—
A quiet wind passed through the ruins of what was once the Crimson Syndicate's final fortress. The Rift had closed. The sky had stopped bleeding. But peace—real peace—still felt like a dream too far.
Hoshiro stood atop a fractured tower, mask in hand, staring down at the city below. It was healing—slowly. But not everyone had made it.
He could still feel the weight of the reflection's last words: *Be better than me.*
Behind him, Kazuki limped up the rubble, jacket torn, one eye bruised. "So… you gonna say something heroic or just keep brooding like a final boss?"
Hoshiro smirked faintly. "Haven't decided yet."
Ayame arrived seconds later, her blade sealed again, aura calm but tired. "The world's changing, Hoshiro. The people need someone who remembers what was lost."
"I remember," he said. "I'll make sure they never forget."
She looked at him—not the mask, but *him*. "Then maybe it's time the world saw your face."
He hesitated.
Then, slowly, he placed the mask on the edge of the tower. Left it behind.
—
Down below, the news began to spread: the masked hero was no longer masked.
But he was still watching.
Still fighting.
Still protecting.
Not as a myth.
But as *Hoshiro*.
—