I watched it all unfold… and god, it was deliciously pathetic.
It started with a whisper 'The Paper Crane'.
A name passed around with trembling lips and curious giggles.
One body, then two. A folded crane left in the blood.
They loved it. They fucking loved it.
Didn't even know it was me.
I didn't even have to lift a finger.
⸻
[News anchor on screen, in a sterile, studio-bright voice]
"Another death has been confirmed in West Allenwood. A young man, aged 17, was found murdered in his garage. The only clue? A paper crane soaked in blood. Authorities say this may be the 14th victim in what the media now calls The Paper Crane Syndrome."
[Carol, flipping through her phone while Tim watches the news]
"You hearing this shit? They made it a syndrome now."
[Tim, rubbing his eyes]
"It's turning into a fandom. Jesus."
⸻
Kids. Teenagers. Grown-ass adults.
All wanting to be me. All thinking it's a game.
They saw the blood. The origami. The ritual.
And instead of running, they fucking followed.
One girl, I think she was fifteen, stabbed her best friend in the neck during a sleepover.
Said she was "trying to be just like the Crane."
Bled her dry and tried to fold the crane using her school homework.
It looked like shit. But I admired the effort.
⸻
[Podcast host, voice shaking with excitement over microphone static]
"We're in the middle of a cultural eruption, guys. The Paper Crane isn't just a killer, he's an icon. Art, videos, even music. There's a TikTok dance trend inspired by the last crime scene footage! And the thing is… no one even knows who he is."
[Voice of another host, nervous laugh]
"Yeah, uh… maybe let's not encourage murder?"
⸻
Cops are swarming every corner now.
Metal detectors at school. Cameras everywhere.
Even libraries started flagging anyone who borrowed origami books.
I wish I was joking.
[Tim, at the scene of a double homicide — school bathroom. Blood on the sinks. A perfect crane on the mirror ledge.]
"This is the third one today. Three kids. All under seventeen. All killed by another kid. Fucking hell."
[Carol, eyes narrowed as she photographs the scene]
"They're copying. But some of them are too good at this. Someone's teaching them."
They're not good. They're trying too hard.
Fucking amateurs. Folding with the wrong paper, the wrong crease order…
You can't fake elegance in murder. You either bleed it — or you don't.
⸻
One old man slit his neighbor's throat because she "mocked the art."
Used the woman's cat fur to wrap his paper.
Even I gagged at that one. Disgusting, not even creative.
But the worst?
The kids.
Little girls trading bloodied cranes like friendship bracelets.
Boys drawing red ink wings on their arms.
I'm the Paper Crane, one six-year-old screamed before stabbing a hamster to death.
It's all spreading.
This… sickness.
They named it The Paper Crane Syndrome.
They made it a fucking trend.
⸻
[Police press conference, flashing cameras and stressed voices]
"—We advise all parents to monitor their children's media intake. If you see signs of obsession with origami, violence, or idolizing serial killers, please contact your local authorities immediately."
⸻
Idiots.
You can't stop an idea.
You can't kill a myth.
And now, they've given me an army.
They're not my puppets.
They're not my soldiers.
They're my fucking mirror.
A reflection of everything I seeded… without ever showing my face.
They made me a god.
And gods don't die.
Not when they're loved this much.