Chapter 1: Prologue
Chapter Text
I attended one of my mother’s political dinner parties today. She always made sure I received an invitation, not because she particularly wanted me there, but because it was expected. It was assumed that I would follow in her footsteps, that I would one day stand where she stood—influential, untouchable, a figure people whispered about behind jeweled masks and practiced smiles. I never cared for politics, never cared for much of anything, really. No dreams, no goals, just the routine of existence. But tonight was different. Not because of the twins of the head of the United Nations, who flitted through the crowd like mirrored phantoms, drawing eyes wherever they went. No, tonight was different because I killed someone.
I’ve never killed before. I’ve thought about it, wondered what it would feel like, but curiosity never matched intent. Even now, the details are hazy, like a fever dream. I should feel remorse, horror, something—but I feel nothing. No, that’s not true. I feel exhilaration, a hunger coiling in my gut. I want to do it again. I want to feel that rush that thundered through me when I drove the dagger into her chest.
It was an accident, sort of. Accident isn't the right word. I didn’t plan it, but I didn’t stop myself either. It was like someone else moved my hands, guided my actions. Or maybe it was just me, a me I didn’t know existed until tonight.
I remember slipping away from the crowded ballroom, the air heavy with perfume and politics, my mother’s laughter echoing as she charmed her latest target. I wandered down a dim hallway lined with antiques—a gallery of relics owned by the family who owned the building. The air was stale, laced with dust and history. I almost turned back, but then I saw it.
The dagger was embedded in a human skull, propped up on a pedestal like some macabre centerpiece. It looked fake, like something out of a poorly made horror movie. The blade was tarnished, the hilt wrapped in worn leather. Curiosity got the better of me. I pulled it free, expecting it to be flimsy, lightweight. But it was heavy, cold, real. I pressed the tip to my finger, just to see. A bead of blood welled up instantly. It was sharp. Unforgiving.
I wasn’t alone. She followed me. I don’t know why, maybe she was curious too, or maybe she wanted to be alone. She was my age, give or take a year, and familiar in the way that all faces at these events were. We knew of each other, nothing more. She said something—I can’t remember what. I remember her voice, the way it echoed off the ancient walls. Then the rest is just fragments.
I remember lunging at her, the blade gleaming under dim light. Her eyes widened, confusion melting into horror. I remember my hand clamping over her mouth, muffling her screams, her body struggling beneath mine. I don’t remember deciding to kill her, but I remember the feeling as the blade sank into her chest, breaking through bone and sinew. A wet, sucking sound, followed by gurgling as blood bubbled from her lips. Warmth splattered across my hands, staining my clothes.
I dragged her body through the garden, her limbs limp, hair trailing behind like a bridal veil. There was a stream nearby, swollen from recent rain. I watched her body float away, face down, dress billowing like a shroud. The water swallowed her, and she was gone.
I stood there for a long time, watching the river, feeling the adrenaline ebb, replaced by something colder, darker. Power. I felt powerful. Not like my mother, not like the politicians who ruled with words and influence. No, this power was raw, absolute. Life and death balanced on the edge of a blade, my blade.
I didn’t feel guilty. Not then, not now. Even as I stood by the riverbank, watching the last ripples settle over where her body had disappeared, I waited for something—anything—to hit me. Panic. Shame. Horror. I thought maybe my knees would give out, that I’d fall to the ground in a fit of realization, gasping for breath and praying it was all a mistake, a hallucination born of stress or some psychological break. But none of that came. Not a single tremor of regret passed through me. My hands were stained with her blood—sticky, drying fast in the night air—and yet, I didn’t flinch.
If anything, I felt… awake .
I had never known that part of myself existed. That coiled, sleeping thing deep in my chest, buried beneath years of apathy and disconnection. It was like the act of killing her had stirred it from slumber. I felt something ignite inside me when that blade sank into her. A jolt, a spark—like my body and mind finally aligned, like I had just discovered what it meant to truly live .
The way her body jerked when the steel pierced her flesh, the heat of her blood on my skin, the look in her eyes as she realized what was happening—it was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. That moment belonged to me and me alone. I held her life in my hands. I ended it. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t meaningless. It was mine .
In that moment, I felt something that I’d been chasing unknowingly for years. A sense of purpose. Of control.
You have to understand—I’ve drifted through life like a ghost. I’ve never known what it was like to want something so badly that it burns in your chest. I’ve never had ambition, never understood why people obsessed over careers or success or love. None of it ever mattered to me. But this? This mattered .
The rush didn’t stop when she stopped breathing. It lingered, pulsing through me as I dragged her body across the damp grass, as I fought against the dead weight of her limbs and the strange softness of her cooling flesh. I felt alive, electric. I remember feeling the texture of her dress as I gripped it, the way the fabric tore slightly under the pressure of my fingers. The gurgle of the nearby stream as it welcomed her like an old friend. Every sound, every color, every breath felt sharper, more vivid.
That rush— that power —was intoxicating.
When I returned to the party, I half expected someone to notice. That someone would see the bloodstains I missed or hear the pounding of my heart echoing in my chest. But no one did. They were all too busy drinking their champagne and exchanging rehearsed laughter. No one questioned the dazed look in my eyes or the tremble in my hands as I sipped from a fresh glass of wine. I stood among them, cloaked in the same carefully tailored mask they all wore. I realized just how easy it was to hide.
No one knew. No one suspected. I had taken a life, and the world kept turning.
Now I can’t stop thinking about it.
It’s not about her . I barely knew her. Her face is already fading in my memory, becoming blurred and unimportant. It’s the act that stays with me. The feeling of crossing that final line, of stepping into a place most people only fear in nightmares. I stepped into it willingly; and I didn’t hesitate.
I crave that feeling again. The anticipation building up as I stalked through the shadows, the tension right before the plunge, the sudden, violent release when I finally struck. It was all-consuming. Beautiful, in a twisted, private way.
I find myself looking at people differently now. Strangers on the street, colleagues at events, even my mother’s friends. I study them, not as people, but as possibilities. I wonder how easily they’d fall. I wonder what they’d look like with terror etched into their features, what sound they’d make as the air leaves their lungs. It’s not that I want to cause pain for its own sake—it’s not about sadism. It’s about what their deaths could make me feel.
I don’t know who I’ll kill next.
But I will kill again.
And when I do, I’ll do it better. Cleaner. More controlled. Not out of rage or panic or instinct—but because I want to. Because I need that feeling again. That moment when the world narrows down to a heartbeat, a breath, a single precise motion of my hand.
That’s what I live for now. Not the empty rituals of polite society, not the forced smiles or the hollow applause at political galas. Not the expectations pinned to me like medals I never earned. None of that means anything anymore—not after what I felt that night. That was real. That was mine .
Now, every day feels like an unbearable silence between two sharp notes. Like I’m waiting for something— someone —to give me the excuse I need. I move through the motions of my life with a strange kind of anticipation. Every conversation, every glance, every brush of contact is charged with a low hum of possibility. Could this be the moment? Could this be the next one?
I’ve started thinking ahead in ways I never used to. I notice things I never would have bothered to before—how quiet certain corridors are, how thick the curtains are in certain rooms, where the security cameras are placed and where their blind spots fall. I watch people the way a predator watches its prey: calmly, curiously, with a growing hunger.
It’s not even just about the blood. It’s about the decision . The moment where I stop pretending to be one of them and choose, fully and deliberately, to be something else. Something more. When I killed her, I wasn’t just ending a life—I was claiming control over mine for the first time.
The world felt dull before, like I was moving through it underwater, every sound muffled, every color faded. But now? Now the world has sharpness, contrast. I can feel it under my skin like a second heartbeat. And it’s only growing louder.
That’s what I live for now.
Not survival. Not comfort. Not safety.
I live for the moment the mask slips. The moment I feel the weight of the weapon in my hand and know what I’m about to do. The moment someone realizes too late that they’re alone with me—and that I’ve already made my choice.
I want to kill again.
Not out of hatred, not even out of necessity. I want to because it made me feel alive in a way nothing else ever has. I want to because I’ve tasted what it’s like to step out of the cage everyone else lives in. I want to because I can.
Is this what it feels like to be a god?
To hold the delicate string of life between two fingers and snip it with nothing but intent? To decide, in the privacy of your own mind, that someone doesn’t get to wake up tomorrow—and then make it true?
Gods are distant. They don't answer prayers. They don't explain themselves. They just act . They take. They give. They destroy.
I understood it. That silence after the kill—that ringing, hollow silence—wasn’t guilt. It was awe.
Not for her. For me .
I had crossed a line that mortals spend their entire lives fearing. I had touched the edge of something sacred and profane all at once. And I wasn't struck down. I wasn’t punished. The world didn’t stop turning.
No. It welcomed me. It made space for what I had become.
So I ask again: Is this what God feels? That cold, clear authority? That unspeakable freedom ? Because if it is… Then maybe I was never meant to be ordinary. Maybe I was meant to become something else.
I was designed to be God.
The thought doesn’t come to me as a declaration—it arrives slowly, quietly, like a truth that’s always been there, just beneath the surface, waiting for me to notice it. It’s not arrogance. It’s not delusion. It’s a realization, an unraveling.
All my life, people have tried to shape me—into a leader, a legacy, a successor. A reflection of my mother. A polished figurehead meant to inspire, to control, to manipulate with charm and precision. They dressed me in expectation, taught me to speak in half-truths, to smile when I felt nothing, to obey the rhythm of power without ever asking who was conducting the orchestra.
But something deeper than all of that—something older—was growing inside me. Quietly. Patiently. It waited while I went through the motions, while I sat through endless speeches, while I smiled at people who only saw my name and not my face. It waited until I found the dagger. Until I plunged it into her. Until I tasted what it meant to decide, without question, that someone else no longer deserved to exist.
I understood. I wasn’t meant to follow. I wasn’t meant to blend in or behave. I wasn’t made for politics or policies or playing a role in someone else’s vision of control.
I was made for command . Not the kind written into law books or spoken at podiums. The kind that doesn’t require permission. The kind that bends reality to will. The kind that takes life and doesn’t flinch.
I was designed to be God —not the benevolent, forgiving kind people pray to, but the kind they fear. The kind that watches. Judges. Acts. The kind that doesn’t ask for devotion but demands it through presence alone.
The kill didn’t transform me. It revealed me. I can’t pretend to be anything less.
Chapter 2: Kagutsuchi
Notes:
カグツチ — Kami of Fire, Kagutsuchi
Chapter Text
The prestigious University of Fontainian Arts & Mechanics—known to most as Font-Uni—was a name that hardly captured the vastness of what the institution truly offered. Far from being limited to just arts and mechanics, Font-Uni boasted courses and subjects spanning nearly every conceivable discipline. This diversity, however, was less a reflection of academic freedom and more a byproduct of the elite families who bankrolled the university. These powerful patrons ensured the curriculum aligned with their interests, creating a legacy of privilege and exclusivity. For generations, it was an unspoken expectation that the children of these families would attend Font-Uni, just as their parents and grandparents had before them. In turn, these alumni would often become the next wave of benefactors, perpetuating the cycle of wealth, influence, and tradition that kept the university thriving.
Font-Uni originally began as a premier institution focused on mechanical engineering, its primary goal being to produce the world’s next generation of genius engineers and innovators. These individuals were expected to spearhead advancements in technology and industry, but not all brilliant minds could be confined to gears and circuits. Many of these mechanical prodigies found themselves drawn to other disciplines, exploring fields that ranged from fine arts to theoretical sciences. Recognizing the untapped potential—and the financial opportunities—the university gradually expanded its offerings. Departments dedicated to the arts, sciences, mathematics, history, and even politics soon flourished under its roof.
Despite this growth, Font-Uni maintained a veneer of being a standard university. However, its true pride lay not in the academic achievements of its students but in the deep pockets of their families. The institution thrived on the steady stream of wealth flowing from elite families, who not only paid exorbitant tuition fees but also donated generously to maintain their social prestige. For Font-Uni, the students were less the product of their education and more the conduits for their families’ wealth, ensuring the school’s continuous expansion and influence.
Raiden Kunikuzushi was one of the many students from an elite family attending Font-Uni, but he stood apart in ways his peers could never claim. Unlike most of them, who coasted into the university on the waves of their family wealth and connections, Kunikuzushi earned his place entirely on merit. His mother’s considerable fortune had no bearing on his admission. Instead, it was his unmatched raw talent and sheer skill that secured his spot, making him an outlier in a sea of privilege.
This accomplishment set him apart not just in the eyes of the faculty but also in his own. He was an anomaly among his peers, someone who didn’t need to buy his way into greatness because he had built it with his own hands. This distinction wasn’t just a badge of honor for Kunikuzushi; it became the cornerstone of his identity. It fed his ego and reinforced his belief that he was inherently superior to those around him—students who relied on their families' wealth and influence to pave their paths. Kunikuzushi, in his eyes, had no need for such crutches. He had proven, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was better.
On the first day of his new academic journey, Kunikuzushi found himself seated in the office of Sir Dottore, one of the teachers who had personally reviewed and approved his application. Dottore was a genius in his field, a biologist renowned worldwide for his groundbreaking research into cell regeneration—a field that had led to revolutionary advancements in curing some of the most perplexing and life-threatening diseases. His reputation as a brilliant mind preceded him, and many revered him as a living legend in scientific circles.
Yet, for all his intellectual accolades, there was something about Dottore that unsettled Kunikuzushi. He found the man’s appearance profoundly disturbing, almost grotesque. Dottore’s smile was crooked, a lopsided curve that seemed more sinister than welcoming. His sunken eyes bore a sharp, almost predatory gaze, as though they could see far too deeply into someone’s soul. The texture of his skin was even worse—grayish and lifeless, as if it were moments away from slipping off his face like a discarded mask. The overall effect was uncanny, a blend of brilliance and horror that made Kunikuzushi feel as if he were sitting across from something not entirely human.
For all the awe Dottore’s work inspired in others, Kunikuzushi couldn’t suppress the growing sense of disgust and unease he felt toward the man.
Kunikuzushi sat stiffly in the chair, his sharp gaze fixed on Dottore. Strands of his frizzy, disheveled, muted light-blue hair fell over his face, but he made no move to brush them aside. He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, just stared with an intensity that suggested both disdain and disinterest.
“Raiden Kunikuzushi… ha!” Dottore’s voice broke the silence, his tone dripping with mock amusement. “I could recognize that family name anywhere. You’re the son of Raiden Ei, correct?”
The mention of his mother’s name made Kunikuzushi’s jaw tighten, but he gave no immediate response. Dottore’s chuckle that followed was worse—low and gravelly, as though he found some private joke in the situation. It sent a prickle of irritation down Kunikuzushi’s spine.
Kunikuzushi’s expression remained unchanged, but internally, he was bristling. He despised the way Dottore spoke, the condescending familiarity that so many so-called “superiors” wielded when addressing him. It was the tone of someone who thought themselves clever, amused by their own words, and it grated on him. To Kunikuzushi, Dottore sounded like every other sycophantic teacher or official who had tried to curry favor with his family while disguising their flattery as casual banter.
This old hag—this self-proclaimed genius—was already testing his patience.
“Yes. That is my mother,” Kunikuzushi replied flatly, his voice devoid of emotion, a stark contrast to the tense energy simmering just beneath the surface.
Dottore leaned forward slightly, a twisted smirk creeping across his face. “Hm? You seem uncomfortable, Kunikuzushi…” His tone was teasing, almost playful, but there was a sharpness beneath it, a predator’s gleeful taunt. He wasn’t guessing—he knew . Dottore could see through Kunikuzushi, peeling back the stoic facade to the young man clawing at the insides of his mind, desperate to escape this room and this conversation.
Kunikuzushi’s eyes narrowed, his irritation finally bubbling over. “I would prefer to be starting my studies than sitting here listening to whatever waste of a speech or pep talk you’re planning to give me,” he said, his voice cold and sharp, each word dripping with venom. “So, why not make this easier on both of us? Give me my schedule, and I’ll be on my way.”
For a moment, Dottore’s expression froze, the smirk faltering. Then, he leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, biting the inside of his cheek as though holding back an argument or a retort. “So be it,” he said, his tone laced with mock defeat. Reaching into his desk, he retrieved a neatly printed schedule and handed it over without ceremony.
Kunikuzushi took the paper without a word, his hand brushing against Dottore’s for the briefest of moments. As he pulled the schedule toward him, he allowed his gaze to linger on the man one last time, his instincts kicking into overdrive. Kunikuzushi had always prided himself on his sharp intuition, a gift that allowed him to sense the true nature of those around him, no matter how well they masked their intent. It was almost godlike—an ability to spot guilt, deception, or darkness with unerring accuracy.
And Dottore? He reeked of it.
There was no mistaking it: this man was evil. His presence, his mannerisms, even his carefully calculated words—all of it felt wrong. To Kunikuzushi, Dottore wasn’t just corrupt; he was fraudulent, a creature out of place. This man didn’t belong in this office, in this school, or even in this world. If there was any justice, he should have been rotting somewhere far worse than here. Somewhere like hell.
As Kunikuzushi folded the schedule and slipped it into his pocket, a thought began to form in his mind, cold and calculated. He already had his first assignment for the night.
Originally, Xiao had no intention of attending Font-Uni. His life was firmly rooted in a far darker profession—he was, to put it simply, a hitman. The work came naturally to him, as if he had an innate pull toward his targets. Once given a commission, his persistence was unmatched. His task was always the same: find the person, eliminate them. However, Xiao had his own moral code when it came to killing. He never resorted to brutality; instead, he favored merciful methods. Poison was his weapon of choice, spiking drinks or food with lethal doses of drugs like fentanyl or PCP. He made sure his targets’ deaths were quick and painless, but he never stayed around to witness the final moments.
He had his reasons for this detachment. Watching someone die, he believed, would strip away a part of him—a piece of his humanity, the thread that kept him tethered to the world around him. For a man so accustomed to walking in the shadows, blending in was second nature. Xiao despised being in the spotlight and preferred to remain unseen, just another face in the crowd.
So how had he ended up at Font-Uni, one of the most prestigious universities in the world? The answer was simple: his father. Not because his father had paid his way into the school—far from it. Instead, his father had submitted Xiao’s work to the university without his knowledge, recognizing a potential in his son that Xiao refused to see in himself. His father wanted to pull him out of the dangerous field he was in, giving him a chance at something better.
What work had Zhongli submitted? Xiao’s art. Shockingly to anyone who knew him, Xiao was a gifted artist, a visual genius with an unmatched talent for color, shape, and meaning. To Zhongli, his son’s artistry was a way to channel his emotions, his inner turmoil, into something constructive rather than destructive. The university agreed, accepting Xiao into its art program. Now, this once-troubled man found himself enrolled in courses like art history and studio painting, surrounded by peers who lived in a world far removed from his own.
Xiao didn’t hate being at Font-Uni, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of being an outsider. On paper, he shared a similar background with many of the students—a wealthy family with significant social and political influence. But in reality, he was virtually unheard of, a ghost in elite circles. No one would have guessed that he was the son of President Quan Zhongli of Liyue, a man whose name carried weight far beyond their homeland.
Zhongli, facing his own challenges as rumors swirled about his potential resignation as president, had sent Xiao to Font-Uni not to prepare him for a career or to see him graduate. He simply wanted his son to step away from his life of violence, to do something with his extraordinary talent, and perhaps to forge connections that might help him find a place in the world. For Zhongli, Font-Uni wasn’t about success; it was about giving Xiao a chance to rediscover himself. For Xiao, however, it felt like being a stranger in a gilded cage.
Xiao wandered the library, his footsteps almost silent against the polished floors as he navigated the labyrinth of aisles lined with books. The vastness of the place was disorienting, but Xiao was used to losing himself in unfamiliar environments. In one of these aisles, his sharp eyes caught sight of someone familiar—a figure he had only seen in glimpses, both on blue-lit screens and in articles within his father’s neatly folded newspapers. Standing there, engrossed in a book, was none other than Raiden Kunikuzushi.
Xiao had seen Kunikuzushi before, back when he was younger, at political events where the elite gathered to talk of power and influence. Their encounters had been brief, limited to exchanged glances and shallow pleasantries. They had never shared a proper conversation, never lit the spark of anything beyond fleeting recognition. Still, Xiao remembered him vividly.
Kunikuzushi carried an air about him that was hard to ignore. Calm and composed to the point of being unnerving, he seemed like someone immune to the world’s chaos, as if no force could shake a reaction out of him. In truth, Xiao wasn’t all that different, and perhaps that’s why the memory of Kunikuzushi lingered with such clarity.
At this moment, Kunikuzushi stood with his head tilted slightly down, eyes scanning the pages of a blue book with gold lettering that Xiao couldn’t identify. Even here, in this quiet, mundane setting, there was something magnetic about him. Xiao couldn’t help but let his gaze linger a moment too long.
As if sensing the weight of those sharp amber eyes, Kunikuzushi looked up, meeting Xiao’s stare head-on. His violet eyes, cool and calculating, scanned Xiao with a deliberate intensity, as if assessing every detail.
Kunikuzushi’s eyes roamed over Xiao’s appearance with a meticulous intensity, cataloging every detail as if committing him to memory. Xiao’s hair was choppy and uneven, its dark strands accented by subtle wisps of green highlights that caught the light just enough to suggest a sense of rebellion or individuality. His amber eyes were sharp, almost predatory, their piercing gaze striking against the backdrop of his otherwise muted demeanor.
It wasn’t just his face that intrigued Kunikuzushi. Xiao’s ears were adorned with black jewelry—two helix piercings on each ear and three lobe piercings that glinted faintly in the light. An eyebrow piercing completed the look, a bold statement of character that hinted at a side of Xiao that was anything but ordinary. Kunikuzushi couldn’t help but feel drawn to such deliberate self-expression. He admired people who wore their identities with pride, even if they said nothing about it aloud.
Xiao’s outfit, though simple, had a subtle elegance that captured Kunikuzushi’s attention. He wasn’t dressed to impress, but there was a quiet confidence in the way he carried himself. Over a crisp white button-up, Xiao had layered a black knitted shirt, its texture adding a hint of depth to an otherwise classic pairing. His jeans, a muted green or teal, provided just enough color to break the monotony without screaming for attention. The fit was neither too tight nor too loose—functional yet stylish in an understated way.
To Kunikuzushi, Xiao wasn’t a runway model, but he didn’t need to be. There was an effortless balance to his look, a sense of intention that resonated with someone like Kunikuzushi, who appreciated subtlety as much as boldness. It wasn’t just the clothes or the jewelry; it was the way Xiao wore them, as if they were extensions of himself rather than mere adornments.
Kunikuzushi found himself intrigued, even captivated, by the enigma before him. For someone so outwardly reserved, Xiao’s appearance spoke volumes.
Kunikuzushi’s lips curved into a faint, pleased smirk. “Oh, I know you,” he said in a tone that felt both casual and deliberate, like a cat toying with its prey. “You’re Quan Xiaofeng.”
“People just call me Xiao,” Xiao replied softly, his voice steady and devoid of unnecessary emotion.
Kunikuzushi’s gaze didn’t waver. Instead, his smirk deepened as he closed the book in his hands, sliding it back onto the shelf with an almost theatrical grace. “Y’know,” he began, his tone taking on a faintly amused lilt, “the etymology of your name is quite intriguing. As well as your father’s.”
Xiao said nothing, his expression as unreadable as ever.
“The Xiao part of your name means ‘mountain demon,’ but the Feng part means ‘male phoenix.’ And then there’s Quan , meaning authority or power. Your father’s name is just as fascinating— Zhongli paired with Quan nearly mirrors one of the Eight Immortals of the Taoist pantheon. Isn’t that so interesting?” Kunikuzushi finished with a self-satisfied grin, leaning slightly closer to gauge Xiao’s reaction.
Xiao, however, remained unmoved. His posture didn’t shift, his expression didn’t change, and his amber eyes betrayed nothing.
Kunikuzushi studied him for another moment, his grin faltering into something closer to annoyance. “Not much of a talker, are you?”
“Nothing to say,” Xiao replied flatly, his voice as neutral as his face.
Kunikuzushi wanted to sneer, to scoff, to throw some clever barb that might crack Xiao’s impassive exterior. But he didn’t. Instead, he rolled his eyes and leaned back, muttering under his breath. Xiao was one of those stoic, unreadable types—a tough nut to crack. And if there was one thing Kunikuzushi couldn’t stand, it was people who made him work for their reactions.
How boring.
There was no doubt about Kunikuzushi’s brilliance—his genius was a fact, as irrefutable as gravity. Throughout his academic career, he had always been at the top of his class, bringing home flawless marks and setting the standard for what a star student should be. Teachers praised him, peers envied him, and institutions clamored to have his name attached to their legacy. Kunikuzushi was the embodiment of excellence, a prodigy who could excel in any field he chose. Medicine, engineering, politics, or art—it didn’t matter. He had the intellect, the discipline, and the drive to emerge from any discipline as nothing less than a master, if not a god, of his craft.
Yet his brilliance was not confined to academics alone. Kunikuzushi possessed a razor-sharp intuition and a methodical mind that made him as formidable in practical matters as he was in theoretical pursuits. He could have been a world-class detective if he so desired. Case in point: it had taken him only two days of casual digging to uncover a web of dark secrets surrounding Sir Dottore, the enigmatic and unsettling biologist who had personally approved his application to Font-Uni.
It started as idle curiosity—a passing interest in the man whose presence had made his skin crawl during their meeting. But the more Kunikuzushi investigated, the more sinister the picture became. He delved into public records, academic papers, and police files, piecing together a disturbing timeline. Allegations of plagiarism were the tip of the iceberg. Far more damning were the whispers of heinous crimes—murders that had remained unsolved for years.
Among the most incriminating evidence Kunikuzushi uncovered were police interview tapes. Dottore had been questioned in connection with the deaths of eight women, all of whom had been prominent figures in his field of study. The women’s deaths were officially ruled as accidents or unrelated incidents, but the patterns were too glaring for Kunikuzushi to ignore.
As he watched the tapes, that same eerie feeling he had experienced in Dottore’s office resurfaced, stronger than ever. Dottore’s responses during the questioning were calculated and unnervingly polished. He spoke with the cool precision of someone who had rehearsed every word, his tone devoid of genuine emotion. It was as if he were playing a role rather than speaking the truth. His body language was controlled to an almost inhuman degree—no nervous fidgeting, no breaks in eye contact, no visible signs of guilt. Yet to Kunikuzushi, it all felt disingenuous.
The more he studied the tapes, the more he saw through the facade. Dottore’s words were carefully chosen to mislead without outright lying, and his calm demeanor only served to highlight the gaps in his story. It wasn’t just what he said but what he didn’t say—the omissions, the subtle shifts in tone when certain topics were broached. Kunikuzushi’s mind worked like clockwork, connecting dots that others had missed. By the end of his research, he was certain: Dottore was hiding something.
The realization filled Kunikuzushi with a cold determination. He didn’t care for justice in the conventional sense, but he despised deceit, especially from those who positioned themselves as superior. Dottore wasn’t just a fraud; he was dangerous. And now, armed with the knowledge of his true nature, Kunikuzushi found himself drawn to a singular purpose: to expose the man for what he truly was.
Kunikuzushi leaned back in the leather chair, its creak the only sound breaking the suffocating silence of the dimly lit office. The shadows danced erratically on the walls, illuminated by the faint flicker of the desk lamp. Across from him sat Dottore, bound tightly to the visitor’s chair. Thick cloth was wrapped around his eyes and mouth, muffling his frantic breathing. Kunikuzushi studied him with an unnerving calm, his head tilted slightly, as if he were examining a peculiar specimen.
On the desk sat a jerrycan filled with gasoline, the faint, acrid scent wafting through the room. Kunikuzushi’s fingers idly drummed against the canister. He had bought it only hours earlier at a rundown gas station just a few kilometers from campus. He had debated setting Dottore ablaze—not for necessity, but for the sheer drama of it. The idea of fire consuming this office and erasing Dottore’s presence from the prestigious university was tempting. The image of the golden plaque by the door, etched with Dottore’s name, melting and curling in the heat, brought a faint smirk to Kunikuzushi’s lips.
But practicality nudged him back to reality. A fire would raise too many questions, draw too much attention. Though, he mused, this institution, bloated with wealth and influence, could easily foot the bill for a renovation. Perhaps the next plaque would bear the name of someone less vile.
Kunikuzushi swung his feet onto the desk, his right ankle resting lazily over his left, and let out a soft sigh. “Oh, Sir Dottore,” he began, his voice low and mockingly sweet. “If only you hadn’t approved my application. I doubt you’d find yourself in this... unfortunate position.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his expression turning cold. “I despise people like you. You’re worse than a pig—at least pigs serve a purpose. You, on the other hand, are nothing more than a worm under my shoe.”
A muffled whimper escaped Dottore, his body trembling against the restraints. His attempts to speak were futile, the cloth silencing his words. Kunikuzushi’s smirk widened at the display of fear. He thrived on this—on the power he held, the knowledge that the man who once sat in judgment over him was now entirely at his mercy.
“Now,” Kunikuzushi continued, his tone laced with menace as he stood, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a small recording device. “I want one thing from you. Just one.” He walked around the desk with deliberate slowness, savoring each step. Stopping in front of Dottore, he crouched to eye level, his breath ghosting over the man’s sweat-drenched skin. “I want you to admit it. Admit that you killed those eight women and stole their work.”
He yanked down the cloth from Dottore’s mouth, and the man gasped for air, his breaths ragged and uneven. “P-please,” Dottore stammered, his voice cracking. “I’ll tell you whatever you want. Just—just spare me.”
Kunikuzushi tilted his head again, his expression unreadable. “No promises,” he murmured, pressing the record button with a soft click. The device’s red light blinked, casting an ominous glow between them. “Speak.”
Dottore’s lips trembled, his voice barely a whisper as he struggled to force out the words caught in his throat. “I… I killed them,” he finally admitted, his voice shaking with every syllable. “It was me. I killed eight women… thirty years ago. And I got away with it.”
Kunikuzushi leaned forward slightly, his sharp gaze piercing through the dim light of the office. “Go on,” he urged, his tone smooth but dripping with malice.
Dottore swallowed hard, his throat visibly convulsing. “I lured them away,” he continued, his words faltering as his voice cracked. “Away from their stations, from their studies. I— I killed them to steal their work. They were brilliant, and I wanted the glory they were destined for.” His voice broke into an uneven whimper as his confession trailed off.
Kunikuzushi’s lips curled into a predatory grin, the light from the desk lamp casting shadows that sharpened the edges of his face. The sound of Dottore’s trembling voice, the sheer terror seeping from his every word, was intoxicating. Without breaking his gaze, Kunikuzushi pressed the button to stop the recording. The soft click echoed in the tense silence.
He slipped the recorder back into his pocket and turned his attention to the jerrycan sitting beside the desk. His hand gripped the handle firmly, but the moment he did, a strange sensation prickled at the back of his neck—a creeping awareness, as if unseen eyes were locked onto him.
Kunikuzushi’s head snapped toward the office door, his sharp eyes narrowing at the thin crack where faint light seeped through. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive, until he spoke, his voice low and commanding. “I know you’re there.”
The door creaked open slowly, revealing a figure standing in the shadows. As the figure stepped into the dim light, Kunikuzushi’s grin returned, a glint of delight flickering in his eyes. “Oh! It’s you,” he said, his tone almost playful. “Didn’t think you, of all people, would catch me in the act.”
Xiao stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable but his presence as sharp as a blade. His amber eyes flicked to Dottore, bound and trembling, then back to Kunikuzushi. “Did you want to be caught?” he asked, his voice calm but carrying an undertone of suspicion.
Kunikuzushi chuckled softly, the sound unnervingly light given the circumstances. “Of course not,” he replied smoothly. “But tell me—what brings you here at this hour? Most people have retreated to their dorms or apartments by now.”
Xiao’s jaw tightened slightly, his posture rigid yet unthreatening. Something about Kunikuzushi felt different—unsettlingly so. There was an aura around him, an intensity that was both unnerving and strangely captivating. It wasn’t just his calculated demeanor or his eerie calm; it was something deeper, something almost otherworldly.
“I don’t know,” Xiao admitted after a pause, his voice quiet but steady. “I guess I just enjoy wandering.”
Kunikuzushi studied Xiao for a moment, his grin softening into something more curious. “Hmm,” he murmured, leaning back against the desk, his eyes never leaving Xiao. “Well, then. It seems fate has brought you here at the perfect time. Care to join me for a little... experiment?”
Xiao narrowed his eyes, his voice low but steady as he broke the tense silence. “Is that gasoline?” he asked, stepping closer to Kunikuzushi with deliberate caution.
Kunikuzushi turned his head slowly, the corners of his mouth curling into a sharp, almost predatory grin. “Ah, the boy catches on,” he said with exaggerated delight, his tone mocking. “Yes, indeed. It’s gasoline. What tipped you off? The jerrycan or the stench?”
Xiao’s gaze flickered briefly to the trembling, trembling figure of Dottore, then back to Kunikuzushi. The reality of the situation settled heavily in his chest. He spoke again, his words sharp. “You’re not seriously going to burn him alive, are you?”
Kunikuzushi let out a short, cruel laugh, one that echoed unnervingly in the confined space of the office. “No, of course not. I’m going to drink the gasoline,” he sneered, his sarcasm dripping with venom. “What do you think, genius? Of course, I’m going to burn him alive!”
A strangled gasp escaped Dottore, his head jerking upward as the panic fully consumed him. “Wait—no! You said—”
“I said no promises, ” Kunikuzushi interrupted coldly, his voice sharp enough to cut through the air. He tilted his head, feigning innocence as he added, “Honestly, you people are just the worst listeners. And you call yourselves intellectuals. This school is a bloated cash cow, and you’re just one of the many leeches sucking on its teats.”
Without another word, Kunikuzushi twisted the cap off the jerrycan, the metallic click of the lid breaking the momentary stillness. He began pouring the gasoline over Dottore in slow, deliberate motions, the thick, pungent stench filling the air and clinging to the room like a death shroud.
Dottore’s muffled sobs turned into pitiful wails as the cold liquid soaked through his clothes, pooling beneath his chair. Kunikuzushi rolled his eyes, his irritation cutting through his theatrics. “Oh, for the love of—shut up,” he snapped, his voice like a whip. He struck Dottore’s face with the back of his hand, the crack of skin on skin reverberating like a gunshot.
The man stilled for a moment, his sobs reduced to quiet, broken gasps. Xiao’s gaze remained fixed on Kunikuzushi, but his mind was racing, calculating his next move. The faint flicker of an unsettling smile played at the edges of Kunikuzushi’s lips as he noticed Xiao’s tension.
“You’re awfully quiet, Xiao,” Kunikuzushi remarked, his tone a mixture of amusement and malice. “What’s the matter? Feeling a little out of your depth?”
Xiao didn’t respond immediately, his piercing amber eyes boring into Kunikuzushi like twin flames. Finally, he spoke, his voice calm but laced with an undercurrent of menace. “You’re insane.”
Kunikuzushi’s grin widened, his expression almost gleeful. “Oh, I’ve been called worse,” he said lightly, tipping the last of the gasoline over Dottore’s head. “Now, the real question is—are you going to stop me? Or are you here to enjoy the show?”
Kunikuzushi’s voice slithered through the tension like a serpent, “You don’t seem disturbed by this, Xiao. Why is that?” His eyes, sharp and calculating, turned fully to Xiao, who now stood rigidly beside him, his expression unreadable.
Xiao’s silence stretched, heavy and deliberate. “Why do you care?” he finally replied, his voice low and cold.
“Oh,” Kunikuzushi crooned, tilting his head unnaturally, his grin widening. “Such a feisty answer. Usually, I get reactions out of people—the fear, the disgust, the desperate attempts to moralize. But you? You’ve given me nothing. Not even a morsel of sustenance.” He chuckled softly, the sound eerily detached. “You are so boring , Xiao. So incredibly dull .”
Xiao’s brows furrowed, his amber eyes narrowing. “Whatever. Don’t rope me into whatever psychotic shit you’re pulling here.” He turned sharply, intent on leaving, but his motion was abruptly halted by a vice-like grip on his wrist.
“At least stay for the final act of the performance,” Kunikuzushi whispered, his voice carrying a sinister edge. From his pocket, he produced a small, worn box of matches, his fingers caressing it almost reverently. “Dottore,” he said, his tone turning mockingly cordial, “do you know the name of the god of fire from my homeland? They say that if you speak his name, the speaker themselves will burst into flames. So, tell me, professor… what is that god’s name?”
Dottore’s face was a mask of terror, his lips trembling as his voice came out in a hoarse whisper, “Kagutsuchi…”
The word had barely left his mouth when Kunikuzushi struck a match, the tiny flame flickering defiantly in the despotic atmosphere. He held it for a brief moment, savoring the look of despair etched across Dottore’s face before tossing it casually onto the gasoline-drenched man.
