Impermanence

by chaotic_quibit

Summary:

Momo’s already bad day spirals after she snaps at the school’s resident occult nerd before storming off. Determined to prove him wrong, she visits a haunted hospital to prove ghost stories are real—and maybe debunk some alien rumors too. He, in turn, goes sky-watching for UAPs at a spot also known for yokai sightings, hoping to prove her wrong.

He was right. So was she.

She comes back with psychic powers.

He doesn't come back at all.

Except... he doesn't seem to notice.

Notes:

My last chapter posted was very fluffy, this is to directly counteract that.
Borne from a plot bunny from the Mokarun discord server (again!) Please blame them for this.

This one is kind of dark, please be warned!

Chapter 1: Denial

Momo is already having the worst day of her life when she stumbles upon the weirdo occult boy being harassed by his asshole classmates. She doesn’t know why she steps in, she’s not exactly the altruistic type. Maybe she just wants to blow off some steam by scaring a few scumbags. Or maybe there’s something about that boy that catches her attention.

Regardless, her mood only sours further when the little twerp follows her outside and starts spewing his batshit insane conspiracy theories. She snaps, like she always does, and instantly regrets it when his entire body seems to fold in on itself, shoulders hunching in quiet defeat as she stomps away. Guilt tugs at her, and in a rare moment of softness, she tries to extend an olive branch, admitting her belief in spirits.

But then he has the nerve to laugh at her.

The bastard! That mocking snicker of his is the final straw on an already shitty day. Furious, she turns to leave, but not before hurling one last, vitriolic insult over her shoulder.

“Go find some aliens, then! Maybe they’ll want to be friends with you!”

She doesn’t look back after saying it, even though the words leave a sour taste in her mouth. Regret prickles at the edges of her anger, but she shoves it down.

She still needs to blow off steam, and the thought of the occult otaku laughing at her won’t leave her head for the rest of the day. On a whim, she pulls out her phone and searches for local haunted spots. It doesn’t take long to find one—a crumbling, abandoned hospital just outside the city limits, its history dripping with spooky rumors and urban legends. It even has a few posts talking about alien abductions associated with it or some crap.

Perfect. She’ll smash up some junk to relieve some stress, maybe finally catch a glimpse of a spirit, and prove that those alien conspiracies are just that: conspiracies.

That’ll wipe that stupid laugh off his face.

 

---

 

Okay, maybe the occult nerd (Occult-kun?), had been onto something after all. The already worst day of her life had officially reached new heights of misery.

The trip to the hospital had been a bust. No signs of spirits. No cold spots, no eerie whispers. Nothing but the oppressive silence of an abandoned building. Sure, the place had a creepy vibe, but any decrepit hospital would. Frustrated—at her day, at herself for being such a jerk earlier, at the complete lack of proof for anything supernatural—she’d started smashing random junk.

It was cathartic, at first. She was so focused on denting an old filing cabinet with a rusted pipe that she didn’t even hear them approach. A particularly vicious swing left her off balance, and when she turned, there they were, three unnervingly strange “men”, reaching out for her.

She didn’t think. She just swung wildly. The pipe connected with a sickening crunch, but it didn’t even seem to phase them. They tear the makeshift weapon from her hands and overpower her, ripping and grabbing and—

She wakes up on their ship.

They spout exposition completely at odds with that they’re threatening to do. And then things get… weird.

She knows whatever they’re going to do is going to be bad. She can barely breathe through the terror, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. And then, like a spark igniting in dry grass, she remembers her grandmother’s words.

And suddenly she isn’t scared anymore. They rip off their poor disguises as she starts to fight back, revealing themselves for what they really are, but they’re nothing to her now.

By the time it was over, she wasn’t sure if she’d killed them outright with her newly discovered psychic powers or if the crash had finished the job. She’d dragged the entire ship down to Earth, wrenching it from the sky with sheer force, and left it a smoldering wreck in her wake. As she limped away, battered and burned, she could feel the heat of the explosion at her back. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t bring herself to care after what they almost did to her.

She rushes home. She needs to make it back before sunrise and people actually see her walking around in her underwear. Despite everything that happened, she can’t help but think about Occult-kun, and the look he’ll have on his face when she tells him he was right.

Aliens are real.

 

---

 

When she finally stumbles through the door of her home, the sun is already high in the sky. Her granny is waiting for her at the door, arms crossed and lips pressed into a stern line. But the moment she takes in her disheveled and battered appearance, the disapproval melts into worry.

Granny rushes to her side, her hands fluttering in the air for a moment before she steadies herself. “What on earth happened to you?” she demands.

Momo doesn’t answer, too drained to explain. Her legs threaten to give out beneath her. She hasn’t slept all night, and there’s no way she’s going to school today. Without another word, Granny guides her to the bathroom, cleans her up, and tends to her wounds. Momo barely makes it to her room before collapsing into her bed.

When she wakes, it’s past noon. Her body still aches, but her mind feels clearer. She drags herself out of bed and finds Granny in the living room, watching an old episode of Baketono. She sits down across from her, takes a deep breath, and tells her everything.

She’s fairly sure her grandma thinks she’s insane as she tells her about being abducted and gaining psychic powers. But Granny can’t deny that something happened when she (clumsily) levitates a pile of DVDs in front of her.

She can see auras now. Tiny, faint glimmers in rocks, trees, and other inanimate objects. But she can also see the auras of people, as evidenced by her granny’s.

It’s huge. She instinctively knows her grandma is powerful. And the good luck ritual to use her chi had worked. She might not have seen an actual spirit last night, but now she knows for certain Granny was telling the truth all along.

She tells her as much, getting down on her hands and knees to apologize for not believing her.

Still exhausted, she spends the rest of the day resting (and secretly practicing her powers when Granny isn’t looking). Before she heads to bed that night, though, her granny gives her a stern warning.

“You’ve unlocked your spiritual power, Momo,” Granny says gravely. “That means you can see spirits now. But it also means they can see you. Be careful.”

Bah, who cares? She has sweet psychic powers now. She’ll blow any spirit that looks at her funny away!

 

---

 

When she showed up at school the next day (seriously, Granny only let her take one day off after being abducted by aliens?) she was practically buzzing with excitement to talk to Occult-kun.

First, she was going to rub it in his face that spirits were real. She hadn’t seen one yet, sure, but she knew now that Granny was a real medium, and that meant everything Granny had ever said was true. Besides, Occult-kun wouldn’t be able to deny it once he saw her awesome powers for himself!

But more importantly, she wanted to ask him about aliens. He’d been right—they were real. Which might mean the other crazy stuff he talked about was real, too. She couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when she told him she’d run into actual, real-life aliens. Though, she hoped he wouldn’t be too disappointed when she explained what they were actually like.

Her excitement had carried her to school earlier than usual. She waited at the gate, scanning the crowd for his stupid bowl cut.

Instead, she spotted his glasses first, the massive lenses catching the morning sun. Her breath hitched in surprise. He’d ditched the bowl cut. His hair was now a messy tangle of curls, and, annoyingly, it looked… good.

She adjusted her own hair, suddenly self-conscious, before waving to him. It struck her with a jolt that she didn’t even know his name. “Occult-kun!” she called out, figuring it was specific enough—how many people could that nickname possibly apply to at this school? She caught a few strange looks as she called out, but she didn’t care.

He noticed her. His head snapped up at the sound of her voice, but he startled, ducking low like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. One hand came up awkwardly to shield his face as he hurried past.

“Wait—!” she started, stepping forward, but he was already gone, rushing past so quickly she didn’t even have a chance to stop him.

She sighed, dropping her hand. It made sense, she supposed. She was excited to talk to him after everything that had happened, but from his point of view, she’d screamed at him, called him a friendless loser, and stomped off. If the roles were reversed, she wouldn’t have wanted to talk to herself either.

But she had to tell him about the aliens. She could always find him at lunch.

Shivering slightly, she hurried inside. It had gotten cold all of a sudden, and she needed to warm up her hands.

 

---

 

As class drones on, all she can think about are the aliens. She’s desperate to talk to someone who might actually believe her. Random questions keep popping into her head. What do they normally eat? How far did they travel to come to earth? Do they even wear underwear?

She doesn’t know his name, but she knows what classroom he’s in. The moment the lunch bell rings, she rushes there, her bag swinging wildly against her side. But there's no sign of him.

Frustrated, she tries asking some of his classmates where he is. She describes him as the boy who likes the occult, the one who had a bowl-cut, but they just shrug, uninterested. Somehow, she has a sinking feeling that even if she knew his name, the result would be the same. The thought gnaws at her, making the guilt over what she said to him twist tighter in her chest.

She spends the entire lunch period searching for him: the school shop, the cafeteria, the roof, even the quiet little hidden pathways and alleys around the buildings. But she doesn’t find him anywhere.

She’s starting to feel like she’s losing it. A few times, she swears she catches a glimpse of him—a flash of his glasses or a glimpse of his hair disappearing just out of view. But when she dashes around the corner to chase, there’s no one there.

Maybe the aliens messed with my brain more than I thought, she grumbles to herself, shoving her hands deep into her pockets. She’s been getting chills all day too, like a cold draft is following her around. When she mentions it to Miko and Muko, though, they just stare at her like she’s crazy.

By the time school ends, she’s running out of ideas. Determined, she waits at the gates, scanning the crowd for him as students pour out into the streets.

For a brief second, she thinks she sees it—his glasses catching the light. Her heart leaps, but when she tries to spot him again, he’s already gone. Or maybe he wasn’t there at all.

A strange sense of loss settles over her as she turns to leave, a hollow ache she can’t quite explain. It feels like she’s missed something, an opportunity she can’t put into words.

I can always try again tomorrow, she tells herself, shaking off the feeling as she walks home. But the unease lingers.

 

---

 

It’s Thursday now, and she’s certain of it: Occult-kun is avoiding her.

She doesn’t spot him at the school gate in the morning, despite coming earlier and barely making it to class in time for the final bell. Between classes and during the break, she only once again manages fleeting glimpses of his disheveled black hair or the glint of his glasses before he seems to vanish, melting seamlessly into the throng of students.

She checks his classroom at lunch again, and he’s nowhere to be found. Instead, she finds the group of sneering assholes who had been tormenting him the other day loitering by around a desk. They’re not laughing or jeering this time, though. If anything, they look… subdued. Nervous.

The teachers are acting off, too, trading anxious, sidelong glances when they think no one is paying attention. It seems to be only them and the group of assholes affected by this weird mood though. The rest of the student body seem completely unaffected.

And then there’s the feeling.

it’s been bothering her since she returned to school the previous day. A persistent, nagging sensation that’s like a faint chill brushing against her skin or the prickling awareness of being watched. It clings to her, following her through the halls, through the classrooms. She tells herself it’s just her imagination, but she doesn’t quite believe it. It feels like something is wrong.

It’s by complete chance she finally stumbles upon him. She had done another circuit of the school, resigned to the fact she missed him again, when she sees a large group of students blocking the hallway. They’re gathered around some sort of sign-up table, probably for a club or event, but the details don’t matter. What matters is the hunched figure lingering at the edges of the group, clutching the strap of his backpack and murmuring a timid “Excuse me” every so often.

No one acknowledges him. Either they can’t hear him over the chatter or they’re ignoring him outright.

This is her chance. She surges forward, grabbing him by the backpack and letting out a cheery “Occult-kun!”

Perhaps too cheery. He flinches, his whole body stiffening as he turns to face her. For a moment, he looks like a cornered animal, wide-eyed and terrified.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you!” she says quickly, softening her tone in an attempt to put him at ease. “C’mon, let’s go eat lunch somewhere quiet.”

Before he can respond—or bolt—she grabs the strap of his bag and starts pulling him toward the stairwell leading to the roof.

To her surprise, he doesn’t resist. His steps are hesitant, but he follows her without a word, his head down, his glasses catching the harsh fluorescent light.

As they climb the stairs, the chill prickles at her skin again, stronger this time.

 

---

 

The roof is thankfully empty, She drags him to one of the benches and sits down, placing herself squarely between him and the door. Just in case. Occult-kun avoids looking at her, his fingers fidgeting with the rim of his glasses as his gaze stays fixed on his shoes.

An uncomfortable silence settles over them. She digs through her bag for her lunch, but her earlier excitement is slipping away. Now that she finally has him here, she isn’t sure how to start. Not when it seems like he’s been actively avoiding her.

She decides to keep it casual.

“You’re not going to eat lunch?” she asks, noting the distinct lack of food on his part. “My grandma always says, ‘Living begins with eating.’”

Occult-kun startles at the sound of her voice, blinking as though she’d just pulled him out of a daze. “Ah, no, I’m fine. I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.” His voice is quiet, his tone almost apologetic.

He still won’t look at her, and the midday sun catches on his glasses, masking most of his expression. His hands drop from his glasses to wring nervously in front of him. Then he speaks again, his voice trembling slightly.

“Ayase-san…” he begins hesitantly, “Wh-why did you bring me up here?”

That’s as good a starting point as any, she figures.

“I wanted to talk to you about aliens,” she says simply.

That gets his attention. His head snaps up, and he stares at her, his reddish-brown eyes wide with surprise.

“Listen, Occult-kun,” she continues now that she has his full attention. “I was wrong about the aliens. But I believe you now. I saw them. At first, they looked like… like fake humans. But underneath, they were weird. And they had psychic powe…”

Her words trail off as she realizes he’s not reacting the way she expected. There’s no excitement or validation on his face. Instead, he looks… resigned.

“Ayase-san,” he interrupts, his voice low, almost a whisper. He turns away, breaking eye contact. “Are you mocking me?”

She shivers involuntarily. Maybe the exposed rooftop wasn’t the best place for lunch, she’s freezing.

“I’m not, dude.” She sighs, leaning forward to emphasize her sincerity. “Look, I’m sorry I was a bitch to you before, but I really did meet actual aliens. You’re the only one who would believe me. I’ve been trying to talk to you since yesterday morning.”

“Oh… so that’s why,” he mutters, his tone distant. Then something shifts in his expression as her words register fully. His head snaps back toward her, his eyes wide with urgency.

“Wait! You met actual aliens? Was it on Monday night?”

Her heart skips a beat. They’re finally getting somewhere. “Yeah! It was! How did you know?”

“I… I knew it! I knew there was alien activity in this area!” His voice rises with excitement, he seems more animated than she’s ever seen him. “There have been too many UAP sightings to be coincidence, but nobody I’ve talked to has ever believed me!”

He leans in closer, his enthusiasm almost contagious. She feels goosebumps rise on her arms, though she can’t tell if it’s from the cold or the intensity of his energy.

“But I have proof now!” he exclaims, gesturing wildly with his hands. “After you—after you denied the existence of aliens—I went out to look for them that night. There’s a good spot on the edge of the city.”

He leans in closer still, his excitement palpable.

“And I saw it! An actual spaceship! It was disguised as the moon over the old hospital! I even got a photograph!”

“What happened next?” she asks breathlessly, though she already knew. She’s pretty sure she was on that ship.

His excitement falters, confusion flickering across his face. “After that? I… I don’t… I don’t remember.” His voice is quieter now, tinged with unease.

It really is cold up on the roof. For a second she swears she can see her breath puff in the air. He seems distant all of a sudden, having trailed off mid-sentence.

“Never mind that!” she says quickly, trying to pull him back. “You said you had a photograph. Can I see it?”

His shoulders slump, and he looks down at his feet, crestfallen. “I… no. I don’t have it with me. I think I dropped my camera where I was sky-watching.” He frowns, frustrated. “I haven’t had a chance to go back and check if it’s still there. It’s a pretty secluded spot, so hopefully, when I get a chance this weekend…”

He shakes his head.

“But never mind that—you said you actually saw them that night? Please! Tell me everything!”

She gives him a watered-down version of the events, omitting the more… uncomfortable details. She can tell he’s caught between feeling excited that he’s finally hearing about real live aliens, and being horrified as she talks about being abducted. When she describes being trapped on the ship, he looks genuinely distressed.

“How did you get away?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Well, Occult-kun,” she says, her tone shifting. “That’s actually the second reason I wanted to talk to you. Not only did I prove aliens are real—I also proved spirits are real!”

He stares at her blankly, his brain clearly struggling to keep up. “What are you talking about? This has nothing to do with… ghost stories!”

“It has everything to do with the completely real supernatural!” she snaps back.

“There’s nothing real about that stuff!” he shot back. “I’ll have you know that I didn’t just go to a random spot on Monday night! I saw there was a good sky-watching spot that had some hokey ghost stories associated with it, so I thought, I’ll kill two birds with one stone and show that they're just baseless rumors as well! And I…”

He trails off again.

She narrows her eyes. Was he naturally spacey, or was she making his that nervous?

“And?” she prompts gently.

He snaps back to reality, blinking as if shaking off a fog. “And I didn’t see any evidence of spirits or ghosts or whatever, obviously!”

She smirks, leaning back. “Well, get ready to eat your words, Occult-kun, because I have proof that the supernatural exists. I can show you right now.”

“Please do,” he sneers, but there’s no malice in it—if anything, it comes off as eager.

She raises her hands, ready to demonstrate her telekinetic powers, but the shrill ring of the warning bell shatters the moment. Startled, she lowers her arms with a frustrated sigh. Searching for him had already eaten up most of lunch.

Next to her, Occult-kun looks positively crestfallen.

She gives him a sheepish smile. “Hey, we’ll pick this up tomorrow, yeah?”

He blinks at her, as if the idea of meeting her again hadn’t even occurred to him. Then he nods, a little bit too emphatically.

As they stand to leave, a thought strikes her. She hesitates, then blurts, “Wait! I’ve been calling you Occult-kun this whole time, but I just realized—I don’t know your name. What is it?”

His earlier enthusiasm dims slightly. He scratches the back of his neck, mumbling, “Oh, uh… it’s Ken Takakura.”

She wrinkles her nose. Absolutely not.

“Forget that. You’re Okarun now.”

His face shifts through a series of protests, confusion, mild indignation, but none of them stick. He finally mutters something under his breath, cheeks tinged pink.

It’s almost endearing. Almost.

She lets the newly dubbed ‘Okarun’ go first, slightly paranoid that if she takes her eyes off him he’ll disappear again. As he talks, halting but enthusiastic questions about the aliens she met, she looks at his aura on a whim.

It’s weird, he’s the first person she’s seen who’s aura has two colors.

 

---

 

She heads to his classroom after the last bell rings, but disappointment sinks in when she finds he’s already gone. The room is mostly empty, save for the same small group of jerks clustered around the teacher’s desk. As she lingers by the door, she catches the tail end of their conversation.

“...That’s a relief to hear. We couldn’t get hold of his emergency contact and were starting to worry,” Okarun’s teacher says.

“We’d be happy to bring his schoolwork to him, sensei,” one of the students says, voice almost saccharine.

“Ah, thank you for offering,” the teacher replies. “Please tell Takakura-kun I hope he feels better soon.”

She frowns, confusion prickling at the edges of her mind. Were they talking about Okarun? Had he gone home early because he wasn’t feeling well? He did mention not having an appetite…

She can’t help but think how weird it was though, that those assholes suddenly decided to be helpful. Had they actually grown a conscience?

If he has gone home early then there’s no point waiting outside the school gate. She heads straight home, hoping that Okarun shows up to school the next day so they can continue the conversation.

 

---

 

She needn’t have worried, it turns out, as she spots him easily in the crowd that morning.

“Okarun!” she calls, relieved to see him perk up at the name and start toward her, a tentative smile on his face. “Feeling better today?”

He gives her a confused look. “Um, yes?”

Weird reaction, she thinks, but maybe it’s something embarrassing, so best to let it slide. She shifts the subject.

“We can pick up where we left off at lunch, yeah?” she asks, excitement bubbling in her voice. “Same place?”

His face lights up, his enthusiasm palpable as he nods. “Yes!”

 

---

 

When she finally makes it up to the rooftop, she finds him already waiting at the bench, his hands fidgeting as if he’s been there a while.

Once again, he hasn’t brought lunch. She feels the urge to scold him, but the bright smile he flashes her as she approaches makes her hesitate.

She drops down beside him, closer than before, and pulls out her own lunch.

“All right! Where were we?” she asks, a grin tugging at her lips.

“You were going to tell me how you escaped,” he says, then, while miming exaggerated air quotes, “and prove the existence of spirits, I believe.”

“Oh, you’re going to regret those air quotes, my guy,” she replies, leaning back with an impish grin.

She stretches her fingers, focusing her energy, and lifts her lunch—a few onigiri and a can of soda—into the air. The items float in a wide, graceful arc, spinning lightly under her control.

Okarun’s eyes are glued to the scene, wonder etched into his expression. When the food finally settles back onto her lap (a little less gently than intended), his gaze snaps to her, still brimming with awe.

“That’s amazing, Ayase-san!”

“Right?” she says, unable to hide the pride in her voice. “I unlocked these psychic powers while I was trapped. Those assholes didn’t stand a chance.”

He looks visibly relieved as she explains how she got away. But then his expression shifts, turning sly. “However, it doesn’t prove the existence of spirits.”

“Hah? What do you mean?” she demands, incredulous. “I’m clearly psychic! I can see, like… auras and stuff!” She waves her soda can in the air for emphasis.

He adjusts his glasses with a prim smile. “I won’t deny that much. But have you seen a spirit yet?”

“Well… no,” she admits reluctantly. “But I will soon!”

“And you said the aliens also had psychic powers…”

She doesn’t like where this is going.

“Clearly, they just unlocked some latent psychic potential in you that might be present in all humans. A lost evolutionary trait, maybe!” He leans forward, fully in his element. “That in no way proves the existence of spirits.”

They bicker back and forth for a while, but it feels different this time. His skepticism doesn’t sting as much—it’s playful, almost like they’re sharing some private joke.

She shows off some more, as much as she can. She hasn’t exactly got the hang of everything yet, but she doesn’t care, not when his eyes light up like that.

At one point, he pulls out a notebook from his backpack, flipping it open to a blank page. “Okay, tell me everything. What did it feel like, using your powers? And the aliens—what did they look like? What about the spaceship?”

She answers as best she can, her words flowing easily as his pencil scratches across the page in a blur.

For a while, they sit together like that, conversation flowing easily as she eats her lunch and he scribbles away.

 

---

 

Their lunch is eventually interrupted when the door to the roof slams open, the sound reverberating through the quiet air. Her stomach drops as she sees who strides into view, her ex, his familiar sneer fixed firmly in place as he stops in front of her.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” he drawls. “Thought you had snuck up here with someone else, but I guess no one’s desperate enough, huh?”

The comment stings, though not in the way he probably intends. She glances at Okarun beside her. Was this some messed-up attempt to insult him? Her ex hasn’t even glanced in his direction.

But beside her, Okarun’s entire demeanor shifts. He’s outright glaring at her ex. A shiver races down her spine, and suddenly, the air feels... colder.

“What?” Her ex looms closer, voice rising in anger. “Got nothing to say, you bit—”

The words die in his throat as Okarun surges to his feet, his expression furious.

“Don’t talk to her like that!”

Her ex stumbles to a stop, confusion flickering across his face.

The change in the atmosphere is undeniable now. A pressure builds, it’s suffocating. Frost creeps across the ground, jagged patterns spidering outward from where Okarun stands, despite the noon sun.

Her breath catches. It’s freezing.

“Leave us alone!” Okarun shouts again, his voice reverberating strangely, like it’s echoing in a vast, empty chamber. He takes a step forward, one hand outstretched.

And then she sees it.

For a split second, Okarun isn’t Okarun. He’s something else entirely, something twisted, and covered in red.

She can’t process what she’s seeing. It’s too brief to fully understand, but the afterimage burrows into her mind, leaving her gasping.

Her ex lets out a strangled sound, his bravado shattered. He’s not looking directly at her anymore—his gaze darts around, wild, as though trying to escape something unseen. His face pales, and without another word, he turns and bolts back through the door, practically tripping over his own feet in his desperation to flee.

The frost starts to recede.

Okarun, still staring after him, finally relaxes. When he turns back to her, she braces herself for… something. But it’s just him—his usual wide, brown eyes filled with uncertainty.

“Oh, Ayase-san, I… didn’t get the chance to thank you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Whatever you did to those guys in my class earlier in the week… they haven’t bothered me since. I guess… I wanted to repay the favor.”

She nods dumbly, not sure how else to respond. The cold is reducing somewhat, the frost now almost entirely gone.

Okarun shifts closer, his worry deepening at her silence. “Ayase-san?” he asks, voice tentative. He reaches out toward her trembling hands.

The moment their skin makes contact, she’s consumed.

It surges through her in a chaotic torrent. Thoughts, feelings, fragmented glimpses.

Glimpses of an old, gnarled voice whispering into her mind, its tone cruel and mocking. “Thinking of a specific girl, huh? Think I’ll start with her.”

Of a voice crying out, hoarse, gurgling, screaming. “No! No! No! No! No!”

Of clawed fingers, impossibly long and sharp, digging into grotesquely elongated limbs and his own face, raking at them as though she’s trying to tear himself apart.

Of blood. Oceans of it. Slick, dark, and endless. God, why is there so much blood?

Of desperation, raw and feral, to escape, to end it, to make the pain stop. But also to stop himself.

Of a cliff edge, looming closer with agonizing slowness as one mangled arm claws its way forward through sodden undergrowth, inch by excruciating inch.

Of the sensation of weightlessness.

Of darkness.

She jerks her hand away, collapsing backward, her chest heaving as if she’s just surfaced from drowning. Tears blur her vision, her body trembling uncontrollably.

When her senses finally return, she realizes she’s on the ground. She doesn’t even remember falling.

“Ayase-san?” Okarun’s voice is soft and filled with alarm. He kneels beside her, his hand hovering hesitantly above her shoulder, unsure whether to touch her again.

His wide brown eyes are shining with worry. They look so alive, how could he look like that after….

His voice grounds her somehow. She swallows hard, forcing herself to speak. “I’m... fine,” she lies, though her voice shakes. “Just feeling a little off, I guess.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “Should I take you to the nurse?”

“No, no,” she says quickly, climbing back onto the bench. Her knees feel weak, and she grips the edge for support. “Um, can you show me one of those articles you mentioned? Something to distract me.”

He hesitates but nods, pulling out a battered occult magazine and flipping through its pages.

She watches him warily, her mind racing. In the last few days, her granny has taught her a trick to see the unseen, a way to channel her chi to pierce the veil of ordinary sight. She has a hunch. She raises her hand, forming a circle with her thumb and pointer finger, focusing her energy.

The scene changes.

Her breath catches in her throat once more.

Through the aperture of her fingers Okarun’s animated face is replaced with one soaked in blood. His wild black hair is matted, sticky with congealed crimson, dripping sluggishly down his face. Deep gouges span his features, as though claws had raked across him in a single, savage swipe. One eye is closed, the lid shredded. His glasses are gone, and his one open eye is bloodshot, tinged red with a vivid yellow ring encircling the center. Oddly, beneath all the crimson on his face are two vertical lines of faded red, etched onto his skin.

His raised hand is grotesquely twisted, its bones contorted unnaturally beneath the skin. Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth as he speaks, spilling down his chin and onto the ground.

She breaks the circuit instantly, gasping for air, bile rising in her throat. Leaning over the bench, she vomits, her entire body trembling.

“Ayase-san!” Okarun’s voice is sharp with panic. He crouches beside her, his hands hovering uncertainly. “That’s it. You’re going to the nurse!”

Before she can protest, he hooks her arm over his shoulder, helping her to her feet. She notices his notebook as he stuffs it into his bag, the page he was working on is now smeared with red stains.

Even through his clothes, his touch is frigid.

The chill lingers, as he guides her to the nurse’s office. She keeps her hands away from his bare skin, wary of triggering another vision. Her mind spirals with uncertainty, but she can’t shake the feeling that the arm hooked around him feels slick and cold, as if coated in something.

The nurse doesn’t seem to notice him at all, only ushering her into the room. Before he leaves, he hesitates at the door.

“Ayase-san,” he murmurs earnestly, “if you’re still here after school... let me walk you home?”

She nods, unable to trust herself to speak.

As she sinks into the infirmary bed, her thoughts race.

 

---

 

She returns to the school gate as classes end and the she’s released by the nurse, and is surprised to find him still there, waiting for her.

He falls into step beside her as they head toward her home, rambling about how, once he retrieves his camera, he plans to send the photo to every occult magazine he’s ever read. He shoots her worried glances occasionally, as they walk.

Yesterday, she would have hung on his every word. This was exactly the kind of conversation she’d been hoping for. But now, all she can think about is…

He’s dead.

He’s dead, and he doesn’t even realize.

He’s dead, and it’s like nobody even cares that he’s gone.

He’s dead and it’s her fault.

He said he went out because of their argument. The he chose a spiritual hotspot to watch for aliens to prove her wrong. If she hadn’t been such a bitch to him…

And he… he doesn’t seem to remember but she saw it when they touched. He did find evidence of spirits, and it possessed him and he died…

Except it’s even worse than that. He got possessed, and the… spirit, demon or whatever was going to use him to hurt other people (was going to use him to hurt her), but he fought it, and he…

And he…

He made sure that he wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone.

And now he’s walking beside her, his voice bright, completely unaware of what he’s done or what it cost him.

Her hands tremble as she grips the strap of her bag.

God, what is she even supposed to do?

Notes:

This will be continued! Though please don't expect an update super soon, as I'm working towards finishing up Okarun's guide to being a Yokai as well ^_^

It's a different style to my usual stuff (and in an entirely different tense, haha), so please let me know what you think!

Chapter 2: Curse

Notes:

There is some amazing fanart done by dailyclay on tumblr of chapter 1 Amazing Gif! Please give it all the love!
Also, everyone should go read their fic- Mistu Boshi
Some other fanart has been shared on the Mokarun discord server, in anyone wants to have a look and talk about these two adorable nerds. Joining Link

She stares resolutely ahead, as they walk together down the empty dirt path that leads to her home. Her breathing is shallow. Faint flashes of red flicker at the edge of her vision, vanishing like a mirage whenever she dares to look directly at him.

Even with her eyes closed, the sound persists—the steady, rhythmic dripping. He doesn’t seem to have noticed it at all. But she can’t focus on anything but the sound, barely contributing to the conversation.

A furtive look over her shoulder reveals a trail of red blotches staining the dirt path behind them. Each one glistens, reflecting the sun.

His voice has changed. At some point, the easy rambling had given way to halting, broken fragments. Hesitant snatches of sentences fill the silence, as though he’s not sure how to continue.

She forces herself to inhale deeply, a shiver running through her as she steadies her thoughts, and then turns to him.

“Sorry!” she says, her voice a little too bright, her smile wavering at the edges. “I zoned out there. Think I might still be a bit out of it. What were you saying?”

His expression changes in an instant, relief blooming across his face as his words spill forth again. He picks up speed, his voice regaining momentum, hands gesticulating wildly.

The sound of dripping stops. She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

With the distraction gone, she forces herself to listen to what he’s saying. He’s rambling about a surge in UAP (Unidentified Aerial Phenomena, apparently) sightings across the globe, about the thrilling implications, and his own doubts regarding the more sensational reports. It’s… interesting. She can’t tell if it’s because of her own personal experience or the sheer passion in his voice, but something about it draws her in. It’s almost enough to make her forget he—

“I hope I find my phone and camera and get that picture,” he says suddenly, pulling her out of her thoughts. His eyes practically sparkle. “I got such a good shot! Though, you know, the pictures don’t always develop so well. We think it’s because of electromagnetic interference in areas with anomalies. And digital cameras? Forget it—they’re useless.”

He continues rambling on but her own thoughts freeze. Shit. He’s planning to go back this weekend to retrieve his things. She hadn’t seen anything on the news about a body being discovered there. Was he… still there? The thought makes her stomach lurch. She swallows hard, bile threatening to rise. No. She can’t let him go back—not alone.

“I’ll come with you!” she blurts out before she can stop herself.

His animated gestures freeze mid-air, and he stares at her, confusion etched on his face.

“To get your camera,” she clarifies quickly. “I’m interested in it too. Let me come with you.”

“O-oh,” he stammers, blinking. “You don’t have to, but… if you want, I wouldn’t mind. I’d actually like that.” His smile is so genuine it sends a pang through her chest, sharp and bitter.

He continues, softer now. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Ayase-san. I was really worried about you.” His fingers fidget with the straps of his bag as he looks down at the dirt path. “I’m sorry if I pushed too hard about walking you home. As soon as you’re back, I’ll leave you alone.”

The thought of him leaving her sight right now is somehow even worse than the half-formed visions that have been lurking at the edge of her sight.

“No!” she says, forcing a cheerful tone that feels almost foreign. “You’ve come all this way. Stay for dinner, at least. Granny loves feeding people—she’d never forgive me if I sent you off hungry.”

For a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches, and she worries she’s upset him somehow. Then, in a small voice, he replies, “I’d like that. Thank you.”

She presses on, forcing a note of casualness. “Do you need to call anyone to let them know you’ll be late? I know you said you lost your phone. Mine’s broken, from when I was attacked, but you can use the landline at the house.”

She’s fishing for information. Maybe a little too obviously. But from the way he shifts awkwardly, she figures he’s not experienced enough with normal conversation to notice.

“Oh, it’s fine,” he says, a little bit too quickly. “No one’s expecting me.”

As they continue to walk, her mind churns. The oddities of the past week are clicking into place, one by one, forming a picture she doesn’t like. She’s almost certain now that he’s been… gone since Monday night. How had nobody noticed?

“Are your guardians pretty chill, then?” she asks, keeping her tone casual. “Granny always throws a fit if I come home late.”

He hesitates. “Something like that,” he mumbles, his voice distant. A flash of red catches her eye—faint, present for only a second or two. It vanishes the moment her hand lands on his shoulder, prompting him to meet her gaze.

“Sorry,” she says gently. “I didn’t mean to pry. Tell me more about the sightings in America?”

He looks relieved at the change in topic, his gratitude shining through as he launches into an explanation of why the recent wave of sightings must be part of a government conspiracy.

 

---

 

She notices that he hesitates at the gate to her home, his gaze lingering on the old, weathered torii. For a moment, he looks utterly lost, his expression unreadable. She watches him carefully. She supposes it is pretty unusual, to live at a shrine like this.

Or maybe it’s something else.

“Ayase-san,” he asks, his voice hesitant. “Does something feel… weird to you?”

She tilts her head, considering his question. It does feel strange. Though for her, it’s a comforting kind of strange. Ever since she unlocked her psychic powers, she’s been able to sense the wards her Granny has woven into the property. They’re a part of the house, humming quietly in the background, like Granny herself: warm, protective, and steady.

“Yeah, it does,” she admits, trying to sound casual. “This is a place of spirituality, after all. Maybe you’re feeling the effect of that?”

He gives her a look, a flicker of disbelief that he doesn’t quite manage to hide. “I doubt it’s that, Ayase-san. Could this area have high electromagnetic interference?”

While he launches into a series of half-formed theories, she decides to take a closer look. Letting her aura sense flare to life, she focuses on the wards surrounding the gate.

They’re… different.

Instead of their usual tranquil flow, a calm, suffused sea of energy—they’re turbulent. The energy ripples unnaturally, as if caught in a storm, coalescing into one point where the aura grows thick and dark, almost too dense to see through. Her stomach knots as she pinpoints the disturbance: the edge of the gate, right where Okarun stands.

She glances at him, her unease sharpening. His dual-colored aura is already shifting. The red parts flare, roaring upward like flames licking at the sky, a sudden, animalistic response. Aggressive. She realizes that it’s reacting to the ward.

Her breath catches. She knows with sudden certainty that if Okarun crosses that gate, something terrible will happen.

He moves without warning, his fingers brushing the threshold. She lunges, grabbing him and yanking him back with more force than she intends.

Her aura sense registers a brief, violent flash of black and red where his fingers made contact. It vanishes as quickly as it came.

She opens her eyes, returning her vision to normal, and looks at him.

Okarun is staring at his fingertips with a puzzled frown. “Ayase-san? Is something wrong?”

Her mind races for an excuse.

“You… can’t enter the shrine area without performing a good luck ritual first!” she blurts out, her voice uneven.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly dubious. “A ritual?”

“Yeah!” She waves her arms vaguely before adopting the stance Granny had taught her years ago—the same one that had saved her from the Serpoians. “Like this. Watch.”

His skeptical expression deepens, but he mirrors her movements with visible reluctance.

“Okay,” she says, straightening and stepping back. “Now hold that position for 30 seconds.”

“What?” His voice is incredulous. “Ayase-san, are you making this up?”

“And keep your eyes closed!” she snaps, already moving toward the gate.

He mutters something under his breath but complies, closing his eyes with an exaggerated sigh.

Turning her attention to the torii, she activates her aura sense again. The ward’s energy pulses, its source painfully obvious now: a single talisman hidden on the underside of the gate. She reaches for it, fingers trembling slightly as she pulls it free.

The effect is immediate. The turbulent aura dissipates, fading into the quiet background hum.

“Am I sufficiently spiritually cleansed to enter now, Ayase-san?” he asks, his tone hovering just shy of sarcasm.

“Yep!” she chirps, forcing a smile. “Come on, let’s go inside!”

 

---

 

Granny isn’t home. She shouldn’t be surprised, she’s always out on jobs and TV appearances, after all. But in this moment, she really wishes she were here, especially with everything that’s happened.

She doesn’t know exactly what she could do for Okarun, but she’s certain Granny would know something, anything, that could help him. The thought of that is the only thing keeping her grounded. It’s the singular thread of hope she’s holding onto.

Despite that, she tries not to let her disappointment show. She invites him into her home with a forced smile, leading him up to her room.

He’s acting a bit awkward, stilted even, but there’s a small, quiet smile on his face. She hasn’t caught a single glimpse of the other version of him, since they’ve arrived.

She collapses onto her beanbag chair with a sigh, gesturing for him to sit on the bed. He perches on the edge, as though trying to make himself as small as possible. It’s endearing in an odd way, and she wonders if he’s trying to be respectful of her space, or if he’s still unsure of what to make of her.

But as soon as she asks him to pick up where he left off earlier, his entire demeanor shifts.

He relaxes. Slowly at first, his stiff posture melting into an almost comical slouch, but it’s better than nothing. He leans back on her bed, his face lighting up with genuine ease.

It seems as good a time as any to ask. She doesn’t want to risk upsetting him, but she also has to know.

“So, um… I’ve been trying to talk to you all week. Were you… avoiding me?”

He looks away, fiddling with his glasses, his fingers betraying his nervous energy. “I was... sorry,” he mumbles, voice small, almost apologetic. “I thought you were just going to... mock me again. But it wouldn’t have been forever! I was just waiting until I got my camera back, so I could show you, y’know... proof.”

She watches him fidget, and her heart tugs. He continues, laughing lightly, “That feels kinda stupid now, though, huh? Now that I know you literally saw them on Monday.”

She exhales, her hand running through her hair as she gathers her thoughts. "You weren't being stupid," she says, her voice softer than she expects. "I was the one who was a jerk. It wasn’t unreasonable to not want to talk to me."

“Well, I’m glad you managed to corner me eventually,” he adds with a sheepish grin.

“Any time, dude!” she replies with a teasing smile, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. He’s cold to the touch, but not quite the piercing iciness she felt earlier.

They fall into easy conversation after that. He continues talking about the articles in the Mystery Mu issue he happened to have that day, her attention rapt. He laments that he doesn’t have the material to back up his claims further, until she tells him he can always bring them next time.

He gives her a smile that lights up the entire room.

With no sign of Granny’s return, she suggests putting on a movie. Okarun shyly agrees, deferring the choice to her. She grins, reaching for her box of trusty Ken Takakura movies. She knows he’ll regret giving up control so easily, but she enjoys it anyway.

As she’s rifling through her DVDs, the doorbell rings.

“Oh, is that your um… Grandmother?” Okarun asks, his voice tense with uncertainty.

She shakes her head. “No… Granny wouldn’t ring the doorbell anyway…” Her voice falters slightly as she adds, “And I’ve never heard that chime before.”

Hesitantly, she makes her way to the front door, where a massive shadow looms.

 

---

 

She knows this is her fault, for removing the talisman to let Okarun onto the plot.

She still has it—brought it in with her. She could put it back on the gate, but she’s almost certain it would take out Okarun too, and she can’t bear the thought of being the one to destroy him completely.

But she’s been practicing with her powers all week. She can deal with one measly spirit, can’t she?

Okarun huddles behind her, his breath shallow. Despite his earlier skepticism, he must feel the same pressure she does. Whatever’s behind that door, it isn’t friendly.

The air has turned frigid, suddenly. She doesn’t know if it’s because of Okarun or the thing outside.

She turns to him, forcing herself to project the bravado she doesn’t feel.

“Okarun, stay inside. I’ll sneak out the back and handle this.”

He doesn’t listen. Instead, he follows her as she moves silently toward the back door, opening it as quietly as she can.

But instead of the forest she expects, she’s confronted by a solid gray wall where the edge of the plot should be. A glance up reveals the sky is blocked too. The entire space is suffocatingly dark, lit only by an unknown, dim source. The air looks hazy, as though there’s a thick fog.

“Ayase-san?” Okarun whispers, staring at the sky. His voice trembles.

She doesn’t know how to comfort him. When she looks back at him, her vision is swallowed by red. She quickly looks away, heart pounding.

She creeps around the corner of the house, and despite his fear, Okarun stays close behind.

They peek around the edge together.

When Granny had told her about exorcising spirits, she had imagined something small—floating orbs, wispy ghosts. But the thing outside is massive, towering over the house. It… it looks like a sumo wrestler.

To her surprise, Okarun seems to recognize it.

He whispers, voice urgent. “That... that’s not a spirit, Ayase-san. The collar... It’s a Flatwoods Monster! An alien!”

It turns toward them. Whether it heard Okarun’s whisper or saw them peeking, she can’t say.

It speaks. Its voice is monotone, thunderous, and it echoes in the strange space surrounding them.

“You. Girl. You will be captured.”

It’s after her. After what she did to those Serpoians, the idea that it’s an alien feels all too plausible.

“Ayase-san!” Okarun’s voice is desperate now.

What he wants her to say, she’s not sure.

“Okarun, stay back. I’ll handle this.”

“Ayase-san, it’s after you!”

“Exactly!” she snaps, her voice sharp. “It should leave you alone. I’ll be fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but she knows he doesn’t have a choice.

“Please, be careful,” he whispers, his voice breaking.

She nods, her heart hammering as she steps into the center of the yard. She takes a shaky breath, forcing herself to face the looming terror.

“Hey! If you want me, come and get me!” she shouts.

Almost instantly, it slams one massive leg into the ground, sending a shockwave through the earth. Dirt and grass tear up violently, the force reverberating in her chest.

Her bravado shatters. If that had hit her...

She grits her teeth, pushing forward. She’s taken down a handful of alien scum already. What’s one more?

But she feels weak. Her power stretches out toward it, grasping at the creature, but it effortlessly shrugs her off. She grabs debris, wood, rocks, anything, and hurls them at it with everything she’s got. But it doesn’t flinch.

She doesn’t understand. Against the Serpoians, she’d felt invincible. Why is she so powerless now?

She watches as the creature’s mouth opens wide, like some grotesque wooden doll, and black fog pours out in thick, choking tendrils. There’s nowhere to run, and despite her frantic efforts to hold her breath, she inhales some of it.

Warmth drips down her lip. Her mouth tastes of copper, her mind muddled.

Okarun rushes toward her, seemingly unaffected. What’s he doing? He needs to run…

But then she remembers—he can’t run. They’re trapped.

The thing raises another foot, preparing to strike again. Her legs feel heavy, sluggish. She won’t dodge in time. Desperation claws at her as she raises her psychic hands, bracing to block the blow. But it stops, its attention shifting to something else.

Okarun is waving his arms frantically, his lips moving, but everything sounds muffled—like he’s underwater. She can’t hear him.

The creature turns, locking onto Okarun. It halts its attack on her, its focus now entirely on him.

A flicker of surprise cuts through the haze clouding her mind. It can see him.

She tries to shout, to warn him, but her throat only gurgles with blood. A choked sob escapes her as the alien lunges toward Okarun, swiping him away like a ragdoll. He crashes into one of the walls trapping them, his body crumpling into a broken heap.

Even from across the yard, she can see the blood splatter where he lands, dark and vivid against the gray.

The alien turns its gaze back to her, but her mind is a fog, sluggish and clouded. She can barely think, let alone move. It grabs her effortlessly, its massive hand closing around her like a vice. As it lifts her, the fog thins slightly, and some semblance of clarity returns. She struggles, but it’s futile. Her arms are pinned, and without the use of her hands, she can’t summon any of her powers.

The creature raises her higher, bringing her almost face-to-face. It opens its mouth, as if to speak, but is abruptly cut off by a screech that reverberates through the air.

The screech is only the beginning. Other sounds follow—creaking, cracking, accompanied by a thick, wet sound. A shriek rings out, but it’s not one voice—multiple shrieks overlap in an unnerving chorus.

Suddenly, she falls. The fingers that had held her are no longer attached to the creature.

She struggles to regain her footing, dazed. The fog has lifted somewhat, and her mind feels sharper. She blinks, desperate to see who her savior is..

In front of her stands… something. There’s no other word for it.

Everything about it is wrong. Stretched out, twisted, and hunched, it looks as though someone had taken a human body and pulled it apart like taffy, leaving it grotesquely elongated. Gangly arms press against the ground, ending in spindly fingers tipped with blunt black claws that look like they’ve been scorched. Its limbs bend in ways they shouldn’t—too many joints, or maybe none at all.

Its torso is a nightmare of distortion, twisted upon itself as if caught mid-contortion. The gangly limbs press into the ground at unsettling angles, and its head, vaguely human in proportion, tilts unnervingly.

It only has one crimson and yellow eye, the other scratched out by hollow gouges rended into its sickly skin. There are two lines running down its face, the same red as its eyes, glowing starkly in the dim slight. Its hair is a ghostly, ethereal mass, billowing in an invisible breeze, shifting between stark white and the same haunting crimson that dominates its eye.

The most distinctive feature should be its… mouth. Or rather, the massive mask-like maw that covers most of its face. The maw's edges are sharp and black, bleeding into wisping energy that coils like smoke around its neck. Lining the mouth of the mask are teeth, dozens (far too many) unnaturally uniform blunt teeth.

Her gaze drops, catching sight of what it holds in its maw: one of the sumo’s enormous severed fingers, sliced cleanly as though by a razor.

But for her, the mouth isn’t the most shocking thing. On top of everything else—somehow—it’s wearing glasses.

Why is it wearing glasses—

The creature suddenly spits the finger out with a wet, guttural sound. She watches, horrified, as its jaw unhinges, splitting wide, far wider than anything natural. Its head tilts back almost on a hinge, revealing a gaping void where its throat should be. Tendrils of black vapor twist and curl out of the abyss, joined by acrid plumes of smoke. Inside, sharp white fangs gleam unnaturally, as if catching light that isn’t there.

Before she can process what she’s seeing, the maw snaps shut with a sharp, echoing clack that reverberates in the oppressive stillness.

The creature’s torso twists grotesquely, a sickening gurgling sound accompanying the motion as it rights itself. Its head tilts, turning upside down for a moment before it snaps back upright. For an instant, it looms (too tall, far too tall) before it collapses forward. It lands between her and the alien, as if shielding her.

From behind, she notices its clothing for the first time. Torn and ragged black fabric hangs from its form, shredded at the edges. The scraps flicker and shift, infused with roiling black and red energy. Even from a distance, the energy makes her skin prickle, her hair stand on end.

Her breath catches. She knows exactly that the thing is wearing. But her mind refuses to connect the dots. It would be too terrible if it were true.

The alien seems to have shaken off the shock of its injury, quickly preparing for another attack.

She can’t move. Whether it’s from the pain, the terror, or both, she can’t tell. But her body is frozen, locked in place

She closes her eyes, bracing for the blow.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, there’s noise. Screeching. Tearing. Ripping. Clacking. Squelching.

And then, silence.

She gulps, throat dry, and finally dares to open her eyes. The spindly creature that had been looming in front of her is gone, now looming over a dark mass on the far side of the yard.

The alien.

It’s twitching, its body a grotesque, twisted mess of broken, torn viscera. Then, with a sickening crack, the creature bites down one final time, and the alien goes limp.

In an instant, the suffocating walls that had trapped her disappear, revealing the twilight-lit rice fields and her house, still untouched. The alien’s corpse is gone, along with the pool of black blood that had spilled out of it.

But the creature is not gone.

It skitters toward her, halting just a meter away. Its blunt jaw jerks open and closed at random intervals, revealing glimpses of razor-sharp teeth, glinting in the eerie light. The singular red eye burns into her, unblinking.

The only sounds she can hear are the thing's ragged, uneven breathing and her own heartbeat, pounding like a war drum in her chest. She doesn’t know when she last took a breath herself.

Is this it? she wonders. Was Gran’s warning about spirits not an exaggeration but an understatement? Had the sweet boy she’d brought home snapped? Was this vengeance—retribution for her sending him off to his death?

But nothing happens.

The creature keeps opening and closing its jaws in fits and starts. Except now, a harsh, ragged hiss escapes along with clouds of white steam, curling eerily in the air between them.

“Aaaaas-saaa…”

No… not just a hiss. Her mind, teetering on the edge of reason, latches onto the sound. It’s trying to talk.

“Aaayaaaseee-saaan…”

Her stomach twists. “O-Okarun?” she manages to whisper.

He’s trying to say her name. The realization hits her like a punch to the gut. Beneath the hissing and distortion lacing its voice, there’s something undeniably familiar. Two voices, layered atop one another, fight for dominance.

One is higher-pitched, slightly frantic, barely restrained. It’s his voice. The same one that had rambled on just hours ago. But the other… the other is a guttural growl, deep and primal. It claws at her instincts, awakening a fight-or-flight response she can barely suppress. But the voices are out of sync. They weave in and out of phase, chaotic and discordant. Staticky lows bleed into screeching crescendos, the dissonance clashing painfully in her ears. Sometimes they cancel each other out entirely, leaving only an unnatural silence, before surging back stronger, louder, almost deafening.

Something warm drips onto her lips. She doesn’t dare wipe it away.

“Okarun, is that you?” she asks again, more desperate this time. Her voice cracks

“Ayase-san,” it rasps, clearer now. Or maybe she’s starting to adjust to the distortion.

“I’m here, Okarun,” she whispers, reaching out with trembling fingers.

“Ooo-kay?” he rasps again.

“You’re okay. It’s going to be okay, Okarun,” she says, though the words feel hollow even as she speaks them.

“Ayase-san, okay?”

Her breath hitches. Tears sting at her eyes. She almost laughs, a fragile, hysterical sound, caught between relief and despair. “You’re worried about me?” she asks, incredulous, the words nearly choking on a sob. “I’m fine. You saved me.”

His voice is steadier now, though still warped. The words are clearer, sharper, as though he’s finding his footing. And yet, his mouth—neither of them—is moving at all.

“What… happen?” he asks, the words dragging like static over gravel.

She swallows hard, her throat dry and aching. How is she supposed to answer that? He seems barely coherent. Does he even realize what he looks like right now?

She switches briefly to her aura sight, hoping it will offer some insight. Its… his aura is a roiling mass, red overwhelming the blue. Almost instinctively, she reaches for it, tapping into some deep urge to soothe, to calm him.

Unbidden, her spiritual hands extend, cradling his aura with her power. She squeezes gently, careful not to hurt him. It pulses with fear, rage, and pain, but she pushes on, determined.

Slowly, the red recedes, shrinking and softening, until it nearly balances with the blue. She feels a sharp hesitation, if she pushes any further, she risks hurting him.

When she opens her eyes, the creature is gone, replaced by a shell-shocked boy with terrified brown eyes and tattered clothes.

 

---

 

She leads him back into the house, unsure of what else to do. He sits in the living room, silent, as she mechanically prepares two cups of green tea. While they steep, she washes her mouth out a dozen times, trying to get rid of the taste of blood.

When she sets a cup in front of him, he finally speaks.

“Ayase-san,” he asks, voice shaking slightly, “What... happened? I think... I think I blacked out.”

A wave of relief almost brings her to tears. He doesn’t remember what happened. He doesn’t remember being that thing.

“The alien’s gone,” she says quietly. “When it... died, the barrier around us vanished.”

He slumps inward, shoulders hunched, and she can see the tears welling in the corners of his eyes.

“You defeated it?” His voice is small, wet. “You’re amazing, Ayase-san.”

