Chapter Text
THROUGH THE CRACKS IN THE WINDOWS AND DOORFRAMES, the wind whistled. It carried with it, indiscriminately, snippets of conversation, lies, and curses—a dry, harsh cough. A composition that could not be called music, nor anything at all. A mere rumor shook the skeleton of normality woven between cramped buildings, instilling impurity within the bodies of that community, now afflicted by a vile anomaly: curiosity.
There was no antidote. It was an insatiable thirst for knowledge.
It had begun modestly, with a scrawny boy—with chapped, peeling lips; clothes too big for him — holding a bucket of glue to post an advertisement. Pressed by toothless old men with goat-like breath, the boy couldn’t say much. The poor wretch couldn’t even read. However, what the black typography, visible for miles, failed to convey, the almost obscene illustration managed to do.
It forced them to look, without blinking even once. It was more than a promise; it was a miracle.
It depicted golden, cupped hands holding a gleaming sphere. A clear and indisputable symbol: the harbinger of a saint’s arrival.
It had been decades since the last one had appeared, brought by a humble cart that carried away pain, frustration, and bitterness for nothing more than a coin. A measly coin in exchange for lasting relief. The years passed, the workload doubled with wars they could not even remember why they had begun, and the pains returned, sharp and infectious.
The presence of the blessed hands dwindled, taking refuge in a remote corner of the world during those turbulent times.
Rumor had it that he had been alive for years. He had started out as a simple monk when, during his prayers, he had been chosen by the gods. He had countless names, followers, and stories. Charlatans had taken his place in his absence; all one had to do was find someone who looked like him. The pattern of the kimono was the least of it. Belief would do the rest, whether it was true or not. This could be just another one. Another charlatan to bother them.
Even as a skeptic, Toji was there.
The green of the room reminded him of the moss on the properties outside. On the wallpaper, dragons wound their way through amber spirals, stems, and foliage; and everything there smelled of medicinal herbs.
He shifted in the hard, unpadded seat. Out of the corner of his eye, he observed the wooden floor near the window, worn away by moisture. That floor wouldn’t be long before it gave way. The leaden sky outside foreshadowed another rain. More roofs would be torn off by the turbulent wind, and that meant more trouble.
He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
His eyes avoided the door, except for the one through which he had entered. He had been told to wait there.
The saint would call for him when he was finished.
“Saint.”
Recalling the title of another drew a scornful laugh from him, one that tickled his throat. His elbows rested on his thighs, already spread wide on that small bench. The gust of wind lifted a strand or two of Toji’s spiky hair.
His mind went blank, conserving energy. He didn’t lay out the main topics of discussion in his head like someone shuffling a deck of cards. Nor did he talk much, not to himself, nor to others, not when it wasn’t necessary. When necessary, his gift of gab was good enough. Maturity hadn’t cured him of the old vanity and stupidity of youth; he remained the same, but a little more strategic, choosing in which areas he would be a complete scoundrel and with whom. He limited himself to thoughts involving the quick resolution of problems and what was truly worthwhile, without being a slave to others or to himself. He did nothing that wasn’t worth it. Where he was now, on this strange detour, could fit into a long-term need of his own or into a waste.
You don’t always win, and that was okay.
Minutes passed until the sound of creaking wood reached his ears, scraping against the floor. The interior of that room, which had been locked, was nothing more than a blur. A woman of average height, wearing a worn headscarf, had emerged from it. Her gait, firm and brisk, resembled that of a little girl in those worn-out sandals.
The fine lines of her aged, brown face did not hide the relief she felt. She had arrived all hunched over, out of shame or whatever, but now she began to straighten her back with a long, satisfying breath. Her dull, brown gaze met his, moist with tears.
She smiled, as if to comfort him from the bitterness he felt.
The door through which they had entered opened before her hand could touch the wood. A tall, burly security guard placed his hand on her back to lead her out. Toji continued to stare at the scene, even after the door closed.
“You may enter.”
Suddenly, Toji turned, silent, and looked toward where that deep voice had come from. He expected at least a silhouette to slip out and introduce itself, but nothing happened.
Toji leaned against the top of the low door arch as he passed through. The lace curtains hanging from the ceiling were pushed out of his way. The dragons and their spirals were also there, though the long tail had been mercilessly cut off as he turned the corner in that hallway.
