Steps into Twilight

The criminal underworld was no place for fools or the weak-willed.
     In a realm where loyalty could be leased by the hour, the morals and lives of those at the bottom were worth less than small change. It was a haven for the ruthless, where the powerful trampled the powerless, and the only currencies that mattered were fear and violence.
     Torasuke Yamada thrived in said chaos.
     A strategist by nature, he preferred leverage to brute force.
     Blackmail, betrayal, and exploitation were his tools of choice—sharpened further by a keen instinct for negotiation.
     He hadn’t built his empire solely through brute force, but by playing the long game—always from behind the curtain.
     And while no one in his world had clean hands, his remained conspicuously unstained.
     It was how he earned his reputation: The Demon of the Underworld.
     A fitting moniker for a man whose morals were buried somewhere under the rubble of society.
     Yamada wasn’t the kind to lose sleep over trivial threats—not enemies, not warnings, and definitely not cryptic women with a talent for saying nothing at all.
     At least, that’s what everyone around him believed.
     The truth, this time, was far less flattering.
      Ever since that meeting with Chiyo, a thought had festered—like a splinter lodged too deep to reach.
      He’d started second-guessing things he once trusted without question: his plans, his people… even the ones closest to him.
      Even Seto—his ever-reliable right hand—had started acting off.
      Yamada trusted his instincts, and they were screaming at him now.
      That was the worst part—they weren’t pointing at anything specific.
      He had nothing but a premonition to chase after—one vaguely handed to him by a woman who’d already seemed to have seen the script.
      Dealing with that kind of individual was akin to swinging at smoke.
      You could burn their house down… and still miss.

Yamada’s office was unusually quiet that day.
      Seto, who was rarely far from his side, was nowhere to be found.
      It shouldn’t have been a cause for concern. But Yamada couldn’t relax.
      Seto was always one step ahead. Of everything. Everyone. Even Yamada himself, sometimes.
     And therein lay the problem: his absence felt like an omen.
     Always one step ahead…
     Yamada picked up his phone again, fingers drumming an uneven rhythm as he redialed.
     Still no answer.
     “Shit! Where is he?!”
     He slammed a fist against the table. Almost immediately, one of his men poked his head through the door, nervously.
      “Is there something you need, boss?”
      “You see Seto?”
      “No sir. No one’s seen him since this morning.”
      “Find him. And get him here. Now!” Yamada barked.
     “Y-Yes boss!”
     The door closed behind the man as he scurried off.
     Yamada steps traced a restless loop across the room. Dark thoughts multiplied with every circuit. Paranoia had already made itself at home.
     He stopped at the window, staring out past the shuttered blinds at the calm street below.
     “Not even remotely close to a storm…” he muttered.
     When he turned around, he nearly jumped out of his skin from shock.
     A girl now sat on the leather couch in the middle of his office.
     Pale skin. White hair. A school uniform.
     He hadn’t heard the door open.
     He hadn’t heard a damn thing.
     “Who the hell are you?!” he shouted, louder than intended.
     The girl met his gaze calmly.
     “Nozomi,” she answered simply. As if it gave away anything.
     Behind him, his men had begun to gather, drawn by the commotion like moths to flame.
     “What’s this? Some lost kid here to spy on us?” one of his subordinates muttered under their breath.
     He was immediately silenced with a sharp glare from Yamada.
     There was something abnormal about the girl. She resembled a ghost, sure—Behaved like one, even.
     The real problem was how her presence got under his skin.
     Bad vibes? That was putting it mildly.
     Still, he couldn’t afford to show weakness. Not in front of his men.
     He lit a cigarette to compose himself, but the flick of the lighter betrayed a subtle tremor in his hand.
     “Nozomi, huh?” he puffed slowly. “And what business does a little girl like you have with me?”
     She set a black envelope on his desk wordlessly which he tore it open without ceremony.
     A single slip of paper was contained inside. One look at it and his frown deepened.
     “What the hell is this? Some kind of joke?”
     “There is no mistake. You recognize those names, don’t you?” she asked, regarding him the way one might wait for a guilty man to confess to a crime. “That makes you the rightful owner of that list.”
     “Who sent you?”
