Here's the translation into English:
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It was April 29, 2025, a gray Friday that dawned with Ward 20 cloaked in a veil of mist, the remnants of the previous night's rain dripping from the crooked gutters of the buildings. Luka woke with a heavy body, his muscles aching from a restless night on the thin mattress in his room, the weight of the secret in the attic still pressing on his chest like a stone he carried unwillingly. The clock on his nightstand read 6:45, its cracked glass reflecting the faint light seeping through the window, and the sound of his mom clattering pots in the kitchen drifted down the hall—a familiar, almost comforting noise that pulled him from bed. He rubbed his eyes, dark circles like ink stains under his brown eyes, visible in the warped mirror hanging on the wall. He threw on a faded black t-shirt, worn jeans with holes at the knees, and tugged the hood of his gray sweatshirt over his messy hair as he descended the stairs, the steps creaking under his old boots.
The kitchen was warm, the air thick with the smell of hot oil, frying garlic, and the faint tang of chopped onion. His mom stood with her back to him, gray hair tied in a loose bun that let strands fall over her shoulders, her knife hitting the cutting board with a slow, precise rhythm as she sliced an onion into uneven chunks. The old kettle on the stove hissed faintly, the cheap coffee she insisted on making filling the space with a bitter scent Luka had known since childhood. He paused in the doorway, his backpack slung over one shoulder, the weight of Hana in the attic pressing on his mind, but he forced a crooked smile as he grabbed a metal mug from the cabinet, the clink echoing in the morning silence.
"Morning," he said, his voice rough with sleep as he filled the mug with coffee, the black liquid splashing hot and staining the edges with dark drops. He took a quick sip, the bitter taste burning his tongue and sliding down his throat, a jolt that woke him a bit more.
She turned her head, tired but sharp eyes glancing at him over her shoulder, the wrinkles on her face deeper in the pale light filtering through the fogged window. "Morning to someone who wakes up before the roosters," she replied, her dry tone laced with a humor Luka knew well. She returned to the onion, the knife cutting with a steady sound as she tossed the pieces into a sizzling skillet. "You've got that face like you haven't slept in a week. This internship's killing you, Luka. Or is it school?" Her tone was casual, but her eyes measured him for a moment, as if searching for something he wasn't saying.
He laughed, a short, strained sound that echoed in the small kitchen, and took another sip of coffee, the warmth rising to his face. "It's school," he lied, his brown eyes darting to the window, the gray sky reflecting the weight in his chest. "Internship's just this morning, I'll be back tonight. Don't wait up for dinner, okay?" He hesitated, fingers tightening on the mug as he tried to keep his voice light, the secret of Hana burning in his mind like a hot wire.
His mom grunted—a sound that could mean anything: agreement, disapproval, exhaustion—and tossed a pinch of salt into the skillet, the sizzle rising as the garlic browned. "Take care, kid. You're too skinny, like a strong wind could snap you." She didn't look at him this time, focused on the food, her calloused hands stirring the pan with a precision born of years. Luka nodded, his heart tight as he slung the backpack over his shoulders and headed out the door, the damp morning air hitting his face like a cold towel, the smell of wet earth mingling with the coffee still on his tongue.
His internship at Kamii Hospital started at 8 a.m., the gray building rising against the cloudy sky like a solid shadow, its windows reflecting the dim light as Luka entered through the automatic doors. The smell of antiseptic hit him first, followed by the metallic clatter of trays and the constant hum of monitors. He slipped into his scrubs in the locker room, hands trembling as he tied the strings, trying to focus, the weight of the day—and of Taro, whom he hadn't yet met—already pressing on his shoulders. The emergency ward was chaotic as ever, nurses darting between beds, doctors barking orders in rapid Japanese he struggled to follow, and Luka fell into the routine: carrying sterilized tools, changing dressings on wounds he avoided staring at too long, chasing down charts that seemed to multiply on their own.
It was during the break at 11 a.m. that the stranger appeared. Luka sat in the break room, a cup of bad coffee in hand—lukewarm, tasteless, a brown liquid that didn't hold a candle to what he brought to the attic. Perched on an uncomfortable plastic chair, he reviewed notes on "penetrating abdominal trauma" in a scribble-filled notebook, his brown eyes burning with exhaustion as he deciphered medical terms. The door creaked, and he glanced up, his heart giving a slight jolt when he saw the man enter—tall, thin, greasy black hair falling over his eyes in a sloppy curtain, a crooked smile on his lips that didn't reach his dark eyes. He wore a janitor's uniform, the dark blue fabric stained at the sleeves, but Luka had never seen him before, which was odd in a hospital where faces were familiar.
