8:17 PM.

  The blade entered.

  The girl’s breath caught.

  The pulse came.

  And then the world shattered.

  The television turned on by itself. The reflection staring back at Ren was not flattering. It was not cinematic. It was raw.

  Him. The dagger. The moment of impact. The girl collapsing.

  Every billboard downtown flickered. Every public screen changed. Every train platform. Every convenience store monitor. Every phone notification.

  The Mist Killer. Live. Unmasked.

  And beneath the footage was music.

  A soft instrumental. Then her voice.

  Aira’s voice. The song she had only ever shared in private.

  Ren’s breath faltered.

  “No…”

  Sirens screamed in the distance. But not one. Many. Too many.

  This wasn’t a reaction. It was orchestration.

  The tripod lay alone in the corner. No operator. No Akira. Just the red light blinking.

  Ren smashed it.

  The feed continued. Mirrored. Copied. Too late.

  He ran.

  Out the window. The drop tore something in his leg. He landed wrong. Pain flared white-hot. He stumbled forward anyway.

  By 8:24 PM, the first police units were already sealing off the street.

  By 8:31 PM, his face was trending nationwide.

  By 8:39 PM, his name was being screamed on news broadcasts.

  Mist Killer. Serial murderer. Arrest immediately.

  The comments weren’t admiration. They weren’t fascination. They were hatred.

  Ren ducked into an alley, pressing himself against cold brick.

  His phone buzzed relentlessly in his pocket. He didn’t want to look.

  He looked.

  Hundreds of messages. Friends. Girls. Teammates.

  “Is this real?” “What did you do?” “Please tell me this isn’t you.”

  The narrative was collapsing. Not shifting to him. Condemning him.

  At 8:52 PM, he tried to disappear.

  He pulled his hood up. He kept his head down.

  But screens in store windows reflected his face back at him. His own image haunted him.

  The song followed him. Played on repeat. Soft. Gentle. Unforgiving.

  He turned into the school grounds at 9:17 PM.

  Instinct. Theater. The stage. Control.

  But it was flooded.

  Flashlights sweeping. Police everywhere. The obvious hiding place was sealed.

  He felt something twist in his chest.

  They knew him. They anticipated him.

  He wasn’t the one controlling rooms anymore. He was being herded.

  He moved to the outer buildings. Then to the athletic fields.

  At 10:04 PM, helicopters circled above. Searchlights cut across rooftops.

  He could hear people shouting his name. Not cheering. Not calling. Hunting.

  At 10:28 PM, he tried to slip through the back entrance of the gym.

  Locked. Officers inside.

  He retreated again. Sweat soaked through his clothes. His injured leg began to tremble. He slid down against a wall near the stairwell and covered his ears.

  The song was still playing.

  Someone had put it on repeat. Across the city. Across every feed. Aira’s voice layered over his exposure.

  He whispered to himself. “They’re looking at me.”

  But not the way he wanted.

  Not admiration. Not envy. Not curiosity.

  Disgust. Fear. Rage.

  At 10:51 PM, he realized something he had never considered before.

  Even if he killed Akira, even if he found him and slit his throat. It wouldn’t make a difference anymore..

  The footage existed. The city had seen.

  He could never rebuild this narrative. He could never walk into a room and control it again.

  He would always be—The Mist Killer.

  He laughed weakly. A cracked, hollow sound.

  “I didn’t want this kind of spotlight…”

  By 11:16 PM, police had sealed every exit from the campus. Officers moved in patterns. Not random. Guided. Anticipating him.

  He reached the rooftop at 11:32 PM.

  Not by plan. By elimination. It was the last open space.

  A cold wind cut across the roof. The city stretched below. Lights blinking. Screens flickering.

  Still replaying him. Still replaying the murder. Still replaying her song.

  He stepped toward the edge.

  The moon hung high. Full. Bright. Silver.

  And there at the far edge of the rooftop was a figure.

  Still. Familiar.

  Aira.

  Bathed in moonlight. Her hair is glowing pale. Her expression is unreadable.

  For a moment Ren’s breath hitched.

  There she was playing on all the billboards and screens in the city. The news. It was unescapable.

  Even now she was shining. Not hunted. Not hated. Just luminous.

  He staggered backward. His heel caught.

  The dagger slipped from his hand and skidded across the concrete. It stopped near a pair of shoes.

  Ren looked up.

