Fairy Tail: Kyoka Suigetsu

**The Order of Blind Faith**

[The Devotion of an Atheist]

"Two weeks. Has it really been that long?"

A sigh escapes my lips as I tread forward, my journey resuming beneath the endless sky. Time flows on, indifferent to my absence, yet I can't help but wonder—how is everyone faring in my wake? Have they noticed my departure? Or, more likely, have they simply continued on, unburdened by my existence?

But such idle musings hold no weight. The path I walk remains unchanged, my purpose unwavering. Another dark guild fell to my hands, its remnants scattered like ashes in the wind. Their screams have long since faded, devoured by the silence that follows destruction.

And yet, just when I thought my path would remain unchallenged, fate—cruel, mischievous, or perhaps indulgent—placed her in my way.

Ultear Milkovich.

A woman of striking beauty, her pale skin illuminated by the soft glow of the moon. Dark violet hair cascades down her back, framing sharp brown eyes that harbor secrets and sorrow in equal measure. A revealing dress clings to her form, the fabric adorned with delicate stripes, a cruel contrast to the danger she embodies.

From a distance, I observe her, calculating. In the canon, her age remains a mystery, but based on her appearance, she must be three or four years my senior. I, a mere nine-year-old, standing in the shadow of a woman shaped by suffering.

An idea slithers into my mind, dark and thrilling.

*"This is going to be interesting."*

I recall the fictions I once devoured—stories where men pursued her, weaving her into their harems as if she were a trophy to be claimed. How laughable. Ultear does not belong to them. If she is to belong to anyone, it should be that little girl… what was her name again? Melody? Meredy? Whatever. That pink-haired lolita.

But since she's here, why not have some fun?

With practiced ease, I alter my attire, draping myself in the tattered rags of a beggar. A flicker of thought, and the illusion takes hold—*Kyoka Suigetsu (Mist).* What stands before the world is no longer me but a wretched, hollow reflection, a mask woven from deception. Does it matter if this face is false? Certainly not.

Now, to ensure I am noticed.

My magic, usually bound in silent restraint, seeps into the air. Just a whisper—subtle, restrained. Enough to beckon, to entice. My true power sits at six stars, a force too monstrous to unveil, so I release only three. A delicate leak, an invitation rather than an announcement. The sensation, faint as a breath against the skin, will only be felt by those who come close.

And Ultear, for all her cunning, for all her pain, will not resist curiosity when faced with a beggar who holds the ghost of power beneath his skin.

She *will* take interest.

Because once, she too was nothing but a child abandoned to suffering.

With everything set in place, I drift forward, my movements sluggish, my gaze hollow. A lost child, stripped of purpose, wandering the cruel streets without direction.

Of course, it's an act.

A lifeless stare is easy to mimic—all one must do is dwell on the futility of existence, let the weight of tragedy carve itself into their soul. For someone like me, who has endured isolation beyond reckoning, such an expression comes naturally. I can summon it and dismiss it at will, bending the emptiness to my desires.

I stagger aimlessly through the streets until—

*thud!*

My shoulder collides against her.

She is slightly taller, yet the impact is deliberate.

"Hey, watch it!"

Ultear Milkovich—the woman feared for her ruthlessness. Push the wrong button, and she won't hesitate to spill blood. Most would tread cautiously, knowing that provoking her is an invitation to suffering.

But I?

I do not fear Ultear. She is just a lost girl, abandoned and unloved. Even her own mother didn't want her.

The thought is cruel. But cruelty is a weapon, and words, when wielded correctly, cut deeper than any blade. Just because something does not wound me does not mean it won't wound another.

She glares, her warning sharp, but I offer nothing in response. Instead, I turn away, my feet carrying me toward the slums as though she were beneath my notice.

But she is not one to tolerate disrespect.

Her presence looms closer, the heat of her magic pressing against my back.

"Hey, kid. If you bump into someone, you should apologize. If you do it now, I *might* let go."

A threat wrapped in false patience.

She reaches for me.

