition announcing that war had officially broken out between Japan and the United States. The pilots in training had become a precious resource, their skills too valuable to dismiss over something as minor—at least in the military’s eyes—as a lost voice. The realization dawned on Rui: They see me as too useful to let go.

At the time, Rui was barely clinging to life and couldn’t answer. But as he recovered, eventually able to swallow water and sit up, the weight of his circumstances and his purpose began to crystallize.

It was then that he stumbled upon an article in another newspaper. His father had been posthumously painted as a man who had succumbed to the shame of embezzlement, murdering his wife to silence her, burning his house to destroy any remaining evidence, and then committing suicide. A grotesque caricature depicted his father clutching bundles of cash and a naked woman in his arms, dancing around a pile of bribes.

They called him a depraved, corrupt official who squandered the people's taxes on debauchery.

Not a single voice rose in his father’s defense.

One article even mentioned Rui, disparaging his mother in vile terms. Everywhere Rui looked, the public devoured the scandal with glee, casting his family in the worst possible light.

Around the same time, Rui’s grandmother passed away from illness. Rui had known she had heart troubles, but she’d seemed well enough the previous month to send him letters, even walking to the post office herself. It must have been the stress of the incident that killed her, Rui thought bitterly.

Her final wish had been for Rui to restore the honor of the Asamura family.

Rui wept on his hospital bed, though no sound escaped his ruined throat. His sobs were accompanied only by the wet splatter of tears and the pus-tinged blood dripping onto his sheets.

How am I supposed to do this alone? Rui thought despairingly. How can I, with these blue eyes and no voice, possibly rebuild the Asamura name?

◇:-:◆:-:◇

“──...!?”

Rui woke with a sharp intake of breath, startled by a touch on his forehead.

“Asamura... First Class Petty Officer?”

It was a man’s face in front of him—Mikami.

Mikami looked unsure of himself. “Sorry, did I wake you? But you were having a nightmare.”

As he spoke, Mikami gently touched Rui’s cheeks, alternating between them with his fingers. His breaths came through his mouth, his body drenched in sweat.

Remembering the contents of his dream, Rui brought a trembling hand to his temple, where sweat trickled down. Did I scream? Even awake, his spine trembled with cold, electric jolts, leaving him shaken.

“Let’s get you changed,” Mikami said, his tone matter-of-fact. “If you don’t mind my clothes, I’ve got something dry. It’s not new, but I just washed it.”

Is it really that bad? Rui glanced down. His arms gleamed with sweat, droplets falling from his jaw. But Mikami’s concern wasn’t only for the sweat—Rui realized it was tears mixing with it. That’s why Mikami was offering, trying not to call attention to it.

“I don’t need it, Mikami.”

Every time Rui spoke, it dragged him back into the pit of humiliation. No matter how much time passes, no matter how much my body heals, this ruined throat keeps dragging me back to that moment. Returning to the training school had meant a life of frustration, a world where communication was a daily battle. Surrounded by people who believed the lies about his father, mocked his blue eyes, and flung insults ripped straight from the tabloids, Rui couldn’t even defend himself. The inability to respond, to fight back with words, stoked his anger. Sadness hardened into fury. Why did this have to happen to me? Why does everyone believe those lies? Why doesn’t anyone understand my father? With nowhere to direct his rage, Rui had spent his final year at the training school consumed by it.

“Do you want water?”

Rui shook his head. Mikami gave him a worried look and reached out, running a hand through Rui’s damp hair. Rui wanted to tell him to stop—you’ll get your hands wet—but Mikami seemed indifferent to that.

“Should I call for a medic? You look like you’re in pain.”

The gentle tone caught Rui off guard, and before he could stop himself, he retorted, “You’re overprotective. What do you think I am?”

I’m an aviator. A demon of the skies. Lorelei. Such tender care, as if he were a fragile little bird, was unnecessary.

Mikami chuckled and rummaged through the bag behind him. “Sorry, I guess I can’t help it—I’ve got three younger sisters.”

“Don’t compare me to your sisters.”

“My apologies.”

Still facing away, Mikami seemed to understand Rui’s voice perfectly, even though it was more strained and broken than usual. It was remarkable, Rui thought, how he could comprehend it so clearly. But why was Mikami here? Not just here in the room—but here with him? As if responding to Rui’s unspoken question, Mikami answered.

