Inside a narrow alley of the shopping district near Shuchiin Academy, a lone ramen shop exhaled a thin plume of steam into the twilight.
"Welcome, customers!"
A kind-faced owner—or rather, a man wearing a remarkably detailed pig mask with a jovial expression—greeted the two figures in the doorway. First-timers, he noted with an inward, predatory smile. They always get the "introductory discount."
Fujiwara Chika's eyes swept the menu on the back wall. "One shoyu tonkotsu ramen, please! Light on the flavor, with firm noodles!" she announced with her trademark parliamentary secretary's authority before sliding onto a stool, Saki taking the seat beside her.
Her legs, too short to reach the floor, swung in a happy, pendulous rhythm. "Saki-kun~ What are you getting?"
"Tonkotsu. Noodles a bit soft," Sakurai Saki said, his tone casual as he glanced around. The shop was empty. Obscure location, he mentally catalogued. Implies a non-standard clientele. He studied the owner. The pig mask was unsettling, but the man's posture feigned a rustic simplicity.
"Mm-hmm! But this general is so interesting!" Chika nodded, her excitement bubbling over. A first outing with Saki-kun! This called for celebration via exceptional noodles.
"He has a certain… aesthetic," Saki agreed with a gentle smile. A pig-masked man serving chashu pork ramen. The thematic commitment was almost admirable.
The owner-slash-general placed noodles into boiling water. "A warning, valued customers," he said, not turning. "Our prices here are… not conventional."
Only then did Chika scrutinize the price column. Her head tilted. "Heart? Stomach… Liver? Spleen…?" The confusion on her face melted into dazzling revelation. She clapped her hands together. "Saki-kun! It's that kind of mysterious shop! We hit the jackpot today!"
Saki raised an eyebrow. "A metaphysical eatery? Where the currency is a piece of one's soul… or anatomy?"
The owner chuckled, a low, gravelly sound. "You catch on quick—"
His sentence died as he finally turned to look properly at Sakurai Saki.
The change was instantaneous. A bead of cold sweat traced a path from under the porcelain mask. The pig's previously cunning, bloodthirsty smirk seemed to physically warp into a blank, almost idiotic grin. "O-oh, young lady! Such an imagination!" he stammered, his voice jumping an octave. "Kids these day, with all their weird light novels and manga! My shop is perfectly normal! Very ordinary! Wholesome!"
"Why is our ramen not ready yet?" Saki prompted, his voice mild.
"R-right away, young master! Immediately! Please be patient for just a moment!" The owner snatched a towel and mopped his brow furiously. "Ah, the ventilation in here… terribly stuffy…"
"General, your mask is slipping," Chika pointed out with genuine concern.
"It's nothing! Decorative! Purely decorative!" he squeaked, his hands trembling as he attended to the broth. A small business! I run a small, discreet business! Why is he here?!
Minutes later, two steaming bowls were placed before them with reverence.
"I'm starting!" they said in unison.
Saki ate methodically, ensuring each bite had a harmonious ratio of noodle, broth, and topping. His gaze drifted to Chika. Her technique was… unique. She used her spoon to craft miniature, perfect ramen bites—a single noodle loop, a sliver of chashu, a drop of broth—assembled with the precision of a diorama artist before being delicately consumed.
A devastatingly cute eating style, he observed.
Pffu— Pffu— Chika blew on her creation and took a bite. Her eyes shot wide open, stars practically glittering in them. "Delicious!" The exclamation was involuntary, a pure gastronomic reflex. "Such a hidden gem! How does it have no customers?"
She felt a pang of civic responsibility. So many bad shops thrived on main streets, while treasures like this languished unseen. Was it the alleyway location?
"Perhaps the price point is prohibitive," Saki mused aloud, taking a sip of his own broth. Not bad at all. Who, after all, could afford a liver with every visit?
The pig-headed owner began shaking his head so vigorously his mask rattled. "No charge! No money! Complimentary! This meal is on the house!"
"Running a charity, General?" Saki's smile was placid.
"Ahhhh! So hot! This weather is unbearable!" The owner mopped his forehead again, the towel now soaked. "You two enjoy! Take your time! I need… air. Fresh air!"
With that, he scrambled from behind the counter and vanished through a back door like a spooked animal.
"The general really seems overheated," Chika said, assembling her next spoonful masterpiece.
"Perhaps I'm just… hotter."
Pfft! Chika giggled, nearly dropping her spoon. "Saki-kun, you're so silly! You're not the sun!"
Saki merely took another serene bite, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips as the shop door swung shut in the distance.
At the back door of the small shop.
The "kind-faced" owner tore off the ceramic pig mask, revealing the bristled, snouted visage beneath it. He gasped, the cool evening air a relief on his sweat-slicked skin.
Too close. That was far too close.
Tokyo is a nest of monsters. A few more days… just a few more days to gather supplies, then it's back to the countryside.
He slumped against the damp wall, the fantasy crumbling as quickly as it formed.
…But I probably can't go back.
Not after what he'd done. Not after what he'd become.
The alleyway swallowed his sigh.
A few minutes later, inside the shop.
