Red Thread Killer
"At night, threads don't weave destinies— they cut lives, and blood sings its own elegy."
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Ward 20 was a graveyard of flickering lights— a labyrinth of neon and shadow where the living pretended death wasn't stalking them. A CCG squad patrolled the streets, boots ringing against wet asphalt, tense faces scanning every corner to avoid an ambush. The air smelled of stale rain and something else—something metallic, like the city itself was sweating blood.
One of the rookies, a kid with nervous eyes and trembling fingers on his Quinque, took a step toward a dark alley, drawn by a stench he couldn't ignore. His flashlight barely skimmed the gloom when a thin red flash—fine as a whisper—cut through the air. An invisible thread sliced his uniform, opening a gash across his chest. Blood burst out hot, soaking the fabric in a bright red that dripped to the ground with a wet, almost obscene sound.
The rookie stumbled back, gasping, one hand clamped over the wound as pain set his ribs on fire. The thread, barely visible beneath the glow of a dying streetlamp, vibrated like the string of a broken instrument. The squad veteran—weathered face, eyes that had seen too many deaths—shook his head, voice low but steady.
— That's the Ghoul Devourer, an SS —he said, spitting on the ground like the name tasted like poison—. Not our problem. Nobody goes in there and comes out alive. That thread marks his territory, and the Red Thread Killer doesn't forgive. If you want to die, go ahead— but nobody's coming to fetch you. Especially not a ghoul on the CCG's leash.
The rookie swallowed, the burn in his chest reminding him how close he'd come to the abyss. His eyes drifted into the alley's darkness, where the air felt heavier—like it breathed with a pulse of its own. What could be lurking in there, for a whole squad to turn around?
He didn't know, and fear whispered that he didn't want to find out.
With a shiver, he backed away, rejoining the group already retreating—fast steps, as if they feared the night itself might chase them.
In the heart of the alley, the darkness had a master.
A ghoul—Class A—whose Koukaku erupted like a serrated blade from his shoulder, writhed at the center of an invisible web. His eyes, flooded with panic, tore through the shadows searching for an enemy he couldn't see. His breathing was broken panting, sweat mixing with the blood dripping from shallow cuts along his arms, chest, legs. Red threads—thin as ripped veins—surrounded him, weaving a cage he couldn't touch without shredding himself. Every movement was a mistake. Every struggle a new cut, ripping another growl of pain from his throat.
— What will you taste like? —the Red Thread Killer's voice tore through the silence, low and hollow, like the words came from a corpse that still walked—. Fear? Agony? The rotten sweetness of a soul that thinks it deserves to live?
The ghoul spun, his kagune carving a desperate arc through the air.
But the threads were faster.
One snapped out— invisible until blood betrayed it— and severed his arm in a clean flash. The kagune fell, still trembling before dissolving into red mist, while blood surged like a geyser, splattering the alley walls. The ghoul screamed—more animal than human— but before he could even process it, two more threads punched into him: one through the chest, one through the thigh. They yanked him up like a broken puppet, the threads slicing under his skin—muscle and tendon torn with surgical precision. Pain became a symphony, every cut a chord ringing in his bones.
— Spiders weave webs —the voice continued, closer now, a whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere—. Flies fall. And you… you don't have wings anymore.
The ghoul sobbed, body shaking while the threads held him suspended. Blood dripped into puddles that reflected the dying lamp's light. He tried to speak, to beg— but words drowned into a gargle when another thread cut his cheek, opening him to the teeth.
Then the Red Thread Killer stepped out of the shadows.
A silhouette wrapped in a spotless school uniform—so ordinary no one would recognize him. His face was hidden behind black bangs falling like curtains. His red eyes, barely visible, glowed like embers in a dead fire. There was no emotion in them— only a void that devoured light.
— Anxiety. Fear. Predictable for a low-tier ghoul —he said, voice flat, like he was reading off a diagnosis—. Your kind always tastes the same. You live so little… and die so fast.
The ghoul tried to force his kagune out one last time—an effort so useless it only tightened the threads while his exhausted kagune refused to answer. The web vibrated, a deep hum that cut the air.
A final thread snapped forward.
It pierced the ghoul's skull with a dry crack.
The body dropped, the threads releasing it like it wasn't worth holding anymore. The head rolled, eyes wide in frozen terror, while blood pooled and mixed with the alley's filth.
The Red Thread Killer approached, steps silent, deliberate. He lifted the corpse from the ground, gloved fingers brushing ruined flesh. Without ceremony, he tore off a chunk of shoulder muscle—teeth sinking in with a visceral crunch. Blood smeared his lips, dripped down his chin—yet there was no pleasure on his face. He chewed slow, mechanical, like meat was just fuel for a body that no longer knew why it kept moving. The taste was bitter, packed with fear and desperation, but it didn't fill the hollow inside him.
Nothing did.
— Another one with no flavor, like always —he murmured, wiping blood with the back of his hand.
His red eyes swept the alley for witnesses. The threads retracted, vanishing into darkness as if they'd never existed. With precise movement, he drew a kunai, blade thin as a whisper of death, and cut the body into small pieces—easy to scatter. Each cut was a ritual. Not hate. Not fury. Just routine carved into blood. The pieces went into a dumpster, mixed with Tokyo's trash, while blood seeped into the asphalt's cracks.
— No one will remember you —he said to the air, voice an echo without destination—. No one ever does.
He turned, dissolving into the alley's shadows.
The night swallowed him whole, streetlamps flickering as if afraid to illuminate what they'd seen. Tokyo kept breathing, unaware of death walking its streets— but the Red Thread Killer knew there was no end to this.
No redemption.
Just the next cut. The next prey.
And the echo of a mother laughing from a cursed forest, seven hundred kilometers away.
Double Life
"In the light, a brother pretends to smile; in the shadow, a killer weaves death— and the heart bleeds out in silence."
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The Ward 20 bookstore smelled of new paper and ink— a refuge of words Kaneki devoured with a hunger Ayanato couldn't understand. Shelves rose like walls of a world Ayanato only pretended to live in, his slow steps trailing behind Kaneki as the boy wandered the aisles, fingertips brushing covers with a tenderness that hurt to watch.
Kaneki stopped, eyes bright as he pulled a book from the shelf— a worn novel with gold lettering. He turned it toward Ayanato, voice trembling with childlike excitement.
