They moved like ghosts between rooftops.

Ying's fingers split the air with surgical precision – clean, vertical slices through space. Each cut shimmered for just a moment, humming with pressure and the quiet promise of something forbidden. She didn't speak. Didn't falter. Just raised her hand, drew the seam, and stepped through.

The world bent to her momentum.

From the safehouse courtyard to a nearby bell tower. From the bell tower to an old ryokan rooftop. Then across the collapsed spine of a shopping arcade. And finally – through the high gate of the temple grounds.

Each jump drained something invisible. Not just stamina. Soul-pressure. The deeper kind. The kind you didn't notice was missing until your hands started to tremble.

By the time they landed on the wooden walkway of the old Shinto temple, Ying was pale and sweating, her breath coming shallow.

Max caught her elbow. "You good?"

She nodded once. "Exhilarated. And maybe dying."

Ferron gave a grunt that might've been a laugh.

Max scanned the courtyard – silent. No demons or monsters. No tracks. Just quiet, and the smell of old wood and rain-soaked dust.

"Let's sweep it," he said.

They moved through the outer rooms first – empty shrines, shattered candles, and abandoned sandals. Then into the main hall. Every door was closed. But one stood out.

Bound with prayer rope. Knotted at the centre, frayed and discoloured.

Ferron pressed his shoulder against the door. "Not nailed shut," he muttered. "Lashed. Prayer rope, but old. Someone tied it tight, then walked away."

Ying leaned on the wall beside him, arms shaking slightly. "Feels like something's waiting."

Max nodded. "Cut it."

Ferron drew a small blade and began slicing through the rope. He didn't chant. Didn't bless it. Just worked in silence.

The final knot gave with a dry snap.

The door opened an inch. Stale air hissed out.

Max stepped forward first, Soulfire guttering low in his palm – not a threat, just light.

The room beyond was small. Prayer mats. Cracked floorboards. The windows had been covered from the inside with blackout cloth, pinned at the edges. Dust hung in the air like ash.

And in the far corner—

Something shifted.

It was massive. Its back hunched, the skin stretched and knotted like cured leather. Its limbs were too thick for a man, but the proportions suggested it had once been one. Its nails curled like talons. Its face—

Max stopped walking.

The face hadn't finished turning.

Eyes too round. Too human. A nose that twitched like it remembered smell. But the jaw – elongated. Cracked wide. The teeth had grown past what the mouth could hold, splitting the cheekbones.

It stared at them. Didn't charge. Didn't scream.

It simply watched.

Ferron stepped beside Max, voice low. "That's not fresh. He's been like this a while."

On the far wall, something was pinned in a simple wooden frame: a photograph.

Three people in it. A woman, a child, and a man in his seventies, wearing priest's robes, smiling with quiet dignity.

Written beneath, in ink so faint it was nearly gone: Watanabe-san.

Ferron's mouth flattened. "I remember this name. His family filed a request with the Institute. Said he'd gone missing. Last seen speaking with Hana."

Max turned slowly. "So, she was here."

Ferron nodded. "And she left him alive."

Ying moved closer to the doorway. "You're sure she left?"

"No signs of struggle outside," Ferron said. "Whoever locked this place down, they didn't run. They finished."

Max stepped forward again, closer now. The yokai – Watanabe – didn't move. But something in its body… tensed. Like it recognised him. Or the Soulfire.

"Still conscious?" Max asked.

"Hard to say." Ferron narrowed his eyes. "But I don't think he's hostile. Not unless we give him a reason."

Max glanced once toward the photo. Then to Watanabe.

"What happened to you?" he said softly.

The thing exhaled. A slow, low moan. More breath than voice. But it wasn't nothing.

Ying's arms prickled. "We shouldn't stay long."

Max nodded. "We won't. But Hana locked this door for a reason."

He turned away.

"Now we need to know what she was afraid of getting out."

…………………

The adjoining room was smaller. Tatami mats lined the floor, clean but worn. Light filtered in through a paper screen at the far end – soft and grey, like the day hadn't made up its mind yet.

Max pushed the sliding door open with care.

The room held only three things.

A fox mask, white and pristine, resting on a folded square of cloth.

A broken ink brush, its bristles splayed and stained.

And a torn page, smudged with handwriting that had been made in haste. The edges were crumpled, like it had been ripped from a notebook mid-thought.

Ying stepped forward first, slower than before. Her eyes were drawn immediately to the mask. "It's… clean."

Ferron knelt near the cloth, careful not to touch it. "No dust. Not even settled air particles."

"Someone came back," Max said. "Recently."

Ying glanced at the brush. "Or tried to."

Max picked up the torn page carefully, holding it to the light.

Not a parasite. A substitution. Like slipping a sleeve over the soul.

The brush had snapped halfway through a kanji. It ended abruptly.

He passed the note to Ferron.

Ferron read it in silence, then circled the mask – slowly, deliberately, never turning his back to it. He crouched again, arms resting on his knees, his eyes locked on the fox's painted grin.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"The mask doesn't control the host," he said. "It overwrites the story they tell themselves about who they are."

Max stayed a few steps back. "And if they resist?"

