Chương 13: Act 1, Chapter 13: The touch

Day in the story: 29th September (Monday) I was walking along the riverside boulevard, the breeze from the water brushing against my face. The river floated past with a steady, unhurried rhythm, reflecting soft early light. People wove between food stalls, scattered benches and each other, fluid and chaotic all at once. I kept to the edge, watching it all pass. My destination sat tucked behind an older building at the boulevard's far end.

The address matched the one I had written down from the course site: a studio offering training in clothes-making, pattern design and sewing. Today marked my first session. A new artform. A new path to explore. I felt that familiar kind of quiet excitement settle in my chest, the one I always felt before diving into something creative and unknown. There was no magic humming in my palms today, just curiosity. The studio had a glass storefront. It was clean and inviting.

Through the panes, I could see a handful of people gathering already—mostly women, though two men stood among them. The warm light inside made it feel cozy and focused, a haven for detail-lovers and dreamers alike. I stepped in and lingered near the door. Everyone was already mid-conversation, talking about previous lessons, techniques they were trying, fabrics they couldn't wait to get their hands on. Words like "bias tape," "French seams," and "flat-felled stitching" were tossed around.

I didn't understand most of it, but it made me want to. It had the energy of people truly excited to learn and that alone gave me hope I'd found something worthwhile. I struck up a quiet conversation with a couple of them, curious about the instructor.

"Oh, you'll love him," one woman said, adjusting the tape measure draped around her neck like jewelry.

"He's incredibly precise. Like, down to the millimeter. But not in an uptight way, he loves what he does. You can see it in the way he touches fabric, like he's speaking to it."

"He explains things really well too," another added.

"Has that calm about him. But when he talks about pattern design, passion just radiates off of him." So far, so good. A young woman at the reception desk eventually opened the door to the actual workroom and motioned us in. I grabbed the seat that had clearly been prepared for the new student and settled in quickly. I smoothed down my notebook and checked the tiny sewing kit I'd brought along. My eyes scanned the room, noting the worktables, industrial machines and spools of thread.

Everything was clean, practical and placed with intention. I waited with a smile while my stomach fluttered with anticipation. It was rare to walk into something new and feel so immediately comfortable. Then the instructor entered. At first it was just the silhouette in the doorway: tall, sharp lines, confident posture. His head was shaved to zero. A narrow goatee framed his mouth. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Japanese and missing a part of his pinky finger.

The air in the room felt like it changed pressure. He walked in like he owned the place, the same fluid, silent authority I remembered. A button-up shirt. Rolled sleeves. Measuring tape slung around his neck just like that one woman I spoke with just minutes ago. He moved like he didn't need to prove anything to anyone anymore. What the fuck? I sat frozen, eyes glued to him while trying not to look like they were. My pulse was thudding in my ears. He hadn't looked at me yet, or maybe he had and just didn't react.

Was it really him? Could it just be someone who looked like him? But the pinky was gone. The shape of the face, the weight in his stance—it was him. What the hell was he doing teaching sewing in a studio on the riverside? More importantly: did he recognize me? I forced my body to remain still, my expression neutral, but my mind was already running full sprint in every direction. The last time I saw him, he was trying to kill me.

And now he was standing at the front of a creative workshop like he'd never hurt a person. If he did recognize me, he didn't show it. He glanced at a clipboard resting on the main table, then looked up, voice low and even.

"Good afternoon, everyone. I hope the week treated you well." His eyes swept over the room.

"I'll be guiding you through this next stage of the course. For returning students, welcome back. For the one joining us today," his gaze settled directly on me "my name is Ken Kumomaru." Then he extended an open palm directly toward me.

"Everyone, please meet Alexandra May, who's here for her first session." I felt the heat of every gaze turning toward me. I smiled politely and offered a nod, willing my pulse to stay calm, focusing on my breathing evenly.

"She's chosen to enter at a more advanced point in the program," Ken continued.

"So please extend the patience and generosity we're known for." A few polite smiles. A couple of quiet hellos. No one questioned it. Least of all him. I lifted a hand just slightly.

"Thanks. I'm really glad to be here." He nodded once.

"Before we begin, Alexandra, would you mind sharing what brought you to the course?"

"I want to understand how clothing is constructed," I said, surprised at how steady my voice came out.

"How patterns work. How fabric moves. There's something… artistic in how it all fits together. I want to be able to make something real with my hands." He tilted his head a little, eyes steady on mine—just listening. When I finished, he gave a small, approving nod.

"Clothing is the architecture closest to the body," he said.

"A very human form of artistic engineering. I think you'll find what you're looking for here." And just like that, he transitioned into the lesson. He stepped behind the long front table, where three neatly folded stacks of fabric awaited: cotton muslin, stretch jersey and wool suiting. He moved between them like a conductor about to cue an overture.

"We'll start with an overview of textile behavior," he said, lifting a bolt of muslin.

