Game 3
The next morning’s game drew the remaining players to a playground. The scene seemed almost serene, yet something about it felt off—like a faint, lingering wrongness beneath its cheerful facade. The ground was thick with sand, its surface rippled by the faint morning… air conditioner breeze? Slides gleamed in the overhead lights, their metal cool and unyielding. Jungle gyms cast lattice-like shadows across the sand, while monkey bars stood as skeletal frames, their purpose tainted by the day’s intentions.
On a nearby wall, five large picture displays loomed, their bright, simple designs at odds with the tension in the air. A crimson heart beat boldly on one, vibrant but almost mocking in its sentimentality. Beside it, a green crane stood poised mid-flight, its elegance stark against the scene’s artificiality. A cherry blossom tree adorned the third, its delicate pink petals falling in a frozen, eternal drift. A blue koi fish swam on the fourth display, its serene curve suggesting motion where none existed. Finally, a pink bunny grinned from the last image, its expression teetering on the edge of something unsettling.
The players exchanged wary glances, their breaths shallow, their postures stiff. What should have been a place of joy and innocence had transformed into something—something cold, calculated, and waiting. Mikoto wondered just how much blood had been hidden from people that played this games before.
“For today’s game, you have five minutes to form a line behind one of the pictures on the wall,” the masked-fuckhead announced, their voice smooth, and yet grating to the ear.
Mikoto stretched, her movements dreamy, still waking up. “Well, what do you think?” she asked, her voice carrying a hint of tired indifference.
Kazari’s lips bowed into a sly smile, though her back was turned. “I think it might be prudent to split up for this one,” she said thoughtfully, her tone faintly detached.
“Eh?” Index’s voice broke through as she rocked rhythmically back and forth on a spring horse, the absurdity of her action lost on no one.
“I wonder…” Misaki said in almost a whisper, cupping her chin delicately as her eyes scanned the playground with quiet calculation.
Mikoto’s gaze flitted toward her, and she a wave of pink colored her cheeks, spreading like wildfire, unbidden and unwelcome. The previous night’s intimacy lingered heavily in her thoughts. Though the two of them had cried like fragile, broken children in the bathroom, it wasn’t just the tears or the vulnerability that haunted her. It was the depression lifted—like she had heaved a decade’s worth of stress, pain, and failure out of herself. And yet, Misaki lingered in her mind like a phantom, an enigma. What was she to her? Everything was happening too fast, too loud, too much to process. Fuck.
“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” came Shinobu’s measured, monotone voice, cutting through Mikoto’s spiraling thoughts. She stood no more than a meter away, arms crossed, her presence cold and deliberate.
“Oh?” Kazari turned to her, her frown sharp and tinged with menace. “What makes you think that?”
“I think this might be an attempt to separate established groups into different activities,” Shinobu replied, her voice calm, clinical.
“That makes sense,” Index said, nodding as she swayed gently on the spring horse.
“Of course, my horse,” Shinobu quipped in English, glancing her way with an almost imperceptible smile.
Index couldn’t help but snicker, the tension momentarily lightened by her amused response.
“It’s also equally possible they want established groups to fight—and kill—one another,” Kazari said, her voice like barbed wire as she stared electrically at Shinobu’s stoic figure.
“Too soon,” Shinobu replied flatly, closing her eyes as though dismissing the possibility.
Index tilted her head thoughtfully. “Hmm. I agree with the Ameriboo,” she said at last, hopping off the horse with an effortless grace that didn’t quite match her playful demeanor.
Mikoto remained silent, the growing tension between the group swirling around her like a storm she couldn’t control. Her gaze flitted toward Misaki again. She didn’t want to be separated from her—not now. The thought of standing across from her, as an enemy no less, was unbearable. Gods what to fucking do.
Why did everything have to be so impossibly fucking complicated? Why couldn’t life be simple, like back when she was the Ace of Tokiwadai, commanding awe and admiration with every step? Or was it all just a distortion, her memory clouded by the rose-tinted infrared waves of hindsight? Was this chaos any different from the days she spent watching the Sisters die—again and again—before her powerless hands? From the endless nights sneaking out to tear those laboratories apart, brick by accursed brick? From the day Frenda was murdered, and Saten wouldn’t stop sobbing, her grief cutting through Mikoto like broken glass?
