Yuuto Kiba paced quietly through the dark house, waiting for danger to come to him. There was no shortage of it, he knew, as the shadows flickered down a dusty hall stripped bare of tapestry.

There were no pictures.

The stark offset between where frames had been hung and not spoke to some of what had happened. How slapdash the exit from this home had been. He reached out and allowed one hand to trail from the splintered hole where a nail or pushpin had been wrenched out, down the line of flaking paint scuffed and stained with age.

He wondered, were there any pictures of him that someone might brave the unknown to rescue and keep?

Wallowing in his thoughts, Kiba proceeded down the small hallway. The floor was firm underfoot, and he marked off a minute as he allowed himself to sink into a looser stance.

A flicker. A dance of flame in the corner of his eye, and he swayed aside as a heavy mass whistled past. It burst against the wall, a wet, ripe pop as it sprayed filth and worse unercut the sharp crack of its impact against splintered wood.

The source perched, stupefied, atop a small bannister, perhaps wondering how it had missed with what mental faculties it could draw upon. Kiba snarled noiselessly, pulling on the churning ratchet inside him to respond, whispering his desire. With a feeling rather like pleasure, the tension in his gut spilled free, and he pulled the burning blade forth, already swinging. The blade was soundless save for the sharp whip-crackle of the bound flame being fed, sharply brightening as it consumed the air and bit into warm cursed flesh as Kiba swung in a great arc, searing and ripping into the gremlin. It screamed a tinny whistle before the burning torch Kiba held steady to it heightened to a fever pitch, and any flesh left crumbled to ash.

He winced as the blade left a sharp scorch on the paneling. Hopefully, no one noticed.

Sword Birth was a messy gear, an industrious mass of pistons that churned ceaselessly and pointlessly within, begging him to spawn more and more of the accursed weapons. There was no artistry to his creations, no metaphor or symbolism. The flame blade he drew upon was simply that; a crackling mass, flickering and popping within the tight bounds he permitted. They longed to escape his will, his rebellious children. Given leash they would spread the world over, weapons of war that called to men of similar disposition and unleash havoc.

They served well enough, Kiba supposed. Really, they weren't all that inspiring. All they ensured was the barest advantage to him, the convenience of a general-purpose masterkey for every lock he'd ever encountered. Given their fairly strict limits, even that was impressive in a way.

As ever, he could count only on himself.

The hallway continued down, and he stalked through it, the slightest flutter drawing his eye. More than once he tore down a curtain or threw back a cushion for naught, muscles tense and waiting.

Another red eye flickered in the dark, but even before he saw it, the smell of mildew and rot breezed past him and this time he knew to dive for it, little eyes widening as he brought the blade down on its head. It rolled aside, swinging for his face with something clutched in it's apelike hands, and it tore at his cheek as it flew past. His retaliatory thrust was instinctive and took it through the chest. It struggled valiantly before going limp, thrashing and squeaking, but the silence took hold eventually.

Kiba raised a hand to his throbbing cheek and pulled it away damp. He licked his finger and wiped at the cut. He didn't like that it had harmed him. It spoke poorly of his readiness. His Sensei would have his head for this, had he witnessed.

This wasn't working. Kiba kept his head on a swivel, panning his eyes and hunching his shoulders. Even in such a small place, they managed to keep hidden. They were agitated now, rustling a little; they knew they had been found, and it was a matter of time. Kiba turned back to the little one at the end of his blade, peeled it off gently and observed it further. He traced the red crest that ran along its horns, peeled back the skinlike cover it had in place of lips in front of its teeth. He lifted it's lids and stared deep into it's dull irises, peeled back its fingernails and studied the black blood dripping from it's exposed inner flesh, and finally paused in surprise.

Then he smiled.

Dark. It was dark in the hallway, the little gremlins saw. The burning light was gone. They skittered from windowsills and cracks in the ceiling, out of the dark corners of the home and once again in search of their ephemeral goal. But this time, as they approached that central corridor, they saw a light. Where the previous one had been hungry, reaching out to them with burning wisps, this was was warm. A gentle glow, one that soothed.

Kiba kept the embrous fuming of his blade to a minimum, casting it's harsh glow hardly a foot from his face. His night vision was supernaturally good, but these creatures were ambush predators: they were drawn to light, heat, and movement, and thus a devil would normally pass by unmolested and unawares. Thus, he kept his 'lure' bobbing, hissing a little in the quiet.

All that stood between him and danger was a long, quiet hallway. But he finally understood what would be waiting on the other end.

They approached, one at a time, reaching for the warmth of his blade. One by one, he let them and watched as the fire consumed them whole. They crawled forward, almost instinctively, but there was a desperate, needy quality to how their limbs carried them forwards to their death.