"This one's the simplest. Cotton muslin, plain weave, breathable, holds shape well and most importantly, it tells the truth. If your cut is off by even a millimeter, it shows you. That's why we use it for prototyping." He passed pieces around the room for us to feel. I pinched the fabric between my fingers, light, slightly coarse, honest. Just like he said. Next came the stretch jersey.

"Knitted structure," he explained.

"Soft, forgiving, but easily distorted. It's a material that rewards precision and punishes assumptions." His tone was calm and reverent. Like he was describing a wild creature he'd studied and learned to respect. Not tamed but understood. The room was quiet and focused.

"Wool suiting, dense, luxurious and highly responsive. It drapes beautifully, molds with steam, but it has rules. Ignore the grain line, apply heat too high and it will fight you." I jotted notes quickly, not just about materials, but about him. If Shiroi was hiding behind this identity, then he wore it like a second skin. No flicker of recognition, no stutter in his voice, no hesitation when speaking my name. Nothing. His posture was relaxed. His focus genuine.

He moved on to practical technique: testing fabric stretch and grain, threading machines for different materials, adjusting tension with meticulous care. His instructions were never rushed, always grounded in purpose. Every step had a reason.

"There's a moment," he said, near the end of the session, "when your hands start to understand what your mind hasn't caught up to yet. When you feel how a fabric resists or yields and adjust without thinking. That's when progress begins. Not when you force it, but when you start listening." Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. Heads nodded. Pens scratched. People soaked it in. I kept watching him. He was Ken Kumomaru now.

The studio fit him perfectly, like it had been designed around him. A man at peace with who he was. Or at least, who he pretended to be. Later, as I worked on my first assignment, sewing two fabric pieces together with a clean seam, I sensed him approach. I didn't look up. I kept my hands steady, my breath even. Acting as if his presence didn't affect me.

"You're very good at this, Alexandra," he said softly.

"I'm glad to see someone share my passion." Well, not for turning people into string, if that's what you mean. A stray thought. Morbid one so I kept it buried.

"Oh, Mr. Kumomaru," I said, lifting my head with a neutral smile, "I didn't hear you approach."

"No problem." He smiled gently, then extended a hand not to shake, but to rest it briefly on my shoulder. I froze. It was just a brush. A light pressure and nothing more, but every part of me went still, like a deer in a clearing. I expected to feel that strange unraveling sensation again, that quiet dismantling I'd felt the last time we crossed paths in a much darker context. But no—his hand was warm and gentle.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly lifting it off me. I blinked.

"Why?"

"You tensed just now," he said simply.

"A lot of people don't like being touched. I sometimes forget myself when I'm focused. Know that I meant no harm. Please forgive me." His expression was open. Apologetic. But was it genuine or just another layer, that I didn't know.

"It's fine," I said.

"It was just… unexpected." He nodded, then glanced at my stitching.

"Let me show you something." He leaned in, careful not to crowd me and began to guide me through the process of aligning the fabrics more precisely. He explained the angle of the grain, the behavior of the seam under tension, the small shifts in needle position that made all the difference. I watched closely. I mimicked his technique. And the seam came together beautifully, smooth and clean like it had always belonged that way. It was frustrating, in a way, how easy he made it. How good he was at teaching.

This wasn't the man I'd fought. Whoever Shiroi was, this version of him was a damn good teacher. When the lesson ended, he simply thanked everyone for coming, invited us to the next session the following week and packed up his materials with quiet efficiency. Then he left, first out the door we'd all come through earlier. No dramatic farewell. No lingering glance. Here was a man who had once stood like a demon in the dark, with terrifying presence and now he folded fabric like it was sacred.

He smiled gently, corrected us with care and spoke of thread tension as if it held the secrets of the universe. He was living a double life, just like I was. It left a strange weight in my chest that I didn't know what to do with. As the other students filtered out, chatting about the lesson and promising to meet again next week, I lingered at my station, slowly folding my fabric scraps. I wrestled with the urge to pull out my phone and to call Phillip. But I didn't. Because I knew what it would mean.

If I called and something had happened I'd become a variable. A lead. Shiroi might not recognize me now, but if Phillip made a move and didn't survive it, he would trace it back. A new student joins. A man attacks. It wouldn't take much. And I wasn't ready for that. Not yet. This wasn't the time for recklessness. That had failed me once already. I would use him. I would learn everything I could. Study him the way he studied fabric. Understand how he moved, how he thought, how he taught.

Because this version of him, this Ken Kumomaru, was an opportunity. And once I had enough I would set a trap. Better than the last one. One he wouldn't see coming. I didn't know what it would look like yet, but I would figure it out. I had time. More than that, I had motive, I had will and for once, I had proximity. I gathered my materials slowly, slipping the sample fabrics into my bag with careful fingers. My thoughts were no longer racing, they were sharp. I need to understand my powers better.

That much was clear. That's what I'd focus on in the coming days. Starting with today. I would become the weapon he'd never see coming. One he would not be able to unravel.

It was almost 10 PM when I dragged the mirror into my room. Sophie had lent it to me without asking too many questions, just a raised eyebrow and a shrug when I muttered something about "visualizing proportions." It was taller than me and rimmed in chipped white paint. I angled it against my bookshelf, where the light from my desk lamp would fall across it just right. The yellow glow wasn't ideal for color precision, but I didn't care about accuracy. Not in that way. I turned on a playlist of ambient calm music.

