Make Them Love Me Or They'll End The World-Chapter 142: Oblivion

Some time had passed, and Kira found herself back at her apartment.

The lock clicked behind her, sealing her in the small box she called home. She kicked off her shoes without care, dropping her bag by the door. The quiet was immediate, thick, pressing, the kind of silence that made her ears strain for something, anything, to break it.

She had sent a few texts to Kentaro after school. Nothing serious, little quips, half-baked jokes, the kind of messages meant to look light and effortless. But behind every word had been a weight she didn't let herself admit. A quiet hope that he'd answer, just once, even with something short, something dumb.

No reply.

Not because he was ignoring her. She knew Kentaro too well for that. He was busy, carrying everyone else's burdens on his shoulders like he always did. That was the kind of guy he was.

Still… The silence stung.

Kira's lips twisted into a pout as she tore open the lid of instant ramen. The kettle clicked and hissed, steam curling into the air. Soon, the faint scent of cheap salt and artificial broth filled the room. It wasn't her favourite smell. It wasn't home-cooked warmth. But it was enough to remind her she was still here, still alive, still moving.

She plopped onto her couch, knees curled beneath her, and flicked the TV on. A random program called Villain Slayer filled the screen, with all its flashy costumes and overdramatic dialogue. She barely registered it. She just needed the noise, needed something to push back the silence that pressed down on her chest like a weight.

Her chopsticks swirled lazily in the bowl, noodles slipping between them. She lifted a bite, chewed, swallowed, though it tasted like nothing. Her stomach was full, but her head… Her head was replaying the same conversation over and over again.

Akio's words.

"To join Her… Would that not be the wiser move?"

Kira's teeth worried at her bottom lip. That single line had carved itself into her mind, looping endlessly.

Her heart whispered one thing.

Her brain screamed another.

Her heart urged, Stay. Stay here. Fight. Achieve your goal. Protect Kentaro. Even if it kills you, stay by his side.

But her brain, cold, ruthless, logical, snapped back, You're weak. You've always been weak. Stay here, and you'll just drag him down. Train under Akio. Get stronger. Gain control. Then, and only then, you'll be able to stand at his side. Then you'll be worthy.

The clash between the two made her chest ache. She slammed her chopsticks onto the table, splattering broth onto her thigh.

"Ugh… I don't know!"

Her voice cracked, ricocheting around the cramped apartment.

She stood abruptly, ramen forgotten, and paced across the room. Her steps were sharp, angry, as if stomping hard enough could crush her indecision. Then her gaze snagged on something, a small photo frame resting on a shelf.

Her feet stopped cold.

Inside the frame, a simple family portrait. Her mother's calm smile. Her father's steady presence. Her little sister, Akira, grins with the boundless energy only children have.

Alive. Whole. Untouched.

Kira's breath hitched. She crossed the room and reached for it, her fingers hovering above the glass but not quite daring to touch.

"…Mother, Father, Akira… What would you want me to do?"

Her voice was small. Fragile. The usual smirk, the sarcasm, the bravado, gone. This wasn't the Kira the world saw. This was the Kira no one got to see: a girl speaking to ghosts, desperate for answers she would never get.

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

Kira pressed her forehead gently against the frame. The cool glass bit at her skin, and her eyes stung.

"…Why is it always me who doesn't know the right answer?" She whispered, her voice trembling.

The TV carried on behind her, the hero of Villain Slayer shouting something absurdly cheesy about protecting the people he loved. Kira let out a small, bitter laugh, one that didn't reach her eyes.

"Protect the people I love, huh…?" She turned away from the frame, her laugh hardening into a scoff. "Easy for you to say."

She set the photo back carefully, almost reverently, before dragging herself toward the bed. The sheets were cool, the blanket familiar. She pulled it over herself, curling small, as if the fabric could shield her from the choices gnawing at her.

But sleep didn't come easily.

Every time she shut her eyes, images flickered: Kentaro's tired but genuine smile. Akio's calculating gaze, her words sharp as a blade.

Two paths.

One meant staying weak.

The other meant leaving him behind.

She buried her face deeper into the pillow, muffling her voice as she muttered, "…I'll decide when Akio leaves."

A coward's compromise. She knew it. But it was the best she could do for now.

Her eyes finally grew heavy. The world dimmed. And with the hum of the TV in the background, exhaustion dragged her under.

*

Cognitive Rift Anomaly Disposal, Lockdown, and Enforcement. Cradle to the public, the thin, cleaned-up face of law and order that people trusted without a second thought.

To ordinary citizens, they were uniforms and badges and calm morning briefings. They were the officers who directed traffic, the teams that responded to riots, the smiling faces you thanked when a theft didn't become a tragedy. That was one side. The comfortable, approved side.

There was another side. A quieter side. A side that existed on the other side of locked doors, whispered over encrypted lines, and written in the thin red print of after-action reports no one outside of the organisation would ever see.

That side fought monsters.

Alberlines: creatures that wore human skin like a costume and whose emotions could tear the world apart. They were beautiful and terrifying in equal measure, girls with tidal-force feelings that could shatter glass, topple buildings, set whole city blocks ablaze. If the truth of them leaked into daylight, panic would follow like a second sun. Civilisation, fragile as it was, would unravel.

So Cradle smiled at press conferences and bled in the shadow-rooms. They closed the borders of knowledge and left the public to sleep peacefully. They carried the world's fragile ignorance like a shield.

