What You Lost IV

Wood splintered under each slow strike of the hammer. The sound carried briefly across the barren field before dissolving into winter air. Crouched beside the fence post, Ren steadied a small metal box against his leg, his breath ghosting away in pale clouds.

Morning stripped the house of its nighttime disguise. Sunlight revealed what darkness had hidden—a building that seemed to shrink under scrutiny, its white plaster walls reflecting winter's anemic glow, its roof sagging beneath crystallized dew.

The city rose beyond the yard—buildings stacked against one another, their windows catching the weak glow. It seemed impossibly close, as though he could reach out and topple the skyline with his fingertips.

Beside the fence, Genji knelt and hammered each nail with precision, like a man who'd found comfort in making simple tasks last. His massive frame curved forward, coat bunched over sloped shoulders that seemed to carry more than just fabric. Each movement came slow and measured—strange patience from someone who had witnessed civilization crumble.

The hammer paused mid-stroke. "That mountain you came from—what'd you see up there?"

"Nothing you haven't seen down here."

A dry chuckle escaped Genji's throat. "Figures. Lucky you made it here at all, then.” His expression tightened as he studied the distant treeline, jaw clenching. “Providence, finding our little sanctuary when you did."

Ren kept his mouth shut. Cold air found the space between his jacket and neck, sending a shiver down his spine. Silence pressed between them, a weight that made every rustle of fabric, every breath, feel like an unwelcome interruption.

"Got a tongue in there somewhere?" Genji tapped the hammer against his palm, a trace of amusement cutting through his weathered tone. "Where I come from, boys your age knew when to speak up. Especially when someone's putting a roof over their head."

"You've got someone to hold your nails," he said, voice flat as the winter horizon.

Genji's laugh came suddenly—a sharp bark that never reached his eyes. "So I do. Better than nothing, I suppose." He positioned another nail into the post, then brought the hammer down with a steady rhythm. "Thing about the city is it's loud, like a scream," Genji said. "But way out here?" His voice dropped to something barely audible above the wind. "Quiet. Learn to be quiet, learn to live quietly—that's how you survive."

Ren watched him work. The man wore his years of survival like medals pinned to his chest—not badges of those he'd helped, but tallies of those he'd outlived.

"Why didn’t you evacuate like the rest?"

The hammer froze. Nothing stirred but the wind. When he finally answered, his voice had hollowed out, like someone speaking from the bottom of a well. "Some men abandon what's theirs at the first sign of trouble." The nail disappeared into wood with a single, decisive blow. "But the ones who fled? They're gone now. We're still breathing. I say we made the right call."

Ren didn’t respond. He shifted the box of nails in his hand, the metal clinking softly together. With a slight turn of his head, he studied the windows along the side of the house where it faced the forest.

Shadows filled the upper rooms, curtains drawn but too thin to hide the silhouettes that moved behind them.

He blinked once, twice.

There—movement.

The farthest window held a silhouette, motionless as paper pressed against glass. A second figure materialized beside it, face obscured by distance and the morning’s flat light. "Those children of yours—there were how many again?"

"Three," Genji said. "Two boys, one girl."

Genji followed his line of sight. A stillness came over him, just for a breath, before his features rearranged themselves into something meant to look natural.

"Ah, watching us," he said, teeth showing beneath his smile. He waved. "Can't keep them away from the windows.”

Genji rose to his full height, the hammer resting against his collarbone. "Time to get inside. All this work’s left me hungry."

Ren studied him carefully. A gust caught the loose fabric of Genji's coat, making it snap like a flag. The man's smile remained fixed, but his knuckles whitened around the hammer's handle.

Genji hunched down, steadied the final nail between thick fingers, then brought the hammer down with unexpected force. The crack split the silence, echoing across the yard with the finality of a rifle shot.

From the distant treeline, black shapes erupted skyward—crows scattering at once. He dusted his palms together, nodding at their handiwork. "That'll hold," he said.

When Ren glanced back at the window, the figures had vanished. Nothing remained but thin curtains stirring against the glass like ghosts.

━━━━━━━━━━𝑾𝑪𝑨━━━━━━━━━━

A pot bubbled on the stove, releasing wisps of vapor that twisted like pale fingers. Miso and root vegetables perfumed the air. Reina's wooden ladle knocked against the pot's rim in steady, hollow taps. At her side, Tomoe's hands never faltered—wash, slice, rinse, repeat—each movement flowing into the next with the efficiency of clockwork.

