Everything was white.
The ceiling. The walls. Even the faint scent in the air—it wasn't the sharp sting of antiseptic, but something colder. Sterile. Clinical. Like the place had never been touched by anything living.
Akira's eyelids fluttered open. Heavy. Dry. His vision swam in a haze before settling into blinding white. A dull ringing echoed faintly in his ears, followed by a rhythmic beep... beep... beep somewhere nearby.
He blinked slowly. His limbs felt foreign—like they didn't belong to him. His body ached with a deep, bruised pain, like he'd been thrown down a flight of stairs... or crushed by a truck.
Then the memories hit.
The alley.
The monster.
The blood.
The roar.
The pen buried in its eye.
And—Suo.
His heart lurched.
"Suo!"
He tried to sit up—"AAAGHH!"—only for fire to erupt in his ribs, knocking him back down. He gasped, eyes wide, hand slamming to his bandaged side.
His breath came in short, ragged bursts.
Was it real? Did that thing actually happen? Did Suo really—?
His chest tightened. Please no.
Then a voice drifted in from the right. Calm. Dry. Like someone commenting on the weather.
"You're awake. Took you long enough."
Akira turned his head sharply, ignoring the protesting pain in his neck.
There, slouched in a chair beside the bed, sat a man reading a dog-eared magazine like he was killing time at a bus stop. Tousled black hair. Tattered coat. Boots that had definitely seen better days. He looked too casual for someone sitting in a medical facility, like he didn't quite belong here—but didn't care.
At first, Akira didn't recognize him.
But then—his eyes widened. That memory flashed again. A figure under the moonlight, face half-lost in shadow, standing like a statue while a creature of nightmare lunged toward him—and then vanished with a single word.
It all came rushing back.
Akira's voice cracked. "Wait a minute… you're the one… from last night. The guy who killed that thing. The one who saved us."
The man didn't even look up at first—just turned a page with a lazy flick of his thumb.
"Yeah," he said flatly. "That'd be me."
But behind that indifferent voice was a different thought entirely: Saved? More like damage control. If I hadn't dragged your bleeding ass out of there and filed a report saying I 'rescued civilians from an active hybrid zone,' I'd be filling out death forms and apology memos for the next two weeks.
The magazine snapped shut with a dull clap.
The man leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
"So," he said, eyes now on Akira. "Mind telling me how two high school brats ended up tangoing with something they had no business being near? And why didn't you run like any sane person would?"
Akira clenched his jaw. "There wasn't time. That thing—it had Suo. I couldn't just leave him."
For a split second, something flickered in the man's eyes. Respect? Or maybe just mild surprise.
He gave a short nod. "Blond kid? He's alive."
Akira's eyes widened. "He—what? He's alive?" His voice cracked again, thick with emotion. "Where is he?! I need to see him!"
The man waved dismissively. "Another ward. Doctors patched him up. He'll be fine in a few days if he stops bleeding everywhere."
Akira tried to sit up—again.
"I want to—AAAGHHH!" He collapsed back onto the mattress, sweat beading on his forehead as the pain roared through his chest.
The man didn't flinch.
"I told you not to move, dumbass."
Akira glared at him through gritted teeth. "Who… the hell are you?"
The man stood up with a groan, like even answering was a chore. He cracked his neck, then brushed invisible dust from his coat.
"Kenjiro Tsuda," he said. "I do clean-up. Exorcist. Sorcerer. Occult exterminator. Monster janitor. Pick whichever makes you sleep better."
Akira frowned, trying to wrap his spinning head around it all.
"That thing from last night… what was it?"
Kenjiro's eyes darkened just slightly, but his voice stayed lazy.
"Let's just say it doesn't belong in your world. And before you ask—no, I'm not gonna explain the whole cosmic horror playbook. You're not ready for chapter one."
Akira scoffed weakly. "You act like a total asshole, but you still showed up when it mattered."
Kenjiro chuckled under his breath.
"Don't get it twisted. I didn't save you out of the kindness of my heart. That thing was my responsibility. If I'd let you two die, I'd be the one getting eaten—by red tape."
Akira let out a short breath—half a laugh, half exhaustion. "Still a dick."
Kenjiro didn't deny it.
Akira's body throbbed, but concern won over pain. He started shifting again. "I don't care. I want to see Suo."
Kenjiro sighed. "Stubborn brat."
He got up and approached the bed. Akira narrowed his eyes.
"You're not gonna hit me or—"
PRESS.
"AAAAAAAAAAGHHHH—DAMN IT—"
Kenjiro jabbed a finger straight into the injury.
"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!"
He jabbed again.
"GOD—STOP—YOU PSYCHO!"
SMACK.
A loud slap echoed through the room.
Kenjiro froze mid-press. The magazine hit the floor.
A calm but firm voice rang out.
"What do you think you're doing to a recovering patient?"
Kenjiro turned slowly, rubbing the back of his head. "Tch. Misaki…"
A tall woman stepped into the room. Long black hair tied behind her back, a white blazer over crisp slacks, and a no-nonsense air that could kill conversation at fifty paces. Her eyes scanned the room, cold and cutting.
"You were assigned to monitor him. Not torture him."
Kenjiro shrugged. "He wouldn't stay still."
Misaki ignored him and walked up to Akira, her voice softening just slightly.
