Sunlight glared off the school’s aluminum siding as I sprinted, lungs burning, down the narrow dirt path. The main school building was just ahead of me now.

  Kenji’s wheezing voice ricochets behind me: “Come here, demon!” His pudgy legs falter, but his goons—Taro and Ren—surge forward, lean as starving hounds. Their footfalls pound closer, synced to the drumbeat of my pulse.

  I skid around the corner, the main building looming like a concrete tomb. A hand snags my collar, jerking me backward. Ren’s grip is iron, his breath hot and sour as he snarls, “Got you, Yoikai.”

  The world tilts.

  Taro hurls me sideways—a ragdoll tossed by a hurricane. My skull cracks against a rock, pain exploding in jagged starbursts. Blood seeps into my left eye, the world painted crimson. Kenji waddles into view, face blotchy with exertion, his grin a crescent of malice.

  “Grandma says devils look like you.” he pants, jabbing a sausage-thick finger at my hair—white as bone, cursed as sin. “Says we gotta chase ’em out.”

  Ren’s laugh grates like rusted hinges. “Bet devils cry real pretty too.”

  They hoist me up, my uniform tearing at the seams. Kenji’s fist slams into my gut, a sledgehammer of spite. Air flees my body; I crumple, gasping, as their laughter swirls into a dissonant choir.

  Weak. Pathetic.

  The dream doesn’t let me scream. It never does.

  The sun stabbed through the thin curtains like a spotlight, jolting me awake. I flung an arm over my face, groaning.

  'Same damn dream.' I remarked inwardly. The one where I’m sprinting through the school, hair blazing like a flag, petulant boys chasing after me. It was ironic, the dream that I hated the most was the only one I had these days.

  “I need blackout curtains.” I muttered into my pillow, the words muffled by the mountain of unopened boxes crowding my new room. Their cardboard walls loomed like a shantytown, casting jagged shadows in the harsh light. My only decor: a poster of a bikini-clad supermodel smirking down at me, her neon swimsuit clashing gloriously with the peeling beige wallpaper. Priorities, right?

  I had been born and raised in Tokyo, but my father was originally from the States. He had moved to the Kanto region following a lucrative job offer, after years of working there he was promoted and given a position in Tokyo. From what I understood, my father was the assistant to some powerful bigshot, and that it paid the bills.

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  Well, it used to. With the recent economic downturn—he had gotten laid off, forcing us to move to the sleepy, isolated town of Takayama. Now, we were basically in the middle of nowhere, with no opportunities for any of us.

  “Kane! Breakfast!” Father’s voice rattled up the stairs, all gravel and grit. No ‘please’, no footsteps. Classic.

  I rolled out of bed, my reflection in the dusty mirror catching me mid-yawn. 6’1” and still growing, muscles coiled from years of martials arts training. When my over-worked father realized that I was getting beat up daily, he immediately started teaching me how to fight. He once told me, 'If you're going to get your ass kicked anyways, you might as well go down swinging', it was a great philosophy.

  My hair—a tangled mess of bone-white curls—caught the sunlight like frosted wire. Kids in Tokyo used to call me yuki-onna, snow witch. Joke’s on them. Last guy who tried to stuff me in a locker left with a deviated septum and a newfound respect for Brazilian jiu-jitsu.

  A zit glared back at me from my temple. “Traitor.” I hissed, swiping at it.

  Yawning, I turned to leave the room. I would eat first and shower later. Downstairs, the smell of tamagoyaki hit me—sweet, buttery, delicious. Mom stood at the stove, her apron dusted with flour, humming some enka ballad. Father sat statue-still at the table, his untouched coffee gone cold. The scar on his knuckle—the one shaped like a crescent moon—twitched as he drummed his fingers.

  “You look like a raccoon.” Mom said, nudging a plate toward me. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

  I shoveled eggs into my mouth. “Sleep’s overrated.” The food was stupid good, warmth spreading through me like a drug. Comfort in a bite. My mother’s food is always amazing, but this was on another level. I could have sworn it didn’t normally taste this good.

  Father cleared his throat. The sound hung in the air, heavy as a stormcloud. “We need to talk. About why we’re really here.”

  I froze, chopsticks hovering. “Thought you got canned.”

  “Laid off.” he corrected, jaw tight. “But that’s… incidental.”

  Mom’s spoon clinked against her bowl. “Dear—”

  “I lied.” The words dropped like stones. “About my job. About everything.”

  The kitchen shrunk. Mom’s knuckles whitened around her teacup.

  “For eighteen years, I worked for an organization that… retrieves things.” Father's gaze locked on mine. “Not art. Not relics. Other things. Things that defy logic. That change people.”

  A laugh bubbled up my throat—harsh, nervous. “What? You’re saying ghosts are real?”

  “Worse.” He leaned forward, shadows pooling under his eyes. “Ever wonder why 219 people vanish in Japan daily? Why the news never explains it?”

  Mom’s teacup cracked. A hairline fracture snaked up the porcelain.

  “They’re not runaways. Not suicides.” His voice dropped. “They find something they shouldn’t. Or it finds them.”

  Ice slid down my spine. Father didn’t do jokes. Father didn’t do anything but gruff nods and sparring matches in the garage. This was almost too much to believe, for it sounded like the type of thing you would find some NEET ranting about on an internet forum.

  “Six months ago,” he continued, “we uncovered a vault. Inside was a liquid—a serum. Heals wounds, halts aging, you get the gist. They called it the Fountain.”

  Mom gasped. “Your promotion—the late nights—”

  “They sold it to billionaires. Dictators.” His fist clenched. “Then my boss, Tanaka-san, ordered me to secure a new specimen. Something… alive.”

  The air turned viscous. My eggs churned in my stomach.

  “I refused. Resigned. But men like my boss, like Tanaka-san, don't take no for an answer.” He stood abruptly, chair screeching, and knelt under the table.

  The case he hauled up was sleek, obsidian-black, latched with biometric locks. It hummed faintly, a sound that made my molars ache. ‘Where was he even hiding that thing?’ I wondered, for the box was larger than a small suitcase.

  “Luckily, I was able to snag myself a souvenir.” father said, rubbing a rough hand over the case, “Insurance.”