The body was discovered at 6:47 AM by a person walking his dog along Yamashita Park's waterfront. Kagayaku learned about it at 7:23 AM when his phone buzzed with a news alert: "Person Found Dead in Yokohama Bay - Possible Drowning."
He stared at the notification from his bed, his body heavy with exhaustion despite sleeping barely three hours. The nightmares had been vivid—Makoto's face underwater, eyes open, mouth forming silent screams. Kagayaku drowning alongside him. Both of them sinking into darkness that had no bottom.
His foster mother called up the stairs: "Kagayaku! You'll be late for school!" School. Right. Normal life. The performance continued.
He got ready mechanically—uniform pressed, hair combed, face arranged into appropriate clothing. In the mirror, his black stars flickered once before he controlled them back to ordinary blue. Can't let them show today. Today required perfect normalcy.
At breakfast, his foster family was discussing the news.
"Another person dead this week," his foster father said, shaking his head at his tablet. "Says here he was only sixteen. Yoto High School student. Same school as you, Kagayaku."
Kagayaku's hand tightened on his coffee cup. "Did they say who?" "Hoshino Makoto. Second-year. You know him?" "Not really. Different grade." The lie came easily. Too easily. "What happened?"
"They're calling it a possible suicide. Depression, family troubles—his father's in prison apparently. Poor person." His foster mother clicked her tongue sympathetically. "So young. What a waste."
What a waste, Kagayaku thought distantly. Yes. Years of life ended because I decided that was justice. His phone buzzed. Text from Shōgeki: "News is out. Are you holding up?"
He typed back: "Define holding up." "Fair. See you at school. We need to be visible, normal, publicly shocked when we hear." "I know the script."
Because that's what this was—a script. A performance. The ultimate acting challenge: convince everyone you're innocent when you're guilty. Convince everyone you're surprised when you planned it. Convince everyone you're human when you're becoming something else.
[YOTO HIGH SCHOOL - 8:34 AM]
The news had beaten them to school. Students clustered in groups, whispering, some crying, everyone performing their version of appropriate grief.
Kagayaku walked through the gates with careful posture—not too fast, not too slow. Concerned but not devastated. The sweet spot of someone who knew of the deceased but wasn't close.
"Did you hear?" A first-year stopped him. "Makoto-senpai from second year. They found him drowned. It's all over the news." "I saw," Kagayaku said, injecting his voice with the right amount of shock. "That's terrible. Do they know what happened?"
"They're saying suicide. Or maybe an accident. He was found in the bay near Yamashita Park." The student's eyes were wide, excited by proximity to tragedy. "Some people are saying he jumped. Others think he fell. It's so sad."
"Yeah. Really sad." Kagayaku moved past, heading toward his classroom, feeling eyes on him that probably weren't there. Paranoia, he recognized. The killer's constant companion.
Shōgeki was already in the hallway, surrounded by other student council members, her face arranged in perfect sympathy. When she saw Kagayaku, her eyes flickered—checking in, assessing, making sure he was maintaining the mask.
He nodded once. I'm okay. I'm holding. She nodded back. Good. Keep it together.
The principal's voice came over the PA system: "Attention students and faculty. As many of you have heard, we suffered a tragic loss last night. Hoshino Makoto, a beloved second-year student, passed away in what authorities believe was an accidental drowning. Grief counselors will be available in the library. Classes will continue as scheduled, but teachers will be lenient with those who need time to process. Let us honor Makoto's memory by supporting each other through this difficult time."
Beloved. The word rang hollow. Makoto had been popular enough, but beloved? That was the automatic upgrade death provided—everyone became beloved once they couldn't contradict the narrative.
In homeroom, Kagayaku's teacher made an announcement, offered condolences, asked if anyone needed to speak with a counselor. Several students raised their hands, tears streaming down faces. Real grief or performed grief—impossible to tell, maybe both simultaneously.
Kagayaku kept his hand down, his expression somber but composed. Not devastated enough to draw attention, not unaffected enough to seem callous. The perfect middle ground.
I'm good at this, he realized with disturbing clarity. I've been training for this performance my whole life. Two lives, actually. Pretending to be okay while dying inside is my signature role.
During break period, he found Shōgeki in an empty classroom, the door locked, both of them finally able to drop the masks for sixty seconds.
"I can't do this," Shōgeki said immediately, her voice shaking. "Everyone's talking about him like he was a saint. Crying over him. And I just stand there smiling and nodding and pretending I didn't help kill him."
"You have to do this. We both do." Kagayaku grabbed her shoulders. "This is the price. We knew it would be. The guilt, the performance, the constant lying."
"I thought I was prepared. I'm not." Her crimson eyes swam with tears. "His grandmother—they interviewed her on the news. She was devastated. Said he was a good kid, her whole world, how will she survive without him."
"She doesn't know what he was planning. What he threatened." But Kagayaku felt it too—the weight of collateral damage, the innocent people hurt by necessary actions.
