PROLOGUE PT. 1 - "IN THE DARKEST SIDE OF LIGHT"
Location: Sarufutsu, Hokkaido, Japan
Date: UNKNOWN Time: 2:37 AM
The moon hung like a voyeur over the skeletal remains of Meiyo Academy, casting silver fingers of light that clawed at the crumbling stone and shattered windows. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of wet earth and mold, seeping into their lungs like the breath of a long-dead thing. Every breath tasted stale, like rot, like memories long buried but never quite forgotten. She stood there, motionless for a second that felt like eternity, staring at what was left of the place that had taken everything from them. She had known it would be bad, that returning here would stir up things she'd spent years trying to bury. But nothing had prepared her for the visceral sting of standing in front of the very place that had broken them all.
She couldn't believe it. They couldn't believe it.
This was supposed to be the moment—the one where they finally confronted it all, ripped through the filth of their past, laid everything bare, and forced the truth into the light. They had come here for a reckoning, for the ugly truth to finally rear its head, for the ghosts that haunted their every thought to materialize. But they weren't here. They fucking weren't.
Her fingers tightened into fists, nails digging so hard into her palms she felt the skin break. She welcomed the sting. It felt real—something she could anchor herself to as the anger gnawed through her, a slow, poisonous burn in her veins.
The Hero Public Safety Commission wouldn't have allowed it to shut down. No. No. They would never have been that kind. They would never just let the place that turned them into machines, that ripped away their humanity bit by bit, collapse under its own weight. They would have sustained it, kept it alive, as long as it served its purpose. That thought made her stomach twist, a deep, sick churn she couldn't shake.
But here it was. The place that had once been an institution of discipline and torture now sagged, as though time itself had decided it was no longer worthy of standing. The jagged remains of what had once been walls and windows lay scattered across the ground, glinting in the moonlight like broken teeth. There was nothing left but an abandoned corpse of stone and steel, a husk that had forgotten the screams, the drills, the endless hours spent stripping them bare.
Her boots crunched over broken glass as she stepped forward, the sound unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence. It wasn't just glass beneath her soles. There were fragments of things that hadn't yet disintegrated under the weight of time—a piece of a locker, a torn shred of a uniform that could've belonged to anyone. Or her. Or someone else. Someone whose name she'd never remember but whose screams had blended into the constant, inescapable hum of horror that thrummed through these halls.
Her breath was shallow, sharp in her throat as she stepped inside. Every inhale felt like swallowing rust. Her companions moved beside her, their presence both a comfort and a reminder of why they were here. The weight of shared pain settled over them like a thick, invisible fog. She didn't need to look to know the same disbelief, the same hurt, radiated off them. She could feel it—just as tangible as the crumbling walls and the faint, sour smell of mildew that had seeped into everything.
"They should be here." Her voice was barely above a whisper, a venomous hiss that cut through the suffocating quiet. "They should be here to answer for what they've done."
The words felt empty, too small for the rage simmering inside her. How could anything explain what they'd done to them? How could any words, any confrontation ever be enough to balance the scales?
"They ran," a voice to her left spat. There was no mistaking the hatred that laced every syllable. "Fucking cowards."
"They knew we'd come back," another voice murmured, quieter but just as sharp. The anger there wasn't fire—it was ice. Slow, cold, unwavering. "They knew they'd have to pay. So they ran."
Memories slammed into her, unbidden, unrelenting. She tried to push them away, but they clawed their way to the surface with the ferocity of a wild animal. She remembered the drills, the way they were marched and drilled and torn apart—emotionally, mentally, bit by bit—until there was nothing left but an obedient husk. She remembered the cold of the isolation rooms, the sterile, blinding light of the interrogation chambers. The place wasn't designed to break them; it was designed to destroy them. To leave them hollowed out, shells of their former selves.
But she wasn't hollow anymore. She was full—full of rage, full of hate, full of an anger so fierce it consumed her from the inside out.
"We need to find out what happened here," the calm, controlled voice of someone behind her said. Always the voice of reason, even in this sea of chaos. "If they've shut this place down, there's a reason. And I'm betting it's something we need to know."
