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The world was never quite the same after the Great War. This was to be expected; it was war, after all. Nothing is ever the same after any war. Death, battle, loss, it changes the face of the world.
Mori Ougai, a former Surgeon General, was not exempt from this.
It’d only been a few weeks since he returned from the war front, and even he had to admit the change was startling. Not quite the PTSD his ex-comrades faced — if they even survived to suffer such things — but there was definitely something in Mori that hadn’t existed inside him prior to the war. Not a break, no. But… a shift.
The war hadn’t changed many things in Yokohama, save for the lack of young men. They’d died on the war front, leaving many empty beds and grieving mothers behind.
Mori didn’t have anyone to grieve for him if he’d died. Quite the opposite: many of the soldiers in his squadron prayed for his death every day. Not that he could blame them.
The only thing that was different in Yokohama that truly bothered Mori was the constant thrum of danger. Of turmoil swimming just under the surface, like a predator waiting to strike when its opponent was weakest.
From the gang members that still remembered Mori from before the war and knew he’d returned to his underground infirmary, he’d heard talk of the boss of the Port Mafia preparing to launch an attack on many of the small organizations in the area. For no apparent reason, it seemed. Now, talk from the backstreet scum that entered Mori’s office was almost never to be fully trusted. But all rumors were staked in an ounce of verity, he believed. And the boss of the Port Mafia was infamous for his violent and senseless attacks. If there was talk of one attack or another, eventually, it was sure to become the truth.
That night, the moon was full, shining in a clear midnight sky. The breeze was weak but cold. Inhaling felt like breathing in knives of ice. But Mori didn’t mind the low temperature; he never did. It was like an old friend to him, especially after the scorching heat of the battlefield. The wind was a welcome bite.
He walked the streets alone, not much afraid of who lingered in the shadows.
Mori Ougai was infinitely more dangerous than a common criminal, anyways.
A maroon light illuminated the sidewalk a few meters in front of Mori.
The telltale glow of an ability.
How delightfully unusual.
Mori ducked to the wall, slowly peeking around the corner to glance at the user.
The fading glow came from… you. A child. And a filthy one, at that.
Homeless.
Mori thought to himself; a homeless child was a vulnerable one. Ability or no ability. Perhaps Mori could try for another protégé. And maybe this time, they wouldn’t lose their sanity.
A plan formed as three men approached you from the shadows. They were nursing cigarette butts, the puffs of smoke filling the air of the little alleyway. They reeked of malice and foreboding. Mori suspected they were up to no good. (Well, neither was he, but Mori’s was a different breed of nefarious.)
“Hey there, kiddo,” one of them greeted, his gravelly voice doused in faux honey. “You lost?”
Mori narrowed his eyes; he had to act quickly. He didn’t recognize these men and saw no notable attire that would tie them to any organization or gang that Mori had treated members of in previous years. That meant he’d be a stranger to them, and they’d be wary.
“Oh, my dear Hinato!” Mori exclaimed, rushing into the alleyway and hugging you. “There you are!” He hid his grimace at the rank smell of the streets your clothes reeked of. God, he hated dirty things. “You’ve been worrying me sick for days!”
The man in the front of the trio raised a cautious eyebrow. “This is your son?” he asked haltingly. His tone was much less kind as it had been talking to.
“Yes,” Mori lied, standing and keeping a hand on your shoulder, “I’ve been searching for him for a long time now! The police certainly haven’t been doing their job, if you kind gentlemen were able to find him so easily. Thank you for finding my son!” Mori actually had no idea what gender you identified as, nor did he quite care at the moment.
The men looked between each other, a silent conversation. One of them bent down to your level. He took the cigarette from his mouth and pointed it at Mori. “This your dad?”
You continued to stare emotionlessly, face not even twitching. Neither a confirmation nor rejection.
“Pardon him, he’s always been quite shy of strangers,” Mori said apologetically, tugging you along by your hand. “Well, we best be off. He must be exhausted, and I admit I’m a little beat, myself. Good night to you, gentlemen.”
He scurried out of the alley, pulling you with him, before the men could even consider questioning him.
You stumbled as you tried to keep up with Mori’s brisk pace. You huffed for breath, feet catching on each other, legs trembling beneath you. With your free hand, you desperately clutched a ragged stuffed creature to your chest. It was so dirty and torn, limbs barely hanging onto its body, Mori couldn’t even tell what it was. The only defining feature was that its matted fur seemed to have, at one point, been red.
A few minutes after Mori was sure the three men weren’t on his tail, your legs gave out beneath you. The only reason you didn’t collapse onto the ground was because Mori was still gripping your hand.
