Chapter 23: What Must Be Done

Morning pried its way over the city’s smog-choked skyline, peeling back the last scraps of night. Apricot Signa sprinted through it, backpack thudding with each step, breath turning thin in the cool, exhaust-tainted air. Damp wind tugged at her skirt. Neon signs blinked their dying pulses as early traffic whispered past, but she cut through the half-awake streets with single-minded urgency.

She skidded to a stop at the base of a gray apartment tower rising like a giant’s headstone against the dawn. The building’s windows caught the weak light like dull coins; nothing welcoming in them. Apricot bounded up the chipped, graffiti-splashed steps and grabbed at the door—locked.

Chest heaving, she pressed a palm to her side and scanned the intercom panel: a battered white box crowded with tiny numbers. 415E. She hit the button hard.

“Bon Bon! It’s Apricot—buzz me in!” Her voice came out tight, half-breathless.

Silence. Just static humming in the cold.

Apricot rocked on her heels, fingers twisting the strap of her backpack. Come on… please…

The speaker finally crackled alive. A sluggish voice seeped through, thick with sleep and mild irritation.

“Api? What the heck are you doing here so early?” Bonni’s voice—groggy, confused, and not thrilled to be awake.

“Bonni!” Apricot blurted, louder than she meant to. Her pulse still hammered from the run—and from the news burning a hole in her chest. “Just let me in, okay? I’ll explain upstairs.” She jabbed the call button again, impatience sharpening the motion.

Static hissed back at her. Apricot leaned closer, frowning. Come on… don’t leave me out here. A chill crept under her damp collar, raising goosebumps along her arms. Doubt fluttered low in her stomach.

Finally, a weary sigh bled through the speaker. “…Fine,” Bonni muttered. The mag-lock buzzed, releasing with a heavy clunk. “Come on up.”

Relief washed through Apricot. She pulled the glass door open and ducked inside.

Weak lobby lights flickered overhead, casting a sickly glow across the cramped space. The air smelled of stale cigarettes and leftover takeout. Threadbare brown carpet stretched toward dingy beige walls—the kind of color chosen by someone utterly surrendering to despair. A security camera in the corner hummed as it tracked her, its tiny red eye sweeping over her with lazy precision.

Apricot shivered under its stare. We are watching, it seemed to whisper.

She shook the feeling off and headed toward the elevator at the end of the hall.

Inside the rattling elevator, a single dim fluorescent panel buzzed like an irritated hornet. The doors groaned shut, sealing Apricot into the lingering mix of bleach and old cigarette smoke. As the lift lurched upward, she wrinkled her nose. Why is Bonni living in a place like this? The Bonni she knew was bold, stylish—chasing trends like they were prey. This place felt like surrender.

She caught her reflection in the dusty, warped mirror: copper hair blown wild, eyes bright and anxious, her backpack hanging crooked on one shoulder. A girl mid-run, mid-transformation.

The elevator dinged, doors clattering open on the 41st floor. The hallway’s stale air and buzzing bulbs felt like a continuation of the lobby’s gloom. Apricot navigated the maze of identical doors until 415E came into view. She knocked.

“It’s open!”

She pushed inside—and stepped into a completely different world.

Bonni’s apartment gleamed. Black-coffered ceilings studded with track lights, polished faux-stone floors, crisp eggshell walls. A few avant-garde art prints hung neatly, and a neon-pink clock glowed softly above the kitchen counter. The air smelled like coffee instead of despair.

Now this is Bonni.

“Good morning!” Apricot chirped, closing the door behind her.

Bonni stood in the kitchenette, wrapped in a fluffy pink bathrobe, a steaming mug in hand. Her choppy hair stuck up in chaotic angles, eyes barely open—but she still managed a crooked smirk.

“You’re awfully spry,” she mumbled, taking a slow sip. “Running to school… or running a marathon? Because you look like you tried both.” She eyed Apricot’s flushed cheeks, breathless energy, and mildly wrecked hair with sleepy amusement.

Apricot brushed a stray lock from her face, her cheeks still flushed from the run. “Yeah, I’m a little hyped,” she admitted with a quick laugh. “And yes, I have class. But I came here first because I wanted to ask you something.”

