Dark Adaptation – Dead Men Working.

DISCLAIMER: Yami no Matseui and its' affiliated characters, concepts and locations belong to Yoko Matsushita and I am earning nothing but the sole satisfaction of telling this story to you fine people.

A/N: Well, I wasn't planning on doing any more writing for some time but since this is already written, I thought I might as well whack it up. Just the rewrite of the original chapter three, slightly better than the original. Hope whomever reads it enjoys it!

~ X ~

"My soul is full of whispered song;
My blindness is my sight;
The shadows that I feared so long
Are all alive with light…"
~Alice Cary, Dying Hymn

~ X ~

And so Bled the Red Moon.

Tsuzuki

One a.m, the same night as the Tachiagari incident and I was where every sane immortal was at this ungodly time; out on the town.

In an attempt to put the sordid situation out of my mind, I was doing a bit of good old fashioned bar-hopping. Sometimes, for a moment or so, I'd manage to put things aside for long enough to subside my feelings of guilt. Guilt for my past misfortunes, accidents I'd been unable to prevent, people I'd been unable to protect...

It's ironic Muraki... that you can blame Saki for forfeiting any rights you have to find peace in even the most mandatory of activities, when you have done the very same to me. As a result of your presence in my afterlife, all the disappointments I had once been able to reign in became that much more difficult to control. I found myself getting agitated over even the tiniest things.

Hisoka, my own partner was as supportive as I would expect in this time of trial for me. But his lack of social skills and disassociation meant that he was unable to fully sympathize with the trauma I experienced when faced with what stirred so continuously inside of me. This darkness... perhaps the very same thing that Saki awoke in you all those years ago... Muraki.

The demon half of me. The part of me I've been running from all these years. Nearly one century has passed since the moment I first declared that my life would be dedicated to an eternity of evasion from the shadow in my soul that despaired in a dark squalor for life and blood.

Perhaps the reality is... is that I will never escape it. That another century will come to pass and I will still be running. And my heart will be forever in turmoil.

Kind of a depressing thought, huh?

The other agents had tried to be sympathetic after Kyoto. Tatsumi was thoughtful and gentle, making certain that I was fully aware of his support whenever I should have need of it. Mr. Konoe was nice too. He gave me a pay rise and I made short work of it at the next Cinnapon sale, which took my mind off matters for at least a little while.

A pat on the back. A whispered word of comfort or even an embrace, so that I knew that everyone was thinking of me. That I was still valued and appreciated and no one wanted to see me turn and walk away in a clouded aura of depression and hopelessness.

I did appreciate that. But... though I understood completely that everyone was there for me, I still could not shake those awful feelings. I'd been forgiven. I'd been accepted back into the arms of my friends and colleagues and remedied with the soft comfort of mortal words, physical contact and the glancing smile.

But I was not a mortal.

I'm not even entirely human.

And whilst my friends and colleagues were willing to accept me for who they thought me to be, the part they had seen erupt in Kyoto, the demon half, was something they wanted to forget. To sweep under the carpet. Because I wanted to forget about it too.

But no matter how much I wanted to push it aside and ignore its' presence, the fact to that matter was that I was part demon, no different to the creature who had caused that bloodied devastation within the Tachiagari. I had seen that horror… and I have exacted that same horror, even if I cannot remember it.

There had only been one single being I had known in a century long existence, whom had accepted both parts of me. Who had allowed the demon half some kind of peace and reciprocation, some acknowledgement. Whether I wanted to forget or not, there was no denying that half of me yearned for this creature that dared to admit its' existence when no other, not even the human part of me, dared to do so.

Yes Muraki. That creature was you. You don't have to look so smug about it either.

The Red Moon's Calamity… Isn't that what Dr. Squirrel called you? And what a calamity you were! What a tragedy, what a mystery… what an obscurity…

Kazutaka Muraki. A surgeon employed in Tokyo General, the central Metropolitan hospital. I had first met him three years ago, when I'd been sent out to investigate vampiric disturbances in my charge of Nagasaki.

He had turned up out of the blue; a tall, sophisticated man dressed all in white from head to toe. I'd been tending to a small child that had collapsed from what we assumed at the time was apparent heat stroke and Muraki deigned to provide assistance. I'd been appreciative of his attentions at the time and couldn't fail to notice that he had flirted with me, which had both interested and flattered me, being that he was a handsome, well to do gentleman.

But it turned out that he was far from a compassionate person. Through my investigation I found out that Dr. Kazutaka Muraki, the visiting Tokyo physician, had orchestrated the vampire murders, as a means of drawing me to him. He himself was a psychic vampire, who supped on spiritual energy and he siphoned the souls of the dead, killed by a revived girl named Maria Wong; a Hong Kong singing sensation whom had taken her own life out of despair. And if that weren't enough, Muraki unashamedly confided in me that he had been the one responsible for the death of my partner, Hisoka Kurosaki.

When Hisoka had been thirteen, he witnessed one of Muraki's murders and saw his face. In what he classified as a case of 'artistic genius', Muraki caught the innocent child, marked him with a curse through the act of raping him and watched over him in the hospital, supping his energy little by little, so that the boys final few years were spent in never ceasing pain and suffering.

Muraki had conducted the Nagasaki murders, in order to meet me. It soon became apparent that he was obsessed with me, though I never truly found out how he'd learnt of my existence in the first instance. Why, I had been dead long before he had even been born into this world.

Long story short, Hisoka and I managed to put an end to his activities and light on out of Nagasaki, liberating the soul of the manipulated Maria Wong in the process. But it was not the last we had seen of Kazutaka Muraki. We met him again on a cruise liner, the Queen Camellia, which was being used as a floating organ bank, where illegal organ transplants were conducted outside the jurisdiction of both Japan and China. Many people had been kidnapped and slain, their organs harvested for the use of the rich and the wealthy; those who refused to wait for available, legal donors. Muraki had naturally been involved with the scheme but had very cleverly outsmarted us until the very end, seeing every last person who knew of his agenda murdered by the hands of yet another of his puppets, before blowing the ship up and slipping through our fingers once again.

Unbelievably, there had been a moment on the Queen Camellia, when I came dangerously close to allowing myself to be seduced by Muraki. He had been poisoned and we assumed he was dead but his high tolerance to toxins allowed him to decrease his bodily functions to the lowest degree and concentrate on healing. To acquire more energy, he attacked me in the cargo hold, attempting to feed off of me. I managed to fight him off but his attentions did not cease with his hunger. He whispered to me with provocative, seductive words, strumming my lip with his finger, pushing me down onto the floor with no resistance from myself, wound our fingers together, touched my mouth with his own. I'd had no real experience with such matters, with being seduced and it was somehow both revolting and completely exciting. I thought that he meant to have me, right there on the floor and I wonder to this very day, if I might have let him, should he have persisted. He was so… forthright. So full of passion and lust. I'd never had that before… to be sought so ferociously.

And then came Kyoto…

Sometimes I'd find myself dreaming about him. Not nightmares as you would expect after the events one year ago but visions of a more... sedate and gentle nature. There is something inside of me that remains hopeful, despite knowing full well the lies and deceit you fed to me since the moment I first met you. When I... dreamed of you, Muraki, you came to me as a being prepared to repent for his crimes and dedicate your life to rectifying all that you had come into contact with. In my arrogance, I believed it was a promise you made with the sole purpose of gaining my trust. You extended good will in order to see me smile, to make me happy.