"New here?" the man said, his voice slow and drawling, as he leaned against the opposite wall, dark eyes fixed on Luka with an intensity that made sweat trickle down his neck. He held a plastic cup of water, long fingers tapping an irregular rhythm on it.
Luka hesitated, notebook open in his lap, brown eyes lifting to meet the stranger's as he tried to stay calm. "No, been here a few months," he said, his voice steadier than he felt, heart picking up under that gaze. "You? New to janitorial?" He tried to sound casual, but something about that crooked smile unsettled him, like the man saw more than he let on.
The stranger laughed, a low, dry sound that echoed in the small room, and stepped forward, his smile widening in a way that made his teeth gleam under the fluorescent light. "You could say that. Name's Taro. Started cleaning this week, but I've been around, you know? Hospitals, streets, dark places." He tilted his head, dark eyes glinting with something Luka couldn't name. "You look nervous, kid. Carrying some weight?" His tone was light, almost playful, but there was an edge that made the air feel heavier, Luka's fingers tightening on the cup until the plastic creaked.
"Just tired," Luka shot back quickly, snapping the notebook shut with a sharp motion, the lukewarm coffee burning his throat as he took a sip to cover. "Long shifts, lots to study." He forced a smile, brown eyes flicking to the corner of the room, but Taro didn't budge, his lean frame stepping closer, the water cup swaying in his hand.
"I get it," Taro said, the smile never leaving as he stopped a few paces from the chair, a faint whiff of sweat and something metallic rising off him. "But you've got that look like it's more than tired. Something at home, maybe? A secret?" He leaned forward, dark eyes narrowing as if digging into Luka, and his heart raced, sweat beading on his forehead as instinct screamed to get out.
"It's not that," Luka cut in, voice firm but shaky at the edges, his body rising fast from the chair, the plastic scraping the floor. "Break's over. Gotta get back." He tossed the cup into the trash with a dull thud, shoving the notebook into his backpack as he bolted from the room, hurried steps echoing down the hall. He felt Taro's gaze burning into his back, those dark eyes tracking him until the door slammed shut, the weight of that encounter clinging to him like a shadow he couldn't shake.
The rest of the shift passed in a blur of adrenaline and exhaustion. Luka darted between beds, hands trembling as he carried metal trays, brown eyes jumping to corners where Taro might be—but the stranger didn't reappear, his dark blue uniform lost in the crowded corridors. When the shift ended at 3 p.m., Luka changed out of his scrubs in the locker room, the damp fabric sticking to his skin as he slung his backpack on and left the hospital. The sky was darker now, heavy clouds promising more rain, the humid air clinging to his skin as he boarded the bus home, brown eyes fixed on the fogged window, his pale, tired reflection staring back.
Night fell like a black shroud over Ward 20, streetlights flickering weakly against the dark, the air thick with the smell of wet asphalt, trash, and a cold wind that cut through Luka's sweatshirt. He stepped off the bus at 7:30 p.m., hood up against the chill, boots splashing in puddles as he walked the narrow streets home. The internship had left him drained, muscles aching and head swirling with medical terms that spun senselessly—"internal hemorrhage," "splenic laceration"—but it was Taro who filled his mind, that crooked smile, those dark eyes that seemed to know more than they said. He quickened his pace, boots echoing on the empty pavement, the backpack's weight dragging his shoulders as he tried to shake the unease sticking like mud.
It was in an alley three blocks from home that the night turned to nightmare. Luka took the shortcut he always did—a narrow passage between old buildings, walls coated in mold and cracks, the ground a carpet of dark puddles and torn trash bags, the stench of rot rising with the wind. That night, the silence felt thicker, the air colder, the streetlights flickering a yellowish glow that barely pierced the shadows. He heard the steps before he saw the figure—a quick, firm sound from behind, like heavy boots hitting puddles. He turned his head, heart slamming in his chest, and there was Taro, greasy black hair glinting in the dim light, that crooked smile back, wider now, teeth gleaming like knives in the gloom.
"Thought you'd ditch me, kid?" Taro said, his drawling voice laced with something that twisted Luka's stomach, a mix of hunger and threat. He advanced, steps slow but deliberate, his dark eyes shifting—the whites sinking into black, pupils igniting in bright red, the kakugan of a ghoul blazing like embers in the dark.
Luka froze, breath caught in his throat, brown eyes wide as he stumbled back a step, his backpack slipping off his shoulder and hitting the ground with a wet thud. "What… you…" His voice failed, the notebook spilling from the open bag, pages soaking in the puddles as he tripped backward, fear icing through his veins. He knew those eyes—had seen them in Hana, black with red—but never like this, never with this promise of death so close.
