"I'm sorry, Miss Kawashima's condition is not good. She's currently unresponsive and unlikely to regain consciousness anytime soon. Fortunately, her life isn't in immediate danger, but she will need an extended period of rest."
In the dim light, I heard this faintly, half-conscious.
No… this can't be happening. I can't become a vegetable—I still need to take care of Akira.
A jolt of fear shot through me. I forced my eyes open—and was met by a pair of eyes I knew all too well.
It was Akira.
His gaze, as cold and detached as always, was fixed on me. But somehow, seeing that familiar look actually brought me a strange sense of peace.
"Akira... I'm fine. Let's go. We can't afford this hospital," I said, my voice hoarse and weak.
Silence.
Akira continued staring at me, as if my words had never reached him.
"Akira?" I lifted a trembling hand, trying to touch his cheek—only to watch in shock as my hand passed right through him.
My heart skipped a beat. I jerked up in bed.
What I saw next took my breath away: another me was still lying motionless on the bed, eyes shut, skin pale.
Am I... not really awake? Am I out of my body?
I stared at my sleeping self in confusion and unease. After a long pause, Akira—who hadn't said a word—stood up.
"Akira…" I stepped toward him, worried. He still wore that emotionless look, just like always. Of course. That's who he is. Why would he be sad because of me? In all my years growing up with him, I'd never once seen him show joy, sorrow, or anger.
I gave a small, bitter smile at the thought.
My name is Megumi Kawashima. I have a twin brother—Akira Kawashima. We share about eighty percent of the same features, but our personalities couldn't be more different.
We never knew our parents. We were taken in by a kind old man who lived alone in a small village. Until he passed away, we lived with him in his humble home.
Up until I turned six, I thought Akira was just a quiet, slightly antisocial boy. That is, until one night, I woke up to find him standing beside my bed—covered in blood.
"Akira… what did you do?" I was so scared I nearly fell off the bed.
He looked at me with a face full of disdain. The pale moonlight lit up the blood staining his clothes, and when I met his eyes, a chill ran straight down my spine.
That was the first time I truly felt afraid of my own brother.
"Lend me a change of clothes," he finally said.
I froze, then quickly got out of bed and handed him a shirt.
"Hurry and change. Take that bloody stuff off and go to sleep. I'll wash them for you. Just… don't wake Grandpa."
Akira didn't say a word—just did exactly as I told him.
Back then, I was still too young to think much of it. I figured maybe he had gone out hunting rabbits or something.
The old man who raised us lived in poverty. He survived by scavenging through garbage. Feeding the three of us was already hard enough—meat was a rare luxury. I don't think we had it more than once or twice a year. Life passed by in quiet hardship, until one day, Akira brought back a rabbit—still bleeding.
Grandpa and I were stunned. The rabbit was mangled almost beyond recognition. When I looked from its broken body to Akira's childish face, I didn't know how to feel. The cruelty of the scene contrasted so sharply with his delicate features—it gave me chills.
Grandpa was quiet for a moment, then gently ruffled Akira's soft hair. His voice was tinged with something hard to place.
"Our little Akira has grown up. He knows how to find food for the family now."
From that day on, meat became a regular part of our meals. Akira would bring back small animals every few days. And though it made survival easier, both Grandpa and I were worried. We tried to talk him out of it more than once, but he always just gave us a little smile and brushed it off.
That night, I assumed he had simply gone hunting again.
Until the next morning, when a bloodcurdling scream rang out from the village. I shot out of bed and ran outside. The sound came from Yoko's house.
When I got there, Yoko was lying in a pool of blood. His mother was cradling his lifeless body, sobbing so hard it felt like her soul was breaking. The sight shook me to the core. My legs gave out, and I collapsed to the ground.
Villagers quickly gathered, murmuring in shock and fear.
Yoko's left leg had been savagely cut off—and reattached to the right side. The right leg was sewn where the left should be. His arms had suffered the same grotesque fate. The sheer brutality of it stunned the village into horrified silence.
"I've lived in this village twenty years," someone whispered. "I've never seen anything like this…"
"Did a murderer sneak into the village?" another asked, trembling.
"Who could be this cruel…" More voices filled the air—scared, angry, desperate.
I was paralyzed with fear. My entire body was ice-cold as I scrambled back home.
And there was Akira, sitting at the table, calmly eating breakfast as if nothing had happened.
"Akira… Yoko… was it you…" My lips trembled. I couldn't even finish the word "kill."
"Yes," he said flatly, without even pausing. His face was blank—devoid of any emotion—as though he had just stated something trivial.