— Look, Nii-san! This one looks good. It's about a lost man searching for his home. Do you think I'd like it?
Ayanato took the book, gloved fingers touching the cover with mechanical precision. His red eyes—hidden behind amber contacts—skimmed the pages at inhuman speed, words marching past like prey fleeing a predator. His face remained empty, a mask of cracked marble, but something in his chest twisted—an echo of Himari he couldn't silence.
The memory of his sister—blue eye, fragile smile—hit him like a knife. His fingers trembled for the briefest instant, then he handed the book back to Kaneki.
— Interesting —he said, voice low, nearly a whisper, like speaking itself was a fight against his nature—. You'll like it. Take it.
Kaneki nodded, his smile lighting the bookstore's dimness like a lantern in fog.
— You think so, Nii-san? Lately I finish books too fast. Maybe I should borrow them from the library so I don't spend so much…
Ayanato cut him off with a light tap on the arm—meant to be brotherly, but stiff, like his body rejected tenderness.
— Not necessary —he said, tone cold, edged with something he couldn't name—. We've got plenty of yen. Buy what you want. If you reread it, you won't have to fight time.
Kaneki looked down, cheeks reddening with embarrassment and gratitude.
— Thanks, Nii-san —he murmured, warmth in his voice Ayanato couldn't return.
Ayanato nodded, forcing a smile that never reached his eyes. His lips curved, but it was a lie— a crack in the mask he wore for Kaneki.
In his mind, Himari's whisper never stopped: Protect him, Ayanato. Don't let him die like I did.
But another whisper—darker—roared from his black blood: So fast? Lately I'm eating too much… doesn't matter. No one will look for them.
Hunger twisted his gut, a void that wasn't just physical— it was a sentence pushing him back toward darkness.
He pulled out a thick wad of yen—bills stained by the sweat of dead hands—and placed them in Kaneki's palm.
— I have something important to do —he said, flat, like he was reciting a learned script—. Use this for the book and for food at Anteiku. Tell Touka to save me some red tea if she has any.
Kaneki nodded, smile untouched, oblivious to the abyss behind Ayanato's eyes.
— Sure, Nii-san! See you later, okay?
Ayanato lifted a hand in a wave that looked more like a goodbye. He left the bookstore, the door chime tinkling like a funeral echo.
His steps carried him to the nearest alley, where streetlight barely reached and the air smelled like trash and dried blood. He pulled a glove from his pocket, metal tips glinting in the dim, and adjusted the spool strapped to his belt before hooking it to the glove.
With a precise flick, he fired a kunai that sliced the air— and a web of red threads bloomed across the alley like veins of an invisible beast.
The trap was ready.
Waiting for the next fly to fall into it.
— Come, little lambs —he whispered to the wind, red eyes shining in the dark—. There's always one who thinks they're safe.
The Dance of Threads
"When victims step into the unknown, the threads of fate sometimes allow themselves whims."
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Ward 20 was a chessboard where pieces died without ever knowing why.
Two CCG investigators patrolled the streets, footsteps pounding like hammers on a coffin. Kureo Mado—white-haired, eyes glittering with restrained madness—walked with a twisted smile, his Quinque case swinging like a pendulum. Beside him, Koutarou Amon—taller, younger, with an stoic stare hiding the weight of doubt—gripped his weapon with tense fingers.
— Mado-san —Amon said, voice steady but cautious— we're entering the Red Thread Killer's territory. Reports say his activity has increased. He's feeding too heavily on ghouls. It's… dangerous.
Mado arched a brow, his grin widening like danger was a private joke.
— The Ghoul Devourer? —he purred, voice a hiss of delight—. How I'd love to open him up, gut him, see how sharp a Quinque made from his kagune would be. Imagine it, Amon— a spider built to hunt flies.
His eyes shone, manic, as he tapped his case.
— Listen well, boy. When you're facing the enemy— even if your hands tremble— fight. That's what being a professional means.
Amon nodded, formal, but his eyes swept the shadows with a nervousness he couldn't hide.
They reached the alley's edge, where the air thickened, loaded with a metallic stench that tickled the throat. Mado activated his Quinque—three blue tentacles, viscous like coagulated blood, slid from the handle. One brushed an invisible thread.
A red flash snapped through the air—fast as a whip.
Mado shifted aside with inhuman precision, the thread vibrating, as though dripping imaginary blood.
— Oh? —Mado laughed, a dry sound bouncing off alley walls—. Looks like Red Thread's home.
Amon drew his Dojima, a crimson mass that seemed to pulse in his hands, and advanced with slow steps, breath held tight. Red threads—barely visible under weak light—formed a web that seemed to breathe, vibrating with every movement.
Mado moved between them, using his Quinque like a cane to probe. His eyes shone with cautious excitement.
— Come out, Red Thread! —Mado shouted, voice cutting the gloom like a razor—. Stop hiding, I just want to talk!
A voice answered—empty, cold—like the alley itself was speaking.
— CCG investigators —the Red Thread Killer said, tone an echo sliding along the walls, impossible to pinpoint—. I thought the corpses I left were message enough. You're not ready for an SS. Much less for me. You should listen to your superiors. Better to have the spider on your side before it decides to bite you— and the CCG knows it.
The spool clicked metallic.
The threads tightened.
A deep hum rolled through the alley, freezing blood in veins.
Amon stepped forward—less cautious than Mado— and a thread pressed against his neck, slicing skin with a burn that ripped a gasp from him. He jerked back, but another thread grazed his back, pinning him in an invisible cage. The web vibrated—each thread a blade promising to tear him apart if he moved. His heart slammed, sweat mixing with the blood trickling from his neck.
— Mado-san, careful! —Amon shouted, voice tight between fear and duty— The Devourer has the advantage!
Mado didn't answer. His eyes searched the darkness for the flicker of red eyes he knew were there.
The threads were a death-symphony, each one placed with the precision of a predator who never made mistakes. He nudged one aside with his Quinque—another snapped tight beside him, cutting air with a hiss.
The web was alive.
And they were flies caught in it.
— I'm not looking for the CCG's unwanted attention —the voice said, closer now, a whisper crawling down their spines—. Consider yourselves lucky. If you saw me, you'd be dead.
A red flash crossed the alley so fast even Mado couldn't react. The threads vibrated one last time—like a funeral hymn—then retracted, vanishing into the gloom.