But the moment her hand touches my shoulder—

A monstrous **killing intent** erupts from my core.

The world turns black.

The air thickens, choking, suffocating. The weight of death itself hangs over the street, twisting reality into a nightmare. No matter how much one trains, no one can truly control the sheer magnitude of murderous intent. It is not magic—it is something far worse.

A battle between killers is decided not by spell or strength but by the force of will alone. Why else would someone like Killua cower before Nobunaga and Phinks? **In my eyes, Ultear is nothing but a child who has barely taken her first step into the abyss, while I have walked over mountains of corpses.**

She instinctively recoils.

"This is...?"

Her voice is tight, her pupils dilated. She is no stranger to violence, but this? This is beyond her comprehension. In reflex, her hand tightens around the small crystal orb she always carries, and before she can think—

*She throws it.*

It is not a conscious attack, but an instinctual one—a desperate attempt to suppress the unknown terror gripping her.

The air trembles as the orb, accelerated by *Arc of Time,* hurtles toward me.

I do not dodge.

**BAM!**

The impact sends me crashing into the wall, a violent shockwave fracturing the stone behind me, splintering it into a spiderweb of destruction. Dust erupts into the air, momentarily concealing my form.

Ultear watches.

Her eyes, once cold and indifferent, gleam with something new—fascination.

She already knew I wasn't ordinary. But to take her attack head-on and emerge unscathed?

I rise, dusting off my tattered clothing as though brushing away a mild inconvenience.

And then, I let my magic *breathe.*

To her, it must look like crackling electricity, dancing violently, erratic and unstable. But it is an illusion—one I have crafted with precision. By mastering control, one can make their magic appear chaotic, wild, untamed.

In her eyes, I must seem like a prodigy—an unrefined genius, raw yet dangerous.

Her expression twists in shock.

"This magic power... You—You're a wizard?!"

A flicker of hesitation, a hint of excitement. My potential, in her eyes, is no less than her own. A rare gem buried in the filth of the slums.

I feign ignorance.

"What?" My voice is steady, my expression blank.

But within, my muscles coil, ready to strike.

I lack a weapon, but I have learned from the greatest warriors across fiction. I do not need a blade to kill.

Hand-to-hand combat is a language I am still learning—my techniques are crude, my movements born of imitation rather than training. But my physical strength is no lesser than my magic. My only weakness is experience, a flaw that will mend itself in the battlefield.

But experience is not the only teacher.

Martial arts—true mastery of the body—has long been perfected by nations like China and India. And while I do not claim to be a martial artist, I understand the fundamentals of Bian Quan Fan Zhang. It's a fast backfist strike in whipping motion.

I raise my right hand, just above my waist, angling it diagonally.

A movement like a serpent—fluid, hypnotic.

Ultear tenses, her entire body snapping to full alertness.

And then—

**I vanish.**

A gust of dust erupts where I once stood.

Her eyes widen, her head jerking wildly as panic grips her.

"D-Disappeared?!"

Her mind races.

But she is already too late.

**I am behind her.**

A mere half-meter of space separates us, my back to hers. She does not feel my presence—does not even *sense* me.

I move.

**WHIP STRIKE!**

My backhand **tears into her flesh.**

A scream shatters the silence.

"ARRRGHHH!!"

Her body arches, her knees buckling, her breath stolen by agony.

**Blood.**

A brilliant crimson streak glistens in the sunlight, her torn skin peeling back to expose the raw, searing wound.

I step forward, raising my hand again.

Another **whip strike**—but this time, I aim for her face.

I spin—**a full-force 360-degree backhand.**

**BOOM!**

Her body **soars through the air,** hurtling across the street before crashing through a stone wall with a thunderous impact.

Debris rains down.

Silence follows.

I exhale, my mind calculating. My original plan was to infiltrate Grimoire Heart—allow Ultear to take me in, destroy them from within. But now, standing here, I realize the truth.

I am *not* ready.

