#killer au

You enjoyed the silence that came with it, no more car horns, shouting neighbors, or blaring sirens. Just birdsong in the morning, wind brushing through the trees, and the occasional creak of the old house settling into itself. It was a kind of quiet that made you feel like you could finally breathe.

You had two neighbors, though you’d only officially met one—Minjae. Odd guy, always smelled like spices and coffee, but he was good at small talk, although he was an asshole. He’d mentioned your other neighbor once, in passing. Jungwon.

Apparently, Jungwon didn’t come out much during the day. Liked his solitude. Kept to himself.

Which explains why you hadn’t seen a hairstrand of him, and it had been over a week.

Minjae had laughed it off. Said something like, “He’s not the social type, don’t take it personally.”

You hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Some people just liked to be left alone.

But your curiosity still gnawed at you.

Jungwon’s house sat just a few trees away from your own, the rooftop visible through the gaps in the branches. And yet you never heard anything. Not the hum of a television. Not a door creaking open. Not even footsteps on the gravel path leading up to it.

It made you wonder if anyone even lived there at all.

There were no lights in the windows at night. The mailbox stayed empty, the yard overgrown but not quite wild. As if someone tended to it, just barely enough to keep up appearances.

Once or twice, you thought you saw movement behind the curtains, just a twitch, just a shift of shadow—but when you blinked, it was gone.

You tried to ignore it. Told yourself you were being dramatic.

After all, there had to be a reason Jungwon wasn’t so… well, social. Maybe he had anxiety, or health issues. Maybe he worked from home and liked his privacy. It wasn’t your business—people had their own lives, their own routines. Still, he’d have to leave the house eventually. For groceries, at least.

But every time you drove past his house on your way to the main road, the garage door was shut tight. The curtains stayed drawn. No porch lights flicked on, no signs of life behind the windows just stillness. As if the house had fallen asleep and never quite woken up again.

Sometimes you’d linger a second too long at the stop sign near his driveway, eyes scanning for movement.

Nothing.

and you tried not to think too hard about it.

Until… well, until you had to.

Because you saw him.

For the first time in a whole fucking month you caught sight of him.

It was late, the kind of late where the town felt like it didn’t exist. You couldn’t sleep, your head too full, so you decided on a walk to clear your mind. The air was cool, crisp, the scent of pine thick around you.

You hadn’t even looked toward his house at first. But something, some shift, some instinct made your eyes flick in that direction.

And there he was.

Standing just at the edge of his porch, his head was tilted slightly, like he was listening. Like he’d heard you coming. He wasn’t doing anything special. Just… standing. Watching with his eyes on you.

You froze.

For a second—less than that, really you wondered if he was sleepwalking. Or if he’d heard something outside. Maybe he’d just stepped out for air, like you.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t wave. Didn’t speak.

Just stood there, staring like you were the unusual thing here. Like you were the one being observed.

Your heart picked up.

You gave a tight nod, a polite gesture, and turned your feet back toward your driveway.

You didn’t go on that walk.

After that night, things changed. You started seeing Jungwon more and more. Never during the day—never when others were around. Only in fleeting moments, when the world was still and the street lay empty under the quiet hush of twilight. Sometimes it was random. A glimpse of him at the edge of the trees when you stepped out to water the garden. His figure crossing behind a window as you passed by on your evening run. Always distant. Always brief. Other times… it felt timed. Too perfectly timed. Like the moment you’d open your front door to leave for work, and there he’d be, standing just outside his garage, as if he’d been waiting. Not doing anything, not even pretending to look busy. Just there. Eyes meeting yours for a fraction too long before he'd turn and vanish inside again.

Or the night you came home late, headlights sweeping across his driveway and caught him sitting on his porch steps in the dark, staring down the road. He didn’t flinch at the light. Didn’t look away. You locked your doors extra tight that night. You told yourself it was coincidence. A weird neighbor with a weird schedule. Nothing more. But the sightings kept happening. And soon, you realized—you weren’t just noticing him. He was watching you notice him. And not once, not ever, did he smile.

It got harder to pretend it was just coincidence.

Especially when it kept happening. When your door creaked open for the mail and he was suddenly at his window. When you went to take out the trash and heard footsteps stop like someone had been walking and suddenly paused.

And it was always just too late to catch him in the act.

Until the night it wasn’t.

You’d been out late, visiting the small 24-hour market on the edge of town, grabbing tea and snacks to distract yourself from the way your nerves had been crawling lately. The streets were empty on your walk back, save for the steady crunch of gravel under your shoes.

You turned the corner to your street and nearly dropped the bag.

Jungwon was standing in front of your house.

Not near it. Not passing by.

In front of it.

Facing your door. Like he’d been knocking. Or about to.

But he didn’t flinch when he saw you. Didn’t seem startled at all. Instead, he turned to face you slowly, as if he’d known you were coming all along. And then, he smiled.

Not a small smile. Not a polite one.

A wide, bright grin that split his face in a way that was so perfect, with dimples creasing both cheeks so deep it made him look innocent.

That was the first thing you noticed—his dimples.

The second was how his eyes looked. Catlike. Slanted and sharp, like he was amused by something only he understood. His nose scrunched slightly as he spoke, voice light and pleasant.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said, holding out a medium-sized box. “This was left on my porch this morning. Must’ve been delivered to the wrong house.”

You blinked, caught completely off guard. His tone was so casual. So normal.

“I figured I’d give it to you myself. Didn’t want it to get wet or anything,” he said, flashing another grin.

And just like that everything you’d suspected about him, the unease and the quiet dread… it all slipped quietly out the window.

Because how could someone with a smile like that be dangerous?

“Thank you,” you said quietly, reaching out to take the box from his hands.

Your fingers brushed his.

And for a second, you paused.

He wasn’t cold exactly, not like ice but there was a definite chill to him. Like he’d been standing outside far longer than you’d thought. Or.. like the warmth just didn’t quite reach his skin the way it should.

Still, he didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care.

“You always keep your lights on late,” he said, his voice softer now, like he was sharing a secret. “It makes the street look… nicer. Brighter.” His eyes flicked to your porch light, then back to you. “Makes it feel less lonely out here.”

You gave a small smile, unsure of what to say. Trying to steer the conversation somewhere more neutral, you asked, “Have you lived here long?”

He nodded. “Long enough,” he said easily. “I know this town like the back of my hand. Every street. Every shortcut. Every sound the woods make when the wind picks up.” Then, with another smile—this one smaller, more thoughtful he added, “I think I was here before most people on this block.”

There was something in the way he said it. Not proud. Just… certain.

Like this place was his long before it had ever been yours.

You held the box a little tighter to your chest, not out of fear, but instinct. There was something about Jungwon that kept you suspended between comfort and unease, it was like he balanced delicately on a wire stretched between charming and unknowable.

He didn’t move right away. Just stood there, eyes flicking between you and the soft glow coming from your windows. “I’m glad you moved here,” he said suddenly, voice lower this time, like it wasn’t meant to be heard too loudly. “It’s nice having someone new on the street.”

You offered a tight smile, nodding slightly. “Yeah… it’s been nice so far. Quiet.”

He hummed at that. “It’s always quiet. That’s why I like it.”

A pause.

Then, he took a single step back, giving you space.

“Well,” he said, dimples flashing again, “I’ll let you get back inside. Long day, I’m guessing.”

You gave a quiet “yeah,” not entirely trusting your voice.

He nodded once more, then walked towards his house without another word. He didn’t rush. Didn’t even glance back.

But you watched him the entire time until his figure disappeared into his house, where the lights seemingly never seemed to turn on.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Jungwon let out a slow breath and leaned back against it, eyes fluttering shut.

So pretty. So flawless. Smells good. So lovely. So unmarked. Can’t stop wanting. Need. Desire. I need. All mine.

The thoughts circled like vultures, silent and persistent, scratching at the corners of his mind. They’d come on strong the second your fingers brushed his, just one small touch, but it had burned into his skin like a brand. A delicate moment, but to him, it felt like the world tipping off its axis.

He dragged his hands down his face and clenched his fists tightly at his sides, nails digging crescents into his palms.

Resist.

His breath shuddered.

Don’t want to.

You were just so... warm. So real. The light from your door still echoed behind his eyes, the shape of your smile hauntingly clear.

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep grounded. Had to remind himself not to get carried away. But even then, the restraint was paper-thin.

Need. Must have.

He opened his eyes slowly.

Then rubbed his face with both hands, dragging them down with a muffled groan before tossing his head back to look up at the ceiling. “God,” he breathed, a strained laugh curling at the edge of his voice. “This is ridiculous.”

He groaned again, this time quieter, as if giving in to something he’d been fighting for too long. The thoughts were too loud tonight. Too vivid. You had been right there. Smiling. Talking. Trusting.

He let his hands fall to his sides, fingers twitching.

And then… he smiled.

Not from joy.

From surrender.

Because it was over now, any hope of pretending he didn’t want you. Of pretending this was something he could control.

You were close. Too close.

And that was all he needed.

Because in his mind, you belonged here. With him.

You weren’t much of a morning person. Waking up was always a slow, miserable process, each second before your alarm spent burrowed under warm covers, clinging to the last traces of sleep.

Although recently… sleep hadn’t been so kind.

You’d been plagued by dreams. Vivid ones. The kind that jolted you awake in the early hours, chest heaving, skin clammy, heart pounding like you’d sprinted through a nightmare, but they weren’t nightmares. Not exactly.

Because every time, it was the same.

Jungwon.

His face. Too close. Too clear. Smiling like he knew something you didn’t. Eyes dark and unreadable. His voice softer than usual, lower, like a whisper curling against your ear, warm and invasive, sending shivers down your spine. His hands… you didn’t even want to think about his hands. But you did.

Even now, you could feel the phantom sensation of them trailing along your arm, brushing your waist, resting against your throat like a promise.

And every time you closed your eyes, you saw it all again.

You hated how real it felt. Hated how your body reacted. Most of all… you hated how it left you wide awake, every damn night, staring at the ceiling in silence.

And you didn’t even know why you reacted like this.

You’d only had one real conversation with him—one—but your mind and body refused to let it go. It looped endlessly, the smile he gave you, the way his fingers brushed yours, the soft timbre of his voice as he spoke your name like he’d practiced it before. It wasn’t normal. None of this was normal.

But maybe that was on you.

