NORTURE

SAGA I: THE FIVE WHO CAME WITH NIGHT

ARC I: THE NIGHT THAT BROUGHT STRANGERS

Movement I: BEFORE THE MUSIC DIED

China.

6:23 PM.

Rain swallowed the evening.

Not the soft kind that blurred windows and made people linger beneath awnings.

This rain struck.

It hammered against rooftops, drummed across bus shelters, rattled against signs and glass, and turned the roads into shifting sheets of reflected light.

Cars pushed through intersections with their headlights burning pale through the downpour. Tires cut through gathered water and threw it outward in broad sprays, splashing curbs, trouser legs, parked bicycles—anything unfortunate enough to be near the road.

People ran.

A woman held a handbag over her head while sprinting toward the nearest shelter. Two students squeezed together beneath an umbrella clearly designed for one person. Someone cursed when a passing car sent water across the pavement.

A delivery rider disappeared briefly behind the silver curtain of rain before emerging again beneath the glow of a traffic light.

And through all of it—

one umbrella moved without hurry.

Neel walked beneath it.

Ash-colored hoodie.

Black trousers.

Earphones in both ears.

The world outside was rain, engines, horns, wet footsteps, and rushing people.

Inside the earphones, there was music.

A beat moved beneath everything else.

His steps fell naturally with it.

Water streamed down the edge of the umbrella in thin, continuous lines as he passed beneath the bright signs of the street. Neon advertisements trembled across the flooded pavement beneath his shoes, breaking apart every time a raindrop struck them.

Ahead, the glass front of a supermall glowed against the gray evening.

Neel entered.

The roar of the rain vanished behind the sliding doors.

Warm air replaced the cold dampness outside.

The umbrella folded shut. Drops ran from its edges onto the entrance mat before Neel rested it at the designated side near the doors.

Shopping carts stood nested together nearby.

He pulled one free.

Its wheels clicked once against the polished floor.

Then he started walking.

The music continued.

The mall was alive in the ordinary way malls always were.

Families pushed carts through wide aisles. Children slowed beside colorful displays until their parents called them back. Store announcements drifted from hidden speakers.

Checkout scanners chirped somewhere in the distance.

Fluorescent light gleamed across rows upon rows of packaged food.

Outside, rainwater streamed down the enormous windows.

Inside, everything remained dry, bright, and almost aggressively normal.

Neel moved into the food section.

Packets of chips.

Biscuits.

Instant noodles.

Chocolate.

Drinks.

Bread.

Fruit.

His cart slowly gathered snacks as he passed between the shelves.

Here and there, his eyes moved from food—

to price tag.

Food.

Price tag.

Another shelf.

Another price tag.

Then—

bananas.

Neel picked them up.

His eyes dropped toward the label beneath the display.

A moment passed.

His expression changed.

Not subtly.

His face took on the look of a man who had just discovered that civilization had personally betrayed him.

“What?! Are you kidding with me? This much price?”

No answer came from the bananas.

They simply remained bananas.

Neel slowly placed them into the shopping cart.

The wheels began moving again.

A few aisles later, more snacks joined them.

Chocolate cream bread.

Packaged food.

Small things for the night ahead.

Nothing important.

Nothing that would ever deserve to become a memory.

Eventually, the cart reached the checkout area.

Bright counters stood in orderly rows while customers passed through one after another.

Neel’s items moved across the scanner.

One packet.

Another.

The bananas.

The chocolate cream bread.

The final amount appeared.

“What’s the total bill?”

The cashier indicated the display.

“Alipay?”

Neel paid.

A confirmation tone sounded.

A short while later, the mall doors opened again.

Rain thundered beyond them.

If anything, it had become worse.

The entire street looked half-drowned beneath it.

Water raced along the gutters. Headlights smeared into long white streaks through the downpour. People who had hoped to leave the mall stood clustered near the entrance instead, watching the weather with varying degrees of annoyance and resignation.

Neel remained beneath the extended ceiling outside the mall.

The rain could not reach him there.

Beyond the shelter, it fell in dense silver lines.

His earphones were still in.

The volume went higher.

Music filled the space between him and the storm.

Neel took out the packet of chocolate cream bread.

Plastic tore open.

He took one bite.

His teeth closed through the soft bread.

Chocolate cream pressed between the layers.

His mouth closed—

CUT.

Blue.

An endless blue sea beneath a dying sun.

No city.

No rain.

No Earth.

A pigeon flew above the water.

Its wings caught the warm evening light with every beat. Below it, waves rolled lazily beneath an enormous sky painted in fading gold.

