CHAPTER 2
He couldn't feel his left hand.
It wasn't gone—he could still move the fingers, curl them into a trembling fist—but it didn't feel like his. Something pulsed beneath the skin. Slow. Hot. Like coals under wet cloth.
Kaito sat hunched in the dead grass just outside the slums, rain clinging to his hair, his coat soaked through on one side. The air still smelled like char, and every now and then, the brand on his chest gave a soft throb, as if it were breathing.
The sword he'd stolen leaned against a rotting stump beside him. Too long. Too clean. He hadn't even drawn it yet. He wasn't sure he wanted to.
The silence rang louder than anything.
"You've gone quiet," he muttered.
No answer.
That was worse than the voice. When she spoke—Yami—at least he knew what part of his mind had snapped. But this? This quiet?
It felt like waiting. Like judgment.
He stared at the hand again. His palm was stained black up to the wrist, like the fire had licked him from the inside out. When he flexed his fingers, faint red veins shimmered just under the surface. Not normal veins—spiritual ones. He could feel the reiatsu humming there, uninvited.
It made him sick.
Something shifted in the trees nearby. He turned quickly, grabbed the sword without thinking, half expecting the same Shinigami to come crawling back.
But it wasn't a Soul Reaper.
It was a Hollow.
Small, fast, the mask shaped like a cracked hare skull. It skittered between trees on four arms and screeched the moment it saw him—no hesitation.
Kaito barely got the sword up in time.
The Hollow launched itself at him, claws out, reiatsu dripping like spoiled meat. His block was sloppy, barely catching the blow, and the impact knocked him off balance. He hit the ground hard, elbow snapping against stone.
"Shit—!"
The Hollow spun back toward him, faster than it had any right to be.
He thrust his hand out without thinking.
"Byakurai!"
Nothing.
A hiss, a pop—and then heat. Not normal heat. Her heat.
Yami's voice spilled into his mind like warm oil.
"Wrong tongue, darling. Use mine."
His hand caught fire—just for a second. No light, no flames, just burn. The Hollow screeched mid-air, stopped mid-lunge, and convulsed violently. Its skin cracked. Mask split. It turned to cinders mid-motion.
He didn't even hit it. He just reached.
The corpse fell in pieces. Smoke curled around his legs.
Kaito staggered to his feet, breathing like someone who'd forgotten how. The rain turned the ash to mud around his boots.
"What… was that?" he whispered.
"A kiss," Yami answered.
He kept walking.
Hours passed—maybe. The sky didn't seem to change. It always looked the same outside the slums: grey, ruined, smothered. Like even the sun had moved on.
Kaito passed burnt carts, shattered walls, a shrine missing its prayers. No one stopped him. No one dared.
He found a broken house, crawled inside, and collapsed against the wall.
The silence came again.
"You lied to me."
Nothing.
He clenched his teeth. "You said we were lovers. That I opened you. What the hell does that mean?"
"So many questions. You used to be quieter when you were bleeding."
He slammed his fist against the wall. A thin scorch mark cracked along the wood.
"Stop screwing with me."
"No."
The voice came softer now, lower. Not mocking—intimate. Calm.
"You touched something older than Soul Society. Something the Shinigami buried. That stone you carried? It was a lock. I was the key. And now… I am your shadow."
Kaito swallowed.
He looked down at his hand again. The red shimmer. The twitching flame under his skin.
"You're in me."
"No. You are in me."
He left the house before morning. He didn't sleep.
Sleep felt like a trap now—something that would let her crawl deeper into him. Or out.
He headed toward the market, what was left of it. No one would recognize him. Probably. Maybe. But he needed food. Questions. Somewhere to go. Someone to not try to stab him on sight.
But when he reached the outskirts of the stalls, everything stopped.
Two vendors were standing in the street, heads bowed low, whispering.
"…burned alive," one muttered. "Didn't even use a blade."
"Demon, they said. Flame demon. Had a mark on his chest."
Kaito froze.
The woman's eyes drifted toward him. She didn't know why. But something in her felt it.
She dropped her bag.
Kaito turned and left.
He kept walking until the slums faded, until the fields went thin, until even the smoke seemed tired of following him. No food. No destination. Just motion.
By sunset, he found a ditch full of stagnant water and leaned over it. Not to drink. To look.
His reflection stared back—tired, wild-eyed, older than it should've looked. And there, just beneath the collarbone, faintly glowing through the wet fabric of his shirt, was that brand again. Twisting. Waiting.
He touched it.
"You belong nowhere now," Yami whispered.
"Good," he whispered back.
