Rain had stopped hours ago, but Ren's room still smelled of it—damp asphalt and metal, like the city was bleeding beneath his window. Neon light from the convenience-store sign outside pulsed faintly through the blinds, slicing the dark into trembling strips.
He sat on the floor beside the low table, a cup of instant ramen untouched before him.
Steam had died out long ago. The noodles looked like pale worms floating in cold water.
He wanted to eat. His stomach clawed at him.
But food didn't taste right anymore.
Since the fight with that masked man, his body hadn't felt like his own. Everything was sharper—the hum of the fridge, the electric whine from the streetlights, even the heartbeat in his ears. And inside that rhythm, beneath the pulse of blood, there was another throb… slower, heavier.
The Yuon Organ.
It whispered in each breath: feed me.
Ren pressed a palm to his chest and forced a long exhale.
"You're not real," he muttered. "You're… just nerves misfiring."
The whisper stopped.
For a moment.
Then came the knock.
Three taps—soft, deliberate.
He frowned. No one visited this late. The building's hallway camera was broken; all he saw through the peephole was darkness. Another knock, gentler this time.
"Ren Soji," a man's voice called, calm and smooth. "Forgive the hour. I was sent by a friend."
A chill crawled down Ren's spine. A friend?
He hesitated, then opened the door a hand's width.
A tall figure stood there, raincoat dripping, a faint smile on his face. Silver-white hair fell over eyes too steady to be casual. Behind him, a smaller silhouette waited—someone wearing a hood and gloves, head bowed.
"Who sent you?" Ren asked.
"The man from the alley," the stranger said easily. "The one you met a few nights ago. He asked me to check on you."
That name—or rather, the lack of one—was enough to freeze Ren's breath. The shadowed man.
"Why would he—"
"Because he's concerned." The visitor stepped closer. "You looked… shaken. May I come in?"
Ren's instincts screamed no. Yet the politeness in the man's tone disarmed him. Against better judgment, he opened the door.
The stranger entered with quiet confidence, removing his coat in a practiced motion. "I'm Drayven," he said. "And this is Lume."
The hooded figure gave a small bow—wordless, ghost-like.
Drayven glanced around the tiny apartment. "Cramped, but clean. You live alone?"
"Yeah."
"Good." He smiled faintly. "Privacy is sacred in times like these."
Ren didn't like the way he said times like these.
Drayven set his coat neatly over the chair and surveyed the untouched ramen. "You haven't eaten."
"Not hungry."
He chuckled, low and knowing. "Lying to yourself already? That's dangerous. Hunger ignored becomes hunger multiplied."
Ren's fists tightened. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, I do." Drayven moved toward the kitchenette, his movements smooth, deliberate. "Let me make you something better. Food should remind you that you're alive, not convince you you're dying."
Without waiting for permission, he began unpacking ingredients from the bag slung over his shoulder—fresh herbs, thin cuts of meat sealed in glass, a strange vial of greenish oil that shimmered faintly under the fluorescent light.
Ren blinked. "Where did you even—"
"I travel prepared." Drayven's voice was a melody of confidence. "Lume, set the table."
The disciple obeyed silently, moving with eerie grace. Every motion was fluid, mechanical. The sound of dishes being arranged echoed softly through the small room.
Ren leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You break into someone's place, cook dinner, and act like it's normal?"
Drayven didn't look up from the pan. "I was invited by the same thing that's been whispering in your bones. Consider me… a translator."
Ren's breath caught.
The pan hissed. Aroma filled the air—rich, savory, layered with something sweet yet metallic. His mouth watered before he could stop it.
Drayven smiled at the reaction. "See? Your body knows what it wants."
He plated the food with meticulous precision: thin slices of seared meat drizzled with the shimmering oil, sprinkled with crushed leaves. The scent coiled through the air, intoxicating.
Ren's stomach twisted violently. He hadn't realized how starved he was until that moment.
Drayven gestured to the seat opposite him. "Eat. A peace offering."
