Asaka Mibu, her more mature self. I can't post her loli self and be accused of sexualising minors.
****
Of course, she had tried to leave.
The very first thing she did when left alone in this strange place was rush toward the door and pull at the handle with trembling hands. But the lock had been fastened from the outside, unyielding no matter how desperately she shook it. After struggling until her arms went weak, she finally slumped against the frame and gave up.
Maybe it was because she had no escape route, or maybe because despair had already taken root in her heart, but the girl soon stopped resisting altogether. She sat quietly in the corner, her breathing ragged, her face drained of color as she stared blankly at the floor.
The sound of footsteps drew closer—measured, deliberate, and heavy enough to make her flinch. When the door opened and Yotsuba Mahiro stepped inside, the girl's entire body tensed.
Her eyes, already wide, brimmed with fear as he approached. The paleness of her cheeks deepened, her lips trembled, and she instinctively wrapped her arms around herself.
By the time Mahiro reached her, she had already squeezed her eyes shut and curled into the wall behind her as though the cold, unyielding surface was somehow safer than the boy standing before her. She even buried her head in her arms, refusing to look at him.
Mahiro blinked, his hand halfway raised.
"..."
He had intended to pat her head gently, maybe as a way of saying it's okay, but seeing her shrink away from him like a terrified stray cat made him hesitate. The gesture felt wrong now, cruel even.
With a sigh, he lowered his hand and muttered, "Am I really that scary...? Geez, give me a break."
Shaking his head with a wry smile, Mahiro straightened up. "Forget it. I'll cook first."
Dragging his shopping bags to the kitchen, he unloaded vegetables, meat, and fish onto the counter. If he wanted to get through to this girl, it wasn't going to happen with force. It would take time, patience, and small steps.
Honestly, it reminded him of raising a pet. Most cats, when first brought home, hid in dark corners, convinced every shadow meant danger. They wouldn't eat until coaxed out, their little hearts pounding from every noise. This girl was the same—skittish, wounded, terrified.
He would just have to coax her out slowly.
The kitchen filled with the sound of running water and the rhythmic thunk thunk of a knife against the cutting board. The rice cooker hissed softly, releasing puffs of steam that carried the comforting aroma of freshly cooked rice.
Mahiro spoke as he worked, his voice calm, almost casual, as though talking to a silent roommate.
"So, speaking of which... what's your name?"
Silence.
"No name?" he asked again, raising a brow.
Still nothing.
"Okay, okay. I get it. My name is Yotsuba Mahiro," he continued, dicing scallions with practiced ease. "You can call me whatever you want."
The girl didn't even stir.
Mahiro glanced over his shoulder at her curled-up figure. "You really don't have to be so tense. I told you already, I'm not here to hurt you."
His words hung in the air, unanswered. He sighed again, but didn't press. Talking to someone who wouldn't respond was exhausting, but leaving her in silence would only make the distance between them grow wider.
So instead, he turned all his focus to the food. His knife moved quickly, his hands steady. Before long, the room was filled with the mouthwatering fragrance of simmering broth, sizzling vegetables, and perfectly seared fish.
When everything was finished, Mahiro carried the dishes one by one into the living room and set them neatly on the low coffee table: four vibrant dishes, a bowl of soup, and a glistening grilled fish, accompanied by fluffy white rice steaming gently in bowls.
He didn't own a proper dining table, so he usually ate here.
The moment the scents spread through the room, the girl stirred for the first time. Her head tilted ever so slightly, her crimson eyes flickering toward the feast. She stared, unblinking, at the steaming rice, her throat bobbing as she swallowed unconsciously.
She couldn't remember the last time she had seen food that looked this delicious.
No—she remembered. It had been when she was crouched outside someone else's window, peeking in hungrily at their family meal, the warm glow of the house contrasting painfully with her empty stomach.
Especially that soft white stuff... it was called rice, wasn't it? She'd never eaten it herself, but she'd heard of it.
Her stomach growled loudly, betraying her.
Mahiro hid a small smirk. Finally, a reaction.
But she still didn't move closer. Fear anchored her limbs more firmly than hunger ever could.
Mahiro leaned back on the sofa, deliberately picking up no chopsticks. He decided to wait, letting the aroma torment her senses.
Ten minutes passed. Her eyes flicked back and forth between him and the food, her body trembling slightly from restraint.
