Nightmare
"In a desolate Tokyo where red threads weave a shroud of blood and shadows whisper guilt, a broken soul faces a hell that devours him from inside his own mind."
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Kaneki lay unconscious in a bed at Anteiku, his body trembling while his wounds closed with inhuman speed—ghoul regeneration slowly knitting flesh together.
But his mind was an abyss: a cyclone of visions dragging him into a devastated Tokyo, a graveyard of shattered skyscrapers and streets crusted with dried blood.
Ghoul corpses hung suspended from metallic red threads, their ruined bodies swaying like puppets in a wind that didn't exist. The threads vibrated with a low hum that resonated inside Kaneki's bones—an eternal lament.
Ayanato emerged from the shadows, his black cloak flowing like a funeral shroud, empty eyes fixed on the hanging dead.
Among them, Kaneki recognized the faces of Anteiku—Yoshimura, Nishiki, Yomo… and Touka.
Her body dropped from the net with a wet crunch.
Her limbs jerked in grotesque pantomime, like a broken marionette, while dozens of red black-widow eyes gleamed from her empty sockets, blinking with inhuman judgment.
Kaneki staggered back, breath splintering, the air thick with rot and blood.
"It seems Ayanato isn't impressed with any of you," said the specter of Rize, stepping out of the gloom.
She looked perfect—smooth, flawless skin like the day of the date—but her smile was cruel, arrogant, a blade that cut deeper than any weapon.
"You refuse to accept the hunger inside you, don't you, Kaneki?" she purred. "He already embraced the dark. He abandoned all humanity… because of you."
Kaneki recoiled, sweat sliding down his forehead, heart pounding like a broken drum.
Black spiders climbed his legs—cold feet biting his skin like needles.
He tore at them with shaking hands, ripping them off—only for more to crawl up, weaving sticky webs that clung to his flesh and tugged him down.
"GET OFF ME!" he screamed, voice cracked by panic.
But the spiders kept coming—red eyes multiplying in the dark.
"Kaneki-kun… what a culinary delight," sang Shuu Tsukiyama, appearing with a theatrical bow, his white crescent mask shining under a starless sky.
He drooled, kakugan blazing, sniffing the air with manic hunger.
"Such an exquisite aroma… a blend of fear and broken humanity."
Kaneki stumbled, dropping to his knees. The ground was slick with blood, sticking to his palms like syrup.
Metallic red threads descended from an infinite sky—an ocean of scarlet silk surrounding him, buzzing so loudly it drilled into his skull.
The threads tightened, forming a living cage.
Each filament sliced into his skin with a cold burn.
"No—!" he choked, his cry swallowed by the echo of his own terror.
"I'm going to teach you what it means to be a ghoul, Kaneki," Ayanato's voice reverberated—cold, everywhere at once.
Ayanato's silhouette appeared, cloak spread like raven wings, inner red edges glowing like pulsing veins.
He aimed Kiriha at Kaneki—the giant needle gleaming with demonic red.
With a slash through the air, the threads multiplied—
and from them hung bodies: humans and ghouls, faces mangled, pointing at him with broken fingers, empty eyes accusing him in silence.
Kaneki swallowed, body shaking, air choking him with the stench of death.
Rize appeared behind him, nails digging into his shoulders. Her laugh cracked like a whip.
"Weak as always, little lamb," she hissed into his ear, her breath cold. "You're alive because I died… and you still reject this gift of fate. Pathetic."
The tip of Kiriha drifted toward his chest, so close Kaneki felt the weapon's chill through his skin.
Rize's nails sank deeper, drawing blood that dripped onto the ground and mixed into the sea of threads.
"ACCEPT WHAT YOU ARE!" Rize screamed, shoving him into the needle—
Kiriha pierced him.
Pain beyond meaning scorched his soul—
and Kaneki jolted awake with a violent gasp, his scream exploding into the quiet room at Anteiku.
Panting, he grabbed his chest, expecting blood—
but found only his heart hammering at full speed.
Sweat drenched his face. Rize's laughter and Tsukiyama's singing still echoed in his skull like demon-chorus residue.
"How did I get here…?" he whispered to the empty air. "Did Ayanato bring me?"
The room was dim. Anteiku's coffee scent mixed with the metallic tang of his own blood.
Kaneki collapsed back onto the bed, shaking—caught between reality and the echo of a nightmare that would never fully let go.
Crossed Sides
"In a café where espresso aroma hides the edge of betrayal, factions collide in a crossroads of fury and frost—while a duel prepares beneath blood's shadow."
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Anteiku sat inside a deceptive calm. Fresh-ground coffee drifted through the air, yet the atmosphere crackled with tension sharp enough to slice.
Upstairs, Kaneki lay still dizzy, his body slowly recovering from Tsukiyama's brutal spectacle—and Ayanato's colder twist.
Downstairs, in the main café area, Touka Kirishima stood facing Ayanato Ashida.
Her kakugan burned with rage. Her fists were clenched so hard her nails cut into her palms, thin threads of blood dripping to the floor.
