Shino noticed the compassion pooling in his eyes—soft, unhurried, steady as a held breath.
The late afternoon light caught the sharp line of his jaw, gilded the edges of his dark hair where it fell against his collar. She could smell the lingering traces of the afternoon on him: faint green tea from the café, something clean like soap beneath it, and underneath all that, the warm cedar note that was simply *him*. The kind of scent that made her want to press her nose to the hollow of his throat and stay there.
Meeting Hozuki Nozomi was truly the luckiest thing in my life.
The thought settled into her chest like a stone dropped into still water—not heavy, but real. Undeniable.
They walked through the dormitory entrance together, shoes clicking against the polished floor. Somewhere down the hall, a television murmured through a thin wall; she caught fragments of a weather report, something about scattered showers tomorrow. The air smelled of floor polish and the faint sweetness of someone's laundry detergent drifting from the stairwell.
When they reached his room, Nozomi didn't hesitate.
He lifted her—easily, as though she weighed nothing at all—and carried her past the threshold. Shino's heart stuttered. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt at his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin bleeding through the cloth.
He sat on the edge of his bed with her settled in his lap, her thighs bracketing his hips. The position was intimate. Deliberately so. She could feel the solid line of his chest against her own, the slow rhythm of his breathing.
Nozomi tilted her chin up with two fingers. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth.
"Shino." His voice was low, teasing. "We're home now. How are you going to thank me?"
Heat bloomed across her cheeks. She could feel it spreading down her neck, across her collarbones. Her gaze flicked to his lips—full, curved slightly at the edges with barely suppressed amusement—then away again.
*He's doing this on purpose.*
She bit her lower lip. Gathered her courage like gathering frayed thread.
Then she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his cheek. Soft. Quick. The skin beneath her lips was warm, smooth, faintly rough with the shadow of stubble that wouldn't fully come in until evening.
"Is this... okay?"
Nozomi's smile widened.
"Not enough."
He didn't give her time to react.
His hand slid to the back of her neck, cradling her skull, and he tilted her face up as his mouth descended on hers. The kiss wasn't gentle—not this time. It was firm, claiming, his lips moving against hers with a deliberate pressure that stole the breath from her lungs. She tasted him: mint, something darker beneath, the faint echo of the black coffee he'd drunk at the café. His tongue swept across the seam of her lips, and she opened for him without thinking.
He knows, she realized, even as her thoughts went hazy at the edges. He knows I'm still afraid. That some part of me is waiting for him to realize I'm too much trouble. Too damaged. Too—
His other hand pressed flat against the small of her back, pulling her closer, and the thought shattered like glass.
Nozomi kissed her until she was breathless, until her fingers were knotted in his hair, until the last of that cold, gnawing fear in her chest had been drowned in warmth.
---
On the other side of the city, the afternoon wore a different face.
Aonaka Saya stood at the school gate with her arms crossed, her uniform skirt swaying in a breeze that carried exhaust fumes from the passing traffic and the faint green scent of the campus lawn behind her. The cherry trees lining the street had already shed most of their blossoms; pink petals lay in damp clumps along the gutters, browning at the edges.
Her two sidekicks had already peeled off toward the train station. She'd waved them away with an excuse—Masao-kun is picking me up—but the truth was she hadn't wanted them to see her face.
She felt wrong. Hollowed out.
Thinking about how I'd been targeting Asada... I feel terrible.
The memory of that boy's voice kept looping in her head. Asada's boyfriend, with his dark eyes and that calm, patient way of speaking, explaining how Shino had only ever been trying to protect her mother. How the shooting had been an accident. How she'd been eleven years old when it happened.
Saya had spent months calling her a murderer.
She pressed her thumbnail into the meat of her palm until the pain grounded her.
"Saya! Have you been waiting long?"
The voice yanked her back to the present. She looked up.