Mori huffed, and hooked his arm under your knees to carry you. You turned your face into Mori’s chest, small hands gripping his — formerly — white coat. Your entire body was wracked with chills, despite the unhealthy heat of your body.
Fever.
Luck was on his side: the office was a mere block away, and at this hour, no one would be around to see Mori carry you there. He could treat you. Heal you. And perhaps get something out of the arrangement himself.
Yosano Akiko had been his first Skilled protégé. She had burned bright while her sanity lasted. This child was a chance for a second attempt. And maybe you’d last.
Mori started off towards his back alley medical facility, careful not to jostle you in his arms into consciousness. No doubt you’d be quite startled if you awoke in a stranger’s hold. Not that the situation would be much better in the office, but at least there, it was Mori’s territory. He was in power there. He had tools to help subjugate you. In the middle of the street, he was woefully defenseless against a possible panic from you.
Fortunately, you didn’t wake up during the short walk. Your eyes opened every so often, but remained foggy and glazed over. Unseeing. No doubt a result of the fever.
When Mori arrived at the office, he finagled the key into the lock and opened the door with one hand, kicking it closed behind him.
The noise made you stir, but not awaken.
First thing was first: you needed a bath. The office didn’t have a tub, but a bucket of water and soap would do just as well.
Mori set you down on one of the cots in the largest room of his office before setting out to grab a bucket. He ran the faucet, testing the water to make sure it wasn’t too warm or too cold. Too hot, and it would exacerbate the already high fever you were running. Too cold and it would shock your system. Mori barely knew if you would make it until morning; no point in putting your body through more than it could handle. He needed you to survive.
He walked back over to the cot, dragging a stool on wheels behind him. He noticed you had propped yourself up onto the pillows, sunken eyes cautiously studying your surroundings. Perhaps you weren’t as out of it as Mori had thought.
He sat and reached for your arm to clean it, but you flinched away, hand clenched in a fist.
“If you do not behave, I will force you to cooperate,” Mori said. His voice was calm, but pushed an undertone of threat. “I’d prefer it if you participate willingly, but I’ll restrain you to the bed to keep you still if I have to. Am I clear?”
Your eyes narrowed, but you didn’t fight when Mori took your arm again.
He rolled up your sleeve, taking in the state of your arm, and wondered how you’d survived.
Red, irritated cuts covered the near entirety of your arms, many infected and some close to following suit. Bits of gravel and were embedded into the wounds, no doubt irritating the infections even more. Piss-yellow pus lined the edges of the lacerated skin. The cuts were all different in length and depth. Each seemed like they were made with different blades, some dull, some sharp. Others almost looked like you tore into your own flesh with your nails.
But the most curious thing was that all of the gashes looked self-inflicted. Purposeful. Done by a willing hand.
Why would a child — especially one so young as you — be inclined to injure oneself so vigorously? Was it taught to you by another? Or forced?
Then a thought jumped to Mori’s mind: your ability. The maroon glow Mori had seen earlier in the night. Could self-harm have been a trigger for it? Or at least a factor involved in its activation? Maybe just a blood-spilling injury, perhaps?
Mori hummed to himself. Oh, well. He’d find out eventually. Even if he had to force it. First, you had to live until morning light.
Your fingers twitched every so often as Mori wiped away the foul-smelling pus. To his surprise, you didn’t cry. Didn’t bitch or moan or whine, like most would. A hitched breath here, muscles tensing there, but you stayed still. Stayed quiet. Another child — hell, an adult — would’ve been sobbing at the sheer pain of the throbbing infection. Why didn’t you?
Not that Mori objected to the silence; on the contrary, he quite liked it. Liked the obedience. Though, you hadn’t said a word since he met them. Not a peep. Even your labored breaths were nearly silent. A perfect patient. The only discrepancy was that you seemed to refuse to let go of the stuffed animal. When Mori attempted to reach for it, you clutched it tighter to your chest.
You continued to pique his curiosity.
Finally, after much scrubbing and water changes, you were purged of dirt, your wounds cleansed. Mori had to change the water twice before it finally ran clean.
He sutured a few of the deeper lacerations, and made sure that there were no other places on your body that he needed to take care of before bandaging your arms. Once done, he dressed you in the smallest sanitary gown he had in stock. It still drowned the malnourished adolescent in plastic fabric. But it was the closest thing Mori had to child-sized garments other than Elise’s frilly dresses, and Mori guessed that the girl wouldn’t take kindly to her clothes being worn by a child from the streets. They’d still be too large for a skeleton like you.
At some point, you had fallen asleep. Mori noticed when he began to take off the rags you’d been wearing. Your limbs were limp, sunken eyes closed, breaths even. It was likely the most peace you’d gotten in weeks. A dazed, fever-induced sleep in a stranger’s office.