Her sneakers squeaked softly as she crossed the loft, the sound oddly loud in the clean, modern quiet.

Bonni lifted an eyebrow and set her mug down with a soft clink. “This couldn’t wait until a normal hour? You know what time it is, right?” she drawled, though the tug at her mouth made it clear she wasn’t actually annoyed.

Apricot winced in apology. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. I just… really needed something. And you were the first person I thought of.”

Her fingers toyed with the strap of her backpack. “It’s your magazines. The paranormal ones.”

Bonni blinked, then leveled her with an exaggerated stare. “Oh lord, it is about that.” She rolled her eyes dramatically, though a grin crept across her face. “Don’t tell me you sprinted across half the city for my ancient back issues of Eerie Truths Monthly.”

Apricot clasped her hands like she was begging a saint. “Actually… yes. Yes, I did.” The words came out in a rush. “How many do you still have? I bought the newest issue yesterday and devoured it. I stayed up way too late—like, way too late.” Her excitement built until the words tumbled out of her. “Do you remember that article about the vampire club? The cult that drinks real blood in some underground bar? Did you read that one?”

Bonni let out a scratchy laugh and trudged closer, giving Apricot a playful jab in the chest. “Ha! I knew you’d get hooked eventually,” she crowed. “Miss ‘Ghosts-aren’t-real’ comes crawling for her paranormal fix. Incredible.”

Whatever sleepiness clung to her evaporated at the sight of Apricot’s genuine enthusiasm. Bonni’s grin sharpened. “And yes, I read the vampire club article. Total freakshow. Believe it or not, I’m pretty sure I met those people once—during a movie audition, of all places.” She snorted. “This city’s huge, but the weirdos all hang out in the same three places.”

Apricot’s eyes widened. “You met them? Seriously?” For a moment all urgency dissolved, replaced by wide-eyed awe. But reality tapped her shoulder, and she cleared her throat. “Right—um, the magazines…”

Bonni waved her off. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve got a stack.” She pivoted and padded toward a sliding door across the loft. “Lucky for you, I’m a pathological hoarder of horror zines.”

As she pulled the door aside, Apricot glimpsed the chaos of Bonni’s bedroom—clothes draped over chairs, indie film posters plastered across the walls. Bonni vanished into the clutter.

Left alone, Apricot rocked on her heels and let her gaze roam. The loft, so polished at first glance, was dotted with little pieces of Bonni’s life. On the coffee table: a few loose pages and an open binder. Apricot leaned in.

The top sheet wasn’t homework—it was a script, Bonni’s lines highlighted and margin-notes scribbled in looping handwriting. Beneath it, an unopened utility bill lurked like a guilty secret. A thick sci-fi paperback, Robicon, lay face-down beside them, a ribbon marking the halfway point.

Apricot smiled, warmth rising in her chest. Bonni’s tastes were as eclectic—and charmingly chaotic—as ever.

Apricot drifted toward the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the far wall. Beyond the glass, the city unfurled in layers—towers stacked like steel cliffs, billboards flickering their last neon gasp before surrendering to daylight. From forty-one stories up, Blue Ash City looked almost serene. Commuter drones darted between high-rises like metallic fireflies. Far below, toy-sized cars crept along wet streets. A lone megasign blinked off, one kanji at a time, as dawn took command.

No wonder Bonni stays here, Apricot thought, breath catching. Gloomy building or not… waking up to this would make anyone overlook a thousand flaws.

A rare flicker of peace washed over her. For just a heartbeat, she let herself forget the phantoms, the shadows, the tightening conspiracies—and simply admired the city she was somehow trying to defend.

“Found ’em!” Bonni called, voice brightening.

Apricot turned as Bonni reappeared, arms wrapped around a wobbling tower of magazines. She dumped them onto the coffee table with a victorious grunt. “There’s more, but this stack should keep you occupied forever.”

Issues of Eerie Truths Monthly spilled across the table in a colorful fan: GHOSTS IN THE MACHINE? , THE DEVOURER, BLOOD RITUALS OF THE INNER CIRCLE, and other lurid titles that practically screamed read me.

Apricot’s face lit up like she’d stumbled on treasure. “Bonni, you’re amazing!”