I opened my mouth but couldn't speak.
"Why…" I finally managed to choke out after a long pause, my voice barely a whisper.
"He tried to take the rabbit I caught. He deserved to die." Akira's voice was cold, as if that logic was entirely reasonable.
I sucked in a breath.
It was in that moment I realized—Akira wasn't just a strange child. There was something wrong. Deeply, dangerously wrong. Behind that young face was a mind far darker and crueler than I could understand.
The precision of the stitching, the monstrous methods—it wasn't something a normal child could have done. What kind of darkness was lurking inside Akira? I didn't know. And I didn't want to find out.
Even though I'm just a wandering soul now, I can still move freely.
I hovered near Akira as he gently applied ointment to the wounds on my physical body. A strange warmth spread through me.
So… Akira does know how to take care of someone.
A small part of me felt regret—why was my body so weak? As that thought passed, an image flashed through my mind: the face of Misaki Suzuki, arrogant and cruel.
Last night, after night classes, I was walking home alone with my backpack. The streets were nearly empty, and the air held a faint chill. My mind was occupied with worries about home, so I quickened my pace.
Just as I turned the corner into a narrow alley, several shadows leapt out from the darkness. Before I could react, fists rained down on me like a storm.
Each blow was brutal, but pain was something I'd grown used to. Ever since transferring to this new school, this wasn't the first time I'd been jumped. I clutched my bag tightly, protecting the scholarship money inside. Gritting my teeth, I endured in silence, refusing to make a sound.
Eventually, the beating stopped.
I tried to open my swollen eyes, but they burned painfully. Through the haze and dim streetlight, I saw a familiar face—Misaki Suzuki. Her lips curled into a malicious smile.
She crouched down and gently caressed my cheek, her cold hands deceptively soft. Then, without warning, her manicured fingers stabbed deep into my abdomen.
Agony exploded through me. My body curled instinctively, sweat pouring from my skin.
"Hahaha, what happened to your pride now?" she sneered. "Look at you, groveling like a dog."
I clenched my jaw. I knew any resistance would only provoke her more—so I stayed silent, hoping to end this faster.
But my silence only made her angrier.
Her smile vanished. Her eyes flared with rage. "Still pretending to be pure and above it all? Keep going. Beat her again!"
At her command, something heavy slammed into the back of my head. A white-hot pain blinded me, and the world faded to black.
In my final moments of awareness, I thought of Akira. Before leaving that day, I had promised to bring home lots of beef and pork—his favorite.
But now, I didn't know if I'd make it back. What would he do if he was home alone and hungry…
A helpless bitterness filled me. Then I thought, Akira has always been indifferent. Maybe he won't mind. Maybe he won't even care if I don't come home tonight.
That thought lingered as my consciousness faded completely.
It was 1 a.m. now. In a dark, cluttered room, Akira sat cross-legged with a lollipop in his mouth, furiously pressing buttons on a handheld game console.
He glanced up at the clock, expression turning restless. With a sudden crack, the console shattered in his hands. Blood streamed from his palm, cut by the broken plastic, but he didn't care. He simply shook his hand, pulled a knife from under his pillow, and slipped out the window.
When he found me, I was already unconscious.
I vaguely remember soft arms holding me. Then, nothing.
Now, my soul floated beside Akira, watching him tend to my wounds. I was filled with anxiety. We couldn't afford this hospital—not even for a day. I stared at his face, and my mind drifted to a few months earlier.
That was after our grandfather passed away. He left his tiny home to Akira and me.
I had just started my first year of high school when I crossed paths with Misaki Suzuki, the local tyrant. I'd been beaten before, humiliated countless times, but no one had ever dared to target me so openly. Later, I learned Misaki came from a wealthy, well-connected family that had donated large sums to the school.
I figured it was best not to provoke her. She could get me expelled with a word.
But apparently, bullying me was more entertaining than expelling me.
One evening, bruised and limping, I returned home around 8:30. Neither Akira nor I had eaten yet.
Just as I stepped through the door, Akira appeared in front of me like a ghost.
"…Akira?" I called hesitantly. He was usually busy gaming at this hour.
He said nothing. Just grabbed my wrist and yanked up my sleeve.
Wounds. Dozens of them—raw and red.
He stared for a long time. I tried to keep a calm face, but guilt pulled my gaze to the floor.
I'd forgotten—Akira is incredibly sensitive to the smell of blood.
"What happened."
"Huh? Oh… nothing. I just fell," I blurted.
The moment I said it, I regretted it. Akira was not the type to believe dumb lies.
