Hikari doesn't remember a time when she felt safe.
Her father died when she was nine-a phone call, a black suit, a silence that never lifted. After that, her mother didn't just grieve; she vanished. Into bottles, into strangers' arms, into rooms Hikari wasn't allowed to enter. The house grew colder, quieter, until the only sound was the creak of floorboards under men who looked at her like she was furniture.
Then came Kenji.
He wore nice shoes and called her "princess" at first. She almost believed him. For a week, maybe two, she let herself imagine he'd stay. That he'd fix the cracks in her mother's eyes. That he'd tuck her in at night like her real dad used to.
The first time he hit her, it wasn't with his hand. It was with words so precise they carved holes in her chest: "You're why she drinks. You're nothing but a burden."
The bruises came later. Most faded. One didn't-the faint shadow on her neck, just below the jawline. A souvenir she never asked for.
She learned to move quietly. To eat little. To cry only when the world was asleep. Hope wasn't something she carried; it was something she buried.
At sixteen, child services pulled her out. Her foster home wasn't kind-but it wasn't violent. That felt like mercy.
She dropped out of university at twenty. Worked gas stations, laundromats, overnight shifts at 24-hour diners. Survived.
Last year, a letter came: 'Your mother was my daughter. Let me help you finish what she wanted.' No name. No follow-up. Just money. Just debt.
It was signed by her grandfather-her mother's father-a man she'd never met, never even heard of. He offered to pay for her tuition, her rent, everything. No conditions. No calls. Just a bank transfer that appeared like clockwork on the first of every month.
She didn't reply. Didn't thank him. But she enrolled.
Now, at twenty-eight, she's back in class-not because she believes in second chances, but because his money came with no strings, and she's too tired to refuse. Still, every time her account balance updates, she feels it like a weight: not generosity, but debt. A ghost of a family she never had, reaching out from a life that ended before hers truly began.
She lives alone. Works late at the campus library-where silence is policy and no one asks questions. Avoids mirrors. Skips dinner. Skips the bus. Skips everything that feels like pretending.
And tonight is no different.
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Present Day; Later That Evening
The rain had eased to a drizzle, but the streets still glistened under the dim streetlights, reflecting the neon signs of nearby bars and convenience stores like fractured stars.
Hikari walked with her head down, her worn backpack slung over one shoulder, fingers nervously twisting the strap. She was almost home-almost to the quiet of her room where she could disappear into a book and forget the day.
For a few blocks, the world felt almost peaceful. Just rain, footsteps, the hum of distant traffic. She let her shoulders drop an inch. Maybe tonight would be quiet. Maybe-
"Hey, Hikari~"
The voice sliced through the calm like glass.
She froze. Not just her body-her breath, her thoughts, even the rain seemed to hush. Slowly, she turned.
Three figures stood beneath a single black umbrella outside the shuttered ramen stall-the same one she passed every night on her way home from the library. Yumi, Sora, Mai. Their designer jackets gleamed under the streetlight, hair perfectly dry, laughter still curling at the edges of their lips.
Of course. The universe never let her have even five minutes of peace.
"That gloomy look never changed from your skinny face," Yumi said, her smirk sharp as a blade. Sora and Mai giggled behind manicured hands.
Hikari didn't answer. She never did. Instead, she shifted her weight, eyes fixed on the wet pavement, and tried to step around them.
"You're so skinny..." Sora murmured, stepping into her path.
Hikari flinched.
"Skinny as a stray cat," Mai added. "Does she even eat? Or just waste away in that sad little room?"
Their laughter wasn't loud-but it was familiar. And that was worse. It dragged her back to high school hallways, to lockers slamming shut, to days she'd walked home with her sleeves pulled over her hands to hide the shaking.
〖Why now? Why here?〗
She tried to move again-but Yumi blocked her, a hand pressing lightly against her chest. Not hard. Just enough to humiliate.
"Where you going, ghost girl? We're not done talking."
Panic flared, hot and sudden. Hikari jerked back-and without thinking, she turned and ran.
Not toward the main street. Not toward help. But down the narrow alley beside the ramen stall-dark, wet, reeking of garbage and old rain. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Just get away. Just breathe.
She stumbled to a stop halfway down, pressing her back against the cold brick wall, gasping. The alley was empty. Safe. For now.
Then she saw him.
