And here's the last chapter for part 1! Part 2 will take a little while longer, and I haven't decided if I want to upload it as continuous chapters of this story, or to upload it as a separate story. We'll see. For now, this story will be marked as complete.

Many thanks for Kokodoru for the amazing beta-reading! :D

Enjoy!

Luka had never been more uncomfortable in her entire life and could not imagine any other situation as bad as the one she was in. Fool that she was, she accepted the invitation, only because once again, there was a promise for thousands of scarab. Where did all this money come from? She was optimistic, at first; she was told to go to a bakery. Unfortunately, that bakery had a basement, where she was blindfolded, led outside, put in a car, and driven somewhere else. The next thing she saw was mostly darkness. That didn't bother her; she was used to the dark by then. It was the desk, the television, the man standing so close behind her she felt his arm brush her back as he breathed, and the man sitting across from her, that made her uncomfortable.

"You are exceptionally good," started the man in front of her. She couldn't make out his face: the television behind him showed a bright white screen, making it impossible to see anything about him other than his silhouette.

The television suddenly flickered and proceeded to show security footage of a street she knew. It paused, and a circle appeared around an individual. She recognized him: it was who she had followed.

"You stuck to him like glue. You found his destination flawlessly. Yet, I can't find you in the film." A pause. Then, he slowly inhaled, and in a single puff of air, gave a command:

"Explain."

A map of the area was nudged towards her, the fingers pushing it encased in gold rings. She chuckled nervously, wanting to resort to bad humor to get out of her anxiety. But the bull of a man stoically looming over her made her hesitate. Instead, she leaned over the map and pointed.

"Well… That street ends at a park. Before that, and for quite a while, there's only a single street branching to the left. It's a long, narrow street. Here, I took a shortcut through the stores on the right-hand side. If he had gone to the park, I would have gotten there first. If he hadn't, he could have only gone down the long street, which was the case. It wasn't difficult to backtrack fifty meters and see which house he entered from a distance."

"How did you find those shortcuts?"

"I followed someone else through them a few months ago."

An uneasy silence filled the room. The map was pulled back, folded, and put away.

"You are talented."

"Thank you."

The man then opened a drawer. Luka feared a gun, drugs, or anything dangerous. Instead, there was an envelope.

"You will take this envelope home. You will see how much is in there. We will write to your address, and you will reply to the address written in the letter. We will send you missions, and you will return answers. For your replies, you will use only the paper and envelope included in the letter we send you. For every answer, you will get the amount in this envelope. You are to keep the money in cash form. You will hide it."

Luka peered at the envelope uneasily.

"What's the job?"

He took his hand off of the envelope. The screen flickered, showing a series of pictures. A few of a man, a few of a woman, and only two of a young girl, probably ten, both of which were taken through windows of a plane.

"This is the Hatsune family. He is rich. She is rich. And they are an obstacle. They moved here. We want them out."

Luka nodded slowly.

"The little one, she is seventeen now. Her parents? They love her very much."

Luka swallowed heavily.

"How good are you at hiding in enclosed spaces?"

"I... I once did a job for this guy who wanted me to haunt this old house. He couldn't find me."

"Very good."

"Except!" she trailed off for half a second, only to regain her resolve, despite the beast behind her. "I could go to the house in advance back then. I learned the layout before he got there. I- ...if you want me to hide in their house-"

"You will hide in their house. And you will chase them out."

Luka felt her breath catch. "I don't do those kinds of jobs! This isn't what I signed up for!"

The man merely chuckled. Luka sat nervously on the edge of her seat, ready to run for it. She couldn't see his eyes, she couldn't see his face. She couldn't see his thoughts.

He pushed the envelope towards her. She refused to take it.

"You did not sign up for this, but you will. You don't do those kinds of jobs, but you are fully capable." Again, he breathed in, audibly, and spoke his next sentence in a single breath, very slowly, so Luka wouldn't miss a single syllable.

"You are the best at this."

