The ramen was warm. The walk home wasn't.
Kun moved alone beneath the bruised evening sky, where the last color of day bled into iron gray. Wind rustled the trees along the countryside road, their silhouettes stretching like grasping fingers. His scarf was snug around his neck. Hands stuffed into his pockets. Step by step—slow, measured, deliberate.
Sai hadn't followed.
Their earlier exchange lingered in Kun's chest like phantom warmth—comfort twisted with dread. He hated how normal Sai had looked. How human he had sounded. It made everything feel... false.
With each step, the silence deepened.
Then—he noticed.
The road behind him was gone.
The paved street had somehow bled into untamed grass. No tire tracks. No markers. Just a narrow, overgrown trail threading into shadowed woods.
At the end of that path stood a mansion.
Or what was left of one.
The roof sagged beneath a quilt of moss. Rot claimed the beams. Vines slithered up the walls like veins feeding a dying heart. What remained of the gate stood crooked, rusted spikes jutting out like teeth.
And something about the air changed.
It was colder here.
He stepped forward—and something fluttered past.
A photo.
It skimmed along the dirt like a dead leaf. Kun knelt and picked it up.
Four children stood before the mansion in washed-out tones. Three of them smiled.
One stood apart.
A boy. Long black hair. Pale skin. Eyes too dark to read.
Sai.
Kun's breath caught. He flipped the photo over.
Nothing. Just old smudges. Fingerprints.
He looked up again.
The house seemed closer now.
Ancient talismans clung to the doorframe like scabs—some cracked, some pulsing faintly, like they were barely holding something in.
"This must be" Kun whispered. "This must be where Sai lived. But why am I here anyway? Did... he guide me here himself?" He asked to himself but there's no turning back now.
His fingers found his phone. The screen lit the dusk in artificial blue.
He filmed the photo, then the house.
"Documenting... possible link to entity Sai Mukami. Abandoned structure. No known records. Dad would've called this a classic 'anchor point'…"
A shaky smile tugged at his lips.
"Sorry, Dad. Guess I paid more attention than I thought."
He crossed the threshold.
The talismans crackled.
None stopped him.
Inside, the air was suffocating—thick with dust and time. The flashlight barely sliced through the gloom, revealing shrouded furniture, broken frames, decay. The smell was old wood and something sweeter—like spoiled fruit.
Wallpaper peeled like scabbed flesh. Cobwebs draped from ceiling to floor like funeral veils.
Kun moved slowly, narrating under his breath, like his father once did in field recordings.
"No fresh signs of possession... but it's not empty."
He turned a corner.
The hallway was lined with children's drawings. Smiling stick families. Sunflowers. A forest. Then—one portrait scratched through with violent strokes, nearly torn in half.
He filmed each with a trembling hand.
At the end of the corridor—an open door.
He pushed it wider.
A bedroom. Small. Still. Preserved like a shrine.
Toys scattered across the floor, half-buried in dust. A diary lay bloated on a desk. The bedsheets were patterned with stars—smiling cartoon constellations.
Photos on the walls.
Kun raised the light. One by one, he examined them.
A weary mother. A distant father. Four children.
Sai always stood a little off to the side.
In the last photo, he was gone.
Kun's stomach twisted.
"What… happened here?"
Then he saw it.
Under the bed, something shimmered.
He crouched, reached—his fingers closed around metal.
A key.
Cold. Etched with a name that made his skin crawl.
Mukami
It vibrated faintly in his palm, like it knew him.
Drawn forward, Kun approached a child-sized cabinet. The lock was rusted, blackened. He hesitated.
"I shouldn't…"
His hand moved anyway.
Click.
Inside: a jar.
Dark glass. Wax-sealed. Wrapped in brittle paper talismans. Something floated within.
Kun's phone trembled as he raised it.
A finger.
Child-sized. Intact. Skin pale, nail splintered, bone jagged at the severed edge.
Kun staggered. Bile surged. The phone slipped from his hand and struck the floor—
And the light died.
Silence swallowed the room.
No wind. No distant cars. No breath.
Then—
Skrrrk... skrrrrkkk... skrrrrrk...
Something dragged. Crawled. Across ceiling. Wall. Air.
Kun spun. The door—gone. The hallway burned in reverse, drawings curling into ash. The talismans howled as they combusted.
He slammed his fists on the walls.
"Let me out! LET ME—!"
Behind him—it stood.
Not a person.
A figure of bone and shadow, its jaw hanging like a broken door. Hands—dozens—unfurling from its back. Eyes blinking where no eyes should be.
It didn't speak.
It entered his mind.
"He opened the door."
"He is ours."
"The offering returns."
Kun screamed.
The thing slid—not walked—across the air and placed one hand on his chest.
And entered.
His body convulsed.
Blood spilled from nose, ears, mouth. His limbs thrashed as though puppeteered by knives. His spine arched. Eyes turned white.
And then—
Voices. Plural. Speaking through him.
"L'yreh ssa'vuhn ha'kei—"
"We waited, child of the gate."
"Yuichi's blood. Yuichi's sin."
"Open. Open. Open—"
A vision split through his skull—Yuichi, years ago, tearing down a talisman. Entering this very house.
The basement yawning open.
"...Father?" Kun whispered. "Yui…chi…"
His fingers tore at his chest.
Skin split. Nails cracked.
"GET OUT—!"
His voice was many voices. Wrong. Splintered.
"We live in you now."
"You are the vessel."
"The gate is open."
Laughter spilled from his mouth.
High. Broken. Childlike.
He spasmed—bones dislocating. The floor opened. Darkness swallowed.
And from it—
Sai emerged.
Still. Silent.
He approached through the chaos like it didn't exist. The spirits recoiled from him.
He knelt.
Took Kun's face in his hands.
"You let them in," Sai whispered. "They'll never leave now."
Kun's eyes cracked open, blooded and dazed.
"K'thelei… mukami…"
Sai smiled.
"You're still beautiful like this."
And kissed him.
It was soft.
And wrong.
The house screamed.
Talismans burst in sulfur. The walls shrieked.
Then—
Silence.
Kun awoke in the forest.
Alone.
The mansion—gone. Not ruined. Not collapsed.
Erased.
No sign it had ever existed.
His body was broken—torn clothes, cracked nails, bruises like shadows. His hands were scratched to the bone.
And his mind—blank.
He limped back to the road.
Somewhere, beneath the roots, buried and waiting—
The other half of him slept.
12:03 AM
The clock blinked on Aya's desk.
She stood motionless, fingers hovering above her phone. Kun's ramen sat untouched on the counter, long gone cold.
She tapped his name again.
Calling: Kun
It rang.
And rang.
Then—connected.
But no voice answered.
Just… breathing. Wet. Shaky.
And behind it—footsteps. Leaves crunching.
Then—closer. Right outside.
Aya's heart dropped.
She turned to the door.
The night was wrong.
Still. Stagnant. Like the town had forgotten how to breathe.
She stepped onto the porch. The light flickered above her.
A sound behind her.
A soft thud.
She turned.
Kun was kneeling at the bottom of the stairs.
Covered in blood. Filth. Nails cracked. Fingers curled. Clothes torn like clawed fabric.
His smile—wide.
Empty.
Vacant.
His eyes shone glassy in the porch light. Still. Unblinking.
His phone lay beside him, glowing.
"...Kun?" Aya whispered.
He tilted his head. A slow, unnatural jerk.
"Hi, Mom."
His voice was shredded. Twisted. Like something unused to speaking.
Then:
"I think I'm home."
The smile deepened.
Blood dripped from his chin.
Aya ran. Kneeling, clutching his face.
"What happened?! Who—who did this to you?!"
He swayed like a broken doll.
Whispered something.
She leaned closer.
"Say that again, baby—"
And he did.
Not in his voice.
"Open the gate."
Then his body slumped forward.
Aya caught him. He was freezing.
Still smiling.
But his eyes were crying.