#earth-4

Meena Dhawan of Earth-4 works closely with the Blue Beetle, as well as the Flash on occasion. She, like all speedsters, gets her speed from the technological exo-suit built by Jay Garrick during World War II, modified and redesigned to fit her. But she’ll never be a member of the Pax Americana. Captain Atom says that she isn’t fit to do so.

At first, the night Jan took Aoi didn’t feel like anything special. Everything was just—normal, or close enough. If there was danger, it was hiding out of sight.

Aoi stayed late at the archive, fussing over a beat-up old journal under his little desk lamp. When he finally left, the streets were empty—no cars, nobody out, just the dry smell of grass and dust in the air. Soba trotted at his side, nails clicking on the sidewalk, ears up at every little sound. They didn’t hurry. Then headlights swung around the corner behind them, too slow to be casual. The silence broke.

The car stopped beside the curb.

The driver’s door opened, and Arjantha Dierja stepped out, his presence unsettling in the quiet night.

Jan leaned over the car door, voice low. "You’re out late, you know." Something about it sounded like a warning, but maybe Aoi was just tired.

Aoi gave a small, tired smile, trying to hide his nerves. He listened to Soba’s breathing, looking for comfort.

“Deadlines,” Aoi replied, his voice thinner than he intended. The word hung in the air, brittle as glass.

Jan looked off down the street. Shadows pooled under the streetlights. "You should be careful out here," he said. It made Aoi’s shoulders bunch up, but he tried not to show it.

Soba let out a low growl, his fur bristling. Aoi felt a surge of gratitude for his dog.

“I’ve got him,” Aoi murmured, scratching Soba’s neck with unsteady fingers. Soba pressed closer, sensing his distress.

Jan’s gaze lingered on Aoi, his eyes unwavering, making the air feel suddenly heavy.

"I could give you a ride," Jan said. “We live on the same block.”

“It’s only a few blocks,” Aoi said, glancing at the familiar homes lining the street. He tried to sound casual, but his pulse raced in his throat. Every house was dark, the windows blank and indifferent. He pictured his own front porch light, the safe clutter of shoes by the door, and Soba’s bowl waiting in the kitchen. Never had home felt so far away. The silence pressed in, thick and expectant, as if the neighbourhood itself was holding its breath.

Jan only tilted his head. "Yeah. Not far," he said, softer now. The space between them felt a little too close. The air got heavier.

That was the last moment of normal life before everything changed. In seconds, fear and confusion took over. The night became a blur: Soba barking, Jan reaching out, the sharp smell of cologne as he came closer. Aoi would always remember the panic, the struggle, and the cold concrete under his knees.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

When Aoi woke, the first thing he noticed was the smell.

It wasn’t the sharp, metallic tang of blood you’d expect from the movies—it was something older, almost rotten, as if the walls themselves remembered every drop ever spilt. The air was clammy and oppressive, saturated with the iron scent of rust embedded deep in the concrete. Each breath turned to mist in the frigid air, and somewhere unseen, water dripped with a steady, maddening rhythm. Disoriented, Aoi tried to piece together how he’d gotten here—the curb, the headlights, the struggle, the sense of weightlessness as the world tilted and went dark. Now, the only certainty was pain and the icy bite of terror crawling up his spine.

He tried to move and realised his wrists were bound tight to the cold metal arms of a chair.

Panic jolted him upright, the chair’s metal legs scraping out a shrill protest against the slick floor.

“—Soba—!”

His voice shattered. Panic crashed over him in violent, dizzying waves. Soba had been with him on the curb that night, loyal and protective until the very end. The memory surfaced. The thought of his dog alone somewhere brought a bitter ache to his chest, all tangled with guilt.

A soft sound echoed behind him.

Footsteps.

Measured. Unhurried.

Jan emerged into the weak cone of light beneath a hanging bulb, sleeves rolled to his elbows with meticulous care. His shirt was spotless, pale as paper. That same calm, distant curiosity lingered in his eyes—the look Aoi had glimpsed on the street, in the bakery, by the library door where Jan lingered too long.

