The rain had finally softened to a mournful drizzle, the sky a bruised purple as evening began to bleed into night. Inside the warm cocoon of the M3 GTR, Peter drove with a steady hand, navigating the slick streets back towards Ayato's now tragically empty house. The car's heater hummed softly, a gentle attempt to ward off the chill that clung to them all, a chill that went deeper than the dampness of their clothes. He cast a quick glance at Ayato in the passenger seat. The boy was slumped against the window, staring out with hollow eyes, the raw devastation from the funeral still clinging to him like a shroud. Peter let out a slow, almost imperceptible sigh. The weight of the boy's loss was a palpable thing in the car, and beneath it, the unspoken, gnawing question of whether the 'accident' that took Kenzo and Yumi was truly an accident, or another piece in the dark, violent puzzle that seemed to define Peter's own existence.
As they neared a brightly lit neighborhood market, Peter slowed the car. He pulled over to the curb, the engine settling into a low rumble. "Stay here, boys," he said, his voice calm, though his eyes held a distant, troubled look. "I'll go buy something and return as quick as possible." He gave both Hiroki and Ayato a reassuring nod before stepping out and locking the car. The cool, damp air hit him, a momentary shock before he pushed open the market door.
Inside, the fluorescent lights hummed, casting a sterile glow over the aisles. The first thing Peter did was offer a slight, respectful bow to the middle-aged cashier, a gesture of habit. The market wasn't crowded; a few late shoppers meandered through the shelves. Peter moved with quiet purpose, grabbing a basket and heading towards the produce. He picked out a few fresh vegetables, some onions, then moved to the refrigerated section. A few packs of ramen, some milk. He turned towards the eggs, his mind already formulating a simple, comforting meal he could prepare back at Ayato's.
That's when the mundane shattered.
The chime of the entrance door was followed by two figures bursting in, faces obscured by dark ski masks. The taller one brandished a pump-action shotgun, its matte black finish absorbing the light, while the shorter one held a snub-nosed revolver, though it was currently tucked into the waistband of his jeans as he fumbled with a cheap duffel bag.
The metallic clack-clack of the shotgun being racked echoed through the small market. "EVERYONE ON THE GROUND, NOW!!!" the shotgun-wielder roared, his voice muffled but laced with aggressive panic. The few shoppers and the cashier yelped, dropping to the floor instantly, hands covering their heads. All except Peter. He remained standing by the egg display, partially obscured by a tall shelf of snacks, his expression hardening into a glare of pure, unadulterated annoyance. He was, to put it mildly, pissed.
"FILL UP THIS BAG, PUNK! AND NO FUNNY BUSINESS!" the one with the revolver snarled at the terrified cashier, throwing the duffel bag onto the counter. Peter's eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed on the shotgun. Ithaca Model 37. Old, but reliable. Slam-fire capable if he knows what he's doing. His assessment was instantaneous, cold, and analytical. The cashier, trembling, began frantically scooping cash from the register into the bag. The thugs were too focused on the register, too amped up on adrenaline, to notice the still figure in the aisle. Peter was in their blind spot, a shadow they hadn't accounted for.
An idea, risky and potentially messy, sparked in his mind. He held two eggs in his right hand, their smooth, fragile shells cool against his palm. This could go very wrong. But fear wasn't in Peter's vocabulary when confronted with such blatant, disruptive stupidity.
He moved. Not with a rush, but with a slow, deliberate silence, his footsteps making no sound on the linoleum floor. He closed the distance, a predator stalking oblivious prey. When he was within ten feet, he exploded into motion. A whip-fast underhand throw sent both eggs sailing through the air.
Splat! Splat!
The eggs burst simultaneously against the ski masks of both thugs, yolk and white momentarily blinding them, their surprised yelps muffled by the sticky mess.
