Boom. The sound cracked through the corridor

The night air seeped in the moment the front door opened, sharp and unforgiving. Eto paused on the threshold, the warmth of dinner still clinging to her as the cold reached for her skin. Before she could protest, Mikado stepped closer, lifting a folded blue scarf.

        "Hold still," he murmured.

        He wrapped it carefully around her neck, his movements unhurried, deliberate, making sure it sat just right, that no sliver of skin was left exposed. The scarf was warm, carrying a faint trace of his scent, and Eto’s shoulders relaxed as he adjusted the ends.

        "It's a long ride back," Mikado said quietly. "I don’t want you catching a cold."

        Eto looked up at him, surprised by how easily his concern slipped into his voice.

        When he finished, his hands lingered. One of them rose, brushing against her cheek, his thumb grazing her skin in a soft, absent-minded caress. The touch was gentle, almost hesitant, yet filled with everything he didn't say. Eto leaned into it just slightly, her breath hitching as the moment stretched between them.

        For a heartbeat, the cold night disappeared.

        Then Mikado withdrew his hand, a faint smile on his lips. "Text me when you get home."

        Eto nodded, her fingers tightening around the scarf. "I will."  

        She stepped outside. The corridor stretched ahead, narrow and exposed, lined with pale walls and cold metal railings just like the rest of the apartment complex. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow that reflected faintly off the painted steel floor.

        Eto walked straight down the corridor, her footsteps light but steady. One hand slid along the handrail, the metal cool against her palm, grounding her as the night air brushed past her scarf. Doors passed by in quiet succession, each one identical, each one closed, silent witnesses to her departure.

        Reaching the stairwell, she paused only for a moment before descending. The metal steps echoed softly beneath her weight as she moved downward, the long ride home already settling into her thoughts, along with the lingering warmth she carried from the doorway she had just left

        Below, a black vehicle waited in front of the apartment complex, its polished surface reflecting the harsh white lights of the building. Just as Eto reached the ground floor, the rear door opened. An elderly man stepped out, straight-backed despite his age, and bowed deeply.

        "Lady Eto."

        She took a step forward, then stopped.

        One foot from the open door, Eto turned and looked up. On the second floor, Mikado leaned casually against the frame of his door, half-lit by the corridor light. Their eyes met. He smiled, small and genuine.

        Eto returned it.

        For a brief moment, she was still the girl who had cooked dinner, who wore his scarf, who leaned into his touch without thinking of the world beyond that door.

        Then the moment passed.

        She turned away and stepped into the car. The door closed with a soft, final thud. Through the narrowing gap, her expression changed, her warmth settling, her posture straightening.

        Inside the vehicle sat Eto Morioka, heir of the Morioka Clan. Not the affectionate girlfriend who shared a quiet evening in a modest apartment, but the young woman bound by duty, expectation, and fire.

        Mikado remained where he was on the second-floor corridor. A deep breath slipped from his chest, slow and unsteady. The scene was always the same whenever Eto came over, unchanged in every detail, yet he could never grow used to it.

        No. His heart refused to.

        That breath was his only way of easing the ache, a silent admission of what he already knew. No matter how warm their evenings were, no matter how ordinary and peaceful dinner felt, it would always end like this. Together for a night, separated by the world.

        His gaze caught the elderly man bowing in his direction before walking around to the driver's seat. Mikado returned the gesture without hesitation. Of course he would.

        The old man was Eto’s personal driver, and the only one who knew about them. In that sense, he was more than a servant; he was their quiet accomplice, perhaps even a friend. Yet he also embodied the truth Mikado could never escape.

        The Morioka Clan was one of the Thirteen Great Magic Clans of Japan. And Eto was its heir.

        Mikado looked down at his own hands. He was nothing more than a simple, ordinary man, no lineage, no power, no name that carried weight.

        What could someone like him ever offer in a world ruled by fire and bloodlines?

        The car finally pulled away, its tail lights fading before turning the corner and vanishing from Mikado's sight. Even then, he didn't move. He remained standing where he was, as though time itself had paused with her departure.

