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The first time Junichirou uses his ability, he’s ten years old and scared of his father’s drunken anger, and just wants to disappear. Snowflakes fall gently around him, soothing, concealing, and he squeezes his eyes shut and waits. But his father passes him by, as if he can’t see a thing. Junichirou later understands that his ability is perfect for hiding, but his sister doesn’t have an ability. She only has her defiance, and that earns her a black eye and a broken arm.
So the second time Junichirou uses his ability, and the third, and so many times after that, it’s to make sure his father doesn’t lay a hand on his sister. He can endure anything, so long as he has Naomi. She’s his strength, the only real family he has, and for her, he would watch the world burn.
“I hate what he does to you,” Naomi says. Junichirou is twelve and bleeding on the back of his shoulder, from getting shoved into the sharp edge of the countertop. They sit together on either side of the bathroom sink, and she dabs alcohol on the edge of his wound with practiced ease.
“It’s all right. I don’t mind, really. So long as you’re safe,” Junichirou assures her.
“What does it matter if I’m safe? How can I be happy when I know my brother is getting hurt for me?” She throws the bloodstained tissue into the trashcan with more force than she’d intended, then reminds herself that she is a lady, that she is gentle, that she isn’t supposed to be angry.
“I can take it. I’m stronger than you, and it’s an older brother’s job to protect his little sister.” He winces as she rubs antibiotic cream on the wound, but turns around and gives her a smile nonetheless. “I’m glad I have you to patch me up afterwards, Naomi.”
“I wish I didn’t have to!”
“I know,” he says.
And then, quietly, “I wish he was dead so he couldn’t hurt anyone. I’m a terrible daughter, but that’s what I want.”
Junichirou reaches out with his good arm and places a hand on her shoulder. “I know. I do too. But we’re not strong enough.”
And that’s the thing: Naomi wants to be strong enough, wants it so much it aches. But she’s not strong. She shrieks at horror movies and wrinkles her nose at the idea of getting sweaty; she likes sewing clothes for her stuffed animals and seeing how many braids she can make in her hair before she gets bored. She’s not strong, not in any way. She never has been.
But she wants it, and girls like her have a way of getting what they want.
That night, she steals a knife from the kitchen and hides it under her mattress. She likes the feel of metal, the brush of her skin against the blade, the hypnotic way it can cut through fabric and paper when she tests it. But most of all, she likes the promise of strength.
Naomi is twelve, and a slender, pretty thing. Boys and girls alike fight over who gets to sit next to her; her long hair is the envy of the class, and her dazzling smile is enough to keep her out of trouble. She is growing from a girl to a young woman, and accepts this change with grace and dignity. She can sew wounds and clothing with equal dexterity, and carries a sharp pair of sewing scissors wherever she goes.
Naomi is twelve, and already there is violence in her heart. She does not apologize in earnest; she knows how to pull and twist the heartstrings of those around her like puppets. She laughs with the other girls and calls them friends, but they don’t know her, not really. She no longer regrets her wish that her father dies.
Naomi is not strong, but she is fast and sharp, like the knife in her hand when she practices in front of the mirror. Slashing, again and again, precise and unrelenting. The emptiness in her eyes scares her, but it isn’t what haunts her nightmares. No, that honor belongs to her father, the man who’s supposed to protect them. Parents should protect their children, and in turn, older brothers should take care of their little sisters. But Naomi’s family is upside down, twisted beyond recognition, so it’s only her and Junichirou holding onto each other.
Junichirou is fourteen, and he is gentle. He cooks for them every night and buys sweets with his meager allowance and hides his bruises with her concealer. He no longer cries out when he’s in pain, just ruffles her hair and tells her not to worry.
Naomi doesn’t want to worry. She wants to lash out and do something. Her father is too strong, so for now, she will play the part of a diligent daughter. But she has influence at school; she is popular and pretty and well connected. So when she hears that her brother is being bullied, she takes action. She gathers information, finding the ringleader, and bumps into him by ‘accident.’
The way he grins at her is disgusting, far too much like her father. This is a boy who delights in tormenting people like Junichirou to defend his own fragile masculinity, and she craves to inflict the same violence on him. But she is much too pragmatic to consider such a thing, and decides to let him off with a warning.