Who was Mori to object?
He fetched an IV bag of antibiotics, inserting a needle into the cannula as he walked. There would’ve been no point going to the effort to clean all the wounds just for the raging infection to take over again.
Mori set the IV into your skeletal hand, taking note of the paper-like quality of your skin as he unhooked the stethoscope from the hook on the wall.
“Who is that?”
Mori turned, and let out an amused hum at the pout on Elise’s face. “My new protégé,” he said, flicking the bell of the instrument. He set it on your chest, moving it around a little as he listened to the weak beat of your heart. Your brows scrunched in discomfort at the sensation of cold metal against bare skin. Shivers began to wrack your body again, trembling like a leaf in the wind. The shaking had gone somewhat dormant since Mori brought you from the windy streets of Yokohama into the heated office. He supposed it wasn’t going to be long before it restarted once more.
Elise cocked her head, crossing her arms as she studied the younger being asleep on the bed. She reached to poke your hollow cheek. “Will they play with me? You never let Yosano-chan play.”
“Yosano-chan was a very busy girl, and I’m sure this one will be quite occupied as well,” Mori said, gently pushing Elise’s hand down before she woke you up.
He moved the bell to your back, gathering a diagnosis in his head as he mentally scratched symptoms off. Poor circulation, but a strong enough heart. Pale, sickly, paper-thin skin. Dizziness. Your breathing was shallow, but your lungs seemed to be in fine condition, if a bit weak. Nothing time wouldn’t fix. Anemia was probable, if not definite. Perhaps some of the symptoms could be chalked up to the fever and infection, but Mori would be damned if he ever overlooked disease markers.
Elise grabbed the mangy stuffed animal from your arms, holding it up by what seemed to be a tail. “Ew, what is this?”
Mori grimaced. “Elise, dear, put that–”
He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before Elise disappeared in a cloud of fog and maroon light.
Mori hadn’t been the one to dismiss her.
He turned to you, whose eyes were wide and blazing with a feral spark. In your hand was a malformed knife, the blade held where Elise’s stomach had been mere seconds ago. Your breath came in little pants through your nose, shaky but controlled.
You blinked.
Slowly, your stare traveled down to where the wolf was on the floor. Immediately, your muscles relaxed, and the territorial glint in your gaze lessened. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head, knife clattering to the ground as you collapsed forward like a boneless ragdoll. Mori caught you, but didn’t bother to hide his shock. Where had that knife–
The maroon light. An ability. Yours.
A growing red stain on the gauze around your arm caught Mori’s eye.
Blood.
It dripped down onto your hand. You were still reaching for the animal on the ground, fingers outstretched. Mori could hear your wheezing breaths.
He placed you back on the bed, pulling the thin sheets up to your chin. You were still shivering, but your fever was too high to risk another blanket. You were obviously not in a state to swallow pills, so any medication would have to be injected via an IV line.
Mori set a hand on your forehead and frowned. The fever seemed to have risen. Perhaps it was exacerbated by the use of your ability.
He took a thermometer off of the adjacent bed stand, massaging your inner jaw bone so as to open your mouth. Praying you wouldn’t spit it out, Mori placed the thermometer in your mouth before going to fetch a damp cloth.
As he turned on the sink, waiting for the water to grow cold, he constantly glanced over his shoulder, watching you for a sign of returning consciousness. You shifted a bit, brows furrowing, but your eyes neglected to open again.
Mori folded the cloth while he sat back down at the bedside and set it on your forehead, holding it down when you grimaced and tried to weakly shake it off. He took the thermometer from your mouth, and read 102.8 °F. A close eye needed to be kept on that.
You shifted once more, then stilled. Your expression was scrunched, clearly pained. It was pitiful.
More glanced down at the object on the floor, and picked it up. He could see now that it was a wolf. One of the legs was missing, and the left ear was close to falling off. But it was certainly a wolf. He sighed; the last thing he wanted was this disgusting little thing contaminating his spotless office.
That being said, if you had been willing to stab Elise after she took it, not even knowing that she wasn’t flesh and bone, Mori wasn’t willing to risk his own impalement over a disintegrating stuffing heap.
But perhaps he could at least lessen the chances of finding pieces of the animal throughout his workplace by mending the tears himself. His suture work was far from mediocre; how hard could piecing together a stuffed animal be, especially if you barely seemed to care about what it looked like?
Mori hummed, and stood, looking for a needle and thread.
❖❖❖
The clattering of utensils is sharp and loud in the quiet home as you stare at the stranger sitting at the dining room table.
