Chapter XXXVI: Mystery and Mysery
Dr. Aoshima's office is quiet in a way that feels unnatural.
The lights hum faintly above him, casting pale reflections against stacks of documents, open books, and a laptop glowing with half a dozen tabs. Outside the window, the campus breathes with distant footsteps and voices, but here, the world feels suspended—trapped in a moment that refuses to move forward.
Dr. Aoshima leans back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
On his screen are photographs from the Starlight Festival Incident.
Blurred silhouettes. Hooded figures. Incomplete witness statements. Energy readings that make no sense according to modern physics.
"These aren't random," he murmurs to himself.
He scrolls down slowly, eyes sharp behind thin glasses. Every image carries the same pattern—identical folds in cloaks, identical symbols stitched faintly along seams, markings that resemble neither known cults nor theatrical costumes.
Students. That is the part that unsettles him most.
Too many of the suspects are young. Too many have records that don't align with violent behavior. Honor students. Club members. Quiet faces hiding behind anonymity.
He opens a fresh document and begins typing.
Hypothesis: Hooded figures are not acting independently. Possibility of external influence or possession. Unknown energy signatures detected.
His fingers pause.
Aoshima exhales slowly and switches tabs, scrolling through archived articles, message boards, and obscure forums. He cross-references police reports with folklore, mythological symbols, and modern extremist iconography.
Nothing fits.
Then— A Facebook article catches his attention.
The thumbnail is grainy, taken at night. A wrecked sedan wrapped around a massive acacia tree. Police lights staining the road red and blue.
"Unsolved Hit-and-Run Involving Hooded Assailants Raises Questions," the headline reads.
Two years ago.
Dr. Aoshima clicks it.
As he reads, his expression tightens.
Motorcycles. Four suspects. Hooded. Symbols found at the scene. No arrests. Victim deceased hours after hospitalization.
His cursor stops when he reads the victim's surname. Abe. He whispers it aloud.
"Aoto Abe..."
His chair creaks as he leans forward.
On the other hand, the cemetery is cold.
Not the sharp kind of cold that bites skin, but the heavy kind—the kind that settles into the bones and refuses to leave. Gray clouds hang low above rows of weathered headstones, and the wind moves through the trees like a slow, mournful breath.
Aoto Abe stands before one grave.
His hands are in his pockets, shoulders tense, eyes locked on the engraved letters carved into stone.
Kenji Abe40Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjjFkpMGzjN
A Beloved Husband and Father
Aoto exhales, the breath trembling.
"It's been a while," he says softly.
The words vanish into the air. He kneels, brushing fallen leaves away from the base of the grave. His fingers linger on the stone, cold against his skin.
"I don't know if you can hear me," he continues, voice quiet, "but... I've been trying. I really have."
His throat tightens. Memories press in, uninvited. And suddenly—
He is not here anymore.
The freezing season settles over the city like a curse. Kenji Abe pulls his coat tighter as he locks the door to the office building behind him. The streetlights flicker, illuminating thin frost clinging to the pavement. He pats his pockets. Keys. Wallet. His breath catches.
"...My phone."
He sighs and turns back toward the building. It's late. He just wants to go home. But work emails wait for no one.
Minutes later, he's driving again, headlights cutting through the cold night. Then—
A sound. Engines.
He glances at the rearview mirror. Four motorcycles emerge from the darkness. Too close.
Too fast.
"What the—"
The first impact slams into the side of his car. Metal shrieks.
Kenji grips the wheel as another motorcycle strikes the rear. The car swerves violently.
"Hey! Get away from—!"
A third impact. Glass shatters. The world spins. The car crashes into a massive acacia tree with a sound like the sky breaking open.
Silence follows. Kenji's ears ring. Pain blooms across his chest and face, but he is alive. He groans and forces the door open, collapsing onto the cold ground. Before he can stand—
A boot slams into his ribs. He gasps.
A fist crashes into his face, stars exploding behind his eyes. A hooded figure looms above him, voice distorted and hollow.
"Tell me," the man says slowly, "where is the ring?"
Kenji coughs, blood spilling onto the road.
"R-Ring...? I don't know—"
Another punch. Harder.
"You're lying."
"I swear!" Kenji cries. "I don't know what you're talking about!"
They don't listen. Blows rain down until his vision blurs, until the world feels distant and wrong.
Then—
Sirens. Blue and red lights slice through the darkness.
The hooded men freeze.
"Go!" one of them snaps.
Engines roar. They vanish into the night like ghosts. Kenji lies there, barely conscious, staring at the stars.
Aoto jolts awake, screaming.
"Dad!"
His mother rushes into the room, panic etched across her face.
"It's okay," she says, holding him tightly. "It's just a dream."
But before the words finish settling—
The phone rings. Once. Twice. She answers. Her face drains of color.
At the accident scene, a policeman crouches near the wreckage. Something glints beneath the broken door. He picks it up. A button. Black metal.
Warm. Too warm. Strange symbols are etched into its surface, pulsing faintly. The officer frowns.
"What the hell...?"
At the hospital, machines beep rhythmically.
Aoto stands at his father's bedside, tears streaming freely as he grips Kenji's hand.
"Please wake up," he whispers. "Please..."
Kenji's eyes flutter open.
"Aoto...?"
Aoto sobs, pressing closer.
"I'm here, Dad! I'm here!"
Kenji smiles weakly.
"I'm sorry," he says softly. "I was... always busy. Always chasing work."
His breath rattles.
"I forgot what mattered."
Aoto shakes his head. "Don't say that. You'll be fine."
Kenji squeezes his hand.
"Take care of your mother," he whispers. "That's all I ask."
The monitor flatlines. Aoto screams.
"WHY—?! WHY DID YOU HAVE TO GO?!"
Doctors rush in. But it's too late.
In a dark room elsewhere, four hooded men kneel.
A phone rests between them.
A shadow rises behind it—shifting, changing shape, never settling.
"Failure is unacceptable," the voice says.
One hooded man bows deeply. "We will find it."
"Find the ring," the voice commands, "at all costs."
The shadow smiles.
Weeks pass.
Kenji Abe is buried beneath cold earth.
Five days later— Aoto's mother disappears. No note. No explanation. Just silence.
Aoto is sent to live with his grandparents and aunt, the weight of loss crushing his chest every waking moment.
The present returns like a wound reopening. Aoto stands before the grave, hands shaking.
"They took everything," he whispers. "But I won't let them take me."
The wind howls softly through the cemetery. Somewhere far away, Dr. Aoshima stares at his screen, realization dawning.
The past is not buried. It is waiting. And the hoods are already moving again.
ns216.73.216.67da2
and then Add to home screen.