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It had never been the same.
It had never been the same. And to Saito, that was the worst part of what he had done. No, not just what he had done — what he had to do.
He had to return home.
[ I ]
Ahh… it’s nice to be out of Rohan’s body. For too long that vessel had felt hollow. Had been hollow. And when he had finally understood why, he knew it was time to abandon it. At one point he’d somewhat admired the strength in it — now, not much at all.
The half-viewed years.
Half-eaten meals.
Half-awakened memories.
He was half of a man — no, less. He was… broken. Yes. That was the word. A broken man.
But not for long.
He supposes he can’t be too disdainful about it. Courtesy is the polite thing to offer — even if he barely remembers how that feels. Rohan was an old “friend,” after all. If you could even call their arrangement that. Saito certainly didn’t.
“You really want to kill people?” Of course he had. He didn’t just want to. He needed to.
“I’ll find you targets.” As if he was too incompetent to do that on his own. But, then again, he was never too picky. Saito had often been indiscriminate about his targets, back then, at least. Anyone would do. Anything would do, Father’s concerns be damned; the Kabasaki plan had worked just fine, hadn’t it?
“Just let me keep the eyes.” An odd request, Saito had thought to himself. But not awful, he concluded. The same as ripping the limbs from a dead, crushed bug. Peeling the shiny scales away from the mangled body of a fish. Stripping something once so soft and — eugh — cuddly, of its once plush fur, now matted and…
Those things are useless once the last breath is gone from the body. So fine, Rohan could keep their eyes. It bothered Saito little, if at all. His priorities in this deal were secured, regardless of whatever little trophy Rohan wished for. Getting the eyes was just extra fun.
“Then we both get what we want.” What you want. What I need.
“We’ll make good partners.”
Partners. A clean word. A clinical word. Saito could appreciate that.
He had never cared much for the Cyclops Killer title Rohan had come up with. Too old-fashioned. Too theatrical. Not a reflection of his handiwork.
And besides, as far as he was concerned now, Rohan had killed himself.
Or rather, Shoko Nadami had killed him.
Shoko Nadami… 36 years old. A businesswoman, of sorts. Not clean. But still competent enough to hold up a polished image.
A terrible mother. A trait passed on from her own mother.
Saito had never known good parenting either.
He understands.
What matters is that this Shoko woman is close to home. And while things could end here, what would the point in that be? No, he’s determined to make as many little pit-stops on this journey home as he can.
[ II ]
No.
No, no, no.
This isn’t it.
This isn’t it at all.
Where is the satisfaction? Where is the rush? Why doesn’t this spark joy — why doesn’t it ignite the fire in his brain like it should? Why does he only feel guilt, only feel shaky, why doesn’t it—
… This body. This brain.
… Right.
Renju Okiura’s body.
37 years old. Idol company president. Maid café manager. Former yakuza associate. Shoko’s Nadami’s ex-husband. Father to their daughter.
Of course this brain would react this way. Of course these nerves would fire off in what he could only call catastrophic panic. An exploding chemical reaction that is not at all pleasing. Like fireworks spun out of control.
It’s only natural.
But the rational explanation is not enough for him. It does little to quell the growing sickness he can feel in his gut despite him wanting — needing, expecting — to feel anything else. He should be feeling anything else. He needs it, like an addict in withdrawal.
Instead — he stares.
At the ice pick in his hand.
At the body he’s straddling.
He’s not sure what feels better right now — staring at the dead body on the floor in front of him, or the weapon he had used to bring her to such a state. He almost regrets having Renju eat that eye — the thought is too sickening to dwell on any longer.
For what’s left of Renju.
Not for Saito. Not for the yolk in the white.
To Saito, it was so easy. He had never been one to do that before… did it really count as him doing it now? The eye isn’t in his stomach.
If he detaches, if he disassociates — if he becomes the mask again — then it doesn’t matter. He can ignore this new feeling of genuine empathy. [A scary, gnawing feeling, to him.] But still, these cursed nerves — Renju’s nerves — are telling him this was all wrong. Like a child in trouble. A man caught red handed. Someone who had never done this before. He feels the sudden need to cower and hide. Like any ordinary person would.
Even if he stayed in this body for sixty years, it would never fit. His mind would never adjust. His wants would never fade.
That’s what he tells himself. That’s what he’s accepted as truth.
It’s too late to turn back now. There’s only one direction left.
Home.
He has something to handle.
Bloom Park, is it?
He kneels, ignoring the heave rising in Renju’s chest. He smiles.