Her eyes swept the darkened halls before her, a maze of twisted metal and shattered stone. The corridors seemed to stretch out forever, disappearing into shadow. She didn't need to say anything. They all knew what needed to be done.
"Spread out." Her voice was cold now, controlled. She pushed the memories back down, locked them away where they couldn't hurt her. Not now. Not here. "Look for anything. Anything that might tell us where they went. I don't care how small it seems."
They moved like ghosts through the ruins, slipping in and out of shadows, silent except for the occasional creak of a broken board or the rustle of debris. Every sound was magnified in the stillness, each footstep a reminder of how precarious everything was. How one wrong move could bring the whole place down around them.
As she moved deeper into the building, the air grew colder. It seeped into her bones, chilling her from the inside out. The walls, once sterile and clinical, were now stained with the marks of decay. It was as if the building itself was alive, breathing, waiting. Every step forward felt like walking through a graveyard, the ghosts of the past brushing against her skin, whispering in her ears.
In one of the old classrooms, she found a broken mirror. The shards lay scattered across the floor like jagged pieces of the person she used to be. She crouched down, picking one up. Her reflection stared back at her, fragmented, distorted. She barely recognized herself. Her eyes were hollow, dark. But beneath the shadow, there was something else—something fierce. She wasn't the broken girl they'd tried to make her. She was something sharper now. Something dangerous.
"They thought they could erase us," she whispered, her voice shaking with the weight of everything they'd endured. "They thought they could just... make us disappear."
The shard slipped from her fingers, clinking softly against the others on the ground. Rising to her feet, she moved forward, deeper into the academy, her resolve hardening with every step. They would find the truth. They would hunt down every last piece of the puzzle, and when they were done, they would make them pay. No one else would suffer the way they had. Not if she could help it.
In the farthest, most forsaken corner of the academy, she found a door. Barricaded, hastily so, as if someone had been trying to keep something inside. Or keep something out. The wood was splintered, the hinges rusted, but she forced it open with a sharp, brutal shove. Inside, the room was a mess of overturned furniture and scattered papers. She sifted through the debris, her heart pounding in her chest, until her eyes caught sight of something pinned to the wall. A single piece of paper, yellowed with age, held in place by a dagger thrust through its center.
Her hands trembled as she approached, plucking the note from its place. The words were scrawled in a hurried, jagged hand. She knew just who wrote it, bless them.
"They saw you coming. No worries. They're still out there. This is only the beginning."
"They're still out there," she whispered, her voice carrying an edge of disbelief. "They know we're coming."
The storm that surged within her settled into something colder. Sharpened. A blade poised to strike.
Her lips curled into a snarl.
"They'll never escape this."
She'd kill them. Each and every single one of them.
And it would be all for the sake of letting kids be kids once again. Let them have the luxury that none of them had.
And for every soul that made this possible? Peace will never be an option, since they ripped it so blatantly from their hands before they even had the chance to close their palms.
In the twilight of his years, when others might have retired to the comfort of nostalgia and quiet evenings, Wonder-Worlder had found his greatest joy. Decades had passed since he first donned his cape, but never had he felt more alive than in this past decade. Every morning, he awoke not to the groaning creak of aging bones, but with the boundless excitement of a man who, though no longer young, still lived for the thrill of it all. His flesh, though seasoned with time, did not sag with exhaustion or the weight of years; instead, it buzzed with the energy of youth. Youth wasn't something you held in your muscles or in the speed of your movements, after all. Youth was in the spirit—and his spirit, oh, it was ageless. And when there was another crop of bright-eyed, bushy-tailed students stepping through the grand archways of Meiyo Academy, he could feel that boundless energy course through him like lightning.
His heart surged with anticipation as he wandered the sprawling corridors of the academy. The walls, towering monuments to centuries of heroism, pulsed with ancient magic, their murals shifting and reshaping at the slightest provocation of his presence. They didn't just display feats of valor—they lived them. As Wonder-Worlder passed, his silver cane clinking gently on the polished floors, the painted figures erupted into movement. Warriors clashed with shadowy figures, flames roared into existence, and heroes soared on gusts of wind, all rendered in vivid, impossible detail. He couldn't help but grin. He loved this place—its history, its grandeur, and more importantly, its future.
