Day in the story: 29th September (Monday)
It wasn't the usual sound of my alarm that woke me. It wasn't the natural light of sunrays either—the sun was still asleep at 4:52 a.m.
It was my phone buzzing.
Phillipe Penrose's name lit up the screen.
Him calling this early could only mean one thing: this was not a call to miss. Still half-trapped in sleep, I picked up.
"Mr. Penrose?" I mumbled.
"Alexandra, there has been a development." So much for the good days I thought were coming.
"What kind?" I asked, trying to shake the fog from my brain.
"Thomas reached out to me two days ago through a mutual friend. I've confirmed—it's really him."
A flicker of real hope stirred in me.
"He was injured during the chase," Penrose continued, "but it wasn't too serious. He waited by the river for Shiroi to resurface and followed him for a while. Unfortunately, Shiroi managed to lose him. Thomas was growing weaker—apparently from an infection he picked up in the water—so he sought out an old doctor friend."
"She helped him?"
"She did. Patched him up, gave him a place to rest. He's been hiding in one of his old safehouses since. Still weak, but alive."
"Do you believe him?"
"As I said, I've been verifying the story since he contacted me. It checks out."
A rare, genuine relief passed through me. "That's good news."
"It is. But that's not why I'm calling this early."
I tensed. "Then why?"
"The mutual friend who connected us? I just received word. We won't be meeting again."
Dead, then.
"I see. Do you think his death is connected to Thomas somehow?"
"Possibly. But he also worked as an intelligence gatherer—for me."
"On the De Marco household?"
"Precisely. I'm calling to warn you: be careful. You're probably safe, but I'm notifying everyone tied to my feud with the De Marcos. Stay sharp, Alexandra."
"I will. Thank you for the warning, Mr. Penrose."
"Goodbye."
I didn't know most of Mr. Penrose's assets personally, so the death of one of his men didn't hit me nearly as hard as the thought of losing Thomas had.
So, all things considered—it was good news. Thomas was weak, but alive.
I got up, went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, and returned to my room. Sleep found me again a few minutes later.
--
The fluorescent lights in the studio flickered once as I walked in, that particular kind of institutional hum in the air—like electricity buzzing through ideas yet to be born. It was cold, as always. Art rooms rarely held warmth unless it was from a heat gun or a particularly passionate critique. I walked past the easels lined along the wall, a row of still-life failures and breakthroughs left in charcoal and ochre, until I reached the back where today's class was gathering.
Miss Halden was already there. She stood with her back to us, arranging jars of thick paint—body-safe pigments in small squat containers that reminded me more of makeup palettes than anything I usually used. She wore her usual dark denim shirt rolled to the elbows, her fingers smeared with red and black, as if she'd already had a fight with the materials before we arrived.
Halden always looked like she belonged somewhere else—some industrial squat with moldy posters on the walls and avant-garde poets chain-smoking in the corners. Her hair was cut into a choppy black bob, the kind that looked accidental but probably wasn't. She didn't so much speak as issue pronouncements—dry, slow, and more often than not, vaguely devastating in tone.
"Today," she said, not turning around yet, "we will abandon canvas. We will paint on what breathes." Then she turned, expression unreadable. "Try not to ruin her."
A few of the other students chuckled nervously. I kept quiet. My stomach tensed, but not with fear—more anticipation. This was the kind of thing I wanted to explore now, wasn't it? Art as skin, as life. Something deeper than still-life bowls and figure sketches.
The models stepped out from behind a folding screen. The one I would be working with wore a plain black two-piece swimsuit and a thick headband that pushed her hair back into a bun. Her skin was pale, with the occasional freckle or blemish like little topographical marks. Not flawless, but real. She walked calmly to one of the stools in the center of the room, sat down cross-legged, and nodded once toward Halden.
"This is Iris," Halden said. "She's been modeling for the university since her undergrad years and has worked with professionals in body art before. She knows when to sit still and when to breathe. You'll learn the same today."
