**Chapter Five — Part One**
*"Every story has a tipping point. Sometimes it's loud. Sometimes it's the sound of someone not waking up."*
It should've felt calm.
The station floor was still cold. Still cracked. Still the same grime creeping up the walls like mold had dreams of becoming art. Kiss-shot was curled up nearby, eyes shut, limbs still MIA, dress a little too clean for someone who'd practically decomposed a day ago.
And yet.
It didn't feel like peace. It felt like a stage.
A stage right before someone kicked the door in.
Nothing obvious. No dramatic wind gusts or ghostly whispers or literal villain footsteps echoing from the stairwell. Just this *tug* in the back of my head. Like a fishhook threaded through my instincts, tugging at something even older than my logic.
Kiss-shot twitched in her sleep. Not a big motion. Barely noticeable, unless you were watching her like I had been—cataloging every micro-expression like I was going to be quizzed on her breathing patterns later.
Which I might.
After all, she *was* my boss now.
Sort of.
If you could call being turned into a supernatural blood smoothie and forced into eternal servitude a contract gig.
I stood up. Not like I was ready for battle. More like a guy stretching before stepping into traffic. My body felt… tight. But in a good way. Like potential energy waiting to punch something through a wall.
My eyes scanned the space.
Same busted bench. Same flickering light.
But the *air* had changed.
There was static now. Not actual electricity, but the kind of feeling you got when someone was staring at the back of your neck on the bus. The phantom pressure of attention, minus the body it was attached to.
I didn't speak. Talking would've been for show. And if there's one thing I've learned about people who like to watch, it's that they hate being seen back.
So I closed my eyes.
And felt it.
A spiritual residue. Like someone had been pacing just out of sight. Auras don't exactly leave footprints, but this one was leaving heel marks in my brain.
I didn't need a name.
I'd already seen him.
Guillotine Cutter.
The guy who made religion look like a horror subgenre. The priest with a fetish for dying gods and a face that looked like it only smiled during exorcisms.
He wasn't here yet. Not *quite*.
But he was sniffing around.
I rolled my shoulders. No dramatic cracking sounds. No glowing eyes. Just that low thrum of awareness—the kind that said *something's coming* and it brought theology.
I knelt by Kiss-shot. She didn't wake. Just breathed. Steady. Small.
I thought about shaking her. About whispering something like "Get up, we're being stalked by the clergy."
But I didn't.
Because here's the thing:
This wasn't an emergency.
Not yet.
It was a *test*
——————————————————-
The city above was louder now.
Not the kind of loud that came with traffic or construction. No, this was a different kind of volume. The kind that presses into your skull behind your ears. The kind that hums in alleyways even when no one's there.
The kind that tells you something's watching.
I didn't mind being watched. I'd gotten used to it. But this? This wasn't curiosity. It wasn't even malice.
It was… anticipation.
Something out there had picked up the scent of her silence—and decided it didn't like the quiet.
I ducked into a side street, lit only by a vending machine flashing "OUT OF ORDER" like it was trying to send Morse code to the dead. The humidity stuck to me like bad cologne. The air tasted like rust and regrets.
Guillotine Cutter.
Of the three hunters, he was the one I could stomach the least. Not because he was dangerous. The other two were far worse on paper. Stronger. Faster. Half-vampire or worse.
But Guillotine Cutter?
He had the worst weapon of all: belief.
The kind that doesn't bend. Doesn't question. Just kills.
And belief is hard to manipulate.
But not impossible.
I'd seen the look in his eyes in the movie. That twisted, hungry faith. The type of guy who probably had a "sin jar" at home and put a coin in it every time he had an impure thought about garlic bread.
So yeah.
If he was in town?
I wanted to find him before he found us.
The alley stank of wet stone and secondhand incense.
I didn't smell it so much as sense it. The way dogs hear pitch, or empaths feel a mood shift before anyone speaks. Something had been smeared over the walls—some kind of protective field. Not enough to burn, but enough to buzz under my skin like an insult too subtle to slap.
Boundary magic. Old stuff. Written in scripture and sweat.
The kind of thing Guillotine Cutter would use.