Kiba began to move, forwards. The little creatures may have been tempted by the blade, but it was what they'd been searching for that drew them here to begin with. He followed the flow, the thickest concentration, and continued moving towards his unseen goal. That was how he found them, clustered like flies, surrounding a door so thickly infested it looked solid.

Once more, the flames licked forth. This time, not a single one responded. They held fast to the door, shivering their little bodies and gripping so tightly to the wood it splintered.

Kiba stepped past the bodies, twitching, and carefully unlocked the door, stripping them from the knob like scum on soap. They gathered about the doorsill, as though they might still crawl inside, and perhaps on instinct he gently pushed them away with his foot before stepping inside.

The room was as barren as the rest, a lightly stained mattress left on a frame in the place of honor. The closet was left open. The floor was bare. The walls were empty and painted a thin pink. And a single shattered nightstand lay in pieces, scattered apart.

A frame caught his eye, nestled face-down on the table, and with some surprise, Kiba realized it was the first frame he'd seen. It was the first decoration he'd seen at all. Taking a hand off the hilt of his blade, he quickly reached out and flipped it up, allowing it to lean against the wall as he took it in. A girl with long braided hair smiled innocently back at him.

"Ise."

Issei jumped a foot in the air, landing heavily on Matsuda, who screamed and dove headfirst into a wall. Stumbling and tripping over their tangled legs, Issei felt his momentum carry him forward, sending him headfirst into the wall beside Matsuda.

Motohama lazily reclined, allowing his back to bump into the opposite screen. "Yo, handsome." Motohama said, waving slightly. "You assault someone else?"

"This is a grave misrepresentation of my actions." Kiba refuted mildly, frowning as he pulled the sliding door closed behind him and stepped quickly inside to the family room. It was cozy, warm colors and a dark wooden desk dominating the space.

"I think not. That face is an attack on my future, you know. Rude of you to go around flashing it. Wear a mask or something."

"No, thank you."

Motohama shrugged, and swiftly kicked into Matsuda's groaning sides, who screamed and fell flat.

"Get up idiots. I can't deal with this guy on my own. It's exhausting."

Matsuda dribbled a bit onto the floor.

"I don't wanna." Issei groaned. "He's scary. You do it." He curled up a bit into himself and continued furiously rubbing the top of his head, where it felt like a spike of agony drilled it's way between his ears.

Kiba walked around their tangled limbs, still moving like a breeze in the night, utterly silent as he strode around them casually until he stopped beside Issei. Reaching down, he casually reached down, and roughly tore off another of the little gremlins, making Issei scream as a bit of his hair ripped out with it.

"Ah! My hair! It goddamn hurts!" He squealed, tears dripping from his eyes. "It hurts man! Murase praised that hair you know?! It's my defining feature!"

Kiba tossed the little gremlin from hand-to-hand. A vein seemed to pulse slightly in his neck, though his smile was as teflon as ever.

"It builds character, Ise."

Ise whimpered. "You see this guy Motohama?! He assaulted me! He's acting like it's my fault! I can't read his expression through my tears man, tell me if he looks guilty."

Motohama observed the blonde boy. Kiba stared back impassively, dull green eyes boring into him.

"Yep." said Motohama.

"Ah, good."

The little gremlin made a sound like a tire deflating from Kiba's hands. "Indeed. I do apologize, Ise-kun, if I've hurt your feelings at all. I've simply been focused on rooting out the infestation."

Matsuda saluted from where he lay fetal. "We've been safely standing in place and touching nothing."

"Excellent work." Kiba rolled his shoulders, and crouched down beside the two fallen heroes, still bouncing the gremlin hand-to-hand. "I meant to address that."

"We're incapable of physical exertion." Matsuda hurriedly assured. "We have no interest in moving a single step."

"And that's a great thing." Kiba oddly seemed to agree. "Wonderful, even Matsuda-kun. But what do you know, about these things?" He snatched the dizzy gremlin by the ear and dangled it over Issei's paling face. "How much do you know of what you've been sent to deal with?"

"Literally nothing." Motohama snorted. "We can't even see the damn things, after all."

"Nono, I can see them, and I still have no idea." Issei refuted.

"I didn't think so." Kiba muttered. "They don't often show up in places like this. Conceptually ordinary, but you don't see them much." Kiba flicked his thumb and tore its little throat out. Issei sick for a moment before he turned away, unable to stand Motohama and Matsuda staring blankly at Kiba's hands. Kiba shook his head a little and used one finger to wipe up it's blood, rubbing the substance between finger and thumb slowly.

Issei leaned back as he offered his bloody finger to see, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Ise." Matsuda said. "Open your eyes man."

"Nah."

"No, seriously. You gotta see this. Even I can see it." Clothes rustled as he heard Matsuda shift himself. "What the fuck is that."