Even if I entered their ranks, I would not be able to handle them all. Precht, the leader, is at least **nine stars** in strength—stronger than Makarov himself.

This plan was flawed from the start.

My fingers twitch. A rift opens in space, and from within, my beloved katana emerges—its **white scabbard gleaming like the pale light of the moon.**

I step forward.

A single, clean stroke.

Her head vanishes.

And in its place—only *smoke.*

A **thought-body.**

Not the real Ultear.

Which means that somewhere, the true Ultear—the real one—has now **seen my face.**

But not *my* face.

She saw **Neinhart.**

A smirk tugs at my lips.

A thought-body functions like a *Naruto* shadow clone—everything it experiences returns to the original. Which means Ultear now has a clear image burned into her mind: **the face of one of the Twelve Shields of Alvarez, Neinhart.**

She will report this to Hades.

And what will Hades do?

He's no fool. If a Spriggan-tier mage has suddenly appeared in *Fiore*, he won't ignore it. Grimoire Heart will investigate, sending scouts, spies, maybe even an attack force.

But here's the catch—**they won't find me.**

They'll find Neinhart or his relatives.

And that's where the real entertainment begins.

If they dare step onto his land, if they come seeking a fight… **Neinhart will not ignore the provocation.**

Unlike me, Neinhart has a reputation, a history, and an empire behind him. He is one of Zeref's Twelve Shields, a force capable of reshaping battlefields with his Historia magic. And if Grimoire Heart moves against him, then they will have unknowingly declared war on Alvarez itself.

They will not be chasing *me.*

They will be stepping onto a battlefield they never wanted.

A perfect diversion.

I exhale slowly, my smirk fading into an indifferent expression.

With my business concluded, I glance around at the unfamiliar town.

"Now that that's settled… I should probably find an inn."

I adjust my clothes, blending seamlessly back into the city crowd.

Let them chase ghosts.

Let them walk blindly into a storm they cannot control.

Either way, it has nothing to do with me.

As I wandered through the streets, lost in my own thoughts, I collided with someone.

*"Is this karma?"* The thought flickered through my mind as I glanced at the person who had bumped into me.

*A little kid?*

He barely reached my chest, a small-framed boy with short black hair and wide brown eyes. His body trembled slightly, and his gaze wavered with unease.

"Uhm... I'm sorry!" His voice was soft, laced with nervousness, as if expecting me to lash out at him. His eyes were already glistening with unshed tears.

*A timid type?* No… I should be more careful. Was this really just an accident? Or was he sent here to test me? *Could this be karma for killing Ultear?*

Though I appeared calm, my senses sharpened. I subtly scanned my surroundings while keeping a close eye on the boy. His clothes were clean, his appearance well-kept—clearly, he wasn't a beggar. More importantly, I sensed no ill intent from him.

But that didn't mean I would let my guard down.

"It's alright. Be cautious next time," I said coolly, stepping aside and gesturing for him to move along.

His face brightened with relief. "Uhn! Thank you! Yes, I will! See you then!"

Before I could even react, he gave me a deep bow of gratitude and dashed away.

"...Wow. That was one odd kid," I muttered under my breath, shaking my head before turning to leave.

But just as I took a step forward, something caught my attention.

A shadow lurking at the corner of a nearby wall.

A middle-aged man, bald and dressed in rigid, unassuming clothes, peered out cautiously. His dull eyes followed the boy's path, his stance tense yet patient—like a predator stalking its prey.

More importantly…

A faint scent of blood clung to him.

I narrowed my eyes.

*Is he targeting the kid?*

A cold, indifferent thought flickered through my mind. *None of my business.*

With a dismissive shake of my head, I turned a blind eye and continued my way.

*"If it were happening right in front of me, maybe I'd step in... but this?"*

My steps slowed.

A sigh escaped me, heavier than expected.

Damn it.

I clicked my tongue, then vanished in a blur of speed, leaving only a trail of dust in my wake.

I found them in a narrow alleyway, half-hidden behind a rusted trash bin. The stench of rot mixed with the faint metallic tang of blood in the air.

