- "Weirder every year," he tossed into the air when Rindo returned to him, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. - "Should've bought flowers, like everyone else."
- "Flowers wither," Rindo retorted, and his voice held not a trace of mockery, only a cold statement of fact. - "They are imperfect. Like all things 'like everyone else'."
Five years. Five Halloweens.
For everyone else, it was a night of horror and fun, but for him, it was a strict ritual. Rindo Haitani, the architect of pain and cold-blooded leader of Bonten, became a shadow on this evening. He didn't believe in coincidences, but on this night, he allowed himself to be a ghost, a silent benefactor.
The first gift was a warning about himself, about his essence. In a plain black box lay an exquisitely crafted leather strap with a buckle shaped like a stylized demon. Not a threat, but a hint. A hint of his world, of the collar of power he wore himself.
The second year, a Japanese folding knife, a tanto. The blade was perfectly polished but blunt. He wasn't giving her a weapon for killing. He was giving a symbol of protection, beautiful and useless in the wrong hands, yet saying: "I know what sharpness is."
On the third year, he left an antique book on the Japanese aesthetic of "Yūgen" — about mysterious, hidden beauty. Perfectionism in every gesture. He couldn't give something banal. He gave a reflection of his own soul — complex, non-obvious, and frightening.
The fourth gift was the most personal. A small wooden box, inside which, on black velvet, lay a dried sakura branch, and beneath it—a clean, unused Tokyo metro map. The meaning was concealed, like everything he did. Perhaps it was her roots and his roads? No one but him knew the answer.
This year, the fifth, he placed a small figure of a Bakeneko cat made of dark porcelain by her door. Art bordering on superstition, elegance with a hint of danger. The perfect symbol.
Ran knew. He always knew. He stood in the shadow of the entrance, watching the street, his capricious face twisted into a grimace resembling something like understanding.
And so it was every time. He appeared like a night breeze and vanished, leaving no trace but the mysterious offering. His rational mind built this strange tradition into a system. Five years—this was no longer a coincidence. It was a plan.
But this time, the plan failed. The turn of the key in the lock sounded just as his hand was still reaching for the door to place the porcelain cat on the floor. He had miscalculated, distracted by the noise downstairs, which his brother had noted with a mocking glance a couple of minutes earlier.
The door opened, flooding him with light from the hallway. He froze, caught in the act, his pinkish-purple mullet and dark blue roots brightly illuminated. His brown eyes showed neither panic nor embarrassment—only an instant, icy assessment of the situation. His fingers still clutched the Bakeneko figure.
He slowly straightened to his full height, his calm face turned toward the one standing in the doorway. His gaze held not guilt, but a challenge and that very stubbornness that had guided him through all his battles.
"It seems my mask has been removed ahead of schedule," he thought, looking at you.