Fujiwara Chika set down her spoon with a polite clink. "He really hasn't come back… Are we sure we don't pay?" Her conscience, a well-tuned instrument of social propriety, twinged. Getting something for nothing was one thing, but enabling a failing business's charity was another!
"Refusing would be rude," Sakurai Saki said, his tone one of logical conclusion. "Consider it a form of philanthropic tax write-off. He likely owns several office buildings in Ginza and runs this shop as a hobby to satisfy his charitable impulses."
Chika recalled the owner's flustered, non-denial. Ah! It all makes sense! she thought, her worries dissipating as she lifted the bowl to sip the rich, remaining broth. What a noble person, using his wealth to bring joy through ramen!
Most of her toppings were gone. She had considered adding garlic—it paired so perfectly with tonkotsu—but… she glanced at Saki. Not today. Garlic breath was a strategic liability she would not incur. (On a normal, solo ramen mission, she'd have piled it high and annihilated the evidence with mint gum.)
Saki finished his last bite and stood. "I'll go thank the owner."
"I'll come too!"
"No need." His voice was gentle but firm. "He seemed… nervous around women. Didn't you see him sweating earlier?"
…A lie, of course.
As for who the owner was truly afraid of, the answer requires no elaboration.
"Oh… alright then." Chika accepted this with a slight pout, remaining at the counter.
Saki moved behind the curtain into the kitchen. His eyes catalogued the space: spotless counters, simmering pots of legitimate broth, ordinary vegetables. Then his gaze settled on a heavy door.
[ Freezer ]
A standard fixture for bulk meat storage. Unlocked.
He pushed it open. A wave of frigid air misted in the doorway.
"Beef. Pork. And…"
His expression didn't flicker.
Confirmation, not surprise.
Tap. Tap.
Footsteps, deliberate and heavy, sounded behind him.
Saki turned. The owner stood there, a heavy cleaver hanging loosely at his side, his porcine features set in a grim mask.
"You saw." It wasn't a question.
Saki ignored the obvious. His voice was eerily calm, a clinical inquiry. "Do aberrations die if they abstain from human flesh?"
"They don't die." The owner's voice was a low growl. "But they wanted to kill me. So I killed them."
Saki's eyes drifted back to the freezer's contents—a corpse in a distinctive hunter's robe, a grievous wound through its abdomen. "I see. 'They wanted to kill me, so I killed them.' A straightforward principle." He turned his full attention back to the aberration, his gaze flat and assessing. "Then, as a 'human,' if I were to kill you now… would you hold a grudge?"
...
Silence.
The cleaver hand did not rise. The owner took a half-step back, the fight draining from him, replaced by a primal, chilling recognition of the predator standing casually in his larder.
Ten minutes later, Sakurai Saki and Fujiwara Chika emerged onto the quiet street.
"It was so delicious!" Chika sighed, utterly content, the world once again a bright and simple place.
"Let's come again!" she chirped.
Saki smiled, a perfect, polite facade. "The owner mentioned he's closing shop. Returning to his hometown. He said the 'prices' here were unsustainable—too much charity, not enough profit."
"So we were his last customers?" Chika asked, her eyes widening with a touch of bittersweet pride.
"Yes." Saki nodded, then looked up at the sky.
It was 6 PM. The sun hung low, staining the high contrails of a passing plane a brilliant orange. Daylight persisted, but the edge of night was a tangible promise.
"To the station, then?"
"I'm so sorry! My family has a strict curfew," Chika said, genuine regret in her voice. She truly wished she could extend their time together.
Saki, on the other hand, felt only a wave of protective relief. Good. Accompanying her home was now out of the question. The diary's entry had been dangerously, catastrophically wrong. The successive supernatural encounters had left his instincts raw, his recently unsealed offensive powers humming just beneath his skin. The freezer had been a final, grisly lesson. Anger was there, yes, but beneath it was a cold, crystallizing truth: Aberrations and humans could not coexist.
Ordinary people lived in ignorance, not safety.
Aberrations could survive without human harm, but that didn't mean they didn't crave it.
He watched Chika swipe her commuter pass and vanish into the station crowd, a splash of cheerful color swallowed by the mundane world she belonged to.
Only then did he turn to a ticket machine. He rarely took trains.
A voice, ethereal and for his ears only, materialized beside him. "Was the ramen good?"
Half of his portion had vanished into Yakumo Bai's spiritual stomach, diluting the broth's richness.
"It was acceptable," Saki murmured, feeding coins into the slot. "The pig-headed uncle's technique was proficient."
"It was delicious~!" the white-haired ghost girl chimed, her spectral form leaning so close her cheek almost phased through his. Her eyes, wide with curiosity, studied the machine. "So this is a ticket dispenser? How peculiar!"
It was, indeed, her first time seeing one. Ghosts didn't use public transit. They floated. Until recently, Yakumo Bai couldn't even leave the school grounds, bound by the unfinished business of an unread love letter.
The machine whirred and spat out a ticket—a small, printed promise of distance. Saki pocketed it, the paper a stark contrast to the spiritual and visceral horrors of the day, and stepped toward the turnstile.
While the two were chatting...
