The atmosphere at the station is anything but a relief. It's not the warmth of survivors I feel, but a sticky, electric tension. The Chief is pacing back and forth, his face etched with sudden exhaustion.
"The sector you went into has just been placed under quarantine, Tanaka. Unstable entities were spotted. If you'd crossed their path... we wouldn't even find your badge."
I stare at my hands. They're trembling slightly. I'm no fool: I felt that chill; I saw those empty streets. But if I accept the fact that I brushed against death, I'll never be able to put this uniform on again. So, I force a smile a survival reflex to keep from sinking.
"At least I got the drinks, Chief. Maybe we should decompress a little?"
My colleagues flip on the TV. The ARS channel is broadcasting an exclusive interview. Aurion, the armored hero, appears on screen. He looks flawless. Too flawless.
I squint. I saw him less than an hour ago, lying in a crater with his armor cracked open. Now, he's shining like he just rolled off the assembly line. The voice is his, but the intonation is flat, devoid of the natural arrogance that usually defines him. It's like watching a video with a slight lag between the sound and the image.
"He must have used an area-of-effect healing spell, right?" Yamazaki whispers, fascinated.
I don't answer. On screen, the "Hero" picks up a can of green tea my favorite brand. He takes a sip, but his face winces. It isn't disgust; it's a sort of primal confusion. He stares at the can as if he'd expected something else. Something more... vital.
"Undrinkable," he snaps coldly before walking off the set.
The TV goes dark. My colleagues' laughter starts up again, but a weight has settled in my stomach. I mechanically tidy my desk, my mind clouded. Did the shock give me hallucinations? Did I really see Aurion on the ground earlier? That doubt gnaws at me through the end of my shift. I stay silent, avoiding eye contact, trying to convince myself that I just need sleep.
Night eventually falls, wrapping the city in ink-black darkness. I leave the station with my head down, fleeing the raw glare of the neon lights for the shadows of the back alleys.
My apartment is in an old building with a facade that's crumbling away in patches. It's a typical 1K: a tiny entryway that doubles as a kitchen, separated from the main room by a simple sliding door.
As I step inside, the scent of old wood and instant soup hits me. This is my sanctuary. To the left of the tiny vestibule, a worn stainless steel sink and two electric hotplates. To the right, a door leads to a shower stall so small you can barely turn around in it.
The main room is a square of six tatami mats. A cot is pushed against the wall, topped by a shelf stacked with criminal law manuals and an old photo of my grandfather. In the center sits a light wood coffee table where I eat all my meals the one and only decoration in this functional void. The walls are thin, letting in the distant hum of the city.
It's right then, as I set my keys on the counter, that a cold breath caresses the back of my neck.
"Boo."
I jump, nearly knocking over my sink. She's there, standing in the doorway I thought I'd closed. Her violet eyes glow with an unnatural light in the shadows of the hallway.
"I wanted... help," she says, her voice sounding like she's fighting against herself.
I could scream. I could draw my service weapon. But I stay frozen. She isn't "normal," I know that now. Her presence makes the temperature in the room drop. Yet, she doesn't attack. She stands there, hands clasped, in a posture that wavers between a predator and a lost child.
"Come in," I finally manage to say, my voice hoarse. "We don't talk on the landing."
She removes her shoes with ritualistic slowness. She enters my main room, stepping onto the tatamis as if she's afraid of breaking them. She stops in front of the photo of my grandfather, watching it with terrifying intensity.
I retreat into the kitchen area to keep my composure. I pull out some leftover beef and cabbage. My hands are shaking. The knife slips. A clean cut across my thumb.
The silence that follows is instantaneous. Not a single sound of breathing from behind the sliding door. I can feel her gaze piercing through the walls. An invisible hunger spreads through the apartment a tension so strong I feel like the walls are about to crack.
I serve her a bowl of rice and beef. My hands are still trembling slightly, but she looks down at my wounded thumb. Her breathing changes. Me? I don't move. I meet her violet gaze. I know that at this very moment, my life hangs by a thread by this strange confusion that compels her to watch me.
She grabs the teapot with a fluid gesture, almost too precise. She pours the steaming liquid into her cup without once taking her eyes off my bandage. Her pupils, an electric violet.
