The next day dawned brighter than expected. Sunlight filtered through the curtains of Tsubaki's small bedroom, warming the colorful posters on her walls and the scattered clothes she had tossed over her chair the night before. Her room felt lived-in and cheerful—plush toys lined the shelf above her desk, a few notebooks with doodles of hearts and flowers lay open, and the air carried the faint scent of her strawberry shampoo from the previous evening's shower. Tsubaki stretched under her blanket, her round face still soft with sleep, shoulder-length hair messy against the pillow. She smiled to herself, already thinking about the weekend plans with her friends. Maybe they could all meet at the arcade or wander the shopping district, laughing over cheap snacks and silly stories.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She picked it up, expecting a message from Sorine or Vey. Instead, it was a text from Ren Fushiwara—her literature teacher. The message was simple and warm: "Tsubaki, I noticed you seemed interested in the old poems we discussed. There's a small exhibit of classic Japanese literature at the community center today. Would you like to join me? It might be a nice break from the usual weekend rain."
Tsubaki's cheeks flushed a little. She had mentioned her crush on Ren to the group before, and the idea of spending time with him—even if it was just about books—made her heart beat faster. She typed back quickly, agreeing, and spent the next hour picking out a cute outfit: a light sweater over her favorite skirt, her hair tied back with a small ribbon. She complained lightly to herself in the mirror as she got ready. "I had to cancel the fun time with everyone because of this… It's finally not raining on a weekend, and now I'm going out with a teacher instead of hanging with my friends. What a way to spend Saturday."
She left a short message in the group chat saying she had sudden plans and would catch up later, then headed out. The streets felt fresh after days of rain, puddles mostly dried, and the air carried a clean scent. Ren waited near the community center, dressed casually in a dark jacket and neat trousers, his calm face breaking into a gentle smile when he saw her. "I'm glad you could come," he said simply. "Shall we?"
The "date" unfolded easily. They walked through the small exhibit together, Ren pointing out old scrolls and poems with his usual steady voice, explaining the themes of loss and hidden spaces between people. Tsubaki listened closely, laughing at his occasional dry jokes and feeling a warm flutter every time their shoulders brushed. After the exhibit, they grabbed ice cream at a nearby café and talked about school, favorite books, and even a little about the strange weather lately. Ren was attentive, his eyes never leaving hers, making her feel special in a way that pushed aside any small doubts. As the afternoon turned to evening, he suggested they catch a late movie at the small theater downtown—a quiet romance film that had just opened.
Tsubaki agreed happily, texting the group that she was having a good time and would share details later. Inside the dimly lit theater, they sat in the back row. The film played with soft lighting and gentle music, but halfway through, Ren leaned closer. His hand found hers in the dark. "Tsubaki," he whispered, voice low and sincere, "I love you. I've felt it for a while now." The words sent a rush through her, her crush blooming into something brighter and more real. She squeezed his hand back, heart racing, lost in the moment as the movie continued.
When the film ended, the night had grown darker. Ren suggested a short walk to talk more privately. Tsubaki followed without hesitation, her steps light despite the late hour. They wandered through quieter streets until they reached an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the industrial district—an old, forgotten building with crumbling concrete walls and a large open roof where the ceiling had collapsed years ago. Moonlight spilled down through the gap, mixing with the faint glow of distant streetlights. The interior was wide and empty, scattered with broken crates, rusted metal beams, and patches of overgrown weeds pushing through cracked floors. The air smelled of damp concrete and rust, cooler now that the sun had set.
Inside, Tsubaki's excitement began to shift into unease. The space felt too open, too still. She turned to Ren, about to suggest they head back, when she spotted movement in the far shadows. Another figure stood there—a woman in a tailored black suit and black gloves, her face hidden behind a smooth white mask that covered her entire head. The masked woman was dragging a small five-year-old boy, his tiny body limp and crying softly. The boy's eyes were wide with terror, little hands clutching at the woman's sleeve.
