VOLUME #2 - EPISODE 5
[NARRATOR: You know that feeling when you think you've seen the weirdest thing possible, and then life says "hold my beer" and shows you something exponentially stranger? Welcome to Jeremy High, where we've already established that eating shoes is normal behavior. Today, we're adding socks to the menu. And trust me, it's going to get worse before it gets better. Spoiler alert: it doesn't get better.]
The Mystery Of The Bitten Socks
Tuesday morning began with Riyura Shiko discovering something deeply unsettling in his shoe locker. His socks—the ones he'd left there yesterday because he'd changed into gym shoes—had bite marks.
Not torn. Not ripped. Bitten. Like someone had carefully, methodically chewed through the fabric with human teeth.
"What the hell?" Riyura held up the decimated sock, his star-shaped yellow pupils wide with confusion. His purple hair caught the morning light streaming through the hallway windows, his crooked red bow tie somehow managing to be even more askew than usual, as if it too was disturbed by this discovery.
[RIYURA'S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: Okay. Deep breath. This is Jeremy High. Weird things happen here constantly. Yesterday, Principal Jeremy achieved flight via caffeine overdose. Last week, my brother tried to murder me. Bitten socks are, relatively speaking, not that strange. Relatively.]
He was trying to convince himself. It wasn't working.
Yakamira appeared beside him with his usual silent precision, silver hair perfectly arranged, white mask in place, pale gray eyes immediately assessing the situation with analytical focus.
"Your sock has been consumed," he observed flatly. "Thank you, Detective Obvious," Riyura muttered. "The question is who consumed it."
"Shoehead Gloveohiko," Yakamira said immediately. "He's the only documented footwear-eater in the school population. Probability: approximately 94.7%."
"Shoehead only eats shoes," Riyura said, though doubt crept into his voice. "He's very specific about his dietary habits. I've never seen him touch socks." "Perhaps he's expanding his palate." "That's the most disturbing sentence you've ever said. And you've said a lot of disturbing sentences."
They stood in contemplative silence, staring at the violated sock like it held secrets to the universe. Then Subarashī appeared, as he always did, with the subtlety of a natural disaster.
"WHAT'S WRONG?! WHY DO YOU BOTH LOOK LIKE YOU'VE WITNESSED A CRIME?!" "Someone ate Riyura's sock," Yakamira replied.
Subarashī's eyes went wide. "IMPOSSIBLE! There's only ONE footwear devourer in this school! Unless—" His voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. "—unless there's been an INVASION! A second predator has entered the ecosystem! THE BALANCE IS BROKEN!"
"That's exactly what I'm afraid of," Riyura said quietly.
[NARRATOR: Little did Riyura know, he was about to be proven horrifyingly correct. The foot-ecosystem was indeed broken. And the second predator was already here, hiding in the shadows, probably eating someone's gym socks right at this very moment.]
The Discovery Under The Staircase
Lunchtime found Riyura on a mission.
He'd discovered three more sock casualties throughout the morning—one in the classroom, one abandoned near the gym, and one that had apparently been stolen from someone's locker mid-class. The pattern was escalating. Disturbing. And very, very weird even by Jeremy High standards.
"This is like a detective show," Miyaka said, walking beside him with her phone out, recording everything. "Except instead of murder, it's sock consumption. Which is somehow more unsettling."
"Everything about this is unsettling," Riyura agreed, peering around corners like he was hunting a dangerous animal. "Who eats socks? Why eat socks? What nutritional value could possibly—"
He stopped. From somewhere beneath the eastern staircase came a sound. Chewing. Not the aggressive chewing of someone eating food. But careful, methodical, almost reverent chewing. Like someone savoring a delicacy.
Riyura's hand shot out, stopping Miyaka. He pointed silently toward the space under the stairs. They crept forward, their footsteps whisper-quiet on the linoleum floor. Riyura crouched down, peering into the darkness beneath the staircase. And froze.
There, illuminated by the dim light filtering through the stairs' gaps, sat a student.
He had blond, fuzzy hair that stuck up in all directions like he'd been electrocuted by static electricity and decided to make it his permanent aesthetic. His uniform was immaculate—pressed, clean, almost obsessively neat. His eyes were wide, bright, with a slightly manic quality that suggested either intense joy or complete psychological breakdown.
