The jacket. Shu’s jacket. It lay folded in her bag, zipper teeth gaping where they had broken. Her attempts with the old sewing kit had been pathetic, not just because of her lack of skill but also the state of her tools, since her kit had nothing useful, rusted scissors, bent needles, barely any thread...

And when the kit failed her, when the seams refused to close, she had felt it again, that pull, the same one Yae had named: pick one thing, clean one thing, start there.

So she left. Out of her filth, into the streets. To buy better tools.

The air was cold. Sharp. It felt like it was carving lines across her skin. Ai hugged her bag close to her chest and kept her head down.





The little shop near the corner had been mercifully empty. Ai had walked in hunched low, eyes darting between the shelves, every nerve screaming that she didn’t belong here. Even after years of only ever going to convenience stores, the feeling of wrongness when entering another type of shop never faded or lost any intensity.

She had stood in front of the display too long, fingers trembling over packets of needles and spools of thread. The shopkeeper had eyed her once, but hadn’t said anything. A miracle.

She bought what she needed, nothing more.

Her heart pounded, but for a fleeting moment there was a spark inside her, fragile as candlelight.

Sometimes the biggest struggles come after our first steps.

She had taken hers. She had gone out, bought what she needed. She would fix the jacket. She would make it right.

But the moment cracked as soon as she rounded the corner.

A cluster of loiterers lounged in front of the convenience store across the street. Some were classmates, she recognized their faces, even if she refused to remember their names. Others were strangers, boys with sharp sneers, girls with lacquered nails tapping cans of cheap soda. She could hear them laughing. The kind of laugh that always leaned into cruelty.

Ai froze. Too late to turn back.

“Oi,” one of them called, his voice dripping with mockery. “Isn’t that…”

Another girl laughed, sharp and cutting. “Creepyshi. Look at her! What’s she even doing out here?”

"We literally saw her earlier today!"

Her pulse hammered. She ducked her head lower, kept walking. If she didn’t look at them, if she didn’t breathe too loud, maybe...

No, it's never like that.

Slowly but surely they herded her off the main street with the lazy cruelty of predators who knew their prey couldn’t fight back. A shove here, a sharp laugh or intiimdating insult there and Ai stumbled into the mouth of an alley.

“Hey, what’s in the bag?”

A hand snatched it before she could react.

Ai gasped, spinning, but the boy had already tossed it to another. Laughter burst out as the bag was passed around between them, Ai’s arms reaching helplessly, mouth opening with a rasp she couldn’t force into words.

She lurched forward, but hands clamped down on her arms from behind.

“Whoa, calm down,” one of the girls mocked, dragging her back against the wall. “You’ll get your trash later.”

Ai thrashed once, desperate, eyes still fixed on the trashcan. “G-give… it… back…”

That only made them tighten their grip. Another shove slammed her shoulder against the wall, pain blooming sharp under her ribs.

“Hold her,” a boy said, moving toward the one holding the bag. He dug through it with exaggerated slowness, tossing aside the sewing kit, the spools of thread, the needles. “What the hell’s she buying this junk for?"

More laughter.

Then his hand pulled out the jacket.

Ai’s entire body went rigid. Her breath stopped.

The boy held it up by the collar, letting it dangle.

“Oh? What’s this? Doesn’t look like her size.” said one of the girls.

“Holy crap,” another girl snorted. “Don’t tell me she stole that off someone.”

The boy turned the jacket in his hands, frowning as he squinted at the embroidered tag near the collar. “Oi… this has a name on it.” He brought it closer, then laughed. “No way. You’ve gotta be kidding me. This says Jinkō.”

That name landed like a spark in dry grass.

“The Prez?” one of the girls gasped, before her smirk widened into a leer. “As in Shu Jinkō? You’re telling me our creepy little ghost here is walking around with the student council president’s jacket?”

“Oh my god, that’s hilarious. As if. Like he’d even look at her.”
“Maybe she stole it. Probably stalked him, the freak.”
“Yeah, figures. She’s always watching people, muttering to herself. I bet she digs through his trash.”

The boy swung the jacket lazily by one sleeve, holding it just out of Ai’s reach. “Prez Jinkō, huh? Now that’s a name. Everyone’s been talking about him after he came into town."

“Exactly,” another girl chimed in, arms folded smugly. “Imagine what it’d be like to bag a guy like him. Prez of Higan, tall, hot, everyone’s darling? All those bitches at school would be so jealous.”

Ai’s body shook violently in their grip, eyes locked on the swaying jacket. Her chest heaved as though every breath was tearing her ribs apart. The sound that clawed up her throat was half scream, half sob.

The girl holding her arm sneered down at her, tightening her grip. “What’s the matter? Afraid we’ll tell him? That the Prez will find out his number one fan is a filthy little freak?”

