A Saturday crept over District 20 with a thin mist and a gray sky that seemed to trap the sun behind a veil of tattered clouds. Luka woke up late, his body sinking into the thin mattress as if he had been crushed by a night that lasted longer than it should have. The clock on the bedside table read 10:15, its cracked glass fogged by the moisture trickling down the half-open window, the sound of last night's light rain still whispering in the corners of his memory—the snap of Taro's kagune cutting through the air, the impact of Hana's tentacles cracking the concrete, the rough echo of her voice saying, "my territory." He blinked slowly, his brown eyes burning with exhaustion, dark circles carved into his pale skin like inked grooves, the weight of the alley clinging to his chest like a shadow that refused to let go.
The room was cold, the damp air clinging to the soaked T-shirt he hadn't bothered to change the night before, the wet hoodie discarded in a pile next to his drenched backpack on the floor. The notebook inside was ruined, its pages wrinkled and stained by the alley's puddles—a loss he didn't even bother mourning. He rubbed his face with trembling hands, his messy brown hair falling over his forehead, and took a deep breath, the air leaving in a hoarse sigh that echoed in the silence. The night spun in his head—Taro's bikaku kagune, his black-and-red eyes glowing in the dark, Hana dropping from the rooftop like a living shadow. "This corner is mine," she had said, and the way she stood between him and death sent a shiver through him, an image he couldn't shake. His heart gave a light jolt, a strange unease rising in his chest, and he frowned, shaking his head as if he could throw it away. She's a ghoul. It was just luck, he thought, his inner voice firm but fragile, trying to smother whatever that weight was.
He moved slowly, his muscles protesting as he swapped the damp T-shirt for a clean gray one, the rough fabric scraping against his cold skin. He pulled on a pair of less worn-out jeans, his old boots creaking against the floor as he slipped them on. The thermos bottle was in his backpack, empty and cold, but he grabbed it anyway, his fingers sliding over the metal as he climbed the retractable ladder to the attic. Each step groaned under his weight, the sound echoing through the narrow corridor, and his heart picked up a little, a mix of habit and something he didn't want to look at too closely—not exactly fear, but a tension that clung to the nape of his neck. He pushed open the attic door with his shoulder, the stale scent of dust, old paper, and a faint trace of rain and dried blood hitting him like a slap, the warm attic air wrapping around him as he stepped inside.
Hana was there, lying on the mattress he had dragged up weeks ago, the thin fabric sinking under her solid frame, the worn pillows—the faded blue one under her head, the torn gray one tucked against her chest—crushed against the wall. Her black mask lay discarded on the floor, the cracks glistening under the dim light filtering through the fogged-up window, and her face was exposed, her chapped lips slightly parted, her brown eyes half-lidded as they fixed on the crooked beams of the ceiling. Her black hair fell in loose strands around her neck, some sticking to her pale skin from sweat or rain, and her white tank top hung loosely on her muscular shoulders, her mud-stained boots abandoned in a corner near the beam, the cracked leather covered in dried earth. She turned her head when he entered, her brown eyes sliding to him with a calmness that thickened the air, and Luka stopped a few steps from the mattress, his fingers tightening around the bottle as sweat trickled down his nape, his heart beating a little faster than he'd like.
"Hey," he said, his voice coming out hoarse and awkward, the sound echoing in the small space as he struggled to find something to say. "I... came to check on you. After yesterday." He hesitated, his brown eyes darting between her and the fogged-up window, the metal of the bottle cold against his clammy palm. "And... I guess I wanted to thank you. For pulling me out of that alley." The words stumbled, his tone clumsy as he rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, his face heating up slightly. "If you hadn't shown up, I... well, I wouldn't be here. So, yeah. Thanks." He swallowed hard, his heart giving another light jolt, an unease rising again, and he thought quickly: She's a ghoul. She only did it because I wasn't in her way. It's nothing. The idea was an anchor, but it didn't erase the way his chest felt tight.
Hana stayed quiet, her brown eyes watching him without blinking, the silence stretching like a tightrope between them. Then she moved, her strong body shifting on the mattress with a slow motion, her muscular legs folding beneath her as she sat up, the gray pillow falling to the side with a soft thud. She didn't speak right away, just leaned forward slightly, her right arm stretching out until it brushed against his—subtle, almost imperceptible, her cold skin grazing the sleeve of his T-shirt just above his elbow. Luka froze, his heart jumping in his chest, his brown eyes widening as he stared at the contact, a wave of discomfort crawling up his spine. What is she doing? he thought, his throat going dry, but he didn't pull away, his body tense like a drawn wire, her touch cold but firm, as if she wanted something she couldn't put into words.
"I don't let anyone take you there," she finally said, her rough voice coming out low, almost swallowed by the attic's silence, her brown eyes locked on his with an intensity that wasn't threatening but still carried weight. "My corner. My hunt. You're there." The tone was dry, a fact tossed into the air, but there was something at the edges—an inflection Luka barely caught, an echo of something she didn't explain. Her arm stayed pressed against his, the cold of her skin seeping through the thin fabric, and he felt the air grow heavier, his heart beating in an erratic rhythm he couldn't control.
He blinked, sweat trickling down his nape as he tried to respond, the bottle creaking under his trembling grip. "Got it," he murmured, his voice faltering as he looked down, the worn wooden floorboards blurring in his peripheral vision. "You said it's your territory. I just... I'm glad you showed up." He hesitated, his chest tightening again, an unease he didn't want to acknowledge, and thought: She kills people. I'm just some idiot who got in her way. This doesn't change anything. But her touch was still there, and he felt a shiver creep up his arm, discomfort mingling with something he shoved away, too quickly to name.