Maybe it was your own fault for always falling for the morally grey characters in books and movies. For crushing on the charming villains. For feeling your heart skip a beat when the dangerous ones smirked from across the screen. You liked characters with sharp edges. Broken things. The ones that looked at the world like it was something they wanted to hold and tear apart all at once.

And Jungwon… well. He had that look.

The kind that made you wonder what he was thinking. What he wanted.

Even if he gave off a strange, unsettling vibe sometimes.

You really tried to put distance between yourself and Jungwon. It should’ve been easy right? After all, the guy was practically a ghost. Barely ever seen outside his house, silent as the shadows that clung to the edges of the street. You thought avoiding him would be simple. You told yourself it was just your imagination running wild, that the strange pull you felt wasn’t real.

But it wasn’t that simple.

Somehow, in the span of just a few days, you’d become a light and Jungwon the firefly, constantly drawn to you. The harder you tried to keep your distance, the closer he seemed to come. It was like the universe had conspired to make you the one person who could pull him out of the shadows.

You weren’t sure if it was just curiosity that kept making you look, kept making you wait just a little longer for the next chance encounter.

And no matter how much you told yourself to look away, to keep moving, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was exactly where he wanted to be, lingering just at the edge of your life, waiting for you to let him in.

You weren’t the only one who had noticed Jungwon’s strange behavior—or rather, his rare appearances. One afternoon, as you were closing the gate to your little house, Minjae’s car pulled up smoothly beside you. He rolled down the window with a friendly grin, starting up a conversation like he always did. It was lighthearted, normal chatter about the weather and how quiet the neighborhood had been lately.

Then, without warning, Minjae lifted his hand and waved toward something behind you. You turned around instinctively, following the direction of his motion, and your eyes locked onto a figure standing on the porch of the house next door.

Jungwon.

He was just standing there, still as a statue, but his eyes were fixed entirely on you. Not just glancing or casually watching, but staring, like he was trying to memorize every detail of your face. Your heart skipped a beat, and you found, almost against your will, that you couldn’t tear your gaze away from him.

It was Minjae’s voice that pulled you back to reality. “You know,” he said with a half-laugh, “you’re a miracle worker.”

You blinked, puzzled. “What?”

He nodded toward Jungwon again, still watching you from his porch. “I mean, look at him. He barely leaves the house, right? And now here he is, actually outside, and you’re the reason. You’ve somehow brought Jungwon out of his shell.”

You chuckled nervously, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “I don’t know about that. I’m just living my life.”

Minjae smirked, obviously not convinced. “Come on, tell me your secret. What did you do to make the impossible happen?”

You shrugged, trying to play it off, but Minjae was insistent. Then, with a casual ease that made you pause, he said, “Honestly, only someone as pretty as you could make that kind of miracle happen.”

The words hung in the air, but something about them felt… off.

It wasn’t like when Jungwon would call you pretty. That compliment was different, almost shy, like it came from a place of quiet admiration. The way he said it made you feel seen in a way that was almost tender.

Minjae’s words, on the other hand, felt like a label. Like an objectifying gaze, rather than genuine praise. It was as if he saw you as a prize or a tool, a way to coax Jungwon out, rather than a person in your own right.

You forced a smile, but inside, a little knot of discomfort tightened.

With Jungwon, you often found yourself wondering why he isolated himself from the world. When he was with you, he was warm, engaging even charming in that quiet way of his. He made you laugh, made you feel seen. There were times when you completely forgot he was ever the reclusive neighbor you’d only heard about from a distance. Around you, he seemed normal. Happy, even.

And maybe that was what made the contrast so jarring when you tried to leave.

It started small.

“Stay a little longer,” he’d say, voice quiet, hopeful. “Just until the rain lets up.” Even when there was barely a drizzle.

Or, “I made coffee. Your favorite,” even though you never actually told him what that was.

Little things. Little excuses. And the more time you spent with him, the more you began to realize that he didn’t want you to leave him.

He’d linger at your gate, walking you out only to hold onto your sleeve as you turned to go. His fingers would brush your wrist and he’d offer one more reason. “It gets so quiet when you’re gone.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that.

There was a neediness to it—not desperate, or dramatic but quietly intense. Like he wasn’t just fond of you, but dependent on your presence to stay grounded. You noticed how his shoulders drooped when you said goodbye, how his gaze followed you all the way until you disappeared from sight. How sometimes, when you didn’t come by, he’d appear at your door with some vague excuse, or a “hey, just checking in.”

He never said the words, but you could feel them lingering between you...

Please stay. Don’t go.

But you would never admit the fact that you kind of… liked the feeling. There was something about the way Jungwon looked at you, like you were the center of his universe. Like your presence alone kept his world spinning. He was a yearning man—and you were into it. Maybe it was a little twisted. Maybe it should’ve creeped you out. But it didn’t.

It made you feel wanted. Needed. Chosen.

And that quiet hunger in his eyes? It was hard to ignore. Harder not to feel a little thrill every time you caught it.

You were, in fact, so distracted by Jungwon the past week, your thoughts wrapped in the way he said your name, the way he smiled when you laughed that you hadn’t even noticed something else. Something small. Something strange.

You hadn’t seen Minjae.

Not once.

No casual waves as he passed by in his sportscar. No afternoon chit-chat over the fence. No light in his front window. The last time you remembered speaking to him was that day outside your gate. When Minjae had joked that you were a miracle worker for dragging Jungwon out of hiding. When he’d called you pretty.

That compliment still sat uncomfortably in your mind. Not because it was unwelcome, but because it felt... off. Too direct. Too aware of something you hadn’t even admitted to yourself yet. Something that made your skin itch under the surface.

You shook the thought off again.

Minjae was probably just busy. Or out of town. People had lives. You shouldn’t overthink it.

Still, you felt it was suspicious.

Minjae was the kind of neighbor who always made his presence known. Whether it was a wave from his porch, a casual comment over the fence, or him pulling up just to chat—he was there. Almost too often, sometimes. So for him to just vanish without so much as a goodbye? No lights on at night. No deliveries left on his doorstep. No sound from his side of the street.

It didn’t sit right with you.

You told yourself not to spiral, not to start imagining worst-case scenarios. You weren’t in a movie, and Minjae was probably just on vacation. People disappeared for a few days all the time. But something about the stillness around his house made your gut twist.

So when you finally gathered the courage to ask Jungwon—half-laughing, trying to keep it casual “Hey, have you seen Minjae around lately?”

He didn’t laugh with you.

He just looked at you for a moment too long, head tilting ever so slightly. Then that same soft smile returned to his face, and he said, “People like him tend to drift off when they’re not needed anymore.”

You blinked at him, unsure if you’d heard right. “What do you mean by that?” you asked, trying to sound casual. Curious, not alarmed. But there was an edge to your voice even you couldn’t mask.

Jungwon didn’t answer right away. He just kept smiling. That same soft, calm expression that had started to feel more and more like a mask. Like something carefully placed.

Finally, he shrugged lightly, looking off toward the trees lining the back of your neighborhood. “Some people... they like being in everyone’s business. Always asking questions. Watching. They forget their place.” He looked back at you then. “Eventually, they get bored. Or they bother the wrong person. And then they leave.”

His words were still gentle. His tone kind. But something about them felt heavy. Measured. Too intentional to be offhanded.

You laughed, nervous. “You say that like it happens often.”

Jungwon leaned a little closer, eyes gleaming like he knew something you didn’t. “In small towns,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “it happens more than you’d think.” Then he straightened again, brushing invisible dust from his sweater like nothing had happened. “Anyway,” he added brightly, “you’ll be fine. You’re not like him.”

You forced a tight smile. “Yeah?”

Jungwon nodded slowly, but his gaze shifted over your shoulder before he could answer. His eyes narrowed just a little, then lit up, like he’d spotted something that genuinely delighted him. “Oh—” he said suddenly, voice perking up. “You got new flowers for your porch!”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in tone. “Oh… yeah,” you said, turning to glance at the small planter box near your front step. “Picked them up yesterday. Thought the place needed some color.”

“They suit you,” Jungwon said warmly, stepping closer to peer at them like they were the most interesting thing he’d seen all day. “Bright. Soft. Kind of hard to ignore.”

You swallowed, unsure if he meant the flowers at this point or you.

He crouched down slightly, fingers brushing the edge of one bloom without picking it. “You’ve really made this place yours,” he murmured.

You looked at him, unsettled by the way his attention lingered on the petals like they were something precious. Fragile. “Did you… ever talk to the people who lived here before me?” you asked quietly.

Jungwon stood again, that easy smile back on his face. “No,” he said simply. “They weren’t worth getting to know.” And just like that, he turned to you again. “Want help watering them later this week? I’m good with plants.” His head tilted. “Or I could teach you.”

Your heart beat faster, but you nodded slowly, trying not to let it show.

“Sure,” you said. “Maybe.”

Jungwon’s smile widened. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

As time passed, the line between comfort and dependency blurred.

Jungwon had a way of filling your space without ever overwhelming it. A warm smile, a quiet presence, a helping hand before you even asked. He was always there when you needed something. A lightbulb fixed, a jar opened, a walk shared when you were feeling low. It felt natural. Easy.

You didn’t even notice how often you reached for your phone to text him before anyone else. You didn’t notice how you hadn’t seen Minjae or anyone else, really in weeks. It wasn’t like you meant to drift from the rest of the town. You were just busy. Focused. Comfortable.

Jungwon made it easy to forget.

He never told you to stop going into town. He never said you couldn’t visit others. But somehow, whenever you tried, something got in the way. Plans fell through. People stopped responding. Your car wouldn’t start. A “small accident” at the store left you rattled, and Jungwon was the only one who showed up to help.

“Coincidences,” he’d hum, brushing your hair back from your face. “This town’s weird sometimes, isn’t it?”

You’d nod, resting against him. Trusting him. Because he was safe. He was there.

You didn’t question why you always felt so tired when he wasn’t around. Why it felt wrong to laugh too loudly with anyone else.

Jungwon never rushed. Never forced.

He was a slow, calculated tide that wore down your edges until all that remained was his shape. His name on your lips. His hands that you reached for. His words that echoed in your head late at night.

You didn’t notice the strings he tied around you. Not until they were woven too deep to undo.

Because why would you?

Jungwon was your sweet, harmless, and totally normal (handsome) neighbor. The kind of guy who remembered your coffee order after hearing it once. Who fixed your mailbox without asking. Who brought you soup when you had a cold and stayed just long enough to make sure you took your meds. Who smiled like the sun only rose if you were there to see it.