"Tsuzuki-san, I vow never to act in a way that would dishearten you," You would say as you straightened your glasses in that way you always do. "I have no desire to see you saddened."

Then I would smile and in that bizarre way that dreams have, everything became all right and you were suddenly a person I could trust. I liked that feeling; thinking that you were someone that I could depend on to do the right thing by me. Believing that you cared enough about me, to want to become a better person for my sake because the only desire left in you was the same desire suspended in the demonic half of me.

I truly do not know which part of me was dreaming that dream.

The demon?

Asato Tsuzuki?

Both?

It was something I had thought about a lot, despite the stress it accorded me alongside my Shinigami duties. Sincerely, the human side of me wanted to believe in a good man named Kazutaka Muraki who saved lives rather than took them.

I've never been very good at thinking things through. I always expected too much of people. Expected that in heart, people are basically good and that evil is simply a word beyond mortal understanding and can never be entertained by humans. Evil was always such a demonic word.

There is no denying that Muraki did evil things. Things I fail to understand the reasoning behind and yet continually refuse to accord him the label as that of a conscious barren demon.

Why? I find that hard to rationalize myself. I cannot forgive him for these atrocious acts of murder and violation yet I am unable to call him evil.

Is it the predominant innocence in me, incapable of condemning someone with the harshest of accusations? Or could it be that I am simply loath to believe him evil, when this man was holding me in his arms and offering me intimacy in such a passionate and yet unobtrusive way? As up front as Muraki had been with his apparent desire, the ways in which he had expressed his affection had always been... alluring. Even when he had me pressed to the wall of the Queen Camellia having won my body in a game of Poker, the kisses he had trailed along my chin and neck were neither insistent nor forceful. They were an enticement. 'Come play,' they seemed to say, those whispers of heat and wetness across my skin. 'I want you to enjoy this as much as I do.'

'Come play, Asato Tsuzuki…'

The temptation I felt, lent to me a greater excuse to chastise myself. To forget. And were I to find momentary peace by drinking an entire bottle of Akita gin, then I would gladly do so.

That night however, I was out on my own.

I don't like drinking alone, especially on a Tuesday night when hardly anyone was out. It made me feel self conscious. I didn't have much of a choice however. Watari was out on his date and Hisoka had no interest in trolling the town after the night we'd had. I couldn't think of anyone else to call, nor could I really be bothered with trying. Maybe it was better that way; meant I wouldn't have to talk about the things I had seen that night.

Being alone didn't bother me as much as it should have, once I settled into the mood of things. I wandered down to the restaurant district, moving about the bars there. If I'd had a choice, I would have preferred Kanazawa for my night of alcohol based gluttony, a delightful castle town of winding alleys and expensive restaurants. I was very fond of the city, partly because I had a deep affinity for sight seeing, a habit of mine that has lingered since the days of my adolescence.

Kanazawa houses some of the finest old temples in Japan, including the well known Ninja temple built in 1958. Once, Watari and I had attempted to tiptoe through the temple only to find that it was riddled with secret passageways, long tunnels that meandered out into nothing, high ceilings and suicide rooms with, appropriately enough, no exit. Naturally we had been drunk at the time and after a good half hour of waddling about, hiccupping like frogs with indigestion, not only had we completely lost the entrance from which we came; we had completely lost each other. We thought it hilarious later, when we were sober but at the time it was nothing short of terrifying! Tatsumi was sent in to rescue us and in five minutes managed to do what we had been unable to in four hours. That being, retrieve our well pickled carcasses and drag us out of the temple proper. Watari had managed to wedge himself into a wall between the entrance room and a secret passage (How I don't know, even the temple staff couldn't figure it out.) whilst I was extracted from the corner of the suicide room, facing the wall and trying to convince myself that there had been a door there only a few seconds earlier.

Because of this, Kanazawa has held a very dear and near place in my heart (regardless of the expense) and I made it my business to make business whenever I had the chance. But it was simply too far out of my way that night and so I remained in Tokyo; with all my sad memories of the town to weigh me down.

After wandering through the restaurant district, taking in the sights and valorous scents and sounds, I made my way to a small and non-descript bar I had a habit of frequenting. Due to my love of sweets and somewhat tempestuous habit of…ahem spending my paycheck rather quickly, I had a responsibility to my begrudged self to proceed into the night with one word in mind: Cheap. This bar, whilst small, cozy and relatively friendly, was the quintessential economical, reasonably priced, easy on the pocket, simply put cheap establishment in this entire city. That and the place was always relatively empty. Unlike Watari I'm not booming with self confidence and I try to avoid the more rambunctious places unless I am in his company.

He was a swinger after all. That kind of lifestyle is more suited to him, rather than a Guardian like me, raised in the early 20th century.

I entered the bar and sidled up, all unobtrusive like to a well worn barstool in the far left corner. My pay packet hadn't been very generous lately, (business had been slow, what with all those damned medical advancements that extended everyone's life for a good twenty years or so) so I'd formulated a plan in my immortal mind, brilliant creature that I am. Ignoring the bartenders' impatient expression that insisted I either ordered something or at least assure him I wasn't ready to order and scanned the bar for prey.

It didn't take me too long to spot them. They always stand out like a sore thumb in my 'Freeloader radar' what with somewhat uncertain expressions usually angled towards the karaoke machine as another of their group belts out a robust version of a song by that American singer 'Madonna.' This particular individual seemed to be suffering from chronic stomach ache because he was hollering into the microphone with his face pursed up like he was sucking on a lemon.

College kids singing karaoke was like the Chinese Water torture; it slowly wears you down.

I decided to end everyone's suffering right there, performing a service of euthanasia if you would. Adopting my most pathetic and wide eyed expression, I simply got up from my stool and wandered over toward the stage, all purple eyed puppy innocence.

The college students immediately stopped to gape at me. The boy on stage ceased in his murderous onslaught, the microphone sliding from his grasp and leaving 'Madonna' to finish the performance by herself. I'm sure everyone was grateful.

"Excuse me!" I said, in what I hoped was suitably broken Japanese. It's more difficult than you would think; speaking your own language as though it is your second language. "I is wondering, is this being the place 'Hawaii Sun Bar,' yes? I canno not read the sign and I is very confused."

The college students appraised me as they might a small child. Having once been partnered with Tatsumi I had become accustomed to this type of treatment a long time ago.

Finally, one of the girls in the six person group plucked up the courage to address my dangerous self. I made a point of looking extra pathetic for her (and eventually my own) benefit.

"Are you American?" She asked in VERY LOUD AND VERY SLOW JAPANESE. Language between international countries seems to be established by this bizarre use of 'very loud and very slow' no matter what language you originally speak. It is like this unofficial rule or something. If you are very loud and very slow everyone will understand you.

I would like to point out here and now that as the most poorly gifted veteran of attempts to learn the English language, speaking 'VERY LOUD and very slow' does not help one tiny bit. My English arsenal is sparsely limited and seems to revolve around the topic of my shallow purse and eating. 'I have no money. Very little money. I am hungry.' Also, I'm entirely Asian in appearance, so it was a ploy that didn't often work. Sometimes, it was worth trying just for the laugh it got.

"Yes. I am American," I replied, trying to speak Japanese with an American southern accent.

One of the older boys at the table raised an eyebrow. From that expression I would assume that he did not approve of me. Most Japanese do not approve of foreigners, especially those that don't look or sound foreign and are attempting to extort money from other people. I tried extra hard to look innocent and non-threatening.

