The streets were quieter than usual that night.
Kaito walked along the narrow road, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, the faint aroma of sugar and cream escaping the small white box he carried. His father had asked him to bring home a cake—a simple request, something ordinary in the midst of a life that was anything but. There was no smile on his face, no trace of joy written across his calm features, yet there was a subtle lightness in his steps. Somewhere, beneath his practiced mask of indifference, he was… a little happy.
The moon hung above the city like a sliver of pale glass, broken against the velvet sky. The lamps lining the street gave out a dull yellow glow, failing to pierce the growing thickness of night. The silence was not oppressive, but it carried weight, like the air before an eclipse. Every sound—his footsteps, the shifting of the box in his grip—echoed longer than it should have, lingering unnaturally.
Kaito noticed, but said nothing. He had grown accustomed to odd sensations clinging to him, as if his very presence bent the world slightly out of shape.
He turned left, approaching a familiar corner. Just a short walk, and he would be home. He adjusted the box in his hands, imagining his father's stern nod of acknowledgment, the rare softness in his mother's eyes when she saw something sweet placed on the table. A fragile domesticity that he rarely admitted he valued.
And then it happened.
A sound.
Not loud. Not sudden. More like a whisper that slid beneath the conscious mind, bypassing reason entirely.
The box slipped. The cake fell, crashing against the ground, cream smearing against the cold pavement. Kaito's eyes flickered, but there was no time to mourn the ruined dessert. His vision warped. The street stretched and folded in impossible directions.
The mental illusion—form one.
He felt the pull immediately. Memories slipped through his fingers as if someone had opened a drain in his skull. His father's request. The smell of sugar. Even the weight of the box he had just dropped. All of it scattered like shards of broken glass, vanishing into the dark.
Kaito staggered. His phone slid from his pocket in the motion, clattering against the pavement. Its screen lit up briefly, flashing with an incoming call:
Arthur.
The name pulsed with a desperate glow. But Kaito's hand never reached for it. His eyes, wide and unfocused, were fixed on something deeper—something beyond the ordinary world. His body moved, pulled like a marionette, into a narrowing path where the streetlights refused to follow.
Darkness gathered.
The air changed first. The temperature fell, crisp and heavy, a reminder of autumn nights near abandoned fields. The smell of iron seeped faintly into his nose, though no blood was present. And around him, like the faint brushstrokes of a painter working with restraint, appeared flickers of light—blue, pale and delicate, drifting particles that hovered in the air.
Rim particles.
They shimmered faintly, refusing to vanish even when he blinked. They moved like embers but carried no warmth, only a cold promise of power.
The silence deepened. Kaito stepped further, each footfall swallowed instantly, leaving no echo behind. The particles thickened, forming faint outlines, the suggestion of corridors that didn't exist in reality. Walls of lightless blue, pathways carved from forgotten memory. The normal world was behind him, but he no longer remembered it clearly.
He did not question why he walked. He did not fight. Form one of the illusion was merciless in that way—it eroded will by erasing anchors, leaving only a hollow shell moving forward into shadow. His heartbeat slowed to a steady, mechanical rhythm, as if his body was aligning with something alien.
The phone remained behind, lying on the cold pavement.
The name "Arthur" still glowing.
The screen buzzed, vibrated, and went unanswered.
---
Meanwhile, far from the darkened street, in a quiet living room lit by the faint glow of a single lamp, Arthur sat slouched on a worn sofa. His phone pressed to his ear, waiting for a voice that would not come. His brows furrowed, not in anger but in worry, the kind that settled in the chest like a weight.
Across from him, his father watched.
A tall man with broad shoulders, hair black as coal, and eyes that carried the sharp hue of yellow gold. His frame gave off a presence that demanded space, not by words but by sheer being. His skin was weathered, hardened by years of battles fought both in and out of sight.
He leaned forward in his chair, his voice low, heavy, and edged.
"Who are you calling?"
Arthur hesitated, lowering the phone slightly. "Kaito."
The name tasted natural on his tongue, but he already knew what was coming.
His father's eyes narrowed, the faintest flare of disdain sharpening his expression. He leaned back, arms crossing against his chest. The room seemed smaller around him.
"I told you before. Stop being friends with him."
Arthur's jaw tightened. "Why?"
