Chapter 4:
The Twelfth Day
The click.
The mountains rose like ancient, sleeping giants, their peaks brushing the belly of low-hanging clouds. Nestled between their knees was a village so small it didn’t have a name on most maps just a cluster of wooden homes, a single dirt road, and the eternal, watchful silence of the pines.
“Click-click!” one boy yelled, pointing two fingers like a camera at a fleeing girl. “You’re dead!”
“No fair! You blinked!” she shouted back, collapsing into dramatic, giggling death throes in the dirt.
The laughter didn’t reach one house at the village edge.
Its windows were dark, shutters drawn tight against the afternoon sun. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of damp wood, unwashed clothes, and something else something metallic and sour.
In the corner, a man sat hunched. His name was Koji, but the village had long forgotten it. To them, he was just the mutterer. His clothes hung loose on a frame grown thin from neglect. His fingers, stained and trembling, traced frantic, invisible patterns on the floorboards.
His eyes, wide and unblinking, were fixed on the far wall where no light reached.
Suddenly, his whispering stopped.
His head tilted, as if listening to a voice only he could hear.
A slow, disbelieving smile stretched his cracked lips.
“…Twelve…” he breathed.
Then louder. “Twelve days.”
He stood up, his body unfolding like a rusty marionette. A giggle escaped him, then another, building in his throat.
“Twelve days!” he shouted to the empty, dark room. A wild, triumphant laugh erupted from him, raw and unhinged. “SHE TOOK MY PHOTO AND I DIDN’T DIE! I BEAT IT! I BEAT HER!”
It was in that moment jaw stretched to its limit, throat exposed that the force hit.
It was invisible. Silent. But it pulled.
His laughter choked into a gurgle. His hands flew to his jaw, fingers clawing at nothing as an unimaginable pressure seized him from the inside.
S t r e t c h .
The sound was not human a wet, tearing creak of tendon and skin. His mouth opened wider. Wider than possible. Corners of his lips split with tiny, bloody rips.
S T R E T C H .
His jaw unhinged with a sickening pop. His mouth became a gaping, dark chasm in the lower half of his face a grotesque, screaming oval.
His eyes bulged, flooding with pure, incomprehensible terror. The victory was gone. Only the violation remained.
He took one shuddering, wet breath.
Then collapsed. The thud of his body hitting the floor was the only epitaph.
The commotion brought the village.
They found Koji in the gloom, his body contorted, his face forever frozen in a silent, impossibly wide scream. As two men dragged him out into the shocking brightness of day, the children’s game had stopped. They stared, their playful “click-click” dying on their tongues, replaced by a cold, new understanding.
On the path beside the gathering, an old woman and a young man walked, carrying woven baskets of wild herbs and river fish for dinner.
The young man lean, with messy black hair and eyes that held too much quiet for seventeen paused. “Ma-chii,” he said, using the affectionate, shortened nickname for his grandmother. “What’s happening over there?”
His grandmother, Akira’s mother her face a roadmap of wrinkles and resilience didn’t even look. Her grip on her basket tightened until her knuckles were white. “Nothing for us, Rchi,” she said, her voice low and firm. She reached out and grabbed his wrist. Her hand, though aged, was strong. “We’re going home. Now.”
But Rchi (pronounced Roo-chee) resisted, his eyes locked on the scene. “They’re talking about the Faceless Girl again, aren’t they?”
“Rchi.”
“Why?” he whispered, the question he’d swallowed for years finally breaking free. “Why do you never let me ask? Why do you hide everything? You say my parents left… but you’re lying, Ma-chii. I know you’re lying.”
He turned to face her fully, his teenage height now looking down at her stooped frame. The last of the afternoon sun caught in his eyes, burning with a frustration she could no longer contain. “I’m not a child anymore. I’m seventeen. Please. Tell me.”
Her stern expression faltered. She saw her daughter’s stubborn set in his jaw, Tanaka’s intense focus in his gaze. The ghosts of her children lived in him. The weight of her silence, carried for nearly two decades, suddenly felt too heavy.
She sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to deflate her. “Uff. Fine. You win, you stubborn boy.” She looked toward their small, solitary house up the path. “Come. We will not speak of this in the open.”
Inside, the house was warm and clean, smelling of dried herbs and the cedar wood of its walls. Ma-chii didn’t light a lamp. She sat at the low table, her hands folded in front of her, as twilight painted the room blue.