“They said I could stay anywhere in the pilot dormitory, so I came to reserve a spot. It sounds like there are enough beds.”

That wasn’t what Rui was asking. Why here? Why him? As if sensing the deeper query, Mikami provided the missing piece.

“I thought it would be more inconvenient if the people around you didn’t know your situation—or so I thought. Sorry if I overstepped, First Class Petty Officer Asamura.”

Mikami’s slightly drooping eyes carried a hint of amusement, paired with a faintly awkward smile. Was he here to play caretaker? Rui’s experience told him what would happen if he were left among strangers unfamiliar with his condition. They’d demand answers. More than once, he’d been berated for not responding promptly enough—“What kind of Imperial Navy soldier can’t even answer properly?”—the shouting always oblivious to his inability to comply.

“Sorry, I might’ve gotten carried away earlier.”

Mikami’s tone was light, without much weight behind his apology, yet it wasn’t dismissive either. His laid-back demeanor hinted at a kindheartedness that, annoyingly, Rui couldn’t fully push away.

"…Annoying."

"I'll be quiet now, First Class Petty Officer Asamura."

"Just call me Rui."

Rui didn’t particularly like the idea of letting this man call him by name, but Mikami seemed set on staying nearby. Hearing "Asamura" every time, with all the memories it dredged up, was irritating.

After replying, Rui suddenly thought of a question. "How old are you?"

He had assumed Mikami was older—after all, he was the chief mechanic and had a face that looked mature. But the idea of being casually called by name by someone younger gnawed at him.

"I'm twenty-four," Mikami answered.

"…Rui is fine."

Satisfied, Rui decided to let Mikami use his first name.

"Rui, First Class Petty Officer?"

"No."

"Rui…san?"

"That feels gross."

Mikami's politeness was correct, but being addressed like some casual acquaintance felt off-putting. Rui realized then that people only called him one of two ways—either formally, as "First Class Petty Officer Asamura," or familiarly, as just "Rui," grabbing at his raw self.

"Just call me by name, without honorifics."

Mikami looked a bit perplexed. "You won’t hit me or have me demoted?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Please don’t."

Mikami’s relaxed, evasive replies were somehow both aggravating and disarming. He had a way of deflecting confrontation without denying its existence outright—a conversational style that made Rui feel like he was pushing against a soft but immovable curtain. Ignoring him would have been simpler, but Mikami didn’t ignore; he offered just enough resistance to frustrate.

"…Rui," Mikami finally said, studying him carefully as if testing the word.

"What?"

"Nothing," Mikami said, a sheepish smile creeping across his face.

It felt strange. How long has it been since someone called my name, and I could actually respond? Even Kido, who understood him best, needed to focus on reading Rui’s lips to communicate.

With Mikami, Rui felt a strange illusion—as if his voice were truly working, that it was just his own ears unable to hear it. He started to test the theory, opening his mouth to speak, but the faint metallic taste spreading across his tongue made him close it again. I’ve talked too much. The strained, damaged muscles of his throat couldn’t produce sound, but every attempt tore at them, leaving them bleeding. Letting out a sigh, he looked up at Mikami, silently blaming him for this.

Mikami was efficiently setting up his mosquito net, hooking its strings to the nails in the pillar with the ease of someone used to manual labor. From his unnecessary height, Mikami looked down at Rui.

"I’ve set up my bed right next to yours, so you can sleep peacefully."

I didn’t ask for that, Rui thought but didn’t bother saying it aloud.

＊ ＊ ＊

Mikami’s hometown had a lake. Nestled in a mountain basin, summers were scorching, and winters freezing. Each winter, starting at New Year’s, the small lake at the base of the mountains would freeze over. It was pristine enough to swim in during summer, its waters crystal clear, but when frozen, it took on a mysterious blue hue. The surface, veined with fine cracks and faintly frosted, became opaque, resembling crushed blue fluorite packed into the earth. In winter, the lake’s edges were rimmed with snow, and its still, quiet blue seemed almost dormant. The ice was thin, and children were strictly warned never to step on it. A local legend claimed that at the lake’s bottom, a girl sacrificed as a human pillar lay sleeping. During the festive New Year, she would feel lonely, spreading a thin sheet of ice to lure children to fall in. When the plum blossoms began blooming along the lakeshore, comforting her, the ice would crackle and sing before melting to usher in spring.

