CONTENT WARNING: This chapter contains disturbing scenes involving home invasion, sexually inappropriate behavior, graphic violence, and murder. Reader discretion is advised.
Thalya's house welcomed them like a sanctuary after the exhausting day. The silence inside was different from the one outside—it was protective, almost comforting. As she turned the key in the lock, Seina felt her shoulders drop a few centimeters, as if she could leave the weight of both realities outside for a few hours.
"So basically," Thalya summed up, tossing her backpack onto the couch with a tired sigh, "I can't even slip in the shower now? Or sneeze too hard?"
It was an attempt at dark humor. The joke died between them.
"Basically that," Seina replied, not smiling. "Your life turned into a list of restrictions. No stairs, no strange food, no unexpected visitors. Nothing that could kill you."
They exchanged a brief look. The absurdity of the new reality hung heavy in the air: the entire universe was now a threat. A stumble, a cold, a trivial accident. Anything could be the trigger.
The nighttime routine came like an automatic ritual. Tea boiling in the kitchen, brushing their teeth side by side in the small bathroom, the casual brushing of shoulders in the narrow hallway. When they lay down, there was no hesitation. The bed was theirs. Thalya turned onto her side, Seina with her back to her, staring at the wall. Exhaustion beat paranoia. Both fell asleep quickly.
Seina woke in the middle of the night with her throat dry as sand. The bedroom was plunged into absolute darkness, the silence so dense it felt like pressure against her eardrums. Something had woken her—a noise? A smell? An instinct?
She slowly disentangled herself from Thalya, who was sleeping deeply, and slipped out of bed. Her bare feet touched the cold floor. As she passed the bedroom door, a draft of icy air brushed her skin, making her shiver.
"The living room window is open?"
The hallway seemed longer in the gloom. As she neared the living room, she saw a sliver of yellow light leaking from beneath the door. Her heart gave a hard jolt.
Thalya was asleep. Who had turned on the light?
Then she heard it.
A low, rhythmic, breathless sound. A muffled moan, followed by a hoarse, repetitive whisper. It wasn't pain. It was pleasure. A sick, obsessive pleasure.
Seina's blood ran cold. Every cell screamed for her to turn back, lock the bedroom door, pretend nothing existed. But her feet carried her forward, dragged by a magnetic horror.
She reached the half-open door and peeked inside.
The sight made her choke in silence.
Malori was kneeling in the center of the rug, her back to the door. Her skirt was hitched up to her waist, her body moving in a frantic, obscene rhythm against the dark fabric. In one hand, pressed to her face like oxygen, was one of Thalya's black lace panties—the scent of her being inhaled deeply. The other hand was between her own legs, fast, desperate movements. The low moans were punctuated by hoarse whispers: "Thalya… Thalya… mine… only mine…"
It was a violation so intimate, so profane, that Seina's stomach lurched. The figure from the market, the scar, the pie—all of it collapsed into a single portrait of pure obsession, unfiltered, unhinged.
Her finger found the light switch on instinct.
The harsh light of the room exploded on, freezing the scene.
Malori stopped mid-motion. Her entire body went rigid. Slowly, she turned. Her blue eyes—now glazed with lust and fury—locked onto Seina's.
For a second, only shock.
Then hatred. Pure. Cold.
"You were supposed to die with the pie," Malori said, her voice flat, still rough from recent excitement, but dripping with venom. "You ruined everything."
The words hit Seina like a punch. The pie. The "flu." Thalya's slow death—everything clicked into place.
Malori sprang to her feet, yanking her skirt down with a sharp motion. The sweet-girl mask crumbled. What remained was a cornered animal—dangerous, possessive.
"What are you doing here?" Seina managed to whisper, her voice shaking.
Malori didn't answer. Instead, she grabbed a roll of plastic wrap from the table. She lunged too fast. Wrapped the plastic around Seina's neck, pulling with inhuman strength.
Seina gagged, her hands flying to her throat, clawing at the plastic and at Malori's fingers. Her lungs burned. Black spots danced across her vision.
With a burst of desperation, she shoved Malori with her whole body. The other girl stumbled back, releasing the plastic. Seina staggered toward the kitchen, trying to call for Thalya, but only a hoarse rasp came out.
Malori followed her, eyes empty. She opened a drawer. Light glinted off the long blade of a kitchen knife.
"You shouldn't be here," Malori whispered, advancing. "She's mine. She always was."
Seina tried to dodge. Too late.
The blade sank into her right abdomen. A cold, overwhelming pain. She looked down in disbelief, seeing the handle protruding from her body.
Malori yanked the knife out.
Hot blood poured, soaking her pajamas. Seina dropped to her knees, one hand pressing the wound, the other dragging her backward across the floor.
That was when the hallway door opened.
Thalya appeared—pale, sleepy, hair tousled.
"Seina? What was that noise—"
Her gaze swept the scene: Seina bleeding on the floor, crawling. Malori standing, knife dripping red. And then it landed on Malori's left hand—still clutching Thalya's black lace panties.
The horror on Thalya's face was absolute. It wasn't just fear. It was betrayal. Profanation. The childhood friend she trusted had invaded her home, stolen her intimacy, tried to kill the person she loved.
Malori saw that look. Saw the judgment. The revulsion. The naked truth.
Something broke inside her.
With a strangled scream—rage, despair, sick jealousy—she hurled herself at Thalya.
"NO!" Seina tried to scream, but only a gurgle of blood came out.
The knife came down. Fast. Brutal. No struggle.
Thalya collapsed in the hallway, violet eyes still open, fixed on the final betrayal.
Malori stood between the two bodies, gasping. The knife slipped from her hand, clattering to the floor. Tears streamed down her face—not of remorse, but of an unbearable loss.
And then, before any thought could form, the entire world collapsed.
There was no slow transition. No gradual white light.
From the darkness of the kitchen, from the sensation of blood slipping between her fingers, from the image of Thalya's body in the hallway…
…into a deep darkness that swallowed her whole.