Soft morning light spilled through the curtains. The faint clink of cutlery and the low hum of the aquarium filter filled the air. A young couple sat at the dining table; the mother gently scooped mashed vegetables for their six-month-old son, who sat in a high chair between them. The spoon hovered at the baby's mouth, but he didn't even glance at it—his wide eyes were fixed on the aquarium a few feet away, bubbling quietly beside the table. Five goldfish darted through the water: two red, two black, and one tricolored fish that seemed to shimmer as it moved.
The mother nudged the baby with the spoon to get his attention, but it didn't work. She sighed and called in a cheery voice, "Come on—open wide… aaahn." Almost immediately, the baby looked at her and opened his mouth; after he was fed, he went right back to watching the fish as if nothing had happened.
The father, who had been polishing a CZ 75 P01, glanced up with a smirk and asked, "He's staring at the goldfish again, huh?"
Yumi grimaced. "Yeah. He seems to prefer that to eating. Tsukihito is honestly the weirdest baby I've ever met. He's more active at night than in the morning, doesn't react to other people except us, and looks at the moon as if it stole his favorite toy."
Kensuke pulled the slide of the handgun, checked the ejector, set the pistol down, picked up a cup of coffee, and took a sip. "I asked Dr. Fujimoto. He said it's normal for people with high sensory sensitivity to be drawn to colorful things. As for the moon—maybe he can't sleep because of its brightness."
The baby giggled as two of the red goldfish chased each other. Yumi called him again and fed him more. "Maybe that explains Tsuki's unhealthy obsession with the goldfish and the moon," she said, "but not that annoyingly stoic face—"
"—that he got from me!" Kensuke added cheerfully, which earned him a withering glare from Yumi, equal parts exasperation and affection. "Be happy—you're kind of cute when you smile, 'Suke, or you'd have been punched long ago."
Kensuke gently took Yumi's chin and kissed her on the lips. "Apparently, according to Mom, I was weird when I was little too. So don't worry—I'm sure he'll grow up to be a fine kid."
He then stood up and left, carrying a towel in one hand and the handgun in the other.
Unbeknownst to them, the supposedly stoic baby, Tsukihito, watched them seriously for a brief moment before turning back to the goldfish with a carefree expression.
As many of you have probably guessed, Tsukihito was none other than the Fist of Khonshu—our protagonist.
(Fist of Khonshu POV)
Hey guys, Tsukihito Taoka here.
You like my name, Tsukihito? I don't. According to Witlock, it means "Moon Person" in Japanese, which sounds poetic, but mostly just makes me feel like some lost space oddity. They gave me that name partly because I was born under a full moon and partly because of how I looked.
I still remember the first time I saw myself in the mirror beside the bed. A pale, round-faced baby gripping the crib bars stared back at me. My reflection had a shock of gray hair like Dad's, and eyes that didn't belong on a child—white with a faint blue tint, surrounded by blue, almost black rings that made them look cold and unreal.
I looked like something caught between human and something else.
And even though I hate admitting it, I cried. Partly out of fear, partly out of anger—being screwed over again by that damned birdface. It was the first time Mom—who had started treating me like I was radioactive since my fifth month—actually picked me up again, holding me close like she used to.
After that, Witlock wouldn't let me live it down. Stuff like:
{Look at little Tsuki, scared of his own reflection like a monkey seeing a mirror for the first time!}
{What next? Gonna be scwared of your shadow too?}
I didn't really blame Mom for acting the way she did. I'd freak out too if my baby just stared at people like he was silently judging their life choices.
But truthfully, it wasn't that I didn't care—it was that I couldn't tell people apart. Their faces blurred together.
The only way I could really recognize anyone was by scent.
Yeah. I was basically a bloodhound in baby form.
And emotions? Forget about it. I could feel them, sure, but expressing them was a whole other story.
The only ones I could truly recognize—and actually express something real around—were Mom and Dad. Why? I don't know. I still remember when Hana, the neighbour I talked about, and another lady came to visit once, and let me tell you, it was weird.
[Flashback start]
They arrived on a humid afternoon—the kind where the cicadas outside screamed like they were auditioning for a metal band. Mom had just finished wiping me down after lunch—rice porridge, again—and was holding me in her lap when the doorbell rang.