  Akira stepped forward slowly. Calm. Unrushed. Like he had been waiting for this exact second.

  “What did you do…” Ren whispered.

  Akira picked up the dagger.

  “Gave you what you wanted.”

  Ren’s injured leg gave out as he tried to lunge. He fell hard.

  Helicopter lights swept overhead. Sirens howled below. The moonlight sharpened.

  “You don’t understand—” Ren started.

  “I do,” Akira said quietly.

  “You wanted to control attention.”

  “You built yourself around it.”

  “You thought if you took enough of it, you’d never be invisible.”

  Ren stared at him. “…What’s your blessing?”

  Akira didn’t blink.

  “How many times did you try to make this happen?” Ren demanded. “How many times did it take?”

  Akira’s voice was flat.

  “Enough times that your voice makes me sick.”

  The dagger plunged into Ren’s chest at 11:47 PM.

  Deep. Precise.

  The blade pulsed.

  Ren gasped. For the first time he felt what it was like on the receiving end of the blade.

  The erasure. The thinning. His outline is weakening.

  “I don’t want to disappear,” he choked.

  The moonlight washed over Aira’s figure behind Akira. She glowed. Unforced. Unapologetic.

  Ren’s vision blurred.

  Even in death. Aira outshone him.

  His fingers slipped from Akira’s wrist. The dagger consumed.

  Ren staggered backward. And fell from the rooftop into darkness.

  No scream. Just silence.

  Below, the city still searched. Above, the moonlight lingered, a video of Aira singing her song she kept to herself and her small group of friends kept repeating on loop while cutting to clips of Ren and his last victim.

  Akira stood alone.

  The clock read 11:47 PM.

  Enough time. Just enough.

  And the spotlight, finally… Belonged to someone else.

  Before he was the Mist Killer, Ren was invisible.

  Middle school hallways swallowed him whole.

  He wasn’t bullied. He wasn’t admired. He wasn’t anything.

  Just… background.

  He sat near the windows. Answered questions when called on. Laughed when others laughed. Forgotten by lunch. Forgotten by the end of the day.

  Except once.

  Aira Minase had noticed him.

  It wasn’t grand. She had turned around in class once and asked, “Do you have an eraser?”

  He had.

  She smiled. “Thanks, Ren.”

  That was it. But it was everything.

  He spent the rest of that week replaying it in his head. She knew his name.

  After that, he tried. He drew stupid caricatures and “accidentally” left them where she could see. He made jokes in class. Some landed. Some didn’t.

  She laughed sometimes. She drifted away most times.

  She didn’t dislike him. She just didn’t linger. He couldn’t hold her attention.

  And that terrified him. Because when she looked at him. He felt real. Like he existed.

  One afternoon, he stood on the rooftop of the school building.

  He wasn’t planning to die. He wasn’t planning anything.

  He just wanted someone to look up. Someone to gasp. Someone to say his name.

  He stepped too far. His foot slipped.

  The world turned sideways. Concrete met bone. The sky disappeared.

  He woke up in a hospital bed.

  Pain wrapped around his ribs. A nurse adjusted his IV.

  A police officer stood near the door, arms crossed.

  And a man in a white coat sat beside the bed.

  Calm. Observant. Not alarmed.

  “You’re lucky,” the doctor said gently.

  Ren swallowed. “…Did anyone see?”

  The doctor tilted his head. “See what?”

  Ren’s voice cracked. “That I fell.”

  The doctor studied him for a long moment. “Why were you up there?”

  Ren stared at the ceiling. “…I just wanted people to see me.”

  Silence.

  The doctor stood. Walked to the window. Then returned.

  He placed something on the bedside table.

  A dagger. Simple. Elegant. The metal shimmered strangely in the fluorescent light.

  “You don’t need to fall to be seen,” the doctor said softly.

  Ren’s eyes flicked to the blade.

  “You can take it.”

  Ren frowned weakly. “…Take what?”

  “Attention,” the doctor replied.

  He placed the dagger into Ren’s palm. It felt warm. Alive. Responsive.

  “As long as you’re willing to pay the cost.”

  Ren looked up. “What cost?”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The doctor smiled faintly.

  “Everything.”

  The police officer by the door shifted slightly. The doctor walked toward him. As he passed, he patted the officer lightly on the back.

  A simple gesture. Friendly. Familiar.

  The officer didn’t ask questions. Didn’t look confused. Just nodded once.

