Atama breaking the "Area of Self-Consciousness" and Kiyomi's reaction:
The space shattered.
Like a mirror collapsing in slow motion, Atama's Area of Self-Consciousness fragmented into glimmering shards of failed realities and unchosen paths. Each shard drifted into nothingness—absorbed back into his mind without a trace. Just like that, the infinite vanished.
Seko blinked. One moment he was surrounded by endless thought—the next, it was just the dull gray walls of the holding room again.
Across the room, Kiyomi was slumped against the wall, asleep. Not peacefully, but collapsed. Beads of sweat clung to her forehead, her breath shallow and slow.
Seko stepped forward instinctively. "Is she—?"
"She's fine," Atama said, casually dusting snack crumbs off his coat. "Out cold. Brain couldn't handle the info-pulse. She lasted longer than most." He stretched with a lazy groan. "If she were normal, she'd be soup by now."
Seko looked at her, conflicted. "You knew that would happen?"
"She's not dead, is she?" Atama replied, already pacing toward the glowing window where the boy still sat watching. "Besides… that's the whole point. You think reality bends kindly to the curious?"
The boy tilted his head. "Only those cursed enough to understand it."
Atama stopped walking. A brief flicker crossed his empty eyes—a moment of sharpness, like a blade hidden in the folds of a cloak.
"There are three kinds of people who survive my mind," Atama said quietly, glancing over his shoulder. "Those with a God complex… those who've gone beyond… and those too broken to feel it."
His gaze landed on Seko.
"You're somewhere in between, messy-hair."
Seko looked down at his hands. Still cuffed. Still bloodstained. But his mind?
Clearer.
More aware.
And somewhere deep in that clarity… was a dangerous thought forming.
Seko's eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze drifting to the boy seated calmly on the stairs. The silence between them stretched long—but not empty. It rippled with the weight of something unspoken.
Both of them felt it.
A question.
Something that clawed at the edge of comprehension, haunting their minds like a word on the tip of the tongue—but never quite forming. It wasn't fear. It wasn't awe.
It was the awareness of a gap.
Of knowledge they weren't allowed to know yet.
And then, Atama, with a slow blink and that damn unbothered posture, leaned against the wall and exhaled:
"Those questions don't exist yet."
He smirked, half-lidded eyes glancing between them.
"So you can't ask me."
He lifted one hand and snapped his fingers, as if dismissing the very concept of the unknown.
"The Plot won't let you."
Seko's breath hitched—not because he understood—but because a deeper part of him, the part molded by fate, believed him.
The kid didn't blink. He just muttered softly, "...So we're just characters on the edge of a page, huh?"
Atama smiled. "Nah. You're ink. I'm the margin notes."
He doesn't poke it neither talks about it later... he interrogates Seko about the incident and lets Seko free in the jail... The kid just follows him.
Atama didn't pursue the lingering question—didn't poke, didn't mention, didn't even glance at the crack it left in Seko's thoughts. He simply let it dissolve into the folds of unreality.
Instead, with hands tucked in his pockets and posture so relaxed it bordered on theatrical, Atama pivoted without pause.
"So," he said, eyes half-lidded but tone razor sharp, "the temple."
Seko straightened slightly, still processing everything he'd witnessed, but met Atama's gaze with grim clarity. "They were already dead. It was a message," he replied. "A punishment."
Atama nodded once. "And you're sure it was your vampire family? Not a rogue faction? Not hunters playing smart?"
Seko didn't flinch. "It was them. The way it was written… it was personal."
Atama studied him in silence for a few seconds longer, then turned toward the wall and flicked a switch.
The cell door clanked loudly, unlocking itself.
"You're free," Atama said casually. "Though you're technically still a threat on paper, I've decided you're more useful outside of a cage."
Seko blinked, surprised. "Just like that?"
"Just like that," Atama echoed, popping a piece of dried fruit into his mouth. "Consider it an internship in not murdering people."
