Chương 358: 155.Growth Period 1

Eyes open. The ceiling is still that same patch of black. I lie there for maybe three seconds, waiting for some trained instinct to hurry up and haul me out of bed—and then it does exactly that. Sit up. Find the bedside lamp. Hit the switch. The whole sequence runs so smoothly it might as well have been pre-recorded backstage. This is what you get for spending too long on the Yukikaze. On board, 0400 is shift change.

Wake up, wash, dress, report to the bridge—once that rhythm gets carved into muscle memory, it doesn't matter that you spent last night crying like someone with no dignity left. Your body still drags you out from under the covers right on the dot. The internal clock doesn't care about feelings. It only cares about the hour. In its own way, that makes it more loyal than anyone. I rub my face, stand up, and walk to the wardrobe on autopilot.

I'd hung my fleet uniform up last night without thinking; it needs washing today. Grab a few changes of clothes, fill the laundry basket, deal with the rest of the day later. The procedure's clear. I know it cold. I can handle anything. I yank the uniform down into the basket, then pull the wardrobe open to find something to wear. There are a few old civilian pieces on the top shelf, folded neatly. I reach for one—a dark blue long-sleeve I used to wear all the time. Shake it out. Pull it on. Halfway through. Stop.

Push a little harder. —Snap. Not the zipper. Not a button. Fabric. I look down and hold a five-second staring contest with the split in the seam. Right across the chest, the seam has given way—clean, decisive, not a second's hesitation, like it's been waiting years for exactly this moment and finally found its chance to be free.... Huh. I pull the shirt back off and check again, in case I'm hallucinating. I'm not. The seam really has blown, and it's blown in a location that is very, very, very confusing.

I look up at the mirror. Someone's standing there. Hair still a mess. Eyes still swollen. Same face. But. Something. Is very. Not right. I lower my gaze. Slowly. Down to the collar. Down to—"... Wait." I walk into the bathroom, flip on every light, plant myself dead center in front of the full-length mirror, and, with the clinical focus of a surgeon looking at an unfamiliar case, scan myself top to bottom. Face: same. Neck: same. Shoulders: maybe a little broader, but that could just be the light.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Then. Chest. I stare for a long time. A very long time. Long enough that the bathroom light starts to buzz, and I'm still standing there, looking.... This isn't a lighting issue. I raise one hand, very carefully, with the solemnity of someone lifting a dust sheet off an archaeological find, and confirm a fact that is currently doing minor structural damage to my worldview: Soft. And there's substance to it.

My hand stays right there while my brain calls an emergency cross-departmental meeting: Sensory Department: Confirmed. Substance present. Physics Department: Confirmed. Volume detected. Significant deviation from baseline recorded one year ago. Logic Department:... Requesting additional budget. Current calculations return an anomaly. Denial Department (last to speak): Possibly swelling. I put my hand down. Look at the person in the mirror.

The person in the mirror looks back with the exact same expression of bewilderment.

"... Am I having a deathbed hallucination, or did my genes just mutate?" Nobody answers, because the only things in the bathroom are me and my heroically deceased dark blue shirt. I glance down at the split seam. The shirt did its best. It was made for a different version of me. Not its fault—it just couldn't keep up. Like my student ID. Like my enrollment status. Like that automated bus system yesterday— Everything built for the old Hoshino Shimo doesn't fit anymore. I fold the shirt neatly and set it aside.

I'll probably never wear it again in this lifetime, but I still can't make myself throw it out. People are like that. You know something's useless to keep, and you still can't stand to watch it disappear. I dig through the wardrobe again, find a looser top, and this time cautiously eyeball the size before pulling it over my head. Good. This one doesn't explode. That's the smoothest thing that's happened all morning. I wash my face, brush my teeth, run a hand through my hair.

The person in the mirror does look a little better than last night. At least the swelling around the eyes is half gone. Still hard to say whether that person counts as me, though. Whether the girl who spent those months on the Yukikaze and the girl who walked out of No. 22, Platinum Bridge Street are really the same one. Something's clearly changed—changed enough that my own clothes don't recognize me. But some things still feel frozen on the day I left. Outside, it isn't light yet.

I walk back to the room and sit on the edge of the bed. The photo on the desk catches my eye. I don't cry. I just look at it for a second, then look away. Last night's quota is spent. My personal terminal buzzes—soft, like it's checking whether I'm still alive. I pick it up. Maki. I stare at the name for about two seconds, then open the message. Maki: Are you okay? Five words. Clean as a memo. But arriving at 0410, that's a statement all on its own. I think about it, then reply: Shimo: I think I'm okay.

Maki: What does "I think I'm okay" mean? I stare at the screen, seriously considering how to explain "subjectively no obvious collapse, but unable to confirm normal system operation," and finally decide the human translation is probably: Shimo: It means I'm not entirely sure whether I count as okay. A few seconds of silence. Maki:... Where are you? Shimo: Platinum Bridge Street. Then the chat goes quiet. I set the terminal down and stay where I am, listening to the sound of nothing outside.

Mornings on Platinum Bridge Street are thoroughly quiet—quiet enough that I can hear the building's own age creaking through the walls: a water pipe somewhere, a floorboard letting out a faint sigh. About ten minutes later, the doorbell rings. I get up, walk over, check the door monitor—then open the door. Maki Kushima is standing outside. She's in civilian clothes, not the uniform that makes her look like she's speaking for the entire system—just a plain dark jacket, hair tied back without much care. Empty-handed.

She just stands there while the wind lifts a few loose strands of hair. Before I say anything, she looks at me. And stops. Not the polite oh, you've changed kind of stop. A real one. Her eyes widen slightly, her gaze running over my face, my shoulders, all of me, again and again, like she's running some comparison program and the results keep refusing to match. Three seconds of silence.

"You're... Shimo?" I scratch the back of my head.

"Who else would I be?" She looks again, closer this time, like she's checking I'm not joking.

"... You grew," she finally says, her voice half a register lower than usual, like she's delivering the conclusion of a very serious observation report.

"Yeah, I noticed." I step aside to let her in.

"Come in. It's cold out." She walks past me, and as she does, her eyes flick toward me again, involuntary. I pretend not to notice.

"And," I say, pushing the door shut and turning around, "I don't have a single shirt left today." Maki stops and looks back.

"What happened."

"Blew a seam." She's quiet for a beat. Then she looks away, working hard to hold a professional expression, and clears her throat once.

"... Buy new ones."

"No shit." She doesn't say anything else, just takes off her jacket and hangs it on the hook by the door, like she has a permanent spot there. She does, actually.