VOLUME #4 - EPISODE 9
[CONTENT WARNING: MA17+]
[NARRATOR: Some people talk to their pets. Some talk to themselves. And some talk to gloves like they're living beings with feelings and desires and the capacity for revenge. Today, we meet Gurōbu Ītā—the glove eater whose parents' hatred turned him into something between comedian and killer, between victim and monster, between human and the fabric he consumes. Today, Shoehead and Socksiku face their nightmare mirror in battle that's simultaneously absurd and terrifying. Today, Keiko's piano journey reaches its resolution through genuine performance. And today, Riyura discovers Hansamu's true endgame: not just destroying Jeremy High, but exposing psychic abilities to the world to prove the first generation were frauds, to ridicule everything Principal Jeremy built, to show his adoptive father that abandoning him was the greatest mistake possible. Welcome to the glove's revenge. Welcome to when comedy becomes horror becomes tragedy becomes war.]
PART ONE: THE MORNING THAT WORE TOO MANY LAYERS
Friday. Final week before Hansamu's deadline. Two days until everything either resolved or exploded spectacularly. Riyura arrived at school to find Gurōbu Ītā standing at the gates wearing—"Is he wearing twenty pairs of gloves?" Subarashī asked, staring.
"At least," Miyaka confirmed. "Layered. Different colors. Different materials. All perfectly fitted. That's—that's concerning."
Gurōbu was muttering to his hands, having an animated conversation with gloves that definitely weren't responding but he acted like they were. "Yes, I know. I know you're excited. So many new friends here. So many potential—" He noticed Riyura's group watching. His smile widened. Wrong. Too wide. Too eager.
"Shoehead! Socksiku!" Gurōbu called out with disturbing enthusiasm. "My gloves told me about you! The shoe eater and sock eater! Kindred spirits! We're all—we're all family! We all understand what it means to love what others dismiss! To consume what society calls weird!"
He approached rapidly, gloves gesturing with their own seeming volition. "Your food—can I see? My gloves want to meet your consumed items! They're lonely! They need friends who understand!"
Shoehead and Socksiku exchanged glances. This was—this was their nightmare. Someone who took their trauma-coping mechanism and twisted it into something genuinely disturbing.
"We're good," Shoehead said carefully, backing away.
"No!" Gurōbu's expression shifted to something desperate. "No, you don't understand! They need to meet! Need to talk! The gloves have been so alone! Ever since my parents hated me for eating them! Ever since society marked me as weird! Ever since—"
His hands moved. Not him moving them. The gloves moving him.
Or at least, that's how it looked. How it felt. Like the layered gloves had fused with his skin and now controlled his movements through psychic connection born from years of obsessive consumption.
[RIYURA'S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: Okay. So. We have: government agents investigating us, a manipulative adopted son planning to expose abilities to the world, and I can tell that's what he was planning just by seeing it in his eyes, though I've been keeping the whole ideal to myself and even from my friend group because things are already big enough to deal with at this current time, my brother being held captive, the 1876 founders' suicide revealed, and now a psychotic glove-eater whose abilities make his hands move independently while he talks to fabric like it's sentient. This is—this is fine. This is Jeremy High operating normally. I can make jokes about this. I can handle this with humor instead of screaming. That's growth. Probably. Maybe. I'm going with 'probably.']
"We need to go," Socksiku said, pulling Shoehead away. "They're running!" Gurōbu's gloved hands reached out desperately. "Don't run! The gloves just want to play! Just want to understand! Just want—"
"Gurōbu." Hansamu appeared behind him, voice sharp with authority. "Control yourself. You're here for investigation, not to terrorize students with your—" He gestured at the layered gloves. "—with your condition."
"Condition?" Gurōbu spun, and his expression shifted to something between rage and hurt. "They're not condition! They're family! They're the only things that never left me! Never hated me! Never threatened to hit me for being who I am!"