"Then it forces the rewrite. A painful transformation." Ferron's voice was level, but his hand twitched toward the hilt of his blade.

Ying folded her arms tight. "I hate that it's smiling."

The mask's expression was simple. Stylized. A fox's grin that curved just enough to seem knowing. A mockery of kindness. Painted lips pulled too wide.

Max stepped up beside Ferron. "That's messed up."

Ferron nodded. "A personality overwrite. If you believe you're someone else long enough... maybe the soul forgets who it was."

Max stared at the mask, brow furrowed. "Hana kept it. Didn't break it. Didn't burn it. That's not nothing."

"Maybe she couldn't," Ferron said. "Or maybe she needed to understand what it wanted before she did."

Ying's eyes didn't leave the cloth. "You think she used it? On Watanabe?"

Ferron didn't answer right away.

Max did.

"No. She locked him up. Didn't kill him. Kept the mask separate. Clean. She was trying to understand it, not spread it."

Ying glanced at him. "You don't know that."

Max's jaw tightened. "I know she didn't burn it. That tells me she was still hoping for something better."

Ferron finally spoke. "Whatever this is… she knew it wasn't finished."

Ying stepped back a little. "Finished or not, it's still a weapon."

Max nodded, but didn't look away from the mask. "Then let's make sure it stays locked down."

He pulled a fresh purification cloth from the supply pack and began to wrap the mask – once, then twice, then again – until the fox's smile was gone.

Even that much felt like a trespass.

Ferron rose to his feet. "There's more. There has to be."

Max looked toward the far door.

"Let's find it."

…………………

The wood creaked under Max's boots as he stepped back into the holding room, the musty scent of rotted tatami sharp beneath the layers of incense and disinfectant. The yokai – Watanabe-san – still crouched in the centre, limbs bound tight in layers of rope and reinforced charms. His breathing rasped through teeth that had grown too large for a human mouth. His hands – once hands – twitched with long, bone-hooked fingers.

Ferron followed behind, the door clicking shut with a finality that didn't go unnoticed.

"He's awake," Max muttered.

Watanabe's head lifted at the sound. Not in recognition – just movement. The kind predators make before the lunge.

The right side of his face was ruined. Pale, stretched skin peeled back from a jagged edge of white where a mask had once tried to take hold. Only a crescent remained now – curved like a fox's grin, embedded above the cheekbone. The rest had been shattered.

Ying stood by the doorway, arms folded. Her gaze flicked from the ropes to the yokai's twitching limbs. "That's a partial fusion."

Ferron knelt carefully, keeping out of reach. "The mask broke before it finished bonding."

"Looks like it still did enough," Max muttered. "His eyes are gone."

Ferron leaned in slightly. "Not blind. Just... empty."

The yokai let out a low groan – almost a word. Then it snarled and slammed its body sideways, muscles flexing with sudden violence. The ropes strained, the floor groaned. For a moment, Max's hand went to his knife.

The thing that had once been Watanabe snarled again – this time in a garbled string of vowels, syllables warped by a mouth too wrong for speech.

Ying flinched. "That used to be a man?"

Ferron nodded grimly. "His family asked Hana for help. She tried to bind him here… but left him like this."

Max swallowed. "Maybe she didn't get the chance to finish. Or maybe she couldn't."

He stepped closer to the threshold of the charm ring – just outside claw range. "This is what happens when the mask fuses."

"Or half-fuses," Ying added. "This one broke mid-process."

Ferron's gaze sharpened. "That might be the key."

"To saving them?" Max asked.

Ferron nodded slowly. "Maybe. If a mask breaks before it's fully applied... the overwrite doesn't complete. The host doesn't fully disappear."

Max stared at Watanabe – at the twisted mouth, the way he still growled at them like something feral. "Doesn't look like there's much left of him."

"There isn't," Ferron said softly.

Ying's voice was flat. "Is this the best-case scenario?"

Ferron didn't answer.

Max ran a hand through his hair. "So, if you break the mask before it finishes, maybe you stop the full transformation. But once it's on..."

Ferron's eyes were hard. "There's no way back."

A long silence followed.

Then Watanabe screamed – raw, full-throated, animal. He lunged again. The rope strained.

Ying's hand went to her pistol. "We can't keep him like this."

Max didn't move. "We kill him, we lose the only test case we've got."

Ferron stood. "Then the question is simple. Do we try to help what's left of the man…"

He looked down.

"Or do we put the monster down?"

Max didn't answer yet.

The ropes creaked again. Watanabe's eyes rolled toward them, blank and hungry.

And still – just maybe – somewhere behind that mask fragment, someone was screaming to get out.

BANG.

The shot rang out sharp and final. Ferron jerked in surprise.

The echo of the shot rang through the temple like a judgment.

Watanabe's body twitched once, then stilled. The ropes went slack.

Max didn't move...

Ying lowered her sidearm slowly. No flourish. No second glance. Just a grim stillness.

"No debate," she said, holstering the pistol. "That was mercy."

Max didn't move.

He just stared at her – hard. Jaw clenched. Shoulders squared. No words, but his silence burned louder than any scream.

