The night after I stopped pretending to forgive, the house was quieter than usual. My parents' voices drifted up the stairs muffled, ordinary, the sound of people who still tried to make things okay. I watched them from the doorway for a moment and then walked away. There was no way they could understand what I was doing, and I didn't want them to.
My plan formed itself the way it always did: clear, cold, and simple. If she was going to show up at Souta's party, then I would be there too. Not to beg, not to plead, not even to fight. I would be there to watch. To record. To make sure nothing they thought private stayed private.
I told my parents a small lie. "I need to work on the student council pamphlets tonight," I said, and they nodded their trust was a thing I could use, and I used it without regret. Mom pressed a hand to my cheek, worried and proud. "Be careful, okay?" she said.
"Okay," I lied.
Later, when they slept, I moved. I set things out with mechanical care: old phone with the camera app open, battery fully charged; another phone in airplane mode for backups; a small voice recorder I'd bought online; duct tape; a thin camera the size of a pen I could hide in a pocket or under a jacket. I clipped the recorder to the inside of my collar and slid the camera into the seam of my jacket where no one would notice. My old phone I hid under the lining of a jacket pocket, lens peeking through a slit I'd made. Everything looked normal on the outside: a boy going to a party. On the inside, everything was ready for ruin.
I left the house at dusk. The air had that hard winter edge cold enough to bite at my ears, clean enough to make each breath feel sharp. I walked the long way to the address Souta had given Miyuki. It was a cramped place one of those cheap rental rooms some students used for parties. Garish lights, cheap carpet, the smell of too much perfume, beer, and takeout. The kind of place where people said and did things they later regretted.
I could have driven. I could have come in a different car. But I wanted to walk. I needed the silence to build myself into the shape I would need tonight.
When I reached the place, people were already spilling out onto the balcony and into the stairwell voices, laughter, music thin through the walls. Souta stood by the doorway like he owned the place, the way he always did. He had that same easy smile, the same loose posture, full of the assurance I wanted to break.
Miyuki was there too. She looked like she belonged. Her hair fell soft at her shoulders; she had a light jacket and a small bag. She saw me before I stepped inside and for the briefest second her face shifted surprise, a quick worry and then it flew into an expression she used when she wanted to hide things: polite, calm, small smile in place. She walked over.
"Haruto," she said, bright for no reason I could parse. "You came."
Of course I came. "You're really here," I said, my voice flat.
She bit her lip. "Souta wanted everyone together. I thought… I thought it might be okay." Her words were quick, searching for approval.
I didn't give it. "Right."
Souta noticed me immediately. His eyes split the room when he saw me first mild curiosity, then the tiny flash of something he mistook for fear. He stepped forward like a cat approaching a new thing.
"Well, well," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Haruto. You actually showed up. Didn't expect that."
"Neither did I," I said.
He laughed too loud, too easy. "You're brave. Or maybe stupid."
"Maybe," I answered.
For a second he studied me like he was trying to find a weakness, a crack to push into. He didn't find one. What he found instead was the cold steadiness in my gaze. He blinked away the look like it was a glare.
"Make yourself comfortable," he said, waving me in. "There's food on the table."
I nodded and moved through the crowd, careful to stay to the edges. My recorder picked up chatter: kids swapping gossip, teachers pretending not to notice the drinks, Souta joking in the center of his small throne. I let the recordings run and watched with a face that refused to betray feeling.
People came up to me, asked about school, about the decorations, about the council. I answered automatically, the voice of the boy everyone thought they knew. It's funny no one ever suspects the quiet one who smiles and nods. They assume harmlessness. And harmlessness is the perfect mask.
Souta kept drifting close to Miyuki, whispering into her ear. He was careful, the sort of slow, knowing movement that reads like ownership. She let him. That was what killed me the most not the touch, not even the kisses I later recorded hidden in a corner but the way she didn't pull away. The way she laughed when he said something light and her eyes shone in a way I used to make them shine.
I found a spot along the wall, angled the pen-camera toward them as casually as possible, thumb resting on the record button of my old phone. The room blurred into noise and neon. Time narrowed to these recordings, to the faces I kept tape of. Each click of a camera shutter felt like filing another stone to make a wall that would one day bury their lies.
A group of kids from the soccer club came over; Souta jumped up to show something on his phone. "Check this out," he called, and everyone leaned in. My camera got the angle. His arm brushed Miyuki's. They laughed. They kissed later, by the windows, like nothing was wrong, like there were no consequences. The recorder caught it all: the soft laugh, the breath in between, the small, choking little sounds that people make when they think only their lover is listening.
A few teachers wandered in smiling, watching, maybe approving? One of them was from the music department. I watched as they lingered near Miyuki, complimented her violin progress, talked about recitals. My recorder captured the teacher's praise. My stomach turned. You could see how easy it was for them to legitimize everything: teacher smiles, club endorsements. Everything braided together to create safety for lies.
