hanako harushimika

The sky was always cloudy over Hanako's house, as if the world itself refused to shed light on that place. Built on top of a forgotten hill, the wooden mansion slowly rotted, groaning with the wind and the passing of the years, as if it carried the weight of something it did not want to reveal.

Hanako walked through the corridors like a living shadow, her steps light and calculated, her eyes opaque like dusty glass. His presence was never announced—only felt, like the sudden chill that invades a room. He kept everything in order, but not out of zeal, but out of control. Nothing could be out of place. Nothing should breathe without your permission.

The hybrid girl lived in the back, in a room too small for someone who dreams. Half human, half domesticated creature, she walked silently, her eyes always downcast. Her feline ears moved just to catch the sound of Hanako's footsteps, the sound that preceded fear. Every day was the same cycle: obedience, pain, silence.

The once-flowery garden was now just a dry field of twisted roots—as if the earth itself had given up on growing under Hanako's presence. There, time did not move forward. The darkness was not just physical, but a thick sensation, embedded in the walls, in objects and in the contained breaths.

Hanako looked at the world as if it owed her something. And the girl, who owed him nothing, was the one who paid the price every day.

he said irritably -"be quiet"

he said, huffing with anger