The flames roared to life instantly, consuming Dottore in a matter of moments. His screams tore through the silence, a discord of pain and fear that reverberated through the room. Kunikuzushi, utterly unperturbed, turned on his heel and strode toward the door, pausing only to glance back at Xiao. “Enjoy the show,” he murmured before slipping out, leaving Xiao alone with the inferno.
Xiao stood frozen, his gaze locked on the writhing figure as the flames devoured him. The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning flesh and the crackling of fire. He had never seen death unfold so vividly before his eyes, yet something within him stirred—a strange, visceral fascination. His amber eyes reflected the dancing flames, their light illuminating his face in a haunting glow.
Kunikuzushi, watching from the shadows just beyond the doorway, noticed this shift in Xiao’s demeanor. His lips curled into a sly smile as he observed the faint flicker of something primal in Xiao’s expression—an emotion beyond fear or shock. It was an unspoken understanding, a recognition of something buried deep within.
“That look,” Kunikuzushi muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the distant screams. “It’s the same as mine.”
Chapter 3: Chihara
Notes:
血原 — Blood Field
Chapter Text
Xiao’s body carried him through the motions of the next day, but his mind was still trapped in the inferno of the night before. The blaze that consumed Sir Dottore had left an indelible imprint on his thoughts, one he couldn’t seem to shake. Now, sitting alone in a secluded painter's room in the arts wing of the campus, Xiao found himself staring blankly at the canvas in front of him.
His hand moved on its own, almost as if detached from his conscious will. Each stroke of the brush was deliberate, yet he couldn’t recall deciding to make it. The canvas bloomed with chaotic colors, reds and oranges bleeding into blacks and grays. The flames in his memory spilled out through his hands, taking form in the textures and shapes he unconsciously created.
He dipped another brush into a pool of deep crimson, dragging it across the canvas in bold, jagged strokes. The sound of the bristles scraping against the surface was hypnotic. His mind replayed the sounds of the night—the crackling fire, the sickening sizzle of flesh, the shrill, unending screams. They echoed in the quiet of the room, vivid and unrelenting, but instead of horror, they filled him with something else.
It wasn’t fear.
Xiao’s thoughts spiraled as his hand worked tirelessly. He had always believed that death would terrify him, that witnessing something so final and visceral would strip away the fragile threads of his humanity. And yet, sitting here now, with the smell of paint sharp in his nostrils and the memory of fire burning in his mind, he realized how wrong he had been.
The fear he had expected was absent. In its place was something quieter, something that unnerved him in a different way—a strange sense of calm, almost a fascination. He couldn’t shake the memory of the firelight dancing in Kunikuzushi’s eyes or the unwavering certainty in the other man’s actions. He had watched as Dottore’s life was reduced to ashes, but instead of feeling repulsed or horrified, he had felt... still.
Xiao stepped back from the canvas, his breathing shallow as he took in what he had created. The image before him was chaotic yet strangely beautiful—a swirling mass of flames consuming an indistinct figure, its form twisted and writhing. The edges of the canvas were dark, as though the fire had burned everything else away, leaving only the raw violence of the center.
He set the brush down, his fingers trembling slightly as he stared at the painting. It was the first time he truly acknowledged the shift within himself. The blaze had burned something away from him, but it had also awakened something he couldn’t yet name.
Xiao leaned against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment as the memory of Kunikuzushi’s voice echoed in his head: “Enjoy the show.”
What unsettled him the most wasn’t the memory of Dottore’s screams or the sight of his flesh melting in the fire. It was the fact that he had enjoyed it, at least some part of him. He had been captivated, drawn in by the raw finality of it all.
As much as he tried to push it away, Xiao knew the truth was staring back at him from the flames on the canvas. Something inside him had shifted, and there was no going back.
“I thought you’d never peel your eyes away from that canvas,” Kunikuzushi’s voice pierced the stillness of the room, startling Xiao so badly he nearly knocked over his easel.
“What the hell—ugh!” Xiao spat, spinning around to face the intruder. “Why are you even here? I thought I was too boring and dull for your tastes?” His words came sharp and fast, accompanied by a dramatic roll of his amber eyes. Arms crossed defensively, Xiao made a point of avoiding Kunikuzushi’s piercing gaze, which seemed to see far too much.
Kunikuzushi leaned casually against the doorframe, a smug grin plastered across his face. He playfully pouted his lips as if wounded. “It seems I may have been... mistaken about you, which, frankly, is a bit of a shock for me. I’m almost never wrong about anything.” His tone dripped with faux humility, his grin widening as he watched Xiao’s face contort into a mixture of annoyance and disbelief.
“Oh, brother,” Xiao groaned, dragging his hand down his face as if the sheer existence of Kunikuzushi was physically exhausting. “You’re insufferable. You know that, right? Completely, one-hundred percent insufferable.”
“Insufferable? Me?” Kunikuzushi pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I’m merely an observer, admiring the fascinating layers of a complex individual. You should be flattered.”
“Flattered,” Xiao deadpanned, staring at Kunikuzushi like he’d grown a second head. “Right. Because being psychoanalyzed by someone who tied a guy to a chair and set him on fire last night is exactly the kind of attention I was craving.”
Kunikuzushi chuckled, a low, amused sound that somehow made Xiao’s irritation spike further. “Oh, come now. That’s an overly simplistic view of the situation, don’t you think? Besides, that’s not why I’m here.”
Xiao’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Then why are you here? Because if it’s to poke fun at me, you can turn around and leave right now.”
Kunikuzushi took a few slow steps into the room, his hands clasped behind his back. “I was curious, that’s all. About you, specifically.” He glanced at the canvas, tilting his head slightly as he examined Xiao’s work. “Your painting, for instance. Fascinating. Such raw emotion. The fire... the chaos... Did you even realize how much of yourself you poured into it?”
Xiao shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling exposed. “I wasn’t thinking about anything when I painted it. I just... I just painted, okay?”
“Hmm.” Kunikuzushi’s hum was skeptical, his gaze lingering on Xiao like he was dissecting him piece by piece. “Maybe you weren’t thinking, but your subconscious clearly had a lot to say. Tell me, Xiao, do you feel different now? After last night?”
Xiao hesitated, his arms tightening around his chest. “I don’t know. Maybe. Why does it matter to you?”
Kunikuzushi smirked, stepping closer until he was standing beside Xiao. He gestured toward the canvas. “It matters because you’re not as boring as I initially thought. You’ve got a spark in you—something... intriguing. That painting proves it.”
Xiao shot him a sideways glare. “You’re just saying that because you like fire.”
Kunikuzushi chuckled again, but this time it was softer, almost genuine. “Maybe. But I think you like it too, whether you want to admit it or not.”
Xiao felt his cheeks flush, though he wasn’t sure if it was anger or something else entirely. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here we are,” Kunikuzushi replied smoothly, his grin returning full force. “Tell me, Xiao, would you ever have imagined yourself standing in that room last night, watching what you watched, feeling what you felt? Or is this a side of you you’re only just beginning to discover?”
Xiao didn’t answer right away. He stared at his painting, the fiery chaos reflected in his own amber eyes. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “But I don’t think I like what I’m discovering.”
Kunikuzushi’s smirk softened into something more contemplative. “Don’t be so quick to judge yourself, Xiao. Sometimes, the things we fear the most about ourselves are the things that make us strongest.”
Xiao looked at him, the weight of the words settling between them like a fragile truce. “You’re still insufferable,” he muttered.
Kunikuzushi laughed, a light, melodic sound that almost made Xiao want to slaughter him. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
When the investigation teams finally arrived at the scene, they were met with a baffling juxtaposition of destruction and precision. Dottore’s body, or rather, what was left of it, was reduced to an unrecognizable charred mass slumped in the chair. Strangely, most of the office remained untouched. The walls bore no scorch marks, and the shelves lined with books stood as pristine as they had before the blaze. Only a section of the carpet beneath Dottore’s chair had been turned to blackened ash, the edges curling up like the remnants of a dark flower.
The scene was eerie in its cleanliness, leaving investigators perplexed. The security camera feeds offered no insight; the lines had been deliberately severed, cutting off any chance of viewing the events leading up to the fire. Fingerprints, DNA, and other standard forms of evidence were nonexistent. Whoever had done this had gone to great lengths to leave no trace behind—except for one thing.
In the dean’s office, investigators found a small recording device lying conspicuously on the desk. The device contained an incriminating recording: Dottore’s own voice, trembling and desperate, confessing to the murders of eight women and the theft of their work. It was the most damning piece of evidence imaginable, yet it only deepened the mystery. A second voice on the recording—calm, teasing, and laced with chilling confidence—remained unidentified. Despite advanced forensic audio analysis, the voice could not be matched to anyone in the school’s database or beyond.
The incident was labeled an extreme case of vigilantism, sparking a campus-wide frenzy. Theories bloomed like wildfire among the students, who gathered in small groups to gossip, speculate, and spin elaborate tales about what had happened. Theories ranged from the plausible—disgruntled former colleagues seeking revenge—to the absurd, with some students whispering about ghosts or divine retribution.
Xiao, however, wanted no part in the growing hysteria. He had always kept to himself, preferring the company of books to people. But, much to his dismay, he was dragged into a group of wealthy, overly curious students, most hailing from Inazuma, with one eccentric Fontaine native rounding out the mix.
Kunikuzushi, of course, was at the center of this little circle, though not because he wanted to be. Socializing wasn’t exactly his strong suit either, but he seemed to enjoy the way the others hung on his every word, eagerly absorbing his cutting remarks and cryptic observations.
“Look at you,” Kunikuzushi teased Xiao during lunch, his tone dripping with amusement. “Always slinking off into some shadowy corner to read whatever dusty old book catches your fancy. Do you even eat lunch, or do you just absorb nutrients through osmosis?”
Xiao shot him a sharp glare, his expression somewhere between annoyance and resignation. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” Kunikuzushi said with a grin, leaning back in his chair as if the entire conversation was a source of entertainment for him. “It’s just fascinating how you manage to make yourself look so unapproachable. Even for me, that’s impressive.”
Xiao rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the book in his hands, trying to tune out the chatter around him. The truth was, he had no idea why he was even here. He had been perfectly content being ignored by the rest of the student body, and now he was suddenly surrounded by a group of rich kids with too much free time and too little sense.
The group around them remained oblivious, chattering away about their latest theories and scandals, but Xiao could feel Kunikuzushi’s gaze lingering on him, unrelenting and unspoken.
For the first time in his life, Xiao wondered if maybe keeping his head down wouldn’t be enough to protect himself anymore.
The small group of students at the heart of the university’s latest whirlwind of rumors consisted of four from Inazuma, including Kunikuzushi himself, and one from Fontaine.
Among the Inazuman students were Kaedehara Kazuha and the Kamisato siblings, Ayaka and Ayato. Kunikuzushi had known them since childhood—not that he particularly cared to admit it. He used the phrase grew up with in the loosest sense possible. Their families were well-acquainted, constantly crossing paths at social gatherings, elegant galas, and suffocatingly formal dinner parties. But Kunikuzushi had never taken an interest in any of them. They were too predictable, too polished, too… well-mannered for his taste.
Kaedehara Kazuha, the quiet poet with a penchant for waxing philosophical about the wind, was perhaps the least offensive of the three. He carried himself with an air of ease, never quite fitting in with the prim and proper expectations of his high society lineage, yet never fully stepping away from it either. He was the kind of person who could sit under a tree with a book of haikus for hours and call it a productive day.
Then there were the Kamisato siblings. Ayaka, ever the picture of elegance, was the perfect little lady—the type to uphold tradition, follow rules to the letter, and carry herself with grace no matter the circumstance. Ayato, her older brother, was more cunning than he let on. Behind his easy smiles and smooth charm was a sharp mind that calculated every move like a chess master planning five steps ahead.
Despite their reputations and their family's standing, none of them had ever interested Kunikuzushi in the slightest. They were predictable. Boring. The type to follow the path laid out for them without question.
The odd one out in their group was Furina de Fontaine. She was, without a doubt, the loudest presence among them—both in personality and in how she carried herself. She didn’t simply enter a room; she commanded it. As the niece of the esteemed Iudex Neuvillette, she never missed an opportunity to remind people of her high connections, whether it was through dramatic retellings of exclusive plays she had attended in the best seats at Fontaine’s grandest theaters or by dropping casual mentions of the A-list playwrights she had worked alongside. She had even directed a film herself, a fact she would seamlessly weave into conversations, regardless of whether or not it was relevant.
Furina thrived on attention, and she knew how to get it. Even in a university filled with ambitious students, she stood out in her major, effortlessly taking the spotlight with her dramatic flair and impeccable delivery. She was theatrical to the core, treating every conversation like a performance, every debate like a courtroom drama, and every social gathering as a stage where she was the star.
Kunikuzushi found her amusing, if nothing else. Unlike the Kamisato siblings and Kazuha, Furina had a sense of unpredictability to her. She was self-absorbed, certainly, but she wasn’t dull.
And yet, despite the differences in their personalities and backgrounds, this unlikely group had been drawn together, bound by the shared intrigue of the mysterious case of Sir Dottore’s fiery demise. Whether they were here out of curiosity, suspicion, or sheer boredom, Kunikuzushi couldn't say.
But one thing was certain: out of everyone in this room, he and Xiao were the only ones who knew the truth.
Furina, ever the dramatist, had appointed herself as the unofficial detective of the case, which was hardly surprising given her close ties to a literal courtroom judge. She spoke with the confidence of someone delivering a grand monologue on stage, punctuating her words with exaggerated gestures. However, most of her theories were far too ridiculous for Kunikuzushi’s tastes—too theatrical, too convoluted, too much like the plot of a third-rate crime novel.
Xiao, on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with this discussion. He sat stiffly in his chair, arms crossed, making himself as unnoticeable as possible. His gaze fixated on a stray paint stain on the table as if he could will himself into blending in with the furniture. He hadn’t said a word since the conversation started, nor did he plan to.
“I think it was a student that killed Dottore,” Furina announced bluntly, leaning back in her chair with a self-satisfied smirk. She crossed one leg over the other and flicked a strand of hair over her shoulder. “Just think about it—how many students have you heard complaining about him? He was a massive creep, and frankly, something about him always felt… off.”
Kunikuzushi’s fingers twitched. His gaze briefly flicked from Xiao to Furina, his expression unreadable. But in his mind, he was already preparing to set fire to whatever metaphorical pot was brewing beneath the surface.
Furina continued, oblivious to the subtle tension that was beginning to rise. “I mean, when I met him, he stood way too close to me and kept bringing up my uncle. Now, I’m used to people asking about him—it comes with the territory. But the way he spoke? Ugh. Sent shivers down my spine.” She made a show of shuddering, as if merely recalling the encounter was enough to make her skin crawl.
“Could be,” Ayaka said thoughtfully, her voice soft as freshly fallen snow. She rested her chin lightly against her knuckles, always the picture of composed elegance. “But didn’t he have allegations of plagiarism? Perhaps it was some kind of revenge killing.” Her words were carefully measured, her tone gentle yet challenging. She wasn’t disagreeing with Furina outright, but rather steering the conversation toward a more logical path.
“Revenge?” Ayato echoed, tilting his head slightly. “It would make sense, considering the nature of his crimes. People don’t take kindly to having their hard work stolen.” He tapped his fingers against the polished wood of the table, a rhythmic, calculating motion. “Still, murder is a rather… extreme reaction, don’t you think?”
“Oh, please,” Furina scoffed. “Extreme? Sure. But unexpected? Not really. People snap all the time. One push in the wrong direction, and boom—you’ve got yourself a full-blown murder case.”
Kazuha, who had been silent up until now, let out a soft hum, his crimson eyes half-lidded as he mulled over their words. “A crime of passion, then?” he mused. “Someone with a deeply personal grudge against him?”
Kunikuzushi stifled the urge to laugh. Personal? Oh, they had no idea.
Xiao, still determined to remain unnoticed, clenched his fists in his lap. The memory of last night lingered at the forefront of his mind—Dottore’s screams, the way the fire consumed him, the way the light of the flames reflected in Kunikuzushi’s eerily delighted eyes.
He swallowed hard, keeping his gaze fixed downward.
If any of them knew the truth, he wondered, would they still be sitting here so casually? Would they still be tossing around theories like this was some fun little mystery to solve?
Would they still look at him the same way?
The conversation continued to spiral, each theory thrown onto the table met with either intrigue or dismissal. But soon, as often happened in circles of the privileged, the discussion began to shift from crime and mystery to something more insidious.
“You know,” Furina said, tapping her fingers against the table, “this whole thing reminds me of something I read in an old Fontaine case file—about a peasant uprising that led to the assassination of a corrupt official.”
Kunikuzushi nearly rolled his eyes at her choice of words. Peasant uprising? Oh, this was bound to get ugly.
Ayato, ever the diplomat, merely tilted his head with interest. “A historical case, you mean?”
“Yes, exactly,” Furina said, delighted that someone was following along. “The poor in Fontaine were so desperate back then. It was pitiful, really. They believed the government was hoarding wealth while they starved, so they took justice into their own hands.” She sighed dramatically. “But in the end, what did it change? Nothing. Their little ‘revolution’ failed, and those who survived ended up worse off than before.”
Kazuha, who had been idly swirling the tea in his cup, stilled. His crimson eyes flickered upward, sharp with something unreadable.
Furina continued, oblivious. “It just goes to show that some people are meant to be where they are. The rich stay rich, the poor stay poor—it’s just the natural order of things.”
Kazuha let out a quiet exhale through his nose, setting his teacup down with a soft clink. “That’s a rather cruel perspective,” he said evenly, though there was a quiet edge to his voice. “You speak as if people born into poverty are simply destined to suffer, as if they are lesser by default.”
Furina blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. “I’m not saying they’re lesser,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m just saying they don’t contribute the way the elite do. I mean, let’s be honest—what does a farmer truly do in comparison to, say, a scientist or a politician?”
Kunikuzushi nearly choked on his own fury. Oh, she’s done it now.
Kazuha, to his credit, did not immediately snap. Instead, he stared at Furina for a long moment, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was dangerously soft. “You sit here, drinking your imported tea, wearing fabrics woven by hands you will never know, discussing crime like it is an entertaining riddle—do you truly not see the irony in your words?”
Furina scoffed, but her shoulders tensed. “Oh, come on, Kazuha, don’t be so dramatic.”
“You call it dramatic. I call it reality.” Kazuha leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady, unwavering. “A scientist does not eat without a farmer. A politician does not have a seat to sit upon without a carpenter. A noble does not stand above others without the weight of the lower classes beneath them. You think power is self-made? It is stolen, inherited, built upon the backs of those you deem insignificant.”
Furina’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. She seemed taken aback, almost offended, but more so uncomfortable in a way she wasn’t used to.
Kazuha stood, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “I have no interest in discussing matters of justice with people who see humanity as little more than a hierarchy.”
Ayaka looked genuinely distraught. “Kazuha, please—”
“I’ve heard enough,” Kazuha said simply. He turned on his heel and walked away without another word.
For the first time in the entire conversation, Kunikuzushi found himself impressed. He had always thought of Kazuha as passive, a poetic dreamer too caught up in the clouds to have any real fire in him. But now, watching him leave, he felt something stir within him—something akin to admiration.
Not because Kazuha was right (though he was), but because he had no fear in standing apart from the crowd.
Kunikuzushi smirked. Maybe he isn’t so boring and predictable after all.
The evening air was cool, carrying the lingering scent of dried wheat and the faintest trace of rain that had fallen earlier that afternoon. The sky was an inky blue, smeared with the last remnants of pink and orange at the horizon, and the quiet hum of insects filled the space between the occasional gusts of wind.
Kunikuzushi hadn’t planned on seeking Kazuha out—not consciously, at least. But somehow, his feet had carried him to the grand glass doors that led to the landing. And there, standing just beyond the threshold, was Kazuha, leaning on the stone railing, a joint resting loosely between his fingers. Smoke curled lazily around his face, drifting into the open air as he exhaled.
Kunikuzushi tilted his head slightly. “Didn’t peg you to be a smoker.” His voice cut through the quiet, neither accusing nor particularly interested—just an observation.
Kazuha turned his head, his crimson eyes catching the dim light. There was no surprise in his expression, no irritation at being found. Just a small, weary smile. “Ah, it’s not often. Only when I’m stressed out… which is frequently.” He let out a quiet chuckle before taking another slow drag.
Kunikuzushi took a step closer, his gaze flicking between Kazuha and the view beyond the railing. He could see the wheat fields stretching for miles, their golden stalks barely swaying under the night breeze. It was strange—there was something haunting about the way they stood there, untouched, unmoving, like an ocean frozen in time.
He turned his attention back to Kazuha. “That was quite a show you put on earlier,” he mused. “I feel bad for previously thinking so little of you.”
Kazuha exhaled through his nose, amused. “Oh? And here I thought you were incapable of guilt.”
Kunikuzushi let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You make a fair point. Maybe ‘guilt’ isn’t the right word.” He leaned against the railing beside Kazuha, folding his arms. “Let’s just say I underestimated you.”
Kazuha hummed thoughtfully, tapping the ash off the end of his joint. “You wouldn’t be the first.”
Kunikuzushi glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “Do you regret it?”
Kazuha blinked. “Regret what?”
“Speaking up. Walking away.”
There was a brief silence, only interrupted by the rustling of wheat in the distance. Kazuha’s lips parted slightly, as if he were considering his answer carefully. Finally, he sighed. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t.”
His fingers tightened slightly around the joint as he looked out over the wheat fields, his eyes distant. “I’ve spent most of my life pretending not to care. Being the quiet one. The agreeable one. But the truth is… I do care. More than I want to.” He let out a breath, shaking his head. “I can’t stand people who talk about the world like it’s some grand stage for them to play hero or villain. People like Furina… they don’t see beyond the walls of their privilege. They talk about poverty and suffering like it’s just another story to be told, another historical lesson to be debated over tea.”
Kunikuzushi listened, saying nothing. He could hear the frustration creeping into Kazuha’s voice, the way his usual calm wavered ever so slightly. It was a rare sight—Kazuha was always composed, always carrying himself with an air of quiet detachment. But now, here in the dim evening light, there was something raw about him.
Kazuha took another slow drag before continuing. “My mother came from a farming family,” he said after a moment. “She left that life behind to marry my father, but she never forgot where she came from. She used to tell me that people who work the land, who create with their hands, who sweat and toil for what little they have… they are the ones who keep the world running. And yet, they are the ones treated as if they don’t matter.” He shook his head, clicking his tongue in irritation. “It makes me sick.”
Kunikuzushi tilted his head slightly, regarding Kazuha with newfound curiosity. “And what about you?” he asked. “You come from nobility too. You could’ve just sat there, let her prattle on without challenging her. But you didn’t.”
Kazuha let out a breathy chuckle, running a hand through his wind-tousled hair. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe I just wanted to remind her that not everyone is so willing to accept their place in this so-called ‘natural order.’”
Kunikuzushi smirked. “So, a rebel poet after all.”
Kazuha gave him a sideways glance, lips quirking slightly. “And what about you?” he asked. “I noticed you didn’t say much back there. You had that look in your eye—like you were watching a fire burn and debating whether to throw more wood onto it.”
Kunikuzushi chuckled, shaking his head. “I was entertained, I’ll admit.” He turned, resting his back against the railing, gazing up at the darkening sky. “But it’s not my fight.”
Kazuha arched his brow. “No?”
“No.” Kunikuzushi’s voice was quiet but firm. “I don’t care about people, not the way you do. I don’t waste my energy trying to change their minds. The world is a pit, and people like Furina just stand on the edges and laugh at those trying to claw their way out. There’s no point in trying to convince them otherwise.”
Kazuha studied him for a long moment before exhaling softly. “That’s a lonely way to see the world.”
Kunikuzushi shrugged. “Maybe.” He pushed off the railing, stretching his arms above his head. “But it’s a lot less disappointing.”
Kazuha hummed thoughtfully but said nothing. Instead, he took one last drag from his joint before snuffing it out against the stone railing. For a while, they just stood there in comfortable silence, watching the wheat fields ripple under the night breeze.
Finally, Kunikuzushi broke the quiet. “You know,” he mused, “you surprise me, Kaedehara.”
Kazuha turned to him, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Kunikuzushi smirked back. “You should.”
For once, he wasn’t being sarcastic.
Kunikuzushi awoke to the unmistakable hum of chaos. The dormitory halls, usually filled with sluggish footsteps and half-hearted chatter this early in the morning, were alive with frantic whispers, hurried movements, and the occasional sharp gasp.
The energy in the air was electric, like static before a thunderstorm. As he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he caught sight of the students clustered by the windows, pressing their faces against the glass, their voices hushed but tinged with a mixture of horror and fascination.
Curious, he slid out of bed and padded over, weaving through the sea of gawking students. And then he saw it.
Beyond the courtyard, past the paved paths and trimmed hedges, the wheat field stood beneath the early morning light—except now, it was marred by streaks of yellow police tape, flashing red and blue lights, and the distant figures of forensic teams swarming the area like vultures.
Kunikuzushi’s lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile.
Finally.
Furina De Fontaine had been found. Or at least, what was left of her.
Her head was mounted atop a scarecrow, her frozen expression twisted into something grotesque—eyes wide open, mouth agape in what could have been a scream or a silent plea. The morning breeze tousled her once-luxurious hair, making it sway like it still held remnants of life.
The rest of her body had been methodically dismantled. Her arms, legs, and torso had been severed with inhuman precision, the cuts so clean it was almost surgical. Each piece was bound to the scarecrow’s body, tied in place with thick twine, turning the lifeless construct into something out of a nightmare.
It was art.
The front page of The Steambird had already spun the story into something sensational:
SLAUGHTERED LIKE LIVESTOCK: THE WORK OF A RONIN?
Furina De Fontaine, niece of the esteemed Iudex Neuvillette, was found in the early hours of the morning by a local farmer who tends to the wheat fields. Sources confirm that her body was dismembered using a katana, the precision of the cuts indicating a high level of skill. Who could have done this? Is a trained samurai responsible for this gruesome crime?
Kunikuzushi let out a quiet, breathy laugh. A samurai? That was rich.
He had left his mark in the most theatrical way possible—how fitting for a girl who lived for drama. Furina always loved being the center of attention. Now, she had it. Forever.
As his amusement simmered, his gaze flicked to a familiar figure standing near the window, slightly apart from the others.
Xiao.
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his sharp gaze locked onto the crime scene. Unlike the others, who were eagerly sharing theories and whispers, Xiao was silent. Unmoving.
Kunikuzushi watched him carefully, stepping closer. He expected horror, disgust, maybe even anger. But instead…
Xiao’s face was unreadable.
No wide eyes, no pale complexion, no tremor in his hands. Just quiet observation.
Kunikuzushi smirked, his voice low and teasing as he finally spoke. “Gruesome, isn’t it?”
Xiao didn’t react at first, his eyes still fixed on the wheat field, but then, after a moment, he exhaled through his nose. “Tch.”
Kunikuzushi tilted his head, waiting for something more. A question. A suspicion. Anything.
Instead, Xiao finally turned his head slightly, his golden eyes meeting Kunikuzushi’s own.
“That smile on your face,” Xiao murmured, voice unreadable. “You’re enjoying this.”
Kunikuzushi’s smirk widened, sharp and deliberate, like a blade catching the light. He didn’t deny it. There was no need to.
“Of course I am.” His voice barely rose above a whisper, yet it slithered through the space between them, curling around Xiao like smoke. “Do you like my work, Xiao?” He stepped forward, closing the already narrow distance between them. His breath was steady, composed—eerily so. “I put a lot of effort into it.”
Xiao’s expression contorted into something between disbelief and disgust. His jaw tightened as he scoffed. “Don’t you think that was a little much? Seriously, what the hell is your problem?”
Kunikuzushi’s grin flickered—just for a moment—before something more unsettling crept across his features. His amusement drained away, leaving behind a mask of unsettling neutrality. The way he stared at Xiao was unblinking, calculating. His lips pressed together, as if suppressing a reaction that threatened to claw its way out.
For a long, stretched-out moment, he didn’t speak.
Then, with the slow precision of a scalpel cutting into flesh, he let out a measured breath and tilted his head, studying Xiao like an insect pinned beneath glass.
“Maybe you’re too stuck in your own head to understand anything I do,” he murmured, his voice softer now but far more dangerous than before. “But I’ll humor you… just this once.”
A distant voice echoed down the hallway, the muffled murmuring of students still gathered at the windows, whispering about the crime scene below. Outside, flashes from police cameras punctuated the dim evening light, brief bursts of white illuminating the wheat field in the distance. But here, in the enclosed corridor, it was as if only the two of them existed.
“I loathe the system people like you and I have grown so accustomed to,” Kunikuzushi said, his words slow, deliberate, rolling off his tongue like a confession to something far greater than a single act of murder. “The kind that decides your worth before you’re even born. The kind that forces you to smile while the privileged gorge themselves on the fruits of someone else’s labor. And I loathe even more those who uphold it—those who bask in its comfort, never questioning why they were given a throne while others are crushed beneath it.”
His eyes gleamed under the dim corridor lighting, the weight of his words pressing down like a thick, oppressive fog.
Xiao felt an involuntary shiver creep up his spine, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides.
Kunikuzushi took another step forward, slow, methodical, as if savoring the tension crackling between them. The scent of something metallic—blood? no, it couldn’t be—hung in the air, faint but noticeable, like a whisper of the violence that had been carried out only nights before.
“But don’t misunderstand,” Kunikuzushi continued, his voice dipping into something almost gentle, a mockery of sincerity. “I’m no saint, no Robin Hood for the downtrodden. Justice, morality—such fickle, malleable things. I only believe in one truth.”
He leaned in slightly, just enough for Xiao to see the subtle dilation of his pupils, dark pools swallowing whatever remnants of humanity might have once existed there.
“A true equal playing field. One where superiority and inferiority don’t exist. Because, in the end, those are just words made up by cowards who fear losing their place at the top.”
Silence stretched between them, taut and razor-sharp.
Then, Kunikuzushi smiled again. Wide. Slow. Unnatural.
“And people like Furina?” He exhaled, his voice carrying the faintest trace of a laugh. “They always thought they were untouchable. Isn’t it poetic, then? That she finally learned the truth?”
His fingers twitched, as if recalling the sensation of the blade carving through flesh.
Xiao felt his breath hitch. The world outside continued—voices, footsteps, the distant hum of the investigation—but it all seemed so far away.
And Kunikuzushi was watching. Waiting.
Waiting for a reaction.
But if that’s what he wanted, he wasn’t going to get it.
Not yet.
Chapter 4: Ikigire
Summary:
息切れ — Shortness of Breath
Chapter Text
Xiao didn’t understand Kunikuzushi whatsoever. Everything about him was an enigma wrapped in a mess of contradictions. The strange, almost unsettling nature of his personality had always been a thorn in Xiao’s side—his eerie detachment, the way he seemed to analyze every interaction like a scientist dissecting a specimen, his unpredictable shifts from playfully smug to outright disturbing. It was impossible to tell what was genuine and what was just another one of his twisted games.
More than that, there was something profoundly off about him. Something Xiao couldn’t quite put into words. It wasn’t just the way he spoke—calm, deliberate, like he was always three steps ahead—it was the way he carried himself. That quiet, suffocating presence. The way he made the air in a room feel heavier just by existing in it. It was like standing too close to something fundamentally unnatural, like an old, rotting house that still had ghosts lingering in its walls.
How does someone like him even hold onto connections with people? With an aura like that, it should be impossible. He was cold, cruel, and more than a little deranged. And yet, somehow, Kunikuzushi did form connections—granted, not many, but enough. Enough to keep people around just long enough to entertain him, to amuse him before he inevitably grew bored. Xiao wasn’t sure if Kunikuzushi liked people in the conventional sense. He observed them, studied them, pushed them to their limits just to see what would happen.
And then, when they no longer interested him?
Well… Furina was proof of that.
Xiao clenched his jaw. That was another thing—how easily Kunikuzushi took lives. It wasn’t just that he was a killer. It was that he enjoyed it. He wasn’t some noble vigilante hunting down corrupt figures. No, he made that abundantly clear. This wasn’t justice. It wasn’t about righting the wrongs of the world or punishing the wicked.
It was about him.
His own selfish desires. His own warped sense of fairness.
That made him more terrifying than any serial killer Xiao had ever read about. Those people at least had clear motives—money, revenge, hatred. But Kunikuzushi? His reasoning was something else entirely. It was personal, but not in a way that made sense to normal people. He wanted to tear the world down not because he had some grand goal, but because he could. Because it was rigged in ways that disgusted him, and instead of trying to change it, he wanted to burn it all to the ground.
Xiao exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair.
Being around Kunikuzushi was like standing at the edge of a cliff with no railing. He could feel the wind pulling at him, whispering how easy it would be to just let go.
What made it all worse—what made Xiao’s stomach twist into knots and his skin prickle with something dangerously close to thrill—was that he could never look away from the gruesome scenes Kunikuzushi left behind in his wake.
The fire, the way it danced and consumed everything in its path, the grotesque yet deliberate arrangement of bodies, the clean, surgical precision of the cuts—it was all horrifying. Should have been horrifying. But beneath the horror, beneath the senseless brutality, there was something else. Something Xiao didn’t have the words for.
It was artistic.
It was grotesque, yes, but undeniably calculated. Every incision, every burn, every piece of flesh severed and positioned—it wasn’t random violence. It was orchestrated. Choreographed like a twisted ballet of suffering and destruction. And as much as he wanted to recoil in disgust, to convince himself that he was nothing like him—like Kunikuzushi—he couldn’t.
Because he saw it.
He saw the beauty beneath the blood.
The contrast of red against pale skin, the way the fire painted shadows against the walls, the rawness of it all—unfiltered, uncontrolled, and yet still composed in a way that felt almost intentional. The world reduced to nothing but color and form, light and dark. It was a masterpiece of carnage, and his own wretched soul recognized the allure.
Even the blood itself—so much of it, thick and dark and gleaming in the light—had its own sickly mesmerizing quality. A part of him, some deep, shameful, hidden part, wanted to trace his fingers through it just to feel it. To understand it.
He hated that part of himself.
Yet, he couldn’t deny it.
His body reacted before his mind could. His core pulled him closer, drawn to the destruction like a moth to a flame. His eyes refused to blink, refused to miss a single second, capturing every detail and locking it away in his mind to be replayed over and over again.
It wasn’t just the images burned into his memory—it was the voice. Kunikuzushi’s voice, curling like smoke in the corners of his consciousness, whispering his own thoughts back to him. Thoughts Xiao would never dare to say aloud. Thoughts that, no matter how much he tried to suppress them, clawed their way to the surface, relentless and unyielding.
It was as if Kunikuzushi had carved a space inside his head, making a home in the darkest corners of his psyche, feeding every intrusive, violent desire that lurked beneath the surface.
Xiao wasn’t sure how much longer he could silence it.
Xiao was constantly looking over his shoulder, his nerves strung so tightly he thought they might snap. It didn’t matter where he was—whether he was sitting in class, alone in his dorm, or even just walking through the hallways—he felt him. That creeping, suffocating presence that clung to his skin like something unseen but inescapable.
Even when Kunikuzushi wasn’t there, he was.
Xiao would catch himself checking the reflections in windows, half-expecting to see Kunikuzushi’s smirking face lurking just over his shoulder. If a door creaked open behind him, his heart would spike with adrenaline before he even turned his head. It didn’t matter how many times he tried to shake it off—the feeling never left.
And when Kunikuzushi was in the same room, it was even worse.
Even if he wasn’t doing anything—not speaking, not looking at him, not even acknowledging him—his mere existence grated on Xiao’s nerves. It was as if Kunikuzushi radiated something unnatural, something impossible to ignore. His presence was an oppressive weight pressing down on Xiao’s shoulders, making his skin crawl, making his breath hitch in anticipation of whatever twisted game he was playing in that moment.
But even when he left, the phantom of him remained.
It was like an imprint burned into the air itself, an apparition lurking in every corner, unseen but felt. Xiao could swear he felt something brushing against his skin—fingers that weren’t there ghosting over his face, tracing down his arms, curling over his shoulders like an invisible grip. A grip that never tightened, never hurt, but never left either.
It made his muscles coil with tension, his jaw set so tight it ached. He hated it. He hated him.
And worst of all?
Kunikuzushi knew.
He knew the effect he had on Xiao. He could see it, sense it, savored it. He thrived off it.
And no matter how much Xiao tried to ignore him, no matter how much he convinced himself that he was above all of Kunikuzushi’s mind games, the fact remained:
He could never escape him.
Xiao had been trying—really trying—to focus, to lose himself in his work, to let the rhythmic scratching of his pencil against the paper drown out everything else. His latest project was supposed to be something deeply interpretive, something raw and honest, and yet all he could do was scrawl line after line with no real purpose. His mind was too restless, his body too tense, and no matter how much he forced his thoughts onto the canvas before him, a lingering unease clung to his skin like a phantom presence.
Then he heard them.
Those footsteps.
