The Unfortunate Mayko 2

Original Title: The Strong & The Unfortunate, Part 2

- - - - -

Haruhiko Kurosawa awoke to the sight of a vast, foreign canopy stretching endlessly above him. The leaves were an unfamiliar shade--somewhere between green and deep indigo--casting the forest floor in an eerie half-light. It was not Earth. He understood that immediately, even before that demon made herself known.

He wouldn't allow himself to panic. That had always been a super power of his, the ability to push emotion aside in favour of logic, especially in a crisis. That's what made him a good doctor, or so he was told. And yet, what did that matter if he was never in the right place to help others?

The weight of failure settled in his chest before he even recalled what happened. The last thing he remembered was kneeling over a bearded man, trying to stop the bleeding from a severed arm. The valley had been chaos, filled with shouts and panic as the wounded man writhed, his valuable blood seeping into the dirt. Even after the demon woman granted them the gift of language, he couldn't make his patient understand that the needle he wanted to give him only held anesthetic. The truth was, even if Kurosawa had managed to calm him, even if he had clamped the artery with his hemostat, there was no guarantee he would live, considering the conditions. There was no sterile environment, no time, no assistance. Now that he'd been spirited away for a second time, the outcome was almost certainly decided. Another life lost. Another failure.

The scent of damp earth and old bark surrounded him, and when he finally pushed himself upright, his eyes confirmed what his senses already knew. He was alone. A dense, alien forest loomed around him, trees impossibly thick and stretching so high that their canopy seemed to merge with the sky. Definitely not Earth.

Beside him, his briefcase lay open in the undergrowth, its contents untouched. His hemostat rested just outside, as if mocking him. Despite his feelings, he picked it up and placed it back inside the case before sealing it shut. A part of him realized what he was doing was arbitrary. After all, what was the point of carrying life-saving equipment when he was alone? Why had the demon even let him keep his tools if she intended to separate them? It wasn't as if he could operate on himself. And yet, leaving them behind felt like betraying everything he had worked for, everything that had defined him. Even if his medical expertise had failed him back there, even if it had never been enough to save those who truly mattered, it was all he had.

He supposed that was the point of this "second life" she spoke of. A new beginning. He wasn't naïve enough to believe it would be that simple, but if there really were other humans here--natives of this world--perhaps there was still a way for him to be of use. Of course, Kurosawa would have to find them first.

Standing, he surveyed the primeval forest. The demon had called this place Mayko, and the name unsettled him. Was it truly this world's name, or had she chosen it to unnerve him specifically? He had seen no other Japanese men among the group--none who might recognize the unsettling resemblance to Makyō, the demon realm of Buddhist tradition. Fitting, then, that this corrupted place bore a name so distressingly close, and yet wrong. There was something unreal about it all. First, the unnatural way everyone in the valley had suddenly begun speaking his language, as if the world itself had rewritten the rules of communication for his benefit. Yes, things were being shaped by a dream-like logic, as if the world was eerily adjusting itself to accommodate him. He could only assume the others were experiencing something similar.

Kurosawa adjusted his grip on his briefcase and set off, keeping his pace steady. He tried to apply his trivial survival knowledge, noting the direction of the moss on the thick, gnarled trunks, but quickly realized that in practice, it was useless. If only he had a compass. Not that it would help if he had no idea where to go.

The more he thought about his situation, the more convinced he became of the demon's true reasoning for separating them. In times of crisis, people needed to bond together. Strength in numbers. By scattering them, she had left them isolated, vulnerable, easy prey for whatever dangers lurked in this place. It was a cruel but effective strategy.

Still... a part of him was relieved to be alone.

His mind drifted back to that Englishman--the one who had eyed him with that hungry, appraising look. Kurosawa had done his best to avoid provoking him, but he'd seen men like that before. He had the telltale signs of a heavy drug user: the red-tinged cheeks, acne scars, the undernourished frame, the jittery, agitated fidgeting. And he had a gun.

Kurosawa had encountered his kind before, working alongside debt collectors. He was a thug, and he was dangerous. While strong men could be an asset, Kurosawa doubted anyone was safe around him. He was the type to shoot a man in the leg and leave him for dead if it meant improving his own chances.

