Natsuki - Hatakeyama

Natsuki spun. A boy her age—seventeen, maybe—leaned against a dumpster. He wore an immaculate navy school uniform, not a single crease out of place. His eyes, however, were not human. They were polished obsidian, reflecting the alley’s single flickering light like two dark moons.

The last thing Natsuki Hatakeyama remembered was the wet slap of a fish tail against her cheek. Now she was standing in a silent, rain-slicked alley in Tokyo, holding a sardine. hatakeyama natsuki

“It’s temporary,” the boy said. “Return the kuro-sardine to the Mirror Sea within three tides, and you can go back to your life. Fail, and the webbing will creep up your arms, over your chest, across your face. On the third sunrise, you’ll sprout gills and drown in the air.” Natsuki spun

She blinked. “No. I’m Hatakeyama Natsuki.” His eyes, however, were not human