Chapter Text
The world we live in is built so that the rich get richer and the poor get poorer — that much Kurayami understood before he even knew how to put it into words. It was just the way things were, as natural and as cruel as the rain that soaked through his clothes or the winter wind that bit at his skin until he couldn't feel his fingers anymore.
He'd learned it from the moment he could think, from the moment his tiny, developing brain had finally started making sense of the chaos around him.
His mother — his beautiful, exhausted, selfless mother — would work herself to the bone just to put something, anything, in Kurayami's stomach. He'd watch her come back to their alley with trembling hands and hollow eyes, pretending she wasn't hungry, pretending she'd already eaten, when he could see right through her. Her ribs stuck out more every week. Her collarbones were sharp enough to cut. And yet she'd still smile at him like he was the only good thing this world had ever given her.
Meanwhile, the rich folks in their clean clothes and clean houses would look right through them like they were part of the pavement. Or worse — they'd exploit her. Pay her half of what they promised. Swindle her out of her few coins with contracts she couldn't properly read and terms she didn't understand. Take her small efforts and crush them underfoot without a second thought.
Kurayami learned fast.
By the time he was seven, he'd already figured out that this world was shit. Pure, unfiltered shit. And literally no amount of wishing or hoping or begging or being a good little boy was going to change that.
Kurayami had been born on the streets.
Not in a hospital with bright lights and crying nurses and a warm blanket — just right there, in a dirty alley not so different from the one he called home now, with his mother's pained gasps echoing off the brick walls and some old woman passing by stopping to help because she had a warm heart, even if the rest of the world didn't.
The streets had raised him; they'd taught him which merchants were easier to steal from, which alleyways offered the best shelter from the rain, which corners to avoid when the drunks stumbled out of the bars at closing time. The streets had taught him that there was no place in this world for people like him.
People without money. People without power. People who were born in the dirt and would probably die there too.
But Kurayami had his mother.
She was the one good thing. The only good thing. His entire world reduced to a single, frail woman with light brown eyes that still managed to hold warmth even when her body had nothing left to give. Kurayami loved her more than his own life; more than the idea of a full stomach, more than any dream of a better future that didn't include her.
If someone told him he could have a warm bed and three meals a day for the rest of his life, but it meant leaving her behind, he wouldn't even consider it.
For her, Kurayami would steal. His small hands had already learned how to slip into pockets, how to grab a loaf of bread from an unattended stall, how to melt back into the crowd before anyone could catch him.
( He was getting better at it, too. )
For her, Kurayami would hurt someone. He'd only had to do it once so far — a man twice his size who had grabbed his wrist when he'd reached for a piece of fruit. Kurayami had bitten down on the man's hand so hard he'd tasted blood, had kicked and clawed and screamed until the shock had loosened the grip enough for him to bolt. He'd run four blocks before his lungs burned and his legs gave out, but he'd kept the fruit clutched against his chest the whole time.
( His mother had cried when she saw the bruises forming on his arm. He'd told her he'd just tripped. )
For her, Kurayami would die. That was the easiest promise he'd ever made to himself. If someone ever put a blade to his throat and said 'your life or hers', there wouldn't even be a moment of hesitation. Not a single second of doubt.
( He'd take literally whatever they gave him, as long as she kept breathing. )
And for her, Kurayami would kill. Again and again and again if he had to. The thought should have scared him — he was only seven, after all, a child who still had baby teeth and had never grown past most other boys his age — but it didn't. It sat in his chest like a stone, solid and unmoving. If anyone ever tried to take her from him, if anyone ever hurt her, he would find a way. He didn't know how yet. He didn't have the strength or the skill or the reach; but it's okay, because he'd grow, and he'd learn.
( And when the time came, he wouldn't hesitate. )
Because this woman — this fragile, starving, endlessly loving woman — was his entire world. And the rest of the world could burn for all he cared, as long as she was safe.
"Mom."
Kurayami's voice was barely above a whisper as he crouched down beside her. His disheveled brown hair fell into his eyes the way it always did — he'd been meaning to cut it with his knife, but there never seemed to be a good moment for it, and honestly, he liked that it hid his face a little; it made him harder to recognize.
"Mom. Open your eyes."
For a terrifying moment, she didn't move. Her chest barely rose and fell beneath the thin, hole-ridden blanket they shared, and Kurayami felt something cold slither into his stomach and coil there. No. No, she's just sleeping. She's just tired. She always gets tired.
"...Hmm?"
Relief washed through Kurayami so intensely it almost made him dizzy.
His mother's eyelid fluttered, then slowly opened, revealing that warm light brown he knew better than his own reflection. It took her a little second to focus, her gaze drifting across Kurayami's face like she was trying to remember where she was, who she was, what was real.
"Oh," she breathed, and even that single syllable sounded like it cost her something. "My love. It's you."
