The first thing Raito registered was the coarse texture of the rope against his wrists.
The second was the sound of crying—dozens of soft, desperate sobs echoing off warehouse walls that stank of mildew, motor oil, and human sweat.
His vision adjusted. He was sitting on a rusted metal chair, hands tied behind his back and ankles lashed to the legs. Dim lights buzzed overhead. Around him stood six men, maybe more, all armed in some way—pipes, knives, another with a bat slung casually over his shoulder.
But Raito's eyes weren't on them.
They were on the far side of the warehouse, where a row of makeshift cribs—just blankets in cardboard boxes—had been laid out. At least four babies. One of them—
Emi.
She was wailing, tears rolling down her red cheeks, her tiny fists clenched in fear. One of the goons nearby tried to shush her with a harsh shake of the box, making her cry harder.
Raito's jaw clenched.
"Ah, there she is," Kurai murmured. "Your little sunshine. I gotta admit, even I'm a bit pissed."
The air shifted as one of the men stepped forward—a bit older than the others. Late 50s, maybe early 60s. Thin gray hair slicked back, expensive shoes that didn't match the rotting floor, and a black turtleneck under a beige coat. He didn't carry a weapon. He didn't need to. He exuded authority.
Raito's eyes narrowed.
That man had a presence. An aura.
Not overwhelming, but... off.
"Hah," Kurai muttered. "That explains it. He's got a pact too—though with something pathetic. Lesser demon. Probably couldn't even form full sentences. Poor bastard probably thinks it's 'intuition' or 'gut instinct' making him feel special."
Raito filed the information away, his expression unreadable.
The man gave a practiced smile as he approached.
"Well, you're awake. That's convenient. Saves me the trouble of throwing water on your pretty face," the man said with a mock-friendly tone. "You've got a real poker face for someone who just took a bat to the skull."
He stopped a few feet away, admiring his work.
"You're probably wondering why we took her," he said, gesturing toward Emi, still crying in the box like a thrown-away toy. "Let me save you the trouble. No particular reason. No divine plan. She's just a pretty baby. Clean. Healthy. Marketable."
He crouched down to Raito's eye level.
"That's all there is to it. Sometimes things are just business."
Raito didn't speak.
Didn't blink.
Didn't even breathe loud.
The man continued anyway.
"I usually don't do speeches, but hey, it's not every day I get to monologue in front of a corpse-to-be. So why not, right?"
He stood back up, arms spread like a preacher before a sermon.
"You see, people think the market's for teenagers or worse. But the real demand—the discerning buyers—they want younger. Infants. Toddlers. Raise them how they want. Moldable. Pure. Ripen, as they say."
A few of the men behind him chuckled.
Raito didn't flinch.
Didn't fume.
Didn't shake with rage.
He smiled.
A slow, creeping curl of his lips.
It started small, barely noticeable.
But it spread.
One of the men closest to him took a step back involuntarily.
The leader noticed. His face twitched.
"What's so funny?" he asked, tone suddenly less amused.
Raito's eyes gleamed beneath his bangs, that small grin never fading.
"I wasn't smiling," Raito said softly.
The leader tilted his head. "Yes, you were."
Raito raised his chin slightly.
"No... he was."
"Guilty," Kurai purred inside his mind. "Let's see what happens when the monster stops pretending to be human."
And just like that, the tension snapped.
Every man in the room felt it—that strange shift in the air. Cold. Dense. Ancient. Something wrong.
Something they shouldn't have poked.
The crying stopped—briefly—as even the babies sensed it.
And the smile on Raito's face widened, just enough to show a hint of teeth.
The leader stepped back, eyes narrowing now. "What the hell are you?"
Raito didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
Because that was the last moment they were going to see him as just a man.