“Honestly,” another added, “he’d probably laugh. Or puke.”

Shu’s name was defiled in their mouths, and his jacket swayed in their hands like a desecrated relic.

Something snapped.

Ai surged forward with a shriek that tore out of her raw throat. The grip on her arms slipped for a second.

Enough.

Her hands shot out, fingers tangling deep into the glossy hair of the girl who had mocked Shu like he was some trophy to be “bagged.”

The girl screamed, stumbling back, but Ai pulled. Fist tight, nails clawing her scalp, she wrenched hard enough that the girl’s head jerked sideways with a crack of resistance.

“Let go, freak!” someone shouted, fists pounding into Ai’s back, her ribs. A knee slammed into her side, white-hot pain spreading in a second. Another hand cracked across her cheek, stars bursting in her vision.

But Ai didn’t let go.

She yanked again, dragging the girl down toward her, their faces almost colliding. Her hair hung in her face, but her eyes, wide, bloodshot, burning, locked on the girl’s. Ai's lack of emotion, a complete lack of emotion, was completely opposite to her intense actions.

The girl clawed at Ai’s wrists, nails digging in, shrieking as her scalp tore under the relentless grip. The others pummeled Ai from every angle, fists, knees, kicks.

Even as her own back slammed against the wall, even as her lungs wheezed for air, Ai pulled harder, twisting her knuckles into the strands until clumps began to give way. The girl’s scream rose in pitch, half pain, half horror.

With a scream that ripped her throat raw, Ai went for the final pull.

There was a wet, tearing sound. The girl’s shriek hit a pitch that made the others freeze for half a breath. Ai stumbled back with a clump of hair in her fist, roots and a patch of bloody scalp clinging at the base.

The girl collapsed, sobbing, clutching the side of her head as crimson stained her fingers.

Ai swayed, chest heaving, her eyes wild. Then she moved.

She slammed the girl’s shoulder into the wall in a desperate shove, forcing open a gap. One of the boys lunged to grab her, sneering, “You crazy-”

Her hand shot out, fingers latching onto the ring glinting in his ear. With another savage yank, she tore it free. Blood spattered across his cheek as he screamed, clutching his torn lobe.

Ai didn’t stop.

She dropped the clump of hair, dove to the ground, and snatched the jacket where it lay crumpled.

Shu’s name, Shu’s warmth.

She cradled it to her chest with shaking arms, snatching up the discarded sewing kit and her bag in the same motion.

The group was still reeling, the injured girl wailing against the wall, the boy screaming about his ear, when Ai bolted.

Behind her, curses echoed, but no one gave chase immediately.

Her legs were unsteady, bruised, but terror and obsession lent her speed. She tore out of the alley, clutching the bag, the jacket, the kit, everything to her chest. Her breath came in jagged sobs





Some Time Ago...

The footage had been replayed on every news channel for days. Grainy, shaky, but unmistakable.

Coughing and shouts overlapped in the smoky street.
“There’s still people inside!”
“Don’t—don’t let him go in!”

A boy stepped into frame. He grabbed a plastic bucket, dumped it over his head, water slapping the pavement, steam curling off his jacket.

“Is he nuts?”
“He’s really going in—!”

He charged through the doorway, swallowed by fire. For a moment there was only smoke, the crackle of burning wood, and frantic shouting.

Then—faint at first, ragged through the roar—

“Maaaax…”

The door burst open in a crash of splintering wood, flames clawing at the frame.

“—IMUM EFFORT!”

He exploded out like a bat from hell, hair singed, coughing hard, but with a grandmother slung over one shoulder and a little girl in his arms. The crowd erupted—screaming, cheering, crying all at once.

He dropped both survivors into waiting arms without slowing and stumbled to another bucket left by the fire line, splashing it over himself with a sharp hiss as burnt patches of skin met cold water.

That was where the tape ended.

For days afterward, the clip had been looping on the news, his face plastered on headlines and broadcasts alike.

“That’s him, right?” said one of the girls, peeking over the edge of a folded magazine. A photo still from the footage stared back at her—grainy, soot-streaked, grinning through smoke.

Her friend followed her gaze to the young man sitting just a few rows ahead on the rattling train. Same messy hair, same build, same face.

He sat by the window, chin propped on his hand. The train hummed on, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. His attention wasn’t on the stares, but on the photograph in his hand: a group picture crammed with smiling faces, everyone pressing in around him. Every blank corner was filled with signatures, doodles, farewell notes.

Even in the still image, it was obvious—he’d been loved there. Two years, maybe a little more, but the kind of impression that burned deep. Shu’s thumb traced over one of the inked messages, and a soft smile tugged at his lips.

