"You're late," she said, setting her briefcase on the table.
"You're early"
"Five minutes is not late. Five minutes is fashionably punctual."
"That's not a thing."
"It is now. I just invented it."
"I am a Hoshikawa. Punctuality is a requirement
I raised an eyebrow. "You're sounding exactly like Rory."
"That name again...."
"I've never even met Rory."
"Who is she? You keep calling her from time to time"
Shit.
"The girl who lives next door," I said quickly.
"I've mentioned her before. She's... eccentric."
"In what way?"
"She is small, a gremlin, that thinks expired yogurt is a challenge."
Luna raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. She was learning to recognize when I was deflecting, but she was also learning when to let me deflect.
"So," Luna said, closing her notebook. "How are you?"
"Alive," I said finally. "That counts for something."
"It counts for a lot." She opened her briefcase and pulled out her notebook, but didn't open it. Her blue eyes studied me with that intensity I'd come to recognize. "How has your week been? Really."
I leaned back in my chair. The wood creaked under my weight.
"I haven't found a job yet. I've sent out applications—twelve of them, actually—but nobody's called back. I think my resume has a stain on it that only HR departments can see. Like a black mark. 'Warning: This one's a problem.'"
"Give it time."
"I don't have time. Time is exactly what I don't have." I caught myself, shook my head. "Sorry. You didn't come here to listen to me complain."
"I came here because I wanted to see you. The lesson is a bonus." She folded her hands on the table. "Go on. What else?"
"I haven't found a job yet. But thanks to your money, I managed to pay the rent. And the bills. And I bought some food."
"That's good. What kind of food?"
"Rice. Tuna cans, Bread. Instant soup. The usual." I paused.
"I also got free breakfast at the hospital."
Luna's perfectly shaped eyebrows rose. "The hospital? Are you ill?"
"No, no. I donated blood. They give you some toast, juice, sometimes a sandwich if you're lucky." I shrugged.
"It's not much, but it's something."
Luna stared at me.
"You donated blood. For breakfast."
"When you put it like that, it sounds worse than it is."
"Does it?" She leaned forward, her blue eyes narrowing.
"César, you're selling your blood to eat."
"I'm not selling it. I'm donating it. The breakfast is just... a courtesy."
"A courtesy."
"Yes. A very appreciated courtesy. The toast was surprisingly good."
She didn't laugh. Her expression was caught somewhere between horror and fascination, as if I'd just told her I'd been hunting pigeons in the park.
"Does it hurt?" she asked finally.
"The needle? A little. Not much. You get used to it."
"You've done this before?"
"A few times. In college. When money was tight." I paused. "Well, tighter than usual."
Luna was quiet for a moment. Then, very softly, she said: "I didn't know they gave you food for donating blood. I didn't know that was a thing that existed. I didn't know that was something people had to do."
"Most people don't. Most people have savings. Or family. Or a safety net. I don't have any of those things." I shrugged. "So I improvise."
"Is that... common? For people who don't have money?"
"Donating blood for food? Probably not. But doing things you'd rather not do to survive? Yeah. That's common. That's very common."
"Don't worry, I am a professional poor, I have been in the big leagues for 30 years"
"This is a trick that is not exactly something they teach in corporate heir school."
"Corporate heir school." A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"Is that what you think my education was?"
"I'm pretty sure it involved fewer blood donations and more presentations."
She considered this. Outside the window, a group of students walked past, laughing about something. The sound seemed to come from very far away.
"Tell me more," she said.
"More about what?"
"About everything. About how you look for work. About what you put on a résumé. About how you survive when you don't have... when you don't have what I have."
I studied her for a moment. Her request was genuine—I could see it in the way she leaned forward, in the intensity of her gaze. This wasn't pity or morbid curiosity. She genuinely wanted to understand.
So I told her.
I told her about job applications—the endless forms, the cover letters that no one reads, the interviews that never come. About the calculations: how many meals you can skip before your hands start shaking, how many bills you can delay before the late fees pile up. About the strategies: which supermarkets have the best discounts on nearly-expired food, which food banks have the shortest lines, which plasma donation centers pay the most.
Luna listened without interrupting. Her expression shifted between fascination and something that might have been sadness, though she hid it quickly.
"I had no idea," she said when I finished. "I knew you struggled. I just didn't... I didn't understand what that meant."
