Menace Association Chapter: 7

They erected platforms atop each gate, and on each platform, they placed a large vat. These vats were filled to the brim with extremely strong sake, a potent brew meant to subdue the monstrous serpent. Once the preparations were complete, everyone held their breath, waiting for the arrival of the fearsome Orochi.

When Orochi finally appeared, its massive form slithered through the fence, drawn by the intoxicating aroma of the sake. The great serpent, with its eight heads, dipped each one into the vats, greedily consuming the potent alcohol. The powerful sake quickly took effect, and soon the monster lay in a deep, drunken slumber.

He could already feel the needles piercing his flesh. "The serpent was dumb, right?" the man said to Agatha, shaking his head. She just laughed in response and continued.

"Susanoo used this chance to make his attack. He sliced the enormous beast into tiny pieces with his sword. The carnage was so great that the Hi River flowed with blood. When Susanoo had cut the creature down to its fourth tail, his sword shattered into pieces."

"Examining the part of Orochi's tail which broke his sword, Susanoo discovered another sword within the creature's flesh - the legendary katana, Ame-no-Murakumo-no-Tsurugi (Sword of the Gathering Clouds of Heaven)."

"Which was later offered to Amaterasu as a reconciliation gift," she finished.

The corner of his lips formed a slight smile.

"But sadly, her soon-to-be bride remained a comb and wasn't able to get back in her human appearance," she added.

"By the way, it's already done, sir," he got up and checked himself in the full-length mirror.

"You nailed it, it's good. I'm glad my boys recommended your shop," he uttered in satisfaction while staring at his reflection, praising her.

She chuckled, "I'm glad you liked it, sir."

He carefully put his clothes back on, but didn't button the top part, exposing his broad chest to avoid friction and irritation. "Payments already sent, just checked your account. So gotta go, I have some meetings in an hour."

"Oh, by the way," Agatha picked up the paper bag on the counter and gave it to him. "Thank you so much. Sorry if I borrowed it without your consent."

He checked the bag's contents: his trench coat, the one she'd borrowed. Agatha's face twisted into a grimace. "It's cool, but I did film you without asking," she admitted. He laughed at her clearly annoyed expression.

"So, can I keep it? and that succubus tattoo on your back is beautiful" he added, a genuine compliment in his voice.

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever, weirdo. Just don't put it online," she said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand.

He feigned shock. "Did you just call a customer a weirdo?"

Agatha's laughter rang out. His childish reaction was endearing.

With a small bow, she thanked him. He waved goodbye, a smile playing on his lips as he walked away.

A notification popped up on Agatha's phone: "Miura Sasaki has sent 124,873.53 yen to your account." Her jaw dropped. That was ten times – maybe more – than the agreed-upon payment. A curse slipped past her lips as the realization hit her: Miura Sasaki was a member of SDLA, one of Japan's most powerful syndicates.

Later, Agatha arrived home and opened Akira's door to a surprising sight: Fuji, fast asleep, her head resting peacefully on his chest. Euphoria washed over Agatha. This unexpected display of care was overwhelming, a flicker of hope that Fuji might change for the better, for her best friend's sake.

Entering her own room, Agatha made her way to her bedside table, where she'd left a plate of takoyaki – a comforting midnight snack for Akira upon waking.

Tiptoeing as quietly as possible, Agatha closed the door, unwilling to disturb the sleeping couple. She retreated to her own room, collapsing onto her bed for a much-needed nap.

A sudden jolt awoke her; she'd been dreaming of falling into the swirling depths of the Milky Way. Her throat was parched as she opened her eyes, but only darkness greeted her. Blindfolded, she strained to see, her vision useless in the oppressive blackness. A wave of icy fear washed over her; this wasn't her bedroom.

"Where the hell am I?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

Her fingers brushed against rough, dusty walls. A chilling familiarity settled over her as she recognized the small, lifeless space: the orphanage basement, where she'd spent half her life. Exhaustion and a deep-seated fear wracked her body.

She's handcuffed to the hospital bed, her feet was bound tight, Agatha bore the angry red marks left by the ropes. Weakness overwhelmed her; even attempting to free herself was beyond her capabilities.

The basement door creaked open, revealing three figures silhouetted in the dim light: Sister Agnes, her face a mask of grim disapproval, Sister Mary, her usually gentle eyes hard and unforgiving, and Sister Theresa, her plump hands clasped tightly in front of her, a strange mixture of fear and satisfaction in her gaze.

These were the nuns who ran the orphanage, and the very women who had, Agatha now realized with a sickening certainty, orchestrated her imprisonment.

Despite her battered body, bruised and aching, and her voice cracking with exhaustion, Agatha mustered the strength to plead for help, her words a desperate whisper in the cold, damp air.

"Schwester Theresa, a- are you there?!" her voice cracked, raw from hours of screaming. A cold droplet of water echoed somewhere in the darkness. "Please, if you’re still here… help me, before he comes back." The words clawed out of my throat, barely louder than a whimper, as if the mold-stained walls themselves might betray me.

Sister Theresa stepped forward, the rusted bucket in her grip clattering with jagged ice shards.

