The run home was a blur of panicked motion and ragged breaths. Yuki didn't slow down until he'd slammed the apartment door shut behind him, leaning against it, chest heaving. The relative silence of the empty apartment was a stark contrast to the creature's shrieks still echoing in his ears.
He slid down to the floor, the cool wood a small comfort against his feverish skin. The scent of despair clung to him like a shroud – the gym's dust, the creature's rot, his own fear-sweat and blood. He could still taste the metallic tang on his tongue. He scrubbed at his cheeks and throat where the creature's tendrils had broken the skin, wincing at the sting. The scratches were shallow, but they burned.
He'd escaped. But how? That burst of rage… it had felt like something else. Something more than just anger. It had hurt the creature. Scared it. But he hadn't controlled it. It had erupted, a desperate, primal reflex. And now it was gone, leaving him feeling more hollow than ever.
Powerless. That was the word that echoed in the hollow spaces inside him. He'd been powerless to save Hana. Powerless against the shadow-thing. Powerless against the gym creature until it had almost consumed him. Even his moment of defiance had been an accident, a fluke, not a weapon he could wield. He was just a boy cursed to see horrors, utterly incapable of fighting them.
He pushed himself up and walked to the bathroom, needing to wash away the scent, the blood, the memory. He avoided looking in the mirror, afraid of what he might see this time. The breathless reflection? Something worse?
He turned on the faucet, letting the water run cold. He cupped his hands under the flow and splashed his face, the shock making him gasp. He scrubbed at the scratches on his cheek and throat, wincing. The water ran pink, then clear. He kept scrubbing, long after the blood was gone, as if he could scrub away the memory of the creature's touch, the taste of despair.
He dried his face with a towel, rough and abrasive. He felt raw inside and out.
He walked towards Hana's bedroom door. He hadn't been able to open it since… since it happened. But now, driven by a desperate need for connection, for something real, he reached out. His hand trembled as it touched the cool wood.
He turned the knob. It was unlocked.
He pushed the door open.
The room was exactly as she'd left it. Posters of J-pop bands on the walls. Stuffed animals piled on the bed. Textbooks neatly stacked on her desk. A half-finished cup of tea on her nightstand, now growing a thin layer of mold. The air was stale, thick with dust and the faint, lingering scent of her perfume – something floral and sweet, now tinged with decay.
It was a shrine to a life cut short. A punch to the gut.
Yuki stepped inside, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He walked to her desk. Her school ID sat beside her textbooks. Her smiling face stared up at him, vibrant and alive. He picked it up, his thumb tracing the edge of the plastic card.
Why? The question tore through him, silent and agonizing. Why couldn't I save you? Why am I so weak?
He felt the familiar coldness seep into the room. He didn't need to turn around. He knew she was there.
He slowly turned.
Hana stood near the window, looking out at the alley below. Her form was faint, almost transparent. The wound on her throat pulsed faintly. Her empty sockets wept slow trails of shadow. She wasn't looking at him. Her posture was one of profound sadness, of endless waiting.
"Hana," Yuki whispered, his voice rough.
She didn't turn. She didn't react. She just stood there, a silent sentinel of grief, forever trapped in the moment of her death, forever pointing towards the horror that took her.
The powerlessness crashed over him again, a tidal wave of despair. He couldn't touch her. He couldn't speak to her. He couldn't avenge her. He couldn't even protect himself. He was just a spectator to his own life, to the horrors that surrounded him.
He sank to his knees beside her desk, the ID card slipping from his fingers and clattering to the floor. He buried his face in his hands, the scent of her perfume mixing with the gym's decay and the coppery tang of his own blood.
A tear escaped, tracing a hot path down his cheek. It felt like the first real tear he'd shed since finding her. Not the numb shock of before, but the raw, agonizing grief of utter helplessness.
He was powerless. Utterly, completely, soul-crushingly powerless. And the gym creature, the shadow-thing, whatever other horrors lurked in the dark… they knew it. They could smell it on him, taste it in his tears. He was prey.
He stayed there on the floor of Hana's room for a long time, the silence broken only by his own ragged breathing and the silent weeping of a ghost who couldn't speak, and a boy who couldn't save her.