Kaito staggered against the bloodstained wall, clutching at his chest as his knees threatened to give out. The hallway stretched endlessly before him, but he couldn't move. Not yet.
His mind refused to comprehend the horror laid bare before him.
His mother's lifeless eyes stared past him, wide and empty, lips slightly parted as if she'd tried to call his name one last time. Riku's tiny frame was twisted unnaturally on the floor, limbs sprawled like a discarded toy. His throat had been slit. The blood had dried into a sticky maroon puddle.
And Aiko—
Kaito's legs gave out. He dropped to his knees, a broken breath caught in his throat. His little sister still clutched her favorite doll, her arms frozen mid-embrace. A hole marked her forehead—neat, clean, deliberate. A bullet. Executed like an object.
His body trembled violently, the stench of iron choking his senses. Blood stained the walls, soaked into the floorboards, smeared like a twisted mural of cruelty. The house—the one filled with laughter only hours ago—was now a tomb. A slaughterhouse.
This wasn't a dream.
This was real.
"Why…" Kaito's voice cracked, barely louder than a whisper. "Why them? Why—?"
A floorboard creaked.
He froze.
His breath hitched, heart hammering in his chest like it was trying to escape his ribs. He turned, slow and stiff, like a rusted machine. And there he stood.
The man in black.
The assassin.
Tall, imposing, draped in a sleek black overcoat that seemed to swallow light. His face was expressionless. Cold. His eyes—two voids—met Kaito's and pierced straight through him.
On the glove of his right hand shimmered a silver insignia: a star, jagged and cruel, etched into leather like a brand of death.
"You weren't supposed to survive," the assassin murmured, voice devoid of emotion. He tilted his head. "Mistakes happen."
Kaito's mouth went dry. His limbs screamed at him to move, but his body was frozen in place, paralyzed by fear. He took a step back. His foot slipped in blood.
The assassin raised his gun.
Kaito dove left.
Bang.
Pain exploded in his shoulder. The force knocked him into the wall. He slid down, gasping, his vision spinning. Heat radiated from the wound. Blood poured down his arm, pooling beneath him.
He had to run.
He had to run.
He forced himself up, stumbling down the hallway, cradling his bleeding arm. His entire body felt like a weight dragging him to hell, but he pushed forward. Every step was agony. Every breath was fire.
The front door.
He reached it.
He twisted the knob—
Locked.
"No—No no no no!" Kaito cried, slamming his shoulder into the wood. The pain brought stars to his vision. He kicked it. Slammed his fists. Nothing. Still locked. Still trapped.
Behind him, footsteps echoed—measured, slow, deliberate.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Terror gripped him like a noose.
He turned and sprinted into the kitchen. The tiles were slick with blood. His socks slipped, but he caught himself on the counter. His hand fumbled until it found the handle of a kitchen knife. It felt too heavy. His fingers trembled.
The door creaked open behind him.
He turned.
The assassin stepped into the room like a shadow taking form. "You're delaying the inevitable."
"Shut up!" Kaito screamed. "Why… why are you doing this?!"
No answer.
Kaito lunged, slashing. Wild. Desperate.
The assassin caught his wrist mid-air.
Crack.
Kaito's scream shattered the silence as his arm snapped backwards with a sickening crunch. The knife clattered to the floor. His legs buckled.
He didn't fall.
The assassin threw him—his body crashed into the cabinets, splinters and shattered glass raining down around him. His breath was knocked clean from his lungs. Blood spilled from his mouth.
"You saw too much," the assassin said, advancing.
Kaito crawled. One hand, one leg, dragging himself across the blood-slick tiles.
A boot pressed against his spine, pinning him.
"You know what we are now," the man said. "We can't allow that."
His boot pressed harder.
"You don't get to scream," he whispered. "You don't get to beg. You die here."
Knock.
A sharp, thunderous knock came from the front door.
The assassin paused.
Another knock—louder, more urgent.
Kaito's heart surged. Someone's here. Someone was here.
The pressure on his back lifted.
Now.
Now.
Kaito turned and slammed his shoulder into the assassin's leg. The man stumbled.
Kaito ran.
Every nerve screamed in agony, but he ran. He burst through the back door and into the dying daylight. The sky bled orange. The wind hit his face like ice.
Freedom.
The backyard gate.
He ran for it.
His hand found the latch.
Click.
Bang.
A sharp, blinding pain tore through his back. The force knocked him forward. He collapsed onto the cold earth, gasping, choking on blood. His hands clawed the dirt.
Footsteps followed.
Slow.
Measured.
"You should've died inside," the assassin muttered. "This… was mercy."
Kaito's vision dimmed. The world swam in crimson. His heartbeat was a distant drum, slowing. Fading.
One name clawed its way to the front of his mind.
Sayuri.
His lips moved. Her name fell out like a final prayer.
The assassin raised the gun.
Bang.
Everything went black.