Rain had a way of softening sound in the Red District.
The usual screams, the distant laughter, the broken songs from the taverns—all blurred together until they were just noise.
A city pretending to sleep.
In a collapsed shed near the canal, a boy sat curled beside a rusted lamp that barely flickered. The damp had soaked through his boots hours ago, but he didn't care. His thoughts were louder than the rain.
The box sat in front of him.
Small, wooden, unremarkable—yet heavy, like it held something that shouldn't exist in this world.
He'd stolen it.
Not for greed, not even for hope. Just a desperate, stupid gamble to buy a few more days for Rin.
Now the whispers outside had started—rumors of a rat who stole from Kareth, the underworld boss himself.
The boy didn't need to ask twice who they meant.
He'd spent the whole day hiding, trembling at every knock and footstep, clutching a knife that couldn't protect him.
Now it was midnight again. The Red District slept in pieces, and he was alone with the box.
He stared at it for a long time, his breath uneven.
If I don't open it, all of this means nothing. If I do…
He reached out. His fingers hovered above the lid.
The seal was already cracked. A thin wax ring clung to the edge. One push and it gave way.
A sour smell spilled out—sweet rot, like old blood and something worse.
He gagged and turned away, then forced himself to look.
Inside was a hand.
A severed human hand, pale as candle wax, the skin gray and tight around its bones. The nails were black, long, gleaming like shards of obsidian.
For a heartbeat, he thought it was carved. Some kind of ritual charm.
Then one of its fingers twitched.
He froze.
A pulse rippled under the skin.
The hand flexed slightly, slow and wrong, like something dreaming of movement.
The boy's mouth went dry. He whispered, "What… the hell is this?"
The hand suddenly flattered.
It slammed against the side of the box, and before he could react, it leapt—cold, slick, alive.
He fell backward, a choked scream escaping his throat.
Something sharp tore into his arm.
A nail—black and curved—sank deep into his flesh.
The pain was sharp at first, then dull, spreading through his arm in waves that left him trembling. His muscles locked. His breath caught.
It felt like his blood was freezing from the inside out.
He tried to scream again but only managed a rasp.
His fingers twitched uselessly as the thing clung tighter.
Then, with what strength remained, he slammed the box lid on it.
Once.
Twice.
The third hit broke something—the nail snapped with a dry crack.
The hand recoiled, twitching violently before curling back into itself like a dying animal.
He shoved it back into the box and slammed the lid shut, his chest heaving, eyes wide with terror.
Silence returned.
Only the rain tapping against broken tin.
He collapsed beside the box, gasping for air, sweat mixing with rain. The wound on his arm pulsed black for a moment, then faded to an ugly gray.
He pressed his hand to it—cold, clammy.
The skin felt wrong.
He thought he saw faint lines spreading from the wound, thin and dark, like veins that weren't his own. They flickered once and vanished.
He didn't know what it meant. He didn't want to.
When his breathing steadied, he found the broken piece of nail on the floor. It shimmered faintly, even in the weak light.
Something about it pulled his gaze—horrifying, but… valuable?
He didn't know why, but he wrapped it in cloth and hid it inside his coat.
The box he pushed into a corner, under scraps of wood.
He didn't want to see it again.
For a while, he just sat there, staring at the floorboards, shaking.
The sound of the rain was distant, muffled, like he was already underwater.
Then he stood, slow and unsteady.
He pulled his hood low and stepped back into the alleys, into the filth and the mist.
The streets were nearly empty. Stray dogs barked somewhere in the distance, and a drunk sang to no one in particular.
The boy walked on, ignoring the ache spreading through his arm.
He didn't notice how the shadows seemed to cling to him a little longer than before.
---
On the rooftops above, an old man watched.
His robe was soaked, but he didn't move.
The faint glow of his pipe burned once in the dark. His eyes, sharp and weary, followed the boy's unsteady steps until he vanished into the fog.
"A cursed hand," he murmured. "And a fool still clinging to life. What an interesting mix."
He exhaled a thin stream of smoke that vanished into the rain.
"Let's see how long that spark lasts."
---
By dawn, the shed was empty.
Only the box remained—its lid trembling once, as if something inside shifted again.
Then all was still.
---