Julius woke up lying on top of his sheets, his clothes torn and soaked through with dried blood. He groaned, lifting a hand to his ribs, surprised to feel them perfectly intact despite the ache radiating through his body. The smell of burning incense wafted in the air, dense and earthy, filling his room. Blinking through the haze, he could make out his dad’s figure standing in the doorway, speaking in Japanese—a language his father only used with Julius’s grandparents. Julius’s vision cleared slightly, revealing the person his father was talking to: a short man, barely over four feet, with a stick of incense hanging from his mouth like a cigarette. His dark hair disheveled and his face marked with scars. He had a striking resemblance to Dae-Su from Old Boy, with a look that was both aged and fierce.

As Julius began to sit up, the man’s gaze flickered over to him, their eyes locking briefly. “He’s awake,” he heard the man say in Japanese, his voice low and serious. Almost instantly, his mother rushed into the room, her face wet with tears. “My baby!” she cried, pulling him into her arms. Her voice was thick with emotion, words spilling out between sobs. “I’m so, so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry you had to go through that… I should have been there.” She held him tightly, her fingers trembling as she brushed his blood-matted hair back, unable to stop apologizing.

“What are you talking about?” Julius said in a dazed murmur. He hadn’t meant to say it, but as soon as he did, the memories came crashing down like a wave breaking against his chest.

“They’re all gone,” he whispered, his voice thick with tears as his face contorted in anguish. “They’re all gone… she’s gone… Joan’s gone.” His words tumbled out, each one drenched with raw disbelief. “They were all torn apart, so bloody… they…” He could feel his throat tightening, each breath rasping as he choked on the weight of it all. His chest burned, making it harder to breathe.

“What was that thing?” He tried to gasp for air, feeling his stomach churn at the memory. His face twisted as he tried to describe the horror that had ravaged his friends. “It made me sick just to look at it. It was… it was eating.” He shuddered, the image of Joan’s broken body flashing vividly before his eyes. The words, barely formed, left him feeling hollow, as if he was nothing more than a shell in the wake of everything he’d seen.

“Give the boy some room,” the man said in crisp English, his voice calm but firm. “He doesn’t understand what happened. You’re just going to panic him. He’s like a baby that fell down for the first time; how you react is critical.”

Maria shot back without hesitation, her voice rising. “I should bump you on your head, Ooshiba!” She jabbed a finger at him, her words heated and sharp. “This is not a baby’s first boo-boo. He watched his friends get torn apart by an antizoí and almost died! Do you really think that’s like a bump on the head?”

Julius squirmed, trying to pull away from his mother’s iron grip, his arms weak and heavy. He just wanted to curl up in bed, bury his face in the sheets, and let the tears flow. His larger frame dangled awkwardly from Maria’s relentless embrace as if he were still a small child.

Seeing his discomfort, Tokugawa stepped in. Gently, he pried Maria’s hands away, his touch was firm. “My heart, I think we should let him process everything,” he said, guiding her out of the room. She resisted at first, glancing back, but eventually relented, her face etched with worry.

Left behind, Ooshiba hovered in the doorway, his gaze trailing Julius as the boy sank into his bed, letting exhaustion pull him down. Quietly, Ooshiba stepped farther into the room, taking everything in.

Julius’s room had a slight minimalist layout but was dotted with Julius’ identity. A tidy desk sat in one corner, equipped with a sleek gaming computer and surrounded by small knick knacks: a replica of Michelangelo’s David, a few origami cranes he and Joan made, and a tiny Hannya mask that his grandfather carved from wood. On the opposite wall was a second, smaller desk, which was a dedicated writing space. Over it hung two framed posters: one for The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, and another from the live-action adaptation of The Rising Sun, a popular space opera.

The desk itself was neatly arranged, holding a collection of well-worn poetry books: Rumi, Bashō, Audre Lorde, Byron, Browning, among others. A striking black globe sat beside a vase of orchids, their colorful blooms beginning to wilt. A set of antique Japanese inkstones were carefully placed next to a fountain pen, and scattered around were more small replicas of sculptures including the Pietà, the Rape of the Sabine Women, and Perseus with the Head of Medusa .

