The embers danced in the wind as Kaemor stepped forward—silent, deliberate, like ruin itself had taken form.
"So, word is you're quite the prize for a hunter's net," Kaemor said, his voice a sinister rasp woven between crackling flames and the hiss of his breathing tube, like a snake of desolation slithering through fire.
Chiaki's eyes narrowed, her expression caught between caution and surprise—meeting anyone out here, in the wilderness of the mountain, was already strange enough.
"The night's about to bare its fangs," he said coldly. "Tell me something, Yasuda… have you ever truly stood face-to-face with death?"
There wasn't even a whisper of understanding—no hint, no warning—of who their adversary truly was. He emerged out of nowhere, sudden and silent, like a shark slicing through murky waters toward bleeding prey.
The air warped with heat as Kaemor stood among the rocks, unmoving, unreadable. The glow of his mask cut through the mountain fog like twin embers locked onto her soul.
"Your heart's beating fast," he muttered, barely audible over the distant cracks of fire. "Is it instinct… or fear?"
The flame hissed out just as quickly as it appeared, leaving a scorched mark across the stone. Chiaki's eyes flicked to it—only for a split second—but that was enough for Kaemor to catch it.
"Careful," he murmured through his mask, voice dragged through the static rasp of his breathing tube. "They say when people see death, their eyes always jump. Even when they lie."
Chiaki's jaw tensed, but she held her composure.
"You really think this is what death looks like?" she said, her tone tight, biting. "Flames, a mask, and theatrics in the fog?"
Kaemor chuckled, low and bitter.
"No. Death's far worse than me," he murmured behind the mask. "I'm just the thing that stands in your way and makes sure you never get there in one piece."
He took a slow, deliberate step forward. The ground didn't crunch beneath his boots—it shifted, soft, like the very path had been hollowed out. Another faint hiss rose from the rocks nearby.
"Tell me something, Chiaki," he continued, voice drifting closer like smoke. "Do you know what panic smells like? It's sweet. Tastes like copper and adrenaline. People think they hide it well. But you?"
He tilted his head again, lenses gleaming.
"You're marinated in it."
Chiaki's throat tightened. Her fear was real—but showing it wouldn't buy her time. Buying time was all she had left.
"Maybe," she said carefully, stepping sideways, subtly checking for the direction of the wind. "But if you think I'm just another trembling girl stuck in your little gas chamber… then maybe you've mistaken me for someone who dies easy."
Kaemor's reply was quiet. Too quiet.
"I never mistake anything," he said. "I plan."
He slowly raised one hand, fingers spreading outward. The gas hissed louder. Trails began to lift, rising off the stone like invisible tendrils, dancing toward the air around her.
"You breathe too deeply now," he whispered, "and you'll burn from the inside out."
Chiaki's mind raced. The more she spoke, the more gas filled the air. It wasn't just a threat. It was a mechanism—his control of fear, his rhythm, his timing.
"…You kill for control," she said, tone shifting—more observant now. "Not survival. You want to watch. That's why you haven't ignited it yet. You're waiting for something. A word. A twitch. A mistake."
A long pause followed. Then…
"…Heh." Kaemor's shoulders moved slightly—was it amusement? Or agitation?
"Smart," he admitted. "But you just spoke too long."
A new flame sparked behind her, racing toward another trail of gas creeping low behind her knees.
Chiaki pivoted hard, launching herself backward toward higher ground—narrowly avoiding the burst as a small detonation lit the area behind her in orange.
She landed in a crouch, boots sliding against gravel, coughing once from the heated air.
Kaemor didn't chase. He just stood in the fog, half-silhouetted in flickering light. The gas trails still moved. Slowly. Like they were listening to him.
"You know what scent stays with me?" Kaemor said softly, stepping forward as another whisper of gas curled through the air. "It's not blood. Not ash. It's the stench of lungs cooking from the inside—when the body claws for breath and finds nothing but heat."
His voice was calm, disturbingly calm, like he was sharing a favorite memory over tea.
"People don't scream in moments like that. They wheeze. They twitch. They go quiet faster than you'd expect. I'm rather… efficient with it."
Chiaki's face didn't change, but something in her eyes flickered. Not panic—no.
Calculation.
Kaemor noticed.
"You're thinking," he said, amused. "Good. Think harder. That sharp little mind of yours might buy you a few more minutes before your chest starts tightening."
He raised his arm slightly, fingers tracing a slow, graceful arc through the air. The flammable gas obeyed, subtly shifting with the motion, crawling like phantom threads around the rocks, between the trees—building a cage she could barely see.
"But don't waste your breath on hope," he added, voice dropping to a near whisper. "It's flammable."
He let the words hang there—taunting, soft, patient.
Then silence.
Only the sound of the wind slipping through stone. And the gas… still rising.
Chiaki's breath hitched—not from fear, but from something darker: the sharp sting of poison slipping into her lungs. It was subtle at first, a faint burn crawling beneath her ribs, like the ghost of smoke curling inside her chest.
Her eyes narrowed, blinking rapidly, trying to clear the sudden haze clouding her vision. The air, once crisp and cold, now tasted metallic—heavy, bitter.
The gas was working.
It slithered through her bloodstream like a serpent, tightening its grip with deliberate cruelty. It wasn't just an attack on her lungs—it was an assault on her mind, her senses, her very will.
Kaemor watched with those unblinking, ember-like lenses, silent but omnipresent. His every movement was precise, his every breath a cruel rhythm syncing with the poison's slow invasion.
"Feeling it yet?" His voice was a low rasp, more felt than heard. "That little spark in your chest, the tightening in your throat—that's me getting closer."
Chiaki's hands clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms as the invisible cage grew heavier, pressing against her skin like a living weight.
Her vision blurred at the edges. Colors dulled. The mountain's jagged outline wavered, distant and unreachable.
But beneath the creeping pain, beneath the choking pressure, something fierce ignited in her gut.
Not yet.
She forced herself to steady her breath—shallow, controlled—dragging the poison in with every inhale, but refusing to let it claim her.
Kaemor's smile was audible in the quiet crackle of his gas mask's hiss.
"Good," he whispered. "Fight it. The more you struggle, the sweeter this game becomes."
The gas thickened, wrapping around her like smoke-wrapped chains tightening with each passing second.
Chiaki's eyes met his—defiant, sharp, burning.
"Games end when the players learn the rules," she said through clenched teeth. "And I'm just getting started." He said.
To be continued...