Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a stark white glow that reflected off the metallic surfaces in the briefing room. Holographic screens flickered in the air, projecting shifting data and strings of angry red code. These urgent alerts covered the profiles of a few individuals, their names highlighted in eerie crimson.
Tension began to build in the room, but personnel quickly stood at attention. The doors slid open and strode Director Akiko Kurenai, her presence commanding, eyes sharp, and posture unyielding. Every step she took emitted authority. The staff stood tall as she stepped into the room.
"A recent spike in sympathy syndrome is increasing throughout the country," She announced, her voice cold and unwavering. The silence amplified each word. "Cases of emotional instability have risen by 12% in the last month. Make no mistake, sympaths aren't a demographic; they're a catalyst for global fear. Our models predicted that sympathy syndrome is linked directly to infection and psychological collapse."
A wave of anxious chatter poured through the room as those behind glowing terminals paused their work, their fingers hovering over their keyboards.
"Silecne!" Kurenai's voice thundered, echoing against the room. The murmuring died down instantly.
"Political forces are pressuring S.I.E.D. to reassure the public that the bio-emotive incident that occurred six years ago will not repeat. Given these new statistics, such assurances are nearly impossible."
She gestured toward the largest holographic screen behind her. A tech officer began typing rapidly. Moments later, enhanced footage from a field officer's body cam filled the air; the video was a deep green hue for night visibility. Faces in the feed were distorted and impossible to recognize, the movements of the infected, the sympaths, flickered with unnerving glitches. The footage cut out abruptly at a crucial moment: The execution.
"This video, which has already been leaked to the public, is highly classified," Kurenai reported, her tone grave. "It is important that public awareness remains at zero. I trust each of you to manage this outbreak with absolute secrecy and pinpoint the source accurately." Her eyes met the publicity managers.
A junior analyst spoke up, her voice anxious despite her effort to remain composed. "Sector Seven has produced the most notable irregularities in the data patterns. We likely have a civilian infected with late-stage Sympathy Syndrome."
The silence in the room grew ever sharper as a woman in a crisp white lab coat stepped forward. Dr. Yuna, her bangs pinned back, and her glasses sat on the bridge of her nose. "What's concerning is that the spike in sector seven appears much more stable than the others we've tracked, but there's no evidence as to why."
Kurenai paused, resting her fingertips against her chin as she contemplated. The implication of what this meant, a potential sympath mutation, weighed heavily on her mind.
"I understand," Kurenai said after a moment, voice low but firm. "We will increase funding for experimental suppression bullets. Do you remember the outbreak that occurred in the 7th Sector? It was due to our hesitation that it's now overrun by Sympaths. We can't risk a repeat of history."
"But those bullets are experimental, Director. They harm civilians just as much as they do Sympaths. The analyst protested.
Dr. Yuna interrupted, "Suppression bullets target the neural pathways that transmit emotion to the brain. They neutralize infection by nullifying emotion but remain lethal in most cases. So far, they're our only option."
A senior strategist raised a cautious hand, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. "Director, are you sure that immediate lethal force is wise? We don't have significant research yet to even form the necessary weapons."
A younger officer plurted out, revulsion evident in his voice, "We should just eradicate them all, it's the only way to guarantee safety!"
Kurenai examined the room, her gaze chilling. "Containment is so far the highest priority."
Captain Rai stepped forward, removing his uniform cap and keeping it respectfully at his chest. "Director, I recommend deploying the Crow Unit for surveillance of Sector Seven. They have all of the necessary experience with stealth missions and won't draw attention."
Kurenai considered, her eyes narrowing. "Sector seven is a possible syndrome point, and is at risk of mass infection. Deploy only the best from the Crow unit and ensure minimal force is used, but above all, make sure that civilians do not get involved."
As the meeting came to an end, the personnel filed out, their footsteps echoing against the polished floor. One surveillance coordinator remained, reviewing the live feeds. He toggled through the data logs, and an instability flashed on his screen. He pressed a finger to the mic at his jaw. His voice a low whisper.
