The sun filtered through the hospital window, its warm light stretching across the sterile white walls. The soft beams brushed over Obi's bandaged chest and arms, making the sharp edges of his injuries almost feel distant. He winced, tugging the borrowed hoodie over his head, careful not to irritate his tender wounds. It was a soft, oversized thing that smelled faintly of old paper and sandalwood—nothing like the crisp, fresh fabric he used to wear, but somehow comforting in its unfamiliarity.
Mr. Kumon stood nearby, silently gathering the last of Obi's belongings: a paperback book, a pack of painkillers, and the tote bag that had sat untouched by his bedside since the day he arrived.
Obi stood up, wincing as he shifted his weight, then made his way to the door. His footsteps were sluggish, like his body hadn't quite gotten the memo that it was supposed to be functioning again. As he stepped into the hallway, he hesitated near the nurse's station.
The nurse who'd been taking care of him these past few days glanced up from her clipboard. Her eyes softened as Obi caught her gaze, and without a word, he lowered his head in a small, deliberate bow. It wasn't much—just a quiet thank-you—but it was enough.
She smiled at him in return, her expression warm and understanding, but she didn't say anything. Some things didn't need words.
Outside, the hospital doors slid open with a quiet hum. The sudden rush of city noise hit Obi like a wave, its chaotic energy a sharp contrast to the sterile silence he'd grown used to. The air was thick with the scent of fried food from nearby stalls, the sharp tang of car exhaust, and the familiar smell of rain-soaked concrete from yesterday's downpour. Every honk, shout, footstep, and distant birdcall felt amplified, like his senses had become too sensitive, too raw.
Obi flinched, instinctively pulling his hoodie's drawstring tight around his neck. His eyes squinted against the bright sunlight.
"You okay?" Mr. Kumon asked, his voice gentle but not overly concerned. He adjusted the strap of the tote bag now hanging off his shoulder, watching Obi with a quiet, observant gaze.
"Yeah," Obi muttered, still squinting at the light, trying to shake off the overwhelming noise. "I just... have really good ears. It's been a while. I need to adjust."
Mr. Kumon didn't respond immediately, but Obi could feel his gaze shift to him, a silent check for any signs of struggle. After a beat, Mr. Kumon offered a small, reassuring smile. "You'll get there. It'll take some time."
Obi nodded slowly, his gaze drifting down the bustling street, the crowd moving around him like an unstoppable current. The city felt like it was shouting at him, too full of life and sound. His chest tightened, and his hand twitched toward the hoodie's drawstring again, but he resisted the urge to pull it tighter.
"You ready?" Mr. Kumon's voice brought him back to the present, gentle but steady.
Obi took a long, slow breath. The noise was still too much, too much to process all at once. His heart thudded in his chest, an unsteady rhythm that matched the city's pulse. But beneath it all, there was something that had shifted—like gears catching after a long stall.
"…Yeah," Obi finally said, his voice hoarse but determined. "I think I am."
Mr. Kumon gave him one last glance, then started walking, the tote bag bouncing softly against his hip. Obi followed him, the noise of the city swirling around them as they stepped into the world beyond the hospital doors.
---
The sun was dipping low by the time they arrived.
Tucked between a shuttered tailor shop and a coin laundromat, Kumon's Books looked like it had time-traveled straight out of the Showa era. The wooden sign above the door, faded and flaking, simply read: Kumon's Books. Its corners were warped from years of sun and rain. The display window was cluttered with secondhand novels, sun-bleached manga, and handwritten notes like "Half off—if you can find it yourself."
Mr. Kumon pulled a brass key from his coat pocket. The lock clicked with a solid thunk.
The door swung open, creaking like it hadn't moved in days.
Immediately, Obi was hit with the scent of old paper and ink, of wood warmed by sunlight and time. The place smelled like memory. The shop's soft lighting spilled from mismatched lamps, casting long, lazy shadows over shelves stacked high with books. Some leaned like tired old men, barely holding themselves up. A small electric fan buzzed from somewhere deep in the back, as if in protest of the heat.
Obi stepped inside slowly, eyes drifting from one book-laden shelf to the next like he'd walked into a forgotten temple. One spine caught his eye—an old manga he hadn't seen since elementary school. He reached out and brushed his fingers over the cover, dust catching in the grooves.
A small smile tugged at his lips.
Mr. Kumon gave his shoulder a nudge. "Welcome home, I guess."
Obi flinched.
"Ack—damn, sorry. Forgot about the shoulder." Mr. Kumon winced, pulling his hand back.
Obi shook his head. "It's okay. Just sore."
Mr. Kumon adjusted the tote bag on his shoulder. "Come on, I'll show you your room."
