The sun had barely begun its descent when the first sound broke the sanctuary of the schoolyard.
It was a sharp, percussive crack—a dry snap that echoed off the concrete walls.
To the other children and the adults laughing near the gates, it was perhaps a distant car backfiring or a construction site nearby.
They remained unfazed, their joy providing a thick layer of insulation against the world.
But Narasao heard it.
He paused, his small head tilting, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face before it was replaced by a wide, toothy grin.
"Mommy, I'm gonna go pee-pee!" he announced, his voice a bright bell in the afternoon air.
His mother chuckled, the sound as warm as the sunlight on his back.
She reached down, patting his head with a tenderness that felt like a shield.
"Okay, little explorer. But don't take too long, okay? If you're a slowpoke, you'll miss out on the fireworks we're about to prepare for you and everyone else!"
Narasao's eyes went wide, and he let out a tiny, breathless gasp. "The fireworks? They're coming? Okay! I'm gonna go and pee super-fast!"
He threw his arms around her waist, squeezing her tightly one last time, burying his face in the familiar scent of her dress.
Then, he turned and bolted toward the public restroom.
He ran with the clumsy, high-energy gait of a seven-year-old, his small shoes tapping a rhythmic beat against the pavement.
He never looked back.
Not once.
Inside the school, the hallways were quiet, filled only with the smell of floor wax and the soft light of the afternoon.
Narasao's shoes squeaked on the tiles as he slid around corners, his heart dancing with the secret of the upcoming show.
He greeted teachers with a frantic wave and shared a giggle with a boy he passed in the hall, his mind already painting the sky in neon streaks of red and blue.
He reached the bathroom, panting slightly as he pushed the heavy door open.
"If they start the fireworks now, I hope I can still hear them from in here!" he whispered to himself, a giggle bubbling up in his throat.
He hurried through his task, his hands a blur as he washed them at the sink, the water splashing his new uniform.
He didn't care.
He was too excited.
He dried his hands on his pants and burst back out into the hallway, ready to reclaim his place in the sun.
There was no sound of fireworks yet.
He assumed it was because he was deep in the building, the thick walls muffling the celebration.
He began to run toward the exit, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Then, it happened.
BANG.
It was loud.
It was clear.
It felt as if the air itself had been slapped.
Narasao skidded to a halt, his eyes wide.
That 'bang' didn't sound like the whistles and crackles he had seen on TV.
It was heavy.
Final.
"They already started? Wait for me! I wanna see!"
He laughed, a small, nervous sound, and began to run again.
BANG.
Another one.
Closer this time.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
With every step he took toward the light of the exit, the sounds grew more frequent, more rhythmic.
They weren't constant like a show; they were deliberate.
And they were being accompanied by a new sound—a high, pale keening that he realized were screams.
He could see the exit now.
The glass doors were just a few meters in front of him, glowing with the golden light of the outside world.
But he slowed to a walk.
His legs felt heavy, his stomach churning with a sudden, icy dread.
The 'fireworks' didn't sound right.
They sounded like breaking glass.
They sounded like slamming doors.
And the screams were getting louder.
They were coming from the playground.
They were coming from where his mommy was.
Suddenly, a figure appeared in the doorway.
It was his mother.
Narasao's heart leaped with a sudden, desperate relief.
He let out a sob of joy and ran toward her, his arms outstretched.
She looked different; her movements were clumsy, her shoulders hunched as if she were carrying a heavy weight.
She staggered toward him, her shadow stretching long and jagged across the tiles.
"Thank you, Mommy! You really brought the fireworks like you and Daddy promised! Thank you!"
He threw himself into her, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her stomach.
She slumped forward, her arms draped over his shoulders in what felt like a tight, suffocating embrace.
He squeezed her back, his eyes squeezed shut with gratitude.
But as he held her, he felt something warm and wet seeping into his shirt.
"Mommy? Why does it feel like your body is wet?"
He pulled back slowly, his small hands sliding over her skin.
He looked down at his palms and saw they were coated in a thick, dark red liquid.
"Ketchup…?" he muttered, his voice trembling.
He touched it, the texture sticky and metallic.
It didn't smell like tomatoes.
It smelled like the rusted iron pipes on the playground.
"It feels too shallow for ketchup. Mommy, why did you cover yourself in ketchup? Is it a game?"
He lifted his head to look up at her.
Her face was a silhouette against the blinding sun behind her, a dark mask that hid her eyes.
He felt her shift, her weight becoming too much for him to hold.
She collapsed.
She didn't sit down; she fell, her body hitting the tiles with a heavy, wet thud.
Narasao stumbled back, his breath catching in his throat as he looked down at her face.
"Mom…? Why do you look scary…?"
Her eyes were wide, staring at a point behind him with a glassiness that made his skin crawl.
Her mouth was open, but no breath came out.
The red liquid was everywhere now, pooling around her head like a dark, expanding halo.
And then, the world truly opened up.
With the silence of his mother came the unfiltered roar of the outside.
The 'bangs' were constant now, sharp and piercing.
He looked past her, through the open door, and saw the playground he had just left.
It was a charnel house.
The 'ketchup' was splattered across the colorful slides and the swing sets.
He saw people running—not in a game of tag, but in a frantic, losing race for their lives.
He saw a man holding a lifeless child, screaming a sound that wasn't human.
He saw figures in the distance carrying long, black 'toy' guns, the barrels spitting fire.
He saw a teacher he liked—a woman who had smiled at him just minutes ago—collapsing as her head snapped back.
He saw things a seven-year-old was never meant to comprehend: the flash of a blade, the horrific decapitation of a classmate, the way bodies piled up like discarded dolls.
The air was thick with the scent of copper and the deafening, overlapping shrieks of the dying.
Narasao stood in the doorway, a small, blood-stained ghost witnessing the arrival of hell on earth.
And so, he began to run.
He didn't know where he was going.
He ran through the blood-slicked hallways, his feet splashing in the red pools.
He ran past the bodies of his playmates, their faces frozen in expressions of terror that mirrored his own.
The sounds were unbearable—the wet thuds, the mechanical clatter of the guns, the guttural shouts of the men in the distance.
He rounded a corner near the car and tripped.
He tumbled over something soft and heavy.
He scrambled to his feet, shaking the hair out of his eyes, and looked down.
It was his father.
His father was lying on his back, his arms wrapped protectively around a smaller figure.
It was Narasao's sister.
Both of them were still.
Both of them were covered in the same 'ketchup' that had taken his mother.
Narasao backed away, his chest heaving, his head shaking in a violent, rhythmic denial.
No. No. No.
Everyone's faces looked scary.
Their eyes were too big, their skin too pale.
He wanted it to be Halloween.
But he can only hope it was.
He prayed to the God Miss Idila had mentioned, begging for the masks to come off, for his father to sit up and laugh, for his sister to stick her tongue out at him.
But the only answer was another BANG in the distance, and the cold, unyielding silence of his family.