037

10:49, 5 June 2025

Then, the day came when I met the man who changed my life for the better.

Mori Ogai, a delightful man who was once my favorite until he eventually bore me.

I stayed with him, observed him to understand what kind of man he is. He let me.

One night, I didn't sleep.

I closed my eyes for hours, listening to the hum of a refrigerator in the clinic's back room and the scratch of Mori's pen every time it touched paper.

The scent of antiseptic clung to the sheets like breath to a mirror. Sharp, clean, surgical.

Safe, in a way only things that could kill you always were.

I'd been taken in before, by strangers who thought they were kind and fools who thought they were clever.

But they always failed in the same ways- trying to feed me morality like sugar cubes, wrapping their lies in warmth and praise.

It was dull, but their affections aren't.

I like fake affections. It doesn't disappear like real ones.

Mori lies like others too. But he knows I'm not gullible enough to be fooled.

He never lies with his answers, but he lies with his affections.

It's thrilling. I love it.

He observed. Took notes. Watched.

I liked being watched like that.

The next morning, I sat on the exam table while he finished boiling a pot of water.

His movements were precise. Mechanical.

He didn't waste time, or breath, or even gestures. Everything he did was on purpose.

"Do you always stare at people this much?" he asked, without turning.

"I'm studying," I said. "I want to know what kind of person you are."

Mori let the water settle before pouring it into a chipped porcelain cup. He placed it in front of me with quiet care.

"Two sugar cubes. Fits your taste, right?"

I took the cup, watching the steam curl like phantom hands around the rim.

"...You're right," I said. "But I would've drank it either way."

He gave a faint hum. "Obedient?"

"No. Just because I like you, Mori-san."

"How you flatter me, L/N-kun." He smiled with closed eyes.

We sat across from each other in two chairs that didn't match. I kicked my feet a little. The floor was cold.

"You said I can't kill you," I began.

Mori didn't answer.

"So. What makes someone unkillable?"

He studied me.

"Perception," he said at last. "You only kill those you've decided are beneath you. But you don't think I am."

I grinned. "Wrong. I don't kill those I haven't figured out yet. It's like tearing up a book before you read it."

His gaze didn't waver. "Then what do you think you'd find if you finished reading me?"

"...That you're the same as me."

It slipped out before I meant it to.

The same as me.

The thought settled in my chest, thick and hot and suffocating.

No- it wasn't hope. I didn't believe in things like that.

It was possibility.

The idea that someone like me existed in the world, older, sharper, better- that there was a shape I could grow into instead of rot.

He didn't flinch.

"You're not entirely wrong," Mori said, voice calm, "but don't assume likeness means safety."

"I don't need safe," I said. "I want answers."

He blinked. That made him pause, just slightly. Enough to make me lean forward, eager.

"You know," I added, "most people answer my questions with lies. Pretty lies. Wrapped in ribbons. But you don't."

"Do you know why?" he asked.

I nodded. "Because I ask questions no one else dares answer. And you... you're not afraid to cut through the skin and show what's underneath."

His smile was small and unreadable. "You should be careful with that kind of thinking. Truth without purpose can be just as dangerous as lies."

"I don't care," I whispered. "I just want it real."

Silence. Then-

"You remind me of a corpse I once examined," he said mildly, as if discussing the weather. "Body torn to shreds, but the eyes... still intact. Staring at me like it wanted to know why it died."

I didn't laugh. I liked that story too much to laugh.

I asked, "Did you answer it?"

He smiled again. This time it touched the corners of his eyes. "Yes. I told it the truth."

"And did it thank you?"

"It didn't scream."

That's when I knew.

This man understood. Not just pain. Not just death. But curiosity. The need to know. To dissect the world until you hit marrow and meaning.

And still... he stayed.

He let me ask.

Over the following days, I sat beside him with my legs swinging off the clinic counter, asking questions no child should ask.

What does dying feel like, for most people?

How do you know when someone's lying if they believe it themselves?

What would it take to make a kind man kill his own son?

He never once said I was sick.

Never flinched. Never moralized.

He gave me the kind of answers that made me feel seen. Answers that weren't wrapped in ethics. Just truth- cold, dissected, clean.

Sometimes... I think he didn't believe all of them. But he said them anyway. Because he knew that's what I needed.

And that... that's what made obsession.

Because someone like me, I don't crave love. Not really. Not in the way people describe it.

'That' kind of love scares me. It makes one lose their control and feels a gut wrenching emotion of suffocation that's anything but pleasurable.

