Gromov blinked in stunned disbelief, as if he couldn't trust his own words. Breathing felt noticeably easier. His voice carried a reverent awe:
"Are we… truly healed, Mr. Keito?"
He didn't seem to expect an answer—just grappling to process the impossible, reliving the moment, committing every detail to memory. Beside him, Elena sobbed uncontrollably, clinging to her father so tightly it seemed she feared he might collapse again. Her shoulders shook with each sob, but there was no bitterness in them—only pure, unfiltered joy.
The others shared in their emotions: Zhao Linfei held his daughter Meili tightly, unwilling to let go, as if afraid the miracle might crumble to dust. Ludovic Dupont, holding his breath, ran his fingers through Catherine's hair. Yamato Rejiro whispered softly to Haruko, his forehead pressed against the top of her head. And Friedrich Weiss…
Friedrich Weiss stood slightly apart, deliberately distancing himself from the others. His shoulders were tense, his fingers clenched into fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He opened his mouth but quickly closed it, not a sound escaping. Words seemed stuck in his throat, refusing to break free. Only his eyes betrayed his true emotions—beneath their icy hue flickered something warm, almost childlike. Joy, embarrassment, relief. He tried to hide them behind his usual mask of restraint, but it was futile.
And then there was his son…
Jurgen, unlike his father, didn't even bother showing any sign of concern. He had been sprawled in a deep armchair against the wall from the start, one leg slung over the armrest, his face buried in his hand. From his steady breathing, it was clear he was fast asleep, as if the entire ordeal was nothing more than a dull play not worth his attention.
No matter how much Friedrich prided himself on his composure, in that moment, he visibly bristled. A slight twitch of his eyelid betrayed a storm of irritation, but as always, he didn't allow himself an outburst. Instead, he let out a quiet exhale and cast a long, appraising look at his son.
Jurgen didn't so much as stir
This moment felt unreal. It was as if someone had hit the "pause" button, freezing time to let them fully savor this happiness. Weeks of despair, pain, and fear were left behind, and now they had to learn how to breathe, how to live… how to be together again.
Keito stood silently, watching them. A flicker of something like satisfaction crossed his gaze, but his lips didn't curve into a smile. He stood like a statue, a sentinel who'd lost his post and now didn't know where to go.
Then, without a word, he slipped one hand into his pocket and began to walk away. While the others drowned in the euphoria of their long-awaited freedom, he was already fading into the dimness, melting into the shadows.
"Sir! Wait!"
Haruko's soft voice cut through the clamor of joyful exclamations. She was the only one who noticed his departure. Breaking away from the group, she ran after him, her light footsteps echoing faintly in the emptying corridor.
She caught up to him near the heavy doors, slightly out of breath.
"I'm sorry…" she gasped, bowing her head. "I'm sorry for what I said. I… I didn't mean to offend you!"
Keito stopped but didn't turn around immediately. For a few seconds, he seemed to ponder whether it was even worth responding. Then, without looking at her, he reached out and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Don't worry about it," he said in an even tone, devoid of resentment or reproach.
But his words only made Haruko feel worse. More unsettling than his anger was this indifferent kindness, as if he'd already made up his mind and saw no point in holding grudges.
Keito withdrew his hand and took a step forward.
"When you're done celebrating, don't forget to close the door," he tossed over his shoulder. "I might've sat down with you lot, but… I can't stand the company of spoiled rich folks."
His voice was lazy, even mocking, but beneath it lay something else—something inexplicable.
"See ya."
And with that, he vanished into the shadows, leaving behind the warm glow of the room and the bewildered gazes of those who finally noticed his absence.