---
The temple of Buddha, long sealed from the world outside, breathed with silence so deep that every step echoed like a prayer. Sunlight streamed through the high cracks of its stone walls, breaking into pale shards that fell upon the two figures at its heart.
Kaede Tsukihara and Akumu Tsukihara—sister and brother, bound by blood and curse—faced one another. Both were seventeen, their beauty so unearthly it unsettled even the air around them. Their skin was pale as bleached paper, kissed with the coldness of moonlight; under the sharp sunbeam their veins shimmered faintly, and their pupils, dark pools ringed with red, seemed as though painted by the gods themselves.
White hair cascaded over Kaede's shoulders like silken snow, moving with each precise motion she made. Akumu's, tied back loosely, glowed faintly silver with every strike. They held wooden katanas, yet the way they wielded them made the simple weapons feel sharper than steel.
The siblings moved with elegance, each step measured, each swing like a verse in some forgotten hymn. The sound of wood clashing against wood echoed through the temple, crisp and resonant, harmonizing with the faint rustle of ancient scrolls and books piled in the shadows—relics they had unearthed from the temple's depths to study the art of the blade.
From the doorway, two pairs of eyes watched.
Kaito Mori and his younger sister, Yui, hidden among the shadows, pressed close to the stone. They were villagers—children of wealth, though still mortal and untrained. Their breaths caught as they witnessed the surreal scene before them.
Kaede spun, her white hair fanning out like a veil of frost, the wooden blade striking with a grace that belonged more to a dancer than a warrior. Kaito's gaze lingered, unable to tear away. He did not yet know her, did not even understand the sorrow stitched into her existence—but something stirred in his chest. It was not fear, nor the awe of watching a near-divine being; it was softer, unsettling in a different way.
It was the first seed of something that might one day be called love.
---
You've felt it, haven't you?
That quiet pressure at the back of your neck while you read.
The faint shift of air — too subtle to be a draft — as if someone just leaned close enough to see the page over your shoulder.
Don't look.
It hates being noticed.
They say certain stories don't just get read… they choose their reader.
They arrive when you're alone, when no one can confirm they were ever in your hands.
And once you start, you'll find little details — names you've never heard but somehow recognise, descriptions of rooms you've never entered but could draw from memory.
That's not coincidence.
You've been here before.
Not in this chair, not with this book… but here.
In the story.
It was raining then, too.
The same smell in the air — wet concrete, and something sharper, almost copper.
And you were standing closer to the body than you remember.
You told yourself you just "happened to pass by."
You told yourself you "didn't see the face."
But the story remembers differently.
The investigators couldn't place you.
No witness ever came forward.
It was as if your name had been scrubbed from the case file entirely — erased so thoroughly that even you started to believe you were innocent.
And yet…
The way you keep turning these pages…
It's the same way you stepped over the yellow tape that night.
Tell me — if you hear footsteps behind you right now, will you keep reading?
If you see the same shadow at the corner of every room tonight, will you pretend it isn't there?
Because it's following you again.
And this time, it wants you to remember.
---
The sky blushes in soft sakura hues,
As dawn tiptoes over tiled rooftops.
A hush, then -
Chirr of cicadas in the bamboo shade,
Distant chime of a shrine bell -
gong - a whisper to the waking world.
Steam curls from a teacup, quiet and warm,
Tatami creaks beneath careful steps.
A paper door slides open - shhh! -
The scent of rice, miso, and morning rain.
Koi ripple the mirror of a still pond,
Wind brushes maple leaves like silk sleeves,
And somewhere, a train sings its silver note
Across the sleepy countryside.
In this hush of golden breath,
The day bows gently into life
Ask anything
---
Morning – Kurokawa Police Station
The station was already awake before the sun had properly climbed.
The hum of the vending machine in the corner blended with the faint crackle of the old ceiling fan. A kettle hissed in the break room, overpowered by the thunk-thunk of an officer stamping fresh case files.