No, he decided. He was better off on his own.

For now.

It seemed no matter how far he walked in any direction, the landscape remained unchanged--an endless forest labyrinth that stretched beyond his sight. A pale mist curled around Kurosawa's feet, thickening into a dense, eerie fog that crept between the towering trees like something alive. With alarming speed, he was surrounded by shifting pillars swallowed by grey. His breath came slow and measured, but the unnatural quiet set his nerves on edge. He didn't need to be a superstitious man to know when something was wrong.

The attack came as a blur of motion, so sudden that instinct took over. He barely had time to register the glint of claws slashing toward his face before he raised his briefcase like a shield. A sharp impact jolted up his arms. He staggered back, heart pounding, and looked down to see deep, jagged gashes raked across the leather.

A woman--no, not a woman, a demon--stood before him.

She was lithe, almost delicate in build, with long blonde hair that cascaded past her shoulders, framing fox-like features that were at once alluring and predatory. Two large, pointed ears twitched atop her head, and a luxurious golden pelt draped her figure, concealing her modesty yet seeming more an extension of her body than mere clothing. Behind her, a long, bushy tail--nearly as thick as she was--flicked in amusement. Her slit-pupiled amber eyes gleamed with intrigue, fixed solely on him.

She studied him for a moment before breaking into a wide, sharp-toothed smile.

"My, my. What sharp reflexes." Her voice was smooth, teasing, as though she had merely reached out to pat him and not to rip through his throat. She examined her claws absently, then cast him a sidelong glance. "I only meant to mark you. No need to be so defensive."

Kurosawa's pulse hammered against his ribs, but outwardly, he forced himself to remain calm. He understood this type--someone who enjoyed the thrill of the chase. A sadist, perhaps, or simply a creature who hunted for sport. Either way, showing weakness would only spur her on.

His mind worked quickly.

"I'm lost," he said evenly. "I'm looking for a human settlement. If you know of one, perhaps we can come to an arrangement." He let the words hang, watching her expression carefully. "Otherwise, is there anything I can say to convince you to leave me alone?"

It was a hopeless thought, but perhaps there was a way to speak to a demon as an equal, to gain some measure of respect.

The fox demon's grin widened, her ears perking up as if delighted by the question. She leaned in slightly, eyes bright with mischief.

"No."

Then, as if granting him a gift, she purred, "But if you want to live, you should start running."

Kurosawa didn't wait for further clarification.

He turned and bolted.

A delighted, lilting laugh echoed behind him, and he knew--without a doubt--that she would give chase.

- - - - -

Kurosawa became lost in the fog. He ran for minutes on end as the wind whipped at his ears, gnarled roots threatening to trip his frantic steps. He moved faster than he ever had, lungs burning, breath coming in ragged gasps. The mist swallowed everything, thick as wet cotton, twisting the world into a helpless void that conjured obstacles from nothing. Shadows slithered through the mist, and shifting just beyond his sight, he thought he could see something. Were there faces following him? In the shifting mist, he glimpsed dark hollows--eyes staring vacantly, mouths twisted in silent screams--flickering in and out of existence like phantoms. His mind screamed that they weren't real, that it was exhaustion and panic playing tricks on him. But he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched.

He stumbled into a hollow carved into the base of an ancient tree, hunching inside its damp embrace as he forced himself to still his breaths. His fingers brushed his face, coming away wet. Blood. He hadn't even noticed the sting. Was it from the underbrush? Or had the fox woman's claws been quicker than he realized?

A soft, lilting voice echoed all around him, impossibly close, whispering into his ears like a lover's breath. "You poor thing. That little hole won't save you. I can smell you now."

His stomach dropped.

"I'll run you down," she cooed, the warmth of her tone at odds with the promise beneath it. "Until your legs give out. Until you can't move anymore. And then... well, who knows."

A shiver crawled down his spine. He didn't need to know what she meant. His imagination supplied too many answers.

Kurosawa forced his shaking hands to open the briefcase. He grabbed a small antiseptic spray, biting down a wince as he doused the wound. The sharp sting grounded him. He used a little extra on his body, as he hoped it would mask his scent. Then, without hesitation, he bolted back into the mist.

