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The war was over. The Legion had been defeated, and for the first time in his life, Shinei Nouzen had nothing to fight against.
The Federacy welcomed the surviving Eighty-Six, offering them a place to live, jobs, education—everything the Republic had denied them. But none of it felt real to Shin. He wasn’t used to this kind of peace.
He moved into a quiet town near the Federacy capital alongside Raiden, Anju, Theo, and Kurena. Lena visited often, splitting her time between her military work and them, trying to help them adjust to this so-called "normal life."
At first, Shin enjoyed the silence. For years, the battlefield had been the only place he understood, and now, for the first time, there was no gunfire, no orders, no Legion. He didn’t have to listen for voices in the static.
But it didn’t last. Nothing ever did.
It was normal at first—whispers, repeating the names of people long gone: Kaie, Daiya, Eugene—all blending into static before fading. He woke up one night to the faint murmurs, but they were distant, like memories surfacing in a dream.
Shin told himself it was just trauma. He’d had nightmares before. He’d lived with ghosts all his life.
But then it happened again. And again.
The voices didn’t stay in his dreams. They crept into the quiet moments—when he was drinking coffee in the morning, when he was walking alone at night. They murmured names he recognized: past comrades, fallen Eighty-Six, even the commanders and officers from the Republic.
The café was nearly empty.
It was one of those places on the quieter side of the Federacy’s capital—warm lights, the faint hum of conversation, the clinking of ceramic cups against saucers. A place that felt normal, unlike the battlefield they had spent most of their lives on.
Raiden leaned back in his chair, watching as the barista moved behind the counter, brewing fresh coffee. Across from him, Shin sat motionless, hands wrapped around his cup, untouched.
Something was wrong.
Shin had always been quiet—cold, distant, always carrying too much weight on his shoulders. But this was different. His face was pale, almost sickly under the warm lighting. Dark circles smudged under his eyes, deep enough that Raiden wondered if he’d slept at all. His normally sharp gaze was unfocused, as if looking at something Raiden couldn’t see.
“You look like hell.”
No response. Shin just sat there, barely blinking, his fingers tightening around the cup.
Raiden sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Alright, what’s going on? And don’t give me that ‘nothing’ bullshit. You’ve been walking around like a damn ghost.”
Shin exhaled slowly. “Just tired.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m the President of the Federacy.” Raiden leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Talk. You haven’t been sleeping, have you?”
Shin hesitated. “It’s not—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. He was about to brush it off, Raiden could tell, but then… something in his expression cracked.
Raiden had seen Shin at his worst. He’d seen him covered in blood, standing in the wreckage of a battlefield, staring into the abyss with that empty look of his. But this—this was different. This wasn’t battle fatigue. It wasn’t exhaustion from fighting.
It was fear.
And that unsettled Raiden more than anything.
“Are the nightmares back?”
Shin’s fingers twitched around the cup. He didn’t answer.
Raiden sighed again, but this time, it was quieter. Less frustrated. “…It’s the voices, isn’t it?”
There was a slight shift in Shin’s posture—barely noticeable, but Raiden caught it. His grip on the ceramic tightened, his shoulders tensing. He didn’t confirm it, but he didn’t deny it, either.
Raiden knew that look. Knew that silence.
“The Legion’s gone, Shin,” he said carefully. “You don’t have to listen anymore.”
Shin inhaled slowly, tilting his head down. His bangs cast a shadow over his eyes. “I know.”
But you still hear them.
Raiden didn’t say it out loud. He didn’t have to.
For years, the voices had been part of Shin’s life. A constant, inescapable presence. But now that the war was over, they were supposed to be gone.
And yet, something was still clinging to him.
Raiden clenched his jaw, debating whether to push further. But then Shin finally moved—lifting the coffee to his lips and taking a small sip, as if forcing himself to go through the motions of normalcy.
Raiden huffed. “Took you long enough. Thought I was gonna have to force-feed you caffeine.”
Shin gave him a look that wasn’t quite annoyed, but wasn’t far from it.
Good. That was better than the dead-eyed exhaustion he’d walked in with.
Raiden leaned back, crossing his arms. “So? What are you gonna do?”
Shin was quiet for a long time. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “I don’t know.”
And that, more than anything, made Raiden uneasy.
Shin always knew what to do. Always had a plan, even if it was a reckless one. He was the Reaper, the survivor, the one who carried everyone forward even when there was nowhere left to go.
But now, he was lost.
And Raiden didn’t know how to bring him back.
For now, though, he stayed. Didn’t push. Just let the silence settle between them, filled only by the distant murmur of the café and the faint clink of ceramic against wood as Shin slowly drank his coffee.
Small steps.
Even if something still lurked beneath the surface.
The dream started the same way as always.
A field of scorched earth. Rusted metal and broken wreckage. The sky was too dark, choked with smoke, and the air hummed with static. Shadows moved at the edges of his vision—blurred figures standing just beyond reach.
