The next day, the sky was dull, as if someone had smudged it with dusty fingers. Ayumi had spent the night imagining how the encounter would go. She had carefully arranged the cookies in a decorated metal tin — the one they used only on special occasions. She'd chosen a simple white ribbon and tied it twice. She didn't want to seem intrusive, just kind. Just… present.
With the box held tightly in her hands, she walked the path to the villa. Her steps were cautious but determined. Her heart beat faster than usual — that strange rhythm between the fear of rejection and the hope of being welcomed.
She reached the door and hesitated. The silence around her felt heavier, almost unnatural. Then she took a deep breath and reached out. The doorbell was cold to the touch, and its chime echoed sharply, cracking the still air like glass.
She waited.
Moments later, the door opened.
A boy stood in front of her.
He was shorter than she'd imagined, but his body carried a constant tension, as if every muscle was ready to react. His jet-black hair, unevenly cut, hung like a dark curtain over his eyes. That gaze — small, sharp, hard — seemed to cut through things without ever resting on people. No emotion on his face. No sign of surprise. Just a cold presence, as if he were made of stone and winter wind.
Feitan.
She didn't know it yet, but that name sounded like shattered metal.
"What do you want?"
His voice was low, thin, like a whisper that scratched. No politeness, no curiosity. Just irritation.
Ayumi swallowed, trying to smile.
"Hi... I live just down the road. I saw you just moved in and… I thought I'd bring these."
She gently lifted the tin.
"They're cookies. My mom made them, but we baked them together."
He looked at her. Or maybe through her. His brows lowered slightly, and he took a half-step back.
"I don't want them. Take them away."
The words were sharp, like broken glass. Yet his tone wasn't angry — just cold.
Distant. Uninterested.
Ayumi stood still. She felt her cheeks flush, but didn't move.
"Just one…" she whispered.
"Try one. If you don't like it, I won't bother you again. I promise."
There was a pause. Feitan said nothing. His eyes locked on the tin as if it held something dangerous. Then, slowly, he extended a pale, slender hand. Took a cookie. Put it in his mouth without looking at her. Chewed once, then moved abruptly.
Slam.
The door shut in her face, sending a cold gust across her skin.
Ayumi stood on the step, motionless. Her hands still slightly raised, as if she were still holding the box. She hadn't expected a celebration — but… something. Some small warmth. A thank you. A more human look.
She inhaled slowly, pushing back the knot rising in her throat.
Then, with quiet care, she set the tin of cookies on the ground, near the door. She turned and walked away without saying a word.
And as the sky turned a deeper gray, Ayumi told herself that not everyone had someone to teach them kindness.
And maybe — just maybe — that slammed door wasn't an end, but something.
---- Feitan.----
The light was annoying.
It filtered through the shutters like intrusive fingers, and Feitan wondered, for the hundredth time, why he had chosen that house.
In truth, he hadn't chosen it — it simply worked because it was isolated. A corpse abandoned on a hillside, one step away from nowhere. Perfect.
The kitchen still smelled of damp. The water groaned from the faucets, and the floors creaked under his footsteps. He liked that sound. It reminded him of something breaking. Or giving up.
He had just finished arranging his weapons inside a velvet-lined black case. Every object in its place. Silence, precision, control. The only kind of order he knew.
Then, that voice.
"Just one… try at least one."
He saw her again in his mind, without wanting to. The girl. The one with the too-soft smile, the too-clear eyes, the too-lively voice. An irritating presence. There was nothing useful in her. No threat. No value.
Just… noise. And wasted kindness.
Feitan didn't believe in kindness. He didn't understand it. It was a mask, like all the others. A form of power disguised as virtue. A trap, most likely.
He had slammed the door shut just to end that absurd scene.
The cookie he'd tasted — out of pity? boredom? — was sweet. Too sweet. It had stuck to the roof of his mouth like a badly told lie. He'd spat it into the sink shortly after. Then he'd forgotten all about it.
Or so he thought.
Until he opened the door.
And saw it there. The tin.
Still sitting on the edge of the step, like an unwanted offering that insisted on existing.
Unmoving. Clean. Ridiculous.
He picked it up with two fingers, as if it might burn him. Brought it inside, left it on the table without opening it. Circled around it a couple of times. Silent. Detached.
The house was empty, as always. But now, in that emptiness, there was something foreign. A small box with a white ribbon. Something useless. Fragile. Kind.
Feitan sat down, hands clasped on the table.
Time passed, but he didn't feel it. He had never really felt it. Days were just copies of each other. Places without direction. Repeated existences. Death, at least, made sense. The rest did not.
Who was that girl?
It didn't matter.
Why had she left him something?
Foolish.
What did she expect?
Nothing he could give.
He slowly opened the box, just to measure how much he could hate her. The scent hit him like a sugared blade. Butter, flour, warmth. An invisible weapon for those without armor. But he was empty. No emotion found purchase. No memory lit up.
He picked up a cookie, looked at it. Then put it back. Closed the lid. Without anger, without pity. Just absolute disinterest.
He left it on the table. A relic of something he didn't recognize. And walked away, vanishing once again into the house like a shadow.
Feitan felt nothing. And that was just fine.