The bald man had the boy pinned against the damp brick wall, one hand gripping his collar, the other clutching a gleaming knife. His lips moved, whispering something low—too low for me to hear—but the malice in his posture spoke volumes.

The boy trembled violently, his petite frame shaking like a leaf caught in a storm. His eyes, wide and unblinking, brimmed with pure, unfiltered terror. But the real evidence of his fear wasn't his expression.

It was the dark stain creeping down his pants.

I remained in the shadows, silently observing. No sudden movements. No interruptions. Not yet.

The bald man lifted his knife, angling it towards the boy's throat.

That was my cue.

*"Luckily, I made it in time."* My voice sliced through the tension as I grabbed his wrist mid-thrust.

His entire body jolted. "*Y-you…*" He twisted his head to look at me, his eyes narrowing as if trying to carve my face into his memory.

*Oh? Trying to remember me?*

A gang member, then. He wouldn't be this desperate otherwise. Which meant…

I didn't hesitate.

With a single fluid motion, I severed his head from his shoulders. The body crumpled soundlessly, and before the blood could even splatter, I stored the remains within my personal space.

No witnesses. No cleanup. No loose ends.

I turned to the boy.

"You alright?"

He didn't answer. His gaze was locked downward, fixated on the stain of urine on his clothes.

A sigh left my lips.

"Embarrassed?" I asked, amused. "Come on, everyone has to pee. You just… released it the wrong way."

His head snapped up, cheeks burning red.

I smirked. *Teasing kids is surprisingly fun.*

"Relax, I'm just messing with you," I added, waving a hand. "Here, I'll clean you up."

Raising a single finger, I pointed at his chest. A soft, white glow materialized—a magic circle forming in the air.

*"Clean."*

With a faint shimmer, his clothes dried instantly, as if the humiliation had never happened.

He blinked in surprise. "Uh… Uhm… T-thank you…" His voice wavered with lingering nerves.

"Don't mention it."

I was about to leave, but then an idea struck me.

"If you really want to thank me, how about leading me to a good dorm?" I suggested.

At that, his expression dimmed. His head dipped slightly, eyes clouding with disappointment.

"I… I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I don't have any experience with that…"

"...Huh?" His response caught me off guard.

I studied him again. His clothes were too clean for a street kid. His manners too formal. *A tourist? Or maybe someone who just left home for the first time?*

"Is it your first time?" I asked.

He gave a small, firm nod.

"Well, guess that's that." I shrugged. "Farewell, then."

I gave him a lazy wave and turned away, disappearing into the crowd once more.

My search continued.

****

The boy stood frozen in place, his body stiff as if locked in time. His wide, unfocused eyes remained fixed on the spot where *he* had disappeared.

The moment he was certain the masked man was gone, his knees buckled. He collapsed onto the cold, unforgiving ground, the rough dirt scraping against his skin.

His gaze drifted downward, landing on his shorts—clean now, as if nothing had happened. Yet, shame crawled over him, suffocating and merciless.

*"Why...? Why is this happening...?"* His voice trembled, barely more than a whisper. His small fingers clenched the fabric of his clothes in frustration, as if trying to rid himself of the humiliation.

A single tear slid down his cheek. Then another. Until they fell freely, blurring his vision.

*"What am I going to do now...?"*

He hadn't meant for things to turn out like this. He had only wanted to explore.

*"Where are you going?"*

The deep, gravelly voice of an old man rang in his ears, dragging him back to the morning before all of this began.

The boy turned, a bright grin lighting up his face. "Grandpa, I want to check out the town!"

Before him stood an elderly man with a long, thick beard that stretched down to his chest. His white hair cascaded over his shoulders, untouched by age's frailty. His eyes—void of pupils, entirely white—should have rendered him blind. Yet, somehow, he saw clearer than most.

Had Cana been here, she would have recognized him instantly—the wandering fortune teller, a man who drifted from place to place, divining the fate of humanity through the depths of his crystal ball.