"Why not hire some lunatic?! I'm sure the deep web has plenty of freaks who are willing to do this for...less than whatever is in there," she spat, nodding towards the envelope.

The man shook his head.

"Those people online are sloppy. They are far away. They are crazy. They are fickle. You are here. You are sane. You are normal. You are the best. And you like money very much."

"Sure, I like money. But, I also like respecting people's private lives. Telling you guys where the father lived was a mistake."

"Now," the man sighed. "Do you know what you love the most?"

What Luka loves the most? Tuna, surely, she thought. Doing things legally, for sure.

The screen flickered. She saw the faces of her parents, of her friends. The pictures were taken while they were in parks, driving in cars, from outside while they were cooking.

"You love these people. Don't you."

Everything went into a downward spiral after Luka's birthday. Nothing helped in any way. Miku was stubborn, Luka couldn't think of any new tricks, and the letters kept coming. Somehow, Luka knew that there was an invisible clock ticking. Tick-tock tick-tock and nothing ever stopped. She was so close to giving up. Every day she thought she might snap but no, she somehow managed to keep going...and Miku did, too.

Luka pushed through her feelings just to get it over with. She ignored her tears and her pain just to scare her already. It would be better for the both of them in the long run if she finally succeeded, right? Of course, Luka didn't let herself grow numb: she sat with the tealette, hurting every time she could; she would lean against the closest wall to the kitchen and cry with Miku as she ate breakfast; she would cry in the basement as she heard Miku sob all the way from the fourth floor; she tried to let the girl know that she wasn't alone, even though she probably had never felt more alone in her entire life.

But nothing worked. Luka had played all of her cards, even writing on the walls at a given point, but Miku wouldn't give in. The year anniversary rolled by as winter melted to spring. Luka had forgotten how hot the hollow got on sunny days, and had traded her local wardrobe to much lighter clothes. The extra preoccupations didn't help. Nothing helped.

Another thing had changed. A few days into February, Miku's father started working even longer hours. You're an adult now, Miku. You can manage a few days on your own. As the months went by, he only returned for weekends and maybe, if the girl was lucky, on Wednesdays. Would his rare presence encourage her to confide in him while he was there? No, Miku wouldn't talk. Not even when he would leave for weeks at a time, leaving her to cry, all alone, as Luka knocked on the walls and toppled furniture. She never, ever talked about her ghost, even as her sleeping pattern changed, going to sleep later and later and getting up later still.

One day, a terrifying and somehow welcome realization plummeted Luka back into a machine-like efficiency: she had realized that she was getting sloppy when she found strands of her hair in the carpets. She hadn't been tying her hair, and from that, she speculated that she'd failed to cover her own tracks. The thought terrified her so much that her heart hurt her, biting against her ribs. She forgot everything she was supposed to do just to make sure that she was again invisible. She inspected everything, she made sure that everything was perfect, from her hair, to the clothes she wore, her footprints, fingerprints, even the tools she used. She didn't leave a trace behind. Surfaces were wiped down, splinters pulled from her shirts, dust removed from her knees. The very last traces of her existence were removed by Miku's own hand, after a weekend of vacuum cleaning. The moment her revision was over, however, the moment that she was sure that she was totally invisible once more, the blessing of the rigid mentality left her, and the guilt returned with a vengeance. Look how much you try to make sure you can hurt as much as possible. Look at how good you are at this. With her heart exposed, she managed to melt again, feeling her patience run out, her morals deteriorate, her sanity run dry.

But she couldn't stop. Not with what was at stake.

And so, it went on for another few weeks. Spring gave way to summer.

A few days before Miku's nineteenth birthday, Miku had asked where the little cabinet door by the stairs led to. Luka had completely frozen at that point. She'd forgotten that the poor girl knew about the little door under the stairs. Luckily for her, the tealette had only received a shrug in response, for Luka had heard no word except for Miku's dejected little 'oh'.

