The classroom was alive with the usual morning chatter—pens tapping, shoes dragging, and voices buzzing in every corner. Posters lined the bulletin board, sunlight streamed through half-closed blinds, and the faint scent of chalk and cheap air freshener lingered in the stale air.
Katsuji leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out, a smirk resting lazily on his lips. He was mid-joke, whispering something lewd to Itaru, who chuckled while checking his phone. Across the room, Hideyo scrolled through messages, unaware of the stolen glances his girlfriend, Hima occasionally cast in Katsuji's direction.
The door slid open.
The room fell silent almost instantly.
Their homeroom teacher, Mr. Yamashita, walked in—his face pale, lips pressed into a grim line. Even the class clowns straightened up. Something was off.
Mr. Yamashita stood at the podium, gripping its edges like he needed them to stay upright. "Class," he said slowly, voice low but heavy with weight, "I'm afraid I have terrible news to share."
Whispers began to stir. Mr. Yamashita held up a hand.
"Mahiro... was found dead two nights ago."
A hush dropped like a guillotine. Katsuji froze mid-shift in his seat. Hideyo's phone slipped from his hands and clattered on the floor.
"His mother was found as well," the teacher continued, voice thickening. "I won't go into the details, but both were... brutally murdered."
A gasp came from the back. Someone whispered "Oh my God", and a few students began tearing up. Others just stared forward in stunned silence.
"The police suspect foul play," Mr. Yamashita added. "They're currently investigating whether this is an isolated incident or the work of a serial killer. They're asking everyone to remain vigilant. If you notice anything unusual, please report it immediately."
He paused, letting the weight of it all settle.
"There will be grief counseling available after school."
As the teacher continued with warnings and announcements, Katsuji's mind drifted—not to Mahiro, not to his death, but to something far more terrifying.
His phone buzzed.
Once.
Then again.
Twice.
He slipped it out of his pocket, keeping it low beneath the desk. One message. No sender name. Just a gray icon.
He tapped it open.
It was a photo.
Taken from across the street. Him and Hideyo's girlfriend, at the café last week. She was leaning close. Smiling. His hand on her thigh.
His blood turned to ice.
Another message arrived.
"You look good together. Does Hideyo know yet?"
Katsuji's fingers trembled. He checked around, but no one seemed to be watching. Yet he could feel it—eyes, invisible, but everywhere.
He deleted the photo. But the panic remained.
Was it a prank? A threat? A warning?
Then a final message popped up.
"One down. Four to go. See you soon, Katsuji."
The day crawled to its end, the skies a dull gray like they, too, were mourning Mahiro. The final bell rang, but few students moved with their usual energy. Whispers of "murder" and "Mahiro" still echoed faintly down the halls.
Near the back of the school, by the old vending machines, four boys gathered.
Hideyo leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes distant. His jaw was tight, but he hadn't said a word since they met. Setsuo nervously shifted from foot to foot, while Itaru kept checking his phone.
"I still can't believe it," Setsuo muttered. "Mahiro… that way? And his mom too?"
"Police say it looked personal," Itaru added quietly. "Like… real messed up. Someone enjoyed it."
Hideyo finally spoke, low and cold. "It wasn't random."
All three looked at him.
"What?" Katsuji asked, voice edged with impatience.
Hideyo shrugged. "I'm just saying… Mahiro had enemies."
Katsuji's lip curled. "Tch. Everyone here has enemies. Doesn't mean they deserve to die like that."
Itaru nudged Katsuji. "Yo, you good? You've been on edge all day."
Katsuji pushed off the wall. "I got somewhere to be."
"Now?" Setsuo blinked. "We were gonna talk more, man—figure out if we should, like… do something."
But Katsuji was already walking away. "Later."
The hallway smelled of stale cigarettes and broken dreams. Katsuji stood in front of room 107. He knocked once, twice, then the door creaked open.
Hima stood there—long dark hair draped over one shoulder, hoodie too big for her frame. She smiled when she saw him.
"Hey, you came—"
The slap cracked through the silence like a whip.
Hima staggered back, hand to her cheek, eyes wide.
Katsuji stormed in, door slamming shut behind him. "You bitch," he hissed. "Who did you tell?!"
Hima's eyes welled with tears. "W-What?"
"Don't play dumb with me!" he shouted. "Who the fuck knows about us?! About our meetups?!"