I'd followed the trail for fifteen minutes. Out of the train station, through four blocks of alleys, two rooftops, and one silent courtyard with a rusted-out vending machine that still sold barley tea. I passed a shrine. Empty. But not abandoned. Someone had lit a candle inside. The flame was small. Steady.
I didn't touch it.
Didn't need to.
The trace burned like a vein through the dark, glowing faintly in my vision. Spiritual residue from a predator who thought he was holy. A priest with a neck fetish. A walking contradiction wrapped in black robes and Old Testament kink.
And now?
Now he was waiting.
I stepped around the corner and saw him.
Guillotine Cutter.
He stood beneath an overhang of rusted piping and loose power lines, his robes soaked at the hem like they'd been dragged through a river of faith and bad intentions. His hands were clasped in prayer. Not mock prayer. Not theater. Real. The kind that makes gods look twice.
And his eyes?
Closed.
He knew I was there.
But he was still praying.
Because of course he was.
I stopped ten feet away.
Didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Just waited.
Let the silence dress the air.
He finished the prayer before he opened his eyes.
When he looked at me, he didn't blink.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't smile.
"I have seen death," he said. "You wear its breath."
"You're not the first guy to say I smell weird," I replied.
A pause.
Then, softly: "But you'll be the last."
He tilted his head, like a bird.
Like something that forgot it used to be a man.
"You are not her servant."
"No," I said. "I'm worse."
He blinked slowly.
"Explain."
I didn't.
Instead, I let the veil drop.
The one cloaking my presence. The Nerve Veil I'd used to keep myself from being read like an open casket.
The air shifted.
The alley thickened.
And Guillotine Cutter… inhaled.
Like a man catching his first whiff of rain after years in drought.
"She drank from you," he whispered. "She is restored."
"No," I said. "She's recovering. There's a difference."
He reached into his sleeve and pulled something out.
A scroll.
Tied with black string. Laced with old blood.
He tossed it on the ground between us.
"Then this is mercy," he said.
The scroll snapped open by itself. Lines of kanji slithered across the pavement like ink in reverse. They curled, expanded, lit up with spiritual fire—
—and the air dropped twenty degrees.
That was the moment I felt it.
The drag.
The resistance.
The suppression.
My body—the part that wasn't human anymore—shuddered.
Subtle.
But there.
Something in that scroll didn't just reveal my nature.
It denied it.
Not fully. Not a kill switch.
But enough to make the room feel heavier.
Enough to make my limbs forget what they could do.
"Boundary diagram," I muttered. "Nice touch."
Guillotine Cutter didn't reply.
He just stepped forward.
The blade came out from his robes like it had been waiting for this.
A straight-edge guillotine, narrow and curved at the tip. Clean. Polished. Blessed, probably.
His hands wrapped around the hilt like he'd been born doing it.
And then he lunged.
Fast.
Faster than I expected.
Faster than a man that big should move.
I shifted just enough to let the blade scrape past my ribs—cloth torn, skin grazed, but not cut.
Reinforcement kicked in automatically.
Structural Trace blinked over the environment.
And in that second, I mapped everything.
The edge of the diagram.
The weak point in the sigils.
The concrete crack behind me that led to an opening.
I grabbed a loose pipe from the wall.
Not elegant.
Not graceful.
But reinforced.
I swung it at his legs. Hard.
He jumped—vertical like a ghost—and landed on the wall. Stayed there, sideways, gravity be damned.
Charming.
I flared my charm magic.
Not to control him.
Just to disrupt.
A pulse of presence.
Like psychic feedback in a stereo.
He winced.
Just enough.
I moved.
Closed the distance.
Hit him with the pipe again—aiming for the diagram scroll.
It snapped in half.
The light sputtered.
Pressure lifted.
My body remembered what it was.
My spine cracked with delight.
Guillotine Cutter hissed. Backpedaled. Raised his blade again—
—but I was already behind him.
Vampiric speed. Partial. But better than nothing.
I grabbed his robe and flung him into the far wall.
He hit hard.
Cratered the concrete.
Didn't scream.
Didn't cry.
Just whispered something.
A prayer.
I lunged again.
He turned at the last second—slashed with the guillotine blade—
It caught my shoulder.
Burned.
Blessed steel, alright.
I gritted my teeth.
Grabbed his wrist.