Takagi Masao jogged toward her, his buzzcut catching the light like sandpaper. He was grinning—that wide, easy grin that had drawn her to him in the first place. His tank top showed off the swell of his arms, tanned and thick with muscle. He smelled like cheap body spray and sweat, the kind of aggressive masculine scent that some girls found attractive.
I used to think it was attractive, she thought, and then wondered why the past tense had crept into her head.
"Not really," she said. The smile she offered him felt thin, stretched too tight across her teeth.
Masao's grin faltered. He stepped closer, and she caught the wet mineral smell of the sports drink he'd been chugging.
"What's wrong?" His brows drew together, a parody of concern. "Did someone bully you? I'll go beat them up!"
He flexed as he said it, biceps jumping beneath tanned skin.
He always does that, she thought. Makes everything about showing off.
"No, no one bullied me." She shook her head, lowering her gaze to the cracked pavement. A crushed soda can lay near her foot, its red aluminum catching the fading sun. "It's just... I feel guilty."
The words spilled out before she could stop them.
"I used to think Asada was a two-faced murderer. But today I learned from her boyfriend that she only accidentally shot that bank robber because she was trying to protect her mother. She was just a kid." Saya swallowed around the tightness in her throat. "Thinking about how I've been treating her... I feel terrible."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Masao's voice came out strangled: "Asada has a boyfriend?! No way!"
Saya's head snapped up.
She stared at him. At the way his jaw had gone slack. At the flicker of something in his eyes that looked far too much like disappointment.
What's that expression?
"What," she said slowly, "she has a boyfriend, and you're reluctant to let her go?"
"Uh—" Masao's hands came up, palms out, like he was warding off a blow. "No! No, not at all! My heart only belongs to you, Saya!"
The words rolled off his tongue too smoothly, practiced, like he'd said it a hundred times to a hundred different girls.
I'd be crazy to believe him.
But she didn't say that. She said: "Hmph. But don't even think about it. Asada's boyfriend isn't only handsome—he's gentle. He actually cherishes her."
The implication hung in the air between them: unlike you.
Masao laughed, too loud and too quick. "Haha! That's why I said it—I have no feelings for Asada! Anyway, let's not talk about other people." He grabbed her hand before she could pull away, his palm damp with sweat. "Let's go to the club, Saya. I want to introduce you to someone."
"The club?"
Saya let herself be pulled along, though her feet felt heavy. The streets blurred past—konbini storefronts, a ramen shop with a faded banner, pedestrians in office wear shuffling home. The smell of the city layered over itself: grilled yakitori from a food cart, gasoline, the faintly sour undertone of garbage baking in a nearby alley.
They turned down a narrow side street. The buildings here were older, paint peeling from iron railings. A neon sign buzzed overhead, advertising a hostess bar that wouldn't open for another three hours.
At the end of the block stood a nondescript building with tinted windows. A clubhouse.
Saya stopped walking.
"Masao-kun." Her voice came out smaller than she intended. "Why did you bring me here?"
He squeezed her hand—too tight—and smiled. "It's my boss. He wants to meet you, you know? So he can look out for us in the future."
His boss.
The word sat wrong in her stomach.
"Do we have to meet him?"
"Definitely." Masao tugged her forward. His grip didn't loosen. "Don't worry, Saya. I'm right here. I just brought you to say hello, so my buddies don't accidentally offend you later. It'll be quick."
Quick.
"Then... alright."
The interior smelled of cigarette smoke and leather, cut with something sickly-sweet that she couldn't identify—incense, maybe, or air freshener trying too hard to mask something else. Low lighting turned the walls amber. A hostess in a too-short skirt brushed past them with a tray of drinks, not making eye contact.
Masao led her to a private room at the back.
When the door slid open, Saya's throat tightened.
The man sitting at the center of the leather couch was huge. His head was shaved to the scalp, and his body bulged with muscle—not the gym-sculpted kind that Masao cultivated, but something rawer, utilitarian, the physique of a man who'd used his fists for real. His eyes were small and sharp beneath heavy brows, and a cross-shaped scar cut across his forehead, the tissue pale and puckered against his tan skin.
