The walk home was a blur of self-loathing and rain. Yuki kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, trying to ignore the warm pulse of the scars, the lingering taste of rust and fear on his tongue, the phantom feel of damp porcelain skin. The stolen strength felt like a lead weight in his gut.
He hadn't felt heroic in the alley. He hadn't felt justice. He hadn't even felt the clean release of vengeance. He had felt… powerful. And then, profoundly disgusted. The victory was sour, tainted by the knowledge of what he'd consumed, what he'd become a party to.
He slipped into the silent apartment, dripping rainwater onto the floor. He didn't bother turning on the lights. He walked straight to the bathroom, shedding his soaked uniform jacket. The scars on his forearms were visible in the dim light from the street, pulsing with a faint, dark luminescence. They looked alive.
He turned on the faucet, letting the water run cold. He plunged his hands under the stream, scrubbing violently with soap, as if he could wash away the scars, the memory, the taste. He scrubbed until his skin was raw and red, but the black marks remained, pulsing faintly, warm and sated.
He looked up at his reflection in the mirror.
The hollow-eyed boy stared back. But the eyes weren't just hollow now. They were hardened. The cold, calculating light was brighter, more pronounced. The lines around his mouth seemed deeper, etched by disgust and something else – a cynicism that hadn't been there before. He looked older. Worn. Not just by grief, but by the act itself.
He saw the alley again in his mind's eye. The creature exploding. The flickering soul. The dark satisfaction as it was absorbed. The vomiting. The taste.
There was no glory in it. No honor. Just brutality and consumption. He had become the thing he hunted – a predator feeding on fear and pain. The fact that his prey was a monster didn't change the fundamental ugliness of the act.
He thought of Hana. Would she recognize him now? Would she see the brother she loved, or would she only see the monster wearing his face, hands stained with black scars and the essence of the damned?
A wave of nausea washed over him again. He gripped the edges of the sink, knuckles white. He had wanted power to avenge her. To destroy the things that took her. But this… this felt like a betrayal. A defilement of her memory.
Unheroic? Kage's whisper slithered into his mind, laced with contempt. Heroism is a mortal delusion, Yuki. A comforting lie told to children. There is only power. And weakness. You chose power. You fed the fire. That is victory enough.
Yuki slammed his fist onto the sink counter. The porcelain cracked. "Shut up!" he hissed, the sound loud in the silent bathroom. "You don't know anything!"
Don't I? Kage's voice was cold, sharp. I know the taste of souls. I know the satisfaction of the harvest. I know the hollow ache that drives you. You enjoyed it, Yuki. For a moment, in the alley, when the soul was yours… you enjoyed the power. The strength. The fullness. Admit it.
Yuki closed his eyes, refusing to look at his reflection. Refusing to acknowledge the flicker of dark satisfaction that had indeed surged through him as the creature's soul was absorbed. It had been brief, drowned by disgust, but it had been there. A primal, predatory thrill.
He hadn't just consumed the monster's fear. He had tasted a flicker of its own predatory hunger. And a part of him had responded.
He looked back at the mirror. At the hardened eyes, the cynical lines. The unheroic victor stared back, his victory tasting of ash and rust and the lingering sweetness of burnt sugar.
He was no closer to avenging Hana. He was just deeper in the dark.