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iwasntstable · 8 months ago

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𝗡.𝗦. | 𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗧𝗢 𝗚𝗢 | 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗪𝗢 (ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ)

Series Summary: You knew the decision to follow your father into the so-called 'most dangerous Ward' was a dangerous one, but you had to do anything and everything possible to keep him alive. He's the only family you have left. Growing evermore reckless after the death of your mother and blinded by his lust for retribution, this decision is one that will alter the course of your life forever. And the life of a half-ghoul half-human who never thought he'd find himself entangled with the daughter of a former CCG Investigator.

NOWHERE TO GO is a multi-chapter story set in the Tokyo Ghoul universe, centring around Half-Ghoul!Noah and Human!Reader.

Chapter Content Tags: Graphic depictions of gore including: treatment of wounds, administration of stitches, blood, mentions of bruising, mentions of an attack. Depictions of anxiety.

Word Count: 6k.

Note: please be aware this story is set in the universe of Tokyo Ghoul, before the events of the manga and anime. it will, however, contain references to content found in the source material. specific content warnings will always be applied at the beginning of each chapter.

✶ [join the NOWHERE TO GO taglist.] ⓘ [GLOSSARY]

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CREDIT › image — 'Tokyo Ghoul:re - Chapter 54' - 石田スイ (Sui Ishida). › number divider — @saradika-graphics. › image edit — @iwasntstable (me). › star divider — @saradika-graphics. › short grey divider — @saradika-graphics. › Tokyo Ghoul — created by 石田スイ (Sui Ishida).

“We just keep running into each other,” he smiles that same smile that made your heart skip a beat in the café, but instead of giving you butterflies, this time it fills you with dread.

You say nothing, words failing you entirely. All you can do is stare. His wide brown eyes inspect you back just as closely. How could it be him? The kind man from the bookstore café that encouraged you and asked your name—the same man who was now stained with blood and tried to kill your father twice. Noah.

His eyes flit to your arm, then back to your face. “You’re injured,” he states calmly. The reminder of the wound causing it to sting and throb under your clothes. You press your hand to it defensively, a weak spot you wanted to defend. “Let me help?” He offers, hands raised with palms facing you.

“Why would you do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Once again, you’re lost for words. The answer to that question was so glaringly obvious, you almost couldn’t believe he asked it. “Look, I’ll call a friend here who’s better at stitching wounds than I am, and then you can leave. But in exchange, I’d like you to answer some of my questions.”

“Leave? You’re not… keeping me here?”

Confusion crosses his features. “What? No. I’m not kidnapping you or anything. You can leave whenever you want,” his expression softens. “You’re injured. I wasn’t just going to leave you bleeding in the street. I want to help, and I want to talk.”

You mull over your options in your mind. There’s no way you could run, not with your current injuries, and fighting your way out without a weapon is out of the question too. He said you could leave, but you’re not sure if you believe that. What could a ghoul possibly stand to gain from letting a human live?

Noah notices your hesitation, opens the front door, and steps aside. “Go. This isn’t a trick. I’m not going to chase you down. I only want to help and ask you my questions. I’m sure you must have questions for me too.”

He was right. A million questions raced in your mind—so many you didn’t even know which to prioritise. And you didn’t know how much longer you could stay on your feet before your legs buckled again. “Okay,” you concede.

Noah nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m going to text my friend, okay? He’ll be able to take a look at your arm. His name is Nick.” He pulls his phone from his pocket, no idea how it survived the skirmish in the alley. You eye it cautiously, that uneasy feeling in your bruised stomach telling you this was still some kind of trap. “Just one person,” Noah reassures. “Nobody else.”

You nod, though you have no way of knowing you could trust him, and he types out a message, slipping his phone away again once he’d hit send. He closes the front door again, leaving it unlocked, then crosses the room towards the couch with wide strides, pulling the plastic sheet from the furniture and screwing it into a ball to toss it into the corner. “Sit, if you’d like.”

You didn’t trust him, but you had to take your weight off your feet. You allow yourself to hold onto the back of the couch for support as you move around the couch, lowering yourself carefully, every fibre of your body protesting every miniscule movement. With the strain finally off your body, you feel immediate relief, but though you were sitting, your breath still felt laboured. Fatigue moved in like a dense fog.

“There’s no food here, but can I get you some water?” Noah asks, standing several paces away from you. You nod, too tired to speak and knowing refusing his offer would only serve to worsen your condition.

He moves to the kitchen, shedding his jacket and draping it over the back of a chair, those tattooed arms you’d noticed in the café on full display in his t-shirt. He opens a couple of cupboards before finally finding one with a glass inside. The kitchen was just as empty as the front room, a basic wooden table with two chairs, and a couple of appliances on the counters. He rinses the glass in the sink, then brings it full of water over to you, handing it over carefully. You try to stifle the tremor in your hand when you reach out to take it.

“Do you mind if I sit too?” He asked as you took a large mouthful.

His politeness confused you. Why was a creature so violent and dangerous being so courteous and respectful? You didn’t understand his motivations; what could he possibly stand to gain? Despite your doubts, you nod again, gesturing to the space beside you.

He takes the spot next to you, angled to face you. “Can I see your arm?” He asks.

With nothing to lose—except probably your life—you take another sip of the water, place the glass on the ground, and pop the buttons of your jacket with your good hand, shrugging the garment off and cautiously pulling it down your injured arm. As the fabric descends, it reveals your entire arm is stained red with blood right down to your fingertips. You’d assumed that was from the wounds on your hands.

The cut itself was long; you couldn’t see exactly how long from the angle, but it appeared to be around four inches in length, starting towards the front of your bicep and twisting downwards around the side towards your elbow. The deepest part was definitely at the centre of the wound; your arm did nothing to block the path of the ukaku ghouls’s shards as it sliced right through you like a hot knife to butter.

“It’s quite deep,” Noah said as he peered closer without touching. “I’d say I’m surprised you’re not more injured, but I’ve seen you fight,” he said, looking up, and his eyes met yours, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” You ask, dumbfounded.

“Something like that,” he chuckled to himself, lowering his head. When he looks back up, his gaze lingers on your neck. “I’m sorry I let that guy grab you. I didn’t think he had anything left in him. That was my mistake.” He reaches out like he’s going to brush your hair away from your shoulder and get a closer look, but hesitates before he can touch you, pulling his hand back to his lap.

He seemed almost shy. A far cry from the monster that tore a man’s throat out with his teeth right in front of your eyes. You couldn’t deny the urge to trust him was growing. His tousled brown hair and respectful demeanour brought you right back to when you served him in the café, his soft laugh when you thanked him for ordering an easy coffee—the kind of person you’d be happy spending time with, someone you wanted to get to know better. But that image in your mind was swiftly replaced by the figure from your nightmare. His silhouette looming over you before he chooses whether you live or die. Despite his mask, he was still covered in blood.

A rapid knock on the door breaks your train of thought. Turning to look over your shoulder, a man with long, wavy, dark hair carrying a duffle bag steps into the apartment. Noah stands, approaching the man and patting him on the shoulder in a half embrace. “This is Nick. You have both met before,” Noah introduces his friend, stepping behind him to close the door.

“I don’t think I could forget,” he laughed. “You really carved me up on the bridge. I was limping all the way back.” The bikaku ghoul.

You followed him with your eyes as he walked further into the room, rounding the couch to sit next to you in the place Noah was, resting the bag between his feet. “That looks nasty... Ukaku, yeah?” he remarks as he gets a look at the laceration. You nod while he inspects the area. “Deep too. Any other injuries?” He asks as he leans down to unzip the bag.

“No,” you say quietly as he rummages, pulling out a pristine white case and several packages of gauze pads, resting them on his knees.

“I can stitch this for you. Luckily, it’s a clean cut. It should heal well if you look after it,” he says, meeting your intense gaze with softness, offering a smile. You couldn’t understand how this was the same man that struck you in the middle and sent you skidding across the bridge.

“Why would you help me?” you ask, unable to contain the disbelief.

“Because you need it. Or, can you stitch this yourself?” He smirks with a joking tone. You laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Two ghouls that want to help you and not kill you. With a shake of your head, you hold your arm out for Nick to work on. “Okay,” he pats the objects on his lap. “I’ll wash my hands, sterilise the area, then get started. I have some pain relief medication that might make it easier.” You shake your head ‘no’, still not trusting the pair and definitely not trusting any medication they claim would help.

“Consider it,” Noah says from the kitchen, where he was crouched down rummaging through the cupboards. “You did get pretty beat up last night too.”

“Sorry about that, by the way,” Nick says, pushing his hair out of his face as he stands and heads for the sink. “What are you looking for?” He asks Noah, scraping his hair all the way back and securing it into a bun.

“I swear we had coffee in this place. Did Folio take it again?”

“It’s right there by the microwave,” Nick nods in the direction from the sink, and Noah takes the tin, grasping it firmly in hand with a wide smile on his face.

“What would I do without you?” He claps Nick on the shoulder as he passes him in the small space to retrieve a saucepan, filling it with water after Nick steps away from the sink to come back to you. Through the tear in the bottom of Noah’s shirt made by his kagune, you notice a hint of ink on his lower back too.

“That packet there, can you tear it open?” he asks, nodding again towards his bag, hands dripping water on his knees. The package was a sterile towel. You rip the plastic, careful not to touch the cloth with your bloodied and dirtied hands, and hold it out for Nick to take and dry his hands with. Once dry, he reaches into the bag and pulls out a pair of blue latex gloves, snapping them on securely. “Alright, I’ll clean the area a little first. It’s gonna sting,” he warns, the conversation ringing eerily similar to the one you had with your father when he crashed in through the front door two nights ago. He unscrews the cap on the bottle and soaks a gauze pad with the brown liquid. “Let us know if you change your mind about the meds,” he says before dabbing the pad lightly onto the wound.

He was right; the sting was bad. Gritting your teeth against the burn, you try not to move or flinch away from the pain. As a welcome distraction, the warm aroma of coffee fills the air. You look over to Noah in the kitchen, pouring the water boiled from the stove into three mugs. He brings them over carefully and sets them down on the empty floor, sitting cross-legged opposite the couch.

“So, what are your questions?” You ask him, anxious to get this over with.

His eyes move from where Nick is working on your wound to your face. He takes one of the mugs, leaning forward to place it by Nick’s feet, then takes the third and holds it out, the handle facing you. You hesitate for a moment, but decide against your better judgement. The fatigue was worsening, and you needed to try to stay as alert as possible.

“Why is the CCG moving in on this area?” He asks when he settles back down, taking his own cup and resting it in his lap.

You blink rapidly in confusion, “I didn’t know they were.”

“You’ve been assigned to this area, though?”

“No,” you clarify. “I don’t work for the CCG, and neither does my dad. Not anymore at least.” You take a sip of the black coffee, relishing in the way the liquid warms your aching insides. The flavourful bitterness is a welcome taste on your tongue.

“How do you have quinque weapons if you’re not Investigators?” A crease was prominent in his brow.

“My dad stole them. One is his, the other was my mother’s.”

The sting intensified in your arm as Nick cleaned the deepest part of the wound. You shifted uncomfortably in an attempt to distract yourself.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Almost done with this part.”

“What was the medication you had?” You ask as you scrunch your face up in pain. Maybe it would be a good idea to accept pain relief. Maybe it would work to soothe the rest of your body too.

“It’s just standard over-the-counter stuff from the pharmacy, right?” Noah asks Nick, kneeling forward to rummage through the bag.

“Yeah. Front pocket,” he replies without looking up.

Fishing through the material, Noah retrieves a familiar branded package of painkillers. He holds it up and nods towards you, asking silently if you wanted to take it. You nod and place the mug of coffee momentarily between your knees as Noah pulls a blister strip from the box. He pops two from the packaging and hands them over into your open palm.

“Your hands got fucked up too,” he mentions while you throw the pills into your mouth. Chasing them down with a sip of coffee.

“That happened yesterday,” you say, holding out your palm in front of you to inspect the damage. The reopened small abrasions were visible under a layer of dirt and blood.

“I can clean those up for you too after this,” Nick says, putting a gauze pad aside to click open the white case. He takes out a sterile needle from its packaging and threads it with the suture wire with ease. Nothing like your shaky hands. “Okay. Ready?” He asks. You nod, taking another mouthful of coffee, really wishing it were laced with a shot of something stronger.

The pull of the needle through your skin wasn’t as bad as you expected it to be. A slight scratchy-burning sensation as he weaved the needle in and out of your flesh, looping the thread around itself and pulling firmly to secure the two sides of the wound closed.

“How did your dad steal three quinques from the CCG?” Noah continued his line of questioning. You had to be honest; it was a welcome distraction. Even if the subject matter wasn’t exactly pleasant.

“He worked there for a decade. When my mother died and they forced him into retirement, he took a bunch of files along with the quinques. I think everyone respected him too much to argue with a grieving man.”

Noah nodded, deep in thought. He sipped his coffee before continuing. “Why are you here?”

“My father is looking for someone,” you bite the inside of your cheek.

“Who?”

“A ghoul.”

“Who?” Noah persists. You sigh, closing your eyes. How much information was too much information? “Look, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. We, my friends and I, keep track of all the ghouls in the 13th Ward and all the Doves. "When two doves move in, we want to know why, for the safety of everyone here.”

“Why?” Was your turn to ask. Was this guy some kind of mafia boss? You don’t miss the glance Nick takes from your arm towards Noah.

He takes another sip of coffee. “Innocents get hurt when the wrong people, or the wrong ghouls, are in charge.”

“And you’re the right people? Or, the right ghouls?” You question.

“I’d like to think we are.”

You nod thoughtfully, bringing your mug to your lips.

“Answer me this, at least,” he poses, “are we the ghouls your father is after?”

You shake your head; that face reappears in your mind. “No.”

The room falls silent, a surprisingly comfortable silence as Nick works diligently at your wound. He was almost halfway done now.

“So, what is this place anyway?” You ask, looking around the almost empty room.

“One of our safehouses. We have a lot spread out over the Ward,” Noah clarifies simply.

“One of? How many do you have?” Maybe this guy was a mafia boss after all...

He chuckles under his breath and fiddles with the mug in his hands. “A few. We let ghouls that have nowhere else to go live in them mostly. Or use them ourselves.”

“So, you’re housing the homeless when you’re not ripping people’s throats out with your teeth?” You question sarcastically.

“Did you really do that, dude?” Nick’s hands pause, and he looks up at Noah, amused disgust on his face.

“What was I supposed to do?” He gestures with one hand, eyebrows raised in defence, “just let that ghoul eat you? He wasn’t even supposed to be in this area, anyway.”

Nick shakes his head, a small piece of hair falling free from his bun by the side of his head, and continues stitching your arm. “Who was it?”

“The guy we caught like, four months ago, I think. Shame he didn’t take us up on our offer,” he sighs, sipping his coffee again.

“What offer?” You look between the two.

“We explained we’d be more than happy to get him the food he needs to survive, but in exchange, he couldn’t hunt around here anymore. He wasn’t a fan,” Noah explains.

“Yeah, flipped our table and smashed a window on the way out. Fuck that guy.”

“So housing and feeding the homeless, you’re real philanthropists,” you laugh, sipping from your mug. Until the realisation hits you exactly what kind of food these guys were talking about. This wasn’t a group of good samaritans cooking extra meals in their kitchens to hand out on the streets to those in need. They were feeding ghouls. They were ghouls. You had to remember where you were; remember not to get lulled into a false sense of security, no matter how easy and casual the conversation may be.

“So,” Noah breaks your train of thought, “if you don’t mind me asking, if it’s your father that’s looking for a ghoul here, why did you come too?”

You lower your eyes to your lap and pick at the rim of the ceramic mug. That’s a question you've been asking yourself a lot these past few days. “He’s my dad,” you say quietly with a shrug, regretting it when the cut in your arm stings. “I can’t just leave him alone. He’s all I have.”

Noah nods. “I understand that.”

“Last three, then this is done.” You look down at your arm, and in place of the gaping wound was a neat line of stitches, way neater than anything you’d ever done on your father and definitely neater than what you could’ve done on yourself.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “I really appreciate this.”

“You’re welcome,” Nick smiles up at you as he ties off the final stitch. “Noah, can you get out some more gauze pads so I can fix her hands?"

He wordlessly places his mug down and kneels in front of the bag, rummaging through to find what Nick needs. “These ones?” He asks, holding up some packages.

“Yeah, and can you get- Can I see your hands for a sec?” He asks as he takes a pair of scissors from the white case and snips the suture. You turn your hands over and get a good look at the state of your palms. Nick takes them gently and angles them this way and that. "Yeah, it’s just scrapes, not too bad. We can just clean and bandage them. Can you get the roll of white gauze, the bigger brown roll, and the tape? Oh, and a large plaster.”

Noah rummages for the items, tearing open the packages and setting them in the white case within arms reach for Nick. "Thanks, dude,” he says, reaching down for his mug of coffee that must be lukewarm by now. Regardless, he takes three big gulps, then sets it back on the floor. First, he applies the plaster over the freshly stitched wound, then he rips open a gauze pad, soaks it with antiseptic, and meets your eyes. “Ready?”

“Go for it,” you reply. He’ll probably do a better job cleaning the scrapes than you did in the shower earlier. The sting of the antiseptic makes your eyes water, but you grit your teeth and bear it.

Noah hadn’t moved from where he shuffled closer. Watching attentively as the dirt and blood are cleaned away. You can’t help but look at his tattoos now that he was so close. A red and black, Japanese traditional-style sleeve on one arm, waves and something that appeared to be a fish, and black and grey work on the other. From this angle, you could see a bird with arrows through it and leaves, all part of another larger sleeve that you couldn’t see because of his shirt. Then there were the ones you saw when you first met him—the intricate patterns on his hands and the snake on his neck. You realise the piece on his throat is a scene from Genesis. A hand reaching for the apple with the serpent coiled around. They were all beautiful, you thought, and they suited him well.

“How many of you are there?” You ask almost absentmindedly.

His eyes locked onto yours for a moment, his gaze making your heart race, and you desperately wished it would stop. He was a ghoul; he could probably hear it. “Four of us, mainly. There are others, but most of the work is us four.”

You nod at his answer—the four of them on the bridge. It made sense. You wondered if the others were just as friendly as these two. Or, if this was all still an act.

“You were limping before. Is your leg injured?” Noah asked, something that appeared to be genuine concern etched onto his features.

“Oh,” you say, looking down at the hip in question. “That happened last night too. It’s just bruised. It’s fine.” His concern was almost endearing, despite his group being responsible for the injuries. “Wait,” you frown, looking up at him. “When did you see me limping?”

“Followed you,” he says plainly, throwing back the last of his coffee. You stare at him with wide eyes, Nick continuing to clean up your hands. Apparently you’re the only one in the room that finds being followed weird. “What?” He says, equally shocked. “I thought you were a CCG Investigator on a mission to kill us all! Can you blame me?”

You shake your head in disbelief. You can’t blame him, really. If your dad could get out of bed, he’d probably be following some random ghouls around the Ward right now.