"Taoka-san! May I come in?!" Hana's voice called from outside.
Mom smiled softly—the kind of warm smile that feels like sunlight filtering through paper screens. "Ah, Hana-chan. Welcome."
Hana, a woman with brown hair cut into a neat bob, stepped inside with another woman I'd never seen before. She was tall, with perfectly straight black hair and that kind of laugh that sounded rehearsed. She smelled like perfume and city buses—sharp, artificial, and loud. I didn't like it. It stung my nose.
Both their faces looked blurry to me, colors bleeding into each other.
"Aw, is this your little boy?" the new woman cooed, leaning in far too close. "He's adorable!"
Yeah, sure. Until I drooled on her blouse.
As she came closer, something hit me—an overwhelming scent. Not perfume, not soap, not anything physical. It was something else. Something emotional. I knew it instantly: hate… and something darker. Malice, maybe.
I turned my head away.
"Oh, he's shy!" Hana giggled.
Not shy. Just uncomfortable. Her smell was too loud, her voice had that pitch that made my tiny brain ache—and she was dangerous.
Mom laughed awkwardly. "He does that sometimes."
I could feel the shift in the air—Mom's soft embarrassment, Hana's good-natured amusement, and the other lady's faint disappointment… mixed with a twisted kind of satisfaction that I wasn't behaving like a normal baby.
Dad walked in a moment later, a towel draped over his shoulder, sleeves rolled up. "He's not shy," he said. "He's just thinking."
Everyone laughed, like it was a joke. But I wasn't joking. I was thinking—mostly about how everyone smelled. Hana's scent reminded me of warm soap and rice crackers. Dad's scent smelled like sun-dried cotton and faint coffee.
Then the other woman reached out and poked my cheek. Her fingers were cold.
I blinked once. Twice.
"See?" she said. "He doesn't even react!"
"He does," Mom replied quietly. "You just have to know how to look."
I turned toward her. That's when I noticed her hand—a tiny twitch she tried to hide behind her back. Her posture was too straight, too stiff. She didn't believe her own words. Her lie was gentle—beautiful, even—but I could smell the anxiety underneath it, faint and bitter, like metal left in the rain.
The woman with the cold hands gave a little laugh. "Oh, I'm sure he'll grow out of it. Babies are strange sometimes."
Strange.
That word hung in the air like smoke.
Mom smiled again, though her scent wavered—nervous, protective. "Yes, maybe."
Dad, still drying his hands, sat down beside us. His presence was grounding—like the steady hum of the refrigerator. He didn't say much, but his quiet gaze toward the woman said enough. The air thickened. Even as a baby, I could feel it—something sharp beneath the polite conversation, something that made even the cicadas seem quieter.
The woman leaned in again, smiling widely. Too widely. "You're lucky," she said softly to Mom. "A child like him… special."
I didn't understand what that meant. But I remember what came next.
Because as she looked into my eyes, I saw her shape flicker. Just for a second. The blur of her face shifted—like something beneath her skin was moving.
I blinked. And she was normal again. Laughing, straightening her blouse, and bowing politely as she said goodbye.
"Thank you for having us," Hana said cheerfully. "We'll bring some melon jelly next time!"
Mom smiled and thanked them, her voice steady until the door closed.
And then—silence.
Only the cicadas again.
Mom didn't move for a long time. She was still holding me, her hand absentmindedly stroking my back. I thought she was calm. But her scent told me otherwise.
Mom broke the quiet first. "You saw it, Kensuke, didn't you?"
Dad sighed, setting the towel on the table. "Don't worry, dear. I'll make sure to tell Shimazu-sama about her."
[Flashback End]
Witlock was suspiciously quiet the entire time, which, coming from him, was more terrifying than the lady with the flickering face. When I finally asked why, he said he'd been admiring the birds.
We were inside.
No windows open.
No birds.
Just the sound of cicadas, air conditioning, and awkward social tension.
The only silver lining in all this weirdness was realizing that Dad was way too prepared for anything short of a zombie apocalypse. Not counting his service handgun, the man had four handguns, one revolver, a shotgun, and a katana hanging under the kamidana like it was part of the family décor, which it probably was, but still didn't remove the wow factor. And of course, he had started cleaning and loading them the very day the flickering-face lady left.
I half-expected to find a rocket launcher behind the rice cooker.
