The so‑called villa Misaki Suzuki mentioned sat isolated deep in the wild. The car crawled up a narrow mountain track; thick tree canopies nearly blocked out the moonlight. Its headlights barely pierced the darkness, casting an eerie glow. As they drew closer, the villa's silhouette emerged: a solitary, aging mansion perched halfway up the hill, its paint peeling to reveal grey stone. Around it lay a neglected courtyard overgrown with weeds, as if abandoned years ago. The wind rustled through the treetops, punctuated by the cries of unknown nocturnal birds, making the silent night feel all the more sinister.
A guard at the iron gate swung it open, and the crunch of gravel followed as tires rolled in. Misaki stepped out, planting herself before the villa and turning to the group with a smug tone. "We're here—everyone, get out." Her voice cut through the silence with an arrogance that felt painfully out of place.
A few of the girls followed her hesitantly, casting uneasy glances around. The rusty iron gate creaked, its chains rattling in the breeze. Dead leaves danced across the courtyard, falling with a soft whisper.
"It's… kind of cold here." One girl murmured, wrapping her arms around herself.
Misaki ignored her and strode to the front door. The key ground sharply in the old lock; the hinges groaned as she pushed it open. Beyond lay a dark foyer, dimly lit only by slivers of moonlight through tattered curtains.
Akira stood at the entrance, scanning the space attentively. Misaki marched inside and, with familiarity, lit an ancient chandelier overhead. Its weak yellow glow pushed back the shadows, but the oppressive atmosphere remained thick. A wall clock stood frozen at a bizarre hour, as though time itself had stopped here.
"What are you all staring at? Come on in," Misaki called impatiently, her sharp voice echoing through the empty hall. Pressed together, the group followed her inside like frightened mice.
Once everyone was inside, the heavy door slammed shut, isolating them from the outside world with a dull thud. The air inside reeked of rot, as though secrets of long ago lingered unseen. Akira glanced down at the carpet and noticed dark red stains, as if something had seeped into the fibers. Her brow creased—but she said nothing—merely watched silently.
"You guys can find your rooms now—this place has plenty. Choose whichever you like," Misaki said, every word dripping with superiority. "I'll go call the cook to prepare a midnight snack—just wait over here."
One of the boys, rubbing his full stomach, asked in confusion, "But Misaki, we already ate at Ichiban‑ya…"
Misaki whirled on him, eyebrows arched. "What's that supposed to mean? Do you know what level our cook is at? You should feel lucky—blessed, even—to get a home‑cooked meal from her. How dare you complain?"
The boy froze under her icy glare and fell silent—he knew better than to argue.
The others exchanged looks, curiosity flickering despite their unease. They began exploring the interior in whispers, selecting rooms carefully. The decor was lavish—wall murals, chandeliers, antique furnishings—all signs of great wealth and taste. But time had dulled the grandeur; the rooms smelled of age, and the atmosphere felt vaguely unsettling.
Suddenly, a piercing scream shattered the silence—a desperate cry like a blade slicing through calm. Misaki collapsed in the kitchen, eyes wide, face pale, trembling, pointing ahead. Everyone rushed in—and froze.
The cook's corpse lay contorted on the floor, limbs twisted grotesquely, blood already congealed on her snow‑white apron. Scattered cookware and overturned ingredients hinted at a violent struggle before death. Their hearts stuttered, fear slithering up from their feet.
"Ah—!" one girl screamed, clasping her mouth. Panic erupted. Girls shrieked and staggered back; some covered their eyes, others tremblingly tried to call for help.
"Everybody—stay calm!" one boy's voice cracked—he tried to sound in control, but panic rang in his tone. The other boys feigned composure, but their eyes betrayed them. They formed a shaky shield in front of the girls, faces drained of color.
Misaki scrambled for her phone, swiping wildly—but the screen showed "No Signal." Her breath hitched as she whispered in horror, "How… no signal? Someone blocked it!"
As she spoke, all lights died—plunging them into pitch darkness. Screams rose sharper, longer. Fear prowled like a predator. The girls huddled closer; the boys fumbled for switches, to no avail.
In the chaos, Akira showed a brief moment of surprise—then steadied herself. She stood back in the turmoil, detached. A cold smile touched her lips, unnoticed by the panicked crowd. Her fingers tensed, then relaxed. She was waiting.
"Misaki Suzuki—what the hell? Did you lead us here so the killer could finish us off?" a boy suddenly snarled hysterically. The group recoiled. Misaki's lips quivered; she tried to speak, shook her head—fear froze her.
Another voice piped up: "Yeah! All her so‑called friends dropped dead, and she's still alive—must be behind this!"
"Drop the act, Misaki! I'm done with this!" A boy lunged at her, grabbing her by the throat, eyes flaming with rage and terror. White knuckles squeezed. Misaki's face flushed purple; she clawed and scratched, desperate to push him away.
"Let go of me!" she screamed hoarsely. Panic rattled her voice as though she might suffocate.
