Yurui The Cursed One

After the last half hour, the sight of her is almost disorienting.

Filth, panic, the stink of the container still fresh in my mind, and then there is this immaculate woman just standing there in the silence, watching me from the corner of her eye with the cold resolution of a judge who is preparing to deliver a verdict.

I stop a few steps short of her. For one stupid second, I consider turning around and walking back the way I came.

“You are late,” she says.

Her voice is low and perfectly even.

I hitch my backpack higher on my shoulder. The wet canvas drags against my blouse.

“I know.”

Her eyes move over me once, brief but thorough. She takes in the damp ends of my hair, still wet from when I washed them in the sink. The scrape across my cheekbone. The blood I missed at the corner of my mouth. The dirty water darkening the hem of my skirt. The way I hold my left arm rigid, as if caution alone might keep it from hurting. Then her eyes return to the page, her expression unchanged.

“So you do,” she says.

That is all. No reprimand, no visible irritation. Her silence carries more judgment than anger ever could.

“What happened?” she asks, glancing briefly at me.

I school my expression before it can give me away. “Nothing.”

She tips her head a fraction. On anyone else, it might have passed for curiosity. On her, it is clearly intended as a warning.

“Try again.”

The corridor seems narrower than it did a moment ago. Beyond the classroom door, I hear the muffled sounds of students settling in: a chair dragged back, a page turned, someone clearing their throat. Ordinary sounds.

They make my body feel grotesque.

“I slipped,” I say.

Her eyes remain on me for one beat too long.

“Where?”

I should have seen that coming. Maevis never asks a question without leaving you enough space to hang yourself with the answer.

“Outside the annex.”

“And the smell of rubbish?”

Heat floods my face so fast it makes me lightheaded.

I say nothing. Even after all the scrubbing I'd put myself through, my previously trash-filled backpack practically radiates stench. I'm not sure what possessed me to bring it in the first place. I should have left it outside and washed it when I got home. Fear of theft got the better of me, I suppose, though the absurdity of that isn't lost on me. Who on earth would bother stealing a garbage-filled bag slumped beside a dumpster? Nobody. And yet, ridiculous as it was, I couldn't bring myself to take the chance.

Maevis lets the silence stretch. She's good at that, better than anyone I know. She can make silence cut deeper than words ever could.

“My sister,” she says at last, her voice almost thoughtful, “has always had a peculiar sense of amusement.”

I glance up before I can help it.

The family resemblance is unmistakable. Not just in their faces. There's something else they share-that quiet, ambient aura of cruelty that sends shivers down your spine just by looking at them.

“So she told you,” I say, staring at the ground.

Maevis’s expression does not change. “Yashiro tells me very little. I observe.”

That lands harder than if she had simply said yes. Knowing that she can read me like a book makes me feel really small.

I’m used to being the one who reads people. There is comfort in knowing what comes next, even when you are powerless to change it. At least the blow does not arrive as a surprise.

As it turns out, being on the receiving end of intense observation is much less enjoyable.

I tighten my grip on the backpack strap. Pain runs from my shoulder into my neck. I lock my jaw, trying my best not to show that I'm hurt. No way in hell am I going to give her any excuse to ‘heal’ me. Maevis notices anyway. Her eyes catch the way I'm cradling my arm.

“Let me see.”

“I’m fine.”

“No.” She steps closer. “You are barely holding it together. Drop the tough-girl act. I can see you shaking through all that bravado.”

I ought to step back. Any sensible person would. But showing weakness to Maevis only encourages her to pounce. Act calm. Breathe in, breathe out. Do not think of her as a human. Think of her as a wild animal.

I close my eyes and imagine a massive beast standing in front of me, covered in thick fur, its mouth open and full of massive white teeth, saliva dripping onto the ground like rain. I can feel my heart beating like a drum.

Maevis lifts one hand.

The movement is slow, almost gentle. I jump a little when her fingers settle at the base of my shoulder and slide with clinical precision to the injured joint beneath my blouse. Every muscle in my body tenses.

“Don’t fight me,” she says.

“I wasn’t—”

Her thumb presses harder. Pain flashes white behind my eyes.

