Chapter 6 - New ID

  Letting Mom absorb everything, I ease into the quiet, exchanging a glance with Grandma as we wait. There’s something almost weird about the way she carries herself lately—every movement deliberate, every smile practiced.

  “So, about this disguise of yours…” I say lightly. “Are you planning to keep up the act, or will I ever get to know the real you?”

  I catch the faint curl of her lips before she smooths her expression, the briefest flicker of something older passing through her eyes. “For now, honey buns, maybe focus on getting used to your own body. I know you’re curious, but there’s no need to rush through everything today.”

  That’s not an answer.

  I nod slightly anyway, filing it away. Whatever she’s hiding, it’s intentional. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that pushing too hard only makes people dig in deeper.

  “Oh, I just thought of something important,” Mom says suddenly, her voice brightening with suspicious enthusiasm. “Sweetheart, could you help me with a few questions?”

  Her reset button has clearly been pressed. The shift is almost mechanical—posture straightening, eyes lighting up, tone lifting half a note too high. It’s nice to see her bounce back after everything, but… something feels off. Her smile is a little too bright, her eyes practically sparkling. Not the soft sparkle she gets when she’s proud. This one is sharper. Intent.

  I can sense a trap forming, though I can’t quite identify the mechanism.

  With a hint of reluctance, I slowly nod—or try to.

  I’m being dragged away before I can respond, making my opinion completely irrelevant. Her hand wraps around my wrist with surprising efficiency, steering me down the hall. Oddly, we’re heading toward the linen cupboard.

  The scent of detergent and clean cotton greets us as she swings the door open. Towels are stacked with near-military precision, spare sheets folded into perfect rectangles. She kneels, rummaging through a small box tucked behind a row of pillowcases.

  “Mom?” I ask carefully. “Are we making something?”

  There’s the faint clatter of metal on plastic before she straightens up triumphantly.

  “Found it!” she declares, holding up a soft tape measure like she’s unearthed a priceless artifact. “Sweetheart, this might take a while, so let’s go somewhere private where we can relax.”

  Mom is smiling, tape measure in hand, and suggesting privacy.

  To say I’m comfortable with this idea would be a lie.

  Still, she’s making an effort to bond. Not exactly my first choice for bonding, but I guess I’ll take what I can get. There are worse ways to spend an afternoon than being fussed over by your mother—especially when you’re still trying to figure out where you fit in your own skin.

  “So… height and three sizes, I’m guessing?” I ask, still not sure why this needs to be private. “Is it really going to take that long?”

  My confusion must be obvious, because Mom softens immediately.

  “Sweetheart, we’ll need all your measurements to make sure everything fits properly,” she says. “Sleeves, shoulders, waist, hips—everything. This includes a bra fitting, unless you’d prefer someone else to help with that. Don’t worry—you won’t need to be fully undressed. Measuring over your bra and underwear will give us the accuracy we need.”

  I nod slowly, letting it sink in.

  Right. Of course it’s more than just a couple of numbers. Clothes aren’t abstract anymore. They have to work with this body, not the one I remember.

  “I hadn’t realized it was that involved,” I admit quietly.

  Mom smiles, sympathetic. “Most people don’t. But getting it right now saves a lot of frustration later.”

  Just another reminder of how much I still have to adjust to.

  Back in my room, I stand in front of the mirror and begin to undress, moving carefully, deliberately. This is my body—who I am today and who I’ll be tomorrow. It’s real, whether I’m fully comfortable with it yet or not, and I need to shift my mindset accordingly.

  The humor drains from my expression, replaced by the focused calm I’d use before a mission. Assess. Accept. Adapt.

  “Mom,” I say quietly, meeting her eyes through the mirror. “I appreciate your help with everything. I’m still adjusting, but… I’ll use this as a chance to learn more.”

  She steps closer and rests a hand on my shoulder, warm and steady.

  “Sweetheart, it’s only been a short time since everything changed,” she says gently. “Take it at your own pace. I’m here for you.”

  Standing in front of the mirror in a matching white sports bra and underwear, I study my reflection.

  Young. Serious.

  One of the few things that hasn’t changed is my ice-blue eyes, sharp with that familiar shooter’s focus. Or is it a Valkyrie thing? Hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.

  My hair is unusual too—raven black on top, silver strands hidden underneath. I gather it into a ponytail, watching the two-tone effect come alive in the glass. When I let it fall again, the silver disappears behind the black, framing my neck like it was never there at all.

  There’s something symbolic in that.

  Half-focused, I notice Mom moving around behind me, looping the tape measure gently over my shoulders, around my waist, along my arms. She calls out numbers softly as she goes, jotting them down in a small notebook that seems to have appeared from nowhere.