"Can you say something in English, for us Gaijin-san?" He asked gruffly.

Oh shit. "I… um…" I cleared my throat and hoped to God it would come out fluent. "I HAVE NO MONEY! I AM HUNGRY!"

They all stared at me in silence for a moment and I was just on the verge of bowing and beseeching the twelve gods' that protect me, when one of the girls started giggling and clapping her hands together.

"That was amazing! What does that mean, Gaijin-san?" She asked, astounded by my profound skills in the English dialect.

"It means I am wondering if I can get a drink here? Long way from big America, you know!"

Voila. A little dishonesty on mine own behalf and I was provided with the first few drinks of the night, free of charge. Something else for me to feel guilty about naturally, but I decided to blame this one on Tatsumi for docking my pay in the first place. He was forcing me to take such measures. No one asked him to come and rescue Watari and me from the ninja temple. … Well, if you want to be literal about it, yeah okay, Konoe did, but I didn't, so there was no need to brutally slice numbers from my pay packet like some samurai assassin cutting down foes on the battlefield. I had learnt my lesson there in the corner of the Suicide room and attempting to drain my drinking income was not the way to go about it!

I waddled out of the bar at two o'clock in the morning, sloshed beyond gluttony and feeling well deserving of something sweet to sate my sudden, profound lack of energy. Unfortunately, as you would expect nothing was open at this time of night and my search for sugar came up as empty as my wallet. I wandered the darkened streets, watching lights go out in the rooms lining the walls like candles snuffed by the Counts fingers and tried to think of something to do. I was feeling very morose, despite the generous amount of alcohol sliding through my bloodstream like an insidious lovers hand, lulling me into a false sense of security.

As such, my thoughts turned to Muraki.

The white doctor had been incognito for the past year and rather than assure me in a resolute sense of finality, his quiet disappearance had only acted to further provoke my anxiety. I'd seen first hand that the doctor was unlikely to die with even the most astute of efforts taken to assure his demise. Even when I'd felt the penetration of the knife into his body, I think part of me had known even then, that that would never be enough to eradicate the undeniable Kazutaka Muraki.

Not an invincible man, but a man that had no intention of dying until it was in his own permission to do so. Something more powerful than my will, mortal frailty and all that made sense to me, was keeping him alive.

The marks on Hisoka's body proved that.

He was out there somewhere still. Waiting… waiting for another chance to move in, extend that hand, strike another down and then our game would begin afresh again.

'Come play, Asato Tsuzuki.'

I couldn't stand the inactivity. The fruitless, ceaseless waiting. As terrible as it may sound, I thought it may even be better should Muraki reappear. It was better to know, then to remain ignorant. I had even suggested pursuing him following Kyoto but the Judgment Bureau had established a decision to prevent any further involvement with Muraki. At least until he showed his face again.

Showed his face again… Literally, they meant of course. How can they account for his face as it reappears again and again to me, inescapable in my dreams every night? Can I not pursue him then, because he haunts my mind, chases my consciousness in circles so that every time I turn my shoulder I meet that silver gaze of his? Those cold eyes… cold eyes of a brutal murderer, a title he was unafraid to give himself and yet at the same time, he could look at me with such desire and passion…

Was this want for me, this passion for me, nothing more than an obsession of a man as unwavering as his lust for the one other thing that escaped him?

Vengeance?

If it too can be called an obsession, then I have no doubt in my mind that Muraki will return for me. He spent 17 years searching for his path to avenge the dearest thing he ever lost, an obsession to enact his revenge.

How many years will he obsess for me? How many years has he already obsessed for me?

How many years will it take before he finally begins to see the fruits for that obsession? He is a languorously patient man, as I have seen time and time again. I doubt that this little setback will afford him too much at all.

Until he did return to fulfill his obsession however, I continually found myself glancing over my shoulder, expecting to meet that silvery stare suspended above the familiar wisp of a smile.

Just as I see it in my dreams.

Unlike my dreams however, I cannot convince myself that the man who has killed so many, the man whom lusts after me for a reason I cannot even begin to fathom, the man who verily taketh life as soon as save it…

… I cannot see that man denouncing the life that provides him with so much satisfaction. A life without guilt, without reason for guilt. Rationality beyond mortal conception in which the taking of human life is not a sin any more so than possessing violet colored eyes.

I passed a man on the corner of the main road. He was staggering and obviously a tad more drunk than I was. His tie hung at half mast and his blurry eyes struggled like an elderly man with arthritis to focus on me. I'm sure even when he did, he was seeing four of me anyway.

"All alone tonight?" He asked, well leered at me.

"Yeah…" I replied as I continued across the road, chin pressed to my chest as a shield against the cold wind and the harsh candor of his words. "All alone tonight."

Even when I'm sober, sometimes I cannot help but entertain the naïve and mortal procrastination, when someone hits me with a sharp and painful point like this. The obvious realization that I didn't have to be alone. I'm a shy man and it is this fact, more so than any other, that sees me 'all by myself' more often than not. I'm afraid of approaching people because of the fear that they might shun me, as though they have some perception ahead of time, the kind of person that I am.

The one assurance I do have, the one I always think of when I feel in need of some boost in self confidence, horribly enough, is Muraki.

As frail and human as I am, there is a part of me that reaches for even the slightest self-assurance from time to time. Something to prove that I am an acceptable creature, that I can be seen as beautiful in somebody else's eyes.

"At first I thought just watching you was enough… but then… …no. I ached to touch…"

In Muraki's eyes, in the eyes of that brutal serial killer—

"-and now… I want you so badly."

- I was beautiful.

And as selfish as it may seem, I liked it. In my heart of hearts, how I hate to admit it, I liked that I could always count on Muraki to see me in a positive light. Even when I failed to see it myself, a creature or darkness perceived me as being… perfect.

I'd spent a lifetime searching for one single person to accept me for all that I was. Everything that made up me; Asato Tsuzuki to the smallest cell, the blink of my eyelashes, the intake of a breath.

In all that I was, be it good or bad, Muraki desired me.

Wanted me.

I didn't have to be alone. Not that night, not any night. In the absence of friends, I could have stepped into the nightmare and entered into Muraki's dream. Fallen into his arms and found acceptance and passion beyond guilt, mortal regret and the thoughts that sent me reeling through bar after bar, searching for an escape. An outlet.

A door I could have sworn was once there.

Bitter at the tangle of my thoughts, I changed my course and wandered deeper into the city's heart, looking for bright lights and people. It was late though and the only people I came across were other drunks like me. I staggered into one emerging from a big, brazen bar in on of the main streets and we shared an impromptu introduction.

"HELLO!" He bellowed at me. I was three feet away.

"Hi!" I said, equally as exuberant. "I haven't been to bed yet!"

We both agreed that this was a stellar achievement and warmly shook one another's hands. This was clearly the greatest moment of his life. We promised to stay good friends always and send postcards and all that, before veering off on our separate ways. The man had a rosy complexion and rough hands and that is all I can remember. Undoubtedly all he can recount of me today is a tall man with eyes the color of gay pride.

A million lives I pass every day, mere glimpses into a photo album of sunsets and thousands more faces and smiles I will never set eyes on. The truth was; I would never send this man a postcard. I would never know his name. We were simply two strangers, drunk on life and regret, passing one another on a dying street, clutching desperately at one another's hands as fleeting as straws.

