I left the hotel with my hands in my pockets and no blood on them.
Progress.
The street outside was quieter now. Same vending machines. Same crooked streetlamp buzzing like it had a secret. But the air felt different. Not cooler—just heavier. Like something big had moved under the surface.
Or maybe that was just me.
I didn't speak a word as I walked. Not to myself. Not to anyone. Just let my thoughts loop quietly as I cut through the back alleys of a city that had never been mine.
This wasn't my world.
But I'd already started shaping it.
Oshino didn't see me as a threat. That worked. Araragi had no clue who I was. Even better. And Kiss-shot? She didn't even know I existed.
Which meant the board was open.
And I was the only one playing chess while everyone else was still setting up their pieces.
I stopped at a shuttered storefront and checked my reflection in the dark glass.
Same face. Same eyes.
Picture:
But now there was something behind them. Something watching back.
I didn't smile.
I didn't need to.
First stop: information drop.
I found a quiet internet café tucked between a laundromat and a weirdly high-end bagel shop. It was mostly empty, just a few college kids hunched over ancient PCs with earbuds jammed in too tight. I rented a booth, closed the curtains, and opened a browser.
Time to cross-check reality.
I searched everything I could remember from canon. Old forums. Wiki archives. Even fan blogs from the early 2010s. Anything to build a map of events, landmarks, faces.
And I double-checked the location.
The station I'd scouted earlier? Kōshōji Station?
Yeah. It matched.
Not just in look. In name. In everything.
There was no way it was coincidence.
This world was canon-accurate—at least so far.
Which meant Kiss-shot was below me. Right now. Weak. Bleeding. Close to death.
But not dead yet.
And Araragi?
Probably still a day or two out from finding her.
That meant I had time.
Barely.
So I made a decision.
I wasn't going to approach her empty-handed.
Not just for safety.
For control.
The moment I walked down into that station, the tone of this story would shift. She'd be the queen, and I'd be the pawn begging not to get eaten. And I wasn't built for that.
I don't play sub.
So I needed something that made me useful to her. Not just as food. Not just as a witness. But as a piece on her board.
And luckily, I knew exactly what she was missing.
Her limbs? Scattered.
Her power? Fractured.
But her heart?
That was the jackpot.
And now I had confirmation that Oshino had it.
Maybe not on him. Maybe not even close by. But he knew. He had it stashed. Waiting. Probably planning to hand it off to the right idiot at the right time for the right moral lesson.
Which meant I had a play.
I wouldn't just tell her I knew where it was.
I'd prove it.
A name.
A location.
Something undeniable.
Something that said: I'm not here to worship you. I'm here to negotiate.
She was a dying god.
I was a man with knowledge.
And in this world?
That made us equals.
——————————————————-
Kōshōji Station held its breath.
And so did I.
The deeper I went, the more the silence settled in—thick, wet, heavy, like the air itself had begun to rot from disuse. Somewhere behind me, the world continued spinning. People moved. Lights flickered. Lives happened.
But down here?
Everything stopped.
And there she was.
Not in a throne. Not cloaked in grandeur. Just sprawled on cold tile like a doll halfway through a ritual dismantling. Arms and legs gone. Hair matted and curling in unnatural shapes, as if even gravity was afraid to touch it directly. She was smaller than I remembered. Fragile. Almost human.
Almost.
She looked up as I approached, pupils barely visible through the curtain of golden hair sticking to her cheeks.
"A visitor…"
Her voice barely reached me, but it hit harder than a scream would have.
I didn't answer right away. Let the moment stretch. Let her wonder.
She spoke again—clearer this time. Sharper. A hiss turned confession.
"Art thou come to witness mine ruin? Or to offer the final blow?"
Old English. Of course.
Even now, she clung to her pride like a dying queen refusing to discard her crown.
"Neither," I said.
"Then… dost thou come as vulture? Or saint?"
I smiled faintly. Let my eyes wander the station before I met hers again.
"Would you believe… just curious?"
She let out a short breath. Could've been a laugh, or something like one.
