⋆ .༺☾𖤓༻. ⋆ Michikatsu Tsugikuni

Her fingers twitched once against the mattress, the final conscious signal from a body that had ultimately succumbed to the toxin that had slithered through her veins. The lazy rotations of the ceiling fan etched themselves into her fading vision, blurring, doubling, and then fading into darkness as her eyelids closed with the finality of a tomb. Her breath became shallow, her lips parting slightly around an unfinished syllable, the damp heat of the apartment enveloping her like a second skin.

She didn't dream. Not in the way that ordinary people did. Her unconsciousness was a black velvet void where memories emerged like corpses in a still pond, her father's bamboo sword cracking against her knuckles at the age of seven, the wet gurgle of a target's last breath in Osaka, the phantom weight of a flute she hadn't touched in decades. Tonight, the corpse drifting toward her bore Kagutsuchi's smile.

The first sensation she registered was the taste, coppery and something sickeningly sweet, clinging to her tongue like spoiled honey. Her eyelids peeled apart with the sticky reluctance of old tape, the morning light piercing through the gap in her curtains with the precision of a scalpel. She blinked against it, her lashes snagging on something crusted at the corners. The ceiling fan wobbled lazily above her, its uneven rotation casting distorted shadows across the water stain shaped like a screaming face that she had dubbed 'Landlord' last winter.

“Ugh.”

With a slow groan, she turned onto her side, her muscles protesting like rusty hinges. The sheets carried a faint scent of detergent, real detergent, not the stale remnants of vodka and sweat that typically lingered in her bedding. She squinted at the neatly arranged pile of clean clothes on the chair, the fabric crisp and devoid of wrinkles, as if it were mocking her very existence. What transpired last night was a mystery to her; did that idiot actually put her to bed, tidy up her place, and then leave? What a loser.

"Fucking hell."

The shower hissed to life even before she stood, steam curling around the bathroom door like a tempting invitation. She forced herself upright, her bare feet meeting floorboards that were suspiciously free of dirt. Every surface sparkled, no empty bottles lined up like tombstones, no cigarette butts drowning in old ramen cups. Even the damn spider had vanished. Her reflection in the mirror stared back at her with a mix of suspicion and fatigue, dark circles under her eyes resembling smudged ink.

Stepping under the scalding water with a hiss, she let it wash away the grime. The soap had a lemon scent, unlike the cheap drugstore bars she usually kept. She scrubbed until her skin turned pink, trying to ignore the phantom sensation of hands that weren’t hers, hands that had touched her while she slept, rearranging her life like a dollhouse.

Dressed in clean clothes that actually fit, she padded into the kitchen. The fridge hummed, filled with groceries she had no recollection of buying. The first sip of water hit her stomach like a jolt, cold and clear, a stark contrast to the usual burn of morning whiskey. She despised how good it felt. Had her sister been here? She was the only other person with a key to her apartment, always fussing, always worrying, always helping. This place was immaculate, perfect, as clean as could be; she liked it. Maybe her sister had been around, because all she remembered was drifting off last night.

The night hadn’t gone quite as he anticipated, but it was pleasant all the same, he had only just gotten her to bed when he heard the gentle knock, followed by the jiggling of a key in the locks at the front door. Kagutsuchi knew that the woman lived alone, he knew that no one had visited the washed up assassin in months so the sudden visitor— one who apparently had a key to the place, made him exert caution as he slid his feet across the floor, using the navigation skills he had acquired over his weeks of nighttime visits to avoid creaky floorboards and piles of clothes that had been sitting for days.

Slowly she exhaled, slowly and deeply, reminiscent of a tire losing air on a gravel roadside. She felt terrible. The kind of terrible that feels like something trodden on, scraped off, and left to harden under the sun for three workdays. Her fingers twitched towards the crumpled pack of cigarettes beside her thigh, but even that slight motion triggered a fresh wave of nausea. The room tilted a bit, the ceiling fan above them blurring into a lazy halo of off-white blades.

