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Four and a half weeks had passed since Luka brought Hana home, and the fear that once choked him like a hand around his throat had shifted—not gone, but morphed into something lighter, more manageable, a weight he carried on his shoulders instead of his chest. It was April 28, 2025, a humid Thursday in Ward 20, the sky heavy with dark clouds promising heavy rain. The attic remained his study nook, the only place he could focus without his mom's TV blaring or the weight of an empty house pressing in, but sharing it with Hana no longer felt like stepping into a minefield. His heart still quickened when he climbed the retractable ladder, the wood creaking in the hallway, but raw terror had given way to tense caution—a fragile balance he hadn't known he could find.
At first, Luka stuck to the far wall, as distant from her as possible, notebook in his lap and hands trembling as he read about "cardiac arrhythmias" or "thoracic surgery." Hana, with her imposing presence—her strong body in his chair, the black mask covering her face, her eyes brown or black with red pupils depending on the moment—was a constant threat, a living reminder of what she was: a ghoul who hunted humans, who returned with the scent of fresh blood on her boots. But days turned into weeks, and the silence between them, punctuated by brief exchanges like the coffee moment, wore down the fear. She didn't attack him. She showed no sign of wanting to. Slowly, Luka began to realize his instinct—that screaming urge to run—had been wrong about her, or at least about the present.
The shift was gradual, almost unnoticeable. First, he stopped jumping every time she moved—the creak of the chair, the thud of her boots on the floor, the hoarse grunt that sometimes escaped her. His heart still raced, but he no longer dropped his pencil or flinched like a cornered animal. Then, he started sitting closer—not much, just a few centimeters each night, the space between them shrinking like a line he traced carefully on the floor. By the third week, he was half a meter from the chair, notebook in his lap as he read, sweat still trickling down his neck but his eyes less fixed on her, more on the words. It wasn't trust, not exactly—he knew what she could do, what she did out there—but the fear had become a shadow, something he felt but no longer let rule him.
That Thursday, Luka decided to push further. He'd noticed how Hana stayed in the chair or on the attic's hard floor, her strong body always tense, as if she never truly rested. The idea came on impulse, mixed with the same idiot heart that made him save her in the alley. During the day, while his mom was at the store, he hauled up two old pillows he found in the closet—one faded blue, the other gray with a poorly sewn tear—and a thin mattress left in the basement since their move to Japan, its fabric stained but clean. He dragged it all up the ladder, the effort leaving his face red and hair damp with sweat, the musty smell rising as he tossed the mattress into a corner near the window. Hana was there, standing by the beam, her white tank top slung over her shoulder, brown eyes watching him through the mask's holes as he arranged the pillows on the mattress.
"For you," he said, his voice steadier than usual but still with a faint tremor. He pointed at the mattress, wiping his hands on his pants to clear the sweat. "I know you stay in the chair or on the floor, but… I thought this might be better. To lie down, you know?" He hesitated, eyes flicking between her and the floor, heart racing as he waited for a response.
Hana stood still, her body like a statue, brown eyes fixed on him for a stretch that made the air feel heavier. Then she moved, bare feet sliding across the floor with a soft sound, and stopped by the mattress, her gaze dropping to the pillows. Luka saw her shoulders ease slightly, a subtle shift he almost missed, and she crouched, her pale hand brushing the blue pillow with hesitant fingers, as if testing something unfamiliar. "For me?" she asked, her hoarse voice low, almost surprised, her eyes flicking back to him with a glint he couldn't read.
"Yeah," Luka nodded, sweat dripping down his forehead as he sat on the floor, closer to her than ever, less than a meter from the now-empty chair. "It's not much, but… you're up here all day, so I thought it might help." He opened his notebook in his lap, pretending to scan his notes, but his brown eyes stayed on her, his heart still fast but free of the old panic.
Hana stayed silent, fingers tracing the pillow's seam for a moment before she sat on the mattress, the fabric sinking slightly under her weight. She pulled her legs up, her strong body settling with an ease that felt new, and leaned back against the wall, the gray pillow tucked behind her head. The motion was slow, almost tentative, and Luka saw how she relaxed—not fully, but more than in the chair—her brown eyes half-closing as she stared at the ceiling. "Better," she murmured, her hoarse voice lacking its usual edge, almost like she was talking to herself.