The intruder became paranoid, though. Miku hadn't forgotten the little door even after all of that time. Was she starting to catch on? Did she understand that she wasn't crazy and was looking for clues to find her stalker? Would she soon start to put up video surveillance, or she'd start picking up hair from the floor to inspect their color?

Luka removed everything she'd moved into the hollow over the months: a few pillows, a sleeping bag, spare clothes. In one night, the entire place was as empty as the day she'd found it, minus dust. From then on, she hid in different places all the time, avoiding patterns. If Miku knew of the cabinet door, then her sanctuary was lost.

The very next day, Miku did pry open the cabinet. She used the same knife Luka had used to open it on day one. Or was it day two…?

Luka couldn't see this happening; she was one floor higher, hiding under the couch with the very long tussles. But she heard Miku as she 'ooh'-ed and 'aah'-ed at the empty space. It echoed through the walls, and she could be heard on the two floors the hollow covered.

How would she have reacted if she'd found her there? Her pillows, her clothes? Luka knew that she'd dodged a bullet and knew that she had just lost her only refuge.

She consequently abandoned the nightly sitting together ritual and went home every night. By then, she knew which roads were covered by traffic cameras and how to avoid them. There would be no record — at all — of her coming and going between homes on a regular basis. She also knew to vary her trajectory, so that no witnesses could notice her regularity.

This left Luka alone at home. She found some happiness in being able to return to her own place on a regular basis. Having her own bed instead of a sleeping bag was a definite plus. But she couldn't make progress with Miku, and she couldn't keep an eye on her sleep.

Somehow, that was something she sorely missed. She found absolutely no joy in watching her tense sleep but found a responsibility in seeing the consequences of her actions. She owed it to her victim. She owed her the self-punishment.

Then Miku's birthday did come. Just like the previous year, both mother and father were there and made it a job of staying with their little girl all day long. And Luka stayed as well, but it wasn't to see if she would finally talk, because somehow she knew, by then, that she would never talk. Miku wouldn't ever tell them of her ghost. She wouldn't ever break. So she stayed — if only to see the girl smile. Maybe, if she was lucky, she'd actually hear her laugh. Did Miku ever laugh?

Luka ignored the mission directives, simply enjoying seeing her happy for once. She left her alone, letting her open her presents (one of which a new dock for an mp3 player, the one she'd broken in her vain search for the intruder), letting her go outside and letting her have fun. She let her smile. Meanwhile, Luka hid under the very furniture the family sat on. Maybe she'd get caught. After all, one of them would have to lose at one point or another. And if Miku managed to stay tight-lipped for a year...then maybe it was about time Luka lost.

But she couldn't lose. Luka reprimanded herself when the day was done, reminded herself of the stakes. She had to stay on the winning side.

She'd never win, though, that much she knew. And so, the game was doomed to continue forever.

One week after Miku's birthday, Luka allowed herself to sit by her again before going home.

Somehow, she'd worsened.

Miku didn't sleep with a blanket anymore. She didn't sleep with a hug-pillow anymore. She didn't use a pillow at all. She slept, curled in a ball, head pressed against the wall, hugging herself.

Maybe she'd tried to sleep like a normal human being, but pillow and blanket were thrown to the floor in her slumber.

Luka never should have missed the transition. She reprimanded herself — again — through her tears. How dare she lose track of how much of a monster she was. How dare she.

How dare she.

As she crept down the stairs, the inside of her mouth chewed to shambles, Luka had half the mind to think of her old favorite hiding place. She found that a small doorknob had been fastened to the outside of the cabinet, and felt her heart sink.

The inside had been polished up. Everything was cleaner than Luka had ever managed; after all, she couldn't dare bring a vacuum cleaner in there. Not even a broom, for she feared that the manifestation of all of the dust would spark confusion. But Miku had cleaned everything. When? She didn't know.

Inside, way at the northern end of the western wall, she found a little lamp and a journal. The lamp was powered by a battery, and the journal had a pen clipped to the spine.

She didn't dare open it. She couldn't open it. Luka fled the scene, knowing fully well that what used to be her tool of terror had become Miku's new refuge. What used to hide Luka now shielded the girl from her.