The old man stroked his beard, lost in thought. The boy said nothing, merely waiting for permission.

Strict as he was, Grandpa had always been kind. And so, the boy obeyed without question.

"I see, I see…" The old man let out a knowing chuckle. "Ho… Ho… How curious…"

The boy tilted his head. Grandpa always said strange things he didn't quite understand.

"This is a fortunate encounter," the old man finally declared, a slow smile spreading across his lips. "You have my permission—but be careful. You might get lost."

At first, the boy thought he wouldn't allow it. But the moment the words left his mouth, excitement burst from his chest.

"Really?! Thank you, Grandpa!" He threw his arms around the old man in a warm embrace before rushing out the door.

The city was alive with color, noise, and movement.

The market stretched before him in a sea of stalls, each one overflowing with goods—vibrant fruits, sizzling street food, and rows of trinkets glimmering under the sun. The scent of freshly baked bread, sweet confections, and roasted meat filled the air.

*"And Grandpa told me not to get lost? Hmph! He really treats me like a kid…"* He pouted, though his feet barely slowed.

His eyes flickered from one stand to another, unable to keep still.

*"Whoa! There's so much food! It's like a festival!"*

He bounced between stalls, enthralled by the sights and smells.

*"Ice cream! How much is this?"*

*"What's this? Melon?"*

*"Oh! Cotton candy!"*

One indulgence led to another. Without realizing it, he had spent every last coin.

*"Oops…"* A nervous chuckle escaped him as he patted his now-empty pockets. *"I ran out of money… But I still want to see more."*

With a resigned sigh, he turned away, his gaze lingering longingly on a stall displaying cupcakes.

*"I guess I should head back…"*

But the moment he took a step, a dreadful realization struck him.

*"Wait… which way was home again?"*

Panic flared in his chest. He spun around, scanning the crowd for something familiar, anything that could point him in the right direction.

His heart pounded.

He ran through the bustling streets, desperate for a clue.

And then—*bam!*

He collided into someone.

A wave of dizziness washed over him, but his focus quickly snapped to the stranger's face.

For a fleeting second, he saw it—

A mask.

And then… mist.

His vision blurred. Confusion gripped him.

*"Huh…?"*

He blinked rapidly, rubbing his eyes, but nothing changed. The mask—was it really there? Or was he just imagining things?

Before he could think any further, a jolt of realization hit him.

*"Uhm… I-I'm sorry!"*

His voice cracked slightly. He wasn't looking where he was going. He wanted to say more, but the words tangled in his throat.

This was the first time he had ever spoken to a boy his age. He didn't know what to say.

He stole another glance at the masked stranger.

His posture was relaxed, entirely unbothered.

*"It's alright. Be cautious next time."*

The boy swallowed hard.

*"Uhn! Th-thank you! Y-yes, I will! See you then!"*

He spoke too fast, tripping over his own words.

Embarrassment surged through him. He bowed quickly and rushed away, desperate to escape.

But just as he turned the corner—

A hand clamped over his mouth.

Cold. Rough. Forceful.

*"Shhh… Calm down, lad."*

The whisper slithered into his ear as an iron grip dragged him into a narrow alley, isolating them from the bustling streets.

Fear erupted within him.

His body stiffened, his breath came in sharp, panicked bursts.

*"I'm going to get robbed."*

*"No… I'm going to get killed!"*

His mind spiraled. His heartbeat roared in his ears.

*Someone, please help me…!*

He struggled, but the man's strength far outweighed his own.

*"Hehehe…"* The stranger chuckled darkly, pinning him against the cold brick wall. The sharp glint of a knife flickered in the dim light.

*"Now, little shit. Hand over the money, and I'll spare you."*

The boy's blood ran cold.

*"I… I don't have any left…"*

He wanted to say it. But fear choked him silent.

If he told the truth, would the man let him go? Or would he kill him anyway?

*"Looks like you're quite the stubborn one."*

The man sneered, tightening his grip.

*"No matter. I'll just search your dead body instead."*

Terror seized his chest.