"Unclassified anomaly detected near sector seven. Keep this information contained." He hesitated, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening. "Yes… That's Shinkō Academy."
***
The hum of vehicles above rumbled through the crumbling underpass, their headlights casting beams that illuminated the graffiti-covered combat. The area was cast in a thick shadow beneath a maze of highways. A lone figure approached, a young man with dyed hair; his face was obscured beneath his hood. He moved cautiously, pausing only to press a battered dog tag against a scanner. The door clicked open, and briefly warm colored light poured out before he stepped inside.
The air swirled with energy. LED strips lined along the brick walls, flickering in the dim lighting. Battered tables cluttered the room, each occupied by figures draped in streetwear—graffiti-patterned jackets, patched cargo pants, and bold logos— a sea of urban rebellion. The place buzzed with activity: portable gear and old laptops patched together with duct tape, old police scanners that echoed with static, signal jammers spread across some tables. Surveillance was in Sector 13, one of the last places off the government's radar. It was no wonder MAYDAY called this their haven.
MAYDAY or Mayday: Freedom Front wasn't just a name, but an organization. It emerged in the dark corners of the online forms. The group had quickly spread beyond the internet. They believed that sympaths, those tormented by sympathy syndrome, were still human. Their actions sparked controversy; supporters backed them while those who opposed them spat accusations of terrorism. But the movement remained resilient, fueled by ideals and hope.
At the center, atop a battered wooden crate, stood Moth, the infamous founder of MAYDAY. His presence gained the attention; the cracked gas mask he wore hid his identity and distorted his voice. Next to him, an ancient projector played a wobbly image on a weather-worn wall: a sympath, awkwardly crammed inside a transport van, its body restrained despite its large size.
"You're all seeing this, right? Work of those government dogs. S.I.E.D doesn't care what happens to you after you're infected," Moth called. Heads turned one by one in his direction, tension thickening the air.
"They're not just sympaths," he continued, "They were people, and now they're being erased thanks to our government's carelessness."
The crowd erupted; some replied with confusion, others with anxiety, and the rest with anger. Determination fueled their gazes as they argued, some about the restraints' cruelty, others fixated on the human-sounding cries the sympathizer made.
"Like us, they're scared, but they have no help. It's our job, we need to help them." Moth's words held heavy weight.
Nearby, the newcomer from the door slid into a battered folding chair, surrounded by a web of tangled wires and old tech. "Video's been traced from a transport route. Sector 13 to Sector Seven, almost certain it's headed to a research facility," Hex announced, his tone calm.
"Thanks," Moth nodded in his direction with what could've been a smile behind the mask.
The tension in the room increased. Sector 7 was a densely populated area; many people called it home. News of a sympath van passing through sparked debate and hurried strategizing. Moth raised his hands, halting the chaos.
"Listen up! Get into groups of four, recon only. We need eyes everywhere, no combat yet." He stepped down from his make-shift stage.
Members scattered into groups, some hunched over signal jammers, swiftly destabilizing S.I.E.D. trackers. An older operative, her face lined by years of rebellion, carefully measured crimson liquid into syringes. MAYDAY called them bloodbind syringes; they had no official name, but everyone whispered about their abilities. The spinal fluid of sympaths, known to enhance a human's physical abilities momentarily. Their danger often weighed the morality of using them.
Once their gear was ready, Moth garnered their attention again. "Alright, gear check, here's our plan. Follow the van, but no direct engagement. Our objective is to expose the S.I.E.D. to the public."
A handful of volunteers stepped forward, some were eager, defiance brimming in their eyes, others looked pale but remained steadfast.
"No violence? Understood." Moth's gaze pierced a handful of members who had a history of trouble. His warning was clear.