The Red Thread Killer disappeared, presence fading into an echo that left the air colder, heavier.
Mado clenched his teeth, face twisting with frustration.
— At least he didn't recover the whole web —he muttered, slamming his Quinque into the ground—. We wore him down a little. Someday, we'll bleed him out.
Amon, still rigid, touched the cut on his neck, sticky blood under his fingers. His eyes drifted into the darkness where the Red Thread Killer had been.
A shiver ran through him.
It wasn't just danger that terrified him.
It was the certainty that, in that alley, they'd been one thread away from death.
The Mysterious Girl
"Fate sets traps— even the road we never planned to walk can become a cruel joke."
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Tokyo was a maze of shadow and neon— a cemetery of dreams where the living walked blind to death lurking at every corner. Ayanato Ashida moved through Ward 20 in a spotless school uniform, a facade hiding the beast beneath his skin. His eyes—red in the dark—scanned the night with a vacancy that was more weapon than expression. The air smelled of old rain and fresh blood lingering in every alley.
— Himari would've loved this place —he murmured, voice a broken whisper almost drowned by the streetlamps' buzz—. A place where she could've been… normal.
His gloved hand—black metal claws gleaming under weak light—curled into a fist. The spool of red threads strapped to his sleeve vibrated faintly, as if sensing his unrest. A kunai, sharp as a whisper of death, rested in his palm, ready to weave a web.
He looked down at his hand, the red threads shining like ripped veins, and his expression hardened.
— Ashida… —he said, disgust heavy in his voice—. A cursed surname. A life that's nothing but misery.
A sweet voice—like a song in the gloom—cut the silence. Ayanato turned slowly, eyes landing on a young girl standing beneath a streetlamp. Purple hair fluttered in the night breeze, big vulnerable eyes reflecting an innocence shaped to deceive. She wore a simple dress, but her slightly tilted posture was too perfect—too rehearsed.
— Excuse me, sir —she said, voice trembling with a fragility that didn't fit the street—. I stayed out too long… I'm scared a ghoul might attack me. Could you… walk me home, please?
Ayanato watched her, red gaze drilling through her. The vulnerability was almost convincing— but tiny details betrayed the act: a twitch in her smile, a calculating glimmer in her eyes. He activated his hemogenic vision, and the air around her flared with high RC—an aura that screamed ghoul.
His lips curved into a cold smile, more instinct than emotion.
Not human. A ghoul playing prey. Interesting… but stupid. If she wants to attack me, let her try. She'll regret it.
— Don't worry —he said softly, weaving a lie as fine as his threads—. I'll walk with you. And I'm not "sir." I'm almost as young as you.
The girl laughed—crystal-bright—pointing toward a path twisting into a darker alley.
— Thank you —she said, still sweet, but with an edge Ayanato didn't miss—. This way. It's faster.
They walked in silence, footsteps echoing with the city's hum. Ayanato kept his face empty, but his senses stayed razor-alert—every nerve vibrating like thread on a taut spool.
The girl broke the silence, voice more confident now, as if testing him.
— What's your name? —she asked, head tilted, smile more weapon than gesture—. Aren't you afraid being out this late?
Ayanato shook his head, calm tone carrying a cold undertow he couldn't fully hide.
— Ayanato Ashida —he answered, eyes fixed on her, searching for cracks in her mask—. Just a night walk. Nothing unusual. And you? What's your name?
The girl smiled, teeth glinting under the streetlamp. With elegant gesture—like inviting him to dance—she pointed deeper into the alley.
— Rize Kamishiro —she said, voice dropping into something darker, a promise sharpened into sound—. Pleasure to meet you, Ayanato.
They stepped into the alley, darkness swallowing them like a hungry mouth. The air thickened, metallic stink tickling the throat. Rize stopped—her laugh turning low, almost animal.
Her eyes flashed—scarlet kakugan igniting the gloom like a blood-lighthouse. Her Rinkaku burst out: four flexible, gleaming tentacles rising like serpents ready to bite.
— Not every girl you meet in the street is innocent, Ayanato —she purred, seductive but lethal—. And now you're going to learn why.
A tentacle shot forward, whistling through the air. Ayanato tilted his head, dodging by millimeters. It grazed his cheek, leaving a tiny cut that bled black before sealing shut instantly.
Rize recoiled, eyes widening—surprise and fury mixing.
— They say there was a troublesome ghoul in Ward 11 —she said, voice empty, shaping the threat just to see his reaction—. One who eats more than she should. The CCG's offering a nice reward for ghouls who cooperate… maybe I should hand you over to the weight of the law.
Ayanato vanished in a red blink.
He reappeared in front of her, so close she could feel his breath—his clawed glove a whisper away from her throat. Red threads rose around him, forming a glimmering net, every filament a blade promising death.
Rize froze, kakugan shining with fear and fascination.
— You're young —Ayanato said, voice hollow, edged sharper than his threads—. You lack technique. Confidence. You're not ready for enemies out of your league.
Rize stepped back, her kagune retracting slightly—yet her eyes never left his. Curiosity flickered there.
— Didn't expect to run into someone so… indigestible —she said, tone mocking but tense—. What makes you think you can beat me?
Ayanato lowered his claw, shrugging with an indifference more frightening than threats.
— Arrogance is a luxury for the strong —he said, red gaze piercing—. But you don't measure your steps. And that will kill you someday.
Rize's eyes narrowed, but her smile returned, sharp as a knife.
— I spent a lot of energy because of you —she growled—. And now I'm hungry. You're the closest thing to devour.
She lashed out again, tentacles cracking like whips. Ayanato moved like a specter and caught one tentacle in his claw, stopping it dead. Rize's strength was impressive—yet under pressure her kagune faltered, dissolving as she cursed and retreated.
Ayanato tilted his head, eyes shining with a void that chilled blood.
— Want to taste me? —he asked, a whisper that sounded like it came from the shadows themselves.
Without waiting, he sliced his palm with his own claw and let a single drop of black blood fall into Rize's hand. Morbid curiosity took her—she tasted it.
The flavor was a fire in her throat: bitter, toxic, like Ayanato's blood was made of poison and broken memories. She spat it out, face twisting in disgust.
— What the hell are you made of?! —she snapped, voice echoing in the alley, fury tangled with fascination.
