[April 5, 1998 — 2:22 A.M. | 19th Ward, Tokyo]
The room smelled of rust and boiled rags again. The father was out, as he often was, leaving Hayato alone with his mother. She held him close, rocking him in the faint light of the bulb that buzzed more than it shone. He was four now, lean and sharp in the face for his age, with hair that always fell messily into his eyes.
Tonight, he would not sleep. He tossed, whimpered, clawed lightly at her sleeve.
"Shhh… quiet, Hayato," she murmured, brushing the sweat from his forehead. "You'll wake the neighbors."
He didn't answer. His small body tensed, trembling with a strain he couldn't name. His eyes opened, glowing faintly red in the dark, and then he screamed — a raw, animal sound that froze her blood.
Something tore through the skin of his back with a wet rip. For a moment, she thought he was bleeding. But what emerged wasn't flesh in ruin — it was something else entirely.
A jagged, crystalline shard sprouted from just below his shoulder blade, glistening like broken glass, glowing faintly red in the light. Another pushed its way out, shuddering into existence like a jagged wing.
Hayato sobbed in her arms, thrashing, clawing at his own chest as though he could push the pain back inside.
"It's alright, it's alright, baby, it's alright!" she whispered, but her voice trembled.
The shards lengthened and retracted in spasms, half-formed, wild. His small body wasn't ready for them, but instinct had forced them out.
The door burst open. His father stood there, breathing hard, eyes wide. He froze at the sight of the half-formed kagune writhing from his son's back.
"…Ukaku?" he muttered. No, not exactly. The crystalline growths looked denser, heavier, more jagged than most Ukaku. Almost like Koukaku plating trying to sharpen itself into flight.
The mother's voice was sharp, cutting through the boy's cries. "Close the door."
The father obeyed, slamming it shut, locking them inside.
Hayato whimpered, his face buried in her chest. The shards retracted with a wet sound, vanishing back into his body. Blood trickled down his back, staining her clothes.
He went limp, exhausted, eyes fluttering.
The parents exchanged a long, heavy look.
The father broke it first. "…It begins."
The mother cradled the boy tighter, eyes fierce despite the fear in them. "No. Not yet. He's only a child. He doesn't need this now."
"You know what it means," the father said, voice low. "The blood in him. The clan will hear of it, if they haven't already. They'll want him."
Her jaw clenched. "They'll never have him."
[April 12, 1998 — 3:40 A.M.]
The midwife returned one week later. She looked at the boy with sharp eyes, her shawl trailing damp from the rain outside. He sat on the futon, quiet, his face hidden in his hands.
"He woke it early," the midwife said flatly, examining the faint scars on his back. "Too early."
The father bristled. "What do you mean?"
The midwife glanced at him like he was an insect. "Most ghouls don't force their kagune this young. His blood burns hotter. It won't let him rest." She turned her gaze back to Hayato. "The Seno line doesn't produce weaklings. His mother should have remembered that."
The mother's voice was ice. "Don't speak like you have claim to him."
The midwife ignored her. She crouched, her eyes level with Hayato's. "Do you know what you are, child?"
Hayato didn't answer. His small shoulders trembled.
The midwife's lips curled faintly. "You are hunger. You are blade. That pain you felt — it is your true self waking up. One day, you'll learn to use it. Or it will consume you."
The mother snapped, "Enough." She pulled him close, turning him away from the woman. "Leave."
The midwife rose slowly. "You may not like the truth, but it waits for him all the same. When the clan hears of this…" She trailed off, her smile sharp. "Pray they don't."
She left, shawl brushing the doorframe like a shadow departing.
[April 17, 1998 — 12:09 A.M.]
Hayato sat between his parents, small body curled under their arms. He trembled in his sleep, muttering fragments of dreams — words that belonged to no child.
His father whispered, "We can't hide this forever."
"We will," his mother said firmly. "He is ours. Not theirs."
The boy stirred, small hands clenching into fists, and in his dream the cold returned — doors of steel, the ache of freezing lungs, the silence of death. And through it, the hunger burned.