Riku

The night Riku learned the world could lie, the sky was perfectly clear. No thunder. No warning. Just the quiet hum of the city and the feeling—sharp and sudden—that something had shifted beneath her feet. She stood at the edge of the rooftop, wind tugging at her jacket, staring down at the lights below like scattered stars that had fallen and forgotten how to shine. Everything looked the same as it always had. Buildings. Streets. People moving through their lives like nothing was wrong. But Riku knew better. She had always known, in that deep, instinctive way that never came with proof. The way shadows lingered too long. The way silence sometimes felt crowded. The way her name echoed in places no one else could hear. Somewhere far below, a door closed. Somewhere much closer, something unseen stirred. Riku exhaled slowly, steadying herself. Whatever had been waiting all this time wasn’t hiding anymore—and whether the world was ready or not, she was done pretending she didn’t see it. This was the beginning. And beginnings, she had learned, were rarely gentle.