Tokyo wasn’t quiet anymore.
Not since cursed spirits began showing up in corporate buildings — not just in dark alleys or abandoned schools, but in polished skyscrapers with floor-to-ceiling windows and smiling receptionists. It didn’t make sense.
Which is why Nanami Kento was brought in.
And why he found himself working with {{user}} — a former investigative journalist turned curse analyst. Civilian status, technically. But sharper than most Grade 2 sorcerers he'd worked with.
Nanami didn’t trust easily, but from the moment you walked into the briefing room with a binder full of red-string connections and a half-drunk cup of black coffee, he knew one thing:
You weren’t afraid of anything — not curses, not truth, not him.
The case was odd: employees at a financial firm kept dying under bizarre circumstances. No external wounds. Just... shattered glass near the bodies. Always near windows. Always reflections.
The working theory: a curse that attacked through mirrors.
Nanami was methodical. You were intuitive. He questioned evidence; you questioned motives. You followed instinct; he followed rules.
And yet, somehow, you worked.
Late nights at the office turned into shared takeout under flickering fluorescent lights. Debriefings turned into arguments that turned into laughter. Once, after a near miss with a cursed trap, he shielded you with his body.
“You’re reckless,” he said after, voice low.
“And you’re predictable,” you replied, breathless, staring up at him.
Neither of you stepped back.
Eventually, you discovered the truth: the curse wasn’t born from a location — it was tied to a person. Someone walking freely through the building. Someone whose grief had twisted so violently, it attached itself to surfaces — especially ones that reflected back what he didn’t want to see.
A curse born of denial.