  The tape is cool against my skin. Her touch is careful, respectful.

  Chest. Waist. Hips. Inseam. Shoulder width.

  Each measurement feels like another quiet acknowledgment of reality.

  I stand still and let her work, breathing slowly, focusing on the moment.

  “All done, sweetheart. Come downstairs once you’re dressed,” she says gently. There’s a smile in her eyes as she looks at me, then she turns and leaves, closing the door softly behind her.

  With only one dress to choose from, picking an outfit isn’t exactly difficult.

  I get dressed slowly, more out of habit than necessity, then pause in front of the mirror. I run my fingers through my hair, smoothing it back, then letting it fall again, making small adjustments that probably don’t matter. Old instincts. Presentation has always mattered, even when I pretended it didn’t.

  I’ve never liked photos. ID cards. Anything that freezes you into a single moment and says, this is who you are.

  But if everything else has changed, maybe this can too.

  For the first time, I actually look forward to having my picture taken.

  ***

  The days that follow pass in a strange, quiet blur.

  It’s been long enough since Mom’s impromptu photo session after taking my measurements, that things are starting to feel more natural—at least on the surface. Mom and Grandma—Skuld—have been busy, moving through the house with purpose, voices low, doors closing softly. Every so often I catch fragments of conversation or the muted tapping of keys, but whatever they’re doing, it’s clearly coordinated.

  Another change is that I’m not expected to do… well, anything.

  No training schedules. No work obligations. No clear next steps.

  Not that I have a solid idea of what I should be doing, but the lack of direction is frustrating in its own way. I drift from room to room, hover in doorways, stare out windows. My body feels ready for action, but there’s nowhere for that energy to go.

  My life as Riku is over, but the world hasn’t caught up yet.

  People still expect me to show up at work eventually. Messages sit unanswered. Accounts remain open. My assets are in Norway, and whatever I brought with me feels symbolic at best.

  Even my family can’t escape the reality that they no longer have a son.

  Maybe they could pass me off as an adopted daughter. That would be awkward. Maybe spin some other story.

  But none of that explains Riku’s disappearance.

  Do I really have to attend my own funeral?

  The thought stays longer than I’d like before I push it away.

  I’m done trying to make sense of it on my own.

  It’s time for some answers.

  “We’re in the lounge if you’re looking for us, sweetheart,” Mom calls as I make my way downstairs.

  Looks like the bond tipped her off.

  It’s still a little strange hearing her call me that, but I don’t mind it. Each time, it feels a little more natural, like the word is slowly finding its place.

  As I step into the room, I find Mom and Grandma sitting on the sofa, a sleek laptop open in front of them, a small stack of documents neatly arranged beside it.

  Whatever they’ve been working on, it’s ready.

  The top document catches my eye—a photo of a shrine, its teal fence and yellow-red roof standing out against the greenery. The title reads Nezu Shrine, located in Tokyo near Takehaya High School.

  The image is peaceful. Too peaceful.

  Stone steps leading upward. Lanterns. A gate painted in colors that feel almost ceremonial. It looks like the sort of place where decisions are made quietly, where futures are acknowledged rather than chosen.

  A flicker of unease stirs in my chest as I stare at it.

  Tokyo.

  High school.

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  Shrine.

  Each word lands heavier than it should.

  I set the document back exactly as I found it, aligning the corners with careful precision. They say ignorance is bliss, and right now, I think I deserve a bit of that. If I don’t touch it, maybe it isn’t real yet.

  Maybe the answers can wait until tomorrow.

  Before I can retreat further into that fragile illusion, two arms wrap around me from behind—warm, steady, reassuring.

  And effectively cutting off my escape.

  Mom’s chin rests briefly against the top of my head.

  “Sweetheart, come sit with us on the couch. We have some things we need to discuss with you.”

  For once, the term of endearment doesn’t get a reaction from me. Either I’m getting used to it, or my earlier premonition is about to come true.

  Logically, I already know what this is.

  I let her guide me toward the sofa and sit between them, straight-backed without meaning to be. Old posture habits die hard.

  “So…” I begin carefully, keeping my tone level. “Will I really be living a second childhood?”

  There’s a hint of resignation in my voice that I don’t bother to hide.

  Grandma folds her hands neatly in her lap.

  “Skuld says it’s your fate,” she replies, managing a straight face, though her eyes glint with unmistakable humor.

  I study her for a second.

  It’s an interesting moment—I catch the amusement in her gaze, but there’s something else there too. Calculation. Consideration. The weight of long years.

  A part of me wants to challenge her, to stand and declare that I’m ready, that I don’t need easing into anything. That I’ve handled worse.