Where Genji filled every room like smoke, Tomoe seemed to vanish into the walls. No sound escaped her lips, no sighs punctuated her movements, not even a glance toward Reina unless directly addressed. Only the percussion of ceramic on ceramic and water streaming across knife blades marked her existence.

Her fingers twitched at her sides. Her hands hovered uselessly as Tomoe moved with the practiced precision of someone following steps Reina couldn't see.

She pivoted, kitchen knife catching the pale light. The blade's edge winked at Reina, who felt words dry up in her mouth like water on hot stone. The silence between them had stretched too thin—she needed to puncture it before it snapped back against her skin.

“Furuya-san, how long have you and your husband known each other?”

The blade froze. Water coursed over Tomoe's thin wrists, pooling beneath her palms. She stayed fixed on her work.

"All my life."

The confession emerged barely louder than the dripping faucet—gentle as a lullaby, but empty as a promise made to the dead.

Reina blinked. "You've known each other since childhood?"

"Since before I knew myself," she said. She nodded toward the table. "The dishes—my husband left them there. Would you mind?"

Something in her tone made Reina’s spine tingle. She nodded, her own smile tightening at the corners.

With each step, the house seemed to notice her—shadows lengthened across the floor, the refrigerator's drone grew insistent, floorboards betrayed her weight. Breakfast dishes waited in a perfect stack, and next to them lay a newspaper, folded open. Her attention drifted downward, anticipating household tips or weather forecasts. The headline that stared back read: [MISSING CHILDREN – UPDATED LIST]. Fingerprints smudged the newsprint, oily whorls obscuring faces that smiled up at her, frozen in time. Each photo captured a moment before disappearance—school portraits with awkward grins, candid snapshots at parks.

Her heart lurched sideways in her chest. She scanned the kitchen walls, the refrigerator door, the hallway beyond. Not a single child's photograph hung anywhere. No crayon masterpieces secured with magnets. No height marks penciled on door frames. Her fingers trembled above the stack of dishes. The plates clattered as she lifted them, and something rustled behind her.

Reina turned. Tomoe stood inches away, lips curved upward, the kitchen knife balanced between her fingers—metal catching light as she wiped it with a lemon-yellow cloth. "Oh my, did I frighten you? Just putting this away," she said, sliding past toward the counter.

Every sound arrived with painful clarity—water striking metal in the sink, blood pulsing against her temples with such force she thought her skull might crack.

Reina turned toward the window. Morning light spilled across the lawn, transforming each blade of frost-covered grass into a tiny prism. The sheer normalcy of it made her feel dizzy.

No. I’m overthinking. Reading danger into coincidence. Sleep deprivation playing tricks on me.

She set the plates down too carefully. Why did they feel so heavy? Why did her stomach twist every time Tomoe moved? Her mind raced, trying to piece together a narrative that made sense.

Tomoe stood with her back half-turned, sleeves folded in perfect symmetrical creases above pale wrists. That placid smile never wavered. Another knife rested just inches from her fingertips. Something about the woman—the way she occupied space without seeming to disturb it—made the air feel thin. She moved with such purposeful care, such measured grace, that it seemed rehearsed rather than natural.

The saliva in Reina’s throat felt thick as honey. Her body locked in place, muscles rigid as winter branches. She fixed on the sink’s drain, refusing to let her focus drift toward the woman beside her.

One-two-three-four—she measured each inhale against the steady drip of the faucet.

Wood scraped against wood as the front door slid open. "All done!" Genji’s voice cut through the kitchen’s silence.

Reina’s spine went rigid. She arranged her face into something neutral, something safe. Beside her, Tomoe pivoted toward him, her lips curving upward in a way they hadn’t for Reina.

"You're back!”

Genji appeared behind Tomoe, encircling her narrow waist with arms still dirt-streaked from the yard. He planted his lips against her cheek with deliberate force, leaving a damp mark where his beard scraped her skin.

Reina didn’t move. The metallic scent of soil and iron rose from his jacket, filling her nostrils. Each small sound—his exhale against Tomoe's ear, the slight shift of fabric as their bodies pressed together—echoed in her mind.

This wasn't tenderness. This was possession. Even as his mouth lingered on his wife's skin, Reina felt his attention slide sideways, finding her.

"I think we need to leave now."

Genji's shoulders stiffened before he turned, his smile faltering at the edges. "So soon? We'd hoped to have you with us a while longer." He stepped away from Tomoe. "The roads aren't safe anymore. Your friends—well, let's be realistic… Wouldn't you rather stay where there's hot water and locked doors?"