Transience. Mortality. All that comes must go. A life represented by a single candle, burnt down to the wick exemplifies all existence disappearing into darkness. As the candle burns, nothing is left behind. Nothing but memories, brief glimpses and a shady recollection of various features; here a rosy face, there a violet eye.

I should have drunk more that night.

By two thirty-five I was running out of steam. I started ducking into various cheap love hotels and checking for Watari's name on the register in case he had gotten lucky that night. Having failed to see any evidence of his presence at the places I entered, I began peeking into parked car windows, searching for his distinct wavy blonde hair. Once I had been chased off by several unappreciative couples, I collapsed by a lamp post, thoroughly exhausted of society in general. Several clusters of stars winked at me through gaps in the clouds, the clouds that suddenly registered my presence and decided I didn't look nearly miserable enough. An overweight raindrop struck me on the nose, followed by another. And then, another. Soon the rain was pelting down and when I tried to run and take shelter, I tripped on the gutter and landed face down in a puddle.

Could death get any better than this?

"Dammit all!" I bellowed; surfacing from the puddle and spitting dirty brown water in all directions. My entire face was streaked with mud; rain ran rivulets down from my sodden hair. I was just on the verge of telling the entire world where it could go, when my mobile phone rang.

My eyes widened considerably and I checked my watch. It was three-fifty, an ungodly hour. Who in Hades could be calling this early? Shrugging, I dragged myself to my feet and shuffled under the balcony of a nearby supply shop, only then retrieving the peeping phone from my jacket pocket. The number was unfamiliar, so it couldn't have been Tatsumi, Hisoka or Watari.

Curious, I pushed the receive button and held the phone up to my ear, plugging the other one with my index finger in an attempt to block out the sound of the rain.

"Hello?"

There was no reply. I struggled desperately to hear a sound; someone breathing at the very least but there was nothing. I was beginning to feel nervous.

"Hello, who is this?" I asked, firmly this time.

Still no reply. I grunted and was just about to abort the call when I heard someone speak. A voice that seemed to stroke my spine from top to tailbone.

"It's been a while since I've heard your voice, Tsuzuki-san."

The entire world must have stopped in that moment. My heart began to hurl itself against the wall of my chest, quickening the pace of my breathing. "Muraki…"

"Sharp as always, aren't you?" The doctor asked, still as smooth as ever. He didn't sound the least bit perturbed by what had passed between us one year ago. "Forgive me for my silence but the moment I heard you speak I didn't have the heart to say a word. I've missed hearing your voice, Tsuzuki-san."

My hands were shaking so much; I could barely keep the phone positioned beside my ear.

"YOU!!" I screamed, startling some poor teenage couple that happened to trudge by me at that exact moment. The young man nearly emptied his bladder onto the pavement. "YOU!! YOU'RE STILL ALIVE!!"

Muraki wasn't as nearly impressed with my dramatic tone as I'd hoped. He emitted a deep, weary sigh down the receiver as I gnashed my teeth threateningly into stubs.

"Yes Tsuzuki-san. I am still alive." He said very slowly in the manner someone might address a lobotomy patient. "Unless of course you are speaking to a ghost. Do I sound like a ghost to you?" He added sensually.

I considered my options; screaming, summoning, fainting and decided none was too appealing. I continued to grind my teeth, unable to procure even the most articulate of exclamations.

"How did you get this number?! What have you done now?!" I roared, waving my fist around in animist fury. The couple was still watching me from a safe distance. "I demand that you RELEASE whoever you are holding hostage RIGHT NOW and… don't make me COME AFTER you again or… ooooh…" I staggered into the wall, clutching at my suddenly uncooperative belly. Something in the region of my liver was having a violent disagreement with all the liqueur I'd consumed. "Oh God… this is not the best time to be having this conversation…"

"Apparently not…" Muraki said, a hint of possible concern leaking into his affected baritone. "Have you been drinking, Tsuzuki-san? You really should try to limit yourself you know. Enjoy in moderation? If you're not careful-"

"SHUT UP!!" I screamed, immediately regretting it as the volume further aggrieved the drowsy state of my cranium. Damn, I would probably need to enter into detox after this. "You're the last person I wanna hear a lecture from! What the hell do you want?! Where have you been all this time? How in Hades did you manage to get my number and why- HEY! WHY DON'T YOU JUST GET ON AN EXTENSION AND JOIN US?!"

The couple quickly made their escape, accompanied by the amused chuckles of Muraki on the other end of the line. Once they were out of sight, I returned my attention to the call, keeping my voice discreetly veiled to avoid attracting further unwanted attention.

"Why have you called me, Muraki? After everything that happened, why would you even want to?"

I cursed myself inwardly for the way I had phrased this sentence. My tone of voice seemed to encompass remorse on mine own behalf for the prior events. If anything, he was the one who should be feeling uncomfortable and guilty. Regardless how I tried to convince myself, the emotion seemed incapable of shifting itself.

Muraki didn't make it any easier. His voice was an arcane tone of sincere clemency, alluring me to place my trust in him, despite all the past disrepute's. In the drunken state I was in, it felt too much like my ludicrous dreams.

The dreams in which I was comfortable and content to believe him.

"I'd like to see you." Muraki murmured his voice uncharacteristically tentative. "I'm in Tokyo right now. My home. I would like it very much if you would pay me a visit. As for how I managed to acquire your number, I was aided in the task by a small impling in my service that procured the number from the ministry itself. A precarious task, but you are certainly worth it."

He'd summoned an imp and charged it with the task of retrieving information from the Ministry? I couldn't help but blush. He had certainly gone to a lot of trouble.

"Well, I'm flattered." I said intending for it to be delivered sarcastically. I was relieved to find my slurred voice did not fail me. "But, tell me this; are you holding someone I care for hostage, perchance I say no to your invitation, thereby giving you the chance to blackmail me into accompanying you this morning?"

"No."

"Then give me one good reason why I should visit you?" I asked tartly, my voice so cold I was certain I gave him frostbite of the ear.

Muraki couldn't have sounded more obliviously pleasant if he tried. Did you fail to detect the venom in my voice, or were you just ignoring it? As per usual? … Ah, I see, you were ignoring it. Why am I not surprised?

"I simply wanted to give you the option of joining me of your own free will." He replied curtly. "Though of course, you are going to see me tonight whether you want to or not, my dear Tsuzuki-san."

I couldn't help but cast a glance over my shoulder, almost expecting to see a tall white clothed figure standing on the corner bathed in the light from the street lamp. Ridiculous. My imagination was running away with me.

But then again… it was Muraki we were talking about. The man could not be expected to be rational. I turned back to the phone.

"So tell me doctor; how exactly is it that you are going to persuade me to visit you? Hmm?"

Shouldn't have gotten cocky. I knew very well that what Muraki wanted, Muraki eventually found a way of getting. Even as the phone line went dead on his response (something suitably self-satisfied and haughty undoubtedly) I felt the aching tug on my immortal substance, spearing hooks drawing my essence together. Even as my feet left the ground, I gasped as the realization hit me.

Muraki was summoning me!

I tried to resist the pull but the wrenching compacting syllables beckoned my energy to answer the call of my name with dynamic persuasion. There was little I could do to escape it. By attempting to counteract the summons my essence was only further expanded and injured, leaving my spiritual mana aching from the exertion.

Not that this stopped me from trying, mind.