  Nothing had happened here. Nothing unusual. Nothing to report.

  The door closed.

  Ren lay there staring at the dagger. It pulsed once in his hand.

  The first time was an accident. That’s what he told himself.

  A random girl at the playground. Someone he didn’t know. Someone who wouldn’t be missed.

  Ren had just wanted to see what the dagger would do.

  He pressed it lightly into the boy’s chest. It didn’t cut skin. It slid through like a shadow.

  The boy gasped. Then faded.

  Not just dying. Thinning. Like chalk washed away in rain.

  Ren panicked. He ran home. He waited for sirens. For the police. For someone to knock. For someone to take him away.

  No one came.

  The next day at school all the kids talked to him. Casually. Easily. Like he’d always been there.

  He felt… fuller. Louder. Sharper.

  He made a joke in class. It landed. He held eye contact. People listened. They didn’t look past him. They looked at him.

  The warmth spread through his chest. He felt seen. He loved it.

  But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

  Because Aira still shone effortlessly.

  She didn’t try. She didn’t calculate. She just was.

  And the more Ren built himself up, the more she eclipsed him.

  He didn’t want to outshine her. He told himself that every night. He just wanted to stand beside her. Just as bright. Just once.

  But brightness, he learned—

  Wasn’t shared. It was taken.

  And he was very good at taking.

  Now on the rooftop with the dagger in his chest…

  Ren reached upward weakly.

  “I didn’t want this,” he whispered.

  Blood bubbled at his lips.

  “I didn’t want to outshine you…”

  His vision blurred.

  “I just wanted to shine as bright as you.”

  His hand trembled. Reaching. Not for Akira. Not for the blade. For something unseen.

  Salvation. Recognition. A second chance.

  But the darkness came instead. It crept inward from the edges of his sight.

  Ren staggered backward.

  The railing caught his legs, but his balance was already gone.

  He tipped.

  And fell from the rooftop into darkness.

  No scream.

  A dull, heavy thud echoed from the courtyard below.

  Then silence.

  The rooftop door burst open.

  Detective Shun rushed out, gun drawn, flashlight sweeping the concrete.

  He froze.

  There was no one. Only Akira.

  Standing near the edge. Quiet. Watching the city lights below.

  Watching the video he made play on loop. At Aira.

  Shun lowered his weapon slightly, breath coming in sharp bursts.

  “Where is he?”

  Akira didn’t turn. He looked down into the dark garden three stories below.

  “He fell.”

  Shun cursed under his breath. He holstered his weapon and ran to the edge, looking down.

  Flashlights from the ground units were already converging on the bushes.

  “Stay here,” Shun ordered.

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and sprinted back down the stairwell.

  Akira followed. Slowly.

  By the time Akira reached the courtyard, Shun was already kneeling in the dirt.

  Ren lay twisted in the hydrangeas. His limbs were broken at wrong angles. His eyes were open, staring at nothing. The dagger was gone. Vanished upon his death, but something else remained.

  Resting on Ren’s chest, catching the beam of Shun’s flashlight, was a coin.

  Different hue. Deep. Dense. Heavy.

  Shun reached for Ren’s neck, checking for a pulse that wasn’t there.

  “He’s dead,” Shun muttered. “Damn it.”

  He grabbed his radio. “Suspect down. North side courtyard. Requesting medical.”

  While Shun was distracted by the radio, Akira stepped closer.

  He didn’t ask for permission. He reached down.

  His fingers brushed Ren’s cold shirt. He picked up the coin.

  It was warm.

  Shun saw the movement but didn’t stop him. He was too busy staring at the body of a high school student who had become a monster.

  “We needed him alive,” Shun said tightly, wiping sweat from his forehead. “We needed answers.”

  Akira pocketed the coin.

  “You have the footage,” Akira said calmly. “You have the confession. You have the body.”

  He looked down at Ren one last time.

  The boy who wanted to be seen was finally the center of attention. Police lights bathed him in red and blue. Radios chattered his name.

  It was exactly what he wanted.

  Akira turned to leave.

  Shun remained kneeling, shoulders slumped, the weight of the night pressing down on him. The paperwork. The press. The families. The cleanup.

  Akira walked past him.

  As he did, he reached out and patted the detective lightly on the shoulder.

  A simple gesture.

  Shun stiffened slightly.

  “Take care of the rest,” Akira whispered.

  He didn’t look back.

