The impression of the infinite

The hotel room was small, but tidy. One of those places with neutral furniture and the scent of disinfectant, where no emotion could quite cling to the walls. Yuzu woke early. She'd slept little, but deeply. The dream — if there had been one — hadn't stayed with her. Just a faint ache at the base of her neck. A subtle discomfort, like an unresolved thought.

She got up slowly, washed her face in cold water, and spent a few seconds staring at herself in the mirror by the entrance. Barely-there dark circles, pale skin, clear eyes. Still here.

She tied her hair back in a loose ponytail, intentionally messy, letting a few strands fall to frame her face. The makeup was subtle: a clean black line along the eyes, nude lipstick, a light dusting of powder.

When she walked into the school, her step was calm, her face composed. No one would have guessed what she'd left behind.

The classroom was dimly lit, the curtains half-drawn, filtering the morning light into milky, slanted bands. The air smelled of paper and graphite, with a hint of rain in the moisture on the glass.

On the desk, Yuzu had laid out three laminated reproductions: one in full color, vibrant and bold; one in negative, to emphasize the empty space; and one with perspective lines sketched in fine strokes, like veins on aged skin.

"Today we're talking about The Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci," she said, not raising her voice. Her tone was soft — almost an invitation. The students quieted on their own, as if softness were enough.

She stepped closer to the screen. A click, and the image appeared: vast, full, silent.

"Leonardo didn't depict religion. He depicted doubt."

Her voice drifted between the rows of desks, clear, steady. She walked slowly, hands clasped behind her back. She wasn't reading notes — she didn't need to. Every word seemed to come from a thought long matured.

"Look at the hands of the apostles. The gestures. The way they lean in, reach out, pull away. It's the exact moment Jesus announces that one of them will betray him. But there's no panic. No terror. Only… the long ripple of suspicion."

She gestured toward Judas's figure.

"The only one slipping into shadow. His face just turned. But Leonardo doesn't condemn him: he hides him. Gifts him mystery. He's part of the whole, yet distant. A foreshadowing, not a villain."

The students were still. Pens moved slowly, as if not to break the mood.

A girl raised her hand, hesitant. "And Jesus?"

Yuzu returned to the desk. Gently placed a finger on the central figure.

"Jesus isn't the focus of the scene. He's the geometric center of balance. If you remove him, the whole composition collapses. He is the calm within the storm."

A beat of silence followed. But it wasn't empty — it buzzed, rich and full.

Then, from the back of the room, a hesitant clap. One student. Then another. And another.

Yuzu lowered her gaze slightly. The smile that crossed her lips was subtle, measured — but real.

For a moment, everything felt perfectly aligned: the story, the art, herself.

After class, as she carefully slid the laminated prints back into her folder, her phone buzzed. One of his messages: short, sure, impossible to ignore.

Gojo: Everything under control, sensei? Or did you explain the meaning of life today through a single brushstroke?

Yuzu read the message with the faintest smile. She sat down, typing carefully.

Yuzu: Leonardo. Last Supper. No philosophy. Just balance.

Not even a minute passed.

Gojo: Ramen tonight? I promise — just balance and broth. No gospel chanting.

Yuzu: Deal. But no karaoke. No anime themes.

Gojo: Slanderous accusation. I'll pick you up at seven. Dress code: casual or divine?

Yuzu: Casual. But I can't promise anything.

The icon dimmed. The phone went quiet on the desk, as if nothing had happened. And for the first time in days, the idea of going out didn't feel like a risk.

It felt like a truce.

As soon as she got back to the hotel room, Yuzu dropped her bag on the bed and took off her coat with a slow motion. She needed silence. Maybe water. Maybe just five minutes where no one needed anything from her.

The phone rang before she could place it on the nightstand.

Airi.

Yuzu answered immediately. "Yes?"

On the other end, only traffic noise at first. Then a voice — shaky, tense:

"Yuzu... I'm in front of your apartment."

Yuzu straightened. "What?"

"The door's gone. I mean — it's not there. It's just... gone. And in its place there's this yellow and black tape, like in those crime scene shows."

A cold knot slid down her spine. "Are you sure?"