Iris gave a small wave, like she was saying hi without energy. Her eyes met mine—light brown, almost hazel, the kind of color that could pass unnoticed until the light hit it just right. I wondered what it felt like, to be the art instead of making it. To let someone else draw on your body like your skin was theirs for a moment.
Miss Halden introduced rest of the models and then we split into groups of two, and I was assigned the front half of Iris's torso with another student working the back. We were to practice symmetrical patterning—floral or geometric, our choice—using brushes and sponges.
Halden walked by with a small kit of supplies and handed it to me directly.
"You've got steady hands, Alexandra. Let's see if you've got steady intent."
I nodded, lips pressed together. The kit was warm from where she'd held it—thin metal-tipped brushes, soft foam pads, and six small paint jars: cobalt blue, vermilion, white, gold, black, and green. The paints were thick but glossy, smelling faintly of eucalyptus and something mineral.
I knelt in front of Iris, whose legs shifted slightly as she adjusted her posture. Her arms rested lightly on her knees.
"Hi," she said, voice quiet but not shy. "Alex, right?"
"Yeah. Lex, if you want."
"I'm Iris," she repeated, though I already knew. "Any ideas for what you're going to paint?"
"I'm still deciding. Thinking something botanical maybe. Vines. Flowing shapes that follow your ribs."
"Sounds nice," she said. "I like when it moves with the body."
Her breath was calm, her voice low, like she had all the time in the world. She didn't speak with any of the fidgety nerves of the other models I'd drawn before. She wasn't waiting to be done—she was already in it.
I dipped the brush in gold. The pigment caught the studio lights, almost too pretty to disturb. But I did—touching the tip just under her collarbone, drawing a slow line that curved slightly downward. She flinched.
"Sorry," I said quickly.
"No—it's fine. Just cold," she replied, grinning slightly. "They always are at first."
As I worked, I noticed how different it was from canvas. The paint resisted in new ways—skin had oils, warmth, fine hairs that changed how the brush moved. The surface wasn't flat—it breathed. And with each breath, the shape I was painting subtly changed.
I focused on long, curling lines—vines, like I'd said. I traced them along the line of her ribs, curling toward her shoulder and wrapping slightly around her side. When I switched to green and added leaves, I noticed that her skin absorbed the pigment unevenly—thicker near the sternum, thinner where the ribs pushed outward.
"How's it feel?" I asked after a while.
"Like being inked by wind," she said. "Some artists press too hard. You're gentle."
"Trying not to ruin you."
Iris smiled. "That's what Halden always says. It's not possible, really. I'll wash it all off anyway."
"Still. I want it to be good. You know… meaningful."
"You think vines are meaningful?"
I thought for a second. "Growth. Clinging. Winding paths. Everything connected."
She nodded, thoughtful. "I like that. My back's got stars on it right now, by the way. We're a whole forest-and-sky theme today."
I glanced briefly around her shoulder—she wasn't kidding. The other student was stippling faint constellations in shimmering silver and black.
"How long does the paint usually take to dry?" I asked.
"Depends. That gold takes about four minutes if you don't touch it. The green dries faster. Halden has a spray sealant if you want to layer stuff."
Good to know. I reached for a sponge, dipped it in diluted white, and pressed it lightly near the edges of the vine to create a faint glow—like mist or sunlight filtered through leaves. I could feel something twinge behind my eyes—my magic wanting to respond to the act of creation. But I kept it low. Controlled. I didn't want to turn Iris into a living sculpture.
Not here. Not yet.
An hour passed like that. Painting. Chatting quietly. I learned that Iris was a philosophy student, in her last year. That she liked old poetry and spicy ramen and had a cat named Moose.
Eventually, Halden walked over. She examined my work in silence for a long time.
"Good sense of motion," she said finally. "Could use contrast. Maybe break the pattern with something harsh. Think about intrusion. Or decay. Nature's not just soft."
"Okay," I said, storing the advice like a pebble in my pocket.
She moved on.
By the time we started removing the paint—with special wipes and soft cloths—the vines had curled all the way to Iris's hip. The green had dried matte. The gold shimmered. When I wiped it away, slowly, carefully, it left behind only a slight tint. Like a ghost of the art that had been.