You don’t leave the house often. Rarely ever, actually. Only for school, alongside your siblings. But never anywhere else. You didn’t see anyone except your family, your classmates — who stayed far, far away from you: the mute — and your teacher. The one time you’d asked, you revived the backside of a hand to your cheek and no dinner.
It took almost two weeks for the bruise to go away.
Sometimes, you wish people would question it more. The bruises. The welts from your father’s belt. But they see your sister — who only sported minor knee scrapes from soccer — and come to the assumption that you’re just clumsy. The purple hand-sized marks on your arms are from falling or bumping into furniture. Not the results of your failure to be perfect.
But regardless, your mother and father don’t invite people over. Even on their good days. So this man is new to you. And it’s a shock that anyone except your family is in the house. It was so startling you dropped the forks you’d been drying.
“Oh,” the man says, chuckling nervously as he looks at you. “I didn’t realize you had another child. I thought it was just the two?”
He’s referring to your older sister and your younger brother. Your older sister is perfect: smart, athletic, plays several instruments despite only being 12. Your little brother is your replacement. He turns two later in the year. Your parents didn’t want a kid with an ability, so once yours manifested when you were five, they conceived your brother to replace you.
“Really?” your mother says, faux curiosity in her tone. Her gaze slides to you, and you shrink back. “I was sure we’d told you. Oh, well. Three’s a crowd, isn’t it?”
“I suppose.” The man glanced at you once again — at the bags under your eyes, the poorly concealed bruises and cuts littering your skin — and hesitantly went back to conversation with your parents.
Your father gives you a glare, and you scurry out of the kitchen and into your room. You shut the door as quietly as possible. You curl into a ball in the closet, making yourself as small as possible.
You used to think that you hid for long enough, your parents’ anger would die down, and they’d forget about you. You could escape. To where, you don’t know. But anywhere is better than this house.
That dream eventually died. Hiding only prolongs the pain, in the end. They’d add their anger at you trying to avoid punishment onto the burning pile.
But in hiding, you give yourself a brief, glorious moment to breathe. Alone. You pretend that outside the door, there’s a loving family looking for you to come eat dinner with them. They made your favorite, and they want you to be the first to try it. You pretend that outside your room, you’re wanted. That you’re a normal kid, with many friends and siblings that tease you as their love language, instead of ignoring you or finding you weird.
You think you fall asleep, but you’re not sure. The closet is dark, sound muffled. It’s hot. You don’t mind. Time passes in odd rivulets in the little space you’d made for yourself. It could’ve been an hour, or five minutes.
But whatever peace you had tricked yourself into is lost the second you hear your mother thundering up the steps. Your father is close behind.
The door to your bedroom slams open, quickly followed by the closet. The light floods in, blocked by the silhouette of your mother. She grabs your arm, nails piercing your skin.
“We told you to be invisible,” she growls, yanking the back of your shirt as you try to writhe out of her grasp. “Not seen and not heard. To clean, and do the simple things we ask of you. What’s so hard to understand about that?”
Your father unravels the belt from his pants, rolling the end of it around his fist.
“No, please–”
You let out a cry as the leather strip hit your ass, like thunder and lighting striking you at once. Your mother pulled your hair, eliciting another sob. “What’d we say about talking, you ungrateful brat? You’re supposed to be silent. You’re not supposed to exist, but we let you anyway. And all we get in return is a bothered guest in our home, and filthy silverware.”
Another strike. You have to bite your hand to muffle your cries.
“Filthy like you.”
To the back of your thighs, this time.
“You ability users are the scum of the earth. Especially someone with a disgusting ability like yours.”
You wish you could become numb.
“You couldn’t even have a useful ability.”
The metal ring of the belt hurts the most. It catches on your side. You stumble. You don’t dare make noise. But it hurts so much. You bite your tongue so hard you taste blood. You feel the tingle of your ability activating.
You know your ability is turned on by harming yourself on purpose. You’d found out by accident when you were little. You’d poked yourself with a knife, seeing how badly it hurt. When you started glowing that horrid red you had eventually come to hate, you summoned a small stick of iron. It levitated in the air above your palm for a second before dropping into your hand. You showed your mother. You don’t remember what she said. All you remember is the look of terror on her face. She brought you to a doctor who confirmed the suspicions.
That day, you were registered as Gifted #B10C21. Your parents were never the same after that. They started making you do dishes, take out the trash, clean the floors. If you didn’t do it the exact way they wanted, you’d get hit.
Then, they made you silent.
At first, they just wanted you to speak in a whisper. Then no voice at all. If you even tried to make a noise, they’d put a muzzle on you. It was meant for the dog that had died when you were very young, but they repurposed it for you.
It didn’t fit. They pulled the straps too tight to force it on you. And if they caught you taking it off, they threatened to staple it on.
