The narrow alley behind the compound's western kitchen was a place no one of status would willingly walk. Garbage bins lined the walls, their lids crusted with frost. The packed snow beneath her feet had been trampled into gray slush, then refrozen into uneven ridges that caught the soles of her boots.
"Huff…"
Mist came out of her mouth as she walked alone—a pale cloud that hung in the air for a moment before dissolving into the cold. Her breath came in shallow, uneven pulls. Each exhalation fogged the space in front of her face, briefly obscuring the cracked wooden walls on either side.
There were almost no sounds. Her footsteps were muffled by the snow, the crunch swallowed by the thick layer of white that had fallen overnight. Even the distant shouts from the training yard seemed muted here.
Her hands—slowly turning blue at the fingertips—were shoved deep into the pockets of her uniform. The fabric of her sleeves did little to block the wind. It found every gap and slid through effortlessly.
The day had been long—longer than most—and her legs ached from running errands that were not hers.
Deliver this message. Wait for a response. Make sure there's no witness. If this ends up on the record, you'll take the fall.
She turned a corner. A rusted pipe jutted from the wall, dripping condensation that had frozen into a small stalactite of ice. She stepped around it, her shoulder brushing against a support beam caked with old grime.
I could not care less about you. Shut up and obey me.
Naoya's voice echoed in her head, calm and eerily cold. She could still see the way he had looked at her—not as a person, not even as an enemy, but as an object. A tool. A thing to be used and discarded.
She had done everything he asked. Creeping through corridors and slipping notes under doors, acting as if she were incompetent each time she got caught looking at dates and names for too long, and for what?
No, really, for what? What was Naoya's goal truly? Why did he need to blackmail an elder?
A gust of wind swept through the alley, rattling a loose wooden shutter somewhere behind her. The sound was loud and sudden—she flinched, her shoulder hitting the wall, then forced herself to keep walking.
I hate him, she thought in the end. I should find a way to betray him, to slip free of this leash he has wrapped around my throat.
But she would not.
No, more like she couldn't.
Because she had seen his eyes.
In that moment, Hanaya had felt something she had not felt in years.
Fear.
Not the fear of punishment or pain. The fear of being crushed by something infinitely stronger than herself. The same fear she had felt when she first saw a first grade curse, years ago, before she fled the front lines and settled for teaching.
He is five years old, she reminded herself. Five. And his cursed energy was already more refined than hers. Combined with his already massive reserve…
What would he be like at fifteen? At twenty?
She did not want to think about it.
The alley opened into a small courtyard—barely more than a gap between buildings, paved with uneven stone that had been swept clear of snow. A single wooden door stood at the far end, its frame warped from years of winter freezes and summer thaws.
She pushed it open.
The warmth inside immediately swept past her and a wave of heat that made her cheeks prickle and her ears sting. The room beyond was small, a private dining chamber reserved for her use, far from the communal halls. It was a luxury she had gained from teaching many, many naïve, stupid, and gullible little children over the years.
A single lantern burned on the low table in the center, its flame steady behind paper walls. The tatami beneath her feet was worn but clean. A cushion waited at the table's edge, its fabric faded from years of use.
A servant had already laid out her meal.
It was not cooked or prepared in any way.
Alive.
A small wooden bowl sat in the center of the table, filled with water that rippled gently. Inside, a single fish—a young carp, no larger than her palm—swam in slow, aimless circles. Its scales caught the lamplight, shimmering gold and silver as it turned, turned, and turned.
Hanaya knelt at the table and stared at the fish.
The freshest possible, she thought. My favorite!
She pulled her hands from her pockets. Her fingers were stiff, the joints aching as she flexed them. The chill had sunk deep into her bones, and the warmth of the room seemed to draw it out in waves of dull pain.
She picked up her chopsticks.
The fish's thoughts trickled into her mind—fragments, sensations, not quite words but something she understood nonetheless.
...water warm... no... cold now... where...?
She lowered the chopsticks into the bowl. The water lapped at the sides, spilling a few drops onto the dark wood of the table. The fish darted away, then circled back, confused.
...shadow... something above... danger? no... not danger... just... big...
Her fingers tightened on the chopsticks. The wood creaked faintly under the pressure.
She caught the fish behind its head.
It flopped once, twice, then stilled as she lifted it from the water. Water dripped from its body, pattering onto the table in soft, irregular droplets. Its gills flared—once, twice—seeking oxygen that was no longer there.
can't breathe... why... why can't I...
She brought it to her lips.
...please... no... stop...
She bit down.