"Of course it's me," he tried to smile, but it came out a little wobbly around the edges. "Who else would it be?"
She didn't answer. Her lips curved upward slightly, that familiar gentle smile that had been the only constant in Kurayami's entire life, but it was weak. Everything about her was weak these days. The more he looked, the more his chest ached with something he couldn't quite name — something heavier than sadness, sharper than fear.
His mother was lying on the hard ground of their alley, the cobblestones cold even through her thin clothes.
The blanket they shared was more holes than fabric at this point, and it didn't seem to be doing much to stop her shivering. Her body looked so small underneath it. Smaller than he remembered. Her cheeks were hollowed out, the bones beneath her skin far too prominent, and when she breathed, he could count each rib rising and falling. Her lips were cracked and dry, the skin flaking in places, and he'd noticed yesterday that her tongue would stick to the roof of her mouth when she tried to talk.
She was thirsty. She was hungry. She was slowly wasting away right in front of him, and there was nothing he could do about it except—
I can do something, Kurayami reminded himself firmly. I always do something.
"Mom," he reached out, his small fingers brushing the hair away from her forehead.
Her skin was too warm, then too cool, and Kurayami didn't know which was worse.
"I'm going to go get you something to eat. Okay?"
Her eyes, which had started to drift closed again, opened a little wider. "You don't have to—"
"I know," Kurayami cut her off gently, the way he'd learned to do when she was too tired to argue but too proud to simply accept help. "I know I don't have to. But I want to. You need to eat, Mom. You need to drink something. And I'm not going to just sit here and watch you—"
He stopped himself before the words could finish. Watch you die. Watch you fade away until there's nothing left. He swallowed them down and forced his voice to stay steady.
"I'll be back soon. Don't move from here, alright? Just stay right where you are."
She let out a soft breath, something between a sigh and a laugh, and the sound made Kurayami's heart clench. Even now, even like this, she was trying to smile for him. Trying to be strong for him. As if she didn't realize that she was the one who needed protecting, not him.
Her hand moved slowly, trembling with the effort, reaching up toward his head. Kurayami leaned down immediately, lowering himself so she could reach without straining. The gesture was so familiar it felt like coming home — the way her palm settled against his messy hair, the gentle ruffling motion that she'd done a thousand times, ten thousand times, ever since he was small enough to fit in the crook of her arm. Her fingers were bony and cold, but the warmth behind the action seeped into him anyway, settling somewhere deep in his chest where he kept all the things that mattered.
This simple gesture could say so much more than words ever could; You are loved. You are strong. You are the reason I keep going. You are the best thing I ever did.
Kurayami felt his lips curve upward, a real smile this time, small but genuine.
He'd do anything for this woman. Anything at all.
"I'll be back soon, Mom," Kurayami said again, because he wanted her to believe it, wanted her to hold on until he returned. "I promise."
"Be careful, my love," her voice was so soft he almost missed it, barely more than a breath. Her fingers lingered in his hair for one more second before falling back to her side. "I'll wait for you here. I love you."
Kurayami leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, feeling the warmth of her skin against his lips.
"I love you even more, Mom."
That was the truest thing he'd ever said.
Kurayami loved her more than food, more than safety, more than the vague, distant dream of a life where he didn't have to steal just to survive. He loved his mother more than anything this world could offer him, and he always would. From the moment he'd opened his eyes for the first time, through every scraped knee and empty stomach and cold, lonely night, she had been there. She had been enough.
And now it was his turn to be enough for her.
He pulled back slowly, giving her one last smile before getting to his feet. His mother's eyes were already closing again, her body surrendering to exhaustion, and something in his chest tightened painfully at the sight. But he couldn't think about that now.
Kurayami couldn't afford to think about that now.
The seven-year-old boy turned away from the only person who had ever mattered, and his expression shifted as he did. The softness drained from his face, replaced by something harder, something colder. His small hand slipped into the pocket of his torn, worn-out pants, fingers brushing against the handle of the knife he'd found on the ground a few weeks ago. It wasn't much — just a short blade, a little rusty, the handle wrapped in fraying cord — but it had saved him once before, when a group of older kids had cornered him near the market. He'd pulled it out, held it in front of him with shaking hands, and they'd laughed at him until he'd slashed one across the arm. They hadn't laughed after that.
He'd used it only when he needed to defend himself. Today, though, he had a feeling he might need it for more than that.
No, Kurayami corrected himself as he started walking. Not might. Will.
Because today Kurayami was stealing for her, and that meant he couldn't afford to run if he got caught, he couldn't afford to simply drop what he'd taken and bolt. He'd have to hold on, no matter what.
He'd have to fight, if it came to that.
Kurayami's fingers tightened around the knife handle, and he felt something settle in his chest. Not quite fear, not hesitation; just a quiet, steady certainty.