Finally, the belt ceased. It took all your strength to not collapse to the floor.
Instead of the metal clinking of the muzzle, your mother grabbed your arm again, dragging you out of your room. You were barely able to take hold of your stuffed wolf, Tougo.
Your mother forced you down the stairs, and you landed at the bottom of the steps breathless and dizzy. She kicked you towards the door, your ribs screaming in protest. You could barely think, the pain was so great.
A large hand — your father’s — forced you onto your feet.
“Get the hell out,” your mother hissed. She shoved you out onto the doorstep. “And don’t you dare think about coming back. Don’t curse our family any longer.”
❖❖❖
A day later, and you showed no improvement. The fever had risen; you were barely coherent.
“Little wolf,” he called, reaching for the covers. The nickname had originated from the stuffed animal. He had no name for you, as you still hadn’t spoken a word — a fact Mori hoped to change, if you survived long enough. In the meantime, he needed some way to address you. “Come out of your den, I need to check your temperature.”
Mori began to pull back the thin blankets, but you protested by tugging them back over your head. You made a small sound, muffled — Mori almost didn’t hear it.
He raised a brow. Interesting.
Mori pulled the blankets off of you, barely needing any effort to overcome your weak strength.
Under the covers, you were curled into a ball, like you were trying to hide from the world in the safe darkness of the sheets. Your thighs were pressed to your chest, head tucked between your knees. Mori didn’t think you could get smaller even if you wanted to.
“Little wolf,” Mori called again, shaking your shoulder. “I brought soup.”
It was microwaved miso that Mori had found in the back of his pantry upstairs, with medicine dissolved in it. He was almost sure it tasted like shit — Mori was many things, but a chef was not one of them — but you would eat it anyways. Starving dogs were never picky. They couldn’t afford to be. And on the off-chance you refused to eat (unlikely but still possible. Mori was a stranger, and you had probably learned to not take food from people you didn’t know) Mori would force you anyway. He needed you alive, and having you die of starvation was inefficient.
Despite the mention of the soup, you barely stirred. You just… kept shivering. But this time, Mori didn’t think it was just because of the fever.
He set the bowl aside, brow furrowing as he took the stool next to the bed. Your face was scrunched, sweat dripping down your forehead. Your mouth was open in a silent cry.
A nightmare.
Suddenly, your eyes shot open, glazed over with fever, and you shoved yourself into a sitting position. You swayed, dizziness filling you. Mori caught you, if only to stop you from hitting your head, but you tried to push him away. You kicked weakly. Tears joined the sweat and panic on your face. You were scared, terrified, of what you had seen. And wherever you had been, your mind was still there.
“Deep breaths, little wolf,” Mori said. He leaned your body on his, trying to keep you still despite the feeble punches you were attempting to throw. You needed to calm down before you fainted. “Breathe. It’s just me, my little wolf. You’re safe.”
For half an hour, you silently sobbed. Your breaths came shallowly, and Mori had to remind you to take slow, deep breaths, lest you hyperventilated and passed out once more. He eventually managed to calm you down enough for you to lean back against the pillows again. You were still visibly shaken, and your mind seemed to drift between the present and the past. You didn’t let go of the grip you had on Mori’s sleeve. It seemed to be the only thing even barely keeping you somewhat grounded in reality.
Mori touched the bowl of soup. The ceramic container was lukewarm, nearly cold. You’d still eat it, he assumed. Not that you’d let him go and reheat it, though.
Your glazed eyes followed Mori’s hand, widening slightly when you saw the food. You pushed yourself off the pillows, grabbing onto the rails to stay upright. Despite the fever smoothing over your features into sickly dispassion, Mori could see the lust for food in your eyes.
“Temperature first,” Mori said, pushing the bowl out of your reach. His eyes swept over you, making sure the glow of your ability wasn’t present. He didn’t feel like being stabbed. “Then you can eat.”
You dipped your head, then opened your mouth to accept the thermometer.
You were… surprisingly docile. Quiet, Mori had come to expect. But your eyes were half-open, watching him with a passive curiosity. It was almost unsettling. Eerie. You were a being that had surely watched and studied for longer than a child your age should have had patience for.
“Do your scars have something to do with your ability?” Mori asked, removing the thermometer from your mouth. 103.8. A dangerous number. If you had let go of him, he could’ve fetched a newly dampened washcloth.
Your gaze lowered, and nodded minutely.
“Does cutting yourself activate it?”
You shrugged. Your eyes traveled to the bowl of soup, desperate for both sustenance and a change in conversation. Your ability was clearly not a favorite topic. Mori had a growing hypothesis as to why.
