The sound of the front door closing behind her was too loud to be that of a normal return home.
Ayumi slowly took off her shoes, her gaze fixed on the tatami. Her fingers still clutched the hem of her school uniform skirt. Her heart, which had been racing just moments before, now beat as if it had lost its way.
The kitchen still smelled of butter and green tea. But instead of comforting her, that scent made her eyes sting.
Her mother looked at her in silence. She didn't ask any questions. She simply placed an extra teacup beside her own. And then, in a calm, low voice—the kind used when speaking to the wind, hoping it might change direction—she said:
"Sometimes, those who have been hurt forget how to accept a hand that's being offered. But don't stop offering yours. Not for him. For you."
Ayumi didn't answer right away. That sentence felt like something to be carefully kept—like the seashells she used to collect by the shore as a child: beautiful, but fragile. She repeated it in her mind, over and over that night, as if trying to memorize it. Maybe she didn't fully understand it yet—but she knew that one day, she would.
In the days that followed, life returned to its usual rhythm. School, classes, the same streets. But every time she passed by the villa, Ayumi didn't look up.
The gate was always closed. The air around that house felt colder, as if the sadness or anger of the one living there had seeped into the very plants.
She didn't have the courage to knock again.
Sometimes she thought:
"Maybe he was just tired."
"Maybe he had fought with someone."
"Maybe… something really happened."
And with those maybes, she slowly stitched together a form of forgiveness inside herself.
One afternoon, walking home from school, she saw him.
He was outside, in the garden of the villa. Motionless, like a shadow that had taken shape. Still wearing those same dark clothes, far too heavy for the season. His gaze lost in the void, as if he were seeing something no one else could.
Ayumi stopped for a moment. Her heart rose to her throat again—but this time, the beat was fragile, split in two. She looked at him. Then, almost in a whisper, she greeted him.
"Hi…"
That was all.
Feitan turned slowly. His eyes landed on her, but not with surprise. It seemed almost as if he had expected that weakness. That human foolishness.
"Don't talk to me."
His voice was dry, flat, like a sentence long rehearsed.
"Leave me alone. You should never have come near me."
Ayumi was breathless.
It was like being pushed without hands. Like falling down stairs never climbed. Her eyes filled with something she didn't want to let fall.
She didn't respond. She turned slowly. And walked home, step by step, like someone who had just lost something that had never truly belonged to them.
But inside her, like a spark that keeps burning even under the rain, she heard her mother's voice again:
"Not for him. For you."
---Feitan...---
"Hi…"
One word. One syllable. Nothing more. But to Feitan, it was like a splinter under the skin—tiny, useless, annoying. And yet, there.
He didn't even look at her with hatred. Hatred required involvement. No, she only stirred irritation. Like a noise that comes back. Like a fly that won't stop.
He didn't understand what was wrong with that girl. Or maybe he understood all too well: she was kind. One of the lowest forms of weakness. She had dared to greet him. Again. After rejection, after silence. She had smiled. She had hoped.
Feitan hated hope. It was a disease. An illusion that made the weak believe they had power. And he hated even more that she clung to his thoughts like an unwanted idea. As if she wanted to save him. From what? Himself?
He shut the door with a sharp motion and went back inside. The box of cookies was still on the table. He hadn't touched it in days. But he couldn't bring himself to throw it away. Not out of affection—he felt no affection—but from some dark need for control. Keeping it there meant owning it. Dominating it. Keeping it underfoot.
He sat cross-legged on the floor. Around him, the walls seemed to breathe in the dim light.
That night, he was supposed to move with Chrollo and the others. A big job in the city. An entire family to eliminate. Clean, silent. No distractions.
And the next day—the bank.
A timed mission. Precision was everything. No feelings. No hesitation. Nothing.
And yet… that girl.
That greeting. That warm breath in cold air.
Feitan closed his eyes and let anger seep under his skin like a necessary poison. He couldn't afford useless thoughts. Emotions were nothing but brakes. Dead weight. He had spent his whole life cutting every thread that tied him to anything human. And now a girl—with her apron and her cookies—wanted to stain his mind?
He took a long, deep breath. Then grabbed a blade from its sheath on the wall and gripped it, feeling the metal alive in his palm.
That was real. The pain. The control. The mission.
He wouldn't think of her again. He wouldn't think of anything that wasn't necessary.
Feitan stood up.
Chrollo and the others were waiting.
And in blood, there was always the peace he sought.
---Ayumi...---
That day, the air felt stranger than usual.
Ayumi walked along the sidewalk with her books clutched to her chest. The sky was dull, but it wasn't the gray of clouds—it was something else. A suspended tension, invisible but heavy, pressing down on her without a name. A premonition. But of what?
Her legs moved on their own, already used to the path home. She had just turned the corner near the bank—only a few minutes left. Just enough time to cross the street and—
It all happened in an instant.
A black car blocked the road with a heavy thud—then another. Voices, screams, gunshots. Figures dressed in black descended like sharp shadows, weapons in hand. The bank windows shattered—screams inside, screams outside. People running. People falling.
Ayumi didn't even have time to understand. A hand grabbed her from behind.
"NO! NO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
She screamed, struggled—but it was like fighting air. They yanked a hood over her head, hard. Darkness. Only sounds. Harsh, broken, chaotic.
Clips snapping into place. Bullets fired. The whistle of metal slicing the air. A knife cutting something—someone? And screams. So many screams. Women, men, children.
They shoved her. Her legs gave out. She staggered. Male voices barked orders in a language she didn't understand. Then they dragged her. Into a van—or so it seemed—the smell of gasoline, rubber, sweat, fear. Someone was crying. Someone else trembled in silence.
Ayumi screamed.
"Please, let me go! I have to go home, my mom is waiting! I didn't tell her I'd be gone! Please don't do this!"
Her voice cracked. Tears ran down her face. But no one responded. No one listened. She was just a thing—a body moved from one place to another. A number. An insignificant presence lost in chaos.
The van came to an abrupt stop.
She was yanked out without a word, like a sack. Bare feet on rough cement. The smell of mold and metal. Someone removed the hood—artificial light stung her eyes. She collapsed to the ground.
There were others. Men, women, even a boy. Some silent, others in shock—wide eyes, open mouths without sound.
Ayumi looked at them, searching for a familiar face. But they were all strangers. All, like her, hostages. Bodies trapped in a corner of the world that no longer made sense.
Her hands trembled. Her throat closed. Her mind spiraled.
"This is really happening. This isn't a dream. I can't wake up. I can't run. I can't go home."
She couldn't feel her legs. Couldn't feel her heart. Only emptiness in her chest—as if reality had lost all meaning.
Who were they? Why her?
She thought of her mother. That afternoon in the kitchen. The cookies. The voice that once told her:
"Not for him. For you."
And now?
Who would save her?