chapter: 1 - Black Horn

"It was today, four years ago, that the Juren Station Tragedy occurred—caused by an unprecedented Vessel attack that left seven dead and many more injured.

"As we remember them today, let's also take a moment to feel gratitude for the protectors of our society, our Guardians, who acted quickly and selflessly. Preventing so many other thousands from dying.

"And it's thanks to their divine power laying a shield around this nation, that we haven't seen a public tragedy of that scale caused by Vessels ever since..."

Shiran turns himself to stone—keeping an unwavering distance from the delivery-rider next to him who has this news blaring out of his phone as he looks up at the billboard with water-glazed eyes.

Above the red traffic light, that billboard is printed with two faces.

The man on the left has an unassuming smile—his eyes scrunched up above the golden markings on his cheekbones. Entirely opposite to that naive expression is the fierce one on the woman's face next to his—her smirk as sharp as the golden horns curving from the headgear holding back her hair. 'Wishing our Mitra and Sanishi a safe flight. Come back soon to Kantoor!' The banner reads below.

Although this billboard is towering, huge, and contains the faces of two Guardians with a presence so commanding that every single driver on the airport road cannot resist staring up—Shiran keeps his gaze nailed down at his feet.

A stinging discomfort troubles his chest as he counts down the seconds. The road usually isn't so crowded at this time of the day and is less preferred by travellers, but an obstruction in an adjacent path has redirected too much traffic here today.

While most of the riders relax, stretching and letting themselves slouch, Shiran doesn't even let himself release the breath he's holding.

"In other news, the state Government has retrieved a fresh set of victims from the Non-Guardian Protected (NGP) areas, of which at least eleven are children.

"While the current hostel facilities are under expansion, these children will be relocated temporarily to homes of volunteer civilians with a great passion for helping the Guardians protect—"

The news from the rider's phone is abruptly cut off by the sudden whirring of engines. The traffic light turning green.

Shiran kickstarts his scooter, finally exhaling in a gasp.

Although the map would suggest a different route through the city's main roads, he snakes his way through deserted streets and sparse highways now. He's essentially managed to keep himself isolated from every vehicle on his way by the time he reaches the bungalow. It's at the doorstep here that he leaves the big black bag.

This customer has already ordered a couple of times from his aunt's bistro now, so they know what to expect. Taking the food parcels out from inside the bag, they leave it out in the open before shutting the door behind them—never seeing his face nor having a single interaction with him the entire time.

Shiran marks the order complete on his phone.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆

Two more are done before he gets back to his aunt's apartment. Not even bothering to remove his shoes, he drags his feet in short, hurried steps towards his bedroom—fingers clenched tight around his phone. Just a few more seconds, and—he thinks this with a numb sense of relief—he'll not have to see or be wary of coming into physical contact with anyone until it's time to deliver the afternoon orders.

Or at least, that's how it's been everyday.

Until now. "Shiran!"

When the raspy voice calls out his name, he's so unused to hearing it at this time of the day that he nearly trips over his own foot. Immediately catching himself, Shiran ties his hands behind his back and tightens every muscle in his body. His eyes frantically flit across the room trying to locate the source of that voice—settling down only when they land on his aunt, standing at the doorway to the kitchen.

She's not anywhere near me.

Letting his shoulders loosen a bit, he swallows and allows himself a bit more space to take. She has her arms raised above her head, face jutting forward with wide eyes and an open-mouthed smile. Due to the posture, her chef's coat has lifted a little—the pocket on the side embroidered in violet thread with her name: Reyali.

Shiran doesn't budge from the spot in front of his room—waiting with a flat-lined mouth for her to explain why she's in the apartment instead of at her bistro.

"Look at this heartless kid," she clicks her tongue. "I've been raising him for eight years, and he's not even pretending to be excited to see me."

A snicker follows from inside the kitchen. "How many times has he come out of his room in these eight years to actually see your face, Aunty?"

Shiran stiffens at the sound of it. A second unexpected person in the house who usually isn't found here at eleven in the morning.

"Stop rubbing salt in my wound, Ahnvi!" his aunt yells into the kitchen.