When he judged she was about ready to break, he finally spoke.
"Want to eat?"
Her head shot up, eyes wide. "…C-can I? Can I really… eat?" she asked, voice small and fragile, as though the words themselves might shatter.
Mahiro chuckled softly. "Of course you can. Why else would I make so much? You've been sitting there like a statue, so I figured maybe you weren't hungry yet. That's why I waited."
The girl stared at him, bewildered. Her lips trembled, but her body didn't move.
In the silence, the sound of her stomach rumbling filled the room.
Yet still she clung to her knees tightly, as though afraid that reaching for food would trigger some kind of punishment.
At last, she whispered, "…There aren't any… conditions? You're not going to hit me? Or… do something worse? If you're going to stab me, please… just make it quick. I… I don't want to be used for experiments again. It hurts."
Mahiro froze. His eyes widened in disbelief before narrowing with quiet anger—not at her, but at whatever nightmare had made her say those words.
"…What the hell have you been through, Asaka-san…? Hell itself?" he muttered under his breath.
With a long sigh, he shook his head. "Listen carefully. Why would I do something like that? I told you already, I'm not going to hurt you. Not then, not now, not ever."
It was the third time he'd said it, but this time the girl actually lifted her gaze.
Her crimson eyes locked with his for the first time, trembling yet defiant. "…Because I'm… a Gastrea."
The word lingered heavily between them.
Mahiro tilted his head, studying her expression carefully.
"A Gastrea, huh? Sorry, but no way," he said flatly. "I might not have fought one in person, but I've seen plenty of records these past few days. And you—" he crossed his arms, evaluating her like an older brother scolding a stubborn sibling— "you're not one. You're a human girl. A rather cute one, too... though you could really use a bath."
He let the teasing linger on his lips, eyes narrowing in mock seriousness.
Her tangled hair hung like wild weeds, strands sticking in every direction, and her cheeks were streaked with dirt. Yet, beneath all that, Mahiro could clearly see her delicate features—slender nose, small lips, a fragile outline of a face that belonged to a young girl, not a monster.
Still, his mischievous side couldn't resist adding: "Unless... are you like Saya from Saya no Uta? Did you tweak my brain so I'm just seeing you as a cute girl instead of the terrifying monster you claim to be?"
The reference went completely over her head. Her crimson eyes only widened, uncertain.
"I… am human?" she whispered.
The disbelief in her voice made Mahiro frown.
She had been called a monster so many times that she had started to believe it herself. The insults, the harsh words—each one had etched itself deeper into her heart until she could no longer tell truth from lie. If enough people repeated it, the human mind had no choice but to accept it.
Mahiro sighed. "Listen, stop doubting yourself. Biologically speaking, you're as human as me. Unless... are you saying I'm not human either?"
"N-no!" she blurted out quickly, shaking her head in panic. To her, this boy was far too kind—too handsome—to be anything but human. Compared to him, her own dirt-covered body felt unworthy of even being near him.
Mahiro shrugged. "Good. Then we'll save the philosophical talk for later. Right now—if you don't eat, the food's gonna get cold."
She froze, eyes flickering between the steaming dishes and Mahiro. Then, as if strangled by her own thoughts, she whispered, "…Why? Why are you being so kind to me…?"
The words trembled from her lips. No one had ever spoken gently to her before. She had only ever known cruelty. Even her own mother had branded her a monster and abandoned her to starve.
Why would this stranger treat her like a person?
"Why, huh?" Mahiro tapped his chin as though genuinely considering it. After a moment, he smiled softly. "Guess the answer's simple: sympathy."
Her brows furrowed. "Sym…pathy?"
"Yeah. It's like when you see a stray cat or dog on the street—you can't just leave them there, right? You feel like giving them food. That's all this is." He grinned, scratching his cheek. "Besides, you're not a cat or dog, Asaka-san. You're a girl. And you're in distress. What kind of man would I be if I just turned a blind eye?"
The words made her chest tighten strangely.
"…Strange person," she murmured.
And yet, for the first time since they had met, her guard lowered ever so slightly.
She slowly pushed herself up from the corner and took hesitant steps toward the coffee table.
Mahiro smirked. "Oh? Finally ready to eat? But hold on—it's not that simple."
The moment her fingers brushed the warm bowl of rice, Mahiro's hand shot out and caught her wrist.
"...Ah!"
