Day 5

  Real World, Palace, Dawn, Present

  Niche wakes up in the storage room. Mars's real body lies beside him, his head at an unnatural angle. Niche, out of breath, picks up Raizen and puts it to Mars’ throat. Without thinking, Niche takes Mars’ head clean off.

  Niche hears celebrations outside the storage room. Chanting.

  Niche break open the locked supply closet door from the inside and flops on the ground outside, breathing heavy at the cool fresh air compared to the stuffy closet.

  The Liberator stands in the palace courtyard.

  "Tyranny has died today!" the crowd chants.

  The Liberator raises his fist. Almajara lays at the feet of the Liberator, his body mutilated. The crowd goes wild. In one night, Almajara went from savior to monster to corpse.

  The crowd's cheers still echo as the Liberator stands over Almajara's body. The tyrant is dead. Freedom has been won.

  Niche, still disoriented from the dream trap, doesn’t finish his thought, but he knows something's wrong.

  "But who?" Niche asks, approaching the corpse. Niche stares at Almajara on the ground; his face, clothes, and blood spreading across the courtyard stones.

  "A body double," Niche realizes. “They sacrificed an innocent shifter to portray their idea of justice. They must’ve forced this shifter to shift into Almajara, then executed him.”

  Niche continues murmuring to himself. “They're still celebrating. The Liberator is already being carried on their shoulders as a hero. And that innocent shifter is on the floor, dead. This random shifter was forced to wear Almajara's face and die for the cameras. Probably didn't even know why. Just following orders until Venus decided the tyrant needed to fall. Three hours of revolution," Niche says quietly, his eyes closing as the fatigue overpowers him. "All of it is staged."

  The shifter's face settles into its true form. Nobody Niche recognizes. Nobody history will remember.

  Just another sacrifice for someone else's game.

  Almajara is dead in every way that matters.

  Three days left. No kingdom. No allies. Just Niche, alone on the cold tile palace floor next to a dead god of dreams.

  Niche opens his eyes with determination. He stands up, striding through the back exit of the palace. His legs shake with each step.

  "Just... need to get away from here,” he assured himself.

  When his legs have tired, he grips the wall, moving along it for support. Sweat drips from his forehead.

  "Killed myself... how many times? Fifty? Hundred?" He laughs weakly. "Lost count after the burning-drowning combo."

  His foot catches on debris. He stumbles forward, barely catching himself.

  Three more steps. His vision starts to tunnel.

  His knee buckles. He hits the ground hard, trying to push himself up.

  His arms give out. He collapses fully, cheek pressed against cold concrete.

  Darkness creeps in from the edges. All he sees are someone's feet approaching. Looking up, Niche recognizes the unsightly face.

  Venus.

  The Vestige Court member raises something by a fistful of dark hair. Mika's head hangs from his grip. Her eyes vacant and neck ending in ragged flesh, Mika’s head slowly turns around in a circular motion. Venus holds it at face level, examining it like a curiosity before letting it swing slightly, carelessly.

  "Oh, you're awake." Venus's voice is casual. "I was getting bored."

  Niche's mouth opens but no sound comes. His body won't move. He can’t respond. The rage is there burning and screaming, but his muscles are dead weight.

  Venus tilts Mika's head, puppeting it. "She called for you, you know. At the end."

  Niche's hand reaches for Raizen. The blade manifests, barely solid. He brings it to his own arm and cuts deep. The pain is electric, immediate. For a moment, his body responds—pushing up to his knees. But the moment passes. The wound seals. He collapses again.

  Another cut. His thigh this time. The shock of pain brings seconds of clarity, of strength. Not enough. Never enough.

  Venus watches with amusement. "Fascinating. Harming yourself unlocks this strange symbol in your eyes,” Venus says, squatting down and lifting Niche’s chin up to Venus’ face with Venus’ free hand. Niche seethes with rage through his teeth, as covering half his vision is his sister’s lifeless head dangling from Venus’ hand.

  Niche tries to raise Raizen to attack Venus, but Venus’ interested in Niche dissuaded. Venus raised his body, standing upright and looking at Niche with pity.

  Niche continues his cuts. Face, chest, arms. Cut after cut. Each healing as fast as he makes them. Each giving him just enough to crawl another inch forward. But it's not working. The exhaustion is too complete.

  So, Niche changes tactics. The eternal flames manifest along Raizen's edge; this fire that consumes everything and never stops burning doesn’t intimidate Niche in his desperation. When Niche cuts now, the wounds don't heal. Can't heal without Niche’s control. The flames eat at the flesh, preventing regeneration. This fire eats away until Niche disposes of them. But he doesn’t. In a way, he .

