The antiseptic sting of the hospital room clung to the back of Ren's throat.
He sat on the bed, propped up by stiff white pillows. Electrodes trailed from his chest to a monitor beside him, a dull rhythmic beep-beep-beep filling the silence. An IV line was threaded into the crook of his arm, taped down tight. The bag hanging overhead dripped methodically, like a slow, constant clock ticking down time he no longer felt connected to.
He didn't blink much. Didn't move. His eyes were locked on nothing, staring through the gray curtain across the room like it might dissolve if he just waited long enough.
He wasn't crying.
He hadn't cried.
Not when he woke up.
Not when they found him trembling in the woods covered in dried blood that wasn't all his.
Not when they told him his parents were dead.
His fingers lay limp on the bedsheets, wrapped in gauze. His nails were chipped, broken. He couldn't remember when that happened. Everything was noise after that thing turned toward him. His mother's voice—"Run, Ren…"—still echoed through the walls of his skull like it had been carved into bone.
"Ren-kun?"
The nurse's voice was soft, careful, like approaching a cornered animal.
She smiled gently, adjusting the IV tube, checking the monitors.
"You're stable now. You were dehydrated when they brought you in… you lost a lot of blood. Some painkillers are in the drip, okay? We'll be switching to oral meds tomorrow if you're up for it."
Ren didn't respond.
She wrote something down on a clipboard, muttered something else he didn't register, and after a moment, left with a light bow and the hush of the door closing behind her.
Silence fell again.
A different kind of silence than the house, but somehow just as hollow.
A few minutes passed.
Then the door clicked open again.
Two men stepped inside, both in plain clothes, but their posture gave them away before the younger one even flashed a badge.
Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. Homicide, judging by the grim looks.
The older officer looked like he'd seen a hundred of these rooms. Tired, hardened features, hair going to salt. The younger cop behind him couldn't have been more than thirty—neatly dressed, eyes alert but soft.
"Ren Kurose?" the older one asked, stepping forward.
Ren didn't answer.
The younger one gave a small bow, almost apologetic. "Sumimasen. We understand this is difficult. I'm Detective Saito, and this is my senior partner, Detective Nakamura. We just have a few questions about what happened last night."
Nakamura pulled up a chair, sat with a sigh. His tone was clipped. "We know it's fresh, kid, but we need your statement. Anything you remember. Who broke in. What they looked like."
Ren blinked slowly. His gaze didn't shift.
"You said there was something in the room. Something that attacked your parents." Nakamura's voice didn't accuse, but it didn't believe either. "We need you to tell us again. What kind of weapon did they use? Were there multiple suspects?"
"...It wasn't a person," Ren muttered. His voice was hoarse, unused. "It wasn't… anything like that."
Nakamura sighed. "Right. The thing. With no skin. Hollow eyes."
He opened a notepad, flipping through it.
"Translucent body, leaking black fluid, killed your dad and… and was eating your mom?" He looked up. "Son, I need you to be serious."
"I am," Ren snapped—but it wasn't loud. It cracked halfway out of his throat, shaky and raw.
Nakamura leaned forward slightly. "You're telling me a monster came into your home in central Tokyo, murdered your parents, and then just... disappeared without a trace? That's the story you're sticking to?"
Ren flinched.
Nakamura didn't stop.
"You think you're the first kid to make up something when something this big happens? We've seen murder-suicides. We've seen home invasions, psychotic breaks. We have no sign of forced entry. No prints. No blood trail but your parents'. No—"
"Sir." The younger detective, Saito, spoke up, voice low but firm. "That's enough."
Nakamura didn't even glance back. "We need answers. This boy is the only witness."
"Understood, but this is not how we question trauma victims, especially minors. He's not even seventeen. He hasn't spoken to a guardian. We need to wait for the family lawyer or social worker before pressing like this—"
Detective Sakamoto's voice was calm but tense.
Nakamura stood, exhaling hard through his nose. "We don't have time to wait on lawyers while the trail goes cold."
Ren's hands trembled in his lap.
His fingers curled into the sheets, fists clenched. The cold air, the hum of the machines, the pulse of pain in his ribs—it all blurred. The memory was still there, stitched into his mind like scar tissue that hadn't closed yet.
"Run, Ren…"
The words clawed inside his skull.
Then Nakamura looked at him again, eyes narrowing, voice like frost.
"Unless you want people to think you killed them yourself, I'd suggest you stop playing games and start giving us something that makes sense."
Ren's lips barely moved.
"Get out."
Sakamoto put a hand on his partner's shoulder. "Let's give him space. This isn't productive."
But before they could leave—
"That's enough," said a new voice from the doorway. Calm. Low. Measured—but iron beneath the tone.
All three of them turned.
A man stepped into the room.
Tall. Imposing. Dressed in a dark, tailored suit that looked expensive but worn like a second skin. A long coat hung from his shoulders like a shadow. His sharp gaze flicked first to Ren, then to the detectives.
Nakamura's brow furrowed. "And you are?"
"Yujiro Hayashi," he replied curtly, stepping further inside. "I'm Ren's guardian. And if you're done traumatizing him further, I'd like a word."