She opens her mouth to say something, but the words stick in her throat. She’s not amazing. She was terrified, frozen in fear. She’d be dead if not for him.

“But…” He murmurs to himself, trailing off.

She lets him be, taking a sip of her tea. It’s already lukewarm, despite only being made moments ago.

“But that’s the second time you’ve been attacked by aliens!” he bursts out “Ayase-san, why did you go to that hospital?”

She doesn’t like where this is headed. The air around them feels heavy, pressing down on her like a weight. She blinks, and his glasses are gone. One of his eyes is shut, claw marks slashed across it, raw and red, just like before.

It’s cold.

She forces herself to answer, carefully. “To look for ghosts. I told you that.”

“But why that hospital?” he presses, his voice rising. “There must be plenty of ghost hotspots, but that hospital is known as an abduction site too…”

She blinks again, and now his hair is bloodied and matted, dark streaks dripping onto his face. Rivulets of crimson trailing down to his clothes.

Her throat tightens. She can’t say it. But her silence seems to give him all the confirmation he needs.

“It was because of what I said, wasn’t it?” His voice cracks, trembling with guilt. The blood spreads further now, staining his clothes, his shoes, the floor beneath him. “This is all my fault. I’m so sorry, Ayase—”

“NO!” she yells, the word bursting out of her before she can stop it. Her voice shakes as she stumbles over her words. “It—It’s not your fault. Because if it’s your fault I got attacked by aliens, then it’s my fault you—”

Her voice breaks. She can’t finish the sentence. She can’t say what she means—not to him, not now. She can barely bring herself to look at him.

“Ayase-san?” he asks softly, his confusion cutting through the haze of her panic. His single, blood-red eye is wide, unblinking, as he stares at her.

The sound of the front door opening is like a lifeline, snapping her attention to it instantly. Relief floods her chest, a blessed distraction from the horrifying scene in front of her. She risks another glance at him, and he’s back to normal. Glasses perched on his nose, hair clean and neat, his face turned toward the door like a deer caught in headlights.

“That must be Granny!” she says quickly, seizing the change in atmosphere. “She’ll know more about what’s going on.”

She scrambles to her feet, eager to greet her Granny and put an end to the unbearable tension. But the moment she sees her standing in the doorway, she freezes.

Her Granny’s expression is grim, her eyes dark with warning. In one hand, she holds her metal bat slung over her shoulder, and in the other, a fistful of nails gripped between her fingers like weapons.

“Momo,” her Granny says, her voice low and measured, “back away from it. Slowly.”

Notes:

Okarun’s fighting form in this is heavily inspired by the beautifully creature artwork by mytigaron on Tumblr! In particular these artworks (though our one is also down an eye for some flavour!)
Mystigaron
Hunched boi
Long boi

Chapter 3: Dinner

Notes:

This chapter ended up being a whole lot of talking, oops!

Momo freezes, staring at her granny in the doorway.

Okarun is frozen too, though he’s thankfully back to normal now. The shock of seeing her granny must have snapped him out of… whatever it is exactly that causes his appearance to change.

His eyes are locked on the bat in Granny’s hands, his expression scared, but she doesn’t think he realizes just how much danger he’s in. Momo has never seen Granny in action properly, but even just seeing her aura now that her powers have unlocked, she knows one thing for certain. Her grandmother is strong.

Okarun, of course, still doesn’t believe in any of that. He probably just thinks Granny is a strict guardian catching a boy alone with her granddaughter… and threatening him accordingly.

Maybe she can rescue this.

“Granny!” she says, forcing cheer into her voice. “You’re back late.”

Granny doesn’t relax at all. Her tone remains measured. “Momo…”

She pushes forward, undeterred.

“You don’t have to act so weird, Granny,” she insists. “Okarun’s just a friend from school. You don’t have to threaten him like you did my ex.”

She tries to silently plead with her eyes, willing Gran to pick up what she’s trying to convey: Please drop this.

Okarun makes a startled choking noise. “Threaten you ex?”

“Because Okarun is harmless,” she emphasizes. Then, in a softer voice. “Can we talk outside for a bit?”

Granny studies her for a long moment before shifting her gaze to Okarun. He’s practically curled up in on himself, huddled next to the small table, fingers trembling around his cup. It’s probably ice-cold by now. He’s still staring at the bat held in her grandmother’s hands.

Finally, Granny exhales, spinning the bat around in one practiced motion. The aperture at the end clicks open, revealing a thick length of pencil lead inside. With a swift motion, she drags it across the doorway, leaving behind a bold, dark line.

“Oi, Four-Eyes.” Her voice is casual, but the weight behind it is anything but. “Cross the line, and you fry. Got it?”

Okarun blinks at the mark, clearly confused. She knows for a fact he has no idea Granny means it literally.

Momo forces a smile. “Sorry, Okarun! I just need to talk to my granny for a few minutes. Just stay put, ‘kay?”

“Y-yes, Ayase-san,” he mumbles, though she isn’t sure which of them he’s actually responding to.

With one last glance at Okarun, who looks completely lost but at least no longer terrified, Momo follows her grandmother out into the central yard.

The moment they step outside, Granny doesn’t waste any time.

“So, when did you start bringing monsters home, Momo?”

Momo isn’t sure if she’s joking or not. But it doesn’t matter. Granny looked ready to seriously hurt Okarun. She needs to convince her fast.

“Granny, please you can’t do anything to him,” she pleads. “He’s harmless, I swear!”

“Momo, you seriously expect me to believe that?” her granny says incredulously, swinging her bat over her shoulder. The old weapon gleams faintly in the dim light, a strange shimmer dancing along its surface. “You look like you’ve been through a woodchipper.”

“What?” She says, glancing down at herself for the first time. Granny isn’t wrong. She’s covered in small scratches, a few of them sluggishly oozing blood. How had she not noticed? She raises a trembling hand to her head, to where a dull pain has been throbbing, and it comes away wet and sticky. Though, she thinks grimly, this was nothing compared to—

She slams the thought shut.

“It wasn’t him,” she says quickly, her voice unsteady. “We were attacked by something else. This huge, sumo-looking thing. He—”

She falters. He what? Turned into a horrifying monster himself? Ripped into the alien like a feral, starving beast?

“He saved me,” she finishes weakly, avoiding her granny’s gaze.

Her grandmother stares at her, the bat resting against her shoulder. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. A shiver runs down Momo’s spine, and she suspects it isn’t just her physical senses her Granny is examining her with.

Whatever she was looking for, she must have found it. Her granny lets out a long sigh, her shoulders sagging under an invisible weight.

“You’ve got five minutes to explain,” she says curtly. Her tone is calm, but there was an edge to it. “That’s how much longer the ward will hold. If I’m not satisfied—” she taps the bat lightly against her palm, the faint shimmer flaring for a heartbeat, “—I’m taking him out.”

 

---

 

What follows is possibly the most stressful five minutes of Momo’s entire life.

She knows she isn’t making much sense. Her thoughts are scattered, tumbling out in a frantic, disjointed mess as she clings to any detail that might convince her granny. She just needs her to understand.

She tells her—
That he’s the boy she fought with, the reason she went to the hospital.
That she tried to talk to him for days after.
That they spent lunch together, and nothing seemed off… except, maybe, a slight chill.

Her breath hitches as she slows, words faltering when she reaches the rooftop. As she recounts how he defended her. How, for a moment, he looked wrong.

How he touched her, and she saw—fractured, fleeting glimpses of something terrible happening.

How she used the sight trick she herself had taught her—and he looked different.

She tells her how she keeps catching glimpses of him now, flickers in the corner of her eye, where he looks the way he probably did when he—

She swallows hard, cutting off the thought.

How it’s been almost a week. How, even though she’s sure no one else can see him, nobody seems to have noticed he’s gone.
How he doesn’t seem to have noticed anything’s wrong, either.

For some reason, the tears only start after she says that.

Her granny remains silent, her expression unreadable. But there’s a flicker of something. Her mouth tightens when Momo mentions removing the warding talisman from the gate, a shadow of concern passes over her features when she describes the doorbell going off.

She presses on, voice hoarse.

She tells her how she tried to fight back, but the poison mist—or whatever it was—left her weak, barely able to stand.
How Okarun saved her.
How his form twisted into something monstrous, grotesque… but not once did she feel afraid of him.

How, after everything, he had still looked at her and asked if she was okay.
How he doesn’t seem to remember any of it now.

She knows she must sound desperate. She is desperate.

But she needs Granny to understand. She can’t hurt Okarun. They have to help him.

 

---

 

As Momo finishes, her gran narrows her eyes, her expression sharp and scrutinizing. She seems stuck on one specific detail.

“You’re sure he passed away on Monday?” her granny asks, one eyebrow arched high.

“Yes! I… I saw him on Monday at school. He was alive.”

The memory surfaces, unbidden and vivid. That terrible first conversation (argument, really) plays in her mind. They had butted heads, his magazine the only thing separating them. His fingers were pressed against her cheek, and brushed with her own when she tried to wrench his only lifeline away from him. His hands were still warm, then.

“He was alive,” she mumbles, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sure of it.”

Her granny doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, she studies Momo with that same unsettling intensity, like she’s peeling back layers to look at something buried beneath. When she finally speaks, her voice is clipped.

“That doesn’t make sense,” her granny mutters. “He shouldn’t be anywhere near strong enough to affect the physical world. Not if he’s…” She trails off, her lips thinning into a hard line.

“And that’s ignoring the fact it doesn’t feel like any spirit I’ve encountered,” she continues. Her words feel heavier now, tinged with unease. “This feels like a yokai. A nasty one.”

She can’t help but flinch at the way her granny calls him “it”.

“How do you know this isn’t a yokai just stringing you along, Momo?” Her Granny’s voice drops lower, the question punctuated by a long, piercing stare.

She doesn’t know how to explain it, she just knows. Those glimpses she caught when they made contact weren’t just images. They were thoughts, feelings. It was like she had touched his very soul.

A yokai wouldn’t be able to replicate that, she doesn’t think.

Besides, he had saved her. She won’t ever forget the sound of him calling her Ayase-san (still so formal) in that strangled, overlapping voice.

“I just know,” she mumbles. She knows it’s not convincing.

But her granny seems to accept it anyway, rubbing her chin in thought.

“The way you described it… he was cursed before he died,” Granny says at last, staring off into the distance. “Did you see what did it?”

Cursed? The word churns in Momo’s mind as she recalls the glimpses she got—his body stretching and twisting, fighting against itself. Was that… from being cursed?

“No…” she starts slowly. She hadn’t seen what caused it—only fractured pieces of the aftermath. “But… I did hear something. It… sounded like an old woman.” She hesitates before adding, “She sounded cruel.”

Forcing herself to focus, she tries to recall more, even though the effort makes her stomach churn.

“The old woman… I think she was going to use him to hurt someone.” To hurt her, she knows. She had caught the briefest glimpse of herself in that moment, viewed from behind as she leaned against his desk.

Granny makes a noncommittal sound, giving nothing away. “Did you see where he was?” she asks, tone unreadable.

“Only that it was near a cliff, on the edge of town,” she murmurs. “But Okarun should know. He told me he went out there deliberately to… watch for aliens.” Her voice falters. “Though he doesn’t seem to remember what happened afterwards.”

“That part, at least, is pretty typical for a new spirit,” Granny muses, rubbing her chin. “They sit in denial for a while. Then, once they realize the truth, they either pass on peacefully if they don't have anything holding them back… or they fall victim to their emotions and become a yokai.”

Momo swallows hard. A thought presses against her mind, heavy and awful.

“He wants to go back this weekend,” she says in a small voice. “For his camera. I said I’d go with him. But… what if his body is still there? I…”

Her throat tightens, and suddenly the tears are back. Granny reaches out, laying a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“We’ll figure something out,” she says gently. Then, after a beat, “You said he changed when you were attacked. The form he took—was it the same as when he was cursed?”

The question throws her, but Gran wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Momo forces herself to think back to both gruesome scenes.

“Sort of…” she finally answers. “He was… stretched out in both.” She remembers the way his voice had cried out in the memory, echoing in that strange, layered way. The same way it had sounded when he called her name.

She thinks of the feeling she got when they touched, something hard consuming her face, then of the huge, toothy jaw that had covered his face when he fought.

Her stomach lurches.

“And there were other things,” she adds, “that were similar, but… not the same.”

Granny nods, like something is clicking into place. Momo wishes she could say the same.

“Last question,” Granny presses, eyes narrowing. “You’re absolutely sure he wasn’t going to attack you earlier?”

Finally, an easy question. “Yes,” she says, her voice firm.

“I have a theory,” Granny mutters, glancing away. “It’s not a good one. But it’s something.”

Momo shifts, uneasy.

“I’ll need to confirm with the kid. Let’s head back in.” Gran gives a wry smile as she turns toward the house. “That barrier wore off ages ago, and he hasn’t come out to attack us. A point in his favor, at least.”

The emotions that have been building all night finally crack open. Before she can stop herself, Momo reaches out, grabbing her grandmother’s arm.

“Granny… this is my fault.” Her voice trembles. “He wouldn’t have gone out there if it weren’t for me.”

“Momo, you can’t blame—” Granny starts, but Momo cuts her off.

“Just, please.” Her voice is raw, pleading. “Can we help him?”

Granny sighs, though her expression is pained. “I’ll try my best, Momo,” she says softly.

And Momo hates the tone of her voice, the same tone she used when she told her, all those years ago, that her parents weren’t coming home that night.

“—But sometimes,” Granny continues, voice low and steady, “the kindest thing to do is end them.”

She swallows hard.

“Is there at least a way to stop seeing him like that? The way he was when he…” She still can’t bring herself to say it.

Granny gives her another soft look. “I’m sorry, Momo.” That same damn tone again. “But this is what it means to see spirits.”

Momo nods stiffly, wiping at her eyes before following Granny back inside.

 

---

 

She notes with detached interest that the penciled line has faded as they return. She doesn’t know how her grandmother’s methods work.

She doesn’t know how any of this works.

Okarun is still there, thankfully. He doesn’t look like he’s moved an inch. For a split second, though, he looks like the… other him. Soaked in red, his fingers mangled and twisted around the cup. The image vanishes in a blink as he turns to face her.

From the slight stutter in her step, Momo is certain Granny saw it too. But she doesn’t react, ambling over to sit at the head of the table as if nothing had happened. Momo joins them, sliding in close beside Okarun, closer than is strictly polite.

“Alright, kid, you can stay for dinner,” Granny says, waving a dismissive hand in Okarun’s direction. “But if I catch you and Momo sneaking off to suck face, you’re out. Got it?”

“O-of course not, Ayase-san!” he stammers, looking scandalized. “But, um, I’m sorry for showing up unannounced. I can leave if that would be easier. I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re here now, so you’re getting fed. Those are the rules.”

He glances at Momo, looking slightly lost. She grins and nudges his arm.

“I see. Thank you for the hospitality, Ayase-san,” he says, voice uncertain.

“Call me Seiko, kid.”

He hesitates, biting his lip before carefully correcting himself. “Thank you, Seiko-san.”

Granny snorts but says nothing more.

Momo half expects her to start interrogating him on the spot, but instead, she stands with a grunt and heads toward the small adjoined kitchen. “I’m starting dinner.”

That leaves Momo and Okarun alone in the sitting room.

Okarun still looks nervous, sneaking wary glances toward Granny as she pulls out ingredients. She’s well within earshot, so Momo tugs him toward the stairs, leading him up to her room.

“Keep the door open!” Granny calls after them.

Okarun goes stiff, his face instantly flushing. For a brief hysterical moment, Momo wonders how that even works, right now.

 

---

 

“So, uh… that’s your grandmother?” Okarun asks as they settle into her room.

“Ugh! Yes,” Momo groans. “And before you ask, no, I do NOT know how she looks like that.”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

She snorts. “It’s fine, dude. Literally everyone asks the same thing.”

An uneasy silence settles between them. Surprisingly, it’s Okarun who breaks it first.

“Um… Ayase-san, when the alien attacked, what exactly happened after I blacked out?” His voice is hesitant. “I… don’t know if I’m imagining things, but—”

“Can we wait until after dinner?” she interrupts, a little desperately. She’d really rather have Granny there as backup for that conversation.

“O-oh. Of course,” he says quickly, looking almost relieved.

It might just be her imagination, but the room feels a little warmer after he says that.

“Let’s just talk about something else, yeah? Granny’s a fast cook, it won’t be long before dinner’s ready.”

“Ah, I-I’ve been rambling at you all day, Ayase-san,” he says bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck. “C-could you tell me about spirits instead?”

Although the topic is uncomfortable, given his current situation, she latches onto it like a lifeline, launching into an impassioned lecture about some of the lesser yokai her Granny has told her about this past week.

Okarun listens with rapt attention, nodding and asking clarifying questions throughout. The way he hones in on her every word makes her preen a little.

Still, something nags at her.

“I thought you didn’t believe in any of this,” she asks, finishing up her summary of Kappa habits.

He reaches up to adjust his glasses. “Well, yes. But the fact that the Flatwoods Monster triggered the, um, spirit doorbell you mentioned…” He hesitates. “It made me think—maybe what you call spirits are just extraterrestrial phenomena that haven’t been explained yet?” His voice rises at the end, more than usual, like he’s testing the waters.

She smirks, holding up a single finger in front of his face. “Or maybe all aliens are actually just spirits. Did you think about that, huh?”

He screws up his face in mock disgust, batting her hand away. “Let’s not go that far.”

She grins at his sudden show of bravery, already thinking of her next move to fluster him—, only to be interrupted by a sharp rap at the door.

“Thought I told you twerps to keep the door open,” Granny calls out, though she doesn’t actually sound mad. “Dinner’s ready.”

 

---

 

When they arrive downstairs, the table is already set, and Granny was carrying several bowls of stir-fried beef and vegetables.

For a brief, absurd second, Momo worries that Okarun won’t be able to eat, that the moment he tries, everything will unravel, and he’ll realize something is horribly wrong. But he takes the offered bowl without hesitation, thanking Granny with a small, grateful nod.

He’s been able to interact with the physical world so far. Why would eating be any different?

Still, he doesn’t seem particularly hungry. He eats slowly, methodically. Granny gave him a noticeably smaller portion than what Momo usually gets, and while he makes good progress, she suspects he’s only eating at all out of politeness.

Granny keeps the conversation light as they eat, asking the usual questions—"How was school?" "Watching anything interesting lately?"

It’s the kind of shallow, routine talk they used to share over meals before their tentative reconciliation this past week.

But Okarun looks… happy. He thanks them profusely for the food, his nervous stammer softening as he tries his best to contribute, sharing little anecdotes about school and whatever else comes to mind.

For a fleeting moment, she can almost pretend this is normal, that he’s just a friend she invited over for dinner.

Until he frowns and mutters, with mild irritation, that their teacher forgot to hand him the latest homework packet, so he had to print it out himself in the library.

Her stomach twists.

How much longer before he realizes something is wrong?

The meal ends, and she barely has time to wonder how they’re going to ease into the topic of where he was on Monday before Granny, apparently out of patience, just blurts something out.

“Yo, kid,” she says, apropos of nothing. “You’ve got something weird going on with your aura. I wanna check it out.”

Okarun freezes, caught completely off guard. “H-Huh?”

Once again, he looks to Momo for reassurance.

She sighs. “My Granny’s a spirit medium, remember? If she thinks something looks weird, it’s probably best to just go with it.”

He still looks skeptical, but politeness seems to win out. “Um… okay?”

 

---

 

Fifteen minutes later, Okarun sits stiffly in a chair, his bare feet submerged in a basin of water as Granny examines him from all angles with a small mirror. His expression is pinched, as if he suspects this is some elaborate joke, but Momo knows better. The look of deep concentration on Granny’s face makes it clear this was anything but.

“Kid,” Granny starts, tilting the mirror slightly. “Have you been near any spiritual hotspots recently?”

Okarun tenses. “What does that matter?” he asks warily.

“Answer the question.”

He hesitates. “I... yeah. The place I was sky-watching on Monday has some rumors about it.”

Granny tilts the mirror once more, not looking directly at him. “And where was this?”

“The old tunnel, at the edge of Shono City,” he replies.

Granny doesn’t quite manage to hide the grim expression that flickers across her face.

“Well then,” she exhales sharply. “Hate to break it to you, kid, but you’re cursed.”

Okarun blinks, looking between her and Momo. “Cursed?” His voice wavers as he turns towards Momo. “Ayase-san, you know I’m not great at socializing. If this is a joke, please knock it off.”

“Not a joke, kid.” Granny cuts in, her tone flat. “Momo, you said you can see auras. Didn’t you notice anything strange?”

Momo shifts uncomfortably, rubbing at her arms. It’s gotten cold again. “I don’t really know if it counts as ‘weird,’ but... he has a second aura?” She remembers suddenly that it was that second aura she had to suppress to return him to normal after the fight. “Is that the curse?”

Granny shoots her a look, one that says she’s an idiot. Momo doesn’t entirely disagree.

“You could’ve mentioned that earlier, Momo.” Granny places the mirror down, sighs, and throws her arms out in irritation. “Would’ve saved me the trouble of this whole shtick.”

Okarun frowns, voice thinner now, uncertain. “Ayase-san? Are you two being serious? You really think I’m cursed? That stuff’s not—”

Granny cuts him off again. “Four-eyes, can you honestly say you remember everything that’s happened since you went to that tunnel?”

His mouth opens, then closes. He stares down at the basin, his voice small. The chill in the air intensifies.

“…No.”

She follows his line of sight. For the first time, she catches a glimpse of his reflection in the water.

It’s soaked in red.

Granny’s voice remains steady. “And can you tell me what happened when that spirit attacked you and Momo?”

“It wasn’t a spirit!” Okarun snaps suddenly, his voice raw. “It was an alien!” But the outburst fizzles out as quickly as it came. He shrinks into himself, voice barely a whisper. “And no, I... I blacked out. Ayase-san defeated it.”

Granny only hums noncommittally, jerking a thumb in Momo’s direction. “Really. Because that’s not how she tells it.”

Okarun’s head whips toward her, his eyes searching, desperate.

Blood is dripping down from his hair now.

Momo’s stomach tighten—she really hopes Granny knows what she’s doing.

She takes a steadying breath, grounding herself as much as him. “I didn’t defeat it,” she admits. “You... changed.” She winces at the word, unable to say more. “And you saved me. You were the one who... finished it.”

She expects him to deny it, to scoff, to accuse her of messing with him. A part of her almost wishes he would.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he looks down, lips pressed into a fine line. The water in the basin has turned a murky pink.

After a long moment, his voice is quiet. “Seiko-san... are there physical symptoms associated with being cursed?”

“There can be,” Granny replies evenly. “Like what?”

His fingers twitch against his knees. “Like... not having an appetite. Or feeling cold all the time.”

“That sounds about right,” Granny says, her tone casual. “Curses can take a toll on the body.”

Momo hates that she doesn’t know if that’s true, or if Granny’s just playing along.

Okarun only nods. “And... could it affect someone’s perception?”

Granny studies him, her expression unreadable. “Seeing weird things, kid?”

His eyes are still fixed on the water. Momo doesn’t know what he sees, but to her, the entire image is stained red now.

“Sometimes,” he murmurs. “I catch glimpses of something... red. In my reflection. I can’t tell what it is. I thought I was just... stressed or something.”

Whatever it is he sees, he tears his gaze away from it, looking off to the side. “But if we’re saying, for the sake of argument, that I am cursed...” He hesitates, then lifts his head. “What do I do about it?”

His glasses are gone again.

One eye is missing. The other, blood red.

Granny lets out a long sigh, reaching out to ruffle his hair in a gesture that’s meant to be comforting. He doesn’t lean away. Momo’s breath catches, though, as Granny’s hand comes away covered in something sticky and dark. Granny doesn’t acknowledge it.

“That,” she says simply, “depends entirely on what did it. But we’ll figure something out.”

Okarun looks at her now, one eye wide and vulnerable. Momo forces herself to meet his gaze, swallowing down the bile that rises in her throat. She reaches out, gently grasping his twisted fingers, offering what little comfort she can.

“Yeah, Okarun,” she says, and to her surprise, the smile comes easier than she expected. “It’ll be okay. We’ll figure this out.”

 

Notes:

Please forgive the delay on this chapter! - I’m somewhat beholden to my whims when writing (damn you ADHD!) I won’t be starting any longer WIPs unit at least one or two are closed off, but I can never promise I won’t stop to put out a random one-shot. The plot bunnies consume my mind until I get them out 😔I will try and keep everything ticking over at least once a week-ish though!

Notes
-Momo is a bit less sharp than usual here, not realising the 2nd aura is the “curse”. But to be fair, she’s having a really bad day. Not at her best, perhaps. Her mind keeps jumping to other things…
- Okarun seemed to believe he was cursed pretty easily huh? I wonder how much he actually remembers form being "blacked out".
-A LOT more was going to happen in this chapter, but I ended up cutting it there, because such a dialogue heavy chapter can end up a real slog, haha. Now that Okarun knows something is up, they can start to plan their next moves in the next chapter :)

Chapter 4: Home

Notes:

Fluff? In my angst fic? It’s more likely than you think.

Okarun spends a few seconds seemingly taking everything in, staring down at his hand, still held in her own, before he finally speaks again.

“Okay, okay,” He says, taking a steadying breath. “So what does being cursed… mean for me exactly?”

Though his appearance remains unsettling, she holds his twisted fingers firmly, forcing her gaze to meet his even as his red eye flickers with nervous uncertainty.

“That depends on what did it, as well,” Granny explains evenly. “But there are usually physical symptoms, like what you’ve experienced. They’ll worsen over time.”

“The main sign, though, is that whoever is cursed tends to become aggressive—often trying to attack or hurt others—” Granny continues, her tone low and measured as she leans forward.

Before she can continue, Okarun blurts out, “What?!” His voice cracks with surprise, cutting her off abruptly. Momo winces internally, thinking, That’s not helping!

Granny glares at him and snaps, “Let me finish, kid!” She grumbles, her words punctuated by a dismissive wave of her hand. “But I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

She shifts position, holding up a finger as she speaks.

“First, it’s already been almost a week—and you haven’t lashed out at anyone yet,” Granny remarks with a wry smile. “That’s odd. Curses in my experience rarely bide their time before striking.”

Her eyes narrow. “Second, when I examined you, I saw an awful lot of spiritual power, some real nasty stuff, too.” She pauses, rubbing her chin thoughtfully as her gaze drifts, as if she’s looking through him rather than at him. “But there’s no will to speak of, nothing to actually drive the curse.”

Straightening up, she fixes her eyes on him once more, “And third, from the sounds of it, you were able to use that power yourself to bail my grandkid out—even if you don’t remember it.”

Okarun turns to her, his crimson eye searching for something in her own.

"I didn’t see what you looked like exactly. You were moving too fast—" she begins hesitantly.

Coward, she thinks internally.

Gathering her resolve, she continues, "But you used some sort of red energy to fight the alien back. I think… that was the curse."

“And you managed to use your powers to suppress the energy, right, Momo?” Granny interjects. “That’s pretty typical of a curse as well—though I’d usually use a talisman.”

“Anyway,” Granny continues, “from the sounds of it, you basically managed to steal power from a yokai. Congrats. I don’t think you’re in immediate danger, or that you pose an immediate danger. But it’s not something you want hanging over you.”

Okarun hesitates. “Right… so what do I do next? You said it depends on what… cursed me?”

Granny fixes him with a steely look. “What you’re gonna do next is head back home and rest, Four-Eyes.”

“What?!” Momo splutters. They can’t just send him home after all that! She shoots Granny a glare, but she remains stone-faced, ignoring her completely.

“I’ll do some research tomorrow,” Granny adds, “and then the three of us will head to where you got cursed on Sunday. During the day, mind, and we’ll see where we go from there.”

To Momo’s ears, the plan sounds vague and not very promising. But Okarun looks visibly relieved. When she turns back to him, he seems better, his hands and face appear normal, though his hair remains matted and a thin trail of blood still trickles down his temple.

“Okay,” he says quietly. Then, even softer, as if speaking more to himself than to her, “Okay…”

Momo squeezes his hand reassuringly before gently pulling it away.

“Excuse me for a second, Okarun,” she says carefully. “I need to speak with Grandma privately.”

He barely reacts as she leads Grandma outside once more.

 

---

 

As soon as she's sure Okarun won't overhear, she whirls around to face her Granny, fury blazing in her eyes.

“What the hell?!” she hisses, her voice a low, furious whisper. “How could you tell him to go home after that? And why wait until Sunday?”

Granny's expression hardens, and her tone takes on an unsettling gravity.

“Momo,” she begins, her words measured and grave. More serious than Momo has ever heard them before. “I followed a trail of spiritual blood back to our home. I found the protective ward removed and my granddaughter attacked.”

Momo can feel her heart sink as her Granny keeps talking. “I know you took the talisman off for him. I don’t know if I believe that you were attacked by aliens, but with powers like those, you’re a target.”

“Granny—” Momo starts, but Granny cuts her off with a harsh look.

“Momo,” Granny snaps, her voice as sharp as cold steel. “You’re in a lot more danger than he is right now. And I’m not staying up all night to guard this house. He needs to go so I can re-establish the protections.”

“But Granny!” Momo pleads, her tone cracking with desperation. “We can’t just… send him away!”

Granny folds her arms and fixes Momo with an unwavering stare. “Listen,” she says firmly, “he’ll be fine for one night. Besides, in cases like this, when they haven’t yet realized it, disrupting their routine will only increase the chance that he notices something is amiss. And I don’t think you want that.”

She swallows hard, the weight of Granny’s words settling over her like a dark shroud. The thought of him realising what’s happened…

"And as for why Sunday—" Granny begins, her eyes softening with pity as she fixes Momo with a steady look. "You need to rest, Momo. You look like you're barely standing, and you should be there to suppress his curse if things go... awry. Besides, I really do need time to research and ask around my network—we could be dealing with something serious here."

It all sounds... reasonable. Momo can't argue with that, even though a part of her wants to scream at her grandmother for such thoughtless cruelty toward Okarun. Hypocrite, she thinks bitterly.

There’s still one thing on her mind, though.

"Granny?" She asks, and she hates how much her voice is trembling. "Can we actually help him?"

She softens further, pulling Momo into a loose hug and murmuring into her shoulder, "If he was just cursed, then destroying what cursed him would solve the problem."

She steps back and continues, "And if he was just a restless spirit, then avenging his death by destroying what caused it would probably help him move on."

Granny pauses, letting the weight of her words sink in. "Theoretically, those should still hold true—even now."

Momo hesitates before asking, "So if we find what did this to him and defeat it, he'll pass on peacefully?"

Selfishly, She doesn't really want that to happen. Doesn’t want him to… leave. But what's the alternative? It seems the options are that he passes on or becomes some malevolent yokai once he realizes...

"Maybe," Granny concedes with a reluctant sigh. "Don't get your hopes up too much, Momo. But I'll try."

"Just... keep treating him like you have been. It'll be easier for him if he doesn't figure it out before we exorcise what killed him," She advises, her tone firm yet caring.

Granny sighs again, her tired eyes meeting Momo's. "I hate to ask, but I assume there's no one waiting at home for him?"

"I... got that impression. Yeah," Momo replies quietly.

"I figured as much, otherwise, well... it makes things easier for us right now," Granny states. "It's late, Momo. Let's say your goodbyes for now and get you to bed. I'll figure something out tomorrow."

 

---

 

She stands at her front door while Okarun, hunched and nervous, prepares to say goodbye for the day. He looks completely fine now at least. A small blessing.

It is late. darkness had settled long ago.

She doesn’t want to see him go, no matter what her grandma says. Granny herself is lingering just inside the house, watching them carefully as if she can read her thoughts. Okarun adjusts his glasses, the glare from the porch light shielding his eyes from her.

"I’ll see you Sunday then, Ayase-san," he murmurs.

She isn’t sure she can face an entire day without him. A dreadful feeling stirs. She has a horrible feeling that if she does, he won’t show up on Sunday.

"No!" she blurts suddenly. "We can hang out tomorrow!"

Desperation tinges her tone as she turns to Granny, "That’s okay, isn’t it?"

Granny fixes her with a long, tired look before giving a resigned nod.

"Okay! Give me your address, Okarun. We can spend the day together while Granny is researching," She declares hastily. She scrambles for an excuse as to why they need to spend the day together. "That way I can keep an eye on the curse for you!"

She winces at her own words, it sounds like she thinks he’s dangerous, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

"Oh, are you sure? I don’t want to be more of a bother..." he mumbles.

She nods vigorously and darts inside to find something to write his address on, she never realized how much she relied on her phone until she lost it. As he recites his address, she writes it down carefully. He shifts as he speaks, and at last, she catches a glimpse of his eyes. They look happy.

"Okarun!" she exclaims once she’s done, her voice filled with genuine enthusiasm. "I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?"

He offers her a small, nervous smile. "Yeah!"

With that, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and begins the walk home—alone.

She lingers by the Torii gate longer than she cares to admit, watching his retreating figure until she can’t even pretend she still sees him.

"You shouldn’t go out. Not while you’re being targeted," Granny calls as she turns back toward the house.

"I couldn’t just leave him for a whole day, Granny," She replies softly.

"I know. That’s why I didn’t stop you," Granny says with a sigh. "Stay safe, Momo. Stay close to him. He protected you before."

 

---

 

That night, Momo dreams. More than she usually does. And in far more detail.

She dreams that the moment he leaves her sight, walking alone along the dark dirt path, he simply ceases to exist, and nobody notices but her.

She dreams that he doesn’t exist at all—that he’s just a figment of her imagination, and that her Grandma is merely humoring her.

She dreams of Okarun alone in an empty house, just going through the motions—a fridge full of rotting food and bloodstains on every surface.

She dreams of them visiting the tunnel, and of her tripping over something twisted and red. She hears a strangled, high-pitched gasp behind her, but when she turns, she comes face to face with the creature that tore apart the alien.

She dreams of it approaching her, its jaw unhinging to reveal glistening needles in a sea of darkness. It stops just a bare centimeter from her face, its maw encircling her head before it whispers her name in Okarun’s voice.

She dreams of an old, gnarled voice laughing at her, high-pitched and cruel, as she desperately claws at something crawling over her face, suffocating her.

She dreams of feeling weightless.

And when she dreams of darkness, she welcomes it.

 

---

 

She wakes up earlier than she would usually care for. And not well rested at all. Her whole body aches, from the previous day. Still, she forces herself up, choking down a meager breakfast before heading out into the dim morning light.

At the front door, all she hears from Granny is one last, solemn murmur: “Be careful.”

She never told Okarun a specific time, and with neither of them having a mobile phone right now, she can’t do anything about it now. She hopes it isn’t too early by the time she arrives, but she wants to see him as soon as possible.

As she walks along the familiar dirt path, a subtle prickle tingles at the edge of her senses. Something minute and unnerving. She shifts her focus to the auras around her, yet finds nothing amiss.

With trepidation, she forms the circle with her thumb and finger once more.

There’s no dramatic change, but as she studies the path, she notices a steady trail of red splotches etched into the dirt—an echo of the route she and Okarun took on their walk back home.

She hadn’t realized that it would… linger like this. Glancing over her shoulder, she sees it abruptly ends. Was this the spot where he had perked up yesterday?

At the very least, there’s only one trail. He didn’t return home miserable, at least not that she could tell.

 

---

 

She’s not sure what time it is when she finds herself standing before a nondescript door in an equally unremarkable apartment building.

A sudden surge of nerves grips her, but she forces herself to take a deep breath, musters all her courage, and knock on the door.

It takes only a few seconds for Okarun to answer. He appears with his sleeves rolled up, his expression a blend of surprise and something unspoken, whether it’s because she’s arrived so early or simply that she showed up at all, she can’t tell.

He stands there, staring at her a moment too long before snapping out of his reverie. “Ayase-san! Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so early. Please, come in,” he says a little bit too quickly.

Inside, she slips on the guest slippers provided in the cramped entryway (stiff, like they’ve not been used) and follows him down a narrow hallway leading to a modest open-plan living area with an adjoining kitchen.

“I, um, was just finishing up some dishes,” Okarun offers, his tone laced with nervousness. “I won’t be long. Would you like something to drink, Ayase-san?”

Caught off guard by the ordinary domesticity of it all, she hesitates. “Hmm?” she murmurs, her eyes wandering over the sparse space. “Oh! Could I get some water, please?”

As he retrieves a water filter from a cupboard, she resumes surveying the area. She knows she’s the odd one out in terms of living situation, most people living somewhat near the city live in small apartment blocks like this. It looks… normal? If a bit bare. Very bare actually. The living area has a couch and an old TV and… that’s about it. There isn’t really any decoration to speak of.

He’d been vague about his guardians, but the absence of any sign of them here, and the fact the school didn’t seem to be aware of his absence yet, had led her to assume he was alone at home. Now, looking around, that assumption is confirmed.

A disquieting fragment of a dream surfaces: Okarun wandering his home (now replaced in her mind by the sterile image of this apartment) moving mechanically, going through the motions, as if nothing had changed. The thought twists in her stomach, an unsettling sense of dread creeping up from deep within.

From what she’s deduced, he leaves… remnants? When he’s in that state. When he’s unhappy.

She scans the small apartment once more—the space he’s been alone in for at least the past week. The same apartment she sent him back to alone last night, so she could sleep soundly, knowing she wouldn’t be attacked.

A sick feeling twists in her gut, and she has to know.

She forms the circuit with her fingers once more.

Trails of crimson footprints smear across the floor. Smudged, uneven, about a foot wide. They beeline toward the sink, where he’s currently standing, then branch out to the fridge and to the door. The entire living area remains untouched.

Tears prick at the corners of her eyes. But she blinks them away before he can notice.

But he catches her staring, misreading the grimace on her face.

“Ah—sorry, Ayase-san, I know it’s dusty,” he says sheepishly. He rubs the back of his neck, glancing around as if only now realizing how the place must look. “I don’t use this room much. You can head to my bedroom? It’s the one with the alien stickers on the door…”

She lets out an involuntary snort, despite the unease coiling in her chest. “Wouldn’t have guessed.”

But she heeds his advice and enters the hallway regardless. Her fingers remain linked in the circuit. A terrible curiosity compels her to keep looking.

The trail splits. One path leads toward what looks like a bathroom. The other stretches toward the door decked out in glowing alien stickers. There's a third door at the end of the hall, entirely unmarred.

She hesitates before stepping into his room. She lowers her hand before entering. She doesn’t want to see what the doorknob looks like.

Inside, she blinks. It takes her a moment to register that his bedroom floor is gray, beneath the tangled web of crisscrossing footprints, she can just about make out the color. They lead to his bed, his desk, to stacks of magazines, to a half filled laundry hamper… pretty much everything in the room.

For some reason, that detail settles something in her.

At least he… what? Actually uses this room? She can’t really articulate what exactly is so relieving.

The room itself is much more lived in, decorated with an array of occult items, and just a little bit messy.

Oddly, there’s a bedsheet draped over one of the wardrobe doors. She frowns, confusion tightening her brow. The fabric looks hastily thrown on, as if someone had covered something in a hurry. Without thinking, she reaches out and pulls it back a corner before she even realizes she’s technically snooping.

Her reflection stares back at her.

She startles as a flicker of red flashes behind her shoulder. A sharp inhale. Her body goes rigid. Whirling around, she finds herself face to face with Okarun, a glass of water in hand. His wide brown eyes are filled with quiet concern.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says quickly.

She exhales, waving him off with a nervous chuckle. “No, it’s— it’s fine! Sorry, I, uh… I shouldn’t have been snooping. I was just curious…”

Okarun shifts his weight, glancing at the wardrobe with something like discomfort. “Oh… yeah. I know it’s kinda weird.” His lips press together in a tight line before he gestures vaguely at the bedsheet. “I, uh… I got freaked out and covered it because… I kept thinking I saw something in the reflection. “

A shiver runs down her spine.

“I was actually kind of relieved,” he admits, voice quieter now, “when your grandmother said that was a symptom of the curse.”

He hands her the glass of water, his now-free hand coming up to adjust his glasses. As he does, the lenses catch the light, briefly obscuring his eyes behind a pale glare.

“I thought…” He hesitates, swallowing. “Well, I don’t know what I thought, I suppose.” A humorless chuckle escapes his lips, brittle. “Not that I was cursed, certainly.”

They lapse into awkward silence. She doesn’t know how to respond to that, and he seems to have realised he’s said too much.

She tries to distract herself with her drink, but as she stares down at it, a sudden, awful thought takes hold.

Swallowing hard, she forms the circuit again—thumb to index finger, grounding herself—this time being very careful to focus only on the glass in her hand. Nothing else.

The water is clear. Thank goodness.

A shaky breath escapes her before she can stop it.

Okarun gives her an odd look at her obvious sigh of relief, his brow furrowing. She scrambles to take a sip, trying to cover up her awkwardness. “Sorry! I didn’t realise how thirsty I was.”

He thankfully changes the subject, his tone tentative.

“So, um, what do you actually want to do today, Ayase-san? You kind of just invited yourself over…” His eyes widen in sudden alarm, as if he’s realizing what he just said. “N-not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course!”

She hadn’t really thought that far ahead, to be honest. When she said she was coming over, she only knew she didn’t want him out of her sight for a whole day. But she certainly doesn’t want him lingering in this apartment any longer.

“Let’s go out—just wander around, yeah? I think there's a decent shopping district nearby,” she suggests.

He nods enthusiastically, then adds in a more reserved tone, “Sounds good!”

She has a feeling he would have agreed to pretty much anything she proposed.

Before they leave, she excuses herself to the bathroom. The doors of the bathroom cabinet above the sink are conspicuously wide open, revealing a haphazard assortment of medicines and toiletries. Without thinking, she closes them after washing her hands. Her tired reflection stares back at her from the mirrors adorning the fronts.

She pulls them open again when she leaves.

 

---

 

And so they walk together into town. It's not far, his apartment is conveniently located, far more so than her own.

She can't help but keep glancing at him, but he looks completely normal, dressed in casual (if a bit dorky) clothes. Nothing about his appearance seems unusual, except perhaps his perpetually hunched posture. The only hint that something's off is when he occasionally has to dart to the side to avoid colliding with someone, muttering under his breath about inattentive passersby.

At Okarun’s suggestion, they pause at a large bookstore. He leads her straight to the weekly magazine section. Just as she’s about to ask his opinion on a magazine boasting the latest modern yokai legends, she notices him slipping away toward the checkout counter. There, a cashier rummages through extra stock, his back to the rest of the store.

Shit, she thinks. Before she can reach him, Okarun has already called out a few times, his words echoing uselessly in the quiet aisle, only to be ignored.

He looks frustrated, though not entirely surprised. As she hurries over, the cashier finally turns around and asks in a bored tone, "Can I help you?"

She waves him off with a dismissive gesture and pulls Okarun to the side, uncertainty flickering across her face as she tries to decide her next move. Before she can gather her thoughts however, Okarun speaks first.

“Ayase-san?” he asks, his voice trembling slightly. “Am I going crazy, or are people ignoring me?”

He tries for a lighthearted tone, but she can detect the desperate edge underneath. Of course he’s noticed, and she’s only made things worse by taking him out somewhere so busy.

“It’s probably because of the curse!” she blurts out before she can stop herself.

His expression twists into confusion, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“Normal people can’t see the supernatural, you know! You need to be spiritually sensitive!” she rambles, aware of how ridiculous she sounds. “A–and your aura is kind of all mixed up with the curse right now, so… maybe that’s why.”

It sounds absurd, and she fears he won’t buy it, she shouldn’t have mentioned it at all.

“Oh,” he says instead, latching onto her flimsy excuse. His tone is tentative as he nods, as if confirming something to himself. “That… makes sense, I suppose.”

He pauses, then ventures, “So, you and your Grandma, since you unlocked psychic powers, and she’s a medium, you can see the curse? And… notice me as a result?”

She can hardly believe he’s going along with it. “Y-yes! Maybe. Sorry—I’m not an expert.”

“Okay,” he replies, a word he’s repeated often over the past day.

“Anyway!” she exclaims, snatching the magazine still loosely held in his hand. It appears to be the latest issue of the one he’d been showing her at school. “Let me get it for you this time. My treat!”

“Eh? No, I couldn’t possibly—” he protests, already rifling through his pockets for his wallet. But she intercepts him, grabbing his arm firmly. He’s visibly flustered.

“No, no—I insist. It’s the least I can do,” she declares, her grin growing mischievous. It’s fun to tease him. She prefers his flustered expression to the unsure one he had on before. “Consider it payment for me just inviting myself over, okay?”

“Ayase-san!” he wails, hastily covering his eyes with a trembling hand. His voice is equal parts mortified and amused. “I didn’t mean it like that!”

 

---

 

They end up at an arcade next, one of the big, mainstream ones that takes up the top few floors of the shopping complex they’ve wandered into. It seems as good a place as any to kill a few hours. And most importantly, she thinks wryly, it doesn’t require interacting with any humans besides herself.

The first floor they step into is filled with claw machines and other prize games. Bright, flashing lights reflect off the glass enclosures, rows of plush toys and novelty trinkets sitting just out of reach.

"Looks like it’s mostly UFO catchers on this floor," she notes idly, hands in her pockets as she surveys the machines. Then, a thought strikes her, and a teasing smirk tugs at her lips. "Or should that be UAP catchers?" She deliberately enunciates each letter, watching for his reaction.

Okarun exhales through his nose, adjusting his glasses with a feigned look of exasperation. "Hardy har har," he deadpans. But the way the corners of his mouth twitch betrays his amusement.

They continue wandering, as she scans the rows of machines for anything interesting. There are a few decent prizes, but she’s never been particularly good at these kinds of games. Still, the atmosphere is fun.

She turns to ask Okarun if he wants to play something, but he’s nowhere to be seen. For a single, heart-stopping second, she panics—only to spot his messy hair peeking out from the side. He’s crouched in front of one of the smaller UFO catcher machines, stacked two high.

Curious, she approaches slowly, trying to see what he’s so focused on, but his eyes are practically glued to the glass, making it hard to get a look.

Instead, she crouches behind him, slightly higher up, and pats his shoulder, gently tugging him to the side for a better view.

He lets out a startled yelp, his whole body jerking. The plastic packet dangling precariously from the claw drops with a faint rustle, landing to join its brethren below.

“What’re you trying to get?” she asks, ignoring his reaction.

He huffs, but there’s no real bite to it. “You scared me!”

“Don’t wander off then, dude,” she teases. “But seriously, what is it?”

She scans the machine. The fallen prize is upside down, but there are others in the pile that are identical. Inside the packaging, a pair of green ovals catch her eye. The design looks like...

“Oh! Is it an alien keychain or something?”

He mutters something under his breath, too low for her to catch.

“Huh?” she prompts, leaning in slightly.

“...They’re earrings,” he mumbles, barely above a whisper. “I thought they kinda looked like yours... and you seem like you’re interested in the occult now...” His voice trails off as he goes quiet.

Oh. He was trying to win them for her. That’s...

“They’re pretty cute,” she says, watching the color rise to his cheeks. “But you don’t have to waste your money on me.”

“I want to!” he insists. “You bought me my magazine for no reason. Let me get these for you. I won’t spend more than the magazine actually cost anyway.” He holds up a small pile of coins as if they’re proof of his restraint.

She grins. “Alright, if you can get it in that many tries.”

His mouth twists in determination. “I would’ve had it already if you hadn’t startled me!”

“Suuuure,” she teases, drawing out the word with a smirk.

He waves her off with a dismissive flick of his hand. “Stop distracting me! I’m gonna win them.”

She hums in amusement but doesn’t reply, settling her weight against him as he slots in more coins. Leaning on his shoulder, she watches his attempts. He feels solid. She can’t even feel the chill.

He makes a sort of high-pitched sound as she leans in, but he doesn’t shoo her away any further.

She watches as he keeps trying, the machine taunting him over and over again as his small pile of coins dwindles. Each attempt ends in disappointment, the claw slipping uselessly off the prize. She’s already gearing up to console him when, finally, the claw catches just right, hooking perfectly through the hanging hole of the packet, and neatly deposits it into the chute.

Okarun immediately reaches in, pulling out the prize with both hands, holding it up like some grand treasure rather than a cheap pair of plastic earrings.

"Not even close!" he crows triumphantly, grinning as he holds up his prize alongside a single remaining 100-yen coin.

She swears she could be blinded by that smile.

Her eyes drift back to the machine. There were other prizes in there, including an actual keychain that looks like a triangular spaceship, almost identical to the one on the front of the magazine he had been showing her previously.

On a whim, she plucks the last remaining coin from his fingers, ignoring his affronted “Eh?!” as she smoothly deposits it into the machine.

Okarun looks bewildered. "Ayase-san, you'd have better luck trying another machine. It won’t let anyone win again for a while after I—”

She holds up a finger, cutting him off. “Shhh. I know what I’m doing.”

His skepticism is palpable.

She maneuvers the claw over to her target. As expected, when she presses the button, it grabs uselessly, barely even nudging the keychain. But the moment she lets go, she lifts her hand slightly, extending her other hand, her psychic one, through the machine.

Her psychic grip deftly plucks up the keychain, lifting it up to catch on the edge of the claw. If anyone had been watching closely, they might have seen it magically jump up and attach itself.

Okarun lets out a whisper-shout, his voice full of scandalized horror. "Ayase-san!"

She ignores his panicked whisper, watching in satisfaction as the keyring drops toward the chute… only for it to get stuck on the edge.

Cursing under her breath, she subtly extends her power again, nudging the keyring free with an invisible push. It clatters into the prize slot at last, and she retrieves it with a triumphant grin.

"See? First try. I’m just that good!" she declares, holding up her prize with a flourish.

Okarun gapes at her, still looking thoroughly scandalized. “A-Ayase-san! That’s stealing!” His voice carries the same level of shock as if she’d just robbed a bank instead of slightly tipping the odds on an already rigged machine.

She rolls her eyes, tossing the keyring in her palm. “Hey, you put in more than enough coins for both of these. If anything, they were stealing from you.”

“Ayase-san, that’s not how this works…” he groans, but there’s no real protest behind it. In fact, he’s already fighting back another smile.

She doesn’t give him a chance to argue further. “Anyway,” she says, plucking the earrings still loosely held in his hand and replacing them with the keyring she just won. “Now we match, yeah?”

Without hesitation, she tears open the packet, carefully removing her current earrings and swapping them out for her new favorites.

Okarun watches her, mouth opening as if to say something—but whatever it was, he thinks better of it. Instead, his cheeks flush slightly as he quietly unwraps his own prize.

He swings his backpack around to his front, fingers lingering for a moment before he carefully attaches the keyring to the zipper. He studies it briefly, then slings his backpack back over his shoulders.

“Yeah,” he says softly, barely above the hum of the arcade. “We match.”

 

---

 

After that they move on to the other floors, the ones with actual arcade games, rather than just prizes. She grabs his wrist and pulls him toward an open Taiko drum game, already slipping a few coins into the machine before he can protest. With a grin, she hands him a set of drumsticks.

“Come on, it’ll be fun!”

He flusters, gripping the sticks awkwardly, but doesn’t refuse as she eagerly selects a random pop song.

A few songs later… wow. This guy has zero sense of rhythm. She didn’t even know it was possible to be this offbeat. He barely scrapes by on the easiest setting, missing notes left and right, completely out of sync.

But despite his abysmal performance, he’s really into it.

It’s especially cute when he perks up at the sight of some old anime openings in the song list. Oh, he still does terribly, but now he’s drumming with so much enthusiasm she almost forgets how bad he is. And unless she’s imagining it, she can hear him softly singing along under the din of the game and the rest of the arcade.

Gods, he’s such a dork.

 

---

 

They’ve been in the arcade for a while when her stomach decides to let out a truly atrocious growl, loud enough to make her wince. A quick glance at the time displayed on one of the machines confirms what her stomach already knew, that it was time for lunch. Well past time for lunch really.

The sound is so jarring that Okarun completely botches his admittedly impressive Tetris game, his stack collapsing in a tragic mess. He gives her a miffed look before noticing the time and his expression shifts to guilt.

“I didn’t realize it was so late! You should have said something if you were hungry, Ayase-san.”

She laughs. “It’s okay, I hadn’t noticed either. I was having fun.”

That’s not entirely true. She very much hungry, and she had very much noticed. But she hadn’t wanted to bring it up herself, just in case it reminded him that he wasn’t.

But before she can dwell on it, he’s already slinging his bag over his shoulder, ready to go. “There was a food court on the ground floor, I think,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Lead the way.” She throws him a goofy salute, earning a snort in response.

