The blind moonlight shines into the room of shadows, the silver glow falling on Lucien alone.
"Fucking bastard moon," he mutters to himself.
Then he pushes himself up from the bed, breath slow, steady, and begins—Lucien drew in a breath.
"That was one year of my life… gone. One year down. Eleven left."
Rowen's expression tightened, imagining the weight of that single year.
"After that," Lucien continued, "I travelled to Tokyo. The address I was given… it belonged to a man named Hachikiro Shinji."
His mother's eyes widened slightly at the name.
"It was in a business district — loud, crowded. I barely took a step before Shinji's people found me. Businessmen. Serious types. They knew exactly why I was there."
Reggie shifted, jaw tightening at the idea of strangers claiming Lucien.
"They took me in," Lucien said. "Trained me. Pushed me. Eleven years of drills, discipline, language work, combat… everything they thought I needed."
His mother's hands trembled subtly, every new detail making her chest tighten.
"And then… two years ago, everything came back." His voice thinned.
"My real memories."
Rowen inhaled sharply at that line.
"When it happened, Shinji helped again. Not with words — he was never the talking type. But he arranged documents. A passport. A way for me to leave."
His mother pressed a hand to her chest, imagining Lucien navigating that alone.
"And after twelve years total…"
Lucien lifted his gaze to them.
Reggie's arms had fallen to his sides.
His mother leaned forward, afraid he'd vanish.
"…I ended up here."
Lucien drew breath to continue—
But the voice burst into his mind, a jagged laugh tearing through him.
"Hhahahhahahahahahah—"
Lucien flinched. The family saw the shift in his eyes, the way his shoulders stiffened, but they didn't know what he was hearing.
"That's the best lie you could come up with?"
The voice cackled again, dripping venom.
"Fucking business apprentice? Really?"
Lucien's jaw tightened, breath catching.
"Why don't you tell them the real story, brat?"
Its tone sharpened, cruel, delighted.
"Tell them how it actually happened."
Images slammed into Lucien's mind.
Not memories — wounds.
"After the old couple died," the voice hissed, "the doors slid open… and those men in black walked in like they owned the place."
Lucien's pulse spiked. His mother leaned forward, worry sharpening.
"Tell them how they beat you," the voice whispered, savoring every word.
"A nine-year-old kid. Face first into the floor."
Lucien's hands curled into fists.
"Tell them how they covered your face with a damn rag," it growled.
"How you kicked, screamed, begged— and they didn't care."
His breathing grew uneven.
Rowen took a step forward. "Lucien…?"
"Dragged you off to God-knows-where," the voice finished, low and merciless.
"That's what happened. Not your pretty little Tokyo story."
The room froze.
Lucien couldn't speak — because the voice wasn't done, and the truth was clawing up his throat like fire.
Lucien's expression twitched—just for a heartbeat—before he forced it still.
He inhaled sharply through his nose, then said, with a slight sternness that surprised everyone:
"Mother."
The single word grounded him.
Or at least, it looked like it did.
He blinked hard, snapping out of the spiraling memory the voice had dragged him into.
A shaky breath left him.
"A–ah. Sorry, Mom," he said, rubbing the side of his temple as if brushing off a headache. "Sometimes I still… space out. I don't think my mind's been logged properly in years."
His mother stepped forward instantly, concern flooding her face, but Lucien lifted a hand—just enough to pause her without being rude.
"Anyway," he continued, voice calmer now, tone dismissive, forcing a small, practiced smile, "that's the gist of it. A lot of things happened, sure, but—"
He shrugged lightly.
"It's nothing special. So let's… just leave it out."
He tried to cut the thread cleanly, burying the truth beneath that single line.
But the stiffness in his shoulders, the slight tremor in his fingers, and the way his eyes avoided theirs for half a second—
None of them missed it.
Reggie's eyes narrowed slightly.
He didn't voice the questions running through his mind — but they were there.
The way Lucien moved, the way he reacted, the weight in his voice… none of it matched the neat, simple story he'd just told.
Rowen felt it too.
His gaze lingered on Lucien a little too long, trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
Even his mother shifted uncomfortably.
Something about her son's tone, his pauses, the faint stiffness in how he spoke… it didn't feel like the whole truth.
Not even close.
And then Reggie's eyes slid down—an instinct, small and involuntary—to Lucien's hands.
Lucien's hands.
They were not soft. They were not the hands of some sheltered trainee returned from polite drills. The pads across the palms were thickened and slightly scarred. Diagonal roughness mapped the base of his fingers; the skin near the thumb was cracked, the kind of abrasion that came from gripping rope, steel, and weapon handles. Tiny white ridges ran along the fleshy part beneath each knuckle—etched by repeated strain. Smudges of old scars cuffed the wrists. These were working hands: knotted, calloused, used to pulling something heavy or steadying a blade in the dark.
Reggie's breath shortened. The simple, domestic lie and these hands didn't match. The look in his eyes shifted — recognition laced with a new kind of worry. He didn't call Lucien on it. He simply watched, the doubt settling in the small fine print behind his gaze.
