𝘈 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘐𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩.
Heroic ends are the delusions of fiction; in reality, death is more often sudden, senseless, and absurd. He never once considered himself the protagonist of some grand narrative. He knew that if he continued down this path, a day would come when he would have to face an inevitable, unavoidable end.
It wasn't that he hadn't thought of retirement. Unlike his younger self, his current heart occasionally allowed itself to dream of a tranquil life—tending to bonsai with idle hands while living off a pension, visiting his son, and watching the growth of a certain young girl his son was raising. He had envisioned it all.
But he couldn't reach it. There were too many horrific things reflected in his eyes for him to ever truly embrace peace.
His current case was a testament to that. A Ghoul attack—a common enough tragedy. But this one was distinct. Unlike most cases, the predator had not eaten the victims.
Yet, the state of the bodies was far more malicious than any act of cannibalism. When the bereaved family saw what was left of their loved one, they collapsed into a primal, soul-crushing wail. That sight had ignited a cold fury in his young assistant and partner, Shinichi Hashimoto, and even he had found it difficult to maintain his composure.
That lapse was likely the reason for this outcome.
"Ha… Mr. Harima..."
A blood-soaked Shinichi lay on the ground. Perhaps it was the brilliance of the moon, but even in the dead of night, in this desolate place devoid of light, the spreading pool of crimson was terrifyingly vivid.
We… we let our emotions get the better of us. We pursued the Ghoul too hastily and walked straight into the heart of its territory. This was the price of our recklessness.
"Pl-please… run.... If it's just you… you might live..."
"...."
Shinichi, his consciousness fading, could not see the state of his partner.
Harima Takaki.
He hesitated for a moment. This was the time for cold, clinical judgment, unfettered by the very emotions that had led them here. Between himself and Shinichi, who had the higher probability of survival?
The answer came instantly.
In that case, he would prioritize the one with the sliver of a chance.
𝘊𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬.
Harima pulled a cylindrical metal object from his coat. He flicked the cap off, revealing a slender needle.
𝘛𝘩𝘸𝘶𝘱!
He drove it into the center of Shinichi's chest. Shinichi's body spasmed for a moment before the light faded from his eyes. He wasn't dead. The cylinder contained a specialized drug that induced a state of apparent death, suppressing the pulse, respiration, and blood pressure to their absolute minimum. Thanks to this, the hemorrhage from Shinichi's wounds slowed visibly. If he could hold out until the extraction team arrived, he would live.
"Protecting the life of a subordinate over your own escape? What a magnificent spectacle."
"...."
Harima rose silently after finishing the emergency treatment. His once-white investigator's coat was shredded and caked in drying gore; not a single thread of white remained. As he stood, something dangled and swayed against his side.
It was neither torn fabric nor an ornament.
It was Harima's own viscera.
This was why Harima had calculated Shinichi's survival rate as higher. His flank had been torn open, his entrails were spilling out, and bone was visible through the gap. With blood pouring out of him in real-time, Harima's complexion had turned the sallow grey of a corpse.
Ignoring the lethal wound, Harima turned around. There, in the mouth of a moonless sewer, a shadow lingered.
He could not see a face. As if it had been born of the dark, the voice harmonized with the shadows, dripping with a loathsome, sickening amusement.
Through his son and that girl, Harima had learned that not all Ghouls were evil. But Ghouls like this still existed—monsters that thrived in the open. Harima was certain that the creature before him was the absolute nadir of their kind.
"Honestly, I'm impressed. I didn't think you'd be able to slaughter every single one of them."
Surrounding the eviscerated Harima were the mangled corpses of numerous Ghouls. They had ambushed the pair as a pack.
"I gathered followers who shared my philosophy, and yet you butchered them all by yourself. It's quite sad. To lose those who understand me in this world... I suppose I'll have to start my collection over."
Despite the words, the voice from the shadows didn't sound sad at all. If anything, it sounded merely inconvenienced. In truth, this Ghoul felt no bond with its kin. During the struggle, it had used its own subordinates as shields, attempting to skewer both Harima and Shinichi through them. It was in blocking that strike that Harima's midsection had been torn apart.
"...."
Harima offered no response. He stood silently, his grip tightening on his Quinque. It wasn't that he had nothing to say; he simply lacked the strength to speak. It was a miracle he was still standing on two legs at all.
Yet, Harima's gaze did not waver, even in the face of death. If he showed even a moment's weakness, that Ghoul would lunge to finish the job. He wouldn't allow it—not for himself, but for the partner he had just fought so hard to save.
