Cracks in the Porcelain

Masato sips his matcha and savours his yōkan - a red bean wagashi - and his nine lush tails brush slightly against the polished floor. Normally, he would have lifted his tails, detesting the idea of sweeping up mere specks of dust like common brooms. But today, he doesn’t care—the trivial concerns of other demons were brushed aside, now that another victory was secured at the courthouse.

Masato-san, you have proven yourself indispensable once again. He adjusts his tie in a smooth motion, and his calculating eyes of deep, iridescent blue flicker with a gleam of satisfaction. Who else could have turned the tides of fate today? Truly, Hell itself has no advocate as brilliant as I. He catches sight of himself in the glass of the front window—a tall vision in tailored pale blues, greens, and purples; his chest puffed slightly in a smug display. But perhaps his most noticeable feature is his usual smirk, perched like a daring crow on his lips. As he admires himself in the glass, he bares his sharp grey teeth and his reflection smiles back. This smile is both his armour and weapon—beautiful yet somehow unsettling, like watching sunlight dance on a knife’s blade. He then picks up a random newspaper from the nearby stand and reads it, as gossip is just as filling as wagashi and matcha. All the better that the story published on this paper is written by his gullible protege, Hikaru, who embraced every word Masato taught him as absolute truth.

But as Masato reads through the article, his pride begins to betray him. Phrases like “deadly precision” or “silencing threats” appear throughout, and were exactly the ones that he himself had thought about when justifying his own crimes in life. Even more, the descriptions of how the deceased demon eliminated their threats—from poisoning to manipulating others to do their dirty work—mirrored her methods too closely for coincidence.

Her.

Subtle cracks begin to form around the ceramic contours of his eyes and mouth. They resemble spiderwebs as they spread, the fissures stark against his otherwise immaculate facade.

“Shit! Shit, shit shit….” he curses under his breath. Fingers trembling more than he cares to admit, Masato turns away from his own fractured image and quickens his pace back to his house, without even thinking to finish or pay for his snack. Thankfully, his house is right across the street, though despite his obvious distress, the smile never leaves his face.

By the time Masato slams the front door, his breathing is erratic and shallow as he sinks to the floor. The cracks are more pronounced as they branch across his face and neck, emitting a faint sound, like the quiet tinkle of chipped porcelain.
Don't think about her. Not now, he commands himself, trying to shove the memories back into the recesses of his mind. Pressing his hands to his temples, his nails scratch at the cracks forming on his ceramic skin, but the pressure only deepens the fissures.

Despite his efforts, the memories and the painful Pathos that comes with them only surge forward. The initial image of her sweet smile morphs into a cold, disdainful sneer. The images that follow are more vivid - the lists with all the names of her victims, or ‘undesirables’ as she called them, all of which were like him, including children. More names appeared, this time of the subordinates who helped cover her tracks, and the ways she purged the ‘undesirables’, from suffocation to drowning. As the memory plays out, Masato’s tails increase in length and size, waving around wildly. Two of them wrap around his legs, forming a protective shield. And then, he hears her voice - her final words from that fateful night, dripping with malice.

“Oh, Masato, did you truly believe I could see a future with you? That any of us could? You, a half-breed bastard. No woman with any common sense, from Hokkaido to Kyūshū, would ever desire you.”

“Stop it! Stop it, stop it!” he screams, clenching his eyes shut. Save for the two tails wrapped around his legs, the others extend, striking the walls and floor. The rush of his tails and the loud strikes mirror the sensation of his hands around her neck.

Snap.

One strong, final strike on a wooden shutter perfectly resembles that gruesome crunching of bone. The tempestuous mental storm finally dies down, and his tails droop as he falls to his side, shaking uncontrollably. Masato’s ceramic skin cracks further, tiny shards falling like broken promises, resulting in an agonising wail. “She deserved it,” he growled under ragged gasps, but the conviction is hollow as he feels his smile faltering.

There is a knock at the door. He tries to rise and answer, but every movement is agonising as the cracks reveal holes in his skin. The door is unlocked, and in steps a short, pink and yellow imp in a short dress and an apron, her hand covering her mouth as she looks on in horror.

“Mabel?” He does not notice, but his smile finally slips. “What are you doing outside your bakery?”

“Never mind that, Mr. Masato! What happened to you?” Mabel rushes to his side, carefully gathering the shards of his skin in her apron pocket before placing her hand on his arm reassuringly. Masato’s breathing is shallow, his eyes distant. “The memories,” he murmurs, voice trembling in hopes that she wouldn’t hear. Mabel kneels beside him, her hands steady despite her concern. He can’t help but feel strangely warm, both from her touch and her welcoming presence. Each stroke soothes his jagged thoughts, and for a moment he forgets about the mental torment and the physical pain that comes with his broken skin.

She looks up, her voice frantic and her eyes wide with worry. “Is there anything I can do to help? I’m right here, just say the word…” However, he only squeezes her tiny hand.

“That’s very sweet of you, Mabel dear. But right now, your presence is enough.”