Light, deliberate, and carrying that same distinct confidence he had come to associate with him. The sound alone sent a shiver creeping up his spine, and Xiao immediately felt the air around him change, thickening with an invisible tension that made his every muscle coil. He didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was. He just knew.
His grip on the pencil instinctively tightened until his knuckles turned white. He inhaled sharply, steeling himself against the inevitable, but his body reacted before his mind could stop it. He snapped his head around, eyes burning with irritation, and just as he had expected—there he was.
Kunikuzushi.
That insufferable, ghostly presence who always managed to slither into his space uninvited. He stood there with that ever-present, haunting grin stretched across his lips, his expression one of amusement, as if he had known all along that Xiao would react exactly like this.
Xiao let out a groan, a long-suffering, exhausted noise that barely scraped the surface of his frustration before he exhaled sharply and turned back to his sketchbook. He refused to acknowledge him any further, trying to block him out, trying to pretend he wasn’t there—because acknowledging Kunikuzushi meant playing into his hands, and Xiao refused to give him that satisfaction.
But of course, Kunikuzushi didn’t need permission to do what he wanted.
“Oh, so unfriendly you are,” he cooed, voice dripping with mock offense as he sauntered closer, moving with that same irritating ease, that same calculated grace. He was circling now, getting too close, pushing into Xiao’s space without a single ounce of hesitation.
Xiao’s patience snapped like a frayed wire.
“Take five steps back before I pierce my pencil through your retinas.” His voice was low and ice-cold, sharper than the lead tip of his weaponized art tool. He finally lifted his gaze, golden eyes brimming with hostility as he shot Kunikuzushi a glare that could have cut through steel.
But Kunikuzushi only smiled wider.
“Oh?” His tone was playful, teasing—completely unbothered, as if Xiao had just threatened him with a feather instead of a potentially blinding stab wound. His expression was entirely too composed, entirely too pleased, as if he were delighted by Xiao’s anger, like it was something to be savored.
Then, instead of backing away like any sane person would, he stepped closer.
The movement was subtle but deliberate, and Xiao felt the distance between them disappear in an instant. His breath hitched—his body moved on instinct.
He didn’t even think.
His arm shot up in one fluid motion, fast and precise, his fingers wrapped tightly around the pencil as he lunged—aiming straight for Kunikuzushi’s right eye.
But before the graphite could even graze his skin, Kunikuzushi moved.
He caught Xiao’s wrist in a grip that was far too strong, his fingers locking around him with a force that made Xiao’s skin burn. The attack halted mid-air, just a mere inch from its intended target, but Kunikuzushi didn’t even flinch. He simply held him there, effortlessly still, as if this was nothing more than a casual exchange rather than a narrowly avoided act of violence.
Xiao could feel the tension crackling between them like electricity. His breath came out uneven, his pulse hammering in his ears, but Kunikuzushi? He remained infuriatingly calm, that damnable grin still present, his amusement now mixed with something darker.
“Awh,” Kunikuzushi cooed, his voice carrying an unsettling sort of fondness as he tilted his head ever so slightly, his sharp eyes flicking between Xiao’s narrowed gaze and the weaponized pencil still hovering close to his face. His fingers tightened around Xiao’s wrist, not enough to hurt—just enough to remind him who was really in control here.
“That’s cute,” he murmured, voice smooth, almost indulgent. “But you’re going to have to try harder than that next time, Xiao.”
The words weren’t a taunt.
They were a promise.
Xiao didn’t hesitate to rip his wrist free from Kunikuzushi’s grasp, wrenching his arm back as if merely being touched by him left behind something vile, something unseen that lingered on his skin. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing in clear irritation as he straightened his posture, shoving his sketchbook shut with an audible snap. The weight of his frustration pressed against his ribs, and he exhaled sharply, trying to suppress the heat rising in his chest.
His voice came out low, edged with barely concealed hostility.
“What are you bothering me with this time?”
He turned his entire body to face Kunikuzushi now, unwilling to give him even an inch of his back. It was always safer to keep his eyes on him, to monitor his every move—because the moment Xiao looked away, Kunikuzushi always had a way of twisting situations in his favor, like a spider spinning an inescapable web.
Kunikuzushi, ever the opportunist, took Xiao’s movement as an invitation.
Without hesitation, he dropped into the chair across from Xiao, making himself comfortable with an air of nonchalance, as if they were nothing more than old friends sharing casual conversation rather than two people locked in a never-ending game of power and defiance. His posture was relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, fingers lightly drumming against the table’s surface.
Then he smiled—that smile. The one that sent a chill creeping down Xiao’s spine, the one that felt wrong in ways he couldn’t quite put into words. It wasn’t just amusement, it was something else, something more calculated.
“I have a gift for you,” Kunikuzushi said smoothly, his voice carrying an almost sweet lilt, but Xiao wasn’t fooled. There was always something beneath his words, something crawling under his tone like a whisper of danger.
Xiao’s eyes narrowed further, suspicion curling in his gut like a coiled snake.
“A gift?” he repeated, his tone caught somewhere between disbelief and irritation. “Why?”
Kunikuzushi tilted his head, his grin widening just slightly. “Why not?”
Xiao let out a sharp exhale through his nose, barely stopping himself from groaning. Of course that was the answer. Why did he even bother expecting anything else? Conversations with Kunikuzushi never followed normal patterns. He was impossible to predict, impossible to pin down—slipping between sincerity and mockery like a flickering flame, never truly letting Xiao know where he stood.
“…What is it?” Xiao finally asked, begrudgingly, because he knew Kunikuzushi wouldn’t just leave unless he entertained whatever twisted little game he had planned.
Kunikuzushi’s grin stretched just a little further, his violet eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
“Follow me.” It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command.
It was late—well, late according to the dim winter sunlight. The clock barely read half past eight, yet the sky was already swallowed by an inky navy hue, the moon casting an eerie, pale glow over the quiet streets. Xiao followed Kunikuzushi down a narrow cobblestone path, his breath curling in the cold air as his footsteps echoed faintly against the aged stone. The street lights flickered slightly, their golden glow struggling against the consuming night.
Nestled between wrought-iron gates and towering ferns stood a house that looked as though it had been plucked straight from an old Fontainian aristocrat’s estate. Despite its modest size compared to the mansions Xiao had seen on campus, the sheer lavishness of the exterior was undeniable. The walls were built from pale limestone, weathered by time yet still holding their regal appearance, while the windows—tall and narrow—were framed with polished ebony wood. Shadows stretched across the façade, the architecture exuding an air of quiet decadence, the kind that whispered of old money and long-forgotten secrets.
Xiao’s eyes flickered over the structure, quickly assessing its layout. It was at least two stories, though he had a strong suspicion that there was a basement hidden beneath its elegant frame. The thought lingered in his mind, unsettling yet oddly fitting. A house like this practically begged for a dark history.
They stopped at the front door—an imposing set of double doors, crafted from the same dark ebony as the window frames. Thin minster glass panes ran vertically along the wood, reflecting the dim moonlight in fragmented shards. Kunikuzushi didn’t hesitate, pulling out a key and unlocking it with a quiet click. Then, with a slow creak, he pushed the door open and turned to Xiao, his gaze gleaming with something unreadable.
He held the door open.
Xiao hesitated.
It wasn’t an unreasonable reaction—Kunikuzushi had killed two people in less than a week. Stepping willingly into his home felt like willingly walking into a spider’s web. Yet, despite every rational part of his mind telling him to turn back, his feet remained planted. He had come this far. And if Kunikuzushi wanted him dead, he wouldn’t have bothered with invitations.
Cautiously, Xiao stepped inside.
The moment he crossed the threshold, he was met with an immediate sense of opulence tainted by something morbidly personal. A short entryway greeted him, leading straight to a decorative console table pressed against the wall. Beneath it, neatly arranged in a row, were some of the most extravagant shoes Xiao had ever seen—most of them black, all made of leather, with a few pairs boasting dangerously high heels that added several inches to their wearer’s height.
His gaze traveled upward. The tabletop was lined with an assortment of eerie decor—wilted roses slumped lifelessly over the edge of a clear glass vase, their dried petals curling inward as if shriveling away from the very air around them. Beside them sat a delicate bird skull, ivory-white and pristine, stripped of any flesh yet eerily intact. Xiao wasn’t sure what species it belonged to, but something about the way it was displayed, so intentionally placed among the dying flowers, sent a shiver down his spine.
Two hallways branched off from the entryway—one to the left, leading toward a sleek kitchen illuminated by the faint glow of under-cabinet lighting, and one to the right, where he could just barely make out the door to a laundry room and what he assumed to be the entrance to the garage.
But what truly caught his attention were the grand, curved staircases flanking either side of the entryway. They spiraled upwards in perfect symmetry, their dark wooden banisters polished to an almost unnatural gleam. Between them, tucked beneath the second-floor balcony, were two elegant archways that led directly into the living room.
Despite the house’s undeniable beauty, something about it felt unsettling. It wasn’t the obvious signs of wealth or even the strange decor—it was the silence. Houses this grand usually carried some sort of background noise—distant humming appliances, the creaks of old floorboards settling under the weight of time—but here, the air felt still. Almost expectant.
Xiao didn’t like it. His fingers twitched slightly at his sides as he turned to Kunikuzushi, expression neutral but eyes sharp.
The moment Xiao felt Kunikuzushi’s fingers coil around his wrist, his muscles tensed instinctively. But before he could protest, the grip tightened—firm, insistent. Controlling.
"Enough gawking, bird brain. Come with me," Kunikuzushi ordered, his voice laced with amusement.
Xiao barely had time to plant his feet before he was yanked forward, his sneakers scuffing against the marble floor as Kunikuzushi dragged him down the hallway. The house felt colder the deeper they went, the air heavier, as if something unseen was pressing down on him. His pulse quickened, though he masked his discomfort with an irritated scowl.
They passed the kitchen, which was sleek and eerily pristine, not a single dish out of place. Then, they entered the dining room. Kunikuzushi pushed open the glass-paneled doors with an exaggerated flair, stepping inside like a performer unveiling his stage. The dim chandelier overhead flickered to life, casting a dull glow that barely reached the farthest corners of the expansive space.
Xiao’s breath hitched.
There—seated in the middle of the room—was a young man.
His body slumped forward slightly, arms bound behind the back of an ornately carved chair. His head lolled to the side, platinum-blond strands falling over his pale face, lips parted just enough to reveal the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He was alive. Barely.
Xiao could only stare, every nerve in his body on high alert.
What the actual fuck…
"You call this a gift?" he hissed under his breath, his fingers curling into his palms.
Kunikuzushi let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head as if disappointed. "So quick to judge, Xiao. I haven’t even told you what it’s for.”
Xiao barely registered his words—he was still stuck on the way Kunikuzushi had said it. Not him. Not his name. Just—it. As if the unconscious boy tied to the chair was no more than an object, a disposable thing, something stripped of humanity entirely.
His stomach twisted.
Kunikuzushi’s smirk widened, sensing the discomfort, reveling in it. He strolled forward, placing a hand on Lyney’s limp shoulder, fingers tapping idly against the fabric of his expensive-looking shirt. “This here is Lyney,” he began casually, “son of the very famous politician, Arlecchino.”
Xiao didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched, listened, heart hammering in his chest.
“You know, I actually knew Arlecchino for a while,” Kunikuzushi continued, his voice light, almost nostalgic. “Knew Lyney and his siblings, too. When I was sent abroad by my loving mother, before I came back home.” He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “It’s funny, really. I practically raised Arlecchino’s kids when she wouldn’t. Despite the fact that we’re only seven years apart, I loved them like they were my own.”
His fingers tightened suddenly around Lyney’s shoulder, the unconscious boy stirring slightly with a weak groan.
"But unfortunately," Kunikuzushi continued, voice dripping with venom now, "he and his siblings just had to mooch off their father’s name instead of working their way into Font-Uni like the rest of us.”
Xiao swallowed, feeling the weight of each word, each implication.
Kunikuzushi wasn’t just talking. He was rambling, unspooling years of resentment and loathing, weaving a story where every grievance, every injustice—in his mind—led to this moment. To this act.
Xiao’s fingers twitched at his sides. His mind screamed at him to do something, to say something, but for a split second, all he could do was stare at Lyney’s barely conscious form, at the ropes biting into his wrists, at the way his breathing was too slow, too shallow.
Then his gaze flickered back to Kunikuzushi, who stood there, head slightly tilted, watching him now. Studying his reaction like a scientist observing an experiment.
Waiting.
Xiao realized, with a sinking feeling, that this wasn’t just about Lyney.
This was about him.
The air in the dimly lit dining room was stifling, pressing down on Xiao’s chest with an unbearable weight. The chandelier overhead flickered slightly, casting weak, uneven light that barely reached the edges of the room. The corners were shrouded in darkness, stretching and twisting with each flicker like silent, waiting specters. The entire atmosphere felt wrong, and Xiao could hear the faintest creak of the wooden floor beneath his feet as he shifted slightly, his senses on high alert. His ears picked up the distant howl of the wind rattling against the old windows, but none of it truly registered—not when Kunikuzushi was standing far too close, his presence suffocating and inescapable.
“Have you figured out what your gift is, or do I have to spell it out for you?” Kunikuzushi’s voice was soft, almost lilting, as if he were sharing a secret just between the two of them. His words dripped with something saccharine and teasing, a mockery of sweetness that curdled in the air between them. It was smooth, like honey—but Xiao saw it for what it really was. The honey wasn’t golden or thick, wasn’t warm or inviting. No, this was thin, sickly, metallic, vermilion.
Xiao forced himself to keep his breathing steady, but his entire body was wound taut like a wire on the verge of snapping. The space between them felt nonexistent, and he could feel Kunikuzushi’s breath ghosting over the side of his face, deceptively warm yet sending a deep chill through his spine. His voice slithered through the air, curling around Xiao’s mind like a coiling serpent. The amusement in his tone was evident, but beneath it, lurking just beneath the surface, there was something far more sinister—something thrilled.
“C’mon, Xiao, you’re a smart, pretty little bird, are you not?” Kunikuzushi teased, his voice almost affectionate, as if he were speaking to something delicate, something his to mold.
Xiao’s stomach twisted violently, his teeth clenching so hard he thought they might crack under the pressure. The pet names—those goddamn bird-themed pet names—dug beneath his skin like rusted hooks, embedding themselves into his brain and festering. They slithered through his mind, slashed at his nerves, ripped through his restraint, and poisoned his gut with a sickening mixture of revulsion and something else he refused to name.
Before he could step back, before he could breathe, Kunikuzushi’s hands came down upon his shoulders. The touch was light at first, feather-like, deceptively gentle, but Xiao didn’t let himself relax. He knew better. And then, as expected, the fingers dug in just slightly—firm, controlling, guiding. Kunikuzushi didn’t just stand too close; he invaded. His presence wrapped around Xiao like iron shackles disguised as silk. There was no escaping the grip, no escaping the way Kunikuzushi’s hands ghosted from his shoulders, trailing slowly down his arms, moving like a caress but carrying the weight of something far more sinister. Xiao could feel every single millimeter of movement, from the way Kunikuzushi’s fingers brushed over the fabric of his sleeves to the way his palm came to rest against his forearm, his fingers curling around his wrists in a grip that was neither tight nor weak. It was calculated. It was controlling.
Xiao’s entire body locked up, his breath stalling in his throat. He knew he should yank away, knew he should do something, but his limbs refused to move, as if the weight of the moment had turned his blood to lead. A shudder ran through him as Kunikuzushi leaned in even closer, his lips so close to his ear that the words felt like they were sinking beneath his skin.
“Xiao,” Kunikuzushi whispered, his tone lower now, quieter, something meant only for him to hear. “I want to see your true nature. Just follow my lead.”
The softness in his voice was wrong. The way his breath brushed against Xiao’s skin, the way strands of his hair tickled his face—it all sent an overwhelming wave of nausea twisting in his stomach. Xiao felt his pulse hammering beneath his skin, the frantic rhythm erratic and uneven, but the worst part was that Kunikuzushi could feel it, his fingers still wrapped lightly around his wrists.
Then, Kunikuzushi guided Xiao’s hands forward.
The moment his fingers brushed against cold skin, something inside him lurched.
Xiao’s breath hitched sharply, his body tensing as his palms were pressed against Lyney’s neck. His skin wasn’t quite freezing but carried a deathly coolness, contrasting against the unnatural warmth of Xiao’s own hands. The temperature difference sent an uncomfortable jolt through his nerves, his body recoiling instinctively, but Kunikuzushi’s grip held steady. Xiao wanted to rip his hands away, to step back, to get away—but he couldn’t move.
His hands were trembling. He could feel them shaking. His mind was screaming at him to stop, to pull away, to do anything but stand there like this, yet something kept him frozen. It was as if his own body was betraying him, as if some part of him was reaching through the fear, the revulsion, and gripping onto something else.
He could feel Lyney’s pulse. It was weak, sluggish, faint. He could feel the ridges of his throat, the slight give of his skin beneath his fingers. And worse—far worse—he could feel the pressure building in his grip. His grip.
It wasn’t Kunikuzushi’s hands tightening around Lyney’s neck.
It was his own.
Xiao felt a sharp, panicked breath rip through his lungs as his vision blurred at the edges, as his heartbeat roared in his ears, drowning out every rational thought he had left. He was going to choke—not on air, not on fear, but on something darker, deeper, something clawing its way up from the depths of himself, something he had buried.
Kunikuzushi’s breath brushed against his skin again, his voice nothing more than a quiet hum of amusement, of satisfaction.
“That’s it. There you go,” he murmured, his tone light, almost tender, but carrying the unmistakable weight of something wicked.
Xiao’s throat went dry.
Then came the final blow—words spoken so softly, so delicately, yet cutting through him like sharpened glass.
“I didn’t even have to tell you what to do,” Kunikuzushi purred, his lips ghosting over the shell of Xiao’s ear.
Then, the whisper that broke him.
“Such a smart, obedient little bird you are.”
Xiao wanted to scream. But he couldn’t. Because for just one, fleeting, horrifying second—he almost didn’t want to stop.
Xiao's fingers dug deeper, pressing into the soft flesh of Lyney’s throat with an intensity that sent violent tremors up his arms. His muscles burned with the strain, his knuckles turning white as his grip tightened past the point of hesitation, past the point of reason. The warmth of Lyney’s skin beneath his fingertips was rapidly fading, the pulse that had once thrummed weakly against his palms now slowing—thudding—stuttering—failing.
Lyney's body writhed at first, the last remnants of his survival instincts driving him to resist, but with his hands bound tightly behind his back, there was nothing he could do. His fingers twitched, fists clenching uselessly, his arms straining against the ropes cutting into his wrists, but it was all in vain. His breath came in sharp, desperate gasps, rasping and wet, catching in his throat like a drowning man’s final struggle before the water filled his lungs.
Xiao barely noticed the way his own nails were carving crescent-shaped wounds into Lyney’s throat, how the fragile skin split beneath the force of his grip. Blood welled up beneath his fingernails, warm and slick, painting his hands in deep vermilion streaks. The color stood out starkly against Lyney’s pale skin, the crimson rivulets tracing slow, winding paths down his throat, soaking into the fabric of his once-pristine clothes.
Lyney’s chest heaved, his ribs jerking with every shallow, failing inhale. His lips parted, forming silent pleas—words that would never escape past his closing windpipe. His violet eyes, once sharp and brimming with emotion, were now wide, glassy, brimming with fear. Xiao could see the way the light in them flickered, dimming with each agonizing second. The panic that once fueled his gaze had eroded into something worse—acceptance.
Then, his body convulsed one final time.
Xiao felt the exact moment Lyney’s fight left him. The tension drained from his limbs, his head lolling back slightly, his body no longer struggling against the inevitable. His breath shuddered out in one last, rattling exhale—faint, like the wind slipping through cracks in a forgotten crypt. And then… nothing.
Stillness.
Silence.
Xiao’s hands were still locked around Lyney’s neck, but there was no resistance anymore. No pulse. No sound. Just the distant creaking of the chandelier overhead and the sickening rush of his own heartbeat pounding against his skull.
Then, it hit him.
His breath caught in his throat as his fingers slowly—hesitantly—began to loosen. His hands felt foreign, as if they no longer belonged to him, as if the warmth staining his skin was not his own. He pulled back slightly, just enough to see the full extent of what he had done.
Lyney’s head lolled forward, lifeless, his bloodied throat a grotesque testament to Xiao’s own strength. His face was frozen in a mixture of terror and agony, his lips parted just slightly, as if still trying to form one last plea. His skin, once flushed with warmth, was already turning pale, almost ghostly beneath the dim chandelier light. His bound hands twitched once—reflex, nothing more.
Xiao’s breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving, his mind scrambling to process, to deny, to reject the scene before him. But no amount of disbelief could erase what had just happened.
He had done this. With his own hands. He had killed someone. He had watched it happen.
His stomach twisted violently, nausea clawing up his throat as his body lurched backward, his hands flying away from Lyney’s corpse as if burned. He staggered, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts.
Then—just as the sheer weight of the moment threatened to crush him—
A slow, deliberate clap echoed through the room.
The sound sent a shiver straight through Xiao’s bones, dragging him from his haze of horror and slamming him back into the present.
He didn’t want to turn around. He knew what he would see. But he had no choice.
His head turned stiffly, his breath still coming in short, uneven bursts, and there—standing just a few feet away, beaming—was Kunikuzushi.
His hands came together in another slow clap, his grin wide, sharp, delighted. His eyes glowed with something far worse than amusement—satisfaction.
“Oh, Xiao,” Kunikuzushi purred, his voice dripping with approval, “that was exquisite.”
Xiao’s vision blurred at the edges, his heart pounding so violently it hurt. He felt like he was going to be sick. And worst of all—deep in the pit of his soul—he knew. He knew Kunikuzushi had never intended to kill Lyney himself. This was never about Kunikuzushi’s desires. It was about Xiao’s.
Xiao had fallen right into his hands.
Chapter 5: Shinju
Chapter Text
Kamisato Ayaka’s body had been found early in the morning, displayed like an eerie porcelain doll deep within the snowy pine forests north of the school. The dense trees stood like silent sentinels around her, their branches heavy with freshly fallen snow, as if the world itself was mourning her.
She had been posed in her coming-of-age traditional Inazuman attire, every detail meticulously arranged to give the illusion of peace, yet the reality was anything but. She sat in perfect seiza, her right hand delicately placed over her left on her lap, as though she were simply waiting for something—or someone—that would never come. Her head was slightly bowed, frozen strands of hair draped over her shoulders, her once-pristine locks stiff from the overnight downpour of snow.
But it was her expression that sent an unnatural chill through anyone who laid eyes on her. Her face was contorted in a petrified scream, eyes wide and vacant, mouth slightly parted, as if the last thing she saw had been so horrifying that her soul never fully left her body.
The thing keeping her in place was just as disturbing. Thin fishing wires stretched between the surrounding trees, wound tightly around her arms, torso, and legs, holding her upright like a grotesque marionette. The wires cut so deeply into her skin that they had left deep red indentations, a stark contrast against her deathly pale flesh. The way she was positioned, combined with the quiet stillness of the forest, made it seem as though she might stir at any moment, as though her corpse was simply waiting for the right cue to move.
This was Kunikuzushi’s work, there was no doubt about it. Out of the Kamisato siblings, Ayaka had been the one he despised the most. She played the role of a saint with sickening grace, pretending as if she were pure, as if she could do no wrong. But he saw through her. He saw the privilege she refused to acknowledge, the way she carried herself as if her family name was untouchable.
Her entire existence was built on the foundation of lies, on the back of the Kamisato family's desperate attempts to cling to power after the death of their parents. Ayato controlled every financial decision, pulled every string necessary to maintain their influence in Inazuman politics, while Ayaka stood beside him, untouched by the burden of responsibility. She was a figurehead, a well-dressed doll meant to keep up appearances, and Kunikuzushi hated everything she represented.
It hadn’t taken long for her body to be discovered. The moment Ayato realized Ayaka wasn’t in any of her usual haunts and none of her so-called friends had seen her since the previous night, he had demanded a full-scale search. With the police already crawling across campus due to recent events, the discovery of a fresh corpse in the winter woods only added to the chaos. Officers waded through knee-deep snow, their breath curling in the frigid air as they traced the thin trails of blood half-buried beneath the white.
When they found her, some officers recoiled immediately, others stood frozen in shock. The grotesque scene of her staged body, the meticulous positioning, the lifeless stare frozen on her face—it was something out of a waking nightmare.
The funeral was held almost immediately, arranged hastily yet with all the grandeur expected for someone of the Kamisato name. White lilies were placed everywhere, their petals barely concealing the overwhelming stench of incense and grief. The hall was filled with quiet sobs and muffled whispers, the weight of tragedy heavy in the air.
Friends and classmates spoke of Ayaka in soft voices, painting an image of a kind, hardworking girl who never deserved such a fate. Ayato stood at the front, his face an unreadable mask, his hands clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned ghostly white.
Then there was Kunikuzushi. He attended, of course. How could he resist?
There was something truly sickening about the murderer standing among the mourners, listening to their tearful condolences while hiding a smirk beneath a somber facade. He didn’t weep, didn’t offer false words of sorrow. He simply stood there, quiet, watching, basking in the atmosphere of grief that he had created. He soaked in the pain of those around him, the agony of Ayato, the terror of their classmates, the helplessness in their voices as they whispered about who could have done something so monstrous.
Kunikuzushi smiled. Because he knew he won.
After the ceremony, as the hall began to empty and mourners dispersed into smaller groups to seek comfort in whispered conversations and lukewarm refreshments, Kunikuzushi remained standing in front of the memorial display. A large portrait of Ayaka rested on an easel, framed by tall, flickering candles and carefully arranged white lilies.
The air smelled of melting wax and dying flowers, their scent mingling with the lingering incense from the ceremony. The soft murmur of people chatting behind him felt distant, unimportant. He was far more interested in the silence of the dead girl staring back at him from the framed image.
In the periphery of his vision, movement caught his attention. He didn’t turn, but he knew who it was before they even spoke. Xiao approached with his usual stiffness, dressed in a thick winter trench coat that was left open over a crisp white dress shirt and a neatly knotted black tie.
His black dress pants were perfectly ironed, the edges sharp, and his polished derby lace-up boots looked almost untouched, as if they had been bought just for the occasion. His shoulders were hunched slightly, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, and the tip of his nose was red from the relentless winter air outside.
“Nice work.” The words left Xiao’s mouth bluntly, without ceremony, as if he were giving an offhand remark about a well-executed painting rather than the carefully staged corpse of Kamisato Ayaka.
Kunikuzushi blinked. For a brief moment, he was caught off guard—then a slow, sharp grin stretched across his lips, relishing in the praise. Those two words, spoken so casually, were more gratifying than any of the horrified gasps he had heard throughout the night. “Thank you,” he said, the satisfaction thick in his tone.
Xiao’s eyes didn’t leave Ayaka’s picture. “Why did you hate her?” His voice was flat, uninterested. “Didn’t you grow up with her?”
Kunikuzushi let out an amused scoff, tilting his head slightly. “I’d use that phrase loosely, birdbrain. Growing up with someone doesn’t mean I have to like them.” His eyes flickered toward Xiao’s face, watching for a reaction. “Besides, I don’t need to justify why I hate the people I rid the world of. Sometimes I don’t even hate them—I’ve killed people I had no opinion of.”
Xiao turned his head slightly, finally meeting Kunikuzushi’s gaze, his expression unreadable. “What about people you’ve loved?”
The moment the question left Xiao’s mouth, Kunikuzushi let out a short, sharp laugh—cold and humorless. He sucked in a slow breath through his teeth, shaking his head slightly as if the idea itself was ludicrous. “Ha! I don’t love,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “How childish of you to think that.”
Xiao exhaled through his nose, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.” His fingers curled inside his coat pockets. “But as a hypothetical, would you?”
Kunikuzushi’s smirk twitched, his amusement fading into something more like irritation. His fingers absentmindedly brushed against the hem of his sleeves, his posture stiffening for half a second before he dismissed the question entirely. “Don’t ask me stupid questions,” he muttered, turning away from the portrait of Ayaka. “Save your breath.”
The conversation ended there, but the silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy. Suffocating. Xiao remained still for a few moments longer, watching as Kunikuzushi walked away, his silhouette disappearing into the clusters of grieving guests. The warmth of the funeral hall didn’t reach him. The cold from outside clung to his skin, and no matter how much he buried his hands in his pockets, they still felt numb.
Xiao barely had time to register what was happening before the sudden thunk! of a kitchen knife embedding itself deep into the wall sent a sharp tremor through the air. The force of it rattled the nearby tableware, a half-filled wine glass trembling at the impact.
His senses recoiled at the sheer unpredictability of it, but he schooled his expression into something unimpressed, his fingers still loosely holding his chopsticks above his untouched plate. Across from him, Kunikuzushi slumped back into his dining chair, an elbow lazily propped on the table, poking absentmindedly at his katsu with his own pair of chopsticks as if he hadn’t just thrown a knife across the room.
“The fuck was that?” Xiao sneered, his sharp amber eyes narrowing as he finally dropped his chopsticks onto his plate.
More often than not, Xiao found himself spending a ridiculous amount of time at Kunikuzushi’s place. At first, he had just convinced himself it was an easy way to escape the suffocating space of the dorms. And while it was true that he had his own apartment, it was practically uninhabitable—furnished with only the bare minimum, a mattress on the floor, and a fridge that was almost always empty because he never remembered to stock it.
If he had to choose between eating instant ramen alone in his barren kitchen or indulging in a homemade meal cooked by Kunikuzushi, the answer was obvious, no matter how much he loathed to admit it. For all of Kunikuzushi’s unhinged behavior, the man could cook like he had been running a high-end restaurant in a past life.
“I’m pissed off,” Kunikuzushi muttered, taking a sip from his glass of wine, the deep red liquid catching the dim lighting just enough to look unsettlingly thick to Xiao.
Xiao’s eyes flickered toward the knife still buried in the wall. “Why?”
Kunikuzushi groaned dramatically, rolling his head back against the chair. “Fucking Christ, Xiao, always asking why, what, where, who, when. It’s so grating.”
“Sorry,” Xiao responded flatly, already turning back toward his sketchbook, uninterested in indulging whatever tantrum Kunikuzushi was about to throw.
“Oh, don’t give me that,” Kunikuzushi cooed mockingly, setting his wine glass down with a deliberate clink against the table. “It’s Ayato. That man-baby keeps sobbing to me about his dead sister. Oh, woe is me, my precious little Ayaka has left this cruel world, whatever shall I do?” His voice pitched higher in a dramatic mockery of grief, exaggerated hand gestures and all.
Xiao exhaled through his nose in something dangerously close to a laugh, shaking his head as he continued to sketch idly.
Kunikuzushi immediately latched onto it. “Was that a laugh I heard? My pretty bird laughs?”
Xiao’s hand froze mid-line. His head snapped up with an expression so disgusted it could’ve killed a lesser man on the spot. “Pretty bird?” His lip curled in outright revulsion. “Eugh. Ew. What the fuck.”
Kunikuzushi smirked, thoroughly amused by the reaction. “What? Don’t like it?”
“No.”
Kunikuzushi gave an exaggerated eye roll, clearly unbothered. “Whatever. Anyway,” he continued, pushing his now-empty plate aside, “I can’t stand Ayato’s moaning and sobbing. It’s truly not that big of a deal. Everyone dies eventually—it doesn’t matter.”
Xiao, still hyperfocused on his sketch, barely looked up as he reached for his eraser. His tone was sharp, dismissive. “Just kill him if he’s pissing you off that much.”
The words hung in the air, thick and heavy. Kunikuzushi’s fingers drummed once against the table before going still. His eyes gleamed with something unreadable, something sharp, something satisfied. It was in the way Xiao had said it—casual, almost indifferent, as if taking a life was just another means of shutting someone up. Just kill him. No hesitation, no second-guessing.
Xiao, completely oblivious to the shift in the air, remained in his usual hunched-over position, one knee drawn to his chest, the other foot flat against the floor. It was a wonder how he found such an uncomfortable sitting posture comfortable—his back curved at an angle that would give anyone else unbearable pain, his head tilted to the side in a way that made Kunikuzushi wonder how he hadn’t already strained something. It was peculiar, in a way that fascinated Kunikuzushi just as much as it annoyed him.
But none of that was as interesting as what had just come out of Xiao’s mouth.
“You strike a genius idea, Xiao.” Kunikuzushi’s grin widened, and he leaned forward, his elbows propped against the table, his chin resting lightly against his knuckles. “Tell you what—you get to watch as I kill him. Hm? Doesn’t that sound fun?”
Xiao’s eraser paused against the page. There was a brief moment of silence where he didn’t react, just sat there, absorbing Kunikuzushi’s words. A flicker of something crossed his face, unreadable, gone in an instant. Finally, he exhaled, his voice low, disinterested.
“…We’ll see.”
Notes:
posted this a bit early since my shift started at 9:30…
Chapter 6: Daisetsu
Notes:
had to post early again since my shift started at 9am and i wouldn’t have time to publish it. so, eat well
大雪 — Greater Snow
Chapter Text
“Hope you don’t mind, I brought a friend,” Kunikuzushi announced smoothly, his voice dripping with a forced politeness as he set a delicate porcelain cup of tea down in front of Ayato. The steam curled up between them, twisting into the air with an almost suffocating presence. The rich, earthy scent of the tea filled the room, seeping into every breath, coating their lungs with an artificial sense of warmth.
Xiao sat at the very end of the couch, body angled slightly away from the others, one leg crossed over the other. His chin rested against his fist, elbow propped against the couch’s armrest in a lazy attempt at appearing relaxed, but every fiber of his being was tense. The mere proximity of Kunikuzushi, coupled with the presence of Ayato sitting across from them, made it impossible to truly settle.
His fingers twitched slightly, itching with something unplaceable. He knew exactly how quickly this could spiral. Any second now, Kunikuzushi could decide that he was bored of this conversation, that he had entertained Ayato’s grief long enough, and in the blink of an eye, he could steal the air from the man’s lungs. Just like that.
Xiao could picture it vividly—Kunikuzushi tilting his head, flashing that infuriating grin, and reaching out in that same effortless manner that he always did when he was about to take something that didn’t belong to him. Ayato’s life, his final breath, would be just another fleeting moment to Kunikuzushi, another footnote in his story.
Xiao shifted, his fingers pressing against his temple. The word friend left a bitter taste in his mouth. To call himself Kunikuzushi’s friend felt fundamentally wrong, like swallowing something rotten, like a parasite crawling beneath his skin and burrowing deeper every time he entertained the idea.
Across from them, Ayato offered a small shake of his head. “No, it’s fine. Thank you for coming.” His voice was polite, but the exhaustion clinging to his words was undeniable.
Kunikuzushi’s eyes flickered across the room, scanning it with an eerie sort of curiosity. His gaze landed on the empty spaces where picture frames once stood, the small, unnatural gaps on the shelves and side tables. His attention then drifted to a clear plastic container tucked in the corner of the room, filled with what were unmistakably framed photos—except all that was visible were the blank white backs of the pictures, turned away, as if hiding from sight.
“You took all the photos down,” Kunikuzushi observed, though his tone made it sound less like an inquiry and more like a confirmation of something he had already known.
Ayato’s fingers tightened slightly around the cup in his hands, his posture stiffening just a fraction. He hesitated before answering, his voice quieter, strained. “I couldn’t bear to look at her face. Seeing her smile in those photos, so alive, so… oblivious to what would happen to her.” His words wavered, the weight of them pressing into his chest, threatening to crack something deep within. He swallowed, trying to push down the lump forming in his throat, but it was futile. The grief surged forward, unrelenting. His breath hitched, his body shuddering slightly as he failed to suppress the cry that broke through, the sound raw and bitter.
Kunikuzushi tilted his head slightly, watching Ayato with something bordering on fascination, like an artist observing his completed masterpiece, analyzing every last detail with a clinical sort of detachment. His fingers tapped against his thigh in a slow, rhythmic motion, the corner of his lips twitching as if resisting the urge to smile.
Xiao could only watch, the tension in his body coiling tighter. He didn’t know what unsettled him more—Ayato’s grief, fragile and exposed, or the way Kunikuzushi seemed to savor it, feeding off it like a starved animal waiting for the right moment to tear into its prey.
“Death is inevitable, but how would you have wanted her to go?” Kunikuzushi asked, his voice casual, almost thoughtful, like he was merely inquiring about the weather.
Ayato's grip on his cup tightened before he abruptly slammed it down on the table, the loud clink echoing through the tense air. His eyes narrowed, dark with something seething beneath the surface. “Why would you ask me such a thing? Kuni, what is wrong with you?” His voice was sharp, laced with something between disbelief and disgust.
Kunikuzushi remained eerily still, his expression unreadable. He had always been a strange man; Ayato had known this for years. The morbid questions, the off-kilter way he carried himself, the way he did things that teetered on the edge of immoral without ever fully being understood. Ayato had learned to tolerate it, even accept it as part of Kunikuzushi’s nature, but this—this was different. There was something in the way he asked the question that made Ayato’s stomach twist, made his skin crawl with unease.