Sure, there were tiny moments, flickering seconds where something darker peeked through. Like when his voice dropped just a little too low when someone else said your name. Or how his eyes didn’t follow the conversation, but followed you. How once, just once, you saw red stains on his sleeve, and he brushed it off with a laugh: “Cooking mishap, you know how clumsy I can be.”

You had blinked, hesitated and then smiled back. Because he was so normal about it, so casual, that you felt silly for even asking.

Because every time your instincts whispered run, Jungwon countered with warmth, with gentle words and soft chuckles. He smoothed over your worries like wrinkles in a bedsheet. Wrapped you in the illusion that you were safe, wanted, loved. And eventually, you stopped listening to that inner voice. Because it was easier. Safer, in a way. After all… it wasn’t like he was hurting you.

Right?

Just caring for you.

in his way.

And in fact, that was his downfall.

He had gotten too close. Too used to your warmth, your attention, your trust.

That’s why it didn’t feel wrong to surprise him. It felt sweet. Thoughtful. Just like all the little surprises he gave you. And after all, he hadn’t been feeling well lately, said he was tired, worn down. So you had baked him muffins, his favorite kind, warm and sweet with a hint of cinnamon. You even wrapped them in a cloth to keep them from getting cold.

Smiling to yourself, you made your way up his driveway, your breath puffing softly in the chilly evening air. The trees rustled around you, the old swing on his porch creaking slightly in the wind. You bent by the old tree stump and lifted the loose bark, retrieving the spare key he didn’t think you knew about. But of course you did. Jungwon always forgot how observant you could be.

You turned the lock and pushed open the door.

Darkness. As always.

The thick blackout curtains were drawn tight, swallowing all natural light. You stepped inside and closed the door gently behind you, the soft click echoing a bit too loudly for your liking. The air was still. Cool. That unnatural cold that clung to his house no matter the season. You had always teased him about it. "You live like a vampire, Won," but he’d just smiled and said your place was cozier anyway.

Balancing the plate of muffins in your hands, you bent to untie your shoes, calling out lightly, “Jungwon? I brought you something!”

Silence.

You straightened, furrowing your brows. That was odd. Usually by now, he’d be thundering down the stairs like an excited puppy, a grin on his face and the dimples you secretly adored showing.

But nothing.

Just quiet.

You stood still for a moment, letting your eyes adjust to the dimness. The only sound was the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen, and the faint creak of the house. You stepped further in, your socks brushing against the cool wood floors.

“Won?” you called again, voice a little softer this time. A little more cautious.

Still no answer.

Weird.

Your fingers curled tighter around the plate. Maybe he was asleep? Maybe he’d taken something for the headache he’d mentioned and was knocked out? That wouldn’t be unusual.

But even as you told yourself that, something felt… off.

You moved deeper into the house, past the living room where the furniture was always too clean, too untouched. Like it was for show, not use.

“Jungwon?” you called again, softer now, unsure if you wanted an answer. Confusion gnawed at you. He was always here. He always answered. Even when tired, he’d greet you with a smile. So where the hell was he?

You turned back toward the front door, heart picking up as you considered just going home and calling him later. But then—

Your eyes dropped to the floor.

Your steps faltered.

There, near the hallway that led toward the kitchen, a faint discoloration marred the wooden boards. Faint streaks that stood out starkly against the polished surface. You took a slow, cautious step forward and crouched down, squinting.

Stains.

Your brows furrowed. Wet-looking. Dark.

Your fingers twitched, tempted to reach out but you stopped yourself. That wasn’t juice. That wasn’t water. And Jungwon… Jungwon hated mess. He vacuumed twice a week. He color-coded his closet. He folded your hoodie when you left it on a chair once and jokingly called it “chaos.”

You stood, pulse quickening now, and looked further ahead. The stains didn’t stop there, they trailed forward in uneven drags. Like something had been pulled.

You followed, slow, careful steps guiding you past the silent kitchen. The stains eventually stopped at a door you hadn’t paid much attention to before.

A door with a padlock that was now hanging open.

You stared at it.

This was the basement.

You remembered him telling you offhandedly, once, that he didn’t like going down there. Said it was dusty, cluttered, not worth the trouble. And you’d believed him. Why wouldn’t you?

But now? Now as you stood with a clear head?

Now that excuse felt wrong. Off-key. Hollow.

Because how could someone like Jungwon, so meticulous leave a whole part of his house in disarray? Let it sit, untouched, messy? It didn’t add up. Not when everything else about him screamed control. Cleanliness. Perfection.

You reached out slowly, fingers brushing the cool metal of the doorknob. You hesitated, your heart thudding heavily in your chest. Something was wrong. You felt it. Knew it. But curiosity.. It had already sunk its teeth in.

Hesitantly, you fully opened the door, cringing at the sharp clang as the padlock slipped from its hook and hit the wooden floor. The sound echoed louder than expected, like it didn’t belong in the stillness of this place. You froze, ears straining.

Nothing. No footsteps. No sound of Jungwon calling out. Just silence.

You exhaled, slow and shaky, then leaned over to peer down the narrow staircase. It was steep, poorly lit, and the air wafting up from below hit you like a wall.

Metallic.

Old.

Foul.

You wrinkled your nose, instinctively covering it with your sleeve. “Jesus, Jungwon…” you muttered to yourself, trying to play off the chill climbing up your spine, “you seriously need to find the source of that smell. It’s atrocious.”

With the plate of muffins still awkwardly cradled in your arm, you gripped the banister and took your first step down. Each board creaked beneath your weight, announcing your presence. You moved slowly, not even sure why you were whispering your movements into the quiet.

The further you descended, the colder it became. Not the kind of cold that came from lack of heating but the kind that sank into your skin, heavy and unnatural.

Jesus, Jungwon really sets the basement mood, you thought bitterly, forcing a weak laugh that died in your throat as soon as it left your lips.

Your foot hit the cold concrete at the base of the stairs, and with trembling fingers, you reached up to tug the dangling string of a single bulb. The old lamp crackled, flickered once, and then sputtered to life with a low buzz.

The basement flooded in dim, yellow light and your breath caught in your throat.

You were going to be sick.

In the corner, a cluster of large black waste bags were stacked on top of each other like a grotesque sculpture. The floor beneath them was stained dark red, the sticky sheen of old blood glistening faintly in the light.

Your gaze jerked to the wall, where tools hung in a perfect, obsessive arrangement, neat and polished, despite the horror of their placement. But the table directly beneath them… that was a different story.

The tools there were used. Bloodied, dried chunks clinging to their edges. A bone saw. A scalpel. Pliers. Things no sane person kept in their basement.

Your knees nearly gave out as your eyes swept further across the room and that’s when you saw them.

Chains.

Heavy metal chains hanging from the ceiling, swaying slightly as if someone had moved them just moments ago. And in the far right corner, barely lit by the bulb, a man was hanging by his wrists. His head lolled forward, body limp. Blood soaked his shirt, streaked down his arms. You couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead.

Behind him, resting too casually on another worktable, was a chainsaw—massive, streaked in fresh crimson, its handle glistening.

You dropped the plate of muffins.

It shattered on the floor, ceramic and chocolate scattering across the bloodstained concrete like confetti at the world’s sickest celebration.

Your breath hitched, your pulse roaring in your ears.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

Your body was shaking, your head reeling. You didn’t know if you wanted to scream or throw up—or both. The sight before you was grotesque, a sickly distortion of everything you thought you knew. Your skin felt too tight for your body, your lungs too small for your breath. Panic buzzed like static under your skin, your heart pounding so violently in your chest you swore it would give out.

The air smelled like rust and rot. The kind of scent that clung to your clothes and hair.

You wanted to cry, but your body was in too much shock to produce tears. Your eyes just stung, dry and wide, unable to blink, unable to look away.

And then—your gaze lifted.

A cork board.

Right in front of you.

That’s what made you move. That’s what made your brain finally snap into place, as your body responded before your mind could even fully comprehend it. You stumbled back with a choked breath.

The cork board was covered in photos. All of you.

Some were recent—your walk to the grocery store last Thursday, when you thought you felt someone watching you. You sipping coffee on your porch. You closing your gate behind you. You in your kitchen window, tying your hair up. One of you sleeping... inside your bedroom.

Your knees gave out and you hit the floor, palms scraping against the concrete. A dry sob wracked through your chest.

They were pinned in perfect rows, marked with little notes scribbled underneath in tight, obsessive handwriting.

“Blue sweater. Pretty. Smiled at me today.” “Talked to Minjae. Upset.” “Slept at 2:43 AM. Dreaming again?” “Jealous. Looked too long at cashier.” “No one else but you”

And beneath the board, on a small table, a journal. You didn’t want to touch it, didn’t want to know, but your body moved on its own. You flipped it open, and it was pages and pages of more—more pictures, sketches, descriptions. Timelines.

You were being studied.

Stalked.

Catalogued like a beloved pet or a future possession.

You were so caught up in the horror you didn’t notice anything else until a soft giggle rang out behind you.

You whipped around so fast it made your vision blur, the motion jerking your whole body like a snap. Whiplash shot through your neck and shoulders, but it didn’t matter.

Because standing there… was Jungwon.

His clothes were spattered in red. His face, normally so calm and sweet, now twisted into something else. Something delighted. Like he was genuinely happy to see you.

And in his hands… was the chainsaw.

You glanced to your left. The one you’d just seen moments ago on the table. The same one. But he hadn’t passed you.. Hadn’t made a sound... How had he—

Jungwon giggled again, eyes raking over you from head to toe like you were his favorite thing in the world. His tongue peeked out to wet his lips, and then he tilted his head, speaking in that same gentle, lilting voice he always used when he dropped by your porch with tea or borrowed sugar.

“I told you not to come, didn’t I, baby?” he said, voice light and lilting. “Told you I didn’t want you catching whatever I have.”

He smiled again, wider this time.

Like this was all some elaborate joke. Like he wasn’t holding something meant for destruction. Like he hadn’t just shattered the thin glass of the world you thought you understood.

Your heart thudded so loudly it drowned out everything else. You didn’t know whether to run… Or scream. Or beg.

You tried to speak, but your throat tightened and your words caught in a choking sob. “Please… just leave me alone,” you managed to choke out, voice trembling and barely a whisper. “I don’t want.. I don’t want any of this. Just… go away.”