No mortal had ever attempted to summon me before. It required a high level of magical efficiency, as strong as or stronger than the guardian that was being summoned itself. Not only that, you must know the name of the undead you are calling and be in possession of some material part of it. I couldn't think of what Muraki had of me, though it could have been something as small as a strand of hair. The bureau had trained me in preparation should a summoning ever occur but I still found the entire experience uncomfortable and exasperating.

For a brief, restless second my form was compacted, stretched outward like gum, and then squeezed through the impartial passageways of the Acasual space to be deposited like a bag of reeking garbage between the walls of a large, mostly bare white room.

Needless to say, I was not a happy Shinigami. Summoning a guardian requires that the being materialize in some form representative of the closest resemblance to our true form. At the outset of our service to the bureau, our essence takes the manifestation of our mortal bodies, in which we conduct our investigations and day-to-day activities.

Summoning reverses the process.

I had materialized in spiritual essence alone, which despite its' noble state, was not wholly desirable. Spiritual essence is essentially, our soul, or spirit and as clichéd as it may sound, the closest physical representation of it was something akin to a wispy cloud that sort of flouts around. The only original thing about it was that each beings essence was slightly different.

I had not assumed this state since the very earliest stages of my service, before I learnt how to maintain my human form.

To elaborate, I had the appearance of a giant bubble. A giant bubble filled with bubble bath. A giant bubble, filled with bubble bath, purple dye and an intricate overlapping wave that circled it every few seconds.

Comely, no?

Dr Kazutaka Muraki became the subject of this purple bubble baths swearing, cursing, ranting, death threats and promise of much violence for the following few minutes. The white haired man, standing discreetly in the shadows of the dark room, just smiled throughout the whole one sided exchange as though a giant bubble threatening to puncture his left lung was nothing out of the ordinary.

It is hardly intimidating, I must confess.

"Are you quite done?" Muraki asked, once I had completed a good five minutes worth of adult rated material. The bubble stopped panting and bounced furiously in the center of the room, the purple light emanating brightly.

"I haven't even started with you!" The bubble growled, the wave looping so erratically that it seemed set to shoot off of the axis and drown the murderous bastard. "After all that you have done, you still have the nerve to do this? WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!"

"Now that-" He said, a smile flashing in the darkness. "Is a source of much debate. My friend Oriya has often gone hoarse in an attempt to answer it."

The bubble was not amused. It drew itself up.

"You're insane." I established for his benefit. "And you'd better release me right this second or so help me I will drip my essence all over this expensive carpet. Just see if I don't!"

Muraki merely straightened his glasses, calm against all sagacity. My God, here I had just threatened to decimate his undoubtedly 18th century fancy-smancy name hundred-thousand yen carpet and the man doesn't so much as bat an eyelid! I could summon up Byakko to go on a rampage of Godzilla proportions through his house and he'd probably just pour a cup of tea and offer me a biscuit.

Or he'd get off on it. He seemed to be sexually aroused by displays of power.

"Are you going to listen to me or not?" He finally asked in a world-weary tone of voice. I noticed that he seemed to be clutching his abdomen a lot; in the very place that I had stabbed him.

I calmed down enough to commute my essence together and transmute into human shape. Gravity set in and my feet touched the floor, trench coat hem brushing the carpet threads. I was still feeling moderately woozy from the alcohol but the summons had redirected much of my physical properties, clearing a large portion of my liver. Unfortunately it had also taken care of my stomach and I was now starving again. I actively sought to ignore my growling belly and focused my attention on the doctor, still standing back in the darkness. His right eye glowed from somewhere beneath the arch of hair, falling across a half of his pale face almost artistically.

I pursed my lips. "You fool. After all that happened in Kyoto, after everything you have done, you call me back? You have seen what I am capable of Muraki. Do not push me again, hear? I am no longer tolerant of you or your jibes."

My belligerent words were somewhat ruined by Muraki puffing out his cheeks blowing a loud raspberry. It was the single most bizarre thing I had ever seen the doctor do, considering his decorous personality that is. I was taken aback.

"Oh, do get over yourself, Tsuzuki-san." The doctor crossed the room to where I was standing. I had to consciously reign myself in as he entered my sight clearly for the first time in months.

He was as beautiful as I remembered. The moonlight darting between the half shielded curtains, cast his strong jaw line into shades that complimented his high cheekbones and ashen skin perfectly. A mercury wave of hair arched down over his face, matching the color of his one visible eye perfectly. Imposing as always, the doctor was a large man, easily six foot three, whilst I was only 5'10. To him, I suppose, I could have been little more than a doll, cradled in his strong arms. Lifted to that broad expanse of chest, framed by wide shoulders… Physically intimidating on top of everything else. A modern day Jack the Ripper.

In all honesty, the first time I had met him, I had felt an undeniable attraction. Were one unaware of his more sinister dealings, like the innocent Tsubaki, one could easily be taken in by him. Muraki was not just an attractive man; his features were striking. The beauty to stop someone dead in their tracks is something that continues to astound me even to this day. How two perfect strangers can meet and one entrance the other so wholly, so completely that he forgets where he is and what he is doing. Your entire universe suddenly centers on this one person.

When I had shook Muraki's hand, he left me with not the fading memory of a rosy complexion but a stain so deep I had no hope to remove it. I had remembered his name perfectly, recalled vivid details of his face, the part in his hair, the way in which it was parted, eye color, voice tone, mannerisms. His skin was disturbingly pale and flawless, no rosy blush to be seen such as I was so partial to. There was an intense, eloquent taint to his visible eye and his inappropriately sensual mouth seemed constantly on the verge of laughing. Laughter of a defile nature that is, cold laughter, sadly distant and seceded. His nose was perfectly straight and aristocratic; an ode to a lineage long since lost to him.

I remembered these details perfectly because I had wanted to remember. Like Tsubaki I had been instantly captivated.

I was utterly driven and compelled to react to him. Needless to say, I would have sent him postcards should he have turned out to be an upstanding citizen and not a psychopathic dick.

Muraki hadn't changed since the last time I had seen him. Except for one, tiny, minor detail… I couldn't help but nitpick this insignificant flaw as he stepped up close to me, smiling a gentle smile so unlike him…

"My God! You've gotten fat, haven't you?"

Just call me Subtle-san. Muraki's smile dropped like a bucket of ice water, a twitch appearing in the uppermost crease of his left eye. Clearly this was a "Sensitive-Point™." I immediately wished I'd shut my big mouth.

Muraki was amazingly composed about the remark however. He straightened the folds of his yukata and readjusted his glasses, though neither needed any treatment whatsoever. This was evidently a soothing mechanism for him.

"No…" He said slowly and LOUDLY. "I have not put on weight, Tsuzuki-san. It is undoubtedly the cut of the yukata, the width of my shoulders causes the material to amplify my contours."

This was an outright lie and I could see that my observation had clearly rattled him. I smiled to myself, cruelly pleased I had found at least one method of unnerving my amorous enemy. For almost a year, Muraki had easily instituted technique's to demoralize me, whether it be my past guilt or inability to elude his sexual advances. Now, I had one small detail to use against him and it felt great.

I cocked my head to the side, pretending to study him fervently. Muraki was a man in his early thirties and as a physician, I'm sure he hadn't much time to work out, so of course he'd have a bit of adipose tissue in the usual places. He did indeed seem to have gained some weight since our last meeting, a fact that very well may have been attributed to a long retreat in hospital. I nodded thoughtfully.

