Side Story 1: The Colour Blue

[Krei's POV – Age 10]

The estate was too white.

Like, too white. The kind of white where you know even breathing on something could get you in trouble. White walls, white carpet, white napkins folded into weird triangle shapes. Even the fruit punch looked nervous like it knew it was about to get someone grounded.

I hated it already.

I'm stuck in a tie that felt like a tiny noose and shoes that squeaked every time I moved. I wasn’t allowed to sit funny or say “dude,” and apparently, I had to “make a good impression.” Whatever that meant.

“Go say hello, Christopher,” my mom whispered, giving me the smile she used when she was trying to act normal in front of important people. “The Halberds are hosting. You remember Walter and Emi, right?”

“Kinda,” I said. (I didn’t.)

She nudged me toward the garden, where a bunch of kids were gathered under some fancy umbrella things, like rich-person recess. There were tiny sandwiches, and someone had a book open, which seemed illegal at a party.

I didn’t know anyone.

Except—there. Two girls on a bench. One looked like she’d already read three business contracts and was ready to file a tax return. She had this perfect haircut and sat like a robot in a ballet recital. The other girl, younger, sat next to her like she was pretending really hard to be normal. Like, extra normal. Like her mom said, “You better act like a princess or no dessert for the next ten years.”

Her braids were perfect. Her hands were folded in her lap like she was in a school picture.

Too perfect.

I squinted. Something about her looked... suspicious. Like she was waiting for someone to leave.

Then a bell rang.

It wasn’t even a ding-dong kind of bell. It was a fancy chime. Someone’s job was probably just ringing bells around here.

We all got shuffled to a long table set right in the garden, like a grown-up picnic but with more cutlery and way less fun. There were too many forks. Too many chairs. Too many pearls.

I ended up between my dad and some guy who smelled like old cologne.

The Halberds were seated across from the Takaharas–who, from what I gathered, were also very important people. Like, capital letters kind of important. Someone had said they were on both the museum board and the hospital board, which sounded like too many boards for one family. One of the aunts wore a brooch the size of a cookie and smiled like she’d invented politeness. I think they were related to the Halberds somehow, but no one said it out loud. It was one of those “everyone already knows” things.

They looked the same as the Halberds. Perfect posture. Expensive watch glints. Probably had a family crest and a motto like Respect Through Real Estate or We Eat Salad With the Correct Fork.

I didn't know exactly what they did, but the grown-ups sure liked nodding when they talked.

Across the table was the older Halberd girl. She folded her napkin like a tiny robot maid. Her voice was super polite when she said, “Thank you for hosting, Grandfather.”

And then the younger one—princess braids—copied her exactly. Like she’d practised it in front of a mirror.

Their grandfather nodded and smiled.

I didn’t say anything.

I was too busy trying to figure out what kind of kid folds a napkin like that.

Especially the little one.

She blinked like once every ten minutes. She sat straight. She didn’t move.

But for some reason, I kept looking at her.

Because something about her said: I’m not always like this.

Then another kid sat across from the sisters–probably older than me. His hair was all neat and perfect like it had its own personal assistant. His shoes were shiny. His blazer looked like it could slice a tomato.

“Akane,” he said with a smile like he practised it in the mirror. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Sean,” she said back, super calm. “It’s been a while.”

Then he looked at the little one, the suspiciously quiet one. “You’ve grown,” he told her.

“Thank you,” she said, sweet like a fancy cupcake. Voice all soft and perfect, like the kind grown-ups always liked.

He didn’t sit like a kid. He sat like a grown-up pretending to be a kid. Back straight. Elbows in. Napkin folded. Smile always ready.

He was the kind of kid adults invited to meetings.

I didn’t like him.

The grown-ups started talking about stuff I didn’t understand, like mergers and property investments and something about a vineyard in Napa. It made my brain feel like it was melting.

My eyes glazed over. My shoes squeaked when I moved.

I think I started counting clouds just to stay alive.

As I was about to eat another piece of chicken, I saw the tiny girl leave without finishing her soup.

She didn’t raise her hand or ask. She just slid off her chair, picked up her napkin like it needed rescuing, and disappeared behind one of the bushes that led to the deeper side of the garden.

Nobody noticed.

Except for me.

I glanced at my half-eaten plate, a fancy chicken with a name I couldn’t pronounce—and then at the row of serious grown-ups talking about taxes and land development like it was the most exciting thing in the world.

“I need the restroom,” I said, even though I didn’t.

Nobody even looked up. Good.

I followed.

The backyard was big and weirdly quiet. There was a fish pond, some giant bushes trimmed into animal shapes, and one of those trees with flowers that fell off too easily.

I found her near the bushes. She’d taken off her shoes and was poking a stick into the dirt like she was trying to dig to freedom.

“Hi,” I said.

She jumped a little and turned around. Her face was surprised for a second, then settled into something that looked suspiciously like a fake smile.

“You’re the Astor boy,” she said.

“You’re the Halberd girl.”

We both stood there like we were doing a spy exchange. Very formal. Very awkward.

Then she huffed. “I’m not really supposed to talk to people unless it’s polite.”

“That’s boring.”

She blinked. “Yeah.”

I walked over and looked at the dirt patch she’d been stabbing. “Are you digging a tunnel?”

