Chapter Text
Would another shameless plug in Ei's Twitter stream account help Sara's sluggish commissions? She had already done such a thing twice already, and Ei's fans might think that Sara was milking her fame.
No, they would not think of that, surely. Ei had emphasized her loyal fans' support for her and her friends, and they would help them in any way they could. Still, another shameless plug was out of the question, and Sara did not want to bother Ei with such a thing again. Her main income from the ramen house pays the bills sufficiently, though extra income from the commissions would be great.
Empty cans of paint and splatters on the white ceramic tiles went ignored as Sara sat in the middle of it all, her focus all toward the empty canvas in front of her, waiting to be filled with yet another story she'll convey with just the strokes of a brush and a myriad of colors. Without commissions, she freely creates whatever she wants, all from her imagination. Today, however, her arm felt heavy and numb.
Sara never doubted her painting skills. The clan hired the best teachers for her, ensuring she learned everything she needed to know—from complex mathematics to the tedious ways of combat, to the intricacies of art and painting. Those were the memories she wanted to bury, but the studio she had built in the comfort of her apartment brings her back to the past—how her hands ached from fatigue and painful slaps for holding the brush wrong, or the punishment she received for using the wrong shades in the painting she was supposed to imitate.
A brush lay beside the canvas, yet Sara's trembling fingers refused to grab it, feeling the phantom pain of a thin wooden stick against the back of her hands, as if her teachers were here with her, taunting, laughing, shaming her.
Amidst the storm of unwelcome memories in her mind, light peeked through the gray clouds, waiting for her to bathe herself in its rays. With deep breaths, she focused on the light, feeling her muscles relax and clear her mind with each exhale she let out. Bright, blurred, and unknown, yet the light lingered in her mind, and her curiosity brought her toward it.
A blue horizon, sun shining up in the sky, and... pink?
Blurred that image may be, Sara will find a way to paint it—the scene that calmed her nerves from the thoughts of her worst nightmares.
And so, she picked up the brush.
Normal days see this small, tranquil shop with barely any customers, with their recent customer—a lovely old couple—leaving the shop just a few minutes ago. Sara liked it this way, without the rush of orders coming her way as the only cook tasked with anything in the kitchen. The pay was sufficient, and she had found a genuine family with the owners of the shop.
"Commissions are scarce as of late, Nagato," Sara muttered as she chopped scallions. "Should I leave painting?"
The ever-wise Nagato, who leaned on the kitchen counter, replied. "Is it something you consider out of desperation, or have you grown tired of painting?"
It was the former, as she would never leave painting behind, not when it was what helped her stay afloat for years after her defection from the wretched Kujou Clan. Painting helps her show herself in ways she could not do with her body and expressions, as years of repressing such emotions turned her heart into stone.
"A period of stillness is a constant in life, like the calm seas after storms. Our little shop is no different—crowded during the holidays, yet as quiet as an empty house on ordinary days, waiting in silence until people need it once more. Soon enough, your commissions will flourish again; just wait for the right moment."
Sara just frowned and resumed chopping scallions, and the thought was buried deep in her mind as the hours passed by.
Sara had spent most of the painting process closing her eyes to focus on the blurred image in her mind—the gradient pink hair and iridescent eyes of a woman staring straight at her very soul. Still an incomplete painting, yet it had already captivated her beyond measure.
The painting gave life to the blurred image in her mind; she looked alive, bright, vivid. Shades and lighting and the accurate blend of colors formed this portrait of a lady, with her kind face full of innocence, curiosity, and wonder.
But Sara doesn't know her.
Who is this woman, for her to haunt Sara's mind? What is she doing there? How long has she been in her mind? Why did she suddenly appear out of nowhere? Her commission drought helped it surface from her unconscious, where Sara dug through every possible subject for a painting she'd do for fun, in which this woman has somehow emerged.
The beauty of the light blue sky was a beautiful background, but it was her eyes that had Sara bewitched, her gaze alone pulling her deeper and deeper to trap her in her embrace.
"Who are you?" Sara whispered a question, as if the woman would come to life and reply. Who is this woman, for her to emerge from Sara's unconscious? A memory she repressed? Or maybe a woman her mind made out of desperation for a person she could cling to?
No painting of hers had her heart skip a beat; had her breath caught in her lungs; had her voice stuck in her throat like an idiot. She was merely a figment of Sara's imagination, but she had somehow made her alive, real, and fucking beautiful.
Perhaps Sara had died in a past life, and she was the goddess who reincarnated her? Ah, what a foolish thought.
