Velvet Silence

Oita Prefecture ― Five Years Ago

She had a loyal and loving husband. She had three beautiful children. She had a voice that turned rice fields into stages and rooftops into chapels.

Reina Mori, 44, was once the rural songbird of Nakatsu City—a mother bathed in sunlight and the gentle scent of miso soup. In their quiet town, she was known as the soft-spoken wife of an ordinary factory worker, a serene presence who brought warmth to every corner of their modest home. Her husband, ever supportive, never missed a local variety show when Reina was invited as a guest performer.

Her voice didn’t crave fame. It belonged to moments woven into the fabric of everyday life—weddings, funerals, summer festivals, and nights filled with fireflies.

Then, during a Christmas performance showcasing local talent, a talent scout from Tokyo happened to be in the audience. Amid the cheerful noise and modest performances, Reina shone—a quiet beauty with a voice that lingered. She stood out.

The scout didn’t hesitate. He asked for her contact details, sensing something rare.

A few weeks later, a call came from Fuji Records, a Tokyo-based label.

“You could be everything. You deserve to be heard.”

Reina shared the news with her children, calling it a possible short-term gig—maybe even a chance to step into greener pastures. When she told her husband, she asked if he believed she should take the offer.

But something shifted in her. The excitement sparked a quiet transformation. In her heart, she had already left.

She never told the community goodbye.

She left Oita. Told her children it was just for a few weeks.

Until...
Weeks became years. She stopped calling. Some things changed her.


Tokyo ― Present Day

Now, Reina Mori lived behind the locked doors of a Tokyo penthouse, surrounded by velvet drapes, neon citylight, and the lingering scent of sandalwood candles. This was not the Reina Nakatsu once knew. Once reserved and quietly graceful, she was now free-spirited, radiant—almost reckless in her joy. She lived as if single, as if she had no husband, no children. Her money was hers alone, spent on indulgences and the pursuit of her own happiness.
By day, she wore silk robes and murmured lyrics into her gold microphone. By night, she fed. They were always younger. Always beautiful. Tight abs. Honey-skin. Laughs like music. She picked them out like fruit at a midnight market. Called them by stage names: Blue, Clover, Muse. They came to her high-rise with no luggage, no past. She rewarded them with sushi, champagne, ecstasy―and her voice in their ears, whispering lullabies laced wit moans.

One, a 20 year old dance major, once asked:
"Do you even remember their names?
She laughed and pulled him by the waistband.
"Only the ones who leave bruises."

Sometimes she cried in the shower, but she always wore lipstick by sunrise.

Three Days Ago 

Reina stood beneath the ring light, reapplying her signature red lipstick. She wore nothing but a pair of lace panties. That’s when she saw it—just below her collarbone, blooming like a bruise:

An inkblot. Jet-black. Lotus-shaped.
It pulsed faintly beneath her touch.
No cut. No burn. Just there.

She scrubbed at it.
Nothing changed.
It only darkened.

That night, she heard music in the silence.
The television was off. Her Spotify player paused.
This moment chilled her to the core.

The volume rose.
Not in her head. Not from the street.
It came from within the walls.

A man’s voice—deep, ancient—sang her name.

“Velvet voice behind the veil... all your silk is just betrayal.”

She hurled the microphone across the room.
Her eyes were wide, scanning the shadows.
She wanted to scream—
But the weight of her terror left her silent.


One Day Ago

She visited a fortune teller in Harajuku. The woman spoke without opening her eyes.
"He has smelled your perfume in the dark. He has counted the boys in your sheets. You have sung your soul away."

Reina grabbed the old woman's wrists."Who is he?!"

The fortune teller opened her eyes. One was clouded white. The other... glowed with a faint lotus in its iris."He is headless because of her. And she now chooses for him."

Reina grew uneasy. A creeping fear took hold—was this the aftermath of too many pills, finally unraveling her mind? Or the consequence of nights blurred by pleasure and strangers?


Tonight ― Final Stream

Reina opened her last livestream with a whisper."Good evening, my sweet little sinners..."
She wore her red robe and whispered promises into the mic. Over 18,000 tuned in. But tonight, her voice trembled. She kept glancing at the window, though it was closed. Kept checking her neck in the reflection of her mic.
One viewer wrote:"Damn, this is the sexiest she's ever been."
Another replied:"Why's her hand shaking?"
Mid-stream, she leaned into the camera and whispered, but the mic didn't catch words―only a soft snort. Like a horse in fog. She froze. Then sang. One long, haunted note. A note that didn't belong to her. The voice wasn't hers anymore."You plucked boys like petals―He loves me... he loves me not."
The chat went wild. Her lips stopped moving. Still, the song played. A chorus echoed:"Lustless now the voice than sinned... velvet silence... let it end."

Her eyes widened. She reached for the mic―then collapsed out of frame.


Aftermath

The stream cut out.
At 3:47 AM, Police found her body in her studio chair. Neck wrapped in a blood-red-scarf. But when they pulled it away... there was nothing underneath. No head. No wound. Only the soft scent of vanilla. There was no scream. No struggle. Just a message scratched into the mirror behind her:

"Forgiven."

And just below it... a single black lotus, drawn in ink. Her children would never know why their mother died mid-song. But somewhere, deep in the underground forums of Tokyo's cursed corners, a rumor spread:

"The headless samurai rides again."
"If you bear the ink stain... your voice belongs to him."

And among the comments, a new account appeared:
@CrimsonOrchid77
With just one video.
No face.
Only a whisper.

"Lust has been silenced. Who shall I mark next?"


Somewhere in Saitama, Kumagaya City Alley

Under neon fog, a girl touched her fingertip to the neck of a sleeping man. The ink mark bloomed inside his tongue. She smiled. And walked into the dark, her crimson kimono brushing the wet pavement.

[Next: Bullied Feast]