The bike roared to life beneath me.
The vibration surged up through the frame, through my arms, through my ribs—raw and undeniable. The sound split the night open, ripping through silence like proof that I still existed.
I was still moving.
We burst out of the garbage bay and onto the street, tires screaming as I leaned forward and twisted the throttle harder than I ever had before. The engine answered immediately, hungry, furious, tearing at the asphalt as if it understood the urgency better than I did.
Cold air slammed into my face.
Sharp. Clean. Violent.
It stripped the smoke and rot from my lungs, replaced it with wind and speed and something dangerously close to clarity.
The city blurred.
Traffic lights smeared into streaks of color. Neon fractured into ribbons. Buildings flattened into shadowed corridors as the world narrowed down to three things:
Asphalt.
Wind.
The relentless burn inside my chest.
I didn't know where I was going.
I only knew where I had to go.
The pool.
The place that existed before Galactors.
Before axes and executioners.
Before fractures and blood and erased lives.
Before I failed.
The ride didn't stretch in distance.
It stretched in weight.
Every meter dragged memories loose—unwanted, vivid, sharp-edged.
Early mornings when the city was still half-asleep. Chlorine biting my eyes awake faster than coffee ever could. Coach Morita's whistle slicing through the fog of exhaustion like law itself.
Don't be late. Again.
My grip loosened without me noticing.
The bike slowed.
The pool's sign emerged through the dark—dim, flickering slightly at the corner, unchanged in a way that hurt more than decay ever could.
My chest tightened.
Some time after leaving my apartment, the bike rolled into the swimming pool's parking lot.
I cut the engine.
Silence rushed in too fast—violent in its suddenness.
The ticking of cooling metal sounded unnaturally loud.
My hands stayed locked around the handlebars.
Fingers stiff. Knuckles pale.
If I let go now, I wasn't sure I'd have the courage to take another step.
Yuna didn't rush me.
Didn't tease. Didn't comment.
She stayed behind me, presence steady, letting the moment decide its own outcome.
I swung my leg off the bike.
My feet hit the ground heavier than they should have.
Each step toward the entrance felt like wading through resistance—like the air itself was reluctant to let me pass.
This wasn't an escape.
This was a reckoning.
I pushed the door open.
The echo hit instantly.
Water.
Tiles.
Space.
The familiar acoustics wrapped around me like muscle memory—sound bouncing cleanly, precisely, the way it always had.
Then I stepped inside.
Coach Morita stood alone near the water, clipboard in hand.
Older than I remembered.
Or maybe just heavier.
He looked up.
Didn't smile.
Didn't shout.
Just stared.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he turned away without a word.
He walked to the edge of the pool.
And jumped.
No warning.
No glance back.
Just the clean splash of a man choosing motion over conversation.
He cut through the water in long, practiced strokes—not fast, not slow. Controlled. Deliberate. Each movement carved with discipline earned over decades.
I stood frozen at the pool's edge.
Waiting.
He didn't surface.
Seconds passed.
Ten.
Twenty.
The ripples smoothed out. The bubbles thinned.
I knew the rhythm of his breathing. I'd memorized it over years of early-morning practices, watching him pace us underwater when we were younger, timing us not with a stopwatch but with his lungs.
He wasn't punishing me.
He was regaining control—over himself.
Thirty seconds.
Then forty.
The other swimmers slowed. Some stopped entirely.
They noticed me.
Their looks weren't hostile.
They were heavier than that.
Like I was evidence of something that had failed.
Coach still didn't surface.
My fists clenched.
He's angry, I thought.
He's choosing not to hear me.
A minute.
That was pushing it.
I exhaled slowly.
He wouldn't humiliate himself for me.
And then—
The water broke.
Coach Morita surfaced sharply, drew in a breath, and swam to the edge. He pulled himself out with smooth efficiency, water streaming from his hair and shoulders, dripping back into the pool like punctuation.
He stood there, back to me.
Breathing.
Only when his breathing settled did he turn.
That was when I spoke.
"…Sorry," I said quietly.
"I was injured."
"I don't need your foolish lies," he said harshly.
The words landed clean.
I bowed slightly.
"Sorry, Coach Morita."
His expression tightened.
"I waited at the competition," he said.
"I thought you'd show up."
He exhaled slowly.
"I called you again and again. You never answered. I even waited at the entrance."
"I checked the news too," he continued.
"Accidents. Incidents. Nothing."
His voice hardened.
"I don't need excuses. There was nothing reported."
My hand moved before I decided to let it.
I took one step forward.
Then another.
The room tilted.
Not spinning — compressing.
My breath hitched hard, sharp enough to fold my body inward. I tried to inhale again and felt something catch deep in my chest, like my lungs had forgotten the order of things.
Yuna stiffened instantly.
"Kaien—"
I didn't answer.
My vision blurred at the edges as a violent cough tore out of me.
Once.
Twice.
Something warm hit my palm.
I stared down.
Red.
Too dark. Too thin.
Blood.
The damage hadn't worsened—it had simply reached the point where pretending stopped working.
It hadn't sprayed.
It hadn't poured.
It had surfaced.
Coach Morita moved before I could react.
He was suddenly in front of me, faster than he'd been moments earlier. One hand caught my shoulder. The other wiped firmly across my mouth with a towel from the bench.
He froze.
Not at the blood itself.
At how little there was.
At how controlled it was.
"…That's internal," he said quietly. "And it's old."
His eyes moved the way they used to during training—counting, measuring, cataloguing. Shoulder. Ribs. The way my arm hung a fraction lower than it should have.
Yuna stepped in, hand already steadying my back.
My knees buckled anyway.
Coach didn't raise his voice.
Didn't accuse.
Didn't ask questions.
He just looked at my chest.
At my breathing.
At the way my body tried — and failed — to recover rhythm.
His jaw tightened.
"This didn't happen in an accident," he said.
"And it didn't happen today."
The words weren't an accusation.
They were a verdict.
His eyes widened—just slightly.
Then softened.
He looked away for a second.
That hurt more than anger.
"I was in an accident," I said quietly.
"That's why I couldn't compete."
His eyes widened—just slightly.
Then softened.
I swallowed hard.
Blood burned faintly at the back of my throat.
"…I was in treatment," I said quietly.
"Not fixed."
Coach closed his eyes for a brief moment.
When he opened them, the anger was gone.
Only understanding remained.
"…I see," he said.
"I can't explain everything," I said.
"But please trust me, Coach."
Silence followed.
Then—
"What next?" he asked.
"For a while," I replied, "I need to take care of something."
I stepped forward and hugged him.
His hand paused on my shoulder — just for a fraction of a second longer than usual.
Then he squeezed once. Firm. Grounding.
The grip said what he didn't:
You're not coming back to this.
And he wouldn't insult me by pretending otherwise.
"Thank you," I said. "For everything."
He rested a hand on my shoulder.
"Take care of what matters," he said calmly.
"Don't forget your ambition."
"I won't."
That hurt more than anything else.
I bowed.
I turned to leave.
✦ END OF CHAPTER 37 — No Second Dive ✦