Squeezed.
Felt bone crack.
He didn't yell.
He smiled.
Madness.
Faith.
Same thing.
"You think this is pain," he said. "Wait until she forgets you."
I leaned in.
Close.
Very close.
And said, "She already knows my name. You won't live long enough to learn it."
Then I drove my knee into his ribs.
Reinforced.
Not just physical.
A spike of force that bent the air around it.
He went limp.
But not unconscious.
I stood over him, panting.
Blood on my jacket. On my boots.
Some of it mine.
Most of it not.
Guillotine Cutter twitched.
I crouched.
Reached into his robes. Searched.
Found it.
Wrapped in gauze, sealed with prayer beads.
Her arms.
Both.
Still warm.
I held them for a moment. Felt the weight. The echo of her presence.
And smiled.
He watched me.
"You defile sacred ground," he said.
"No," I said. "I'm reclaiming it."
—————————————————-
I didn't carry the arms back like trophies.
I carried them like secrets—wrapped in the hem of Cutter's discarded robe, blood still damp, bones still humming with old power. He hadn't put up much of a fight once his knees shattered like porcelain and his shoulder dislocated with that sickening pop. Turns out pain works as both punctuation and persuasion.
I left him there.
Not dead.
Just… broken.
Alive enough to regret it. Crippled enough to remember me in his nightmares.
He called it divine punishment. I called it insurance.
The station was quieter when I returned. Not just still—settled. Like the air itself had exhaled and gone to bed early. The lights buzzed with less static. The shadows didn't crowd the corners as aggressively. The world knew what I'd done and decided not to ask questions.
Kiss-shot was sitting up when I came in. Same spot. Same dress. But her eyes snapped toward me the second I hit the bottom step. Golden. Alert. Hungrier than before.
She saw the bundle.
Didn't ask.
Didn't need to.
I dropped it at her feet without ceremony. The cloth unwrapped like it was relieved to be done with its job.
Two arms. Pale. Elegant. Still perfect after all this time, like they'd been mummified by reverence instead of rot.
Her breath hitched.
Not loud.
But audible.
She stared.
Not at me.
At them.
At herself.
"I had forgotten what they looked like," she murmured.
"Still attached to you," I said. "Just… elsewhere."
She didn't reach for them.
Not right away.
She looked at me instead.
Really looked.
Like she was trying to see if I'd changed since the last time she blinked.
"You fought him."
"I did."
"You won."
"He lost harder."
Another beat.
"And you brought them to me."
"I said I would."
"And you didn't kill him."
"I wanted to," I admitted. "But this felt messier."
Something passed behind her eyes. Approval. Maybe even understanding.
Then she reached forward.
It wasn't graceful.
Not like a queen reclaiming her crown.
It was visceral.
Her teeth sank into the first wrist like a starving animal biting into a forgotten memory. Flesh tore. Bone cracked. Power surged.
The air snapped.
Her body shuddered.
I watched.
Watched her grow.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
The second arm followed. She didn't hesitate. Didn't blink. Bit through it like it owed her something.
And then—
Change.
Hair lengthened.
Limbs stretched.
Her face, once too round for her eyes, sharpened subtly. Still young—but not a child.
Not anymore.
She looked… thirteen.
Maybe fourteen.
Awkward stage. Elegance beginning to peek through the cracks of lingering youth.
A girl now.
Not a doll.
Not yet a woman.
But no longer helpless.
She flexed her fingers.
Her real fingers.
Hands she hadn't used in years.
Maybe decades.
And then, without looking at me, she said:
"I feel… like myself again."
I let that hang.
Didn't interrupt.
Didn't comment.
Because this wasn't for me.
This was hers.
I watched her stretch. Shoulder to fingertips. Spine to toes. Bones realigning under skin that remembered how it was supposed to feel.
She stood.
Wobbled slightly.
Caught herself.
Smiled.
And then she turned.
"I know what you did," she said.
I met her gaze.
Unflinching.
"Do you?"
"You broke him."
I didn't answer.
She stepped closer.
Close enough for me to feel the heat rising off her skin again.
A heartbeat.
Two.
And then—quietly—
"Thank you."
Two words.
Small.
Unadorned.
But heavy.