Rchi knelt across from her, utterly still, waiting.
She told him. Not as a grandmother to a grandson, but as one survivor to another. She told him of Akira, his mother her brilliant, fiery daughter who loved a driven, reckless policeman. She told him of Tanaka, his father his determination, his temper, his love for his family. She told him of the Faceless Girl, the unit, the desperation. She told him of the phone call, the hospital, the slow fading light in Akira’s eyes, and the tiny, crying baby she had left behind.
“She died of a broken heart, Rchi,” Ma-chii said, her voice like old paper. “And Tanaka… he was taken by the darkness in that jungle. They were both victims of that… that thing.”
As she spoke, Rchi’s world rearranged itself. The vague emptiness of being parentless solidified into a sharp, specific tragedy. The village legend became his family’s curse.
When she finished, a deep, cold silence filled the room.
Then, Rchi’s fist came down on the table. Not a slam, but a solid, heavy thud that made the wood groan.
“I will destroy her,” he said. His voice was low, steady, and terrifyingly calm. It wasn’t the hot shout of a teenager, but the ice-cold vow of a man. “I will find that Faceless Girl, and I will erase her from this world.”
Ma-chii’s head snapped up. “Rchi, no! You don’t understand what you’re”
Her words died in her throat.
Over Rchi’s shoulders, in the deepening shadows of the room, she saw them.
Two faint, shimmering outlines a man and a woman. Tanaka, with a hand resting firmly on Rchi’s right shoulder. Akira, her hand on his left. They were not smiling. Their translucent faces were etched with sorrow, with love, and with a fierce, protective approval. They were not stopping him. They were anointing him.
Ma-chii’s eyes filled with tears. The anger left her, replaced by a profound, weary acceptance. She looked from the ghosts of her children to the living, breathing vengeance in her grandson’s eyes.
She reached across the table and took his still-clenched fist in both of her worn hands.
“Alright,” she whispered, her voice thick. “Then promise me this, Rchi. Whatever you do… however you fight… don’t leave me alone like they did.”
Outside, the first stars began to pierce the twilight. In the mountains, the wind moved through the trees, sounding like a slow, patient exhale.
The game was over.
The hunt had begun.
END OF CHAPTER 4
“Click-click!” one boy yelled, pointing two fingers like a camera at a fleeing girl. “You’re dead!”
“No fair! You blinked!” she shouted back, collapsing into dramatic, giggling death throes in the dirt.
The laughter didn’t reach one house at the village edge.
Its windows were dark, shutters drawn tight against the afternoon sun. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of damp wood, unwashed clothes, and something else something metallic and sour.
In the corner, a man sat hunched. His name was Koji, but the village had long forgotten it. To them, he was just the mutterer. His clothes hung loose on a frame grown thin from neglect. His fingers, stained and trembling, traced frantic, invisible patterns on the floorboards.
His eyes, wide and unblinking, were fixed on the far wall where no light reached.
Suddenly, his whispering stopped.
His head tilted, as if listening to a voice only he could hear.
A slow, disbelieving smile stretched his cracked lips.
“…Twelve…” he breathed.
Then louder. “Twelve days.”
He stood up, his body unfolding like a rusty marionette. A giggle escaped him, then another, building in his throat.
“Twelve days!” he shouted to the empty, dark room. A wild, triumphant laugh erupted from him, raw and unhinged. “SHE TOOK MY PHOTO AND I DIDN’T DIE! I BEAT IT! I BEAT HER!”
It was in that moment jaw stretched to its limit, throat exposed that the force hit.
It was invisible. Silent. But it pulled.
His laughter choked into a gurgle. His hands flew to his jaw, fingers clawing at nothing as an unimaginable pressure seized him from the inside.
S t r e t c h .
The sound was not human a wet, tearing creak of tendon and skin. His mouth opened wider. Wider than possible. Corners of his lips split with tiny, bloody rips.
S T R E T C H .
His jaw unhinged with a sickening pop. His mouth became a gaping, dark chasm in the lower half of his face a grotesque, screaming oval.
His eyes bulged, flooding with pure, incomprehensible terror. The victory was gone. Only the violation remained.
He took one shuddering, wet breath.
Then collapsed. The thud of his body hitting the floor was the only epitaph.
