The hunger did not roar.
It whispered.
Mio discovered that the following morning when sunlight touched his face and nothing burned. No dramatic recoil. No smoke rising from skin.
Instead, there was a quiet awareness.
The world felt layered.
Every sound arrived sharper. Every movement left an afterimage. Even the air carried weight, like something unseen pressed gently against it.
He sat on the edge of his bed and listened.
The apartment above them carried anxiety — pacing footsteps, muttered arguments about rent. Downstairs, someone counted money twice before sliding it back into a drawer.
Mio could feel it.
Not hear.
Feel.
A density in certain emotions.
Greed felt thick. Fear felt brittle. Desire flickered warm and unstable.
His stomach tightened again.
He stood and walked to the bathroom mirror.
His reflection did not look monstrous.
It looked the same.
Black uneven hair. Pale skin. Thin shoulders.
Except one eye burned crimson.
He leaned closer.
"How did they do that?" he murmured to himself.
How did the men with Ledger Marks bend the room around them so easily? How did they speak and make the air obey?
And more importantly—
How did he just accept something that rewrote his blood?
He pressed his palm against the mirror.
His pulse beat slow and deliberate.
Not fragile.
Not weak.
Deliberate.
Behind him, Sevrin materialized soundlessly.
The wolf's silver aura brushed against the walls without touching them.
"You were always there," Mio said quietly.
Sevrin did not answer. It never did.
But Mio felt something in response — not words, but alignment.
The hunger pulsed again.
Stronger now.
It wasn't asking for blood.
It was asking for imbalance.
He left the apartment before his father woke.
The hallway felt narrower than usual. Or perhaps he was wider within it.
On the street, the city moved like it always did. People rushing. Horns blaring. Conversations half-finished.
But beneath it all —
F-Scape bled through.
He could see faint threads connecting certain people. Red lines stretching from their chests into nowhere visible. Contracts. Debts. Promises made in desperation.
He focused on one man outside a convenience store.
Mid-thirties. Nervous. Counting cash with shaking hands.
The air around him felt heavy.
Desperation.
Mio stepped closer.
The hunger sharpened.
"How does this work?" he wondered.
In anime, power comes with rules. Training arcs. Explanations. Mentors.
He had none.
Just instinct.
He closed his eyes briefly and concentrated on the density he felt.
The air shifted.
The man looked up suddenly, eyes wide, as if someone had called his name.
Mio did nothing dramatic.
He simply breathed.
And the red thread connecting the man to something unseen flickered.
The density in the air thinned.
The man exhaled sharply, shoulders relaxing.
Mio staggered back.
Warmth spread through his chest.
Not satisfaction.
Relief.
The hunger quieted.
He stared at his hands.
"How did I do that?"
He hadn't taken money.
Hadn't taken blood.
He had taken pressure.
Sevrin appeared beside him again, amber eyes watching the man walk away lighter than before.
Understanding dawned slowly.
Vice wasn't just indulgence.
It was excess.
It was imbalance.
He wasn't feeding on sin.
He was feeding on distortion.
A laugh bubbled up unexpectedly.
Soft. Almost disbelieving.
"So I correct it?" he muttered.
The idea unsettled him.
Those men who killed his mother didn't correct anything. They enforced.
Collected.
Manipulated.
Yet what he felt just now wasn't cruelty.
It was calibration.
But power always starts feeling justified.
That thought slid in quietly.
How did they start? he wondered.
Did they begin by telling themselves they were restoring balance too?
He watched the city carefully now.
A woman arguing on her phone. A teenager lying about where he'd been. A businessman ignoring a call labeled "Unknown."
Threads everywhere.
He could reach for any of them.
He stepped back instead.
Control.
That was the difference between noise and fear.
His father's words echoed faintly: It costs your quiet.
Mio inhaled slowly.
If he moved recklessly, F-Scape would notice.
And something already had.
A sharp presence cut across his awareness like a blade drawn in a silent room.
Disciplined.
Focused.
Not chaotic like the entity from before.
This felt trained.
"How'd they do that?" Mio whispered.
How did someone hide their presence so precisely yet let it strike like that?
He turned his head slightly.
Across the street, standing still despite the crowd flowing around her, was a figure in a dark structured coat.
Ash-black hair tied low.
Steel-blue eyes fixed directly on him.
Not confused.
Not startled.
Assessing.
She had felt him too.
The air around her did not warp.
It condensed.
Refined power.
Hunter.
Sevrin stepped forward instinctively, silver light intensifying.
The woman's gaze flickered briefly to the wolf.
No fear.
Only calculation.
Mio felt the hunger stir again — not from her vice, but from her restraint.
Interesting.
For a suspended moment, the world narrowed to the space between them.
He could retreat.
He could lunge.
He did neither.
He tilted his head slightly instead.
A silent question.
How did you do that?
Her hand moved slowly toward the hilt at her side.
Not drawing.
Just resting.
A warning.
The message was clear.
I see you.
The city noise rushed back in all at once.
A bus passed between them.
When it cleared, she was gone.
No dramatic exit.
No flash of light.
Just absence.
Mio stood still, pulse steady.
For the first time since signing the contract, he felt something other than hunger or resolve.
Curiosity.
Not about F-Scape.
Not about the men who collect.
About her.
How does someone carry power without letting it spill?
He glanced at Sevrin.
The wolf's orange streak glowed faintly.
"Looks like we're not the only ones learning," Mio murmured.
The hunger settled into something quieter.
Not gone.
Waiting.
He turned and walked home slowly, aware now of every thread he chose not to touch.
Power wasn't just in taking.
It was in restraint.
And somewhere in the city, the hunter who had felt him was thinking the same thing.
How did he do that?