Her companion steps out into the living room—grinning uglily at that. Her sickly skinny hands dangle out from under the sleeves of her own chef's coat, reaching up to drag his aunt's arms down. Though her lips are heavily made up, the top of her face—including her eyes—are mostly hidden under wispy bangs that haven't been cut in too long. Her perfume is layered so strong it makes Shiran want to retch. He turns his face away from the both of them, trying to stabilize his breathing.

"We're not even halfway through the appetizers," Ahnvi complains. "Are you just going to keep crying over how your nephew hates you?"

"I will—if it gets him to cook with us."

Shiran's eyes widen. Suppressing the wave of nausea that keeps scraping the back of his throat at that terrible scent, he looks at his aunt. "No."

"You're supposed to ask why!" his aunt cries out. "That can't be your default answer to everything, Shiran." Shaking her head, she gathers herself enough to ask him. "Are you forgetting what's happening today? We're taking in Nayra."

'In other news, the state Government has retrieved a fresh set of victims from the Non-Guardian Protected (NGP) areas, of which at least eleven are children...'

Nayra. One of those children. The name rings a faint bell in his head—he remembers his aunt mentioning it a couple of days ago when he came out of his room for dinner, but being in a hurry to finish it as soon as possible and get back to his bed, he obviously hadn't heard every detail.

"We're making a big lunch to welcome her—and you're going to cook with us!"

That's the reason.

His aunt, who otherwise spends every waking minute of the day in her bistro, is at home now because she's doing the only other thing other than cooking that she's dedicated her life to: supporting the Guardians in any way she can as a civilian.

"No," he repeats himself. His arms are tight against his sides, fingers frozen like icicles. He can't—even accidentally—get too close to either of them. Cooking together is out of the question.

"We'll be far, far away from you! Okay?" his aunt flashes her thumbs up. "I know you hate touching people, so we'll not come anywhere near you. Right, Ahnvi?"

Her swollen red lips stretch in a disgusted smile. "I have better ones to touch."

"You kids these days," his aunt clicks her tongue.

Then catching the blank refusal on Shiran's face, she snaps. "That's enough thinking, get over here! All I'm asking from you is one day—one day where we cook and sit together and eat as a family to welcome a child that's been through a very, very tough time. It's the least we can do for our Guardians who've asked us to take care of these children—S-Shiran, where do you think you're going!?"

He feels the familiar, cold weight of the doorknob in his hand. "It's not like I can add anything to the food that you two won't be able to," he shrugs.

But before he can twist it open—he hears his aunt suck in a breath.

"If you don't do this, I'm bringing the doctor!"

Dread shoots up Shiran's spine, startling him enough to make him step away from his room.

His hand slips off the doorknob.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆

The last time his aunt brought the doctor home, he'd been eleven.

Just a few days after his mother's funeral. He remembers only a blur of screaming and kicking and scuttling away from any probing hands—before the diagnosis came: Hapephobia. An intense aversion to touch.

Although he managed to escape the doctor's examination without incident back then—in ways he doesn't even remember anymore—Shiran doesn't want to risk a repeat of it. He's much larger now. And not the best size to simply curl into a ball and roll under the couch.

After the diagnosis, afraid to trigger such reactions in him again, his aunt had withheld the pats and hugs that used to be a part of their everyday life.

But even as she was conscious of giving him his space, she also never gave up on trying to make him feel normal again. To make him feel like he's still a part of the house, the neighbourhood.

This is one of her attempts.

But Shiran is cautious not to give in. He remains standing at the dining table, feet firm on the ground and elbows tucked into his side as he runs the knife over a bundle of coriander leaves. The most simple task. One that wouldn't require him to be in the kitchen, where they cook together, voices ebbing and flowing as they argue over ingredient choices.

I told them it wouldn't make any difference—whether I'm here or not.

Sighing, Shiran ignores the pain of his back muscles cramping up. He's about to take the next bundle when a spot of white appears at the corner of his eye.

It's Ahnvi—outside the kitchen, flinging a container at him. "Open it."

Barely avoiding getting smacked, Shiran catches it.

"Crap, I was going for your face."

Clenching his teeth, he ignores the jab and struggles for a few seconds.

It takes holding the container against his stomach and working it till his palm is scraped raw for the lid to come off. Garlic Powder. Staring at the label, he pushes it away from him across the table. What are they putting that in?

There's a moment of silence before they start chattering again.

"There's still something off."