In that instant of shocked confusion, Peter was on the first thug – the one with the revolver. Before the man could clear his vision or react, Peter's hand shot out, snatching the revolver from his waistband. In the same fluid motion, Peter's other hand, fingers rigid, chopped down hard on the back of the thug's neck. The man crumpled without a sound, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.
Peter spun, the captured revolver now leveled squarely at the head of the shotgun-wielding thug, who was still pawing at the egg on his mask, trying to aim his weapon blindly. "Drop it," Peter ordered, his voice a low, cold command that cut through the thug's panic. "Put your weapon on the ground. Slowly. And don't even think about doing anything funny."
The thug froze, the shotgun wavering. He could hear the absolute conviction in Peter's voice, the promise of deadly consequence. Slowly, shakily, he lowered the Ithaca 37, placing it on the floor. Peter kicked it expertly, sending it skittering away under a shelf.
But the thug wasn't entirely cowed. Perhaps it was pride, or stupidity. He let out a roar and lunged, throwing a wild, telegraphed punch at Peter's head. Peter didn't even flinch. His left hand shot up, catching the thug's incoming fist mid-air, his grip like iron. "Wrong decision," Peter stated, his tone flat, almost bored. Before the thug could register the caught punch, Peter's right elbow snapped upwards with vicious speed, connecting solidly with the side of the man's head. There was a sickening thud, and the thug's eyes rolled back as he collapsed, out cold. Peter calmly opened the cylinder of the captured revolver, tipping out the bullets and letting them scatter harmlessly on the floor.
He turned to the cashier, who was staring, wide-eyed and trembling, from behind the counter. "Rope," Peter said, his voice still low, still cold. The cashier, galvanized by the command, fumbled beneath the counter and quickly produced a coil of sturdy twine, handing it over with shaking hands. "Call the police," Peter added, as an afterthought. The cashier nodded frantically, already reaching for the phone.
Peter efficiently tied both unconscious thugs, his knots tight and secure, ensuring no escape. As he finished with the second one, the shotgun-wielder began to stir, groaning, his eyes flickering open. He tried to push himself up, dazed and confused. Peter was on him in an instant, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking his head up forcefully, making the man meet his cold, unforgiving gaze. "Have fun in jail," Peter said, almost conversationally, before delivering a short, sharp punch to the thug's jaw. The man went limp again, out for the count.
Peter stood, dusting off his hands. He glanced around the market. The other shoppers were slowly picking themselves up, staring at him with a mixture of terror and awe. Speechless. He ignored them, turning back to the aisle where he'd been interrupted. He picked up his basket, added the carton of eggs, selected a few more items he needed, and then calmly walked to the checkout.
He placed his items on the counter. The cashier, still pale but no longer in immediate danger, fumbled with the scanner, his eyes darting nervously towards Peter's scarred face, then to the two unconscious, tied-up robbers, then back to the groceries. The barcode scanner beeped rhythmically. "Th-that'll be..." the cashier began, his voice quavering as the total appeared on the display. Peter didn't wait. He tapped his phone against the NFC payment terminal. A cheerful chirp confirmed the successful transaction. The cashier blinked, stunned into silence. Peter then reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of cash – far more than the grocery bill – and placed it on the counter. He pointed upwards with his chin towards the ceiling tile where the initial shotgun blast had punched a ragged hole. The cashier looked up, then back at Peter, puzzled. Before he could stammer out a word of thanks, or even fully comprehend the gesture, Peter had picked up his bags and was walking out the door. The entire incident, from the robbers' entrance to Peter's exit, had taken less than five minutes.
Back in the car, Hiroki and Ayato, who had heard the muffled shout and the single gunshot, were sitting in tense silence, staring at the market. The car doors unlocked, and Peter slid back into the driver's seat, placing the grocery bags carefully on the back seat beside Hiroki. "Hold them tight, Hiroki," Peter said politely, his voice back to its normal, calm tone. "Don't let them fall, okay?" Hiroki, bewildered by Peter's sudden return to normalcy after what he suspected had just occurred, could only nod mutely. Peter started the engine, the M3 GTR purring back to life, and they drove away, leaving the flashing lights of approaching police cars to deal with the aftermath.
