Chapter Text
The alley was drenched in shadow, the only light coming from the faint, flickering glow of a busted streetlamp at the end of the narrow path.
It was the kind of place people avoided—forgotten and filthy, tucked between the music building and the maintenance wing of the school.
Perfect.
Shotaro leaned against the wall, the rough brick scraping against his jacket. His fingers adjusted the smooth, chilling surface of the mask covering his face. Blank white, no features except for hollow eyes and a slit for the voice changer inside.
He could hear the distant echo of Ryuji's humming as the boy approached, oblivious.
Ryuji—a senior in the music club—had made the mistake of flirting with Sungchan after practice. Brushing Sungchan's hair out of his eyes, laughing too loud at his jokes, finding every excuse to touch him.
Shotaro had watched, simmering behind a neutral smile.
Now, Ryuji was going to pay for it.
Footsteps approached—slow, casual. Ryuji was probably heading toward the bus stop, his guitar case slung over one shoulder.
Shotaro stepped into the alley, blocking the way.
Ryuji startled, taking a step back. "Uh, hey, man. You good?"
Shotaro didn't speak. Instead, he let the voice changer distort his voice into something mechanical, cold.
"You're in my way," Shotaro said, the sound hollow and inhuman.
Ryuji laughed awkwardly. "Alright, chill. I'll go around."
He tried to move past, but Shotaro shifted, blocking him again.
Ryuji frowned. "Seriously, what's your problem?"
Shotaro pulled the knife from under his jacket with a smooth, practiced motion. The metal caught a sliver of light and gleamed coldly.
Ryuji's eyes widened. "Whoa, dude, what the hell—"
Too late.
Shotaro lunged, swift and silent. The knife plunged into Ryuji's stomach with a sickening sound, muffled by the music case as it slipped from the boy's shoulder and hit the ground with a hollow thud.
Ryuji gasped, hands scrambling to push Shotaro away, but Shotaro didn't waver. He drove the blade in again. And again. Controlled. Clinical. Not messy like the first kill had been. He knew exactly where to aim now.
Ryuji staggered back, sliding down the grimy wall, leaving a dark smear behind him. He tried to speak, but only a thin gurgle came out.
Shotaro knelt beside him, tilting his head almost curiously, like a child observing a broken toy.
"You shouldn't have touched him," he said, his voice still warped by the changer, emotionless and final.
Ryuji's hand twitched once, then stilled.
Standing, Shotaro pulled off the mask and stared at it for a moment, feeling the sticky blood on his gloves. Then, with a small, deliberate gesture, he placed the bloody mask back over Ryuji's slack face, adjusting it carefully so the hollow eyes stared upward into nothing.
It would be found with him.
The mask would tell the story without words: this one belonged to him.
He wiped the blade clean on Ryuji's shirt, sheathed it, and vanished into the darkness without looking back.
By morning, the rumors would start.
There wasn't just one killer.
There were two.
One who left roses—and one who left a mask.