And then, the voices.
Whispering. Distant at first, like echoes bouncing through empty halls. Names that shouldn’t be remembered, voices that should have faded long ago.
"Daiya."
"Kaie."
"Eugene."
Shin exhaled.
He had heard them all before.
The dead never truly left him.
But then, through the murmurs, a new voice surfaced—one he didn’t recognize.
"Captain Arnold Braeger."
The whisper was sharp, cutting through the static like a blade.
Shin’s eyes snapped open.
Morning light streamed through the blinds, casting thin golden lines across the floor. The clock on the bedside table read 6:12 AM.
Shin sat up, pressing a hand to his forehead. His hair was damp with sweat. His breathing was slow but steady. The name still lingered in his mind.
Captain Arnold Braeger.
He didn’t know why it stood out.
He had heard countless names over the years. Some he recognized, some he didn’t. But there was something about this one—something different.
Shin swung his legs over the side of the bed and exhaled. He wasn’t getting any more sleep.
It wasn’t until later that morning, while skimming through the Federacy’s news reports over coffee, that he saw it.
A small headline tucked into the corner of the page. Nothing major, barely a footnote in the day’s events.
"Federacy Officer Dies in Training Accident—Captain Arnold Braeger, 36, Found Dead."
Shin stopped breathing.
He read the name again. And again. The words blurred slightly, the ink too sharp against the paper.
Captain Arnold Braeger.
Dead.
A day after he heard his name.
Shin slowly set the newspaper down, fingers pressing into the table’s surface. His heartbeat was steady, controlled, but there was a pressure building in his chest—something cold and heavy curling around his ribs.
The whispers had always belonged to the dead. Always.
But Arnold Braeger had still been alive when Shin heard his name.
The voices weren’t just lingering echoes anymore.
They were predicting.
Shin stared at the name in the newspaper for a long time.
His coffee had gone cold. The café around him felt distant, the morning hum of conversation muffled beneath the weight settling in his chest.
He should tell someone.
Raiden, maybe. No—Raiden would believe him. That was the problem. The moment Shin said it out loud, it would become real.
He exhaled, pushing a hand through his hair. Calm down. It was a coincidence. It had to be.
Then his phone vibrated against the table.
He blinked, glancing down.
Lena.
For a second, he just stared at the name on the screen, fingers hovering over the answer button. Then he pressed it to his ear.
“…Hey.”
“Good morning, Shin,” Lena’s voice came through, light and steady. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No.”
A pause.
“You sound tired.”
He closed his eyes briefly. She always saw through him too easily. “I’m fine.”
Lena didn’t push, but he could tell she didn’t believe him. “I just wanted to check in,” she continued. “There was some news this morning about a training accident. A Federacy officer—Captain Arnold Braeger.”
Shin’s grip on the phone tightened.
“I didn’t know him personally,” Lena said, her voice softer now. “But it’s still… unsettling. It happened so suddenly.”
Shin swallowed. His throat was dry.
This was it.
This was his chance to say something.
To tell her—I heard his name before it happened. The voices told me.
To ask her—What does that mean? Why is this happening?
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
His body felt too heavy, his tongue frozen in his mouth. The words clawed at his throat, desperate to be spoken, but something inside him—something deep, instinctive—refused.
Like saying it aloud would break something.
Like once it was real, there would be no going back.
“Shin?” Lena’s voice was quiet now. Concerned.
His fingers flexed against the table. He forced his jaw to unclench.
“…Never mind.”
A beat of silence.
Then Lena let out a small breath. “Alright.” She didn’t press, didn’t question him. But she didn’t sound convinced.
Shin exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers against his temple. “Did you call just to talk about that?”
“Not just that.” Her voice softened slightly, like she was trying to ease him out of whatever dark place she could tell he was sinking into. “I was hoping to see you today. Maybe grab coffee?”
He hesitated. The weight in his chest hadn’t lifted. The name—Braeger’s name—was still there, lodged like a splinter.
But Lena was waiting.
“…Yeah,” he said finally. “Alright.”
“Good. I’ll see you soon.”
The call ended.
Shin set the phone down, staring at the screen for a long moment.
The voices weren’t just lingering echoes anymore.
And now, he wasn’t sure if he could tell anyone at all.
Shin barely heard the chatter of the café around him. The lingering echoes of the conversation with Lena sat heavy in his chest, his mind replaying that moment—when he tried to tell her and couldn’t.
He should’ve pushed through. Should’ve forced himself to say it.
But something inside him had locked up, like an invisible hand had gripped his throat and refused.
He exhaled sharply and rubbed his temple.
It didn’t matter now. He just had to—
"Frederica Rosenfort."
Shin’s breath caught.
The voice was right there, crawling into his ear like a whisper over a bad radio transmission. Cold. Detached.