Hana didn't say anything else, the silence settling back into the attic like a thick curtain, but she didn't pull away. Her arm remained against his, the contact cold but constant, and Luka noticed the way she leaned in slightly—subtly closer, her brown eyes narrowing as she studied him. It was like she was testing something—not with words, but with presence, touch, a gesture coming from a place he couldn't reach. He stayed there for another moment, his heartbeat slowing but still unsettled, the weight of her touch lingering on his skin like an echo he didn't know how to erase. Then the air felt too big, the silence too loud, and he cleared his throat, his voice low as he stepped back.
"I'm heading down," he said, her arm sliding away, the cold lingering on his sleeve like a mark. "My mom should be back soon, and I... I'll see you later, okay?" He hesitated, his brown eyes meeting hers for a second, something flickering that made him swallow hard, and then he turned, climbing down the retractable ladder with shaky legs, his heart still beating in that strange rhythm as the attic door closed behind him.
Downstairs, the sound of the front door opening cut through the silence—a familiar creak that pulled Luka back to the present. His mother stumbled in, her face lined with exhaustion, shoulders sagging under the weight of a long day at the store. Her dark blue uniform was stained with dust and grease, her graying hair slipping from its bun in damp strands that clung to her forehead. She dropped her bag onto the entry mat with a dull thud, the cracked leather jingling with the keys inside. Her tired eyes met his as she rubbed her calloused hands together, the scent of rain and sweat rising from her like a cloud.
"Hell of a day," she muttered, her hoarse voice dragging over the words as she headed for the hallway, her sluggish footsteps echoing against the wooden floor.
Luka nodded, the weight of the attic still clinging to his mind, but he followed her into the kitchen, his boots creaking on the floor as he tossed the empty bottle into the sink, the metal clanging against the dirty dishes from the morning.
"Want help with dinner?" he asked, his voice steadier now, the instinct to take care of her pulling him out of his internal mess.
She grunted a "if you want," her tone dry but lacking the energy to argue, and he grabbed a knife from the rack, the rough wooden handle pressing into his fingers as he started chopping the potatoes she had left on the counter.
The kitchen was warm, the air heavy with the smell of old oil and a lingering trace of garlic from the night before. His mother lit the stove, the blue flame trembling beneath a dented pan, and poured in a thin stream of oil that sizzled on contact with the hot metal. Luka cut the potatoes into uneven chunks, his brown eyes fixed on the motion of the knife, the rhythmic sound of the blade against the wooden board filling the silence.
She picked up a small onion, her hands trembling from fatigue as she peeled away the dry skin, the scraps falling onto the counter with a soft rustle.
"These shifts at the store are killing me," she said, her rough voice cutting through the air as she tossed the onion into the pan, the sizzle rising along with a strong smell that made Luka's eyes sting.
"Why don't you ask to switch?" he said, his voice low as he stacked the chopped potatoes to the side, sweat trickling down his nape in the heat of the kitchen. He grabbed a cloth to wipe his hands, the coarse fabric stained with grease, and looked at her, his brown eyes catching the way her shoulders sagged.
"Because they pay more at night," she answered, her tone dry but tired, her fingers stirring the onion with a wooden spoon that had seen better days. "And we need the money, you know that."
She paused, steam rising from the pan as she tossed in a pinch of salt, then glanced at him over her shoulder.
"And you? You look like you've seen a ghost. Is your internship eating you alive?"
Luka let out a short, hollow laugh and picked up the potatoes, dumping them into the pan. The sizzling grew louder as the oil crackled.
"Just a long day," he said, his voice firm but carrying a weight he tried to hide, his brown eyes shifting toward the stove. "Nothing major."
Hana's touch still echoed on his skin, a memory he shoved away, focusing instead on the smell of food and the exhaustion radiating from his mother beside him.
They finished cooking in silence, the rhythm of the kitchen settling into a slow, familiar dance—her stirring the pan, him cracking two eggs into a bowl, the sound of the shells breaking blending with the sizzle of the frying potatoes. When it was done—golden potatoes with onions and simple scrambled eggs—they carried their plates to the small table in the living room, the scratched wooden surface clinking under the weight of the utensils.
They sat across from each other, the dim light casting shadows over her face, the lines of exhaustion deeper in the glow of the evening. Luka ate slowly, the salty warmth on his tongue a comfort that dulled the weight of the attic, his brown eyes fixed on his plate as he chewed.
"You sure you're okay?" she asked after a while, her hoarse voice breaking the silence, her tired eyes measuring him over the fork, a piece of potato hanging off the tip.
"I'm fine," he lied again, forcing a smile as he took a sip of water, the cold glass pressing against his sweaty fingers. "Just need more sleep. What about you? Holding up?"
He redirected, his tone light as he wiped his mouth, the rough napkin scraping against his chin.
"I survive," she said, her tone dry but with a hint of humor, her eyes narrowing slightly as she finished her plate. "Always have."
She pushed her plate forward, crossing her arms on the table, falling into silence, her stomach's quiet rumble of satisfaction the only sound left.
Luka finished eating, the emotional exhaustion creeping back over him like a tide as he carried the dishes to the sink, his hands trembling slightly as he scrubbed them, the sound of running water drowning out his thoughts.
His mother headed upstairs, the stairs creaking beneath her weight, followed by the low hum of her snores minutes later.
He stayed in the kitchen for a moment longer, his brown eyes fixed on the attic ladder, the weight of Hana's touch still lingering, an unease he didn't want to acknowledge.
He turned off the light, the switch clicking in the darkness, and headed to his room, his body collapsing onto the bed as the sound of the mist outside pulled him into sleep, the echoes of the day unraveling into an emptiness he didn't try to understand.