The warm glow of the dining room light pooled over the table, turning bowls of steaming stew into little suns. Outside, night pressed against the windows, but inside there was only laughter, the clink of cutlery, and soft jazz humming from the radio.
Aiko sat across from his mother, Emi, tapping his spoon in rhythm with the music. His father swayed slightly as he ladled more stew, voice rumbling along with the trumpet solo.
It was nothing special.
Just another family dinner.
The kind you never realize is the last.
Knock. Knock.
The sound was polite, but sharp enough to cut through the melody. Aiko stopped tapping his spoon. The trumpet kept playing, but the warmth in the room dimmed, like the music itself was listening.
Emi wiped her hands on a towel and walked to the door. The hinges creaked as she pulled it open—
Nothing.
Just the chill of night air and a squirrel darting across the porch.
She turned back toward the table—
A shadow lunged from the darkness.
Before Aiko could move, Emi was yanked outside, her scream muffled by the black. The jazz sputtered into silence.
Something stepped into the doorway.
Tall.
Masked.
the violent mask turned toward the table . he moved without hurry, lowering himself into the empty chair where Emi had been moments ago. His fingers—long, deliberate, murderous , reached for a spoon.
He tasted the stew.
Paused.
Spat it back into the bowl.
"Not my kind of meal, daddy."
The masked monster stood, and in the same breath, Aiko's father collapsed—his blood spreading across the floorboards like spilled ink from the gunshot that tore into his chest.
The mask monster tilted toward Aiko.
Then it was gone, vanishing into the night with his mother.
Aiko knelt beside his father's body, the world dissolving into a haze of grief, rage, and helplessness. That night, something inside him broke and something else, far colder, began to take shape ,with blood smell mixing with stew aroma.
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