"You were supposed to STOP that damn fight—not turn Taro into some sick puppet!" Touka shouted, voice trembling with fury, every word a lash. "You put Kaneki in a slaughterhouse for FUN, you psychopath!"
Ayanato looked at her, expression an indifferent void, red eyes empty like a corpse's.
"Kaneki is more than capable of dealing with toys like Taro," he replied, voice monotone, slicing through the air like a sharpened thread. "His Rinkaku would've shredded a normal human in seconds if he'd activated it. I underestimated him by giving him my quinque—"
A pause, eyes still dead.
"—but not as much as you did."
Touka's jaw clenched. Her face flushed with anger as she stepped forward.
"You're sick!" she roared, voice shaking the café walls. "You think this is a game? You ENJOY watching people suffer while you act like some untouchable god!"
Ayanato leaned slightly—just enough to meet her height, empty gaze drilling into her.
"Enjoy?" he whispered, dry, soulless. "Look me in the eyes, Kirishima. Do you see enjoyment? There's only emptiness. Your rage changes nothing."
Touka snapped.
She threw a punch with everything she had—air whistling.
Ayanato tilted his head by mere centimeters, evading with surgical precision. Touka felt a cold spike of frustration.
"ARROGANT IDIOT!" she screamed, launching a kick—
Ayanato slid away with minimal motion.
"You think you're better than us because the CCG keeps you on a leash like a lapdog?" Touka spat. "You kill your own for a damn human applause!"
Ayanato didn't blink.
"My goal is bigger than approval," he said in a frost-thin murmur. "But I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand."
Touka lunged—fists like a storm, fury blind.
Ayanato dodged each strike, moving only what he needed, conserving effort like a machine designed for murder.
Touka began to pant, fatigue creeping into her arms—yet anger still fueled her.
"YOU MONSTER!" she yelled, throwing one final punch with everything left.
Ayanato caught her fist in his gloved hand.
Stopped it dead.
The impact echoed in the café.
Silence fell like a guillotine.
"Too slow," Ayanato said, voice cold as steel. "Rage doesn't always beat precision."
Touka shook, teeth grinding.
Before she could answer, a tall figure appeared at the café entrance:
Renji Yomo.
His gray coat swayed slightly as he crossed his arms, gray eyes calm—authority with teeth.
"Enough, Touka," he said, voice deep and room-filling. "This leads nowhere."
Touka stepped back, breathing hard, but her stare still burned.
Yomo advanced, posture relaxed yet tense—predator measuring prey.
"You've got an interesting technique, Ashida," he said, formal, experienced. "You don't need training—that's obvious. But I can see your spirit is duller than usual."
His eyes narrowed.
"A warm-up at your level might help… clear your head."
Ayanato looked at him. Expression unchanged.
A faint red glimmer pulsed in his eyes.
Without speaking, he followed Yomo down into Anteiku's basement—cold, empty, lit by a single flickering bulb.
Yomo slipped off his coat, letting it fall deliberately, revealing a fitted shirt over a fighter's frame.
He rolled up his sleeves, taking a stance—calm, lethal.
Ayanato tossed his own black coat down, the fabric hitting the floor with a metallic jingle—needles and CCG reinforcements hidden inside.
Their eyes met.
The air between them crackled in silent tension.
"This is a friendly spar," Yomo said, steady. "No kagune. No quinques. Just fists. Understood?"
Ayanato nodded—relaxed, but ready, like a tightened thread about to snap.
They faced each other beneath the flickering bulb, the silence broken only by footsteps and that faint electrical hum—
a stage where crossed sides were about to collide.
Self-Destructive
"In a basement where silence is a contained scream and fists speak louder than words, a broken soul dances with its own destruction—sewing fate with threads of blood."
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Anteiku's basement was a shadow-mausoleum lit by a single flickering bulb that poured a sick glow over cracked concrete.
Humidity clung to the air. Breath sounded too loud—like the room itself conspired to amplify tension.
Renji Yomo stood centered, imposing, wrapped in lethal calm, muscles tight beneath rolled sleeves.
Across from him, Ayanato Ashida stood unmoving—arms loose, face partly hidden by black hair, red eyes shining with a void that froze the soul.
Yomo didn't wait.
He rushed in, throwing a combo of punches that cut the air like lightning.
Ayanato avoided every strike with minimal motion, body flowing like a shadow, inches from impact.
Then Ayanato answered with a kick to Yomo's stomach—
the sound hit the basement like thunder.
Yomo gasped, wind stolen—yet countered with a punch for Ayanato's face.
Ayanato tilted away with surgical accuracy and stepped back, delivering another kick that slammed Yomo's chest and sent him staggering into the wall with a crack.
"I see why you're a legend," Yomo said, voice deep and steady, wiping a strand of saliva from his mouth. "The ghoul who nearly finished the CCG's White Reaper."
His eyes sharpened.
"But why join them? What are you looking for inside an organization that hunts your own?"
Ayanato slipped past another punch—expression flat.
