The morning after Tsubaki's last text arrived, the sky stayed stubbornly clear for once. Sunlight poured through the windows of Sorine's room, warming the simple wooden floor and the scattered schoolbooks on her desk. Sorine sat on her bed, phone in hand, rereading the group chat. Tsubaki had sent a short message the night before: "Having fun with Ren-sensei at the literature exhibit! Sorry, can't make it today. Catch up later!" A string of heart emojis followed.
Sorine smiled, a quiet warmth spreading through her chest. "Finally," she said softly to herself. "Tsubaki gets some alone time with the guy she likes. Good for her." She quickly typed a reply wishing her friend a great day, then sent a separate message to the group suggesting they still go out. "Weekend without rain! Arcade and movie? Let's do it."
Vey, Kairo, and Mimo all agreed within minutes. They met at the usual intersection near the small park, the air fresh and dry after so many wet days. Vey walked with their usual distant posture, hoodie half-up, hands in pockets. Kairo carried his bag a little awkwardly, still stealing glances at Mimo when he thought no one noticed. Mimo looked fresh and soft as always, her dark hair neatly brushed, a gentle smile on her face as she linked arms with Sorine.
They decided on a double-date feel—Sorine and Mimo walking close together, while Vey and Kairo paired off naturally. The first stop was the cinema complex downtown, a modest building with faded posters outside advertising the newest releases. They chose a popular Japanese psychological thriller called Kage no Heya (Room of Shadows), a quiet story about hidden truths and people slowly losing themselves in ordinary spaces. The theater was cool and dark, the seats comfortable with the faint smell of popcorn lingering in the air.
During the movie, Vey leaned over to the others during a quiet scene. "Tsubaki said she's with Ren today, right?" Their voice stayed low, but worry edged the words. "I don't trust him. The way he warned us about the killings… and how he always seems to be witty. What if he's involved somehow?"
Sorine shushed them gently, eyes bright. "Come on, Vey. This is good for Tsubaki. She's had a crush on him forever. Let her have this chance to be alone with him. It's sweet."
Mimo squeezed Sorine's hand in the dark, smiling softly without saying much. Kairo stayed quiet, his thoughts clearly elsewhere as he glanced at Mimo's profile lit by the screen.
After the film ended, they spilled out into the bright afternoon, blinking against the sunlight. The group discussed the movie as they walked toward the arcade a few blocks away. "I liked how the shadows in the room kept changing," Sorine said. "It felt like the space itself was alive and watching."
Vey nodded slowly. "The ending was too quiet, though. Like the characters never really escaped the hollow inside them." Vey couldn't help but get a nostalgic feeling of the old science lab as they talked. Kairo added a few analytical points about the plot twists, but his voice lacked its usual energy. Mimo listened with her gentle smile, occasionally adding soft comments that made Sorine laugh.
The arcade buzzed with noise—flashing lights from racing games, the clatter of pinball machines, and laughter from other teenagers. They played for hours: Sorine and Mimo sharing a rhythm game, their hands brushing as they laughed at missed beats; Vey and Kairo competing half-heartedly on a fighting game, Vey's focus sharper than usual. The dry weather made everything feel lighter, almost normal, a rare break from the constant rain.
As evening approached and the sky began to darken, Mimo checked her phone. "I have to head home early tonight," she said apologetically, her voice soft. "Family stuff. Sorry to cut it short." She kissed Sorine quickly on the cheek, waved to the others, and slipped away into the growing dusk, her figure disappearing down the street.
The remaining three continued a little longer, then decided to grab cheap ramen at a small shop nearby before heading home. They sat at a corner table, bowls steaming in front of them, the savory smell of broth filling the air. The conversation turned back to the movie.
"I still think the real horror was how normal everything looked at first," Vey said, stirring their noodles. "The room didn't scream or break—it just… changed slowly until you couldn't leave."
Sorine nodded, blowing on her spoon. "Yeah, but the characters kept refusing to accept it. That part felt real. Like us with all the weird stuff happening lately."
Kairo stared into his bowl, quieter than usual. "Tsubaki would have loved the twists. She always picks up on the small details."
They talked a while longer about favorite scenes and what they would have changed, the easy rhythm of friendship carrying them through the meal. None of them knew that, miles away, the night was already turning dark and final for their friend.
---
Meanwhile, Mimo had changed. In a narrow alley behind an old apartment block, she had slipped into her other self—black suit, black gloves, smooth white mask covering her face. She moved with calm purpose, carrying a small boy on her back. He was no older than five, light in her arms, his tiny hands clutching her shoulders. His breathing was quick and scared, but he stayed quiet because she had promised him something nice if he behaved.
They entered the same abandoned warehouse from the night before, the one with the collapsed open roof. Moonlight spilled down through the gap, mixing with faint streetlight glow. The concrete floor was still stained from earlier violence, dark patches drying in the corners. Scattered broken crates and rusted beams cast long shadows. The air smelled of damp concrete, rust, and the faint metallic hint of old blood.
Mimo knelt so her masked face was level with the small boy's. Her voice remained soft and kind, almost like a lullaby, even through the white mask that covered her entire head.
"You've been such a good boy for staying quiet," she whispered. "For listening so well, I'll give you a special gift. Something to make all the hurt go away forever."