Hex made his way around the room, distributing assignments, scouts, camera operators, drone pilots, and a backup team in case violence was a last resort. As he went over the signal pings, something caught his eye, a stray trace spiking from when the footage was uploaded. It came from sector seven. What could it mean?
Whispers emerged among the members
"Maybe someone's in trouble?" one voice shouted.
"Or maybe a whistleblower," Another suggested, hopeful.
"Quiet! Hex and I will look into it," Moth ordered, tensioning, slicing his words as he leaned over Hex's shoulder. "If someone in sector seven needs our help, we're not letting them slip through the cracks."
The operation was on. In the underpass's secret hideout, hope and anxiety boiled into determination as Mayday prepared.
***
The dark street was alive with the rush of activity; the lights of the storefronts danced on the battered pavement as Toui pushed his way through the crowd. He had only planned to dash out for snacks and then dive back into his studying. It was a Saturday, usually quiet at this time, but he had forgotten to take the holidays into account. It stung Toui each time he accidentally bumped another's shoulder; his mind frayed by the cold. He tugged the sleeves of his black hoodie past his hands, but the thin fabric was a lowly opponent for the chill of autumn; his fingers stung red.
He kept to the border of the crowd, ducking around window displays, trying to ignore his own reflection—a stranger shrouded in black with heavy eyes. Memories of the club bubbled to the surface of his mind. In the past, he was able to disappear into crowds, following along with the steady rhythm of life, but now he could feel the edges of himself rejecting, crumbling against the world, and never quite fitting in one specific place. He had wondered if joining the club was a mistake.
As his thoughts began to twist out of control, Toui suddenly became aware of something, a change that for once wasn't negative. His skin hadn't recoiled when Natsuka placed her hand on his shoulder. The burn, the recoil, the panic, it was duller now. Replaced by a strange numbness. How odd, he thought, pausing as the crowd thickened near an intersection. Then in a single moment, everything in his body grew rigid.
A suffocating tightness bloomed in his chest, so sudden and violent he nearly doubled over. Something inside thrashed with panic, but the feeling wasn't his own. It was a sensation that he had neighboured beside his own over the past few weeks. A vibration in the air around him pressed relentlessly, the laughter of pedestrians fading into the background, diminished to a low hum. His focus tunneled to what was in front of him. A shadow slipped between pools of light, its figure warped and jerky.
For a long moment, Toui's memories intertwined with the present. The twitching silhouette he could just barely make out seemed to stretch out its hand, reaching deep for something in his bones. He didn't know why, but a cold wave of familiarity shackled him to the spot. His intuition shrieked at him as Toui pulled his hood up, his head dropped, and he blended in with the crowd. Then, the chaos erupted, a scream slicing through the dusk, followed by the flickering of shop lights dimming. Pedestrians stumbled backwards, a wave of panic rippling throughout the evening. Cars screeched to abrupt halts, horns blaring curses into the heavy air. Toui alone stalked forward, indifferent. A single figure moving into the chaos. Even the nearest S.I.E.D., his crisp uniform blurring as he hurried past with futile urgency, seemingly oblivious to the true threat.
In what felt like a fraction of a second, any traces of fear retreated from Toui's body. His muscles were responding to raw instinct. He felt hollow; a hunger had been growing inside of him, it was a hunger that didn't feel his own, foreign and commanding. He felt like a shell, his name, his nerves, his feelings, all dominated by the presence inside him that darted forward. Even his intentions were ripped right from his heart, replaced by the chilling order: devour and destroy.
The city's color faded away as Toui sprinted. All sound, all sensation, shrank to a single point. Only speed powered through his limbs, unfamiliarly fast. He darted between the flood of fleeing bodies, moving through the shadows as if he were one. Toui wasn't steering himself anymore, only the relentless focus of hunger, his thoughts a jumbling static.
