Pain arrived first.
Not sharply, not cleanly, but everywhere at once—an overwhelming pressure that crushed thought before it could form. Light followed, searing and indistinct, a white intrusion that burned without shape or meaning. Sound came last, a violent rush of noise that battered what little awareness remained.
Reo tried to understand it.
The attempt failed immediately.
There was no frame of reference to hold onto. No body the way he remembered bodies. Sensation existed without separation, without explanation. Everything hurt, everything was loud, everything was too much.
Air tore into him.
His chest spasmed, contracting on instinct rather than intent, and a sound ripped out of him in response. It was raw and uncontrolled, a thin, piercing wail that shocked him as much as anything else. The sound seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.
Hands touched him.
Large hands. Firm, practiced. They lifted him, turned him, slapped his back with controlled force. The contact sent fresh waves of sensation crashing through him—pressure, temperature, movement—none of it named, none of it understood.
His thoughts scattered like startled birds.
There had been something before this. A sense of continuity, of self. That knowledge flickered weakly now, already fragmenting, dissolving under the flood of sensation. Words slipped away as soon as he reached for them. Concepts broke apart into formless impressions.
Blackness.
A woman's voice.
Cards.
Darkness spilling.
The fragments refused to assemble.
He cried again, not from intention, but because the body demanded it. Because the body was the experience now, loud and inescapable.
The light dimmed slightly as something—fabric, perhaps—wrapped around him. The air grew warmer. The sounds shifted, becoming muffled, less sharp. The pain did not vanish, but it softened, dulled into a persistent ache that no longer overwhelmed everything else.
Voices spoke nearby.
They were low and controlled, shaped by formality rather than emotion. He could not understand the words, only the cadence—the careful restraint, the practiced distance.
"He lives."
"Of course he does."
"A strong cry."
"As expected."
The sounds washed over him without meaning, but one voice stood apart.
Softer. Closer.
Gentle hands replaced the firm ones, cradling him with a careful, almost reverent touch. The sensation changed immediately. The body—his body—responded without thought, tension easing, the frantic edge of panic dulling.
A face hovered above him, blurred and indistinct, framed by light that no longer burned quite as harshly. The figure's presence carried something different. Not urgency. Not evaluation.
Care.
"It's all right," the voice said, quiet and steady. "You're safe."
The words did not register as language, but the tone settled into him, anchoring something that threatened to drift apart entirely. His cries softened into weak, hitching sounds. His limbs—small, uncoordinated—twitched and stilled.
Another voice entered the space.
Lower. Colder.
"Let me see him."
The warmth receded slightly as the gentle hands adjusted their hold. The blurred face shifted out of view, replaced by another shape looming above him. This presence did not lean in. It observed from a measured distance.
Silence stretched.
Reo—no, something—felt that silence keenly, though he could not have said why. It pressed in, heavier than the light, heavier than the noise.
"Healthy," the voice said at last. "No visible defects."
Relief did not follow the statement. It was not meant to.
"Auspicious timing," the voice continued. "The signs were favorable."
He was turned slightly, repositioned. The world tilted, and discomfort flared again, sharp and sudden. He cried out, thin and reedy, the sound involuntary.
The gentle presence returned immediately.
"Hush," the softer voice murmured. "You're all right."
The contrast was stark, even without understanding. One presence evaluated. The other responded.
A name was spoken.
"Kuro."
The sound cut through the haze more clearly than anything else had. It settled into him with unexpected weight, anchoring itself somewhere deeper than sensation.
"Kuro," the gentle voice repeated, quieter this time. "My little Kuro."
The word echoed faintly in what remained of his mind. It did not collide with resistance. There was no sense of rejection, no instinctive denial.
Reo did not surface to argue.
The name slid into place as though it had always been there.
He was carried.
The movement was smoother now, rhythmic, the rocking motion stirring something like calm. The sharpness of sensation continued to dull, replaced by a heavy, persistent awareness of the body—small, weak, dependent.
Dependent.
That realization flickered briefly, then sank beneath the surface, too complex to hold onto.
The environment changed. The light softened further, filtered through fabric and distance. The voices grew fewer. Footsteps echoed faintly against stone floors. Everything felt large, distant, overwhelming in scale.
He was laid down.
The surface beneath him was soft, yielding. His limbs flailed weakly, uncoordinated, responding to sensations without purpose. The body felt wrong—not injured, not broken, but unfamiliar in a way that went beyond memory.
Too heavy.
No—too light.
Both at once.
The gentle presence remained close. He sensed her nearby, felt the warmth of her body, the steady rise and fall of breath. Fingers brushed against his skin, careful and slow.
"Kuro," she said again, as though reassuring herself as much as him.
Another presence lingered at the edge of awareness. Distant. Unmoving.
"He will need discipline," the colder voice said. "Attention."
"Yes," the gentle voice replied.
"Not indulgence."
A pause.
"He is very small," she said softly.
Silence followed.
The body grew tired with astonishing speed. Each sensation weighed on him, dragging his awareness downward. Thoughts—what few remained—slipped loose, scattering beyond reach.
Darkness crept in.
Not the vast, consuming darkness of before. This was smaller. Heavier. Pressing inward rather than outward.
As consciousness faded, something else settled in its place.
A sense of weight.
Not physical mass, but presence. As though something unseen rested within him, dense and patient, coiled beneath the fragile surface of this new body.
Kuro did not understand it.
He could not have named it, questioned it, feared it.
But even as sleep claimed him, even as Reo dissolved completely into the quiet, unthinking dark of infancy, the weight remained.
Kuro felt heavier than Reo ever was.