The sun shone brightly overhead, bathing the pedestrian street in an almost excessive warmth as Mochi made her way through the crowd. She held her phone to her ear, listening to the voice on the other end.
"Mochi, remember that tomorrow you have to stop by the OHRA headquarters. They need to assign you an official team for your upcoming missions."
"Is there really no way I can stay on your team, Haruka?" Mochi asked, letting out a small sigh of resignation.
"No. They made it very clear. Rules are rules."
"Alright, alright… I'll go tomorrow," Mochi gave in. "I'll let you go, Haruka. I need to do some shopping for the next few days. My parents are going on a trip for three days, so I have to survive on my own."
"I suppose your 'survival' plan includes buying mountains of sweets and staying up until dawn playing video games."
"Exactly! You know me too well."
"Uff…" Haruka sighed. "Alright. See you tomorrow, Mochi. Take care."
Mochi hung up with a triumphant smile on her face. With freedom ahead of her, her thoughts immediately drifted to food. For lunch the next day, she had an irresistible craving for curry; just imagining the aroma of spices made her mouth water.
That's why she had chosen that shopping street. The place was bursting with life and noise: wooden stalls overflowing with fresh vegetables, vibrant-colored fruits, freshly caught fish, and spices that filled the air with fragrance. Unlike cold, boring supermarkets, here the law of bargaining ruled.
Hehehe… I'm going to haggle everything down! Mochi thought to herself, rubbing her hands mischievously. If I save enough from the money my parents left me, the rest will be for my treats! Perfect plan.
The atmosphere was cheerful, but Mochi knew she couldn't let her guard down. Groups of elderly women moved like unstoppable whirlwinds among the stalls, fiercely competing for the best deals. Mochi shuddered at the memory; she still had flashbacks from the last time she tried to stand between a determined grandmother and a bundle of discounted green onions. It had been, quite literally, a battlefield.
Alright, focus, Mochi, she told herself, shaking her head to clear away the traumatic memories. Vegetables first. If I remember correctly, there's a stall at the end of the street with good prices.
Just as she began working toward her goal, a loud, familiar voice broke through the murmur of the crowd:
"Oh, Noa-chan! It's been so long since I've seen you around here! Come, come over!"
One of the market's longtime vendors recognized Mochi immediately and started waving at her with overwhelming enthusiasm. Mochi approached, forcing a slightly embarrassed smile as her ears twitched shyly.
"Hello, ma'am. Yes, I'm sorry… I've been a bit busy with schoolwork and couldn't come by sooner," Mochi explained, scratching the back of her head.
"Oh, I see! Everyone around here has missed you so much, dear. Here, this is a gift from me," the woman said, handing her a bag with a generosity that didn't accept refusal.
It was filled with fresh vegetables. Mochi accepted them with a polite bow, and after a brief chat, she tried to move on… but fate—or her own popularity in the neighborhood—had other plans.
"Noa-chan, Noa-chan!" another voice called out, hoarse and familiar. "It's been ages since we've seen you around here!"
This time it was the old owner of the fish stall. Just like the previous woman, he wouldn't let her leave empty-handed—he handed her a couple of fillets wrapped in paper, still carrying the scent of the sea.
And the story repeated itself. Once, twice, three more times.
Before Mochi realized it, her arms were full of goods. A spark of nostalgia lit up her eyes as she remembered childhood afternoons when her mother used to drag her to this very market. "With that cute face of yours, we'll get plenty of gifts," her mother used to say with a laugh. Apparently, the tactic was still working perfectly.
By the time she reached the vegetable stall she had originally been aiming for, she realized she didn't need to buy anything. Her bag was full, and her budget untouched.
The sun was beginning to set behind the rooftops. The bustling noise of the market started to fade, giving way to a quieter atmosphere.
Alright, I should head home, Mochi thought, adjusting the weight she carried. I've got serious plans for tonight.
She turned around and started the walk back, organizing the gifts into her shopping bag. It was heavy. If she had been the "old" Mochi, she probably would've dragged her feet and complained with every step. But now something was different.