Tonight, beneath the same city lights that kept the streets calm, the Oshawa branch buzzed with a different kind of energy. New blood had arrived, not novices or interns, but soldiers. Women who had been tempered by other wars, other demands, and now carried those scars into Cradle's line-up.

Five of them stood before the branch's senior officers. Their uniforms were crisp; their shoulders held the straightness of people who had been trained never to flinch. The hall smelled of antiseptic and polished metal, and shoes clicked on tile like a metronome counting seconds until a mission began.

"Right," Takeshi said without ceremony, voice a blade. He didn't hide fatigue, but his tone left no room for dissent. "Though this was last-minute. You know why you're here."

The five exchanged a glance, brief, professional. Then a single, precise salute.

"Yes, sir. We're here to take out the new Alberline. Codename: Oblivion."

The name landed in the room like a stone in a still pool. Oblivion. Finality stitched into a word. Takeshi allowed the smallest, almost invisible smile. Beside him, Ino's softer face carried a different weight, relief edged with worry.

"We appreciate you coming all the way from Beijing. Your support means more than you know," she said. It sounded like a courtesy, but the gratitude in it warmed the room like a small lamp.

The five bowed as one. "It's our pleasure."

Takeshi's next orders were businesslike, a gravity that didn't try to hide itself. "Take tonight to rest. Tomorrow you'll meet the teams you'll be fighting beside. You'll need that strength."

"Yes, sir."

They filed out in formation. The echo of their footsteps lingered, then fell away. The room shrank suddenly, the air colder.

Ino exhaled, slipped back into her chair, and for the first time, the armour of professionalism softened. "…Sometimes it feels like we're always one step behind them," she admitted, voice low.

Takeshi's gaze didn't leave the empty doorway. "It's not just them," he said finally. "It's him."

Ino's head tilted. "The boy?"

"Kentaro Takamiya," Takeshi said. The name was a taste he couldn't spit out. "Even the Supreme Commander couldn't eliminate him. A college kid. It makes me wonder if he's even human."

The words were clinical, but the question undercut them like a tremor. Ino's eyes darkened. "Surely not. But failing to get him in Tokyo was a blow. Now that we know he's a student, killing him recklessly would be risky. Too public. Too many eyes."

Takeshi closed his fingers on the desk until the knuckles went white. "I want to meet him. Look him in the face. Find out why he's with Alberlines. Find out who's pulling the strings."

Ino's mouth tightened into a line. "Supreme Commander knows more than she lets on," she said. "Her expression when she learned… I read it like a closed book. She has some idea who it is."

"She won't tell us," Takeshi scoffed. "And even if she would, what then? We still have a problem: girls blending into human life at Kentaro's college. That's a risk."

Ino leaned forward now, voice colder than the tile under their shoes. "They shouldn't be walking freely. It endangers everyone."

Takeshi's jaw moved. The veteran's instinct for eradication, the quick tidy solution, surfaced. "We lure them out. Strike fast. Say they transferred overseas. Clean."

Ino's laugh was humourless. "That won't work. Not with Takamiya watching. He won't let it go. He's not alone; he's a node, and an angry node could burn us all. We can't risk a public incident. Not now."

A pause. The hum of the ventilation was suddenly loud in their ears. Takeshi looked at the corridor, at the place where the five had gone. "Tch. What a pain in the ass."

He rose then, coat brushing the chair back. "I'll see you later, Ino."

"I eagerly await meeting you again, Kentaro," she whispered under her breath when the door clicked shut and the room finally emptied of footsteps. It was not mercy, not exactly. It was the kind of sentence that tasted like a promise and a warning both.

The five from Beijing walked into the small quarters assigned to them: a neat row of lockers, a strip of fluorescent light, the low sigh of an air-conditioner. Above each locker, a polished metal plate waited with a name that had power in it, the kind that turned heads in agencies and on the field.

Mei Lin - tall and pale as moonlight, hair the colour of cherry petals, an elegance that made her presence an announcement. She moved with the kind of confidence people trusted as authority.

Hua Li - compact, red ponytail whipping like a banner, and a grin that would have disarmed half of the world if it weren't flanked by eyes that missed nothing.

Xia Yu - glasses catching the light, twin braids hanging like ropes of ink; her quiet was a breeding ground for calculations. Her smile, when it came, was precise.

Lan Fen - the youngest, green pigtails and a temper boxed up in a small frame. Underestimate her at your peril; the kind of force you only read about in cautionary tales.

Jin Yue - short, blonde, with a small scar along her cheek like a map of survival. She carried authority in her shoulders and a strategy in her jaw. She was the leader and did not bother pretending otherwise.

There was a rhythm to their movements as they set bags down and inspected surroundings: military, efficient, comfortable. In the corner, a single steam kettle breathed out a thin cloud of vapour. There were orders to follow tomorrow, a coordinate to set, a plan to line up. They were here to hunt, and every part of them understood that hunting was a contract with danger.

Mei Lin ran a hand through her hair and smiled at the others. "Beijing sent us their best," she said, but her voice held no bravado. It was a simple fact.

Hua Li's laugh was short and dangerous. "We didn't come across the ocean for sightseeing."

Jin Yue's gaze flicked toward the door, where the corridor lights washed in. "We will do our part," she said. "We kill Oblivion. We make sure no more blooms happen, then we can go home, it's as simple as that."

Their tone was even, professional, but underneath, in the fold between civic duty and cold steel, was a fierce hunger. They had been trained to sever threats before they became disasters. To them, Oblivion was a problem set with a name. They would solve it.