Iris glanced at herself in the mirror afterward. "Wish I could keep it."
"Me too," I said. "But maybe that's what makes it art. You only get to see it once."
She smiled. "That's what I always say."
--
There was a swimming pool on campus—a quiet, echoing kind of place that always smelled like chlorine and something cleaner than reality. I used it sometimes as a waiting room between classes, a pocket of stillness where my thoughts could untangle. Especially when Peter was down there in the water.
He didn't swim competitively anymore. High school, and with it the swim team, had been traded for university and pre-law, but that didn't change his rhythm. The passion was still alive in him. He swam like he was trying to outpace something only he could see. And to be honest, it was nice to watch.
I sat on the front row of the upper bleachers, behind the glass barrier that looked down into the shimmering blue basin below. The water flickered like glass over the tiles. I pulled out my lunch and unwrapped it slowly, each bite taken in calm, as I watched Peter cut through the water, lap after lap, refusing to let it pin him down. Water might have been trying to swallow him, but he never gave it the satisfaction.
"I didn't think I'd find you here," said a voice behind me.
I'd seen her a few seconds earlier in the reflection of the glass—Zoe. I gave her a wave.
"Yeah. It's usually quiet, if you don't mind the splashing. I like the sound. And I like watching Peter swim." I nodded toward the pool. "He's always loved it. It's his thing—taming the water."
"You love him," she said. Not a question. Just a calm, firm observation.
"Yes. Of course." My voice didn't flinch. I didn't feel like justifying it. She'd either understand it, or she wouldn't.
"Yeah… he loves you too. He told me about you the very first night I dragged him out for a walk during Jason's party." She leaned on the railing beside me, her eyes following him. "I thought I'd be weirded out by your relationship. But the more I got to know him—and now you—the more at peace I am with it. You really are siblings without the blood."
"We are," I said, chewing the corner of my sandwich thoughtfully.
"Then I'm going to ask you the way I'd ask a sister: Tell me about him."
"You must know him well by now," I said. "In some ways, probably better than I ever will." She smiled at that. "What do you want to know?"
"Anything," she said. "Whatever comes to your mind when you think of him. The kind of stuff only you'd say."
I paused. Not because I didn't have answers—but because I had too many.
"He's honest," I said at last. "And a total goofball, but only when it matters most—like when you're falling apart and need someone to act like the world hasn't ended. He protects the people he loves with everything he's got. Even when no one asks him to. Especially then."
Zoe nodded slowly, her arms crossed now.
"He looks simple on the surface," I added. "But inside? He's always in some quiet war with his feelings."
She let out a soft, surprised laugh. "I expected something simpler, but… I like yours better already."
"He's also…" I hesitated.
"Also what?"
"Like the water he's swimming in."
Zoe tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
"He's restless. Always moving. Always searching for something just out of reach," I said. "He's emotional, impulsive—when he feels something, it crashes through. There's no damming it up. But he's also… clear. Transparent with what he wants. He doesn't lie."
She was quiet for a moment, taking that in. Her gaze hadn't left Peter.
"And he adapts," I added. "Like water poured into a new space. He just… fits. New place, new people—he blends, becomes a part of their rhythm before they even know it."
"Yeah," she said softly. "I've noticed that about him." Her voice took on a reflective note. "I've had my share of bad boyfriends. The kind who pretend to be honest until they're not. With him, I tried my best to test him—I know it sounds awful—but I've been hurt too many times. I had to be sure."
"And?" I asked.
"He passed every test I didn't want to give him," she said, her smile soft and small. "He's the real deal."
"Yeah," I said simply.
"He showed me the necklace you gave him. Right after we parted ways yesterday." She glanced at me. "He didn't try to hide it, or soften it, or spin some explanation to make me feel safer. He just showed it for what it was."
"I didn't mean for it to come off like a threat or anything. I just learned how to make one and thought of him. He's the closest person I have in this world, you know?"
"I know. And honestly? I wasn't threatened by it. Or by you." She touched her heart lightly. "I trust him. Completely. Is that bad?"
