The Veil of Sanity Tears

Bangalore, India

Detective Samuel Miller sat in the humid stillness of his home, a half-finished cup of tea cooling beside him, his attention only half on the international news channel flickering on the television screen.

Then, the world stopped.

On screen, a primetime news anchor from a major Tokyo network sat behind a sleek desk, her expression professionally somber. "We are following breaking news tonight in the Azabu-Juuban district investigation. The Tokyo Metropolitan Police have just released the identities of two victims connected to the incident. They have been identified as a young man, Kokushiro Akuma, and a minor whose name is being withheld. A police spokesperson confirmed that one of the individuals has been located and is safe, and they continue to appeal for any information from the public that may assist their work."

It was the man he had been searching for.

The shock wasn't one of simple recognition; it was a visceral, psychic jolt. It was the feeling of a door he didn't know existed slamming open in a forgotten corridor of his mind, letting in a chilling draft.

"Bloody hell," he whispered, the teacup clinking loudly as he set it down on the side table with a trembling hand.

He stood up, his movements jerky, his eyes locked on the screen as the news segment moved on. He didn't wait. He lunged for the remote, pausing the broadcast and zooming in on the frozen image. The vacant eyes stared back, piercing through the digital noise and the thousands of miles between them.

His printer whirred to life, spitting out a sheet of paper with the hauntingly familiar face. Clutching the printout, Miller strode to his closet and pulled out a locked metal case—the confidential file given to him by the boy's father, a file he had reviewed a thousand times without success.

His fingers, now slick with sweat, fumbled with the combination lock. He flung it open, and his heart hammered against his ribs. He sifted through the old photographs and reports, the entire history of a missing person he had failed to find for years.

And then, he saw it. A single, faded photograph of a young man. The same eyes, the same bone structure. It was undeniably the same person.

A cold certainty washed over him, draining the color from his face. He sank to his knees, the two images held before him.

"So it's you," he breathed, the words a dry rasp. "After all this time… I knew it. The moment I saw that picture on the TV… I knew that was Joren."

Two Days Ago - Tokyo, Japan

The same night as the warehouse massacre, the alley was dark and silent, the air thick with the coppery stench of blood and the wet sounds of tearing meat. Two wretches crouched in the darkness. At their feet, the remains of what had once been human beings were strewn about in a grotesque display. Limbs had been torn from torsos with brute force, chests were cracked open, and viscera lay glistening in the dark. They fed with frantic, single-minded hunger, ripping off chunks of flesh and swallowing them with wet, guttural sounds.

One of them, Gnasher, suddenly froze. A string of raw meat dripped from his jaw. His head lifted, nostrils flaring violently as he sampled the air. He ignored the feast before him, his entire being focused on a scent that was far more intoxicating than mere human flesh.

He growled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the alley. "The scent... it's fresh. It burns the air."

His companion, Ripper, paused his feeding, a dismembered arm clutched in his claws.

Gnasher's eyes, like chips of obsidian, gleamed with a predatory light. "The one who fought Belphegor... his rage is flooding the city. His bloodlust is a beacon."

He dropped the half-eaten piece of flesh and rose to his full height, pointing a single, twisted claw towards a distant industrial sector. "The trail is fresh. It calls from there."

Across the city, as Kokushiro finished his work in the warehouse, the scent of his unleashed bloodlust washed over Tokyo like a shockwave. For the two wretches, it was a dinner bell. The hunt had begun.

They ran towards the scent in a hurry but at the time reached it was to late Kokushiro was gone and the only thing they saw was lots of dead bodies. Under the weak moonlight filtering through the grimy windows, the carnage was displayed. One man's head was a shattered ruin, another had a gaping, hollow cavity in his chest, and a third was a mess of spilled viscera, his insides laid bare to the cold air. The fourth was simply a collection of parts. The iron smell of blood was overwhelming, a feast laid out for them, already cold.

"The essence has faded... our quarry has eluded us," Gnasher's voice was a low, venomous growl that resonated with predatory frustration, echoing off the blood-slicked walls. In a furious burst of motion, the two wretches vanished back into the city's shadows, having missed their target.

That failure festered through the night, the memory of the previous night becoming a fresh, gnawing hunger in the pit of Gnasher's being. He and Ripper huddled on the rusted steel beams of a construction site, overlooking the district where the scent had gone cold.

"He was there," Gnasher snarled, his voice a low gravel of frustration. "We were so close. The bloodlust was so strong... we should have been faster."

Ripper let out a displeased hiss, the sound like steam escaping a pipe. "The trail is old now. The human stink of the city covers it." He cracked a bone between his teeth, scavenged from a nearby dumpster. "But we know his scent now. We will not miss him again."

Present - Tokyo, Japan

The early light of dawn filtered through the window as Kokushiro stood before a mirror, adjusting the tie of his impeccably clean salaryman suit. The Hebrew's form darkened the reflection behind him, a mass of shadow in the morning-bright room.

"That girl," the Hebrew rasped. "Hikari Aoki. She's too eager."

Kokushiro's hands paused on the silk. "I know. The coffee, the questions, the constant smiles. It's either genuine interest or..."

"Or she's exactly the kind of attention we need to avoid," the Hebrew finished.

"You think Inspector Tanaka sent her?" Kokushiro asked.

"Maybe," the Hebrew growled. "Or someone else. She watches you like a scientist studying a specimen, not a student learning from a teacher."

"Still..." Kokushiro said, his voice unusually hesitant. "There's a small chance she's just what she claims to be. A normal woman starting a new job."

The Hebrew's laughter was harsh. "You're getting soft. After all we've survived, you'd consider that?"