Hima took a step back, her voice trembling. "I haven't told anyone! Why would I?! I love you, Katsuji!"
He scoffed.
She slapped him back, tear-streaked and furious. "Bastard!" she shouted, grabbing her bag and bolting out the door, slamming it behind her.
Katsuji stood there, breathing heavily, hand clenched. The silence in the room was deafening.
Then—
Buzz buzz.
His phone lit up. Unknown number.
He opened the message.
"Oh dear. Don't blame poor, innocent Hima. She really loves you. She'd never betray you "
He froze.
Katsuji's eyes darted across the room.
He ripped open drawers, looked under the bed, tore the lamp from the nightstand. Then he rushed to the curtains and threw them open—
Outside, across the street, a small café sat quiet under the dim glow of a flickering sign.
And at one of the tables—a figure in a black hoodie sat.
Still.
Watching.
Katsuji couldn't make out the face—just the shape. The stillness. The sense of presence.
His breath hitched. He ran out of the room, down the stairs two at a time, heart in his throat.
He burst through the front door and across the street—but when he got there—
The table was empty.
Just a half-drunk coffee.
Still warm.
He clenched his fists, veins bulging along his arms. He rushed home, paranoid, eyes darting to every corner, every shadow.
The lights of the city blurred past the window of the train as Katsuji sat slouched in the corner seat, hoodie pulled up, face pale. His knee bounced rapidly. That message… the figure… none of it made sense.
Who the hell knows?How much do they know?Why now?
He gritted his teeth.
Katsuji's house stood modestly in a quiet neighborhood. Lights on in the kitchen, TV murmuring from the living room. It was normal. Too normal. A sharp contrast to the chaos inside his head.
He opened the door.
"Katsuji, you're late again!" his mom called from the kitchen, clearly annoyed. "You didn't even answer my texts. We were worried."
"Had cram school," he muttered, not breaking stride as he headed straight upstairs.
"Didn't look like that when I checked your messages…" she mumbled to herself.
Upstairs, he shut the door behind him and locked it.
His room was dimly lit by his desk lamp. Posters of bands on the walls. Textbooks scattered. Normal.
Safe.
He tossed his bag down and slumped into his chair. But then—
Something caught his eye.
A small white envelope.
It was sitting neatly on his pillow.
He hadn't seen it before he left. He was sure of that.
He approached cautiously, heart pounding. Picked it up.
No name. No writing on the outside.
Inside: one photograph.
It was him. Standing infront of the motel room. Just minutes before he slapped Hima. The angle was from above—a ceiling camera?
He flipped it over.
Scrawled on the back in sharp, thin handwriting:
"You're good at hiding things. But I'm better at finding them. Let's keep playing, Katsuji. The truth is hungry."
No signature.
But Katsuji's breath caught—not because of the words… but because of the way one letter was written.
The letter "g" in "hungry."
It had that same peculiar loop at the bottom. Slightly open. Tilted left. He'd seen it before.
He yanked open a drawer and rummaged through his folders, pulling out a wrinkled worksheet from weeks ago—group homework with Hideyo's notes scribbled in the margins.
He scanned it. And there it was.
The same looped "g".
His hand trembled.
"…Hideyo?"
He stared between the paper and the photo, his mind racing. Doubt creeping in like a cold wind under the door.
Could it really be him?
Before he could make sense of it—
Buzz. Buzz.
Another message.
Same unknown number.
"Sleep tight.I'll be seeing you soon. Don't worry—I'm patient."
Attached was another image.
A live photo.
Taken seconds ago.
It showed him holding the photo… looking terrified.
From outside his window.
He spun around and yanked the curtains aside—nothing. Just the quiet street. The soft hum of a distant car. Empty sidewalk.
But the photo was real. The message was real.
And now…Katsuji was truly afraid.
Soon it was morning time
The halls buzzed with whispers.
Eyes lingered longer than usual. Murmurs rippled like low static.
Not just about Mahiro anymore.
The school felt different.
Off.
Katsuji walked in, uniform crisp but sleep-deprived eyes betraying the war in his head. He hadn't slept. Not really. Every sound in the night had sounded like footsteps outside his window.
He spotted Hideyo standing near the lockers, talking to Itaru and Setsuo.
Laughing.
Too normal.
Too relaxed.
Like nothing had changed.
Katsuji hesitated, fingers clenching his bag strap before forcing himself forward.