The bird flew onward.

Nothing chased it.

Nothing disturbed the sea.

Only wind.

Only water.

Only the distant rhythm of wings.

A world away from fluorescent aisles and traffic lights.

A world named—

Norture.

The pigeon continued toward the horizon.

Minutes passed.

The sun lowered.

The sea remained blue.

Then—

something changed beneath it.

Not suddenly.

There was no border marked by land.

No wall.

No gate.

The blue simply began to deepen.

Rich azure became bruised violet.

Violet darkened.

Another wingbeat.

Another stretch of water.

And beneath the pigeon—

the sea became red.

Not sunset-red.

Not the harmless copper reflection of evening.

Dark red.

The color stretched farther ahead.

Wave after wave.

The transition behind the bird remained visible for a time: ordinary blue water fading gradually into something that looked less like a sea and more like an impossible wound spread across the world.

The pigeon did not understand borders.

So it kept flying.

The sun seemed weaker here.

Wind pulled strangely across the surface.

Far below, something enormous disturbed the water and vanished before its shape could be understood.

The bird flew on.

Eventually—

land appeared.

A blackened coastline beneath the fading sky.

The pigeon crossed it.

The sound changed first.

A scream somewhere far below.

Then another.

Laughter answered it.

Not joyful laughter.

Something cracked.

Something howled.

Structures rose unevenly from the filthy land, their silhouettes twisted against the red horizon. Smoke crawled upward from places where no clean flame could be seen.

Mud filled broken paths.

Dark liquid gathered beneath warped timber.

Shapes moved between crude walls and looming structures.

Some walked upright.

Others did not.

One dragged something behind it.

Another crouched over something that still moved.

Farther away, two enormous silhouettes struck each other while smaller creatures scattered around them, shrieking with laughter.

The pigeon flew above all of it.

A tiny living thing over a land that had long ago ceased caring about tiny living things.

Its wings finally slowed.

A weathered wooden post rose from the edge of a filthy structure.

The pigeon descended.

Its feet touched the wood.

For one brief moment—

stillness.

Its feathers settled.

Its head turned once.

Then—

a hand shot into frame.

Gray-black fingers closed around the bird.

The pigeon screamed.

Wings exploded into frantic motion.

Feathers scattered.

The grip tightened.

A face entered the dying light.

Too many teeth.

A smile that had no reason to exist.

The demon opened its mouth.

The pigeon cried again—

CRUNCH.

Gone.

The demon chewed.

Slowly.

Bone cracked between its teeth.

A thin line of blood escaped the corner of its mouth.

It rolled down its chin.

One red drop gathered there.

Swelled.

Fell—

CUT.

Neel was chewing.

Chocolate cream bread between his teeth.

Rain filled the street before him.

Cars passed.

Water sprayed from their tires.

People remained beneath the mall entrance, waiting for the weather to weaken.

His music played on.

No screams.

No Blood Sea.

No demons.

Only an ordinary rainy evening in China.

Neel stared toward the cloud-covered sky.

“You are raining more than usual. Stop quickly. I have projects to do at night.”

Rain struck the pavement.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The rain did not stop.

CUT.

Rain struck glass.

Shanghai, China.

6:23 PM.

The same storm covered the city.

Shanghai’s towers disappeared halfway into gray clouds. Traffic crawled beneath sheets of water, red brake lights bleeding across the wet roads while umbrellas moved along the sidewalks like scattered patches of color.

Behind a rain-streaked window—

warm light.

A café.

Coffee machines hissed behind the counter.

Ceramic cups touched saucers.

A young couple shared a slice of cake near the entrance, speaking quietly between bites. Three friends crowded around another table, laughing loudly enough that one of them nearly spilled her drink.

Someone worked on a laptop.

Someone read.

Someone simply watched the rain.

At the far end of the café, beside a large window, one young man sat alone.

A tablet rested before him.

Documents filled the screen.

His fingers moved across it with practiced concentration, occasionally stopping to scroll back through something he had already written.

A cup of coffee sat beside his hand.

He lifted it.

Drank.

Set it carefully back onto its saucer.

Then returned to work.

Outside, lightning briefly whitened the buildings.

Nobody in the café paid much attention.

The storm had been going on long enough to become background noise.

The young man continued for several moments.

Then his hand stopped.

His eyes shifted toward the window.

Rainwater streamed down the glass in twisting paths, distorting the towers beyond into long, wavering shapes.

He watched.

Perhaps only for a few seconds.

Then he reached toward the window latch.

Click.

The window opened slightly.