Like someone observing a painting.

“Aoi,” Jan said quietly.

Aoi’s breathing turned ragged immediately.

“You— you—”

Aoi’s tongue felt heavy, and every word hurt his throat. His voice shook so much he could barely speak. Fear made it hard to breathe. His heart pounded against the ropes holding him, and for a moment, all he could hear was his own rough breathing.

“Where’s Soba?”

The question tumbled out, desperate and small. He could barely recognise his own voice.

Jan tilted his head slightly, studying Aoi’s trembling frame. The gesture was eerily calm, almost clinical—a predator examining a wounded animal.

“The dog?” he asked, as if confirming a trivial detail.

Aoi’s entire body trembled. The cold metal of the chair bit through his clothes, reminding him with every shiver that this was real. His mind flickered with images of Soba, warm and alive, and the terror of loss nearly overwhelmed him.

“Yes—my dog—please—please tell me you didn’t—”

Jan frowned faintly, almost puzzled by the outpouring of emotion. It was as if he were struggling to understand why anyone would care so much.

“I wouldn’t harm him.”

The words slipped from Jan’s mouth so casually, they felt obscene—like a knife wrapped in silk. Aoi stared at him, heart hammering, struggling to believe. He clung to the hope like a lifeline, but suspicion gnawed at the back of his mind.

“He’s sleeping on your couch,” Jan continued, tone as bland as if he were giving directions. “I locked the back door. He seemed comfortable.”

Aoi’s disbelief showed on his face. His vision blurred from tears and exhaustion. The room spun, and the ache in his chest was the only thing that felt real.

“You drugged me.”

“Yes.”

“You—”

Aoi’s voice cracked apart. The memory resurfaced in jagged flashes: the strange taste on his tongue, the world tilting and breaking.

“You brought me here.”

Jan walked a little closer, shoes whispering across the concrete. Each step seemed to echo, impossibly loud, in the cavernous, windowless room. Drains punctuated the floor. Hooks lined the walls. Stainless steel tables gleamed dully beneath the dim light, their surfaces wiped clean, but nothing could erase the feeling that violence lingered in the air.

Realisation crept, slow and cold, into Aoi’s mind. It moved through him like frost, numbing every thought until only the pain remained.

When he finally understood, his stomach twisted so much he thought he might be sick.

“This is…” Aoi whispered, but the words barely made it past his lips.

Jan glanced around the room with quiet pride, as though unveiling a masterpiece.

“My workspace.”

Aoi shook his head frantically, panic climbing his throat like bile.

“No. No—this is a slaughterhouse—”

“An abattoir,” Jan corrected gently.

Aoi gasped for breath, his throat raw. Fear left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“You’re insane.”

Jan studied him with unsettling patience, as if he had all the time in the world to watch Aoi’s world collapse.

“I get that a lot.”

Aoi pulled at the ropes around his wrists, growing more desperate each time they didn’t move. The cords cut into his skin. Hopelessness weighed on him.

"Please," he said, voice cracking. "Let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I swear."

Jan crouched in front of him, folding himself down until their eyes were level. For a moment, he simply watched Aoi’s face, as if memorising the way terror twisted every feature.

The tears gathered in the corners of Aoi’s eyes, hot and helpless. His lower lip trembled uncontrollably, betraying every thought he fought to conceal. He had always looked soft, but fear made him look unbearably fragile now—like something that had never known the shape of violence before.

Jan reached out slowly.

Aoi flinched violently, recoiling from the touch as if it might burn him.

Jan’s fingers paused in the air, uncertainty flickering across his face.

“…You’re shaking,” he observed, voice flat but not unkind.

“Of course I’m shaking!” Aoi’s voice rose, spiralling into hysteria. The sound bounced off the tiled walls, sharp and thin. “You kidnapped me!”