Ren hesitated. "What's in it?"
"Only what you've been missing."
The words struck something deep. He reached out, hand trembling slightly, and took the chopsticks. The first bite burned his tongue—heat, salt, something electric. His vision sharpened. The world brightened, colors pulsing.
Drayven poured himself coffee, inhaled the steam, and said softly, "Better than ash, isn't it?"
Ren couldn't answer; the food was devouring his self-control.
Drayven's eyes gleamed. "Now you understand. This world feeds on illusions. But hunger? Hunger is truth."
Ren dropped the chopsticks, breathing hard. "Why are you here?"
"To offer clarity," Drayven said. "To offer a place where people like us don't have to pretend."
He sipped his coffee slowly. "The Hive welcomes all who accept their nature."
Ren's pulse quickened at the word.
"Hive…?"
"Eat, Ren Soji," Drayven murmured. "We'll speak after you've tasted enough to hear properly."
The clock ticked once.
Twice.
Then fell silent.
The air in Ren's apartment was thick now—like the oxygen itself was heavier, every breath carrying the taste of iron. The lights hummed faintly overhead, trembling as if aware of something unseen.
Drayven's voice cut through it softly.
"You've changed since the alley."
Ren looked up from his plate, vision half-blurred from the strange heat still burning through his veins. "You were watching me."
"I watch everything that moves in the dark."
Something in the man's tone made Ren freeze. His eyes were calm, unreadable, the kind of calm that didn't come from peace but from control.
Drayven continued, "You were touched by the organ—by hunger itself. The moment it awakened, you stopped being ordinary. You started becoming."
Ren's hand clenched around the chopsticks. "Becoming what?"
Drayven smiled faintly, almost kindly. "Hungry enough to be honest."
He leaned back in his chair, setting the cup of coffee down with quiet precision. The aroma of roasted beans filled the air—strangely grounding, almost human.
Lume, his silent disciple, moved behind him, still hooded. She didn't speak, but her gaze—cold and empty—was fixed on Ren.
Ren's instincts screamed again.
These two weren't guests. They were predators in polite clothing.
"What do you want from me?"
Drayven chuckled, the sound soft and practiced. "I already told you. I came to offer you a place. The Hive needs those who've survived the first hunger."
"The Hive," Ren repeated, tasting the word. It felt wrong in his mouth. "You're part of it?"
"Part?" Drayven raised an eyebrow. "No. I am its hand. The Hive is a network of those who've transcended the illusion of limits. We study what your kind calls the Yuon infection—the organ, the transformation, the power buried in pain. We call it evolution."
Ren's pulse quickened. "You're saying you're behind—"
"Behind? No." Drayven smiled again, almost sadly. "We're beyond. You'll understand one day, when your hunger stops hurting and starts guiding."
He stood, moving closer to Ren. His shadow stretched across the floor like something alive.
"Tell me, Ren Soji—did the food make you feel stronger?"
Ren hesitated. He had felt something. Power surging, his senses sharp enough to hear the faint flutter of Lume's breath behind her mask. The pulse of a streetlight outside. Even Drayven's heartbeat—slow, deliberate.
He swallowed. "What did you put in it?"
Drayven's eyes glinted. "Truth."
Ren's chair scraped as he stood. "Enough with the riddles. Get out."
Drayven sighed, as though disappointed in a stubborn child. "You're still clinging to fear. That's fine. Fear is the body's way of begging to stay alive."
He gestured, and Lume stepped forward.
For the first time, she spoke—a voice thin and shaking, like metal scraping glass.
"You shouldn't refuse him. The Hive doesn't like rejections."
Ren turned to face her. "And what if I don't care?"
Her gloved hands trembled. "Then… you die."
The next second, she moved.
Faster than sound.
Ren barely ducked as her hand slashed past his throat, two fingers extended like knives. The air shimmered where she struck—poison glistening on her fingertips, burning through the paint of the wall.
Ren's body reacted before thought—muscle memory from a hundred street fights, twisted now by the new instincts pulsing in his veins. He swept her legs, spun, and drove a knee toward her ribs.