“Um—excuse me?”

He blinked up. The two girls from before hovered nervously in the aisle, magazine clutched tight.

“You’re—oh my god—you are Shu Jinkō, right? From the news?”

Shu tilted his head, blinking. “Uh…yeah. But what news are you talking about?”

“The fire!” one of them blurted, cheeks flushed with excitement. “You ran in there—you carried them out! That was you!”

Shu gave a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah. That. Guess the secret’s out.”

“It’s incredible,” the first girl said, eyes shining. “They’ve been playing it on the evening news all week. My dad even cut the article out of the paper—said it was the kind of thing people should remember.”

Her friend nodded eagerly. “Everyone at our school’s been talking about it. You’re like…an actual hero.”

Shu laughed softly, shaking his head. “Hero might be pushing it. I just didn’t think about it too much. There were people inside. That’s all.”

The girls exchanged a glance—half disbelief, half awe. Then, emboldened, one asked, “Would you mind…signing this?” She held the magazine out, opened to the photo spread.

“Me? Really?” Shu blinked, then chuckled as he took it. “Well, who am I to say no?” Still, he scrawled his name neatly across the corner of the grainy picture before handing it back.

The girls beamed, clutching it close like a treasure. For a moment they hesitated, then one of them leaned forward. “So…what are you doing out here, anyway? Traveling? An interview?”

Shu straightened, glad for the chance to talk. “Nah, nothing like that. I’m transferring. Heading to Kageoka.”

The two blinked at him. “Kageoka?”

“Yeah.” Shu smiled as if it were obvious.

They exchanged another look. The second girl bit her lip. “…This train’s going to Nagoya.”





Present Day!

The alarm didn’t ring.

Shu’s eyes opened anyway, pulling him out of sleep like someone had yanked a cord in his chest. His ceiling greeted him: water-stained, cracked, plaster curling like dead leaves. A shadow pooled at the corner where the wall met the ceiling, darker than it should’ve been, as though the morning light had skipped over it.

He lay there for a moment, staring, waiting. The shadow twitched. Moved. Something long and thin, like a hand, reached—

Shu sat up, rubbed his eyes, and said aloud, “Not today, thanks.”

The shadow held still. Then, as if embarrassed, it melted back into the wall.

He had slept well, waking up with a faint feeling of having had a nice dream. Specially one of a convenient and light-hearted flashback.

He swung his legs off the futon. The floor groaned. Something flickered in the corner of his eye. A pale face in the window. He turned sharply. Only empty glass and a smear of condensation stared back.

His apartment was rickety, the kind of place the landlord never bothered to repair because no one stayed long. The floorboards warped. The pipes moaned. The door hinges shrieked like wounded animals. People whispered it was haunted. Shu didn’t argue, some nights, even he half-believed the whispers, but rent was cheap, and he wasn’t picky.

What he was is poor.

“Breakfast first,” he muttered to himself. “Then ghosts.”

The kitchenette barely deserved the name: one dented hotplate, a sink with a drip that never stopped, and a counter he kept clean more out of habit than hope. He filled the kettle, ignoring the water’s faint rust color, and set it on to boil. Rice was yesterday’s leftover, hardened into a block. He broke it apart with his chopsticks, humming under his breath, and set it to steam.

Behind him, the old CRT TV sputtered to life without being touched. Static rolled. For a moment, he swore he saw a silhouette on the screen. Stretched limbs, head cocked too far to one side, staring straight at him.

He sighed, set down the chopsticks, and turned the set off. The screen crackled dark, his reflection smeared across it. “Persistent, aren’t you?”

The kettle whistled. He poured tea into a chipped mug, steam rising to cut the chill of the room.

He took a sip, winced at the bitterness, and set the cup aside.

His uniform hung from a hook on the wall, pressed neatly despite the fraying seams. He shrugged into it, fingers quick with the buttons, hair a lost cause he tamed only by raking his hand through it.

When he slung it over his shoulder, the mirror by the door reflected him back tall, straight, perfect as always. But behind his reflection, something crouched. Pale. Grinning.

Shu looked at it, held its gaze for three breaths, then blew out through his nose. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

He opened the door. The thing flickered, and only the empty room stared back.

Morning sunlight spilled in, washing the chill from his skin. Shu stepped out, pulled the door shut behind him, and said, bright and certain, “Alright. Let’s give it our all today.”





Shu locked the warped door behind him, giving it a practiced twist to keep it from jamming. The latch scraped like it always did.

The building around him had the same forgotten look as the whole district: concrete cracked like dry skin, iron railings red with rust, stairwells painted in flaking layers that showed decades of colors beneath.

He padded down the stairs two at a time.