"Bon appétit," she whispers, a smile playing on her lips that doesn't reach her eyes.
I don't wait for a second invitation. The sautéed beef is the only thing tethering me to reality. She stares at me, chin resting on her palm, as motionless as a wax statue. The silence eventually gets to me. I swallow the wrong way, nearly choking, and set my chopsticks down with a sharp clack.
"Ahem... you had a question, I believe?"
She nods slowly.
"I came to ask you... for the recipe of the drink from earlier. I want the same one."
I sit there petrified, jaw dropping.
"All this... for a hundred-yen can of green tea?" I say, my morale plummeting.
She doesn't blink. To her, this request seems of utmost importance vital, even.
"I don't have any more in stock, ma'am. Come back tomorrow," I say, slumping into my chair.
Her expression turns icy. A shadow of disappointment crosses her features, making her face look harder, more predatory. To ease the atmosphere, which is becoming frankly oppressive, I point to her cup.
"In the meantime, drink that. It's high-end tea. Well, for my budget, anyway."
She lifts the cup with both hands. The steam lashes against her face, but she doesn't flinch.
"It's... hot?" she asks, as if the concept were foreign to her.
"Scalding. Be care—"
Too late. She presses her lips against the porcelain and drains the contents in a single gulp. No spasm, no wince of pain. She sets the cup down with a sharp thud on the coffee table.
"More."
Her tone had turned sharp, commanding. I complied, fascinated and terrified by this cold-blooded monster draining two liters of scalding tea in less than ten minutes. Eventually, she leaned back against the wall, hands on her stomach, looking like a satiated beast.
"Don't you ever drink anything... in your world?" I asked, concern peeking through my irony.
"It's the first time... that something doesn't taste like ash," she replied in a dreamy voice.
A shiver ran down my spine. I let out a loud, deliberate yawn to break the spell.
"It's getting late. You should head back to your... burrow."
She stood up, gliding across the tatami without a sound. As she reached the threshold, I called out to her:
"By the way, what's your name? I'm Kenji Tanaka."
"Call me Makura. And goodnight, Kenji."
"Right... stay safe," I stammered out of habit. Before leaving, she pressed a finger to her lips and gave me a wink:
"But... you're the one who should be watching your back."
The door closed on her crystal-clear laughter. I stood there, alone in my studio with an empty teapot. A lingering sense of unease clung to me. As I collapsed onto my bed, I tried not to have nightmares, thinking of little goats and praying that the Big Bad Wolf wouldn't come back to gobble me up in my sleep.
The next day, 10:00 AM. I push open the station doors, my eyes still half-crusted shut. The Chief greets me with suspicious enthusiasm.
"There he is, Kenji! Hell of a job this morning!"
"There I am? Chief, I just clocked in." The old man lets out a greasy laugh, clapping me on the shoulder.
"Stop playing modest. At eight o'clock, you dragged in two sex offenders we've been hunting for months. You were hauling them like trash bags, one in each hand! You didn't even want your usual coffee before heading back out."
The blood drains from my face. At eight o'clock, I was busy wrestling with my alarm clock and a piece of burnt toast.
"Chief... are you sure it was me?"
"Unless you have an evil twin with the exact same 'dead-inside' look, yeah, it was you."
I rush to the surveillance room. Yamazaki is snoring in front of the monitors. I shove him aside and pull up the 8:00 AM recordings. My heart hammers against my ribs like a prisoner in revolt.
"Bingo..." I whisper, staring at the screen.
It's me. My uniform, my gait, my face. But as I zoom in on the video, the unease doubles. This "Kenji" moves with a mechanical rigidity, his eyes scanning the hall like sensors. It's a war machine wearing my name.
On the screen, Takeshi approaches and hands him my ritual cup of tea. The impostor takes a sip, stops dead, and
PFFFFFT!
He sprays the entire liquid right into poor Takeshi's face with an expression of absolute loathing.
I bury my face in my hands, torn between horror and humiliation.
"Oh no... not the tea... Anything but that..."
The impostor then exits the building with a brisk step, leaving my colleagues petrified. One question loops endlessly in my brain: if that thing was here at eight, who was it really? And more importantly... where is it now?