Inside the interrogation room, the cold metal walls reflected the harsh, glaring lights, enveloping the entire space in a chill. Akira sat calmly in the chair, hands resting on his knees, fingers lightly intertwined as though he were casually waiting for something. His face was bloodless, and those deep eyes, under the lights, appeared especially hollow and still—able to see through everything, yet shutting the world completely out.
Detective Makoto Watanabe slowly set down the teacup in his hand. The faint steam swirled upward, then gradually dissipated into the air. His gaze was locked on Akira, scrutinizing him with unmistakable suspicion. The tension between them was like a silent duel, cold and still, without a single wasted word.
"Miss Kawashima," Watanabe finally broke the silence, his voice low and laced with pressure, "your classmate, Mai Nakamura, was found dead last night in Wutong Alley. The coroner estimates the time of death to be around nine o'clock."
Akira's expression shifted slightly, but his eyes remained unsettlingly calm. He raised an eyebrow and responded flatly, "Is that so? What a surprise."
Watanabe let out a cold snort, leaning forward slightly as his knuckles tapped on the table. The sharp taps echoed in the silent room. His gaze grew sharper, as if trying to cut through Akira's calm facade to dig out the truth hidden within.
"Miss Kawashima, did you really think we brought you here today just to offer you tea?" Watanabe's tone dropped, openly accusatory now.
Akira remained unfazed. To him, Watanabe's aggression was just irrelevant noise. He nodded slightly and replied with indifference, "Detective Watanabe, feel free to speak plainly."
Watanabe no longer circled around. He pulled two photographs from a folder and slammed them onto the table. They were crime scene photos of Chizuru and Mai, their bodies twisted grotesquely and eyes frozen wide open in terror. The sheer horror in their eyes seemed to pierce through the still images, chilling to the bone even in photographic form.
Akira glanced at the photos with disinterest, as if they were just ordinary pictures. His voice remained level and devoid of concern: "And?"
Watanabe's face darkened further. He shoved the photos forward and spoke with growing intensity. "Miss Kawashima, both of these victims were your classmates. Both had conflicts with you. The killer's methods were excessively brutal—clearly a personal vendetta. Are you seriously suggesting this is all a coincidence?"
Akira tilted his head, voice laced with faux confusion. "Conflicts? What conflicts?"
Watanabe nearly laughed out of disbelief. He slammed his hands on the table and leaned in, voice rising. "Miss Kawashima, lying to the police isn't going to help you. We've investigated—you weren't exactly popular at school. Mai and Chizuru bullied you repeatedly. Yes, bullying is wrong, but that doesn't give you the right to slaughter them. But if your motive was self-defense, and you confess now, we might consider leniency."
Akira's lips slowly curled into a mocking smile, as if he had just heard a ridiculous joke. He sighed softly, lifted his head, and looked Watanabe directly in the eyes, voice filled with scorn: "So, the police do know what bullying is? Then why, when I came to the station for help before, did you all choose to turn a blind eye?"
Watanabe froze, caught off guard by the biting sarcasm. The tension in the room thickened, the fluorescent light now harsh and merciless. Akira's gaze remained steady. To him, this interrogation was just another hunt, and he was still the predator in control.
Yes, I had gone to the police once when I was at my lowest, hoping they might be my last refuge. But the coldness and impatience I met at the station crushed that hope. Akira had known I'd gone, though I hadn't told him the truth at the time. I still remember that afternoon—nervously entering the station, trembling with fear and helplessness. But the officers were all busy, indifferent to the arrival of a student. When I finally gathered the courage to speak to the front desk, all I got was a dismissive, "School dispute? Settle that with your teachers. We don't have time for trivial nonsense." The cold contempt in that reply froze me to the core. I tried to hold it together, but tears welled in my eyes. I left silently. The station door slammed shut behind me like a tombstone. I knew then—I'd been abandoned. The people who were supposed to protect me had turned their backs.
Watanabe quickly masked his embarrassment, straightening up and regaining his professional composure. "I'm sorry, Miss Kawashima. I didn't know you once came here for help. I also didn't expect such unprofessional conduct from our department. We'll look into that and give you an explanation." His tone softened slightly, but still carried the authority of an interrogation.
Akira said nothing, still wearing that sardonic smile. Watanabe, seeing he would get no response, continued, "But right now, we still need your cooperation in the investigation."
I glanced at the photos again. The bloody, brutal images stabbed at my eyes. Chizuru and Mai—once so cruel to me—now reduced to corpses. A strange sense of satisfaction bloomed in me.
Akira remained silent. Watanabe resumed tapping his knuckles, gaze deep and probing.
"Miss Kawashima," he said with a frown. "You have the right to remain silent, but let me remind you—if we discover you're hiding anything, it won't end well for you."
Akira lowered his head slightly, a faint, eerie smile playing on his lips. After a pause, he lifted his fingers and gently stroked the edge of the photo, like admiring an artwork.
