"Take your time!" The sarcasm drips from her voice—I can't even piss in peace. Plus she didn't pause the movie, so what's the rush?
I wince before I can reach the tap. What did I do now? Stretching my arms to peel the hoodie off sends a sharp pain lancing through my side. After some struggle, it finally slips free. That's more blood than I expected. The white t-shirt, now rust-stained and damp, comes off smoother. The cut on my stomach gapes back at me.
Behind the mirror: nothing. Where the hell did she put the bandages?
I run my hands under warm water—it's tolerable. The cut only stings when I stretch. The toilet paper disintegrates under my wet fingers. After a quick wipe on my jeans, I press the soggy tissue against the wound, soaking up what I can.
"Where are the bandages?"
Without looking up, she points toward her bedroom.
Her room is what you'd call aesthetic—small, cozy, walls painted soft blue and plastered with random trinkets and stickers. Pictures and art hang everywhere, their colours shifting under the glow of dimmed LEDs. I scan the white counter. Nothing.
Before I can leave, Luna appears in the doorway, eyes wide.
"What did you do?"
"It's from earlier. Thought I dodged it, but the guy still caught me."
She exhales sharply, frustration flickering across her face as she ducks into the bathroom and rummages under the sink.
"That's a little more than a graze... okay, I got it."
I reach for the bandages with a smile, but before I can grab them, she's already behind me.
"Be more careful next time."
I nod as she wraps her arms around my torso, the gauze pressing cool against my bare skin.
"I can do it myself if you want."
"I got it. It's fun anyway."
"I still don't get why you're not going into medicine. You're good at patching me up, and your bio marks are perfect."
"It's not that it doesn't interest me—I just want to see what else is out there. Teaching sounds nice. Or therapy. Oh, I know—chef!"
I laugh as she rambles, her words trailing off as she pins the bandage in place.
"Thank you."
She just smiles, grabs a drink from the kitchen, and heads back to the living room.
I drop onto the couch beside her, phone in hand but mind elsewhere. What time am I working at the diner tomorrow? Luna's got something planned for me tonight, too—late.
"Luna, you excited for—"
And she's out. Dozed off on my arm. Her soft snores and quiet breathing fill the silence. I place a hand on her shoulder to keep her from sliding as I stand. Her arm loops around my neck like a wounded soldier clinging to a medic.
"Let's get you to bed."
She's not heavy, but the way she leans makes her harder to carry than she should be.
"You have to stop falling on me."
"I'm not that heavy..." Her voice is thick with sleep but still coherent.
I nudge her bedroom door open with my shoulder and lower her onto the stuffed-animal-covered bed. After relocating most of the plushies, I reach over her for the fuzzy white blanket.
"Night."
The blanket settles over her, and she burrows into it immediately, curling up tight.
"Goodnight, Micheal..."
I shut the door, kill the lights, and leave.
Now I can relax. Luna usually outlasts me, but tonight she crashed early. Must be tired.
I glance at the clock—only eleven thirty? I can get by on six hours. The cheese slides out of the bag with ease. Salsa clings to the lid and gets on my hand. I toss it all in the microwave. Nachos in progress.
What should I even watch? Can't do my usual show—Luna's asleep. A movie? Action or romance? Maybe something I've already seen.
I yank the microwave door open right before it beeps. Perfected the timing. If you open it exactly at zero, it stays silent. I drag the coffee table closer and stretch out on the couch. I toss a nacho in my mouth. The cheese melted perfectly—rich, savory, mingling with the sharp tang of salsa. I stare at the ceiling for a while before turning my attention to the TV. Scrolling through options, I land on a crime documentary. I hate documentaries, but this case has always hooked me. Maybe I'll give it a shot.
* * *
"What is it...?"
Why is Reaper barking? Too early for this. His soft fur slides between my fingers as I run my hand over his head. My eyes sting when I try to open them—at least it's still dark out. Before I can process it, he bolts off toward the balcony where the barking started.
I fumble for my phone with a heavy hand. The screen lights up. A text? Before I can check who sent it, a scream rips through the morning air—raw, horrible.
I'm on my feet, heading toward Reaper.
"What the...?"
I glance outside, then quickly shut the balcony door. I grab my jacket from the closet and throw it over my bare chest, zipping it as I jam my feet into my runners.
"Stay!"
Reaper obeys, watching as I bolt out the door, slamming it behind me.
I freeze the second I step outside. Panting. Waiting for the scene to vanish—like maybe I imagined it. It doesn't. Everything falls eerily quiet. I can almost hear the wind carrying the sound of my ragged breathing, the cool air leaving my lips in faint clouds. The frost-covered grass is stained red. Blood drips steadily from the old woman's body—slow, like a faucet left barely open. She was killed moments ago, but the blood looks like it's been pouring for hours.
What... happened here?
She stares up at our balcony, lifeless. Her back props against a miniature cherry blossom tree in a pot. I take a step back. What happened? I can't think straight. I need to calm down. I've seen worse.
I take deep breaths. When I open my eyes, everything feels darker. All I see is Ms. Saito. It's like the moonlight vanished. There's ringing in the distance—the only sound cutting through the silence now.
Focus.
My eyes sweep over her, my mind clawing for the truth. I force my legs to move. Her mouth hangs open, a crumpled piece of paper jutting from between her lips. The clothes she wore earlier are stained, bloodied, shredded. Her glasses—gone. Her arm looks wrong. Closer inspection reveals the bone isn't just broken—it's shattered. Pulverized. Almost boneless.
I kneel beside her. Her throat's slit. That must've been the killing blow.
