VOLUME #4 - EPISODE 1
[CONTENT WARNING: MA17+]
[NARRATOR: Some people perform for applause. Some people perform to escape themselves. And some people perform so well that nobody notices they're dying inside until it's too late. Meet Joyū Kanashī—talented actor, transfer student, and the student who reads his own death threats like morning affirmations. Today, he arrives at Jeremy High. Today, Riyura Shiko—still grieving, still broken, still trying to help everyone except himself—notices something familiar in those dead eyes. Today, an intervention fails before it even begins. Welcome to Volume 4. Welcome to the final chapter. Welcome to the battle where survival becomes the hardest performance of all.]
PART ONE: THE MORNING RIYURA FORGOT TO BREATHE
Spring semester. First day of senior year. Jeremy High's cherry blossoms were blooming early—pink petals falling like snow, beautiful and somehow melancholic, like nature itself was performing hope while feeling nothing.
Riyura Shiko stood at the gates, staring at the building where his brother had once walked, where his father's crimes had been exposed, where everything had ended and somehow needed to begin again.
Two months since Yakamira's death. Two months of therapy and grief and learning that healing wasn't linear. Two months of his friends carrying him when he couldn't walk, holding him when he couldn't stand, existing beside him when existing felt impossible.
He looked different now. Purple hair still messy but intentionally so. Yellow star hairclip present but positioned differently—not crooked as performance, just placed naturally. Red bow tie gone entirely, replaced with a simple black tie that suggested he was trying to be himself instead of a character.
[RIYURA'S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: Senior year. The final chapter. The last time I'll walk through these gates as a student. Yakamira should be here. Should be starting university, complaining about entrance exams, being his usual analytical self. But he's not. He's dead. And I'm alive. And some mornings I still forget to breathe because the guilt feels heavier than oxygen.]
"Riyura!" Miyaka's voice pulled him back to present. She approached with Subarashī, both smiling but with concern evident in their eyes. They'd learned to read him now. Knew when the silence meant grief versus when it meant he was just thinking.
"First day," Subarashī said, his usual explosive energy tempered with gentleness. "We survive this together. Like everything else." "Together," Riyura agreed, and managed a small smile. Not the aggressive cheerfulness from before. Just... a smile. Genuine. Fragile. Real.
They walked through the gates as a group—Riyura, Miyaka, Subarashī, with Shoehead and Socksiku joining from the side entrance, Jimiko appearing from nowhere as usual, and Sotsuko arriving last with his calculated precision.
The friend group that had survived corruption networks and murder attempts and their own accumulated trauma. Together. Still broken. Still healing. But alive.
The morning assembly was standard—Principal Jeremy Poleheadedsandwich welcoming everyone back, announcing new policies, mentioning the "unfortunate incidents of last semester" with diplomatic vagueness that made everyone who knew the truth exchange uncomfortable glances.
Then: "We have several transfer students joining us this semester. Please welcome them warmly and help them adjust to Jeremy High's... unique environment."
The first transfer student was introduced. Tall, lean, with dark hair that fell across his features, wearing the uniform with an actor's precision—Everything that screamed. "I'm performing normalcy and doing it flawlessly."
"Joyū Kanashī," Principal Jeremy announced. "Transferring from an arts academy in Osaka. Please make him feel welcome."
Joyū walked to the stage with fluid grace. Smiled with professional warmth. Bowed with exact politeness. "Thank you for having me. I look forward to learning with you all."
His voice was perfect. Trained. The kind of voice that could convey any emotion on command. But his eyes—Riyura noticed immediately—his eyes were completely dead.
Not sad. Not tired. Dead. Like someone performing life while being fundamentally absent from it.
[RIYURA'S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: I know those eyes. I've seen them in mirrors. In Yakamira's face before we reconciled. In my own reflection after Dad died. Those are the eyes of someone who's already decided. Who's just waiting for the right moment. Who's performing survival until they can stop.]
The assembly ended. Students dispersed to homerooms. Riyura watched Joyū disappear into the crowd, watched how he smiled at people who greeted him, how he responded with perfect pleasantness, how he moved through social interaction like choreographed dance.
