The apartment smelled like stale ramen and desperation masked by synthetic cherry air freshener. Celeste stood in the doorway of Rex's bedroom, her romantic fantasies crumbling like ash between her fingers.
She'd imagined this moment differently. Candlelight, perhaps. Soft music. The nervous electricity of two people crossing a threshold together. Instead, she found herself staring at what could only be described as a shrine to the impossible.
The figurines lined three separate shelves, each posed in ways that defied both physics and decency. Vinyl girls frozen mid-twirl, their skirts perpetually lifted by an invisible wind, their eyes impossibly large and vacant. Some were positioned suggestively—bent over, looking back over bare shoulders, hands pressed to their mouths in expressions of exaggerated innocence that made Celeste's stomach turn.
"That's Asuna," Rex said, materializing beside her with the enthusiasm of a museum curator. He pointed to a figure in armor that somehow managed to both protect nothing and reveal everything. "Limited edition. Only five hundred made worldwide."
Celeste's throat felt tight. "She looks... young."
"She's actually a five-thousand-year-old dragon spirit," Rex explained with absolute seriousness, completely missing—or perhaps ignoring—her discomfort. "That's the beauty of it. The aesthetics of purity without the complications of actual age."
The implications of that statement hung in the air like something rotten.
Her eyes traveled to the posters. Wall-to-wall illustrations of girls who looked barely pubescent, their bodies twisted into impossible poses, their clothing seemingly held on by prayers and double-sided tape. One poster showed a girl in what appeared to be a school uniform, but the skirt barely covered anything, and her expression was a disturbing mix of innocence and invitation.
"My Girlfriend's a Vampire Maid," Celeste read aloud from one of the Blu-ray cases, her voice hollow. "Heavenly Battle Angels. Innocence Academy." She turned to look at Rex, really look at him, and wondered how she'd missed the signs. "These titles sound like—"
"Works of art," Rex interrupted, his tone defensive now, as if he'd detected the shift in her. "You wouldn't understand. It's a whole subculture. We call ourselves 'men of culture.'" He said it with such pride, as if he'd just announced membership to Mensa.
"Culture," she repeated flatly.
"Yeah." He pulled an art book from the shelf, flipping it open to a page that made Celeste look away. The illustration was technically impressive—she could acknowledge the skill in the line work, the shading—but it depicted a girl who couldn't have been more than fourteen in a position that no person should ever be drawn in. "Look at the detail. The artistry. The way the artist captures that perfect moment of—"
"Stop." Celeste held up her hand. Her voice came out sharper than she intended. "Just... stop."
Rex's eyebrows furrowed, that smug smile faltering for just a moment. "What's wrong?"
What's wrong? The question almost made her laugh. What was wrong was that she'd spent three months falling for a man who apparently couldn't distinguish between art and exploitation, between appreciating animation and fetishizing the appearance of children.
"These girls," she gestured vaguely at the collection surrounding them, "they're not real, Rex."
"That's the point!" His eyes lit up again, completely misreading her concern. "Real girls—3D girls—they're so complicated. They have opinions, baggage, expectations. They age. They change. But these..." He touched one of the figurines almost reverently. "These are eternal. Perfect. They'll never disappoint you, never argue, never ask for more than you're willing to give."
The words hit Celeste like a physical blow. She thought of every conversation they'd had, every time she'd shared her thoughts and he'd nodded along with that indulgent smile. Had he been tolerating her? Waiting for her to shut up so he could come home to his fantasy girls who would never talk back?
"So what am I to you?" The question escaped before she could stop it. "Some kind of... placeholder? A 3D approximation of what you really want?"
Rex shrugged, and that casual gesture hurt more than anything else. "I mean, you're cute and all. Fun to hang out with. But come on, Celeste." He gestured to his collection. "You have to admit, you can't compete with this level of perfection."
Something cracked inside her chest. Not broke—breaking implied something sudden, clean. This was a slow fracture, spreading like ice across a windshield.
"These aren't perfect, Rex. They're not even real."
"That's what makes them perfect." He said it so matter-of-factly, as if explaining basic arithmetic to a child. "No morning breath. No mood swings. No complicated feelings. Just pure, uncomplicated appreciation."