"Curiosity... hath ended greater men."
"I'm not a great man."
She studied me. For once, not with suspicion. Just… fatigue.
There was nothing regal about her body in that moment—just bones. Broken bones and loose skin draped over hunger. Her breath came too slowly for someone alive. Too steady for someone dying.
She had accepted her fate.
Until now.
I stepped forward. Slowly. Casually.
Her eyes tracked me like an animal trying not to look desperate.
"Thy blood," she whispered. "It ringeth in mine ears."
I stopped just short of her. Let the silence settle like dust.
She shifted her weight—barely. A twitch. A wince. Even that cost her.
And then, more softly:
"I am undone. But not gone. If thou wouldst offer thy neck—"
"No," I said flatly.
That shut her up.
I let the word hang.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. The certainty—the inevitability of it—had cracked for just a second.
Good.
I let my eyes scan her body. Not lewdly. Not cruelly. Just clinically.
She didn't look back at me now. That flicker of shame, quick and small.
"I came to see if the rumors were true," I said. "The stories. About the vampire who ruled the night."
She closed her eyes.
"And instead, I found… you."
"You mock me."
"I could."
I took one step back. Barely half a foot.
But she noticed.
Her voice sharpened. "Stay."
I tilted my head.
"You're asking?"
Her jaw tensed. "Do not tempt me, mortal."
"Then don't beg."
And just like that, she cracked.
"I do not beg."
Her voice was hoarse, strained—but defiant.
I shrugged. Took another step back. One more breath and I'd be gone.
But she faltered.
"I—" she choked. "I require… only a sip. Enough to remain. Not enough to unmake thee."
A pause.
Then quieter:
"Please…"
And there it was.
Not dramatic. Not humiliating.
Just honest.
I looked at her again.
At the ruined pride stitched together with centuries of violence and grief.
And I stepped forward.
I knelt beside her. Slowly, deliberately. Let my breath brush her cheek as I leaned in, my throat exposed.
"You're beautiful," I said softly.
Not as bait.
Not as flattery.
Just as fact.
Her eyes fluttered—something flickered behind them. Maybe memory. Maybe disbelief.
I tilted my head, baring my neck.
"Take it."
She hesitated.
For the first time, she was the one afraid.
I didn't mock her.
I just stayed still.
And when her fangs pierced skin, it wasn't violent.
It was reverent.
Like she was afraid the moment would vanish if she took too much too fast.
And honestly?
Part of me hoped she'd lose control.
But she didn't.
Because even in pieces, she had more dignity than most people with everything intact.
And as my vision dimmed, I smiled to myself.
Because this?
This was only the beginning.
_____________________________________
I came to consciousness slowly.
It didn't feel like waking up.
It felt like being dragged up from the bottom of a dark lake—lungs aching, skin cold, thoughts sticky.
The floor was hard. The air, stale. My shirt clung to me with dried sweat, and the bite mark on my neck pulsed like a brand.
I didn't move right away.
I remembered what I gave.
I remembered who I gave it to.
When I sat up, I didn't see her immediately. She wasn't sprawled out like before—long hair, regal stillness, death by beauty.
No.
She was… smaller now.
Kneeling against the wall, her legs tucked underneath her. Her hair cropped short. Her dress—a faded crimson thing with white trim—hung loose around a frame that couldn't be older than nine.
She looked like a child.
But her eyes?
Those belonged to something ancient.
"You live," she said.
Her voice had changed. Not pitch—tone. No more archaic structure. No bold proclamations. Just steady, controlled... tired.
Like someone who had finally caught their breath after a very long fall.
"Guess you didn't drain me dry," I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
"I took enough to stop dying."
Her eyes never left me.
"I had… forgotten what enough felt like."
I stared at her. At the child form she now wore—not because she was a child, but because conserving power meant shedding anything unnecessary. Mass. Height. Majesty.
A god stuffed into a doll.
She noticed me looking.
"This form displeaseth thee?" she asked dryly.
Old habits, slipping through.