Jan’s hand lowered slowly, disappointment ghosting over his features.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “But I needed you to understand.”

“Understand what?!”

Jan stood.

He walked to the far side of the room.

Only then did Aoi notice the third figure.

Someone was tied to a metal chair just like his.

Aoi hadn’t seen them before. They were slumped forward, breathing shallowly through a bloodied mouth.

The man lifted his head weakly.

“Aoi,” Jan said calmly, rolling up his sleeves further, “this is Mr Takeda.”

Aoi stared.

Recognition struck like lightning.

Takeda.

The man from the café two weeks ago, who had leaned in too close across the small table, his smile bright and edged with a kind of effortless confidence, as if the world would always tilt in his favour. Aoi, caught off guard by the attention and unsure how to handle someone so at ease, felt his cheeks burn and had to bite back the nervous smile tugging at his lips.

Takeda had offered a hesitant smile, clearly searching for something to say—something to break the ice. “I guess this is the part where I ask for your number?” he’d joked, his voice light but slightly unsure, eyes darting away for a moment.

Aoi had laughed nervously.

Jan had been sitting three tables away that afternoon.

Watching.

“Oh my god,” Aoi whispered.

Takeda’s gaze flicked between Aoi and Jan, his face pinched with confusion and fear. Sweat gathered along his brow, and he worked his jaw as if something bitter was caught in his mouth. "You know this freak?" he managed, voice rough. He looked at Aoi—not with anger, but with a silent plea for something to make sense, anything to hold onto.

Jan reached for a knife on the table. The movement wasn’t rushed, but steady and practiced, like he’d done it a hundred times. The blade caught the overhead light and threw a thin glare onto the wall. Aoi felt his chest tighten; every breath was a struggle, the air thick and jagged in his throat. He thought he could hear the scrape of Jan’s shoes, the soft rattle of metal, every sound sharper than it should be.

“Jan—please—” The words barely came out. He wasn’t sure if Jan even heard him. When Jan looked back, his face was calm—almost gentle. It would have been comforting if not for everything else in the room, everything Aoi couldn’t ignore.

“You told him you liked jasmine tea,” Jan said.

“What?”

“You told him you hated bitter coffee,” Jan continued calmly.

Aoi shook his head desperately.

“Jan, please, I don’t care about tea, just let us go—”

“You laughed at his jokes.”

Takeda struggled weakly against the ropes.

“Are you seriously doing this over a guy?”

Jan looked mildly offended.

“Aoi isn’t just a guy.”

“Then why the hell—”

Jan stepped forward.

The knife flashed once.

Takeda screamed.

Aoi screamed louder.

“STOP!”

The sound ripped from his throat like something dying.

Blood spilt across the concrete floor.

Aoi’s entire body shook violently as he watched. The metallic stench of blood filled his lungs. He wanted to look away, but horror rooted him in place. Each sound—the wet crunch, the scraping metal—etched itself into his memory. His mind screamed at him to disbelieve, to wake up, but there was no escape from the nightmare unfolding in front of him.

Watched Jan move with horrifying calm.

Watched him work.

Precise. Methodical.

Like someone performing a careful craft.

Aoi sobbed uncontrollably.

“Please—please—please stop—”

The violence didn’t stop—if anything, it seemed to intensify. Every sound was magnified: the sickening crunch, the choked screams, metal scraping frantically against the floor. The air was thick with the smell of blood and pain. Each new noise made Aoi’s stomach twist; his mind spun, unable to look away no matter how much he wished he could.

Somewhere in the chaos, Takeda’s voice grew weaker, then fell silent. The fighting faded, leaving only the memory of pain echoing in the slumped, battered figure. And then—

A silence heavier than any scream settled over the room. It pressed in from every side, suffocating and complete, as if the world itself recoiled from what had happened. Aoi’s breath caught, tears streaming down his cheeks as the sight of blood pooling on the floor blurred before his eyes. The metallic taste in the air was so sharp it made him gag.

