The rain had stopped, but the blood refused to dry.
Ren sat on the curb, arms locked around his knees, staring at the dark puddle spreading beneath him. Yui's blood. His blood. Swirling together in the gutter like some obscene watercolor. Blue and red emergency lights strobed across the alley walls, turning the narrow space into a pulsing nightmare.
He had watched them bag her. Watched the paramedics gently pry her stiff fingers from his sleeve. Watched them search for a pulse that had already gone silent while she stared straight into his eyes.
"Ishida Ren."
The detective's voice cut through the fog. The man crouched in front of him, notepad open, eyes narrowed with professional suspicion. Two uniformed officers stood a step behind, watching Ren like he might bolt at any moment.
"Walk us through it one more time."
Ren's throat burned. He had thrown up twice more since the ambulance arrived. His school uniform had gone stiff where the blood dried, cracking like old leather with every shallow breath. The metallic stench coated the inside of his nose, his mouth, his lungs.
"A hooded man came out of the alley," he said, voice hoarse and flat. "Knife already drawn. He attacked me first. I shoved Yui away. Then he… he turned on her. Stabbed her. Multiple times."
The detective scribbled notes. "You never saw his face?"
"It was pouring rain. His hood stayed up the whole time. Everything happened too fast." Ren kept his gaze fixed on the cracked pavement. "I tried to save her. I swear I tried."
The memory crashed over him again without mercy: the wet, heavy thunk of steel sinking into flesh, Yui's choked gurgle as blood flooded her lungs, the hot spray across his face and chest when the blade came free. Her final weak whisper.
Why is it so cold…?
The detective exhaled through his nose and stood. "We'll need you at the station for a formal statement. Your parents are already on their way."
Three hours later, Ren sat under harsh fluorescent lights in a small interrogation room, dressed in a plain grey tracksuit that smelled of industrial detergent. His forearm throbbed under fresh stitches. He repeated the same story until the words lost all meaning.
They released him at 1:17 a.m. Not enough evidence to hold him.
His parents waited in the lobby. The moment his mother, Aiko, saw him, she rushed forward and pulled him into a crushing hug, sobbing quietly against his shoulder even as dried blood flaked off his clothes onto her coat.
"Ren… my sweet boy…" Her voice broke. "What happened? Are you hurt anywhere?"
His father, Takeshi, stood a step behind, face pale and tight, one hand clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. He didn't speak. He simply stared at his son like he was looking at a stranger wearing Ren's face.
The car ride home was almost silent, broken only by his mother's occasional sniffles. Ren stared out the window at Tokyo's passing neon lights, flinching every time a pedestrian crossed the street. Every pair of eyes felt like a threat.
At home, his mother tried to press a bowl of warm rice and miso soup into his hands. The smell alone made his stomach twist violently. He shook his head and went straight to the bathroom.
He stood under scalding water until his skin burned, scrubbing himself raw with soap. The drain ran red for a long time. When it finally ran clear, he stepped out, dried himself, and pulled on clean clothes.
He lay on his bed in the dark, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. Every time he blinked, he saw Yui's face — the way her bright eyes had slowly dulled while she looked straight at him, confused and betrayed, as if silently asking why he couldn't stop it.
At 4:32 a.m., he gave up and dragged himself back to the kitchen for a glass of water.
His mother was standing in the hallway when he stepped out, worry etched deep into her features. She had clearly been waiting up for him.
"Ren… sweetheart, please talk to me," she whispered, reaching up to gently cup his cheek. "Whatever happened tonight, you don't have to carry it alone. You can talk to me."
Their eyes met.
The vision slammed into him like ice water.
Four months from now.
His mother in the kitchen, humming softly as she stirred something on the stove. Her phone buzzed on the counter. She laughed at whatever was on the screen. Then her expression changed. She gasped sharply, clutching her chest. The spoon clattered to the floor. She collapsed hard, her head striking the edge of the counter on the way down.
