Asada Shino's mother stared at the letter of appointnt, her expression frozen for several heartbeats. Then, unexpectedly, a soft smile curved her lips, and she shook her head.
"No need. I've already decided to go abroad."
She tucked a strand of graying hair behind her ear, her movents unhurried, almost rehearsed.
"Seeing that Shino-chan has soone to rely on—I'm content. I can leave with peace of mind."
She pulled Shino into an embrace. The girl stiffened, inhaling the faint scent of unfamiliar perfu—jasmine and sothing chemical, like air freshener masking staleness. Not the lavender soap her mother once used.
Then Mrs. Asada lifted Shino's small hand and placed it gently into Nozomi's palm.
"Nozomi-kun. Can I trust you?"
Nozomi's fingers closed around Shino's, warm and steady. He t the woman's gaze directly.
"Of course. I will absolutely take care of Shino."
They watched the woman's figure recede down the street, her heels clicking against concrete until the sound dissolved into city noise.
Neither spoke.
The silence sat heavy between them, thick as sumr humidity.
Too smooth.
Hozuki Nozomi's jaw tightened. Everything about the encounter scraped against his instincts like sandpaper.
And stranger still—Mrs. Asada's deanor contradicted every piece of intelligence Haruno had compiled.
The facts were simple, brutal.
When Shino was a child, she witnessed her father bleed out on a hospital gurney. The doctors' hands moved uselessly, compressions rhythmic and futile, until the flatline droned through the sterile room. Mrs. Asada had stood frozen, her husband's blood darkening her blouse, her mind fracturing along invisible seams.
A wife watching her husband die before her eyes.
So wounds don't heal. They calcify.
Years later, during a bank robbery, Mrs. Asada's fragile psyche shattered completely. She no longer possessed the capacity—or desire—to raise her daughter.
Shino was sent to her grandparents.
When Shino moved to Tokyo alone for school, her mother appeared exactly once. A formality. Guardian signature required for enrollnt paperwork. Nothing more.
That day, Mrs. Asada hadn't smiled.
She hadn't embraced her daughter.
Her eyes—Shino rembered them with crystalline, knife-edged clarity—had held only disgust. Revulsion. As though looking at Shino physically pained her. As though all misfortune wore her daughter's face.
One glance had been enough to crack Shino's heart like thin ice.
But just now, lost in the warmth of that unexpected embrace, Shino had let herself believe. The gentle mother from her earliest mories had overlapped with this woman, and shock had lted into desperate hope.
Now, standing in the settling quiet, clarity returned cold and unwelco.
"Nozomi." Her voice erged small, trembling. "My mother... sothing's wrong with her."
She turned to face him, violet eyes wide with mounting unease.
"I'm certain I didn't imagine it. When I ca to Tokyo for enrollnt—I t her. I will never forget the disgust in her eyes."
Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
"That person is not my mother."
Hozuki Nozomi exhaled slowly. He'd been circling the sa conclusion.
"I investigated her employnt at the bank," he said. "Prepared a better position for her. She refused without hesitation. And this talk of going abroad—" He shook his head. "Her finances don't support international travel. There's no record of passport renewal."
His thumb brushed across Shino's knuckles, steadying her.
"Shino. She definitely has a problem."
The girl's face paled. "Then what do we do?"
"Simple." His eyes tracked the direction Mrs. Asada had disappeared. "We follow her."
The golden arrow materialized in his peripheral vision—a translucent guide visible only to him, courtesy of the system. It pulsed gently, pointing northwest.
They moved through crowded streets, maintaining distance. Mrs. Asada walked with purpose, never glancing back, weaving between salaryn and students with chanical precision.
"Where is she going?" Shino whispered, confusion deepening with each unfamiliar turn.
"We'll find out."
Hozuki Nozomi squeezed her hand, and she leaned slightly into his side, drawing comfort from his solid warmth.
The trail led to an unremarkable office building—gray concrete, tinted windows reflecting nothing. Mrs. Asada disappeared through the entrance without hesitation.
They followed at a careful interval, watching her step into an elevator.
The floor indicator descended.
B2.
Basent.
Hozuki Nozomi guided Shino to a secondary elevator, pressing the sa destination.
The doors opened onto darkness.
Cold air rushed over them—damp, carrying the mineral sll of old concrete and sothing else. Sothing faintly organic, like flowers left too long in stagnant water.
