Friday afternoon.
painting the houses in warm colors that lie about how peaceful things really are.
John Booker walked through the residential streets with his hands in his coat pockets, boots steady against the sidewalk. The neighborhood was calm—too calm. Trimmed lawns. White fences. Porch lights flickering on one by one like fireflies. It reminded him uncomfortably of places he'd sworn never to settle in. Places where monsters hid behind normal lives.
He was on his way to Sam's house.
Sam… Erma's father.
The dentist incident had been a mess—screaming, chaos, and things no sane man should ever witness. Yet somehow, afterward, the two of them had talked and really talked. Sam hadn't looked at John like everyone else did—not with fear, not with suspicion—just curiosity. The kind of writer gets when he finds a story too strange to ignore.
John had told him parts of his life. Not all of it. Never all of it.
Enough to inspire Sam, apparently. Enough that Sam invited him over for dinner, said he wanted to "get to know the man behind the scars," and maybe—maybe—use him as reference material for a book.
John hadn't decided whether that was flattering or dangerous.
He was halfway down the block when something felt… wrong.
The air shifted.
John stopped walking.
Years of hunting had trained his instincts better than any weapon ever could. His head tilted slightly upward, eyes narrowing beneath the bandages as he scanned the sky.
Movement.
Fast. Wrong.
Something tore through the clouds—too big to be a bird, too fluid to be mechanical. Wings stretched wide, feathered but twisted, casting a shadow that swallowed the street below. It descended in a tight spiral and landed in front of a nearby house with a heavy thud that rattled windows.
John stepped back into the shadow of a tree, body tense, heart steady.
Observation first. Always.
The creature was bird-like, but only in the loosest sense. Its beak curved unnaturally, eyes sharp and intelligent, wings folding with deliberate control. Not feral. A courier.
That's when the front door opened.
A woman stepped out.
John didn't need more than a second to recognize her.
Erma's mother.
How did he know?
Because she looked just like Erma—same pale, almost porcelain skin, the same dark hair falling in that familiar shape, the same calm posture that somehow existed even when the impossible was standing on her lawn. Even the clothes matched that quiet, old-fashioned style Erma favored.
Mother and daughter. No doubt about it.
The bird-creature leaned forward and dropped something into her hands—a package, wrapped tight, pulsing faintly with something John didn't like. The woman accepted it without fear, without surprise, like this was just another delivery on a Friday afternoon.
Then it happened.
The creature snapped its head to the side.
A scream.
John's eyes widened as the thing lunged toward the sidewalk, snatching a small dog from a nearby woman in one smooth motion. Leash snapped. The owner fell backward in shock, reaching out helplessly as the creature beat its wings and lifted into the air.
Gone.
Just like that.
Silence crashed down over the street.
John stared, trying to process the scene—quiet suburb, supernatural courier, demon bird theft, and a woman who accepted it all like she was signing for mail.
His mouth opened before his brain could catch up.
"The f*** just happened?"
Erma's mother lowered her gaze to the package in her hands.
She opened it.
Whatever was inside wasn't bulky—just a folded letter, old parchment by the look of it. As her eyes moved across the lines, the calm she'd worn so naturally began to crack. Her shoulders stiffened. Her fingers tightened around the paper.
Concern settled into her face.
Not panic.
Not fear.
Recognition.
The front door opened again.
"Hey," Sam said casually as he stepped outside, wiping his hands on his jeans. "What's going on out here?"
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she held the letter out to him.
Sam frowned, already sensing the shift in the air. He took the letter and scanned it. At first, it was just curiosity—then confusion
Concern met concern.
Across the lawn, Erma stood between them, small hands clenched at her sides, eyes darting from her mother to her father.
Neither of them answered her.
They were too focused on each other. On the letter. On whatever truth had just landed on their doorstep—delivered by a monster that stole pets for punctuation.
Across the street, half-hidden by shadow and distance, John Booker watched the entire exchange.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
This wasn't random.
