Takumi learned early that being alive didn't mean being safe—it only meant you hadn't been chosen yet.
The apartment smelled like damp concrete and reheated rice. Cracks spidered across the ceiling, thin and ugly, like the building itself was tired of pretending it could hold together. The lights flickered once, twice, before settling into a dim yellow glow that never quite reached the corners.
Takumi stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hands submerged in cold water as he washed dishes that didn't belong to him anymore.
They belonged to responsibility.
Behind him, a muted broadcast played on the old wall-mounted screen. Another Demon breach. Another neighborhood reduced to ash and emergency sirens. The reporter's voice was calm, professional—too calm for the footage looping behind her.
"—local authorities confirm the incident has been contained. Purifiers arrived within twelve minutes. Civilian casualties are estimated at—"
Takumi turned the volume down.
Twelve minutes was considered fast.
He stacked the plates carefully, even though one had a chipped edge that cut into his thumb. He didn't react when blood welled up. Pain was a background noise now—present, acknowledged, ignored.
"Takumi."
He turned. His younger sister stood in the hallway, school uniform wrinkled, backpack clutched tight against her chest like it could shield her from the world.
"…Did you eat?" she asked.
He nodded. It was a lie. A small one. Necessary.
"Go do your homework," he said. "I'll call you when dinner's ready."
She hesitated, eyes flicking to the screen, to the paused image of a burning street that looked uncomfortably familiar.
"Was that near here?"
Takumi stepped in front of the television, blocking the view with his body. "No."
Another lie. Bigger. He didn't hesitate.
She nodded slowly and disappeared into their room—their room, because there was no longer an his or hers. Just shared spaces, shared fear, shared survival.
Takumi exhaled through his nose and leaned against the counter.
Three months.
That's how long it had been since everything fell apart.
Three months since their parents didn't come home from work because the subway line intersected with a low-grade rift that wasn't supposed to open. Three months since the authorities used words like unfortunate and unpredictable and sacrifice.
Three months since Takumi stopped being nineteen and started being what was left.
The compensation money was already gone. Medical bills, funeral fees, "temporary" relocation costs that somehow became permanent. The landlord didn't care that Demon attacks weren't covered by standard insurance clauses.
Rent was rent. Or else.
Takumi dried his hands and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a thin, glossy pamphlet he'd folded so many times the edges were soft.
HUNTER APTITUDE TEST — APPLICATIONS OPEN
The cover showed a smiling man in reinforced armor, weapon slung over his shoulder, city skyline intact behind him. A hero. A protector.
A lie that sold well.
Hunters weren't heroes. Everyone knew that. Not really. They were people who survived the System's selection and agreed to trade safety for usefulness. Ascended humans, the media called them. Players.
Takumi called them what they were: expendable.
He'd seen Hunters die. Everyone had. Clips circulated online before being scrubbed—armor splitting, bodies crushed, Systems blinking out mid-mission like someone unplugged a machine.
And still, people lined up.
Because when Demons came, ordinary humans didn't get second chances.
A knock echoed through the apartment.
Takumi stiffened.
Another knock—harder this time.
He opened the door to find a man in a dark coat, Hunter Association emblem stitched neatly at the collar. His posture was relaxed in the way only armed people with authority ever were.
"Takumi Hanabira?" the man asked.
Takumi nodded.
"I'm here regarding the overdue protection levy."
Of course.
They sat at the small table. The man didn't look at the apartment much—didn't need to. He already knew. The Association knew everything worth knowing.
"You're behind," the man said, tapping a tablet. "Two cycles."
"I'm working," Takumi replied. "I'll have it."
The man hummed. "Working where? Civilian labor wages don't scale well with rising threat indices."
Takumi said nothing.
The man's gaze flicked toward the hallway. "You have dependents."
Takumi's jaw tightened. "What are you suggesting?"
"I'm not suggesting anything," the man said smoothly. "Just informing you of available paths."
He slid the tablet across the table. On the screen: the same pamphlet. Hunter Aptitude Test. Dates. Benefits. Compensation figures that made Takumi's chest ache.
"Pass the test," the man continued, "and your protection levy is waived. Priority housing. Monthly stipends. Your family moves up the safety index."
"And if I don't?" Takumi asked.
The man smiled, thin and polite. "Then you continue as you are. Until you can't."
He stood, straightened his coat. "Think about it. Application deadline is tomorrow."
After he left, the apartment felt smaller.
Takumi sat alone for a long time, staring at the wall where a family photo used to hang before the glass cracked and he took it down.
He wasn't brave. He wasn't ambitious.
He was tired.
That night, after his sister fell asleep, Takumi stepped out onto the balcony. The city stretched below him—layers of lights, shadows, barricades, and distant glowing barriers where Purifiers had sealed recent breaches.
Somewhere out there, Hunters were fighting Demons. Leveling. Growing stronger. Breaking themselves for a system that didn't care if they lived as long as they were useful.
Takumi clenched his fists.
"I don't need to be strong," he muttered. "I just need to last."
The next day, he stood in line.
The testing facility was massive, reinforced steel and runic plating humming softly beneath the floor. Dozens of applicants waited with forced confidence and poorly hidden fear. Some joked. Some prayed. Some stared straight ahead like statues.
Takumi said nothing.
A woman at the front scanned his ID. "First time?"
"Yes."
"Once you enter," she said, not looking up, "you can't withdraw. The System doesn't like indecision."
That felt like a warning disguised as procedure.
He stepped forward.
The door sealed behind him with a heavy clang.
The room was empty except for a circular platform etched with glowing symbols. Cold air brushed his skin. The lights dimmed.
Then—
[Initiating Aptitude Scan.]
The voice wasn't sound. It existed inside his skull, flat and emotionless.
Takumi's breath hitched.
[Physical Evaluation: Pass.]
[Cognitive Resilience: Pass.]
[Psychological Stability: …Acceptable.]
Pain lanced through his chest, sharp and invasive, like something was reaching inside him and rearranging pieces that had never been meant to move.
He dropped to one knee, teeth clenched.
[Hunter Potential Confirmed.]
For a brief, terrifying moment, Takumi felt something else—a pressure at the edge of perception, deep and watching. As if the darkness beyond the System had noticed him noticing it.
Then it was gone.
The lights returned. The symbols faded.
[Welcome, Player.]
Takumi stared at the floor, heart pounding.
Player.
Not human. Not civilian.
Something in between.
When he walked out of the facility an hour later, a thin band glowed faintly around his wrist—his System interface, dormant for now.
He looked at it for a long time.
This wasn't heroism.
This wasn't destiny.
This was a contract signed with his back against the wall.
Takumi pulled his sleeve down, hiding the glow, and started the long walk home.
Behind him, unseen and unnamed, something ancient shifted—just slightly—like a shadow stretching in anticipation.
And far beyond human perception, a seal that had slept for too long waited for the day it would finally break.