The elderly scientist shuffled into the laboratory like a specter drawn toward its own undoing. His stained white coat snagged on the edge of a countertop, the fabric barely clinging to his hunched shoulders. Fluorescent lights overhead dripped an antiseptic glare onto the polished floor, turning every droplet of spilled fluid into a shimmering pool of menace. Through the high-set windows, the dying rays of dusk slanted in, painting the walls in sickly orange and black. He made his way to Rika, the lead researcher, whose dark circles and tremoring hands betrayed nights spent wrestling with failures.
"How's it doing?" he rasped, voice brittle as old parchment.
"It's nothing but static," Rika shot back, slamming her clipboard against the steel bench. The impact vibrated through her pen, rattling it like a tiny steel snake. She turned to the glass cylinder at the far end of the room, where the black substance writhed in lurid slow-motion. It pulsed with a viscous wetness, slipping over itself in folds that glistened like freshly exposed muscle. Occasional bubbles of crimson liquid—blood or something more unnatural—oozed from its core, mixing with the translucent medium until the entire vat looked as though it were a bleeding wound.
Below, on a slab of cold metal, lay the corpse of a man in his mid-thirties. His skin was mottled purple and gray, split in places by jagged gashes that oozed dark coagula. One eye had bulged from its socket, the white turned yellow with rot, while rivulets of thick, black ichor trickled from his mouth. His fingers twitched once, then froze—an echo of life snuffed out for the sake of this monstrous experiment.
"No progress," Rika continued, voice low but fierce, eyes burning with frustration. "If we can't get it to respond to any stimuli—thermal, sonic, electrical—then we have nothing to show. No grant renewal, no board approvals, no mercy from the prime minister's office. They'll drop us, scapegoat us, carve our names into the annals of disgrace."
A soft hum vibrated through the room as one of the centrifuges spun idly, its tread a dull thrum in the charged silence. Far behind them, the gurgling whisper of the black mass seemed to flirt with the edges of consciousness, a maddening suggestion that it might be sentient—hungry.
Rika's jaw clenched. She could almost feel it watching her, its tendrils straining against the glass as if itching to escape. She pressed her shoulder against the counter, gathering herself. "Why create a lifeform like this at all, Takehashi? It's—" Her voice cracked. "It's abhorrent. We're not gods—we're scientists. We should be curing disease, not birthing a nightmare."
Takehashi's gaze never wavered from the cylinder. He took a slow, measured step forward, shadowed face half-lost in the harsh glow. His eyes glinted with the kind of fervor that chills the marrow. "We don't know why," he said softly, as though reciting a mournful prayer. "Orders come down from higher. We're the tools. If this thing fails… you know what happens to those who fail."
A low, guttural exhalation escaped from the black substance as if it inhaled his threat. For a heartbeat, it stilled. Then, with an explosion of movement, it surged upward, dozens of fingerlike protrusions pressing against the glass, leaving greasy fingerprints that ran down in oily rivulets. It flexed and reeled, spitting bubbles of red that sputtered like cursed blood. The glass shivered, and both researchers flinched, as though the mass were trying to breach its prison.
In that instant, the boundary between creator and created blurred. Fear dripped from the walls. Takehashi felt a flicker of doubt—but quickly stamped it out. He had seen what happened to those who disobeyed. No second chances. No respite.
Rika swallowed hard, lips trembling. Her eyes, wide with a mixture of revulsion and a scientist's grim curiosity, shifted between Takehashi and the black ravenous form. "It hates us," she whispered. "It knows what we've done."
"Does it?" Takehashi asked quietly. "Or does it only know that it wants freedom—wanting is life." He straightened, voice steely. "And life, no matter how wicked, is progress."
The black mass pulsed in reply, its surface roiling, as though savoring his words. A fresh gush of petrochemical blood spilled into the cylinder's fluid, swirling in a trail that resembled a dripping wound. Beneath that fluid, impossible shapes writhed: spines, ribbed tentacles, glints of teeth unfurled like razors.
The silence that followed tasted of dread, the weight of unforgiving deadlines pressing down on them both. They stood, two helpless architects peering into the abyss they had created, knowing that the abyss looked back—and smirked.
—
Elsewhere, in the labyrinth of city streets, a different kind of terror reigned. A sixteen-year-old girl barreled through the crowded marketplace, her heart pounding so violently she could taste it at the back of her throat. Her lungs clawed for air, each breath a rasp of fear. Behind her, four men thundered in pursuit, their curses slicing through the din of vendors hawking rotten fruit and sizzling meats.