He knew that much.
Monsters didn't deliver letters unless someone important was involved. Unless a debt was being called in. A warning issued. Or a past mistake finally deciding to resurface.
John's eyes lingered on Erma—confused, innocent, completely unaware of the storm curling around her home.
Then back to her parents.
They know something, he thought. And whatever it is… it's bad.
For the first time since moving to Blairwood, John felt that familiar itch crawl up his spine—the one that meant a hunt was coming whether he wanted it or not.
Dinner with Sam could wait.
The house had gone quiet.
Lights dimmed. Footsteps softened. The normal sounds of a family settling in for the night masked something heavier beneath the surface—something old, sharp, and dangerous.
John Booker stood outside, his back pressed flat against the side of the house, just beneath the bedroom window. The siding was cold against the bandages wrapped around his skull, but he didn't move. He didn't need to.
The window was cracked open just enough.
Voices drifted out.
"I don't trust it," Emiko said. "I don't trust it at all."
John's eyes narrowed.
"But the letter's from your sister, right?" Sam replied. "Isn't she the one out of them that you trust?"
"He could've easily manipulated it," Emiko shot back. "He's done it before."
There was a pause. A long one.
"Then again…" she admitted quietly. "The writing does have her snarkiness. Not even he can copy that."
John exhaled slowly through his nose.
"So…" Sam said carefully. "Does that mean you might consider going to this?"
"ARE YOU?" Emiko snapped.
John could hear the tension now—raw, familiar. The sound of people who had survived something together and knew exactly how bad it could get again.
"You do remember the last time we dealt with my side of the family, right?"
"Yeah," Sam answered. "But I don't know… a family reunion doesn't sound too suspicious. Haven't you told me this is a yearly thing they do around this time?"
"It is," Emiko said. "But something doesn't add up. Why now? We haven't heard anything from them until recently."
John's jaw tightened beneath the wrappings.
"Look," Sam continued, "if you're worried about him, then—"
"It's not him I'm specifically worried about," Emiko interrupted. "What is he going to do if he sees you and Erma? We've never had a part of the family that's remotely human."
John felt a cold knot settle in his gut.
"Well," Sam replied, trying to lighten it, "my side of the family's never had a member that's been part ghost either."
Emiko didn't laugh.
"My relatives aren't as open-minded as yours," she said flatly. "Plus, they're not hesitant about murder or torture."
That word stuck with John.
Murder.
Torture.
"Even if I do consider going," Emiko went on, "I wouldn't even think about bringing you and Erma along. I don't want to imagine what might happen to you two."
"Emiko," Sam said firmly, "we made a promise a long time ago. Remember? That we'd face this together."
Silence.
Then Sam again—louder, resolute.
"IF WE KEEP HIDING FROM THEM, THINGS WILL MORE THAN LIKELY BE WORSE WHEN THEY GO SEARCHING FOR US. AND I THINK ERMA AT LEAST DESERVES TO KNOW ABOUT THEM."
John closed his eyes.
They're not hiding from monsters, he thought. They're hiding from family.
A quiet sigh slipped from the window.
"I'm not fully on board with this…" Emiko admitted. "But you're right. We might as well get this over with."
A pause.
"We'll go."
John's eyes opened.
"You know we're gonna have to tell Erma about this sometime soon," Sam said.
"Why not now?" Emiko replied. "She should still be up."
Footsteps approached the door.
John moved instantly.
He slipped away from the bedroom wall, circling the house with practiced silence, keeping to shadow and instinct. His boots barely made a sound as he reached the other side—the smaller window. The one with a faint glow behind it.
Erma's room.
John stopped beneath it, leaning against the wall once more, listening.
Whatever was coming for this family wasn't just supernatural.
It was personal.
And John Booker had a sinking feeling that, somehow, he was already standing in the blast radius.
Erma sat on the floor of her room, carefully arranging her dolls as if nothing in the world could possibly change. She hummed quietly to herself, the soft rhythm filling the space with childish normalcy.
