A lot of people say you have to be a little twisted to do what I enjoy doing. Yes, indeed, flirting with those overconfident sponge-brains who believe nothing will happen out of a little guilty pleasure. Just a day. A single day in which they are able to give into their basest desires. You'd think, "Isn't she cute, that underage girl?" Are they excitable? Surely. Blinded by the hot anticipation of what must coming once we turn a little ways here, a little ways there—it lies just a little further ahead! Can't you feel it in your pants, sir? What you lust after, sir? Even I'm not a nun, and, I, the seductress-delinquent of Fuuka Academy, believe that lust is an awful, awful sin.
And that those men must be punished. Punished. Tortured. Punished. What's going through your heads—can't you see through that filmy, filmy instinct—is something that should have never should have been there in the first place. What was it even implanted by? Perverts? Molesters? And to imagine, if it wasn't me, selling all your delusional fantasies of me from me, you would have actually done something. It was your fault in the first place that they ever did those kinds of things with you. All because of money. Filthy things. Men. Objects. If you throw money at me, I will return it with wiring and webbing and verbal threats. And maybe someday you'll see you're fueling that whole terrible economy. All those poor women, forced to sell their bodies to bastards like you, relying on you to live, expecting for themselves to die like that—pathetic, slavish, endlessly tortured by their own worthlessness, their own self-denial, all because of the money you throw at them. All because of you.
You people—you men—you all deserve to die. But because it's too obvious, it's too hard to be a serial killer, all I can do is steal your money, so you don't have any to throw at those women and fulfill those ugly, ugly desires. Because it's so difficult to rid of them otherwise, because you have so many excuses to be doing this, don't you? Don't you. You don't, do you? John. And children. Children are the worst. You know, I never thought it would work at first. A child prostitute! Hah! I should be arrested for doing this. And yet it works, because you agree, because you think you have something. You're so smug, so sickening—I'd rather have my claws dig into your flesh, but I can't. I'm celibate, see? I'm chaste for your sake. I don't pleasure myself; so don't you pleasure yours. I'm an example. A shining example of the right thing to do, sir.
You think I'm twisted? You really do? Well, think again. And then think again. Because I am. So very much so. But that's all right since I never liked any of you anyway. So why should you care that I'm so twisted? So what if nothing I say makes sense? You never cared. None of you. And you wouldn't, because all you care about is yourself and your damn arousal. You just want to get off, don't you? You're a lost cause, a walking dick, drunken with your own desire. No eyes, no ears, no mouth, just a dirty, dirty dick. And you know what else? I expected you to be like that. Of course I expected you to be like that; who else would follow a teenage girl into an alleyway just to have sex with her? I bet you were expecting a blowjob or something. Or was it anal sex you wanted? What did you want? What did you want? Because you're getting a face full of webbing and an empty wallet. You should be satisfied. You should be glad you're not dead. You should be happy you're finally receiving the treatment you deserve; you should be glad I'm just a petty thief, a pickpocket, that I am putting no more dent in your deep, deep pockets than any street urchin could. It's revenge, but it's hardly revenge.
You should all be dead, and yet I'm holding myself back.
Tell me, why?
A/N: I generally don't write this kind of stuff. But I was telling my brother about Nao and he was like, "That's some messed-up...thing you're reading-slash-playing...slash-watching." Thus, fairly messed-up Nao. I hope you enjoyed this ficlet; it is completely unedited, so apologies for any typos or anything.