"Yo," he said, voice a little too tight.
Hideyo turned, grin wide. "Hey, man. You good? You look like shit."
Katsuji forced a smirk. "Didn't sleep much."
"Yeah," Itaru muttered. "Same. Still can't get over what happened to Mahiro. Shit's crazy."
Setsuo nodded, folding his arms. "The cops are sniffing around more. I heard they might start questioning students again."
"Some are saying it's a serial killer," Hideyo added, tone weirdly casual. "Creepy stuff."
Katsuji studied his face.
That smile.
That voice.
That handwriting.
"Yeah," Katsuji murmured, eyes narrowing slightly. "Creepy."
For a moment, their eyes locked.
Hideyo tilted his head. "You okay, dude?"
Katsuji looked away, shaking his head. "Fine."
"Liar," Hideyo laughed, nudging his shoulder. "You stress too much. Lighten up."
Katsuji faked a laugh, but something in him itched. Burned. He wanted to ask—What do you know? But instead, he bit his tongue.
He couldn't let them see him unravel.
Not yet.
Just then, a teacher stepped out from the staff room, papers in hand.
"Hideyo, Katsuji—principal wants to see you both. Now."
The words landed like a cold slap.
Katsuji blinked. "Me?"
Hideyo frowned. "What for?"
"No idea," the teacher said, already turning. "Come on."
As the two walked down the hallway, silence settled between them.
Then Hideyo chuckled under his breath.
"You really do look like shit, man."
Katsuji didn't answer.His fists were clenched at his sides.His heart was a storm.
The office smelled like old books and lemon-scented cleaner.
Principal Moriyama sat behind his large wooden desk, fingers steepled. A man known for his stiff suits and even stiffer demeanor. Behind him, the blinds were half-drawn, slashing the morning light into sharp lines.
Katsuji and Hideyo stood before him, side by side.
"Sit," the principal said.
They obeyed.
He looked at them over his glasses. "I won't waste your time. The police contacted us again this morning. They're expanding their investigation into Mahiro's death."
Katsuji's pulse quickened.
Hideyo just blinked. "Why us?"
Moriyama studied a file in front of him.
"You two were known to be... acquaintances of Mahiro. I understand you were all part of the same friend group?"
"Yeah," Hideyo said easily. "But we weren't close or anything."
Katsuji said nothing.
The principal glanced at him. "Katsuji?"
He forced a nod. "Same. We talked sometimes, that's all."
Moriyama leaned back, tapping the desk lightly. "Regardless, the detectives have requested to speak with both of you again. They'll be here tomorrow during school hours. Please cooperate fully."
Hideyo gave a lazy shrug. "Of course."
"Dismissed," Moriyama said.
They stood. As Katsuji turned to leave, the principal added:
"Oh, one more thing."
They paused.
Moriyama's eyes sharpened. "I trust that if either of you knows anything—anything—that might help this investigation, you'll speak up. Secrets have a way of surfacing… especially now."
Katsuji's stomach turned.
He nodded and left with Hideyo.
As they stepped into the quiet corridor, Hideyo laughed under his breath.
"What a buzzkill."
Katsuji glanced sideways. "Did you really not care that Mahiro died?"
Hideyo raised an eyebrow. "Why? Did you?"
Katsuji didn't answer.
Hideyo smiled and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"You're wound up way too tight lately. Relax, dude. You're making people nervous."
And with that, he walked off down the hallway, whistling.
Katsuji stood there, jaw tense, watching him go.
He was sure now.
Something was off about Hideyo.
He just didn't know what.
Katsuji leaned against the cold brick wall
Hideyo's voice echoed in his head—
"You're making people nervous."
He rubbed his temples. His heart was thudding.
Then it hit him.
A memory.
It came back like a sudden, sharp migraine.
Gym Locker Room – Two Months Ago
The air was thick with sweat and the scent of body spray. The PE period had just ended. The locker room buzzed with laughter, teasing, the clang of locker doors slamming.
But in the far corner, away from the noise—Katsuji had Hima pressed up against the wall, their uniforms half-untucked, faces flushed.
He kissed her like he needed it. Like it was oxygen.
"Stop," she whispered breathlessly. "Someone might—"
Then the door creaked open.
Katsuji pulled back instantly, shirt wrinkled, eyes darting.
Mahiro stood in the entrance, frozen like a deer in headlights. His gym bag hung loosely from his shoulder.