Amused by Harima's defiance, a long, crooked finger—like the branch of a dead tree—emerged from the gloom. The Ghoul joined his fingers together to form a rectangular frame, capturing Harima's image within it.
"Exquisite! Truly beautiful! The look on your face right now is sublime! Even with your breath failing, your fighting spirit, your will, and your killing intent remain unextinguished! This is the sight I've been craving. I want to pluck that face right off your head and preserve that exact expression forever!"
"...If you want it that badly, then come and take it."
Harima's voice, thick with the sound of bubbling blood, rang out with a defiant dignity. He even tilted his head to the side, fully exposing his throat. The shadow did not take the bait, letting out a low, rattling laugh instead.
"That would be difficult. You see, I find you quite terrifying. A human who refuses to break even in the face of annihilation is beautiful, yes, but also dangerous! If I'm careless with my materials, I might lose the use of my artistic hands forever. You look as though you haven't the strength to lift a Quinque, but I know the moment I step within reach, you'll turn into a demon and tear my throat out."
The Ghoul knew he couldn't stay much longer. The reinforcements Harima had summoned would arrive soon. If he lingered, he would be the one hunted. But he seemed loath to leave, sighing with regret.
"But what a waste.... Materials of this caliber aren't easily found. You would have made a masterpiece of supreme beauty. But since you're so difficult to obtain... well, it's a pity. Ah! I know!"
𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘱!
The sound of palms meeting echoed in the dark, as if a brilliant idea had struck.
"Do you, by any chance, have a child?"
For a fleeting second, the iron discipline in Harima's eyes flickered. The shadow did not miss that infinitesimal shift.
"I see, I see! While a child doesn't always take after the parent, I suppose I can have high expectations for the offspring of a man like you!"
The Ghoul's sickening, viscous laughter grew louder, savoring the thought of a more "malleable" subject. In response, a flash of white light tore through the air.
𝘒𝘢-𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘰𝘰𝘰𝘰𝘰𝘰𝘰𝘮!!!!!
An authoritative, crushing blow meant to pulverize everything in its path. It was the greatsword-form Quinque Harima had unleashed. It was impossible to fathom where such strength came from—a body with its guts spilling out and bones exposed—but the cold steel blade shredded the darkness where the shadow had been, carving deep fissures into the concrete floor and walls.
But the laughing shadow was no longer there. He had already retreated beyond the reach of the dying investigator.
"𝘒𝘢𝘩𝘢𝘩𝘢𝘩𝘢!! I knew I was right to stay back! You were suppressing your agony to the limit, preparing that final strike!!"
The shadow fled to higher ground. From there, he sensed the CCG reinforcements approaching, having finally caught onto Harima's distress signal. Realizing time was up, the shadow bid Harima farewell.
"Nameless investigator, rejoice in our meeting today! I've taken quite a liking to you! It might not be today, but someday, I will find your child! And if the quality is to my liking, I shall turn them into my greatest work of art!!"
"...!!"
Harima tried to curse, tried to pursue the receding shadow, but his voice failed him, and his legs refused to move. He had spent the very last of his strength.
Harima's body collapsed forward along with his Quinque. The warmth was draining from him; the only sensation remaining was the strange, wet touch of his own viscera shifting as he fell.
He did not regret his death. He had been prepared for this day for a long time. But he could not close his eyes easily while such a threat remained.
That Ghoul knew nothing—he had merely viewed Harima as a fleeting curiosity. It would not be easy for him to find the son Harima had been estranged from for so long. But it wasn't impossible.
He thought of the victim of this case. The corpse that hadn't been eaten for survival, but left in a state of ultimate desecration. His son might end up like that. Unlike him, his son was a civilian. He didn't have the strength to withstand such hideous madness.
Harima tried to move his fingers, hoping to scrawl his son's name in blood. He had to warn the CCG that the Ghoul was targeting him.
But his fingers would not obey his will. No matter how hard he tried, there was not even a twitch.
Damn it. God damn it.
The curses echoed in his mind. Am I really to go meet my wife carrying such despair and misery?
"...Heh."
The thought that struck him in that moment brought a small, breathy laugh to his cracking lips. It was absurd. Of all the things to think of in his final moments, it was that child—the one he had once truly intended to kill.
But in this final second of life, she was the only one he could name as his "hope."
'I'm... counting on you...'
He repeated the plea behind his closing eyelids.
To the child I once hated with all my heart.
Please, protect my son. Support him so he does not break under the weight of this hideous malice.
Now that I am gone, you—the only family he has left—are the only one who can do this.