Nick's eyes fluttered open to the sharp scent of antiseptic and the hum of a ceiling fan. His gaze darted around—white sheets tucked under his chin, a faint sunlight glow creeping through blinds, and the faint tick of a wall clock. He was lying in the school nurse's office.
"What the…?" Nick mumbled, pushing himself up on the cot. His chest felt heavy, and his head was pounding like a drum.
Across from him, Chiaki sat on a chair with her legs crossed, flipping through a clipboard. She looked up the moment she noticed his movement.
"You're awake," she said plainly.
"Miss Nakamura…?" Nick rubbed his temple. "How did I get here? I was in my room… and now I'm… in school?" His voice cracked with confusion.
Chiaki met his eyes for a second, then went back to her notes. "You probably overworked yourself. Lack of sleep does strange things to people."
Nick stared at her, unconvinced. "That's the best you've got? I didn't 'overwork' myself. I remember going home. I remember seeing my mom… She was drinking red wine on the sofa."
Chiaki's pencil stopped mid-note.
"I told her I had homework," Nick continued, his brows furrowing.
Chiaki glanced at him, her expression unreadable. "Go on."
"I was in my bed… I remember looking at my hands. Then everything… blurs." He shook his head. "The next thing I know, I'm here. And you're telling me I didn't sleep enough?"
Chiaki shut the clipboard with a quiet snap. "Nick, listen carefully. Sometimes… memory plays tricks on us. You're fine now. That's what matters."
But inside, Chiaki's mind was racing. The details he remembered lined up far too neatly. She pieced it together—Steven Thompson, possessed by a demon that could travel from one body to another, had slaughtered his parents. When Sofia Patterson arrived, the demon must have jumped into her body. And when Nick encountered her… the demon had leapt again—into him.
The idea chilled her.
Nick left the nurse's office still frowning, and the moment the door shut, Chiaki pulled her phone from her pocket. Her fingers flew over the keypad.
"Detective," she said when the call connected, "I know where the traveling demon was. It's in Nick. A student of mine."
"Where is the demon now?" the detective's gravelly voice replied.
"I managed to exorcise it."
"Did he remember anything weird or seeing something weird?" the detective pressed. "Did you use the enchantment spell to erase them? We can't risk a panic if he starts spreading what he's seen."
Chiaki's tone was firm. "Yes. The spell was cast. But some traces remain. I'll keep an eye on him."
"Good. Then the search is over. For now."
When Chiaki hung up, her gaze lingered on the empty cot. She knew erasing the memory of a demonic encounter was never perfect. Some people—like Nick—clung to shreds of the truth.
Meanwhile, Nick wandered the hallway, the school's fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. His thoughts kept looping back.
How could I remember my mom, the glass of wine, the lie about homework?
Then a sharper memory stabbed through—punching Jay. His fist connected with a jaw. Jay's stunned face.
He stopped mid-step.
And then… another flash—an empty classroom, a chair floating unnaturally in the air.
Nick shivered. No… this isn't normal. Something's going on.
Up ahead, Jay appeared, walking side-by-side with Luna. They were talking quietly, and for a moment, Nick's chest tightened. He didn't know why, but seeing Jay sent a wave of guilt through him.
Far from the school, the soft glow of amber lights painted the polished wood of a dimly lit bar.
A woman sat alone at the counter. Her long, silky black hair shimmered in the warm glow, cascading down her back like a waterfall of midnight. She wore a full red pencil dress that hugged her figure in ways that made every man in the room's eyes linger far too long.
One man finally worked up the courage to approach her.
"What's a fine young lady like you doing here all alone?" he asked, leaning on the bar with a grin.
"Would you believe me," she said smoothly, her voice like honey, "if I told you I was looking for a handsome man like you?"
The man chuckled, a blush creeping across his cheeks.
"I recently broke up with my man," she continued, lowering her eyes with a theatrical sadness. "So I came here… hoping someone from all these prying eyes would have the nerve to approach me."
"Well, lucky me," the man replied. "Can't stand to see a beautiful woman upset. I guess helping someone in need is my motto."