"Most people don't. It's not their fault. It's just... a different world."
"It shouldn't be." Her voice was firm. "It shouldn't be so hard just to exist."
"No," I agreed. "It shouldn't."
A silence fell between us. Not awkward. Just... thoughtful.
Then Luna straightened in her chair, her expression shifting to something more businesslike—but with an undercurrent of something else. Worry, maybe. Or frustration.
"There's something I need to tell you. Something that's happened this week."
"Good news or bad news?"
"Complicated news." She folded her hands on the table, her fingers interlacing with a tension I hadn't seen before.
"My parents have decided I need... supervision."
"Supervision?"
"A maid. A caretaker. Someone to 'look after me' while I'm here." She made air quotes with her fingers, a gesture so un-Luna-like that I almost laughed. "My psychologist—the one who thinks I'm a psychopath—told them that my lack of 'meaningful human presence' is making my condition worse. So they've hired someone to watch me. To make sure I don't 'deviate from the family's objectives.'"
"Deviate how?"
"Fail my classes. Abandon my research on the Ark Engine. Do anything that isn't exactly what my father wants me to do." Her voice was bitter. "She's not a maid. She's a warden."
"When does she arrive?"
"She's already here. She arrived this morning. Her name is Kurumi." Luna pronounced the name carefully, as if tasting it. "She's... not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone old. Stern. Disapproving." She paused. "She's young, beautiful. Maybe late twenties. Very professional. Very... observant. She looked at my apartment like she was cataloging every exit."
"That sounds unsettling.
"She asked about my lessons. About you. I told her you were my writing tutor. She didn't say anything, but I could tell she was making a note of it. Mental or physical, I don't know."
"Should I be worried?"
"No. I don't think so. She's not malicious. I can usually tell when someone means me harm, and she doesn't. She's just... watchful." Luna shook her head.
"There was something in her eyes when she looked at me.Like she was seeing something she didn't expect."
"Maybe she was. Maybe your parents told her you were a monster like a yandere, and then she met you and realized you're just a person."
"Just a person who might be a psychopath."
"You're not a psychopath, Luna."
"You don't know that. My psychologist seems very convinced."
"Your psychologist is an idiot who's fleecing your family for two hundred seventy-five thousand dollars a year while staying at five-star beach resorts." I leaned forward.
"Psychopaths don't worry about whether they're psychopaths. The fact that you're concerned about it is proof that you're not one."
She stared at me for a long moment. Then, very slowly, she smiled.
"You always do that."
"Do what?"
"Say exactly what I need to hear. Even when I don't know I need to hear it."
"That's my job. Well, it was. Now it's just... a hobby."
"A hobby you're very good at."
"I've had a lot of practice disappointing people. I know what not to say."
"That's not what I meant, and you know it." She shook her head, but the smile remained. "You're impossible, César. Has anyone ever told you that?"
"Rory. Daily."
"Rory sounds wise."
"Rory is a gremlin who once ate three-week-old yogurt and was bedridden for a day."
"...I take it back."
We both laughed. It was a small laugh, quiet in the hush of the library, but it felt significant. Like a milestone. Like something had shifted between us and wasn't going to shift back.
"There's something else," Luna said, her tone brightening slightly. "Something good, for a change."
"I'm listening."
"The university is hosting a gala in two weeks. A formal event. Faculty, donors, distinguished guests." She paused for effect. "Dr. Ark will be there."
"The Ark? The Ark Engine Ark?"
"The same one. The whole reason my family sent me here." She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with something that might have been excitement or might have been desperation. "This is my chance, César. If I can meet him—if I can make an impression—maybe I can finally do what my father sent me here to do."
"And then what? You go back to Japan?"
"I..." She hesitated. "I don't know. Maybe. But at least I'd have accomplished something. At least I'd have proven I'm not just... wasting time here."
"You're not wasting time. You've written half a novel."
"A novel my father thinks is a 'creative exercise' with no practical value."
"Your father is wrong."
"Maybe. But he's still my father." She looked down at her hands. "And I still want him to be proud of me. Even if I know he never will be."
The words hung in the air between us. I understood them more than I wanted to admit.
"The gala," I said, steering the conversation back to safer ground. "Are you going?"
"I was invited. Top of my class, as always." She said it without pride, just a statement of fact. "But I don't want to go alone. These events are always... draining. Everyone wants something from you. Everyone sees the Hoshikawa name before they see the person."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is." She looked at me, and there was something almost vulnerable in her expression. "I was wondering if you would come with me. As a guest. A... friend."