"Which is exactly why you need to control them," Hansamu said coldly. "Or I'll have you removed from this assignment. The other agents are turning soft. Shinda sympathizes with the bakery kid. Akuma is connecting with that Jimiko student. I need you focused. Need you—"
"Need me to be monster," Gurōbu finished, his disturbing smile returning. "Need me to scare them. Need me to show them what happens when society creates people like us and then acts horrified by what we become. I understand. I'll play my part."
He looked at his gloved hands with something like love. "We'll play our part together. Won't we? Yes. Yes, we will. The gloves always understand. The gloves never judge. The gloves—"
"The gloves are fabric," Hansamu interrupted. "You're having a psychotic break. Get it together or get out."
Gurōbu's expression went completely neutral. Flat. Empty. Then, quietly: "The gloves will have their revenge. On everyone who called us weird. On everyone who laughed. On everyone who made us into this. You'll see. Everyone will see."
He walked away, twenty pairs of gloves moving in ways that shouldn't be anatomically possible. And everybody around him except for the ones who knew they were abilities thought it was a magic show trick for his weird personality, give Jeremy High and all. With weird looks on their faces.
"That one's broken," Hansamu said to no one in particular. "More broken than useful. But—" He smiled his perfect, terrible smile. "—broken can still serve purpose. Especially when you need chaos. Especially when you need people scared enough to accept extreme measures."
PART TWO: THE BATTLE IN THE GYMNASIUM
After school. Gurōbu had cornered Shoehead and Socksiku in the gymnasium—doors locked from inside, emergency exits blocked with equipment, three people and whatever the hell Gurōbu's abilities actually were.
"Finally," Gurōbu said, his layered gloves flexing. "Finally we can talk properly. Without interruption. Without judgment. Just us. The shoe and the sock and the glove eaters. The ones society marked as weird."
"We're not like you," Shoehead said firmly, though his hands trembled slightly. "We eat shoes and socks because of trauma. Because of loss. Not because we're—" He gestured at Gurōbu's disturbing enthusiasm. "—not because we're whatever you are."
"Whatever I am?" Gurōbu's laugh was broken glass wrapped in manic energy. "I'm what happens when parents hate their son for being different! When they threaten violence for eating gloves! When they make you choose between being yourself and being well raised!"
His gloved hands began to glow with energy—psychic pressure made visible, exactly like Riyura's blue stars or Jisatsu's shadows. But Gurōbu's manifestation was—wrong. The gloves expanded, grew, became giant air-pocket constructs that looked like massive disembodied hands floating around him.
"I ate so many gloves," Gurōbu explained, his voice shifting between wonder and rage. "So many. For years. Every day. Until my abilities awakened. Until the contradiction of loving something while being hated for loving it created—created this."
The giant glove-hands moved with disturbing precision. One grabbed Shoehead, lifted him effortlessly, began squeezing. Not hard enough to kill immediately. Just—pressure. Slowly increasing. Organs compressing. Ribs creaking.
"Stop!" Socksiku shouted, activating his own latent abilities—some psychic pressure that made the air around him shimmer slightly, born from years of eating socks while desperate for things to stay. And he had figured that out just now. He was awakening his own kind of ability.
But Gurōbu's abilities were stronger. More developed. More honed through years of government training that weaponized his trauma instead of healing it.
The second giant glove-hand grabbed Socksiku, began strangling. Slow. Methodical. While Gurōbu watched with an expression cycling between glee and sorrow and something that might've been apology.
"I don't want to hurt you," Gurōbu said, even as his glove constructs continued their work. "The gloves don't want to hurt you. But we need—we need you to understand. Understand what it's like to be marked. To be hated. To be made into a monster by people who should have loved you."
"We do understand," Shoehead gasped, face reddening from pressure. "We've been marked too. We've been called weird. We've—we've survived the same thing you did."
"No," Gurōbu said, shaking his head. "No, you haven't. You had friends. Had people who accepted you. Had—" His voice broke. "—had Jeremy High. I had nothing. Just gloves. Just fabric. Just things that couldn't leave me because they're not alive."
"But you made them alive," Socksiku wheezed. "Your abilities. You gave them—gave them consciousness. Or at least—at least the illusion of it." "It's not illusion!" Gurōbu shouted. "They're real! They talk to me! They understand! They're more family than my parents ever were!"