Jungwon didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He simply stood there, watching you with those cold, catlike eyes that seemed to pierce right through you before he let out a short, almost amused laugh. “That was… cute,” he said, tilting his head to the side like you were an interesting puzzle. “But no,” he whispered, his voice dropping into something softer, almost tender, but no less chilling. “I would never leave you alone. Not now. Not ever.” He stepped closer, the chainsaw forgotten at his side as his gaze locked onto yours. “You’re everything I need. Everything I want.”

Jungwon set the chainsaw down with unnerving gentleness, as his fingers found the thick, bloodied rope hanging from the handle and tightened it around his hands with slow movements, his gaze never once leaving you. His eyes were heavy-lidded and glassy, like he was somewhere far away, but still utterly focused on you.

“This won’t hurt at all, baby,” he said in a dazed, almost hypnotic tone, each word dripping with unsettling sweetness. “Just need you to stay still…”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, panic exploding inside your chest. Desperation drove your hand to the nearest object on the table: a heavy, cold wrench. You gripped it tightly and swung with everything you had, hoping to catch him off guard.

But Jungwon was faster. His hand shot out like a striking snake, wrapping around your wrist and halting your movement mid-air. A shock ran through you when you realized the wrench was stained with fresh, sticky blood—your fingers now coated in it, too. Your stomach turned violently, bile rising.

You let out a raw, terrified scream, the sound tearing through the heavy, silent air of the basement. You struggled, twisting and pulling to free yourself from his grip, but he only pressed you harder against the unforgiving surface of the table.

Jungwon’s lips parted in a chilling, high-pitched giggle as his voice dropped to a whisper, laced with cruel amusement “No one can hear you scream. I soundproofed the basement myself.”

Before you could fully register the weight of his words, he gripped the bloodied rope tightly in his hand. Without hesitation, he wrapped it swiftly around one of your wrists, the coarse fibers biting into your skin as he pulled it tight, securing the knot with a practiced hand. Your pulse raced, panic flooding your senses, and just as he reached for your other wrist to bind it as well, a sudden surge of desperation propelled you into action.

With every ounce of strength, you drove your knee sharply into his groin. The sound of his breath catching was almost as loud as your pounding heartbeat. Jungwon groaned, doubling over in pain, clutching himself, his grip on the rope loosening instantly.

The moment was yours.

You stumbled backward, adrenaline lending power to your legs, and pushed past him, your breath coming out in ragged gasps as you scrambled toward the stairs. Each step felt like it dragged you closer to freedom, even as your body screamed for relief.

When you reached the basement door, you threw yourself against it with everything you had. The door slammed open with a brutal crash, echoing off the walls as it violently hit the wall. You barely had a moment to catch your breath before scrambling upright, ignoring the sharp sting of the rope cutting into your left wrist as you moved.

Your mind was racing, heart hammering painfully against your ribs, drowning out Jungwon’s desperate shouts trailing behind you.

“Wait! Don’t leave me! Please! Come back!”

Panic surged through your veins, and you forced your legs to carry you faster, your bare feet slipping inside your damp socks as you stumbled out into the cold night air. The back door was just steps away, the only real chance for escape. Your fingers fumbled with the handle, finally wrenching it open as you spilled out into the wild darkness of the forest.

The trees stood tall and unyielding, shadows blending with the night sky, but you didn’t hesitate. Moss cushioned your frantic footsteps as you pushed forward, branches clawing at your arms and face, but you barely registered the scratches. Your entire focus was on putting distance between yourself and that suffocating basement.

Behind you, the dreadful sound started low at first, the unmistakable growl of a chainsaw revving to life. It cut through the stillness of the night like a predator’s roar, and terror twisted in your gut. Your breath came in ragged gasps, lungs burning as you pushed harder, every muscle screaming in protest.

The chainsaw’s roar grew louder, relentless, a nightmare chasing you through the forest’s tangled embrace. Your eyes darted around wildly, searching for any glimmer of safety, any break in the endless trees. But all you could do was run, run with every ounce of strength you had left because behind you, the nightmare was catching up.

Every time your foot caught on an exposed root or a patch of uneven earth, you hit the forest floor hard but every time, you pushed yourself back up. Dirt clung to your hands, leaves stuck to your clothes, and your knees throbbed from the falls. Still, you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

You cursed yourself silently. Running into the forest had been a mistake. The fear had taken over, and your only thought had been escape, an exit, any exit. In the rush, you’d completely forgotten the front door, the one that opened onto the street, onto people, onto safety. But now you were too deep. You couldn’t even see Jungwon’s house anymore, and turning back wasn’t an option.

The only thing keeping you from breaking down entirely was the quiet.

The chainsaw was gone.

The loud, gut-churning roar that had chased you through the trees had faded, leaving only the sound of your ragged breathing and the whisper of wind through the branches. You slowed to a stop near a cluster of tall pine trees, bracing yourself against one of them as you struggled to steady your breath. Your chest rose and fell in quick, sharp movements, heart still pounding in your ears.

The silence was eerie, but it was also the first chance you had to really think.

Maybe he gave up.

Maybe he couldn’t track you in here.

You let out a shaky exhale, closing your eyes. The rope still tied around your wrist felt heavier now, a bitter reminder.

Then— A breath.

Not yours.

It ghosted over your neck before a low, almost gentle voice said, “There you are.”

Your blood turned to ice.

Jungwon’s arms came around you like a lover’s embrace, one hand pressing over your mouth before you could scream. The other wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. He was warm. His heartbeat against your spine was steady. Calm. Unlike yours.

“You really made me chase you,” he whispered, sounding more amused than angry. “That was naughty, bunny.”

You shook your head, whimpering under his palm. He just chuckled, leaning closer so his breath brushed your ear.

“Did you really think you could run from me? After everything we’ve shared?” His voice dropped, coaxing. Mocking. “After all the time I spent making you mine?” He slowly pulled his hand away from your mouth, waiting to see if you’d scream. You didn’t. You couldn’t. Fear had strangled your voice.

“That’s what I thought,” he whispered sweetly, brushing your hair back with blood-stained fingers. “Let’s go home now.” His tone was gentle, coaxing… but behind it, there was iron. Finality. You could feel it in your bones.

You didn’t resist as he turned you in his arms. Not yet. Not now. But your mind was racing. Because if you were going to survive this, you’d need to be smarter. Smarter than him. Smarter than the sweet nightmare with a smile stitched in lies.

You let him lead you back—half pulled, half dragged—through the forest. Your wrists were bound tightly in front of you with the same rope he’d tried to use before, now knotted so expertly there was no hope of slipping free. The scratch of branches against your skin barely registered. Your mind was a blur of white noise and racing thoughts, flipping through options you didn’t have.

Jungwon didn’t speak as he walked. His grip on your arm was firm but not painful, almost like he thought this was normal. Like he believed this was still salvageable. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. He looked content enough.

You needed a plan.

Something.

Anything.

That’s when you saw it up ahead—the ravine. It wasn’t huge, but the drop was enough to matter. The slope wasn’t a sheer cliff, but it was uneven, slick with moss and just far enough across that it might buy you time. If you could make it.

You had one shot.

You slowed your steps, carefully adjusting your breathing as if you were calming down, eyes softening when you glanced at Jungwon. “I’m sorry,” you murmured, just above a whisper, letting your voice tremble with fake vulnerability. “You scared me… that’s all.”

He stopped, blinking down at you like you’d just confessed something precious. His expression melted into something close to adoration, lips parting slightly.

“You don’t have to be scared of me,” he said, voice so soft it nearly caught in the breeze. “I just want to take care of you.”

That was your cue.

You leaned forward, lifting your bound hands like you were going to touch his face. He leaned in instinctively—lovesick and completely unaware.

Perfect.

With everything you had, you pulled your fists back and slammed them into his face.

His head snapped to the side, a startled grunt escaping his lips as he staggered, cussing out. Blood sprayed from his nose, and for the first time, his expression twisted, not in pain, but in disbelief.

You didn’t wait to see more.

You ran.

You sprinted full force toward the ravine, legs screaming, lungs burning. Your socks slipped on the mossy ground, but momentum carried you. You didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

And when you reached the edge, you leapt.

Your stomach dropped as you flew through the air, barely making it to the other side. Your knees hit first, hard, sending a jolt up your legs. You scrambled on all fours, digging your fingers into the earth, dragging yourself up over the edge.

Then you turned.

Jungwon was still on the other side.

His nose was bleeding, smeared red down to his chin. His chest rose and fell with short, rapid breaths. His hair was wild now, curling damply at his forehead from the sweat and heat of the chase. But it was his eyes that froze you in place, wide, crazed, and fixed on you like a predator denied its kill.

He didn’t shout.

He didn’t move.

He just stared, fists clenched at his sides, rage and obsession twisted into something inhuman across his face.

You stood, still shaking, backing away one slow step at a time. You didn’t blink.. You couldn’t. Not with Jungwon staring at you like that, chest heaving like he might leap across the ravine after you.

And then… something in him snapped.

His lips curled into a grin, and his head tilted, ever so slightly. “Oh, you bad bunny,” he called out, voice sing-song sweet and bone-deep wrong. “Running… hiding… making me chase you. Tsk, tsk. You know this is pointless, right?”

His smile widened, blood staining his teeth now. “You’re only prolonging the inevitable. But that’s okay. I like the thrill.”

You didn’t stay to hear the rest.

You turned and ran.

You finally burst through your front door, heart pounding wildly as if it might leap right out of your chest. Your legs trembled, but you forced yourself to keep moving, scrambling toward the kitchen, desperate to find something sharp to cut the ropes binding your wrists.

You rifled through drawer after drawer, panic making your hands clumsy.

A breath, close and warm suddenly brushed your ear.

“Caught you,” Jungwon murmured, voice low and dangerous yet oddly gentle. He moved quickly before you could comprehend anything, strong hands grabbing you and flipping you around before you could react. Your tied arms went over his head, and around his neck as his grip tightened, pulling you close until your chest pressed firmly against his.

He brushed the stray strands of hair away from your face with an almost tender touch, his fingers lingering on your cheek just long enough to send a shiver down your spine. “Making me lose control like that... bad bunny,” he whispered, his voice low and velvety, dripping with teasing warmth.

Before you could even find the words to respond, his lips pressed against yours, hard and shockingly electric. The suddenness of the kiss caught you completely off guard, your breath hitching as your body froze in surprise.

Taking the chance, Jungwon deepened the kiss, his lips parting slightly as he leaned closer, holding you tight against him. His hands tangled gently in your hair, pulling you just enough to claim your attention fully.