Her foot remained in Kagutsuchi's lap, his fingers methodically working to relieve the tension coiled in her arch. Normally, she would have pulled away by now, would have snapped a warning about losing fingers if they ventured too high. But her limbs felt heavy, her thoughts thick and sluggish. The curry weighed heavily in her stomach, a leaden anchor dragging her deeper into the couch cushions. She blinked slowly, her lashes sticking together for a heartbeat too long.

Her toes flicked against Kagutsuchi's thigh, a lazy, unconscious twitch, like a cat's tail indicating bored amusement. Her foot arched, the tendons standing out sharply beneath skin that suddenly felt too thin, too sensitive. Every brush of his fingers sent electric tingles racing up her calf, pooling low in her abdomen with a warmth that had nothing to do with the cheap whiskey or the curry. She hummed softly in her throat, a sound that resonated through her chest and escaped between slightly parted lips. The back of her head sank deeper into the couch cushions as she leaned back, her tank top riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of stomach, pale and taut, the scar along her hipbone catching the dim light like a silver thread.

Then her eyelids hung heavily, resembling wet paper that was fraying at the edges. The soft hum of the ceiling fan blended into the distant thump of her own heartbeat, slow, syrupy pulses that seemed to struggle through her veins with a palpable effort. Even the act of blinking felt like a chore, her lashes clinging together with each attempt, as if her body had been filled with damp sand. She breathed out through her nose, observing Kagutsuchi's face distort and sway in her unsteady sight. His fingers resting on her ankle felt unbearably weighty, each press of his thumb sending sluggish ripples through muscles that felt foreign to her.

She fought to remain awake, she truly did. She blinked forcefully, trying to keep her eyes open until they teared up, but the room continued to tilt sideways. The blades of the ceiling fan merged into a single spinning disc of off-white, its hum intertwining with the slow thud of her heartbeat. Her fingers twitched towards her cigarettes, but the motion triggered a new wave of nausea that rolled through her, thick and suffocating like motor oil.

"Damn …" She mumbled, the word dragging from her throat as if it were burdened. Her foot slipped from Kagutsuchi's lap, hitting the floor with a dull thud that she barely registered. The ice cream bowl tipped over, its remnants spilling onto the coffee table in a slow, creamy cascade. She reached out to catch it, or at least thought she did, but her arm moved through molasses, fingers grasping at nothingness. As her eyes closed and she just, passed out, falling into a deep sleep right before him.

It was only a matter of time before she was out, he knew this, so for the moment he would busy himself with sliding his fingertips over her skin, slowly sliding one of his hands from where his thumb stroked the pad of her foot to slide up and over her ankle, carving its way towards her calf, stopping just short of her knee before it retraced its steps back down, his fingers curling around her ankle for a moment, testing the circumference of the limb in his hand.

"We will be alright." 

She was already prepared for the night, her face painted in shades of white and scarlet that did not suit her- or at least she did not believe it did, not when it made her face feel smothered as if she were being suffocated with a wax pillow. The expanse of her body had been draped in elegantly embroidered violet silk, flowers and a bow adorning the fabric of her obi, as if she had been wrapped in gift paper, waiting to be unwrapped, though she supposed that was the appeal of it all. The men who came here only wished for what was concealed beneath silks.

What pained her most of all about their situation was not her own suffering, not her own discomfort, but the fact that she had been unable to shield her own baby sister from the horrors of this place, from the hungry eyes and hands of the worst of men. She had to be careful, she had already stirred up enough trouble when she had fractured the wrist of a man who had grabbed Yoriichi by the hair and called her a whore— Michikatsu had beaten the man to the ground before she even had time to think it over.

No one would speak ill of her sister, and most of all, no one would lay a hand upon her, even if Yoriichi could defend herself, it was Michikatsu’s duty as the eldest to keep her safe.

Long slender fingers reached forward, curling into the other woman’s hand for a moment, a small comfort that she awarded in a moment that caused a sense of doom to linger in the air like smoke.

“We shall bear through this…together.”

