As soon as the bell rang, the noise in the classroom gradually died down. Akira slowly packed up the books on his desk, ready to leave. Just as he stood up, Misaki Suzuki and her gang blocked his path. They stood like a wall before him, faces full of hostility.
"Be honest—did you have anything to do with Chizuru's death?" Misaki's voice was sharp and cold, her eyes burning with a mix of resentment and fury.
Akira's lips curved into a faint, icy smile. He slowly lifted his hand, resting his fingers under his chin as if contemplating something amusing.
"Misaki," he said softly, his tone laced with mockery, "if I did have something to do with Chizuru's death... then tell me, who do you think is next?"
The words struck Misaki like lightning. She let out a sharp scream and staggered back several steps, nearly falling. She looked around in panic, then realized she had just lost face in front of "Megumi." Desperately trying to recover, she coughed a few times and forced an arrogant expression.
"Hmph, don't try to scare me. You wouldn't dare! Chizuru probably just pissed off the wrong person," she snapped, and with a wave of her hand, stormed off with her entourage.
Despite her bold words, the quickness of her steps and her trembling shoulders betrayed the fear rapidly spreading within. Akira watched them leave, a trace of contempt in his eyes. Then, without another word, he walked out of the classroom.
He didn't go home immediately. Instead, he went to the hospital to visit me.
He pushed open the door quietly, sat beside my bed, and simply looked at me. The room was silent, his dark eyes sharp and cold, as if they could pierce through everything.
After a long while, he finally spoke, his voice low and more like a murmur:
"Sis... how did you end up getting bullied by such stupid people?"
His tone held both pity and suppressed rage. He gently stroked my hair, and then let his hand slide to my forehead, resting finally on the deep scar along my cheek. His brows furrowed even tighter. He ran his fingers along the scar, as if trying to erase it—but it wouldn't go away.
Just when I thought he was about to erupt in anger, he suddenly let out a quiet, chilling laugh.
"If I killed her... would she still come find you after death? Would she keep bullying you?"
He took my hand in his. His voice was terrifyingly calm, yet there was a wild glint in his eye.
"But sis... she made you suffer so much. I can't just let her go."
Even though I was now just a spirit, I could still feel the coldness from his grip—as if some unseen force held me in place.
Akira's eyes sparkled with cruel amusement. He laughed quietly.
"Maybe we should try something new... something fun. Make her beg for death but never get it. Sis, what do you think of that idea?"
I shivered.
Then Akira pulled up my sleeve, exposing my arm to the air. It was covered in horrifying scars—some from knives, others from cigarettes. The sight was shocking.
He stared blankly at them, as if calculating something.
"One, two, three, four… seventeen, eighteen, nineteen."
He counted each one, his voice growing quieter, his frown deeper.
"Nineteen scars… You were bullied this badly and never told me."
His voice was thick with blame, making me feel a little guilty.
"Nineteen scars… should I slice her into nineteen pieces to make it even?"
I screamed "No!" in my heart, but he didn't hear me—didn't care. He just kept talking.
"Never mind. Killing her would be boring." He looked down, clearly pondering something more creative.
I thought about it too, and he kind of had a point. If Misaki died and turned into a ghost, I might be stuck with her forever. No thanks.
"Sis, tell me... if someone lost their eyes, nose, ears, hands, and feet... could they still survive?"
His voice held a chilling curiosity. I couldn't answer, but his brows slowly relaxed, as if a solution had come to him.
"There'd be a lot of bleeding… but it's fine. Sis, I'll go learn how to stop bleeding."
His tone was flat, like he was just stating a to-do list.
I suddenly understood his intent. And disturbingly, I felt a sense of satisfaction.
Misaki Suzuki — I've never stopped hating you. Everything Akira wants to do to you... I've imagined it all. I just never had the guts.
Akira seemed pleased with his plan. He gently touched the scar on my face, then stood up and left the room.
Just as he was leaving, a man appeared at the door, dressed like a doctor. He smiled warmly and asked,
"Hello, are you Miss Kawashima's family? I'm her attending physician. She's made some improvement these past few days, but we still need to observe and continue treatment."
He paused, then looked at Akira.
