Obi left the hospital with his legs dragging beneath him like anchors. Every step felt like he was pulling a shadow behind him, heavier than before. The air had turned cooler, and when he looked up, the sun was dipping behind the rooftops.
"Shit," he muttered, realizing the time. "Mr. Kumon's gonna kill me..."
Panic nudged his exhaustion aside as he bolted into the subway station and hopped on the next train back to Shibuya.
By the time he got back to the bookstore, dusk had settled in. The lights inside glowed faintly behind the windows. He climbed the steps toward the suite above, but just before opening the door, voices drifted down the hall.
Raised voices.
He paused.
"I'm not coming back to this house!" a female voice snapped. "You're not getting me back here. Because of you. Why did you have to be there? You didn't do anything when she asked you!"
Obi stood frozen outside the door, heart still rattled from the hospital visit. He gently pushed the door open-and saw them.
Mr. Kumon stood stiffly in the middle of the living room, and facing him was the girl from the train-the one with black hair streaked with icy blue, wearing the same white gown and orange haori. Her fists were clenched, and her cheeks were flushed with anger.
They both turned as the door creaked open.
"Who-?" the girl started.
"Obi?" Mr. Kumon blinked. "Where have you been?"
The girl snorted. "Obi? As in... belt?"
Obi sighed, not in the mood. "It's short for Obinna. I'm half African," he said flatly. "I've had enough people misread it today-I'm too tired to care."
Mr. Kumon rubbed his temples and said, "Hikari, this is Obi. I took him in after his family... well..." He trailed off.
And Obi realized.
That's why she looked familiar.
He'd seen her face in the photos scattered around Mr. Kumon's house. The girl in the pictures. The missing daughter.
She crossed her arms. "Wait a second. Were you tracking me? Is that why you were at the station?"
"What?" Obi blinked.
"Don't play dumb, Dad," Hikari snapped. "You sent him to spy on me."
"I didn't even know he left," Mr. Kumon said sharply, turning to Obi. "Boy. Where did you go?"
Obi hesitated. His mind scrambled for an excuse, lies flipping like a deck of cards behind his eyes.
Then he exhaled.
Screw it.
"I went to look for my sister," he said. "She's still out there. And I just... I have this gut feeling she's alive."
Mr. Kumon's eyes narrowed. "You left without telling anyone-to chase a gut feeling?"
"It's not just a feeling," Obi replied, trying not to sound defensive. "It's... something I can't explain. I had to follow it."
Hikari scoffed. "Wow. Real subtle, Dad. Letting your charity case run wild while grilling me for going off on my own."
"This has nothing to do with you," Obi snapped, his exhaustion starting to turn into irritation.
"Oh, doesn't it?" she shot back. "You were at the station. You followed me."
"I didn't even know who you were until five minutes ago!"
"But you saw me. And you stared like you knew something."
"Because I recognized your face from your dad's apartment!" Obi's voice rose now, heat pushing through his usual restraint. "I wasn't following you. I was trying to survive my own damn trauma!"
"Enough!" Mr. Kumon barked, his voice slicing through the room like a blade.
"You think you're the only ones hurting?" Mr. Kumon said, glaring between them. "You think you've got some kind of monopoly on pain? I've spent years cleaning up pieces of other people's lives-trying to keep this house from falling apart. And all I get is blame and silence and secrets."
Obi clenched his fists. "You think I wanted this? To be in some stranger's house, finding my family's corpses, watching my sister....." He holds his tongue at the last second almost revealing that demons existed. He scoffs before not looking up.
Hikari stepped forward, voice low and cold. "At least you got taken in. At least someone still wanted you."
Obi froze.
Mr. Kumon paled. "Hikari-"
"No." Her eyes shone, but her voice cracked. "You don't get to play dad anymore. Not after what happened with Mom. Not after you stood there and let everything fall apart."
Mr. Kumon looked like he'd been slapped.
A long, dead silence filled the room.
Then Obi, barely above a whisper, said, "What happened to your mom?"
Hikari didn't answer.
She just turned and walked past him toward the door. Her expression hurt but angry. "You're not the only one with ghosts, Obi," she said as she passed. " and please don't follow me again or you'll get hurt."
The door slammed behind her.
---
The door slammed shut with a shattering finality, and the world seemed to stop.
For a moment, there was nothing. No words. No footsteps. No breath.
Mr. Kumon dropped to his knees in the middle of the living room like a marionette whose strings had just been cut. His shoulders trembled, his head bowed low, as though the weight of years finally collapsed atop his spine. Obi stood frozen near the doorway, too stunned to move, too polite-or too scared-to speak.
He didn't understand what had just happened. Not really. But he could feel it. Something deep had broken. Not just in the house, but in the man who had been trying so hard to hold it together.
