Nanami Ryusui

She didn't notice his gaze right away.

Ryusei Nanami was too loud, too self-assured for this world. He laughed as if he didn't realize that civilization had collapsed, that money no longer meant anything. He told stories of his luxurious life, joked, flirted—but sometimes he fell silent, gazing into the distance, where oceans once teemed with yachts.

She didn't understand him.

She was used to silence, to work, to survival. She didn't need fine words or promises of wealth. But over time, she noticed: he didn't just talk, he acted. He negotiated, built, and devised. Where others saw ruin, he saw opportunity.

One evening, she saw him sitting by the fire, thoughtfully sorting through pebbles. It was quiet all around, only the wind rustling the leaves.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, watching his hands.

Ryusei chuckled, tossing a pebble and catching it back.

“That there is still something beautiful in this world,” he said, holding her gaze.