She dropped to her knees and unzipped her backpack, sliding each magazine inside with almost ceremonial care. The bag swelled until it looked ready to burst. Apricot zipped it shut, heaved it onto her shoulders—and nearly toppled backward under the new weight.

Bonni snorted. “Easy there, bookworm. Try not to die under a pile of tabloid nonsense.” Her smirk softened. “They’re mostly ads and urban-legend fluff anyway. But… I’m glad they make you this excited.”

Apricot tightened the backpack straps and straightened up. “I know it’s all sensationalist stuff… but after everything I’ve—” She caught herself, shoulders tensing. “After what’s happened lately, this feels more real than half the lectures I sit through.”

Before Bonni could respond, Apricot leaned in and wrapped her in a quick hug, nearly squishing the coffee mug between them. Bonni’s fluffy robe was warm against her arms, and the faint vanilla perfume she always wore grounded Apricot more than she expected.

“Thank you, Bon Bon. Really,” she murmured. “I should go or I’ll miss my train.”

Bonni hugged her back with one arm, careful not to spill a drop. “Alright, alright. Go on.” As Apricot stepped away, Bonni kept her hands on her shoulders for a heartbeat, eyes sharpening with sisterly seriousness. “Have a good day, okay? And if you’re planning to binge all those spooky stories, I expect a full book report.”

Apricot laughed. “Deal. I’ll call you later.” She headed for the door, backpack dragging at her balance. “See ya, Bonni. Thanks again!”

“Stay safe, Api!” Bonni called, voice lilting between playful and sincere.

Apricot waved and stepped into the dingy hallway. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing off the warm glow of Bonni’s apartment. The corridor’s stale air pressed in immediately—humming lights, peeling paint, the faint scent of old carpet.

A prickle of unease crawled up her spine. The rush of the morning was fading, replaced by the weight of what she was digging into. Apricot paused, taking a slow breath as the fluorescent hum buzzed in her ears.

Calm down, she told herself. One step at a time.

And she started down the hall.

~

By midmorning, she was slouched in the back row of her journalism class, staring at a half-filled notebook like it might eventually write itself. Miss Akagi’s voice drifted from the front—something about ethical sourcing, conflicts of interest, transparency. Normally Apricot would be taking meticulous notes. Today, the words slid past her like water.

She twirled her pen, eyes unfocused, thoughts sinking into the same shadowed corners she’d been avoiding since dawn.

Shiori Kinjo—cold, immaculate, impossibly high-born—had warned her about “the crisis” with that cutting certainty only a noble could wield. His voice, his stare, the weight of those few cryptic words had lodged deep in her chest. If he believed the phantoms were at the heart of the Blue Ash Crisis, then the other clans probably knew too. Maybe they always had.

Apricot tapped her pen against the notebook, the sound sharp in the quiet classroom.

The aristocrats had been covering everything up: disappearances, murders, “accidents,” the strange attacks no one could explain. The suppression campaigns, the hush-hush statements, the quick clean-ups—it all snapped into place with a cold logic.

They know.

They’ve known all along.

But that answer only opened more doors she wasn’t ready to walk through.

Her grip tightened on the pen. Chino Tokuma’s warning flickered through her mind—warnings about something, someone, named Urias. A presence tied to the crisis like a shadow tied to a flame.

Apricot swallowed hard, the classroom suddenly feeling too small, too bright.

And for the first time that morning, she realized she was trembling.

Apricot’s pen hovered over the page, ink pooling at the tip.

What if the whole city is the altar?

The thought rose unbidden, cold and clear. Shiori’s warning. Chino’s letter. All the scattered hints snapped together with a horrible symmetry. Blue Ash City—her city—laid out not just as urban planning, but as design. Highways as lines of a sigil. Skyscrapers as towering glyphs. Transit hubs and power grids as ritual nodes.

Absurd. Terrifying. And it fit far too well.

She imagined the skyline from Bonni’s window, re-drawn in dark ink: the street grid curling into occult geometry, a lamb fattened under neon for a slaughter overseen by the very nobles sworn to protect it.

Her hand began to shake. The pen scratched a jittery line across the paper.

