The syringe gleamed under the sterile light. No tremor disturbed Kuro's hand as he adjusted the angle, his expression unreadable, as if the act of piercing skin were no different than flicking a switch on some machine. Around him, the lab exhaled its usual breath: the low hum of vents, the faint hiss of sterilizers, the sterile stench of metal and chemicals that lingered like invisible chains.
Kaito lay on the operating table, wrists restrained by bands of reinforced alloy that bit into his skin. His chest rose and fell shallowly, as if even his lungs feared to draw too much of this poisoned air.
It's just a needle, he told himself. I can handle a needle. It's nothing.
The thought barely formed before the tip punctured his arm. A quick sting, then warmth spreading—bearable. Manageable. He clung to that thin thread of calm, closing his eyes.
Then ten seconds later, the world split open.
It wasn't pain at first, not in the ordinary sense. It was intrusion—something foreign erupting inside him, rewriting the rules of his body. His nerves flared like wires stripped and drenched in fire. His muscles seized, convulsing against the restraints.
And then the pain came.
White. Searing. Blinding.
It devoured him in an instant, rushing down every vein, lodging itself in marrow, gnawing at bone. His scream tore out, raw and unrestrained, so loud that his own ears nearly split.
"—AAAAAAAAH!"
The cry echoed, bounced back against the walls, filling the room with the sound of something breaking.
His mind screamed too, though the words scattered into fragments:
Make it stop. Can't—breathe—why—skin burning—my veins—rip it out—please.
Hot tears sprang unbidden, streaking down his face. They weren't tears of emotion, only reflex, his body weeping on his behalf when his mind could no longer manage the act.
Kuro did not flinch. He watched the boy writhe with the same blankness he had entered with.
One scientist muttered, voice tight, "It's… too much for his body."
Kuro's tone was as flat as his gaze. "Don't worry. This chemical won't kill him."
Won't kill me? Kaito's thoughts lurched. Then what is it doing?
Kuro continued, as if lecturing to the air. "It's a mixture of concentrated vantablack carbon and unbilium atoms. Difficult to stabilize. Dangerous to produce. Illegal in every known state. Twenty-six of our best died just to synthesize a fraction of this amount. Remember that before you waste your pity."
The words broke against Kaito's screams like waves on stone. He couldn't process them, not fully, but fragments stuck, jagged in his mind. Illegal. Died. Twenty-six. Vantablack. Unbilium. Words like black knives.
His vision blurred; his own voice grew hoarse, but the pain didn't fade. It climbed higher, blooming through him like black fire. His heart pounded against his ribs as if trying to burst free, and each beat scattered a new spark of torment through his frame.
He tried to think, to anchor himself, but thought had become a battlefield.
Why me? Why my body? Why this experiment?
There was no answer, only the relentless flood of sensation.
His body shuddered violently; for an instant, he thought he'd passed out. The world dimmed, receded, and blackness rushed in like a tide.
Relief. Sweet, cold relief.
Then, with merciless swiftness, the blackness cracked apart. Something deep inside wrenched him awake again. His eyes flew open, his scream returned, and he realized the chemical itself was dragging him back, refusing him even unconsciousness.
"No—no no no—" His voice broke into sobs, into ragged gasps. "Stop—please—let me—let me out—"
No one moved.
One young scientist turned away, hand trembling at his mouth. Another gripped the railing, knuckles white. But most stood still, statues in lab coats, faces carved from stone, waiting. Watching.
"It's repeating the cycle," someone whispered. "His brain shuts down, but the substance triggers neural ignition—"
"Exactly as intended," Kuro cut in. "Pain is a more reliable awakener than any stimulant."
Kaito's mind fractured under the rhythm. Awake, drowned in pain. Black out, dragged back. Awake, drowned again. Each cycle felt longer, sharper, more unbearable than the last.
Is this death? No. Worse. Worse than death. I want to die but it won't let me. Won't let me go. I'm trapped. Trapped in my own screaming flesh.
His body contorted against the restraints, his throat raw from shouting. His thoughts clawed at escape:
Bite off your tongue. End it.
But his jaw wouldn't obey, clenched tight by spasms.
Think of something else. Home. Light. Sky.
But every image burned away, incinerated by the black storm consuming him.