Other students lived in the nicer districts, closer to the train lines and clean shops. Shu’s commute was longer, stranger. He always left earlier than he had to.

The path bled from silence into noise the closer he got to the city’s main veins. From empty streets of rust and dust, into the swell of traffic, the chatter, the uniforms, the overall hum of busier blocks.

Heads turned when he passed. Greetings flew at him from every angle.

“Morning, Jinkō!”

“Prez, over here!”

“Hey, hero, you see the paper this morning?”

He answered all of them with the same easy care, waving as though his arm never tired.

Asking others how they were doing, and actually expecting an answer, interested in knowing about them. Remembering conversations, references and jokes.

He stopped to help a girl gather the books she dropped, laughed when a group of boys challenged him to race them to the corner, ducked a thrown ball and returned it with a half decent throw.

Of course, something had to happen. It would have been weirder if it didn't.

This time, in front of some vending machines.

A woman, her face pale with sweat, was hunched against the glass, one hand pressed low against her swollen belly. Beside her, an older woman wrung her hands helplessly.

Shu didn’t hesitate. He stepped out of the pack of uniforms, pushing through with a quick, “Excuse me, sorry,” and was at the woman’s side in a heartbeat.

“Hey. It’s alright. I’ve got you,” he said, voice calm, steady, as if he did this every morning.

Well, not every morning, but close enough.

He crouched slightly, eyes level with hers, and softened his smile. “What’s your name?”

The woman gasped, teeth clenched. “S-Saori—”

“Okay, Saori,” Shu said, nodding. “I’m Shu. We’re going to get you to the hospital.” He glanced up at the elder. “Which one’s closest?”

“The municipal"

“Perfect. Can you call them? Tell them we’re coming. We'll be there in just a few minutes.”

Shu turned back to Saori. She was trembling, breaths sharp and uneven. He steadied her shoulder with one hand, careful not to jostle her belly. Carrying her outright would be reckless, dangerous for her, dangerous for the baby.

So instead, he slipped her arm around his shoulder, braced his other hand at her back, and said, “Lean on me. Don’t rush. Just breathe with me, alright? In… out. We’ll go step by step.”

Her weight sagged against him, heavy but manageable. Students and bystanders parted instinctively as Shu guided her forward, his voice was a constant rhythm.

Shu matched his steps to Saori’s faltering ones, adjusting every time she stumbled.

“Shu!” a familiar voice barked from behind.

Shu turned, grinning despite the strain. “Ran! Perfect timing!”

Ran Nejima’s massive frame pushed through the onlookers, bah hanging from his shoulder. His eyes widened at the sight. Shu half-carrying a pregnant woman, the granny hurrying alongside.

“What the hell are you doing? You should’ve called someone!” Ran growled, though he was already setting the bag down and moving to take some of Saori’s weight from Shu’s shoulder.

“Couldn’t,” Shu said breezily, adjusting his grip. “I don’t have spare change for a phone booth.”

Ran glared at him. “Idiot.”

“Yeah, but a lucky idiot,” Shu shot back, smiling. “Because look, ran into you just when I thought some help would be nice!”

Ran’s scowl softened into something closer to exasperation as he steadied Saori’s other side. “Tch. Just focus on walking straight.”

Between them, the woman’s steps grew steadier.

By the time the hospital’s red cross came into view, the world had bent itself around him again: strangers holding doors open, a shopkeeper rushing out with bottled water, even a police car mid-route to clear the street for them!




The police car rolled to a stop in front of Higan’s gates. A cluster of students already loitering by the entrance turned at the sight, and then froze when the back doors opened.

Out stepped Shu Jinkō and Ran Nejima.

Shu hopped out first, bag slung carelessly over his shoulder, grinning as he turned to bow and wave back into the car. “Thanks again! Really appreciate the lift!”

Ran followed, ducking his massive frame under the door. He gave the officers a stiff nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The officer in the passenger seat chuckled, shaking his head. “You kids take care. Try not to cause any more trouble before classes start, huh?”

“Can’t make promises!” Shu called with a laugh, saluting with two fingers as the patrol car pulled away.

The students at the gate buzzed immediately, whispers sparking like a fire catching dry grass. “They just got dropped off by the police” “What happened this time?” “No way, were they arrested?!”

Shu only waved cheerfully at them as if arriving at school in a squad car was the most natural thing in the world. “Morning! Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Ran sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

Yae was leaning against the gatepost, arms crossed. She didn’t bother waving when Shu and Ran walked up.

“You two show up in a police car,” she said, voice light but edged with amusement. “Let me guess, someone was in trouble, Shu stuck his nose in, and Ran ended up cleaning up the mess with him?”

Shu scratched the back of his head, laughing. “That’s… not exactly how it went, but you’re not wrong.”