What am I supposed to do about this? A few months ago she’d worried about midterms and article deadlines. Now she was weighing city-wide sacrifice and extradimensional monsters like items on a to-do list. It would’ve been funny if it didn’t make her want to throw up.

She tightened her grip on the pen until the plastic creaked. Somewhere under the fear, an answer settled in with the quiet finality of a headline.

Stay the course.

Keep chasing phantom stories. Keep acting like that’s all it is—a thrill-seeking journalism student obsessed with urban legends and freak incidents. If the nobles were watching—and she was almost sure they were—they’d see a nosy girl poking at hauntings, not someone mapping out their ritual stage.

Meanwhile, every phantom she destroyed or shut down was one less piece on their board. One less horror feeding whatever “crisis” Urias embodied. Maybe it would weaken the pattern. Maybe it would only buy time. Either way, it meant fewer bodies in the morgue.

One foot in front of the other.

Hunt the monsters.

Collect the truth in fragments.

Try not to die.

“Miss Signa.”

The voice cut through her thoughts like a knife. Apricot jerked upright, heart slamming against her ribs.

Miss Akagi had stopped mid-lecture, arms folded, gaze pinned on Apricot from the front of the room. The professor’s smile was thin and sharp.

“Since you seem so deep in thought,” she said, “perhaps you can remind us—what are the four tenets of ethical journalism we’ve been discussing?”

A few students glanced back at her—smirks, raised brows, the classic “caught daydreaming” look. Heat surged into Apricot’s cheeks.

Focus.

Luckily, this was one thing she could answer in her sleep. She straightened, took a breath, and spoke with crisp confidence:

“The tenets are: seek truth and report it, minimize harm, act independently, and be accountable.”

Her hands folded neatly over her notebook, hiding the tremor that had been there moments before. Her voice didn’t betray a thing.

Miss Akagi blinked—mildly surprised—then nodded. “Correct.” She held the word for a beat, pointed in a gentle, surgical way, before pivoting back to her lecture on accountability.

Pens resumed scratching. Phones reappeared under desks. Apricot faded from the spotlight as quickly as she’d entered it.

She forced a polite smile, but inside a wry laugh stirred.

Seek truth and report it.

The entire reason she was neck-deep in this nightmare in the first place.

The truth she was chasing wasn’t the kind anyone put in a column. She imagined pitching it anyway:

“MONSTERS AMONG US — CITY OFFICIALS CONDUCT OCCULT SACRIFICES”

She nearly snorted. Miss Akagi would combust on the spot. And the nobles? They’d make sure Apricot vanished long before the presses rolled.

She lowered her eyes to her notes, biting back a grin that wasn’t entirely sane.

Journalistic integrity, she thought. What a time to be alive.

As the lecture droned on, Apricot allowed herself a small, private victory. She’d dodged humiliation. She could still slip into the role of “responsible student” when the moment demanded it. For a heartbeat, that competence warmed her.

Then the warmth cooled into something hollow.

What did answering a pop-quiz matter when she was wrestling with monsters and conspiracies masquerading as city infrastructure? The contrast made her feel lightheaded—like she was living two lives that refused to touch.

She shut her eyes briefly, grounding herself. Don’t unravel now. Not here.

There were still pieces left unexplored—one in particular standing out like a black flame in her mind: the reaper.

He had saved her once… or at least, hadn’t killed her when he easily could have. Calling him a friend was a stretch, but he wasn’t an enemy either. Something in-between, something carved from shadow and rule-breaking physics. The memory of him hovered at the edge of her vision even now: a silhouette in the rain, the whisper of metal, the cold certainty of being seen.

Who are you? she wondered, watching dust motes drift lazily through a sunbeam. What part do you play in all this? And why me?

The nobles made sense in their own ruthless way—power, secrecy, self-preservation. But the reaper? His motives were a void. An enigma wrapped in cold steel and impossible grace. He didn’t move like a protector or a predator; he moved like a force answering to rules she didn’t know existed.

If the clans were a labyrinth, the reaper was a door outside the map entirely.

And that scared her more than anything else.