Not the blunt pain of a bruise. Something thinner and deeper, as if a wire has been threaded through the socket of my shoulder and pulled tight. I bite down on the sound that tries to come out. I would love to scream my lungs out, but I don't dare make a peep in front of Maevis. Every tendon in the joint flares awake in protest. Then something shifts. Or yields. Or is forced back into the shape it was meant to keep.

The nausea arrives a heartbeat later. A sound escapes me- small, involuntary, humiliating.

Maevis keeps her hand where it is, not comforting, not cruel, merely precise. The pressure shifts, almost imperceptibly. Heat follows the pain, spilling down my arm, and then the grinding feeling in the joint is gone.

She lets go of my shoulder. It takes everything I have not to sag against the wall.

“There,” she says. “You may continue pretending nothing is wrong, but at least now you will be able to write.”

She smiles faintly, and I watch her strangely shaped finger, almost as if split open midway through, close up and return to normal.

Did she just...

As far as I’m aware, Maevis has two main ways of using her blessing to heal people. One is by secreting retinoic acid through her saliva or sweat. The other is by releasing healing spores from her fingertips and injecting nAG proteins directly into damaged tissue.

If what I think just happened really did happen, then this would be the first time she has ever used the other method on me. Not surprising, really. Not many people would be eager to make out with someone who was rolling around in a pile of garbage minutes ago.

Although it's surprising she bothered healing me at all, unless...

My shoulder no longer throbs. The joint moves too easily now, smooth and weightless, as if it has been replaced with a better version of itself. The skin still remembers the points of contact, each one bright as a burn.

I roll the joint once, carefully. No pain. Only a faint shiver under the bone. Gratitude arrives tangled so tightly with revulsion that I cannot separate them.

“Thank you,” I say through gritted teeth, averting my gaze and hoping she mistakes the fear in my voice for gratitude. Or, worse, the disgust. I hate lowering myself for her, but Maevis only needs the slightest excuse to remind me what she can do, and I’m very well aware that she’d love nothing more than do just that.

Something like amusement touches her mouth briefly and disappears. She knows how humiliating it must be for me to thank her with my head down. Of course she does.

“You’re bleeding again.”

Before I can turn away, she reaches up and wipes the corner of my lip with her thumb. The gesture is quick and practical. It still feels too intimate.

I go utterly still, caught in the old prey instinct of absolute stillness. I can't do anything but pray that the problem will pass me by.

It doesn’t.

Maevis glances at the smear of red on her thumb. She draws a folded handkerchief from her sleeve, then wipes the smear away with the same neat, unhurried precision she applies to everything, as if blood on her hands were simply another everyday untidiness.

“You’re a terrible liar,” she says, looking at her now red-smeared handkerchief.

“I'm not lying.” The words come out steadier than I feel. I don't dare look at her when I say them.

“No?” She folds the handkerchief once, sealing the stain inside the white linen. “You're either lying or you're foolish enough to believe your own delusions. I'm not sure which is worse.”

I should keep my mouth shut. I know I should, but the reply slips out before I can stop it.

“It’s been dealt with already. Stop digging into something that’s over.”

The sharpness in my voice surprises even me.

I close my eyes, already knowing I’ve ruined everything. All that time spent carefully choosing my words, swallowing my anger, stepping around her moods like the ground might crack beneath me, and now I’ve thrown it all away in one careless moment. Maybe there’s only so much a person can take before something in them snaps, and I have finally found my breaking point.

I exhale slowly and open my eyes, ready to face the music. I don't care anymore. All the abuse I've faced so far has made me numb.

I realize too late what I’ve done. I see it in her eyes, the slight sharpening of her gaze, the thin smirk beginning to curl at the edge of her mouth. She knows. She knows exactly what Yashiro did, and worse, she knows I’m too ashamed to admit that anything happened at all. Not because I'm overly prideful or anything, but I guess some little part of me still refuses to come to terms with the whole thing, as if denying it would make it any less real.

Maevis knows exactly where it hurts, and the smirk on her face tells me she knows how easily she could make it worse. Her attention drops to my shoulder, then to the backpack strap crossing it.

“What is in the bag?”

“Books.”

“I can smell them from here.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. Your ‘books’ smell like they are decomposing.”

