1972 year. Japan. Island of Retribution.
Evening fell on the island softly but inevitably. The sun had already slipped below the horizon, leaving the sky in deep shades of purple and dark blue. Stars had not yet fully ignited, but the moon hung low, large and pale, as if cut from old paper. On a small beach by the water's edge, a campfire burned small but greedy, devouring dry branches with crackles and bursts of sparks.
Four young men sat around it on spread-out jackets and old blankets. They were in their early twenties smooth faces, eyes shining from the fire and youth. Takayama sat closest to the flames, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around them. Beside him his three friends.
One of them the guy with the guitar on his lap quietly strummed the strings. The melody was simple, a little melancholic, but beautiful. He sang in a low voice, almost a whisper:
"What a beautiful sky…
What a beautiful sky tonight…
Look, the stars are falling,
And we still stand…"
His voice trembled slightly from the cold, from emotion, from the evening being too quiet. Another guy thin, with long fingers opened a can of peaches in syrup. The metal scraped. He scooped out a piece with a spoon, brought it to his lips, licked the syrup.
"Sweet," he said simply and passed the can to the others.
The third the biggest of them threaded marshmallows onto a long stick and held it over the fire. The white puffs slowly turned golden, bubbled, began dripping sweet goo onto the coals. The smell of burnt sugar mixed with smoke and sea salt.
Takayama stayed silent the longest. He stared into the flames as if he saw something the others couldn't. Then suddenly he stood up.
"I'll go get more firewood," he said quietly. "Ten minutes. I'll be right back."
His friends nodded without looking away from the fire. The guitar kept playing. The marshmallows hissed. Takayama picked up the flashlight an old, heavy one with a metal body and walked toward the forest.
The path disappeared under his feet almost immediately. The flashlight beam carved out pine trunks, moss, fallen needles from the darkness. The air grew colder, thicker, smelling of pine and wet earth. His footsteps sounded dull. Takayama walked confidently he knew the island, knew these trails.
And then he stopped.
The flashlight beam hit something red and torn.
On the ground lay a security guard one of those who watched over the vacation cabins. His uniform was ripped open, chest torn apart, face… almost no face left. Blood had spread black in the flashlight's light. And above the corpse stood a wolf.
Alone. Large. Fur wet with blood, eyes yellow and burning. It didn't growl. It just ate. Slowly, methodically, tearing off chunks of flesh and swallowing. Fangs glinted. The crunch of bones was sharp, like branches snapping in the campfire.
Takayama didn't move.
He stood frozen, flashlight trembling in his hand, but the beam never left the wolf. The wolf ate. Instinct devoured everything flesh, clothing, fear, morality. No philosophy. No words. Only hunger and teeth.
Takayama watched. For a long time. His lips moved.
"Fucking hell… holy shit…"
The voice came out hoarse, almost a whisper, but it carried everything shock, horror, a strange awe. The wolf continued eating. Instinct overpowered philosophy. Overpowered morality. Overpowered reason. Takayama watched until the wolf was full and slipped back into the darkness, leaving behind only gnawed bones and the smell of iron.
The next morning, only one person stood on the shore Takayama.
The rescue boat approached slowly, engine rumbling low. Two men in uniform jumped onto the wet sand.
"Where are the others?" one of them asked, squinting against the sun.
Takayama looked at the water. His voice was even, empty.
"They left on business. Said they'd be back soon."
The rescuers exchanged glances. One nodded to the other.
"Alright. Get on. There's no one else here."
Takayama stepped onto the boat. The engine roared. The shore began to recede slowly, as if the island didn't want to let go.
He stood at the stern, looking back. The Island of Retribution grew smaller, turning into a dark spot on the horizon. Takayama understood one thing simple, final.
Instincts are always above morality.
No matter how much we wave them away.
No matter how much we pretend.
They always win.
The boat disappeared into the open sea.