Three weeks had passed since Lucas dragged a ghoul into his home, and the weight of that decision still choked him like an invisible rope around his chest. It was April 20, 2025, a damp Wednesday in Ward 20, the fine drizzle tapping against the windows of the two-story house and leaving the air thick with the smell of wet earth. His life, already a fragile balance of fears and obligations, had turned into a silent chaos, a distorted routine he barely recognized. Hana—her name still sounded strange in his head, like something that shouldn't be there—occupied the attic, a presence he couldn't ignore but didn't know how to confront.
The first nights were hell. Luka slept with his bedroom door locked, the key tucked under his pillow, his body tense and ears attuned to every creak from the ceiling. He imagined her black rinkaku tentacles tearing through the wood, her black eyes with red pupils glowing in the dark as she descended to rip his life away. But she didn't come down—not during the day, at least. His mother left early for the clothing store, her dragging footsteps down the hall marking the start of the morning, and Luka was left alone with Hana, separated only by the retractable ladder he avoided touching unless he had to. She healed fast—too fast. The deep cuts on her arms, the stab wounds on her thighs, the head gash he'd seen bleeding in the alley—all vanished in days, her pale skin closing up as if touched by magic. He didn't understand how, but he knew it was a ghoul thing, a strength beyond anything he could fathom.
He knew she went out to hunt. It wasn't something she said—Hana barely spoke, her words coming out like they were carved with a knife—but Luka could tell. In the first week, he woke to the sound of the attic window opening, a low snap cutting through the midnight silence, followed by the void of her absence. By morning, she was back, the faint smell of fresh blood lingering in the attic's warm air, her black hair wet with rain falling in strands over her shoulders. He went up once after that, to grab a book, and caught her eyes through the mask's holes—black as ink, red pupils glowing like embers before shifting back to normal brown in a blink. He said nothing. Fear silenced him, but he knew: she was killing people. Humans like him, in the dark alleys of Ward 20, their bodies left behind as she returned with a full stomach. She was careful, almost methodical—wiping her boots on the windowsill before climbing in, never letting blood drip onto the house's floor—and that, in a twisted way, reassured him.
Their routine formed without words, an agreement Luka accepted because he had no way out. During the day, he went to Kamii University, medical classes stuffing his head with terms he stumbled over in Japanese—"pulmonary embolism," "tracheostomy"—his notebook scribbled with crooked notes he reviewed on the bus, hood up over his face as the fogged window reflected his tired eyes. Hospital internships continued twice a week, and he carried bandages and sorted charts with shaky hands, averting his gaze from open wounds, the smell of antiseptic now mingling with the constant dread of Hana in his mind. When he got home, his mother was either at the store or asleep, and he climbed to the attic—the only place he could study without feeling the whole house suffocating him.
Going up was like stepping into a wasps' nest. He pulled the ladder's cord with trembling fingers, the wood creaking too loudly in the silence, and each step felt heavier, the air growing warm and stuffy as he entered the attic. The smell was a mix of dust, old paper, and a metallic trace he knew was dried blood, even if she left no visible signs anymore. Hana had claimed the space as her own—sitting in his chair, her strong body relaxed in a way that defied weakness, her muscular legs bent on the seat or stretched out on the floor, her black pants torn at the thighs now just for style, the smooth skin beneath showing her wounds were history. The gray coat was folded neatly in a corner, arranged with a precision he hadn't expected, and the white tank top, once blood-stained, hung clean from a beam, washed by her at some point Luka hadn't seen. The mask never left her face—black, cracked, the wolf fangs gleaming with blood-red accents—and her brown eyes stared at him through the holes, sometimes shifting to black with glowing red when he came up too fast.
He tried to study there, but it was like sitting in a trap. He knelt on the floor, leaning against the opposite wall, notebook open on his lap, the pen slipping from sweaty fingers as he read about "open fractures" or "chest drainage." Hana stayed quiet most of the time, her gaze lost on the ceiling or her hands, fingers tracing the mask's cracks in a motion that seemed automatic. But sometimes she shifted—the chair creaking when she changed position, a low grunt escaping her throat, the sound of her boots hitting the floor—and Luka jumped, his heart racing, the pencil clattering to the ground. He knew she wouldn't attack him—there was no reason, not while he hid her—but the fear was a shadow that wouldn't leave. She was a ghoul, a thing that ate human flesh to live, and he felt it in every move she made, in the strength that radiated even when she was still.
