"Anyway, let's head to my place. I'll explain everything once we're there," Kōki said firmly.
They walked together through the evening streets. The air smelled faintly of warm asphalt, cicadas still buzzing from the trees. Most of the shops were closing, and the sound of shutters clattering down echoed down the narrow road. Kōki kept his pace steady, glancing back every so often to make sure Kureha was keeping up. She followed in silence, clutching her bag tightly with both hands.
When they reached his house, Kōki slid the door open and stepped aside. "Come in."
Kureha hesitated for a moment before stepping past him. The faint smell of detergent and instant coffee lingered in the air. It was quiet—too quiet. Kōki pulled the door shut behind them and exhaled.
"Good. Ayaka isn't home yet," he thought to himself. "I don't want her mixed up in this."
He moved quickly to his room and rummaged through the drawers, pulling out a plain shirt and a pair of shorts. He tossed them lightly toward Kureha. They landed on her face with a soft flap.
"…Takeda?" she murmured, pulling the clothes off her head and staring down at them in tired confusion.
"They're clean, don't worry," Kōki said quickly, scratching his cheek in embarrassment. "I was going to grab some of Ayaka's stuff for you, but her room's locked. These might be a little big, but it saves you the trouble of going home."
She stared at the clothes in her hands, her expression distant.
"You can use the shower," Kōki added, clearing his throat. "I'll try to make something to eat in the meantime."
Her shoulders trembled slightly. "…You don't have to go through all this trouble for me," Kureha muttered, her voice cracking as she lowered her gaze. She gripped the fabric tightly, her knuckles pale.
Kōki caught the faint shake of her hands, the shallow rise and fall of her breath. Her skin looked pale under the ceiling light. He drew in a steady breath and stepped closer, resting a firm hand on her shoulder. She flinched, then looked up at him.
"Don't worry about it," he said, his tone steady but not unkind. "You asked for help. I'll do whatever I can to make sure you're free from this."
Kureha's lips parted slightly, her eyes wavering. After a moment's pause, she whispered, "…Thank you." Her voice carried a fragile sincerity. Clutching the clothes closer to her chest, she made her way to the bathroom.
The sound of the door sliding shut echoed faintly. Silence filled the hallway until a soft ripple stirred the air.
Takuto phased through the wall of Kōki's room, floating in with a smug grin. "Since when did you turn into such a smooth talker?" he said, his tone teasing. He drifted lazily into the room, arms folded behind his head.
Sayoko emerged a moment later, her form faintly shimmering as she hovered near the desk. She folded her arms gently, eyes sharp but uncertain.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Kōki muttered, walking toward the kitchen.
Takuto chuckled. "Looks to me like someone's got a soft spot for that girl. Which means… less time to help a certain someone else, eh?" His grin widened playfully.
"Don't say things like that," Sayoko said, frowning. "That girl is in danger. Kōki-kun isn't prioritizing her over me… it's just—her situation is more immediate. I… I can wait." Her fingers curled against her sleeve as she hugged her arms closer to her chest.
Her gaze drifted downward, voice softening. "Still… this feeling… I don't know what it is."
In the bathroom, steam rose as hot water filled the tub. Kureha sank into the warmth, letting her stiff shoulders relax for the first time all day. But her mind refused to settle. She stared at the faint markings carved into her stomach, the ones the spirit had left. Her fingers brushed against them, skin tingling where the pain once seared.
"…Why has it gone quiet?" she whispered. Since morning, she hadn't felt its presence. That silence gnawed at her more than its attacks. She lifted her head, staring into the mirror above the sink. Her reflection stared back, pale and tired. Water dripped from her chin as she splashed her face, trying to drive away the unease.
She reached for the towel. As she turned toward the door, the mirror behind her flickered. For a heartbeat, her reflection warped—its eyes dark, its mouth twisted in silent fury. By the time she looked back, only her own reflection remained.
Her breath caught, but she forced herself to look away and left the bathroom.
Meanwhile, Kōki set a bowl of steaming instant ramen on the low table.