Because they came from her.
The kind of thanks you don't give to a servant.
The kind you don't give to someone beneath you.
The kind that tastes like old pride being swallowed on purpose.
I didn't smile.
Didn't bow.
Didn't gloat.
Just looked at her—really looked—and said, with a low voice that didn't try to fill the room:
"You're welcome, Kiss-shot. I'd bleed for you again if you asked nicely."
That did it.
Just the slightest shift in her face.
Not shock.
Not fluster.
But the kind of blush that sneaks up behind royalty and taps them on the shoulder before they can remember how to be aloof.
A flicker of red under her skin. Barely there.
Gone in a blink.
But I saw it.
She turned her head like she hadn't.
Like the station walls were suddenly very interesting.
Which was fine.
Let her pretend.
The important part?
She didn't deny it.
And she didn't look away for long.
She turned her head like she hadn't blushed.
Like stone pillars don't flinch. Like goddesses don't get warm cheeks from mortal boys.
But her silence betrayed her.
So I leaned in a little.
Not close enough to touch.
Just close enough to make her aware that I could.
"I meant what I said," I added, quieter now. "You don't have to thank me… but I think it's cute that you did."
That earned me a sharp look.
Not furious.
Just startled.
Her lips parted like she wanted to counter, to cut, to correct—but no words came out. Just a breath she didn't mean to let escape.
I tilted my head, smirking like I hadn't just played with fire.
"You're not used to being called cute, huh?"
"I am not cute," she hissed, more reflex than belief.
"I know," I said. "But sometimes the truth's too small to wear its title out loud."
She blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then looked away again—this time slower.
More thoughtful than offended.
And if I wasn't mistaken, her fingers twitched.
The ones she didn't have back yet.
A phantom motion.
A tell.
Which meant...
Some part of her wanted to reach for me.
But not yet.
Good.
Let her stew in it.
Let the next move be hers.
That's how you make a queen lean forward.
Not with power.
But with patience
She stayed turned away for a while.
Not sulking.
Just… regulating.
Vampires don't blush. Not visibly. Not often. But I could smell it on her—something warm under the cold.
And then something else hit me.
Literally.
Not pain—just pressure. A lurch behind the eyes. A buzz down the spine.
It always came like that.
No warning.
No logic.
Like a gacha pull with terrible odds and worse timing.
[Ability Acquired: The Glass Hour – One-Time Chronolock]
Description: A delicate, palm-sized hourglass filled with opalescent sand. When shattered, time within a five-meter radius halts for 4.2 seconds. Can only be used once. Cannot be stored post-activation. Use wisely.
The weight of it dropped into my coat pocket like a promise.
I didn't reach for it. Not yet.
But I felt its shape, smooth and humming with quiet potential.
Kiss-shot's eyes flicked back to me.
"You changed again," she said. Not a question.
I nodded slightly.
"Something new?"
"Time," I said.
Her eyes narrowed. "You can stop it?"
"Momentarily."
"That is… troubling."
I smirked. "You're welcome."
She didn't smile.
But she didn't look away either.
There was a flicker in her expression then—half a breath of something like awe, tamped down with irritation.
"Every time I blink," she said, "you rewrite the rules."
"Not the rules," I replied. "Just the way I play the game."
She shifted closer—just barely. Enough that her knee brushed mine.
It could've been an accident.
But it wasn't.
"You're dangerous," she murmured.
"Getting there."
And I watched the realization settle in her face:
That the boy who walked into her crypt was not the one who'd be walking out of it.
She looked at me like she was still trying to figure out if that scared her—or thrilled her more.
She didn't move away.
Which, from her, was basically an embrace.
I let the silence fill the cracks again.
Let it soften the air.
And maybe that was the most dangerous thing of all—how easy it was becoming to be quiet around her. Not tense. Not poised for blood or bargaining. Just… still.
She wasn't looking at me anymore.
Not directly.
But I could feel her focus like a current under my skin. Like she was measuring me in units even I didn't understand yet.
If I stayed any longer, I might start feeling human again.
And she might start believing that was a good thing.
I stood up slowly.
Not with purpose.
Just to breathe differently.
But her voice caught me before I turned.
"You said I was beautiful."
I paused.