Her polished black shoes clicked against the damp stone floor, each step deliberate, predatory.

The cold radiated off the bucket like a threat, mist curling over its rim. Her lips curled into a practiced sneer a nun’s habit framing a serpent’s smile as she stopped just inches from her chained wrist. Agatha could smell the saccharine lavender oil she always wore, clashing with the rot of the basement air.

The nun named Mary leaned in, her breath hot with contempt. "Did you really think your parents left you here? No, child—they shouldn't have. They were monsters, you think we'd take in a seed planted by madmen?" Her voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "You were never abandoned. You were... contained."

The words hung in the air like a blade. Agatha felt the blood drain from her face as the nun’s implication coiled around her throat. "You’re the mistake they couldn’t bear to keep, and that's why your parents throw you here like a trash"

The other nun spoken as she looked at her from head to toe with frowned brows as she get rid of Agatha's blindfold.

"Please" she choked out, tears were streaming down her face, The poor woman's voice a ragged whisper.

"The priest… he hurt me. He… he almost assaulted me."

Her gaze darted between the three nuns, desperate for a flicker of compassion, a shred of humanity in their cold and judgmental eyes.

Sweat beaded on her forehead, a stark contrast to the chilling dampness of the basement. The words felt inadequate, insufficient to convey the horror that had been inflicted upon her.

B-bitte Schwester, hilf mir

(P-please sister, help me)

The words died in my throat as Sister Agnes upended the bucket. Shards of ice slammed into her, a thousand needles stabbing through her numbing body, erupting in whitehot agony.

Agatha's scream caught like glass in my lungs. The nuns didn’t flinch as ice skittered across the floor, their faces carved from the same cold stone as the walls.

One jagged fragment slid beneath the handcuff, slicing my wrist, but the pain barely registered. All I could taste was salt tears, sweat, the metallic tang of terror as my limbs seized, paralyzed by the shock.

Sister Mary’s voice slithered through the air, calm as a hymn, as she convulsed against the bed, teeth chattering, muscles locked in a rigid dance of survival.

“Such a pity” she sighed, tracing a crucifix on her rosary beads. The sound of ice shifting in the bucket punctuated her words.

“Even now, you drip with sin, like your Mother and Father” Her gaze lingered on the water pooling beneath Agatha, her smile a blade wrapped in scripture. The cold wasn’t just in the woman's bones anymore it was in her eyes.

Sister Theresa’s plump fingers tightened on the door handle as the other nuns’ habits rustled like funeral shrouds in the damp air.

“We’ll be gone for a while,” she said, her voice syrupy with false piety. The lone bulb flickered, casting jagged shadows across her face.

“Father is on his way, such a blessed man, enduring your… filthy rebellion.” She leaned closer, her breath reeking of communion wine.

“Obey his orders. Or God will carve your sins into your parents’ bones, you were born damned'

The woman added before slamming the door closed, plunging the room into near darkness. Somewhere above, a chain rattled a threat, a promise. The ice water still dripping down the bedframe seemed to whisper

The basement door groaned open with a metallic screech.

Father Marcus’s silhouette filled the doorway a gaunt, towering shadow in a cassock that hung off his bony frame like a burial shroud. His face was all angles sunken cheeks sharp enough to cut, eyes glinting with a zealot’s hunger beneath hooded lids. The smell hit her first stale incense and whiskey, a sacrilegious blend that clung to his yellowed clerical collar.

His boots struck the concrete, each step a deliberate crack that echoed like bones rattling in a coffin. The single bulb swung overhead, casting his elongated shadow across her bound body.

He paused, tilting his head as if savoring the sight of me trembling. When he smiled, his lips peeled back to reveal teeth stained brown at the roots.

“Agatha,” he crooned, dragging a finger along the edge of the bedframe.

The rusted metal sang under his touch. “The nuns tell me you’ve been… difficult.” His voice was a serpent winding through the cold air. He leaned down, close enough that I could count the broken capillaries spiderwebbing across his nose. “But we’ll pray together, won’t we? For your soul, dor your obedience.”

The pendant around his neck swung forward, its silver edge catching the light a blade disguised as salvation.

The recognition struck like a cattle prod to the ribs his voice, that honeyed rasp laced with rot.

Agatha's lungs seized. The walls seemed to pulse inward, the damp air thickening to sludge in her throat.

Every scar on her body ignited phantom hands, phantom pain, phantom shame.

His shadow loomed over her, warped and grotesque in the flickering light, a living nightmare she scrubbed raw from her memory.

Agatha couldn't scream and could barely breathe, as if she were being strangled by the presence of the impostor masquerading as a divine messenger.

Her muscles writhed against the restraints, skin splitting where metal met bone.

The stench of him were sour sweat masked by sacramental oil flooded her nostrils.

He leaned closer, his pendant dangling like a pendulum over her face.

“Shhh, little lamb,” he murmured, fingertips grazing her collarbone. “You’ll wake the Devil with that noise.” A tear escaped from her eyes the moment his thumb pressed into one of her bruises.

The room tilted. Darkness clawed at the edges of the woman's vision.

But worse than the blackness was the light in his eyes hungry, sanctified, and utterly, utterly calm.