Celeste's hands were shaking. She clasped them together to hide it. "And the fact that they look like children doesn't bother you?"
"They're not children," Rex said, his tone growing irritated now, defensive. "They're drawings. Fictional characters. And most of them are technically adults anyway, or immortal beings, or—look, I don't expect you to understand. It takes a certain level of sophistication to appreciate the nuances."
Sophistication. He'd just called his collection of sexualized cartoon girls sophistication.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, grateful for the distraction, but the notification only made things worse. Rex had added her to a group chat hours ago—"The Culture Club"—and she'd been too distracted to check it.
The messages were rolling in:
*BeastMaster69: New episode of Innocence Sensei dropped. The beach scene? *Chef's kiss**
*TiddieSamurai: Bro, that angle when she bent over was GODLY*
*Rex_The_Cultured: My 3D date is here lmao. Showing her the collection*
*WaifuWarrior: RIP dude, she's gonna freak*
*Rex_The_Cultured: Nah, she's cool. Well, kind of. She's trying lol*
*TiddieSamurai: 3D girls never get it. That's why 2D is superior*
*BeastMaster69: WAIFUS OVER LAIFUS*
Celeste's vision blurred at the edges. She scrolled further back, finding weeks of conversations she'd never seen. Detailed discussions of "best girl" contests with criteria that made her skin crawl. Memes mocking "3D women" for having standards, for aging, for existing. Screenshots of girls they'd matched with on dating apps, shared in the group for brutal mockery.
And there, from three days ago, was Rex's message:
*Rex_The_Cultured: Celeste wants to come over this weekend. Should I tell her about my power level?*
*WaifuWarrior: Hide your shame. 3D girls can't handle the truth*
*Rex_The_Cultured: Nah, fuck it. If she can't appreciate culture, she's not worth my time anyway*
*BeastMaster69: Based. Let her see what real taste looks like*
"Celeste?" Rex's voice pulled her back to the present. He was watching her with vague concern, the way someone might watch a pet that had eaten something questionable. "You okay? You look kinda pale."
She looked up at him, this man she'd thought she loved, and saw a stranger. Worse than a stranger—a caricature. A grown man who'd convinced himself that his inability to connect with actual human women was actually a sign of his refined taste.
"I need to go," she heard herself say.
"Wait, seriously?" Rex looked genuinely surprised. "Come on, don't be like that. I thought you were different. Open-minded."
"Open-minded," she repeated numbly.
"Yeah. Not like other girls who get all weird about this stuff." He moved closer, and she fought the urge to step back. "I thought you understood me."
I thought I did too, she wanted to say. But she was starting to realize she'd understood nothing at all. She'd been so desperate for her storybook romance that she'd ignored every red flag, every uncomfortable comment, every moment where Rex had revealed exactly who he was.
She'd been in love with a character, too. A Rex that existed only in her imagination—charming, deep, secretly vulnerable beneath his ironic exterior. She'd written him a personality that didn't exist, given him depths he'd never possessed.
The real Rex was standing in front of her, surrounded by his plastic girls, genuinely unable to understand why any real woman would find this disturbing.
"I have to go," she said again, moving toward the door.
"Your loss," Rex called after her, and she could hear the shrug in his voice. Already dismissing her, already moving on. "The 2D world is always there for me. Always perfect. Always—"
She closed the door on his words, but they followed her down the stairs, into her car, all the way home.
That night, Celeste lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her phone glowing beside her. She'd left the Culture Club chat but couldn't stop herself from checking Rex's social media. He'd already posted about their "breakup"—a meme showing a crying wojak labeled "3D girls" next to a serene anime girl labeled "my waifu."
The comments were predictable:
"Dodged a bullet bro"
"She couldn't handle your power level"
"2D girls never leave you"
"Real women are overrated anyway"
Celeste's hands clenched around her phone. These weren't just random internet trolls. These were real men, living real lives, working real jobs, moving through the world with this poison in their hearts. Men who'd convinced themselves that their emotional immaturity was actually sophistication, that their inability to handle the complexity of real relationships was actually a refined choice.