He saw everything.
The silence was deafening.
Katsuji stepped forward slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You see anything, Mahiro?"
Mahiro flinched. "No. N-Nothing. I just—forgot my water bottle."
Katsuji's tone turned ice cold. "You sure?"
Mahiro nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Swear."
Katsuji didn't smile.
He stepped in closer, lowering his voice.
"Good. You say a word about this—to anyone—and you'll regret it. Understand?"
Mahiro swallowed, nodding again, then turned and fled the locker room.
Katsuji stood still, fists clenched.
Even then… he knew. Mahiro had seen everything.
Thinking about everything now, Katsuji's breath came shallow.
That moment—it hadn't meant much back then. But now?
Mahiro had dirt on him. On them.
If someone like Hideyo had found out… someone who'd lose everything if the truth came out—Could he have killed Mahiro?
Katsuji wasn't sure. Hideyo didn't seem like the type. Too calm. Too indifferent.
But the message…"Four more to go."
Mahiro had been the first.
That meant he was next. And there were three more names after him.
His hands shook slightly as he pulled out his phone, scrolling back to the message.
"Sleep tight. I'll be seeing you soon."
The live photo. The motel. The anonymous texts.
He felt like he was in a maze with no exit—and the walls were closing in.
The sun was low, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. Katsuji stood outside the modest building, hoodie up, eyes scanning the area like he expected someone to be watching. Maybe someone was.
His palms were sweaty.
He hated this.
Hated feeling cornered. Vulnerable.
But he had to do this.
He climbed the narrow stairway and stopped in front of a door. Hesitated. Then knocked.
A few moments passed.
The door opened slightly—chained.
Hima's eyes appeared in the gap, puffy and rimmed red.
"What do you want?" Her voice was flat.
"…To talk."
She didn't say anything.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
That did something. The chain slid back.
She let the door open fully and stepped aside, letting him in.
It was small, clean, with a faint scent of perfume in the air. A stuffed rabbit sat on her bed. She stood by the window, arms crossed.
Katsuji stayed near the entrance.
"I shouldn't have hit you," he started. "I lost it. I thought—someone told. I panicked."
She laughed bitterly. "So you thought hitting me would fix it?"
"I said I'm sorry, damn it."
Hima turned sharply. "You think that's enough? You think I haven't been terrified since that night? You think it's easy knowing I've been sneaking around with you, lying to Hideyo? Lying to everyone?"
Silence.
Then Katsuji took a breath.
"There's something going on. Something bigger than you or me. Someone knows. About us. About everything. They sent me photos… messages."
Her expression changed—concern now mixing with confusion.
"What kind of messages?"
He pulled out his phone. Showed her the photo—the one of him in the motel room. Then the message:
"You're good at hiding things. But I'm better at finding them."
Her face paled.
"…What is this?"
"I don't know. But I think… I think Mahiro knew about us. I remembered something. From a while back."
He told her about the locker room. About how Mahiro saw them. How he threatened him.
Her hands went to her mouth.
"You think he told someone?"
"I don't know. Maybe. But now he's dead. And someone sent me this…" He showed her the back of the photo, where the message had been scribbled.
She took the picture, stared at it. Then her brow furrowed.
"…Shit," Katsuji muttered under his breath.
"What?" Hima asked, her voice edged with concern.
He didn't answer.
All he could hear was a buzz a text again,
"Let's keep playing, Katsuji."
The sun hung low, casting long shadows over the cracked pavement behind the school building. The air smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and cheap cafeteria food. A low wall surrounded the spot, making it their usual hangout—just the four of them.
Itaru sat perched on the edge of the wall, legs swinging, tossing pebbles at a rusted soda can. Setsuo leaned against the concrete, chewing gum obnoxiously. Katsuji stood nearby, arms crossed, trying to look present but distant. Hideyo, as always, stood a little apart—half-involved, half-watching.
"Yo," Hideyo said casually, eyes locked on the can but voice aimed at Katsuji. "Where'd you disappear to yesterday?"
Katsuji blinked, caught off guard by the question. "What do you mean?"
Hideyo gave a lazy shrug. "You dipped right after school. Didn't even come to the arcade."
"Oh… yeah." Katsuji scratched the back of his neck, forcing a light chuckle. "Wasn't feeling too good. Just went home."
There was a beat of silence. A small, almost imperceptible shift.
