Once I got home, the house felt warmer than usual — not in temperature, but in atmosphere. The smell of seared steak and buttered asparagus filled the kitchen as I plated the food, the Hollandaise sauce pooling in a golden ribbon over the vegetables. Fuji-nee's eyes lit up the moment I set the plate in front of her.
"Ohhh, Shirou! This looks amazing!" she said, clasping her hands together like a child about to open a present. The first bite earned me an exaggerated moan of approval. "Mmm! You have to make this again. No — you owe me this at least once a month."
I couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm. "Once a month, huh? Fine. I'll make it happen. Kiritsugu left me enough to keep the kitchen stocked for a while."
She grinned, satisfied, and we spent the rest of the night chatting about nothing in particular — her antics at school, the latest gossip, the way she still couldn't figure out how to use the new rice cooker. It was easy, comfortable. For a few hours, I could almost forget the other life I was living.
It wasn't until midnight that she finally stood, stretching. "Alright, I'm heading home before you rope me into washing dishes."
"Goodnight, Fuji-nee," I said, watching her leave. The door clicked shut, and the house fell silent.
That silence pressed in on me. I knew what I had to do next, but my body hesitated. The memory of the people I'd killed before — the way their bodies fell, the blood pooling on the ground — flickered in my mind. My stomach tightened. For a moment, I considered staying in. But the thought of the Holy Grail War, now only 21 months away, shoved the hesitation aside. I didn't have the luxury of stopping.
I went to my father's room, the faint scent of his cologne still lingering in the air. His closet was neatly organized, and my fingers brushed over the fabrics until I found what I was looking for: black trench coats, black pants. Perfect for blending into the night. I stripped down to my undershirt and underwear, then pulled on the clothes. In the mirror, I adjusted the coat, tilting my head, imagining the Pinterest shots of Shirou in similar attire — minus Caliburn, of course. For a moment, I let myself indulge in the fantasy, posing like a character from a poster.
Then I shook it off. Time to move.
I called a taxi from the landline, the receiver cool against my ear. Ten minutes later, headlights swept across the front of the house. I slid into the back seat, gave the driver directions to Fuyuki Square, and watched the city lights blur past the window.
When we arrived, I paid the fare and wandered for a bit, letting the rhythm of the streets settle into me. Then I slipped into an alley, the shadows swallowing me whole. My circuits flared to life, reinforcing my limbs as I leapt from wall to wall, scaling up to the rooftops.
From up here, the city was a patchwork of light and shadow. I reinforced my eyes, the world sharpening until I could see for kilometers. Movement caught my attention — a crime in progress. I noted the location and began rooftop-hopping toward it.
Before dropping down, I ran Analysis on my hair and eyes, then carefully altered them: hair to white, eyes to steel gray. I styled my hair upward, pulled black gloves from my pocket, and slid them on. In the reflection of a darkened window, I looked like Emiya Alter before his fall into servitude.
I landed in the alley with a thud, startling the would-be rapists. The victim's sobs echoed off the walls. One of the men had the gall to tell me to "fuck off" before turning back to her. My blood boiled at the casual cruelty. Circuits flaring, I projected dual Calico M950s and surged forward, dropkicking one man into the wall. I didn't hesitate — I opened fire, the staccato roar of gunfire filling the alley until both weapons clicked empty.
Dispelling the guns, I helped the victim to her feet. She stared at me, wide-eyed, probably trying to process what she'd just seen. I didn't care if she'd witnessed magecraft — if word got out, it would just mean stronger opponents down the line. "You're safe now," I told her, voice low. Footsteps pounded toward us. I gave her one last nod, grabbed the man I'd kicked aside, and vaulted up the wall.
A few rooftops away, I dangled him over the street. His scream drew eyes from below, phones coming out, police being called. "Talk," I said flatly.
"I'm with the Dragon gang," he spat. "You're making a mistake."
I projected a pistol and shot him in the kneecap. "Where?"
"Fuck you!"
The other kneecap went. I loosened my grip. "Last chance."
"Lucy's bar! Ask for 'Kamehameha'!" he blurted, panic in his voice.
"Thanks," I said, and was about to tell him his luck had run out when a police megaphone blared from below, ordering me to surrender. I weighed my options, then simply let go. His scream cut off with a sickening thud. I flashed a peace sign at the cops, then sprinted and leapt across the street, the building's edge crumbling under my takeoff.
Enhanced vision guided me to Lucy's bar, two kilometers away. I dropped into an alley nearby, deactivated my circuits, and walked in casually. The place was loud, chaotic. I wove through the crowd to the bar.
"Kamehameha," I said when the bartender asked for my order.
The room went silent. The bartender's eyes narrowed. Without a word, he pulled a knife and lunged. My hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. Circuits flared, bones snapped, and I drove his own blade into his neck. He collapsed, choking.
Shirts came off around the room, tantos flashing in the dim light. Dragon tattoos marked them all. I took a sip of the beer he'd poured, set the glass down, and projected a knife and pistol. They charged. I met them head-on.
The first man got a reinforced punch to the throat — dead instantly. The second's blade was parried, my gun shoved into his mouth before I pulled the trigger. A third grabbed me from behind; I dispelled my weapons, reinforced my grip, and crushed his skull. A slash across my back drew a snarl from me; I turned and put a bullet in the attacker's head.
The fight became a rhythm: parry, stab, shoot. Five more fell before ten lined up in front of me. I projected the Thompson Contender, loaded an Origin Bullet, and fired. The gun shattered, but the bullet tore through all ten.
Pain flared as another tanto found my back. Fury surged. I projected ten knives and sent them into the man who'd stabbed me. Tiny blades from Avalon began knitting the wound closed as I surveyed the carnage. Bodies everywhere. Too easy.
I double-tapped each one, reinforcing my ears to check for heartbeats. Nothing. Then the door creaked open, and a female police officer stepped in. Her scream was sharp, raw. She froze, eyes wide. I walked past her, plucking the walkie from her shoulder.
"Massacre at Lucy's bar," I said into it.
"Identify yourself," came the confused reply.
"Do your job," I answered, crushing the device in my hand.
Outside, the night air was brisk, almost cleansing. I let my hair fall, altered my eyes and hair back to normal, and shortened my bloodied trench coat into a clean jacket. The gloves became biker gloves. Circuits off.
The exhaustion hit immediately — my circuits ached from overuse, my body from the sheer physical toll. This was only my second night out, and I'd pushed too far. Untitled #13 (super slowed) played in my head as I walked, each step heavier than the last. A taxi took me home. I paid the driver, stumbled inside, and made it to my room.
The alarm clock was silenced with a flick. I collapsed onto the futon, the thought of buying a real bed drifting through my mind before sleep claimed me.