Tsujiko touched the stranger’s forehead. It didn’t seem like he had a fever, in spite of everything. His body still had the occasional fits of shivering, but, on the whole, his breathing was steady. As a result, so was Tsujiko’s. Being the one to find him seemed to make his well-being her burden to carry.

He looked old. Coupling the white hair and the complexion likely put him somewhere in his early sixties.

What was such an old man doing on the island? How had he even gotten there? Most importantly – just who was his?

A search of the man’s belongings failed to answer any of the three questions. No identification, no photos; not even a wallet. His clothes seemed to be on the more expensive side. The profile of an old rich man was hardly an unexpected one on the island, but none of the guests or the rest of the staff seemed to recognize him. The only clue of note was the scar Tsujiko had noticed on his lower back while they were changing him. A knife wound? Surgery remnant? It was impossible to tell. Which made it impossible to draw any real conclusions.

Tsujiko looked out the window. The snowstorm showed no signs of letting up. Izuru had said that he’d gotten in touch with the mainland, who claimed it was unlikely a boat could be sent until the weather calms. Given that the forecast claimed that should’ve happened the day before, the time of rescue was anyone’s guess. Ultimately, they were on their own.

She patted the stranger’s head and snuck off to the bathroom for a quick smoke break. She said she’d quit. She promised herself she would. But there was only so much stress a nicotine patch could cover up.

As she struck the match, her mind wandered back to Makoto’s marriage arrangement. Calling it a ‘proposal’ would’ve been pushing it. He was, if nothing else, very clear it was anything but traditional.

She hated admitting it – she likely never WOULD have admitted it to someone like him – but he had a point. Being a servant at a resort mostly reserved for creepy old men was not where she intended to spend the rest of her days. He could have been her ticket out of there. He was rich. He was handsome. He was still young. So what if he wanted to see other women? If anything, that made the arrangement that much easier to stomach.

The one thing she couldn’t understand was – why her? His reputation as a womanizer no doubt preceded him; he could have had any woman he wanted, of any standing, certainly of one that his parents and the world would have had a much easier time accepting. Yet, he chose her. Why?

The inability to answer that question put her in an indescribable sense of unease. Perhaps he was simply toying with her? Promised her the world before he shattered it at her feet? Too many people were architects of destruction. Too many of their blueprints for cruelty lingered in the world. She’d been broken once before, her pieces scattered to the sea, washing up on the shore of this island.

If she got herself broken again, where would she end up?

Would she even rise from the ocean again?

< Section is missing. >

Makoto walked into the main hallway to see Izuru and Kokone still standing in front of the double doors of the Club Room. The former’s back immediately straightened upon spotting the newcomer, while the latter continued staring off into space, as per usual. The young man scratched the back of his hand, longing for some kind of company or attention.

“Have you two been standing there all this time?” he asked the two servants. “They’ve been in there for hours.”

“It’s tradition, Mr. Yoshida.” Izuru said.

“Yeah, well, we’ve got a comatose guy upstairs and stuck in the middle of a snowstorm. On a remote island. I’d say these are extenuating circumstances.” He stretched his neck. “What are they even doing in there?”

The butler shrugged. “I’m afraid it’s not for me to know.”

“They are reaching out to touch God.” Kokone said, not meeting either of the men’s gazes. “They will call for his eye to slither from the heavens, so that he may see them. Gathered around, as the gods of their own little worlds. And they will stare at the eye, and the eye will blink. And they will choke themselves until their necks go black and they squeeze out their souls, so they may be taken up by God, and God may plant new seeds in his little puppets. And the rejuvenated puppets will go out into the world to do its bidding, up until the next time they gather here.”

Makoto stared at her. “…What?”

“P-Please don’t mind her, Mr. Yoshida!” Izuru quickly interjected. “She’s been… ahem. She’s not feeling well, you see. We think it’s a cold.”

“Cold will be this night. As will be God’s will. What the souls inside the little puppets do not know is that this cycle will be the last. He will take them, as he had others, and leave behind his work. But there will be no further seeds to plant. He is finished here. In spite of his best efforts, we have failed his grand design. He will have to try elsewhere.” She turned to Makoto. “You’ll see. They won’t come out of there.”

She closed one eyelid, staring at the young millionaire.

< Section is missing. >

“They’re not a cult. I don’t think they are, at least.” Shiro said. “But it’s tough to know for sure. You hear about all these kinds of weird stories where rich old geezers gather on islands. This certainly fits the mold.”

“I’ve seen no particular social prerequisites to getting here. It looks like a normal resort to me.” Kaede absent-mindedly tapped on the piano keys, just softly enough to avoid the piano making a peep.

“What do you mean? Of course there’s a prerequisite.” Shiro laughed. “Money! Even a day here costs a fortune.”

“You need not remind me of this of this.” She shrugged. “Yet, now that you bring it up, I find it interesting that someone like yourself could find their way here with a journalist’s salary.” she pointed out.

He’d been waiting for that observation ever since he’d gotten there. “Hey, if I’m gonna vacate, I’m gonna go somewhere nice. I work hard. I deserve to play hard, no? Besides, it’s paid by the paper.”

She took the bait. “You appear to be mixing business and pleasure.”

“Well, the pleasure has certainly been sub-par so far, but yes, the business part is still there.”

“Usually investigative journalist try to hide that.” Kaede noted.

Shiro grinned. “I’m too suspicious to not raise flags. Might as well soften the blow and be honest about it.”

“What are you investigating? The Club, then?”

He shook his head. “The Club’s easy picking. Any cheap tabloid can run their mouth and say they gather here every year to drink goat blood or something. That kind of stuff sells these days.”

“Are you any different?”

“I’m not a tabloid writer. And my paper ain’t cheap.”

“Must be a good story, then.”

“Have you ever heard the legend of Flight 879?” he asked, earnestly. “No? Does ‘Phantom Flight’ ring any bells, maybe? Think back, it would’ve been all over the news a decade ago.”

“How old do you think I am?”

“Psh. Older than a decade.”

Kaede touched her chin, trying to think back.

< Section is missing. >

“And what about you?” he asked. “Why are you here, Kaede? You don’t mind if I call you that, do you? I feel like we’ve gotten to know each other so well, after all.”

She glanced out the window. “I definitely have no ghost stories to share, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m just here to practice.”

This time, it was he who took the bait. “Practice what?”

Her porcelain face cracked for the first time, the cracks forming what Shiro would only ever remember as a demonic sneer. “Why, murder, of course.”