The M3 GTR was a fading echo down the rain-slicked street as the first police cruisers, sirens wailing, skidded to a halt in front of the market. Doors flew open, and uniformed officers spilled out, weapons drawn, expecting an active shooter situation or a hostage crisis. Detective Chloe, having been nearby when the call came in, arrived with them, her trench coat pulled tight against the drizzle, her sharp eyes already scanning the scene.
What they found was... anticlimactic. And deeply unsettling.
No active shooters. No hostages. Just two unconscious, ski-masked men, expertly trussed up with twine like poorly wrapped packages, lying amidst scattered groceries and a faint smell of raw egg. A discarded shotgun lay under a shelf, and a revolver, its cylinder empty, rested near the counter. The market itself was eerily quiet, save for the trembling cashier and a handful of stunned shoppers slowly getting to their feet.
"Secure the scene! Check for other suspects! Medics for these two!" Chloe barked orders, her voice cutting through the confusion. Officers fanned out, while Chloe, with a practiced calm that belied the strangeness of the situation, approached the cashier.
A few minutes later, back at the precinct, the fluorescent lights of an interrogation room hummed. The cashier, a man named Mr. Tanaka, sat nervously on a metal chair, fidgeting with a paper cup of water Chloe had provided. He wasn't a suspect, merely a witness, but the experience had clearly shaken him.
Chloe entered the room, her heels clicking softly on the linoleum. She offered a small, reassuring smile and handed him a fresh bottle of water. "Thank you for coming in, Mr. Tanaka. I know this has been an ordeal. Just a few questions to help us understand what happened." Her tone was gentle, designed to put him at ease. He nodded slowly, taking a sip of water.
"Okay," Chloe began, opening her notepad. "Can you tell me, from the beginning, what happened tonight at your market?"
Mr. Tanaka took a deep breath. "Well, it was a slow evening, like usual. Then... then these two men burst in. Masks, guns... one of them fired a shot into the ceiling." He shuddered at the memory. "The other one, he threw a bag at me, told me to fill it with cash from the register." He paused, taking another sip. "I was panicking, just doing what he said. Then, out of nowhere... this other man appeared."
Chloe leaned forward slightly. "Another man?"
"Yes," Tanaka nodded. "He was... calm. Too calm. He threw eggs at them. Right in their faces. It was so fast. Before they could see, he'd taken the revolver from the first one and knocked him out with a chop to the neck. Then he pointed the gun at the one with the shotgun." Tanaka's eyes were wide as he recounted the scene. "He told him, 'Put your weapon down and don't even THINK about anything funny.' The robber tried to fight, threw a punch, but... this man, he just caught it. Then, an elbow to the head, and the robber was down too. Out cold."
Chloe jotted down notes, her expression neutral. "Did this man say anything else? Did you get his name?"
"No name," Tanaka shook his head. "He just... took control. He asked me for rope, and I gave it to him. He tied them up himself. Then," Tanaka looked down at his hands, "he paid for his groceries. Even gave me extra money, pointed at the hole in the ceiling from the shotgun. For repairs, I guess. Then he just... walked out. I saw him get into a fancy sports car and drive away. The whole thing... maybe five minutes."
"Can you describe this man, Mr. Tanaka?" Chloe asked, her voice still even.
"Tall," Tanaka said immediately. "Very tall, maybe 6'4" (193 cm). He had dark hair, looked wet, like he'd been in the rain. Brown eyes, I think. And..." he hesitated.
"And?" Chloe prompted gently.
"Scars," Tanaka said, his voice dropping. "On his face. A long one, a slash, on his left cheek. And another one... it crossed his lips, both of them. He looked like he'd... he'd seen a lot. Been through a lot."