"You're safe. Your friend's safe. You don't need to worry right now."
Akira looked up at the woman who had just smacked the older man across the head. Her sharp voice, firm posture, and presence made it clear—she wasn't just some nurse passing through.
His eyes narrowed. "Wait… and who the hell are you?"
The woman gave a faint, almost amused smile. "Well… it's a bit complicated. Let's just say I'm this guy's colleague."
She nodded toward Kenjiro, who was now sulking as he rubbed the back of his head.
Akira blinked. "Colleague? So that means… you can kill those things too, right? You're like him?"
He tried to sit up, struggling against the tight pull of his bandages. "Then that means you know what they are. That thing… it wasn't human, right? So what the hell was it? You people know, don't you?"
His voice started to rise, frantic, desperate for answers—but then, the room shifted.
His vision blurred.
The sterile white walls seemed to bend and sway, and a heavy weight crushed against his chest. His breath caught in his throat.
"Wha… what's happening…?"
His voice faltered.
His eyes rolled.
Darkness swept over him like a tide.
He collapsed against the bed, unconscious once more.
Misaki turned her head slightly, glancing at the IV drip beside the bed.
"I told you not to rile him up," she muttered, exhaling through her nose.
Kenjiro, arms crossed, didn't even look at her. "The kid's got a mouth. Thought he could use a little reset."
Without replying, Misaki stepped toward the door, already done with the conversation.
She paused at the threshold and said over her shoulder, "Watch over him. Just make sure he doesn't die."
Kenjiro groaned, dragging his hand down his face. "I'm not a damn babysitter."
Misaki was already walking into the hallway. Her voice echoed as the door closed behind her.
"You are now."
Click.
The room fell into silence. Kenjiro let out a long, drawn-out sigh and slumped back into the chair beside Akira's bed.
"…Tch. Great."
He glanced at the unconscious boy, arms folded, annoyed but strangely thoughtful.
Meanwhile, down the hallway—
Misaki walked in silence.
The corridor stretched endlessly ahead, bathed in sterile white light. Each step echoed softly against the polished floor. The place was far too clean, too quiet. It looked like a hospital on the surface—but the longer you looked, the less human it felt.
Everyone walking past wore buttoned-up shirts, dark ties, clean slacks. No doctors in white coats. No patients in hospital gowns. No sound of crying or coughing—just the gentle hum of machines and the buzz of overhead fluorescents.
Not a hospital.
A facility.
One that was hiding something.
She stopped in front of a thick, glass-reinforced door. A scanner lit up to the right.
BEEP.
The panel blinked green. The door slid open with a faint hydraulic hiss.
Inside, the room was dimmer, quieter. Machines beeped softly. The cold blue glow from the monitors gave the place a surreal calm, like time was slowed.
Suo lay motionless on the elevated medical bed.
Pale. Hooked to wires and tubes. An oxygen mask covered the lower half of his face, gently fogging with each shallow breath.
His body was wrapped in bandages, and his shirtless torso revealed bruises blossoming beneath the skin. One monitor tracked his vitals—heart rate steady, respiration slow but strong. Another monitor was filled with medical data, glowing with strange readings.
Misaki walked to the foot of the bed, arms crossed, gaze steady.
A doctor stood near the terminal. Late 40s, sharp features, eyes tired from too many hours awake. He adjusted his glasses as Misaki approached.
"He's stable," he said, almost before she could ask. "Pulse has returned to normal. He's not in critical danger anymore."
Misaki didn't move, didn't respond—she just waited.
The doctor glanced at her, hesitated, then continued.
"But… there's something else."
Her eyes flicked to him. "Define 'something.'"
The doctor sighed and turned the monitor toward her. "I ran multiple blood panels while stabilizing him. Nothing too surprising at first—white cell count spiked from trauma, signs of physical stress, some adrenaline residue."
He tapped on a few lines of code, bringing up a different screen.
"But then I found… this."
A strange sequence of protein markers filled the screen. The diagram showed cellular activity moving in patterns unlike anything typical.
Misaki's brow furrowed. "That's not normal."
"Exactly," the doctor said. "These aren't mutations or infections. They're responses. Something in his blood is reacting… defensively. And it's not from us. Not from any medication. It's innate."
He leaned in, voice lower now.
"What's really strange is—these same responses? We've only seen them in one other place."
The doctor tapped the screen again, pulling up a second set of results—two graphs, side by side. One labeled simply as Subject 17-S, the other... unlabeled.
"There's something in his blood," the doctor said, voice quieter now. "A marker. At first glance, it looks normal—stress response, immune activity. But then I ran it through our internal archives."
Misaki's eyes narrowed. "And?"
The doctor hesitated, then pointed at the screen.
"This marker here—this strand—it's nearly identical to something we've only seen a handful of times before. In fact… there's a match. Several, actually."
Misaki stepped closer. "What kind of match?"
The doctor looked at her, uneasy. "We've seen this same blood marker in samples taken from—"
But he stopped.
The screen flickered slightly.
Misaki didn't press him.
She'd already seen enough.
Without another word, she turned away from the monitor and briskly exited the room, her heels echoing through the cold hallway.
She wasn't running.
But her pace was quick.
Sharp.
Urgent.
She passed rows of identical white doors, people in lab coats and suits turning to watch her. Her expression didn't change, but her mind was racing.