The discovery of the crimson spark left Yuki shaken. He spent the rest of the evening in a state of hyper-awareness, acutely conscious of the faint hum beneath his skin, the ghost of warmth in his veins. Every flicker of anger, every pang of grief, seemed to make the spark pulse a little brighter, the hum a little louder. He was kindling, and the world was full of sparks.
Sleep was impossible. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the spark a constant, low-grade thrum in his chest. The hollow feeling was still there, but now it felt… occupied. Like an empty room waiting for a tenant.
He finally gave up on sleep around 3 AM. The apartment was silent, the city outside muted. He walked to the kitchen, needing water, needing to move.
As he passed the darkened living room, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Not in the room. Outside the large living room window.
He froze.
A figure stood on the narrow balcony outside. It was silhouetted against the faint city glow, tall and unnaturally still. It hadn't been there a moment ago. The balcony door was locked. Yuki knew; he'd checked it himself.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through him. The shadow-thing? Back?
He took a hesitant step closer to the window, peering through the glass.
The figure turned its head slowly.
It wasn't the multi-limbed horror from before. This figure was… elegant. Humanoid. Dressed in what looked like a dark, impeccably tailored suit. It stood with a preternatural stillness that was more unsettling than any frantic movement.
Yuki's breath fogged the glass. He wiped it away with a trembling hand, leaning closer.
The figure's face was visible now in the dim light. Pale. Strikingly handsome, in a cold, sculpted way. High cheekbones, a sharp jawline, lips that looked soft but were set in a line that held no warmth. Its hair was dark, perfectly styled.
But it was the eyes that held Yuki captive.
They weren't human eyes. They were voids. Deep, endless pits of darkness that seemed to absorb the faint light around them. And within those voids, tiny pinpricks of crimson light burned, like dying embers in the deepest night. They weren't looking at the cityscape. They were looking directly at Yuki.
A slow smile spread across the figure's face.
It wasn't a warm smile. It wasn't a friendly smile. It was a stretching of the lips, revealing teeth that were just a little too sharp, a little too white, a little too numerous for a human mouth. The smile never reached those hollow, crimson-burning eyes. It was a mask, a grotesque imitation of human expression plastered over something ancient and alien.
Yuki stumbled back a step, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was worse than the shadow-thing. Worse than the gym creature. This was… deliberate. Intelligent. And it was smiling at him.
The figure raised a hand. It was long-fingered, pale, the nails perfectly manicured. It gestured slowly, gracefully, towards the locked balcony door.
Let me in. The gesture seemed to say. Though no sound came through the glass, Yuki felt the request, the command, resonate in his mind. It wasn't a voice. It was a pressure, a dry, scraping sensation inside his skull, like dead leaves skittering across stone.
Yuki shook his head violently, backing away further. "No," he whispered, the sound barely audible even to himself. "Get away from here."
The figure's smile widened. The crimson pinpricks in its eyes flared brighter, like coals fanned by a bellows. It tilted its head, a gesture of curious amusement.
You are afraid, the dry scraping thought echoed. But you are also… curious. You feel the spark, don't you? The little flame inside.
Yuki froze. It knew. It knew about the spark. About the crimson glow.
You are kindling, the thought continued, the scraping sound sending shivers down Yuki's spine. Dry wood waiting for a match. I have matches.
The figure took a step closer to the glass door. Its movement was fluid, unnatural, like oil sliding across water. It raised its other hand, and this time, Yuki saw something that made his blood run cold.
Where its fingers touched the glass, faint, dark lines spread outward from the point of contact. Like cracks in ice. Like veins spreading under skin. The glass didn't break. It… changed. Became subtly darker, more permeable.
Let me in, the scraping thought repeated, stronger this time, more insistent. I can show you how to burn. How to turn that little spark into a roaring fire. A fire that can consume the things that haunt you. The things that killed your sister.
Hana. The mention of her was a physical blow. Yuki felt a surge of grief, of rage, and instantly, the spark inside him flared hot. The crimson glow pulsed faintly under the skin of his hands.
The figure's smile became a grin, sharp and predatory. The crimson embers in its eyes blazed. Yes, the scraping thought hissed. That's it. Feel that. That is power. That is the beginning.
It pressed its palm flat against the glass. The dark cracks spread further, branching out like a grotesque spiderweb. The glass began to hum, a low, dissonant thrum that vibrated through the floor, up Yuki's legs.
Open the door, Yuki Tanaka, the figure commanded, its voice now a layered whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, like dry leaves scraping against glass. Open the door, and I will give you the power to make them scream. To make them pay. To burn the shadows away.
Yuki stared at the figure. At the impossible elegance, the void eyes burning crimson, the predatory grin. He felt the spark inside him, responding to the figure's presence, to its promise, to the rage it stoked. The hum beneath his skin grew louder, vibrating in time with the humming glass.
He was kindling. And the shadow with a grin held a match.
The question wasn't just if he would open the door. The question was what would be left of him when the fire finally caught hold.