“Why are you so repulsed?” Kunikuzushi asked, tilting his head slightly, studying Ayato as if he were nothing more than a puzzle missing a single, crucial piece. “Ayato, I thought you knew me.”
“I do know you,” Ayato snapped, his voice lower now, his fingers curling against the polished wood of the table. “But I’m grieving my sister, and you can’t be your freakish self with me right now. Show a bit of humanity for once.”
Xiao felt the weight of the words as they hung thick in the air, heavier than before, laced with something volatile. His body tensed, his breath shallow as his gaze snapped toward Kunikuzushi. The shift in atmosphere was immediate—Kunikuzushi's fingers, which had been tapping against his thigh in that steady, rhythmic motion, suddenly stopped.
The room was suffocatingly silent.
Freakish? Humanity?
Kunikuzushi stared at Ayato, his expression blank, but there was something in his eyes—something lurking just beneath the surface, coiling tighter, threatening to snap. A thin, nearly invisible string was all that held him together, and Ayato had unknowingly taken a blade to it.
Xiao could see it, could feel it.
Kunikuzushi fought the urge to burst into laughter, his chest twitching with the effort of keeping it contained. His lips curled slightly, but not into a smile—it was something else, something far more unsettling.
“Humanity,” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. The word rolled off his tongue like it was foreign, like it was something that didn’t belong to him. He leaned forward just slightly, his gaze unwavering, sharp enough to cut.
Xiao’s fingers twitched against the fabric of his pants.
Ayato had no idea what he had just done.
“Humanity makes you weak, Ayato,” Kunikuzushi spat, his lips curling into a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was nothing warm or human behind that expression—just a cold, unfeeling amusement, like he was playing with something fragile, something breakable.
Ayato gritted his teeth, his hands balling into fists at his sides before he abruptly pushed himself up from his seat. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, the back of his throat tightening with something he couldn’t name. “What has gotten into you?” His voice was shaking, though whether from rage or something more primal, he didn’t know. “Kuni, what happened to you? Am I even speaking to you, Kuni?”
Kunikuzushi didn’t answer. He simply stood there, his body impossibly still, not even the slight rise and fall of his chest betraying the life within him. There was something inherently unnatural about it, something that made the hairs on the back of Ayato’s neck stand on end. His breathing hitched as he stared, his mind racing.
“You pose yourself like you’re some god…” His voice dropped to a whisper, but the trembling edge remained.
“Because I am,” Kunikuzushi said, the words sharp, unwavering. He rose slowly, almost theatrically, and took a step toward Ayato. The floor creaked beneath his measured pace, his presence swallowing up the room with each step, forcing Ayato back, forcing him toward the glass doors leading to the outside world where the snow piled high and the dense forest stood like silent, waiting spectators.
“You’re not—”
“I am.”
Kunikuzushi’s grin stretched wider, his lips splitting like something grotesque, something predatory. The light from the room cast harsh shadows across his face, emphasizing the sharp edges of his cheekbones, the dark glint in his eyes. Behind him, Xiao remained seated, unmoving, watching the scene unfold like a spectator to some twisted, macabre performance.
“I felt like a god when my eyes laid upon her corpse,” Kunikuzushi admitted, his voice light, as if sharing a fond memory.
Something snapped into place.
The puzzle pieces slammed together in Ayato’s mind, forming a picture so horrific, so undeniably clear, that his entire body locked up in a cold, paralyzing realization. The breath in his lungs vanished, his heart lurched to a painful stop, and for a moment, everything was still.
Then it came crashing down.
“You... it was you?” His voice cracked, filled with something indescribable. His pupils blew wide, his body trembling from something that went deeper than fear. "You were the one who killed my sister?"
Kunikuzushi tilted his head, as if considering the question—as if it wasn’t already obvious.
Ayato’s throat tightened as he exhaled sharply, and when Kunikuzushi moved, he barely had time to react.
The pocket knife flashed in the dim light, a flicker of steel before it buried itself into his abdomen.
A choked gasp tore from Ayato’s throat as the blade dug deep, the sheer force behind it sending a violent shockwave of pain through his core. His body jerked forward, his knees nearly buckling, but Kunikuzushi twisted the knife, ripping through muscle and flesh, carving through him like he was nothing more than an animal meant for slaughter.
Ayato staggered back, his limbs sluggish, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. His back collided with the glass door, and before he could stop himself, before he could even think, the glass shattered beneath his weight.
The cold hit him first.
The moment his body met the snow, the frigid air burned against his fresh wounds, sinking into his exposed skin like needles of ice. His hands scrambled weakly against the frozen ground, trying to push himself up, trying to run, but his limbs felt heavy, uncooperative.
Behind him, Kunikuzushi followed.
Xiao stood now, but he remained still, watching, his presence a lingering shadow just behind the monster in front of him.
Ayato pushed himself forward, his breaths coming out in ragged gasps, each movement sending searing pain through his abdomen. He had to get away. His boots sunk into the shin-high snow as he limped, dragging himself toward the trees, toward anywhere but here.
A cruel, sing-song voice taunted him from behind.
“C’mon, Ayato,” Kunikuzushi cooed, his tone mockingly sweet. “Don’t you want to say hi to your sister in the afterlife?” A breathy chuckle followed. “I promise to make it quick.”
Ayato’s legs wobbled beneath him, his strength barely holding, his body screaming at him to stop, to give in, to just collapse.
The choice wasn’t his to make.
Kunikuzushi caught up in an instant, his movements effortless, unhurried. With a swift motion, he plunged the knife into Ayato’s back.
A sickening squelch echoed in the empty night.
Ayato’s entire body arched forward as the breath was ripped from his lungs. His mouth opened, but no sound came out—only a weak, strangled wheeze. His vision blurred, dark spots creeping in at the edges.
The knife was pulled out.
Then it sank back in.
Again.
And again.
Each stab was brutal, precise, merciless. Kunikuzushi knew exactly where to drive the blade, knew how to maximize the agony, how to draw it out just long enough to let Ayato feel it.
“Don’t make this harder on yourself,” Kunikuzushi murmured, his voice ghosting against Ayato’s ear, his breath warm despite the bitter cold. “Just let me do all the work for you.” He twisted the blade one last time, savoring the way Ayato’s body jerked in response. “I know you were going to kill yourself eventually,” he continued, his grin audible in his tone, “I’m just speeding up the process.”
Ayato’s body shuddered, his limbs twitching violently, the snow beneath him now soaked in deep, spreading crimson. His eyes fluttered, unfocused, his consciousness slipping like grains of sand through trembling fingers.
Kunikuzushi sighed, almost disappointed.
“See?” he whispered, leaning in close. “Wasn’t that easy?”
Kunikuzushi tilted his head back, his grin stretching wider as he looked up into the branches of the tall, skeletal tree ahead of him. The branches were weighed down with snow, some trembling slightly under the weight of the wind that cut through the night air. But Kunikuzushi wasn’t looking at the snow. His sharp eyes locked onto the shadowed figure perched high above, motionless, silent, observing.
There sat Xiao.
He sat on one of the thicker branches, his posture lax, one knee propped up while his arm rested against it, but his face betrayed something unreadable. His golden eyes flickered under the dim light of the moon, unblinking, expression neutral—no horror, no disgust, just watching. The glow of those piercing irises reminded Kunikuzushi of a predator lurking in the dark, scanning its surroundings, deciding whether or not to strike.
Kunikuzushi wiped the blood-stained knife against his sleeve, smearing dark red streaks across the fabric before casually slipping the blade back into his pocket. He let the silence stretch, savoring it, feeling the tension coil in the air like a string pulled too tight.
Then, finally, he spoke.
“Did you like the show, pretty bird?” His voice was low, teasing, but there was something unsettling about the way he said it, the way his words slithered into the cold air like venom sinking into flesh. His grin remained in place, sharp and wicked, teeth faintly glinting under the moonlight.
Xiao didn’t move, and didn't respond immediately. The wind rustled through the trees, causing some snow to shift and drift down in small flurries, settling onto Kunikuzushi’s hair, his shoulders, the fresh blood on the ground.
For a moment, it seemed like Xiao wouldn’t answer at all.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, his lips parted, and a single word slipped out, quiet, almost lost in the night.
“...Hmph.”
It wasn’t approval. It wasn’t disgust. It wasn’t anything Kunikuzushi could latch onto as meaningful. It was just a sound, dismissive, indifferent.
Chapter 7: Kemuri
Notes:
煙 — Smoke
Chapter Text
Kunikuzushi had grown quite keen on Kazuha, a surprising development considering how easily he grew bored of most people. Yet, something about the calm eccentric kept him lingering around, listening to his musings, indulging in his habit of waxing poetic about life, death, and the ever-changing nature of the world. He wasn’t sure if it was the way Kazuha spoke, his voice always carrying a tone that was both gentle yet firm, or the way he moved—graceful, measured, like he was in tune with something beyond human comprehension.
Kunikuzushi found himself at Kazuha’s apartment more often than he expected, a space that felt strangely timeless. The room was filled with remnants of history, family heirlooms that had been passed down for well over a century yet remained in pristine condition. Delicate calligraphy scrolls were hung on the walls, their ink still bold and dark despite their age. A low wooden table sat near the window, adorned with a well-worn tea set, incense burning softly beside it. The scent in the air was something faintly floral, mixed with the subtle smokiness of Kazuha’s cigarettes, making the entire place feel both lived-in and sacred.
Kunikuzushi had initially judged Kazuha’s way of living, expecting something messy, chaotic, maybe even neglected, but the more time he spent there, the more he realized how intentional everything was. Every item, every placement, every scent—it all seemed to tell a story, one Kazuha had no issue leaving open for others to read. And for some reason, Kunikuzushi almost felt bad for assuming otherwise. Almost.
Sprawled out on the couch, Kunikuzushi let his arms rest over the edge, fingers idly tracing the embroidered fabric of a nearby cushion as he stared up at the ceiling. Kazuha, on the other hand, sat on the floor with his back pressed against the couch, his legs folded underneath him as he thumbed through an old book of Inazuman poetry. The cover was worn, the pages slightly yellowed, but Kazuha treated it with the same care one would give a priceless artifact. The words were written in a long-forgotten dialect, one that Kunikuzushi was certain no sane person could understand, yet Kazuha read it with ease, occasionally mouthing the words to himself.
The dialect itself sounded ancient, something ripped straight from history, and every time Kazuha spoke in it, Kunikuzushi couldn’t help but feel like he was sitting beside some ghost of the past, a wandering soul who had somehow found its way into modern times. It was strange, unnerving even, the way Kazuha could so effortlessly slip into something that should have been dead and buried long ago.
“You sound like an old man,” Kunikuzushi finally muttered, tilting his head to glance down at Kazuha, watching the way his crimson eyes flickered in the warm light of the room. “No, worse. Like some hag who got their hands on a time machine and decided to drop in three hundred years too late.”
Kazuha let out a soft chuckle, turning a page without looking up. “And yet, you continue to listen.”
Kunikuzushi scoffed but didn’t deny it. There was something about Kazuha that held Kunikuzushi’s attention in a way no one else could. Maybe it was the way he carried himself—calm, self-assured, always moving with an effortless grace that made it seem as though he belonged to some other world entirely. Or maybe it was the way he spoke, his voice never rising too high, always steady, laced with a quiet confidence that made every word feel deliberate, meaningful. Even when he teased Kunikuzushi, there was never any real bite behind it, just a soft amusement that somehow made the sharp edges of Kunikuzushi’s temper dull ever so slightly.
Kunikuzushi hated to admit it, but he liked it. He liked the way Kazuha would give him that knowing smirk, the way his voice would dip just a little lower when he said something meant to provoke, but never in a way that was cruel. It was almost like Kazuha knew exactly how much to push before Kunikuzushi would snap, as if he had studied him carefully, learning all the little tells and shifts in his demeanor.
But beyond that, there was something else—something that Kunikuzushi couldn’t quite put into words. He liked the way the light caught on Kazuha’s pale features, how it illuminated every delicate curve of his face, how it made the soft strands of his snowy hair glow with an almost ethereal shimmer. Kazuha wasn’t just beautiful—he was mesmerizing, hauntingly so. It was the kind of beauty that wasn’t just skin deep, the kind that lingered in the air around him, that settled into the very atmosphere of a room and made it impossible to ignore him.
Kunikuzushi had met many beautiful men before. Some were statuesque, carved from marble and sculpted to perfection, others were striking in a sharp, angular way that made them stand out in a crowd. But none of them could ever compare to Kazuha’s beauty. It wasn’t just about his features—though they were undeniably perfect, from the soft curve of his lips to the gentle slope of his nose—it was about the way he existed, as if he wasn’t meant to be part of this world, as if he had simply wandered into it by mistake.
Kunikuzushi found himself staring more often than he’d like to admit, catching glimpses of Kazuha when he wasn’t paying attention, watching the way his lashes fluttered when he read, the way his fingers ghosted over the pages of his book as if he could feel the words themselves. There was a stillness to him, a patience that felt so foreign to Kunikuzushi’s own restless nature.
It irritated him. But he couldn't stop looking.
Kunikuzushi let his gaze trace the delicate angles of Kazuha’s face, drinking in the way the dim light cast shadows along the curve of his cheekbones and the slope of his nose. Kazuha’s head was close—too close—his silver hair catching the glow from the nearby lamp, turning the soft strands into molten silver. The faintest movement would have their faces brushing against each other, and the thought sent something sharp and electric crawling up Kunikuzushi’s spine.
Kazuha’s fingers moved with slow precision as he brought a cigarette to his lips, the flicker of the lighter casting a fleeting glow over his face. The first inhale was deep, practiced, and when he exhaled, the smoke curled between them, twisting into the air, wrapping around Kunikuzushi like an unspoken invitation. The scent—earthy, slightly sweet, with that unmistakable edge of burning tobacco—filled the space between them, seeping into Kunikuzushi’s lungs even without him meaning to breathe it in.
Without thinking, Kunikuzushi lifted a hand, the tips of his fingers grazing against the strands of Kazuha’s hair. It was softer than he expected, like fine silk slipping between his fingers. He let his touch linger, pushing a few stray strands behind Kazuha’s ear, his fingertips trailing down, brushing against the warm skin just below. His hand moved instinctively, tracing the sharp lines of Kazuha’s jaw, his fingers following the curve down to his throat, where he could feel the subtle rise and fall of his breath. The delicate ridges of Kazuha’s collarbones were next, his skin warm under Kunikuzushi’s cold touch, and Kunikuzushi found himself pressing down just a little harder, as if trying to memorize every dip and contour beneath his fingers.
The book in Kazuha’s lap snapped shut. Kunikuzushi barely had a second to react before Kazuha turned his head, meeting his gaze with heavy-lidded eyes that glowed with something unreadable—something that sent a slow heat trickling down Kunikuzushi’s spine. Kazuha’s lips parted slightly, and his gaze flickered, darting down from Kunikuzushi’s eyes to his mouth, lingering for just a moment too long.
He moved.
The cigarette was plucked from his lips and discarded somewhere to the side, forgotten, as he shifted his body, turning so he was facing Kunikuzushi fully. He reached out, his fingers cool against Kunikuzushi’s skin as he cupped his face, tilting it just slightly as he leaned in. The warmth of his breath ghosted against Kunikuzushi’s lips, a teasing second of hesitation before he finally closed the distance, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against Kunikuzushi’s mouth.
Kunikuzushi didn’t hesitate. He welcomed the kiss, consuming it as though he were starved for it, his lips parting against Kazuha’s with a need he hadn’t realized was there. The taste of him was immediate—sencha, faintly bitter and herbal, mixed with the lingering burn of cigarettes. It was intoxicating, dizzying, a combination that should have been unpleasant but instead sent something dark and hungry curling deep in Kunikuzushi’s chest.
Before he could process it, Kazuha’s mouth parted slightly, and Kunikuzushi felt something warm and foreign slip past his lips. Smoke. Kazuha exhaled, slow and controlled, pushing the thick cloud into Kunikuzushi’s mouth, letting it curl over his tongue before he finally pulled back.
Kunikuzushi inhaled without thinking, the burn of the smoke sharp in his lungs, his head already spinning. He had never smoked before, never understood the appeal—but in that moment, he realized he might become addicted to cigarettes. Or maybe, just maybe, he was already addicted to something far worse.
Xiao had barely processed what he had just witnessed. The memory of Kunikuzushi’s latest kill still played in his head like a looping film reel—every movement, every calculated strike, the sick, twisted grace with which he carried out the act. Xiao didn’t want to just be a spectator anymore. He wanted Kunikuzushi to watch him, to see him in that same intoxicating state of raw power and control, without needing guidance, without needing whispered instructions in his ear. He wanted to prove himself—not just as a killer, but as someone Kunikuzushi could look at with something other than amusement, something closer to admiration.
Lost in his thoughts, he almost didn’t notice the voice calling out to him over the noise of the campus courtyard. It wasn’t until he heard his name again, spoken in that familiar, lighthearted, almost musical tone, that he turned his head.
“Xiao!”
His entire body tensed before he even laid eyes on the speaker. He knew that voice. It had been years, but there was no mistaking it.
And there he was—Venti.
Xiao’s breath hitched in his throat, though he quickly masked it with an indifferent expression. Venti was waving at him enthusiastically, that usual easygoing smile plastered across his face. He was the same as ever—dressed a little too casually for someone involved in high society, carrying himself with a carefree, almost whimsical air that made it impossible to tell whether he was taking anything seriously.
Xiao actually knew Venti—albeit, not well. Their conversations had always been short, nothing beyond the occasional polite exchange when he was forced to attend his father’s social gatherings. But even so, Xiao had always… noticed him.
Venti was one of his father’s close friends, which had always been an oddity to Xiao. The age difference alone was enough to make it strange, but it wasn’t just that. His father surrounded himself with people of a certain status—serious men in suits, men who spoke in cold, calculated words, men whose expressions never wavered. And yet, among them, there was Venti—bright, informal, seemingly detached from the rigid world he was meant to belong to. Xiao never understood why his father kept him around, but he never questioned it. It wasn’t his business, after all.
What was his business, however, was the way his stomach twisted uncomfortably now that Venti was looking at him.
“Oh, it’s been so long! I’ve missed you!” Venti beamed, stepping closer without hesitation. “You attend here now?”
Xiao swallowed. Missed me?
“You… missed me?” Xiao repeated, trying to keep his voice even, but he hated how hesitant it came out.
“Of course I do!” Venti grinned, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I constantly pester your old man about bringing you around more for our political events, y’know?” He tilted his head, his teal eyes practically sparkling with mischief. “But he always makes some excuse about you being too busy. Are you too busy for me, Xiao?”
Xiao clenched his jaw, forcing himself to maintain eye contact, though his fingers twitched slightly where they rested at his side. He was not the type to get nervous—he had stood before murder, had felt the weight of death in his own hands, had stared into the abyss without so much as a flinch. But this—this was different.
He didn't know how to navigate Venti. Didn’t know how to respond to the warmth in his voice, the way he spoke as if they were close, as if he truly wanted Xiao around. It was unfamiliar, and unfamiliarity made Xiao uneasy.
“…I doubt my father wants me there, anyway,” Xiao muttered, finally looking away, eyes flicking to the ground.
Venti hummed thoughtfully, rocking back on his heels. “Mm, maybe, maybe not.” Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he placed a hand over his chest, pouting dramatically. “But you wound me, Xiao! Do you not want to be around me?”
Xiao tensed again, his eyes snapping back to Venti’s face, searching for any sign of teasing, any indication that he was just messing with him. But Venti only smiled, waiting expectantly. Xiao exhaled sharply through his nose, shifting his weight uncomfortably.
“I… I don’t mind,” he admitted stiffly, the words tasting foreign on his tongue.
Venti’s grin widened. “That’s practically a love confession, coming from you.” Xiao’s face burned, and he instantly scowled, turning away. Venti only laughed.
“Don’t say such a thing,” Xiao stammered, his voice betraying him in ways he wished it wouldn’t. He wanted to appear composed, indifferent, unaffected—but his own body was working against him. His fingers twitched slightly where they rested on his lap, and his mind buzzed with too many thoughts, trying to keep up with the whirlwind that was Venti.
Venti chuckled, the sound light and easy, as if Xiao’s reaction only entertained him further. He reached for a chair and dragged it over with little effort, settling himself beside Xiao in a way that made it clear he had no intention of leaving anytime soon. His presence was overwhelming—not in the way Kunikuzushi’s was, where it lingered like a knife’s edge against the skin—but in a way that made Xiao feel suffocated by warmth, by attention, by the earnestness in Venti’s expression.
“Okay, okay,” Venti said, still grinning. “I won’t tease you too much…” He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the table. “But I actually wanted to ask you something.”
Xiao exhaled slowly, grounding himself before responding. “What is it?”
“I was wondering if you’d like to join me and my friends for study sessions,” Venti said, twirling a strand of his own hair between his fingers as he spoke. “Granted, we’re all in vastly different courses, but I think that makes it all the more interesting. The opinions of those who don’t share the same passions as you—who see the world differently—can be a refreshing perspective. Drowning others in your passions and letting theirs wash over you in return… It’s exactly what we as people need, don’t you think?”
Xiao blinked. That was… a poetic way of asking him to join a study group.
For a moment, he remained silent, mulling over the offer. Xiao wasn’t one for socializing. He barely tolerated people on a good day, and being around Kunikuzushi was already draining enough. He wasn’t sure if he had the energy to surround himself with yet another group, to force himself into conversations and interactions he had no interest in.
A part of him saw the potential.
If he agreed, it would give him an excuse to step away from Kunikuzushi, to put space between himself and whatever dangerous influence the man was weaving around him. It would be a breath of fresh air, something that wasn’t tainted by the scent of blood and the weight of death on his shoulders. He didn’t know if that was what he wanted, but it was something he probably needed.
“…I suppose so,” Xiao finally relented, his voice quieter than before.
Venti beamed, clearly pleased. “Wonderful!” He hopped up from his seat, practically vibrating with excitement. “Come on then, follow me!”
Xiao hesitated for a fraction of a second before standing up as well, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He didn’t know what he was getting himself into, but as he watched Venti bounce ahead of him, chatting away like they were already friends, Xiao figured that—for now—he didn’t mind finding out.
When Venti swung the door open to his small but cozy condo, Xiao barely had a moment to take in the warm lighting and the faint scent of something sweet—honey, maybe wine—before his attention was stolen by a far less pleasant sight.
Kunikuzushi.
The moment their eyes met, Xiao felt the familiar itch of rage crawl up his spine. The way Kunikuzushi sat, lounging back like he owned the damn place, his sharp gaze cutting into Xiao like a blade—Xiao could already tell this was going to be unbearable. And, of course, Kunikuzushi wasted no time sinking his claws in.
“Oh, it’s Xiao,” he drawled, his voice carrying that infuriatingly playful lilt, mockery dripping from every syllable. “Didn’t think he’d actually show up. He’s such a hermit most of the time.”
Xiao’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. Don’t react. Don’t give him the satisfaction. He swallowed back the sharp retort resting on the tip of his tongue and instead let out a low scoff, rolling his shoulders as he stepped further into the room. He refused to let Kunikuzushi think he had any power over him here.
But then it clicked.
Xiao wanted him dead.
Not in the abstract way he’d considered before, not in fleeting moments of frustration. No—he wanted to kill Kunikuzushi. The realization settled into his bones like an unshakable truth. He had spent so much time being shaped by Kunikuzushi’s influence, being led down paths he hadn’t dared walk before. But what better way to prove he had surpassed Kunikuzushi—outgrown him—than by erasing him entirely?
Theatrics. Xiao had seen them all, had watched Kunikuzushi play god with other people’s lives. Wouldn’t it be fitting for him to take center stage this time? To put an end to Kunikuzushi’s madness, to be the one pulling the strings for once?
The thought sent a strange thrill through him, a dark, exhilarating certainty.
Before Xiao could spiral deeper into the fantasy, a familiar voice pulled him back to the present.
“Glad to see I won’t need to spend too long on introductions, then,” Venti said with a relieved sigh, completely oblivious to the silent war waging in Xiao’s mind.
Xiao finally tore his gaze away from Kunikuzushi and glanced around the room. Aside from the bastard himself, there were two others already chatting at the small dining table—Kazuha, his ever-calm demeanor a stark contrast to the energy in the room, and another man Xiao recognized instantly: Shikanoin Heizou.
Xiao knew of Heizou from reputation alone—one of the sharpest minds in the criminology course, infamous for his… unorthodox methods of solving cases. Morally ambiguous, some said. Dangerous, others whispered. And yet, the man sitting there now didn’t seem all that threatening—he was grinning at Kazuha, twirling a pen between his fingers, his posture relaxed but his eyes keen, always observing.
Xiao exhaled slowly, pushing the earlier thoughts to the back of his mind. He’d deal with that later. For now, he had to survive this study session without strangling Kunikuzushi in front of everyone.
The study session had lasted for hours, dragging on far longer than Xiao had anticipated. He was exhausted, his mind overworked from trying to focus on the conversation while simultaneously suppressing the ever-present irritation Kunikuzushi brought out of him. And yet, somehow, despite everything, here he was—sitting in the passenger seat of Kunikuzushi’s car, on his way to the man’s house, likely to crash there for the night as he had so many times before.
How the hell does this keep happening?
Xiao had no answer for himself. He could try to justify it, chalk it up to convenience, claim that Kunikuzushi’s place was closer than his own, but that wasn’t true. It was something else. A sick gravitational pull, one he despised but never quite managed to resist.
The drive itself wasn’t long, but Kunikuzushi’s car made it even shorter. Xiao had always found it strange that of all the cars the bastard could own, he drove around in a black 1967 Chevy Camaro. It wasn’t the type of car he would have expected from someone with Kunikuzushi’s wealth—he could afford something sleeker, newer, something that would better match the image he projected. And yet, the Camaro was meticulously maintained, spotless inside and out. If nothing else, Xiao could at least appreciate that Kunikuzushi wasn’t some reckless speed demon with no regard for the road. His driving was smooth, cautious, almost frustratingly controlled.
When they pulled into the driveway, Xiao wasted no time stepping out, stretching his legs as the cold night air hit him. The moment was short-lived, however, as Kunikuzushi’s voice cut through the quiet.
“Join me for a smoke out back?”
Xiao furrowed his brows, turning to glance at him. “Smoke? Since when did you start smoking?”
“Since a week ago,” Kunikuzushi answered as he shut the car door. “You coming or not?”
Xiao groaned, rolling his eyes. “Ugh… fine.”
The backyard was just as extravagant as the rest of Kunikuzushi’s home, though Xiao had grown used to the display of wealth over time. The stone railing of the back porch was smooth beneath his hands as he leaned against it, gaze idly drifting over the well-kept flower garden below. He had to admit, Kunikuzushi had a good eye for aesthetics—an annoying trait, considering how much Xiao wanted to hate everything about him.
Kunikuzushi pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, placing one between his lips before holding the lighter out toward Xiao.
“Light this for me.”
Xiao shot him an unimpressed look. “Light it yourself.”
Kunikuzushi exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Quit being a stubborn brat and just do as I ask.”
Xiao let out a low groan of annoyance but snatched the lighter anyway. The cool metal rested against his palm as his thumb hovered over the sparkwheel. He was about to flick it when Kunikuzushi suddenly reached forward, wrapping his hand around Xiao’s wrist and guiding it up to the cigarette between his lips.
The flame flickered to life, catching the end of the cigarette. Kunikuzushi inhaled deeply, the embers glowing faintly before he exhaled a cloud of smoke—directly into Xiao’s face.
Xiao recoiled immediately, turning his head away with a deep grimace as the acrid scent invaded his senses. His expression twisted in disgust, but the sound of Kunikuzushi’s laughter only made his irritation worse.
“Too much of a pussy to handle smoke?” Kunikuzushi taunted, a smirk curling at his lips.
“No,” Xiao shot back, his voice as cold as ever.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care what you believe.”
Kunikuzushi’s smirk widened. “How about I prove myself wrong with an experiment?”
Xiao narrowed his eyes. “And how the hell are you going to do that—”
Before he could even finish his sentence, Xiao felt Kunikuzushi’s hands on his face, fingers pressing firmly yet deliberately against his jaw. The warmth of his touch was unexpected, the sensation sending a jolt of tension through Xiao’s body as his breath momentarily stalled. Kunikuzushi’s grip was controlled, fingers resting just beneath Xiao’s ears, his thumbs barely grazing his cheeks. It was possessive without being forceful, a silent command disguised as a casual touch.
Before Xiao could react, before he could pull away or even demand an explanation, Kunikuzushi leaned in. His lips hovered dangerously close, just a whisper away, so near that Xiao could feel the warmth of his breath fanning over his skin. His bottom lip, ever so slightly, brushed against Xiao’s own, the fleeting contact sending a shiver down his spine.
Then—he exhaled.
A rush of thick, acrid smoke flooded Xiao’s mouth, curling over his tongue and sliding down his throat before he even had a chance to stop it. The taste was overwhelming—bitter and dry, laced with the distinct sharpness of nicotine, mingling with something else. Grapefruit. Sour, astringent, almost sickly sweet beneath the suffocating weight of the smoke. The contrast was jarring, an unexpected assault on his senses that left him momentarily paralyzed.
Xiao’s breath hitched, a sudden tremor of discomfort crawling up his spine as his mind struggled to process what was happening. His body refused to move, locked in place by the sheer audacity of the act. His lungs burned, the unfamiliar intrusion sending his senses into overdrive. The warmth of Kunikuzushi’s breath lingered against his lips, mixing with the lingering heat of the smoke, and it made his stomach twist in nausea.
His eyes widened, pupils dilating slightly as his brain screamed at him to do something—anything. But his muscles betrayed him, frozen under the weight of the moment. He wasn’t sure if it was the unexpected intimacy, the sheer arrogance of Kunikuzushi’s actions, or the fact that somewhere, deep in the murky depths of his subconscious, a part of him hadn’t hated it.
That thought made him feel even worse.
When Kunikuzushi finally pulled away, Xiao was left stunned, the taste of smoke still clinging stubbornly to his tongue. Kunikuzushi exhaled the last of the nicotine-laced breath through his nose, his lips curling into that insufferable, self-satisfied smirk—one that dripped with amusement, as though he had just won some twisted little game Xiao hadn’t even realized he was playing.
“Look at you,” Kunikuzushi cackled, his voice brimming with amusement. “You look like a deer in headlights.”
Xiao’s body snapped into action, rage flooding back in full force. He slapped Kunikuzushi’s hand, knocking the cigarette from his fingers before crushing it under his boot, grinding the embers into the stone.
“Awh,” Kunikuzushi pouted, though the amusement never left his tone. “That was my last fag, you asshole.”
“Are you fucking serious? You went through a whole damn pack in a week?”
“No.” Kunikuzushi shrugged. “I shared some with a friend.”
That casual, cocky answer sent a fresh wave of irritation through Xiao, his patience wearing dangerously thin. His teeth clenched as his fingers curled into fists at his sides.
“Never, ever, do that to me again,” he growled. “Fucking disgusting.”
Kunikuzushi simply smirked, completely unbothered, his expression oozing arrogance. His eyes glinted with that familiar, insufferable amusement, as if he had just played the perfect hand in a game Xiao hadn’t even realized he was losing. The way he carried himself, so effortlessly cocky, so damn sure of his own power over the situation—it made Xiao’s skin crawl.
Xiao hated him. He hated the way Kunikuzushi looked at him, like he was some intriguing little puzzle just waiting to be solved. He hated the way he moved, every action deliberate and dripping with condescension, like he already knew how Xiao would react before he even had a chance to process his own emotions. More than anything, he hated the way Kunikuzushi got under his skin so easily—effortlessly winding him up, pulling at the fraying edges of his control until he was left seething, his every nerve alight with frustration.
The worst part? Kunikuzushi knew it. He thrived on it. Every smirk, every infuriating comment, every casual invasion of personal space—it was all intentional. A game. A sick little amusement designed to push Xiao closer and closer to the edge. And no matter how much Xiao wanted to ignore him, no matter how hard he tried to act indifferent, Kunikuzushi always found a way to crawl beneath his defenses like a parasite, settling in and refusing to leave.
Chapter 8: Rondo
Chapter Text
The school atmosphere had been an awful drab for Kunikuzushi, but really, he had no one to blame but himself. He’d been on a killing spree, and stopping wasn’t exactly on his agenda. Not yet, at least. And strangely enough, despite the trail of bodies left in his wake, no one had so much as looked his way with suspicion. Not the school, not the police—nothing. It was almost disappointing how easy it was. No one had pulled him aside for questioning, no one had whispered his name behind his back with fear in their voices. He walked the halls just as freely as he always had, blending into the background like an ordinary student instead of the monster lurking in the shadows. It was almost too easy. The world should have been more fun than this.
The media, at least, had given him some entertainment. They had taken a liking to calling him Kurayami, their headlines plastered with his so-called name, dramatizing his every move like he was some faceless boogeyman to be feared. Still loose serial killer, Kurayami, has struck once more, taking the life of commissioner head Kamisato Ayato, following the death of his sister, Kamisato Ayaka… The news anchor’s voice droned from the television in the corner of the library, its presence an irritating hum in a place that was meant to be quiet. Noisy. Disruptive. Almost laughable, how the very same people who claimed to uphold rules couldn’t follow their own.
Kunikuzushi barely acknowledged the broadcast. The words didn’t matter. He already knew what he had done, already knew what they were going to say. The media could speculate all they wanted, but the reality was far more entertaining than their theories. Instead, his focus remained on the elegant invitation in his hands, the cardstock smooth beneath his fingertips, the elaborate calligraphy spelling out details of an event that, for once, actually piqued his interest. A formal ball, set to take place in Fontaine’s grandest court in just three days. Hosted by the world’s most powerful figures, meant to bring nations together, an event of unity and diplomacy. A gathering of people who held power in their hands, all packed into one grand ballroom, oblivious to the fact that someone like him would be among them.
He already knew he was going. There was no hesitation in his decision. Events like these were far too intriguing to pass up. It wasn’t about politics, not really. It was about the people—the way they moved, the way they carried themselves, the secrets they tried to hide beneath false smiles and polished etiquette. People-watching was a simple term for it, but Kunikuzushi’s interest went beyond idle observation. These events were a game, a puzzle just waiting to be solved. Every glance, every subtle shift in tone, every fake laugh—he saw through it all, and he loved it.
And besides, who knew? With so many important figures in one place, perhaps there would be an opportunity to make things even more fun.
Kunikuzushi leaned against the desk, twirling the invitation between his fingers as his gaze dropped to Xiao, who sat cross-legged on the floor, gripping a nearly identical letter. The only real difference was the sender—Xiao’s had come from his father, a direct summons that left him no room for refusal. The event itself was nothing surprising; it was another grandiose affair hosted by Iudex Neuvillette, the chief justice of Fontaine’s court and leader of the Marechaussee Phantom. What did catch Kunikuzushi off guard was the fact that Neuvillette was still holding such extravagant gatherings, especially after the recent death of his niece, Furina. It seemed absurd that a man of such esteemed position, mourning a personal loss, would bother with a formal event of this scale. Then again, politics thrived on appearances. Even grief could be polished and put on display if it suited those in power.
Kunikuzushi tilted his head slightly, considering the situation. Attending an event like this was one thing, but attending with Xiao? That was an entirely different thought altogether. The possibilities were almost endless, his mind already spinning with ideas of what kind of theatrics they could pull. It was amusing, really, to imagine the chaos they could stir up in a room full of the world’s most important figures. Kunikuzushi could already envision it—Xiao, despite his usual resistance, would inevitably get caught up in the moment, dragged into something far more thrilling than whatever dull, political small talk these people would engage in. The thought alone was enough to bring a smirk to his lips.
“Are you going?” Kunikuzushi asked, his voice casual, though his curiosity was anything but.
Xiao exhaled sharply, his expression lined with irritation as he stared down at the letter as if he could will it out of existence. “Not like I have much choice,” he muttered.
Kunikuzushi’s smirk widened. That was all he needed to hear.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Xiao groaned, rubbing his temple as though the mere act of acknowledging Kunikuzushi’s presence was enough to give him a headache.
“Do you now?” Kunikuzushi mused, tilting his head, feigning innocence.
“Yes,” Xiao deadpanned, finally looking up at him with a glare that lacked any real venom. “You’re going to drag me into some of your psychotic doings once more.”
Kunikuzushi let out a breath of laughter, a quiet chuckle that carried an unmistakable sense of amusement. “Don’t act like you don’t like it,” he teased, crouching down to Xiao’s level, his grin never faltering. “Because I know you do.”
