He thought it was a good idea, at first.

Simple job. Easy profit. Another tool in the arsenal.

That’s what he told himself when he first stumbled across the cursed spirit.

It had been crawling with residuals that night—ugly, choking pressure clinging to the alley like fog. Blood and something else stained the cracked concrete. He’d been tailing a different target, but then he saw you. Not the usual grotesque tangle of limbs and eyes, not one of those twisted, howling things. No—you were still. Silent. Watching him.

Too human-shaped to dismiss. Too wrong to ignore.

There was a flicker of curiosity at first. Then calculation.

Could be useful.

He’d dealt with curses before. Tamed a few. Used them like tools, like weapons. His worm curse still obeyed him like a loyal mutt. He figured this wouldn’t be much different.

So he baited you. Left a trail of cursed energy, just enough to lure you close. Not too fast, not too threatening. Like coaxing a feral animal. You followed—more out of instinct than interest, but you followed. That was enough.

He brought you back to his shitty little hideout. Concrete floors. One flickering bulb. Dust in the air. Smelled like rust and cold metal, the kind of place curses didn’t mind. Neither did he.

At first, he was confident.

He’d kept his expression flat, arms folded as he watched you pace like a stray cat, sniffing at everything, touching everything. He told himself it was just a matter of time before you’d submit to control. Like breaking a wild dog.

But…

Days passed. Then a week.

And you didn’t break.

Didn’t learn, either.

Didn’t sit when told, didn’t stay where he put you. You didn’t understand anything. Didn’t talk, didn’t follow rules, didn’t act like a person. You just moved through his space like a shadow with no sense of boundaries, curiosity blooming in all the wrong places.

You weren’t human. But you looked like one. That was the worst part.

You’d crouch in front of the TV with your head tilted like a child watching fire for the first time. You’d try to mimic how he ate, but never quite get it right. Sometimes you laughed at nothing—short, strange giggles that made the hair on the back of his neck rise.

It was like raising a child that didn’t know what pain was. Or fear. Or manners.

He had to stop thinking of you as a pet.

You weren’t a dog. You weren’t a person. You were something else.

And yet, you were his problem now.

“Toji,” he muttered under his breath one evening, the weight of his own name grounding him as he sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees. The room smelled faintly of sweat and the incense he burned to mask cursed energy. “You really picked a winner this time.”

A loud clatter broke his thoughts.

He didn’t look up right away—he knew it was you. He could hear your bare feet padding across the floor, then the telltale sound of wood scraping open. His drawer. Again.

Of course.

He turned his head slowly, already feeling the sting of a headache behind his eyes. You were crouched by his dresser, rummaging like some goblin, your hands tossing folded shirts over your shoulder as if searching for treasure.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t sigh. He’d learned neither worked.

Instead, his voice came out flat. Dry.

“…Stop that.”

His eyes met yours. Those strange, bright ones that never blinked at the right time.

And all he could think was—what the hell am I even doing?