How many other Celestes were out there? How many women had wasted their time, their hearts, their hopes on men who saw them as inherently inferior to drawings?
The anger that filled her then was like nothing she'd ever felt before. It was cold and clear and absolutely certain. It burned away the romantic delusions, the fairytale endings, the soft hope that love would find a way.
Love was a lie. Or at least, the love she'd believed in was. And these men—these self-proclaimed "cultured" men—were not misguided souls who needed patience and understanding.
They were a disease. And diseases needed to be cut out.
Celeste got out of bed and went to her kitchen. She opened the knife drawer and looked at her options. The santoku was too large, too unwieldy. The paring knife too small. But the utility knife—five inches of German steel, sharp enough to slide through flesh like butter—that was perfect.
She held it up to the light, watching it gleam, and thought of Rex's smug smile. His casual dismissal. His absolute certainty that his fantasy world was superior to anything real.
And she smiled.
It was time for the Culture Club to learn a very important lesson about the real world.
Reality, unlike their precious waifus, could fight back.
...
The park was empty at 2 AM, just the way Celeste had planned it.
She'd chosen Riverside Park for its isolated eastern edge, where the streetlights had been broken for weeks and the city council hadn't bothered to fix them. The jogging path curved behind a dense copse of trees, creating a natural blind spot invisible from the main road. She'd scouted it three times over the past week, timing the security patrols, noting the camera positions.
There were none that reached this far.
Rex arrived exactly on time, hands shoved in his pockets, that familiar cocky swagger in his step. He'd responded to her text with predictable enthusiasm: *"Changed your mind? Told you you'd come around. Nobody stays mad at Rex for long 😏"*
She watched him approach from her position on the bench, her heart remarkably steady. She'd expected nerves, fear, some last-minute hesitation. Instead, she felt only a crystalline clarity, as if someone had finally wiped away years of smudged glass between her and reality.
"Celeste!" He grinned, spreading his arms wide. "I knew you'd see reason. Most girls can't handle my level of culture, but you—"
"I've been thinking about what you said," she interrupted, standing slowly. She'd dressed carefully for this—dark jeans, a black hoodie, running shoes. Nothing distinctive. Nothing memorable. "About 2D versus 3D."
Rex's grin widened. "Yeah?"
"You were right." The lie tasted like copper on her tongue. "I was being closed-minded. Jealous, even."
"Hey, it's okay." He moved closer, magnanimous in his imagined victory. "A lot of girls get weird about it at first. But the truly cultured ones, they understand that it's not about them. It's about appreciating perfection."
"Tell me more," Celeste said softly, reaching into her hoodie pocket. Her fingers closed around the utility knife's handle. She'd wrapped the grip in electrical tape for better purchase. "I want to understand."
Rex's eyes lit up the way they never had when she'd talked about her own interests, her own dreams. "Okay, so the thing about 2D is the purity, right? Like, they exist in this perfect state. No body hair, no weird smells, no complicated emotions—"
"No opinions," Celeste added, taking a step closer.
"Exactly!" Rex was animated now, hands gesturing wildly. "They never age, never get fat, never become bitter or demanding. They're eternally perfect. And the artistry—god, you should see some of the new releases. The detail they put into the physics, the way the clothing moves—"
"The way their skirts flip up," Celeste said flatly.
"Well, yeah, that's part of it. The male gaze isn't something to be ashamed of. It's natural. And 2D girls, they're designed for that. They exist for appreciation. Not like real women who—" He stopped, seeming to realize he was treading dangerous ground. "I mean, you get it now, right?"
Celeste pulled out the knife in one smooth motion. The blade caught what little moonlight filtered through the trees, a silver slash in the darkness.
Rex's expression shifted through several stages—confusion, disbelief, nervous laughter. "Whoa, what the fuck? Is that a—Celeste, this isn't funny."
"I'm not laughing," she said calmly. "Tell me, Rex. In all your favorite anime, when does the schoolgirl fight back?"
