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PRELUDE
-Aoi-
Year 2010. The autumn air in Tokyo had a distinct chill, the kind that crept through your clothes and clung to your skin. It was the kind of day that Aoi Fujikawa would have normally appreciated, with the golden hues of the leaves swirling in the wind and the soft murmur of the city around her. But today, she barely noticed any of it. She was too focused on the large canvas she carried, her fingers gripping it tightly as if her life depended on it.
Aoi was a freshman of art university, and this painting was the last of a series—a series that had consumed her for the better part of the last months. Ten paintings, each representing a different emotion, each born from her soul. Her professors called the project ambitious; her friends had marveled at her dedication. But what no one knew was just how much of herself she had poured into these works. Literally. She had spent sleepless nights, her mind a chaotic storm of color and feeling, with each brushstroke more urgent than the last. Now, it was finally over. Nine of the paintings had already been sold at a charity auction, leaving only this last one.
Aoi shivered, but not from the cold. The subject of the last painting made her uneasy. Hate. Unlike the others, which had flowed naturally from her brush—this one had been different. Harsher. Darker. She had painted it in a feverish frenzy, her emotions raw, unfiltered. Now, carrying it through the bustling streets of Tokyo, she felt the weight of it more than ever.
She was a bit slight in build, with a stature that didn't demand attention, making the canvas stand out even more in her hands. She was wearing her favorite faded green jacket, the one with paint splatters she couldn't bring herself to wash off, as if they were badges of honor. Her brown hair, cut in a bob that framed her face, was tied up messily in a small loose ponytail, strands already escaping and clinging to her damp cheeks as the first raindrops began to fall.
A small tattoo peeked out from the collar of her jacket, a simple design of a paintbrush inked just below her ear. It was a personal mark, a reminder of her passion, but right now, that passion had worn her thin. The bags under her hazel eyes were a testament to how much of herself she had sacrificed to finish this project.
As she walked, clutching the large canvas wrapped in protective cloth, she tried not to think about the eyes she felt on her. Not the real ones from the people walking by, but the invisible ones. The eyes she had felt her whole life.
Aoi had always seen... things. Things that other people didn't—or couldn't—see. Creatures, figures, twisted beings that lurked in the shadows, just out of sight. As a child, she had been terrified of them, these strange, malformed things with hollow, soulless eyes. She would cry to her parents, pointing at empty spaces, begging them to see what she saw. But they never did.