Didn't look back right away.
"That wasn't a lie."
"No," she said. "But you never looked at me the way others did when they said it."
I glanced over my shoulder.
"And how was that?"
"Like they wanted something from me."
I shrugged. "Maybe I do."
"And what is it?"
"Something worth wanting back."
She blinked.
Her cheeks—still pale, still carved like marble—flushed just slightly. Not from heat.
From something older.
Something scarier.
Hope.
I didn't let it hang too long.
Didn't let her drown in it.
I just turned and said, "I'll be back."
But right as I moved toward the stairwell, it hit again.
That wrongness.
Not in the walls this time.
In the light.
The shadows on the tile didn't move right—too slow, too stiff.
A ripple in the frame rate.
Kiss-shot sensed it too. Her eyes went sharp. Ancient. All trace of blush buried under something colder than death.
"You feel it."
I nodded.
"No hiding this time," I said.
The veil was intact. But something was testing it.
Pushing at the edges.
Someone was circling again.
Maybe Cutter.
Maybe worse.
She tensed, jaw set. "If they strike—"
"They won't," I said. "Not yet."
And I meant it.
Because this wasn't a fight yet.
This was foreplay.
And next time?
I'd be ready
I didn't wait for permission.
Didn't promise anything.
Just vanished up the stairs like a shadow remembering it had legs.
The city above was bleeding quiet again. That specific kind of hush right before something unnatural breathes out. I followed it. Not the sound—but the absence of it.
That's where I found him.
Meme Oshino.
Perched like a question mark on the edge of a convenience store roof, coat half-buttoned, grin half-baked. He looked like someone who'd been following a trail of breadcrumbs and finally found a loaf he didn't know he wanted.
"Yo," he said, like this was a coffee run and not a pressure cooker of cursed air and veiled divinity.
I didn't smile.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
"Looking for something?" I asked.
He tilted his head, like he was listening to a joke only he could hear.
"You could say that. Feels like the air's been edited recently. Like a sentence was rewritten mid-syllable."
He was sniffing out the veil. The Grimoire's trick with Kiss-shot.
And I was the line break he didn't expect.
"Funny," I said. "I was thinking the same thing."
He jumped down. Smooth. Effortless. No sound when his boots hit the pavement. The kind of quiet that meant he wasn't human—but wasn't not, either.
"That girl down there," he said, pointing with his chin. "She's not supposed to be quiet. She's supposed to be loud. Hungry. Radiating like a dying star."
My heart didn't beat faster.
But something in the back of my spine twitched.
"And yet…" he continued, eyes narrowing behind those awful tinted glasses. "Nothing. No heat. No hum. Just… stillness."
He looked at me.
Not past me.
At me.
"Which means either she's dead… or someone got creative."
I didn't move.
Didn't smirk.
Didn't give him a damn inch.
"You always follow bleeding gods into abandoned train stations?" I asked.
He chuckled. Not warmly.
"I follow patterns. And you, my friend, don't match the one I've been watching."
"Good," I said. "I'm not here to be part of your script."
"No," he agreed, stepping closer. "You're here to flip it."
The thread in my hand—the Belladonna Thread—tightened like it knew it had a role to play soon.
And inside me?
The Grimoire stirred again.
Grimoire Notification:
Ability Unlocked — Dead End Dissonance
Origin: Unknown (Non-Anime Source)
Effect: Once per day, the user can rewrite a singular fatal moment. Death, loss, collapse. Time fractures for 1.2 seconds. Outcome diverges. Only once. Per day.
I didn't react.
Not visibly.
But internally?
I smiled.
Because now?
Even if he made the first move—
I got the last one.
I took a step closer.
Not aggressive. Not casual.
Calculated.
Like a rook moving just far enough to remind the board it wasn't a pawn.
Oshino didn't flinch. Of course he didn't. Guys like him never flinched. They tilted the whole table before you got a chance to place your bet.
Still, I could feel it—that pause behind his smile.
Not fear.
But interest.
The kind that gets people killed.
"You really think you're in control of this?" he asked.
"No," I said. "I know I'm not."
That caught him off guard. For a fraction of a second. Just a flicker behind those yellow lenses. I pressed it.