To my surprise, he turned and walked inside. When he came back, he was holding a roll of bandages.
"Wrap it yourself."
With that, he went back to gaming.
I quickly looked down at my arm again. The wound had split open at some point, fresh blood trickling down. It looked frightening.
I patched myself up as best as I could and went to prepare dinner.
Thanks to my scholarship, our meals had become a bit more generous. That night, Akira sat at the table, eating as usual—but his face looked worse than ever. Pale, stiff.
I thought maybe the food just wasn't cooked right.
"BANG—!"
A loud slam yanked me out of my thoughts.
Akira was suddenly on his feet. He stormed out the door, slamming it behind him with a force that shook the walls.
I didn't know what he was planning—but I immediately followed. Even as a ghost, I couldn't let him go unchecked.
He was fast. I barely kept up.
He ran straight to our house.
Without pause, he tore into the storage room and began frantically searching for something.
I stood frozen. The room was a disaster—furniture overturned, glass shards everywhere. Blood smeared across the floor where Akira had stepped on the shards barefoot, completely unfazed, digging through the chaos.
Finally, he pulled out a fluffy object and stormed out.
I squinted. In the dark, I couldn't see clearly. I followed him to the bathroom.
He flipped on the light. My eyes squinted against the glare.
When I could finally see—
He was holding a wig.
I stared in shock.
Why did Akira have something like that?
Without a word, he placed it on his head.
And in that moment, I saw myself.
With the wig on, Akira looked almost exactly like me. We'd always resembled each other, and I was tall for a girl. He was just slightly taller. But now, looking at him… it was like staring at my reflection.
Except for his lifeless, dead eyes.
I didn't understand what he was trying to do.
Akira stood in front of the mirror for a while, then suddenly bolted out the door.
I chased after him, heart pounding.
Even if I was just a spirit—I couldn't let him go alone.
Akira pushed open the door to "Ichiban-ya," the small local diner. The bell above jingled sharply.
Inside, the yellow lights cast long shadows over the few scattered tables. The air was thick with the smell of oil and broth. Behind the counter, the owner—Takumi—was wiping down glasses. He looked up at the sound, and his eyes froze when he saw Akira.
Something about the "girl" standing at the door made Takumi uneasy. The cold, heavy silence she carried didn't belong to a teenage girl—it felt... wrong.
Akira walked straight up to the counter and spoke without hesitation.
"Are you hiring?"
Takumi blinked, confused at first. Then he realized this was a job inquiry. But the girl's sharp tone and piercing gaze made him nervous.
He hesitated, unsure how to answer.
Akira frowned slightly, and repeated, "Are you hiring?"
This time, his voice carried an edge—urgent, almost threatening. Those cold eyes locked on Takumi, and the pressure was palpable.
Takumi's heart skipped. This wasn't a normal high schooler. She felt more like trouble walking through the door.
Still, he forced himself to stay calm. After thinking for a moment, he asked, "What position are you looking for?"
"Anything," Akira replied bluntly.
The decisiveness surprised Takumi. He looked the girl over again—plain black T-shirt, eyes too heavy for her age, and that haunting silence.
She was strange, yes, but she looked serious. And right now, the shop could use help.
He sighed. "Fine. How about working six to midnight? We need someone to serve tables and clean up. Pay is monthly. That okay?"
Akira gave a single nod. "Okay."
Takumi felt slightly relieved at how simply she accepted. Despite the unsettling aura, she seemed genuine.
"Come in tomorrow night, then. What's your name? I'll write it down."
"Akira Kawashima."
The name made Takumi pause. He glanced up at her again, trying to place the feeling of familiarity.
He gave a small smile. "Alright then. I'll call you Akira. I'm Takumi—you can call me Uncle if you want."
Akira remained expressionless, giving a faint nod in acknowledgment. Then he turned and left.
I floated after him, heart heavy with guilt.
So that's why… He was going to work—for my medical bills.
I felt a pang of shame.
When we got home, it was already dawn. Akira didn't sleep. He just sat in the corner of his room, staring at the floor, motionless.
By sunrise, his complexion was even paler than usual.
He glanced at the clock, stood slowly, and went to the bathroom to wash up. Then, from his drawer, he pulled out the same wig from the night before and put it on again—skilled, practiced.
He stared into the mirror for a while, as if confirming something.
Then, without a word, he walked into my room.
I followed, confused—until I saw him open my closet and pull out my school uniform.
It hit me in that moment.
He was planning to go to school—as me.
My breath caught. Was he really going to impersonate me?