Memories flickered and died. A street with classmates—gone. His father's hand on his shoulder—gone. Even the feel of his own name seemed distant, slipping like water through scorched fingers.
He cried out again, voice breaking:
"Why me—why—what did I do—"
Kuro looked down at him, and for the briefest flicker, something almost like curiosity stirred in his eyes.
"Because you can survive it," he said.
Survive it? The words stabbed him awake even through the haze. I don't want to survive. I want it to stop.
Another scientist whispered, "Five minutes of this? His mind won't—"
"Silence," Kuro snapped, voice cold enough to freeze the air. "He will endure. That's what makes him useful."
Kaito's scream answered, a sound stripped of language, pure and animal.
The cycle repeated. Again the black tide, again the forced return. Time lost all shape; each second stretched into eternity, an unending crucifixion inside his own skin.
His inner monologue twisted into prayers and curses alike:
Kill me kill me kill me—
God help—no, there is no god here.
Burning—splitting—screaming—how many times—
I hate you, I hate all of you—
Father, mother, someone, please—
Tears blurred his vision until the white lab lights melted into streaks, like stars bleeding across a poisoned sky.
Then, at last, something shifted. The cycles slowed, or perhaps his mind dulled enough that even torment lost its sharpness. His scream quieted to a rasp, his body still trembling but weaker, like a puppet unraveling.
The five minutes ended.
The silence that followed was enormous.
His chest heaved, sweat pooling beneath him. His eyes stared unfocused at the ceiling, tears crusting along his cheeks. Every nerve still hummed with echoes of agony, but compared to what had passed, the silence was a mercy.
One scientist exhaled shakily. "It's… done."
Kuro straightened, returning the used syringe to its tray with mechanical precision. His expression had not changed once.
He looked at Kaito, who hung limply in his restraints, barely conscious but alive.
"It worked," Kuro said simply.
The words were not triumph. They were a verdict.
Kaito's lips parted. A sound crept out, faint, torn: "M…monster…"
No one replied.
The lab hummed on, indifferent, as though nothing had happened at all.
Kaito's chest still heaved as though every breath had to fight through knives. The screaming had ended, but silence did not bring peace; it only revealed the echoing ache left behind. His body felt hollow, as if the pain had dug out caverns inside him, yet the raw throb still pulsed in every corner, like fire clinging stubbornly to the ruins of a burned house.
He swallowed, throat raw. His tongue tasted iron.
Calm down. Just… calm down.
But calm was only a word, fragile as glass. He repeated it anyway, like a prayer scratched into stone. Slowly, shakily, the storm within him quieted, though not completely. The pain remained, a constant ember under the skin, reminding him it would never leave.
The restraints unlatched with a cold hiss. Hands — gloved, faceless — seized his arms, pulling him upright. His body sagged forward, limbs heavy as lead. He wanted to resist, to thrash, but his strength had been bled out in screams. He could only stumble, dragged like cargo.
Ahead loomed a glass cylinder. A capsule, tall enough to fit a person upright, its surface gleaming with sterile cruelty. Inside, faint vapor curled, carrying the sharp sting of chemicals.
"No…" His voice cracked. "Not again… please…"
Kuro's shadow fell across him. The man's expression remained as it always was: expressionless, carved in stone.
"Now, now," Kuro said, almost gently, though the words rang hollow. "These 187 people need to stay here for about one month. Then we will see the results."
Kaito's eyes widened. 187? The number staggered him. He wasn't the only one. There were others — people like him, swallowed into this project. That should have meant relief, the comfort of not being alone. But instead it cut deeper. All of us, locked like insects in jars. All of us experiments, ticking down the days.
The scientists forced him inside. The chemical air burned his nostrils, seared down his throat. His body convulsed in protest, but the door sealed shut with a finality that crushed hope.
This is it. This is where I belong. Not the classroom. Not the streets. Not home. Here, in glass, with chemicals gnawing at me.
His thoughts coiled darkly, dragging him down.
All the humiliation. All the looks. The whispers. The disgust. Discrimination wrapping me like chains, every day. Was that preparation for this? For being chosen, not as a person, but as an object?
His hand pressed weakly against the glass, palm trembling. His reflection stared back — pale, eyes swollen from tears, body hunched and frail. A creature, not a boy.
