The tremors started in his hands, fine, uncontrollable shivers that spread up his arms and into his core until his entire body was vibrating like a plucked guitar string. Akira sat slumped against the grimy brick wall, the cold of the concrete seeping through his uniform, but it was nothing compared to the ice that had taken root in his soul.
I am what the stories warn you about.
Elara's words echoed in the silent alley, each repetition a hammer blow to his sanity. He stared at the spot where the gaunt creature—the thing—had dissolved into nothingness. There was no evidence left. No body, no blood, not even a scuff mark on the wall. It was as if it had never existed. But the memory was seared into his retinas: the unnatural yellow glow of its eyes, the crack of its neck, the way it crumbled to ash.
And her. The way she moved. The frost. The red in her eyes.
A dry, hacking sob escaped his lips. He wasn't crying; it was a purely physical reaction, his body trying to expel the terror. He wrapped his arms around his knees, making himself as small as possible, trying to fold back into the background, to become the ghost he once was. But it was impossible. The world had been ripped away, revealing a nightmare lurking just beneath the surface. He had been curious about the beautiful, mysterious transfer student, and now he knew. And knowing felt like a death sentence.
He didn't know how long he sat there. The sun dipped lower, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to writhe and reach for him. Every rustle of a discarded plastic bag, every distant car horn, made him flinch. He was waiting for another monster to step out of the shadows. Or for Elara to return.
Finally, with a Herculean effort, he pushed himself to his feet. His legs were weak, threatening to buckle. He stumbled out of the alley, his eyes darting wildly, expecting an attack from every corner. The normalcy of the evening was a grotesque parody. A mother called her child in for dinner. A salaryman staggered out of a bar. They had no idea. They were living in a world of light, oblivious to the things that hunted in the dark.
His walk home was a waking nightmare. He jumped at his own reflection in a shop window. The scent of yakitori from a street vendor, usually comforting, now made his stomach churn with a nausea born of primal fear. He kept replaying the moment the creature called her "Von Carstein" and "S-Class." The words were alien, terrifying. They spoke of a hierarchy, a society of monsters, and he, Akira Tanaka, the nobody, had somehow drawn their attention.
He fumbled with his keys for a full minute before managing to unlock his apartment door. He slammed it shut behind him, engaging both the deadbolt and the chain with trembling fingers. He stood in the genkan, his back against the door, listening. The silence of the apartment, usually so oppressive, now felt like a fragile shield.
He was safe. For now.
But the silence was a liar. It couldn't drown out the memories. He stumbled into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, hoping to shock himself back to reality. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. Pale, wide-eyed, hair a mess. He looked like a victim. He was a victim.
You would be wise to stay in the light.
Elara's warning was a cruel joke. There was no light. Not for him anymore. The darkness knew his name. It had smelled him.
He didn't bother with dinner. His appetite was gone, replaced by a hollow, gnawing dread. He crawled into bed still in his uniform, pulling the covers over his head like a child, as if the thin layer of fabric could protect him from the things that went bump in the night. Sleep was a distant country. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the crimson glow of her eyes, the contemptuous twist of her lips as she erased a life.
What was she? A vampire? A demon? The specifics didn't matter. The result was the same. She was death, beautiful and absolute. And he was now tangled in her web.
---
The next morning, the alarm clock was a jarring intrusion. Akira felt like he hadn't slept at all. His body was heavy with exhaustion, his mind a fog of fear and fragmented nightmares. Going to school felt like a death march. Every instinct screamed at him to hide, to barricade himself in his apartment and never come out.
But what would that achieve? If creatures like the gaunt man could find him on a public street, a locked door wouldn't stop them. And if he didn't show up at school… would Elara care? Or would she see it as an inconvenience? The memory of her saying "what is mine" sent a conflicting shiver down his spine—part terror, part a bizarre, unwelcome thrill.
He had to go. He had to see her. He needed… answers. Or at least, he needed to see the mask again, the beautiful, human mask. He needed a reminder that the monster could pretend to be a girl.
The walk to school was an exercise in hyper-vigilance. He scanned every face, every alleyway, every parked car. He was a mouse in a field of hawks. When he finally reached the gates of Yamazaki High, he felt a perverse sense of relief. Here, at least, the monsters wore familiar faces.
The atmosphere in Class 2-B was tense. The whispers were different today. They weren't about Elara's beauty or Akira's strange luck. They were about Taro.
