Chapter Text
WHAT WAS THAT NOISE?!?!?!
The first thought that shot through the silver-haired girl’s mind as she was jolted out of a fitful sleep, curled in the alley corner she had taken to calling home, by a violent, wet, sputtering sound. She sat, tense, for several moments.
. . . . Coughing . Someone was coughing nearby.
Her precious silence being invaded was cause for alarm.
The girl stayed where she was and listened for more of the ugly wheezing — it seemed to be coming from somewhere close, which was more than a little odd; the alleys she wandered were on the far outskirts of Yokohama, and it was unusual to end up lost in them by accident, so whoever the intruder was had likely showed up for a reason. Though, judging by what she could hear, the person sounded . . . sick? Injured, maybe? Unwell in some way, at the very least.
That didn’t necessarily make her feel a whole lot better — signs of life, any life, other than her own in this place couldn’t be good. Healthy or not, it never mattered. Her heart rate was already beginning to speed up at the thought of merely having to see another human face; of another human becoming aware of her presence. Several years had passed since the last time anyone had looked at or spoken to her. That was for the best; as long as she could steal, she’d have no need to ever be seen or spoken to.
Nineteen years old, and Hajime Masumi hadn’t uttered a single word in thirteen years, nor a single sound in ten. Silence had become her closest, safest friend.
Everyone was safer that way.
She shakily got to her feet, leaning on the wall and taking a deep breath to try and steady herself. Almost immediately, she was hit with a familiar metallic scent that made her stomach flip over and nearly empty itself. Blood.
The sound of the intruder’s wet spluttering hadn’t let up, but it was becoming more sporadic and noticeably weaker — and Masumi needed to know where the blood was, because it smelled close . . . I hoped I’d never have to smell it again . . . so, she started walking.
Slowly.
Silent as a dead mouse, as always.
Peeking around corners, glancing into dead ends, moving soundlessly through the maze of alleyways that she knew so well. It didn’t take long to find the source of the coughing.
As Masumi suspected, the source of the coughing and the source of the blood were one and the same.
At first all she could see was a a pile of black, splotches of bright red spattering the ground around it, slumped against the concrete wall of a dead end; until, upon a closer second glance, she realized it was a man.
Though she made no noise in approaching him, he seemed to sense her presence anyway — she could tell by the way his body immediately stiffened as she drew closer. He’s . . . observant .
Typically, it was easier for her to remain undetected . . . .
Naturally, Masumi didn’t say anything.
The man coughed again; a weak, rough sound, accompanied by the wet splat of blood hitting the pavement. Then he raised his head to look at her, and she took a step back.
The guy was a bloody mess — blood staining his lips from all the coughing, blood all over his hands as he pressed them to a gaping wound in his abdomen, blood seeping into the long black coat he wore; so much that it couldn’t possibly all be his own. It was evident he’d been in a fight of some kind before stumbling into the alleys.
To anyone paying attention, of course, he looked rather terrible. Jaw clenched and brows furrowed in a clear expression of pain, confirmed further by the clouded look in his steely gray eyes and pale skin. Some of his dark hair was stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat. But Masumi only saw the blood. The sight made her own run cold.
I haven’t seen or smelled this much blood since-
He spoke up. His voice was raspy and strained, but full of hostility nonetheless.
“Who are you?”