There are no screams. No signs of struggle. No blood splatters trailing on the floor. No body mutilation. No torn-out eyes. No skin stitched into wings. Just silence.
The boy's body is still warm.
Carol adjusts the gloves on her hands as she stands at the edge of the bedroom..no, not a bedroom. This is a shrine. A paper sanctuary. White cranes hang from strings taped to the ceiling, hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Each corner of the room is filled with folded wings, paper feathers gently rustling under the ceiling fan. The air smells of printer ink and candle wax.
No sign of violence. Except the stillness.
"Jesus," she mutters.
Tim stands behind her, staring at the scene. "He shot himself."
"Yeah."
Daniel steps in last.
And I fucking freeze.
There's a kid. Just a fucking kid, maybe sixteen. Barely old enough to grow a shitty mustache. He's lying in bed like he's sleeping, neat and clean, hands crossed over his stomach. There's a paper crane resting on his chest. White. Untainted.
It's not mine.
That crane… it's too perfect. Too careful. Too soft.
I didn't fold that one.
I didn't do this.
Carol picks up a spiral-bound notebook from the desk. There's a black pen resting inside the open pages, like someone left it there mid-thought.
"Journal," she says. She reads.
Tim leans forward.
I stay by the wall. I don't like this. Something's wrong.
Carol's voice breaks the silence:
"Each time I fold a crane, I feel alive.
I never wanted to hurt anyone.
But now everyone looks at me like I already did.
They say I'm sick. They say I'm next.
Maybe if I die… I'll finally be the monster they want me to be."
She flips to the final page. Her voice drops.
"Will they remember me now?
Will they forget the real Crane?"
Tim exhales. "So he wasn't a Collector."
"No," Carol says. "Just a broken kid who liked folding paper."
I say nothing.
But inside, I want to fucking scream.
This wasn't the plan. This isn't my message. The ones I killed… they earned it. They were scum. Cruel. Rotting. But this?
This isn't justice.
This is what happens when people start looking for monsters in shadows.
Even if the shadows are empty.
Carol gently closes the journal and sets it down. "He filmed it," she whispers.
Tim finds the phone near the pillow. It's still recording. Almost four hours of footage. The first three are nothing but silence, cranes rustling, breath shallow. Then comes the last three minutes.
I don't need to see the video. I can already imagine it.
The kid, sitting on the edge of the bed. Pale. Shaking. But smiling. A sad kind of smile.
"They call me the Crane Wannabe now. Even when I try to show I'm not. Even when I cry.
I just like folding paper. That's all. But now it's ruined.
I heard someone say The Paper Crane would never do this.
But you know what? I don't think he cares. I don't think anyone cares."
Then he reaches under the pillow.
And the video ends with a bang.
⸻
At the station, media is exploding. Social networks are eating this shit alive. #CraneWannabe. Every school in the city is doubling security. Every paper crane is now a threat. Every quiet kid is a suspect.
Even ones that just want to live.
⸻
That night, I sit alone.
There's a crane in my hand.
It's bloodless. Flawless. Pure white.
I fold it anyway.
I place it on the windowsill and whisper.
"Sorry, kid."
Then I crush the fucking thing in my hand.
Because the world doesn't need more paper.
It needs fewer monsters.
Even if that means me.