Dawn

Kenji climbed back down into the vent. Maya was slumped against the wall, the flare gun smoking in her hand. She was pale, shivering from shock.

"Did we get him?" she whispered.

"Calculated probability," Kenji said, kneeling to pick her up. "One hundred percent."

He didn't make her walk. He carried her.

It took four hours to get out. Kenji navigated by the stars visible through the canopy breaks, ignoring the spinning compass. He carried her weight without complaint, his muscles screaming, his hands bleeding.

When they finally broke through the tree line, the sun was just cresting over the shoulder of Mount Fuji. The light was soft, pink and gold, touching the snow-capped peak.

The police tape was ahead. A patrol car was parked there, lights off, the officers asleep.

Kenji set Maya down gently on the hood of the car. She groaned, clutching her leg.

He leaned against the bumper, sliding down until he was sitting on the asphalt. He felt exhausted, hollowed out, and incredibly alive.

Maya reached down and grabbed his hand. Her grip was strong.

"You're covered in mud," she said, smiling weakly. "And blood. And ash."

"You should see the other guy," Kenji said. It was a joke. A bad one. But Maya laughed.

"I promised myself," Maya said, her voice turning serious. "That if I got out of there, I'd chase one less story. Maybe... maybe try a desk job. Or write a book."

Kenji looked up at her. "I promised myself that if I got out, I’d stop calculating everything. Maybe take a vacation without an itinerary."

"A vacation?" Maya raised an eyebrow. "Ideally somewhere without lava tubes."

"Ideally," Kenji agreed.

He stood up and leaned in. He kissed her. It tasted of smoke and sweat and survival.

"Let's go home, Maya," Kenji said.

"Yeah," she said, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Let's go home."