I snapped back to reality and saw Takumi downing another heavy swig of alcohol, the sharp scent instantly filling the air.
"I abandoned my daughter?" he gave a bitter laugh, eyes tinged with pain and helplessness. "I loved her more than anything. Why would I ever abandon her?"
Akira's grip on the knife loosened slightly, but his cold eyes remained locked onto Takumi. Reflected in Takumi's gaze was the young man's chilling detachment. Takumi gave a weary smile, the heaviness in his words still thick in the air.
"I met my ex-wife back in college," Takumi began, his voice laced with bitterness as he stared off into the distance, seemingly lost in memory. "It all started with food. She tried a dish I made and couldn't forget it. A few years later, we were married. Life seemed peaceful… or so I thought."
He sighed, eyes clouded with regret. His story pulled me in, dragging me deep into a past filled with quiet sorrow. "Soon we had a lovely daughter. I had enough savings to support us for a lifetime, but I wanted to give them more—something better. What man doesn't want to give his wife and child the best? So I worked harder, longer, poured everything into my restaurant. And it paid off. Business boomed."
His voice caught slightly, as if the memory of success only deepened his pain. "One day, I landed a huge contract. A golden opportunity. I rushed home to tell her, thinking it would be a new chapter for us…"
He paused, then let out a humorless laugh. "But when I walked through the door, what was waiting wasn't celebration—it was a divorce agreement. Sitting right there, next to my contract. Like a slap in the face."
Akira still held the knife, still staring coldly, but something flickered in his gaze—a faint, unreadable emotion. Silence hung in the air like a heavy fog, the weight of Takumi's words impossible to ignore.
"I couldn't believe it," Takumi continued, eyes empty. "I thought I was seeing things. But those three words on that paper—'Petition for Divorce'—they cut deeper than any knife."
"I begged her to explain why. I didn't understand. But she just held our two-year-old daughter and looked at me like I was a stranger. She said I was never there. Said she was lonely. And then… I just blacked out. My health had already been on the decline from years of overwork and sleepless nights. I fainted right there."
"When I came to, the house was empty. Completely silent. On the table—just that paper. That's when I realized… I had lost everything. And I had no one to blame but myself. I thought if I gave them comfort and security, that would be enough. I was wrong."
Without a word, Akira silently slipped the knife back into his sleeve. His gaze remained steely, but, unexpectedly, he picked up a piece of sashimi and placed it on Takumi's plate. "Eat a little. Then continue."
Takumi was taken aback, then gave a grateful nod. He popped the sashimi into his mouth, chased it with another swig of alcohol, and wiped his mouth with trembling fingers as if steeling himself for what came next.
"But the truth…" Takumi's voice wavered, "was crueler than I imagined. Just a while ago, one of my ex-wife's friends came to eat here. She got a little drunk, slipped up, and I found out…"
He paused, the words choking in his throat.
"…That my ex-wife had been seeing a wealthy businessman before we were even married. He was always in her life. Even after our daughter was born, I… I still don't know if she's truly mine."
His eyes shimmered with tears. "She only married me because that man couldn't leave his own wife. I was just a placeholder. Even so, I loved them. I accepted everything. Especially when my daughter first called me 'Daddy'... I melted. From that moment, I promised myself—I would love her no matter what."
Takumi's voice trailed off into a faint mumble before finally slipping into slumber. Akira stood motionless, staring at the table full of untouched food. The once warm, inviting meal now seemed cold and lonely—just like its maker.
After a long moment, Akira sighed softly, made his decision, and gently tapped Takumi's shoulder. Seeing no response, he shook his head, went to lock the restaurant door, then returned and helped hoist the man up, dragging him into the small back room to rest.
Looking at Takumi's flushed, drunken face, Akira felt a rare flicker of something like gratitude—or perhaps it was simply warmth. Takumi had given him a job, hadn't pried, hadn't judged. Maybe that was enough for Akira to extend a sliver of mercy.
Still, none of this changed who he was.
These past few days, Akira had continued his routine: school, work, keeping up appearances. But I knew better. I could see it in his eyes—he had chosen his next target: Mai. The girl who once shoved my head in a toilet, forced me to slap myself on my knees.
And soon enough, he acted.