"As a ghoul, I won't find what I'm looking for," he said, voice dry, every word heavy enough to chew his soul. "The CCG has information about Rize Kamishiro—the Binge Eater. From the inside, I can manipulate the game and find her."
Yomo's brow furrowed. He swept low—nearly unbalancing Ayanato.
Ayanato hopped back, ducked a punch that grazed his cheek, and responded with a kick to Yomo's chest, pushing him back several steps. Dust shook loose from above.
"Rize…" Yomo said, regaining footing, curiosity edged with steel. "Everyone knows the Devourer and the Binge Eater were close."
A beat.
"But we also know she's dead. What makes you think she's still alive?"
Ayanato caught Yomo's arm in a fluid motion and bent it with controlled force—tendons creaking.
Yomo growled, powered through, and shoved Ayanato backward.
Ayanato landed clean, shoes scraping with a hiss, then ducked another punch with inhuman precision.
"Alive or dead, I have to find her," Ayanato said—voice dimming like each sentence tore a chunk out of him. "It's all I have left."
Yomo threw another punch.
Ayanato's brutal kick answered—sending Yomo skidding back, the impact trembling through the basement.
Yomo adjusted his arms, joints popping.
"And then what?" he asked, voice heavy with challenge and something like concern. "This path you're walking… it's self-destructive. You can still choose another life—one without violence as your purpose."
Ayanato lowered his head. Black hair fell like a veil.
Slowly, he pulled a thin needle from his glove—metal glinting under weak light.
He pressed it to his own neck.
The tip kissed skin.
A line of black blood slid down his throat… then sealed shut.
"If she's alive," he whispered, voice broken by obsession, "I'll do the impossible to give her back what she was."
A pause—air thickening.
"And if she's dead… then I've failed too much. I've seen wars. I've drowned the world in blood."
His eyes stayed empty.
"Removing the Devourer from it would be… a kindness."
He pocketed the needle.
He looked unchanged—but the air around him felt heavier, like existence itself suffocated him.
Yomo attacked again—punches like lightning trying to crack Ayanato's armor.
Ayanato evaded each one, body moving like a phantom, until he drove a knee into Yomo's stomach.
Yomo doubled, breath escaping in a sharp gasp.
Still not done, Yomo used the opening and landed a punch to Ayanato's chest—
Ayanato hit the ground with a boom.
For a moment he lay still, bulb flickering over dust drifting down.
Then—
a red flash.
Ayanato rose, empty eyes locked on Yomo.
Yomo raised a brow, mind calculating.
He's fast. Maybe the fastest I've ever seen. But he doesn't take hits as well as the others. That's why he dodges so much, Yomo thought, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Yomo lifted a hand, signaling the end.
"You're an exceptional fighter, Ashida," he said, calm, respectful. "Your technique is flawless. I barely touched you."
A beat.
"But your path… it's a death sentence. If I can't stop you, then at least let me help you hide who you are. Not everyone needs to know what monster is wearing the legend's skin."
Ayanato tilted his head—a near-mechanical motion—and nodded.
He slipped his CCG coat back on, black fabric wrapping him like a shroud.
Yomo stopped him with a gesture.
"During the fight," Yomo said, cautious curiosity, "you pulled out a needle… how many are you carrying?"
Ayanato opened his coat.
The inside was lined with red threads and hundreds of tiny needles, shining like teeth in the gloom.
With a twitch of his hand, needles slid out from his gloves, forming claws that flashed silver—clean, murderous.
"Enough," Ayanato answered, voice dry.
Yomo nodded—uneasy—while the basement seemed to close in around them.
Weaver Eyes
"In an alley where shadows stitch secrets and masks conceal death, a hunter receives a new face—forged in the penumbra of his own legend."
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Dawn stained Tokyo's streets with a crimson glow, but in the alley where Yomo parked his car, silence pressed down like the city was holding its breath.
Ayanato Ashida and Renji Yomo walked without speaking, footsteps echoing on wet pavement, until they stopped at a mask shop that looked like it had grown out of shadow.
The façade—gothic arabesques and opaque stained glass—oozed decadent elegance, like a mausoleum wearing boutique clothing.
A bell chimed as they entered.
Inside smelled of leather, ink, and something darker—metallic, like old blood.
"Uta-san, good to see you," Yomo said, voice deep but warm, bowing casually—though his gray eyes stayed alert.
Uta emerged from the dim: slender, dressed in black, tattoos crawling along his arms like living threads.
His kakugan flickered as he assessed Ayanato with curiosity and caution.
"Good to see you… Mr. Agent," Uta said, sarcasm threaded into the words, eyes on the CCG coat draped over Ayanato.
Yomo shook his head, dispelling tension with the gesture.
"No need for formality. This is Ayanato Ashida—an acquaintance from Anteiku. He recently joined the CCG, but we need to hide his identity before the world realizes he's the Ghoul Devourer."
Uta tilted his head, smile twisting with insolent amusement.
He stepped close to Ayanato and sniffed the air around him, movements feline and calculated.