The food court is lined with the usual fast food suspects. She picks a place almost at random and starts placing her order, resisting the urge to ask what Okarun plans to get. She half expects him to pass entirely, but to her surprise, after a moment of hesitation, he steps up to the ordering kiosk next to hers.

They find a table together. Her tray holds a decent-sized burger, while his has just a side of fries and a drink. Still, it’s more than she’s seen him eat willingly all week. She’s also relieved to finally sit down. Her muscles still ache a little from yesterday’s ordeal. She’ll admit that playing the Taiko game probably didn’t help.

She knows she shouldn’t ask, but curiosity gets the better of her. She glances at his tray, then back at him. “Getting some appetite back?”

He picks up a fry, twirling it between his fingers before finally taking a small bite. “A little bit. Maybe your grandma’s cooking helped? It was really good.”

She smiles at that, resting her elbow on the table. “She’ll be happy to hear that.”

He nods, but his gaze drifts slightly, his expression thoughtful. He pushes another fry around his tray before speaking again. “Your grandmother seems nice.”

“Yeah.” She pauses mid-bite, considering. “I actually wasn’t on good terms with her until recently.”

He blinks, clearly surprised. “Oh?” He tilts his head slightly. “That’s surprising… You two seem close.”

She exhales, tapping her fingers lightly against her cup.“I… wasn’t very kind to her about the spirit stuff. I used to get made fun of for it, and I took it out on her. Called her a fake medium. Even though I didn’t actually believe that.”

She can see the mental gears turning in his head as he replies. “But then… you got powers?” He asks.

And met an actual spirit, she thinks. But she obviously can’t say that part out loud.

“Yeah, pretty much,” she says, before pausing to take a drink. “I’ve talked to her—really talked to her—more this week than I have in years.”

He smiles. “I’m glad.” And there’s not even a hint of jealousy in his eyes, just genuine happiness on her behalf.

“I can’t say much, I guess, about you calling her a fake medium.” His lips quirk into a small, lopsided smile. “There’s a part of me that still kind of hopes it’s all fake. No offense to your grandma, of course!”

She snorts. “None taken.”

For a moment, the playful mood lingers, but then Okarun’s expression shifts. His fingers tighten slightly around his cup as he absently stirs his drink with his straw, the ice clinking softly against the sides. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. “But what she said about me being cursed just… makes a lot of sense.”

She waves a hand dismissively, in what she hopes is a reassuring manner. “Granny’s looking into what we can do about it today, yeah? Don’t worry about it!”

He hums in acknowledgment, nodding slightly, but doesn’t seem entirely convinced. After a brief pause, he glances at her, his voice a little softer still. “It’s easy not to worry about it when I’m around you, Ayase-san.”

She really, really hopes the heat creeping up her neck isn’t too obvious. Keeping her expression neutral, she focuses on her food, hoping he doesn’t notice.

They finish their meal in a comfortable, companionable silence.

 

---

 

After their (late) lunch, they spend some time wandering the rest of the shopping mall, poking their heads into any shops that look interesting while chatting. It’s on the opposite side of the city from where she usually hangs out with Miko and Muko, so it’s as new to her as it seems to be to Okarun.

They fall into an easy rhythm of comfortable chatter. She drags him into a random store, picks up a ridiculous accessory (like a pair of fluffy cat ears), and playfully tries to wrestle them onto him. He whines and tells her to stop teasing him while fiddling with his glasses, yet his cheeks flush and a smile tugs at his lips.

They (or rather, she) attract some odd looks, but who cares? She can tell Okarun notices. His eyes sometimes flick to the side someone isn’t exactly subtle in their judgment of the crazy girl talking to herself, but they always quickly return to her. And he doesn’t seem to let it bother him, outwardly at least.

She can’t help but feel guilty. If Granny’s suspicion is right, if they can help him pass on by defeating whatever cursed him, then what she’s doing today almost feels like pity. It’s a taste of what he unfairly never got to experience in life, like an extravagant last meal served to a prisoner by guards trying to assuage their own guilt about what’s to come.

Yet a larger part of her, a part she struggles to reconcile, is simply enjoying the day. She thinks Okarun is, too, judging by his obvious happiness and the fact that she hasn’t seen even a flicker of his other form since they left his home. She can almost convince herself that there’s nothing more to it. That she’s just making a really great new friend.

Almost.

Lost in these conflicting thoughts, she zones out, until Okarun’s voice snaps her back to reality.

“Ayase-san,” he says seemingly out of the blue, his voice soft and unexpectedly sincere. “I…I just wanted to thank you for spending the day with me. I know you probably did it to make me feel better about the whole curse thing, but I really appreciate it.”

For a moment, she’s stunned by how forthright he’s being. And he’s so close, yet so far away. Still, she can’t deny it outright.

“It wasn’t just that, Okarun,” she replies quietly. “I wanted to spend time with you.”

And she means it. His earnest enthusiasm is contagious, and even his obvious nerves come off as more endearing than anything else. He’s easy to talk to once she lets herself forget the harsh reality of his.. situation.

She really wishes she had talked to him earlier.

Okarun falls silent for a long moment, seemingly at a loss for words. She finds it hard to meet his eyes now, for reasons entirely different than the other reasons she’s found it hard to look at him the past day. She instead feigns interest in a display of tacky bread bracelets on a nearby shelf, all the while waiting for him to speak.

Still waiting for a response, she suddenly feels the air shift. Startled, she turns back to Okarun. He looks normal, albeit unsettled. He must have sensed something too.

The shop has grown unnervingly dark, and the familiar chatter of others from outside has vanished into an eerie silence. The atmosphere is oppressively heavy.

She takes a tentative step back—and is startled as a splashing sound rings out. They’re suddenly standing in shallow water, despite being halfway up a shopping arcade.

Outside, in the main walkway, a huge shadow looms.

Notes:

Deleted scene - I ended up changing mechanics, so this little scene is now non-canon. But enjoy it regardless!

As she paces the room, waiting for him to return, her gaze drifts over random objects. Her eyes catch on his laundry basket—nearly full. That surprises her. He seemed like the kind of guy who’d stay on top of things like that.
Although…
Half-hanging from the pile is a shirt that looks familiar. White, with blue cuffs and a collar.
Identical to the one he’s wearing.
What are the chances he owns two of the exact same shirt? She thumbs the cuff lightly. It’s slightly dusty.
She hears footsteps in the hallway, Heart leaping, she shoves the shirt down, covering it with a random school shirt just as the door creaks open.

Chapter 5: Drenched

Notes:

Some amazing fanart has been posted for this fic! Please check it out and give it all the love <3
ruusenkvitten

The shop they’re in has multiple entrances, and without a second thought, she tugs Okarun toward the opposite one—away from whatever ominous thing is casting that eerie shadow.

The sound of their splashing footsteps echoes in the silence as they emerge into another dim, empty walkway. Okarun’s gaze is fixed on a row of pitch-black windows at the far end, that seem to absorb every stray ray of light.

“Ayase-san,” he whispers urgently, his voice trembling. “This… this atmosphere is just like at your house. When the alien attacked—”

Before she can reply, a low, hissing grumble reverberates through the hallways, freezing them both in place. She swallows hard, her heart pounding. “You think… this is another alien?” she asks, her own voice unsteady as well.

He nods shakily, unable to muster any further words.

They had run a fair distance through the store, with no sign of the creature following them. Carefully and slowly, she edges ahead to peek around the corner of the corridor.

At first, she sighs in relief when nothing is there. But then she notices subtle ripples in the surface of the water emanating from the far end—ripples that grow larger with every passing second, as if something massive is moving beneath the surface.

A faint yellow-white glow materializes before the thing itself. It’s a hulking creature—a giant, scaly head, partly obscured by the ghostly light of its piercing yellow eyes. The only detail she can make out is two rows of gleaming, sharp teeth, like jagged shards of glass. The head is attached to a serpentine neck, rippling with muscle and covered in dark green, glistening scales. The rest of its body is a massive, flat mass, its enormous flippers undulating slowly as they propel it sedately across the water.

“A dinosaur?” she mutters to herself in disbelief, before clamping one hand over her mouth in terror.

She hears Okarun step back behind her. Frozen in horror, she can only watch, her mouth still covered by her trembling hand, as a ripple from his movement travels over the water's surface—extending all the way to the monstrous "dinosaur" thing. The moment the ripple reaches it, its enormous neck snaps toward them. Its eyes glow like beacons in the darkness, their brilliant light obscuring the finer details of its horrific visage.

Then, as if on cue, it lights up.

Its entire body seems to expand unnaturally, grotesque channels opening along its massive form and neck, each channel filled with sickly, pulsing yellow-green light. The creature's body undulates in a slow, eerie rhythm, accompanied by a relentless, suctioning sound that sends shivers down her spine.

Without meaning to, her vision shifts into a spectral view of auras. She hasn’t even closed her eyes, yet she now sees energy pulsing through the creature, coursing along those twisted channels and gathering ominously in its head.

“Ayase-san!” Okarun cries desperately, tugging at her arm. Her vision snaps back to normal as she turns toward him, one terrified red eye pleading silently for her to move. She allows herself to be pulled away.

Behind them, the sound of rushing water begins to swell. Okarun drags her into a random shop, pressing her beneath a register counter for cover. In the darkness, his remaining eye and the red markings on his face glow with an eerie light, a sight that, oddly, she finds somewhat comforting.

But the dull red glow soon gives way to a radioactive green that floods the entire area, momentarily blinding her.

Not even a second later, a violent cacophony erupts above them—debris explodes into the air, displays collapse in on themselves, and the space vibrates with the force of the impact.

A high-pitched, echoing screech pierces the chaos, harmonizing with the whine of the attack itself.

As the tumult subsides, they are left staring in mute horror at a ragged line cut into the wall before them, a jagged scar that practically bisects it.

If they hadn’t been crouched down…

She shudders, then freezes as the motion sends ripples across the water once more. They remain utterly still, risking not even a peep, as the slow, methodical sloshing of that thing’s movement gradually grows fainter.

It’s leaving them. For now.

After what feels like an eternity, she finally allows herself to breathe, gasping slightly as relief mingles with dread. Okarun has been holding his own breath for far too long, and she silently hopes he doesn’t notice.

With careful, measured steps, they emerge from their hiding spot. Their eyes remain fixed on the devastation around them, each ruined detail a reminder of the creature’s might.

That thing… what can she possibly do against it? The force of its attack makes her wonder if she’d even stand a chance if her powers were still as unlimited as when they first awakened.

Okarun looks worse for wear, though he’s far from the worst she’s seen him. It’s mostly his hair and face still stuck in his other state. He’s still staring at the ruined wall, yet his expression is tinged with a strange, contemplative calm.

“I— I think that thing was Nessie,” he ventures haltingly, his voice barely rising above a whisper. “Or maybe it’s Kamishie? Because we’re in Kamigoe…”

She almost lets out a laugh as that’s what gets him to return normal, as brown eyes turn towards her. “Though, I don’t think Nessie’s a good guy, Ayase-san,” he adds, his laugh now carrying a note of hysteria.

“No… I don’t think so,” she replies faintly.

“What do we do, Ayase-san?” He asks, his tone low and heavy with dread. “If it’s the same as before… I don’t think we can leave while… Nessie is still around.”

“Probably,” she agrees, glancing down at her feet. The cold has been creeping up. “The water level… it’s rising.”

“Yeah…” he murmurs, a trace of red tinting his eyes and the beginnings of those markings reappearing on his skin.

He’s scared. And she is too, but she forces herself to stand tall, to be brave despite the terror gripping her heart.

“I guess…” she starts softly, her voice wavering, then swallows hard and continues with more conviction, “I guess I just have to go defeat it.”

 

---

 

They both agree on one thing: the creature (Nessie!) seems to be tracking them by the sensing disturbances in the water.

Okarun, pulling from his wealth of cryptid knowledge, helpfully adds, “Large semi-aquatic creatures like that usually don’t have great eyesight—or even hearing.”

That should be reassuring. It isn’t.

The water keeps rising, now lapping at her knees. Every step is slow, difficult, impossible to take without sending ripples outward.

And still, in the distance, they hear it.

The shopping mall spans multiple floors, its vast, hollow corridors carrying the creature’s guttural sounds, stretching them into something otherworldly.

It’s Okarun who first notices the pattern. He leans in, eyes sharp with urgency.

“Ayase-san,” he murmurs. She clings to every syllable of her name like a lifeline.

“The noises… they’re too regular. I think it might not be able to launch that attack continuously.”

A pause. Then, carefully, he adds, “It… looked like a water beam. And it sounded like it was sucking water up before the attack. I think it has to replenish its supply.”

As if on cue, the noise rings out again. Okarun mumbles something under his breath, lips barely moving as he counts silently. They keep moving, slow and careful, each step sending ripples through the dark water despite their best efforts.

Then, the sound repeats.

Okarun stops abruptly.

“T-two minutes, I think,” he stammers, voice tight. “Between attacks. If it’s just firing at random whenever it can…”

Two minutes. That’s not very long. But she nods anyway.

“So I have two minutes to try and knock it out or something after it attacks?” she mutters, mostly to herself.

It sounds like a reasonable plan—if she ignores the fact that it would put her dangerously close to the creature while it was actively trying to kill them.

Judging by the look on Okarun’s face, he’s realized the same thing.

“I… I’ll distract it, Ayase-san,” he says, his voice steadier than she would have thought possible. “I’ll make some noise so it attacks me first while you get behind it.”

She wants to protest. No. That’s a stupid idea. I can’t let you take that risk.

But something stops her.

A small, anxious part of her wonders—would the attack even affect him? Could you hurt someone, kill someone, who’s already dead without… exorcising them?

The thought churns in her stomach, thick and heavy. She shoves it down, but guilt rises in its place, coiling in her chest.

She doesn’t want to risk finding out.

But what other choice do they have?

 

---

 

After climbing a set of stairs, the thunderous crash and high-pitched whine sound closer, too close. At the far end of the floor, they catch a flash of green.

Despite moving up a level, the water hasn’t receded. If anything, it’s higher now, swirling just below their waists.

Okarun gestures toward a map displayed on the wall, his finger tracing the corridors with a shaky urgency. He points out a way to flank the target, a pincer move.

She wants to tell him no. That it’s a stupid plan.

But it’s the only plan they have.

Unless… There is… another option.

If Okarun could repeat what he did against the sumo alien—

No.

She clenches her jaw. She can’t ask that of him. She can’t believe this is the better choice. But here they are.

He looks normal when she pulls him into a quick hug, murmuring, Good luck. But as he wades in the opposite direction, she catches something trailing in his wake, a hazy swirl of pink bleeding across the water’s surface, illuminated by the flickering fluorescent lights overhead.

She takes a deep breath. Then another.

And starts moving.

She has to get as close as possible without disturbing the water.

Easier said than done.

Her gaze flicks upward. The ceiling fixtures sag from years of neglect, their beams supporting banners and advertisements that dangle limply above the flooded floor.

An idea forms.

She reaches out with her mind, her psychic grip curling carefully around one of the thicker beams. Then, bracing herself, she pulls.

The sensation is… strange.

She knows she can barely lift her own body weight under normal circumstances, yet here, suspended above the water by her powers, it is almost effortless. A faint strain in her outstretched hand is the only resistance.

She reaches for the next beam, lets go of the first, and swings forward.

No splash. No ripples.

This will work.

She keeps moving.

 

---

 

She finds it faster than expected.

Moving this way, swinging above the water, is much quicker than wading through it. Almost too quick. She nearly swings straight into danger, panicking as she turns a corner and—it’s just there.

Another random burst of movement, another pulse of sickly green light, and the creature looms before her, though at least facing the other direction.

But their assumptions were right. Without the water, it doesn’t notice her at all.

Now, she just has to wait.

She doesn’t have to wait long.

A faint splashing sound reaches her ears. Okarun.

Carefully, she inches forward, just enough to peek around the corner. Nessie’s attention is locked in the opposite direction, exactly as they planned. The pulsing channels in its body are speeding up again, its head lowering, preparing to fire.

 

She scans the area. Where’s Okarun?

Is he already running? Finding a good place to hide? Her stomach tightens as she searches for his aura—only to spot him right there, barely concealed behind another corner.

Too close. Far too close.

She’s about to call out, to do something to divert Nessie’s attention—

Then, she sees his aura move.

The twin flames, shifting in the shape of a boy, make a quick, deliberate throwing motion.

Something small, pulsing with the faintest echo of his aura to her eyes, sails through the air and lands with a sharp, echoing splash.

Nessie’s head twitches toward the noise.

Okarun, you genius.

She keeps her eyes locked on his aura as he begins creeping away, high off the ground, moving soundlessly along overturned tables and counters to avoid disturbing the water.

For the first time, she thinks—this might actually work.

Its head jerks wildly as it unleashes its attack, the sound nearly overwhelming her, a deafening roar, a high-pitched whine that drowns out everything else. She has no idea how close Okarun is to the blast now, but there’s no time to check. She has to move.

The moment the light dies down, she swings herself forward, launching herself into range. She lands hard, crashing into the water, the impact sending ripples in every direction. No time to think. No time to hesitate.

Her psychic arms lash out, grasping at the broken debris littering the flooded mall, and she pelts it. Throws everything she has, shattered wood, broken tiles, jagged metal, again and again. It doesn’t even flinch. Its scaled hide shrugs off her assault, the impact barely registering. Up close, it’s so much bigger, a wall of shifting muscle and armored skin, towering over her.

What the hell is this thing made of?!

She doesn’t know how long she’s been attacking. It feels like an eternity. She’s managed to rough it up a little, a few scratches in its scales, but it doesn’t slow, doesn’t waver.

And then—she sees it. The light pulsing up its neck The telltale sound of water being siphoned up. It’s about to fire again.

She doesn’t have time to run. Water spills from its mouth, faster and faster, compressing into a thin, concentrated beam—a razor-sharp line of light, glowing like fiber optic wire. Its head begins to rise, locking onto her—

She acts on instinct. Grabs the biggest chunk of debris she can find—a massive slab of wall—yanks it into position with her dual psychic grip—and slams it into the creature’s skull. A desperate, last-ditch attempt to do something.

It doesn’t knock it out. But it does throw off its aim. The impact sends its head lurching sideways, and as the beam fires, its own momentum swings it wildly, slicing through the ceiling in a sweeping arc. Panels crash down, dust and shattered glass rain into the water, the mall groaning under the force of the blast.

She barely dodged that. But what now? She barely touched it, and she only has two minutes before the next attack—

A hand grabs her. She gasps—Okarun? When did he get behind her?!

Before she can react, he’s dragging her away, pulling her into another massive store. They weave through the aisles, Thinking quickly she begins sweeping the shelves clean behind them with her powers, sending boxes, mannequins, and display racks tumbling into the water, a chaotic mess of ripples and distractions for the thing.

They burst out on the other side. Just as she notices Okarun silently mouthing something to himself, he lunges, pulling her with the arm leading her under the water.

A split-second later, the beam slices through the air just above them.

They stay there, submerged, eyes locked on each other through the murky water. The muffled roar of the attack reverberates around them, distorted, distant—

And then silence.

She breaks the surface, gasping for breath.

 

---

 

They’re back to hiding in another store, crouched atop a set of counters just out of reach of the water, praying Nessie doesn’t wander by.

She takes a moment to appraise Okarun. At first glance, he looks okay—only faint traces of his other form lingering at the edges. Considering the situation, he might even be coping better than she is.

But then… she notices his sleeve. Or rather, what’s left of it.

His right sleeve is gone, raggedly torn away at the shoulder.

It must have at least grazed him, she thinks. But he doesn’t seem bothered. His arm is unmarred, unscathed. Unnaturally so.

Instead, he’s staring at her with concern. Then, his expression hardens into something closer to resolve.

“Ayase-san,” he says. It’s the first thing he’s said since she failed to bring it down. His voice is quiet, careful. “You… you managed to suppress the curse before. Could you do the opposite?”

She blinks at him, uncomprehending. The opposite?

What… strengthen it? Pull it out of him? That wretched red-and-black aura—the one they told him was a curse. Could she?

Her vision flickers.

For a brief moment, something shifts. Okarun’s whole form is off, lopsided. She’s never been able to see his actual outline before like she could most people. Not under the twin glow of his auras, the brightness obscuring everything beneath.

But now, staring at the space where his arm should be.

There’s nothing there. No aura, and nothing underneath.

No outline. Just… nothing.

A chill crawls down her spine. She wonders what would happen if she were to reach out and try to touch it. Though cold, he’s always felt solid to her…

Then her vision snaps back, and Okarun is there again, solid, real. Watching her with wide, pleading eyes.

The red aura was there, coiling in on itself and his cool blue in turn. Waiting to be used.

“I… I think so,” she whispers.

And the moment the words leave her mouth, she regrets saying them.

"Then do it. Bring the curse out," he pleads, his voice trembling with desperation. "I—I can fight too."

His form flickers, and she finds herself staring into a single wide crimson eye instead of deep brown ones.

"No," she whispers faintly. "I shouldn’t."

"I can't just stand here and watch you die," he rasps, his voice hoarse and wet. Blood gurgles from his lips as he speaks, and the water, now rising to above the counter they’re hiding on, starts to turn a murky red.

She is terrified. Not of him, nor even of the monster lurking outside (at least, not solely), but for him.

"I—what if I can't bring you back?" she murmurs, her voice quivering.

"That would be better than letting you face that thing alone," he replies, with nothing but raw sincerity and desperation. "I don't mind becoming that... that thing again if it means I can help protect you, Ayase-san."

That thing, she thinks faintly. She had been so careful to avoid mentioning exactly what happened to him during the last fight, how did he—

Before she can respond, a flood of sickly yellow-green light engulfs the space where they had taken refuge, accompanied by the sound of rushing water once more.

Shit, she thinks, panic rising. It looks like the attack is gearing up again—and they don’t have anywhere left to run.

Okarun must realise this as well. His eye widens further as he reaches out, cold, glistening fingers wrap around her outstretched hands in a silent plea.

"Ayase-san, please!" he begs once more.

The light grows even brighter, and a low whine replaces the sound of rushing water. She nods mutely and closes her eyes. In that moment, the moisture gathering in her eyes condenses, and a single hot tear trails down her cheek.

She looks at him. At twin burning flames in the lopsided shape of a boy—a soft blue and a raging red, almost in harmony, though the blue glows slightly brighter than the red.

Drawing on her inner strength, she reaches out and takes hold of the red flame with her power. And she pulls, forcing aside the overwhelming surge of fear, rage, and pain threatening to overwhelm her as she does so.

 

---

 

She’s forced to stop as brilliant green light floods the area, the whine of the attack nearly drowning out the sickening creaking and cracking coming from right beside her. Okarun is gasping, his voice slipping from strained moans into something more like a shriek.

It doesn’t matter, she thinks. She was too late.

But just as the water around her erupts, she’s suddenly jerked away, something thin and hard snatching her from the chaos and pulling her.

Far. Far away.

She doesn’t know how far they go, or even how they’re moving. They aren’t traveling through water anymore. It’s not until he finally slows—what feels like minutes later—that she realizes.

He’s been crawling along the walls.

They stop at a raised platform. A stage—probably meant for performances, she dimly thinks, tucked into the ruins of the flooded mall. Carefully, Okarun sets her down.

And now, she gets a good look at him.

He looks just like before. Too large. Too long. His limbs stretched unnaturally, too many joints bending in ways they shouldn’t. His hair is still that ghostly, billowing white, eerily unaffected by the dampness clinging to them both. His glasses catch the flickering fluorescent lights, obscuring his eyes—until he shifts.

He’s down to one again.

Twin red lines still run down his face.

And then—the maw.

She doesn’t know what else to call it. That thing dominating his face, filled with blunt, oversized teeth. But she knows what lurks inside.

Okarun doesn’t seem bothered by her staring. Instead, he shifts uncomfortably, his body twisting in ways that make her stomach churn, before something falls from his back with a soft thud.

His backpack.

He was still wearing it when he… changed.

It must have hurt, she thought. It would have been so tight on him after...

He holds it in one clawed hand, the bag looking almost comically small in his elongated fingers. With one oversized claw, he nudges the keychain dangling from the zipper—his claw bigger than the trinket itself. Then he makes a strange, layered chuffing sound before carefully placing the bag on the ground.

And then—he turns to her.

Hunched low. Staring.

Granny had told her a little, after Okarun left the night before, about what a real curse looks like. Bloodlust, she had said. A hunger to kill, to spread the curse to anything that came too close. Indiscriminate. Unstoppable.

But this…

Whatever this is…

It isn’t a curse.

“Okarun?” she asks carefully.

The thing’s face jerks unnaturally, snapping toward her. She can’t tell if there’s recognition in it.

“Okarun,” she tries again. “Are you… with me?”

It tilts its head.

She feels helpless. This thing saved her, but it’s not Okarun. Not right now.

She really, really wants him to be here with her.

It hadn’t tried to fight Nessie. It had run with her instead. If they want to escape, they actually have to defeat it. But she isn’t sure this… thing is capable of understanding that.

He got them out of danger—that was enough. Now, she reaches for the red aura again, but this time, instead of pulling it, she aims to stifle, to bring Okarun back. They’ll figure something out together.

She notices that the space where his arm was is filled in again, with swirling red and a hint of blue. Ignoring that, she quashes the "curse".

But almost immediately, he jerks away from her. A low, keening sound escapes his throat as he clutches his head, claws digging deep into his scalp. She abruptly cuts off, terrified she’s hurting him.

His motions halt all at once. Arms dropping slightly. His whole body shaking.

“Okarun?” she asks again, voice thin. He’s scaring her.

He freezes at his name, his single eye snapping toward her.

His mouth opens. Clack. Shuts. Clack. Opens again, stuttering, as if he’s trying to speak.

Then, slowly, one long arm reaches toward her—

Only to stop.

His hands hover in front of his face. One moves towards his ruined eye, fingers trembling as they almost touch the gouges.

His claws line up almost perfectly with the wound.

His shaking worsens.

His long claws hook downward, catching on his jaw.

And pull.

Nothing happens.

A ragged breath rattles from his throat. His other hand joins the first, both desperately grasping at his face, tearing at the gaping maw where his mouth should be. Claws sink in, leaving bleeding divots as they scrape against his own skin.

He’s trying to tear it off.

And he can’t.

His maw gapes open in reaction, and that only makes him panic more. His breath stutters, his body trembling as he manages to force out just one thing—

“Off. Get it off. Off, OFF, OFF OFF OFF—”

The dual voices are back, out of sync, layering panic and raw despair into his words.

She wanted to bring Okarun back, she thinks despairingly. But not like this.

But… as awful as it is, this might be what they need. First, though, she has to calm him down.

She reaches up, stretching onto her very tiptoes, and grabs his hands. Despite how much larger he is, her fingers easily encircle his thin, spindly wrists.

He freezes, his entire body locking up. His single eye, wild with terror, stares down at her.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Her voice is soft, steady, even as she forces down her own fear coiling in her stomach. “It’s just the curse. You’ll go back to normal after, okay? I can push the curse back.”

She swallows hard, willing herself to believe her own words.

“I just… I need your help to beat this thing first. Is that okay?”

For a long, breathless moment, she isn’t sure he understands. His massive mouth opens and closes a few more times, curling tendrils of black smoke spilling from the corners.

But then, slowly—he nods.

The motion is too big, exaggerated by the sheer size of his mouth.

She exhales.

“Okay,” she says. ”I have a plan.”

 

---

 

She clings tightly to Okarun’s back as he claws his way along the walls, moving much slower and more carefully than before—though with each step, he seems to be growing more confident.

Again, their plan doesn’t feel like a good one. But it’s all they have.

She managed to redirect its attack before. She can do it again. She has to. The moment she does, Okarun will jump in and go for its neck.

After what she saw him do to that sumo alien, she knows he can take down Nessie. It’s just all on her to give him that chance.

Of course, she had checked. Asked him if he thought he could attack like that. He didn’t answer directly—just opened his jaw, the motion almost unnatural, unhinging far too wide.

Inside, another set of sharper, gleaming teeth came into view, snapping together in an experimental motion.

The second set clacked shut almost immediately. And he nodded—silent, staring into space, his expression faraway.

She didn’t push.

They keep moving, the sound of distant sloshing echoing through the flooded corridors, faint green light flickering in the distance. The water is so deep now, she’s not even sure she’d be able to touch the bottom if she fell.

Okarun keeps crawling forward, his movements slow, deliberate.

But luck isn’t on their side. As they round a corner, they see it. And it sees them, happening to be looking in their exact direction.

Nessie shrieks, its massive glowing eyes locking onto Okarun. And then—their plan immediately falls apart.

The wall beneath Okarun melts into liquid. One second, he has a grip. The next—there’s nothing.

They plummet into the water.

Cold. Murky. Endless. She kicks wildly but can’t tell which way is up—there’s no floor beneath her, no surface above. Just water, stretching out in all directions like they’ve been swallowed whole. If it could do this… had this thing even been trying before? Or had it been toying with them?

Okarun reacts first. A split second under the surface, and he moves. Long limbs swipe and kick with frantic, clumsy force, propelling them through the water. He’s fast. Faster than she thought possible. But Nessie is there, looming like some vast, glowing phantom in the deep.

The space around them feels wrong—like they’ve been pulled into something else. An underwater cavern, an abyss, the mall long forgotten. Nessie glows in the darkness, its body twisting unnaturally, its pulsing veins of green light flickering like bioluminescent warnings.

It’s preparing another attack.

For a second, she’s sure they don’t stand a chance. Then—Okarun moves. He kicks off a submerged pillar, propelling them sideways just as Nessie fires.

A beam of light slices through the water where they had been moments before, tearing through the depths with terrifying precision. That might have worked once, but—

They’ve been underwater too long.

Her lungs burn. She needs to breathe. She beats her fists against Okarun’s back, but her movements are sluggish, weak. Ineffectual.

She needs air. Now.

It’s not until she can’t bear it any longer—until her lungs seize and she loses what little air she had left in a cascade of bubbles—that Okarun looks up, alarmed. His hesitates for a fraction of a second before he shoots to the surface, dragging her with him. She barely has time to take a few desperate, gasping breaths before he dives again, his jaw still clenched shut.

Nessie is already preparing another attack. Too fast. Fully submerged, it must be able to recharge quicker. They won’t get lucky again.

They need to end this. Now.

She throws herself from Okarun’s back, ignoring the startled burst of bubbles that escape from between his teeth. As soon as she’s free, she manifests her psychic arms and thrashes, stirring the water into chaos.

It works. Predictably, Nessie’s head snaps toward her, its mouth already gathering a swirling mote of green light. She has no time.

She lunges, grabbing hold of its thick, scaled neck and wrenching its head upward just as the blast fires.

The beam screams past her, redirected into the abyss above.

The force is unimaginable. Every muscle in her body strains, her psychic grip threatening to slip under the sheer recoil of its attack. It hurts—her arms, her core, everything burning from the effort.

But she has to hold on.

She has to give Okarun this chance.

Her vision darkens at the edges, but not before she sees a flash of red.

Okarun, streaming forward. His mouth unhinges, stretching far, far too wide—revealing the second set of jagged teeth inside, gleaming within an inky void.

She watches as those smaller teeth latch onto the creature’s outstretched neck. Thick green liquid bursts out, billowing into the surrounding water in sickly clouds.

And then—his outer jaw.

He isn’t just biting. He’s moving through it.

It takes her a second to understand, to register what she’s seeing. He’s literally tearing through Nessie’s neck, burrowing forward in relentless, jagged bites.

The attack has ceased now, its beam cut short, Nessie’s mouth too consumed with shrieking in agony. She barely has to hold on anymore. It’s weak, thrashing sluggishly.

But Okarun doesn’t stop.

She sees the gleam of his inner teeth still gnashing, ripping deeper, while his larger, flatter jaws shear through the flesh with ease.

Then—

A sickening crunch.

He’s halfway through. His jaws clamp down, his outer teeth finally meeting—and with a wet, gruesome snap, Nessie’s neck severs completely.

Instantly, the creature goes limp.

 

---

 

It’s done.

Nessie is dead. Its massive neck lies severed in two, the wound jagged and raw. The water that once threatened to consume them drains away into nothingness, leaving the two of them—her and the monstrous boy—left gasping on the wet floor.

Okarun has returned to her now that the deed is done. His spindly form hunches over her like a cage.

She doesn’t feel trapped, though.

That should be it, shouldn’t it? The space they’re in, this nightmarish, twisted reflection of reality, it should be collapsing. They should be free, back in the real world.

But they aren’t.

They’re still here.

For a brief, gut-wrenching moment, she wonders if she ever made it out of those earlier attacks at all. If this is where she’s been left to rot.

Okarun isn’t speaking. But he’s shifting, his body twisting at unnatural angles, his head jerking from side to side as he scans their surroundings. He seems… unsettled. Even after clawing some part of himself back from the thing he became, she’s not sure how much of Okarun is still in there.

And then, to her surprise, he does speak.

His mouth opens with a ragged hiss, a breath escaping in a plume of hazy steam.

“Another…” he rasps.

She stiffens. “Another?” she echoes, voice barely above a whisper.

Another what? Another monster? Another alien? The thought alone is enough to make her knees buckle. She’s barely holding herself up as it is, clutching Okarun’s outstretched arm for support.

She had been riding on this being the end. Killing that stupid dinosaur-thing was supposed to be it. The final step. The way out.

To hear that there might be another one—

It makes her despair.

It makes her furious.

It makes her tired.

Her body sags under the weight of it, and before she even realizes, tears are slipping down her face. She can’t tell what emotion they come from—grief? Frustration? Hopelessness? All of them at once?

And then, suddenly—

Okarun’s face fills her vision.

His body twists impossibly, his head jerking forward even as he remains crouched protectively around her. His mouth clacks open and shut, the clicking of bone and sinew unnatural, wrong. One spindly, clawed hand lifts slightly—hesitates—then lowers again.

She blinks up at him, dazed.

He’s worried about me.

That realization is enough to send a fresh wave of something unnameable through her.

Her hands tremble as she reaches out, fingertips brushing the one part of his face untouched by the horrific maw or gouged-out wounds—the cheek just below his good eye. Slowly, gently, she traces a small circle with her thumb.

And then she tries, desperately, to give him her most reassuring look.

She takes a deep breath.

Okay. There’s another one. They can deal with that.

But now that she’s calmed down a bit, she senses a presence. A tingling at the back of her neck, that unmistakable feeling of being watched. It’s something familiar, nudging at the edge of her mind.

Now that she’s aware of it, she can almost see it.

She closes her eyes and focuses.

There!

Above them, a small, pale blue aura hovers in the distance. Its shape is almost geometric—unnaturally perfect.

She’s encountered something like this before. She’s crushed auras like these, squeezed them out of existence beneath her metaphorical thumb.

A Serpoian. Hiding on the sidelines, watching.

Her vision sharpens, locking onto the flickering glow. She isn’t sure what she does next, she just knows that she’s furious. Even drained, she can feel her powers pulse, fueled by sheer exhaustion and burning rage.

But the momentary triumph costs her. Whatever strength she had left evaporates, leaving her swaying.

Long, thin fingers wrap around her shoulders, careful but firm—the only thing keeping her from collapsing.

Okarun lets out a sharp, hissing shriek. Panic, she thinks.

And suddenly—

It’s loud. There’s a sudden cacophony of voices around.

Far too loud. And blindingly bright. The dim area they were in is suddenly flooded with sunlight.

Her skull pounds, her vision darkens at the edges, her body tilts into the abyss of unconsciousness.

Somewhere in the chaos, she hears another sound.

A low, keening layered warble. Panicked. Despairing.

It’s the last thing she hears before she blacks out.

 

---

 

She drifts in and out of consciousness.

She's being carried, she thinks, as a soft, rhythmic motion, up and down, lulls her nearly into sleep. Yet when she dares to open her eyes, the ground appears impossibly far away.

The sight startles her, and she lurches into wakefulness. Her vision floods with searing light, triggering a sharp pain in her head. Whatever is supporting her seems to tighten ever so slightly.

What is carrying her? She strains to discern its form—something thin, knobbly, and long, crisscrossing on itself as if she were cradled inside a giant wicker basket.

Squinting to lessen the blinding glare, she notices something nestled beside her—a sodden bag, mirroring her own disheveled state. On its zipper, a glint catches the light: a keyring. A keyring of a little spaceship. The one she gave Okarun…

“Okarun!” she gasps out. Her voice is hoarse.

She struggles in place, scanning what she can see for any sign of her friend. Whatever is holding her tightens its grip, forcing her to look upward in indignation. Her breath catches as, for one horrifying second, all she sees is a macabre jawline lined with huge, blunt teeth.

Two overlapping voices pierce through her head like ice picks.

“A–Ayase-san?”

She shakes away the pain in her addled mind, straining to interpret the overlapping voice. Okarun. It’s Okarun—she had fallen unconscious and left him stuck as that thing.

Panic surges within her.

“Okarun, oh God, I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice trembling.

“S–sorry?” he warbles in that horrible, discordant tone, each syllable quivering.

She risks another glance upward. His maw tilts awkwardly to the side, revealing two reflective white discs aimed directly at her—eyes framed by faintly glowing red lines and hollow gouges. His flickering white hair appears almost translucent in the harsh light.

Swallowing hard, she murmurs, “Just wait… a second. I’ll fix it.”

“Ayase-san!?” the voice repeats, now edged with unmistakable worry despite the underlying hiss and distortion.

His head shifts, and through his glasses she now catches a glimpse of one eye—crimson and yellow gold—wide with concern as it looks down at her.

She’s weak (she's not sure she could even stand on her own right now) and yet she cannot bear the thought of leaving Okarun like that, not even for a second longer. With trembling determination, she closes her eyes and summons her spiritual sense.

It’s difficult; the sensation is sluggish and slow to respond. But gradually, his aura flares to life around her, a now familiar glow, red dominating blue just as she last saw it. At the very least the blue —Okarun himself— isn’t fading or flickering out of existence. It remains strong and steady.

In fact, the blue even appears a bit stronger than before, intermingled with the cursed red. But that doesn’t matter, the red is still dominant, and poor Okarun remains trapped in that terrible state. Steeling herself, she reaches out and grips the violent red aura just as she had done before, squeezing it gently, slowly. She forces her will into it, overcoming the fear and pain, even though every moment is more difficult than the last. Finally, it balances with his own aura once more, and she stops, gasping from the effort.

A ringing sound filled her ears. In an instant, her spiritual vision vanishes, and her actual sight begins to fade into darkness. At the same time, she feels a sudden lurch, as if the world has tilted beneath her. For one brief, disorienting second, she is weightless, until something significantly smaller and softer than what was holding her before grips her, gently laying her on the ground.

Though she can’t see a thing, she feels the chill of irregular, cold fingers clutching her wrist, and a worried, blessedly normal voice calling her name. Before she can fully process it, she slips back into nothingness once again.

 

---

 

When she wakes again, she’s lying on something soft. A blanket covers her, but the sensation is more suffocating than comforting—her clothes are still damp, clinging uncomfortably to her skin.

She blinks rapidly, trying to clear the fog from her head. The room is dim, shrouded in evening shadows. A weak sliver of light filters through the window, but it’s partially blocked by a figure standing motionless in the center of the room. It isn’t looking at her. Instead, it stares at something off to the side.

The silhouette is dark, its edges blurred by the failing light. But there, just barely, a flicker of red, a faint glow hovering around its head like an afterimage burned into her vision.

“Okarun?” she mumbles, voice hoarse.

The figure jerks, startled. It turns toward her, and for a moment, she catches another brief flash of red before it vanishes. There’s a rustling of fabric, but in the dim light, she can’t make out what he’s doing.

Then he’s beside her, kneeling at the bed’s edge in an instant.

“Ayase-san, are you okay?” His hands hover uncertainly, twitching as though he wants to touch her but isn’t sure if he should.

She winces as pain pulses behind her eyes. “Yeah. I think so.” Her voice is steadier this time, though the ache in her head makes everything feel distant, unreal. “What happened?”

Okarun opens his mouth, then shuts it again. His fingers twist anxiously into his sleeves before he finally stammers out an answer.

“I—I’m sorry, Ayase-san. After you fainted, I tried to get someone’s attention, but… but no one seemed to notice me while I was… like that.” He swallows. “So I carried you. I thought I could take you to a hospital, but then you woke up and—you used your powers to restrain the curse. Then you passed out again, but you seemed… okay? Otherwise? So I brought you here instead. I thought—I thought we shouldn’t draw attention to ourselves.”

He trails off, watching her anxiously, his deep brown eyes wide with worry.

She’s fairly sure he didn’t take a single breath the entire time he spoke. And despite the tension still coiled in her chest, despite the lingering echoes of fear and exhaustion, she can’t help it. She starts laughing.

Okarun looks utterly bewildered for a moment. Then, hesitantly, his lips twitch into a small, choked chuckle of his own.

Hearing him like that again, like himself, makes her heart lurch with relief. Without thinking, she reaches for him, pulling him into a hug.

She’s still wet, still uncomfortable, and the freezing shock of his touch only worsens that. But she doesn’t care. They made it out.

She buries her face in the crook of his shoulder. And just as she exhales, just as the weight of everything starts to settle, something flickers at the edge of her vision.

A glint. A reflection.

A flash of light, caught on the barest sliver of uncovered mirror on his wardrobe door.

Notes:

Notes.
-It's one fight, I think. How many words could it possibly be. 3k? 4?. Ha.
-I wasn’t sure how clearly it came across, but at the end while Momo was snoozing Okarun was staring at the mirror on his wardrobe, before hurredly pulling the sheet back over it (though not very well, evidently). I wonder what he saw!
-As well I didn’t want to describe it too much, as Momo would have been too far to make it out exactly, but Okarun threw his shoes (tied together for extra weight) to distract nessie. What a clever lad! They would have been wrecked in short order anyway haha.
-Oh hey! Okarun can swim in this. Neat. Wonder why
- Some more hints at ghost mechanics here! Something happened to him with Nessie… He got hurt before against flatwoods as well… but what did Momo actually see afterwards?

Chapter 6: Reprieve

They stay like that, embraced for what feels like a long time, though she knows it probably isn’t. It’s only when she can’t repress a shiver from the clammy wet clothes pressing to her skin (made worse by his proximity) that Okarun pulls back. His hands linger on her shoulders, fingers twitching slightly, as if reluctant to let go.

His eyes look… glassy.

“Y-you should have a shower to warm up, Ayase-san,” he stammers, voice uneven. “I… I’ll get you some clothes to change into.”

He breaks away from her entirely then, darting over to his wardrobe. If she isn’t mistaken there’s a sliver of hesitation as he opens the covered mirror door, but it blocks her view of him after.

Her fingers rise to ghost over her shoulder, tracing the spot where he had gripped her, the same hand and arm that had looked… gone from his aura earlier. It felt solid enough, just then.

She glances toward him. The wardrobe door is no barrier to her spiritual sight.

The shape of a boy moves beyond it, rifling through the hazy outlines of clothes. But this time, he’s whole. No missing void where his arm should be, only the twisting red and blue light filling the once-empty space.

And… now that she is really looking, really focusing—

She realizes that he is only the shape of a boy. His form is defined loosely by the entwined dual auras, but overall, he seems dimmed, his presence less opaque. The colors pulse and undulate, retreating at the edges before surging back, and she realizes—

There is no defined outline beneath it. Not just within his arm. There isn’t one anywhere.

Was that… true for all spirits?

She doesn’t know.

At last, he seems to settle on something, his aura gripping a shapeless lump suffused in faint blue. He closes the wardrobe door and turns to face her.

And she sees—

There, in the otherwise dense glow that makes up his head—

A void. Slightly off-center to his right, two-thirds of the way up.

Where his eye should be.

It’s as if an invisible force is repelling his aura from that spot, warping the otherwise erratic swirling motion into a perfect curve, bending around the absence rather than filling it in. A clean, untouched gap, like a hole punched through his very being.

She can see straight through him.

“Ayase-san?” His voice breaks through, laced with a hint of worry.

Her eyes fly open, and suddenly, she’s staring into twin brown irises once more.

“Sorry,” she says automatically, her voice hollow. “I’m just… a little frazzled still.”

His expression softens, his mouth twitching into a wry smile. The grip on the clothes he’s holding (baggy sportswear, she can see now) tightens slightly.

“Yeah… me too,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

 

---

 

The air in the bathroom is still humid, clinging to her skin, a lingering trace of what she assumes was Okarun’s shower. She has no idea how long she was unconscious, but it couldn’t have been too long.

The mirrored doors of the bathroom cabinet remain thrown open. Had they been moved? She can’t tell.

The shower is a blessed relief, both for washing away the grime and for chasing out the deep-seated cold that had settled in her bones.

And for distracting her from what she just saw. Not that she’s sure exactly what that was.

His eye… it wasn’t like that before. She’s sure of it. She might not have understood the significance of his dual-colored aura back at school, but she would have noticed a void like that.

She doesn’t know what it means.

But she feels like they’re running out of time.

There’s nothing in the shower but a bottle of cheap men’s body wash and store-brand shampoo. She uses generous amounts of both, sending a mental apology to Okarun.

Though, a morbid thought manages to creep in, that he wouldn’t be needing either of them soon. She purges that line of thought from her mind with a blast of scalding hot water.

She scrubs, and scrubs, and scrubs.

Until her skin turns raw and pink. Until the phantom sensation of freezing, murky water creeping up her legs finally fades. Until she can no longer feel the frigid grip of spindly, emaciated fingers curling around her body.

Until she can’t feel the stickiness between her fingers—stickiness that she’s not sure is real or imagined.

At times, the water spiraling down the drain looks pink. She convinces herself it must be from her own wounds, though she can’t quite remember getting cut.

 

---

 

Okarun isn’t in his bedroom when she steps out of the shower, feeling at least slightly better than before. Instead, she finds him on his couch in the small living area, the TV on but barely audible. The room feels slightly chilled, coming in from the heat of the shower.

He’s staring ahead at the TV, elbows on his knees, though she gets the impression he’s not really paying attention. In fact, he seems lost in his own world, not really reacting as she quietly enters the room.

As she approaches, she notices his fingers pressing against his left eye, shoving his glasses slightly upward. His expression is somewhat blank, though his lips are pressed into a thin, worried line.

He still doesn’t seem to have noticed her.

“Okarun?” she asks tentatively.

His hand drops immediately, and he jerks toward her like a startled cat. For the briefest moment, she swears she sees a flash of red.

He visibly swallows, his eyes darting around the room before settling back on her.

“Was the shower okay?” he asks awkwardly.

“Yeah,” she says, sighing in contentment. “I really needed that. Thanks.”

She means for it to be reassuring, but he only winces.

“I’m sorry for leaving you like that,” he says, looking genuinely guilty. “It must’ve been uncomfortable, but… I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You’re fine, dude,” she says easily, brushing it off as she moves to join him. There’s barely enough space for both of them on the tiny couch, their legs pressing together as she settles in.

He hesitates, then shifts slightly. “It… it’s pretty late, Ayase-san. I’ll walk you home.”

She hesitates too, torn between the need to see her grandmother and the want to stay with him. Hopefully, she can do both.

“Yes,” she says, making her decision. “Do you have a phone I could use?”

His expression falters—another flash of guilt. “Oh! Sorry, I should’ve offered.”

She instantly regrets asking as he scrambles to his feet, moving quickly to a small cabinet. He rummages through it before returning with an old, wireless handset from a house phone. It’s dusty, the buttons slightly yellowed with age.

“I’ll, uh… give you some privacy,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

He backs out of the room quietly.

She watches him go before turning her attention to the phone, wiping away the dust with the sleeve of her borrowed sweatshirt. Then, with hands far less steady than she’d like, she dials the only number she’s ever bothered to memorize. Her home phone.

The phone barely rings once before Granny picks up, her voice tight with strain.

“Momo?”

She feels her throat tighten, emotions catching for a moment before she manages to respond.

“Yeah. It’s me, Granny.”

“I was expecting you back ages ago. Is everything okay?”

What a loaded question.

She exhales, choosing her words carefully. “You were right. We were attacked again.”

A sharp inhale on the other end. “Shit. Are you and Four-Eyes okay?”

“Yeah. We… Okarun and I managed to take it down.” She hesitates, fingers curling around the handset. “But… there was one of those aliens there. The ones who abducted me.”

Silence stretches for a beat before Granny’s voice returns, lower, edged with worry.

“Where are you?”

“I’m at Okarun’s place. He carried me back here afterward.”

She doesn’t mention why exactly she needed to be carried.

She hears Granny sigh, a mixture of relief and residual tension. “Okay. Good. Head home now, you must be starving.”

“I’m not leaving Okarun alone right now,” she argues, voice firm. “Granny, this house… it isn’t good for him.”

She can practically hear the eye roll on the other end. “You think I’ve just been sittin’ on my ass all day? I meant both of you. He can stay the night. Just wait at the gate before entering the property.”

Momo lets out a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding. “Okay. Thanks, Granny. I love you.”

“I love you too, Momo. See you soon.”

The call ends with a soft click. She stares at the phone for a second, the weight of the conversation settling in her chest before she turns and heads toward Okarun’s room.

She finds him sitting on the floor, carefully pulling things out of his still-soaked backpack. The moment she opens the door, he looks up, eyes flicking to her face.

“Ah—is everything okay?”

“Yep.” She holds out the phone as she approaches. “And Granny says you can stay over at our place tonight. Rather than walk back by yourself in the dark.”

She pauses, only just realizing—she didn’t even ask if he wanted to stay.

What if he doesn’t?

“If you want to,” she tacks on quickly.

“Yes! Please!” he blurts out, then immediately turns red, his mouth opening and closing as he splutters, trying to backtrack. “I-I mean, if, if that’s okay! I would really like that.”

Well. Guess that settled that, then.

 

---

 

He busies himself with packing a few essentials into an older, slightly battered-looking backpack, his usual one still sodden and practically useless. She watches idly from the bed, arms loosely wrapped around her knees, until he hesitates, stopping mid-motion to glance at her.

“Um… will it just be for one night, or…?”

There’s a hopeful note in his voice that he doesn’t quite manage to hide.

She exhales softly. “I think it’ll be a few, at least,” she hedges. Granny didn’t say that, but she’d fight her on it if need be.

And truthfully, she’d rather Okarun not come back to this apartment at all.

For a second, his face brightens before he nods, adding a school uniform to the bag, along with a few other sets of clothes. He moves with more certainty now, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a small pouch, slipping it inside along with a few bottles of what looks like liquid.

Finally, he carefully unclips the keyring she gave him, attaches it to the backpack currently in use, and secures it in place.

“I’m good to go, Ayase-san,” he says, flashing her a cheery smile. “Let’s get you home.”

 

---

 

They set out together.

It’s late afternoon now, the sun beginning its slow descent, casting long shadows across the quiet residential streets around his apartment. The air carries the lingering warmth of the day, but there’s an underlying coolness creeping in, a sign that night isn’t far off.

She walks beside him, trying to think of what to say. They should talk about it, right? But she doesn’t want to push, doesn’t want to force him to remember something she’d rather he didn’t.

To her surprise, it’s Okarun who breaks the silence.

“That’s the third time you’ve been attacked by aliens, Ayase-san.” he says, staring ahead.

She grimaces. Not how she would have preferred to start this conversation.

“Yeah,” she says, because there’s no point denying it. “One of those bastards that abducted me—a Serpoian, or whatever, was hiding up top, I think. He ran away.”

Okarun nods slowly. “Yeah… I could sort of tell there was something else there…” He hesitates, biting his lip before looking at her plainly. “Ayase-san, they might come after you again.”

She doesn’t want to think about that. Not now.

“Maybe,” she admits. “Or maybe they’ll get the message this time.”

“I hope so,” he says, though he doesn’t sound convinced.

The conversation trails off into an awkward silence. He’s still biting his lip, gaze slightly unfocused, like there’s something else on his mind.

She watches him for a moment before speaking.

“Something up, Okarun?”

“Ayase-san…” he starts, hesitation thick in his voice. She braces herself for the worst.

Only for him to completely subvert her expectations.

“I—I can’t believe I killed Nessie.”

She stares at him for a second before an incredulous bark of laughter escapes her.

“Don’t laugh!” he cries, looking genuinely distressed. “What if that was the only one? What if I made Nessie go extinct?”

Gods. He’s serious. One hand clutches the back of his head, the other gesturing wildly.