After the incident in the tunnel, Haruka hadn't accepted any excuses and had forced her to enroll in boxing classes. "You need to learn how to fight, not just throw random punches," the elf had told her. Even though Mochi had complained bitterly about the soreness and sweat, now she felt like she could run all the way home without getting tired.
Well, to be honest… she admitted to herself with a grimace as she shifted the weight from one arm to the other, a few days of training haven't turned me into an expert. This still weighs a ton!
With a tired but satisfied sigh, Mochi headed toward her house, unaware that the peace of her "video game night" was hanging by a very thin thread.
She tried to convince herself that the weight of the bags was just an extra strength-training session. She walked leisurely, letting the gentle breeze brush against her ears. Everything was calm… until a corner of the shopping street disrupted the harmony.
On the other side of the sidewalk, a small group of people had gathered around something. Out of pure curiosity, Mochi slowed down, tilting her head to see over their shoulders.
When the crowd parted, she saw it.
It was a man dressed as a clown. He held a lush bouquet of red roses, handing them out slowly to passersby. On the surface, it was a quaint, almost childish scene. But to Mochi, something about it felt terribly wrong.
The first thing she felt wasn't fear, but a physical dissonance. An electric tingling ran down the back of her neck, and an invisible pressure began to squeeze her chest. The air, which had been light just moments ago, grew heavy and difficult to breathe.
The clown wasn't doing anything aggressive. He wasn't even looking at her. He silently handed out flowers.
And yet, every fiber of Mochi's instincts screamed a single word:
Run.
Her hands tightened around the bag handles until her knuckles turned white. She didn't want to look at him directly, but she couldn't tear her eyes away. There was something grotesque about the painted smile on the man's face—it was like looking at a poorly developed photograph, where the edges didn't quite align with reality.
And then, for a fraction of a second that felt like an eternity, the clown locked eyes with her.
There was no gesture, no laugh, no movement. Just that gaze.
In that instant, fear hit her head-on. The moment their eyes met, Mochi felt dazed, as if a cold, dense fog were seeping into her ears and clouding her mind. The world around her blurred. It was a complete disconnection from her own body; a sharp ringing filled her head, and she felt the suffocating pressure of being underwater, trapped in the limbo of a waking nightmare.
She blinked. Once.
When her vision refocused, her heart lurched so violently it almost stole her breath.
She was no longer across the street. She was standing there, right in front of the clown. She didn't remember crossing the road, dodging traffic, or taking a single step.
"Take it," the clown said.
He extended a rose toward her. Mochi's body, betraying her mind, reacted automatically. Her fingers closed around the stem before her consciousness could even process the command to stop.
That was when she truly saw him.
Those eyes held nothing human. They were golden pits—intense and cold—the gaze of a predator that had cornered its prey and was simply waiting for the perfect moment to strike. It didn't blink. Not once. Beneath that fixed stare, his mouth stretched into a smile that was too wide, unnatural, revealing crooked, yellowed teeth peeking through lips painted red.
Mochi lowered her gaze to the "gift."
The rose was dead. Its petals were black, withered, brittle—as if it had been rotting in a vase for weeks.
The world snapped back into sound: the noise of traffic, the heat of the setting sun on her neck, and the frantic pounding of her own heart. Mochi said nothing. She didn't ask permission. She simply turned on her heel and ran.
She ran desperately, as if every second of hesitation were a death sentence. She pushed through the crowd, weaving between pedestrians without looking back. She didn't stop when her legs began to burn, nor when the air seared her lungs. She only stopped when she crossed the door of her house.
She slammed it shut behind her and turned the lock with trembling hands. She stayed there, leaning against the wood, trying to steady her breathing. She was safe.
Or so she thought—until she looked down at her right hand.
Her fingers were still wrapped around the stem of the withered rose.
Her stomach twisted. Without thinking, she crossed the room and threw it deep into the trash can, wanting to erase any trace of that encounter.
But as she stepped away, the silence of the house felt, for the first time, strangely heavy.