The flesh was cold, soft, alive. It squirmed against her tongue—a final, reflexive convulsion of muscle and nerve. She chewed slowly as she stared at nothing.
...hurts... hurts... why... I didn't... what did I...
She swallowed. Took another bite.
The taste was clean, almost sweet, with an undertone of something metallic. Blood, most definitely.
...dark... everything dark... where did the light... mother... where is...
The thoughts faded. The fish stopped moving.
Hanaya set down her chopsticks. They clinked against the rim of the bowl, a small, lonely sound in the quiet room.
She reached for the flask of sake at the corner of the table. Her fingers wrapped around its cool ceramic body, and she poured herself a cup—the liquid catching the lantern light, pale and clear.
She drank it in one long swallow. The sake burned on the way down.
She poured another.
The warmth spread through her chest, loosening something that had been clenched tight since…this day started.
"That damned brat," she muttered aloud. Her voice was rough, slurred at the edges. She stared at the opposite wall, where the lantern's flame burned slowly.
"Sitting on my back like I was his personal horse… he even went as far as slapping the back of my head like I'm some kind of stray dog…"
She took another drink, not bothering to pour into the cup this time—lifting the flask directly to her lips. A trickle of sake escaped the corner of her mouth and traced a line down her chin.
"Blackmailing me… then threatening me with physical threat. Making me run around like a servant." She laughed—a short, bitter sound that cracked in the middle. "And I can't even fight back… this damned unfair world. How can a five-year-old be stronger than a full-grown adult?!"
She slammed the flask down on the table.
She stared at the empty bowl. The water was still as the ripples had faded, the surface now a flat mirror that reflected the lantern's flame.
"I used to be the one in control, you know," she said to no one. Her voice had dropped to a whisper. "Before that monster of a child."
She picked up the chopsticks again—just to hold them, to feel the wood between her fingers. Her thumb traced the grain.
"If only he were like the other children. The usual soft ones." Her smile was thin, and she knew it looked ugly. "They usually cried when I touched them." A pause. The chopsticks turned in her grip. "They couldn't tell anyone. Who would believe a child over a teacher? I could do anything I wanted."
She poured another cup—her fourth, or perhaps her fifth. The sake had begun to blur the edges of visions and it looks as though the flames were stretching towards her.
"What a shitty luck. I thought I hit it big when I got the offer to teach the head's child." She lifted the cup and swirled it around, watching the sake slowly spin, catching the light in amber spirals. "Heard he was pampered all his life. Thought I could groom him and then marry him or something."
She laughed again—a low, wheezing sound.
"Hehehe… Become the next Hiruaruko no Genji or something."
The sake cup touched her lips. She paused there, the rim pressed against her lower lip, the warmth of the liquid seeping into her skin.
"Then… he came along." Her voice dropped, barely audible. "And he wasn't soft. He wasn't even remotely scared. He looked at me like I was the prey."
She drank. The sake emptied in three long swallows.
"And he was right." She set the cup down—too hard—and it wobbled once before settling. Her hand remained on it, fingers curled around the ceramic. "I am a prey to him."
The lantern flickered.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the eaves. A thin whistle of air slipped through a crack in the window frame, high and keening.
Hanaya's hand shot out and seized the empty bowl. Her knuckles were white as her arm trembled.
"Aghh! Damnit. Damnit. Damnit. Damn it all! Fucking pathetic!"
She hurled the bowl against the wall. It struck and made a loud thud sound—wooden, not ceramic—and bounced onto the tatami, spinning once before settling. Water splashed across the floorboards, darkening the woven straw in irregular blotches.
Her chest heaved and her breath came in ragged gasps.
"No. In the first place this isn't even my fault." She slammed her palm against the low table. The remaining chopstick jumped, clattering to the floor. "Who the hell would've known that brat would be blessed with so much talent in sorcery?! Nobody in the whole clan knew about this! Not even a whisper of rumors about this ever floated around!"
She grabbed the sake flask by its neck and raised it as if to throw it—then stopped. Her arm hung in the air, the flask trembling at the end of her grip.
"If only I just kept my hands to myself that day…" Her voice cracked. The flask lowered slowly, inch by inch, until its base touched the table with a soft tap. "No. If I actually fought back seriously, I would've definitely won! He's just a kid—"
Flashes of Naoya's eyes.
Cold eyes looking up at her from a child's face. No fear. And she doubted there will be hesitation if he ever decides to kill her.
The flask slipped from her fingers. It hit the table, tipped, and rolled in a slow arc, sake spilling from its mouth in a amber stream that pooled across the wood and dripped onto her thigh.