I blinked. "To a university gala? With donors and faculty and Dr. Ark?"
"Yes."
"Luna, I was expelled from this university. I don't think I'm welcome at their formal events."
"I was expelled from that same university!"
"You're my guest. They can't turn you away."
"Also, I don't have anything to wear. My formal wardrobe consists of one wrinkled shirt and a pair of pants that are too short."
"We can fix that. I have resources." She said it so matter-of-factly that I almost believed her. "Please, César. I don't want to face this alone."
She said it so simply. So honestly. The heiress of a corporate empire, asking an unemployed college dropout to be her emotional support at a formal gala.
"Okay," I heard myself say. "I'll go."
"Really?"
"Really. But if I embarrass you in front of Dr. Ark, you're not allowed to blame me."
"I would never blame you. I would simply have you quietly assassinated."
"That's... reassuring?"
"It was a joke."
"Was it?"
Her smile was enigmatic. "You'll never know."
"......."
"But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. Not really."
"Then what?"
She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a folder—the same kind she used for her novel notes. But this one was thinner. She set it on the table between us.
"I've been thinking about what you said last week," she said. "About names. About how we call each other."
I blinked. "I don't remember saying anything about names."
"You didn't. But you should have." She opened the folder. Inside was a single sheet of paper, covered in her perfect handwriting. "You called me Luna. You've been calling me Luna since we met. And I never corrected you."
"Should I have... not called you that?"
"In Japan, it's different. You don't call someone by their first name unless you're close. Family. Friends. Lovers. For everyone else, it's the last name. With a suffix. -san. -sama. -kun." She traced the characters on the paper with her finger. "If we were in Japan, you would call me Hoshikawa-san... well, Hoshikawa-sama or hime-sama more probably. Calling me Luna would be... forward. Presumptuous. Intimate."
"I didn't know. I'm sorry if I—"
"Don't apologize." She cut me off with a raised hand. "That's not why I'm telling you this. I'm telling you because I want you to understand what it means that I never corrected you."
I waited.
"We've been working together for months now," she said. "You've taught me more about writing—about storytelling, about imagination, about what it means to create something that matters—than any tutor my parents ever hired. You've been honest with me when no one else would. You've seen me at my worst. You've seen me after my father canceled. You've seen me angry and frustrated and scared. And you never once made me feel like I had to be anyone other than who I am."
Her voice wavered, just slightly.
"So when you call me Luna... I don't mind. I've never minded. But I want you to know that's not my real name."
I stared at her. "What?"
"Luna is an alias. A name I use outside Japan because it's easier for people to pronounce. Because it sounds 'international.' Because my parents thought it would be more... marketable." She said the word with a trace of bitterness. "My real name—my Japanese name, the one my grandmother gave me—is Mizuki."
Mizuki.
The word hung in the air between us.
"It means 'beautiful moon,'" she continued. "That's why I chose Luna. It's the same meaning, just in a different language. A translation."
"Mizuki," I said, testing the sound. It felt different in my mouth. Softer. More intimate. Like a secret being shared.
"I still have trouble with the 'L' sound," she admitted. "In Japanese, we don't really have it. Sometimes I catch myself saying 'Runa' instead of 'Luna.' It's embarrassing."
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
"It's not embarrassing. It's who you are."
She looked at me then—really looked at me—and her expression was something I couldn't name.
"I wanted you to know," she said quietly. "My real name. Because you've been more honest with me than anyone in my life. And I wanted to return that honesty. So... if you're going to call me by my first name, I want you to call me by my real one. Not the alias. Not the translation. Me."
"Mizuki."
"Yes." A small smile crossed her face.
"That's me."
"Mizuki." I said it again, committing it to memory. "It suits you better than Luna."
"You think so?"
"Luna is beautiful. But Mizuki is... true. It sounds like something that wasn't chosen by a marketing team. It sounds more like a truly Japanese person."
She was quiet for a moment. Then, very softly: "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For saying that. For understanding what it means." She closed the folder and tucked it back into her briefcase. "My grandmother used to call me Mizuki. She was the only one who did, after we left Japan. Everyone else calls me Luna. My parents. My tutors. My classmates. Even my father, and he's Japanese. He says Luna sounds more professional. More global."