Outside the train station, a black cat paced with an unnerving, deliberate gait, its feline face twisted with human-like malice. It was the same creature Sakurai Saki had used to test his powers yesterday—the one that had subsequently met its end beneath the tires of a passing car.
Suddenly, two pale hands descended from the deepening twilight and scooped it up.
"Kaka To find you here… You and I share a most intriguing fate" A golden-haired girl cradled the squirming creature against her sailor uniform. The outfit exuded a mundane youthfulness—golden braids, round, plain glasses—a perfect camouflage of "intellectual beauty" that was a stark contrast to her ornate attire of the previous day.
"Hiss—!" Hanakawa's cat bared its teeth, a sound thick with spectral hatred.
"Is that young man your enemy?" Kiss-Shot Acerola-Orion Heart-Under-Blade mused, recalling the unique, potent aura of Sakurai Saki. A smile played on her lips, the expression of a predator who has found a fascinating new toy. "To disguise yourself as a human… Your plan is to harm that cheerful girl first, isn't it? Then take her place to get close to him. How delightfully… crude."
Kill Fujiwara Chika. Become Fujiwara Chika. Then enact revenge on Sakurai Saki. The aberration's plan was as simple as it was monstrous.
"Kaka How amusing" Kiss-Shot cooed, tucking the seething cat-spirit under her arm as she melted back into the shadows of the approaching night. 'A pity I cannot visit that intriguing young man directly just yet,' she thought with a flicker of annoyance.
But one could not blame her for the delay. She was, unfortunately, entangled with rats.
Vampire hunters… as persistent and filthy as sewer vermin.
Returning home, the hour was still early.
The journey back was uneventful—no foolish aberrations hurled themselves toward their doom. The peace was almost unsettling.
With time to spare, Sakurai Saki completed his homework, reviewed his studies, and then turned his attention to a promised task: wagashi. He had told Fujiwara Chika he would make some.
His family's old home in Kyoto had been a wagashi shop. While he was largely self-taught, his current mother had been a far more patient instructor than he was to the Five Sisters. Under her tutelage, he had mastered the fundamentals in a year.
Sakurai Saki did not possess a sweet tooth. Unfortunately, his mother had been determined to cultivate one, making him the primary taste-tester for all new creations back in Kyoto.
"... What to make?" He gathered ingredients from the kitchen. Leftover cornstarch and glutinous rice flour from Chika's birthday gift project remained.
"Daifuku," he decided aloud.
The sugar measurement would be identical to last time. Consistency was key.
"I want hamburger steak~" Yakumo Bai's voice floated beside him, a plaintive whisper.
Sakurai Saki ignored her.
He had promised hamburger steak as compensation for yesterday's missed meeting. That promise was voided the moment she had chosen to manifest in the middle of the night, necessitating an emergency load of laundry this morning.
I was the one who was assaulted. Why am I the one who owes compensation?
The logic of girls was a profound mystery. They wielded a dizzying array of justifications to claim the moral high ground, all while possessing the ultimate, unassailable weapon: their physical presence. What boy could resist temptation when it was served so directly? Who would refuse fresh meat pressed to their lips?
…Well, Sakurai Saki had. Once. Last night.
"I'll make it later," he conceded, his voice flat. His modest kitchen couldn't handle two elaborate preparations at once.
He mixed the flour, added milk, and set the dough to steam. A private kitchen was a blessing for solitude, but a curse for efficiency.
"Yay! I want two portions!" The white-haired ghost cheered, zipping between the living room and kitchen in a blur of excited energy.
"One portion only," Sakurai Saki stated, a pragmatic correction. Meat was a finite resource. A supermarket run was looming tomorrow—his usual cycle of weekend bulk-buying was due for a refresh. His bento schedule depended entirely on the unpredictable side effects of his powers.
"Then I'll just have to sneak a taste of the other meat tonight!" Yakumo Bai giggled, covering her mouth with a sly, spectral hand.
...
Could she even materialize independently? Sakurai Saki was beginning to question her classification as a simple ghost. As for the nature of this "other meat," it was best not to interrogate the metaphor too closely.
"Do that, and I'll throw your letter-body out the window," he threatened, the image of this morning's freshly washed, shame-inducing pants hanging on the balcony flashing in his mind.
Yakumo Bai's expression shifted to one of small, triumphant victory.
Ten-plus minutes later.
"Sakura-kun, what sweets are you making?"
"Daifuku."
"Can I have some?"
"...With bell pepper and carrot filling? Is that what you want?"
Yakumo Bai recoiled as if struck. "No! Absolutely not!" Those two vegetables were her sworn enemies.
"Such a child," Sakurai Saki scoffed.
"Grrr!" She puffed out her cheeks and pressed herself against his back in protest. "I am not a child!"
A soft, insistent pressure settled between his shoulder blades.
Sakurai Saki's expression remained impassive as he removed the steamed dough. He poked it twice with a wooden spatula, watching it jiggle with perfect elasticity.
Yakumo Bai was certainly no elementary schooler. In terms of sheer, tactile presence, she felt roughly equivalent to five Kaguya Shinomiyas—not that he was making direct comparisons, of course. It was merely a theoretical estimate.
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