七十六

                                    

                                          
As we approached the Special Fire Guardhouse 7, the architecture immediately transported me to another era—a time when the air was thick with the scent of wood and the clang of metal against brick echoed through narrow streets. The building before us was a striking blend of old and new, its design reminiscent of the Edo period, yet fortified with modern touches that spoke to its significance in the present day.
The structure was primarily constructed of rich, dark wood, its grain polished smooth by time and care. The beams were thick and sturdy, their edges softened by age but still strong enough to support the weight of the world. Bricks, weathered by years of exposure, were interspersed throughout the wooden framework, adding a sense of permanence to the building, as if it had always been there, guarding over Asakusa.
Metal poles, sleek and black, connected the various parts of the structure, their surfaces gleaming faintly in the dim light. These poles seemed to hold the building together, like the bones of some ancient, revered creature, lending it an air of unshakable strength. They crossed over the wooden beams, creating a complex web of support that was both functional and aesthetically pleasing, a testament to the skill of those who had built it.
The entrance was marked by a blue noren, the traditional Japanese fabric divider that fluttered gently in the breeze. The fabric was pristine, its surface unmarred by time, and emblazoned upon it was a white seven, the emblem of the company 7. The symbol was bold and unmistakable, a stark contrast against the white background, signifying the building's connection to the Brigade and its role as a bastion of protection.
Elsewhere on the building, the number "七" was prominently displayed, the character for seven, painted in deep, authoritative strokes on several parts of the structure. This simple mark declared the building's identity as the headquarters of the 7th, its presence commanding respect and recognition. The "七" seemed to blend seamlessly with the traditional design, a perfect marriage of past and present.
The roof, with its gently sloping eaves, was tiled in dark, weathered shingles, each one laid with precision and care. The eaves extended outward, casting long shadows over the walls, giving the building a sense of depth and mystery. Lanterns hung from the eaves, their warm glow spilling onto the path below, illuminating the entrance with a welcoming light.
As we stepped closer, the scent of aged wood and faint traces of smoke filled the air, mingling with the fresh scent of the night. The building stood tall and resolute, a silent guardian of the district, its walls echoing with the history and honor of those who had served within its halls. It was a place that felt both ancient and alive, steeped in tradition but ever ready to face the challenges of the present. Standing before the headquarters of the 7th, I hated this place.
I knelt beside Akira, my hands working with practiced care as I cleaned the deep wounds on his back. Each jagged laceration was a testament to the cruelty he had endured, and as I dipped a cloth into the warm, soapy water, I could feel the rage simmering beneath my calm exterior. But I pushed it down, focusing instead on the task at hand.
The cloth came away stained with blood, and I wrung it out with a tight grip, the water turning a deep crimson as it dripped back into the basin. Gently, I pressed the cloth against another of Akira's wounds, his body twitching slightly at the touch. His skin was warm under my fingers, feverish from the pain and the strain his body had been put through. I worked silently, my heart heavy as I tried to cleanse the cuts as best I could.
Nearby, Ichijiro lay on a makeshift bed, his small frame dwarfed by the blankets piled around him. His face was flushed, the fever making his skin burn as he tossed restlessly in his sleep. I paused in my care for Akira to reach for a clean rag, dipping it into a basin of cool water before gently pressing it to Ichijiro's forehead. The cold cloth seemed to bring him some relief, his movements slowing as the fever's grip loosened just a bit. I continued to dab the cloth across his brow, smoothing back the damp strands of hair that clung to his face.