Seko stepped out slowly. The kid, who had been silently perched nearby, hopped off the stair and followed him without a word—his bare feet pattering quietly beside Seko like a second shadow.
Seko glanced sideways at him, mildly confused. "…Are you coming with me?"
The kid shrugged. "I don't like sitting still."
Atama, now reclining on a suspended hammock in the corner, waved lazily. "He does that. Let him. He's like a weird little moral compass with ADHD."
Hours passed.
The night turned softer, quieter.
Then—
Kiyomi stirred.
Her eyes blinked open slowly, squinting against the early light streaming through an unfamiliar window. She was lying on crisp sheets, atop a firm bed with the faint scent of cedar and cold metal. Her muscles ached, her mind felt heavy.
She sat up.
She was in Atama's room.
She blinked again. "...What the hell?"
From somewhere beyond the door, a voice called out nonchalantly.
"You survived. Neat."
Kiyomi swung her legs off the bed, head still foggy from the mental overload of Atama's "Area." Her vision cleared just enough to see his silhouette leaning against the open doorframe—shirt half-buttoned, mismatched socks, a steaming mug in one hand.
He yawned wide, like the world owed him a few more hours of sleep.
"Morning, sleeping corpse," he said dully, voice dragging like a lazy breeze. "Give the vamp and the brat a room before sunrise, yeah?"
Kiyomi blinked. "...What?"
Atama took a sip from his mug. "Room. For the blood-drinker. And the demi-kid."
Her eye twitched. "You want me to arrange that? Why not send one of your lackeys?"
Another yawn. "Because you're awake. They're not."
Kiyomi stood up fully, irritation beginning to sharpen the edges of her voice. "Why are we housing a vampire and a literal child with divine blood at the Coalition? That's a security risk, Atama. Even for you."
He just shrugged, already halfway down the hallway. "Because the plot said so."
She followed him to the door, fuming. "What does that even mean—?!"
Atama raised the mug in salute without turning around. "It means do it. Or don't. Either way, I'll act like I knew it was going to happen."
Kiyomi clenched her jaw, watching his lazy form disappear down the stairs.
"Asshole…" she muttered under her breath.
But even as she grabbed her coat and prepared to find Seko and the kid, a thought crept uninvited into her mind:
Why was she suddenly so invested in keeping them both safe?
Kiyomi found them exactly where she expected—Seko leaned against the window in the dimly lit corridor of the east wing, arms crossed, fangs dulled behind a stoic expression. The kid sat nearby, drawing spirals into the dust with a stick he must've picked up on the way, humming tunelessly to himself.
"Room's ready," she said flatly, tossing a keycard toward Seko.
He caught it midair without looking at her. "You're really trusting a vampire and a half-god child under the Coalition's roof?"
She scoffed. "I'm not trusting anyone. I'm staying in the same room. Security protocol."
The kid looked up, blinking. "Like a sleepover?"
Kiyomi narrowed her eyes. "Not exactly."
Seko raised a brow, amused. "So you're guarding us. You sure you're not just curious what kind of nightmares we have?"
She walked past them without responding, gesturing with her thumb. "Come on. I'm not letting either of you out of sight."
As they followed her down the hall, the kid leaned closer to Seko and whispered, "She snores, right? She looks like she snores."
Seko smirked faintly. "Let's hope that's the scariest part of tonight."
They entered the modest room—two beds, one floor mattress, and a single reinforced window. Kiyomi immediately checked the exits, locked the door, then dropped her sword and sat against the wall.
"I'll be light asleep," she said. "Don't try anything stupid."
Seko just laid on the bed, arms behind his head. "Wouldn't dream of it."
The kid jumped onto the floor mattress, hugging a pillow with a content grin. "This is the best prison I've ever been to."
Kiyomi sighed and turned away, eyes closing but fingers never far from the hilt of her dagger.
And so, the night began—with a vampire, a demi-god child, and a tired hunter all sharing a room beneath the roof of a man who called himself beyond gods.