"I consider everything," Kokushiro said, his voice turning cold. "That's how we've stayed alive. If she's dangerous, we'll know. If she's innocent... she'll eventually leave us alone."

"Don't lower your guard," the Hebrew warned, beginning to fade into the morning shadows. "Humans are either threats or tools. Nothing more."

Kokushiro finished with his tie, his face becoming expressionless again. "I remember. Until we know what she is, we watch and wait. That has always been our way."

The workday passed with the same rhythm. Emails, code, meetings. Hikari approached Kokushiro's desk several times with questions, her demeanor a blend of professional curiosity and personal interest. Kenji and Mika watched from a distance, exchanging knowing smiles and quiet teasing remarks about her obvious crush. Kokushiro noticed it all—her persistent efforts, their amused reactions—his guard never lowering, his expression never changing.

At the end of the day, as everyone packed up, Kenji clapped his hands together. "Alright team, dinner! We're trying that new izakaya down the street. Everyone's coming!"

Hikari immediately looked toward Kokushiro, her eyes hopeful. When he gave a slight shake of his head, her face fell dramatically. The disappointment was so raw it looked like she might actually cry.

"Come on, Akuma-san!" Mika joined in. "You never come out with us!"

"Just this once?" Hikari added, her voice soft but pleading.

Seeing the collective expectation and Hikari's genuine distress, Kokushiro gave a single, slight nod. "Very well."

The restaurant was crowded and loud. They found a table, ordered food and drinks. Kokushiro remained quiet, observing everything while maintaining his usual detached posture. The conversation flowed around him, his colleagues laughing and drinking.

Suddenly, the front window shattered. Gnasher and Ripper landed in the middle of the dining area, their forms twisting and unnatural.

"We're starving!" Gnasher shrieked, his voice a raw, piercing sound that cut through the chaos. Beside him, Ripper lunged at a screaming patron, his claws tearing into flesh with brutal efficiency.

Panic erupted. His colleagues screamed, scrambling under tables. Kokushiro remained perfectly still in his seat, his face a mask of calm. Gnasher and Ripper began grabbing and devouring other patrons, completely unaware that the man they sought was sitting mere feet away, watching them with cold, analytical eyes.

Then, Kokushiro's expression shifted. His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightened.

Stand down! the Hebrew's voice roared through his mind, laced with a desperate urgency. This is not the time for a fight. Do not engage!

Gnasher hoisted the sobbing child toward his gaping maw, strings of saliva dripping from his jagged teeth.

I always knew this lingering shred of humanity would burn our cover, the Hebrew snarled internally.

Kokushiro rose, the screech of his chair a declaration of intent. His hands moved to his neck, loosening the tie with deliberate calm before pulling it free in one sharp motion. His expression solidified into a mask of absolute, cold fury.

"Akuma-san, no! Don't!" Hikari's voice cut through the tension, sharp with panic.

"Get down! They'll kill you!" Kenji shouted, his own fear palpable.

Kokushiro ignored them, his focus absolute.

"Hey, you ugly dogs." His voice lashed out, instantly snatching Gnasher and Ripper's attention from their prey.

Gnasher and Ripper turned their hideous faces toward him, confusion and malice warring in their eyes.

"What did you say, you walking meat sack?" Gnasher snarled.

"Release the child," Kokushiro's voice dropped to a lethal whisper, "or I will rip you apart."

In response, Gnasher smirked, a horrifying sight, and drove a razor-sharp nail deep into the boy's arm. A piercing scream of pure agony tore through the restaurant.

The Hebrew's voice cut through his rage with glacial clarity. A single display of your true nature creates countless witnesses. In this crowd, phones are already recording. That footage will spread across the internet in moments. By sunrise, your identity will be broadcast to the nation, and every shadow in Japan will become your enemy. This is not a fight you can win with brute force alone.

A feral snarl ripped from Kokushiro's throat. "Let the whole country watch. I will tear down anyone who stands in my way."

His eyes stayed fixed on Gnasher and Ripper as he addressed the civilians. "Leave this place now," he commanded, his voice cutting cleanly through the chaos, "or your lives end here with them."

A stunned silence fell, then chaos erupted as patrons and staff scrambled for the exits. Gnasher and Ripper stood motionless, their grotesque features twisted in confusion as they watched the exodus.

"What is this human blabbering about?" Ripper said, his voice a flat, guttural noise devoid of comprehension.

Kokushiro moved. His first two steps were deliberate, almost casual. But on the third step, reality itself seemed to warp—the distance evaporated, and he materialized directly before Ripper, his presence suddenly and overwhelmingly immediate.

The impossible transition froze the scene in a heartbeat of pure shock. His colleagues stared, comprehension failing. Gnasher and Ripper stood momentarily paralyzed, their predatory instincts short-circuited by this blatant violation of natural law.

Ripper's mouth opened to form a threat, but Kokushiro's fist struck first with annihilating force. The blow landed with a sickening crunch of breaking bone, launching Ripper backward like a discarded toy. His body carved a path of pure destruction through the restaurant—splintering furniture, shattering glass, and collapsing walls—before he vanished through the gaping hole into the neighboring building, leaving only settling dust and stunned silence in his wake.

Without moving a muscle, his eyes found his colleagues with terrifying accuracy. The jarring, unnatural stillness sent a wave of visceral dread through them. That calculating gaze was an unspoken verdict, a cold certainty that turned their muscles to stone and stole the air from their lungs.

"Run." The command cut through the air, colder than steel and sharper than fear. "You are not watching a play. You are standing in a place that will soon be a crime scene. Stay, and your final breath will be nothing more than the last echo in this tomb."