Shino shivered, pressing closer to Hozuki Nozomi's arm.
"It feels wrong here," she breathed. "Like... like sothing's watching."
"Just your imagination." His voice stayed calm, asured. "Stay close. Let's see what your mother is doing in a place like this."
He moved forward, steady and unhurried.
But his eyes saw everything Shino couldn't.
Ghosts.
Dozens of them. Hundreds.
They drifted through the corridors like pale smoke—n and won, their features slack, their eyes empty as dry wells. They wore clothing from different eras: hospital gowns, office attire, school uniforms. So in white. So in black. The colors interweaved, creating a shifting monochro tide.
Densely packed. Shoulder to shoulder. Filling every inch of visible space.
His skin prickled. The air tasted of old grief and stale incense.
A ghost domain.
These spirits showed no aggression—they parted around him instinctively, like water flowing around stone—but their sheer number made his teeth ache. He'd purify them later. Couldn't risk startling Shino now.
The passage narrowed.
Pipes ran along the ceiling, dripping condensation that echoed in the silence. The walls pressed closer, slick with moisture, painted in institutional green that had faded to the color of old bruises.
Shino's fingers tightened around his.
Her breath ca faster, fogging slightly in the chill.
His hand is so warm.
She focused on that single point of contact, letting it anchor her against the creeping dread.
The golden arrow pulsed ahead.
Then—
Hozuki Nozomi's arm snapped around her waist. His other hand sealed over her mouth, firm but gentle, and in one fluid motion he lifted her against his chest and jumped.
His legs spread wide, bracing against opposite walls of the narrow passage, suspending them both three ters above the floor.
*Damn!
Shino's startled squeak died against his palm.
Her cheeks flushed hot—cradled in his arms like this, her weight supported effortlessly, his heartbeat steady against her shoulder. The position felt impossibly intimate.
Don't think about it. Don't think about how strong he is. Don't—
Footsteps approached below.
Two figures shuffled into view.
White robes. White pointed hoods that exposed only their eyes—dark, glittering, wrong.
Their voices drifted up, muffled and eager.
"It begins soon. The banquet."
"Yes. The main course this ti is... exquisite."
Wet laughter.
"We're in for quite the treat."
"But if we all go at once—won't we break her?"
"Fool." The word dripped with condescension. "We offer blessings to the Almighty. If she breaks..." A casual shrug beneath white fabric. "We find another sacrifice."
"Still. Prepare properly. Bathe first. This is a sacred ritual."
Their voices faded down the corridor, swallowed by darkness.
Silence returned.
Hozuki Nozomi lowered them soundlessly to the ground, releasing Shino's mouth.
Her face had gone chalk-white.
"Nozomi." Her voice cracked. "This place—Mom—will she—"
He exhaled slowly, his expression hardening.
"We've walked into a cult's den, Shino. Don't leave my side. Not for a second."
He cupped her face in both hands, tilting her chin up until their eyes t.
"I will get your mother out. I promise."
Shino's trembling steadied, fraction by fraction. She swallowed hard and nodded, jaw setting with fragile determination.
"I won't slow you down."
They moved deeper.
Hozuki Nozomi's perception expanded outward, mapping the labyrinthine corridors, tracking the shuffling presences of robed figures. He guided Shino through shadows, pressing her against walls when footsteps approached, timing their movents between patrol gaps.
Two unlucky cultists rounded a corner alone.
Thirty seconds later, they lay unconscious in a storage alcove, stripped of their white robes and hoods.
No caras. No alarms. The cult relied on secrecy rather than surveillance.
Arrogant.
Disguised now, Hozuki Nozomi led Shino toward the arrow's destination.
The passage opened abruptly into vast space.
A subterranean plaza stretched before them—easily fifty ters across, carved from raw stone. Torches lined the walls, their flas casting dancing shadows that writhed like living things. The air hung thick with incense, cloying and sweet, underlaid with copper.
Hundreds of robed figures filled the chamber.
White robes. Black robes. Each occupying a designated position, arranged in concentric circles around a raised stone dais at the center.
Their hoods hid everything but eyes and mouths.
Silence pressed down like a physical weight.
Two figures stood upon the dais, distinct from the rest.
Red robes. Red hoods.
Leaders.
And between them, forced to her knees on cold stone, wearing nothing but a thin spaghetti-strap dress that left her shoulders bare and goosefleshed—
Shino's breath caught.
Her mother.
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