The baklava shattered against Izochi's teeth, a rhythmic crunch of a thousand buttery layers. Suddenly, the sugar wasn't just sweetness—it was an explosion.
Flavors he hadn't noticed before bloomed across his tongue, sharp and defined, like a blurred image snapping into focus.
A physical weight shifted in his chest, a tectonic plate of his soul sliding into a new position.
The world around him didn't just look brighter; it roared with clarity.
He tracked a dust mote dancing in a stray beam of light and watched the shadows crawl across the floorboards with the wide-eyed intensity of a traveler stepping onto a forbidden continent.
Beside him, Marco remained a statue. He didn't offer platitudes or hollow comforts. He simply watched the storm gather and break behind the boy's eyes.
For a heartbeat, the jagged armor of the new recruit crumbled, and Marco didn't see a soldier; he saw the raw, trembling silhouette of a child.
Each syrupy bite was a bridge built of memory.
Izochi wasn't in a damp shop anymore; he was at a sun-drenched table, the air thick with the scent of his mother's kitchen and the low rumble of his father's laughter.
The tears didn't fall because the pastry was good. They fall because of the phantom warmth of a hand that was no longer there to rest on his shoulder.
At an age where his only burden should have been the length of a summer afternoon, the iron yoke of responsibility now bit deep into his skin.
He didn't sob. The salt simply traced silent paths down his cheeks, dripping onto the wooden table.
Marco waited, honoring the silence, treating the boy's grief like a holy site that shouldn't be trampled on.
When Izochi finally wiped his face, his eyes held the weary glaze of a man who had lived twice his years.
Marco stood first, the scrape of his chair loud in the quiet room. He walked to the edge of the compound, dropping coins into the cashier's hand without a word.
"Forgive me... for today,"
Izochi murmured as they stepped out. His voice was a fragile thing, easily swallowed by the vast, roofless sky.
The rain had retreated, leaving behind a world that smelled of wet stone and rebirth. The sun sliced through the thinning clouds, painting the city in gold—a cruel irony of a beautiful beginning.
"It's okay,"
Marco said, his voice losing its edge, softening into a cadence that made Izochi's heart ache with familiarity.
"Sometimes, it's okay."
Then, the shadows of the world they chose rushed back in.
"But why?"
Marco's eyes were hard again.
"Why join this hellish society?"
"To support them,"
Izochi replied, his gaze fixed on his boots.
"And how do you support them when you're a corpse? There are no guarantees here."
"I... I don't know."
The words trailed off into the damp air.
They crossed the threshold of the Evernight Club.
"Welcome to hell,"
Marco droned, his face settling back into a mask of practiced boredom.
Izochi didn't hear the cynicism. He was looking up. The hall stretched toward infinity, a cathedral of obsidian curves and impossible angles.
"Evernight is the Exorcist Society's pulse,"
Marco began, his voice echoing off the high vaults.
"The kingdoms are too vast to rule from a single throne, so it was broken into clubs. Different names, same blood."
Marco kept talking, but Izochi had drifted away. The floor beneath him glowed a predatory red—not from the sun, but from artificial veins of light pulsing beneath the glass.
His eyes locked onto a single pane where the crimson glow was thickest.
In front of that bleeding wall stood a girl.
"Back already, Marco Nierman?" she called out. Her voice was sharp, intimate, the kind of tone earned through years of shared trauma. She didn't even glance at the boy shivering in the heat of the red lights.
"This is Angela," Marco muttered.
"And the stray?"
She asked, finally tilting her head toward Izochi.
"Izochi. My new partner."
"Oh! The one the Captain was whispering about?"
"You were eavesdropping again?"
"Details, details,"
Angela waved a hand dismissively. Izochi remained lost in the architecture, the voices around him turning into a distant hum, like bees in a far-off garden.
"You're late,"
Angela continued, her eyes dancing.
"But lucky. A letter arrived for the kid this morning."
"For me?"
The word snapped Izochi back to reality.
"You're headed to Alola."
"It was addressed to him, Angela. Why did you read it?"
Marco asked, crossing his arms.
"It was an open letter,"
She shrugged, moving toward a plush sofa.
"No seals. No secrets. From the heads of the Horitoshi clan."
Izochi's pulse quickened.
"When? Why do they need me?"
"Today, tomorrow... soon. My legs ache just thinking about the trip,"
she groaned, sinking into the cushions.
"And they want your siblings there too."
"I don't know the way,"
Izochi said, his voice small.
"That's why Marco's going. Security detail,"
She pointed a finger at Marco.
"I don't buy it. Where's the Captain?"
Marco demanded.
"Ask him yourself when he's back. For now, those are your orders."
She stood, beginning her ascent up the stairs toward the red glass.
"Better move. It's a long walk to salvation."
Izochi picked up the parchment from the coffee table. The ink was heavy, formal:
To,
Evernight,
Emergency... Critical situation... Regardless of the circumstances, Izochi and his siblings must appear.
Horitoshi
"They didn't say why,"
Marco mused, leaning over his shoulder.
"Let's go,"
Izochi said, his voice suddenly firm.
"ahuh! This quick? I didn't say we have to start just now."
"It's important. I won't make them wait."
Izochi reached the gate first but stopped, stepping aside to let Marco pass.
"It would be rude to lead my senior,"
a quiet voice whispered in the chambers of his heart.
The station was a blur of damp streets and the smell of coal smoke.
"Two for Alola,"
Marco said, sliding 150 yarks across the counter. He glanced at Izochi.
"You're cutting into my savings, kid. You owe me a treat for this."
"I'll remember,"
Izochi promised, his eyes tracking the clock.
The hour of waiting felt like a lifetime. Izochi watched Marco drift into a shallow sleep, his head lolling.
"He acts like a child at nineteen,"
Izochi thought, marveling at the older boy's ability to find peace in a place like this.
When the train finally groaned into the station, Izochi shook Marco's shoulder. Marco bolted awake with a gasp, his eyes wide as if escaping a nightmare before the mask of boredom slid back into place.
As the train rattled through the dark, Marco watched Izochi through the reflection in the window.
The boy was mesmerized by the passing landscape—Night-flowering Jasmines glowing like fallen stars under the full moon.
"The letter asked for your siblings,"
Marco said, breaking the rhythmic clatter of the tracks.
"Why leave them behind?"
"I don't know what's waiting there,"
Izochi said, his forehead resting against the cool glass.
"I can't put them in the path of it."
"And they'll be okay alone?"
"Chihiro knows what to do. She can."
Izochi didn't turn away from the jasmine trees. He watched the white petals blur into streaks of ghost-light.
Marco looked out the window too, but all he saw was the dark, the cold, and the endless stretch of a world that didn't care if they arrived or not.
The journey into the heart of their shared hell continued.