The studio, messy and somber from the gentle music on the radio, was a witness to Sara's emotional turmoil. Did she really paint this? At that moment, she was not a talented painter, but a little child seeing paintings for the first time, with the subject's oceanic eyes drowning her in the depths of her gaze, falling for a bunch of brush strokes forming this image of a woman, which she never thought would shake her entire life in a snap.
"Like Aphrodite..." who emerged from the depths of her unconscious with all her beauty.
Could she be a real person? Does she have the same smile as her in the painting? Does she have the same eye color? Is her gradient hair tied beautifully just like this?
No. No, no!
Metal cans against tiled floors, chairs shoved to the side, and the slamming of doors all reverberated in the same room in quick succession, the cause of it all outside the room in a frenzy. No, she must not gaze at that painting any longer, or she would totally succumb to madness! Anything, anything just to take her eyes off this cursed—!
Among the sea of splattered colors from earlier chaos, a white bedsheet stood out at the center of the studio. Blood rushed through her veins as she heaved for air, each breath much more painful than the last.
But it was over, at last—no painting of a woman in the center of the studio that brought her to insanity, but a covered and incomplete painting that she might eventually burn away.
"Who are you? Who...?"
This painting would never see the light of day, for tomorrow, it will be one with the dust in the wind.
"We are distracted, Sara." He might be as ancient as this shop, but Nagato was as observant as always. "Are you aware that you are bleeding?"
Mistakes were rare with Sara in the kitchen, as her years of experience in this shop had her master each dish by heart and cook it the way Nagato does.
"Yes, but this order wouldn't finish itself if I stop," Sara replied, chopping scallions like she always does, flicking her hand to get rid of the blood on her finger.
She never even noticed until blood seeped through the knife's cut.
"Would you like to rest, Sara?"
"Better close this shop down while I do, Nagato."
It was that painting—that wretched painting—living rent-free in Sara's head. From a vague figure of pink to the vivid image of a woman in her mind that came out of nowhere, each detail of that beauty now clouded her completely, refusing to leave her the hell alone.
A figure now stood beside her, a hand on top of her bloodied ones. "Your discomfort is evident, but it is not from the cut on your finger. What bothers you?"
"A painting. A damned painting." Sara conceded. How could it do things to her? It has been a few days since then, but every stroke, every detail, every color in that canvas, all of it lingered in her mind. She sees her every time she closes her eyes, as she stares at the blank whiteness of her ceiling, or as she tries to focus on her tasks. All Sara could see was the blue sea—a wonderful backdrop for a much more beautiful subject. Pink hair tied in that hairstyle Sara doesn't know the name of, while deep blue eyes tormented her like crazy.
And that smile. That damned smile. How could a smile be so cruel and torment her like this?
"A painting! Of what?"
"Of a—"
Shuffling from the dining area took their attention, as well as Naoe's faint voice from outside. Nagato excused himself, leaving Sara yet again in the kitchen as she dealt with this absolute mess in her head that leveled the chaos in the kitchen and her studio back home. After this, that painting would meet fire and burn to nothingness, and Sara would forget about that damned woman again and bury her deeper back into her unconscious. She couldn't be a real person, could she? Sara wouldn't even bother searching for her if she were; she was probably just a woman from one of her dreams after an exhausting day and a deep sleep at night.
"Sara!" Nagato's voice rang from the shop, his tone of urgency a request for help. Blood still dripped from her cut, but Sara left the kitchen in haste.
Iridescent hair stood out among the small crowd in the dining area, and Sara did not need to look twice to think about how the world torments her. The woman in her painting—that very same woman that haunted her mind—has emerged in the very shop she works at, and Sara had half the mind to flee. The painting in her studio might be incomplete, but the subject was here in front of her, in the flesh, eyes of curiosity and wonder replaced by horror and fear.
"Sara! It's the drunken man who harassed Junjiro and me two blocks away days ago!" Naoe's voice called out for her, her small frame shielding the two terrified visitors. "I told you before, Father, that this man would find his way here at some point!"
An unwelcome man—a familiar face—stood between them all, his fist clenching around Nagato's arm. The owner of the shop stood before him, blocking all his attempts to ruin the tranquility of his shop, enduring the painful grip with a wince.
"Rid our shop of this man, Sara. I give you my permission."
Permission—a word Nagato had decided to use for these scenarios, from the first time Sara's fist landed on a trespasser's face to save their shop from thieves years back.
And rid of the man, she would. Aphrodite can wait; Nagato needs her.