"Because he is a Catherine." The word carried venom, like a curse spat into the air. "A low category. A mistake of the system. You gain nothing by standing at his side. Worse—you risk being dragged down with him."
Arthur gripped the phone tighter, knuckles whitening. He glanced at the floor, then back at his father. His voice, though quiet, carried a steel edge.
"Whom I choose to stand beside is none of your concern. It's my choice. Not yours."
The silence that followed was tense, thick enough to crush. His father's eyes burned, but he said nothing more. The words hung in the room, ringing sharper than any blade.
Arthur stood, his body trembling not from fear but from the rush of adrenaline. He shoved his phone into his pocket and walked toward the door.
The floor creaked under his steps. The lamp's light bent against his back, stretching his shadow across the room.
His father did not call him back. He simply watched, a rough silhouette against the dim background, unyielding as stone.
Arthur opened the door. The night air rushed in, cool and heavy, brushing against his face. He paused only once, muttering almost to himself, but loud enough for the silence to carry it:
"My choices are mine."
Then he left. The door shut with finality.
The house was quiet again.
But somewhere, on a forgotten street, the faint blue particles of rim danced in the dark—
And Kaito was already gone.
The dark road stretched endlessly, though Kaito no longer knew whether it was truly a road or simply the construct of the illusion. His steps were steady, but not entirely his own—like a puppet guided by invisible threads. Around him, the world had dissolved into shifting shadows, fractured only by the faint, shimmering presence of blue rim particles.
They floated lazily in the air, suspended as though time had slowed. Each fragment glowed faintly, pulsing with an inner rhythm, alive yet untouchable. They gathered around him like a silent procession, escorting him deeper into an unseen abyss.
His eyes, though hollow, still registered their glow. Every blink smeared the blue light into streaks across his vision, like brushstrokes painted on glass. The ground beneath his feet shifted texture: stone, then soil, then polished metal, though he could not remember when it changed. The illusion played with his senses mercilessly.
He walked on.
---
Far away, in a quiet neighborhood house, light still burned in the living room. The clock ticked faintly, its hands edging past the expected hour.
Mika sat near the table, her long black hair falling against her shoulders. Her dark eyes stared at the untouched tea in front of her, worry settling in her features despite her attempt at calm. At forty-two, her beauty had not dulled, but the faint lines of stress told stories of years that had not been kind.
"Why is he late?" she asked softly, almost to herself. Her hands, clasped together on the table, trembled faintly.
Across from her, Sui Hiroshi leaned back against the chair. His posture was controlled, his presence deliberate. A man in his early fifties, his hair black with only the faintest threads of silver, his expression carved in stone. His eyes, deep and dark, watched the clock without betraying emotion.
"He's only ten minutes late," Hiroshi said at last, his voice calm, low, firm. "He's on his way. There's no need to worry."
Mika's gaze flickered toward him, searching his face for reassurance. He offered none—only that unyielding steadiness, as though his words alone should be enough to silence doubt. Yet she knew her husband well. Behind that calm exterior was tension as sharp as a drawn blade.
The silence between them stretched. The clock ticked again.
---
Meanwhile, the illusion world pulled Kaito further until the faint light of the city vanished completely behind him. His lungs drew in colder air now—crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and stone.
The shadows thinned, and before him rose the jagged outline of mountains, their peaks cutting into the sky like black teeth. The Viace mountains.
They loomed, immense and silent, their ridges dusted with a faint veil of fog. Rim particles floated here too, but in heavier concentration, drifting like fireflies caught in slow motion. Their faint glow bathed the mountainsides, tracing shapes across the stone that looked like veins of light running through the earth itself.
Kaito's eyes moved but did not widen. His body carried him forward, each step crunching against the gravel and dirt path. The air grew heavier the further he went, pressing against his skin, as though the mountain rejected intruders yet could not keep him away.
He reached a narrow path carved into the rock. The entrance to something unnatural—an aperture at the mountain's base, half concealed by shadows and drifting mist. It was not a natural cave. Its edges were too clean, too deliberate, as though carved by hands with purpose.
He stepped inside.
The world shifted again. Stone walls gave way to steel. A corridor stretched out before him, metallic and sterile, lined with panels that flickered faintly with blue glow. The hum of hidden machinery vibrated in the air, so faint it could almost be mistaken for silence.
This was no ordinary place.