Ability users had existed for hundreds of years. In some cultures, they were praised and worshipped as gods or leaders of the people. In others, they were considered against their religion, or personifications of the Devil, and were often put to death simply for existing. It varied from region to region, but Gifted people were typically scorned, cast out, even hunted down.
In modern times, having an ability was more generally accepted (though ignored was the more accurate term). If you had an ability, it was required by law for a given Skilled to be registered with the government of their home country. Many had tabs kept on them, or were hired by the government to control them. Other than that, the topic of Gifted individuals was taboo. One didn’t discuss it — especially not in public — and Gifted history wasn’t taught in schools.
A few groups existed in the darkness to take advantage of the ability users. Some were sanctioned by governments. Others, like the Port Mafia as an infamous example in Yokohama, were much less legal.
Then, the Great War turned the tides for ability users. They were encouraged to come out of hiding to fight for their country, to make their families and nations proud. Loads of propaganda were produced in order to lure Gifteds out to be drafted by the government. They were trained in the military and then shoved onto the war front. Mori himself was an example. Before the war, he’d been working in the slums of Yokohama as an underground doctor in order to pay for his vast sum of medical debt. He didn’t come from a particularly wealthy family, and had to find his own ways of paying for school. He’d already been registered as a Gifted, and was promised that if he joined the war, they’d pay off his loans.
How could Mori say no?
But even after the war, ability users were still a sensitive topic. It wasn’t unheard of for families to shun children with abilities. Sometimes — and Mori had a growing suspicion that this was your predicament — they were abandoned and left to die on the streets. If caught, the parents would of course be jailed. But most of those cases weren’t brought to police departments to be investigated, and if they were, they were never followed at length.
You reached for the bowl on the bedside table, hands trembling immensely. Mori gently pushed your hands aside and picked up the bowl himself. He guessed that if you even attempted to feed yourself, you’d drop the spoon into the bowl or spill the contents onto the bed. Mori had no intention of cleaning up such a mess.
He dipped the spoon into the bowl, and lifted it to your lips. He sighed inwardly; a decade of intense medical studies, four years as a surgeon general in a war, and he wound up spoon-feeding some urchin from the streets. A Gifted child, yes, but an urchin all the same.
How ironic.
❖❖❖
Mori had been watching you closely as your health improved. The more awake and aware you became — a result of the fever finally lowering — your eyes flitted around the office more. Paranoid. Searching. Taking note of exits, possible weaponry (Mori had caught you studying the sharps container frequently), and hiding places (under the sink). You no longer flinched when Mori reached to replace your bandages, but the guarded look in your gaze never faded.
With every meal, you got a little stronger. Once the infection cleared from your wounds, and the fever was gone, you were able to walk and eat on your own. Your limbs looked less like bones held together by skin and sinew and more like body parts.
You actually looked alive.
Mori even ordered some clothes for you. Neutral colors, nothing that would attract attention on the streets, but comfortable.
The days passed in colorless blurs. You were like a ghost in the office, always present but silent. The only thing that gave the days meaning or difference were your nightmares.
The only reason Mori knew of the dreams was your fear, so thick it was nearly palpable. Whatever haunted you at night left bags under your eyes and your nerves frayed the following morning. You jumped at sudden noises, flinched when Mori raised a hand a little too fast.
During meals, he’d catch you dozing off. Blinks would last longer and longer until your eyes stopped reopening. Then, you’d jerk yourself awake, purposefully avoiding Mori’s gaze and shrugging off his questions.
One night — when Mori stayed up late to organize the papered chaos of his desk — he heard minute noises coming from your little room. Rustling of sheets — not unusual to hear, due to the RLS that was a resultant of your anemia — accompanied by little gasps.
Mori glanced up from the stack of folders on his desk, brow furrowed. He stood and made his way to the door of your room. For a moment, he listened, wondering if the nightmare would end on its own.
You didn’t scream upon waking, nor did you cry — as far as Mori heard, at least. Even your gasps for air barely made noise. The rapid shuffling of sheets, followed by little footsteps that wished to be feathers, confirmed that you were awake.
You stopped in front of the door, and stumbled back a little. The light was surely leaking under the wood, and it was only ever one if Mori was in there.
“Come on out, little wolf,” Mori called. “I know you’re awake.”
Slowly, the cracked open the door and slid out. Your stuffed wolf was clutched tightly to your chest, though your hands shook. Your head was dipped in shame, hair covering your watery eyes. Even standing, you curled into yourself, like an attempt to hide to plain sight.
“Is sleep eluding you again, my little wolf?” Mori asked, putting down the file in his hand.
You nodded shallowly.
Mori studied you: your slouched, exhausted posture; the haunted look in your eyes; the way you absentmindedly picked at the scars adorning your arms. You looked halfway to collapsing.
