Obi limped down the dimly lit streets of Shibuya, one hand clutching his ribs while the other swung uselessly by his side. Neon signs blinked like tired eyes, casting fractured colors onto the wet pavement. The night air wasn't just cold—it bit, sharp and bitter, like it was trying to peel the heat from his bones.
Every breath he took burned in his chest, like someone had scrubbed the inside of his lungs with steel wool.
He spat onto the sidewalk, huffing out a pained laugh. "Psychos," he muttered, barely louder than the hum of the city. "Dragged me halfway across Tokyo… for what? Some deranged group initiation?"
He stumbled, foot catching on a raised curb. His knees gave out for a second, and he barely caught himself on a rusty street pole, his shoulder slamming into the cold metal with a grunt.
"God—damn freaks," he growled through clenched teeth. "One of them shoots ice bullets out of an umbrella, another does backflips for fun, and the rest are just casually talking to crows like it's normal."
He let his head hang for a second, forehead resting against the pole, panting. Shibuya at night was quiet, eerily so. Just the faint hum of a vending machine and the buzz of a far-off train rolling by.
Obi stood upright again, legs trembling beneath him.
His whole body felt like it had been dropped down a flight of stairs and then kicked for good measure. His back still ached from the rooftop landing, and the icy numbness left by Reiji's "test shot" hadn't fully worn off. Whatever that bullet was, it hadn't been made for comfort.
"And now I get to run home like a damn criminal sneaking back in before lights out," he mumbled, dragging himself forward.
He thought of Mr. Kumon. Of the tight-lipped disapproval. The questions. The look.
There'd be hell to pay if he found out Obi had snuck out and vanished for hours.
So he did the only thing he could.
He ran.
Not fast. Not strong. But desperate.
Shoes slapping against pavement. Breaths coming sharp and ragged. Shadows stretching long behind him like claws. The city seemed to stretch endlessly ahead, but he kept moving—because stopping meant thinking. And thinking meant remembering.
Reiji's stare.
Hiruki's manic grin.
The unspoken threat of everything he didn't yet understand.
And beneath it all, that whispering question that wouldn't leave him alone:
"What the hell did I just get myself into?"
---
1:07 AM
The front door rattled as Obi leaned his entire weight against it. His fingers, numb and trembling, barely managed to turn the knob. The door creaked open, and he practically fell inside.
He landed on his knees with a dull thud, the cool wooden floor greeting him like an old enemy.
"Ughhh..." he groaned, voice raw and rasping as he dragged himself across the entryway like a soldier returning from war.
His shirt clung to his skin, soaked with sweat. His legs quivered with every movement, twitching like twigs caught in a storm. The weight of his body felt... wrong, like gravity was working double just for him.
He squinted toward the microwave clock glowing faintly in the kitchen.
1:07 AM.
"You've got to be kidding me..." he croaked, before face-planting into the floor with a grunt.
Pain. Everywhere.
His shoulders throbbed, his spine felt like it had been twisted in a knot, and somehow—somehow—even his eyebrows hurt.
"I used to organize books," he muttered into the floor. "Maybe help some old lady find the romance section… Now I get shot at by ice bullets and interrogated by umbrella-wielding lunatics."
He rolled onto his back, gasping like a fish out of water. For a moment, he just stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed and twitching.
"This is not my life," he whispered. "This cannot be my life now…"
Silence wrapped around him like a heavy blanket. He tilted his head, listening—just in case.
No creaking floorboards. No coughs. No stern voice calling his name.
Mr. Kumon hadn't noticed.
Thank God.
He pushed himself upright, groaning as his ribs screamed in protest. His entire body was a chorus of agony. Even peeling off his shoes felt like pulling off a layer of skin.
He stumbled toward his bed like a half-dead zombie, each step harder than the last. His mattress—lumpy and too small—had never looked so heavenly.
He collapsed onto it, wrapping his arms around a pillow and the thin blanket he called comfort. The sheets smelled like home and detergent and maybe a little like burnt rice from last week.
His thoughts wandered as sleep crept closer.
Hiruki's manic laughter echoing in his ears.
Maki's too-sweet smile.