The door creaked open.
She looked up.
Her parents stood there—Sam first, then Emiko. Something was different. Their smiles were smaller. Heavier.
"Hey, honey," Emiko said gently. "We need to talk."
Erma nodded immediately, setting the doll aside as Emiko sat down on the edge of the bed. Sam remained standing nearby, arms folded—not defensive, but bracing.
Emiko took a breath.
"So, Erma… we're going to meet some family next week."
Erma's eyes brightened.
"But it won't be Granny Pamela or Uncle Mikey this time," Emiko continued.
The excitement didn't fade. If anything, it grew.
"Instead," Emiko said, hesitating, "we'll be visiting…"
Her voice caught.
"…we'll be visiting your grandpa."
She paused.
"…Osamu."
Another pause—longer.
"In Japan."
Erma stared at her mother for a heartbeat.
Then her eyes lit up like stars.
Emiko blinked, clearly not expecting that reaction. She studied her daughter's face—pure excitement, untouched by the weight of the name she had just spoken.
Outside the house, pressed against the wall beneath the window, John Booker froze.
The name hit him like a gunshot.
Osamu.
The veins beneath the bandages across John's face bulged violently, dark lines stretching along burned flesh. His hands curled into fists so tight the wrappings strained, knuckles whitening beneath layers of cloth. His eyes—those dead, hollow voids—ignited with something feral.
Hatred.
"Osamu…" John breathed.
The word tasted like ash.
"Then that means…" his voice dropped to a rasp, "…she's the daughter of that bastard."
His breathing grew heavier.
"She's also one of Yori's…"
"…sisters."
The name surfaced unbidden.
"Yori…"
Fire flashed behind his eyes—not the flames of vengeance this time, but something worse.
Memory.
Her laugh.
Her warmth.
The future they were supposed to have.
And then the fire.
The screams.
The fall.
Pain crushed his chest—not physical, but deep, old, and merciless.
John turned his head away from the window, jaw clenched so hard it ached beneath the scars.
Of all the towns.
Of all the families.
He had walked straight back into hell.
And this time, it wore the face of a smiling child.
Sam stepped closer to Emiko, placing a steady hand on her shoulder.
"I think," he said softly, "you should explain to her why we're going."
Emiko hesitated, then nodded.
"Right… well…"
She turned back to Erma, forcing a calm smile.
"As you know," Emiko began, "you and I come from a line of spirits and demons called yōkai."
Erma's eyes widened with interest.
"At this time of year," Emiko continued, "yōkai from all over Japan come together for a single night. There's a parade—singing, dancing, celebration. It happens every year."
Before she could say anything else, Erma clapped her hands excitedly.
Emiko paused, surprised by the enthusiasm.
"A—anyway," she said, clearing her throat, "we'll be picked up first by your Aunt yori. She'll take us to meet everyone else."
She gently placed her hand on Erma's shoulder, her grip firm but loving.
"But when we go there," Emiko said more seriously, "I want you to stay close to me and your father, okay? Always stay close. No matter what."
Erma nodded eagerly.
"Not all yōkai are friendly," Emiko added. "So we want to make sure you don't get lost in the parade. There's no telling who might show up."
Her smile never fully returned.
Outside the house, John Booker felt his blood run cold.
A parade, he thought grimly. Hyakki Yagyō.
The Night Parade of a Hundred Demons.
John leaned his head back against the wall, breathing slow, controlled, fighting the old urge to burn everything connected to that name to the ground.
Later that evening, the house had settled.
The soft clink of dishes and the hum of the refrigerator filled the kitchen as Sam stood at the counter, drying a plate. The calm was almost convincing—almost enough to forget everything he'd learned that night.
Almost.
A hand settled on his shoulder.
Sam didn't flinch.
"Erma," he said casually, not turning around, "you know that doesn't work on me."
Before he could finish the sentence, something in the pressure told him he was wrong.
