The moment Aoi's scream tore through the izakaya, the lights snuffed out.
In the pitch-black silence, only the man's cold laughter echoed, slithering through the dark. Aoi crouched beneath the counter, hugging her knees, her breath shallow and ragged. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She could sense Yamamoto nearby, but his voice was gone. Slow, deliberate footsteps approached, each creak of the floorboards twisting her nerves tighter.
"Hiding won't help."
The man's voice didn't come from the air—it poured directly into her mind. Aoi bit her lip, clenching her trembling fists. Her phone remained dead, useless. No way to call for help. Faces of friends, family, flickered through her mind. She couldn't let it end here, not like this. Steeling herself, she crawled silently along the floor beneath the counter.
A faint noise broke the stillness—Yamamoto, maybe, moving in the dark. Aoi peeked up, gripping the counter's edge. Then, a hand clamped onto her shoulder. She nearly screamed, but relief flooded her as she recognized Yamamoto's rough grip. He leaned close, his whisper barely audible.
"Aoi, stay quiet. We're getting out through the back."
She nodded and followed, creeping toward the kitchen. But the man's presence loomed, impossibly close, as if he were the darkness itself, his location impossible to pin down. A cold gaze prickled the back of her neck. Aoi fought the urge to look back, clinging to Yamamoto's hand.
They reached the kitchen, but a sharp crash—glass shattering—split the air behind them. Aoi couldn't help it; she glanced back. In the gloom, the man's silhouette hovered, his shadowy face fixed on her. Yamamoto yanked at the back door, but the knob wouldn't budge.
"Damn it, the key!" he muttered, panic creeping into his voice.
Aoi's eyes darted around. A kitchen knife gleamed faintly on the counter. Without thinking, she grabbed it and stepped in front of Yamamoto.
"Yamamoto-san, get the door! I'll hold him off!"
"Don't be stupid, Aoi!"
But she didn't listen. She faced the man, whose shadow glided closer in the dark. Her hand shook, the knife trembling in her grip. His voice slithered into her mind again.
"You… were chosen."
"Chosen for what?!" Aoi shouted. "What do you want?!"
The man didn't answer. He laughed—a chilling sound, like a chorus of voices layered over one another. Her vision wavered, her head spinning. His shadow lunged, suddenly inches away. Aoi swung the knife upward on instinct, but the blade sliced through nothing. His form dissolved like mist.
A loud clatter—the back door. Yamamoto had gotten it open.
"Aoi, now!"
She stumbled after him, yanked into the alley. The night air stung her cheeks. A dim streetlamp glowed at the alley's end. Aoi ran, glancing back, but the man was gone. Yet, as she fled, a faint whisper brushed her ear.
"We'll meet again."
Her body shuddered. They sprinted through the alley until the neon glow of the city's main strip came into view. Gasping, they stopped in front of a convenience store. Yamamoto clapped a hand on her shoulder, his breath ragged.
"You okay, Aoi? What was that guy?"
Aoi shook her head, her heart still racing. Her hand, still clutching the knife, was slick with cold sweat.
"I don't know… but that voice—I'll never forget it."
She looked up. The moon was veiled by clouds, the night growing deeper, heavier. A nameless dread coiled in her chest. Why had he called her "chosen"? She had no desire to return to the izakaya, but deep down, she knew. This night was only the beginning.