Mio didn’t come to school for two days.

  Akira told himself not to spiral. He failed.

  By the second afternoon, he had already replayed the pattern in his head three different ways. Absence. Soft presence. Youth group. It lined up too neatly.

  Ren noticed before he said anything.

  “You’re doing it again,” Ren said quietly as they stood near the lockers.

  “Doing what?”

  “Autopsying someone who isn’t dead.”

  Akira didn’t answer. Ren studied him for a moment longer. Then shrugged lightly.

  “Let’s go check.”

  Akira blinked. “What?”

  “Her house,” Ren said. “You’re not going to calm down otherwise.”

  That simple. No hesitation. No accusation. Just practical.

  Akira nodded slowly.

  Mio lived fifteen minutes from the school in a narrow house squeezed between two taller buildings. Ren rang the bell.

  There was shuffling inside.

  The door opened.

  Mio stood there in oversized pajamas, hair unbrushed, a thermometer hanging from her mouth. She squinted at them.

  “…Why are you here?”

  Ren stared. Akira stared.

  Mio pulled the thermometer out. “You guys look like I died.”

  Akira exhaled sharply. “You weren’t in class.”

  “I texted Rin,” she replied. “Fever. Flu. Dramatic near-death experience.”

  Ren pinched the bridge of his nose. “You idiot,” he muttered under his breath.

  Mio blinked. “Excuse me?”

  Akira looked at her properly. Alive. Color in her cheeks. Annoyed at being disturbed. Completely fine.

  He felt something collapse inward.. Not relief. Embarrassment.

  He had turned her into a countdown.

  Ren cleared his throat. “Sorry. He was worried.”

  Mio looked between them suspiciously. “…You guys are weird.”

  “Feel better,” Ren said.

  They left.

  The walk back was quiet. Akira felt foolish.

  “She was never invisible,” Ren said finally.

  “No.”

  “She just wasn’t… central.”

  Akira nodded slowly.

  We made her important to us. That didn’t mean the world did.

  Ren shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “You can’t save everyone by pre-grieving them,” he said lightly.

  Akira winced. “That’s not what I was—”

  “It kind of is.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Akira exhaled slowly. “You ever think,” he said, “that we only notice people once something happens to them?”

  Ren tilted his head. “That’s human.”

  “That’s selfish.”

  Ren considered that. “Yeah. It is.”

  They crossed the small park near the school. The swings creaked gently in the wind.

  Akira slowed.

  Ren glanced at him. “What?”

  Akira didn’t answer.

  The leftmost swing. The one under the dead tree branch. The one where he remembered meeting Aira the first night he moved here.

  A figure sat on it.

  Hood up. Rocking slowly. Back and forth. Crows circled lazily above.

  Ren squinted. “Do you know them?”

  Akira swallowed. “I really hope not.”

  They approached slowly. The creaking sound of the swing grew louder. Closer.

  The figure’s foot dragged slightly against the gravel. Limping. Back and forth.

  The air felt wrong. Akira’s pulse slowed unnaturally.

  And there was a smell.

  Faint. Sharp. Electric.

  Ozone and burnt dust. Like the air before a lightning strike, but stale.

  Too still. Too staged.

  “Hey,” Ren called cautiously.

  No response. The swing moved again. Forward. Back.

  Akira stepped closer.

  He didn’t think. He grabbed the hooded shoulder and shoved.

  The body toppled forward, hitting the gravel with a dull thud. The hood slipped back. Crows scattered upward in a violent flutter of wings.

  Akira’s breath left his lungs.

  Ono Yui.

  Her eyes stared at nothing. Her face pale. Still.

  He hadn’t been fast enough. Again.

  “Yui,” Akira whispered. The name felt heavy in his mouth.

  Ren stepped forward behind him. There was a long pause.

  Then—

  “…Who?”

  The word hit harder than the sight.

  Akira turned slowly.

  Ren’s face was pale. Confused. Searching.

  “Yui,” Akira said again. “Ono Yui. Church group. Friday.”

  Ren’s brow furrowed deeper. “I don’t know that name.”

  Akira’s stomach dropped. “No. You were there.”

  Ren shook his head slowly. “I was there. But there wasn’t—”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  He stopped. His breathing changed.

