Nov 7, 2025
They’ve always met after dark. But it’s afternoon, now, the clouds dark with rain as cold wind yanks at Fukushi’s hair. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, pads up the subway station stairs. Piercings’s waiting at the top, his hair tied back without a care, wearing sweats and a hoodie and bags beneath his eyes. He looks younger, without his mask on, and discomfort juts briefly down Fukushi’s spine. ‘You good,’ Fukushi says, mostly for any onlookers, anyone listening in. Piercings shrugs. ‘D’ya care?’
i hope the five of you who remember Fukushi are in for a jumpscare