For a single, heart-stopping moment, he swore he passed through her. A feminine silhouette formed of black smoke dispersed around him, filling him with an otherworldly cold that sank into his bones. He didn't stop to confirm it. He just ran, even as the forest seemed to close in around him.

Kurosawa staggered forward as the mist around him began to thin, no longer clinging to his skin like unseen hands. The swirling, ghostly veil receded, leading him into an unnatural clearing--a tranquil grove untouched by the oppressive dread. He turned sharply, expecting to see the fox demon lurking just beyond the thinning fog, waiting for him to stop. But there was nothing. Only silence.

His breath came in ragged gasps as he turned back, and then he saw something he hadn't expected.

A mansion stood before him, stark white against the gnarled trees, its once-grand facade draped in creeping ivy and the weight of forgotten years. The overgrown grounds whispered of neglect, yet somehow, the sight filled him with an inexplicable sense of ease. Against the endless, alien wilderness, it was something recognizable, something human. His logical side screamed that this was no true refuge--he was being hunted, and no walls could keep out the things that stalked these woods--but his body had reached its limit. His legs trembled, his lungs burned, and exhaustion settled over him like a leaden shroud.

Maybe... just maybe, someone lived inside. A real person. Someone who could offer him shelter. A place to sleep. Just for a little while.

Kurosawa made his way down the path, then up the stairs onto the stone landing, once polished to a fine sheen but now dulled with time. The air here felt different--heavier, as if pressing down on him with an unseen weight. His eyes flicked to the windows, draped in black fabric, concealing whatever lay beyond. He hesitated only a moment before reaching for the tall wooden door.

The moment his knuckles made contact, it gave way, swinging open with an eerie ease despite its apparent weight.

He froze. The sound of the door creaking open should have echoed through the empty space beyond, but instead, it felt muffled, swallowed by the stillness inside. Slowly, he turned back toward the forest one last time, half-expecting to see someone lurking just beyond the tree line. But there was nothing. No glowing eyes, no shifting figures. Just the gnarled, brutal woods he had barely escaped from.

As if drawn by his curiosity, he turned back toward the house, stepping across the threshold.

Inside, dust lingered thick in the air, disturbed only by his arrival. A grand staircase stretched toward the second floor, its once-elegant banisters now veiled in cobwebs that hung between the wooden spindles. In either direction, white sheets lay draped over furniture like funerary shrouds, their ghostly silhouettes preserving the rooms in an eerie, untouched stillness. The house smelled of age--dry wood, faded paper, a faint trace of something floral, which was oddly inviting.

"Hello?" His voice barely carried. He cleared his throat, speaking louder this time. "I need help. Is anyone here?"

Silence.

His fingers tightened around the handle of his briefcase. The sheer size of the interior struck him; this was the kind of home that once belonged to someone important, the kind that might have had a staff of maids and caretakers tending to it. Now, it was a monument to abandonment. Yet, something about it felt strangely... familiar.

As he wandered deeper, his eyes caught on a painting that hung in the foyer.

It hung on the wall at the bend of the grand staircase--a large, oil-rendered portrait of a woman reclining in a chair. Her dark blue gown cascaded over the armrest like spilled ink, her long lashes casting shadows over eyes filled with distant melancholy. The brushstrokes blurred the finer details of her face, giving the impression of movement, as though if he looked away for too long, she might shift into someone else entirely. The colors were muted, dark, and unsettling, as if the painting had been drained of warmth. The woman herself was deathly pale, a stark contrast to the pristine yet unsettlingly barren interior, as if she were the only trace of life left within the house.

Kurosawa exhaled slowly. A portrait? So someone had lived here, then. Maybe even still did. But as his gaze drifted across the walls, a chill crawled up his spine.

There were no other portraits. No paintings of noble ancestors, no group depictions of families posing in opulent clothes. Only mirrors.

Mirror after mirror, hanging even where windows should have been, their tarnished frames capturing fragmented reflections of him--each one a lonely figure, stranded in emptiness.

A sudden wave of nausea hit him, violent and unexpected. His vision swam, the room tilting unnaturally as his legs nearly buckled beneath him. He staggered against the stair railing, gripping it as his breaths came short and ragged. His briefcase slipped from his fingers, landing with a soft thud against the dusty floorboards.

