Sakuya stepped out, the scent of miso soup still clinging to his nostrils, his head heavy under a dull, persistent ache.
It was not a sharp pain. More like a constant pressure, as if his own thoughts had started to weigh on his mind in a physical way.
For a while now, he had felt alone with himself.
And that inner solitude never gave him a break.
The same ideas kept looping, heavier each time, harder to ignore.
The corridor he walked through was wide, brightly lit, and almost clinically clean.
Agents passed by him, some taller than average, others more discreet, but all of them wore the same uniform: a dark suit topped with a long black leather trench coat.
On their left arms or at their belts, the same badge appeared again and again.
The emblem of the N.A.S.C.
Their name engraved just beneath it.
Sakuya slowed his pace slightly.
He realized he had never truly taken the time to look at them this closely.
From far away, they had only been silhouettes.
But here, in these narrow hallways, their presence felt oppressive.
They all carried the same posture.
Straight. Controlled.
As if their bodies had been trained since childhood to stay alert, ready to face things most people could not even begin to imagine.
Nameless horrors.
Situations where hesitation meant death.
And yet, despite that discipline, something else struck him.
They were staring at him.
All of them.
Without even trying to hide it.
Their eyes slid over him, lingered, analyzed.
Sakuya felt his stomach tighten.
There were plenty of reasons, he knew.
His hair, first.
That deep violet, impossible to miss, something that had not existed a few weeks ago.
Then his eyes, a bright, unreal green.
Sharper than the green of perfectly kept grass.
He had already looked at himself in the mirror several times since waking up.
Strangely, accepting the changes had not been that hard.
Probably because it was the least of his problems.
There were too many questions. Too many losses. Too many unknowns.
Or maybe because, deep down, his appearance was only the surface.
And what truly frightened him was buried much deeper.
There was something else, too.
He was one of the only people in that hallway wearing civilian clothes.
A plain, ordinary outfit.
A brutal contrast against the black uniforms surrounding him.
Or maybe…
Maybe they knew.
Maybe everyone already knew what had happened while he was asleep.
What he had unleashed without even being aware.
The thought tightened around his chest.
Sakuya lowered his head slightly and kept walking, trying to ignore the stares, failing anyway.
The complex swallowed him, corridor after corridor.
Until he finally reached the door he was looking for.
The complex library.
Just reading the word made his shoulders loosen a little.
Finally. A room where he could think about something else.
Or, at the very least, stop thinking altogether.
Rest.
That need had started to feel vital.
Since waking up, a constant tension had never left him.
And the Capsule Eight was a big part of it.
Just knowing another test could be triggered at any time during the day was enough to knot his stomach.
He had never had a single decent experience with that machine.
The sensations.
The total loss of bearings.
The pressure on the body, on the mind.
The feeling of being dissected from the inside, reduced to numbers and curves on a screen.
Every session had been intense. Too intense.
And there was Shinobu.
Shinobu, who had lost the use of his legs because of the Capsule Eight.
For life.
Even if no one said it out loud, even if the N.A.S.C. always spoke in terms of "managed risks" and "exceptional cases," that reality never left Sakuya's mind.
He placed his hand on the handle.
Hesitated for a fraction of a second.
Then stepped inside.
The room was spacious, far larger than he had imagined.
The ceiling rose high above him, supported by metal structures integrated into the architecture, blending efficiency with restrained sobriety.
Entire rows of shelves stretched along the walls, loaded with books, bound files, and digital supports stored in transparent modules.
It was not an old library, dusty or romantic.
It was a workplace.
A research space.
A controlled silence.
Reading tables were arranged in clean lines, each equipped with built-in lamps that cast a soft light, almost warm compared to the rest of the complex.
A few simple chairs, surprisingly comfortable, sat in the quietest corners.
The air felt different.
Calmer.
Less oppressive.
A muffled silence reigned, barely disturbed by the distant whisper of turning pages or the faint hum of the ventilation systems.
Sakuya inhaled deeply.
For the first time in a while, breathing did not feel forced.
He took a few steps forward, letting the door close behind him with a discreet hiss.
His shoulders loosened slightly, as if his body instinctively understood this was a place where he could lower his guard, if only for a moment.
Here, no one was staring.
He headed for one of the shelves farthest from the entrance, the one most likely to hold science fiction novels.
(It wouldn't hurt to escape this rotten world for a while. Just long enough to read.)
Before he even picked a book, something else hit him.
There were countless works about Seimei.
Manuals.
Reports.