Everything bad has always happened to me. Every pain I thought I survived was just rehearsal. And now… this is the stage they've built for me.
Outside, Kuro turned away, voice echoing. "Begin containment protocol. Thirty days from now, we assess."
The hum of machinery swallowed the rest.
---
Meanwhile, far from the lab, tension coiled in a small home.
The clock on the wall ticked, louder than it ever had before. Each second was a hammer.
Sui Hiroshi sat at the edge of the table, shoulders stiff, jaw clenched. His police uniform hung on the rack, untouched. Tonight, he had taken it off early, but peace had not followed him home.
Across from him, his wife wept. Tears streaked down her face as she clutched the fabric of her dress, voice rising and breaking.
"He's late," she cried. "Three hours late! Hiroshi, you're his father—you're a police officer—do something!"
Hiroshi's eyes closed for a moment, his hand curling into a fist. "I've already called. I've spoken with the others. I'm off duty tonight. What more can I do?"
His voice was harsh, but beneath it trembled helplessness.
Their daughter, Ayaka, stood near the doorway, her hands clasped tight. She tried to soothe her mother, though her own face was pale. "He'll be alright. He has to be. Brother always comes home, doesn't he?"
The words were meant to comfort, but even as they left her lips, doubt hollowed them.
The television buzzed with sudden urgency. A reporter's voice cut through the house.
"Breaking news. Reports confirm that today alone, 187 individuals have vanished under mysterious circumstances. Among them… Kaito Sui, a local student.
The words slammed into the family like a blow.
His wife gasped, clutching her chest. Ayaka staggered back, shaking her head. "N-no… that's wrong. That has to be wrong!"
But Hiroshi sat frozen, staring at the screen. His son's name. His own name. As if the world had already written them both into the ledger of the lost.
The phone rang, slicing through the shock. Hiroshi snatched it up.
"This is Headquarters," the voice on the other end said. "All officers are hereby requested to report to the station immediately. One hundred eighty-seven vanishings in a single day… this cannot be ignored."
Hiroshi closed his eyes. "Understood."
He hung up, standing slowly, like a man carrying a boulder on his shoulders.
His wife clutched at him. "You can't! You'll disappear too!"
"I have to go," he said quietly. "If not me, then who? I swore an oath."
Tears blurred her vision. She clung tighter. "But you're his father, too! You can't leave us now!"
Ayaka slipped between them, her hands on her mother's shoulders, voice trembling but steady. "Mom… let him go. Brother would want him to. And… he will come back. He has to."
Her mother broke down, sobbing into Ayaka's arms.
Hiroshi turned away, each step heavy. At the door, he paused, looking back once. His wife, collapsed in grief. His daughter, holding strong for both of them.
"I'll bring answers," he whispered. Then he left.
The door closed.
---
Inside the capsule, Kaito's breath fogged the glass. His body ached with every movement, but his mind wandered, circling the same thoughts.
Home. What are they doing now? Do they know? Do they care? Or have they already written me off, like the rest of the world always did?
He pressed his forehead to the glass, eyes closed. The pain still lived inside him, but quieter now, a dull roar instead of a storm.
Maybe they're crying. Maybe they're waiting. But they'll never find me. Not here. Not in this place of shadows.
Darkness seeped in as the capsule's systems engaged, filling the chamber with thick chemical mist. His body sagged, his vision dimming again.
And yet, before the blackness claimed him, one last thought burned.
If this is my fate, then I won't forgive any of you. Not the world. Not the scientists. Not even myself.
The capsule sealed, and silence swallowed him whole.
The office was dark. Heavy curtains sealed out the night, and the only illumination came from a lamp on the broad desk, its circle of amber light cutting against the shadows. The air felt thick, heavy with silence and the weight of decisions that bent nations.
"May I come in, sir?"
The door eased open. Guren Hiragi stepped inside, tall, precise, posture honed like a blade. His boots clicked softly on the marble floor as he stopped before the desk.
Behind it sat the man addressed only as Chief Minister Brown. He was not tall—barely one seventy-five centimeters—but the weight of his presence filled the room far more than height could. His dark brown hair showed streaks of silver at the edges, his black eyes steady and watchful.
He did not rise. Instead, his voice rolled low and deliberate. "How is the project going?"