"Based on the current plan, she'll need to stay hospitalized for a while longer. But the current medical expenses are about to run out. We recommend you make a payment soon to avoid interrupting treatment."
He handed Akira a detailed list of charges and upcoming costs.
"I hope you understand, it's necessary for her recovery."
Akira glanced over the bill and replied calmly,
"Understood. I'll take care of it soon. Thank you."
The doctor gave him a sympathetic look.
"We'll do everything we can. If you have any questions or need assistance, please let us know."
Akira nodded, thanked him briefly, and left the hospital.
Night had fallen by the time Akira arrived at the familiar restaurant, only to find a "Closed for the Day" sign hanging on the door. He frowned slightly, suspecting that something had happened to Takumi. Just as he was about to leave, a retching sound came from behind him.
Akira turned around and saw Takumi slumped at a table, surrounded by empty glasses—clearly drunk. His face was flushed from alcohol, eyes glazed over. He leaned forward, vomiting heavily onto the floor, the sound vile and disturbing. Each gag wracked his body with tremors, leaving him pale and sweaty.
Takumi barely opened his bleary eyes and, spotting Akira, gave him a pleading look and weakly reached out a hand.
Akira stood still, staring at him with a complex expression. Then he stepped forward and helped him up, supporting him toward the bathroom.
After another violent wave of nausea, Takumi seemed to sober up a little. He washed his face, then turned back to Akira with a sheepish smile.
"Sorry, Akira. Something came up suddenly, so I couldn't open the shop today. Totally forgot to let you know."
Akira shook his head, voice flat. "It's fine. Just take care of yourself. I'll be going now."
But Takumi suddenly reached out to stop him, insisting,
"Don't go. Stay and have dinner with me—my treat."
Akira was about to refuse, but Takumi tugged him toward the table.
"Tell me what you want to eat. I'll make it."
Akira looked at him, a bit helpless. "You should rest."
Takumi puffed out his chest proudly.
"Don't underestimate me—I can handle my liquor."
But under Akira's gaze, his smile gradually turned guilty.
"Okay, maybe I drank a bit too much… but I feel better now after throwing up."
Akira sighed. Clearly, there was no getting out of this meal.
"All right. Just make something simple. I'm not picky."
Takumi beamed and dashed into the kitchen. Soon, delicious aromas began to waft through the air—warm and rich, stirring something deep in Akira's heart. He couldn't help taking a deep breath. The familiar scent brought back memories of a time long gone, of warmth he'd almost forgotten.
When Takumi returned with a full table of dishes, Akira's throat involuntarily tightened. The food looked—and smelled—amazing.
Takumi noticed and smiled even wider.
"Come on, eat up, kid."
He poured himself another glass of wine, but upon seeing Akira's glance, he quickly added,
"Don't worry. I puked it all out already. Just a little drink—helps me relax."
Akira shook his head and tried a spoonful of soup. The flavor was so good that his eyes closed slightly in satisfaction.
"This soup is delicious."
Takumi's chest swelled with pride.
"My daughter loved this soup too."
But as he spoke, a shadow crossed his face. Sadness seeped into his voice. He leaned forward, staring closely at Akira's face, as if searching for something familiar.
Akira frowned. He didn't like being stared at.
Takumi slowly leaned back, letting out a long sigh.
"If my daughter were still here… she'd be about your age now."
He took a long drink, trying to drown the bitterness.
Akira picked up on something odd in his words and asked sharply,
"What do you mean if she were still here? Did you abandon her?"
His voice turned cold, and the air in the room instantly grew heavy.
I never dared bring up his parents in front of him — it was the deepest taboo in his heart. Akira had always been distant, seemingly calm on the surface, but with a chilling obsession for killing. From hunting animals and livestock in the beginning, to eventually laying hands on humans. Though the number of people he had killed wasn't many, each life he took carved an indelible mark into his soul.
The moment etched most clearly in my memory was his ninth birthday.
That day was doomed from the start. The sky was overcast, heavy and gray, as if signaling that nothing would go right. The air hung thick with gloom, and even the sun seemed too stingy to lend us any warmth. The haze around us silently devoured any hopes we had, as if foreshadowing what a terrible day it would become.
