Aiko let the silence settle for just a breath longer than was comfortable, her gaze steady, sharp as the edge she held in her palm. Then, she turned her hand slightly, allowing the glint of her scissors to catch the dying sunlight bleeding through the blinds.
"They do more than cut," she said quietly, voice low like a confession and firm like a threat. "These blades sever figments, sure. They shear through figments, illusions, and dreamwalker abilities like they were paper soaked through. But that's just the start."
Oliver didn't speak. He didn't have to. She could feel the tension in him coiling up with the weight of what she hadn't said yet.
"If you've ever cut something with these," she continued, tilting the scissors slightly in her fingers like a pendulum, "you can find it again. Doesn't matter where it runs. Doesn't matter what dream it hides in. The thread stays. Like a scent. Like a tether. The scissors remember... what must be savored."
Then her eyes flicked to his chest, to the faint bulge in his blazer pocket.
"Take yours out."
He hesitated—not because he didn't believe her, but because her tone left no room for trust. Still, Oliver reached into his pocket and slowly drew out his own scissors. They were nearly identical to hers, down to the last cruel detail.
She stepped in close, too close, and lifted her chin toward him.
"Cut a lock of my hair."
He blinked. "Why?"
"Do it."
Her eyes didn't waver. There was a smirk there, just beneath the surface, and something else—curiosity, maybe, or recklessness. Oliver obeyed.
The blades opened with a soft click, and as they closed over a lock of her silken black hair, he felt it.
A thrum.
A pulse.
A tether winding itself through his chest like a wire pulled taut between ribs. The cut piece fell, but his fingers didn't let go of the scissors. They trembled. His whole arm did. He wanted—needed—to cut more. Her throat. Her face. Her. There was a maddening pull in the blades, in his palm. The weapon sang in his head, a high, whispering itch that begged for another stroke, another severance. His breath caught.
And then—cold.
Something pressed under his chin, firm and sharp.
He froze.
Her blade sat snug against the soft flesh just below his jawline, angled up. Her eyes were still the same: steady, gleaming, patient in a way that wasn't kind.
"So," she murmured, voice almost playful but not quite, "how's it feel? Do I feel clearer to you?"
The blade pressed in ever so slightly—not enough to draw blood, but just enough to remind him how thin skin really was.
Oliver swallowed. The scissors in his hand vibrated, nearly humming.
"You're... vivid," he said through clenched teeth. "Too vivid."
Her smile widened slightly, and the pressure relaxed, but the scissors stayed in place.
"Exactly. That's the pull. That's what it does. Once you cut someone with your pair—just once—they're never quite the same to you. Clearer. Sharper. It gets easier to see them, but harder to ignore what you see."
She tilted her head, voice lowering into something silkier, closer to dangerous.
"You'd have tried to kill me just now. Not because you wanted to... but because the blade told you it would be beautiful."
His hand slowly loosened on the scissors. They felt hot. Wrong. Alive.
He blinked and looked at her, truly looked. She had leaned in slightly, still with her blade at his throat, her breath mingling with his.
"This is why most of the Threadcutters don't cut recklessly," Aiko whispered. "Not unless you want to dream about the people you've maimed for the rest of your life. Or crave them. Or worse."
She stepped back and lowered her weapon.
"And now that you've tasted it," she said, already turning, "you'll understand why I lock mine away when I sleep."
Oliver stood still, heart hammering, scissors in his hand like a live wire. The cut strand of her hair still curled against his shoe.
And already, in the back of his skull, he knew it: he could find her anywhere.
He studied the scissors in his hand, the weight of them, the way the steel caught the dim alley light like it was thirsty for something. Then he looked up at her.
"So," he said slowly, "is this how you plan to hunt that figment?"
Aiko pouted, puffing out her cheeks like a sulking child. "I wish. I haven't even seen the damn thing. Let alone cut it." She clicked her own scissors shut with a sharp snick and twirled them once around her finger. "Closest I got was the aftermath. Half a body. Mangled like wet paper." Her voice flattened. "One of its usual hunting spots."
Oliver's eyes narrowed. "If you know where it hunts, why don't we go there?"
He slipped the scissors back into his blazer pocket, but the urge didn't leave. It clung to him—quiet, needling. Like his fingers still remembered how soft her skin might be beneath the blades. How easily it might tear. He swallowed and pushed the thought down.