"Sounds like your father is wrong about a lot of things."
"He is. But he's also powerful. And power matters more than being right." She straightened in her chair, visibly collecting herself. "Anyway. Now you know. And you can call me whichever you prefer. Luna is still fine; Runa is fine as I said sometimes. Mizuki is... also fine. More than fine."
"Mizuki," I said, and watched her flinch—just slightly—as if the sound of her own name was something she was still getting used to.
"I'll call you Mizuki. If that's what you want."
"It is. I think. Yes." She took a breath.
"It's strange. I've been Luna for so long that hearing Mizuki feels like... Weird. Does that make sense?"
"I think so"
The library clock struck half past five when Mizuki finally closed her notebook. The afternoon light filtered through the windows, tinting the tables with a tired gold. Outside, the sky was beginning to turn orange.
"I think that's enough for today," she said, tucking her notes into her leather briefcase.
"You've been distracted. More than usual."
"Sorry. I haven't slept well."
"Don't apologize. I've gotten used to your dark circles." A small smile.
"They're part of your... aesthetic."
"My dying raccoon aesthetic?"
"Something like that."
I gathered my things with automatic movements. The notebook. The pens. The backpack where Rory and Tamamo remained silent, probably asleep after hours of boredom.
"Your driver must be about to arrive," I said, checking the time on my phone.
"Where does he pick you up?"
"Ah... yes. The driver." She paused.
"Actually, he didn't come today."
I looked at her without understanding.
"What do you mean he didn't come?"
Mizuki adjusted the collar of her dress with an unconscious gesture.
"I didn't call him."
"What?"
"I took the bus. Like a normal person." Her tone was proud, defiant.
"A change of scenery. You know," she continued, not noticing my worried expression.
"Kurumi offered to bring me, but I told her no. I don't want her taking me everywhere like I'm a little girl. I took the bus. It was... interesting. There were a lot of people. A man was carrying a cage with a bird inside. A canary, I think."
I stared at her.
"Mizuki."
"Yes?"
"We talked about this. A week ago. In this very library."
"I remember."
"I told you to be more careful. That someone like you shouldn't be alone. That this isn't Japan."
"And I heard you." Her tone was calm, but there was something defensive in her posture.
"But I also told you I don't want to live in fear. I don't want to be the princess locked in the tower."
"It's not living in fear. It's common sense." I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated.
"Mizuki, you're the heiress to a corporate empire. There are people who would do anything for a ransom. Or for information. Or simply because you're foreign and look vulnerable."
"I look vulnerable?"
"You look rich. Which is worse."
Mizuki was silent for a moment. Then, with a sigh, she said: "Fine. Walk me to the bus stop. If that makes you feel better."
"It would make me feel better if you called your driver."
"The driver follows me everywhere. Today I wanted to be normal." Her voice softened.
"Just for one day. Is that too much to ask?"
I looked at her. Her expression was firm, but there was something vulnerable in her eyes. The same vulnerability she'd shown when she revealed her real name to me.
"Fine," I conceded.
"I'll walk you to the stop. But next time, call the driver."
"Deal."
We left the library together. The campus was quiet at this hour, with few students lingering and the silence of dusk settling over the buildings. We walked toward the bus stop, our footsteps echoing on the sidewalk.
"You know," she said as we walked.
"My grandmother used to tell me stories about the ronin. Do you know what they are?"
"Masterless samurai."
"Exactly." She glanced at me sideways.
"Warriors who had lost everything—their jobs, their clan—but who kept fighting. Kept protecting. Even though no one paid them anymore. Even though no one recognized their worth. Warriors walking through life, surviving one more day."
"Sounds like a lonely life."
"It was. But it was also a life of honor, for some of them." She paused.
"You remind me of ronin, César."
"Me? I'm not a warrior. I'm a guy with a backpack and sleep problems."
"The best ronin always deny it. Not in the literal sense. But you've lost things. Your job. Your education. And yet, here you are. Helping me. Teaching me. Protecting me." Her blue eyes met mine.
"You're an honorable ronin."
I didn't know what to say. Fortunately, we reached the bus stop before I had to respond. The small metal-and-glass structure was empty at this hour, lit by a streetlamp that flickered slightly, as if it couldn't decide whether to turn on or off.
I stopped by the bus stop pole. Mizuki stopped beside me.
