Nine Lives in Neon Lights
Chapter 13: Echoes and Obstacles
The lingering image of those glowing amber eyes in her reflection had branded itself onto Akira's perception. Every polished surface now held a subtle dread, every mirror a potential portal to a deepening horror. Sleep offered no true refuge, merely a descent into more vivid, unsettling dreams. The mist-shrouded forest grew denser, the howls echoing with an undeniable familiarity, and her dream-self, increasingly sleek and powerful, moved with a terrifying, primal grace. She awoke each morning with a racing pulse, the earthy, wild scent of the dream clinging to her, the persistent vibration in her lower spine a constant, unnerving reminder of the changes within.
"Akira-chan, are you feeling well? You're so pale," her mother observed one evening, her voice laced with the kind of soft, pervasive concern that felt like a physical weight. They were sitting at the low table, a rare shared meal in the quiet apartment. Her mother had brought out Akira's favorite omurice, but the rich aroma, once comforting, now merely assaulted Akira's heightened senses, making her stomach clench.
Akira forced a smile, pushing the food around her plate. "I'm fine, Mama. Just... school's demanding. A lot of projects." The lie felt thin, transparent. Her mother, usually busy with her flower arranging classes and community work, had been home more often lately, her gaze frequently drifting to Akira with a worried intensity.
"You've lost weight, darling," her mother continued, her voice gentle but insistent. "And you startle so easily. Are you sleeping properly? Those nightmares... are they still bothering you?" She reached across the table, her hand resting warmly on Akira's. "You've been through a lot. Perhaps seeing a specialist again, a new kind of therapy? The school counselor mentioned a support group for... students who've experienced unusual stress."
Akira pulled her hand back almost instinctively. The warmth felt overwhelming, her mother's concern like a suffocating blanket. "No, Mama, really. I'm okay. I'm handling it." The thought of sitting in a room, trying to explain her reality to bewildered adults or equally traumatized peers, was unbearable. How could she tell them about the glowing eyes, the independent shadows, the way Ryouta Kuroda seemed to know the deepest, most terrifying secrets of her changing form? They'd think she needed institutionalization, not therapy.
Her mother sighed, her gaze lingering. "You used to tell me everything, Akira-chan. Now, it feels like there's a wall between us. This... Kuroda-kun. You spend all your time at his house. Is he truly helping you, or is he... unsettling you further?" The question hung in the air, tinged with a delicate but clear suspicion. Akira found herself unable to answer, caught between the instinct to protect her mother from the terrifying truth and a rising frustration that no one in her old life could possibly comprehend.
Meanwhile, Hiroshi's investigation into Ryouta Kuroda consumed his every spare moment. The sheer elusiveness of the transfer student fueled a relentless dread. He now understood that he wasn't just looking for an odd transfer student; he was chasing a ghost of a different kind – a man with secrets so profound, they seemed to defy logic, perhaps even legality.
He spent hours in obscure university libraries, poring over archived yearbooks and historical city records, cross-referencing names and subtle facial features. The world of deep, hidden human secrets, he was quickly discovering, was remarkably adept at obscuring its tracks. Documents were vague, records incomplete, names shifting slightly through generations. It was like trying to catch mist. Yet, fueled by his fierce, desperate loyalty to Akira, he persisted.
He found the student records office yielded frustratingly little. Ryouta Kuroda's transfer documents were almost entirely blank, beyond a name and current address. Dates of birth were absent, previous schools listed as "private institution," and any actual contact information was blacked out, save for a now-disconnected phone number. This isn't just weird, Hiroshi thought, a cold certainty settling in his gut. This is a cover-up. What kind of person has their entire past erased like this? A spy? A criminal hiding from something serious? His worry intensified, fueled by the lack of information and the sheer oddness.
He tried tracing the Kuroda name, hoping to find family connections or a history that explained the secluded estate. He found only frustratingly sparse records, vague mentions of an "ancient, unbroken line" associated with the property, but no clear genealogy. It was as if the family existed in whispers and rumors, rarely on official paper. The more he dug, the less he found, each dead end serving only to deepen his conviction that Ryouta was hiding something immense and potentially dangerous, a secret that transcended mere eccentricity. He saw no supernatural connections, only a master manipulator expertly concealing his true identity and past.
This realization, even without understanding the true nature of Ryouta, solidified his resolve. Ryouta wasn't just eccentric; he was something entirely abnormal, a master of deception, perhaps even dangerous. And he was drawing Akira deeper into his hidden realm of secrets. Hiroshi saw how Akira's laughter had changed, how her eyes held a new, knowing glint that terrified him. She was becoming more assured, yes, but also more distant, more alien. He couldn't stand idly by.
He started subtly increasing his presence around Akira, 'accidentally' appearing outside her classes, 'remembering' an urgent question during lunch, always trying to insert himself back into her routine. "Hey, Akira-chan," he'd begin, trying for casual, "Professor Tanaka needs help with the debate club. Wants to know if you can lend your 'genius' for a bit? Just for an hour?" He knew she hated debate, but he hoped to lure her away from her afternoon rendezvous.
Akira, however, usually offered a polite but firm decline. "Sorry, Hiroshi. I'm meeting Kuroda-kun for the project." Her responses were always calm, her gaze steady, but there was an unyielding firmness that startled him. She wasn't just making excuses; she was choosing. And she was choosing Ryouta.
The divide between Akira's two lives, the mundane and the increasingly anomalous, became an unbridgeable chasm. At school, she was an academic marvel, a quiet enigma. At home, she was a distant daughter, her mother's worried glances a constant, nagging discomfort. But at Ryouta's estate, she found a strange, terrifying truth, a form of understanding that neither her family nor her childhood friend could ever provide.
Hiroshi, armed with his unsettling lack of concrete information, felt a desperate urgency. He knew he had to break them apart, to pull Akira back from the precipice he saw her approaching. He couldn't explain what Ryouta was, not without sounding paranoid, but he could point to the danger, the unexplainable nature of his past. He would try harder, push further. He had to. Akira was slipping away, and he might be the only one who could see it.