𝘉𝘶𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦… 𝘣𝘶𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦…
The savory aroma of boiling soybean paste soup wafted from the pot. The evening sun, filtering through the kitchen window, added a gentle warmth to the room—a scene of domestic tranquility typical of any ordinary family preparing dinner.
I ladled out a small amount of the broth and tasted it.
It was a bit bland, but I decided it was good enough and turned off the gas. Since I was the only one eating the soup, I had developed a habit of being somewhat lax with my own seasoning.
I pulled a plastic-wrapped plate from the refrigerator.
Resting upon it was a lump of meat of a vivid, crimson hue. Unfortunately, it wasn't beef or pork. I placed the meat on the cutting board, pressed my palms together in a brief, silent prayer for the deceased, and began to slice it thin.
Seven slices—the perfect size for a child to eat.
I started to wrap the leftovers back in plastic, but then, considering Eto's recent growth spurt, I cut one more piece. I arranged the meat on the plate and carried it to the table. Once everything was set, I called out to her.
"Eto, dinner's ready!"
"Coming~!"
Eto scurried into the room, a book tucked under her arm. To an outsider, it would have been a jarring sight: a father and daughter sitting across from one another, the father with a standard meal of rice and soup, and the daughter with nothing but a plate of eight raw slices of meat.
But to us, this was the norm. Eto started to smile at the sight of the meat, but her expression quickly turned somber as she looked at my meal.
"? What is it?"
"Daddy… Like I said before, I really don't mind eating by myself."
This again. I knew what was bothering her. She was a Ghoul, and what she was eating so "deliciously" was human flesh. She understood the weight of what it meant for a human like me to share a table with her—to eat alongside a "monster" devouring the meat of my own kind. If you looked at it only through that lens, it was enough to make anyone lose their appetite.
But.
𝘛𝘩𝘸𝘢𝘤𝘬!
"𝘈𝘶𝘨𝘩!"
I delivered a light chop to the crown of her head.
"It is a universal truth of all ages and cultures that families eat together at the same table. Do you have an objection?"
The person I was eating with wasn't a monster; she was my family. To keep her distance despite knowing that—how was that any different from denying we were family at all? Eto rubbed her head (though it likely didn't hurt) and looked up at me. I offered her a reassuring smile, and only then did she relax and settle into her chair.
We pressed our palms together, chorused a "Thank you for the meal," and picked up our chopsticks.
"Oh? There's an extra piece?" Eto noted before reaching for the meat.
"You've been getting bigger lately. You need to eat more to grow."
Eto was the type of child who would stoically endure hunger rather than speak up. She did it because she knew that 'scavenging' was a burden for me, but to me, who had grown quite accustomed to it, it was a needless worry. At the very least, I wasn't having panic attacks over it like I used to.
Still, Eto seemed determined not to be a burden. Seeing the unannounced extra slice, she puffed out her cheeks in a pout.
"𝘏𝘮𝘱𝘩. I don't need this much. I'm going to leave it."
"You'll be punished if you waste food."
"Do you want your daughter to get fat?"
"Plump is much healthier than being skin and bones."
"Managing one's figure is important for a lady!"
"What 'figure management'? You haven't even hit puberty yet!"
"Then, if I eat too much and get fat, are you going to take responsibility and let me live with you forever, Daddy?"
"You're moving out the moment you're an adult."
"You're so mean!"
We were in the middle of our usual playful banter when it happened.
𝘙𝘪𝘯𝘨-𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘨—!
"Hm?"
"Who is it?"
A sudden ring of the doorbell. Just in case, I gave Eto a meaningful look. She grabbed her plate and scurried into the back room to hide. Once she was out of sight, I stood up and headed to the entryway.
"Who is it?"
I opened the door to find a man holding a small box. He was a delivery driver.
"Delivery. Are you Mr. Koma Takaki?"
"A delivery?"
Was I expecting anything? Nothing came to mind. Relieved that it wasn't anyone suspicious, I took the package. I was slightly surprised by how heavy it felt despite its small size. I saw the driver off and looked down at the sender's address.