"If you want a good man, then no. If you want someone who has his whole life figured out…" I chuckled, "then oh girl, you picked the wrong boy."
Zoe laughed at that—freely, like someone who'd finally unclenched something inside.
"Yeah. What's up with that, anyway? His aversion to plans?"
"No idea. He just freezes when things get serious. Like if it's about him, his future… he gets stuck. Needs someone to help him walk through the fog."
"I hope I can be that someone."
"I hope so too."
We sat in silence for a while, just watching him move through the water, turning chaos into rhythm, effort into grace. The pool echoed with the gentle churn of waves and breath and the quiet resistance of a man trying not to be swept away.
"Tell me about yourself, Zoe," I asked, turning toward her as Peter slipped back under the water below us, arms slicing clean through the blue.
She smiled faintly, but it was the kind that came with something a little heavier behind it. "I live with my mom," she said. "At least when she's home. She's a nurse—works long shifts. Hard ones. She left my dad a long time ago. He was abusive. Not just to her, but to everything he touched."
"I'm sorry," I said softly.
"She never looked back," Zoe added, voice steady. "And I admire her for that. She's a good woman, but… their whole relationship? Yeah. Not exactly a great template for how love's supposed to work."
"I understand," I said, and I did.
Zoe looked out at the water. "I've always been a pretty girl," she said plainly. "That's not bragging. It's just… something I learned young. The world reacts to it in predictable ways. There's never been a shortage of boys trying to 'win' me. But most of them fell off pretty fast when they figured out I was smart too. That I didn't want to play along with whatever script they had in mind."
"Good for you," I said, meaning it.
"You know I like geeky stuff," she added with a grin. "Always have. Computers, games, sci-fi, fantasy—the works. I was coding mods when most people were still figuring out how to install Minecraft. But I also run, and do yoga. Try to keep the hardware as tuned as the software. You do too?"
I smiled. Oh, girl. Roof-jumping, sprinting across cities, escaping armed men through back alleys, pickpocketing, contorting my body around spells and balance and power… But for now? "I run as well," I said lightly. Let's keep it civil.
Zoe raised an eyebrow in appreciation. "Nice. Most of the people in my program just… sit. Screens all day. Some of them even brag about how little they leave the house." She laughed, but it had an edge of disbelief.
"I can't argue with needing to move," I said. "It's healthy. Clears the mind. And I think you and Peter are a good match."
Her brows lifted, eyes bright. "You think?"
"Yeah. He's a geek too, you know. He just doesn't wear it on his sleeve."
Zoe lit up. "I knew it. He has so many fantasy books in his room. Like… full shelf. And a few manga hidden in a drawer, too, but I didn't say that."
"Told ya," I said, laughing.
We sat like that for a while, the conversation winding from casual quirks to deeper roots and back again. I liked talking to her. Zoe had a sharpness that didn't cut to hurt, just to carve away the useless stuff. She listened like she meant it. She answered like she'd thought it through. No pretense. No mask.
Eventually, the time slipped away like it always did when a moment was working.
My art history class crept a little too close for comfort. I sighed, brushing crumbs from my lap and stretching my legs.
"I've gotta run," I said.
Zoe nodded. "Thanks for talking to me."
"Anytime," I replied, then looked once more down at the water—at Peter, relentless and fluid, as if born for this world and its motion—and walked away, feeling the strange comfort of something steady behind me.
--
I was walking along the riverside boulevard, the breeze from the water brushing against my face like a quiet welcome. The river floated past with a steady, unhurried rhythm, reflecting soft early light, while people wove between food stalls, scattered benches, and each other—fluid and chaotic all at once. I kept to the edge, watching it all pass like I was gliding beside a living painting.
My destination sat tucked behind an older building at the boulevard's far end. The address matched the one I had written down from the course site: a studio offering training in clothes-making, pattern design, and sewing. Today marked my first session. A new artform. A new path to explore. I felt that familiar kind of quiet excitement settle in my chest, the kind I always felt before diving into something creative and unknown. There was no magic humming in my palms today—just curiosity.