His mother was hungry. His mother was thirsty. And Kurayami was going to fix it, no matter what it cost him.
The world was already shit anyway.
What was one more scar?
━━━━━━━━
The market in the neighboring district was the same as it was every day — packed with people weaving between stalls, voices layering over each other in a constant hum of haggling and chatter, the smell of fresh bread and fish and cheap perfume all competing for space in the air.
These weren't the wealthy types who lived in the gated parts of the city, the ones with carriages and shoes that never wore thin. But they weren't like Kurayami either. They had enough to buy, enough to eat, enough to sleep somewhere with four walls and a door that locked.
They had just enough to look down on people like him without ever admitting it to themselves.
And they did. They always did.
Kurayami had learned to read it in the way they crossed the street when they saw him coming, the way their eyes slid over him like he was a simple piece of garbage they didn't want to step in, the way mothers pulled their children closer when he passed. The boy was only seven years old, small even for his age, thin enough that his wrists looked like they might snap if someone grabbed them too hard — and still, they looked at him like he was something dangerous, something dirty, something less than human.
Good, Kurayami thought, pressing his small body deeper into the shadows between two large wooden crates behind a row of stalls. Let them be scared. Let them look away. It only makes my job easier.
From his hiding spot, Kurayami had a clear view of most of the market. His brown eyes moved methodically, scanning each stall one by one, cataloging which merchants were distracted, which ones had customers lingering, which ones had their goods arranged in a way that would make it easy to grab and go. He'd been doing this long enough that it had become almost instinctual — like a game he'd played so many times he didn't have to think about the rules anymore.
That one's too alert. That one's got a kid about my age hovering around — probably looking for the same thing I am, but dumber about it. That one...
Kurayami's gaze landed on a fruit stall about fifteen meters away, run by a middle-aged man with a round belly and thick, calloused hands. The man was currently leaning against the counter of his stall, talking animatedly to a woman who looked like she was trying very hard to pretend she was interested in what he was saying.
And the fruit. Oh, the fruit.
Peaches and strawberries, arranged in neat rows that caught the morning light just right, their colors so bright they almost didn't look real. The peaches were a soft orange-pink, the kind that gave just a little when you pressed your thumb against the skin, and the strawberries were deep red, the green leaves still attached, probably picked that morning if the merchant knew what he was doing.
Kurayami's mouth watered. He could almost taste them, he could almost see his mother's face when he brought them back to her — the way her tired eyes would light up, the way her thin lips would curve into that smile that made everything else in the world feel a little less awful.
Peaches were her favorite. Strawberries too.
She'd told him once, a long time ago, about the summer before he was born when she'd worked at an orchard for a few weeks, and the owner had let her take home a basket of fruit at the end of each day;
"I ate so many peaches that summer," she'd said, laughing in that soft way of hers. "I thought I might turn into one."
Kurayami had been too young to really understand what she was talking about, but he'd never forgotten the way she'd looked when she said it — like she was somewhere else, somewhere warm and safe, somewhere where her stomach was full and her body didn't ache all the time.
He was going to give that back to her. Maybe not the orchard, maybe not the summer, but the peaches and the strawberries; a few days of not having to worry about where her next meal was coming from.
"Okay," Kurayami whispered to himself, his voice barely audible even to his own ears.
He tightened his grip on the plastic bag he'd stolen from one of the other stalls on his way in — a crumpled thing that had been tossed aside after someone bought a loaf of bread. He'd grabbed it without even thinking, his little fingers moving automatically, the way they always did when he saw something useful that wasn't nailed down.
"I'll take enough to feed Mom for a few days."
The crowd around the fruit stall was thick enough to hide him — a handful of people waiting to be served, plus the usual foot traffic of people just passing through. Kurayami took a deep breath, feeling the familiar calm settle over him, the one that came right before he did something he knew he shouldn't; it was almost peaceful, in a strange way.
Everything else faded out. There was only the target, the path to it, the exit.
Kurayami straightened up, making sure his messy brown hair fell forward enough to cover most of his face. His small hands were buried deep in the pockets of his worn-out pants — his right hand wrapped around the handle of his knife, just in case, and his left hand holding the plastic bag close to his thigh, hidden from view.
Don't rush. Don't look at anyone for too long. Don't give them a reason to remember your face.
Kurayami started moving, his body weaving through the crowd with the ease of someone who had spent his entire life learning how to be invisible. Kurayami was really small, yes — smaller than most kids his age, his growth probably stunted by years of not eating enough — but that worked in his favor here. People tended to look over him rather than at him, their mean eyes sliding past like he was just part of the background; a dirty kid, a street rat, simply something not worth a second glance.
Good. Keep looking away. Keep ignoring me. That's exactly what I want.
The fruit stall owner was still talking to the same customer, his voice carrying over the noise of the market in that particular tone merchants used when they were trying to squeeze a few extra coins out of someone.
