"You aren't," Mr. Stitched counters with a smirk, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it in one swift motion. "You won't mind wasting a few hours, will you? You'll get there soon enough."
The room they step into resembles a modern hospital—a sterile white space filled with mismatched chairs and scattered vials.
Some of the chemicals in the vials look like combinations that shouldn't even exist together, the kind that could easily cause trouble in the wrong hands.
Mr. Stitched drops into a chair by a desk piled high with disorganized papers, giving the impression of a dean's cluttered workspace. He leans back and exhales a cloud of smoke that hangs heavily in the air.
"Do they all forget they have work?" Ryuji wonders, coughing slightly at the acrid smell. His irritation leaks through as he mutters, "You're a teacher, and you're smoking?"
"And you're a student who tried to kill a teacher," Mr. Stitched fires back smoothly, his sharp eyes betraying nothing.
Realistically, Ryuji would have the upper hand in a fight—his strength and skill alone make that clear. But Mr. Stitched doesn't seem concerned.
As he pulls a file from the towering stack of papers on his desk, he says with calm certainty, "When you've dealt with enough people with similar characteristics, their actions become predictable—like reading an open book. So, tell me, Ryuji... what kind of broken vase are you?"
Ryuji stiffens but says nothing. The silence is heavy, almost oppressive, until Mr. Stitched flips open the file.
"Let's see... Statistics say you've spent time in the city—"
"Many things happened," Ryuji interrupts, his voice lower now, almost distant. "But my father showed me the way. Have I told you of his brilliance?"
"No," Mr. Stitched replies, taking a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling lazily upward.
"But I get it. One of the highest-ranking heads. Owner of an entire city. If there's a ranking system, you've got a solid place at the top."
"Definitely," Ryuji replies, this time smiling genuinely.
"Good. Give me your hand. I'll ask a few questions, then you can wander around here until the assembly starts. After that, you're free to do whatever you want," Mr. Stitched says, his tone steady, calculated.
"No," Ryuji replies flatly.
Reserved. Extremely so. He's guarded, shielding himself from something—what, I wonder? I should have a word with that Marquis boy. He seems more at ease with Ryuji. Mr. Stitched makes a mental note, his thoughts weaving through the layers of the boy before him.
"I'm not trying to trick you," Mr. Stitched presses, his voice almost soothing, but his sharp eyes betray his ceaseless analysis.
"And no, you're not getting your katana back." He nudges the hilt under his desk with his foot, the faint metallic hiss cutting through the air like a provocation.
"Stop," Ryuji snaps, his tone sharpening.
A reaction. Interesting. The sword holds more value to him than a person? Why? Mr. Stitched tilts his head, observing the boy's body language.
"I heard Marquis got into a fight. He almost died," he says, testing the waters.
Ryuji's eyes grow dull, his expression unreadable. No reaction. He doesn't care. The sword is more than an object to him—it's his anchor. His fixation. One of them, at least.
"How strong is your father?" Mr. Stitched finally asks, reaching under the desk and pulling out Ryuji's katana. He holds it by the hilt, but doesn't entirely relinquish control as he offers it back to the boy. "Take it."
Ryuji hesitates, then grips the other end. His strength is palpable, pulling the katana toward him—but Mr. Stitched doesn't let go. Instead, he forces the blade forward, catching Ryuji off guard. The boy staggers, his chair toppling over as he falls to the ground with a loud thud.
Mr. Stitched leans back, still holding the katana loosely. His mind races. Kokoro—the boy's father—warned the school about his son's unpredictability. He called it his own failing, claiming he let Ryuji indulge in violence because the boy demanded it. But why? What was Ryuji trying to prove? Was this about power? Control? Or something deeper?
Ryuji lies on the ground, unmoving, his expression distant. He's not angry. He's thinking. Pondering. About what? Mr. Stitched watches closely, taking a drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out and reaching for the water bottle on his desk.
"Mr. Stitched," Ryuji says suddenly, his voice calm, still lying on the ground.
"Yes?" Mr. Stitched replies, tilting his head slightly.
"What would happen if someone met the Beast? A creature shrouded in darkness, arrogant enough to believe it resides within my father. Within everyone."
Mr. Stitched pauses, the question lingering in the air like smoke. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his sharp eyes scanning the boy for any hint of emotion. Ryuji's tone is detached, but the weight of his words suggests something deeply personal.
The boy speaks in riddles. Typical for someone like him—guarded, fragmented, searching for answers in the abstract. Mr. Stitched considers his next words carefully. "You're talking about darkness, aren't you?" he says, settling back into his chair.
Usually, Mr. Stitched's attachment skill functions best with consent—without it, its effectiveness diminishes significantly. In certain cases, he can use objects, like weapons, to trace faint echoes of emotions, insecurities, and fears tied to their owner. However, this method is far less reliable, offering only fragmented impressions. True clarity comes only when someone willingly opens up to him, granting full access to the tangled web of their psyche.
"You're a troublesome boy, Ryuji," Mr. Stitched says finally, taking another sip of water. "But I suppose that's what makes you interesting."
"You didn't answer my question," Ryuji presses, his voice sharper this time.
"In that situation? The best option is to run," Mr. Stitched replies slowly, each word deliberate. "A child like you can't fight something like that."
"What if it says it'll come for everyone?" Ryuji repeats, his tone unwavering, the question carrying an almost accusatory weight.