        Logically, he knew he should go back inside. The door was only a step away. Yet his legs refused to obey, rooted to the cold concrete as if leaving now would mean admitting the night was truly over. Instead, he stepped closer to the railing and leaned against it.

        The night was unusually clear. Not a single cloud marred the sky, leaving the stars exposed in quiet abundance. They scattered across the darkness like distant embers, steady and indifferent, watching over a world too small to notice them. The moon hung high, pale and calm, washing the apartment complex in silver light that softened the harsh lines of steel and concrete.

        A night breeze swept through the open corridor, unobstructed by walls, slipping easily between the metal railings and the long stretch of concrete. It brushed against Mikado's skin, cold and sharp, carrying with it the stubborn remnants of winter that spring had yet to fully chase away.

        He inhaled softly and clasped his arms over his shoulders, palms pressing into his sleeves as if to anchor himself. The gesture was instinctive, almost unconscious. Beneath his forearms, the railing was cold to the touch, its chill seeping through fabric and bone alike.

        The lights along the corridor cast a pale glow over the building, flat, utilitarian, indifferent. Shadows stretched beneath the staircases, and the open space beyond the railings made the night feel wider, deeper. Up here, there was nothing to shield him from the wind or the sky.

        Above, the stars hung clearly in the cloudless darkness, distant and silent. The air was still except for the faint rustle of wind and the faraway sounds of the city below. Mikado remained there, unmoving, letting the cold settle into him.

        Spring or not, some nights still belonged to winter.

        "Stubborn winter," he muttered, exhaling softly as he turned toward his door.

        He had only taken a step when another night breeze swept through the open corridor.

        His foot halted mid-motion.

        "Tch." Mikado clicked his tongue, his jaw tightening. The gentleness in his eyes drained away, replaced by something colder, sharper. In the pale light of the corridor, his expression no longer belonged to a man admiring a star-filled sky, but to someone who had just felt the gaze of an unseen enemy.

        The breeze carried more than cold.

        A scent followed it. Foul. Wrong. Unmistakable.

        Even if he were to lose his sense of smell, Mikado knew he would recognize it. It clung to the air like a stain, twisting his stomach and dragging old resentment to the surface.

        His fingers curled slowly at his side.

        So… 

        Mikado eventually stepped back inside, but for some reason, he didn't close the door. The cold night air drifted in freely, slipping across the floor and into the small apartment, as if the outside refused to let him go just yet.

        Behind him, the light above the corridor began to flicker, once, twice, its glow faltering as it blinked in and out of existence. It wasn't surprising. The bulb had been there for years, enduring countless nights like this. It had simply reached the end of its duty.

        Still, the intermittent light stretched the shadows in unsettling ways, causing them to waver and shift along the walls. Mikado didn't turn back.

        He stood there, listening to the quiet hum of electricity and the whisper of cold air, the door left open, intentionally or not, as if part of him was waiting for something to cross the threshold.

        The light kept flickering.

        Flicker.

        Flicker.

        Flicker.

        Then—

        A shadow burst from the open room, cutting through the corridor like a raven caught in the grainy blur of old surveillance footage. It streaked past the trembling light and shot toward the railings, yet its size denied the metaphor entirely.

        It was Mikado.

        He landed in a low crouch atop the metal railing, balanced with practiced ease, the city sprawled far below him to the right, distant lights, silent streets, unaware. In his right hand, he carried the same long black storage case he brought the other day at his duel with Kanzaki, worn at the edges, plain and unassuming to anyone who didn't know better.

        Inside it rested his weapon.

        Not a blade. Not steel.

        A wooden nail, old, darkened by time and use, carved with purpose rather than elegance. A tool meant for something far from human.

        Boom.

        The sound cracked through the corridor as Mikado launched himself forward.

        He kicked off the railing, power coiling and releasing through the muscles of his legs. Veins bulged along his calves as the force surged upward, metal shrieking in protest beneath his foot. The railing bent inward, warped by the sheer violence of the push.

        Mikado took flight.