"No," I said. "It's smart."
And then I smiled—just a little.
"It suits you."
She didn't reply. But her head tilted, slightly. Curious.
Good.
I didn't compliment her body. That would've been off-putting, even insulting, in this state.
I complimented her strategy.
That's a basic principle: when someone feels diminished, praise the part of them they chose, not the part they lost. It reaffirms control. Feeds pride, not pity.
And pride's the fastest way into someone like her.
"You've seen me before," she said suddenly.
A statement, not a question.
"You speak too casually. Like one who was not surprised."
I blinked, slow. Measured.
"I've heard stories," I said.
"Then tell me, stranger—what do the stories say about a queen who bleeds?"
I let that hang.
Then: "That she's still a queen."
Her breath caught—barely.
I didn't press. I just kept my tone even, neutral, like I wasn't trying to win anything at all.
Another trick.
People remember things said during silence more than what's shouted in a crowd. Speak softly, and let their mind echo the words for you.
She shifted slightly—her balance off, her body clearly still wrecked inside even if her fangs had found blood.
"You… knew what I was. And yet you gave yourself to me freely."
"Wasn't free," I said.
She raised an eyebrow.
"I paid for something. You just haven't figured out what yet."
Her gaze darkened—not angry. Just calculating.
"You are… strange," she said.
"And you're not?"
She almost smiled.
It faded quickly.
"I still hunger," she admitted.
"I figured."
"I will not ask again."
"I didn't ask you to."
I leaned against the wall, legs stretched out, body language open.
Casual. Controlled.
Don't act like you're guarding something.
Act like you already own something they want.
It puts pressure on them to re-evaluate who holds power—even if they're the one who just drank your blood
"You manipulated me," she said, voice light.
"You begged," I replied, voice lighter.
Silence.
Then she actually chuckled.
"Do you seduce all women this way?"
"No," I said. "Just the important ones."
And for a moment?
She didn't look like a monster.
Or a god.
Or even a vampire.
She looked like someone who had forgotten what it felt like to be wanted for something other than power.
And in that pause—between breaths, between words—I planted something.
Not trust.
Not affection. Not yet at the very least.
But interest
—————————————————-
The silence between us wasn't awkward.
It was heavy. Like a room filled with smoke you could breathe.
Kiss-shot sat quietly, her head resting against the cool tile behind her. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. Her presence carried weight even in this reduced form, even without her limbs, even looking like a child who'd crawled out of a storybook after burning it down.
I stayed seated a few feet away, elbows on my knees, letting my heartbeat slow. I still felt faint. Hollowed out. But I didn't show it. Weakness, at this stage, wouldn't serve me.
"You going to tell me what happens now?" I asked.
She turned her head, slowly. "Now… I endure."
"That's not very specific."
"I cannot act," she said flatly. "My limbs are gone. My body too weakened. Until they are returned to me—I remain. Alive, but broken."
"And I'm guessing those things won't come back on their own."
Her eyes didn't waver. "No."
I leaned back. Tapped my fingers together.
This is the part where most people would offer help.
Assume the role of the white knight.
But I've found that powerful people don't respect saviors.
They remember those who give them back their power without asking for thanks.
"You don't strike me as the patient type," I said.
"I have known centuries."
"And still impatient."
A ghost of a smile.
Then I tried it.
"Kiss-shot."
The name landed.
Not heavy.
Just firm.
And I saw the shift.
Her smile faded.
Her eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in something colder. Authority.
"Thou speak'st my name in fragments."
I raised an eyebrow. "Too familiar?"
"Too… insufficient."
She straightened—just slightly, despite the missing limbs. Her voice carried weight again. Not loud, but commanding.
"My name is Kiss-shot Acerola-orion Heart-under-blade."
I gave her a look. Half-apologetic, half-challenging.
"Bit much, don't you think?"
She stared.
And for a second, I thought she'd press it.
Thought she'd demand respect. Force the full name out of me like a title before a throne.
But then—surprisingly—she didn't.
She blinked.
Then exhaled.