"Hmm." Hideyo's voice was calm. "You sure?"
Katsuji nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Just tired, that's all."
Setsuo chimed in without looking up. "Bet you just didn't wanna get your ass beat at Street Fighter again."
Laughter broke the tension, and even Katsuji managed a smile. But Hideyo didn't laugh. He just looked at Katsuji for a second longer than necessary—expression unreadable—and then turned away, lighting a cigarette with a flick of his thumb.
Nothing more was said about it.
But a new silence bloomed beneath the surface—quiet, sharp, and loaded.
Later That Evening
The street was mostly empty as Hideyo walked home, his footsteps echoing against the quiet sidewalks. A cool breeze brushed past, ruffling his jacket, but he didn't seem to notice.
He stopped at the corner store, bought a soda he didn't really want, then sat on the curb outside. His cigarette had long since burned out, but he still held the stub between his fingers like a habit he wasn't ready to break.
He stared across the street, eyes unfocused. Not at the traffic lights. Not at the people walking past. Just… thinking.
Katsuji said he went home early.
Didn't look sick. Didn't sound tired.
Hideyo's fingers tapped against the can, a quiet rhythm. His jaw tightened briefly—then relaxed.
Could've just been nothing. Maybe I'm reading too much into it.
He shook the thought off. Took a sip.
But that image from yesterday slipped back into his head like a splinter—Katsuji, walking up the narrow steps to Hima's apartment. Glancing over his shoulder like he didn't want to be seen.
Hideyo hadn't meant to be there. Just passing through. Just a coincidence. But the timing… the expression on Katsuji's face...
He stared down into the dark reflection in the soda can. His own face blinked back at him, stretched and warped.
Coincidence, he told himself again.
Then he stood up, tossed the can in the trash, and walked off.
Didn't look back.
School Hallway, A Few Days Later
The bell rang, releasing a swarm of students into the corridor. Laughter, slamming lockers, the scrape of chairs—normal chaos.
Katsuji was at his locker, shoving books into his bag without looking at them. His movements were a little rushed.
"Yo," Hideyo leaned against the locker beside him, grinning like always. "You vanishin' again today or actually gonna grace us with your presence after school?"
Katsuji gave a small chuckle. "Nah, I'll stick around. Just had something to do that one day."
"Uh-huh." Hideyo's tone was light, teasing. "Some 'sick' day."
Katsuji froze for a second—barely a beat—but it was enough. He glanced sideways, forcing a smile. "Yeah. Needed some air. That's all."
Hideyo nodded, still smiling.
But he was watching.
Not the words. Not the laugh.
The eyes. The pause. The little flicker of something behind Katsuji's voice. Guilt? Fear?
Hideyo leaned in a little, just enough to let his voice drop low—still playful, but with an edge now. "Hope you're not keepin' secrets, man. You're terrible at lying."
Katsuji's face tightened. "I'm not."
Hideyo held his gaze a moment longer. Then he let out a laugh, loud and carefree, slapping Katsuji's back. "Alright, alright. Just messin' with you."
He turned and walked off, whistling as he disappeared into the crowd.
But his smile faded the second he was out of view.
He didn't believe a word of it.
Katsuji sat on his bed, staring at his phone. The words from earlier that day kept echoing in his mind: "You're terrible at lying."
He rubbed his temples, frustration mounting. The more he thought about it, the more he felt like Hideyo was watching him. Studying him. Like he was waiting for something to slip.
Maybe it's nothing, Katsuji thought. Maybe I'm just overthinking. I didn't do anything wrong…
But his thoughts kept circling back to Hima. That moment he spent with her, the apology... It felt like a lifetime ago. He'd convinced himself that it was a step toward fixing things between them, but now? Now it felt like a damn mistake.
What if Hideyo had seen him? What if he'd noticed something? What if—
The photo.
His breath caught as his phone buzzed, breaking his spiral. It was an unknown number. He opened it, heart racing.
The picture was blurry at first, but it didn't take much to recognize the unmistakable angle—Hima's front door, with Katsuji walking up to it. The timestamp wasn't even recent. It was the exact day he'd gone to apologize.
A cold sweat ran down Katsuji's neck. He dropped the phone onto his bed, suddenly feeling like the walls were closing in. The knot in his stomach twisted tighter.
A week passed.