  Blood flows freely. Real blood. Permanent damage.

  The pain different now; it’s no longer the sharp shock that brings clarity, but a deep, consuming agony that somehow gives Niche strength. Niche pushes forward, leaving a trail of blood that doesn't disappear.

  Venus laughs. "You're destroying yourself for nothing. She's already gone. You won’t be able to even touch me; you’re simply too weak."

  Niche drops Raizne and extends his hand toward Venus as a final effort. His fingers stretch, shaking towards his sister's severed head.

  Niche’s arm drops. His face hits the cold stone floor. The eternal flames flicker and die as his consciousness fades. The wounds begin sealing immediately, flesh knitting back together, but the exhaustion remains absolute.

  The last thing Niche sees is Mika’s head dropping to the floor as Venus rests his boot on her face.

  "Sleep well, king," Venus says, bending down to look at Niche’s face. "We're not done yet."

  Flashback, Years Ago, Ryota's House, Morning

  Ryota sits at the kitchen table, cereal untouched. His father's voice carries from the bedroom upstairs on the phone, laughing about something.

  Yui slides into the chair across from him. "You're coming today, right?"

  "To what?"

  "Dad's trial." She keeps her voice low. "Someone should be there. Even if it's just to... I don't know. Witness it."

  "He's not gonna lose."

  "I know." She stares at her hands. "But maybe seeing us there will—"

  Their father's footsteps on the stairs. They both go quiet.

  He appears in a tailored suit, humming. Checking his cufflinks in the hallway mirror.

  "Big day," he says to no one in particular. "Make sure you two eat something decent. I'll be home late. Celebrations and all that."

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  He doesn't wait for a response. The door clicks shut behind him.

  Yui looks at Ryota. "So. You coming?"

  Courthouse Parking Garage, One Hour Later

  Ryota's father parks in a reserved spot. VIP access. He straightens his tie in the rearview mirror, practicing his "innocent man" face. Smiles. Too wide. Adjusts it.

  From his briefcase, he pulls out a thick envelope. Counts it once. Twice. Satisfied.

  His phone buzzes. A text: Judge is in. 30 mins.

  He pockets the phone, grabs the envelope, and walks toward the elevator like he owns the building.

  Courthouse Lobby

  Ryota and Yui arrive twenty minutes later. They sit on a bench outside the courtroom.

  An older woman sits across from them. Red eyes. Tissue in hand. She's staring at the courtroom doors like they lead to execution. Ryota watches the woman. She looks small. Defeated.

  The courtroom doors open. People start filing in.

  Courthouse Clerk's Office, 20 Minutes Before Trial

  Ryota's father knocks on a side door. A clerk opens it. A young girl stands there nervous.

  "Mr. Shiro. Come in."

  The office is cluttered. Files stacked everywhere. The clerk glances at the hallway before closing the door.

  "You have it?" he asks awkwardly.

  Ryota's father hands the envelope to the girl. "$1000" scrawled in marker. His expensive suit reeks of cologne and arrogance.

  The clerk weighs it in her hand. She doesn't open it, but nods.

  "Thank you for your donation." Her voice is rehearsed, mechanical. "Judge Watanabe will be informed of your... continued support for the courthouse restoration fund."

  "Of course. Always happy to give back to the community," Mr. Shiro says in a pleased tone.

  They shake hands. The clerk's palm is sweating.

  Ryota's father leaves through the back exit, rejoining the main hallway like he was never gone.

  Courtroom, Trial

  The courtroom fills. Ryota and Yui sit in the back row. Their father sits up front with his lawyer.

  Across the aisle were the people Mr. Shiro ruined. They watch him with hollow expressions.

  The prosecutor shuffles papers. Looks confident but not eager. Like someone going through motions.

  Judge Watanabe enters. Everyone stands. He's older, distinguished. The kind of face that belongs on currency.

  He sits. Everyone else sits.

  "Case number 47-829. The State versus Shiro. Charges of embezzlement and money laundering."

  Ryota's father doesn't even look worried. He's scrolling through his phone under the table.

  Courtroom, One Hour Later

  The trial is fast. Too fast.

  The prosecutor presents evidence: bank statements, testimony from victims, paper trails. It's damning. Obvious.

  Ryota watches his father's lawyer deflect everything. Technicalities. "Alleged" this. "Unsubstantiated" that. Every time there's a smoking gun, the defense finds some procedural loophole.

  Judge Watanabe nods along. Barely looks at the evidence.