This was the lab.
His footsteps echoed now, rhythmic, each one swallowed quickly by the cold hall. The scent of antiseptic clung to the air, sharp enough to sting the nose. Rim particles drifted even here, drawn by unseen vents, glowing against the sterile walls like constellations misplaced underground.
He continued forward until the corridor opened into a wide chamber.
They were waiting for him.
Scientists in immaculate white coats stood in rows, silent as statues. Their eyes followed him, their hands clasped behind their backs. No one moved to greet him, no words were exchanged. Yet their presence carried weight—an audience awaiting a performance already written.
Kaito did not stop. His expressionless face betrayed nothing.
At the chamber's center lay a stretcher, metallic, with leather straps dangling from its sides. Cold. Empty. Waiting.
He approached it without hesitation.
The scientists did not direct him. They did not push him. Yet as though scripted by fate, he climbed onto the stretcher himself. The leather straps creaked as his body settled against the hard surface.
He lay down, arms resting at his sides, his gaze fixed on the ceiling where faint rim particles traced delicate lines across the metal beams. His chest rose and fell, steady.
The straps moved next—not by his hand, but theirs. The scientists surrounded him silently, pulling the leather tight across his wrists, his ankles, his chest. The sound of buckles clicking echoed sharply, each one a note in a song of restraint.
He did not resist. His face remained calm, detached, as though he had already accepted this role.
The chamber grew heavier with silence.
And then—
A shift. A ripple in the air, like the faint pressure drop before a storm.
From the shadows at the far end of the chamber, a figure emerged.
Tall. Black hair that framed a face unreadable, yet carrying an edge sharp enough to cut. His presence alone shifted the atmosphere. The scientists straightened instinctively, their posture stiffening in quiet respect—or fear.
His white coat, though the same as theirs, did not make him one of them. It marked him as something above, something different.
Kuro.
He did not speak. He did not need to. His mere presence filled the space, pressing against the walls, against the skin of every person in the chamber. A terrifying aura radiated from him—not wild or uncontrolled, but calculated, like a predator choosing when to strike.
Kaito's eyes flickered once, the faintest acknowledgment.
Kuro's gaze lingered on him only briefly. That was enough.
Then he stepped further into the chamber, his shadow stretching across the floor, joining the silence already consuming the room.
Darkness peeled away like skin torn from the world.
Kaito gasped. His lungs filled with air too sharp, too sterile, too heavy with chemical tang. He blinked, expecting to see the star-flecked mountains or the quiet corridor of steel and rim-light. But when vision returned, it revealed something far more suffocating.
He lay flat on his back, a stretcher beneath him, its metal frame biting into his spine. His wrists were bound. His ankles locked. Straps crossed his chest and arms, not ordinary leather this time, but a blackness deeper than shadow. The material swallowed light itself, a surface so dark that even the faint glow of rim particles in the air could not illuminate it.
Vantablack.
Kaito tugged once, sharply, but the chains did not even tremble. He tried again, thrashing, his calm mask cracking for the first time that night. Nothing. The bonds consumed every effort, erasing force as though it had never existed.
His mind reached instinctively for the flicker of rim within him—that fragile spark he had cultivated since childhood. His breath quickened, eyes straining upward, willing the energy to rise, to flicker, to become flame. For a moment he felt it: the subtle warmth in his chest, the ignition of potential. But the instant it touched the chains, it vanished. Nullified.
Coldness spread through him.
Only five percent of humanity could harness rim at all. Among them, he was barely at the bottom rung, capable of nothing more than flickers. Bursts—true manifestations—belonged to the rare 0.5 percent. He was not one of them. He had always known that. Yet even the smallest flame had been a comfort, proof he was not powerless.
Now even that was gone.
He could not fight.
He could not escape.
He could not even exist as himself.
The room was alive with whispers, the soft shuffle of coats and boots against the sterile floor. He forced his head to the side.
The scientists stood nearby, white coats immaculate against the pale glow of the chamber's lights. Their faces were clinical, emotionless, yet their voices carried a hum of satisfaction, like priests congratulating each other over the success of a ritual.
One of them, a tall man with narrow spectacles, spoke first.
"Kuro, your ability remains unmatched. Without your illusions, these vessels would never find their way here. Even the strongest would resist. Yet you… guide them as though they were sleepwalkers."