The commotion brought the village.
They found Koji in the gloom, his body contorted, his face forever frozen in a silent, impossibly wide scream. As two men dragged him out into the shocking brightness of day, the children’s game had stopped. They stared, their playful “click-click” dying on their tongues, replaced by a cold, new understanding.
On the path beside the gathering, an old woman and a young man walked, carrying woven baskets of wild herbs and river fish for dinner.
The young man lean, with messy black hair and eyes that held too much quiet for seventeen paused. “Ma-chii,” he said, using the affectionate, shortened nickname for his grandmother. “What’s happening over there?”
His grandmother, Akira’s mother her face a roadmap of wrinkles and resilience didn’t even look. Her grip on her basket tightened until her knuckles were white. “Nothing for us, Rchi,” she said, her voice low and firm. She reached out and grabbed his wrist. Her hand, though aged, was strong. “We’re going home. Now.”
But Rchi (pronounced Roo-chee) resisted, his eyes locked on the scene. “They’re talking about the Faceless Girl again, aren’t they?”
“Rchi.”
“Why?” he whispered, the question he’d swallowed for years finally breaking free. “Why do you never let me ask? Why do you hide everything? You say my parents left… but you’re lying, Ma-chii. I know you’re lying.”
He turned to face her fully, his teenage height now looking down at her stooped frame. The last of the afternoon sun caught in his eyes, burning with a frustration she could no longer contain. “I’m not a child anymore. I’m seventeen. Please. Tell me.”
Her stern expression faltered. She saw her daughter’s stubborn set in his jaw, Tanaka’s intense focus in his gaze. The ghosts of her children lived in him. The weight of her silence, carried for nearly two decades, suddenly felt too heavy.
She sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to deflate her. “Uff. Fine. You win, you stubborn boy.” She looked toward their small, solitary house up the path. “Come. We will not speak of this in the open.”
Inside, the house was warm and clean, smelling of dried herbs and the cedar wood of its walls. Ma-chii didn’t light a lamp. She sat at the low table, her hands folded in front of her, as twilight painted the room blue.
Rchi knelt across from her, utterly still, waiting.
She told him. Not as a grandmother to a grandson, but as one survivor to another. She told him of Akira, his mother her brilliant, fiery daughter who loved a driven, reckless policeman. She told him of Tanaka, his father his determination, his temper, his love for his family. She told him of the Faceless Girl, the unit, the desperation. She told him of the phone call, the hospital, the slow fading light in Akira’s eyes, and the tiny, crying baby she had left behind.
“She died of a broken heart, Rchi,” Ma-chii said, her voice like old paper. “And Tanaka… he was taken by the darkness in that jungle. They were both victims of that… that thing.”
As she spoke, Rchi’s world rearranged itself. The vague emptiness of being parentless solidified into a sharp, specific tragedy. The village legend became his family’s curse.
When she finished, a deep, cold silence filled the room.
Then, Rchi’s fist came down on the table. Not a slam, but a solid, heavy thud that made the wood groan.
“I will destroy her,” he said. His voice was low, steady, and terrifyingly calm. It wasn’t the hot shout of a teenager, but the ice-cold vow of a man. “I will find that Faceless Girl, and I will erase her from this world.”
Ma-chii’s head snapped up. “Rchi, no! You don’t understand what you’re”
Her words died in her throat.
Over Rchi’s shoulders, in the deepening shadows of the room, she saw them.
Two faint, shimmering outlines a man and a woman. Tanaka, with a hand resting firmly on Rchi’s right shoulder. Akira, her hand on his left. They were not smiling. Their translucent faces were etched with sorrow, with love, and with a fierce, protective approval. They were not stopping him. They were anointing him.
Ma-chii’s eyes filled with tears. The anger left her, replaced by a profound, weary acceptance. She looked from the ghosts of her children to the living, breathing vengeance in her grandson’s eyes.
She reached across the table and took his still-clenched fist in both of her worn hands.
“Alright,” she whispered, her voice thick. “Then promise me this, Rchi. Whatever you do… however you fight… don’t leave me alone like they did.”
Outside, the first stars began to pierce the twilight. In the mountains, the wind moved through the trees, sounding like a slow, patient exhale.
The game was over.
The hunt had begun.
END OF CHAPTER 4
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