Kuroro Rom Mukuro, the Gatekeeper
I have a bald spot that needs fixing. Kuroro Rom Mukuro, fifty-eight years old, male, gatekeeper.
“I’m nervous…”
Sophie’s poor tablecloth again found itself under the restless assault of her twiddling fingers. But this time, the motion was subdued. Listless.
A bald spot.
Sophie had never healed a bald spot before; she wasn’t even sure it was possible. This was exactly the kind of thing she’d have liked to test on someone else before the actual client showed up, but unfortunately for her, the Olzon household was currently devoid of the follicly challenged. (Silver was off on a long voyage.)
She pictured the man’s face—his soaring expectations, his hopeful eyes—and felt a spike of dread.
Ding, di-ding.
“Come in.”
Was it just her, or was Claire’s bell unusually quiet today?
Doom. The door slammed open, revealing a massive, muscular, animalistic figure.
“P-P-P-Panther!” Sophie shrieked.
Because truly, that was the only word for the black, glistening, fur-covered humanoid standing before her.
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✶✶✶
“MY apologies,” said the half-human, half-animal figure before her, his voice polite and steady. “I withheld the fact that I’m a demi-human on purpose. I thought you might reject me because of it. For that deceit, I sincerely apologize.”
Demi-humans, in this world, were the offspring of demons and humans. A race born with the strengths of both—intelligent enough to grasp human language, yet faster, stronger, and more resilient, like demons. Their appearances were often striking and unmistakable.
Currently, demons and humans weren’t at war, nor were they at peace. An ancient covenant bound their uneasy coexistence: conflict would be avoided as long as neither side crossed into the other’s domain. That same covenant included provisions for the fair treatment of demi-humans on both sides, but the reality varied wildly. In some countries, demi-humans faced simple discrimination. In others, they were bought and sold as slaves. Here, however, their equal treatment was codified into law. In the time of the previous, previous king, there had been heavy prejudice against them, but that was—supposedly—a thing of the past.
“No, no, please,” Sophie said quickly. “I shouldn’t have screamed like that. I apologize, Mr. Kuroro…Romumu…”
She flubbed it.
Glancing up in embarrassment, she tried to gauge his reaction, only to be met with a deep, roguish chuckle. The black panther gave her a smile, the scar across his left eye lending him a rugged air. He carefully unfolded a handkerchief and laid it over the seat before sitting.
Rugged and a gentleman, Sophie thought.
“My name is hard to pronounce, isn’t it?” he rumbled. “Please, call me Kuro.”
“Kuro!” Sophie repeated brightly. “I like the sound of that. Then, if I may—Mr. Kuro, would you care for some raw meat?”
“I would love some raw meat!” he boomed.
“Claire! Bring the meat! The one that was going to be served to Father for supper!”
Ding, ding, ding.
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✶✶✶
“NOW then, Mr. Kuro. You said today you wanted to…” Fix a bald spot—Sophie knew that much. But as she looked him over, all she saw was a sleek coat of black fur, short and impossibly soft-looking. It was lustrous, velvety, and taking all of her self-control not to reach out and run her hands through it.
Then, Kuro shifted. He lifted one thick, muscled arm and pulled up his shirt.
“Kya!” Sophie shrieked, covering her eyes with her fingers. But with that little performance just for modesty’s sake done, she lowered her hands and looked closely at Kuro’s chest.
Just above his abdomen, below his chest, was a small, nearly perfect circle—completely bare. No fur. About three centimeters across.
“What happened?” Sophie asked.
“Well, let me tell you all about it.”
Kuro used to be an adventurer.
At thirteen, he left his dead-end village with a group of his closest friends. Driven purely by youthful energy, they set out on the journey of a lifetime.
Looking back, they’d risked everything for nothing more times than he could count. It was hard to believe the reckless stunts they’d pulled—and even harder to believe they’d gotten away with it all. But somehow, whether by luck or something else, they all made it through, and over time, they became a capable, seasoned party
“My!” Sophie gasped in wonder. “And what was this party of yours called?”
Kuro looked down and mumbled something inaudible.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“…The Blackdiamond Bloodgang.”
“Ah…”
Kuro hung his head in quiet shame.
Well, at thirteen, that’s only to be expected… Sophie thought.