Nick tossed the gauze pad off to the side and wiped off his hands on the towel, then took a fresh pad and pressed it against your palm, tore off pieces of tape, and pressed them on securely to hold it tight to the wounded area. He takes the roll of white gauze and wraps it securely around the gauze pad, up your wrist and down towards your fingers, then does the same with the thicker brown dressing, wrapping it tight to protect the whole thing from the outside and keep it sterile. You flex your fingers when he’s done, finding your range of movement fine.

“Ready for the next one?” He asks. You simply nod and twist towards him in your seat to hold your other palm out.

“How is your father? If you don’t mind me asking,” Noah says softly.

“He’s alive,” you study his face, and he seems to genuinely care. “He’s pretty beat up, but I think he’ll be fine. If he gives himself time to heal, which I’m not sure he will.”

“He’s a hell of a fighter,” Nick comments.

“He’s retired. He should be on a beach somewhere drinking too much liquor.”

Noah chuckles under his breath and collects his cup, then looks at yours. “Do you want another?”

“No, I’m good, thank you,” you hold out the mug for him to take. He stands from the floor with ease and heads off into the kitchen to rinse them out in the sink. You can’t stop staring. A ghoul doing the washing up.

“We really are just trying to protect what we have here, you know,” Nick says as he wraps your hand. “We don’t usually go around picking fights.”

You turn your face to look at him. A ghoul tending to the wounds of a human. “Unlike my father,” you sigh. A moment of silence fills the room, filled only by the sound of running water and the occasional clinking of ceramic. “I’m sorry that he’s causing so much trouble. I keep trying to tell him, but he doesn’t listen. It’s like I can’t get through to him.”

“He’ll listen,” Nick reassures, taping down the last of the bandage. “You’re his daughter.”

You pull your hand back to your lap when he’s finished as he snaps off the latex gloves, flexing both hands and finding they immediately feel better.

Noah comes back into the front room, wiping his hands on his legs to dry them. “Are you sure you don’t have any other injuries? Anything else we can do to help?”

“No. No, I'm sure. I need to go back anyway. Check on my dad.”

“Of course. I’ll walk you there,” Noah says.

You stand on still shaky legs from the couch. “No, you don’t need to do that-”

“It’s late,” he interjects. “I know you might not believe it, but there are worse things out there than us.”

“Don’t forget this,” Nick says, standing to cross the room, opening the door, and picking up a plastic bag from the other side.

“Is that- my groceries?” You ask. Nick just smiles and hands the bag to Noah, who holds it out to you with an outstretched arm. Your hand twitches by your sides, but the movement hesitates; ever present in the back of your mind is the true nature of these men.

"Look, I know I look scary, but I wouldn't hurt a fly. You don't have to worry," Noah reassures.

Nick leans over with a whisper, "you literally killed a man like, an hour ago."

"I didn't say anything about hurting men. I said I wouldn't hurt a fly... That much is true."

“You almost killed me on the bridge,” you counter.

“But I didn’t,” he says with a cheeky smile. You couldn’t wrap your head around how this casual conversation was happening right now.

Nick looks between you and Noah and claps his hands. “Well, I’m gonna go! It was nice meeting you properly. You know, not trying to kill each other.” He collects the trash in a plastic bag, ties it off, and throws it into the duffle, along with the white case full of first aid supplies. Slinging it over his shoulder, he pats Noah on the shoulder and says, “See you later, dude.”

“Yeah, see you.”

“Thank you again,” you say quickly. “And it was nice to properly meet you too.”

He smiles, and with a wave, he was gone through the front door. Noah was right; it wasn’t a trap. They really did want to help. You take your jacket from the couch and cautiously slip it on, careful not to twist your arm in a way that would pull the fresh stitches.

“I’ll carry this for you,” Noah says, holding up the bag. “So you don’t mess up your hands.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say, trying to hide the heat you could feel creeping up on your cheeks.

The air was significantly colder when you stepped outside. Wrapping your arms tight around you, you couldn’t help but glance around at your surroundings. The streets were just as empty as earlier, and you could feel the anxiety creeping up on you again at the idea of being completely alone with a ghoul.

“You ready?” Noah asks, standing a couple of paces ahead of you. You nod silently and catch up to him. You fall into step beside him as you walk; the only sound was the wind whistling through the streets and the grocery bag rustling by Noah’s side.

Your mind wouldn’t stop racing; one question that you didn’t ask him was bouncing around in your brain until you just had to speak. “You let us live. On the bridge.”

“I did.”

“Why?” You ask.

“We don’t kill innocent people.”

“But you kill humans.”

“Out of necessity. And only people that deserve it. There’s no shortage of bad types here.”

“Who are you to decide that?” Your words echo those of the ghoul’s from earlier in the night.

“So the man who was following you home with a knife in his pocket should’ve lived?”

“The- What?”

Noah stops in his tracks and takes a deep breath. “I recognised you at the bookstore cafe. I saw you move in and recognised your father’s scent on you from when he trespassed into our territory. So, I waited for you to leave after your shift. I intended on following you home that night to gather information on your father,” he speaks clearly and plainly. “Like I said before, I keep track of all the Doves in the Ward, and I wanted to know his intentions. Turns out someone else had the same idea. You didn’t even see him behind you, but he pulled a knife out of his pocket and picked up his pace when you reached the outskirts of town. And I stopped him.”

The crash down the alley. You thought it was cats. “You killed him.”

“I did.”

“You saved me.”

“I did.”

“Why would you save me?” The wind whipped around you both, causing you to shiver and wrap your arms around yourself tighter. You realised that Noah never put his own coat back on but showed no signs of being bothered by the cold. “If you recognised me then, you knew I had connections to a CCG Investigator, why would you save me?”

He’s quiet for a moment, deep in thought, before answering, “I don’t know,” then continuing to walk.

You’re both quiet for a while. The silence is comfortable despite the heavy subject matter. “Thank you,” you say quietly. He looks down at you expectantly. “Thank you for saving me. And thank you for letting us live on the bridge.”

Noah nods in understanding.

He’s helped you so far, hasn’t judged you or belittled you. Maybe you really could trust him. “My father, he’s… tracking the ghoul that killed my mother. He thinks he’s here, in the 13th.” You’re silent for a moment as you continue to walk. “I don’t know if he’s right.” You run a hand over your face. “I don’t know if it even matters to him. He’s hellbent on killing every ghoul he can get his weapon on.”

“What do you want?” Noah asks.

“I want my dad back,” you sigh.

You continue to walk. Passing quickly by the alleyway that you almost died in mere hours ago, the only evidence of the fight was the pool of blood left in the street and the mangled dumpster in the mouth of the alley.

“What does he have so far? On the ghoul that killed your mother,” Noah breaks the silence.

“A physical description. He was there, he watched it happen. He has sketches all over his fucking wall,” you spit with a bitter laugh.

“Can you get one for me?” He asks. You cock your head to the side, wondering why he would want an image of the ghoul your father was tracking. “I keep track of every ghoul in the Ward, remember? If he’s local, I’ll know him.”

“What, do you- do you want to help?”

“Maybe if we can find the right guy, let your father get his revenge, he’ll come to his senses again?”

“I don’t know,” you say with a weary sigh. “I don’t know if it’ll be enough for him.” The apartment building was in view, and from the street, you could see no lights were on on your floor. “I’ll get you a sketch. Wait here,” you say as you approach the front door.

Noah nods, hands over the plastic grocery bag, and waits several paces away from the front door.

When you shove the door open and get inside, the first thing you see in the darkness were the covers you’d given your father from your bed to keep him warm enough in the night, left in a heap on the end of the couch. Immediately you’re irritated. He couldn’t even put them back in your room, the room next door to his.

You squeeze past the couch, leave the groceries on the couch, and crack open his bedroom door, finding him, still breathing, asleep on his side with his back to the door. An empty tin of soup sat on his bedside table. Most likely eaten unheated and straight out of the tin. You close your eyes and sigh deeply, shaking your head and closing the door on the way out.

Stopping off in his office, you stare at his investigation board. Articles and scrawled notes connected with red string pulled straight from the mind of a madman. You find a sketch of that face tacked off to the side and hope he won’t notice its absence. Squeezing past the couch on the way out and pulling the door closed again on its wonky hinges.

Noah is exactly where you left him, though he was standing with his back to the apartment entrance, looking out into the dimly lit empty streets.

“You’ve had dealings with him before, I think. I read a news report on my dad’s desk. Something about him trespassing into your area,” you take one last look at the grotesque face before handing the sketch over to Noah. “This is what he looks like.”

His brown eyes scan the paper before speaking, his tone laced with disdain. “Yeah. We know this guy.”

“Is he here then?”

“Yeah,” Noah nods. “We’ve had some leads on where he’s operating out of. We were going there tomorrow actually, to scope the place out,” he scans the page one more time before looking back at you. “Come with us.”

“Wait, You- Why would you want me there?”

“If you see him for yourself, you’ll know we aren’t lying,” he says sincerely. You hesitate, mulling over the idea of spending more time with this man- this ghoul. “We’ll just be watching from a distance. Besides, the sooner we track him down and deal with him, the sooner you can take your dad back home, right?”

“Yeah, I suppose,” you concede.

“You don’t have to come, but think about it. I’ll come by tomorrow around 10pm, and we can talk more then.”

“Okay,” you nod. Maybe you could get these ghouls to kill Malice; maybe then your father would decide to go back to the 2nd Ward.

Noah nods and turns, hands in his pockets, calling, “See you tomorrow,” over his shoulder.

“Noah!” You call after him as he walks away. “Do you really think you can kill this guy?”

“It doesn’t matter if your father kills him or I do. The ghoul that killed your mother is going to die.”

PREV　/　NEXT [coming soon..]

Ending Notes: I realised my taglist link was wrong so you might wanna check you've liked the correct post (linked at the top) if you want to be updated! 🖤 A glossary has also been added explaining terms if you need it!

➤ 𝗣𝗢𝗣𝗨𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 (34) :

⌞1𝗌𝗍 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖢𝖧𝖨𝖸𝖮𝖣𝖠⌝ ‣ @somebodyels3 ‣ @fadingangelwisp ‣ @english-fucker ‣ @missduffsblog ‣ @amelia-acero

⌞2𝗇𝖽 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖢𝖧𝖴𝖮⌝ ‣ @fadingintothegrey ‣ @babygirlchuuya ‣ @bluebird19 ‣ @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard ‣ @lil-garbitch

⌞3𝗋𝖽 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖬𝖨𝖭𝖠𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @thisbicc ‣ @clingylittlebun-blog ‣ @queen-foraday ‣ @astridwesson ‣ @dethroneackerman

⌞4𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖲𝖧𝖨𝖭𝖩𝖴𝖪𝖴⌝ ‣ @blairboo ‣ @themorticians-world ‣ @comforting-madness ‣ @savaneafricaine ‣ @tosoundlessdarkistare

⌞5𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖡𝖴𝖭𝖪𝖸𝖮⌝ ‣ @aubrey-melinoe ‣ @badomensls ‣ @theaudraeymarie ‣ @psychomaniacmind ‣ @stardust-and-starlight

⌞6𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖳𝖠𝖨𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @looney-goose ‣ @sadbitchenergy ‣ @friedchildblaze ‣ @touyas-princess ‣ @strltsaiuki

⌞7𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖲𝖴𝖬𝖨𝖣𝖠⌝ ‣ @lovesick-evangelist ‣ @sanekiii ‣ @dravenskye ‣ @minah2020 ‣ @rumoured-whispers

⌞7𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖪𝖮𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @1crushed1 ‣ @thewrstinme ‣ @theskyislonely

#noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian fanfiction #C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/SERIES/NTG

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iwasntstable · 9 months ago

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𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗧𝗢 𝗚𝗢 | 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

I'm opening a taglist for my multi-chapter Half-Ghoul!Noah x Human!Reader Tokyo Ghoul AU! If you're interested in being tagged in new chapters when they're uploaded, like this post.

　　✶ [WHAT IS NOWHERE TO GO?]

— If at any point you'd like to be removed, send me a message, an ask or you can reply to this post and I'll remove you.

　‼ NOTE : Please make sure you have your mentions turned on in blog settings. Let me know if you change your username too so I can update the list.

#noah sebastian #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian smut #bad omens #bad omens cult #C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/SERIES/NTG #C:/SYSTEM/FILE/NTG-TAGLIST #C:/SYSTEM/FILE/TAGLIST #<file;type=system-nav/>

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iwasntstable · 9 months ago

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𝗡.𝗦. | 𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗧𝗢 𝗚𝗢 | 𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗫

誰かが描いた世界の中で　あなたを傷つけたくないよ In this world that someone created I don’t want to hurt you

覚えていて　僕のことを　鮮やかなまま Remember how I bright I was (before all this)

Summary: You knew the decision to follow your father into the so-called 'most dangerous Ward' was a dangerous one, but you had to do anything and everything possible to keep him alive. He's the only family you have left. Growing evermore reckless after the death of your mother and blinded by his lust for retribution, this decision is one that will alter the course of your life forever. And the life of a half-ghoul half-human who never thought he'd find himself entangled with the daughter of a former CCG Investigator.

NOWHERE TO GO is a multi-chapter story set in the Tokyo Ghoul universe, centring around Half-Ghoul!Noah and Human!Reader.

General Content Tags: graphic depictions of violence and gore, death, cannibalism, angst, fluff, smut.

Note: Please be aware this story is set in the universe of Tokyo Ghoul, before the events of the manga and anime. It will, however, contain references to content found in the source material. Specific content warnings will be applied at the beginning of each chapter.

✶ [join the NOWHERE TO GO taglist.]

ⓘ [GLOSSARY] — Haven't seen/read Tokyo Ghoul but want to read NTG? I have a glossary of terms that should help you! If you think anything should be added or need something explaining further, let me know!

𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗫; 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘦_𝘰𝘯𝘦 / 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘦_𝘵𝘸𝘰 / 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘦 / 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘸𝘰 - 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦 / 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘸𝘰 - 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 [𝖢𝖮𝖬𝖨𝖭𝖦 𝖲𝖮𝖮𝖭] / —— / —— / —— / —— / —— / —— / —— / —— / —— / —— / —— / —— / —— / —— / —— / —— / ➔𝐢𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞➔➔　𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦!+　　[𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝐀𝐎𝟯]

† please note;　　this story will contain scenes of fantasy violence and gore throughout, and will contain nsfw scenes. this story will also broach sensitive topics and contain darker themes. you are responsible for what you consume on the internet, reader discretion advised.

CREDIT › image — 'Tokyo Ghoul:re - Chapter 54' - 石田スイ (Sui Ishida). › image edit — @iwasntstable (me). › star divider — @saradika-graphics. › lyrics — 'unravel' by TK (北嶋徹 / Toru Kitajima). › lyrics translation — yumehokori on wordpress - source. › Tokyo Ghoul — created by 石田スイ (Sui Ishida).

#C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/SERIES/NTG #<file;type=system-nav/>

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iwasntstable · 8 months ago

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𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗧𝗢 𝗚𝗢 | 𝗚𝗟𝗢𝗦𝗦𝗔𝗥𝗬

🗀 C:/.../MYWORK/SERIES/NOWHERETOGO/GLOSSARY [contents] ﹂ Ghouls | The CCG | Wards

ⓘ A COHESIVE GLOSSARY OF TERMS TO HELP YOU READ 𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗧𝗢 𝗚𝗢. THIS INFORMATION PAGE WILL CONTAIN NO SPOILERS FOR THE MANGA, ANIME, OR NTG, AND SHOULD SAVE YOU FROM SEEING SPOILERS ON THE WIKI.

　+[MSG : If you have any further questions, let me know and I'll help! Thank you for reading!]

☰ 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗦

• GHOULS ﹂ What is a Ghoul? ﹂ Ghoul Terms ﹂ Ghoul Types ﹂ Ghoul Lifestyle

• THE CCG (COMMISSION OF COUNTER GHOUL) ﹂ Who are the CCG? ﹂ CCG Investigator Terms ﹂ CCG Investigator Ranks

• WARDS ﹂ What is a Ward? NOTABLE WARDS ﹂ The 2nd Ward ﹂ The 13th Ward

❯ 𝗚𝗛𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗦

What is a Ghoul?

Ghouls (喰種グール, gūru, translates approximately to eater species) are a carnivorous and cannibalistic humanoid species that are only able to feed on the flesh of humans and other ghouls. They normally share and display the same attributes as Humans; being similar in physical appearance and intelligence as a human, with the main exceptions being their inner biology, mentality, and diet.

Due to their status as predators of humans, ghouls are prosecuted by The CCG (Commission of Counter Ghoul).

DIET A ghoul can only feed on humans and other ghouls. They are unable to digest any other type of food due to a particular enzyme their bodies produce. The structure of their tongues is also different from that of humans, making other foods taste disgusting and uncomfortable. If ghouls attempt to eat normal food, they will be struck by a powerful urge to vomit. When forced or forcing themselves to digest such food, their physical condition will deteriorate. While ghouls cannot eat normal food, they are however able to drink coffee (and eat the beans), as well as regular drinking water.

Ghouls do not need to eat regularly like humans do. They can survive for one or two months on just one body. However, some ghouls eat merely for pleasure.

When a ghoul enters an extreme state of hunger, they will suffer very painful headaches and their mental ability will be impaired, causing them to become driven by instinct alone. They will feed on any available source of human meat to end this state. Ghouls have described this state of near-starvation as, "hell for any ghoul".

[TL;DR — Ghouls eat humans and other ghouls. They can't eat normal human food or they'll feel immediately sick, but they can drink coffee, eat coffee beans, and drink water. Ghouls can survive on one human for one or two months, though extreme hunger is agonising.]

GHOUL BIOLOGY Ghouls possess extreme physical capabilities, and are four to seven times stronger than the average human; they are able to send the average human flying if struck with enough force, and can penetrate a human's body with their bare hands. Ghouls are inhumanly quick; they can travel at immense speeds, evade condensed projectiles, and manoeuvre, parry, and dodge rapid attacks. They are also capable of jumping to heights not achievable by a regular human. Their agility and balance are similarly great; they're often shown performing various acrobatic feats during combat and casually manoeuvring on narrow surfaces (such as lamp-posts); some are even shown easily running up or across vertical surfaces.

Their bodies are extremely tough and resistant to injury. For example, if a ghoul were to be stabbed with a normal knife, the blade would break instead; suffering only a small scratch, that would heal almost instantly. However, higher kinetic forces, such as a fall from a great height, can and will harm them.

A Ghoul’s senses are considerably sharper than those of humans; they have a heightened sense of hearing that allows some ghouls to discern individual footsteps from far away, they can also smell people or meat from afar, and tell humans and ghouls apart by their scent.

[TL;DR — Ghouls are significantly stronger than humans, and inhumanely quick, have superior balance and agility, and are extremely tough and resistant to injury. Regular weapons do minimal harm to them (if they were to be stabbed by a knife, the knife would break), and all injuries heal almost instantly. A fall from a significant height would damage them though. They also have heightened senses of smell and hearing.]