Reina retreated a half-step, posture straightening into the politeness her mother had drilled into her since childhood. The refusal formed on her lips before she'd even decided to speak. "We're grateful for your hospitality," she managed, each syllable scraping her narrowing windpipe. "But my sister is waiting for me."

Genji's smile remained fixed. "Of course," he said after a pause that stretched just a few seconds too long. "I'll collect your belongings. Wait here, if you’d be so kind."

━━━━━━━━━━𝑾𝑪𝑨━━━━━━━━━━

Ren kept one hand steady on his knee. The newspaper headline remained illegible from his position, but those photographs stared upward: tiny faces in grainy black-and-white, their edges worn away as if someone had touched them too often.

Tomoe’s soft humming filled the kitchen as she positioned lacquered trays on the table. The knife rested nearby, its blade gleaming as if it had never touched food.

Beside him, Reina maintained a posture like she'd swallowed a rod. Her fingertips worried the edge of her sleeve in an endless loop. She kept her focus on the tabletop. Anxiety poured from her in silent pulses that Ren could almost feel in the air between them.

Words formed in his throat—stop fidgeting, act normal—but died before reaching his lips.

"Oh! That husband of mine. Where has he wandered off to now? He's probably just lost in memories somewhere," Tomoe said, hands hovering motionless above the perfectly arranged food. "My husband has such a tender heart for young people." Her attention moved from him to Reina, lingering a beat too long. "You could be us, twenty years ago." Tomoe’s spine snapped straight. "I should find him! Then we can see you off. Do enjoy these last moments of comfort. The world outside offers so few of them now."

Her slippers whispered across the floorboards as she glided down the hallway. The sound dissolved into silence, leaving only the refrigerator’s drone and winter air seeping through the wood like a patient, waiting breath.

Ren kept his attention on the doorway until Tomoe’s footsteps faded completely.

Reina was already facing him, the whites showing all around her irises, pupils pinpricked in the dim light. "Something’s wrong, Ren," she breathed. "These people aren’t right."

"You're just realizing this now?"

"Don't joke about this, Ren! I think they might be—" The words died in her throat. She swallowed hard. "I can't… I can’t even bring myself to say it."

"Then we need to leave. Right now."

She shook her head. "We can't just walk away."

"What are you talking about?"

"If I'm right about this place, there are children here who need us. We're all they have."

Somewhere behind him the wall clock ticked—steady, counting down to something unseen. "We can’t," he said. His tone came out flatter than he intended. "It’s not our problem.”

Reina’s shoulders drew tight, the color rising to her face. "How can you say that? Do you know what’s happening here? They’re kids, Ren!"

"And what will you do? Be their judge, jury, and executioner? Save them, then what—leave those monsters alive to find more?" He shook his head. "Let’s just go." He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The finality in it was enough.

Her pulse showed in her throat, sharp under pale skin. She trembled but stood defiant. "No. We have to do the right thing."

He drew in a slow breath through his nose, exhaling through clenched teeth. "We don’t have to do anything."

"We don’t have to do anything but the right thing."

Something in her voice made him study her longer than he meant to. The fear wasn’t for herself—it never was. The clock stopped ticking in his head. He registered the tremor in her hands, the way fear and conviction shared space inside her. She was fire; he was the space it burned in.

He opened his mouth to speak—to tell her something, he didn’t even know what—

Movement flickered at the edge of vision. The shotgun looked too big in Genji’s hands, like something stolen from a prop room. The barrel tracked along Ren’s chest in slow, lazy arcs, as if Genji were sketching marks on a pumpkin and deciding where to carve.

"You disrespectful punk," Genji said, voice thick with amusement and something darker underneath. "A cripple freak like you with a girl like that. Pisses me off just looking at you." The shotgun’s muzzle rose, fell. "Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her."

Tomoe stood a step behind him, hands folded over a handgun. Her gaze was small and empty; whatever light was left in her had gone.

"Are you just going to let him do this?" Reina asked. "He’s sick!"

"Shut your fucking mouth, girl!" Tomoe’s voice was ice over coals. "You don’t know what you’re talking about. Genji saved me. He saves the children. Finds them a better home! And once you see how good you have it here with us, you’ll change that ungrateful attitude of yours!"

Ren’s skin crawled. He watched Reina’s jaw work, the line of her throat, the color draining from her face.

"You’re insane," she whispered, fists tightening until the knuckles blanched.