At his side floated Miko-chan, the academy's ever-enthusiastic artificial intelligence, glowing softly in hues of pastel pinks and blues. She was as much a part of this school as the bricks and mortar that held it together. Her large, wide, sapphire-blue eyes sparkled with excitement—no different from the students that adored her. Miko-chan was more than an assistant. She was a reflection of the heart and soul of the academy: vibrant, welcoming, and endlessly curious.
"Ah, Miko-chan, it's that time of year again! The entrance exams are just around the corner, and I can already feel the excitement in the air!" Wonder-Worlder's voice carried with it a playful, musical lilt, like a melody carried on a warm breeze. He spun his cane with a flourish, the orb at its head casting brief streaks of light across the walls as if orchestrating the mural's movements.
Miko-chan twirled mid-air, giggling in her soft, melodic tones, "Yes, yes, Wonder-Worlder! The students are buzzing with excitement. Have you had the chance to look over their profiles yet?"
"Profiles, shmofiles!" Wonder-Worlder scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. With a flick of his wrist, a cascade of holographic screens materialized in mid-air, each one displaying the profiles of the incoming hopefuls. He barely glanced at them, his attention still focused on the vibrancy of the academy itself. "I'll give them a quick once-over, sure, but nothing compares to seeing them in action! The way their eyes light up when they push past their limits, the fire in their hearts as they chase their dreams—that's what I'm here for. That's where their true potential shines!"
As he skimmed over the holograms, a soft chuckle rumbled from his chest. Each face, every name, was a reminder of why he still did this after all these years. These students, each with their quirks, their hopes, and their fears, were the lifeblood of Meiyo Academy. His lifeblood. He didn't care what the Commission thought or how begrudgingly they acknowledged his success—those bureaucrats who couldn't see past their data and reports. They didn't know the thrill of watching a young hero find their footing for the first time. They couldn't understand the joy of seeing them rise, ready to face the world.
"Another gold mine," he mused, half to himself, his smile widening with every passing profile. "We've struck gold again this year, Miko-chan! Look at them! So many quirks, so many stories just waiting to be told! And they've all chosen us."
Miko hummed a happy little tune as she floated beside him, her digital form flickering slightly with excitement. "Yes, yes! Our scouts really outdid themselves this time."
With a snap of his fingers, the holographic screens vanished into thin air, and Wonder-Worlder set off down the halls, his gait light and lively. The academy hummed around him—alive, just as he felt. Every room, every hallway was a tribute to the heroes of old, and yet it was so much more than a mere relic of the past. Meiyo Academy wasn't just a school. It was a place where legends were born, where the future was shaped. As they strolled past classrooms, the faint hum of technology mingled with the sound of voices, laughter, and the crackling of energy. The very air was electric with anticipation. The halls themselves seemed to buzz with a life of their own, as if the building itself was awaiting the arrival of the next generation of heroes.
The doors to the classrooms were as varied as the students within. In one, reinforced walls bore the marks of years of combat training, the smell of sweat and determination still lingering in the air. In another, the whirring of machinery and the soft glow of screens filled a cutting-edge laboratory, where future inventors and scientists molded the next great innovation. Each space was a testament to the balance of tradition and forward-thinking that made Meiyo Academy stand apart from the rest. Wonder-Worlder's heart swelled with pride.
"How are the preparations coming along for the second and third-year students?" His voice softened slightly, a tinge of concern creeping in around the edges. These students, the ones who had already proven themselves, were always in the back of his mind.
Miko-chan's response was as prompt as always. "All preparations are on schedule! The dormitories have been updated with the latest security features, and the curriculum adjustments are in place. Plus, we've upgraded the concealment protocols to maintain our cover as Haruboshi Academy. No one will suspect a thing!"
"Ah, Haruboshi Academy," Wonder-Worlder mused, tipping his wide-brimmed hat to scratch his scalp, revealing streaks of silver in his otherwise dark hair. "The greatest stroke of genius we've ever had. A prestigious facade that lets our students train in peace without the prying eyes of the world. And with the monastery hidden within, the students can transition without a single shred of suspicion. Truly, whoever came up with that deserves a raise."
Miko-chan floated beside him, her digital eyes narrowing ever so slightly in playful exasperation. "It was your idea, Wonder-Worlder."