And in his hands, he held a sock. A white gym sock with blue stripes. He was eating it. Not nibbling. Not tasting. Devouring. Like it was the most delicious thing in the universe. Like it contained secrets. Like it was simultaneously food, comfort, and salvation wrapped in cotton fabric.
"Oh my cherry blossoms on a cooked stove of delicous home cooked bread," Miyaka whispered.
The kids head snapped up. His eyes—bright, feverish, slightly unhinged—locked onto Riyura's. They stared at each other for a long, horrible moment.
Then the kid smiled. Wide. Too wide. The smile of someone who'd been caught doing something forbidden and had decided to embrace the chaos rather than feel shame.
"Hello!" he said cheerfully, his voice carrying the manic energy of someone who'd consumed far too much sugar and not enough therapy. "You found me! I'm Smelly Socksiku! Well, not Smelly, that's just what people call me because I always smell like—" He sniffed his own sleeve. "—detergent and damp gyms! It's a curse! Or a blessing! I haven't decided yet!"
The Discovery Under The Staircase
Lunchtime found Riyura on a mission.
He'd discovered three more sock casualties throughout the morning—one in the bathroom, one abandoned near the gym, and one that had apparently been stolen from someone's locker mid-class. The pattern was escalating. Disturbing. And very, very weird even by Jeremy High standards.
"This is like a detective show," Miyaka said, walking beside him with her phone out, recording everything. "Except instead of murder, it's sock consumption. Which is somehow more unsettling."
"Everything about this is unsettling," Riyura agreed, peering around corners like he was hunting a dangerous animal. "Who eats socks? Why eat socks? What nutritional value could possibly—"
He stopped.
From somewhere beneath the eastern staircase came a sound.
Chewing.
Not the aggressive chewing of someone eating food. But careful, methodical, almost reverent chewing. Like someone savoring a delicacy.
Riyura's hand shot out, stopping Miyaka. He pointed silently toward the space under the stairs.
They crept forward, their footsteps whisper-quiet on the linoleum floor.
Riyura crouched down, peering into the darkness beneath the staircase.
And froze.
There, illuminated by the dim light filtering through the stairs' gaps, sat a boy.
He had blond, fuzzy hair that stuck up in all directions like he'd been electrocuted by static electricity and decided to make it his permanent aesthetic. His uniform was immaculate—pressed, clean, almost obsessively neat. His eyes were wide, bright, with a slightly manic quality that suggested either intense joy or complete psychological breakdown.
And in his hands, he held a sock.
A white gym sock with blue stripes.
He was eating it.
Not nibbling. Not tasting. Devouring. Like it was the most delicious thing in the universe. Like it contained secrets. Like it was simultaneously food, comfort, and salvation wrapped in cotton fabric.
"Oh my god," Miyaka whispered.
The boy's head snapped up. His eyes—bright, feverish, slightly unhinged—locked onto Riyura's.
They stared at each other for a long, horrible moment.
Then the boy smiled. Wide. Too wide. The smile of someone who'd been caught doing something forbidden and had decided to embrace the chaos rather than feel shame.
"Hello!" he said cheerfully, his voice carrying the manic energy of someone who'd consumed far too much sugar and not enough therapy. "You found me! I'm Smelly Socksiku! Well, not Smelly, that's just what people call me because I always smell like—" He sniffed his own sleeve. "—detergent and damp gyms! It's a curse! Or a blessing! I haven't decided yet!"
He held up the half-eaten sock like it was a trophy. "Want some?" "No," Riyura said immediately. "No, I absolutely do not want some."
[RIYURA'S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: Okay. New student. Eats socks. Has fuzzy blond hair. Smells like laundry. Is currently offering to share his sock. This is fine. Everything is fine. Nothing about this situation is fine.]
The Foot Ecosystem Theory
The cafeteria had been transformed into an emergency war room.
Riyura sat at the center table, surrounded by his entire friend group, with a whiteboard he'd borrowed from the science lab propped up against the wall. On it, he'd drawn an elaborate diagram that looked like something between a food chain and a conspiracy theory.
At the top: FOOTWEAR Branching down: SHOES and SOCKS Under SHOES: Shoehead's name, drawn in careful letters. Under SOCKS: A hastily added "SMELLY SOCKSIKU" with multiple question marks.
"Okay," Riyura said, pointing at the board with a ruler he'd found in his bag. "Let's establish the facts. We have two students at Jeremy High who consume footwear items. Shoehead eats shoes. Socksiku eats socks."