Her crimson eyes widened in terror. Pure panic overtook her expression. She struggled violently, desperate to pull away. But hunger had drained her strength, leaving her resistance weak and trembling.
"Don't move!" Mahiro said firmly, tightening his grip just enough to stop her without hurting her. "I'm not saying you can't eat. But how can you eat with such filthy hands? Come on—wash up first!"
He might have been lenient enough to let her skip a bath for now, but dirty hands while touching food? That was absolutely unacceptable.
Without waiting for her protests, he guided her to the sink. She flinched under his grip, trembling like a cornered animal, but Mahiro ignored her panicked squirms. He turned on the faucet, pumped soap into his hand, and began scrubbing her small fingers gently but firmly.
Blackened water streamed down the drain, carrying away layers of grime. Her breathing hitched as the filth vanished, replaced by pale, delicate skin. By the time he rinsed off the last bubbles of soap, her hands looked like porcelain—smooth, spotless, and fragile.
Mahiro whistled. "See? Much better. Honestly, these hands look more like those of a rich ojō-sama than a starving stray."
In truth, it was the regenerative power of the Gastrea virus hidden in her blood that had kept them so pristine. But she only stared down at her hands as though they didn't belong to her, uncertain of what to do with them now that they were clean.
She stood frozen, waiting like a child for permission.
Mahiro chuckled and released her wrist. "Alright. You're good. Now go eat before I finish it all myself."
Her crimson eyes flickered with something new—a spark of hope.
She rushed back to the table, wobbling slightly from weakness, and without hesitation scooped a handful of rice into her mouth.
The instant the grains touched her tongue, her eyes widened. Her pupils glimmered with astonishment.
So good…
The heat, the sweetness of the rice, the fullness it spread across her starved stomach—this was unlike anything she had ever tasted.
She didn't care that it burned her fingertips. She didn't care that she had no chopsticks. She ate greedily, shoving fistfuls of rice into her mouth as though afraid it would vanish any second.
Mahiro didn't scold her. He simply sat down beside her and occasionally used his chopsticks to place bits of vegetables, meat, or fish into her bowl. Each time, she devoured them instantly, eyes sparkling with childlike wonder.
In less than a minute, the girl had finished everything on the tray—rice, vegetables, even drinking down the steaming bowl of soup that Mahiro had just served. It was clear enough that such a small amount of food couldn't possibly satisfy her long-starved stomach, but Mahiro didn't serve her a second helping. After being malnourished for so long, stuffing herself all at once could overload her body. Even if the Cursed Children had stronger physiques than normal humans, he wasn't going to gamble with her life.
After she finished eating, the girl simply stood there blankly, her gaze distant, almost lifeless. It was as though she was waiting for judgment to fall upon her.
This was the first time she had ever eaten something so delicious. She honestly thought that if this turned out to be her last meal in life, it would already be enough. Just tasting something this good once… it made her feel that her life had reached its completion. She dared not ask for more.
"...Thank you…"
The words were stiff and awkward on her lips, but she bowed deeply as she said them, her thin shoulders trembling. For the first time in her life, she forced out those words of gratitude. Until now, she had never thought she would use them for anyone.
Mahiro blinked. "…You're welcome. But you've gone without proper meals for too long, so you can only eat this much at once. That's okay, right?"
The girl nodded quickly. "No problem… What do you want to do next? Are you going to start hitting me?"
"…Hah?"
Her sudden question caught him completely off guard.
"If possible…" she continued timidly, clutching the hem of her ragged clothes, "could you wait a little while before hitting me? I don't want to throw up such delicious food… If you kill me afterward, it's fine. I won't run away, okay?"
Her words were shaky, awkward, yet sincere. She was bracing herself for punishment, for death itself… just so she could hold on to that warm meal a little longer.
Mahiro felt his chest tighten, a suffocating heaviness settling over him.
A child—this small—speaking so calmly about dying… all for the sake of not wasting food?
For a moment, he couldn't even form a response. He felt like pulling out a cigarette, even though he had none on hand. The world before his eyes was simply too depressing.
Who could possibly live in a place this rotten?
Not even the twisted depths of the Fourth Research Lab he once knew had been this dark.
After a long silence, with the girl's eyes fixed on him like a prisoner awaiting her verdict, Mahiro finally adjusted his tone and asked gently:
"Since we can talk now… can you tell me your name? Or… do you not have one?"
