The wind howled between the broken pillars of the underground, kicking up dust as the three figures pressed forward through the dimly lit tunnels. Amatsu's footfalls were silent, a phantom moving with purpose. Behind him, Oyama and Eto followed, their presence distinct in contrast—one a calculating survivor, the other a creature of chaos wrapped in a child's body.
"How long before we reach the base?" Amatsu asked without turning his head.
Oyama exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders. "Two more days running east. No one from the Vultures knows about it. We'll be safe there."
"Safe?" Eto echoed with a grin, her voice carrying a mocking lilt. "That's a funny word for us, don't you think?"
Amatsu halted. His gaze flickered in the half-light. The plan shifted in his mind, sharp as a blade turning mid-swing.
Change of plan.
Safety was the illusion of the weak. He was done waiting.
Hiding meant security—but only for a time. Safety was an illusion measured in moments. Eventually, something would find them. If he was racing against time, why let the enemy dictate the terms? Why wait for the hunt to begin when he could be the one pulling the trigger?
If I die, I die. But I will not wait. I will devour first.
This decision wasn't impulsive. It had been lurking in the back of his mind, waiting for the right moment. He had seen it before—prey that waited to be hunted, clinging to shadows, thinking silence could save them. They were wrong.
He turned, his gaze locking onto Oyama.
Perfect.
A tool forged by experience. A weapon waiting to be used.
"We're changing course." Amatsu's voice was a low murmur, calm as still water. "We hunt."
Oyama's brow twitched, but he said nothing. The boy's presence was unnerving, as if the air around him had shifted.
"One by one. We pick them off."
He turned to Oyama. "Where?"
A pause. Oyama's expression was unreadable, but his mind was already turning. He had spent years navigating the Vultures, understanding their patterns, their strengths, their weaknesses. A direct assault was suicide. But an isolated group? That was different.
Finally, he exhaled. "There's a sector west of here. Patrols are light. Four to six at most. Isolated."
Amatsu nodded. A hunting ground.
Eto clapped her hands together, giggling. "Ooooh, I love this plan! Mmm. So much better than hiding. I wonder… do we get trophies? Or just the screams?"
She was playing, but there was something in her voice—an excitement barely hidden beneath the laughter. She wasn't just humoring him. She meant it. The thrill of the unknown, the absurdity of their situation—it delighted her.
Oyama, however, remained silent as they moved. His thoughts churned, tangled and relentless.
This boy…
He had thought Amatsu was just another survivor, another lost soul clawing for purpose. But now—
No fear.
No hesitation.
Or perhaps he had fear but strangled it into submission, crushed it beneath his heel, made it a thing to be used rather than suffered.
A child who walked like death incarnate.
Oyama had known monsters. He had led them, fought beside them, killed them. But Amatsu was different. Not a beast, not a demon, but something far colder.
Perhaps following him had been the right choice.
A wolf was dangerous. A lion, too.
But something that did not fear death? That was something far worse.
Something inevitable.
Then, another thought crept into Oyama's mind.
Hawk.
One of the Vulture leaders. A nightmare draped in flesh, spoken of in whispers. It was said he could kill a hundred ghouls in a single night. A monster among monsters. Oyama had seen him once, standing atop a mound of bodies, crimson eyes gleaming beneath the pale glow of the underground lights. The air had smelled of iron and rot, and Hawk had barely looked winded.
He remembered the fear that had curled in his gut that day. A realization that some things were simply beyond reason, beyond resistance.
And yet… Amatsu walked forward, unbothered. As if even Hawk was just another piece on the board, waiting to be moved or taken.
Oyama exhaled, his grip tightening. He had followed men before. But this boy—
This boy was something else entirely.
As they moved toward their hunting ground, Amatsu's mind worked in silence, mapping out the next steps.
They couldn't just strike blindly. Timing was everything. Escape was everything. A hunt wasn't just about the kill—it was about control.
"Oyama," Amatsu said quietly. "What's their rotation like?"
Oyama blinked, snapping out of his thoughts. "Hmm?"
"The patrols. Do they move in set shifts?"
A pause. Then, a nod. "Yeah. They rotate every six hours. The switch happens near the tunnels connecting the lower sectors."