"This is already the weirdest sentence I've heard today," Cartoon Headayami said, making notes on his clipboard. "And I watched Principal Jeremy try to drink coffee through his ear this morning."
"Focus," Riyura said. "The problem is that shoes and socks are part of the same ecosystem. They exist together. They're worn together. They're stored together. Which means—"
"Which means having two predators in the same territory creates competition," Yakamira finished, his analytical mind immediately grasping the implications. "Territorial disputes. Resource conflicts. Potential violence."
"Exactly!" Riyura slapped the board. "We need to prevent this before it becomes a full-scale war." Shoehead, who'd been quietly eating a sneaker sole in the corner, looked up with an expression that could only be described as deeply offended.
"I don't have a problem with socks," he said, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of something dangerous. "Socks are fine. They exist. I acknowledge their existence."
"But?" Miyaka prompted.
"But if some sock-eating newcomer thinks he can just waltz into my school and start claiming my territory—" Shoehead's voice dropped to something cold, "—we're going to have issues."
"See?!" Riyura gestured frantically. "This is exactly what I'm talking about! We need to facilitate peace before—"
The cafeteria doors burst open. Smelly Socksiku entered like he was arriving at a party specifically thrown in his honor. His blond fuzzy hair somehow even more chaotic than before, his uniform still immaculate, his eyes bright with that manic energy that suggested he'd either discovered the meaning of life or was having a prolonged mental breakdown.
He was holding a sock. Different from earlier. This one looked expensive. Cashmere maybe. He was eating it with the dedication of a sommelier tasting fine wine.
Every student in the cafeteria turned to stare. Socksiku waved cheerfully, sock dangling from his mouth.
"Hi everyone! I'm the new transfer student! Smelly Socksiku! I like long walks, clean laundry, and—" He paused, taking another bite of the sock, "—textiles with emotional resonance! Let's be friends!"
Shoehead stood slowly. The sneaker sole fell from his hand and hit the floor with a sound like a judge's gavel. The air in the cafeteria changed. Became heavy. Electric. Like the moment before a storm breaks.
"Oh no," Riyura whispered.
[NARRATOR: You know that feeling when you're watching a nature documentary and two predators spot each other across a watering hole? Yeah. This was exactly like that. Except instead of lions and hyenas, it was teenagers who ate footwear. Which is somehow more stranger.]
The Meeting That Went Horribly Wrong
Against Riyura's better judgment—which, to be fair, had been ignored so many times at Jeremy High it had basically given up and moved away—he'd agreed to facilitate a "friendship meeting" between Shoehead and Socksiku.
The meeting took place in an empty classroom after school, with the winter sun casting long shadows through the windows, painting everything in shades of orange and gold that would've been beautiful if the atmosphere wasn't thick enough to cut with a knife.
Shoehead sat on one side of the room, arms crossed, expression blank but eyes burning with barely contained territorial rage.
Socksiku sat on the other side, twitching slightly, a sock tucked into his jacket pocket like a security blanket, his cheerful demeanor not quite hiding the manic edge underneath.
Between them stood Riyura, looking like a mediator at the world's most bizarre peace negotiation.
Miyaka sat in the corner with her phone, recording. "For posterity," she'd said. "And also because this is definitely going to go horribly wrong and I want documentation."
"Okay!" Riyura clapped his hands together, forcing brightness into his voice. "Let's start with introductions! Shoehead, why don't you tell Socksiku about yourself?"
Shoehead's jaw tightened. "My name is Shoehead Gloveohiko. I eat shoes. I've eaten shoes for years. Shoes are superior footwear items with complex flavor profiles, structural integrity, and historical significance."
He paused, his eyes never leaving Socksiku.
"I am the only footwear consumer at Jeremy High. Or at least, I was."
Socksiku smiled wider. "Hi Shoehead! I'm Smelly Socksiku! I eat socks! Socks are tender, emotionally complex." His voice took on an edge. "They're clearly superior to shoes, which are just rigid prisons that trap your mouth in leather tasting dungeons."
The temperature in the room dropped approximately twenty degrees.
"Excuse me?" Shoehead's voice was dangerously quiet.
"You heard me, you shoe-chewing goblin," Socksiku said, his cheerful tone not matching his words at all. "Shoes are overrated. They're tough, flavorless, and lack emotional depth. Socks are shiny, life. They're amazing in ways shoes could never be. The most delicous food around."
