Sleep didn't come gently.
It yanked Obi under like a rip current, plunging him into a world thick with shadows, too still, too quiet. He blinked—and he was in the bookstore.
But something was wrong. The familiar scent of old pages had gone sour, the air heavy like a storm was trapped inside. Fluorescent lights above him buzzed erratically, casting a sickly pallor over the shelves.
Flicker. Pop.
Darkness swallowed the room in one breath.
"Mr. Kumon?" Obi called out, voice tight with unease.
The man stood behind the counter, sorting through a stack of returned books, blissfully unaware. He didn't respond. Didn't even look up.
The bell above the door chimed once.
Creeeeeeak.
The door opened slowly, and in stepped a figure—a silhouette at first, then color bled into it. A man in a charcoal three-piece suit, his curly black hair slicked back. His crimson eyes glowed faintly, casting soft red glimmers across the hardwood floor.
The Nameless King.
"Obi," the King said gently, like a parent addressing a frightened child. "We meet again."
Obi's legs refused to move. His body wouldn't obey. Panic clawed at his throat.
"No," he breathed. "Don't—please, don't."
But his voice was swallowed by the dark. Mr. Kumon continued working, completely unaware of the danger looming behind him.
The King took slow, deliberate steps forward, his shoes silent against the floorboards.
Obi tried to scream—to move—to do anything. But he was rooted in place. As if his limbs belonged to someone else.
"Stop it!" he shouted. But nothing left his mouth.
The King was behind the counter now.
"NO—!"
A sound like meat tearing.
The King's hand erupted from Mr. Kumon's chest in a spray of red. The older man stiffened, eyes wide with disbelief. He slowly turned to Obi, lips parted, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
"O...bi?" he choked out, confusion blooming in his eyes.
Obi lunged forward, but the world moved like molasses. His fingers grazed empty air.
Mr. Kumon fell.
The blood spread quickly—dark, warm, unreal—blossoming beneath him like a red flower. Obi dropped to his knees.
"N-no, no no no—please...!"
Then he felt it.
Fingers—cold, inhuman—closed around the back of his neck.
He was yanked upward, feet kicking uselessly, his whole body flailing like a marionette stripped of strings. He gasped, twisting—
The Nameless King stood behind him, holding him up effortlessly. His expression was unreadable. Not angry. Not gleeful.
Just… disappointed.
"You watched," the King murmured, his voice low and deliberate. "You stood there and watched. So now, you'll watch yourself."
Obi clawed at the grip on his neck. His vision swam. He looked down—
And saw his own body, limp and twitching… missing a head.
He couldn't scream.
He couldn't think.
The last thing he saw was the King's soft smile, too calm for the horror it sat beside.
And then—
Everything went black.
---
Obi jerked upright, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat. His chest heaved like he'd surfaced from drowning. Sweat soaked through his shirt, his hair clinging to his forehead. The bedsheets twisted around his limbs like vines—tight, suffocating.
He clawed at them, untangling himself with trembling hands.
5:13 AM.
The glowing red digits on the nightstand felt too loud in the darkness, like they were watching him.
His breath stuttered, quick and shallow.
The dream still scorched behind his eyelids.
Mr. Kumon's body slumping forward…
That soft, monstrous smile…
His own lifeless form swinging in the air.
His hand shot to his throat.
Still there. Still solid. Still warm.
Still alive.
But the fear didn't leave. It only coiled tighter.
The Nameless King had been there. In the dream.
In the shop.
And Obi had just… watched.
He didn't move. He didn't scream. He didn't even breathe.
He had done nothing.
A cold rush surged through his body, leaving him nauseous. He pressed his palms to his face, trying to hold himself together—trying to trap the panic inside. But it was already leaking through his pores, slick with sweat and shame.
His thoughts spun in a frenzy, looping like a broken tape:
What if it wasn't just a dream?
What if he was warning me?
Testing me?
Watching me?
The room seemed darker than it should be, like the shadows themselves were listening.
He stayed like that for hours, sitting in bed, trying to breathe, trying to not remember—but every time he shut his eyes, the scene returned. Clearer. Closer. More vivid.
He'd jolt awake again. And again. And again.
Each time emptier. Each time smaller.
Until something inside him cracked.
He curled in on himself, knees drawn to his chest, fists buried in the mattress.
Then—he broke.
Tears streamed down his cheeks, hot and silent at first. Then ragged. Shaking.
"I'm sorry," he rasped, voice shredded with guilt. "I'm so sorry…"
His breath hitched. He bit down hard on his knuckle, but it didn't stop the shaking.
He pressed his face into the pillow, as if it could muffle the sound, bury the guilt, erase the memory.
"I should've stopped him…" His voice barely held shape anymore. "After what he did… to Kanou… to everyone… I should've done something—anything."
But even as the words spilled out, he knew the truth.
What could he have done?
He was just a scared boy.
A powerless, helpless boy.
How do you stand against something like that?
His sobs deepened, and with them came the memories—the screams, the silence, the blood, Kanou's eyes. Mr. Kumon's gentle smile turning to pain.