Amatsu processed this. "That means there's a gap before reinforcement arrives."
"About twenty minutes," Oyama confirmed. "If we move fast, we can finish before the next group notices."
Good. A clean hunt. But a clean hunt meant a clean escape.
Amatsu's gaze flicked to the walls, the ceiling, the cracks in the structure around them. Every battlefield had an exit.
"Oyama," he said, voice steady. "If things go wrong, how do we get out?"
Oyama's brow furrowed. "There's an old drainage system two sectors west. Leads down into the collapsed tunnels. It's tight, but it can get us out unseen."
"Any chance of it being watched?"
"Not likely," Oyama said. "It's unstable. Most people avoid it."
Perfect. Risky, but usable.
Amatsu turned, gaze sharp. "We set up here," he gestured toward the narrowing path ahead, "right before they exit the main tunnel. They'll be boxed in. No escape."
Eto grinned, skipping ahead slightly, turning on her heel to face them as she walked backward. "So what's the plan? Rip and tear? Ambush? Oh! Maybe we could set a nice little trap and watch them squirm."
Amatsu considered. Traps were unnecessary. That implied waiting. Letting the enemy think they had a chance.
"Ambush," he decided. "We strike hard and fast. No survivors."
Eto pouted. "Awww, no survivors? But I like when they beg."
She was teasing, but there was a glint in her eye. A hunger of her own. Amatsu understood it. He felt it too.
"Begging is just noise," he said simply. "We eat. We move."
Oyama watched their exchange in silence. Something cold settled in his gut.
He had underestimated the girl, too.
Not just Amatsu.
Both of them.
The wind picked up again, dust swirling around their feet as they neared their destination. Oyama rolled his shoulders, exhaling slowly. He had survived this long by making the right choices, by aligning himself with power.
Eto twirled as she walked, arms swinging carelessly at her sides, her steps light despite the heavy air pressing down on them.
She was playing. Always playing.
Oyama had seen ghouls under pressure. He had seen what hunger did, what desperation did. It stripped them down to their bones, reduced them to nothing but instinct and need. They became beasts, snarling, ravenous things that clawed and chewed at anything they could reach.
But these two…
These two were something else entirely.
Eto, with her laughter, her teasing words, the way she found amusement in every dark corner. She didn't just survive—she reveled in it. There was no fear in her, no hesitation. If she was afraid, she wore it like a mask, twisted it into something unrecognizable.
She was unpredictable. Dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with brute strength. She wasn't just playing with words—she was playing with everything. The situation, the hunt, the life-and-death stakes of it all.
And Amatsu?
Amatsu wasn't playing.
He moved with a certainty that should have belonged to someone much older. No wasted words, no wasted actions. He made decisions like a butcher sharpening his knife, cutting away hesitation, carving a path forward with absolute clarity. If Eto was chaos wrapped in a child's skin, Amatsu was something colder—something inevitable.
Oyama swallowed, his fingers twitching against his palm.
If starving ghouls were insane, driven to madness by their hunger, then what were these two?
Hunger did not control them. Fear did not chain them. They moved forward without hesitation, as if they had already accepted everything—pain, death, the nature of their existence.
Amatsu's gaze lingered on Oyama, unblinking, sharp as broken glass. The silence stretched, thickening like blood left to clot. Eto had drifted off ahead, skipping through the darkness with her own erratic rhythm, but Amatsu remained fixed in place, eyes locked onto the older ghoul.
"Oyama." His voice was quiet. Deceptively calm. "You said there's a gap between rotations. Twenty minutes."
"Yes," Oyama replied, his throat dry.
"Good." Amatsu's stare cut deeper. "Then we'll need you to lure them. Bring them to the choke point. Alone."
Oyama stiffened.
Silence.
"Me?"
Amatsu didn't answer. Didn't need to.
The word hit Oyama like a slap, but Amatsu continued before he could protest.
"You'll tell them you saw something. Maybe a straggler. Something weak. An easy kill. The kind of prey they can't resist." Amatsu's lips curled slightly. "If you're convincing, they'll come running. And when they do, we'll be waiting."
Oyama felt his chest tighten. "And if they catch on?"