Too familiar.
His grip tightened around the coffee cup, heart hammering against his ribs.
No.
Not her.
Then, he heard Frederica’s voice.
She was laughing. Talking about her knight, as if Kiriya was still alive. But the real Frederica was fine—alive, visiting them, still annoying everyone. She wasn’t dead. So why did her voice sound like a ghost?
Shin stood outside the café, phone clutched tightly in his hand. The air was cold against his skin, but he barely felt it.
"Frederica Rosenfort."
The whisper still clung to him, sending a sharp, crawling sensation down his spine.
He had tried to ignore it. Had told himself it meant nothing. A coincidence.
But Braeger hadn’t been a coincidence.
And now, it was Frederica’s name.
His thumb hovered over the call button. He didn’t even know what he’d say—Are you okay? Did anything happen?—but something in his chest screamed at him to move. To do something.
Before he could press the button, the phone buzzed in his hand.
Raiden.
Shin’s stomach twisted. He answered immediately. “What happened?”
There was a pause. Then Raiden exhaled, sounding almost annoyed. “Damn. How do you always know?”
The knot in Shin’s chest pulled tighter. His grip on the phone turned white-knuckled.
“Frederica got into a little accident,” Raiden continued. “Some idiot on a bike ran into her outside the barracks. She fell, scraped her knee. Nothing serious. She's fine—already yelling at everyone fussing over her.”
Shin’s breath caught.
His whole body had been bracing for something worse—something final. The whisper of her name had felt like a death sentence. Like it was already too late.
But it wasn’t.
She was fine.
Shin closed his eyes, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. The tightness in his chest started to loosen, but not completely.
“…She’s really fine?” His voice was quieter than he meant it to be.
Raiden snorted. “Yeah. You think she’d let us hear the end of it if she weren’t? The brat’s tougher than she looks.”
Shin exhaled. Some of the tension finally bled out of his shoulders.
But the unease didn’t leave entirely.
Braeger had died. But Frederica had only gotten hurt.
Did that mean the voices weren’t absolute?
Or had something almost happened, but missed its mark?
His fingers twitched against the phone. He didn’t like this.
Didn’t like that he still didn’t understand what was happening.
“You coming by to check on her?” Raiden asked.
Shin hesitated. Then, finally—
“…Yeah.”
Maybe seeing her fine with his own eyes would settle the storm in his head.
Maybe.
Shin walked through the barracks with measured steps, but his pulse was anything but steady.
The hallways smelled like old wood and clean fabric, the same as always, but his senses felt too sharp—every distant voice, every creak of the floorboards under his boots, too loud.
Frederica was fine.
He had heard it from Raiden. He had told himself again and again—it was nothing. A scrape, a fall. Nothing more.
But even now, the weight in his chest hadn’t lifted.
Maybe it was because he was still thinking about Braeger. Maybe it was because, deep down, he knew this wasn’t over.
And then—
"Vladilena Milizé."
Shin froze.
His breath hitched in his throat. His hands went ice-cold.
The voice—detached, distant, inevitable—echoed through his mind.
No.
No, no, no—
The door ahead of him was already half-open, warm light spilling into the hall. He could hear Frederica inside, complaining about how everyone was making too much of a fuss, her voice carrying with its usual stubbornness.
And Lena—
Lena was in there. Right now.
Shin took a step forward.
And then he heard it.
A scream.
Sharp. Terrified.
Lena’s voice.
From inside the barracks.
His body moved before he could think.
Shin ran.
Shin didn’t remember crossing the distance.
One second, the scream had pierced through him, and the next, he was already at the door, shoving it open so hard it slammed against the wall.
His breath was sharp, his heartbeat thunderous, but none of it mattered.
All that mattered was what he saw.
Lena stood in the center of the room, frozen, her wide silver eyes locked on something just past Shin’s line of sight. Her hands trembled, clutching the edge of a chair like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Frederica was near the bed, her usual defiant expression replaced by one of quiet, stunned fear.
Shin’s gaze snapped to the floor.
Blood.
A dark smear across the wooden planks. A trail.
His eyes followed it—
And stopped.
Someone else was in the room.
A man.
Dressed in a Federacy uniform, but something was wrong—his stance, the way his shoulders curled forward like a wounded animal, the way his fingers twitched against his thigh, hovering near the holster at his side.
Shin didn’t recognize him.
But the way Lena looked at him, she did.
The air in the room was heavy. Unbearable.
Shin took a slow step forward, voice low, steady. “Lena.”
She flinched, just barely. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
And then the man turned his head—just enough for Shin to catch the flicker of his expression.
Vacant.
Haunted.
Like something had already broken inside him.
A muscle in Shin’s jaw twitched.
His fingers curled into a fist.
The smell of blood lingered in the air.
And for the first time in years—
Shin felt like he was standing on a battlefield again.