He gave a dramatic, exaggerated bow. "Ah, but of course. A pat on the back is in order, if I do say so myself."
Their banter continued, but Wonder-Worlder's thoughts strayed as they approached the staff lounge, the doors sliding open with a soft hiss to reveal Zara Qadir, known to the students and staff alike as Untraceable. She stood there, arms crossed and gaze sharp, looking every bit the hardened mentor. Her emerald hair caught the dim light, cascading down her back in sharp waves that framed her striking, angular face. Her eyes were cold, piercing, and focused on Wonder-Worlder with something dangerously close to disdain.
"You're late," she said, her voice flat and edged with irritation.
Wonder-Worlder waved a dismissive hand, his smile never faltering. "Late, on time—time's just a concept, really. A man like me doesn't adhere to such trivialities. Heroes don't run on clocks."
Untraceable's lips twitched, but there was no smile. "Uh-huh. Well, next time, try adhering to the concept of punctuality. And while you're at it, you might want to consider adding another zero to my paycheck. Last year's crop of students nearly killed me, and now I've got another set to whip into shape."
Wonder-Worlder chuckled, unfazed by her harsh words. Zara was always like this—sharp, cynical, and deadly serious. But that was part of her charm. She wasn't like him, full of boundless optimism and a love for the theatrics of heroism. No, she was practical, efficient, and fiercely protective of the academy's mission. She was the embodiment of the rough-and-tumble mentor that every hero needed. He had hand-picked her for that very reason.
"And yet," he said with a grin, "you do it so well. Last year's students turned out wonderfully under your tutelage. You should be proud. They're out in the field now, eager to prove themselves."
Untraceable rolled her eyes. "We'll see how long that lasts. Now, I've got another batch of fucking headaches to deal with."
"You'll do just fine," Wonder-Worlder reassured her with a wink. "How are preparations on your end?"
"Everything's set," Untraceable replied. "We've got the training grounds prepped, and I've updated the security protocols. No one gets in or out without me knowing."
"Excellent work as always, Zara," Wonder-Worlder praised. "And what about our dear Korrupt? Is he brooding in some decrepit corner?"
Before Zara could respond, a cold, measured voice slipped out from the dim recesses of the room, carrying with it the weight of disinterest and restrained power. "Present and accounted for." Kurogane Hayato, better known as Korrupt, moved forward with the kind of grace that only comes from a life of calculated lethality. His long silver hair was tied back, gleaming under the ambient lighting like strands of moonlight, while his piercing green eyes—narrow and unreadable—locked onto Wonder-Worlder with a clinical gaze, neither friendly nor hostile. His movements were languid, as though conserving energy for when it truly mattered, but there was an undeniable intensity coiled within him, ready to strike at a moment's notice.
Korrupt was an enigma. He had always been more cooperative than Untraceable—less burdened by cynicism—but that didn't make him any less dangerous. No one knew what truly stirred behind those green eyes. The man was a walking mystery, an intricate puzzle of trauma, precision, and quiet ambition. A useful tool, yes, but one Wonder-Worlder kept a cautious eye on.
"The Haunting Gauntlet is the theme for this year's entrance exam," Korrupt continued, his voice as cold and sharp as the edge of a blade. "Same level of severity as last year, but it's an entirely different beast."
Zara's lip curled into a half-smirk, her jade eyes flicking towards Korrupt with a glint of approval. "Good. It'll weed out the ones who have no business being here. If they can't survive this, they don't deserve to walk these halls."
"Now, now, Untraceable," Wonder-Worlder chided softly, his voice dipped in that maddening blend of patience and optimism that drove her crazy. "Let's temper that ruthlessness just a tad, shall we? High stakes are important, yes, but we don't want to break them before they've even had a chance to shine, do we, Korrupt?"
Korrupt's eyes flickered, an almost imperceptible twitch of agreement. "True. We challenge them to test their mettle, but also to inspire them. They need to grasp the gravity of what they're entering—this isn't a game—but we must also ensure they're given the tools to rise. Besides," he added, a small, almost sardonic smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "we don't want to seem like we're perpetuating the sins of the past regime."
