The next morning started like any other — gray sky, cold wind, silence.
Akira's footsteps echoed through the empty corridor. He always came early now; it was easier when the halls were quiet.
No whispers. No eyes. Just the sound of his shoes against the floor.
He reached the classroom door and stopped.
Something felt wrong.
The air — it smelled faintly of paint… and something else.
Metallic. Sharp.
He pushed the door open.
And froze.
Across the blackboard, written in thick red strokes, were the words:
> "HOW MANY MORE, AKIRA?"
For a second, his mind went blank. The smell hit him again — stronger this time. It wasn't paint.
It was blood.
A few drops still slid down the chalkboard.
His heartbeat quickened. He stepped closer, and that's when he saw it — a dead bird, nailed to the frame above the board. Its small wings spread wide, crimson dripping from its beak.
The sight punched the air from his chest.
Someone had done this. Someone who wanted him to see it first.
---
The sound of footsteps came from behind him. A few students had arrived early.
Their gasps filled the room.
"What the hell—"
"Is that… blood?"
"Did he do this?"
Akira turned slowly, and the look in their eyes said it all.
Fear.
Disgust.
Accusation.
He opened his mouth. "It wasn't—"
But the teacher rushed in just then, followed by more students. The room exploded with noise.
"Everyone out! Out now!"
"Call the staff office!"
In seconds, the hallway filled with shouts and whispers.
And through it all, Akira stood still, his hands shaking slightly. The red words on the board burned into his mind.
---
By afternoon, the rumor had spread across the entire school.
> "Akira brought blood to school."
"He wrote that message himself."
"He's losing it again."
He didn't try to defend himself. He knew how pointless it was.
But this time, something about the whispers felt different.
They weren't just mocking. They were scared.
Someone was pushing things further — and Akira didn't know why.
---
After classes, he was called to the teacher's office.
The teacher's expression was tense. "Akira, I know this is difficult, but… the school can't ignore what happened. Until we find out who did it, please stay quiet and avoid attention."
He nodded. "I understand."
As he stood to leave, he noticed a student waiting outside the office.
A girl — neat uniform, confident posture, cold eyes that watched him like he was a stranger.
For a split second, their eyes met.
Something about her gaze made his stomach tighten — a strange, familiar feeling.
She looked away first and walked down the hall, teachers greeting her respectfully as she passed.
> "That's her," someone whispered nearby. "The prodigy from Class 2-A."
Akira ignored her.
But for some reason, his chest ached as he watched her leave.
---
That night, he sat by his window again. The photo on the table lay face-down, as always.
He replayed the morning in his head — the smell of blood, the message, the eyes staring at him.
It wasn't random. It was personal.
His phone buzzed. Another message.
> "You saw it, didn't you?"
"Next time, it won't be a bird."
Akira's hand trembled slightly as he typed back — the first time he ever replied.
> "Who are you?"
Three dots appeared. Then, after a pause:
> "Someone who knows what you really did."
The screen went black.
For the first time in months, Akira felt something worse than guilt.
Fear.
But beneath that fear, a flicker of something else stirred — anger.
The same quiet, suffocating anger that had lived in him since that night.
---
Lightning flashed outside, lighting up his scar.
He stood slowly, his reflection in the window staring back — tired, broken… but no longer afraid.
> "If they want to play," he whispered,
"I'll play."
End of Chapter 3