"Alrighty, Kaneki! Guess this is goodnight," Hide said, tapping his shoulder as they stood before the entrance to Kaneki's humble apartment.
It had been several days since his 'disappearance,' and while life had returned to normal, there was an unspoken weight lingering in the air.
Kaneki furrowed his brows slightly but said nothing.
After saying his goodbyes, Hide turned to leave. Kaneki fumbled for his keys, unlocking the door, when suddenly—Hide rushed back, wrapping him in a tight embrace from behind.
A hug so firm that words became meaningless.
Kaneki stood still, allowing the somber mood to settle over them. Hide trembled against his back, his grip tightening, his warm tears seeping through the fabric of Kaneki's pullover. It was a close call. Too close. And Hide hated close calls—especially when they involved his best friend.
After a beat of silence, Kaneki finally spoke.
"Hide. I will not die."
A curt nod against his back. Hide believed him, or at least, he wanted to.
Kaneki continued, his voice unwavering, yet holding a depth that Hide had never quite heard before.
"Hide." He let the name settle, etching itself into the fabric of his existence. "You will not die."
Hide tensed.
And then, like a snake slithering through the smallest gaps, Kaneki shifted within the embrace, repositioning himself until they stood face to face. His hand reached up, fingers threading gently through Hide's messy blonde hair, a slow, rhythmic motion meant to soothe.
To Hide, it was calming. The tension in his muscles gradually eased, his body succumbing to exhaustion under the simple act of Kaneki's head pats.
Time stretched.
A moment of peace.
A silent promise.
A binding fate.
And then—
"Now then," Kaneki's monotone voice shattered the ice, "we ought to get some sleep, no? Tomorrow starts the weekend, and you still have classes… until the afternoon."
Like a bucket of cold water, the words sank in. Hide groaned, a deep, guttural sound of protest.
"Life isn't fair," he grumbled, untangling himself from the koala hug with great reluctance. He wiped his face roughly and scowled. "Some of us have to suffer through class while others get to enjoy their freedom."
Kaneki remained impassive, but in the dim light, Hide caught the faintest hint of amusement in his dark eyes—just a speck, tinging the edges of an otherwise abyssal gaze.
Mumbling curses about how the world conspired against him, Hide finally took his leave, disappearing into the night.
Kaneki watched until his figure melted into the veil of darkness. Only then did he step inside, locking the door behind him.
The moment he was alone, his expression shifted. His features hardened, eyes narrowing as he surveyed the space.
Everything was neat. Immaculate, even.
Yet—
Kaneki moved through the unit, opening and closing cabinets, drawers, wardrobes—re-familiarizing himself with the space. He pulled out a chair and took a seat at the small dining table, listening.
The ticking of the wall clock filled the silence. A steady rhythm, ushering in memories of the void.
The endless seconds he had counted.
The eternal abyss that had stretched before him.
And now—this.
A cage.
A pathetic, worm-infested cage.
A frown deepened on his lips as he stood and moved toward the kitchenette, preparing himself a cup of coffee.
His senses expanded, spreading beyond the confines of his unit, brushing against the presence of every individual in the building. Twenty-five units, each occupied by oblivious souls. Some engaged in nightly revelry, their youthful energy still buzzing. Others were winding down, their breathing slow and steady.
It was all background noise.
At least some of his abilities had carried over—specifically, his perception. However, it was restrained, his range pitifully limited. A far cry from what he once wielded.
Fifty meters. Perhaps less.
It irked him.
Back in the void, his awareness had spanned distances beyond comprehension. If he so willed it, he could have monitored nations—half the planet, even. But now? Now he was leashed, shackled to mediocrity.
But—
This is temporary.
Limitations were just obstacles waiting to be bulldozed through.
Taking a sip of coffee, he mulled over the mechanics of his ability. It was more than sight, more than sound—it was a fusion of all five senses, sharpened into something far beyond human comprehension.
It was information.
And it was his to reclaim.
A smirk ghosted across his lips as a thought crossed his mind.
This world… it was unique. He had heard whispers of its peculiarities back at the hospital. And how fortunate he was that it wasn't just another human-dominated realm.
That would have been boring.
But here?
Here, there existed Ghouls.
His grin widened.
He poured himself another cup and sat in darkness, his mind splintering into three separate threads, each running its own set of thoughts, calculations, and plans.
This world was unprepared.
A new player had joined the game—
And his nametag was etched in gold.
A low chuckle escaped his lips, reverberating through the empty room like a whisper of something unknowable.
---
The late hours belonged to the devils.
Those who dared roam did so at their own risk, unless they possessed the strength to back it up.
Territories thrived under the moonlight, the tranquility of daylight peeling away to reveal the real rulers of the night. The air was thick with unspoken laws, a shared understanding among the underworld's inhabitants.
Mind your business.
Trust no one.
Keep your hands to yourself, your mouth shut, your eyes blind, and your ears deaf.
To ignore these rules was to invite death.
A desperate cry shattered the fragile silence.
A girl. Young. Fearful. Hurt.
The moon cast a sorrowful glow over the scene.
At the entrance of an alleyway, a group of figures loomed over a lone girl, her black hair disheveled, her gray eyes swollen from tears long shed.
Her dress—tattered.
Her body—scarred.
Her innocence—stolen.
No one stopped to help.
Passersby averted their gazes. Some hesitated, but ultimately, they walked on.
She had long since given up on the idea of saviors.
"How many times have we told you to bring in the full quota, huh?!"
The voice was sharp, grating, pulling her back into the cruel reality.
A man—lean, with a spiked blond mohawk and dark sunglasses—towered over her. The textbook image of a delinquent, clad in leather and arrogance. His lackeys laughed behind him, a chorus of mockery.
"I-I-I tried my best bu-but they don't seem to want my se-services anymore," her breath hitched and her body tensed in anticipation.
She stammered out an excuse, pressing her forehead against the cold ground, but it was useless.
A foot crashed into her side, sending her sprawling into a pile of trash.
Pain flared in her ribs, but she swallowed the cry, knowing it would only invite more punishment.
"Not our problem," the mohawked thug sneered, stepping closer.
He crouched down, tilting her chin up to inspect her face.
"But I thought your type was in high demand." His lips curled in mock pity. "After all, humans are a bunch of sick fucks."
A tremor ran through her body.
The memories clawed at her mind—unwanted hands, whispered filth, the phantom sensation of violation.
"As this isn't working out, we could always auction you off. I bet that French bastard would love to—"
Footsteps echoed softly down the alley.
The air shifted.
The gang tensed, muscles coiling in instinctive wariness.
A voice—deep, mildly amused—rippled through the narrow passage.
"Ahhh… well, isn't this interesting?"
The night had just become entertaining.