Rain fell like static across the city. Neon bled down puddles, washing color from everything but the sky. I stood at the gate of a high school whose name I hadn't bothered to learn.
Uniforms, umbrellas, laughter—such small noises. The sound of a world that still believed it was ordinary.
I hid my glow. My hair shortened to black, my eyes dimmed until the galaxies inside them folded shut. Just another transfer student, quiet, polite, forgettable.
Inside, the halls smelled of chalk and damp shoes. Bells rang. Students hurried between classes, leaving echoes of conversations like scraps of paper in the wind.
I liked it.
There's a kind of honesty in small worlds: every secret fits into a locker.
—
The first time I saw her, she was crouched behind the gym, helping a half-starved stray cat drink rainwater from her cupped hands.
Her uniform sleeves were soaked, ribbon crooked at her throat. When the cat finished, she whispered something I almost didn't catch.
"Stay alive. That's enough."
It was such a simple sentence—too small for gods, perfect for me.
Her name drifted to me through a teacher's attendance call later: Mira Sato.
Sixteen. Mother dead. Younger sister. Perfect grades. The kind of girl who smiled automatically, as if her mouth had been trained by grief.
For three days, I watched. She picked up dropped pencils, covered for classmates who forgot homework, laughed at jokes she didn't find funny. Every small kindness shimmered across realities like ripples in glass. The echo test passed.
On the fourth day, I followed her shadow.
—
After school, the sky bruised violet. Students went home, umbrellas blooming down the street. Mira lingered, cleaning the art room.
I waited until the last light flickered out. Then I spoke from the doorway.
"Do you like keeping things clean?"
She jumped, nearly dropping the bucket. "Oh—sorry, I didn't notice anyone—"
"I wasn't anyone," I said, stepping inside. "Not until now."
Her brow furrowed. "Are you from Class 3-B?"
"Sometimes."
She hesitated, glancing at the empty hallway behind me. "Do you need something?"
"You."
The word hung there, soft but absolute.
Her pulse stuttered—beautiful. Humans always mistake interest for danger only after it's too late.
"There's a game I want to play," I said. "One where you stop being helpless."
She frowned. "Is this some kind of joke?"
"Only if you laugh."
I took a step closer. The lights above us buzzed, flickering as though deciding whether to stay. Her reflection in the window doubled, then tripled, caught in a shimmer of wrong geometry.
"You've been praying," I said. "Not with words. With actions. Little offerings."
Her lips parted. "You're not from this school."
"No," I admitted. "But I like your world. It's small enough to fit in my pocket."
I reached out. Between my fingers, darkness swirled, liquid and patient. "Would you like to matter?"
—
She should have run.
Instead, she asked, "What would it cost?"
Smart girl. Always the right question.
"Something of yours that remembers love," I said. "Something that has seen you cry."
Her hand lifted to the ribbon around her neck. Pale blue, edges frayed, tied with care that had outlasted years.
"My mom gave it to me."
"Perfect."
She untied it slowly, fingers trembling. The air thickened, carrying the metallic tang before storms.
"Hold it out," I whispered.
She did.
The classroom dimmed until the windows looked painted shut. The rain outside froze mid-fall, droplets suspended like beads of glass.
I drew three slow loops in the air, then one straight line down. The gesture left trails of black-gold light that hummed softly, the geometry of a door trying to remember how to open.
Her ribbon floated upward, twisting, threads unraveling into luminous strands. They coiled around her wrist like curious snakes.
Mira gasped.
"It won't hurt long," I promised.
The first thread slipped under her skin.
Her breath hitched. The second followed, sinking neatly as if her flesh had been waiting for it. The third pressed against her pulse and entered.
She made a small sound—half whimper, half sigh. The smell of rain deepened, edged now with copper.
On the inside of her wrist, a mark bloomed: a faint petal, iridescent, never fully opening.
"That's the door," I said. "Don't let anyone knock."
She stared, wide-eyed. "What did you do to me?"
"I gave you a place to put power."
She swayed, catching herself on the desk. The petal pulsed once, syncing with her heartbeat.
"Why me?"
"Because you looked at a dying thing and told it to live. Most people do the opposite."
Her eyes filled with tears. "I didn't mean—"
"Intent doesn't matter. Only echo."
I touched her forehead lightly. Her skin was hot, fevered.
"Now say your new name."
"What name?"
"The one you'll answer to when the dark calls."
"I—I don't know—"
"Then I'll choose."
I leaned close, whispering a single syllable against her skin.
"Vey."
The petal flared, a flash of black-gold that painted the room in shadows. When it faded, the mark had sunk deeper, veins of light crawling up her arm before disappearing beneath the sleeve.
She shivered.
"Welcome, Vey," I said. "My first Void Maid."
—
The next morning, she woke with her wrist throbbing. The mark was invisible under the ribbon, but she could feel it pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat that wasn't hers.
At school, the world looked sharper. Colors had edges. Voices carried echoes. Every whisper brushed her skin.