"—and these peaches, madam, these are the best I've had all season. From the Takahashi orchard, you know the one? Very exclusive. Very high quality. I'm practically giving them away at this price—"
Kurayami slipped behind the stall, his thin body sliding through the narrow gap between the counter and the crate beside it. He moved without a single sound, his worn shoes barely touching the ground as he positioned himself directly behind the merchant's back.
He's busy. He's not paying attention. He won't even notice I'm here until I'm gone.
From where Kurayami stood, the stall was laid out like a map in his mind; the merchant was on the right, his broad back turned as he gestured enthusiastically at the woman in front of him. The peaches and strawberries were on the left, stacked in shallow wooden crates that sat just below the level of the counter. It was easy to reach, easy to grab.
Kurayami's eyes darted around one more time, scanning for anyone who might be watching; a pretty woman was arguing with a vendor three stalls down about the price of fish, two old men sat on crates near the entrance of the market, smoking and talking about nothing, and a young mother was trying to keep her toddler from grabbing at a display of brightly colored fabrics.
No one was looking at him. No one ever looked at him.
His left hand moved, pulling the plastic bag from his pocket and opening it with the practiced silence of someone who had already done this a hundred times before, then his hand reached out, fingers brushing against the soft skin of a peach, and he began.
One peach. Two. Three. Four. Each one dropped into the bag with barely a whisper of sound. Then strawberries — his fingers closed around a handful, stems and all, and he added them to the growing pile. Peach. Strawberry. Peach. Strawberry. His movements were quick but unhurried, the rhythm almost meditative.
Don't rush. Don't drop anything. Don't make a sound.
The bag filled faster than he expected. He'd been aiming for enough to last a few days, but now that he was here, now that he could see the fruit right in front of him, he found himself grabbing more; more peaches, more strawberries. Enough for a week, maybe. Enough that his mother could eat until she was full, really full, for the first time in longer than he could remember.
She's going to be so happy, he thought, and the image of her face — her tired, beautiful, too-thin face — lit up from somewhere deep inside his chest. She's going to smile. The real smile. The one that reaches her eyes.
The bag was full now, the plastic straining slightly at the seams. Kurayami pulled his hand back, his small fingers lingering for just a little moment on the last peach he'd grabbed — it was a perfect one, soft and golden-pink, the kind his mother would close her eyes and savor like it was the most precious thing in the entire world.
Time to go.
He looked up, checking the merchant's position one last time; he was still talking, still distracted. The woman he was speaking to had finally pulled out her coin purse, looking resigned to whatever deal she'd just been talked into.
Kurayami took a step back, then another, his body already turning toward the gap he'd slipped through to get in here. It had taken him less than a minute. Maybe forty-five seconds. That was probably a new record.
Easy, he thought, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Nothing to it. Just—
"Hey! You there!"
Kurayami's blood went cold.
The boy spun around, his brown eyes locking onto the merchant's face, and oh — that was not a confused look, not a questioning look; that was rage. Pure, unfiltered rage, the kind of rage that made the man's round face go red and his thick hands curl into fists.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit—
Kurayami's tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth, a sharp sound of frustration that was lost in the sudden noise of the merchant shouting. He didn't stop to think. He didn't try to talk his way out of it. His body was already moving, legs pumping, the plastic bag clutched tight against his chest as he bolted away from the stall.
"You little brat!" the merchant's voice boomed behind him, loud enough to turn heads all across the market. "Get back here right now! Who do you think you're stealing from?!"
Fucking hell, Kurayami's mind snarled as he ducked between two women carrying baskets of vegetables, nearly sending them both stumbling. Fucking hell, fucking hell—
Kurayami ran, because that was all he could do.
His lungs were already burning — he hadn't eaten anything since yesterday, a small piece of bread his mother had saved for him, and his body was screaming at him to stop, to rest, to just let himself collapse. But he couldn't. He wouldn't. The bag of fruit was heavy against his chest, each peach and strawberry a promise he'd made to his mother, and he'd rather die than let them take it away from him.
"Thief!" a woman's voice shrieked from somewhere to his left. "Someone stop that child!"
"Grab him! The little street rat is stealing!"
Kurayami ignored them all; the boy dodged past a stall selling leather goods, nearly colliding with a man carrying a stack of wooden boxes, and he could hear the merchant's heavy footsteps behind him, closer than he wanted them to be, but not close enough yet.
Just a little further. There's an alley up ahead, just past the fabric stall. If I can make it there, I can lose them. I can—
A hand clamped down on his shoulder.
The grip was like iron, crushing, and Kurayami's teeth ground together as pain shot through his arm and down his spine. Before he could even think about pulling away, about stabbing, about anything, his small body was lifted off the ground and slammed down onto the dirty cobblestones of the alleyway he'd been trying to reach.
