The city wasn't warm, but it felt better than silence.
I needed this. We needed this.
Miyu met me outside the station wearing her favorite brown coat and a wool scarf. Her hair was tied low,
soft strands blowing over her eyes.
"You're late," she said again, smiling.
"You always say that."
"Because you always are."
We laughed. The sound didn't echo much in the open air, but it stayed with me.
We didn't have a plan.
We just walked. Like two shadows trying to outrun yesterday.
First, to the quiet arcade near the bookstore where we played an old rhythm game. I lost. Twice.
Then we bought matcha drinks and split a melon bun. She made a mess, and I wiped the cream off her cheek with my thumb.
Somewhere between our third stop and the way her hand slid into mine, I forgot we were suspects in anything.
She made it feel like we were still students. Still real.
We sat by the riverside, the water quiet and dark like a mirror. Trees lined the edge—bare, cold, reaching like skeletons.
"I missed this," she said softly.
"Me too."
"You don't look okay, though."
"They don't matter. I'm not everyone."
I looked at her. Her eyes didn't flinch. There was no doubt about them. Just a steady fire.
"Even if I was guilty," I said, barely above a whisper, "would you stay?"
She was silent.
Then: "If you were guilty… I'd like to know why. And I'd still be beside you."
My throat closed up.
No one had ever said something like that to me.
Near the Abandoned Apartment—
We climbed up the fire escape of a half-abandoned apartment complex. No one noticed. No one cared.
From the rooftop, the sky bled color across the city. Warm golds faded into purple. The kind of view you only see when you're not looking for it.
Miyu stood at the edge, wind pulling at her coat. She turned to me, hair glowing in the last light of the day.
"I know what they say about you," she said. "But it's not who you are."
"You don't know everything."
"I know enough to stay."
I took a step closer. And another. Until she was close enough that I could hear her breathing.
She didn't wait this time.
She pulled me in.
And we kissed.
It wasn't perfect.
But it wasn't desperate either.
It was warm. Honest. Full of all the words we couldn't say.
Her hands trembled a little. Mine too.
And when we pulled away, the city felt quieter.
Like maybe, for once… it had heard our hearts.
— ✦ —
The footage was crap.
Low resolution. Hallway shadows. Barely anything clear.
But there he was.
Cowboy hat.
Long coat.
Face mostly covered.
The timestamp matched exactly. 1:05 PM. At the same time Kenta Arai was murdered inside the storage room.
I leaned closer. "You're not hiding by accident," I whispered.
The figure walked calmly. Not rushed. Not like someone who stumbled into something they shouldn't have seen.
He knew what he was doing.
Still, I had no ID. No fingerprints. No witnesses.
And Shion — as suspicious as he looked on day one — wasn't anywhere near this moment on camera.
I hated that he was clean.
Not because I thought he did it, but because this meant whoever did was smart.
Too smart.
Then my phone buzzed.
Private Number.
I answered quickly. "Detective Takashiro."
Static.
Then a man's voice — thin, on the edge of panic.
"You need to come to the North District. 4th and Noma. The alley behind the old flower shop."
My pulse jumped. "What happened?"
"…There's a car. Still smoking. Someone's inside."
"Alive?"
"No. Locked in. It's bad. You should come. Now."
He hung up.
I was already moving. The moment I reached the alley I saw the car in smoke. The alley smelled like burnt rubber, rust, and… something worse.
The old flower shop was boarded up, forgotten. A place where kids tagged walls with spray paint. But tonight, it felt like a crime scene written by a poet with rage.
The black sedan was crumpled against the sidewall — engine melted, glass twisted. Firefighters stood nearby, shaking their heads.
I stepped closer. Slowly.
The doors were locked from the inside. Windows sealed tight with duct tape — melted now.
Whoever this was… never had a chance to scream.
The remains of the driver sat slumped, seat belt melted into his jacket.
Arms curled.
Face beyond recognition.
The smell still clung to the air like it didn't want to leave.
"Name?" I asked.
A young officer handed me the file.
Yuto Ishigami. Nineteen. Former student at Noma High School.
And just like that—
My brain clicked into place.
Wait. Noma High School again?
First Kenta. Now Yuto.
I said it out loud before I could even think:
"This isn't random."
I stepped closer to the wreck. One of the forensic agents waved me over.
"Detective. We found this in the front passenger seat… or what's left of it."
He held up a partially melted phone. Screen charred. No battery intact.
I stared at it.
Not because it would tell me something right now — but because of what it might have been.
A phone like this could have recorded anything.
Or worse… been a reminder of something filmed.
Was this symbolic?
Or was this the phone that once held proof of something unspeakable?
Whatever it was, it was burned deliberately.
Erased.
Just like whoever did this wanted it to be.
Then I saw it — scrawled into the melted dashboard with a knife.
"Two out of twelve."
It wasn't a signature.
It was a countdown.
First Kenta.
Now Yuto.
Both are tied to Noma High School.
Which meant…
There were ten more.
Two sins punished.
Ten to go.
And somewhere in the city, the boy in the mask already knew who was next.
This wasn't justice.
It was personal.