The first thing she tasted was rust. It coated her tongue, settled in her throat, and carried a memory of blood that was not there. Everything hurt. The air was close and wet, heavy with a sour smell of chemicals and rot. Something sticky clung to her arms and legs. Her lungs worked too fast, each breath scraping like sandpaper.
She did not remember breathing before. Not like this.
Memory returned in pieces. Fire raining across a red sky. A scream that split heaven. The sound of Chainsaw Man's teeth grinding through light itself. She had been victorious. Or dying. Maybe both. She remembered his teeth in her neck, the pull as something ancient was devoured. Then darkness. Silence. And now this.
She moved her hand. It was small, soft, trembling. Human. The nails were blunt, the skin weak enough to tear on the jagged metal walls. No weapon waited beneath her flesh. The realization struck harder than any blade. Her power was gone. Her body was wrong.
Something was crying inside her mind. Someone. A girl's memories burst like bubbles: laughter, betrayal, a locker filled with garbage, the tang of damp pads, and voices outside. Emma. The thought came with a surge of panic that was not hers. The body trembled again, and Yoru hissed in disgust. Fear, human fear, burned through her veins. She had not felt so small in centuries.
She pressed her hand to the locker's wall. Cold. Thin. It quivered when she pushed. Inside, she smelled the decay of rotting paper, discarded pads, and damp plastic. Her hand brushed against the grimy contents as she tested the space. There was movement on the other side, distant footsteps, the echo of a door slamming. A school, then. The memories she had stolen confirmed it. A building for children. Not Hell. Not Heaven. Just a cage for the young. The smell of antiseptic and rust told her that much.
She tried to gather power, to summon the faint hum of fear that always sang in her skull. For a moment there was nothing. Then she felt it, faint and trembling. Not from the locker, but from outside. A world humming with low, constant dread. Fear of conflict, of gangs and guns, of monsters no one could stop. A steady, living current of terror flowed outward, carrying the hint of struggles she could consume.
Her lips parted. Breath trembled out. The taste of it was weak, but it was real.
This world feared war.
It would be enough.
She pushed harder at the wall. The locker groaned. Rust flaked into her hair. The sound set her teeth on edge, but the fear inside her, Taylor's fear, drove the body forward. Pain blossomed in her shoulder. She ignored it. Another shove. The metal screamed, warped, and cracked open.
Light stabbed through the gap. White. Cold. Artificial. It hurt her eyes. She crawled out on hands and knees, dragging herself through the narrow slit, skin scraping against metal until she spilled onto the tile floor. Her palms left red streaks. Blood and rust, maybe both.
The hallway was empty. Lockers lined both sides like coffins, and fluorescent lights buzzed above, flickering. She lay there for a while, breathing in shallow bursts, feeling the air move across her skin. So bright. So still. Her ears rang with the absence of battle cries. This world was quiet in a way Hell never was.
The body started crying before she realized it. A small, ugly sound that broke the hush. She pressed her hand to her face, smearing tears and grime across it. The instinct to weep was not hers. The shame was. That she understood. She had been humiliated before, stripped of power and thrown into the dark. The memory of Chainsaw Man's grin made her shudder.
She stood slowly, muscles shaking. Her knees almost buckled, but she caught herself on the wall. The tiles were cold under her bare feet. Every sound echoed, too loud. Somewhere far away, someone shouted. A locker slammed. The fear that followed, brief and sharp, tasted like a spark on her tongue. She almost smiled.
She turned her head toward the sound. The world was smaller than she remembered. Fragile. But alive. And afraid.
Good.
The last of the tears dried on her cheeks as she straightened. The body was weak, but it would serve. The memories it carried, Taylor's, would be useful. Maps of faces, names, grievances. Little wars waiting to happen.
She took a slow breath, feeling the air fill her lungs, the faint hum of fear surrounding her like a heartbeat.
"This world remembers war," she whispered, voice hoarse and unfamiliar. "Then it remembers me."
She started walking.