Juri knew this wasn’t his the moment he stepped into the room.
It wasn’t jealousy—not really. Jealousy implies wanting something you believe you could have had. Juri has never made that mistake. He knows the shape of the future Taiga is building, and he knows exactly where he does not fit inside it.
Still, he comes—this room exists because of him.
White flowers. Soft light. Careful choices. Everything calibrated to say this is normal, this is allowed, this is almost legal. Juri catalogs it the way he does everything—quickly, thoroughly, without attachment. He positions himself near the wall, half-hidden behind a column, where he can see without being seen.
Taiga looks… lighter.
That’s the thing that hurts most. Not that he’s happy. Juri wants him to be happy. He has bled time for that happiness, has folded weeks over themselves until the seams frayed.
No—what hurts is that he looks unburdened. As if he believes the weight is gone for good.
Jesse stands beside him, hand steady in his. He looks right in a way Juri never was. Legitimate. Visible. Someone the world is prepared to recognize.
Juri watches the way people look at them—approving, relieved, eager to bear witness.
This is what the loop was for, Juri thinks. Not me.
He doesn’t resent Jesse. That would be too easy. Jesse is kind, earnest, painfully unaware of the scaffolding beneath his life. Juri respects him for that, even admires him a little. But admiration has never saved anyone.
Juri meets Taiga's eyes across the room.
Taiga’s expression shifts—just a fraction. Surprise. Then relief. He hadn’t known if Juri would come.
Juri smiles, small and careful. You made it, he tells him without words. It worked.
Taiga looks away.
That’s all right. This moment isn’t for him. Juri has always understood his role: intervene, correct, disappear. He’s good at disappearing.
The speeches begin. Jesse speaks first.
Juri listens despite himself. There’s gratitude there. Quiet defiance. The careful omission of words that would make this illegal instead of merely fragile.
Then Taiga steps forward. Juri doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until his chest starts to ache.
Taiga talks about his family. About loss. About believing he had to walk alone.
That’s not true, Juri thinks, instinctively. You were never alone.
When Taiga thanks “someone who stood where I couldn’t,” Juri closes his eyes.
Of course they think he means Jesse. Of course they do.
That’s the cost of this kind of power—you never get credit, only consequence.
Applause breaks around him like waves. The room settles into certainty—this is done, this is real, this is the future. Juri feels it then, sharp and unmistakable.
The wrongness.
It crawls up his spine, cold and familiar. He opens his eyes just in time to see Yugo step forward, expression twisted with something feral and triumphant.
Ah, he thinks. So that’s how you kept it.
There’s no time to explain. Juri moves.
He cuts through the room without hesitation, body already angling into the space between threat and target. He reaches for Taiga’s arm, fingers digging in harder than he means to.
“Taiga,” he says. “Run—”
Taiga turns toward him, confusion flashing across his face. He hasn’t seen it yet. He never does.
Yugo moves faster.
The sound is awful in its ordinariness. No grand crash. No dramatic pause. Just impact. Pain, bright and immediate, blooming through his chest.
For a moment, Juri is surprised.
Not that it hurts. But that he’s relieved.
Good, he thinks dimly. This means he won’t have to.
He hits the floor hard, breath leaving him in a sharp, broken sound. The ceiling blurs above him. Voices erupt around them—shouts, screams, chaos—but they feel far away, muffled, as if underwater.
Taiga drops beside him almost instantly. Of course he does.
His hands are shaking, useless and frantic, torn between pulling the knife free or holding it against the wound. He’s saying his name like a prayer he doesn’t believe in.
“No,” he says. “No, no, no—”
Juri wants to laugh. Or cry. Or apologize. He settles for honesty.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Not for this. Never for this. He’s sorry he let him believe the loop would always be there.
Taiga's eyes are wild, already searching for the reset.
Juri knows that look—has seen it before—hope sharpening into desperation.
It won’t come. He knows that too.
The power isn’t a thing you can leave behind. It’s a thing you are. And he is already slipping away.
“Don’t you dare,” Taiga says, voice breaking. “We can still—just—seven days. Just one more time.”
Juri smiles. It’s faint. It takes effort. But it’s real.
“I can’t,” he says softly. “Not this time.”
His vision narrows, darkness creeping in at the edges. The room feels suddenly very quiet. Peaceful, even.
This is fine, he thinks. This is how it’s supposed to end.
Taiga saved him once as a child. Juri saved him time and again as an adult. In the end, he saved the future Taiga wanted—even if he never belonged in it.
That’s enough.
Taiga’s hope collapses, finally understanding what it costs.
When he goes still, time does not move.