  The swing creaked once more behind them, empty now.

  Akira looked back at the body. Then back at Ren.

  The first time had been a missing record.

  This time she died in public. In daylight. On the swing that marked his beginning.

  And once again he was the only one who remembered her.

  Ren’s voice came softer this time.

  “…Akira.”

  Not accusatory. Not distant.

  Afraid.

  And that was worse.

  Because it meant whatever was happening… It was happening again.

  The interrogation room felt smaller the second time.

  Akira noticed that first. The same metal table. The same neutral walls. The same recorder sitting between them like a third participant.

  But this time, Shun didn’t sit immediately. He stood across from him. Watching.

  “You again,” Shun said.

  Not accusing. Not joking. Just tired.

  Akira didn’t answer.

  Shun reached forward and turned on the recorder.

  “Detective Tachibana Shun. Follow-up interview with Orimoto Akira regarding second discovery of an unidentified female.”

  He let the word sit. Second.

  He asked nothing for several seconds. Let the silence do the work.

  “Why,” Shun finally said, “is it you again?”

  Akira held his gaze. “I didn’t kill her.”

  “I didn’t say you did.”

  “But you’re thinking it.”

  Shun’s eyes didn’t move. “Everything points toward you if this continues.”

  Akira felt the weight of that.

  “You were present at both scenes,” Shun continued evenly. “You named the first victim. Now you named the second victim as well.”

  He leaned forward slightly.

  “And you expect me not to ask why.”

  Akira’s pulse was steady. Too steady.

  “Because I remember them,” he said.

  Shun’s jaw tightened slightly. “No one else does.”

  “That’s not my fault.”

  Shun studied him carefully. Then deliberately he reached forward.

  He turned off the recorder.

  The small red light went dark. Akira’s eyes flicked to it.

  Shun stood and walked to the observation mirror. He pressed a button on the wall. The one-way glass dimmed to opaque.

  Now the room was sealed. Off the record.

  Shun returned to his seat.

  “Nothing in the official investigation connects you to these murders,” he said quietly. “No evidence. No motive. No behavioral flags.”

  Akira didn’t relax.

  “But if you keep being the one who finds them,” Shun continued, “that will change.”

  Silence.

  “I won’t be able to protect you from suspicion forever.”

  Protect.

  That word caught. Akira leaned forward slightly. “Then don’t.”

  Shun’s eyes sharpened.

  “I don’t need protection,” Akira continued. “I need you to find who’s doing this.”

  “I am.”

  “No,” Akira said quietly. “You’re investigating bodies. I’m looking for the pattern.”

  The air shifted. Shun’s voice lowered. “Then tell me the pattern.”

  Akira hesitated.

  He could. He could say: Four victims. Youth group. Erased identities. Someone Blessed.

  He could tell him about the Goddess. About coins. About the Gods Game.

  And then what?

  Either Shun thinks he’s insane. Or Shun believes him.

  And if he believes him.

  What if he’s part of it?

  What if the killer isn’t a student? What if it’s someone with access to records? What if it’s someone who can move freely through investigations?

  What if it’s—a cop.

  The thought formed cleanly this time. And he hated himself for it.

  He looked at Shun differently now. Methodical. Observant. Calm. Too calm?

  No. Don’t spiral. But don’t be naive either.

  “I don’t know the pattern yet,” Akira said carefully. That wasn’t entirely a lie.

  Shun watched him for a long moment. “You’re protecting someone.”

  Akira’s jaw tightened.

  “Or you’re afraid of someone,” Shun added.

  Both.

  “I don’t know who to trust,” Akira said honestly.

  Shun didn’t flinch. “That’s smart.”

  Silence stretched again.

  “Listen to me carefully,” Shun said. “If this is random, it will stop. If it’s targeted, it will escalate.”

  Akira held his gaze. “It’s not random.”

  Shun didn’t ask how he knew.

  “Then it must be someone connected to the school.” Shun said quietly.

  That hung between them. Akira nodded once.

  “Yes.”

  And for the first time, Shun didn’t challenge him. He simply absorbed it.

  After a few seconds, he stood. He turned the glass back on. Turned the recorder back on.

  “Interview concluded,” he said formally.