She did not wipe it away.
"…Damn it…" Her voice was barely a whisper now. Her shoulders slumped. Her chin dropped toward her chest. "…If only…if only I was born with a cursed technique more decent than this garbage…"
She lifted her head and screamed at the ceiling.
"ANIMAL COMMUNICATION IS USELESS IF THE ANIMALS CAN'T UNDERSTAND ME!"
The words echoed off the low rafters, bouncing back at her in distorted fragments. Understand me… stand me… me…
She was still breathing hard when a voice came from the other side of the sliding door.
"I know this place is supposed to be private and all, but you're being a little too rowdy, don't you think?"
Hanaya fell silent.
Her mouth closed. Her hands, which had been raised in fury, dropped to her sides. The only sound was her own ragged breathing and the faint whistle of wind through the window crack.
The sliding door opened with a soft scrape of wood on wood.
Standing in the doorway, framed by the cold draft from the corridor, was a man in a formal gray kimono. His hair was silver at the temples, combed back neatly. His face was pleasant—agreeable, even—with soft lines around his eyes that suggested frequent smiling. But his eyes themselves felt like fire as it took in the overturned bowl, the spilled sake, the flush on Hanaya's cheeks.
"Seto… san?" Hanaya's voice came out small, deflated.
The husband of Elder Chizuru himself.
Behind him, visible over his shoulder, Hanaya could see several guards outside the door. They stood at attention in the corridor—four of them, women in the white uniforms.
Hanaya's blood ran cold.
"Good evening," Seto said, his tone light, almost conversational. He stepped inside, his wooden sandals clicking against the tatami. The guards did not follow—they remained in the corridor, blocking the only exit. "Sorry to bother you while you're in such a… festive mood?"
He let the word hang. His gaze traveled from the spilled sake to the discarded bowl to Hanaya's flushed, tear-streaked face.
Hanaya's throat tightened. Her hands, still blue-tipped from the cold earlier, began to tremble anew—not from temperature this time.
"Seto-san," she said, forcing her voice into something resembling calm. "I wasn't expecting—"
"I'm sure you weren't." He walked past her and knelt at the low table, positioning himself across from where she sat. He placed his hands on his knees—palms down, fingers spread—and looked at her with that same pleasant, unreadable expression. "But my wife received an interesting report recently.”
He paused. The lantern flame flickered, casting his shadow large against the wall behind him.
"Apparently, Natsuko-sama began to have… well, regular would not be the correct words, but more frequent meetings with Naoya-sama. A lot more than what the son of the clan head would usually need." He tilted his head, his eyes never leaving her face. "And also… you mentioned Naoya-sama wanted to meet with Chizuru-sama, correct?"
Hell no! Hanaya's thoughts raced, her pulse hammering in her ears. She didn't mention anything! She just skulked around and left a letter as instructed by Naoya. Her nails dug into her palms beneath the table. How the hell did he know it was her?!
As if reading her mind, Seto answered, his voice still light, almost conversational.
"You really shouldn't underestimate people, even if they are male. We usually each have our own unique way."
Hanaya's jaw tightened.
"Yeah…" she muttered, her voice hollow. "I figured that out the hard way."
Seto's smile widened slightly. He let out a soft, breathy laugh—"Hmmh…. hmmhh…"—and straightened his back, his hands sliding from his knees to rest on the table's edge.
"Alright, with the pleasantries finally out of the way…" His tone shifted. The lightness remained but it was off. "Let's talk business."
Hanaya swallowed even though her mouth was dry.
"Let's see…" Seto drummed his fingers on the table once, twice—a soft, rhythmic tap. "How about we start from this: Naoya-sama is now frequently seen with Natsuko and Taro. There are rumors that they're treating him much better than his own parents." He paused, tilting his head. "Well, no, that's not accurate. More like grandparents with their grandson?"
Hanaya said nothing. Her face remained still, but her heart was a trapped bird beating against her ribs.
"No reaction, huh?" Seto's eyes glinted. "How about this?"
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping.
"Naoya-sama knew about our little dowry secret and blackmailed Natsuko into doing something for him?"
Her eyes widened as her lips parted. A small, sharp intake of breath escaped her—involuntary but undeniable. The color drained from her face, leaving her cheeks pale beneath the lingering flush of sake.
"Uh-huh!" Seto's smile spread wide, triumphant. "Got you!"
.
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Author's Notes:
Hanaya is speedrunning salmonella at this point.
Also… I really shouldn't put this much care into a chapter starring a pedophile, lol.