He sighed and stood from his desk, wincing at the ache in his joints. He led you back into your bedroom, voicing his curiosity about your nightmares. Perhaps if he cleared any reason for your fear, you’d be able to sleep. The last thing he needed was for his protégé to be passing out whilst he was trying to teach them.
“What did you dream of tonight, my little wolf?” he asked. “Monsters, perhaps?”
You shook your head.
“Your past, then. A memory.”
A nod.
“I assume it wasn’t a pleasant one.”
You didn’t answer, instead climbing back into bed. You didn’t move to lay down. You itched at your scars again. The skin was reddened, irritated by your constant scratching. A habit formed by the subconscious needs to activate your ability, maybe. A defense mechanism, or a nervous tick. If it continued and became a problem, he’d bandage your arms, or restrain them to the bed at night if you persisted.
“Good night, my little wolf,” Mori said, yawning a little as he started for the door again. But before he could get far, he felt a light tug on his sleeve. He glanced down.
Your eyes were wide and pleading, a silent beg of don’t go. You were young and scared. Likely abandoned and left to die before you even turned ten. It was only natural for you to desire the comfort of company, if only to ward away the demons plaguing your mind.
Mori relented. He, too, was tired. The last time he glanced at a clock, it read 1:06. No doubt an ample amount of time had since passed.
He nodded, and took the chair closest to the bed, picking up the book on the nightstand. It was one of his old textbooks, and Mori had frequently seen you glancing at the aged pages. You likely couldn’t understand half of what was contained in the tome, but at least you weren’t picking up the mindless, colored nonsense books that Elise preferred.
You seemed to calm, and finally let yourself lay down. It only took a few moments for your breaths to ease and settle. You didn’t let go of Mori’s sleeve, though, making it impossible for him to inch away lest he wake you up again. You only tightened your grip when he tried.
Mori sighed, and settled in for the night.
❖❖❖
“I brought you a gift, my little wolf.”
You perked up from your spot on the couch, closing the textbook in your lap.
Mori grinned as he unveiled the wolf plushie from behind his back. The limbs weren’t threatening to fall off anymore, after Mori spent far too many hours stitching the creature back together. “It’s your old friend.”
Your eyes went wide and you leapt forward, body unsteady as you tried grabbing the creature.
“Ah-ah-ah,” Mori said, wagging his finger as he took a step back, making sure to stay out of the possible stabbing radius. That was something he didn’t want to repeat. “You have to ask for it if you want it.”
He’d been lenient up to that point. Let you silently haunt the office, let you have things you didn’t earn. All part of Mori’s plan, of course. But it was time he began getting results from you.
You cocked your head slightly, a confused and panicked glint entering your eyes. A question. ‘Why?’
“You can’t be a ghost forever, my little wolf,” Mori said, sighing. He let the grin drop from his face, watching as a hint of fear crossed your face. “I want answers from you, and I do not have the patience for guesswork. You have been staying here without payment for nearly a month now, and I never do anything for free. I don’t intend to have a mute protégé, nor do I intend to have you stay here without being of benefit to me.” He leaned forward. “This is your first task: ask for the wolf, and you can have it. Simple, no?”
Your expression was conflicted, a thousand unreadable emotions traveling through it. But it eventually landed on determination.
You let out a sigh — no, not a sigh. A sound. An attempt at speech.
Your eyebrows scrunched in frustration. “Puh–” you sputtered, voice strained. “P– please.”
Manners. Not a very common trait among street children, especially one so young as you. Though perhaps you hadn’t started life on the concrete and wire fences of Yokohama. You likely would’ve been snatched up by men’s filthy hands, or initiated into that pack of children that called themselves an organization. The Sheep, was it? Mori was just glad none of the brats ever showed up on the doorstep of his office. He doubted they’d be able to pay him, anyways.
But he digressed.
Mori smiled. “Good.” He would’ve preferred a full sentence, but it would be unrealistic of him, especially as he saw how ingrained the silence was in you. Multi-syllabic words might not even come for a little while. Well, not naturally, at least. Not that Mori was going to wait for your natural ability to speak to arise; he intended to speed the process along as fast as he could.
“Verbally asking for something you want will be expected of you from now on until I say otherwise,” Mori said. “I suggest you practice.”
He handed the stuffed creature to you, and you snatched it from his hand, holding it tightly, possessively, to your chest.
“Now, now, little wolf, what do you say after someone gives you a gift?”
You glanced up at Mori, with the decency to have a little shame. “Th– tha–” You coughed, a weak attempt to clear your throat.
“That will do,” Mori said, “for now.”
❖❖❖
Four years later…
“Where are we going?” you asked, voice barely louder than a whisper.