She smiled, tilting her head. "And I'm glad it was you. That bright blue blouse and those smart black pants… you're looking rather fine yourself."
His eyes flicked briefly down her form, lingering too long before darting back to her face. "How about we drink to drown your sorrows?"
"Depends if you're buying."
"Of course. That's why I asked. What would you like to drink?"
"A Bloody Mary."
He gestured to the bartender. "One Bloody Mary, and a Spicy Margarita." He turned back to her. "My apologies—I didn't even get your name, Miss…"
"Yumi," she said.
"Lovely name for a lovely lady."
The drinks came. Between sips, Yumi painted a tragic picture of betrayal—four years of marriage undone when she caught her husband with someone younger, the affair stretching back two years. The man shook his head in sympathy, offering words meant to soothe, but his eyes betrayed a different interest.
Laughter followed. Then a quiet suggestion. Soon, they were in a hotel room, the man's shirt being ripped open, his back hitting the bed as she climbed on top of him.
He thought she was aggressive—he didn't mind. It had been too long since he'd felt a woman's touch. His hand slid to her shoulder, tugging down one red strap…
And that's when his desire turned to horror.
Her skin rippled. Scales shimmered under the light. Her eyes, no longer soft brown, burned with a reptilian red glow. Her mouth stretched impossibly wide, revealing two long, needle-like fangs.
He froze, every muscle locked by an unseen force. His voice caught in his throat.
"…you're… Mamushi…" he finally managed to whisper.
Her jaw snapped forward, engulfing him in a single, horrifying motion.
A small lamp clicked on in the corner of the room.
"I assume you enjoyed your meal," came a smooth male voice.
Yumi spun, hissing, eyes searching the shadows. A figure in an all-black suit and tall hat sat calmly in the chair. She hadn't even sensed him enter.
"Come now," the man said, lifting his head just enough for the light to catch his face—pale skin, deep red eyes, sharp teeth, and a small goat-like beard. "Is that how you greet your boss?"
She relaxed slightly, straightening. "Oh… it's just you," she said with mock annoyance, pulling her dress back over her shoulders. "What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to see the infamous Japanese serpent in action," he said. "The beautiful seductress who lures men in before revealing the monster beneath. Mamushi… or should I say The Snake Lady."
She grinned. "And you… are the so-called eternal ghost of London. The killer who slit young prostitutes' throats with surgical precision. Still roaming free after centuries. Francis Tumblety… or should I say, Jack the Ripper."
Her mind flicked back to their first meeting. She'd been prowling the streets, hungry and searching for prey. She saw him—a stranger in black, tall hat casting a shadow over his face.
"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes," she'd purred.
"Look, miss," he'd said, barely glancing her way, "I'm busy."
She had pressed. Teased. Offered to show him a good time.
He'd finally looked at her, expression flat. "I'd rather not with an old hag like you."
Fury exploded in her chest. She dropped her glamour—her skin shifting to scales, eyes narrowing, fangs bared. "How dare you! I'm in my twenties!"
"Yuck. That's old," he said without missing a beat.
Snakes burst from the ground at her command, striking toward him. He moved with inhuman speed, surgical knife flashing, severing every serpent. She summoned more—thicker, faster, venom-dripping—and he sliced each one without effort.
Before she could react, he was behind her, the cold edge of the blade resting near her throat. She froze. This is it, she thought.
But instead, he stepped back.
"Why didn't you kill me?" she'd asked.
"You're interesting," he replied. "Might be useful someday."
Her cheeks had flushed despite herself.
"Besides," he'd added with a smirk, "I don't kill old hags or blackheads. I prefer young brunettes."
The insult stung, but she'd been drained from the fight and knew he was stronger.
"Why young brunettes?" she'd pressed.
He didn't answer—just walked away.
"Wait! What's your name?" she'd called.
"Francis Tumblety," he'd said. "Or Jack the Ripper."
She'd recognized it instantly—the name whispered in fear around the world.
"I'm Ma—"
"Yeah, I know," he'd interrupted. "Mamushi. The Snake Lady. Anyway, I'm leaving. Busy night."