He apologized over and over, to people who weren't there, to ghosts and shadows.
To Kanou.
To Kobi.
To his parents.
To himself.
The weight of it all felt too big, too sharp. Like wearing guilt as a second skin—tight, suffocating, impossible to peel away.
And through it all, one memory refused to fade:
The Nameless King had smiled at him.
And Obi had smiled back.
---
Daybreak bled slowly into the room, spilling pale light across Obi's face. He didn't stir at first—he was finally unconscious, the kind of sleep that came not from peace but from sheer exhaustion.
The sunlight warmed his skin. His eyes fluttered open. Heavy. Unwilling.
Every part of him ached—not from injury, but from existing.
Dark circles hollowed his eyes, the bags beneath them purplish and raw. His whole face looked worn, as if the night had drained something vital from him. His limbs felt like sandbags.
He lay there for a long moment, blinking against the light.
Maybe I'll just stay here.
But then a thought crept in:
If I don't get up… they'll worry.
He groaned quietly and pushed himself upright, moving like a puppet on frayed strings. Each step toward the sink was slow, reluctant, like he was dragging a shadow behind him.
He washed his face with cold water that slapped him back into some semblance of wakefulness. Brushed his teeth with slow, robotic strokes. The toothbrush clacked softly against his teeth.
The dread didn't leave.
It clung to his skin. Sticky. Heavy. Inescapable.
When he finally shuffled into the dining area, the scent of miso soup and grilled fish wafted through the air, comforting but distant—like a memory. Mr. Kumon sat at the table, waiting patiently with his usual morning tea.
Even the house cat—typically smug, judgy, and slightly racist—sat on the windowsill with its tail wrapped neatly around its paws, watching Obi with something almost resembling concern.
Obi collapsed onto the cushion at the table. He didn't say a word.
Didn't need to.
His body spoke volumes: slouched shoulders, unfocused eyes, chopsticks held but unused, trembling slightly in his grip.
Even the cat blinked slowly at him in something close to solidarity. A silent truce.
Mr. Kumon finally broke the silence, his voice gentle but steady.
"So… what happened at the bookstore the other day?"
He didn't say it with suspicion—he said it with concern.
Something about Obi's eyes yesterday had haunted him.
And today, they were worse.
Obi didn't answer right away.
He stared down at the miso soup like it might offer a clue, an escape, a way to disappear.
Then—he forced a smile.
Thin. Unconvincing.
"I just… I can't tell you," he said, voice rough and distant. "Not because I don't want to. I just… I don't know how to put it into words."
He poked at the tofu in the soup.
"You probably wouldn't believe me anyway," he mumbled. "And everything's been a blur these past few weeks so… I guess I just need you to trust me."
A pause.
The cat meowed softly, then curled back into a loaf.
Mr. Kumon nodded, calm and accepting, though worry lingered in the corners of his eyes.
"This isn't healthy for you, Obi," he said. "I've seen this before. This kind of silence—this weight you're carrying—it doesn't just go away."
Obi swallowed hard.
"But," Mr. Kumon added, "I'm not going to pull it out of you. I won't force it.
When you're ready… I'll be here."
Something in Obi's chest cracked, just a little. He wanted to speak. Wanted to tell him everything. About the dream. About the King. About what actually happened in his house, what happened to his sister and the existential dread of knowing that demons exist.
But his tongue betrayed him.
Instead, he gave another hollow smile, and said—
"It's nothing. Really. I'm fine."
A lie. So blatant it felt sour in his mouth.
He shoveled rice into his mouth quickly to fill the space. As if chewing could hide the truth.
"Mmph—can I go visit Kaito at Momo's Diner today?"
Mr. Kumon watched him for a long moment. Then nodded.
"Yeah. Just be safe."
---
After breakfast, Obi didn't walk—he ran. The morning sun was sharp overhead, but he barely noticed. His breath came in ragged puffs as he sprinted past shops, alleys, and crosswalks. The city buzzed around him, but all he could hear was his own heartbeat and the echo of that smile—the Nameless King's smile.
By the time he reached Momo's Diner, he was winded, sweaty, and hollow-eyed.
The bell above the door jingled softly as he pushed it open.
There, near the window, sat Kaito—slouched in his usual booth, a half-finished strawberry milkshake in one hand and his nose buried in some well-worn manga.
Just seeing him—normal, alive, untouched—was too much.
"...Kaito…"
Kaito looked up, eyes lighting up for a second. "Yo—Obi, you look like—"
But he didn't finish the sentence.
Obi dropped his bag, crossed the room in seconds, and collapsed into Kaito's arms. No warning. No hesitation.
Kaito stiffened in surprise, his milkshake nearly tipping over. "Whoa—Hey! Obi—?"
And then—
Obi broke.
He clung to Kaito like he might fall apart if he let go. His fingers fisted in the fabric of Kaito's hoodie, and then the tears came. Hot. Messy. Relentless.
"I—I couldn't hold it in anymore," Obi whispered, voice thick and trembling. "The devil came to me. He walked in. He bought a book. And I just watched."
He sobbed into Kaito's shoulder.
