This Beast-Tamer is a Little Strange

For more answers, Kain unceremoniously dumped out everything that was in the rundown space ring handed to him. It was a very cheap ring—less than two feet squared—but it was stuffed to the brim. It would be simpler to just empty its contents onto the floor and reorganize the mess.

Most of the contents were irrelevant: a change of clothes, loose coins, a half-eaten snack bar long since fossilized, several pens without ink, and a cracked phone.

He nudged aside a soft, squishy ‘training dummy’ shaped like a busty elf—used for ‘grappling practice,’ or so the tag claimed. It had a suspicious, unidentifiable gel on various regions of its body, and Kain made a mental note to burn it later.

“What was this guy’s day job again?” Kain muttered.

He pushed aside a pile of creased clothing—most of it stained, one shirt still bearing the logo of the Black Vine Consortium—and found a thick notebook. The cover was bent, the edges frayed. On the front, in loopy handwriting, was the title:

“This Beast Tamer is a Little Strange.”

Kain stared.

“…Huh.”

He flipped it open, scanning the first page. It wasn’t a log. It was… the first chapter of an amateur novel.

Kain squinted. “…Okay.”

He promptly tossed the notebook across the room, where it landed with a soft thud beside the ‘training dummy’.

Eventually, he found something more useful buried beneath a bundle of receipts and a spare undergarment. A hardbound, leather-wrapped journal. The spine cracked faintly as he opened it, pages yellowed with wear and tear, and filled with densely packed handwriting.

“This might be useful.”

Serena moved beside him, peering over his shoulder as he tried to understand the barely legible writing. Not that suddenly having something soft and warm pressing against his back helped with his concentration…

The entries started off mundane. Notes about daily routines, how boring his shifts were, minor gripes about coworkers, and a tragic recurring complaint about his inability to ask out the girl who worked at the sandwich stall down the street.

But sprinkled between the more inane details were sharp turns—mentions of odd shipments arriving late at night, unmarked crates locked with strange sigils, occasional run-ins with people who didn’t seem to belong to either the Black Vine Consortium or Golden Brew Syndicate…or really any company that this guy was familiar with. And yet, his boss’ bosses were so respectful of these mysterious people.

“Here,” Kain said, tapping a page halfway through.

‘Caught a glimpse of the suits again today. Third time this month. They were greeted not by the usual Black Vine higher-ups, either. The Vice President came to greet them personally. I had never even seen the VP before!’

‘The guys he was greeting… I don’t know who they are. Three of them. They gave me a weird feeling. Especially the woman. Have you ever looked at someone and felt like you’re the extra in their story? Like the moment they glance your way, you might disappear? That kind of feeling. She was beautiful. Too beautiful. Unnatural, almost. Like someone handcrafted her every detail.’

Serena read the paragraph in silence. Her brows furrowed.

‘Didn’t mean to be there. Walked toward the back building to get cleaning supplies, since my shitty department boss is too cheap to hire a cleaning staff, and the door wasn’t locked for once. Think they didn’t notice me. I hope they didn’t notice me. The next day, the door was welded shut. No joke. Whole hallway got restructured. Thankfully, nobody came to find and talk to me though…’

Kain turned the page.

There were more entries, but that first encounter clearly haunted the man. He made notes, sketches, even a crude attempt at drawing the beautiful woman’s face—though it was more of a vague silhouette than anything concrete. A few phrases stood out:

“She had dark purple hair and eyes.”

“Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.”

“Everyone else immediately quieted and listened when she spoke, even the ones pretending to be in charge.”

He kept flipping through the diary, scanning pages.

Eventually, he got to a page where a Polaroid picture fell out—a cursory glance and Kain could tell that it was of a woman. It seems like after that first encounter with the mysterious woman, the Black Vine worker—Donis—had grown obsessed to the point that after he’d first seen her, he’d risked taking a picture of her.

Kain bent down to pick up the fallen picture and froze in shock.

Serena noticed his sudden stillness.

“…What is it?” she asked, confused at his unusual reaction.

Kain didn’t answer.

He just kept staring.

His fingers gripped the photograph too tightly, the edges warping slightly in his hand. His face was unreadable—not stunned exactly, but transfixed, as if the image had pulled his mind elsewhere. Serena tilted her head, watching him closely. When no answer came, she approached to look at what was in his hand.

It was a woman, unaware that she was being photographed. Dark violet hair cascaded over her shoulders in loose waves, and her eyes, just as violet, seemed to peer straight through the photograph. Though grainy, the composition had an almost uncanny precision. Her features were delicate, and truly, one of the only people who could be considered on par with Serena’s looks.

Seeing that it was the picture of this woman that had him so transfixed, Serena didn’t continue to question him.

But the room was getting colder.

The air felt heavier with each passing second. A pervasive chill filled the room, and had a glass of water been present next to her, it likely would have spontaneously frozen over.

Unfortunately, Kain still didn’t notice. He was locked onto the photo.

But not because the woman was so astoundingly beautiful—which she was.

Not because he was attracted to her—he wasn’t.

Not because he, like Donis, had fallen under her spell—he was immune.

It was fascination, but of a different sort—quiet, dawning, disbelieving.

Because even though the memory was faint… even though he was sure it couldn’t be…

His eyes slowly widened, confusion spreading across his face as he let out a barely audible murmur:

“…Sis?”

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