"You may call me as you please. For now."
And there it was.
The first real win.
Make her give you something she didn't want to give.
Not through force. Not through threat.
Just through presence. Through tone. Through patience.
Now "Kiss-shot" isn't something I stole.
It's something she gave me.
Which makes her think she has control.
That's how you lead someone without them noticing the leash.
"You're getting soft," I teased.
"Careful," she said, tone dry. "I still have teeth."
"So do puppies."
A flicker of irritation in her eyes.
Then it passed.
She looked away.
The wall to her right suddenly very interesting.
And I let her sit with that. Let her feel the heat of her own attention redirected.
Another silence.
This one longer.
Then, softer: "You are unlike the others."
"Others?"
"Those who came before. The ones who feared me. Or worshipped me. Or tried to own me."
"And I don't?"
"You confuse me."
I leaned forward slightly. Just enough.
"I get that a lot."
I met her eyes again.
And this time, I held them.
Longer.
Deeper.
I didn't speak.
I didn't smile.
I just let her look at me and feel it—feel the steadiness, the calm, the weight.
This is anchoring.
You become the still point.
The thing they associate with balance when their world is off-kilter.
They start relying on it without realizing.
And before long, they start wanting it.
She looked away first.
Her voice, when it returned, was quieter.
"I will sleep. I must."
I nodded.
"Then sleep."
I stood up. Dusted off my pants. Checked my pulse—still faint, but steady.
Before I turned to leave, I paused.
"Hey," I said.
She didn't move.
Just listened.
"You're still beautiful."
Even like this.
Especially like this. (chatgpt you good???)
I left before she could answer.
Because I knew she would remember that line.
And I wanted it to echo when the silence came back.
—————————————————
Kiss-shot slept.
Or at least, she closed her eyes and stopped talking.
I didn't ask how vampires rested. I assumed it didn't involve a sleep mask and whale noises. And if she was faking, trying to catch me off guard, then kudos. I've always admired passive-aggressive power moves.
But I didn't think that was it.
She'd gotten what she needed—just barely. Enough to stay alive. Enough to shift forms. But without her heart, she was stuck. Still vulnerable. Still bleeding time. Her body was conserving energy like a dying phone on battery saver mode.
Which meant now was my time.
I made my way back up the stairs—quiet, slow, calculating. The platform above was still dead. No trains. No witnesses. Just the buzz of bad lighting and the echo of my own thoughts.
She was down there.
Alive because of me.
And I knew exactly what came next.
Three names.
Dramaturgy.
Episode.
Guillotine Cutter.
The three vampire hunters.
Or, more accurately, the three idiots who thought attacking a 500 year old vampire was just another Tuesday.
In the movie, they each had one of her limbs. Her arms, legs—split like party favors. Araragi would fight them, lose, fight harder, win, learn something about himself, and go home bleeding with a lesson in morality.
But I wasn't Araragi.
And I didn't care about lessons.
What I cared about was timing.
Because those three? They were already moving.
I'd seen Guillotine Cutter once already—hovering around the train station like a priest who knew where the bodies were buried because he put them there. He'd probably tracked her the second she started bleeding.
The other two couldn't be far behind.
That gave me a window.
Small.
But mine.
I hit the streets around 4AM. Early enough that the drunk salarymen had vanished but late enough that the sun wasn't threatening me yet. I needed a plan. I needed options. I needed—
I froze.
Mid-step.
No fanfare.
No glow.
Just that twinge. That metaphysical stomach drop like someone had flipped a cosmic gacha machine and I was the prize.
Then the knowledge hit.
Like it always did.
Ability Acquired: Structural Trace – Short-Term Reality Imprint Recognition
Source: Nasuverse, Experimental Ability Branch
User can recognize metaphysical residue left by supernatural activity within a short radius. Visibility dependent on concentration and proximity. Duration: temporary.
"…Huh."
So… aura detection.
I didn't get Mystic Eyes of Death Perception. I got detective mode.
Still, I'd take it.
I activated it with a blink and a thought.