Kaito froze. "Wait… what? Obi—what are you talking about? What devil? Who did you see?"
Obi pulled back a little, face red and puffy, eyes shimmering with panic. He opened his mouth—then stopped.
"I-I mean… it's nothing. Just a part from a book I read. Scared the hell outta me. You know how it is."
He forced a shaky laugh. "Too much horror before bed, right?"
Kaito stared at him, confused and clearly not buying it.
But then he looked at Obi's trembling hands, the deep bags under his eyes, and the way he was forcing himself to smile through the wreckage.
So Kaito did what real friends do.
He let it go—for now.
"Yeah… okay," he said, voice softening. "Bad dreams suck."
They sat together for a while in silence. Obi stirred the melted ice in his soda glass. Kaito offered him some fries, and they talked about random things—Kaito's latest obsession with retro fighting games, how weirdly quiet school had been, the usual stuff.
But under the surface, Obi's mind was racing.
I have to find her. Kanou. I need to see her again.
The thought hit him with such clarity it made his stomach tighten.
He couldn't keep pretending life was normal. Not when his sister was still out there—somewhere fighting to stay human while he was having a panic attack.
But how?
How the hell was he supposed to find her?
The moment he thought about it, a familiar pressure curled in his chest.
The Nameless King.
His presence still lingered like soot in Obi's lungs. That dream wasn't just fear—it was a warning. A glimpse.
Obi clenched his fists under the table.
Even If I can just find her…how will everything go back to normal. What is the possibility that she won't eat him immediately.
He knew the plan was naïve. Maybe even impossible. Maybe kanou didn't even want to be found. But that hope—it was the only thing holding him together.
And even if he had to face devils, gods, or the Nameless King himself…
He'd fight through hell to bring her back.
---
The bookstore was quiet when Obi locked up for the night. The kind of quiet that doesn't soothe, but presses—like the world itself was waiting for something to break.
He didn't bother with dinner.
He didn't want to answer Mr. Kumon's questions. Didn't want to lie with half-hearted smiles or awkward shrugs. So instead, he went straight to the bathroom. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as he washed his face, the cold water doing nothing to shake off the weight in his chest.
He stared at himself in the mirror. Pale. Exhausted. The skin beneath his eyes had turned a deep, bruised gray.
With a sigh, he popped the cap off a bottle of painkillers and downed them with half a bottle of water. The bitterness clung to his throat.
He leaned against the sink, hands gripping the porcelain like it could keep him from unraveling.
What am I doing?
The past few weeks unraveled in flashes—blood, flames, screams. That book. Hibira. The Nameless King. The dream.
And Kanou.
His sister—chained, starving, alone.
He could still hear his parents' voices like a whisper under his skin:
"Protect Kanou. She'll need you now more than ever."
A lump caught in his throat. He hadn't protected her. He'd run. Hid. Pretended life could go on.
But she remembered everything.
All of it.
And the weight of that—of being trapped in her own mind, of fighting her urges alone—would be unbearable.
She's going through hell, he thought, gripping the edge of the sink tighter. And I'm here… safe. Cowardly.
If I don't help her… who will?
His breath hitched.
But what if I find her, and she's already broken? What if… she shatters?
He clenched his jaw.
Then I'll hold the pieces.
That was enough. It had to be.
He slipped on his hoodie, moving quietly through the dark house like a shadow. Every creak of the floorboard felt too loud. He opened drawers, rummaging until he found a kitchen knife. A rusty old baseball bat leaned by the coat rack—he grabbed that, too.
Just in case.
But as he tiptoed toward the door, a familiar hiss made him freeze.
The cat.
There she was, perched in the hallway like some miniature gatekeeper. Her fur bristled, eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
"Come on, not now," Obi whispered. "I don't have time for this."
She growled low in her throat, tail flicking.
"Please," Obi said, voice cracking. "She's my sister. I just… I have to try."
The cat blinked. Her ears twitched.
And then, as if reluctantly, she stepped aside.
He exhaled in disbelief. "Thanks…"
The door creaked as he opened it. The night greeted him with cool air and stars half-hidden behind clouds. Tokyo stretched out in all directions—vast, uncaring, and dangerous.
Obi stood on the porch and took one last look at the house.
"I'll come back," he whispered. "Before morning. I swear."
He stepped into the shadows.
And under his breath, barely audible, he said:
"Kanou… I'm coming for you."
---
Elsewhere…
Back in the abandoned building, all was still.
The air was thick with rot and mildew. The floor was littered with torn food wrappers and cracked water bottles—scavenged scraps of survival.
Kanou lay curled on the cold floor, her breath shallow, her skin clammy.
She was bound in numerous chains that she was slowly breaking out of. She was unconscious… but not still.
Her body twitched. Growls rumbled low in her throat as her hunger clawed at her like a wild animal. Even in sleep, her instincts screamed.
But then—
A flicker of movement behind her closed eyelids.
Her eyes fluttered open—bloodshot, gleaming in the dark. Her lips cracked into a soft, exhausted smile.
Somewhere deep inside her broken, starving mind…
She sensed him.
Obi.