"...!!!"
The shock hit me like a physical blow. A second later, that shock twisted into a smoldering rage.
"What kind of bastard..."
I reflexively tightened my grip, crumpling the edges of the box. Yet, I couldn't tear my eyes away from the name written on the label.
「𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘢 𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘬𝘪」
A package from my father, who had died four years ago? It wasn't even funny. As a joke, it was incredibly depraved. I felt a surge of pure hostility toward whoever had sent this. For using a fake name, and for choosing the name of my dead father, specifically.
"Daddy?"
I heard Eto's cautious voice behind me. She must have realized the stranger was gone and crept out. …What kind of face was I making right now? Without a mirror, I couldn't be sure, but it certainly wasn't a pleasant one. I pressed my palm against my face, forcing my expression to soften. My insides were still boiling from this malicious prank, but there was no need to show that to Eto.
"Is everything okay?"
"It's nothing. Just a delivery."
"The box is all crumpled, though?"
"The driver was just really careless with the handling."
Maintaining my usual tone, I set the box on the floor. As I tore the packaging open, I tried to deduce who could have sent it. Who could it be? My father certainly hadn't sent it from the grave. If it were a pseudonym, Mr. Kuzen came to mind, but he wasn't the type to pull a stunt like this. Hitokawa wasn't that cruel either—but if it did turn out to be him, I was going to march over and punch him in the face.
First, I had to see what was inside. I'd felt something hard and solid through the cardboard earlier.
'At least it's not a dead rat or something….'
Besides, I hadn't done anything to make someone hate me that much. …Probably. I pulled the flaps of the box open and looked inside.
"Eh…?"
"...I don't care who it is. I'm going to find the bastard who sent this."
Eto stared at the contents with a stunned expression. I steeled my heart and reached in. The cold, heavy sensation of steel bit into my palm.
Two years ago, I had felt this exact same weight. The "thing" that had pierced the skull of the Ghoul who had tried to kill me while wearing a policeman's skin.
It was a revolver.
The same model as back then, though this one was a five-shot instead of six. I checked the cylinder. The bullets were tipped with a distinct red. Carved into the side of the casings was a single, embossed letter: 'Q'.
"The 『𝘘 𝘉𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘴』… Why would an anti-Ghoul weapon be…"
I felt it then. Something was moving, something determined to shatter our peaceful daily life.
"That concludes the briefing on the 'Artist.' Teams are to focus their search for traces in the aforementioned districts. The Artist's activities are becoming increasingly violent. I want every single lead followed within the next five days. Dismissed!"
𝘚𝘩𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘭𝘦, 𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘭𝘦!
Following that commanding voice, the investigators began to file out of the briefing room. Hitokawa remained in his seat, letting out a long, heavy sigh as the room grew quiet. Attending a meeting surrounded by the CCG's elite veterans was still a living hell for a low-ranking grunt like him.
"You look exhausted, Hitokawa-kun."
"Ah, Mr. Hashimoto!"
Hitokawa scrambled to his feet as a man in his early thirties approached him.
Shinichi Hashimoto.
He was Hitokawa's former superior and the man who had taught him everything he knew. Even though Hashimoto had been promoted to Special Class and was no longer his direct supervisor, Hitokawa still held him in the highest regard. He was also the former partner of Koma's father.
Hitokawa hadn't expected to see him for a while, so he had been genuinely surprised to see him in the briefing room. Hashimoto was joining the hunt for the Artist.
"I didn't expect to see you so soon. I heard you were swamped after your promotion to Special Class."
"I am. But I couldn't let this 'Artist' case go. I volunteered to join despite the schedule."
"What? Do you know the Artist, Mr. Hashimoto?"
"You could say that... It's a matter from my past that I need to settle."
There was a grim, solemn resolve in Hashimoto's eyes as he spoke.
"Because regardless of what anyone says... Mr. Takaki, my old mentor, lost his life to that monster while trying to save me."