For a moment, he only stared at it, his mind sluggish, as though the object was unfamiliar to him. How had it ended up there? When had he let go of it? And where had those hideous scar marks come from?

He needed to get it back, didn't he? The thought barely formed before the exhaustion overwhelmed him. His limbs felt impossibly heavy. He bent down, reaching for the case, but before his fingers could brush the handle, his vision blurred, darkness seeping in from the edges of his sight.

Then, the house was silent once more.

- - - - -

In his slumber, Kurosawa dreamed of a funeral. Rain fell in sheets, soaking through his cheap black suit, but no one offered him an umbrella. His father lay at rest, surrounded by white chrysanthemums, the scent cloying, almost suffocating. He was meant to stand at the front, to receive condolences, but no one came. There was no one left. His mother had passed months earlier. No siblings. No wife. No children. The weight of it settled over him like a casket of his own.

He remembered thinking, This makes me the head of the family.

No. That wasn't right. There was no family left to lead.

The past unraveled, dragging him further back.

His father had once been proud of him. He had studied abroad, trained to become a surgeon, all to bring honor to the Kurosawa name. But when he returned to Japan, everything had changed. The economy had collapsed. Hospitals were cutting costs. There was no work for an overqualified doctor. And then his mother had fallen ill.

He had tried--of course he had tried. He burned through his savings, spent sleepless nights at her bedside, wracked his mind for a way to save her. But his skills meant nothing in the face of disease. He had wielded the knowledge of the healing arts like a sword, only to find himself unarmed.

She died anyway.

Failure.

A whisper of white light broke through the dark, diffusing through heavy drapes. He blinked, and the dream fractured. The world around him softened. Warmth pressed against his forehead--a damp cloth, soothing against fevered skin.

His breath caught.

A room. Unfamiliar, yet strangely familiar. The scent of linen and aged wood, the weight of a thick blanket over him--memories stirred at the edges of his mind. His childhood room? No, impossible. But the resemblance was uncanny. The kind of place where, once upon a time, his mother would sit beside him, wiping his brow, murmuring soft reassurances that he would be fine.

His eyes flickered open fully.

A woman sat at his bedside.

Short haired and beautiful. She wore a deep blue gown, the fabric pooling around her in soft folds. Her long black lashes cast delicate shadows against skin as pale as snow, her lips curved in the gentlest of smiles. But it was her eyes that held him captive--melancholy depths, brimming with something unspoken. A face he had seen before.

The woman from the painting.

Kurosawa's breath stilled in his throat.

She looked at him with quiet patience, as though she had been waiting for him to wake for a very long time. When she finally spoke, her voice drifted through the air like a whisper carried by the wind--soft, breathy, kind. As though speaking were something she had not done in a very long time.

"Do I... Remind you of your mother?"

Kurosawa's brows drew together in confusion. He had only just begun to register that he was awake, yet she spoke as if plucking thoughts straight from his fevered mind. He met her gaze, searching for meaning in her words.

She smiled, watching him closely. "You were murmuring about her in your sleep," she clarified. "I wondered if it was because I looked like her."

Kurosawa hesitated. He glanced at her dark, chin length hair, the soft way it framed her face and covered her ears. The sight stirred something in him--something distant and half-forgotten.

"It's your hair..." he murmured.

Her smile deepened, and his breath caught for a moment. He didn't know why. It was such a small thing--a simple smile--yet it felt as though it carried an unspoken weight, granting him quiet satisfaction.

"Ah," she mused, tilting her head ever so slightly. "My hair?"

Realizing how that sounded, he exhaled and clarified, "it's just your hair. You are far too young... younger and healthier than I ever remember her being."

Something in her expression softened, her faint smile tinged with understanding. "I see... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up painful memories."

Kurosawa glanced away, feeling an old weight settle in his chest. "It's fine," he muttered, though he wasn't sure if that was true.

Silence settled between them, not uncomfortable, but not empty either. A shared moment that neither of them seemed in any rush to break.

Eventually, Kurosawa found himself speaking again. "Who are you?" His voice was hoarse, rougher than he expected. He swallowed and tried again. "How did you come to be here, in this house?"