"Fuck," Kurayami heard himself gasp, the word forced out of him by the impact.
The plastic bag flew from his grip, skidding across the ground a few feet away, and he watched it go with a surge of panic that almost drowned out the pain.
Kurayami's teeth were clenched, his eyebrows drawn together, his whole body screaming at him from a dozen different places; his shoulder throbbed where he'd been grabbed, his back ached from hitting the ground, and his palms were scraped raw from trying to catch himself. But he forced his head up, forced his eyes to focus through the curtain of messy brown hair that had fallen over his face, and he looked at the man who had caught him.
He was huge. That was Kurayami's first thought. Massive, really — easily six and a half feet tall, with shoulders so broad they seemed to block out the narrow strip of sky above the alley. The man's head was completely bald, and his face was covered in scars, old ones by the look of them, crisscrossing his cheeks and forehead like some kind of twisted roadmap. His arms were thick with muscle, probably from years of doing something that required a lot of strength and very little mercy.
Who the hell is this guy? Kurayami's mind raced, trying to make sense of what was happening. Does he work with the merchant? Is he some kind of... what, security? Bouncer? Since when do fruit stalls have bouncers?
The man was looking down at him with an expression that Kurayami didn't like at all. Amusement, maybe, mixed with something darker. Something that made the hairs on the back of the boy's neck stand up.
"Ohoh," the man said, his voice deep and rough, like rocks grinding together. "Who do we have here?" He took a step closer, his boots heavy against the cobblestones. "Wouldn't this be the little thief?"
Kurayami's jaw tightened. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, refusing to stay sprawled on the ground like some kind of helpless animal.
"Who the hell are you?"
The man's grin widened even more, showing teeth that were yellowed and uneven.
"Well, look at that, he bites," the man cracked his knuckles, one hand then the other, the sound loud and deliberate in the narrow alley. "I'll make it simple. Give back what you stole, and I'll let you leave quietly. If you don't want to..."
He tilted his head, and in the dim light of the alley, the scars on his face seemed to move, shifting like living things.
"If you don't want to, I'll kill you here and now."
Kurayami's eyes flicked to the plastic bag, still lying on the ground a few feet away. Some of the fruit had spilled out when he'd been thrown — a peach here, a strawberry there — but most of it was still inside. Still good. Still his.
Give back the food? The thought was almost laughable. Hell, I'd rather die.
He could see his mother's face again, the way she'd looked that morning, her eyes half-closed, her lips cracked and dry, her body barely able to lift her hand to his hair. She needed this. She needed it. And this bald bastard with his scars and muscles and self-righteous threats wasn't going to take it away from her. Not while Kurayami was still breathing.
"Go rot in Hell, you sack of shit," Kurayami said, forcing his voice into something cold, even though his heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. "You're going to have to kill me first if you really want those fruits."
The man's grin didn't fade. If anything, it got wider.
"Oh dear," he said, and his voice was dripping with mock disappointment. "Kids these days. So rude," he cracked his neck, the sound sharp and final. "They really need to be taught a good lesson."
Kurayami's teeth ground together.
His eyes swept the alley, looking for anything — a loose brick, a piece of wood, literally anything he could use as a weapon or a distraction. But there was nothing; just dirty walls, wet cobblestones, and this mountain of a man standing between him and the way out.
If I charge him now, I'll lose. He's too big. Too strong. I'd have to get close to use the knife, and he'd grab me before I even got the blade out of my pocket.
The thought made his stomach clench with frustration, but he forced himself to stay still and to wait.
Let him attack first. Let him get close. It's going to hurt. It's going to hurt a lot. But it's the only way.
Kurayami didn't have to wait long.
The man's foot swung forward, and Kurayami saw it coming — he saw the shift in his weight, the way his leg tensed before the kick — but knowing it was coming didn't make it hurt any less; the boot connected with his stomach, and the world turned completely white.
Kurayami doubled over, his arms wrapping around his belly, a soundless cry tearing out of his throat as pain exploded through his entire body. His vision blurred. His ears rang. His stomach heaved, and for a terrifying moment he thought he was going to throw up right there on the cobblestones.
Holy fucking shit, the thought was barely coherent, drowned out by the sheer, overwhelming agony of it. Holy fucking shit, that hurts like hell. That hurts—that hurts—
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, unwanted, and unstoppable. His malnourished body had never been built for this kind of punishment. Every nerve was screaming, every muscle was shaking, and all he wanted to do was curl up into a ball and wait for it to stop.
But Kurayami didn't get the chance.
A huge and hairy hand closed around his throat.
Kurayami's eyes flew open as he was lifted off the ground, his feet dangling, his whole body dangling, held up by nothing but that iron grip around his neck. His hands flew up instinctively, clawing at the man's wrist, trying to pry the fingers loose, but it was like trying to move a stone wall; the man's hand didn't budge, didn't even seem to notice.
