A Larger Footprint

Renji learned to recognize the discomfort before it announced itself.

It began as a tightening behind his ribs, a pressure that did not hurt but refused to be ignored. Then came the distortion in sound. Traffic softened, not quieter, but flatter, as if the city had lost depth. By the time the sensation reached his fingertips, he knew the pattern well enough to be afraid of it.

The first time it happened in Japan, he was standing in line at a convenience store.

He nearly dropped the bottled tea in his hand.

The cashier asked if he was feeling all right. Renji nodded too quickly, paid, and stepped back outside. The air felt stale. Not polluted. Exhausted.

He followed the sensation without knowing how. Trains. Buses. Walking paths that curved away from crowds and into places people had stopped caring about.

By dusk, he stood at the edge of a fenced-off zone on the outskirts of a rural prefecture. A half-finished research facility loomed beyond the barriers, its concrete shell stained by rain. Warning signs fluttered in the wind, their text deliberately vague.

Experimental Survey Site. Authorized Personnel Only.

Renji’s pulse raced. He could feel it now, stronger than in Sumatra. Not the tear itself, but the strain around it.

He was not alone.

The forest bordering the site was restless. Small animals fled deeper into cover as if something were pushing them outward. The ground vibrated faintly beneath his feet.

Renji crouched, pressing his palm to the soil. Information flooded him in fragments. Not thoughts. Impressions. Stress. Displacement.

The air above the facility rippled.

Renji staggered back as something forced its way through. The creature that emerged was smaller than the one in Sumatra, but no less wrong. Its limbs twitched as if responding to commands it could not hear. Its mouth opened and closed without sound before it screamed.

The scream shattered glass.

Renji barely had time to register civilians nearby before the thing lunged. A parked car crumpled like paper. Someone shouted.

Renji’s body moved before his mind caught up.

Heat surged through him. His bones protested. Muscles shifted beneath his skin, not fully, not cleanly. His senses sharpened until the world threatened to overwhelm him.

He did not charge the creature.

He moved around it, drawing its attention away from the road. His steps were clumsy, his balance uneven, but the thing reacted, following the disruption rather than the threat.

It was enough to save lives.

It was not enough to stop the monster.

The ground cracked as something landed between Renji and the creature.

The impact shook the trees.

The man who stood there was massive. Taller than any human Renji had seen up close. Broad enough that his jacket strained at the seams. His hair was unkempt, his beard wild, his eyes sharp with a focus that bordered on predatory.

The creature lunged again.

The man met it head-on.

The fight was brief and violent. There was no hesitation, no adjustment. The man struck with the certainty of someone who had done this many times before. Bone snapped. The creature collapsed, its form unraveling under the assault until it faded into nothing.

Silence fell hard.

The man turned to Renji.

His gaze flicked over Renji’s distorted posture, the half-formed tension in his frame.

“You are carrying something,” the man said, his accent unmistakably American. “And you are carrying it badly.”

Renji tried to speak. His voice came out rough. “It was going to reach the road.”

“And it would have been ended anyway,” the man replied. “Next time, do not stand so close.”

Renji straightened with effort. The pressure inside him receded, leaving exhaustion in its wake. “You killed it.”

The man shrugged. “That is the point.”

Footsteps approached. Sirens in the distance.

The man glanced toward the facility. “You should not be here.”

“You were,” Renji said.

A corner of the man’s mouth twitched. “I was invited.”

He extended a hand. “Ethan Cole.”

Renji hesitated, then shook it. Ethan’s grip was firm, overwhelming in its confidence.

“Ono Renji,” Renji said.

Ethan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Japanese. But what you are carrying is not from here.”

“No,” Renji admitted.

“That explains the imbalance,” Ethan said. “You inherited out of territory.”

Renji stiffened. “You know about inheritance.”

Ethan laughed once. “Kid, I am inheritance.”

Before Renji could respond, a familiar voice cut through the air.

“That is enough, Ethan.”

Professor Kawashima stepped out from between the trees, his posture rigid. He looked at the shattered ground, the fading residue of the creature, then at Renji.

His gaze lingered a moment too long.

“You followed the sensation,” Kawashima said quietly.

Renji nodded. “It was stronger this time.”

“That is because the site is closer to completion,” Kawashima replied.

Ethan crossed his arms. “You let this happen.”

Kawashima met his stare without flinching. “I did not authorize the machine’s output.”

“You never do,” Ethan said. “And yet the bodies keep stacking.”

Kawashima exhaled slowly. “This is not the place.”

“Then where is,” Ethan snapped.

Renji looked between them, tension coiling in his chest. “Professor,” he said, “you said these events were rare.”

“They are,” Kawashima replied. “That does not mean they are isolated.”

Ethan’s gaze returned to Renji. “You should not be here,” he repeated, this time more softly. “You are not built for this kind of containment.”

Renji clenched his fists. “People were going to die.”

“And they will continue to,” Ethan said. “Unless the cause is removed.”

“The operators do not know what they are doing,” Renji said. “They are measuring something they cannot see.”

Ethan stepped closer, looming. “Ignorance does not absolve damage.”

Kawashima raised a hand. “Enough.”

Sirens grew louder. Flashing lights cut through the trees.

“This site will be shut down,” Kawashima said. “Temporarily.”

Ethan snorted. “And then reopened somewhere else.”

He turned to leave, then paused. “You feel responsible because you survived,” he said to Renji. “That will get you killed.”

Renji swallowed. “What do you do when you are not killing them?”

Ethan looked back once. “I make sure they do not come back.”

He vanished into the forest with heavy, deliberate strides.

Kawashima placed a hand on Renji’s shoulder. “You should not have transformed.”

“I did not,” Renji said. “Not fully.”

“That is worse,” Kawashima replied. “Partial inheritance causes instability.”

Renji stared at the ruined ground, the sealed facility, the empty space where something impossible had died.

“Then teach me,” Renji said. “Before someone else pays for it.”

Kawashima closed his eyes briefly.

“You are already paying,” he said. “You just do not know the full cost yet.”

As authorities flooded the site and explanations began to form, Renji felt the land settle, not healed, but quieter.

The footprint left behind was not the monster’s.

It was his.