Ran snorted. “Close enough.”

Yae tilted her head, eyes narrowing in mock thought. "I wonder how many flags you raised this morning alone~"





Shu’s seat was the sort every student knew: the last row, by the window.

Shu never minded the trope. He liked the window.

Morning light slanted in across his desk, warming the scarred wood and the ink stains left by whoever had used it before him. Beyond the glass, the city stretched: rooftops crowded together, power lines webbing and crisscrossed.

When the teacher’s voice droned on, Shu’s eyes slid to that view without him even realizing. His chin propped on his palm, his thoughts drifted. Not about the lesson, not really.

He caught his own reflection faintly in the window. His grin flickered, uneven, for just a second. Like something else was smiling through his face. His gut twisted. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and the reflection was normal again. Just him.

Shu straightened, smiled wider, and tapped his pencil against the margin of his notebook. The words on his notes blurred into scribbles, half words, half doodles. A caricature of Ran with his mouth full, Yae sipping tea with an oversized smug grin in a Sherlock Holmes cosplay, holding a looking glass. Madoka surrounded by sparks and stars and Yaya drawn as a tiny sprite perched on her shoulder.

He snorted softly at his own drawings, earning a look from the girl in front of him, but her frown melted when he flashed her an apologetic smile.

Then he leaned his chin back into his hand and let his eyes wander out the window again.





The bell rang, and the classroom exhaled all at once. Chairs scraped back and chatter bubbled up in pockets. Shu stretched his arms high, joints popping, then leaned sideways over his desk toward the boy next to him.

The sunlight from the window cast sharp angles across his face, emphasizing the seriousness that seemed welded there. His hands rested on his desk, fingers idly tapping a rhythm, like he was half here, half elsewhere.

“Yo, Takaishi,” Shu said. “Long morning?”

Takaishi glanced at him, expression flat. “Same as every other morning.” His voice was low, even, but not unfriendly.

Shu chuckled, propping his chin in his hand. “Man, you make it sound like we're always doing the same thing. Stuff is always happening!"

Takaishi huffed, almost a laugh but buried under his restraint. "Like being dropped off in a police car?"

That drew a bark of laughter out of Shu, loud enough to turn a few heads. He leaned back, shoulders shaking. “Fair. But hey, at least it wasn’t handcuffs. Gotta count my blessings, right?”

The corner of Takaishi’s mouth twitched upward before he smoothed it out again.

Shu tapped his pencil against his notebook, then gestured out the window with it. “You know, I only just realized something this morning.”

Takaishi raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

“From here” Shu leaned forward, cheek nearly pressed to the glass, “I can see the flower beds. The ones you take care of. They’re right at the edge of the courtyard, yeah?”

Takaishi blinked, caught off guard. He shifted in his seat, eyes flicking out the window as though to confirm it. “…Yeah. That’s them.”

“They look good from up here,” Shu said, his tone completely earnest. “Green, neat rows, the colors stand out even from a distance. I didn’t notice before, but it kinda brightens the whole view.”

Silence lingered for a second. Then Takaishi muttered, quieter than before, “Thanks.”

The bell signaling the next class cut through the chatter, and the students began sliding back into their seats. Shu tapped his pencil once more against the desk, giving Takaishi a playful side glance. “Guess I’ll be grading your work in the Gardening Club every morning now. Don’t slack off, yeah?”

Takaishi shook his head, but this time the smile almost broke through.





After the day’s last class, Shu had stayed to clean up the classroom a little. He stretched, letting his gaze wander out the window. The sky over Kageoka had that faintly warped hue he’d started to recognize.

The sliding door to the classroom clicked open. Zennami Yae leaned against the frame, black hair falling around her face. Madoka was beside her.

“Prez,” Yae called, casual but clipped. “We need you.”

Shu grinned, scratching the back of his neck. “What’s up? Extra paperwork?”

“Not this time,” Madoka said, stepping inside. “It’s worse.”

That pulled him upright. “Worse?”

Yae didn’t bother softening it. “Flooding Zone. On one of the forbidden districts.”

The room went still for Shu, like gravity had doubled. He saw the serious line of Madoka’s lips, the way her usual calm didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She explained, steady, precise: “I first spotted it when it was just a Bleeding Zone yesterday. I closed it. It should’ve held, at least for a while. But this morning it was back, already stronger. And now? It’s overflowing. A Flooding Zone in barely over a day.”

Shu whistled low. "Damn, doesn't make any sense."

Yae crossed her arms. “Exactly. Which means there's probably foul play involved.”

He stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Alright then. Lets gather some people. We're going to need as many hands on deck as we can get."