Phones began their chorus. One rang once and stopped. Another rang, paused, rang again — impatient. The dispatcher's voice cut through the noise, quick and clipped, like she was slicing her sentences to fit between the beeps.
Someone laughed near the lockers — short, tired, the kind of laugh people use when they're already running on yesterday's energy. A chair scraped across the floor and the coffee machine groaned under the weight of another order.
Outside the windows, the streets were still damp from last night's rain, tires splashing through shallow puddles as patrol cars pulled out. The scent of wet asphalt mixed with burnt toast from somewhere down the hall.
At Desk 3, a pen tapped against a clipboard — steady, deliberate — until the officer holding it looked up at the clock and sighed.
Another day had started at Kurokawa Police Station.
And as usual, the paperwork was already winning.
Another case will arise, another problem, another normal day??
---
They didn't know it yet, but the cycle had begun to repeat itself.
Aiko, as usual, sat at her desk, sipping her coffee , eyes half-lidded.
Renji was doodling absently in his sketchpad , pretending to take notes.
Souta and Riku leaned against their chairs, half-arguing, half-laughing about which cartoon show was better, their voices mixing with the hum of the office.
Others were buried in their tasks, some still dozing off with files spread across their desks.
Then, the third-floor door opened with a sharp .
Captain Rie entered. Her footsteps echoed against the tiles , steady and calm — but her eyes betrayed something else.
She stopped in the center of the room, drew a deep breath, and cleared her throat.
"Everyone, I have news to tell you all."
No response.
Just the scratching of pens and the low hum of idle chatter.
"Everyone!" she said again, a little louder this time.
Still no reaction.
Frustration flared across her face. Anger pumped in her veins.
This time, she shouted, her voice sharp enough to silence the room:
"EVERYONE!!"
The noise died instantly. Chairs creaked as officers straightened. Some looked alert, but others — Souta, Aiko, Renji, Naomi — remained only half-engaged, eyes still heavy with sleep or disinterest.
"Captain Ayaka has left the station," Captain Rei announced. Her voice carried the weight of something unshakable. "She will no longer serve as a policewoman."
The words hit like bullets.
Ayaka — a captain of great honor, fearless and respected — gone. Not retired. Not transferred. Just… gone.
Whispers spread like wildfire (murmur, murmur).
Some officers gasped, others froze, and some simply stared at their desks in disbelief. It was as though the most important puzzle piece of their lives had been stolen overnight.
---
Far from the chatter of Kurokawa, deep within the mountains, a temple stood surrounded by quiet beauty.
The leaves rustled , birds hummed in soft harmony, and the breeze carried a cool breath through the air. The scenery was breathtaking — yet within it stood a figure that spoiled its peace.
A man dressed in all black.
His crimson eyes glowed like fresh blood, his long white hair shining under the sun as if the light itself was bound to him. Eternal. Untouchable. (Akumu Tsukihara)
In his hand, a katana — its blade still wet, bathed in blood.
And around him, what were once humen or to be called,now turned to ash , dissolving into the thin mountain air.
His face carried no pity, no sympathy.
Only silence.
Only death.
---
Kuroyuri Hostel (黒百合寮)
The corridor outside their hostel room was unusually quiet.
Only the faint hum of a flickering tube ligh
and the distant dripping of a leaky tap broke the silence. Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked slowly before slamming shut on its own , echoing in the emptiness.
So apparently, Rina had gone out to pick up a parcel.
It didn't take long — barely five minutes — before she returned to her room. Her footsteps tapped softly on the wooden floor as she reached for the door handle.
But the moment she opened the door, her breath caught.
Something wasn't right.
A horrific scene lay in front of her.
The silence was so heavy it pressed against Rina's ears.
Her eyes widened.
And then—
She screamed.