Mikami thought Rui Asamura resembled that winter lake.

Rui’s fine, well-kept hair framed his head with a luster that highlighted its elegant shape. Beneath his sharp, straight brows were eyes as if carved with a chisel—long, narrow, and strikingly artificial in their perfection, like those of a doll. His thin eyelids gave his gaze a distinct quality, their pale, bluish-white membranes folding sharply to form vivid, almost wound-like slits for his eyes. His eyelashes were remarkable, not just in length but in density, thick and robust as if no space remained at their base. His irises, reminiscent of a serene lake, paired with a slender nose and pale, thin lips. On closer inspection, even his lower lip bore a faint keloid scar, which, rather than detracting, added a certain luminosity that struck Mikami as beautiful. Rui’s lips, unused to much conversation, were always firmly pressed together.

Despite his role as a First Class Petty Officer in the Navy’s Air Corps—a title as imposing as it was prestigious—Rui carried an air of refinement. He wasn’t frail, but his physique lacked the muscle one might expect, his frame leaning more toward delicacy than strength. While one could accept that he was a pilot in the Air Corps, few would believe this graceful figure to be the notorious "Lorelei," feared by friend and foe alike.

Rui’s kill count continued to climb, and Mikami found himself sawing off the infamous U-shaped part from the plane for the fifth time. The last time, he had accidentally punctured the armor, and this time, he had to replace the entire panel. No matter how much he reasoned with Rui, the pilot would persistently reattach the part, forcing Mikami to remove it again and restore the surface to its original state before scolding him. He had explained the danger clearly—the part produced such a deafening sound that it could be heard even from a Type 1 Land-Based Attack Aircraft flying nearby, a piercing noise that screamed across the sky.

Complaints about Rui’s ferocious dogfighting reached Mikami as well. The unreasonable orders from above were the same: Convince your pilot to behave. Mikami had tried, not least because he agreed with their concerns. There was a purpose to forming a squadron. The lead aircraft acted as the commander, with the second and third planes providing support and vigilance. If the lead plane failed to down an enemy, the second would follow up, and only after that would the third engage while maintaining defensive coverage. Rui ignored all of this, cutting in line and chasing enemies at will, leaving the formation in disarray.

That day, during his fifth removal of the part, Mikami accidentally punctured the newly replaced armor panel again. His work was becoming sloppy; his irritation at Rui was seeping into his hands. How could it not? Five times. Anyone would grow weary.

When Rui hit him across the cheek, Mikami literally saw stars. The blow to his cheekbone was less jarring than the shock to his head, which left his vision reeling and unsteady.

Immediately, the chief mechanic’s thunderous yell struck Mikami like a hammer.

"You fool, do you think steel is free!?"

"I'm sorry."

The reprimand was unreasonable, but Mikami could only bow his head. After all, it was his decision to defy the pilot’s wishes and act on his own principles of aircraft maintenance. This time, during his work, he had slipped up—a careless mistake he regretted. Yet as long as someone kept attaching that cursed U-shaped part to Rui’s aircraft, Mikami would keep removing it. It was as simple and natural as wiping off bird droppings.

"How much longer until you make Asamura First Class Petty Officer stop this nonsense!?"

That’s my responsibility too, isn’t it? Mikami suppressed the question that bubbled up in his chest. Lately, every complaint about Rui landed on him. The official reason was that "Asamura can’t speak," though everyone knew Rui could hear perfectly well. Rather than address Rui directly, they made Mikami act as their mouthpiece, forcing him to relay grievances. Of course, the pilot's rebuttals came right back at Mikami. It was an endlessly frustrating tug-of-war.

"I’ll be more careful next time. My apologies," Mikami said, bowing again before walking away from the chief. At least he had secured permission to requisition a new steel panel. He intended to head straight to the warehouse, but his stinging cheek begged for relief. Perhaps cooling it down and regaining composure would help him focus on his work.

Mikami wandered into the shade of the thicket, stepping away from the blazing sunlight that poured like needles from the sky. The glare in the distance, as blinding as an explosion, reflected off the dry undergrowth that crunched noisily beneath his boots.