And then he slammed Kurayami against the brick wall.
The impact drove the air out of his lungs, sent a shock of pain through his spine, and Kurayami's jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth might crack. His hands kept scrabbling at the man's grip, but it was useless; the fingers around his throat were tightening, squeezing, cutting off his air, and the edges of his vision were starting to go dark.
No. No, no, no—I can't—I can't breathe—
The man's face was close to his now, close enough that Kurayami could smell the stale tobacco on his breath, could see the individual scars that marked his ugly skin like some kind of map of violence.
"Hmm? Already dying?" his voice was mockingly sad, as if he actually cared. "Well, I suppose you're the one who will rot in hell. Disgusting little insect."
His feet kicked out, hitting the man's chest, his stomach, anywhere they could reach, but it was like kicking a brick wall; the man didn't even flinch. His grip tightened further, and Kurayami felt something in his throat shift, felt his airway closing, felt the world starting to fade at the edges.
I'm going to die here, the thought came to him with surprising clarity, cutting through the panic and the pain. I'm going to die here, and Mom is going to be alone, and she's going to starve, and no one's going to—
Kurayami's hands stopped scrabbling at the man's wrist, his legs stopped kicking, and his body went limp, his arms falling to his sides, his head lolling forward like a doll's.
The man grunted, sounding almost disappointed.
"Ah, this is fucking boring. I thought I was going to have some fun, but here he is two seconds from dying."
That's what you think.
Kurayami's right hand slipped into his pocket; his little fingers found the knife, closed around it, and pulled it out. The movement was small, hidden by his body, hidden by the way he'd gone slack. The man didn't see it, because the man was too busy looking at his face, at his closed eyes, at the easy target he thought he'd already beaten.
You made one mistake, Kurayami thought, and he opened his eyes.
The man's expression flickered with surprise, and his grip loosened just a little, just for a second.
And that was all Kurayami needed.
The knife swung forward, the blade catching the dim light of the alley, and it sank into the man's side with a wet, tearing sound that Kurayami would remember for the rest of his life. The man grunted, his grip on Kurayami's neck faltering, and the boy didn't wait; he wrenched the knife out, feeling the blade scrape against something solid — bone, maybe, or cartilage — and plunged it in again, deeper.
The man's hand came up, trying to grab him, but Kurayami was already moving, already stabbing again, his arm piston-fast, his mind absolutely blank except for one thing; keep going, keep going, don't stop until he's down.
Again, again, and again.
Each thrust was harder than the last, more desperate, more furious. Blood was spattering across Kurayami's hand, his wrist, his sleeve, warm and sticky and dark. The man was making sounds now — gasping, choking sounds, not words, just noises — and Kurayami's teeth were bared in something that wasn't quite a smile, and wasn't quite a snarl.
And then, with a loud cry that tore itself out of the deepest part of his throat without his permission, Kurayami drove the knife into the man's neck.
The blade sank in up to the hilt, and the man's eyes went wide — comically wide, Kurayami would think later, like something out of a puppet show — and his mouth opened, but no sound came out. His grip on Kurayami's throat loosened completely, his fingers uncurling one by one, and the boy slid down the wall, his feet hitting the ground hard enough to jar his knees.
Kurayami just stood there, breathing in ragged gasps, watching as the man staggered backward.
One step, two steps, three steps. The man's hand came up to his neck, trembling, and his fingers closed around the handle of the knife still buried in his throat. With a wet, horrible sound, he pulled it out.
The blood didn't stop flowing; it poured completely out of the wound in a thick, pulsing stream, running down his chest, soaking into his shirt, dripping onto the cobblestones. The man opened his mouth once again, and this time a sound came out — a wet, gurgling thing that might have been words once, might have been a plea or a curse or a prayer. Kurayami didn't know, and he didn't care at all.
The man fell.
First to his knees, with a heavy thud that Kurayami felt through the soles of his shoes, and then onto his side, his body crumpling into a heap on the dirty ground. His legs kicked once, twice, and then stopped. His chest rose, fell, rose again, and then stopped too.
Kurayami stood there for a long moment, just breathing. His small body was shaking — from adrenaline, from pain, from the cold, he didn't know which — but his eyes never once left the corpse in front of him.
He's dead, the thought was strange, distant, like it belonged to someone else. I killed him.
Kurayami should have felt something. Fear, maybe. Or guilt. Or horror. He was seven years old, he had just taken a life, that was supposed to mean something, wasn't it? That was supposed to change something inside you, break something, leave a mark that never really healed.
But all Kurayami felt was a strange, quiet satisfaction. And something else, too — something that flickered in his chest like a flame catching on dry wood. Something that felt, almost, like pure joy.
The little boy pushed himself off the wall, his legs unsteady but holding. He took a step toward the body, then another, until he was standing over it, looking down at the face that had been so smug, so confident, so sure that he could do whatever he wanted to a kid from the streets and no one would stop him.