"You smell… strange," Uta murmured. "Too bitter for someone who stayed close to Rize. I thought being near her would've left you with a sweeter scent."
Ayanato activated his Eclipse kakugan.
The air thickened.
Black veins spidered across his face like cracks in broken glass, iris and pupil fusing into a black sun burning with contained fury.
Uta took a step back, hands lifting in mock surrender.
"Well damn," Uta said, tone bouncing between impressed and slightly nervous. "That's not cute. A black sun full of hate… never seen anything like it."
He smirked.
"Yeah. You need a mask."
Uta pointed to a carved wooden chair surrounded by tools and leather scraps that felt like they whispered secrets.
"Sit, Ashida-san. And—since you're inside the CCG now—do you know why there've been so many strong ghouls and messengers lately?"
He spoke like gossip, but his eyes measured carefully.
"They say Girasawa the Immortal is prowling around here, when he should be in Ward 11 keeping the doves busy."
Ayanato shrugged, face blank.
"No idea. Maybe it's because of Rize's activity… though she's gone."
Uta pulled out a measuring tape—and, mid-measure, poked Ayanato's face with a finger just to be annoying.
Ayanato's eyes flashed. His Eclipse kakugan darkened with intensity.
Even the shop light seemed to flicker harder.
"Yeah… you're weird," Uta said, stepping back with a tight smile. "That kakugan isn't just unusual. It's an abyss."
He pointed toward the display case where masks hung like ghost faces: a glossy red skull, an oni with sharp fangs, a bird mask with black feathers—too loud, too vulgar for Ayanato.
Then Ayanato's gaze landed on a white mask—minimalist, unsettling: six pointed eye-holes arranged in a spider-like pattern.
The surface was smooth, almost luminous, with faint lines like invisible threads.
Uta lifted it like a relic.
"Looks like people were right about your spider complex," he said, respect laced with irony. "Six eyes… yeah. This one's for you."
Ayanato took it—lightweight, yet strangely alive.
He put it on.
The two main openings aligned with his eyes, his red gaze shining through like scarlet beacons against white.
Then—
from his sleeves, black widows crawled out.
They climbed his arms with chilling precision, slid up onto the mask, and settled into the four extra eye-holes.
Red eyes blinked like demonic jewels.
The shop seemed to darken.
The air vibrated with a low hum.
Uta stepped back, smile widening with fascination and fear.
"Magnificent," he breathed. "You can't just wear the mask, can you? You have to add your signature. You're a weaver of nightmares, Ashida-san."
Ayanato stored the mask inside his coat. Red thread-lining flashed briefly.
He nodded, emotionless—yet the air around him felt heavier, like the mask had sealed his fate as the Devourer.
Yomo, who had watched in silence, stepped forward.
"Let's go, Ayanato," he said, voice grounding the room. "I'll introduce you to other allies. If you cross them during your CCG raids, you'll know to lower the quinque and talk first."
Uta lifted a hand, crooked smile returning.
"See you soon, weaver," he said, as Ayanato and Yomo vanished into the alley, the bell's chime echoing like a whisper in the dark.
Uta returned to his work—but the shop felt emptier, as if Ayanato's presence had left shadows behind that wouldn't fade.
Hunter
"In a clinic where disinfectant hides the stench of death, a hunter of infinite arrogance toys with his prey—sewing fear into a silence that screams blood."
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Asaki Fueguchi's clinic was a fragile refuge—gray walls soaked in disinfectant and stale coffee, yet the air carried a terror that clung to skin.
Asaki, white coat damp with sweat, nodded politely to a CCG agent who thanked him.
"Thank you, Asaki-san," the agent said courteously, turning toward the door—
A visceral sound tore through the quiet, like flesh being ripped apart.
The agent's body swayed for seconds—
then dropped in two halves, blood exploding across the walls, painting the wooden floor crimson.
The corpse hit with a dull thud.
A deep, cruel laugh rolled in from the hallway, making the fluorescent lights tremble.
"Knock, knock, Asaki-san," a heavy voice sang, soaked in sadistic delight.
Girasawa the Immortal ducked to fit through the doorway, the frame creaking under the pressure of his colossal body.
Dirty white hair fell like a grim waterfall. His unkempt beard contrasted with a black military suit that swallowed light.
In his hand, a silver koukaku blade dripped fresh blood, evaporating into a red mist that hovered like an omen.
He scratched his beard, nails sharp and gleaming, and smiled—kakugan burning a red that pierced the soul.
Asaki held his breath, hands shaking as he tried to stay composed.
"Girasawa-san…" he whispered.
"Yamori is… indisposed after his encounter with the Ghoul Devourer," Girasawa said, mocking, every word dripping arrogance. "He kindly asked me to bring you a little task."
He tossed a crumpled note onto the table.
It detailed the creation of new pliers—plus a special request.
Then Girasawa set down a long metal sewing needle, sharp and cold. It clinked against the surface.
"The Binge Eater stole the poor bastard's pliers," Girasawa went on. "So now he wants something… special. A little sewing touch. Inspired by the Devourer."