You were hiding behind Mori’s legs, your hands clutching his pants tightly.
Mori put on his coat. “Out for an errand, my little wolf. Does your jacket cover your arms?”
The previous day had consisted of you attempting to perfect your ability. Mori handed you a scalpel, and had you practice in a small room on the second floor of the infirmary until you replicated it exactly. It had taken you until dinner time to satisfy him. You came down every so often — when you were sure that any patients he had wouldn’t see you — and showed him your work. He waved you away when it wasn’t what he wanted, and grinned when it was. And even then, he still seemed disappointed.
You tugged on your sleeves, pulling them over your trembling hands, nodding. The fabric rubbed uncomfortably against the small cuts Mori hadn’t bothered to bandage. But you were getting used to the pain. The dizziness you felt almost perpetually was becoming more familiar.
Some days, you could barely get out of bed without fainting. It became hard to breathe, your chest hurt so badly. Mori was the kindest then. Though kind was perhaps not the right word.
But he didn’t make you practice your ability, or try to discover more about it through blood tests or biopsies. He gave you medicine without you having to ask for it. Gave you blankets when you were cold. If a case came into the office, he’d make sure to leave Elise to watch you. She was rather annoying, and tended to tease you, but most of the time, you were too tired to really care. That is, until she tried to take Tougo — your stuffed wolf. Then you actually put your ability to use. Mori always scolded you when you dispelled Elise, exasperated that the two of you didn’t get along, but there was never any true heat behind his words. Eventually, you found your own kind of amusement in it.
But when you turned twelve, Mori took the wolf away. He said that you’d lost him, and that he didn’t touch it, so it was your fault it was gone. You were smart enough to know he was lying, but didn’t risk pressing the issue. You hated when Mori got mad.
Over the years, Mori became more demanding with your progress. There were waves; when he was harshest, it led to detriment to your health, and more days spent half-conscious in bed. Mori would lighten up after those — if begrudgingly — and the process would start all over again.
And then Dazai appeared.
Mori came back home late one night, the lanky boy halfway to death in his arms. For weeks, Mori wouldn’t let you near the other adolescent. The most you saw of him was when you peeked into the room Mori kept you out of.
Once, Mori left the door open. You snuck into the room when you were sure everyone else was asleep, and studied him as he slept.
He was sprawled on the bed, dead still, an arm hanging off the side of the mattress. Deep purple bags hung under his sunken eyes, hair oily and a bit matted. If you hadn’t noticed the slight rise and fall of his chest, you would’ve claimed he was dead.
But he was… handsome, in his own, eerie way. You’d never seen him smile, but you thought that he would’ve looked cute with one on his boyish face. His hair, if cleaned, must’ve been soft to run one’s hands through. He was tall, bony, with knobby knees and a skeleton frame. But his cheeks still held the faintest roundness of baby fat from childhood. And his eyes… you’d gotten brief glimpses of them. They were dark. Large. One of them was always obscured by a bandage wrapped around his head. You wouldn’t have minded if you could see them up close…
It was then that you noticed an odd feeling in your body. A fluttering, similar to what your heart felt like on your bad days. But this… this was warmer. Odd and unfamiliar and new but… welcome. You didn’t quite know what to do with it.
Was this the sexual arousal Mori had told you of the year before? That conversation had been the most awkward one you’d ever had. Mori spoke of the act of procreation very clinically, explaining the biological components behind it. Though after a bit of your own… research that left your face burning red, you were left with an understanding that sex was supposed to be a pleasurable act between two partners (or more, you discovered after another red-faced night of research) that desired it.
Mori had explained everything when you asked how babies were made (an immature question, for someone your age, but a genuine one nonetheless), and had said that around the time you became a teenager, you might have begun to feel a want for such things.
But no, that… that was different. This was another feeling entirely.
You noticed that Dazai had opened his eye — brown, you saw — and was wide awake, staring back at you. Your face, you realized, was inches away from his. So close you felt his breath on your nose.
You gasped, and scurried out of the room before Dazai could say anything.
Just as you thought of him, Dazai turned the corner of the hallway, hands in his pockets as he glanced down at you. You held his hollow gaze with your own, not backing down from the silent challenge.
“Good,” Mori said. He patted the boy on the shoulder, ignoring when Dazai shrugged him off. He checked the time on his watch. “We’re meeting someone very dangerous, so it’s best to keep your ability a secret.”
You cocked your head, and eyed the medical bag in Mori’s hands as he opened the door. He never took that anywhere. House calls were one of the things Mori despised the most. Though he had been doing quite a few more recently. “Who?”
Mori grinned down at you. “The boss of the Port Mafia.”