  Instead, I hold her gaze steadily.

  I nod once.

  “So be it.”

  The words settle in the space between us.

  “It’s moments like these I remember how mature you are,” Mom says, her voice warm. I can hear the laughter beneath it, but the compliment feels sincere.

  Mature.

  In a body that barely fits the word.

  The irony isn’t lost on me.

  “Despite how I look now, Mom, I still carry all my life experiences and military training,” I say evenly. “In my mind, I’m still a well-trained soldier and an adult capable of handling most situations.”

  The words don’t come out defensive. Just factual.

  “My body has changed, and maybe my mentality has shifted a bit,” I continue, choosing each word carefully, “but I’m still me. Internally, I don’t feel like I’ve changed that much.”

  That’s the part that’s hardest to explain. The mirror reflects someone younger, softer at the edges. But behind my eyes? The same calculations run. The same instincts surface.

  “That said,” I add after a beat, “I know I’m still far from a hundred—and maybe still a child by the standards of my… our race.”

  The correction is subtle, but deliberate.

  Grandma’s fingers tap lightly on the keyboard, the quiet rhythm of it oddly grounding. A new document fills the screen, columns of neat text, dates, addresses. She glances at me over the rim of her glasses, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

  “That takes care of the house,” she says, marking something off her list with calm finality.

  House.

  The word lands heavier than it should.

  “So,” I ask, folding my hands loosely in my lap, “what’s the plan?”

  I’m finally ready for concrete answers. Logistics. Timelines. Something I can anchor to.

  Mom hums thoughtfully beside me but doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, she runs her fingers through my hair in slow, absent-minded strokes. It feels good—relaxing in a way that makes it harder to stay rigid.

  I resist the urge to lean into it.

  “Basically,” Grandma begins smoothly, “a 4LDK penthouse apartment within walking distance of both the school district and the shrine.”

  Penthouse.

  School district.

  Shrine.

  Each word slots into place like pieces of a board being set up.

  “The place will be available in five days,” she continues, scrolling slightly. “That gives us plenty of time to prepare. Your school enrollment will begin at the start of the next term, about three weeks from now. Uniforms and supplies have already been ordered and will be ready in two weeks.”

  The efficiency of it all is almost impressive.

  Five days to relocate.

  Three weeks to become a student again.

  My mind immediately shifts to the next variable.

  “New identity and documentation?” I ask.

  Grandma doesn’t hesitate.

  “Oh, I have those ready,” she replies smoothly. “It’s a skill I picked up over the years—it’s useful to handle things yourself when you’ve lived a long life.”

  There’s something ancient in the way she says it. Casual. Understated.

  “And by not involving outsiders, we keep our information private,” she adds. “Our new family name is Kuro, in honor of your mother Riho and your connection to Kuraokami.”

  Kuro.

  Black.

  A clean break, but still rooted in something older.

  I let the name settle in my mind, testing how it feels.

  Not foreign.

  Just… new.

  A new ID means a new name.

  It’s a thoughtful touch, linking us back to Mother Riho, anchoring this strange transition in something that feels intentional instead of made up. I roll the name around in my head once more—Kuro—and let it settle alongside everything else I’m learning to carry.

  Grandma reaches over and hands me a thick document envelope.

  It has weight to it. Literal and symbolic.

  Inside, I find everything laid out with meticulous care—birth certificate, identification cards, residency paperwork, banking details. Each page is crisp, aligned, stamped where it needs to be. No rough edges. No loose ends.

  It’s unsettling how complete it is.

  I flip through slowly, scanning dates, addresses, official seals. Somewhere in this stack of paper, Riku disappears.

  I pause on the financial summary.

  “This banking information…” I look up. “These are funds from Norway?”

  “Yes,” Grandma replies smoothly. “Your assets were liquidated. It wasn’t ideal, but moving quickly was the priority.”

  There’s no apology in her tone. Just pragmatism.

  I do a quick calculation in my head, converting currencies automatically.

  “Around fifty thousand U.S. dollars,” I murmur, then glance back at the screen. “About seven and a half million yen. Not insignificant, even for a reset.”

  “A modest amount,” Grandma acknowledges with a slight nod. “Enough to keep things in order without drawing attention.”

  I lean back against the couch, considering the implications.

  “So we’re financially stable,” I summarize, “but staying discreet.”

  “That tracks.”

  Her eyes glint with understanding.

  “Precisely. Wealth is power,” she says, “but it’s best wielded quietly—especially for us.”

  I nod, feeling an unexpected sense of alignment with her approach. It fits with who I am—or who I’m becoming. Quiet preparation. Controlled visibility. Resources held in reserve.