"We followed the recipe to a tee."

"Do you think it's the spice?"

"I don't know, something about the flavor is just..."

"Wait, I know what."

When he hears his aunt say that, Shiran thinks she's finally cracked what's wrong.

What he doesn't expect is the sight of her running out of the kitchen, a bowl and spoon in her hand. She's so focused on getting it to him, she doesn't notice just how much her feet have carried her forward. When she looks up from the cutlery—she's shocked to find herself inches away from where the cutting board sits on the table.

But Shiran is no longer behind it.

"I'm sorry!" she cries out, noticing the tall, lanky boy—who has hammered himself to a wall. On the other end of the room. Making sure that not even his breath grazes her.

"Sorry, sorry," backing away towards the kitchen, she leaves the bowl on the table. "Can you just taste this, Shiran?"

Only once he's waited for a minute—making sure his aunt makes no sudden movements—does Shiran release himself from the wall. Taking a spoonful of the soup, he lets it sit on his tongue. Too dense.

"One squeeze of lemon."

It's the first thing that comes to mind but he doesn't really think it will make a difference. He hasn't tasted anything with the intention of finding what he likes and doesn't like about it—in a really long time. He's not even sure his taste buds work the right way anymore, but that's exactly why his eyes widen at the sound of the clap.

"It works! It's perfect!"

A tinge of skepticism colors Ahnvi's cloyingly sweet voice. "I can't believe your zombie of a nephew figured it out."

"Aha! I told you he would..." his aunt says proudly. "He used to burn his tongue and still tell me what was wrong with my cooking when he was little."

There's a strange pressure on his cheeks—and Shiran realizes with a start that he's smiling at the memory.

Though his face immediately schools itself into an even expression, the burning heat behind his chest doesn't disappear as quickly. He sits with it for a moment, letting the distant laughs and exclamations of the two women wash over him as they finally get moving to the finishing touches again after having fixed that dish.

"I'm so glad I'm cooking for a child like Nayra," his aunt hums. "She needs to know what it's like to live while being protected by our Guardians, especially after..."

The coriander leaves are all chopped.

I should ask if they need anything for garnish.

Shiran opens his mouth. "Aun—"

"... after she saw her mother getting killed by a Vessel."

He loses his voice.

"She saw what?"

"A Vessel killing her mother... Can you imagine how that poor girl would've felt?"

The knife falls from Shiran's hand.

Hearing it clatter against the floor, his aunt steps out of the kitchen. He ducks under the table before she can catch his eye.

Pretending to look for the knife, Shiran steadies himself with a palm against the floor. Spots of black and red swim in his vision—and he feels torn between blinking them away and trying to breathe, both of which require a level of conscious coordination that's slowly slipping his grasp. Fingers struggling to grab the knife, he stays there—crouching, swallowing mouthfuls of air, only shaken out of the piercing buzz in his ears by his aunt's voice.

"... have you still not found it?"

"It's here," he stands up before she can bend down to search too.

His hands shake around the knife as he sets it down on the table. Trying not to let the dizziness affect his senses, he stiffly pushes the cutting table full of chopped coriander towards her. I need to get out of here. "Won't we need curd to go with this for the chicken rice?"

She gasps. "Right! But our last batch just got over last night." She peeks into the kitchen behind her. "Ahnvi, could you—"

Shiran interrupts. "I'll go to the store."

The request melts on her tongue. Replacing the impatience on her face, his words bring forth an open-mouthed smile that stretches from ear to ear. "Of course, of course!" she nods encouragingly—stepping back to make way for him as he cuts across the living room to the door. Cupping her hands over her mouth, like a fan cheering, she shouts towards his back.

"What a thoughtful big brother you're already becoming, Shiran. Nayra is so lucky~ Wait, do you have enough cash on yo—"

"I do!" he calls out as he steps out swiftly—only delighting her even more with his eagerness to go to the store and do his best for them.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆

Streaks of black clouds rip through the remaining orange in the sky. Rapidly darkening as the sun sets. Shiran turns away from the sight—his reflection in the glass window of the convenience store only growing bleaker as he checks his phone screen. Once again.

15 Missed Calls.

All from his aunt, none from Ahnvi. It's like she already knew he wouldn't come back.

The lump in his throat grows larger as he opens the chat with his aunt.