The night pressed down on the city like a wet cloth—damp, suffocating, and unrelenting. In the stillness of his cramped apartment, Ren Sato stared at his notebook, lit only by the dim glow of a desk lamp.
Everything felt wrong.
Every floorboard creak and every brush of wind against the window sent a jolt down his spine. The woman in white—if she was even real—had vanished without a trace. But something told him she wasn't gone.
Just waiting.
Somewhere.
And that knowledge stuck in his throat like ash.
"Okay," he muttered to himself, pacing back and forth across the tatami. "You're useless in a fight. You have no cursed energy. But you've read the manga. You know things. So use them."
He flipped through the notebook. Every page was filled with scribbles—character names, curse locations, technique breakdowns, and theorized event timelines. But theory meant nothing in the face of a curse. He needed something real.
He opened a fresh page.
TOOLSET FOR SURVIVAL
1. Charms – Paper ofuda, ink, intent.
2. Rituals—Imitation of minor curse-user techniques.
3. Location-based warding.
4. Reverse barriers? Even weak ones?
He dug through his bag for the notepad and permanent marker he bought. He started sketching the simplest ofuda he remembered—a ward for protection. His hands shook as he folded it, trying to channel emotion into it. That was how it worked, right? Intent. Emotion. Fear.
He stuck the charm over the door.
Waited.
Nothing.
The room stayed quiet.
He made another. Then another. Covered the corners. Above the window. He even taped one to the back of his phone.
Still nothing.
No hum. No shimmer. No energy.
They were just paper.
"Come on…" he hissed. "I felt something when I saw that thing earlier. That chill in the spine. That pressure. I know this world is real. So why not me?"
He bit his lip so hard it bled.
"Because you're nothing," a voice in his head whispered. "You were never meant to exist here."
He shoved the thought away. Focused.
If he couldn't use charm wards, maybe a reverse ritual?
He remembered a scene—a cursed womb user drawing blood sigils on the floor. He had no blood to spare, so he mixed soy sauce with ink and began copying the kanji as best as he could.
Protection. Silence. Detection.
It was shaky. He didn't feel anything—no curse energy. No pull. No tension.
He sat cross-legged, surrounded by makeshift sigils and fading marker ink, and waited.
And waited.
Nothing.
"Still nothing…"
He buried his face in his hands.
"I'm going to die here," he whispered. "I'm going to be ripped apart by a curse while drawing stick figures on the floor."
Thump.
He froze.
It came from the hallway.
Thump.
Closer.
A scraping. A dragging sound. Like something pulling itself across the floor.
His skin turned to ice.
"Fuck," he breathed.
He scrambled to his feet, grabbing his flashlight. The battery flickered. Of course.
He crept toward the door. Looked through the peephole.
Nothing.
He cracked the door open—just a sliver.
There was something on the floor of the hallway.
A figure. Crawling.
It moved like its limbs were broken, jerking in staccato rhythm. Pale skin. Hair like wet seaweed. It left a trail of black sludge as it crawled forward.
And it was heading for his door.
His breath hitched.
He slammed the door shut. Locked it.
Stumbled back.
The talismans on the walls fluttered. But did nothing.
Nothing.
"Please," he whispered, staring at them. "Please just work."
The light flickered.
The air went heavy.
The hallway outside went silent.
He held his breath.
Then—**bang.**
The door shook.
Bang. Bang.
The knob twisted.
The thing was trying to get in.
"No. No. NO—"
He ran to the closet. Grabbed a broom. It was all he had. He backed against the wall, heart jackhammering.
The door creaked. Slowly.
One of the talismans peeled and fluttered to the floor.
The thing's hand slipped in through the crack.
Ren screamed.
He threw the broom. It hit nothing.
The arm stretched—far too long—reaching toward him.
He fell backward, crawling.
"I don't want to die!" he shouted. "I don't want to die here!"
And then it happened.
It wasn't a light or a burst.
It was pressure.
From within.
Like something pushed back.
The world around him shivered for just a moment.
The curse's hand jerked. Twitched. Recoiled.
Its fingers snapped back as if burned.
Ren felt something.
A pulse. In his chest. In his stomach. Through his fingers.
Cursed energy.
Not much. Not enough to stop the curse.
But it was his.
It sparked from his spine and out his fingertips, clumsy and wild. It didn't hum with power. It trembled with fear. But it was there.
He stood, eyes wide. A single whisper escaping his lips:
"…I felt it."
The curse howled—more animal than human—and slammed itself against the door.
He couldn't fight.
But he could run.
He grabbed his notebook, shoved it in his bag, and bolted for the fire escape.
The hallway was thick with smoke—or was it cursed fog? He didn't care.
He ran.
Down two flights.
Onto the street.
Didn't look back.
Didn't stop running until he reached a shrine several blocks away.
Collapsed at the steps. Gasping.
Broken.
Alive.
He stared at his hands. Still trembling.
"Cursed energy…" he whispered. "I… I can feel it."
Then he laughed.
It was hoarse, cracked, and ugly.
But it was real.
The door had opened.
He wasn't just a man anymore.
Not entirely.