It’s almost pitiful how easily he falls for her trap— the push and pull of feigned bashfulness, of hesitation, of flirtatious glances and playing with her hair. They walk home together, his eyes roaming over her chest, and he doesn’t suspect a thing when she suggests they take a shortcut. Doesn’t even try to stop her when they’re alone and she presses him up against the wall, their breath mingling.
She knows what he wants. He wants to hurt Junichirou through her. But Naomi swore she would be his strength, never his weakness, and she takes out her little scissors and hurts him before he can do any more damage to her family of two.
“My brother means the world to me, so don’t forget that,” she whispers, slicing into his collarbone. Marking him. He cries out in pain and surprise, eyes wide and uncomprehending. Naomi wipes the blades clean on his shirt, presses down hard on his windpipe for good measure, and walks away.
The boy doesn’t bother Naomi or her brother again. And because Naomi is becoming a young woman, she knows how to get the bloodstains out of her clothes.
Junichirou is fifteen, and he falls in love with a boy. He doesn’t tell anyone; the teasing is bad enough without it. He knows he isn’t exactly masculine; he likes cooking and classical music and wears his sweaters too big and his hair with silver clips. The bullying was awful before Naomi confronted the boy who started it, and since then, it’s been reduced to whispers behind his back.
He’s always been a dreamer, even before his ability manifested and allowed him to bring those dreams into a space that others could see. But how can he dream of love when he is stretched thin, when his trust will not allow anyone else into his life?
He falls in love with a girl, and she feels the same, offering him sweets and boxed lunches. But it never goes beyond shy glances and fingers touching, and eventually she loses interest. He’s sorry to see her go, but even more so that he led her on. He watches from a distance, and moves on, and keeps moving.
Junichirou is fifteen, and he falls in love over and over and over. Maybe in another life, he could savor this feeling, call it beautiful. In another life, he could stare out a window and yearn and write soft poetry for a fleeting, ephemeral thing like this emotion. But that is not his fate. In this life, in this time, he cannot love without fear of loss, and fear of losing his sister already haunts him as surely as his own shadow.
Naomi is fourteen, and doesn’t recognize the girl in the mirror. She thinks she’s lost something, something vital, and she’s hollow now. She doesn’t feel anything at all, except when she’s around her brother. And he, he can’t relax unless he knows she’s safe. There’s a secret passage between their rooms now, tunneled through the plaster, that connects the back of her wardrobe with a drawer of his dresser, and if they don’t say good night, neither one will sleep much.
The need to be near him is a compulsion, as desperate as her need to feel safe, and she knows this isn’t healthy. This level of codependency could break her, and all it would take is time apart. She can safely say she’d watch the world burn for Junichirou, and she knows he would do the same. Too many late nights she’s crawled through his dresser when he’s curled up on his bed, too weak to move, and taken care of him. She’s kept him alive, damnit.
Is she still alive? Her heart beats, but can she really call herself a person? Has she lost that right?
No. She never lost this. Her father took it from her. She wants it back. She wants it, wants it, because girls like her have a way of getting what they want, she’s going to take it. So what if she loses her humanity? It’s worth it. And Junichirou still has his, even if the light in his eyes grows duller by the day.
The knife sits heavy in her hand.
Junichirou is sixteen when his sister offers him an ultimatum.
“We can’t stay here anymore. Either we make a plan to leave in the night, or I’m going to do something I can’t take back.”
“You mean killing.”
“I do.” Her face is blank, hands trembling, eyes wet with unshed tears. “I get angrier every day. He’s breaking you, brother. He’s so close.”
“I can take it!” Junichirou insists.
“No. You can’t.”
“Maybe not.” He’s silent as he considers. “I’m scared to leave all of this behind.”
“And I’m scared he’s going to kill you one of these days!” Naomi cries out suddenly. “Did you ever think about that? Did you ever think that someday you might die and leave me behind because he hits you too hard? Or that someday I’m going to look in your eyes and they’ll be empty, because all the life has drained out of you?”
“Naomi, please,” he begs, but she isn’t finished.
“I’m going to kill him. I’m going to slit his throat and watch his last words be a curse or a plea for mercy, and there won’t be any. It’s taken all the mercy I have to watch him hurt you and do nothing, and now there’s nothing left in me. I’m going to rip him apart and I’m going to enjoy it, and, and...” She chokes back a sob. “And it won’t matter at all. Nothing will matter if you’re gone.”
“Hey, don’t cry,” Junichirou says gently, holding his arms open. “Let’s give it a week or so to plan, okay? We’ll pack everything we need, see what we can steal without him noticing, and make sure we can do this.”