They barely spoke. Hana seemed unsure what to do with him, and Luka saw it in how she responded—or didn't. Once, in the second week, he stood with a water bottle, that idiot heart of his screaming to offer something, and said, "Want some?" She turned her head slowly, brown eyes fixed on him through the mask's holes, and stayed silent so long Luka thought he'd misspoken. "No," she said finally, her voice hoarse and curt, nothing more, her gaze returning to the ceiling as if he were invisible. Another day, he asked, "You okay?" the words slipping out before he could stop them, and she just grunted, a low sound that could've meant anything, her shoulders tensing before relaxing again. It was like she didn't understand why he asked, like she didn't know what to make of him, and Luka stopped trying after that, the silence becoming a barrier he didn't know how to breach.
The weeks with Hana changed Luka in a way he felt in his bones. Sleep became a distant dream—he woke at every noise, body tense, eyes fixed on the ceiling wondering if she'd left or returned. Dark circles grew under his brown eyes, his pale face taking on a weariness his mother noticed but blamed on school. "You're killing yourself with that college," she said one morning, her voice rough as she sliced bread in the kitchen, the smell of weak coffee filling the air, and Luka just nodded, a forced smile hiding the weight in his chest. He ate less—the faint blood smell that sometimes wafted from the attic, even if subtle, killed his appetite, and the cheese sandwich he took to his room sat wilting on the nightstand, his stomach churning at the thought of Hana hunting out there.
At university, he shut down like a locked door. The friends he had—Kenji, a skinny kid who talked too loud, and Aiko, a quiet girl who doodled in her notebook margins—noticed he was different, quieter, his eyes darting to windows as if expecting something to appear. "You okay, Luka?" Kenji asked once during a break, his tone light but eyes curious, and Luka mumbled, "Just tired," before changing the subject. He couldn't tell them—the secret was a stone in his gut, cutting him off from everything that used to feel normal. At internships, he was a walking disaster, dropping bandages or forgetting simple orders, the head nurse frowning as Luka stammered excuses. "Focus, kid," the man said, his gruff voice cutting the air, and Luka nodded, his mind split between the hospital and the attic.
Paranoia became a habit. He locked the front door three times before leaving, fingers checking the latch with an obsession he didn't have before, and inspected the downstairs windows as if something might break in at any moment. At night, on Ward 20's streets, he walked faster, hood up over his face, eyes glued to the ground as he avoided dark alleys. He knew Hana hunted out there—read the headlines in the papers his mom left on the kitchen counter, "Man Found Dead in Unrecognizable State," "Ward 20 Disappearances Fuel Fears"—and each story was a punch, a reminder that the thing in his attic was the cause. But he said nothing. He couldn't. The certainty that he'd saved her now trapped him, a chain he didn't know how to break.
Studying in the attic with Hana was a test of nerves, but Luka had nowhere else. He climbed up with his notebook and medical books, body tense as a taut string, and knelt on the floor as far from her as the space allowed. He read about "cranial trauma" or "arterial sutures," the words blurring on the page as sweat trickled down his back, her silence weighing more than the books. Hana didn't seem to care, her gaze fixed on the ceiling or her hands, fingers tracing the mask's cracks in a gesture he'd memorized. He knew she went out to hunt—by the way she returned, her wet hair dripping dark water, her boots caked with mud and something thicker, the faint smell of fresh blood she brought back—but he didn't ask. He didn't want to know. The idea of saying something, of confronting her with "Did you kill someone today?" was as impossible as running to the CCG. He accepted it, silent, because it was easier than fighting what he'd already done, and Hana, with her distant, empty demeanor, let the silence grow, her brown or black-and-red eyes staring at nothing as if he weren't even there.
---
The attic was stifling that night, the air thick with the smell of dust and old paper, laced with a faint metallic trace Luka had learned to ignore. He knelt on the floor, his medical notebook open on his lap, its pages filled with crooked notes about "renal failure" that he read without taking in. Sweat trickled down his neck, sticking his shirt to his back, and his brown eyes burned with exhaustion, dark circles shadowing them under the faint light of the swaying bulb overhead. Three weeks with Hana there had stretched his life into a taut thread, and studying so close to her was like balancing on a tightrope with his heart in his throat.
His pencil slipped from his hand, the click echoing in the small space, and he rubbed his face with trembling palms. He needed something to stay awake—the sleepless nights weighed like lead, and he wouldn't last another hour without collapsing. Groping his backpack beside him, he pulled out a thermal flask of coffee he'd filled in the kitchen before coming up, the black, bitter liquid that saved him during late-night study sessions. He unscrewed the cap with clumsy fingers, steam rising in thin spirals, and the strong smell—roasted, warm, almost earthy—cut through the air. Luka brought the flask to his lips, a long gulp burning his tongue as the bitter taste slid down his throat, and he sighed, leaning his head against the wall, the liquid sloshing inside the metal.