I narrow my eyes. More blood pools beneath the blossom tree. Before I can shift it, she suddenly collapses forward, her body folding in on itself unnaturally. My hands jerk away instinctively, avoiding being pinned beneath her weight. My heart hammers. Her spine must be broken—no normal body contorts like that.
I fix my gaze on her back. Her shirt's been cut open, revealing a design carved into her skin. My fingers tremble as I trace the cherry blossom tree etched into her flesh. It's not just the state of her body that rattles me—it's the malice hanging in the air, thick and suffocating, as if her killer is still nearby.
I don't feel right. Why am I feeling this way? Worried? Scared? Empty? I don't feel happy or sad. Just null. Void.
I take another breath and lean over to tilt the tree pot aside. Blood drips from beneath it. My eyes snap to the side of her head. They beat her skull in with this.
Gently, I cradle her shoulders and ease her back into position. Her left eye is swollen beyond recognition—if it's even still there. I shake the thought away and steel myself for one last look.
It would be nice to think this nightmare ends here. It doesn't.
I reach into her mouth. It's wide open, the jaw hanging loose. Unsettling—but nothing compared to the grin carved into her face. Someone sliced into the sides of her lips, stretching them into a grotesque smile.
Slow and steady. I grasp the crumpled paper lodged inside and stand, unfolding it.
A phone number.
I don't have my phone on me.
Right. Everything starts coming back. I look around—my vision clears. The tunnel vision that locked me on the corpse fades. No, that's a lie. My head's still in investigation mode.
I nearly trip on a step walking back to the apartment. Is it my expression? My aura? Whatever it is, Reaper tilts his head and whines when I walk in.
"It's okay, Reaper. Go sleep with Luna."
He scampers off. I grab my phone. My foot jerks away as the device slips from my hand and clatters onto the wooden floor. I stare at it.
Why? Why did that number text me?
Ignoring the unease crawling up my spine, I pick it up. My finger hovers over the power button before I finally press it. Two notifications from an unknown number. I pull the crumpled paper from my pocket. It matches.
Two messages. One sent fifteen minutes ago. The other just over an hour ago. If I'd just replied to the greeting...
I read the text aloud, mumbling the words over and over.
"Why aren't you replying to my messages? I don't appreciate that, Micheal. If texts won't work, I'll use other means."
Am I at fault? How was I supposed to know ignoring a "hi" with a smiley face would get someone killed?
I'm not scared. But I'm uneasy.
It doesn't matter. I'll take him head-on. He wants to screw with me? Fine. I'll—I don't even know what I'll do. But he's a threat. He knows where we live. I'll... I'll—
My phone vibrates, cutting through my spiraling thoughts.
"How'd I do? Willing to talk to me yet?"
The words slip out of me—barely a whisper. I can barely hear myself, but I can hear the sound of sweat hitting the floor with unnatural clarity. My fingers move slowly, weighed down like they would be after shoveling snow in winter. I'm not sure what to type except:
"What do you want?"
The rapid tap of my foot fills the room. I hope Luna doesn't come in. If she saw me hunched over the table, sweating in the dim glow of my phone, she'd know something's wrong. I can't talk to her. I have to focus—figure this out. Whatever this is.
He'll be consistent with his messages now. I have to treat this like an in-person conversation.
"Amazing! Where to start... oh, I should start by saying I'm your biggest fan!"
I tilt my head, confused.
"Who are you?"
What does he expect—a thank you?
"She was annoying. All that talk about cherry blossoms. I did you a favor—now you don't have to worry about being caught in her conversations anymore!"
I didn't like talking to Saito, but that doesn't mean she deserved to die. How does he know so much? He had to have been here when Luna and I got home from school—but we were the only people in the lobby besides the woman.
"You've been watching me?"
"Straight to the questions? That's fine. You fascinate me, Micheal. Your sense of justice. Your unwavering optimism. And your natural bad luck."
My eyes widen. He knows a lot about me—but luck? How does he know I'm unlucky? It's not exactly a trait. He knows my name. Knows so much. It makes me wonder...
"How long have you been watching me?"
"There's no fun in giving everything away right off the bat. All you need to know is that I admire you."
"What's your goal?"
"Let's play a game, Micheal."
He ignored my question. Adrenaline floods my veins. I'm not scared.
"I refuse."
His replies stop. Then a video comes through. I can feel my blood pulsing—that familiar fire returning. But the moment I hit play, the adrenaline turns cold.
I can't stop staring at the screen. The old woman. Her arm crushed by the cherry blossom pot. Her screams fill the kitchen—loud, horrid, more like animalistic screeches than anything human. I force myself to study the footage, searching for any clue I can use.
Nothing. The assailant isn't even in frame. Just hands reaching in to lift the pot. Lifting. Letting it fall. How many times before her arm finally—
No. I don't need to think about that.
"This is the method I used to initially capture your attention. Do you want me to try again?"
The text makes my head spin.
"I will make you play with me, Micheal."
I clench my fist, jaw tight.
"What's the game?"
After a pause:
"Heads or tails?"
I glance around the room, almost expecting someone to be lurking. But it's just me in a quiet kitchen that feels miles from safe. After a second's hesitation:
"Tails."
Minutes drag. Each second longer than the last. Then, a flood of attachments hits my inbox—videos. My breath catches. Did he really just send all of these?
"Whether you won or not depends on how you perceive those videos, Micheal. We'll be seeing each other soon. I can't wait to meet you in person. It will be fun."
A small smiley face stares back at me.
My hand goes numb. My phone slips onto the table. I let my head sink beside it, breathing steadying, sweat cooling on my skin.
How long have the sirens been outside? Someone finally called it in.
I don't lose. I won that coin flip. Whatever game he wants to play—I'm ready. My head spins, but I'm not tired. I have my skills. My experience.
That's all I need.