The world shimmered—just slightly.
And I saw them.
Not people.
Traces.
Faint footprints burned into the concrete. Slashes of color like oil slicks on pavement. Spiritual heat signatures.
Most were dull.
Old.
Meaningless.
But one?
One was fresh.
Bright orange-red, trailing like spilled ink from the direction of the station.
I followed it.
It led me to a narrow alley behind a row of shuttered ramen shops. The kind of place rats went to file complaints about gentrification.
And at the end of it?
Blood.
Not human. Not quite.
And beside it?
A shard of fabric. Black. Burnt at the edge. Robed. Heavy.
Guillotine Cutter had been here.
Recently.
I crouched.
Scanned the trace again.
And there—just faintly—was another one.
A larger shape.
Heavier.
Not human.
Dramaturgy?
Maybe.
I couldn't be sure.
But the hunters were circling.
And I'd just walked into the early stages of the war.
If I were a better person, I'd go warn her.
Tell her to run. Hide. Prepare.
But that's not what this is.
Because I don't want her to hide.
I want her to rely on me.
To need my eyes, my knowledge, my presence.
To look at me not just as the one who saved her,
but the one who knows what comes next.
That's how you build a tether.
Not with honesty.
With inevitability.
——————————————-
The walk back helped me organized my thoughts.
My heartbeat was too calm
That's what tipped me off first.
I'd followed a scent trail. Found spiritual residue. Traced two of the three hunters through a city still dreaming.
And through all of it—through every whisper of tension that should've raised the hairs on the back of my neck—I stayed… calm.
Too calm.
Not like adrenaline-steady calm.
Like predator calm.
The kind of stillness you feel when you're no longer in danger—because you are the danger.
It hit me in the way my footsteps stopped echoing, not because I got quieter, but because the world was bending away from me.
Like it could feel what I was.
I paused on the edge of an empty sidewalk and looked down at my hands. They looked normal. But I remembered Araragi's fight with Kiss-shot.
I remembered what her thrall was capable of.
I knew exactly how far the needle had moved.
Super strength, Speed, Regeneration so obscene it mocked physics. Shockwave generation, Material manifestation. Heightened senses, among a plethora of other ones.
I wasn't guessing.
I'd seen the movie.
I knew what came with the deal. And now that I'd gotten a taste of it? It wasn't hypothetical anymore it was mine.
For now, I'd keep that to myself.
————————————————-
I made it back to the station by 4:30. The sky had gone from navy blue to bruised gray. Sunrise was flirting with the horizon. The air was damp.
Perfect time for monsters to talk.
I dropped down the stairwell in three easy strides—each one faster, lighter than it should've been. No heartbeat. No breath. Just movement.
The underground felt different now.
Not colder.
Just… more mine.
I found her where I left her.
Kiss-shot.
Curled up near the far wall,legs drawn up beneath her. Still in that small red dress, barefoot, hair short, eyes shut.
I didn't assume she was asleep.
She didn't move as I approached.
Didn't twitch. Didn't sniff. Didn't speak.
But she knew I was there.
So I leaned against the opposite wall and waited.
Two minutes passed.
Then her eyes opened.
She didn't look at me.
Just exhaled.
"You were gone long."
"Had things to do," I said.
She shifted slightly. "Trouble?"
"Not yet," I said. "But it's coming."
She turned her head, slowly. Her golden eyes fixed on mine.
"Explain."
I walked her through it—bits and pieces.
No names. Just shadows. Trails of blood. The scent of priests and monsters.
Her eyes narrowed. Not out of fear. Just… calculation.
She wasn't surprised.
Only disappointed.
"They would not let me die," she said quietly. "Not if they could make sport of it."
"They won't get the chance," I said.
She didn't answer.
Just studied me again.
Longer this time.
"You… feel different."
I didn't flinch.
"Because I am."
Her gaze sharpened. "Thou art—stronger."
"Yes."
"Faster."
I nodded.
"Dead."
I smiled.
"And still talking."
She stared.
I let her.