  He walked out of the courtyard, leaving the detective alone with the body, the lights, and the mess that the game had left behind.

  They found the body in the hedges beneath the east wing.

  Broken branches. Bent metal fencing. Blood soaked into damp soil.

  Detective Shun Tachibana stood at the edge of the taped perimeter and stared down at what used to be Ren Amamiya.

  Except it wasn’t.

  The body was there. Male. Teenage. Severe blunt force trauma consistent with a fall from height. One leg twisted unnaturally beneath him.

  But the face…

  Shun frowned.

  It was intact. Not mutilated. Not decomposed. And yet something felt wrong.

  He checked the ID recovered from the pocket. Student ID card.

  Name: Ren Amamiya

  He looked at the face again. It didn’t match in his mind.

  He flipped open his phone and pulled up a yearbook photo. The picture showed a smiling boy, sharp eyes, confident grin.

  He looked back at the body. The features were similar. Same build. Same hair.

  But it felt like trying to remember a dream. The edges didn’t hold.

  Around him, officers spoke in hushed confusion.

  “That’s him, right?”

  “Yeah. That’s the kid from the video.”

  “What was his name again?”

  Silence.

  “…Doesn’t matter,” someone muttered.

  Shun’s jaw tightened.

  They all knew what they had seen. The livestream had flooded the city. The killer. The blade. The girl.

  Everyone remembered the murder. No one remembered the name.

  By morning, the official statement was ready.

  Suspected serial killer committed suicide while fleeing police response.

  The phrasing was careful. It didn’t name him. It didn’t need to.

  The city was satisfied. The threat was dead. That was enough.

  Shun sat at his desk with the file open.

  Victim One—Female Victim Two—Female Victim Three—Female Suspect—Deceased Male. Identity pending confirmation.

  Pending.

  He stared at that word.

  They had fingerprints. Dental records. Student enrollment data. Everything confirmed the body belonged to Ren Amamiya.

  And yet every time someone said the name aloud, it felt… hollow. Like they were reading it off a script.

  He rubbed his temple.

  Across the room, two officers debated quietly.

  “I swear he was in my son’s civics class.”

  “Was he? I don’t remember him.”

  “You don’t remember him?”

  “No. I remember the video. Just not him.”

  Shun closed his eyes for a moment.

  Something was wrong. Not incompetence. Not chaos. Wrong.

  The Captain entered without knocking.

  “You’re still on that?” he asked casually.

  “Yes, sir,” Shun replied.

  “It’s finished.”

  “With respect, sir, it doesn’t line up.”

  The Captain raised an eyebrow.

  “The livestream shows the same suspect committing the homicide,” Shun continued. “The prior victims were found under similar atmospheric conditions. There are inconsistencies in how the first two were handled.”

  “Inconsistencies exist in every case,” the Captain replied smoothly. “You’re overthinking it.”

  Shun held his gaze.

  “Matsuda Kaito murdered the concert victim,” Shun said. “DNA confirmed. That connects him to other unsolved cases. But those don’t match the Mist Killer’s pattern.”

  “Coincidence,” the Captain said immediately.

  “Coincidence?” Shun repeated.

  “Wrong place. Wrong time. A secondary predator operating near the primary suspect. It happens.”

  It was plausible. Uncomfortably plausible.

  The Captain stepped closer.

  “The city wants closure. We gave it to them. The suspect is dead. You did your job.”

  He placed a firm hand on Shun’s shoulder.

  “Don’t look for ghosts.”

  The touch lingered half a second too long. Then he left.

  Shun reopened the file. He typed slowly.

  OFFICIAL SUMMARY Three female victims linked to school grounds. One male suspect was identified via live broadcast. Suspect deceased from fall while evading police. No additional persons of interest.

  He paused.

  Under “Witnesses,” he found:

  Akira Orimoto

  He stared at the name.

  Akira had admitted to killing Kaito. Calmly. Directly. No hesitation.

  Murderer.

  The word sat heavy in his mind.

  He changed the designation.

  Witness #1

  He saved the file.

  He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

  Akira killed two people. One confirmed murderer. One… something else.

  And Shun covered it up.

  That made him complicit. Didn’t it?

  He looked down at his hands. He remembered blood on tile. His parents’ house. Robbery gone wrong. No suspects. No arrests. No justice.

  Shinobu was six. She didn’t remember. He did. That was the day he decided to wear the badge.

  Justice.

