The Dark Rider
dark, vignette, Fuma Endo, Sato
"Do you know," says the thing in his head, "What I did, on my eighteenth birthday?"
Fuma doesn't. But the voice is like nails scratching metal, and all he wants to do is sleep it off.
Sometimes he'd dream its dreams. Nagisa could stop it occasionally, but it was always there. It was in him, waiting.
It was him.
"I gave myself my very first present," says the thing. "My sister's blood felt like a king's cloak, and it tasted like ambrosia."
"Nagisa is quite like a sister to you, isn't she?"
If it isn't Fuma grinning, you can't tell.