And Aleister. God, Aleister. That bastard, with his ritualistic sex magic and labyrinthine plans, was the nexus of every problem she’d ever had. If she could blow a coin through his grave, she would, but of course, the bastard didn’t leave behind something so satisfyingly mortal. And Kazakiri… Sweet, fragile Kazakiri, who had wanted nothing more than to be human. Too pure for the world they were trapped in, Mikoto thought bitterly. If it hadn’t been for her, they’d all be dead—and yet, even if the how and why had been orchestrated by Aleister, like some sick cosmic marionette show. Nothing was ever easy, was it?
Mikoto rubbed the back of her neck, staring up at the looming symbols. What could they mean? Would those behind the heart be forced to rip one out of their opponent’s chest? Would the cherry blossom mean they would have to make one blossom? Did the koi fish demand they catch it in a stream, slippery and impossible? Or worse yet—ride a crane?
Her gaze shifted to the bunny, its innocuous pink hue doing little to quell her unease. Misaki’s hand waved in front of her face, breaking her trance.
“I want to be with you,” Mikoto said abruptly, the words spilling out before she could stop them.
Misaki blinked, her golden brown eyes widening for a fraction of a second before a sly smile spread across her lips. “Mmmm~? Misaka-san, that sounds suspiciously like a confession. Should I be flattered?”
“That’s not—I mean…” Mikoto’s cheeks burned as she scrambled for an explanation, her words caught in a knot.
“Be wanabeeeee~,” Misaki sang, her voice lilting playfully as she stepped back, though she leaned forward ever so slightly, her smile radiant and teasing.
“Huh?” Mikoto tilted her head, her brow scrunched. “That sounds familiar…”
“The Kubota Toshinobu song,” Misaki said with a shrug, her expression impossibly carefree in contrast to the tension of the moment.
“Jeez, that’s ancient. Someone my mom would listen to,” Mikoto replied with a faint laugh, though her attempt to downplay the moment couldn’t hide how captivating she found Misaki’s smile.
“Mmm, and who might you listen to~?” Misaki leaned in closer, her voice dripping with curiosity and just a touch of mischief.
“You—” Mikoto blurted, the word escaping before her mind had the chance to catch it. Her eyes widened as her hand shot up to cover her mouth, her cheeks blooming scarlet like blood seeping into pale sand.
“Oh~?” Misaki’s smile deepened, a wicked, knowing curve. She stepped closer, the space between them vanishing like a shadow devoured by twilight. “Do you know what I’ve been listening to?”
Mikoto shook her head, her breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a whisper, trapped like a bird in a gilded cage.
“The Sisters’ cute little nickname for you~✧,” Misaki purred, her lips hovering at the edge of Mikoto’s ear, her breath trailing down her neck like the caress of a fading memory. “What was it again…? Mi… ko…”
“-chan,” Mikoto managed, her voice quivered, as if every syllable were trapped in the pause between worlds.
“Mmm. That’s right. Miko-chan,” Misaki echoed, her voice like velvet stretched over steel. Her golden eyes gleamed with a mixture of amusement and something more profound, something dangerous. She reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Mikoto’s face with a tenderness that felt almost cruel. “I didn’t realize you two were so… close.” Her pout was deliberate, a calculated dagger.
“W-we’re not… it’s not like that,” Mikoto stammered, her words tripping over themselves like a sinner pleading for redemption. “It’s just… history. You know that. You were there—well, not with her, but with me, more than her.” She faltered, her breath hitching under Misaki’s steady, piercing gaze. “It’s just a friendly thing. We’re friends. She’s a Sister—a little sister, even.”
“So then,” Misaki murmured, her voice low and edged with an intoxicating melancholy, her fingers grazing Mikoto’s cheek, “what might I call you instead that’s mine, and mine alone~◌?”
Mikoto’s heart hammered in her chest, each beat a desperate plea for stability. Her knees felt as though they might betray her at any moment. “W-we’re already on a first-name basis now…” she whispered, her voice fragile as glass, her body an exposed nerve liable to melt into a puddle of electromagnetic soup at any given moment.
Misaki tilted her head, her cool palm a stark contrast to Mikoto’s fevered skin. “I don’t think that’s good enough,” she said with mock indignation, her smile softening but her eyes remaining unrelenting. “Mi… ko…”
Mikoto’s balance wobbled, her body shivering with every movement between pauses. She felt as though she might dissolve into nothingness, a scattering of electric impulses on the fields. “Miko?” she repeated weakly, her voice a quivering leaf on an erratic branch in a gust of wind.
“Miko,” Misaki affirmed, her voice steady and darkly resolute, lifting Mikoto’s chin just enough to meet her gaze. “No need for anything else.”