     “I’m not really sure how to answer that.” She paused thoughtfully, like she genuinely meant to answer. “If I had to… ‘some god’, maybe.”
     Was she serious?
     She didn’t seem to be lying—but then again, it was hard to tell anything from that unreadable face of hers.
     Yamada forced his voice to hold firm.
     “You expect me to buy into that crap? Think you can mess with me and walk out alive?”
     He crumpled the paper in his fist and flung it back onto the table.
     “It’s your choice whether to believe me or not, Mr. Yamada,” she said coolly. “I’m not here to argue.”
     One of his men stepped forward, snickering.
     “Ain’t nothing to worry about, boss. She’s just a kid. Say the word and we’ll mess her up good.”
     Nozomi remained unmoved. Yamada tried to match her, mostly to save face.
     There was something deeply wrong about how at ease she was.
     Yamada could feel the goosebumps over his skin.
     He waved the idiot off without so much as a glance.
     “Stand down.”
     The man didn’t need to be reminded twice.
     Then he turned back to the girl, masking unease with bravado.
     “You better watch your tone, little girl. You don’t seem to understand where you are. This is my turf. I make the rules here.”
     A few of the men snickered behind him. They were one word away from leaping into action. Or aggression.
     Nozomi exhaled a slow, unimpressed sigh.
     “You’re the one who doesn’t understand your position, Mr. Yamada.”
     Yamada’s eyes narrowed.
     “The message has been delivered,” she continued. “My business here is done.”
     She gave a light toss of her hair, as if concluding a routine report.
     “You can’t avoid the inevitable. None of you can.”
     The offhand delivery lit a slow-burning fuse in him.
     Was this girl threatening him?
     He slammed the desk, fury spilling over. “You’ve got some nerve—!”
     The door burst open.
     One of his men stumbled in, pale and breathless. “Boss—we’ve got a problem!”
     “What now?!”
     “It’s Seto. He’s with the rival group. We just got word. He’s… he’s turned. He betrayed us!”
     Seto? His right hand? The one man he actually trusted?
     He didn’t register the words so much as feel the floor vanish beneath him.
     It wasn’t the first betrayal Yamada had tasted.
     He’d orchestrated enough double-crosses to know how these things played out.
     But it still hit different.
     Everything was crumbling apart from the seams.
     “And so it begins,” Nozomi murmured, almost in consolation of his plight.
     He glared at her wide-eyed.
     “You knew!” he growled, his hand shooting toward his coat. Toward the hidden weapon inside. “You—!”
     She barely looked concerned.
     “Scum like you,” she said, voice like frostbite. “So quick to reach for violence like it’s the only language you speak. It makes me sick. The world would be better off without people like you.”
     A deafening explosion tore through the building.
     The ground shook beneath them, and the walls buckled as the blast spread through the entire block.
     The men in the room stumbled, chaos breaking out in an instant.
     Yamada was flung backward, slamming into his desk. His gun clattered to the floor.
     Smoke and debris rained from above. Flames erupted somewhere below.
     Another detonation erupted from somewhere closer this time. A portion of the ceiling gave in. The room began to collapse.
     Yamada hit the ground, hard. The wind was knocked from his lungs. His ears were ringing and his vision swimming.
     Through the dust and smoke, he saw her:
     Still standing. Unharmed. Unshaken.
     The ghost of a girl stepped through the ruin and crouched beside him, amber eyes glinting through the wreckage.
     There was no warmth.
     There was no malice.
     “Crime and punishment,” she whispered—
     And his world came crashing down, burying every grand ambition that had yet to see the light.

*           *           *

This wasn’t supposed to happen.
     My foot tapped restlessly against the floor as I waited—praying for someone to tell me anything positive about my sister.
     Everything had gone off the rails so fast, I could barely retrace the steps.
     How could I have let it get this far?
     Guilt tore at me, twisting deeper into my chest the longer I sat still.
     All around me, the hospital carried on like nothing had happened. Staff walked by. Patients went about their day.
     The world kept turning—while I sat here, coming apart.
     I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve known better.
     “Excuse me—Mr. Kurokawa, right?”
     A gentle voice drew me back from my downward spiral.
     I straightened instinctively, wearing my best impression of someone who wasn’t actively losing their mind.
     “Uh, yeah. That’s me.”