Damaged aircraft dotted the area—one with its tail shot clean through, another with a gaping hole in its fuselage, patched wings, and peeling paint revealing rust-red primer underneath. The wear and tear spoke of their age and relentless use. Steering clear of the busy mechanics, Mikami found a quiet path.

Why won’t Rui listen?

Mikami had dealt with plenty of difficult pilots before. Some complained their planes were too heavy, others blamed engine troubles—or even the mechanics' skills—for their poor performance. Occasionally, they’d demand entire inspections to be redone for reasons as vague as "It just doesn’t feel right," leading to sleepless nights for the maintenance crew.

Compared to those, Rui hardly ever criticized the mechanics. Yet he bristled at even slight adjustments toward a more standardized configuration. And as for that U-shaped part, it was a constant game of chicken—or perhaps sheer stubbornness. Recently, Mikami’s crew had started avoiding Rui altogether, using flimsy excuses to dodge his orders to reattach the part. Still, someone always did.

When Mikami investigated who had installed it this time, the culprit turned out to be a mechanic from another unit.

"I’m sorry," the unfamiliar mechanic stammered, averting his eyes like a guilty adulterer. "I knew I shouldn’t meddle in another unit’s plane, but he offered me three packs of cigarettes..."

Unbelievable. Mikami couldn’t even be angry at the man, who had fallen prey to such a cheap bribe. "Next time he offers, tell him I’ll double it for you to refuse," Mikami said flatly. "And spread the word to the others."

What a shameless flirt, Mikami thought, though the accusation might be excessive. Rui seemed intent on toying with the earnest nature of mechanics. Perhaps constantly dealing with him had dulled Mikami’s ability to handle selfish pilots as smoothly as he once could.

Lost in these thoughts, Mikami was startled by a scream.

"Stop—stop it, Akiyama! Aaaaagh!"

The pitiful cry sounded like a small animal being tortured. Mikami followed the sound, each drawn-out gasp urging him forward.

The silhouette of a twin-engine aircraft emerged—the "Moonlight," a night fighter. From behind the plane came a cheerful, booming voice.

"That won't do. Let’s cut this off, okay? It's rusted."

"No! Don’t! You can’t! Noooo!"

Even a cat having its whiskers trimmed wouldn’t make such a fuss.

A smaller pilot, pinned to the ground, thrashed desperately while a taller man—likely his crew partner—tried to calm him. Standing atop the aircraft was a mechanic, holding pliers and wearing a skilled tradesman’s insignia on his left sleeve. One of the elite—a marked mechanic, renowned for expertise and precision. Even at Rabaul, where the best and most experienced mechanics gathered, this man was exceptional.

Mikami recognized the face: Akiyama.

Known for his mastery of Nakajima aircraft, Akiyama was a legend among mechanics. In Mikami’s unit, whenever a particularly troublesome plane emerged, the standard advice was always, “Ask Akiyama.”

Mikami had crossed paths with Akiyama before. Back in the mainland, during Mikami’s early days as a rookie mechanic, his squad leader—a peer of Akiyama’s—was consumed with competitive jealousy. Mikami, often under orders, had spied on Akiyama’s maintenance sessions under the guise of "observing." It was a petty and slightly underhanded task, but Mikami, still a subordinate then, couldn’t refuse. Regardless, Akiyama’s skill was awe-inspiring and served as valuable learning material.

Now, in the present, Akiyama was working on an antenna wire, holding it delicately with his pliers. Smiling serenely at the agonized pilot writhing on the ground, he spoke with exaggerated calm.

"I’ll move your turn up and give you some of the newly delivered high-octane fuel."

"R-Really?"

The smaller pilot, still supported by his tall partner, leaned forward eagerly. His large, dark eyes sparkled with childlike excitement.

"So, I’ll go ahead and cut this too, alright?"

"Noooo!"

Snap.

Another wire was cut, eliciting another blood-curdling scream. The antenna wire replacement seemed to be the source of this theatrical anguish, but if the pilots were so attached to the plane, perhaps it was a lucky one indeed.

Moonlight 102.

Mikami’s eyes darted to the tail identification number, and realization struck. These two must be the famed "Twin Stars" duo: Atsutani and Kotohira.