"Well," she said,
"here we are."
"Yeah."
An awkward silence fell. Neither of us really knew how to say goodbye after a conversation like the one we'd just had.
"Call your driver when you get home," I said finally.
"Or at least send me a message. So I know you're okay."
"I will." She tilted her head, studying me with those analytical eyes I knew so well.
"And you? Are you taking the bus?"
"No." I shoved my hands in my pockets.
"Not today. I'm walking."
"Walking? All the way to your apartment?" She frowned.
"That's... pretty far."
"About forty minutes. It's not that much." I shrugged.
"Besides, bus fare costs money. And right now, every coin counts."
Mizuki opened her mouth to protest—probably to offer me money for the fare, or to insist I call her driver, or something equally well-intentioned—but she stopped. She'd learned, over these weeks, that I didn't accept charity. A need to prove to myself that I could manage on my own. Even if "managing" meant walking forty minutes to save a few coins.
"Alright," she said finally, and her tone was that of someone who'd learned to respect another person's boundaries.
"But be careful. It's getting dark."
"You too. And don't linger. Your bus should be here in a few minutes."
"I know." She smiled, that small, slightly sad smile I'd learned to recognize.
"Thank you. For walking me. For the lesson. For... everything."
"It's nothing."
"Yes, it is." Her expression turned serious.
"It always is."
The sound of an engine in the distance broke the moment. Her bus, probably, approaching from the end of the street.
"There it comes," I said, nodding toward it.
"Be good, Mizuki."
"That's harder than it sounds." Her smile widened a little.
"Good night, César."
"Good night."
I turned and started walking in the opposite direction of the bus, toward the street that would take me home. The sun had almost completely set, and the streetlights cast yellow circles of light onto the cracked sidewalk. I shoved my hands in my pockets and started counting mentally. Forty minutes. It wasn't that much. I'd walked longer distances for stupider reasons.
I didn't look back. I didn't want to see her get on the bus. I didn't want to watch her leave. It was easier this way, walking forward, not looking back.
What I didn't know until later was that Mizuki never got on the bus, and had actually been following me at a distance.
"Popcorn!"
Rory's voice from the backpack startled me.
"I want popcorn. For tonight's movie. We're watching Aliens, and you can't watch Aliens without popcorn. It's a crime. An offense against the gods."
"Rory, you already watched that yesterday."
"I don't care. I want popcorn. There's a store near the route. I saw it last week. They have the good popcorn. The ones that come in the red bag."
"Rory..."
"Please, please, please. I've been good all day. Tamamo's been insufferably proud of me."
"It's true," Tamamo confirmed from the other compartment.
"She hasn't bitten anyone all day."
"See! I deserve popcorn."
I sighed. But a small smile crept onto my face. After all, we'd survived another week. Eight hundred dollars wouldn't solve all my problems, but it was a start. A breather. A reason to celebrate.
"Fine. We'll buy popcorn."
"Victory!"
"But only one bag. And you share with Tamamo."
"Deal. I'm a generous goddess."
"You're not generous. We're forcing you."
"Generosity under coercion is still generosity."
"Anything else?"
"A throne," said Rory.
"A castle," added Tamamo.
"And an army of servants."
"I hate you both."
"You love us," Rory corrected.
"It's different."
The supermarket was halfway between the bus stop and my apartment. It was a small place, one of those that miraculously survive among the big chains, with narrow aisles and fluorescent lights that flickered occasionally. I left the backpack in the entrance locker—Rory grumbled but resigned herself—and went in search of the damned popcorn.
I found it in aisle three, next to the drinks. The cheapest ones. The ones that came in generic, unbranded packages. Rory wouldn't complain. Well, she'd complain, but she'd eat them anyway.
It was as I was leaving that I saw him.
The supermarket was on a side street, flanked by old buildings and a poorly lit parking lot. As I turned the corner, on my way to pick up my backpack, I heard a noise.
A thud. A moan. Something dragging.
I stopped.
My first reaction was to keep walking. It wasn't my problem. People in my neighborhood knew you didn't stick your nose in things that weren't your business. Noises in alleys were for the brave or the foolish, and I was neither.
But then I heard a voice.
"No... please..."
Mizuki.
The world stopped.
I rounded the corner.
Mizuki was on the ground, her back against the brick wall, her briefcase thrown to the side. In front of her, a figure loomed in the shadows. It was the rabbit girl. The same one from the bus. The same one from the store. The same one from the library. But she no longer looked human.
