Yurui The Cursed One

The bell above the door gives a cheerful little jingle as I step inside. Warm air rolls over me, carrying the smell of freshly baked pastries, sugar, coffee, and something buttery enough to make my stomach clench. It growls so loudly that the woman behind the counter looks up.

Wonderful. Less than three seconds inside, and my stomach is already staging a public protest.

My grip tightens around the jacket sleeve as I move farther into the café. After only a few steps, my head starts to feel light, forcing me to slow down.

Six customers lounge around the room while two employees stand behind the counter. Beside the kitchen is another door that looks like it probably leads outside. Nothing about the place immediately stands out as suspicious—no uniforms, no visible weapons, and nobody seems particularly interested in me.

That by itself does not mean anything. If Maevis intends to hand me over to Miracle Inc., she hardly needs a squad of armed officers hiding behind a display of strawberry cakes to do it.

“Yurui, over here.”

Maevis waves from a table near the windows.

Of course she chose one with a clear view of the entrance.

Yashiro sits across from her, back straight and hands clasped tightly in her lap. The instant Maevis lowers her eyes to the menu, Yashiro looks at me and raises one trembling hand in a tiny wave, only to snatch it back into her lap the moment Maevis shifts.

I cross the café and pull out the remaining chair. The moment I sit, my stomach twists again, a hollow ache spreading beneath my ribs as another wave of dizziness sends the room tilting around me. Fuck. I can barely think anymore. I’m pretty sure I’m about to pass out, and I have to grip the edge of the table just to steady myself.

Maevis slides a menu toward me. “Choose whatever you like.”

The pages are glossy and crowded with photographs of things drowned in chocolate, syrup, whipped cream, colorful sprinkles, and all kinds of fancy-looking treats. Tiny numbers sit beside every picture. My attention goes straight to those. The cheapest item costs more than my mother used to spend feeding both of us for an entire day. I close the menu.

“Miss Maevis?”

“Yes, dearie?”

“When you say whatever I like, how close is that to actually meaning whatever I like?” I muster out weakly.

Her brows rise.

“I mean, is there a limit? Because some people say things like that and then become strangely upset when you actually take them up on it.”

Maevis laughs.

“Order as much as you want.”

My stomach tightens again, though this time hunger has nothing to do with it. Kindness from people like her always comes with strings attached.

“Could I get something other than ice cream too? I haven’t eaten in a while.”

“Of course.”

“A pastry, maybe.”

“Certainly.”

“And perhaps something I could take with me afterward?”

The words come out strangely thick. At least, I think they do. It is becoming difficult to tell which words remain inside my head and which ones actually make it out. The dizziness still has not passed, my skull feels as though it is melting from the inside, and my body is so light I can no longer tell whether I am sitting upright or slowly tipping out of the chair. I have been dizzy before, but never like this.

Am I actually dying?

Maevis’s smile fades around the edges.

“How long has it been since you last ate?”

Fuck.

Should I ask her for help? She is technically a doctor. Or something close to one. But that would mean admitting something is wrong, and I am suddenly no longer certain I can explain what. My thoughts keep slipping apart before I can finish them.

I stare down at the photographs on the menu, trying to remember what she asked me.

Food.

She asked about food.

“I ate something yesterday.”

Probably. Depending on what counts as food.

“What did you eat?”

There are moments when honesty wanders straight into a trap without realizing it.

“I don’t remember.”

Maevis goes quiet.

I glance up. She is watching me with what might be concern. Then again, it is pretty much the same look she wears while dissecting some poor animal in a lab, you can never really tell it with her.

“How long has it been since you had a proper meal?” she asks.

“I don’t know.”

Yashiro shifts in her chair, a tiny movement that nonetheless draws my attention. She is watching me now, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Maevis reaches across the table and closes my menu.

“We’ll begin with something light,” she says. “Then you can decide whether you want more.”

Begin?

I look up sharply. Maevis takes one look at my expression, and her smile returns.

“You may eat as much as you like, Yurui. I would simply prefer that you not make yourself sick in the process.”

That sounds reasonable.

Which makes it considerably more suspicious.

Still, when the server arrives, Maevis orders soup, sandwiches, an apple pastry, and a large bowl of vanilla ice cream for me. She even adds two more sandwiches to be wrapped for later without me asking, before turning her attention to Yashiro.

“What would you like?”

Yashiro goes still.

For a moment, I could mistake it for her usual calm composure. Then I notice her fingers tightening beneath the table and the deliberate way she keeps her eyes fixed on the menu, as though she is too afraid to look up.

“I’m not hungry.”

Her voice is softer than usual. Gone is the cold certainty of someone accustomed to being obeyed the moment she opens her mouth.

Maevis tilts her head.

“Nonsense. You hardly touched breakfast this morning.”