His words seemed to linger in the air, weighted with memories that refused to fade. A pregnant silence followed, stretching the space between them like a taut wire. For a moment, the room felt smaller, the shadows heavier, as if the walls themselves were listening.
The past regime.
Wonder-Worlder's fingers tightened ever so slightly around the grip of his cane, the motion so subtle it was almost imperceptible. He could feel it—the past slithering through his mind like a noxious fog, clouding his thoughts, pulling him back to the days when Meiyo Academy had been something darker, something twisted. Before he'd taken over, before the reforms, the school had been a breeding ground for elitism and corruption. Students weren't nurtured here—they were broken, reshaped into weapons, blunt instruments used to enforce a violent status quo. He had stood at the epicenter of it all, a young hero lost in the currents of power and politics. The memory of those days, the blood, the screams, the betrayal—it burned behind his eyes like a bad dream he couldn't wake from.
Korrupt's comment had sliced into that wound, reminding him why he was here, why he had fought so hard to reshape this place, to turn it into a beacon of hope rather than a den of despair. The Commission had never fully trusted him, even after all these years. They allowed him to run the school, but always with a wary eye, always questioning whether his methods were too soft, too idealistic. They didn't understand. They had never seen the faces of those broken students, the ones who hadn't made it, the ones who had been shattered by the old system.
"Point taken," Untraceable muttered, breaking the silence. Her arms crossed over her chest, defensive, but even she couldn't deny the truth in Korrupt's words. "Just don't want them getting complacent. Complacency kills."
Wonder-Worlder's expression softened, and he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, a gesture as fatherly as it was authoritative. "And that's why we have you, Zara. Your methods are... effective, and they've shaped some of the best. There's a reason you're one of our youngest hires, after all."
She slapped his hand away, her irritation sharp, but there was a trace of warmth behind the frustration. "Yeah, yeah. Don't get too sappy on me. I've still got a job to do, and I don't plan on going easy on them."
"Nor would we expect you to," Wonder-Worlder replied with a wink, stepping back as the tension eased, the unspoken weight of the past receding, for now.
Suddenly, the door to the chamber slid open with a quiet hiss, and a voice, soft and lilting, cut through the air like the first breath of morning. "Ohaiyoooooo~"
All heads turned toward the doorway, where two figures stood in sharp contrast to each other, the very embodiment of light and shadow. Angel, one of their most prized security assets, floated into the room with an ethereal grace that seemed almost unreal, her platinum hair glowing in the soft light, a faint halo shimmering above her head. Everything about her was immaculate, untouched by the grime of the world, like a statue of a saint brought to life. Beside her, however, stood the very opposite—a looming figure cloaked in the darkest hues of the night. Moonshadow.
Her presence was less an entrance and more an inevitable realization, as though she'd been standing there the entire time, unnoticed until she chose to make herself known. Her fur, blacker than the void between stars, seemed to drink in the light, and her eyes—luminous and unblinking—surveyed the room with an eerie calm. Her feline features, framed by a sleek hood, gave her a predatory air, every movement purposeful, every gesture calculated. She towered over Angel, her much smaller counterpart, but the two shared an unspoken bond that transcended their physical differences.
"Splendid timing!" Wonder-Worlder exclaimed, his voice brimming with warmth as he welcomed the pair. "Angel, Moonshadow! Always a pleasure to see you both."
Angel giggled softly, her voice like wind chimes on a soft breeze. "Wouldn't miss it for anything~" She gently released Moonshadow's hand, stepping forward with a serene smile, her eyes half-lidded in perpetual calm. "We came to report that all arrangements for the Haunting Gauntlet have been completed. The training grounds are set."
Moonshadow remained silent, her gaze never wavering from the group. She didn't need to speak. Her presence alone was enough to convey her agreement.
"Neeee, it's wonderful," Angel chimed, her smile widening ever so slightly. "We thought you might like to come and see it for yourselves, myuu~? It's all ready for testing."
Untraceable raised an eyebrow, a half-smirk tugging at her lips. "A test, huh? I like the sound of that."
Korrupt merely shrugged, his expression unreadable. "Might as well. Better we break it in than the students."