Luka felt a warmth rise in his chest, a mix of breakthrough and something he didn't want to name. He grabbed the thermal flask of coffee he'd brought—since that first time, he'd made a point of bringing it up every night—unscrewed the cap, and took a sip, the bitter liquid burning his tongue as the scent spread. Hana turned her head, brown eyes tracking the motion, and he held the flask out to her, a gesture that was becoming routine. "Want some?" he said, his voice lighter now, fingers less shaky as he gripped the metal.
She nodded, a short but clear motion, and reached out, her cold fingers brushing his as she took the flask. She lifted the mask just enough to show her mouth, the coffee sliding down in a slow sip, her eyes half-closing in the familiar pleasure Luka now recognized. She handed it back, a trickle of liquid running down her chin before she wiped it with her sleeve, and went quiet, her gaze returning to the ceiling as she clutched the blue pillow to her chest.
Luka took another sip, the coffee's heat warming his body as he settled on the floor, the open notebook forgotten in his lap. He was closer to her now—close enough to catch the faint scent of rain and dried blood she carried, but not enough to cross the line that still stood between them. The fear hadn't vanished, not entirely—he knew what she was, what she did when she went out at night—but it was smaller, a shadow he could face. "Have you ever slept on a mattress before?" he said, the words slipping out unplanned, brown eyes fixed on her as he tried to draw out something, anything.
Hana turned her head slowly, brown eyes meeting his through the mask's holes, the silence stretching before she answered. "Don't know," she said, her hoarse voice calm, fingers tightening on the pillow. "Maybe. Long time ago." She paused, her gaze drifting to the attic's corner, and added, "Better than the floor." Her tone was vague, almost lost, like she didn't know what else to say.
Luka nodded, his heart still racing but without the old weight. "I brought it because… I don't know, you're up here all the time. Wanted to make it more… comfortable, I guess." He hesitated, rubbing his neck as he took another sip of coffee, the hot liquid searing his throat. "You don't talk much, huh? About yourself, I mean." The question came out softer, almost casual, but his eyes stayed on her, waiting.
Hana went still, her body unmoving on the mattress, brown eyes locking onto him with an intensity that made him swallow hard. "Not much to say," she said finally, her hoarse voice slower, fingers tracing the pillow in an automatic motion. "I live. I hunt. I run. That's it." She stopped, a low sigh escaping her, and glanced at the flask in his hand. "Coffee's better than all that." Her tone held a hint of something that might've been humor, but it was so faint Luka almost missed it.
He laughed—a short, nervous sound, but looser than before—and passed the flask back to her, their fingers brushing again. "Then I'll bring more tomorrow," he said, his voice taking on a lighter edge as he settled on the floor, the notebook abandoned beside him. "If coffee gets you talking, I think it's worth it." He was closer now, the fear still there but small, a line he was crossing little by little—pillow by pillow, sip by sip.
Hana took another sip, coffee trickling from the corner of her mouth as her brown eyes watched him, half-closed but without threat. She didn't say more, silence settling back over the attic, but Luka felt something had shifted—not much, but enough that he didn't retreat to the wall anymore.
The rain fell heavy now, the drumming of drops on the attic window echoing like a rhythm Hana could almost follow. She lay on the mattress Luka had brought, the thin fabric sinking under her weight, the pillows—one faded blue, the other gray with a poorly sewn tear—propped behind her head and against her chest. It was strange, that comfort. The hard floor and chair had been the standard here, and before that… before that was just cold and emptiness, things she didn't want to dig into. The mattress was soft, even if old, and the pillows smelled of dust and time, cradling her body in a way that eased her muscles, just a bit. She didn't know what to do with it—or with him, the boy who'd hauled it all up, his face red with effort and hair damp with sweat as he arranged it in the corner near the window.
Luka sat close, closer than ever. Not against the far wall like in those first weeks, when his fear was so loud she could smell its sharp edge even from across the room. Now he was beside the mattress, less than a meter away, his notebook open in his lap and the coffee flask resting on the floor between them, its bitter scent rising into the warm, stuffy air. He read in silence, brown eyes scanning the crooked lines of his notes, his pencil scratching something she didn't understand as the swaying bulb's light cast shadows on his pale face. His brown hair fell messily over his forehead, sweat gleaming on his skin, but he didn't look like a cornered animal anymore. There was still fear—she could smell it on him, see it in the way his shoulders stiffened when she moved an arm—but it was quieter, more contained, as if he'd learned to carry the panic instead of letting it lead.