"Are you quite sure about that doctor? Because I'm positively certain… that you were not nearly that corpulent three months ago. Particularly around the waist."

Muraki bristled, trying to maintain his cool. I could see him developing a life-long complex on the spot: "Do I really look portly? Do I?"

As I stood there gloating, feeling suddenly much better about death in general, Muraki began to composedly light a cigarette. He drew on the emphysema riddled cylinder like a teenager with a joint and then blew a funnel of smoke from the corner of his mouth, without even removing the cigarette. His cool eyes met mine.

Then, with a sigh, he pulled open the kimono.

Oh God.

Full frontal Muraki.

Naturally, as I had not been suspecting this little… ahem, unveiling, I went somewhat into shock. Meaning I screamed like a little girl, covered my face with my hands and tried to spin a 180 degree angle as my face flushed like a burgundy sun burnt cherry. The point had been made however.

Muraki was definitely not as toned as he once was but he certainly wasn't fat. Rather, he had a very…um… healthy, robust body. His chest and slightly rounded stomach (well, he was a man in his thirties, so it couldn't be all perfect) were defined in the faint moonlight, revealing substantial muscle patterns shifting beneath alabaster skin like pulsing veins. The night credited perfect compliment to his body, his nudity expressing confidently the wide chest and shoulders, arrowing downward into the sensual slope of his ample hips and long legs.

A beautiful, yet wholly human piece of art.

That one glance had also been enough to inform me of Muraki's desire, endorsed by my presence that night. I swallowed heavily and licked my lips, trying not to envision how having that man inside of me would have felt, if Hisoka had not annulled my wager on the Queen Camellia.

Oh for the love of Hades, would you all stop laughing at me! I'm doing the best I can! And yes Watari, I'm aware that I am blushing you don't need to point it out to me.

I kept my back discretely turned until Muraki retied the cord of his yukata. I was only aware of his modesty until he had stepped up close behind me, threading his arms beneath my shoulders as seamlessly as a thread through needle. My face flushed even redder as he straightened his knees, slotting himself into place against my back with a soft murmur of satisfaction, allowing me to feel his passion without the slightest bit of inclination on his own behalf.

Something came to me then, a factor I had overlooked as a result of my embarrassment.

Muraki's body had been covered with marks, deep red marks not unlike a bruising or branding. They etched across his body in haphazard patterns, as though some cockeyed child had gone at him with a crayon. I had missed them at first, because the collar of the kimono was sanctioned much too close to his neck. Even so I could now see them covering his hands, arms and neck, an unsystematic vice of which was all too familiar to me, though not in reference to Muraki.

They were the lines of the curse he had left on Hisoka.

I was distracted from my thoughts by Muraki, whose hot breath upon my ear snapped me sadistically back into reality, awakening a whole series of previously undetected desires. The feeling was odious, insufferable… and all my own. How I detested myself for my failure to extinguish this physical covet for the man who had killed so many. The man who had murdered my partner and many others in cold blood.

"Do I seem alive to you?" The doctor asked sumptuously. I shivered as I felt his hands slide across my waist in opulent affection. Stroking my own hands and tracing the curves of my fingers as though inviting them to intertwine with his own.

"Come play Asato Tsuzuki…"

"You can feel me can't you? I'm real. Real… and very much alive." He purred gently and lowered his mouth so close to my ear, that his tongue wet my skin with each word. "You must be well aware that I am more than impressed by your display in Kyoto, my darling. But… one must not lose their modesty. The wise eagle hides its' talons, after all. Keep yourself humble as you have always been and you are that much more sublime, Tsuzuki-san."

I whimpered, trying not to let his contact get the better of me. It was dangerous and at the same time… exciting to have him this close.

"As soon as I return to the ministry, you'll have the entire summons section on your ass." I promised. "There won't be any slipping away this time, I can assure you."

I felt him smile into my hair, sighing as though the thought of a million Shinigami on his tail was simply electrifying. "Lovely. I could certainly use the exercise."

He raised a hand sharpish and I jerked back, closer to the wall of his chest, afraid that he was going to strike me. I certainly should have expected it, having bluntly accused the man of being fat.

But instead, he merely traced the pads of his fingertips across my lips. I couldn't help but tremble at the contact, my entire essence palpitating.

"Muraki…"

"Tsuzuki-san, would you please be so kind as to hear me out?" His voice was soft, his attention apparently focused on the examination of my face. "I have an offer of which I'm sure you would be most interested."

"An offer?" I repeated unnecessarily. It was difficult to concentrate when Muraki had started to kiss the skin on the back of my neck. He chuckled breathlessly, his lips making the softest noise as they parted from my flesh. Shamelessly, I found him more enticing by the minute.

"Would you like to hear what it is?"

I shook myself mentally, pulling out of his grasp with all the will I could muster. He didn't appear the least bit surprised at my actions. My refusal to give in to his ministrations had been a long running game since the moment we'd first met.

"Anything you say to me is not worth my time!" I shouted, somewhat losing the intended forceful effect as my voice pitched horribly. Muraki raised a slender eyebrow. "I don't have any reason to trust you!"

Muraki considered this for a moment as he retraced his steps across the room to where his cigarette sat smoldering in an ashtray. It had almost withered down to the filter. Nevertheless, he picked it up and drew on it thoughtfully, his aesthetic face angled toward the ceiling and his cryptic thoughts.

"Did you perhaps consider that that is exactly what I had planned to offer you?"

I bit down on my already prepared response as a cold chill rushed through my body. This all felt familiar somehow…

I realized it in a flash. My dreams…

When I... dreamed of you, Muraki, you came to me as a being prepared to repent for his crimes and dedicate your life to rectifying all that you had come into contact with. In my arrogance, I believed it was a promise you made with the sole purpose of gaining my trust. You extended good will in order to see me smile, to make me happy.

I banished the thought immediately. The rationality of a dream was not the basis to make a decision of such magnitude. This was not a place where I would simply smile and everything would be all right. This was reality. And in this place, Muraki was a murderer, whose word could not be trusted.

"A reason to trust you? Ha! Now's there's a laugh!" I said. "You can drop the act here and now, Kazutaka Muraki, I have all the information I'll ever need and want to know about you. And a dash extra now, thanks to your indecent exposure. As a bonus, I know that you're alive and kicking, so to speak and in a few hours, I'll be shouting it from the Ministry's roof. So, if I was you I would scarper on out of here quick smart and find someplace suitably dark and damp to hide. This conversation is herby, over." I took on the semblance of dogs' ears and tail, turning my face skyward as some indication of my finality.

Muraki stubbed out the cigarette. "Tsuzuki-san…"

"Nope!" His words were cut off by my big bushy tail shoved into his face. "Talk to the tail, because the face don't wanna hear it!"

Muraki rectified this situation by grabbing me by the base of my tail and pulling me back against his body. The act should not have been sensual but his hand so close to my rear, made it entirely so. My ears flattened themselves against my head and I whined my discomfort.

"Tsuzuki-san… I know that you saw those marks on my body." Muraki stated as I struggled in his grip. "Those marks are a curse known as The Shukusatsu. Someone bestowed it on me a long time ago. It enforces my demonic hunger, my need to kill and take life. If I fail to sate it, the curse inflicts extreme discomfort upon me. Unbearable agony to both my mind and body. The hunger becomes so great that I eventually lose all control over it and my brutality in murder increases twofold."