The drunken man, stumbling in his path, met her halfway. One jab at Sara's shoulder, pushing her a step back. Then again, this time much stronger. The third time was a failure; a spin and a lift from her back, the drunken man met the floor, too drunk from whatever sake he had drunk to care about the pain. Gone was her worry with Aphrodite's first impression, replaced by the duty to protect the customers, the ramen house, and Nagato
If this were a sane man, aware of his current behavior, Sara would've been harsher—another slam to the wall, five punches to the gut, and a kick outside the shop. Those moves weren't a challenge; Tenyrou Commission trained her for much worse than that, while Yashiro Commission and their retired soldier Nagato taught her the rest of her current fighting knowledge.
She had more mercy towards the drunk, and so his punishment for ruining the shop's tranquility was merely one punch to the stomach, just to weaken the enemy.
Naoe swung the door open, just as Sara pushed the drunken man outside, completely removing his dangerous presence from their beloved shop.
And with that, their shop returned to its tranquil silence, but with the air of awkwardness from the encounter just now.
"Surely, he wouldn't remember what happened here," Naoe uttered as the door closed before them, blocking the view from the outside.
"You could've done what I've done when you first encountered him." Sara frowned in reply as she returned, the scent of sake still lingering in her nose.
"And have you bail me out of the police station with Tenyrou Commission guards staring at the back of your head?"
"Right..."
"Go upstairs, Naoe." Nagato's glare immediately sent his daughter fleeing the dining hall. "And you, Sara. Patch up your cut; your blood is staining the floor."
She was supposed to stare at Nagato, but her eyes met Aphrodite's curious gaze behind him, as if she was aware of the chaos she had made in Sara's mind these past couple of days.
Sara knew, for certain, that she had never seen her before, but Aphrodite looked at her as if they did. She never blinked as she stared right at Sara's soul. Sara did the same, searching for the memory with both of them in it, yet nothing came to mind.
"Stay for a while, children." Nagato's smile alone was comforting enough for the shaken students. "I will prepare something for you—"
"Let me do it, " Sara immediately offered, "I'm... heading back to the kitchen, anyway."
"But your finger still bleeds, and the encounter with the—"
Nagato's voice grew fainter, until he himself stopped speaking, as Sara disappeared back into the kitchen. Her heart rammed against her chest, but it wasn't just adrenaline. Nervousness? Panic?
Whatever it was, the woman in the dining area—the woman who emerged from her very own painting—was the one to blame.
"Excuse me?"
Ah. Great.
Just as she was about to throw the trash out, here Aphrodite was in the flesh, at the shop's back alleyway, as if waiting for her to come out of the back door.
Meeting her the second time revealed that Sara wasn't dead yet, nor was she hallucinating. The ramming in her chest made her feel—and reminded her that she is very much—alive. Why wouldn't she, when she had stood close to someone so divine?
Oh, she did not expect Aphrodite to take her speech away with that siren voice of hers. Sara tried to speak, but no words escaped her lips, only her panicked exhales.
Aphrodite was very much alive as well, and she had the same face in her painting—the gradient pink and blue hair, that hairstyle Sara still doesn't know the name of, and that damned smile that she wore with her confused expression. It was as if her painting came to life, from her studio to the back of the ramen house!
The painting itself already captivated her, and so the effect had doubled at the presence of the real person, who had, for some reason, found her among the rest of the people of Inazuma. She was more beautiful up close, without the visible strokes of brush against the canvas, and her eyes had the same iridescent shade to them, and everything about her uncanny resemblance to the painting horrified Sara beyond measure.
Aphrodite, despite the tremble in her voice, held herself with confidence. "I should thank you for saving me and my friend earlier today"
"Yes"
Goddammit, Sara.
The trash felt heavy in her hand, yet she held onto it like a lifeline, as Aphrodite's voice was enough to melt her knees into butter—it was soft and gentle, soothing and melodic.
"It's nothing," Sara added, finally regaining her ability to speak. "It is a threat not only to you, but to my employer and my workplace as well, and so getting rid of him is a must."
"That's... excellent!"
How long did Aphrodite even wait for her here? It had been some time since she and her friend left the small diner after a meal. The sky had turned orange and black—a wonderful mix of colors symbolizing the end of the day, and bright lanterns hung on walls and roofs lit to illuminate the back alleyway of the ramen house.
She should really throw the trash now, should she?
"My name is Sangonomiya Kokomi"
The trash missed the bin on her first swing.
"Oh! I—"
"Damn it," Sara hissed, just as the trash fell inside the bin on the second try.
Sangonomiya Kokomi... Sangonomiya...