"Does that matter? We still killed her grandson. We still destroyed her world." Shōgeki pulled away, paced. "What if we were wrong? What if there was another way?"
"There wasn't. He was going to kill us or extort us or both. We eliminated a threat." The words sounded hollow even as he said them. "We did what we had to do."
"Did we? Or did we just convince ourselves we had to so we could justify becoming killers?" She looked at him with something like desperation. "Tell me we did the right thing, Kagayaku. Tell me this was necessary."
He wanted to. Wanted to give her the certainty she craved, the moral clarity that would make the guilt bearable. But he couldn't. "I don't know," he admitted quietly. "I don't know if it was right. I just know I couldn't see another path. And now it's done and we have to live with it."
"How? How do we live with this?"
"The same way we've lived with everything else. By pretending we're fine until maybe someday we actually are." He pulled her into a hug, feeling her body shake. "We survive. That's what we're good at. Surviving things that should destroy us."
The bell rang. Break was over. Time to put the masks back on.
They separated, Shōgeki wiping her eyes, Kagayaku checking that his stars were hidden. Then back into the hallways, back into the performance, back into pretending they were innocent students mourning a classmate's tragic accident.
[AFTERNOON - POLICE INTERVIEW]
At 2:17 PM, Kagayaku was called to the principal's office. Two detectives waited there—a person in his fifties with tired eyes, and a younger person with a sharp gaze that seemed to see through everything.
"Hoshino Kagayaku?" the older detective said. "I'm Detective Yamada. This is Detective Sato. We're investigating Makoto Hoshino's death. We understand you share the Hoshino family name?"
Kagayaku's heart slammed against his ribs, but his face remained calm. "Distant relation. My mother knew his father. I didn't know Makoto well personally."
"But you did know him?" Detective Sato's pen hovered over her notebook.
"By sight. We'd spoken maybe twice. Once at the start of the year when he introduced himself, once a few weeks ago when we ran into each other in Shibuya." All true. Verifiable if they checked. "But we weren't friends."
"Did he seem depressed to you? Suicidal?" "I couldn't say. Like I said, we barely talked." Kagayaku maintained careful eye contact—not too much, not too little. "Is that what happened? Suicide?"
"We're still investigating." Yamada leaned back. "The preliminary findings suggest drowning, possibly accidental. He had drugs in his system—Rohypnol. Know anything about that?"
"No. I don't do drugs." Also true. "We're not suggesting you do. Just wondering if you'd heard anything—if Makoto was known to use substances, if there were any rumors."
"I don't know anything about his personal life, sorry." Kagayaku's voice carried just the right amount of regret. "I wish I could be more helpful." The detectives exchanged glances. Detective Sato spoke: "Where were you last night between 10 PM and midnight?"
This was it. The moment. The alibi they'd prepared.
"At home. My foster parents can confirm. We had dinner around 7, I did homework in my room until about 10:30, then went to bed." He paused. "Am I a suspect in something?"
"No, no," Yamada said quickly. "Just routine. We're talking to everyone who had any connection to the deceased. Establishing timelines." "I understand." Kagayaku stood. "Is there anything else? I should get back to class."
"Just one more thing," Detective Sato said, her sharp eyes boring into him. "Your eyes. They're very distinctive. Blue like that is rare in Japan. Have you ever noticed them changing color? Getting brighter or darker in certain lights?"
Kagayaku's blood went cold. But his face remained neutral. "Not that I've noticed. Just regular blue. My mother had them too."
"Interesting. There have been some reports—eyewitness accounts of people with unusual eyes at various crime scenes over the years. Stars in the irises, color changes. Probably just urban legend." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You wouldn't know anything about that?"
"No. Sounds like anime." He managed a small laugh. "Real life doesn't work like that." "Right. Of course." But Detective Sato's gaze lingered. "Thank you for your time, Hoshino-kun. We'll be in touch if we have more questions."
Kagayaku left the office with measured steps, down the hallway, around the corner, into the bathroom where he locked himself in a stall and tried to remember how to breathe.
They know. They don't have proof but they suspect. That detective—she knows something. His phone buzzed. Text from Shōgeki: "They're calling me in next. What did they ask?"
He typed back: "Alibis. Connection to Makoto. And they asked about my eyes. About stars in irises. Someone's been tracking reincarnated souls and connected them to crimes."
"Fuck. What do I say?" "Stick to the script. You were at home. You barely knew Makoto. Your eyes are normal. Standard genetic brown." "Okay. Okay." A pause. "Kagayaku, I'm scared."
"Me too. But we knew this was coming. We prepared for this." "Did we prepare for detectives who know about star eyes? Who might be tracking us specifically?"
He didn't have an answer for that.