Kurayami bent down and pulled his knife out of the man's neck; the blade was slick with blood, the handle sticky, and he wiped it methodically on the man's shirt, watching the red smear across the dirty fabric.
"So," he said, and his voice came out steady, calm, almost amused. "Who's rotting in Hell?"
A smile spread across Kurayami's face, but it wasn't like his mother's smile; the gentle, warm one she gave him when she ruffled his hair. It wasn't the small, hopeful smile he'd worn when he was filling the bag with peaches and strawberries. No, it was something else entirely — something sharp and bright and hungry, something that made his eyes gleam in the dim light of the alley.
This feeling. He let it wash over him, let it fill up the empty spaces in his chest, let it chase away the fear and the pain and the exhaustion. This feeling is incredible.
Kurayami felt alive; more alive than he'd ever felt in his seven years of life. Every single nerve was singing, every breath was sharp and sweet, and the blood on his hands doesn't felt like a weight, but more like a promise. He wanted to feel this again. He needed to feel this again.
His eyes drifted to the bag, still lying where it had fallen, the fruit scattered around it like jewels on a dirty floor.
"Oh," the adrenaline was starting to fade now, leaving behind a dull ache in his body and a strange emptiness in his head. "Yes, that's right. Mom. She's hungry."
Kurayami walked over to the bag, his movements careful, and bent down to pick it up. He gathered the fruit that had spilled out — a peach that had rolled almost to the wall, a strawberry that had gotten crushed under someone's shoe, a few more that were still clean — and put them back in the bag; most of them were fine, most of them were still good.
She's going to eat tonight, he thought, and the image of her face came back to him, soft and warm and real. She's going to eat, and she's going to smile, and she's going to be okay.
He tucked the knife back into his pocket, the blade clean but the handle still damp against his skin, then he straightened up, the bag of fruit held close to his chest, and started walking toward the mouth of the alley.
The little boy didn't look back at the body; really, it wasn't worth looking at. It was just meat now, just a pile of flesh and bone that had been in his way. The world wouldn't miss it. No one would come looking for it. Men like that didn't have people who cared about them.
Kurayami stepped out of the alley and into the fading light of the afternoon, the sounds of the market still humming in the distance, and he let himself smile again; a small smile this time, and a real one.
I've got blood on me, Kurayami realized.
He looked down at his shirt, at his hands, at the dark stains that were already starting to dry, and his mother was going to see that, and she was going to worry. Yeah, he'd have to come up with something. A lie, maybe. Something simple, something she'd believe without asking too many questions.
I'll just tell her a rat attacked me.
He almost laughed at that. After all, it wasn't entirely a lie; there had been a rat in that alley. A big, ugly, scarred rat that had tried to take what was his.
And Kurayami had completely crushed it.
━━━━━━━━
The walk back to their alley felt longer than usual, his legs heavy and his body aching with every step, but Kurayami didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Every time he thought about slowing down, about resting for just a little minute, he pictured his mother's face — the hollow cheeks, the cracked lips, the way her eyes had looked when she'd said 'I'll wait for you here' — and he kept moving.
By the time he reached the familiar entrance to their alley, the sun was already starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that reminded him, strangely, of the peaches in his bag.
Kurayami paused at the entrance, his brown eyes looking down at himself; his shirt was stained with blood — not a lot, but enough that it was noticeable. His hands were worse, the blood already dried into brownish-red crusts around his nails and between his fingers.
She's going to see this, he thought, and for the first time since he'd killed the man, something that might have been fear stirred in his chest.
Not fear of punishment, but fear of his mother's worry. Fear of the way her eyes would go wide, the way her voice would tremble, the way she'd try to hide how scared she was because she didn't want to make him feel bad.
Kurayami crouched down and rubbed his hands against the rough cobblestones, scrubbing until the worst of the blood was gone, then wiped them on his pants. It wasn't perfect; there were still dark crescents under his fingernails, still faint stains on his skinc, but it was the best he could do. His shirt he couldn't do anything about, but maybe she wouldn't notice in the fading light. Maybe she'd be too tired to see.
Or maybe she'll see and she'll know, a voice whispered at the back of Kurayami's mind. Maybe she'll look at you and see exactly what you are.
He pushed the thought away and walked into the alley.
She was where he'd left her, lying on the hard ground with the thin blanket pulled up to her chin. For a horrible moment, Kurayami thought she hadn't moved at all, that she was still exactly as he'd left her, and he felt his heart seize in his chest. But then her eyes fluttered open, and she turned her head toward him, and the smile that spread across her face was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.
"My love," she breathed, and her voice was still weak, still thin, but there was something in it that made his chest ache. Relief, maybe. Or love. Or both. "You came back."