“One last ride, Shoko Nadami.”
“It’s about time little Mizuki sees you again, isn’t it?”
[ III ]
The game has truly begun now. The greatest show Kaname Date will ever witness.
But his triumph is overshadowed by something. It’s tainted, again.
In claiming this new body, he had made peace with the human concerns he had unwillingly experienced — fear, guilt, anxiety — that followed Shoko’s murder. That was expected. He could rationalize it. Renju’s disposal had come easier. Mentally, at least. Physically… more of a nuisance. Positioning that corpse just right had been tedious. But he had done it. Just the way he wanted.
He knows he needs to move on to the next stop. But Saito keeps catching glimpses of that face in reflective surfaces. It’s driving him mad.
A-Set. 18 years old. Internet idol. Loved and adored by so many.
Iris Sagan. 18 years old.
Iris Iwai.
He’s seated in a cramped changing room backstage at Lemniscate, feigning touch-ups before filming. His fingers twitch with a restlessness that doesn’t belong to Iris. He has to puppet this girl with bubbly charisma and manufactured charm in no more than a few minutes — but all he can do is stare.
She looks just like that woman. Pink hair, vibrant blue eyes, and almost… kind features. He had noted that about Manaka. He had seen her face in what little struggle there had been that night. She looked kind.
It disgusted him. It mesmerized him.
Manaka Iwai. That woman.
18 years ago, Saito had killed her.
In some way, she was his awakening. Good to him for little else. No matter how kind she had looked.
He had been so young. He had been so keen to please Father. That woman had stolen all of the happiness from their house. From their home. From their home which had once been his mother’s, too. He had heard about her in passing conversations. He understood, to some extent, he was why she was gone.
So it would be his way of redeeming himself.
He was sure the thought that Saito had honored her in a way would make Father happy.
But why had Father not been pleased to see her dead? Father had never punished him for the bugs. Nor the fish. Nor the birds, or the cats, or even the dogs.
So why did her blood, spilled so perfectly, so right, on the cold warehouse district’s concrete… not make him as happy as it made Saito? Saito had been certain this would be it. This would be what would make him happy once and for all. It would make him happy, and it would make Father happy.
But it did not.
Nothing ever made Father happy.
Nothing Saito did.
Nothing that made Saito happy ever made anyone else feel the same. And he did feel it. Not emptiness. Not that. People always said that, didn’t they? Whispered it behind closed doors. Empty. Hollow. But emptiness had not been what Saito felt while doing these things.
[No, he had felt it all the time.]
He’s looking at her. At Iris. At Manaka again.
It gives him too much pause. More than he can afford. They’ll grow suspicious soon.
But this is his half sister. His half sister. 12 years younger than him. She’s still so young. And yet so adored, so universally… loved. By her age, Saito had already given up on keeping much of his decency. He was withdrawn. He hated to socialize; he didn’t know how, didn’t see the logical appeal, and so he disliked it.
Even if he had wanted it, Father never would have taught him.
A faint sting in those eyes reminds him to blink and promptly removes him from that train of thought.
… He doesn’t have time to dwell on this.
If he’s lucky, he can get this done quick and painlessly. It could even be fun. And that little stalker boy attached at poor Iris’s hip may leave him be. He’s already caused enough trouble. If Saito had ever been a brother to this girl, he’s about certain he would have killed Ota by now —
That’s an odd thought. He banishes it quickly and moves on.
Just don’t mess up your lines too badly, he tells himself, rises from his seat, and walks out. It’s showtime.
────────── ──────────
He’s so, so close.
So. Fucking. Close.
It takes everything he has not to leap across the table and strangle that smug, oblivious detective. But this body — her body — is too weak. And there are eyes on him. More than usual.
… So he plays along.
Every question gets a calculated answer. Not always perfect — but that’s fine. He won’t be needing these alibis to hold up long, not for what he has planned. Every little wrench he can throw into this investigation counts for little more than fun, and perhaps a bit of time. Let him chase his tail.
You really are stupid, Kaname Date.
It’s laughably easy to lie to him. To perform this innocent, sugar-sweet role. He almost enjoys it. Excuse after excuse. Innocent argument after innocent argument. Because, of course — she’s just a teenage girl. She doesn’t know anything at all.
She’s just a beloved idol.
She’s just A-Set. Just Tesa. Just Iris.
She wouldn’t kill her best friend’s father. Her manager. The man who shaped her success. No — your evidence won’t take you anywhere, Date. You’ll drown yourself in contradictions before you get close.