"What?" He took a step backward, his bravado cracking. "Celeste, put that away. You're being crazy—"
"Crazy." She advanced, matching his retreat step for step. "That's what you call women who have emotions, right? Who have expectations? Who want to be seen as human beings instead of inferior versions of your cartoon fantasies?"
"I never said—" His back hit a tree. His eyes darted left and right, calculating escape routes. "Look, if this is about the other night, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to hurt your feelings—"
"You didn't hurt my feelings, Rex." Celeste's voice remained eerily level. "You revealed your true self. And you know what? I'm grateful. You showed me exactly who you are. Who all of you are."
"All of who?" Panic was seeping into his voice now, his hands raised defensively. "Celeste, please—"
"The Culture Club. The men who think rejecting real women for drawings makes them sophisticated instead of stunted. The ones who've built an entire identity around their inability to handle human complexity."
"It's not like that—"
"Then explain it to me." She pressed the blade against his chest, not hard enough to cut yet, just enough for him to feel the pressure through his shirt. "Explain how it's normal to prefer illustrations of girls who look barely pubescent. Explain the 'five-thousand-year-old dragon' excuse. Explain why every single one of your precious waifus has the body of a teenager and the personality of a doormat."
Rex's breath came in short gasps. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool night air. "They're not real. It's fantasy. It doesn't hurt anyone—"
"It hurt me," Celeste said simply. "It hurts every woman who tries to connect with men like you, only to discover we're competing with the impossible. With eternal youth and eternal submission and eternal fucking silence."
"I'll delete it," Rex said quickly, desperately. "All of it. The figurines, the forums, everything. Just please—"
"You won't though." Celeste's eyes were cold, seeing through him completely. "You'll promise anything right now to survive. But the moment you're safe, you'll go right back. You'll post about the 'crazy bitch' who threatened you. You'll turn it into another joke in your group chat. Another story about how 3D girls can't handle real culture."
"I won't, I swear—"
"Here's what you don't understand, Rex." She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Your waifus can't fight back. They can't reject you. They can't tell you you're pathetic. They can't make you face the fact that you're a grown man who's chosen fantasy over growth, over challenge, over actual human connection."
The knife pierced fabric, then skin. Rex gasped, his eyes going wide.
"But I can," Celeste finished.
She'd researched this part carefully. The femoral artery ran down the inner thigh, carrying blood from the torso to the leg. Severe it, and a person had maybe three minutes before unconsciousness, five before death. She'd studied diagrams, watched medical videos, learned exactly where to cut.
Rex crumpled, his hands scrabbling uselessly at the wound. Blood, so much darker than she'd expected, pooled beneath him. His mouth opened and closed, making wet, desperate sounds.
Celeste crouched beside him, watching his eyes. She wanted to see the moment he understood. The moment the smug superiority drained away along with his blood.
"Your 2D girls," she said softly, "they'll never know you're gone. They'll never mourn you. They'll keep smiling their empty smiles for the next man who mistakes emotional cowardice for sophistication."
Rex's hand reached for her, trembling, pleading. She caught his wrist and held it, feeling his pulse flutter weakly beneath her fingers.
"But I'll remember," she continued. "I'll remember every woman you dismissed. Every girl who wasn't 'perfect' enough for your refined tastes. Every real human being you rejected in favor of your static fantasies."
His eyes glazed over. The hand went limp in hers.
Celeste stood, studying her work with clinical detachment. Blood saturated the ground, black in the darkness. The metallic smell was overwhelming, mixing with the earthier scent of disturbed soil.
She pulled out the note she'd prepared, written on plain printer paper with generic ballpoint pen. Nothing traceable. She placed it on Rex's chest, watching the paper slowly absorb red at the edges:
*"Here's to all the 'laifus' who weren't worth your time. —The Cultured Killer"*
The walk back to her car was surreal. Her hands were steady, her breathing normal. She'd brought a change of clothes, sealed in plastic bags in her trunk, along with bleach wipes and hydrogen peroxide. She'd studied forensics, learned about luminol and DNA transfer and trace evidence.
