Makima

The next day, Geto left the Zenin estate, lost in his thoughts.

Naoya had believed that Riko's survival would shift Geto's perspective on the world — but it seemed not much had changed after all.

Four more months passed in the blink of an eye.

And today was a special day: Naraku was ready to give birth.

Without wasting a second, Naoya grabbed Naraku and accelerated toward an elite hospital, excitement practically radiating off him. After all, today was the beginning of Project Toji Fushiguro.

Neither of them had bothered to do a gender test beforehand. Naraku hadn't cared either way. Naoya, on the other hand, was certain — it would be a boy.

…

"Congratulations, sir. It's a girl," the doctor said, stepping out of the delivery room.

"…A what?"

"A healthy baby girl," the doctor repeated with a polite smile

"…A girl?" he repeated, almost as if the word itself offended him.

"Yes, sir. She's healthy and—"

"Don't care," Naoya cut him off.

For the first time in months, Naoya didn't speak. His mind stalled, eyes narrowing slightly—not in rage, not in disgust—but in the sharp tension of disbelief. The "Project Toji Fushiguro" that had been turning in his mind like a cursed mechanism… derailed.

Naraku was unconscious on the bed, pale from the effort. She looked too peaceful, too defenseless. For a moment, Naoya wanted to say something cruel just to ruin it.

Instead, he turned to the nurse holding the newborn.

"Give her to me."

There was hesitation—of course there was—but the nurse obeyed. Naoya took the child in his arms like someone picking up a filthy rag. His hands were strong, sure, but careless. Like he was holding something replaceable.

"Tch… all that effort, and she couldn't even give me a son."

He looked down at the baby girl.

Tiny. Warm. Calm.

Too calm.

Her eyes were open—already. Wide, steady, quiet. Not crying. Just… staring.

"What's wrong with her eyes?" Naoya muttered, noticing.

Golden—no, not just golden. They shimmered like burnished metal, sunlight caught in the gaze of a predator. But it was the rings that caught him most—perfect red circles layered deep inside her irises, like ripples in still water, hypnotic and unnatural.

Golden—no, not just golden. They shimmered like polished metal, like sunlight caught in a predator's gaze. But it was the rings that did it. Perfect red circles, layered deep within her irises like ripples on still water, hypnotic and unnatural.

""We think it's a genetic mutation," the nurse offered carefully, her voice thin under the weight of Naoya's stare.

Naoya didn't respond. His expression didn't shift. He just kept looking.

Those eyes.

Not crying. Not fussing. Just watching him, like she was waiting for him to blink first.

"You're a creepy little thing," he muttered. "I thought babies were supposed to cry after they're born."

"We thought there might be something wrong with her," the nurse replied softly. "But after some tests… she's completely fine. Perfectly healthy."

Still, Naoya didn't hand her back.

He turned and strode toward the far end of the room, holding the child awkwardly.

Her eyes stayed locked on him.

Unmoving. Unblinking.

They reminded Naoya of something. A fragment of memory from his past life—a character, maybe. A name that echoed faintly through the fog of old internet noise and mindless forums. A woman people were always obsessing over.

"I think it was... Makima?" he thought, expression unreadable.

He didn't know anything about her. Just that the name carried weight. The kind of name you didn't forget.

He glanced back down at the baby girl in his arms.

Still calm. Still watching.

"Your name is going to be Makima then," he said flatly.

…

Makima pov:

Darkness. Then—

Awareness.

I'm alive?

I can't move. My limbs don't respond. My vision is blurred. I can't lift my head. But I can hear.

Japanese.

They're speaking Japanese. My native tongue. The air is sterile. Machines are humming. The scent of antiseptic, latex, blood. A hospital.

...I've been reborn?

The realization is instant and horrifyingly clear. My body is that of a newborn. Small. Weak. Powerless.

But my mind—intact. My memories—unaltered. I remember everything.

The boy. The hound. The betrayal. The death.

I was killed—truly killed.

But this? Full memory? Consciousness?

That's not how rebirth is supposed to work.

A reincarnation?

…Or something else?

I focus on the voices around me.

"Why is she not crying?"

"This is a bad sign."

"Quick, run some tests!"

So noisy. Hasty. Nervous. Pathetic.

They poke and prod. Shine lights in my eyes. Cold instruments against my skin. I do nothing. I observe. Their fear is... amusing.

They think I'm helpless.

They're correct—for now.

A woman lies pale on the bed beside me. Still. Breathing.

My mother?

She looks young. Too young.

I study her face for a moment.No warmth stirs in me.

Then—a shift.

A man enters. His voice cuts through the noise.

Sharp. Impatient. Arrogant.

"Give her to me."

The nurse hesitates. He glares. She obeys.

I'm lifted—not gently.

Held like luggage, by the scruff of my clothes.

…How careless.

What if he wanted to hurt me? Kidnap me? Kill me?

The nurse simply let him.

This world is still run by fear.

I'm lifted. Not cradled—gripped. Like an object, not a child. By the back of my newborn shirt.

He holds me poorly. Carelessly. I almost slip from his grasp.

…This man is reckless.

His eyes roam over me, studying my face.

His expression is strange. Not tenderness. Not disgust. Something in between.

Still, I feel no fear.

I don't sense anything abnormal. No power. No divine pressure.

He's just… a man. Arrogant. Confident. Possibly dangerous.

But human.

He smells of pride and ego more than sweat or blood. His shoes are expensive. He didn't hesitate to order people around.

So—he's wealthy. Respected. Likely powerful in society.

But not supernatural.

A loud snort escapes him.

"Tch… all that effort, and she couldn't even give me a son."

So that's it. He expected something. A legacy. An heir.

I've disappointed him by existing.

That's fine. Let him believe that.

He looks at me again, muttering:

"You Creepy little thing. Aren't babies supposed to cry?"

I do nothing.I simply observe.

"What's wrong with her eyes?"

Then… a pause.

A name.

"Makima."

A coincidence? An echo of my former self? Or does this world play tricks on fate?

Either way...

I'm here.

And now I know:Both my parents—if that's what they are—look like teenagers.

Strange.

Are these truly my parents?