As she walked home, Luka wondered when Miku ever used that space. She knew where the girl went during the day and knew that she never went in there. Had it become her knew nightly habit? It had to be.

Of course, what she actually wrote in the journal was another question. But the job didn't call for reading her most private thoughts.

Luka stopped.

Unless her thoughts revealed what she needed to do to scare her. Maybe it would let her know exactly how close she was to letting them both free. Maybe it held all of the secrets she needed to know.

For a few days, Luka hesitated. Should she read the journal? Should she simply continue with her numerous shots in the dark, grasping for victory in vain? One sleepless night among countless others, Luka decided that she would read the book. She would go to the home early and read the journal while Miku went on with her day. She might find the very information she needed. If the journal contained nothing of use, then she would take the stolen knowledge to her grave.

But the next morning she changed her mind completely. A diary! She wanted to read someone's personal diary! How dare she?! Was she truly going to stoop so, so low? She was disgusted by herself, a true disgust that stole her appetite and crippled her with knots in her gut, the only thing filling her mouth every minute being her own blood — cheeks and lips bitten raw. If young, innocent, nineteen-year-old Luka could see her at that moment, what would she think of her? And what taste would rest on her tongue when she would be old, crippled maybe, and could do nothing else but remember these months again, and again? The entirety of the situation caught up to her and she wanted out, out, she wanted to go away and never return. But the stakes suffocated her, keeping her there like a tight leash. There was too much to lose.

It was with an angry movement that she tore open the newest envelope. She had all of the time in the world: Miku woke up around noon every single day, knowing that dear daddy wouldn't be home anyways, that she only had another nightmare to wake up to. But the envelope enraged her. They'd become so rare lately, how dare it come back just right that day? That day when she was so angry at herself, at everything? It was with rage that she eyed the contents, just barely managing to stop herself from ripping it to pieces before reading it.

But then she wished that she'd never woken up that morning. A minute passed. Two minutes. She should have been killed in her sleep by some random chance, some rare disease, by a random serial killer. She ran to her bathroom and allowed herself to be violently ill.

Time was up, but not because she had finally given up.

She hadn't been good enough.

Time was up.

Two sentence were written in the letter.

And Luka wanted to die.

She stayed in her bathroom all day long. She didn't eat. That night, she didn't sleep. The next day, she wrote a reply. She drank some water only to spit that back out with the same violence and pain.

Then, when the sun set, she headed for the Hatsune residence. He wasn't going to return for another five days.

She didn't have five days.

The entire walk, Luka was as numb as she could be. The nail of her thumb kept pushing under her other nails through the glove with a flick — until it hurt. She chewed the inside of her cheek regardless of the blood. Like copper, iron. Metallic. Heavy. It settled into her stomach, and she wouldn't let it leave that time.

She walked aimlessly for hours. When three o'clock passed, Luka finally decided to stop stalling. Oh, what would she have said, if she had been able to know what she would do that day. How would she remember that day in the years to come.

She wondered.

The inside of her mouth was raw. She felt skin hang from the walls of her mouth by strands. Maybe her fingers were bleeding. Her back hurt; she wasn't walking straight. Her head hung; she couldn't look ahead.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

Luka could just as well have fallen apart. The grate wasn't placed back where it was supposed to be. She didn't bother kicking the dirt from her shoes, so it spread all over the basement floor. She knew that her footprints where there. She didn't care. She couldn't care. She could only be painfully and entirely aware of everything around her. The moon shone blue that night, basking everything around her in pale grayish light. The basement still smelled musty, and tasted like plastic on her bloody tongue.

She heard only her own breathing. It was ragged. It was tired. She was panting despite walking at a slow pace. It was her thoughts. It was her twitching and her breathing and her looking around all of the time that made her so tired already. So, so tired.

Her fingers twitched. Her gloves felt stiff. Dried blood? Her tears? She ached all over.

She climbed the stairs. The temperature went up with her. The taste changed to match the smell; clean, somewhat soapy. Some vanilla.