During literature class, a boy dropped his pen. Instinct made her reach to pick it up—but instead of bending, she simply thought about moving it. The pen rolled to his foot on its own.
He blinked, confused. She froze.
The petal on her wrist warmed, satisfied.
That night, she dreamed of corridors that had never existed—hallways built of folded paper and starlight. At the far end, I sat on my throne of black gold, watching.
"Do you regret it?"
She shook her head.
"Then you'll keep it," I said. "Every act of kindness will feed the Void now. Don't starve me."
When she woke, the smell of rain lingered in her room.
—
Weeks passed.
She learned what the petal could do. Small things first: a note pulled through air to her desk, a wound on her sister's knee sealed with a whisper.
Each time, a memory slipped away—a favorite song lyric, the color of her first bicycle, the taste of cinnamon bread. She noticed. She told no one.
I watched from above, unseen, perched on the school's roof during breaks. Pigeons avoided me.
"She's unraveling beautifully," I murmured.
Requiem's voice fluttered through the Void, distant but amused. "You're growing attached."
"I don't attach," I said. "I collect."
Still, I found myself drawn to her small tragedies: her quiet smiles, her careful lies to hide exhaustion.
Humans rot so gracefully.
—
One evening, a storm cut the power. Students trapped in after-school clubs huddled by phone light. Mira walked the dark halls, ribbon glimmering faintly.
From a corner classroom came a muffled sob. A younger girl, first-year, trapped by a jammed door.
Mira reached for the handle. It wouldn't budge. She pressed her marked wrist against the lock.
The petal opened a fraction. A slit of night peeled through the metal, devouring the mechanism with a quiet hiss. The door swung open.
The girl stumbled out, whispering thanks. Mira smiled, dizzy with warmth and dread.
Then she noticed her reflection in the window—its mouth still closed while she smiled.
Her heart stuttered. The shadow behind the glass tilted its head independently, curious.
"Hello," it mouthed.
She fled.
—
That night she confronted me again—on the roof, rain slanting across the tiles.
"You didn't say there'd be another me."
"It's not another you," I said. "It's the part that obeys."
"I saw it move."
"It's learning autonomy. Don't worry; it loves you."
Her laugh was sharp. "Love?"
"In its language. Hunger and affection share a root."
She grabbed my collar. "Take it back."
"You can't unplant a seed after it sprouts."
Her fingers shook against my shirt. "Then kill me."
I smiled. "You'll have to ask nicer."
Lightning tore the sky behind me, illuminating her face—rain mixing with tears, eyes wide with something between fury and terror.
"Why me?" she screamed again.
"Because you wanted to help," I whispered. "Now you will, forever."
The wind swallowed her sob.
—
The next day, she didn't come to class.
Teachers said fever. Her friends whispered burnout.
I found her after sunset, sitting alone on the empty track field, ribbon undone, mark exposed to the air.
The petal had opened halfway. From its center, faint black tendrils pulsed in and out, breathing.
She looked up as I approached.
"I can hear people's thoughts now," she said softly. "Not words—just… feelings. They're so loud."
"It will fade when you learn to feed it properly."
Her eyes searched mine. "What happens if I stop?"
"Then it eats you."
She laughed weakly. "Figures."
"You're surviving better than most."
"I'm not surviving," she said. "I'm dissolving."
"Same thing."
She turned away. "Do you ever feel sorry?"
"For what?"
"For anything."
I thought about that. The rain had stopped. The air smelled of wet soil and ozone.
"No," I said at last. "But sometimes I notice the shape of what sorrow would be."
She closed her eyes. "I wish you'd never found me."
"Everyone does," I said. "Right before they make me proud."
—
Later that week, she disappeared.
Her friends said she'd transferred. The teachers shrugged.
I knew better.
On the rooftop, the night parted, and she stepped out—eyes darker, voice steadier. The petal on her wrist was gone, replaced by a faint ring of light.
"Where did you go?" I asked.
"Between," she said. "There's space there. I can hear the walls breathing."
"And?"
"They whisper your name."
"Do you like it?"
She smiled faintly. "I think I'm starting to."
She looked at her ribbon, now colorless, translucent. "What am I now?"
"An instrument."
"Of what?"
"Curiosity."
She nodded, as if that made sense. "Then tell me what to do."
"Collect wonder," I said. "Bring me the moments when humans almost understand something bigger and ruin it with fear. Feed them to the Void."
"And if I refuse?"
"You won't."
Her eyes glimmered. "You're right."
She stepped backward into the dark, dissolving into a shimmer of rain and gold.
When she was gone, the city lights flickered once, like a held breath.
—
In the days that followed, odd things began happening.
Strangers paused mid-conversation, glancing at the air as if someone had called their names. Dreams carried the scent of wet ribbon. Mirrors fogged without cause.
The world had accepted its infection.
From my throne of black gold, I watched the pattern spread—subtle, elegant, unstoppable.
"Well done, Vey," I whispered. "Let's see who notices you first."
The Void stirred beneath me, pleased.
And somewhere in a classroom that no longer quite existed, a faint voice answered: