"Dude, what?" Sakura squinted, kunai still gripped tight. Her brows were up to her hairline.
"Someone's here…" Ren muttered, eyes darting like a cracked-out squirrel on espresso.
The others stiffened.
"Y-You're telling me," Ryosuke began, voice pitching up like a kid seeing his first horror movie, "that there's a g-g-g-ghost?!"
*WHAP!* Yamada slapped the back of Ryosuke's head.
"ACK! STOP THAT YAMACHIN!" Ryosuke rubbed his skull with a pout. "Gods, you're all so serious..."
"Don't be a creep," Sakura deadpanned, already side-eyeing the shadows. "Yamada. Do the thing. Lead the ritua—"
*BOOOOM!*
An explosion cracked through the air like the universe sneezed. Smoke blasted in every direction, throwing them into a grey fog of disorientation.
Coughing. Swearing. Falling on butts.
When the smoke finally cleared, their surroundings had changed.
No more Underworld Realm.
Just... a city park.
Pigeons.
Trash cans.
A guy walking a poodle.
"Holy fuck, Yamada!" Ryosuke wheezed, half-choked. "A little warning next time before you launch us across the dimension like an unpaid Uber ride?!"
"I-I didn't do that!" Yamada stammered, blinking like someone just reset his firmware. "I haven't even started the ritual—"
"Huh?" Sakura looked around, frowning.
Then froze.
"Wait. Where's Ren?"
They turned.
Ren was gone.
Dead silence.
Even the poodle stopped mid-pee.
"…You guys," Ryosuke whispered, "What if the ghost took him?"
Yamada sighed deeply. "Please shut up."
**
The air in the Underworld Realm that was blistering with heat, thickened in an instant—turning into something almost sentient, oppressive. Darkness spilled across the scorched ground like oil, viscous and alive, pulsing with a hunger that could not be sated. It clung to every surface, breathing against the stone, murmuring with voices that didn't belong. Here, the line between the living and the dead had long since faded, blurred into a twilight of eternal torment.
Beneath their feet, the cobbled road flickered with a sickly glow—souls trapped beneath the surface like fireflies beneath ice, their faint light dancing with anguish. Above, the scent of burning incense mingled with something fouler… older… the smell of decay soaked deep into ancient wood, of time rotting in its grave.
And then… she arrived.
She stepped through the veil like a blade cutting through silk. A woman cloaked in velvet blacker than night, her silhouette bending the shadows around her as though even the darkness recoiled in reverence. Her robe shimmered with a strange sheen—cosmic, otherworldly, like starlight caught in liquid obsidian. Her hair poured down her back like cascading ink, moving unnaturally, as if drifting in invisible water.
Her beauty was haunting, unearthly. Not soft, not kind—stunning in the way a storm is beautiful before it destroys. Her eyes, luminous and red as cursed rubies, held a depth that did not belong to this world. To look into them was to fall—endlessly—into fire, into memory, into truth.
Her mere presence ruptured the balance of the realm.
The air around her rippled, subtle tremors of power warping the space between breaths. Lost souls, monsters—SPECTRES, cursed to wander for eternity, stopped. Some drawn forward, their agony momentarily eased by her gravity. Others recoiled, shivering as though a predator had entered the den.
Even the keepers of this realm froze mid-step.
They trembled.
She was here before. Twice. And both times did not end pretty in the realm.
Whispers clung to her name like prayers spoken in fear.
V.
Deveraux blood.
HER.
When she stepped into the haunted courtyard where the fresh battle had just taken place, the Underworld fell silent.
There, in the heart of the void, stood a lone teenager. Fifteen. A flickering remnant of the living world still clung to him—his body glowing faintly, like an ember refusing to die. His clothes were torn, bloodied from battle. His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps. His face pale. Haunted. Lost.
Ren.
His eyes snapped to her, wide with confusion—and something deeper.
Recognition.
The pressure in the air tightened. Time slowed. The realm held its breath.
She looked at him.
And he—felt seen.
"Hi, Ren," she greeted softly, her voice like dusk—dry, low, threaded with amusement and something else… something odd. Tired. Weary. Sorrow.
He staggered, throat working around the words that refused to leave.
She was the presence he'd felt. That cold dread before the fight. The eyes watching through the void.
She was her.
V stepped forward, shadows folding in behind her like loyal beasts. The courtyard seemed to shrink around them. Even the light dimmed.
Her gaze never wavered. Not for a second.
And Ren—he could feel her in his mind. Slipping between thoughts, slicing through his fear, his memories like silk on a blade.
"Don't be afraid," she whispered, not as comfort—but as command. Her smile was small. Not mocking.
"I'm V. We've met before."
His breath caught. His lips parted.
"What?" He whispered. "V-sensei?"
She inclined her head. "Correct."
Then she reached for him. Her hand—pale, almost translucent—moved through the air like prophecy made flesh. When her fingertips touched his forehead, a surge of cold lightning tore through his nerves. His knees buckled. His vision blurred.
And then her voice came again, softer now. Not a whisper. A promise.
"Let's go back."
ONE WEEK LATER
Now, it was morning.
And Ren was alive.
He lay on a bed far softer than any he'd ever known—its frame sleek, polished wood, the sheets crisp, cool, and heavy with the scent of lavender and something faintly metallic, like ozone before a storm. His body felt… real. Whole. No more searing pain in his lungs. No weight pressing down on his chest like the Underworld's air had done.
Sunlight cut across the dark wooden floor in clean blades, painting golden trails toward a wall of floor-to-ceiling glass that revealed—
Tokyo.
Vast. Endless. Alive.
He blinked, disoriented. The skyline was glittering, touched by morning haze, with skyscrapers stretching into the clouds like glass thorns. The city pulsed below him, cars streaming like veins of light, a hum of life echoing even through the silence of the penthouse.
This couldn't be real. This was the kind of place CEOs lived in. Legends. Gods.
The fuck am I doing here?
He sat up.
The plush carpet muffled his steps as he wandered through the bedroom, past walls of elegant charcoal and white marble accents. The furniture was sparse but expensive—minimalist, tasteful. Every line was sharp, every surface immaculate.
A single katana hung mounted above the bedframe.
The bathroom was a mirror-walled shrine of matte black tile and chrome. The hallway spilled into a living room with high ceilings and sleek couches that looked untouched. Not a speck of dust. Not a sound.
It felt like walking through someone else's life.
His.
Apparently.
The dining area was next—long table, crystal lights above, untouched tea set resting at the far end. And then, finally, he reached the kitchen.
That's where she was.
V.
She stood in front of the island counter, the morning light pouring behind her, turning her dark silhouette into something almost divine. The kitchen was pristine—white cabinets, brass fixtures, the faint aroma of roasted coffee lingering in the air. Her robe was dark grey this time, simpler than the one she wore in the Underworld, but no less striking. Her long black hair spilled down her back in its usual inky waterfall.
She was… cooking?
He stopped in the doorway, stunned. "Sensei…?"
She didn't turn.
Just stirred something gently in a cast iron pan with precise, slow movements. Her head tilted slightly, acknowledging him.
"You're awake," she said. Her voice was soft, deeper than most women's—measured, careful. Like every syllable was weighed before leaving her lips.
Ren stepped into the room, unsure if he was supposed to be there, though it was apparently his new home. He glanced around, still overwhelmed by the view, the wealth, the surreal luxury of it all.
"Is this really Tokyo?" He asked. "I mean, my Tokyo?"
She nodded. "Our world. Our home."
Ren rubbed the back of his neck. He was still wearing the academy's sleepwear—dark, clean, embroidered with subtle silver stitching at the collar. His hands didn't shake anymore. His breath was steady. His heart… still unsure.
"Everything's so different…" he muttered. "I thought I'd wake up back in the dorm."
A faint curve ghosted her lips—barely a smile, but something near it.
"You'll live here when you're in Tokyo from now on. Or at Deveraux hotel. Wherever. Whichever you prefer."
HUH?
Ren approached the island slowly. The closer he got, the more surreal it became. She moved like a shadow given flesh, calm, controlled—watchful. Every move she made was deliberate, like a surgeon in a ritual.
"You've… done a lot for me," he said quietly. "The room at Soshiki Academy, the new clothes, the snacks… the medical team that patched me up, this place—hell, my life! You didn't have to save me back there."
Still, she said nothing.
Ren swallowed and lowered his gaze.
"I guess what I'm trying to say is… thank you. For saving me. And for this second chance. Even if this life is way weirder than anything I imagined."
She turned then, slowly, setting down the pan. Her crimson eyes fixed on him. She didn't smile. Didn't speak right away.
She simply looked at him.
Watched him.
Measured him.
Not like prey. Not like a mother. Not like a savior.
Like something in between—a sculptor evaluating stone, wondering what it might become.
"You'll need strength," she said at last, quietly. "More than you think."
Ren gave a dry laugh, unsure if she was warning or encouraging him. "Yeah… I figured."
She reached for a plate and slid the food toward him. Simple. Two perfect tamagoyaki slices, rice, grilled fish, and miso soup.
Ren blinked at it. "You… cook?"
V's crimson eyes narrowed just slightly, as if amused by the question. "You eat."
"…Right." He sat. "I eat."
She stood across from him, arms crossed now, observing. Not uncomfortable. Not aggressive. Just… there. Like a constant.
He took a bite. Warm. Savory. Familiar.
Something about it grounded him more than the luxury ever could.
He looked up at her, swallowing the food, and asked the only thing still echoing in his mind since that day when he fought the street punks that almost killed him.
"…Why me?"
Her gaze didn't waver. She leaned slightly closer.
And said, quietly—
"You weren't meant to die…" She then smirked. "Not yet anyway."
**
Breakfast was surreal.
Not just because V-sensei cooked, but because she actually watched me eat like I was a science experiment. She didn't say much after that cryptic "You weren't meant to die… not yet anyway" comment either, which, by the way, still lived rent-free in my skull.
I finished everything on the plate. Couldn't disrespect tamagoyaki that good.
Then came the knock.
The penthouse door slid open with the softest click, and in walked Tomo-sensei—tall, sharp-jawed, every inch of him a walking cover model for Battlefield Chic Monthly. His coat whipped just slightly as he stepped inside, effortlessly cool with that wind-swept raven hair and eyes like glacier steel.
Behind him?
Chaos.
"RENNNNNNNNN!!" Sakura screamed as she launched herself through the doorway like a missile.
"Oh gods—" I braced myself just in time as she crashed into me, arms wrapped around my neck in a death grip. "—Sakura! Oxygen is still a requirement!"
"You're alive! You're not ghost food! You're not a sexy demon hostage!" She cried, sniffling. "I was gonna avenge you with a bazooka, but V-sensei wouldn't let me steal one from the armory!"
"I feel incredibly safe knowing that," I wheezed.
Then came Yamada, stoic as ever, nodding like a soldier returned from war. He patted my shoulder solemnly. "Welcome back from the other side."
"...You too?" I blinked. "You died?"
"No," he said gravely. "I just fell into a lake made of screaming souls and have trauma now."
Ryosuke strolled in last, arms crossed and lips in a pout like a spoiled cat. He ignored me entirely and zeroed in on the real target.
"V-sensei," he said, voice full of dramatic betrayal.
She raised a brow at him, silent.
"You were gone so long," Ryosuke huffed. "Do you have any idea how much my uncle sucks at teaching? I'm emotionally scarred."
Tomo-sensei raised an elegant brow. "Excuse me?"
"You also made curry without rinsing the rice," Ryosuke deadpanned. "That's a hate crime in some prefectures."
"There was an urgent mission." V-sensei retorted, unbothered. Seems like that's how she is.
"Oh, right," Ryosuke muttered. "That's fair, I guess. Mission, mission, mission. Forget your students!"
V-sensei then chuckled.
The reunion devolved quickly into a mess of chaos and laughter. Sakura started dramatically re-enacting battles using chopsticks and miso bowls. Yamada silently added sound effects. Ryosuke gave live commentary like it was a sports broadcast.
"And then whoosh, V-sensei dives from the rooftop like a vengeance goddess," Sakura waved her arms, mimicking wind.
"I did not dive," V muttered behind me. "I landed."
"You posed," Ryosuke corrected with a wink. "It was iconic."
I just sat there, overwhelmed and amused.
The last time I saw them, we were all pretty much dying. And now we were arguing about rice and battle poses.
Maybe this is what it meant to be alive.
**
Later, after the chaos died down and the others were exploring the apartment ("HOLY FUCK THERE'S A GAME ROOM?!" Sakura had screamed), I wandered out to the veranda. Cool air brushed against my skin. The city stretched endlessly beneath the glass railing—shimmering, breathing.
V-sensei and Tomo-sensei stood at the edge of the view, side by side.
Silent.
The wind caught her long black hair, trailing it like silk behind her. Tomo-sensei's coat flared just slightly in the breeze. They didn't speak. Didn't move.
Just watched.
Like gods overlooking their domain.
And yeah, okay—I'll admit it:
They looked ridiculously good together.
Her, with those crimson eyes and expression carved from marble.
Him, with the calm power of someone who could level buildings with a hand wave but chooses not to.
Both beautiful.
Both striking.
Both perfect.
Were they even human?
Probably not.
And if they were, humanity had been holding out on the rest of us.
I leaned against the doorway, watching them for a second too long before shaking my head.
"Get it together," I muttered under my breath. "You're not in a drama."
Still…
They really were the hottest couple alive.
**
I left them alone on the veranda. I had this weird, unspoken feeling that I'd intrude on something if I stayed. Maybe not a romantic moment—though knowing Tomo-sensei and V-sensei, anything was possible—but something private.
When I returned to the others, Sakura had already unpacked the snacks.
"Who bought imported strawberry pocky?" Yamada asked in disbelief.
"Me!" Sakura chirped, beaming. "I survived death and a demon duel. I deserve deluxe sugar."
I smiled faintly, sitting beside them on the couch. Ryosuke tossed me a can of soda wordlessly, then leaned his head on my shoulder like a cat pretending not to like people.
"Glad you're alive, by the way," he muttered. "Don't make it a habit."
"Wasn't planning to," I said, cracking the can open.
Their voices blurred around me, warm and chaotic. But behind the noise, I could still hear the muffled conversation from the veranda—just the tones, not the words. I glanced once.
Tomo-sensei had turned to face V-sensei.
**
V wasn't looking at him—her eyes were narrowed, fixed on the cityscape. Her arms were crossed, tension carved into every line of her body. Like the weight of something still dragged her spine low, even here, even now.
"You shouldn't have left them for that mission."
Her voice was quiet.
Tomo didn't respond immediately. He just let the silence bloom, heavy.
"They're not ready to face death like that," V continued, voice colder. "Not her. Especially not with fighting Kentaro."
Tomo sighed, low. "I know."
She turned to him slowly, her eyes sharp as obsidian.
"You knew. And you didn't stop it."
"I didn't choose the mission," he said gently. "The Old Geezer—"
"Don't say his name," V snapped. "I'll bark at that shriveled fossil myself. The moment I step foot in the Academy gates again, I'm lighting his office on fire."
"I'll bring the gasoline." Tomo offered dryly.
"You have no say in this! You let them, her… get through it."
"Shit. Right. I… I'm sorry."
That earned him a glare.
"I'll talk to Sakura," she added, quieter now. "She's putting up a front. I can feel it." Her voice dropped, something softer beneath. "She blames herself."
"She always does." Tomo responded. "Just like you."
That made her flinch. She looked away.
A long silence stretched between them.
Then, gently, Tomo reached out and wrapped his arms around her.
It wasn't a desperate kind of hug. It was careful. Slow. A gesture he probably rarely offered. But to her… she was his world since that day.
And V didn't resist.
She just stood there, letting her body slowly lean into his, her hands still clenched at her sides, until finally—finally—she let out a breath.
He murmured something only she could hear.
And then he pulled back just enough to look at her, one corner of his mouth tilted in that unfair, stupid, hot-boy smirk that said I know exactly what I'm doing to you.
"Don't." She warned, eyes narrowing.
He leaned closer anyway. "Too late."
She narrowed her eyes further.
Then she smirked.
Flushed.
And muttered under her breath:
"You're full of shit."
But she didn't pull away.
**
By noon, the penthouse terrace had transformed into a full-blown rooftop barbecue party. I had no idea where the grill came from, or who decided we had the right to use it, but it was happening—smoke wafting into the Tokyo skyline like we were summoning ancient beef spirits.
I've also learned that V-sensei owned the entire building.
The entire fucking building.
Fuck.
Ryosuke was flipping skewers with intense focus, like it was a battlefield.
"Let it sear, Yamachin!" He barked, pointing with the tongs. "You keep flipping it like that, we're gonna eat meat-flavored rubber bands!"
Yamada sulked. "I'm just trying to help…"
"You're helping wrong!"
"Fuckboy, you've literally never cooked before in your life! You have a butler on call! The fuck do you know?"
Meanwhile, Sakura was slicing up vegetables like she'd just remembered she had trauma to repress. She moved with terrifying precision, her knife flashing in the sunlight as carrot corpses hit the cutting board one after another.
"You okay, Sakura?" I asked carefully.
She smiled brightly—too brightly. "So great! So alive! So not haunted by anything at all!"
Right. Cool.
Tomo-sensei was leaning against the railing, arms crossed, sunglasses on, somehow making black jeans and a simple white T-shirt look like a designer ad. He hadn't said much, just sipped from a cold drink with an unreadable look as he watched the chaos unfold.
Next to him, V-sensei was seated on a lounge chair under the shade, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. She wore a loose, long-sleeved black blouse tucked into tailored slacks, effortlessly chic and untouchable.
She hadn't spoken in ten minutes.
I wasn't sure she needed to.
The aura alone said: Behave, or your ribs are next on the grill.
"Someone needs to tell Ryosuke he's not Gordon Ramsay," I muttered, nudging Yamada.
"He's more like Gordon Trauma," Yamada replied.
"I HEARD THAT!" Ryosuke shouted from the grill.
"Tomo-sensei!" Sakura yelled suddenly. "Do you want a skewer?"
Tomo-sensei lifted his sunglasses slightly, one brow raised. "Is it edible?"
"We don't know yet!" Ryosuke chimed cheerfully.
"I'll pass," he replied, letting his glasses drop back down.
"V-sensei?" I asked, bringing over a plate.
She blinked once, like I'd interrupted some grand philosophical thought. Then, her eyes drifted to the plate.
"Pork belly?"
"Yup."
"…Acceptable."
That was high praise, coming from her.
I sat beside her quietly, chewing on my skewer and watching the others.
They were laughing now—Ryosuke trying to juggle the tongs and nearly dropping them off the balcony, Yamada using lettuce like a fan, and Sakura mock-stabbing Ryosuke with a chopstick for burning the mushrooms. It was stupid. Chaotic. Loud.
And it was perfect.
For a moment, we weren't kids who'd fought Spectres or crossed into death or lost someone we loved. We were just… here. Laughing. Eating. Alive.
I looked at V-sensei again.
She wasn't smiling, but her gaze was softer. Her eyes lingered on the three idiots by the grill.
Then shifted to Tomo.
He glanced back at her.
They didn't speak. Didn't need to.
Something passed between them—silent, electric, ancient.
The kind of look that says we've been through hell and back, and still, this moment matters.
I took another bite of grilled beef and let the moment soak in.
Whatever weird, terrifying life I had now… it wasn't so bad.
It led me into this.