“That’s what you’re worried about?” she scoffs. “Then good! Nessie was an asshole!”

But her amusement fades as she realizes this is a good opportunity to ask.

“So… you, um… you remember being transformed? This time?”

His comically devastated expression shifts, the mood dampening as he realizes the conversation is turning serious.

“Yeah…” His brows furrow slightly. “Not at first. It’s kinda fuzzy how we got away from it together. But after you… did something, I think? I remember after that.”

She nods. “Are you okay? You were kind of…” horrifying, grotesque, nightmarish. “Freaky like that.”

This time, he’s the one that barks out a laugh.

“You don’t have to downplay it for me, Ayase-san,” he says wryly before rotating his jaw a few times, one hand rubbing at it absently.

“It was weird. I just… knew how to move, how to fight. Like it was instinctual.”

She hums. “I’m glad,” she admits quietly. “I would’ve been dead without you.”

“I would’ve been screwed without you too, I think.” He pauses, tilting his head slightly. “We make a good team?”

“Hell yeah.”

A brief pause.

“Thank you,” he says, quieter now. “For bringing me back. It… wasn’t pleasant, being… like that.”

She exhales, a knot forming in her chest.

For a moment, she wants to say something, something that acknowledges the weight of what he’s saying. But instead, she settles for:

“Thanks for bringing me back to your place.”

It’s deflection, and they both know it.

He makes a vague sound of acknowledgment but doesn’t push. The words settle between them, stretching into silence, thick and uncertain.

Then—

“I think I remember being cursed,” he says suddenly, his voice cutting through the stillness.

“Yeah?” she asks carefully, trying to keep her tone steady despite the way her heart hammers in her chest.

“It… was similar to being transformed.”

She holds his gaze, refusing to look away, even as the edges of his form begin to bleed red.

“My fingers were too long,” he continues, voice tight. “And there was something stuck to my face, and I—”

He cuts off abruptly, his expression twisting with distress. The streetlights cast his hair in streaks of crimson.

His right hand starts to rise toward his face, but he stops halfway, fingers twitching before slowly lowering again. 

The evening chill is starting to set in.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I don’t remember much else. Not even what actually did it.”

As his gaze lifts from the ground to meet hers, his eye burns red once more.

“I know that’s the useful part.” he finishes morosely.

The thick silence returns between them—until an audible drip hits the dirt path beneath them.

His step stutters at the sound.

“That’s okay,” she says gently, reaching for his ruined hand. She gives it a light squeeze, rubbing small, reassuring circles over the back of it with her thumb, ignoring the way his blood smears beneath her touch.

“Granny will help figure it out,” she says, trying to sound comforting.

“Yeah,” he replies with a small, tired smile. A thin line of blood slides from the corner of his mouth as his lips curve. “Ayase-san, could you tell me more about spirits and stuff? It got cut short yesterday.”

Relief blooms from inside her at the change in topic.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “Yeah, I can do that.”

And she dives right in, recounting the old legends her Granny told her as a child—stories she once dismissed as nothing more than fairytales but can now see in a new light.

Okarun listens intently, smiling and nodding along. She keeps talking, letting the steady rhythm of her voice drown out any other sounds.

She doesn’t notice exactly when he goes back to normal.

 

---

 

As they walk and chat, a natural pause settles into the conversation. Both drift into their own thoughts, letting the quiet stretch between them. She doesn’t particularly like where hers are headed, though, so she turns back to Okarun, ready to pull the conversation back on track.

Only, he’s staring into the distance, gaze unfocused, as if his mind is a million miles away. He’s still walking, but his steps are stiff, almost mechanical.

She leans forward, tilting toward him playfully, waving a hand to his right get his attention. She opens her mouth, ready to tease him for spacing out—

But he doesn’t react.

A prickle of unease creeps up her spine. She slows, then stops. He keeps walking.

Now she’s actually concerned. Taking a few quick steps to catch up, she sidesteps a puddle and moves to his other side, waving her hand again, more deliberately this time.

His reaction is immediate. His eyes snap to her, and a sheepish, slightly guilty smile tugs at his lips. He lifts a hand, absently tugging at a lock of hair.

“Ah, sorry, Ayase-san,” he says, his voice light but just a little offbeat. “I was lost in thought. What were you saying?”

 

---

 

They pause just outside the torii gate of her home. It’s now solidly evening now, and the air is still. A quick glance using her spirit vision confirms what she already suspected, the property’s ward is still reacting violently to Okarun’s presence, swirling like an unseen storm around the threshold, as if trying to reach him. His own red aura flaring in response.

At her hesitation, he eyes her suspiciously.

“You’re not gonna make me do that good luck ritual again, are you?” he asks, resigned.

“’Fraid so,” she says, grinning. It’ll be a good excuse to fetch Granny.

She’s about to explain it again when he lets out a long-suffering sigh, only to immediately assume the pose.

Her grin widens. He remembered.

She turns to rush into the house to get Granny before he finishes, but she doesn’t even make it past the porch. She’s already striding toward them.

“Taking up yoga, Four-Eyes?” she calls as she crosses the gate.

His eyes fly open at the sound of her voice, his stance faltering.

“So you did make it up!” he accuses, shooting her a mock glare.

She gets ready to defend herself but Granny beats her to it.

“Take off your shirt.”

He blinks. “…Huh?”

Granny exhales, rolling her eyes as if he’s the one being unreasonable. “Just do it, kid.”

She watches as his face twists in reluctant confusion before he sends her a helpless look. As a show of good faith, she spins around, giving him privacy.

She hears the shuffle of fabric, followed by the sound of… paper?

Before she can stop herself, she turns back.

Okarun stands there, shirt half-off, looking deeply confused. A paper talisman is stuck squarely to his chest. The intricate design is slightly different from the one attached to the torii gate.

“Don’t take that off,” Granny says plainly. “I’m serious. It’ll help with the curse.”

Momo is immediately suspicious.

She closes her eyes and her vision flips to spirit sight—and she sees immediately that the talisman does nothing to the so-called curse. The red and blue still coil together in a delicate balance, unchanged.

But the house wards? They’ve stopped reacting to him.

He’s safe to enter.

She pointedly avoids looking at the hole in his being, still lingering in the space where his eye should be.

When she blinks back to normal sight, Okarun is already yanking his t-shirt and hoodie back on, his face slightly pink.

 

---

 

She knows she should probably have changed out of Okarun’s clothes the moment she got home, but for some reason, she just… hasn’t.

It’s late, and she’s starving. She fills Granny in on the details of their encounter while sitting cross-legged on the countertop, recounting everything as her grandmother cooks.

Granny doesn’t even scold her for it. Usually, she’d get a sharp "Get your ass off there, Momo"—but not tonight.

Okarun sits nearby, properly kneeling on the tatami mat, interjecting every now and then but mostly content to listen. His presence is quiet, and it occasionally looks like he’s lost in thought again.

Dinner is simple, just packet-mixed curry. But as the rich, familiar scent fills the space, she feels some of the tension unravel from her shoulders.

It’s not long before she and Okarun are setting up the low table together, moving in easy silence.

“Neh, Okarun, catch!” She calls, tossing a drink his way with low, underhand lob.

He reacts instantly, jerking back as if she just threw a live grenade. His hands cup together in an awkward attempt to catch it, only for the drink to plummet comically short and hit the ground with a dull thud.

Silence. Then, his face flushes pink, creeping up from his neck to his ears, and he presses his lips into a thin, tight line.

Good! He should be embarrassed. That was a perfect throw. He’s the one who fumbled it!

 

---

 

In what feels like no time at all, dinner is ready.

Granny starts to serve Okarun another tiny portion, only for him to nervously pipe up, “Uh—actually, I’ve got a bit more of an appetite today?”

She watches as Granny arches a brow before piling a lot more onto his plate. “Growing boy and all,” she says offhandedly, but when Okarun turns away, cradling his plate like it’s a rare treasure, Momo catches the brief flash of confusion on Granny’s face.

She doesn’t bring attention to it.

Instead, she hungrily takes her own heaping plate. Apparently, slogging through waist-high water and burning through her powers takes a lot out of her.

Both she and Okarun dig in with enthusiasm, eating like they haven’t had a proper meal in days. When Okarun goes to open the can of juice she threw at him earlier, she bursts out laughing as it immediately fizzes over, spilling down his fingers in sticky trails.

For a moment, everything feels normal. Warm. Easy.

She wishes she could have a dinner like this every night for the rest of her life.

But all too soon, the plates empty, the easy, mindless chatter fades, and there’s a shift in Granny’s expression.

“So,” she says, setting her chopsticks down. “I did some digging today.”

Unconscionably she finds herself straightening.

“I think I know what cursed ya, kid,” Granny continues, voice heavy. “But I don’t wanna say until I’m sure.” Her gaze darkens. “If I’m right… it’s real nasty. You’ve done good not to be overtaken by the curse.”

Momo glances at Okarun. She expects relief—maybe even some excitement at making progress, or at least the anticipation of getting his camera back. But instead, he looks… concerned.

“The plan’s still to head out together tomorrow,” Granny says, pushing forward. “I need to actually scope out the spirit to figure out our next steps.”

That was always the plan. But after everything that happened today, her stomach twists at the thought of Okarun coming with them.

He remembered something today, the moment he was cursed.

What if going back made him remember more? Just a few more seconds…

Before she can voice her unease, Okarun speaks up, voice surprisingly firm.

“I’m grateful for the help, Seiko-san,” he says. “But you shouldn’t focus on my problems when Ayase-san is being attacked like this.”

What? She thinks. All this, and he’s worried about her?

Granny exhales sharply, giving him a flat look. “You’ve got a good heart, kid, but the curse can’t wait.” She leans back, crossing her arms. “And besides, we don’t exactly have any leads on Momo’s situation right now. Worry about yourself, Four-Eyes.”

He nods, but Momo can tell—he’s not convinced. His shoulders are still tight, his gaze still lingering on her, like he’s waiting for her to push back, to say something.

Her heart aches.

He’s going through so much—more than he even realizes. And yet, he’s still thinking about her.

She forces a grin and reaches across the table, giving his hand a firm squeeze.

“Hey, c’mon. If any more of those bastards come after me, we’ll just beat them back again, yeah?”

His eyes flick to hers, uncertain.

“We make a good team, right?”

For a moment, there’s hesitation. And then, finally, his fingers curl around hers, squeezing back.

“…Right,” he says.

Granny pushes back from the table, gathering the plates with a sigh. “Head to bed soon, kids,” she says, voice lighter now. “It’ll be an early start—we’ll want to be there when the sun’s at its highest.”

She watches Okarun’s expression carefully as he finally lets go of her hand.

She doesn’t know if either of them are ready for what tomorrow will bring.

 

---

 

It was indeed late by the time their meal ended.

Granny doesn’t say anything as she takes the futon out of the storage closet and heads to her own room, rather than the guest one.

Okarun does look slightly confused, but fortunately doesn’t say anything either.

She exhales, pushing down the unease curling in her gut. After setting the futon down on the floor next to her bed, she turns to him. “Get comfy,” she says. “I just need to talk to Granny for a few minutes. I’ll be back soon.”

He gives her a wan smile. “Take your time.”

She nods, but her mind is already elsewhere. She heads back downstairs to talk to Granny, to address something that’s been twisting in her gut all evening.

 

---

 

“Granny,” she says the moment they step into the yard, well out of earshot of Okarun. “Is… is this really a good idea? For him to go there? He already started remembering some things today…”

“Don’t think we got much of a choice, I’m afraid.” Granny says grimly.

Her stomach knots. “What do you mean?”

Granny exhales, rubbing the back of her neck. “Well, I don’t like the idea of you being left alone right now, Momo.” Her voice is firm, but there’s an edge of concern beneath it. “I don’t know if I believe in aliens yet, but something’s after you. And he’s been protecting you.”

“Then leave us both behind!”

Granny shakes her head. “The location’s outside my territory. I could use the backup too. We’ll go during the day, so we shouldn’t be attacked outside the tunnel, but still—better safe than sorry.”

Momo swallows hard. Right… Granny had mentioned that before, when she was catching up on the supernatural world over the past week. Her powers were tied to the god of the land around Kamigoe City—outside of it, she was weaker.

“And it’ll be easier for me to figure out exactly what’s up with his curse if he’s there,” Granny adds.

Momo bites her lip. Still…

“The way you described it, he was pretty eager to go back himself, yeah? This way, you can keep him from seeing anything… too telling.” Granny’s voice lowers slightly, and her expression softens. “I’ll go on ahead and find his resting place. Don’t worry.”

Momo lets out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The thought of seeing that—of him seeing that—

A shiver that has nothing to do with the cool night air runs down her spine.

Granny is chewing her lip now, looking like she’s debating something. Then, with a quiet sigh, her shoulders slump slightly, and she speaks again.

“And… I’d rather keep an eye on him at this point.”

“Huh?” She blinks. “I—I told you. He’s not dangerous. He’s saved me twice now!”

Granny only nods “And believe me, that’s the only reason I haven’t just exorcised him and been done with it.”

Her breath catches. “You—what?”

Granny exhales sharply, before reaching into a pocket for a cigarette, lighting it before continuing. “Momo, I spent a good chunk of today asking every medium and psychic I know if they’ve ever heard of a spirit that could affect the physical world as strongly as he can.”

She falters. “I… what?” she says. A broken record, at this point.

“Not a single one had.” Granny’s voice is grim. “Spirits just aren’t that strong. It’s only when they become yokai that they gain that kind of physicality—but at a cost. They’re never the same afterwards. You understand?”

She doesn’t. Not really. She feels lost.

Granny watches her closely, then sighs, the tension in her face shifting into something tired.

“Momo, you learned about Schrödinger’s cat in school yet?”

The apparent non-sequitur throws her.

She hesitates. “…I think so? Something about a cat in a box, and it’s, like, alive and dead at the same time until you open it?”

Granny shrugs. “Eh, close enough. Restless spirits are kinda like that.”

She takes a slow drag of her cigarette before continuing. “There’s two main outcomes. They either pass on peacefully… or they fall victim to their emotions and turn into yokai.”

She taps the ash from her cigarette, voice measured.

“You don’t know which one it’s gonna be until you open the box—by addressing what’s keeping them around directly,” she continues. “Or by the spirit realizing it’s dead.”

Momo swallows. She knows this. That doesn’t mean she likes it.

But where the hell is Granny going with this?

“Well,” she asks shakily, grasping at straws. “What happens if you just… never open the box? He—the spirit—wouldn’t pass on or become a yokai, right?”

Granny exhales slowly, the weight of the question settling between them.

“Then the spirit would fade away into nothing but a remnant,” she says. “You see them sometimes, clustered together in graveyards and abandoned places. Wandering, empty. It’s honestly a fate worse than the other two options. A complete loss of self—no afterlife, no rebirth. Just… gone.”

She gets the message. That would be even crueler. Not that it was ever truly an option, he was bound to figure it out soon.

Still, she can’t stop the choked hiccup that escapes her, nor the way tears gather at the corners of her eyes, blurring the dim glow of the lights lining the path outside.

“Momo,” Granny says, and she’s using that tone again, “Spirits aren’t meant to stick around. They’re transient. Impermanent.”

She stands frozen, fists clenched at her sides, trying—failing—to keep her composure. A single tear escapes, rolling down her cheek.

“But that’s all how it works for spirits,” Granny continues, exhaling a slow plume of smoke into the cold night air.

Then, she turns. Looks her directly in the eye. Her gaze is steely.

“The problem is…” And her voice drops,“I don’t know what that kid is.”

A beat of silence.

“So who knows that the hell will happen when we open that box.”

 

---

 

Her Granny leaves her with that harrowing thought, pulling her into a soft hug before heading back inside. No judgment, no suggestion of what she should do. Just quiet reassurance that, whatever it was, Granny would help her.

She wishes someone would tell her what to do.

She lingers outside in the night air a little longer. The chill is sharp, but it doesn’t bite as much as it usually would. Maybe she’s getting used to the cold.

When she finally returns to her room, Okarun is already changed and sitting in his futon, set up closer to her bed than strictly necessary, given the space. His back rests against the frame, a magazine in his hands.

She blinks at the familiar cover—the one she bought him earlier.

It takes her a second to process that it even survived.

She must look as surprised as she feels, because he lifts it with a pleased grin. “The plastic wrapping held up, thankfully.”

It’s late, and she’s exhausted. But instead of crawling into bed, she drags her beanbag over and drops into it, leaning into his space.

“Talk me through it,” she says without preamble.

And so he does. His voice starts hesitant, stuttering, but steadies as his nerves give way to enthusiasm. She isn’t really listening, not to the words, anyway.

She just relishes in the sound of his voice.

Sleep drags her down, her body pressing into the softness of his sleepwear, his frigid aura dulled to a calming chill.

What feels like only a moment later, she stirs, just barely aware of her surroundings. She’s in bed now, comforter tucked snugly around her.

 

---

 

Later that night, Momo dreams again.

She dreams of being cornered. She’s trapped by those gray walls that surrounded them during their fights. A featureless box with no escape

Shadowed figures pulse and shift, their forms bleeding together, coiling and unraveling like smoke. The only thing she can make out are glimpses of Serpoian features—undefined, half-formed, vanishing as soon as they appear. She calls on her powers, but they don’t answer. A dead weight settles in her chest. She stumbles backward, step after step, until the wall meets her spine.

There’s nowhere left to go.

She shuts her eyes.

The world erupts in sound. A layered, inhuman screech drills into her skull, twin voices shrieking over each other in dissonance. Metal wrenches apart. Flesh splits wetly. When she dares to look, Okarun is there, his cursed, gangling frame looming.

There’s a hole in his head, where his eye should be. She can see the night sky through it.

He moves toward her, just as before. His jaw distends, stretching impossibly wide, revealing glistening needles suspended in an abyssal maw.

But this time, he halts.

Dangling from those inner razor-sharp fangs, swaying in the infinite black void of his jaw, is a keyring.

Momo’s breath stutters. Her arm trembles as she reaches forward, fingers barely brushing the cold metal. She unhooks it, pulls back. The instant she is clear, the mouth slams shut with a wet, visceral snap.

Okarun does not speak. He only extends a shattered hand, fingers grotesquely bent, skin split like cracked porcelain. He takes the keyring delicately from her grasp, almost reverent, then lifts his hands toward his jaw, twisted fingers gripping the seam between it and his sickly skin.

And he pulls.

He pulls and pulls, a sound like tearing sinew filling the space. He wails as his own fingers claw at his face, the gouges marring his features splitting further, deeper, until the ruin of him is almost unrecognizable.

And beneath the wails, barely audible through the cacophony of pain, Momo can almost make out…

“Help”

Her hands shake as she reaches up, fingers brushing against the hard edge of his mouth—where unnatural smoothness meets ruined skin. The sensation is wrong, too seamless, But still, she grips.

And she pulls too.

Something resists, a terrible pressure holding everything in place, but she doesn’t stop.

Brilliant spectral teal fingers rise from the dark, illuminating the space, and casting Okarun into even sharper relief. They coil around him before settling around his maw, joining their efforts.

Together, they tug.

And tug.

Until, at last, it pulls free, dissolving into wisps of red in their hands.

And underneath… there is nothing.

Nothing but a yawning void. A Stygian abyss without end. And then red. So much red. Splashed, dripping, spreading—

She blinks.

And suddenly, Okarun is there.

Her Okarun.

Warm brown eyes meet hers. His face is whole, unmarked. The keyring dangles loosely from whole unblemished fingers.

A sob breaks from her throat. She lurches forward, grasping for him.

He’s warm.

But as his arms slowly begin to wrap around her, the warmth vanishes. The air drops to a biting chill. The skin beneath her hands turns to ice.

She doesn’t care. It’s still Okarun. He’s still there.

From the corner of her eye, she sees a slow, crimson trickle crawling down the back of his neck.

Her breath hitches. She closes her eyes.

The scent of copper thickens in the air. Her grip around him grows slick. She tightens it.

The dampness spreads. Her clothes grow heavy, clinging to her skin, saturated with something cold, something sticky. He shifts and cold metal brushes against her bare arm, leaving a wet streak.

She still doesn’t let go.

"Ayase-san…"

The whisper ghosts against her neck, barely there. His voice gurgles. Behind them, the gray walls of the strange other space fall away.

“Am I…—”

She wakes with a gasp.

Her chest heaves, breath shuddering. Tears sting her eyes. Her arms are empty.

Notes:

Notes
-I realised I hadn’t actually said what eye was busted before haha. I've written it as right eye now, but it really doesn't matter, and there has been wonderful fanart of both, so imagine it however you want <3.
-(Pretty much) a title drop! Woo!
-Man what’s going on with Okarun this chapter? He seems to having a lot of thoughts.
-I've got a full plan for the ending now, I think we're looking at 12-14 chapters total! (and with some bonus followups, probably :3)

Chapter 7: Excursion

Notes:

I am bound to write what the brainworms tell me to, so this fic is updated twice in a row! But Guide will be next up of my WIPs <3.

She doesn’t really get back to sleep after waking. Not properly. Instead, she drifts in and out of a restless haze, thoughts looping endlessly as the first hints of sunrise filter through her curtains, painting the room in hazy pinks.

She needs to check on Okarun. The worry that he might simply be gone when she rolls over to look lingers in the back of her mind, but now it’s joined by something just as unsettling. What if he’s still there, but not as himself? What if she looks over the edge and finds something twisted, something even more warped than his cursed form?

She steels herself and peeks over the edge.

But no. He’s there, lying on his futon, head tilted slightly to the side, soft black curls fanning out around him. His glasses are missing, and it throws her for a moment. There’s something strange about his face without them, something unfamiliar. Her brain, sluggish with exhaustion, tricks her into expecting bloodied skin and ruined features, but it’s just him.

For some reason, that’s comforting. Even when he isn’t thinking about it, even when he isn’t conscious, his body still defaults to being himself. She hopes that means something.

He’s resting peacefully. A little too peacefully.

He isn’t breathing.

A fresh wave of fear crawls up her spine, coiling tight in her stomach. What if he simply stops? What if he’s just a lifeless doll left behind to mock her? But then, he shifts, murmurs something too soft to make out. The tension in her chest eases, if only slightly.

He must only pretend to breathe while awake, she realizes. A detail she hadn’t noticed before. One more thing to add to the ever-growing pile of reminders that something isn’t quite right with him.

He’s bound to figure it out sooner or later.

She just hopes they make progress today.

 

---

 

Her alarm finally goes off, just as she thinks there’s a chance she might actually drift off again.

Okarun is soon sitting up, rubbing his palms over his eyes beneath his glasses.

She doesn’t remember seeing him put them on.

His hands slide down his face, fingers ghosting over his jaw as if feeling it out, before finally dropping to his lap. He catches her looking, now that his face is uncovered.

“Good morning, Ayase-san,” he says, and he sounds almost surprised.

They prepare for the day with light inconsequential conversation and head downstairs together, where Granny is already preparing breakfast.

Okarun accepts a small bowl of rice and miso soup this time, and says nothing further. He seems to have lost his appetite again. She still can’t tell if there’s a pattern to it, if he eats only when he truly needs to or if he’s simply forcing it down to be polite.

She doesn’t have much of an appetite herself, but she finishes her meal anyway. It seems... disrespectful not to.

The silence stretches between them, neither saying much, but she catches him stealing glances at her. Always when she’s trying to do the same.

Granny doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe she just doesn’t care to, keeping her eyes pointedly on the morning news.

She looks up again just in time to catch him looking again, cheeks puffed up from a bite of rice he’s been chewing for far too long.

She puffs out her own cheeks out in response, offering a playful smile.

His eyes widen slightly. Then, with a hasty swallow, his face flushes pink.

Grinning, she nudges him with her shoulder.

There’s a pause, hesitation—then he nudges her back.

It escalates quickly. A shove. A counter shove. Before long, they’re leaning into each other with all their might, evenly matched in their silent battle for dominance.

Finally, Granny sighs and waves them off with a lazy flick of her wrist.

“Oi, no fooling around at the table.”

But she’s smiling, too.

They freeze, both refusing to look each other in the eye.

Somehow their shoulders stay touching for the rest of the meal.

 

---

 

Momo is surprised to see that Granny has rented a car for the day’s excursion.

When she was younger, she used to grumble and moan about their lack of one, especially with how far out they lived from town. Every complaint was met with the same dismissive wave and a lecture about how cars were unnecessary, how she should have more care for the environment, and how the long walk into town was good for her.

So to see Granny slip into the driver’s seat so nonchalantly now feels almost surreal.

Though, as she glances at Okarun, she realizes the reason. It’s not for her benefit. Navigating public transport with him right now would be… difficult.

Okarun stands a little off to the side, looking unsure, shifting his weight like he isn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He’s moved the keychain to one of the plastic loops on his backpack strap and is idly fiddling with it, thumb tracing over the edges.

She doesn’t say anything. She can’t tease him for it. She’s still wearing the earrings, even though they kind of clash with her current outfit.

“Guests first!” she announces instead, throwing a grandiose flourish toward the car.

He hesitates for a second, then, with a small nod, heads to the right-side door, settling in behind Granny.

Momo shrugs and slides into the other side.

“Seatbelts on, kiddos?” Granny calls over her shoulder as she shuts the door.

“Yes, ma’am,” Okarun replies dutifully, pulling the strap across his chest in one smooth motion.

She groans. “We’re seventeen, Granny.”

Granny just snorts, putting the car into gear as she pulls out of the yard.

Momo barely notices, instead second guessing her statement. She had just assumed. Was Okarun seventeen?

It was possible, likely, even, that he was born later in the school year and hadn’t even reached that milestone yet.

He didn’t say anything to contradict her though…

She knows so little about him…

 

---

 

They drive through the countryside, the dirt road winding through stretches of open fields and dense clusters of trees.

She barely glances at the scenery to her left. She’s walked these roads a thousand times, seen the same backdrop under morning light, midday heat, and dusk’s fading glow. It’s nothing new.

Instead, she watches Okarun.

His head is tilted toward the window, more so than she would have thought necessary, if he was just looking at the landscape. It’s almost like he's pointedly facing away from her.

But that doesn’t seem like something he’d do.

One of his hands rests in the space between them, fingers curled loosely.

She thinks about how little time they might have left together. If things go to plan… or if they don’t. Either way, the thought sits like a weight on her chest, pressing down harder with every passing second.

She can’t bear to waste even a moment.

Without thinking too hard about it, without even looking, she reaches out, just barely, and overlaps her pinky with his.

He recoils.

His fingers jerk away, and before she can react, his shaky hand comes up, adjusting his glasses in a stiff, hurried motion.

“S-sorry, Ayase-san,” he mumbles, barely sparing her a glance.

A cold pit forms in her stomach. She’s ruined it.

Maybe she overstepped, made him uncomfortable. Maybe she shouldn’t have reached out at all.

But then she catches it, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch slightly. The faint dusting of pink creeping up his face.

He isn’t upset.

He’s embarrassed.

From what she’s seen… he probably isn’t used to being touched. The thought sends another pang through her chest.

“It’s okay. You’re worrying too much,” she says softly, offering a small, reassuring smile.

He doesn’t look convinced, his fingers twitching slightly before withdrawing.

She hesitates, then carefully chooses her words.

“Could you leave your hand there?” she asks, voice quieter now. “I’m feeling a bit nervous, and it would help.”

It’s not even a lie.

He exhales, eyes flickering toward her before dropping to where their hands had been. A pause.

“…Okay,” he murmurs, hesitantly.

His fingers return to the space between them, only slightly shaky. He glances at her, then looks away, adjusting his glasses with his free hand.

She looks away too, letting her fingers begin to dance over his own.

She taps out a nonsensical pattern across his knuckles, slow and deliberate, relishing the feel of smooth, unbroken skin. She takes her time, memorizing him through touch.

There’s no callus on his middle finger… He must be right-handed.

His cuticles are ragged and torn… He doesn’t care much for skincare.

His fingernails are uneven at the ends… He probably bites them.

His fingers are long and thin for a boy’s… He would have been good with his hands…

She drinks in every detail.

If she doesn’t, who will?

He’s still cold, but the car is warm and stuffy in the morning sun, so she doesn’t mind.

“Ayase-san, is this some sort of game?” he asks reproachfully, glancing down. “I don’t know the rules.”

“I dunno what you’re talking about,” she says lightly, though she lets her feather-light exploration of his hands cease, instead resting her own hand carefully over his.

She feels his fingers stiffen slightly beneath her touch, then, slowly, they relax.

Neither of them says anything for the rest of the drive.

But she doesn’t feel like she’s missing out on anything.

 

---

 

Granny pulls into an abandoned parking lot, partway up the mountain that borders Shono City. The asphalt is cracked, weeds growing unchecked through the gaps, as if the earth itself is slowly reclaiming it.

Ahead, a decrepit road snakes upward, half-swallowed by creeping undergrowth.

She knows where it leads.

The sun hangs high in the sky, but the air feels too still, as if the mountain itself is holding its breath.

“From here on, follow my instructions exactly,” Granny says as she ducks under a rusted road blockade.

No teasing, no complaints. Not this time. Momo nods, sensing the weight in her voice.

Okarun stands beside her, staring at the road ahead, his expression carefully neutral.

He looks… uncomfortable. But that’s it.

Should he be having more of a reaction?

A cold prickle runs down her spine, but she shakes it off. Instead, she nudges his side with her hip and, before she can second-guess herself, takes his hand in hers.

His fingers twitch slightly in surprise. He shoots her a questioning look, but—

He doesn’t pull away.

She twirls a lock of hair around her free hand, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze.

“I’m still nervous,”

A pause.

Then, his thumb brushes against the back of her hand, tracing slow, reassuring circles.

“Me too,” he admits, with a shy smile.

But then he smiles. A small smile, shy, but still a smile.

Their hands stay clasped as they follow Granny up the road, into the waiting silence of the mountain.

 

---

 

Momo can’t help but notice how certain Granny seems about where they’re going.

When she had first explained her ability to see auras, Granny had looked genuinely surprised. But now, watching her, Momo realizes, Granny has her own way of perceiving things.

Every so often, she pauses, forming that now familiar loop with her fingers, slowly scanning the area. Momo doesn’t ask what she sees. She doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t care to repeat the motion and look for herself.

Still, doubt creeps in. The tunnel should just be at the end of the road, shouldn’t it? What exactly is she searching for?

Then Granny stops.

This time, she isn’t scanning ahead, she’s looking down.

Her fingers form their loop, peering through them as she stares off the side of the road, past the crumbling barrier that drops into the dense forest below.

She follows her gaze, unease tightening in her chest. She has an inkling now, of what Granny was searching for.

And she has a feeling that she found it.

 

---

 

They quicken their pace after that, Granny no longer pausing to scan the area. Though she still glances around occasionally, at one point hesitating at an otherwise unremarkable patch of land before pressing on.

It doesn’t take long before they crest a hill and spot the entrance to the tunnel in the distance. A crumbling retaining wall borders it, but the darkness within is absolute.

Despite the bright sun overhead, the tunnel's mouth is a gaping void.

Granny extends an arm, stopping them before they get any closer. She doesn’t want to go any closer, if she’s being honest.

“This the place, Four-Eyes?” she asks, gruff, but not unkind.

Okarun doesn’t answer. He stares ahead, unfocused, his expression distant.

Their hands are still clasped. She gives his a gentle squeeze, then nudges him with her shoulder. The touch seems to ground him. He exhales, blinking, and finally speaks.

“Yes. I was… on top of the tunnel, I think.”

Where he watched her bring down a spaceship.

“And… it started raining.”

She remembers now—the storm clouds in the distance when she hurried home that day.

“So I ducked into the tunnel to try and wait it out…”

It wasn’t just blood she saw in those brief glimpses when they first touched. It was raining. He never got the chance to wait it out.

Okarun presses his lips into a thin line.

“That’s as far as I can remember,” he mutters, looking away.

He’s lying.

She knows he remembers more—at least the moment he was cursed.

But she doesn’t call him on it. Instead, her grandmother gives him a small, careful nod, then lifts a hand, motioning for them to stay put.

“Momo,” her grandmother warns, voice low and serious, “don’t do anything here. We don’t want to wake her up.”

She swallows hard. “Okay,” she says, voice small.

Even now, with the sun high in the sky, she feels it—a presence. The air is wrong, carrying a chill that doesn’t belong under the bright sun.

Is it her powers that let her sense it? Or would anyone feel the same dread, standing where she is right now?

Did he feel it too, standing before the tunnel that day? Looking up at the rapidly darkening sky? Did he decide to go in anyway?

Her grandmother walks ahead to stand before them, shrouded in her cloak, positioned in front of the tunnel's gaping entrance. Momo can’t see her face, but she doesn’t need to, she can tell from the stiff set of her shoulders, the way she holds herself, that she’s tense.

“Ma… what dense spiritual power,” Granny murmurs, voice barely audible.

She pivots sharply, striding back to them, before gently taking Okarun by the shoulders, turning him so he’s positioned between her and the tunnel. With practiced precision, she forms the loop with her fingers once more, peering at the tunnel as if looking through him.

Her lips press into a thin line.

“Yep,” she finally says, straightening. “It’s Turbo Granny that cursed you, kid. No doubt about it. That same spiritual energy in you is seeping out of that tunnel.”

“Turbo Granny?” Okarun repeats incredulously.

Granny acts as though she doesn’t hear him, her gaze already shifting back toward the tunnel’s yawning darkness.

“But it’s worse than that,” she continues. “If it were just her, this wouldn’t be as much of a problem. But there’s something else.”

She turns to Momo, eyes sharp.

“You feel it, don’t you? That tunnel—it belongs to something. A location-bound spirit. Or more like a collection of them. Spirits that have lost themselves, unable to move on, binding themselves to a specific place where they are strongest.”

She exhales, leaning back slightly against her bat.

“And Turbo Granny’s gone and fused with it.”

Fused? That can’t be good. So what, they aren’t just dealing with one yokai anymore, but two?

Okarun beats her to the punch, asking the question already forming in her mind.

“What does that mean, exactly?” His voice is quiet, gaze locked on the tunnel, eyes distant. “That they fused?”

Granny’s expression darkens.

“Means we got a hell of a fight ahead of us,” she says grimly. “We’re gonna need to prepare. Our best chance is to lure them out of their territory. And for that, we need a plan.”

She takes one last glance at the tunnel, then nods to herself.

“I got what I needed from here. No reason to stick around.”

She turns back to Okarun.

“Kid, you dropped your stuff, yeah? I’ve got a feeling it’s further down the path. Momo, you help him look for it. I need to check something nearby.”

With nothing more than a final glance, Granny turns and walks away, leaving the tunnel behind.

As they make their way back down the road, Momo can’t shake the feeling of unseen eyes on her. The air feels heavier. She resists the urge to look over her shoulder.

 

---

 

Granny leads them back down the road, back to that seemingly unremarkable spot where she had hesitated earlier. She stops there again, scanning the area with narrowed eyes before nodding to herself.

“I’ve got a good feeling about Four-Eye’s things being around here,” she declares.

But before she leaves, she places a firm hand on Momo’s shoulder and gently steers her a few steps away, lowering her voice to a whisper.

“Don’t leave this area, Momo,” her grandmother warns, her tone grave. “I’m just going to confirm where his resting place is. I’ll be back soon, and then we can get out of here.”

She nods, but balks at the wording.

Resting place.

As if he’s getting anything close to rest.

Her grandmother exhales, her grip tightening ever so slightly. “Even this far out…” she mutters, almost to herself.

Before she can ask what she means by that, Granny gives her a final, careful thump on the shoulder, a quiet reassurance, then turns and starts picking her way down a slope, moving with measured caution. The trees and undergrowth seem to swallow her almost instantly, her dark cloak blending into the gloom.

And just like that, she and Okarun are alone.

She glances at him. He hasn’t said a word since the tunnel. He’s standing stiffly, staring at the ground as if he might fall straight through it.

A shiver crawls up her spine.

They need to focus.

She exhales, forcing a smile, trying to inject some lightness into her voice. “Well, we better start looking. Can’t leave without getting your photos back, right?”

Okarun doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze lingers on the ground, distant, as if he’s still somewhere else entirely.

She swallows, then adds, a little too quickly, a little too desperately—

“I can’t wait to see them published.”

That gets a reaction. His eyes flick up, and there’s a spark of recognition, of purpose.

“Oh… yeah,” he says, his voice lighter, almost hopeful. “Let’s start searching.”

 

---

 

They spend a while on their hands and knees, combing through the tangled undergrowth, pushing aside leaves and branches. But no matter how carefully they search, they come up empty.

“I can’t remember exactly where I dropped it…” Okarun mutters, his shoulders slumping as he kneels in the dirt. “This might take all day.”

He sounds so defeated, like he’s already given up.

Something tightens in her chest.

She can’t stand seeing him like this. Not after everything. She’s desperate to do this one thing for him.

He had talked about that UAP photo so much, about submitting it to magazines, about proving something. If she could at least get this one thing for him…

A thought strikes her.

All objects have auras.

When he had been digging through his wardrobe for clothes to loan her, every piece had been bathed in an echo of his calm blue aura.

She closes her eyes.

The world around her shifts into something else. Every blade of grass, every grain of dirt, every stone glows in muted hues, soft washes of grey, brown, green, all of them dull, blending into one another But blue? Blue was pretty rare in nature, maybe it would stand out?

She searches for it, something soft, azure, the shade of a cool stream, deceptively steady on the surface but rushing underneath. That’s what Okarun blue area felt like to her, calm, tranquil, but carrying an unseen force just beneath.

It felt like the antithesis of the red aura (“the curse” as they called it when they lied to his face) twisting within him. That first time she had tried to suppress it, she had nearly drowned in it—fear, rage, pain all crashing over her at once.

Thought the second time it had been… easier. She had been so weak, she barely noticed at the time, but it hadn’t been nearly so overwhelming. Fear and pain and a hint of rage all still there, but muted, somewhat.

And now… Her gaze flicks to Okarun’s hunched form, to the unconstrained shapes of arms searching through dense foliage. The two flame-like auras, red and blue, wind together like tangled threads, so inextricably fused that she can’t tell where one begins and the other ends.

Were they that entwined a few days ago?

He’s brighter, than he was yesterday. She can see why she hadn’t noticed the lack of anything underneath before.

There’s still a void where his eye should be.

She shakes her head, pushing the thought aside. The camera. They were looking for his camera, and his other things.

She scans the surrounding area, searching for any trace of that calm brilliant blue…

And there!

Just a little farther down the path, half-swallowed by the ruddy earth, she spots it. A faint shimmer of blue, so subtle, so nearly lost in the dirt and debris that it would have gone unnoticed, if she hadn’t spent the last few days familiarizing herself with it.

She flicks a quick glance at Okarun. He’s still at the side of the road, pushing aside thick bushes, oblivious.

She moves toward it, carefully. The closer she gets, the more the objects take shape, their distinct forms emerging from surrounding haze. As she approaches they stand out, even in normal vision. They might not have taken long to find them regardless.

The largest of the blue-tinged objects is a bike, lying on its side in the dirt. It looks roughly discarded, one of the wheels bent at an awkward angle, as if it had been thrown. Okarun hadn’t mentioned a bike, but maybe he hadn’t thought it important. Maybe he had been more concerned about something else.

Like his camera.

There it is. A retro-looking thing, sitting right there on the ground next to a small bag that must have once held it. Despite being exposed to the elements, it looks mostly intact.

She hopes the rain hasn’t harmed it.

The way it’s positioned, it must have been in the bag right up until he… until something made him drop it. That was good. That meant it wasn’t out when—

She shakes her head, cutting the thought off. Focus.

There’s a old ratty messenger bag too. She kneels beside it, gingerly opening the flap. Inside, she finds a stack of ruined notebooks, their pages fused together, ink bleeding out in smudged, ghostly streaks.

And a phone. Not just any phone, an old flip phone, one with actual buttons. It looks ancient compared to the sleek rectangles everyone carries now.

She hesitates.

Then, despite guilt gnawing at her, she flips it open.

The screen flickers weakly to life. Low battery.

And no messages.

Her throat tightens.

Swallowing against the burn in her chest, she carefully folds the phone shut and tucks it back into the bag.

Something still feels wrong. The unease gnaws at her, prickling at the edges of her senses like static. She closes her eyes, drawing in a slow breath, and lets her aura sense stretch outward, searching.

She’s glad she does.

A short distance away, something else glows with an even stronger blue echo than the rest.

A pair of glasses, only a few steps away.

She risks another glance toward Okarun. He’s still farther up the road, focused, digging through the underbrush.

With shaking hands, she reaches down and picks them up.

They’re broken.

The thin metal frame is twisted, the wire around one lens snapped, leaving a jagged, sharp edge. One of the lenses is cracked, barely holding together, fractured lines running through it like spiderwebs.

There are dull brown smears on the nose pads. Streaks of it across the right lens.

A shudder wracks through her. Her fingers tighten around the glasses. For a moment, she just kneels there, gripping them so hard the edges dig into her palm.

Then, before her hands can betray her by shaking any harder, she shoves them deep into her pocket.

Okarun doesn’t need to see them.

She casts another look around the area.

She’s not sure what she expects. More signs of a struggle? Blood?

But it’s rained several times in the past week. If there was ever evidence of what happened here, the rain has long since washed it away. No torn fabric snagged on branches. No footprints sunken into the mud.

Nothing remains except traces of memory locked inside the victim himself, and the fragmented glimpses she saw when they touched.

A deep, hollow grief grips her.

He fought so hard. And now… there’s just nothing.

No proof. No remnants. No sign that anything even happened.

If she hadn’t run into him, would anyone ever have known?

She chokes back a sob, looking again at the discarded items scattered by the derelict road, half-buried by mud and rain. A bike, a camera, a bag.

That’s all that’s left of him.

That, and a resting place at the bottom of an overgrown cliff.

A chill creeps up her spine. Would he have ever been found?

The thought sends a fresh wave of melancholy washing over her, thick and suffocating. Her throat tightens, tears pricking at the edges of her vision. She blinks rapidly, trying to force them back.

This isn’t the time.

And more than that, it’s a miracle Okarun hasn’t remembered anything since being brought back here. She can’t risk breaking that fragile barrier. She can’t risk upsetting him.

So she steadies herself, swallows down the ache, and breathes.

She looks again, desperate now. There has to be something. Some undeniable, physical sign that something terrible happened here.

But no, there isn’t a sign. Not in the way she expected. Instead, there is an absence.

Just beyond the spot where she found his glasses, a gap in the foliage, subtle, almost imperceptible, but there. A break in the dense greenery, a narrow passage leading off the edge of the road towards the steep drop. A path carved not by nature, but by something, or someone, forcing their way through.

She doesn’t go any closer. Her stomach twists.

Instead, she takes a moment to steady herself, to force air into her lungs. There’s nothing else in the pile of belongings that’s… incriminating.

And then, finally, she calls him over. Forcing excitement onto her face.

Okarun stumbles toward her, his own excitement barely contained.

The moment his eyes land on the camera, his whole body goes tense. He exhales shakily, dropping to his knees as his long fingers scramble to pick it up. He turns it over, inspecting every inch, every surface, before expertly popping open the compartment to check the film inside. His shoulders sag in visible relief. He babbles slightly, but she can’t make out the words, exactly.

He looks almost like he’s going to cry

She watches, relieved to see him so happy.

But her mind also wanders.

They’re far down the road from the tunnel. A long way down.

She’d read about Turbo Granny online. Every site, every forum, every warning said the same thing. If you see her, don’t run.

And if you do run?

You can’t let her catch you.

Or you’ll be cursed.

She can picture it too clearly.

He must have run for a while, panic driving his legs, before scrambling onto his bike, pedaling frantically down the mountain. His chest burning, breath ragged, adrenaline the only thing keeping him moving.

But Turbo Granny is said to run at 100 km/h.

She knows Okarun by now. He’s not some world-class athlete. He couldn’t have outrun her. Not for long enough to make it this far.

She could have caught him so easily.

But she didn’t.

She toyed with him.

 

---

 

She’s startled out of her thoughts by a choked sound from Okarun.

Her heart stutters. For a split second, she panics, hands already reaching out, bracing for the worst—

But then she sees his face, see’s that he’s smiling.

“I’m so glad,” he breathes, voice thick with emotion. “I thought for sure it’d be broken, or lost, but it’s here, and the film’s okay, and I—”

His words cut off again, his throat tightening as he struggles to hold back tears.

She doesn’t hesitate. She shuffles forward, wrapping him in another hug.

This time, when tears prick at the corners of her eyes, they’re different. Not from grief or fear, but from relief. From happiness.

Happiness that something, anything, has finally gone his way.

She can’t wait to see the pictures.

Okarun pulls away first, quickly rubbing his sleeve over his eyes. Oddly, only his left eye seems damp.

“Sorry for getting emotional over something so silly,” he mumbles, voice still shaky.

“Hey, it’s okay!” she grins, nudging his shoulder. “I’m really glad for you, Okarun.”

He sniffs, but a small, sheepish smile tugs at his lips. “Did anything else survive?”

She hands him the messenger bag, watching as he rifles through it. He grimaces at the sodden mass of notebooks, lifting them with two fingers like they might disintegrate on contact. But his face brightens when he spots his old flip phone.

Even more when he sees that it actually turns on.

He flips it open, scrolling through the dim screen. His expression doesn’t change as he notes the lack of anything other than a few old app notifications. A long pause. Then, silently, he snaps it shut and slips it into his pocket.

“Even my phone is okay,” he murmurs, though there’s none of the excitement from before.

Momo watches him carefully, still smiling. “I’m really glad, Okarun,” she says, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze.

That earns her a real smile, possibly the brightest one she’s seen since the arcade.

“Is that everything?” he asks, scanning the area.

Then his eyes land on his bike.

He freezes.

His brows knit together, confusion flickering across his face.

“My bike?” His voice is quiet, uncertain. “I thought… it had been stolen.” His gaze drifts to the bent wheel, the way it sits half-buried in the dirt. His fingers tighten around the strap of his bag, around the keyring. “If it’s here… then how did I—”

Shit. She knew something would eventually throw him off. She scrambles to cut him off before the thought can set in.

“Looks like it’s a bit busted!” she blurts out, forcing a lighthearted laugh. “But it’s just the wheel! Granny knows someone who can fix it up. I was always wrecking my bike on the dirt paths around the house.”

For a moment, his brows furrow deeper. She tries to suppress a shiver. It’s cooled down, suddenly.

But, after a beat, he lets it go.

“Oh… that’s good,” he says faintly.

She doesn’t waste the chance. She jumps up, grabbing the bike and lifting it slightly off the bad wheel, eager, desperate, for a change of subject.

As if by divine intervention, her grandmother chooses that exact moment to walk back into view.

“Got your stuff, kid?” she asks, voice calm, expression unreadable.

Okarun straightens, nodding quickly, a bright, almost too-bright nod. “Yeah!”

Granny’s lips twitch slightly in approval.

“Then let’s go,” she says, glancing at the sky. “The sun’s starting to dip, and we don’t want to spend a second here longer than we have to.”

 

---

 

Before they head out, Okarun busies himself, carefully stashing his camera and the remains of his messenger bag away, while Granny crouches beside his bike, trying to beat the bent wheel into a more manageable shape.

Momo isn’t paying attention to either of them.

Her gaze drifts upward, drawn toward the tunnel.

She tells herself it’s just curiosity. Just caution. But there’s been a prickle at the edge of her senses this entire time, a creeping unease that hasn’t faded, no matter how much she tries to ignore it. It’s probably her imagination—probably.

But what if it’s not?

What if she takes a look, just a quick one, with her spiritual sense?

She’s done it before. She had sensed the Serpoian when it was hiding, even though it was so far above them. Maybe she could do the same here. Just a quick glance. Just enough to get a sense of what they’re up against before they leave.

She closes her eyes.

It’s easy. Too easy. Now that she knows she can do it, it takes no effort at all.

In the middle distance, down and to the side, a speck of light blue catches in the corner of her mental eye.

She tears her vision away before she can focus on it. Instead, she locks on the tunnel. And only the tunnel.

In it, a miasma of reds and black.

She inhales sharply, her pulse spiking. So much. A thick, writhing mass, chaotic and wrong, shifting like storm clouds in the dark. But as she keeps looking, the haze sharpens, details surfacing from the roiling void.

She remembers, suddenly, a childhood memory, Granny melting down her used crayons to form new ones. Reds, pinks, maroons, all bleeding together in swirling patterns, an intoxicating blend of color. If she squinted, she could almost see the shade it would become.

The aura inside the tunnel. It reminds her of that.

She watches, mesmerized.

Deeper. Deeper.

A dull rush fills her ears, like waves crashing in the distance. Someone might be speaking. A hand might be on her arm. She doesn’t register it.

There’s structure within the haze. Two distinct auras. One a fragmented amalgamation, the other a single, condensed presence.

She’s freezing.

She looks closer.

Both have shapes, thick, blurred outlines, not as sharply defined as a human body, but constrained within something. Their edges fluctuate, shifting with the ebb and flow of their power.

It’s more than Okarun has, right now.

The larger one, the convergence of swirling pinks and maroons, is massive. Bulky.

Crab?

Granny once told her that some lost spirits take the form of freshwater crabs… to cross the Sanzu River.

But this one isn’t crossing. It’s waiting.

The second aura is smaller. Denser. A hunched-over figure.

Turbo Granny.

She knows it’s her before she even fully registers the shape. The red seething within that aura, it’s the same red, the same black, that has latched onto Okarun’s calm blue.

Only here, in its source, it’s so much stronger.

Momo feels it now, bleeding into her own mind—fear, rage, hate.

And pain.

She wants to pull away. Knows she should.

But she’s drowning in it.

The power, it’s so deep…

She keeps looking. Deeper.

And deeper.

Something shakes her. Cold hands gripping her shoulders. A voice, frantic. But she can’t stop staring.

Her pulse pounds, her vision narrowing, the tunnel pulling her in—

Until suddenly, the old crone looks back.

 

---

 

She snaps back to reality with a gasp of breath, normal vision overwhelming her senses. Okarun is in front of her, hands on her shoulders. Her Grandmother stands to the side, hand outstretched, except…

Her Granny is just standing there, glazed eyes staring straight ahead as if caught in a trance. A slow trickle of blood slips down from her nose, stark against her skin.

A voice slithers out of the void.

Old. Deep. Feminine—like a crone.

Cruel.

“Little punk,” it sneers.

She freezes.

That voice. The same one from the vision. From her dream.

The air around them shifts, the surrounding light snuffed out as if something enormous has settled over them, pressing down with an unseen, crushing weight.

She can’t breathe.

The edges of her vision blur—black and red, creeping in like decay. Something warm trails down her face—her nose? Her ears? She doesn’t know.

Somewhere, distantly, she hears Okarun’s strangled voice.

“Ayase-san.”

She jolts, snapping toward him.

He looks terrified. His mangled body trembles, his twisted fingers clutching her blood smeared arms like a lifeline.

“That voice,” he chokes out, his breath ragged, “it’s—”

“It’s rude to peek into someone’s home and not knock, you know” the voice drawls, almost bored.

Something peels into existence, like it’s stretching itself out of the very fabric of reality

A shape unfurls from the void. Red, leathery, monstrous.

The form of a crone, grotesquely elongated, towering over her despite seeming coiled inward, pressing close enough that Momo feels trapped, even standing in the middle of an open road.

She can’t move.

Its brittle white hair fans outward like a mane, moving as if caught in an unseen current. The skeletal length of its face, if it could even be called that, stretches into an endless rictus grin, and endless row of too flat teeth packed tightly into a mouth that should not exist.

A bulbous, webbed yellow eye, the sickly color of pus, lurches into focus.

It fixes on her. Unblinking. Leering.

Then, in a voice laced with mockery—

“I would have even invited you in.”

Despite everything, despite the sheer terror twisting his features, despite the way he shakes like a leaf in a storm, despite the tears streaking down one side of his face, Okarun moves.

He steps in front of her.

Raises a trembling arm.

As if he could block it.

The thing’s eye jerks, its grotesque gaze snapping to him with a sick, wet swivel.

Then, with something disturbingly close to glee, it speaks again.

“Unlike this little thief.”