     The nurse—clipboard hugged to her chest—gave me a look like she was assessing whether I was the one who needed medical attention.
     “I’m here to inform you of your sister’s condition.”
     I shot to my feet almost immediately.
     “Is Azusa alright?!”
     My voice came out loud.
     Wasn’t the plan, but my sense of volume had clearly bailed along with my composure.
     It earned me a few side-glances from the staff and patients nearby.
     Great. Now I was making a scene.
     I took a step back in embarrassment, wishing I could have hit the mute button on myself.
     To her credit, the unfazed nurse kept her professional tone that probably held entire families together on a daily basis.
     “Aside from a few minor bruises and some shock, Miss Azusa is in stable condition.”
     Finally, a word that didn’t sound like the end of the world.
     I could really use some of that—for sanity’s sake, if nothing else.
     “Can I see her?”
     “Of course. Dr. Amaki will speak with you shortly after her final check-ups.”
     “Got it,” I breathed, the tension in my shoulders easing just a notch.
     She offered a polite smile and walked off.
     Stable was a generous word.
     I knew that too well from the countless excuses I’ve made before to describe everything from mild panic to complete emotional implosion.
     So no, I wasn’t about to relax.
     Not until the universe confirmed it wasn’t warming up for another dice roll.
     Psychogenic aphonia: A fancy way of saying her voice had been silenced by trauma.
     That was Azusa’s diagnosis—the reason for her regular checkups, the reason behind her silence, and probably the reason I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in years.
     And today felt dangerously close to triggering another step backward.
     A few minutes later, the exam room door slid open.
     The doctor who stepped out had the kind of aura that made you believe she could solve a murder mystery and a medical anomaly before lunch—and still make it to a faculty mixer after.
     I’d recognized her immediately, even without the name tag.
     Youthful face. Half-rimmed glasses.
     Titanium, if I had to guess.
     An air of effortless authority and charisma that made you wonder if she was secretly running the whole department—if not the entire hospital.
     Honestly, she looked more like a university professor than a doctor.
     But maybe that was part of the appeal.
     “Ah, Mr. Kurokawa,” she greeted coolly, “Just the person I was looking for.”
     “Doctor. How’s my sister?”
     “You’ve probably heard from the staff already, so I’ll spare you the recap. We’ll keep her under observation today. If there are no complications, she can be discharged as early as tomorrow.”
     I nodded, some of the pressure in my chest loosening.
     “That’s… good to hear.”
     “We also went ahead with her scheduled check-up,” she said, adjusting her glasses like she was about to deliver a thesis. “Her condition remains unchanged.”
     The verdict hung in the air just long enough for me to feel it in my bones.
     “That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” she added. “Plateaus are common. What matters is that we haven’t seen any signs of regression.”
     Regression.
     The word itself tightened something in my spine.
     I didn’t want to imagine what life would be like if that ever happened. I shook the thought off before working up the nerve to pop a question.
     “…Do you ever think she’ll ever recover completely?”
     Dr. Amaki rested a hand beneath her chin thoughtfully.
     “Physically, her vocal cords are healthy,” she explained. “But the condition we’re dealing with is psychological in nature, and there’s no telling how deep the trauma runs. Recovery is absolutely possible. But it’s not something we can chart on a timeline.”
     I kind of expected that, to be honest.
     Still… was I being too hopeful just because of a few small signs?
     She gave me that knowing look that every seasoned doctor has mastered. The kind that says I’ve seen this before without sounding condescending.
     “I understand that it’s frustrating,” she said. “Especially when you’re doing everything right and it still feels like nothing’s changing.”
     Was it that obvious?
     “I guess…” I scratched the back of my neck, not entirely sure if that was supposed to be reassuring.
     “Your sister has made more progress than you realize,” she continued kindly. “Not everything shows up in charts and numbers. And frankly, she’s one of the most cooperative patients I’ve had in a long time. That speaks volumes about the environment you’ve created for her.”
     “I’m not really sure what I’m doing, to be honest.”
     My candid confession slipped out before I could stop it.
     “Most of us aren’t,” she said with a wry smile. “Some of us just look like we do. And we wear white coats when we do it. But intent matters. You’ve shown up when it counts—and that means more than you think.”