Your mind raced, heart pounding like a wild drum in your chest. Every nerve seemed to ignite beneath his touch, caught between fear and something you couldn’t quite name. You wanted to pull away, in gact your instincts screamed at you to, but the strength of his hold and the kiss kept you rooted in place.

His breath mingled with yours, warm and heavy, as he slowly eased the pressure, giving you just enough space to catch your breath but not enough to break the hold. His eyes searched yours, dark and deep, like he was trying to read every hidden thought inside you.

“See?” Jungwon murmured softly, his voice a mixture of challenge and affection. “You don’t want to run away after all.”

He tilted your chin up gently, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line across your bottom lip. “Now be still,” he whispered, voice low and coaxing, “so I can give you exactly what you need, bunny…”

me now:

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days no matter how many times you rinsed. The kind of smell that your body recognized before your brain did, that triggered something ancient and animal in your nervous system that said wrong, wrong, something here is deeply wrong.

You breathed through your mouth.

It didn't help.

It never helped.

You ducked under the yellow crime scene tape at Pier Seven and held your badge up for the officer without breaking stride. He nodded. You were expected — or the ADA's joint consultant was expected, which was close enough. The Yokohama police department's relationship with the Armed Detective Agency basically amounted to we resent that you're better at this than us, but we resent unsolved cases more, and that resentment bought you access.

Fukuda Misaki. Nineteen years old. Missing four days. Found this morning by a fisherman who'd thought the shape under the pier was a bag of garbage and had understood, on closer inspection, that it wasn't.

You'd read the preliminary report three times on the way over.

You'd needed to read it three times because some things your brain tried to refuse.

The dock stretched out over gray water, the afternoon light doing nothing to make it look like anything other than what it was — a crime scene, a disposal site, a place where someone had brought a girl and left her because she was finished being useful to them. Evidence markers dotted the planks. You followed them with your eyes before you touched anything, building the geography of it. The narrative. Because they deserved that — the dead deserved to have their story reconstructed correctly, even when the story was this.

You crouched at marker seven and opened your kit.

The blood here had pooled between the dock planks, dark brown at the edges where it had dried first, still faintly viscous near the center. You photographed it from three angles before you touched anything. The pattern suggested she'd been here — alive, or recently not alive — for at least twenty minutes before being moved to the water. Long enough to leave this. Long enough that whoever had brought her here hadn't been in a hurry.

He's not afraid of being seen, you noted in your phone. He knows this area. He has time.

You took your sample. Labelled it. Moved to marker eight.

That was when you felt it.

Not a dramatic sensation — no Hollywood instinct, no sudden chill. Just a subtle wrongness in the quality of the air around you. The particular awareness of another consciousness directing itself at you. You'd developed this sense over years of fieldwork and you trusted it the way you trusted anything that had been tested repeatedly and not failed.

You didn't look up.

Rule one: never let them know you've noticed. Let them think you're still just the oblivious person crouching over evidence markers.

You used your peripheral vision.

He was thirty meters away, leaning against one of the harbor's structural pillars with his arms loosely crossed. Tall — maybe a hundred and eighty centimeters. Dark coat, collar turned up against wind that wasn't particularly strong. Brown hair, slightly disordered in a way that looked almost studied. And bandages — white, stark, unmistakable — wrapped around his wrists where his sleeves didn't cover them, and visible at his neck above the coat's collar.

He wasn't looking at you specifically. His gaze moved between you and the police officers farther down the dock with the slow, patient attention of someone who was working. Collecting information. Building a picture.

Not press. No camera, no credentials visible.

Not a bystander — too still, too comfortable, too professional.

Port Mafia, something in your gut said. Quiet and certain.

You filed him. Every detail. Brown hair, white bandages, dark coat, the specific quality of his attention. You filed him and kept working.

When Officer Tanaka came to take your samples, you let the conversation run two minutes. Then you glanced back toward the pillar.

Gone. As if he'd never been there.

You scanned the dock — the water, the warehouses, the access road. Nothing. He'd vanished with the ease of someone who knew how to vanish, which was itself a data point.

You made the note in your phone.

Then you packed your kit and carried the smell of Pier Seven back across the city.

It didn't leave you.

The ADA laboratory at eight-forty-three PM was quiet in the specific way that spaces get quiet when they're built for focused work — not empty-quiet, but settled-quiet, the hum of equipment filling the silence the way white noise fills a room. The overhead lights were on low. You'd made tea at some point and forgotten to drink it.

You ran the blood samples first.

Set the analysis. Moved to fingerprints while it processed — three partials from the dock, degraded by the water that had come in with the morning tide. You worked through the degradation carefully, using enhancement software to reconstruct what the moisture had cost you. It was painstaking. It looked like nothing. It was everything.

Three partials. Usable for comparison against a known subject. Not for a cold database search.

You logged this and returned to the blood work.

Read the results.

Read them again.

Sat down in your chair with a precision that was not quite controlled collapse.

The secondary stain — the blood that didn't match Fukuda Misaki — was type AB negative. Less than one percent of the population. Rare enough to dramatically narrow a search pool, if you had a pool to narrow.

But that wasn't what made you sit.

The hormonal panel. Cortisol. Adrenaline. Stress markers spiked to levels consistent with acute, extreme terror at the time of deposit.

This blood didn't come from the perpetrator. Perpetrator blood was incidental — transfer, contact, accident. This blood came from someone who had been afraid. Acutely, physiologically, desperately afraid at the exact moment this blood left their body.

Another victim. Someone alive and terrified on that dock, while Fukuda Misaki was already dead. Someone who wasn't in any of your files.

Your phone lit up. News alert.

SECOND YOUNG WOMAN REPORTED MISSING IN HARBOR DISTRICT.

You closed your eyes.

Counted to three.

Opened them.

Opened the file.

Started revising the timeline.

Three kilometers away, the building was doing what it had been built to do, which was hold things inside it and give nothing back.

The girl had screamed for what felt like hours.

She'd screamed until her throat was something raw and torn, until every inhale burned, until the sound she was making wasn't really screaming anymore but something more desperate and more animal — the sound of a creature that had exhausted every option and was still making noise because noise was the last thing left.

Nobody came.

The building held her sounds inside its concrete walls and returned them to her, slightly distorted, slightly delayed, like a mockery.

She'd found the door in the first thirty seconds. Metal. Heavy. No handle on her side beyond a fixed bar that gave her something to grip and pull against until her palms bled — she could feel the wetness of it, warm first then cooling, the raw burn of broken skin against cold steel. The door hadn't moved. Not a millimeter. She'd hit it with her shoulder until the bruising made her shoulder useless and then she'd kicked it until her foot ached too much to kick.

Nothing.

She sat in the corner with her back against two walls and her knees pulled to her chest and she listened to the building.

He was somewhere in it. She could hear him moving, sometimes — unhurried footsteps, the sound of things being arranged. The specific sound of someone who was not afraid of being heard because there was no one who could hear him that mattered.

She tried not to think about the room she'd seen when he'd moved her through the corridor. The brief glimpse through an open door — shelves, floor to ceiling, lined with containers. Glass jars. Steel canisters. Things inside them that her mind had processed and then violently refused to keep.

She pressed her bleeding palms flat against her thighs and breathed and tried to think of something that constituted a plan.

She came up with nothing.

Outside, Yokohama continued being Yokohama — indifferent and enormous and completely unaware.

The second body surfaced at six-seventeen AM.

You were already awake.

You'd gone home at midnight, lain on top of your bed in your work clothes for four hours, and stared at the ceiling running case calculations until your alarm went off. You'd showered and drunk coffee and reviewed your revised notes for forty minutes and been on-site by six forty-five.

The harbor in early morning was a different country from the afternoon. Quieter. Colder. Wrapped in coastal mist that softened everything into suggestion and made the dock lights look like smudges in the gray. Your breath fogged. The smell was worse than yesterday — or maybe your awareness of it was more acute, your nervous system already primed for what this place meant.

You showed your badge. Ducked under the tape.

The diver team was still in the water when you arrived. You watched them work from the pier's edge with your hands in your coat pockets and your face neutral, because neutrality was the professional requirement and also the only way to keep functioning when you were watching people pull a girl out of the harbor for the second time in two days.

Detective Mori met you at the perimeter — her name a coincidence that she found professionally inconvenient, her expression the flat professional finish of someone who had learned, through repetition, to process horror at a distance from herself. You respected her for it. You did the same thing. You recognized the technique.

"Same general pattern," she said, watching the divers. "Young woman. No defensive wounds on preliminary examination — incapacitated before the assault. Time of death between ten PM and two AM."

"Hair color matches the missing persons alert from last night."

"Yes." A pause. "The injuries are more extensive than Fukuda."

You waited.

"More—" She stopped. Chose words carefully. "More deliberate. Like there was more time taken. More—" Another stop. "Intentionality."

The water moved under the pier. The divers moved through the water.

"He's escalating," you said.

"Or becoming more confident." She finally looked at you. "Either way, he's accepting more risk. Taking more time at the scene. That means something about how he feels about his exposure."

"It means he doesn't feel exposed at all." You looked at the surrounding buildings — the warehouses, the processing facilities, the maze of Port Mafia-adjacent infrastructure that stretched back from the waterfront. "He's comfortable here. He has a reason to be in this area that gives him cover. He's not worried."

The microexpression crossed Mori's face again. That brief rearrangement — I know something I've decided not to tell you.

"You recognized my description," you said. Flat. Direct. "Yesterday. The man at the Fukuda scene. You recognized it."

"I can't confirm or deny—"

"I'm not asking you to confirm or deny it officially. I'm asking you to tell me what you know so that I can do my job, which is finding whoever is doing this before another girl ends up in that water." You held her gaze. "Tell me what you know."

She was quiet for a long moment.

"File the description formally," she said finally. "Let the process work."

"The process is protecting someone."

She looked away.

"File it formally," she said again. And then, so quietly you almost missed it: "Be careful."

You filed that. The warning. The way she said it — not be thorough, not follow procedure. Be careful. Personal. Specific.

You documented the scene and went back to the ADA.

Ranpo was lying on the conference table.

"Three confirmed, two missing," he said to the ceiling. "He keeps them somewhere before disposal. You know that from the blood."

"I know." You uncapped your marker at the whiteboard. Harbor district, confirmed disposal sites, radius of probability. "The injury escalation suggests extended time with each victim. He has a space — soundproofed or isolated enough that no one hears them."