"I couldn't agree more!" Wonder-Worlder's cane clinked against the floor as he moved toward the door, his eyes twinkling with excitement. "No better way to ensure everything's in order than to run through it ourselves! Besides, it'll be good to stretch these old legs a bit."
"Yay~" Angel's melodic voice sang through the air, her fingers brushing a wristband that glowed with soft light. "Miko-chan? Could you go ahead and make sure everything's operating as it should?"
In an instant, Miko-chan materialized from the band in a flurry of pastel lights, her wide, digital eyes sparkling with excitement. "On it, Angel-chan!" she beamed, her voice high and eager. "I'll make sure everything is perfect!"
Untraceable let out an audible groan, rolling her eyes. "Gross," she muttered under her breath.
Wonder-Worlder, with a gleam in his eye, jabbed her playfully with his cane. "Now, now, let the girl do her job. She lives for this sort of praise."
Angel giggled softly again, patting the digital construct on the head. "Miko-chan deserves all the praise. Don't you, myuu?"
Miko practically fizzled with joy before dematerializing, vanishing to the training grounds.
"Shall we?" Moonshadow's voice was a low purr, almost more felt than heard, as she pulled back her hood to reveal her dark, gleaming hair. "I've been looking forward to this all day."
"No need to beat around the bush then!" Wonder-Worlder's eyes twinkled as the group began to move, their footsteps echoing down the hall.
As they departed, a strange sense of anticipation hung in the air, a tension that was both thrilling and ominous. Wonder-Worlder's heart swelled with pride and hope. He had a good feeling about this year's batch of students. Something told him that this was going to be a year like no other.
And he would make sure of it.
For their sake.
For the academy's sake.
For his own sake.
It replayed.
Again.
And again.
The words on the phone screen blurred, warping like cruel phantoms twisting inside Hajime's skull, each letter stabbing her in a different place. Sajimi... coma... jumped... Over and over, those fucking words drilled into her brain, digging deeper, cracking her composure wide open. She couldn't stop reading it, couldn't stop seeing it. The phone felt foreign in her hand, heavy and wrong, as if it wasn't just a device anymore—it was a weapon. A guillotine. Her heartbeat pounded loud in her ears, matching the rhythm of her breath, ragged and desperate. She was suffocating, drowning, even though she wasn't moving, even though she was still.
Her body, though, wasn't still. It betrayed her, quaking, her fingers trembling violently. Her breath came in short, shallow bursts, barely making it out of her chest before being sucked back in. The world around her began to distort, everything warping, stretching out, pulling away from her, as if reality itself wanted no part of this mess. Her stomach clenched painfully, a sickening churn that built until it became unbearable.
A sharp intake of breath. It felt like inhaling shards of glass, cutting her from the inside. The edges of her vision darkened, the periphery closing in, smothering her. She wanted to scream, but the sound got trapped in her throat, caught behind that fucking lump that had been there ever since she read the message. Her legs trembled, weak and useless beneath her, and the floor seemed to drop away like it was abandoning her, like even gravity itself didn't want to support her anymore.
And then, without warning, her body snapped. A violent, nauseating heave jerked her forward, and she barely made it to the bathroom before her insides turned themselves out. She clutched the toilet bowl, fingers white-knuckled, as her stomach purged itself in harsh, convulsive waves. The bile burned her throat, sour and wretched, but it wasn't just the taste that made her want to scream. It was the stink of it, the filthiness of it, like her entire being was physically rejecting what she'd done, what she'd become.
Tears welled up in Hajime's eyes as her body convulsed violently, racked with the raw force of her sickness. The acrid stench of bile clung to the air, mingling with the lingering bitterness of regret that gnawed at the edges of her consciousness. Her stomach churned again, forcing another wave of nausea up her throat, and she doubled over, clutching the edge of the sink so tightly her knuckles turned bone white. Her fingers dug into the porcelain as if anchoring herself to some fleeting sense of stability, though there was no stability to be found. Not for someone like her.
Stability? What a joke. Monsters like her didn't deserve stability. They didn't deserve peace. If there was a god somewhere, he'd have already struck her down with a lightning bolt, crushed her under a falling building, or maybe shattered her legs beneath a stone just to watch her crawl. He'd have smiled as he stripped her of everything—her mobility, her dignity, her ability to stand upright as if she had any right to hold her head high. A god, or whatever cruel force watched over her, would have taken joy in watching her writhe like the worthless thing she was.