Xiao scoffed, rolling his eyes as he looked away, but Kunikuzushi caught the slight twitch of his fingers, the barely-there shift in his posture. He knew Xiao better than Xiao liked to admit. There was a part of him, buried deep beneath that brooding exterior, that thrived on this—the unpredictability, the thrill, the sheer madness of being caught up in something beyond his control. Kunikuzushi had seen it before, that flicker of excitement beneath the mask of exasperation. He was sure he’d see it again.
Standing up, Kunikuzushi dusted off his clothes before extending a hand toward Xiao, his grin unwavering. “Now,” he drawled, “why don’t you come and join me in finding ourselves some nice suits, hm?”
Xiao stared at his outstretched hand for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before letting out a sharp sigh and pushing himself up without Kunikuzushi’s help.
The day of the event had arrived far sooner than Xiao had anticipated. It felt as though the past few days had slipped through his fingers, barely giving him enough time to come to terms with the fact that he was actually going to this thing, let alone preparing for it. Now, as he sat in the back of the sleek, luxury car, dressed in an expensive suit that felt almost suffocatingly tailored to perfection, he stared out the tinted window, letting himself disassociate into the blur of city lights and rolling hills beyond. His elbow was propped up against the door, his chin resting against his fist, his expression blank as he let his mind drift somewhere—anywhere—other than the reality of what was ahead.
Beside him, Kunikuzushi was the complete opposite. He had already finished a glass of champagne, the empty crystal flute resting in the cupholder as he lounged against the plush leather seat with an air of ease that was almost infuriating. One leg crossed over the other, one arm draped casually over the back of the seat, his body language was nothing short of comfortable, as if he were simply heading to another one of his many indulgent outings rather than a highly scrutinized, internationally significant political event. The dim lighting in the car cast a faint glow over his features, making the sharp angles of his face all the more striking, and his lips were curled into an infuriatingly smug expression, one that told Xiao exactly what was going through his mind.
Even without looking, Xiao could feel Kunikuzushi’s gaze burning into him, pressing against the back of his skull like an insidious whisper in the darkest parts of his brain. It wasn’t just observation; it was invasive, deliberate, like Kunikuzushi was searching for something—digging through the labyrinth of Xiao’s thoughts, clawing at his restraint, pressing and prodding at the fragile parts of his mind, searching for just the right place to drive the metaphorical dagger in. Xiao had felt this kind of scrutiny before, the way Kunikuzushi could get under his skin so effortlessly, slipping past his carefully constructed walls with nothing but a glance, a smirk, a single word spoken in that taunting, honeyed tone.
Xiao’s grip on his knee tightened. He refused to give him the satisfaction of reacting.
“You seem tense,” Kunikuzushi finally spoke, his voice light, almost amused, as he shifted slightly, tilting his head toward Xiao. “I thought you’d be a little more enthusiastic. After all, how often do you get the chance to mingle with the world's most powerful people?”
Xiao didn’t bother responding.
Kunikuzushi let out a soft hum, reaching for the bottle of champagne chilling beside him in an ornate silver ice bucket. He poured himself another glass, the sound of liquid filling the flute obnoxiously loud in the otherwise silent car. He swirled the drink idly, watching the bubbles rise to the surface before taking a slow sip.
“I must say, you clean up quite nicely,” he continued, his voice as smooth as the alcohol he was sipping. “I was half-expecting you to show up looking like a sulking teenager being dragged to a family dinner.”
Xiao’s fingers twitched slightly against his knee, but otherwise, he remained motionless.
Kunikuzushi sighed dramatically, placing his glass down with a soft clink. “Come now, Xiao, are you really going to ignore me for the entire ride? That’s awfully rude, considering the effort I went through to make sure we arrived in style.”
Xiao finally turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at him from the corner of his eye. “I don’t recall asking to arrive with you.”
Kunikuzushi grinned, his eyes gleaming with something dark, something amused. “And yet, here you are.”
Xiao exhaled sharply, turning his gaze back to the window, letting the silence settle between them once more. He had no doubt Kunikuzushi would continue his relentless attempts to pull a reaction from him before they arrived, but for now, he would resist.
The car rolled to a smooth halt at the grand entrance of the building, the subtle hum of the engine fading into the symphony of chatter, distant music, and the occasional flash of cameras from the press stationed further down the courtyard. The structure before them was a masterpiece of Fontaine’s historic architecture—intricate stonework carved with the precision of a nation that prided itself on elegance and artistry, towering columns supporting the vast entryway, and grand arched windows glowing with warm golden light spilling from the chandeliers within.
Xiao barely had time to take it all in before the doors were pulled open, and the attendants approached with practiced politeness to open the car doors for them. Kunikuzushi, ever the picture of ease, stepped out first, his polished shoes clicking lightly against the pristine marble pavement. He adjusted the lapels of his custom-tailored suit with the casual air of someone who belonged here, his confidence so natural it was almost infuriating.
Xiao followed a moment later, stepping onto the stone with far less enthusiasm. The air outside was crisp, carrying the scent of Fontaine’s ever-present sea breeze, tinged with the expensive perfumes worn by the other attendees arriving in their own luxury cars.
And then, just as Xiao had been dreading, they were there.
Their parents.
Standing just a few feet away, waiting with their respective entourages, looking every bit as regal and poised as expected of their status. Kunikuzushi’s mother and stepmother stood together, an image of power and wealth, their presence alone enough to command attention. Kunikuzushi’s relationship with them was complicated at best, but that didn’t stop him from playing the role of the polite son when it suited him. His expression barely flickered as he approached them, offering a small, practiced smile before giving them a courteous nod.
“Mother, Lady Yae,” Kunikuzushi greeted smoothly, his tone perfectly neutral, neither warm nor distant.
His mother barely acknowledged him beyond a glance, her expression unreadable, though Yae Miko—his stepmother—offered a knowing smirk, as if she saw right through whatever game he was playing.
Xiao watched as Kunikuzushi turned on his heel without a second thought, his sharp violet gaze flicking back toward him for only a fraction of a second. The briefest of moments.
Just like that, he was walking away with them, his posture relaxed, his pace slow, every movement of his body radiating an air of detached amusement.
Xiao’s fingers curled into a fist at his side.
Even when Kunikuzushi wasn’t trying, everything he did felt condescending. The way he walked, the way he spoke, the way he had dismissed Xiao with nothing more than a simple wave of his hand—a wave, like he was brushing him off as an afterthought.
Xiao exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to unclench his fists as he turned his gaze away. His father was already approaching, and there was no point in dwelling on Kunikuzushi’s irritating existence when he had his own family to deal with.
Despite the grandeur of the event, with its gilded chandeliers, polished marble floors, and the soft clinking of fine crystal against silverware, Kunikuzushi and Xiao inevitably found their way back to each other, as if some unseen force was drawing them together. It was almost amusing—no matter how many times Xiao told himself he wanted to avoid Kunikuzushi, he always ended up right back at his side.
Kunikuzushi wasn’t completely sober, but he wasn’t drunk either. He was in that sweet spot of inebriation where his usual sharp edges had dulled just enough to make him seem a little more at ease. His violet eyes had a lazy, half-lidded quality to them, and the faintest smirk played on his lips as he twirled the stem of his wine glass between his fingers, idly watching the deep red liquid swirl.
Xiao, on the other hand, hadn’t let himself indulge nearly as much. He had accepted a few drinks here and there, just enough to keep up appearances, but he remained cautious. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the presence of so many high-profile figures in the room or because he felt the need to keep a watchful eye on Kunikuzushi, but either way, he wasn’t allowing himself to relax fully.
A classical opera performance had taken over the stage, the voice of the lead singer soaring through the grand hall with impressive precision and emotion. Xiao recognized the melody—it was something he had heard in passing before, maybe at a similar event or in the background of his father’s study, but he couldn’t recall the name.
Neither of them spoke much. They didn’t need to.
Instead, they simply existed in each other’s space, standing near the edge of the ballroom where the lighting was slightly dimmer, away from the suffocating crowds of politicians and socialites mingling over expensive hors d'oeuvres and feigned politeness.
Kunikuzushi leaned against one of the marble columns, his posture relaxed, one hand in his pocket while the other lazily lifted his glass to his lips. Xiao stood beside him, his arms crossed over his chest, occasionally taking small sips from his own drink. There was something oddly comfortable about it—just standing there, letting the music wash over them, letting the alcohol settle in their veins, feeling the weight of the night press down on them in the same way.
People moved around them, laughing, dancing, exchanging pleasantries in voices that barely registered in Xiao’s ears. Yet, amidst all the extravagance and chatter, it felt as if they were in their own little bubble, separate from the rest of the world.
Even without words, they understood each other.
The moment the familiar opening violin echoed through the grand hall, both Xiao and Kunikuzushi instinctively perked up, their gazes snapping to each other in a silent acknowledgment. It was a song they both knew, a piece that carried an unspoken significance between them. Kunikuzushi was the first to react, tilting his head slightly to the side before extending his hand toward Xiao, his fingers relaxed yet expectant, waiting for Xiao to take it.
Xiao’s immediate reaction was pure spite—his fingers itched to grab the nearest knife and carve the smugness right off Kunikuzushi’s face. He loathed the idea of dancing with him, of indulging in whatever little game he was playing. But the weight of countless eyes in the ballroom pressed down on them, and backing away would be just as much of a statement as accepting. With a reluctant sigh, Xiao slid his hand into Kunikuzushi’s, feeling the coldness of his fingers against his own as he allowed himself to be pulled toward the center of the room.
The orchestra swelled around them, strings and piano weaving together in a melody that felt almost intoxicating. Their movements were slow at first, simple sways in time with the rhythm, their hands clasped together as Kunikuzushi’s other hand found its place on Xiao’s waist. There was a practiced ease in the way Kunikuzushi led, his touch firm but not forceful, his grip confident as he maneuvered them across the polished floor. Xiao hated how effortless it felt, how naturally his own body responded to the guidance.
Their steps quickened as the song gained intensity, the violin crying out in sharp, dramatic strokes. Kunikuzushi’s grip never faltered, his hold on Xiao tightening just slightly, grounding him in the moment.
“I want to tell you something, Xiao,” Kunikuzushi murmured, his gaze lowering briefly to their feet before flicking back up, his expression unreadable. His voice was lower than usual, smooth and deliberate, sending an uneasy ripple down Xiao’s spine.
The piano swept into the song, seamlessly intertwining with the strings, adding weight to the atmosphere. “I despise the Iudex,” Kunikuzushi said suddenly, his tone dripping with venom, so sharp it nearly cut through the music itself.
Xiao’s brow twitched, but he kept his steps steady. “Why?”
Kunikuzushi’s lips curled into something between a smirk and a sneer. “He is the reason the justice system is rotten. He holds power as if he were above it, yet he refuses to see the need for true reform.” His voice was laced with something dark, something vicious, but his movements never wavered. His grip on Xiao’s waist remained steady, fingers pressing just a little harder into the fabric of his suit as the song took a dramatic turn.
Then, as the eerie shift in the melody scratched through the air, Kunikuzushi suddenly moved. His hand slid lower down Xiao’s back, his arm curling around him with a deliberate slowness before dipping him back in a sharp, controlled motion. Xiao’s breath caught as the room tilted, his body stretched out, exposed, entirely at Kunikuzushi’s mercy. His heart pounded against his ribs, an involuntary shudder running through him as Kunikuzushi leaned over him, his lips close, his voice a mere breath against his skin.
“The only way to fix a corrupt system,” Kunikuzushi murmured, his voice soaked in amusement, “is to eliminate its foundation.” Then, with a smirk curling at the corners of his lips, he pulled Xiao back up, their faces mere inches apart as he looked into his eyes with a dangerous glint.
Xiao’s grip on Kunikuzushi’s shoulder tightened, his breath shallow as he regained his footing. His mind was racing, not from the dance but from the implications of Kunikuzushi’s words. “And what exactly are you entailing?” he whispered, keeping his voice low enough that only Kunikuzushi could hear.
A low hum rumbled from Kunikuzushi’s throat as he leaned in just a fraction more, close enough that Xiao could feel the warmth of his breath. “How about I propose a challenge?” His tone was intoxicating, filled with wicked amusement, as if he were savoring every syllable that left his mouth. “First one of us to kill Neuvillette wins. The loser…” He let the word hang in the air before tilting his head slightly, his fingers flexing subtly against Xiao’s waist. “Must do whatever the winner asks of him.”
Xiao’s body tensed, his pupils dilating as a shiver ran through him—not from fear, not from hesitation, but from something else entirely. Excitement. The thrill of competition. The intoxicating thought of proving himself against Kunikuzushi in the most twisted way possible. He hated how enticing the challenge sounded.
His lips parted slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I accept your challenge.”
Kunikuzushi’s smirk widened into something predatory, his fingers tightening around Xiao’s before he finally let go. He took a step back, their gazes still locked, amusement flickering in his violet eyes. “Good bird,” he purred.
In the middle of the song, they both turned, breaking apart in perfect sync before darting off in different directions.
Xiao’s eyesight had always been exceptional—razor-sharp, honed like a blade. He could pick out the smallest of details from a ridiculous distance, making him a formidable hunter in every sense of the word. From the far end of the grand hall, through the towering glass windows, he spotted Neuvillette standing alone atop his private balcony, his posture rigid, hands neatly clasped in front of him as he observed the gathering below.
The man always carried himself with an air of superiority, as if he were above the rest, as if his word was divine law. He looked down at the guests like they were nothing more than insignificant insects, buzzing about in their meaningless little lives. It made Xiao’s stomach twist with something foul—something he wanted to carve out of himself with a serrated knife.
The infrastructure of the building was already mapped out in his mind. He had studied it from the moment they arrived, committing every hallway, every possible exit, every blind spot to memory. Neuvillette’s private balcony connected to an adjacent room—an office, most likely. It would be locked, but locks were never an issue for Xiao.
He slipped away from the crowded hall with the ease of a ghost, his movements precise, calculated. The moment he found the door leading to Neuvillette’s office, he wasted no time. A flick of his wrist, a quiet click of metal, and the lock gave way.
The room was dimly lit, vast bookshelves stretching up to the ceiling, their spines meticulously arranged. Papers were stacked neatly on the desk, an untouched glass of water sitting beside them. It smelled of aged parchment and polished wood, a room of order, of control.
Xiao hated it.
But none of that mattered. His goal stood just beyond the large glass doors leading to the balcony. He could hear the faint rustling of Neuvillette’s coat as the man shifted slightly, unaware of the predator that had just entered his den.
Xiao’s breath was steady as he stepped forward, fingers twitching at his sides, his entire body thrumming with anticipation.
This had to be brutal.
This had to send a message.
Neuvillette didn’t hear him until it was too late. The moment he turned, Xiao was already on him. One sharp strike to the throat cut off any chance of screaming, Neuvillette’s hands flying to his neck as he stumbled backward, choking. Xiao wasted no time—he gripped the older man by the collar, yanking him forward before slamming his skull against the stone railing of the balcony. A sickening crack echoed in the cold night air.
Blood dripped down Neuvillette’s forehead, his vision swimming, but Xiao wasn’t done. He drove his knee into the man’s gut, forcing him down onto his knees before unsheathing a dagger from within his suit. The blade glinted under the moonlight, a sharp, unforgiving thing.
Xiao gripped Neuvillette’s hair, yanking his head back so he could see his face—so he could watch the realization settle in his eyes. The Iudex, the unshakable pillar of Fontaine’s justice system, was nothing more than a trembling, bleeding man now.
“You think you’re untouchable,” Xiao murmured, pressing the blade against the soft skin of Neuvillette’s throat. His voice was eerily calm, the adrenaline making everything around him feel sharp, hyperreal. “You think you’re different from the filth you condemn.”
Neuvillette’s fingers twitched, a pathetic attempt at grabbing onto something—anything—to stop what was coming. But Xiao wasn’t feeling merciful.
The blade sank into his throat in one clean, practiced motion. Neuvillette’s entire body jerked, a garbled, wet noise escaping his lips as blood gushed from the wound, thick and hot. Xiao held him in place, watching as the life drained from those once-powerful eyes. He twisted the blade slightly, just to make sure, before finally letting go.
Neuvillette’s body slumped against the railing, his weight tipping over just enough for gravity to do the rest. His corpse tumbled over the edge, plummeting down into the darkened courtyard below with a dull, sickening thud.
Xiao let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders as he wiped the blood off his hands and onto his suit. He didn’t care about the mess—it was fitting, really. A suit drenched in the blood of Fontaine’s so-called justice.
The sound of slow, deliberate clapping pulled him from his thoughts.
Xiao turned sharply, his body still thrumming with residual adrenaline. And there, leaning casually against the doorway, was Kunikuzushi.
His suit was pristine, his violet eyes alight with something wicked, something dangerously pleased.
“Well, well,” Kunikuzushi drawled, his arms crossing over his chest. “Look at you. What a fucking mess.”
Xiao’s breathing was still heavy, his muscles tight, but he didn’t respond.
Kunikuzushi stepped forward, his shoes clicking against the marble floor, his gaze drinking in every inch of Xiao’s bloodied form. “You actually beat me to it,” he mused, almost sounding disappointed. “I’ll admit, I thought I had this in the bag. But you…” His grin widened, sharp and predatory. “You really went all out, didn’t you?”
Xiao wiped the blade of his dagger against his sleeve before slipping it back into its concealed spot. “I don’t do things halfway.” His voice was low, steady.
Kunikuzushi let out a small, breathy laugh before reaching out, fingers ghosting over a streak of drying blood on Xiao’s cheek. “You look good like this.” His voice was almost teasing, but there was something darker behind it—something dangerous.
Xiao smacked his hand away.
Kunikuzushi only chuckled, stepping back with a lazy shrug. “Fine, fine. I can accept my loss,” he sighed dramatically before tilting his head, his expression shifting into something more genuine. “But, Xiao…” His eyes locked onto his, holding something close to admiration. “I’m proud of you.”
Xiao’s stomach twisted at the words, at the way they made something deep inside him stir. He hated it. He hated Kunikuzushi.
But he had won, that was all that mattered.
The two of them had managed to slip away from the event unnoticed, quietly leaving the chaos behind. As they stepped into the night air, Xiao’s mind was still buzzing, his body tense and still high on adrenaline from the events that had just unfolded. He could feel the cold sting of the blood drying on his clothes, the weight of what he had just done hanging heavily in the air between them, but for now, he was numb to it. Kunikuzushi didn’t speak a word as they got into the car and made their way to the hotel—a sleek, modern building towering over the city like a monolith.
They arrived in silence, the only sound the low hum of the car’s engine as it moved steadily through the streets. Xiao was still in a daze, his eyes distant, his chest tight, his thoughts spiraling but unable to focus on any one thing. The weight of the kill had settled into his bones, but it didn’t feel like victory. It didn’t feel like anything, really. Just a strange, cold emptiness that seemed to expand with each passing second. His blood-soaked clothes clung to him like a second skin, an all-too-real reminder of the violence he’d just committed.
Kunikuzushi led him through the hotel’s grand lobby, his steps confident and unhurried, like they hadn’t just participated in a bloody, life-ending spectacle. The elevator ride to the highest floor was almost peaceful in contrast to the chaos in Xiao’s mind, the soft hum of the lift as it ascended a cruel reminder of how out of place he felt in the moment. When the doors opened, Kunikuzushi pulled him out, guiding him down the hall toward their suite.
The room was everything one would expect from such a prestigious hotel—modern, luxurious, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a stunning view of the city below. The room was impeccably furnished, everything arranged just so, as if perfection was the only acceptable standard here. But none of that registered with Xiao. He didn’t care about the luxury. He didn’t care about the beautiful view. All that mattered was that he was covered in blood, and his body was still humming with the violence of the kill.
Once the door was shut behind them, Kunikuzushi wasted no time. He was moving with purpose now, his eyes locked onto Xiao’s like he was a puzzle to be solved. He reached out, gently guiding Xiao to the bed, sitting him down with surprising tenderness for someone who had just participated in a horrific act. Xiao was exhausted, his limbs feeling like lead, his body trembling from both the adrenaline crash and the weight of everything that had happened. But there was something about Kunikuzushi’s presence—something that felt too intimate, too familiar in a way that unsettled him.
Before Xiao could protest, Kunikuzushi was already at work, slipping off his blood-soaked blazer, his fingers working expertly as he unbuttoned the white shirt beneath. The red stains were unmistakable, a horrific contrast against the once-pristine fabric. Xiao grimaced, his stomach turning at the sight. The blood on his skin felt sticky, suffocating, a constant reminder of what he had just done.
“You’ve made a mess of yourself,” Kunikuzushi said, his voice low and calm, almost detached as he continued his work. “You shouldn’t be so physically close to your victims, Xiao. You’ll get caught looking like this.” His words weren’t scolding, more like an observation. But Xiao could hear the faint hint of amusement in his voice, as if he were speaking to someone who had failed at a task he knew so well.
Xiao didn’t respond, his mind too foggy to argue. His body ached in a way he couldn’t quite explain. He wanted to push Kunikuzushi off of him, wanted to escape from the feeling of this touch, but his limbs were weak, too weak to fight back. His breath came in shallow gasps as Kunikuzushi’s fingers continued to unbutton his shirt, slowly, deliberately, until the fabric fell away, revealing the bloodstained skin underneath. Xiao flinched at the touch, feeling Kunikuzushi’s fingers brush over the bloodied shoulder and down his arms. His skin crawled, but it wasn’t just the blood—it was the way Kunikuzushi’s fingers lingered, tracing the lines of his body with a care that seemed far too intimate for the situation they were in.
“Let me take care of you, Xiao,” Kunikuzushi’s voice was softer now, almost coaxing. His hands moved to Xiao’s waist, gently pulling him into a more comfortable position. But it wasn’t comforting. Nothing about this felt comforting. Xiao could feel his heart racing, his muscles tense with the need to escape, but he was trapped in this moment, trapped by his own exhaustion, trapped by the way Kunikuzushi was handling him.
Xiao didn’t want this. He didn’t want to feel like this, to be so vulnerable, to have Kunikuzushi’s hands all over him, but it was happening, and he couldn’t stop it. Kunikuzushi wasn’t rough with him, though, not this time. He was careful, almost too careful, as if he were tending to a broken thing that needed mending. The irony of it wasn’t lost on Xiao. He was the broken one, wasn’t he? The one who had just taken a life, who had spilled blood without hesitation. The weight of it settled deeper in his chest with each passing second.
Kunikuzushi's brushed against Xiao’s bare skin, the contact almost too soft. It made Xiao’s breath hitch, his throat tightening as a feeling of unease crept up on him. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but all he could do was sit there, frozen. His bloodied hands were still trembling, and all he could think about was how badly he needed to wash it all off, to scrub the memory of what he had just done from his skin.
But even as Kunikuzushi continued to undress him, there was no real sympathy in his gaze. He wasn’t looking at Xiao with concern, with pity. No. It was something else entirely—a mix of satisfaction, of quiet admiration, as though he were appraising a work of art that had finally been completed.
Xiao hated him. But more than that, he hated what he had become.
Chapter 9: Yoku
Chapter Text
When Xiao woke up, the first thing he noticed was how heavy his body felt, weighed down by exhaustion that hadn’t fully left him despite the eleven hours of sleep he had apparently gotten. His limbs ached, his head throbbed faintly, and for a brief moment, his mind was completely blank, blissfully unaware of the events that had led him here. But then, as his senses sharpened, the memories came flooding back—Neuvillette’s lifeless eyes, the warmth of fresh blood soaking into his skin, Kunikuzushi’s hands stripping away the evidence of his crime, the feeling of being too exhausted to resist.
His heart rate spiked as his body tensed, and he sat up so quickly that the room seemed to tilt for a moment. His breaths were uneven, his fingers instinctively reaching for himself, for any sign that something was off. That was when he noticed it—his shirt, now pristine and neatly folded on the nightstand, as if last night’s horrors had never happened. His blazer was draped over the chair in the corner of the room, not a single drop of blood in sight. The evidence of everything he had done had been erased with meticulous care.
Xiao turned his head sharply, and that was when he saw him—Kunikuzushi, lying next to him, his back against the headboard, a book held lazily in one hand. His legs were stretched out, crossed at the ankles, his expression entirely unreadable as his eyes traced the words on the page. He looked completely unbothered, as if the two of them hadn’t just committed something irreversible, something monstrous.
Kunikuzushi didn’t acknowledge Xiao’s sudden movement right away. He continued reading for a few more moments before finally speaking, his tone calm, indifferent, as if he had anticipated Xiao’s reaction.
“Don’t worry yourself, nothing happened,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving the book.
The way he said it was infuriating. It was like he had been expecting Xiao to panic, like he could already predict every single thought that was racing through his mind before he even had the chance to voice it. His composure, his lack of urgency, only made Xiao’s unease grow.
Xiao swallowed, his throat dry, his mind still trying to process everything. He didn’t know what he had been expecting when he woke up, but something about this—about Kunikuzushi sitting there like it was just another ordinary morning—felt even more unsettling than if he had woken up to chaos.
“How—” Xiao’s voice came out hoarse, unused after so many hours of sleep. He cleared his throat and tried again. “How did you—”
“Clean you up?” Kunikuzushi finally glanced at him, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You were barely conscious. You would have passed out in the shower if I let you do it yourself. I did you a favor.”
Xiao clenched his jaw. The idea of Kunikuzushi taking care of him, stripping him down, washing the blood off his skin, left an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. But at the same time, he couldn’t deny that he had been too exhausted to do it himself.
“You slept like the dead,” Kunikuzushi continued, flipping a page in his book. “I could’ve done anything to you, and you wouldn’t have noticed.” His tone was light, teasing, but Xiao felt the underlying threat beneath it, the reminder of just how vulnerable he had been.
Xiao exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair. He hated this. He hated how easily Kunikuzushi got under his skin, how effortlessly he manipulated every situation to his advantage. He hated how, even now, after everything, he still felt like he was playing directly into Kunikuzushi’s hands.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing at his temples. “Where’s my stuff?” he asked, trying to focus on something, anything, other than the sinking feeling in his chest.
Kunikuzushi nodded toward the chair. “Cleaned and taken care of. You should be thanking me, really.”
Xiao didn’t say anything. He just sat there, gripping the edge of the mattress, staring down at the floor as if it might have the answers to all the questions swirling in his head. He had won. He had beaten Kunikuzushi at his own game. So why didn’t it feel like victory?
Xiao’s grip on the edge of the bed tightened, his nails digging into his palms as he listened to Kunikuzushi’s words, each syllable laced with that unbearable smugness that made his blood simmer. The audacity, the sheer arrogance—it was infuriating, and yet, it was so undeniably Kunikuzushi that it didn’t even surprise him.
He snapped his gaze back up, meeting that eerie grin that sent a sharp jolt of irritation straight through his spine. Kunikuzushi was enjoying this, savoring every second of the way he was getting under Xiao’s skin. That fake look of mock surprise, the sarcastic lilt in his voice—it was all a game to him, a performance where he played both the puppeteer and the main act.
“Did you purposely let me win?” Xiao’s voice came out as more of a growl than a question, his frustration slipping through despite his best efforts to suppress it.
Kunikuzushi let out an exaggerated gasp, pressing a hand to his chest like Xiao had just accused him of something utterly heinous. “What? You’re accusing me of letting you win the challenge I proposed?” His voice dripped with feigned offense, eyes widening just enough to make a mockery of the idea that he might have done something so underhanded. But then, the act dropped just slightly, just enough for the truth to slither through the cracks. “So what if I did?”
Xiao’s breath hitched, his heartbeat hammering in his chest.
“Didn’t matter who won,” Kunikuzushi continued, his voice smooth, unwavering. “That man was going to die either way—whether by your hand, mine, or…” He trailed off, pausing just long enough for the silence to stretch, to sink its claws into Xiao’s nerves and dig deep.
Xiao clenched his jaw. He knew this tactic. Kunikuzushi did this on purpose—these carefully timed pauses, these unfinished thoughts that forced you to fill in the gaps yourself. It was manipulation, and yet, Xiao couldn’t help but play right into it, leaning forward slightly, waiting, hating himself for needing to hear the rest.
Then, just as expected, Kunikuzushi delivered the final twist of the knife.
“If we had killed him together,” he murmured, eyes gleaming in the dim light.
Xiao’s stomach twisted. He hated how easily those words sent a shiver down his spine, how the idea of it—of working in perfect sync, of slicing through a life with Kunikuzushi by his side—did something to him that he couldn’t explain. He hated that Kunikuzushi knew it, that he could see the flicker of intrigue buried beneath the layers of disgust.
“But that aside,” Kunikuzushi went on, shifting on the bed so that he was leaning just slightly closer, “I know how you feel about me.”
Xiao stiffened.
“Something under your skin and in your blood burns and boils at everything I do,” Kunikuzushi continued, his voice soft, almost intimate. “And you’d do anything to put me in my place. Xiao, I am no fool.” His grin widened, his eyes practically glowing with satisfaction. “Your thoughts are as loud as the sun.”
Xiao’s whole body twitched, a sharp exhale escaping him as he fought the overwhelming urge to lunge forward and claw that smirk right off Kunikuzushi’s face. He could already picture it—his fingers digging into that pale skin, nails raking across his cheek, dragging down until he found whatever monster lay beneath. But he didn’t move. Not yet.
Instead, he clenched his fists and looked away, his breathing uneven. “So, are you going to tell me what you want or not?” Kunikuzushi taunted, his tone light, almost playful.
Xiao’s teeth ground together. He knew what he wanted—to wipe that look off Kunikuzushi’s face, to push him off his pedestal, to make him feel even a fraction of the frustration he caused Xiao. But beyond that? Beyond the anger, beyond the fury, beyond the constant battle of wills that defined their every interaction?
He didn’t know. That terrified him.
“I don’t know yet,” he admitted, voice low, strained.
Kunikuzushi’s expression didn’t change. If anything, the corners of his lips twitched in amusement. “Well, if that’s the case,” he hummed, settling back against the headboard like he had all the time in the world, “then I’ll just wait until you tell me what you want.”
That was the worst part—he would. Kunikuzushi would wait, endlessly patient, because he already knew something Xiao didn’t.
Xiao wasn’t sure why he kept coming back here—why he allowed himself to be drawn into the orbit of someone so fundamentally different from him. Venti was everything Kunikuzushi wasn’t. Where Kunikuzushi was cold calculation and jagged edges, Venti was an untamed breeze, light and unpredictable. His words carried no venom, only warmth, an ever-flowing melody that seemed to drift effortlessly through the air, never settling in one place for too long.
Maybe that was what drew Xiao in. Or maybe it was the simple fact that, for once, he wasn’t constantly on edge around someone.
Venti’s condo was a reflection of its owner—whimsical, inviting, and impossibly full of life. It was a space that felt untouched by the heaviness of the world, as if it had been plucked straight from a dream and tucked away from the harshness of reality. Bookshelves overflowed with stories, their spines worn and well-loved, stacked haphazardly as if arranged in the middle of a frantic search for inspiration. Soft golden string lights wove lazily across the ceiling, casting a gentle glow that made the space feel smaller, more intimate. And then, there were the instruments—countless of them. Guitars, violins, a harp nestled by the window where the sunlight could kiss its strings. Each piece looked well cared for, like an extension of Venti himself.
Xiao barely spared them a glance before his eyes landed on something else. A flute, hanging delicately on the wall.
Unlike the other instruments, this one looked personal, its placement deliberate. A red tassel hung from its end, a jade ring securely fastened around its body, as though someone had taken great care to ensure it was never lost or forgotten. There was something about it that demanded Xiao’s attention, something in the way it sat so still despite being surrounded by so much chaos.
He didn’t even realize how long he had been staring until Venti’s voice cut through his thoughts.
“Want to hear a song?”
The question was spoken with ease, light and teasing, but underneath it, there was sincerity—an invitation rather than an obligation.
Xiao blinked, shaking himself from his trance. “You don’t have to—”
“But I insist,” Venti interjected smoothly, already moving toward the flute as if he had been waiting for this moment.
Xiao hesitated, fingers curling slightly against his palm. He wasn’t used to kindness for the sake of kindness. He wasn’t used to people offering him things without expecting something in return. The hesitation lingered for only a moment before he gave a quiet, “Okay.”
Venti beamed, plucking the flute from its hooks before turning back to Xiao, motioning for him to sit.
Xiao followed stiffly, moving with caution, as if afraid he might disrupt the fragile, weightless atmosphere of the room.
Xiao hesitated for a brief moment before slowly lowering himself onto the couch, his body tense as he settled into the plush cushions. The condo was warm, filled with the scent of old books, candle wax, and the faintest hint of something floral—perhaps the remnants of whatever tea Venti had brewed earlier. It was comforting, far too comforting for someone like Xiao, who wasn’t used to this kind of atmosphere. It was too soft, too welcoming. He almost felt like an intruder in it.
Venti, on the other hand, moved with his usual airy grace, as if the world around him was nothing more than a dream he was drifting through. He lifted the flute with practiced ease, his fingers brushing over the smooth surface like it was something precious, something alive.
Xiao watched closely, his eyes drawn to the way Venti handled the instrument with such familiarity, such reverence. It was a stark contrast to how Kunikuzushi handled things—with sharp precision, with the intent to control, to manipulate. Venti’s touch, in comparison, was gentle, flowing, as if he were simply guiding the flute rather than commanding it.
Taking a deep breath, Venti pressed the flute to his lips and began to play.
The first note was soft, a delicate sound that seemed to float through the air like a feather caught in the wind. Then, slowly, it built into something more—a melody so pure, so heartbreakingly beautiful, that it made Xiao’s chest tighten. The music swelled and dipped, painting images in his mind that he couldn’t quite grasp, memories he couldn’t place.
Xiao didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until the song reached its peak, the high, aching notes pulling something deep from within him. He exhaled sharply, his fingers gripping the fabric of his pants as he forced himself to stay still, to not let the emotions creeping up his throat spill over.
Venti’s eyes remained closed as he played, his entire being lost in the music. It was different from any performance Xiao had ever witnessed. It wasn’t for show, not some grand display for the world to admire. It was intimate, something personal that Venti was offering freely, without expectation.
Xiao hated the way it made him feel. The way it dug into the cracks of his carefully built walls and wedged itself in like an unavoidable force.
When the final note faded into silence, Xiao let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Venti lowered the flute, opening his eyes to look at Xiao with a gentle smile. “You liked it,” he stated rather than asked.
Xiao swallowed, turning his gaze away. “It was fine.”
Venti chuckled, tilting his head. “You don’t have to pretend, you know. Music isn’t something you can lie about. Your body reacts before your mind even has the chance to deny it.”
Xiao’s jaw clenched. He didn’t like how easily Venti could read him, how he could pick apart emotions Xiao barely understood himself. He didn’t like the way the music still lingered in his head, refusing to leave him alone.
He wanted to say something, to push back, to put distance between them before this strange feeling in his chest could grow any further. But before he could, Venti lifted the flute once more, his eyes twinkling with something knowing, something patient.
“Shall I play another?” he asked, as if he already knew the answer.
Xiao didn’t say no.
For what it was worth, Xiao seemed to be a magnet for people who had an uncanny ability to slip past his defenses, to find the cracks in his walls and pry them open with little effort. And yet, the two people who could do it wielded their influence over him in vastly different ways—so different that it felt like he was being torn in opposite directions, one pulling him toward the light, the other dragging him deeper into the abyss.
Venti was warm, the kind that seeped in slowly, gently, before you even realized it was there. He didn’t force his way in—he simply existed, filling the spaces Xiao had long thought to be empty, touching something deep within him with a tenderness that felt foreign. It was like a child stumbling upon an injured bird hidden in the underbrush, cradling it with careful hands, whispering soft reassurances as if afraid that too much noise might shatter it completely. Venti didn’t demand, didn’t push—he offered. A quiet presence, a steady melody that wrapped around Xiao’s soul and reminded him, however briefly, that there was still something in him worth saving.
Kunikuzushi, however, was the complete opposite. There was no gentleness, no soft touch. He didn’t slip through the cracks—he shattered them, ripping through Xiao’s chest as if he had every right to be there. His hands weren’t careful; they were invasive, digging into Xiao’s ribcage with sharp nails, pressing into the warm, slimy core of him, his heart, his soul—whatever was left of it. He was searching for something, always searching, trying to coax out the parts of Xiao that were buried so deep they had almost been forgotten. The darkness. The hunger. The primal, bloodthirsty beast that lurked beneath the surface. Kunikuzushi wanted to drag it out, to mold it, to watch it take shape under his influence.
Xiao didn’t know which was worse—that Venti saw something in him worth nurturing, or that Kunikuzushi saw something in him worth unleashing.
Kunikuzushi lay quietly beside Kazuha, the room bathed in the dim, muted light of a night not yet willing to give itself up to dawn. The air smelled faintly of smoke, still hanging in the space between them as Kazuha took one final, slow drag of his cigarette. The ember glowed softly against the darkness, a brief, burning heartbeat before it was snuffed out with a soft hiss in the glass ashtray on the bedside table.
But Kunikuzushi wasn’t paying attention to the cigarette.