"Smooth, sir." Guren's tone was sharp, confident. No hesitation, no flicker of doubt.
Brown leaned back in his chair, fingers interlacing before him. "Good. Then tell me—why did you kill one of my scientists?"
The question dropped like a stone into still water.
Guren did not falter. His expression remained cool, almost detached. "Because he joked."
A beat of silence. The words lingered between them, blunt and raw.
"And that," Brown said at last, "was reason enough?"
"Yes."
For a long moment, Brown studied him. The lamp's light carved shadows across his face, accentuating the hard lines, the years of command etched into his skin. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"It is upon you," Brown murmured. "I believe you are the only Catherine boy I can trust. The only Catherine I have ever believed in."
The faintest flicker of something unreadable passed across Guren's eyes. But he bowed his head. "I will not betray that trust."
Brown waved a hand, dismissing him. "Go, then. Do your duty."
The door shut behind him. Silence returned.
Alone, Minister Brown leaned back in his chair. His gaze drifted to the shadows beyond the lamplight. His fingers tapped once, twice, against the desk.
"Trust…" he whispered, the word dripping with bitterness. "Who believes a Catherine?"
His eyes hardened. "I only raised you to use you. And when the eclipse power is mine, I will discard you like the rest."
His jaw clenched, a vein twitching at his temple. Beneath his breath, barely audible even to himself, another name escaped.
"Mia…"
The sound cracked in his throat. His eyes lowered, shadows dragging across his face.
She's gone. Dead.
The thought lingered like ash, bitter, unspoken. He let it hang, then shoved it back into silence. The lamp hissed softly, and his ambition returned to its place, sharper for the wound it tried to cover.
---
The television's glow washed over Diachi's living room, painting faces in shifting light. It was evening, ordinary and unremarkable—until the words spilled from the news anchor's mouth.
"…Reports confirm that a local boy, Kaito, has been kidnapped. He is among one hundred and eighty-seven individuals who have disappeared today under unexplained circumstances."
The family stared. Diachi's breath caught, his hands tightening on his knees.
Arthur's mother, a yellow-haired woman in her forties, broke the silence with a scoff. "It's good he got kidnapped. That boy was nothing but trouble."
Diachi's head snapped toward her. His heart hammered.
His father added, voice flat, "Better off without him."
And then Mila, Arthur's sixteen-year-old sister, laughed lightly, brushing her blond hair aside. "Brother looked so uncool hanging out with that guy. Honestly, he embarrassed us."
Something inside Diachi cracked. He rose abruptly, chair scraping against the floor, eyes blazing.
"All of you," he spat, voice shaking with fury. "Trash. That's all you are."
His mother blinked at him, startled. "Diachi—"
"You talk about him like you know him," Diachi cut her off, his words rising like a tide. "Like you've lived his life, felt his pain. You don't know anything. Not about him. Not about what he's endured."
His fists trembled at his sides. His thoughts burned, spilling over into words.
"You discriminate because it's easy. Because his class, his eyes, his blood don't match your perfect little world. You never once thought what it costs him. What it costs any Catherine."
He turned away, biting down hard on his lip, fury laced with sorrow. His inner voice roared louder than his speech.
If rim never existed, none of this would. No colored eyes branding us as monsters. No hair shifting shades with every emotion. No reason for them to hate us. Rim gave us power, but it gave the world the excuse it wanted to divide us, to spit on us, to cage us.
Images rose unbidden:
Red eyes when anger flared, making them look like demons.
Blue strands sprouting when sorrow crushed them, marking weakness for all to see.
White streaks of hair flickering when excitement stirred, whispered about like curses.
It's in our blood. A uniqueness we never asked for. And they turned it into a crime.
His family murmured behind him, uneasy, but Diachi did not listen. His shoulders shook as he walked from the room, their voices drowned by the pounding of his thoughts.
If rim never existed, maybe Kaito wouldn't suffer. Maybe I wouldn't either. Maybe this world would finally be free of its own cruelty.
He shut the door behind him, leaving their chatter, their ignorance, their prejudice locked away. Alone in the quiet, he pressed his hand against his chest, the thud of his heart echoing like a drum.
Kaito… you're not trash. You're not uncool. You're the only one who ever understood. And if they can't see it, then maybe it's the world that's blind.