Tracking the reaper down on her own would be like chasing smoke. Better to let him appear on his own terms—he always did. Until then, she’d move forward alone, collecting information piece by piece. The stack of Eerie Truth’s Monthly issues in her backpack pressed reassuringly against the chair, an anchor of paper and ink. Sensationalized or not, they were leads. Clues. A strange, lurid roadmap through the dark.

It wasn’t much. But after her first brush with the supernatural—terrifying, disorienting, surreal—it felt like progress. A direction, however dangerous.

Class finally ended. Miss Akagi’s closing remarks about public trust dissolved under the chorus of laptops snapping shut and students bolting for the door. Apricot slipped her notebook into her bag alongside the magazines, the word trust catching on her mind like a briar.

She wished she had someone she trusted enough to share the truth with—Bonni, maybe Solenne. Someone who could carry a corner of this weight. But the risk loomed too large. How could she drag anyone else into this nightmare? Better they stay blissfully ignorant a little longer.

Apricot exhaled, steadying herself as she rose. The day wasn’t even half over. Time to toughen up—literally. Last night, somewhere between nightmares, she’d decided she needed more than curiosity and adrenaline. She needed strength. And stamina. And the kind of resilience that didn’t come from reading occult magazines.

Instead of heading home, she veered toward the campus gym.

It was already buzzing with life: the clang of weights, the thrum of treadmills, the echo of someone’s music bleeding from their earbuds. A few familiar faces waved as she entered. She returned the gestures with warm, automatic smiles, unable to place half their names.

Freshman-year classmates? People from her dorm? It hit her then—how far she’d drifted from normalcy. How much of her life had become shadows, secrets, phantoms.

Her ordinary connections were blurring, fading at the edges.

But she kept walking. Because she didn’t have the luxury of fading with them.

She crossed to an open corner of the aerobics area, settling onto a blue mat as upbeat music thumped overhead. Apricot eased into warm-up stretches, guided more by muscle memory than conscious thought. Toe-touches from childhood gymnastics. Bridge poses. Lunges. Footwork patterns drilled into her during those brief fencing lessons in her early teens. Her joints protested at first—she hadn’t done anything this disciplined in ages—but the discomfort felt grounding, almost welcome.

When her body loosened, she moved to a practice space lined with mirrors. She tied her hair back, squared her stance, and began a simple kata—old self-defense steps she barely remembered learning. Her arms cut the air with growing precision. In the mirror, she caught a flicker of movement and, for a heartbeat, imagined a phantom looming behind her: gaunt, ember-eyed, reaching.

She spun, pulse spiking.

Nothing. Just the echo of her own fear.

Apricot stared at her reflection—wide-eyed, trembling slightly—then shut her eyes and breathed slow. In. Out. Calm. She reset her stance and continued, letting the anxiety bleed into each focused motion.

One hour became two, then three.

She shifted to a hanging sandbag, practicing kicks, dodges, quick pivots. Fencing footwork resurfaced—lunges, sidesteps, the sharp placement of weight. With each strike, she pictured a phantom’s chest caving under her fist. With each dodge, she imagined slipping past claws, teeth, shadows.

Her shirt grew soaked, sweat stinging her eyes. Her muscles burned. But her mind sharpened.

She wasn’t fearless. Not even close. But she wasn’t helpless, either.

When she finally stopped, her limbs shook and her breath came ragged, but a quiet calm settled through her like cooling rain. For the first time in days, she felt steady.

Ready, even—if only by a little—to face whatever waited in the dark.

Apricot slung her towel over one shoulder and paused before the mirror wall. Sweat clung to her skin, hair tied back in a loose, damp knot. But what caught her eye wasn’t the exhaustion—it was the resolve. Her cheeks were flushed, her stance solid, her gaze steady.

I can do this, she mouthed, barely a whisper.

She stepped out of the gym in the early afternoon. Sunlight had already softened into the warm gold that signaled dusk would arrive early. She’d meant to head straight home—to shower, crash on her bed, maybe let her brain unravel in peace—but the moment she hit the crowded sidewalk, she stopped short.

Home meant quiet. Home meant thinking.

And after the last few days, thinking sounded like the last thing she wanted.

Without deciding to, she turned east, drawn by the city’s pulse—toward the bustle, the neon chatter, the comforting noise of Tsungdung Street. The crowd swallowed her gently, and she let it.