Institutional Cage
"In a cage of white walls and legal lies, a soulless hunter cuts through ghoul flesh, guided by a fanatic whose laughter is an echo of death."
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The doors of the Commission of Counter Ghoul Measures rose like a mausoleum of steel and glass—immaculate white walls hiding a hollow core of human hypocrisy.
Ayanato Ashida moved through the corridors, his presence invisible to RC sensors, his hemogen a secret no human system could translate. Agents glanced at him—some dismissing him like just another rookie, others feeling a chill they couldn't explain.
His steps rang against the polished floor, each one a funeral heartbeat announcing purpose.
He stopped at reception, face empty, red eyes dulled beneath the weight of a loss still bleeding.
"I want to join the institution," he said. His voice was dry, lifeless, as if the words were ash in his mouth.
The receptionist looked him over, eyes narrowing with curiosity… and a little amusement at the cut of his tone.
"You're in good shape, kid. You could aim for third class," she said, condescension dripping like cheap disinfectant.
Ayanato shook his head. His expression was a bottomless pit.
"If you allow me to demonstrate my skills, you'll see I don't belong in that category."
The receptionist lifted a brow, but before she could answer, a figure emerged from the hallway—
Kureo Mado, a known veteran of the CCG, approached with firm steps. His back was slightly bent with age, but his eyes gleamed with a fanaticism sharp enough to cut the air. Messy white hair framed a narrow face, and a twisted smile exposed a bloodlust he didn't bother hiding.
"So this is the boy bragging about skill?" Mado hissed, sick excitement bubbling in his voice. "Prepare some ghouls for the training room. And bring him a quinque. This one has… potential."
The receptionist frowned.
"And what makes you think that, Mado-san?"
Mado let out a low laugh—bone-crack laughter.
"Instinct," he replied, eyes locked on Ayanato as if he could smell the death clinging to him.
He handed over a quinque case with formal flair, gloved fingers brushing the metal like a reverence that bordered on worship.
Ayanato nodded, face unreadable, and followed Mado into the training room—
a sterile coliseum surrounded by reinforced walls and cameras watching like eyelids that never blinked.
Mado pointed toward a cell, his smile widening.
"Come on, boy. Show these vermin their place."
A door slid open.
An Ukaku ghoul burst out, crystalline wings unfolding with a buzzing snap. It tried to flee, firing volleys of sharp crystal shards—
but Ayanato activated the quinque: a long spear that gleamed pristine white.
His movements were precise, almost mechanical, slipping between the shards with timing that seemed to defy time itself.
He sprinted—
the ghoul barely had time to swallow—
and the spear punched through its skull with a visceral crunch, pinning it to the floor in an explosion of blood that splattered the walls.
The body slumped, dead weight.
Mado, stopwatch in hand, laughed with unsettling delight.
"Three seconds for an A-class ghoul," he hissed, eyes shining like a predator's. "Not bad. Let's see if you can handle something… more complicated."
He signaled.
Three cells opened at once.
An Ukaku, a Bikaku, and a Rinkaku surged out, kagune flaring in a storm of fury. The Bikaku threw a blade-like strike, the Ukaku fired crystals, and the Rinkaku whipped a segmented tentacle with a metallic texture.
Mado clicked the stopwatch on.
His laughter echoed through the coliseum like a curse.
Ayanato moved.
His spear cut the air with a whistle—
one brutal slash decapitated the Bikaku, the head rolling with a dull thud.
He snapped the spear's shaft forward, striking the severed head like a ball and launching it into the Ukaku's face.
The Ukaku staggered, disoriented—its crystals missed.
Ayanato used that half-second to dive at the Rinkaku.
He dodged the tentacle by centimeters, metal scraping the floor behind him—
and answered with a cut that opened the ghoul's torso into a sea of blood.
He seized the wounded body and used it as a shield.
Ukaku crystals punched into flesh with wet crunches.
Then Ayanato finished it—
he hurled the spear, driving it through the Ukaku's skull and pinning it to the wall in a burst of blood that painted the steel.
Mado stopped the timer.
His laughter rose into a manic howl.
"Seven seconds for three exquisite kills with a mediocre quinque!" he shouted, face lit by a joy bordering on madness. "A masterpiece!"
But then—
a final cell opened without warning.
An elderly, plump woman stepped out, her kind face grotesquely out of place in the horror.
"Excuse me, sir, I think there's been a mistake in capturing me…" she began, voice trembling.
Ayanato didn't hesitate.
His spear sliced the air—cutting her clean in half in a single motion.
