The Fire Escape
He was twelve.
The concrete was cold. Rain-soaked. The old fire escape behind the brothel trembled with every drop that struck its rusted bones. The city lights were blurry—distorted by smog, neon, and the kind of rain that didn't cleanse, only stained.
Kishibe sat there, knees pulled to his chest, arms locked tight. A cigarette burned between his fingers. He hadn't lit it. Just held it. Something to do with his hands.
From below, muffled sounds of men laughing. Footsteps. Moaning. Doors creaking open. Then slamming shut. The same rhythm every night.
He stared into the rain, hoping it would swallow the city whole.
Then, footsteps.
Soft ones. Not a client. Not a bouncer.
"You shouldn't be up here."
His mother. Wrapped in a thin robe. Hair still wet from the bath she barely had time for. Her eyes were dark, sunken. Tired in a way only women like her could be. But she smiled anyway.
She always did.
"You're gonna catch a fever," she added, crouching beside him.
He didn't answer.
She took the cigarette from his fingers and slipped it into her own pocket. Her hand was warm.
"You saw something again."
He blinked.
Then nodded.
A man with a hole through his face. A woman whose shadow didn't match her body. A dog that barked at nothing and then exploded in blood.
Curses.
They followed him like stray ghosts.
His mother exhaled, slow.
"I don't know what you are," she whispered. "But I know you're not wrong for being it."
He swallowed hard.
And for a second, the rain felt warmer.
---
The Smell of Rust and Bleach
The bathroom reeked of piss and bleach. Cold tile. Flickering fluorescent lights overhead. Rain tapped on the thin roof like fingers scratching at memory.
He waited in the stall.
Back pressed to the wall. Knife clutched in both hands.
It was his mother's kitchen knife. Still dull from the last time she used it—just before she disappeared for good.
Footsteps echoed in.
The door creaked open.
Then came his voice.
The man.
Laughing to himself. Mumbling something under his breath. The sound of a zipper. A cough. Water running.
Kishibe's pulse pounded in his ears.
He stepped out of the stall.
Silent.
The man stood at the urinal, shoulders slouched. Vulnerable. Filthy.
He didn't notice the boy.
Not until it was too late.
---
First Cut
Kishibe raised the knife with shaking hands.
But when he brought it down—
—there was no hesitation.
The blade sank into the man's back, just between the ribs.
The man grunted, eyes wide, one hand slamming against the wall.
"What the f—?"
Another stab.
Then another.
The man twisted, trying to turn around, blood spilling across the tiles, but Kishibe shoved him forward with all his weight and drove the knife in again—this time in the side of the neck.
A sick squelch.
Warm blood sprayed the mirror, the sink, his face.
The man gurgled.
Dropped.
Twitched.
Stopped.
---
The Birth of Severance
Something else happened that night.
A crack in his soul.
A rift in the world.
He saw it. Not with his eyes—but with something else.
The invisible line between life and death.
Between man and monster.
And with that perception… the ability to cut.
Severance was born in that filthy place.
Not with training.
Not with a teacher.
But with rage.
Kishibe didn't know what it was back then. Only that from that night on, he saw the threads. The joins in everything.
And that he could end anything he touched.
---
The Dream Fractures
The memory twisted.
Blood rose from the floor like smoke.
His mother stood at the threshold, lips parted.
Not judgmental.
Not proud.
Just… there.
"I did it," the boy said.
But her eyes didn't move.
And Kishibe felt, for the first time, that the thing inside him was no longer just his.
That it would follow him forever.
---
Return to Silence
In the infirmary, his body didn't move.
But his heart thudded once.
The memory lingered like a song half-finished.
Gojo sat nearby, fingers steepled against his lips. Shoko paced, watching the monitors like they were going to scream.
The silence wasn't peace.
It was the breath between grief.