Mizho was scrolling on her laptop, her dark nails occasionally click-clacking against the keyboard. She was shopping for knives.

She’d seen an extremely cute inspo picture of a sleek blade with a black leather handle and a tiny heart cutout—and she needed it. The problem was that knives like that couldn’t be legally sold in Tokyo.

So naturally, she was now scrolling through the dark web, browsing through her usual, trustworthy weapons sites to see if some boutique seller could custom-make it for her.

Mizho paused.

“…What the hell?”

She’d gotten distracted somewhere between knives and unregistered firearms listings, and was now scrolling through another section. And there, wedged between an Uzi listing and something labeled “private contract, serious inquiries only,” was a picture of—

Paresse. Her douji.

It was his school ID photo. The one taken just two months ago, when he’d “transferred” into her class. Same half-lidded eyes. Same dead expression. Same deep slouch.

She clicked on the listing. A seller called moon2012 had uploaded, in addition to that school ID, another blurry photo of Paresse’s lanky form walking with Mizho after school. The out-of-focus photo looked like it was taken from behind wired school fences.

The ‘product’ description read:

A rare karakuri douji. A mechanical boy with extreme human strength and killing abilities.

Subject: Compatible. High tolerance. Low resistance.

Condition: Unclaimed / Transferable.

Inquiries welcome.

Behind her, there was the faint sound of fabric shifting and something soft hitting the floor.

Paresse had been sprawled out on her bed this entire time, half-asleep, one arm hanging off the side.

“Paresse,” she said, not looking away from the screen. “Did you know you’re being sold online?”

“…Hm?” His voice was thick with sleep.

Mizho swiveled in her pink, bow-adorned gamer chair with her laptop, presenting the screen to him.

Paresse squinted at the super bright screen. Blinked once.

“I’m not reading all of that.”

Mizho’s grip tightened on the edge of the laptop.

“You’re listed on multiple website. A firearms site. Some Japanese creepypasta site. And a —” she turned the laptop back around to read it. “This one is just a simple Craigslist ad.”

“...Am I expensive?”

“No price listed. ‘Serious inquiries only’, it says. The fuck is this?” She was now typing furiously on the laptop, her press-on nails threatening to snap off with each keystroke.

She reverse image searched the picture of Paresse, along with the text snippet about ‘a rare karakuri douji’ and found that, on multiple conspiracy forums, descriptions — now more prosaic, like it was a prophecy — detailed the abilities of karakuri douji, and how they were created to end the world. Contact to learn more about participating. The username was once again, moon2012.

Same username every time. Mizho’s eye narrowed. She’d only met him once, and she didn’t know much about him yet, but between the glasses, the fake smile, and the timing… it fit.

“I think that new Jealousy master, Rune, is trying to recruit new masters,” she said flatly. “Or he’s trying to get rich and pawn you off.”

Paresse yawned, giving no indication he was actually listening to her.

“Recruit new masters…” Mizho scrolled faster, her expression darkening with each post. That someone could just find this, read it, message him, and apply.

Like Paresse - her useless, lazy douji - was something you could just take.

“If someone else takes me,” Paresse finally said, voice dull with sleep, “that’s less work for you.”

“No.”

Paresse glanced at her.

Mizho had already sprung up from her chair and was moving, grabbing her phone, her crutch—anything within reach.

“No, we’re not doing that.”

“…Doing what.”

“Letting some random freak off the internet ‘inquire’ about you.”

“…You’re making it sound like I have a choice.”

Mizho froze and whipped around. “But, you do.”

Paresse blinked at her, like he just remembered about the Vow himself. Then he shifted his weight, stretching slightly, completely unbothered.

“If someone wants to be my master,” he said lazily, “they’d have to do the Pledge with me.”

He let out another small yawn.

“That sounds like a lot of work.”

“That’s your reasoning?”

He shrugged.

“I don’t feel like doing that with someone else.”

Mizho scoffed. “So the only thing stopping you from leaving is that you’re too useless and lazy to bother?”

“…Yeah.”

“That’s stupid. Someone else could just show up and do it themselves. Track you down, force the whole thing through. You think people on those forums aren’t desperate enough for that?”

Paresse tilted his head slightly. “You’d let them?”

“Of course not.” Mizho’s response was immediate.

But she was still restless, turning around to find her purse.

Paresse watched her and then shifted, pushing himself up a little straighter against the bedframe, studying her with that same half-lidded gaze.

“You know Savate,” he said.

“Yea, I do,” Mizho wasn’t paying attention to him now, throwing plushies out of the way to find her stuff.

“You know how to use knives. Guns. Whatever you feel like picking up that day.” His voice was still flat, but there was something deliberate in it now. “You can fight.”

She huffed. “What does that have to do with—”

“I’ve seen it,” he cut in. “Twice.”

A pause.

“In two lifetimes.”

Mizho stilled and turned to face her douji.

“And anyways,” he continued. “...if it came to it… if anyone hurt you… I wouldn’t ever take the Pledge with them.”

Paresse’s eyes looked away for a second, like even saying that much was pushing it.

“But if you can beat me up,” he added, “you can handle anyone.”

There was no exaggeration in what he said. Just a simple, matter-of-fact statement. Like it was obvious, like it had always been true. Which it was.

Mizho looked away, arms crossing tight over her chest. Ugh. He’s trying to make me feel better. And it worked.

“Yeah, well,” she muttered, “you make it easy.”

“...Mhm.”

Paresse let the silence settle again, then added, almost as an afterthought:

“Besides. Too much effort to leave.”

“Shut up.”

“All right, then.” He turned over on his pillow, already losing interest. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Nah, get up. We’re going out.” Mizho kicked his torso. “We still have to go kick Kodaira Rune’s ass for this.”

Paresse waved a lazy hand. “You can go handle that.”