Ayanato shrugged, unbothered.
— Something you don't want to know —he said flatly—. There are humans caught in my web a few streets from here. You can take them.
Rize laughed—more challenge than joy.
— You think I'm stupid? —she said, kagune quivering behind her—. Nobody gives anything for free. What do you want in return?
Ayanato tilted his head, threads slowly retracting, as if the web itself eased tension.
— I want nothing —he said, tone a murmur cutting like thread—. I save myself the trouble of dumping bodies off a bridge. And you get to rest without hunting while exhausted.
Rize studied him, eyes narrowed, hunting for the trap. There was something in him—broken and lethal—that fascinated her as much as it warned her.
Finally, she nodded, keeping her distance as she followed him into the shadows, steps careful as if walking on shattered glass.
— You're weird, Ayanato Ashida —she murmured—. But I like weird.
Ayanato didn't answer. His threads hummed once more—an echo of his fractured soul—as he guided Rize toward the prey he'd left behind.
In his mind, Himari's face flashed: her fragile smile cut by the memory of the Mother of Black Blood.
This meeting—this purple-eyed girl—was a mirror he didn't want to look into.
But something in his blood whispered that it wouldn't be the last time their paths crossed.
Troublesome
"In a world of prey and hunters, the most dangerous monsters aren't the ones that roar— they're the ones that smile in the dark."
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Anteiku's bustle wrapped Kaneki and Ayanato in a veil of normalcy— a fragile refuge where coffee aroma and murmured conversation tried to drown out the truth of the outside world.
At a table by the window, Kaneki flipped through a book with eager fingers, his face lit by curiosity Ayanato watched with envy and emptiness. A TV in the corner buzzed with a variety show—canned laughter hollow as a cheap mask—until the screen flickered and abruptly switched to breaking news.
"Breaking news: ghoul attacks in Ward 20 have increased dramatically over the past year. An unidentified ghoul—now nicknamed the 'Binge Eater'—has left a trail of bodies in excessive hunting, concentrated in areas where the Red Thread Killer operates. Citizens are advised to avoid isolated places. The CCG will intensify patrols to identify the Binge Eater and neutralize the threat, while avoiding the Ghoul Devourer's red zones."
Kaneki looked up, concern flooding his eyes as the anchor continued in a grave tone. Binge Eater hung in the air, and Ayanato felt something pinch in his chest— not fear, but something deeper that smelled like blood and memory.
A year had passed since he'd met that purple-haired girl, Rize Kamishiro, in an alley where both had shown their fangs. Since then, her hunger had grown, her confidence had surged— and now her name was on everyone's lips, drawing the CCG's gaze.
Ayanato kept his face calm, but inside a voice whispered:
She's my problem.
— Nii-san —Kaneki said, voice trembling with fear and care— you should stop going out so late. It's dangerous. That ghoul might attack you.
Ayanato turned. Kaneki's worry was a knife to his judgment, as if the boy somehow sensed Ayanato carried responsibilities no one should.
— Don't worry, Kaneki —he said softly, with an edge he couldn't fully hide—. If I see something weird, I'll run faster than a rabbit. Then I'll have an epic story to tell you.
Kaneki laughed—nervous—breaking the tension, but his eyes stayed fixed on Ayanato, searching for something he couldn't name.
Ayanato placed a hand on his shoulder—brotherly on the surface, hiding the impatient tremor in his fingers.
— I'll be late to the apartment —he said lightly, but with an undertone that made Kaneki flinch—. Don't cry over someone who isn't dead.
Kaneki nodded, his laugh weaker now, as Ayanato left Anteiku.
Touka, the waitress, followed him with a sharp stare—eyes narrowed like she was trying to decode the abyss living inside him. Ayanato ignored her, face marble-still as he stepped into Tokyo's streets.
The sun was still up—an insult to the darkness he carried.
He activated hemogenic vision, red eyes glowing behind contacts, and tracked a familiar RC trail.
Rize.
Her hunger left an echo in the air, a perfume of blood and chaos that led him straight to a bookstore in the heart of Ward 20.
There she was, under soft shelf-light, flipping through a book with a white cover: The Egg of the Black Goat. Her purple hair fell in waves; her fingers twirled a strand in a gesture designed to draw eyes. She was playing innocent, lips curved in sweetness hiding fangs.
A nervous student drifted nearby; she tilted her head, eyes shining with hunger disguised as curiosity.
But it wasn't an innocent voice that broke the silence.
— You've been busy, haven't you? —Ayanato said, his words slicing the air like a red thread.
Rize turned, smile widening with surprise and delight. She covered her mouth and let out a crystal laugh—her shy-girl facade perfectly intact.
— Oh, Ayanato-kun! —she chimed—. Are you following me? How naughty.
Ayanato stepped closer, away from curious ears. His face was blank, but his eyes—behind amber disguise—were an abyss Rize recognized instantly.
He leaned against the shelf with calm that felt like threat.
— You've drawn attention again —he said, tone serious, each word measured like a cut—. The CCG gave you a nickname. Binge Eater. You're eating too much, Rize. You're getting predictable—same pattern.
Rize laughed—more challenge than joy—leaning in, eyes gleaming with arrogant amusement. Her kagune, hidden, seemed to hum under her skin.
— Oh, so now you're lecturing me? —she purred, voice low, provoking—. What's next, Ayanato-kun? You'll say I'm "a problem" and walk away, like everyone who calls themselves my friend? How cliché.
Ayanato let out a sound that might've been a laugh—too cold, too broken. He leaned closer, his face inches from hers, the air thick with violence waiting to happen.
— Sorry to disappoint you, Rize —he whispered, sharp as a needle—. I'm not going anywhere. But you need to learn to hunt better. Humans aren't the problem. The CCG is. And if you keep eating like Tokyo is your personal buffet, you'll bring the White Reaper to our doorstep.
Rize raised an eyebrow, smile twisting into something sharper. She flipped a page like the conversation was a game.
— The White Reaper? —she scoffed, but caution flickered beneath—. How dramatic, little spider. You think I can't handle a couple doves and their shiny toys? I can survive alone, but…
Her gaze slid over Ayanato with hungry curiosity.
— …I like playing with you. How about I take your advice? If the CCG chases me, I'll run to your web. Will you save me then, Ayanato-kun?
