THE COST KEEPS SCORE

The first scar appeared on Tuesday.

Not dramatic.

Not cinematic.

Just a thin line across his forearm that hadn’t been there the night before.

Akiro noticed it while washing his hands in a public restroom, the kind tucked beneath an aging train station where the lights buzzed too loudly, and the mirrors were permanently smudged. He frowned, turning his arm slowly under the harsh white lighting.

The scar was clean. Pale. Almost delicate.

“I don’t remember getting cut,” he murmured.

Rin, standing a few steps back, pretending very badly not to watch his reflection, glanced over. “You didn’t.”

Akiro turned to her. “Then why—”

“Physical cost,” she said. “Sometimes the body pays instead.”

He stared back at the mark.

It didn’t hurt.

That somehow made it worse.

“Even my injuries are efficient now.”

He rubbed at it experimentally. Nothing. No pain, no resistance. Just skin that felt faintly unfamiliar, like it belonged to a version of him who hadn’t asked permission.

“So, it just…shows up?” he questioned.

“Yes.”

“No warning?”

“Sometimes there’s a warning.”

“And this time.”

“This time the warning already happened.”

He frowned. “When.”

Rin nodded toward his chest. “Every time you ignore the burn.”

He became silent...

They were in a suppressed district—an older residential area where the buildings were shorter, the streets narrower, and the shrines stronger. The kind of neighbourhood developers had skipped because it didn’t promise enough profit.

Magic felt muted here. Blunted. Like trying to shout underwater.

Akiro noticed immediately that his shoulders dropped without him meaning to.

He could breathe.

“I like this place,” he said as they walked past a row of shuttered shops, their signs faded by decades of sun and neglect. “It feels…normal.”

“That’s the point,” Rin replied.

A woman nearby complained loudly into her phone about her signal dropping.

Akiro almost laughed.

Of course, magic suppression kills reception. Why wouldn’t it?

They sat on the concrete steps of a closed community centre, watching the late afternoon drift by. A child rode past on a bicycle, wobbling slightly. An old man swept dust from his storefront as it mattered.

Rin cracked open a can of coffee and took a sip, grimacing immediately.

“I hate this brand,” she said.

Akiro glanced at the can. “You keep buying it.”

“It’s cheap.”

“Then stop complaining.”

She shot him a look, then—unexpectedly—smirked. “You’re getting mouthy.”

“Near-death experiences really bring out my personality.”

“That implies if you had one before.”

He thought about it. “That’s enough trash talk from you.”

Silence settled between them. Not awkward this time. Just…quiet. The kind that felt earned.

Akiro stretched his legs, wincing faintly as the scar pulled. “Does it get worse?”

“Yes.”

“Do I get used to it?”

“I don’t know.”

He nodded. “I see...”

She studied him for a long time. “You’re holding together better than I expected.”

“I have you.”

“Not for long.”

He smiled anyway. “It’s still long enough.”

The pressure returned without warning.

Akiro felt it first—a tightening just behind his ribs, like the air had developed an opinion about him. He stiffened.

“Rin.”

“I feel it.”

The street dimmed—not visibly, but perceptibly, like the day had lost interest.

A presence brushed the edge of the suppression zone, testing it. Not forcing. Probing. Like a finger pressed gently against glass to see if it would crack.

A familiar voice drifted through the street.

“Still hiding?”

Kaito stepped into view, leaning casually against a lamppost as if he belonged there. His scars looked deeper now, darker, as if they’d been etched more recently. Or fed.

Rin stood immediately. “You’re not welcome here.”

He smiled. “Neither is he.”

Akiro’s heart kicked hard against his ribs. “Do you ever get tired of stalking people?”

Kaito’s gaze slid to him. Amused. Curious. “Only the boring ones.”

“You have a very specific hobby,” Akiro muttered.

Kaito chuckled. “You say that now.”

Rin stepped slightly in front of Akiro, subtle but deliberate. “What do you want, Kaito?”

“Still so formal,” Kaito said. Then his expression softened, just a fraction. “You’re burning yourself out for them.”

Akiro frowned. “For whom?”

“The Wardens. Balance. The lie.”

Rin snapped, “Enough.”

Kaito raised his hands placatingly. “I’m not here to fight.”

“That’s new.”

“I’m here to offer clarity.”

His gaze returned to Akiro. “Every time you use magic, it takes something. They’ll never tell you how much.”

“I know,” Akiro said.

“No,” Kaito replied gently. “You don’t.”

The pressure spiked.

Akiro felt something slip.

Not a big memory. Not something important. Something small. Intimate.

The smell of his childhood home after rain.

Gone.

He gasped, dropping to one knee as nausea surged. The world tilted. His thoughts scrambled, reaching for something that wasn’t there anymore.

Rin reacted instantly, slamming a seal into the ground. The suppression field surged, vibrating through the concrete like a low roar.

Kaito staggered back, hissing as the magic recoiled. “You’re killing him!”

Rin’s voice was ice. “Leave.”

Kaito met Akiro’s eyes one last time, and his expression was almost regretful. “You’ll come looking for us.”

Then he vanished.

The street returned to normal with frightening speed. Someone complained about almost bumping into Rin. The car honked impatiently.

Akiro stayed on the ground long after.

Rin knelt beside him. “You, okay?”

“No,” he said honestly. “But I think that’s normal now.”

She didn’t argue.

She just sat with him while the city pretended nothing had happened—and another piece of him quietly failed to come back.