Chloe's pen stopped moving. Her gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly. Crossed lips. Left cheek. The description matched. Peter.
She thanked Mr. Tanaka, her mind already racing, connecting this incident to the string of violent encounters she was investigating. The next witness was a young woman, a college student, her eyes still wide with a mixture of fear and something akin to awe.
"Can you tell me what you experienced in the market?" Chloe asked, keeping her tone soft.
"Well, when those two thugs burst in and the shot went off, I just dropped to the floor, you know? Tried to make myself small," the student recounted, her voice a little shaky. "I slowly reached for my phone, to call the police, but... it was weird. The screen was blank. It wouldn't turn on, wouldn't do anything. It was like it was completely dead."
Chloe frowned. "Your phone malfunctioned?"
"Yeah! And then, after... after that other man fought them, so fast, so fearless... it was incredible, actually. After he left the market, I checked my phone again, and it just... turned back on. Like normal. It was so strange. Like that guy had some kind of... radiation around him, or something that messed with electronics."
Chloe made a note. Electronic interference. That was new. And highly unusual.
The questioning session continued with the other shoppers. Their accounts largely mirrored Tanaka's and the student's. They described the sudden, brutal efficiency of the mysterious man, his unnerving calm, and several more mentioned their phones or other small electronic devices inexplicably failing while he was present, only to return to normal function after he had departed.
Chloe leaned back in her chair after the last witness left, tapping her pen against her notepad. The physical description was a lock for Peter. The fighting style, the almost supernatural calm followed by explosive violence, the strange electronic disturbances... it all painted a picture of a man far more complex and dangerous than any ordinary vigilante.
This wasn't just a series of isolated incidents. This was a pattern. And Peter D. Rasel was at the center of it all.
A few minutes later, the hum of the precinct had settled back into its usual rhythm, but an undercurrent of unease remained from the market incident. Chloe sat in her small, functional office, the door slightly ajar. The city lights cast a muted glow through the blinds, painting stripes across her desk. She wasn't looking at case files. Instead, her fingers idly traced the delicate gold chain around her neck, her thumb brushing against the flattened soda can pin tab that served as its unconventional pendant. Her gaze was distant, lost in thoughts that stretched far beyond the recent robbery.
A gentle knock on the doorframe pulled her back. Akemi Onohara stood there, holding a tablet, her expression a mixture of professional diligence and quiet curiosity. "Come in, Akemi," Chloe said, her voice a little softer than usual, a hint of weariness in it. She gestured towards the chair opposite her desk.
Akemi entered, taking the offered seat. "Um, Miss Johnson—"
"Chloe," she corrected gently, a faint smile touching her lips. "Just Chloe is fine, Akemi. We're partners on this, after all."
"Oh, right. Chloe-san," Akemi amended, a slight blush rising on her cheeks. "I was just compiling the witness statements from the market. It's... unusual." Her eyes flickered to the necklace Chloe was still unconsciously toying with. "That's a beautiful necklace, by the way."
Chloe's fingers stilled on the pin tab. "Oh, thank you." She held it up slightly, letting the cheap metal catch the dim light. "The gold chain isn't really the important part. This is." She indicated the tab. "It holds a memory. Of someone who... who once saved me." Her gaze drifted to a spot just below her chin on the left side, where a tiny, almost invisible white scar lay hidden unless you knew exactly where to look.
Akemi's professional curiosity was piqued. "A memory? What happened?"
Chloe let out a soft sigh, the sound carrying a weight of years. She leaned back in her chair, her eyes unfocusing as she looked past Akemi, into the depths of her past. "It was a long time ago. I was young... very young." Her voice took on a distant, almost wistful quality. "My father had left. My mother... well, she couldn't cope. She took me to an orphanage, said she couldn't raise me. Disowned me, essentially."
Akemi listened silently, her expression softening with sympathy.