"There's something written on it. On the tape. It's not police. It's... some other kind of authority. It says: Tokyo Institute of Occult Arts. Yuzu, what the hell does that mean?"

Yuzu stayed silent. The name — Occult Arts — sounded like an oxymoron in Airi's rational voice. And yet, she'd said it. Seriously. Afraid.

"Don't touch anything," she said quietly. "Get away from there."

"It was all empty. No one around. But I... Yuzu, I had the clearest feeling someone was watching me. From inside the apartment. From where the door should be."

Yuzu ran a hand through her hair, slowly. Her heart was beating louder than it needed to.

"You okay? Are you with someone?" Airi asked after a few seconds.

"Yeah. I'm going to dinner with Gojo."

A pause. Then Airi spoke, trying to sound casual.

"With Gojo? Like, dinner dinner?"

Yuzu let herself fall back onto the bed. "Just broth. No spells."

Airi didn't laugh. But she calmed down. "Alright. Will you call me after? And… Yuzu?"

"Yes?"

"If you see that black painting again… don't look into it."

Yuzu closed her eyes. Fingers tight around the phone.

"Why?"

"Suguru told me to tell you. And… don't screw around tonight, okay?"

A long, quiet moment passed before Airi sighed.

"Yuzu… where are you staying?"

The question wasn't accusatory. Just gentle — filled with that kind of concern that hadn't yet found the right way to be expressed.

Yuzu looked around. The hotel was small, clean, neutral. Gray curtains, immaculate blanket. No personal touches. No stories.

"At a hotel," she replied, honestly. "I'm not ready to go back home. Not yet."

Airi stayed silent for a few seconds. You could even hear the traffic behind her. Then:

"You did the right thing."

"I didn't mean to scare you."

"But you did. And I forgive you. But only if you promise to call me right after dinner."

Yuzu smiled, just barely. Her eyes drifted toward the sky beyond the window glass. It was overcast. A bluish light, hanging like the threads of things that can't quite be said.

"I promise."

On the other end, Airi inhaled. Then, in a soft voice:

"You know I'm here, right? Even if I don't understand. Even if it's crazy. You message me, call me, send me a random emoji... and I'll come. Always."

Yuzu closed her eyes for a moment.

"I know."

Then Airi's tone shifted — back to herself:

"Now go eat your broth with the sexiest man in Japan. But if he doesn't make you sing karaoke again, I'll beat him up."

"Alright."

Yuzu's voice was calm again. Maybe not safe. But solid.

She ended the call. Looked at her reflection in the glass for a moment.

It was almost time.

She got ready slowly, as if every gesture might shield her from something.

High-waisted dark jeans, soft but snug in all the right places. A cream-colored top, light, with a neckline that hinted at her collarbones. Black ankle boots. Hair down but neat. A touch of mascara. Natural lips. Nothing that sought attention — everything calibrated to conceal how much it deserved it.

The perfume came last.

Vanilla, pink pepper. Her usual. A scent like a thought.

At exactly 7:00 p.m., Gojo's car pulled up in front of the hotel. She saw him through the window. He was already out of the car, leaning casually against it like someone who knew they were being watched.

Slim black pants, beige hoodie slung down his back, the usual white blindfold. His white hair slightly tousled, like he'd run a hand through it by accident. The smile — dazzling — looked designed to dismantle defenses.

When he saw her step outside, he raised two fingers. A movie gesture, but without the pose.

"Devastating perfume," he said as soon as she reached him. "If I turn too fast, I might fall in love."

Yuzu tilted her head slightly.

"You should wear a collar, then."

"Only if you put it on me."

She smiled — not fully, but truly. And her eyes lingered on his a second longer than necessary. Then she got into the car.

The ramen bar was small. Low lights, pale wood, six seats at the counter. Thin steam and the comforting scent of broth filled the air. They sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder, without thinking about it.

Gojo took off his hoodie, rolled up his sleeves slowly. Underneath, a fitted gray T-shirt. The blindfold was still there, but Yuzu knew he saw everything. Or at least, everything he wanted to see.

He didn't speak until the broth started to simmer in their bowls.