Ghoul Terms

RC CELLS Rc (Red Children) cells (Rc細胞, Rc saibō) are certain cells that exist only in the story of Tokyo Ghoul. The origin of the name comes from how each individual cell looks like a curled up fetus. They exist in both humans and ghouls. They flow like blood but can become as solid as teeth, and could be called "liquid muscles". Typically, a ghoul stocks Rc cells by eating people. Within the body, the Rc cells are concentrated and stored in a kakuhou. The kagune is formed by Rc cells that have been released from a kakuhou and have pierced through the skin.

The Rc factor is a measure for the amount of Rc cells in the body of a living being. Ghouls have an "Rc factor" ten times higher than humans. If, for whatever reason, a normal human receives an excessive amount of Rc cells, such as through experiments, they will start to develop ghoul-like characteristics and eventually not be able to consume human food. This can lead to the creation of a half-ghoul, or a one-eyed ghoul.

[TL;DR — Cells that both ghouls and humans have (made up) that can be in liquid or solid form. Stored in the kakuhou (ghoul organ), and when released, form the kagune. Ghouls replenish Rc cells by eating humans. Ghouls have more Rc cells than humans, but if a human were to experience an increase in Rc cells, they would develop ghoul characteristics.]

KAKUHOU A kakuhou (赫包, kakuhō, approximately red wrap) is a sac-like organ that is only present in ghouls. The purpose of the kakuhou is to store Rc cells. The nutrition contained in the Rc cells are absorbed by the ghoul. These cells are transported to the kakuhou in the blood and stored inside.

The Rc cells can be released from the kakuhou piercing the skin either consciously or due to excitement. These released cells form the kagune. A damaged Kakuhou can not form a kagune until it has healed.

(There are no images of this, use your imagination.)

[TL;DR — An organ only ghouls have that stores their Rc cells. This organ allows the Rc cells to be released from the body and form a kagune.]

KAGUNE A kagune (赫子, red child) is a ghoul's predatory organ and functions as their weapon and claws. It is usually as red as blood (the colours are varied in the anime to distinguish the kagune of each individual), flexible like the flow of water, but firm and sturdy. When released, a ghoul's physique is strengthened, they are more resilient, and their mobility heightens. A kagune is composed of Rc cells, which flow just like blood, can become as solid as teeth and can be described as "liquid muscles." The Rc cells are released from a kakuhou piercing the skin, and the released Rc cells form the kagune. The kagune are voluntary muscles as ghouls can control them whenever they want and repeatedly harden and soften them at will. Kagune size depends on the Rc cells' quality and quantity while the shape depends on the creativity and intellect of the user.

Although a ghoul's healing ability is high, the healing of wounds tends to be delayed if the wounds are inflicted by a kagune. It is also evident that in order to counter a kagune in battle, one must also have a kagune. Hence, ghoul investigators use kagune-based quinque as a tactical means to battle against ghouls.

(See below for kagune types.)

[TL;DR — Ghoul weapon made from Rc cells. A kagune has the ability to be flexible while still being solid and sturdy. Ghouls become stronger when their kagune is released. Ghouls can control their kagune at will. While ghouls can heal rapidly, they heal slower if the injury was caused by a kagune.]

Ghoul Types

The kagune's appearance and the place of emergence on the body depend on the Rc type of the ghoul. There are four different Rc types: ukaku, koukaku, rinkaku, and bikaku. As a guideline, each type can characteristically subdue another type, although it may be different for two specific opponents. Each Rc type has a set of strengths and weaknesses, each one unique to its type.

UKAKU An ukaku kagune (羽赫, ukaku, "feather-red") is spread out like feathers and is released from the shoulder area.

Specializes in high speed attacks

Lightweight

Primary method of attack - high speed, torrent-like projectiles

Able to use as a shield

Suited for short-distance and long-distance attacks

However, short-range is considered their weakness

Ukaku type users lack endurance and are at a disadvantage if the battle drags on for a long time

Ayato Kirishima

KOUKAKU A koukaku kagune (甲赫, kōkaku, "shell-red") is released below the shoulder blade.

Extremely heavy and robust

Well suited for defence

Generally shaped into armour or shields

Can be shaped into melee weapons such as blades

Inferior speed due to weight

Difficult to wield

Tsukiyama Shuu

RINKAKU A rinkaku kagune (鱗赫, rinkaku, "scale-red") has an appearance similar to scaled tentacles and is released at the back around the waist.

Users of this type have powerful regenerative albilities

Able to survive critical damage

Superior striking power

Excel in brute strength

Some users are able to manipulate the shape of this kagune such as forming into swords/blades or claws

This kagune is very soft and easy to break

Able to create between 1-8 scaled tentacles

Kaneki Ken

BIKAKU A bikaku kagune (尾赫, bikaku, "tail-red") typically has a tail-like appearance and is released around the tail-bone/coccyx.

Good for medium-distance attacks

Decent offence, defence and speed

No notable strengths or weaknesses

The number of tails a bikaku user can create is usually one, but some can create more.

Nishiki Nishio

Ghoul Lifestyle

Ghouls had two choices of lifestyle: living as hermits; isolated and avoiding society's eyes, or attempt to assimilate into human society.

IDENTITY If caught in ghoul activities or suspected of being a ghoul, CCG Investigators have the right to apprehend or kill them as they see fit. Ghouls that are identified could be hunted down like criminals as per the Ghoul Countermeasures Law. As such, ghouls act discreetly or try to hide their faces when engaging in ghoul activities by wearing masks.

Ghouls in Tokyo, in particular, developed a trend of wearing masks to hide their faces, making the mask the identifying feature instead of their face, some even forming gangs based on their masked identity. Since the ghouls are only identifiable by their masks, they are safe so long as their face is not exposed.

HUNTING Ghouls can pretend to eat food in order to fool other people into believing they are human. However, they must make themselves throw up soon afterward, or they will become sick.

Because they can only consume human flesh, they are very territorial when it comes to, "hunting grounds" on which it is appropriate to hunt humans without notice. Human consumption depends on the ghoul, as some may prefer to be scavengers who only take from people who were recently deceased. Some groups of ghouls can provide human meat for those that prefer not to hunt for themselves. Other ghouls may moderately hunt humans as carnivores with thoughts of appreciation for the lives they must consume, although there are ghouls who will indiscriminately devour as much as they can. Ghouls who indulge in excess have developed a superficial view on the value of life after consuming so many humans, much like how humans perceive livestock they grow and consume.

❯ 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗖𝗖𝗚 (𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝗖𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗚𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹)

Who are the CCG?

The Commission of Counter Ghoul (喰種対策局 Gūru Taisaku Kyoku, literally "Ghoul Countermeasures Bureau"), usually abbreviated as CCG シーシージー (Shīshījī), is a federal agency in the Tokyo Ghoul series that serves as a criminal investigative body in cases connected to ghouls.

The Ghoul Countermeasures Law was the legal foundation for the CCG's prosecution of ghouls. The CCG's headquarters are in the 1st Ward.

The ghouls commonly call the ghoul investigators Doves (白鳩ハト, Hato), a nickname originating from the CCG's seal.

Initially, the CCG utilized firearms to oppose ghouls, which proved ineffective due to their physique. After a certain period of time, the organization, developed a new weapon to battle ghouls, the quinque, which was derived from the ghouls' kagune. The ghoul extermination rate increased rapidly thanks to that weapon, and it is the desired weapon of choice to the investigators.

INVESTIGATORS CCG employs two different kinds of investigators:

Ghoul investigators, employed at CCG's main office, carry out the actual investigations and capture suspects. They are often assigned to carry out investigations in one of Tokyo's wards. Only ghoul investigators are permitted to be armed with quinques.

Bureau investigators deal mostly with paperwork and back up ghoul investigators when necessary. Most of them are employed at CCG's branch offices. They are armed with firearms loaded with Q bullets.

CCG Investigator Terms

QUINQUE A quinque (クインケ, kuinke) is a weapon manufactured from a ghoul's kakuhou used by CCG ghoul investigators. The quinque emits electrical signals that stimulate the kakuhou to release and control it. They can be made into types of melee or ranged weapon, but most retain a few characteristics from the original kagune. In contrast to kagune, quinque cannot change shape nor store or absorb Rc cells other than what was harvested from the ghoul it was made from.

(that fourth image is so fucking bad I'm crying please TG anime remake I'm begging)

RATING Ratings are a system used by the Commission of Counter Ghoul to classify ghouls with respect to their perceived individual ability and threat level.

Ghouls are rated based upon various factors, including their basic strengths, activity levels, influence and hostility towards investigators. There are six rating levels, from SSS (the most powerful) to C (the weakest). In some cases, a tilde (~) is added to the base rating. This indicates that the ghoul is estimated to be at least that strong, but the rating may change once more is known about the subject.

SSS rated - Criteria is unclear. SS rated - Multiple Special Class Investigators are needed. S+ rated - Equivalent to the ability of an average Special Class Investigator. (approx.) S- rated - Equivalent to the ability of an average Associate Special Class Investigator. (approx.) A rated - Comparable to a First Class Investigator. These ghouls are usually set as a target and some ghouls might develop a second tail/tentacle. B rated - Comparable to a Rank 1 to Rank 3 Investigator. These ghouls should have their Kagune mastered and are usually a small threat to the CCG. C rated - Ghouls of smaller ability, these ghouls usually can't fight any ghoul investigators and only attack unarmed humans.

In addition to the ghoul's individual ability, the actual damage caused by the ghoul is also evaluated. The rating is set in consideration of the predation and killing incidents committed by the ghoul.

For some ghouls, their influence over other ghouls is also taken into account when ratings are given.

CCG Investigator Ranks

Usually, ghoul investigators were instructed at and graduated from the CCG's Ghoul Investigator Training Academy. When they enter the CCG, they begin their career as Rank 2 investigators.

New ghoul investigators are typically partnered with a senior investigator or join a squad to continue their training on the job.

SENIOR INVESTIGATORS

Special Class Investigator: The highest possible rank, achieved by the smallest percentage of investigators. They are considered the strongest of all investigators, and typically command operations as well as oversee the daily running of their assigned wards. Associate Special Class Investigator: Also known as assistant special investigators. The second highest rank, achieved by a small percentage of investigators. They possess the authority to command operations or oversee individual wards as necessary. First Class Investigator: Also known as Senior Investigator, with most investigators achieving this rank later in their career. It is typical for an investigator to retire at this rank, and their responsibilities are typically training a junior partner. Very few investigators move beyond this rank, and reaching it before their thirties is considered the mark of an exceptional investigator.

JUNIOR INVESTIGATORS

Rank 1 Investigator: Also known as second class, The highest rank for a junior investigator, having gained experience but not yet at the peak of their career. On average, Rank 1 investigators are around twenty-seven years old when they are promoted. Rank 2 Investigator: Also known as third class, This is the rank at which almost all ghoul investigators begin their career, after graduating from the Ghoul Investigator Training Academy. Rank 3 Investigator: Bureau investigators begin their career at this rank. Ghoul investigators who begin their career at this rank are "special cases," made investigators without formal training at the Training Academy.

❯ 𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗗𝗦

What is a Ward?

Tokyo is divided into 24 wards. I think the best equivalent would be London boroughs or New York City boroughs.

NOTABLE WARDS

The 2nd Ward

This is where the main character of NTG is from.

The CCG has a large presence here due to its proximity to the 1st Ward. It is almost impossible for ghouls to live here.

It borders the 1st, 3rd, 6th, 7th and 8th wards.

The 13th Ward

This is where the story of NTG is set.

It has been described that this ward has experienced so much bloodshed, it's scary even for ghouls.

It borders with the 3rd, 4th, 10th, 12th, 14th and 15th wards.

#C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/SERIES/NTG #<file;type=system-nav/>

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iwasntstable · 8 months ago

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𝗡.𝗦. | 𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗧𝗢 𝗚𝗢 | 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗪𝗢 (ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ)

NOWHERE TO GO is a multi-chapter story set in the Tokyo Ghoul universe, centring around Half-Ghoul!Noah and Human!Reader.

Chapter Content Tags: Graphic depictions of violence and gore including: physical injury, treatment of wounds, mentions of stitches, blood, bruising, ghoul on human violence, ghoul on ghoul violence. Depictions of anxiety, depictions of an attack.

Word Count: 5.5k.

✶ [join the NOWHERE TO GO taglist.] ⓘ [GLOSSARY]

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It’s weirdly dark in the Paper Trail Café, but it had been getting darker earlier these days with the end of the year creeping closer every passing day. The floor-to-ceiling-length wall of windows revealed nothing but inky black emptiness; not even a single streetlight could be seen through the dark. As you clean the espresso machine, something that’s quickly become second nature, the bell tolls over the door, indicating the arrival of a customer.

Serving customers, however, still had your heart rate accelerating. Something you weren’t yet accustomed to. You push down your anxieties, take a deep breath, and prepare to enter customer service mode. But the figure that rounds the corner and approaches the counter is not the one you expected to see.

Towering over you, dressed head-to-toe in all black, it was him. The twisted blood-red extensions of himself raised around him, hovering there, twitching, like they were waiting to strike. Like a cobra standing tall with fangs bared, the figure of a predator. You still couldn’t see his face, disguised by the black ski-mask. Only his eyes and mouth were visible, but the room was so dark that the shadows shrouded one side of his face. Only one eye is visible through the darkness. His iris glinting the same blood red as his kagune at his waist, and what should’ve been the white of his eye, a pitch black sclera.

Your hands begin to shake behind the register; you can’t stop them. Your knife is downstairs in your jacket in the break room, and the quinque you were using—your mother’s—remained at home. There was no way you could hold your own in hand-to-hand combat with a ghoul. Especially not one as strong as him. He let you live on the bridge, but it was a trick, or some kind of trap, and now he’s come to finish the job.

The ghoul moves, something in his hand. A forest green card, Paper Trail Rewards, scrawled across the front. You raise the scanner, which flashes and beeps when the card is read successfully. “Would you like to use your rewards balance?” Your voice doesn’t feel like your own; the sound is foreign in your throat. The ghoul nods. You apply the balance, bringing the total to zero, and with black-leather-gloved hands, he puts the card back into his coat pocket.

The kettle whistles on the stove behind you. You don’t remember there being a stove up here. You look over your shoulder at it bubbling over, then back at the ghoul, who remained motionless on the other side of the counter.

Turning your back on him despite the adrenaline racing through your blood, you take the kettle off of the flame by the handle with both hands, the heat seeping into your skin, though not enough to burn, and set it down on the counter.

On your left, prepared and ready for use was a coffee filter. The cone-shaped opening at the top was lined with a paper filter and filled to the brim with ground coffee. The aroma hits you then—the comfortingly familiar, warm embrace of fresh coffee. Lifting the kettle once more—the weight of it surprisingly light in your hand—you pour the boiling water slowly, carefully, over the ground coffee in circular motions, the delicate drip drip of the freshly brewed drink flowing down into the pot below.

A chill, a sense of unease, creeps up your spine as you pour. And when you glance out of the corner of your eye, he’s there. Right behind you. So close that you can feel his breath on the back of your neck.

Pain hits you instantly, sharp and searing in your abdomen. The kettle slips from your hands and crashes to the ground—boiling water splashing and spilling everywhere, all over the counter, all over yourself, but it doesn’t burn. Your hands freeze in the air, trembling, and when you look down, the vibrant crimson glow of the rinkaku ghoul’s kagune protrudes out from your stomach from where it pierced you all the way through from the back. The insuppressible urge to scream claws its way up your throat, but it won’t come out. Stuck there, choking you. The only thing that falls from your lips is blood.

The ghoul removes his kagune from your body just as quickly as he struck. Helplessly, you press your hands to the gaping wound, the heat of the blood seeping past your fingers as your vision rapidly begins to fade, and you lose feeling in your extremities. Your knees buckle beneath you, and when you fall, your eyes open to meet the glow of the TV screen in the darkness.

She screams, the woman on the screen. A blood-curdling scream of terror as the zombie crawls its way over her and sinks its teeth into her shoulder. Feeling for the remote in the darkness, you find it quickly by your leg, hitting the power button and plunging the living room into darkness. You sit all the way up, legs over the edge of the couch, resting your elbows on your knees and dropping your head into your hands. Taking in a shaky breath in through your nose, exhaling through your mouth slowly, focusing intently on slowing the pace of your racing heart, and ridding the nausea in the pit of your stomach.

He scared you, that ghoul. You were no CCG Investigator. Your parents had shown you footage of ghoul attacks and combat techniques from a young age, their own unique way of preparing you for the world, but this wasn’t you. No matter how much information your parents showed you, you were not trained for combat against monsters. You could memorise the preferred fighting styles of a ghoul depending on their kagune type, the specific intricacies of their movements as they ready for an attack, or notice the social structure within a group to prioritise a target. That was all well and good, but to put it into practice? To hold a weapon in your hand and stand toe to toe with a creature that wants nothing more than to tear you limb from limb and consume you, bite by bite?

You run your hands down your face and swallow roughly, realising just how dry your mouth felt. You stand on shaky legs, pressing a hand to quell the ache in your abdomen, and cross the room to flip the switch on the lamp in the corner, bringing a little light to the darkness of the room. It was getting dark outside; the orange glow of the setting sun cast long shadows across the neighbourhood. No cars on the road or people wandering the streets, so you can only assume it was late evening—you’d slept through the day. Stopping by the couch to check your phone. Dead. Of course it is. You sigh and plug it into the charger that was right next to you the entire time, then collect the trash wrappers from the convenience store food you ate and the plate you ate the pasta from, taking them to the kitchen with you. Throwing the trash away and leaving the plate in the sink, then finally, getting a glass of water. You drink the whole thing down quickly, quenching the thirst without taking a breath and refilling the glass immediately after to sip a little slower. There was a dull ache in your head. There was a dull ache across your whole body, in fact. You rub the crease out of your brow and decide to face the music and check your injuries in the bathroom.

When you free your hair from the hair tie, the ache in your head diminishes significantly, but as you shake out your hair, you hear the sound of little pieces of gravel and concrete hitting the bathroom tile. Shaking out your clothes, more debris falls from your body, and you groan in frustration, digging out the dustpan and brush from the cupboard under the sink to sweep it up and tip it into the little bin by the toilet so you don’t track it throughout the entire apartment.

You gingerly shrug off your coat, wiggle free from your shirt, and let your cargos drop to the ground. Luckily, you’d managed to escape any kind of severe injury—unlike your father. The only broken skin was on the palms of your hands; the sturdy nature of the cargos saved your legs from a lot of damage, and the layers of the long sleeve and coat did the same for your arms and torso. You were, however, covered in bruises.

The largest of which had to be on your abdomen. Mostly greenish-yellow in colour, covering the entire expanse of your stomach, already turning deep blue and purple in places, especially over the bones of your ribs where the tissue wasn’t as thick. Another sizable bruise on your hip where it hit the ground; pain radiated through the joint even when you weren’t moving. One on your shoulder too, fading down the side of your ribcage under your arm.