A man lay sprawled near a dented dumpster-half-propped over the unconscious body beneath him, as if he'd collapsed after pinning his opponent down. Blood streaked his temple, dried in rust-colored trails. His dark jacket was torn at the shoulder, revealing expensive fabric beneath. Rain dripped from his hair onto the still face below.
Hikari's breath caught.
〖Blood. So much blood. Just like...〗
Memories flashed-her st########## raised hand, the metallic taste of fear, the way the walls used to close in after he locked the door.
She took an involuntary step back-just as the girls' voices echoed from the alley entrance.
"There you are!" Yumi sneered, stepping into the dim light. "Look at her-scared of some drunk in an alley?"
"Touch him," Sora goaded, eyes gleaming. "Prove you're not a coward."
Mai shoved her from behind. "Go on! He's probably harmless."
Hikari's legs trembled.〖No. No, please...〗She didn't want to go near him. Didn't want to be part of their game. But the girls were closing in, their laughter sharp, predatory.
She inched forward-slow, reluctant-each step heavier than the last. Her hand rose, shaking, like it belonged to someone else. She didn't want to touch him. But if she didn't, they'd never leave.
Her fingertips brushed his cheek-cold skin beneath drying blood, rough with stubble.
He stirred.
A low groan rumbled in his chest. Then his eyes opened.
Crimson. Sharp. Alive.
He looked at her-not with pity, not with hunger-but like he'd been waiting.
〖He's alive. And he's looking at me like... like he sees me.〗
Behind her, the girls erupted.
"Look at her! Touching some filthy bum!" Yumi crowed. "Pathetic!"
In that heartbeat, the man moved.
He pushed himself up from where he'd been lying across the unconscious man's chest, rising with fluid, brutal grace. Rainwater dripped from his hair as he turned toward the trio, voice a gravelly growl that cut through their mockery:
"Problem, you brats?"
Silence slammed down. The girls' smirks melted into wide-eyed fear as they recoiled, suddenly small before his towering presence. Hikari stumbled back, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird.
〖Run. Now. Before this gets worse.〗 But her feet refused to move, rooted by shock-and something else. A flicker of... curiosity? The way he'd looked at her-no pity, no cruelty. Just assessment. Like she was real.
The girls' laughter died instantly, replaced by choked gasps as they scrambled backward. Yumi's designer sneaker slipped on wet asphalt, sending her stumbling into Sora. "H-he's covered in blood!" Mai shrieked, already pivoting to flee. Kuro's gaze didn't waver-a predator's stillness in the grimy alley. "I asked a question," he rumbled, the words scraping like gravel.
〖Run. Just run.〗Hikari's mind screamed, but her body remained locked, trembling under the weight of his blood-flecked stare. There was no pity there, only a weariness that mirrored her own exhaustion. Then, with a whimper, the girls vanished around the corner, their footsteps echoing into the night.
Silence crashed back, thick and suffocating. Kuro turned slowly toward Hikari. Raindrops traced paths through the crimson on his jaw where her fingers had brushed him. She flinched, but didn't react more.
He looked at her-Kuro looked at her-and she looked back at him.
Kuro wiped the blood from his mouth.
They exchanged glances.
He stood there like a contradiction in the rain-his tracksuit jacket dark as the alley itself, yet the expensive cut of his jet-black jeans and shoes seemed out of place, as if he'd stepped out of a world where blood didn't mix with rain. His hair, peppered with salt, framed a face that carried years in its lines, while his beard-slightly too long, streaked with white-spoke of a man who didn't care to be touched. Even now, with blood streaking his jaw, his posture remained rigid, coiled like a spring, and those eyes of his held her with a weight that felt heavier than the rain.
As he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood and rainwater, Hikari flinched at the sight-a tremor starting in her shoulders and snaking down to her knees.
〖Run,〗 her mind screamed. But her feet were lead.
He coughed. Rough, ragged. Then bent to wipe grime and blood from his pants with a low grunt. When he straightened again, his voice was gravel and smoke:
"Kid."
The word struck her like a physical blow.〖Kid?〗 Not since she was twelve. Not since the bruises started. Not since she stopped being one. She stared, frozen, as he took a half-step closer. Rain dripped from the eaves above, punctuating the silence.
