THE FIRST WILLING USE

Rin made him wait three hours before letting him try anything.

Not because of safety.

Because, as she put it, “You’re still shaking.”

“Try running for your life!” Akiro said, pulling his hair back as he catches his breath.

They were in an abandoned subway maintenance corridor, sealed off decades ago and now layered with dust, old signage, and graffiti that had never expected to be seen again. The walls were tiled in a sickly off-white that had yellowed with age, interrupted by faded warning symbols no one obeyed anymore. Old cables dropped from the ceiling like dead vines.

The air smelled dry and metallic, with an undercurrent of something stale—oil, rust, history. No rain. No wind. Just underground, quiet, thick enough to press against his ears.

Magic suppression lines hummed faintly in the walls.

Akiro could feel them even if he couldn’t see them, a subtle vibration that made his teeth itch and his thoughts slow down around the edges. It was uncomfortable in a way he didn’t have words for, like standing too close to heavy machinery without knowing why it felt wrong.

He sat on an overturned crate, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together tightly enough that his knuckles hurt. He tried not to stare at the faint chalk circles Rin was drawing on the concrete floor, but his eyes kept drifting back to them anyway.

The chalk scraped softly. Steady. Deliberate.

His arm itched.

The mark pulsed now and then, impatient.

“So,” he said eventually, silence beginning to crawl under his skin, “is this part of the training meant to break my spirit, or is that just a bonus feature?”

Rin didn’t look up.

“Both,” she said.

“That tracks.”

She adjusted one of the lines, smudged it deliberately, then redrew it with more pressure. Her movements were precise, practised, like someone who had done this too many times to find it interesting anymore.

Akiro watched her hands.

They were scarred.

Not dramatically. Just small marks—burns, cuts, faded lines that didn’t match any normal accident pattern. He wondered when she’d gotten them, what she’d lost to earn each one.

His stomach twisted.

“So,” he said, softer now, “hypothetically.”

Rin paused, chalk hovering over the floor.

“If I don’t want to use magic ever again.”

She was quiet for just a second.

Then she continued drawing.

“Hypothetically,” she said, “then it will use you instead.”

He swallowed.

Fantastic. Even my avoidance has consequences.

He pressed his lips together, jaw tight. “Cool. Love systems that punish you for trying to opt out.”

“You don’t opt out of gravity either,” she said.

“I complain about gravity constantly.”

She huffed quietly. Not quite a laugh.

She finished the circle and stepped back, dusting chalk from her hands. “Stand in the centre.”

Akiro stared at the circle.

It wasn’t elaborate. No runes. No symbols he recognised. Just intersecting lines and shapes that felt… intentional. Like they’d been placed to guide something rather than trap it.

“This is where I die, isn’t it?” he said.

“No,” Rin replied immediately. “That comes later if you’re careless.”

He looked at her. “That’s not reassuring.”

“You talk a lot.”

He hesitated for a long moment, then stepped into the circle.

The air changed instantly.

Not heavy.

Focused.

Like the room had stopped ignoring him.

Akiro sucked in a sharp breath. The suppression faded into the background, replaced by something taut and alert. The hair on his arms stood on end.

Rin stood just outside the circle, hands loose at her sides—no protective stance. No weapons. Just watchful.

“Magic responds to intent filtered through pressure,” she said. “You already have a contract fragment embedded in you.”

“Embedded,” Akiro repeated weakly. “That’s… not my favourite word.”

“You don’t need to summon,” she continued. “You don’t need to call anything.”

“Okay?”

“You need to accept.”

He frowned. “Accept what?”

“That something will be taken.”

He laughed. It came out thin and brittle, like glass tapping concrete. “I don’t accept that.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

She met his eyes fully now. No softness. No threat. Just truth.

“Decide what you’re willing to lose.”

The mark flared.

Heat crawled up his arm and into his chest, stopping just short of pain, like a warning that could become a threat at any second.

Akiro’s thoughts scattered.

Okay. Okay. Don’t panic. Everyone panics. Panic is normal. This is not normal. That’s fine. That’s—this is fine.

“What do people usually lose first?” he asked, voice tight.

“Small things,” Rin said. “At first…At first is not comforting. Sharpness of memory. Emotional extremes. Sensory edges.”

“Edges like… taste?”

“Yes.”

“…I like food.”

She rolled her eyes. “Focus.”

“I am focusing. On how unfair this is.”

“Focus harder.”

He closed his eyes.

The darkness behind them felt different now—thicker, closer, like something was waiting for permission.

He thought of the alley.

The bending walls.

The way the thing had looked at him like he was already accounted for.

No.

Not that.

He thought of his life before this week.

Classes he barely paid attention to. Rent reminders he kept ignoring. The way the convenience store always smelled like burned coffee at midnight, the clerk who never spoke but nodded at him every shift like they shared a secret.

Normal.

If something had to go—

His chest tightened.

“I don’t want to lose… everything,” he whispered.

“You won’t,” Rin said. “At the very least…not… yet.”

That wasn’t comforting either.

“Okay,” he said finally, voice barely audible. “Do it.”

The world snapped inward.

The circle flared white.

Akiro gasped as something pulled—not violently, but decisively—like a thread being drawn from deep inside his chest. It didn’t hurt.

That was almost worse.

For one terrifying second, he couldn’t remember why he was afraid.

Then the power settled into his hands.

Warm.

Responsive.

Alive.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, that’s—”

The cost hit immediately.

His stomach twisted hard enough to steal his breath. His vision blurred, tunnelling inward. His knees buckled, and he would’ve collapsed if Rin hadn’t stepped forward and caught him.

Akiro gagged, dry-heaving as a cold numbness spread behind his eyes, like something important had been unplugged.

“What—what did it take?” he gasped.

Rin steadied him, grip firm but careful. “A short-term emotional register.”

“…What does that mean?”

“It means,” she said gently, “you won’t feel relief for a while.”

He laughed weakly. “I don’t feel anything.”

“I know.”

“…You know a lot and share little.”

She helped him sit back down on the crate. He slumped forward, elbows on his knees again, staring at the floor like it might explain itself if he waited long enough.

For several minutes, neither of them spoke.

The chalk circle dimmed and faded. The hum of the suppression lines crept back in.

The power drained away, leaving behind a strange hollow where it had passed through him—like a room he hadn’t known existed had been emptied without asking.

Akiro stared at his hands.

They looked the same.

That bothered him more than if they’d changed.

“I don’t like this,” he said finally.

“No one does,” Rin replied.

“Do people… get used to it?”

She hesitated. “They stop noticing.”

“That’s worse?”

“Yes.”

He leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, exhaustion washing over him in heavy waves.

Above them, far beyond the suppression lines, something else noticed the residue left behind.

And followed it.