“No,” she said. “It’s a grave.”

I stared at her.

“For what?”

“My patience,” she said.

“Oh.”

We stood there for a second longer, then I sat down on the grass beside her.

“I don’t like the food,” I admitted.

She nodded. “Too mushy.”

“And I can’t tell if I’m supposed to eat the weird green leaf or not.”

“You’re not,” she whispered, very seriously.

She sat beside me now, picking at the hem of her dress. “My sister says I have to sit still and smile like I’m a doll.”

“She’s the tall one, right?”

“Yeah. She’s good at being perfect.”

“I don’t like perfect people.”

She blinked again.

Then giggled.

Not a polite giggle. A real one. Quick and messy and surprised.

“You’re funny,” she said.

“You’re weird.”

“Thank you.”

We were quiet again, but this time it didn’t feel weird.

Then she jumped up suddenly and tossed her stick aside. “Wanna see something cool?”

“What?”

“There’s a part of the garden where the ground makes a squish sound when you step on it. I think it’s cursed.”

“…Okay,” I said, because that sounded awesome.

She grinned—really grinned this time—and reached for my hand. “Come on! We’ll get there before the boring speeches start.”

I scrambled up after her, and we took off toward the far end of the yard. Her shoes were full of dirt. Mine were squeaking. Somewhere behind us, the grown-ups were probably toasting something with fancy glasses.

But we were running across grass and dirt and uneven grounds.

We darted past the pond and the weird statue guy with no face. She led the way like she’d been planning an escape all afternoon. Her braids bounced behind her, her shoes still untied, and her dress already catching grass bits like they were badges.

She didn’t look like that polite girl from the table anymore.

She looked like someone who didn’t care about getting in trouble.

She looked... kinda cool.

“Over here,” she whispered, ducking behind a bush shaped like a lion. “Look.”

I looked. It was a spot behind some hedges, a little dirt path with lumpy roots and leaves everywhere. Definitely not where the grown-ups wanted us to be.

“Come on,” she said, already stomping ahead.

I hesitated. The grass here wasn’t trimmed. My shoes were still shiny.

“I’ll get dirt on my pants and shoes,” I said.

Aoi blinked at me. “So?”

“My mom said not to mess up my—”

“You can just sit on the rock,” she interrupted, pointing to a flat one nearby. “Or take them off. That’s what I do.”

She plopped down, yanked off one of her shoes, and tossed it like it don't matter she'll get yelled at later on.

I looked around. No adults. No waiters. No napkins folded like birds.

I crouched down on the edge of the rock and said, “This feels like a secret.”

“It is,” she said proudly. “This is where I go when the grown-ups start talking too long.”

She picked up a stick and started poking a hole into the dirt. “There was a snail here last time. I named it Ringo.”

“Like the beetle?”

“No, like an apple.”

“Oh.”

We sat in silence for a minute. She poked the dirt. I scratched at my knee.

“Do you like parties like this?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “The chairs are itchy.”

“Yeah. And everyone keeps saying my name weird.”

“Like it’s fancy?”

“Yeah.”

She nodded, then stood up and balanced on a root. “Wanna play something?”

“Like what?”

“Pretend the roots are lava.”

I looked down. There were a lot of roots.

“You can’t touch the dirt,” she explained. “You have to jump.”

“Won’t we get in trouble?”

“Only if we’re loud.”

She held out her hand.

I looked at it.

Then took it.

We played like that for maybe twenty minutes. Jumping from root to rock. Making rules. If you slipped, you had to freeze for five seconds. If you made it across, you won. I didn’t know what winning meant. But it felt like we were.

She laughed when I tripped and almost fell into the “lava.” I laughed when she caught her dress on a branch and yelled, “Oh no, now it’s cursed!”

She didn’t talk like a grown-up. She didn’t sit still like at the table. She was silly. Loud. Kinda weird.

And I liked it.

We were mid-jump when a gust of wind knocked a leaf into her face. She stopped and blinked.

Then she said, quieter, “I don’t always act like this.”

I paused too. “Like what?”

“Like how I’m supposed to,” she mumbled.

“Oh.”

She sat back down on the rock. “I like playing better.”

“Me too.”

She looked at me. “What’s your name again?”

“Krei. Well, Christopher. But I like Krei.”

She thought for a second. “Krei is better.”

“I know.”

She grinned.

“I’m Aoi,” she said. “Like blue.”

I blinked. “How do you spell that?”

“A-O-I,” she said, poking a stick into the dirt again. “People say it wrong a lot.”

“Oh.” I squinted. “Is that, like, from a movie or something?”

She snorted. “No.”

We were quiet for a second, then she added, “It’s just my name. My grandpa gave it to me.”

I nodded like I understood, even though I didn’t.

“Okay. Well, Aoi,” I said, standing up, “last one to hit that log is a moldy potato!”

She gasped. “Hey! No fair!”

I was already running.





Surprise! I decided to post this one a little ahead of schedule 🫣 This is the very first side story, told from Krei’s perspective as a kid aka the day he met a suspiciously well-behaved Aoi and immediately sensed something was off (he was right).

The next side story will be posted later and the rest would be tomorrow, so keep your eyes peeled! Thank you so much for reading and supporting the chaos 🫶🏻

~Edeshei🧃