Perfect performance. Zero substance. Survival as theater. "Did you see him?" Jimiko appeared beside Riyura, quiet as always. "The new transfer student. Joyū."
"I saw," Riyura said. "Did you notice his eyes?" "Dead," Jimiko confirmed. "Like he's already gone. Just forgot to stop moving."
They stood in the hallway while other students rushed past, and shared a moment of understanding. They'd both seen enough broken people to recognize the signs.
"I should talk to him," Riyura said. "Should try to—" "He won't listen," Jimiko interrupted gently. "Not yet. People that far gone don't want help. They want permission to stop pretending."
"Then I'll give him something else," Riyura said. "I'll give him... I don't know. Presence. Witness. Proof that someone notices he's drowning." "That might make it worse," Jimiko warned.
"Or it might make it bearable," Riyura replied. "Even slightly. And slightly is enough."
PART TWO: THE LUNCH WHERE EVERYTHING WAS SAID SILENTLY
Lunchtime. Riyura spotted Joyū sitting alone in the cafeteria corner, eating with mechanical precision while scrolling through his phone. His expression never changed. Not when he ate. Not when he read whatever was on that screen. Just... neutral. Professional. Dead.
Riyura approached without overthinking it. "Mind if I sit?"
Joyū looked up, and for a fraction of a second something flickered in those dead eyes—surprise, maybe, or annoyance—before the professional smile returned. "Of course. Riyura Shiko, right? I've heard about you."
"Nothing good, I hope," Riyura said, attempting lightness. It fell flat.
"Actually, quite a lot of good," Joyū replied, his actor's voice carrying warmth that didn't reach his eyes. "The student who exposed corruption. Who survived family tragedy. Who helps everyone despite carrying his own pain. You're quite famous here."
"Famous is a strong word for 'everyone knows my trauma,'" Riyura said, sitting down across from him. "But yeah. That's me. Purple hair, dead brother, murdered father, probably needs more therapy than he's currently getting. How about you?"
Joyū's smile didn't waver. "Transfer student. Actor. Trying to start fresh at a new school. Nothing interesting." "Why transfer?" Riyura asked. "Arts academy in Osaka sounds prestigious. Why come to Jeremy High specifically?"
Something dark crossed Joyū's face—too fast to read, immediately covered by professional neutrality. "Personal reasons. Family thought a change of environment would be good for me."
"Good for you or good for them?" Riyura pressed gently. "Does it matter?" Joyū's voice remained pleasant. Perfect. "I'm here now. Might as well make the best of it."
He returned to his phone, and Riyura caught a glimpse of the screen before Joyū could tilt it away. Social media. Comments section. Hundreds of notifications, and from what Riyura could see in that brief moment, none of them kind.
"Checking reviews?" Riyura asked carefully. "Something like that." Joyū's professional smile strained slightly. "Hazard of being in the public eye. Everyone has opinions. Most of them... colorful."
"Can I see?" "No." The response was immediate, firm, accompanied by Joyū locking his phone and pocketing it. "It's nothing important. Just noise."
But Riyura had seen enough. Had seen the words "worthless," "terrible," "should just" before the screen went dark. Had seen the notification count—789 unread messages—and the way Joyū's hands trembled slightly despite his composed face.
"Joyū," Riyura said quietly. "If you need to talk. About anything. Theater, school, family, online harassment, wanting to stop existing—I'm here. Okay? No judgment. No performance required. Just... I'm here."
Joyū's dead eyes met Riyura's star-shaped pupils. And for one moment—one singular, devastating moment—the mask cracked. Riyura saw the pain underneath. Saw the exhaustion. Saw someone drowning in plain sight while everyone applauded his swimming technique.
Then the mask snapped back. "Thank you. That's very kind. But I'm fine. Really. Just adjusting to new environment." He stood, gathering his tray. "I should get to class early. Navigation is still confusing. It was nice meeting you, Riyura Shiko. I hope we can be friends."