If the face wasn't familiar, then the name should be, though nothing came to mind—not a recollection or a memory associated with the name and the face. Frustration was an understatement of what she felt, as she had no idea how this woman emerged in her mind without even knowing who she was.
She couldn't just ask, could she? What would she say—that she has a painting of her in her studio?
"If you do not mind, may I ask you for your number?"
Yet again, Sara's gaze met with the smaller woman—Aphrodite, who had been bugging her mind for days—asking for her number. How much will the world torment her? Isn't the painting in her studio, and seeing the real Aphrodite, enough torture? From her studio to the ramen house, Aphrodite wants to torture her through texts now?
Does she recognize her? Was she conscious inside the canvas when Sara drew her? Did she watch her with intent as she painted her features?
Her hands found her pockets, reaching out for a notepad she uses for taking orders, as well as the pen on her collar. Only Aphrodite could answer all of her questions, and this interaction might be a good start to knowing the truth behind this mystery.
Sara scribbled away, tempted to change a number in the series so she could not contact her. But then, Aphrodite could just visit this place, and Sara would still see her face again.
With the correct number on a paper, Sara handed the note, and Kokomi cradled it in her chest. "Thank you, Sara! I hope you didn't mind."
"I haven't told you my name."
"Yes, but Mr. Nagato told me stories about you a while ago. Good ones, of course. You have an excellent character—an admirable one."
Aphrodite then bent in a bow, excusing herself before strutting away, and Sara was left among the trash, hoping that this interaction would give her all the answers she needed in the future.
Sara remembered sharing the same amusement as Ayato and the others when Kazuha requested a formal courtship in the Kamisato Estate. As loyal friends, the rest of the squad will watch the events unfold: Ayato judging Kazuha's character and capabilities not as a close friend, but as the brother of the woman whose hand he wants in marriage.
Kazuha remains the only Kaedehara left in Inazuma, as the Tenryou Commission wiped out his entire clan while he studied in Liyue in his youth. Poor kid had lived in the Kamisato Estate before moving out to live in the same house where his family met their demise to rebuild himself and Kaedehara's glory.
And to rebuild his clan, he needs an heir to continue his legacy.
Every time Sara walks up the steps of Kaedehara Estate, her hair stands on end, imagining the blood that pooled on the floors and the dead bodies scattered on the ground, all caused by the people she once called her family. This time wasn't an exception, and Sara endured the haunting thoughts up to the estate's garden, where house helpers welcomed her. Some of these faces she had seen in the Kamisato estate, having moved here to assist the last remaining Kaedehara. She even remembered how Ayato assured these people that the massacre wouldn't happen again on his watch.
As she pushed further inside the estate, her feet found the living room by themselves, having walked the same path multiple times now. Shoes lined up before the door—three pairs of women's shoes, then a conversation from the other side of the door. The maids had told her that Kazuha currently has visitors—students from the University of Inazuma, conducting an interview with the man of the house.
Not caring about disturbing the interview with her presence, Sara still slid the door open, inviting herself inside the room. She and Kazuha immediately locked gazes as he faced the door from afar.
One student stood out from the rest—pink, gradient hair with blue ends, tormenting her to death.
Their eyes met next, just as the three guests turned around to face the newcomer. Surprise greeted Aphrodite's expression, while Sara hid hers behind a mask of nonchalance.
So, how much will the world torment her like this? Would pink hair follow her wherever she goes, reminding her of that painting in her studio that she badly wants to burn away but couldn't?
Kazuha hummed, a cup of tea in his hands. "Welcome, Sara. Right on time, as usual. Let me wrap this up, then we leave for Kamisato Estate. We shall not wait for Itto should he fail to arrive on time."
Oh, please let Itto be late. Sara might not survive yet another one of that lout's annoying noises.
"Kamisato Estate?" A student asked in curiosity. "They were our first choice, but Lord Kamisato unfortunately turned us down."
"The Yashiro Commission is busy with festival preparations; it is best not to bother them. Who else are your choices?"
"The Kujou Clan, but our professor discouraged us, stating the controversies within the clan and the Tenryou Commission at this moment."
Indeed, the world torments her. She met Kazuha's gaze yet again, hints of panic in his eyes. Mentions of that clan do not faze her anymore, yet flashes of her years with them would always flood her mind in an instant, as well as make her heart race, as if she were seeing her father's cane coming after her at that moment.
This wasn't a big deal, as these students would never know who she was, anyway—
"Kaede! Kujou! Open the fuck up!" Noisy screams ruined the estate's tranquility, and the source of it all slid the door open to its extent, revealing that complete idiot dressed as a human being. "Well, fuck me, Kujou! You have beaten me again! Oh, how I thought Arataki 'the ever punctual' Itto could beat you this time!"