What Shu, Ran, and Madoka stepped into was a pocket of unreality, a forbidden zone sunk into the Idea World, warped and rethreaded until Overworld and dreamstuff were indistinguishable. The tiled floors stretched upward like ceilings, storefronts opened into gaping maws that led to the pitch black starless sky.

Colors were wrong: street signs bent into spirals of letters that rearranged themselves with every blink, shadows in the corners pulsed like veins, and gravity wasn’t loyal, tugging sideways in some corridors and pressing down in others.

Kukurihime spoke as the trio moved through the warped landscape. “A Bleeding Zone does not swell into a Flooding Zone in two nights.“This rate of decay is… unnatural,” her voice echoed, calm but edged with warning. “A Bleeding Zone does not swell into a Flooding Zone in two nights."

Shu craned his head, peering at a sign half-melted into the wall. “This used to be a bakery, right?"

Streets wapred unnaturally, storefront shutters peeled open like gaping mouths, and mannequins slumped in their windows twitched with mockery of human movement. The entire area had been dragged into the Idea World. What was one of many abandoned districts, plenty to be found through forbidden zones, was now distorted beyond measure.

Madoka’s voice in her incarnated form came through the goddess’s calm mask. “Last week it was only a Bleeding Zone. A few nasties clinging at the edges, nothing more. I closed it. Or I thought I did.”

Ran crossed his arms. “Doesn’t look very closed to me.”

Madoka ignored the jab, her head tilting slowly as she scanned the warped environment. The shadows rippled like oil under her gaze, but she didn’t flinch. "It does look worse than usual too..."

“And all this without people feeding it? Doesn’t make sense. Flooding like this usually needs plenty of bad vibes to chew on.” said Geistzer.

“Exactly,” Kukurihime murmured, mask angled toward him. “There’s nothing here. No families displaced, no feuds, no lingering grief. An empty district. What negative energy could have spilled so freely?”

The world groaned around them, beams sagging, walls bubbling with rot.

The ground twitched beneath them, like muscle fibers spasming. From the shadows of the collapsed bakery sign, Will-o-Wisps drifted out, pale flames with screaming faces in their centers.

The wisps circled them, whispering. Shu felt the voices creep along his ribs: You’ll fail them. They’ll all die because of you. You’re only lucky, nothing more.

He laughed. “Ha! Nice try.”

With a flick of his gauntlet, Ran swatted one out of the air like a fly, its light smearing across the wall like paint before fizzling.

The trio continued. Shadows pulsed in the gaps between tiles. From deeper ahead, a new chorus stirred. Wet, gurgling noises, like oil bubbling through pipes.

Nightmare Foundlings.

The first Nightmare Foundling oozed into view like a blob of tar with teeth, snapping tendrils whipping in the stale air. Geistzer tilted his head, half amused.

“One of the little ones? Cute.”

Then a second slithered out behind it. A third. A dozen more. In seconds the arcade corridor was flooded with pulsing, slick spheres, each one dripping eyes and tendrils, screeching in shrill chorus as they tumbled over each other like an avalanche.

“Okay, maybe not so cute.”

They rolled out in clusters: slick, tarry orbs with long dripping tendrils, snapping at the air like hungry mouths. Their bodies pulsed with eyes that blinked open and shut in random places. Dozens of them, spilling from the cracked tiles like pus.

Ran bared his teeth inside his helm, both fists glowing. “Finally, something worth hitting.”

“Don’t get cocky,” Kukurihime said, serene but sharp, looking toward the spreading tide. “These are only Foundlings. But the fact that there are this many means something bigger is nesting below.”

Geistzer cracked his knuckles “Well, guess it’s time to clear the appetizers before the main course shows up.”

The Foundlings screeched in unison, rolling forward in a tide of tar and teeth.

Kukurihime’s voice was calm, cutting through the noise:
“They’re not here to fight us. Look closer.”

The Foundlings weren’t charging at them, they were stampeding past, screeching, tumbling in a frenzied exodus. Running.

Ran kept his stance. “Running from what?”

The answer crawled out of the shadows behind them.

Three Nightmare Eaters emerged, plated creatures of darkness, with sleek black armor gleaming wetly under the warped light. Their heads split open into gaping maws, rows of teeth gnashing as they moved with a deliberate, hungry gait.

"Three? Just that?"





From another angle of the warped ruin, Zennami Yae led her own squad. Her squad advanced methodically. Where Shu’s group charged headlong, Yae’s combed through

The corridor ahead looked like it had been carved out of bad memory. The floor slanted at an impossible angle, tiles melting into black banners, or perhaps simply large pieces of cloth, that draped over nothing.

Behind her, Takaishi Kuroda followed with stiff shoulders. At his side drifted his Idolon, Nameless.