“Are you two done?” Index called, her tone as dry as autumn leaves underfoot, one hand perched on her hip as she motioned toward the clock.
Misaki’s expression shifted, her lips forming into a faint, neutral smile as she released Mikoto, turning her attention to the dwindling seconds on the timer. Mikoto, by contrast, exhaled sharply aas if snapped free from a silken noose, her body folding forward as she fought to steady her breath.
“I have a good feeling about the heart,” Shinobu said coolly, already heading toward the growing line.
“I’m with her,” Index added, her hands laced behind her head as she strolled away, carefree and unbothered. “Shinobu-chan’s so cool…” Index could be heard saying before the rest became inaudible.
“And what of us, mmm, Miko~?” Misaki’s voice turned sweet again, her golden gaze softening into something almost fond.
“Uhm. Well. Uh. Bunnies… are cute…” Mikoto mumbled, unable to meet Misaki’s unflinching eyes.
Why was Misaki so… intimate? So daring and forward? What was she trying to convey? Was it jealousy, or something deeper—a shadow cast by some unseen fire? Was she staking a claim, or merely testing the boundaries of their rekindled bond? Mikoto’s thoughts swirled in a tempest, fragmented and unmoored.
She had once harbored a crushing infatuation for Misaki—the honey-haired temptress with those captivating eyes and a smile that could unmake empires. She had felt the burn of that forbidden longing for those ample curves, and gods, that had led to that incident. The wretched red pony incident. Mikoto groaned inwardly, shame and regret clawing at her like a persistent mutt wanting to go outside.
But here Misaki stood, so close and impossibly warm, her presence like the flicker of a flame that beckoned yet threatened to consume. Mikoto felt the pull of it, the dangerous allure of the moment, and for a fleeting second, she wondered if surrender might not be so bad after all. To fall into her arms and allow herself to be rescued, for once. For Misaki to whisper sweet nothings into her ears and…
Misaki hummed to herself for a moment, a sound both delicate and detached, as though the decision was of little consequence. “Bunnies it is, then,” she finally said, grasping Mikoto’s hand in her own and leading her toward the line.
Mikoto felt her entire fucking body lock up, every goddamn nerve ablaze in confusion and an emotion she dared not name. Her heart pounded in her chest like a caged animal. Misaki had taken her hand—so casually, so confidently—as though this was something they always did. What was this? This sudden, unspoken closeness? The shift in the air between them was so subtle yet so seismic that Mikoto could barely keep her feet steady as they trudged through the sand.
And yet, her mind raced. Had last night unraveled something? The vulnerability they’d shared—hers raw and clumsy, Misaki’s poised but no less profound—was it this that had changed the dynamic between them? Or had she simply been too blind to see it before? Mikoto’s thoughts spiraled into fragments, each more maddening than the last, each sensation of touch amplified tenfold as her limbs grew weak. What in the world was happening. There was no possible, conceivable way that Misaki—
“Hey,” Misaki said softly, her voice puncturing through Mikoto’s viscous haze. “Stop thinking.”
Mikoto blinked, dumbfounded, and found herself already standing in line behind Misaki. Her head swam, her thoughts mercilessly disordered, as though her very electromagnetic field were decohering in real-time.
Ahead of them, the walls beneath each symbol creaked open. A guard stood at each opening, tables laid out with neatly folded origami sculptures. The PA system crackled to life, its mechanical voice devoid of humanity.
“You will be given a single piece of paper, colored according to the symbol you selected. Observe the origami sculpture provided. You must replicate it with at least 93% accuracy in a 10 minute period. Tears or cuts in the paper are not permitted. Players who fail will be eliminated.”
The announcement ended with a harsh click, like an old phone slamming shut.
“A bunny shouldn’t be too hard, right?” Mikoto ventured aloud, glancing at the line ahead.
Misaki didn’t respond
“Misaki?” Mikoto pressed, concern creeping into her voice.
Misaki’s gaze was elsewhere, her expression unreadable. She turned back to Mikoto with a practiced smile—a mask, polished and pristine. “Ah, sorry. Just… thinking.”
“Oh, so you can think?” Mikoto teased, though her words fell flat as Misaki’s distraction lingered. “What’s wrong?”
Misaki hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of her sleeve. “Would you believe… I’ve never folded origami before?” she said, laughing lightly, though there was no humor in it.
Mikoto gawked. “How is that even possible? Didn’t they make you do that at Tokiwadai? Like, mandatory cultural stuff?”