The doors burst open. Riyura entered, followed by the entire friend group. They'd heard the commotion, had come running. "Let them go," Riyura said firmly.
"Can't," Gurōbu replied in a singing tone. "The gloves want revenge. Want justice. Want everyone who called us weird to understand what weird becomes when you push it far enough. Want—"
"Want you to stop using them as an excuse for violence," Riyura interrupted. "The gloves aren't making you do this. You are. You're choosing to hurt people because you're in pain. And I get it. I really do. But pain doesn't justify cruelty. Trauma doesn't excuse violence. You're better than this, and I can see in your eyes. Deep down to your heart itself."
"Am I?" Gurōbu asked desperately in a bored. "How do you know? You don't know me! Don't know what I've survived! Don't know what it's like to eat gloves while your parents threaten to beat you! To have society make you into a joke! To develop abilities and have the government turn you into weapon! How do you know I'm better than this?"
"Because," Shoehead said, still struggling in the glove-hand's grip, "because we're the same. Footwear eaters. Trauma survivors. People who found weird ways to cope with loss. And we—we chose not to hurt others with our weirdness. Chose to just exist. Weirdly. But peacefully. You can make that choice too. Even if we never lived up to the crimes we commited because of trauma anyways. We're still as broken as other broken people who are still trying. And that shows through what we've been through. And I can see it in you as well. You still have a chance to move forward in life despite the crimes and choices and dangers that have happened to you."
"But the gloves—" Gurōbu started.
"The gloves are fabric," Socksiku said gently. "Just fabric. You gave them meaning because you needed them to mean something. Because you were so alone that fabric was only family available. But now—now you have an option. You could have real family. Real people who understand weird without requiring violence."
The glove-hands' grip loosened slightly.
"I don't know how," Gurōbu whispered. "Don't know how to be a person instead of a weapon. Don't know how to make gloves just gloves again instead of the only friends I have."
"Then learn," Riyura said. "With us. With people who've all survived weird in different ways. You don't have to be an agent. Don't have to hurt people. You can just—be. Weird. Safe. Part of something."
For a moment—single, fragile moment—Gurōbu looked like he might accept. Might release Shoehead and Socksiku. Might choose connection over violence.
Then Hansamu's voice came through a speaker—he'd somehow accessed the gym's sound system: "Gurōbu. Complete your assignment or face consequences. You know what the government does to weapons that malfunction. You know where they put agents who refuse orders. Make your choice."
The moment shattered.
"I'm sorry," Gurōbu said, and he sounded genuinely sorry. "I'm so sorry. But I can't—I can't go back to that place. Can't be locked up. Can't lose the gloves. They're all I have. I have to—"
The glove-hands began squeezing again. Harder. Final pressure. Intent to kill now clear. But Jisatsu's shadows erupted from corners, wrapped around the glove constructs, pulled them apart. He'd been hiding, waiting, ready to intervene if needed.
"Run!" Jisatsu shouted. Shoehead and Socksiku were released, gasping, stumbling. The friend group surrounded them protectively.
And Gurōbu collapsed, the psychic backlash of his abilities being forcibly disrupted hitting him like physical blow. He lay on the gymnasium floor, crying, talking to his gloves, apologizing to them for failing, for being weak, for not being able to complete the revenge they supposedly wanted.
"Get him to medical," Riyura said. "Get him help. Real help. Not government training. Not weaponization. Just—help." "He tried to kill us," Shoehead said, but his voice held more sadness than anger. "He was going to—"
"He's broken," Socksiku finished. "Like we're broken. Just—more. And he had nobody. No Jeremy High. No friends. Just gloves and government handlers who made him into this."
They called emergency services. Reported an agent having a mental health crisis. Carefully edited the story to exclude abilities, psychic pressure, giant glove constructs—just said student with trauma having breakdown. And students who learned about it before thought nothing of it, as they believed the first generation stuff but not the existance of abilities. And so the history of abilities continued to stay hidden from the world. As the students of Jeremy High said nothing about it. Which kind of pissed Hansamu off as he watched it all happen at the time. But he would try and get his way sooner. Because he would turn the tides sooner or later.
