DEVOID OF LIGHT. yan-sim x ayano ❞

A leopard can't change its spots

"Be careful on your way home, Yan-chan!" Saku-chan called out as they parted ways. "I'll see you tomorrow, 'kay?"

Ayano nodded. "You too. See you tomorrow."

She exited the cafe, pulling her coat tighter around herself as she stepped into the crisp night air. The streets were eerily quiet, the occasional flicker of a streetlight breaking the monotony of her path.

She made her way to the subway, descending into the near-empty station. It was late—too late for anyone else to bother.

As the subway car rattled along its tracks, Ayano sat silently in one of the corner seats, her reflection staring back at her from the darkened window. It was in lonely moments like this, when the world around her was quiet, that her mind began to wander.

Overthinking, dissecting.

Her thoughts drifted back to the hairdresser earlier that day, who casually offered her 'tips'. She'd dismissed it at the time, but now, in the emptiness of the subway, it clawed at her mind.

One memory led to another, and soon, Ayano's thoughts began to swirl—back to her mother.

In truth, Ayano hadn't always known the truth about Ryoba. For most of her childhood, she lived in ignorance.

What she did know was that something about her family wasn't normal.

Her earliest memories weren't of toys or friends, but of hospitals, sterile white walls, and endless examinations. Doctors with furrowed brows. Questions she didn't understand.

And always, always, her father's hopeful eyes as he watched her, waiting for something she couldn't give.

It was that look in her father's eyes that stayed with her—the look of someone hoping she might one day feel.

That fragile hope shattered one quiet night when Ayano was around eight years old. She woke to the faint smell of smoke drifting through the house.

Confused, she slipped out of bed and tiptoed silently down the hall. The source of the smell came into view when she reached the back door. Her father, sitting on the patio, a cigarette burning in his hand.

The sight struck her in a way she couldn't quite explain. She watched him lift it to his lips, inhaling deeply, and then coughing softly as the smoke escaped his lungs.

Her childlike mind made one simple connection: Smoking is bad for you.

It was something she'd heard whispered in the hospital corridors. Snippets of doctors scolding patients, warning them about the damage. She remembered the coughs, the wheezes, the heaves. The people lying in their beds, their bodies frail and weak.

But this wasn't some stranger.

This was her father. And for the first time, Ayano's quiet, detached mind stirred with something unfamiliar. A need to put on an act.

She didn't understand why he would do something so harmful to himself, but her mind settled on one simple answer.

It must have been her fault. She was the reason for those hospital visits, wasn't she? The reason for the hopeful but exhausted look in his eyes? Maybe if she were different—better—he wouldn't feel the need to hurt himself like this.

She approached her father the next morning, a smile forced across her face. And it worked. Her father's eyes lit up with happiness, and she realised something else.

Smiling is good.

From that day forward, Ayano began to pretend she was normal.

She laughed when her father told jokes. She hugged him when he looked sad. She grinned when he gave her gifts. It didn't come naturally, but it made him happy. That was enough.