Taro laughed, the sound bouncing off the damp alley walls, a low, wild cackle that made the hairs on Luka's neck stand up. "You reek of fear, but there's another smell too. Something I know." He tilted his head, black-and-red eyes locked on Luka as a kagune erupted from his back—a bikaku, a long, spiny tail, its sharp thorns whipping the air, cracking the ground with a snap that splashed water aside. "I'll cut you open and find out what it is." He lunged, the tail arcing fast, thorns glinting in the faint light as they sliced toward Luka.
Luka screamed, the sound hoarse and desperate as he threw himself sideways, the kagune slamming into the wall where he'd stood, concrete exploding into chunks that sprayed through the air, splashing into puddles. He hit the ground, hands slipping in the filthy water, heart pounding as he scrambled back, brown eyes locked on Taro. "Let me… I didn't do anything!" His voice shook, sweat pouring down his forehead and mixing with the light rain that began to fall, his soaked sweatshirt clinging as he struggled to stand.
"Nothing?" Taro laughed again, the sharp sound echoing in the alley, his tail rising for another strike, thorns spinning through the air. "You've been feeding a ghoul, kid. Hiding one, aren't you? I can smell her on you." He stepped forward, his grin stretching to show teeth, black-and-red eyes blazing with a hunger Luka could feel on his skin. "I'll eat you, then find her." The kagune swung down, thorns inches from Luka's chest, the air trembling with the motion.
Then the world shifted in a blink. A black blur dropped from the rooftop like a living shadow, the impact hitting before Luka could process—a heavy strike, a crack of breaking bone, and Taro flew back, his lean frame smashing into the opposite wall with a crash that split the concrete, chunks falling into the puddles with wet plops. Luka blinked, heart in his throat, breath trapped in his lungs as he saw Hana there, standing between him and the ghoul, her rinkaku sprouting from her back—thick, black tentacles pulsing with red veins that glowed in the dimness, the air humming with their brutal force. The black mask covered her face, black eyes with red pupils flaring like fire, her strong body tense but steady, her mud-caked boots splashing in the puddles with a heavy thud.
"Get out," she said, her hoarse voice cutting the silence like a blade, her tentacles rising in a menacing arc, their sharp tips gleaming in the faint light. Taro rose slowly, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, his bikaku kagune quivering as he glared at her, the smile vanishing for the first time, replaced by a low growl.
"You…" Taro spat, blood splattering the ground, his black-and-red eyes narrowing as he backed up, his lean frame shrinking against the cracked wall. "This your turf, huh?" He laughed, a weak, bitter sound, his kagune retracting with a wet snap as he took another step back. "Not worth the fight. Not yet." He spat more blood into the puddles, the dark liquid mixing with the water, and bolted, his form vanishing into the alley's shadows, his footsteps fading into the night.
Hana stood still, her black tentacles pulsing for a moment longer before retracting, the rinkaku sinking back into her with a viscous sound that made Luka shudder. She turned her head slowly, her black-and-red eyes shifting to brown as she looked at him, silence falling heavy between them, broken only by the patter of rain in the puddles. Luka sat on the ground, trembling hands braced in the dirty water, sweat and rain streaming down his pale face as he tried to breathe, brown eyes wide and fixed on her, his heart still hammering like a drum.
"You…" Luka swallowed hard, his voice cracking as he rose slowly, legs shaky but feet firm on the wet ground. "You saved me." Sweat dripped from his chin, his soaked sweatshirt clinging to his skin, brown eyes darting between her and the empty alley, fear mingling with a relief he couldn't name.
Hana stayed silent, brown eyes watching him through the mask's holes, her strong body easing slightly as the fine rain wet her black hair, strands sticking to her neck. "This spot's mine," she said finally, her hoarse voice low, almost lost in the rain's sound. "Everything around the house. My territory. I hunt here, kill here. No one else touches it." She paused, her gaze flicking to the ground for a moment, the puddles reflecting her brown eyes as she went on. "Was passing by. Saw him on you. I don't let that near the house." Her tone was firm but not threatening, her bare feet splashing in the water as she stepped back.
Luka blinked, his brain reeling with her words, heart still racing as he processed what she meant. Territory. She'd claimed the area around the house as hers, a space she guarded—or marked—like a predator with its den. A chill ran up his spine, brown eyes locked on hers as he grabbed his drenched backpack, the soaked notebook slipping in his trembling hands. "You… were out there? Hunting?" His voice wavered, sweat trickling down his neck as he tried to understand, fear still there but dulled by something new growing in his chest.