She twisted midair, landing like a cat.
"Enough."
Drayven's voice froze the air.
He didn't shout—it was simply heard, heavy with authority.
Lume halted instantly, chest heaving under her cloak.
Drayven walked between them, utterly calm. "You see? Even weakened, your reflexes are magnificent. The Hive could make them divine."
"I'm not interested."
"Of course not. No one is, at first." Drayven turned away, picking up his cup of coffee again. "But interest grows, like hunger. And hunger always wins."
He took a sip, smiled faintly, and then placed something small on the table—a thin black band, like a bracelet woven from glass and smoke.
"This is a gift," he said. "A restraint and a reminder. Wear it, and the hunger won't consume you completely."
Ren didn't move.
"What's in it?"
Drayven looked him straight in the eye. "Something your body already knows. It will smell it."
He was right. Even from a distance, Ren could feel the band—like a scent without air, pulling at the hollow space beneath his ribs. The Yuon organ pulsed once, violently, and he had to grit his teeth not to lunge for it.
Drayven's smile returned—soft, patient. "You see? That's honesty. You don't have to lie to yourself anymore."
Ren forced a step back. "Get out."
Drayven studied him for a moment, eyes glimmering with curiosity. "You'll call for us soon, Ren Soji. The moment you realize that hunger doesn't fade—it grows."
He turned to leave, and Lume followed. But as she passed Ren, her hand brushed his wrist.
Something pricked his skin. A needle's kiss.
He barely felt it, but the warmth spread fast.
Lume whispered, "Forgive me. I was ordered to."
Ren's breath caught. "What—"
Before he could finish, Drayven's voice came from the doorway, calm as ever.
"Don't fight it. It's not meant to kill you—just to wake you up."
The door clicked shut behind them.
Ren stumbled back, the world tilting, colors bending into impossible shades. The poison burned through his veins, meeting the Yuon organ like two storms colliding. His body convulsed; black veins crawled across his skin, glowing faintly beneath the light.
He fell to his knees, gasping, and the hunger screamed.
It wasn't a whisper anymore. It was a voice.
Feed me.
The door clicked.
Silence followed.
Then the silence broke.
Ren's body hit the floor, hands clutching his chest as though something inside was clawing to escape. His heartbeat thundered—not steady, not human.
It felt like two hearts were beating at once.
Feed me.
The voice again.
Not from outside. From within.
His skin burned as if acid poured through his veins. The poison—whatever Lume had injected—wasn't killing him. It was… fusing with something deeper. The Yuon organ inside his body pulsed like a living shadow, spreading tendrils of black light beneath his skin.
Ren screamed.
But the sound that left his mouth wasn't human—it was guttural, echoing, like a beast tearing itself apart.
The lights exploded one by one.
Glass shards fell like rain.
He crawled toward the table, the black band still resting there. His vision doubled, warped by the pulse in his head. The scent of the band drew him in like gravity—metallic, sweet, unbearable.
He didn't think.
He bit into it.
The instant his teeth sank into that strange material, the world snapped.
The shadows around him surged upward like smoke underwater, twisting into jagged forms. Chains of darkness coiled around his arms. The air turned heavy, vibrating with something ancient and cold.
Ren's mind blurred between pain and clarity, between himself and the thing he was becoming.
Feed me, the voice growled again.
Or I'll feed on you.
He staggered to his feet, sweat pouring, chest heaving. His reflection in the shattered mirror was unrecognizable—eyes glowing faintly violet, black veins crawling up his neck. The shadow behind him moved when he didn't.
It grinned.
"No…" Ren gasped, clutching his head. "No, you're not me…"
The shadow tilted its head, perfectly mimicking his movements—except the smile.
It whispered back, "I am what you starved."
Then the floor cracked.
A pressure surged through the room, pushing the air out of his lungs. Every instinct screamed to run, but there was nowhere to go—he was the storm now. The poison inside him merged with the organ's energy, sending his pulse into chaos.