  Yui grips Ryota's arm. "This is wrong."

  "Yeah,” Ryota replies, glaring at his father.

  The defense rests. The prosecution makes a final statement. It's passionate but pointless.

  Judge Watanabe doesn't even deliberate. Just looks at his notes for thirty seconds.

  "On the charges of embezzlement and money laundering, this court finds the defendant... not guilty."

  The gavel hits.

  Ryota's father straightens his tie, smirking at his victims in the gallery.

  Young Ryota watches from the back row, stomach churning.

  His father turns to make eye contact with the boy across the courtroom. Winks.

  Courthouse Steps, Post-Trial

  Ryota and Yui stand outside. Their father is surrounded by reporters, giving a statement about "justice prevailing" and "faith in the system."

  "We should go," Yui says.

  But Ryota can't move.

  "Ryota,” Yui nags.

  "He did it." Ryota's voice is flat. "He did everything they said. And he just... walked away."

  "I know."

  "And he's going to keep doing it. Because nothing stops him. Ever."

  Yui doesn't have an answer.

  Their father finishes with the reporters. When he sees his children, he waves them over cheerfully like they're at a family barbecue.

  They don't move.

  He shrugs, gets in his car, and drives away.

  Flashback, Ryota's House, Years Later, "Day One"

  Ryota's pencil hovers over his math homework. Problem 7. He's been staring at it for twenty minutes.

  The numbers blur. He can't focus.

  Footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Uneven.

  Dad's home, Ryota thinks.

  Ryota's hand tightens around the pencil. The footsteps pause outside his door. He holds his breath.

  Keep walking. Please keep walking, Ryota’s mind races.

  They continue down the hall. Ryota exhales.

  His father's voice carries through the walls slurred, laughing at something on his phone. The familiar clink of glass. Another drink.

  Ryota returns to problem 7. Tries to. His mind won't—

  A door opens. Not his door.

  Yui's door, Ryota freezes.

  "Dad?" Yui's voice. Confused. "What are you—"

  "Just checking on you, sweetheart." His father's voice is too friendly.

  Ryota stands. His chair scrapes against the floor.

  "I'm fine, I was just about to sleep—" Yui responds.

  "Your old man can't say goodnight anymore?"

  "Dad, I really need to—"

  Muffled conversation. Yui's voice gets quieter. Unsure.

  Then silence.

  Too sudden. Too complete. Like someone closed a door that was never closed.

  Something's wrong, Ryota concludes.

  His heart hammers. He crosses his room in three steps, cracks his door open.

  The hallway is empty. Yui's door is closed. Light underneath.

  It's fine. Everything's fine. He's just saying goodnight, he assured himself.

  But his feet are already moving.

  More sounds. Furniture scraping. A thud against the wall.

  "Dad, stop—" Yui begs.

  Struggling. Something crashes.

  A muffled scream.

  "YUI!" Ryota yells at her door, yanking the handle. Locked.

  "YUI!" He pounds on it. "DAD, OPEN THE DOOR!"

  Inside, Ryota hears another sound. Weaker. Desperate.

  The gun. Dad's study. The cabinet, Ryota remembers.

  Ryota's moving before he can think. Down the hall, into the study. His hands shake so badly he fumbles the combination twice.

  4-7-2-9. Come on. COME ON, Ryota thinks as he opens the safe.

  The cabinet clicks open. The shotgun is heavier than he expected. Cold. Real.

  Ryota thinks, I've never held a gun before. I don't know what I'm doing I don't know what I'm—

  His hands load it on autopilot. Muscle memory from watching action movies. From video games. From a life that suddenly feels very far away.

  He runs back. Yui's door is still locked.

  Another scream. This one cuts off halfway.

  "YUI!" he screams, kicking the door.

  Pain explodes in his foot. The door doesn't budge.

  He backs up. Charges. His shoulder hits wood.

  The frame splinters and the door crashes inward.

  Everything happens in slow motion.

  His father turns. Belt in hand. Face red, eyes unfocused. There's blood on his knuckles.

  Yui lies on the bed. Her throat is bleeding. No, not just bleeding, but gushing. Her eyes are wide with terror, with pain, with something Ryota will see in nightmares for the rest of his life.

  "Ryota—" she tries to say his name, but blood bubbles from her lips instead.

  His father's face twists. "Boy, this isn't—"

  Ryota raises the gun. His whole body is shaking but the barrel is steady.

  Ryota thinks, This is my father. This is my father. This is—

  BANG.

  The sound is deafening. Ryota’s ears ring.

  Blood splatters the wall. His father staggers backward, clutching his shoulder, mouth open in shock.