No one hears them. The phrase sat in your mouth wrong.

"The common thread isn't appearance," Ranpo said. He sat up. When Ranpo sat up without being prompted, it meant he'd been thinking for a while and had reached the part where thinking needed speaking. "I went through every file. Different universities, different neighborhoods, different social groups, different physical types."

"Then what is it?"

"They were all alone." He said it flatly. "Not just lonely — actively isolated. Each of them had a period of withdrawal in the months before contact. Breakups. Family conflicts. Failed semesters. Social collapse. He finds them when they're in the trough of it." He looked at the evidence board. "He's patient. He builds trust over weeks. He's socially fluent and physically—" A slight pause. "He's someone people find easy to be near. Which is the most dangerous possible combination."

"He leaves almost no forensic trace," you said.

"Almost," Ranpo said. "Your blood sample was a mistake. Something disrupted him at the Fukuda scene, or he's getting less careful as his confidence grows. Either way—" He picked up his candy. Didn't open it. "He's going to keep going. The escalation in the injuries means he's not sated. He's accelerating."

The whiteboard. The map. Five markers for five women, two of them still out there somewhere in the harbor district's maze of old buildings and forgotten spaces.

He has a space.

You stared at the map.

He has a space and they're in it and they're still alive.

"The contact happens somewhere," you said. "Online. It has to be — he targets isolated women, which means he can't rely on social networks to find them. He goes where isolated people go."

It took you forty minutes to find it.

Every confirmed victim, and at least one of the missing women, had an account on Unmei — a blind date matching app, mid-tier, marketed toward young professionals who wanted to meet people outside their existing social circles. Each had matched with a user whose profile had since been deleted.

A blind date app. No advance photo confirmation, no mutual contacts, no history. You showed up and whoever sat down across from you was whoever sat down across from you.

Unless you were the investigator.

Unless you went in knowing.

You built the profile carefully. Age close to the victim demographic. A photo that was real — nothing staged, because something in your understanding of him said that staged would register wrong. You wrote a brief, genuine-seeming bio and set it running.

The notification came forty-three minutes later.

A match. No profile photo, face-reveal disabled. Username: 宵. Yoi. Nightfall. The hour before full dark.

The first message: 'You have very careful eyes. I noticed that immediately.'

Your photo was a candid from a colleague's going-away party. You were looking off-camera, mid-thought, with the expression people who knew you associated with you working through a problem.

Something cold and precise moved through your chest.

You typed: 'I notice things. Occupational habit.'

'What's your occupation?'

'Research. You?'

'I find things that interest me. And then I study them. Very closely. Until I understand exactly what they are.'

Your apartment was quiet around you. The city breathed outside your window — traffic, a foghorn, Yokohama's vast indifferent nighttime.

'That sounds like research too,' you typed.

'It's more of a calling. I find things beautiful and then I want to understand what makes them that way. You can't understand beauty without getting very close to it. Without taking it apart a little to see what's inside.'

You saved the conversation. Timestamped it. Added it to the file.

Then you typed: 'I'd like to meet you.'

The response was immediate.

'I was hoping you'd say that.'

You arrived at Akikaze ten minutes early and positioned yourself with your back against the far wall.

Sightlines to both exits. Phone at ninety-four percent, location sharing active with Kunikida who did not know he was your emergency contact for this operation. Weapon holstered under your jacket — accessible, not visible. Backup tracker in the seam of your right shoe's insole.

You ordered water and watched the door and breathed and let your mind be still.

He walked in at the exact agreed time.

Everything in you went quiet.

The bandages were the first confirmation — white, stark against his collar, wrapped at his wrists where the dark coat's sleeves didn't quite reach. Brown hair. The particular quality of movement that looked like ease but was something more deliberate underneath. He scanned the restaurant in a single unhurried sweep and found you in two seconds.

He smiled.

And you understood. Immediately, viscerally, with the clarity of something clicking into place — you understood why it worked. Why they trusted him. Why none of them ran.

He wasn't aggressively handsome — not the kind of face that sets off alarms, not the obvious beautiful that your nervous system knows to be suspicious of. Subtler. The kind of face that rewarded attention, that seemed to improve the longer you looked at it, that made you feel perceptive for having noticed it. And his eyes — dark, deep-set, carrying a warmth on the surface that had something colder and more precise underneath, like sunlight on very cold water.

He sat across from you like he'd been sitting across from you for years.

"You're already watching both exits," he said. Pleasantly. Conversationally.

"Habit," you said.

"I counted nine exits on the way in." He settled back. "Including the window on the far left that opens from inside."

"Ten," you said. "Service door behind the bar."

Something shifted in his expression — genuine pleasure, briefly unguarded. "Sharp."

"You noticed my eyes from a photograph."

"I notice eyes." He picked up the menu without urgency. "Mouths perform constantly. Eyes only lie when someone's actively working at it." He looked up from the menu directly at you. "Yours are working right now. But not to lie — you're cataloguing. You walked in here and started building a model of everyone in this room and you haven't stopped. It's automatic. You can't turn it off."

Your face stayed neutral.

He's right, you noted, which was the most unsettling part.

"Most people find that uncomfortable," you said.

"I find it interesting." He set the menu down. "Most people perform on first meetings. They show you the version they want you to see. You're actually looking at me. Do you have any idea how rare that is?"

The waiter came. You ordered without looking at the menu. He ordered with the ease of someone who had already memorized every option before he walked in.

The conversation moved.

That was the only way to describe it — moved, with the quality of water finding its natural course, never forced, never effortful, touching topics and finding the organic connections between them with a skill so practiced it had become invisible. He asked questions that felt genuinely interested rather than interrogative. He listened with the quality of attention that most people searched for their whole lives and rarely found.

He told you his name was Dazai.

No family name offered. You didn't push.

"You were at the harbor yesterday," you said, when the evening had reached the depth of established rapport. Lightly. Casually. Like a pleasant observation.

He didn't miss a beat. "The harbor?"

"Pier Seven. Around two PM. I was there for work. I thought I saw you."

"I walk the harbor sometimes." A slight tilt of his head. "I like the water. Was that the scene with the police tape? I saw it from a distance and kept moving — I don't enjoy the company of the police."

"Why not?"

"Complicated relationship with institutional authority." The self-deprecating humor was perfectly calibrated. "I prefer to operate in spaces that don't make assumptions about people."

"I prefer evidence over assumptions," you said.

"Then we have something in common." He raised his glass. "We both prefer the truth of things to comfortable stories."

You touched your glass to his.

The evening continued. Three hours. And the terrible thing — the thing that sat in your chest like a splinter you couldn't locate — was that it was genuinely one of the better conversations you'd had in recent memory. And you knew what that meant. You understood what it said about why none of them had run. It wasn't naivety. It wasn't stupidity.

It was just that he was extraordinarily, terrifyingly good at this.

When he reached across the table and covered your hand with his, the gesture was almost tentative. His fingers were warm. His thumb moved once across your knuckles — slow, deliberate, asking rather than taking.

"You're still cataloguing," he said quietly.

"I never stop."

"I know." Something in his voice stripped down — the social warmth replaced by something more direct, more real. "It's what I find most interesting about you."

He moved fast.

The free hand rose. He pushed your hair back from your ear with warm fingers, his palm cupping your jaw, tilting your face up — and he leaned forward and his mouth was on yours.

Soft. Unhurried. The practiced, perfect warmth of intimacy that had been studied and reproduced so many times it had become indistinguishable from real. His thumb at your jaw. His other hand still covering yours on the table. His mouth moving against yours with a tenderness so convincing that your body believed it for a full second before your mind caught up.

The needle entered the side of your neck in that second.

Sharp. Cold. The specific sensation of metal through skin, unmistakable once you'd felt it once, and you'd felt it once three years ago on a case that had gone wrong and your body remembered.

You registered it.

You tried to move.

Your hand didn't reach your holster.

He was still kissing you when the room began to tilt — the sounds of the restaurant going thin and strange, the light doing something wrong at the edges of your vision, the floor rising gently to meet the ceiling.

He pulled back. His expression was still warm. Still soft. Still wearing that intimate look like a second skin.

And you watched his eyes as the dark came in from all directions.

"There she is," he said softly. Almost gently. "There are those careful eyes."

You son of a—

The thought didn't finish.

The dark finished it for you.

The restaurant continued. Ordinary. Indifferent. The sound of other people's evenings filling the space where you'd been.

You came back to consciousness in pieces, and the pieces were wrong.

First: cold. Bone-deep, pervasive, intimate cold that had been inside you long enough to feel like it belonged there. You were on concrete. Your hands registered this before your eyes opened — flat against a dry, frigid floor, the texture of it rough and real and undeniable.

Second: the smell.

God. God, the smell.

It hit you before you were conscious enough to process it rationally, going straight to the animal brain, the prehistoric part, the part that exists specifically to recognize wrong before you have words for it. Chemical sharpness — alcohol, formaldehyde, something astringent and institutional. And beneath that, beneath and underneath and threaded through everything: copper. Iron. The thick, organic sweetness of blood.

Not fresh blood. Old blood. Blood that had been present long enough to become part of the room's identity, part of its smell the way a kitchen smells of cooking and a library smells of paper.

A lot of it.

You had a moment of understanding, complete and terrible, before you opened your eyes. You understood the kind of room you were in before you saw it.

You opened your eyes anyway.

Single industrial work light on the floor — white, harsh, cold, throwing long shadows from every object in the room. Concrete walls. Concrete ceiling with exposed pipes running in parallel lines. The floor: concrete, dry, but with dark staining in the corners and along the base of the walls that the work light caught at a low angle. Staining that had happened many times, in layers, over what must have been a long time.

The shelving units.

Metal. Floor-to-ceiling, bolted directly into the concrete walls. And on them —

You made yourself look. Slowly. Systematically.

Glass jars. Dozens of them, varying sizes, sealed with airtight lids and filled with preservation fluid — formaldehyde, you thought, or something similar, something that turned everything inside it slightly yellow-tinged and suspended. Each jar was labelled. Neat, precise handwriting, too small to read from where you were lying. Each label had a date.

The contents of the jars were not uniform.

Some held things you recognized — tissue samples, the clinical shape of specimens preserved the way medical schools preserved things. Ordinary, almost, if you stripped away the context.

Others held things that were less ordinary.

Things that had been parts of people.