Ah, I see now. Mr. Stitched leans back in his chair, letting the silence stretch. You're not asking about a beast—you're asking about yourself. I can't blame you. Growing up in an environment like yours, where basic ideals were either neglected or overshadowed by... twisted devotion. A mortal worshipping a god. That's what you see your father as, isn't it? Kokoro—what did he teach you? What did he tell you to shape you into this?
"Ryuji," Mr. Stitched says suddenly, interrupting his own thoughts. "Do you have a title skill?"
The question hangs in the air, its weight unmistakable. A first-year with a title skill? Unheard of. Even if they managed to unlock one, it would likely be impractical at this stage. But if he does have one, it'll reveal much about him—what he's done, what he's become. That's where I'll begin. Then I'll peel back the layers, question his upbringing.
"I do," Ryuji says at last, standing up slowly. "Three-Man-Slayer."
Mr. Stitched freezes for a fraction of a second, though his expression betrays nothing. First of all, that's surprising. Second of all... he's killed. He's sunk deeper than I thought. Maybe not entirely, but enough to believe he's beyond redemption.
"What a kid," Mr. Stitched mutters, almost to himself. His tone is half bemused, half resigned, as he stares at the boy before him—a boy who carries too much weight for his years.
"Ryuji," Mr. Stitched begins, leaning forward slightly, his tone measured. "Let's make a deal. If you can lift the katana, you'll explain something to me—why katanas, why you cling to them."
"I gain nothing from this," Ryuji mutters, his voice laced with frustration.
"You do. Realization." Mr. Stitched exhales, tapping his fingers on the desk. "Do you even understand what your katana requires of you? Why you use it?"
Ryuji's jaw tightens. "I know everything about my katana. Its hilt—the left side has a slight dent. The sharpness of the blade is dulling, almost blunt. The curvature of its sheath is wearing down, decaying from constant blood spills. The evidence is clear—I know my katana better than anyone." His words tumble out in a torrent, proof of his intimate familiarity with the weapon.
"I'm not talking about the physical," Mr. Stitched replies, sighing as he leans back in his chair. "I'm asking why you use it. What does it mean to you?"
"I…" Ryuji starts, but his voice falters. His gaze drops, his expression darkening. The question digs into him, forcing him to confront something he had buried deep. After a long pause, his voice goes dark. "My katana… it's the only thing sinking with me. Every swing—it feels heavier, darker. Like we're both drowning, and there's no way back."
Mr. Stitched freezes for a moment, taken aback by the raw honesty in Ryuji's words. Unexpectedly, tears well in his eyes, and he reaches out, gently touching Ryuji's face. "How… how…" he murmurs, wiping away the tears that betray his usually composed demeanor.
In a normal person, when I use my attachment skill, I pick up emotions—fear mixed with sadness, anger, guilt. It's usually straightforward. Those feelings act like anchors, clues to guide the treatment. But with Ryuji… nothing. No fear. No sadness. Yet, he's undeniably broken. A vase shattered into jagged pieces. No outward insecurity, yet his fear of corruption is palpable. No sadness—only… laughter.
As the thought settles, Ryuji's lips curl into a grin, and then it comes—a harsh, chaotic laugh that echoes through the room. "Hahaha… AHAHAHA! It's funny, Mr. Stitched," Ryuji says between bursts of laughter, his tone sharp and unsettling. "I just remembered something very, very funny."
Mr. Stitched narrows his eyes. "What is it?"
Ryuji's grin twists into something darker. "Your head on the floor. That'd be funny, wouldn't it? My problems would disappear the moment you disappear."
"Ryuji…" Mr. Stitched says cautiously, his voice lowering.
"Millions die every day, don't they?" Ryuji continues, his tone cold, detached. "Natural causes, murders, accidents. If a mediocre med-lab teacher like you dies, there will be grief, sure. But will grief visit me tomorrow? Yes. Will my problems? No."
Mr. Stitched takes a deep breath, trying to gauge the boy in front of him. "You think natural death is a sin? And you trying to kill me isn't one? Would you kill your father too, if it came to that?"
Ryuji's response comes without hesitation. "Yes. If he sinned, I'd kill him too."
The room falls silent. Mr. Stitched stares at Ryuji, stunned, trying to process the boy's chilling certainty. This isn't an ordinary broken vase, he thinks. This one's encrusted with diamonds and gold—a masterpiece fractured beyond recognition.
Finally, Mr. Stitched exhales, his composure returning. "Ryuji, from now on, I want you to focus on one thing. Find out what the badge means—the school badge. And then ask yourself: who is the real enemy?"
"What badge? What enemy?" Ryuji asks, his voice carrying both suspicion and curiosity.
Before Mr. Stitched can answer, the door creaks open, signaling the start of the first-year assembly. Mr. Stitched gestures toward the door. "Now go. You're free to leave."
Ryuji hesitates for a moment. Then, slowly, he stands and raises his katana into the air. For a brief second, the blade hovers, its edge dangerously close to Mr. Stitched's exposed neck. The psychiatrist's eyes remain steady, unflinching.
And then the katana falls—hard—onto the desk with a resounding slam.
Mr. Stitched reacts immediately, his hand shooting out to grab Ryuji by the collar. With a practiced motion, he forces the boy to the ground, holding him there for a moment.
Ryuji dusts himself off as he stands, unfazed. "Bye," he says simply, his tone eerily casual as he leaves the room.