As ambulance took Gurōbu away, he was still muttering to his gloves, still apologizing, still treating fabric like th only family he'd ever known. Three agents potentially turned. Two more to go. And Hansamu's deadline looming like an executioner's blade.
PART THREE: THE TRUTH THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING
That evening. Principal Jeremy's office. Riyura had demanded a meeting—needed to know the full truth before Hansamu's deadline. Needed to understand what they were really protecting.
"Tell me everything," Riyura said. "The 1876 founders. Their deaths. What Yakamira meant about it being worse than Hansamu knows. All of it." Principal Jeremy looked at him with exhausted eyes. Then, slowly, he began:
"The founders didn't just commit suicide. They did something—something that makes Hansamu's plans even more dangerous. Something that explains why exposing abilities to the world would be catastrophic. I can also tell that you could tell that it was his real plan to begin with from the start. Just by the look your unqiue star eyes. You saw all just I like did. All because I left my son behind which started this whole mess."
He pulled out ancient documents, protected in archival containers. "March 15th, 1896. The three founders—Hikari Shiko, Yami Hakizage, Kage Poleheadedsandwich—they were dying. The abilities were killing them. Psychic pressure of maintaining contradiction for twenty years had made them hollow. Made them demons wearing human skin. Just like Hansamu said."
"But before they died, they made a choice. They used their combined abilities—blue energy, shadows, and Kage's unique power which was psychic preservation—to create a failsafe. Created a mechanism where if someone with the Shiko bloodline died at Jeremy High while another Shiko descendant was present, the dead one could be—" He struggled with words. "—could be preserved. Suspended. Between death and life. Until conditions allowed return."
Riyura's blood ran cold. "Yakamira."
"Yes," Principal Jeremy confirmed. "Yakamira died protecting you at your father's house—technically died on Jeremy High grounds in a psychic sense because his connection to the school was so strong. And you—another Shiko descendant—were present. So the failsafe activated. Preserved him. Kept him in a state of suspended animation that looks exactly like death."
"But the government found him, we're only lucky enough they prefer to keep abilities secret from the entire world. But Hansamu wants to do things his own way." Riyura whispered. "Hansamu arranged for them to take his body. To study him. And now—"
Principal Jeremy's expression had gone pale long before he finished speaking. The realization wasn't new—but saying it aloud made it heavier. More real.
"And now Hansamu doesn't know what he actually has," he said quietly. "He doesn't know that Yakamira isn't just a person anymore. He's a preservation artifact."
He hesitated, his voice catching as the implications caught up with him.
"He doesn't know that if abilities are exposed to the world while Yakamira is in their possession…" Jeremy swallowed. "It would give them the missing piece. They could reverse-engineer the preservation technique. Study it. Replicate it."
His hands tightened at his sides.
"They could weaponize it. Create supersoldiers who never truly die. Soldiers preserved in that state between life and death. Soldiers who can't be lost because they're never allowed to be fully alive or fully gone."
The horror in his eyes wasn't theoretical. It was personal. Then he forced himself to breathe. "But you told me Yakamira is already getting himself out," he said, clinging to that single thread of hope. "That helps. That changes everything."
His voice dropped to a near whisper. "And my son might be listening," he added carefully. "So we need to stop saying certain things out loud."
The unspoken meaning lingered in the air. Some truths were dangerous. Not because they weren't real—but because someone else might hear them.
"That's what Yakamira meant," Riyura said, understanding crystallizing. "That's why he said the truth was worse. Because if Hansamu exposes abilities to prove the founders were frauds, to ridicule his father's life work—he'll accidentally give the government technology they'll absolutely weaponize. And they also don't understand Yakamira's abilities or his background while studying him. Which is also why they haven't done anything to move forward with said plan. Because they don't know if the stuff is really something to believe in as nothing major has come up. Because if it did. Stuff would have already become more confusing at this point in time."