"…heard he's in the hospital?"
"…not the hospital,his parents took him to a… specialist."
"…they said he won't stop shaking.Just keeps muttering about 'red eyes'."
Akira's blood ran cold. He slid into his seat, his heart pounding. Red eyes. He hadn't imagined it. Whatever Elara had done to Taro in the courtyard, it hadn't just been a stern look. She had… marked him. Broken him. Just like she had broken the creature in the alley.
He watched the door, a knot of dread and anticipation tightening in his stomach. When Elara entered, the classroom fell silent, but this time the silence was wary, fearful. She was no longer just a goddess; she was a vengeful spirit. She moved to her seat, the scent of cold flowers a chilling announcement of her presence. She didn't look at him, didn't acknowledge the whispers. She was an island of perfect calm in a sea of terrified speculation.
Akira spent the morning staring at the back of her head, trying to reconcile the two images: the flawless, silent student and the ruthless executioner. It was impossible. They were two different beings occupying the same space.
When the lunch bell rang, he was too paralyzed to move. He watched as she stood and left the classroom, the students parting for her like she was carrying a plague. He remained at his desk, his bento box untouched. The thought of food made him nauseous.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice Kenji and Ryo approaching his desk until their shadows fell over him.
He looked up. Their faces were pale, their eyes bloodshot. The usual lazy cruelty was gone, replaced by a raw, desperate fear.
"Tanaka," Kenji whispered, his voice hoarse. "What did you do?"
Akira stared, confused. "What?"
"Taro," Ryo grunted, his hands clenched into fists. "He's… sick. He hasn't stopped screaming since yesterday. He says… he says she did something to him."
"I don't know anything," Akira said, his own fear making his voice sharp.
"Don't lie!" Kenji hissed, leaning in close. "It's because of you! We messed with you, and then she… she looked at him. And now he's broken! What is she?!"
The question hung in the air, a testament to their shared, terrifying ignorance. Akira knew the answer, or part of it, but the words stuck in his throat. She's a monster. She kills things with her bare hands and turns them to dust.
"He just needs to rest," Akira managed to say, the lie feeble and transparent.
Kenji's face twisted with a mixture of fear and anger. "This isn't over, Tanaka. You and your… your witch. This isn't over."
They backed away, shooting terrified glances towards the door, as if expecting Elara to materialize at any moment. Akira was left alone, the weight of their accusation crushing him. They were right. This was his fault. His very existence had become a catalyst for disaster.
---
The final bell was a release, but it offered no solace. Akira moved on autopilot, his mind a whirlwind of fear and guilt. He had to get away from this school, from the accusing stares, from the terrifying presence of Elara. He needed time to think, to process, to find a way out of this nightmare.
He changed his shoes quickly and fled the school grounds, choosing the busiest possible route home, hoping the crowd would offer some protection. For a while, it seemed to work. The press of bodies, the noise, the sheer normalcy of it all was a temporary balm.
But he'd made a fatal error. In his panic to avoid the quiet, monster-haunted backstreets, he'd forgotten about human malice. He turned a corner and found himself face-to-face with Kenji and Ryo. They had been waiting for him. And they weren't alone. Two older, rougher-looking boys stood with them, their arms crossed, their expressions grim. These weren't students. These were Taro's older brother and his friend.
"There he is," Kenji said, his voice trembling with a cocktail of fear and bravado. "The ghost who brings curses."
"Your little girlfriend isn't here to save you now, is she?" Ryo added, his hulking form blocking the sidewalk.
Akira's heart plummeted. He took a step back, but the crowd simply flowed around them, oblivious to the drama unfolding in their midst. No one would help him. He was invisible, remember?
Taro's brother, a thick-set young man with a cruel twist to his mouth, stepped forward. "You're the one who messed with my little brother? He's sitting in a dark room right now, crying. What did you do to him?"
"I didn't do anything!" Akira protested, his voice cracking. "It was—"
"Her?" the brother interrupted, sneering. "The pretty new girl? Don't make me laugh. I don't know what kind of psychoactive drug you two used to scare him, but you're going to pay for it."
This was it. The situation had escalated beyond schoolyard bullying. This was vengeance. And without Elara here, he was utterly, completely alone.
"Please," Akira begged, the word tasting like ash. "Just let me go."
The brother's answer was a punch to the gut.