No — his mind was somewhere else entirely. It ran wild with the overwhelming need to feel, to take, to consume. He watched the gentle rise and fall of Kazuha’s chest with an intensity that made his stomach twist in knots. In the dim light, Kazuha's skin looked otherworldly — smooth, soft, milky pale, kissed by the moon itself. He was warmth personified, the kind of warmth that seeped into your bones on the coldest of nights. Kunikuzushi found himself desperate for more of it.
His right arm rested beneath Kazuha’s neck, his fingers tracing the delicate line of his collarbones, slow and deliberate. The motion was barely there, more a caress than a touch, as if pressing any harder might break something fragile. But it wasn’t enough. Physical intimacy was never enough. There had to be something deeper than this — something he could sink his teeth into, something he could keep.
Kunikuzushi leaned closer, his breath warm against the curve of Kazuha’s neck. He pressed his lips to Kazuha’s throat, once, then again, softer this time. It was slow, almost reverent, the way he kissed him — as if savoring every second, as if time itself would stop if he could kiss long enough, hard enough.
Kazuha sighed quietly, craning his head back just a little, wordlessly offering more. It wasn’t a request — it was trust. A trust so deep and effortless that it made something raw claw at the inside of Kunikuzushi’s chest.
His lips lingered, dragging down the column of Kazuha’s throat. He could feel the steady rhythm of Kazuha’s pulse beneath his mouth — strong, constant, alive. And the longer he felt it, the more something inside him twisted and turned in ways he couldn’t control.
He kept pulling blood to the surface, leaving faint marks in his wake — warm, flushed reminders of where his mouth had been. But he never broke skin. No matter how hard he wanted to.
And he wanted to. God, he wanted to.
It wasn’t just a fleeting thought — it was an overwhelming, all-consuming hunger. A raw, desperate need that sat low in Kunikuzushi’s gut, burning hotter with every second he didn’t act on it. It clawed at his chest, twisted in his stomach, and echoed in his bones until it became unbearable. It wasn’t lust; it wasn’t about the fleeting rush of pleasure. It was something deeper, something darker — something that gnawed at him from the inside out.
He wanted to sink his teeth into Kazuha.
Not in the way lovers sometimes nipped at skin during heated moments. No, this was far more primal than that. He wanted to feel the give of flesh between his teeth, to feel the warmth of Kazuha’s body flood his mouth, to have the essence of him on his tongue. It wasn’t about pain — Kunikuzushi didn’t want to hurt him. It was about having him. Every piece, every part — body, blood, soul. To take him in so completely that there would be nothing left untouched.
The thought made his chest heave with shallow breaths. His heart pounded hard enough that he could feel it in his ears, in his throat. He could taste it — the desire, the hunger. It sat heavy on his tongue, thick and inescapable. His fingers flexed instinctively where they rested against Kazuha’s collarbone, nails lightly dragging over his skin, leaving faint pink lines that disappeared just as quickly as they appeared.
Kazuha didn’t resist.
He lay there, completely calm, his breaths slow and even, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that only drove Kunikuzushi closer to the edge. There was trust in the way Kazuha tilted his head just slightly, baring his throat a little more, as if he could feel the storm raging inside Kunikuzushi and welcomed it.
That trust only made the hunger worse.
He could feel Kazuha’s pulse beneath his lips, steady and strong, so close it made his mouth water. His breath trembled against Kazuha’s skin as he kissed along his neck, slower this time, more deliberate. His grip tightened at Kazuha’s waist, fingers pressing into him with a little more force than before — not enough to hurt, just enough to feel.
The warmth beneath his palms was intoxicating. The scent of him — faint traces of smoke still clinging to his skin, mixed with something softer, something purely Kazuha — made Kunikuzushi’s head spin.
He could feel every breath Kazuha took, every faint shift of muscle under his hands. He could hear the soft, content hum Kazuha let out when his lips brushed a particularly sensitive spot just below his jaw. It was maddening.
He wanted more. He needed more. But he couldn’t have it.
He pressed his forehead to Kazuha’s shoulder, closing his eyes as he fought to steady his breathing. His chest ached, his hands trembled, and every instinct screamed at him to give in — to let the hunger take over, to take what he wanted until there was nothing left.
But instead, he stayed there. Hands gripping Kazuha a little too tightly. Breath warm and shaky against his skin.
The hunger still gnawed at him, still burned so hot that it left his throat dry and his heart racing. But for now, he would keep it buried.
Even if it killed him.
Xiao’s eyes flicked to Kunikuzushi the moment he stepped through the doors to the balcony. He hadn’t heard the door open — Kunikuzushi always had a way of moving so quietly it was borderline unsettling. It was as if he just appeared wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Xiao leaned back against the railing with a heavy sigh, eyes narrowing as the other man casually popped a cigarette between his lips.
“Oh, I wasn’t aware you had let yourself into my house,” Kunikuzushi drawled, voice laced with amusement as he lit the cigarette with a flick of his lighter. The faint click of metal echoed softly in the night air. He took a slow drag, exhaling smoke through his nose as he leaned against the wall with a lazy, self-satisfied expression.
And god, he looked awful. His hair was a complete mess, dark strands sticking out in every possible direction like he’d just rolled out of bed — or more likely, rolled out of someone else’s bed. His face was flushed, a faint pink still clinging to his cheeks, and the most jarring part of all was the deep red splotches littering his neck. They stood out starkly against his pale skin, dark and unmistakable. Xiao didn’t need to guess where they had come from.
“Ew,” Xiao said immediately, nose scrunching in disgust. He gestured vaguely toward Kunikuzushi’s neck, his face twisting further when he realized he couldn’t not look at it now. “Cover that up. It’s absolutely repulsive.”
Kunikuzushi blinked, clearly caught off guard for a split second before it clicked. He raised an eyebrow, lips quirking into a smug little grin as he lifted his free hand to his neck. His fingers traced lightly over one of the hickeys — like he was proud of it. Of course, he was.
“Ohhh,” he drawled with a laugh that made Xiao’s skin crawl, “that’s what you’re fussing about.” He tilted his head back slightly, fingers still ghosting over the marks. “I don’t own any turtlenecks to cover it, and I’m not really a fan of makeup… well, besides the red around my eyes.” He tapped his cheek for emphasis, then gave Xiao a once-over with a teasing smirk. “Oh, wait. I never noticed — we have matching red eyeliner. How cute.”
Xiao’s jaw clenched so hard it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack. He turned his head sharply, looking anywhere but at Kunikuzushi. There was something bubbling in his chest — something hot and uncomfortable and so irritating that it made his hands twitch. It was disgust. It had to be disgust.
Except it wasn’t. Not entirely.
He hated that he could feel something else under the disgust. Something bitter and sharp that coiled low in his stomach. Something he was too ashamed to name. It made his nails dig into the railing, knuckles turning pale with the force of his grip.
Kunikuzushi noticed. Of course, he noticed. He always did. He was staring at Xiao with that insufferable grin, eyes gleaming with amusement as if he was just waiting for Xiao to snap.
“What?” Xiao bit out, shoulders tense.
“Nothing,” Kunikuzushi said with an exaggerated shrug, but he was still grinning. “You’re just… really mad about this, huh?” He tapped his neck again, as if Xiao needed a reminder of what they were talking about.
“I’m not mad,” Xiao snapped.
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
Kunikuzushi hummed softly, taking another slow drag of his cigarette before blowing the smoke lazily in Xiao’s direction. “You know,” he mused with mock innocence, “you sound a little jealous.”
Xiao’s head whipped around so fast it was a miracle he didn’t give himself whiplash. “I am not jealous.”
“Right, right,” Kunikuzushi said with a nod, but the grin never left his face. “You’re just disgusted. That’s why you keep staring at my neck like you want to rip someone’s head off.”
Xiao’s eye twitched. “I’m staring because it’s hard to believe someone actually wanted to put their mouth on you.”
“Ouch.” Kunikuzushi clutched his chest dramatically like he’d just been shot. “You wound me, Xiao.”
“Good,” Xiao deadpanned.
Kunikuzushi laughed softly, shaking his head as he flicked ash from the end of his cigarette. He looked far too pleased with himself, like he’d just won some sort of game Xiao didn’t even realize he was playing.
Kunikuzushi stepped closer, the night air thick with the lingering scent of smoke and something heavier — tension, maybe. The cigarette dangled lazily between his index and middle finger, already burned halfway down to the filter. His eyes were locked on Xiao’s face, studying him with a slow, deliberate intensity, as if he could peel back each layer and expose every little thing Xiao tried to keep hidden.
Xiao’s patience snapped like a brittle wire. “If you do that fucking thing where you blow smoke in my mouth again…” he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice low and razor-sharp, “I’m going to sew your lips together and let you starve to death.”
He moved to smack the cigarette out of Kunikuzushi’s hand, but Kunikuzushi was faster. He pulled his hand back and lifted it high, well above Xiao’s reach. He held it there with a teasing smile, like this was all just a game to him — like everything was a game to him.
“Ah-ah,” Kunikuzushi cooed, voice dripping with condescension. “Watch it, pretty bird. You really ought to work on that temper.”
Xiao’s face scrunched in irritation, and Kunikuzushi’s gentle grin only widened. He tilted his head slightly, eyes half-lidded and amused as if he could practically taste Xiao’s frustration.
“You’re not my therapist,” Xiao snapped, voice sharp. “I don’t need to fix shit.”
“See, that’s what I mean,” Kunikuzushi sighed, dramatically exasperated. He tapped his temple with his free hand, as if trying to drive home some great philosophical point. “Using my words with you never works. You’re as much of a bouldering buffoon as your father.”
Xiao’s glare darkened instantly. “Careful.”
Kunikuzushi snickered. “Oh, calm down. I’m only teasing. Mostly.” He let the words hang in the air for a moment too long before continuing with a mock-pitying sigh. “Lucky for you, I know other ways to correct that little delinquent behavior of yours.”
Before Xiao could respond, his hand shot up, gripping Kunikuzushi’s face with enough force to make his nails bite into skin. Kunikuzushi didn’t flinch. If anything, his grin only widened. He loved this — the fire, the anger, the way Xiao trembled ever so slightly under the weight of his own rage.
“No,” Xiao spat coldly, voice low and venomous.
Kunikuzushi’s smile twitched at the edges, almost predatory. “No?”
Then, without warning, he pressed the end of his still-burning cigarette to the side of Xiao’s neck.
The sharp, searing pain shot through Xiao like a bolt of lightning. He hissed loudly, yanking his hand away from Kunikuzushi’s face to clutch at his neck. “Ow! What the fuck was that—”
He didn’t get to finish.
Kunikuzushi moved swiftly, grabbing Xiao’s wrist with one hand and ripping it away from the burn mark. In the next breath, his lips were on Xiao’s neck, soft and warm against the angry red welt.
Xiao sucked in a sharp breath — not out of pain, but something else entirely. The feeling was so sudden, so overwhelming, that his knees almost buckled. His eyelids fluttered shut on instinct, his body betraying him in the most humiliating way imaginable. He shut off every other sense, focusing solely on the sensation — the warmth of Kunikuzushi’s mouth, the way his breath ghosted over sensitive skin, the way the pain melted into something deeper, something darker.
It wasn’t conscious. It wasn’t something Xiao had meant to do. But for those few fleeting seconds, he was raw. Exposed. Vulnerable.
When Kunikuzushi finally pulled away, he took his time. He admired Xiao’s expression with slow, deliberate satisfaction, like he was gazing at a masterpiece he’d painted with his own two hands. Xiao was flushed, his breathing shallow and uneven, his eyes half-lidded — and despite the sharp glare he tried to pin Kunikuzushi with, it didn’t quite have the same bite.
“Wow,” Kunikuzushi drawled, his voice dripping with amusement. “You’re sensitive. Who would’ve thought?”
Xiao’s nostrils flared. “Fuck you.”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Kunikuzushi grinned wider, letting the suggestion hang heavy in the air. “Come on, admit it. You didn’t pull away. In fact…” He leaned in slightly, tilting his head with mock curiosity. “I think you liked it.”
Xiao’s eyes snapped open fully, rage flaring hot and fast. “I’m going to kill you.”
“Sure you are.” Kunikuzushi chuckled as he let go of Xiao’s wrist with an infuriatingly casual shrug. He bent down to pick up the cigarette he’d dropped in the scuffle, examining the broken, burnt end with a sigh. “Shame. I wasn’t finished with this.”
Xiao’s breathing was still heavy, his heart pounding violently against his ribs. “Go fuck yourself..”
“Gladly,” Kunikuzushi said smoothly, turning toward the door. But just before he stepped out, he glanced over his shoulder with one last teasing smirk. “By the way… you make the cutest little sounds when you’re angry.”
Chapter 10: Enkai
Chapter Text
The kitchen was lit with an unsettling, almost sterile brightness, the kind that made everything too vivid — the slick sheen on the flesh, the glint of the metal, the low hum of fluorescent lights. A human torso lay sprawled across the center island like some grotesque centerpiece, ribs splayed open, entrails glistening under the glare. Kunikuzushi stood over it in a fitted black apron and yellow rubber gloves, looking like a demented parody of a Food Network chef. He was humming to himself, knife in hand, as he tilted his head toward Xiao.
“Oh, don’t be a pussy,” he said cheerfully, as though he were trying to convince Xiao to taste a weird cocktail and not participate in a war crime. “I’ll cut the tendons and whatnot, and you get to pull the meat out. It’s not as disgusting as you think it is—well… all right, that’s a lie—but hear me out, my dear pretty bird, it’s quite entertaining.”
He tossed a pair of latex gloves at Xiao with the same casual flair someone might toss car keys to a designated driver. They bounced off Xiao’s chest and flopped to the floor with a sad little splat.
Xiao didn’t move. His face had frozen somewhere between disbelief and horror, and he was staring at the disassembled corpse like it might leap off the counter at any moment. “No,” he said flatly, voice dry and sharp like he was trying not to gag.
Kunikuzushi groaned in mock agony and dramatically rolled his eyes. “You are so difficult. My god, you’re a stubborn and disobedient bird.” He yanked a gleaming knife from the block with theatrical flair and leaned over the counter, tapping the blade's point gently against Xiao’s nose like a conductor cueing an orchestra. “What happened to the little fledgling I spent so much time curating? The one who actually did what I said without all this fuss?”
Xiao didn’t so much as flinch. His hand shot up and clamped around Kunikuzushi’s wrist with bone-crushing force. He yanked the knife away from his face and scowled. “Quiet. What is this even for?”
Kunikuzushi’s grin stretched wider, unnerving in how much amusement it carried. “I’m making us dinner,” he said sweetly, as if that cleared everything up. “Or rather, I’m testing a few recipes for a little get-together I’m hosting Saturday evening. You, my dearest Xiao, get the very prestigious honor of being my taste tester.”
That grin again. Xiao wanted to claw it off his face with his bare hands. It wasn’t human — it was the smile of something that never should’ve been human to begin with.
It took Xiao a moment, but when the dots finally connected, they hit like a freight train. He blinked once, then twice, and his mouth fell open ever so slightly before his whole face twisted into something halfway between horror and revulsion. He physically recoiled, taking a sharp step back, his nose wrinkling as if the stench of death had finally caught up to him.
“You’re a fucking cannibal?” Xiao choked out, the words practically clawing their way up his throat.
Kunikuzushi paused for a beat, glancing up from the ribcage he was currently dissecting. “Well,” he drawled, “you make it sound so unrefined when you say it like that.”
He turned back to the torso with casual ease and sunk his knife into a space between bones, prying something loose. “I’ve never actually tried human meat before, thank you very much. This is all hypothetical. An experiment! A culinary adventure, if you will. I won’t technically be a cannibal until I’ve tried it and enjoyed it. That’s how it works.”
Xiao’s eye twitched. “That’s not how it works!”
“Semantics,” Kunikuzushi shrugged, digging through the open cavity with bare fingers like he was searching for a prize at the bottom of a cereal box. “Besides, it’s not like I’m doing this for nothing. I even paired a wine with it. Pinot noir. I think it complements lung particularly well. Or maybe kidney. You’ll let me know, won’t you?”
Xiao looked like he was seriously considering setting the entire house on fire. “You dragged me across the city to feed me corpse casserole?”
“Technically it’s more of a corpse carpaccio, if I go with the raw prep, which I might. Still deciding.”
Xiao shook his head slowly, lips parted slightly, stuck in that perfect middle ground between disbelief and deep, visceral disapproval. He looked like he was staring at an abstract painting painted entirely in blood—and, well, technically, he was. His brow furrowed deeper with every second, his brain struggling to rationalize whatever the hell he’d just walked into. “Unbelievable. Truly,” he muttered under his breath, not really aiming the words at Kunikuzushi so much as just letting them spill from his mouth in a desperate attempt to process reality.
Kunikuzushi, not missing a beat, turned to glance over his shoulder with a smirk so sharp it could’ve sliced through bone. He popped a chunk of something red and questionably tender into a small frying pan, and the sizzle it made was deeply inappropriate for how disturbing this whole setup was. He raised a single, elegant eyebrow—just one—as he narrowed his eyes at Xiao.
“Are you going to keep standing there looking stupid,” he began, tone dry like sandpaper and just as irritating, “or are you going to take a seat like a civilized guest and patiently await your dinner?”
The audacity.
Xiao stared for another long moment, his silence loud, his expression unreadable save for the intense “What the actual fuck” vibes radiating off of him like secondhand smoke. He wanted to leave—should have left—but he found himself reluctantly lowering into one of the kitchen stools anyway, elbows on the counter, eyes fixed on Kunikuzushi like he was watching a highly unhinged cooking show that could at any moment turn into a murder scene.
His eyes flicked to the stove, where something that looked suspiciously like a ribeye steak—if ribeye steaks had once belonged to someone with a social security number—was beginning to brown. The smell wasn’t… awful. And that made it worse.
Kunikuzushi was humming to himself again, like this was just another Tuesday. He moved around the kitchen with an ease that irritated Xiao for reasons he couldn’t explain. There was flour on his apron, blood on his gloves, and an expensive-looking wine bottle open on the counter, as if this unholy culinary experiment deserved a proper pairing.
Xiao shifted in his seat, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “So, what—you lure people here with your smile and weird eyeliner, chop them up in your kitchen, and play Iron Chef: Hell Edition?”
Kunikuzushi didn’t even look up as he added herbs to the pan. “Please, don’t be dramatic. It’s a very selective process. And technically, I didn’t lure you—you came here voluntarily, remember? Probably some part of you was curious.”
“Curious,” Xiao echoed flatly, “is one word for it. I’d say ‘deeply concerned’ is more accurate.”
Kunikuzushi finally looked at him again, tilting his head slightly. “You are still here, though, which means some part of you is invested. Maybe even a little excited.”
Xiao scowled, color touching his cheeks. “I’m here because I don’t trust you alone with… literally anyone. Also, you threatened to hunt me down if I ignored your invite.”
“Once again, semantics,” Kunikuzushi sing-songed as he plated something red and disturbingly juicy onto a small, pristine white dish. “Presentation is everything,” he added, as though that somehow erased the war crime currently sizzling in his pan.
Xiao looked at the plate like it might lunge at him. “If I get food poisoning or start hallucinating dead people, I’m coming back here and setting your spice rack on fire.”
Kunikuzushi grinned, sliding the dish across the counter toward him like it was a romantic gesture. “You’re always so dramatic. Come on, just one bite. If it helps, pretend it’s lamb.”
Xiao stared at the plate. Then at Kunikuzushi. Then back at the plate.
He sighed. “This is the worst dinner date I’ve ever been on.”
Kunikuzushi beamed. “But not your last, I hope.”
Xiao rolled his eyes so hard it gave him a headache.
Kunikuzushi moved with a slow, practiced elegance, retrieving a wine glass from the tall cabinet above his countertops, the soft clink of glass against glass echoing through the dimly lit kitchen. In his other hand, he held a dark bottle with no label—just a smooth, matte surface and a wax-sealed top that had been cracked open with the kind of care someone might use on a holy relic. He walked back to where Xiao sat, silent and visibly stiff in the chair, and set the glass down in front of him before beginning to pour.
The liquid that spilled into the glass was thick, almost syrupy, deep red—darker than any wine Xiao had ever seen. It settled with an unnervingly slow swirl, the scent that rose from it rich and cloying. Kunikuzushi poured only halfway, then set the bottle aside and picked up the glass again. His fingers curled gently around the delicate stem as he raised it to Xiao’s lips with a coy little smile.
“Try it,” he said softly, like he was offering something intimate. “I made it myself.”
Xiao leaned away, recoiling just enough to make his disinterest obvious, and snatched the glass from Kunikuzushi’s hand. He didn’t like being fed, especially not by him. He glared up from under his lashes, but the look on Kunikuzushi’s face didn’t change. Still smiling. Still patient.
With a quiet sigh of annoyance, Xiao brought the rim of the glass to his mouth and took a cautious sip.
The flavor hit him immediately—unexpected, bold, complex. It was tart and tangy, like cherries soaked in something aged and heavy, but there was also a smooth sweetness beneath it that lingered on his tongue. Something metallic danced at the edge of it, faint but impossible to ignore. The texture was heavier than any wine he was used to. It was decadent. Almost... addicting.
Xiao blinked. He couldn’t deny that he liked it. But his face stayed flat, neutral. “It’s good,” he muttered, trying not to sound too pleased. “What’s in it?”
Kunikuzushi’s smile widened in a way that made Xiao instantly regret asking. “Blood,” he said simply.
Everything in Xiao’s body seized at once.
He didn’t respond at first—just stared, wide-eyed, at the half-empty glass in his hand. His lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but no words came out. He looked down at the wine again, his mind retracing the taste, that sweetness that hadn’t felt entirely... fruit-based.
Blood?
“God damn you,” Xiao snapped, slamming the glass down on the table with more force than necessary. The sound of it hitting the wood echoed.
Kunikuzushi chuckled low in his throat and leaned his elbow on the counter, resting his chin in his hand. “You liked it,” he said smugly. “Maybe that makes you a vampire. Or at least it makes you mine in some small, bloody way. A drop of blood binds more tightly than a thousand spoken words, you know.”
“You’re insane,” Xiao hissed through clenched teeth. His knuckles had gone pale from how hard he was clenching his fists. His heart was racing, pounding against his ribs like it was trying to escape his body.
And yet…
His gaze flicked back to the glass.
He hated himself for it—but the flavor still lingered on his tongue, and it was good. He could taste it in the back of his throat, feel it in his chest like a warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time. There was something in that drink that spoke to a part of him he didn’t like to acknowledge—something feral, buried, thirsty.
Without a word, he reached for the glass again. Kunikuzushi’s eyes lit up as he watched Xiao lift it to his mouth and tilt it back in one smooth motion, swallowing the rest of the wine in a single breath. He didn’t even stop to consider what he was doing, he just drank. And when he set the glass down, it was empty.
Kunikuzushi stared for a beat, clearly not expecting Xiao to go through with it. He leaned in slightly, almost impressed.
Xiao extended his arm, holding the glass out toward him with a trembling hand. His voice came low, dark, and demanding.
“More.”
There was a flicker in Kunikuzushi’s eyes—triumph, amusement, and something else. Something like affection twisted into something deeply twisted. He took the glass with slow fingers, brushing Xiao’s hand just a little too long as he did.
“Of course,” he murmured.
Kunikuzushi, for all his morally ambiguous tendencies and unnerving charm, somehow maintained decent terms with a surprising number of people. It wasn’t that he cared for them—he didn’t, not really. But he was charismatic in a way that made people overlook the pit of snakes beneath the surface. His relationships were transactional, filtered through the silent framework of a mental pyramid he had crafted for how he categorized the people in his life.
At the top of that hierarchy sat the rarest bond he believed could exist—true, soul-binding adoration between two individuals. A connection so deep and interwoven it felt eternal. In that state, one was untouchable, safe from becoming meat in his hands or a curiosity to be picked apart. Below that was the level reserved for lovers—romantic or carnal, fleeting or intense. Below them were friends, an even rarer occurrence. Then came acquaintances, people he might smile at but wouldn’t flinch to gut if the situation called for it. And finally, at the base of the pyramid: strangers. Unremarkable fleshbags who served as decorative meat, or, in his words, “walking dinner.”
The truth was, anyone on the pyramid could be dinner. The only difference was how much emotional calculus it took for him to justify it. The higher up you were, the more convincing the justification had to be before he’d carve you into pieces and plate you for a party.
Only one person, outside the tangled mess that was his relationship with Xiao, had made it to the “friend” tier—and that was Chiori.
Chiori was blunt, painfully so. She had little patience for his dramatics and even less for his philosophical musings about blood, flesh, and art. But she was brilliant, her hands skilled with a needle and thread in a way that almost made him forget the scent of blood for a moment. She was already well-established in the fashion world, with her own designer brand and a reputation that didn’t care much for trends or flattery. Kunikuzushi liked her because she never tried to please him. She didn’t flatter, didn’t coddle—she simply did, and she did it well.
Today, she stood in front of him with a handful of pins clenched between her lips and a measuring tape draped over her shoulders, fitting him for a new suit he’d requested specifically for an evening affair. He stood still—well, as still as someone like him ever could—while she circled him, tugging at the fabric, muttering about adjustments, and measuring out changes in her sharp, efficient tone.
She pulled a pin from her lips and stuck it into the hem at his side. “Whatever you do, please don’t stain this one like you did the last,” she said, tone dry as sandpaper. “I am fully aware that you're some kind of miracle worker when it comes to getting viscera out of silk, but for the love of all things beautiful, I am begging you—let just one of my suits survive without being tainted by your... antics.”
Kunikuzushi tilted his head slightly, amused by her dramatics. “Oh, Chiori,” he purred with a low chuckle, “you need not worry. I have no plans to ruin this one. It’s one of your best works to date, truly—elegant, subtle, and just threatening enough.”
“You said the same thing about the last one,” she replied flatly, stepping back to examine the fit. “And then I found it hanging over your bathtub soaked in something that looked—and I’m quoting your note here—like ‘evidence.’”
He broke into laughter, unbothered. “That was an accident. You can’t blame me for what happened when the guest decided to be... noncompliant.”
“I can blame you,” she said, tightening the seam at his waist with a few quick pins. “Because I know you enjoyed it.”
Kunikuzushi smirked. “Well, sure. But I enjoyed the suit too.”
She looked up at him, unimpressed. “Enjoy it a little cleaner this time.”
He gave her a faux salute with two fingers and winked. “No promises, seamstress.”
“You never make promises I’d believe, anyway,” she muttered under her breath, spinning him slightly by the shoulder. “Now stop twitching, or I’m sewing this collar shut around your smug neck.”
Despite everything—his love of chaos, his cold detachment from most things human—Kunikuzushi found a rare, strange comfort in her presence. In her disapproval. In her craftsmanship. Perhaps, in her refusal to be afraid of him.
“You quietly free your woes about bloodstains in the clothes you make for me—blood that I’ve learned how to erase completely, to wash out so precisely it’s like it never existed—but even still, you scrub your hands until they bleed under boiling water, like you’re trying to cleanse something that’s already gone,” Kunikuzushi mused, his voice casual, but laced with a pointed edge.
He didn’t look at Chiori as he spoke, but he didn’t need to. He knew the shape of her silence, the way her shoulders tensed ever so slightly, the pause in her stitching, the quiet stiffness in her breath. That was the real stain—one that didn’t sit on the surface of fabric but soaked deep into skin and memory. He always saw it, even when she didn’t speak of it.
Chiori liked to pretend she was untouched, pristine, that the world had never dirtied her the way it had dirtied others. But Kunikuzushi knew better. He had seen her for what she really was the night everything changed—the night she killed a man.
It was self-defense. Technically. The man had broken into her studio late at night, drunk and aggressive, someone she had known, once—a business partner with connections and a controlling hand who didn’t take no for an answer. The confrontation turned violent. But the brutality, the frenzy that followed? That wasn’t self-defense. That was something else entirely.
It was Kunikuzushi’s voice in her head, his philosophies about human nature and hidden instincts. It was the influence of his presence, a corruption so subtle it didn’t feel like corruption at all. And it had been a pair of antique, decorative scissors—beautiful, elegant, sharpened to a cruel point—that tore into the man’s face until he was unrecognizable. She hadn’t stopped until there was nothing left to identify him by. The scissors had once been used to snip silk. That night, they’d carved through muscle and cartilage like wet cloth.
Chiori never spoke of it. Never once brought it up outside of the legal proceedings. But Kunikuzushi never let her forget—not because he wanted to guilt her, but because he understood. He’d seen what lived in her under all the poise and sharp tailoring. He hadn’t created that part of her, he’d just coaxed it out of hiding. That was what he did. He reached into people, into the cracks of their morality, and dragged the worst parts of them into the light. It was a gift. A curse, maybe. But a skill nonetheless.
She had been charged with manslaughter. The court gave her ten years. But between the plea of self-defense and the thousands upon thousands of mora Kunikuzushi poured into a legal team—and no small amount of quiet threats made to certain parties—the sentence had been reduced dramatically. Just a few months behind bars. And then she was free.
Well. Relatively free.
Because Kunikuzushi’s generosity was never unconditional. The kindness he gave always came wrapped in something jagged. For her freedom, he didn’t ask for money, or public gratitude, or favors she could pay back in materials or labor. He asked for silence. Absolute, unwavering, inviolable silence.
In return for pulling her out of that prison cell and erasing what he could of her record, she was to never speak of what he told her. Never mention his name in a courtroom. Never whisper even the softest details of what she’d learned about him to anyone, least of all law enforcement. She was part of his world now. A world where truth was dangerous and trust was a form of currency.
She’d agreed, of course. What other choice did she have?
And even now, all this time later, standing there pinning a suit jacket on the very man who had kept her from rotting in a cell, Chiori still bore the weight of that deal. Not just in her silence, but in the way her eyes sometimes darkened when Kunikuzushi said too much. In the way she washed her hands as if they’d never be clean again, no matter how much scalding water she used. Kunikuzushi? He saw all of it. With a smile.
“Why don’t you attend my dinner tonight?” Kunikuzushi asked, his voice light and smooth, almost too casual, like he already knew the answer and was just playing a game he’d rigged from the start.
“No, I’m busy,” Chiori responded quickly, flatly. She didn’t even look up from the fabric she was working with, fingers deftly folding a seam as though the conversation wasn’t even worth pausing for.
“Oh, but… your beloved Emilie will be there,” Kunikuzushi added, drawing out the name like it was a secret he shouldn’t have said aloud but was far too delighted to keep to himself.
Chiori’s fingers froze mid-crease. Her shoulders tensed, her whole posture locking up like someone had just pulled a gun on her from across the room. She looked up slowly, eyes sharp and unreadable, cold enough to make the air feel like it had dropped a few degrees. She stared at him with the kind of look that could flay skin if stares were blades.
He didn’t flinch.
She knew Kunikuzushi well enough to understand his limits—or rather, the lack of them. He wouldn’t hurt her, probably. But Emilie? The one person Chiori had tried so hard to keep separate from the darker parts of her life? The one she actually cared about?
That was different. That was leverage.
Kunikuzushi was always subtle with his threats. He didn’t need to say anything overtly. Just a name. A look. A suggestion wrapped in silk. And suddenly the choice wasn’t really a choice at all. She could already feel her stomach twisting at the thought of Emilie walking into his house alone, unaware of the danger. No matter how polite the invitation was, the moment Emilie crossed that threshold, she’d be under Kunikuzushi’s rules. His control.
Chiori exhaled sharply through her nose, pushing down the rising anger and anxiety that swirled like bile in her throat. “Fine. I’ll be there,” she muttered, her voice bitter but resigned.
Kunikuzushi grinned, entirely too pleased with himself, like a cat that just knocked something off a shelf just to watch it fall. “Wonderful! Wear that burgundy dress you made a while back,” he added cheerfully, already turning back toward the kitchen, “It’s stunning and it matches the aesthetics of my home.”
She stared after him with narrowed eyes, trying to tamp down the rage building behind her ribs. Not for the first time, she wondered how she ever ended up entangled with someone like him. But the answer was always the same: you don’t untangle yourself from someone like Kunikuzushi. You just brace for the next knot.
Kunikuzushi had a peculiar gift—one that wasn’t flashy or supernatural, but quietly unnerving in its accuracy. He had a way of predicting things with near-clairvoyant precision, not through magic, but through a deep and unnervingly calculating awareness of people and the world around him. So when he had confidently declared earlier in the week that the skies would be clear all evening and well into the night, despite the heavy cloud cover at the time, nobody quite believed him. And yet, as always, he was right.
The night air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of honeysuckle and something richer—wine, maybe, or the slow-roasted meats from the kitchen. His sprawling estate was lit to perfection, ambient lighting strung artfully along the hedges and wrapped around the trellises, casting a warm golden hue across the garden. Moonlight beamed in through the grand glass panels of his dining room, mixing with the candlelight to cast flickering shadows across the table in a way that looked almost theatrical, as if the entire dinner was taking place on a stage.
The dining table, long and sleek with an obsidian sheen, was lined with eleven place settings, each one meticulously arranged. No plate looked like the next—each had its own individual flourish, a sprig of rosemary here, a delicate smear of wine-reduction sauce there. The meals were visually stunning, plated like art, every cut of meat seared to perfection, every vegetable roasted to just the right degree. The wine glasses, tall and narrow, were filled halfway with a deep red that shimmered in the candlelight, its scent sweet, woody, and faintly iron-rich.
Kunikuzushi had initially only intended the dinner for a select few, a quiet evening with people he found tolerable, perhaps even enjoyable. But, as always, things changed. Through Heizou—who had an almost chaotic habit of inviting others without warning—a few additional guests made their way in. Somehow, he didn’t mind. In fact, the more people at the table, the better the atmosphere. It became less about the individual conversations and more about the collective energy. Controlled chaos, exactly the kind of environment Kunikuzushi thrived in.
Seated around the table were Xiao, Venti, and Kazuha—three people whose complicated relationships with one another made them entertaining to observe. Heizou himself sat nearby, smugly pleased with the successful turnout. Cyno and Tighnari, paired like mismatched bookends, quietly discussed something that sounded vaguely scientific. Albedo listened in, occasionally contributing with an aloof nod. Chevreuse—Chevy, to her friends—balanced a glass of wine in one hand. Emilie sat near the end of the table, her eyes scanning the room with measured caution, while Chiori sat across from her, rigid and alert, her eyes flicking toward Emilie every few seconds to make sure she was still safe.
Kunikuzushi stood at the head of the table, lifting his glass lightly and tapping the side of it with his fork. The soft, crystalline chime silenced the room in seconds.
“Thank you all for attending this evening,” he began, voice smooth and languid, tone effortlessly polite with a hint of mischief dancing beneath it. “And thank you, Heizou, for bringing along more bodies than I expected. The more the merrier, of course. Thankfully, I may have gone a little overboard with how much food I ordered—though, to be fair, I always do.” He glanced down the length of the table with a charming, vaguely sinister smile. “That said, I will warn you all—nothing here is vegetarian. Not a single dish. So if you find a bone that’s a bit too small, or a cut of meat with a texture you don’t quite recognize… do try not to think too hard about it.”
A few uneasy chuckles rose from the table, some people assuming he was joking. Others—those who knew him better—paused just a little too long before picking up their forks.
Kunikuzushi finally took his seat, folding one leg over the other, resting an elbow on the table as he sipped from his own glass. He didn’t reach for his food just yet. No, he liked to watch first. There was something deeply satisfying in watching the way people ate—what they gravitated toward, what they avoided, the expressions they made when they tasted something unfamiliar. And he especially loved the music of it all—the clinking of forks, the low hum of conversation, the occasional laugh or sip of wine. It was like a symphony, and he was the composer. He loved dinner parties. Not for the food, though the cuisine was always excellent. Not for the company, though he’d handpicked the guest list with some care. No—he loved them for the performance of it all. The masks people wore, the lies they dressed in politeness; the secrets Heizou was known for his sharp wit and almost irritating confidence, a trait that often carried him through the criminology program with both admiration and annoyance from his peers. He was currently enrolled in the detective course, and while still technically a student, he carried himself like someone who had already cracked a dozen unsolved cases. With him tonight were his colleagues: Cyno and Chevreuse, both undergoing law enforcement training and already speaking in clipped, procedural tones like real officers; Tighnari, Emilie, and Albedo, all enrolled in various branches of forensics, each specializing in something morbidly fascinating—chemical analysis, decomposition studies, trace evidence.
Together, they formed what could only be described as an overeager academic task force, all quietly (and not so quietly) obsessed with the same thing—the ongoing series of gruesome campus murders. The press had dubbed the killer Kurayami, an eerie, stylized name that carried far too much weight and dread in local circles. The name had spread through whispered dorm gossip, faculty briefings, and of course, the press, who wrote about the killings like they were narrating a macabre novel.
What none of them knew, of course, was that they were gathered in the home of the very man they were trying to catch. Kunikuzushi, seated comfortably at the head of the table, wore an unbothered smile. He always played the gracious host beautifully, his expression unreadable, his words carefully selected like he was picking the perfect knife from a drawer.