And Ota.
Ota is nothing.
Putty in his hands. Putty in her hands.
“Oh, save me, Ota! The police are so scary! They think I killed Renju!”
That’s all it takes.
Hook. Line. Sinker.
Saito almost laughs. And he rarely laughs. Not in the way people usually do, anyways. But this? This is comedy. This is just too good.
… Until he gets caught, of course.
Date knocks the phone from her hand. Saito doesn’t resist. Doesn’t panic. He lets it happen. Even pretends to be startled. Upset. She’s just scared, Date. Locked in this dark, tense interrogation room. Her manager is dead. Her friend’s poor father.
…
… Looking into her mind? Is that what you want? Isn’t that a little extreme? Poor girl. She’s done nothing wrong.
But fine. I’ll humor you. She’ll humor you. Not like we have a choice.
Let’s psync, Detective…
For the first time in a long time.
────────── ──────────
It’s Sunday by the time it’s over. He’s a little groggy, But that’s fine. He’s getting used to it.
Poor Date.
Still so confused. Still chasing shadows. How could sweet little Iris have seen murders that happened without her anywhere near them?
She heard about them on the news. That’s the story. Simple. Plausible. Neat. You can’t disprove it without knowing more than you possibly ever could.
Oh, Date — you’re lost in the fog. Your colleagues? Such convincing little liars. And you believe them. Of course you do. You always trust the wrong people. You’ve always gotten involved in what’s bad for you. That’s what Rohan had liked about you so much, after all. I’d heard of you in passing conversations. You were just so perfectly pathetic and easy to keep. Easy to use.
Ah. But more importantly… you don’t have enough evidence right now.
So let her go.
Let me go.
────────── ──────────
It’s tempting — so tempting — to grab the wheel and crash the car. But Saito won’t. This body’s no good to him if it’s broken. Nor is his own.
Iris makes a request. In her best little nervous voice.
“Date, could we make a stop first?”
“Sure, where?” Really? A yes, right away?
“Marble. It’s a bar in Golden Yokocho.”
“You know about that place?” As much as I need to, sure.
“Yeah. Mr. Okiura took me before...”
“Why do you wanna go there?” You’re too nosy for your own good. Just drive.
“There’s something I want to talk about.”
“We can’t talk here?” Maybe I should swerve this car.
“It might… take a while.”
Date deliberates for a few seconds. Probably weighing how worthwhile stopping is for himself. Surely he’s figuring he can get more info out of Iris. Surely she was just too nervous to talk in the interrogation room. Too nervous to talk surrounded by people that could throw her in jail with the wrong phrasing.
“Alright, sure.”
So Iris takes out her phone, opens NILE, and sends a message or two to someone. Date doesn’t pry. After all, poor Iris must be under a lot of stress right now. And if he says anything, maybe she won’t even want to go to Marble and talk. That’s what Saito figures it is, anyways. It’s so easy for Iris to get what she wants…
Sometimes, Ota proves useful. That doesn’t mean Saito likes him. Not even close. If the boy gets in his way again, well, he’ll just become an accident. A poor, naïve kid who got involved in something far too ugly. Tragic, really.
But Ota would follow Iris into a sewer if she asked. Why? Saito doesn’t care to know. Just like Ota hardly questions the request Iris has made. It’s not his concern right now.
It becomes apparent when they arrive at Marble that Date doesn’t like Ota much, judging by the real lack of any warmth to their greeting and the immediate questioning. The bar is empty, save for them. That’s good. Ota has no reputation to protect. No stakes. Even less weight in this situation than Saito thought. He only cares about what Iris thinks of him. He’s got nothing to do but prove his devotion…
Some back and forth with Date, and the clever little idiot gets Date to turn around.
Just a little longer. Who could that be over there, Date?
TZZZZZTT!
Thud.
They’re out as soon as Date hits the floor.
[ V ]
It’s been a blurry few hours for Saito.
He doesn’t get overwhelmed often — not like this. Not in a way he can’t even tell is positive or negative. But, there’s a lot going through his mind right now.
For one, this costume is suffocating.
Normally, he’d love for the face he’s wearing to take all the slander it deserves.
But now? That wouldn’t be convenient.
It’s fine. He’s making up for it.
The warehouse is freezing — but Saito doesn’t think he’s ever felt warmer.
It’s some twisted mix of excitement and… something else. Pseudo-joy. A synthetic high. Close enough.