     At this point, she could’ve told me she moonlighted as a therapist and I wouldn’t have questioned it.
     “Progress—regardless of magnitude—takes time,” she said. “With your continued support, I’m confident we’ll see even more improvement.”
     “I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”
     “Your sister is lucky to have you.”
     “I think it’s the other way around.”
     “Then it sounds like you both found each other exactly when you needed to.”
     I felt that familiar, slightly humiliating warmth crawl up the back of my ears—the classic side effect of unexpected praise.
     “Thanks, Doctor. Really.”
     “No need for thanks. I’m just doing my job.”
     “In any case, you’re free to see her now. Try not to make her laugh too hard. Bruises or not, I’m still responsible for her vitals.”
     A weak chuckle escaped me.
     “No promises.”
     “Figures,” she said, already walking off. “The siblings with the most heart are always the troublemakers.”

I lingered by the sliding door, resting a hand against it.
     Couldn’t tell if I was hesitating out of fear… or just stalling to catch my breath.
     I could still picture her—before everything. Azusa laughing, shouting, humming off-key anime openings when she thought no one was listening.
     Now, all of that had gone quiet. Replaced by whiteboards and tight-lipped smiles.
     But there was still a chance that she could return to being that vibrant girl—the version of herself that wasn’t confined by silence and scribbled apologies.
     I’d give anything for that.
     Eventually, I slid the door open, summoning just enough courage to pretend I wasn’t stalling.
     She was already awake, propped up in bed. When our eyes met, she gave me a relieved look that uncoiled the knot in my chest.
     I pulled a chair up beside her.
     “You gave me a real scare, you know?” I began, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to strained optimism.
     She frowned, already reaching for her whiteboard.
     “Sorry for worrying you.”
     Even in silence, I could hear the guilt in her voice. I shook my head, chuckling softly.
     “No apologies needed. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
     She hesitated, wiped the message, then scribbled again.
     “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have wandered off. I just…”
     Her sentence trailed off and she bit her lid.
     “Azusa. It’s not your fault. I should’ve been watching more carefully. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.”
     Her eyes widened. She grabbed the board again, scrawling furiously.
     “You know that’s not true! Why do you keep blaming yourself?! This burden isn’t yours alone!”
     The desperation in her handwriting hurt more than anything she could’ve screamed aloud.
     I managed a weak smile.
     “Sorry. I guess… it’s just a bad habit.”
     She jabbed me in the ribs with the board.
     Fair enough.
     I probably had that one coming. Along with every other unsaid insult she’d stockpiled behind those quiet, unspoken days.
     Her shoulders began to tremble. Tears spilled freely, though not a sound escaped. Silent sobs.
     I made my sister cry again.
     That was the worst part.
     Watching her fall apart—this girl who carried so much—without even the voice to cry properly. She clung to me, and I held her close, gently tracing circles across her back like I could smooth away the ache.
     We stayed there, locked in that quiet little hurricane of grief and comfort, until her sobs melted into hiccups and damp sniffles.
     I figured that was my cue.
     “So… how long is this big crybaby planning to glue herself to her emotionally available—and extremely cool—older brother?”
     She pulled away, eyes red and puffy, then raised the board with a pout.
     “Funny how that’s the first thing you say to one of the only two women in your life who care about you.”
     “Oof. That was brutal.”
     If I had an HP bar, it would’ve dipped into the red from that critical hit.
     “You can make it up to me by relying on me more, stupid brother.”
     “I thought I already did.”
     “And no more self-loathing!”
     “Point taken.”
     She erased the board and paused, her next strokes slower and more careful this time.
     “What did you and Dr. Amaki talk about?”
     “She said you’ll probably be discharged tomorrow. If things stay on track.”
     “That’s not all, is it?”
     She didn’t wait for an answer before writing more: “Don’t try to hide it from me. I know I’m not getting better.”
     “That’s not true,” I urged. “She said your vocal cords are perfectly fine. And she still believes you’ll recover.”
     No pep talk, no filters. I wasn’t sugarcoating the truth this time.
     “What if I don’t?”
     I met her eyes and gave her hand a light squeeze.
     “Then we’ll figure it out together, like we always have. You and me against the final boss that is life.”