Your mind processed this and moved on with the particular efficiency of a brain that has learned, through professional necessity, to quarantine information that would otherwise cause functional shutdown. Case evidence, you told yourself. You're in a room that is a crime scene. Document it. Don't feel it yet. Feel it later when you're out of it.

If you got out of it.

Against the far wall: a large chest freezer. Commercial grade. The kind used for bulk storage. Its hum filled the room with a low, steady sound that you realized you'd been hearing since you woke up, had been hearing without registering it, the way you don't hear your own heartbeat until you start listening.

You did not think about what was in the freezer.

You pressed your hands flat against the floor and pushed yourself upright. The sedative left fog in your peripheral vision — the edges of things slightly soft, slightly delayed. You waited for it to clear enough. Breathed through your nose despite the smell. Took inventory.

Holster: empty.

Phone: gone.

Evidence kit: gone.

Keys: gone.

Shoes: still on.

He didn't check the insole.

The tracker. Still there, pressing faintly against the arch of your foot. Transmitting or not transmitting, functional or damaged — you had no way to know. But it was there. It existed. And that was the difference between a thread and nothing.

You did a full circuit of the room with your hands on the walls.

The door: heavy steel, no interior handle beyond a fixed bar, lockable from outside with at least two mechanisms from the sound when it had closed — you didn't remember it closing but you must have heard it, somewhere in the sedative fog, the dual thunk of locks engaging. The ventilation grate: high on the wall, maybe forty centimeters square, the screws that held it rusted but present. Useless. Not a possibility.

One entrance. One exit. The same door.

You forced yourself to the shelving.

Read the labels up close.

Dates going back four years. Four years. The earliest jars on the bottom shelves, the most recent at eye level. He was organized. Methodical. The labelling system was consistent — date, a number, an abbreviation you didn't immediately decode. You committed everything to memory with the systematic thoroughness of someone who understood that your mind was the only recording device you had access to.

That was when you heard it.

Above you. Slightly to the left.

A voice.

Not screaming — screaming had happened, you understood suddenly, somewhere in the sedative hours, sounds you'd processed as dreams. This was what came after screaming. A girl's voice, raw and destroyed, the quality of something that had been used past its limits.

"Please. Please, I'll do anything, I swear to god I'll do anything, please just — please, I want to go home, please let me go home, please—"

The words dissolved into crying. The deep, ugly, desperate crying of someone who had exhausted every other option.

A door closed somewhere above you. Heavy. Final.

The crying went muffled. Then inaudible.

You stood with your hand pressed flat against the concrete ceiling as if you could reach through it.

She was alive. She was above you. She was alive.

You pressed the back of your hand against your mouth.

Sixty seconds. You gave yourself sixty seconds to feel the full weight of this room, this smell, those jars, that freezer, that girl's voice, your empty holster, the fog in your vision, the locks on the door. You let all of it be real and present and you felt it.

Then you stopped.

You were a detective. You were standing. You were thinking. You had a tracker in your shoe. Your colleagues were not idiots and they would notice your absence and they would come looking. The girl upstairs was alive. Those were the facts that mattered.

You went back to the shelves.

You started memorizing.

He came back at indeterminate hours.

You heard the outer door first — confirming the corridor you'd suspected, the multiple-room layout, the external access. You stood with your back to the shelving and your arms loose at your sides.

He came in carrying tea and your evidence kit.

He set both on the floor between you with the calm of someone performing a routine task, and straightened, and looked at you.

You looked at the evidence kit.

"The samples are intact," he said. "Your preliminary analysis is already filed in the ADA's system. Destroying the physical evidence would be redundant."

"Why are you telling me this."

"Because you'd spend energy wondering about it, and I find you more interesting when you're not managing baseline anxiety." He sat on the floor across from you with his back to the wall — the mirror image of your position. Easy. Unhurried. Perfectly comfortable on a concrete floor in a room that smelled like what this room smelled like. "You haven't touched the tea."

"I have reasons."

"Fair." He picked it up himself and drank from it, then set it back down. "The needle was a calibrated compound. Short-acting. I'm precise about dosages." He met your eyes. "I don't put things in tea. That's not how I work."

How he works. Spoken like a professional discussing methodology.

You crossed the room. Picked up the tea. Drank it standing, because standing mattered. Because every small thing you chose for yourself in this room was a choice he hadn't made for you.

It was exactly what it should be.

"You noticed what I ordered at the restaurant," you said.

"I notice everything."

The silence between you had texture. The room's smell. The freezer's hum. The work light's cold white.

"Tell me why," you said.

"Narrow it down."

"The women. The pattern. This." You gestured at the room without looking away from him. "Why."

He considered the question with actual deliberateness — not performing consideration, actually doing it. Which was somehow more disturbing than if he'd answered immediately.

"I find people fascinating," he said. "The architecture of them. What they're actually made of, underneath what they perform. Most people are never actually seen — they perform for everyone around them and no one ever looks at the structure underneath. What's holding it together. What would happen if it came apart." He looked at the shelves. "I look."

"You destroy what you look at."

"Eventually." No inflection. No pleasure. Just the flat factual tone of someone discussing a natural consequence. "But not before I understand it completely. Understanding takes time. Observation." His eyes came back to you. "You do the same thing."

"I don't kill the people I study."

"You reconstruct them afterward. Same impulse." He said it without malice. "Different method, different timeline. But the need to understand — to look past the performance and find the truth of what something is — that's the same. You know it is."

You hated that part of you recognized what he was describing.

You filed that recognition away and kept your face neutral.

"The blood sample from the Fukuda scene," you said. "AB negative. Terror markers in the cortisol panel." You held his gaze. "There was someone else on that dock. Someone alive."

He looked at you for a moment.

"You're very good," he said.

"Where is she."

His eyes moved — briefly, almost imperceptibly — toward the freezer.

The hum of it filled the silence.

You understood what that glance meant.

"Her name was—" you started.

"I know what her name was," he said. Quietly. Not unkindly. Which was the worst version of how he could have said it.

The room felt colder than the temperature accounted for. Something cold moved through you that had nothing to do with the concrete floor.

"The girl upstairs," you said. Your voice was steady. You built it steady brick by brick and kept it there. "Is she physically safe right now."

He considered this — actually considered it, which told you the answer was not simply yes. "She's frightened. She's not in immediate physical danger."

"How long has she been here."

"Long enough."

"That's not—"

"Long enough." Firm. Not cruel. Final.

You breathed.

"I want to see her," you said.

"No."

"Dazai—"

"No." His voice was still pleasant. Still mild. The pleasantness was the worst part of it — the complete absence of anger, the sense that he was declining a restaurant order rather than a human request. "That's not negotiable."

You looked at him for a long moment.

"Then what is?" you said. "What is this? What do you want from me?"

He was quiet for a long time. The work light hummed. A pipe somewhere behind the freezer dripped with slow regularity.

"I want to keep talking to you," he said finally. Stripped down. Direct. "That's unusual. Most conversations exhaust their interest very quickly."

"I'm thrilled for you," you said flatly. "It doesn't change where I am."

"No," he agreed. "It doesn't."

He stood. Moved toward the door.

"The girl upstairs," you said. "She's been crying for hours. She's terrified and she hasn't done anything to you—"

"She came willingly," he said.

"Because you manipulated her into it. Because you spent weeks building a version of yourself specifically designed to make her trust you and then you—" Your voice wanted to do something. You didn't let it. "She's a person. She has people who are looking for her. She's not—"

"Everyone has people," he said.

"Let her go," you said. "Whatever you do with me. Let her go."

Something moved in his expression. Something that lived in the territory of complicated.

"I'll think about it," he said.

The door closed.

Both locks engaged.

You stood in the cold and the hum and the smell and you looked at the shelves and you looked at the freezer and you thought about the girl crying in the room above you, and you thought about the careful handwriting on the labels and how many labels there were, and you pressed your back against the cold concrete wall and slid down it until you were sitting on the floor.

You wrapped your arms around your knees.

You did not cry.

You built the case file inside your head — every observation, every detail, every word he'd said and the pauses between them. You built it meticulously, brick by brick, because it was the only thing you had and it was something, it was something.

You built until the building was almost enough.

Eight fifty-eight AM.

Your morning report didn't arrive.

Kunikida stood outside the empty lab with his clipboard and did something controlled and professional with his breathing for approximately thirty seconds. Then he went to find Ranpo.

Ranpo was in the dark conference room with a piece of candy he hadn't opened, and Kunikida understood before a word was said.

"She went on the date," Ranpo said.

The words landed in Kunikida's chest like something with weight.

"She built a profile on Unmei three nights ago," Ranpo continued. His voice was doing something it didn't usually do — carrying something underneath the surface. "She matched with someone. She didn't tell us because she knew we'd object and she thought she was prepared." A pause. "She was more prepared than the others. She knew who he was going in. It didn't matter."

"Who did she match with."

Ranpo was quiet.

"Dazai," he said.

The name sat in the room.

"Port Mafia," Kunikida said.

"Port Mafia." Ranpo looked at the candy. "Which is why the harbor facilities haven't been properly searched. Which is why Detective Mori recognized the description and didn't say why." A pause. "Which is why—" He stopped.

Atsushi appeared in the doorway and read the room with the quick animal accuracy that he'd developed out of necessity and said, quietly: "She's missing."

"She's missing," Kunikida said. Flat and professional and costing him something.

"She told me something," Atsushi said. "Months ago. She said she keeps a backup tracker in her shoe — the seam of the insole. She mentioned it specifically. I think she wanted someone to know."

Ranpo looked at him for a long moment.

"Good," he said. Just that. The single word carrying more than Ranpo usually allowed words to carry.

Kunikida was already at his laptop.

"Harbor district," Ranpo said, before the map loaded. "It was always going to be the harbor district."

He stood. Put the candy in his pocket. Didn't open it.

"Now," he said.

He came back at what felt like evening.

You'd marked time by your body — hunger, the specific heaviness of a mind that had been running too long without rest. You'd eaten the second onigiri he'd left at some point. Fuel. Not pleasure. You'd done another circuit of the room and found nothing new and gone back to memorizing the shelf labels because it was the only productive thing available to you.

You heard him in the corridor before the door opened. You recognized his footsteps now.

He came in without anything this time.

No tea. No food. Nothing.

He looked the same. Dark coat, white bandages, the composed exterior that seemed impervious to the smell and the cold and the concrete. But the frequency of him was different — the languid ease present but running slightly wrong, like music played at the correct tempo but the wrong key.

"You've decided something," you said.

He looked at you. "You can tell."