They walked past the register, which was cluttered with curled receipt rolls, half-used pens, and sticky notes scribbled in an illegible scrawl. At the very back of the shop, wedged between a shelf of dusty encyclopedias and a water cooler, sat a thick wooden door that looked like it didn't belong.
Mr. Kumon unlocked it with a different key.
The door groaned open, revealing not just a room—but an entire hidden apartment.
Obi blinked.
High, slanted ceilings, warm wooden beams. Shelves lined the walls here too, but these were tidier, carefully curated—philosophy, history, art. Framed photos sat on one shelf: Mr. Kumon with a woman who had dark eyes and a soft smile, and a young girl with streaks of purple in her hair, caught mid-laugh.
A worn couch sat beneath a tall window, drenched in the honey-gold light of the evening. The kitchenette in the corner hummed softly, modern and compact, and a portable heater gave off a low, steady whirr.
"This is… yours?" Obi said, stunned.
Mr. Kumon chuckled. "Mine, yeah. Well—yours now, too. Part of it. Don't touch the rare books in the living room though. I'm emotionally attached."
Obi gave a quiet snort and stepped further inside.
Something brushed against his leg.
He looked down.
A cat—white with irregular brown splotches, one gold eye and the other a cloudy blue—stared up at him like he'd just committed a grave offense.
"Hey, buddy," Obi said cautiously, crouching.
The cat hissed, sharp and immediate.
"Okay! Damn—never mind," he said, stumbling back.
Mr. Kumon laughed. "That's Mittens. She's got some opinions. Don't take it personally. She hates everyone."
Obi watched as the cat darted behind the couch, tail puffed like a feather duster. "Noted."
They moved down a short hallway. Mr. Kumon slid open a door.
"Here we are," he said. "Your room."
It was small but clean. A futon had already been laid out with crisp, fresh sheets. A low desk sat beneath the window, a small lamp casting a soft amber glow. A folded towel was placed neatly at the foot of the bed. An empty shelf waited by the wall—ready for whatever books Obi might collect again.
He stepped inside and gently set his tote bag down.
The weight of it finally hit him. He wasn't in the hospital anymore. This was real. He was here.
From the doorway, Mr. Kumon asked, "You hungry?"
Obi hesitated. "…Yeah. Hospital IVs aren't exactly filling."
Mr. Kumon gave a warm grin. "Thought so. I'll cook something. You get settled."
He disappeared into the kitchenette, leaving Obi alone in the quiet.
Obi sat on the edge of the futon. His shoulders slumped as the silence filled the space around him—not heavy, but not exactly comforting either. He stared up at the ceiling.
So this is it. Starting over in a bookstore apartment with a hissing cat and a guy who barely knows me.
He let out a slow breath. A small, hollow laugh slipped from his throat.
It's gonna make one hell of a backstory someday. Assuming anyone ever believes it.
His eyes drifted shut for a moment, the exhaustion of everything—of survival—settling into his bones.
Please… let nothing else go wrong. I don't know how much more I've got in me.
He opened his eyes again and stared at the ceiling until the smell of cooking began to drift down the hall, warm and familiar.
And for the first time in what felt like weeks, he didn't feel afraid.
Just… tired.
But safe.
Sort of.
---
Within minutes, lunch was ready.
Drawn by the rich, nostalgic scent of miso and grilled fish, Obi padded softly into the kitchen. His steps were quiet, almost reverent, as if he didn't want to startle the moment.
"It's not much," Mr. Kumon said, placing a tray on the low table. "But you need real food in you."
There was a steaming bowl of miso soup, a still-sizzling fillet of grilled saba, a neat mound of white rice, and a square dish of tamagoyaki so perfectly rolled it could've come from a fancy shop. Pickled vegetables added a splash of color to the corner of the tray. A mug of barley tea sat beside it all, its earthy aroma grounding the air.
Obi blinked. "Looks amazing," he said, surprised at how his appetite surged at the sight of it.
"Eat slow," Mr. Kumon said, settling across from him. "Your body's been through hell."
Obi nodded and picked up the bowl of soup with both hands. His fingers trembled slightly. As soon as he brought it to his lips, the steam curling up into his face, something in him cracked.
The scent—it wasn't exact, but it was close. Close enough to what his mother used to make. Miso soup on cold mornings. Soft rice at the kitchen table. That same gentle salt, that same warmth that clung to the back of his throat.
Tears came before he could stop them.
They fell, quiet and unchecked, as he kept drinking.
Mr. Kumon noticed, pausing mid-bite. Then, with a soft attempt at levity, he said, "Oh no. Obi, I'm sorry. Did I mess up the seasoning that bad?"
Obi quickly wiped at his face, turning away a little as he tried to laugh. "No. No, it's not that. The food's great. It's just... it's just a little hard. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be disrespectful."
