The first body was found in a school bathroom.
It was a sixteen-year-old boy. His throat was slit with something sharp box cutter maybe and the walls were painted with blood, streaked in angry words like "LIAR," "FRAUD," and "FAKE FRIEND." What was left of his body was slumped against the wall, head tilted at a sickening angle. On the sink, balanced perfectly between blood splatters, was a small paper crane.
So neat. So clean.
Too clean.
⸻
"He said he was gonna ruin me. So I stopped him first."
That's what the other kid, the one who survived, said to the cops. His hands were still shaking. Blood dried on his collar. His eyes didn't blink much.
"They all laughed behind my back. I heard them. I was done being the joke."
When asked about the crane?
"It's… art, right? Just a signature."
Then he smiled, just a little.
"The Paper Crane. I like his vibe."
⸻
I stood behind the yellow tape with Tim and Carol, sipping shitty gas station coffee while they zipped the kid into a black bag.
"Another one," Tim muttered.
"Third this week," Carol added.
I didn't say shit. Just stared at the crane.
Blood-soaked, but still standing.
So… that's how it begins, huh?
⸻
The next one was worse.
A woman in her late thirties. Office worker. High-pressure job. Sleazy boss.
She waited until after dark.
Tied him up in his office chair. Sliced him open with a letter opener. Peeled his skin like an orange. Neat. Meticulous. Like she was slicing data in an Excel sheet. She folded a crane from a square of his thigh.
The fuckin' irony.
"He kept touching my waist," she said in her confession, blood on her shirt, voice calm as a nun.
"Now he's part of something beautiful. Don't you think?"
She was smiling. They always smile.
⸻
"You think she read about him online?" Carol asked as we stepped over the blood trail.
"The Paper Crane's getting famous." Tim said.
I stared at the bloody crane sitting on the edge of the desk.
It was better than my folds. Tighter wings. Sharper corners. It pissed me off.
I didn't start this shit for fanboys and Pinterest psychopaths. I did this 'cause I fucking had to. 'Cause the world chews you up and spits you out and I was done tasting dirt.
But now they're copying me. Like it's a fucking trend.
I should feel flattered. Instead, I feel like vomiting.
⸻
They kept coming.
A teenage girl poisoned her ex's whole friend group at a sleepover. Said they called her fat on Discord. Left a paper crane in every bowl of popcorn.
A bus driver rammed his vehicle into a wall, screaming "No one ever fucking says thank you!" as he folded a red-inked crane before impact.
A janitor gunned down four students in the hallway and left a crane on each locker.
"They spit at me. Every day. Now I spit back."
28 dead in two weeks. All with paper cranes.
⸻
They call themselves "The Collectors."
Cute name.
They think they're purging the world. Balancing scales. Some even make blogs about it. Some wear masks.
One posted a video online. Crane in one hand, knife in the other.
"To the original," he said, and stabbed a random jogger in the gut.
"This is for you, Paper Crane."
What the actual fuck.
⸻
"You think it's a cult?" Tim asked, eyes flicking through reports.
"It's turning into one" Carol answered grimly.
I didn't say anything. Just folded a fresh crane with a napkin and stared at it.
I didn't ask for followers. I'm not your prophet. I'm not your inspiration. I kill because it's who I am. Not because it's trendy.
You motherfuckers are tainting my art.
⸻
I'm going to find you. Every one of you.
You wanna worship the Crane?
Then let me show you what happens when the Crane strikes back.