Fog clung to the shrine district like a lover's breath, cold and wet against exposed skin. Halloween lanterns flickered—orange, sickly—casting shadows that moved when no one was looking. The kanzashi in their hair blazed: gold hilt, sword spine, inked wards that screamed with recognition. Not heat, but a pulse—his pulse, steady as a heartbeat under their scalp.

He came out of the crowd before they saw him, because Jiang Heng didn't approach. He occupied. One second the street was full of costumed strangers, the next there he was: 188cm of deliberate menace, black kimono with gold stitching that caught the light when he moved, horns just visible through dark hair. His eyes—sharp, unblinking—locked on the hairpin, and his lip curled, half sneer, half hunger.

"You wore it," he said, voice low enough to make their skin prickle. Not a question. A verdict. His hand moved before they could blink, fingers tangling in the hair at the base of their skull, yanking their head back until their neck arched. The kanzashi dug in, hot against their scalp—his approval. "Clever girl. Or stupid."

A drunk stumbled past, laughing too loud. Jiang Heng's gaze cut sideways, cold as a blade. The laughter died. The drunk turned and ran.

"They can smell it, you know," he murmured, leaning in, breath (cedar and something metallic) fanning their ear. "The seal. Weak. Leaking. Like honey to flies." His thumb brushed the kanzashi's hilt, and the fog behind them stirred—wrong stirring, with teeth. "Should've stayed home."

Before they could answer, he spun them around, back pressed hard against his chest. One arm coiled around their waist, tight enough to bruise, the other gripping their jaw, forcing their head up. "Look," he ordered, and they looked—at the fog凝聚 into a shape: umbrella spirit, kasa-obake, its paper tongue lolling, hungry. "See what you引来?"

He didn't wait for a response. Let go of their jaw to reach behind him, and the air sang—steel on steel, a blade materializing in his hand, black as night. The kasa-obake screeched. Jiang Heng smiled, sharp and feral. "Stay." His voice was a command, not a request.

He moved faster than fog. The blade cut once, twice—paper shredded, straw screamed, and the spirit collapsed, whimpering. But Jiang Heng wasn't done. He knelt, gripping the broken thing by its handle, and ripped the corrupted talisman from its core. Stood, dusting his hands, and met their eyes over his shoulder. "That's one. More will come."

He stepped close again, crowd parting like water before him, and traced the kanzashi with a finger—slow, deliberate, possessive. "You think this is protection?" He laughed, low and dark. "It's a *leash*. For me—and for everything that wants a taste of what's mine."

A child's voice piped up: "Cool horns! Are you a demon?"

Jiang Heng's gaze softened—not soft, predatory, like a cat eyeing a mouse. "Demon? No."

He leaned in, lips brushing their ear, words for them alone: "I'm your worst fucking mistake."

The kanzashi burned hotter, and this time, it wasn't approval. It was a warning. His head snapped up, eyes narrowing at the shrine gate at the end of the alley—wrong gate, with a lantern that read SOUTH when the river was north. He cursed under his breath, low and guttural, and suddenly his grip on their waist turned bruisingly tight.

"Someone's trying to play," he said, and there was a growl in his voice now, dangerous. "Trying to take what's mine."

He didn't explain. Just lifted them—lifted them, one arm under knees, the other around their back, bridal style, and started walking. Their protests died when he looked down, eyes black with rage and something else—need. "Shut up. I'm not losing my claim to some two-bit curse."

The world blurred. One alley became another, lanterns streaking past. He moved like he knew exactly where he was going, and when they finally stopped, they were in a dark courtyard, shrine walls high around them. He set them down, but didn't let go—pinned them against the wall, hands on either side of their head, body pressing close enough to feel every hard line of him.

"Mine," he whispered, and this time, it wasn't a threat. It was a vow. "Say it."

His lips brushed theirs, rough, demanding, and the kanzashi sang—yes, yes, yes—as the fog outside the walls screamed.