I shuddered as his left hand came up to caress my chin. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because…" He said. "There is only one way to sate the curse, beloved. I must murder, I must indulge in violence. I must feed that hunger. But I can lessen the burden of the curse by spreading the mark, by passing it on to others. It is a virus." He paused meaningfully. "I have discovered a method to transmit the Shukusatsu. I passed a portion of it out of myself and into another suitable host."

I gasped. "Hisoka!"

Muraki nodded and slowly released me. I watched as he turned his back on me and slowly slid the kimono down his shoulders, revealing a wide stretch of his broad back. The straight, mysterious lining coursed over much of his skin, except for one section – the flesh here was as smooth and flawless as the surface of an egg, stretching down from his shoulder blade to the swell of one buttock. The implication was obvious; this encryption was now stamped into my partner.

"The curse on that boy is but one single branch of the Shukusatsu." He explained, slipping the kimono back atop his shoulders and turning to face me. "It can be seen alone on the anniversary of the night in which it was originally cast. The anniversary obviously, is tonight."

He paused meaningfully for a moment, allowing the extended silence to add weight to his words. I contemplated his implications as he crossed the room and deposited the cigarette filter into the ashtray from which he had retrieved it. There was some sort of revealing simile between the doctor and the burnt out cylinder, but my thoughts were too distracted to stint on it.

Muraki sighed as he tilted his head sidelong to gaze at me. For a minute or so, he appeared content to simply watch me in this manner, unbothered by any of the predominant physical desires that were so evident in his naked form. His firm nipples, his insistent manhood…

I found myself blushing again, and like some sort of guided signal, Muraki had crossed the room and wrapped his arm around my lower waist, lifting my body upward to meet the wall of his chest. Despite the layers between us, I was still able to feel the erect buds press to my chest and the erroneous beating of his heart, playing to the rhythm of his suddenly much heavier breath. I lost all sense in what we had been discussing as Muraki's pale, yet sumptuous lips grazed the swell of my left cheek, applying the most exploratory of kisses upon the skin. I stifled what threatened to become a keen sigh, as his free hand moved up, his long nails pressing into the opposite side of my face in the semblance of a lover. He trailed kisses up to my temple, each moist warmth contact becoming more frenzied as I shivered in his hold. It became all too clear to me, that Muraki was starved for contact. He was like a child whom had just awoken from a bad dream.

It makes a lot more sense to me now; I can say that with astute clarity.

When he appeared to have satisfied his desperate craving and slowed his passionate kisses to a lingering brush of his lips, Muraki rested his forehead to my own, tilting my head up in order to study me. I didn't want to meet his eyes, afraid that such intimacy would only entice me into something I would be unable to pull away from. But the heavy sigh he expelled was so… weak that the ignorant part of me took pity and I accepted his silver eye within my own.

I was wrong to ever think that Muraki had not changed since Kyoto. Looking at him in that moment, wrapped up tightly in his arms as though I were the most perfect treasure in the world, I could see how far he had fallen. He was like one of the roses he loved so much; once so vibrant, now dried up and wilted. He seemed older somehow. Weary.

We stood like that for a while; he with his arms around me, rocking me gently as I relaxed halfheartedly against him, praying to any of the Twelve Gods that he would not try to kiss me. In my tipsy state, I knew it would be difficult to resist. Though still a virgin, even after a good ninety years, I enjoyed kissing a great deal and for all physical purposes, Muraki possessed unrivalled skill when it came to his lips. He had kissed me before, albeit briefly and I'd pushed him away not a second after his lips had met mine. I still remember the cold cutting clap of my heart however; the soles of my feet tingling…

My greatest weakness, I suppose, is anything that affords me pleasure. Be it sweets, drinking or kissing; if it came to any of these things, I would literally be unable to hold myself back.

And this simply would not do. I know full well that I would regret it in the morning. Kissing the man who killed your partner is a big 'no-no.'

Muraki finally spoke. "I will be honest with you Tsuzuki-san. I did not just call you here just because I wanted to see you."

I rolled my eyes. "Well now, there's a shock."

"I called you here because I want you to trust me. I am fully aware that I have given you very little reason to do so. Be that as it may, I cannot change the past and I cannot change the man who I am. I enjoy killing. It gives me pleasure, it gives me peace. What does not sit well with me however, Tsuzuki-san is realizing that my actions cause you to see me in a negative light. And that is something that I can no longer tolerate. In fact, it drives me crazy."

The hand on my waist tightened so that it found itself hooked about my hip, his lower arm locked into the hallow of my back. My eyes widened as his free arm wrapped around my shoulders and pulled me tight against him, allowing his face to fall upon the crook of my neck. He embraced me in such a tender, devoted way. A way in which defied all that this creature had come to represent. Muraki was loath to be seen as weak in any sort of circumstance and the emotional need he was exemplifying now, was a thorough contradiction of this. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to hug him back. He might have taken this as a doting 'come hither' and tried to take my clothes off or something. Not to mention I was somewhat reluctant to comfort self confirmed serial killers. I chose to simply stare straight ahead at the white walls as his hands caressed unknown patterns into my back, tracing a scripture of silent words and whispered allusions. Muraki whispered into my ear; his breath hot and suggestive.

"You have done something to me, Tsuzuki-san. Something I never considered possible. Whenever you come into proximity with me, let alone touch me as you are now, I find the curse becomes tranquil, lulled into amity by your very presence. You free me from the desire, the ache, the necessity of restraining my demonic presence by taking life from others." He sighed thoughtfully, one hand cupping the crown of my head as he trailed the side of his face up against mine. The skin-to-skin contact was more than enough to shatter my resolve to tolerate his advancements. I gave a momentary, persuasive struggle but Muraki's will was more insistent than my own. He simply pulled me against him tighter and for my efforts; I was awarded with the feeling of his erection pressing against my upper thigh. I cursed myself inwardly and tried not to let him see the tears swelling in the corners of my eyes. Muraki ignored my discomfort and simply smiled, obviously enjoying his feeling of dominance over me. I saw the glint of his artificial eye beneath his bangs and I had to stop myself from spitting in it.

"Here's the deal." He said. "I'm putting myself on a 'good-behavior-bond'. I would like to have more contact with you and owing to your… particular feelings about the taking of human life, if this should imply that I must forego killing henceforth, than I will gladly do it. Be mindful however, that I need to be in close proximity to you whenever I feel the urge, as you are able to remedy me of it. Do you understand, Tsuzuki-san?"

I was about to tell him where exactly he could shove his proximity, when he suddenly thrust his index and middle finger into my mouth. He grinned humorously as he used them to separate my jaws as widely as possible. I garbled in protest.

"I know what you're about to say," he intoned, chuckling as I brought both my hands up to attempt to force his fingers out of my maw. "You are truly noble to a fault, Mr. Tsuzuki. You would be unable to even consider the possibility of my vow of righteousness, should I not first extend a token gesture of goodwill, correct?"

I nodded as much as I was able.

"Then let me finish making my offer, hmm?" He continued to grin as I struggled not to choke on his invading digits. Once I'd confirmed my willingness to listen, he retrieved his fingers from where they had been jammed against the back of my throat. I gagged and flushed my tongue around the interior of my mouth a little, trying to expel the dry, intrusive feeling. Muraki made a very insincere 'aww' noise and rubbed his thumb over my lips.

"I do apologize for that, my darling. But I am quite frustrated and you are simply not making my efforts any easier, now are you?"