Her body undulated, her form shifting, as if her skin were liquid and couldn't decide what shape to take. Her eyes—those blue eyes that had so often looked at me with disdain—glowed with an unnatural light.
"Luna Hoshikawa," the creature said, and her voice was a chorus of overlapping whispers.
"Heiress to the Hoshikawa empire. Future assistant to Doctor Ark. The key to going home."
"Nooo!" Mizuki screamed, terrified.
But a watery tentacle shot out from the creature, grabbed her, and covered her mouth.
"Hush, little princess," the creature said in a voice that wasn't human, that seemed formed by the bubbling of thick liquid.
"I need your body. Your form. Your access. The Ark Engine will repair my ship, and I can finally leave this primitive rock. But first... I need to become you."
Mizuki saw me. Her eyes widened with a mix of terror and relief.
The creature turned its head. Its eyes found me.
"You again. The insect that's always in the way." It smiled, and it was the same smile I'd seen in the library, the smile of someone who's confirmed something they'd been observing for a long time.
"This doesn't concern you. Leave. Today I have what I want."
"No," I said.
The creature blinked.
"No?"
"No."
Mizuki was looking at me. Her expression was one of disbelief. As if she couldn't understand why I was still there.
My hand went to my pocket. The knife. The one I'd always carried with me since I was a teenager, since I learned that walking certain streets at night required more than luck, since I learned that no one was coming to save me. A small, cheap knife, bought at a hardware store years ago. It wasn't a weapon. It was insurance. A "just in case."
The "just in case" had arrived.
"A knife?" The creature laughed, a sound that wasn't human.
"What are you going to do with that, insect? Trim my nails?"
I didn't respond. I stepped between her and Mizuki, and dug the blade into her tentacle with enough force to cut and free her victim.
"César!" Mizuki started.
"Go," I said, not taking my eyes off the creature.
"Run, get out of here, get lost!"
"But—"
"GO!"
Mizuki got up. She stumbled. She grabbed her briefcase. And she ran.
The creature made a move to chase her.
I stepped in the way.
The knife sank into something that must have been its arm. The creature let out a roar—half pain, half fury—and its form rippled like struck gelatin. For a moment, I thought it had worked. For a moment, I thought I could buy enough time for Mizuki to escape.
Then its arm stretched out like a whip and struck me in the chest.
I was sent flying against the wall. The impact knocked the wind out of me. The knife flew from my hand and clinked against the pavement, out of reach. The pain was... indescribable. Like something was tearing my skin from the inside. I fell to my knees. My backpack slid off my shoulders and hit the ground several feet away.
"Insect," its voice whispered in my ear.
"Stupid insect. You could have left. You could have lived."
The pain was... I have no words to describe it.
It was as if every cell in my body was being torn apart and rebuilt and torn apart again. As if my being was dissolving in an acid that not only devoured my flesh but also my memories, my thoughts, my identity.
I saw Rory. I saw Tamamo. I saw Mizuki running, her figure disappearing into the distance. I saw my apartment. I saw my figures on their shelves. I saw ten years of loneliness and a week of love and everything I'd been and everything I'd never be.
"No!" a tiny voice shouted from the backpack. Rory.
"CESAR!"
But the creature was already enveloping me. Its body melted, expanded, swallowed me like a wave of acid. I could feel my flesh dissolving, my bones disintegrating.
"I'm not going to... let you..." The words drowned in the liquid engulfing me.
The last thing I saw was a red flash. A crimson glow that erupted from the backpack like a fire. And a tiny figure growing, growing, growing...
"Hey."
Her voice sounded calmer than she felt. The creature lifted its head. Its lighthouse eyes fixed on the twelve-centimeter-tall figure blocking the alley's exit.
"Another insect?"
"Not exactly."
Rory stepped forward. And then another step. And with each step, her body grew. Twelve centimeters became thirty. Thirty became a meter, then a bit more. Her gothic dress stretched with her, adapting to her new form as if made of liquid night. Her halberd transformed in her hands, the handle lengthening, the blade widening, the metal beginning to glow with bloodlust, with a hunger for battle, with a thirst for cruelty, shining with a light not of this world, the serpent coiled around it beginning to move, as angry as its mistress.