Asaki swallowed hard, fear crushing his chest.
Girasawa's arrogance was suffocating—his presence filled the clinic like poisonous shadow.
"Girasawa-san… shouldn't you be in Ward 11?" Asaki asked, voice trembling, eyes flicking toward a medical curtain where Ryoko Fueguchi held Hinami—both hidden, breathing shallowly.
Girasawa laughed—gut-deep thunder rattling the walls.
"What? You don't want me as your guest of honor?" He stepped forward, floor groaning under his boots. "You're standing before the future killer of the Ghoul Devourer… and you don't even have the decency to show respect."
His eyes narrowed. Smile sharpened.
"I'm here on business, Asaki. To find and crush the black dove of the CCG. Humans shouldn't have ghouls in their ranks—especially not one who reads people like open books."
Asaki nodded too fast, sweat soaking his coat.
"I'll have them ready soon, Girasawa-san," he stammered.
Girasawa tilted his head, smile widening.
"Tell me, Asaki," he said, tone dripping cruelty like a predator playing with prey, "how is your family?"
A pause.
"It would be… a shame if something happened to them in times this cruel, with the CCG flooding Ward 20… and that black dove prowling."
The air turned heavy.
Asaki's fear became visible.
Behind the curtain, Ryoko tightened her grip on Hinami. The child trembled, silent sobs stuck in her throat.
Girasawa stepped closer, his shadow swallowing the clinic like a sentence.
Slowly, he pulled aside the medical curtain—fabric tearing under his fingers.
Ryoko and Hinami were exposed.
Ryoko wrapped Hinami in desperate protection.
"Good to see you, Ryoko-san," Girasawa whispered, sadistic.
He leaned in, nails grazing Ryoko's face slowly, leaving reddened skin behind.
"I'm not as blind as Yamori. I can see you hiding in plain sight."
His grin twisted further.
"How pathetic, Asaki. You can't even protect your own family from something this simple."
Asaki surged forward, fury breaking through fear.
"Leave them alone!" he yelled.
Girasawa grabbed him by the throat with one hand like he weighed nothing and tossed him aside.
Asaki's body slammed into a table, instruments clattering everywhere.
"What an adorable attempt at courage," Girasawa laughed, voice booming.
He turned his attention back to Ryoko.
"You know, Ryoko… if you ever want someone more… capable, you can always call me."
The words were vulgar poison.
His gaze locked on Hinami.
Hinami clung to her mother, shaking.
Ryoko's face was pale but defiant, kakugan flickering with fear and hate.
Girasawa laughed again and turned toward the door, his size cracking the wooden frame as he left.
"Yamori will come for the tools soon," he called back, arrogance thick. "Don't take too long, Asaki, or I'll have to listen to his whining—and I'm not in the mood."
He disappeared.
His laughter lingered like malignant smoke.
Ryoko, still trembling, whispered with disgust:
"He's a pig."
Asaki pushed himself up, bracing on the table, breath broken.
"They call him the Immortal for a reason," he murmured, voice exhausted, fear-stripped. "His arrogance is so huge he thinks he can challenge the Devourer."
Silence returned—but it was brittle, like glass about to shatter.
And the promise of Yamori's arrival hung in the air like a guillotine.
Loyalty
"In a bar where liquor and blood mingle in the dark, a provocateur dances with sharpened words—only to crash into a wall of loyalty carved from emptiness and pain."
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Helter Skelter Bar was a haven of shadows—worn brick walls, dim lights flickering like eyes in the gloom.
The air smelled of alcohol and a metallic hint of blood, a constant reminder of the ghoul clientele.
Yomo and Ayanato Ashida crossed the threshold, the chime of a broken bell sounding like a funeral echo.
Itori, the owner, greeted them from behind the bar—red hair burning under the lights, eyes glittering with danger and amusement.
"My eyes don't lie!" Itori shouted, arms thrown wide with theatrical glee that sliced through the bar's hush. "CCG uniform, eternal funeral face, and a secret that reeks from miles away. You must be the CCG's Black Dove… and the Ghoul Devourer himself, Ashida-san!"
She grinned, voice hooking for a reaction.
"Itori—pleasure to meet you!"
Ayanato dipped his head in a formal bow, black coat fluttering slightly.
"Pleasure, Itori-san," he said, monotone—a hollow echo that seemed to swallow the bar's energy.
Itori laughed, then vaulted over the counter with feline agility and nudged him with a playful elbow.
"Oh come on, relax," she teased, grin turning sly. "They say you used to be more… alive. I thought the Ghoul Devourer would be a tornado, not an ice statue."
Ayanato didn't answer. His red eyes stayed fixed on some distant point.
Undeterred, Itori grabbed a bottle and poured thick crimson liquid into a crystal glass.
The scent of human blood bloomed—sweet, metallic.
She offered it.
Ayanato took it and drank slowly.
For the briefest instant, disgust flickered across his face—so small it almost didn't exist—then the emptiness returned. He set the glass down deliberately.