Tsubaki froze. The masked woman moved with calm precision. She knelt, holding the child down with one gloved hand while the other drew a sharp blade. The first cut opened the boy's throat in a wide, spraying arc of bright red blood that splattered across the concrete floor. The child gurgled, small legs kicking weakly as blood poured from the gash. The woman didn't stop. She drove the blade into his soft belly, twisting viciously to open a ragged wound. Intestines spilled out in small, steaming loops—pink and purple, slick with blood—landing on the dirty floor with wet, slapping sounds. The boy's tiny hands scrabbled desperately at his own guts, trying to push the slippery coils back inside his torn abdomen, but they slid through his fingers, spreading more blood across his clothes and the ground. More organs followed in a gruesome tangle, the metallic smell thick in the air. The woman made one final deep slash across his chest, exposing bone and more wet tissue, before the boy went still, his small body splayed open like a broken doll amid his own spilled viscera.
Tsubaki stumbled back, horror rising in her throat. Before she could scream, Ren stepped closer. His face remained calm, but something in his eyes had changed—colder, more knowing. The strong illusion he had woven began to thin just enough for the truth to show through to the reader. This was not the real Ren Fushiwara. It was a Kyo wearing his face, a humanoid Masked One with perfect control over deception, crafted from centuries of hidden pain.
The false Ren moved fast. He grabbed Tsubaki from behind, one arm locking around her waist while the other hand pressed the same blade to her neck. "Shh," he whispered, voice still soft like the teacher she thought she knew. "It's okay. The hollow doesn't have to hurt anymore." Tsubaki struggled, tears streaming down her round face, but the blade slashed across her throat in one clean motion. Blood sprayed hot and dark, soaking her sweater and the concrete beneath her. She gasped, hands flying to the gaping wound as air bubbled through the cut. The Kyo didn't hesitate. He drove the knife into her abdomen repeatedly, twisting each time to widen the gashes. Her intestines spilled out in heavy, wet coils, purple-gray and glistening, mixing with the boy's smaller remains on the floor. Tsubaki's hands clawed frantically at her own spilling guts, fingers slipping through the warm, slick mass as she tried to hold herself together. Blood pooled wide and dark around her knees, the metallic scent overwhelming. She collapsed forward, body twitching as more organs slid out in a gruesome tangle, her expressive face frozen in shock and pain until the light finally left her eyes.
The Kyo stood over her body for a moment, adjusting his jacket calmly. Then he turned and walked toward the warehouse exit without looking back, his borrowed face still wearing Ren's calm expression.
Mimo had been nearby, drawn by her own night-time hunger. She stepped out from the shadows, still wearing her smooth white mask and black suit. When she saw the body on the ground, recognition hit her hard. This was Tsubaki—her friend, the one who always laughed and elbowed Kairo, the one who had a silly crush on their teacher. Mimo removed her mask slowly, revealing her face. Tears welled in her eyes as she knelt and gently raised Tsubaki's limp body into her arms, cradling the torn form against her chest. Blood soaked into Mimo's clothes, but she held on, silent sobs shaking her shoulders. "Why…?" she whispered, voice breaking.
The Kyo—still disguised as Ren—paused at the edge of the open-roofed warehouse. He adjusted his suit one last time, smoothing the fabric, then continued walking out into the night without a word.
At that moment, the sky opened again. Rain began to fall in steady sheets through the collapsed roof, drumming on the concrete and washing over the gruesome scene. Pink rivulets of blood mixed with the water, flowing toward the drains. Mimo paused, still holding Tsubaki's body. She tilted her head upward, letting the raindrops fall directly onto her face, mixing with her tears and cleaning some of the blood from her skin.
At the far end of the warehouse, sitting on an old rusted barrel, two figures watched quietly. The tall man in the black suit had the small child on his lap, her long black hair wet and clinging to her boys' clothing. Both wore smooth white masks covering their entire heads. Rain streamed off their forms.
"What now, sister?" the child asked in her light, sing-song voice, legs swinging slightly.
The man remained silent, one gloved hand resting calmly on the child's back.
Mimo didn't answer. She simply looked up at the falling rain a moment longer, then lowered her gaze back to Tsubaki's still face. The night felt heavier, the hollow inside everyone growing just a little wider.