For a moment, everything froze.
The next, the building shook.
A black wave exploded outward, swallowing the light. Shadows spilled across the walls, coiling and rising like living mist. Furniture disintegrated into dust. Ren's scream echoed inside the storm as his consciousness fractured.
He saw flashes—memories not his own.
A laboratory drowned in blue light.
Hands covered in blood, holding a glass organ that pulsed like a heart.
A voice whispering: "Prototype Yuon—Subject 09."
Then—nothing.
Ren woke in darkness.
He was lying in the ruins of his apartment, the ceiling half-collapsed. Moonlight poured through the cracks, painting silver across the black sludge coating the floor.
He sat up slowly. His body ached, but the pain was… wrong. It wasn't exhaustion. It was hunger.
Deep, gnawing, endless.
The voice was gone now, but the silence it left was worse.
He looked down at his hands.
They weren't his.
The skin was pale, faintly translucent, veins pulsing with dark light. The Yuon organ inside his chest throbbed rhythmically, syncing with his breathing. He flexed his fingers—and the shadow followed, shaping into long, jagged claws.
He froze.
The claws shimmered, melted, then formed into a chain of darkness that slithered around his arm before dissolving.
"...What the hell am I?" he whispered.
A sound behind him answered: footsteps.
Ren turned sharply, shadow flaring instinctively.
But it wasn't Drayven.
It was Selene—her silver hair catching the moonlight, eyes wide with shock.
She stood frozen in the doorway, her phone clutched tight, trembling. Behind her, two other members of the Supernatural Studies Club hovered uncertainly.
"Ren… what happened?" she asked quietly.
He opened his mouth—but nothing came out.
Selene stepped forward, cautious but unafraid. The air around her shimmered faintly with energy—she was using her ability, frost gathering along the edge of her sleeve.
Her gaze dropped to the black residue crawling up his arms. Her expression darkened. "You awakened."
Ren's heartbeat stumbled. "Awakened?"
She nodded. "Your organ—your power—it's active now. You can't hide it anymore."
Ren stumbled back, shaking his head. "No…
I didn't want this—"
"None of us did," Selene interrupted softly. "But now you have to control it. Before it controls you."
He looked at her, and for the first time since the transformation began, something inside him quieted. Her presence steadied the chaos for a moment. But that moment shattered when he caught the faint scent of blood on her wrist—a small cut, barely visible.
The hunger surged.
His eyes widened, pupils narrowing into slits. Every instinct screamed to lunge, to feed, to devour the energy in that blood.
Selene saw it—the shift in his expression—and immediately raised a wall of ice between them.
"Ren!" she shouted. "Fight it!"
He slammed into the ice, cracking it.
His hands trembled violently, clawing at the barrier. The shadow around him writhed like smoke trapped in a jar. His breathing came in ragged bursts, teeth gritted.
"Get out," he growled, voice layered with two tones—his and something darker. "Before I—"
"No," she said firmly. "You're not alone in this."
Her words hit somewhere deep inside him—past the noise, past the hunger.
And for a flicker of a second, his reflection in the shattered glass didn't look monstrous.
Then the world tilted again.
A low hum vibrated through the air, metallic and cold.
Ren's vision blurred—and he saw him.
Drayven—standing on the rooftop across the street, watching, a faint smile on his face.
Even from that distance, Ren could feel the satisfaction radiating off him.
Drayven raised a cup of coffee to his lips and gave a small, mocking toast before fading into the shadows.
Ren's fists clenched.
He turned to Selene, voice low, rough, trembling with exhaustion and fury.
"Selene… I'm going to find him."
Her expression softened, pained. "Then I'll come with you."
He shook his head. "No. This… isn't your fight."
Selene's eyes glowed faintly blue in the dark. "It is now."
Outside, the wind howled through the broken glass.
The night smelled of ash and rain.
And for the first time, Ren realized—
the hunger inside him wasn't the enemy.
It was the only thing keeping him alive.