You grip the edge of the sink and lower your head, taking another deep breath. Your heart begins to race again, reality setting in. It could’ve been so much worse. You count your blessings, but you know you won’t get that lucky again. That ghoul let you live. It’s a dangerous situation you’re in—you and your father both. You have to get him out of here before it’s too late. When you raise your head and see your face staring back at you in the mirror, you can’t help but wonder if this is the view the rinkaku ghoul had when he stood over you laying on the ground. Shaking your head and pressing your knuckles to your eyes, you desperately need to get that monster out of your head. Hoping a shower will wash the thought of him away.

The hot water was an instant relief to your aching body; you didn’t realise just how cold you were until you stepped under the spray. The water ran a murky greyish brown, all the accumulated sweat and dirt from the tedious past twenty-four hours finally being erased from your body and vanishing down the drain. You hold your scraped hands under the flow of the water despite the sting, washing away the grit and dried blood. Inspecting them closer, the wounds weren’t too deep; the fact they were in such a mobile area would be problematic for healing, though. You knew you needed to rest them before your next shift at the bookstore at the weekend.

You lather shampoo through your tangled hair as best you can while trying to avoid getting it in the wounds on your palms, though the sting did feel somewhat nice, helping to drag you out of the all-consuming fatigue and a welcome distraction from your incessant thoughts. Once the shampoo was rinsed away, you smear conditioner along the length and ends of your hair, taking this moment to let it sit and to rest your forehead against the cold tile of the bathroom wall while the water beats against your back. Taking deep breaths again, in and out, slowly and evenly, telling yourself, “You’re safe. Right now, you’re safe. You’re alive.”

You rinse the conditioner from your hair, scrub down your body with shower gel, wash your face, and once finally clean, wrap yourself in a soft, fluffy white towel. You pause by the sink to brush your teeth before heading for your room for some comfortable clothes. The thick, grey sweats and a hoodie helped bring you back to a sense of secure normality, like you didn’t just fight four ghouls in the dead of night a few hours ago. You collect the clothes you’d left strewn across your room in your arms along with the ones from the bathroom floor and throw them in the washer-dryer. While in the light of the kitchen, you dig out some ibuprofen, swallowing down two.

The clock on the wall reads just past 6PM. After taking care of yourself, you know it’s probably about time to check on your father. You intended to check on him every hour, but your phone dying before the first alarm could even sound thwarted that idea. You take the first aid kit from the bathroom and take a deep breath before cracking open his bedroom door.

He’d barely moved. The steady rise and fall of his chest told you he was sleeping soundly. You kneel by the side of his bed and turn on the bedside lamp, lay the first aid case on the ground, and click it open. You rummage around for some gloves and wiggle them on carefully, then pull back the sheets from your father’s body. The deepest of the wounds had bled through the dressings and needed changing; the others, the less severe injuries, when you peeked under, appeared to be fine and could be left alone.

You work quietly, carefully peeling tape from skin, throwing soiled dressings in the trash, cleaning wounds with antiseptic, reapplying clean dressings, and moving onto the next one. His pulse had strengthened, and his temperature had increased, almost back to normal. None of his wounds were showing signs of infection, and the rest seemed to have done him good, though he definitely needed to eat. He began to stir when you were almost finished. Groaning and cracking his eyes open, squinting against the light.

He cranes his neck to look down at himself and asks through cracked lips, “How bad is it?”

“Could’ve been worse,” your own voice uncharacteristically rough. “You needed a lot of stitches this time.”

“Hmm,” is all he says, resting back flat against the pillows. “Did you kill any of them?”

Your eyes snap to his face, and your hands cease their movements. “That’s seriously what you ask first?” You’re unable to hide the anger in your tone. “No. I didn’t kill any of them,” you snap the gloves off your hands and throw them in the trash, slamming the first aid kit closed. “I was too busy trying to save your life.” Shaking your head in disbelief at his complete disregard for your wellbeing, you stand and take the case and trash bag in hand, turning your back on him to leave him alone. “Oh, and I’m fine, by the way.”

You slam his bedroom door behind you when you leave, maybe a little too hard because the force sends a jolt of pain through your bruised shoulder. It was a childish move to slam the door like that, but the anger racing through you demanded to be released even just a little bit. You risked your life for him. You could’ve died last night, and he cares more about the state of the ghouls than you, his own daughter. Blinking your eyes hard against the burning threat of tears, you tie off the plastic bag and throw it out in the kitchen, then leave the first aid case on the counter and attempt to distract yourself by rummaging through the cupboards to check on the food situation. There are a few cans of soup; they’ll suffice for a while, but the state of the fridge was a little more dire. Though it was getting late and dark, you decide getting out of this apartment is probably a good idea.

Collapsing on the couch to turn your phone back on, your heart drops when you see zero messages. Not from your friends back home, not even from Sara. Opening the map app to see if there are any stores closer than the ones in the centre of town, you find a small 24/7 corner store the app says is a seven-minute walk away. Seven minutes there, seven minutes back. You can do that.

Reluctantly, you change out of your comfy clothes into a pair of black jeans and a black tank top. The load you’d put in the washer had finished, so you fish out the jacket—still warm from the dry cycle. You slip your boots back on and tie them tight to your aching feet. Scouring the apartment for your wallet, you find it on your bed and add it to your jacket pocket along with your phone.

Your muscles protest when you drag the couch away from the door. You don’t pull it all the way, though, just enough for you to slip through a small crack in the door. Wrenching the door closed behind you on wonky hinges, you tell yourself you’ll fix that when you get back. Sliding the key in the lock and pulling on the handle to double check the door was secure before you leave. You take, for what felt like the millionth time today, another deep breath to calm your nerves, then head out into the cool night air.

The corner store wasn’t hard to find, but you don’t spend long there. The fluorescent lighting hurting your eyes, and the creeping sense of unease at being out so late made you anxious to get back to the apartment, even though you’d desperately wanted to get out of there in the first place.

On the walk back, the extent of your injuries begins to catch up with you. The ibuprofen had worn off and the ache in your hip returned, causing you to favour your other leg just a little, a slight limp in your step. The plastic bag filled with bread, some fresh vegetables, a package of chicken, some packages of instant ramen, and a bottle of bleach thudded and rustled against your good leg with every step.

Unfortunately, the distraction of the pain left you unaware of your surroundings, and the ghoul in the shadows that had watched you all the way from your front door saw that little limp and decided you would be an easy target.

All at once, you become acutely aware of the footsteps behind you. How long had they been there? A chill ran down your spine. How could you be so stupid? How could you forget where you were?

The sound of the footsteps gets closer and closer, and when you glance over your shoulder, the face hidden beneath the hood breaks out into a grin. You scan the streets around you, your throat tightening when you realise there is nobody around. You’re alone.

With a twitch and a roll of his shoulders, the figure of the man unashamedly reveals his ghoul nature to you, his ukaku-type kagune bursting free at his shoulders, shimmering before your eyes beneath the streetlights. It happens so fast, the wing-like weapon rising high above him, poised in the way you recognised from all the times you were forced to study the attack patterns of ghouls by your parents, priming itself for an attack.

Without a second thought, you drop the bag of groceries and sprint as fast as you can for the closest cover you can find—a dumpster down an alleyway. THOCK-THOCK-THOCK came the sounds of the shards hitting the metal, reverberating through the air like metallic drum beats. A sting in your arm tells you you're hit, and the warm feeling of blood running down your arm inside your sleeve confirms it. Instinctually, you reach for the blade in your coat pocket, your heart plummeting when you find it empty. You forgot it. The one thing you fucking needed, you forgot.

The ghoul pants heavily as he runs, a growl present underneath when he rounds the corner, desperately clawing at the metal of the dumpster to drag it away.

“Fuck!” You can't help but scream when it's wrenched out from under your hands and launched across the alleyway, slamming into the brick wall opposite and crumpling in on itself. You scramble backwards, the unhealed cuts on your hands stinging when they meet the tiny stones on the ground.

He's salivating. The ghoul licks his lips in anticipation of his first bite. Mania practically glows in his crimson eyes as he stalks slowly towards you into the shadows. You know there’s nowhere to go when your back hits some smaller metal bins, the lid of one tipping off and crashing to the ground like a cymbal, the sound harsh in your ears, ringing continuously even after it stopped moving.

The ghoul lurches forward, crawling over you animalistically on all fours and leaning in close, deeply inhaling your scent by the skin of your neck. With no other option, your fingers curl around the cold metal trash can lid, swinging your arm with all your strength, twisting your body to the side, and striking the ghoul square in the face with the edge. He cries out in pain, falling sideways following the force of the hit. With just enough room and just enough time, you scramble to your feet, making a break for the mouth of the alleyway.

The streetlights at the end are your guiding light to relative safety. You push through the pain in your hip, though it screams at you with every beat of your feet on the ground; the ache in your abdomen makes breathing deep a near impossible task, but you have no choice. You can hear that he's right behind you.

You could never outrun a ghoul, you knew that, especially not in your current state, but that glance you take behind your shoulder, the blood dripping down his face from his brow and the insatiable hunger reflected in his feral eyes, makes you try regardless. Three more steps, and you're there, back onto the street. Maybe you'll scream? Run straight for the nearest building and bang on the door; beg for help.

You don't get the chance to decide, though. A silhouette walks calmly, confidently into your path, and as you run closer, the shape becomes clearer. Dark eyes peering through two black holes in a ski-mask. Him. You try to stop so quickly that you skid to the ground, your feet slipping out from underneath you, and you fall at his feet. The leader of The Omens is standing tall over you once again.

When he speaks, he looks directly ahead at the ghoul that was in pursuit of you. “This is not your territory to hunt. You've been warned before.”

“Who the fuck are you to decide that?" He spits. You glance back and start to panic when his kagune is primed for attack again, twitching anxiously behind him. The glint of shards catches your eye, and you flinch preemptively at the anticipation of pain. Only it never comes. The Omens leader is in front of you now; having moved so quickly, you didn't even see him. His own kagune free and curled around himself in a makeshift shield, blocking himself and you from the blades of the ukaku ghoul.

Blood drips from the lacerations in his rinkaku kagune as the shards dissipate, and the second the barrage is over, he moves. Leaping forward and closing the distance with lightning speed, he strikes the ghoul, impacting him in the chest with a sickening thud. He spits up blood as he staggers back, his ukaku the only thing keeping him upright and steadying his balance. He turns on his heel and scales the walls of the alley, ukaku propelling him upwards in an attempt to gain the high ground.

The masked ghoul slams the points of his kagune into the bricks, the shock of the impact dislodging him from the wall, causing him to slip down lower. One of his tendrils strikes out, wrapping around his leg, and he drags him back down to the ground, slamming him hard into the pavement.

You haven’t moved. You didn’t know if you could. The pain from your injuries spreads throughout your body, making your limbs feel like they’re locked in place. And the fear has you frozen to the spot too.

The two ghouls tangle down the alleyway, the rinkaku ghoul always having the upper hand. It was clear your attacker was fading. The glow from his kagune dimmed with every exertion of energy. He needed to eat. To replenish the RC cells from your flesh and blood, and then maybe he might stand half a chance against his opponent.

It was clear that this was like playtime for the man you fought last night. His movements are simple and coordinated, side-stepping attacks and vanishing from the line of fire with an ease you didn’t think possible—even for a ghoul. He grasps the ukaku ghoul by the collar of his hoodie and tosses his exhausted body at the wall, where he ricochets off the brick almost comically, rolling and coming to a stop just a couple of meters away from where you sit.

The masked ghoul never failed to maintain his threatening aura. Looking at you for the first time, the long, shining, serpine tentacles flared behind him as he approached. The weaker ghoul, sensing his inevitable end, raises his head from the ground to look at you too, and in a last-ditch burst of energy, once more scrambles across the ground on all fours to loom on top of you. With teeth bared, he wraps his hand around your throat; struggling to his feet, he pulls you up with him. He turns to face his own attacker—who had stopped dead in his tracks halfway down the darkness of the alleyway—using your body to shield his own.

His wild face is all you see; you fear it’ll be the last thing you ever see. His hand tightens, the pressure in your head increases, and your eyes begin to water. Like a boa constrictor wrapped around your throat, every time you exhale, it’s harder to take in air on the inhale. With superior strength, he lifts you higher, your feet slipping out from under you, the toes of your boots only just scraping the floor.

A gentle breeze brushes your cheek, and when you look to your left out of the corner of your eye, the masked ghoul is there. His own hand wrapped tightly around your attacker’s throat. The creak of his leather glove is accompanied by the wheeze of the ghoul’s breath reaching a higher and higher pitch as he squeezes.

Your feet return to the ground, but he still doesn't let go. Digging your nails deep into his arm, you pull, desperately trying to get away as you rapidly become lightheaded. Your eyes flick back and forth between the two ghouls, wondering which one will kill you first. But the masked ghoul’s eyes are only locked on the man that has you by the throat. That’s when you realise the masked ghoul, the leader of The Omens, only had one ghoul eye.

“I'm not letting my meal go, man,” the ghoul rasps. “I haven't eaten in months.”

“We gave you your chances.”

You feel the warmth of blood hit your face first, then see the shining scales of the masked ghoul’s kagune glimmer just as close to you now as it was last night. It was beautiful up close. Like rubies shimmering in the sunlight. Or diamonds dripping in blood. It pierced the ghoul in two places, abdomen and chest; the two other appendages poised behind his back, angled towards him like knives ready to strike. Just like in your nightmare.

Despite the massive physical trauma, his hand remains tight around your neck. A flash of silver in the rinkaku ghoul’s mouth on his teeth catches your eye before your senses are overloaded with the ear-piercing screams of the ukaku ghoul. Guttural and feral, the leader of The Omens tears out the flesh of his throat with one quick snap of his jaws. The ghoul gargles, choking on his own blood as it seeps down into his lungs.

It’s then that he drops you. At last releasing his hold on your throat, but your legs can't bear the weight of your body as you collapse back to the ground, gasping down air desperately, while your eyes remain locked on the horror unfolding above you.

What was clearly the ghoul’s carotid artery—sliced cleanly in two—spurted blood all over himself and the rinkaku ghoul, pumping in time with his fading heartbeats. The masked ghoul spat, a sizable chunk of blood-stained flesh slapping wet against the concrete, the lines of what was once a tattoo still visible on the skin. Bile burns in your throat at the sight.

The rinkaku ghoul releases his hold, his kagune pulling free from where it penetrated the other ghoul's body. He remained standing for a fraction of a second, like his body hadn’t yet caught up with what had happened to him, but it wasn't long before his almost lifeless body crumpled to the ground with a sickening thud, joining the chunk of his throat. His face is turned towards you as his blood soaks into the concrete. A vibrant pool of red spreads out around him and reaches for you as you watch the light leave his eyes. A twisted grimace of pain forever locked onto his features.

“We can't stay here.” The voice was so close to your ear that you flinched when you heard it. The rinkaku ghoul had crouched down at eye level, his kagune gone, and both eyes once again deceptively human, but there was something there: sincerity. And again, a familiarity in your mind, like you’d seen those eyes before.

He holds his hand out to you, and you don't know why, but you take it; the blood on his glove smears across your palm. He pulls you to your feet, and with a hand resting gently on the small of your back, he escorts you on shaky legs away from what quickly became a crime scene.

Thankfully, you don’t walk far—maybe a minute down the road. He leads you towards a towering apartment block that was structurally similar to the one you lived in. Cool grey concrete walls stretching up into the sky, broken up by panes of black and the occasional warm glow from an occupied floor. He pushes the door open, gesturing for you to walk inside. The shock that had clouded your head dissipated in an instant when you realised you were about to enter into a secluded location with a ghoul that wanted you dead just the day before. Noticing your hesitation, he nods slowly. A wordless acknowledgement of a treaty between the two of you.

The hallway was empty, two sets of footsteps echoing through the passageway towards the elevator at the end. The ghoul presses the button to call the elevator down with the knuckle of his gloved hand, tactfully avoiding smearing blood on the surface. You squint your eyes against the garishly yellow painted walls that were harshly illuminated by the fluorescent lighting. The red numbers ticked down one by one to the ground floor until, with a ding, the doors opened. He gestures with an open palm for you to enter first again before he presses the button for the second floor.

Every muscle in your body throbbed with exhaustion, and the wound on your arm stung sharply now that the adrenaline had worn off. All you wanted to do was collapse against the cool metal wall, to lay your head back, and close your eyes, but you couldn’t show weakness. Not in front of this ghoul.

You wondered how he would kill you. Would he make it quick? Carving up your corpse into bite-size pieces to be consumed over the next few months. Or would he do it slowly? Maybe letting you live yesterday was all part of his game.

The elevator shudders to a stop, and the doors open. This time, the ghoul steps out first, pausing in the hallway to gesture to the left, leading you towards one of the two doors. He takes a ring of keys from a pocket on his coat, unlocking the door and leaning in to flip on the light inside. One final time, holding out a palm for you to enter before him.

You wondered how long your dad would last on his own. He’ll probably be able to survive his current injuries, but without you there as his conscience, he’d be back out on the streets hunting ghouls. That most likely would be his downfall.

The apartment was small and less than sparsely furnished. A single black leather couch in the centre of the room, covered with a plastic sheet, facing a TV stand with no TV and a standing lamp in the corner. Your boots track dirt across the wooden floor; no rugs. Easier to clean up the blood, you suppose.

You turn when you hear the door close behind you, the ghoul blocking your only exit. Silently, he pulls on the fingers of his gloves to loosen them before pulling them off completely and tucking them into his jacket pocket. Long, slender, familiarly tattooed fingers grasp the fabric of his ski-mask, pulling it from his head.

Your breath catches in your throat, almost like the dead ghoul’s hand was clasped back around your airways. “You,” your voice was a hoarse whisper.

To be continued in part two. PREV　/　NEXT [coming soon..]

➤ 𝗣𝗢𝗣𝗨𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 (34) :

⌞1𝗌𝗍 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖢𝖧𝖨𝖸𝖮𝖣𝖠⌝ ‣ @somebodyels3 ‣ @fadingangelwisp ‣ @english-fucker ‣ @missduffsblog ‣ @amelia-acero

⌞2𝗇𝖽 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖢𝖧𝖴𝖮⌝ ‣ @fadingintothegrey ‣ @babygirlchuuya ‣ @bluebird19 ‣ @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard ‣ @lil-garbitch

⌞3𝗋𝖽 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖬𝖨𝖭𝖠𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @thisbicc ‣ @clingylittlebun-blog ‣ @queen-foraday ‣ @astridwesson ‣ @dethroneackerman

⌞4𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖲𝖧𝖨𝖭𝖩𝖴𝖪𝖴⌝ ‣ @blairboo ‣ @themorticians-world ‣ @comforting-madness ‣ @savaneafricaine ‣ @tosoundlessdarkistare

⌞5𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖡𝖴𝖭𝖪𝖸𝖮⌝ ‣ @aubrey-melinoe ‣ @badomensls ‣ @theaudraeymarie ‣ @psychomaniacmind ‣ @stardust-and-starlight

⌞6𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖳𝖠𝖨𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @looney-goose ‣ @sadbitchenergy ‣ @friedchildblaze ‣ @touyas-princess ‣ @strltsaiuki

⌞7𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖲𝖴𝖬𝖨𝖣𝖠⌝ ‣ @lovesick-evangelist ‣ @sanekiii ‣ @dravenskye ‣ @minah2020

#C2 P2 will come soon I'm literally working on it now #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian fanfiction #C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/SERIES/NTG

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iwasntstable · 9 months ago

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𝗡.𝗦. | 𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗧𝗢 𝗚𝗢 | 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗢𝗡𝗘

NOWHERE TO GO is a multi-chapter story set in the Tokyo Ghoul universe, centring around Half-Ghoul!Noah and Human!Reader.

chapter content tags: mentions of parental death, brief mentions of cannibalism, graphic depictions of violence and gore including: physical injury, treatment of wounds, administering stitches, blood, ghoul on human violence.

word count: 16.3k.

note: please be aware this story is set in the universe of Tokyo Ghoul, before the events of the manga and anime. it will, however, contain references to content found in the source material. specific content warnings will always be applied at the beginning of each chapter.