"Of course I came back," he knelt beside her, setting the bag of fruit carefully on the ground, and reached out to brush the hair away from her face. "I told you I would."
She reached up, her hand trembling, and cupped his cheek; her fingers were cold, but her palm was warm, and Kurayami leaned into the touch without meaning to.
"You're hurt," she said, and her brow furrowed slightly with worry. "Your shirt—is that blood?"
"Rat," Kurayami said quickly, the lie coming easily. "A rat attacked me on the way back. It was a really big one. But I got away. I'm fine."
Oh, she didn't look convinced.
Her eyes searched his face, looking for something — the truth, or just the reassurance that he was okay — and Kurayami held her gaze, keeping his expression open and honest, the way he always did when he was lying about something that would make her worry too much.
"Are you sure?" she asked, her thumb brushing against his cheekbone. "You're not hurt anywhere else? You didn't—"
"I'm fine, Mom," he turned his head and pressed a kiss to her palm, feeling the roughness of her skin against his lips. "I promise. Now look what I brought you."
Kurayami pulled the bag of fruit into his lap and opened it, reaching inside and pulling out one of the peaches. It was a good one — perfect, really, soft and golden-pink, with a small bruise on one side that didn't matter at all. The little boy held it up so she could see it, watching her eyes go wide, watching her lips part in surprise.
"Peaches," she whispered softly, and her voice cracked on the word. "Kurayami, where did you—"
"I got them for you," he placed the peach in her hand, closing her fingers around it gently. "I know they're your favorite. I got strawberries, too. Enough for a few days."
She stared at the fruit in her hand, and for a moment she didn't move, didn't speak, didn't even seem to breathe. Then her chin started to tremble, and her eyes filled with tears, and Kurayami felt something twist painfully in his chest.
"Don't cry, Mom," he said, reaching out to wipe away the tear that had started to roll down her cheek. "Please don't cry. I got them for you. You're supposed to be happy."
"I am happy," she said, and she was laughing now, a wet, shaky sound that was half a sob. "I'm so happy, my love. I just—" She pressed the peach to her chest, holding it like it was made of gold. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."
Kurayami didn't know what to say to that.
He didn't think she'd done anything; she was just his mother. She was just the woman who had given him life, who had loved him even when there was nothing else to love, who had starved herself so he could eat, who had held him when he was cold and kissed his scrapes when he was hurt and told him stories about orchards and summer when there was nothing else to give him.
If anything, he was the one who didn't deserve her.
But Kurayami didn't say that.
Instead, he watched as she brought the peach to her lips, as she took a small, tentative bite, as her eyes closed and her expression shifted into something that looked almost like prayer. She chewed slowly, savoring it, and Kurayami felt something loosen in his chest. Something that had been tight for so long he'd almost forgotten it was there.
"It's good?" he asked softly, even though he could see the answer on her face.
She opened her eyes, and the smile she gave him was brighter than anything he'd ever seen.
"It's perfect, my love," she said, and her voice was steadier now, stronger. "You're perfect."
Kurayami smiled back, and for a moment — just a little moment — he let himself forget about the blood on his shirt, the knife in his pocket, and the body lying in an alley two streets away. He let himself just be a little boy, sitting with his mother, watching her eat a peach.
This, Kurayami thought. This is exactly what I'd kill for. This is what I'd die for. This is what I'd keep killing for, as many times as I have to.
And he knew, with a certainty that settled into his bones and stayed there, that he would do it all again. Tomorrow, if he had to. The next day. Every day, for the rest of his life, if it meant she could keep smiling like that.
Kurayami reached into the bag and pulled out a strawberry, holding it out to her.
"Here," he said. "Try this one next. It's even sweeter."
She laughed; a sweet little laugh, one that made her whole face light up, and took the strawberry from his hand.
"You're spoiling me," she said, but she ate it anyway, her eyes closing again in that same look of pure, simple joy.
Kurayami simply watched her, and for the first time in a very long time, he felt something that might have been hope; small, maybe a little fragile, but definitely there.
Maybe this world isn't completely shit, the little boy thought, as his mother reached out to ruffle his hair with the hand that wasn't holding a strawberry. Maybe there's still something worth fighting for.
The sun set behind them, painting the alley in shades of gold and red, and Kurayami sat with his mother until she had eaten her fill, until her eyes grew heavy and her hand fell still in his hair, until her breathing evened out into the rhythm of sleep.
Then, and only then, did he let himself close his eyes.
His last thought before sleep took him was of the man in the alley; the way his eyes had gone wide, the way his blood had pulsed out of his neck, dark and thick and, soaking everywhere into the cobblestones.
I'd do it again, Kurayami thought, and the smile that tugged at his lips was not a child's smile. I'd do it a thousand times. For her, I'd do anything.
And in the darkness of the alley, with his mother's soft hand still resting on his head and his knife still hidden deep in his pocket, Kurayami slept.