  "You little—" He looks down at the wound. At the blood pouring between his fingers. "You shot me. You actually—"

  "You bitch!" Ryota’s father yells now, turning to Yui like this is somehow her fault. "You tipped them off! You were supposed to keep your mouth —"

  BANG.

  His father crumples onto the floor like a puppet with cut strings.

  Ryota thinks, unsure of

  to think.

  The ringing in his ears drowns out everything else.

  He stands there, frozen. Gun hanging from his hands.

  I shot him. I actually shot him, Ryota realizes.

  Ryota should feel something. Relief. Victory. Anything.

  Instead there's just... emptiness. A vast hollow space where emotion should be.

  His father's eyes are still open. Staring at the ceiling. At nothing.

  He's really dead. I killed him. I killed my own father, Ryota repeats.

  "Ryota..." a voice whispers below.

  His head snaps toward the bed.

  “Yui,” Ryota says silently before dropping the gun and running to her.

  "Yui, hey, look at me—" His hands hover over the wound on her throat. Blood pulses between his fingers when he tries to press down. Too much blood. "I'm gonna call—where's my phone? Where's—"

  "Ryota." Her voice is barely a whisper. Wet. Wrong.

  "Don't talk, just—" His vision blurs. When did he start crying? "You're gonna be fine, I just need to—"

  Her hand rises. Shaking. Touches his cheek.

  Ryota thinks.

  "You... saved me..." she says, smiling. Each word takes effort. Each word is clearly painful.

  "No, Yui, don't—" He's sobbing now, full on sobbing. "Please don't leave me here, I can't do this without you, I can't—"

  Her eyes are already unfocused. Looking through him instead of at him. Seeing something he can't.

  "Run..." she whispers. Just a breath. Barely a sound.

  Then, nothing.

  Her hand falls awkwardly.

  "Yui?" Ryota asks, shaking her shoulder gently. "Yui, come on. Don't do this. Please don't—YUI!"

  Her chest doesn't move.

  "No no no no—" He presses his ear to her chest. Listening for a heartbeat. For anything. "You can't—I saved you, I you—"

  But the only heartbeat he hears is his own. Thundering. Panicking. Alive while hers is—

  "WAKE UP!" He shakes her harder now. Her head lolls to the side. "Please! I'll do anything! Just wake up! WAKE UP! I did THIS for YOU! ALL OF IT! I wouldn’t have KILLED him for MYSELF!"

  The room is so quiet.

  All that is heard is his ragged breathing - as his voice runs out - and the drip of blood hitting the floor.

  Ryota slides off the bed. His legs give out. He hits the floor hard and stares at his sister's body.

  I was supposed to save her. That's why I came in here. That's why I got the gun. I was supposed to SAVE her, he thinks, unsure of whether to feel frustration, anger, or despair. If I'd been faster. If I'd acted sooner. If I'd just—

  His father's corpse lies in a spreading pool of blood.

  The man who did this. Who hurt her. Who killed her.

  Ryota stares at the body.

  He deserved it, Ryota thinks distantly. He deserved worse.

  The thought should scare him. The fact that he feels nothing should terrify him.

  Instead, he just sits there in his sister's blood, staring at his father's body, feeling absolutely nothing at all.

  What's wrong with me? Why can't I feel anything? Ryota tries to understand.

  Time disappears.

  Could be minutes. Could be hours. The blood around him is starting to dry, turning tacky and brown.

  Then, sirens sound far away, but getting closer.

  Someone heard the gunshots. Someone called the police, Ryota thinks as reality crashes back.

  "No," Ryota says, his voice sounds hollow. "No, they'll see me. Covered in blood. Gun on the floor beside me. My father and sister dead.”

  His mind races. Self-defense, part of his brain argues. He was hurting her. I had to— His friends will make sure I never see trial. They'll make sure I have an "accident" in custody. Or they'll twist it somehow. They’ll say I came home and killed them both. Say I'm disturbed. Say I—

  The sirens are louder now.

  Ryota staggers to his feet. His legs barely work. He falls, catches himself on the doorframe, and tries again.

  “Where? Where can I possibly go?” Ryota asks himself.

  Run. Yui said run, he thinks.

  He stumbles out of the room.

  he thinks.

  Down the hall. The house feels like a tomb. Every corner holds memories. Yui helping him with homework. Yui covering for him when Dad came home drunk. Yui promising it would get better someday.

  Out the back door.

  The night air hits him like a slap. Cold. Sharp. Real.

  Behind him, red and blue lights paint the neighboring houses.

  He runs.