The next day at school was an exercise in dissociation. Yuki moved through the corridors like a ghost, the constant hum in his bones a counterpoint to the noise and chatter of his classmates. The black scars on his palms were hidden, but he felt them constantly, a secret weight, a dark pulse against his skin. Every so often, a phantom itch would flare, a craving for the power they promised.
Aoi tried to approach him again between classes. Her concern was palpable, a warm light in the grey haze of his existence. "Tanaka-kun? You look… different today. Are you sure you're alright?"
Yuki flinched, not just from her proximity, but from the warmth she radiated. It felt… invasive. Like it might scorch the cold shell he was building around himself. He kept his eyes down, his voice flat. "I'm fine, Sato-san. Just tired."
He felt a flicker of something from Kage – not words, but an impression. Amusement? Contempt? It was hard to tell. The cold presence shifted slightly, like a serpent adjusting its coils.
Aoi didn't look convinced, but she didn't press. "Okay. Well… if you need to talk…"
He nodded curtly and walked away, leaving her standing there, her expression troubled. He felt a pang of something – guilt? Regret? – but it was quickly smothered by the cold hum and the lingering image of Hana's silent scream. Warmth was a luxury he couldn't afford. It was a vulnerability.
The day dragged on. The phantom itch in his palms grew stronger as the hours passed, a low-grade fever of need. He found himself scanning the shadows in the corners of classrooms, the dimly lit storage closets, the empty stairwells. Hunting. The power demanded release. The scars hungered.
After school, instead of heading home, his feet carried him instinctively towards the old gymnasium. The place where his power had first flared, where he'd first felt the true depth of his powerlessness. It felt… right. Fitting.
The doors were unlocked again. Or perhaps they had never been locked. He pushed one open and stepped inside.
The air was still thick with dust and the lingering, acrid scent of ozone and rot from his previous encounter. The vast, shadowed space felt charged, waiting. The hum in his bones intensified, resonating with the gym's oppressive atmosphere.
He walked towards the center, the same spot where the creature had cornered him. He stopped, closing his eyes, focusing on the scars. He reached for the rage, the grief, the hollow ache – all the fuel Kage had shown him how to use. He poured it into the scars.
Burn.
The black scars on his palms flared with dark crimson light. The energy erupted, more violent this time, more eager. Tendrils of shadow and crimson light writhed up his arms, coiling around his shoulders, hissing like vipers. The air crackled, the scent of ozone and burnt sugar thickening.
But this time, something else happened.
As the power surged, the black scars themselves seemed to move. Not just pulsing, but spreading. Like ink dropped into water, the intricate patterns flowed outwards from his palms, crawling up his wrists, snaking under the sleeves of his uniform shirt. They burned, not with heat, but with a cold, searing agony that made him gasp.
He stumbled back a step, clutching his wrists. The crimson energy flickered, destabilized by his sudden pain. He looked down, pushing up his sleeve.
The scars hadn't just spread. They had changed. They were deeper now, etched not just on the skin, but seemingly into the tissue beneath. They pulsed with a dark, sickly light, and they felt… anchored. Like roots digging into his flesh, into his bones.
What… what's happening? Yuki gasped, the pain making his voice tremble.
Kage's whisper echoed, not with concern, but with cold satisfaction. The brand deepens, little vessel. The power marks its territory. It claims more of you to hold itself. Each time you call it, it sinks its roots deeper. It becomes harder to uproot.
The pain subsided, leaving a deep, throbbing ache in his wrists. The crimson energy receded, flowing back into the scars, which now covered most of his forearms, hidden beneath his sleeves. They pulsed with a slow, heavy beat, like a second, darker heart.
Yuki stared at his arms, horror dawning. This wasn't just a tool. This was a transformation. A corruption. The power wasn't just something he used; it was something that was changing him, marking him, body and soul.
He looked at his reflection in a dusty, broken mirror leaning against the far wall. The hollow-eyed boy stared back, but now his eyes held that cold, calculating light. And beneath the sleeves of his uniform, he knew, lay the brand of the damned. Spreading. Deepening.
He was no longer just Yuki Tanaka, the grieving brother. He was becoming something else. Something marked. Something owned. And the brand was only going to spread.