After the girl's beautiful words, the place sank into a suffocating silence, as if time itself had stopped to catch its breath. Nothing remained but the faint beating of her heart, struggling against the pain. Even Freed's disgusting grin—the one that always reeked of mockery as if it existed only to deepen her torment—vanished. In its place was a grim scowl, a bitter frown that suggested something had been stolen from him.
"Despite your words… the unwillingness to die is clear in those lively eyes."
A strange voice echoed through the apartment—unlike any sound either of them had ever heard before. Heavy, oppressive, as though the air itself trembled at its resonance. The dying girl's eyes widened in terror, while Freed's shoulders flinched as he turned sharply. Both of them fixed their gazes toward the unknown source of the voice.
And there… near the cracked wall, stood a third figure who hadn't existed a moment ago. His arrival bore no herald, no sign of an entrance—he was simply there, as though the shadows themselves had expelled him. His presence was so alien it bordered on madness; how could he have stood among them all this time without being noticed?
The young man was handsome in a way that unsettled the heart; his silver hair glimmered under the dim light like a cold moonbeam, while his crystal-blue eyes shone with a pure radiance akin to rare jewels. He wore a simple black Shihakushō, its flowing lines reflecting the surrounding shadows, shrouding him further in mystery. At his waist hung a modest sword, free of ornament or embellishment, yet from it emanated both awe and serenity in equal measure.
He stood calm and unwavering, his hands hidden within his sleeves, as if his sudden appearance were the most natural thing in the world. His eyes never left the dying girl—watching her with a silent curiosity—while Freed was treated as if he did not exist at all.
For a heartbeat, absolute bewilderment reigned. The girl, despite being on the brink of death, found herself drawn to the mysterious stranger, while Freed drowned in genuine shock. How? How could someone appear in his fortified apartment without him noticing, without leaving even the faintest trace in the air?
It was as if the laws of the world had fractured for a moment, and this stranger's existence stood as a blaring testament to their vulnerability.
"Who… the hell are you?" Freed growled, clutching his weapon tighter, his eyes wide with an unease unfamiliar to him. But the silver-haired youth didn't so much as glance his way. It was as though his words dissolved into meaningless air.
The girl barely whispered, her voice weak, breath breaking:
"An… angel?"
She wasn't sure if it was a description or a desperate wish… but in that instant, his arrival felt like a decree of fate itself.
"Sorry, but I am no angel… I am a Shinigami," the young man said calmly to her, a faint smile playing across his lips. "I will grant you two choices. The first: to die here and now, and move on to the Underworld under the rule of the Shinigami, in a place known as the Soul Society. If you are fortunate, you may find a relatively safe place there… and if you possess spiritual energy, you may even become a Shinigami yourself. The second…"
He paused briefly, his tone still steady, still maddeningly casual.
"…is that I can heal your wounds and save your life. But in exchange, you will cook for me and look after me. I cannot cook, and I refuse to live off fast food the entire time I remain in this city."
A silence heavier than iron fell over the apartment after his words. His voice was not sharp, not commanding—just calm, disarming Freed more than angering him. It was the tone of someone speaking about something ordinary, while the entire world collapsed around them.
The girl's trembling lips parted, her eyes locked onto his, unable to comprehend what she was hearing. There was no mockery in his voice, no excessive pity… just a plain offer, like a passing deal made on the roadside.
Freed's breathing grew harsh, his dark aura slowly leaking into the air like the stench of scorched metal. His grip on his sword tightened until his knuckles blanched. Rage unlike any he had ever felt coiled within him—this stranger was ignoring him completely, conversing with his prey as if he didn't exist, as if Freed had been reduced to a meaningless shadow.
"You dare… ignore me?" Freed roared, his voice thick with fury, his burning eyes tracking the silver-haired youth's every movement. But the young man never once looked his way—his calm smile lingered, eyes still on the girl, as though he could read her thoughts.
"Your life now rests in your hands… the choice is yours alone."
Her frail body shuddered. She tried to speak, but hot blood spilled from the corner of her lips, and her eyes dimmed further. She couldn't even lift her hand, yet she felt his presence pierce deep within her, as though he was speaking directly to her soul.
For the first time, the silver-haired youth turned his head slowly toward Freed, their eyes locking in a charged moment.
Freed froze in place. One look from those crystalline eyes froze the blood in his veins. There was no direct threat within them—yet something deeper, something that made him feel the ground vanish beneath him, as if the very air in the room had been stolen away.
"This is not your concern," the young man said, his voice cold as a still pond, while the aura around him seemed, for a brief moment, to breathe. "Her decision… is not yours to make."
Unconsciously, Freed stepped back, his grim features twisting into a primal caution he hadn't known in years. For the first time in a long while, he felt threatened—without a single sword being raised against him.
The silver-haired youth lifted his hand slowly toward the girl, not touching her, only raising his palm slightly in her direction. From his fingertips spilled faint blue sparks of light, like shards of transparent ice glittering in the dark. The air grew colder, filled with the scent of ozone.
"Decide now…" His voice this time was deeper, reverberating not in her ears but within her very bones. "Death… or the contract."
Her heavy eyelids fluttered, her hazy gaze clinging to that blue glow. In that moment, Freed was ready to strike, but something primal inside him stopped him—a raw instinct whispering that any reckless step could end him outright.
The apartment had transformed into a silent battlefield: between a fading soul, a mysterious stranger offering a deal as though wielding destiny itself, and a killer swaying between fury and fear for the very first time.
...
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