Nothing moved.

She heard only her own breath.

She eyed the ground floor. The first floor of a home she had grown so, too, accustomed to. Everything was in its place.

The cabinet door. The journal. Read it? No, pointless now. Too late, now.

Tick-tock tick-tock.

She climbed the next set of stairs. Nobody was home. For the first time, she allowed her weight to sink into the wooden planks under the carpeting. She allowed it all to creak. Let it all creak and crumble around her and under her. No point in hiding anymore.

The second floor. Living room, desk. The desk that was too big. The damned desk. That floor was brighter, somehow. It hurt Luka's eyes. Everything hurt.

Chewing on her cheek. More skin hanging in her mouth. She tried to catch the strands with her teeth. Blood.

She didn't like blood. She tasted it all the time, she realized. It was always there. She didn't like blood.

She found the linen closet in the living room. It was too full to hide in. She'd almost forgotten where it was, before. But right then she knew. She took a pillow. It was big and fluffy. Comfortable.

She hurt all over. But her gloves didn't stain the pillows red. Maybe she wasn't bleeding. The pain only increased at the thought.

Another flight of stairs. Tick. Creak. Tock.

The office and the parent's bedroom. Empty. Organized. Smelled of ink and old paper. The books were old. They got to grow old. How old? Older.

The pillow knocked something over. Maybe a trashcan. It fell with a thud against the rug. New rug. Christmas? She had forgotten. Or maybe never noticed. It muted her footsteps. She sunk into it. It silenced her. She noticed it now. Barely.

The clock showed half-past three.

The next stairs creaked more. Much more. She let her weight sink in. The blood in her mouth tasted more bitter than before. As yes, she'd just bitten into her cheek again. Skin hanging. Couldn't catch it with her teeth. She wanted to pull it out with her fingers. Later.

Miku's bedroom. Large. Empty. So much money everywhere. Stereo, computer, mp3 players. All brands. All colors. So much boredom. So much wealth. So much sadness.

She sank her fingers into the pillow. Miku's blanket was on the floor. Her pillow was on the floor. It was flimsy. From misuse.

Tick-tock.

All Luka saw was the room, basked in blue. All she smelled was the everlasting new carpet and vanilla.

Vanilla cake.

Blood.

Miku tossed and turned. Tick-tock.

Luka only felt the fabric of the pillowcase strain in her grip. It groaned the silent groan tissues make when stretched just not far enough to rip. A groan that was felt more than heard. It made her fingers tremble a little more than they already did.

Tick-tock.

Luka only tasted the blood in her mouth.

One step forward. Another second.

Luka only heard Miku's soft breathing. In. Out.

Out.

Stop. Gotta stop it.

She approached the bed slowly.

Stop it all. Need to win. Win. End it, stop it.

The pillow felt heavy.

The stakes, Luka. The stakes.

Stop it. Stop it stop it stop it the breathing.

Blood in her mouth.

Miku tossed again. She was no longer pressed against the wall. On her back, hugging herself. Legs no longer curled against her.

Now! NOW!

Luka wanted to lunge forward. Her mind was racing but her movements were glacial. End it. Stop it. Slow down, be quiet. Quieter, silent, now, now, now...!

One knee on the bed. The mattress sank. Pillow in two hands. The fabric was stressed beyond repair. The second knee. The mattress sank. Miku was under her. Breathing. In out. Tense. Everybody, tense.

Luka let her weight sink in.

Miku didn't notice. She hadn't ever noticed her, had she.

Too late, too late, too late.

Tick-tock.

Too close, Luka thought. Too close. Closer. Closer. Closer.

The pillow came down with a slam.

You need to kill her, Luka. You failed, Luka. You're too slow.

You

Failed.

She felt Miku move under her. She felt her knees hit her. She felt the exact moment Miku realized that she was going to die. That flinch. That muffled scream.

Luka only let her weight sink in.