Mr. Kumon didn't say anything right away. Then he stood and stepped around the table.
Without asking, he wrapped his arms around Obi and held him.
Obi stiffened at first, then slowly sank into the hug.
"I'm sorry," Mr. Kumon murmured. "You just… you looked like you needed one. I remember when my daughter used to cry like this. When things got too heavy. She always pretended she was fine until she broke."
He hesitated.
"Never mind."
Obi felt the weight of grief between them—his, raw and new; Mr. Kumon's, older but still present like an old scar.
He managed a shaky smile and hugged the man back, grateful beyond words.
When they pulled apart, Mr. Kumon cleared his throat and said gently, "I hope you'll fit in here. This place… it could use someone like you."
Obi wiped the last of the tears from his face, offering a sincere smile this time. "Thanks. Really. For everything. You gave me a chance to start over. I'm… I'm grateful."
"You're welcome," Mr. Kumon said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, hey—it beats being alone."
Obi chuckled softly.
Then something clicked in his mind. "Ah—do you have a phone I could borrow? Mine… got lost back at the house."
"Of course." Mr. Kumon reached into his pocket and handed over his cell.
Obi took it, dialed a number from memory, and waited.
A voice picked up on the second ring. "Hello? Who is this?"
Obi smiled faintly. "Hey, Kaito. It's me."
A pause. Then: "Obi?! You're out already? I've been trying to call you, but—your number wasn't working. Are you okay?"
"I'm... okay-ish," Obi said, then added with a tired grin, "Can we talk? With milkshakes and cake, maybe?"
There was a relieved breath on the other end. "Always. Meet me at Momo's Diner."
"Thought you'd say that," Obi said, smiling as he ended the call.
He handed the phone back to Mr. Kumon, who was already eyeing him with a knowing look.
"I was going to tell you to rest," the man said. "But… I guess after being cooped up for days, a short visit with a friend might be just what you need."
Obi grabbed his jacket, his voice lighter. "Thanks, Mr. Kumon."
As he walked toward the door, Mr. Kumon called after him, "Be back before midnight, pumpkin!"
Obi groaned. "Don't make this weird, old man."
But he was smiling as he pushed open the door and stepped into Shibuya.
---
The streets of Shibuya buzzed with ferocity like restless thoughts, and the rush of passing cars blurred into a smear of sound. Obi walked with his hands in his pockets, the weight of the hoodie pressing gently against his shoulders like a shield.
Even so, the sensory overload crept in again. Not like a wave—but like a static hum beneath his skin. Distant sirens, the crunch of footsteps, voices echoing in alleys. Too much.
He pulled the hood tighter over his head.
"Just a few more blocks," he muttered under his breath. "Then I'll be fine."
By the time he pushed open the glass door to Momo's Diner, the smell of syrup and sizzling oil hit him like a memory. Warm. Familiar. Comforting.
Kaito was already at their usual booth, waving him over with that lopsided grin he always wore when trying to pretend everything was normal.
"Two strawberry milkshakes," Kaito said, tapping the laminated menu with a wink. "Just like old times."
Obi slid into the booth, nodding his thanks.
They sat for a few moments in silence. Then Kaito leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"I heard what happened," he said gently. "About your house. Your family… Obi, I'm really sorry."
Obi exhaled through his nose, fingers wrapped around the cold glass of his milkshake. He offered a small, tired smile.
"Thanks. I'm… getting there. Mr. Kumon's letting me stay with him for now. And my sister might still be alive. I don't know where she is, but… yeah." He hesitated, then looked up. "Actually, I needed to ask you something."
"Anything," Kaito said without missing a beat. "What's up?"
"That book you showed me once at school," Obi said, leaning in slightly. "The one labeled CONSUME. Red cover, creepy kanji, stitched-up bleeding mouth and that weird eye inside it."
Kaito blinked. "You mean that thing?" He reached into his backpack and pulled it out, placing it carefully on the table like it might bite. "You remember the details a little too well, man."
The book looked just like Obi remembered—disturbing in a way that felt too personal now.
"Why do you need it?" Kaito asked, brow furrowing. "You used to laugh at me for even reading this stuff."
Obi hesitated, fingers brushing the book's surface. "I… I can't explain it right now. But I need you to trust me. Can you?"
Kaito studied him for a beat. Then he nodded slowly. "Obi, you've been through hell. And I mean, hell. If you say you need it, that's enough for me. You're my best friend. Always have been. I'll be your rock if you need one. Even if it's just for milkshakes and creepy book handoffs."
Obi's lips curled into a small, grateful smile. "Thanks, Kai."
Kaito leaned back. "Alright, but be honest with me—are you going back to school anytime soon? You've missed, like, three days. Teachers were asking."