"Everything under control today, sensei? No cursed objects, no missing doors, no surprise karaoke?"

Yuzu gave a half-smile, but didn't laugh.

Then she looked at him.

"I noticed something a few days ago. In the paintings."

Gojo paused, chopsticks suspended mid-air. He said nothing.

Yuzu continued.

"Haru and Kenta's paintings. I saw them change. On Wednesday, they painted one way. By Thursday, something was off. The details… they looked wrong, like something had stained them from the inside. Then Friday — everything was back to normal. Like it never happened."

A silence.

"And you think that's not normal," he said quietly.

"I know it's not."

Gojo inhaled slowly, then set his chopsticks down. His voice dropped lower.

"It happened. But now they're making you think it didn't. Some things... don't disappear. They wait."

Yuzu stared at him. She really looked — even though the blindfold hid half his face. She searched his tone, the edges of his smile, for something to give him away.

But Gojo was still. Present.

Serious. For once.

Then he turned back to the ramen.

"But come on, let's not ruin this. It's too good to waste on the paranormal. Even ghosts deserve a dinner break."

She didn't reply.

Just picked up her chopsticks and began to eat slowly.

After a while, she broke the silence.

"Don't you ever worry?"

Gojo didn't answer right away.

Then he smiled — slow, without irony.

"Always. Just not in ways that don't help anything."

The broth was still steaming, but the air between them had shifted.

He turned to her again, voice softer now.

"Can I tell you something I don't say often?"

Yuzu looked at him, serious.

"Tell me."

"That perfume…"

His voice was barely above a whisper. "It stays on me, even after you're gone."

She lowered her gaze. A strand of hair slipped across her cheek.

She didn't move it.

And even though the ramen was almost finished, neither of them was really hungry anymore. The taste — like the air — had changed.

Eventually, the steam from the ramen thinned out, as if it no longer felt urgent. The chopsticks rested on the rims of the bowls. The silence that followed was full — but not heavy. Just… necessary.

Yuzu ran a finger along the edge of her water glass. Slowly.

Then, without looking up:

"There were tapes outside my apartment. Yellow and black. With writing on them. Airi called and told me."

Gojo didn't move right away. Then he reached for his glass, as if considering the flavor.

"What did they say?"

She looked straight at him.

"Tokyo Institute of Occult Arts. That's where you teach, right?"

One second. Two.

Gojo took a sip.

"Yes. Sometimes. It's...a special kind of school. More for certain students than for artists."

"Then what were those tapes doing outside my door?"

The smile he gave her was disarming — yet calm.

"You know how it is. Institutions love mysterious names. Could be an investigative unit. Or an advanced restoration lab. Or some interdepartmental program that sounds scarier than it is."

Yuzu raised an eyebrow.

"Sounds more like something from an exorcism movie."

Gojo tilted his head with a half-smile.

"Put that way... you might be right."

A beat.

She didn't laugh.

"You're trying to reassure me. But you're not good at lying."

Gojo leaned closer — not with his body, just with his voice.

"No. I'm good at saying exactly what's needed."

Yuzu rested her chin on her knuckles, studying him.

"And what do I need, according to you?"

Her tone was low. Not seductive — intimate.

Gojo answered without hesitation.

"A little peace. A little time. And someone who believes you even when you can't explain."

She leaned back into the chair.

Looked out the window — the lights distorted by the fogged-up glass.

Then she looked back at him.

"Do you believe me?"

"Always."

Another silence followed. But this one was warm. Almost essential.

Yuzu lowered her gaze.

"Why do you seem so sure?"

Gojo smiled, tilting his head slightly.

"Because when you've lived long enough, you learn to recognize real fear. Yours has the right sound."

Only then did Yuzu realize how relaxed her hands had become.

And how, despite everything, he'd never once asked her to explain more.

"You're not who you say you are," she said softly. "But you don't scare me."

Gojo stood, slipping on his jacket with a fluid motion.

Then turned toward her.

"Then that makes two of us."

He offered his hand.

"Come on. Ramen's done. But the night's still long."

She stood, placing the napkin on the counter.

And for a moment, she thought: there were things she might never truly understand about him.