Hands pulled at her wrists. Luka felt them catch on her gloves, scratch her skin. She felt how Miku realized that it was real and not a nightmare and that she needed to do her very best. She felt her writhe and try so so hard to get her off.

Luka let herself sink in deeper.

Nails in her wrists. Not enough. Time was passing. Five seconds. Heels against her back. Miku was trying everything. She was trying trying trying so hard to push her off but Luka was stronger, heavier. She let herself push the air out of Miku's face and lungs. Push harder. Harder.

Not enough, Miku. You'll need to try harder, flail more. You'll need to writhe and suffer and suffocate.

Luka didn't flinch when she got slapped and punched in the face. Miku went on the offensive. Again, again. Burning pain. Cuts in her wrists. Hanging skin. Blood in her mouth.

She let herself sink in deeper still. She felt Miku's face through the pillow. She felt her shake and try again and again and again.

Miku turned her head, and got in a single stray breath. Luka seized her face through the pillow, held her in place. The hands were back at her wrists, the legs were kicking her again. Keep trying. Always trying. Push harder. Try harder. Kick to the spine. Dull pain. Everywhere. It hurt.

Time kept going by. Tick-tock, Miku. How long can you last? A full year? This is what a year of silence gave you, Miku. Would it have killed you to say something? Would it?!

And suddenly, all of the volume in Luka's mind went dead. Silence filled her and the room around her. Luka breathed deep, ragged breaths, her hands still in the pillow, back arched as she pushed with all of her strength.

She relaxed somewhat, blinking away some sort of mental fog. She noticed the hand that had gripped her shoulder like a vice. The fingers were wrapped around the cloth of her shirt, tightening the collar around her throat. The other hand was on her arm, the grip weakening.

Then both fell to the mattress.

Luka jumped back, releasing the pillow. She relaxed despite herself, and looked at the limp body before her.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Luka blinked again. She stared at the girl, the face hidden under the pillow, the arms haphazardly strewn across the bed.

Luka realized that she burned with a thousand bruises and a thousand cuts. Miku had kicked and clawed and stretched and pushed.

And now she was dead.

Luka stood from the bed, shaking so much, too much. She fell, still trying to catch her breath. A breath Miku couldn't get. She ached all over, small pains Miku wouldn't ever have to feel again.

She turned around, and saw a sight that should have killed. Miku's eyes, still open, empty, staring at her from under the pillow.

The eye contact was brief. Fatal. Luka could only turn and half stumble, half sprint to the bathroom, the toilet, to throw it all out. Her entire body screamed, her muscles clenched to just empty the contents of her stomach, of herself, into the toilet bowl. She gripped the porcelain, her skin screaming, her nerves on fire, her hands bloodied.

The water turned red. There was nothing left to give, yet still her body contracted, her muscles squeezing her stomach, her abs constricting her, she was constricting herself, just to give more. She felt like she wanted to heave out her heart, or a lung. She gagged and groaned but nothing came, just the tears from her eyes, the saliva from her tongue and the blood from her lips.

When the muscles in her abdomen stopped trying to squeeze the life from her, all she could do was cry. All she could do was hug the porcelain and sob, face to face with the disgusting reddish fluid she'd forced out of herself. Tears broke the image of her face. Her reflection, truly, she figured.

Now what? Go home? Resume a normal life? Get a job? Buy a nice house? Slowly but surely spend those millions that had gathered under her couch? Pretend that all that had never happened...?

She'd have to avoid all of the news reports. She'd have to act surprised. She'd have to sit in conversations and pretend to learn something. Pretend that she wasn't the one who did it. She could hear it already.

Who would murder a nineteen-year-old girl in her sleep? What a monster.

Monster. Murderer. Stalker.

The parents, oh… Daddy would find his little girl when he returns in five days. He would call Mommy, then the police. She would race in from whatever continent she was in. What do you mean our daughter is dead? It's not true, sweetheart, is it? She's not really dead, right? Is this some ploy to get me to stay home more? You're not funny, honey. Stop it. Stop lying to me. Stop.