"I told you not to come and watch the maintenance, Wataru! You’re just getting in the way. Let’s go back," the taller man tried to coax his partner.

"Please stop—stop it, Akiyama!"

"It’s fine. The new antenna wires have better sensitivity, you know?"

Snap.

"Noooo!"

Despite their elite reputation as ace pilots, the so-called Twin Stars appeared utterly at Akiyama’s mercy.

Watching this one-sided exchange, Mikami couldn’t help but reflect: This is how it should be—even if not to this extreme. Yet, comparing himself to Akiyama, Mikami couldn’t shake a sense of inadequacy.

At that moment, Akiyama noticed Mikami.

"Hey there. Something wrong?"

Caught off guard, Mikami stumbled over his words. "Ah, no, not really… I was just… having some trouble with maintenance."

It was an honest admission. Sometimes, watching other mechanics work could spark insight or provide reassurance. Mikami, feeling awkward, gave a slight bow and prepared to leave.

"Wait a minute," Akiyama called out.

"No, really, I don’t want to interrupt. Please continue."

"It’s fine. I was just about to take a break anyway."

"O-Oh no, Akiyama… what about the Moonlight? You’re leaving it like this!?"

The shorter pilot flailed his arms in panic, while Akiyama smiled with godlike benevolence, the very picture of a celestial guardian of aircraft.

"Let’s replace it after a quick smoke," Akiyama said with a serene smile that seemed to radiate benevolence, though it clearly offered no comfort to the desperate pilot.

"Wait, no! Without the antenna wire, I can’t—!"

"It’ll go on better after a break," Akiyama replied, unbothered by the pilot's near-death wailing.

As the small pilot was dragged toward the shade by his taller partner, his anguished cries of "The antenna! The antennaaa!" faded into the distance.

Akiyama tidied his tools and effortlessly hopped down from the Moonlight aircraft.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. What’s up?"

"Ah, it’s nothing urgent—though it’s about an aircraft, so maybe it is," Mikami said, fumbling for words. It wasn’t quite a consultation, but he truly felt the need for guidance.

Mikami followed Akiyama toward the shade, apologizing as they went.

"Sorry for bothering you during work."

"Not at all. I was wasting time with that plane-obsessed fool anyway. This is better."

Mikami handed Akiyama a pack of cigarettes, a universal token of goodwill that worked on everyone from superior officers to local residents. Since Mikami rarely smoked, he kept a third for himself and used the rest as barter or tokens of appreciation.

Akiyama took a single cigarette and returned the rest of the pack. For someone of his caliber, perhaps cigarettes were as plentiful as air.

They settled in the shade, overlooking the circular harbor, which shimmered with silvery light like the scales of sardines.

"So, what’s the issue? Is it the Zero?"

"Yes. The adjustments on the Zero I’m responsible for are... extreme."

Mikami hesitated to mention the U-shaped part—it was clearly something that should never have been there in the first place. Instead, he detailed the reckless adjustments made to the plane. Listing the values aloud, he found them absurd even to his own ears. It was a death wish in engineering form.

"The pilot won’t allow me to return it to standard. For now, I’m balancing it as best I can, but how far should I go with this? Are there other pilots like this?"

"That extreme? No, I’ve never heard of it."

"If I try to standardize the adjustments, the pilot refuses to fly. And with his record, the command seems willing to tolerate it."

Akiyama laughed lightly. "What an idiot."

The nonchalance stung, confirming Mikami’s suspicions. But before he could spiral further, Akiyama exhaled a stream of smoke and spoke again.

"If it were me, I’d reset everything to standard and leave the rest to the brass."

"He’d probably commit seppuku."

Mikami didn’t know if that was true, but recalling the Rui’s history—a life devoted to restoring his family’s honor through death in battle—made the possibility chillingly real. If the means to that end were taken away, Mikami felt certain that this reckless, proud man would end his own life instead.

Akiyama gazed at the clouds drifting across the blue sky, releasing a puff of smoke into the air.

"Think of pilots as princesses."

"...That doesn’t seem to fit in this case."

The serene expression Akiyama wore while gleefully cutting the antenna wire hardly suggested the demeanor of a dutiful retainer serving his lord.

"The princess’s mood is less important than her safety," Akiyama replied simply.