Notes:

Notes
- Ah the cute finger playing in the car, though a touch more awkward because they aren’t quite as close as the canon equivalent, hehe.
- They were a bit more flippant going back to the tunnel (even when actually go to fight) in canon but well, in this au TG literlly killed Okarun, so I reckon that kills some Momo’s vibe. Momo has been having pretty bad vibes this whole week, really.
- Odd difference between the manga and anime, in the anime it looks pretty clear Okarun gets caught in the tunnel, but in the manga he makes it all the way out and onto his bike, and at least away enough to pick up some speed on his bike! How cruel of her!
- I realized Okarun has ended up with a few bags in this fic, 2 backpacks and a messenger bag. If anyone asks he has older ones that a bit ripped up and ratty from being bullied that he uses as spares . Just don’t worry about it too much, he has a few differnt ones in canon too, to be fair.
- Okarun was pretty hyped to get his camera back! I think with everything going on he would have sort of latched onto that. Everything sucks but at least I’ll still get this one thing back. Despite everything he still loves the occult and aliens, and he has lefit UAP photos on that! It means a lot to him. Man hopefylly he wasn't like, repressing everything else and just focussing on getting that back or something. That would be bad. Though, he has more important things to worry about right now.

Chapter 8: Foray

Notes:

I mentioned in some comments the last cliffhanger was the nicer of two, see if you can guess where the original cliffhanger was :3

And you should check out this artwork inspired by this fic! ruusenkvitten

The thing looms over them, its rancid eye crinkling, almost gleeful. The air is thick with the stench of decay, the space between them narrowing as it bears down, hunger practically radiating off its twisted form.

“I remember you, you know,” it rasps, voice a slithering thing, curling around her like a snake. “From the thief’s memories.”

She stiffens. A cold chill creeps down her spine, but she doesn’t dare move.

“He was thinking about you, you know?” The crone’s grin stretches impossibly wider. “How pathetic. Nobody to think about but a girl he barely met.”

Her stomach lurches.

“I thought you looked like a good meal then… and I still think that now.”

Her breath hitches. The thing looms closer, its presence suffocating.

“But first—”

It moves.

Too fast.

She barely registers the blur of motion before Okarun is wrenched from her side, his body hurled through the air like a ragdoll. He crashes across the clearing, rolling over the dirt with a choked grunt before coming to a skidding stop, a jagged trail of crimson smeared in his wake.

She lets out a sharp breath, panic spiking through her. “Okarun—!”

But before she can move, before she can even think, the crone’s gaze snaps back to her.

She freezes.

Turbo Granny leans in, so close Momo can’t see anything other than her wide, flat grin. Her voice lowers to a whisper, sickly sweet and dripping with malice.

“You sent him to his death, you know.”

Her heart pounds violently in her chest.

“Not that he’s realized he’s gone yet, hmm?”

Her breath comes in shallow, shaking gasps. No.

“You know it’s too late, don’t you?” the hag continues, crooning the words, relishing them. “So why are you still trying so hard?”

She can’t answer. Her throat is dry, body locked in place, an awful pressure bearing down on her.

The crone tilts her massive head, her rancid yellow eye narrowing. “He’ll turn on you the moment he realizes, you know.”

The words dig into her like claws.

“I saw what’s in his head. There’s no peaceful passing for someone like him.”

A sharp, sick laugh curls from it. “The more violent the death, the more violent the yokai, you know?”

Something inside her snaps.

Her fear is drowned out by a rush of fury, a searing heat that overrides everything else.

“None of that matters!” she howls, her power surging through her like a tidal wave. The grass around her sways in an unseen wind.

The hag barely flinches, but her grin falters.

She plants her feet, trembling with rage, her whole body thrumming with energy. “Cuz we’re gonna beat your sorry ass, hag, and he’ll be fine!”

She lashes out, her ethereal hands sweeping forward in a wide, vicious arc.

Turbo Granny rears back, just barely avoiding the strike. For the first time, her grin falters—her grotesque face twisting into something sharper, angrier.

"More than just a pretty face, huh? A sorceress..." The amusement drains from her voice.

Her enormous, pointed face contorts into a scowl.

"Then I’ll finish this quickly."

A chill runs down her spine—a warning.

She raises her arms, both physical and psychic, huge teal limbs crossing in front of her like a shield. A split second later, the hag is on her, a blur of motion, maw gaping wide as it bites down on her defenses.

There’s no direct pain, but the strain is indescribable. It’s like something inside her is being gnawed apart, unraveling thread by thread. She cries out, feeling her control slipping.

Somewhere beyond the haze of effort, she hears shouting—Granny? Okarun?—but she can’t look, can’t lose focus. If she does, she’s done for.

Except… it might not matter.

The pressure builds. Her grip on her powers weakens.

Then—a sickening crunch.

With a sound like shattering glass, the hag’s flat teeth snap through her psychic arms, the constructs dissolving into wisps of teal.

She stares, wide-eyed.

Into Turbo Granny’s throat.

It’s all she can see—the yawning void, writhing and endless, disturbingly similar to her first dream about Okarun.

No time. She has to do something! Or else—

A second yell, closer this time.

Before she can react, the world tilts, her body wrenched sideways.

She hits the ground hard, pain jolting through her as she rolls through the grass. Scrambling onto her hands and knees, she whips around, eyes darting wildly—

And freezes.

Okarun, looking terrified and drenched in red, is held aloft, his chest and right arm clamped between Turbo Granny’s gaping maw.

But, he’s not still.

He’s fighting, clawing at anything he can reach, hands tearing through the air, fingers gouging at the hag’s eye, ripping at flesh, at nothing—at everything.

Turbo Granny screeches, voice a warped, enraged thing. "What?!" she shrieks, rearing back, twisting in the air. "How are you even—how?!"

She never finishes.

"Okarun!" She shouts, heart hammering. She needs to get him out. She needs to help.

"Ayase-san!" His voice is raw, guttural. "Run!"

How can he say that?!

Her chest constricts. She can’t leave him. Can’t leave Granny, still frozen in some kind of daze.

She has to do something.

Her power is welling back, surging up from the depths of her exhaustion. The hag’s aura, it’s so similar to Okarun’s own red. If she can suppress his, if she can force it down, contain it, then why not—

She reaches out with her power—

And clenches.

The hag’s scream rips through the air.

Okarun is dropped. He hits the ground with a sickening wet thud, his shredded shirt tearing away from him as he crumples.

Behind her, the moment breaks.

A sharp inhale, followed by cursing, then the pounding of footsteps, Granny.

She doesn’t stop. She tightens her grip, squeezing the hag’s essence with all her strength. She can feel it now, the sickly, twisted energy writhing under her control. It’s not all of Turbo Granny.

There’s a connection—leading back to the tunnel.

But that doesn’t matter right now.

What matters is this. The grotesque fragment is writhing, fighting against her hold, slipping through her grip like a wet, wriggling fish.

A yell from behind.

Granny charges past her, her bat Nessie raised high, aura crackling so much it’s visible to the naked eye.

With a guttural cry, she swings, and she watches—sees—the bat connect, slamming into the twisted form before them.

Turbo Granny is sent flying back, buying them time.

She turns sharply, scanning the ground.

Okarun is still down, but moving, sluggish and dazed. He pushes himself up, dirt streaked across his bare skin.

His chest is bruised and bloodied, but she doesn’t know how much of that was from… before. But he's moving. He looks okay.

Her breath comes fast and heavy.

For the first time since Turbo Granny appeared, Momo feels something like hope.

They might be in her territory, but it’s broad daylight, and they aren’t in her tunnel.

Momo can feel it—Turbo Granny can’t keep this up much longer.

But the hag knows it too.

“Cheh! Enough of this!” the indistinct form bellows from where it landed from the blow, voice splitting the air like a crack of thunder. “If you’re that desperate to help him—then join him!”

She braces, arms snapping up, both physical and psychic, readying for the attack onne more. Granny readies herself as well, bat raised.

But it doesn’t come from the front.

In a flash, Something whips into her from the side.

She barely manages to pull her powers back in time to cushion the blow, but it still knocks the air from her lungs. A solid tendril of red energy coils tight around her midsection, yanking her backward. The world tilts, blurs, she’s being dragged.

The road grows smaller, further away.

The sky spirals.

She can hear someone screaming, but she isn’t sure if it’s her or something else.

And then. Okarun.

Somehow, he’s in front of her again.

A bare, twisted arm reaching for her, fingers outstretched, desperate.

She reaches back. Please, please, just let her reach—

And—

Her hand passes right through his.

Okarun’s eye widens, horror flashing across his face. He lets out a guttural cry, raw and desperate, just as she chokes out her own startled screech.

The tendril releases.

She falls.

Time slows.

Okarun is still scrambling after her, reaching with his other arm now, but another tendril lashes out, wrapping around his neck and face. It wrenches him back, jerking him away even as he fights, claws, struggles to get to her. His fingers twitch, just shy of grasping hers.

He tries to cry something out, but the tendril covers his mouth.

And she keeps falling.

Further and further, the ground nowhere beneath her.

Time crashes back into motion as a scream rips from her throat.

 

---

 

The world is a blur of muted color and rushing wind.

She plummets.

Air tears past her, a deafening roar in her ears. Her limbs flail, scrambling for anything, anything, to stop the freefall. The cliffside rushes past in flashes of jagged rock and tangled roots, but there’s nothing to grab onto, nothing to stop her from—

No. No. She can’t die like this.

A surge of panic-fueled instinct kicks in, and she throws her hands out, reaching with her powers.

Loose dirt scatters beneath her grip, pebbles ripping free as she tries to catch herself, but it’s like grasping at air. The force of her fall is too much, her mind too scrambled to focus. Nothing holds.

Until finally it does. Thick roots jutting out. She seizes onto them with everything she has, both physically and psychically, fingers burning as they scrape against rock and soil.

Her momentum jerks violently. Her shoulder wrenches as her body snaps forward, her fingers straining, screaming under the force of it.

But she holds.

The impact knocks the breath from her lungs. Dust and loose gravel pelt down around her as she dangles, knuckles white from the strain.

She sucks in a ragged gasp, her whole body trembling.

She stopped. She actually stopped.

 

---

 

She’s panicking.

Above her, the world is chaos, discordant screeches, howls, her Granny’s voice cutting through the noise. Thank God she’s okay. But a small voice in the back of her mind whispers, Granny, please help me.

But there’s nothing her grandmother could do.

She’s barely holding on. She tries to reach up, grasp at something, anything, with her powers to pull her up further, but there’s nothing but loose dirt and crumbling rock. Her psychic hands claw at it, but all she does is rip out chunks, sending them tumbling into the abyss below. Her grip is slipping, and she knows what waits for her at the bottom of this cliff.

Her fingers tear another handful of vegetation free, and as it falls, she swears she sees red staining the roots. She chokes out a sob. Her fingers slip again.

Is this what he felt?

In those final moments—did he know? Did he realize he was going to die, tumbling down a cliff?

A blur of red and white flashes above her, and her breath catches—this is it. Turbo Granny has come to finish the job. Her body tenses, and she readies a psychic fist, mind screaming that if nothing else, she can take that hag down with her. That maybe this wouldn’t have all been for nothing.

Then her grip finally gives way.

She falls.

Her powers falter—her breath catches—wind rushes past her ears—something grabs her.

Not the ground. Not the abyss.

She comes face to face with him.

Okarun. Monstrous.

One gangly arm wrapped tight around her back, spindly fingers curled over her torso, claws sinking into her clothes. His remaining limbs are anchored deep into the cliffside, claws buried deep into the dirt and rock.

She heaves a sob—this time in relief.

"Ayase-san," he hisses, his voice a jagged, unnatural chord of mismatched tones. It spills through his teeth alongside a plume of white steam, curling in the cold air. "Thank goodness."

A startled, breathless laugh escapes her. Even now he still calls her that.

Painstakingly, inch by inch, he draws her closer. His claws dig into her skin, but she doesn’t care. He pulls her in, closer and closer, until she’s pressed against his chest, his arm curling protectively around her like a shield. She clings to him with what little strength she has left.

His layered voice comes out again, low and warped.

"Hang on."

Then, softer, but more jagged—

"Don’t look down."

She obeys, pressing her face against his chest instead. The cold of him seeps through her clothes, grounding her, steadying her. And it’s then that she realizes. He’s shaking.

As he begins the slow, excruciating climb upward—one arm still locked around her, claws digging deep for every painful inch—his whole frame trembles. He keeps his gaze fixed, staring resolutely at the sky.

She wonders if his words were meant for her. Or for himself.

Every inch is agony.

Okarun moves slowly, deliberately, claws scraping against rock and soil, finding purchase where there should be none. His limbs tremble, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t falter. He just keeps climbing.

She clings to him, pressed tight against his chest, eyes screwed shut. She doesn’t dare look down. She can feel the void beneath them, waiting, eager. One misstep, and it will take them.

A gust of wind cuts across them, sharp and biting, rattling the trees. Okarun flinches but doesn’t pause.

One more pull. Another.

Then—his claws catch onto something solid.

A root. Thick, gnarled, twisting deep into the earth. He grips it with one clawed hand and heaves.

The next thing Momo knows, they’re at the edge. The ground shifts beneath them as Okarun drags them both over the lip of the cliff. His arm stays locked around her, body curling inward like he’s bracing for an impact that never comes.

For a long moment, neither of them move.

A voice rings out, sharp and taunting.

“Not bad, girlie.”

The sound sends a jolt through Momo’s battered frame.

She forces herself to move, turning her head just enough to see.

Her Granny stands a few feet away, between them and the hag, Nessie raised high in a defensive stance. Her posture is firm, but Momo can see the slight tremble in her grip.

Turbo Granny looms on the other side of her, watching, unblinking, grinning that too-wide grin.

"A bit more will to live than he had, hmm?" the gnarled old voice muses, mockingly.

And then it laughs.

A low, rasping cackle that slithers through the air, curling around them like fingers at their throats.

 

---

 

The tension snaps like a wire pulled too tight.

Okarun moves first, as he surges forward. His claws dig into the dirt, his posture low, protective, shielding her and Granny behind him. His singular, glowing eye remains locked on the hag, his maw twitching as if readying a snarl.

She pushes herself up, legs trembling as she runs to join him, hands clenching into fists. Her body protests every movement, but she forces herself to stand beside him. He shifts slightly, until his hulking form is caged protectively around her.

Her own power hums in the air, crackling, waiting. Just behind them, Granny stands firm despite the rivulets of blood trickling from her nose, Nessie clutched tightly in her grasp.

The hag is outmatched. And she knows it.

Not that it matters.

This isn't truly the Hag, just a splinter of her power, stretched thin across the distance. If she closes her eyes, she can see the tether, a sickly red thread snaking all the way back to the tunnel, where the real horror waits.

And yet, they still almost lost.

Almost, to just that.

In the harsh light of day, when the hag is weakest, they had barely held their ground.

What chance did they have at night? Against her full might?

A slow, mocking clap slices through the silence.

“Well, this has been fun and all,” Turbo Granny drawls, “But I’m bored of playing pretend.”

The air shifts, heavy and ice-cold.

"You wanna fight me so badly?" Her voice slithers around them, dripping with amusement. "Then do it for real. At my tunnel. Tonight."

Suddenly. A breath, frigid as death, whispers against her ear. A presence, unseen but suffocating, pressing against her, forcing the air out of her lungs.

"If the both of you don’t come tonight…"

The voice curls with dark delight.

"Then I’ll hurl that kid’s corpse at him and force him to face the truth, whether you like it or not."

Her heart stutters, a painful, jarring halt before thundering into a desperate gallop.

And then, the presence is gone.

The spiritual energy vanishes in an instant, retreating with a lingering, echoing cackle. The air lightens. The sun seems brighter. Birds dare to chirp again, as if released from an invisible grip.

Her knees buckle. She collapses, sucking in sharp, ragged breaths, fingers digging into the dirt as she fights the tremors wracking her body.

 

---

 

She’s still trying to calm her breathing when something brushes against her. It’s light, almost hesitant. Enough to ground her.

She looks up.

Okarun is there, his forearm nudging her, clawed hands carefully curled back, as if afraid to touch her. At some point, he must have moved, pivoting to block her view of the road. His wide, crimson eye stares down at her, filled with worry.

"Ayase-san?" he asks, his voice still that awful, discordant clash

But maybe she’s getting used to it. It doesn’t scrape at her nerves the way it used to. In fact… she could almost cry at the sound of it.

She wipes at her eyes, catching the first signs of tears. “Sorry, Okarun,” she stammers. “It’s just… a bit much.”

She staggers as she rises, legs weak, her breath still uneven. The world tilts, and she almost collapses again. But cold, spindly limbs are there, supporting her, and she clings to them like a lifeline.

The world spins.

She shuts her eyes.

Her vision flickers, unbidden, slipping into the sight of auras.

Okarun stands before her, his form blurring, shifting in glowing threads of color. The tunnel beyond him is mercifully hidden from view by his glow.

Though, Okarun…

He's dimmed. Reduced, somehow.

The red still dominates, as it always does when he’s like this. But his right side—the side that had been caught in the hag’s grip—looks wrong. The faintest tendrils of blue flicker within it, barely visible, struggling to hold on. Even the red is weaker, like it’s frayed at the edges, spread too thin.

His arm, thin and spindly as it is, has places where the glow of his auras doesn’t even reach. At multiple points, she can see right through him.

She doesn’t know what that means.

She doesn’t know what anything means anymore.

But there’s at least one thing she can do to help him, at this moment.

She reaches out, trying to tamp down the wild red aura, to steady him, to bring him back. But before she can, he moves—his grip light, almost hesitant, as his clawed fingers graze her shoulder.

She startles.

And then he flinches back. Recoiling as if burned.

Her eyes snap open.

He’s shaking his head—a jittery, stuttering motion, as if his body is struggling to obey him.

“Not until… we’re off the mountain,” he grinds out, layered voice wavering.

He had told her outright that being like that wasn’t… pleasant. So why wouldn’t he… why wouldn’t he want to turn back?

But as she really looks at him, taking a breath, steadying herself enough to see beyond her own rattling nerves, she thinks she understands.

He’s still facing away from the tunnel, standing directly between her and it, blocking her view. Deliberately. As if shielding her from whatever lingers beyond. Even though the hag, whatever twisted fragment of her that was, had fled, something remains. The weight in the air is suffocating, pressing down on her like a thick, leaden blanket, muting the world around them.

It’s stronger than before, the feeling.

They’re still intruding.

And he’s shaking.

The arm she grips for balance trembles, the movement subtle but rippling through the rest of his body, amplified, uncontrolled. His massive maw is slightly parted, and now that she’s paying attention, she hears it, his teeth chattering, faint but constant.

She hadn’t noticed before. She’d been too lost in the pounding of her own heartbeat.

And… who knows how much he remembers now, after all that?

That thought unsettles her more than she wants to admit. If he had remembered everything, he wouldn’t still be here, right? He wouldn’t still be him.

Right?

But even so, he must be terrified, more so than her, probably.

And yet, despite that, he’s the one keeping her steady. The one making sure she doesn’t fall. Choosing to stay in that form, that shape, for what is almost certainly her sake. Just in case the hag isn’t truly gone.

A fresh wave of fear curls in her stomach, but strangely, it doesn’t overwhelm her.

She finds the sight of his monstrous twisted body towering over her very comforting, all of a sudden.

"I-If you’re sure…” she murmurs, her voice quiet, unsteady.

She hates how weak it sounds.

Then, on impulse, she steps forward and wraps her arms around him. His bare, sickly torso is too thin, almost hollowed out. Despite his size, her arms circle him far too easily.

He doesn’t say anything. But the shaking… eases. Slightly.

"Sorry," she whispers, pulling away. He still doesn’t speak, but a low, keening rumble escapes him, vibrating through the air.

She gets the feeling he doesn’t like talking like this.

She tries to distract herself, glancing around.

Granny is still standing, but barely. All her weight leans into her bat, using it like a makeshift cane. But even that trembles beneath her grip.

And between them, miraculously, is Okarun’s backpack. The straps are torn, hanging in ragged shreds, but the bag itself, and hopefully its contents, remain untouched.

Shakily, she moves toward it. Okarun follows close, arms hovering around her like a safety net, ready to catch her if she falters.

She crouches, picks up the bag, and exhales a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. A quick check inside. It’s all still there. Relief floods through her, and she offers Okarun a shaky smile.

She isn’t sure, but from the crinkle at the corners of his eye, the faint tightening of his maw… she thinks he smiles back.

Something glints on the ground.

The keyring. It must have slipped free when the straps broke.

She picks it up and holds it out to him. He hesitates, looking down at her. She thinks his expression is… uncertain. Then, slowly, he raises a skeletal hand, making a small, tentative pushing motion.

Keep it.

For now.

She nods, carefully tucking it into her pocket—next to his glasses. Somehow, despite everything, they don’t feel any more broken. Even after her… tumble.

When she looks back up, Okarun is no longer watching her.

He’s staring at Granny.

"Seiko-san… need help?" he asks hesitantly. He’s trying to be quiet she can tell, but his distorted voice still rings through the empty space, unnatural in the hush.

Granny looks like she wants to protest, lips parting. But then, she exhales. Deflates.

"Yeah… yeah, I’d appreciate that, kid," she says, her voice thin, strained. "The faster we get out of here, the better."

Okarun moves forward on all fours, slow, deliberate, almost herding her toward Granny as he keeps his back to the tunnel.

Just as he reaches her, Granny’s knees buckle.

She’s falling—

But before she can hit the ground, Okarun catches her.

Carefully, ever so carefully, he lifts her into his left arm. Granny is bigger than she is, but it doesn’t matter. He’s stretched thin, gangly, but surprisingly strong. He carries her like she weighs nothing.

Granny exhales a soft, weary sigh. She doesn’t even fight it, just murmurs, "Thanks, kid."

Something about seeing Granny like this, so small, so tired, sends a fresh wave of fear through her chest. It tightens like a fist around her lungs, squeezing the breath from her.

Her breathing stutters.

Okarun nudges her with his free forearm once more. Light. Careful. Grounding her before the panic can take hold.

"Go?" he hisses out.

She nods.

As they walk, Okarun insists on staying behind her still. No matter what, he keeps himself between her and the tunnel.

 

---

 

As they descend the mountain, the weight recedes.

It happens gradually, like ink washing from a page, color and sound bleeding back into the world. She hadn’t even noticed they were missing. The chirping of birds, the expanse of blue sky. Vibrant green stretching endlessly across the trees, a stark contrast to the crimson still burned into her vision.

The little parking lot comes into view, and she exhales, relief unwinding the tight coil in her chest. The oppressive weight is entirely gone.

In Okarun’s careful grasp, her grandmother stirs, shifting with a quiet murmur, making the smallest motions to be let down.

Gently, he sets her down.

Granny sways for a moment but straightens, still a little unsteady, but standing on her own.

Momo turns to Okarun, ready to bring him back to himself, only to pause.

He isn’t looking at her. He’s staring down at himself.

And then, he starts to shrink.

She hasn’t seen it happen outside of her aura vision before, and the sight is… wrong. Unnatural. His disjointed limbs fold in on themselves, contracting in ways that shouldn’t be possible. His jaw, one moment solid, disintegrates into wisps of shifting energy, revealing something beneath.

A glimpse of void. A flash of too-sharp teeth, needle-thin, stretching endlessly in the dark—

Then, it’s gone.

His normal face settles in its place, set in a deep frown. His skin, once sickly and marred, lightens, shifting back into something almost natural. The gouges running down his face fade, closing one by one until they disappear completely, along with the twin bands of red.

His ruined eye is the last thing to disappear.

It happens in an instant.

And then—he’s just Okarun.

No monstrous limbs, no gaping maw, no ruined body—just wide brown eyes, staring down at his hands.

Still trembling.

Once again, on a whim, she moves, closing the space between them, pulling him into a hug. She holds him tight, gripping him like she can physically ground him.

He hesitates. His arms hover, unsure, not quite wrapping around her all the way.

But she doesn’t let go.

Not until the shaking stops.

When she finally pulls back, she swipes at her eyes—again, for what feels like the hundredth time that day. Her throat is tight when she speaks.

"You did it yourself," she says, dumbly. It’s all she can think to say.

Okarun swallows. His voice is scratchy and weak.

"Yeah…"

An awkward silence stretches between them, filled only by the sound of Granny settling into the car.

She clears her throat. Reaches for the bag beside her. "Your camera. It’s safe."

One small good thing to come out of this.

Okarun’s expression shifts, relief flickering through his features, a faint trace of excitement breaking through the exhaustion. He reaches for the bag—

But his movements are strange. Awkward. Jerky. Like he’s afraid to touch anything.

 

---

 

The ride back is… grim.

Granny is silent as she drives. In the rearview mirror, she catches glimpses of her furrowed brows, the tight set of her mouth. A deep, heavy kind of thoughtfulness, the kind that weighs a person down. Despite a halfhearted attempt to clean up before getting into the car, a faint smear of blood lingers beneath her nose. She still has the distinct feeling of being watched, even as the mountain becomes a backdrop behind them.

Okarun sits beside her, his backpack pulled onto his lap, arms loosely wrapped around it. His stare is fixed ahead, unseeing.

She doesn’t think she’s seen him blink yet.

Or breathe.

She swallows. Her fingers twitch at her sides. She takes a slow breath and reaches for his hand, trying to echo what they had on the journey there. Desperate for even a sliver of that fleeting comfort she clung to before everything went to hell.

Her hand brushes toward his—

He moves.

Snaps away from her, too fast, too sudden. His entire frame jerks back as if she burned him. His hands retreat, pulling close to his chest, clutching at the air but not touching anything. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t meet her eyes.

He just looks away.

She bites down against the thick, choked feeling rising in her throat. Instead of reaching for him again, she slides a hand into her pocket, fingertips grazing the cool, edges of thick lenses before withdrawing with something else.

The keyring.

She turns it over between her fingers, feeling the weight of it, before holding it out to him.

Okarun watches from the corner of his wide, brown eye. Then, hesitantly, he reaches forward—slow, deliberate—taking it from her with careful fingers, avoiding contact.

Selfishly, she moves faster.

Her other hand darts out, clasping his between both of hers, holding it like a prayer.

Okarun freezes. His unblinking gaze locks onto hers, his eye reflecting the glassy sheen of unshed tears.

"Thanks," he whispers, voice paper-thin, fragile.

Then, just as carefully, he slides his hand from between hers. The keyring dangles loosely from one finger, swaying slightly as he pulls away.

She lets him go without resistance.

He turns back to the window, silent.

For the briefest moment, she had held his hand in hers.

And felt beneath her fingertips. Slick, broken skin.

Notes:

Notes
- Ah, what's going on with his arm and aura? Weird.
- Only a little taste of battle here, no one really one or lost... a stalemate.
- Seiko can't use her god based powers like exorcising/wards etc outside of her city... but her ability to use her aura in Nessie is just her own right? Not completley useless, but wouldn't have stood a chance without Momo... It was wise to bring them both (though... if Momo hadn't come she might have been fine regardless)

Chapter 9: Regroup

Notes:

As promised this is coming along too!
My attemtps to shorten chapters are working, when I saw it was going to be 6k+ I cut it in half! Somehow still ended up over 4k? still better though! Added one to the chapter count to account for this, we'll have one more slower chapter before we enter the finale.

As well please see these two amazing pieces of fanart that were posted during the short hiatus :3
ruusenkvitten
mildlycuriousdragon

The rest of the car ride home is agonizing.

Okarun just keeps staring out the window.

She can only see his face through the reflection in the glass.

Unblinking. Hollow, except for the wet sheen still clinging to his visible eye. The other is hidden from view, his reflection sliced in half by the window frame.

A cruel mirror.

The only movement comes from his hands. His arms are still wrapped protectively around his bag, the little keyring dangling from one finger, swaying faintly with each bump in the road.

He doesn’t fiddle with it. Not like she’s come to expect, from the way he would constantly fidget with his glasses, or his hair, or the zipper on his bag.

Instead, he brushes against it every so often. A slow graze of knuckles. The edge of a wrist. The back of his hand.

She doesn’t reach out to stop him. Doesn’t try to take his hand again.

Even though she wants to. Desperately.

Even though she’s certain (almost certain) that those stiff, stilted movements are anxious ones.

They have to be.

Except… how can she be sure?

Nothing makes sense anymore. Whatever fragile system she’d built (if Okarun looks okay, he must be feeling okay) has fallen apart.

Because she knows what she felt.

Twisted flesh. Slick blood. Familiar now.

How many times had she looked at him lately, seen him whole, and told herself he was fine (content! Even!) when all it would’ve taken was one touch to prove otherwise?

She swallows and tears her gaze away from his vacant reflection, turning to her own window instead.

They’d planned it carefully. Timed it so they’d reach the mountain at noon, when the sun was highest.

For all the good it did.

It’ll be early afternoon by the time they get home.

And that night, they’ll have to go back out again. To face Turbo Granny.

Not even half a day left with him.

And he won’t even look at her.

 

---

 

The heavy silence doesn’t lift.

Not as the scenery turns familiar.

Not as the car pulls into the yard, tires crunching over gravel and dirt.

Not as the feeling of being watched finally ebbs away.

Not as they climb out—stiff-limbed, blinking against the daylight.

Not even as they shuffle into the house.

It’s only after they’ve removed their shoes (what’s left of them, in Okarun’s case) and are standing in the main room that she finally speaks.

"Granny. Okarun," she says, voice thick. "I’m sorry."

"Ayase-san…" Okarun murmurs, sounding lost. It’s the first thing he’s said in what feels like hours, though she knows it hasn’t been that long.

She knows, without question, that it was her decision to look back that got them attacked. If she’d just listened—

"No. Don’t," Granny says, cutting her off. Her tone is firm, but worn thin. "Momo, I’d never have expected her to reach us all the way out there." She sighs. "I shouldn’t have brought you two at all."

Granny winces, then shuffles slightly to the side, leaning heavily against one of the old wooden beams lining the room.

"She’s more powerful than I thought. Even with the bound spirit," Granny mutters, eyes narrowing. "If we wait a few days, I could borrow the power of the gods tied to that land—might give us a better—"

"We can’t."

Her voice cuts clean through the room. Even she’s surprised by it.

Granny blinks. "What?"

"We can’t wait," she clarifies, slow and quiet, still gathering the pieces of what she’s about to say. "Turbo Granny said… we have to face her tonight."

"Or?" Grandma’s voice is flat.

Momo hesitates. Licks her lips.

If she tells the truth… there’s a non-zero chance Granny will just deal with the problem by taking care of Okarun right now.

She’d already threatened to do so. It’s probably the objectively best option.

But she can’t. She wouldn't let her granny do that, no matter what.

And what proof does she have that Turbo Granny wouldn’t just come for her regardless?

"Or she said she’ll kill us herself," She lies. Her voice doesn’t waver.

Okarun stiffens, his expression splintering.

"Ayase-san…” he says, and his voice gurgles, slightly. “You don’t have to do this. I can face her alone. I’m sure if I—"

"It has to be both of us," she says gently, cutting him off. Her eyes flick to his, full of guilt. "She was specific."

That part wasn't a lie.

Somehow, Okarun’s face crumples further. His mouth opens, then closes, no sound coming out. A thin trickle of blood slips from the corner of his lip. That terrible sheen returns to his hair, slow and slick like oil rising.

Granny doesn’t respond immediately. Just stares.

And Momo holds her gaze. Straightens her spine. Meets it head-on with every scrap of stubbornness she has left.

Something shifts in her grandmother’s face—not anger. Or disappointment.

Collapse.

The old woman sags, years catching up to her all at once. Her shoulders slump. Her eyes lose their light.

"Shit," she breathes. Then drags in a long inhale, slow and heavy.

Some of her sharpness returns with it.

"Alright," she says. "Let’s get ourselves cleaned up. Prep what we can."

Granny jabs a finger in Okarun’s direction. "Four-eyes. You first. You probably fared the worst out of all of us. Need to renew the ward on you too."

Okarun blinks, startled. Then glances down.

Dark stains streak what remains of his shirt, mingling with newer spots—fresh and blooming like grotesque flowers.

It takes Momo a second to realize the older stains are hers. From the scrapes she got tumbling down the cliff. Blood transferred to him when he carried her. Held her. Climbed so carefully back to—well, to relative safety.

But Granny… Granny is definitely lying.

Okarun isn’t the worst off. Not by far.

She remembers how Granny collapsed against him on the way back down. And even now she looks like she can barely stand.

She doesn’t know how bad it is. And that terrifies her.

She’s never once in her life seen her grandmother as weak.

Okarun doesn’t argue. Just nods, quiet. "Where’s the bathroom?" he asks, a little awkward.

Right. For all the time he’s spent here… he’s never actually used it.

Granny gestures vaguely upstairs.

He nods again and heads off without another word.

As he disappears out of the room, his hand brushes the doorframe—

—and leaves behind a bloody smear.

 

---

 

She turns it on with a grunt, then settles heavily onto the tatami in front of the screen. The light flickers across her face, but she doesn’t look at Momo.

She waits.

Momo isn’t sure why—until the sound of running water begins to filter down from upstairs.

Only then does Granny speak.

"You lied to me," she says flatly.

There’s no use denying it. Not under the weight of that voice.

She stays silent.

"What did the hag really say?" she asks, finally turning to look at her.

Momo swallows. Her voice comes out small. "She said… she’d force him to face the truth." She hesitates, then adds, even lower, "With his body."

Granny nods, slow and thoughtful, as if she’d expected as much.

"And earlier…" Momo says, filling the silence. "She implied he’d turn on us. Once he found out."

Granny lets out a tired breath. "If it went down like that?" she mutters. "That’s the most likely outcome."

It still hits hard, even though she already knew that.

She needs to say something. Anything. Something that might make Granny understand. That it doesn’t matter. That she still has to do this.

"We ca—"

"You know what I’m gonna say, right?" Granny cuts in, sharp and quiet.

Tears sting at Momo’s eyes. From frustration, this time.

"Oblivion would be a kinder fate than whatever awaits him, if she wins," Granny says, her voice cool, measured.

Then it hardens.

"And in what world would I send my precious granddaughter to face that thing, with nothing but a monster at her back, while I sit here powerless?"

"I don’t care," She snaps, fists clenched at her sides. Her voice cracks with the effort of holding everything in.

She thinks she sees a flash of teal, against the far wall.

A single hot tear escapes, carving its way down her cheek.

Granny studies her for a long moment. Her expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, the sharp edges soften. Her shoulders sag. Her jaw unclenches.

"I know," she says at last, and this time her voice is heavy. "That’s why I’m not gonna stop you. And hell… after what I saw earlier, I doubt I could."

She exhales through her nose, gaze shifting toward the hallway where Okarun disappeared.

"Owe the kid both our lives too," she mutters. "You, multiple times over. I’m not one to be ungrateful. Especially not to the dead."

Silence settles in.

Just the sound of water running upstairs, and the low murmur of some nonsense TV program neither of them are paying any attention to.

Granny leans back against the tatami with a sigh, eyes on the ceiling.

"C’mon," she says. "First aid kit’s under the sink. Help me clean myself up before Four-eyes gets back. Don’t want him feeling worse than he already does."

 

---

 

Granny is just finishing up applying disinfectant to the many (many) scrapes lining her arms and legs when Okarun comes back downstairs.

He’s wearing a pair of soft, loose-fitting sweatpants and a hoodie Momo doesn’t recognize. Not that she’s seen much of his wardrobe, she supposes.

"Welcome back, kid," Granny says, still crouched over her shin, dabbing at a long gash without looking up. "You’re looking better."

And he is.

The faint red sheen that had started creeping into his hair is gone. His face looks calmer, though his hair drips steadily, soaking the towel slung around his shoulders.

"Um… do you happen to have a hair dryer I could borrow?" he asks quietly, eyes fixed on some indistinct spot near the floor.

"I do," Momo answers, maybe a little too quickly. Then, before she can stop herself, because the distance between them feels unbearable, she adds, "I can dry your hair for you, if you want?"

She sees the answer forming on his face before he speaks.

He’s going to say no.

But then he hesitates.

His gaze drops to his hand—still damp, still trembling faintly.

He clenches and unclenches it. Bites his lip. Looks back up at her.

"Yes," he says at last. Barely more than a whisper. "I would like that. Thank you."

She almost leaps up right then and there—but Granny shoves her firmly back down with a scowl.

"He can wait a damn minute," she grouses. "I’m not finished patching you up yet."

Only then does she turn her full attention to Okarun, eyeing him with the same assessing look she gave a bleeding scrape.

"Momo and I’ll take turns getting cleaned up. We’ll eat. Then we talk next steps," Granny says, still crouched on the floor, wiping the last of the blood from her calf. "Can’t plan a damn thing on empty stomachs while we look like we got dragged through the mud."

She waves a hand vaguely toward the rest of the house. "Do what you want till then, Four-eyes. Momo’s got some games up in her room. Or there’s the TV."

"Actually," Okarun says, his voice steadier now, "I was hoping you might have a dark room I could borrow. Just for a few hours?"

As he speaks, he steps carefully across the tatami to retrieve his bag. The one he’d set neatly against the wall when they arrived.

"And maybe some… uh, jugs? Or containers?" His hand lifts toward his face, a familiar motion, as if to adjust his glasses. It stops halfway. Falls back to his side a little too fast."To develop my film."

Granny arches an eyebrow but doesn’t question it. "You can use the storeroom outside. No windows. Lock on the door. Should be dark enough. Take whatever you need, check the kitchen for supplies."

A small flicker of life touches his expression. Just the faintest curve of a smile.

"Thanks," he says softly.

The last sting of antiseptic marks the end of Granny’s triage, and Momo is on her feet and crossing the room in seconds.

Her hand moves on instinct, reaching for him.

But she stops herself at the last second.

Remembers the car. Still remembers still how he recoiled from her.

Her hand drops to her side, useless.

And if she’s not mistaken—he looks relieved.

That stings more than she wants to admit.

"C’mon," she says, forcing her voice light. "My hair stuff’s in my room."

 

---

 

He’s a silent shadow as he follows her up to her room, bag in hand.

Downstairs, she hears Granny groaning and muttering to herself as she hauls herself upstairs to the shower. A moment later, the sound of running water kicks on again.

Okarun sits cross-legged on the floor in front of her as she perches on the edge of the bed. He’s politely still, hands resting in his lap—almost clasped, but not quite.

They can both see each other in the mirror.

"Did you even try to dry your hair, Okarun?" she huffs, breaking the silence. She leans over, pinches a lock of his hair between two fingers.

A fat droplet falls and splashes onto her foot.

"Sorry..." he murmurs, sheepish. "I usually shower before bed and let it dry overnight."

"Dude," she says flatly. "Gross. Does your pillow not have, like, mildew?"

"It doesn’t!" he says, indignant. "I wash my sheets regularly!"

"Mhm." She squints at his reflection in mock suspicion. "Right. Because no teenage boy has ever lied about that before."

"Ayase-san, I do!" he protests, visibly offended.

And somehow—that’s what gets him to look her in the eye. Even if it’s only through the mirror.

It’s kind of funny.

Kind of sad, too.

The pupil of one of his eyes doesn’t quite follow the other as he watches her. She tries not to focus on it.

"I kid, I kid," she says quickly, waving it off. She doesn’t want to push him. She’s just grateful for the reaction.

And then, because she’s feeling brave: "Is it okay if I towel-dry first? You’ve got a whole lake up here, dude."

He hunches his shoulders a little. The brief moment of eye contact disappears.

"...Sure."

She starts rubbing at his hair with the towel. He lets her. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t resist—just goes limp and compliant, letting her move his head however she wants. Almost too compliant. Like a rag doll.

She half expects the towel to come away stained red. But it doesn’t—just a deeper off-white, soaked through. No blood. No grime. Nothing.

Still, the towel’s so heavy with water it makes her wonder if he even tried to dry himself. His hoodie clings at the shoulders, dark with damp, backing up her suspicion.

Whatever. It means she gets to share this moment with him.

She still doesn’t understand how he feels so… physically present. Not when she knows what’s lying at the bottom of that cliff. But his hair is weighty between her fingers, thick with water, chilled but soft.

She runs into a slick patch and freezes.

But the texture’s wrong.

Not blood.

Conditioner. Just a spot he didn’t rinse out properly.

She snorts softly. So he used her fancy conditioner? What, was he vain?

Another tiny, useless detail to squirrel away and keep forever.

And well. He can use all the damn conditioner he wants.

He smells like her shampoo. And beneath that, something sharper, synthetic. His own body wash he brought along, probably. Minty. Clean.

But how can he smell like anything?

Her fingers drift lower, and catch briefly on the leg of his glasses. Under her fingertips, it feels like perfectly ordinary plastic and metal.

A perfect copy of the broken pair still tucked inside her jacket pocket.

She keeps going. Longer than necessary. Teasing her fingers through his hair, slow and careful. In the mirror, she watches his eyes drift shut.

He hums. Low. Almost inaudible.

Doesn’t say a word.

She grabs her trusty hair dryer.

"Tell me if it gets too hot, okay?"

He just nods. Eyes still closed.

She could use a brush. Or a comb. Or any of the other things cluttering her side table.

But instead, she uses her fingers. He doesn’t say anything, so she figures it’s fine.

The dryer hums softly as her fingers run through his curls—warm from the hot air blowing over them. She closes her eyes.

Just for a moment.

Pretends.

But the second she switches the dryer off, the illusion breaks.

He’s cold again. No lingering warmth. No trace of heat on his skin. It’s like he absorbs it all.

A void.

She’s not allowed to live in her fantasy for more than a heartbeat, huh?

The silence creeps back in.

It’s broken only by the soft snags of her brush catching in his hair and the little sounds she makes to fill the gap. Quiet hums, a click of her tongue, the rhythmic drag of bristles.

Then, finally, he speaks.

"I can’t remember the last time someone did this for me," he says, voice low. His eyes crack open, just a sliver. But he doesn’t look at her. "It’s nice. Thanks, Ayase-san."

"Don’t mention it, dude."

Really don’t, she thinks.

He shouldn’t be thanking her for a damn thing.

 

---

 

She keeps brushing his hair long after the tangles are gone.

Long after the sound of running water fades.

Long after Granny’s familiar grumbles echo down the stairs and trails off as she retreats to her bedroom.

Long after she’s run out of things to comment about his hair.

The silence stretches between them—soft, and strangely full.

He’s the one to break it.

"I… should get started on developing my film. If I want it ready before tonight," he says.

And selfishly, her stomach flips with joy at how reluctant he sounds.

"And you should probably take your own shower," he adds, voice a little lighter now.

She tries to tug the brush sharply through his hair in retaliation—but there’s nothing left to snag.

"Are you saying I stink, Okarun?" she asks instead, leaning forward suddenly to peer at his real face.

Not the one in the mirror.

"I mean… relative to me, right now…"

"You jerk!" she huffs, giving him a firm shove between the shoulder blades.

"I kid, I kid!" he laughs, turning to face her—and he’s smiling.

An actual, honest-to-god grin. Small and slightly crooked, but a smile.

"But you should shower," he says. "And get those, um… bandaged. Soon."

He gestures, not with a finger, but the back of his hand, toward her leg.

One of the deeper scrapes is still on full display. A wide patch of angry pink, ringed in crusted red. It looks worse than it is, probably. But that’s not saying much.

She grimaces. Yeah, that’s going to sting like hell in the shower.

"You sound like my granny," she mutters, sighing as she pushes herself to her feet.

"At least let me help you find everything you need for your photos first."

 

---

 

It turns out what he needs… isn’t much.

From the bag he brought from his apartment, Okarun pulls out a few cylindrical containers and a sleek-looking thermometer. The mystery of the bottles in the padded pouch is finally solved as he explains, softly, that they’re the chemicals he uses: developer, fixer, stabilizer, and bleach.

He walks her through what each one does, voice precise but gentle. Then lists the rest—nothing complicated. A few measuring jugs, containers for excess liquid, and a way to heat water. The electric kettle will do just fine, apparently.

And, of course, a dark room.

She helps him pick through the kitchen cabinets, rummaging between mismatched bowls and aging plastic pitchers until they have what they need. Then she leads him out to the storeroom across from the house.

Granny was right. It’s probably the darkest spot on the property during the day. No windows. Just thick wooden walls, warped with age, sealing out the light.

She slides the door open and pokes her head inside. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust—muted shadows swallowing the space, even with daylight at her back. The room is packed, shelves cluttered with tools and boxes, but there’s a small area cleared to one side. Just enough space for him to work.

"Is this okay?" she asks, glancing back at him.

He peers inside, wrinkles his nose faintly. Then nods—slow and deliberate.

There’s still a small, flickering part of her that worries. That wonders what he might’ve captured on film—besides the alien ship he’s been pinning his hopes on all week.

But she can’t deny him this. Not after everything they went through to get that camera back.

And besides… the way she found it, only just spilled out of its case. There’s no chance he caught Turbo Granny herself on it.

The rest of her is quietly eager. His excitement the past few days had been contagious, and now, more than anything, she’s curious to see what he actually saw. See actual evidence of what happened to her as well.

Give him some vindication over those assholes at school.

Too little, too late, though.

She lingers in the doorway, watching as he clears the space and lays out his equipment with careful hands.

He removes the camera from its case like it’s something sacred.

"How long will it take?" she asks, trying to stretch the moment just a bit longer.

"...Not much more than half an hour. For the actual developing," he says, arranging everything carefully. "A few more hours to dry, though."

She nods, quietly relieved. Time enough for him to see the results himself.

"I’ll see you again soon then, Okarun," she says, lingering just a moment longer in the doorway.

"Yes... See you soon, Ayase-san," he replies softly, without looking up.

Then he reaches for the door, and slides it shut.

And plunges himself into darkness.

 

---

 

As she gathers a change of clothes from her room, she finally shrugs off her jacket—and hesitates.

What should she do… about the glasses?

She pulls them out, holding them delicately. Examining them again.

Remarkably unmarred, despite how thoroughly broken they are.

She should toss them. They’re nothing but a grim reminder of what happened to him. Something that’ll haunt her, no matter where they end up.

She should hide them away. Bury them in the back of her closet like a shameful secret—evidence of a murder no one will ever solve.

She should keep them on her at all times. A daily reminder that he existed at all.

She doesn’t do any of those things.

Instead, she wraps them carefully in the large cloth she uses to clean her own glasses and places them in the top drawer of her dresser.

Hidden from sight yes, but not buried. Not forgotten.

She can decide what to do with them later.

If there is a later.

She doesn’t know what compels her, but before stepping into the shower, she forms the aperture with her fingers.

The entire room is clear.

Either he pulled himself together fast—or someone cleared the evidence.

It isn’t until the hot water starts pouring down her shoulders that she realizes just how cold she’d been.

And then (like before) she scrubs. And scrubs. And scrubs.

With no Okarun here to distract her, the memory returns all at once—
the crone whispering in her ear.
Her sour breath. Her crooked teeth.
The feeling of gnarled skin brushing against her spiritual arms.

She hadn’t been touched physically. But it felt real enough.

It still clings to her.

She scrubs harder, desperate to wash the sensation away.

And… she’s ashamed to admit it, but she tries to scrub away his touch, too.

The memory of his monstrous hand wrapped tight around her torso. It was comforting in the moment, but now…

She finds tiny pinpricks across her back.

Claw marks. Where his fingers had dug in while he held her close. She feels only guilt as she scrubs that spot raw.

The water runs pink. At least this time, she knows it’s hers.

She’s torn off whatever scabs had managed to form. Stripped herself down again in the process.

She watches the swirl of pink spiral down the drain, blank-faced. Detached. Mechanical.

Washes her hair without thinking.

Dirt comes loose. Grit. And then—an honest-to-god twig.

She stays long after she’s finished.

Long after the water starts to run cold.

(Miracle it lasted this long with three people, honestly.)

Even then, she stays. She thinks she’s grown used to the cold, these past few days.

Eventually, she wrenches herself away from the stream, wrapping herself in the fluffiest towel she can find. Doesn’t even care that it’ll probably get ruined from her freshly reopened scrapes.

She sits on the small stool in front of the mirror, letting herself drip dry.

She doesn’t know how long it’s been—probably not the full thirty minutes Okarun said it would take.

She already misses him.

That’s not a good sign for what’s to come.

She closes her eyes and without even meaning to slips into the world of auras.

The walls are no barrier to her like this. Even if she wanted them to.

He’s still there. Twin flaring colors in the shape of a boy, hunched over, his hands holding a cylindrical container, moving in mechanical back-and-forth motion.

Even from this far away, she can make out the gaping hole in his head where his eye should be. Though she can’t make out much else.

His hands in particular, look indistinct.

But just like before he turned back, he’s… dim.

His right arm looks slightly better.But the rest of him? Worse.

Dim, and worn so thin in places he barely holds shape at all—like a slow infection has spread across his form, devouring him from the inside out.

As the flame-like masses shift, gaps flicker open and closed. The clutter around him bleeds through. Darkness, outlines, shelves... visible through the holes in his very self.

The blue and red still battle, maybe the blue holds a slight edge now. But his overall shape is less complete than before.

It’s trivial to tell now that… there’s nothing underneath.

She tears her gaze away.

Only to catch Granny’s aura instead.

Her outline lying in bed, unmoving. Staring upward.

Her blue-green aura flickers just beneath the surface. Still her.

But dimmer, too.

She tells herself it’s just the distance. That they both look so faint because they’re farther away.

The thought doesn’t quite catch, though.

Notes:

- Okarun really should have a dust free room to work in, which the storeroom is almost certainly NOT. But we can suspend some disbelief right? The photos will be fine.
- Some softness creeping back in. Don't worry about what's coming.
- Man Seiko is TIRED in this. I feel bad for her, I do.
- But overall a setup chapter, a little more payoff next part :3

Chapter 10: Plan

Notes:

Well... it's a good thing I cut the chapter in half before.

She doesn’t return to Granny after drying off.

Instead, she drags the (somewhat diminished) first aid kit up to her room, determined to patch herself up on her own. The scrapes on her arms are easy enough—clumsy, but manageable. The ones on her back are trickier. She has to use her mirror and a pair of spiritual hands, reaching around awkwardly.

It’s stubbornness, doing it alone. Or at least, that’s what she’s calling it.

But a quick glance through the walls and down confirms Granny is still in bed. Still lying there, unmoving. Even from the faint outline of her aura, she looks... tired. Dim in a way that makes something tight and unpleasant twist in her chest.

When she’s finished, she heads outside.

Okarun said the developing wouldn’t take long. He should be done by now.

She walks up to the storeroom and knocks. Softly, so as to not startle him.

“Okarun?”

No answer.

She holds her breath, listening. No shifting, no footsteps. Not even the sound of any of the equipment he brought being used.

There’s a reason he needed a dark room, right? She vaguely remembers something from an old detective movie—something about how light can ruin the pictures.

She can’t risk barging in. Can’t risk destroying the only real evidence he has of what he saw.

So she knocks again.

Still no answer.

A flicker of unease creeps up her spine, and she exhales shakily, forcing herself into aura sight.

There. His colors are still there, hunched over, leaning against what looks like the worktable.

She lets out a quiet breath of relief.

He’s okay. Still there.

She bites her lip, waits a beat longer, just in case, then turns on her heel and starts heading back toward the house.

 

---

 

She heads back to her bedroom alone.

Lies down on the bed.

She doesn’t know what to do with herself. Her body sinks into the mattress, limbs heavy, eyes locked on the ceiling.

And she just… stays there.

Still. Listless.

Trying not to think.

Because thinking only brings misery right now.

At some point, it almost feels like she drifts off. Not quite sleep—more like a long, numb blink.

She’s startled back by a few soft knocks on the door.

Before she can respond, it creaks open, and Granny’s head pokes through the gap.

“Momo,” she says, voice gentle. She looks steadier now. “I ordered takeout. The good stuff.”

She pauses.

Then adds, a little softer, “Go get Four-eyes.”

 

---

 

It’s been well over thirty minutes now. Closer to an hour. And still, Okarun hasn’t come out of the storeroom.

A part of her wants to give him space. Respect whatever he needs right now.

But another part (a louder, more desperate part) wants to be near him. Wants to cling to him for whatever’s left of the dwindling day.

Between that and Granny, she finds herself standing outside the storeroom door once again, hand half-raised, still debating whether or not to knock.

Or she was, until a sound slips through the thick wooden panels.

A soft, choked sob.

That decides it.

She knocks once more, gently. “Okarun?”

No response.

But the quiet weeping continues.

She knocks again, harder this time. “Okarun???”

Still nothing.

Panic cuts through her. Boundaries vanish.

She grabs the handle, wrenches the door open, and ducks inside—slamming it shut behind her before too much light can spill in.

God, she hopes she didn’t ruin anything.

Except… the room isn’t completely dark.

An old camping lantern (one she didn’t even know they had) casts a weak yellow glow across the room. It’s barely enough to see by, but just enough to catch the outline of Okarun hunched over the workbench, his back to her.