"Control's a myth," I said. "A bedtime story for men who are too scared to admit they're improvising."
"And you're not scared?"
"Terrified," I said. "But I know how to make fear dance."
He gave a low whistle. "That's a good line."
"It's not a line," I said. "It's a thesis."
He scratched his head, then tugged on that ridiculous shirt-collar like it offended him personally. "You're not normal, you know that?"
"Neither are you."
"No," he said, stepping into my space now. "But at least I know where I'm not normal. You… you're patchwork. Can't read your rhythm. Can't smell your origin. You've got too many flavors. Too many edges."
"And that bothers you?"
"No," he said. "It intrigues me."
He leaned in.
"You know what happens to intriguing things in this world?"
I leaned in, too.
"They get archived."
Silence.
Real silence.
The kind that prickles under your skin and asks if your teeth are still sharp enough to matter.
He studied me for a beat longer, then backed off. Smiling.
But not kindly.
"You're clever," he said.
"You're stalling."
"Maybe. But I'm also wondering something."
"Hit me."
He lifted one hand, loose at the wrist like he was playing cat's cradle with invisible threads.
"If you're hiding her—if you're cloaking that thing in the station—then you've already shifted the story. That means the rules are soft. Mutable. Moldable."
"That's not a question," I said.
"It's a warning."
Now I smiled.
Slow.
Sharp.
"You're used to being the smartest man in the room."
He tilted his head.
"And you're used to being underestimated."
"Only once," I said. "People don't usually get the chance to do it twice."
That grin faltered.
Not much.
But just enough.
I took one step closer—just one—and dropped my voice low.
"Whatever you think you're here to do… don't."
"And why not?" he asked, too sweet.
"Because I already re-wrote the ending."
A beat.
Then another.
Then he laughed.
Not loudly. Not mockingly.
Just once.
Sharp and short.
"You are dangerous," he said.
"Only to people who try to flip my script."
He turned away, just a fraction, like he was considering the wind.
"One of these days," he said, "you'll slip up."
"Probably."
"And when you do?"
"I'll write a better version of me before I hit the ground."
He nodded.
Not agreement.
Not approval.
Just acknowledgment.
Like maybe he didn't have the pieces to play this game yet.
Not yet.
"Next time we talk," he said, walking past me like this whole thing hadn't just been a near-miss lightning strike, "bring coffee."
"And you?" I asked.
He looked back over his shoulder.
"Bring less mystery."
Then he vanished into the street fog like he was never there.
But he had been.
And now?
He knew something was off.
But not how off.
And that?
Was my win.
For now.
I didn't linger.
Didn't bask in the victory.
That's how you get sniped in act two.
I made my way back to the station. Same broken stairs. Same stained walls. But something felt... different.
Not wrong.
Just awake.
The veil still held. I checked it like you'd check the tension of a tripwire. Still taut. Still humming. Still mine.
But the moment I crossed the final step, I knew.
She'd felt it.
Kiss-shot was sitting upright again—knees drawn in, golden eyes glowing just faintly in the dim light like twin suns trapped behind stormclouds. She didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
Her gaze hit me like gravity.
"You met someone," she said.
Not a question.
A statement.
I nodded once. "Briefly."
Her jaw tightened. Not jealousy.
Instinct.
"What did they want?"
"To rewrite the narrative," I said. "Unfortunately for him, I already own the pen."
She didn't relax. But she didn't snap either. Just tilted her head slightly, like she was trying to smell something left behind in my wake.
"Meme Oshino," she said after a pause.
That got my eyebrows up.
"You know him?"
She blinked slowly. "He's the kind of man you only meet once if you're lucky. Or unlucky. Depending on how many limbs you enjoy keeping."
"Good thing I'm already in the red on that front," I muttered.
That got a breath of a smile.
But just a breath.
Then: "He was close. I felt it."
"Too close."
Her fingers flexed—ghosts of hands still missing.
"He'll come again."
"Probably."
"And you'll stop him?"
"Yes."
She stared at me.
Long.
Hard.
Like she was trying to find the crack in my resolve with her eyes alone.
But there wasn't one.
That was the trick: when you're made of pieces, there's no single fault line to break.
Finally, she whispered, "I hate that I believe you."