The studio had a glass storefront, clean and inviting. Through the panes, I could see a handful of people gathering already—mostly women, though two men stood among them, chatting and laughing softly. The warm light inside made it feel cozy and focused, like a haven for detail-lovers and dreamers alike.
I stepped in and lingered near the door. Everyone was already mid-conversation, talking about previous lessons, techniques they were trying, fabrics they couldn't wait to get their hands on. Words like "bias tape," "French seams," and "flat-felled stitching" were tossed around like spells. I didn't understand most of it, but it made me want to. It had the energy of people truly excited to learn, and that alone gave me hope I'd found something worthwhile.
I struck up a quiet conversation with a couple of them, curious about the instructor.
"Oh, you'll love him," one woman said, adjusting the tape measure draped around her neck like jewelry. "He's incredibly precise. Like, down to the millimeter. But not in an uptight way—he loves what he does. You can see it in the way he touches fabric, like he's speaking to it."
"He explains things really well too," another added. "Has a kind of calm about him, but when he talks about pattern design? Passion just radiates off of him."
So far, so good.
A young woman at the reception desk eventually opened the door to the actual workroom and motioned us in. I grabbed the seat that had clearly been prepared for the new student—me—and settled in quickly, smoothing down my notebook and checking the tiny sewing kit I'd brought along. My eyes scanned the room, noting the worktables, industrial machines, spools of thread like candy lining the walls. Everything was clean, practical, and humming with quiet intention.
I waited with a smile, stomach fluttering with anticipation. It was rare to walk into something new and feel so immediately comfortable.
Then the instructor entered.
And everything stopped.
At first it was just the silhouette in the doorway—tall, sharp lines, confident posture. His head was shaved to zero. A narrow goatee framed his mouth. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Japanese.
And missing a part of his pinky finger.
My breath caught in my throat.
It was him.
Shiroi.
Just… bald.
The air in the room felt like it changed pressure.
He walked in like he owned the place, the same fluid, silent authority I remembered. A button-up shirt. Rolled sleeves. Measuring tape slung around his neck like an afterthought. He moved like he didn't need to prove anything to anyone anymore.
What the fuck?
I sat frozen, eyes glued to him while trying not to look like they were. My pulse was thudding in my ears. He hadn't looked at me yet—or maybe he had, and just didn't react. Was it really him? Could it just be someone who looked like him?
But the pinky was gone. The shape of the face, the weight in his stance—it was him.
What the hell was he doing teaching sewing in a civilian studio on the riverside?
More importantly: did he recognize me?
I forced my body to remain still, my expression neutral, but my mind was already running full sprint in every direction. The last time I saw him, he was trying to kill me. Now here he was—calm, polished, standing at the front of a creative workshop like he'd never hurt a person.
If he did recognize me, he didn't show it. Not yet.
He moved to the front of the studio with the calm, practiced grace of someone who'd stood there a hundred times before. His presence didn't demand attention—it invited it. Quiet, steady, magnetic. Like gravity.
He glanced at a clipboard resting on the main table, then looked up, voice low and even. "Good afternoon, everyone. I hope the week treated you well."
His eyes swept over the room. "My name is Ken Kuromaru. I'll be guiding you through this next stage of the course. For returning students—welcome back. For those joining us today—" his gaze settled directly on me "—please meet Alexandra May, who's here for her first session."
I felt the heat of every gaze turning toward me. I smiled—small, polite—and offered a nod, willing my pulse to stay calm. Just breathe.
"She's chosen to enter at a more advanced point in the program," Ken continued. "So please extend the patience and generosity we're known for."
A few polite smiles. A couple of quiet hellos. No one questioned it. Least of all him.
So he doesn't recognize me. The realization slid down my spine like melting ice. Or if he did, he was a master at pretending otherwise.
I lifted a hand just slightly. "Thanks. I'm really glad to be here."
He nodded once. "Before we begin, Alexandra—would you mind sharing what brought you to the course?"
"I want to understand how clothing is constructed," I said, surprised at how steady my voice came out. "How patterns work. How fabric moves. There's something… artistic in how it all fits together. I want to be able to make something real with my hands."