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” she reassured him gently. “It’s a path we all must tread.”
The early teens—truly an affliction of the mind. That strange age when every boy and girl believes they’re destined to save the world.
“By the end of it, we just started calling ourselves the ‘Rovers,’” Kuro said. “Because that’s what we were, really. We didn’t start with some grand purpose. We did it because we needed to eat. It was what we knew, so…we kept going.”
Kuro had been thirty-five when fate found him in a quiet little town, just another stop on the road. He’d met his future wife there, who’d been thirty at the time.
“It was like I was struck by lightning,” he recalled fondly.
He hit on her—she rejected him.
He confessed his love—she rejected him.
Brought her flowers? Rejected.
Fancy gems? Also rejected.
But he wasn’t fazed. He pressed on, again and again, until one day, finally, she gave him the green light.
That day, Kuro was so happy that he thought he might die on the spot.
“Is love…” Sophie muttered.
“Sorry?” Kuro looked down at her.
“Is love really something so…sudden? So forceful?” she asked, gazing up at him.
When he met her eyes—that wide, curious look—his expression softened. Like a father looking at his own daughter.
“I suppose it depends,” he said gently. “For me, it was. One look and my heart knew. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, she was the only girl for me.”
Not long after, Kuro asked to leave his party.
That fierce frontliner—once hailed for his godlike speed—wasn’t as fast as he used to be. His friends knew it. So did he.
He wasn’t at that age anymore where throwing himself headlong into danger felt like fun. He’d accepted it; he was getting old. He chose peace. Chose to settle down.
His comrades—the friends he’d fought beside since their teens—saw him off with nothing but smiles.
When Kuro was thirty-eight and his wife was thirty-three, they had their first child.
She died during childbirth.
“The first one came out without a problem, a girl,” Kuro said quietly. “But the second got stuck in the birth canal. The babe just…wouldn’t come out. My wife suffered. Suffered terribly—all the way until the end. We found out she’d been carrying triplets afterward. It was an umbilical cord that had done it. Twisting, holding the babe in place.”
There was the barest quiver in his tone. A quiver that let Sophie know that even now, twenty-odd years after the fact, Kuro loved his wife. Still carried her with him, and her heart ached at the thought.
It seemed that childbirth, no matter the world, remained a perilous, often deadly thing.
“There I was,” Kuro said, “this one child—my only child—suddenly in my arms. No time to grieve. No time to process. And I didn’t feel like a father. Not even a sliver of one.”
Fortunately, a kind neighbor helped him get milk to feed the baby. But that was just the first of many hurdles. For years afterward, Kuro would have to raise the child on his own.
Back then, he made a living taking on physical jobs—manual labor, guild contracts, guard duty. But those gigs kept him away for days at a time. And with a newborn waiting at home, that simply wasn’t an option anymore.
He reached out to everyone he knew, followed every lead he could find, and eventually landed the job he still held to this day: gatekeeper at the city gates.
“All I do is stand by my gate from dawn till dusk. It always closes in the evening, without exception, so I can be home by dinnertime. Honestly, I was lucky. I just happened to be around when there was a policy push to offer public jobs to demi-humans.”
During the day, he left his daughter with a neighbor. After work, he’d stop by, thank them sincerely—with both coin and words—then take his daughter home for the evening.
“When she cried, it sounded like she was saying, ‘Meee, meee,’ so I named her Miina. And this right here”—he tapped the bald spot on his chest—“was her favorite sleeping spot.”
He smiled to himself.
“She loved to nurse there, even though—obviously—there wasn’t any milk,” he said with a soft chuckle. She’d cry in that little voice of hers—‘Meee, meee’—while kneading my chest with her tiny little paws. I’d say, ‘Miina, don’t cry,’ and gently soothe her while letting her do her thing. She was so small, so…desperate. Oh, she was the most adorable thing in the world.”
Don’t cry, Miina, don’t cry.
Because no matter how hard you try, nothing’s going to come from there.
He never stopped her from that ritual. Never pushed her away. And before he realized it, the fur on that spot had fallen out—and it never grew back.
He gently massaged that bare patch, eyes narrowing with quiet affection.
It was clear that even now, that tiny spot still carried the weight of those early days—of that helpless, precious little creature who had clung to him with everything she had.