Katsuji had been doing his best to maintain a mask of normalcy, though paranoia clung to him like a second skin. Every time he saw Hideyo, even in passing, a tightness gripped his chest. He tried to play it cool — act natural, joke around with the boys when they hung out — but inside, the guilt gnawed at him.
Then, one evening, his phone buzzed.
Hideyo: Yo, where you at? Meet us at the arcade. We're waiting.
Katsuji stared at the screen for a moment, heart racing.
Katsuji: Sure man, on my way.
The arcade was loud and bustling with laughter, lights flashing from game machines and the sound of coins clinking into slots. Itaru and Setsuo were already there, engaged in a racing game, shouting and laughing like they used to back in the day. Katsuji joined in, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like old times — the four of them together again, like nothing had changed.
For a brief moment, he forgot the fear. He forgot the messages. The dread. The lies.
But eventually, they split up — Itaru and Setsuo heading their own way, leaving just Katsuji and Hideyo walking side by side down a dimly lit street. The silence between them was heavy. Uneasy.
Hideyo took a sip from a soda can, the fizz faint in the quiet, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar. He lit it calmly, the flame illuminating his face for a second.
Suddenly, Katsuji's anger broke free. "Yo, man," he snapped, his voice low and agitated, "that's your sixth cigar today—you're gonna kill yourself if you don't cut it out!"
Hideyo let out a sarcastic laugh, his eyes glinting with mischief mixed with menace. "Harm myself? I see you're interested—wondering if you even care about me."
Katsuji's expression darkened as he jabbed, "What do you mean, man?"
Hideyo turned to him, still puffing smoke, his expression unreadable. "You care about me… after backstabbing me and fucking my girl?"
The words hit like a gunshot.
Katsuji froze. His lips parted, but nothing came out at first.
"Wait, hey… hear me out, man. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"Sorry?" Hideyo spat, tossing the soda can to the ground. In a blink, his fist smashed across Katsuji's face, sending him stumbling back.
"You sorry fuckin' bastard," Hideyo growled. "Got a picture a week ago. Unknown number. You and Hima. Your hands all over her thighs… another one, you two walking into a motel."
Katsuji clutched his face, the pain blooming like fire.
"I… I can explain—"
"I guess you thought I was stupid," Hideyo snarled, grabbing Katsuji by the collar. "Doing shit behind my back… for how long, huh?"
Katsuji's voice trembled, blood running from his lip. "Almost… a year."
Hideyo's eye twitched as his laugh was bitter. "Huh—so you're telling me I'm the dumb one? That you and Hima have been screwing around for two years in our relationship?"
The next punch came faster than he could react. Then another. Katsuji tried to block, swinging wildly in return, but Hideyo's build gave him the upper hand. Each hit felt like a hammer. He couldn't keep up.
"I trusted you!" Hideyo roared, beating him down. "You were my fuckin' brother!"
In desperation, Katsuji's hand found a nearby brick — a leftover piece of rubble near the sidewalk. Without thinking, instinct taking over, he swung it.
A sickening crack echoed into the night.
Hideyo crumpled, collapsing like a puppet whose strings were cut. Blood poured from his skull, pooling onto the pavement. His body twitched once… then went still.
Katsuji staggered back, eyes wide, heart pounding in his throat. "No no no no no…"
He dropped to his knees, checking for breath. A pulse. Anything.
Nothing.
"Oh fuck…"
He looked around. No one. Just silence.
He ran.
All the way home, stumbling through back streets, heart thundering. He burst into the house.
"Katsuji!" his mother called from the kitchen. "Hey! No running indoors!"
But he didn't answer.
He shut his bedroom door, locked it, rushed to the bathroom. The blood wouldn't come off. He scrubbed his hands raw, tore off his clothes, shoved them into a trash bag, hidden deep in the closet.
Sitting on his bed, drenched in sweat, shaking — he bit at his nails, trying to think.
Trying to breathe.
What do I do?
His phone buzzed.
He flinched.
A new message. Unknown number.
That was a very beautiful display of sportsmanship. Really enjoyed the show. 🎬🍿
Katsuji stared, breath hitching.
At that moment, the weight of his guilt, terror, and realization crashed over him. Katsuji's resolve shattered. The message wasn't a compliment—it was a final taunt, a declaration that he was just another pawn in a sinister game orchestrated by someone who watched every move.
And as he stared at the screen, losing it completely in a fit of despair and rage, Katsuji knew that nothing would ever be the same again.