     She still seemed a little unconvinced.
     “I’m not going anywhere, Azusa. You’re my sister, and that’s never going to change. We’ve come this far, and we’ll keep moving forward.” I assured her.
     “I’ll try harder,” she wrote, her handwriting still a little shaky, her eyes still glistening.
     “You don’t need to be the heroine of a comeback story,” I said. “Just… get better at your own speed.”
     She nodded once firmly, then smiled.
     It was enough to make the room feel a little less gray.
     “I’ll look forward to it then.”
     “You bet.”
     I sank into the chair like a man clocking out from an emotional twelve-hour shift.
     Was everything fine? Absolutely not.
     Life never handed us perfect.
     But Azusa was still here, still smiling, and my dramatic internal monologue hadn’t imploded—yet.
     A silver lining, even if it was barely the width of dental floss.
     Some people collect lucky charms. I collect small disasters that somehow don’t end in tragedy.

*          *          *

Tick. Tick. Tick.
     The clock murmured faintly in the dark as Shiori stirred from a fragile sleep.
     Her aged hands adjusted the blanket, and with a few slow, deliberate movements, she eased herself upright. The mattress beneath her groaned with the sigh of an old companion who had weathered many nights by her side.
     She caught a whiff of subtle floral fragrance.
     Once her eyes adjusted to the moonlight that spilled through the drawn curtains, she was able to make out the shape of the vase by her bedside table.
     The previously faded roses had been replaced.
     In their place stood an arrangement of white lilies that stood proudly like a beacon in the darkness.
     It was then she felt it: an inexplicable presence in the room.
     A figure by the window.
     A girl with snow-white hair cascading down her back and skin that caught the moonlight like fine marble. Her amber eyes, so fixated by the nightscape beyond the glass, held the strange weight of fullness and emptiness all at once.
     This was no chance visitor.
     “Excuse me.”
     The girl turned slightly when Shiori called out to her.
     “You’re awake. I hope I didn’t disturb you,” she said, her voice as tranquil as the night itself.
     “Not at all, my dear. At my age, sleep is as fleeting as a spring breeze,” Shiori said with a soft chuckle, her frail hands folding in her lap.
     “Were you the one who brought these, by any chance?” Shiori asked, gesturing at the flowers.
     “I did,” replied the girl as she stepped away from the window. “Fleeting, but beautiful—like a life well-lived. I figured they would suit the occasion better.”
     Shiori’s smile deepened in understanding.
     “White lilies, are they not? You certainly have an eye for beauty. And perhaps that also means you’re here for something more… significant?”
     The girl plopped onto the leather chair beside her, the cushions sinking despite her light frame.
     “Indeed,” she said, pulling out a small black envelope which she handed to Shiori. “I’m here to deliver this to you.”
     Shiori accepted the envelope, feeling the weight of it before she even opened it. Without doing so, she set it aside for the time being she asked the girl: “Are you perhaps an angel?”
     The girl could only smile awkwardly as she answered Shiori’s query.
     “That’s the first time anyone referred to me as one. You’re too kind, Ms. Shiori.”
     A polite gasp escaped from Shiori.
     “My word! Then… would Miss Reaper be more appropriate?”
     It prompted a soft chuckle from the girl.
     “Please, just call me Nozomi,” the girl replied. “How long have you known?”
     “A while, I’d say—whether you’re referring to your identity or my own mortality. The signs have been existent for some time now.”
     Nozomi flashed a puzzled look.
     “It’s the little things,” Shiori continued with a gentle nod. “A cough here, a little fatigue there. The slowing of one’s step, and the gradual inability to the things you once loved and took for granted. Alas, I’ve made peace with it.”
     Nozomi was studying her closely, unsure whether to envy or admire the strength behind her serenity.
     “Do you mean to say that you’re not afraid anymore?”
     “Of death?” Shiori’s gaze drifted toward the ceiling, as if sifting through memories stored somewhere between the ceiling tiles. “In the beginning, I was. I dreaded what the end might be like. Would it be long and drawn out, riddled with suffering… or a swift, painless exit?”
     “What kind of conclusion did you come to?”
     “Now, I’ve come to realize it’s not about fighting it,” she said, pausing with care. “It’s about embracing it. And in doing so… I found courage.”