And just like that, the elder of the two slipped away, her tabi socks whispering against the worn tatami as she would extinguish two of the oils lanterns in the room, dimming the lights as if the dancing shadows would be enough to hide away the sins committed in this den of depravity. She could already hear the sound of footsteps down the corridor outside, their cadence starkly even and sober against the blooming atmosphere of drunkenness.

Slowly she scraped the last traces of melted vanilla from her bowl with the spoon’s edge, the metal clinking against ceramic like a dull blade. The cold sweetness lingered on her tongue—fleeting, already forgotten. She set the bowl down too hard, the sound sharp against the hum of the fridge and the distant drip of a leaky faucet. Kagutsuchi’s gaze burned against her skin like sunlight through a magnifying glass, poised to ignite.

One would generally pay no mind to actions so utterly mundane, there was nothing too significant or interesting about a woman washing out dishes in a dingy little apartment, but he did, he found every aspect of her to be significant, especially now as he tried to gauge the effects of the aphrodisiac that he had slipped in her dinner, he wanted to watch as she crumbled under the influence of the drugs— he wanted to see of she would be desperate enough to come to him.

“I would like that Atlas, but it seems, fate might have something else in store for us.”

Atlas took a moment to look at himself, his lips pursed slightly in thought as he then looked to the other boys around them and how far they had transformed already. The other boy was not wrong, it seemed as if he were relatively normal, save for a few new hairs here and there, though he did have his suspicions on why he hadn’t been affected like they had- he was not human, maybe human adjacent, but not human and his kind lived much longer lives than humans as they lived by the rules of cats, they lived with nine lives.

The boy was about to speak, about to try to help make some sense of why he had remained unchanged while all his friends were turning into donkeys, but he was unable to share, for he too stopped and turned to look at Kyosuke, the boy looked as if he were on the verge of giving in, the fire that once burned in his eyes had dimmed into flickering embers, his cherished bow had long been lost upon the uneven boards of their open air prison disguised as paradise.

Then he hissed, a growl clawing at the back of his throat as his fur stood on end- one look at the so called “workers” and his danger sense went off like an alarm. Something about them was uncanny, they weren’t right.

He wouldn’t need to be told to move again for his feet were moving before the words fully left the other boy’s lips, though he did glance back to ensure that Kyosuke was following as well- so far the youngest boy was, but his steps were much slower, as if he were in no rush to follow.

His fingers flexed unconsciously at his sides as Fuchi's sleeve brushed against his wrist. That deliberate, familiar contact that always carried the unspoken question. The autopsy room's oppressive heat seemed to condense between them when Fuchi mentioned eel, that particular vendor whose stall smelled of caramelized soy and charred cedar. He exhaled through his nose, long and measured, as though steadying himself before stepping onto a tightrope.

"Kitchen duty." He repeated, voice drier than the sawdust clinging to Fuchi's hakama hem. His thumb traced the lacquered hilt of his katana, a habitual motion that betrayed nothing and everything. "You set fire to rice last time." Not an accusation. A fact delivered with the same detached precision as his blade parting vertebrae. Yet his lips twitched when Fuchi's face crumpled in mock indignation.

“Duty is duty, doing it with a friend, makes it easier.”

As he walked with him into the town, their footsteps falling into an uneven rhythm, Fuchi's sandals scuffing against the dirt road with every other step, his stride measured and silent as a blade being drawn. The midday sun pressed down on their shoulders, but the heat felt different here, away from the cloying scent of formaldehyde and iron. Instead, the air carried the tang of soy sauce simmering in vendor stalls, the earthy musk of sun-warmed wood, and beneath it all, the faint metallic whisper of blood from the butcher's stall two alleys over.

“Hm.”

The vendor's stall stood wedged between a blacksmith's billowing smoke and a laundress scrubbing linens in murky water. His nose twitched at the scent, charred cedar and caramelized soy, undercut by something darker, richer. The eel vendor himself was a hunched creature with skin like cured leather, his knuckles swollen around the bamboo skewers he turned over glowing coals.

"Two."

He said, fingertips brushing the coins in his sleeve. Not a request. A transaction. As he paid, he would never ask for Fuchi to pay for anything, this was his treat.