Kaito's eyes darted toward the shadow at the edge of the group.
Kuro.
He stood apart, calm as ever, his black hair framing a face unreadable and still. His presence carried no noise, no wasted motion, yet the weight of his aura pressed against the walls themselves. He inclined his head faintly at the words of praise, neither smug nor humble—merely acknowledging truth.
But the scientist continued, his voice tinged with unease.
"Still… why has this one awakened? Shouldn't he remain within your illusion until preparation is complete?"
The question hung in the sterile air. All eyes turned toward Kuro.
Kuro's reply came soft, steady, each word carved with precision.
"I am a day-user of rim. My illusions draw upon energy that burns with the sun's passage. Today, I have already guided one hundred and eighty-seven vessels into this facility. The effort drained me. My rim energy is spent. Without it, this one woke."
The chamber shivered with the weight of that number—187. Kaito's stomach lurched. He was not alone. Others had been taken. Countless others. The walls of the lab seemed to close in, suffocating him with the enormity of unseen suffering.
Another scientist clicked his tongue, annoyance breaking his mask of calm.
"If he is awake, then his pain will be far greater. The illusion spared them fear, dulled their resistance. Awake, he will fight, and the agony will multiply."
A third scientist adjusted her gloves, her voice sharp with urgency.
"Then we have no choice. We cannot delay. Inject him today. If we wait until tomorrow, his body will convulse from rim starvation. The pain may kill him before the eclipse. And we are already behind schedule. Every vessel must be ready by October third."
October third.
The words froze Kaito's blood. He did not know what awaited on that date, but the way they spoke it—like a sacred deadline, a prophecy written in the stars—filled him with dread deeper than death.
He swallowed hard, the sound echoing in his ears. His chest rose and fell too quickly now. His calmness was fracturing, slipping away with every breath.
"Why?" His voice cracked, small against the sterile chamber. He strained against the vantablack, his throat tightening as fear spilled through. "Why have you kidnapped me? What do you want? Why am I here?"
The scientists ignored him. Their conversation continued like he was an object, a specimen on the table, not a boy crying out.
Only Kuro looked at him.
Slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer, his presence cutting through the air like a blade. His eyes, black and depthless, fixed upon Kaito with the cold focus of a surgeon preparing for dissection.
When he spoke, his voice was calm—so calm it chilled the blood.
"Boy, you will go through intense pain."
The words sank into Kaito like hooks.
"Had my rim not been exhausted, you would still be in the illusion. You would not feel. You would not know. You would simply… vanish. But my energy is gone. And so you are awake. And awake means pain. That is your misfortune."
Kaito shook his head violently, chains rattling against the stretcher. His voice rose, desperation tearing through his chest.
"No! No, please—you can't—! I don't understand! Why me? Why do this?"
Kuro did not answer with reasons.
Instead, he turned slightly, and one of the assistants stepped forward, carrying a metal tray. The faint sound of metal against metal rang out, sharp and sterile. Upon it lay a syringe.
Not the kind used in hospitals, thin and clinical.
This one was monstrous.
The needle gleamed, long as a finger, its barrel thick, filled with a liquid the color of moonlit mercury. It pulsed faintly, as though alive. The sight of it made Kaito's throat close, his body thrash harder against the vantablack bonds.
Kuro lifted the syringe with steady hands. His gaze never wavered.
Around them, the other scientists watched silently, their faces unreadable, their eyes gleaming with a mix of fascination and fear.
Kaito's breaths came in ragged bursts now. Sweat slid down his temples. His chest hammered against the straps. The rim particles floating in the room seemed to pulse faster, drawn to his panic, though they could not save him.
"No… no, no, no—!" His voice cracked into a scream. "Stop! Don't! Please!"
Kuro's expression did not shift. But as he tilted the syringe, drawing the fluid to its tip, a faint smile curved his lips. Not wide. Not cruel. Simply inevitable.
The droplet formed at the needle's edge, catching the sterile light like a star trembling before it falls.
Kaito's eyes widened, his throat burning with the rawness of his cries.
"No—NO!"
The chamber closed around him.
The chains held firm.
The needle descended.
And Kuro's smile deepened—slow, deliberate, unfeeling—as though this was not cruelty, not malice, but the execution of a duty written long before either of them had drawn breath.