As he turns to look at her, one of his eyes catches the light. It reflects red in the flickering glow, eerie and bright.

“Ayase-san?” he says, surprised. His voice is hoarse, raw around the edges. Still wet from crying—but he doesn’t sound upset. Doesn’t even look it, despite the clear tear track carving a pale line down his cheek.

She hesitates in the doorway, heart still pounding. The panic hasn’t faded yet, but now she just feels… foolish.

“I… I thought I heard something,” she says awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to—”

He grins at her, wiping his face roughly with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Me crying?” he says, without a trace of shame. The grin tugs wider. “Sorry. I know it’s not very manly but… Look! Look!”

The grin brightens into something radiant. He throws out a hand in a wide, theatrical gesture toward the bench.

Strung across the space (hung on what looks like old clothesline, clipped up with mismatched pins) are long, narrow strips of glossy dark paper.

The photographs!

Her own smile spreads in response, unbidden. She hurries forward, unable to stop herself.

Then stops short as she feels his hand on her shoulder—gentle, steady, guiding her until she’s crouched beside him, peering at the hanging strips. His touch is light. Tentative.

She realizes, with a small jolt, it might be the first time he’s willingly touched her since he changed back.

She reaches toward one of the strips, fingers hovering.

“Don’t touch!” he blurts out, then immediately softens, pulling her hand back with careful fingers. “It’s still wet. The emulsion could smudge.”

His fingers are cold. Just cold.

“But… look,” he murmurs, voice full of reverence.

He points to one strip in particular, a set of six small frames.

She leans in. When he’d said he was going to develop photos, she hadn’t really known what to picture. Maybe Polaroids. Not this. Not these delicate, dangling ribbons.

Each image is tiny. Barely larger than a postage stamp, and washed in inverted colors. Pale where they should be dark, and dark where light should’ve hit.

Negatives, she remembers suddenly. The word clicks into place.

“Hang on,” he says.

Carefully, he angles the lantern, tipping the light so it glows directly through the strip.

And there it is.

The colors are inverted, but the subject unmistakable. Across six tiny rectangles, frame by frame, is the Serpoian ship. The one she only remembers as a burning husk on the ground, just before it exploded into shrapnel.

The details are hard to make out at this size, but it looks… well, alien. Almost comically so, in fact. Like something out of a B-movie. But it’s real.

She knows it’s real. And Okarun knows it’s real.

And now, he has physical proof.

He looks radiant. Absolutely beaming. Like if he grinned any wider, he might explode.

“That’s amazing, Okarun,” she breathes—and she means it, every word.

“I know!” he says, practically flinging his hands into the air.

Then the words come pouring out of him. Fast. Tripping and tumbling in a breathless, unfiltered rush that borders on manic.

“And I was so worried that when I dropped it, the light leaks might’ve exposed the film—or that the camera had cracked when I fell—and I swear I thought I saw a scratch on the lens but it was just dust, and it’s been sitting out there in the rain for days so I thought it might’ve warped or—”

He doesn’t pause for breath. She doesn’t care. She just listens.

His voice, after everything, is sweet music. And right now, she’ll take all of it.

Her eyes flick along the clothesline again, lingering on the uneven arrangement. A few of the six strips are shorter. Only 5 little frames instead of 6.

“Why are some of them different sizes?” she asks, tilting her head.

She doesn’t really care about the answer. She just wants to keep him talking. Wants to hold onto this strange, giddy rhythm a little longer.

But for some reason, the question catches him off guard.

“Oh. Uh… some didn’t turn out,” he says. A slight hitch in his voice. “I, uh… just got rid of those.”

There’s still excitement in his tone, but the edge has dulled. Just a little.

She frowns, barely, but doesn’t press. After everything he put into getting these shots… it makes sense he’d be disappointed some didn’t make it.

“But that doesn’t matter, right?” she says lightly. “You got the ones you needed.”

He nods quickly. Brightens again. “Yeah!”

There’s a small beat.

“So…” she says, “how do they become actual photos?”

Hopefully a safer question.

“It’s easy enough,” he says, his voice easing into something more relaxed. “There are a few ways to do it… I usually just scan them and invert the colors manually. The quality’s not great—library scanners kind of suck—but it works.”

He pauses for half a beat, then perks back up.

“But!” he says quickly, excitement bubbling again. “The magazines I submit to? They actually prefer the negatives. They’re harder to fake, and I’ve got enough decent shots of the ship that even if I send a few in, I’ll still have some left to keep.”

His eyes light up.

“I just need to send those in, along with a write-up of the encounter, and if I’m lucky…” His voice lifts. “It might be in the next issue! A couple of weeks from now!”

The light dims, a little bit.

“In a few weeks…” he echoes, quieter. The excitement drains from his face, replaced by something vacant.

Even without the deadline looming over them, he would never have gotten to see his photo published, would he?

“That sounds so exciting,” she says quickly, trying to buoy him, to bring that spark back. “Who do you submit it to? Do you already have the story written?”

Even if he won’t be around to see it, she’ll make these get published. One way or another.

Let the occult community know that Okarun (no, Ken Takakura) existed.

He looks a little surprised by her enthusiasm. But then he smiles. Really smiles. He’s about to launch into another explanation when—

She sneezes.

It echoes in the small space. The storage shed is, frankly, a dusty mess.

“Um—these need a few more hours to dry,” he says instead, suddenly shy. “We could… go back into the house to talk until then…”

Until the photos are ready. Until they leave to face her. He doesn’t say it, but the silence stretches around it.

She could cry, honestly, just from hearing his voice again. The real one. Not the quiet, broken fragments from earlier. He sounds like himself again. Or close enough.

She probably shouldn’t push her luck. But she does it anyway.

“That sounds good,” she murmurs, and reaches for his hand.

He doesn’t pull away.

He doesn’t exactly hold on, either—but he lets her take it. Cold. But intact. Remarkably whole, considering he dragged himself up a cliff with those same fingers.

And like that, she leads him out of the darkened storeroom.

Hand in hand.

 

---

 

In the excitement, she had almost forgotten why she went out to fetch Okarun in the first place.

Granny ordered takeout.

Momo can count on one hand how many times that’s happened in her life—and still have fingers left over.

They exit the storeroom just in time to see it arrive. Granny hands over a wad of cash (a big one!) and receives only a few coins back, which she stuffs into her pocket as she takes a very large wrapped bundle.

She unwraps it inside, revealing a veritable feast. The centerpiece is a heavenly-looking sushi platter, filled with all the good stuff: uni, sea perch, fatty tuna. The best cuts.

But there are other dishes mixed in too. A stewed beef bowl, some ramen, a side of curry. It’s practically every one of her favorite meals combined into one.

She doesn’t have to ask what possessed Granny to order something so extravagant.

Because her brain already knows. This could very well be Okarun’s last meal.

The thought hits hard. That image she had in the mall (of a prisoner’s final, indulgent meal) returns uninvited. She shoves it to the back of her mind.

“Eat up, kids,” Granny says gruffly, setting everything out across their low table. It barely fits. “You’re gonna need it for tonight.”

Okarun doesn’t hesitate.

He’s already seated, chopsticks in hand, loading his plate. He’s practically shoveling food into his mouth between rapid, breathless thanks.

Seeing him like that…

Somehow, it brings her appetite back, too.

She hadn’t realized how hollow she felt, until the first bite hits her tongue, and suddenly, her whole body remembers how to want something.

Maybe it’s the powers. They take more out of her than she’s willing to admit.

She doesn’t say much. Just eats.

Mouthful after mouthful, the flavors blur together. Sweet soy, vinegar rice, rich broth, buttery fish. Comfort in layers.

It’s all delicious.

Granny sits across from them, eating at a sedate pace. She doesn’t say much.

But there’s a softness in her eyes as she watches them eat.

“So… Turbo Granny, huh?” Granny mutters, breaking the quiet once most of the food is gone. “You two sure picked a troublesome one.”

Both she and Okarun glance up from their dishes.

“I had a hunch,” she continues. “Given the location. And what happened to you, kid. Fits her style. If someone comes across her and runs… when she catches them, she curses them by…”

She trails off.

Momo watches her closely, but the rest of the sentence never comes.

“Well. She curses them,” Granny finishes curtly. “She’s a powerful yokai. You’ve done good, kid—fighting it off as much as you have.”

Okarun pauses mid-bite, then slowly sets his chopsticks down. His eyes drop to the rim of his bowl.

“Thanks,” he mutters. Quiet. Barely audible.

“But,” Granny says, voice firm again, “the fact she’s merged with a location-bound spirit—and how far she reached out? She’s stronger than I thought.”

She exhales sharply through her nose.

“This isn’t gonna be easy.”

She turns her full attention to Okarun now, gaze heavy.

“Kid. That… cursed form of yours.” She says sharply. “You can use it again, yeah?”

Okarun straightens immediately. “Yes, ma’am,” he says quickly, almost too quickly. “I think I’ve got the hang of it now.”

Granny nods once, short and satisfied. “Good. You’ll need it. You can’t beat Turbo Granny—not with the spirit she’s merged with. Not on their home turf.”

Momo slams her chopsticks down with a sharp clatter. “Then what are we meant to do?” she snaps, eyes narrowing.

Granny doesn’t even flinch. “Beat her at her own game.”

She blinks. “What?”

“That thing has absolute confidence in its speed,” Granny explains, calm but firm. “Taunt it, and it’ll take the challenge. You can use that. Lure it outside its territory.”

She reaches into her cardigan, producing a folded piece of paper.

Momo leans in as Granny spreads it out over the table, moving empty dishes out the way. A city map. Streets and train lines outlines.

“When did you even get that?” Momo asks, incredulous.

Granny doesn’t answer. Just taps a point near the middle. “Their turf is all of Shono City. Every inch of it. Not gonna be easy. But it also means my turf’s right on the edge.”

She traces a curved line with her nail, then taps a small intersection along the main railway.

“Here,” she says. “I’ll be waiting. I’ll have as many barriers set up as I can. Once you get them across this line—”

She looks up, meeting both their eyes.

“—we’ll take them out. Together. Yeah?”

Okarun leans closer over the map, wide-eyed, scanning the route. Granny turns her focus fully to him.

“Four-eyes,” she says, serious now. “You’ll be doing the running. With Momo on your back.”

He startles, jerking back slightly. “On my—?”

“The curse is based on her power,” Granny says. “You should be just as fast as she is.”

Momo glances between them. “Will that… actually work?”

Granny shrugs. “You can run interference with your powers. Together, you’ll make it work.”

She goes quiet for a moment, then turns back to Okarun, her gaze sharp and unwavering.

“But you understand, don’t you, kid?” Her voice drops, low and serious. “I’m entrusting my granddaughter’s life to you.”

Okarun goes still. His hands tremble as he gently sets down his bowl. Then he bows low—forehead nearly touching the table.

“Yes,” he says, a little too loudly. “I understand, Seiko-san. I won’t let you down.”

Granny exhales through her nose. When she speaks again, her voice has softened.

“I know you won’t.”

She picks up her chopsticks, but then sighs and puts them down again.

“I need to go,” she says instead, pushing herself to her feet. There’s a slight wince in the motion, but she straightens quickly. “Still need time to set the barriers.”

She turns to Okarun, chin tilting toward the door.

“Four-eyes,” she adds, “I fixed your bike. Should save you both some time getting back to the tunnel.”

“Thanks,” he says quickly, ducking his head.

Granny chuckles, reaching out to ruffle his hair as she passes. He recoils slightly, cheeks flushing red.

“Enjoy your evening together, kids,” she says, already heading for the door. “But don’t leave it too late. The longer the night goes on, the stronger she’ll get.”

She pauses in the doorway, glancing back over her shoulder.

“And make sure you both eat your fill,” she adds with a faint smile.

Then her gaze lands on Momo.

“Momo,” she says, her tone turning serious once more. “Come with me. Let’s talk outside before I go.”

 

---

 

“Momo,” Granny says seriously, as they step out into the yard. Her voice is low, almost distant. “I’m still not sure about this… and yet, I feel like I can’t stop it.”

Momo turns to look at her, but Granny’s already facing the tree line, gaze fixed far off in the darkening woods.

“Four-eyes…” she begins, then corrects herself. “Ken, I should say.”

Momo blinks. She doesn’t remember ever telling Granny his name.

Granny exhales slowly and reaches into her pocket. “He’s not what I expected,” she murmurs. “I still don’t know what’s gonna come out of that box… but it’s not him I’m worried about anymore.”

They walk slowly to the edge of the gravel path. The stones crunch under their feet.

“It feels like I’m leaving everything up to chance,” Granny says after a moment, her fingers tightening around something in her hand.

She pulls it out.

A 100 yen coin. Leftover change from the takeout, probably.

She rolls it across her knuckles, the motion practiced, effortless. But her eyes stay hard, unmoving.

“Either you fail, one way or another… or you don’t,” she mutters. “Both seem just as likely in my mind.”

She turns the coin between her fingers. It catches the light, flashes silver.

“Heads,” she says flatly. “Maybe the kid does turn on you. Or you don’t outrun Turbo Granny. Or something worse. Who knows.”

She flicks the coin into the air.

“Tails,” she continues. “You win. But even then… the best you can hope for is that he passes on peacefully.”

Her voice stays level. Detached.

But the words hang heavy in the cooling air.

What a miserable game, Momo thinks. Her hands curl into fists at her sides.

The coin spins again. Higher. Higher.

It catches the light as it climbs—glinting silver against the soft gold of afternoon.

Then it begins to fall.

But before it can land, before it can decide anything at all, she reaches out and snatches it midair.

The movement is sudden. Sharp. Almost angry.

She doesn’t look at it.

Neither of them speak for a long moment. They just stare at each other, the coin gripped in her closed palm.

Shame prickles in her chest. For her pettiness. For her fear.

“I don’t want it to be like this,” she says quietly, helplessly.

Granny’s voice is softer than usual. “Well… wanting something hard enough isn’t enough, sadly.”

Momo holds the coin out, sideways. Not revealing the result. Not even to herself.

Granny eyes her for a second, then lets out a dry chuckle.

“Keep it,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “Feels like you might need it, for some reason.”

Momo slowly pulls her hand back, fingers curling around the coin.

“Also… I really do hope you won’t need it,” Granny says, her voice low. “But… just in case.”

She reaches into her pocket again, and hands her a slip of paper, words of warding and protection on it. It’s another design she doesn’t recognize.

“If something happens with him… run to Kamigoe city and use this,” Granny says quietly, holding it out.

Momo recoils instinctively, the paper slipping from her fingers as if it had scorched her.

Granny catches it before it hits the ground, steady and unfazed.

“Why would you…” Momo’s voice shakes as she stares at it. “I can’t use something like that.”

“It won’t hurt him.” Granny assures. “I wouldn’t make you do that. It’ll just stop him.”

She extends the talisman again, her hand steady. “Please. Just as a precaution.”

Momo stares at it. She doesn’t want to take it. Taking it feels like admitting she’s afraid of him. Like admitting she thinks he could hurt her.

And she doesn’t believe that. She won’t.

Still… Granny’s eyes are steady. Serious.

“Please,” she repeats, softer this time.

Hesitantly, Momo reaches out and takes it.

Just to placate Granny, she tells herself. Nothing more.

Behind them, the soft crunch of tires breaks the quiet. A cab rolls to a stop at the end of the dirt road.

Granny glances over her shoulder. Her expression pinches, caught between resignation and something unreadable.

Her mouth opens. Then closes again.

She hesitates. Something Momo has never seen from her before.

And then, quietly, she steps forward and places both hands on Momo’s shoulders. Holds her firmly. Looks her dead in the eyes.

“Momo…” she begins, then pulls her into a tight hug.

“Don’t die,” she whispers.

“Yeah,” Momo breathes. Her arms tighten just a little.

They break apart.

Granny doesn’t linger. She fishes a cigarette from her pocket, lights it with steady fingers, and walks toward the waiting cab without looking back.

She watches her go, straight-backed, confident, like she hadn’t collapsed just hours ago.

The coin and talisman feel heavy in her hand.

 

---

 

After that grim conversation with Granny… after being handed a talisman she swears she’ll never have to use (and yet can’t bring herself to throw away). The two of them finish the rest of the meal in quiet, comfortable chatter.

Afterwards, they head upstairs to her room. Not really sure what to do next.

But he’d said earlier they’d talk.

“I think…” she sighs, collapsing onto the edge of her bed and letting her head fall back, “I’m cryptid-and-supernatural’d out right now. Let’s talk about something else.”

He nods.

Then, a little awkwardly, he joins her. Sort of. Perching on the very edge of the bed, careful not to touch anything.

She rolls her eyes.

Without a word, she sends out a spiritual hand—grabbing him by the shoulders and yanking him down beside her. He lands with a surprised grunt, their heads now almost touching.

“There,” she says, satisfied. “That’s better.”

A beat passes.

“What else do you want to talk about?” he asks cautiously.

“I dunno…” She hums, letting the silence stretch. She mostly just wants to hear his voice. To keep him talking. That’s all

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue,” he says without hesitation. Then he pauses, frowning in thought. “Maybe… more of a blue-green, actually.”

“Yeah??” She turns her head slightly toward him, lips tugging into a small smile. “Like teal? That makes sense. You’d look good in a jacket that color. Or, like, blue-green glasses.”

His face turns an instant shade of pink. He looks anywhere but at her.

She grins wider. Teasing him always lifts something in her chest.

“Well… what’s yours?” he asks quickly, desperate to redirect. His eyes drift to the pink leopard-print curtains. “Though I could probably guess…”

She almost says pink.

But the word sticks.

“I think…” she says slowly, “my favorite color might be blue too now. But more of a… soft, calm kind of blue.”

“Oh.” He shifts a little, sitting up just enough to look at her. “I wouldn’t have expected that.”

She tries to shrug. Lying down like this, it comes out more like a twitch.

Then the questions start to flow—casual, then faster. Whatever pops into her head.

His favorite foods. His favorite games. His favorite manga, books, shows. What he wanted to be when he was a kid. The best dream he’s ever had. What he’d do if he won the lottery. What he’d name a pet cat.

He answers them all—carefully, thoughtfully. Sometimes a little shy. But always earnest.

And for every question she throws, he tosses one back. Usually a mirror of hers—but not always.

The hours slip by easily.

And at some point, with a quiet certainty that makes her chest ache, she realizes:

She probably knows more about him now than anyone else on the planet.

Enough to write a biography, maybe.

Or an obituary.

 

---

 

“The photos should be dry now,” he says out of nowhere.

An entire afternoon has passed. They’re well into the evening now.

Together, they make their way back down to the storage shed. The old door groans open as Okarun pushes it, and he flicks on the battered camping lantern. The weak yellow glow spills across the room.

To her, the photos look exactly the same. Still hanging in their places. But he’d said they were just drying, hadn’t he?

He moves with quiet precision. Gently, almost reverently, he unclips each one from the line and lays them out across the workbench. He takes his time. Cuts them apart with careful hands. Each snip exact, clean. Then he slots them into a plastic sheet with neat little pouches, one after the other.

She watches him work.

At some point, she notices him slipping one of the few precious photos of the Serpoian ship into his pocket. He does it quietly, without looking at her.

She doesn’t call him on it.

There are plenty of spares for her to use later. And if there’s one he wants to keep… well, she isn’t going to take that from him.

He lingers once everything is tucked away. Just… stands there. Staring at the negatives. The sharp, joyless edges of a wistful expression carving lines into his face. So different from the excitement he’d shown earlier.

It’s only when she steps forward, places a gentle hand on his shoulder and murmurs, “Okarun?” that he startles slightly and turns toward her.

He forces a smile. Strained,

Then he clutches the folder to his chest, like it’s something precious, and follows her wordlessly back toward the house.

 

---

 

Back in her room, the folder is safely tucked into his backpack. His hands are still trembling slightly as he zips it closed.

She watches him for a moment, then finally musters up the courage.

“When’s your birthday?” she asks.

He blinks, somehow surprised by the question despite the randomness of the conversation so far. But answers. Turns out he’s seventeen. Older than her by a month or two.

That surprises her. He’s so small for his age.

She apparently accidentally says this aloud, because he sits straight up, flustered.

“I’m not that small!” he protests, instantly defensive.

Her cheeks flush in turn. “I didn’t mean it like—ugh. Sorry.” She laughs, awkwardly brushing her bangs aside. “It’s okay, you know. There’s no shame in being a short guy.”

“I’m not short!” he snaps, indignant. “I’m perfectly average height for someone who just turned seventeen!”

Before she knows it, they’re both on their feet again, standing on tiptoes—her staring triumphantly at his forehead, and him straining to appear even a centimeter taller.

She laughs, grabbing his shoulders and trying to push him down. He retaliates, hands wrapping around her wrist to pull her arms down.

And suddenly they’re wrestling, light and playful. Her palm splays across his face, fingers brushing the all-too-real feeling lenses of his glasses as he squawks and shoves her back, smushing her cheek with the back of his hand.

They’re laughing. Full and loud and ridiculous.

And then they’re falling, collapsing back onto the bed together in a heap of laughter and tangled limbs. Both slightly out of breath.

Their heads are touching now, hair spread out and overlapping on her gaudy bedspread.

She lifts a hand, slow and deliberate, and gently curls one soft lock of his hair between her fingers—still fluffy from earlier, when she dried it.

He glances at her from the corner of his eye. Then, almost shyly, raises his own hand and mirrors the motion, sliding a strand of her red-brown hair between his fingertips.

Their hands drift closer, like magnets drawn together. Slowly, carefully, their fingers thread into each other’s. Perfectly interlocked. Like they were made for each other.

Her palm burns hot against his.

She feels like she’s known him her whole life—and yet wants to spend the rest of it getting to know him more.

She wants a thousand more evenings like this. Talking, teasing, falling back into laughter so hard it leaves tears in her eyes.

She wants to wave to him at the school gates. Walk together to class. Share quiet lunches on the rooftop.

She wants to tell him every story her grandmother ever told her about spirits, and listen to him ramble about the newest issue of his favorite magazine.

She wants to see the look on his face when his photo and article finally gets published. Wants to be there when he shoves it into the faces of everyone who ever mocked him.

She wants him at her side if the aliens ever come back for her.

She wants—

And she wants—

And it’s not fair.

The tears prick again, but they’re not from laughter anymore.

He doesn’t see them. His gaze is fixed on the ceiling. But his hand stays in hers, holding tight.

“Ayase-san…” His voice is soft. Barely above a whisper. “I just wanted you to know that…”

He trails off. Breath catching.

“That despite everything that’s happened this week… it’s the happiest I’ve been in…”

Another pause. A quiet, shaking inhale.

“…a while,” he finishes. “Thank you.”

Don’t thank me, she wants to say. Please.

But she swallows it.

“I’m glad,” she murmurs instead, praying her voice holds. “I’m really glad.”

They lie there a little longer. Fingers laced. Hair entwined.

 

---

 

Time passes.

They don’t move. Still lying there, heads close, fingers interlaced. But the conversation continues—soft questions passed back and forth, growing more nonsensical by the minute. Answers whispered between them like secrets.

She’s just finished listening to him rattle off his opinions on school subjects—he hates Japanese, tolerates Science, secretly enjoys Art—when the light shifts.

Sunset begins to slip through the window, casting the room in burnt orange. Long shadows stretch across the floor like reaching fingers.

Granny had said not to wait too long. The longer they delayed, the stronger Turbo Granny would get.

She doesn’t want to get up. Doesn’t want this fragile, golden moment to end.

But they can’t risk it.

And it’s Okarun who breaks the silence, his voice barely more than a breath.

“Ayase-san… I’m scared.”

Ah.

The tears are back, huh?

“Me too,” she says softly. Thickly. Her throat tight.

They stay like that a moment longer. Still. Breathing in tandem.

Then, slowly, he sits up, his hand slipping from hers.

“We… should get going,” he murmurs, not quite meeting her eyes. “Like Seiko-san said—we can take my bike to the station. Save some time. You can ride on the back—”

“What? No!” she sits up fast. “You need to conserve your stamina. I’ll pedal.”

He stares at her, startled. “Ayase-san, I couldn’t possibly allow you to pedal while I ride on your back!” His tone is almost scandalized. “That would be… undignified!”

She narrows her eyes. “Yeah? Well, what makes you think you can stop me, huh?”

Almost in sync, they scramble to their feet, standing toe to toe again.

Foreheads bump. Again.

Then they both break into laughter.

“This is stupid,” he says with a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Arguing about this when…”

He trails off, gaze drifting to her nightstand.

Reaches over.

Picks something up.

The stupid coin Granny gave her earlier.

“How about we make this fair?” he says, holding the coin up between two fingers. “Flip a coin?”

She’s too caught up watching it warily to do anything more than nod.

“Heads I pedal, tails you do it. Okay?”

Okarun flips the coin into the air before she can answer.

It spins. Fast and weightless.

Heads, they fail. In any number of ways. He vanishes before they even have a chance, Turbo Granny kills them, he twists into something evil despite everything.

Tails, they manage to beat her. They win.

And he fades away anyway. The best case scenario.

The coin reaches its apex.

She doesn’t want it to fall. Doesn’t want this moment, this quiet, this fragile bubble where they’re just talking, existing together, to end.

It doesn’t matter how the coin lands. She loses either way.

The coin begins to drop.

Okarun reaches to catch it, but he doesn’t reach his hand out far enough. The coin slips past his fingers, still spinning, until it lands on the nightstand, and bounces. Still spinning in the air.

She flinches. She doesn’t want to look.

She’s not ready to see the result.

She’s not ready to say goodbye.

She refuses.

For a split second, in the glint of the spinning coin, she swears she sees a flash of teal.

And in that breathless flicker, for just a moment, she feels it again.

That weightless, impossible sensation she’d felt once before.

The coin lands.

Not with a clatter or a bounce, but a soft, resonant ting.

Balanced. Perfectly upright. On its edge.

“…Huh?” Okarun stares at it, blinking. “Wh-what does that mean?”

“I guess… we both win,” she says. Though the words sound distant, even to herself.

“So what, we take turns?” he asks, baffled, adjusting his glasses. His words barely register.

She’s still staring at the coin.

Then slowly, her gaze drops to her hand. She hadn’t moved it. Hadn’t done anything consciously.

But something about the moment feels…

Her grandmothers words from earlier echo in her mind.

‘Well… wanting something hard enough isn’t enough, sadly.’

But wasn’t there a moment… however brief, when she first awakened her powers, where it was enough?

When the world bent to meet her every thought.

When whatever she willed simply became reality.

She closes her fingers into a fist, and something inside her clicks into place.

“Are you ready to go, Okarun?” she asks, feeling more determined than she ever has before.

 

---

 

For all her sudden burst of determination (which seems to catch Okarun more off guard than anything), there are still a few things she needs to take care of before they head out.

Like getting herself ready.

She’s not about to face Turbo Granny looking anything less than her best. Her appearance is her armor, after all.

She’s just about to excuse herself to the bathroom when Okarun grimaces and takes off his glasses.

“You smudged them all over, Ayase-san,” he says, squinting at the lenses. “Do you have something I can clean them with?”

…Okay, yeah. She might’ve smeared her whole palm across them while they were wrestling earlier.

She doesn’t acknowledge that part.

“I’ve got a cloth for mine.”

“You wear glasses?” he asks, genuinely startled.

The surprise in his voice is downright offensive.

“What, you think you’re the only one allowed to have eyewear?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. “Am I not smart enough to qualify?”

“No, I—” he fumbles, clearly flustered.

She spins away in an exaggerated huff, but watches him through the mirror, catching the exact moment his expression shifts to sheepish panic.

“I didn’t mean it like that, I just—”

“The cloth should be on my nightstand,” she says breezily, already heading for the door. She waves a hand over her shoulder, grinning.

He’s still sputtering when she disappears into the hallway.

 

---

 

Okarun’s not in her room when she emerges. Hair done up, earrings in place, heart pounding slow but steady.

She could call out to the house. Instead, she reaches for his aura.

There he is, outside. Faint traces of blue and red pulse steady, stronger than before. The flickering gaps are gone now—just the one in his head remains.

She takes it as a good sign.

Not good enough, though. There are drips of blood on the wooden stairs as she heads outside.

She slides open the door and steps out into the last dregs of daylight.

Twilight spills across the yard in long, smoky golds. In that haze, the sheen of his hair catches—deep glossy red threaded through thick, fluffy curls.

He doesn’t see her at first.

He’s crouched beside the bike, slowly rotating the pedals by hand, watching the wheels spin. His twisted fingers tremble just slightly with the motion.

He must still be nervous. Be scared.

She is too.

But something in her, call it drive, call it stubbornness, call it whatever the hell this is now, beats it back.

Keeps her standing straight.

So when he finally looks up, expression unsure, face half-ruined and one eye still an open wound—

She just smiles.

He rises to greet her, and in the fading light, the shadow he casts stretches long and gangly, fingers raised in a wave that cuts across the ground in spindly lines.

A glint of silver catches her eye. Tucked just under the collar of his hoodie.

The little keyring. Clipped to his zipper, dangling like a charm.

He notices her looking and quickly cups a hand over it. His cheeks flush, just slightly.

“It… seems like it’s good luck,” he mutters. “In the fights so far.”

“Yeah!” she replies, maybe a bit too brightly. “I’ve got my good luck charms too!”

She brushes her hair back behind her ears with practiced flair, revealing the alien earrings.

His expression softens, and he gives a red stained grin back.

At the same time, her hand dips into her pocket. She doesn’t even realize what she’s reaching for until her fingers find nothing.

His glasses.

A strange hollowness pricks her chest. Maybe… maybe she needs one more charm.

“I forgot one last thing,” she says, already turning on her heel. “I’ll be right back, Okarun!”

She darts back inside, up the stairs two at a time.

 

---

 

She breathes a sigh of relief when the glasses are still there in her drawer.

She doesn’t know why, but having them with her is a comfort, somehow. She feels a little better holding them. A little more confident in what’s to come.

Some evidence that Okarun… what? Existed? She isn’t sure what it is, exactly, that reassures her.

She picks them up delicately. They’re still broken, of course.

He existed. But not anymore. Not to anyone but her, and her grandmother.

She turns them over in her hands, slowly. It feels like each time she looks, more details emerge. Like the story is still unfolding, gruesome context blooming from the scraps she saw—now stitched together with what she knows after the earlier excursion.

The mangled frame. The wire around one lens, peeled back and twisted, shorn unevenly.

Almost certainly torn off by his own claws. As he shredded at his face, desperately, futilely, trying to halt the curse’s spread.

The cracked lens.

Maybe it fractured when they hit the ground. Or maybe as he dragged himself forward, his chest heaving, glass scraping against stone and mud, until the surface gave way with a sick little crack.

She notices something new.

A bloody fingerprint on one of the temples, almost hidden by her own forefinger carefully holding the frame aloft. Right near the hinge, where the plastic coated metal thickens.

She hadn’t seen it before.

For some reason, that one detail is harder to picture. Harder to assign a scene to. Her mind refuses to fill in the blanks.

She shakes her head and takes a deep, shuddering breath, fighting back the tears she hadn’t even realized were building again.

She needs to be confident. For both their sakes.

Composure comes quickly. She’s had plenty of practice these past few days. The feelings are shoved back down, put away like toys crammed into an overstuffed closet. Neat. Contained. Ready to explode the next time the door cracks open.

Hopefully, that won’t be until after Okarun has passed on. Peacefully, if they’re lucky.

She heads back down the stairs and out the door, moving fast, before the calm wears thin.

It looks like Okarun hasn’t moved an inch, in all the minutes she was gone.

She raises a hand to him, already bracing for the performance. Something light, something like “ready to go?” But she stops short as something catches her eye.

There’s a smear of red on her fingertip.

Notes:

We're entering the final act, now! :3

Chapter 11: Confrontation

She studies the smear of blood on her fingertip for a long, uncertain heartbeat. A patch of vivid red that seeps into the whorls of her skin.

Okarun’s, hers, maybe even Granny’s? Hard to tell anymore.

Without looking away, she licks the thumb of her other hand and rubs at the spot. Crimson fades to pink, then to nothing as she wipes both hands against the dark cuffs of her jacket. Out of sight, out of mind.

Okarun watches her, head canted in an almost cute tilt, the gesture made strange by the rivulets of fresh blood streaking his face.

She tucks her hands behind her back and strolls closer. “We good to go, Okarun?”

He shifts his attention to the bicycle, gives the pedal a last test spin; the wheels spin smoothly. Rising, he plants one palm on the ground for balance, leaving a wet, rust-colored handprint that blossoms like a scar.

Nothing she isn’t used to by now.

He studies her, something unreadable flickering behind his battered face.

Then he clears his throat, the sound rough and unsteady. “Yeah. Seiko-san patched the bike up,” he mumbles. “Just need a couple minutes to grab my train pass and, uh... the rest of my stuff. Then I’m good to go.”

 

---

 

It takes several long minutes of Okarun “just getting his train pass” before her worry starts to gnaw through her patience.

She wants to give him privacy. Really, she does. But the knot inside her chest keeps tightening, until the only way to loosen it is to make sure he’s still there.

So, with a quiet sigh, she closes her eyes and reaches out with her aura sight.

And immediately regrets it.

There he is—crouched beside the faint outline of his retrieved bag, exactly where he said his pass was.

But what he's holding out in front of him isn’t the pass.

It’s his phone.

And he’s just... staring at it. Still and small, cradling it like something fragile.

From this strange, half-removed perspective, she can’t see the screen, only the silhouette of it against his hands. But she can see the faint ripple of energy each time it vibrates.

Once.
Then again.
Then again.

Whoever he’s reaching for... there’s no answer.

She pulls herself back with a sharp breath, the image lingering behind her eyelids.

Barely a minute later, Okarun steps out, train pass held loosely in a ruined hand.

 

---

 

So eager to hide her quick bit of snooping, she wheels the bicycle toward the torii gate and props it upright, one foot already poised on a pedal. The bet with the coin had ended in a draw after all; she had to pull her weight.

Okarun shambles toward her—were his steps always this uneven? Up close, he looks even worse. Blood snakes from his matted hair and seeps from the cuffs of his hoodie, pattering onto the gravel.

“Ayase-san, maybe I should take the first shift on the pedals,” he croaks, voice slick with fluid. “That way it’ll be your turn once we reach town.”

She expected a little pushback, not courtesy. But he would be the one sprinting later; a breather might help.

“To… conserve your stamina,” she says, nodding. “Give you a rest before showtime?”

Confusion flickers across his ruined features, but then he nods slowly. “Y-yes. Something like that.”

They stand in silence, the night pressing close around them. Words rise in her throat, none large enough to loosen the knot inside her chest.

“Okarun—”

“Ayase-san—”

They speak at the exact same time and clamp their mouths shut. The symmetry snaps the tension; peals of laughter erupt from both of them like breaking glass.

She steps forward before fear can catch up, looping her arms around him and pulling him close. She braces for the slick chill of blood—but when her cheek presses against his chest, there’s only soft cotton, cool and steady beneath her skin.

For a heartbeat he stands frozen.

Then Okarun exhales, and his arms seize her back, clinging to her as if she’s the only thing keeping him standing.

“Hey,” she murmurs, “we’ve got this, right?”

“Yeah. Of course, Ayase-san,” he says, his voice low and a little shaky.

They cling far longer than propriety allows, until Okarun, finally, is the one to pull away.

“We… we should get moving,” he says, eyes low as he swings onto the saddle.

She climbs behind him, pressing against his back, arms cinching his waist so the embrace never fully breaks.

Night hums with cicadas and the distant calls of birds as the wheels crunch over gravel and dirt. The moment they pass through the gate, an icy prickle skitters up her neck—like unseen eyes tracking them from the trees.

Paranoia grips her; she almost checks the aura around them. But with Okarun’s solid body under her arms, his somewhat theatrical huffs of exertion as he pedals, the dread dulls to background static.

One hand rises to brush the keyring dangling from his zipper; the other slips into her pocket, past the paper talisman and his shattered glasses (don’t think about those) and closes on the coin. Metal and metal, pressed tight in either hand, hopefully enough for good luck.

Clutching both charms, she feels the last tatters of unease bleed quietly away, carried off by the rhythm of spinning wheels.

 

---

 

True to his word, a little past the halfway mark, right before brightly lit storefronts start to replace the treeline, Okarun coasts to a stop and motions for them to trade places.

Again he catches her off-guard.

The night’s stakes must have finally gnawed through his rigid manners (though not completely, he still insists on Ayase-san). When he climbs onto the rear rack, his arms snake around her waist, and his forehead comes to rest against her shoulder. His hair is soft and fluffy again, tickling the side of her face.

She feels the minute tremor still running through him—like he’s holding himself together by clinging to her.

A week ago she’d have laughed in someone’s face at the idea of letting a near-stranger clutch her this way. Now the contact is nothing but comforting, a shared balm against the dread stalking them.

She pedals, deliberately steady. Urgency thrums in her veins, but she can’t help stretching the moment out. And she needs to conserve her stamina too, doesn’t she?

Streetlights replace moonlight. Office workers in rumpled suits and late-night revelers weave past, their chatter masking the soft click of the chain.

Okarun’s grip tightens whenever someone’s gaze slides over them—though no one spares them more than a glance. Another reason, she realizes, that he ceded the front.

At the station gate, she insists on being the one to take the bike through. Okarun walks ahead, taps his card, and steps through the barrier. The gate stays open, still waiting for their passenger.

She glides after him without scanning. The metal panels whoosh shut behind her just as a ticket officer pivots in confusion.

As expected, Okarun emits an affronted squawk, nearly tripping over his own feet as he wheels around.

“Ayase-san! Between the arcade and this, I’m beginning to suspect you of kleptomania!” he hisses, voice pitching up half an octave—scandalized and deeply betrayed.

“Not a clue what you mean, Okarun,” she says, breezy as night wind, flashing the confused ticket officer her sunniest, most innocent smile (and giving a cheerful little wave) before heading for the platform."

 

---

 

The late-night train rattles mostly empty, leaving a wide swath of seats—enough for the two of them and the bike to wedge in together. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a harsh white glare.

It’s not a long ride. Okarun digs the crumpled map Granny had given them out of his hoodie pocket and spreads it across his knees. They hunch together, shoulders brushing, tracing the route with matching forefingers. More than before, they burn the landmarks into memory.

The whole time, she still feels eyes boring into her back—but Okarun’s steady murmur of directions keeps her pulse even. Resolve holds.

Two stops later, they roll off the carriage. The station is tiny: no staff, no barrier, just a lonely tap pad on the wall. Okarun dutifully taps his card, then gives her a pointed look that draws matching smiles to both their faces.

They ride up the short slope to the deserted parking lot once more. It looks completely different at night, lit only by the city’s distant glow. The pavement glitters with broken glass and dew. Above them, the mountain tunnel yawns open like a black throat.

The air thickens, electric, heavy, as though the territory itself is drawing a slow breath. All of Shono City may belong to Turbo Granny and the location-bound spirit, but this mountain is their heart, beating darkly beneath the sky. The lot sits on its brink; cross it, and they’re intruding again.

Okarun feels it too—she can tell by the way he stiffens behind her.

“I think,” he says quietly, “we should walk from here.”

They dismount. He props the bike against a dead streetlight. He didn’t bother bringing the bike lock she had seen in his backpack earlier, she notices.

After a moment to steady himself, he crouches and unlaces his shoes, peeling off socks and cuffing his trousers to mid-calf.

“Oh—you mean that,” she mutters as he lines his shoes up neatly beside the bike, socks tucked carefully inside.

He moves with such quiet precision, as if trying to anchor himself to normalcy for just a few more precious moments.

“Okarun, are you sure?” she asks, voice low, as he straightens and turns toward her.

She doesn’t want him straining... or spending longer in that other shape than he has to.

But he nods, firm now.

“She might try to catch us off-guard, right? We should be ready for her.”

She can’t argue with his logic—not with the feeling of unseen eyes pricking the back of her neck, sharp as needles, reaching a fever pitch.

“Okay,” she says, and forces herself to breathe steady. She mentally prepares to look with her aura sight, knowing she’ll probably see her as well. “Let me just—”

“N-no need, Ayase-san. I can manage.” he almost whispers.

He isn’t looking at her. Instead, he studies the fingers of his right hand.

They stretch, elongate, an extra joint blooming like a malign flower. The nails blacken, curving into blunt talons.

She releases a soft “oh.” He flinches at the sound, jerking his gaze up, panic flashing through his widening eyes.

“Ayase-san... you should back up. Or turn away.” The words carry a faint, staticky hiss—like another voice riding underneath his own.

“Nope,” she says simply, and threads her fingers through his half-formed claws and all. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, mister.”

It may be the last time she sees the boy beneath the monster, and she means to burn it into memory.

A storm of emotions races across his face: alarm, shame, fear—then, finally, aching relief.

Twin trails of vivid red bloom down his cheeks like war paint.

She holds his gaze as the hands in hers stretch and swell, joints multiplying until his hands swallow hers.

He rises with the growth, taller and taller. The hem and collar of his hoodie unravels into wisps of spectral flame, drifting away like red fireflies into the night.

Nauseating creaks and wet cracks follow every inch gained, as though bone is snapping and grinding under the strain. Given how he moves, she suspects that’s not far from the truth.

His hair snaps upward in an invisible gale, dark strands bleaching to shock-white so bright it stings her night-tuned eyes.

Still, she doesn’t flinch.

His eyelids clamp shut. Flesh drains of color, settling into a corpse-pale hue. The wounds over his eye burst anew, tearing open as if clawed from within.

When he opens them to look at her again, one socket is a cavern of ruin. The other blazes crimson, the pupil rimmed in sulfurous yellow.

His pale lips part. No sound—only a glimmer of needle teeth.

Shadow floods his lower face, swallowing his jaw and throat in an umbral tide. Then the darkness convulses outward, sculpting a new maw: blunt teeth coalescing from raw spiritual energy, snapping into place one by one until a full predatory grin gleams in the night.

He clacks it once.

Twice.

Then rolls the jaw experimentally, like a serpent testing fangs.

The rest of him follows suit: shoulders cranking too high, neck swiveling too far, elbows bending at impossible angles. He shifts his weight side to side, every motion a study in biological blasphemy.

Yet their gaze never wavers. Nor does her grip.

“Ready to go?” he rumbles, his tone clearer than it’s ever been while changed.

She steadies herself, nods, and finally releases his hand, taking a careful step back.

He’s... impossibly tall like this.

For a moment she wonders how she’s meant to climb onto his back, but then he drops to one knee, lanky arms splayed against the cracked asphalt.

His head swivels toward her (too far), something deep inside his necking creaks with the motion.

“Th-this... okay?” he hisses, static rattling in the back of his throat.

She shakes off the thought and pinches her cheeks for good measure. “Yep! Thanks, Okarun.”

Awkwardly, she hauls herself up, fingers digging into shoulders that feel almost bladed beneath his hoodie. He stays perfectly still, not even bothering to mimic breath.

Comfort is out of the question. Even through the soft fabric, she feels every ridge of spine and rib—he’s gaunt to the point of starvation like this.

A pang of worry (naïve, maybe) flutters through her: does it hurt him to exist like this?

Cold radiates from him. Aside from his unnervingly broad shoulders, she’s nearly bigger than he is, practically straddling him.

She shimmies to keep from sliding once he rises—

—only for one elongated arm to snake back and fold beneath her, forming a cradle. The joint bends the wrong way, but, disturbingly, it works. His spidery claws hook around his own ribs instead of her.

Guilt nips at her as he does it, but relief wins.

All the while, his single lambent red eye tracks her reaction, unblinking.

She leans forward, close enough that her cheek almost brushes his shoulder.

He jerks his head slightly in surprise.

“Thanks, Okarun,” she murmurs, voice low and warm. “That’s better.”

He only dips his chin once, then pushes upright—slow as moonrise. Even standing, he hunches so deeply she’s still kneeling on his back, steadied by his strange arm.

Spirit-fire gutters along his hair and clothes, embers of black-red that prickle her skin. The chill should unnerve her, but right now it’s strangely comforting.

 

---

 

She had nursed a small, treacherous hope that the hag would ambush them the moment they crossed the invisible threshold. Tear off the bandage quickly and spare them the climb.

No such luck. Turbo Granny had named the tunnel as the meeting place, and it seemed she intended to keep to that.

So they crawl back up the mountain instead.

Okarun moves on all fours, barring the one elongated arm still curled behind him and under her to keep her secure. He’s conserving strength, she’s sure. Not rushing—but with his immense reach, every stride covers ground like a giant's.

He doesn’t speak, though she doesn’t blame him. It sounds painful when he does.

She already misses the warmth of his voice, though.

The silence feels fatal.

She rambles—wisecracks, half-baked pep talks, random notes about the night sky—anything to keep fear from swallowing her whole.

Okarun answers only in scraps of sound: a hum, a nod, a chuffing breath threaded with gravelly static that might almost be laughter.

Each small response is a lifeline, thin and fragile. Proof that he's still in there.

She clings to those signs more tightly than she clings to the cloth under her fingers.

And yet the unease keeps growing, coiling tight in her chest.

Her pockets drag heavier with every breath.

The glasses.
The coin.
The talisman.

The sense of being watched swells, until it feels like the night itself is pressing down on her from all sides.

The weight grows unbearable.

When she can’t stand it any longer, she risks opening her spiritual senses.

Instantly, the prickling scrutiny ebbs, and color floods the dreary night.

In the tunnel ahead crouches the location-bound spirit: a mountainous smear of pinks, reds, and bruised maroons clotted into the rough suggestion of a crab.
Beside it stands something smaller yet infinitely denser—a hunched old woman, wrought from a red so deep it almost glows.

Though the distance is vast, Momo feels the hag’s gaze lock with hers—a needle of cold threading down her spine.

Neither aura advances.

They are waiting.

She tightens her grip around Okarun’s neck as he continues his patient ascent.

Then she looks at him too.

Where patchy strands once flickered, his aura now swirls solid—serene blue braided with the same crimson that burns ahead waiting for them, filling every corner save the hollow of his ruined eye.

And yet, the sight steadies her.

It’s strange. The hateful red woven through his aura is identical to the one waiting above—but pressed against Okarun’s tranquil blue, it looks muted. Almost tender.

As though the cool tone is diluting the spite.

It reminds her of those color illusions: a single red swatch seeming to change shade depending on what background you set it against.

The pigment never changes.

Only the context does.

Up in the tunnel, that red screams of blood and spite.

Wrapped around him, it reads as... protection. Strength.

Courage that has dragged her back from death’s jaws more than once.

She makes that dual-colored aura the last thing she sees before she lets the inner vision close, and the ordinary night folds quietly back around them.

 

---

 

They stand outside the tunnel.

An odd, buoyant thrill skitters up her ribs—closer to giddiness than fear. Close enough, at least, to risk a joke.

“Okay, Okarun,” she says, giving the corded muscles between his shoulder blades a hearty pat. “After you.”

His entire frame shudders. Panic lances through her—but then a low, gravelly snicker rumbles from his chest.

“I believe it’s ladies first, actually,” he rasps, voice like stones grinding underwater.

She presses a mock hand to her cheek. “But look, Okarun. I’m teary-eyed…”

He cranes his long neck back. Though his grim maw doesn’t move, his single crimson-and-gold eye crinkles. She could swear he’s smiling.

“Bone dry,” he hisses. “Together?”

“Together.” She nods once, firm.

In the same breath, they inhale—and Okarun lumbers forward, still cradling her against his back.

The mouth of the tunnel swallows them whole; the city’s glow winks out behind them, as though someone pinched the filament of the night.

Only Okarun emits light now—strands of ethereal white hair, a single blazing eye, faint markings pulsing like embers.

That spectral radiance is just strong enough to expose a trail of bloody prints smeared across the concrete floor, and impossibly, splattered high along the tunnel walls.

It also catches something waiting ahead.

The entire tunnel wall is consumed by a single wrinkled face—mouth alone larger than Okarun, even in his monstrous size.

Twin gouts of rancid-yellow brilliance hang where the “eyes” should be—blank, hateful pits.

Then the eyes blink and vanish, replaced by a gaping maw packed with familiar, blunt peg-like teeth.

Despite the different shape, Momo knows instantly whose visage stares back.

They've found Turbo Granny.

 

---

 

Okarun halts; for a heartbeat, monster and wall simply regard one another across a stretch of blood-smeared concrete.

“So you actually came,” the crone rasps, each word vibrating through the stones. “Didn’t think you had the guts. Saves me the trouble of hunting you down.”

The gaping mouth peels wider. “I’m going to thoroughly enjoy chewing you up, girl—after all the trouble you’ve caused me.”

The wall begins to bulge, flesh advancing toward them. She darts a glance over her shoulder; behind them, it’s the same.

They’re trapped.

Granny warned her about this.

Taunt her—make her race, she reminds herself, swallowing the metallic tang of fear.

"Aw, what’s wrong?" she calls out, forcing a bright, careless lilt into her voice. "Scared you’ll lose a race to us?"

The bulging face snarls—but doesn’t lunge.

Not yet.

"A brawl would be boring, don'cha think?" she goes on, flashing a grin she doesn’t feel. "And we both know who won round one."

Keep it up, Momo, she tells herself, tamping down the tremor in her hands.

She flicks a strand of hair off her cheek, adopting a breezy tone.

"Brute force is sooo unfashionable. But you’re called Turbo Granny, right? There’s no way you’d turn down a race to show off."

The huge maw twists into a sneer—and with a hiss of swirling red vapor, the massive face collapses into the figure of a diminutive, hunched woman.

She looks nothing like the shrieking nightmares they’ve faced so far—except for the aura of ancient spite radiating from every brittle bone.

Despite her unassuming shape compared to her previous forms, Okarun takes a slight step back.

She squeezes his shoulder gently, hoping he can feel it.

"If you’re really Turbo," she adds, thumbing her chest, "then challenge us with how fast you can run."

Turbo Granny’s dry, cracked lips peel into a razor grin.

"Who d'you think you’re mouthing off to, kid? There’s no way I’d lose a running match."

The old spirit’s joints crack grotesquely as she straightens, bones grinding like wet branches.

"Fine—I accept," she croons, yellow eyes gleaming in the dark. "Besides... I can swallow you both and take back what’s mine any time I please."

The crone takes a step forward, the tunnel floor creaking beneath her.

“What're the rules?" she rasps. "Where’s the finish line?"

Spirits are bound to the terms of a game—she has to frame this right.

"No finish line," she declares, heart hammering. "We’re playing tag. You catch us, you win. Simple, yeah?"

"Count for ten minutes when you begin," she continues, confidence scraping itself together. "We'll make a run for it in the meantime."

The hag’s grin widens.

"The two of you together, and him still using the power he stole from me? Hardly fair." She cocks her head, birdlike. "I should have a partner too, hmm?"

From the darkness behind her, something colossal scrapes forward—the crab-shaped spirit, its chitinous shell carved with faces trapped in wordless screams. Its lantern-eyes burn white in the gloom, blinding and blank.

Shit, she curses inwardly.

Denying the request might make Turbo Granny split them up to be fair—and she’d be dead meat without Okarun.

No choice.

"That's fine!" she says lightly, even as a cold knot cinches tight in her gut. "But one more rule."

Turbo Granny's nostrils flare. "I'm listening."

"You're not allowed to reveal anything that might... distract our team." She forces her voice steady."It's two-on-two now. Changing that mid-game would be cheating, right?"

From under her, Okarun shifts. His head starting to turn toward her before he aborts the motion, tension humming through his frame.

Turbo Granny barks a laugh. "Smart girl. Fine." Her grin curdles into something venomous. "I despise cheaters."

The crab spirit clacks its claws together—the sound like tombstones grinding shut.

She meets Turbo Granny’s burning gaze, swallows once, and flashes a smile far braver than she feels.

"Alright then!" she cries out. "Okarun—let’s run!"

He wastes no time. He spins on a dime and lunges forward, the sudden motion jolting her hard against his back.

She clamps down with her thighs, arms tightening instinctively around his neck, just in time to keep from being thrown.

Behind them, the counting begins.

"One... two... three... four..."

 

---

 

Okarun runs, and keeps running, devouring asphalt in lunging strides.

It’s obvious now: his transformed power draws straight from the hag. She can see it in the way he blurs down the mountain road, speed stolen from the very creature chasing them.

But she can also feel the drag of her own weight.

"I can hang on!" she shouts over the tearing wind. "Do whatever you need!"

