SUKUNA'S POV
I catch the sound.
The vessel moans… too much. Like some wretched whining that drags on and on. Pathetic. The girl, though… she does not waver. No, she never seems to lose her thread. And it is no comfort she gives— it is command.
Her words…small. And yet… they fall like boulders. Here. Enough. Stop. And the flesh… obeys. I speak not of courage. It was never that. It is method— cold, merciless, inescapable. And this… this alone… earns my gaze. For only that which bends… is worthy to be broken.
I care not who she is. Category: a maid— hands trained to hold together a hall forever on the verge of collapse. A cool head where others scream. Sweet only in the way one smothers a blaze with a damp cloth. It vexes me that she does not tremble before me; it amuses me that she does not act a part. She does not yield.
Good. The useful humans do not perform.
Why him, when I could grant her more? Simple: she needs a tool that stops. I do not stop. That is no flaw— it is design. If I wished, I could shift her breath by two fingers' width and make her forget the names of things. I do not wish it. Not yet. For now, I set her on the margin of the page: marked, but unread.
The girl works by subtraction. Strips away all that clatters until only the piece remains that bears the weight. She knows desire is a current: she does not break it, she channels it. She does not buy in bulk. She buys shared control. And with me, control is never shared— it is lost.
Diagnosis clear → refusal sound. Intelligence recognizes design. Thus far, she is permitted.
Her blind spot? Ahh… laughable.
She believes that this measure suffices… that control can leash every hunger. But control… endures only while strength holds. And strength… withers.
Fatigue is the truest poison. Slow, inevitable… and without defense.
There is no need to frighten her. No need to raise my voice. I need only erode her. One good minute at a time. Until nothing remains but scraps.
Tedious, yes. But I delight in tedious labors… when at the end… the only thing left… is to watch her break.
Do not call it "romantic interest." I lose myself for no one. I catalogue. And this one—the girl—falls into the drawer of "rare material": she commands without shouting, mistakes no urgency for order, wields normalcy as a functional shield. If she falls, it will not be to the heart— it will be because someone devours her rhythm.
Operational note: no grand gestures. A single, precise concession— at the exact moment. A nail driven true into her notion of halt. Then watch what she does.
For now, a mark suffices. Ink upon the vessel's sternum: a point, not a mouth. A reminder— I am here. I do not enter. I linger on the threshold.
Patience is not kindness. It is strategy.
The girl has no name for me. I grant her none in return. Not yet. When it is needed, I will use one. Until then: a margin note. And a short smile, without teeth.
I have time…
***
It was the middle of the lunch rush: the doorbell rang at intervals while dishes came out of the little kitchen window, filling the air with the good smell of broth and olive oil. Aiko kept her notepad tucked into her apron and directed the room like a conductor: "table three, two steaks; table five, bill ready; water for everyone."
Suddently, he came in. Thin-faced, eyes too shiny, jaw working aimlessly. He sat down without waiting, moved the "Please Wait To Be Served" sign without permission and began drumming his fingers on the table. He ordered lasagna and beer, then another dish "because the portions here are ridiculous," and a third dish with the "I'll pay later" clause. He ate quickly, scraping his plate with his chopsticks until the ceramic screeched.
When Aiko brought him the bill—modest even for rush hour—he leaned back and gave her a wry smile.
"I'm not paying."
Aiko stopped her notebook in mid-air. "If there's a problem with the dish, tell me and we'll fix it. But the bill must be settled."
"Problem? The lasagna was stale, the meat tough, the service slow. "One star" everywhere, so you learn to treat your customers better." He picked up his phone, already with the review app open. "I'll write now. We'll see how lunch goes tomorrow."
Around them, the buzz of other customers changed tone. Some stopped talking, others started filming with their cell phones. The words "one star" hung in the air like a mosquito. Aiko tilted her head slightly, her voice calm:
"Threats aren't a method. If you want to speak to the owner, I'm here. If you want to pay, the register is over there. Third option: we'll call the appropriate person, the police."
He jumped up, his chair scraping across the floor. " You don't have to tell me what to do." His shoulder hit the bottle of soy sauce, which fell and shattered on the floor: the liquid spread in a dark, iridescent stain that seemed to move farther than gravity would allow.
Those two tables away whispered, "How rude", "The usual crowd", "Do something."
The murmur turned even more acrid and from the outer edge of the counter something low and grayish began to take shape: a tangle of receipt paper and dust, with black dots for eyes, crawling toward the chairs and leaving behind a sticky trail. A petty curse, born of spite and negative reviews, fed on the resentment that was growing in the room.
Aiko caught sight of it from the corner of her eye and moved on her own:
"Ladies and gentlemen, a step back please. Table four, I'll move you by the window—tea's on me. Mom, turn off the stove for a moment."
Her tone never rose, yet it commanded. With her foot, she pulled the bamboo screen forward, shielding the older customers from the scene.
Yuji stood up from the table at the back. Jeans, always his signature sweatshirt, this time black. He had stopped by "just to say hello" before returning to the Institute of Occult Arts and now that greeting was his excuse. In three steps he was near the register; he positioned himself between the man and Aiko, not directly opposite: a half-profile that protected without provoking.
"Hey", Yuji said simply. "It's better for everyone if we talk outside."
"You're the one going outside, boy", spat the old man, taking a step toward him. Beneath the table, the tangle of paper began to laugh with a rustling sound. A greasy tongue crawled up his boot.
Yuji lowered his gaze by a fraction—just enough to see. The air around his fingers shimmered with an almost invisible blue: cursed energy barely fused to skin, no drama.