Hana stirred on the other side of the attic. Sitting in his chair, her muscular legs bent on the seat, she looked relaxed, her strong body defying any hint of weakness. Her black pants, torn at the thighs, revealed smooth skin with no trace of the wounds Luka had bandaged weeks ago—her regeneration was a mystery that made him shudder. Her black hair, cut straight to her neck, fell in loose strands, and the mask—black, cracked, with blood-red wolf fangs—covered her face, brown eyes peering through the holes. Until then, she'd been quiet, her gaze lost on the ceiling, fingers tracing the mask's fissures in an automatic motion, but the coffee's aroma shifted something. Luka saw her head turn slowly, like a predator catching a scent on the wind, her eyes narrowing as she leaned forward.
He froze, the flask halting halfway to his mouth, his heart pounding in his chest. Hana never approached like this, unprompted, and the movement caught him off guard, fear surging like an icy wave. She unfolded her legs, bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud, and stood, her tall frame moving with a fluid grace that clashed with the brutal strength he knew she possessed. The gray coat remained folded in the corner, the white tank top hanging from a beam swayed faintly as she took a step. Luka swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the flask until the metal creaked, hot coffee spilling over the rim and scalding his hand.
"That," she said, her hoarse voice slicing the silence, low and laced with curiosity. She was two meters away, the coffee's scent drawing her like an invisible thread, her brown eyes fixed on the flask with a gleam Luka had never seen.
He stammered, his voice weak. "Coffee. To stay awake." He raised the flask slowly, the black liquid sloshing inside, a hesitant offer as he tried not to shake. "Wanna try?" The question slipped out before he could stop it, that idiot heart of his speaking louder than his fear. He'd heard once, in idle hospital chatter, that ghouls liked coffee, and now he played that card, heart in his throat.
Hana hesitated, her brown eyes blinking once, as if the offer had hit a wall inside her. The silence stretched, heavy, but she sniffed the air again, the coffee's scent mingling with something Luka couldn't grasp. Then, wordlessly, she took another step, the floor creaking under her bare feet, and crouched in front of him, her strong body less than a meter away. Luka flinched, his back hitting the wall, heart racing as she reached out—pale hand, broken but clean nails—toward the flask.
"Give it," she said, her tone firm but not threatening, a natural command. Luka handed over the coffee, his trembling fingers brushing hers for an instant, her cold skin stark against the attic's heat. He yanked his hand back fast, sweat dripping down his forehead as he stared.
Hana cradled the flask with both hands, her long fingers wrapping around the metal with care, as if it were something she wanted to understand. She lifted the mask just enough to reveal her mouth—full lips, cracked but pale, a firm chin—and brought the flask to her lips, the motion slow and almost reverent. The coffee went down in a small sip, a trickle of black escaping the corner of her mouth as she swallowed. She paused, brown eyes fixed on the wall ahead, then took a bigger gulp, tilting her head back, eyes half-closing in subtle pleasure. A hoarse sigh escaped her, low and content, and Luka's heart skipped again.
"It's good," she murmured, her voice tinged with faint surprise, her eyes flicking back to him with a new spark. She took another sip, coffee dripping to the floor as she gripped the flask tighter, still crouched.
Luka blinked, shock muting his fear for a moment, and a nervous laugh escaped him, short and shaky. "Seriously? You like it?" His voice cracked as he rubbed his neck, heart racing but his body easing slightly. "Everyone I know thinks it's awful. Have you had it before?" He hesitated, eyes darting between the mask and the flask, a spark of curiosity igniting in his chest.
Hana took another sip, coffee dripping down her chin before she wiped it with her tank top sleeve, the motion rough but unhurried. Her brown eyes narrowed through the mask's holes, her body still as the scent lingered between them. Luka saw the pause in her, her shoulders tensing for a split second, as if the question had brushed something she didn't know how to handle. But the coffee held her there, and he sensed a crack—dangerous, but real—to pull something beyond the silence.
"You're Hana, right?" he started, his voice shaky but gaining strength. "I know that, but where'd you come from? Before the alley?" He swallowed hard, fingers clutching the notebook in his lap, sweat dripping as he kept his eyes on the mask. "You've been here for weeks, I'm hiding you, but I don't know anything about you. Can you tell me something? Just a little?"
---
**Hana's Point of View:**
Luka spoke again, his words hesitant but stubborn, like water dripping from a leaky pipe. Hana held the flask, the warm metal against her cold skin, the coffee's bitter taste filling her mouth with a heat that cut through the emptiness inside her. It was good—a flavor that tugged at memories she didn't want to name, something humans shared that she could claim. Another sip slid down her throat, her brown eyes half-closing as the simple pleasure anchored her there, crouched in front of him.
He wanted to know things. His voice shook, his brown eyes full of fear but lit with something she didn't understand, something that threw her off. Talking wasn't natural to her—it was something she barely used, something left behind in a place that didn't matter anymore. She could smell his fear in the air, hear the quick thump of his heart, but he didn't run. He asked. And that left her adrift, a knot she didn't know how to untie. Instinct told her to shut him up, but the coffee in her hand, the attic's heat, the way he looked at her—it held her, her tense muscles still.
