[August 3, 1996 — 1:24 A.M. | 19th Ward, Tokyo]
The drawer-crib was long gone, replaced by a worn futon pressed against the far wall of the apartment. Hayato, now two years old, slept fitfully, small fists twitching in dreams, faint sounds escaping his throat like he was chasing words he hadn't yet learned. His eyes glowed faint red in the darkness whenever they flickered open, a reminder that no matter how innocent he looked, he was not — and never could be — human.
The midwife sat cross-legged at the table, her shawl draped around her like a second skin. Her hair, iron-gray, had not changed since the night of his birth, but her eyes glowed brighter when they fixed on Hayato.
"He's restless," she said quietly.
His mother, seated close by, stroked his hair as he slept. "He dreams often. Sometimes he wakes and cries, but never like other children. It's… sharper. Like he knows."
The father leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He distrusted the midwife, though he never said it aloud in front of Hayato. "He's strong. That's what matters."
The midwife's lips curled faintly, though not in warmth. "Strength is expected, given where he comes from."
The father's expression darkened. "Don't start."
But the midwife went on, voice carrying the weight of old resentment. "You know well the Seno name is not forgotten in the 19th Ward. My family has blood that once commanded fear. Your wife was born to a line of predators — respected, feared, powerful. And yet here she hides in a hole, nursing a child in secret, wasting her gift."
The mother's eyes sharpened. "Enough."
The midwife tilted her head, gaze cold. "Enough? Your family has disowned you. You chose this man—" she flicked her eyes toward the father, dismissive, "—and they turned their backs. But they still watch. Do not think for a moment they don't. And they will judge the boy."
Hayato stirred on the futon, a soft whimper slipping out. His mother immediately turned, laying beside him, stroking his cheek until he settled. The glow in his eyes dimmed.
"Judge him for what?" the father muttered.
The midwife's answer was simple, almost cruel. "For being yours."
[September 10, 1996 — 3:09 A.M.]
Hayato's hunger had grown more insistent with age. Blood alone no longer quieted him for long. He would gnaw on rags, whimper against his mother's skin, his tiny frame trembling from the ache in his belly.
One night, the father returned with a bundle. He set it on the table without a word. The paper wrapping soaked through slowly, dark and warm.
The smell filled the room. Hayato's head lifted from his futon, his small nose twitching. He toddled across the floor clumsily, eyes glowing brighter with each step. His mother hesitated, heart aching, but when he reached the table, she lifted him into her arms and guided a piece of flesh to his mouth.
He bit down. For a moment, his body shook with the instinct — revulsion and hunger colliding. But then his teeth tore, and he chewed. Blood smeared his lips. He swallowed. His glow dimmed. His small body relaxed for the first time in days.
The father looked away. His mother held him close, her face unreadable.
From the corner, the midwife spoke softly, almost as if to herself. "Good. He'll live."
[October 1, 1996 — 11:46 P.M.]
Hayato had begun to speak in broken words — small, halting fragments. He called his mother kaa-san, his father tou-san. Sometimes he babbled nonsense in his sleep, the cadence strangely different, as if pieces of another life were bleeding through. His mother listened, brow furrowed, wondering if perhaps children always carried strange echoes like that.
That night, as rain streaked the window, Hayato pointed at the sky and whispered, "Cold."
His father blinked. "He's learning faster than—"
"Not that," his mother interrupted softly. She remembered the way he had shivered in dreams, the way he sometimes woke clawing at the air as if trapped. Her family's blood ran in him, yes, but there was something else. A shadow that didn't come from her side.
The midwife said nothing, but her eyes lingered on the child longer than usual.
[November 12, 1996 — 4:12 A.M.]
The city outside roared with distant violence — another raid, another clash between ghouls and Doves. The parents didn't dare step out. They kept Hayato close, distracting him with whatever scraps of cloth or broken toys they could find.
But hunger came regardless of raids. Hunger came regardless of safety.
The father unwrapped another parcel, setting it on the table with a grim look. He fed his son this time — guided small hands, whispered encouragement though the act tore at him.
Hayato bit down, teeth sharper than they should have been for his age. He chewed and swallowed, eyes glowing faintly. Then, almost instinctively, he reached for more.
The father's hands shook as he gave it.
His mother stroked his hair. "It won't always be this way. We'll find a better place."
The father said nothing. He only watched, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the child who ate because he had to, who was already learning the first lesson of being a ghoul: survival had no kindness in it.