Above them, the hallway's fluorescent light buzzed faintly, then flickered once. Then again. The air changed-thick with a low, electric tension that prickled at the skin. Like the air before a thunderstorm, charged and waiting.
From deeper in the house came a sharp, startled yowl.
The bookstore cat-usually half-asleep and indifferent to everything-bolted down the hallway in a panicked blur. Its fur bristled, eyes wide and wild. It tore across the floor, claws scraping against the hardwood as it sprinted past Obi, nearly tripping him, and vanished into Mr. Kumon's bedroom with its tail puffed and twitching.
A beat passed.
Then-
Ding.
The chime of the front door rang out, clean and delicate.
Obi flinched like it was a gunshot.
"I'll get it," he blurted, voice too loud, too quick. He didn't want to stay. Not in that room. Not between a grieving father and the ghost of whatever had just been said. He needed to breathe. To reset.
Without waiting for a reply, he hurried toward the front of the store.
The quiet of the bookstore embraced him like a false sense of safety. Rows of shelves stood undisturbed, familiar. The scent of old paper and incense wrapped around his senses-soothing at first. But then something shifted.
The moment he stepped behind the counter, the air grew heavier. Not just warm-but wet. Smothering. Like breathing through a damp rag.
Then the smell hit.
Not mold. Not sweat. Something else. Something sweet and sharp, metallic and unmistakable.
Blood.
His body went rigid. He'd smelled it before. Hospitals. Accidents. But this wasn't just blood-it was concentrated. Wrong.
His throat tightened.
"May I take your orde-" Obi began, but the sentence trailed into silence the moment he looked up.
The man standing on the other side of the counter wasn't normal.
Tall. Impossibly tall. Dressed in a tailored black three-piece suit, crisp and spotless. His black hair curled in precise waves, framing a face too symmetrical to be human. His skin was pale-not sickly, but polished, like porcelain.
But his eyes-
God, his eyes.
Red.
Not irritated-red, not contact lenses. These were molten. Glowing. They shimmered like rubies, rich and deep and alive with something ancient. Something wrong.
The smile on his face was practiced. Friendly in all the wrong ways. Like a wax figure that had learned to mimic human expressions.
Obi couldn't breathe.
> "Fear the man with the blood-red eyes," Hibira's words came back like a curse. "The eyes of the beast."
His mouth opened, but his tongue felt like stone. Still, he managed-barely-"M-May I... help you?"
His voice cracked like glass.
The man chuckled. Smooth. Slow. Like honey sliding down a blade. "I get that look a lot," he said, amused. "Fear. Awe. It's almost flattering."
He reached out and patted Obi's shoulder. A gentle touch, light as air.
Obi recoiled instinctively, skin crawling.
"I'm here for a book," the man continued. "Something romantic. Or maybe fantasy. It's my wife's birthday, and I forgot to get her something nice."
Obi blinked. Wife?
This thing had a wife?
He didn't answer-couldn't. His thoughts spiraled. Facade. Cover. Is he hunting someone? Does he know about Kanou?
"Are you alright?" the man asked suddenly, head tilting, smile still plastered across his lips.
"I'm... fine." Obi's voice was distant. Hollow. He forced a smile that felt like paper against fire. "Right this way. Romance and fantasy are in aisle three."
He walked stiffly down the narrow aisle. Books stared at him, spines like silent witnesses. He could hear the man's footsteps behind him, but they made no sound. Just presence. Weight.
Obi gestured toward a corner shelf. "I-I'll let you browse. There's a discount if you find something on your own."
The man gave another small laugh, clearly entertained. "Generous."
He paused. "Oh-and kid?"
Obi turned slowly.
"Be careful where you look."
The sentence didn't make sense at first. But it felt like a threat. It seeped into his skin, crawled down his spine. He nodded with a dry throat. "Y-Yes, sir."
The man smirked and turned his attention to the books.
Obi staggered back behind the counter. His legs shook. His lungs felt too small.
Was this a warning?
A test?
Did he remember him? The fire. The blood. Kanou's screams. That night.
Obi gripped the edge of the counter until his knuckles turned white.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Until finally, the man returned.
He placed a slim red-bound book on the counter with care. "This one," he said simply.
Obi scanned it with trembling fingers, bagged it without a word. The man accepted it with a nod and turned toward the exit.
"Thank you," Obi managed, voice barely audible.
The man raised a hand in farewell.
Ding.
The door chimed again. The night swallowed him.
Obi stood frozen for a heartbeat longer, and then-
He collapsed.
His knees hit the floor hard, breath catching in his throat. His hands shook violently as tears broke loose. He couldn't stop them. His chest clenched and uncurled, gasping. Sobs escaped in choked, uneven bursts.
He had just smiled at the devil.
The devil had smiled back.
And somewhere in the dark, Kanou's life hung by a thread.