✶ [join the NOWHERE TO GO taglist.] ⓘ [GLOSSARY]

➔read on AO3➔➔ PREV　/　NEXT

The sound of clattering down the hall wakes you like a morning alarm. Banging and crashing, and the unmistakable voice of your father muttering to himself. You’re not alarmed, and this isn’t a new or unusual thing. He was often unaware of the chaos he caused around him. Rubbing your eyes, still heavy with sleep, and rolling over to feel around on your side table for your phone, you raise it to your eyeline, surprised to see you slept until noon. Stretching out the dull ache in your muscles from the arduous task of moving in from the night before as you get up to use the bathroom, you pass by your father’s office on the way and pause at the door to listen in on the frantic movements inside.

“Sighted at the warehouse with... the bikaku ghoul 3 days ago... They fought with this group of lower-rate ghouls at the bridge before they were driven off. That was the last sighting of both. Whereabouts unknown…” His mutterings were accompanied by the shuffling of papers.

You sigh and shake your head, too tired to get involved just yet, deciding instead to go about your business—showering, brushing your teeth, drying your hair. It all takes around an hour, but despite the passage of time, when you leave the bathroom, he can still be heard through the door.

The kitchen showed no signs of use when you pad in on bare feet for something to eat—no evidence that your father had eaten yet. So as you eat a couple of slices of buttered toast, you decide to make a simple sandwich for him. You had insisted on getting groceries yesterday despite your father’s protests, standing firm on the stance “we can just order food.” He yielded when you asked him if bringing strangers to the front door in an area that was slated to have more ghouls than humans was a good idea.

Ham, cheese, lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise sandwich in hand, you knock on the door but receive no answer, noticing though that the noise had diminished to an almost eerie silence. You decide to just go in rather than wait, bracing yourself for the chaos you’re about to enter into. You find him hunched over at his desk, papers strewn around him, some text documents with sections clearly highlighted and circled, others—images, professionally shot photographs blown up and printed on photo stock paper. The most eye-catching feature of the room was, without a doubt, his investigation board. A cork board with every square inch covered in photos, papers, and hand-scrawled notes, information regarding his suspects and potential locations, all connected with lengths of red string. Part of you hoped he was over this, but that was a foolish, naïve thought.

“Hey, dad,” you say quietly, his head snapping up from his research like he had no idea you’d even entered the room.

“What is it?” he asks curtly, looking back down at his papers without even a greeting.

“I made you something to eat.” You place the plate down in front of him, and he immediately picks it back up and moves it off to the side, off of his papers.

“Thanks, honey,” he doesn’t even look up.

“You know, you need to eat and keep your strength up if you want to be able to kill these ghouls,” you sigh, a desperate attempt to appeal to him to eat, picking at your nails anxiously waiting for his response.

He looks up at you, narrowing his eyes, then looks towards the sandwich like he just realised how hungry he really was. “Suppose you’re right,” he mumbles before picking up a half and taking a bite, a smear of mayonnaise left at the corner of his mouth.

You nod, relaxed, at least by the fact he’s managed to eat. “I’m going out,” you state, and this seems to get his attention more than the food.

“Take the knife,” he says bluntly, chewing on his food, briefly glancing up from his work with a stern authority in his eyes.

“Dad, I don’t think-”

“Take the knife.”

You purse your lips, but you know he won’t budge. “Fine,” you concede. “I’m going to the retail district. I’m going to see if anywhere down there is hiring.”

“Don’t need to do that,” he mumbles through another mouthful of sandwich, his eyes still scanning his documents.

“I want to do it. I don’t want to stay locked in here all day every day.” He only grunts in response. You roll your eyes, giving up on him. Experience has taught you over time how impossible it was to deal with when he was like this. You had no idea how your mother ever managed with him. Casting one final look at his investigation board as you leave, sketches of the same face are scattered across its expanse.

The same face. The same scar. The same eyes. The same ghoul.

As you walk, you’re grateful for the unusually cool weather of the 13th Ward. Carrying your jacket over your arm, you briskly exit the neighbourhood and head into the city. You can’t help but wonder just how many ghouls you’re passing as you walk by. Everywhere maintained the ghoul population of the 13th Ward greatly outnumbered the human population, but if that were the case, why were you able to walk around so freely? Surely you’d be torn to shreds immediately if the food situation were so dire. You shift your coat to sit more comfortably on your arm, the right side weighed down by the knife concealed inside.

Making it into the centre of the city was no problem, but you don’t miss the second looks you get as you pass by. Clearly, the people here were able to notice an unfamiliar face. The first stop you make is the grocery store you stocked up at yesterday. The employee greeted you warmly, but when you asked if they were hiring, they shook their head “no.” You tried a clothing store and an electronics store, but all yielded the same answer. It’s the cashier at the small convenience store on the corner that points you in the direction of the bookstore—Paper Trail—just up the road.

When you go in, you’re greeted by the comforting smell of books and the light chime of the bell above the door. Standing distracted in the doorway, the high ceilings and large windows allowed the natural light to stream in brilliantly, warming the room as it did so. Seeing stairs leading up to a second floor, you notice then the sign at the foot of the stairs pointing the way to a café.

“Can I help you find anything?” a sweet voice draws your attention. The woman standing behind the counter. She was short; that was the first thing you noticed. She had long, wavy brown hair flowing loosely over her shoulders, and pretty brown eyes that reminded you of Haru. Making a mental note to call your friends when you get back home like you promised you would.

“Yes, actually. I was wondering if you’re hiring here. The man at the corner store pointed me in your direction,” you ask, pointing a thumb behind you towards the direction you came from.

“We are, actually! What kind of work are you looking for? How many hours?”

“As much as you can give, honestly,” you laugh and scratch the back of your neck, walking into the store a little further. “I just moved here.”

“I was thinking I hadn’t seen your face before,” she smiled wide, and her eyes creased a little at the edges. “Do you have much retail experience?”

“Oh, I worked at a sandwich shop for a few years, and I ran the book club in my high school. I love reading, actually. This place would be perfect for me.”

“I’m sure we can find a place to fit you in,” she says, taking a notepad and pen from under the counter. “Could I take your name and contact information?”

“Yeah, of course,” you step up to the counter and take the pen, writing down your name and number.

“What a nice name,” the girl smiles when she reads the paper. “My name’s Sara. If you don’t mind my asking, where did you live before moving here?”

“The 2nd Ward,” you smile back but don’t miss the slight twitch of her lips as her joyous expression falters.

“Why would you move here?” Her tone is no doubt flatter and laced with disbelief.

“Oh, I moved with my dad... for work.”

“I see,” she forces her chipper attitude back. “Well, I’ll be sure to give you a call after discussing with the owner. How soon can you start?”

“Immediately,” you laugh. “I love my dad, but I need an excuse to get out of the house.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do to help! Please, have a look around before you leave, and let me know if you need help finding anything specific.”

“I will, and thank you,” you smile and turn back to the store, beelining for the nearest wall of books.

As soon as you start scanning the spines, you’re engrossed in your own little world. Occasionally picking one up that catches your eye, reading the blurb, and having a flick through the first few pages. You don’t know how long you spend scouring the shelves, but you realise it must’ve been a while from the orange glow seeping in through the windows, casting a warm hue across the store as the sun set. You look between the two Kafka books in your hands—Letters to Milena and Metamorphosis—both you’d been itching to read for a while but only wanting to purchase one until you could secure a regular salary.

The sounds of the store continue to hum around you as you consider your choices and glance at the walls of books around you to check for anything you might have missed. The bell rings periodically, sounding the arrival or departure of a customer. Sara’s chipper voice greets the patrons as they enter, bidding them farewell when they leave, and engaging in polite conversation as they check out.

You decide on Metamorphosis, crossing the store to put the other one back on the shelf in the biography section and turning to check out with Sara at the counter just as she calls “see you later!” to a customer ascending the stairs to the café. “Find something you wanted?”

“Yeah! Just this one, please,” you say, placing the book on the counter.

“Oh, good choice! I love this one. It’s one of his most popular pieces for a reason,” her trademark smile beaming across her face as she scans the barcode. “That’ll be 5.99.”

“I’ve been meaning to read it for a while,” you fish for the right amount in your wallet, handing over a note.

“Like I said before, I’ll speak with the owner and call you,” Sara speaks with ease as she calculates your change, handing it over neatly into your palm. “Probably in the next day or so.”

“I’d appreciate that a lot, I really like this place! You have a great selection, there are things here I’ve struggled to find in the 2nd Ward.”

“I’m glad to hear it! Thank you so much for stopping by, and get home safe!”

“I will, bye!”

The bell chimes again as you head out into the cool evening air. You pull your jacket around your shoulders before heading home, book tucked under your arm, and the heavy weight of the weapon in your pocket bumping against your leg as you walk.

The journey back was pleasant; the setting sun warmed you as you walked, and the cool air kept the heat from being unpleasant. But when you get there, you find that your dad is gone.

You called out to him to let him know you were home safe. “Dad! I’m back! I stopped by a bunch of stores. None of them were hiring, but the bookstore on the main street is. It’s called Paper Trail. The girl at the counter said she’ll let me know if there’s a vacancy for me.” You shuffle on one foot as you wrangle your boot off. “It’s a really nice place, I think you’d like it. There’s a café upstairs!” You sigh as you free your foot from your shoe, deciding to sit on the floor as you untie the other.

Noticing that the apartment seemed unusually quiet, you glance up at the door to his office, seeing no light streaming from underneath the door, only darkness. “Dad?” You call again. Wrenching your other boot from your foot, you abandon it by the other, standing and dropping your new book on the couch as you pass by towards the office.

You knock on the door, but you know deep down you’re not going to get a response. Willing yourself to believe he’s just fallen asleep at his desk—not an unusual thing—you crack the door open, flicking on the light to find exactly what you expected. Nothing. Nothing but his scattered papers and discarded pieces of string and thumbtacks.

Heaving a deep sigh and closing your eyes, you pinch the bridge of your nose in an effort to quell the stress building inside. Entering the room and going straight for the closet, you open it to see only one silver case sitting at the bottom, where you know there should’ve been two.

You shake your head, the frustration building. “Fucking idiot,” you mumble under your breath, closing the closet door and walking over to his desk, looking for any clue of his location. The first thing you notice is the sandwich you made him this morning, half eaten.

News reports and hand-scribbled notes cover the desk. Files embossed with the CCG logo and stamped with a red CLASSIFIED that you know he definitely should not still have. You pick up the paper on top, a report printed from a local news website detailing a confrontation between a group of ghouls and one lone ghoul that occurred on the bridge over the river.

“Local sources state the individual ghoul trespassing on the group’s territory is what led to the physical altercation between the two. Even though the individual trespasser was outnumbered 4 to 1, witnesses stated the fight was evenly matched.

Physical descriptions of the individual are leading many to believe the ghoul in question is none other than Malice, a ghoul stated to be extremely dangerous by the CCG and is suspected in a number of attacks that have led to the untimely deaths of many innocent civilians and brave CCG Investigators.

Malice has been described as approximately 6 feet tall; he is a koukaku type ghoul, and it has been confirmed by the CCG that he is an SS-rate ghoul. He is easily identified by the many scars across his body, the most prominent of which is a severe facial scar caused by a serious altercation with a couple of CCG agents, one of whom lost their life-”

You drop the paper back to the desk, squeezing your eyes tight against the unwanted memories resurfacing. When you open them, you’re met with that face again, plastered all over the investigation board on the wall. The face staring back at you from multiple places, a face marred with a scar from the left side of his forehead to the right side of his jaw.

You shake your head to rid the image of the man—the monster—that broke your family from your mind. As you turn your back on the room with the half-eaten sandwich in hand, you flip off the light as you go, enshrouding the room in darkness once more.

Trying your best to keep yourself preoccupied throughout the evening, you keep busy by cooking dinner. A basic pasta dish, but you make enough for two and save the extra portion in the fridge for your dad for later. Or, more likely, for yourself.

You sit at the dining table, picking at your food as you skim your new book, the TV humming in the background at a low volume left on a local news channel. One ear listening out for anything that could concern your father. No matter how much you want to put him out of your mind, the seeds of worry are planted deep within, roots embedding themselves into your body and tangled tightly around your bones.

You knew it would happen, but that doesn’t stop the chill that spreads throughout your body when the TV anchor speaks the words “breaking news.”

“Another altercation occurred tonight on the bridge downtown between a gang of ghouls known to the area, and what appeared to be a CCG Investigator due to the Quinque-type weapon they were wielding. No fatalities have been reported, and the CCG has declined to comment on the-”

The door opening makes you whip your head around and drop your fork in fright, clattering against the plate and tearing your attention away from the TV screen. Your father falls in through the front door, collapsing in the entryway, his case clutched tightly in hand, stained with red.

“Dad!” You jump from the dining chair, abandoning your book and meal, dragging him in by one of his arms. You kick the door closed behind you, turning from the bleeding man momentarily to slide the deadbolts into place.

“You- you should’ve-” your father chokes on air as he tries to speak, gasping desperately for breath. “Locked… the door.”

“Are you seriously scolding me for not bolting the door when you’re fucking bleeding in the hallway?!”

“Language!” he splutters, blood spilling from between his lips as he coughs.

“Can you stand? Get in the bathroom,” you heave him up by his arm, using all of your strength. He stumbles to his feet, and together, you half walk and half drag him into the bathroom, letting him slump on the floor, back against the bathtub.

You run back to the kitchen, dragging the bright red first aid case out from under the sink. Falling to your knees before him, the tiles hard and cold against your knees, you pull his coat from his shoulders and see through the slash in his shirt a deep wound in his left shoulder.

“Fuck,” you whisper under your breath, taking a towel from the rack and pressing it firmly to the site of the injury. He hisses through his teeth, groaning deeply at the undoubtably immense pain. “Breathe, dad. I need you to breathe as normally as you can. Don’t pass out on me!”

“I’ve had worse,” he remarked through his gritted teeth.

“Yeah, but you were also treated in a fucking hospital by doctors who specialise in treating injuries caused by ghouls.” Continuing to apply pressure with one hand, you crack open the first aid case with the other, rummaging for the supplies you know you’ll need: needle, suture thread, disinfectant, gauze pads, tape, and a roll of gauze. He feels tense under your hand, and you realise he’s still gripping his case tightly. “Let this go,” you try to pull it away from him, but he maintains his grip. “Dad,” you say, softer this time. “I’ll keep it right here, okay? Still in arms reach.”

He finally lets go, and you stand it upright next to him, the wound bleeding less now that he’s relaxed. You hazard a peek to check the wound; still oozing but definitely slower now. Replacing the towel over the injury to stem the bleeding further, you rip the already torn fabric of his shirt to get better access for what you were about to do next.

“Hold this. Press hard,” you instruct your father, taking his right hand in yours and pressing it against his shoulder, releasing only when you were sure he was doing what you said.

You take the bottle of antiseptic, struggling for a moment to get a grip on the lid because of the blood on your hands before managing to twist the cap off. You take a gauze pad and soak it with the antiseptic. “This is gonna sting,” you warn. He tips his head back against the rim of the bath and nods, taking in a deep breath.

You do too as you remove the towel and press the pad to his skin, blotting carefully so as to not cause more bleeding. Wiping away the surrounding blood, you get a clearer look at the site of the injury. A clean, yet deep slash through the skin and into the surface layers of muscle of the upper chest.

“What did this?” You ask quietly as you clean, swapping periodically to a fresh gauze pad.

“Rinkaku type ghoul. Bastard was probably an S-rate... Maybe even higher. Need to find out more,” his words were becoming slurred, groggy.

“Hey!” You slap his cheek lightly. “Don’t fall asleep on me! Tell me about the ghoul, I’ll make notes for you so you can rest.”

He hummed in agreement, head lolling to the side like it weighed twice as much. “He was tall, covered head to toe, no identifying features... Rinkaku type... fast... ‘nd strong. He was the leader. Others followed him...”

“How many others?” You ask, wiping off your hands on the towel and tearing open the sterile needle package.

“Three of ‘em wore...”

You look between him and the needle, hands trembling as you try to thread it. “Wore what, dad?” finally getting the thread through and tying it tightly.

“Masks,” he muttered. You pinch the area of the wound together with your fingers, taking a sharp breath before going for the first stitch, not allowing yourself the chance to hesitate. Your dad’s face twitches at the uncomfortable sensation of the needle piercing through his skin.

“What kind of masks, what did they look like?”

“Was s… ski-masks… the four… ski-masks,” his voice lowered to a whisper. His skin didn’t look too pale, so you weren’t necessarily concerned about blood loss. Most likely, he overexerted himself. The adrenaline of the fight vanished in an instant and left him running on empty.

“Ski-masks?” You question. “That’s kind of unoriginal.” All he can do is hum in response. You continue your stitches, sacrificing neatness and instead trying your best to make them as secure as possible. “What type were the other ghouls? There was a tall rinkaku, and?”

He takes in a deep breath through gritted teeth, letting it out slowly before speaking again. “One of each. Another tall guy... ukaku type, he was fast. Attacked from far away. The shortest was a koukaku type... strong guy, hung back a little, didn’t fight much, but he had a lot of energy. The bikaku type stuck close to the leader. Acted as a distraction, followed up on attacks by the rinkaku leader,” he’s quiet for a moment, contemplative. “He was so strong. I’ve never seen everything like it."

“You think he’s a cannibal? The leader?”

“Maybe,” his voice quietened again, but his breathing was even—if a little shallow—and stable.

You fell into a tense silence as you worked at his wound, weaving the needle and suture through his skin, pulling tight enough to hold it closed but not tight enough to cause problems or tear. Looking up at his face periodically to check he was still conscious and breathing. You make it to the end of the wound, now no longer bleeding and held firmly closed by the stitches. It was around five or six inches in length and would no doubt take months to heal properly.

Taking another fresh gauze pad, you soak it in antiseptic and clean as much blood from the surrounding area as possible, and as you take another one and a length of tape, you speak quietly. “It’s not too late, you know... It’s not too late to go home.”

He raises his head, squinting against the brightness of the bathroom light overhead. “Your mother asked me to avenge her... with her dying breath,” he takes in a deep, shuddering breath of his own as he speaks, his expression stern.