  The word used to feel solid. Now it felt… negotiable.

  Akira killed the killers. Illegally. Brutally. But effectively.

  And someone inside the department had tried to shield the boy who fell into those bushes. That wasn’t incompetence. That was interference.

  Shun opened a private encrypted note.

  Pattern deviation intentional. Investigative misdirection likely internal. Ren Amamiya’s protection suggests higher involvement.

  He stopped typing. Even writing the name felt strange.

  Ren Amamiya.

  He looked at the yearbook photo again. The face felt less distinct than yesterday. Like memory was fading at the edges.

  Shun shut the laptop.

  He walked to the filing cabinet and placed the physical file inside. The drawer slid shut with a dull metallic sound.

  Officially, the Mist Killer case was closed.

  Unofficially, something had erased more than a name.

  As he turned off the lights, one thought remained steady in his mind:

  If Akira is a murderer… and I allowed it… then what does that make me?

  The hallway lights flickered on automatically. Shun stepped into them without looking back.

  The case was closed. But it did not feel finished.

  The wind was hollow, blowing beneath clouds that suffocated the sky and refused to let a single beam of light pierce the ground. Tucked far enough away from the city that the world felt like it had fallen asleep, the cemetery was empty. Tall, wet grass, left untended for weeks, brushed against Akira’s legs while the heavy scent of damp soil tugged at his lungs. It felt like an invitation to join the names beneath his feet.

  There were no sirens here, no flickering red or blue lights, and no screens looping a nightmare. The only noise was the indifferent hum of cars heading toward the city and the chirping of birds. They were mundane birds, the only things left to prove these had once been people . Akira looked for the birds, half-expecting crows, but found only a gray flutter of wings.

  He sat on a bench with an engraved name he didn't recognize. His mind, however, was on the names the world had already forgotten. He knew the resting places that would never be set in stone.

  In front of him laid a row of fresh stones cut into the hillside.

  Most were blank.

  A single shared marker had been placed for the ones the city couldn’t name.

  UNIDENTIFIED VICTIMS OF THE MIST KILLER

  No flowers. No visitors. No grief that belonged to anyone but him.

  Akira stared until his eyes stung.

  Beside him, the Goddess sat like she was waiting for a bus.

  Dr. Arisu Erisawa’s face was calm, polite, and human… She wore the winter like it didn’t apply to her. Her hands rested in her lap. Her gaze drifted over the graves with mild curiosity. The scent of petrichor—rain on dry pavement drifted from her, out of place in the cold air.

  Akira finally spoke without looking at her.

  “Ren dropped one coin.”

  The Goddess blinked once. “He did.”

  Akira’s jaw tightened. “Why only one?”

  She smiled faintly. “Because that’s all he had.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It’s the only one you’re owed.”

  Akira let out a slow breath through his nose. He was tired of her tone. Tired of her pretending this was entertainment. Tired of the way she spoke like the world was a board game and he was a piece she’d already moved.

  He leaned forward, elbows on knees.

  “How do I find the others?” he asked. “The people playing.”

  The Goddess’s expression didn’t change. “You don’t.”

  Akira turned toward her, eyes sharp. “Then what am I supposed to do? Just wait until another body appears and hope I happen to be close enough to stop it?”

  The Goddess tilted her head. “Now you’re thinking like prey.”

  Akira’s hand twitched in his pocket. “Answer me.”

  She studied him for a moment, then glanced at the stones again.

  “You want to know the rules?” she said. “Fine. Here’s one: The game doesn’t reward honesty. It rewards advantage.”

  Akira stared. “So how do I get an advantage?”

  The Goddess’s smile widened just enough to be annoying. “You use the coins you stole.”

  “I didn’t steal them,” Akira snapped automatically.

  “You killed someone and took what fell out of them,” she replied smoothly. “Call it whatever makes you sleep at night.”

  Akira looked away.

  In his pocket, the coins felt heavier than they should have. Metal discs with different hues.

  Some dim, some richer, all wrong in the palm.

  Insurance, he’d told himself. Evidence. Leverage. Something to keep the Goddess from thinking she owned him entirely.

  The Goddess leaned slightly closer, voice dropping as if she were sharing a secret.

  “Kaito’s coins were dull for a reason,” she said. “Small blessings. Utility. Cheap wishes.”

  Akira’s brow furrowed. “I’m not wishing for anything.”

  “You already are,” she said lightly. “You’re just calling it strategy.”