Raising his voice slightly, he called down the hallway, "Kureha—it's ready."
A faint creak answered him as she stepped out from the bathroom, moving carefully across the wooden floor before entering the room.
She wore his oversized shirt and shorts, the sleeves drooping far past her wrists.
A towel was draped over her head, catching the last drops of water from her damp hair that clung to her cheeks and neck.
For an instant, Kōki's gaze lingered—something about seeing her like that, so small in his clothes, twisted oddly in his chest—before he quickly looked away.
"It's not much," he muttered, scratching the back of his head with a slight blush "but it's all I can manage right now."
She lowered herself onto the cushion across from him, her movements heavy with exhaustion.
"…Thank you for the meal," she said softly, bowing her head before lifting the chopsticks.
Her hands shook faintly as she tried to grip them, the strain clear in her fingers.
From the corner, Sayoko gave a faint sigh that only Kōki could hear.
"So much for caring. All that talk about helping her, and instant ramen is the best you can do?"
Takuto floated lazily above the table, breaking into laughter.
"You're killing me, Kōki. Smooth words, cheap food."
"Both of you, shut up," Kōki muttered, face heating as he looked away.
Kōki then turned and watched silently. Each small movement showed her exhaustion—the way her shoulders slumped, the way she blinked slowly as though fighting off sleep. Her pale face looked even weaker under the warm light.
When she finished, setting the empty bowl aside, Kōki stood. "Come on. You should rest in my room. Get some sleep before we start dealing with this."
Kureha shook her head slightly, her voice trembling. "I… I don't need to sleep right now."
That night… It wasn't human. Not like anything she had ever seen—not even a ghost. Its shape was twisted, limbs too long, movements jerky and unnatural. Its eyes… empty black sockets that swallowed the light. The air around it reeked of burnt incense and something rotten, and the temperature dropped so sharply she could see her own breath. Its presence pressed down on her chest, suffocating, unrelenting.
She shivered violently, pressing her hands against her stomach as her body stiffened with lingering dread. I can't let it happen again… I don't want to fall asleep and see it again. The memory clung to her, sharp and cold, making her breaths shallow and uneven.
Kōki steadied his voice. "It's alright. You're not alone this time. I'm here. I believe you. So don't be afraid."
Sayoko hovered near the doorway, her form faintly shimmering. A cold ripple stirred through her senses—something unnatural lingered, just at the edges of the room. Her lips parted, as if to warn Kōki, but she stopped herself. Her fingers curled against her sleeve. Not now… she thought, gaze fixed warily on the space around Kureha.
Kōki guided her gently toward the room, keeping his tone calm. "You look like you haven't slept in days. Rest. You'll be safe here, I promise."
Kureha hesitated, her steps faltering. "...O-okay," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
As Kōki reached out to lead her fully toward the room, she froze for a moment — then, almost instinctively, she clutched the lower part of his shirt, holding on tightly as if the contact grounded her. Her grip was weak, trembling, but firm enough that he could feel her fear radiating through her small frame.
Her eyes wavered. For a moment, she seemed ready to protest again, but then her shoulders eased slightly. She nodded once and lowered herself onto the bed. The fabric of the pillow rustled as her head sank against it. Within seconds, her breaths grew slow and steady, exhaustion dragging her under.
Kōki lingered at her side, watching her breathing even out. Relief and tension tangled inside him. He pulled the blanket gently over her before stepping back.
Sayoko floated silently nearby, her gaze lingering on the two of them. The unease from earlier hadn't left her; if anything, it pressed heavier now. Her lips pressed thin, her expression unreadable.
"…Kōki-kun," she whispered softly, almost too quiet to hear. The faintest trace of warning laced her voice.
He glanced her way, a faint chill brushing him, but said nothing.
Takuto tilted his head, smirking faintly. "Well, isn't this interesting?"
Kōki didn't answer. He just stood there, watching Kureha sleep, the faint hum of cicadas outside filling the silence of the room.