#nerula

A/N: I like to imagine Nagomi still wears the ribbon Ranko bought her. This series was perfect execution of all my favourite yakuza/mafia tropes, especially the angsty ones, but I still wish the girlfriends could have made it till the end.

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Thirty-seven.

Nagomi did not like the number. There was something that sounded wrong about it, like it was too short or too long or filled with too much weight. Yet, here she was, turning thirty-seven in a few hours.

Lying in bed, she stared up at the ceiling. In the decades since she first joined the café, the place had been remodeled thrice, the latest iteration giving everything a cheerful farm vibe. The yellow walls had been her decision. The expanded bunks allowed more maids to join and live here if they had nowhere else to go.

This was not the same ceiling Ranko and Nagomi had looked up, all those years ago when they had just started as roommates. This was not the same café that had blood painted on the walls and survived several attacks and invasions.

And this was certainly not the home that Ranko had swore to protect, where Nagomi had confessed she wanted to change things, where they had grieved and comforted each other through everything.

In all honesty, that was for the better. 1999 had been a dark year. There shouldn’t be any reminders of the deaths, crime, and ever-constant fear. Of when a maid’s value was their weight in bullets, the shots they made, the enemies they took down.

The only reminder worth keeping was the small hair clip in Nagomi’s hand, still stained with dried blood.

Nagomi smiled as she raised the cute clip. No, it was enough that only she remembered. Keep the past as an easily forgotten nightmare. These days, maids were known for their smiles and song.

“You’d agree, right? Ranko? Nerula?” she whispered into the quiet, night air. “It wasn’t for nothing.”

Outside, she could hear footsteps as one of her fellow maids stumbled their way to the bathroom. Her coworkers were planning a birthday party with the customers. Even if Nagomi couldn’t dance, she could still put up one hell of a performance. After all of these years, her maid spirit remained just as strong as ever. For Nerula. For Ranko. For herself.

For those who didn’t make it.

Thirty-seven. Nerula had died young and so it had been easy to forget that she never reached twenty, thirty, never had her first kiss or fell in love. Her death had been horrible but made sense. Both Nagomi and her had been inexperienced and starry-eyed, certain their beliefs could pull them through safely in the end despite the horrors they’d seen. An unproven invincibility. A sisterhood that could overcome anything.

Of course Nerula died, she hadn’t known how to protect herself.

Ranko had been different. She had a gun, she had gone to jail, she had survived through everything with the single pull of the trigger. Experience had helped Ranko lead them all through various fights and traps, and even if she hadn’t known exactly how to get out of them, she had never lost her cool.

Ranko had been a survivor.

Ranko had died senselessly on the streets, stabbed in broad daylight, a smile on her lips.

Ranko had never made it past thirty-six.

Nagomi was about to turn thirty-seven.

No—a clock chimed twelve. Midnight. Nagomi was thirty-seven.