Misaki shrugged with deliberate nonchalance. “I always found someone else to do it for me. You know me—pulling strings has always been more… my style. Rather than folding them.”
Something about the way she said it made Mikoto’s chest ache, though she couldn’t say why. It was as though Misaki had summed herself up in those few words—someone who manipulated, orchestrated, but never created. A shadow that shaped others but dared not take form itself.
“I’ll help you—” Mikoto began, only to be cut off by the guard’s monotone declaration.
“Players may not aid one another during the game. Any such behavior will result in immediate elimination.”
Mikoto bit her lip as Misaki stepped forward to receive her piece of paper, a light pink sheet handed over with the sort of indifferent precision only a machine could emulate. When Mikoto saw the origami sculpture they were tasked with replicating—a bunny whose intricate folds rivaled anything she’d ever seen—her heart sank.
The little bunny was absurdly complex, with long rectangular ears folded in layers, a body like an accordion, and limbs so delicate…
Misaki stared at it for a moment, her composure slipping ever so slightly, a crack barely visible in her armor.
“Let’s sit on the merry-go-round,” Mikoto suggested, pointing to the colorful wheel just a few meters away.
Misaki followed without protest, though she moved with an unusual stiffness, the pink paper held in her hands like it might dissolve under her touch.
They sat in silence as Mikoto kicked sand while her fingers slipped along the cool metal handle.
“This isn’t your thing, huh?” Mikoto finally said, watching as Misaki’s fingers traced the edges of the paper without folding.
Misaki exhaled slowly, her gaze distant. “No,” she admitted. “It’s not. Folding paper, creating things… It’s foreign to me. I’ve always been better at… undoing.”
The words were spoken so quietly that Mikoto almost missed them. But they struck like the forgotten rhythm of a broken clock, ticking in the wrong time.
Mikoto’s chest tightened. “It’s just paper,” she said softly, unsure of what else to say. “I used to make red pandas all the time when I was a kid. You can create even the most complex figures if you take it step by step.”
Misaki glanced at her, the faintest hint of a smile pressing at her lips. “One fold at a time,” she repeated, as though testing the phrase.
And though the timer began counting down and the world pressed on around them, Mikoto found herself watching Misaki more than her own task. There was something tragic and beautiful about the way she approached the challenge—so deliberate, so uncertain, as though each fold were a battle against some unseen force.
Misaki’s confidence had dimmed like a dying ember. Mikoto could feel the weight she was trying to shrug off, appearing like a crack in a marble statue that had always seemed untouchable. Even though the two had their moment in the bathroom, she wasn’t used to seeing this side of her at all. Strange, considering they had only been around each for a few days, but it felt like they never stopped being friends. Fuck. It was a side of Misaki Mikoto had never seen before in a mundane setting: vulnerable, imperfect, achingly human. And she couldn’t look away.
Misaki smirked faintly, though it seemed forced. “I don’t know how people could possibly enjoy such an archaic activity. Certainly, it’s not fitted for a queen’s delicate hands.” Her voice mellowed, tinged with a note of sorrow wrapped in sweetness. “I would greatly prefer my subjects, as they always have, to complete such tasks…”
Mikoto’s lips tightened. She hated when Misaki talked like that, reducing herself to her role, her manipulations, her power. It was the kind of talk that left a cold, jagged feeling lodged in Mikoto’s ribs, reminding her of how much Misaki carried behind that ever-present smile.
“Well, guess you’ll have to figure it out this time,” Mikoto said, leaning back and crossing her arms. “No shortcuts.”
Misaki raised an eyebrow, her smirk tugging back to life. “Is that your idea of encouragement, Miko~?”
“Do you want me to cheerlead for you instead?” Mikoto shot back, though the edge in her voice softened when she noticed Misaki’s grip tighten slightly on the paper.
Misaki sighed, looking at the awkward folds on the sheet as though it were a puzzle with no solution. “Honestly, I’ve spent so much of my life unraveling people, manipulating, deceiving… I’ve never tried creating something before. Not really. It feels… foreign.”
Mikoto’s breath staggered at the vulnerability in Misaki’s tone. She wanted to coddle it. “It’s just paper,” Mikoto said, her voice quieter now. “Just take it one fold at a time.”
A subtle smile played across Misaki’s lips, one that felt genuine this time. “One fold at a time,” she echoed softly, as though trying the words on for size.
