The sound of the sea crashing against the sand, the waves shaken by the cold night wind, the moon sinking into the union of sky and ocean; and in that dark immensity stood a man before the landscape, weary, as if somehow surrendering to life. It was certain that the man was already dead by then—perhaps he had renounced his mortality from the very beginning—but he looked so peaceful that, deep down, he might not have been seeking death but trying to find a truth.
That painting hung in Valentin Kuznetsov's office, though it clashed entirely with the man's personality and the room's decor. The air smelled of medicine, salt, and leather. No light illuminated the room except for a half-burnt candle melting wax onto the wooden table, exuding a suffocating thickness that made it hard to breathe. It was hot. The candle's flame only worsened the stifling atmosphere—there were no windows.
Vasiliy's footsteps made the wooden floor creak, the sound echoing through the silence. If he stood still, the sea's brutality shattered the quiet from within the painting. Pressing his ear against the walls with his eyes shut, he could hear every corner of that house—like the laments of ghosts.
"He's not right in the head. He's a monster."
"Did he really gouge out his maid's eyes with his fingers? That'ts terrific."
He tapped his fingertips against the wall, and with those vibrations, everything fell back into silence. The violent silence.
The door creaked open slowly, letting the owner of the office step inside.
"Father."
The man approached him, expressionless, raising his hand to strike. It was a common habit—one that needed no further explanation, other than asserting dominance, or something of the sort. The sound of the waves seemed to rise when Vasiliy's skin was openly mistreated.
"A blackout that unsettled the guests, a fire that ruined your mother's garden and where were you?"
Valentin's vacant face shifted. Not because he was worried or angry—no. He was afraid. What was he supposed to feel? His son, whom he had raised with his own selfish desires, now showed such contempt that, for a moment, fear gripped him. There was so little emotion in those eyes, yet so much violence—like he was trying to kill him. This was the monster he had created.
Vasiliy's calm smile only unsettled him more.
"I was only having fun."
He leaned halfway against the table, holding the candle in his hands, even as hot wax dripped onto his skin.
Valentin regained his composure, clearing his thoughts with an unsteady breath while massaging his temple between his thumb and index finger.
"Your mother is waiting for you."
Vasiliy's movements softned, losing compass. He placed the candle back in its place and straightened up. His composed face showed a flicker of discontent, his brows drawing together in displeasure. He gave his father a short nod and left, abandoning the suffocating room.
The sound of the waves vanished completely.
Whoever had painted that canvas had done so with the malevolent intention of consuming others from the inside out. And whoever had bought it wanted to rule from the shadows. Valentin Kuznetsov seemed to have never realized that the crashing waves had been breaking down and remaking his mind all along, playing with his sanity like a puppet condemned to perform before starving predators. It was pathetic.
Vasiliy's mother resided on the hidden floor of that mansion—a space wedged between the second and third floors, almost undetectable even from the outside. The domain of Rei Ryokakku was an entirely different world—a sanctuary amid modernity and the catastrophic tide. Candles adorned the entrance hallway, making the heat oppressive. Vasiliy left his shoes at the door.
The rooms were divided by traditional shojis. There were three: the tea room, the prison, and a chamber with a futon for naps. The sound of the shamizen echoed from the entrance, while the scent of herbal infusion masked the faint odor of blood and flesh. Even if the initial impression was repugnant, one could eventually grow accustomed to the clash of metals and the whir of electric machines, hidden beneath that tranquil traditional façade.
Vasiliy slid open the main shoji. His mother sat on the floor, sipping tea with elegant movements. The musician sat in a corner, playing the shamizen. Vasiliy knelt before her and bowed slightly, to which she responded with a delicate gesture of her hand. The musician withdrew to the adjacent room.
Rei, though small and slender, exuded authority. She always wore yukatas—short or long—and kept her jet-black hair pinned with decorative ornaments. Half her body was covered in traditional tattoos, each one telling a story, each one with a purpose. But above all, they were a testament to loyalty. Her eyes were often blindfolded, yet her awareness of her surroundings was uncanny. Sometimes, Vasiliy doubted that she was truly blind.
"Ren."
The woman extended her arm toward him.
Vasiliy leaned in slowly, resting his face in her hand. Rei traced his features delicately, as if trying to memorize them.
"You called for me, Mother?"
Vasiliy spoke in his rough Japanese and thick accent, always reserved for her.
"My garden was burned, Ren. My beautiful chrysanthemums reduced to ashes."
She wrapped her hands around the tea cup.
"I cared deeply for those flowers."
Without breaking rhythm, she pulled one of her ornaments from her hair and drove it into the back of Vasiliy's hand resting on the table. It happened so quickly that, even if expected, there was no way to stop it.
But Vasiliy made no complaint. Not a single sound escaped his lips. Instead, he placed his uninjured hand over hers, pressing the ornament deeper. He leaned closer, a tired sigh brushing against her skin.
" Autumn ended long ago, Mother. Why do you care so much for a garden that withered long before?"
Drawing nearer, he whispered:
"Oh... you smell like poppies."
Rei's body tensed at the comment. Her grip faltered, and she pulled away, retreating to the safety of her tea cup. Almost immediately, she regained her composure.
The only reason she always reached out to touch his face was because she was certain that without feeling him, she wouldn't be able to imagine that this was her son. A shiver traced her spine as Vasiliy cleaned the bloodied ornament against the hem of his yukata.
"After all, it's not your only chrysanthemum garden, Mother. Soon you can plant more here. Until then... take good care of the others."
He placed his hands on his thighs, offering a small bow before standing.
"Good night, Mother."
Rei felt the silence more unbearable than ever as frustration and paranoia gnawed at her calm. Her hands trembled—perhaps from anxiety, perhaps from habit—causing her tea cup to spill onto her yukata.
No matter what she did, he was always ten steps ahead, carving out a path for her to follow without ever realizing it wasn't her own decision. And though perhaps that cunning had once been her own, passed down to him like an unwanted inheritance, she could only curse how it felt to be outplayed at her own game.