After a heartbeat of hesitation, his supporting arm slips away. Instantly, he drops to all fours, clawed hands hammering the ground, and the pace snaps faster.

She clamps her thighs tighter around his too-thin torso, fingers fisting in the fabric of his hoodie, hanging on like a rider clinging to a runaway horse.

Behind them, Turbo Granny’s voice carries as though it was being whispered directly into her ear.

But the cadence is wrong—numbers skitter out of order:

"One minute... three minutes... five minutes..."

Cheap trick, she thinks, bile rising. Granny always warned her: spirits love loopholes.

She should have demanded the countdown by exact seconds.

They’re not even a tenth of the way through a true ten-minute head start when the crash comes—stone shattering, metal shrieking.

An unearthly scream follows, a layered chorus of girl-voices, smudged over with a gasping, echoing laugh.

She risks a glance uphill—and nearly loses her grip.

The fused thing hurtles after them: Turbo Granny’s enormous webbed eyes dominate a face half-swallowed by the bound spirit’s shell.

A mane of tangled white lashes behind it, and human legs—thin, spindled, grotesquely misplaced—burst from its carapace, scuttling with a frantic, insectile speed.

It is a nightmare stitched into existence.

And it’s gaining.

"Okarun!" she shouts, heart hammering against his spine. "We have to shake her!"

He gives no verbal answer, but jerks left, vaulting the ditch and plunging into the treeline.

Branches whip past; bark explodes beneath clawed hands.

The night closes over them, the monster’s laughter echoing down the road they abandoned.

Her gaze stays riveted behind them; she trusts Okarun implicitly to handle the "driving."

Turbo Granny and the fused spirit are fast—blindingly so—but their bulk betrays them.

Tangled roots and narrow trunks slow the fused leviathan far more than they slow Okarun’s wiry frame.

He slips through the murk, bounding almost noiselessly over moss and broken stone.

Every few strides, she snatches up fallen limbs, loose rocks, anything her spectral hands can grab, and flings them back into the dark.

The clatter buys precious heartbeats.

They are gaining ground.

Determination, seeded earlier by the coin-flip, now floods her chest. If they can outrun Turbo Granny—even for a moment—then maybe—

Okarun shrieks, a crackling hiss that splits the air.

He skids to a halt so abruptly she slams into his back; only his arm lashing up, claws clamping her waist, keeps her from pitching off.

Behind them, the fused thing howls—a chorus of grating bone and riven metal. Its monstrous limbs gouge trenches into the earth, the shell grinding over rock like a battering ram tearing down walls.

The stink of brine and burnt metal rolls over them in a choking wave.

She twists, heart hammering, expecting some obstacle she can toss out the way—

—and finds herself face to face with a wall.

Featureless. Matte gray.

It rises straight from the earth, climbing beyond the treeline, blotting out the moon, the stars, the faint city glow.

No mortar lines. No seams. Just an impossibly smooth monolith.

Okarun twists with desperate speed, one arm coiling around her, pinning her against the gray wall behind him. He shields her with his warped body as Turbo Granny and the bound spirit shriek down the slope, their lamplike eyes flooding the wall with sickly yellow.

There’s nowhere left to run.

 

 

Notes:

Ah, an unexpected obstacle near the end... It was going so well, too.

Chapter 12: Trapped

Notes:

Oh! This chapter was fighting me man, but thanks to the lovely Aster for Beta Reading and improving this one so much! . These actiony chapters probably also a bit shorter, so the chapter count is going up again, whoops.
I've also reaslized my fancy text effects look a lot better on dark mode than light mode... I've tried to adjust them a bit so they... kinda work on both! Might still come back and adjust the crab girlies later.

As well I almost forgot to link some fanart that was posted while this was a brief break, I added them back afte the relevant chapter but here they are again!
ruusenkvitten
mildlycuriousdragon

Her mind stutters, scrambling for their next move. Every thought had been devoted to one idea: outrun them—outrun them until they reached her granny and victory was theirs.

That plan had just gone up in smoke.

But Turbo Granny and the bound spirit are still plowing toward them, ripping up great swaths of dirt and trees in their wake.

She and Okarun reach the same conclusion in the same breath.

A heartbeat before the amalgamated spirit collides with them, Okarun darts sideways.

“You brats!” the creature bellows after them as they escape, its voice a discordant choir. Turbo Granny’s rasp slices clear through the din, the constant thread in the ragged harmony. “What have you done?”

She doesn’t respond. Instead, she flings her power toward a thick tree trunk, spiritual fingers gripping wood and yanking hard. Their forces merge, propelling them forward with sudden, violent speed. Behind them, the spirit crashes into the wall, sending stone blooming outward in a cloud of dust.

They stagger to a halt and stare. Dust eddies in the sudden hush. Her own breathing sounds thunder‑loud.

Somehow they’ve bought a moment of reprieve.

The spirit… is it slower? It punched a crater in the wall, but now it’s pulling free with agonizing lethargy. And the wall itself—

“Momo,” Okarun snaps with a clack of his jaw, urgency layered in the discordance. “Plan. We need a plan.”

Right—Okarun’s relying on her. The urgency distracts her from wondering about the wall and, for now, mutes her reaction to the familiar form of address from him.

With moon and starlight snuffed out, darkness engulfs this pocket of forest. Okarun’s glow is their lone reprieve, rendering the surrounding trees as nascent smudges at the rim of sight.

The only other source of light is the sickly yellow glow seeping from the wall as the abomination writhes free, a dozen voices speaking in jagged unison.

“You won’t escape us!”

They have to make their move.

“Keep running,” she whispers over his shoulder. “The game’s still on. Stay ahead of her while we work this out.”

He spares only a second to scan the dark, then hisses, “Hold on.”

He launches himself at the smooth stone, claws plunging deep and bursting into spider‑web cracks across its face. Then he skitters sideways, zippering a trail of jagged gouges in his wake.

The world flips on its side. She clings tight while Okarun’s aura blooms in a diffuse halo against the stone; they streak sideways like a meteor, his glow strobing across bark and leaves as they pass.

They’re slower than they would be on the forest floor, but the amalgamation is slower still, barely keeping up even from the ground, its claws scraping uselessly against the trees far below. Its frustration erupts in layered screeches and concussive clacks.

They have some breathing room.

They’ve seen this wall, this smothering darkness, before.

Once is chance, twice coincidence, three times—a pattern.

There are aliens here.

But where?

She closes her eyes, trying to sense their auras the way she had located that straggler at the shopping mall. Nausea slams into her the instant her lids meet. The dark erupts in ghost‑pale outlines of every living tree and plant, all of them slashing past at crooked angles. Greens and browns whirl in a queasy kaleidoscope.

With Okarun still sprinting along the wall, the effect hits her like the worst motion sickness imaginable. The earlier feast is staging a full‑on revolt, and she bites back a gag to keep it down.

Okarun screeches to a halt. His claws scratch along the stone, the sound rippling goosebumps up her arms. He twists his long neck back toward her, concern burning in his single visible eye.

“Momo?” he hisses.

Crashes from the fused spirit echo through the forest behind them, but it’s not yet close.

She peers over her shoulder, Okarun following her gaze. Between the trunks she spots only a dim smear of sickly yellow light glimmering through scattered gaps.

They have a window to act.

“Okarun,” she says, voice tight with urgency, “can you haul us up somewhere high and hold still for a sec? I’m gonna try to track the aliens.”

He doesn’t question the mention of aliens. Either he’s drawn the same conclusion or his trust in her is absolute. Instead he pushes off the wall and lands on the trunk of a massive tree.

Claws biting deep, he clambers upward, peeling ribbons of bark with each grasping limb. At the crown his glow only grazes the treetops, turning them to ghostly silhouettes. Above, she can just make out the stone ceiling that seals them in.

Behind, the yellow haze swells, punctuated by the crack and pop of splintering wood.

“O‑kay?” Okarun rasps, looping one spindly arm around the trunk while the other steadies her once more. His clawed feet dig deep, anchoring them to the bark.

She’s already plunging into aura sight, though, breathing a soft “Yes” in reply.

Muted greens and browns bloom across her vision again, but without the nauseating swirl of motion—everything holds still. Okarun’s twin‑layered aura pulses beneath her, its flickering unbound edge brushing the luminous teal glow that swells in her outlined hands. She can almost feel the connection she formed before, eager for her to push or pull again. But she forces the urge down.

Behind them, the crab spirit that once blazed—screaming pinks and bruised maroons—now flickers like an ember starved of air. Its glow unravels at the edges, color bleeding into the dark with every lumbering step.

Whatever this cut‑off pocket of forest actually is, they aren’t in the crab’s turf anymore, she thinks. It’s weakened.

Yet coiled inside that fading mass burns a second presence, smaller but even more vicious feeling: Turbo Granny. Her crimson aura refuses to gutter, a hot coal jammed in cooling ashes, thrashing and snarling as the crab staggers on.

But that’s not what she needs to focus on right now. She pushes her reach wider, skimming the boundaries of this pocket world. It’s huge (far larger than the first one at their shrine) but not endless.

There.

Near the center, three small auras cluster: pale blue and clinically cold, nothing like the comforting spiritual chill rising from beneath her. The edges of their light are rigid and geometric, almost perfectly matching their disturbingly familiar outlines.

A little way behind that little triangle, another presence flares in the gloom, roughly the same size but utterly different. It rolls in orange‑brown swirls, the color of fresh rust dissolving in water. She can’t make out its outline, but the aura itself seems … more restrained than the flickering, flame‑like chaos of humans or yokai, yet far more organic than the Serpoians.

She snaps her eyes open, throat dry.

“Serpoians,” she croaks. “Those Serpoian bastards are here—three of them. And one other I don’t recognize.”

Okarun answers with a guttural snarl. His jaw clacks shut like a bear trap, vapor hissing from between his teeth. Bark splinters under the hand gripping the trunk.

The sudden violence nearly unseats her; only his arm, cinched tight, keeps her on his back.

Below, the crab spirit and Turbo Granny continue crashing through the trees, yellow light stabbing up toward their perch.

 

---

 

They’re perched well beyond the fused monster’s reach, buried in the canopy’s highest tangle. The spirit has already leveled trees larger than this one, but at the first sign of it doing so Okarun can simply spring to another trunk. For the moment, a tense ceasefire hangs between them.

Or maybe the fused yokai is just catching its breath. Even from above she can see it listing to one side, claws dragging grooves in the soil, the once‑feral mane of white hair sagging in limp curtains.

“Where the hell have you dragged us?” their voices snarl out in disharmony.

Good, she thinks. They don’t have a clue—no reason to give them one.

“Hah?” she calls down, cupping one hand to her mouth. “Something wrong, old biddy? Ready to tap out?”

For a breath the forest holds its tongue. The smell of seawater hangs in the night air, underscored by the faint creak of swaying limbs.

The only answer is an enraged snarl—claws snap, feet stamp, the ground trembles, sending reverberations up through their perch. Okarun shifts beneath her, muscles tensing, ready to bolt at the first lunge.

Yet the monster doesn’t charge. Instead, the shaggy white hair on its back contracts, folding inward until it forms a dense, quivering lump. At the same time, the bloated crab shrinks slightly; those disturbingly human legs liquefy away, revealing barbed chitinous limbs that click and flex underneath. The enormous yellow web‑like eyes dwindle, leaving the smaller white lamp‑stalks in their wake.

Perched above the treetops, she can now take in the crab spirit’s back. The glossy shell is studded with faces—school‑age girls, unmistakable even beneath the agony contorting each one. Every eye is sealed, bracing for a blow that never arrives, turning the carapace into a mural of mute suffering.

“G‑Granny…” the chorus of embedded girls whimpers, Turbo Granny’s own rasp gone from the mix.

The quivering mass of white hair resolves into a hunched old woman once more—balanced on the shell, stooped close, mouth moving in a low murmur Momo can’t make out. Whatever the hag is saying is background noise compared to the indecision plaguing her right now.

The crab is clearly flagging inside this sealed pocket of forest… but Turbo Granny isn’t. And thanks to rules she herself set, they lose this game if they get caught, not necessarily beaten.

And they’re trapped in a goddamned box with her.

As if reading her mind, the hag speaks up, her voice ringing out clearly despite the height between them. “I’m growing bored of this petty chase! I think it’s time we end this farce.”

Her gnarled face tilts upward from her perch on the crab shell, yellow eyes gleaming in the dark.

“How long are you planning to string him along, hmm? How long do you plan on using him?”

No… she can’t.

“You—you agreed to the rules!” she shouts from her perch on Okarun’s back, fingers digging desperately into his shoulders. “You said you wouldn’t reveal anything!”

A shrill cackle slices through the leaves. “You broke the rules first, girlie! I smelled our uninvited guests the moment we dropped into this box. Two-on-two, you said? Doesn’t look that way now.”

Okarun stays perfectly still, eyes locked on the hag.

“And why make that rule in the first place?” Turbo Granny’s grin widens. “Is it because you know what’ll happen when he finds out you’ve been lying to him this entire time?”

“That’s… that’s not—” Her breath stutters, panic prickling at the edges. Everything feels like it’s falling apart.

But then a clawed hand rests lightly on her back, snapping her back to reality.

“Momo,” Okarun says tightly. “What do we do?”

Right. They need a plan. The hag is just trying to distract her.

Turbo Granny watches them from the crab shell, a crooked smile curling under her cracked lips, eyes glinting with mock patience.

Their best shot is to get the hell out of this place and pick the “race” back up—that means taking care of the alien bastards who decided to interfere.

She leans forward until the chill of Okarun’s aura brushes her cheek and whispers, “Okarun, we need to go after the Serpoians—get out of this place.”

She’d flattened an entire squad of those creeps aboard their own ship. With Okarun beside her, three of them (and whatever that rusty aura is) should be manageable.

“Okay,” he whispers back, rasping, giving a shaky nod—no questions, no hesitation.

That single word lands like a weight on her chest. He’s relying on her; she can’t afford to let him down.

The exchange lasts only a few seconds. Below, Turbo Granny resumes murmuring to the crab, one bony hand splayed over its shell. She leans in, fingers drifting in a slow caress across one of the fused girls’ faces.

The gesture looks almost tender. Almost kind.

It makes her blood boil. How dare she stroke those captive girls as if she cares—when the same hand cursed Okarun for the sin of seeking shelter from the rain. After she twisted his body and mind until he dragged himself off a cliff to avoid becoming her puppet.

Now the hag dares to stroke those captive girls, cooing sympathy at them while spitting contempt and mockery at him?

The hypocrisy paints her vision red.

She swallows the heat, steadies her breath, and whispers a hollow, “Let’s go.”

Okarun coils and launches. The bough beneath them rebounds, flinging twigs in their wake.

 

---

 

Turbo Granny must have been paying more attention than she let on—she grants them no head start. In a blink, she’s on the neighboring limb: crooked hag one heartbeat, the towering specter from the mountain earlier, white hair whipping around her head, a pale mane stirred by phantom currents while her face slides in and out of focus. Down on the forest floor, the flagging crab spirit lumbers after them, lamp‑eyes sweeping the canopy, but it’s already several tree‑lengths behind.

Momo clamps one arm around Okarun’s neck and flings the other outward. Teal aura erupts from her palm, yanking down a web of whip‑thin branches overhead. The snapped limbs lash together into a living net between trunks. Turbo Granny plows straight through, rips the tangle apart with a hiss, and barrels on.

“Getting sloppy, girlie!” the hag cackles, voice everywhere at once. “This is the savior you’re betting on, boy? Quit while you can—your stolen power won’t hold out forever. You have more in common with me than her.”

Okarun banks hard to the left—straight into a lattice of interlocking branches. Wood splinters around his maw, leaves burst into a green blur. In the chaos, a small silver glint spins away, catching a shard of light from his aura.

Her gaze locks on it by reflex. Even as Okarun rockets past into the next tangle, her eyes track the object’s smooth arc through the air.

His keyring—goddammit.

He’d said it was a good‑luck charm, and right now losing it feels like tempting every bad omen in the universe. She doesn’t even have to think. Her power surges on instinct, teal energy flinging outward, stretching farther than she’s ever dared. A hot band of strain tightens around her temples.

The glow of her spectral hand splashes over the keyring, turning the tiny metal figure into a turquoise flare in the dark.

An instant later a harsh white light joins it: the crab spirit’s lamp‑eyes swing up from below, locking onto the charm. One jagged claw rises, hungry pincers fanning open.

Time dilates. Her luminous fingers close—almost there…

Metal kisses her spiritual hand an instant before the claw can snap shut. Pain sparks as the charm slams into her palm. The recoil of her aura snapping back feels like an elastic whip across her bones. She hisses, curls her fingers tight, and stuffs the charm deep into her jacket pocket, where it clinks against the other precious items stuffed in there.

Turbo Granny’s laugh cuts through the air. “Burning aura on baubles while the boy runs himself ragged? Keep it close, sweetheart—see if it saves you when he turns those claws on you.”

Okarun tears free of the branches with a roar of splintering bark. Momentum jerks them forward as trunk debris rains onto Turbo Granny’s path. The hag bursts through the curtain of falling debris with a frustrated screech. Momo seizes the moment, shoving a broken limb loose with her aura; it tumbles point‑first toward the yokai. Turbo Granny swerves aside, but the delay is enough.

They surge ahead.

 

---

 

Okarun angles higher, sprinting along a mesh of sapling branches that whip beneath his weight. Wind‑driven needles sting Momo’s cheeks as their speed builds. She leans close, murmuring course changes—“left… up two trees… now right”—guiding him toward the knot of alien auras she tagged earlier. Brief, stomach‑lurching dips into aura sight confirm each adjustment.

Turbo Granny blitzes after them in strobing bursts—one heartbeat a crooked crone spider‑walking along a branch, the next a pale coursing specter, mane streaming and jaws biting huge chunks from the trunk they occupied a moment before. Splinters fountain behind her, raining to the forest floor.

Far below, the crab spirit lurches after them, toppling saplings like matchsticks, and snapping at empty air. Its lantern‑eyes sweep the canopy in desperate arcs, yet with every ponderous step it slips another tree‑length behind.

Turbo Granny’s voice slashes the night like a cracked whip. “I told you I’m growing bored! Let’s have a little chat instead.”

Okarun says nothing, driving on.

She sucks in a breath. With a flick of her wrist she rips the crown from a nearby tree. It cartwheels toward the hag, but the spiritual mass simply swirls aside, landing nimbly on a thick branch in crone form once more, running along its breadth as she continues the chase.

Turbo Granny clucks her tongue. “It’s clear you’re not going to tell the poor boy,” she taunts. “Cheh. A real friend would’ve spit it out by now—looks like it’s up to old Granny.”

Her stomach knots. “You swore you wouldn’t!” she shouts, but the protest lands hollow; every rule of their ‘game’ has already been trampled.

A gnarled hand stabs out—claws scrape sparks off Okarun’s trailing hoodie hem. He whips upward to the next bough; bark rains past Momo’s ears. She retaliates, flinging a spectral hand along the trunk. The branch beneath Turbo Granny groans, then snaps, but the hag simply hop‑skips to the next limb, still laughing.

“Oh,” she continues, keeping flawless stride, “I’m not breaking my word. I’m not revealing anything… am I, boy?”

“What are you talking about?” Momo fires back, stomach lurching as Okarun veers diagonally across two trees at once. Okarun stays silent, focus welded to the chase.

“I think you already suspect,” the hag coos, running up the underside of a parallel trunk—gravity apparently optional. “Even if you won’t admit it—not even to yourself.”

A growl rumbles through Okarun; she feels it in her knees. She lashes out again—this time yanking a pile of green limbs across Turbo Granny’s path. The hag tears through it with one swipe, ribbons fluttering behind her.

A momentary stillness opens between the trees.

Sap‑sweet air rushes past, carrying the damp scent of moss and shredded bark. The crab’s rampaging pauses, leaving them in eerie silence.

The world feels abruptly, unnervingly real—and then the hag’s laughter snaps the spell.

“I’ve seen hundreds like you,” Turbo Granny taunts, “and you’re not clinging by denial alone. No, no, no… it’s her, isn’t it—the little sorceress‑wannabe on your back.”

Okarun flinches—small, but she feels it.

“You were thinking of her back then, hmmm?” Turbo Granny presses.

“Leave her out of this,” Okarun snarls as he lands hard and wheels to face the hag, his layered voice chopping each word.

“Oh, so the brat can speak beneath all that stolen power. Impressive you’ve kept any mind at all.” She vaults a falling log and lands on a tree only a few meters away. “But we can’t leave her out, can we? After all, it’s her fault, isn’t it?”

Her grip tightens on the fabric of Okarun’s shoulders. She rips a hefty bough loose with her power and swings, but Turbo Granny blocks with one clawed hand, splinters exploding.

The crashing in the undergrowth grows louder.

“Ignore her,” she hisses to Okarun, but the hag barrels on.

“I saw it when I cursed you,” Turbo Granny croons. “She practically spat in your face. Thought you were a pathetic creep just like everyone else. You wanted to prove her wrong, didn’t you? Impress her! Show her that you had worth.”

The hag keeps pace, voice dripping with mock concern.

“And what did that blind devotion buy you, boy? Feel how she tenses whenever your claws screech on bark?” She tilts her head as she chases, mock listening. “Hear the tiny catch in her breath when that jaw unhinges? She doesn’t see a person—only a weapon. The moment you’ve done her dirty work she’ll drop the monster you’ve become and sprint back to her normal life.”

“Okarun, it’s all lies!” she shouts, voice ragged over the rush of air. “I’m not abandoning you—ever!”

Turbo Granny’s laugh needles the dark. “Ever? You won’t even honor him with his real name! See how little she values you, boy?”

The hag launches at them—Momo blinks and she’s right in front of them, clawed hand snatching for their throats. A shard of bark shrieks past, slicing a thin scratch across Momo’s cheek as Okarun hurls himself sideways just in time.

“I know what you’re actually clinging to, Ken Takakura,” Turbo Granny sing‑songs, keeping pace. “You want her to hurt like you did—so why wait? Turn on her before she inevitably turns on you!”

“SHUT UP!” Okarun roars, landing on the next tree hard enough to shudder the whole canopy. “She did nothing wrong!”

Turbo Granny’s laugh rattles the boughs. “Barely a taste of my power. You could have your very own if you’d just face the truth and—”

“Okarun!” she pleads, leaning forward until her face brushes the edge of his mask‑like jaw. “Don’t listen to her—she’s lying!”

Turbo Granny’s silhouette looms again, haloed by the crab’s ghost‑white eyes as it hauls itself closer. “—admit you’re already dea—”

“I KNOW!”

Notes:

Shorter chapters... means more cliffhangers... hehehe.
Beta Reader revisions made TG even nastier in this version? My god...

Chapter 13: Dispelled

Notes:

Another chapter that fought with me haha. And another shorter one as the frantic pace keeps up. Continued thanks to Aster for Beta-ing! These last two chapters have been so much better with their help!

TW: light mention of suicidal ideation

“ I KNOW! ”

The scream ricochets through the canopy; branches rattle, leaves spiral.

Spiritual power bleeds off Okarun like flames, his hair flaring in ghostly tongues, clothes snapping and rippling in an unseen wind. The air around him thrums with a dense, vibrating pressure.

Turbo Granny recoils—crooked mouth agape, confusion flickering across her wrinkled face—then bares her teeth and prowls forward.

She hardly notices. The forest tunnels to a pinpoint; a metallic ringing drowns every other sound. She clutches Okarun’s shoulders, knuckles bloodless, heart hammering against her ribs.

Everything suddenly feels far away.

“What are you waiting for, boy?” Turbo Granny croons, each word slick with malice. Pus-yellow eyes bore into Okarun. “You know it’s her fault—take your revenge.”

He knows… and he’s still here.

Her thoughts spin, unable to grasp the implications fully.

“No! It’s not!” Okarun snaps back. His voice is startlingly clear despite the faint distortion. He straightens to his full, monstrous height, claws flexing, jaw cracking open in defiance. “None of this is her fault. She’s been nothing but kind to me.”

The words barely pierce her haze.

“If not for her, you’d still be alive. She killed you!” Turbo Granny spits.

“No—”

Okarun flings a lanky arm up to block just as Turbo Granny lunges, so fast she registers to Momo only as a white blur.

A distant rip of fabric rings out as the hag’s claws rake through his hoodie, followed by the wet, sucking split of flesh beneath. With a furious roar he slams her back, his own talons scything an equal gash across the hag’s torso.

They break apart, circling in the churned earth.

“I did,” he rasps—the distortion surges, warping the words into an animalistic snarl—“I’m the one who did it. And it was your fault, not hers!”

The world crashes back in an overwhelming tide—trees reduced to ghastly silhouettes by the clashing glow of the combatants’ auras, distant trunks splintering like rifle-shots, and the ragged vibration of Okarun’s strained voice thrumming up through his body into her cheek.

She drags for air, lungs refusing to fill.

“Okarun—” she sobs, burying her face in the hollow of his neck. His aura pulses steady beneath her fingertips, a lone metronome in the chaos.

This time Okarun strikes first. He explodes forward in a stomach-flipping burst, and she clings tight while his claws scythe empty air—Turbo Granny slips aside, grim determination carved into every wrinkle.

“I couldn’t let you hurt anyone else,” he bellows. “But especially not her—the only person who ever stood up for me!”

How can he say that?
Why doesn’t he hate me?

He halts, chest heaving, as Turbo Granny prowls a slow circle, eyes sharp and calculating.

The air turns brittle. Frost spider-webs across the ground with an audible crackle, swallowing leaves and dirt alike.

She's shivering violently now, unable to discern if it's from fear, cold, or the overwhelming turmoil inside her chest.

The hag sneers. “You call standing up for you being slightly less cruel than everyone else?” She darts in, claws flashing. Okarun folds his forearms across his chest to guard. Fiber tears, a wet rasp follows—but when Momo blinks over his shoulder the flesh of his arms is unbroken. Only surface wounds marring the sickly skin, framed by dangling threads.

“All my life I’ve wanted to meet aliens!” he snarls, dodging sideways as she whips a vicious kick past his ribs. Momo’s hair lashes her face from the wind of the dodge. “I didn’t have any friends—so I thought if aliens existed, maybe they’d be friends with me!”

Leaves cyclone around them as he plants both feet and launches again. “Since elementary school I’ve begged the sky—”

He slams into Turbo Granny; claws lock, limbs strain. His monstrous jaws yawn wide, double rows of teeth sinking into her forearm. The hag’s shriek tears through the frost-hushed air.

“—BUT THEY NEVER DID!” he roars through the bite, whipping her like a rag doll until his maw seems to flicker, and she falls from his grip, snarling.

Her stomach somersaults, a nauseous churn that claws up her throat. Hold on. She grits her teeth and clamps her knees tighter around Okarun’s ribs while he dodges through a zig-zag of claw-swipes and heel-kicks. Sweat slicks her palms; every jolt threatens to peel her loose.

Not happening.

Desperation fuels her powers, spectral hands erupting from her to steady her grip and anchor her to his back. His words reverberate through her, each one driving deeper like a relentless blade, threatening to break her concentration at any moment.

But she can't let him fight alone.

Turbo Granny barrels in. Impact booms through Okarun’s torso; he staggers back three steps. Her phantom arm rips a head-sized rock from the frost-packed earth and hurls it over his shoulder.

For a blink, the flare of her power catches on Okarun’s glasses, turning the lenses into twin discs of luminous teal. She barely registers the glint before the rock slams into Turbo Granny’s spine, drawing a shriek as the hag pitches forward.

Okarun pounces on the opening, a headfirst attack that lifts Turbo Granny clean off her feet and plants her in the dirt with a concussive whump.

He almost falls from the rebound, stumbling back with a clumsy skid before catching himself, rasping through clenched teeth as he forces his stance steady again.

“No matter how much I called, they never came,” he rasps as he straightens, vapor curling from between his blunt teeth. “Not until—”

His voice cracks.

“I was the happiest I’d ever been,” he spits, the sentence splintering into a discordant chord, “and you took that from me!”

“I took nothing from you!” the hag spits, levering herself up on trembling arms. “Because you WERE nothing!”

She feels the sag in his frame, a micro-collapse before he muscles back upright.

“You’re right,” he admits, voice splintering. A tremor ripples through him and into her shins.

Say something!

But her throat locks.

“Humans bullied me, and aliens ignored me,” he grits out, each syllable clawed up from someplace raw. “No one would even acknowledge my existence—no one cared whether I lived or died—”

Please, stop, she begs inside, the words nowhere near her lips.

“—UNTIL AYASE-SAN!”

Hearing her own name cleaves straight through her.

“So don’t you touch her,” he snarls, voice low and dangerous. “None of you!”

He launches once more—low and fast. Turbo Granny whirls, driving a blade-leg kick into his sternum. The blow hammers him backward, but his arms whip out at impossible angles; claw-tips bite earth, arresting the tumble and forming a living cage around her so she isn’t crushed.

Before the dust can settle he’s surging upright, hair flaring in ghost-white flames.

“I won’t let anyone hurt her!” he roars, aura crackling. “I’ll do anything—I’ll even become a monster if it’s for her!”

Turbo Granny lets out a dry, rasping cackle. “That’s it? That’s the bare thread you cling to?” Disbelief curdles into contempt. “You’ll throw away your soul for one girl?”

No. No— that can’t be true. Her mind spins, fragments of denial crashing into each other. He held on because he was in denial himself, because of the way he died, because of anything but this—

“SHUT UP!”

“You idiot!” Turbo Granny screeches back. “Can’t you feel it? That girl’s power blazes like a beacon. She will never be safe!”

Okarun’s frame bunches under her grip. “I said shut up,” he hisses—and lunges.

The forest blurs past—then his lead step sinks too deep, as though the ground simply gives way. Momentum sputters; he pitches forward as if yanked mid-air, a ragged rasp ripping from his chest.

Turbo Granny halts, her grin unfurling petal-slow. “Ahhh,” she breathes, delight dawning. “That’s it, isn’t it? The only thing propping you up is what you stole from me.” A harsh bark of laughter. “I wondered why you hadn’t winked out already, if you already knew.”

She raises a finger, eyes glinting like sickly jewels. “You’ll never know peace with a regret like that. And when the last scrap of my power burns away? Poof. Gone.”

Her voice drops to a coaxing rasp. “There’s still time. Hate her, boy. Cut the tether and save yourself—”

“I DON’T CARE WHAT HAPPENS TO ME!” Okarun roars, the cry shredding into discordant layers. “As long as she’s safe!”

He drops to a crouch and rakes both claws through the frost-hardened soil. Ice chips and gritty earth geyser up in a stinging arc, forcing Turbo Granny to twist away and hop back two paces. She clamps tighter, spectral hands flaring just long enough to keep her balanced against the jolt.

Okarun sinks low, weight coiled in his haunches, eyes locked on Turbo Granny. The hag mirrors him, crouched, grin razor-thin.

Spiritual power still flickers up from his shoulder, but it's slower now—dim and uneven, like flame struggling through damp kindling

A brittle hush settles—one heartbeat, two—so tense it feels like the forest itself is holding its breath, waiting for the next strike.

 

---

 

This can’t be happening.

Yesterday—was it only yesterday?—she’d asked Granny what would happen if they never opened the “box” that was Okarun. It already feels like a past life.

He knows he’s dead (for how long…) yet he’s still here. Because of the the hag’s power? Because regret shackles him? Both?

Because he thinks he has to protect her. He blames himself for the aliens, for every danger orbiting her now. His repeated fears confided about the aliens over the past few days are now cast in a harsh, unforgiving light.

Her fingers knot in what’s left of his hoodie. It was her fault. He died for her—and now he’s trapped because of her.

He can’t pass on until she’s safe. But she’ll never be safe: aliens will keep coming, spirits can see her now and are attracted by her powers. The goal he clings to is impossible.

If Turbo Granny’s power is the glue holding him together and his reason for staying can never be met…

The box stays closed.

"Then the spirit would fade away into nothing but a remnant," Granny had said. "A complete loss of self—no afterlife, no rebirth. Just… gone."

It was too cruel.

Why would he choose that fate? For her? After everything she did?

She presses her face to the crook of his neck, strangling a sob. His muscles are corded steel, yet fatigue flutters beneath the tension.

Across the churned clearing Turbo Granny watches, lips peeled in a predator’s grin. The ground quivers; distant trunks snap as the crab spirit trundles closer.

“Well,” the hag purrs, eyes narrowing, “if you crave oblivion that much, I’ll take back what’s mine and speed you on your way.”

No. Her pulse hammers. Over my dead body.

Something uncoils inside her—raw, wild, the same force that once tore a spaceship apart.

“He told you to shut up!” she screams. One arm locks around Okarun’s neck; the other thrusts over his shoulder, fingers shaking.

He barks a warning, but the hag’s answering shriek swallows it whole.

Her eyelids snap shut and the darkness detonates teal.

Trees splinter. Stone tears from soil.

Pins-and-needles fire races across her skin, scorching away even Okarun’s spectral chill.

The air reeks of ozone. Copper floods her tongue.

 

---

 

Seconds seep past.

The ringing slides back in, needling behind her eyes until her skull feels pried apart. Teal after-images strobe across her vision; nothing stays solid long enough to trust.

Gentle pressure on her hands—someone unpeels her locked fingers, lifts her.

She cracks an eye. A canyon splits the forest—earth gouged, trunks snapped, all of it vanishing into the inky-black distance.

No hag. No crab. Only silence.

The arms steadying her try to set her on her feet; her knees give, but they haul her upright again.

Okarun’s worried red eye meets hers.

“Okarun,” she croaks.

The dam bursts.

She lunges, knotting the ragged sleeves in both fists. He feels too light. Like her weight alone might tip him. Like she could’ve knocked him over if she hadn’t caught herself. “Turbo Granny was right—it’s my fault. You died because of me. I’m so, so—”

Spindly fingers cup her shoulders, a feather-soft shake.

“Ayase-san, please don’t.”

“But I—”

“I would’ve been dead soon anyway,” he says, almost calm. “With or without meeting you.”

“At least this way… I made a friend.” The gentleness hurts more than any wound.

The sound of splintering trees in the distance resumes.

“How long?” she whispers.

“Ayase-san?”

“How long have you known?” The question shivers out of her, barely holding shape.

He flicks a glance over his shoulder—her blast bought them breathing room, but he’s swaying on unsteady legs, knees quivering.

“A while,” he murmurs, eye skimming the ground. “But I kept clinging to the idea that maybe… until—”

A claw drifts to his hoodie pocket, then stalls. His hands are too large to fit in.

She slips her hand in for him, already certain what she’ll find.

Two photo negatives slide free. She sets them in his waiting palm, and the dim glow of his spiritual power backlights the frames.

The first: the familiar silhouette of the Serpoian ship. Another lucky charm, she thinks.

The second: a low, canted shot through grass, a cyan smudge in one corner. She squints, trying to figure out what’s so special about it.

There, half-buried in the blades, a tiny pair of broken glasses.

“That was my only pair,” he says, eye crinkling in what must pass for a smile while his jaw stays rigid. “Glasses aren’t cheap.” A thin, dry laugh leaks out—and dies almost at once.

“I wanted to believe I was wrong,” he goes on, voice thinned to a thread. “But when I found these in your room… I couldn’t fool myself anymore.”

Stupid, she thinks, gut twisting. I left the evidence just lying there.

He’d already suspected— but her carelessness merely sealed it.

Still.

She can’t speak. Breath locks while her gaze clings to the negatives in his palm;. Her hand slips automatically into her own pocket, gripping tightly around the identical pair of shattered frames.

Okarun’s hands quiver—too big to keep hold of the fragile sheets. He eases them toward her. “Here,” he murmurs, almost sheepish. “Better you keep these safe.”

She cups his hand, the film cool against her fingers, and folds the squares into her pocket beside the broken frames.

On impulse she draws those broken glasses out, offering them back as if in apology.

He skims the jagged edge of a lens.

Crk.

A faint crack rings through the clearing. Her head snaps up.

Okarun’s glasses, the ones he’s wearing, have fractured suddenly, mirroring the ones still in her hand. One lens now cracked, frame around them snapped and jagged.

His shoulders sag a fraction, breath catching.

A spike of guilt punches through her as she hurriedly slips the ruined frames back into her pocket. But it’s too late; the pair on his face stays spider-webbed.

Her eyes burn with tears.

This time, it's Okarun who initiates the embrace. Cold arms fold around her, claws angled safely outward, his head tilted so she can hide against the smooth side of his neck, away from his fearsome jaw. The dam breaks once more; sobs shake through her.

Why is he the one comforting her?

“We…” His voice scrapes thick with feeling. “We have to get you out of here, Ayase-san.”

She clings harder. “Call me Momo,” she whispers. A deflection. She doesn’t want to let go.

“Momo,” he echoes, softer still. “Which way? I lost my bearings back there.”

“You moron.” A wet laugh slips out. “What would you do without me?”

“I don’t know,” he answers, helpless honesty threading the words. “Momo…”

“I know.” She wipes her eyes and nods as she pulls back.

His eye crinkles; his jaw opens, then closes in a soft clack as he turns, and offers his back. She climbs on, centers her weight, and lets aura-sight bloom once more.

They’re off course, but only by a hair. Three ruler-straight pale-blue lights cluster ahead; the rust-swirled presence hovers behind them.

They haven’t moved. It’s as if they’re waiting for them.

No way out without going through them, and Turbo Granny will bleed us dry if we stall.

Yet another impossible choice.

Before she can speak, her aura-sight snags on something else.

Okarun’s colors are… wrong.

Red, which normally floods his form, now gutter-flickers like dying coals. Here and there it still flares bright, but wide swaths have thinned to be almost transparent. Hair-fine threads coil around his arms and legs, barely holding shape; the foot that slipped earlier is almost empty of it—just a pale pink ghost braided with calm blue.

Was that damage only from Turbo Granny’s hit—and the chase? One more clash like that might snuff those embers for good.

And then…

“I’ve found them,” she starts, voice trembling. “But this time, let me—”

The canopy lurches; branches splinter. A raw, furious screech echoes nearby.

“Sorry, Momo,” Okarun says, steady now. “We need to move.”

 

---

 

Okarun pushes off again, claw-tips gouging bark as he scales the trunks with dogged, staccato strides. She forces herself to pretend this is still their merry little chase—just reach the aliens and tag them out—anything to keep the image of broken glasses from resurfacing. They’re still boxed in, still hunted by two malevolent spirits bent on their destruction.

She can’t dwell.

Yet the fatigue is obvious now: each leap a hair shorter, each grip a shade slower. It’s clear Okarun is weaker.

Branches shiver behind them—Turbo Granny is gaining once more. She snaps saplings with spectral hands, flinging splintered missiles and fist-sized stones to tangle the hag’s path. The barrage buys only moments.

“They’re right ahead,” she murmurs over his shoulder. Wind scatters her words, but Okarun angles downward through the canopy anyway. She can feel his aura flicker beneath her fingertips, alive with anticipation.

They break from the treeline into a clearing drowned in black, shapes lit only by their auras. Three Serpoians wait in rigid formation, true forms fully on display—mouths gaping, long fingers twisted into strange sigils—as Okarun hurtles straight at them.

Turbo Granny bursts from the shadows an eye-blink later, landing at their flank with a feral grin. Energy crackles all at once–she lashes a teal hand over Okarun’s shoulder, the hag skims low with her white mane streaming, and Okarun, with her still clinging to his back, surges ahead jaw-first, maw snapping for the nearest Serpoian.

Three warbling voices trill something high and metallic, overlapping while saying something she can’t quite make out over the rush of air.

Then the clearing implodes into stillness.

A sudden shock floods her nerves. For one breath nothing exists but cold silence. In the next heartbeat she is falling, as if Okarun has vanished from below her. Her limbs thrash at nothing, her vision goes strange and blurred with black and red for a second. It feels like she’s being dunked in ice water She slams onto the ground, the impact knocking air from her lungs.

But the ground is soft—too soft. She blinks and realizes she’s landed on Okarun’s crumpled hoodie, pressed beneath her face.

A heavy weight pins her down, both physically and spiritually. Even the tiniest surge of aura feels impossibly distant. She tries to move—fingers twitch with Herculean effort. A few feet away, Turbo Granny lies motionless, mid-snarl, stilled by the same invisible force.

What is this? Her mind staggers for answers.

“Ayase-san!” Okarun’s human voice echoes, thin and fragile. He sounds far away. She forces her head up towards the sound.

He stands only a pace away, untouched by the crushing weight.

Or… maybe not. The monstrous figure she rode a moment ago is gone, replaced by a broken figure: a bloodied corpse. His hair mats to his skull. One eye socket gapes empty; the other eye burns bright red and gold. His glasses are gone again. The crimson curse-marks still run under the fresh wounds and rivulets of blood streaming from his brow, nose, and mouth.

Her breath shudders. She hasn’t seen him this bad since… not since the roof. When she used the aperture trick to truly perceive him.

Tattered gakuran sleeves cling to arms bent at stomach-turning angles.

Gakuran? Confusion spears through the haze—he shouldn’t be wearing—

Her vision wobbles. She blinks; his outline won’t stabilize. Edges fray into strand-thin filaments. Patches fade in and out of visibility leaving him half translucent.

He looks strained, reaching towards her with a twisted, wavering hand. “No, no, please, Ayase-san…”

Even his voice wavers now—tone slipping in and out of pitch, like a radio trying to hold signal.

She summons the dregs of her strength, stretches toward him. “Okarun—”

Frigid needles race up her arm as her fingers pass straight through his.

Notes:

-Finally some answers! Huzzah! But it's actually bad news so maybe not huzzah?
-Okay so I added another chapter. But in my defense these action chapters are half the length of my usual so it's the same amount of words it would have been, okay?
-I should never do fancy CSS effects again. What a pain in the ass.

Chapter 14: Thief

Notes:

:3
Continued thanks to aster for Beta Reading these last chapters!

Her cheek grinds into cold, uneven dirt, but from this angle she can still see the three Serpoians standing a few meters away—arms raised, multicolored eyes glinting in the dark.

“We expected you to tire each other out before we intervened,” the first one chirps, voice thin and echoing.

“Yet our three primary targets helpfully converged,” says the second.

“Allowing us to deploy…” the third continues—

All three finish together: “The awesome zone.”

She blinks. Seriously?

The first alien puffs up. “Within this field your psychokinetic and spiritual functions are suppressed, along with most voluntary movement.”

“But there is a flaw,” the second concedes. “We cannot enter it.”

“Hence,” the third adds, “we hired a gig worker—far more competent than the ‘Nessie.’”

Bastards. Figures they were behind that, too.

A fourth shape steps forward. Definitely not a Serpoian. Two segmented antennae flick above a head crowded with two sets of mismatched eyes. Round and oval, red and green. The torso is plated and covered in some sort of armor; the bulky arms end in disc-shaped claws cracked slightly open like jagged shells.

Like a mantis shrimp, she thinks. A lesson from biology class earlier in the week surges back, unwanted.

“Worker,” one Serpoian orders, “neutralize the woman person first. She is both the most dangerous and the most valuable.”

“Yes, boss,” the hired alien warbles, dropping into a low boxer’s stance before dashing towards her.

Panic knifes through her. Limbs sluggish, powers silent, she can’t even twitch. Okarun flails beside her, not even touching the ground. His movements are syrup-slow and tremors shiver through his hazy arms as blue-white gossamer threads of his aura peel away and wink out in the dark. Yet he still hunches over her, shielding with what’s left of himself, a single terrified red eye locked on hers.

The shrimp alien cocks its disc-claw. There’s a crack—like a pistol shot—and a pressure wave punches forward. It passes straight through Okarun, then slams into her. She never even sees the claw move.

Invisible force hammers her flat. Her spine bows, limbs whip skyward, then hit the ground hard. Dirt spits into her mouth; copper floods her tongue once more.

For one heartbeat she forces her head up. Okarun mouths silent words, blood threading from eye and lip, soaking his collar—before the weight drives her face back into the soil.

Sorry, Okarun, she thinks as icy needles lance through her pinned arms. You died for nothing.

The mantis shrimp alien cocks its arm back once again.

 

---

 

She doesn’t know how many times the blasts hit before a shrill voice cuts through the din. ‘Cease! She’s more valuable alive!’”

The pressure lifts.

She lies motionless, cheek mashed into the dirt, vision swimming behind half-lidded eyes. The only sensation is the sharp feeling of her earring digging into the side of her head.

Okarun kneels beside her. He’s barely more than a heat mirage, edges shimmering and fraying. Bloody tears leak from his single visible eye while his mouth works soundlessly, shaping one word again and again. He tries to lace his fingers with hers, but they pass through her skin every time.

The Serpoians’ voices still pierce her skull, coldly listing what they’ll do with her.

But then a new sound rises—a low, rhythmic thump. Heavy. Closer with each beat until the ground itself vibrates. Wood splinters, air shifts—

A crash.

A blur of red and brown explodes across her view, bathing Okarun’s fading outline in crimson.

“ GRANNY!” roars the bound spirit, voice booming through the clearing.

“Worker, handle that!” one Serpoian shrieks, momentarily distracted.

For an instant Momo feels it, her power. Only a spark, but enough. Rage, instinct, or spite (she can’t tell which) ignites that spark. She hurls a single sputtering hand of chi forward; it slips through Okarun’s vanishing chest and clamps onto the mantis alien’s leg just as it turns.

The alien staggers, off balance.

The bound spirit is already on them, pock-marked claw flashing. Momo tastes exhausted vindication as that claw shears one of the Serpoian clean in half.

Weight slams off her body, yet her head pounds and each blink drags. The stench of something chemical and synthetic floods the air.

Something light topples onto her side with a muffled oomph.

And then—a voice. Though it sounds far away.

“What…?”

Okarun. She can hear him again.

“Ayase-san! You need to get up!”

He sounds frantic. Cold, slick fingers grasp her hand but slide away on the blood. “Momo, please!”

She forces her eyes open. His face (blood-streaked, terrified, awash with relief) snaps her fully aware. Behind him, Turbo Granny’s form loses cohesion, melting into a white and red wraith that slithers into the dark.

Her headache starts to ease; the taste of metal in her mouth won’t. She sits up. Okarun slips under her arm, shoulder steadying her as they stagger away from the carnage.

Even now—with the strange forefield gone and his body apparently solid—she sees right through him. His words reach her as if from underwater, slightly distant.

Together they limp toward the trees.

 

---

 

They drag each other just beyond the treeline. Behind them the fight still pounds—claws clashing, concussive booms. The crab spirit’s warbling chorus, Serpoian shrieks—all fusing into one relentless rhythm.

She feels her strength edging back—uneven, but enough to stay upright. She’s not sure Okarun can say the same.

He looks solid: no flickering edges, no disappearing limbs. Yet beneath her palm his shoulder offers almost no resistance, as though she’s leaning on packed fog, shape without substance.

“G-give me a sec, Momo,” he whispers, bracing against a gnarled trunk. “I’ll transform again.”

She nods and steps back. He squeezes his eyes shut, jaw locked, fists trembling—but nothing happens. Panic tingles up her spine.

She slips into aura sight and almost recoils: only a few red sparks coil around fading blue threads.

She swallows hard and steadies herself. She can’t afford to panic.

So she reaches out carefully, gently teasing what few threads of red remain, coaxing them forward— pulling just enough to encourage the change.

The change begins, but it’s painfully slow. Bones creak like old floorboards; muscle stretches, light flickers. When it ends he’s on his feet in cursed form, but diminished: crimson eye dull, hair a muted tangle, stature shrunken. His hands drop weightlessly when she releases them.

“S-sorry, Momo,” he rasps. “ I don’t think I can carry you right now.”

“You dummy.” She wipes her eyes. “That’s the last thing I care about.”

But they get no time to breathe. The air distorts—red-white hair spirals in like a cyclone around them. Turbo Granny’s wraith-like spirit form materializes above them, yellow eye blazing.

“I’ve had enough of you cheating brats,” she snarls as the whirlwind collapses into the cracked old crone. “Let’s pick up where we left off.”

Her pulse spikes. There’s no way she can outrun the hag without Okarun—and he knows it too.

He steps forward, planting himself between her and the threat, whole body trembling as he drops into a shaky guard. Even before the aliens tore him apart he couldn’t risk another direct clash.

And yet, the hag chuckles. “Or I would say that,” she purrs, “but we both know you won’t last much longer.”

“Momo!” Okarun’s voice shreds out—raw, ragged. “Run!”

“I won’t.” Her voice cracks as she plants her feet, throat burning. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Please—I’m already dead,” he pleads, arm shaking as he tries to hold her back. “If you die too, what was the point!?”

A jagged laugh tears through the night. Turbo Granny stalks closer, shaggy hair lifting like storm clouds. “There isn’t one,” she hisses. “You threw your existence away for nothing, little thief. When you’re dust, I’ll rip her apart anyway.”

“I won’t let you!” Okarun roars, a final surge of fury whipping through his frame—

Colors overlay her vision; she doesn’t even need to close her eyes. His cool blue aura is threadbare now, fading to ice where it thins out. The red she coaxed up earlier knots in tight coils around his claws and maw, only the frailest strands linking them.

Yet some embers of blue still flicker—floating sparks either winking out or darkening to red, condensing around those weapons.

He’s using himself up, she realizes. Yokai or nothingness: he’s doing both outcomes at once.

Turbo Granny lunges. Momo flings spectral hands, but she’s slow—too slow. The hag darts around them, jaw stretching wider and wider. Okarun flashes in front of her, and red surges along his forearm just as the hag’s teeth clamp down.

She watches the aura blaze, then evaporate under the pressure.

More blue gutters out, bleeds into red, coils tighter, rallies—and with a violent heave he hurls the hag backward.

He’s smaller still—torso almost human in proportion, limbs grotesquely long in comparison, still ending in savage claws. His cracked glasses cling to a face where the large mask like maw is melting away, leaving only swirling dark and gleaming needle teeth.

Turbo Granny’s delight curdles into contempt. “Keep bleeding my power, thief. You won’t last, and I’ll make sure she suffers for every drop you waste.”

Okarun answers with a guttural scream and launches himself again. The hag only laughs, colliding claw-to-claw.

Thief. The word scrapes raw across Momo’s mind—jagged, relentless. Turbo Granny spits it like a curse, as if Okarun has committed some great sin. Never mind that he gave up everything to keep others from suffering the way he did.

And now he’s either going to fade away to nothing or succumb and become a yokai in front of her very eyes.

Her shoulders shake. Half sob, half gasp, and her alien earrings brush her cheek. The ones he won for her. Instinctively, she plunges her hand into her pocket, hunting for their counterpart. Fingers skim the coin before closing around the cool steel of the keyring. She pulls it free. The metal bites into her palm as she closes her fingers around it in a death grip.

The sting snaps her thoughts into focus.

There… there was a third option, wasn’t there?

And Okarun’s not the only thief here. She thinks.

“Momo!” Okarun rasps as she bolts past. “What are you—?”

“Trust me!”

With a guttural scream she leaps onto the hag’s back, mirroring the way she once clung to Okarun. Power floods her—spectral limbs lashing out, anchoring her to Turbo Granny’s writhing form.

Okarun is already there ahead of her, claws sinking into the yokai’s arms, holding her still even as the ruined half of his face began to wisp away again—trails of blue wisping into the air like smoke from incense. He opens his insubstantial inky black jaw and bites deep into the hag’s shoulder, locking her in place.

“Momo…” he chokes out.

She feels Turbo Granny squirm, trying to fall into her spirit form and escape. But she is ready. She knows this aura now—has tugged and teased it from inside Okarun often enough. She forces it down, pins it solid.

“What are you doing?!” the hag screeches.

“Showing you who the real thief is,” Momo growls.

She pulls. The red aura writhes and screams, but she keeps tearing—inch by inch, ripping those furious strands free while the hag flails and shrieks.

She reaches out (physical or spiritual, she can’t tell) and clamps onto Okarun’s monstrous hand, the one still gripping the hag as he trusts in her completely.

And she pushes—power slamming from Turbo Granny straight into him.

“WHAT ARE YOU—WHAT IS—HOW—?!”

“You said what he had wasn’t enough,” she grits, arms shaking. “Then he’ll have all of it!”

Okarun is fading, his stolen strength nearly gone. Fine—she has the original source right here. She shoves harder, re-weaving the fraying threads of his aura with the vast reserve under her fingertips. Knotting up the unraveling ends.

The change is instant.

Okarun gasps, legs digging deeper into the earth as if they suddenly remember how to bear weight. His grip locks tight; his aura blooms a vivid crimson.

The fading halts.