This body makes him feel filthy. Exactly as he expected. He has the burning need for a cigarette, and it’s making him twitchier than usual. Not that anyone could tell under the thick foam and white fur making up this disguise.
He’s itching to get out of it and see some fireworks. So he’d better hurry.
Just set up the laptop… And the camera…
Technology’s evolved during his “absence.” But this? This setup? Cheap thrift-store scraps.
Outdated models, glitchy drivers — it’s perfect. They’re not meant to last. Much like the girl in front of him. Much like the body he’s in now.
But they’re good enough to livestream. Good enough to be public. Fitting, really.
There are three reasons he wants everyone to see what comes next.
One: To get under Kaname Date’s skin. He’ll do that literally soon enough — but right now, he means it metaphorically. Date will see this. He has to.
Watch her die, Date.
Maybe you could have saved her.
But there are no second chances in this world.
Two: It’s poetic justice, isn’t it? For the victim. Or victims, rather.
The body on the bench is Iris Sagan. The beloved A-set. Strapped down, barely conscious.
Once adored across the net, now destined to be remembered for something else entirely.
But he’s not in her body anymore. So who is in there?
His father.
Their father.
So Sejima. 60 years old. A parasite in a politician's skin. A man who feasted on others’ weaknesses and never once offered a hand to his own son. Unloving. Unfeeling. He’s lived far too long.
Saito’s only regret…
… is that he didn’t do this sooner.
[That’s what he tells the little boy in him, to shut him up.]
Once, So was all Saito had. In the most basic sense. Never in practice. He never had his father beyond cover-ups and living under the same roof.
His mother had died in childbirth. And now, through the fog of their shared mind, Saito remembers... It was a long, grueling labor. Father had never spoken of it, not much, really. Never to Saito, unless he was angered. Never once had So looked at Saito like he was anything but a burden. At least, that’s how Saito came to see his gaze.
But he had been meant to be something. An heir. A legacy. A boy for the Sejima family, likely made to carry on the political legacy, or perhaps take up some other big-shot job. A nonprofit organization’s head? Something charitable, a hand so nice and clean, all for the public to eat out of.
Could it have gone differently?
That thought stops him cold.
It’s not his.
It’s So’s.
Some fading echo deep in the neural sludge of this man’s mind. Looping. Looping, looping, looping —
…
……
Maybe they could have.
He doesn’t have time to waste on sentiment. Not now. He double-checks the laptop’s connection, logs into the account he made just for this…
Click.
The stream goes live. And it doesn’t take long. Viewers pour in like flies — curiosity, boredom, and morbid thrill always draw a crowd, don’t they? It helps to have a popular face on the stream, too.
There she is. A-Set. Strapped to a cold steel table. One eye gouged out, a red, dripping cavity in her skull. Above her, a steel industrial saw, attached to a massive machine. It’s only made for cutting ice, but...
There’s a plush, almost cuddly mascot costume, steady at the controls. Just a polar bear. With beady eyes, big paws, and little ears. It’s not what you’d expect from a murderer. It’s almost silly. Is this some bizzare joke?
The chat erupts.
“Is this real?”
“Wtf”
“Tesa???”
But Saito ignores it. He’s already moving. Authorities won’t take long to catch on, after all. This is a risky endeavor.
He lowers the lever, and the saw jolts to life, shrieking as it descends toward her. Saito steps out of frame. Let them watch. Let Date watch. Let the world see what he’s capable of. Let them know what they’ll be getting back.
And then — that voice.
“Tesa! Hold on, I’ll save you!”
Ota. The idiot barrels in, blind to everything but her. He sprints past the polar bear. He pulls the lever up. He raises his hands.
“Stay away from Tesa!”
And he charges.
It’s really not much of a fight. Not in this body, not in this suit. Ota’s strength is desperation, but desperation dies quickly. The knife Iris brought ends up in him. Ota’s own mother’s knife. One clean motion. One clean wound. He drops, and so, the stream continues. The polar bear turns back to the saw. The lever goes down.
The blade inches closer.
Watch her die.
Lower…
WATCH HER DIE.
Lower…
WATCH HER DIE, KANAME DATE.
Then — an explosion.
A burst of red. A beautiful splatter. The feed distorts, camera splattered with the richest crimson. But the image lingers as it thins and drips. Saito can’t hear the sound over the chaos, both from the scene itself and his heart in his ears, but he doesn’t need to. He sees it. It’s enough. It’s satisfying. Deep down, this body, this mind, feels a burden lifted. This is what he wants. This is what he needs.