  When Akira left the room, Shun remained seated.

  He didn’t believe the boy was the killer. But he believed the boy was ahead of him. And that unsettled him more than guilt would have.

  The three-day suspension felt suffocating. Not punishment. Containment.

  Ren texted. Rin called once. Hayate sent a meme he didn’t respond to. Shinobu sent a cute supportive text.

  But it was Aira who showed up.

  Unannounced.

  She stood outside his gate, hands behind her back, pretending she hadn’t been pacing.

  “You’re spiraling again,” she said immediately.

  “I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  He let her in.

  They sat in his room. Silence thick.

  “That’s two,” he said finally.

  “Yes.”

  “And nobody remembers them.”

  She swallowed. “You do.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  Aira studied him carefully. “You’re not just scared. You’re calculating.”

  He looked at her sharply. She wasn’t wrong.

  He replayed it again in his mind.

  Kana: quiet. Self-erasing personality. “I don’t like to bother people.” Yui: dramatic but not central. Loud in small spaces. Not anchored socially.

  Both female. Both erased. Both unnoticed…

  He looked at her differently now.

  Long blonde hair catching the light. Bright blue eyes. She talked with her hands when she was excited. She hummed unconsciously when she was nervous.

  He felt something tight in his chest.

  Why am I relieved it wasn’t you?

  The thought was ugly. Selfish.

  Two girls dead. And I feel relief.

  What kind of person does that make me?

  Aira misread his expression.

  “You’re blaming yourself,” she said softly.

  “I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  She stood up suddenly. “Wait here.”

  She left the room. He heard her rummaging in her bag downstairs. Then footsteps. She returned holding her phone.

  “I wasn’t going to show anyone this yet,” she said.

  He blinked. “Show me what?”

  She sat cross-legged on the floor. “I’ve been working on a song.”

  He stared at her. “You’re serious?”

  She pouted. “Yes. I’m serious.”

  “I thought you just liked going to church.”

  “I do,” she said defensively. “But I also want to be an idol someday.”

  That caught him off guard. “You?”

  “Yes, me,” she replied. “Why does that surprise you?”

  He almost said because you feel fragile. He didn’t.

  She pressed play.

  The room filled with soft piano first. Then her voice.

  Clear. Gentle. Stronger than he expected. It wasn’t professionally mixed. It wasn’t polished. But it was honest.

  The lyrics were simple. About wanting to be seen. About standing under light without disappearing.

  Akira felt something in his throat tighten. He hadn’t expected this.

  When it ended, she looked at him nervously. “Well?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. Because something clicked.

  Seen. Light. Narrative weight.

  Kana avoided bothering people. Yui floated socially. Both not anchored strongly.

  A theory. A connection. It all started to form together. Whoever was doing this was targeting those who didn’t hold much narrative weight to the world. Someone others didn’t look at and would be easily ignored if vanished.

  Aira—Aira shined. Even when she didn’t try. So… How can we make her unforgettable?

  He inhaled slowly.

  “What if,” he said carefully, “you and Rin and Shinobu formed a group?”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “You’re good,” he said honestly. “And Shinobu has that quiet cute thing people like. And Rin has stage presence.”

  Aira stared at him. “Do a small performance,” he continued. “At youth group. Something simple.”

  Her eyes widened slowly. “A concert?” she whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  She stood up immediately. “That’s genius.”

  He didn’t smile.

  It wasn’t genius. It was strategy.

  If someone is targeting people with low presence then we raise yours.

  Make you visible. Make you central. Make you impossible to erase.

  Aira was already pacing.

  “Oh my god. Shinobu would die. Hayate would pretend she hates it but she wouldn’t. We’d need a name. Costumes. Lighting—”

  She checked her reflection in her phone, adjusting her bangs with a critical eye.

  “And we’d need to film it. If we’re going to do this, people need to see it. Not just the people in the room.”

  Akira watched her carefully.

  It was vanity. It was ambition. But right now, it was survival.

  One more victim before you.

  That’s what the timeline said. He didn’t know which number she was. But if there was one more before her, then the next storm was coming. And he wasn’t ready.

  But for this moment, he let her talk. He let the chaos settle.

  Because if he kept staring into the pattern without breathing, he’d drown in it.