The knife rose, its deadly edge glinting as it neared his throat.

His body locked in place.

His vision blurred.

The world faded.

The blade came down.

But then—

*"Luckily, I made it in time."*

A voice, calm and remorseful, sliced through the suffocating silence.

Hope flickered in the boy's chest.

Reality snapped back into place.

"Y-You..."

The bald man's voice trembled, a mix of surprise and disbelief. His body jerked as if he'd been caught off guard. His grip on me loosened, but it was the force behind the boy's presence that made him freeze.

I glanced to where the man's gaze had shifted, and there he was—standing at the edge of the alley.

It was him, the boy I met before.

No more than nine, perhaps, but he was different from anyone I had ever seen. Dressed in black from head to toe, his white scarf a stark contrast to his otherwise dark attire. A katana hung at his side, a weapon that spoke of grace and deadly precision.

But it wasn't just his appearance that struck me.

It was his presence.

In that moment, I felt as though the air itself had changed. He wasn't just standing there; he *was* the alley. He *was* the night. Everything else blurred around him, and I couldn't pull my eyes away.

He gripped the bald man's wrist with effortless strength, the kind that didn't belong to someone so young. His fingers, delicate but firm, held the man in place, like an invisible force.

And my heart—

My heart skipped a beat.

It was a strange feeling, unlike anything I had ever known. There was something about him that made me feel both powerless and alive at the same time. A pull. A *connection.*

I should have been afraid, should have feared the danger around me. But all I could do was stare at him.

I could feel the warmth creeping up my neck, my face flushing under his gaze, even though he wasn't looking at me. The world around us had fallen silent.

A moment passed.

Then he spoke.

"Hey, you alright?"

His voice was firm, but beneath it, I could hear something gentler, something softer. It grounded me, bringing me back to myself.

The man who had threatened me—he was gone. Just like that. I hadn't even noticed him leaving.

I was left standing, my mind still fogged with confusion and something else—something new.

The boy turned toward me, his eyes meeting mine. I felt a jolt in my chest, a sudden tightness. My breath caught in my throat.

I looked down, trying to hide the shame that surged within me.

The realization hit me like a slap.

My shorts were soaked.

I had—*peed myself.*

*Great.*

The embarrassment clawed at me. *How could he see me like this?* I wanted to disappear.

But then, his voice cut through the panic that gripped me.

"Embarrassed?" He asked, amused. "Come on, everyone has to pee. You just… released it the wrong way."

And in that moment, something shifted.

His words were light, teasing even, but they weren't cruel. They weren't mocking. There was kindness behind them, something that made my heart flutter in a way I couldn't explain.

I lifted my head, and his eyes—so warm, so clear—met mine.

The world seemed to pause.

The heat in my face intensified, and I was sure he could see my shame. But he wasn't laughing. He wasn't judging me. He was just… there.

"Relax, I'm just messing with you," he added with a soft smile, waving a hand. "Here, I'll clean you up."

His words—*clean me up?*

A jolt ran through me.

Was he—*no, he couldn't be*—suggesting what I thought? The way he said it, so casual and confident, almost made it feel like there was something more to it. I could feel my face flush, my mind spiraling as I tried to picture what he meant.

*What if he really does mean...* I thought, my pulse quickening. *What if he touches me... just a little?*

My breath caught as I imagined him, his hands—no, I couldn't think like this. But it was impossible not to. The way his fingers would gently brush against my skin, almost tenderly, leaving a warm trail behind. My body tensed with the thought, and I fought to push it away.

*No, no, focus. It's just cleaning. That's all it is.*

But my mind refused to let go, continuing to paint vivid images—hands moving across my skin, the closeness between us, the tension building as every second dragged on.

I blinked hard, trying to shake the thought from my head. *Get it together!*

But before I could ask, before I could even react, he raised his finger toward me.

A soft, ethereal glow surrounded his hand, and a magic circle appeared in the air.

"Clean."