"You're frustrated?!" I choked. "Here I am, minding my own business in the early hours of the morning, when suddenly I'm yanked right out of the street by a man who, when he's not murdering innocent people, is trying to either slither into my pants or cut my head off! So forgive me if-" Muraki raised his fingers threateningly and I cut off my rant sharpish. He gave me a very conceited smile and patted my cheek.

"Good boy," He said as though I were a dog learning a new trick. I had a feeling that this was a trick he was going to enjoy teaching me a great deal. "Now, where was I? Oh yes. Trust. I was thinking Tsuzuki-san, that despite my inability to withdraw my past discretions, I may be in some small way, be able to remedial them. Mediocre efforts at best, as my actions are far too advanced in order to atone for. However, for some sake of familial harmony Mr. Tsuzuki, if it will give you even the slightest inclination to trust me; I would like to take back the part of the curse I placed upon that boy."

"His name is Hisoka." I mumbled, but my rebuke was very empty. He had tweaked my interest. "You can take back the curse?"

"Certainly." He replied, as he caressed my cheek with the very tips of his knuckles. It tickled my skin a little, this temperate action. "As easily as I am able to pick up a jigsaw piece and place it back within the puzzle. The curse will reattach itself to me."

"But… if what you say is true… about the curse empowering your demonic desire, won't this only make it stronger?"

The doctor made a placid, yet definitive nod of his head. "A small price to pay for your trust, my love."

The dog-ears re-emerged from my head, like soldiers rising from a trench after a shoot out and I gave Muraki a good long stare. To be honest, I couldn't see the harm in accepting his proposal now. If he truly did desire to gain my trust, I would be performing a great service to the current living population of the world by helping him restrain his 'killer instinct.' And if it managed to free Hisoka from the curse, then so much the better. Angry though I was with the man, I'd always found him to be somewhat reliable, at least when it came to his attraction to me. If I used this weakness, his passionate infatuation with me, he would be able to be kept under close observation by the bureau. His actions monitored. Whether or not he was as corrupt as before remained to be seen.

I placed a finger considerately on my chin and waved my tail from side to side. "And if you do this, take away Hisoka's curse; I will have a reason to trust you, yes?"

Muraki shrugged, his hand sliding down my back towards my bottom. I swished my tail a little more insistently, hoping this was enough to dissuade him. "That is entirely up to you."

"Well, in that case, we'll see." I said, pulling myself out of his arms just as his hand found it's' mark atop one of my buttocks. He distributed a little squeeze to the muscle before releasing me, leaving my face a deep mauve I'm sure he found enchanting. Muraki smiled and raised both hands beside his head, the paragon of innocence.

"I'll leave it entirely up to you, my dear." He repeated as I patted my poor violated posterior. "If you are satisfied with my gift however, I would very much like for you to join me on Friday night at this restaurant, right here in Tokyo." He handed me a business card, designed with formal gold calligraphy. "Ask for me at the door. Seven-thirty. I will be more than happy to cover expenses."

Hot damn, dinner and a date. I tucked the card into my trench coat pocket. "Like I said; we'll see doctor." I looked around, drinking everything in for the first time. "This is your home?"

Muraki seemed rather emboldened now. He nodded, straightening his glasses out of habit. "It is."

"It's nice." I admitted. "What room is this? Seems kinda bare, not to mention cold."

"This is a multi-purpose room, used mostly for magical measures such as summoning, spell casting, channeling, invoking and so on. As such, you should be most fortunate that I did not summon you into a pentagram, which would have left you helpless against my dealings."

I raised an eyebrow. "Then why didn't you?"

He looked mildly annoyed. "Because I want you to trust me, Tsuzuki-san. Summoning you here was a great enough inconvenience, incapacitating you was not going to win me any favors."

"You got that right!" I snorted. I took another liberal look around. The room was about two thousand square feet, quite an expenditure for a 'magical measures' room. If he could afford to waste such space on a tinkering area, it made me wonder what the rest of the house was like.

When I mentioned this to Muraki, he seemed all set to play tour guide.

"This house was built in the late 1700's," He garbled with a misty sort of look in his cat like eye. "It has been in my family for sixteen generations. I am the last, of course. There are thirty servants employed here to take care of the house and surrounding land, many of which have been employed here since I was a child."

All of a thousand years for all I knew. I nodded and pretended I was interested, a tactic much practiced in light of Tatsumi's annual 'Department Funding' meetings.

"The land was divided into blocks forty years ago by my father and sold to other families, cutting back on our own monetary responsibilities, allowing us to focus our funds more fully on developmental surgery."

I smothered a yawn and wondered if I could make it to the window before he noticed me. I was just starting to edge away from the center of the room, when he glanced over at me, his eyes verily dancing.

"It was around that point when a priest was called in to exorcise the house." He told me happily. "An unsuccessful exorcism as it were. This house is a case book study history for haunting."

I froze, one leg extended with the toe pointed like a ballerina in mid step. A tiny influx of mild panic turned the blood cold in my veins.

"Ghosts you say?"

Muraki's window didn't pose much of a dilemma following that little announcement. I'm certain I gave the good doctor something to chortle about as I hurled myself through the frame work without even touching the surface, plummeted three floors down, then ran from the house screaming hysterically; not from the former psycho-killer, but from the mention of a ghost. Being an undead myself, you would think I would relinquish any former stigmas on the grounds of wispy white beings floating about in sheets and moaning like a wolf with period pain. I know this and yet, I don't care. I don't like ghosts. They scare me. They've scared me since I was a little boy and they continue to scare me until this day. At the mention of the 'possible woman ghost' on the Queen Camellia, Hisoka had to forcefully wrestle me out of a life boat. Even then I nearly jumped overboard wearing a life vest, prepared to risk gale force winds and sharks, if only it meant I wouldn't have to face off with a see through specter. If Muraki had any idea of the extension of my ghost phobia, he would have done well never to mention it. I swore then and there, as I ran through the chilly frost bitten streets of Tokyo that I would not be dragged back into that house by anything short of Armageddon. Even then, it would be a definite last refuge.

Somehow, I made it back to my apartment in Sakura Zensen, my heart still throbbing in my ears. I had survived a brush with zombies, monsters Muraki and a haunted house. All in all, I felt pretty accomplished and decided to congratulate myself by texting Watari. I don't think he would have particularly cared at that point in time, but I felt as though I needed to brag to someone.

Once I had sent the text, I unchanged from my suit and dressed for bed. I collapsed in an exhausted, tipsy heap upon the covers, my hand tossed ineloquently across my forehead.

I found myself gazing at the ceiling.

Muraki wanted peace. Wanted and desired to sate the demonic side of him that was starved for a hunger I had condemned within me my whole life.

Were we really so different after all?

There was something very revealing in all of this, but at the time I was much too weary to figure it out. I decided to wait until tomorrow and find out if Muraki could indeed be trusted with his words. If Hisoka's curse was vanquished, it might be worth attending dinner with him.

And if all went well, the killer known as Kazutaka Muraki may become a man dedicated as once he had been, to saving lives. Saving lives without taking them.

A good doctor. A good man.

"Tsuzuki-san, I vow never to act in a way that would dishearten you. I don't want to see you sad."

A world in which there never needed to be a reason to believe in someone. Trust without the extension of proof. A million faces and a million lives all passing me by at a million miles per hour.

None of this made sense.

The worst and the best night of my life. When everything ended for so many people, I was stepping through that door that for so long had been closed to me.

The moon bled again.

- EC -