The air in her apartment was still when Rika returned. Too still.
She slid the key into the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open. The familiar scent of dust and faint incense greeted her, but something felt different. Her senses, sharpened by weeks of ghost hunts, prickled immediately.
She stepped inside, careful, her hand hovering close to her book.
The light from the street lamps filtered through her thin curtains, casting faint shadows across the floor. She slipped off her shoes, her feet silent against the tatami, and walked toward her bedroom.
When she slid open the door, she stopped cold.
There was someone inside.
An old woman, late sixties, sat calmly on the edge of her futon. Her hair was long and silver, tied back loosely. She wore a plain white kimono, the fabric soft and flowing, as though she had stepped out of another time. Her posture was straight, her presence commanding yet gentle, like a grandmother who carried both kindness and secrets.
Rika's instincts screamed danger. She reached for the book. "Who are you?"
The woman looked up, her eyes sharp yet warm, and raised her hand. "Don't be afraid. Hold my hand."
Rika's eyes narrowed. Every fiber of her being told her not to trust. Yet there was something in the woman's gaze—calm, unshaken—that made her hesitate.
"Why?" Rika asked softly.
The old woman smiled faintly, as if the answer was obvious. "Because you cannot carry this weight alone."
The words pierced Rika's chest. Against her better judgment, she stepped forward and extended her hand. Their fingers touched.
And in that moment, everything changed.
The woman's grip was warm. Too warm. Then light erupted from her body, so bright Rika had to shut her eyes. It wasn't painful—it was overwhelming, as though every corner of her soul was suddenly bathed in fire and water at once.
The voices in the book roared, shrieking in unison. The hunger of Kubikajiri surged, wild, gnashing. But then—silence.
The hunger was gone.
The writhing, the gnawing, the endless pull to consume… all of it vanished like a nightmare burned away by sunlight. For the first time since she captured the head-eater, her body was quiet. Hers.
She gasped, pulling her hand back. But when she opened her eyes, the woman was gone.
No trace. No sound. Only the faint smell of smoke and lilies.
Rika staggered back against the wall, her chest rising and falling in rapid breaths. She looked at her hands, at her trembling fingers.
"What… was that?" she whispered.
The book behind her spine was still there, heavy, but calm. The spirits within stirred faintly, restless but contained. And the Kubikajiri's hunger—its endless gnashing—was gone as though it had never been.
She stood there for what felt like hours, staring at the space where the woman had sat.
Finally, she whispered into the quiet room:
"…thank you."
---
The next day, the city bustled with life. Salarymen hurried to trains, children laughed on their way to school, and the world turned as though it had never known the darkness that walked in its shadows.
Rika moved among them, quiet, her book hidden. But inside, she felt different. Lighter. Clearer.
The old woman's words echoed in her head. With my power, you can never lose control.
Was it true? Was she finally free from the risk of losing herself to the hunger? Or was it only a reprieve, a false calm before a storm?
She didn't know. But for the first time in months, she wasn't afraid of her own body.
What she didn't know—what she couldn't know—was that she was being watched again.
Keizo leaned against a rail overlooking the crowded street, Tamao beside him. His cigarette smoldered between his fingers, smoke rising lazily into the autumn air.
"She's calm today," Tamao murmured.
Keizo nodded slowly, his sharp eyes narrowing. "Too calm."
Tamao tilted her head, watching Rika walk below. "The hunger… I can't feel it in her anymore. It's gone."
Keizo's lips curved into a smirk. "Impossible. Once the Kubikajiri marks you, it doesn't let go. No one just 'loses' that hunger. Not without…" He trailed off, exhaling smoke.
Tamao blinked. "Without what?"
Keizo's smirk faded. "Without help."
He flicked the cigarette to the ground, grinding it under his boot. His gaze followed Rika as she vanished into the crowd, the book still unseen by all but them.
"She's not alone anymore," he muttered. "The question is—who's pulling her strings now?"
Tamao's braids swayed gently in the wind. Her expression didn't change, but her voice was soft.
"Whoever it is… they don't want her to fall. Not yet."
Keizo's eyes darkened. "Not yet," he repeated.
---
That night, as Rika lay in bed, the silence of her apartment felt different. No whispers. No hunger.
But in the darkness, she couldn't shake the image of the woman's hand in hers, and the light that had swallowed her whole.
And for the first time, she wondered—
Had she gained freedom?
Or traded one master for another?