Nothing with lyrics, just melody of pulled strings. I needed space in my head. I needed to forget about Shiroi. Then I undressed, down to just my pants. The rest had to go. Skin was canvas tonight. The paints were laid out on my bed. I'd tested some swatches earlier: grey, silver, white and a faint, pearlescent glaze that I hadn't figured out what to do with yet. I dipped my fingers into the cold grey first. It felt thick, slightly damp, with a grain to it like powdered stone in cream.

The first smear across my collarbone sent a shiver through me. Not from the temperature, though it was cool, but from something deeper. Like I was drawing the first line in a spell I didn't know the words to yet. I spread the grey layer slowly, working outward in broad, wide patches, over my shoulders, down my arms, across my chest. The coverage wasn't perfect, but I didn't want it to be. I worked methodically, like I did in class, but more intimate now, less about delicacy, more about control.

When I reached for the silver, I took a brush instead of fingers. The strokes this time were cleaner, sharper, lines over muscle, tracing natural seams and bones. I watched myself in the mirror, saw how each movement subtly shifted the shapes I'd laid down. My body was never still, not truly. Every breath, every flick of the wrist altered the canvas of me. The hard part came next: precision. I tried to draw the curve of a plate down my left arm using the reflection, but the mirror distorted everything.

My brain and hand argued. The moment I'd start a line, the angle would shift. My elbow would swing too far, or I'd twist wrong. I gave up after five minutes of that nonsense and started painting directly, looking at my own arm instead. It felt strange, turning my eyes inward like that, using my own skin like drafting paper. But it worked. I started to map the mechanics. On my biceps, I painted overlapping plates, each one shaded with a thin edge of white for shine.

Elbow joints got silver lines radiating outward like spokes. I traced lines down my ribs like cables or conduits, splitting them with faint glimmers to hint at depth. Everything was angular, sharp, not flowing like the vines I'd painted on Iris. This was armor. It had to be. Occasionally I would pause, step back and look at myself full-on. The mirror image was unnerving, somewhere between a battle-damaged android and an anatomy study from a future century. I didn't look like me anymore. But that was the point.

I wasn't just playing at dress-up. I was building a second skin. An exoskeleton. My back was a disaster. I tried to reach as much as I could, smearing grey first by hand then attempting a few broader strokes with a foam wedge glued to a stick. It felt ridiculous and I knew the results wouldn't be elegant, but I managed to cover most of it in jagged, sweeping arcs, like bulk armor plating. No detail, but the impression was there. The final touches went on my neck and face.

I added slashes of white across my cheekbones and temples, like visor brackets. A touch of silver on my jaw, mimicking a hinge. I made my eyes seem deeper by drawing thin shadows above the brows. And then I got to my feet. Literally. I sat down cross-legged on the floor and began on my legs and toes. I hadn't planned this part much, but my mind had been chewing on the idea for hours: armor that enhanced, but also expressed. Not just function, but identity. Not just protection, but power. So I made the feet strange.

I painted each toe in gleaming white and black, with extended tips like claws or grips. I added reinforced "joints" at the ankle with curved metal edges, but with elongated pads beneath the feet, softened with subtle blue-grey highlights. More animal than mechanical. I traced outlines up my shins in staggered verticals, like pistons. But the feet, yes, they ended looking a little too long, a little too round. Like something you'd see on a rabbit mech in a concept art piece. When it was all done, I stood.

The mirror caught me whole now. It was disorienting and uncanny. I looked like a machine built by an artist with a rebellious streak. An echo of something that hadn't existed until now. The lights caught the silver and sent it gleaming across my arms and chest. The feet felt heavier just from how I'd painted them. My breathing was shallow and every movement felt like it had purpose, even if that purpose was just awe. But it wasn't enough. I squatted with hands on my thighs and closed my eyes and called the power.

"Be the power armor," I whispered and my Authority answered with light. I reached inside, to that wellspring that had cracked open only days ago. My authority. My magic. It wasn't wild right now, it was patient, humming beneath the surface. I directed it, not out into the world, not into others, but inward. First, my fingertips tingled. Then my forearms. Then the sensation flowed outward in ripples, passing through the silver, the white, the black.

I felt each line activate, like a current rushing through hidden circuitry. My breath caught as warmth spread across my chest, my legs and my neck. The paint didn't move, but it felt alive now. Not metal, but it didn't have to be. It was an extension of will, of skill, of art. It would protect me when I needed it. Strengthen me. Make me faster, more durable, more aware. I opened my eyes and a shiver ran down my spine. A faint flicker of light along the collar—barely visible.

Just a spider silk cast adrift, shimmering with rainbow hues as it settled within me. I sat back while my heart was still racing and paint drying firm against skin. The scent of pigment and eucalyptus lingered in the air like incense. The room felt different now. Not just a bedroom anymore. It was a forge.