And so they talked, passing wine and roasted vegetables and what they believed to be expertly seared duck breast around the table. The conversation turned, inevitably, toward Kurayami.
“I think I might know who the killer is,” Heizou said, far too casually, like he were commenting on the weather.
Forks paused mid-air. Xiao, usually impossible to shake, went rigid in his seat. Chiori’s hand hovered over her wine glass. Even Kunikuzushi, though still calm, slowed the motion of his fork as it neared his lips. He didn’t stop eating, of course—he just moved with more attention.
Emilie blinked. “You’re joking.”
Heizou shook his head, leaning forward slightly as if sharing a secret. “No. I’ve been following the pattern of the murders. Time, location, signature. The level of precision suggests the killer isn’t just some unhinged maniac. He’s methodical. He plans. And he’s someone who’s familiar with the layout of the campus and surrounding areas. I think he’s a student.”
“That’s a bit of a leap, isn’t it?” Chevreuse muttered, chewing with a skeptical expression.
“It’s not that far-fetched,” Tighnari chimed in. “Most of the crime scenes are tucked away in places only students would know how to access. The basement of the humanities building? The derelict greenhouse behind the biology labs? You’d have to live on campus to know about those.”
“And what about the evidence?” Albedo asked, always the clinical mind. “Any physical traces? DNA? Footprints? Surveillance?”
Heizou exhaled sharply. “No hard evidence yet, but listen—hear me out. There was a serial killer in Inazuma a few years ago, dubbed the Inazuma Shrike. Same M.O. Precise incisions, theatrical positioning of the bodies, some sort of symbolism layered into the scene. That killer disappeared after a final, very public kill that made the news nationwide. It’s been silent since… until now. These recent killings? They feel like the Shrike’s work. I think Kurayami and the Shrike are one and the same.”
A pause fell over the table.
Then, Kunikuzushi spoke, voice soft, polite, but laced with something colder beneath. “Wasn’t there a copycat murder in Narukami just a few months ago? Same staging, same blood patterns, if I recall. But wasn’t it ruled out as connected to the original Shrike due to… inconsistencies?”
Heizou looked up, surprised that Kunikuzushi was keeping up. “There was a murder, yes,” he admitted. “But the artistry was missing. It felt… lazy. Like someone trying to mimic something they didn’t fully understand. I think that was the copycat. Kurayami’s kills feel too intentional. Too... practiced. And that kind of skill doesn’t come from imitation. It comes from experience.”
Kunikuzushi leaned back slightly in his chair, wine glass poised delicately between his fingers. “And yet, you’re staking your entire theory on a feeling? No forensics, no trace, no testimony. Just... intuition?”
Heizou’s jaw tightened, but he maintained his tone. “It’s not just intuition. I’m making educated connections. Investigative pattern recognition.”
“It sounds like you’re chasing ghosts,” Kunikuzushi replied, tone still smooth but unmistakably edged now. “Theatrics are hardly unique to one killer. Artists exist in every corner of madness. Isn’t it a little arrogant to assume only one mind could stage a body with flair?”
“I’m not assuming anything,” Heizou said evenly, though the spark behind his eyes said otherwise. “I’m gathering data. There’s a difference.”
Kunikuzushi offered a slow, deliberate nod. “Of course. But do be careful. There’s a fine line between deduction and delusion, detective. And sometimes the pursuit of monsters leads one to ignore the mirror.”
The entire table had gone quiet, save for the clink of glass and the occasional awkward cough. Xiao’s gaze flicked between them, waiting for the tension to snap. Chiori had gone still, eyes narrowing as she studied Kunikuzushi like she’d never seen him before. Emilie leaned toward her slightly, unconsciously seeking reassurance.
Heizou’s eyes remained on Kunikuzushi, a smile forming—strained, but polite. “I suppose time will tell.”
Kunikuzushi raised his glass. “Indeed. To time, then. And to the masks it peels away.”
Their glasses clinked. The wine tasted sweet—maybe too sweet. And no one, not even the students with years of crime scene theory under their belts, dared to ask what it was actually made from.
When the plates had been scraped clean and the conversation began to lull, Kunikuzushi rose from his seat with graceful ease, the picture of refined hospitality. He clasped his hands together, smiling politely at his guests.
“Well, that was delightful,” he said, collecting a stack of empty plates with uncanny precision. “Xiao, be a dear and help me with dessert, would you?”
Xiao groaned lowly, clearly annoyed, but still rose without protest. “Tch. Fine.”
Together, they disappeared into the adjoining kitchen, the soft clatter of ceramic filling the air. Kunikuzushi, already ahead of him, placed the plates into a basin of steaming water laced with soap, his sleeves rolled just enough to keep them dry. He moved methodically—every action calculated, polished, as if this were not his home, but a stage.
As he reached for the pristine white platters set aside for dessert, a head peeked in around the doorway.
“Kuni,” Heizou called, his voice steady but lacking its usual irreverent lilt. “Could I speak with you... alone?”
Kunikuzushi glanced at Xiao, who merely grunted and continued stacking used glasses by the sink. With a slight, practiced nod, Kunikuzushi wiped his hands with a linen towel and stepped into the hallway, quietly closing the door behind him. His expression remained calm, smooth like lacquer.
He studied Heizou briefly, and with all the detached warmth of a socialite greeting an old colleague, asked, “Is something troubling you, Heizou?”
Heizou’s eyes flickered with unease, and for a long, breathless second, he hesitated. Then the words came out—quiet, sharp, and unceremoniously direct:
“Are you Kurayami?”
Kunikuzushi blinked, almost smiling. It was not shock, not even amusement, but a delicate concoction of performance and precision. A well-played card at a high-stakes table.
“Pardon?” he said, almost chuckling. “I beg your pardon?”
Heizou swallowed, but didn’t back down. “I know it sounds insane, but I’ve known you since secondary school. We weren’t friends, not really, but I remember you. You were... different. Cold, analytical. You’ve always had this way of talking about death like it’s just a concept, not something real. I’ve heard you speak about suffering like it’s an academic theory.”
Kunikuzushi said nothing. His silence unnerved more than any words could have.
“And tonight—your response to my theory about the Inazuma Shrike—it wasn’t just dismissive, it was... too informed. Too practiced. You shut it down like you knew exactly which weaknesses to poke at. You study philosophy and history, not criminology. And yet you debated like someone who’s read every page of the case files.”
Kunikuzushi tilted his head, feigning contemplation. “That’s quite an accusation, Heizou. For someone who claims to rely on evidence, you're sounding rather... emotional.”
Heizou’s voice cracked as he pressed on. “You vanish for days at a time. You’re rarely seen on any campus security footage. And Sir Dottore—the man who brought you into the university—was burned to death less than a week after you spoke to him. You’re linked, in one way or another, to several of the victims. Kuni, I—I’m not saying I want it to be you, but everything points—”
“To a narrative you’ve spun,” Kunikuzushi interrupted, voice still low, but now with a tone that suggested sharpened glass just beneath the velvet. “What is it, Heizou? Are you so desperate to solve this case, to be recognized, that you’d bend the story to fit your ambitions?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” Kunikuzushi’s expression darkened now, like a shadow stretching long beneath a setting sun. “You forget, you and I are not so different. You peer into the abyss of human nature every day and call it study. I simply appreciate it for what it is.”
“You’re twisting this,” Heizou snapped quietly.
“Am I? Or are you beginning to see how thin your evidence really is? A few coincidences, a handful of suspicions, and now you’ve decided I’m a murderer?” Kunikuzushi stepped forward, just enough to make Heizou subconsciously shift backward. “You know what’s more terrifying than a killer, Heizou? A false accusation. The idea that one’s life, one’s reputation, can be shattered because someone thinks they see a pattern.”
Heizou’s jaw clenched. His voice was quieter now, uncertain. “You... You always talk like this. Like you’re ten steps ahead. But you’re not untouchable.”
“No,” Kunikuzushi said with a faint smile. “Just very good at staying clean. Unlike some people, I’ve never been caught panicking in public over missing puzzle pieces.”
Heizou’s lips pressed into a hard line. His fists trembled slightly at his sides.
The moment stretched, both men standing in that narrow hallway like two chessmasters locked in a deadlocked endgame. Then Kunikuzushi’s expression softened, just a touch, and he stepped back.
“I understand,” he said gently, with rehearsed sympathy. “This case has clearly gotten under your skin. Perhaps you need some rest. The stress is making you see ghosts.”
Heizou didn’t respond.
“I’ll fetch dessert,” Kunikuzushi added, already turning toward the kitchen, calm once again, mask in place. “Wouldn’t want to keep my guests waiting.”
He left Heizou standing in the dim corridor, unsure of whether he’d just interrogated a man... or been thoroughly played by one.
Kunikuzushi, even as he deftly maneuvered through the verbal maze Heizou laid before him, was not fully focused on the detective-in-training. His responses were precise, his tone controlled, but a small portion of his mind—razor-sharp and ever-alert—was turned elsewhere.
He felt it. The gaze.
It wasn’t Xiao. Kunikuzushi was intimately familiar with Xiao’s presence, like a phantom creeping behind cold stone walls. Xiao watched the way predators do, barely blinking, waiting for weakness to reveal itself in a single flinch or misplaced breath. His stare was never subtle. It pressed into the skin like a blade grazing the throat—a monster always just shy of removing the mask he wore over his own beastly nature.
No, this… this was different.
This gaze was analytical. Cool. Detached. It wasn’t lurking, it was measuring. Whoever it belonged to wasn’t simply observing—they were studying. As though watching a rare and dangerous creature through a thick pane of bulletproof glass, scribbling notes behind it. Someone intellectual, someone trained. Someone used to piecing things together not through instinct, but through method.
A forensic eye. One that tore through surface appearances to reach the marrow beneath.
Kunikuzushi continued his poised performance with Heizou, feigning a sliver of indignation and just enough wounded pride to convince. But under his composed expression, his thoughts reeled. Who is it? he thought, like a chessmaster sensing an unexpected move three plays ahead.
It couldn’t be Cyno—his presence was too direct, too forceful. If Cyno suspected anything, he wouldn’t be hiding behind a wall. He’d be confronting Kunikuzushi in broad daylight, badge or no badge, legal procedure be damned.
Chevreuse? No, too impulsive. Her eyes weren’t sharp enough. They burned with conviction, not curiosity.
It wasn’t Chiori either—she wouldn’t bother with subtlety. She already knew too much and feared the price of knowing more.
Which left Emilie… Tighnari… Albedo.
Kunikuzushi’s gaze lingered on a hallway mirror for a moment, catching the faintest glimmer of movement reflected from the corridor beyond. A fleeting shadow. A breath pulled too softly. There you are, he thought, though he couldn’t yet place the face.
Tighnari was perceptive, detail-oriented. A sharp mind with a moral center that hadn’t yet been corroded by obsession. Albedo… now he was a question mark. Unflinchingly calm. Always composed. The type who could dissect a corpse and eat his lunch in the same breath if it helped further a theory. And Emilie, too—delicate in manner but sharp in comprehension. She knew how to listen when others didn’t realize they were speaking.
It could be any of them, Kunikuzushi mused, carrying himself back toward the kitchen, adjusting his posture just slightly, just enough to appear unaware.
He would find out. Oh, he would find out.
It was unacceptable—insulting—for someone to think they could study him, like he was some unthinking anomaly behind a microscope. Kunikuzushi knew better than anyone: the moment you think you’re observing a monster safely from a distance, is the moment its fangs are already inches from your throat.
He would sniff them out the way a wolf picks up the scent of fear in the woods.
It would be subtle. A slip in conversation. A sideways glance. The way someone paused half a second longer when he mentioned the word “artistic.” One way or another, he would expose the watchful eye that dared dissect him from the shadows.
When he did, they would either learn to close their eyes…
Or never open them again.
Chapter 11: Sakki
Chapter Text
“God fucking damn it!” Kunikuzushi roared, his voice cracking under the weight of his fury as he hurled yet another glass across the room. It shattered against the wall in a spectacular burst of shards, a high-pitched crash reverberating through the space, followed by the soft tinkling of fragments scattering across the floor. He didn’t flinch at the sound. He barely noticed it. All he felt was the heat of rage rising through his body like steam from a boiling pot, his chest heaving, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached.
Xiao had watched this unfold silently for several seconds, his expression unreadable but his arms crossed, body tense like a coiled spring. It was rare—extremely rare—for Kunikuzushi to lose control like this. He always had this air about him: meticulously put together, cool and distant, like nothing in the world could rattle him. The type who calculated every word and movement like a chessmaster several turns ahead of everyone else in the room. But now? He looked unhinged. His eyes were wide, bloodshot at the edges, and he was pacing back and forth like a caged animal with too much adrenaline and nowhere to put it.
Xiao finally broke the silence, raising his voice above the tension as much as he could. “You need to get your shit together and tell me why you’re having a fucking temper tantrum. What the hell happened?”
Kunikuzushi froze in place, his back to Xiao, fists trembling at his sides. Then he turned, slowly, the look in his eyes unlike anything Xiao had seen from him before. Panic. Real, raw panic—laced with fury, humiliation, and the bitter sting of fear. His breathing was heavy, audible, his whole body rising and falling with each breath as though he was forcing himself not to explode again.
“Heizou,” he growled through his teeth, “that little bastard nearly figured me out.”
That admission hit the air like a thunderclap. Xiao’s arms uncrossed and dropped to his sides as he blinked at Kunikuzushi in stunned disbelief, unsure for a moment if he’d heard him correctly. “What?” he asked, more quietly now, his brow furrowed. “What the hell do you mean, ‘figured you out’?”
Kunikuzushi’s hands slammed down hard on the edge of the marble counter, the sound cracking like a whip across the room. His head hung low between his shoulders for a second, his breathing still labored, before he straightened and looked Xiao dead in the eyes. “He knows, Xiao. He knows. He knows I’m Kurayami. He knows I’m the Inazuman Shrike. The little fuck connected the dots, or at least he thinks he has.”
Xiao stared at him, mouth slightly parted. For a moment, he was speechless. He’d always suspected Kunikuzushi walked a dangerous line—hell, he knew it—but hearing it so plainly, seeing him this disoriented, this exposed, it was more than he expected. He didn’t speak right away, trying to process the weight of what was being said, the weight of what Kunikuzushi was.
Eventually, Xiao scoffed, shaking his head. “Y’know,” he muttered, “maybe if you kept your damn mouth shut for once, and quit parading around like you’re some kind of twisted genius with a god complex, you wouldn’t be in this situation.”
Kunikuzushi’s head snapped up again, his eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”
Xiao didn’t back down. “You think you’re invincible. You walk around like the world’s your playground and everyone’s just a pawn in your grand design, but you’re reckless. You talk too much. You drop too many hints. And you like people thinking you’re dangerous. You want to be feared. You want to be known.”
“That’s not true,” Kunikuzushi shot back, but it lacked conviction.
Xiao raised his eyebrows. “No? Then why do you go to such elaborate lengths with your kills? Why the theatrics? Why the riddles, the signatures, the carefully posed bodies like some fucked-up museum exhibit? You want to be caught, Kuni. Maybe not consciously, but some part of you does. And now Heizou’s caught the scent, and you’re spiraling because, for once, you didn’t control the narrative.”
Kunikuzushi’s mouth opened, but no words came out at first. He swallowed, jaw twitching. The rage was still there, simmering under the surface, but it had morphed into something else—something more uncertain. Something Kunikuzushi wasn’t used to dealing with. Fear of exposure. Fear of losing the upper hand. Fear of losing control.
“He’s not going to prove anything,” he finally said, voice lower now but no less intense. “I won’t let him.”
“Good,” Xiao replied coldly, “because if he does, it won’t just be your ass on the line. You dragged me into this mess too, remember?”
Kunikuzushi didn’t respond. He just turned his back to Xiao again, facing the kitchen window, the reflection of his own warped, flickering rage staring back at him in the glass. He was unraveling, and he knew it. But the worst part was that Heizou had seen it—seen enough of it to cast doubt, to connect the pieces. Kunikuzushi had underestimated him, and that was a mistake he couldn’t afford to make again.
“Fucking pathetic,” Xiao muttered under his breath, just low enough to make it sound like an afterthought—but loud enough that it was meant to sting. Maybe part of him wanted Kunikuzushi to hear it. Maybe he wanted to poke the beast just to see how far it would go.
Kunikuzushi did hear it. Every single syllable. The words dug into his brain like nails against bone. He froze for half a second, his entire body tensing, head turning ever so slightly toward Xiao. Then something snapped.
Without a warning, Kunikuzushi’s hand shot out, grabbing a glass from the counter and hurling it across the room with brutal force. The cup whistled through the air and shattered against the wall behind Xiao—but not before grazing his cheek. A thin, clean slice opened up across his skin, and a bright red line of blood began to drip slowly down his face, warm and vivid.
Xiao didn’t flinch. He didn’t even reach up to wipe the blood away. He just glared at Kunikuzushi, his eyes narrowing, jaw tightening. The room was heavy with tension, the kind that turns the air suffocating.
Kunikuzushi’s chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, each breath seething with rage. His hand shot forward, fingers wrapping tightly around the soaked handle of a steak knife sitting in the murky dishwater. Without a second of hesitation, he tore it from the sink and lunged like a striking viper, blade aimed squarely at Xiao’s chest.
Xiao caught his wrist just in time—barely. The knife hovered inches from his ribs, trembling between them as they fought for control. Muscles flexed, veins bulged, and their eyes locked in something more primal than fury. Xiao gritted his teeth and twisted violently, forcing a sharp cry from Kunikuzushi as the knife wrenched from his grip and clattered across the floor, metal ringing against tile.
But the moment of disarmament didn’t slow Kunikuzushi down. He didn’t hesitate. With a savage snarl, he crashed into Xiao, grabbing him by the collar and driving him backward. The two slammed into the wall hard enough to crack the drywall, a jagged dent forming around Xiao’s shoulders with a loud thud.
Kunikuzushi’s hands shot up and raked down the side of Xiao’s face with his nails, dragging deep, angry lines from temple to cheekbone. Skin split under the force. Blood spilled instantly.
Xiao didn’t even flinch.
With a guttural roar, he retaliated. His hands locked around Kunikuzushi’s throat, and he turned the tables, shoving him against the opposite wall. This time the impact rattled the cabinets and knocked a few dishes from a shelf. Xiao squeezed with both hands, tightening his grip with every ounce of restraint he could still cling to. Kunikuzushi’s eyes widened as his airway was crushed, face darkening, veins bulging along his temples.
“You’re a fucking lunatic,” Xiao snarled, the words grinding out between clenched teeth. “You think you’re some tortured genius? You’re just a glorified butcher playing god.”
Kunikuzushi’s mouth opened in a desperate gasp, the sound rasping, ugly. His hands clawed at Xiao’s arms, fingernails digging deep enough to leave bruises and scratch marks, but his strength was already starting to drain. Just before he slipped into unconsciousness, he jammed his knee upward, burying it hard into Xiao’s gut.
Xiao’s breath exploded from his lungs. He stumbled backward with a sharp grunt, arms loosening just long enough for Kunikuzushi to fall to the floor. The man crumpled onto his knees, coughing violently, one hand at his bruised throat, the other scrambling blindly across the floor for anything to strike with.
Xiao spat to the side, blood and saliva hitting the tile near Kunikuzushi. “Try that shit again,” he growled, voice low and deadly, “and I swear to every god you worship, I’ll put you down and bury you where no one will ever find you.”
Kunikuzushi looked up slowly, his face red and blotched, eyes glassy with pain and fury. His lip curled, and blood smeared across his teeth as he sneered. “You think you’re better than me?” he rasped out, voice hoarse and cracking. “You think you're clean? I was the one who pulled you out of your pit, Xiao. Don’t you dare forget—you were nothing before I made you something.”
Xiao took a step back, jaw set, hands shaking with the need to do more damage. Blood ran freely down the side of his face, dripping onto the floor from his chin. His arms were sliced and raw from Kunikuzushi’s fingernails.
“I should’ve stayed there,” he said, his voice like a knife in winter. “Instead of following a psychopath who thinks murder’s some kind of enlightenment.”
The silence that followed was deafening. The ruined kitchen was strewn with broken glass, dented walls, splattered blood, and shattered remnants of something that might’ve once resembled a friendship.
Then Kunikuzushi lunged again.
He was faster, more erratic—like an animal cornered and crazed. Xiao saw the movement, but not in time. Kunikuzushi barreled into him, elbow driving up under Xiao’s chin and catching him square across the jaw with a brutal crack. Xiao stumbled back, reeling, the metallic taste of blood flooding his mouth.
He wiped the back of his hand under his nose, pulling away with a fresh smear of crimson.
He looked up, face bruising, lip split, and then—without a word—turned away and walked to the counter.
Kunikuzushi blinked, still tense, chest heaving. “Are you serious right now?”
Xiao, blood trailing from one nostril and a fresh scratch across his temple, ignored him. He reached for the nearest object—a green apple sitting in the fruit bowl on the counter like it had been waiting for him. He turned it over in his hand once, wiped some of the blood from his palm onto his shirt, and took a massive bite. The crunch echoed in the wrecked silence of the kitchen.
Kunikuzushi stared at him, completely thrown. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Xiao chewed slowly, breathing hard through his nose as more blood trickled down from it. He swallowed, then looked over with the kind of deadpan expression only someone truly exhausted could manage.
“I haven’t eaten,” he said between heavy breaths, “since your dinner party.”
Kunikuzushi blinked, stunned into silence.
“That was two days ago,” Xiao added, taking another loud, angry bite of the apple like he was chewing through the aftermath of everything that had just happened. “You’ve been throwing glasses, knives, and borderline tantrums. And I’m starving.”
There was a beat of silence, both of them still panting, blood staining their skin and clothes, glass crunching under Xiao’s boots as he walked slowly back across the kitchen. He didn’t stop chewing. His eyes stayed locked on Kunikuzushi’s the entire time, like he was daring him to say one more thing.
Kunikuzushi tilted his head slightly, his voice dropping low. “You’re eating my apple after trying to strangle me?”
Xiao licked a drop of blood off his lip and took another bite without breaking eye contact. “You started it.”
Kunikuzushi scoffed, then winced and pressed his hand to his throat where Xiao’s fingers had nearly crushed his windpipe. “You’re lucky I like you.”
“I’m lucky you’re too dramatic to finish anything properly,” Xiao muttered.
It was unclear whether that last comment would ignite another round, but instead, Kunikuzushi just leaned back against the counter, still watching Xiao closely—calm on the surface, but his eyes blazing.
The kitchen was a war zone: broken dishes, blood streaked on cabinets, furniture crooked and dented. Yet somehow, in the middle of it all, Xiao stood chewing an apple like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Despite everything, Kunikuzushi let out a short, bitter laugh.
“Next time,” he muttered, “I’m hiding the fruit bowl.”
Chapter 12: Aigo
Chapter Text
If Xiao were to be completely honest with himself—which he rarely was—what he was about to do had nothing to do with loyalty, compassion, or any misguided sense of protecting Kunikuzushi. There was no affection between them. Whatever twisted bond they might have once shared had long since decayed into something feral and violent, stained by blood and riddled with contempt. No, Xiao’s decision to hunt down Heizou had a much darker root.
He was going to kill Heizou—not because he cared about Kunikuzushi, but because Heizou was getting too close. Too close to the truth. Too close to unraveling the mystery of Kurayami. And if Heizou succeeded… if he exposed Kunikuzushi and turned him in… then everything would be taken from Xiao. His chance. His justice. His revenge.
Because Xiao wanted to be the one who ended Kunikuzushi. Not law enforcement, not a courtroom, not a jury who could never possibly understand the monster they were dealing with. Xiao needed to be the one who tore him down, not with evidence and arguments, but with bare hands and raw violence. It wasn’t about justice. It was about satisfaction. It was about making Kunikuzushi feel everything he had inflicted on others—fear, helplessness, betrayal.
Why hadn’t he done it already? He’d asked himself that question more times than he could count. He’d had the opportunity. Several, in fact. And every time, something held him back. Timing, he’d told himself. It wasn’t the right time. He needed to wait for the perfect moment—when Kunikuzushi was at his most vulnerable, when the stage was set just right. But deep down, he knew that wasn’t the full truth. He hadn’t decided how yet. How it should happen.
Quick and brutal? Slow and calculated? Should he do it in silence, watching the light fade from Kunikuzushi’s eyes? Or should he speak every word he’d been holding in for years as he drove the knife in? There were so many ways to end it, and Xiao wanted it to be perfect. A final chapter written in blood.
Heizou? He was a threat to that ending. A variable Xiao couldn’t control. If he kept digging, if he went to the authorities, then Kunikuzushi would be caged, not destroyed. Tamed, not punished.
So Heizou had to die. Not for Kunikuzushi’s sake. But for Xiao’s. Because this wasn’t about saving a life. It was about preserving a death.
And god forbid anyone take away the one thing—the only thing—that kept Xiao moving forward. It wasn’t hope, or love, or some greater sense of purpose. It was this: the promise of a single death. The one death he thought about when sleep wouldn’t come. The one that kept his hands steady even when everything else in his life was falling apart. The death he had played over and over in his mind, in a thousand different ways. Violent, raw, deserved.
If someone took that from him—if someone got to Kunikuzushi first, if the law interfered or some would-be hero swooped in with a badge and a pair of cuffs—then what was left for Xiao? What would he do if he wasn’t walking toward that inevitable confrontation? That long-awaited final reckoning?
It wasn’t about obsession. It was about survival. Because without that one goal, without that grim light at the end of the tunnel, Xiao had nothing. Just silence. Just weight. Just the unbearable truth that he had allowed himself to become completely defined by the hatred he held for one man. And if someone stole that last piece of control from him?
Then they might as well bury him too.
Heizou ran like clockwork. Morning classes starting at eight sharp, followed by four grueling hours of unpaid internship at the forensics lab just off campus, and then, like a slow, predictable descent into monotony, his night shifts at the local coffee shop on 7th and Iron. It was always the same—same time, same path, same order of movement. Xiao knew it all. He’d studied it.
Xiao wasn’t just observant. He was meticulous. Compulsive. Obsession wore a mask of control on him, and it sat so snugly most wouldn't even notice. He made sure to stay out of sight—perched in shadows, hidden behind corners, blending in with crowds. He’d count how long Heizou spent in each class, how many steps he took from the lecture hall to the lab, how often he stopped at vending machines or talked to others along the way. Xiao even tracked the days Heizou skipped his morning coffee or left work a few minutes early.
From across the street, through the reflection of a darkened storefront, Xiao could watch him, eyes steady, movements deliberate. He was always calm. Too calm. Like he wasn’t watching a person, but prey.
There was something unsettling about the way Xiao did it, too—not angry or frenzied, but quiet. Focused. Detached. He didn’t follow Heizou out of malice. It wasn’t even personal. It was mechanical. Inevitable. Because Xiao wasn’t watching for the sake of knowing Heizou. He was watching for the perfect opportunity—when the street was empty, the lights dim, the routine just slightly cracked open.
Heizou had no idea. No one did. Xiao didn’t leave a trace—just silent footsteps and the faint scent of cigarettes he sometimes smoked while he waited in alleyways. He’d stand there, unmoving for hours, just to track a ten-minute window in Heizou’s life. Xiao didn’t feel bad. He didn’t feel anything.
Heizou had returned late that night—just like always. Xiao had been waiting, watching from the shadows beneath a crumbling lamppost across the street. He counted the steps, waited for the soft glow of the stairwell light to flicker on through the hallway window, and then began to move. The moment had finally arrived.
He knew exactly which unit belonged to Heizou—third floor, far left. The building was old, neglected, and covered in the kind of wild ivy and vines that grew thickest where no one ever bothered to trim them. It was almost too convenient. Xiao gripped the frost-covered vines, his fingers raw and aching with the cold, and pulled himself upward, every motion controlled, silent. One floor passed. Then the second. And finally the third.
Snow had begun to gather across the balcony rail and floor, crunching faintly under his weight as he swung himself over. His shoes were soaked through, the cold sinking into his skin like needles. But he didn’t flinch. Pain meant nothing in this moment.
He reached for the sliding glass door—unlocked. Of course it was. Heizou was clever, but clearly not clever enough.
The warm air inside the apartment hit Xiao immediately. He stepped through, slow and deliberate, every motion rehearsed in his mind a thousand times. The lights were off, but the glow of the city outside bled in through the curtains, casting shadows against the walls.
Click.
Xiao didn’t hesitate. He dove to the side just as the gunshot rang out, the sound deafening in the small apartment. The bullet splintered part of the doorframe where his head had just been. Xiao rolled across the floor, fast and low, like a whip of shadow, and came up just in front of Heizou before the man could reload.
In a single motion, Xiao grabbed Heizou’s wrist and slammed it hard against the wall, the gun falling to the floor with a clatter. Heizou gasped in pain, but Xiao was already moving again—stepping behind him, locking his arm around Heizou’s neck and yanking back.
Heizou thrashed in desperation, his fingers digging furiously into Xiao’s forearm as he fought to free himself, his nails scraping skin, his movements wild and panicked. His heels scuffed against the floor, trying to gain traction, trying to leverage his body weight against the chokehold steadily cutting off his oxygen. But it was no use. Xiao’s grip around his neck remained fixed, iron-like, completely unmoved by the struggle. There was no flicker of mercy in his expression, no hesitation. His face was cold, unreadable, devoid of humanity.
The sharp breaths escaping Heizou’s lips were becoming shorter, more ragged. His muscles trembled with the effort to fight, but he was already weakening, and Xiao could feel it. He leaned in closer, his mouth near Heizou’s ear, his voice a quiet, venom-laced whisper that sent a chill down the man’s spine despite the heat of the room.
“You really thought you were going to take him from me,” Xiao said, almost amused at the absurdity of it. “You thought you were the hero of this story. The brilliant detective, the righteous savior. You thought you’d solve the mystery, put the monster away, close the case, and move on.”
Heizou could barely wheeze in response, but his eyes still burned with resistance. He wasn’t done. Not yet. But Xiao wasn’t finished either. He tightened his arm just a bit more, felt the way Heizou’s airway compressed beneath the pressure, how his body began to lose control. His own heart pounded violently in his chest, not from exertion, but from the sheer weight of it all—the culmination of weeks of planning, of months of watching.
“You never understood him,” Xiao continued, his voice lower now, like a confession. “You saw a criminal. A case file. A name to cross off your list. But I see the whole picture. I’ve seen him, Heizou. I’ve watched him break and rebuild himself a hundred times over. I know him in ways you never will.”
Heizou was fading, his arms falling uselessly to his sides, strength gone. His mouth opened in a final, breathless gasp.
“I want him dead, yes,” Xiao whispered, almost tender now, like he was mourning something. “But on my terms. With my hands. It has to be me. Because no one else gets to decide how this ends. Not the police. Not you. Me.”
There was no more resistance. Heizou’s body slackened completely, legs giving out beneath him. Xiao held on for a few more seconds, ensuring the job was done, until there was nothing left but silence. Then, without ceremony, he released his grip and let the body drop.
Heizou collapsed to the floor with a lifeless thud, limbs sprawled awkwardly, head tilted to the side, mouth slightly agape. It was over.
Xiao stared at him for a long time, chest heaving with slow, deep breaths. His lip was split and bleeding, his jaw throbbed where a blow had landed earlier in the scuffle, but he didn’t care. His mind was a whirlpool of emotion—relief, triumph, hatred, and a strange, suffocating sadness that clung to him like wet clothes.
He crouched down, almost gently, like he didn’t want to disturb the stillness, and reached into Heizou’s jacket pocket to pull out the folding knife he always carried. It was sharp, well-kept, and familiar. There was no need to draw it out any longer.
With steady hands, Xiao drew the blade across Heizou’s throat in one smooth, brutal motion. The sound was obscene, a wet slicing that made his stomach tighten, but he didn’t flinch. The blood came fast, hot and thick, pooling quickly beneath the corpse, soaking into the seams of the wooden floor, staining everything in its path.
He stood up slowly, covered in the scent of iron and finality.
From inside his coat, he retrieved a small disposable camera. The plastic casing was scratched, the label faded from use, but it still worked. He raised it, aimed it at the body now lying in a glossy pool of red, and pressed the shutter. Click. The flash illuminated the room for a fraction of a second, burning the image into memory forever.
Xiao lowered the camera, staring at the body for a while longer, unmoving. Something in his chest ached—not regret, not remorse, but a kind of emptiness, like he had just thrown away the last piece of something fragile and irreplaceable.
He turned away, silent and cold, stepping over the corpse like it was nothing more than a shadow. He slipped back out onto the balcony, snow still falling in soft, indifferent flurries, and disappeared into the night, leaving behind a scene no one would understand.
“Wait, slow down—Heizou was killed?” Kunikuzushi asked, the words leaving his mouth with a casual, almost dismissive cadence. His brow furrowed slightly, not out of shock or sorrow, but genuine confusion. There was no emotion in his voice, no note of grief or regret, not even the slightest tremor of sympathy. It was as if the information simply hadn’t registered as important. A puzzle piece in a much larger game, nothing more. On the other end of the line, Cyno’s voice was panicked, breaking under the weight of what he had just discovered, desperate to make sense of the unraveling chaos.
“Yes! Kuni, I think— I think Heizou’s theory was right—” Cyno’s voice cracked mid-sentence, not just with fear, but grief, and the helplessness of being one step behind in a situation spinning violently out of control.
Kunikuzushi inhaled sharply, not out of horror, but to ground himself, as if he already knew what Cyno was going to say and didn’t particularly want to hear it spoken aloud. “Alright,” he replied evenly, carefully masking whatever recognition was forming behind his eyes. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves just yet. Let the police do what they’re supposed to do. We’ll get to the bottom of it, but for now… take care, Cyno.” His tone was strangely calm, measured, as he hung up the receiver with a soft clack, almost too gently considering the weight of what had just been said.
He turned slowly, and there stood Xiao, and in that moment Kunikuzushi didn’t need to hear a single word to know what had happened. Xiao’s skin was pale and clammy, but his face was flushed, like he had been running or crying or both. His hands were shaking visibly, the tremors rolling down through his arms. Clutched delicately between his thumb and forefinger was a single photograph, and even from across the room Kunikuzushi could already smell it—the metallic stench of fresh blood clinging to Xiao like a second skin. The air around him felt heavy, dense with violence and guilt.
Kunikuzushi’s gaze dropped to the photograph, already guessing what it contained, already fitting the pieces together in his mind. He raised an eyebrow, but his expression was cool, unimpressed, barely touched by the gravity of what Xiao had done.
In truth, Xiao was always like this after a kill—especially ones that were personal. He could claim to be merciless, cold, a born weapon, but the truth always bled through afterward. Kunikuzushi had seen it too many times. The collapse. The regret. The guilt. Xiao would unravel slowly, like the act had torn out something essential inside him, something he still hadn’t learned how to live without. It disgusted Kunikuzushi. Not because Xiao was weak—Xiao was anything but weak—but because he was still clinging to his humanity like it meant something. Because he still cared. That bothered Kunikuzushi more than any body, any bloodstain, any mess left behind.
“What’s this?” Kunikuzushi said softly, his voice almost mocking as he stepped closer and plucked the photo from Xiao’s hand. He looked down at it, unsurprised to see Heizou’s lifeless body staring back at him from the grainy disposable film, throat cut cleanly, the image just blurry enough to make the violence feel surreal. “Oh, my,” Kunikuzushi muttered, not out of horror but out of feigned curiosity. “And what drove you to do this, hm? Was he getting a little too close to the truth? Or did he just say something you didn’t like?”
Xiao couldn’t speak. His mouth opened once, then again, but no sound came. His throat clenched, and all the adrenaline that had carried him through the act was gone now, leaving only a hollow space in its place. He reached out instead, his hand wrapping tightly around Kunikuzushi’s wrist like he was anchoring himself, and then he leaned forward, slowly, as if the weight of everything he’d done was finally too much to bear. His head rested on Kunikuzushi’s shoulder, and for a moment he was just a trembling mess of breath and tears and regret, his body wracked with quiet, choking sobs that he tried and failed to suppress.
Kunikuzushi didn’t hug him, didn’t comfort him, didn’t even move. He just stood there, holding the photo, watching the way Xiao broke down over a body he’d been forced to create. There was no sympathy in his eyes, but there was interest—curiosity, even. He never understood how Xiao could be capable of such violence and still be undone by it. He hated it, and yet… It fascinated him.
Because in the end, the worst part of all this wasn’t that Xiao had killed Heizou.
It was that he still gave a shit.
Chapter 13: Kyofu
Chapter Text
Albedo was a quiet man, often so still and unobtrusive in a room that people forgot he was even there until he spoke. But beneath that stillness was a mind that moved like clockwork gears hidden behind glass—precise, calculating, and dangerously intelligent. His thoughts rarely lingered on emotion or impulse; they raced ahead, leaping through logic, possibility, and deduction. The brilliance that threaded through his brain was almost unnatural, a spiderweb of insight and awareness that extended in all directions, catching details others missed. And because of that, it didn’t take long after Furina’s body was discovered for him to reach a conclusion others hadn’t even begun to consider.