"Lucien…" his mother whispered, concern tightening her voice. "That's not something we should just look past. Tell—"
"That's fine."
The words came from the far side of the room.
Everyone turned their eyes toward him — Lucien's father, who had been there quietly the whole time, leaning slightly back in his chair, watching his son with an expression carved from calm stone.
He lifted a hand, stopping his wife gently before she could push further.
"My child has been through a lot," he said, voice low but firm. "Much more than any of us can guess."
Lucien's breath hitched very slightly.
His father continued, eyes never leaving him:
"We want answers. Of course we do. But dragging them out now won't heal anything."
A slow, steady breath.
"He's back. That's what matters to me. Not where he's been. Not what he's done. Not what he had to endure."
He rested a hand on the table — a quiet, grounding gesture.
"He's here," he said simply.
"And that is enough."
Silence wrapped around the room.
No one argued.
No one pushed.
But the unasked questions still trembled under the surface, hidden behind steady faces and softer breaths.
Reggie let out a slow breath through his nose, eyes still fixed on Lucien.
He didn't push.
He didn't question.
But he also didn't pretend to accept the answer.
He stepped forward just a little, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed — but his voice carried the weight of someone who wasn't fooled.
"…Alright," he said quietly. "If Dad says we stop here, we stop."
He held Lucien's gaze for a moment longer than comfortable.
The kind of stare that says I'm not done — not really — but I'll wait for you.
Then Reggie clapped his hands once, forcing the air in the room to shift.
"Anyway," he said, tone shifting deliberately, "Lucien's back. That's the point. So instead of grilling him like a damn committee…" He tilted his head toward the dining room. "…how about we get him something to eat? He looks like he hasn't had a decent meal in days."
Rowen exhaled, relieved at the lift in tension.
Reggie's wife, Elaine, reached out and brushed a hand over Lucien's arm—a small kindness from the woman who had come with Reggie—then stepped back.
But Lucien—
He felt the world blur for half a second.
A tightness in his chest.
A faint ringing in his ears.
The voice inside him chuckled.
"Smart one, that Reggie. Knows you're lying. Knows you're shaking. And still gives you an exit. Cute."
Lucien clenched his jaw, forcing his breathing steady.
Reggie caught it — of course he did — but instead of pressing, he nudged Lucien lightly on the shoulder.
"Come on," Reggie said, softer now. "Food. Normal conversation. No interrogation. You lead."
Lucien swallowed hard.
"…Yeah," he managed. "Okay."
Reggie turned toward the doorway first, giving Lucien space.
Rowen followed.
His mother lingered only long enough to squeeze Lucien's hand before stepping away.
And his father — still seated — gave Lucien the smallest nod.
Not a command.
A reassurance.
Lucien inhaled slowly, grounding himself, the voice fading to a hiss.
For the first time that day… he didn't feel trapped.
Lucien slipped out quietly, leaving the others behind.
The hallway felt longer than he remembered — dim lights, soft carpet, every step heavier than the last.
The voice drifted into his mind, not sharp or mocking… just there.
"…You held yourself together well."
Lucien didn't answer.
He just kept walking.
"They don't know what to do with you yet," the voice continued, almost reflective.
"And you don't know what to do with them."
Lucien exhaled through his nose, slow and tired.
He reached his room, closed the door gently behind him, and headed straight to the bathroom.
He brushed his teeth, washed his face, splashed cold water on his eyes — grounding himself in small, mundane motions.
When he stepped back into the room, the silence greeted him like an old acquaintance.
He sat on the bed, fingers running through his hair, breathing settling.
Sleep tugged at him — the heavy kind, the kind he hadn't felt in years.
Just as he lay down—
KNOCK. KNOCK.
Lucien blinked, sat up, and walked to the door.
He opened it.
His mother stood there.
Her eyes softened the moment they met his — nervous, tired, but warm in a way that almost hurt to look at.
"I'm sorry, Lucien," she said quietly, voice trembling at the edges. "We were just… so worried about where you'd been, what happened to you."
Lucien's chest tightened faintly.
She stepped closer, her hand rising gently to his cheek.
"Just know this," she whispered, "all of us are happy you're here now."
A small breath.
"We love you. I love you."
She leaned up and kissed his forehead.
Lucien froze for a moment — then slowly, almost cautiously, wrapped his arms around her in return.
It wasn't tight.
It wasn't dramatic.
Just real.
"Goodnight, sweetheart," she murmured before stepping back and heading down the hall.
Lucien closed the door softly.
The room was quiet again.
He walked to the mirror on the far wall, hands moving to the hem of his shirt.
He hesitated only a second — then pulled it off.
And stood there.
Bare.
Staring at the truth only he knew.
Lucien took a slow breath and pulled his shirt the rest of the way off.
The room's dim light hit his skin, and for a moment he just stared at himself — the version everyone else saw.
Lean, slim, almost underdeveloped.
A body that told nothing.
A lie held together by will.
His eyes hardened.
He raised his hands and formed the seal — fingers spreading into an outward-opening lotus, palms angled forward, wrists aligned perfectly.
A motion so familiar it was muscle memory.