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The shelves lining the walls were filled with books that spanned centuries and genres: The Divine Comedy, Frankenstein, Felâtun Bey and Râkım Efendi. Tucked amongst the tomes were more knick knacks—a tiny bronze bust of Teddy Roosevelt, a ceramic tortoise, and a small model of The Silverheels, Tonto’s spaceship from The Rising Sun.

In the corner of the room, curled atop a plush cushion, was a tortoiseshell cat, Gwendolina, her roasted-marshmallow fur glowed under the light of a standing lamp, like an exhibit in a museum.. The cat stretched lazily as Ooshiba approached, crouching down to stroke its back. The rhythmic purring filled the room with a low hum. Ooshiba glanced back at Julius, letting the silence stretch between them.

“You know, you’re really lucky…”

Julius turned his head slowly, his body aching with every movement. His red, swollen eyes settled on the man speaking to him, though his gaze felt more like a glare. His throat was still tight from crying, and the words felt lodged deep in his chest.

Ooshiba, calm and unbothered, pulled a desk chair beside Julius. With a casual ease, he lowered the seat’s height and hopped onto it, his stature making the adjustment necessary. He crossed his arms and tilted his head, inspecting Julius.

“Did it take your tongue, kid?”

Julius stared straight through him, his mind a storm of grief, anger, and confusion. The weight of everything threatened to pull him under, but Ooshiba’s tone—so detached, almost cold—ignited something else. His hands clenched the sheets beneath him as he forced the words out.

“How… how could I be lucky?” His voice cracked, but the bitterness was unmistakable.

Ooshiba sighed, leaning back slightly in the chair as if the question annoyed him. “Because you lived.”

Julius’s breath hitched. His vision blurred with fresh tears, but they didn’t spill. “But they—” he started, his voice breaking before he could finish.

“Oh, shut up, boy,” Ooshiba interrupted, his tone sharp but not cruel. “Yes, they died. Mourn for them. Rage for them. But don’t you dare discount your own life because of it.” He leaned forward now, his dark eyes piercing through Julius’s grief-stricken haze. “You were gifted enough strength to last long enough for luck to let me arrive. That’s not nothing. That’s survival.”

The words struck Julius like a slap. His grief twisted into anger, a raw, untamed fury that surged to the surface. “Gifted?” he spat. His voice rose, shaking with rage. “They were torn apart! And you sit there—calm as anything—talking about luck and gifts like this is some kind of lecture!”

Ooshiba didn’t flinch. Instead, he nodded. “Yes,” he said plainly. “Because being alive is messy and unfair. It’s cruel. But it’s still life. You can cry and scream about how unfair it is—and you should. But you’re still here, and you don’t get to waste that. Not after everything.”

Julius’s breath came in short, shallow bursts. His chest felt heavy, his rage mixing with exhaustion until he slumped back against the headboard, his fists unclenching. “You don’t understand,” he muttered.

Ooshiba’s expression softened just a fraction. “I understand more than you think, boy,” he said quietly. “But you’ll figure that out in time.” He leaned back in the chair.

Ooshiba got up from the chair with a small groan, his stature making the movement seem heavier than it should. He walked toward the door, his steps deliberate but unhurried. Reaching the threshold, he stopped and rested his hand lightly on the frame, turning his head just enough to glance back at Julius.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice softer, quieter. “I’m sorry for my response… and for what happened to your friends. I’ve never been good at this sort of thing.”

Julius remained silent, his body tense, his gaze locked on Ooshiba.

“The thing that killed your friends,” Ooshiba continued after a beat, “was known as an antizoí. An anti-life creature.” He paused. “It might sound insane, but after what you saw… I think you understand. As you say in English, stranger things have happened.”

Ooshiba leaned further through the doorway.

“They’re born from the same principle that gives everything we see its life. The same force that gives your mother her power. The same force that gave you your strength to survive.” He turned fully now, his scarred face shadowed by the dim light of the hallway. “If you’re really so upset about your friends—if you want to make sure what happened to them doesn’t go unnoticed, and if you want to stop something like that from ever happening again…Come see me in Kyoto.”

Without waiting for a response, he pushed off the doorframe and left the room, his footsteps fading into the stillness that followed.