Ayanato didn't answer immediately. His eyes fell to the title in her hands—The Egg of the Black Goat—and something inside him twisted. The words felt like an echo of his own curse, of the Mother who'd forged him into a weapon.
He shook his head, voice low and firm.
— A thousand times, Rize —he said, and for a rare second something like a smile touched him as he lifted a hand to brush her hair— and weirdly, she let him—. But the point is not letting you tear my web. If prey fights too hard, even spiders bleed… and the White Reaper seems like the kind of prey that isn't easy to digest.
Rize laughed loud enough to draw glances—glances she ignored with careless grace. She snapped the book shut and set it back on the shelf, eyes locked on Ayanato like she was trying to decode the emptiness behind his gaze.
— You're a mystery, Ayanato Ashida —she said, voice softer, almost intimate—. And I like mysteries. We'll play your game together, spider. For now.
Ayanato nodded once and stepped away, his figure dissolving into the daylight spilling through the windows. Rize watched him go, smile intact but with a new glint in her eyes—as if she'd found a challenge worthy of her hunger.
As he left the bookstore, Ayanato filed the title away in his mind.
The Binge Eater
"The night doesn't forgive fools; threads cut, blood sings, and predators laugh in the dark."
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Tokyo's darkness was a torn cloak, stitched with Ward 20's flickering neon and the metallic stench of dried blood in the alleys. Rize Kamishiro walked beneath a dying streetlamp, purple hair flowing like a banner of seduction. Beside her, a young human—eyes clouded by the charm of her smile—chattered nonstop, oblivious to the fate stalking him.
Rize's voice—sweet as poison—twisted into a manic laugh that sliced the air. Her eyes flashed, scarlet kakugan burning like embers, and her Rinkaku emerged: four flexible tentacles gleaming like fresh blood, rising with lethal elegance.
— They always fall so easily —she hissed, cruelty and delight braided into song.
The boy opened his mouth to scream, but a tentacle punched through him with a wet crack, lifting him off the ground like a broken puppet. Blood spilled, splattering asphalt, and the body slid off the tentacle with a dull thud.
Rize stared down, lips curling in disappointment, hunger shining bright.
— You died that fast? —she muttered, leaning close to the corpse—. Humans are getting more fragile. And I didn't even hit anything vital.
She crouched, fingers brushing the puddle of blood—when she noticed something strange:
A clean slice across the man's throat.
A thin, surgical cut she hadn't made.
Her smile vanished. A chill crawled up her spine. She stepped back—and bumped into something hard, metallic, humming with a deep vibration.
She turned.
And saw it.
A web of red threads stretched across the alley, shining beneath the streetlamp like ripped veins. Dozens of bodies hung from them—impaled, torn apart: some in CCG white uniforms, others ghouls with kakugan extinguished forever. Blood dripped like a silent choir onto the asphalt.
— I look like an amateur next to you, Ayanato-kun —Rize murmured, voice trembling with admiration and challenge.
She dragged the corpse closer, claws ripping the torso open in a burst of blood. She laughed—ecstatic—while tearing organs free with brutal precision, devouring them with pleasure bordering on obscene. Flesh cracked between her teeth; blood painted her lips like macabre lipstick.
— There's no pleasure better than eating —she sighed, eyes shining with an ecstasy close to madness.
Heavy footsteps shattered her trance.
A group of CCG agents emerged, flashlights stabbing the gloom. Rize stood upright, licking blood from her fingers with a smile made of pure provocation. Her kagune trembled, ready—yet her eyes flicked to the red-thread web around her.
— Let's see if Ayanato-kun's web is as lethal as the rumors say —she giggled, manic laughter echoing through the alley.
With feline agility, she climbed the threads—moving with the precision he'd taught her, avoiding edges that could slice her to ribbons. She perched beyond the web like a queen on a throne of blood and gave the agents a teasing wink.
Flashlights caught her face. One agent—weathered—drew his Quinque, a weapon gleaming blue.
— Matches the profile —he said, voice tight—. A ghoul hunting in Red Thread territory. It's the Binge Eater. Take her alive.
Rize laughed, kagune undulating like a serpent.
But before she moved, the first agent stepped forward—never seeing the web.
A red thread hummed. A blink of motion.
His head rolled across the ground in a clean cut.
Blood splashed the others; they recoiled, faces gone pale under flashlight glare.
— She's inside a web! —one screamed, voice breaking—. We can't do anything! Fall back before the Devourer shows up!
They turned and ran, footsteps pounding as darkness swallowed them.
Rize doubled over laughing, voice wild in the night.
— This is way too fun! —she cackled, wiping blood from her chin—. I just stand here and they die for me. Thanks, Ayanato. Your sense of humor is exquisite.
A few streets away, in another alley that smelled of death and metal, Ayanato Ashida faced a hooded figure. The stranger wore a black coat, face hidden behind a mask showing only cold, calculating eyes. A symbol on his sleeve—curved lines—marked an organization Ayanato didn't recognize… but it reeked of trouble.
The hooded man spoke, voice low, threat neatly folded into every syllable.
— We've tracked your activity, Red Thread —he said, careful as poison—. You protect the Binge Eater. But you seem reasonable. Hand her over, and we'll forgive your crimes. We'll give you whatever you desire. What's worth more— an insignificant ghoul, or a place in paradise? Refuse, and you'll learn why no one challenges us.
Ayanato tilted his head, red eyes glowing like embers.
A cruel laugh—dry as broken bone—slipped out.
He opened his coat, revealing the red threads hanging like living veins. Under streetlight, his silhouette seemed to stretch, distort—like a giant spider working its web. The spool on his sleeve clicked, and the threads hummed, a sound that was more threat than noise.
— Threatening the Ghoul Devourer? —Ayanato said, voice a blade—. What a way to die.
Before the hooded man could react, a net of red threads fired out, punching through him with a visceral crunch. Blood sprayed onto asphalt. He gasped, swallowing a scream as threads cut muscle and bone. His eyes widened—pain and defiance tangled together.
— My death means nothing —he spat, voice ragged but firm—. You'll be dead before next week. The White Reaper will hang you from your own threads.
Ayanato didn't answer.
One final thread hummed—flash of red—air sliced.
The hooded man's head dropped with a dull thud.
Blood mixed with alley grime. Silence fell, broken only by the threads retracting.
