Fenrik Hayashi lived a life so ordinary that no one ever looked at him twice.
Every morning, he walked through the iron gates of Kurogane College with his head slightly lowered, his steps measured, his left eye always hidden behind the curtain of his messy black hair. To anyone watching, he was just another quiet student—average height, slim build, nothing special.
But Fenrik saw the world differently.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he had to.
His right eye worked perfectly. Sharp. Alert. Always observing.
His left eye saw nothing.
Complete darkness.
No doctor at the college knew. No student suspected it. Fenrik had learned long ago how to angle his head, how to position himself so no one noticed when depth failed him, when stairs felt wrong, when faces blurred on one side.
Weakness was an invitation.
And Kurogane College was full of people eager to accept it.
"Oi, Fenrik!"
The voice came from behind him in the corridor. Loud. Mocking.
Fenrik didn't turn.
A hand shoved his shoulder anyway.
"You deaf too?" Ryota sneered, laughing with two others. "Man, you walk like a ghost. Creeps me out."
Fenrik steadied himself, his fingers brushing the wall for balance—quick, subtle. He turned, expression blank.
"Sorry," he said quietly.
That word always worked.
Ryota scoffed. "That's it? No excuse? No fight?"
Fenrik shook his head.
Boring prey lost its appeal quickly.
"Whatever," Ryota muttered, already turning away. "Don't trip and die or something."
Laughter followed.
Fenrik waited until they were gone before exhaling.
He hated how easily his heart raced. Hated how powerless it made him feel. He clenched his fist, nails biting into his palm.
Just endure, he told himself.
Just survive.
That evening, the sky bled into shades of deep violet and silver.
Fenrik skipped dinner.
He always did when his thoughts got too loud.
Behind his small house lay an old garden, overgrown and forgotten. Broken stone paths cut through tall grass, and a single wooden bench sat beneath a twisted sakura tree that no longer bloomed.
This place was his escape.
Fenrik sat on the bench, staring at the moon with his good eye.
Somewhere far away, laughter echoed—neighbors, families, people living full lives.
He wondered what it would be like to live without hiding.
Without fear.
Without being broken.
A cold breeze passed through the garden.
Fenrik frowned.
The air felt… heavy.
Like the world itself was holding its breath.
Then—
Drip.
Something dark splashed onto the stone path in front of him.
Fenrik froze.
He stood slowly and stepped closer.
The stain wasn't water.
It looked like shadow, pooling unnaturally, as if light itself refused to touch it.
His heartbeat thundered.
"This… wasn't here before," he whispered.
The garden lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then went out.
Darkness swallowed the garden.
Fenrik staggered back, his blind side betraying him as his foot caught the edge of the bench. He barely managed to stay upright.
"Calm down," he muttered to himself. "It's nothing. Just—"
The shadows moved.
They shifted, stretching across the ground like living things.
A low hum filled the air—ancient, deep, and wrong.
Fenrik's breath caught.
From the center of the garden, something pressed against reality, like a shape trying to force its way through thin glass. The air cracked, forming faint red lines that pulsed like veins.
Fenrik couldn't move.
Couldn't scream.
His instincts screamed at him to run—but his legs refused to obey.
Then—
A voice.
Not loud. Not quiet.
It echoed directly inside his mind.
"Not yet."
The pressure vanished.
The shadows collapsed into nothingness, as if they had never existed.
The garden lights snapped back on.
Silence returned.
Fenrik dropped to his knees, gasping, sweat soaking his shirt.
"What… was that?" he whispered.
His hands trembled.
For a moment, he wondered if he had imagined it.
Then he noticed the stone path.
A faint red symbol had been carved into it.
Not scratched.
Carved.
Like it had always been there—waiting.
Fenrik stared at it, unease crawling up his spine.
Somewhere deep inside him, something stirred.
Not fear.
Not anger.
But the terrifying sense that his ordinary life had just cracked.
And whatever lay beyond that crack…
Was watching him.
From far away.
From another place.
From a night that had not yet arrived.
Fenrik stood slowly, casting one last glance at the symbol before turning back toward his house.
He didn't know it yet.
But the garden had already chosen him.
And the shadows would return.