As he turned and he would move on with him. The thought of tonight and a thousand other tasks with him trailing like a bloodstain across his mind as he saw Fuchi's fingers curled around the vendor's bamboo skewer, grease glistening on his knuckles. The eel vendor's chuckle rasped like a dull blade against stone, but he heard none of it. Only the wet crunch of Fuchi biting into charred flesh, the way juice dribbled down his chin before he swiped it away with the back of his wrist. A droplet lingered near the corner of his mouth. His thumb twitched toward it instinctively before clenching into a fist at his side.

“What is a good spot then?”

“At least we can present a proper meal, I have no clue what they were thinking having Senta and I on meal duty on the same night,” he chuckled as he took a hearty bite of eel, there was just something about the greasy food at these vendors stalls that just appealed to him, the flavors clung to the back of his tongue, the smokiness of hot coals that clung to the sweet glaze, there was something comforting about it. “It also helps that unlike me, you can prepare a fit meal. I believe I made Eizen and Genji fall ill, it amazes me that I am still allowed in the kitchen.”

It was a comical thing to see Fuchi’s solution to keep up with his friend’s longer stride, even now, with casual pace they were keeping the shorter male had to half skip to keep up, his woven sandals skittering across the packed earth. He had wanted to treat his friend, though he would not complain about the other man paying, he knew it was simply the type of person his Shu was, he would simply have to return the kindness in other ways, be it suturing the man’s wounds or preparing him medicines when he falls ill.

When inquired about their perfect little spot the blond perked up, his eyes shining as he took Shugen’s hand into his own after tucking his book under his arm, his other hand clutching his skewer as he would guide him towards a small passage that cut between two buildings. “I found this spot the other week while out searching for leeches,” as he would guide his companion further, leading him into the small forest that bordered the southern edge of town. It would take them a few minutes, but oh, wasn’t the sight worth it.

Willows hung by the pond’s edge, their drooping branches dappled with fragrant blooms that fell like fresh snow when the breeze combed through them, the petals littered the water’s surface the water cool and clear, clear enough to see that the bottom was adorned with smooth pebbles and green water weeds. The sweetness of the flowers mingled perfectly with the scent of cool, freshwater and moss, all the while, birds sang to and fro, a song between two sparrows who longed to be closer, yet one wavered with a hesitation that could not be pinpointed. It truly was a scene described by some lover’s poem.

He didn't know what was wrong with Fuchi, but they would find out—even if it meant tearing apart every rule that bound them to the Yamada clan's cold doctrines. His sandals scuffed against gravel as he pivoted toward the medicine shed, the other scrambling to keep pace. The scent of dried herbs hit them first, mugwort and chrysanthemum—before he shouldered the sliding door open with a force that rattled the jars on their shelves.

"Hm .."

His gaze swept the medicine shed ... empty. The low worktable where Fuchi usually dissected specimens stood pristine, scalpels aligned like soldiers at attention. No bloodstains. No half-stitched cadavers. Just the lingering scent of formaldehyde undercut by something acrid—burnt herbs? His fingers brushed the teakettle on the brazier. Still warm.

The door slammed shut behind him with a finality that made the other with him flinch. Outside, the evening air was thick with the scent of cherry blossoms, too sweet, cloying, like syrup left to spoil in the sun. His sandals crushed fallen petals as he strode past the dojo's training yard, where the rhythmic shouts of apprentices drilling forms dissolved into murmurs at his passing.

"Fuchi!" He called, voice low but carrying. The word tasted wrong, not her name, but a plea wrapped in a command. No answer came from the shadowed alcoves between storehouses. Only the flutter of a crow's wings, disturbed from its perch atop the clan's records hall.

"Fuchi!"

As he vaulted the low garden wall in a single motion, landing silently between rows of medicinal herbs. The moon cast long fingers through the bamboo lattice, striping Fuchi's overturned watering can with silver. His fingers traced the damp earth where she'd knelt earlier, indentations too deep for casual tending. Kneeling here, she'd dug her nails into soil like it was the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

"Fuchi!"