Despite our poverty, I still wanted Akira to feel a shred of warmth and joy. I'd saved every spare coin I could find for weeks, finally managing to buy a small cake. It was nothing fancy — in fact, it was cheap and humble — but to me, it was a luxury beyond words.
I led Akira to an abandoned lot deep in the alleyways, where a few stones served as makeshift seats. I gently wiped the dust off them with my hands, placed the cake in the center, and carefully stuck a single candle into it, lighting a weak, flickering flame.
"Make a wish, Akira," I said, my voice bright with happiness, eyes full of hope.
Akira looked indifferent, but still closed his eyes and made a wish obediently. I stroked his soft hair and murmured with guilt,
"I'm sorry, Akira. I couldn't give you a better birthday."
He opened his eyes, expression calm.
"What's so special about birthdays? Don't bring me to celebrate next time. It's boring."
Just then, a few kids our age passed by, giggling. When they saw us and our tiny cake, they burst into mocking laughter.
"Haha! They're seriously celebrating a birthday in a dump like this?" one boy jeered, pointing at the cake.
"That cake's so tiny! How pathetic!"
"You two don't even have parents, and you're pretending to be happy?" another sneered, his tone full of contempt and ridicule.
The smile on my face instantly froze. The match I was holding slipped from my fingers, hitting the ground with a faint tap. Their laughter was like knives stabbing into my heart.
I looked up, trying to ward off their cruelty with my eyes — but inside, I had nowhere to hide from the pain.
It was true. Since we could remember, we'd had no memories of our parents. We didn't know who they were, what they looked like, or why they abandoned us. Two children without parents — what happiness could we possibly have?
I tried to pull Akira away, hoping to escape the place of humiliation — but he yanked his hand out of mine.
He walked straight toward the other kids, his face so dark it was nearly black.
"No—Akira!" I called in panic, trying to signal to the boys to stop, to run, to do something — but they didn't take the hint. On the contrary, they kept taunting him, laughing louder.
"Look, he's getting mad! Hahaha!"
"What, you gonna hit us? Come on then—don't chicken out—AH!"
Before he could finish, the boy screamed. Terror warped his face.
Akira had bent down without a word, picked up a sharp piece of stone from the ground, and before anyone could react, he brought it down hard.
Crack.
The boy's nasal bone shattered with the sound of a sickening snap. Blood gushed out, and he collapsed, writhing in agony. He tried to crawl away, but compared to Akira's cold fury, he was utterly powerless.
Akira's expression remained eerily calm as he raised the stone again and again, striking the boy's head, his face. Each blow landed with a sickening thud that echoed in the still air. Blood smeared Akira's hands, but his eyes stayed frozen — emotionless.
The other children finally realized something was wrong. They exchanged horrified looks, turned to flee — but before they got far, Akira picked up a handful of gravel and flung it at them with ruthless precision. The sharp stones cut through the air with a slicing sound, slamming into their heads.
Thud. Thud.
The kids dropped like straw, clutching their heads and groaning weakly. The metallic scent of blood filled the air, thick and suffocating. For a moment, even time seemed to stand still.
Akira stood amidst the wreckage, eyes scanning the whimpering, bloodied bodies on the ground like they were worthless insects. He didn't even flinch at the carnage.
Then his eyes locked onto the boy he'd first attacked. The kid was trembling, eyes wide with terror, muttering incoherently as he bowed his head to the ground.
"Please… please don't kill me…"
His voice had dissolved into sobs, but Akira showed no mercy. Without a word, he grabbed the boy by the collar and hauled him to his feet.
The boy screamed and struggled, but Akira's grip was like steel. He raised the sharp stone again.
In one fluid motion, he slit the boy's throat.
Blood sprayed, splattering over Akira's arms and face. The boy convulsed once — then fell limp. Akira released him like he was nothing more than a discarded object.
Without pause, he turned to the others. The remaining kids were paralyzed with fear. Akira walked up to each of them, one by one, and slit their throats with the same expressionless precision. Each death passed without hesitation — like he was carrying out a routine chore.
Blood soaked the earth, pooling at his feet. His hands were caked with gore, but he seemed completely unaffected.
When it was all over, he stood in the middle of the silent aftermath, surveying the destruction.
Then, slowly, he turned to me — still frozen, trembling with horror.
He extended a blood-stained hand.
"Let's go home, Sis."