"Detective Watanabe," he said softly, "did you find my fingerprints at the scene? Or do you have a witness who saw me kill Mai Nakamura? Is that why you're pursuing me so doggedly?"
Watanabe stared into Akira's abyss-like eyes and slowly shook his head. "No, we don't."
Akira's smile widened, a touch of mockery in his voice. "Then isn't it a bit reckless to interrogate me like this without evidence?"
Watanabe folded his hands under his chin, narrowing his eyes. "Then does Miss Kawashima have an alibi?"
Akira replied smoothly, "You've already checked the surveillance footage, haven't you? It shows I went straight home after school."
Watanabe nodded. "That's true. But how can you be sure you didn't deliberately avoid the cameras?"
Akira chuckled faintly, brushing off the accusation. "That's just your speculation, isn't it?"
His calmness was unnerving—no fear, no flinching, perfectly composed. He knew the law, he knew the cameras' blind spots, and last night, he had deliberately avoided them. To the world, it looked like he simply went home like a good student.
Watanabe's brow furrowed deeper. He had to admit—this girl was a formidable opponent. Her expression barely changed. He couldn't pin her down. And he had no solid evidence.
The air hung heavy between them in a tense silence. Watanabe watched Akira, hoping for some crack, some flicker of guilt.
"Miss Kawashima, you're clever," Watanabe finally said, voice tinged with reluctant admiration. "But clever people often attract unnecessary trouble."
Akira raised an eyebrow and smiled faintly. "That may be true. But truly clever people also know how to avoid that trouble."
Watanabe gave a helpless shake of the head, stood, gave Akira one last look, then turned and left the room. The door clicked shut behind him, and the room fell silent once again.
Akira looked down at the photos, the smile fading from his lips, replaced by cold detachment. He reached out and ran his fingers across the blood-stained images like touching a precious piece of art.
"Sister, do you see this?" he murmured. "These so-called righteous police... what fools they are."
After returning home, Akira flipped open the notebook and casually crossed out the name "Mai Nakamura," marking her life as completely erased from this world. The pen tip hovered briefly before his gaze landed on the next name: "Makoto Watanabe." He pressed the pen to his chin, furrowed his brow in thought, and after a brief pause, decisively circled the three characters.
"That detective's pretty sharp. Maybe he deserves to live a little longer. No need to get rid of him just yet."
Akira murmured to himself, a trace of faint amusement in his voice. A deep, complex emotion flickered in his eyes—a cold and contradictory glint, as though he were weaving a meticulous web, and Watanabe was merely a thread in it, one that couldn't yet be cut.
Since the school authorities learned of Mai's death, they hadn't taken any substantial action to address the incident. On the contrary, they tried to hush things up with money, fearing the scandal would tarnish the school's reputation. Regarding Mai's death, the school remained completely silent—as if she had simply disappeared, not died in such a brutal and tragic manner.
Mai. There seemed to be little about her actions that deserved sympathy. And yet, she had grown up in a poor household, unloved by her parents, raised in a cold and indifferent environment. Perhaps it was because of this emotional void that she clung to Misaki Suzuki—the wealthy, high-handed girl who ruled the school—and eventually became her accomplice.
In that fake friendship, Mai had found a sense of belonging. She thought she had finally escaped her feelings of helplessness and loneliness. But it was all just self-deception. Even fate's final ounce of pity vanished after her death. When the school paid her parents a large compensation, their faces twisted into warped smiles. They eagerly cooperated with the school to cover up the truth, claiming that Mai had merely transferred to another school. They didn't seem to care at all about how their daughter had died.
They even went so far as to visit the police station and attempt to persuade the officers to drop the investigation—only to be righteously refused by Detective Watanabe.
It was a colossal lie, like a thin veil trying to cover up the bloody truth. But in Akira's eyes, it was the ugliest kind of reality.
Mai had been nothing more than a commodity to them, and her death, merely a profitable transaction.
She really was a pitiful person, I sighed softly and shook my head.
Akira looked down at the row of names in his notebook. His heart held no guilt, no pity. While staring at the paper, he began to write rapidly. His fingers gripped the pen tightly, but the strokes were uneven—at times hurried, at times hesitant. Each name was reviewed with a cold, calculated deliberation, and the writing was repeatedly crossed out and rewritten. Black ink scratched across the paper, leaving behind a chaotic mess.
His brow remained tightly furrowed, as if weighing every person's fate with ruthless precision.
He kept writing in silence, over and over, again and again. Each stroke and correction felt like a move in a twisted game.
Finally, his pen stopped.
Akira let out a long breath, as if he had reached some kind of final balance. His lips curled slowly into a cold, cruel smile—as if declaring the verdict on each of those names.
He gently closed the notebook and ran his palm across the cover like caressing a treasured possession. His eyes remained fixed on the night outside. In those eyes, there was no trace of light—only endless darkness and apathy.
"Sister," he whispered, "every one of these fools will pay for what they've done."