“I ate enough.”

“You never eat enough.” Maevis plucks the menu from her hands. “You’ll never find a decent husband looking like a twig.”

For what it’s worth, I don’t think she looks like a twig.

For a second, Yashiro’s face empties completely.

Then she lowers her gaze. “I don’t want a husband.”

Yup, no husbands for you, missy.

“You say that now.” Maevis reaches across the table and pats her cheek. “But in another year or two, you’ll understand. Every girl wants someone dependable to take care of her eventually.”

Maevis orders her a slice of layered strawberry cake with the same warm smile she used when ordering my sandwiches and ice cream, then adds a strawberry ice cream cone and coffee for herself. The server writes everything down without so much as blinking.

Apparently, among the rich, cake is both a cure for malnutrition and a solution to finding a good husband.

The soup arrives first. I manage to wait until the bowl touches the table before seizing the spoon.

The first spoonful scalds my tongue, but I swallow it anyway. Somehow, eating only makes the hunger worse. The dull ache beneath my ribs tightens into a cramp, and my hand shakes badly enough that the spoon knocks against my teeth. After the second time, I start pulling the spoon away more carefully between mouthfuls to avoid chipping a tooth. Across the table, Maevis peers at me over the top of her menu, lowering her eyes whenever I glance up, pretending not to watch. Yashiro does not pretend nearly as well. She watches every spoonful enter my mouth, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Nobody does.

The first sandwich disappears quickly, followed by half of the second. I wrap the remainder in a napkin before remembering Maevis has already ordered more for me to take away.

I leave it alone. Better to have it and not need it than go hungry later. As the saying goes, old habits die hard.

A moment later, Yashiro’s cake arrives, an enormous three-layer monstrosity of pink and white buried beneath cream and sliced strawberries. She stares at it as though the server has just placed a severed head in front of her.

Maevis reaches across the table and taps one finger against the edge of the plate.

“Go on.”

Yashiro picks up her fork and breaks off a piece so small it barely deserves to be called a bite. She places it in her mouth and swallows with visible effort.

“There,” she says. “I ate some.”

Maevis glances at the barely touched cake.

“You have barely tasted it.”

“I told you I wasn’t hungry.”

There is no defiance in the words. If anything, they sound dangerously close to pleading.

Maevis sighs.

“Oh, Yashiro.”

She takes the fork from Yashiro’s hand, leaving her fingers curled around nothing, then breaks off another piece and lifts it across the table.

“Here comes the airplane.”

I stare at them so intently my eyes begin to ache. I can only hope my mouth is not hanging open.

For the first time since we sat down, Yashiro looks directly at her sister, but Maevis only keeps smiling. Around us, nobody seems to notice. Conversation drifts through the café, punctuated by the clink of cups and the occasional hiss of steam from behind the counter.

Yashiro’s jaw tightens. For a moment, I think she is going to refuse. Then her lips part.

Maevis slides the fork into her mouth and presses the cake past her teeth. Yashiro swallows without looking away from her, and only once the last of it is gone does Maevis draw the fork back from between her lips.

“Well done,” she says, already breaking off another piece.

I look down at my soup as a cold pressure settles beneath my breastbone, smothering what little comfort the food gave me.

I should say something, but my mind is completely blank. I cannot come up with a single thing, and honestly, I cannot bring myself to feel too bad about it. This is Yashiro—the girl who named me Roach, ordered me to jump into a garbage bin, then rewarded me with candy afterward like I was some dog. The girl who spent her school breaks making me sit, kneel, crawl, or perform whatever other humiliating trick came to mind, just for shits and giggles.

Less than a couple of hours ago, I had been squeezing the life out of her. Now I can barely stomach watching her wince in pain every time she swallows her cake.

Each time Maevis lifts the fork, Yashiro’s shoulders draw a little tighter. She chews mechanically, swallowing each bite before she has properly caught her breath, while a faint sheen of sweat gathers along her hairline.

Maevis chatters throughout, describing the café’s other desserts and complaining that the coffee used to be better. By the time nothing remains but crumbs and streaks of cream, Yashiro has gone pale.

“There,” Maevis says. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

“No.”

The answer comes immediately.

Maevis sets down the fork and reaches for her coffee as though nothing unusual has happened. I keep staring at Yashiro, but she refuses to look at me.

My ice cream arrives a few minutes later. The sight of it no longer inspires the same desperate excitement, though I eat it anyway. Apparently, even witnessing something deeply unsettling is not enough to ruin free vanilla ice cream.

Across the table, Yashiro waits until Maevis looks away before daring to breathe.

Not so pleasant being in my shoes, is it?

The vindication lasts only a moment before I remember that whatever Maevis has done to reduce Yashiro to this, she could just as easily do to me.

The realization sends a slow shiver crawling down my spine.

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