His voice dropped to a quiet murmur:
"Kaigyāin."
A soft pulse rippled across his chest.
Then another.
Like invisible strings snapping loose.
The contract loosened… then dissipated.
Lucien exhaled as his real form clicked back into place — not transforming, but revealing, like a veil had been lifted.
His frame expanded subtly, muscles tightening into their true shape:
Clean, lean aesthetics
Deep cuts across his torso
A solid, carved eight-pack
Defined obliques and shoulders
Back muscles sculpted with precision
But the strength wasn't what held his eyes.
It was the damage.
Scars everywhere.
Bullet holes that had healed impossibly clean.
Knife marks — some thin lines, some wide slashes.
Stab wounds layered over older stab wounds.
Burns.
Circular marks from restraints.
A long, jagged scar across his left side that dipped deep enough to be fatal on anyone else.
He stared.
Silent.
Not flinching.
Not wincing.
Just… looking.
The voice inside him spoke — quiet, steady, almost solemn.
"…This is the body the world made for you."
Lucien didn't answer.
Lucien's eyes drifted over the scars again — the knife marks across his ribs, the deep stab near his abdomen, the burn along his shoulder.
All familiar.
All earned.
The voice stirred, a faint chuckle rising like distant thunder.
"…Well," it murmured, almost conversational, "most of these…"
Lucien's lips curved into a dry, humorless smile.
"…are from that old bastard."
A soft chuckle from inside.
"Lucien, Lucien… you say it like it was surprising."
He didn't argue.
His gaze lowered to the long scar running diagonally across his side — the one that still ached on cold nights.
Then the voice spoke again, calm, almost teasing, but without cruelty:
"But none of these…"
a pause, as if scanning every mark, every wound,
"…are as devastating as the one on your back."
Lucien's shoulders stiffened before he could stop himself.
The voice chuckled again — quiet, low, familiar.
"Ah. There it is. That reaction."
Lucien closed his eyes, breath steadying.
Slowly, he reached behind him.
His fingers brushed skin first — smooth, warm — before they found it.
The scar.
Wider than his palm.
Deeper than any blade had a right to carve.
His fingertips sank slightly into the shallow groove, feeling the raised edges where flesh had once been torn open and forced to heal wrong.
He traced along it, following the path burned into him years ago:
The long arch of what he'd once thought was just a strange curve — but now felt like a horn.
The jagged downward slash that dipped too sharply to be random — like the edge of a fanged jaw.
The branching lines that spread across his shoulder blade — ridges shaped like flame or hair.
And the central indentation, subtle but unmistakable, where the blade had been pressed in deepest — forming the hollow of a snarling eye.
Piece by piece, shape by shape, the truth formed beneath his touch.
Not just a wound.
Not just a scar.
A face.
An oni.
The voice's tone softened slightly, losing even the faint amusement.
"…That one changed everything."
Lucien opened his eyes in the mirror again.
Older.
Harder.
And for a moment—
Lucien stands straight in front of the mirror, shoulders squared, breath steadying as he studies his own reflection.
"Well… since I'm retiring," he mutters to the voice inside him, "let me see my face one more time."
He inhales slowly.
His hands rise, fingers interlocking into the Geba-ku-in seal — palms pressed, fingers woven tightly, the outer form bound and held in place. The gesture sits just below his chin, like he's physically locking his identity into silence.
Then he exhales.
The smoke that spills out is nothing normal.
It pours from his mouth and nose in thick, black, viscous streams, almost liquid in the way it moves. The mirror fogs, darkens, then clears as the smoke curls back toward him, rising like a living shadow.
It wraps around his cheeks first.
Then his jaw.
Then his forehead.
Layer by layer, the smoke hardens.
A mask forms across his face — heavy, solid, unmistakable.
A jet-black mask, as dark as burnt charcoal:
Its fangs forged from gold, long and sharp.
Its horns also gold, curved with cold brilliance.
Its eyes glowing red and crimson, like embers staring through the dark.
Lucien gazes at the reflection — a fearsome, shadow-forged face staring back at him.
The voice speaks, smooth and amused:
"Well, look at you… Lucien Rein.
Or should I call you Raizo?
Or the—"
"Enough," Lucien snaps.
His hands shift instantly into the Rin hand seal — both index and middle fingers extended, the remaining fingers folded tight. A pulse runs through the room.
The mask reacts at once.
It begins to evaporate, the gold fangs melting back into black mist, the horns dissolving, the crimson eyes dimming. The entire mask unravels into drifting smoke that pulls away from his face in slow, swirling tendrils.
Lucien inhales sharply.
The black smoke rushes back into him, threading into his lungs, disappearing completely until nothing remains—not even a stray wisp.
His face is bare again. Calm. Human.
"It's in the past now. Remembering it isn't gonna help," he says quietly.
"Let's leave that life behind."
He turns from the mirror, walks to the bed, and drops onto it with a long, heavy exhale.
"I'm tired. I'm going to sleep."
The voice retreats, whispering faintly to itself.
For now… that is.
Lucien closes his eyes.
"Tomorrow is a new day," he murmurs.
"A day of change."
Tired.