We did look nearly identical. Same height, same frame. But he was still Akira.
A shiver ran down my spine.
Because of his violent tendencies, Grandpa and I had never let Akira attend school. We once tried, when he was little, but he almost strangled a classmate to death. After that, we pulled him out, permanently.
He'd grown calmer over the years, but something about this felt... dangerous.
He was going to school. As me.
If anyone found out…
If he lost control…
What then?
I followed Akira all the way to school, my heart pounding the entire time.
He walked in silence, step after step, head lowered. When we reached the front gates, he glanced down at the nametag on the uniform—my name and class clearly printed there.
Then, without hesitation, he pushed open the classroom door.
Instantly, the room fell silent.
The previously buzzing atmosphere froze the moment Akira stepped in. Dozens of eyes turned to him at once. The air seemed to hold its breath.
Then—bang.
Misaki Suzuki kicked over the chair in front of her. The sharp crash echoed across the room, snapping the tension.
Even as a ghost, invisible to everyone, I shivered.
The chair she kicked… was my chair.
"Well, well. Look who's alive." Misaki sneered, voice dripping with venom. Her eyes narrowed as her lips curled into a mocking grin.
Akira stopped mid-step. He slowly raised his head—and his eyes locked on Misaki's.
His gaze was like a blade, cold and piercing. I saw her freeze for the briefest second. She recovered quickly, forcing her usual arrogance back onto her face, but I had caught it—that flicker of fear.
"What's with that look? You mad at me?" she taunted. "Still feeling sore from yesterday?"
She laughed, loud and sharp. Her little gang of followers joined in, filling the room with an ugly chorus. A few girls looked over in pity, but none dared say a word.
Akira's face didn't flinch. His expression was blank—but his eyes stayed locked on Misaki like a predator sizing up its prey.
And then, softly, he spoke.
"So it was you?"
Misaki didn't hear the danger in his voice. She just smirked and kept provoking. "What, cat got your tongue now? Did I mess up your voice box or something?"
I saw it then—his gaze turned lethal.
I had rarely seen that look before. The last time was years ago, when our grandfather was still alive…
Back in middle school, Grandpa was still out every day collecting recyclables. I'd sometimes go with him after school. One day, a man in his twenties mocked him in the street—shoved him, insulted him for digging through trash—and then snatched his wallet.
That wallet had taken Grandpa months of labor to fill.
I wanted to run after the man, but Grandpa stopped me. His rough, weathered hand gripped mine tightly. I stared at his face, and for the first time in my life—I cried, loudly, uncontrollably.
Later that evening, I returned home, still weeping. Akira looked annoyed.
"Shut up," he said. "You're so loud."
I tried to quiet myself.
After a moment, he asked, "Why are you crying?"
I told him everything, from start to finish.
He didn't say a word. But I saw the veins bulge on his temple. His eyes turned cold—just like they were now.
The next day, he came back with Grandpa's wallet—bloody and soaked.
We didn't have to ask. We already knew what he had done.
Soon after, news spread that a man's corpse had been found in the woods nearby. The scene had been horrific. The man's stomach was sliced open, stuffed full of trash—plastic bottles, rusty screws, even a broken bicycle tire. His guts had spilled everywhere. No patch of skin was untouched.
And his mouth had been sewn shut.
Even now, just thinking about it makes my skin crawl.
I looked at Akira, then back at Misaki.
Was he trying to avenge me?
I felt… conflicted. Part of me pitied Misaki. But I also didn't want Akira to do anything reckless.
If he actually killed her—this time, it wouldn't be so easy to cover up. Misaki came from a powerful family. If anything happened to her, Akira might not make it out alive.
But Misaki had no idea who she was really facing.
She thought Akira's silence meant fear or submission. Her face twisted in anger.
"Kawashima Megumi! I'm talking to you!" she shrieked, storming up to him.
Her sharp, manicured nails raked across his arm. Blood instantly welled up from the scratches.
Akira didn't even flinch.
He simply looked down at the blood, eyes calm, and murmured, "So this is where the wound came from…"
"What did you say?" Misaki snapped.
Akira didn't answer. He gently pushed her.
Misaki stumbled back and crashed to the floor.
The classroom erupted.
Gasps, whispers, laughter. Everyone started murmuring all at once.
Misaki looked stunned, then enraged.
"You think you can hit back now? Huh? Wasn't yesterday's beating enough for you?" she screamed.
Red-faced, she lunged at Akira like a wild animal.
Just then, the classroom door opened.
Our homeroom teacher had arrived.
"What on earth is going on in here?!"