"…Yes."
"What is it?"
The girl's lips parted slightly. Then she clamped them shut again, as though terrified that speaking would be forbidden. She repeated this motion several times, back and forth, before at last a tiny whisper escaped her throat.
"...Mibu… Mibu Asaka…"
Mahiro murmured the name to himself. "Asaka Mibu…"
The first thought that popped into his head was of a character from that anime—the katana-wielding girl who followed a certain bald uncle. Could it really be her?
Now that he thought about it, this girl really did resemble her. Especially that long, flowing black hair that almost brushed her waist.
And… wasn't it strange? In his previous world, the first girl he had ever truly been serious with, the one he had actually built a relationship with, also carried the surname Mibu. And now, here was another little "Mibu" standing before him.
Coincidence… or fate? That, Mahiro decided, would depend on the choice this girl made next.
Straightening up suddenly, Mahiro startled her. Asaka shrank back on instinct, her small shoulders trembling as though bracing for the blow she thought was coming. Yet, true to her word, she did not retreat, did not flee. She stood firmly where she was, as though silently declaring she would not go back on her promise.
But the strike she expected never came. Instead, Mahiro asked in a steady voice:
"Oi, little Mibu. Do you want to stay?"
"Eh…?"
Asaka tilted her head, completely bewildered.
"What I mean is—this place could use someone to help clean. If you want, you can stay here and help out with chores."
He gestured toward the doorway. "But if you'd rather not, you're free to leave. I won't force you, and I definitely won't hit you. The door's right there."
Though he pitied her, Mahiro believed in respecting the paths others chose. Even if that path meant walking away.
Asaka Mibu still didn't move. Her small frame trembled as she looked up at him, her pupils flickering with uncertainty, and she whispered in a voice that almost cracked:
"Can… I really?"
"Of course you can. Don't you know how to clean?" Mahiro asked with a small smile.
"Yes… I do…"
"Then it's no problem." He leaned back casually. "But just so you know, I only provide food and a roof over your head. No salary."
Her face stiffened in panic. "No… money is fine… even leftovers are fine…"
Mahiro's brows furrowed before he let out a sharp laugh. "Oi, baka. If I only gave you scraps, wouldn't I basically be a child abuser? Don't spout nonsense like that." He tilted his head slightly, his eyes softening. "From your answer, I'll take it you're willing, right?"
"Mmm… I'm willing…" she nodded, this time with all her strength, as though staking her entire existence on those words.
The truth was, she had no other path to take. If she had the choice, she would never return to that half-dead life in a garbage heap. Even if this kindness turned out to be nothing more than a beautiful lie, even if there was a hidden trap waiting for her later… she would still step into it. Because this person, Yotsuba Mahiro, had given her something she thought she would never taste in this world—warm, delicious food.
"Very good. That's the kind of answer I like."
Mahiro stood, walked over to her, and reached out his hand. Asaka flinched, her shoulders twitching in fear, but this time she didn't dodge. She allowed his large, warm palm to settle on her head. The gentle pressure of his hand ruffling her hair was unfamiliar… yet comforting.
This warmth… It reminded her of something long lost. For just a moment, she thought—it almost felt like the touch of a god.
"Oh yeah, I forgot to ask," Mahiro said lightly, his hand still resting on her head. "How old are you, little Mibu?"
"…Nine. I'm nine years old," she answered, her voice trembling.
"Hmm, nine, huh? That's not so small anymore. You can bathe yourself, right?"
She blinked, confused by the sudden question, but nodded quickly. "Y-Yes."
"Good. Then go take a bath first. After that, I'll assign you a room."
Though his apartment wasn't especially luxurious, it had four bedrooms and a living room—plenty of space for the two of them. Taking her small, greasy hand, Mahiro gently guided her to the bathroom. He gave her simple instructions, then left her inside to take care of herself.
The moment she closed the door, he gathered her old clothes into a bundle and tossed them into the trash without hesitation. They were far too dirty and ruined to even consider washing.
"I'll take little Mibu shopping tomorrow… or the day after, once I have time," he muttered.
Dropping onto the sofa, Mahiro leaned back, his hands behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. From the bathroom, the sound of running water echoed faintly, filling the apartment with a strange sense of life he hadn't felt before.
Exhaling deeply, he shut his eyes.
This world… this twisted, rotten excuse for a world—there was no way he could just let it stay like this.