The weight of the girl's body still lingered in his arms, his muscles trembling as he dragged her through the dark streets of Ward 20, rain pelting his hood and her blood staining his jacket. Each step had been a battle against his own instincts, his brain screaming to drop her in the alley and run, but that damned heart—the same one he'd cursed since childhood—pushed him forward. The voices of the hunters in the alley had grown louder, boots splashing in the water, and Luka, in a blind surge of panic, threw her arms over his shoulders and stumbled away, heart in his throat, until he reached home.
Now, she was there, sprawled on the living room sofa, the old fabric stained dark red where her blood dripped. Luka had locked the front door with shaky fingers, turning the key three times as always, then raced to the attic to grab the medical supplies he kept there—bandages, gauze, antiseptic, everything he'd "borrowed" from hospital shifts. He returned panting, wet hair dripping onto his forehead, and knelt beside her, the floor cold under his knees.
She was a mess. Her gray coat lay discarded on the floor, soaked and torn, revealing a white tank top that barely clung to her form, the fabric plastered to her body by blood and rain. Luka swallowed hard, his face burning, but kept his eyes on the wounds—the deep cuts on her arms, the stab marks on her thighs, the head gash still bleeding in slow pulses. He didn't touch more than necessary, his trembling hands applying antiseptic to the cuts and wrapping bandages around her arms and legs, the iron scent of blood mixing with alcohol in the air. The mask still covered her face, black and cracked, the stylized wolf fangs glinting under the dim light of the living room lamp. He didn't even think about removing it—something about it made him shudder, as if tampering with it would prod a sleeping beast.
Hana was breathing, her chest rising and falling in weak spasms, her black hair splayed across the sofa's backrest like spilled ink. Luka finished bandaging the last visible wound—a deep stab in her left thigh, which he covered with gauze and tape—and slumped back, collapsing onto the floor, hands crusted with dried blood and heart hammering. "What have I done?" he muttered to himself, wide eyes staring at the ceiling. The house was silent except for the sound of rain outside and her raspy breathing. He didn't know who she was, what she was, but there, in that moment, she seemed like just a broken person—and that was enough for him not to abandon her.
He was wiping his hands on an old towel when it happened. Hana woke with a muffled scream, her body jolting upright from the sofa in a sudden motion, as if something had yanked her from a nightmare. Luka froze, the towel dropping to the floor, but before he could open his mouth, she was on him. It was too fast—in a blink, she leaped from the sofa, bare feet slapping the floor, and grabbed him by the jacket collar. With a strength he couldn't fathom from such a battered body, she lifted him and slammed him against the living room wall, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. The wood creaked behind his back, and he felt the heat of her arm against his chest, her fingers gripping the fabric with a force that seemed capable of tearing it in half.
The mask stared at him, the dark eyeholes inches from his face, the red of the broken fangs gleaming like fresh blood. Her black hair fell in wet strands around the mask, and her smell—blood, rain, and something feral—filled his nostrils. He opened his mouth to scream, but only a pathetic whimper escaped, his hands rising in a useless reflex of defense. "Wait, wait, wait!" he stammered, his voice cracking as his body shook like a leaf. "I brought you here, I didn't hurt you, I swear!"
Hana went still for a second, her arm still pinning him to the wall, her rinkaku writhing behind her like a living shadow, the sharp tentacles brushing the floor with a sound like blades being sharpened. She tilted her head, the mask fixed on him, and her voice came out hoarse, laced with pain and distrust: "Who are you? What do you want with me?" Each word was a low growl, heavy with menace, but there was a weakness there, a tremor betraying her condition.
Luka swallowed hard, sweat trickling down his forehead as he tried to meet the mask's eyeholes. "I… I'm Luka. I found you in the alley, you were bleeding, passed out. I just brought you here, bandaged your cuts, didn't touch anything else, I swear!" His voice pitched higher, almost a whine, hands splayed to show he was unarmed. "I don't know who you are, I just didn't want to leave you there to die!"