"Exactly," Principal Jeremy confirmed. "And Hansamu—Hansamu is so focused on his personal vendetta that he can't see the larger implications. Can't see that exposing abilities isn't just proving his adoptive father wrong. It's handing the government a weapon they've wanted for centuries. It's making every person with abilities into potential research subjects. Into specimens. Into demons marked not by villages but by entire governmental systems. Because that look in his eyes shows it all. That he does not know the bigger picture, that Yakamira is a weapon that the higher ups may have just got their filthy hands on. And that being the case and all this history will lead to them realising since he's your brother, things may end up taking a turn for the worst."
Riyura pushed back his chair so abruptly it scraped against the floor. He couldn't sit still. Not with this hanging over them. He stood and began pacing.
"So we have three days," he said. "Three days to stop Hansamu from exposing abilities. Three days to get Yakamira out before the government figures out what he really is. Three days to stop this from becoming public knowledge and destroying everyone connected to it."
His jaw tightened. "And the worst part is, he thinks he's the hero of this story." Riyura ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding into every movement.
"He thinks he's tearing down his adoptive father. Thinks he's exposing some grand truth. But he has no idea what he's actually holding. He knows Yakamira has abilities—but he doesn't understand what discovering that really means. He doesn't understand what happens when governments get involved. When scientists get involved."
He stopped pacing, his hands curling into fists. "He's going to create something we can't control. Panic. Arms races. Experiments. Even with abilities, we wouldn't be able to contain the fallout."
His voice dropped, quieter now. Angrier. "He talks like he's smarter than everyone else. Like he sees the bigger picture." Riyura let out a bitter breath. "He doesn't. He's just a kid blaming his father for everything. And that kind of obsession doesn't end with justice. It ends with escalation."
He looked toward the floor. "In another time, maybe this would've stayed small. Just one family. One secret." His fingers tightened. "But this is the modern era. There's no such thing as small anymore. Not when something like this exists. This doesn't stay local. It spreads. It turns into something else. Something worse."
He shook his head. "All of this," he said quietly, "because of a story my family should've left buried. An Edo-period legend that should've stayed a legend."
His voice hardened. "And now it's going to drag the rest of the world down with it." "Yes," Principal Jeremy said. "And if we fail? If Hansamu succeeds?"
"Then every student at Jeremy High with abilities or worse others from different parts of the planet—every single one of us—becomes a target," Riyura said. His voice was steady, but the weight behind it was unmistakable.
"You. Me. Jisatsu. Even the agents who've started turning to our side. None of it will matter. We won't be people anymore. We'll be specimens. Evidence."
He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "Proof that something inhuman exists." His gaze hardened.
"And once that happens, the systems that run this world won't try to understand us. They'll try to control us. And control, to them, has always meant containment. Weapons. Violence."
The room felt smaller.
"Once abilities become public knowledge from the governments saying it themselfs, which will make it believable to the public, everything changes. Governments panic. Institutions panic. People panic. And panic doesn't create peace. It creates escalation."
He exhaled slowly. "So we stop it here," he said. "We stop Hansamu. We get Yakamira back." A brief silence followed. "Because if we don't," Riyura finished quietly. "There won't be a normal life left for any of us to go back to anymore." Principle Jeremy finished. "Also the schools security cameras came in handy learning about your tricks to help me tell you. Thanks Riyura. Aside from that don't quistion it."
"Then we don't fail, and ok," Riyura said. There was no hesitation in his voice now. The pacing, the anger, the fear—it all condensed into something harder. Something unbreakable.
"We stop him. We rescue Yakamira. And we keep abilities a secret." He lifted his head, eyes sharp with purpose.
"Jeremy High stays what it was meant to be. A sanctuary. A place for people like us to exist without being hunted. Not some feeding ground for government weapons programs pretending to be research."
The thought alone made his stomach churn. He exhaled, slower this time, forcing himself to think past the emotion. "There's something else I need to do," he admitted. "My friends deserve the truth. I told them pieces. Enough to make them fight. Enough to make them afraid."
His jaw tightened. "But I never told them the real goal. Not fully. Not what Hansamu is actually trying to trigger. Not what happens if he succeeds." He looked toward the door, already knowing what came next.