Aiko didn't seem to notice. Or maybe she did. "We're already at one," she said, lifting her chin and pointing toward a dark, water-stained patch on the concrete wall across from them. "Right there. That's where I found the guy. Torn open like he'd tried to wrestle a meat grinder and lost."
She took a step forward and unzipped her hoodie with one long, deliberate pull. Underneath, she wore a tight, sleeveless white shirt. She peeled off the hoodie and tossed it toward Oliver without looking.
Then she grabbed the waistband of her pants.
Before he could say anything, she gave them a sharp tug—and they tore away like tissue, revealing a short, pleated skirt hidden underneath. She threw the ruined pants after the hoodie.
"Alright," she said, rolling her shoulders, "time to get serious."
Oliver barely had time to react before her hands slipped behind her back—and when they came forward again, she was holding something slender and black: a magician's wand. Not a toy. Something polished and old, with faint silver carvings like veins across its length.
"Let's see if the bastard shows," she said, tapping the wand lightly against her palm. Her smile was lopsided and hungry. "And if he does… I wanna be dressed for the part."
Oliver stared down at the bundle of discarded clothes in his arms—hoodie, shredded pants, a faint scent of perfume and alley rot clinging to the fabric like old ghosts. The shirt was warm, freshly removed, the kind of warmth that made his fingers feel complicit.
"Great for you," he muttered, adjusting his grip on the mess, "but what the hell am I supposed to do with these?"
Aiko turned halfway, wand still tapping against her leg, eyes wide like she hadn't even considered the question. Then she grinned over her shoulder. "You don't want them, Oli-kun? Really? I thought you'd like that. A gift, since you were all kissy and lovey-dovey with me earlier."
He blinked. "What?"
"Oh, and," she said, her voice light but oddly sincere, "I'm not the best at this type of stuff, y'know, the romance stuff, but—so are we, like… dating now?"
She didn't blush. She didn't giggle. Her tone didn't shift into anything cute or teasing. She said it like someone asking if you wanted fries with your order. Completely deadpan. As if she couldn't imagine it not being true.
And that was the moment Oliver realized it.
She wasn't just eccentric. Not just bold, or strange, or gleefully unhinged. She was weird. A breed of weird that sat somewhere between "stray cat that bites you for petting it wrong" and "woman you find humming lullabies while stitching meat together in a basement."
A chill crawled down his back, and not from the cold.
This girl might actually be crazy.
He adjusted the hoodie in his arms again and didn't answer right away.
She was already walking ahead, skirt swinging slightly, wand bouncing in her fingers like it had a rhythm only she could hear.
"You coming, boyfriend?" she called without turning around.
The worst part?
He wasn't sure if she was joking.
Oliver gave the bundle of clothes a little shake in his arms, letting the sleeves dangle, the fabric twist, before muttering under his breath, "If this is supposed to be a gift…" He took a step closer, falling in behind her. "Shouldn't it be wrapped up nice? Maybe a ribbon, bow on top? Something that screams thoughtful."
Aiko half-turned, wand tapping against her lower back now, the corner of her mouth twitching like it couldn't decide if it wanted to smirk or bite.
"Oh?" she said, voice lilting. "You like it when girls wrap themselves up for you, Oli-kun? Kinky."
"That's not what I said," he shrugged, strolling up beside her now, "but, if you're going to throw your pants at me in a dark alley, I'd at least expect a little presentation. You know. Some class."
"Classy like tongue-kissing me outside a convenience store?"
Oliver raised an eyebrow, smirking. "I wouldn't be against it, if that's what you're suggesting."
Without hesitation, she stepped closer, closing the distance between them, and pressed her lips to his. The kiss was hungry, urgent—more than just a greeting. For a few moments, they lost themselves in each other. As they kissed, Aiko's cloak shifted, and she covered the bundle of clothes in his hand with it, hiding the contents from view.
She pulled away just as quickly as she'd kissed him, a wicked glint in her eyes. "Ta-da," she said, her voice playful. Oliver blinked, looking down at the now-transformed bundle in his hands. The clothes were gone, replaced by a white box wrapped neatly in a red ribbon with a bow on top.