Her body collapsed into a pool of blood before she could even deploy a kagune.
Silence swallowed the room—
broken only by Mado's laughter, nails-on-chalkboard laughter.
"You really have no soul, boy!" Mado cackled, eyes glittering with diseased delight. "Most recruits would freeze—but you… you know what matters. Welcome to the CCG!"
He saluted and strode out, laughter trailing through the halls like rot.
The cameras fixated on Ayanato: standing motionless among torn bodies, spear dripping red.
In the upper offices, Yoshitoki Washuu and Marude Itsuki watched the feeds, faces tight.
They hadn't just witnessed a recruit.
They'd witnessed a predator—one whose brutality might threaten even the cage that had just welcomed him.
Legal Vacuum
"In an office where shadows conceal truths and loopholes weave traps, two men gamble with a predator's fate—ignoring the edge that could cut them."
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The CCG office was a mausoleum of quiet, lit by fluorescent lights that flickered with a nervous hum. The spotless white walls seemed to absorb every secret born inside them.
Yoshitoki Washuu and Marude Itsuki stood before a monitor, the training footage looping again and again—Ayanato's spear splitting the elderly ghoul replaying like thunder in a sealed room.
The air was thick with tension sharp as a scalpel.
Every word was weighed.
Every silence was a calculation.
"The boy is… exceptional," Marude said carefully, fingers drumming against a black folder stamped with the CCG seal. "Mado already gave his approval. He wants him under his supervision. But this—" He pointed at the screen, where Ayanato pierced a ghoul's skull with inhuman precision. "This isn't a novice."
Yoshitoki, seated behind his desk, watched with narrowed eyes—his face a mask of cold pragmatism.
"He doesn't look human," he said calmly, voice edged, "even if the sensors swear he is. His speed. His coordination. Those belong to someone who's been killing far too long. He handled a quinque as if it were part of his body."
Marude leaned forward, hands tightening around the folder.
"You're thinking it too, aren't you?" Suspicion and restrained excitement vibrated in his tone. "The Ghoul Devourer?"
Yoshitoki didn't answer immediately. His gaze stayed on the screen—blood splashing the floor.
He opened a report: pages filled with photographs of an alley smeared in black and red—the incident scene that marked the Ghoul Devourer's disappearance.
"A week ago, the SS-class ghoul nicknamed the Ghoul Devourer—or Red Thread Killer—vanished after an inexplicable incident," Yoshitoki murmured, voice heavy as lead. "We found splinters of his broken weapon. Unidentified black blood scattered across the site. Signs of a brutal fight. But no body."
Marude nodded, flipping pages.
"That same night, the Binge Eater—Rize Kamishiro—suffered a similar fate. Crushed by a steel beam, according to reports and rumors. Both disappeared in the same perimeter. And now this boy—" He paused, tapping Ayanato's reception photo: hollow face, eyes stripped of life. "—walks straight into our headquarters like it's nothing."
Yoshitoki drummed his fingers on the desk. The sound ticked like a clock counting down to a dangerous decision.
"The Devourer never showed terrorist intent against the CCG," he said, tone clinical. "His kills were territorial—focused on protecting the Binge Eater. Even when he fought Arima in the warehouse, he nearly killed him, but he wasn't trying to destroy us. Something pushed him to come here. To place himself under our control."
Marude frowned, eyes fixed on the folder.
"Kureo Mado requests direct custody," he said tensely. "If anyone can smell trouble, it's him. But if this boy is the Devourer—without a kagune, without his red threads—then he's a blade without an edge. He wouldn't openly challenge the CCG… not without a reason."
Yoshitoki nodded, cold eyes measuring the incomplete file.
The reception photo screamed purpose snapped in half.
"A ghoul doesn't join the CCG on a whim," he muttered. "Something broke him. If he's the Devourer, we want him on our side. If he's just a talented human, his skill still serves us. But if he loses control…" His gaze hardened. "We send Arima to finish what he started."
Marude exhaled slightly, but the tension stayed lodged in his shoulders.
"So we put him under Mado?" he asked, paranoia licking the edges of his voice. "If he's the Devourer, keeping him close gives us control. If he isn't, his talent is an asset. But…" He glanced at the footage—Ayanato splitting the old ghoul without blinking. "This isn't a game. That boy is a weapon. And weapons get used… or they turn on you."
Yoshitoki closed the file.
Decision sealed like a verdict.
"Assign him Special Class," he said firmly, the warning embedded in his calm. "If he's the Devourer, let him believe we trust him. If he's human, salary and rank will bind him. But keep your eyes open, Marude. Legal loopholes are our cage… and our trap."