CHAPTER 2
He couldn't feel his left hand.
It wasn't gone—he could still move the fingers, curl them into a trembling fist—but it didn't feel like his. Something pulsed beneath the skin. Slow. Hot. Like coals under wet cloth.
Kaito sat hunched in the dead grass just outside the slums, rain clinging to his hair, his coat soaked through on one side. The air still smelled like char, and every now and then, the brand on his chest gave a soft throb, as if it were breathing.
The sword he'd stolen leaned against a rotting stump beside him. Too long. Too clean. He hadn't even drawn it yet. He wasn't sure he wanted to.
The silence rang louder than anything.
"You've gone quiet," he muttered.
No answer.
That was worse than the voice. When she spoke—Yami—at least he knew what part of his mind had snapped. But this? This quiet?
It felt like waiting. Like judgment.
He stared at the hand again. His palm was stained black up to the wrist, like the fire had licked him from the inside out. When he flexed his fingers, faint red veins shimmered just under the surface. Not normal veins—spiritual ones. He could feel the reiatsu humming there, uninvited.
It made him sick.
Something shifted in the trees nearby. He turned quickly, grabbed the sword without thinking, half expecting the same Shinigami to come crawling back.
But it wasn't a Soul Reaper.
It was a Hollow.
Small, fast, the mask shaped like a cracked hare skull. It skittered between trees on four arms and screeched the moment it saw him—no hesitation.
Kaito barely got the sword up in time.
The Hollow launched itself at him, claws out, reiatsu dripping like spoiled meat. His block was sloppy, barely catching the blow, and the impact knocked him off balance. He hit the ground hard, elbow snapping against stone.
"Shit—!"
The Hollow spun back toward him, faster than it had any right to be.
He thrust his hand out without thinking.
"Byakurai!"
Nothing.
A hiss, a pop—and then heat. Not normal heat. Her heat.
Yami's voice spilled into his mind like warm oil.
"Wrong tongue, darling. Use mine."
His hand caught fire—just for a second. No light, no flames, just burn. The Hollow screeched mid-air, stopped mid-lunge, and convulsed violently. Its skin cracked. Mask split. It turned to cinders mid-motion.
He didn't even hit it. He just reached.
The corpse fell in pieces. Smoke curled around his legs.
Kaito staggered to his feet, breathing like someone who'd forgotten how. The rain turned the ash to mud around his boots.
"What… was that?" he whispered.
"A kiss," Yami answered.
He kept walking.
Hours passed—maybe. The sky didn't seem to change. It always looked the same outside the slums: grey, ruined, smothered. Like even the sun had moved on.
Kaito passed burnt carts, shattered walls, a shrine missing its prayers. No one stopped him. No one dared.
He found a broken house, crawled inside, and collapsed against the wall.
The silence came again.
"You lied to me."
Nothing.
He clenched his teeth. "You said we were lovers. That I opened you. What the hell does that mean?"
"So many questions. You used to be quieter when you were bleeding."
He slammed his fist against the wall. A thin scorch mark cracked along the wood.
"Stop screwing with me."
"No."
The voice came softer now, lower. Not mocking—intimate. Calm.
"You touched something older than Soul Society. Something the Shinigami buried. That stone you carried? It was a lock. I was the key. And now… I am your shadow."
Kaito swallowed.
He looked down at his hand again. The red shimmer. The twitching flame under his skin.
"You're in me."
"No. You are in me."
He left the house before morning. He didn't sleep.
Sleep felt like a trap now—something that would let her crawl deeper into him. Or out.
He headed toward the market, what was left of it. No one would recognize him. Probably. Maybe. But he needed food. Questions. Somewhere to go. Someone to not try to stab him on sight.
But when he reached the outskirts of the stalls, everything stopped.
Two vendors were standing in the street, heads bowed low, whispering.
"…burned alive," one muttered. "Didn't even use a blade."
"Demon, they said. Flame demon. Had a mark on his chest."
Kaito froze.
The woman's eyes drifted toward him. She didn't know why. But something in her felt it.
She dropped her bag.
Kaito turned and left.
He kept walking until the slums faded, until the fields went thin, until even the smoke seemed tired of following him. No food. No destination. Just motion.
By sunset, he found a ditch full of stagnant water and leaned over it. Not to drink. To look.
His reflection stared back—tired, wild-eyed, older than it should've looked. And there, just beneath the collarbone, faintly glowing through the wet fabric of his shirt, was that brand again. Twisting. Waiting.
He touched it.
"You belong nowhere now," Yami whispered.
"Good," he whispered back.