He tilted his head a little, eyes steady on mine—not probing, just listening. When I finished, he gave a small, approving nod.
"Clothing is the architecture closest to the body," he said. "A very human form of engineering. I think you'll find what you're looking for here."
And just like that, he transitioned into the lesson.
He stepped behind the long front table, where three neatly folded stacks of fabric awaited: cotton muslin, stretch jersey, and wool suiting. He moved between them like a conductor about to cue an overture.
"We'll start with an overview of textile behavior," he said, lifting a bolt of muslin. "This one's the simplest. Cotton muslin—plain weave, breathable, holds shape well, and most importantly, it tells the truth. If your cut is off by even a millimeter, it shows you. That's why we use it for prototyping."
He passed pieces around the room for us to feel. I pinched the fabric between my fingers—light, slightly coarse, honest. Just like he said.
Next came the stretch jersey.
"Knitted structure," he explained. "Soft, forgiving—but easily distorted. You treat it carelessly, it remembers. It's a material that rewards precision and punishes assumptions."
His tone was calm, reverent. Like he was describing a wild creature he'd studied and learned to respect. Not tamed—but understood. The room was quiet. Focused.
Then he moved to the wool.
"Wool suiting—dense, luxurious, and highly responsive. It drapes beautifully, molds with steam, but it has rules. Ignore the grain line, apply heat too high, and it will fight you."
He handled the fabric like it was alive.
I jotted notes quickly—not just about materials, but about him. If Shiroi was hiding behind this identity, then he wore it like a second skin. No flicker of recognition, no stutter in his voice, no hesitation when speaking my name. Nothing. His posture was relaxed. His focus genuine.
This wasn't a mask. Or if it was, it was seamless.
He moved on to practical technique: testing fabric stretch and grain, threading machines for different materials, adjusting tension with meticulous care. His instructions were never rushed, always grounded in purpose. Every technique came with its logic. Every step had a reason.
"There's a moment," he said, near the end of the session, "when your hands start to understand what your mind hasn't caught up to yet. When you feel how a fabric resists or yields, and adjust without thinking. That's when progress begins. Not when you force it—but when you start listening."
Heads nodded. Pens scratched. People soaked it in.
I kept watching him.
He was Ken Kuromaru now. Respected. Patient. Deeply knowledgeable. The studio fit him perfectly, like it had been designed around him. A man at peace with who he was. Or at least, who he pretended to be.
Later, as I worked on my first assignment—sewing two fabric pieces together with a clean seam—I sensed him approach. I didn't look up. I kept my hands steady, my breath even. Acting as if his presence didn't affect me.
"You're very good at this, Alexandra," he said softly. "I'm glad to see someone share my passion."
Well, not for turning people into string, if that's what you mean. A stray thought, morbid one so I kept it buried.
"Oh, Mr. Kuromaru," I said, lifting my head with a neutral smile, "I didn't hear you approach."
"No problem." He smiled gently, then extended a hand—not to shake, but to rest it briefly on my shoulder.
I froze.
Just a brush. A light pressure. But every part of me went still, like a deer in a clearing.
I expected to feel that strange unraveling sensation again—that quiet dismantling I'd felt the last time we crossed paths in a much darker context. But no. His hand was warm. Steady. Gentle.
Just… human.
Then it lifted.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
"I blinked. "Why?"
"You tensed when I touched you," he said simply. "A lot of people don't like being touched. I sometimes forget myself when I'm focused. I meant no harm. Please forgive me."
His expression was open. Apologetic. But was it genuine? Or just another layer?
"It's fine," I said. "It was just… unexpected."
He nodded, then glanced at my stitching. "Let me show you something."
He leaned in, careful not to crowd me, and began to guide me through the process of aligning the fabrics more precisely. He explained the angle of the grain, the behavior of the seam under tension, the small shifts in needle position that made all the difference.
I watched closely. I mimicked his technique. And the seam came together beautifully, smooth and clean like it had always belonged that way.
