The monster that remembers you better than you do

Rin couldn’t move.

She lay crumpled in Akira’s arms, chest heaving shallowly, eyes barely open, and the third mark still burning through her skin like ink branded by fire. Her whole body felt like it was vibrating at the wrong frequency—like her bones didn’t fit inside her anymore.

The growl came again.

Low. Crawling. So deep it shook the floor under her.

Akira’s hand pressed against her shoulder as he stood.

“Stay down,” he murmured.

She wanted to scream, to ask what it was, to run, to hide, but her voice wouldn't come. Her limbs were soft as water. Her vision blurred at the edges, and every breath felt like it cost too much.

Akira turned to face the hallway.

There was nothing there.

Just silence.

And then the lights overhead flickered, buzzing violently before one by one—they exploded.

Sparks rained.

Glass cracked under pressure unseen.

And then the shadow stepped forward.

No footsteps. No sound. It didn’t walk—it glided.

It had no face. No eyes. Just a veil of rotted black threads, trailing like smoke that remembered its own death. Limbs too long. Body too tall. Its shape shifted with each blink—as if it had no final form, just layers of itself peeling back like forgotten nightmares.

But Rin knew it.

She didn’t know how—

—but her body reacted.

Her lungs locked.

Her heart screamed.

Tears spilled.

That thing… had once held her while she bled.

Akira stepped between them, spreading one arm behind him like a shield.

“You’re early,” he said to it.

The creature tilted its head sideways.

Akira’s voice turned cold.

“She’s not ready.”

The shadow’s chest rippled. Its ribs cracked outward—like wings that had forgotten what flying meant. A sound followed—wet and raw.

“You broke the seal, Kurosawa,” it said.

Its voice wasn’t like his. Not deep or monstrous.

It was soft.

Feminine.

Familiar.

Like someone Rin trusted.

Like someone she used to be.

Akira tensed.

“That’s not her voice,” he growled.

“It’s the voice she left behind,” the thing answered. “It still remembers her. More than she does.”

Rin clutched her chest.

The third mark pulsed.

Memories stabbed at her—too fast to catch, too painful to hold. A bridge. A blade. A scream. A kiss. Blood. Wind.

“I’ve seen you before,” she whispered.

The shadow turned its head toward her.

It smiled.

Not with lips. With intention. With hunger.

“You died in my arms too,” it said.

Akira’s hand flicked upward.

A flash of something shimmered around him—an invisible barrier—circles of ancient glyphs swirling like constellations in midair.

“Touch her and I end this cycle here,” he said.

The shadow lunged.

It didn’t leap—it shattered forward like gravity lost its meaning. In one breath, it was across the hall, arm outstretched, threads snapping in the air.

Akira met it mid-step.

There was no sound.

No clash.

Just light.

Exploding white light that swallowed the space between them, forcing Rin to shut her eyes.

When she opened them again—

They were gone.

Both of them.

The shadow. Akira.

The hallway was scorched. The walls smoked. Lockers had twisted open as if something had screamed inside them.

She coughed, curling into herself. Her body still burned. The mark above her heart glowed faintly—dim, but alive.

A whisper echoed in the air around her.