“One week,” Naomi says into his shoulder. “One week, and we’re gone.”
Naomi is demure and sweet, the envy of the school and a classical beauty. Junichirou is calm and polite, always ready to lend a helping hand. They get good grades and never start fights; really, the pair of them are model students.
So when the fire alarm is pulled, no one suspects them. When the Tanizaki siblings smile at the respective teachers and offer, I’ll walk in back and make sure no one is left behind, no one suspects them. When they disappear after the evacuation, no one dreams of calling them out for skipping class. It’s assumed that they got lost or something, and it isn’t until their worried friends say that both cell phone numbers are out of commission that people start to worry.
The police are called, and it’s declared a kidnapping case for a time. But in investigating the Tanizaki home, what they find speaks of violence. There are flecks of blood on the walls, shards of glass in the carpet, and the stench of alcohol permeates the very air. Naomi’s schoolbooks are in the closet, her sock drawer empty, and her search history full of violence and poison. Junichirou is hardly any better; his room is lit up like the milky way under luminol, his dresser conceals a clawed out passageway to his sister’s room, and his former bullies are mysteriously silent when questioned.
What disrespectful children, abandoning their father, people say. Even if their house was full of violence and pain, family is family. Surely their father loved them deep down, and could be redeemed?
Junichirou and Naomi, hidden under Light Snow on a bus headed out of town, hear more than people think. It’s not often that children go missing, and their story has been sensationalized by the media frenzy, turning their story into some sort of divisive tragedy that could have been averted.
Junichirou holds his sister close until her knife hand stops shaking, and promises himself that someday, he’ll be far away where these rumors can’t touch him anymore.
Yokohama is a city of conflict and darkness, the cheerful daytime façade hiding a deep and dark criminal underground. Ability users hardly stand out; the most dangerous ones may be shunted into government protection services or snatched off the street by gangs, but for the most part, they can lead ordinary lives here. No one is entirely what they seem, and the strict black and white or morality fades to a canvas of overcast grey. Any news of the outside world is quickly swallowed up by the latest local legend, whether it be a cryptid that defends children or a smiling teen in black who wades through blood.
In other words, it’s the perfect place to disappear.
Junichiro and Naomi stumble off the bus, hair greasy and legs unsteady from travel. Leaning on each other for support, they make their way to a small hotel, using some of their cash to rent a room. It doesn’t matter that the sink drips or that the mattress is missing a few springs; all that matters is that the door locks and the curtains close and there’s warm water and soap to shower with. Naomi takes the bathroom first, sobbing on the floor of the shower as every emotion from the past few days catches up with her. Her nails are curled deep into her arms, breath shaking and heaving as the water pounds above her.
Junichirou moves the dresser in front of the door, then the chair, the desk, even the lamp before he realizes what he’s doing. But he can’t have anyone bursting in; he can’t risk this small amount of safety they’ve found, and his chest feels tight the idea. He’s tired, so tired, but he can’t sleep. Not when there might be enemies nearby. Not when everyone is an enemy. Everyone but Naomi. She’s only a room away, but he misses her already.
He curls up in the room’s single bed, listening to the shower run. He can’t remember a time when his arms have been this free of bruises, and for some reason, that scares him. His unblemished skin seems to accuse him, and Naomi’s knife glints impassively. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to hurt. But he’s forgotten how to live without it.
Naomi’s eyes are red and swollen when she emerges from the bathroom, drowning in Junichirou’s hoodie. Still, she puts on a brave face and offers her hairbrush to Junichirou, who takes it without question. She’s always had beautiful hair, but she’s much too impatient to do anything with it. Junichirou is the one who combs it for her, every night.
She sits in front of him, and relaxes for the first time all day as he gently works out the tangles, pausing twice in the process to clean the brush. When he’s finished, he starts to braid it, never tugging too hard, hardly a strand out of place.
“What should we do now?” Junichiro asks when he’s finished.
“I want to become the monster I feel like, and make sure there aren’t any more kids like us,” she says. “I want to slit someone’s throat and feel their blood coursing over my hands until it runs dry. I want to burn the world and walk through the ashes.”
“Naomi, please.”
“I just want to feel safe. I’m so scared all the time; I can’t even sleep without a knife. Can’t we do something? Anything?”