No one intervened. The girls covered their eyes, unable to watch. Others tried to yell—but their voices were choked off. Suspicion burned in all their eyes.
"Stop! You're going to kill her!" finally cried one braver girl—her voice trembling. The boy released Misaki, and she collapsed, coughing violently, clutching at her throat.
She pointed at him with shaking fingers: "How dare you? We—I was trying to save you! You attack me like this?"
They eyed each other, conflicted. The boy sneered: "Save us? You—your friends are already dead. Are we next? There's a dead cook here—we can't believe a word you say."
His words stung like needles. Misaki tried to argue—but her voice failed. Tears blurred her vision.
In that silence, Akira finally spoke quietly: "Please—everyone, don't panic more. No matter what's happening, we must find somewhere safe. Then we figure a way out."
Her calm tone cut through the hysteria. Heads turned. Misaki looked at her with a mix of relief and terror. She forced herself up and croaked, "Akira's right… we need to calm down and find a way out."
The tension lingered, broken only by sporadic sobs and swearing. Misaki stood, pale as a ghost; the oppressive air weighed on them all.
Then a sudden scream erupted from a room—sharp as a blade. Pure terror. Hearts froze. A coppery stench crept into their nostrils.
The scream cut off mid‑note—like someone had smothered it. Silence fell like a grave. The stench grew foul.
"What was that? Who screamed?" someone whispered, voice shaking.
No one answered. They stared at the door where the scream had come from, petrified.
Then came a dull thud—something heavy hitting the floor. The smell intensified, creeping closer.
They stood frozen. Whispers drifted: "Someone's dead… oh God…"
"No—Kana! It's Kana!" someone wailed, crawling forward. Her cry broke them—they panicked and cried, overwhelmed by fear. Their embrace shattered. Darkness swallowed them; muffled figures flitted under dim light; fear spread contagiously.
"Misaki Suzuki—this was all planned by you, wasn't it?" The same boy, uncontrollable, grabbed Misaki's wrist and slammed her to the floor. He punched her cruelly in the stomach; Misaki screamed—sharp, tortured.
Another punch to her face sent blood spilling from her mouth, teeth clattering on the cold floor. She tried to fight back—but in that darkness, her strength failed. She lay helpless as his blows rained down.
Her screams grew quieter; her sight blurred. Just as she slipped into oblivion, the boy froze with a grunt—then collapsed heavily.
From the shadows stepped a tall figure: Akira Kawashima. Her face splattered crimson, dagger gleaming darkly in her hand. Blood dripped from its tip; her expression was devoid of pity.
The boy lay severed at the arm, crimson spurting—Akira's strike swift and brutal.
She stood still, coated in gore like a warrior from hell, her gaze terrifyingly calm. Misaki lay overturned in a growing pool of blood, eyes unfocused—
The survivors cringed together, terrified, breath shallow. The hall seemed to hold its breath; only the drip of blood echoed.
Akira stayed statuesque. Darkness did not limit her; she stared down at Misaki like an abandoned object, cold and distant.
In the crushing silence, a soft laugh suddenly rang out—low, chilling, like thunder in psychedelia.
"That efficient style… this signature… I've found you at last, Miss Killer."
The laugh slithered around the room from unseen corners, directionless and unsettling. The surviving students shivered closer, seeking comfort in shared fear.
Akira's brows tightened as she glanced toward where the voice had come from. The laugh grew bolder, radiating dread. Misaki's eyes snapped open, terrified—lips trembling, speechless.
Then silence fell again—deep and absolute—until a guttural, blood‑curdling scream rent the darkness.
First, a student who'd been huddled flung forward violently, body shattering on impact, limbs flung apart. Blood sprayed; torso split. The head rolled into a corner, eyes glazed wide in horror.
Next, another student died with a sudden thunk—the neck twisted violently until it snapped. Blood gushed; the floor stained crimson.
Before any reaction seized them, a third student's body tore in two. Innards and bone spilled out. Flesh and gore coated the floor. His eyes wide in terror, he'd died in pure agony.
Screams echoed in tandem with each grisly death. The survivors scrambled to escape—but even as they fled, they couldn't outrun the presence's bloody handiwork. Each victim was dispatched with brutal speed, as though the unseen force toyed with their lives.
Within moments, the entire hall resembled a cathedral of carnage—corpses piled, blood pooled, air taut with the smell of death and iron.
Misaki stood soaked, shrieking like a banshee—hands clamped over her ears, her face a mask of terror. Her pupils dilated, features twisted in nightmare. Her screams fractured like torn paper; she reared in horror—this nightmare was reality.
Curiously, the mysterious voice had spared her—skirting around her like a cat playing with prey. Misaki stood alone, terrified and bewildered—why was she still alive?
Akira remained unmoving, her expression icy. Blood-splattered but unbothered. Each cry, each corpse—a soundtrack she watched in silence.
At that moment, nobody remained alive except Akira, Misaki, and the mysterious figure in the darkness.