"Right..."

Though the sentiment sounded noble, Mikami found a certain truth in it. The role of the mechanic was to disregard the whims of the pilots and instead channel all the expertise of design, manufacture, and maintenance into building a plane that would ensure their survival. That was the essence of the job.

Akiyama smoked his cigarette in its entirety without breaking it apart—a luxury in these days of reduced rations, where most resorted to dividing cigarettes into thirds or fourths and using pipes to make them last.

"There are basically two types of maintenance," Akiyama said.

"Two types?" Mikami echoed.

"Yeah. Either you commit to the universal standard and make every aircraft a ‘good plane,’ or you finish it as the pilot's personal ‘wings.’"

Mikami nodded, seeing the truth in it. Until now, he’d always maintained planes to the universal standard. Aircraft were vessels, meant to be comfortable for anyone who flew them and consistent in handling across the board. That had been his guiding principle.

"Neither is inherently better. It’s just a question of whether you prioritize the army or the soldier. For common fighter planes, the former is the obvious choice. Dedicated planes are a different story, though."

"It’s a dedicated plane... for now," Mikami admitted reluctantly. The adjustments were so dangerous that no one else wanted to fly it. Without anyone officially approving it, it had become a de facto dedicated plane.

Akiyama exhaled another puff of smoke, gazing ahead. "Then it’s still the first type."

"But it’s a dedicated plane," Mikami countered.

"You’re a mechanic, not a pilot. Your job is limited. You can prepare the wings, but you can’t teach the bird how to fly, can you? Especially not when the bird is—"

"Asamura—" Mikami interjected, only to realize Akiyama wasn’t asking for the pilot's name. He was probing the depth of Mikami’s involvement.

"First Class Petty Officer Rui Asamura," Mikami said at last, his voice betraying an undercurrent of emotion. Concern, affection, and an unbidden sense of superiority—feelings he couldn’t suppress, no matter how much he wanted to. He felt his eyes grow hot, but he lowered his gaze, unwilling to let them overflow.

The faint crackle of Akiyama’s cigarette was the only sound for a moment.

"If you get too attached, you’ll lose your soul when First Class Petty Officer Asamura crashes," Akiyama said matter-of-factly.

It dawned on Mikami that Akiyama wasn’t just offering advice about the plane or the pilot. He was warning Mikami about himself. And Akiyama was right—if Rui were shot down, Mikami doubted he’d be able to move on. He’d likely burn out, staring at the empty sky, unable to work on another plane. The mere thought made him shudder. Even looking at the horizon felt unbearable.

Mikami found himself voicing his despair in a faint murmur. "The trouble is... he wouldn’t take my soul even if I wanted him to."

"A wild one, huh?" Akiyama chuckled, the cigarette between his lips bouncing with his laughter.

"Yes. If I called him that to his face, though, I think he’d ambush me in the night."

"An ambush?"

It was a phrase borrowed from Kido, but it oddly suited Rui. His fierce temperament, his obsession with results—he was the kind who would strike with precision, more concerned with the outcome than the name attached to it.

"Sounds like quite the feisty princess," Akiyama said, narrowing his eyes as he grinned through a haze of smoke.

"Dedicated planes are fine, but there are plenty of other aircraft waiting for your maintenance. I’d recommend sticking to the universal standard."

It was a gentle nudge to not get too caught up. But Mikami knew it was too late for that. His feelings were already tilted irreversibly. His concerns, frustrations, curiosity, and admiration for Rui were all piling onto the precarious balance of his heart. And now, even sitting here, he felt himself sliding further toward Rui.

Mikami buried his face against his knees, gripping his short bangs in frustration.

"Is it foolish," he muttered, "to want him to take my soul?"

His torment came from Rui’s inability—or unwillingness—to acknowledge his concern. If Rui could just accept flying a standard aircraft, Mikami would pour his heart into creating the perfect plane, even if it drained him. But Rui wouldn’t let him. The impossibility of it was suffocating.

Akiyama glanced at Mikami, his leisurely demeanor unchanged, and drew deeply from his cigarette.

"You’ve got a commendable mechanic’s spirit," he said at last.

He exhaled a plume of smoke, letting it drift lazily toward the sky.

"But no number of souls would be enough for that."

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