Under the tables, the tangle of receipts and grease crawled toward the customers' ankles, swelling every time someone whispered the word "one star." It caught the man's sole and pulled upward. Yuji bent down as if picking up the glass from the broken bottle. With his free hand, he took a pair of wooden chopsticks from the cutlery cup.
"Be careful when you walk", he said softly to the nearby customers—in a normal voice and with normal gestures.
In the meantime, Aiko kept the room calm, steady as ice. "Shōko-san", she said to the nearby table, "would you do me a favor and lift your bags out of the aisle? Thank you." With her other hand she tore the receipt from the card reader and slid it onto the counter, stamping it with the red mark "BILL."
The ink-scented paper acted as an anchor: the sticky reflection on the floor seemed to lose its nerve, as if that simple act — "you pay, it's recorded" — had taken away its food.
"Listen", Yuji said to the man in a low voice. "Pay up and if the dish isn't right, we'll remake it right away. If not, we'll call the appropriate person and you can stay here and explain. But the others are eating now. Have a little respect."
The man planted himself ten centimeters from his face. "You think you can scare me, kid?" His eyes flickered. Just behind the sole of his shoe, the puddle of soy on the floor pulled a final thread toward his heel, as if calling for reinforcements; Yuji in return planted the sole of his foot on the ground and traced a half circle on the floor, slowly: an invisible outline of cursed energy, just to isolate the creature from the room (a "dead zone" for the whispers that fed it).
When the clump passed the line, Yuji pinched it with his chopsticks like a piece of sticky paper and, without getting up, gave it a sharp downward tap: not a bang, just a quick "snap", the discharge of his energy coursing through the wood. The tangle crumpled in on itself, losing its oily sheen, turning to dark dust. Yuji scooped it up with the dustpan and slid it into the bucket as if it were ordinary dirt.
(Yuji creates a cursed energy field slash to detach the beast from the collective grudge, then neutralizes it with a targeted strike (CE concentrated through the chopsticks). From the outside, it just looks like he's been calmly collecting dirt.)
Aiko placed the tray on the table, picked up the bill and left it in front of the man, perfectly aligned with the edge.
"It's 2,340 yen. We accept cash and card. If you want a note on the plate, I'll add it to the management system—with your name and surname. That way we'll get off to a better start tomorrow. But now, we'll settle the bill."
For a moment, the man stared at the paper as if it were a puzzle. His phone was still open on the review app, his pale, confused face reflected on the screen. Someone coughed in the back. The murmur of the room faded; the smell of broth returned, stronger than that of spilled soy.
He slammed two bills on the plate of change. "Keep the change," he grumbled. He picked up the phone, slid his chair under the table without looking, bumped into the bamboo screen and left, pushing the door with his hip.
The bell rang twice as the dark puddle on the ground stopped: it was no longer alive, in fact, the half-living receipt slipped into the crack in the baseboard with a final rustle and disappeared.
Aiko inhaled, looked at Yuji and winked. She counted to three, then moved again.
"Table five, dessert. Sorry to keep you waiting," she said to the room with a professional smile.
At the register, she fed the bills to the cash register, ding; the "PAID" stamp fell cleanly on the receipt. Yuji took a step back and relaxed his shoulders, ready to disappear into the normality that Aiko had already restored.
SUKUNA'S POV.
What a pitiful creature.
It did not crawl out of the sewers—it was born from tongues. Spite, reviews, the scratch of a 'one star' spat at the right moment—and the filth begins to move. The hall is an organ: those who talk too much pump foul blood.
The waitress, instead, staunches the bleeding without a sound. She does not cry, does not beg, does not preach. She shifts two tables, raises a screen, lets tea slide as if she were merely tending to her shift. And above all—she stamps. Paper, ink, the 'bill.' A small act, a vast effect: it snaps the trickster's tale and starves the little beast. I will not call her. I do not give a damn what her name is. I lock her in a drawer: the one who rules the hall like an industrial engine.
The vessel moves. For once, he doesn't puff his chest. He takes up chopsticks like some dutiful waiter, draws a half-circle on the floor—a thin fence of cursed energy—and when the thing crawls inside, snap. Sharp. Clean. The trash folds and turns to sweepings. From the outside it looks like hygiene. It is correct. Not often it is.
Why do not I step in? Because I do not need to crush to understand. I want to see where the girl's system breaks, not the little monster. She has a religion: measure. Short words that bite—here, enough, register there, call who is needed. She uses them to shut valves, drop pressure, lift the broth above the acid. It works if you have got breath. But fatigue eats measure more than any curse. The method does not break from fear. It breaks when you run out of good minutes.
So I take note. Not of her eyes—of her levers. The register holds her spine. Reputation fills the hall. Rituals—stamp, screen, pouring tea—are her bulkheads. No need for a grand strike. What it needs is corrosion. False reservations. Reviews planted before service. A fridge breaking down on the lunch rush. A slow series. I want to see if she stays cold when normality really shatters.
The vessel trembled? Yes. And she used it—not to dominate, but to sync. That is what interests me: she commands appetites by sharing control. That is why she favors him. Because he stops when she tells him to.
I do not lose myself for anyone. The living bore me when they parade as miracles; the ones that work amuse me. This one works. First step of attention, nothing more. If she holds, I will have something rare to watch. If she breaks, I will have a lever to pound the vessel—where and when I please.
For now, that is enough. I leave the blade sheathed and step down. Patience is not kindness; it is a knife held between the teeth until someone missteps. The waitress did not falter today. Tomorrow we will see what it costs to lose an entire shift.
Then we will speak of measure! Ahhhahahahah!