Reiji's ice-cold voice: "Pretty much."
"...Jerks," Obi mumbled.
And finally—mercifully—he slipped into unconsciousness, letting the ache melt into dreams.
---
The smell of warm miso soup drifted through the cramped kitchen as Obi sat hunched over the table, still bleary-eyed from sleep. He stirred lazily, slouched in his seat, the quiet hum of the tiny fridge blending with the soft chatter of the morning news.
Perched precariously atop the fridge was a dusty little TV, its screen flickering slightly as a neatly dressed anchor spoke in a clipped, calm tone.
"And in other news," the anchor announced, "there's been a tragic incident at Tokyo Metropolitan Matsuzawa Hospital late last night."
Obi's spoon froze midway to his mouth.
"A long-term psychiatric patient was found dead under suspicious circumstances."
The broadcast cut to footage outside the hospital gates—yellow police tape fluttering in the breeze, officers walking in and out of the building, nurses in white uniforms huddled near the entrance. The camera lingered on the faded hospital sign before panning to the chaotic scene.
"The deceased has been identified as Itsuki Hibira," the anchor continued.
Obi's chest tightened.
The screen displayed a photo of Hibira from before his breakdown: clean-shaven, hair combed back neatly, green eyes gentle and distant. He looked like a completely different man—peaceful, even.
"Hibira had been under high-security supervision after a violent outburst during a recent visitation. Footage from last night's monitoring system has reportedly been corrupted or cut short. His body was discovered in his cell, hanging by the neck. Authorities are investigating the incident as a possible suicide—though nothing has been confirmed."
The spoon in Obi's mouth now tasted like ash.
He slowly lowered it into the bowl, eyes locked on the screen.
The hospital. That hospital. The place he'd visited just days ago. That man. Gone.
"…What the hell…" he murmured, barely audible.
From across the table, Mr. Kumon glanced at him over the rim of his teacup. "You okay?" he asked, brow furrowing slightly. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Obi blinked out of his trance, forcing a half-smile. "Y-Yeah. Just… surprising, that's all."
Mr. Kumon didn't press, sipping quietly again.
Obi returned to staring at his soup. It wasn't hot anymore.
Inside, his thoughts raced.
The footage got cut.
He was murdered… wasn't he?
Is the Nameless King behind this?
He didn't know why, but a part of him was sure.
And suddenly, breakfast didn't feel so comforting anymore.
---
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows through the sterile halls of Tokyo Metropolitan Matsuzawa Hospital, its harsh light cutting through the sterile whiteness of the place like a blade.
Reiji, Hiruki, and Maki moved through the quiet corridors, their presence a stark contrast to the tranquility of the hospital. The distant murmur of staff and the soft shuffle of shoes against linoleum were the only sounds as they reached the door to Itsuki Hibira's room.
Hiruki, the youngest of the trio, was idly sucking on an ice lolly as he stepped inside. His gaze flickered around the room, and he paused mid-lollipop, his face scrunching up in distaste.
"Ugh," he muttered, his voice muffled by the treat. "Smells like blood... but there's something else. Sulfur. And something... different." He sniffed the air again, his tongue flicking out to catch the melting ice. "Definitely demons involved."
Maki's eyes, sharp and calculating, narrowed slightly as she entered the room behind him. Her senses were always heightened, her focus razor-sharp. She walked to the center of the room, her gaze sweeping over the empty hospital bed, the thin sheets, and the faint scent of death that clung to the air. Her eyes glowed faintly, a subtle but telling sign of her focus.
"No fingerprints," Maki said softly, her voice steady. "No death glow either. This wasn't the work of a regular demon. The way the body's been manipulated…" She paused, tilting her head slightly as she analyzed the air. "It's like the atmosphere itself has been altered."
Reiji, standing outside the room, leaned against the wall. His gaze was fixed on the glass separating him from the others. He was quiet, his eyes hard and intense. As his fingers brushed lightly against the glass, a sudden surge of sensation ripped through him. His breath caught, and his body stiffened.