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Kuro's gaze, heavy with the weight of a thousand unspoken battles, fixed on the girl before him. The rain had soaked her through, plastering strands of dark hair against her pale, almost translucent skin. Her clothes clung to her frame, soft and comfortable clearly meant for gentler weather but utterly inadequate against the storm. A faded white button-up shirt, its collar slightly askew, was swallowed by an oversized, dark cardigan that hung off her narrow shoulders like a shroud. Below, a simple pleated skirt fell just below her knees, paired with thin, dark tights and sturdy, worn brown boots. They were practical, though clearly not meant for this weather. She wore the clothes of a student, but moved like a ghost who'd forgotten how to be solid.
Her hands, small and trembling, were lifted slightly, not in defense, not in aggression, but in a posture of pure, fragile suspension. Fingers curled inward, nails biting into her own palms as if trying to anchor herself to something real. They were the hands of someone who had learned to hold nothing, yet now found herself holding onto the very air around her, terrified of what might happen if she let go.
But it was her eyes that held him. They were not bright red, but a deep crimson that seemed to bleed from within. To Kuro, they were more than a color; they were a window. He saw the hollows beneath them, the shadows clinging like old bruises. He saw exhaustion etched into the corners, eyelids heavy with a sorrow too old for her face. Those eyes were not alive with fire. They were dimmed by something deeper, something that had scraped her raw, something that looked too familiar in the rain-slicked dark. He looked away before the recognition could settle too deep.
"Your eyes," he said, not unkindly, but with a terrifying clarity. "Sorrow's written into them."
◇ ◇ ◇
Hikari's breath hitched. She hugged herself, nails digging into her sleeves.
"It is," he continued, his stare never wavering. "As if you sought out death... but death didn't seek you."
The truth of it pierced through her numbness. A small, wounded sound escaped her lips-not quite a gasp, not quite a whimper. She wanted to vanish, to dissolve into the wet asphalt. But Kuro's gaze pinned her in place, laying bare the hollow ache she'd carried for years.
Slowly, deliberately, he pulled a folded slip of paper from his pocket-a business card, pristine despite the blood on his fingers. He held it out to her, the edges glinting damply under a flickering streetlight.
One word, low and final:
"Here."
Hikari hesitated, her fingers trembling. The alley felt like the edge of a cliff.
Rain dripped from Kuro's jaw onto the stained concrete between them. The alley seemed to hold its breath-the distant wail of a siren, the drumming of rain on dumpster lids, the sharp tang of blood and wet pavement thickening the air. Hikari stared at the card trembling in her hand, her knuckles white.
"If death talks back, you call me. I'll talk him out of you."
〖Talk me out of death?〗
The words echoed in her hollowed-out chest, sharp and absurd. 〖He sees it. He sees the rot inside me. But why? Why would this blood-soaked stranger care?〗
She lifted her gaze slowly, tracing the dried violence on his face-the split lip, the bruise blooming under one eye, the way his broad shoulders seemed to carry the weight of a hundred dark nights. His eyes, though... they weren't cruel. Just tired. As tired as hers.
〖Like looking into a mirror made of smoke and knives.〗
Kuro didn't flinch under her scrutiny. He stood motionless, rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead, his stare unwavering. There was no pity in it. Only recognition.
"It's not a metaphor," he added, voice low but cutting through the downpour. "When the quiet gets too loud. When the dark feels like it's chewing through your bones." He tilted his chin toward the card still clutched in her numb fingers. "Call."
Hikari's throat tightened. She glanced down at the crisp white rectangle, pristine against the grime of the alley. A single name: Kuro. A number. No title. No pretense.
〖He means it.〗 The realization shuddered through her-terrifying and electric. 〖This man who breaks bones in back alleys... he's offering me a rope out of the hole I've been digging for years.〗
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Only a shaky exhale, misting in the cold air. The rain slid down her neck, icy and relentless, but she barely felt it. All she felt was the weight of the card-and his gaze, heavy as stone.
"Wh-why?" The word slipped out, raw and cracked. Her first real question to him. Her first admission that she needed an answer.
Kuro's expression didn't soften, but something shifted behind his eyes-a flicker of something old and wounded. "Because," he said simply, turning to glance at the man still unconscious at his feet, "some ghosts shouldn't be faced alone."
He stepped back then, melting into the deeper shadows near the alley wall, his silhouette bleeding into the gloom.
"Go home, kid," his voice floated back, quieter now.
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