It wasn't like the shoves and slaps from Taro. This was meant to cause real damage. Akira doubled over, the air exploding from his lungs in a pained gasp. He stumbled, and then the blows began to fall in earnest. A fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head back. A kick caught him in the ribs, and he heard a sickening crack. He cried out, but the sound was swallowed by the city's noise.
He fell to the pavement, curling into a ball, his arms raised to protect his head. The world dissolved into a storm of pain. Kicks landed on his back, his legs, his kidneys. He could hear their grunts of effort, their snarled insults.
"Teach him a lesson!"
"Break his legs!"
"This is for Taro!"
The pain was a white-hot fire, consuming his thoughts. He tasted blood in his mouth. His vision began to swim, dark spots dancing at the edges. This was more than a beating. This was an execution. They weren't going to stop.
Is this it? The thought was strangely clear amidst the agony. Is this how I die? Lying on a dirty sidewalk, beaten to death for a crime I didn't commit?
The irony was bitter. He had survived an encounter with a supernatural predator, only to be killed by ordinary, human cruelty.
The world started to fade. The sounds grew distant, the pain becoming a dull, throbbing ache. He was slipping away. The background character was finally being written out of the story for good.
Through his fading vision, he saw a flash of silver.
It was just a glimpse, a trick of the light, he thought. But then the beating stopped.
The kicks ceased. The snarling voices were cut off.
He forced his eyes open, blinking through a film of blood. His attackers were frozen, staring at something behind him. The expressions on their faces were a mirror of Taro's from the courtyard—primal, instinctual terror.
Akira managed to turn his head.
She stood at the mouth of the alley they had dragged him near. Elara. But she wasn't the schoolgirl. She wasn't even the controlled executioner from the previous night. This was something else entirely.
Her amethyst eyes were blazing with a hellish crimson light, so bright they cast a bloody glow on the pavement around her. Her silver hair lifted and floated around her head as if she were submerged in water, crackling with unseen energy. Her lips were pulled back from her teeth in a silent snarl, revealing fangs—long, sharp, and utterly predatory. The air around her warped and shimmered, and the temperature plummeted so fast that Akira could see his own breath misting in the air.
She was fury incarnate. She was the night given form and purpose.
"You insects," her voice was a low, guttural growl that seemed to vibrate through the very concrete. "You dare?"
Kenji let out a high-pitched whimper. Ryo took a stumbling step back. Taro's brother and his friend stood paralyzed, their brains refusing to process what they were seeing.
Elara moved.
It was a blur of motion and death. She didn't walk; she flowed. She was beside the older brother in an instant. He didn't even have time to raise his hands. She grabbed him by the face, her pale fingers looking delicate against his head, and with a contemptuous flick of her wrist, slammed him into the brick wall of the building beside them. There was a wet, crunching sound, and he slid to the ground, unconscious or dead, Akira couldn't tell.
His friend lunged at her with a roar. She didn't even look at him. Her other hand shot out, and she caught his fist in mid-air. There was a sound of splintering bone. She squeezed, and he screamed, a raw, animal sound of agony, before she threw him effortlessly into a dumpster across the alley with a metallic crash that silenced him.
She turned her burning gaze to Kenji and Ryo.
They were sobbing now, begging, their words a jumbled mess of "please" and "we're sorry" and "we didn't know."
Elara ignored them. She walked past them as if they were nothing, her eyes fixed only on Akira.
She knelt beside him, her movements suddenly gentle. The crimson glow in her eyes softened, but the fangs were still visible, a stark reminder of what she was. The scent of cold flowers and old stone enveloped him, a strange comfort amidst the agony.
"Akira," she said, her voice barely a whisper, but it carried a world of… something. Regret? Anger? He was too far gone to tell.
He tried to speak, but only a bloody bubble escaped his lips. He could feel the darkness closing in, the cold seeping into his bones. He was dying. He knew it.
He saw the conflict in her eyes. The ancient, weary being warring with something else. Something that looked, for a fleeting second, like desperation.
"This was not the plan," she murmured, more to herself than to him. Her cold hand brushed the hair from his forehead. "You were not supposed to be… this."
He didn't understand. Nothing made sense anymore.
The world was fading to black. The last thing he saw was her face, beautiful and terrible, leaning over him. The last thing he felt was the sharp, piercing pain at his neck, followed by a warmth that flooded his mouth, thick and metallic and powerful.
The last thing he heard was her voice, a vow whispered into the dying night.
"Live."