It was a small room, but full of an atmosphere of art.
The room wasn't dirty, but it was somewhat messy.
Oil paintings, watercolors, ink wash paintings, sketches… each piece carried its own special resonance. Even someone who didn't understand painting would still, unconsciously, let out an exclamation of awe, calling them works of art.
And yet, no one tended to them. They were simply tossed on the floor, the bed, the desk—left scattered like waste paper instead of being carefully placed. Someone who truly loved and cherished art might even feel pained, might sigh with regret at such a sight.
The styles varied. The colors were vibrant. Some portrayed storms. Some were figures. Some were nothing but abstract lines and shades. But each radiated a distinct charm, something deep and far-reaching—like abyss or deep sea. They seemed to draw in the gaze, and at the same time, as if something inside them was gazing back out.
Brushes, paint boxes, palettes, paper, sketchbooks—tools for painting jumbled together. Among the clutter, several art books lay open, their pages curled from being turned so many times.
"Mm…"
A sleepy murmur rose.
When she finally woke, Shimazaki Yuna realized she had fallen asleep slumped over her desk.
"Ah… I… what…"
She fumbled for a long moment before finding her glasses beneath a draft of an oil painting of sunflowers. Sliding them on, she saw the chaotic room clearly at last.
Fragmented memories reconnected. Yuna recalled what had happened.
"I was painting with Van Gogh… we got too into it, had too much fun, and forgot the time…"
The scattered drafts on the floor were their works together.
When they grew tired, they hadn't bothered to clean up the papers and tools. They had just flopped onto the desk and slept.
"Ah… come to think of it… where's Van Gogh?"
She looked around. At last she found her—still asleep—half-buried under drafts and a blanket in the corner.
Yuna hesitated. Should she wake her? Van Gogh clearly looked exhausted. But then she pulled open the curtains, and the realization hit.
Outside—no sunlight at all.
A creeping unease. She grabbed her phone, checked the time—and her premonition was confirmed.
No matter how tired Van Gogh was, Yuna could not leave her sleeping. She shook her in a rush.
"Van Gogh! Van Gogh! Wake up! The deadline's almost here! We haven't even touched this month's manga manuscript yet! Wake up!"
She shook her shoulders, patted her cheeks. At last, with Yuna's persistence, Van Gogh opened her eyes, looking at her with gaze veiled as though by fog.
"Mom… just let me sleep a little longer…"
"Who's your mom!"
,,,
Four hours later, after a long hot bath and a change of clothes, Yuna sat on the sofa watching TV. Van Gogh emerged from the room, telling her she had finished this month's manuscript.
"This time took a little longer… almost four hours."
"Ehehe… because Van Gogh was so sleepy… no energy…"
What took other manga artists an entire month of work—often with excuses to delay—Van Gogh had done in four hours. And yet she called it slow. If another mangaka had overheard, they might have shouted: "Are you people running Heaven's Factory while drawing manga or something?!"
"Mhm… no problem. Your draft is excellent, Van Gogh." Just to be safe, Yuna checked the manuscript herself, then smiled in praise. "I'll handle the detail polishing. Are you tired? Do you want to sleep again?"
"Ehehe… Van Gogh isn't tired." She laughed softly. "Someone likes Van Gogh's drawings… Van Gogh is happy… besides… Van Gogh really likes painting… Van Gogh is satisfied with this life… ufufu…"
"Is that so…"
Looking quietly at her smiling face, Yuna's own softened, her gentle eyes rippling with warmth.
"That makes me glad to hear. Then—paint, if you want. Or just sit here and watch TV. If you're hungry, there's fruit and snacks on the table."
With a few simple reminders, Yuna returned to her room to digitize Van Gogh's drafts and add minor adjustments.
It didn't take long. Not nearly as long as Van Gogh's four hours.
Work done, Yuna went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Van Gogh, meanwhile, sat on the sofa watching TV.
And then—the program on screen caught both their attention.
"Yuna, Yuna, look… that looks like the mall we went to last time, doesn't it?"
"…It really does…"
Water glass still in hand, Yuna walked behind the sofa, watching the news with Van Gogh.
The plaza, as if bombed. Windows shattered. Wreckage everywhere. Shocking, ghastly—something you could believe was a terrorist attack.
But the news gave a different reason...
...
"A gas explosion… I can't believe it…" Van Gogh stared blankly at the screen, voice heavy with sorrow. "It says some people were poisoned by the gas too. They're still unconscious in the hospital…"
"How terrifying. If we'd been caught in it, that would have been bad…" Yuna's voice floated from behind, so flat it carried no trace of emotion.
"Did you hear? That thing at Sunshine City…"
"Gas explosion, right? Yeah, I heard. Someone even died."
"It's because there are too many black-hearted companies. All they do is collect money and shirk responsibility. They slack off and let accidents happen. Now they've caused such a disaster—too late for regret…"
"Still feels strange to me. Sunshine City has been around for years—why a gas explosion now? And the government's attitude… feels strange too…"
"These days, accidents are happening too often. Not long ago, in Sugii Ward—Ōtaguro Park, and Yoyogi Park too—explosions. That time at Yoyogi, my friend was nearby. He saw it with his own eyes."
"Wasn't that supposed to be just a fight?"
"How could a simple brawl cause such a commotion? Someone said they saw something flying in the sky."
"Don't tell me it was a rocket? Has some foreign country finally attacked?"
On the narrow pedestrian street, people whispered to each other. Gossip was, after all, a human instinct.
