The Krusty Krab was shuttered.
For the second time in recent memory, its greasy windows were dark, the grease traps unplugged, and the smell of overcooked patties absent from the water around Bikini Bottom's busiest corner.
Yellow police tape flapped lazily in the tide. A charred spatula lay near the smoking ruins of the grill.
And Squidward Tentacles was furloughed.
He sat alone in his living room, hunched over, clarinet in hand. It moaned softly as he played—long, mournful notes with too much vibrato and too little conviction.
A deep, awful silence clung to the corners of his house.
He stopped playing.
Set the instrument down on the coffee table.
Stared at nothing.
Yesterday still played in his mind. Over and over.
SpongeBob had snapped.
A massacre. Or at least an attempt.
The gun. The fire in his eyes. The smell of blood.
Squidward had begged him to stop. Pleaded with him. And in that moment of desperation, he had come clean. Told SpongeBob the truth. That he had been the original killer. That he had started this nightmare.
That he'd written names.
That he'd played god.
He expected SpongeBob to kill him on the spot, and he tried. Neptune intervened through,
From the king of the sea's trident, a frost beam. Then, a scream. And then SpongeBob was gone. Captured.
Taken to some deep, cold cell beneath the sea palace. A dungeon.
Rotting.
Because of him.
"You're sulking."
The voice slid like oil across his brain.
Lurala was sprawled on his ceiling, upside-down and yawning, like she'd just woken from a luxurious nap in hell.
"I'm thinking," Squidward said flatly.
"You're rotting," she corrected. "Your friend is in prison. The KK is in ruins. You've got nothing left but your little stick and your guilt."
She twirled in the water and floated beside him, close enough for her hair to brush against his tentacles.
"But I can fix that," she whispered. "You just have to pick a name."
Squidward didn't look at her.
"I'm not killing SpongeBob," he said.
"I didn't say you had to. But what's a little mercy kill between friends?"
"No."
She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Then kill Neptune. Squish him like a sardine. Break SpongeBob out. You get your co-worker back and I get a story worth watching again."
"No!"
Squidward stood up suddenly, his fists clenched. "No more killing. No more plans. No more being your little puppet, floating in here with your tail waving around like you're a mermaid on a magazine cover."
Lurala blinked slowly.
Then smirked.
"You're boring," she said, and vanished through the ceiling like a phantom jellyfish.
The house was too quiet now.
Squidward sat back down and picked up the clarinet again.
He tried to play. A scale. A slow arpeggio.
But each note fell flat. Off-pitch. Hollow.
He sighed.
And looked out the window.
SpongeBob's pineapple sat in eerie silence. No giggles. No foghorn alarm. No sponge-shaped silhouettes dancing in the windows.
And next door—where Patrick's rock used to be—there was just a patch of dead grass.
Gone.
Both of them.
He stared for a long time.
How strange.
He missed them.
Their idiocy. Their shrieking. Their chaos.
He missed SpongeBob's annoying optimism. Patrick's belly flops onto the front lawn. The thump of jellyfish nets hitting coral.
It had all been so grating. So miserable.
But now that it was gone... it was worse.
The silence was worse.
He placed the clarinet back on the table and stood. Walked slowly to the window.
And stared.
Would it be so bad?
Just to open it?
Just to climb?
The top of his house wasn't that high. But maybe the fall would be enough. Or maybe he'd just lie there, like the failure he was, and let the world forget him.
Would that make things right?
Would that make the names disappear from the pages?
Would that bring SpongeBob back from the dungeon?
He stood there for a long time.
Eyes closed.
Tentacles limp.
But then something ugly and familiar rose in his chest.
Pride.
No.
That wasn't justice. That wasn't redemption. That was cowardice.
Killing himself wouldn't undo the deaths. It wouldn't erase the note. It wouldn't pay for anything.
And—he hated to admit it—it wouldn't stop the quiet.
There was only one thing that had ever made him feel something again.
Only one thing that had brought him a moment of control.
A moment of power.
A moment of... peace.
His eyes opened.
He turned slowly toward the desk.
The black leather cover sat untouched. The Death Note.
Waiting.
Squidward walked toward it.
Pulled out a chair.
Sat down.
He opened the cover. The pages fluttered. A faint glow pulsed from inside. The ink remembered him.
He picked up the pen.
And exhaled.
If the world wanted a villain, it would have one.
He would not die in shame.
He would not fade.
He would write.