One of them, a broad-shouldered brute with a twisted grin, bellowed, "You little rat! Give me back my wallet!"
She clutched the stolen leather billfold to her chest, fingernails digging into the cracked surface, as she darted between carts spilling flecks of blood-orange pomegranate. A vendor's shriek followed her as she tumbled into barrels of squashed grapes, purple liquor running sticky down her legs. The men trampled after her, boots crunching grape seeds and stray coins alike.
She stumbled on a loose cobblestone and pitched headfirst into a pile of crates. The wood shattered under her weight, splinters biting into her palms as she caught herself. When she forced her torso upright, pain seared through her side—a hot, vicious slash where a jagged nail or shard of metal had torn through her thin jacket and into her flesh. She sucked in a sob, taste of salt and iron flooding her mouth.
The marketplace blurred as she scrambled away, her vision gilded with faltering light. She clamped one hand to the wound, but blood still welled, bright and thick. She staggered around a corner into an alley that stank of rotten fish and urine. Rusted pipes oozed dark rivulets onto the grime-slick pavement. Her foot caught on a jagged metal flange, and she went down hard, forehead colliding with the edge of a dented dumpster. Stars exploded behind her eyelids, heat blossoming across her skull as crimson trickled into her hair.
"Shit," she hissed, hand pressed to her forehead, feeling the wet warmth of blood. The wallet skittered away, landing just out of reach. She strained to crawl toward it, agony surging through her broken wrist every time she shifted her fingers. Before she could clutch it, a heavy boot slammed down on her hand, pinning it to the ground. Bones crunched beneath the weight as a voice growled in her ear.
"You think you can steal from me and get away with it, you little whore?"
The man's breath was rancid, hot as steam. She bit back a scream, teeth grinding as the sole of his boot twisted her fingers. A wet snap echoed, and she tasted her own marrow. She shut her eyes against tears—no more tears. Not yet.
He lifted his foot, then brought it down again, sole smashing into her palm with remorseless force. She gritted her teeth so hard she feared they'd crack. When at last the boot lifted, her hand dangled like a broken puppet, fingers splayed in unnatural angles, raw flesh and bone glinting in the dim streetlight.
"Look at that," the brute snarled, nudging her with his heel so her cheek scraped against the debris-strewn pavement. Rust flakes and bits of glass ground into the wound, but her gaze remained defiantly locked on him. "That's for thievin' from me."
Behind him, two accomplices seized her arms and hauled her to her knees. She gasped, body convulsing as searing fire shot through her wrist and ribs. The first man cocked a fist, knuckles whitened, and buried it into her side. Ribs cracked audibly, pain blooming like a thousand hot needles. She spat out blood, part of a broken tooth, and refused to cry out. Each breath was agony, each heartbeat a drum of warning.
The alley's pale light flickered as if uncertain whether it should reveal such cruelty. Her face blossomed with bruises: one cheek a bruise-dark purple, the other grazed by shards of gravel. Her clothes were torn, stained a horrific tapestry of red and black. The men towered over her, silhouettes stalking a wounded animal.
Minutes—or lifetimes—passed before the trio finally stepped back, heavy with the satisfaction of inflicted suffering. They muttered to each other, kicking her once more to ensure she wouldn't follow, then melted back into the night, leaving her pinned in a pool of her own blood and filth.
She lay there, each shallow breath a shudder of pain that radiated from her shattered wrist to her bruised ribs and split forehead. The alley felt endless, the darkness alive with the echo of their boots receding. She stared up at the sky, where the moon was a pale, pitiless watchman. The high walls boxed her in, but the quiet—they had forgotten her so quickly—spoke of contempt, of humans who reserved no compassion even for broken children.
Her eyelids fluttered. Hot tears pricked the corners, but she forced them back. A single thought emerged from the wreckage of her mind, clearer than any vow: Denji. Chainsaw Man. He was the one who had set this chain of misery in motion—the one who had delivered her into this life of shadows, hunger, and brutality.
She clutched what remained of the stolen wallet in her good hand, crumpling the leather until it groaned. A ribbon of determination coiled in her chest. Pain was endless, yes—but so was her resolve. She would stand again. She would hunt him. She would make him answer for every scar and every tear.
A soft, defiant whisper escaped her cracked lips: "Chainsaw Man… you'll bleed for what you've done."
And in the grim silence of that alley, her vow took root—a dark seed of vengeance, watered by her blood and the horrors she would endure until it bloomed.