When Rory reached the center of the alley, she stood at her true height. Her black hair floated around her as if underwater. Her red eyes burned like freshly stoked embers. And her halberd, her faithful halberd, gleamed with the hunger of a weapon that had finally found something worthy of being cut.
"I am Rory Gremory," she said, and her voice echoed off the alley walls like distant thunder.
"Goddess of war and death. Wife of that insect you just killed. And I'm going to tear and rip you apart."
The creature attacked first. Its tendrils shot out in all directions. But Rory was no longer the twelve-centimeter figure who played with popcorn and changed TV channels. She was the goddess who had annihilated armies, who had danced on battlefields, who had existed for a thousand years and had found nothing she couldn't cut.
Her halberd moved as an extension of her will. One tendril fell. Another. The creature shrieked—a sharp, wet sound—and recoiled upon itself, trying to protect itself.
"Oh no," Rory said, advancing.
"Don't hide now. We're just getting started."
The battle was brief. Brutal. The creature wasn't prepared to face a deity. It launched desperate attacks, tried to envelop Rory in its gelatinous mass, attempted to dissolve her. But she danced with the halberd, cutting everything in her path, as if they were one. The goddess's skin didn't burn. And her red eyes showed no mercy.
The final blow split the creature in two. Its body dissolved into a puddle of cyan substance that bubbled for a few seconds and then lay still. A tiny, flickering sphere of sickly green light rose from the remains—the alien's soul, or whatever it had—and Rory caught it midair.
"Ugh, green, almost black, nothing worth saving here. To the underworld with the trash," she said, clenching her fist. The light went out.
"We'll see what other crimes you've committed later. I'm sure you were the one behind the attacks in the city."
And then, in the silence that followed, Rory Gremory knelt beside what remained of me and began to cry.
"I've got you," her voice said, and it sounded strange. Trembling.
"I've got you, idiot. I'm not letting you go."
I felt something pulling at me. A gentle but insistent force, like a current of warm water dragging me toward the surface. The darkness began to dissipate, and suddenly I could see. I could see the alley. I could see the creature's remains. I could see Rory.
She was enormous. No, I was tiny. A sphere of light, glowing faintly in the palm of her hand. Her face filled my entire field of vision, and in those red eyes that had so often looked at me with mockery, with exasperation, with love, there were tears. Real tears. They rolled down her cheeks and fell onto my light, and each one was warm.
"Wow," she said, and her voice was a failed attempt to sound casual.
"Look how small you are now. Literally a little ball. Golden, bright, beautiful, the best color for a soul, clearly a valuable soul, as I always knew. A goddess would never choose anything less than the best of the best."
"Rory..."
"Shh. Don't talk. Or talk. Or do whatever you want. I don't know how this works." She laughed, but the laugh broke halfway.
"I've never rescued a soul before. I usually just send them to the underworld and that's it. But you... you're different. You're mine."
Her fingers closed gently around me, and I felt the strangest and most wonderful contact: the brush of her skin against my being, a tiny kiss deposited on the sphere of light that I now was.
"First kiss as a soul," she murmured.
"I win. Tamamo's going to be so jealous."
"Rory..."
"Just kidding, idiot. Just kidding." Her voice broke again.
"I can't... I can't lose you. You understand? I can't. I'm a selfish goddess. The most selfish. And I'm not letting you go."
"......"
"Did you really think you were going to die that easily?"
At her feet lay the creature. Or what was left of it. A shapeless mass slowly dissolving, its eyes dimmed, its form melting into the pavement.
"Pathetic," Rory said, cleaning her halberd with a dismissive gesture.
"A thousand years of experience and a slimy slime almost took my husband. Divine shame is real."
Her voice was the usual one. Mocking. Sarcastic. But her eyes...
Her eyes were red. Not the usual crimson color, but red from crying.
"Rory..."
She turned to me, and a trembling smile formed on her face. "Good job, hero. You saved the girl. Very noble. Very stupid. Very... you."
A tear fell down her cheek.
"Look at that, you are such a mess. I leave you alone for five minutes, and you're already dying. What are you going to do without me?"
"....."
"Idiot. Stupid. What were you thinking? Throwing yourself at an alien slime without a plan, without me? What kind of husband does that?"
"What happened to the monster?"
"The bug that killed you. The alien slime that melted your bones. You know what it was?"
"An alien slime that melted my bones?"