"Being the new, abandoned kid... I became an easy target," Chloe continued, her voice hardening slightly at the memory. "There was this group of older bullies. They made my life hell. Constant teasing, humiliation... they'd corner me, take my things. Standard stuff, but when you're that small and alone, it feels like the end of the world."
She paused, her fingers tightening around the pin tab. "Then one day, they had me cornered in the yard. They were being particularly cruel. And suddenly... he appeared." A faint, almost tender smile ghosted across Chloe's lips. "It sounds so cliché, like something out of a fairy tale – the knight in shining armor riding in to save the princess. But that's what it felt like. He was just a boy, not much older than me, skinny, but... fearless. He stepped right in front of me, shielding me, telling them to leave me alone."
"He fought them?" Akemi asked, captivated.
Chloe chuckled softly, a dry sound. "Not in the way you'd think. They were bigger. They pushed him, laughed at him. But he didn't back down. He... he grabbed the nearest thing he could find, a jagged piece of rock from the dirt, and he threw it. Hit their leader, the biggest one, right in the forehead." She touched her own forehead absently. "Left a nasty gash. They were so shocked, they just... scattered."
"Wow," Akemi breathed.
"I'll never forget that day," Chloe said, her voice now laced with a warmth that transformed her usually sharp features. "It sounds silly, maybe, but we were just two tiny, scared kids. After they ran off, he picked this up." She held up the pin tab again. "It was just lying there in the dirt. He gave it to me, told me it was a... a lucky charm. Made me promise I'd always be strong, that I wouldn't let anyone push me around again." Her smile was genuine now, full of a bittersweet nostalgia. "And I did. I kept that promise."
"We met a few more times after that, in secret, at the orphanage fence," Chloe continued, her eyes softening further. "He was... actually really sweet. Always managed to scrounge up a candy or a small treat to share. We'd just talk. I didn't understand it then, that feeling I got when I was with him... but looking back, I think..." She trailed off, the smile on her face slowly, painfully, fading. The light in her eyes dimmed.
"Miss Chloe... I mean, Chloe-san," Akemi said gently, sensing the shift. "Did something bad happen?"
Chloe's gaze dropped back to the pin tab in her hand. The warmth was gone, replaced by a deep, familiar ache. "He had a friend," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "His best friend. There was... an accident. A fire, I think. His friend didn't make it." Her own voice caught, and she had to clear her throat. "He blamed himself. Completely. Said he should have saved him, that it was his fault. And then... one day, he just disappeared. Vanished. No note, no goodbye. Just... gone."
The silence in the office was heavy, filled with unspoken grief.
"I promised myself then," Chloe continued, her voice regaining a sliver of its usual steel, though her eyes still held a profound sadness. "That if I ever found him again, I wouldn't let him go. I wouldn't let him disappear on me again."
Akemi was quiet for a long moment, processing the story. "Wow," she said finally, her voice soft. "That's... quite a story. A cute one, in a sad way. Do you... do you have any information about him now? Where he might be, or what he's doing?"
Chloe's professional mask snapped back into place so quickly it was almost jarring. She choked back the words that were on the tip of her tongue – the name, the scars, the impossible connection to the vigilante they were hunting. She cleared her throat, her expression carefully neutral. "I'm still searching," she said, her voice even, betraying nothing. "No concrete information yet." It was a lie, a necessary one, but it tasted like ash in her mouth.
"Oh, okay," Akemi said, sensing the shift back to business. "Well, I hope you find him. I hope you both meet again."
"Thanks, Akemi," Chloe said, offering a small, tired smile. She stood up, the pin tab still clutched in her hand. "Anyway, partner," she said, her tone a little brighter, trying to shake off the melancholy. "All this talk of the past has made me hungry. Lunch on me?"
Akemi's face lit up. "Really?"
"Yeah," Chloe confirmed, a genuine smile finally reaching her eyes. "Let's go. Partner." She walked towards the door, Akemi following, the unspoken weight of Chloe's past and Peter's present hanging heavily between them.