Around midnight, when the crowd loosened, Souta took Miyuki's hand and led her to a quieter corner. The music was lower there, the light dimmer. I moved with them without drawing attention just another student lingering.
They talked softly. I couldn't make out all the words, but the body language was what I needed. Her head on his shoulder; his hands warm and certain where they rested. They kissed slowly, long enough that my camera filled its memory with faces, fingers, and quiet mouths. I kept recording until my battery dipped low and then switched to the other device, hands steady.
When they leaned against the wall, closing their eyes, she whispered something I might have once called a promise. It was the kind of whisper that binds people. The kind of whisper I had believed meant something once.
I turned off the camera when my memory card had enough. There was no rush. I had everything I needed to make a case, to shatter the shield they wore. But that wasn't the end of it. I wanted more than evidence; I wanted him stripped of the arrogance he wore like armor. I wanted her to feel the full weight of what she'd given away.
On my way out, Souta clapped me on the shoulder theatrically. "So you came to check out the party, huh? Glad you made it." His voice was too jovial, the smile a little too smooth.
"Good party," I said. "Thanks."
He laughed and walked back into the room. I left not as quickly as duty required but quickly enough to keep the act. Outside, the cold hit me like clarity. For a second I stood on the sidewalk and exhaled slow. The recorder in my collar had filled its file. The phone in my pocket had video. The small pen camera had angles I knew would be damning in the right light.
I walked home in the silence between streetlamps and thought about what came next. Public humiliation would be messy. Exposing them in front of friends would cause rumors, but rumors heal; what I wanted was structural ruin. I wanted their supports removed the teacher who winked and looked away, the classmates who would choose convenience, the little networks that had wrapped them in protection. I wanted to make sure no one would look at them the same way again.
When I opened the door, it was almost dawn. Mom left the kettle out for me, a quiet note where she had written: Be careful. We love you. The pen lingered on her handwriting like a ghost I could not answer.
I placed the devices on my desk and sat down. For the first time since I started collecting proof, sitting with the images, I felt something like satisfaction—not warm, not sweet—just steady. The pictures stared back, small rectangles full of light and betrayal. I didn't celebrate. I just nodded to myself.
The path forward was slow, and I would make no mistakes. I would not be loud. I would not be careless. I would let them continue to breathe their safe air until I pulled out the oxygen.
December 23rd's party had given me everything I needed for the beginning. The rest would be the slow work of unpicking.
I charged the devices, backed up the files to hidden folders, and labeled each clip with precise timestamps and notes. Evidence is useless if it's messy. I became careful in a different way—methodical, clinical. The boy who had once been broken by betrayal had been replaced by one who used betrayal like a tool.
When I finally lay down, the room felt colder than before. My muscles still ached from the treadmill of my self-imposed punishment. My eyes were dry. I thought of Miyuki asleep somewhere maybe trying to feel normal after the party, kissing Souta the way lovers do. I thought of Souta, smug and certain, believing himself untouchable.
I did not dream. I let the silence hold me like an ally.
In the morning, the plans continued. I would make contact with a few quiet people someone from the student council who owed me a favor, a kid who liked gossip and could be turned with the right push. I would place a copy of the footage where it mattered: the teacher's desk, the class chat, the council group. I would not destroy them in a single blow. I would erode them. The slow collapse leaves nothing left to rebuild.
I rose before dawn with the same steady cold that had brought me to the party. The heater hummed in the kitchen as Mom made tea. She handed me a cup like she'd done since I was small, and I took it with no words. She likely didn't understand how I had spent the night. That was fine.
"Be careful," she said again, softer than before.
"I will," I answered.
She held my gaze for a beat longer. I wanted to tell her everything so badly I could taste it, but I held back. If she knew, she would try to stop me. If she tried to stop me, things would slow. I could not let that happen.
I left for school with the recorded files hidden on multiple drives sewn into my bag. The sun was low, the sky a brittle blue. I had a meeting with two students who liked drama and one teacher who was a little too indifferent to question things quickly. The pieces were in motion.
They didn't know that their safe night had already been turned into my raw material. They didn't know that every laugh in that room, every casual brushing of hand to hand, had been measured and stored. When the moment came, the sound of their world breaking would be a quiet, precise thing.
I didn't want to watch them burn in public like a spectacle. I wanted to watch them understand the silence when everyone they relied upon folded away like a hand withdrawing support. That was worse. That was final.
As I walked, I thought of the boy I had been the one who would have crumpled upon seeing such betrayal. He might still exist inside me somewhere, but I had trained him out, or pressed him down enough that he no longer had the power to stop me.
The plan was simple. The execution would be careful. The outcome would be inevitable.
And in the cold light of the morning, I felt something settle inside me that felt not like peace, but like readiness.