Immediately, the café changed.

The muffled rain became loud.

Real.

Thousands of drops striking roofs, pavement, cars, awnings, and glass merged into one enormous, continuous sound.

Cool, damp air entered through the opening.

A few loose strands of his neatly kept black hair moved with it.

He remained there, looking through the gap toward the storm-darkened sky.

Behind him, conversations continued.

Coffee was poured.

Someone laughed.

A spoon struck porcelain.

Ordinary life carried on without noticing him.

Without noticing the rain.

Without noticing that, very far from Shanghai—

a red sea was washing against another world’s shore.

The young man’s dark-brown eyes remained on the clouds.

Liang Chen.

CUT.

Rain battered another window.

Japan.

The evening sky had already turned nearly black beneath the storm.

Water poured from rooftops. Streetlights shimmered against flooded pavement, their reflections breaking whenever another drop struck the ground.

Inside a quiet two-story house—

footsteps climbed the stairs.

A door opened in the room at the far right.

A young man entered.

His bag left his shoulder almost immediately.

It flew across the room—

thump.

Landing carelessly on the bed.

Whatever composure the outside world received from him apparently ended at the bedroom door.

He crossed the room and dropped onto the sofa.

One hand reached immediately for a controller.

The television awakened.

The familiar startup glow of a PlayStation 5 filled the dim room.

Outside—

RUMBLE.

Thunder rolled somewhere beyond the houses.

Inside—

the game loaded.

Ren leaned forward.

Straight black hair fell slightly across his brow, gray eyes fixed on the screen.

Seconds later, whatever exhaustion had followed him home was gone.

His character moved.

An enemy appeared.

Ren’s thumbs worked rapidly across the controller.

Dodge.

Turn.

Attack.

Another attack.

The enemy’s health collapsed.

Victory flashed across the screen.

Ren’s face brightened immediately.

A delighted grin broke through his normally restrained features.

He lifted the controller slightly in triumph.

Rain hammered against the window behind him.

Lightning briefly illuminated the room.

Ren did not look back.

Another match had already begun.

For now, the storm outside was simply weather.

And the young man cheering quietly before the television was—

Ren Kisaragi.

CUT.

Lightning flashed behind glass.

France.

Rain poured beneath the dark evening sky.

It struck rooftops, balconies, and narrow streets, running in silver streams down old stone walls.

The view slowly pulled backward—

past the rain—

past a small ventilator window—

into white steam.

A bathroom.

Warm mist covered the mirror and softened the edges of everything inside.

Hot water filled the bathtub.

A young woman rested within it, surrounded by steam, washing away the exhaustion of the day while the storm murmured beyond the little window.

For several minutes, there was nothing more important than warm water.

No impossible worlds.

No ancient Nights.

No kings.

No demons.

Only rain outside—

and quiet inside.

Eventually, the water shifted.

A short while later, the bathroom door opened.

The young woman stepped into the hallway with a towel wrapped securely around herself, damp ash-brown hair falling behind her shoulders.

She crossed into her room.

Books occupied part of a desk. A few belongings lay arranged with the particular order of someone who preferred knowing where things were.

Rain traced restless paths across the bedroom window.

She stopped briefly near it.

Pale hazel eyes moved toward the storm outside.

Thunder rolled somewhere beyond the buildings.

For a moment, the window reflected her face over the rain-darkened world.

Then she continued into the room.

Evelyn Laurent.

Outside, the rain kept falling.

Across countries separated by thousands of kilometers—

it kept falling.

CUT.

Rain slid down the glass in France.

A ring light reflected as a perfect white circle in another window.

South Korea.

Inside a bedroom, a phone rested vertically on a stand at the center of the glowing ring.

Recording.

Several makeup products were arranged neatly across the table—lip colors, palettes, brushes, small bottles—today’s collection prepared for the camera.

A young woman sat before them.

Straight black hair framed her face as she lifted one product toward the phone, turning it slightly so the label caught the light.

Her expression shifted naturally for the reel—

bright,

approachable,

animated.

She showed another item.

Then another.

Outside the window, rain continued to fall heavily, barely audible through the closed glass.

On the phone screen, comments and reactions appeared beneath the recording interface.

The young woman continued presenting her collection to her followers, occasionally checking her reflection in the screen before bringing another product into frame.

For now, her world was small.

A ring light.

A phone.

Makeup scattered across a table.

Followers watching from somewhere beyond the screen.

Nothing supernatural.

Nothing impossible.

Just an ordinary evening belonging to—

Seo Yuna.

And with her—

all five were now beneath the same rain.