Kunikuzushi.
Albedo never said it out loud. Not to Cyno, not to the police, not even to Heizou during their brief correspondences. But he knew. The moment he’d seen the precision of the kill—the signature subtleties of how it had been staged, the psychological cruelty of the arrangement, the way it was less of a murder and more of a message—he recognized the patterns. The mind behind it wasn’t impulsive. It was surgical. Detached. Arrogant. It reminded him too much of Kunikuzushi, a man Albedo had always found compelling, not because of his charm or confidence, but because of what he concealed behind it all.
To Albedo, the puzzle pieces snapped into place almost too easily. The inconsistencies in Kunikuzushi’s alibis, the way his personality shifted around different people, the subtle tension in his eyes when certain names came up—it was all there, hidden in plain sight. And yet, Albedo hadn’t exposed him. He could’ve handed his suspicions to Cyno, to the department, even to Heizou back when he was alive and obsessing over the Kurayami case. But he didn’t. Not because he doubted himself. Not because he was scared.
Because he was curious.
What would happen if he just... let it play out?
What would someone like Kunikuzushi do when he thought no one saw him? How far would he go before someone caught him? How would people respond—how would Xiao respond—once the truth began to unravel? There was something about watching a living paradox like Kunikuzushi perform on a world stage of lies and manipulation that fascinated Albedo more than any laboratory experiment or controlled study ever could. The man wasn’t just a killer. He was a self-styled philosopher of blood and control, and Albedo wanted to see the full extent of his design before dismantling it.
So, when the house appeared dark and empty that evening, Albedo didn’t hesitate. He had been watching it for a while, keeping track of Kunikuzushi’s routines, his movements. The Camaro was still in the driveway, but that meant little. Albedo had noticed that Kunikuzushi rarely drove. He walked everywhere—calmly, confidently—as if the city belonged to him and he never had to rush to or from anything. The car only moved when his destination was more than an hour away on foot.
Albedo approached the house with the same calm he always carried. There was no anxiety in his movements, no second-guessing. He moved with purpose, slipping past the side gate, stepping around the perimeter of the house. Every window was dark. No sound, no flicker of motion. He checked the door—locked, of course—but that was expected. He didn’t need the front door. He found a cracked window along the back, old wood swelling just enough to allow leverage. He pushed it up carefully and slipped inside, landing soundlessly on the kitchen floor.
The house smelled like lavender and bleach. Clinical. Controlled. There were no personal touches—no photos, no evidence of sentimentality. Everything was perfectly arranged. But Albedo wasn’t here for the aesthetic. He moved carefully, inspecting walls, shelves, looking for where a man like Kunikuzushi might hide the truest parts of himself.
He wasn’t expecting to find anything outright. Kunikuzushi was too smart for that. But the tiniest anomalies—the things that didn’t belong, the objects placed just slightly off-kilter, the traces of hurried decisions or changes in routine—those were what Albedo came for. He moved through the shadows like he belonged there, cataloging every detail, every unusual item, every corner that felt too carefully curated.
Albedo carefully stepped into the living room, his shoes silent against the polished wood floors, the air still and cold with that particular kind of silence that settles in a place when no one has spoken in hours. The room was completely dark aside from the faintest outline of heavy curtains drawn tightly over the windows, leaving not even a sliver of moonlight to sneak through. Dust hung in the air, visible only by the glint of faint reflections on the floor, and the temperature held that biting stillness that hinted no one had been home—or at least not moving—long enough for the warmth to fade.
He moved one hand along the wall, fingers gliding over the subtle texture of paint until he found a switch. It was smooth, perfectly clean. He pressed it, and instead of the usual overhead glare, the room bloomed slowly to life with low ambient lighting. Small sconces and corner lamps hummed to life with a slow electrical flicker, casting warm, yellowed light over the space instead of harsh fluorescents. It felt almost theatrical, like a stage being prepared for a performance, like someone had chosen this specific lighting not just for comfort, but for effect.
As the shadows slowly retreated under the light, a figure emerged from them.
Albedo's breath caught, but he didn’t step back. His eyes adjusted quickly—and there he was.
Kunikuzushi.
Standing still, almost unnaturally so, in the far end of the room, half-concealed by one of the carved wooden shelves that stood like sentinels around the perimeter. His expression was unreadable, his posture relaxed but alert, as if he had been waiting there for Albedo to arrive, or maybe simply didn’t care enough to pretend he hadn’t been seen. His dark eyes reflected a glint of the lamp light, sharp, intelligent, and just the faintest touch amused.
Albedo took a moment to absorb the surroundings. It wasn’t the décor of a modern home, not the sterile minimalism most people gravitated toward in an attempt to project cleanliness or order. No, Kunikuzushi’s space felt like it had been curated from another era. The living room was lined with antique furniture—deep woods with intricate carvings, faded upholstery that still managed to hold the memory of elegance, gold-gilded frames on the walls with paintings too old to be reproductions, glass cabinets filled with preserved insects, faded books, and delicate tea sets that looked untouched.
Everything was placed with meticulous care—yet it lacked warmth. It was beautiful, yes, but cold. Lifeless. A room arranged not to be lived in but observed.
There were dried flowers hanging upside down from string across the ceiling corners, their stems bound with twine and their petals perfectly preserved, muted but intact. In the fireplace, unused, was an iron grate that looked like it belonged in a cathedral. At first glance, it was all simply antique, the taste of someone with a love for older things—but the longer Albedo looked, the more unsettling the space became.
Beneath the ornate surfaces, beneath the wood and gold and glass, was something else. Something unnerving. The kind of feeling that wasn’t about what you saw, but what you sensed.
The bones.
Albedo realized it slowly. The “accents” in the room—those decorative rods, the delicate arrangements lining the tops of the shelves, even the thin frame of one of the chair legs—were not all wood or brass. Some were pale, curved, bleached, their shapes too organic, too irregular. He recognized a femur used in the construction of a low side table. He saw what looked like a ribcage acting as a frame for a wall sconce. It was subtle, disguised within design, but unmistakable once noticed.
The structure of the house had bones in it.
He couldn’t tell if they were human. He wouldn’t be surprised if they were.
Kunikuzushi stepped forward slightly, his voice low and calm, as if this were nothing more than an unexpected house visit between acquaintances.
“You always were too curious for your own good,” he said, voice devoid of any true surprise. “But I guess that’s what makes you interesting.”
Albedo didn’t flinch, didn’t respond at first. He let the silence fill the room between them, let the slow creak of the antique house around them speak in his place. He was already cataloging everything—Kunikuzushi’s position, the objects within reach, the path to the front door, the potential evidence in every artifact—but there was a tension in the air, one that even he couldn’t ignore.
“I thought I’d see what the inside of your mind looks like,” Albedo replied, scanning the room again. “Turns out it’s made of glass, dust, and the dead.”
Kunikuzushi smiled faintly, like someone who had just heard a child give the wrong answer to a riddle.
“And what do you plan to do with that observation?” he asked, almost kindly. “Publish it? Turn it into a report? Or maybe you just wanted to see if the monster wore shoes indoors like everyone else.”
Albedo didn’t smile. He took a step deeper into the room, no longer pretending this was about subtlety. He wasn’t there to run anymore.
“I came to see how far you’ve gone,” he said quietly. “I needed to see it for myself.”
Kunikuzushi tilted his head, like he was sizing him up not as an intruder, but as a final puzzle piece finally arriving.
“And now that you have?”
“I don’t know yet,” Albedo admitted, his voice steady but honest. “But I think I’m closer to understanding the answer.”
Neither of them moved for several moments.
Just the low hum of the ambient lighting. The smell of dried lavender. The quiet, echoing tension of two minds sharpening against each other like blades.
Kunikuzushi’s smile widened, and for the first time, Albedo felt what it truly meant to stare down a man who didn’t fear consequences—only boredom.
Kunikuzushi lowered himself into the deep, velvet-lined wingback chair with the ease of someone accustomed to presiding over his surroundings like a king in a private, crumbling kingdom. The light from the fire flickered across the room, casting elongated shadows that danced along the ornate wood paneling and glass cabinets. He crossed one leg over the other and tilted his head slightly, watching Albedo as if he were a curious exhibit—an animal who had wandered too far into the den of something far more dangerous than it realized.
Albedo’s eyes moved constantly, scanning every inch of the room not in panic, but in analysis. Each antique piece Kunikuzushi had curated over the years—each faded book, preserved flower, chipped statue, or taxidermied creature—seemed to pull at his attention in a different way. It wasn’t admiration that glimmered behind his gaze, it was calculation. Curiosity. A sharp mind trying to decode an even sharper one.
Over the fireplace, just above the quiet lick of flame in the hearth, a human skull rested on a blackened iron shelf, its bone yellowed with age and missing the jaw. Buried cleanly through the top of the cranium was a curved dagger, its blade dark with time, its hilt ornate—decorated with faded Fontainian emblems. The contrast between the bone and the blade was arresting, and Albedo, drawn to it as if it whispered, approached.
Kunikuzushi appeared beside him without a sound, the way he always moved, like a shadow born out of thought rather than flesh.
“Scraped off the hands of a Fontainian invader,” Kunikuzushi said idly, gaze fixed on the dagger as if recalling a memory rather than recounting a story. “Thought he could take Narukami. Brave, stupid man. It was on display in the United Nations Palace of Mithraeum for decades. I liked it. So I took it.”
There was no remorse in his voice. No pride, either. Just honesty, dressed in arrogance.
Albedo’s expression shifted—his pupils dilated just slightly, and he smiled with the fascination of a scientist discovering a species he only theorized existed. “It was you,” he said softly, the words half a laugh. “That was ten years ago. There was a whole scandal. They suspected an inside job—said it had to be connected to the disappearance of the UN director’s daughter.”
His voice lowered, tone nearly reverent in its detachment. “Was it you?” he asked, not as a challenge, not even as a demand—just a question to close the gap between theory and confirmation. “Did you kill her?”
Kunikuzushi tilted his head up at Albedo, a single brow raised, his lips twitching into a faint, almost lazy smile. “What do you think?” he murmured, as if he were offering him a riddle instead of a confession.
Albedo said nothing. Not right away.
He stood beside Kunikuzushi in silence, the fire crackling softly behind them, its glow barely warming the chill between them. It wasn’t fear in Albedo’s stillness, but tension. The kind that comes just before movement. His hand slowly reached toward the skull, his fingers tracing the edge of the dagger’s hilt as if appreciating its weight, its story.
Then, without a word, he pulled it free in one swift motion and pivoted, driving it straight toward Kunikuzushi’s temple with a precision that spoke of premeditation.
But Kunikuzushi had already moved.
He caught the blade mid-air, not by the hilt but by the edge—his hand closing around the steel, flesh splitting open instantly under the force. Blood ran down from between his fingers, dark and wet and fast, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. His eyes locked on Albedo’s, cold and unshaken, and for a long moment, the only sound was the hiss of blood dripping onto the stone hearth below them.
“You’re bolder than I expected,” Kunikuzushi murmured, his voice now soft but taut, like a wire strung just before it snaps. “Or maybe just finally tired of watching.”
Albedo didn’t respond immediately. His breathing was shallow, not from exertion but focus. His hand still gripped the dagger's hilt, caught now in Kunikuzushi’s bleeding grasp.
“I wanted to see,” Albedo said finally, not pulling away. “How far you'd go. What you'd become when cornered. I thought I could remain the observer. But you're not a puzzle anymore.”
Kunikuzushi's smile widened—bloody teeth now barely visible behind calm lips.
“Was I ever?” he asked.
Albedo’s voice turned cold. “You don’t create. You dismantle. Everything you touch rots.”
“And yet,” Kunikuzushi said, stepping forward, his grip tightening on the blade, blood now running down both their hands, “you still wanted to see me up close. You wanted the moment to crack me open. But now you're bleeding too, Albedo. So what does that make you?”
The dagger clattered to the floor between them as Albedo finally let go.
Kunikuzushi didn’t move to attack. He only stood there, blood dripping freely, chest rising and falling in rhythm with the firelight.
Albedo took a step back, his voice low, bitter, almost pained. “I thought if I understood you, I could stop you.”
Kunikuzushi’s eyes glittered with something ancient, something cruel, something close to pity.
“You never wanted to stop me,” he said. “You just wanted to know what it felt like.”
The silence returned.
In that silence, Albedo realized that the worst thing about staring into the abyss was not “Tell me, Albedo…” Kunikuzushi’s voice slithered through the thick, dim air like smoke, soft and low yet sharp enough to draw blood. “Have you ever killed someone?”
The question hung for a moment like a noose, tightening around Albedo’s silence. The fire crackled behind them, casting shifting shadows along the walls—shadows that seemed to twist and watch, as if the house itself were listening.
Albedo didn’t respond right away. His breath hitched, and his eyes flicked briefly toward the floor, then back to Kunikuzushi, who was standing perfectly still—too still, like something no longer pretending to be human. His gaze was unblinking, dark and bottomless, as if he were trying to crawl inside Albedo’s head and peel his thoughts apart one by one.
“Yes,” Albedo said finally, the word dragged from his throat like a confession scraped from bone.
Kunikuzushi’s lips curved ever so slightly, not in surprise, not in approval—just interest, raw and patient. “Who?”
Albedo swallowed, the air suddenly thick and bitter in his lungs. “My… long lost identical twin brother,” he said, his voice steadier than his heart. “Dorian.”
Kunikuzushi didn’t react. No raised brow, no twitch of surprise. He just tilted his head slightly, as though admiring a curious insect under glass.
“And why?” he asked, almost gently.
Albedo’s mouth was dry. He opened it, paused, then answered with the terrifying clarity of someone who had rehearsed the truth too many times in their own mind.
“I was curious,” he said flatly. “I wanted to see what would happen.”
The fire snapped loudly behind them, as if reacting to the words. Kunikuzushi took a single step closer, and though his expression remained unchanged, the room seemed to shrink around them, the walls leaning in with every breath Albedo took.
“To see what would happen…” Kunikuzushi repeated softly, savoring the phrase. “That’s the most honest reason I’ve ever heard. So many wrap their sins in excuses—anger, grief, justice. But you…” He moved another step forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You peeled your own blood off the earth just to watch what color it would turn.”
Albedo’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t look away.
“You’re not so different from me,” Kunikuzushi continued, his tone nearly affectionate now, like a spider praising a trapped fly. “You thought you were watching from the outside, observing the rot like a scientist—but the moment you put your hand on the knife, you were already inside the ruin. Already part of it.”
He leaned in, close enough for Albedo to smell the faint copper on his breath—dried blood, old and iron-sweet.
“Do you miss him?” Kunikuzushi asked.
Albedo didn’t answer.
“You should,” Kunikuzushi whispered. “Because he’s the last part of you that wasn’t hollow.”
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Outside, the wind howled faintly through the trees, brushing against the windows like the fingers of the dead.
Kunikuzushi straightened and stepped back slowly, that faint smile never leaving his lips. He didn’t need to gloat. He didn’t need to shout. He had already seen the truth—had already carved into Albedo’s mind and nestled himself there like rot under the floorboards.
Albedo, for all his brilliance, for all his composure, couldn’t shake the feeling that something inside him had shifted. Something had opened.
Kunikuzushi… was already inside.
“As much as I find a fondness in your similarity to me,” Kunikuzushi whispered, his voice almost mournful, like a lullaby turned cruel, “there is only space for one… and it is me alone.”
Before Albedo could react, before he could even process the finality in Kunikuzushi’s tone, the dagger was already in motion.
With swift, unrelenting precision, Kunikuzushi drove the blade straight into Albedo’s throat. The tip punctured flesh and sinew, sliding past muscle with a sickening squelch. A choked gasp escaped Albedo as blood surged from the wound in a thick, pulsing spray, painting both of them in a sudden, violent crimson.
But Kunikuzushi wasn’t done.
His other hand braced the back of Albedo’s neck, locking him in place like a pinned specimen. Then, with cold and clinical control, Kunikuzushi began to carve—not just stab, not just kill, but etch, dragging the blade in a deliberate, twisting motion through torn flesh. He wasn’t just ending a life—he was creating a mark, a symbol, a signature.
The blade tore a jagged path through Albedo’s skin, shaping a four-pointed star at the base of his neck, each cut deeper and more brutal than the last. Tissue split. Cartilage cracked. Veins sprayed in sick arcs across the floor. Albedo’s hands spasmed, grasping weakly at Kunikuzushi’s wrists, his blood-soaked fingers slipping uselessly in the pooling gore.
His breath came in short, wet gurgles, each one more ragged than the last, bubbles of blood popping at the corners of his lips. His body twitched once, twice—then began to go still.
Kunikuzushi’s expression didn’t change. Not when the blood soaked through his sleeves. Not when Albedo’s legs gave out and he sagged against him. He simply finished the carving, watching with eerie calm as Albedo’s eyes glazed over, as the light inside them dimmed and vanished.
When it was done, he let the body slump to the floor with a dull, meaty thud. Blood oozed across the hardwood in a slow, thick river, seeping into the gaps between the planks like it was trying to become part of the house itself.
Kunikuzushi stepped back, soaked in the aftermath, dagger still warm in his hand.
He looked down at the corpse—his work—and tilted his head slightly, admiring the raw artistry of it.
Chapter 14: Honto
Chapter Text
STEAMBIRD: ALCHEMIC CHILD PRODIGY ALBEDO KREIDEPRINZ FOUND DEAD IN FONT-UNI LIBRARY
The headline stretched across the front page of the morning edition in bold, accusatory letters. Beneath it, a grainy, black-and-white photo captured the scene—only the exterior of the library, its windows dim and haunted by the memory of what had been discovered just hours earlier. But the real horror lay in the words below the headline, a chilling summary that barely scratched the surface of the grotesque crime committed in the heart of the academic district.
Albedo Kreideprinz, once lauded as one of the youngest minds in modern alchemy, had been found strung up like a marionette in the atrium of Font-Uni’s historic library, his body arranged with such precision and theatrical symbolism that even seasoned investigators found themselves disturbed. His throat had been violently perforated in the shape of a four-pointed star—sliced open with care, each edge symmetrical, as though cut with a compass or stencil rather than a weapon of murder.
He had been stripped of all modern clothing. In its place, the killer had dressed him in off-white linen cloth, draped over one shoulder and cinched at the waist, mimicking the attire of an ancient Athenian philosopher or god. The fabric had been folded and tucked meticulously, without bloodstains—meaning the body had been cleaned and dressed after death. Two fresh olive branches had been carefully tucked into his hair, forming a crown. The tips of the branches were still green, suggesting they had been harvested only hours before, lending an eerie freshness to the otherwise lifeless scene.
The body was strung from the ceiling by nearly invisible fishing wire, just like a previous murder—Ayaka’s. Thin threads looped around Albedo’s limbs and torso, holding him in a twisted pose of divine mimicry. One arm was lifted above his head, the index finger extended outward, eerily evoking the iconic gesture from Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam. The parallel was unmistakable—and entirely intentional.
Most disturbingly, Albedo’s eyes had been removed. Not gouged out violently, but scooped cleanly, as if harvested with surgical precision. A blindfold of pale silk had been tied gently over the hollow sockets, hiding the emptiness beneath. The cloth bore no blood—again implying a level of care, and a desire to preserve the illusion of something pure, something sacred.
Investigators reported that his body had been carefully positioned just in front of the grand arched windows of the library’s main reading hall. When dawn broke, the first light of day streamed through the glass and fell directly upon the pale, bloodless corpse—illuminating him like a sculpture in a cathedral, bathed in soft golden light.
It was the librarian who found him. She had arrived just before six in the morning, expecting to start her shift in silence, only to be met with the sight of Albedo’s suspended form casting long shadows across the marble floor. She collapsed screaming, unable to move for nearly ten minutes until another staff member arrived and called the authorities.
Police called it “ritualistic,” “artistic,” “deranged.” But none of their words captured the full gravity of what had been done.
Security footage from inside the Font-Uni library had captured fragments of the nightmarish tableau as it was being arranged, but the images were far from helpful in any forensic sense. The grainy black-and-white feed stuttered with digital noise, warping the frame every few seconds with static interference. Despite this, the shape of the intruder was unmistakable: tall, slender, deliberate in movement, and unmistakably theatrical in appearance.
The killer had moved with an eerie grace, like a dancer performing a grim ritual. His face was concealed behind a stark, expressionless kabuki mask, the white porcelain-like surface catching the faint light of the library’s emergency sconces. Its painted features—sharply defined eyes and a blood-red mouth—gave it a fixed and eerie serenity, completely at odds with the grotesque scene being staged.
He wore all black, from the hood that covered his head to the long, flowing layers of fabric that draped over his arms and legs. The clothing was intentionally oversized, designed to obscure any physical markers—no exposed skin, no visible shoes, no way to determine height or build with accuracy. He had even worn gloves, the material catching the glint of light only once as he raised Albedo’s lifeless arm into position.
Despite the footage capturing the entire staging of the body—from the stringing of fishing wire to the careful placing of the olive crown—the killer’s identity remained completely hidden. The figure never turned to face the camera directly, and even when he paused for a moment, tilting his head as if admiring his handiwork, the low camera angle and shadowed lighting rendered every detail vague. There was no doubt, however, among those reviewing the footage: this was Kurayami.
The signature was unmistakable. Not just in the artistry of the murder, but in the attention to myth, symbolism, and theatricality. It was another statement in a series of elaborately staged killings, each more perverse and captivating than the last.
Kunikuzushi, watching the fallout from his apartment, was deeply pleased.
The footage had already begun circulating among private police channels. He sipped tea calmly while the world around him unraveled in chaos. He watched the detectives scramble, tripping over each other in frustration, forced to rely on blurry footage and psychological profiling while the media frothed at the mouth with speculation and manufactured outrage.
The news anchors were practically breathless, calling it the "work of a genius madman," and talk shows were already booking "expert" criminologists who spoke with the forced confidence of people far outside their depth. Reporters latched onto every gory detail, their words fevered, their tones hushed with performative gravity. Headlines spun like wildfire: “Serial Killer Turns Campus Into Temple of Death” and “Masked Phantom Behind Albedo’s Murder Still At Large”.
Kunikuzushi sat back in his chair, surrounded by soft lamplight and the quiet ticking of an antique clock, the air tinged with incense and something sharper—coppery. His lips curled into a faint smile.
This was more than murder. This was orchestration. Chaos fed the performance, and society—especially the desperate need for order and meaning—would always rise to meet it.
He whispered to Xiao, “Let them search. Let them guess. That’s the part I like best.”
Xiao stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable at first glance—stoic, still—but beneath the surface, something volatile simmered. His gaze was locked on Kunikuzushi, not just watching him but dissecting him, tracking every little gesture, every word like a blade he might have to catch midair.
“You’re making yourself more obvious of a suspect,” Xiao said flatly, but there was a hard edge to his voice, something sharp and cracking just under the surface like a dam straining to hold back a flood.
Kunikuzushi, lounging across the velvet settee like some decadent prince in exile, tilted his head with a lazy smile. He held up the morning paper in one hand like a magician revealing a trick. “What a ridiculous statement,” he replied, his tone playful, mocking. “Look right here—Miss Charlotte from The Steambird reports that the police are entirely in the dark. No leads, no motive, just vague speculation about a possible university student. All evidence—if you could even call it that—points nowhere. I am, officially, a ghost in their investigation.” He flicked the paper in Xiao’s direction, letting the pages flutter as if it proved his innocence.
Xiao didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed on Kunikuzushi, dark and dangerous. “That’s not what I mean, dipshit.”
Kunikuzushi’s grin tightened at the corners, just slightly, just enough to show he noticed the shift in tone. He slowly folded the paper and set it aside, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, hands clasped as he studied Xiao with a mock sincerity that somehow made the moment feel even more suffocating.
“Then what do you mean?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more intimate. “And why do you care? Scared that someone’s going to take me away from you?” He tilted his head again, the smile creeping back. “Is that it, pretty bird? You afraid of losing your favorite monster?”
Xiao’s jaw clenched. His nostrils flared slightly. A muscle ticked in his cheek. He hated that name—pretty bird—hated the way Kunikuzushi said it, like he owned him, like Xiao was some fragile thing kept in a gilded cage.
“Eugh,” Xiao muttered with a scoff, turning away but not quite able to walk out. “Forget it.”
“No, no,” Kunikuzushi said, standing now, moving with the smoothness of a predator who knew exactly how far he could push without getting bit. “Come on, Xiao. Don’t sulk. Say what you mean. You think I'm getting careless? That I want to be seen?”
Xiao turned sharply, eyes blazing now. “You don’t care if you’re seen,” he hissed. “You want to be admired. You want the world to watch and call it genius instead of murder. But I see through it. You think you're untouchable—but you're not. And you’re not mine, either. Don’t get it twisted.”
For a beat, the room was deathly quiet. Only the soft ticking of an antique clock filled the space between them.
Kunikuzushi’s smile slowly returned, but it was colder now, hollow around the eyes. “Of course,” he said softly, “I’m no one’s. But if someone’s going to catch me—if—don’t you think it should be you?”
Xiao didn’t answer. He just stared, chest rising and falling a little too quickly, fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms.
Kunikuzushi, satisfied with the silence, slowly turned his back and walked toward the window, humming quietly to himself.
Without warning, Xiao lunged forward like a striking viper, closing the distance between them in a single breathless instant. His hand shot out and clamped around the back of Kunikuzushi’s neck, fingers curling into the delicate skin just below the hairline. His long nails—no, talons—dug in deep, piercing flesh without hesitation. Blood beaded immediately beneath each fingertip, warm and red, staining the pale skin like tiny wounds of devotion or punishment.
Kunikuzushi gasped, not in pain exactly, but in something else—sharp and electric, the kind of surprise that bordered on delight. But before he could speak, before another smirk could curl at the edge of his lips, Xiao's other hand was already on him—gripping his jaw, fingers pressing hard into his cheekbones, tilting his face upward with force and desperation.
“Shut up,” Xiao hissed, his voice a razor’s edge, low and trembling with restrained fury. Their faces were so close now that their breath mixed—Xiao’s ragged and hot, Kunikuzushi’s cool and calm, as if completely unbothered by the sudden violence.
Xiao pulled him closer, jerking Kunikuzushi’s face toward his own until their noses nearly touched, until the tension became unbearable. Blood from Kunikuzushi’s neck was already running down the collar of his shirt, smearing onto Xiao’s fingers, warm and slick and obscene.
“Shut. Up,” Xiao repeated, more slowly this time, the words grinding out of him like a command he barely had the strength to hold back from becoming something else—something hungrier, darker, possessive in a way he hated and needed all at once.
Kunikuzushi didn’t resist. His breath hitched, just slightly, his lashes lowering as he looked at Xiao through half-lidded eyes, reading him like a book he’d read a thousand times. His lips parted, not to speak, but just enough to leave Xiao wondering if he would—if he wanted him to.
Xiao’s grip only tightened.
The air between them was thick, charged, somewhere between hatred and hunger, the kind of energy that couldn't be mistaken for anything innocent.
Without warning, the front door slammed open with a deafening crack against the wall, the sound echoing through the house like a gunshot. Chiori stood in the threshold, framed by the harsh daylight pouring in behind her. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her face twisted in fury—but as her eyes locked onto the scene before her, the rage morphed into something even more visceral: revulsion.
She froze, lips parting slightly as her expression contorted in pure, unfiltered disgust. Her gaze darted between Xiao and Kunikuzushi—still close, Xiao’s hand bloodstained and curled around the back of Kunikuzushi’s neck, their proximity charged with something too intimate, too warped to be mistaken for anything ordinary.
Kunikuzushi, as if completely unbothered by her arrival, turned his head lazily toward her, his lips curling into a sickly sweet smile. He didn’t even wipe the blood trailing down his throat. If anything, he looked pleased.
“Oh, Chiori, my dear friend,” he purred, voice soaked in false innocence, “what brings you here on this fine day?”
Chiori’s eye twitched. The muscles in her jaw clenched so tight it looked like she might break her own teeth from the pressure. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, knuckles whitening, her nails digging crescents into her own palms. Her whole body trembled with the sheer effort it took not to lunge at him and rip his face off.
She wanted to break his nose with the heel of her palm, watch him choke on his own blood. She wanted to slam his smug face into the nearest wall and keep going until bone met plaster and gave way. She wanted to set him on fire, watch him scream, and then light another match.
“Don’t,” she finally hissed, her voice low and shaking with restrained violence, “don’t pretend you didn’t know exactly what this would look like.”
Kunikuzushi only laughed, a sound far too calm, too smooth, considering the tension crackling in the air. He tilted his head toward Xiao just slightly, like presenting a piece of art.
“Looks like jealousy,” he said mockingly. “Or is it justice, Chiori? Sometimes it’s so hard to tell with you.”
Her entire body screamed to act—but something in her knew this wasn’t the moment. Not yet. Not when the air stank of blood and something far worse. She didn’t speak again, not immediately.
But she didn’t take her eyes off Kunikuzushi for a second.
“I need to talk to you.” Chiori’s voice was sharp, clipped, and cold enough to drop the temperature in the room.
Xiao narrowed his eyes at her, his grip on Kunikuzushi’s neck lingering for a beat too long before he finally let go. There was hesitation in the movement, reluctance even, but he didn’t say a word. Instead, he straightened his coat and stepped past her slowly, dragging his glare across her face like a blade. The glance he threw her over his shoulder before leaving the room was seething—something that wasn’t just a warning, but a threat silently carved between clenched teeth.
Chiori didn’t flinch.
Once the door clicked shut behind Xiao, she turned back to Kunikuzushi, who was already reclining back into his wingback chair like nothing had happened, one leg lazily crossed over the other, his fingers wiping away the faint trail of blood on his throat with a handkerchief like it was nothing more than spilled wine.
“What is it?” he asked smoothly, disinterested, like she was an interruption during afternoon tea.
Then—Chiori snapped.
“What the fuck is this?” she shouted, voice cracking under the sheer volume of her rage. “Heizou? Albedo?! Are you out of your goddamn mind?!”
Kunikuzushi didn’t even blink. He calmly folded the bloodstained cloth and set it on the table beside him.
“I didn’t kill Heizou,” he said, tone so dry it bordered on boredom.
Chiori froze. Her pulse jumped. She knew him too well—Kunikuzushi lied all the time, but never about murder. Never about his own. That wasn’t how he played the game. If he claimed a kill, he did it with pride, with flair, with something twisted and theatrical. And if he denied it, it meant he truly didn’t do it.
But that only made the pit in her stomach sink deeper.
“Then who was it?” she asked, her voice starting to tremble, her hands curling at her sides. “Was it your dog then? Was it Xiao?”
Something in the air cracked.
Kunikuzushi’s entire body tensed, and his eyes—already sharp—narrowed into slits. His voice dropped, low and venomous, practically vibrating with restrained fury.
“You fucking watch that tongue of yours,” he growled, rising from the chair slowly, like a serpent uncurling. “Don’t you ever call Xiao that again.”
He took a step toward her.
“Why does it matter anyway?” he continued, his voice deceptively soft now, like silk wrapping around a knife. “What’s done is done. Is this about morality now, Chiori? About justice? Spare me.”
She stood her ground, but her breath was shaky.
“Kuni… you’re violently unpredictable, and so is Xiao! You’re spiraling and dragging everyone down with you—!”
“I won’t kill you,” he interrupted, his tone so casual it felt inhuman. “You know that, right? I thought I had that established with you.”
Chiori stared at him, stunned. Her heart thundered in her chest and her mouth opened to speak—but nothing came out.
Then he tilted his head, slow and mocking, his gaze tracing over her face as if examining something fragile and pathetic.
“Oh,” he said, voice turning cold with amusement, “is this about your beloved Emilie?”
Everything in Chiori stopped.
It was like he reached into her chest and crushed the air out of her lungs. Her body turned ice cold in an instant, her thoughts going blank as the blood rushed to her head and roared in her ears. Without thinking, without breathing, she reached into the inner pocket of her trench coat and drew her pistol in one swift motion.
The click of metal was loud—deafening in the silence—as she pressed the muzzle of the gun hard against Kunikuzushi’s forehead.
“You keep her name out of your damn mouth,” she hissed, her voice shaking with fury, with grief, with the kind of heartbreak that hollowed people out.
Kunikuzushi didn’t flinch.
Instead, he smiled. Slow. Small. Unbothered.
Behind that smile was something ancient, soulless, and terrifyingly calm.
“I always knew you had it in you,” he whispered, voice like a lullaby wrapped around a knife.
The gun trembled in Chiori’s grip, her fingers locked rigidly around the trigger, but her hand betraying the strength she thought she had. The metal was cold, biting against her skin, grounding her and threatening to slip from her grasp all at once.
Kunikuzushi didn’t step back. He didn’t look down the barrel of the gun with fear or even the acknowledgment that it posed a threat. Instead, his eyes remained steady on hers—piercing, unblinking, eerily calm. A predator watching his prey corner itself.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice laced with mockery so light it was almost sing-song. “I thought you weren’t scared of me, Chiori. You came here so brave. So righteous.” His hand came up, deliberate and slow, wrapping around her wrist with an iron grip that sent a shudder through her spine. “Go on, then,” he murmured. “Pull the trigger.”
Her body trembled as much as the gun did. She tried to hold his gaze, but the burning intensity of it was unbearable—like staring into the sun too long. Her breath hitched, shoulders rising in sharp, panicked jerks as tears finally broke the surface of her wide eyes.
“Please,” she whispered at first, then louder, choking on the sob that followed, “please, just don’t hurt Emilie…”
Her knees buckled slightly, the weight of desperation dragging her down. The gun fell away from Kunikuzushi’s forehead as she dropped her hand, shielding her face with both palms as quiet, wracked sobs escaped her.
She shook with grief. With helplessness. With the crushing knowledge that her words meant nothing here. Not against him.
Kunikuzushi stood there, the ghost of a frown flickering across his otherwise impassive face. He watched her with something that might have once been recognition—some fractured shard of humanity—but it faded quickly. His voice, when it came, was void of warmth.
“I can’t promise you that,” he said flatly.
The words dropped like a stone between them, suffocating the air around them.
Chiori’s sobs halted in a sharp gasp as she slowly lowered her hands to stare at him in disbelief, in horror, in that terrible realization that she had no power here. Only hope—and it was a fragile, dying thing.
“But,” Kunikuzushi continued, his tone shifting into something more businesslike, as if offering a truce in a twisted negotiation, “if you can keep her out of my way… if you can convince her to stop digging, to stop asking questions she’s not equipped to handle…” He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with precision. “Then consider yourselves free women.”
He leaned in just enough for his voice to cut into her like a blade wrapped in silk.
“My blade will not cut your skin. Or hers.”
He stepped back, releasing her wrist with unsettling gentleness.
But the unspoken truth hung heavy in the air: his mercy was conditional. His patience had limits. And there would be no second warning.
Xia0scum on Chapter 1 Sun 15 Jun 2025 07:57PM UTC
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Fanged_one on Chapter 1 Tue 15 Jul 2025 04:38AM UTC
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chenyuejun on Chapter 1 Tue 15 Jul 2025 06:17AM UTC
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Fanged_one on Chapter 1 Tue 15 Jul 2025 02:05PM UTC
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sudachi on Chapter 1 Wed 16 Jul 2025 05:31PM UTC
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Xia0scum on Chapter 2 Sun 22 Jun 2025 05:26PM UTC
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BananaFFiction on Chapter 2 Sun 22 Jun 2025 09:34PM UTC
Last Edited Sun 22 Jun 2025 09:34PM UTC
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Xia0scum on Chapter 4 Sun 06 Jul 2025 10:04PM UTC
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Xia0scum on Chapter 6 Sun 20 Jul 2025 11:26PM UTC
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BananaFFiction on Chapter 7 Sat 02 Aug 2025 12:54AM UTC
Last Edited Sat 02 Aug 2025 12:54AM UTC
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chenyuejun on Chapter 7 Sat 02 Aug 2025 01:07AM UTC
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xiaopervert (userhoax) on Chapter 8 Mon 04 Aug 2025 03:53AM UTC
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chenyuejun on Chapter 8 Mon 04 Aug 2025 04:21AM UTC
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BananaFFiction on Chapter 9 Thu 14 Aug 2025 02:59AM UTC
Last Edited Thu 14 Aug 2025 03:01AM UTC
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xiaopervert (userhoax) on Chapter 11 Mon 25 Aug 2025 06:06PM UTC
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chenyuejun on Chapter 11 Mon 25 Aug 2025 06:15PM UTC
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xiaopervert (userhoax) on Chapter 13 Tue 09 Sep 2025 03:22PM UTC
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chenyuejun on Chapter 13 Tue 09 Sep 2025 03:56PM UTC
Last Edited Tue 09 Sep 2025 03:58PM UTC
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