Hana clutched the blue pillow to her chest, fingers tracing the worn seam as she watched him through the mask's holes. The coffee lingered on her tongue, the warm, bitter taste she'd come to crave since he first brought the flask. It was a human thing, but hers too, a bridge she hadn't expected to cross. Luka was different—not like the ones who hunted, who cut, who died in alleys with screams she silenced fast. He trembled, but he hid her. He asked things, but didn't push. And now he'd brought this mattress, these pillows, as if she were more than a shadow he sheltered. It was confusing, and she didn't know what to do with it, but the way he sat there, so close, stirred something she didn't want to touch.
Her brown eyes drifted to the ceiling, the rain a steady backdrop as her mind wandered. Talking wasn't natural—she didn't know how, didn't want to—but the coffee, the mattress, the way he looked at her sometimes, like now, made words rise, hesitant but alive. "I had a spot before," she said, her hoarse voice low, almost swallowed by the drops outside. Her fingers tightened on the pillow, the rough fabric catching under her broken nails. "Not a mattress. An old rag, thrown on the floor. My mom put it in a corner for me to sleep, but it was hard, icy." She stopped, her gaze fixed on the dark beams, memories coming in shards she didn't want to piece together.
Luka lifted his head, his pencil pausing over the notebook, brown eyes widening slightly as he stared at her. She felt the weight of that gaze but didn't turn to him, her fingers still tracing the pillow like an anchor in the present. "It was a basement," she went on, her voice slow, almost distant. "Smelled like mold, like rot. My dad went out to hunt, but he was weak. My mom too. They'd only get one person at a time, split it between the three of us. Never left anything." Her tone was dry but heavy with a weight Luka could feel—a void that spoke of days with a tight stomach, of scraps of meat barely worth swallowing.
He stayed quiet for a moment, the pencil dangling in his hand, the coffee forgotten on the floor. "So… you were starving?" His voice came out soft, hesitant, brown eyes fixed on her as he tried to understand. "Your family were ghouls too, right? But… couldn't hunt much?" He swallowed hard, sweat trickling down his forehead, but he didn't pull back, his body still close to the mattress.
Hana nodded, a short motion, her brown eyes flicking to him for a beat before drifting away again. "All of us. But they were weak. One person at a time, and we'd split it. A piece each, bones and all. Didn't fill the belly." She paused, air escaping in a hoarse sigh as she gripped the pillow tighter. "You've got this coffee, this house. We didn't even have a dry hole to stay in." Her tone wasn't angry, but carried something she couldn't name, a comparison that slipped out unbidden.
Luka rubbed his neck, the notebook sliding slightly in his lap as he processed her words. "Sounds… heavy," he said, his voice low but steady, brown eyes glinting with something that might've been curiosity or pity. "I don't know what that's like. I grew up tight, but not like that. Do you remember much of it? Growing up that way?" He hesitated, body tense but gaze locked on her, as if wanting more.
Hana went silent, the rain's sound filling the space as her brown eyes lost themselves in the ceiling. The memories were fragments—the damp basement, the hard rag on the floor, her dad coming back with a small chunk of meat, her mom slicing it into three with trembling fingers, the taste of old blood that never sated. It was poverty, one Luka could imagine but never feel, and she didn't know how to say more without letting the rest spill out. "I remember what matters," she said finally, her hoarse voice firmer. "Cold. Hunger. We lived with what we had, and it was almost nothing." She turned her head, brown eyes meeting his, and added, "You wouldn't last a day there. Too soft." Her tone held a faint edge, almost a tease, but her eyes didn't shift.
Luka laughed—a short, nervous sound, but looser—and grabbed the coffee flask, taking a sip before passing it to her. "Guess not," he admitted, his voice light as he wiped sweat from his forehead. "I barely handle it here, with you staring like that." He hesitated, brown eyes fixed on her as she took the flask, her cold fingers brushing his again. "But you talk like it was just… how it was. Doesn't it bother you to remember?" Sweat dripped onto the notebook, but he didn't look away.
Hana took a sip, the coffee sliding hot down her throat, her eyes half-closing in subtle pleasure as she held the flask to her chest. Its bitter scent mingled with hers—rain, dried blood, something wild—and she stared at him, the mask's holes hiding her face but leaving her brown eyes bare. He was odd—this human boy, with his house, the coffee he brought every night, the books he read like they made sense. At first, he'd been just a risk, something weak she could snap if she needed to. But now, sitting there so close to the mattress, bringing pillows and talking to her, he was something else. Not trustworthy—she didn't trust anyone—but less like the other humans, the ones who hunted or died. It was slow, this thought, a crack growing bit by bit, but she felt it taking shape, even if she didn't want to name it.