Later that evening, the M3 GTR, now clean of the day's rain, pulled up quietly before Ayato's house. The earlier chaos of the market felt worlds away, replaced by the somber stillness that had become the new norm here. Peter gave a gentle knock on the door before entering, Hiroki and Ayato close behind.
Kauri opened the door, her eyes red-rimmed but her smile gentle. "Welcome back," she greeted them softly. Her gaze fell on their still slightly damp hair and clothes. "Oh dear, you're all still a bit wet. Why y'all are wet again?"
Peter managed a small, tired chuckle. "Well, forgot the umbrella, haha," he said lightly. Hiroki, beside him, wore his usual stoic expression, while Ayato offered a faint, fragile smile that made Kauri's heart ache. She knelt before Ayato, her hands gently cupping his face, her own eyes welling with tears. A single drop escaped and fell silently to the floor. "Ayato, how do you—" "I'll try my best, Auntie," Ayato replied, his voice quiet but surprisingly calm for someone who had just returned from his parents' funeral. Kauri nodded, a sad understanding passing between them. They moved into the living room, the weight of the day settling around them.
"Here," Peter said, handing Kauri the bags of groceries from the market. "I bought something." "Aww, thank you so much, Mr. Rasel," Kauri said, a genuine warmth in her voice. "It wasn't necessary at all, but thanks a lot." Peter simply responded with a calm smile and a nod. "Oh," Kauri suddenly exclaimed, a thought striking her. "I forgot something..." Peter, Hiroki, and Ayato looked at her expectantly. She turned towards the stairs. "Kasumi! Come downstairs, dear! Ayato has returned!"
The name dropped into the quiet room like a stone. Ayato froze, the fragile composure he'd managed to gather shattering instantly. A cold sweat beaded on his forehead, and his hands began to tremble violently. Hiroki's eyes narrowed, a flicker of anger tightening his jaw. And Peter... Peter's face became an unreadable mask, but the air around him grew colder, his eyes beneath the cowl turning into chips of obsidian, reflecting a deeply buried, controlled rage.
The soft, almost hesitant sound of footsteps creaked on the stairs above. Ayato stood rooted to the spot, his body numb, the horrifying memories of the hospital room – the suffocating pillow, Takaya's cruel laughter, Kasumi's twisted expression – flooding his mind with nauseating clarity. He swallowed hard, a dry click in his throat, his hands shaking so badly he had to clench them into fists to stop their trembling.
Peter's hand landed firmly on Ayato's shoulder, a silent anchor. Ayato flinched, then looked up, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and resurfacing trauma. Peter met his gaze, his expression unreadable but conveying a powerful, unspoken assurance: You are not alone. Nothing will happen to you while I am here. Ayato took a ragged breath, the iron band of panic around his chest loosening slightly. He was still terrified, but a spark of anger, of defiance, now mingled with the fear. He would not break. Not again. Not in front of her.
"AYATO!" Kasumi's voice, falsely bright and cheerful, echoed from the top of the stairs. She descended, a saccharine smile plastered on her face. But the smile wavered, then froze, as her eyes met the two figures standing protectively beside her cousin. Hiroki, his face a mask of cold contempt. And Peter.
The moment Kasumi's gaze locked with Peter's, a palpable chill swept through the room. Her feigned smile twitched, then contorted into something brittle and unnatural. A visible shiver traced its way down her spine, despite the warmth of the house. She knew those eyes. That unnerving stillness. The almost predatory aura that radiated from him, an invisible pressure that made it hard to breathe. It was him. The man from the hospital. The one who had looked at her with such terrifying, cold fury. The monster.
She forced the grotesque smile back onto her lips, her eyes darting nervously towards Ayato, then skittering away from Peter's unwavering stare. "Oh, Ayato, you're back!" she chirped, her voice a little too high, a little too forced. She took a hesitant step forward, her arms half-raised as if to offer a hug.
