Eyes In The Alleyway

The evening air in Osaka had turned crisp.

Ryunosuke walked with his hands in his coat pockets, a plastic bag swinging at his side, the contents inside rattling faintly—instant miso packets, a rice ball, a bottle of tea. He hadn't eaten much all day. After spending the afternoon retracing his father's past, hunger had returned only as a dull whisper in the back of his mind.

The city around him was beginning to wind down. Most people were heading home. Neon storefronts blinked under low awnings, and couples passed by, murmuring softly in Kansai dialect. Despite the noise of mopeds and crosswalks, everything felt too quiet.

Something tugged at him.

He stopped just before the light turned red at the crosswalk. His eyes drifted across the street—and there, across the intersection, stood a figure.

Tall. Hooded. Still.

Ryunosuke squinted. Maybe it was just a man waiting for the light like he was. The streetlight changed, the crowd moved, and the figure was gone.

He shook his head. Paranoia, maybe. He'd been on edge since the archive. Since Kenji.

Still…

He walked faster. Not in a panic—but faster.

Turning down a side street toward the guesthouse, Ryunosuke kept glancing behind him. Empty road. Dimly lit vending machines humming by the curb. A cat darted into a garbage alley, making his heart jump.

Then he heard it.

Tap… Tap… Tap…

The steady rhythm of another pair of shoes behind him.

He turned—but no one was there.

He pressed his fingers into the bag, as if the crinkle of plastic would ground him. His breath had started to shorten. Osaka wasn't supposed to feel dangerous, especially in this part of town. But the alleyways suddenly looked darker. The shadows stretched deeper.

As he passed an alleyway between two convenience stores, the feeling grew stronger—something behind him, just out of sight. Watching. Waiting.

Ryunosuke didn't stop.

But he couldn't shake the feeling that this night wasn't just another walk home; because it felt like he was being followed.

The shortcut between streets was narrow, wedged between a shuttered pharmacy and a row of trash bins. Ryunosuke didn't take it often, but tonight, instinct told him to cut through.

Halfway down, the air changed. He stopped.

A figure stood at the far end of the alley—motionless, the hood now clearly visible, dark fabric hiding the face. The same presence from the street… only closer now. Blocking the exit.

Ryunosuke took a cautious step back, but another figure emerged behind him, closing off the path.

"You've been asking questions," the one ahead said, voice low and smooth, with a formal, almost bureaucratic tone.

"About the Hiyashi. About the past. That's not wise."

Ryunosuke's hand tightened around the plastic bag. His voice cracked, but he held his ground.

"Who are you?"

"A warning," the man replied—and stepped forward.

Without another word, the figure grabbed Ryunosuke's wrist in a flash of motion. He tried to jerk away, but the grip was like steel. Pain shot up his arm.

"You're not your father," the man hissed.

"You're just a child pretending to walk in a dead man's shadow."

"I just want to know who my father—" Ryunosuke was interrupted with a sharp knee in his gut.

Ryunosuke swung with his free hand—a desperate, instinctive punch—but it was caught mid-air.

Snap.

He cried out as his fingers were bent back sharply, followed by the crack of bone in his palm. He collapsed to one knee, clutching his hand to his chest.

"You don't understand the forces at play. You're out of your depth."

The man leaned close.

"Walk away. Or next time, we take more than your hand."

Then he released him—and vanished into the shadows as quickly as he had come, disappearing like smoke between alley walls.

Ryunosuke sat there, breathing hard, pain pulsing up his arm.

He looked down at his hand—fingers already swelling, bruising fast.

This wasn't just about his father anymore.

They were watching.

And they wanted him afraid.

The cold air bit at his skin as he stumbled down the sidewalk, hand cradled against his chest, face pale with shock.

The streets blurred past in streaks of neon and headlight. He didn't remember exactly how he got to the park—only that he had walked, barely registering the ache in his legs or the burning in his palm.

A quiet playground lay nestled between two apartment buildings. The swing set creaked gently in the breeze, the sandbox empty, the trees still. In the daylight, it would've been filled with children and laughter. Now, it sat hollow—like a forgotten memory.

Ryunosuke sank onto a bench beneath one of the trees, gasping for breath. His hand throbbed with every heartbeat. His fingers were already starting to stiffen. He blinked away tears—of pain, frustration, fear—but they kept returning, welling up again and again.

You're not your father.

That voice echoed in his skull, sharp and acidic.

You're just a child pretending to walk in a dead man's shadow.

He hunched forward, pulling his jacket tighter around him. His throat felt dry. Shame clung to his skin. He should've fought harder. He should've run. He should've done something.

But all he could do was sit there—silent and shaking.

He looked up at the sky. Clouds drifted across the moon, thin enough for the stars to peek through. The city lights dulled their brightness, but they were still there.

Still watching.

"Are you there?" he whispered hoarsely, barely audible through the wind.

"I kinda need you right now…"

No one answered.

The swings swayed gently, back and forth, metal chains creaking with a tired rhythm.

Then—

A breath of warm air and the scent of lilies.

He felt her before he saw her.

Not footsteps. Not sound. Just a shift in the world around him—like a whisper through the leaves, a breath that wasn't the wind. And then… she was there.

Lilith sat beside him on the bench, manifesting out of sight.

She wore black again. Her coat that hugged her frame without weight, shadows clinging to the folds like silk. Her violet eyes glowed faintly in the low light, watching him without judgment.

Ryunosuke didn't flinch. He didn't ask how. He didn't ask why.

He just looked at her, his jaw clenched, lips trembling.

Lilith reached forward and gently took his injured hand in hers. He winced at the touch but didn't pull away.

"You're hurt," she murmured, her voice barely above the breeze.

She turned his palm upward, examining the swelling and deep bruising with quiet attention. Then, without ceremony, she pressed her fingers lightly over the center of his hand.

A warmth pulsed through him—like water drawn through stone. The pain faded slowly, ebbing like a tide pulling back from the shore. Where her hand touched his, faint silver lines traced his skin, glowing for only a moment before disappearing.

He stared.

Not at the magic, but at her.

"Why do you always show up when I need you most?" he asked.

She didn't answer. Not with words.

Instead, she leaned gently against his shoulder, her temple brushing his arm. The motion was soft, careful—as if she too had been carrying something heavy.

The ring around his neck, his father's ring, pulsed once—just faintly—against his chest.

They sat like that for a while. No explanations. No need for them.

Just two people under the stars.

One broken, the other unknowable.

And somehow, together, whole.