The five-year-old boy's eyes widened with innocent hope, his small hands still clutching the edge of her black suit. He nodded eagerly, trusting the gentle tone completely.
Mimo began slowly, her words careful and precise, peeling back his layers the way she always did with her victims. She asked simple, gentle questions at first — "Do you ever feel lonely when Mommy and Daddy are busy?" "Does it scare you when they leave the room and it gets too quiet?" Each question sank a little deeper, probing the small, hidden fears every child carries but rarely names.
The boy hesitated, then answered in a tiny voice. Mimo listened with perfect patience, nodding as if she understood completely. Then she began to mirror his words back to him, but twisted just enough to make them heavier.
"Sometimes the quiet feels so big, doesn't it? Like there's a hole inside your chest that nothing can fill. Even when people are around, sometimes you still feel alone. That's normal. But it never goes away, does it? It just gets bigger the longer you wait for someone to notice."
The boy's lower lip started to tremble. Tears welled in his eyes. Mimo continued, her voice never rising, never harsh — only soft, steady, and relentless.
"You try to be good so they'll stay. You smile when you're scared. You stay quiet when you want to cry. But deep down you know they might leave anyway. Everyone leaves eventually. Even the people who say they love you. One day the room will be empty again, and the hole inside you will still be there, waiting."
The child began to cry openly now, small shoulders shaking. He tried to cover his ears, but Mimo gently took his hands and lowered them, her gloved fingers warm and steady.
"It's okay to feel it," she murmured. "The emptiness. The fear that no one will ever really stay. That you'll always be a little bit alone, no matter how good you are. That's the real hurt, isn't it? Not the loud things. The quiet ones that never stop."
She described it in vivid, child-sized detail — the way the quiet house feels after bedtime, the way a favorite toy suddenly doesn't help anymore, the way grown-ups' smiles sometimes don't reach their eyes. Each sentence built on the last, turning his innocent fears into something vast and inescapable. The boy was sobbing hard now, gasping between cries, his small body curling inward as the psychological weight crushed him.
Mimo leaned closer, her masked face inches from his tear-streaked one.
"And the worst part," she whispered, voice still gentle, "is that even if someone stays for a while… they can't fill the hole completely. There will always be a little empty space left. Always. No matter how much they love you."
The boy broke completely. He collapsed to the dirty warehouse floor, curling into a tight ball, crying with the raw, hopeless sound only a child can make when their entire small world feels like it's collapsing. He begged her in broken words to stop, to make the bad feelings go away, promising he would be good forever if she just made it stop.
Only then, when his mind was fully cracked open and raw, did Mimo reach for the knife.
She held him down with one gloved hand while the blade opened his throat in a clean, spraying cut. Blood gushed hot and bright, soaking his small shirt. The boy gurgled, tiny legs kicking weakly. Mimo drove the knife into his soft belly next, twisting to widen the wound. Intestines spilled out in small, steaming pink-purple loops, landing on the dirty concrete with wet slapping sounds. The child's little hands scrabbled desperately at his own guts, trying to push the slippery coils back inside his torn abdomen, fingers sliding through the warm mess and spreading more blood. She made deeper cuts, exposing more organs that glistened wetly under the moonlight. The boy's cries turned to weak gurgles as blood pooled around him, his small body twitching until it finally went still, splayed open amid his own spilled viscera.
Mimo stood, breathing steady. She wiped the blade on the boy's clothes and pocketed it. That was when she noticed the other body nearby—Tsubaki's, now joined by the child's remains. Recognition hit her. This was her friend, the one who laughed easily and teased Kairo. Mimo removed her white mask, tears filling her eyes as she knelt and gently lifted Tsubaki's torn body into her arms. Blood soaked into her suit, but she held the limp form close, silent sobs shaking her shoulders. "Why did it have to be you…?" she whispered, voice breaking.
The Kyo—still wearing Ren Fushiwara's calm face—stood a short distance away. It adjusted its suit jacket with precise movements, smoothing the fabric, then turned and walked out of the warehouse without a backward glance.
At that exact moment, the sky opened once more. Rain began to fall through the open roof in steady sheets, drumming on the concrete and washing over the gruesome scene. Pink rivulets of blood and water flowed across the floor toward the drains. Mimo paused, still cradling Tsubaki's body. She tilted her head upward, letting the cold raindrops fall directly onto her face, mixing with her tears and cleaning faint streaks of blood from her skin.
At the far end of the warehouse, sitting quietly on an old rusted barrel, two figures watched. The tall man in the black suit had the small child on his lap, her long black hair wet and clinging to her boys' clothing. Both wore smooth white masks. Rain streamed off them.
"What now, sister?" the child asked in her light, sing-song voice, legs swinging slightly.
The man remained silent, one gloved hand resting calmly on the child's back.
The next morning, the rain had returned in full force, drumming steadily on rooftops and turning the streets glossy again. The friend group woke to a single message in their chat from Mimo: "Tsubaki is dead. They found her body last night. I'm sorry."
The words sat cold on their screens. Sorine stared at her phone in disbelief, tears already forming. Vey felt a sharp twist in their gut, the suspicion about Ren flaring brighter. Kairo's hands shook as he read it again, the ache in his chest deepening into something heavier.