The image of Sajimi's face hit her suddenly, stabbing through her gut with an icy blade of guilt. His features, twisted with anguish and despair, played on an endless loop in her mind. The moment she'd last seen him—a flicker of pain frozen on his face—before he hit the pavement, all bones and broken skin. She could almost hear the crack again, that nauseating thud as his body collided with the ground. He'd hit the earth with such a sickening finality, like a sack of discarded trash, a thing left to rot. And now, he lay in a hospital bed somewhere, caught in the limbo between life and death. It was her doing. All of it. He was only in this situation because she pushed him there, pushed him to the edge with her endless cruelty. It was her spite, her venom, that poisoned him.
But how much life did he even have left? Did it really fucking matter at this point? Even if he lived, even if by some miracle he opened his eyes tomorrow, he would never be the same. She had seen to that. She'd shattered whatever hope he'd carried, ground it into the dirt with her heel. And now, now the weight of it all pressed down on her chest, suffocating her, but also, deep inside her—just a little—filling her with something darker.
Anger.
The room spun, her vision warping as her body shook with another wave of heaving breaths. The force of it knocked the wind out of her, each retch a violent spasm, leaving her gasping for air. She felt like she was being beaten from the inside out, as though her own body were punishing her for her sins. She pressed her shaking hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the choking sobs that threatened to escape, trying to hold herself together in the midst of all this collapsing wreckage. Tears poured down her face, streaking her vision into a blurred, watery mess.
And what for? What were the tears for? She had no right to cry. She hadn't earned that luxury. Crying was for victims, for people who had something real to mourn. Sajimi had that right. Not her. Not ever her.
The thought boiled inside her, swirling up with the bile in her throat. What a pathetic monster she was. What a sniveling coward. If there was a reaper coming for her—and oh, there was, no doubt about that—it wouldn't even need to carry a scythe. A scythe would be too quick, too merciful. The consequences of her actions were the real reaper, and they weren't here to offer her a clean death. No, they were here to savor every second of her demise. They'd watch her squirm, twisting the knife in her gut with every passing day, making her feel every ounce of guilt, every shred of shame, until she was nothing but a husk of the person she pretended to be.
And the worst part? A piece of her was angry at him for it. Sajimi. Goddamn Sajimi. How could he? How could he take her pain away, turn it back on her like this? He was supposed to be the righteous one, the chivalrous one, the one who had everything together. He was supposed to be the hero in this fucked-up narrative. But instead, he crumbled. Just like her. Weak. Fragile. Cowardly. The anger pulsed beneath her skin, tightening her fists against the sink as she stared at her reflection. But it wasn't him, was it? It wasn't his fault. No matter how much she tried to twist it in her mind, she couldn't deny the truth.
She was the weak one.
She was the one who had collapsed first. Sajimi had faced death head-on and survived. For now, at least. He'd stared down the barrel of mortality and taken the hit, while she... she couldn't even face the simple consequences of her cruelty. She couldn't handle the reflection of her sins without breaking into pieces. The bile in her throat was the least of her punishments. She had died a little bit today, too, but not in the noble, self-sacrificing way that Sajimi had. No, she had crumbled under the weight of her own actions, long before death could even come for her.
A sharp, clipped voice sliced through the haze of her thoughts, shattering the fragile quiet of the bathroom like glass. "Hajime, darling, what is all this ruckus?"
Her mother's voice. Cold. Dismissive. The sound alone sent a jolt of dread through Hajime's spine, snapping her back to reality. The doorknob twisted with mechanical precision, each turn a slow, deliberate beat that matched the pulsing anxiety in her chest. She had seconds to pull herself together. Wiping her mouth hurriedly with the back of her hand, she fumbled to smooth her rumpled dress, forcing herself to stand, though her knees shook beneath her. The door swung open, and her mother entered with her usual air of disdain, sweeping into the room like she owned every inch of it.
"Sorry," Hajime muttered, her voice barely audible over the hammering of her heartbeat. She injected a note of false remorse into her tone, trying her best to seem contrite, human, anything other than the broken mess she truly was. "I think... I think I might be coming down with something."