It was frustrating, in a way—how easy he made it. How good he was at teaching. This wasn't the man I'd fought. Not in action, not in words, not in presence.
Whoever Shiroi was… this version of him?
He was a teacher.
And a damn good one.
When the lesson ended, he simply thanked everyone for coming, invited us to the next session the following week, and packed up his materials with quiet efficiency. Then he left—first out the door we'd all come through earlier. No dramatic farewell. No lingering glance. Just gone.
It was strange. Disorienting, almost.
Here was a man who had once stood like a blade in the dark—precise, lethal, terrifying—and now he folded fabric like it was sacred. He smiled gently, corrected us with care, and spoke of thread tension as if it held the secrets of the universe.
He was living a double life. Just like I was.
But in this one, he was kind. Polite. Patient.
It left a strange weight in my chest that I didn't know what to do with.
As the other students filtered out, chatting about the lesson and promising to meet again next week, I lingered at my station, slowly folding my fabric scraps. I wrestled with the urge to pull out my phone. To call Philip Penrose.
But I didn't.
Because I knew what it would mean.
If I called and something had happened I'd become a variable. A lead. Shiroi, Ken, might not recognize me now, but if Philip made a move and didn't survive it, he would trace it back. A new student joins. A man attacks. It wouldn't take much.
And I wasn't ready for that. Not yet.
No. This wasn't the time for recklessness. That had failed me once already.
I would use him.
I would learn everything I could. Study him the way he studied fabric. Understand how he moved, how he thought, how he taught. Because this version of him—this Ken Kuromaru—was a window. A weakness, maybe. Or at the very least, a crack in the armor.
And once I had enough…
I would set a trap.
Better than the last one. Smarter. One he wouldn't see coming.
I didn't know what it would look like yet, but I would figure it out. I had time. More than that—I had motive, I had will, and for once, I had proximity.
I gathered my materials slowly, slipping the sample fabrics into my bag with careful fingers. My thoughts were no longer racing—they were sharp. Focused.
I need to understand my powers better. That much was clear. That's what I'd focus on in the coming days.
Starting with today.
No more running. No more guessing.
I would become the kind of weapon he never saw coming.
--
It was almost 10 PM when I dragged the mirror into my room.
Sophie had lent it to me without asking too many questions—just a raised eyebrow and a shrug when I muttered something about "visualizing proportions." It was taller than me and rimmed in chipped white paint, like it had been rescued from someone's attic or a prop department fire sale. I angled it against my bookshelf, where the light from my desk lamp would fall across it just right. The yellow glow wasn't ideal for color precision, but I didn't care about accuracy. Not in that way.
I turned on a playlist of ambient synth—nothing with lyrics. I needed space in my head. I needed to forget about Shiroi.
Then I undressed, down to just my pants. The rest had to go. Skin was canvas tonight.
The paints were laid out on my bed like a surgeon's instruments. I'd tested some swatches earlier—grey, silver, white, and a faint, pearlescent glaze that I hadn't figured out what to do with yet. I dipped my fingers into the cold grey first. It felt thick, slightly damp, with a grain to it like powdered stone in cream.
The first smear across my collarbone sent a shiver through me.
Not from the temperature—though it was cool—but from something deeper. Like I was drawing the first line in a spell I didn't know the words to yet. I spread the grey layer slowly, working outward in broad, wide patches—over my shoulders, down my arms, across my chest. The coverage wasn't perfect, but I didn't want it to be. It was the primer. The steel beneath the skin.
I worked methodically, like I did in class, but more intimate now—less about delicacy, more about control. When I reached for the silver, I took a brush instead of fingers. The strokes this time were cleaner, sharper—lines over muscle, tracing natural seams and bones. I watched myself in the mirror, saw how each movement subtly shifted the shapes I'd laid down. My body was never still, not truly. Every breath, every flick of the wrist altered the illusion.
The hard part came next: precision.
I tried to draw the curve of a plate down my left arm using the reflection, but the mirror distorted everything. My brain and hand argued. The moment I'd start a line, the angle would shift. My elbow would swing too far, or I'd twist wrong. I gave up after five minutes of that nonsense and started painting directly, looking at my own arm instead.