Jan moved slowly, almost ceremoniously, to the metal sink. His shoes squeaked in the quiet. He turned on the faucet, washing blood from his hands in slow, deliberate strokes. The water ran red, then pink, and finally clear, swirling away down the drain.

When Jan turned back, the light cast eerie shadows across his face, making his calm composure even more frightening. He looked at Aoi with the same gentle ease as before, as if nothing had changed at all.

“Aoi,” he said gently.

Aoi recoiled in terror. “Don’t come near me!”

Jan stopped a few steps away.

“You see now.”

Aoi shook his head violently.

“I don’t see anything except a murderer!”

Jan studied him carefully.

“People say they love each other every day,” he said. “They marry. They sleep together. They promise forever.”

His voice remained quiet.

“But their bodies remain separate.”

Aoi stared at him through tears.

Jan stepped closer again.

Slowly this time.

“Real love,” he continued softly, “means becoming part of someone.”

Aoi’s stomach twisted violently.

“You’re sick,” he whispered.

Jan knelt in front of him again.

His gaze softened.

“Aoi,” he said.

Aoi tried to pull away again, but the ropes held him firmly in place.

Jan reached up.

His fingers brushed the tears from Aoi’s cheek.

“I would never hurt you.”

Aoi sobbed harder.

“You just killed someone in front of me!”

Jan tilted his head.

“That wasn’t hurting you.”

Aoi’s voice broke into panicked sobs.

Jan’s expression shifted slightly. Something darker flickered there.

“Your life was lonely,” Jan murmured, his voice so low it seemed to vibrate in the heavy air. Each word landed with the weight of a verdict, the kind that echoes in empty rooms at midnight.

Aoi’s protest shattered the moment. “No, it wasn’t!” he snapped, but the denial rang hollow, dissipating into the cold, echoing space.

Jan’s eyes never left him. “You worked alone.”

“So what?!” Aoi’s voice cracked, brittle with exhaustion and fear.

“You ate alone.”

“That’s normal!” The words tumbled out, desperate—almost childlike in their insistence.

Jan’s gaze was relentless, peeling back every layer of defiance. “You slept alone.”

Aoi’s breathing hitched violently, his chest rising in shallow, frantic jerks. Each memory flashed through his mind in quick, painful bursts: solitary dinners beneath the buzz of a bare kitchen bulb; the hush of early mornings, interrupted only by the distant clatter of pipes; the empty side of the bed, cool and untouched. The loneliness pressed in, dense as fog, settling into his bones.

Jan leaned closer, his presence looming—an inescapable shadow. The faint scent of cologne, sharp and cold, invaded Aoi’s senses. “But I never left you alone,” Jan whispered, each syllable curling in the air like smoke.

The words chilled Aoi to the bone, a wave of nausea crashing through him. His skin prickled, heart stuttering in terror and disbelief.

“I watched you every night.” Jan’s voice softened, almost reverent, as he confessed.  “Through the cameras.”

Aoi froze.

“You noticed them eventually.” His voice held faint approval. “You’re smarter than I thought.”

Aoi began shaking so badly the chair rattled beneath him.

“You’re insane,” he whispered.

Jan smiled faintly.

“Maybe.”

He stood again.

“But love rarely makes sense to other people.”

Aoi cried harder.

“Please,” he begged. “Please just let me go home. I won’t tell anyone. I swear.”

Jan looked at him for a long moment.

Then he said quietly—

“You will go home.”

Aoi blinked in shock.

Jan walked toward the table again.

“But first,” he continued calmly, “you need to understand what loving someone truly means.”

Aoi’s stomach dropped.

Jan picked up the same bloodied knife.

And this time—

He placed it gently into Aoi’s shaking hands after freeing them.

“You won’t hurt animals,” Jan said softly. “And you won’t hurt me.”

His voice lowered into something almost reverent.

“So you’ll start with him.”

