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. From the road, you might mistake it for abandoned luxury, some wealthy man's forgotten getaway.

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. A haze clung to the towers—almost smoke—carrying the distant, acrid scent of melted plastic.

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. Between strikes, his breath escaped in short clouds tinged with something like amusement.

Genji's hammer paused mid-stroke. "That mountain you came from—what'd you see up there?" He kept his focus on the nail.

Ren placed another spike between Genji's thick fingers. "Nothing you haven't seen down here."

A dry chuckle escaped Genji's throat, rough as stones tumbling down a hillside. "Figures. Lucky you made it here at all, then. Nothing out there wants you alive." 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.

Genji broke the quiet with a grunt. "Got a tongue in there somewhere?" He 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."

Ren stayed fixed on the fence line. "You've got someone to hold your nails," he said, voice flat as the winter horizon.

The wind filled the pause between them. Genji's laugh came suddenly—a sharp bark that never reached his eyes. "So I do," he said, weighing the hammer. "Better than nothing, I suppose."

He positioned another post into the earth, then brought the hammer down with a steady rhythm. Between each gust of wind came a single strike—not rushing, not slowing—as if he'd learned to work in the spaces where nature held its breath. The sound felt apologetic, a necessary intrusion into the silence.

"Thing about the city is it's loud, like a scream," Genji said. "But these woods?" His voice dropped to something barely audible above the wind. "Quiet out here. Learn to be quiet, learn to live quietly—that's how you survive."

Ren watched him work. With each swing, Genji's face hardened like clay left too long in the sun. 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 did alright."

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. Ren didn’t look away. His voice barely disturbed the air between himself and Genji. "Those children of yours—there were how many again?"

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

"I saw one of your boys."

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. Probably Toshiro—jumps at his own shadow, that one."

Genji rose to his full height, the hammer resting against his collarbone like a soldier’s rifle. "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 hollow percussion of ceramic on ceramic and water streaming across knife blades marked her existence.

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

Tomoe 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,” she said softly, “how long have you and your husband known each other?”

The blade froze mid-slice. 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?"

Tomoe's lips curved upward, a perfect crescent with nothing behind it. "Since before I knew myself," she said, her voice distant. She nodded toward the table. "The breakfast 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. "Happy to help."

She moved toward the table. 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. Reina's 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. Each heartbeat pounded against her windpipe. The plates clattered as she lifted them, and something rustled behind her.

Reina turned sharply. 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 murmured, 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. Beyond the glass, 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. Her hands trembled. Why did they feel so heavy? Why did her stomach twist every time Tomoe moved?

Reina’s 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. Tomoe 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. "That fence isn’t going anywhere now."

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

"You're back," she murmured.

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.

Tomoe's hands never paused their mechanical tempo against the porcelain. She might have been alone for all she acknowledged him.

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 the kitchen.

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?" The words fell soft as ash. "We'd hoped to have you with us a while longer." He stepped away from Tomoe, palms scraping together like sandpaper. "The roads aren't safe anymore. Your friends—well, let's be realistic about their chances. 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. "My sister is waiting for me. We really should be going."

Genji's smile remained fixed while his eyes hardened to glass. "Of course," he said after a pause that stretched just seconds too long. "I'll collect your belongings. Wait here."

━━━━━━━━━━𝑾𝑪𝑨━━━━━━━━━━

Perched at the table's edge, Ren kept one hand steady on his knee. Each time Tomoe's trays shifted, the newspaper underneath rustled—a sound like dry leaves. The 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. Each box of food sat in perfect alignment—rice formed into flawless geometries, fish sliced with mechanical evenness. 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!" Tomoe's laugh cut through the room like glass breaking. "That husband of mine. Where has he wandered off to now? He's probably just lost in memories somewhere," she said, hands hovering motionless above the perfectly arranged food. "My husband has such a tender heart for young people. Especially ones like you." Her attention moved from him to Reina, lingering a beat too long. "You could be us, twenty years ago."

A tremor passed through Reina's shoulders—barely noticeable, but Ren caught it.

Tomoe’s spine snapped straight. "I should find him. Then we can see you off properly." Her mouth curved upward, eyes cold as river stones. "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. Only then did he turn.

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

He leaned back in his chair. "You're just realizing this now?"

Her mouth opened slightly, breath catching. "Don't joke about this, Ren. I think they might be—" The words died in her throat. She swallowed hard. "I can't bring myself to say it."

"Then we need to leave," he said, voice flat. "Now."

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

He frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"If I'm right about this place," she whispered, every word trembling like a leaf in winter, "there are children 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. Lilly is out there."

He didn’t say the rest.

Haruka is out there.

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 those kids, 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."

Her voice came again—louder now, cracking. "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 map 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." He spread the words the way a butcher spreads meat—slow, tasting them. 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’s voice cracked the room. "He’s sick! You don’t have to do this, Tomoe!"

"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.

Ren 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?" He let the shotgun dip toward Ren’s arm as if to measure. "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! No!"

Tomoe’s patience snapped. She barked, harsh as bone. "I said shut your mouth!"

Genji laughed—a short, ugly sound—and leaned forward until the muzzle kissed the edge of Ren’s jacket. The smell of gun oil and stale tobacco filled his nose.

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

Ren’s thoughts clicked into machine cadence. His body wanted to move; his mind counted the cost.

"What about the kids?" Reina managed, voice a thin thread.

"Oh, the kids? Planned on selling them soon, before shit hit the fan," Genji said, smooth and casual. "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," she cried, voice raw and hoarse. "FUCKING MONSTERS!"

Tomoe’s hand went to the pistol fast as instinct. Her voice wasn’t a whisper; it cracked. "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. Her limbs turned to stone. 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 lifted her head.

Tomoe remained upright, but where her head should have been was only absence—a void surrounded by a corona of crimson vapor, petals hanging in the air. For one impossible moment, her headless body defied physics, standing 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 with a sound like wet laundry dropped onto tile.

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.

She couldn’t process what had happened—had Ren been hit? Was he even breathing?

Her vision cleared. There he stood, motionless. His arm extended, hand splayed open, index finger aimed precisely where Tomoe had stood—frozen in the aftermath of some terrible, invisible power.

Genji staggered backward, chest heaving like a drowning man’s. Terror hollowed his face. "You—" The word strangled. "What kind of—" Then 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. What remained of his hands scattered across the floor in wet, red pieces, followed by the hollow thud of the abandoned shotgun. Genji stumbled toward the exit, screams high and thin, blood spattering the floor with each lurching step.

Behind him, 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.

Reina stayed frozen as Ren stalked through the doorway after him. 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. Then came a deeper sound—wood screaming against itself, the house protesting as something inside it was compressed beyond what physics should allow. The air pressure dropped suddenly, as if the world itself had taken a final breath.

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. Red-black stains crawled up his jeans. 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.