It was a thing of arms, dozens of them linking together in impossible latticework to form a torso, twin blue spines weaving through like supports. An incomplete skull hovered where a head should be, held aloft by clutching hands.

Takaishi never looked directly at it. His jaw was locked, his eyes fixed on the path ahead, as if ignoring it might make it less real.

By contrast, Momo strode with all the casual swagger of a gang leader on her home turf. At her side stomped Simply Red.

Nameless and Simply Red mirrored each other strangely. When Simply Red flexed, several of Nameless’s arms flexed back in grotesque mimicry. When she stomped, Nameless’s lattice rippled in response, like applauding.

“See that? They’re getting along just fine. Told you Nameless wasn’t all bad.”

Takaishi’s ears reddened despite himself. “Don’t… call it that.”

“What, Nameless? What else am I supposed to call it?” she said, jabbing him in the arm.

Yae glanced back once, her black-clad form a silhouette in the warped light. “Call it whatever you want, but keep it ready. I know this is your first time in a Flooding Zone, so it would do you some good to be more nervous, Momo. And you Takaishi, you should be less nervous.”

The sky overhead was an endless black, vast and starless. And yet it wasn’t darkness. Everything was suffused in a light that had no source: not moon, not lamp, not flame. It was as though the Zone itself wanted them to see, demanded that they see. It caused shadows to stretch long, but never fully hide. The air hummed the way blood hums when it rushes to your ears.

The corridor convulsed like it was alive, folding in on itself. Tiles cracked upward, dangling in the air like broken teeth, and from the core of the distortion a Rupture tore open.

It wasn’t a thing so much as an absence, a hole in the world, rimmed with jagged distortions that writhed like torn muscle. Inside, darkness churned, pulling at the floor, at the walls, at their very breaths. From its gaping maw spilled enemies. Nightmare Eaters and Foundlings

“Frontline, engage.”

And the frontliners did.

Nameless moved first.

Its lattice of arms unfolded, hands linking and un-linking as it dashed across the tilted floor faster than its grotesque form should allow. One of the Nightmare Eaters lunged; Nameless caught its blow on a web of hands, redirecting the momentum into a parry. In the same fluid motion, a dozen fists converged, crushing its skull with the precision of a trap snapping shut.

Another spawn dove from behind but Nameless was already there, its incomplete skull turning as the arms shifted, forming a barrier wall that absorbed the strike. The lattice flexed, then countered: a palm strike amplified by the force of a dozen others pushing behind it, sending the enemy flying into the Rupture’s jagged edge, where it dissolved screaming into the dark.

Simply Red's kanabo whirled, dragging winds in her wake as she launched into the horde like a crimson typhoon.

She spun, tailwinds snapping into place to bend her trajectory mid-air, dodging claws and fangs by inches. Her kanabo came down in a crushing arc, and the impact boomed like a taiko drum struck in an empty hall. The zombie it landed on didn’t just break, it caved inward, almost being liquefied under the reverberation.

Her winds became whirlwinds, pulling Nightmare Shades off and dragging them screeching into her storm before she tore them apart with a final, tornado-backed swing.

Before the oni Idolon could strike the cutest victory pose the gang would ever see, the Rupture pulsed and from its jagged rim came not a trickle but a flood.

Dozens of Nightmare Foundlings spilled into the corridor at once, tumbling over each other like an avalanche of tar and teeth. Their tendrils lashed blindly, their countless blinking eyes wide with something Yae had never seen in creatures like them: panic. They weren’t charging to fight. They were running.

“Hold!” Yae’s voice snapped, steady and sharp despite the chaos.

Nameless moved instantly, its mass of arms folding into barricade formations. It deflected the tide sideways, catching Foundlings mid-lunge and redirecting them into walls, where their tar-bodies splattered before reforming. Its counters were brutal, with backhands made of ten palms at once, and slams that cracked the tiles beneath

The sheer number swarmed past, scrabbling for escape.

Simply Red waded into the horde with her kanabo like a typhoon. She spun, winds whipping into whirlpools that dragged clusters of Foundlings upward, suspending them helplessly before her crushing swings obliterated them. The thunderous booms of her strikes shook the corridor like drumbeats, each note driving back the panic tide.

Then came the second wave of Nightmare Eaters. They shrieked not with hunger but with something unhinged: berserk panic.

One Nightmare Eater barreled straight at Simply Red. She twisted on a cyclone, tailwinds jerking her body just out of reach, then retaliated with a downward smash. The kanabo connected with its chest; the boom reverberated through the plating, splitting it like glass. The Eater staggered, ichor streaming from cracks.

Another Eater leapt at Nameless, Idea Slayer raised. Dozens of hands flexed in perfect parry: a web of fingers absorbed the strike, redirected it upward, and in the opening, a column of interlinked arms hammered down. The Eater’s head snapped sideways, jaw cracking, before Nameless hurled it across the corridor into its kin.