Aiko leaned in, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, "I left something a little more special in there." Then, without another word, she turned and moved ahead of him, her skirt swaying as she walked. For a brief moment, the fabric lifted just enough to give Oliver a fleeting glimpse of her legs, but it was gone too quickly to make out much of anything, leaving him wondering what exactly she'd put in the box.
Oliver stared at the box for a beat, then peeled away the ribbon and lifted the lid.
On top, neatly folded and placed with deliberate care, was a pair of black panties—delicate, lace-trimmed. Beneath them, a pink hoodie with little white stars dotting the sleeves. He let out a slow breath, half-laugh, half-disbelief.
"You coming?" Aiko called over her shoulder, not even turning to look at him. "It's getting cold out~ and I don't feel like putting on a show for whatever figments might be watching."
Oliver closed the box, still wearing a crooked smile as he tucked it under one arm and started after her. "I thought you said you were bad at romance."
"I am," she said, glancing back with a small grin. "That's why I'm skipping to the part that'll make you stay, Oli-kun."
There was something in her voice—half a joke, half a dare. Not just playful, not quite serious either. It made his skin prickle, like walking into a storm you couldn't see yet but could feel waiting. Still, he followed.
—
Tokyo, city. 8:00 PM
The streets of Shinjuku buzzed with neon life just minutes before—trains rattling overhead, vending machines humming, the chatter of nightlife filling every corner. But now, it was gone.
The rain had stopped, but a thin, unnatural fog slithered between the buildings, pooling along sidewalks like something alive. The storefronts—normally lit bright with signs and displays—were dark, lifeless. Phones had no signal. Clocks had stopped ticking. The world had... paused.
And in the middle of it all, stood a teenage girl.
Her school bag dangled from one shoulder, and her phone trembled in her grip. No bars. No Wi-Fi. She had been walking home—just three blocks from the station—when the noise vanished. Her steps slowed as she took in the silence, too complete to be real. No cars. No sirens. Not even the wind.
She turned a corner.
The alley ahead stretched longer than it should. The buildings warped slightly, leaning inwards like they were whispering to one another. The fog thickened, and something—somewhere—creaked like rusted hinges on a door that no longer existed.
She paused.
Her breath misted, though the air wasn't cold.
And then she heard it.
Laughter. But not quite laughter. It was thin and broken, like a child's giggle played backwards on a warped cassette. She froze. Her phone screen dimmed, then flickered to black.
Something shifted in the fog ahead. A smear of movement. Like ink spreading in water. No eyes. No outline. Just a wrongness that refused to sit still.
She backed away. One step. Two.
Then the thing snapped forward.
Not a sprint. Not a glide. Just there—halfway down the alley, stretching its long, stilt-like limbs toward her. The edges of its shape rippled, its outline pixelated like a corrupted file.
Her scream caught in her throat.
She turned and ran.
Footsteps echoed, but not hers. They came from behind and ahead, above and below—impossible angles converging into the same reality. She burst into the main street—
—and emerged into the alley again.
Same dumpster. Same cracked brick wall. Same flickering red glow of the broken exit sign above.
Her hands clutched the straps of her bag like a lifeline.
"No, no, no—" she whispered.
The figure stood at the far end again, unchanged.
It hadn't moved.
It didn't need to.
Its shape contorted slowly, like it was adjusting to her recognition. A long finger-like limb rose, bent backward with too many joints, and pointed.
She screamed.
This time it answered.
Its voice was hers—but distorted, deeper, like her own fear had learned how to speak. "Stay. Stay. Stay."
She turned and bolted. Again.
Again, the alley. Again, the shape.
The loop held her like a vice.
Her knees hit the concrete as she collapsed, sobbing.
The figure twitched.
From the mist came the sound of a second voice—her mother's, soft and low. "Sweetheart, come home."
She looked up.
A third voice joined in—her best friend, laughing. "You're so dramatic, seriously."
She covered her ears, trembling. "Stop it!"
The voices merged. Her own voice again. "No more running."
The figure stepped forward.
And she knew.
She had already died. Somewhere in that first scream. Or maybe when she first saw the alley. Maybe even before that—on the train, in her apartment, in a dream she never woke from.
But she still breathed. Still moved.
Still felt.
The fog wrapped tighter. The thing lowered itself to her level, head cocked, as if listening.
She looked into the place where its face should have been.
And it smiled.
Not with a mouth.
But with understanding.
Because she wasn't going to leave.
She had always been here.
And now it knew her name.