Chapter One: 60 Days

An explosion of fire and iron erupted from behind him, the heat singeing his hair, the metal cutting through calloused hands. Frenzied howls and snarls of hounds dulled the sound of his even more frenzied panting, until he felt his chest would cave in, or worse, simply combust. Rounding the corner on a painful dash, he propelled himself down an open manhole, to the sewer below, and under the icy current.

Up above, the barks stopped at the hole. Dirt and rubble kicked down from several sets of huge paws, but were then pulled back as the voices of men silenced them. The boy, gasping for air and shooting through the water, couldn't hear the words, but it didn't matter now. He was safe. Safe as a thief, scoundrel and delinquent could be.

Or so he thought. In front of him, a cloaked figure reached out. Gloved fingers. Hard boots. Floating in the air, right above the water, like magic. Only magic…doesn't exist. The figure grabbed the boy as he struggled and kicked, but the energy had died from him. His movements were sluggish and weak. And so, as he was slammed against the wall, the fight left him. As the dogs began to howl, a trigger was pulled, and the boy's rugged scream was the only thing heard.

Wrapped neatly in the thin white sheets of a hospital bed, a young man, no older than seventeen lay asleep. His hair was as white as the cot but held a dead glow, hardly shining against the moonlight. Several tubes were strapped and pierced to his just as pale skin, taught from lack of nutrients, but it took nothing away from his mystifying appearance. If she didn't know better, the cloaked figure who walked in would've thought he was dead by the way his hands were placed neatly one over the other, his chest hardly rising.

The girl walked over to the side of his bed, making no sound as her bare feet hit the floor. Behind her stood another cloaked figure, much taller, but only because she was quite short. However, there was no way to tell which one of the two seemed superior.

The girl extended her hand. Like the boy's, it looked deathly pale. Only, as soon as it touched his forehead, it began to glow. A light, warm kind of glow, purple like lavenders and no brighter than a candle. Her lips parted in a silence whisper, body wavering.

The one behind her moved forward just in time to catch the girl's limp form.

Hayato Gokudera let out a gaping yawn, hearing the satisfying cracks as his long, pianists fingers flexed and extended again. It was a good day. In fact, it was always a good day, with the sun's warm rays beaming onto his bed, and the distinct smell of pastries and tea seeping through his closed door. Not bothering to change out of his sleep gown, he walked into the kitchen to see a wide plate of assortments and drinks, the usual little things that his father's cooks always set out. Among the fruit tarts and iced buns and breads he spotted his favorites, and ate in a rush.

He had to prepare for a concert, after all.

It was his father's birthday today, and he wanted to surprise him with something special.

In moments he had washed, changed, and prepared his music. However, when he went down to practice, he heard the familiar melody of…of…

What was the song again? He couldn't seem to remember what, only that it was old and Italian and had a certain ring to it he loved. And that his mother played it frequently, like how she was now, her long hair silky and waving along with the pulse of her body moving to the beat. He stood by the arc to the grand piano and watched her play perfectly, notes so delicate yet deep and full and dark in the open, lovely manner he couldn't seem to master. When she was done, the birds seemed to sing back, and she smiled.

"Isn't it a beautiful day, Hayato?" She mused, her voice kind and soft like her music. The words hung in the air for a moment. The birds stopped singing. Then he smiled back, the chirping resuming, and the air light.

"It is, Mother."

"Perfect for a party."

"Perfect for Father's occasion."

"You'll make your father proud," she noted warmly. "Just wait—you'll be a better pianist than both of us in the end!"

He blushed, looking away. He could hear his mother laugh. "Come on, practice with me." And he nodded, cheeks still splashed with pink, and took a seat beside her. The bench was big enough for at least four of them, yet they were close together as they played, arms crossing every now and then. It reminded him of when he was first taught to play, and how her warm hands would touch his and guide him along. She was still outplaying him now, smooth as water, whereas his gestures were more choppy and reluctant. Yet, it all seemed too unreal, the contrast between them. His mother played even better than he'd last remembered—rather than playing, her hands were practically floating, gliding across the board in a ghastly manner that unnerved him. However, by the time they had finished playing, the feeling was gone.

"I put his gift in the trunk," she told him, smiling. "I'll get the car running. Be a dear and fetch your sister?"

Begrudgingly, he nodded.

"And please don't start yelling across the house again…"

"That's only when she's being a—"

"No cursing."

"Sorry."

Gokudera was given a stern, half-joking glare before his mother disappeared across the corner, her high heels clacking off in the distance. Releasing a sigh, he trudged up the stairs for Bianchi. Given the circumstances, he guessed she was still doing her hair or something of the like—or worse, still in the shower. She had absolutely no sense of time, and it didn't help that she was, well, a girl. He could never comprehend why it took them ages to prepare for the most menial occasions.