He felt the residue of the day’s exertion crawl under his skin—the slow ache in his limbs from everything he’d done to keep them moving. Power left him with a tax that came on slow and stubborn. If he burned himself out now, he didn’t know what would happen. He could count losses; he couldn’t count miracles.

What do I do? His mind ran short, sharp reels. If I act… what if she senses it? What if I doom us all?

Genji cocked his head. "No last words, freak? Too scared to talk? You see, dear, a guy like this would’ve left you behind anyway. Now… what should I shoot first? Your head? Your chest? Maybe your other arm? Make it a matching set!"

Reina’s voice tore out of her. "Please! Don’t do this!"

"I said shut your mouth!" Tomoe barked.

Genji laughed—a short, ugly sound—and leaned forward until the muzzle kissed the edge of Ren’s jacket.

He could see Reina’s lips quiver. Her knees buckle. She went down slow, fingers clawing at the table to stay upright. When she hit the floor she didn’t curl away; she folded inward like a book someone had closed hard.

"What about the kids?" Reina managed.

"Oh, the kids? Planned on selling off them before shit hit the fan," Genji said, smooth and casual. "I keep them around in case of emergency at this point."

The sentence knifed the air. Reina’s scream ripped out—less a sound than a break—and she threw the last of herself into it. "You’re monsters! Fucking monsters!

"Shut up!"

Tomoe’s finger tightened on the trigger. Her smile vanished, replaced by something feral. Her whole face tilted as if she’d decided, finally, to bare her true shape.

The bullet leapt forward. The sound that followed detonated inside Ren—deafening, absolute.

━━━━━━━━━━𝑾𝑪𝑨━━━━━━━━━━

The world exploded into fragments. In place of sound came a high, piercing whine that consumed everything else.

Reina's head snapped backward as if struck, white light flooding her vision. In the moment that followed, she was certain the bullet had found her.

A warm wetness struck her face like a slap. Something thick clung to her skin. She blinked through the haze, hands frantically searching her body. No wound. No piercing agony. The blood wasn’t hers.

She looked up.

Tomoe remained upright, but where her head should have been was nothing—a void surrounded by a corona of crimson vapor, petals hanging in the air.

For one impossible moment, her headless body stood as if waiting for instructions that would never come. The pistol slipped from her fingers, striking the floor with a sharp clang that seemed to remind gravity of its duty. Her body crumpled, collapsing.

Reina couldn’t breathe. The blood pooled outward in dark, viscous streams. Her attention snagged on a single bullet casing driven into the floorboards.

"Ren?" The name escaped her lips in a broken whisper. “Ren!?” She couldn’t process what had happened—had Ren been hit? Was he even breathing?

There he stood. His arm extended, hand splayed open, index finger aimed precisely where Tomoe had stood.

Genji staggered backward, chest heaving like a drowning man’s. Terror hollowed his face. "You—" The word strangled. "What kind of—" His voice broke free, climbing into a shriek: "WHAT DID YOU DO?"

He swung the shotgun toward Ren, but the barrel never aligned. Instead, it wrenched itself downward with unnatural force. His wrists bent until they snapped like dry branches. His howl pierced the room as invisible pressure continued its work, separating skin from muscle, muscle from bone.

His hands scattered across the floor in wet, red pieces, still holding the shotgun. Genji stumbled toward the exit, screaming, blood spattering the floor with each lurching step.

Ren followed with the patient inevitability of a tide. Each step measured, deliberate—a predator who knew his prey had nowhere to run. Death dressed in human form.

Her pulse beat in her ears, drowning out everything. Tomoe’s headless body sprawled beside her.

From beyond the doorway came Genji’s voice—no longer commanding, but shrill with terror. Words tumbled.

The doorway vomited what had once been a man—a wet constellation of matter that struck the walls with terrible force. The living room wore this new crimson coat like a confession, and the metallic reek clawed at her throat.

Reina’s lungs burned before she noticed she’d stopped breathing. A single red droplet navigated the grain of the floorboard, advancing toward her foot. It was joined by another, then several more, until a thin scarlet river sought her out across the wood.

Footsteps followed. Soft. Unhurried.

She couldn’t look away. First the doorway—the silhouette carved against light. Down to where his boots had gone midnight-dark. The fingers of his remaining hand twitched in small spasms, as if discharging some terrible current. Blood threaded through his white hair, droplets sliding down his cheeks. A single breath expanded his chest.

His face held nothing—no horror, no remorse. Only his eyes: twin suns burning holes in the world.