"They won't," Amatsu replied, dismissive. "But if they do…" His gaze turned colder, more calculating. "Then you'll be the first to die. Your choice."
A knife-edge ultimatum wrapped in quiet civility. No threat. Just fact.
Oyama's mind churned, instinct screaming at him to argue, to push back. But Amatsu's stare held him there, pinned like an insect on glass. Cold, indifferent, watching for weakness.
This was a test.
If he refused, Amatsu would discard him without hesitation. He'd be nothing but meat. But if he accepted—if he proved useful—then he remained necessary. And necessity was survival.
"…I can do it," Oyama said, the words forced from his throat. "I'll bring them."
Eto's eyes lit up, her grin stretching with manic delight. "Aw, Oyama! You're like one of those brave little mice who volunteers to ring the cat's neck." She clasped her hands together, swaying side to side like a delighted child. "Squeak, squeak! 'Please, mister ghouls don't eat me! I'm far too clever to end up as bird food!'"
She giggled, the sound bright and jagged, slicing through the stale air.
But she didn't stop there.
Instead, she slumped her shoulders, curling her arms around herself with a pathetic, trembling shudder. Her voice pitched high and reedy, a grotesque imitation of Oyama's own strained tone.
"'Oh no, Amatsu! I'm just a helpless little nobody! A scrawny rat scurrying through the dark, begging for a scrap of mercy!'" She stumbled forward, limbs twitching, her knees knocking together with cartoonish exaggeration. "'But—but I'll do it! I'll be so good, I swear! I'll bring you all the plump, tasty morsels you could ever want!'"
She threw herself to the ground with dramatic flair, hands clawing at the dirt as if struggling to crawl. "'Just give me one more chance! Just one more! I'll prove myself! I'll bring you the juiciest, fattest little ghouls! All packed up and ready to be torn apart!'"
Eto paused, her face twisted into a grotesque mask of terror. Her eyes darted around, pupils twitching, as if seized by paranoid frenzy. "'Oh no, what if they catch me? What if they laugh at me? What if Amatsu sees what a miserable little failure I am?'"
She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in like she was sharing a secret. "'Or worse... what if Eto makes fun of me again?'"
Her own laughter cut through the air like a rusty blade, the sound shrill and giddy. But her performance wasn't over.
She sprang to her feet, stumbling and lurching like a marionette with its strings pulled wrong. Her voice cracked, high-pitched and wheedling. "'Please! I'll do anything! Grovel in the dirt, crawl through the blood, sell out every last fool who trusts me! Whatever it takes to be useful!'"
Her arms flailed with wild, exaggerated motions. "'And then—and then—maybe they'll let me eat, maybe they'll let me live!'"
She clutched her chest, faking a dramatic swoon. "'Oh, what a noble little rat! Scurrying so hard, thinking it's earned a place among wolves!'"
Eto collapsed into a pile of giggles, rolling onto her back and kicking her legs like a child in the throes of joy. "You're so serious, Oyama! So desperate! It's adorable. Like watching a worm try to dance."
Oyama's face twisted with fury, his fists clenched tight enough to drive nails into his palms. "Shut up," he snapped, voice strangled. "I said I'll do it."
Eto pushed herself upright, wiping fake tears from her eyes with an exaggerated sniffle. "Oh, you will, you will! So reliable, our little scavenger. But you know…" Her grin sharpened, the playful edge curling into something crueler. "You've got the charisma of a dead rat, Oyama. But who knows, maybe that's exactly what they're into." She winked. "Rotting flesh has a certain… appeal."
Eto leaned close. Too close.
"I think…"
A pause. Her smile didn't move, but her voice dropped—honey sweet, yet empty.
"…you were born for this role."
Then she turned.
Hopped once.
And skipped off into the dark.
No farewell. No laugh.
Just the echo of her voice, fading through the tunnels:
"Squeak, squeak, squeak…"
Before Oyama could respond, Amatsu turned away, already moving to where Eto waited, her laughter echoing down the tunnel like the clinking of broken glass.
Oyama stood there a moment longer, the chill of Amatsu's words still pressing against his skin. His fingers twitched, the tension coiling through his nerves.
This boy…
And now, he was part of it.