He looked like a human beast.
Kimoto Atsushi.
I don't want to be here, something whispered in the back of her skull.
"Yo, Masao." The beast-man's voice was a low rumble. He didn't stand. His gaze slid over Saya like she was a cut of meat in a display case. "Is this your girlfriend? She's quite pretty."
"Hehe, thanks for the compliment, Kimoto-san." Masao bowed slightly. "Please take care of her in the future."
"No problem." Kimoto's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I'll definitely take good care of her."
He's looking at me like he wants to eat me.
Saya forced a smile. Lowered her gaze. Her pulse was loud in her ears.
Beside Kimoto, another man sat with a glass of whiskey balanced on his knee. He wore a tailored suit—charcoal, clearly expensive—and glasses with thin metal frames. His face was refined, almost handsome, the kind of face you'd trust in a hospital waiting room. He looked entirely out of place next to the beast-man.
Shinokawa, Masao had murmured as they entered.
The two of them were deep in conversation, their voices low. Saya caught fragments: virtual reality... full-dive technology... the Shinkawa boy has gone missing... find him before the police do...
A hostess appeared at her elbow with a drink. Champagne, pale gold, fizzing gently.
"For the lady."
Saya took it without thinking. The first sip was sweet, almost too sweet, with an undertone of something she couldn't place.
By the time she'd drained half the glass, her limbs had gone soft as wet silk.
"Ugh..." The room tilted. She reached for the armrest and missed. "What's going on? Masao-kun?"
She looked up at her boyfriend.
He was staring at her.
His eyes were wrong. They were the eyes of a predator watching a trap snap shut.
"Sorry, Saya." His voice was casual, almost bored. "Kimoto-san and Shinokawa-san both want to have a taste of you."
The words didn't register. Couldn't register.
"Of course, in the end, you'll definitely come back to me. Your boyfriend." He smiled. "I'll make sure of it."
Horror crashed over her like ice water.
"You—" Her voice cracked. "Why would you do this? I'm your *girlfriend*!"
Masao's gaze dropped to her chest. He licked his lips.
"Saya, why won't you ever let me touch you?" His tone was petulant, almost whining. "We're all out here doing business. Since you're my girlfriend, you should've given yourself to me a long time ago."
He's been waiting for this.
He planned this.
"Don't worry," Masao continued, moving toward her. "Kimoto-san is very skilled. You'll be happy. And that drink? It only makes you weak. Your senses, though—" He grinned. "—those get amplified twofold. You're in for a treat tonight."
"No—" Saya's tears spilled over, hot and uncontrollable. "Masao-kun, how could you—I *misjudged* you—"
None of them cared.
Kimoto Atsushi rose from the couch, stripping off his shirt. His torso was a landscape of old scars, the muscles beneath shifting like cables under his skin. He crossed to where she sat, boneless and trembling, and cupped her face with one calloused hand.
"So tender." His breath smelled of whiskey and cigarettes. "Your name is Saya, right? Nice name. Let's see if the body matches."
"Don't—don't touch me—someone help me—"
But there was no one.
Kimoto's smile widened.
He gathered her limp body into his arms and carried her toward the door.
---
The hotel room smelled of industrial cleaner and stale air freshener, that cloying lavender scent meant to mask the ghosts of previous guests. Heavy blackout curtains blocked the city lights. The only illumination came from a single bedside lamp, casting everything in sickly yellow.
Kimoto Atsushi emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, steam trailing behind him. His skin was still damp, gleaming under the low light.
On the bed, Aonaka Saya lay motionless.
Her dress and coat had been discarded on the carpet. She wore only her underwear now—plain white cotton, the kind a schoolgirl would wear—and her skin looked paper-pale against the dark sheets. Her arms lay slack at her sides. She couldn't move them.
Takagi Masao knelt at the foot of the bed, cradling one of her calves in his hands. His thumb dragged slowly along her shin, tracing the curve of muscle, savoring the texture.