  “That makes sense,” I say, handing the documents back. “Thanks.”

  She accepts them with a small nod, already organizing the stack again, like this is just another item checked off a very long list.

  “Your new identity: sixteen years old, full Japanese nationality with a European great-grandmother, born and raised in Japan. The bank card will provide a weekly deposit of about one hundred and fifty thousand yen for expenses, in addition to the pocket money you already have. Our aim is for you to live without financial worries.”

  Sixteen.

  The number lands softly, but it carries weight. Young enough to disappear into a classroom. Old enough to be expected to function. It feels carefully chosen.

  I pause, letting the figures settle in.

  “You consider 150,000 yen a week as pocket money?” I glance up. “So yes… financially stable. I’m assuming billions at this point, or did I get something wrong?”

  The corner of Grandma’s lips curls upward, something distinctly Skuld-like in her amusement.

  “Well,” she says lightly, “knowing the future is rather handy when investing.”

  I let out a short, surprised laugh. “Yeah. I bet.”

  It’s strange how casually she says it, like she’s talking about remembering to buy groceries instead of navigating decades of markets with prophetic foresight.

  There’s something surreal about it all.

  A few days ago, I was barely thinking about money beyond practical expenses—rent, food, the occasional upgrade. Now I apparently belong to a family where that kind of cash flow is just… normal. Where contingency plans exist in layers, and comfort is something deliberately engineered.

  “With everything that’s changed,” I admit quietly, “not having to worry about money is definitely a relief. I really appreciate it, even if it’s just one more thing to adapt to.”

  Mom shifts closer beside me, warmth radiating off her in a way that feels comfortable.

  I lean over and kiss her cheek in thanks, then glance back at Grandma.

  “Appreciate you handling all of this.”

  She waves a hand dismissively, like it’s nothing, but the small smile she wears tells a different story.

  With the conversation settled I return to my room, letting the thoughts drift aside as l lay on my bed. There’s only so much change I can process at once.

  My gaze slides to the wardrobe beside me.

  Nearly empty.

  Just a few bras and underwear folded neatly on one shelf. No socks. No real clothes. Nothing that feels like mine yet. Just the bare minimum, waiting to be filled, like the room itself is holding its breath.

  Money isn’t the problem. Resources aren’t the problem.

  It’s the basics.

  No phone to call a taxi. No way to navigate the city on my own. Sixteen might be old enough to wander alone, but during school hours that kind of freedom would stand out fast. Too young to blend in as an adult. Too old to disappear unnoticed.

  I’m in between again.

  My eyes drift to the framed Valkyrie on the wall—a quiet reminder of strength, of resolve. She’s always been there, watching in that distant, knowing way, guiding without words.

  “What would you do?” I murmur, half-joking.

  Then I pause.

  Because technically… I could actually ask her.

  The thought amusing me for a second before I shake my head, feeling a little ridiculous. Still, a small smile finds its way onto my lips.

  For a moment, I just study her.

  The quiet confidence in her stance. The effortless grace in her form. There’s no denying it—she’s impressive. Not loud about it. Not dramatic. Just solid, composed, unwavering.

  Something to grow into, maybe.

  With a soft sigh, I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. The bed feels too big now, like I’m stretched out in a space meant for someone else. My limbs don’t quite fill it the way they used to.

  Everything feels slightly oversized lately, not great but a nice change of pace.

  My gaze drifts back to the wardrobe.

  This isn’t just about clothes.

  It’s about settling into who I am now. About building a life that fits this body, this name, this future. And part of that means having things that are actually mine—chosen, not inherited or improvised.

  Without sitting up, I turn my head toward the door and call out, “Mom, I need clothes!”

  My voice echoes faintly through the house.

  A small grin tugs at my lips.

  That felt… good.

  Footsteps approach down the hallway, soft but unmistakable, and Mom appears in the doorway a moment later. Her arms are crossed, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and mild exasperation—the classic mom look perfected over years of practice.

  “Did you say something, sweetheart?”

  I chuckle, rolling onto my side to face her. “Nothing serious. Just… you know. Wardrobe issues.”

  She studies me for a second, one brow lifting in quiet assessment. There’s a knowing look in her eyes, like she already understands what I didn’t quite say out loud.

  “Alright,” she says simply. “We can go shopping.”

  I blink.

  That was easy.

  For a moment, I just stare at her, waiting for the conditions or follow-up questions that never come. Then it sinks in.

  Maybe my attempt at being playful actually worked.

  Maybe she already knew this was coming.

  Either way, I feel something loosen in my chest.

  I smile.

  I’ll take the win.