  Akira’s mouth tightened. “…What kind of wish?” he asked.

  The Goddess rested her chin on her hand as if bored.

  “A sense.”

  “A sense?”

  “A warning,” she clarified. “A tug. A prickling at the back of your neck when someone nearby is Blessed.”

  Akira stared at her. “That can exist?”

  “Of course it can exist.” She sounded offended he’d even asked. “You want to hunt wolves with bare hands? Fine. But don’t cry when you bleed.”

  Akira exhaled hard. “So I use one of the dim coins and ask for… What exactly? Radar?”

  The Goddess’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Don’t dress it up. You want the simplest version: Let me know when a Blessed one is close.”

  Akira’s fingers curled around the coins in his pocket.

  That kind of power wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t a weapon. It didn’t turn him into a hero.

  It was exactly the kind of thing that made him uneasy. Because it was practical, and once he used it, he couldn’t pretend anymore.

  He would be participating.

  He looked back at the blank stones. Names erased. Lives reduced to a headline and a shared monument.

  “You’re enjoying this,” Akira muttered.

  The Goddess smiled. “No.”

  Then, after a beat, she added, “I’m enjoying watching you finally stop lying to yourself.”

  Akira’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not lying.”

  “You are,” she said, still calm. “You said you’d end this without playing. You said you’d stay clean. You said you’d keep your hands out of the game.”

  Her gaze flicked to his pocket.

  “And yet you’re carrying coins like a gambler carrying chips.”

  Akira didn’t answer.

  The Goddess’s tone softened slightly annoyingly close to kind.

  “You can sit here and mourn,” she said. “Or you can move.”

  Akira swallowed. He was about to speak about the victims, about the stones, about how none of this was fair. When the Goddess continued, it was almost conversational.

  “And don’t misunderstand me,” she added. “That sense won’t tell you who is Blessed. Just that someone is.”

  Akira’s jaw tightened. “That’s still useful.”

  “Yes,” the Goddess agreed. “It’s just enough to keep you chasing.”

  Akira stared at her.

  There it was again. Tool and taunt in the same breath.

  He leaned back, eyes hard. “Why do you want me to chase?”

  The Goddess watched him for a long moment. For the first time, her smile dulled. Not gone. Just quieter.

  “You want encouragement?” she asked.

  Akira didn’t blink. “I want the truth.”

  The Goddess sighed like she was exhausted. Then she dropped it, clean and simple, like a bomb tossed into a still pond.

  “Because the future you lived in wasn't an accident, Akira.”

  His blood went cold.

  The Goddess continued, voice even.

  “The people you lost weren’t just unlucky.”

  Akira’s throat tightened. “What are you saying?”

  She met his eyes.

  “Your wife and your daughter were killed by someone Blessed,” she said. “The arsonist wasn’t random.”

  Akira didn’t move. For a second, he didn’t breathe.

  The wind passed through the graveyard, rattling the bare branches overhead like distant applause.

  The Goddess leaned back on the bench as if she’d simply commented on the weather.

  “That’s why you continue,” she said softly. “Not for coins. Not for my amusement.”

  Her smile returned it was small, sharp.

  “But because if you refuse to play…”

  She tilted her head.

  “…You already know how your story ends.”

  Akira stared at the nameless stones again.

  His hands trembled inside his pockets. Not with fear. With pressure. Like the world had finally tightened the collar around his neck and called it fate.

  He stood.

  He walked to the blank marker and uncapped a thick black marker he’d brought with him.

  The tip hovered over the stone.

  Then he wrote on them. Slowly, carefully, as if carving memory into something that could not be forgotten.

  KISARAGI KANA, ONO YUI, AIRA MINASE

  He stepped back, throat burning.

  Then he walked to the separate grave. The only one with a name. Not a real one. A label.

  THE MIST KILLER

  Akira stared at it for a long time.

  Then he wrote over it, black ink cutting across the carved words.

  Not forgiveness. Not absolution. Just the last truth he could afford to give.

  VICTIM OF THIS STUPID GAME

  He recapped the marker and slipped it into his pocket with the coins.

  The Goddess watched him, eyes bright, like she’d been waiting for this moment more than he wanted to admit.

  Akira didn’t look at her when he spoke.

  “Tell me how to make that sense,” he said quietly.

  The Goddess’s smile deepened.

  “Now,” she replied, “you’re finally asking like a player.”