I tore my eyes from the frog's mangled corpse and pressed a hand over my mouth. The stench and sight together nearly made me vomit.
No shit they were bullying you! What the hell is wrong with this kid?! I screamed inwardly. By now, I was certain — this kid wasn't normal.
Forcing my lips upward, I managed a crooked smile. "Hey, we all have our… hobbies, right?" My voice cracked awkwardly.
Haruki's eyes lit up like lanterns in the dark, his face glowing as if I had just validated his entire existence.
"My dream is to be a surgeon," he said with unnerving passion. "Because I love blood. And I want to save people. That's why I practice on animals."
His words spilled out with a frightening amount of sincerity.
I nodded stiffly. "That's… cool."
Internally, I was screaming.
What do you mean 'I love blood'?! That's not normal, that's a horror movie stuff!
Before I could make an excuse to leave, Haruki tugged on my sleeve, his eyes brimming with expectation. "Excuse me, sir. Can I thank you properly? My house isn't far away. I can offer you some tea and maybe even snacks."
The smile he gave me was genuine — too genuine.
I scrambled for a way out. "Sorry, kid. I've gotta head home. But tomorrow, I'll be free right after school."
His smile faltered, sinking into something smaller, almost wounded. "…Okay. Well, see you tomorrow."
He rose to his feet, brushed the dust from his uniform, and walked toward the end of the alleyway. Just before stepping out into the light, he turned back. His face carried that same bright smile, and he waved goodbye.
I exhaled a shaky breath, my eyes returning to the bloodied frog. The sight twisted my stomach.
That kid is creepy as hell. The way he said he 'loves blood'… yeah, tomorrow I'll show up for tea, then ghost him forever. Simple plan.
Fishing my phone from my pocket, I checked the time. "It's getting late," I muttered. My chest tightened at the thought of home. "Mom's coming back tomorrow… from the psychiatric hospital."
I sighed.
The alley spat me back into the busy streets, where car horns and laughter washed away the stench of blood.
By the time I reached the house, the sun was already sagging toward the horizon. It wasn't much — a medium-sized home, worn but standing. I dug through my bag, found the key, and turned the lock.
The door creaked open to reveal chaos. Piles of clothes, empty takeout boxes, trash bags that should have been thrown out weeks ago. It wasn't a home so much as a graveyard of neglect.
On the wall, a lone shelf held a picture frame. A younger me, smiling. My mother beside me, looking happier than she ever really was. The photo was a lie, but sometimes lies are easier to look at than truths.
I slipped out of my wrinkled uniform and tossed it into the closet upstairs. In its place, a plain white T-shirt and gray pajama bottoms. Then, I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.
Hours later, the house was unrecognizable. Trash bagged, floors scrubbed, shelves wiped. The air smelled faintly of soap instead of stale sweat.
Collapsing onto the brown sofa, I glanced at the steaming omelet on the table. My chest rose and fell, lungs aching from the effort.
"Finally… done." I stretched my arms wide, exhaustion soaking every word.
The house was clean. Squeaky clean. For once.
A grin tugged at my lips. "Dinner time!"
The first bite hit harder than expected. Flavor bloomed across my tongue, warm and simple. Tears blurred my vision before I realized they were there, sliding silently down my face.
When was the last time I cooked a real meal for myself?
I chuckled bitterly, wiping at my eyes. "Guess I really am a cook."
After finishing, I checked my phone. The time jolted me. "Damn, it's late. Better crash before I regret it."
Dish in the washer, I trudged upstairs and collapsed onto my bed. Too tired to close the door, I lay staring at the ceiling. The silence was heavy, pressing against my chest until sleep finally claimed me.
The Next Morning
The alarm shrieked. My hand slapped at it, silencing the noise.
I cracked open an eye — and froze. 8:15 a.m.
My usual alarm was set for 8:00. Fifteen minutes gone. Which left me fifteen minutes before class started.
Panic snapped through me. I groaned. "Just my damn luck."
The next minutes blurred together. Fastest shower of my life. A brush of the teeth that probably left half of breakfast behind. Wrinkled uniform dragged onto my body like armor. Toast clamped between my teeth as I bolted out the door.
Halfway through the alley, I glanced instinctively at the spot where the frog's corpse had been.
It was gone.
A shiver prickled my spine. Don't think about it.
I did.
By the time I reached the school, the gates were closing. I threw myself forward, barely squeezing through before they clanged shut.
The worker stationed at the gate looked at me with weary familiarity. "Couldn't you make an effort to come earlier, Natsuo?"
"Sorry. I'll be early next time," I lied through my teeth, rushing past him.
The second floor. Classroom 2-A. My least favorite place in the world.
I stopped at the door, groaning under my breath. God damn it. Chemistry.
The door slid open. Thirty pairs of eyes turned my way. And at the front stood him — middle-aged, round glasses, dark green hair that matched his unsettling vibe.
Mr. Tomodachi.
"You're late. Again." His voice was sharp, laced with the annoyance of repetition.
The class chuckled. Not at me, but at the prospect of what came next.
I forced an awkward smile. "Sorry, sir. Won't happen again."
He pushed his glasses up with a single finger, a motion so deliberate it felt rehearsed. "It better not." His monotone carried no inflection, no warmth.
And as his gaze lingered, I felt it again — that same gnawing unease.
Chemistry wasn't the problem.
He was.