"You didn't even hesitate," he said, voice low. Not accusation. Not yet. Just disbelief, hollow at the edges.

Ying didn't flinch. That silence, too, was a choice.

…………………

Ying stopped near the doorway. Didn't turn.

Max came up behind her fast. "What the hell was that?"

She turned now. No apology in her eyes. "A clean shot."

"You didn't even try," he snapped.

"I didn't need to."

"He was still human—"

"No," she said. "He wasn't."

Max took a step closer. "You don't get to decide that."

Ying folded her arms. "Someone has to."

Ferron emerged behind them, silent at first, but watching closely.

Max's voice rose. "We could've found something. A way to reverse it. There was still— something left."

Ying's voice didn't rise. It cut instead. "You think I enjoyed it? That pulling the trigger on what was left of Watanabe didn't make me sick? You're wrong."

"Then why do it?"

"Because hesitation gets people killed. Because monsters don't get better. And because while you were standing there hoping, he was halfway through those ropes."

Max shoved a hand through his hair. "You don't know what he was. You don't know."

Ying's voice cracked now, just once. "I've seen what happens when you wait too long, Max. I've seen people I love scream through broken teeth. Ask me what I did then."

Max's breath caught.

Ying stepped closer. Her voice dropped low. "You want to save everyone. Because if you can't… then what was the point of crawling out of that fire in the first place?"

Ferron winced behind them.

Max's eyes flared. "You don't talk about that."

"I just did."

He stepped toward her, close now. "You chose to follow me. You want to be part of this team? Then follow my goddamn orders."

"And what order was that?" Ying's chin tilted up. "Wait around while the monster tears through the next building? Hope he changes his mind? You lead, Max. But if your plan is kindness first, corpse pile second—then I'll start making my own calls."

Ferron stepped in, firm now. "Enough."

Neither of them moved.

He turned to Max. "You can't save everyone."

Max stared straight ahead, nostrils flared.

Ferron turned to Ying. "And you don't have to kill everyone who's past saving."

Silence held for several long seconds.

Then Max turned and walked off down the corridor without another word. His boots hit wood like war drums.

Ying didn't watch him go. She just stared at the floor. Breathing hard.

Ferron bent to pick up the lantern.

"You two are gonna burn each other," he muttered.

Ying didn't answer.

But she didn't deny it either.

…………………

Ferron's footsteps were light, but the old corridor still groaned beneath them. He moved past the altar room, deeper into the rear of the temple – through a cracked sliding screen and into a narrow hall lit only by a shaft of angled sunlight. The dust here was thicker, undisturbed for weeks. But not months.

Something had been here.

Someone.

A small storage room waited at the end of the hall. Ferron crouched as he entered, one hand on the frame, the other hovering near the hilt of his blade. No traps. No wards. Just silence.

Then he saw it.

A travel pack, half-tucked beneath an overturned wooden stool. Worn canvas. Leather straps frayed from age and use. He pulled it free carefully.

Dust poured off it. Empty. Not abandoned – just cleared.

Ferron exhaled through his nose. "Hana-sama…"

Near the far wall, something caught his eye.

A ritual mirror – or what was left of it. The frame was lacquered red, now cracked, and its surface was shattered into six jagged pieces, like a broken flower. As Ferron stepped closer, one of the shards flickered faintly – not with reflection, but residual energy. The mirror still held echoes.

He crouched beside it, fingertips hovering over the glass.

It hummed when he touched it. A pulse. Not malevolent. Not yet.

Max's voice came from behind. "What is it?"

Ferron didn't turn. "A mirror used in traditional rites. You hold it to the possessed and watch which face stares back. If it's human, they can be saved. If it's blank… they're already gone."

Max crouched beside him. "She broke it."

"Or it cracked mid-use," Ferron murmured. "Either way, it was recent."

Ying leaned in from the doorway, arms crossed, voice low. "So, she was here. But left fast."

"Looks that way," Max said. He pointed toward a corner where marks on the floor suggested crates had been moved. "She packed light."

Ferron stood. "This place wasn't just a lab. It was a checkpoint."

Max's gaze landed on the only thing not covered in dust – a carved ema tablet hanging on a wooden peg by the exit. A small wish written in practiced, fluid kanji.

He handed it to Ferron who read it aloud. "守れますように… 'Let me protect them.'"

Max didn't know who "them" meant. Her shrine? The city? Or someone she couldn't name anymore.

Ferron stepped beside him. "That's her hand."

Max stared at the writing a second longer, then turned to Ying. "Can you trace her?"

Ying closed her eyes, one hand brushing against the remaining shards of the mirror. She winced. "There's residue. Strongest near the rear torii path."

Ferron's expression shifted. "Senbon Torii."

Max blinked. "The thousand gates?"

"She was heading for concealment," Ferron said. "Or sanctuary."

"Or," Ying added, already walking back into the hall, "she's cornered."

Max didn't argue.

He adjusted his pack and looked toward the sunlight slipping through the rafters.

"Then we follow."

Max looked out through the doorframe. The wind picked up, brushing old leaves down the temple steps.

"First the masks," he muttered. "Then the gates."

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