Clearly he wasn’t about to entertain this conversation; you nod solemnly and drop it. “Okay. You’re done. You need to get to bed.”

He doesn’t protest as you help him to his feet, stumbling down the hall and through his bedroom door, dropping him as carefully as you can onto the mattress. His whole body relaxes, and it’s clear he almost instantaneously drifts off to sleep. You watch him for a second. Sleeping in his bloody clothes, his skin pale and dark circles beneath his eyes. He looks nothing like the father you once knew. The man who would take you to the park and carry you on his shoulders. Who would buy you ice cream even after your mother said no. The man who would take you to the bookstore if you begged him enough.

Swallowing the lump in your throat and blinking away the tears in your eyes, you turn your back on him, closing the door softly behind you as you leave, even though you know he won’t wake up from the sound.

You go back to the bathroom, surveying the carnage left behind. Blood smeared all over the tile, the pile of soiled gauze, and the bloodstained towels. You glance up to see your own reflection; blood is soaked into your clothes and stains your hands all the way up your arms. Smears were even on your face, making your hair stick down to your skin in places. You wash your hands in the sink as best you can, letting your father’s blood run down the drain. Wiping the mess from your face and neck.

You go back out to the kitchen to get the best cleaning supplies, seeing the time on the TV read 12:43am and your food now cold sitting where you left it on the table. You try to distract yourself from your racing thoughts by focusing on cleaning the mess until it’s spotless, allowing the repetitive, muscle-aching act of scrubbing the red stains from the tile to lull you into a sense of calm.

Once the bathroom and hallway were free of bloodstains, you reorganised the first-aid kit, leaving it in the sink just in case your father wakes up before you and wants to redress his wounds, hopefully after showering off the blood.

Next, you clean off the silver case. Wiping it down with disinfectant and creeping back into his room to place it next to his bed where you know he’ll want it for his peace of mind. You check his pulse and temperature while you’re there, finding his heart rate to be a little slow and his temperature slightly cooler than normal, but nothing that warranted a hospital visit.

And after everything else was taken care of, you finally shower. A quick, scalding shower in an attempt to wash away the tension and grief carried in your muscles. It's there, under the water, when you break down. The tears are indistinguishable from the water that runs over your body, all disappearing down the same drain.

It wasn’t fair. Your life was far from perfect, but it was yours. Your little corner of the world with your parents so cruelly torn away by the actions of one single man—one ghoul. It didn’t matter how often they were away, or how much of their time they devoted to work; they always tried to make up for it by spending time with you. Buying you little treats and using their days off to go on trips. Your parents became who they were because of the work they did, and you wished nothing had ever changed, but you can’t help but think of the life you would’ve had with them if they weren’t investigators for the CCG. If the three of you lived a simple life. Office jobs and a regular routine instead of combat training at the age of eleven, long nights being educated on the physiology of ghouls and how to exploit their weaknesses depending on their type.

The air in the bathroom became thick with steam, so before you passed out, you wiped your face free of tears and stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around yourself before stopping by your room to change into something clean and comfy to sleep in.

With tired eyes, clean skin, and soft clothes, you go into your father’s office, sitting at his desk with your hair damp against your shoulders. You find one of his notebooks, and after flipping through barely legible notes and sketches of the same face that haunts your nightmares, you find a blank page where you write down everything he told you about the four ghouls.

Group of 4 ghouls - one of each type

Ukaku type: Tall, fast, ranged attacks. Koukaku type: Strong but didn’t engage much in combat, high energy. Bikaku type: Worked in tandem with the leader, utilising openings to attack and acting as a distraction. Rinkaku type: The leader, fast, unusually strong, tall, no identifiable marks. The other three follow this ghoul.

All wearing ski-masks.

You check in on your father one final time, finding his condition the same as when you last checked, before hearing birds beginning to sing outside your window when you at last collapse face down into the comfort of your bed. Your whole body feels heavy, but just as you start falling asleep, you hear your phone go off, remembering you never got the chance to call your friends like you wanted to.

[UNKNOWN NUMBER]

— Hey! It’s Sara! — Would you be able to come in for a short trial shift today?

Struggling to keep your eyes open, you type out a reply. Reading it three times over before hitting send, confirming you’d be able to work and asking what time she needed you by. Sara responds almost immediately, asking if 2pm was okay. You respond, letting her know you’ll be there. You set an alarm for noon and finally let the heavy hand of sleep drag you under.

The familiar sounds of your father careering around his office wake you again, and for the second day in a row, your body protests against you as you stretch. Panic shoots through you when you realise you weren’t awoken by your alarm, but your heart slows just as quickly as it started racing, and the panic is replaced with relief when your phone screen tells you it’s just past 11am.

You don’t bother to stop by your father’s office today. Bypassing it to shower again, still feeling unclean from the night before, and wanting a clear mind to focus on the menial tasks at the bookstore. The water cascading across your skin soothes you, and as you dry your hair, you’re grateful to look upon your face in the steamed-up mirror and find it not caked in blood. Your skilful cleaning left no evidence of the chaos, almost making the whole thing seem like a bad dream. Except for the first aid kit still sitting in the sink. Opening it, you see the contents clearly rummaged through and several gauze pads and a roll of tape missing. You return to your room to dress, choosing plain jeans and a long sleeve shirt, tying your hair back away from your face. Once dressed in work-appropriate attire, you take a deep breath before heading to your father’s office.

As usual, he doesn’t answer when you knock, and when you crack open the door, you find him hunched over his desk in the dark. A dim lamp that definitely needed a new bulb scarcely illuminates the desk as he sketches furiously. You’re pleased at least to see that he’s changed out of his ruined clothes and even appears to have showered.

“I have a trial shift at the bookstore in town,” you say matter-of-factly. He doesn’t even look up from his notebook. “I should be back by six,” earned you a simple grunt in response. You sigh in frustration, turning to leave before stopping with the door handle gripped in your hand. “There’s leftovers in the fridge. Please eat something,” you don’t even give him the chance to answer, leaving the room and closing the door firmly behind you.

Before you leave the apartment for your first trial shift, you enter quietly into your father’s room, taking the silver case from the side of the bed. You look around the apartment, evaluating the best place to hide the weapon where he wouldn’t be able to find it. It was too thick to slide under the couch and too wide to fit inside a kitchen cabinet.

Glancing back into his room, you see a stack of unpacked boxes on top of the free-standing closet. You climb carefully onto the dresser beside it, using the extra height to quietly slip the case on top of the closet, artfully arranging the boxes to disguise its presence. You climb back down as carefully as possible, stepping back, feeling satisfied when the case can’t be seen from ground level. You were ashamed to treat him like a child, like you were hiding a toy he couldn’t be trusted with from his reach, but you didn’t know what else to do to remove the temptation of going out again.

You decide against making food to take with you, choosing instead to buy something from the convenience store on the corner. You sit on the floor as you tie your boots, watching the shadows move under the door to your father’s office. Him pacing back and forth.

As you go to take your keys off the hook, you see his set sitting right next to yours. Taking both and locking the door behind you—locking your father inside—you head out into the daylight for the brisk walk to the centre of the city.

The air seemed to feel cooler and cooler with every passing day. Cool enough to wear your jacket on the walk. Once again, you were grateful for the crisp weather waking you up and keeping you alert after your more than rough night. Just as you’re about to enter the bustling noise of the city centre, your eyes linger on the road that leads to the industrial district and the bridge that lies beyond. The location of so much conflict in the area and the location of your father’s altercation with the group of four masked ghouls last night. There’s nothing outwardly suspicious about the area. It doesn’t look particularly safe, but it’s not crawling with ghouls tearing humans limb from limb either.

A biting gust of wind pulls you from your thoughts, causing you to tug your jacket tighter around you against the chill as you continue into the city. The convenience store offered a little respite from the cold when you stopped off for food before your trial shift. Eating a premade onigiri on the short walk up to the bookstore, you tried your best to ignore the second looks and passive-aggressive glares from the locals. It would probably take a while for people to get used to your face here, and you couldn’t help but miss the familiarity of the 2nd ward.

Wiping your mouth on your sleeve, not wanting to give a poor first impression, you discard the plastic wrapper in the recycling and sigh with relief when you push open the door. Grateful to step into the warm embrace of the bookstore.

As soon as you walk in, Sara calls your name in that bright and chipper voice you’d quickly come to associate with her. “Over here!” She beckoned. You shrug off your coat, hooking it over your arm as you approach her. Besides her stood an older man not too much taller than her, glasses perched on his nose while he flipped through papers clipped to a clipboard. “Mr. Takahashi, this is our trial staff member,” she looked at the man then back at you, but he didn’t look up from his papers once. The figure before you is hauntingly familiar to that of your father.

“Hm,” he grunted, crouching down to rummage under the counter. Sara grinned awkwardly, her eyes apologetic as she swayed side to side, waiting for the man to provide you with a modicum of attention. “Do a stock intake of the ‘new in’ section and rearrange the biographies. They haven’t been selling as well,” he turned away from the counter, his nose still buried in his paperwork as he began to walk away. You looked questioningly at Sara before he halts abruptly, turning on his heel to look directly towards you and say, “get her a shirt from the back,” then continued off into the back of the store.

You stepped closer to Sara, watching the man tap the spines of a section of books with his pen, note something down on the paper, then move along to a different section of the store to do the same. “Is he-”

“Always like that?” She finished for you, eyes closed and nodding resolutely, “yes. He stays out of our way mostly. Well, unless he comes out to bark orders at us. At least he doesn’t mince words.” Her signature beaming smile graces her face once more as she takes a sign from under the counter, placing it by the register. "Back in a sec!” it read in beautiful yet still clear, swirly cursive. “Come with me. We’ll get you a staff shirt, and you can leave your coat in the back with mine,” she waved you over as she rounded the counter, following obediently.

Sara pushed open a heavy wooden door that led into a cosy area akin to a staff room. Three plush, dark green couches filled the room, with a small area to prepare hot drinks on the right next to a tall fridge. The smell of fresh coffee filled the room, making you crave a cup. “This room is where we hang out on our breaks mostly. Or hide from customers when it gets busy,” she looks over her shoulder and puts her finger to her lips in a shush motion before crouching down to rummage through a cardboard box by one of the couches. “What size shirt would you wear? I’m seeing a lot of larges."

“Large is fine! Can I wear it over this one?” You ask, picking nervously at the sleeves of your shirt as Sara searches.

“Yeah, of course!” She stands and turns back to you, shaking out the polo shirt before handing it to you. She leaves her hand outstretched for your jacket, which you hand to her. “I’ll put this here,” she says, hooking it onto a coat stand alongside three others. The pale pink parka you suspect was hers.

The staff shirt was a similar dark green to the couches and had the store logo embroidered on the front-left side, Paper Trail, in pretty writing similar to that on the sign. You slip it on over your long sleeve shirt, gathering the material and tucking the front into your jeans in an attempt to look a little more put together.

“I’ll show you how to work the register first, I think. Then you can do something easygoing, maybe rearranging the biography section, if that’s alright with you?” Sara crosses the room to pour herself a cup of coffee, gesturing towards you with the pot in a silent offer for a drink.

You nod, accepting the coffee. “That’s fine with me. I used to work the register in the sandwich shop I worked at for a while. I’m not sure if it’s the same, but, you know,” you shrug, sipping your coffee from the paper cup.

“It’s not difficult to learn, and you’ll pick it up quick, I’m sure,” she leads you back out onto the shop floor, seeing a customer hovering by the register. “Hi! Sorry to keep you waiting, can I help you?” She calls, jogging light on her feet over to the register, placing her cup on the counter, and putting the sign away.

“Just this, please,” the customer, a young woman, hands over a paperback to Sara.

You follow and hover slightly behind her, watching over her shoulder as she scans the barcode. “Perfect, great choice!” She looks over her shoulder towards you, and you step closer to see the screen of the register. “So the items appear here when scanned. You have the option to add a bag to the charge. Would you like a bag, madam?”

“No, no. I’m okay, thank you,” she smiles politely, waving her hand.

“Okay, so we press ‘no bag’, then- Do you have a rewards card?”

“Oh! I actually do, just a second.”

“So, you scan the card with the scanner, and it’ll show how many rewards points the customer has. If they have a rewards balance on the card, you can ask if they’d like to use it. Thank you, madam,” she scans the card, and the screen updates. “Looks like you have a rewards balance of 9.99. Would you like to use that today?”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay, so you tap ‘use balance’, and it’ll apply the discount to the transaction. That takes your total today to zero!” Sara flashes her trademark warm smile as she hands the book back to the customer, who takes it with both hands.

“Thank you so much! You two have a great day!” The woman grins back.

“You too, thank you for coming,” Sara waves.

“Bye!” You call as she leaves, the bell signalling her exit. “Seems simple enough.”

“Told you! If they don’t have a rewards card, you ask them ‘card or cash’, then select whichever option on the screen they choose. If it’s card, tell them to follow the instructions on the machine,” she points to the card reader on the other side of the counter. You nod along in understanding. “If they’re paying with cash, you can use this calculator here to calculate the change. I can do it in my head because I’ve been here so long,” she laughs. “You type on the screen how much the customer paid and how much change you gave back. Once you tap ‘cash’ the register automatically pops open.”

You nod again; the process was similar to what you’d experienced before, and the register itself seemed simple to use. “How long have you worked here?” You ask, leaning back against the counter, sipping your coffee. Thankful for the warm beverage warming your hands.

“Oh, since I graduated high school. I had no idea what I wanted to do, but I knew I loved books, and here I am!”

“That’s nice. You must like it here if you’ve worked here for so long.”

“I do, it’s pretty quiet most days. We’re in a safe area here too. This is one of the lowest crime areas in the ward,” she reaches for her own coffee from the end of the desk, taking a large mouthful, closing her eyes as she swallows.

“Do you want me to get started on the biography section?” You ask. As nice as Sara was, you were eager to start on some mindless tasks to pass the time.

“Yes! Just rearrange them however you see fit, by author or title, or something. Mr. Takahashi thinks if we move things around, people will suddenly want to buy something they’ve seen a million times.”

“I can see how that would work,” you laugh, drinking the last of your coffee and throwing the cup in the trash under the counter.

“Let me know if you need a break!” Sara calls as you head for the biography section. You hold up an OK sign over your shoulder and get to work.

The biography section was currently organised alphabetically by author surname. You see a lot of familiar popular titles, a few lesser known, and some you’d never heard of before. Deciding it best to have the most popular ones at eye level, you intersperse them with similar-sounding books that people may also be interested in. Ones that follow a similar theme and authors that are commonly read together. Starting the whole process by taking everything from the shelves and creating a new order on the ground. After you were happy enough with your new layout, you began re-shelving the books. Swapping things out here and there when stock didn’t fit or if certain titles looked odd next to each other.

Sliding the last stock of books onto the bottom shelf, it didn’t feel like too much time had passed before you were done, happy and satisfied with your work. Remembering your favourite bookstore back in the 2nd ward, you turn to look over your shoulder at Sara, where she was bidding goodbye to a customer. “Sara!” You call from where you kneel on the ground after the customer leaves, “do we have any little cards I can write on?”

“Uh, let me check!” She calls back, disappearing beneath the counter briefly, popping up with a stack of flashcard-sized paper in hand. “Like this?”

“Yeah, perfect!”

She jogs over to you, cards and pen in hand. “Nice, I like it,” she praises, admiring your work. “What did you want with these?” She asks, handing the items over to you.

“Well, at this other bookstore I used to go to, they had little summaries for some books taped to the shelf. I’ve read most of these, so I thought I could write a little thing for a few of them. Maybe that’ll encourage people to check these out more.”

“Good idea. I’ll find something you can stick them to the shelf with,” she pats your shoulder and heads back to the counter to rummage around again.

The compliment left you warm inside with a smile on your face. Part of you was expecting the worst: that the staff would hate you, you’d mess everything up, and you’d be banned from the premises, nevermind continuing as a member of staff. But everything was going well.

You write out a couple of summary cards for some of the books you’d read.

“A tragic masterpiece of the inexorable unravelling of a man, set in a close-knit Italian-American community in 1950s New York.”

“... a powerful feminist writing, justifying the need for women to possess intellectual freedom and financial independence.”

Just as you were writing the third card, footsteps approached you from behind, followed by a familiar gruff “hm.” Over your shoulder stood Mr. Takahashi. “I need you to go upstairs. Run the café for an hour,” he stated flatly.

“I- Are you sure? I’ve never worked in a café before, I don’t know if I could-”

“Sara is needed down here. Our regular barista has had to leave on a personal matter. It won’t be busy at this time,” he was unwavering in his instructions.

“Okay, I’ll try,” you stand, leaving the written cards by the books they were meant for and heading back to the counter to give the others back to Sara.

“You’ll be fine. He’s right, the café is usually quiet at this time. I’ll stick those to the shelf for you,” she smiles, warm and reassuring and helping to ease your anxieties just a little.

You nod in thanks to her and head for the stairs, but halt when you hear Mr. Takahashi calling your name. He’s facing the shelf you just spent the past hour or so working on. He turns to face you, nodding at the summary cards you left. “Good work,” he nods and heads back into the store. You immediately look at Sara, who’s giving you a double thumbs up and a grin so wide, you can’t help but smile back.

Jogging up the stairs, with a sense of satisfaction lightening your step, you push open the door and set eyes on the café for the first time. The familiar chime of a bell ringing above you as you look around and notice first the complete lack of customers. You breathe a sigh of relief, the emptiness welcome as you get familiar with your surroundings. The space was significantly smaller than the square footage of the bookstore downstairs, but nothing about it was cramped or uncomfortable. The wooden tables filled the space well, square tables with two to four chairs tucked neatly underneath, and a few larger rectangular tables towards the edge for larger groups. All the chairs were wooden too, with forest green cushioning that looked remarkably clean—not a single coffee stain in sight. The walls and flooring were dark stained wood, the walls being panelled with tasteful artwork dotted around. Not the usual café-coffee-themed pieces you were used to, but detailed classical-style paintings giving the room a refined aura. Landscapes and beautiful forests, serene lakes. But by far, the prettiest feature had to be the floor-to-ceiling-length wall of windows opposite the serving counter, offering a breathtaking view of the sprawling city below.

You walk over, taking a moment to admire the view. The flow of people moving in the streets like water down a stream and the sun beginning to set on the horizon. The building was in the perfect place to look out across the city and into the surrounding districts, the industrial district eye-catchingly grey and devoid of life out in the distance. Even your apartment building was visible from here. You hoped your dad wasn’t going stir-crazy alone at home. Regretting for a moment the fact that you’d essentially made him a prisoner, but that feeling passed quickly. He couldn’t be trusted not to go out chasing ghouls, and in his current state, that would be a death sentence.