"They're risking their lives without understanding the full cost. That ends now." For a moment, the fear was still there. But it was no longer in control. "Because if we're going to stop him," Riyura said quietly, "then everyone deserves the chance to choose what they're fighting for."
His phone buzzed. Text from Keiko: "Concert tonight. Music room. I'm performing genuinely for first time since Vienna. I'd like you there. —K.P."
And another text, from Cartoon Headayami: "Tomorrow. Lunch. I'm telling you everything about Komedi and the Shiko family. About why I came to Jeremy High. About secrets I've kept. Be ready. —C.H."
Riyura's phone buzzed again. The sound was small. But in the silence of the room, it landed like a gunshot. He looked down. And it was from Hansamu. He opened it. The message was short. Deliberate. Cold.
"Two days remaining. Then I reveal everything. The abilities. The founders' fraud. The preservation technique. The truth behind Jeremy High. I will show the world what's really been happening behind the facade of education. The experiments. The lies. The things you all thought would stay buried. Unless your precious Principal Jeremy steps forward first. Unless my father admits the truth. Publicly. Unless he apologizes. For abandoning me. If he doesn't… then the world learns everything. Choose wisely. —H.Y."
Riyura felt his throat tighten. But there was more. A second message appeared beneath it. Shorter. Sharper. More personal.
"Oh—and one more thing. The other day… when you said you thought I had family issues. You weren't insightful. You weren't clever. You were just overthinking. You were wrong. So go to hell… goodbye."
The screen dimmed in his hand. Two days. Not three. Two. Hansamu wasn't bluffing anymore. This wasn't anger. This was a countdown. And countdowns only ever moved in one direction.
The final battle was coming. And everyone—Riyura, the agents, the friend group, Principal Jeremy, even Yakamira suspended between escape on his own or waiting for Riyura as he sat hiding from gaurds in a mini cupboard—everyone would be caught in the explosion when it arrived.
EPILOGUE: THE PERFORMANCE THAT HEALED NOTHING BUT MEANT EVERYTHING
That night. Music room. Keiko sat at the piano, no longer shaking, no longer afraid. Just—ready. Ready to perform genuinely instead of desperately. Ready to make music instead of forcing it.
Riyura and the entire friend group attended. Watched as Keiko played—not perfectly, not flawlessly, but honestly. Real emotion instead of practiced perfection. Genuine expression instead of desperate performance.
When he finished, his hands were steady. His eyes were clear. And his smile was real.
"Thank you," Keiko said. "For not letting me give up. For showing me performance could be art instead of survival. For proving that breaking doesn't mean permanently broken. It just means—" He gestured at the piano. "—means learning new ways to play. Different notes. Different rhythms. But still music. Still beautiful. Still worth sharing with others."
"You're welcome," Riyura said. "And congratulations. On finding your genuine sound again." As they left, Riyura realized: Keiko's arc had concluded. Resolved. Healed as much as trauma heals—which is imperfectly, but meaningfully.
One character arc complete. Several more to resolve. Two days until Hansamu's deadline. And the battle for Jeremy High's survival entering its final phase. Tomorrow would bring Headayami's revelations about Komedi. About the Shiko family secrets. About why everything was connected in ways nobody understood yet.
And then—then came the final confrontation. The last battle. The moment where broken people would either survive together or fall separately. Jeremy High's fate hung in the balance.
And nobody—not even Hansamu with all his planning—was ready for what happened when desperation met determination met the stubborn refusal to let systems destroy sanctuary.
[NARRATOR: And so Gurōbu breaks. Keiko heals. The 1876 truth deepens. And Hansamu's true goal revealed: not just revenge on his father, but exposure of abilities to world to prove founders were frauds while accidentally giving government weapons research they've wanted for centuries. Next episode: Headayami's secrets. Komedi's full past. The Shiko family legacy explained. And Muzaki/Kaiju's relationship reaching a hopeful conclusion. Then—then the finale begins. Stay with us. The end approaches.]
TO BE CONTINUED...