It felt strange, turning my eyes inward like that—using my own skin like drafting paper. But it worked.
I started to map the mechanics. On my biceps, I painted overlapping plates, each one shaded with a thin edge of white for shine. Elbow joints got silver lines radiating outward like spokes. I traced lines down my ribs like cables or conduits, splitting them with faint glimmers to hint at depth. Everything was angular, sharp—not flowing like the vines I'd painted on Iris. This was armor. It had to be.
Occasionally I would pause, step back, and look at myself full-on.
The mirror image was unnerving—somewhere between a battle-damaged android and an anatomy study from a future century. I didn't look like me anymore. Not really. But maybe that was the point. I wasn't just playing at dress-up. I was building a second skin. An exoskeleton.
My back was a disaster. I tried to reach as much as I could, smearing grey first by hand, then attempting a few broader strokes with a foam wedge glued to a stick. It felt ridiculous, and I knew the results wouldn't be elegant, but I managed to cover most of it in jagged, sweeping arcs—like bulk armor plating. No detail, but the impression was there.
I imagined how it would feel, having that back covered in real alloy. Heavy. Grounded. Unyielding.
The final touches went on my neck and face. I added slashes of white across my cheekbones and temples, like visor brackets. A touch of silver on my jaw, mimicking a hinge. I made my eyes seem deeper by drawing thin shadows above the brows. The image in the mirror looked alien, spectral—like a soldier painted for war and cloaked in metal.
And then I got to my feet.
Literally.
I sat down cross-legged on the floor and began on my legs and toes. I hadn't planned this part much, but my mind had been chewing on the idea for hours: armor that enhanced, but also expressed. Not just function, but identity. Not just protection, but power.
So I made the feet strange.
I painted each toe in gleaming white and black, with extended tips like claws or grips. I added reinforced "joints" at the ankle with curved metal edges—but with elongated pads beneath the feet, softened with subtle blue-grey highlights. More animal than mechanical. I traced outlines up my shins in staggered verticals, like pistons. But the feet—yes, they ended a little too long, a little too round. Like something you'd see on a rabbit mech in a concept art piece. Odd. Playful. Unapologetic.
When it was all done, I stood.
The mirror caught me whole now.
It was disorienting. Uncanny.
I looked like a machine built by an artist with a rebellious streak. More myth than engineer. An echo of something that hadn't existed until now. The lights caught the silver and sent it gleaming across my arms and chest. The feet felt heavier just from how I'd painted them. My breathing was shallow, and every movement felt like it had purpose, even if that purpose was just awe.
But it wasn't enough.
Not yet.
I knelt, hands on my thighs, and closed my eyes.
I called the power.
Not loudly. Not like shouting to the stars. This was different. This was an invocation whispered into the self.
"Be the power armor," I whispered, and my Authority answered with light.
I reached inside, to that wellspring that had cracked open only days ago. My authority. My magic. It wasn't wild right now—it was patient, humming beneath the surface like a charged coil. I directed it—not out into the world, not into others—but inward.
First, my fingertips tingled. Then my forearms. Then the sensation flowed outward in ripples, passing through the silver, the white, the black. I felt each line activate—like a current rushing through hidden circuitry. My breath caught as warmth spread across my chest, my legs, my neck.
The paint didn't move—but it felt alive now. Anchored. Claimed.
Mine.
Not just decoration. Not just performance. This was my armor.
Not metal—but it didn't have to be. It was an extension of will, of skill, of art. It would protect me when I needed it. Strengthen me. Make me faster, more durable, more aware.
I opened my eyes.
The mirror image didn't blink. She was a mage. A creator. A sentinel of her own body. She wasn't smiling, but her eyes were fierce.
I whispered aloud, "Let this be my shield."
A hum ran down my spine. A faint flicker of light along the collar, barely visible.
And then it settled—quiet, complete.
I sat back, heart still racing, paint drying firm against skin. The scent of pigment and eucalyptus lingered in the air like incense. The room felt different now. Not just a bedroom anymore. It was a forge.