Taking a deep breath and pushing the thought of him from your mind, you head towards the counter, the floor creaking slightly underfoot. A sign hung high up on the wall behind the serving counter above the menus, reading Paper Trail Café. On the side of the counter out of view of the customers was a large, laminated recipe book containing instructions on how to make every beverage on the menu. You closed your eyes in silent thanks before flipping through a couple of pages. Green tabs, you quickly realised, marked the drinks currently available for order. Freshly ground coffee sat beside the espresso machine with the portafilters clean and ready for use. You find the fridge under the counter, stocked with different types of milk and someone’s sandwich. Probably forgotten from lunch.

Pastries, cakes, and cookies sit behind a glass display counter, and towards the far left behind the counter was a door. Peeking inside, you’re not surprised to find a modest kitchen. By the door stands a coat rack similar to the one in the break room downstairs, with several aprons hanging ready for use. You take one and slip it on, knowing your luck you’d spill something on your new shirt, and even though there was a box full of them downstairs, you weren’t thrilled at the idea of having to confront Mr. Takahashi with a ruined shirt.

While the café was empty, you decided to make a test coffee to get the hang of the machinery. Filling the portafilter with ground coffee, flattening it down just enough to make an even surface, then slotting it into the espresso maker, clicking it into place. You take a pristine white espresso cup from the rack and set it beneath the filter, crouching down, adjusting it slightly to the left to directly catch the coffee. Making a silent prayer that the numbered buttons underneath the head you were using were the ones that made the machine run, you pressed the first one, appropriately labelled one, and the machine buzzed to life. It takes a second for the water to reach the coffee grounds, but when it does, the mouth-wateringly warm scent of freshly brewed coffee swiftly fills the room as it flows into the cup below.

Just when you think the cup is about to overflow, the machine stops. “Okay,” you sigh in relief, hands frozen in the air as you think of what to do next. Iced Americano, you know how to do that. You take a disposable plastic cup from the stack in the corner and find the ice box by the sink, using the scoop inside to add an appropriate amount of ice to the cup, then fill it almost to the top with cold water, finally adding your espresso shot. You press on a lid and take a straw from the pack next to the ice box, poking it through the lid, then stirring the drink to mix it all together. When you take a sip, it’s exactly right. The rich and bold flavour of the brewed coffee is better than any you’d ever had before. Even from your favourite coffee shop back in the 2nd Ward.

While you’re sipping on your drink, searching for the type of delicious coffee bean stocked here so you can buy some for yourself when the ding of the bell makes your blood run cold. A customer. You scramble to stand behind the counter when the customer rounds the corner and approaches. A tall man, seemingly covered head to toe in tattoos, the head of a snake, and green foliage just visible underneath his collar. He offers a small smile as you brush your stray hairs behind your ears. “Hi. Uh, what can I get you?” You cringe inwardly at how awkward you sounded.

“Just a black Americano, please.”

You smile back at the customer, beyond grateful that he chose the one drink you definitely knew how to make. “What size would you like?” You ask, flipping through the menu on the register touch screen.

“Medium,” the man replies, fishing his wallet from his pocket.

“Americano, medium,” you say to yourself as you select the options. “Hot or iced?”

“Hot, please.”

“And is that to drink in or to go?” following the options diligently on the screen.

“Uh, I’ll stay in,” the man nods.

“Okay,” you freeze for a second when the screen asks for a rewards card. “Do you have a, uh, a rewards card?”

“Yeah, I do,” he holds out the card, and you almost take it from him when you remember the scanner. “Sorry. Sorry, it’s my first day. I’ve kind of been thrown in at the deep end,” you laugh awkwardly as you scan his card and hope he won’t be frustrated at your ineptitude.

“Don’t worry, you’re doing great,” he reassures.

The screen shows no rewards balance, so you proceed to the payment screen. “That’ll be 3.30, card or cash?”

“Card,” he says, holding up his bank card. You gesture to the machine, and as he goes to input his pin with patterned fingers, you turn to fill the other portafilter with coffee grounds with your own shaking hands. Carefully tampering out the surface while trying not to spill coffee everywhere, slotting it into the machine just like you did before. You place an espresso cup underneath and press the same button as you did earlier, once again bringing the machine to life. You take a medium mug from the rack, place it underneath the spout that reads hot water, and press the button that indicates a medium-sized mug, letting the machine fill it as steam rises to cloud your vision. Turning back to the man at the register, finding him watching you.

“You seem to know your way around pretty well considering it’s your first day,” he smiles, hands in his pockets.

“I had a play with the machine while nobody was here. You ordered the one thing I know how to make,” you pick up the coffee you made earlier, taking a sip to quench your suddenly dry throat. How is it you were stitching your father’s wounds in the early hours of the morning but suddenly become a nervous wreck at the prospect of making someone a cup of coffee? “Thank you for placing an easy order,” you smile as you tap ‘complete transaction’ on the register screen.

The man laughs, quiet and soft, “you’re welcome.” The heat from the espresso machine warms your cheeks, or was it because of the way his laugh made your heart beat just a little faster? “Are you new in town? I was thinking I’ve never seen you around here before, though you do look familiar.”

“Oh, yeah. I just moved here with my dad. I’ve never been here before now, you must’ve seen someone else,” the machine beeped, drawing your attention. You pour the espresso shot into the mug of hot water, taking it in hand and carefully placing it down on the counter in front of the customer, “your coffee.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he smiles down at the cup before picking it up. “Thank you,” he turns to head towards a table when he stops in the middle of the room and looks back at you to ask, “What’s your name?”

You blink in surprise and tell him, “why? You’re not going to complain about that shitty coffee, are you?” Nodding to the cup in his hands.

“No,” he laughs. “I just wanted to know your name if I’m going to be seeing you around. I’m Noah,” he says, smiling warmly.

“Nice meeting you, Noah. I promise I’ll make you a better coffee next time I see you.”

He takes a sip, not even blowing on the drink to cool it down first, closing his eyes as he enjoys the flavour. “Tastes perfect to me,” he says, going all the way to the opposite end of the café to sit by the large window. He takes a notebook from his coat pocket, opens it to a page marked with a scrap of paper, and begins jotting something down, stopping to type something on his phone, then going back to his notebook. Periodically sipping his coffee.

You can’t help but watch him over the espresso machine as you clean it. Throwing out the used coffee grounds in the trash underneath the counter and rinsing the portafilters using the steam nozzle. He was handsome, no doubt. He shrugged off his coat, leaving it hanging over the back of his chair as he wrote, flipping back and forth between pages. You weren’t surprised to see his arms were just as extensively tattooed as you thought. Though you weren’t able to see exactly what the artwork was that adorned his skin from this distance, you thought it suited him well. His face was serious as he worked, brows drawn inward in a slight frown, but despite his intimidating appearance, you felt comfortable in the empty room with him.

With the espresso machine clean and the used cups in the sink, the bell signalled the arrival of another customer. “Hi,” you greeted politely when they approached the counter. “What can I get for you guys?”

“Hi, can I get a flat white, please? And, what do you want?” The young lady looked to her friend.

“Can I get a black Americano, hot?” The other lady replied.

“A flat white and a black Americano, both hot to drink inside, please.”

“Of course, bear with me a second,” you stall as you tap the options on the screen. “What milk would you like in the flat white?”

“Um, what do you have?”

“I’ll check,” you stoop to open the little fridge. “Looks like we have oat, almond, whole milk, semi-skimmed, skimmed.”

“I’ll have oat milk, please,” the lady smiled politely as you nodded.

“And what sizes would you like?”

“Both medium, please.”

“Okay,” you focus on the screen. Flat white, medium, hot, oat milk, staying in. Americano, medium, hot, staying in. “Do you have a rewards card?” you look between the two women.

They both shake their heads. “No,” one of them replies.

“Alright. That’ll be 6.70, please. Cash or card?”

“Card,” the first lady steps forward to pay for both drinks as she scours her bag for her wallet.

“Just follow the instructions on the reader when you’re ready,” you turn to the machine, following the process for an Americano that was quickly becoming second nature. Flipping through the laminated recipe book though, for the exact instructions for a flat white. “Espresso shot in the cup first, steam the milk, add to espresso,” you mumbled quietly to yourself. Setting up another espresso shot to process on the other side of the machine, you take the milk from the fridge as the women chat by the counter.

“But yeah, that thing on the news this morning. The fight between The Omens and a CCG Investigator? What was he thinking?” A chill runs up your spine despite the hot steam swirling around you. “Why would they send a single investigator to fight four ghouls? And The Omens. Of all the ghouls you’d go after, why the most dangerous group in the Ward?”

“Right? They don’t even do anything wrong, they’re the ones keeping the peace around here.”

You swallow roughly as you pour the milk into the steel jug, the espresso machine humming by your side. The most dangerous group in the Ward. That’s who your father fought last night. The steamer hissed to life, almost drowning out the conversation between the women as it heated and frothed the milk in the jug.

“But I heard the CCG declined to comment on the situation. They usually give a fucking essay-length report on the operation, why they did it, what they achieved.”

“Yeah, it’s weird.”

You add the espresso shot to a mug, pouring in the hot milk the rest of the way, doing the same for the Americano with hot water. Placing the drinks in front of the women one by one, you offer your best smile. "Sorry that there’s no fancy pattern. I’m new here, they haven’t taught me that yet.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, it looks great. Thank you so much.”

“Thank you,” the women pick up their respective drinks and get comfortable at a small table by the edge of the room. Their conversation continues on, but from this distance you can’t pick up what they’re saying.

Taking a deep breath, you busy your hands by cleaning the machine again, but your mind continues to race. He was lucky to escape with his life, and you’re grateful that he survived, but you can’t help but grit your teeth in anger over the actions of your father. Fighting the most dangerous gang of ghouls in the area completely alone, chasing his own selfish ends. Why couldn’t he just let it go? He wasn’t lying when he said your mother asked him to kill the ghoul that took her life; her final words were immortalised in the field report for the incident between your parents and that ghoul—Malice. You had found your father passed out drunk on the couch one night at your old home in the weeks following her death, the report laying open on his lap. Reading those words did fundamentally change you, but they didn’t make you lust for revenge. They brought you immeasurable grief. Your mother should have known better than to ask such a thing of your father. She should’ve asked him to look after you, for both of you to live on and carry her with you as you continue to live in her name. She had to have known her request would consume him.

The hot water running over your hands from the tap was a welcome distraction as you scrubbed the cups clean in the sink, but all you want to do is go back to the apartment. To keep an eye on your father, make sure his condition didn’t worsen during the day while you were away.

“Hey, you’re the new girl, right?” A voice close behind you snapped you from your thoughts. A tall man stood behind the counter, his uniform matching yours with a puffy black coat clasped in his hands.

“Y-yeah, hi.”

“Takahashi said you can go back downstairs now. Sorry he sent you up here on such short notice, but you look like you’re handling yourself well,” he smiled down at you as he ran his hand through his dark hair. He was tall, not as tall as the tattooed customer from earlier, but still stood several inches above you. “I’m Roy, by the way. I work up here full time.”

“Oh, nice to meet you. I only had three customers, luckily,” you laugh off your stress and tell Roy your name.

“Yeah, it’s usually quiet up here at this time.” He hangs his coat on the rack and slips on an apron over his uniform, tying the strings around his middle. “Thanks for holding down the fort though,” he claps a hand against your shoulder with a wide smile.

Laughing along with him, you untie your own apron, placing it in Roy’s open hand for him to hang up. Rounding the counter and heading straight for the door, but just as you pull it open, bell chiming overhead, Roy calls your name.

“Anytime you wanna join me for a shift, just let old man Takahashi know!”

“I will,” you call over your shoulder. “See you!”

As you turn back to the door, you catch the eye of the tall tattooed man who smiles warmly, waving with one hand. You return his smile, looking away quickly and heading through the door to the stairs. You get halfway down when you pause to catch your breath. So much was happening. The switch from saving your father’s life to playing retail and meeting so many new people, playing barista with absolutely zero training. The warm smile of a tall stranger.

Raking your hands through your hair and yanking out the hair tie, you shake it out and take a deep breath, continuing down the stairs to see a couple of customers milling around the store and Sara, bright as ever at the counter.

She smiles wide at you, unable to speak for serving the customer, but when you point to the break room, she nods in understanding. Once in the solitude of the break room, you flop down on the nearest couch. The fatigue finally caught up with you, your legs tingling from being on your feet for so long. The clock on the wall read 5pm. Only 30 more minutes, and you could go back to the apartment. 30 more minutes, then you could rest.

“Hey! How’d it go upstairs?” Sara poked her head around the door, not a single sign of fatigue on her face.

“Made three coffees,” you say drowsily, holding up three fingers. “Didn’t fuck them up.”

“That’s great! You can go around the store and straighten things out for the last few minutes. Put books back in the right sections, make everything look nice. Come back out when you’re ready,” she smiles when you give her a thumbs up and closes the door softly as she leaves.

Your stomach grumbles, and you remember all you’d eaten today was the onigiri from the convenience store. And your dinner last night was interrupted, half eaten. Standing with a groan, you go for the coffee pot, pleased to find it freshly brewed, filling a paper cup halfway. Hoping the drink will tide you over for half an hour until you get the chance to stop off at the convenience store again on the way back. The break room fridge stands tall on your right, you crack it open, the glow illuminating your face as you peek inside. Empty. Everyone else probably already ate their lunch earlier. Chugging the coffee down and throwing the cup in the trash, you take another deep breath, then head back out into the store.

You check the biography display you made earlier first, smiling when you notice the summaries you wrote stuck to the shelves and several books missing, hopefully purchased. You straighten out the display a little and move to the classics section next to it, doing the same.

As the sun sets, casting the store in a comforting orange glow just as it did yesterday, the warmth only increases your drowsiness. Your footsteps begin to drag while you patrol the store. The shelves were in relatively good condition considering the store had been open since 9am. You wondered if Sara or another member of staff, Mr. Takahashi perhaps, would periodically come through and straighten things out.

You move a thriller back to the ‘new in’ display table and put a stray copy of The Phantom of the Opera back in the Gothic Literature section. You’re straightening out a stack of science-fiction books when the tall, tattooed man jogs down the stairs. “See you again!” Sara calls as he heads for the door. He waves over his shoulder to her, not seeing you standing behind a display as he goes, the bell signalling his departure into the evening.

You go over to Sara, leaning on the counter as she presses discount stickers to a stack of books. “Does he come in here often?” You ask.

“Who? Noah? Yeah, he’s been a regular almost as long as I’ve been here,” she smiles as she works, glancing at you out of the corner of her eye. “Why?” she asks, her tone teasing.

“No, I was just wondering. I served him upstairs. He was nice,” trying your best to keep your tone as casual and nonchalant as possible. You left out the part where you thought he was handsome.

“Yeah, he keeps to himself mostly. Always polite, though. You can head out now if you’d like. There are only 5 minutes left, it’s not likely we’ll get any more customers at this point.”

“Oh, thank you. Did I do okay today?” You ask nervously, fiddling with a piece of scrap paper.

“You did great! I’m sure Mr. Takahashi will ask me to call you with his decision,” she puts the stickers down and turns to face you. “Did you like it? Would you want to come back?”

“Yeah, I would. Maybe even do a couple of shifts in the café, with a little more training,” you laugh and push off the counter. “I’ll go get my jacket.”

She nods, returning to her stickers. “Oh! You can keep the shirt for now!” She calls after you.

“Okay!” You call back. Stopping off in the break room just long enough to take your jacket from the rack and slip it on before you’re back out the door and almost bumping into someone. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Takahashi. I didn’t expect you to be there.”

He says nothing. Instead, he holds out a sheet of folded paper.

“What’s this?” you ask as you take it from him, opening it to see a hand-drawn grid, the days of the week penned at the top and various times listed underneath.

“Your schedule for the month,” he replied curtly, turning and walking off with his hands clasped behind his back.

“You’re- you’re hiring me?” You watch him as he goes.

“Hm” is the only response he gives before he’s gone around the corner.

You look over to Sara, who pumps her fists in the air, grinning ear to ear. “I told you! Welcome to the family!” She jogs over and pulls you in for a bone-crushing hug, which you return gladly. “Go! Go home and tell your dad. I’m sure he’ll be so proud of you. You can give me your bank details for your wages next time you’re in. Or maybe just text me.”

“Okay,” you say with a shocked sigh, staring in disbelief at the schedule in your hands. You check the paper, seeing your next shift is Saturday, 12pm to 5:30pm. “I’ll see you at the weekend,” you smile at Sara. She squeals in delight, gripping your shoulders before releasing you to let you leave.

As the bell chimes above your head and the cold air whips past your face, your smile doesn’t falter. Despite the tumultuous night and the abrupt nature of today, you felt good. Like things could really work out here.

After the short walk down the street, you greet the cashier in the convenience store enthusiastically as you enter and scan the refrigerators for an evening snack to tide you over until you cook dinner. Choosing an egg salad sandwich and a red bean dorayaki for a sweet treat. Adding an iced tea to your selection to get the meal discount. You check out and begin the walk out of the city, plastic bag in hand, back to the apartment.

You hoped your father wouldn’t be furious with you for locking him in all day. That he’d spent the day relaxing and would welcome you home with a smile on his face and open arms to congratulate you on the new job.

The sun was setting earlier and earlier as the winter approached, you noticed, the last light of the day casting long shadows across the roads. As you walked, the number of lit buildings dwindled to almost none, the streetlights sparsely lighting the way. The increasing darkness made a sense of unease settle in your chest, replacing the lightness from earlier.

It’s when you’re almost halfway to the apartment that you hear a crash down an alleyway, jumping away instinctively, hand clasped over your heart. You freeze. Staring into the darkness, expecting something to jump out from behind the bins at any second. A piercing cry reaches your ears, something animalistic, followed by scratching and scrambling, then silence. It must be animals. Cats or raccoons or something.

Nevertheless, you pick up the pace. Exiting the city, passing by the industrial district, the apartment building in sight as your legs begin to ache. You sprint up the stairs, key in hand, and when you thrust the key into the lock, anxious for the warmth of the apartment to surround you, the door begins to fall out of the frame.

“What the fuck!” You exclaim, grasping the edges of the wood in both hands, the plastic bag of food thudding loudly against the door. You edge around the door, laying it back into place as best you could, and when you’re on the other side, you see the scratch marks around the hinges and the hinges themselves laying on the side table with a screwdriver next to them. “What the fuck,” you repeat, firmer this time. Anger unrestrained in your voice.

Once you’re certain the door isn't going to collapse, you remove your hands from it, turning and throwing the grocery bag onto the couch. Not even removing your shoes before you stride through the apartment to your father’s office to find it expectantly empty. One look in his bedroom reveals the same, and the mess of boxes and personal effects scattered across the ground tells you he found your hiding place for his quinque. You drop your head into your hands, groaning in frustration. Dragging your hands down your face, you go back to the front room, taking the grocery bag from the couch and shoving the whole thing into the fridge. Clearly, no afternoon snack for you.

You go back to your father’s office, the desk illuminated by the lamp and a familiar sight of assorted papers scattered across the surface. But there was something there that wasn’t present yesterday. A map of the local area with the bridge in the industrial district, the place mentioned on the news yesterday and the site of so much conflict in the Ward, circled in red. The bridge he fought The Omens on.

“He’s gone back,” you whisper into the silence of the room. “He’s fucking gone back.”