A piercing pain shot up his spine, sharp and intense, like needles digging into his bones. His neck seemed to be gripped by an invisible hand, a pressure so heavy that it was almost suffocating. And then—those eyes. Red eyes, glowing with malice and intent, burning into his mind.
His pulse hammered in his ears as the world around him began to fade, an overwhelming feeling of emptiness threatening to swallow him whole. A sense of coldness, of isolation—like he was standing on the edge of something ancient and terrifying.
When the sensation lifted, Reiji staggered back slightly, his vision swimming. Maki's voice cut through the haze, her concern clear as she appeared at his side.
"Reiji, are you alright?" Her hand was steady on his arm, but her eyes were filled with the sharpness of someone who sensed something was wrong.
Reiji blinked rapidly, trying to ground himself. The sensation still lingered at the edges of his mind. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his face tight with the effort to control his emotions.
"It was him," he muttered, his voice low and distant. "The Nameless King… he was here."
His eyes slowly focused, and he turned to Maki and Hiruki, the tension in his body palpable. "We'll need to get the autopsy of Itsuki Hibira. Whoever we're dealing with, it's not just any demon. This is something far worse."
Hiruki, still licking his ice lolly, gave a nonchalant shrug. "Great. Just what we needed—another creepy demon to chase around."
But Reiji's expression remained grim, his gaze unwavering as he stared at the door to Hibira's room.
---
The room was dimly lit by the orange glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. Obi lay flat on his back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like it had the answers he needed. The sheets were tangled around his legs, sweat clinging to his skin despite the night air.
His mind wouldn't stop racing.
The hospital. Hibira's voice. The look in his eyes.
"Fear the man with blood-red eyes."
Obi shivered involuntarily, pulling the thin blanket up to his chin even though it did nothing for the chill crawling down his spine.
"Why the hell did I even go?" he muttered under his breath. "What did I expect? Closure?"
The silence felt louder than usual. Every little creak of the apartment, every hum of the refrigerator, every rustle of fabric—it all grated on his nerves. The noise inside his head was worse.
And then—
Tap. Tap.
He flinched.
Slowly, he turned his head toward the window. Tap. Tap-tap-tap.
A crow.
Perched on the narrow windowsill, its beady eyes locked with his. It tapped the glass again, this time with more urgency.
Obi groaned and rolled over, shoving a pillow over his face. "Oh, come on. Aki, seriously? You're sending birds again? What is this, Hogwarts? How many times do I have to say no. "
The crow let out a sharp CAW! and tapped again. Louder. Faster.
"Not now," Obi grunted, pulling the pillow tighter.
CAW! CAW!
The tapping was relentless.
Finally, with a sigh that came from the depths of his soul, Obi got up and opened the window. "Alright, alright! You win, you persistent little demon-pigeon."
The crow hopped in without hesitation, ruffling its feathers proudly.
Obi rubbed his temples. "Look, I know you're like, Aki's tool for messages or whatever, but unless you've got a something useful or—" He looked at the bird's legs. "No note? Seriously?"
The crow gave a CAW! and tugged at Obi's sleeve with its beak.
"What, you want me to follow you?"
More tugging. Urgent. Frantic.
"Nope," Obi said flatly, flopping back onto the bed. "I'm off-duty. If something's exploding or bleeding, send someone else."
The crow paused… then pecked him. Hard. Right on the forehead.
"OW! What the hell?!"
He sat up, glaring. "If you touch me with that beak again, I swear I'll break it off and feed it to my cat."
The crow froze, feathers fluffed, visibly shaken. For a moment, it didn't move.
"…Okay, I didn't mean that," Obi muttered, guilt tugging at him. "I'm just… tired. Really tired."
The bird cautiously hopped closer and pressed its head gently against Obi's forehead in a small gesture of comfort.
"…That's kinda sweet," Obi admitted, right before the crow pecked him again.
"OW—Okay! You little punk!"
The bird flapped its wings dramatically, cawing and spinning in the air like it was trying to mime emergency! now! before landing and tugging his sleeve again.
Obi grabbed its beak and looked it in the eye. "Alright. Chill. I won't sell you to my cat. We're… not on speaking terms anyway. But are you seriously risking your bird life over this? Is it that important?"