Issei reluctantly opened his eyes, and peered down at the finger.

Matsuda was right. Intrigued, he prodded the substance on Kiba's finger.

"Are those words?" He asked despite himself. Jellylike, words floated atop Kiba's fingers. They drifted in and out of focus even while Issei watched, thick and oozing and almost iridescent in a way. But whatever it was, sat heavily. He could almost hear the words drifting, the prayer of please may this person find no peace in this life or the next echoing in the dead air.

"This," Kiba shook the little gremlin a bit. "Is, very simply, an honest 'wish for misfortune.' An actualized curse for someone to simply be inconvenienced, to have no true peace and simply never feel a fulfilling joy, to simply 'be unhappy'." He rubbed the substance between his fingers. "Thus, they aren't living beings. They're those words come to life."

"These things could kill someone easily, couldn't they?"

Kiba nodded slowly. "It isn't in their nature per se." He said. "They exist to make people miserable. However, they will never stop, so perhaps given enough time..."

"One way or the other," Issei muttered darkly. "It'll come to an end. I get it." He turned bitter eyes on his friends. "That's premeditated." Issei muttered. "That's cold.

Matsuda raised his hand, squinted a bit. "Hang on, hang on. I know you're having a moment, but hold up. Words? All I see is, like, tar."

"Why is that so interesting?" Issei asked irritably.

"It's blue man."

"Nothing about what you said is rare in any way." Motohama informed Kiba. "Except for the weird demon stuff. But resentment? Maybe not on whatever alien planet you come from where everyone shares ice-cream and sets their bike locks to 0000, but here we actually do often wish the utmost misery on other people. All the time, even."

"Really?" Kiba looked oddly relieved. "I honestly hadn't realized you wished someone misery so poignantly."

"Evidently not." Motohama said bitterly. Matsuda reached over, and sympathetically patted him on the shins.

"Regardless, that wouldn't attract these little harbingers." Kiba seized it by the skull, preventing it from struggling. It stilled between his hands. "I said 'honest' desire, did I not? It is a resentment truly void of self-deception and self-pity. It is an earnest and powerful desire." He paused. "But not particularly malicious, or something far worse might have been called. It is also an exceptionally petty resentment."

"I don't get it-"

"In this case." Kiba cut in smoothly. "For something like this to happen to, say, me-"

Motohama and Matsuda twitched. Violently.

"-that person would need to genuinely accept that, for example," Kiba's lips thinly twitched. "That I am better looking than them, admit their inferiority, and truly understand their relative place in the world."

Issei hiccuped a wet sob, feeling sympathy well up. Matsuda wiped away a lone tear.

"Such a thing would be extremely difficult, nearly impossible." Kiba continued. "Which is what makes their presence so impressive. Tell me, please." His smile faded, and he looked at them solemnly. "Was Kiryuu Aika that sort of person? To call this kind of loathing, upon her?"

The three boys exchanged looks, and turned back to Kiba, firmly shaking their heads.

"Not a chance." Motohama rolled his shoulder a bit, uncomfortably. "She's annoying yeah, but there's no one that dislikes her. Not a single person I've ever heard of or spoken to."

"Aika's honest." Matsuda said bluntly. "Well, I mean, she lies. A lot. But uh," He scratched at his stubbled hair. "She's honest in intent, I guess? She'll say whatever she wants, but she's always straightforward about her goals. She admits her weakness all the time. If she told us she was being stealth bullied, I could maybe buy it, but this?"

Kiba nodded slowly. "I thought as much. This confirms that, I suppose."

He placed a framed photo down, stand extended. Motohama slowly slid down the wall to sit and look at the photo beside the other two.

"That." Issei said after a moment, staring at the girl and her braided blonde hair. "Is very much not Aika."

"I found it on a table near a room." Kiba confirmed their thoughts implicitly. "A girls room."

"Would you say," Issei said with mounting dread. "That this photo belonged to this house?"

"It matches the furniture. Whoever it was that framed the photo, made sure to use an identical wood for the table it was on, as well as all the doors. Certainly coordinated. The little curses also homed in on the image, even from so far away that it would be impossible to even see it."

"Why's that?"

"Well, they're curses. Aimed at a particular person within a particular location. Their existences are quite literally tied to her; the only reason for them to be pulled to it is because it's the image of their target. The only part of 'her' still here."

"Well." Issei slowly shut his eyes. "Any chance we're at the wrong address?"

"I double checked." Matsuda grunted. "It's the one Aika gave us."

Motohama's head thumped against the wall. "This isn't Kiryuu's house. She played us. We're at some other girl's house, playing exterminator."

"Honest my ass." Issei muttered, glaring at Motohama.

Motohama vibrated angrily in place. "That bitch!"