Aoi looked down at the knife clutched in his shaking hands, the blade slick with blood and the handle cold, alien in his grip. His vision blurred, and every breath felt shallow, leaving a bitter copper taste at the back of his throat. The overhead bulb flickered, casting shifting patterns over the steel like a spotlight in an operating room. Blood collected at his feet in thick, slow-moving streams, sending up faint steam in the chill, creeping into every crack in the stained floor. The sharp metallic odour mixed with the sourness of fear, filling the air so thickly that breathing felt impossible.

Takeda’s body slouched in the chair, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. Blood traced a jagged line down his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt until the fabric was stained a deep, unnatural red. His hands, once clenched in fists, now hung limp, fingers curled uselessly toward the floor. Aoi’s gaze fixed on the slow drip of blood from Takeda’s fingertips, each drop splattering onto the concrete with a sickening clarity, counting out the endless seconds of horror.

Jan was watching him, eyes shadowed and patient, posture composed—like a teacher awaiting a student’s answer, or an artist admiring a canvas not yet complete. The silence between them rang louder than any scream, heavy with expectation and the weight of everything that had just transpired.

“No,” Aoi whispered.

Jan’s voice remained calm.

“You love your dog, don’t you?”

“Yes—”

“You protect him.”

“Yes!”

“You’d do anything for him.”

Aoi sobbed. “Yes!”

Jan smiled softly.

The first time Aoi noticed someone was watching him, it could still have been dismissed as a coincidence.

The neighbourhood was quiet in the way older districts often were: rows of narrow houses with deep verandas, their paint sun-faded and peeling like the margins of forgotten books. Aoi had moved there for that reason. Quiet suited his work. Antique books arrived at his desk like wounded animals—spines cracked, pages foxed and brittle—and he spent long hours coaxing them back into something that resembled life. The house smelled of wheat paste, linen thread, and old paper, a scent that clung to his clothes even when he left to work shifts in the archive. Most evenings, his Alaskan Malamute, Soba—properly Abura Soba, though Aoi rarely used the full name—sat near the window while Aoi restored pages under a desk lamp, the dog’s pale eyes reflecting the soft light like quiet lanterns.

That was the night Soba’s attention locked onto the street, gaze narrowing at something only he seemed to sense.

At first, Aoi dismissed it. Dogs always noticed what people missed: a stray cat, a flicker of movement, the faintest echo of footsteps. Yet Soba neither barked nor growled—he watched with a tense, bristling silence. When Aoi peered through the curtain, only the streetlight and rain-slick pavement greeted him, shining like lacquer. Still, the feeling clung to him at his desk: a subtle weight between his shoulders, as if invisible eyes pressed there.

He reasoned it away as imagination.

The second time, denial frayed at the edges.

Aoi had taken Soba on their usual late evening walk, following the narrow road that curved past the abandoned chapel at the edge of the district. The air smelled of rain and damp leaves, and Soba’s leash swung in his hand as the dog padded along the sidewalk. They were nearly home when Aoi noticed someone behind them—not close enough to be threatening, not far enough to be forgotten. Just a tall figure walking the same route with a patient rhythm. When Aoi slowed, the footsteps slowed. When he crossed the street, they crossed moments later.

Soba noticed before Aoi allowed himself to acknowledge it.

The dog turned his head first, ears pricking forward. A low rumble vibrated in his chest, the kind that never meant curiosity. Aoi glanced back, forcing himself to appear casual, and caught his first clear glimpse of the man.

Arjantha Dierja.

They had been introduced once, briefly, by a neighbour who seemed delighted by the idea of new residents knowing one another. Jan had smiled then—an expression that never quite reached his eyes—and his voice had been soft, measured, almost gentle. He had said he worked from home. Writing letters. Condolence letters, specifically. Families hired him to craft words for grief when they themselves could not. Aoi had thought it a strange profession but oddly poetic.