The air around me hummed, a strange warmth spreading through my body as the magic did its work. The dampness was gone, replaced by the soft feeling of dry fabric against my skin.

For a moment, I stood there, frozen in awe.

Was I relieved? Yes. But there was something else.

Something deeper.

I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but there was a part of me that *wanted* more. More than just magic. More than just this moment. I wanted him.

"Uh… Uhm… T-thank you…" I managed, my voice trembling.

He nodded, as though it was no big deal.

"Don't mention it," he said, but then he stopped, turning back to me with a thoughtful look in his eyes.

"If you really want to thank me, how about leading me to a good dorm?" he said, his tone light but carrying an undercurrent of something I couldn't place.

A dorm?

I blinked, the words not quite sinking in.

Had he just—?

Was he asking me to *show him a place to stay,* or was it something more? The thought made my chest tighten.

It wasn't just about the dorm anymore. It wasn't just about him asking for directions.

There was something between us, something that hung in the air like an unspoken promise. A dangerous kind of electricity.

My face flushed deeper, and my thoughts scrambled.

"Lead him to a dorm?" *With me?*

I hadn't even considered that. But now that the thought was there, I couldn't push it away. I *wanted* to lead him somewhere. I *wanted* to stay by his side.

But—

"I-I'm sorry," I stammered, my gaze dropping to the ground, unable to look him in the eye. "I don't have any experience in that…"

His response was a quiet "Huh?" and I looked up, startled.

"Is it your first time?" His expression was full of confusion, as if the idea that someone my age could *not* have experience with... whatever he was implying, was impossible.

I nodded, my throat tight with nerves.

But before I could say anything else, before I could ask him what I wanted to ask—he stepped forward, turning away.

"Well, I guess that's that," he murmured.

And just like that, he started to walk away, his figure fading into the night.

"Farewell then."

I stood there, motionless, my heart pounding in my chest. The air around me felt heavier, as if I had lost something precious in that very moment.

I wanted to call out to him. To ask him to stay. To tell him how my heart raced when he was near, how I had never felt like this before.

But I was too late.

Too afraid.

And so, I let him go, a lingering ache in my chest that refused to fade.

"Why...? Why is this happening...?" My voice wavered, barely more than a trembling whisper, as if the words themselves were too heavy to bear. My small fingers gripped the fabric of his clothes with desperate urgency, pulling and twisting as if I could tear away the suffocating weight of shame that clung to me.

A single tear, a silent betrayer of my heart's turmoil, slid slowly down my cheek. Another followed, then another, until they fell freely, each drop a testament to the helplessness gnawing at me. They blurred my vision, leaving me unable to see anything clearly, drowning in the swirl of my own emotions.

"What am I going to do now...?" The question echoed through the fragile chambers of my heart, fragile as the threads of hope that had once woven my innocence. And now, those threads were unraveling.

"Ho... ho... So you were here?" A familiar voice broke through the haze of my overwhelming emotions, pulling me back to reality. The warm, gentle tone carried with it an unmistakable concern. "I was worried you might get lost."

"Grandpa!" I rushed toward him, desperate for the comfort of his presence. My arms instinctively wrapped around him, clinging to him as if he were my anchor in the storm of my fear and shame. The memories of what had just happened flooded back to me, and the dam I had been holding back cracked wide open. "Grandpa... I'm scared... I'm afraid of death..." 

The words tumbled out in broken sobs, each one laced with the rawness of the terror that had gripped me just moments before. My body shook as the tears poured from my eyes, and I pressed my face into his chest, seeking solace in his familiar warmth. I let myself cry, completely undone, while he held me gently, trying to soothe me in his quiet way.

"Shh... it's alright," he murmured softly, his hands moving in a rhythmic pattern across my back, comforting me like a lullaby. "Can you tell me what happened?"

His words, calm and patient, finally made me speak. I didn't hold anything back. With every word, I poured out everything—the fear, the confusion, the terror I felt in that alley. I told him everything that had happened, the desperation, the helplessness, the strange mix of emotions I couldn't quite understand.