He knocked loudly on the door. No response. Another knock, this time so hard he could hear it ring.

"Hey! Bianchi!" He yelled.

A thump. An inaudible curse, and the sound of something clattering to the ground. Gokudera sighed just as his sister opened the door, visibly ticked off, a broken comb kicked off to the side. He lifted an eyebrow.

"Wow. I was right; you were doing your hair weren't you?"

Bianchi whacked him over the head. "Not anymore, thanks to you, irritating excuse for a brother." And then she grinned devilishly, the tension dissolving instantly. "I'd expand on your total lack of brain cells, but there's a party to host. Ma is waiting for us to go to the hall, isn't she?"

"Waiting for you," he retorted. She rolled her eyes.

They headed back downstairs. Gokudera's skin prickled—in just over ten minutes, he and his family would be over at one of the most expensive halls in the country. Then he'd play the symphony for his father—he would be so proud! And Bianchi and his mother would watch. There'd be those spicy cocktails he wasn't really allowed to have, but he'd take one anyway, just as long as his mother didn't see. Lastly there'd be the many young women who watched him perform, coated in their gaudy dresses and fake hair and false beauty and artificial, distinctly chemical stench. And he wouldn't be interested, because that one shining star would be there, in clean gold and fresh simplicity and—

A combustive bang shattered his thoughts. The house seemed to shake and swirl for a split second before his vision went black, only to return moments later. He turned to his older sister who stared him down, slightly abrasive as usual. However, an uncanny spark flickered in her gaze.

"What was that?" Gokudera breathed. He felt it. It was beneath him, that much was certain. In the corner of his eye he could glimpse the basement door, pulling at his curiosity.

But Bianchi put her hand on his shoulder. "What was what?" She asked. "Come on, Ma is waiting. You were the one getting me, remember?"

He looked at the basement door. Then he ripped his eyes from it and looked back at Bianchi, forcing a nod and a surprised stare. "Oh! You go ahead. I just remembered; my music sheets are still by the piano."

It was weird, how easily the lie dropped from his lips.

She let go of him. "Don't take too long, or we'll be late." And she walked off, going through the exact same steps his mother did.

"I won't," he called. Then he waited. She was gone, probably in the front seat by now, wondering when he'd arrive.

Gokudera found himself at the door. The cold metal rested at his fingertips, and he shuddered. He would only take a second. Just a moment. It was just the basement…chances were, the shake back then was just the start of a migrane….or something. Just a bit of a neural ailment. Maybe he got a concussion.

The door flung open. Slowly he walked down the dark set of stairs, unable to find the light switch. So, instead, he crouched low and held the handrail, his opposite hand extended just in case. However, he soon found that such a precaution was unnecessary. As the stairwell ended, a dull glow began, creeping across the bare floors and cracked walls, the color of lavenders and no brighter than a candle. Though the glow seemed like it would be snuffed out in any given moment, it seemed to clarify the stuffy, dusty box-filled room by tenfold, so that his eyes could catch the lines of where a rat's claws had raked.

In fact, the shadows of rats could now be seen slinking across the boxes, fluidly, soundlessly. He wondered, for a moment, how he couldn't hear their little paws skittering by.

And then he remembered.

There were no rats in his house.

Gokudera yelled in surprise as the shadows, actually just one large shadow, lunged forward. Something long and hard shoved him against a nearby wall, where he stayed against it, too shocked to move. And in front of him, where the glow seemed brightest was a girl no older than he, bearing a trident level with his chin and a robe over her. A single violet eye bore through him, so unreadable and so mysterious it seemed as if he was looking at an illusion.

"That's quite ironic," she murmured up to him. He had spoken aloud, and she had heard him. "After all, you have been looking at an illusion this whole time, and I am the only thing that's real."

He opened his mouth, trying to say something, anything, but nothing came out. The girl tilted her head.

"…Or, am I an illusion because I am real?"

Um...well...this is short. And rather boring. But it's the best I can do after not writing for a year X.X. OMG someone remembers me?! Oh it's you Madison! 333 Thanks :). It's too bad Deadly-Chronicles isn't around anymore, huh D: I loved her stuff :( Anywhooo, next chapter idk what I'm gonna do...just writing on a whim as always. Wink Wink. Also, for clarification, the chapters have no titles. The whole '60 days' thing is a whole different kind of...thing. I guess. Yeah. Okay bye feel free to ask questions and all that jazz.