After years without a warm bath, this was heaven.
He sat under the falling water, eyes closed, letting the heat soak into muscles he didn't realize were sore. The steam curled around him. The tension in his shoulders loosened, one knot at a time.
"Oh, that's the spot."
"I could sit here all night."
But his brain—as always—had a different idea.
His thoughts drifted. Straight to the thing that had been sitting in the back of his mind. The damn masked figure.
From the beginning, he'd had a feeling. That weird sensation at the back of his neck. The kind that whispered, someone's watching.
At first, he brushed it off as paranoia. After all, he'd been dead—or whatever that was—and losing Rei had left cracks in places he didn't like to look at. His mental state wasn't exactly stable.
But then his savior, the masked figure, appeared. Out of nowhere. Threw him an elixir that saved his life like it was nothing.
Not to mention the pair of clothing left for him.
"Who the hell was that guy?" he muttered, pushing himself up.
The world tilted. His vision blurred. He caught himself on the wall before his head could introduce itself to the floor.
"Might've enjoyed that shower a bit too long."
He stumbled to the mirror, and for the first time in years, actually saw himself clearly.
He looked—different.
Older. His face had lost the softness it used to have. Sharper jaw. Slightly paler skin. His body had changed too—leaner, harder, built from years of things he'd rather not think about.
And not a single scar.
He turned. Looked over his shoulder. The claw marks that had torn across his back—gone. Like they'd never existed.
"I wish I could talk to him. Maybe he knows how to get out of here," he muttered to himself.
Because he felt stuck. Completely, hopelessly stuck.
His original plan had been simple. Easy. Clean. Find a crew, get on a ship, kill them, take the ship, and run. Never look back.
But now he couldn't do that.
Not when Nora would be there.
Just thinking about it made his chest ache. A dull, heavy pressure that expanded the longer he thought about it.
And he did not like this new feeling. Not one bit.
So he did the most reasonable thing a person in his situation could do.
He flung himself face-first onto the bed.
And it was the best decision he'd ever made in his entire life.
'Where has this been all my life.'
The bed was comfy. Far better than garbage bags. He lay there, unable to move, unwilling to try. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been on a real bed. Soft pillow. Warm blanket. The whole package.
'If I could live like this forever, I wouldn't mind staying here.'
After feeding Ari some of his blood and the monster meat he'd saved for her, he placed her on the pillow next to his. She curled up and went quiet almost instantly.
'Still recovering, huh.'
His eyelids grew heavy. The warmth pulled him down. He was seconds away from the best sleep of his life when—
Someone appeared in his room.
Not through the door. Out of thin air.
"You couldn't wait until the sun came up?" Shiro murmured, eyes still closed. Annoyed. Which, given the circumstances, felt perfectly valid.
Before the man could reply, Shiro raised a hand.
"Wait."
He squeezed his eyes shut tighter.
"I wish I was surrounded by a group of beautiful girls right now."
He cracked one eye open. Looked left. Looked right.
Just the masked man. Standing there. In the dark. Like a creep.
He sighed. Deep. Heavy. The sigh of a man whose dreams had been shattered.
"What's—" the masked man started, confusion dripping from every syllable.
"Nothing," Shiro muttered, sinking back into the pillow. Somehow even more disappointed than before.
"Whatever. Just listen. It'll only take a moment," the masked man said, leaning forward on a chair.
A chair that he was absolutely certain had not been in his room five seconds ago.
"Where did you get that chair?"
"The corner." The man pointed.
He squinted at the corner. Then at the chair. Then at the man.
'There was no chair in that corner.'
"…Sure."
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "So. What do you want?"
"I need your help killing the god of this island."
He said it the way someone would say, I need help moving a couch.
Shiro blinked.
"Oh. Okay. Let me go grab my bag."
"Also—" The man's voice dropped. Softer now. Careful. "We have to kill its vessel."
A pause.
"Your father."
Shiro didn't even blink.
"Consider it done." He stretched. "So when do we move?"
"Seven days."
"Great." He was already sinking back toward the pillow. "I'll be leaving in four though. So hopefully you can manage without me. You have my blessing."
He waved lazily at the ceiling.
"Don't waste it all at once."
"What?"
"Dude, I was joking. You idiot." He snapped upright, suddenly very awake. "I came here like a dumbass thinking I could kill my father. That almost cost me my life. And now you want me to take on a god?"
He threw his hands up.
"Matter of fact—who are you? And why are you following me around?"
"You done?" the man asked. Calmly. Infuriatingly calmly.
"No." Shiro snapped. "All I want is to leave this cursed island. Come back maybe five years later. Finish my revenge then. Simple. Clean. Easy."
"Shiro." The man's voice shifted. Quieter now. Almost gentle. "Those who are born on this island can't leave. It won't allow it."
The words hung in the air.
He stared at him. Tried to read his face. Tried to find a crack, a tell, anything that said 'I'm messing with you.'
But there was nothing. Just a blank mask. No eyes. No expression. Nothing.
He tilted his head. Leaned left. Leaned right. Tried to peek around the edges of the mask like maybe there was a face hiding behind it that would give him answers.
Nothing.
'Is he bluffing? Is he serious? I can't tell with this stupid mask.'
"I'm telling you the truth." The man's voice was steady. No hesitation. No waver. "And I promise you this—if you just listen to me, you and everyone on this island will be free."
Silence.
Shiro glanced at Ari, who was awake now, blinking up at him with sleepy eyes. Their conversation had woken her. He scooped her up gently, pressing her against his chest.
"I'm sorry. I can't help you."
"I don't have anyone but her." He held Ari a little tighter. "And him — " The name wouldn't come. His throat closed around it like a fist. "I almost lost them both."
A slow breath.
"I'm not doing that again."
A breath. Shaky.
"I can't go through that again."
The man sighed. Not frustrated. Not angry. Just—tired.
"Just think about it."
He reached into the air and materialized something. A charcoal-like shard that crackled in his palm. He crushed it—and it transformed into a massive sword. Thick. Dull. Heavy.
And he recognized it immediately.
His hand moved before his mind did. Reaching for it.
His fingers almost grazed the edge —
And the man dismissed it. Gone. Just like that. Ripped away like candy from a kid who'd just peeled off the wrapper.
'You absolute bastard.'
"You can't bribe me into going along with your crazy plan."
"Okay. Then do as you please," the man said, letting out a quiet sigh.
'Damn you, bastard. Add something else. Sweeten the deal. Throw in a bonus. Because the bribe is absolutely working.'
"I will do just that. Thank you very much."
He crossed his arms and said it with confidence.
With unshakable certainty.
With the energy of a man who was absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent not still thinking about that sword.
Except his hand was still trembling. Still aching from how badly he wanted that sword. He'd been so close — so painfully, stupidly close — he could almost feel the weight of it in his palm.
And now it was locked behind an impossible task.
The man added nothing. Instead, he reached into his robe, pulled out a book, and tossed it onto Shiro's lap.
"This was written by Rei."
He froze.
"And you asked who we are." The man moved to the window, pushing it open. The night air drifted in, cool and quiet. "We're just doing what Rei wanted to do."
A small pause. The kind that carried weight.
"Free our people."
And then he jumped out the window. Because of course he did.
'Dramatic bastard.'
He looked down at the notebook in his lap. It was white—or had been once. Now it looked like someone had spilled coffee on it and given up. Handmade. Bound together with rough rope. Dense. Thick. Almost like a diary.
He flipped the first page.
'Let go of your earthly bounds.'