A gray mist, smelling of incense and herbs, filled his lungs even before he found himself facing the room. It was spacious, larger than the waiting room. The meticulously constructed setting reminded him of a theater.
The city had once had one, before it was turned into a trading bazaar. With the collapse of the hospital, the boxes had been converted into makeshift infirmaries and medicine storage rooms. The artists’ dressing rooms, meanwhile, had become operating rooms. The cinema had been bombed years ago, finally collapsing months prior. Any artistic performances had taken a back seat, reduced to an old projector on a cracked wall and films he had “watched” countless times—falling asleep during most of them.
That was the best-preserved interior space in the city.
The green was gone, and now shades of brown were everywhere. The room had been divided into two sections. In the first, a stretcher occupied the center. Incense burned in a porcelain vase that had been pieced back together after it fell—shard by shard, true to the Kintsugi philosophy. To the left, a long beaded curtain blocked the view of the single window, which was boarded up with wood. Yellow lanterns floated in the air, suspended by thin threads. A scene of hand-painted colorful clouds was projected onto a wall, like a 3D piece. In the second section, a kitchen with intact wooden cabinets and golden doorknobs occupied the wall. And closer to the sink stood the saint in question.
As much as he didn’t care one bit about all the layers built around a mere man of flesh and blood, Fushiguro had been pricked by a tiny speck of curiosity.
The man’s black hair flowed in waves down his broad back. A light-colored ribbon mingled with the strands, which trailed to the floor. He wore a classic kimono. Without haste, he crushed the cigarette in the ashtray.
Toji found this detail amusing. Not so saintly after all.
“Take off your clothes, please.” The words sounded drawn out.
Toji obeyed.
The buttons, which had been stretched tight at home, popped open quickly. The shirt, crumpled in his hands, was tossed onto the sofa. He didn’t need the steps next to the massage table; he simply lay face down on the crumpled paper. The position didn’t bother him, nor did the situation. He was paying, so he expected a good massage, at least. When it was over, he would be able to tell whether or not it had been miraculous. He crossed his forearms to prop up his forehead.
A distinctive sound made him look down. A chain of fine links was tied to the saint’s ankle, dragging with every step, long enough for him to move freely. His robes didn’t cover it, not entirely. Toji tried to touch it, but…
“Don’t do that,” the saint warned him. “Not if you’re not sure.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Toji managed to put a face to a rumor; to personify a whisper that spread like every secret waiting to be discovered. His face was nothing more than a well-polished, restrained mask. A spark burned in those lilac eyes, goading him to try or just to test him. Toji stretched his fingers toward the chain. It, however, slipped away, back to the floor with a soft clink.
The saint swept whatever that gaze meant from beneath his thick eyelashes. Then, he rolled up the sleeve of his kimono, running his fingertips down Toji’s rigorously sculpted shoulder blades.
His touch was cold, though careful.
Meanwhile, thoughts swirled through Toji’s mind. That old goat was one of those who didn’t believe in—or take—this whole legend business at face value. Having to pass through so many security guards just to access a single floor was all the information he needed: don’t get involved in other people’s problems.
In times like these, saviors rose and fell by their own words and greed.
The saint, however, cared very little for broken bones and easy problems; it was the intense pain that held his focus, something more internal and hard to reach. He made it disappear. It was simple… Too simple to be true. Nothing is ever that simple.
His thumbs pressed into the vertebral region down to the lower back, over the thick scars that marked the flesh. Toji was used to feeling constant, low-intensity pain, except when it worsened, as it did now. The pain made him expel all the air from his lungs and stiffen beneath those palms. Soon, he felt his skin grow warm. With his eyes closed, he did not witness the radiance emanating from each scar that crisscrossed his back like deep, twisted lines, resembling those of a tiger. The glow gathered beneath the saint’s palm, transforming into a sphere. All the pain dissipated in a tremor of his tense muscles, violated by the unknown.
The sensation that lingered was that of having been roughly turned inside out and put back together. Toji tried to move, but his body was already limp on the stretcher. He could only lift his head, open his eyes, and let out a pained groan. Every word seemed to weigh heavily on his tongue; he could barely part his lips to curse.
His breathing quickened, becoming ragged, until his head fell onto his arm. His vision gradually darkened, defying his attempt to stay awake. He saw the saint walk away, bring the sphere to his mouth, and his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, before he blacked out.