"It wasn't good," she said, her hoarse voice calm, eyes locked on his. "But it was what I had. You take what's left and keep going." She took another sip, coffee dripping down her chin before she wiped it with her sleeve, the motion rough but unhurried. "You don't know what it's like to have scraps. But it's not bad that you don't." Her tone was vague, but carried something Luka could sense—not outright approval, but an ease she let slip, like a loose thread.
Luka went quiet, the notebook forgotten in his lap, brown eyes watching her as he processed her words. Hana felt the weight of that gaze but didn't look away, fingers gripping the pillow as the rain's sound filled the silence. He was different—not strong like the fighters, not cunning like the hunters, but stubborn, persistent in a way she hadn't expected. And it made her see him with fewer shadows, even if it was slow, even if she didn't know what to do with it. She handed the flask back, her cold fingers brushing his once more, and stayed silent, her strong body relaxing on the mattress as she watched him, brown eyes half-closed but alert.
The silence returned, heavy but not empty, the rain's sound blending with the coffee's scent in the air. Hana kept looking at him for a while, fingers stilling on the pillow as her mind churned. He was there, so close, his brown eyes flicking between the notebook and her, like he was trying to figure out something she didn't want to explain. The mask weighed on her face—black, cracked, its blood-red wolf fangs glinting—a thing she'd worn as long as she could remember, a shield that hid more than it showed. But now, with the mattress, the coffee, the way he talked to her, the mask felt heavier, like it didn't belong to this moment anymore.
She hesitated, her heart beating a little faster—not from fear, but from something she couldn't name. Her fingers rose slowly, tracing the mask's cracks as they always did, but this time they didn't stop. Her gaze found his, brown eyes locking onto his for a long moment, and then she gripped the mask with both hands, the motion slow but firm. She pulled it up, the leather creaking against her skin as she lifted it off, the attic's cool air hitting her face for the first time in front of him. She tossed it to the floor beside the mattress, the impact muffled by the rain, and sat there, exposed, her brown eyes meeting his without a barrier.
Her face was pale, almost translucent under the faint light, with thin scars crossing the corner of her mouth and up her left cheek—old marks, nearly faded, but visible enough to hint at a story she wouldn't tell. Her lips were full, cracked but firm, her angular jaw giving a hard edge that contrasted with her brown eyes, large and intense, now free of the mask's holes to hide them. Her black hair, cut straight, fell in loose strands over her forehead, framing her face in a way that felt wild but strangely alive.
Luka froze, his pencil dropping from his hand with a click on the floor, brown eyes widening as he stared. She saw the shock on his face, the way his mouth parted slightly but no sound came out, sweat trickling faster down his forehead as he tried to process. Hana didn't look away, her brown eyes fixed on his, heart beating quicker but her body still on the mattress. "What?" she said, her hoarse voice low, almost teasing, but with a hint of something she didn't grasp. "Never seen a ghoul before?" Her tone was dry, but her eyes weren't cold, and she stayed there, waiting, her face bare like a line she wasn't sure she wanted to cross.
Luka swallowed hard, his trembling hands fumbling for the pencil on the floor, brown eyes still glued to her. "No… I mean, yes, but… not like this," he stammered, his voice cracking as he rubbed his neck, face red from heat and something else. "You… look different without it." He glanced at the mask on the floor, sweat dripping onto the notebook as he struggled for words. "I don't know, I… didn't expect it." He hesitated, brown eyes tracing her face—her scars, her hair—like he was trying to memorize it all.
Hana stayed quiet, her brown eyes watching him as the rain filled the attic. The air felt heavier now, the weight of her exposed face hanging between them, but she didn't cover up. He was different—stubborn, weak in a way she didn't understand, but there, looking at her without the mask, he seemed less like the other humans, less like a threat. It was slow, this thought, but she felt it growing, even if she didn't want to admit it. "Get used to it," she said finally, her hoarse voice firm, eyes half-closing as she grabbed the pillow and rested her head back, face still bare. "Not putting it back on now." And she stayed there, gaze fixed on the ceiling, but her senses tuned to him, the boywho'd seen her for the first time.