---
The corridor was chaos. Students huddled together, whispering in panic, their voices like a swarm of nervous insects. Some were crying, others too stunned to move. The flickering light overhead buzzed louder now (bzzzt… bzzzt), casting broken shadows across the walls.
Rina knelt on the floor outside her room, her face buried in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. Her voice cracked through the silence:
"She… she was just here… she was just here…"
And then came the heavy, commanding footsteps. (thud… thud… thud…)
The crowd parted immediately.
Captain Rei entered first—tall, sharp-eyed, her presence like a blade cutting through the panic. She carried authority in every movement, her voice steady and cold. Behind her followed Aiko, Riku, Naomi, Souta, Renji, Mika, Daisuke, and Kenji—the full team. Their presence alone silenced the hall.
"Clear the hallway," Captain Rei ordered. Her tone allowed no hesitation.
When they entered Rina's room, the stench of iron filled the air.
The sight froze even the bravest heart.
When the team entered, the stench of iron and rot swallowed the room. The sight froze even the bravest heart.
Miyu hung suspended in the center.
It wasn't rope that bound her. It was threads.
They fell from the ceiling beams in unnatural precision—four strands, thin as hair yet unyielding as steel, coiled around her neck and limbs. But these weren't still. They moved.
Each strand quivered as though breathing, tightening with slow pulses like veins dragged out of some unseen body. They weren't just red—they shimmered wetly, slick as if coated in fresh blood. When the flickering light hit them, faint ridges became visible beneath their surface: tiny veins, twitching, alive.
One strand looped lazily around her ankle, tightening just enough to make the bone jut against her skin. Another coiled across her throat, digging deeper with every subtle tug tug tug—like a predator savoring its prey rather than killing it outright.
And then the sound began.
A faint hum, too soft to be human, vibrated through the air. The threads whispered. Not in words, but in a low, guttural murmur that clawed inside the ears, as though the room itself groaned in pain.
The worst of it—Miyu's body twitched. Not by her own will, but by the threads themselves. Every time they pulsed, her limbs jerked slightly upward, like a puppet dancing on crimson strings.
Just above her, the strands writhed against the beams. For the briefest second, Aiko swore they weren't dangling down at all—
They were reaching.
Naomi staggered back instantly, covering her mouth. Mika muttered, "This is… this is insane…" Souta and Riku both raised their weapons instinctively, though there was nothing visible to aim at.
Renji's hands shook as he pulled out his sketchpad. His pencil scratched fast across the paper, desperate to capture what should not exist. "It can't be overlooked. Every detail matters."
Kenji scanned the ceiling with his device, scowling. "No hooks… no wires… no tech trick. This isn't mechanical."
Aiko stood still, her eyes narrowed at the sight. For a moment, her pupils widened—recognition flickering there. But she said nothing. Instead, her gaze slid sideways.
Daisuke.
While the others recoiled, the newest recruit remained unnervingly calm. He tilted his head, studying the scene as if it were a puzzle, not a horror. His voice was low, almost detached:
"…It's not random."
Aiko's jaw tightened. She noticed the way he didn't flinch, didn't even look disturbed. Indifference in the middle of this. Something about it gnawed at her instincts.
Captain Rei's voice cut through the silence.
"Secure the body. Move her to Kurokawa Central."
Two officers stepped forward, carefully cutting the threads. The moment they snapped, a faint sound whispered through the room (sssshhh…), like breath escaping. The red strands dissolved into the air as though they had never existed.
The students outside gasped as Miyu's lifeless body was carried past them.
Dr. Haene was already waiting at Kurokawa Central Experiment Lab—the sterile building looming just behind the police headquarters. The body would be delivered to her for examination. Whatever mystery hid inside those threads, or within Miyu's twisted final expression, would now rest in her hands.
But Aiko lingered a moment longer in the doorway, her gaze fixed on the ceiling beams. Her heart was steady, but her mind was racing.
Because she had seen it.
Just before the threads dissolved—
They moved.