Ayanato stared at the body, expression unchanged, yet curiosity flickered in his eyes.
Who are they? What do they want with Rize?
He didn't care— not really.
But if they came for her, they'd have to pass through his web.
He turned, coat flowing like shadow, and vanished into the night.
Somewhere, Rize was still laughing—her hunger echoing through Tokyo's alleys.
And Ayanato, Red Thread, knew his game was only beginning.
Nest of Death
"In the spider's nest, threads don't trap— they shred, and blood whispers the name of the predator that never shows itself."
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The CCG operations room in Ward 20 was a mausoleum of steel and silence, broken only by the echo of Maraude's shoes as he paced before a line of agents. Their faces—determination stitched over fear—reflected the weight of what awaited them. Maraude, gaze sharp and voice like a whip, slammed his cane against the floor.
— The Ghoul Devourer has become unstable —he said, contempt dripping from every word—. He's allied with the Binge Eater, and together they're turning Ward 20 into a slaughterhouse. Today, we eradicate this plague. We strike their nest— the heart of his territory.
The agents, lined up like soldiers before an execution, tightened their grip on their Quinques with shaking hands.
— Yes, sir! —they answered in unison, though fear vibrated in their voices—echoing the rumors of Red Thread and the Binge Eater.
Maraude turned his head toward the corridor.
A figure stepped out of the shadows:
Arima Kishou. The White Reaper.
His face was stone, eyes gray as a knife edge. In his right hand, Narukami shimmered with contained lightning; in his left, IXA pulsed with a promise of death. The air thickened. A chill ran through the agents.
Arima's presence was a lighthouse in a storm.
And also a reminder:
Only the deadliest survived near him.
— Arima Kishou will lead this operation —Maraude continued, voice hard—. Other Special Class investigators have vanished after encounters with the Devourer. It's time he pays for every drop of blood spilled.
Morale surged, fed by Arima's legend—yet fear remained like a shadow glued to their heels. They moved in formation toward the exit, an army marching into a slaughterhouse they still didn't understand.
The abandoned warehouse rose on Ward 20's outskirts like a forgotten tomb, its façade crumbling under years of neglect. Thick strands of red silk covered the structure, hanging like exposed veins, shining under moonlight with a glow that looked alive. The air reeked of rust and death, a stench that clung to the throat like dried blood.
Agents spread out before the building, flashlights slicing gloom, but silence pressed down—broken only by boots grinding asphalt.
Two agents approached the main door: a rusted metal gate sealed by more than padlocks. One struck it with his Quinque—heavy hammer—no effect.
— What the hell is blocking this? —he muttered.
His partner drew a saw-Quinque and started cutting the seam. Metal screamed—until the blade bit into a thick layer of red silk, sharp and stubborn as steel.
The door gave with a crack.
What lay inside froze everyone's blood.
The warehouse was a cathedral of horror—red threads crossing the space like arteries of a living organism. Silk cocoons hung from beams, dripping fresh blood into puddles on the floor. Humans and ghouls—indistinguishable in their suffering—hung suspended, bodies pierced by threads that sliced flesh and bone. The metallic smell was suffocating, poison sliding into lungs. Some agents covered their mouths to hold back retching; others stared, eyes wide, paralyzed by the spectacle.
— What the hell is this…? —an agent whispered, voice trembling like the building itself might hear him.
One wrong step was enough.
A young agent—face drained—stepped on an invisible thread.
A deep hum rang out.
A red thread lashed from the shadows like lightning, spearing his body in a dozen places. Blood burst in arcs, splashing his teammates, as the thread yanked him up like a broken marionette and hung him from the ceiling among the cocoons. His screams died into a gurgle, and red silk darkened into deeper crimson.
Panic cracked through the group.
— Move —Arima ordered, voice calm, icy, as if horror was just another day—.
Agents nodded, hands shaking on Quinques, and entered the warehouse. The floor was carpeted in razor threads that sliced boot soles—every step a reminder they were inside a trap. Small household spiders—countless species—scurried over walls and floor, climbing agents' legs in a macabre dance. Some bit, sharp stings making men curse. One agent crushed a cluster of tiny spiders on his arm, feeling the burn of bites.
— Squad A, left —a team leader said, voice tight, pointing to a side room.
Arima nodded, eyes scanning shadows with inhuman precision.
Squad A moved into what used to be a packing area—now a mausoleum of red threads and cocoons. Silk spools coated the walls, vibrating with a hum that felt alive. An agent, face slick with sweat, sliced open a cocoon.
Inside: a young CCG body, wrapped in silk, cold to the touch—threads cutting skin like an embrace in death.
— Isn't the Devourer not supposed to eat humans? —he whispered, voice cracking.
— He doesn't —his partner answered, shaking—. These aren't his. They're gifts for the Binge Eater. He wraps them like offerings to feed her hunger. It's… sick.
Before they could breathe, another agent stepped on a taut thread.
A metallic snap.
A net of red wires slammed shut with blinding speed.
Threads sliced flesh, bone, armor—shredding him in a burst of blood and viscera that sprayed his teammates. Pieces hit the floor like a mosaic of ruin. Dozens of threads vibrated, activating like an enraged organism.
Squad A tried to retreat—too late.
The web tightened, trapping them.
A chorus of screams rose—then got cut off by the hum of threads carving them apart. Bodies collapsed into blood pools soaking the floor.
The silence afterward was worse than the screaming.
In the warehouse's center, with Squads B and C, Arima lifted a brow as his radio crackled… then died.
Squad A was gone.
Without blinking, Arima signaled.
— Squad B, left. Now.
The agents obeyed, faces pale, hands shaking, moving into a larger room dominated by a massive cocoon—a throne of red silk with a hole in the center, as if something had emerged from it.
— He must sleep here when he's not pretending to be human —an agent murmured.
A black widow bit another agent's neck; he cursed and crushed it, venom burning. He staggered, tripped a thread, and fell face-first into the web. Filaments cut into his face and throat, blood spraying as he writhed—every movement driving threads deeper. His screams were broken lament.
A teammate lunged to help—desperate—hit another thread.
A red flash.
Both bodies split cleanly, torsos dropping with wet crunch, organs spilling like offerings.
Blood soaked silk, forming a crimson tapestry under the flashlights.
The remaining agents stumbled back, regrouping with Squad C around Arima, breathing ragged, panic choking them.
