The moon hung high, a silver coin pressed against the velvet ink of the midnight sky. Below, the world was bathed in a ghostly, metallic glaze.
Suddenly, Izochi's eyelids snapped open. He gasped, lungs burning as if he had just broken the surface of a deep, dark pool, escaping the jagged edges of a nightmare.
His throat was a parched riverbed, cracked and stinging with a thirst that felt more like a physical ache in his chest.
He forced his head up from the damp pillow. His vision remained a blurred haze, half-veiled by sleep, while his medium-length hair clung to his forehead in a chaotic, sweat-dampened mess.
The heavy blanket still clung to his legs, his hands buried deep within its folds for warmth. Gritting his teeth, he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
His feet fumbled across the floor, searching for his sandals, which lay discarded in opposite corners of the room like two drowned ships.
As he shuffled toward the door, his soles dragging against the cold floor, a sudden, sharp prickle of unease crawled up his spine.
His heart gave a violent thud against his ribs—once, twice—sending a surge of adrenaline through his veins.
"What's wrong with me?"
He whispered, the sound barely a breath in the suffocating silence.
He moved toward the dining room. The door was ajar, a sliver of darkness peering through the gap. Izochi froze.
The house should have been sealed tight.
"Why is the door open now? Mother?"
The silence offered no comfort, only the steady thrum of his own pulse in his ears.
His fingers trembled as he pushed the door further.
It creaked, a slow, agonizing groan. As the gap widened, a sudden dampness clung to his skin, a cold, metallic humidity.
Then, he saw it.
A dark, viscous red pooled across the floorboards, reflecting the moonlight in a sickening, shimmering mess.
"It's,"
The word died in his throat. The crimson puddle began to blur, twisting and thinning into gray wisps of smoke.
The floorboards beneath him solidified into the hard wood of a chair. The copper scent of blood was replaced by the acrid, heavy aroma of tobacco.
Izochi's consciousness snapped back into the present. The dream, like a broken glass, remained jagged and incomplete.
He bowed his head, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on his neck. He shifted his weight, digging his palms into his knees until they hurt.
"You were right,"
Izochi said, his voice a ghost of a sound.
Across from him, Mr. Horitoshi sat enveloped in shadows. He didn't move, yet the air between them felt heavy with unspoken truths.
"My parents didn't die,"
Izochi's voice grew steadier, colder.
"They were slaughtered. But why?"
Horitoshi didn't flinch. He leaned back, the light of his own cigarette illuminating the deep lines on his face.
"It's not the time for you to know,"
He replied, his voice like dry parchment.
"The truth is a guest that arrives only when the house is ready."
Izochi's jaw tightened. He slumped back, his eyes tracing the spines of the books on the nearby shelf without seeing them.
He felt like a man running a race on a treadmill, exhausted, yet stationary.
"So, I need to become a weapon to deserve my own past?"
Izochi asked.
Without a word, Horitoshi extended a silver case.
Izochi took a cigarette with the practiced ease of someone who had long ago traded innocence for a habit. The flame of the lighter flickered in his eyes as he inhaled, his gaze drifting up to the intricate, vaulted architecture of the ceiling.
"And how do I do that?"
"Stay on the path,"
Horitoshi said.
"The only way out is through."
Silence reclaimed the room. Neither man moved. The only sign of life was the gray smoke dancing between them, curling toward the ceiling like ghostly vines.
Finally, Izochi stood. He crushed the remains of his cigarette into the bin by the door and stepped out.
"Higher class?"
He muttered to himself as he descended the stairs, the words tasting like ash.
"I have to climb higher?"
The grand hall at the bottom was a cavern of silence. No one waited for him. No one watched him leave. The isolation felt like a physical weight on his shoulders.
"Where did everyone go?"
He pushed through the heavy doors of the club. Outside, the world was bleeding.
The sun was a dying ember on the horizon, painting the sky in deep, bruised purples and fiery oranges. Birds streaked across the sky in frantic V-shapes, retreating to their nests.
"I've been in there for hours?"
He whispered to the cooling air.
As the sun sank, the city began to breathe. Streetlamps hummed to life, casting amber circles on the pavement.
The Capital didn't sleep; it simply changed its skin. People emerged from the shadows, and the roadside stalls began to bustle with the low roar of commerce.
Izochi stopped at the small shop where he'd left his black trench coat. The bell above the door chimed, a clear, familiar silver note that resonated in his chest.
"Oh! Izochi. Welcome back,"
The shopkeeper chirped, his voice warm and familiar.
"It's been four days,"
Izochi noted, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips.
"I was busy. Forgive me for making you wait."
He took the coat, its familiar weight a comfort against the evening chill, and headed home. The city was now a sea of artificial stars, shimmering with the lights of a thousand windows.
He reached the house provided by the Evernight Club, a perk of his father's legacy. He knocked softly.
The door opened to reveal his sister, Chihiro. Her eyes were heavy, her movements sluggish with sleep, but she forced a small, welcoming smile.
"Will you eat?"
She asked, rubbing her eyes like a child.
"No, thank you,"
Izochi said, his voice softening into a gentle, caring tone.
After washing the grime of the day from his face, he stepped into his bedroom. He stopped in the doorway. The chaos he had left behind, the scattered papers, the unmade bed, was gone.
The room was pristine, the air smelling of fresh linen.
He looked at the neat stacks on his desk and smiled.
"I see. Chihiro was here."