Marude nodded, quickly omitting details in Ayanato's profile with a pen stroke that felt like hiding a knife under paperwork. He sent the revised file down to reception—assigning the boy to Mado's patrol.
And as the footage continued looping, the echo of Ayanato's spear splitting flesh stayed in the room—
a reminder that they had invited a predator into their cage,
and loopholes didn't always hold.
Institutional Needle
"In an armory where steel sings and loopholes whisper, a warrior forges a weapon that carries the weight of his shattered soul—an edge born of blood and purpose."
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The CCG armory was a shrine of steel and shadow. Its walls were lined with quinque cases gleaming beneath cold lights—each one a trophy ripped from ghoul flesh.
The air tasted metallic, layered with hammer echoes and the hum of machinery that pulsed like an artificial heart.
Ayanato Ashida stood at a table covered in quinque cases, face a mask of indifference, red eyes dulled under a loss still bleeding.
Beside him, an agent with rigid posture and institutional pride spoke with enthusiasm.
"Agent Ashida, upper command assigned you Special Class on your first day—an unprecedented honor," he said, admiration buzzing in his voice. "I've been ordered to find a quinque that suits you. Choose carefully."
Ayanato barely looked at him. His empty gaze slid over the cases like ash.
Without a word, he reached out and grabbed one at random. Cold metal under his fingers.
The agent smiled, unaware of the void staring through Ayanato's face.
"Excellent choice, Agent. A long-handled hammer, ideal for—"
He never finished.
Ayanato activated the case. With a click, a heavy steel hammer unfolded—bright and immaculate.
Then Ayanato pulled out the broken tip of his Kokuseigu, black metal glowing with a sick red light in its veins.
In one quick motion, he struck the hammerhead with the broken tip.
Steel screamed.
Sparks burst like brief stars.
And the hammer's head split apart, chunks crashing to the floor with a roar that shook the armory.
The agent stumbled back, face drained.
"What the hell is that?" he choked, voice shaking. "Where did you get it?"
Ayanato looked at him—expression an abyss of indifference.
"I found it in an alley," he replied, voice dry as dust, while bringing the broken tip close to the ruined quinque handle.
The Kokuseigu's hemogen woke up.
Black tendrils spilled out like living veins, pulsing with crimson light that stained the armory.
The quinque core bubbled, resisting—
but hemogen devoured it, fusing into an amorphous mass that shuddered with primal force.
It writhed, making wet, viscous sounds like a weapon mourning itself—
and then hardened.
From the amalgam emerged a long, robust blade: black surface threaded with red lines that pulsed like arteries.
The handle elongated, firm, fitting perfectly into Ayanato's grip.
And the blade—human-sized—took the shape of a giant kunai needle:
an epic echo of his original weapon.
The armory seemed to hold its breath.
Ayanato lifted the blade with one hand and slashed the air.
Each swing whistled through dimness, precise and lethal, the weapon answering him with a red pulse like a broken heart trying to remember its rhythm.
Not as good as my old Kokuseigu… he thought. But sharp enough for my purpose.
He pressed a button on the hilt.
The blade retracted into a compact cylinder that he slipped into his jacket.
The agent stared at the cameras, stunned.
"I've never seen a quinque like that…" he muttered. "You don't even need a case."
"Seems not," Ayanato answered flatly, while the weapon's echo lingered in the silence.
The armory door opened.
Kureo Mado burst in with fanatic laughter sharp as a knife.
"Good to see you, Ashida!" he bellowed, eyes glowing with disturbing delight. "You're almost ready to go out and cleanse the world of ghoul filth! All you need is your uniform—and judging by your style, I bet you'll want something special."
He pointed at the broken case on the floor, useless to Ayanato now, then added with a twisted grin:
"You should name that quinque too. A weapon like that deserves a name for the big leagues."
Ayanato drew the cylinder from his jacket and studied it like he could bore holes into metal with intent alone. He pressed the button—click—and the needle deployed again, red pulsing like a living wound.
"Kiriha," he said, voice cold, purpose unbreakable. "That's its name."
He turned toward the fitting room, where an agent waited with a notebook.
"Any preference for your uniform, Agent Ashida?" she asked. "Yoshitoki authorized customization—even unconventional styles."
Ayanato nodded, eyes fixed on an invisible horizon.
"I want a black uniform for stealth operations," he said, cold practicality disguised as style, "with internal red edges that can function as formal wear in front of Gourmet types. Also a reinforced cloak—durable—for defense."