Now Jan waited beneath a streetlamp, the pale glow carving his features into something almost scholarly.

When their eyes met, Jan smiled again.

Aoi nodded politely, turned forward, and kept walking.

Soba did not stop growling until they reached the front gate.

After that, Aoi began to spot him everywhere.

Not always directly. Sometimes it was just the impression of someone lingering across the street when he returned from the archive. Sometimes, a shadow at the end of an aisle in the secondhand bookshop two blocks away. Once, while adjusting the curtain in his study, Aoi glimpsed Jan standing beside the iron fence that bordered the sidewalk. He wasn’t looking at the house—not exactly. His gaze drifted toward the window only after Aoi noticed him.

The chill of that moment lingered long after Jan’s face dissolved into the streetlight’s glassy reflection.

Still, Soba barked.

Aoi tried to laugh it off, running his fingers through Soba’s thick fur as if soothing the dog might soothe his own nerves. “You’re imagining things,” he whispered. “He’s just a neighbour.” Soba remained unconvinced, choosing to sleep by the front door instead of his usual place beside Aoi’s desk.

And then came the mug.

It happened on an afternoon so ordinary it should have dissolved into the countless quiet hours of Aoi’s life. He stepped outside to retrieve a parcel—another book from a private collector, wrapped in brown paper—and nearly collided with Jan standing beside the gate. The man seemed unsurprised by the encounter, as though he had been expecting it.

“Ah,” Jan said gently, tilting his head. “Good afternoon.”

Aoi forced a polite smile. “Afternoon.”

There was a brief silence, filled only by Soba’s slow, suspicious breathing behind the door.

Jan’s gaze drifted past Aoi’s shoulder toward the interior of the house. Not intrusively. Not quite. Just enough to suggest familiarity.

“I hope the archiving work is going well,” he said.

Aoi blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The books,” Jan replied, his voice thoughtful. “You handle them very carefully. I admire that.”

Aoi felt something slither and coil beneath his ribs, cold and deliberate as a finger pressed to bone.

His neighbours might not be strangers to his job as a conservationist.

He had never mentioned to Jan that he was an archivist.

Jan tilted his head, voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “Working in a place like that… all the silence and dust. I imagine your tea goes cold beside the stacks. And that mug you use—the bear with the chipped ear. I wonder if you ever notice how alone you are, even when you’re not.”

Time seemed to hold its breath.

That mug was nowhere near his house—it sat quietly in his office at the estate, miles away.

On Aoi’s desk.

Jan’s eyes lifted again, meeting Aoi’s expression with unsettling calm.

“Forgive me,” he added, almost apologetically. “I notice small things.”

Soba erupted into barking.

The sound shattered the stillness, echoing sharply through the narrow street. Jan did not flinch. He simply watched the door where the dog scratched furiously against the wood, then returned his attention to Aoi.

“He’s very protective,” Jan observed.

“Yes,” Aoi said quietly.

Jan nodded once, as though confirming a private theory. “Good.”

Aoi didn’t ask what he meant.

After that conversation, the house felt different.

Nothing in the house looked different. Yet the air felt subtly rearranged, as though the rooms had shifted fractions of an inch, remade in the image of some dream half-remembered. At night, Aoi’s eyes snagged on corners and shelves as if expecting shapes to emerge. The windows pressed blacker, the walls breathed closer.

And then, the cameras.

He found the first one by accident.

Aoi had been dusting the upper shelf near his desk—a tedious habit he performed when concentration slipped from him—when his fingers brushed something cold behind the moulding. A tiny lens stared back, black and unblinking.

For a moment, he could only stare.

Then Soba’s growl rumbled, low and continuous, as if warning something neither of them could see.

The second camera sat inside the living room lamp.

The third is beneath the staircase railing.

The fourth—

Aoi lost count.

He did not panic. Not outwardly. Years of archival work had taught him patience, precision, and the art of handling fragile things without destroying them. Panic destroyed evidence. Panic alerted people.

