The next day, the sky was dull, as if someone had smeared it with dusty fingers. Ayumi had spent the night imagining how the encounter would go. She had carefully arranged the cookies in a decorated tin box—the kind they only used on special occasions. She chose a simple white ribbon and tied it twice. She didn't want to seem intrusive, just kind. Just... present.
With the box held tightly in her hands, she walked the path toward the villa. Her steps were cautious but firm. Her heart beat faster than usual—that strange rhythm between the fear of rejection and the hope of being welcomed.
She reached the door and hesitated. The silence around her felt heavier, almost unnatural. Then she took a deep breath and reached out. The doorbell was cold to the touch and its sound rang sharp, breaking the still air like cracking glass.
She waited.
A few moments later, the door opened.
A boy stood before her.
He was shorter than she had imagined, but his body carried a constant tension, like every muscle was ready to react. His pitch-black hair, cut unevenly, fell over his eyes like a dark curtain. That gaze—narrow, sharp, hard—seemed to pierce through things without ever truly settling on people. No emotion on his face. No surprise. Just a cold presence, as if made of stone and winter wind.
Feitan.
She didn't know it yet, but that name sounded like broken metal.
"What do you want?"
His voice was low, thin, like a whisper that scratched. No courtesy, no curiosity. Just irritation.
Ayumi swallowed, trying to smile.
"Hi… I live just down the road. I saw you arrive and… I thought I'd bring you these."
She gently lifted the box.
"Cookies. My mother made them, but we baked them together."
He looked at her. Or maybe he looked through her. His brows lowered slightly, and he took half a step back.
"I don't want them. Take them away."
The words were sharp, like broken glass. Yet the tone wasn't angry—just cold.
Distant. Disinterested.
Ayumi stood still. She felt her face flush, but didn't move.
"Just one…" she whispered.
"Just try one. If you don't like it, I won't bother you again. I promise."
There was a pause. Feitan said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on the box, as if it held something dangerous. Then, slowly, he reached out a pale, slender hand. He took a cookie. Brought it to his mouth without looking at her. Chewed once, then moved abruptly.
Slam.
The door closed in her face, leaving a blast of cold air across her cheeks.
Ayumi remained on the step, unmoving. Her hands still slightly raised, as if she were still holding the box. She hadn't expected a celebration—but… something. A bit of warmth. A thank you. A more human glance.
She inhaled slowly, forcing down the lump rising in her throat.
Then, with quiet care, she set the box of cookies on the ground, near the door. She turned and left without saying a word.
And as the sky turned a deeper gray, Ayumi told herself that not everyone had someone to teach them kindness.
And maybe—just maybe—that slammed door wasn't an end, but a beginning.
---Feitan…----
The light was irritating.
It filtered through the shutters like intrusive fingers, and Feitan wondered, for the hundredth time, why he had chosen this house.
In truth, he hadn't chosen it—it worked. It was isolated. A corpse abandoned on a hill, a step away from nothing. Perfect.
The kitchen still smelled of dampness. Water groaned from the pipes, and the floorboards creaked under his steps. He liked that sound. It reminded him of something breaking. Or giving up.
He had just finished arranging the weapons in a black velvet-lined case. Every item in its place. Silence, precision, control. The only kind of order he knew.
Then, that voice.
"Just one… at least try one."
He saw her again in his mind, unwillingly. The girl. The one with the too-kind smile, the too-clear eyes, the too-alive voice. An irritating presence. There was nothing useful in her. No threat. No value.
Just… noise. And wasted kindness.
Feitan didn't believe in kindness. He didn't understand it. It was a mask, like all the others. A form of power disguised as virtue. A trap, probably.
He had shut the door just to put an end to that absurd scene.
The cookie he had tasted—out of pity? boredom?—was sweet. Too sweet. It had stuck to the roof of his mouth like a badly told lie. He had spat it into the sink soon after. Then forgotten about it.
Or so he thought.
Until he opened the door.
And saw it there. The box.
Still there, on the edge of the step, like an unwanted offering that insisted on existing.
Still. Clean. Ridiculous.
He picked it up with two fingers, as if it might burn him. Brought it inside, placed it on the table without opening it. Circled it a couple of times. Silent. Detached.
The house was empty, as always. But now, in that emptiness, there was something foreign. A small box with a white ribbon. Something useless. Fragile. Kind.
Feitan sat down, hands clasped on the table.
Time passed, but he didn't feel it. He never really had. Days were just copies of each other. Directionless places. Repeated existences. Death, at least, made sense. The rest didn't.
Who was that girl?
Didn't matter.
Why had she left him something?
Foolish.
What did she expect?
Nothing he could give.
He slowly opened the box, just to measure how much he might hate it. The scent hit him like a sugared blade. Butter, flour, warmth. An invisible weapon for someone with no armor. But he was empty. No emotion could find purchase. No memory lit up.
He picked up a cookie, stared at it. Then put it back. Closed the lid. No anger, no pity. Just total indifference.
He left it on the table. A relic of something he didn't understand. And walked away, vanishing once more into the house like a shadow.
Feitan felt nothing.
And that, to him, was just fine.