Sam spun around—
—and jumped back.
"Wha—?!"
John Booker stood behind him, close enough that Sam hadn't heard a single footstep. Bandaged head. Dark coat. Void-black eyes reflecting the kitchen light like dead glass.
"Hello, Sam," John said calmly. "Sorry for being late for dinner."
Sam's heart pounded.
"How did you—?"
"Your window was open."
Sam stared at him, then let out a breath halfway between a laugh and disbelief.
"…Well," he muttered, "I did say I wanted to hear your story. I guess not being seen and sneaking around is one of the qualities of being a hunter."
John didn't respond.
Instead, he spoke with quiet finality.
"Don't go to Japan."
Sam blinked. "What? How did you—"
"I have my ways," John interrupted. "Didn't I tell you what happened to me because of Osamu?"
Sam hesitated. "…Yeah. You did. And—wait. Yori isn't she—"
"It doesn't matter anymore," John said sharply.
There was something dangerous beneath the restraint now—an old wound pressed too hard.
John reached into his coat.
"If you're still planning on going to Japan," he said, placing something into Sam's hand, "then take this."
Sam looked down.
A knife.
Not ornate. Not ceremonial. Simple, worn, and heavy—its blade etched faintly with symbols that made the air around it feel wrong in a way that was unmistakably right.
Sam swallowed. "Why would you—"
He looked up.
John was gone.
No sound. No footsteps. No sign he'd ever been there at all.
Only the knife remained.
Sam turned it slowly in his hand, eyes wide—not with fear, but fascination.
"…Fascinating," he murmured. "I could definitely use this as material for my books."
But even as he said it, his grip tightened.
Because deep down, Sam knew—
You don't give a man a weapon like that unless you expect him to need it.
And John Booker never gave warnings twice.
John Booker returned home in silence.
The door closed behind him with a soft click, sealing off the normal world. Inside, the house felt the way it always did—clean, ordered, and hollow. A place meant for someone who didn't plan to stay long anywhere.
Japan.
The word burned in his mind.
Osamu had already taken everything from him once. His body. His future. The family he should have had. And now—now that same monster stood at the center of another family's life.
He ruined what could've been mine, John thought grimly. And I'll be damned if I let him ruin theirs.
He moved with purpose.
The floor of the bedroom disappeared beneath open cases and bags. Firearms laid out with military precision—checked, cleaned, loaded. Knives followed: silver-edged, demon-forged, practical. Fresh bandages folded and stacked beside medical supplies and charms scavenged from years of hunting.
Tools of survival.
Tools of war.
As he packed, his hand brushed against something tucked away in the back of a drawer.
A burned wallet.
John froze.
Slowly, he picked it up. The leather was blackened and cracked, edges curled from heat that had tried—and failed—to destroy it completely.
He opened it.
Inside was his old military ID, warped but legible. His name. His rank. Proof that he had once been a man instead of a ghost. Behind it was a photograph, edges singed, but still intact enough to show him as he used to be—unscarred, smiling, alive.
A ring slid out into his palm.
Gold, scarred by heat but unbroken.
Engraved on the inside were words he hadn't needed to read in years.
John and Yori — forever.
His fingers closed around it.
The pain came—not sharp, not explosive—but deep and suffocating. He exhaled slowly, forcing it down where it belonged.
"Osamu," John muttered, voice low and venomous, "you may have destroyed me… but I will never let you destroy this family."
He slipped the ring back into the wallet and tucked it into the back pocket of his pants, close to him. Where it hurt. Where it mattered.
Once packed, he made a final call.
"Blairwood PD," came the voice on the other end.
"It's Booker," John said. "I'm taking a vacation."
A pause. "Uh… how long?"
"Long enough."
He ended the call before questions could follow.
John slung the bag over his shoulder, stepped out into the night, and locked the door behind him.
No goodbyes.
No hesitation.
The Burned Man was going back to Japan.
And this time, the fire wasn't for revenge.
It was for protection.