Only Arima stayed still, gray eyes scanning the room.
He'd seen horrors. Fought deadlier ghouls.
But this was different.
Not just a trap.
An ecosystem of death—designed to annihilate before the enemy ever appeared.
Narukami hummed in his hand, lightning contained. IXA glinted with vengeance.
Even Arima—White Reaper—knew the Ghoul Devourer's nest wouldn't yield easily.
— Stay alert —Arima said, voice a blade cutting through panic—. The real enemy still hasn't shown himself.
The warehouse answered with a low hum—like the threads themselves were laughing.
And the agents felt it:
The weight of an invisible predator watching from the shadows.
White Reaper
"In the heart of the nest, threads sing and lightning roars— but only one can walk out of the dance of death alive."
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The warehouse's main door, wrapped in tangled red silk and crawling house spiders like sentries, stood like a barricade to hell. Arima Kishou—the White Reaper—stood motionless before it, white coat fluttering under moonlight. In his right hand, Narukami buzzed with electric energy that lit his gray eyes, cold as steel. In his left, IXA waited, an oath of annihilation.
Of the fifteen agents who entered the Ghoul Devourer's nest, only Arima and six remained—faces pale, hands trembling around Quinques. The air stank of blood and rust, a cursed smell lodged in the throat.
Arima raised Narukami.
A crack of electricity blasted the door apart in a shower of sparks and splinters.
Beyond lay an abandoned assembly hall: rusted machines hung from red threads like trophies in a giant web. The floor was carpeted with razor silk cutting into boots, and the ceiling was a grotesque tapestry of cocoons—ghoul bodies suspended, dripping blood into puddles below.
The threads' hum filled the hall—funeral music that made hearts shrink.
— Move —Arima ordered, voice ice, slicing through the agents' growing panic—. He's close.
The agents limped behind him, boots shredded by silk. Two advanced first, Quinques shaking.
The instant they crossed into a thread-wrapped corridor, a deep hum rang out.
Red threads struck like lightning, punching through their bodies with a visceral crunch. Blood arced onto walls as the threads lifted them like broken puppets and hung them among the cocoons. Screams died into gurgles. Bodies swayed like macabre pendulums.
Arima lifted a hand, stopping the four remaining agents.
His gray eyes studied the silk tunnel—an abyss where flashlights barely reached.
He went alone.
Steps precise, weaving between vibrating threads. A red flash tried to spear him—Arima slid aside in a fluid motion, his coat brushing filaments without tearing.
He looked up.
Dozens of corpses hung above: ghouls with dead kakugan, humans frozen in terror. In the center, a Rinkaku ghoul was pinned to silk, tentacles limp like grotesque sculpture, glassy eyes staring into nothing.
And there—gripping the threads with metal claw-gloves—was Ayanato Ashida, the Ghoul Devourer.
Red eyes burned like embers. His school uniform hung open, revealing a coat lined with red threads that seemed to bleed under the light. He moved one finger.
The entire web vibrated.
— The CCG's White Reaper —Ayanato said, voice hollow, echoing through the hall—. The human they call invincible. I didn't expect prey so… inconvenient.
Arima stared up, face unreadable.
— The CCG ordered me to take you alive —he said, flat and procedural—. Make it easy, and you'll save me the effort.
Ayanato shook his head, a dry laugh escaping. He spread his coat, red threads flashing like living veins. From his sleeve he produced a handle, pressed a button— and a black blade extended: an Ashida Kokuseigu, a gift from his master.
A massive needle.
Its edge exhaled red threads that multiplied like a swarm.
The fight began in an instant.
Arima aimed Narukami—fired a bolt of electricity that lit the hall.
Ayanato vanished in a red blink, speed beyond sight.
Fast. This won't be simple, Arima thought, tracking shadows.
Ayanato reappeared in front of him, needle slicing air with a hiss. Arima blocked with Narukami—sparks exploded in blinding light. He slid his weapon, shoving Ayanato back, and fired again.
Ayanato dodged by centimeters, electricity scorching air beside him, and launched a net of threads from the ceiling. Arima moved with inhuman precision, slipping between filaments that sliced the floor into ribbons.
Ayanato vaulted into the web, disappearing into shadow—then reappeared behind Arima, needle swinging in a brutal arc. Arima turned and dodged by millimeters—white hair falling like blood-stained snow.
Narukami struck back, cutting Ayanato's chest open. Black blood spilled onto red silk. Ayanato recoiled—then regenerated with a wet crack, eyes bright with respect and challenge.
— You're good for a human —Ayanato said coldly, edged with something like admiration—. I'll have to speed up.
He vanished again—reappeared above Arima, needle dropping like lightning. Arima dodged, but a rusted engine—released by threads—crashed down from the ceiling. Arima sprang through filaments, coat shredding, and signaled the agents.
The four remaining lunged, Quinques glowing with desperation.
Ayanato glanced at the first—one red thread cut the air.
The agent's head rolled. Blood sprayed his teammates as his body collapsed.
Arima used the opening—fired Narukami.
The bolt hit Ayanato, electricity burning his skin, forcing a grunt. Another agent slammed a hammer-Quinque into Ayanato's shoulder, drawing a hiss—then the web answered.
Dozens of threads erupted, impaling the agent like needles.
His body rose to the ceiling, blood dripping like rain.
A third agent fired Ukaku projectiles—uselessly.
Ayanato vanished, and a rusted machine dropped, crushing the agent in an explosion of bone and blood. Remains blended into silk like a meat mosaic.
Enough distractions. Only the Reaper is prey, Ayanato thought, eyes locked on Arima.
Arima sprinted, slicing threads with Narukami. He thrust—Ayanato slipped away, disappearing.
Threads yanked Narukami, tearing it from Arima's hand.
Ayanato caught it midair and aimed it at the White Reaper's back.
— Die, White Reaper —he hissed, firing an electric blast.
The last agent screamed and threw IXA's case toward Arima—only for a thread to catch him, shredding him into pieces. Blood spattered across the web as chunks fell like scraps.
Arima caught IXA and activated it into a shield, blocking Narukami's blast. Electricity crackled, burning his hands—yet he didn't flinch. He transformed IXA into a spear and thrust at full speed.
Ayanato tried to dodge.
Too late.