I walked back to her slowly, letting each step announce itself. Letting her see I wasn't hiding.
When I sat down again, I didn't speak.
I just looked at her.
Let her feel it—that she wasn't a weapon to be used, or a relic to be feared.
She was the center of the map now.
And I was here to redraw the borders.
"What did he say about me?" she asked, voice soft again.
"That you're supposed to be burning."
"And?"
"And he was scared because you weren't."
Her lips parted just slightly.
Then she looked away.
But not far.
Just enough to shield the blush that had started to creep back into her face.
"I don't know what to make of you," she muttered.
"Make a mess," I said. "It's more honest that way."
She huffed. Not quite laughter.
But not cold either.
And when she leaned back—just slightly—her shoulder brushed mine.
Not a mistake.
Not an accident.
A test.
I didn't move.
Didn't shift away.
Didn't ruin it.
Because the trust of a monster is rarer than blood.
And warmer than any sun I'd ever feel again.
She must've slipped when I wasn't paying attention.
I didn't sleep—not really. But something like it. A low-power mode. Just enough to forget what century it was.
And when I stirred?
Her head was on my shoulder.
Not heavy.
Just… present.
A weight I hadn't realized I'd gotten used to.
Her breath, soft and slow, brushed the crook of my neck like she'd been exhaling secrets in her sleep. Her body—still slight, still recovering—curled in against mine like it hadn't asked for permission. Just decided. This was warmth. This was fine.
I didn't move.
Didn't risk it.
Even gods deserve five minutes of not being alone.
But the sun was slanting down through the stairs again. The veil buzzed faintly. And that hum beneath my skin—the one that said something up there still wasn't done—was back.
So I slipped out carefully.
Let her keep sleeping.
Left her a little warmth in my absence.
The street was less empty now.
Still quiet.
But the kind of quiet that smelled like chalk outlines and missed connections.
I kept my pace slow. Deliberate.
Didn't bother hiding my presence.
That's probably why she noticed me first.
Hanekawa.
Tsubasa Hanekawa.
Or, as my brain insisted on calling her, "That Girl With All the Problems."
She was walking with purpose—head down, books clutched tight to her chest like they were talismans against the world. Purple uniform. Too neat. Too straight.
Like she ironed her own trauma into every pleat.
I waited until she passed me.
Then:
"Hey, Hanekawa."
She froze.
Not turned.
Not startled.
Just froze.
Like a deer who'd just realized the headlights knew her name.
She turned slowly. Eyes wide. Calculating.
"I'm sorry… do I know you?"
That tone.
Polite. Controlled.
Exactly how someone would talk to a bomb if it started speaking.
"Not yet," I said. "But give it a few minutes. I'm great at introductions."
She narrowed her eyes. Just slightly.
"You know my name."
"You're famous," I said. "Top grades, model student, family drama so thick it qualifies as an urban legend."
That last part?
I said like a joke.
But her eyes flinched anyway.
Bingo.
She was silent for a beat too long.
Then: "Are you stalking me?"
"If I were," I said, "I'd be a little more subtle. Maybe pretend to bump into you near a vending machine. Offer you melon bread. You'd fall for that, right?"
Her mouth opened. Closed.
Restarted.
"You're… weird."
"That's what they keep telling me."
She glanced down at the books in her arms like they might start glowing and protect her if she believed hard enough.
"What do you want?"
"Conversation," I said. "Maybe a little mischief. Possibly some mild emotional damage."
She blinked again. But this time?
There was the ghost of a smile.
"You're definitely not from around here."
"Guilty."
"You talk like a transfer student who thinks he's the protagonist."
"I might be."
She finally gave a real smile. Small. Wry.
"I don't like mysterious boys."
"Liar," I said. "You just don't like when they already know your secrets."
That made her go still.
Again.
Because now?
Now she wasn't sure if this was banter—or something deeper.
I watched her shift. Recalculate.
And I knew I'd won the first round.
But I didn't press.
Not yet.
I just leaned back, hands in my pockets, and said:
"Nice talking to you, Hanekawa. Try not to fall in love with me."
She rolled her eyes.
But she didn't walk away.
Not for a few more seconds.
And when she did?
She glanced back.
Just once.
And that?
That was enough.