Junichiro wants to tell her that yes, of course. They can ruin this world together and then finally shed the tears they’ve been holding back. But he is a patchwork wreck held together by her threads, and he can’t fall apart while she still needs him.
“Let’s make a place where we can feel safe,” he says. He knows she can see the makeshift barricade he’s built by the door, but she doesn’t comment.
“You can shower next. I’m going to bed.”
The media circus continues, going on to interview anyone who had known the Tanizaki siblings as a friend. Some say they saw it coming, unable to comprehend the idea that their own ignorance led to this. Others say they wish they’d known, but they saw the signs all along and ignored them. As more and more comes to light, it is understood that no one, no one at all, truly knew Naomi and Junichirou.
But people in Yokohama know the legends. About something that creeps around at night, stealing from the unworthy and dragging sins into truth. No one can quite agree on a name or face; some say it’s a beast cloaked in shadow, or an invisible youkai without even a presence. For two years, the citizens come to know this cryptid. They tell of a shadow cloaked by snow, who walks as a wolf among sheep, who turns over ancient stones so that all may see the crawling, festering rot that now withers beneath the scorching, righteous sun.
There’s a beautiful girl, too, who flits around this legend like a moth around a flame. Have you heard, have you heard? She says, easily slipping into the hallways of their schools. She wears their uniform like a second skin and a smile like a knife. I heard a rumor about hope! If your parents take away all hope, leave an orange lily on your door. Even a drawing will do!
Have you heard, have— she stutters like broken clockwork, bleeding black. Have you heard? Their sins will be brought to light.
No one knows her name, but she flits from one circle to the next so easily, with such a cheerful expression that their eyes pass over her unfamiliar features.
Have you heard? This time, it’s a brown haired girl with freckles who speaks. About the father of the Tanizaki siblings who were in the news last year.
What have you heard? Asks the girl among them with the too-sharp smile.
I heard he got drunk and stumbled into a busy road at night. He was dead by the time the paramedics arrived.
Naomi laughs suddenly, breaking the strange spell resting across the group. Suddenly it’s all too clear that she is an outsider, that she stole her uniform, that she is dangerous.
“I hope it was bloody. I hope it hurt.”
Have you heard? Naomi asks, tilting her head. Her pale skin glows like porcelain beneath the moonlight, and she doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t flinch at the man’s slow approach. Bad things happen to adults that try to stop us. You should leave, before it’s too late.
I have heard of you, the man acknowledges, dipping his head. You’re trying to make a change, but you are still a child.
I don’t need you! She cries, breaking from her script. We don’t need anyone controlling our lives.
I’m not here to control you.
Then what do you want? She holds her knife as easily as a makeup brush.
I want to offer you and your brother security. We can help you make a difference.
I don’t trust you, she hisses, at the man with grey hair and a face that doesn’t change.
I understand. The adults in your life have let you down. He gets down on one knee, a sheathed sword poking out from his traditional robes. Please allow me a chance to do better.
Let me talk to my brother. She is shaking. He’ll know what to do.
Come back to this place when you’ve made your decision. I’ll wait here tomorrow night.
Naomi is sixteen years old, and finally she has something like a home. For her brother, she would watch the world burn. But for the people who saved them both, she can finally allow herself to be soft, like she was when she was ten years old and crying to no one at all.
But being soft is not so easily; the lines of her hands are filled with blood and harsh memories of yelling and violence. She is not a child anymore, but she is not an adult, either. She’s become something else, strayed from the beaten path of maturity into the brambles that are now her home.
No Longer Human, Dazai calls his ability. Strangely, the phrase feels like home on her lips when she whispers, I am no longer human.
Junichirou is eighteen years old, and waiting for Ranpo to join him on a case, when Atsushi comes instead.
He should have known that this wasn’t an accident. Because Junichirou knows what it’s like to see the broken body of the man who raised you, the man who hurt you, the man who you feared all your life. He doesn’t know Atsushi well; sure, they’re casual acquaintances, a bit closer than most by virtue of being similar in age and temperament, but that barely scratches the surface.
He buys a hot chocolate for each of them, something warm and sweet to keep the shock at bay, and sits next to Atsushi while he cries. He’s quiet, like if he sobbed too loudly he’d be beaten. Junichirou knows the feeling well, but he doesn’t know how to comfort him.
“Can I touch you?” he asks at one point.