The spear tore him open— a brutal gash across the torso. Black blood poured, soaking silk, and Ayanato staggered, dropping to the floor with a ragged breath.
Arima lunged to finish him, IXA shining like a verdict.
Ayanato's spool shrieked—threads surged up, entangling the spear in a snarl of silk. He coughed black blood, body shaking, but his eyes burned with fierce resolve.
— You're too strong —he growled—. But this is my kingdom.
He vanished in a red blink.
The web came alive.
Hundreds of threads vibrated, a hum like a scream, and launched at Arima in a frenzy. Arima dodged—spectral—yet the threads were relentless.
One sliced his arm.
Another cut his leg.
Blood sprayed, staining silk.
Arima's face stayed calm even as the cuts multiplied. The web groaned, collapsing into chaos, threads snapping out of order. Bodies fell from the ceiling in a rain of meat and blood.
Arima stood at the center—trapped in a labyrinth of torn silk—his blood dripping onto threads. Black widows crawled up the wrecked web, fangs ready, swarming toward him in a sea of venom.
That final move surprised me. This ghoul can't be beaten with brute force—too fast. The CCG needs a strategy. But first I have to get out of his web, Arima calculated, mind cold and sharp.
The net—now disordered—no longer obeyed its master.
But in the shadows, the Ghoul Devourer had escaped, leaving the White Reaper inside the heart of a ruined kingdom—promising a next meeting that would decide who the true predator was.
Broken Threads
"At night, threads break, blood whispers, and two shattered souls find a moment of humanity on the edge of death."
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Ward 20's streets were a maze of neon and shadow, where the CCG's red and blue lights flickered like the eyes of a distant predator. Ayanato Ashida staggered—body wrecked after facing the White Reaper. Black blood dripped from his torso, leaving a viscous trail on asphalt. Every step was effort, legs shaking beneath a body that refused to regenerate.
He collapsed against an alley wall, air thick with rust and desperation. CCG boots echoed in the distance—drums marking the rhythm of his end.
— That move… —he rasped, voice broken under the buzz of streetlamps—. Disappear and reappear… it cost everything. And even then I couldn't kill him. How can a human be that strong? He broke my web, endured my assault… how did I lose?
He slid to the ground. Black blood pooled beneath him. He looked up—the moon shining like a cold eye.
He closed his eyes, breath ragged, and for a moment the world faded.
A field of white roses.
The echo of a soft song that reminded him of Himari—her voice like peace he'd never known.
He smiled—fragile—like death was relief after years of violence.
— Himari… soon I'll be with you —he whispered, calm resignation trembling in his voice—. Rize… I hope you ran far from here.
The alley was silent except for black blood dripping and distant sirens.
Ayanato felt his body giving out, life slipping away like threads from a torn web.
For the first time, no hunger.
No fury.
Only a void that almost felt like peace.
— At least I didn't become my mother —he whispered, thinking of the Mother of Black Blood—. I wonder if there's a heaven for ghouls like humans believe there is… and whether someone like me could enter.
Heavy footsteps broke silence.
Ayanato opened his eyes—blurred—catching the silhouette of a CCG agent. The man raised a Quinque sword shining under a streetlamp, face hardened by duty.
— Red Thread is wounded —the agent said coldly into his radio—. Confirming elimination.
Before the Quinque could fall, a scarlet tentacle erupted from darkness, spearing the agent through the back with a wet crack. The man gasped, blood spilling from his mouth, and the tentacle slammed him into the wall. A second strike pierced his skull, silencing him forever.
The body dropped—broken meat.
Ayanato lifted his gaze and met the eyes of Rize Kamishiro.
— Looks like the White Reaper beat you up —Rize said, voice a mix of mockery and something softer—almost worried. Her Rinkaku retracted as she approached and knelt beside him. The agent's blood stained her hands, but her amethyst eyes stayed fixed on Ayanato.
He coughed, black blood dribbling down his chin, and managed a weak, fractured smile.
— It was… fun making the Reaper bleed —he murmured—. He won't forget.
Rize gave a quieter laugh than usual and rested her head against his shoulder—an almost out-of-place gesture for the Binge Eater. Sirens grew louder.
— I don't want you to die, Ayanato —she admitted, voice low, nearly vulnerable, like the words cost her—. At first I thought you were just another idiot from Ward 11—someone trying to trap me or sell me. But you gave me a place. When I dragged the CCG in, you didn't betray me. You stayed, even when you could've saved yourself. I don't trust anyone… but you're the closest thing to a friend I've ever had. Even though you're always so sad— you never have any fun.
Ayanato closed his eyes, breath trembling. Rize's sincerity stabbed his chest, reminding him how little he had left.
— It was… enough —he whispered.
Rize frowned, face hardening with frustration—and something deeper.
— No. It isn't —she snapped—. You don't get to give up like that, idiot. Hold on a little longer.
Ayanato tilted his head, confused, vision swimming.
— What… do you want me to do?
Rize growled, clearly uncomfortable, and thrust her arm toward him.
— Feel lucky —she muttered, urgency and irritation tangled—. I don't do this for anyone. But even on your deathbed you don't ask for a favor. You're an idiot, Ayanato. Bite. Just a little—enough to regenerate. And don't make it last longer than it needs to.
Ayanato exhaled, body trembling as he leaned in. His teeth sank gently into her flesh, and Rize's blood—warm, vivid—flowed into his mouth.
It was fire.
A taste that burned with life, different from the poison of his own black blood.
The wounds in his torso began to knit shut, flesh weaving back together with a wet crack, organs sliding into place. He released her arm, gasping, while her skin slowly regenerated, a thin line of blood still beading on it.
— Just the minimum, huh? —Rize teased, voice returning to its usual bite, though her eyes held something softer—. Didn't even think about taking more. You're too good, Ayanato. You lack betrayal. Stay like that… I guess.
Ayanato pushed himself up—unsteady, but alive. CCG lights drew closer, sirens howling.
He nudged Rize with a weak elbow, nodding toward the alley's exit.
— Come on —he said, voice still fragile but firm—. The CCG's dying to catch us.
Rize nodded, grin twisting with a mischievous spark. She pointed into the shadows, and both vanished into the night, leaving behind a pool of black blood and a dead agent.
Their footsteps faded into the sirens' song as Ward 20 swallowed them whole—two predators bound by a thin, stubborn thread of trust.