I didn't leave right away.
After she closed her eye again, I stayed there for a while—just outside the pool of blood, watching her chest rise and fall like she was still trying to remember how to breathe.
The silence was alive. Not peaceful—just thick. Like the whole world was holding its breath to see what I'd do next.
But I wasn't the one supposed to act here.
That was his job.
Araragi Koyomi. First-year high school student. Social outcast. The kind of guy who'd rather keep his head down than make eye contact. But underneath all that? A bleeding heart and a tragic sense of responsibility.
Any minute now, he'd come stumbling down those steps, full of confusion and teenage existential dread. The story would begin again, just like it always had.
Except now, I was in it.
And I didn't know what that meant.
I sat on the edge of the lowest stair, resting my elbows on my knees. My eyes kept drifting back to her—Kiss-shot, the Iron-Blooded vampire, now reduced to a pile of ribs and regrets. It hit different in person. On screen, she'd always seemed... ethereal. Dangerous. A little cartoonishly tragic.
But here?
She was just suffering.
Real, awful, lonely suffering.
Why me? I thought. Why not someone more useful? More... heroic?
I didn't even want to be here. That was the worst part. Most isekai stories are wish fulfillment—some loser gets hit by a truck and wakes up in a fantasy world with magic powers and a harem. But me? I was just a guy who stopped caring. And now I was in a world that demanded I care more than ever.
I rubbed my face, trying to ground myself. My fingers came away slick with sweat.
"I should leave," I muttered.
I didn't.
Because as much as I hated myself, I hated the idea of her dying alone more.
That's when I heard footsteps.
Fast ones. Like someone running and trying not to trip.
I looked up.
There he was.
Koyomi Araragi. Short, messy black hair. Slouched posture. School uniform wrinkled like he'd slept in it. He stopped cold when he saw me—eyes flicking from me to the blood-soaked platform, then to her.
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"What... the hell...?"
He wasn't talking to me.
He dropped his bag, knees nearly buckling under him. His hands trembled as he stared at her, then stepped forward—like gravity itself was pulling him toward the disaster in front of him.
"She's alive?" he whispered.
"She won't be for long," I said quietly.
That's when he noticed me.
His eyes locked onto mine, confused, scared, and—most interestingly—angry.
"Who are you?" he asked. "What are you doing here?"
I paused.
There were so many ways to answer that. All of them lies.
So I settled for the closest thing to a truth.
"I'm just a guy who got lost."