Akira was taken to the police station.
"Miss Kawashima, as a classmate of the victim Chizuru and someone seen entering and leaving the restroom near the time of the incident, we'd like to ask you a few questions."
Akira sat in the interrogation room, idly twirling a strand of long hair around his finger. Across from him sat a serious-faced officer.
"You have nothing to say?" the officer asked, frowning as Akira stayed silent, seeming completely indifferent. I hovered nearby, pacing with anxiety, terrified that the truth of what Akira had done might be uncovered.
"Just ask what you want directly," Akira replied coolly, still playing with his hair.
The officer paused, then asked, "Several classmates said there was some animosity between you and the victim?"
"Yes."
"What kind of conflict?"
Akira stared at him for a moment, then let out a soft laugh. "Officer, are you really unaware? Or just pretending to be?"
The officer was momentarily at a loss for words.
"If you already know from my classmates that there was a problem between us, you must also know what kind of problem it was."
"We conduct thorough investigations. We collect statements from everyone."
"And if what I say doesn't match their statements, you'll say I'm lying, won't you?" Akira finally lifted his eyes, meeting the officer's gaze.
That look sent a chill down the officer's spine. The girl's eyes were like still water—calm and impenetrable. Her pale skin and inky black hair made her look like she belonged to another world. Nothing about her expression betrayed a hint of emotion.
"We judge statements fairly and objectively," the officer said. "So I ask again: please answer truthfully."
Akira gave a faint smile and twisted a strand of hair between his fingers. "It wasn't anything serious. Just the usual arguments between classmates."
I had to admit—I was impressed by his intelligence. By downplaying the bullying, he cast doubt on any motive and avoided further suspicion. He knew that none of our classmates would ever admit what Chizuru had done. And judging by the officer's expression, it worked.
"Next question. What were you doing in the restroom during class?"
Akira furrowed his brow, as if trying to remember. "Someone knocked over my milk. It spilled everywhere, so I went to get some tissues."
The officer nodded, accepting this answer without issue. And in that moment, I finally understood why Akira had exited the restroom before doubling back through the window: the hallway security footage would show he had left, long before Chizuru entered alone.
"Did you see anything unusual while you were in the restroom?"
Akira's tone was steady. "Nothing. Everything seemed normal. Though I can't say for sure if someone was hiding in one of the stalls."
The officer frowned, now considering a new possibility.
I nearly laughed. That single sentence—so casually delivered—had planted a whole new theory in the investigation.
"That's all for now. But we'll need to stay in contact with you for the next few days. Please be ready to return if necessary."
I breathed a small sigh of relief and followed Akira out of the room. In the hallway, we bumped into Tanaka-sensei.
"Megumi? What are you doing here?" he asked in surprise. Then he noticed the officer. "Wait… officer, you're not suspecting her, are you?"
"Just a few simple questions," the officer replied neutrally.
Tanaka-sensei sighed. "You don't know this kid, officer… There's no way she's the killer."
I smiled bitterly. Of course. No one would ever believe a weak, bullied girl could commit such violence. But standing here wasn't Kawashima Megumi—it was Kawashima Akira.
Still, the teacher's firm statement lowered their suspicion. An officer even escorted Akira safely home.
Once inside, Akira immediately drew the curtains, took off the wig, and shed the identity of Megumi. He was himself again—Kawashima Akira. He tidied up a bit, then climbed into bed, wrapped tightly in the blanket so no skin showed.
I watched him, at a loss. No dinner again?
Because of our financial situation, we'd never had much food, but I always tried to make sure we ate three meals a day. I worked hard to gather ingredients, getting up before dawn to buy cheap beef or catching fish by the stream. My hands were cracked and soaked, my eyes ringed with fatigue. Yet every time I brought food home, Akira would sneer, slam his bowl down, and complain about the taste.
But I kept feeding him—until he stopped resisting.
"Let me do the shopping. I don't like what you buy," he once muttered, poking at his rice.
"No," I shook my head. "Too many people outside… You might get hurt."
Even as I said it, I felt the irony. Who would really get hurt?
Akira understood my implication. He looked up at me.
"I won't kill again."
His eyes were as unreadable as ever, and something about that calmness hurt me.
I had given him everything—endured pain, threats, fear—and asked for nothing in return. I didn't hate him. I couldn't. Even now, I would make the same choices. He never forced me. But still, a part of me felt… sorrow.
I hated his coldness, the way he never showed joy, or sadness, or regret. But I loved him. I loved him more than anyone in this world. He was the one most like me—and the one most unlike me.
And that night, for the first time, I broke.
"Kawashima Akira, haven't you caused enough trouble? I never asked for thanks. I just wanted you to accept what I give you. Why can't you see how much I've done for you? Why do you always act like you don't care? Like none of it matters? Why do I feel like I'm punching a wall—hurting myself while you don't even flinch?! Are you even human? Why can't I feel your heartbeat? Why can't I see your soul?!"
I was out of breath, clutching my chest.
Then I whispered, "You shouldn't be so silent."
I didn't care if I angered him. If he killed me, so be it. At least I'd be free.
But to my surprise, he didn't explode. He just stared at me.
I couldn't meet his eyes. Tears spilled down my face, warm and endless.
It was the first time I'd ever cried in front of him. I wasn't like him. I had feelings. I got hurt.
I cried until I couldn't anymore, collapsing on the floor.
Akira hesitated, then slowly reached out a trembling hand and touched my cheek—wiping away a tear. The drop of light vanished against his fingers.
"I'm sorry, sis," he said softly.
I froze.
It was the first time he called me that. The first time he ever touched me with warmth.
I said nothing, but the tears began to slow.
He tried to smile—awkwardly.
"I'll try to understand you. I won't make you cry again."
I won't make you cry again.
That one sentence healed everything. I fell asleep.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of him in the kitchen. His figure in the golden light was calm, peaceful, almost beautiful.
Smelling the aroma, I asked, "You went shopping?"
"Yeah." He took a bite of meat. "Didn't cause trouble."
I smiled, relieved.
From then on, grocery shopping became his job. And he kept his word—no more trouble.
With the weight lifted, I could finally focus on school and rest properly.
But now, seeing him curled in bed without dinner, I felt a new worry.
He was still growing. How could he skip meals?
I sat beside his bed, watching over him.
I thought I'd stay till dawn—but two hours later, he got up.
Shoes on. Out the door.
I followed him closely.
He returned to the restaurant where he'd applied for work. Uncle Takumi greeted him with surprise and warmth.
Many had promised to work there, only to vanish. He didn't expect Akira to actually show up.
"Welcome. Right on time." He handed Akira a uniform.
Without a word, Akira changed and began working.
Under the warm lights of the cozy diner, customers chatted happily. In a quiet corner, Akira's presence stood out.
Despite his age, his movements were clean and efficient. He weaved through tables silently, trays balanced perfectly—steaming drinks, fragrant dishes. He moved with natural grace, unbothered by the world around him.
Watching him, for the first time—I felt like he'd grown up.
A smile tugged at my lips.
Akira… I'm proud of you.