The agent blinked, thrown off by the precision, then nodded and got to work.
Ayanato left and sat in the waiting area, Kiriha's cylinder resting in his hand.
Its weight reminded him: blood still owed.
The armory's echo followed him like a hymn—
binding him to a purpose as sharp as his new needle.
Remember Me
"In a sea of mist where memories bleed, a warrior drifts through echoes of broken promises—each word a thread that cuts the soul before returning to the void."
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Ayanato Ashida collapsed in the CCG waiting room, the weight of his shattered soul dragging him into sleep.
His mind became a storm of fractured memories—images blurred in a sea of pale mist that smelled of lavender and melancholy.
He found himself in his red silk warehouse again.
The walls pulsed like living veins.
Red threads hung like frozen tears.
A soft, young voice broke the silence—
the echo of Rize Kamishiro, before she became the feared Binge Eater, before the world tore her away.
"Ayanato-kun… where are you?" she called, voice warm—but stained with a sorrow that pierced the heart.
He saw himself younger, descending from a web of red threads, graceful movements weighted with a pain he didn't yet understand.
He landed in front of her.
She was small, wrapped in a white dress that clashed against the warehouse gloom.
"Here I am, Rize," he said—young voice carrying ancient exhaustion. "Why did you leave the 11th ward?"
Rize tilted her head. Amethyst eyes gleamed with curiosity… and distrust.
"The CCG suddenly increased security," she replied lightly, though her tone stayed sharp, testing him. "And a lot of idiots were chasing me. They said the 20th ward didn't need more 'agents' because of the Devourer…"
She paused, smile twisting with malice.
"I see they fear you. Better to be on your side. Tell me, Ayanato-kun—when do you plan to stab me in the back?"
Ayanato shook his head, eyes drifting to the threads around him, each one a reminder of lives he'd taken.
"I won't stab you, Rize," he said, voice trembling with a sincerity that hurt. "Why would I do that?"
Rize laughed, a sound like broken bells.
"Everyone in this world wants something from everyone else," she said, gaze cutting into him. "And you, Devourer… you don't look like the purest soul."
Ayanato climbed back into the web, drawing away as if her words forced him to give distance.
"You're right," he admitted, voice low, guilt chewing through him. "I'm not pure. My soul is stained—maybe more than anyone's. But I'm not a traitor."
Rize didn't answer.
Her laughter faded into silence heavy as lead.
She turned and walked toward the silk-wrapped bodies, fingers brushing threads as if searching for something she would never find.
The pale mist rose, swallowing them—
and the warehouse began to collapse inside his mind.
A voice—now broken, disappointed—whispered into his ear:
"Do whatever you want, Rize."
Ayanato turned.
His heart stopped.
A mangled figure stepped out of the mist.
It was Rize—crushed, face destroyed beneath an invisible beam, blood dripping onto silk.
"I should've known you'd betray me," she whispered, a lament sharp as kagune. "Like everyone who claimed to be my friend. You abandoned me, Ayanato."
The warehouse fell into darkness.
Ayanato stood alone in a void that suffocated.
Guilt crushed him—every word from her another nail in his soul.
"I didn't mean—" he whispered.
But silence devoured him.
Rize's figure dissolved, leaving only loss echoing in the hollow.
He jolted awake, breath trapped in his chest. His red eyes flared for an instant—then dimmed, hidden.
A CCG agent stood in front of him holding a wrapped package.
"Your uniform is ready, Agent Ashida," she said formally. "Soon you'll be ready to fight for humanity."
Hollow words. They slid off him like rain.
He nodded, face unreadable, and took the package.
He vanished into the corridors—
and returned minutes later wearing the uniform:
a black suit that swallowed light, with a blood-red inner lining that flashed like an open wound.
A reinforced cloak hung from his shoulders—shield-heavy, burden-heavy.
Kureo Mado waited, clapping, fanatic laughter ringing through the halls.
"Welcome officially to the CCG, boy!" he shouted, eyes bright with disturbing delight. "You've got potential that'll make ghouls tremble."
He extended a classified folder, grin twisting.
"Upper command sent you this. You caught their attention. Take your time—soon you'll join my patrol with Koutarou Amon."
Ayanato bowed stiffly, murmuring thanks he didn't feel.
He took the folder and flipped through it with empty eyes, the words sliding past without leaving a mark on his hollow soul.
Then he stepped through the CCG doors—
and the night swallowed him whole,
while the threads of his past tightened around his heart,
each page an echo of a purpose he could no longer feel.