DELICOUS?!" Shoehead stood abruptly. "Shoes carry people through their LIVES! They walk through history! They TASTE nice! They MATTER! Socks are just—just—FOOT SCARFS!"
"FOOT SCARFS?!" Socksiku shot to his feet, twitching intensified. "At least socks don't require an HOUR OF CHEWING to break down! At least socks don't taste like LEATHER AND REGRET!"
"SHOES HAVE MORE FLAVORS!" Shoehead shouted. "Leather! Rubber! Canvas! Each material tells a STORY!"
"SOCKS HAVE EMOTIONAL COMPLEXITY!" Socksiku shouted back. "Cotton! Wool! Anything the world desires is based on socks alone!"
They were nose to nose now, both trembling with rage, years of unspoken footwear philosophy erupting into this single, terrible moment. Riyura tried to step between them. "Guys, please, this isn't—" "Shoes," Shoehead hissed, "are superior in EVERY MEASURABLE WAY—" "Socks," Socksiku snarled, "contain the SOULS of their eaters—"
Then they snapped.
The Courtyard Battle
What followed was pure chaos.
Shoehead grabbed Socksiku by the collar. Socksiku grabbed Shoehead's hair. They crashed through the classroom door, stumbling into the hallway, knocking over a trash can, sending papers flying like confused birds.
"GUYS, STOP!" Riyura chased after them. "This isn't solving anything!" They didn't listen.
The fight spilled into the school courtyard, where—through cosmic coincidence or terrible luck—the lost-and-found box sat overflowing with confiscated footwear items.
Shoes. Socks. Boots. Slippers. An entire treasure trove of foot-related items. Both kids' eyes lit up simultaneously. Then they dove. Shoehead grabbed a running shoe, took a massive bite, and threw the rest at Socksiku like a weapon. "TASTE DEFEAT! RUBBER EDITION!"
Socksiku caught a wool sock, stuffed half of it in his mouth, and whipped the remainder at Shoehead's face. "ABSORB THIS! WINTER BLEND!" Students fled the courtyard like civilians evacuating a disaster zone. "This is insane!" Miyaka shouted over the chaos, still filming. "They're using footwear as WEAPONS and FOOD!"
"I TRIED TO WARN EVERYONE!" Riyura shouted back.
Yakamira appeared beside them, watching the carnage with his usual analytical detachment. "Fascinating. They've developed a hybrid combat style that combines consumption and violence. It's efficient, if deeply disturbing."
"NOW IS NOT THE TIME FOR ANALYSIS!"
The battle raged on. Shoehead and Socksiku were evenly matched—both driven by years of footwear obsession, both equally unhinged, both absolutely refusing to back down.
Then Socksiku said something that changed everything.
The Trauma Beneath The Madness
Mid-battle, as Socksiku threw a particularly aggressive sock at Shoehead's face, he screamed: "YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! SOCKS WERE ALL I HAD!"
Shoehead paused, a boot halfway to his mouth.
"THEY WERE THE ONLY THINGS THAT DIDN'T LEAVE!" Socksiku's voice broke, his manic energy fracturing into something raw and painful. "The only things that didn't HURT ME! That didn't PUNISH ME for existing!"
He collapsed to his knees, clutching a sock to himself, his whole body shaking.
"My parents—" His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "My parents made cleanliness a religion. Our house was pristine. Perfect. You couldn't touch anything. Couldn't play. Couldn't be a child. If I got dirty, if I left fingerprints, if I existed too loudly—they'd punish me."
Tears streamed down his face, mixing with dirt and sock fibers.
"Locked in my room for hours. Sometimes days. Just me and the walls and the suffocating smell of bleach seeping under the door. The only soft things I had were socks. Hidden in my draws. Soft. Quiet. Safe."
Riyura felt his heart breaking.
"When I was eleven, everything fell apart. My parents divorced. Fought over who didn't want custody of me. Both claiming I was 'too difficult.' 'Too problematic.' Like I was a stain they couldn't clean."
Socksiku laughed—a broken, hollow sound.
"I had a breakdown. Violent. Screaming. Breaking things. And after—after the rage passed—I was alone in my room with nothing but my socks. And I thought—" His voice broke completely. "I thought if I absorbed them, if I made them part of me, they couldn't leave. Their warmth. Their memories. Everything good about them would stay inside me forever."