He steps back over to the camera and ends the stream. At first, he considers leaving Ota on the floor, but he could be an example… or a distraction. Some stalker that took Iris out. Then himself right after.
He doesn’t waste any time. He gets Iris off the bench, both halves, and sets her aside. With considerable effort, he works his way out of the costume, and takes a nice, deep breath. The cold air feels great right now. But he’s got to hurry.
He maneuvers Ota into the costume while the saw resets to its starting position. Up again.
He positions Ota on the bench. The saw begins its descent again.
And as much as he’d like to watch it come down, he can’t get blood all over himself right now, can he? He’d already been so careful not to get Ota’s blood all over himself. Saito doesn’t care much to see the boy die, anyway.
So he leaves.
[ VI ]
Dear Father,
What a shame,
that it ended this way.
Truly.
But tell me —
who could have stopped it?
Surely, not I.
By the time you ever bothered to care, my mind had already claimed its place over me.
What semblance of humanity I ever had was replaced,
by something far more.
There was no room left in it for your concern.
And I learned, eventually,
how to make something beautiful of that, too.
────────── ──────────
There’s a vase in the Sejima mansion.
A tall, pristine thing — white porcelain, lovingly adorned with delicate blue vines and flowers. The kind of beauty only money and obsessive care can preserve. It gleams in the light, untouched by time or dust, perfect, in every visible way.
At least, on the outside.
Inside, it tells a different story.
Its inner walls are smeared with deep reds and rotting browns. The stains cling to the porcelain as if the vase had always been meant for this — to hold not flowers, but flesh. Perhaps it was always this rotten on the inside.
…
So Sejima.
Chopped into pieces like some unwanted meat market discard. Folded, stuffed, wedged into that elegant container. Not all of him made it in so nicely. His head — what's left of it — has a hole blown clean through. His left eye is gone. He had been packed in there with great haste. There’s traces of spit, of bile, but not as remnants of disrespect.
To cut up what is left of your roots is to sever part of your heart with it.
No matter the mind, you can never truly be ready for such a thing.
The vase waits in silence. Beautiful. Blooming with filth.
A maid will find it, eventually.
But Saito will be long gone.
────────── ──────────
DAMN IT!
THIS SHOULD HAVE BEEN SO EASY!
This final stop before home should have been so, so easy.
But no.
That damned detective…
Producing an explosion from no more than flour and a special bullet is perhaps something Saito would find intriguing, any other time. Something he may try if he ever had the time or means.
Now, it was just annoying.
He stares at Kaname Date from across the interrogation room table. This body’s shoulder and leg ache dully from sustained injury, but he can’t be bothered to pay it enough mind. He still fidgets, and he’s beyond willing to see this to the oh-so-close end.
And Date looks dumbfounded.
He’s staring at Boss, after all. Or…
Shizue Kuranushi. Boss, as everyone calls her. 42 years old. A woman with secrets worth keeping…
Boss just isn’t Boss. Not anymore.
Date sees it. Sees through her. Through the skin and bones — the charade of authority and charisma. He sees him. Saito.
Because Saito Sejima is inside Boss’s body now. The final transfer. The final deception. One last masquerade before home.
But the game’s over.
He’s caught. Cornered.
This should have ended with Date on the floor. With Mizuki mourning. With the world watching, horror struck by what the New Cyclops Killer had done.
Instead…
The detonated flour. The bullet rig. The one moment of brilliance from Date that Saito hadn’t accounted for. Because even with all the minds he had borrowed — all the bodies, all the kills — he had overlooked the one variable he could never understand:
Heart.
Not empathy. Not sympathy. Not guilt. But something deeper.
The kind of reckless, determined, impossible will that someone like Kaname Date could call upon at the worst moment and somehow survive through.
And now here they were.
“You think you’ve won,” Saito sneers, and it’s Boss’s mouth that moves. Her voice is calm and cold, but wrong. Wrong, because Date knows her. Knows the subtle twitch of her eyes, the rhythm of her tone. Knows how off it all is. “But you haven’t. You’re just postponing the inevitable.
Date’s knuckles tighten.
“Don’t… don’t even pretend you understand inevitability,” he mutters. “You lost the second you made it personal."
“Don’t talk like you know me, Date. You couldn’t comprehend what it meant to grow up in my own mind. In my own world. A container for someone else’s wants. I was never made to be a person. So I made myself into something else. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“You made yourself a monster.”
“I made myself free.”
“Now, give me back my body.”