     “Courage… to fight against death?”
     “No, dear,” she answered, her lips curving into a soft smile. “Courage to accept it.”
     A pause passed between them like the hush between verses in a hymn.
     “It’s in that acceptance that I found meaning. In the struggles, the losses, the connections made along the way. That, to me, is the answer to life.”
     Nozomi remained silent until Shiori’s softened tone coaxed her back.
     “What about you, Nozomi dear? Are you afraid?”
     Nozomi fell into deep thought again, hoping an answer might magically appear for her—but it didn’t.
     “I... don’t know.” The confession left her barely above a whisper. “I’ve always wondered what it meant to live—not just by definition alone… but to be human. To understand people better. But I can’t—” She shook her head, like she was trying to dislodge the thought. “I don’t belong with them.”
     “And what makes you think that?” Shiori pressed gently.
     “I may bear the title of reaper, but I have no power over death,” Nozomi replied bitterly, staring down at her lap with clenched fists. “Just like everyone else, I am but a subject of Death’s whims.”
     Shiori chuckled—a soft sound, amused and faintly wistful.
     “Aren’t we all?”
     Her reply made Nozomi glance up.
     “You may feel different from others,” Shiori said, reaching out with surprising steadiness to lightly graze Nozomi’s wrist, “but that doesn’t mean you’re incapable of forming meaningful connections. Listen, Nozomi. Sometimes, all it takes is a little courage. A moment of honesty. You’ve already shown your desire to connect. Let someone in, even just a little. It may seem daunting at first, but you’d be surprised how many people are already waiting at your doorstep.”
     “Let them in…?”
     Nozomi could only stare, her expression caught somewhere between scepticism and longing.
     “It won’t happen overnight,” Shiori admitted. “And that’s the journey. Life isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about learning to live with the questions—whether it takes years, or a lifetime.”
     “But I…” Nozomi’s voice faltered. “I’m not human. I’m an abomination.”
     Shiori’s brows knit with gentle disapproval.
     “That’s quite the accusation to level at yourself. I’ve heard people say worse… but never with such conviction.”
     “I mean it…” Nozomi admitted, her voice barely above a breath. “It’s the truth.”
     “And yet, all I see is a girl still searching for her path. You’re human in more ways than you know. We all feel lost. We all question who we are. But there isn’t a single ‘correct’ way to live. What matters is that you keep looking.”
     “But what if I never do…?” she whispered, despondent.
     Shiori reached forward, gathering Nozomi into her arms. Her cool touch was comforting, and Nozomi could feel the tension melting from her shoulders.
     “You don’t have to bear everything alone, dear heart.” Shiori murmured, stroking the back of her head with slow, calming motions. “You’ve spent so long looking after others. It’s okay to look after yourself too.”
     Nozomi wasn’t sure how to react to the sudden influx of foreign emotions.
     “It’s okay to follow your heart. It’s okay to be a little selfish sometimes,” Shiori added soothingly.
     “…I’m sorry,” Nozomi said, sounding small and brittle. “I’m supposed to be the one guiding you. And yet I…”
     “There’s no need to apologize,” Shiori interrupted, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. “You can take all the time in the world you need. I’ve lived long enough to know—none of us really have it figured out. You and I, both.”
     For once, Nozomi didn’t try to object or argue.
     She simply allowed herself to be coddled like a child for a little longer, as if relearning what it meant to be cared for.
     It wasn’t that her doubts had vanished.
     And she hadn’t found all her answers—far from it, in fact.
     Still, she was undoubtedly a step closer.
     One small kindness made the loneliness she carried feel a little more distant—just enough to bear.
     When she was ready again, she drew in a slow breath and offered Shiori her most genuine, heartfelt smile.
     “Well then. Shall we be on our way?”
     Shiori had to suppress a laugh.
     “Goodness, I’ve gone on longer than I meant to. I do hope I haven’t disrupted your duties.”
     She rose with a steadiness that defied her frailty, retrieving the black envelope from the nightstand as if it weighed no more than memory.
     “Thank you, Nozomi. For indulging the ramblings of this old woman.”
     Nozomi’s smile deepened.
     “The pleasure was mine, Ms. Shiori. Truly.”

*          *          *