Hana nodded, a short motion, her brown eyes half-closing as rain dripped from the mask. "Always hunt here. Close." She hesitated, shoulders tensing for a beat before relaxing, her gaze on him with an intensity that made him swallow hard. "He'd have killed you. I don't let that where I stay." Her tone was dry, almost a fact, but there was more—a protection she didn't voice, but Luka could feel.
He nodded, his heart slowing as he wiped sweat from his face with a soaked sleeve, brown eyes fixed on her back as she started walking, the tentacles gone but vivid in his memory. "Let's go," she said, her hoarse voice echoing in the alley, bare feet splashing in the puddles as she led the way. Luka grabbed his backpack, its wet weight dragging his shoulders, and followed, brown eyes glued to her, fear blending with a gratitude that outweighed the falling rain.
The night grew quiet again, the sound of rain and their footsteps echoing in the alley, but Luka knew something had shifted—she'd been there, had come for him, and the territory she marked now included him, whether he wanted it or not.
The rain fell fine now, a light veil that wet the asphalt and dripped from Luka's soaked hood as he followed Hana through the narrow streets of Ward 20. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the splash of his boots in puddles and the firm tread of her bare feet on the wet ground, the soft echo blending with the distant hum of flickering streetlights in the night. Luka's heart still beat fast, a disjointed drum in his chest, but the fear that had gripped him in the alley—Taro's kagune slicing the air, those black-and-red eyes glowing like death—was unraveling, replaced by a weariness that weighed on his shoulders and dragged his feet. His drenched backpack hung loosely from one shoulder, the soaked notebook inside a dead weight, and his brown eyes traced Hana's back, her black hair plastered to her neck, the mask gleaming with raindrops under the faint light.
She walked ahead, her strong body moving with silent grace, the rinkaku tentacles hidden but alive in Luka's memory, a shadow he could feel even without seeing. Her words echoed in his mind—"This spot's mine. My territory."—and he tried to grasp what it meant, the fact that she'd saved him because that alley, those streets around the house, belonged to her. The scent of dried blood and rain wafting from her mingled with the damp air, a reminder of what she was, but also of what she'd done: stood between him and death, her black tentacles cracking the air like thunder. He swallowed hard, sweat and rain streaming down his pale face, brown eyes fixed on her as they turned the corner onto his street, the house emerging in the darkness as a low, familiar shape.
Hana stopped near the attic window, her brown eyes flicking back to him for a moment, visible through the mask's holes, half-closed but unthreatening. "Go in," she said, her hoarse voice low, nearly swallowed by the rain, a simple command that didn't ask for a reply. She gripped the window's edge with one hand, pale fingers firm on the wet wood, and climbed up with a fluid motion, her strong body vanishing through the opening like a shadow melding into the night. The window creaked as it shut, the muffled sound echoing in the empty street, and Luka stood there for a beat, brown eyes fixed on the fogged glass, his heart slowing as rain dripped from his hood.
He circled to the front door, steps slow and heavy, boots dragging on the wet concrete of the entryway. The key shook in his cold hands as he unlocked the door, the click of the latch too loud in the house's silence. The hallway was dark, the kitchen light off, the lingering smell of garlic and onion hanging in the air like a trace of the morning. His mom was already asleep—he caught the low snore drifting from her room as he climbed the stairs, each step creaking under his weight, his exhausted body hauling itself up as if carrying the whole alley on his back. The attic stayed quiet above him, Hana up there, but he didn't go up—not tonight, not with his mind spinning and his chest tight with something that wasn't just fear, but gratitude, confusion, an emotional weight he couldn't name.
In his room, Luka tossed the drenched backpack into a corner, the soaked notebook falling with a dull thud to the floor, its wrinkled, illegible pages splayed out. He peeled off his sweatshirt, the waterlogged fabric dropping in a wet heap, and collapsed onto the bed without changing his t-shirt or jeans, his body sinking into the thin mattress as if swallowed. His brown eyes stared at the ceiling, the room's darkness broken only by the faint glow of a streetlight seeping through the window, and he tried to breathe deeply, the air escaping shakily as the alley flashed back—Taro's kagune, Hana's strike, her eyes shifting from red to brown. The emotional exhaustion crushed him, heavier than the physical, a fatigue born of surviving, of being saved, of being tied to something he didn't understand but that now held him like a chain.
He closed his eyes, the sound of the rain outside a murmur pulling him toward sleep, his body shuddering one last time before relaxing. Hana was in the attic, her territory encircling the house, and he knew it meant something—protection, maybe, or possession—but his mind was too tired to unravel it. Sleep came fast, heavy, a void that swallowed him as the rain tapped the window, the distant echo of Hana's tentacles still pulsing in dreams he wouldn't recall when he woke.