"What, you don't like it?" Itori arched a brow, mocking. "All ghouls love human blood. Oh, wait…"
She clutched her chest in exaggerated realization.
"Silly me! You prefer ghouls, right?"
She slit her own palm with a sharp nail, letting her blood drip into a new glass. The wound sealed instantly.
She swirled the glass, rich scent filling the room like temptation.
Ayanato accepted it and drank—calm, unblinking.
Itori watched for a crack in his armor.
There was none.
"Well damn, Ashida-san," Itori laughed, but frustration edged it. "I made a bet with Uta. Guess I lost. Even my blood can't get a reaction out of you."
She leaned over the bar, face inches away, eyes shining with challenge.
"Show me that kakugan. Uta wrote me it's… unusual. Come on. Don't be shy."
Ayanato sighed—like he was dragging invisible weight behind his ribs.
He ignited the Eclipse kakugan.
The air thickened.
Black veins spread across his face, iris and pupil fusing into a black sun, burning with contained hatred—an abyss that seemed to swallow the room.
Itori's grin froze for a second—then returned, slower.
"That is…!" she whispered, impressed. "I've heard of one-eyed ghouls, but this is different. A black sun full of hate."
She tapped the bar, tone turning sharper.
"Is it because of your ghoul diet, Ashida-san? You know that's dangerous, right? Eating ghouls can lead to kakuja—an uncontrolled mutation."
Her smile curled.
"Though… I guess someone like you already knows."
Ayanato shut the kakugan off. His eyes returned to their usual red.
"In my case, it won't happen," he said, voice dry as ash. "If it were going to, it would've already."
Itori tilted her head, curiosity sharpening like a hook.
"And why do you say that?" she asked, honeyed but edged.
Ayanato met her gaze—expressionless.
"Some things are better left buried," he replied, cold enough to chill the air.
Itori lounged back, twirling a strand of hair, eyes hungry for secrets.
"You're a mystery, Ashida-san," she purred. "Let's make a deal—friends."
She leaned in again.
"You're looking for what happened to Kamishiro-san, right? That's why you joined the CCG—to sniff around from the inside."
Ayanato's voice didn't rise.
"I know exactly what happened to Rize," he said. "What I want is to know where her body is."
A pause.
"And Kureo Mado can help me—if I can make him trust me. I don't think you have that information. If you did, you'd have used it already."
Itori sighed lightly, then pushed closer, invading space on purpose—trying to provoke.
Ayanato raised an eyebrow—barely.
Itori smiled, satisfied like she'd earned a trophy.
"You're loyal to Rize, aren't you?" she whispered. "Still guarding her secrets even now that she's gone."
She tilted her head.
"Kaneki came earlier. He didn't spill either. But you… you're different. It's not innocence I see—it's emptiness."
Her voice softened—still sharp.
"Tell me, Ashida-san… why waste your life in an eternal lament? You're young, handsome, and you've still got a beating heart… barely."
Ayanato stayed silent, gaze fixed on the glass.
For a blink, melancholy crossed his face—so fast Itori almost missed it.
"Rize… was special," he finally said, voice a broken whisper, pain chewing him from the inside. "Not like the Binge Eater everyone knew."
He swallowed something invisible.
"I knew her before the myth. Some of us become cold… others become sadistic when we're hunted our entire lives."
Itori fell quiet, smile fading—caught by the raw honesty.
Then she lifted her glass again.
"You're a case, Ashida-san," she said, softer, still edged. "If I find anything about Rize… will you tell me why you're so… strange? Why your eyes are an abyss?"
Ayanato lifted his glass of human blood in a toast—no emotion, didn't drink.
"Maybe," he said, empty echo.
Yomo, watching from shadow, stepped forward.
"We should go," he said, voice firm. "The CCG will probably be looking for you. Better not keep you here long enough for someone to notice."
Itori raised her glass in farewell, crooked grin back in place.
"See you soon, Black Dove," she called, as Ayanato and Yomo left, the broken bell chiming like a funeral tick.
Itori remained behind the bar, rotating the glass slowly, knowing she hadn't cracked Ayanato's wall—
but now she was obsessed with the abyss she'd glimpsed.
Massacre
"In a ward where night devours light and asphalt turns crimson, a hunter weaves a massacre with threads of blood, leaving only death beneath his shadow."
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Ward 11 was a maze of dark alleys and ruined buildings, night wrapping it in a penumbra that drank the light from flickering streetlamps.
Ayanato Ashida walked near the ward's edge, black coat flowing like a shroud, red eyes shining with an emptiness that froze the air.
He pulled out his quinque hilt and pressed the button.
With a click, the giant needle Kiriha emerged—black blade with red glimmers pulsing inside like a living artery.
"Each death… one more step," Ayanato murmured, dry voice swallowed by wind.
His radio buzzed—signal crackling.
"CCG Division, an assault is in progress. A group of fugitive ghouls attacked a convoy transporting prisoners. All available agents requested."
Ayanato lifted his gaze, hemogenic vision cutting through night like lightning.