He found her hairpin wedged between two stones by the koi pond. The silver carp motif was bent at an unnatural angle, as if wrenched free during a struggle. His thumb brushed the twisted metal while his other hand unconsciously checked the tanto at his waist. Across the pond, disturbed reeds formed a broken trail toward the eastern wall where the clan's plum trees grew thickest.

"Fuchi!"

Shugen really knew how to make an entrance…he was almost surprised that he hadn’t simply knocked the door off its tracks, speaking of which, Tenza would linger at the door, though he would raise a brow seeing as Fuchi, who he had just seen, was now nowhere to be seen- she was a fast little thing. “She was just here,” he mused as his eyes scanned around, his spine straightening as he too began to worry just a fraction.

Still, he trailed behind, wiping a few stray beads of sweat from his temple, his fists clenched in a silent determination as for once he was able to use his brain, he was quite the opposite to Fuchi in regards to forming plans, but this one would be…well, better than nothing. “I’ll go see if any of the others have seen her, I’m sure she hasn’t gone far.” Before he could get an answer, he was already splitting off, his feet guiding him towards where he had previously seen Sagiri and Senta chatting away, he was sure one of them might have caught something.

The medicinal teas she had steeped hadn’t even touched upon the pain, it still twisted tightly in her abdomen like a rope tangled up in knots, fraying at the edges, a radiating thing it was, one that she could feel pulsing through her hips and up her spine. It was why she sought out this isolation, a place where no one would bother her with requests, just for a little while, just until the cramping eased off.

A soft groan spilled past her lips as she splayed out under the plum tree her sleeve draping over her face like a veil as she writhed uncomfortably against the cool, damp clover, not because of coolness of it, but because she felt as if she were being roasted on a spit. She heard her name being called in the distance just as she was shrugging her robes from her shoulders, though instead of responding she would let the fabric fall around her waist before falling back against the clover once more, the damp greenery felt rather pleasant against her flushed skin. She had already abandoned her hair pin, once more piece of clothing would not matter, nor did the voice calling her name, for she knew who it belonged to and she knew that he would find her, he always did.

“I am not sure, I don’t know what is happening.”

Kyosuke would press the top of his head further into the other boy’s palm, the touch was grounding, comforting, enough to help ease his uneven breaths and the pain that shot through his spine like lightning, a pain that he could not even express for his cries came out in a series of whinnies and snorts, a fate that not only washed over him, but now it reached out for Michikatsu, threatening to drag him under just as it had the other boys who had stepped foot upon this island.

At least they could try.

It wasn’t much, but it was better than to sit by and completely forget about those other boys, to flee and leave them to suffer alone, even just a small kindness was better than nothing, even if all they could do was leave this place and alert the adults of what was going on, though the main problem would be finding an adult that would believe a story so ridiculous. His knew his papa had punished him severely for making up stories…what if the adults didn’t believe them?

His blue gaze flicked from Kyosuke to some of the other boys who ran around of newly formed hooves, he still didn’t feel right about leaving them, though there was little to be done. The boy with the lion’s tail could only tuck his nose against his stuffed dog’s head as he took hesitant steps as he followed along with Kyosuke and the other two boys, though he stuck right beside his original companion for the time being, not because he didn’t like the other two boys, but because he was worried about his friend.

“Mhmm,” he boy hummed quietly, the hairs on his neck standing on end, though unbeknownst to him, the hairs on his neck standing arms and back had begun to grow thicker beneath his coat, his claws imperceptibly growing longer.

It seemed the odd change didn’t yield to his already animalistic form.

He found him to be odd, but then, everyone did.

The way Fuchi hummed while peeling back layers of flesh as casually as one might shuck an orange. The reverence in his voice when describing the latticework of veins beneath skin, as though reciting poetry. Yet where others saw morbidity, he saw devotion. Where they recoiled, he leaned closer. It wasn’t tolerance; it was kinship. A bond forged in the quiet hours between midnight and dawn, their sleeves brushing as they bent over cadavers, their hands equally stained.

