Chapter 1:

THE NIGHT BENEATH THE SHRINES

The Night Beneath The Shrines

Akiro’s phone alarm went off at exactly 11:47 p.m.

He stared at it, thumb hovering over the screen, brain still stuck somewhere between exhaustion and mild resentment. The alarm was labeled “Trash + Lock Back Door”, which felt accusatory for an object that had done nothing all day except vibrate at him.

He shut it off and exhaled through his nose.

Fantastic. Another thrilling night of minimum wage heroics.

Outside the convenience store, the city moved the way it always did at this hour—neon signs buzzing like tired insects, footsteps echoing between buildings, the distant hum of traffic that never really slept. It wasn’t raining. That alone felt suspicious, like the universe was holding its breath.

Akiro pulled on his jacket and stepped out, letting the automatic door slide shut behind him with a cheerful ding that did not reflect his mood.

The alley beside the store smelled like old cardboard and spilled soda. He dragged the trash bags toward the bins, already planning how fast he could go home without technically breaking any employee rules. His reflection warped faintly in the metal lid of the dumpster—dark hair sticking up in a way that suggested sleep deprivation had finally won, eyes a little too hollow for someone his age.

He frowned at it.

I look like I’ve been audited by life.

That was when the air shifted.

It wasn’t dramatic. No explosion. No scream. Just a pressure change, like when an elevator stops too suddenly. Akiro paused, trash bag still in his hand, every instinct lighting up without explanation.

The alley lights flickered.

Once. Twice.

“Of course,” he muttered. “Now?”

Something moved at the far end of the alley.

Not a person—at least, not cleanly. The shape was wrong in the way reflections are wrong in bad mirrors. It dragged itself forward, shadows clinging to it like wet cloth, symbols burned faintly into its skin like scars that never healed.

Akiro’s brain tried very hard to rationalize.

Drunk guy. Performance art. Stress hallucination.

Please be stress hallucination.

The thing looked at him.

And the world fractured.

The shrine seal—half-buried behind a vending machine he’d never paid attention to—split.

Not broke. Not exploded. It unwound, lines of old magic peeling apart like threads pulled from fabric. The alley twisted inward, walls stretching too long, shadows collapsing into depth that shouldn’t exist.

Akiro dropped the trash.

He ran.

The chase was immediate and deeply unfair.

His shoes slapped against concrete as the alley reconfigured itself behind him, exits folding shut, corners extending where they shouldn’t. His lungs burned. His phone buzzed in his pocket—another alarm.

He didn’t check it.

He didn’t want to know.

“Move,” someone snapped from nowhere.

Akiro nearly collided with her.

She stepped out of the distortion like she’d been there the whole time—tall, dark coat pulled tight, hood half-shadowing her face. Her eyes were sharp, assessing, already annoyed.

“Left,” she said.

He went left.

They burst onto the street as the thing howled behind them, a sound that crawled under Akiro’s skin and tried to stay there. Traffic flowed past like nothing was wrong. A couple walked by arguing about umbrellas.

One of them complained about how it might rain.

Reality was tearing itself open behind Akiro and someone was worried about drizzle.

They ducked into another alley—this one normal, blessedly boring—and the woman slammed her palm against a faded shrine marker embedded in the wall. Symbols flared. The pressure vanished.

Silence fell like a held breath finally released.

Akiro bent over, hands on his knees, gasping.

“…what,” he managed, “the hell was that.”

The woman studied him.

Then: “You’re marked.”

“I—what?”

She crouched in front of him, eyes narrowing. “That thing shouldn’t have seen you.”

“I shouldn’t have seen it,” he shot back. “I have a philosophy exam on Monday.”

She actually snorted.

Just once.

Then she straightened. “Rin.”

“Akiro,” he said automatically. “I work nights. I don’t do cult stuff.”