Then they heard it.

The battlefield shook with the shriek.

It was not like the cries of the Foundlings or the screeches of Nightmare Eaters. This sound was layered — a sob, a howl, and a roar crushed together into something raw, jagged, and human. It cut through the thunder of Simply Red’s swings, through the chaos of the Rupture, silencing even the panicked tide for a heartbeat.

One. Two. Three seconds.

Then she appeared.

Out of the collapsing dark of the Zone, like a missile.

Wearing a torn black dress, long hair trailing behind her in a storm. Her skin was bone-white, sickly, gleaming under the false sky’s ambiguous glow. But her face...

Her face had no skin. Only muscle and tendon pulled taut, teeth bared in a perpetual rictus, eyes burning holes of anguish. And in her hands, she clutched a weapon far too large for her frame: a giant pair of shears, the blades long enough to cut a person in half.

She hit like a warhead.

Nameless barely got there in time. Its lattice of arms shifted into a shield-wall, palms bracing one another

The impact drove Nameless backward, its structure shuddering, tiles splintering under its grip.

Takaishi grunted, thrown off his feet by the recoil.

She didn’t relent, and instead pressed in, flaying her own muscles as the strength coursed through her body. Flesh tore along her arms where the Idolon strain outstripped what her frame could carry. But the damage only fed her. The more she bled, the harder she pushed.

Nameless countered with a dozen parrying palms, catching the shear-blades again and again. Each block made its structure ripple violently. It shoved back, redirecting the massive scissors into the ground and the floor cracked wide.

She screamed, the sound like tearing fabric and sobbing all at once. She ripped the blades free, spinning them in a feral arc that Nameless only just caught again with a shifting wall of arms. The force sent shockwaves through the corridor

Simply Red darted in, kanabo raised, winds howling at her back. But the attacker twisted, her blades scissoring outward with manic precision, and the oni was forced to barrel-roll through her own cyclone to avoid being sliced in half.

Momo shouted, “What the hell is that?!”

Yae could feel it now, clear as daylight. "This Zone has a heart. And she’s standing in front of us.”





"Simply Red!!"

hand thrust forward, and Simply Red answered without hesitation.

The oni avatar surged on a cyclone, kanabo swinging in a blazing arc. Winds screamed, the air snapping into a funnel around the strike. The kanabo met the scissors with a crash like temple bells shattering. The impact reverberated through the corridor, and the attacker was blasted away, hurled down the warped tiles.

She slammed into a building hard enough to crater it, bones audibly breaking. For a moment, silence. Then-

She stood.

Her body was bent at wrong angles, blood running in sheets down her pale skin. Her arms hung too loose at her sides, joints snapped and trembling. But her head turned, hair falling across the ruin of her flayed face. Those burning eyes locked on them again.

Her head snapped sideways at a sudden screech. Two Nightmare Eaters barreled toward her

She didn’t dodge.

Her scissors swung wide, catching the first Eater mid-charge. The blades closed with a meaty shunk, severing it in half and leaving the twitching carcass pinned through its torso.

The second Eater raked across her shoulder, splitting muscle and bone. She dropped the scissors entirely, letting the impaled body dangle on them like a skewer. Her hands latched onto the attacker’s throat.

Then she tore.

Fingers dug in like claws, arms straining, skin splitting open further with the effort. She ripped chunks from its plated hide with bare hands, ichor spraying across her dress, soaking her hair. The Eater screeched and writhed, but she only pulled harder, until her arms sank through, until its neck snapped, until it collapsed into twitching tar.

The wounds along her arms closed as she did it. Where bone had jutted out, flesh knitted over again. Where her ribs had shown through the torn dress, they slid back into place, shrouded in raw muscle.

And then, as the corpses dissolved into Idea World materials, Ai stooped low.

She didn’t just take them. She devoured them.

Chunks of warped plating. Shards of dream-matter. The broken fragments of the Eaters’ Idea Slayers. She tore them into herself, teeth gnashing, jaw unhinging wider than human. Each bite spilled more blood down her chin, but she didn’t care. Her body spasmed with the influx of energy, veins blackening, muscles bulging, wounds sealing shut even faster.

Her head snapped back up, ichor dripping from her lipless mouth, hair matted and wild. The scissors rattled back into her grip, still impaled with the Eater’s corpse, dragging it like a trophy.

Her voice tore out ragged, broken, not words so much as a shriek:

Miiiiiine

And with that, she charged again.

Edit

Pub: 01 Sep 2025 13:22 UTC

Edit: 15 Sep 2025 19:46 UTC

Views: 84