When your dad first told you that he’d tracked the ghoul that killed your mother to the 13th Ward and had decided to pursue him there, you did your own research on the area. The industrial district used to be a bustling area, teeming with transport vehicles delivering goods from place to place. Warehouses and factories, all abandoned now due to declines in industry profits and the increase of ghoul activity in the area. It became too unsafe for people to operate there. Nobody wanted to work the night shift when you could be preyed upon at any moment.

He’s going to die. He’s injured, delusional, and reckless. He barely made it out with his life last time, and he’s going to pay for his ego with his life this time. That can’t happen. You can’t let that happen. You’re not going to allow that to happen.

You push off his desk, going into your room. Beelining towards your closet to find the most appropriate clothes possible. Not jeans, too restrictive. Dress pants aren’t protective enough, neither are leggings. You pull a heavy pair of cargos from the rail, something your mother used to wear on shift at the CCG, and throw them on the bed. Flipping through your shirts until you find your long sleeve compression shirt you used to wear on runs around your old neighbourhood. You didn’t want to risk going for a run in this Ward.

Sitting on the edge of your bed with your clothes, you unlace your boots and tug your jeans off, replacing them with the cargos. Shrugging off your jacket and swapping your long sleeve and work shirt for the black compression shirt, tucking it into the cargos. You scrape your hair back again, securing it in a tight bun at the back of your head, making sure no stray pieces could block your vision. You sit back down to tie your boots back onto your aching feet. All you wanted to do was rest. Celebrate your achievements with your father and go to bed at a reasonable time.

You take a jacket from the hanger, the same as the one you wore today, but in black. It was lightweight but practical, with two breast pockets and two at hand height. It had cords at the waist, which you tightened after you popped the buttons closed, cinching it in at the waist to make it fit snug against your body in a more streamlined fashion. Then, you take the knife from your other jacket and slip it into a pocket by your hip on your cargo pants, the handle only just peeking out.

Now fully dressed, you go back to your father’s office. When you open the door to the closet, the silver case sits at the bottom, exactly where you saw it last time. Your mother’s. You take it by the handle; the weight of it is surprisingly comfortable in your hand.

You set it down by the entryway to haphazardly screw the hinges back onto the door, then attaching them back to the frame. The door had to be jolted to close properly, but it’ll do for now. You take the case again, tugging the door closed after you, not even bothering to lock it. Jogging down the stairs quickly, you push the entryway door open into the cold night air.

The wind bites at the areas of exposed skin on your neck and hands, sending a chill down your spine. You pull your coat tightly around you, readjusting your grip on the handle, and set off for the industrial district.

You get there quickly. The dark warehouses towering over you, completely devoid of life. Gravel crunches underfoot as you take in your surroundings. Nobody could be seen. Broken glass littered the ground from the shattered windows, and the wind howled between the buildings.

Keeping alert, your eyes dart to any source of sound, wary of any potential threats. The river shimmers under the moonlight to your right; the area could be beautiful, you think, if it weren’t for the history. The evidence of activity was clear. Despite the derelict nature of the area, there was no trash lining the streets and very little signs of animal activity. Even in the 2nd Ward, a place you’d describe as clean, had the occasional rat, racoon, or fox. But there was nothing here. No shredded trash bags or rustling in the dumpsters. Did ghouls eat animals when the food supply was running short? The reports of cannibalism that came out of the 13th would indicate no. Someone was caring for this area, though. Someone spent enough time here to want to keep it tidy.

You look behind you, seeing how deep into the district you’d come, the lights by the main road reduced to tiny faint glows. The bridge wasn’t too much further now, the silhouette of the metal framework visible in the distance stretching over the widest part of the river. As you pass by another grey, concrete building, you catch a glimpse of light inside, the sliding metal door left wide open. You stand with your back to the wall, peeking in but not seeing anyone inside. It was eerily quiet too, but a shout in the distance answers the question as to where the people might be, and you don’t hesitate to break into a sprint towards the source. The bridge.

The cold air burns in your lungs with your sharp intakes of breath, feet slipping off the gravel as they pound against the ground. Almost as hard as your heart in your chest. As the bridge grows closer and closer, the figures once obscured by the metalwork come into focus. Four of them. Four ghouls. All facing one hunched over, very stupid man. You will yourself to run faster, desperate to get there before it’s too late.

A tall man towards the back of the group unleashes his kagune—the ukaku type ghoul—blood red tipped with bright orange shapes emerging from his back, almost like wings of fire, raised into the air and poised directly towards your father. You growl in frustration as you run. Glints in the moonlight catch your eye, a torrent of blades from the ukaku ghoul’s kagune soar through the air, sending up clouds of dust when they impact the ground, and pull cries of pain from your father as they pierce his skin.

Almost too quick for the eye to catch, the bikaku type ghoul rushes forward when your father drops down to one knee. The flash of his quinque barely deflects the attack as the force sends him skidding on his back across the bridge. The koukaku quinque gripped firmly in his right hand, bending like a whip before solidifying and scraping across the ground, slowing him down to a stop.

“Dad!” You cry, feet skidding on the gravel as you round the railing and at last step foot on the bridge. He turns from his position on the ground, meeting your panicked eyes with nothing but emptiness. You dash towards him at the same time as the bikaku ghoul, attempting to follow up on his previous attack. Pressing your fingers to the smooth surface on the handle of the case, the weapon accepts your biometric authentication and releases the weapon inside.

You throw yourself to the ground, skidding across the smooth surface on your left side with the weapon raised in your right hand, the impact of your quinque against the bikaku ghoul’s kagune sending a shock of vibrations up your arm to your shoulder when they connect. He looks from your weapon to your face with his scarlet eyes surrounded by darkness; even under the ski-mask, you could tell his eyebrows were clearly pinched together in frustration. You reach across your body to feel for the knife at your hip, lurching forward when it’s firmly in your grasp and slashing at the ghoul’s lower legs.

He grits his teeth and groans against the pain, the blade glimmering blood red in the moonlight. The ghoul swiftly turns on his heel and, using his kagune, launches himself several feet in the air to land beside the stoic figure of what was undoubtedly the leader of the group. He leans in to say something to the taller ghoul; the muffled sound of an order was audible, and before you knew it, the fourth ghoul was sprinting towards you. Coming out from behind the leader, his own blood-red kagune breaks free of his skin and clothes to wrap around both arms, forming blunt mallet shapes at his hands.

“Stand up, dad,” your own order came through gritted teeth as you got to your feet. A dull ache in your hip is present from where it hit the ground, but you make an effort to not reveal the weakness to your attackers. The grunting and shuffling behind you tells you he’s obeying, but you don’t have time to look. Drawing back your quinque to fend off what would’ve likely been a fatal strike to the head if not for your quick reflexes. You swing the long, polearm-like weapon, blade side down, to strike at the koukaku ghoul, only for him to move at the last second, leaving you to strike the ground instead. Hearing footsteps to your right, you swing the weapon around, striking his covered arm. Withdrawing it just as quickly to swing down, carving a long slash down the front of the ghoul’s chest with the pointed tip.

“Fuck!” The ghoul curses, lashing out with his blunt fists, knocking your quinque downwards, leaving you open and vulnerable to attack, but before he can strike you, the blade of your father’s quinque comes into view. Deflecting the koukaku ghoul’s attack with ease and following up with a quick succession of strikes. Some make contact with the ghoul’s body, but most hit the areas where he’s protected by the hard shell of his kagune.

The two are evenly matched. Their weapons of the same type struck each other with brutal precision, but never hard enough to break the other. Your father attacked at a rapid pace despite his injuries, landing more hits on the ghoul than the ghoul was landing on him. What the ghoul lacked in speed, however, he made up for in strength. You stand behind your father as he fights, tucking the knife back into your pocket so you can grip the handle of your own weapon in both hands.

The sound of footsteps once more hits your ears. Looking left, the bikaku ghoul was running across the railing of the bridge towards the fight. He jumps off high into the air, the kagune wrapped around his leg plummeting towards you with a force you know you wouldn’t be able to deflect. You dodge, your shoulder hitting the ground as you enter into a roll just as the ghoul strikes the ground and cracks the concrete where you were standing. You come to a stop on one knee, your weapon primed for an attack. He bolts towards you, his speed clearly superior to that of his koukaku friend. You preemptively strike upwards, with the handle to the sky first and the blade side of your quinque following in an upwards slicing motion. The blade makes contact with the ghoul’s chest, just as it did his friend before him. The hiss of pain he lets out is sharp, and he stumbles on his feet before you, hands gripping the bleeding wound on his chest.

He spins, his kagune whipping around to strike you in the abdomen before you get the chance to block it. The force throwing you to your back on the ground, quinque knocked from your hand. Just when you expect him to follow up and finish you off, a figure blocks out the moon in the sky above you. One with four tentacle-like appendages sprouting from his lower back. All aimed pointed down towards you. Unable to reach your quinque, you instinctively cover your face with your arms despite knowing it won’t do anything to lessen the damage.

The ground shudders underneath you when the ghoul makes impact. Dust rising into the air and pieces of concrete landing on your clothes and in your hair. You hazard a look from behind your arms, the silhouette of the ghoul standing over you, caging you in with his kagune. He stood wide, feet firmly planted either side of your body, but it’s too dark to see his face. The moon glowing behind him, casting him in an almost ethereal light if he weren’t a monster. He stays there for a moment while the desperate cries of your father sound in the background. He says nothing. He does nothing.

Until he, almost carefully, pulls his kagune from the concrete around you, turns, and walks away. You sit up as you watch him go, dumbfounded for a moment before scrambling for your quinque. As you reach for it, a single blade from the ukaku ghoul pierces the ground, narrowly missing your hand. You whip your head around to see him standing there in the distance at the other end of the bridge, his coat billowing behind him in the wind. That was a warning.

You grit your teeth and snatch up your quinque anyway, rising to your feet with your weapon clasped in both hands. When you look back to your father, the rinkaku ghoul, the leader, had him in his grasp. His tentacle-like kagune wrapped around your father’s bleeding body and hoisted him high in the air, where he dangled almost lifeless. His quinque slipped from his hand and clattered against the ground.

“Stop!” You cry, taking several steps towards the ghouls. “Let him go. Please, let him go. I’ll take him away from here, he’ll never bother you again. You’ll never see us again. Just please, don’t kill him!”

The rinkaku ghoul turns his face towards you. If it weren’t for the distance between you and the shadows obscuring his features, you’d be looking him in the eyes. The air grows thick with tension. One wrong move and he’s dead.

“Look,” you crouch down slowly and place your quinque on the ground, raising your hands in submission. “We’ll go. Just… Just don’t kill my dad.”

The ghouls are statues. It’s clear the others are waiting on the decision of their leader. He nods at you, towards your hip, where the handle of the quinque knife was poking out of your cargo pants. Understanding what he wants, you slowly lower one of your hands, taking the knife from your pocket with the tips of your fingers and lowering it to the ground to sit with the other weapon.

“Please,” you whisper.

The rinkaku ghoul unceremoniously drops your father to the ground and walks towards you, the other two following. Your breath hitches in your throat when he draws near, but he does not attack. Continuing to walk a few paces past you before stopping just behind you as the others continue walking to the opposite end of the bridge.

“This is a kindness we won’t be extending again.”

His footsteps fading away are all you can hear, and when you turn around, The Omens are nowhere to be seen.

You rush to your father’s side, turning him over onto his back; you don't need to remove his coat to see the extent of his injuries. The once light grey fabric is now stained scarlet. He groans when you place his arm around your shoulder and drag him to his feet. Picking up his quinque too and pressing the biometric authenticator to turn the object from a weapon back into a nondescript silver briefcase. “Take this,” you say, handing him his quinque. You’re filled with hope that maybe his condition isn’t as bad as it looks when he takes it firmly in hand.

You take him the few paces to collect your own weapons, hiding the knife in your jacket pocket, and taking your own case in the hand that hangs between you and your father’s exhausted body. You begin the slow process of half walking and half dragging him back to the apartment.

You don’t see a single person or ghoul on the way back, and you can’t help but wonder if that was The Omens doing. You wipe the sweat from your brow as you wrangle your father into the elevator; the stairs are absolutely out of the question in both of your conditions. He slumps back against the metal wall, and you’re grateful to have his weight off you for a moment, stretching out your shoulders and neck and feeling them protest against the strain with stabs of sharp pain. When the elevator dings and the doors open at your floor, you pull him onto you again, wincing with the effort. Stumbling the final stretch to your apartment door.

You swing the door open wide, the hinges groaning against the strain, reminding you that you need to fix that properly sooner rather than later. Leaving the door open, you drop your quinque in the entryway and bring your father straight into the bathroom to once again treat his wounds. The bright red first aid case still sitting in the sink from the night before. He drops to the ground against the bathtub with a thud and a groan, slouching back with ragged breaths.

“I’m going to lock the door, okay? Don’t fucking die,” you warn before going back to the door on long strides. You push it closed, bumping it with your hip to make sure it was shut all the way, then slide the deadbolts into place. Taking your keys off the side to secure the final lock. In a last ditch, paranoia-driven attempt at security, you push the couch across the wooden floor to wedge it firmly against the front door. You can only imagine the noise complaints coming your way from the downstairs neighbours. Hell, probably the upstairs neighbours too.

Now, in the privacy of your own home, you show your signs of weakness. Limping back to the bathroom, trying not to put too much weight on your injured hip, and pressing a hand against the bruising ache in your abdomen. You crack open the first aid case and bring the whole thing to the ground with you. “I need to take your coat and shirt off,” you tell your father quietly. He nods, barely noticeable, but leans forward slightly to make your job easier.

Once the garments were off, the extent of his injuries was made clear. Lacerations and bruising scattered all across his torso, back, abdomen, and arms. All varying in depth and severity, but combined, made for a potentially lethal combination. “How are your legs?” You ask, shuffling backwards to look for signs of actively bleeding wounds underneath his slacks. There are three prominent bloodstains, larger than just accidental blood splatter from other wounds. One on the outside of his left thigh, one on each of his shins. Probably where a ghoul slashed at his legs, just like you did to the bikaku ghoul. With a resigned sigh, you reach for a towel, and just as you did last night, you press firmly against the deepest wounds to stem the bleeding. Rummaging through the kit to find the antiseptic.

It’s dawn when you’re finally finished. The glow of the morning sun greets you warm and bright through the east-facing windows as you close your father’s bedroom door behind you. Pressing your back to the cool wood, you slide down to the ground, stretching out your legs in front of you and resting your head back against the door, closing your eyes just for a second.

Four significantly large and deep lacerations that required sixteen, wide spaced sutures to hold the skin together effectively, and eleven more shallow wounds spread across his body, needing more accurate, precise stitches. You lost count after thirty-eight. The rest of the wounds were surface-level to superficial cuts, needing nothing more than antiseptic and bandaging. Twenty-three total.

“I didn’t know you could use your mother’s quinque,” he had said through bloodstained pale lips.

“Well,” you replied, pulling the stitch tight, “I am my mother’s daughter.”

None of the wounds were organ deep, luckily. Only time will tell if he sustained any internal damage from the blunt force trauma. His pulse was weak and his temperature was too low for your liking, so you tucked him under his covers and even gave him your own from your bed to keep him warm through the night.

Laying back against the door, you couldn’t get the figure of the rinkaku ghoul out of your mind. You barely saw him fight, but your father was right when he said he was unusually fast and strong. Despite that, he didn’t have the characteristic twisted kakuja and lack of control of a cannibal ghoul. The way he caged you in with his kagune, precisely striking everywhere except your body, was nothing but controlled. He could’ve killed you so easily, so why didn’t he? There was definitely something about him that felt odd. There was almost familiarity there, but you’d never fought a ghoul before. Perhaps it was simply the fact that he was a ghoul. Just like the rest of them, he was a monster.

Finally unlacing your boots and slipping them from your sore feet, you stagger as you stand, your body protesting every movement. You go back to your room for your phone and a blanket, setting alarms on your phone every hour to check on your father’s condition. You drop them to the couch pressed up against the door and take your convenience store food from the fridge. Seeing too, the leftover pasta from the night before that your father didn’t eat, you take that as well. Tipping it onto a plate and shoving it in the microwave for five minutes. When it’s cooked, you take your food to the couch and leave it there so you can move your quinque case within arms reach.

You shift the TV to face the couch at a better angle, wrap yourself in the blanket, and settle down on the plush furniture. Turning the TV on to some old western movie to watch mindlessly while you monotonously eat your food.

You’ll shower and treat your own wounds later once you recuperate some strength. For now, the gunslingers kicking up dust in the desert on their horses lull you into a state of relative calm. You realise you still didn’t get the chance to call your friends.

PREV　/　NEXT [coming soon..]

Ending Notes: Okay so a few things. Why is this chapter so long? I really wanted to establish the setting and the characters, but didn't want to post another part with no action or no Noah. I don't know if following chapters will be as long as this one, but who knows! Is the layout of the ward accurate? No, I made it up, don't worry about it. Is a quinque knife a thing? You know what, I thought I made it up but a bunch of characters actually have them. Do I know how to make coffee in a café? No, I had to google the machine and all the part names despite having an espresso machine in my kitchen. Just like a ghoul I only ever drink black coffee lmao. Is this story set in Japan? Yes, technically. Tokyo Ghoul is set in, you'll never guess, Tokyo, but I'm not adhering strictly to Japanese culture and societal rules. Fake Japan. Fanfic Japan.

➤ 𝗣𝗢𝗣𝗨𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 (33) :

⌞1𝗌𝗍 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖢𝖧𝖨𝖸𝖮𝖣𝖠⌝ ‣ @somebodyels3 ‣ @fadingangelwisp ‣ @english-fucker ‣ @missduffsblog ‣ @amelia-acero

⌞2𝗇𝖽 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖢𝖧𝖴𝖮⌝ ‣ @fadingintothegrey ‣ @babygirlchuuya ‣ @bluebird19 ‣ @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard ‣ @lil-garbitch

⌞3𝗋𝖽 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖬𝖨𝖭𝖠𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @thisbicc ‣ @clingylittlebun-blog ‣ @queen-foraday ‣ @astridwesson ‣ @deathofpieceofmindem

⌞4𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖲𝖧𝖨𝖭𝖩𝖴𝖪𝖴⌝ ‣ @blairboo ‣ @themorticians-world ‣ @comforting-madness ‣ @savaneafricaine ‣ @tosoundlessdarkistare

⌞5𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖡𝖴𝖭𝖪𝖸𝖮⌝ ‣ @aubrey-melinoe ‣ @badomensls ‣ @theaudraeymarie ‣ @psychomaniacmind ‣ @stardust-and-starlight

⌞6𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖳𝖠𝖨𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @looney-goose ‣ @sadbitchenergy ‣ @friedchildblaze ‣ @touyas-princess ‣ @strltsaiuki

⌞7𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖲𝖴𝖬𝖨𝖣𝖠⌝ ‣ @lovesick-evangelist ‣ @sanekiii ‣ @dravenskye

#noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian fanfiction #C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/SERIES/NTG

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