The words were perfect. The delivery flawless. The emotion completely absent. He walked away, and Riyura sat alone at the table, feeling like he'd just watched someone commit slow suicide while asking for directions.
Miyaka appeared beside him. "That went badly." "He's dying," Riyura said flatly. "Not physically. Not yet. But he's dying inside and nobody's noticing because he's too good at pretending he's fine."
"Sounds familiar," Miyaka observed gently.
"Yeah." Riyura stood, his own food untouched. "That's why I have to help him. Have to try. Even if he doesn't want it. Even if I fail. Because nobody tried hard enough with me until it was almost too late."
"And if he pushes you away?"
"Then I push back," Riyura said. "Gently. Persistently. Until he either accepts help or tells me to fuck off definitively. But I won't watch someone drown without at least throwing a rope."
PART THREE: THE CLASSROOM WHERE TRUTH LIVED
After school. Riyura was heading to the library when he heard it. Quiet crying from the second-floor less popular classroom. Not loud sobbing. Just... small, broken sounds. The kind of crying people do when they're trying to be silent. When they don't want to be heard. When they've forgotten how to ask for help.
He pushed open the door carefully. "Hello? You okay in here?" The crying stopped immediately. The curtains slid open. Joyū emerged, face perfectly composed, eyes slightly red but otherwise giving nothing away.
"Riyura." Professional smile. Perfect voice. Dead eyes. "Sorry, I was just—allergies. Spring pollen. Very unfortunate."
"Allergies don't check their phone compulsively," Riyura said, gesturing to the phone still clutched in Joyū's hand, screen showing that social media app, those hundreds of notifications.
Joyū's smile strained. "I should go. I have—" "Let me see," Riyura interrupted. "Please. Let me see what they're saying." "No." "Joyū—"
"I SAID NO!" The first real emotion. Anger mixed with desperation mixed with shame. "You don't get to see this. Nobody gets to see this. It's my burden. My failure. My—"
He stopped, breathing hard, realizing he'd dropped the mask. Scrambled to pick it back up. "I'm sorry. That was inappropriate. I'm just stressed. New school. New environment. I'm fine. Really."
But his hands were shaking violently now. The phone slipped, clattered to the floor. The screen lit up. And Riyura saw them. Hundreds of comments. All recent. All vicious:
"You're the worst actor I've ever seen" "Why don't you just quit" "Do everyone a favor and kill yourself" "Talentless moron" "The world would be better without you" "You should be ashamed to exist" "Just die already" "Nobody wants you here" "Kill yourself kill yourself kill yourself"
On and on. Hundreds of variations of the same message: You are worthless. You should die. We hate you.
Riyura picked up the phone, read them, felt sick. "Joyū. This is—this is torture. This is targeted harassment. You can't just—you shouldn't have to read this. You need to report them, block them, get away from—"
"It doesn't matter," Joyū said, his voice finally, completely breaking. "Blocking doesn't stop them. Reporting doesn't stop them. They just make new accounts. Find new ways. And maybe—maybe they're right. Maybe I am worthless. Maybe I should just—"
"Don't." Riyura stepped closer. "Don't finish that sentence. Don't let their poison become your truth."
"Why not?" Joyū's laugh was broken, bitter. "They're just saying what everyone thinks. What my family thinks. What casting directors think when they reject me. What audiences think when they walk out of my performances. I'm a failure. At the only thing I ever loved. At the only thing I was ever good at. And now—"
He slid down the classroom wall, sitting on the floor, finally, completely shattered. "Now I can't even die properly. Because that would mean they won. That would mean admitting they were right. But I can't keep living like this either. Can't keep reading these messages. Can't keep pretending I'm fine. Can't keep performing survival when all I want is for everything to stop."
Riyura sat beside him. Didn't touch him. Didn't try to fix it. Just sat. Present. Witnessing.
"I tried to help someone once," Riyura said quietly. "My brother. Yakamira. For years I wanted to connect with him. My father pushed me away every time. He eventually built walls. Stayed isolated. Then finally—finally—we broke through. Became real brothers. And later he was dead. Died protecting me from our father's knife."