Great. How great.
Itto recoiled at the sight of the guests with a squeal, half his body hidden behind the sliding door he slid back. Unusual for an idiot like him, he had realized the damage of his mistake, but he could never take it back, not when the visitors already gazed at Sara with shock and mouths hanging agape.
A sigh left Kazuha's lips, knowing they must prepare for a barrage of questions. "Good morning to you, too, Itto. Please, make yourself comfortable."
And the barrage of questions arrived, just as expected.
"You are the estranged Kujou?! So the rumors are real! Why did you defect? What have you experienced in the clan that caused the defection? Why did they hide you from the public?"
Two of the visitors threw the questions, one by one, in rapid succession. Kokomi sat through it all, silent and unmoving, gaze straight at the estranged daughter of Kujou, who had been exposed thanks to some loudmouthed man-child.
"Hey, enough with the questions, ladies!" Itto exclaimed.
"Please, refrain from asking questions," Kazuha interjects, standing up to show his dominance, despite his height of his, hoping to de-escalate the situation.
"We—"
"You shall not speak of this outside"
Yet again, the room fell silent, their gazes of different emotions aimed at Sara.
Before defecting, the patriarch issued her a warning: never expose herself as the estranged daughter of Kujou, as well as the secrets within the house, or assassins of the Tenyrou Commission will hunt her down, as well as all the people in her contact list, and take away their lives.
Not that she fears such a warning, but the warning included people close to her heart—people who have nothing to do with the unfortunate life she had.
"Kazuha has your names. Should even a baseless rumor spread about this issue in the following days, the Yashiro Commission's Shuumatsuban will have your heads."
The threat was enough to secure the students' loyalty, answering with a terrified nod. Kokomi, however, kept her gaze straight at Sara, as if thinking a rebellious thought, with that scrunch of her brows and the frown on her lips.
Eventually, she spoke out about her thoughts. "But, is it true that the estranged daughter has been abused by the patriarch of Kujou?"
Even the rest of the people in the room gazed at her in surprise at the total confidence she had.
"Where the fuck did you even get that idea?!" Itto sneered, as if it were a stupid guess.
Kokomi did not falter, even as Sara's glare alone threatened her. It was as if she was challenging her, all with that innocent look on her face akin to a clueless child.
Gazes went to her next, watching her growl. Her audacious behavior would never go unnoticed. "Whatever the reason, it does not concern you, so stay in your lane and keep your hands off where they do not belong. Do you understand me?"
Sara did not mean to snap. It just happened, as if it was the most normal thing she could do. In her defense, how could this woman have the strength to ask such a bold, personal question, acting as if they knew each other? They do not, as she is just the living subject of Sara's painting, and Kokomi only has Sara's number saved in her phone. Beyond that, there was nothing that connected them.
That moment of rage shattered Aphrodite's expression completely, but Sara did not stay to observe even further. If she hadn't left the room in time, her heart would've exploded into a million pieces.
Itto's voice called out for her in the corridor, and Sara led him to the garden, where a series of curses and profanities landed a blow to his head.
"That was harsh, to be honest."
"Yes. She had gone completely mute when you left."
"That is entirely her fault. Rid me of the blame."
They did not talk about it afterwards, met Ei in the Kamisato Estate with Thoma, and went on with the courtship.
Was she too harsh on Aphrodite?
Yet again, the painting had seen the light of day, migrating from the studio to her bedroom, and Sara spent every chance she gets to gaze at it—before she sleeps, right after waking up, after staring at nothingness for five minutes, after her five-lap jog, when she eats her five-piece chicken nuggets—and she had the most beautiful eyes Sara had ever gazed upon.
The real ones were even more majestic. One look, and Sara had completely forgotten how to get rid of her in her mind. It held the bright stars and the shining galaxies when they met again inside the Kaedehara Estate, only to fade to nothingness right as Sara left the room in complete rage.
No. It was her fault for stepping out of her boundaries, yet Sara approached the situation in the worst way.
Kokomi surely hated her after that. Sara, on the other hand, would continue to drown herself in the portrait of her and stare at her with the longing of a mortal wanting the touch of her beloved deity. Even her little moth visitors admired the painting, and they never left once they landed on it, as if they admired it as much as she did.
Did she just doom the only chance she has of getting to know the mystery behind this painting?
"How infuriating." A sneer left Sara's lips, just as her hands blazed with fire from a lighter in her kitchen.
This ends here. Her problems end here in this very night.