Nakamura squared his shoulders. "We're conducting an investigation—"
"You're harassing a traumatized minor," Yujiro interrupted, voice still calm but laced with steel. "I've already spoken to your superiors. You're done here."
There was a beat of silence.
Nakamura's jaw worked. "You think you can just walk in here and—?"
"I can. And I did."
Yujiro's tone never raised, but it didn't need to.
"I don't care what kind of badge you're flashing. I know who signs off on your overtime. So unless you want to be explaining this to the chief inspector and his friends in Cabinet Affairs, I suggest you get out of my sight. Now."
Sakamoto glanced between the two men, then gently tugged Nakamura toward the door. "Sir. Let's go."
Nakamura stared Yujiro down for a long second. Then, finally, with a muttered curse under his breath, he turned and stormed out.
The door clicked shut behind them.
The silence returned—quieter now. Calmer.
Yujiro waited a beat before finally turning to Ren.
His expression softened.
"You holding up?" he asked gently.
Ren's eyes slowly drifted from the door to him. His gaze was still glassy, but something shifted. Recognition. A faint flicker of grounding.
Yujiro took the chair Nakamura had abandoned and pulled it close to the bed. He didn't crowd Ren. Just sat there.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there," he said. "I came as soon as I heard. This shouldn't have happened."
Ren didn't speak, but his body relaxed slightly. His fists loosened.
Yujiro continued. "You've been through hell. I don't expect you to talk right now, or even understand all of it. But I'm here. Whatever comes next—we'll face it together. I'll make sure no one pushes you around again."
A pause.
"Whatever you need, I'll help. I promise."
Ren's throat tightened. He looked away, toward the window.
Outside, the rain had started to fall. Thin streaks trailed down the glass, blurring the city lights into pale smudges. It was quiet. Safe, for now.
"…Thanks, sensei," Ren whispered.
His breath fogged the window slightly as he exhaled.
The rain kept falling.
The rain hadn't stopped. If anything, it had intensified over the days following the tragedy, turning the streets into glistening rivers of gray. Not the soft kind, but heavy, low—pressed flat like it was bearing down on the earth.
Rain fell in thin, cold sheets, pattering against the stone path like a steady whisper. Ren stood still, unmoving, water dripping from his hair, soaking through his uniform jacket. He hadn't brought an umbrella. He hadn't cared.
Before him stood the black-lacquered family ihai, the spirit tablets enshrined in a small wooden altar at the cemetery's edge. Flowers had been laid—chrysanthemums, white lilies. Incense still smoked in the small burner. The smell clung to the air, sharp and ghostly.
His parents' names were etched into the stone tablets.
He didn't blink.
Faces he barely recognized had come earlier. Distant relatives, neighbors, his father's coworkers. They whispered things like so young and so tragic and how awful with faces full of polite sorrow. But now they were gone. The ceremony was over.
It was just him.
He didn't cry.
He couldn't.
He felt like a hollow thing, waterlogged and slow, his skin a soaked shell that barely held him together. The wind blew through him like he wasn't there.
He stood there long after the incense had burned down to ash.
A few days later
Ren walked down the school hallway, his shoes soft against the polished floor. Students weaved past him, voices overlapping into a constant, low buzz.
Laughter. Whispers.
"That's him."
"I heard he was in the hospital for three days."
"Isn't his whole family…?"
He didn't react.
His bag hung loosely from one shoulder. His uniform shirt wasn't ironed. His tie was loose. He didn't care.
He passed a group of students, and their conversation suddenly hushed. He could feel the weight of their eyes clinging to his back like static.
He didn't look up.
Then it happened.
He turned the corner too sharply and collided with someone. A jolt. A gasp.
"Hey!"
A girl stumbled back, landing hard on the floor with an audible thump. Her friend crouched next to her instantly.
Ren froze.
His gaze dropped.
A girl with chestnut hair, shoulder-length, was brushing rain off her skirt. Her umbrella had clattered to the floor beside her.
"Watch where you're going, freak," she snapped.
Ren stared at her blankly for a moment, blinking once, like waking from a trance.
"…Sorry."
His voice was quiet. Detached.
He turned and kept walking, never looking back.
"Seriously? That's it?" she called after him. "No explanation? No 'Are you okay?'?"
But he didn't turn around.
The girl's friend helped her up, brushing dirt from her sleeve.
"You okay, Aiko?"
"Ugh," Aiko groaned, wincing. "Who the hell was that?"
"That's Ren Kurose. He's in Class 2-B, I think," Yuki said, still watching him disappear down the hallway. "You haven't heard about him? His parents…"
"I know who he is," Aiko interrupted, brushing off her skirt more aggressively now. "I've seen him staring at me before. Creepy-ass guy always lurking behind stairwells like a ghost. Seriously gives me the chills."
"Maybe it was just a coincidence," Yuki offered weakly.
"No way. I bet he's stalking me," Aiko said, crossing her arms. "Ugh. And now he crashes into me like I'm the problem? Weirdo. If he does it again, I'm telling the teacher."
Yuki didn't answer. She just glanced down the hallway again, where Ren had already vanished.
Their conversation faded into the background as Ren walked on, his face blank, his steps heavy. He didn't hear their words, but he didn't need to. The weight of their judgment pressed down on him like a stone, the familiar sensation of isolation tightening around him like a noose.