After his mother's funeral, the apartment felt staged.
Like someone had already begun erasing evidence of a life that had existed there.
The cool cloth was gone from the bathroom sink. The window curtains were replaced. Even the faint crack in the ceiling above the kitchen table had been patched as if grief required renovation.
Mio noticed these things because he always noticed.
His father did not speak much in the weeks that followed. He moved like someone walking through water. Slow. Heavy. Careful not to disturb anything that might collapse.
One night, after pretending to sleep, Mio followed him.
His father entered the small storage room at the end of the hall — a room Mio had been told never to touch.
The door didn't lock.
Inside were metal cases stacked with more care than the rest of the apartment had ever received. Old leather straps. Polished blades wrapped in oilcloth. Symbols carved into wood.
His father didn't see him at first. He was kneeling in front of one open case, holding something thin and metallic between his fingers.
It wasn't a sword.
It wasn't a gun.
It looked like a narrow branding rod.
The symbol at its tip was identical to the faint shape that had burned against Mio's collarbone the night the men came.
"You're not sleeping," his father said quietly.
It wasn't a question.
Mio stepped forward.
"What were they?" he asked.
His father did not pretend to misunderstand.
"They collect."
"From who?"
"From anyone who signs without reading."
Mio waited.
His father finally turned toward him. In the dim light, he looked older than Mio remembered. Not weak — just tired in a way that had weight.
"There's a layer beneath this one," he said. "A place where agreements are carved into the soul."
Mio's throat tightened. "The city I saw."
His father froze.
"You saw it?"
The pressure returned behind Mio's ribs just thinking about it. The neon skyline. The drifting ash-currency. The feeling that something enormous was breathing behind the world.
"Yes."
His father studied him for a long time.
Then he reached forward and pulled down the collar of Mio's shirt.
The mark was faint now. Barely visible. But it was there.
A curved sigil, incomplete.
His father exhaled slowly.
"Your mother sealed your inheritance," he said. "She thought she could buy you time."
"Inheritance of what?"
His father closed the metal case with more care than necessary.
"Debt."
The word landed heavier than grief had.
Mio stepped back. "You owe them?"
"We all owe something," his father replied. "The difference is whether you signed willingly."
Silence stretched between them.
"You were a hunter," Mio said.
His father's jaw tightened, not in anger but memory. "I enforced contracts. I made sure demons didn't overreach. I believed balance could be maintained."
"And?"
"And balance is a story powerful men tell to make their control sound moral."
The air felt thinner.
"So they killed her."
His father did not correct him.
"They didn't kill her for money," Mio continued slowly. "They killed her because of me."
His father's silence confirmed it.
The metallic taste returned to Mio's mouth.
The storage room light flickered.
For a brief second, the air wavered — just slightly — like heat rising from asphalt. Mio's vision blurred.
The storage room peeled away.
In its place stood the shadowed skyline again.
F-Scape.
Closer this time.
He could see figures moving along suspended platforms of light. Could hear faint whispers, like transactions happening in a language made of breath and numbers.
And there — at the edge of his vision — the white wolf.
Not a reflection now.
Present.
It stood beside him, silent. Massive. Its fur glowing from within. The orange strike across its face burned brighter than before.
His father grabbed his shoulders.
"Mio."
The room snapped back.
His father's grip was firm — not panicked, but urgent.
"They can feel when the Veil thins," he said. "And it thins around you."
Mio's pulse steadied.
"Teach me," he said.
His father shook his head immediately. "No."
"You trained to fight them."
"I trained to survive them."
"That's not the same."
His father released him and turned away.
"You don't understand what it costs."
"Then explain it."
"It costs your quiet," his father said sharply. "It costs your ability to walk through a room unnoticed. It costs the version of you that still believes strength looks like other people."
Mio almost laughed at that.
"I already lost that version."
Outside the apartment, something shifted.
Not a sound.
A pressure.
His father felt it too.
They both went still.
A low vibration rolled through the walls, subtle but undeniable. The metal cases in the storage room hummed faintly.
"They found the scent again," his father muttered.
"Scent?"
"Debt has one."
Mio understood immediately.
Weakness has a smell.
So does power.
The hallway outside their apartment creaked.
Slow footsteps.
Measured.
Not neighbors.
His father reached for the branding rod.
"Mio," he said quietly, "go."
Mio didn't move this time.
The air split open.
Not violently.
Cleanly.
Like a curtain being drawn aside.
A figure stepped through — not fully human, not fully something else. Its form shimmered, edges blurring into red lines of script that crawled along its skin.
Its eyes scanned the room.
Then settled on Mio.
"Ledger incomplete," it said in a voice that sounded like pages turning.
His father stepped forward, weapon raised.
"I closed that account."
"Incorrect."
The figure tilted its head slightly.
"Interest accrues."
The white wolf appeared fully this time — not faint, not distant.
It stood between Mio and the entity, low and silent, its amber eyes burning.
The entity paused.
"Manifestation detected," it murmured.
Mio felt it then — not fear, not even anger.
Something deeper.
A door inside his chest beginning to open.
The entity smiled without moving its mouth.
"Ah," it said softly. "There you are."
And for the first time, Mio did not feel small.