~'•'~ Universe || World Trigger x OCs ~'•'~

⋆˚✿˖° Chapter 6 ⋆˚✿˖°

Ku, meanwhile, leaned against the couch, his usual nonchalance replaced with a quiet stillness. He watched Miku work, his expression unreadable, a subtle tension in the set of his jaw betraying his outward calm.

"It's deeper than I thought," Miku murmured, her voice soft.  She carefully applied a thin layer of antiseptic ointment before gently placing a bandage over the wound.  "You really should be more careful, Ku.  You're lucky it wasn't worse."

Ku simply nodded, his gaze drifting to the window.  The fading light casts long shadows across the room, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air.  He said nothing, but the slight wince that accompanied Miku's touch suggested the injury was more painful than he let on.

"So," Miku said, attempting to lighten the mood, "about that 'lacking something' comment… what did you mean?"

Ku finally turned his attention to her, a flicker of something – amusement? confusion? – in his eyes.  "It's hard to explain," he said, his voice low. "My trigger… it felt… disconnected. Like a tool I'm not fully in control of.  Like I'm missing a piece of the puzzle."

Miku hummed thoughtfully.  "Maybe it's just the strain of using it after so long.  And the injury probably didn't help."

Ku shrugged again, his movements still economical, still carefully avoiding unnecessary exertion.  "Maybe," he conceded.  "But it felt… different.  Not just tired.  Like something fundamental was… missing."  He paused, then added, with a sarcasm, "Or maybe I'm just getting rusty."

Miku smiled, a genuine smile this time, that eased some of the underlying tension.  "Well, whether it's rust or something more, we can work on it.  We have plenty of time before the next mission, right?"

Ku nodded, a flicker of something akin to warmth in his eyes.  "Right.  Plenty of time."  He leaned back further against the wall, closing his eyes.  The silence that followed was comfortable, punctuated only by the soft sounds of Miku tidying up the small medical kit.  The unspoken understanding between them hung in the air, a silent promise of support and shared burden.

The incident with the Marmords, the Ilgar, the near-miss, the reopened wound – all of it seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the quiet intimacy of their shared space.  For now, at least, the immediate danger was past, and the focus shifted to the quiet healing that lay ahead.

𓆝 𓆞 𓆝 𓆞

Somewhere else, where the wind, a raw, visceral force, clawed at the desolate landscape.  Above, the sky was a bruised, inky black, devoid of stars, mirroring the darkness that had settled over the shattered remains of numerous counts of destroyed neighbors.

Thirty of them, at least – perhaps many more lost in the swirling dust and debris – lay scattered like discarded toys, testament to a brutal and efficient slaughter.

A figure, a stark silhouette against the oppressive gloom, stood amidst the carnage.  Long, silver-white hair, wild and untamed, whipped around his face as the wind buffeted him.

He moved with a predatory grace, a lethal ballet of death. The last of his victims, a crumpled heap of broken piece by piece parts of a neighbor, lay at his feet, the final addition to the macabre collection. 

He paused, the violence momentarily stilled, and turned to another figure  who stood a short distance away.  The figure appeared to be engaged in a conversation, his voice lost in the cacophony of the wind.