"Mm. I would adore that."

He admitted, softer than intended. The confession hovered between them like incense smoke, fragile, dissipating too quickly. He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of the corpse cooling beside them. "But first—" With deliberate care, he lifted the severed leg from the table, its weight slick in his palms. He saw that he watched, amused, as he deposited it into a brine-filled vat with the solemnity of a priest offering libations. The limb sank with a thick plop.

"There. Now it won’t spoil."

The brine sloshed against the vat's sides as he wiped his hands on a rag already stiff with old blood. Fuchi's laughter, bright and incongruous in the dissection room, made something tighten in his chest. It wasn't discomfort. It was the same sensation as catching a child before they stumbled into a busy street, that split-second lurch of protective instinct. Fuchi wasn't a child, of course. But he had long since accepted that his affection for the man manifested as the urge to stand between him and the world's sharp edges.

"Your technique with the rib spreaders has improved, I am impressed."

He observed, nudging a gleaming instrument on the tray. The compliment was genuine, though he'd sooner chew glass than admit how often he'd lingered outside the autopsy room just to listen to Fuchi's cheerful humming between bone cracks.

"Grab the book, and let us go then."

As his fingers lingered on Fuchi's cheekbone longer than necessary, the calloused pad of his thumb pressing just hard enough to leave a temporary pale mark against flushed skin. The gesture was absurd, unbecoming of an executioner who'd carved through thirty-seven spinal columns this month alone. Yet here he was, pinching flesh still warm with life instead of peeling it cold from bone.

"You deserve to have a day to enjoy."

Those nights together had always been something he looked forward to, even if he would not admit it aloud, he would always get stuck with that same dorky grin and he blabbered on and on about something he had read or something odd he had found in their latest cadaver.

The tenderness of the man’s words had stilled him for a moment, his breath catching in the back of his throat for just a fraction of a second. Adore. He liked the word, he liked how it spilled past the other man’s lips like sinner whispering their admissions in confessional. However, he perked up as the dark-haired man broke the silence, his gaze snapping to the man’s hands as he picked up the severed limb, it was touching that even now Shu-kun was thoughtful of him and his work.

“Thank you, you know, you would make an excellent assistant, Shu,” he mused, laughing a bit to himself as he shifted, his feet shuffling along the floor as he made his way to a small closet in to the side- he always kept a change of clothes on hand, while the blood did not bother him, he didn’t exactly wish to go out soaked in gore, especially if he was needed for more official matters. The man was quick to shed the outer layers of his robes, though before he redressed he took the time to neatly fold the soiled linens, only pausing a second as he was complimented. The man had a sparkle in his eye as he turned his gaze towards his dear friend, a shit eating grin pulling at the corners of his lips, his attitude was not one of arrogance, but of a genuine warmth that bloomed in his chest as a result of the kind words.

“Repetition and some encouragement were key, there is always room for one to improve ones skills…speaking of,” the blond straightened his posture as he finished adjusting the fresh set of robes, his slender fingers, scarred from slipped scalpels and misplaced needles, slid over his kataginu, adjusting the fabric. “It seems as if we are both stuck on kitchen duty tonight, the others say my culinary skills could use some improvement,” he huffed, pursing his lips as he half snatched his book up from one of the tabled that adorned the wall opposite to the entrance.

His cooking was…horrendous, even more so than the human-briny concoction that the second ranked Asaemon stood beside, it seemed his knack for medicines did not translate well into food.

Fuchi was quick to take his place at the other’s side, one hand clutched his prized book to his chest, one that was bound with fresh leather, and the other ghosted along the sleeve of his companion. He swore that he would still feel the warm, lingering touch of fingers on his skin, though all his other senses told his heart otherwise, it was simply a result of sentiment.

“A break is welcomed so long as it is with you.”

His words were somewhat bold, though he was never the type to dance around pretty words, he had always been upfront or simply did not speak if he felt what he had to say would not be appropriate for the moment, but this moment felt right as he enjoyed the time they spent together.