Her mother's sharp eyes, so much like her own, raked over her with surgical precision, taking in the sight of her disheveled state, the sour stench of vomit hanging in the air. Her lips curled in distaste, though she didn't bother to fully mask her revulsion. "We'll have the doctor take a look at you soon enough," she said, her voice clipped, each word a thinly veiled command. "But we have guests, important ones. Try to maintain some composure. I don't want any more of this—this noise interrupting the evening. Understood?"
Without waiting for an answer, she turned on her heel, the click of her heels against the tile echoing through the room as she exited, leaving the door to close with a heavy, final click. Hajime stared after her, sinking back down to the floor, the cold, unforgiving marble pressing against her knees.
What a fucking mess.
She remained there for what felt like an eternity, breathing in shallow, ragged gulps of air as the weight of her mother's words settled over her like a heavy blanket, suffocating and thick. There was no room for weakness here. No space for emotion, for guilt, for any of it. Her mother's cold indifference was a reminder of the reality she lived in. And no matter how much her insides twisted in pain, no matter how much her mind screamed at her, she would never be allowed to show it. Not in this house. Not in this life.
After what felt like a lifetime, Hajime forced herself to stand, legs trembling beneath her weight. She turned to the sink, splashing cold water over her face, hoping the chill might jolt her back to some semblance of control. The water dripped down her chin, pooling at the base of her throat, but it did nothing to wash away the sickness that churned in her gut. Nothing to erase the image of Sajimi's broken body from her mind.
Her gaze shifted to her desk, where a single sheet of paper lay partially hidden beneath the usual clutter. A letter, carefully decoded after hours of work, painstakingly deciphered word by word. At first glance, it seemed like nothing more than an acceptance letter to Haruboshi Academy, a prestigious school that was nearly impossible to get into. Nearly impossible, some would say.
But Hajime knew better.
This wasn't just any school. The code, intricate and specific, was meant only for her. It wasn't Haruboshi Academy at all. No, this was something else. Something darker, something twisted. The real message beneath the layers of encryption was a summons—an invitation to Meiyo Academy. A school not for the righteous, but for the shadows. A place where people like her—monsters like her—could learn to exist in the dark. To wield their cruelty with purpose.
Her fingers traced the embossed crest at the top of the letter, the weight of it heavy in her hand. Could this be her way out? A way to become something better?
Could this school, this place of shadowy heroism, save her from herself?
No.
She was a terrible person. There was no saving someone like her.
But maybe, just maybe, she could learn to wear the mask a little better. Maybe she could become the kind of person who didn't need to feel anymore. Maybe, in a place like Meiyo Academy, she could finally rekindle her humanity.
Be a better person. If not for herself, then at least for him.
There would be no glory for her, though.
And she could live with that.
Hey, everyone. It's been a minute, huh? So, yeah, this is really happening. And to be honest... I'm terrified. Like, really terrified. I wish I could say I'm excited about this story's release, but the truth is, I've been sitting on this revamp for a while, going back and forth, unsure of what the right move was.
Just to reassure you: I'm still working on Inflorescence. That's not going anywhere. It just takes a lot more planning and world-building, and I need time to get it right. This project, though? It's a reimagining of my first story, and it feels more true to what I wanted from the beginning. Back then, I didn't fully know what I was doing, but now? I've got a clearer vision, and I really want this to work. It's more grounded and gives me a fresh angle to weave in canon elements.
Now, about my fears and insecurities... I had to come to terms with the fact that my writing style, the way I tell stories, isn't going to be for everyone. And honestly? That still stings, even after all these years. I do care about what people think, probably more than I should. I'm insecure, I'll admit that. When I realized my work didn't click with everyone, I kind of backed off from SYOCs (especially MHA ones). I wanted to keep creating, but the thought of people rolling their eyes at my name? That made me withdraw for a while. But I see all these amazing new stories out there, and I wish you all the best with them!
I just hope this project sticks the landing. I hope it resonates with some of you. But if it doesn't? That's okay, too. I've learned that I can't stop writing just because I'm not universally liked. That's not a reason to quit. So, here I am, giving it another shot.
All the details you need are on my profile. I hope you'll join me on this ride.