Instead, he continued living as though nothing had changed.

He brewed tea in the mornings. Restored manuscripts in the afternoons. Walked Soba at dusk. He never touched the cameras again after discovering them. Never covered them. Never acknowledged them.

But sometimes, while turning a brittle page beneath the soft glow of his desk lamp, he felt it again—that weight between the shoulders.

That inescapable itch: skin prickling, nerves drawn tight, the certainty of unseen eyes watching from the dark.

Soba watched the walls.

Am I Making You Feel Sick?

God Loves You (but Not Enough to Save You)

The first thing Arjantha Dierja noticed about the new neighbour was not the boy himself, but the crates.

The crates appeared just before dusk—wooden, edged with brass, and marked with old, faded shipping labels from distant cities. The delivery men carried them carefully, clearly following instructions. Jan observed from his study window, scrutinizing the scene like a scholar examining a rare specimen.

The house opposite his had stood vacant for eleven months.

Most people found empty houses unsettling.

Jan, however, found them comforting.

He preferred places that were plagued by absence.

By the time the truck left, the sky had deepened to indigo. A soft light shone behind the second-floor’s thin, cream-colored curtains. Inside, a slender figure moved slowly, pausing often, as though unsure where everything belonged.

The movements weren’t careless or rushed.

Everything was deliberate.

Jan adjusted his glasses, leaning against the bookshelf. The familiar scents of binding glue, dust, and ink filled his study. On his oak desk sat a half-finished condolence letter, composed in measured, restrained language on ivory paper:

Your mother wasn’t alone when she left this world; she took your name with her.

Jan’s profession required intimacy without attachment. He wrote farewell letters for the deceased, hired by those unable to express themselves. Families brought him journals, bits of recordings, or just photos and brief notes. He rebuilt the intended voice like a conservator restoring a fresco, layer after layer.

It was a respectable trade.

Tender.

Necessary.

And profoundly dishonest.

He did not believe in closure. He believed in possession.

Across the street, the silhouette lifted something large.

A dog.

The door opened briefly to admit a large Alaskan Malamute with a silver-white coat and a plume-like tail curled over its back. The boy followed, nearly pulled off balance by the leash.

Jan’s lips curved faintly.

Strength housed in softness.

The door shut. The light steadied.

Jan did not move from the window for another hour.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

He learned the name three nights later.

The dog had broken free of the boy’s hand in the front garden, barreling toward the iron fence with exuberant force. The boy laughed—an unguarded, bright sound that startled something unpleasantly sharp inside Jan’s ribcage.

“Abura Soba! Wait—Soba!”

The name floated across the street, warm against the cooling air.

Jan repeated it under his breath.

Soba.

He stepped outside for the first time.

The cobblestones were damp from earlier rain. Dead leaves clung to the grooves, darkened to the colour of old tea. The sycamore trees along the street rattled softly, their branches casting shapes against the fading light.

Up close, the house smelled faintly of camellia oil and paper.

The boy turned at the sound of footsteps.

Jan saw him fully then.

Tachibana Aoi.

His face was not conventionally attractive, but it was rare and untouched. His skin was unlined by suspicion, and his mouth softened easily into an apology. A faint ink stain marked the edge of his thumb.

He wore a cardigan too large for his narrow frame, sleeves covering most of his hands.

He looked preserved.

“I’m sorry,” Aoi said quickly, pulling Soba back from the fence. “He gets excited.”

Jan’s gaze lingered—not on the dog—but on the gentle pressure of Aoi’s hand against the leash.

“It’s quite all right,” Jan replied, voice measured and low. “He’s adorable.”

Soba watched him with unsettling intelligence.

Aoi smiled. “He thinks he is.”

That smile.

It was genuine.

Jan felt the slow, precise click of something locking into place.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

The crates contained books.

Jan confirmed this the following week.