Oh, and the goldfish? They looked like living watercolor paintings—absolutely gorgeous, like someone had put an art exhibit in a fish tank. I laughed every time they moved while Witlock, ever the know-it-all, explained what the colors meant: red for good luck and prosperity, black for protection, and the tri-colored one symbolizing purity along with both of the others, since it was red and black too.
It was official: my sense of humor had packed its bags, moved to crazy town, and wasn't coming back.
"Come on—open wide… aaahn."
Mom woke me up from my daydream and gave me another spoonful of the apple mush, which I ate like the dutiful son I was. Dad came back into the room, now dressed in a black suit and tie, coupled with a crisp white shirt. On the right lapel of the suit was a golden, embroidered circular symbol consisting of three stylized skyscrapers surrounded by symmetrical arcs that formed a floral shape—the Continental Hotel's logo.
Yep, guys — my dad, Kensuke, actually works for the Continental Hotel. You know, the one from John Wick.
I couldn't believe it at first, but as the saying goes: if it walks like a duck, sounds like a duck, and looks like a duck… It's probably a duck. A very, very dangerous duck.
I'd only watched up to the second movie, and even then, the details were blurry. But if he was even a quarter of what John Wick was, then yeah—he was a badass. A deadly, possibly murderous one.
That's when Witlock's annoying voice decided to pop into my head.
{2}
'Two what?'
{Two people. I'm betting he's gonna kill two people. You in?}
'Zero. He's part of security, not an assassin. More likely he'll injure someone than kill outright.'
{Ha! Sure, Sherlock. Except this isn't some Marriott down the street—it's the freakin' Continental. A five-star murder Airbnb for assassins, warlords, and morally bankrupt millionaires.}
'Ugh, fine. 1 solo 2 group kills. Happy now?'
{Very much}
Dad came near me, patted my head, kissed Mom, and walked toward the door. "Don't forget, dear—Shimazu-sama invited us for lunch to talk about her." His carefree voice soured noticeably on the last word. Most likely he meant the weirdo who had visited us.
"Yes, dear, I know… I won't forget," Mom responded as she placed me on the living-room floor. I crawled toward my stuffed animals and "played" with my teddy bear—more like waving it around while I talked to Witlock. Even though he was a less humorous Deadpool, he was a master storyteller, narrating mostly supernatural tales set in Japan. Today, he was telling a story about a kitsune who fell in love with a farmer.
While he talked, Mom cleared the dining table and began vacuuming the floor, all while watching an episode of Sasuke, the TV show where contestants tackle a brutal obstacle course. After that, she took out the trash and started doing the laundry. Just as she was about to take the laundry basket to the laundry room, a ringing sound echoed through the house.
It was her phone.
She froze mid-stride as a bright, chirpy melody bounced off the walls. Balancing the basket against her thigh, she fished her phone out of her pocket—a neon-pink flip phone with a small vertical display. She glanced at the screen and sighed, a sound that was equal parts amused and exasperated.
"Hello, Yumi here~"
—muffled mumbling on the other end—
"Not really. I was just about to start a load, but that can wait. It's not every day the great Yuki Tsukumo graces our presence."
—more mumbling—
"Sorry. Maybe in the afternoon. I have to meet Kensuke's boss to talk about our little assassin problem… apparently. At least that's what Kensuke said."
—irritated mumbling—
"You have way too much confidence in assassins, Yuki. I'm more convinced the girl was one of those operatives from the High Table thingy. I mean, it's not every day a Glory Club member reveals himself while serving the Continental."
—resigned mumbling—
"No, I won't leave him. Besides—"
She paused with a sigh. "—I have a kid now."
—shocked mumbling—
"I did tell you! It's not my fault you never read my texts, you damn hag."
—annoyed mumbling—
"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say… So, 3:30 at the Cat's Eye, 'kay? Bye."
Before Yuki could respond, Mom snapped the phone shut and tucked the neon-pink flip phone back into her pocket. She hummed a strangely cheerful tune as she lifted the laundry basket again and disappeared toward the laundry room.
I remained in the living room, completely frozen, my hand still resting on my plush dinosaur.
'Yuki… Yuki… that name is familiar… WAIT. OH SHIT— I'M IN JJK!!!'
{Took you long enough…}