Heat rushes to my face, burning so fiercely it almost hurts. I shift the backpack behind me, a pathetic attempt at hiding evidence in plain sight.

“I cleaned it.”

Maevis says nothing. She reaches for the strap.

I catch it first.

The strap pulls taut between us. For the first time in my life, I stand my ground against her.

Her fingers are cool and dry where they curl around the soaked canvas. Mine are damp with sweat, trembling despite how hard I try to still them. The sour smell between us grows heavier in the stale corridor air. Behind the classroom door, a laugh slips out and then stops abruptly, as if even they can feel the shift in the air.

Maevis lowers her eyes to my hand. When she looks back at me, her expression is unchanged, but something in the space between us has hardened.

“Release it.”

“I’m not handing my things over to anyone.”

“I'm afraid that's not up to you to decide.”

“It’ll stay under my desk. I won’t let it bother anyone.”

She doesn't say anything, just waits as if I'm supposed to cave in all on my own.

That is Maevis's talent. Her unyielding composure. She never has to raise her voice. She only gives you that quiet, closed-off stare until the space between you becomes unbearable. Sooner or later, you'll break. In no time, you'll hear yourself fumbling for words.

“It’s just damp,” I say, but it comes out too quietly to convince either of us.

Her voice softens by the smallest degree. “Yurui.”

I hate the way she says my name. She doesn’t say it with malice. She says it gently, almost sweetly, as if she were talking to her pet hamster.

“The entire corridor smells like a neglected canteen,” she says. “You are not bringing that into my classroom.”

My grip reflexively tightens around the backpack strap. The backpack itself is old- stitched and restitched in so many places that the original fabric has almost disappeared beneath the patches. The zipper only works half the time. And now it smells the part as well. Most people would throw it as far as they could. However, unlike most people, I couldn't afford such luxuries. The backpack is one of the few things I actually own. If I lose it, there is no replacing it. As long as I can get it home, I can wash it, patch whatever new tears have opened up, and it will be as good as new.

Almost.

Maevis's eyes flick to the crooked stitching along the side seam. Only once.

But that is more than enough.

I see the realization dawn in her eyes, like something clicking into place. Not about the repair itself, but everything it gives away.

I am used to fading into the background. The bag is one of the many reasons why that happens. Worn thin, dull-colored, patched in all the wrong places, it has a kind of dullness that repels attention, quietly urging the eye to move away.

And yet nothing escapes Maevis’s sharp gaze. She notices every fraying stitch, every stain, every cheap repair I tried to hide. Beneath her ruthless eyes, even the smallest flaws are mercilessly dragged into the light.

With infuriating ease, as if taking candy from a toddler, she slips the strap from my shoulder. The sudden loss of weight throws me off balance, and I stumble.

She takes the backpack between two fingers, holding it away from her clothes with almost imperceptible distaste. Not theatrical. Most certainly not generous enough to hide her disdain.

“You may retrieve this later,” she says. “From my office. Assuming I haven’t had it disposed of by the end of the day.”

I open my mouth. She lifts her eyes, and the words die in my throat.

“And before you do”—she pauses briefly and looks me straight in the eyes, “you will explain why I am spending the first ten minutes of class dealing with your personal belongings.”

That is the thing about Maevis. She never goes for the kill outright. She finds the soft spot first, and then she just leans on it. Quietly. Precisely. Relentlessly. Until there is nowhere left for you to go.

I don’t know what to say. I just stand there, staring at the floor, humiliation burning under my skin.

“It won’t happen again,” I manage at last.

“No,” she replies. “It won’t.”

She turns to the classroom door.

For a moment, I think that is the end of it. Then she pauses at the door, glances back, and says, almost idly, “Straighten your collar. You look disheveled.”

By the time I realize what I’m doing, my fingers are already at my collar.

A corner of her mouth lifts, but there is no warmth in it. Only satisfaction. She does not care about my collar. She only wanted to see whether I would obey. She only wanted the satisfaction of seeing me submit.

Then she opens the door.

“Please,” I whisper quietly. “Don't take away my backpack.”

I don’t even care how pathetic I sound anymore. Fear has already swallowed whatever pride I had left.