“No,” Atsushi mumbles, face buried in the tangle of limbs he’s folded himself into. A few minutes later, he draws his head out. “Thank you for, um, asking, though. Most people don’t.”
“Yeah, guess I’m not most people.” Junichirou’s drink has long since gone cold, but he can’t bring himself to do anything about it. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
“No. I’m tired.”
“Want me to get you some water?” Crying dehydrates you quite a bit, something he learned the hard way when he was locked in his room as punishment.
“Please leave me alone.”
“Okay.” Text me if you need anything, Junichirou wants to say, but he supposes there’s only so much you can do. He slaps a bandaid on his bleeding heart and takes the train home, wondering if he has any right to be pained by this secondhand grief. It feels like his chest is about to collapse.
Naomi’s self restraint lasts not even a full 24 hours before she decides to confront Atsushi about what happened. It’s not hard to find him; living in the dorms, she knows his route and camps out in front of his door.
“So. I heard about what happened from my big brother.”
“Oh.” Atsushi looks away, keys spinning around the ring in his fingers. “He told you, then?”
“Yeah, but he didn’t tell you that our dad was abusive. He died about a year ago.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
Naomi scoffs. “Don’t be. I’m not. Now my brother and I don’t have to be scared of him anymore.”
“Did you cry for him?”
“I haven’t cried in a long time. Not for real, that is.” There’s some foreign sensation in her chest as Naomi says, “We twist ourselves away from the shape of humans to survive, Atsushi. I would have killed that man if I could. Don’t compare yourself to me, not when you’ve still got a lot more heart than I do.”
He stares at her as if seeing for the first time. “That’s not true! You’re always so vibrant and full of life, and expressive, and happy!”
“Is that how it looks?” She whips out her little butterfly knife, flicking it open and closed with a perfectly blank expression. “I’ve stabbed a man before, and I’d do it again. Calling me human is a cruelty beyond your anything your claws can inflict, and if you do it again, I won’t hesitate. That tiger of yours won’t leave any evidence.”
“Why?”
“I told you. We twist ourselves away from the shape of humans to survive. I didn’t ask to be like this, but it’s how I am, and I won’t apologize for it. Maybe someday I’ll be more of a person, like I used to be when I was little. But until then, I’m sorry I scared you.” She folds the knife, tucking it away once more. “C’mon. I want to show you something. Don’t worry; I’m not going to hurt you. That was mostly for show.”
“I really don’t understand you.”
“That’s fine.” She pulls him down the hallway and up the stairs, to the president’s office. Without bothering to knock, she throws open the door.
“I’m sorry!” Atsushi squeaks. Naomi just rolls her eyes.
“Hey, president. I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while, but my biological dad was a piece of shit and you’ve been a better father figure in a couple months than he was in his entire life. In honor of that, you’re my new dad.”
Fukuzawa nods. “Thank you. I’ll inform Ranpo that he has another sibling. Should I add Junichirou to that number as well?”
“You haven’t already? Damn.” She elbows Atsushi in the ribs, giving him a pointed look. ”On that note, Atsushi has something to tell you, right?”
He gives her a desperate look somewhere between I do??? and what is this hell you’ve dragged me into. “I, uh...”
Naomi sighs. She’s really gotta do everything herself, huh. “He’s in the same position as far as father figures go, and— ”
“Enough!” he blurts out. “I— thank you, for everything. For taking me in, and allowing me to be a part of this company. This place is the only family I’ve ever known, and I won’t forget that.”
“I’m honored that you would consider us family,” He replies evenly, with an expression that might be a smile if one was feeling particularly generous. “Naomi, please refrain from disclosing the details of your colleague’s past in the future.”
“My bad!” she says, without a trace of regret. “That’s all! Come on, Atsushi!”
“What was that for?” he demands. “I wasn’t— I wasn’t ready.”
“I was trying to make a point.” She pokes his chest. “My point is, you choose who your family is. No one else gets to decide that for you. If someone who’s supposed to be family doesn’t treat you right, cut them off or cut their throat, because they don’t deserve you. You deserve to have a family here and feel safe now that the awful man who raised you is dead.”
“And if I mourn for him?”
“That’s up to you. Personally, I wouldn’t, but I don’t think I can mourn anymore.” Because when Naomi was a little girl, she took a butterfly knife to her chest and cut out the piece of herself that was capable of mourning. Maybe someday it will push past the scar tissue, and she will cry for the children left in the dark. But today is not that day, nor tomorrow.