He closed the distance with the sympath before it even consciously registered in his mind. A ragged shadow staggering beneath streetlamps. Toui quietly lunged forward. While in his mouth, the familiar metallic tang spread across his tongue, and his vision tunneled to pinpoint the creature. The attack was over before it began; a swift, brutal twist in the air as Toui struck his target. His body moved as if a parasite had confiscated his control. This time, there was no cry from the Sympath. In that instant, Toui had felt as if he'd been ripped apart.
The flesh of the creature had a flavour indescribable to anything he'd ever tasted, but the texture bore a resemblance to chicken that Toui noted through alien senses, slick and revolting. Yet for the first time in so long, he felt an intoxicating fullness bloom in his stomach.
He stumbled away, the aftermath a flickering distortion. His body was vibrating with a tremor. The onlookers who failed to escape in time only saw a blur, a shape obscured by darkness and movement that shouldn't have been possible, a shadowy predator whose boundaries seemed to crumble. When the chaos finally came to a standstill, and a handful of brave witnesses dared to look behind them, all that remained on the pavement were smeared innards and scuffed concrete; whatever or whoever had neutralized the sympath was gone, leaving the remnants of his feast.
Radio static crackled through the scene as S.I.E.D. officers, late and breathless, took in the impossible scene before them.
"Weapon deployment… pointless. Scene's all clear."
"Sympathy Syndrome spike detected… maybe it self-destructed?"
In the air hummed a drone, manned by the Crow unit. It hovered, its lenses swiveling. It surveyed the area, capturing flashes and fragments of Toui's indistinguishable shape. In an instant, Toui had vanished. Slipping into a nearby alleyway, knees buckling as his back slid against the worn brick. His chest heaved as his tongue swept over his lips, trying to erase the taste from his mind, but it clung there, and deep down, he wanted more.
***
It had already spread, and it hadn't even been three hours. The internet was buzzing with conspiracies and drama. The event was captured by a shaky bystander's phone from half a block away. The quality of the video was poor and blurry; people struggled to even make out the monstrous shadow crumpling to the ground at the hands of a slim, hooded figure. Comments ignited rumors; the figure had become a legend, "shadow eater," someone called, and the name stuck like glue.
With no Sympath corpse left at the scene, the rumors spread quickly, shifting and growing way out of proportion. Some insisted the sympath simply disintegrated; others were quick to blame the S.I.E.D. for this, which was true; it was partially their fault for not doing anything. A handful murmured about vigilantes, a city's hidden defense, or even speculation about an attempt to save the creature.
That night, Toui lay in his tiny bedroom, cramped, wallpaper fraying. Toui stretched on his bed, awake far into the night. The room felt more like a prison cell than it ever had, but instead of guilt, a sick, unsavoury satisfaction rippled through him. He wondered at himself; what was he supposed to feel? Should he have felt shame, relief? There was only a fullness, one that diluted into fear. He didn't want to contemplate such things anymore, just make an attempt at forgetting it. Telling himself that it was all an accident.
His thoughts drifted to the club, and surprisingly, his heart longed in confusion. They were slowly bedcoming a place of comfort, almost something like friends. What would they do, he wondered, if they learned the truth, that their peer was the figure the internet forums labeled 'Shadow Eater'? Of course, they'd seen the video; who hadn't, by now? He couldn't imagine their faces if they ever found out, but he couldn't picture telling a single lie to them either.
Elsewhere, the city grew tense. Authorities picked up troubling data emitting from sector 7, deploying more surveillance drones and expanding patrols. Rumors enveloped the district, growing sharper and jagged with every rendition of it. And, despite feeling full for the first time in weeks, I felt less and less human with every passing hour.
"Kill them. Keep killing them, Toui." The parasite's voice flooded his thoughts, a low snarl that sounded almost proud. For the first time, the voice acknowledged Toui — Toui was no longer a puppet to the voice but an accomplice.
"Shut up," Toui hissed, pressing his palms to his ears, and for once, he stood against the voice that had been terrorising his mind, acknowledging the parasites back.