Peter moved. Not aggressively, but with a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in his stance that placed him squarely between Kasumi and Ayato. A silent, immovable wall. He didn't even glance at her, yet his very presence, his unwavering gaze fixed on some distant point beyond her, screamed a warning. Do not touch him.
Kasumi's forced composure crumbled. Her smile faltered. The air around Peter felt heavy, charged, like the moments before a lightning strike. "H-hello there," she stammered, her voice losing its artificial brightness, turning thin and reedy. She addressed Peter, unable to meet his eyes directly. "My name is Kasumi Haruno, and you are..."
"Rasel," Peter replied, his voice dangerously soft, almost a purr, yet it sent tendrils of ice coiling down Kasumi's spine. "Peter D. Rasel. Call me Mr. Peter." A faint, chilling smile touched his lips, a smile that held no humor, no warmth, only a terrifying, calculating coldness. It was the smile of a wolf baring its teeth, and Kasumi felt a primal fear grip her. She wanted to run, to scream, but her feet felt nailed to the floor.
"N-nice to meet you, Mr. Rasel," she managed, her voice trembling so violently she was sure everyone could hear it. Her mother, however, seemed oblivious, caught up in her own grief and the attempt to maintain normalcy.
"Um, Ayato," Kauri said, gesturing towards the stairs, "can you lead Hikaru to your room and dry your hair? I don't want both of you getting cold." Ayato, still dazed, looked momentarily puzzled at the name "Hikaru," but then simply nodded. As he turned to walk, Hiroki followed, casting one last, contemptuous glare at Kasumi. Ayato's mind briefly registered the confusion – why was Hiroki using a different name? – but it was quickly pushed aside by the overwhelming dread Kasumi's presence evoked.
"I'll might help them," Kasumi offered quickly, a desperate edge to her voice as she tried to move towards the stairs, eager to escape Peter's suffocating presence.
She didn't take two steps.
A dark, almost tangible feeling slammed into her, rooting her to the spot. It was as if invisible chains had wrapped around her limbs. She could feel Peter's gaze on her back, cold and heavy, like the touch of a specter. That terrifying, almost imperceptible smile was undoubtedly still on his lips, promising unspoken horrors. She stopped, her breath catching in her throat, not daring to move another inch.
"Um," she stammered, turning back towards her mother, her voice strained and shaky. "I... I think I might stay here, and help... w-with the kitchen." The sheer nervousness in Kasumi's tone finally caught Kauri's attention. She walked over to her daughter, her brow furrowed with concern. "Sweetie, are you okay?" she asked gently, placing a hand on Kasumi's shoulder. Kasumi flinched, then slowly turned around. "Y-yeah, Mom, I just... I just feel a bit dizzy for a second and—"
"Young lady."
Peter's voice, quiet but sharp as shattered glass, cut through Kasumi's stammered excuse. She spun around, her eyes wide with a primal terror. He was looking directly at her now, that faint, chilling smile still etched on his lips. "Can you help me in the kitchen?"
Kasumi's heart leaped into her throat. It wasn't a question. It was a summons. A command cloaked in a terrifyingly polite veneer. She had seen a glimpse of what he could do, the cold fury he possessed. She didn't know the depths of his dangerous nature, but every instinct screamed at her that she was staring into the eyes of something ancient and unforgiving.
"Y-yeah," she whispered, her voice barely audible, her body trembling. "S-sure."
"Good," Peter said, the smile widening just a fraction, a terrifyingly predatory glint in his eyes. "Then follow me." He turned and walked towards the kitchen, his movements unhurried, radiating a quiet, lethal confidence. Kasumi stood frozen for a heartbeat, her mind screaming, her legs refusing to obey. But the weight of his unspoken command, the chilling certainty of his power, was too much to resist. With a deep, shuddering breath that did nothing to calm her racing heart, she forced her trembling legs to move, following him into the kitchen, into the terrifying unknown.
To Be Continued...