But I do crave understanding.

And he understood.

I find myself feel closer around those who are intelligent and what people would call as "fucked up in their heads."

Maybe it's because I understand them and they understand me. Both sides don't judge each other.

The thought of it is sickeningly sweet.

One night, I asked him quietly, "Why did you let me stay?"

He closed the clinic ledger and looked up.

"You're interesting," he said simply. "You might be useful."

"And if I'm not?"

He smiled again.

"I'll make you. Anyone can be useful if molded correctly."

I nodded, satisfied. I could accept that.

Because it was honest.

Not kind. Not cruel. Just the kind of honest I could press to my chest like a needle to bone.

That night, for the first time in years, I slept without one eye open.

He knew I wasn't human.

And he still didn't look away.

It was a Tuesday. I remember that because the sky looked like curdled milk and Tuesdays always feel like leftovers.

I saw the cat- small calico cat, with patches of orange, dark brown and white fur and brown eyes, eyes too knowing for something so soft.

It slinked between broken crates and old boots left to rot in the back alleys of the slums. I recognized it.

The cat of the old woman.

She lived just past the rusted fence with the red cloth tied to it. Sold herbs, coughed like she was trying to vomit her soul out.

I used to watch her from the roof. She would set food out for the cat at the same time every day.

Always exactly three sardine heads. Never four. Never two.

I'd wondered, once, what would happen if she died.

Not because I wished her dead. But because death is interesting. It changes ownership. Opens up possibilities.

Like kidnapping her cat.

That thought had stayed in my head for a while, like a loose tooth you can't stop pushing with your tongue.

I didn't want the cat for affection. That would've been stupid.

I just wanted to see what it would do-when taken. How long it would tolerate confinement. How it would react when fed irregularly. When petted too much. Or not at all.

And then, days later- there it was.

In front of the clinic.

As if summoned by thought alone.

I tilted my head.

The air was sharp with winter and antiseptic. The sky hung low like a sagging eyelid.

The cat looked up at me. Blinked.

Had its owner died?

Or did it just... come to me?

I crouched down, tapping my fingers against the ground.

"You shouldn't be here," I told it. "This place breaks things like you."

It rubbed against my leg anyway. I laughed- softly.

"Well," I murmured. "It's your fault for choosing wrong."

I picked it up and carried it inside like stolen silk. It didn't scratch me.

Mori didn't protest the presence of a cat.

I remember him looking rather amused when he saw me bringing a cat inside, wrapping my arms under its two front paws which was certainly not the correct way to carry a cat.

Not that I knew at the time.

"Patients might have allergies. Take it outside," Mori told.

"Later," I said.

"Now."

I didn't argue. I never argued with Mori. Not when he spoke like that.

So I brought it outside. Left it near the shed behind the clinic. Brought it scraps when I remembered. Watched how it ate.

I named it nothing. It didn't need a name.

For three days, it stayed. Quiet. Observing. Sleeping in places it shouldn't. Just like me.

Then, one morning- it was gone.

No blood. No signs of a fight. Just... absence.

I waited. Maybe it will return. Maybe it just got bored. Maybe I starved it for too long.

It didn't return.

Of course, I didn't expect it to stay.

Nothing ever does. Not unless I tie it down. Chain it. Break its legs. And I hadn't done that.

Not because I couldn't.

But because I was curious how long it would stay without force.

I wasn't sad.

Just disappointed I never got to experiment.

It's been years.

The city's changed. New blood coated old walls. People had grown older, crueler, more interesting.

You walked through the heart of Yokohama like a phantom with hands.

And then- you saw it.

Just a glimpse.

A silver shape at the edge of the alley. Not quite a ghost, not quite real.

A tail sways, flicks. Brown eyes locked with yours from the shadows.

Your heart didn't skip.

But something tightened. Familiarity, crawling up your spine like cold fingers.

You took a step.

And then- your phone rang.

You glanced down. Mori.

You swiped to answer. "Yes?"

His voice was calm, efficient. He gave you orders, or reminders- words you didn't really hear because you're already turning your head back toward the alley.

But the cat was gone.

Vanished.

Again.

You stared on blankly.

Figures.

Everything that isn't like you always disappears eventually. Pets. People. Interest.

But still...

You stared at the empty alley a second longer.

Because just maybe, something old was watching back.

Something that once let you hold it without ever really being yours.

Something that understood.

You blinked. The phone call ends. The silence returned.