Entire encyclopedias about anomalies, variations, rare cases.
Seimei and advanced manifestations.
Index of irregular flux patterns.
Registry of known anomalies.
Even here, there was no escaping it.
He looked away without hesitation. He had no desire to dive into any of it.
No desire to learn anything more about that subject.
He grabbed a book at random from the fiction section.
Astro Wars.
Perfect.
Then he moved toward a quieter corner of the library, away from the central tables. A calm spot. No agents nearby. A place where no one listened.
He sat down and opened the book.
Little by little, his mind loosened. The pages flowed. The words did their job.
About twenty minutes passed.
Then a presence imposed itself.
A shadow fell over the book.
Sakuya slowly looked up.
An agent stood in front of him.
Imposing. Broad-shouldered. A build made for field work. His face was marked with clean, old scars, like traces left by repeated fights. He stood straight, arms crossed, motionless.
He was staring.
Sakuya calmly closed his book and set it on the table before speaking.
"What is it?"
"Can I help you with something?"
Without answering, the agent grabbed Astro Wars and flipped through it briefly, as if considering confiscating it.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he snapped.
"Who do you think you are, exactly?"
Sakuya blinked, caught off guard by the sudden aggression.
"Excuse me? I'm just…"
He did not have time to finish.
The agent's hands clamped down brutally on the collar of his clothes. With a sharp movement, he yanked him up and forced him to stand.
"You messing with me, kid?"
Sakuya's heart slammed in his chest. He tried to pull free, without violence, already knowing it was useless.
"Look at you," the agent spat.
"Those green eyes. That hair. You really think no one noticed what you are?"
He shook him lightly.
"You destroyed entire rooms while you were asleep. Just with your Seimei."
Sakuya's throat tightened.
"I… I don't know how that's possible…"
He had to catch his breath.
"I don't understand what's happening. I don't even know what…"
The agent leaned in, his face way too close.
"Oh yeah? You don't know anything?"
A cruel smirk stretched his lips.
"You think I'm buying that?"
His gaze locked onto Sakuya's eyes.
"That color is impossible, normally."
His voice dropped, heavier with contempt.
"A little Theta piece of trash like you."
Sakuya's eyes widened.
(Theta?)
(What the hell is he talking about?)
He snapped back to the moment.
Anger surged up, sudden and messy.
"What are you talking about, you sick degenerate…" His voice shook. "I'm not a…"
He did not have time to finish.
A massive knee strike slammed straight into his sternum.
The impact was dry. Violent. Unforgiving.
All the air left his lungs at once.
Sakuya collapsed to the floor, breathless, his body folding under the pain. The shock reverberated through his ribs, ripping a muffled, broken sound from his throat as he tried desperately to inhale.
Nothing came.
Only that deep, burning pressure crushing his chest.
The agent bent down over him, towering above his curled-up form on the ground.
"Listen to me, you little Theta piece of trash."
His voice was low. Thick with contempt.
"I'm not gonna let you come in here and wreak havoc like you want to." He nearly spat the words. "Once you're not under the complex's supervision anymore, I'm gonna settle your case myself."
He stared at him with an old hatred, almost personal.
"I've seen you wandering around here since day one." A nasty grin. "And your face never inspired anything positive in me."
Sakuya stayed on his knees, one hand pressed to his stomach, the other trembling against the cold floor. Every attempt to breathe sent a sharp stab through him.
(What does he want from me…)
(What did I even do to him…)
(Did I… did I hurt someone he was close to?)
A dull terror settled in. Not explosive panic. Something more poisonous.
The feeling of being trapped. Vulnerable. With no way out.
Then, from the entrance of the room, a voice rose.
A woman's voice.
Clear. Authoritative.
"Jūzō."
It was not loud. But it cracked like an order.
"What is this circus?"
For the first time since it started, Jūzō looked away from Sakuya.
"But Natsumi," he said as he straightened a little, "you can see what he is."
The woman's gaze hardened instantly.
"The only thing I see," she replied coldly, "is a patient being abused by a thick-headed brute with zero common sense."
She stepped further into the room.
"You can see he's not fighting back, idiot."
Jūzō opened his mouth to answer, but she did not let him get a word in.
"And by the way," she added, "I'm here for him."
She finally turned her eyes to Sakuya.
Her expression was not threatening. But it was not gentle either.
Professional. Detached. Too controlled to be truly empathetic.
"Come on," she said, sharper. "Get up."
Then, without waiting for him to fully understand:
"It's time."
"You're coming with me. Capsule Eight."