As Misaki carefully began studying the folds on the model bunny from memory, Mikoto watched her. For all her bravado, Misaki seemed fragile here, like a porcelain doll daring to step off its pedestal. And yet, there was something captivating about it, too. This side of her—uncertain, human—was so rare, so precious, that Mikoto felt an inexplicable urge to protect it. Forever and ever.
She turned her gaze to her own paper and the model bunny on the table several meters away. It wasn’t going to be easy, but she could feel a wisp of quiet determination welling up inside her. If Misaki could face this, so could she.
The timer above the playground clicked on, followed by a mechanical voice reminding the players of the rules. “You have ten minutes to complete your task. Failure to meet the accuracy requirement will result in immediate elimination. Good luck.”
Mikoto exhaled, clutching her pink sheet of paper. “Alright,” she muttered to herself. “Let’s do this.”
Next to her, Misaki gave her a sidelong glance, a faint smirk forming again. “Try not to embarrass yourself, Miko~.”
Mikoto rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile spilling onto lips. “Speak for yourself, princess.”
And as they both began folding, the playground around them faded, the world narrowing to paper and creases. The stakes were high, but for now, Mikoto found herself more focused on the person beside her than the game itself.
Then suddenly, Kongou Mitsuko burst through the scene with the grace of a cannonball shot from summit of Mount of Olympus to a pool at its base. “Ohohohohoho! Well, well, look at the little dykes, struggling to fold wittle bunnies,” she crowed, twirling a paper crane between her fingers like a talisman of superiority.
Misaki looked up with feigned sweetness, her gaze sharp enough to draw blood. “Jealous, Mitsuko~?”
“Please,” Kongou scoffed, placing a hand on her chest as though reciting poetry. “Men have always been plentiful in my life. What is love, if not a currency to be spent for one’s own advantage?”
“So, a real bona fide whore, then? Classic Kongou Moomin,” Mikoto said, not even glancing up from the folds of her paper. Her voice was dry, the insult effortless.
Kongou’s breath caught audibly, a growl rising from her throat. She stomped over, looming above Mikoto like a water balloon about to break. “Listen here, you pathetic—”
“Calling someone pathetic when you’re here, Mitsuko?” Misaki cut in, her gaze a punctuation mark in a sentence never spoken.
Kongou staggered, the insult caught in her throat. “How the two of you are so overly familiar with my person, I couldn’t guess less!”
“Did you hit your head on the way here?” Mikoto asked, her tone flat, eyes still fixed on her paper.
Misaki tapped her chin thoughtfully, her expression almost amused as Kongou’s eyes went dull with the imprint of Misaki’s stars. “Hmm… It looks she really doesn’t remember us.”
“Strange, isn’t it?” Mikoto muttered, sparing Misaki an askance glance.
“Or,” Misaki sighed theatrically, “maybe we’re just a pair of delusional egomaniacs.”
Something about that made Mikoto smile—a warmth creeping unbidden into her chest. A fleeting flicker of joy, of kinship. “How did Kongou end up here, anyway?”
Misaki arched an elegant eyebrow, her lips quirking into an amused smile. “Ah… Well. Oh. Oh.” Her expression shifted between disbelief and pity as she rubbed her temple.
“Hah?” Mikoto finally glanced up, her curiosity piqued.
Misaki fiddled with her folded paper, leaning closer. “Would you believe it’s because she spent her life savings—and took out multiple loans—to sustain her diet?”
“What?” Mikoto’s voice cracked with incredulity.
“She… bought multiple restaurants. A chocolate factory…” Misaki’s voice trailed off, her confusion mounting.
“A fucking chocolate factory,” Mikoto repeated, dragging a hand through her hair. Her face was a mix of bewilderment and something bordering on incredulty.
Misaki sighed, a long, weary sound. “She ran them all into the ground. She didn’t care about running them; she only cared about being catered to.”
“Incredible,” Mikoto said, staring blankly at Kongou, who had remained silent thanks to Misaki.
Misaki’s eyes gleamed, and with a subtle tap of her finger, Kongou’s expression turned glassy. She walked away, her movements mechanical, as if someone had flipped a switch and left her on autopilot. Well, actually, that was exactly what happened. An image of Misaki in surgical scrubs with gloves and loupes popped into her head, standing over a patient like some sort of maverick doctor with zero ethical fucks to give.
Silence settled between them for a moment, heavy but oddly companionable. Mikoto finally cleared her throat. “So…” she began, hesitant but resolute. “I’ve been meaning to ask—why areyou here?”