"I've been listening to this building for what I estimate is thirty hours. I know what static feels like. You're not static right now."

He crossed the room. Stopped two meters from you. You held your ground.

"The girl," he said.

Your breath held itself.

"I'm going to let her go."

The relief was so sudden and so complete that it moved through you like a physical wave. You let yourself feel it for exactly one second — the full warm rush of it — and then you put it somewhere functional.

"How," you said.

"She'll wake up outside. Somewhere she can get to help. She won't remember anything usefully identifying." He met your eyes. "She'll be alive."

She'll be alive. "When."

"Tonight."

"Now—"

"Tonight." Firm. Final. "I had conditions too."

You let it go. Because you had no leverage and you knew it and spending leverage you didn't have was how you got nothing.

"You're still deciding something else," you said.

The silence that followed had a specific weight. Dense. Held.

"Yes," he said.

"About me."

"Yes."

You stood in the cold light and looked at him across two meters of concrete floor and said it plainly because there was nothing left to gain from anything else: "I know how this ends."

He looked at you steadily.

"You find things beautiful," you said. "You study them until you understand them completely. And then you—" You stopped. Breathed. "I'm a variable you can't account for. My colleagues are looking. There's evidence in the ADA's system that doesn't disappear when I do. You don't leave loose ends." You met his eyes. "I know how this ends."

Something moved across his face. Something human and strange and almost painful to look at.

"The girl upstairs," you said. "Keep your word. Whatever else you decide. Keep that."

"I'll keep it," he said. Simply. Without condition.

You believed him.

That said something about either him or you, and you didn't have time to figure out which.

He crossed the remaining distance.

You didn't step back.

He stopped directly in front of you — close enough to see the shadows under his eyes, the tension along his jaw that his expression didn't acknowledge, the way his hands were very still at his sides in a way that was itself a kind of effort.

"Tell me something true," he said.

The restaurant. The first thing he'd asked you.

Your throat hurt.

"I'm afraid," you said. "I'm very afraid and I don't want this to be how it ends and I have people who—" You stopped. Started again. "I'm afraid. That's true."

"I know."

"Are you?"

He was quiet for a long moment.

"Yes," he said finally. "That's also true."

He reached up.

His hand cupped your jaw — warm, careful — and tilted your face up slightly, and he looked at you with that expression you'd spent thirty hours trying to name and failing.

Then he kissed you.

Nothing like the restaurant.

The restaurant kiss had been a tool. A mechanism. Deployed with precision, designed to function. This one was—

Different.

Slow. His mouth against yours with a pressure that wasn't demanding and wasn't gentle either — something in between, something honest, something that moved like he was trying to say something he'd spent his entire life without the language for. His hand at your jaw didn't grip; it held. His other hand pressed flat against the cold concrete wall beside your head, not to cage you — just because he needed something solid, something to push against.

He kissed you like it was the only honest thing he'd done in a very long time.

He kissed you like it was the last one.

You understood, in the space between his mouth and yours and the next breath, what he'd decided.

The gun was already in his other hand.

Point blank.

It didn't hurt —

That was the thing, the absurd terrible thing, the thing they were right about: it didn't hurt. The shock response, the nervous system overwhelmed, the signals rerouted before they could become pain. Just pressure. Enormous, deep, spreading outward from your chest like warmth, like something opening, like a door.

Your legs stopped working.

He caught you.

Both hands — he caught you with both hands, the gun gone somewhere, his hands under your shoulders and then under your head, lowering you to the concrete floor carefully, carefully, with a care that was completely and perfectly absurd given everything, given the room and the smell and the shelves and the thirty hours and all of it.

He knelt beside you.

His face —

His face was the most human thing you'd ever seen on it. Stripped of every layer, every performance, every constructed warmth and cultivated ease, down to something raw and strange and real and almost — almost — like grief.

The blood was spreading beneath you. Warm first, rapidly cooling against the cold concrete. Dark. More than you expected. Your body was becoming a distant country, the borders between yourself and the room blurring at the edges, the work light above you very white and very far away.

"I told you," he said. His voice was different — completely different, scraped clean of everything he'd layered over it. Raw. Strange. Real. "I find things beautiful and then I need to understand what makes them that way. And you can't understand something completely until—"

He stopped.

Your mouth tried to form words.

Maybe: let her go. Maybe just his name. Maybe nothing. You weren't sure anymore.

His hand found yours on the concrete floor.

Covered it. Thumb moving once across your knuckles — slow, deliberate — the way it had at the restaurant table, the way it had the very first time.

The work light hummed above you. White and merciless and indifferent.

The shelves lined the walls with their careful jars, their careful labels, their careful dates.

The freezer hummed its steady note.

You thought about the fan in your apartment. The white noise you ran in winter. How you'd always needed something to fill the silence because silence felt like absence, felt like something missing, felt like—

Funny, you thought, or nearly thought, in the dissolving language of the threshold.

The silence found me anyway.

And then it did.

The work light hummed.

The freezer hummed.

Osamu Dazai remained crouched on the concrete floor of his basement, holding a dead woman's hand, and he did not move for a very long time. He looked at your face. At your careful, still eyes.

He had never not moved before.

He didn't know what this was.

He remained there in the cold and the smell and the hum of things, and outside the building Yokohama continued being Yokohama, and above him the girl slept through the sedative he'd given her, and somewhere across the city three people were driving very fast toward a tracker signal in the harbor district.

He remained there until he heard the outer door.

Then he stood.

Then he left.

The way he always did — without sound, without trace, through the routes only he knew, into the city that had always hidden him.

The room held what it held.

The door stood open behind him.

They found the tracker signal at 11:47 PM.

Atsushi went in first. His ability active, his eyes bright — the tiger underneath, called up and held. The corridor was long and concrete and the smell hit them immediately, hit them like a wall, and Atsushi made a sound he didn't mean to make and kept moving because stopping wasn't an option.

Ranpo was at the back.

He'd known. He'd done the arithmetic of the timeline on the drive over and arrived at an answer and had been carrying it in silence ever since, which was why he hadn't opened his candy, which was why Kunikida kept glancing at him from the driver's seat with an expression he hadn't let himself finish.

Upper floor first.

Hayashi Emi was unconscious against the wall outside a locked room, a phone placed carefully in her hand. Breathing. Pulse steady. Physically uninjured.

Atsushi's hands were shaking when he checked her pulse.

"She's alive," he said.

"He kept his word," Ranpo said, from somewhere behind them. His voice was doing the thing it didn't usually do.

"What?" Kunikida said.

"She asked him to let the girl go. Before—" Ranpo stopped. "She asked him and he did it." He looked at the phone placed in the girl's hand — old model, not hers, functional. Placed where she'd find it when she woke. "She asked and he kept it."

The descent to the basement.

The door standing open.

The room.

Kunikida stood in the doorway for a long moment. His clipboard was still in his hand — he'd been holding it all night, hadn't registered it. He looked at the shelves. At the jars. At the careful labels in small, precise handwriting. At the freezer in the corner with its steady hum.

He looked at all of it and his face did something it didn't usually do, which was nothing at all.

Atsushi saw you first.

He made a sound — not words, just a sound — and crossed the room and he was already on his knees beside you before Kunikida reached the doorway, before Ranpo came in after them.

Ranpo walked to you.

He crouched down.

He looked at your face for a long time without saying anything. Your expression was still. Your careful eyes were closed. The blood had spread dark across the concrete beneath you, already beginning to dry at the edges the way evidence always did, the way you had told him evidence always did — the outer edges first.

He picked up your hand.

He held it.

"She found him," he said. Quietly. To no one. To the room. "She was right about all of it and she found him and he—" He stopped. Started again. "She asked him to let the girl go and he did. She kept working right up until—" He stopped again.

Kunikida was very still in the doorway.

Atsushi was not still. Atsushi had his face in his hands and his shoulders were shaking and he was not making any sound, which was worse than if he had been.

"She left the tracker," Ranpo said. "She left it knowing someone might need it. She was still thinking about what came after." He looked at your face. "She was still working."

The work light hummed above them all.

Outside: the harbor. The gray water. The city that held everything and gave nothing back.

The case file remained open.

The Port Mafia offered no comment. Detective Mori issued a statement about an ongoing investigation that contained no information. The Unmei app shut down its servers pending a review that never concluded. Hayashi Emi woke in an alley three blocks from a police station with a functional phone in her hand and no memory of anything after the first night, which the doctors said was consistent with the specific compound found in her bloodstream, and which Ranpo said was deliberate, and which was the only mercy in any of it.

The ADA's whiteboard stayed up for three weeks.

Kunikida took it down on a Tuesday morning, early, before anyone else arrived. He stood in front of the blank space for a long time. He had a speech he'd prepared, the conversation he'd planned to have — about protocols, about unsanctioned operations, about the fact that she should have told someone. He'd worked on that speech for three weeks.

He didn't say it to the blank whiteboard.

He didn't say it to anyone.

Ranpo ate his candy in the conference room for two months. Not the main office. No one mentioned it.

Atsushi kept the window in his dormitory room cracked open, even in the cold. He didn't know why. He didn't examine why.

In the parts of Yokohama that the official maps didn't quite capture, Dazai moved through his separate world with his usual unaccountable ease. The Port Mafia tolerated him. He was useful. He was always useful. The organization's moral accounting had enough complexity that one more entry barely registered on the ledger.

He kept nothing.

He was not sentimental about objects.

But sometimes — in the specific quality of harbor evenings, in the gray light on gray water, in the moment before full dark — he stopped walking and looked at the water and thought about careful eyes.

Eyes that had looked at him without performance, without the flinching that most people did when they understood what they were looking at. Eyes that had stayed clear and direct and present all the way to the end, still cataloguing him, still building the evidence file, still working.

He thought about what it meant that she'd asked him to let the girl go.

He thought about what it meant that he had.

He thought about these things in the particular and terrible way that only he thought about things, and he did not explain this to anyone because there was no one to explain it to, and the harbor held its counsel the way it always had — indifferent and gray and immense and cold.

The cases remained open.

The city breathed.

The water moved in and moved out.

And somewhere in that city, in the spaces between what was known and what was kept, Osamu Dazai walked and thought about careful eyes and did not understand — for the first time in a very long time — what he felt.

He didn't have a category for it.

He remained, in this one thing, unfinished.

Don't look at me like that. You knew what I was. You came anyway. That's not my fault—that's just bad detective work.- Dazai Osamu

ty for reading!