The crow nodded.
Actually nodded.
Obi stared at it, sighed, then dragged himself to his feet. "I cannot believe I'm trusting a crow over my own common sense. This better not end with me in a ditch."
He started pulling on a hoodie, then added a second layer beneath it for padding.
"Just in case someone tries to stab me. Again."
The crow cawed approvingly and fluttered to the windowsill.
Obi looked at the open window, then back at his room—the only thing familiar, safe, and warm.
"…Dammit," he muttered, climbing out after the bird.
And into the night he went.
---
The streets had long gone quiet. All that remained was the soft whisper of wind and the dull padding of Obi's footsteps against cracked pavement. The crow glided silently ahead, occasionally cawing as if to make sure he kept up.
They passed the hospital—the same one Obi had been admitted to after… everything. His stomach twisted just looking at it. That place reeked of old ghosts and silent trauma, and for a second, his pace faltered.
The crow circled once above, then cawed sharply. Come on.
Obi took a breath and pushed forward.
A few blocks down, tucked between taller buildings, they came to what was left of a house. Or at least, what used to be one. The roof had caved in, blackened wood sagging inward, windows shattered and scorched. Charred vines crawled along what remained of the walls, like something had tried to reclaim it but gave up halfway.
He paused at the fence line, blinking.
"…I've been here before."
The scent hit him next. Faint… sweet… familiar. Faintly medicinal. Like burnt roses soaked in vinegar and salt. His eyes widened. No way.
The crow landed on the railing and waited.
Obi's legs moved before his mind could catch up. He ducked beneath the splintered doorway and stepped inside.
The air changed instantly.
The space was hollow. Quiet. Too quiet. It didn't just feel abandoned—it felt emptied. Like a memory scrubbed raw. As though joy had once existed here but had long since bled out.
Creaks echoed beneath his shoes as he moved slowly through the remains. He passed blackened furniture, scorched wallpaper clinging to the walls in patches. Picture frames—melted and half-buried in ash—sat crooked on a ruined mantle.
He picked one up. The glass was cracked. The photo inside too charred to make out anything but shadows.
The smell was stronger now.
The crow cawed again—urgently—then hopped toward a partially collapsed door at the end of the hall.
Obi followed.
It led to a basement.
He froze at the top of the staircase. A heavy door blocked the path down, hanging slightly open, like it was daring him to peek inside.
Something… gnawed at him. A sensation crawling beneath his skin. A whisper at the back of his skull.
Don't.
But he couldn't ignore it anymore.
He placed his hand on the door—and pushed.
The hinges groaned as if in pain.
The staircase was narrow, cloaked in shadows. Only fractured beams of moonlight cut through the holes in the ruined roof above, forming thin silver bars along the walls.
And then—he heard it.
A low, guttural growl. Animalistic. Hungry.
He gripped the railing tightly, heart slamming in his chest, breath shallow. With each step, the scent grew thicker—metallic, rotting sweet. Like blood and something worse.
At the bottom, the light pooled just enough to reveal her.
Obi froze.
His breath hitched.
His pupils shrank.
She was crouched low in the far corner, bound in a spiderweb of thick chains bolted to the concrete walls. Her black hair hung in tangled mats, streaked with white and shimmering silver. Her skin—caramel brown—was pale with a sickly hue. Veins pulsed violently across her cheeks and neck, protruding like roots under glass.
Her eyes met his.
One was violet. The other amber. Both had vertical, slit-like pupils that shimmered unnaturally in the low light.
She hissed.
Foam clung to the edges of her mouth. Her teeth were bared—sharp and stained. Plastic wrappers and torn packaging clung to her body like she'd tried eating everything that couldn't run.
She sniffed the air.
Then lunged.
Chains snapped taut with a metallic scream as she threw herself forward—jaws wide, just inches from Obi's throat.
He stumbled back, hitting the wall hard, his hands trembling.
She thrashed, growling like a feral beast, trying to wrench free. Her body spasmed with the effort, but the rusty chains held but they looked like they were about to break from the amount of force placed on them.
Obi's lips parted.
His voice was a whisper.
"…Kanou?"