Her mouth opened and closed desperately, eyes wide with terror and pain, staring toward the doorway as if waiting for him to appear and save her.
She died alone on the cold kitchen tiles.
Ren jerked back violently, breaking the eye contact. His mother blinked, startled. "Ren? What's wrong?"
He couldn't answer. His legs felt boneless.
He stumbled into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. His damp feet slipped on the tile. He fell hard. His head cracked against the sharp edge of the sink with a sickening thud. Pain exploded through his skull. He hit the floor, dazed but conscious, warm blood trickling down the side of his face from a fresh cut above his eyebrow. The room spun slowly.
For one terrifying second, something else had flashed in the mirror — distant, hazy images years away. Rain. Shadows. Fire. A knife. His own dead eyes staring up at nothing. But the details dissolved almost instantly, like smoke in wind. Only the suffocating terror remained, sinking deep into his bones.
"What was that?" He slowly sat on the floor. "My death?"
Ren curled into a tight ball on the cold bathroom floor, trembling uncontrollably. His hands shook so badly he couldn't even wipe the blood from his eye. Fresh tears mixed with it, hot and silent.
He pressed his bleeding forehead against the icy tile and whispered, voice small and shattered:
"Why… why is this happening to me?"
The Next Morning
Ren stood outside the school gates the following day, the cut above his eyebrow hidden beneath a small bandage.
His mother had begged him to stay home, but he refused. He needed to see it for himself. Needed to confirm that yesterday wasn't some horrible fever dream.
The moment he stepped into the building, the atmosphere shifted. Whispers followed him like shadows. Students stared openly. Some backed away. Others gave him pitying glances. The news had already spread everywhere — Yui Takahashi was dead. Murdered. And Ren Ishida had been found covered in her blood.
He kept his head down, shoulders hunched, avoiding every pair of eyes as he walked the familiar hallway toward Class 3-A. The moment he slid the door open, all chatter inside died instantly.
Yui's desk sat in the middle of the room like a shrine.
Flowers, handwritten notes, a small plush bear she used to bring to class — everything arranged neatly on the wooden surface. Her favorite mechanical pencil rested on top. The empty chair looked louder than anything else in the room.
Ren's stomach twisted painfully. He walked straight to his usual seat at the back, next to the window, and dropped into it. He didn't look at anyone. He couldn't.
The homeroom teacher entered with a heavy, somber expression. "As many of you already know… we lost Yui Takahashi yesterday evening. The school will hold a memorial service next week. For now, please be kind to one another. Grief affects us all differently."
A heavy silence blanketed the classroom.
The teacher cleared his throat. "We also have a new transfer student joining us today. Please welcome Sora Kurosaki."
The door opened again.
A girl with shoulder-length dark hair and calm, gentle eyes walked in. She carried herself quietly, a sketchbook tucked under one arm. She bowed politely to the class.
"Hello, everyone. I'm Sora Kurosaki. I transferred from Osaka. Please take care of me."
Her assigned seat was right next to Ren — Yui's old seat.
She placed her bag down carefully and glanced sideways at him. Her voice was soft, almost hesitant.
"Nice to meet you… Ishida-kun, right?"
Ren kept his head lowered, eyes fixed on his desk. He gave the smallest nod but said nothing. He could feel her watching him — not with the same morbid curiosity as the others, but with something quieter. Something that looked dangerously close to genuine concern.
Sora didn't push. She simply opened her sketchbook and began drawing lightly, occasionally glancing at the memorial desk across the room.
Ren's hands clenched tightly under his desk. The cut on his forehead throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He could still smell blood. Still hear Yui's last ragged breath. Still see his mother dying alone on the kitchen floor four months from now.
And now this new girl was sitting exactly where his only friend used to sit.
He closed his eyes tightly, fighting the wave of nausea rising in his throat.
Why is this happening to me?
The bell rang for first period. Ren didn't move. He wasn't sure he could.
The darkness that began last night had followed him to school.
And it was only growing thicker.