And then the two parents would be forced to look at their dead little girl. The girl who lived without a life, imprisoned in a home. Maybe they would realize, then, that it had been 19 wasted years. The rage would fill them. Find whoever stopped her from being able to continue her life, make it her own. Whoever had made them realize that they had screwed up. They wouldn't ever give up, not even when all the traces go cold. Maybe there would be books written about it, encouraged by the fire of their rage and the never healing burn of their sorrow.

Or maybe she would get caught. A witness here, a fingerprint there, a hair over there, and she would open the door to a couple of police officers. They would question her, search her apartment, find the money. The news headlines would cover the country, the world. Her family would refuse. Her friends would deny. The Hatsune parents, wounded beyond the imaginable, would hate her guts, her face. What would she do, then?

Admit it, she thought without a second's hesitation. Look everyone in the eye and say 'I did it'. Then she would hang herself in her cell, or jump from a building because the death penalty wasn't a thing where she lived, but it was all she deserved. No matter what, she would end up walking out of that courtroom disappointed in the punishment set for her, determined that it wouldn't be enough. She might run out of the building, inviting a couple of gunshots to her back. She'd bleed out, or be saved in a hospital. She'd try again. Again.

Maybe, if there's an afterlife, she would find Miku and apologize. Explain. Say that she would like to be friends with her, or sure, spend the rest of eternity avoiding each other, that's ok, too. Whatever you want, Miku.

If things had been different, if Miku had given in and the family had gone, Miku might have returned to this city, years later. See what she had missed. Luka, by then, could be married, with kids. The entire ordeal but a bad memory. She would recognize the girl of teal, with her hair, her eyes. Hello, how are you? What's your name? Are you new around here? Let me give you a tour. Meet my husband, my children. I'll be here should you need anything. Whatever you want, Miku.

Whatever you want.

But it was too late for all of that. Too late. Luka stared at her reflection, sitting on the cold tile in the dark. The tears wouldn't stop.

If she thought that the guilt and regret had been bad before, then they were murderous right then. She could barely breathe. It paralyzed her. All she wanted right then and there was to rewind, rewrite everything. Never post that thing online, never start. She would have never met Miku, and that would have been fine.

Murder...murderer. She was a murderer. She had killed Miku. Somehow the thought stopped making sense. Of all the things she could have done, she could do, killing Miku was the very last thing she felt she was capable of. She didn't want to kill her. No, she wanted to show her the world, show her the outside, the weather, the people, the animals. Show her what a conversation was like, or a night out. The shopping, the dancing. She wanted to make the girl smile, to hear her laugh.

...and had she ever heard Miku laugh...? No. No, she hadn't.

And Miku would never laugh again. Luka tried to imagine what it could have sounded like. Light, pleasant. If something would take her by surprise, then she might yell or squeak. Something cute, something charming.

But it was useless. She wouldn't get to hear it. Ever. Her body was breathless in the other room, in the dark.

Luka looked at her gloved hand. She saw the blood stain the black fabric, but knew it wasn't really there. She saw the act written on her skin, through the glove, like a permanent fluorescent tattoo. This hand has taken a life. I'm a guilty conscience, a guilty soul. A walking, living sin.

She figured that maybe — with time — she would be able to cope with it. Or learn how to hide it better. Maybe she'd manage to destroy herself with drugs or alcohol and when she dies from that, nobody would be the wiser. She was such a happy girl, right? So smart, so bright. She remembered her conversation with Lily, oh so long ago, and could almost laugh at it all.

"Bigger than this."

She sighed, finally managing to calm down somehow. With every muscle that loosened, her heart broke some more. She'd need a few weeks just to learn to deal with it, after this low passes. The next morning, she'd wake up screaming, not wanting it to be true, she thought. Right then, it was just the calm after and before the storm. The nightmare would begin soon. But at that moment, she welcomed the deceitful tranquility, and stared at the dark water, her unclear reflection. It stank. She was uncomfortable. But she was alone.

The light turned on.

END PART 1