The backpack is nothing special. It is old, stained, half-ruined, and embarrassing to look at. But it is mine. One of the few things in the world that belongs only to me, and that alone makes it precious. Because of that, losing it feels unbearable.

Maevis briefly glances my way and continues walking toward her desk. The muffled chatter inside cuts off instantly, like a curtain dropping.

Maevis enters first, carrying my foul-smelling, shabby backpack in one hand. I follow right behind her... well, because there is nothing else for me to do that wouldn't make things much worse than they already are.

The classroom looks untouched by ordinary life. Polished wood. Pale winter light from the ceiling lamps. Tall windows along one wall, a spotless whiteboard at the front with the date written in Maevis’s immaculate handwriting. The students sit in neat rows, everyone wearing designer clothes, shoes shining, watches glinting at their wrists, each one worth more than anything I own. A few heads turn when we enter. Their eyes pass over Maevis, then settle on me, and in that brief silence, I feel every stain, every wrinkle, every wrong thing about myself dragged into the spotlight.

Maevis crosses to the front of the classroom and sets my backpack on her desk, right beside the spread-out attendance sheet. The smell reaches the front rows almost immediately.

A boy near the windows lowers his eyes. A girl in the second row glances at the bag, then at me, then quickly away, trying not to stare and making the whole thing even more unbearable.

Maevis places her folder on the desk, turns to the class, and says, “Miss Yurui has decided to honor us with her presence.”

No one says a word. The silence that settles over the room is louder than a thousand words.

“Make sure to thank Yurui later for gracing us with this unique fragrance,” Maevis remarks.

I look down, my face burning. Now I wish she had actually taken it to her office instead.

A few mouths twitch. A few students look down, pretending they haven’t heard. The worst ones stare straight ahead, composed and silent. Just imagining all the terrible things they are thinking about me right now is enough to make me shudder.

Maevis looks at me.

“You, sit in front. It wouldn't be fair for others to enjoy your ‘aroma’ by themselves while you hide away in the back.”

Maevis stares at an empty seat in the first row. I take her cue and make my way toward the desk.

My walk there isn't made any easier by thirty pairs of eyes staring me down. It turns those few steps into some kind of makeshift walk of shame. My shoes leave faint wet marks on the floor, and I can almost feel the sour smell trailing after me like some phantom. I stare at the ground as I walk, unwilling to meet anyone's gaze.

When I reach the desk, Maevis speaks again, barely above conversational volume.

“After class,” she says, clearly intending the words for me alone, “you will come to my office. Do not mistake this for a suggestion.”

I sit down.

From here, the classroom feels alien. Too close to her desk. Too exposed. I cannot help thinking of all the eyes staring me down from behind. I do not dare turn back and look.

Instead, I glance up slightly. I can see the fine blue veins in Maevis's wrist as she uncaps her marker. Her perfume cuts through the stale air, now contaminated by the smell of my trash-soaked backpack: cold flowers, clean fabric, and some pleasant scent I'm unable to identify.

Unconsciously, I roll my shoulder again. The smoothness of the movement surprises me. It has healed almost perfectly, as if it had never been broken in the first place.

Behind me, the class resumes breathing, as if nothing had ever happened. Maevis turns to the board and begins to write. Her strokes are clean, measured, perfectly even. Nothing in her posture suggests that the morning has been disrupted in any way. The little corridor incident has already completely vanished from her mind. Not an ounce of emotion shows on her face. Even the sensation of her hand on my shoulder feels like a distant memory now, as if I had imagined the whole thing.

But I remember.

The cool pressure of her fingers. The ruthless efficiency of her touch. The burning sensation as my wound healed. The way she had taken hold of my shoulder and put me back together without a trace of softness, as if I were a damaged item rather than an injured person.

Now she draws a diagram with that same hand, and the class watches, none the wiser about what had just transpired.

She turns back to the room. For one brief second, her eyes settle on me.

Not out of concern. No triumph in her eyes. Just a brief, clinical assessment, as if she is checking on the damaged thing she just put back together to make sure it will not collapse before the hour is over.

Then, just like that, she looks away and begins the lecture, and the room folds itself back into normalcy while my ruined backpack sits at the front like a small, ugly monument to everything my life has become.

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