---
The Nameless King walked through the dark alley with the unhurried stride of a man who owned the world. Shadows clung to him like old friends, his silhouette twisting subtly as he moved-never quite human, never quite still.
Behind a dumpster, a drunk couple laughed and swayed. The man had a half-empty bottle in one hand and the girl draped across his shoulders, giggling as she clutched at him.
"Hey!" the drunk called out, squinting at the suited figure. "You never heard of privacy? This ain't no fashion show, pal!"
He stumbled forward, eyeing the Nameless King's immaculate suit with drunken envy. "Damn, you look rich. Maybe I'll get me a sniff of that jacket."
He reached out-grimy fingers fumbling for the lapel.
A moment passed.
Then a snap-so clean, so sudden, that it took the drunk a full two seconds to register that his hand was gone.
Blood spurted from the stump.
The man shrieked, dropping to his knees, clutching at the torn edge of his wrist.
The Nameless King turned to him, red eyes glowing faintly. "How dare you put your filthy hands on my suit," he said softly, as though deeply offended. "I was even planning to let your pitiful kind live. But no-" his tone turned icy, "-you've disqualified yourself."
The drunk choked on a sob. "W-what are you?"
The Nameless King crouched in front of him. "You're not even worthy of being turned. Not even worth eating." His lip curled. "So I'll grant you mercy. A quick death. Clean and painless. I have a wife to return to."
He raised his hand.
And with a casual backhanded slap, the man's skull caved in against the brick wall. The alley echoed with a sickening crunch as the drunk's body crumpled, lifeless.
The Nameless King wiped his hand with a silk handkerchief.
"Filthy creatures," he muttered.
---
The girl stood frozen, her back pressed hard against the wet brick wall. Her breath came in ragged gasps, misting in the chill air. The alley stank of spilled beer and rot, but all she could smell was blood-his blood.
The Nameless King turned to face her fully now. His eyes glowed faintly, red and deep like the coals of a long-dead fire reigniting. He adjusted the cuffs of his immaculate black suit with casual precision, as if preparing for a dinner party.
"I truly wasn't planning on killing anyone tonight," he said, his voice smooth and urbane-eerily at odds with the carnage behind him. "But you saw. That makes you... inconvenient."
She shook her head violently. "I-I didn't! I swear, I didn't see anything!"
Her voice cracked. "I didn't even want to come here. Please-don't kill me. Please."
He regarded her for a long moment, silent.
Then he smiled.
Not warm. Not cruel. Just... clinical.
"Fear makes humans so earnest. It's almost charming." He took a slow step forward. She flinched. He took another. She couldn't move. "Tell me-do you know what immortality feels like?"
She blinked, too terrified to answer.
"It feels... warm. Heavy. Like the universe wraps around you and forgets to let go." He raised his hand, the fingernail of his index finger glinting like obsidian. "I was going to share that gift with you. A sliver of godhood. You would have never hungered again."
He pricked his finger against his nail.
A single bead of black blood welled up. It shimmered faintly, not like any liquid that belonged in a mortal body-thick, slow, threaded with thin streaks of silver. It pulsed in rhythm with something ancient.
Her eyes widened. "Wh... what is that?"
He stepped close enough that she could feel the cold radiating off him.
"Don't worry," he whispered, touching her forehead with the bleeding finger. "The end of your mortal life will be... presentable."
The moment his blood made contact with her skin, her back arched violently. A strangled scream tore from her throat as her body convulsed. Her limbs snapped outward in unnatural angles, muscles seizing, veins bulging as if they were trying to escape her skin.
Blood sprayed from her eyes like tears. It poured from her nostrils, her ears, her mouth-red rivulets streaking down her neck, bubbling and hissing as it hit the ground.
She writhed, bones cracking in rapid, sickening succession. Her fingers curled inward, nails tearing from the flesh. Her stomach began to pulse, swelling unnaturally. Then-rupture. Chunks of shredded tissue spilled from her throat in a gory cough.
She dropped to the pavement like a puppet with cut strings, spasming, gurgling-alive, and somehow already gone.
And then, her body caught fire.
Not from outside-no. It started from within. A dull red glow spread through her veins like molten wire until her skin split open with the pressure. Flames burst from her eyes, her mouth, her chest. Within seconds, she was a smoldering husk.
The Nameless King stood over her, brushing the ash from his sleeves.
"She would've made a lovely immortal," he muttered, almost regretfully. "But these pitiful creatures can't even survive a pinch of my power."
He bent down slightly, using a silk handkerchief to wipe a speck of soot from the corner of his shoe. Then he stood straight again, adjusted his tie with deliberate elegance, and turned toward the mouth of the alley.
His shoes clicked softly as he stepped into the night.
And just like that, the darkness swallowed him.