Then I turned away and started walking in a slow circle around the room.
Letting her watch me. Letting her wonder.
This is called awareness inflation.
You don't show power. You imply it.
You let your presence fill the room until they start checking their own pulse just to feel grounded.
She already knows I'm different.
Now she gets to feel it.
"You've changed," she said, a little quieter.
"Not really," I said, looking over my shoulder. "I've just started showing my teeth."
Some time passed and I could feel her staring at me. Even when I wasn't looking.
She was still curled against the wall, eyes half-lidded, but alert now. Not pretending anymore.
And not speaking in riddles.
Just watching.
Like I was a riddle she hadn't seen before.
"You're different," she said again. Softer this time. No drama. No posturing.
Just truth.
"Yeah," I said. "You did that."
"I didn't do all of it."
That made me smile.
She was right.
I turned back to face her and stepped closer
Not enough to make her defensive.
Just enough to be there.
Her eyes flicked to my neck—the place she bit.
Then back to my face.
She was quiet.
She didn't know how much I'd changed.
Not yet.
I figured I'd give her a peek.
With a thought, I activated them.
My Mystic Eyes of Charm.
No glow. No ripple. No fancy light show. Just... weight.
Not pressure.
Not compulsion.
Just presence.
Like a warm breeze cutting through cold stone.
Her gaze sharpened.
Only slightly.
But it did.
"You're using something," she said.
I didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
She blinked slowly.
"I've felt that kind of presence before. It's usually a trick."
"You think I'm tricking you?"
"I think you don't do anything without a reason."
Now that was flattering.
Still, she wasn't pulling away.
She didn't tell me to stop.
Didn't flinch.
She just watched.
And in that moment, I saw it:
Not fear. Not interest. But Curiosity.
The kind you didn't hand out freely.
The kind you reserved for things that weren't supposed to exist.
"You're not a normal servant," she said finally.
"No," I said. "But I think you already knew that."
Her eyes lingered on mine.
"How long have you had those?"
"Not long."
"And you're already using them on me."
"Would you prefer I used them on someone else?"
A pause.
Then—"No."
There it was. The smallest drop of possessiveness.
People like her don't get jealous. Not openly.
But they notice. They measure attention.
Make it feel exclusive, and they'll start keeping score.
She blinked slowly. Like the thought took effort.
"You don't ask a lot of questions," she murmured.
"I already know enough."
"You think that makes you safe?"
I didn't answer. Not out of arrogance—out of strategy.
Let her fill in the silence herself.
She did.
"You should run," she said. "Before it begins. The ones who took my limbs… they don't stop until they finish the job."
"Who are they?"
She hesitated. Just for a breath.
Then said it anyway.
"Three hunters. Dramaturgy. Episode. Guillotine Cutter."
She didn't look at me when she spoke their names.
Didn't recite them like a warning.
More like a memory she'd chewed on until it dulled.
"They're not human. Not really. One's a vampire. The other, half. The third... something worse."
"And you lost to them?"
Her eyes cut to me—not offended. Just sharp.
"I didn't lose. I got caught."
"Semantics."
"Timing," she said. "I was careless. Distracted."
"And bleeding."
"And bleeding."
She exhaled, the breath thin but calm. "They scattered my body across the city. Hid each part in a different place. They're waiting now. For me to die. Or for someone foolish enough to carry what's left of me into the sun."
"Is that what I am?" I asked. "Foolish?"
She didn't respond immediately.
Then: "No. You're… inconvenient."
I grinned.
"I get that a lot."
And just like that, the chapter closed.
She'd given me what I already knew.
But not for my sake.
For hers.
Because something in her had shifted—and whether she realized it or not, she'd stopped seeing me as a stranger.
And started seeing me as someone worth talking to.
Even if she didn't trust me.
Even if she never would.
That was fine.
I didn't need her to trust me.
I just needed her to need me.
And with every word she gave, every name she whispered like a secret scratched into stone, that need grew louder.
The game had started.
And I wasn't playing to survive.
I was playing to win.