"So smooth," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "I've been wanting to touch you like this for months."
Across the room, Shinokawa adjusted his camera. The red recording light blinked on.
Saya's eyes were squeezed shut. Her body trembled with fine, uncontrollable shudders.
Anyone.
Please.
Save me.
The regret was suffocating. All those months she'd spent mocking Asada Shino. Calling her a murderer. Laughing with her friends about the crazy gun girl who couldn't handle a little teasing.
And now the real monster was right beside me all along.
Kimoto Atsushi dropped his towel.
He climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and positioned himself between her legs. His hands were rough as he spread her thighs apart, fingers digging into soft flesh.
"Saya-chan," he crooned. "I'm coming ."
"Ah—no—"
Fresh tears streaked down her temples into her hair.
This is the end.
The thought was hollow. Final.
And then—
A sound like a thunderclap.
Kimoto Atsushi was gone.
No—not gone. He was airborne, his massive body hurtling across the room until he slammed headfirst into the far wall. The impact cracked plaster. Teeth scattered across the carpet like bloody dice.
"Ah—! Who is it?!"
Masao and Shinokawa scrambled backward, eyes wide, searching wildly for the source of the attack.
A young man stood at the foot of the bed.
He hadn't been there a second ago. There was no door behind him, no window—he had simply appeared, as though reality had politely stepped aside to let him through.
He was tall. Dark-haired. Handsome in that effortless way that made other men look unfinished by comparison. His posture was relaxed, hands in his pockets, his expression faintly amused.
Hozuki Nozomi.
Saya's eyes flew open at the commotion—and when she saw him, the tears came harder, faster, spilling down her cheeks in hot rivers of relief.
It's him.
Asada's boyfriend.
"You—" Masao's voice cracked. "Who the hell are you?! How did you get in here?!"
Nozomi tilted his head. His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Oh, you're busy, huh?" His tone was light, almost conversational. "I'm truly sorry, but you won't be finishing your good deed tonight."
His gaze shifted to Saya. Something in his expression softened—not pity, exactly, but acknowledgment.
"Young lady. You're lucky. I'm in a good mood today." A pause. "Don't worry. You'll be fine."
Kimoto Atsushi staggered to his feet, blood streaming from his ruined mouth. Rage twisted his features into something inhuman.
"Kid—" He spat a tooth onto the carpet and threw a wild haymaker. "I don't care how you got in here—if you disturb my fun, you can go to hell!"
Nozomi didn't move. Didn't flinch.
"So irritable," he murmured. "How uncouth."
His hand came up.
In it was a hammer—simple, utilitarian, gleaming under the lamplight.
"You're ugly to me."
Three strikes. Three wet, meaty *thwacks* that echoed off the walls.
Kimoto collapsed. Masao collapsed. Shinokawa collapsed.
None of them got up.
Nozomi lowered the hammer. His gaze swept over the fallen bodies with the disinterest of a man surveying roadkill.
If the girl weren't here, he thought, I would have burned them to ash already.
But there would be time for that later.
He had come here because Haruno-nee's investigation had finally borne fruit. Shinokawa Kyouji—one of the future Death Guns—had already been dealt with. But weeds had roots, and roots needed to be cut.
Kimoto Atsushi. If the death game had proceeded normally, this beast would have founded Laughing Coffin—a murder guild that slaughtered other players for sport, knowing that death in the game meant death in reality.
Shinokawa. His family ran a hospital, yet he'd used those resources to develop drugs like the one now coursing through the girl's veins. He'd colluded with Kimoto. Enabled him.
Since they had crossed his path, he might as well deal with them all at once.
And in the process, he'd saved a girl he'd met once before.
Nozomi glanced at Saya's trembling form. If she was safe—if she could be made to feel indebted—then perhaps she would stop targeting Shino at school.
Two birds, he thought.
One stone.
He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her exposed body, then turned toward the unconscious men with a considering expression.