He spotted the glow of bodies inside an armored truck tearing through the ward, engine screaming like a wounded animal.
A red flash—he vanished.
His figure became a blurred shadow that intercepted the convoy at inhuman speed.
"I'm enough," he said, voice cold as steel, preparing for the hunt.
The truck accelerated, tires shrieking.
The ghouls inside saw him through reinforced windows.
"The Black Dove is on us!" the driver shouted, voice sharp with fear. "Deploy kagunes!"
The rear doors blew open—
Two Ukaku ghouls leapt out, crystal wings glittering under moonlight. They fired a barrage of sharp projectiles like shrapnel.
Ayanato jumped, vanished in a red streak, reappeared in front of the first ghoul—Kiriha ready.
One fluid thrust—
Kiriha punched through the ghoul's chest.
Black blood sprayed across the asphalt.
The body fell—then a car behind ran it over, crushing it into a grotesque smear that mixed with pavement as the car flipped and slammed into another vehicle from the fugitives' convoy.
The second Ukaku barely reacted before Ayanato snapped his wrist.
Two needles shot from his glove, hissing like snakes.
They buried into the ghoul's eyes.
The ghoul screamed—blood pouring from sockets.
Ayanato yanked the red-thread lines attached to the needles—
and ripped the eyeballs out with a wet crunch.
The ghoul collapsed, convulsing in blood.
"How the hell is he that fast?!" the passenger screamed, voice breaking. "FLOOR IT!"
The driver slammed the accelerator.
The truck roared.
Ayanato hurled Kiriha with lethal precision.
The needle pierced the truck's steel like paper.
Red threads vibrated.
Ayanato pulled—
and launched himself forward with logic-defying speed.
He ran, boots hammering asphalt—
then flashed red and landed on the truck's roof with an impact that shook the whole frame.
Needles burst from his gloves, anchoring into metal.
"That's not human!" the passenger shrieked. "What the hell did the CCG hire?!"
Before he could finish—
Kiriha punched down through the roof.
It skewered the passenger in a spray of blood that splattered the windshield.
The driver, ghost-pale, jerked the wheel, trying to shake Ayanato off.
"Too slow," Ayanato said, voice a frozen knife.
Red threads slid through seams and cracks, infiltrating the cab like living veins.
They carved the driver into pieces.
Blood painted the interior in a chaos of viscera and muffled gurgles.
Ayanato flicked his hand, took the wheel—
the truck fishtailed and flipped, rolling across asphalt with an explosion of metal and screaming.
Tires broke loose and launched into the two remaining cars, making them collide in a burst of blood and shattered bodies.
Inside the truck, prisoners and fugitives slammed into walls, bones cracking.
The wreck finally stopped—a mangled heap.
Surviving ghouls crawled out like a wounded swarm, kakugan blazing with desperate terror.
A Koukaku ghoul charged, blade raised—
Ayanato swung Kiriha once.
The ghoul split in half.
Blood geysered across the road—and across Ayanato's face.
He didn't blink.
Before the rest could move, Ayanato fired a net of red threads into the wreck.
The filaments spread like metallic spiderweb, slicing flesh and bone with surgical precision.
Screams filled the night—then died in seconds.
Blood poured in rivers.
Entrails hung from threads like obscene trophies.
Ayanato retracted the threads back into Kiriha, erasing any trace of the Devourer's signature, leaving only shredded bodies behind.
"This is Agent Ashida," he said into the radio, monotone. "Threat neutralized."
A grave silence answered.
Then a trembling voice:
"Marking extraction point."
CCG patrols arrived minutes later, red and blue lights strobing against darkness.
An investigator approached the wreck, opened the rear door carefully—
and went pale.
Inside was an ocean of blood, organs, and bodies cut apart—like an invisible guillotine had swept through.
He staggered back and vomited.
"This… this is too much," another agent muttered, voice cracking. "Ashida doesn't play. Now I get why they made him Special Class on day one. This is… brutal."
"Close the case," someone said, hand over mouth. "The truck is destroyed. Burn whatever's left."
Ayanato watched from the shadows, blood dripping from Kiriha.
Then he vanished in a red flash—melting into night as he headed toward Ward 20, leaving behind a massacre that would rot into rumor inside the CCG.
Empress Chains
"In a warehouse where red silk hides a hell of blood and chains, a hunter unleashes an uncontrollable beast—defying logic with an act of suicidal mercy."
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Ayanato's warehouse—an old meat-processing plant—was a mausoleum of shadows and blood.
Walls were draped in red silk that pulsed like living veins, and from the ceiling hung corpses wrapped in webbing, faces frozen in eternal terror.
The air stank of fresh meat and rusted metal, a throat-clinging rot.
Ayanato Ashida stepped carefully across dried blood, black coat brushing the floor.
In the distance, enormous chains clinked—metallic echoes that made his Eclipse kakugan flicker, black sun glinting in the gloom.
I wonder who put those chains on her… because I think I'm about to do something stupid, he thought, fatalism sharp behind his blank face.