Silence fell heavy, broken only by the rain tapping the windows and the slow drip of blood still leaking from one of her poorly bandaged cuts. Hana didn't let go, but the pressure on Luka's chest eased slightly, as if she were weighing his words. The rinkaku stopped moving, the tentacles hovering in the air, and she stood there, body tense, the mask a void that seemed to swallow the room's light.
Hana remained still, her arm still pressing Luka against the wall, the mask mere inches from his face. The silence was suffocating, pierced only by the rain outside and the drip of her blood on the wooden floor. Luka trembled, hands open in surrender, his heart pounding so hard his chest ached. "I don't know who you are, I just didn't want to leave you there to die!" he repeated, his voice louder now, almost a desperate shout. But then he saw it—the movement behind her, the black, sinewy tentacles writhing like living snakes, tipped with a dark red gleam. A rinkaku. He'd heard about it on the news, in nurses' chatter, in the dumb headlines he ignored: ghouls, flesh-eating monsters, living weapons sprouting from their bodies.
The fear, once just a tremor in his legs, became an icy wave up his spine. "You… you're a ghoul," he whispered, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat. His mind spun, fragments clicking together like a gruesome puzzle—the disappearances, the mutilated bodies, the stories he'd laughed off as absurd. She was one of them. A thing that tore throats, ate people, that the CCG hunted like animals. His body shook harder, knees buckling, and he slid down the wall slightly, her arm still holding firm. "Please don't kill me, I didn't do anything, I swear!" he stammered, words tumbling over each other as hot tears burned his eyes.
Hana tilted her head, the mask's eyeholes locked on him, and the rinkaku moved again, one tentacle brushing his leg, its sharp tip slicing the air millimeters from his skin. "Shut up," she growled, her voice hoarse and cutting, thick with a threat that crushed what little air he had left. "Scream, and I'll rip your tongue out before you finish." But there was something in her tone—exhaustion, a crack—showing she wasn't fully in control. The wounds, the blood, the fatigue: she was dangerous, but on the edge.
Then a sound sliced through the tension—the click of the front door's lock, the jingle of keys turning. Luka's mother. His panic spiked, eyes darting from the mask to the hallway, his whole body quaking as if it might collapse. "My mom…" he murmured, more to himself than her, terror swallowing any rational thought.
Hana reacted instantly. The rinkaku retracted, but her arm yanked his collar harder, pulling him close until the mask nearly touched his nose. "Hide me," she hissed, her tone low and lethal, the tentacles rising again like a death promise. "If she finds me, I'll kill you both. Where do I go?" Her blood smell—iron, warm—filled Luka's nostrils, and his stomach churned, fear choking him.
"The attic!" he choked out, pointing to the hallway with a trembling arm. "Pull-down ladder, in the ceiling, there! Go, quick!" His voice was a thread, barely audible, but Hana understood. She released him with a shove that slammed him against the wall again, a wheeze escaping as the air left him, and then she bolted. Even injured, she was fast—her battered but steady body stumbling forward, bare feet slapping the floor, the rinkaku dragging behind like a living tail. She reached the hallway, leaped to yank down the retractable ladder with a loud creak, and climbed, the steps groaning under her weight. The hatch slammed shut with a thud seconds before the front door swung open.
Luka's mother stepped in, her wet coat dripping on the floor, hair tied in a sloppy bun. She shook out her umbrella at the entrance, the sound of rain muffled now that the door was closed, and looked at him with a tired smile. "Hey, kid. Got off early today, the store was dead because of the rain." But the smile faded fast when her eyes landed on the room. The blood-stained sofa, the torn gray jacket on the floor, the red drops scattered like spilled paint. She frowned, the umbrella slipping from her hand with a soft clatter. "Luka, what the hell is this? Where'd all this blood come from? And that jacket?"