Fueled by rumors and whatever the authorities fed them, they plunged into heated discussion, each voicing their own views.
Many of them were talking about the incident at Sunshine City. The uproar had been too great. Unlike the Ōtaguro Park and Yoyogi Park cases—both late at night, both largely deserted—Sunshine City had been different. Daylight. Crowds of people. And above all—people died.
In a society that respected life and championed peace under law, the death of even one person became an enormous incident. It could not be ignored.
Chattering with fervor, the passersby drifted past a small bookstore.
It was small, but crammed with books. Rows upon rows of shelves.
Wooden floor. Wooden shelves. Wooden ceiling.
The paths between the shelves were so narrow only one person could just barely pass. The air was dim, too—those towering shelves blocked out the light.
At this moment, there were only two people inside. One was the shop's owner, a balding middle-aged man slouched half-reclined in a chair by the entrance. The other, a girl in the corner, flipping through a book with total absorption, oblivious to all else.
She was a girl radiating a strange, sinister air.
Deep purple hair in braids. Thin, half-closed eyes that gave off an icy chill. A mouth lined with sharp shark-teeth, smiling in a taunting curl. She wore a red-and-black sailor uniform, torii-shaped earrings, and a Fool's Gold necklace with a parasitic crystal pendant. On her gloved hands, crimson pentagrams. Long socks striped red on black. Brown round-toed shoes.
Suddenly, she snapped her book shut. She didn't return it to the shelf. She tucked it under her arm, bolted straight for the door, and yanked it open.
The shopkeeper reacted at once, calling out to stop her.
"Wait… excuse me, miss."
One foot already out the door, the purple-haired girl turned back. Her slitted eyes fixed on him.
"Yes? What is it?"
"What do you mean what is it… you haven't paid, miss."
He was pointing at the book under her arm. His book. From his store. Taking it without paying was theft—wasn't that obvious?
He thought maybe she had just forgotten. But the next second, her face showed bafflement.
"But, mister, this is my book."
"What nonsense are you spouting?" His temper flared. "Stealing is a crime, you know."
But the girl showed no fear. Her eyes narrowed further. Her grin curled darker, more sinister.
"Well then… how about this? If I can prove this book is mine, then it's fine, isn't it?"
She raised the book, blocking her face—revealing just a slit of her eyes. Catlike golden pupils, vertical and gleaming.
"On page 196, there's a note."
The shopkeeper froze. A chill crept down his spine. But he shook it off, anger flooding back, and he snatched the book from her hands.
"Don't tell such lies!"
Her grin widened, sharp as a knife.
"I didn't even bring a pen, you know."
"Ridiculous." He didn't believe her, of course. But still, almost against his will, he flipped to page 196.
And then—his eyes flew wide.
Next to the words Hounds of Tindalos… someone had scrawled, in a cramped note: The one who attacks the bookstore owner is this.
"When… when did this get written…"
Shock, confusion, unease. His voice shook. He couldn't make sense of it.
"Mister, hey, what does it say?"
Her singsong voice pulled him back. Panic clawed at him, and he reached for the phone beside him.
"Such a stupid prank… I'm calling the police!"
"You think… it's fake?"
Again, she opened her eyes, staring right at him.
Her voice carried a strange power. It drifted through the cramped bookstore like a spell.
But he did not notice.
"Of course it's fake! What idiocy are you—"
And then she laughed. Cold. Triumphant.
Like a viper, waiting with endless patience, baring its fangs at last.
"Thanks for listening to my lie, mister! My magic's a little tricky to use, you see—fufufufufu!"
With his terrified eyes on her, she snapped her fingers.
"Lie of a lie—become truth."
His gaze was pulled, against his will, to the blood-red pentagram on her glove. It led his eyes upward.
And he saw it.
Atop a shelf—something wolf-like, yet constantly shifting, its outline melting and reforming. A shadow-beast.
Its warped shape reflected in his eyes. It shrieked, then leapt.
"Ah… ahhhhhh—!!"
Biting. Tearing. Chewing. The sounds mingled with his screams, with the beast's howls—while the girl hummed softly to herself, some tuneless, cheerful melody.
Book in hand, she pushed the door open and stepped out. But after a few steps, she stopped, turned back, and walked inside again.
"I should grab a bag. Since you're busy, mister, I'll just help myself."
From a pile of paper bags splattered in blood, she fished until she found one that was mostly clean. She pulled it free.
Then she left. Closing the door neatly behind her.
A second later, blood spattered scarlet across the glass door and windows.
She ignored it. Ignored the sounds still coming from within. She skipped away, light-hearted, as if in the best of moods.
No one knew how much time passed.
The screams were gone. The bookstore lay in ruins. Only the shifting shadow remained, howling in the stench of blood so thick it could make one gag.
It had devoured the shopkeeper whole. Yet it did not vanish. It grew more solid. More real.
And then—a voice spoke behind it.
"Five beasts are moving through the desert. Their speed is unnaturally fast. Their appearance resembles wolves, with burning eyes and jutting jaws. Yet their forms shift without pause, as if all the evils of the cosmos were constantly reshaping them, feeding their destruction into something ever more dreadful."
The shadow twisted its head violently. Someone stood there. No one knew when he had arrived.
"!!"
The warped creature snarled. Not the thrill of prey—but the wariness of meeting a natural enemy.
But before it could act, translucent tentacles bound it tight.
Floating behind the figure—a massive jellyfish, spectral, its tendrils coiling around the beast.
"Hehehe… hehehehehehe…"
"Cute little puppy… would you let me paint a picture of you?"