He looked up at Shoehead, his eyes red and desperate. "So I ate one. And then another. And another. Until it became the only way I knew how to feel safe. The only way to keep things from abandoning me."
The courtyard was silent except for Socksiku's ragged breathing. Shoehead stood perfectly still, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he set down the boot he'd been holding.
"I—" Shoehead started, his voice rough. "I understand more than you think."
[NARRATOR: This is the moment. The moment where understanding could bridge the gap. Where shared trauma could create connection instead of competition. Where two broken people could recognize each other's pain and choose compassion over conflict.]
But trauma doesn't heal that easily. When Understanding Isn't Enough Socksiku's face twisted—not with rage, but with panic. "No," he whispered. "No, you don't understand. Nobody understands. Understanding means getting close. Getting close means—"
His breathing accelerated, becoming rapid and shallow.
"—means people see the real me. The broken me. The me that's wrong. And when they see that, they LEAVE!" He scrambled backward, grabbing socks frantically, stuffing them in his pockets, his jacket, anywhere he could hide them.
"Everyone leaves! Parents leave! Friends leave! Things that don't abandon you are THINGS! Objects! Socks that can't judge you for being—for being—"
"For being traumatized?" Riyura stepped forward carefully, his voice gentle. "For coping the only way you knew how?" "For being BROKEN!" Socksiku screamed. "For being so fundamentally wrong that even fabric is better company than me!"
He stood abruptly, his manic energy returning but twisted now, darker, fueled by panic rather than cheer.
"Stay away from me!" He grabbed a handful of socks from the lost-and-found, clutching them like weapons or shields or both. "All of you! I don't need friends! I don't need understanding! I have my socks! They're enough! They have to be enough because—because—"
His voice broke. "—because I don't know how to be a person anymore." Then he ran. Straight through the courtyard gates, disappearing into the winter afternoon, leaving a trail of dropped socks behind him like breadcrumbs of trauma.
Shoehead stood in the wreckage of the lost-and-found box, surrounded by scattered footwear, his expression something between understanding and helplessness.
"He's going to hurt himself," Shoehead said quietly. "Not physically. But emotionally. He's going to isolate until there's nothing left." "Like you almost did," Miyaka said softly.
"Yeah." Shoehead picked up a single sock from the ground—white with blue stripes, the same kind Socksiku had been eating under the staircase. "Like I almost did."
Riyura stared at the gates where Socksiku had disappeared, feeling the weight of failure settle on his shoulders like a heavy coat.
[RIYURA'S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: I tried to help. I tried to bring them together. I tried to use friendship as a solution to trauma that runs deeper than any conversation could reach. And I failed. Not because I didn't care. But because caring isn't always enough. Some wounds don't heal just because someone notices them. Some pain is so deep that reaching for it only makes the person recoil further into darkness.]
"What do we do?" Miyaka asked, her voice small. "I don't know," Riyura admitted, and the words felt like defeat. "I honestly don't know." Yakamira placed a hand on his brother's shoulder—a gesture that three weeks ago would've been impossible, but now felt natural.
"You can't save everyone," Yakamira said quietly. "Sometimes people need to save themselves first. Before anyone else can help." "But what if he can't?" Riyura's voice broke. "What if he's so lost in his trauma that he never finds his way out?"
"Then we wait," Shoehead said, still holding that single sock. "We wait. And we make sure that when he's ready—if he's ever ready—we're here. Not to fix him. Not to force friendship. Just... here."
The winter sun was setting now, painting the scattered footwear in shades of orange and purple, making the abandoned battlefield look almost beautiful in its chaos.
Somewhere in the distance, Smelly Socksiku ran through empty streets, clutching socks and crying, trapped in a prison of his own making, desperately trying to absorb warmth from fabric because he'd forgotten how to accept it from people.
And at Jeremy High, a group of friends stood in silence, learning that sometimes the kindest thing you can do is acknowledge that your help has limits.
That some darkness needs to be faced alone before it can be shared.
[NARRATOR: This isn't a happy ending. This isn't even a satisfying middle. This is reality—messy, painful, and incomplete. Socksiku's story doesn't resolve today. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not for a long time. And Riyura, for the first time, has to accept that his sunshine personality and genuine kindness aren't magical cures for trauma this deep. It's a hard lesson. The kind that stays with you. The kind that changes how you see the world. Welcome to Volume 2 new character, folks. Where things get darker before they get better. If they get better at all. As the journey shall continue.]
TO BE CONTINUED...