"Yes, but technically it was a slime. Female. An assassin in rabbit form who'd been infiltrated on this planet for years. She had a mission: go home. Her ship crashed decades ago. Doctor Ark's Ark Engine is the only technology advanced enough to repair it. And to get to Ark, she needed to get close to the Hoshikawa heiress. Kill her. Replace her."
"And?"
"And now she's dead. I killed her. Well, me and my halberd. I sent her to the underworld. Took about three seconds. It was pathetic. I thought it'd be harder."
"You killed her?"
"I'm the goddess of death, César. Sending things to the other side is literally my job."
"Wahr baour me? My body..."
"I know. It's gone. But..." She nodded toward the creature's remains, still faintly glowing on the alley floor.
"That thing. It was a slime. A shapeshifter. Its body is still... available. And I'm the goddess of death. I can do things. I can... I can fix it. Besides, Tamamo helped me. She suggested the form. She said you'd already designed the perfect form for yourself. That you just needed someone to put it together for you."
"Fix it?"
"Trust me." Her voice grew firmer.
"Trust me, César. Do you?"
I always had. From the very first day.
"Yes."
Rory smiled. A trembling smile, full of tears and relief and that fierce love she'd always given me without asking for anything in return.
"Then close your eyes. Or whatever you have now. And let me work."
I closed my eyes. Or whatever I had. And I let myself go.
The sensation was indescribable. It was like being reborn. As if every cell in my new body was singing in unison. But before I could protest—if a soul without a mouth can protest—Rory threw me toward the slime's body.
"It worked!" Rory said, and her voice was triumphant and exhausted at the same time.
"IT WORKED! I'M THE BEST GODDESS IN THE UNIVERSE!"
"TAKE THAT SUCKERS!"
"Rory," Tamamo said, her voice broken with relief.
"Shut up."
"I'M NOT SHUTTING UP. I JUST RESURRECTED MY HUSBAND. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TODAY?"
"I helped you!"
"YOU HELPED A LITTLE! I DID THE HARD PART!"
The first thing I felt was the cold of the ground against my back. The second, the weight of my own body—a different, unfamiliar weight, but strangely soft and warm. The third, two voices screaming my name.
"CESAR!"
"César, wake up!"
I opened my eyes.
When I opened my eyes—real eyes, physical ones, with eyelids and eyelashes and everything else—the first thing I saw was Rory, in her normal size, like a regular human, and she was smiling. Tamamo was beside her, small, gripping Rory's shoulder tightly, still a anime-like figure.
"Good morning, sleeping beauty."
I sat up slowly. My hands... were different. Softer. Smaller. With long fingers and manicured nails. My hair fell over my shoulders in waves of a strange color—blue? Cyan?—and when I brought a hand to my chest...
"Are those...?"
"Enormous," Rory confirmed, her smile widening.
"Like you asked. Well, like you designed for your novel's character. Your character. Your... you."
I looked at Rory.
She looked back at me.
"I told you you'd be a pretty girl," she said.
"And look. I was right."
"Rory..."
My voice. My voice was different. Higher. Softer. I didn't recognize it as mine, but I liked hearing it.
"Easy, take it easy." Rory shrugged.
"I'm still calling you 'husband' in the masculine, okay? I don't care about the body. I don't care about the pronoun. I don't care about anything. Only you matter to me."
I stood up. I was shorter—shorter—than I remembered. My center of gravity had changed. My hips swayed differently, my chest pulled at me with weight. My clothes—the tatters of my previous clothes—hung loosely on a body that was no longer mine.
But right now there were more important things than myself.
"Mizuki?" I asked, and my voice sounded strange. Higher. Softer. But still mine.
"She left. She ran. We'll have to talk to her later." Rory shrugged.
"But first..."
She leaned toward me, her red eyes shining with a mix of pride and something softer.
"Tamamo," I managed to say.
"Where's Tamamo?"
"Here," she said beside Rory, on her shoulder. I'd forgotten I'd just seen her there a moment ago.
"See? Everything's fine. You're like new. Forget that—better than new. This time I outdid myself."
"Rory..."
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For saving me."
"Don't thank me yet." She crossed her arms, recovering her characteristic pose.
"We have to pick everything up, dispose of your old body, get out of here before the police come. We have to hide a crime—see, watching John Wuck was a good idea. Put those torn clothes around; I'll go get a garbage bag for your old corpse."