"Not much to say," she answered, her hoarse voice low, her eyes dropping to the floor where the coffee had dripped. She took another sip, the bitter taste warming her tongue as she weighed what to toss him. "Came from a place. Far. Doesn't matter where." The words were loose, vague scraps she let fall, enough to quiet him without opening anything that hurt.
---
**Luka's Point of View:**
Luka watched her take another sip, coffee trickling down her chin before she wiped it with her sleeve, and his chest tightened with a mix of fear and breakthrough. Her voice was hoarse, almost reluctant, but she'd spoken, and it made him lean forward, the notebook slipping off his lap. "A place. Far." It was little, but more than he'd expected, and curiosity pushed him on, his heart racing.
"Another ward, then? Outside Tokyo?" He kept his eyes on the mask, sweat rolling down his neck as the coffee's scent hung between them. "You've been here for weeks, Hana. I won't tell anyone, but I want to understand. How'd you end up in that alley? Who was after you?" His voice came out steadier, the fear still there but muffled by the urge to know.
Hana went quiet, her brown eyes piercing him for a moment that felt endless. She tilted the flask, coffee sliding down in a slow gulp, her eyes half-closing in subtle pleasure before she wiped her lips. "People who hunt," she said, her voice sharp but calm. "They found me. I ran. Ended up there." She paused, her gaze drifting for a second, then added, "Coffee's better than running. That I know." Her tone was low, almost a stray thought.
Luka's brain spun. "People who hunt." The CCG, of course—the investigators from the papers, the ones who killed ghouls. His heart raced faster, sweat dripping as he pictured Hana fleeing, black tentacles slicing the air. He opened his mouth to press further but hesitated, fear flaring at the glint in her eyes—not anger, but something he couldn't read.
"You've run a lot, huh?" he ventured, his voice softer, almost a whisper. "You seem strong, but… tired too." He swallowed hard, eyes flicking to the floor before meeting hers again. "I'm hiding you here, Hana. All I know is your name. Can you tell me more? Just a piece?" Sweat dripped onto the notebook, his body tense but fixed on her.
---
**Hana's Point of View:**
Luka wouldn't quit, his questions spilling out like a thread that wouldn't snap, his brown eyes shining with something she couldn't grasp. She held the flask, the coffee hot on her tongue, its bitter taste warming an emptiness she didn't want to feel. It was good, the coffee—cutting through the weight, stirring something she couldn't name. She took another sip, her eyes half-closing as the heat sank in, her crouched body still in front of him.
He wanted more. His fear was in the air, in the rapid thud of his heart, but he kept pushing, and it left her unsteady. Talking was odd, something she didn't do willingly, but the coffee, the attic's warmth, the way he stared held her there. "I run when I have to," she said, her hoarse voice slow, her eyes locked on him. "I'm strong because there's no other way. Tired's what's left after." The words were fragments, tossed like scraps to make him stop, without opening anything she wanted to keep buried.
She stared at him, the mask's holes hiding the rest of her face, the glint in his eyes making her pause. He knew nothing, and she didn't want him to. But the coffee in her hand, the heat, his voice—it all tethered her, her fingers tightening on the flask as she took another sip, the bitter taste filling her mouth.
---
**Luka's Point of View:**
Luka felt the air catch in his throat, his eyes wide as he stared at Hana. She spoke sparingly, her words coming out like they cost her, but it was something, and it made him lean closer, the notebook forgotten on the floor. She was so near, the coffee's scent mingling with hers—dried blood, rain, something wild—filling the air. He saw the pleasure in her eyes with each sip, her fingers gripping the flask like it was a treasure.
"So you've run a lot?" he said, his voice steady despite the fear. "Those people, the CCG, they caught you before?" He hesitated, eyes fixed on the mask. "I don't know anything about ghouls, Hana. Just what I hear around. But I'm hiding you here, so… tell me more. Please." Sweat dripped, his body tense but his gaze locked on her.
Hana went quiet, her stare cutting through him for a long moment. She took another sip, coffee splashing to the floor, her eyes half-closing before she answered. "They hunt. I run. Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose," she said, her voice firm, eyes narrow. "That's all there is." She stood, her tall frame rising fluidly, and handed back the empty flask, her fingers brushing his. "Coffee's good. Bring more tomorrow." She returned to the chair, legs folding onto the seat, silence falling again.
Luka took the flask, hands trembling, heart racing. She'd spoken—vague pieces, shadows—and liked the coffee. The fear was still there, but for the first time, he felt he'd touched something real, even if it was just the scent that drew her close.