But maybe, for now, that didn't matter.

***

The hotel was wrapped in an unreal, muffled silence.

The low lighting drew soft shadows across the neutral walls. The curtains, carefully drawn, kept the night outside like an animal pressed against the glass.

Yuzu closed the door behind her with a measured click, as if not even the air should be disturbed. She slipped off her coat slowly, then her shoes. And stood there — still, upright. A quiet line in a room too clean to feel alive.

She inhaled.

Then exhaled.

She wasn't anxious. But her calm was fragile.

Like the surface of a still-warm teacup: it would take only a touch to shatter it.

In the bathroom, she washed her face with cold water. Her hair, freed from pins, slipped over her shoulders like liquid silk. Her scent — vanilla and pink pepper — mingled with the impersonal smells of soap and ceramic.

She looked up.

The mirror in the hallway returned a composed, distant reflection.

Dark eyes, glassy. Lips slightly drawn. A face still young — but tired.

"Tomorrow it'll pass."

She whispered it.

But her voice sounded like a hope, not a certainty.

And the silence around her didn't reply.

***

She fell asleep around two.

Sleep didn't come — it crept.

Like an animal slithering along the walls of her mind.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't calm.

And her mind — once again — returned to where it didn't want to go.

She dreamed.

Again.

But this time it was worse.

This time it was cold.

This time it was… wrong.

A room.

Her classroom. But inverted.

The ceiling was the floor. The windows, sealed. Easels hung upside down, like wooden crosses suspended from invisible hooks.

The paintings…

All black.

Not painted black.

Black like absence.

Black like burnt flesh without smoke.

Like eyes shut for too long.

In the center of the room — Haru.

But it wasn't Haru.

He stood still. In his school uniform.

Head bowed to his chest, hands clenched around something.

Yuzu's painting. The one she'd done just days before.

Green. Blue. Ochre.

But now… it was ash.

The canvas seemed to breathe.

And from its edge, a thick black liquid oozed, slow and viscous like rotten oil.

It touched the floor — or what passed for floor — and sizzled, as if burning through time itself.

Yuzu moved.

One step. Then another. But each step grew heavier.

The ground gave way. Soft. Wet.

Like walking on canvas soaked in blood and water.

Then — the sound.

Bones breaking. One by one.

Dry. Human. Unbearable.

Haru lifted his face.

His eyes…

were gone.

Two empty holes.

And his mouth — sewn shut with surgical thread. Taut. Red.

But sound came out anyway.

Not from him.

Yuzu turned.

Behind her — if a dream had a "behind" — was herself.

Tied to an easel.

Like a canvas.

Torso bare, arms pulled back, neck twisted.

And the mouth.

Mouth wide open in a frozen scream.

From that mouth… hands were emerging.

Small hands. Too thin. All black.

With cracked nails and peeling skin.

They writhed, grasped—

Reaching for Yuzu.

...

She woke with a jolt.

Upright. A choked sob in her throat.

Short breath, her heart a wild drumbeat.

3:05.

Always.

Always the same time.

She stayed still. Sheets twisted around her legs, chest rising too fast, uncontrolled.

"It's just a dream."

She said it softly.

Once. Then again.

It wasn't enough.

She got up. Bare feet on cold floor. Walked to the bathroom, filled a glass of water. Brought it to her lips.

That's when she heard it.

Three knocks on the door.

Sharp. Precise.

One.

Two.

Three.

Not loud. But enough to freeze the air.

Yuzu stood frozen.

The glass trembled in her fingers.

One step. Then another.

She approached the door.

Peered through the peephole.

No one.

Just the empty hallway.

Yellow light. Silence.

Then — a whisper.

Slow. Slithering.

A low voice. Wet.

Like cold fingers on the back of her neck.

She jerked backward.

Breath broken.

The glass slipped from her hand: a dull thud, water spreading across the floor like a living stain.

She grabbed her phone.

3.07.

Dialed the number without looking.

Her fingers shook as she hit the green button.

One ring.

Then his voice. Calm, direct, without hesitation:

"Yuzu?"

She didn't speak. Her breath caught, her throat closed.

A silence. Then:

"I'm on my way."