It was a still, cold night. The moon hung overhead, casting pale light over empty streets. Akira waited on Mai's route home. When she passed, unaware, he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her into an alley.
The rest of the scene—his brutality, her screams, her pleading—unfolded like a cruel mirror of my past. Mai's face contorted in agony. In the dim light, she finally got a clear look at her attacker. The scattered glow revealed Akira's flawless features, but more terrifying were his eyes—cold, sharp, brimming with scorn and hostility. It was as if she weren't even human in his eyes, just some broken object.
Shock and fear froze across her face.
Seeing her expression, Akira suddenly seemed amused. He yanked the cloth from her mouth and whispered, "If you dare scream, I promise your body will never be found."
Mai clearly hadn't expected "Kawashima Megumi" to be this strong—or this vicious. The scream on her lips was swallowed back. Tears streamed down her face as she began to tremble.
"I'm sorry, Kawashima Megumi… I won't bully you ever again. I swear I was wrong. Please… please let me go…"
Akira crouched down beside her, his hands clamping around her jaw, forcing her to look directly into his eyes.
"Then why," he asked coldly, "did you bully Kawashima Megumi?"
Mai, on the edge of collapse, couldn't register what was wrong with that question. She just shook her head frantically and sobbed, "It wasn't me! I didn't want to hurt you! It was Misaki Suzuki—she was jealous! Of your looks, your grades, of how Satoru liked you… She made me hit you… She threatened me… I didn't want to, but if I didn't listen, I'd be next."
Akira let out a snort, almost like a laugh.
"So," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "my dumb sister got bullied to death for being too perfect, huh?"
Mai finally realized something was wrong.
"You… You're not Kawashima Megumi… are you?"
Akira didn't answer. Instead, he leaned closer and wrapped his fingers around her throat.
"Fear of being bullied is no excuse to become a bully."
His eyes burned with fury, and his grip tightened. Mai's face turned purple, her legs kicking weakly as she tried to break free. Just as she was about to pass out, Akira released her. She collapsed, gasping.
She looked up at him, hope flickering in her tear-filled eyes—until she heard his next words:
"You made my sister suffer. I'm not going to let you die easily."
Akira drew the knife from his sleeve, its blade gleaming faintly under the streetlight. Cold steel glinted as he approached slowly. Mai's back stiffened, the chill of death crawling up her spine.
He crouched beside her again, his expression unreadable.
"This hand…" Akira murmured, grabbing her wrist and turning it over, "is the one that hit my sister, right?"
Without waiting for an answer, the knife flashed—a clean, brutal slice—and five fingers dropped to the ground like discarded trash.
Mai let out a strangled, wet scream, her mouth open in agony, but no sound came—her vocal cords were locked in shock.
Akira's voice remained calm, almost curious. "Jealous of her face, were you?"
He didn't wait for a reply. The knife shifted direction.
With terrifying precision, he began slicing off the skin from her face—starting from the cheek, then across her jaw, up to her brow. Blood streamed like tears. The flesh peeled away in wet ribbons, revealing raw tissue beneath. Her entire face was a canvas of mutilation.
The unbearable pain finally became too much. Mai passed out, her body twitching once before going limp.
Akira stood, watching her crumpled body with mild disdain.
"How boring," he muttered.
He wasn't disappointed that she was dead—he was disappointed she couldn't endure more.
To him, the moment right before death—when the prey breaks down, cries, begs, loses dignity—that's what fascinated him. It was never the death itself that brought him satisfaction… it was the surrender. The collapse of the human will.
From childhood, he had enjoyed watching animals thrash in their final moments, humans included. The pain in their eyes, the hopelessness, the wet shine of tears, the desperate gurgling of breath… That was what he chased. The "hunt" wasn't a task—it was art.
But… his sister wouldn't understand.
She'd never understand this part of him.
So he always had to hide it.
With a faint sigh, Akira gently wiped the blood from his knife, lovingly polishing the blade with a handkerchief, as if caring for a precious treasure.
The next morning, a knock came at the door. Urgent. Loud. I peeked through the crack—police.
They were early. Too early.
But Akira… he wasn't surprised. Calm as ever, he got up, washed up, put on Megumi's disguise.
When he opened the door, the officers wasted no time:
"Kawashima Megumi, you'll need to come with us to the station."