Turbo Granny jerks, movements sluggish, her shriek splintering into a broken stutter.

She keeps pulling—can’t stop. She rips at every twisted, flame-bright strand of red, every cursed thread that once shaped the hag. And she pours it straight into him.

You took his life, she thinks. She’ll make sure the hag is the reason he keeps existing.

White straw-hair crumbles in her fists, flaking to ash without heat. Okarun swells—taller, broader, shaggy hair lengthening until it almost mirrors the hag’s. She glimpses his jaw still clamped to Granny’s shoulder; the larger jaw is reforming, blunt teeth now clamping down.

She feels the reservoir thinning—bottom of the well. But buried deep is something different: a sliver unlike the rest. She touches it—

—and, like before, she’s consumed.

It hits her in flashes—jagged, stuttering. Not a torrent but a rot, a slow, suffocating crawl.

Flickers of children laughing, running—faces blurred and featureless. Joy glimpsed through a frosted window.

And then—

Hate.

The memory curdles.

She is led up a cold, mist-choked mountain; the air thins with every step.

A cave yawns—damp, dark, echoing. Her stomach hollows.

And hate.

A man stumbles into a tunnel, eyes wild. He screams. She watches. Delight blooms—a grim, twisting thrill—as she races him and wins. He writhes, body contorting. She drinks in the screams.

And hatred again. And rage. And old, splintering spite.

Sometimes the kindest thing to do is end them, Granny once said.

The yokai seems to know it’s over. What remains of her twists her head, wrinkled red skin turning gray and flaking away.

“You really think guilt and my stolen power will hold him together? ” she sneers, her voice already fading, as though echoing from the far end of a tunnel. “ You best hope he fades and leaves you to face your enemies alone, girlie. No mere spirit lasts forever, and when that desperate urge to protect curdles into obsession… ” Her grin twists wider, even as it too starts to crumble. “ Oh, I would’ve loved to see your face… ”

Her grin collapses to ash; the twin yellow eyes flicker—fade—blink one last time, then gutter out into darkness.

The final thread of aura sizzles between Momo’s spiritual fingers and fades away.

Pity. She almost wishes she’d crushed it herself.

 

---

 

Okarun seems to understand what just happened. His jaw loosens, teeth unclenching, and he slowly releases his grip on the empty shell that was the hag.

Then he lifts his gaze to hers—wonder flickers in his visible eye, but it doesn’t quite reach the rest of his face.

She can see him clearly now. The parts of his face that had begun to disappear are filled in again, but not with pallid gray skin gouged away. Scarred crimson skin forms jagged patches along his cheek. Even the shredded eyelid has knit itself back together, a dull yellow-red ember glowing from within. His hair is wilder, trailing down his back—still streaked with deeper red highlights. The hints of a human boy are gone once more; now he is even larger, more twisted.

What’s left of the hag’s body collapses beneath her. She pitches forward, ash crumbling under her palms—yet elongated fingers hook beneath her arms and lift her. Hard talons pinch straight through her jacket, pricking skin. Okarun reels back in a series of jerky, stop-start steps, hauling her clear of the smoldering heap. Then, as though his joints lock, he releases all at once; she lands on her feet but staggers, the sudden drop jarring her knees.

She glances down. His feet have lengthened even more, ankles pulled up and back like an animal’s hind legs, even longer claws splayed in the dirt.

Then he wraps her in a tight, desperate embrace. His arms crush her to him, almost painfully so. Her face presses into his longer hair, coarse and uneven.

“Momo…” he rasps. “Safe…”

His voice is worse than before—even more distorted and ragged. Not surprising, after what she just did.

“Thanks for trusting me, Okarun,” she whispers, tenderness threading through the ache.

He doesn’t reply to her.

Another distant crash and shriek tear the quiet apart. She stiffens. “But we’re not safe yet.”

He growls, the sound reverberating through his chest and into hers. Without a word he pulls back, turns, and crouches, offering his back.

She doesn’t hesitate. Climbing on, she braces herself—though the texture of his tangled hair is no substitute for the soft hoodie she was gripping before

He doesn’t lift an arm to steady her. No careful tuck, no reassuring squeeze—just the silent assumption she’ll cling or fall.

It’s fine, she tells herself. He’s exhausted; every ounce of strength needs to go to running.

Then she notices the blood. A dark smear across the hair where she grips.

She blinks and looks down. In her palm, still clenched tight, is the keyring; the triangle points have drawn blood. With a hiss she pries it out. For one second she hesitates—then decisively clips it to the zipper of her jacket.

She exhales. A plan forms, sharp and sudden.

“Okay, Okarun,” she says, voice firmer now. “We go after the crab while it’s still weakened. Then we finish the aliens. We won’t even need Granny—we’ve got this.”

“Keep… safe…” he murmurs behind her.

The words sound rehearsed, as though he’s drawing them from a script he only half remembers. It’s not the confident reply she wanted, but she understands. They’re both shaken.

“Yeah, big guy,” she says, patting his shoulder. “We’re almost there.”

Some of her earlier determination surges back. She stretches out a spiritual hand, teal light flooding the path ahead. It crackles like a flare as she points toward the chaos still raging in the near distance.

“Let’s go.”

 

---

 

Okarun stops just short of the clearing where the battle is still raging. His body tenses, a low, animalistic whine slipping from his throat. Shrieking, echoing cries clash with the sharp crack of concussive blasts and the strange, harmonic hum of Serpoians firing psychic bursts.

It looks like a stalemate. The aliens haven’t come through unscathed—one Serpoian staggers under a massive gouge in its shoulder, as if the crab spirit had nearly sliced it in half. Another lies crushed on the ground beside its earlier brethren.

The mantis alien isn’t in perfect shape either; one antenna is missing, snapped clean off.

The crab spirit fares no better—new craters pock its shell, a deep crack spidering across its carapace like fractured stone. Still, attacks fly nonstop: the crab absorbs most hits without flinching while the aliens (mostly) dart aside of its lumbering attacks.

If they want to drop the crab fast, they’ll need a distraction.

“Up,” she whispers into Okarun’s ear. When he doesn’t react (can he not hear her over the chaos?) she forms a glowing pointing finger with her power and jabs upward.

He obeys, claws sinking into the trunk as he climbs.

As he ascends, the keyring on her jacket swings, catching a flicker of light from his hair.

It gives her an idea.

She digs into her pocket and finds the coin. It must be practically new; even now it glints sharply in the sparse light. Her gaze shifts to the slope beside the clearing—the one they crossed earlier on the tracks.

Perfect.

Okarun reaches the top and drops into a crouch on the thick branch, every muscle tensed as he watches the fight below. His arm snakes around her waist—not so much to steady her as to anchor himself—and his claws press into her side, digging through fabric with alarming strength. She winces, but waves it off.

Drawing a breath, she lofts the coin with her power while flaring her energy outward—no hands, just bright, diffuse bursts. Flashy and obvious.

It works.

In the dim forest the coin flashes turquoise, a beacon in the gloom.

Just like before, the crab spirit locks on. Its head jerks toward the flare as it abandons the aliens and barrels for the slope. As it passes beneath them, its shell awash with teal light, She glimpses the faces etched into its shell once more—girls frozen in horror, eyes squeezed shut. One by one, their lids crack open, eyes damp and gleaming, each gaze locking onto the coin as it arcs through the air.

She yanks the coin back, and a massive claw slams down where it had been, missing her spectral fingers by inches.

And Okarun’s gaze whips with it, body tensing—as if the glittering disk itself is their target.

The spirit skids on the incline as the coin returns to her, triggering a small landslide.

A short window bought.

They just need to chase the crab spirit down, finish it while it’s weak. Victory is right there.

But Okarun isn’t watching the crab spirit.

He’s still locked on the aliens—shoulders tight, muscles bunched, a low growl vibrating through his chest. It’s almost as if...

“Okarun,” she says cautiously, eyes darting between him and the ledge that the crab fell down, “what are you—?”

He cuts her off with a sudden, guttural shriek—inhuman and piercing—and hurls himself downward, not at the crab, but straight at the stunned Serpoian below. Mid-plunge, his jaw distends, unhinging far too wide, beyond anything even remotely human.

He slams into the alien like a meteor.

Something wet and cold spatters across Momo’s cheek—a slick, oily spray, reeking of that same synthetic-chemical stench as before.

“O-Okarun?” she gasps, tightening her grip on his back.

No answer—just a low, rattling snarl. Still hunched forward, he flicks a glance at the limp Serpoian, then snaps his head toward the mantis-like alien nearby.

The alien shuffles back a step, mandibles quivering. “Wait—” it warbles, high and panicked.

“Hurt… her!” Okarun snarls, voice guttural

“Okarun, stop!” she cries, twisting in his grip. “The crab! We need to finish the crab!”

If they can leave at least one alien alive, this pocket should stay stable. They can still take out the weakened bound spirit—if he listens.

But he doesn’t. It’s like he doesn’t even hear her.

Instead, Okarun lowers himself to all fours, muscles rippling, aura bristling as he stalks the retreating alien.

He lunges.

More piercing flashes and whip-crack sounds follow, but Okarun is fast. He darts left, right, weaving through the barrage. She clings to him, bracing against every jarring shift while his arm keeps her cradled as if she weighs nothing.

They reach the mantis alien. Its eyes widen in real terror.

Okarun raises a clawed hand—
and slashes.

A shriek echoes through the trees as his claws rake clean through the creature. It collapses in a crumpled heap, still and silent.

Thick, milky fluid leaks from the gashes, pooling in the grass and soaking the soil. The viscous sheen catches the faint glow radiating from Okarun’s body, reflecting like pale oil under moonlight.

She stares. The plan—why did he—

The milky pool ripples, then glows brighter.

Her breath catches.

She looks up just in time to see the crab spirit crest the slope again. Already recovered. Her distraction hadn’t lasted long. Lantern-eyes swivel, lock onto Okarun.

“ Granny…” the chorus of voices rings out, confused. “ Where’s Granny?”

Shit.

No time to think.

Light floods the forest as the gray walls collapse. Moonlight and starlight pour through the canopy once more.

They’re free, but that doesn’t mean safe.

“ GIVE HER BACK!” the spirit bellows. “ GRANNY!”

It’s back in its territory now. And enraged.

Original plan, then.

“Okarun!” she shouts, flinging a psychic hand to point into the woods. “Run!”

He doesn’t hesitate. He bolts at full sprint, charging exactly where she directs.

 

---

 

And once again—they run.

It isn’t far now. They had almost made it off the mountain before they were trapped. They had been so close.

Okarun is single-minded in his pace, charging forward without hesitation—but without direction. He keeps veering, plowing toward whatever looms ahead. She realizes quickly that he’s no longer tracking the route, so single minded in outrunning the crab.

But she is.

She recalls the layout they studied on the train—shoulders touching as they traced lines with their fingertips. She memorized every turn.

Summoning what strength remains, she stretches out her power. Steering them by latching onto lampposts, pivoting them down side streets, sweeping trash cans and mailboxes aside with rough, imprecise swipes. Her control is slipping, but it’s enough.

Behind them, the bound spirit roars.

A chorus of anguished screams follows as the crab monstrosity tears through concrete and asphalt, each step a quake that scrapes against her skull.

Finally, the train tracks appear—the last stretch.

Just follow the rails. Open ground means speed, but precious little cover.

The spirit screeches again, faster now, pounding closer—but still not fast enough.

And then she sees her: Granny.

Exactly where she promised, standing firm between the rails. The gantry above her is plastered with talismans, the air itself humming with spiritual pressure.

Relief hits Momo so hard she sways.

The barrier ahead crackles in the air like charged wire. They’re almost—

Okarun shrieks.

Without warning, he slams to a halt, claws gouging deep into the wooden sleepers. Metal screams beneath them.

“Okarun, keep going!” she yells—but once again he doesn’t seem to hear her.

He skids, then violently hurls himself sideways. The jolt nearly throws her off. She barely manages to lash out with her powers, grabbing hold of him with them just in time to keep from tumbling.

But it doesn’t matter. The bound spirit is too massive to slow or turn in time.

It barrels straight through the threshold.

A burst of fire—
then the sound of rushing water.

Breathless, she watches the crab’s form dissolve, unraveling into sea-foam and light. The dense mass disintegrates into mist and salt spray.

From that haze, shapes emerge.

Girls young and wreathed in ocean spray, flickering like mirages as scraps of shell peel from their bodies and vanish on the wind.

Colors overlay her vision without prompting once more.

Each girl burns with her own aura: soft flames of pinks, oranges, deep browns.

One by one, those flames wink out, dimming as the spirits let go.

Leaving only the light of the city, and the glow of Okarun beneath her.

Okarun remains unnervingly still during the spectacle. Not reverent. Not relieved. Just… watching. His head tilts slowly to one side, head tracking each dying spark.

 

---

 

And… it’s over.

Turbo Granny is gone. The bound spirit is gone. The aliens are gone.

And Okarun—

Okarun is still here.

Her arms go weak at the realization. A rush of relief drains her strength, and she slips from his back, knees buckling. She only just catches herself before she hits the ground.

Okarun doesn’t move.

He stands hunched, arms limp at his sides, swaying slightly. His aura flares crimson then gutters, brightening and dimming at random.

She scrambles around to face him, chest heaving.

“We did it, Okarun,” she sobs, her voice raw. Trembling fingers brush the base of his neck as she leans in, burying her face in his tangled hair. “We’re safe.”

“…Safe?” he echoes, the word hollow.

Claws tighten on the back of her jacket, forcing her against the bloody fabric of his chest.

She suddenly realizes that she’s freezing.

A sharp crack splits the night, and a surge of icy vapor spills across her shoulder—a hiss of cold that makes her skin crawl.

“Okarun?” she whispers.

From behind comes Granny’s shout: “MOMO—GET AWAY FROM HIM!”

A dull thud follows—a sickening impact. Okarun’s head snaps backward, blunt teeth scraping the fabric of her jacket—

And she is yanked away. Hard.

She stumbles, air knocked from her lungs as Granny hauls her back, Nessie in hand. One glance shows Granny’s face pale with fear, eyes wide, jaw clenched, knuckles white around her arm.

She twists toward Okarun—

He straightens. His head whips forward with unnatural speed, bones cracking as they reset, his gaze locking on her. His expression is vacant.

His mouth hangs open.

Needle-like teeth flash in the Stygian dark, catching the dim city light like shards of glass, and both eyes are flooded with a sickly, webbed yellow.

Notes:

-Okarun: If you don’t have the yokai juice needed to maintain physical presence in this world at home - then store bought is fine.
-Pour one out for the Granny Yuri lads. That’s it. There’s no chance now.
-Please note that this mantis shrimp alien is NOT Peeny Weeny. The Serpoians paid extra for a more standardized mercenary version of his species. Chiqi is not orphaned.

The chapter count didn't go up this time! We're almost there!

Chapter 15: Brink

Notes:

Another thanks to my lovely Beta Reader Aster! They mercilessly ordered the death of like 500 words in this one.

She doesn’t understand. Can’t move. Just lets Granny drag her backward, under the gantry that marks the divide between Kamigoe and Shono City—over the pencil lines still etched into the ground, remnants of one of the barriers the crab spirit didn’t cross.

They won, didn’t they? They beat their enemies. She saved him from fading away and...

She doesn’t understand.

Okarun lumbers forward, maw gaping open, vapor curling from his lips. The only sound he makes is a low, staticky hiss.

“Shit, kid,” Granny mutters. “Why’d you have to go down this route?”

She stands ready, Nessie raised once more, an iron nail clenched between her fingers.

Okarun’s eyes swivel in their sockets, locking on Momo for a moment before shifting—landing squarely on her grandmother.

She could swear they flash red for a second.

He growls, low and urgent, stalking forward—then halts, clawed, predator-like feet stopping just behind the pencil line on the ground.

He rears up like an animal, snarling, hackles raised, hair bristling outward.

Granny tenses. Momo sees the tremors still wracking her frame, the way she leans more heavily on one leg.

“Momo,” Granny says, raising her hand. “Turn around and go home. You don’t need to see this.”

No. No no no no.

“See what?” she cries, panic rising. “Granny, what are you doing?!”

“Momo,” Granny says again, voice raw. “He’s too far gone. I’m sorry.”

“No!” she shouts, denial crashing through her. “I—I stopped him from fading! I—”

She forced the entirety of an old yokai’s power into him—when his spirit was already so weak.
This is her fault. She told him to trust her, and now...

But he was still in there, wasn’t he? He let her ride on his back. He took down the aliens. He...

He tried to attack her.

And now he’s staring at Granny with nothing but a predator’s hunger in his eyes, clawed hand stretching toward the barrier.

“Get out of here, Momo!” Granny shouts.

But Granny is already weakened from the fight. And Momo’s seen just how vicious Okarun can be—how fast, how strong. Could she really stop him?

Okarun reaches forward, fingers crossing the threshold—igniting in ruby and black fire.

He lets out a keening screech but doesn’t stop. He keeps pushing forward, gaze locked on Granny the entire time. Then—

“AWAY!” he roars, lunging.

Running on instinct, Momo does three things.

First, she charges forward—one spectral hand shoving Granny out of reach.

Second, she scrapes through the pencil line with her other hand, breaking the barrier.

Third, she lets her powers drop, grabs the talisman from her pocket, and slams into Okarun’s chest.

Granny said it would stop him. That it wouldn’t hurt him.

He freezes. His arms are curled around her, almost like a hug—but she knows those claws were meant for Granny.

The talisman’s edge is already burning, curling into ash. She doesn’t have much time.

“Momo!” Granny shouts from behind. “I told you to get out of here!”

“Please, let me try!” she yells back. “If I can’t bring him back, then you can... do whatever you need to.”

She doesn’t wait for a reply.

She turns her attention back to Okarun—his face frozen in a snarl, but his eyes staring straight down at her.

“Okarun,” she says, stepping back and gently lacing her fingers through his frozen claws. “You tried to protect me just now, didn’t you?”

She hopes she didn’t imagine it.

“You’re still in there, right?” she asks, desperation bleeding into her voice.

He doesn’t respond. Maybe he can’t—with the talisman still smoldering against his chest, locking him in place.

“I’ll fix this. Don’t worry,” she says softly, her voice shaking but resolute.

She doesn’t need to close her eyes anymore. The colored, flame-like threads overlay her vision easily now. And she can feel them just as much as she sees them—vibrating at the edge of her senses, raw and frigid.

Hate. Hate. Hate.

The yokai aura pulses in a steady rhythm, blistering red, writhing like molten wire. It coils through his limbs and chest in ragged bursts, staining the monstrous silhouette before her with fury and pain so dense it hurts to perceive.

But. He’s still in there. She’s sure of it.

She focuses harder. Looks deeper. Past the points where she’s bound his twin aura together. Past the layers of rage and pain. Deeper and deeper—

At the very center, she sees it.

A flickering thread of blue. His own human aura. Weak. Pallid. Nearly drowned beneath the sea of raging red, but still there.

A dying ember.

She needs to coax it back to life—like a flame guttering in the wind. Carefully. Patiently. Encourage it to catch.

He turned his own aura into the yokai’s spiritual energy before—surely, he can do the reverse.

He just needs a spark. The reason he stayed.

“Okarun…” she whispers. “You can’t go yet. You heard what Turbo Granny said. They’ll keep coming after me.”

Was that—? Yes. A flicker.

“I can’t face that alone. Please,” she adds, her voice trembling. “I’d feel so much better with you by my side.”

The ember flares again—brighter this time—but only for a moment before it gutters low.

“And Okarun… if this keeps up… you’ll be the one to hurt me.”

That lands harder.

His aura flares—spitting and cracking like a flame battling wind, sparks scattering through the red.

He utters a single, fragile word.

“No…”

But it’s still not enough. The red surges like a wildfire, raging to consume the blue entirely. The want to protect her alone won’t cut it. And wouldn’t that be the cruelest fate of all? For him to exist only to protect her? A weapon. A tool. Just like Turbo Granny said.

No. That’s not all he is.

With her spectral hands, she extends forward—and touches what little of him remains.

 

---

 

She’s thrown into a vision once more. Where before she only saw flickers, now she’s reliving full scenes from his perspective.

But something’s wrong.

Something dark creeps in at the edges of her vision. A heavy presence presses down on her shoulders. The air is thick with the taste of hate—cloying, metallic.

He sits alone at her desk, reading.

Faceless classmates loom over him, jeering, until they grow bored and drift away—leaving him in silence.

He stands atop a rooftop, arm outstretched toward the sky.

No response.

Ignored. Again and again.

The darkness creeps closer—a shifting, sludge-like miasma curling toward her feet.

School again. Ignored again by everyone around him. Except this time, he knows why.

Because he’s dead.

No one notices. Nothing changes. His death doesn’t even matter.

No! That’s not true! He doesn’t know—

He’s in the shopping mall. People pass him by, eyes sliding off him as if he isn’t there, while he cradles the unconscious form of the first person to have acknowledged him in monstrous arms. The black sludge rises like water, swirling around his ankles.

Now he’s in the Ayase family’s main room. The tatami floor is stained black. he crouches, staring at his phone clutched in broken fingers. The screen reads: “Parents – Emergency.”

It rings. And rings. And rings.

Nobody cares if he lived. Nobody cares that he died. He hasn’t left a single mark on the world.

No!

Something sparks inside her. A flash of teal. A surge of defiance.

The miasma recoils.

And suddenly, she’s herself again—standing over Okarun as he crouches beside the still-ringing phone. He looks up at her, eyes wide with shock.

“That’s not true!” she cries. “I care! Granny cares!”

The vision shatters. She’s slammed back into her body, gasping for breath, limbs trembling.

Is that really how he feels? Does he truly believe that?

She scrambles for something (anything!) to prove him wrong, digging through her pockets with frantic fingers.

The negative. The one showing the Serpoian ship.

She holds it up, illuminating it with her powers.

His gaze shifts—his eye. Only one now. The other is gone again. The hard red skin has faded too.

“Look, Okarun,” she says, voice shaking. “You did it. You proved them wrong. You’re almost there. You’re ready to make your mark. You just have to submit it, right?”

His mouth opens, then closes. No sound comes out. The talisman on his chest still smolders faintly.

“I—I won’t do it for you,” she adds. “If you want it published, you have to do it yourself.”

His hand twitches.

She threads her fingers through his again, the tiny negative resting between their palms.

His aura—his blue—is brighter.

She draws in a deep breath—and reaches out again.

 

---

 

She’s thrown into a vision once more.

He’s on the rooftop, watching her as they sit together on a bench. He isn’t hungry—just excitedly talking about cryptids with the first person who’s ever shown an interest. The girl beside him looks happy, nodding along as she eats her lunch.

But something shifts.

Blackness begins to seep in at the corners of his vision—thick and oily. The rooftop sky dims. The girl’s expression twists, lips pressing tight, her gaze suddenly distant. Uncomfortable.

No! That’s not how she reacted!

He’s in a shopping arcade now, being led around by the hand by her. It’s the first time he remembers going out like this.

But the shadows creep after him. The miasma oozes up through the tiles, tendrils of it curling around their feet. He sees it now. The girl dragging him through shops and cheating at arcade games isn’t smiling anymore. She’s just… tired. Guilty.

He tells himself she’s enjoying it anyway. He tries to do the same.

No. She did enjoy it. She loved it. It tore her apart knowing it might end!

He’s lying on an unfamiliar bed, talking about everything and nothing at all. It feels warm, safe.

But doubt slinks through the open doorway, black and slow and suffocating. The miasma slips beneath the blankets. The girl talking to him knows that he won’t last much longer. She’s only here out of obligation in the meantime. Humoring him out of pity.

He’s already taken up too much of her time. The sooner he’s gone, the better.

No!

A surge of power erupts inside her—another flash of teal—and she’s back in her own body, still in that bed. She bolts upright, reaching, desperate, for his hands.

“No! I don’t want you to go! I don’t want to say goodbye!”

Reality crashes back around her. She’s panting like she’s just run a marathon.

His hair is shorter now. Less wild. There’s red at the center of his eye.

And he’s looking down. Not at her, but at the keyring glinting from her zipper.

She rips it off and presses it between their palms, just like she did with the negative.

“Please, Okarun,” she pleads, voice trembling. “I don’t want to lose my friend.”

“Friend…?” he rasps.

“Of course we’re friends, you idiot. Have you been asleep all week?”

He makes a low, keening sound. It hurts to hear.

His aura—it’s brighter again. But it still sputters. Still flickers. Still strains against the red tide pressing in from all sides.

She reaches out again.

 

---

 

One more. She can tell it’s the last, somehow.

It’s the same vision as the first time she did this—on the roof. His death.

The miasma seeps in from the edges again—thick and tar-like, slithering across the ground. She knows it’s going to try to twist this too, but… what is there to twist? It’s already unbearable.

She’s paralyzed as she relives it.

As he runs—desperate, panicked.

As he’s caught, something crawling over his legs, his arms. He claws at them, trying to make it stop.

As his glasses fall. As his precious camera crashes to the ground, the flash sparking uselessly on impact.

As he rakes at his face, desperate to stop the suffocating spread crawling over his mouth.

As he falls to the ground. As he drags himself to the edge.

Except this time… the feelings are sharper. Clearer. He’s thinking of the girl. Just like before. But—

He just wants the pain to end.

He thinks of the girl—and all he feels is resentment.

He remembers her last cruel words spoken to him. How he wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for her. How this place, this death—it’s that girl’s fault.

Momo's resolve begins to slip.

This... this must be how he really feels, right? It’s true, isn’t it?

The miasma thickens, bubbling as it climbs higher, slathering his legs in black, suffocating weight. It pulses with loathing. His loathing.

It’s her fault. He’s right to hate her. He would be right to—

It’s too much. She wants to disappear entirely—let the miasma take her.

“No!” Okarun’s voice rings out.

The scene changes.

Okarun is there—his form unstable, flickering between teenage boy, corpse, and monster.

“Momo, no. I don’t hate you,” he says. His voice is normal. He’s reaching for her hands, pulling her up off the ground. “Please get up, please—”

Reality crashes back around her.

She sucks in a desperate breath, lungs aching. She opens her eyes just in time to see the last of the talisman crumble to ash and drift into the air.

But exhaustion slams into her like a wave. Her skull throbs. Her body gives out.

She pitches backward.

Someone is shouting—urgent, scared—but it’s muffled, warped, like sound underwater. She can’t make out who it is.

“Momo!”

 

---

 

She stirs slightly, eyes cracking open in slow confusion at the faint, rhythmic shudder beneath her.

It takes her a moment to realize she’s on a train. Her legs are stretched across the seats, and her head is propped against something oddly lumpy and uncomfortable.

Across the aisle, Granny sits upright, gripping the handle of Nessie where it rests on the floor beside her. Her other hand is clenched white-knuckled around several iron nails.

She’s staring at Momo with a hard, unreadable expression.

She doesn’t see Okarun.

Where is he?

She blinks slowly. Her vision swims. She’s so tired.

And so cold.

The steady motion of the train rocks her gently. Her eyes slip shut again, the edges of consciousness already fading.

And then she’s gone, back under once more.

 

---

 

She dreams.

She’s back in the featureless gray box.

The shadows are waiting—lurking in the corners with glowing eyes. Round, oval, stalked, and webbed. Watching.

She reaches for her powers. Nothing comes.

Then Okarun is there.

He looks normal. Dressed in that soft hoodie. The keyring flashes faintly from the zipper. But his eyes are empty, lifeless.

He doesn’t speak.Instead, he kneels.

And then, slowly, he begins to pull pieces of himself apart—tearing flesh and fabric in uneven chunks. Bloody Gakuran revealed at first, and then nothing as he continues to tear. One by one, he stacks the chunks into a barrier between them and the shadows pressing in.

She calls out, tries to stop him. But he doesn’t react.

When he tears away the piece with the keyring, she rushes forward.

She grabs the pieces, tries to put them back. Molds them into place. But they’re wrong now—slick and pulsing with something rotten. A black miasma. The more she fixes, the less he looks like himself.

His body stretches unnaturally. His face distorts. His hands become claws.

Still, he pulls, she patches.

Until finally, he’s whole again—but wrong. A melting, monstrous silhouette with gleaming teeth and webbed yellow eyes.

He rises. She freezes.

It doesn’t feel like Okarun anymore.

For the third time, it opens its mouth. Needle-like teeth gleam in the dark as it advances.

She’s terrified. She shuts her eyes.

And she isn’t sure what happens next. Maybe she hears Granny shouting her name. Maybe her powers finally, finally respond.

And when she opens them, he’s gone.

And somehow, that’s worse.

 

---

 

She wakes up gasping for breath.

She’s in her bedroom. Dressed in clean, comfy clothes. Her wounds have been tended to—bandaged carefully, though the ache beneath them still lingers. Some patches look freshly redressed, layered over older ones. On the bedside table, her phone rests beside a pair of broken glasses and a single 100 yen coin.

And Okarun is nowhere in sight.

A hiss escapes her as she swings her legs over the side of the bed. It doesn’t escape her notice that most of her “wounds” are pinprick holes and shallow scratches scattered across her abdomen. Still, she pushes through the sting, gathering speed as she barrels out the door and down the stairs.

“Okarun?” she calls, voice rising. “Okarun!”

No answer.

Instead, she finds her grandmother lounging on the tatami floor, the television flickering weakly in the background. Or trying to lounge. She’s lying awkwardly, propped up by extra cushions. Bandages peek out from beneath her bulkier-than-usual sweater.

“You didn’t listen to me,” Granny says flatly, not looking away from the screen.

She ignores the jab. “Where is he?”

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed,” Granny continues. “Should’ve, after you tore down my barrier.”

“Granny—please!”

“I almost lost you, Momo.” Her voice tightens. “And it would’ve been my fault. For letting you get involved at all.”

Her hands curl into fists. She walks forward slowly, then bows low, dropping to her knees and pressing her forehead to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice catching. “I should’ve listened to you. I just... it was my fault. I had to do something.”

A breath escapes her.

“Please,” she says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Just tell me—is he...?”

Granny exhales, long and slow.

“Check the main shrine,” she says.

She doesn’t wait for anything further.

She’s already running.

 

---

 

She bolts to the shrine, sock-clad feet skidding across the ground in her haste. She could check for his aura… but she’s almost afraid of what she’ll see.

She slams the doors open, bracing for the worst and—

—He’s there.

Back in human form. Dressed in an old set of her loungewear that’s too small for her now but still barely fits him. A worn, ratty blanket is wrapped around his shoulders, covering most of his body—even his head.

What little she can see is stained red.

And… he’s eating an onigiri. Holding it carefully with a cloth handkerchief, which is also speckled with red blotches.

The onigiri and handkerchief fall to the floor as he looks up, stunned. The blanket slips from his shoulders, revealing his marred face and tangled, matted hair. His glasses are gone again.

Under them his single eye—gold and red—is blown wide.

“Ayase-san,” he whispers hoarsely.

It’s not sickly yellow. He’s not a monster. He’s solid. He’s still here.

Her knees nearly give out. Only the doorframe keeps her upright. But it doesn’t stop the tears.

“I—I told you to call me Momo,” she says, voice shaking.

“I shouldn’t,” he replies, shaking his head. “Not after what I almost—”

“You idiot,” she cuts in, voice cracking. “I was so scared. I thought I’d—”

She doesn’t finish the thought. Doomed him to become a cursed, hollow thing? Forced him into something twisted beyond return?

She had told him to trust her—and she had nearly destroyed him.

She rushes forward. Drops to her knees. Throws her arms around him in a fierce, clumsy hug.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs, clinging to him like she’ll never let go.

He freezes, stunned—then awkwardly tries to push her away with his elbows.

She doesn’t budge.

“M-Momo,” he says uncertainly—then hesitates, as if debating something—“...-san. You shouldn’t touch me right now, I—”

“Don’t care,” she says flatly, even as the sticky chill seeps through her shirt.

What she doesn’t say is that she’s used to it.

“Momo,” he murmurs again—softer this time.

And then, finally, he returns the hug.

 

---

 

“So you going to make a habit of bringing home monsters, or is it just him?”

Momo startles at the sound of Granny’s voice behind her, cutting through their shared moment.

She stands in the doorway, cigarette perched between two fingers, her tone casual—but her eyes sharp.

“Gotta admit, kid,” she says, exhaling a stream of smoke. “When I tossed you in here, I didn’t expect you to come back. Thought maybe Momo had gone and adopted a pet yokai.”

“D-don’t say that to him!” Momo snaps, glancing back protectively.

“But you’re still a human spirit. Somehow.” Granny steps further in, her gaze fixed on Okarun. She crouches down slowly, joints creaking, bringing herself eye-level with him.

She takes a long drag, lets it out in a slow curl. “How the hell did you manage that?” she mutters. “And how do I know you’re gonna stay that way?”

“He—!”

“I asked him, Momo,” Granny says, without looking away.

Okarun lowers his head. “I—I don’t know, Seiko-san. Momo-san did something. But whatever it takes to make sure I don’t... that doesn’t happen again—I’ll do it. Even if—”

“Good.” Granny cuts him off, voice flat. “You get it.”

“Granny?” She interjects, uneasy.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Granny says, her tone lighter—but her eyes still hard. “That was your one chance. If there’s even a hint of you slipping again... it’s over. Got it?”

He actually looks relieved.

But she won’t let it come to that.

“I understand,” Okarun says quietly, bowing low. “Thank you, Seiko-san.”

Something in Granny finally relaxes. A breath. A flicker of something soft behind her eyes. She reaches out and gives his matted hair a slow, careful ruffle.

“I’m glad you came back, Four-Eyes,” she says, almost gently. Then she straightens with a wince, cracking her back. “But don’t thank me yet.”

Her tone sharpens again. “We’re still playing it safe. You’re staying in this shrine until I can set a few things up.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Okarun says, his voice steady.

Momo wants to smack him. Him and Granny, both.

Hospitality? In a freezing, drafty shed that smells like dust and burnt ash?

She swallows her frustration.

He’s here. That should be enough. So why does she still feel like crying?

Maybe Granny has the same thought—because after a long pause, she reaches out and lightly rests her hand on Okarun’s shoulder. Just for a moment. Then she straightens, stretching her back with a faint wince.

“So,” she says, voice casual, “what the hell did you do, Momo? Four-Eyes looked fully gone to me. Then you stare into his eyes for a few minutes, drop like a rock, and he’s back to cradling you in his arms.”

She swallows. She’s still not entirely sure herself.

“I… gave him the rest of Turbo Granny’s power,” she says slowly, “to stop him from disappearing.”

Granny shifts her weight slightly, the hand not holding the cigarette tightening briefly at her side.

Momo falters, her voice thinning. “But it… was too much.”

Across from her, Okarun lowers his gaze. His fingers, which had been resting motionless in his lap, curl slightly—just once, then still again.

“And then, I think I… bolstered his own aura. Maybe with my own power? Just enough to… bring him back, I guess.”

Only now does she let herself look at him properly—with her aura sight.

Her breath catches in her throat.

His aura is brighter than she’s ever seen it. Blue and red blaze like twin flames, coiled tightly around each other in perfect balance.

She did it.

“To be able to manipulate auras like that…” Granny muses, her tone unreadable. “That’s a terrifying power, Momo.”

She bites her lip. She knew that herself, she thinks. She remembers what it felt like when she tore Turbo Granny apart—an ancient, furious yokai—fueled by grief and desperation.

“You’re going to draw a lot of unwanted attention with power like that,” Granny adds.

“I know,” she murmurs. “I…”

“I won’t let them,” Okarun says suddenly—clear and steady. It’s the firmest he’s spoken since she woke up.

Granny raises a brow, studying him. But all she says is, “Huh.”

Other than that outburst Okarun had quiet while she explained what happened. But now she sees it—the hesitation, the weight behind his gaze. He’s working up to something.

“Um… Seiko-san?” he asks, tentative. “What happens now?”

She gets the sense he’s not just talking about tonight.

Granny sighs and rolls her neck.

“Now, you both rest,” she says, falling back into her usual tone. “It’s the middle of the damn night. We’ll deal with what comes next tomorrow. I’ll even call off school for you two.”

“I-I don’t think that’s really a concern for me anymore, Seiko-san,” he replies with a weak, wet-sounding chuckle. “But that’s… not what I meant.”

“Tomorrow, kid,” Granny says, more firmly this time.

“O-okay,” he mutters, turning back to her with a small, uncertain smile. “In that case… goodnight, Momo-san. I’ll… see you tomorrow.”

“Nope!” she declares brightly, crossing her arms with finality. There’s no way she’s letting him out of her sight.

“If Okarun’s staying here the rest of the night, then I am too.”

“Eh?” he says, startled, straightening with wide eyes. “You shouldn’t—”

“Shut it.”

Granny sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Do whatever.”

But then her eyes narrow as she turns to Okarun. “I’m trusting you, kid. Don’t leave the shrine.”

“Yes, Seiko-san. And… thank you again for the consideration,” Okarun says quietly, bowing his head.

Granny disappears into the house—only to return a minute later, arms full. She deposits two futons and a small kerosene heater in the center of the shrine, then walks off again without another word. The doors click shut behind her.

She gets to work setting up the futons—closer than strictly polite, but not quite touching. Okarun watches her, uncertain, his posture tense despite the blanket still bunched around his shoulders.

“Momo-san, I don’t even know if I can sleep,” he admits softly. “I don’t know how any of this—”

“Drop the ‘-san,’ dude,” she groans.

Then, before he can say anything more, she yanks him down with her powers.

“You did last night,” she says firmly. “Don’t overthink it. Get down here.”

“…Okay,” he relents, voice small.

He lets her guide him under the covers, grumbling halfheartedly as she fusses with the blankets. She settles into her own futon beside his. The heater clicks softly nearby, the scent of old cotton and dust filling the quiet.

When she reaches out, her hand brushes his still-bloody fingers. He flinches, trying to pull away.

She’s faster. She catches his hand and pulls it gently back, lacing their fingers together.

He stares down at their hands, visibly dissatisfied. She’s about to reassure him—tell him it’s fine, that she doesn’t care—when she sees his expression shift. His brow furrows in concentration.

His fingers twitch. And then she feels it.

No blood. No stickiness. Just long, cool fingers curling back around hers—solid and smooth.

“Goodnight, Momo,” he whispers.

“Goodnight,” she whispers back, not letting go.

 

---

 

She doesn’t think she’ll be able to sleep—but exhaustion wins out, and soon she’s fading into darkness once more.

She doesn’t dream that night.

And when she wakes in the morning, Okarun’s hand is still wrapped gently in her own.

Notes:

:3

Final chapter is more of an epilogue and is done! Only editing. So it will be going up tomorrow!
And when it does I'll finally update the tags. Angst with a happy ending.

Writing the start of this chapter it felt so goddamn cheesy haha. And also (as I realized when it was done) very reminiscent of the asriel fight in undertale.
Not usually one to associate songs with but I had this playing while writing some of this... the last section felt fitting for Momo during the start of this chapter...
Pollyana - Mother

You may say I'm a fool, feelin' this way about you...~...And the time will surely come when you can see my point of view

Chapter 16: Epilogue

Notes:

THE END! Thank you to everyone for reading, and my lovely beta reader aster.

I'm excited to finally share some artwork I commissioned from crescentbutton. They managed to portray the grief so well, I hope everyone enjoys it and shows them all the love!

Though TW: Some of the images are quite graphic, if you want to avoid that.

They walk in silence, her Granny a quiet shadow trailing behind. She watches him closely, and the longer they walk, the more his form shifts—like a timelapse unraveling at unnatural speed. It isn’t long before she finds herself holding hands with a walking corpse.

His legs fail him first. His steps grow unsteady, his body sagging under its own decline. Without a word, she slips her arm beneath his, bearing his weight as best she can. She doesn’t dare look ahead yet.

He stares at the path before them, his half-hollowed eyes searching. Then he stops, just a few meters away from it.

“I... already knew,” he rasps. Blood bubbles at the corners of his lips, staining his words. “But seeing it…”

A breathless, broken laugh escapes him. “I really am dead.”

She doesn’t know what to say. So she squeezes his hand instead, tracing soft circles against his skin with her thumb. He doesn’t acknowledge it.

“A week,” he murmurs, tilting his head up to the sky. “I’ve been dead a week... and nobody cared. Nobody even noticed I was gone.”

She draws in a sharp breath.

His body gives out then, crumpling like a puppet with its strings severed. She barely manages to slow his fall, guiding him to the damp earth.

She kneels beside him, still holding his hand.

He looks at their fingers, still clasped together, then curls inward, pulling his knees to his chest. His free arm folds over his head like a feeble shield, but it does nothing to contain the way his body shakes—deep, wracking sobs muffled against his own skin.

“Was I that insignificant?” His voice breaks, raw with grief.

“No!” she cries. “Don’t say that!”

He lifts his head just enough to turn toward her, his expression unreadable.

It strikes her as painfully unfair. That he looks just like that lifeless version of himself, crumpled on the ground.

Carefully, she reaches into her pocket, her free hand closing around the broken glasses she’s still carrying. She holds them out to him.

He takes them without a word, but there’s something soft in his gaze. With trembling claws, he unfolds the fragile frames and slots them onto his face.

“I cared,” she whispers.

But even as she says it, the thought turns bitter.

Was that worse?

That someone cared—too late to stop any of it?

And the cruelest part? She’s the reason he’s like this at all.

She doesn’t deserve to sit beside him. But she’s all he has.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes out, though she doesn’t know which part she’s apologizing for.

For not noticing sooner?

For sending him to his death?

For offering scraps of happiness only to have them ripped away?

For keeping him here when he should have been allowed to move on?

None of it is enough.

He should hate her.

But instead, his lips twitch into a fragile smile—the motion tugging fresh blood from the corner of his mouth.

His gaze finds hers. And through the cracked lenses of his glasses, she sees them for the first time: tears, brimming in his dim red eye. They slide down the red lines etched into his face.

“Thank you, Momo-san,” he whispers.

Then he lets go of her hand.

For one heart-stopping second, she thinks he’s pulling away. But then—his cold arms wrap around her, drawing her into a trembling hug.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he murmurs into her shoulder.

She clings to him tightly, her fingers bunching in the blood-soaked fabric along his back.

He pulls back just a little, sniffling. She doesn’t let go. One arm stays looped around him, and he mirrors her, reaching back to lace their fingers together.

They turn together to face the broken body.

His tears fall freely now, dampening the side of her shirt as he leans into her.

It’s unpleasant.

He’s still trembling. Still freezing. His skin is tacky with blood, the metallic tang thick in the air. Her fingers, knotted with his, feel the slick ridged texture of torn flesh and the gentle drag of claws across her skin. The arm around her is warped—something sharp digging faintly into her side. Beneath them, blood has begun to soak into the earth, inching toward the body ahead.

But she doesn’t move.

It’s the least she can do. And somehow, still not enough.

“I didn’t want to die here,” he whispers.

“I know,” she says, her voice soft and steady, her grip firm.

“I didn’t deserve this.”

“You didn’t.”

“It’s not fair.”

“It’s not.”

They sit there like that—grieving, holding on—caught in a moment that stretches and blurs, endless and yet unbearably short.

A crow caws overhead.

She flinches, jarred by the sudden sound—then blinks, realizing the weight pressed against her has shifted.

The boy at her side no longer resembles the corpse ahead.

His clothes are soft beneath her fingers, dry and clean. His hand, still wrapped in hers, is smooth and whole and human—no tears, no exposed bone. Just skin, cool and solid.

His hair is soft, dark curls shifting with the breeze.

No twisted limbs. No broken edges. No wounds.

The boy beside her is cold, but whole.

The sound of his sobs has faded. When he lifts his head, his eyes are brown, though still tinged red from crying.

He looks at her.

“Thank you, Momo-san,” he says again, quieter this time.

 

---

 

A long moment passes in silence.

Then, quietly, he asks: “What happens now?”

She doesn’t know. She never really believed this moment would come—never thought past the hope that he might stay.

“Whatever you want to happen,” Granny says simply.

He looks surprised, as if it never occurred to him that the choice could be his. His mouth opens, closes again. He shifts his weight, glancing between them as if searching for permission he doesn't need.

“Should we inform the authorities?” he asks quietly.

Granny shrugs easily. “Could do that. Is that what you want?”

He swallows, looking down. “They’ll think I...” He hesitates, as if he searches for the words. “I don’t want to give them the satisfaction, but... someone should know.”

Anger surges up inside her.

They didn’t care if he lived. Why would they care that he died?

Hardly anyone even noticed he was gone. Why should they be told anything?

Except he wasn’t gone. Was he?

“You don’t have to say anything, Okarun,” she says slowly, an idea forming.

“Momo…” he says gently, and somehow, it feels like he’s the one comforting her. “I can’t just pretend.”

“Why not?!” she blurts out, her voice sharp, cracking under the weight of it. He flinches, but she presses on. “You’re still here! You can interact with the world! People go unseen all the time!”

You went unseen. She doesn’t say. She doesn’t need to.

“Why does Ken Takakura have to stop existing?” she whispers. She grabs his hand—solid in her own. “You’re right here.”

He stares at their joined hands, unsure. One eye faintly red, but nothing more.

“Would that… be okay?” he asks, glancing at her, then Granny.

“Like I said, kid—whatever you want,” Granny replies with a shrug. “We’re out the usual playbook now.”

She adds, wry, “Kids run off all the time. Not unheard of.”

He hesitates, then swallows. “But… if I did... where would I go? I couldn’t just stay…”

She opens her mouth—but Granny steps in first.

“You saved my granddaughter's life,” she says firmly. “Ken. You’ll always have a place in our home.”

Then, stretching upright, she folds her arms behind her head. “Besides, someone’s gotta keep an eye on Momo, with how much trouble she’s been getting into.”

“Granny!” Momo yelps, cheeks flushing.

When she turns back to Okarun, he’s not looking at her.

“I’d like that,” he says softly. “To go back with you.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Granny says, voice gentler now. “Just one last thing to decide.”

Okarun’s gaze drifts toward his body.

“I want it gone,” he says slowly. “But not... thrown away. Just—put to rest. So I can move on.”

His thumb brushes over her fingers—steady, comforting.

“You deserve a funeral,” Granny says, quiet. “We can cremate you. Just us. Simple.”

He nods, shaky but sure. “Yeah. Okay. That sounds good.”

Granny claps her hands once, rising stiffly. “No time like the present.”

“What, now?!” Momo exclaims.

Granny winces, but nods. “Sorry. But the sooner we do this, the better. And after the ruckus you caused, we don’t want anyone snooping.”

Momo starts to protest, but Okarun gently squeezes her hand.

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, a tiny smile playing at his lips. “Honestly… I’m relieved.”

She grips his hand tighter.

“Okay,” she whispers.

 

---

 

Granny moves quickly, silently gathering fallen branches into a rough pile. There's no ceremony in her actions. Nothing graceful or neat.

Nothing about this situation is.

Momo remains frozen, staring at the broken form that had once been Okarun. Then, with a gentle squeeze of his hand, she joins Granny, carefully layering dry wood over it. Soon, Okarun himself is beside her, calmly placing kindling.

"Okarun, you don't have to—" she begins.

"It's okay," he says simply.

They finish quickly, the grim task lighter with all three helping.

When the pyre is ready, Granny lights a slim incense stick, murmuring a quiet prayer. Then she traces salt around the base and silently offers the matchbox to Okarun.

"Me?" he asks softly. Granny gives him a solemn nod.

He steps forward, removing the broken glasses from his pocket and gently placing them onto the body's face. He pauses, then carefully tucks a few of the photograph negatives into its stiff hand.

Her fingers find the coin in her pocket, before she too steps forward as well.

The dead needed coin for the journey. Granny had said something like that, at some point. Even if he wasn't crossing the Sanzu River, even if he was staying here... She wanted him to have it. Just in case.

She quietly places it into the body's other hand. It felt hollow compared to the real him, somehow.

She hesitates, then shows Okarun the keychain they'd found afterward. He smiles softly, shaking his head.

"I'd rather keep that one, if that's alright," he whispers. "It's from… after."

Relief blooms faintly in her chest, and she presses it gently into his palm instead.

For a long moment, they stand side by side, staring at the makeshift pyre.

Okarun strikes a match. The flame illuminates his face softly, casting tender shadows as he crouches to ignite the kindling.

The fire catches quickly, snapping and hissing as it consumes the wood. Thick smoke rises in curling waves, stinging Momo’s eyes, but she doesn’t look away.

They sit in silence for a long time.

The minutes stretch, marked only by the shifting crackle of flame and the slow collapse of wood into glowing coals. Shadows flicker across the clearing, lengthening as the fire burns lower. Heat ebbs. The air cools. The world grows still.

Okarun’s hand stays clasped in hers—cold, but solid—anchoring her as the light fades.

Only when the pyre has dwindled to ember and ash does she finally wipe at her eyes, unsure if the tears are from the smoke or the grief.

“Alright, kids,” Granny says gently, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “Time to go home.”

 

---

 

Weeks slide by, in which they settle into a quiet routine.

She sits on a bench outside the convenience store, carefully peeling away the magazine’s plastic wrapper. The glossy cover shines brightly under the sun, bold text in the bottom right announcing, "Exclusive First Look: Compelling New Evidence of UAP Type 246-54!"

In front of her, Okarun paces relentlessly. He's been shadowing her all day at school, tense and jittery, struggling to maintain his appearance. Despite his progress, small glimpses of his other forms occasionally slip through, such as the flickering shadow of claws or a faint glow behind his mismatched eyes. Right now, his anxious pacing has left a distinct, somewhat gruesome trail on the concrete.

She flips hurriedly to the pages listed, excitement rising as she sees the bold article title:

"Feature Article! New Photos of UAP Type 246-54"

Okarun's pacing stalls. He stands between her and the sun, his form shadowed and outlined with a faint, shimmering red.

"Well? Is… is it really there?" he asks hesitantly, reaching out before quickly retracting his hands. He still doesn't like touching things when he's caught in between forms. "Do they believe it? Are they saying it's fake or—"

She laughs warmly, shaking her head, and pulls him down to sit beside her on the bench. "You tell me," she says softly, holding out the magazine for him to see. He leans away instinctively, but she nudges closer, determined. Her shoulder presses reassuringly against his arm, grounding him.

It’s a warm day, late afternoon sunlight washing over them gently, and Okarun's closeness brings a comfortable chill that soothes her.

The photograph fills nearly half the page and immediately captures her eye: the stark silvery silhouette stands out sharply against a hazy indigo sky. Its smoothly curved shapes, almost comically unaerodynamic, are suspended by orbs glowing with an eerie, diffuse light. The clarity is remarkable, revealing intricate circuit-like lines tracing the craft’s surface.

With colors rendered faithfully, she notices something she previously missed in the negatives—a tiny, brilliant imperfection in the UAP’s sleek exterior, from which a small spark of teal light spills outward.

Beneath the photo, in neat text: "Original negative provided by Ken Takakura (Kamigoe City)"

She watches Okarun's face closely. His red eye locks immediately on the image, unblinking and intense. Gradually, his expression shifts—from disbelief to cautious hope, and finally into something bright and unrestrained. His brown pupil darts quickly back and forth, absorbing every detail of the accompanying article. His now straight and blunt fingers twitch, tremble, then slowly reach forward, gently brushing against the edges of the magazine.

"They accepted it," he whispers softly, awe and relief mingling in his voice. "They really took it seriously."

She nods, warmth swelling in her chest. "Of course they did."

His smile is small but radiant, tentative yet undeniably happy. Okarun carefully holds the magazine now, as if it’s something incredibly fragile, incredibly important. He finally exhales, his breathing steadying, and his appearance settles fully back into the quiet teenage boy.

She smiles softly, letting him take the magazine completely from her hands. Another copy is tucked safely in her bag, and a third she intends to keep sealed, untouched—something to remember this day by.

Okarun's shoulders relax fully for the first time in days as he leans gently against her side, absorbed in the proof that the world has finally acknowledged him.

Even if it came too late.

The sun dips gently toward the horizon, painting everything in soft gold.

She looks up, heart swelling with bittersweet pride, blinking away tears.

And Okarun, quietly, almost reverently, turns the page.

Notes:

Another longfic done!

Thank you everyone for reading, I'm really happy with how this one turned out, and hope everyone found the ending satisfying.
Not anytime soon but there will be some followups to this! Potentially two, but I need to finish other wips (I'm down to only 4 now!) and get ready for the upcoming prompt week.

Also, anyone who has read both probably noticed already, but so much of this was inspired by Mitsu Boshi. If you haven't read it (why not it's so good?) do so now!