Obi stared into his drink, his reflection warping in the pink swirl. "I'm… not sure I'd make it through class right now. Everything's still too loud. Like my skin's on inside out."
Kaito softened. "Hey. Take all the time you need. I just want you to be okay. I miss my chaotic, smart-mouthed best friend. No rush, alright?"
Obi chuckled lightly.
"Oh—and about the book," he said, lifting it gently. "Can you tell me more about the author?"
Kaito raised an eyebrow, skeptical. Now he wants lore?
He leaned in with a smirk. "You've really changed, dude. Not that long ago, you were mocking me for being into this horror stuff."
Obi gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Guess I finally got the horror firsthand."
Kaito's smirk faded a little. Then he nodded.
"Alright. His name was Itsuki Hibara. Total shut-in, kind of infamous. People say he murdered his whole family, but swore up and down he didn't do it. In prison, he kept mumbling about something called the Nameless King. Said it wasn't human. That it consumed his family and made him watch."
Obi's hands tensed slightly around the book.
"He wrote this book during his stay in prison, before he lost it completely. Thing is, after he went totally off the rails, evidence showed he might've been innocent. They transferred him to Tokyo Metropolitan Matsuzawa Hospital. Been there ever since."
Obi nodded slowly, his eyes distant.
"Thanks, Kai. Really."
He tucked the book into a canvas tote bag slung over his shoulder, then stood. "I should head back. Got my shift at the shop soon."
"Right," Kaito said, rising too. "Be safe, okay?"
Obi held out a fist. Kaito bumped it without hesitation.
At the door, Obi turned and gave him a short wave.
Kaito waved back, watching as his friend disappeared into the city.
---
The walk home was quieter this time.
The afternoon sun had mellowed into a soft gold, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. Obi kept his hoodie drawn up, the fabric brushing against his cheeks as he walked. The earlier sensory chaos had dulled to a manageable buzz—still there, but no longer suffocating.
When he reached the bookstore, Mr. Kumon was outside rearranging a cardboard box of discount titles. He looked up and gave a small wave.
"You made it back," he said with a smile.
"Yeah," Obi replied, managing a real one this time. "Let's work."
He stepped inside and took his place behind the counter. The bookstore smelled the same—dust, wood, and time. A few customers came in here and there, flipping through books or asking for obscure titles. Obi smiled when he had to, answered questions with a politeness that felt rehearsed but functional. He scanned books, bagged them, nodded when thanked.
It was like wearing a mask. But it was better than silence.
By nightfall, the store emptied out. The lamps flickered warm and steady, and Mr. Kumon handed him a mug of barley tea before heading to his room. Obi lingered a moment, staring at the rows of books in the golden light. Then he turned in for the night.
He sat cross-legged on his futon, pulling CONSUME from his bag.
The cover still disturbed him—a stitched, laughing mouth with a single red and black eye inside it. A grotesque thing. He opened to the first page.
The story was brutal from the start. A man named Hibino, working an ordinary office job, watching his mundane life unravel as flesh-eating demons tore through his coworkers like paper. The text was frantic, raw. Hibino tried to fight back. Tried to save people. He lost an arm. He lost everything.
Obi's hands trembled slightly. He closed the book, breathing through the weight in his chest.
Outside his window, the last edge of the sun dipped below the rooftops, painting the sky in amber and rose.
He rested his head against the wall, eyes on the horizon. "Kanou," he whispered, voice soft. "I'm still here. You didn't kill me. I forgive you."
He swallowed hard.
"Wherever you are... please be careful. I know it's hard for you. But..."
---
Somewhere else.
An abandoned building creaked in the wind. In the basement—dark, damp, and reeking of mildew—chains clinked against concrete.
Kanou writhed.
She had bound herself to the wall with rusted shackles, the metal biting into her skin. Her face was gaunt, streaked with dried blood and fresh tears. Her eyes glowed unnaturally—one orange, the other pale lavender—both slit like a beast's. Her veins pulsed violently beneath her skin, black and bulging. She panted through gritted teeth, saliva foaming at the corners of her mouth.
Hair matted. Nails sharp. Her whole body trembled from hunger.
Still, she smiled. Crooked and broken.
Her voice came out hoarse, giddy, shaking.
"I can smell them," she muttered, licking her lips. "Upstairs… warm, sweet… they smell so good."
She began to laugh. A wet, desperate sound that cracked at the edges. Then it turned into a sob.
---
Back in the bookstore, Obi pulled the covers over himself.
He glanced at the book one more time before turning off the lamp.
"Please be safe," he whispered into the stillness. "I'm coming."
And with that, he closed his eyes, the weight of exhaustion finally pulling him under.