Aoi left his windows open during the day while he worked. The street was quiet enough that faint sounds travelled—paper sliding against wood, the soft brush of bristles, the hum of a dehumidifier.

Through his upstairs window, Jan noticed the second-floor had become a workshop. A long table beneath the window was neatly arranged with tools: bone folders, brass weights, scalpels, adhesive jars, and linen thread in tidy coils. Sheets of blotting paper hung from a rack to dry.

Aoi wore cotton gloves while working.

Jan watched as Aoi carefully lifted a book with a broken spine, cradling it gently. He leaned in to examine the stitching, brow furrowed in focus. Every so often, his lips moved—perhaps murmuring to himself or to the book, though Jan could not hear the words from across the street.

Jan closed his eyes briefly.

Restoring. Preserving. Treating what others had thrown away with reverence.

In the evenings, Aoi changed clothes and headed to the estate.

Jan followed.

The estate stood on the town’s outskirts—a crumbling manor turned into a private archive. Ivy crept up its stone façade, and its windows were tall and narrow. Inside, Aoi catalogued letters and diaries donated by families unable to face generations of memories.

There, his expression changed.

Focused. Devoted.

Jan watched from behind the iron gate as Aoi carried archival boxes inside. He pictured what might be inside: faded confessions, war-time letters, and love notes folded along fragile creases.

Aoi preserved the words of the dead.

Jan fabricated them.

The symmetry was almost obscene.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

The first man who flirted with Aoi did so at the estate.

Jan had been standing just beyond the hedge when he saw it—the archivist’s assistant leaning too close, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from Aoi’s shoulder. Aoi laughed politely, stepping back half an inch.

Unaware.

The assistant mistook kindness for invitation.

Jan followed him home that night.

Rain fell steadily, turning the alleyways into reflective corridors. The assistant did not hear Jan’s measured footsteps behind him. Jan’s gloved hands were efficient and clinical. There was no anger, only necessity.

A correction.

A weed removed before it strangled the root.

When the body was discovered days later near the riverbank, the town murmured about rising crime.

Aoi’s shoulders drew inward after that.

He walked Soba more cautiously. He declined an invitation to dinner from another colleague. He kept his workshop curtains closed for two nights in a row.

Jan disliked that.

Fear did not suit him.

He preferred Aoi luminous.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

So he crossed the street with purpose one evening, carrying a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.

Aoi answered the door with ink on his fingers and a faint crease between his brows. Soba stood at his side, silent but alert.

“Yes?”

“I believe I should leave this to the hands of someone with said expertise,” Jan said, offering the parcel.

Inside lay a book with a fractured spine—intentionally damaged. An old poetry volume that Jan had sacrificed for the introduction.

Aoi’s eyes widened, not with suspicion, but with excitement.

“Oh… this is beautiful. I can restore it.”

“I was hoping you would,” Jan replied.

The house was warmer inside than Jan expected. It smelled of paste and dried lavender. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books in various states of repair. A kettle whistled faintly in the kitchen.

Aoi handled the book with extraordinary tenderness, fingertips tracing the torn cloth.

“People think broken spines mean a book is finished,” he said softly. “But most of the time, it just means it was loved too much.”

Jan watched the curve of his throat as he spoke.

Loved too much.

Yes.

He imagined what Aoi would look like fully possessed. Not frightened. Not struggling. Simply absorbed. Integrated. Eternal within him.

Cannibalism was not hunger.

It was devotion without division.

To consume was to prevent decay. To carry someone within the architecture of your own body. No betrayal. No abandonment. No other hands touching what was yours.

Across the room, Soba’s dark eyes remained fixed on him.

Jan met the dog’s gaze calmly.

He could wait.

Love, after all, required patience.

Outside, sycamore leaves scraped across the cobblestones. Inside, under lamplight, the colour of aged parchment, Aoi bent over the damaged spine of a book, stitching it back together.

Jan wondered, distantly, whether Aoi understood that some things, once taken apart, were never meant to be restored.

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