[5:47 PM - AFTERMATH]
School ended. Students dispersed. The building emptied of everyone except janitors and a few teachers grading papers. Kagayaku and Shōgeki met on the rooftop—the forbidden one with the broken lock, where they'd had their first honest conversation weeks ago.
"They're going to investigate us," Shōgeki said, pacing. "That detective—Detective Sato—she didn't believe me. I could see it in her eyes. She thinks we're involved."
"Suspicion isn't proof. They have no witnesses, no physical evidence connecting us to the scene." Kagayaku was trying to convince himself as much as her. "We were careful. We planned everything."
"We drugged him in a public restaurant. I was working there. Someone might have seen me near his water bottle." "You were serving tables. That was your job. Even if someone saw you near his table, that proves nothing."
"What about the drugs? If they trace where the Rohypnol came from—"
"Can't be traced. Black market purchase, encrypted transaction, the dealer has no idea who we are." He'd been meticulous about that part. "We're clean."
"We're not clean. We're murderers hoping the police don't figure it out." Shōgeki stopped pacing, looked at him directly. "What if they do? What if they prove it?"
"Then we face consequences." Kagayaku's voice was hollow. "Prison. Trials. Our lives destroyed legally instead of just morally." "And you're okay with that?"
"I'm not okay with any of this." He sat on the ledge, rain starting to fall again. "But I made a choice. We made a choice. Now we live with it or we don't. Those are the options."
Shōgeki sat beside him, both of them getting wet, both of them too exhausted to care.
"I keep seeing his face," she said quietly. "In the news footage, the photos people are posting. He's smiling in all of them. Looks happy. Looks normal. And I helped kill him."
"He threatened to murder you. Don't forget that."
"I haven't. But that doesn't make this easier." She touched her red scarf. "My parents died protecting me. They'd be ashamed if they knew I'd become a killer. Even for self-defense. Even justified."
"My parents died wanting me to shine bright. I don't think they meant shine like this—bright with blood and lies and murder." Kagayaku's black stars flickered. "But here we are. Shining the only way we know how."
They sat in silence as Tokyo lit up below them—millions of lights, millions of people, all of them living their lives unaware that two people on a rooftop were falling apart.
"Should we call her?" Shōgeki finally asked. "Shimizu-san. Tell her we need help." "Do you want to?"
"Part of me does. The part that's terrified we'll be caught. The part that can't sleep anymore without seeing Makoto's face. The part that feels like I'm dying from the inside out."
"And the other part?"
"The other part knows that calling her means admitting we were wrong. That revenge didn't fix anything. That we destroyed ourselves for nothing." Shōgeki's voice broke. "I can't admit that yet. Can't face that we did something irreversible and it didn't even help."
Kagayaku understood. "Then we don't call. Not yet. We wait and see if we can survive this on our own." "And if we can't?"
"Then we call. And hope she can save whatever's left of us." He stood, offered her his hand. "Come on. We should go home. Can't stay here all night." She took his hand, let him pull her up. "Tomorrow the funeral will be announced. We'll have to go."
"I know." "We'll have to stand there and look at his body and pretend we didn't put him there." "I know." "I don't know if I can do that."
"You can. Because the alternative is confessing. And confession means prison and destroyed lives and proving everyone right about us being broken." Kagayaku squeezed her hand. "So we perform. Like we always do. Like we always will."
They left the rooftop together, two killers walking through their school's empty hallways, both carrying ghosts. Outside, the rain fell harder.
Inside, Kagayaku felt something beginning to crack—some essential part of himself that had held together through two lifetimes, through pain and murder and loss.
This is what Shimizu-san warned about, he thought. The hollowing. The becoming weapon instead of person. The slow death of everything that made you human.
It's happening. It's already happening. And I don't know how to stop it. His phone buzzed. Unknown number. He answered cautiously. "Hoshino Kagayaku?" Someone's voice? Familiar!
"This is Shimizu Akari. I saw the news. About your cousin." A pause. "I know what you did. And I'm calling to tell you: you have about three weeks before Detective Sato connects enough dots to arrest you. Maybe less. She's smarter than you think."
Kagayaku's blood went cold. "How did you—"
"I've been tracking reincarnated souls for nineteen years. You think I don't recognize the pattern? Teenager with star eyes, cousin dies under suspicious circumstances, perfect motive, perfect timing." Akari's voice was tired but not unkind. "You have three weeks to decide: turn yourself in and claim self-defense, or run and hope the evidence never materializes. There's no third option where you get away clean."
"You're going to turn me in."
"No. I don't turn people in. I just warn them." She sighed. "Three weeks, Kagayaku. Use them wisely. And if you need help deciding what to do—if you need someone who understands—you have my number." She hung up.
Kagayaku stared at his phone, feeling the last pieces of his plan crumbling. Three weeks until arrest. Three weeks until everything he'd built came crashing down. Three weeks to figure out if survival was even worth the cost.
TO BE CONTINUED... Next Episode: "Three Weeks"