Misaki’s fingers paused over her pink paper, a small crease forming at the edge. “Ah.” She looked at Mikoto, her expression distant, contemplative. “Well, I volunteered.”
Mikoto blinked, straightening in her posture. “You what?”
Misaki’s gaze turned toward the ceiling, her voice calm but edged. “People have been disappearing for years. I kept running into dead ends trying to figure it out. So, after college, I decided to take matters into my own hands.”
“Wait, wait—what are you saying?” Mikoto’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a private investigator now?”
Misaki smiled, but it hung in the air, disconnected, like a moment misplaced in time, the underlying smugness softened by an invisible pulse. “Surprised?”
“I mean, it makes sense. You’ve always had the mind for it… literally. But still… I never would’ve guessed.”
“Well.” Misaki let out a soft laugh. “My employees are my old clique, too. In some ways, nothing’s changed.”
“So you came here, the queen of…” Mikoto trailed off.
“Kyokodai,” Misaki answered.
“Ah. Fitting,” Mikoto replied with a slight nod.
“But you came here voluntarily,” Mikoto said, her voice tinged with disbelief. “You knew what this was? The risks?”
Misaki met her gaze evenly. “I knew enough.” She shifted, leaning back slightly as she toyed with the corner of her paper. “I couldn’t leave it alone. I organized this excursion by making the right people think I was poor. Got into one of the recruiters’ heads. But even they didn’t know much.”
Mikoto exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “So you entered this game, knowing you could die?”
Misaki’s smile returned, faint but unyielding. “You know me, Miko. I can’t let a bad thing go.”
Mikoto stared at her, chest tight as though her lungs were trying to inhale the silence, but couldn’t find the air to do so. Misaki always wore her confidence like armor, her every word measured and deliberate. But here, in this place, there was something else beneath the surface—a quiet defiance, yes, but also a weariness that Mikoto couldn’t quite name.
“It’s admirable,” Mikoto said softly, her eyes falling back to the delicate folds of her paper bunny. A slight smile pulled at her lips, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“You don’t need to flatter me,” Misaki replied, her tone casual as she folded and unfolded the same section of paper. Around them, the triangle guards hovered like sharks, their silent menace tangible, as if they were waiting for even the faintest whiff of fear.
“It’s not flattery,” Mikoto murmured. “You’ve always had a noble streak, even when you were selfish—when your motives weren’t entirely pure.” She carefully folded the paws of the bunny, her fingers steady despite the weight of the moment. “It’s one of the things I’ve always respected about you.”
“Thanks,” Misaki said quietly, her gaze flitting to Mikoto for a brief second. “That means more than you know… coming from you. Because I know you mean it.”
Mikoto playfully scoffed, shaking her head. “I can’t help but think about back when we were at Tokiwadai. Moments like this—so much of it was just… implication.”
“Ah, to be a stupid teenager again,” Misaki said while brushing her bangs aside, her voice delicate, as if the smirk was a thing she wore but never fully claimed.
“Exhausted already?” Mikoto teased, nodding toward Misaki’s half-formed bunny.
“Not quite,” Misaki sighed, though her heart suddenly thundered in her chest.
The first gunshot shattered the fragile atmosphere.
Someone had screwed up. Royally.
The sound reverberated through the room, a sharp reminder of the stakes. Misaki flinched, her hands twitching, the delicate paper nearly tearing. A second shot followed, echoing like a death knell.
Misaki looked across toward the slide and noticed someone she ran against for student council president in 8th grade? Gaouin Tsukasa, that was who that was; she still looked relatively the same. She must have glossed over her during the assimilate voting. But before she could reminisce further, Kakine stepped forward and tore her figure in half with a laugh. The woman looked up with trembling hands, but Misaki couldn’t see her face. And then—bang.
Mikoto forced herself to focus, completing the final fold of her bunny’s ear with precision. A bead of sweat threatened to drip down her forehead, but she wiped it away with a quick motion. Misaki’s bunny, on the other hand, was barely passable—a crude mockery of the task at hand. The base was there, but the nuance was absent, the details clumsy and incomplete.
Two minutes left.
Mikoto’s pulse quickened. She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Misaki,” she said, her voice trembling slightly, “I’m going to guide your fingers.”
Misaki blinked, her brow arching in confusion. “How?” she whispered back, wary but intrigued.
Mikoto averted her gaze, letting her electromagnetism take over. Invisible currents pulsed through her fingertips, connecting her to Misaki’s hand and the fragile paper between them. It was delicate work, each fold meticulously guided, the paper taking shape under Misaki’s anxious watch, as electricalsignals traveled along her fingers while also manipulating the folds, essentially automating it for Misaki, who watched in intense anticipation, mesmerized by her fingers functioning on autopilot. It was like how she took over minds… but for hands.
