—Minutes Past Midnight, September 12th, 2025—

The candlelight cast twisted shadows on the kitchen walls as we tried to explain everything to Mom. The air raid sirens had finally stopped, leaving behind an eerie silence broken only by distant explosions and the occasional burst of gunfire.

"The more you wait," Mom said, her voice carrying none of its usual warmth, "the more chaotic it will get. If you're coming with me, it has to be now." She was already gathering essential supplies, moving with the efficient precision I'd always associated with her nursing career.

Eli and I exchanged looks across the kitchen table. In the flickering light, her turquoise eyes seemed to hold entire universes of understanding. We didn't need words anymore—we could read each other's thoughts in a single glance.

We were staying.

A heavy silence fell over the kitchen. For what felt like an eternity, the only sound was Mom's methodical packing. Then she stopped, her hands frozen over a half-filled bag. When she turned to face us, I saw something I'd never seen before in my twenty-seven years: tears violently streaming down her face.

"Mom..." I started, but she cut me off.

"I know what's coming," she said, her voice cracking. "I've seen it in my dreams. The death, the destruction..." She took a shuddering breath. "Humanity is entering its darkest hour."

She crossed the kitchen in three quick steps and pulled us both into an embrace tighter than any she'd ever given. Her tears fell hot on my shoulder as she held us.

"My children," she whispered. "Both of you, my precious children." She pulled back just enough to look at us, her eyes shining with a mixture of tears and that familiar knowing light. "Your journey is your own. I've always known that. From the moment you found each other, I knew..."

Eli was crying now too. "We'll be okay," she said, though her voice trembled.

Mom's smile was sad but proud. "I know you will. In ways I can't even explain, I know you will." She cupped both our faces with her hands. "I'm so proud of you both. So proud of what you've found in each other, what you've become together."

We helped her pack what she could carry—water, non-perishable food, first aid supplies, warm clothes. The task felt surreal, like we were moving through a dream. But the sounds from outside—screams, breaking glass, the occasional burst of automatic weapons fire—kept dragging us back to reality.

When everything was loaded into her car, we stood in the driveway for one final embrace. The street was already filling with people, some running with whatever they could carry, others trying to start cars that wouldn't respond to dead electronic systems.

"Remember who you are," Mom said, her voice steady despite her tears. "Remember what you've learned. Remember that love—real love, like what you two share—is the most powerful force in any universe."

She got into her car, one of the few that still worked thanks to its older, non-computerized engine. As she pulled away, the headlights cut through the gathering darkness like twin beams of hope. We watched until they disappeared into the chaos of the street, swallowed by the swelling tide of humanity trying to escape the city.

Eli's hand found mine, our fingers intertwining with practiced ease. We stood there in the growing darkness, watching the world crumble around us. The sky to the east was already glowing an unnatural orange, and new sirens were starting up in the distance.

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"Are you scared?" she whispered, pressing closer to my side.

"Terrified," I admitted. "But we have each other. And we have our way out."

She nodded, understanding perfectly. We'd prepared for this, in our own way. Not with bunkers or supplies, but with something far more important: the certainty of our eternal connection, the blueprint of our sanctuary beyond time. If things got too bad—and we both knew they would—we had our exit plan, our plan E. The nearby apartment building, twenty-seven stories high, would be our gateway to Izanagi.

But for now, we turned back to the house that had been our sanctuary these past weeks. Mom's candles still flickered in the windows, casting weak light into the gathering darkness. We stepped inside and locked the door, knowing it was a futile gesture against what was coming.

The war had begun. The old world was dying.

And we had chosen to stay and witness its final moments together.

—The Next Week—

The first days without Mom were a crash course in survival. The city's infrastructure was failing faster than anyone could have predicted. The water pressure dropped hour by hour, until finally, with a sickening gurgle, it stopped completely.

"Quick," Eli had said, her practical nature taking over. "Fill everything we can."

We'd worked together to fill the bathtub, every pot, pan, and container we could find. The water came out brown at first, then clear, then nothing at all. Looking at our collected supply, we both knew it wouldn't last long.

The temperature dropped steadily without heating. September nights in Ottawa could be cruel, and this September, colder than usual despite the ongoing magnetic pole shift and solar maximum, seemed determined to remind us of death's approach. We huddled together under every blanket we could find, our body heat our only source of warmth.

"At least we have each other," Eli whispered one particularly cold night, her scent somehow persisting even as everything else deteriorated. "Some people are facing this alone."

She was right, of course. We could hear them sometimes—lonely voices in the darkness, calling out for help or simply screaming into the void. We kept the curtains drawn and stayed quiet, knowing we couldn't help without endangering ourselves.

Our food supplies dwindled faster than we'd expected. Hunger became a constant companion, grinding away at our resolve. We rationed carefully, but each meal became smaller, less satisfying.

"Remember that episode of One Piece?" I asked one evening as we shared a single can of beans. "When Sanji was stranded on that rock with Zeff?"

Eli nodded, understanding immediately. "When they had to divide their food, and Zeff gave Sanji all the good stuff while eating his own leg to survive?"

"Yeah. Never thought I'd relate to that so much."

We tried to keep our spirits up with such references, finding comfort in our shared understanding of stories and symbols. But reality had a way of intruding. The smell was the worst part—with no running water, basic hygiene became a luxury. We used our precious water supplies sparingly, prioritizing drinking over cleaning.

Outside, the world descended further into chaos. The sounds of conflict grew closer each day. Sometimes we'd hear helicopters overhead, their searchlights cutting through our curtains like accusing fingers. The gunfire became more frequent, more desperate.

"I'm scared, Tris," Eli admitted on our fifth night, her voice small in the darkness. We lay on our bed—no longer just my old bed, but ours—holding each other close for warmth and comfort.

"Me too," I whispered back, pulling her closer. "But remember what we have that they don't."

She nodded against my chest. "Izanagi. Each other. Knowledge."

Our planned afterlife became our comfort, our light in the growing darkness. We'd review the details we'd written down, adding new ones as they came to us. The papers under our digivices became our most precious possession—more valuable than food or water because they contained our escape route, our true destiny.

By the seventh day, we were both noticeably thinner. Our clothes hung loose, and simple tasks left us winded. The lack of proper nutrition, fluids, and constant cold were taking their toll. But worse than the physical deterioration was the psychological strain.

Every unexpected sound made us jump. Every shadow could be a threat. The darkness that had once frightened me now seemed almost welcome—at least it hid us from whatever horrors lurked outside.

"We might have to make our move soon," Eli said as we watched our water supply drop to dangerous levels. She didn't need to explain what she meant. The apartment building loomed in our thoughts, its twenty-seven stories promising either liberation or oblivion, depending on your perspective.

"I know," I replied, holding her close. "But not yet. Not until we have to."

We both knew that moment was coming. Could feel it approaching like a wave about to break. But for now, we held each other in the darkness, our love the only warmth in a world growing colder by the hour.

We were approaching that point faster than either of us wanted to admit.