He looked at Joyū. "So I know what it's like to feel like your efforts don't matter. To feel like helping is pointless because people die anyway. To want to stop trying because trying hurts too much."
"Then why are you here?" Joyū asked. "Why try to help me? We just met. You don't owe me anything. You're still grieving. Still broken. Why waste energy on a stranger who doesn't want saving?"
"Because," Riyura said, "maybe you don't want saving. But you deserve witnessing. Deserved someone who notices you're drowning. Who sees past the performance. Who refuses to let you suffer alone just because you're good at hiding it."
He stood, offered his hand. "I'm not going to fix you. I can't. Nobody can fix anyone else. But I can be present. I can refuse to look away. I can be annoying and persistent and show up even when you push me away. Because that's what people did for me. And it's the only reason I'm still alive."
Joyū stared at the offered hand. At Riyura's star-shaped pupils that had seen too much death. At the genuine care in someone who had every reason to be too broken to help anyone else.
He didn't take the hand. But he didn't reject it either. "I need time," Joyū whispered. "I need to figure out if I even want to be saved. If I want to keep existing. If any of this is worth it."
"Okay," Riyura said simply. "Take your time. I'll be here. Annoyingly. Persistently. Until you either accept help or tell me to leave you alone definitively."
He left the classroom, left Joyū sitting on the floor surrounded by his phone and its hundreds of death threats, surrounded by his broken mask and his desperate exhaustion.
Left him alone but witnessed. Drowning but noticed. Dying but not ignored. It wasn't help. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But it was presence. And sometimes, presence was enough to make one more day bearable.
EPILOGUE: THE SHADOW THAT WATCHED EVERYTHING
Elsewhere in Jeremy High. The rooftop. Where a figure stood watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of red and orange and that particular purple that looked like Riyura's hair.
Jisatsu Bara—Suicide Rose—white hair catching dying light, emo clothing making him look like death's favorite aesthetic, dead eyes tracking the building where Riyura Shiko had just tried and failed to save someone.
"Interesting," Jisatsu muttered to himself, shadows coiling around his fingers like tap dancers. "The survivor trying to save another drowning person. How noble. How futile. How perfectly tragic."
He pulled out his own phone. Opened a file. Photos of Yakamira from years ago—childhood photos, when Jisatsu and the Shiko brothers had known each other, before everything fractured.
"You died protecting him," Jisatsu said to Yakamira's frozen smile. "Died for the brother who survived when you didn't. And now he's trying to save everyone else. Trying to make your death mean something. How sentimental."
The shadows expanded, turning sunset into twilight around him. "I wonder how long his hope lasts when I start breaking his new friends one by one. When I show him that saving people is pointless because everyone dies eventually. When I make him understand what it's like to want death but be cursed with living."
He smiled—sinister, cruel, hiding the kind heart buried so deep beneath self-hatred that even he'd forgotten it existed. "Welcome to senior year, Riyura Shiko. Welcome to your end. Welcome to discovering that some people can't be saved in the end. And some people don't want to be."
The shadows consumed the remaining light. And Jisatsu Bara—the teenager who'd tried dying forty-seven times and failed every time—began planning Riyura's destruction.
Not because he genuinely believed Riyura deserved it. But because pain needed outlet. Because if Jisatsu had to suffer, why not make the Jeremy High's favorite survivor suffer too?
Volume 4 had begun. The final chapter. The battle of Jeremy High. And nobody was ready for what came next.
[NARRATOR: And so begins the end. Riyura trying to help while still broken. Joyū drowning in harassment and self-hatred. Jisatsu planning destruction from shadows. All of them performing survival while wanting death. All of them broken in ways that mirror each other. Volume 4 will be painful. Will be difficult. Will force everyone to choose between giving up and holding on. Between dying and living. Between isolation and connection. Next episode: Pan Kissā appears. The bread that tastes like grief. And Riyura's intervention with Joyū continues failing. Stay with us, readers. The hardest part is just beginning. But so is the healing. Eventually.]
TO BE CONTINUED...