The gunshots became more frequent now, each one more jarring than the last. Misaki’s stomach churned, bile threatening to rise, but she forced herself to remain calm. Slowly, steadily, the bunny took form—its tail, its paws, the delicate nuances of its face, and finally, the ears.
With twenty seconds to spare, the pair ran to the table. The guard who had handed them the paper earlier stood silently, their gaze behind the mask scrutinizing.
After what felt like an eternity, they spoke. “Both of you pass.”
Relief washed over Mikoto like a crashing wave as they were handed two pink bunny face patches. She reached for Misaki’s jacket, pinning one to her chest without thinking, her fingers brushing against Misaki’s generous breasts.
But then came another gunshot—closer this time.
Mikoto turned instinctively, her heart plummeting as her eyes fell on the scene before her. Blood pooled around her feet, spreading like a sinister tide. A few meters away, she saw the source. Black hair, matted with crimson, spilled out across the floor.
Kongou Mitsuko.
Her breath hitched as vomit rose in her throat. It felt like the world tilted on its axis. Kongou’s lifeless form lay in a grotesque tableau, her brains splattered across the floor like some macabre work of art. Mikoto’s eyes locked onto her fractured skull where the brains fizzled out like a melting cherry red slushie.
And then, she broke.
Doubling over, she vomited violently, the acrid taste burning her throat. Misaki knelt beside her, pulling back her hair with one hand, the other gently patting her back.
Holy fucking shit they killed Kongou. Someone she knew actually fucking died. Someone that she knew. Someone that was once a good friend even if she was a total piece of shit asshole now. She was dead. Her brains were all over the place. They just spoke minutes ago. Minutes. The blood was… Oh my god. There was a chunk, a hunk of gray matter on her shoe. Mikoto panicked trying to shoe it off, but fell back into a puddle of blood.
“They killed her,” Mikoto rasped, her voice trembling with disbelief. “They… actually killed her.”
The words felt foreign on her tongue, like they belonged to someone else. Kongou Mitsuko—loud, insufferable, larger than life—was gone. Dead. Someone she had once called a friend, even if that bond had long since frayed.
Her body convulsed as she gagged again, her hands frantically brushing at her shoe to dislodge the still clinging chunk of flesh. But her movements were clumsy, panicked, and she stumbled backward, but Misaki was there to catch her.
Misaki was at her side in an instant, her arms wrapping around Mikoto, refusing to let her fall. “Breathe,” she whispered, her voice soft but firm. “Just breathe.”
Mikoto’s chest heaved, her vision swimming as the metallic scent of blood filled her nostrils. Everything felt too real now—too raw. The stakes had been abstract before, a distant possibility. But now, with Kongou’s blood all over her and her brains on the floor, there was no denying it.
Suddenly, the whole thing became that much more real. Real. Fuck. Mikoto felt dizzy as the room spun around her. Misaki steadied the brunette to the best of her ability, though she wasn’t very strong and it took most of her strength just to hoist her up.
Misaki continued to steady her, pulling her upright with careful determination as they walked. Mikoto leaned heavily against her, her legs trembling as Misaki guided her toward the door behind the table. Blood dripped from Mikoto’s soaked pants, leaving a gruesome trail behind them.
Neither of them spoke. What could Misaki even say?
The weight of what they had just witnessed settled heavily between them.
Mikoto sat upon the bed, hands slack in her lap, staring at nothing. She had not bothered to retrieve a dinner box. What, after all, did hunger matter when the soul itself was gnawed by something far hungrier? How had it come to this? To watch, with her own wretched eyes, the annihilation of those she once knew, once begrudgingly tolerated, even—gods help her—once cared for?
Kongou Mitsuko was dead. Gone. Reduced to nothing but cooling flesh and spattered ruin. A ridiculous girl, a ravenous glutton, a smug and spiteful womanon the path to killing herself, and yet—still, human. Still someone Mikoto had known in a time before all of this, when the world had not yet shed its skin and revealed the gory truth beneath. She had once called her an annoyance, had scoffed at her affectations and preening airs. What these fucking pricks were doing was inhumane. Maybe, just maybe… if she had the power still, she would be able to overwhelm everyone. The four of them could do it. Just maybe.