In the storage chamber, the floor was strewn with chewed meat—chunks of ruined bodies like macabre offerings.
Yuri stood at the center: colossal, 2.4 meters tall, scarlet hair falling like a river of fire.
Her kakugan blazed with animal fury.
A guttural roar ripped from her throat as she fought a metal collar biting into her neck, chains embedded in flesh leaving smears of blood.
Her limiter suit hung in shredded strips. Lead shackles on wrists and ankles clanged with every violent movement.
Ayanato raised both hands, surrender posture, eyes alert.
"Do you want me to take those chains off?" he asked, voice flat in the heavy air. "The ones that hurt you?"
Yuri tilted her head, a low growl sliding past fangs—mind fogged, barely understanding.
Ayanato stepped slowly, each footfall echoing.
He pulled a thin needle from his glove, metal glinting.
He knelt at the shackle on her left wrist and slid the needle into the lock with surgical precision.
A dry click.
The shackle fell with a heavy crash.
Yuri's raw flesh pulsed, regenerating.
She flinched back with a roar—then stared at her freed arm, moving it with a blend of confusion and rage.
Ayanato exhaled, careful, and moved to the next shackle.
Yuri watched, head tilted, growl rumbling in her chest.
Another click.
The second shackle dropped.
Yuri flung the lead weights from her ankles into the wall—metal striking with a boom that shook the warehouse.
She wobbled—feet free for the first time in years.
Old dried blood on her limbs peeled away under regeneration like a second skin shedding.
"See?" Ayanato said, calm but tense. "Better. Now let me remove the collar… and the plate in your back."
Yuri crouched, her massive frame eclipsing him, shadow swallowing the floor like judgment.
Ayanato tried the collar lock—
but it resisted. Reinforced.
Slowly he pulled out Kiriha's hilt and pressed the button.
The colossal needle unfolded, black edge flashing red inside like a prophecy.
Yuri roared and backed away, body shaking with contained fury.
Ayanato—calm bordering on madness—inserted Kiriha's tip into the collar lock.
Click.
The collar crashed to the floor.
Yuri's neck was exposed, torn and bleeding—then rapidly sealed shut with inhuman regeneration.
Yuri collapsed, curling on the floor, arms covering her face, breathing ragged.
Ayanato felt a momentary relief.
If you're watching from some ghoul heaven, Rize… laugh at me for being this stupid, he thought, self-loathing sharp.
But calm lasted only a breath.
Ayanato approached the metal plate embedded along Yuri's spine—a cruel device that seemed to pulse with malice.
He fitted Kiriha's tip into its groove—
Yuri exploded upward with an animal roar.
Her Rinkaku erupted like colossal obsidian serpents, armored with plated segments, dripping corrosive acid.
The warehouse trembled.
Red silk pillars quivered like they could feel her fury.
"YURI, HOLD STILL!" Ayanato shouted—his voice cracking for the first time. "I'm trying to HELP you!"
Yuri charged. The Rinkaku speared forward like lances.
Ayanato dodged one by centimeters—acid grazed his arm and burned through his coat.
He fired small needles from his gloves into Yuri's limiter suit, red threads weaving a restraint net as she thrashed, slamming into walls hard enough to rain concrete dust.
One tentacle whipped—blade-tip flashing—
and severed Ayanato's arm in a burst of black blood.
He grunted, stitched the wound shut with red threads in frantic motion, regeneration knitting as he clung to Yuri's back.
Just a little more, he thought, twisting Kiriha's blade in the lock.
Yuri roared and hurled herself into a pillar—
crushing Ayanato against metal with a wet crunch.
Black blood spilled from his mouth.
But with one final effort—
the lock gave.
The metal plate fell with a heavy clang.
A raw wound opened along Yuri's back—then began closing, flesh regenerating with a red shimmer.
Yuri grabbed Ayanato, claws plunging into his chest, spearing through with bone-cracking force.
Her roar filled the warehouse.
Hot, rotten breath slammed into his face.
Guess I just condemned everyone… damn sentimentality, he thought, blood dripping from his lips as he stared into Yuri's blazing kakugan.
Then—
Yuri hesitated.
She tilted her head. Fangs retracting.
She reached back, touching her spine, sensing the absence of the plate.
Slowly she released Ayanato. Claws slid out, leaving holes that began to seal.
"Doesn't it feel better?" Ayanato asked, gasping, voice weak but steady. "I know it hurt… but you're not a prisoner anymore."
Yuri crawled into a corner, ripping the last strips of limiter suit away with a growl—fabric falling like dead skin.
She coiled into her Rinkaku—now a colossal mass of eight tails, each pulsing with a life of its own—and curled on the floor, breathing heavy… but calmer.
Ayanato staggered out, soaked in black blood.
He wrapped himself in a red-silk cocoon.
Black widows crawled over him, weaving sticky webbing that sealed wounds while regeneration worked slowly beneath.
Could've been worse… at least she didn't kill me today, he thought, closing his eyes as spiders covered him—
the warehouse sinking into silence, broken only by the echo of fallen chains.