A white 'X' slashed across a red square was affixed to her jacket, opposite the pink bunny patch. 30 had voted to stay. 30. She wished she could say she was surprised, but she knew better than that. Humanity was an unrepentant beast—shameless, unclean, clad in the borrowed robes of civilization, yet, when the garments were torn away, what remained was always the same: the starving, feral thing, selfish and trembling, its mouth red from the feast.Sure, there were good people everywhere. Sure. Sure sure sure. But so were the bad ones. And they sure were there.
By now she was sure that anywhere from 95 to 100% of the people here were from Academy City—there was no reason whatsoever to be so fucking selfish. Especially when there was more than enough money to go around. This was just greed and callous indifference, or in some cases, pure malice. And it all made Mikoto so enervated.
She supposed she ought to be grateful that she was not alone. Index, though apprehensive, had adapted with the meek resilience of a creature long accustomed to placing its faith in others. Misaki kept her distance, though her gaze was never far, her presence a shadow at Mikoto’s periphery. Shinobu, inscrutable as ever, had drifted into their orbit, a satellite drawn in by silent, mutual recognition. But Kazari—ah, there was something different in her, something tightly helical, something that, in its stillness, promised a storm.
“Not all dogs go to heaven,” came a voice, silken, laced with amusement.
Mikoto blinked up, disoriented. Before her stood a tall woman with long raven hair, eyes like distant stars—cold, watching, untouchable. A hand rested beneath her elbow, fingers absently brushing her chin, the gesture almost idle in its vanity.
“I thought you were made of sterner stuff, Railgun.” The woman smiled, slow and deliberate.
Mikoto bristled. “And I thought you’d have managed better than to end up here,” came Misaki’s voice, crisp and cool. Arms crossed, expression neutral, but her posture was all contempt.
“You two…?” Mikoto asked, glancing between them.
“Ara ara, Shokuhou-chan, what makes you think I didn’t want to be here to begin with?” The woman flipped her hair in mockery, her movements a cruel pantomime of Misaki’s own.
Mikoto caught the minute shift in Misaki’s face, the briefest tightening of her jaw, the flicker of something—was it anger? Disgust? No, something quieter. Closer to derision.
“Seria,” Misaki began, her voice like shards of glass. “I would hope you haven’t turned out to be one of those deranged murder fetishists.”
Seria smiled, slow, wolfish. “Some of us,” she mused, “run the gamut of life too early. And then, my dear, all that’s left is chasing the next high.” She punctuated her words with a single finger, tapping against Misaki’s chest.
Mikoto winced. Whether at the touch or at the words themselves, she could not say. Perhaps both.
Misaki smacked Seria’s hand away. “So there is a VIP section after all.”
“What does that mean?” Mikoto asked, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
“It means we’re being watched,” Misaki murmured, scowling. “A reality show for the most demented people society has to offer.”
“The kind of people who enjoy watching animals slaughtered before they’re turned into food,” Mikoto said, her voice bitter, low.
Seria let out a soft, lilting laugh, running her fingers through her bangs. “I prefer to think of it as the kind of people who’ve watched sooo much porn that nothing quite hits right anymore.”
Mikoto exhaled precipitously, rubbing at her temples. “Have I met her before?”
“Maybe once or twice,” Misaki muttered, eyes tracking Seria’s retreating form. “In what might as well have been another life.”
Mikoto followed her gaze, then sighed. “Just how many people do we know that’ve gone under the radar?”
“There’s a couple dozen we haven’t interacted with,” Misaki admitted, kicking at the dust.
“Ah, right. I had you probe them all,” Mikoto said with a dry chuckle.
“I wasn’t able to pry into anyone’s mind beyond their immediate thoughts, given the limitations…” Misaki trailed off, staring at the ground.
Mikoto tilted her head. “Do you still need a remote at all?”
Misaki looked up then, her eyes settling on Mikoto’s, and for a moment, the weight of her exhaustion was palpable. “Mmm. Not really. But… I’d be lying if I said they didn’t help. Like how you might not need glasses, but sometimes they take the strain off.”
Mikoto smiled weakly. “So then, what’s been stopping you from freeze-drying all these gouache bastards?”
Misaki sighed, rubbing a thumb against her cheek as she sat on the bed. “I could’ve used the moisture from all the spilled blood to make crystals, but… what’s a lance to an army?”
Mikoto sat beside her then, silent. The space hung like a held breath, the air smelled of sweat, of blood, of distant decay. It was the smell of something rotten, something dying by centimeters.
And she was beginning to wonder if they were dying along with it.