The hoodie, jeans, and shoes went into a garbage bag. She wiped down every inch of exposed skin, then dressed in fresh clothes. The utility knife received special attention—she'd seen enough crime shows to know that blood could hide in the smallest crevices. She'd dispose of it miles away, dropped into a storm drain in a completely different neighborhood.
Back in her apartment, Celeste stood in the shower for forty minutes, watching pink water swirl down the drain. She scrubbed until her skin was raw, washing away any remaining physical evidence.
But she couldn't wash away the memory of Rex's eyes going dark. The wet sound of steel piercing flesh. The surprising weight of a dying man's hand in hers.
And she realized, with a strange distant clarity, that she didn't want to.
---
The news broke two days later. "Man Found Dead in Riverside Park—Police Investigating." The article was brief, clinical. They didn't mention the note. That detail, she knew, they'd hold back. Something only the killer would know.
Celeste read the article three times, searching for any mention of witnesses, evidence, leads. Nothing. Just the basic facts: male victim, late twenties, apparent stabbing, investigation ongoing.
She opened her laptop and navigated to the Culture Club's forum. They had a Discord server too, but the forum was where they really congregated, where they posted under the protection of anonymity.
The thread about Rex appeared within hours of the news breaking:
**URGENT: Rex_The_Cultured is DEAD**
*Posted by WaifuWarrior: Guys, this isn't a joke. Rex got murdered. They found him in a park. The news isn't saying much but his sister confirmed it. What the fuck???*
The responses poured in:
*BeastMaster69: Holy shit, seriously? Was it a robbery?*
*TiddieSamurai: Did they catch who did it?*
*WaifuWarrior: No idea. Police aren't releasing details.*
*AnimeAscended: This is fucked up. Rex was a good dude.*
*BeastMaster69: Maybe it was that girl he was seeing? The 3D one who got weird about his collection*
*WaifuWarrior: Celeste? Nah, she seemed harmless. Kind of basic but not psycho*
*TiddieSamurai: Never trust 3D girls. They're all crazy underneath*
Celeste smiled at her screen. They had no idea. They were already dismissing her as "basic," as "harmless."
She created a new account, something generic and untraceable: *CultureEnthusiast47*
*CultureEnthusiast47: New to the community. Just heard about Rex. That's terrible. Are you guys worried it could happen to others?*
*BeastMaster69: Nah, probably just wrong place wrong time. Rex was always going to weird spots at weird hours*
*WaifuWarrior: Yeah, this is why I keep my power level hidden IRL. Too many people don't understand*
*AnimeAscended: The 3D world is dangerous. This is why 2D is superior. At least waifus can't murder you*
*TiddieSamurai: WAIFUS OVER LAIFUS. Rex would have wanted us to remember that*
The callousness took her breath away. Their friend—if they even understood friendship—was dead, and within hours they'd turned it into another joke, another confirmation of their twisted philosophy.
Celeste scrolled through the forum, noting names, locations when members carelessly revealed them, patterns of behavior. Martin—user TiddieSamurai—had mentioned living in the same city. He'd posted photos of his "collection" that showed distinctive wallpaper in the background. A quick reverse image search of his profile picture, run through facial recognition software freely available online, gave her his full name and address.
She opened a new browser tab and began her research. Martin worked as a software developer for a local tech company. He was active on multiple forums, always eager to show off his latest acquisitions. His Twitter was public, filled with retweets of anime girls and complaints about "Western feminists ruining media."
Last week, he'd posted: *"Took the day off to attend the Sakura-Con merch showcase. Real life can wait—my waifu collection calls."*
There was a photo attached. Martin grinning beside a life-size cardboard cutout of a pink-haired character in a maid outfit. The cutout was positioned so the character appeared to be embracing him. The comments were predictably supportive:
*"Based and cultured"*
*"2D love is true love"*
*"Real women could never"*
Celeste studied Martin's face in the photo—weak chin, thin lips curved in entitled satisfaction, eyes that held the same smug certainty she'd seen in Rex. The certainty that his preferences made him superior, that his rejection of real women was a choice rather than a coping mechanism for his failures.
She clicked through more of his posts. Martin was even more vocal than Rex had been, constantly pontificating about "the decline of 3D women," sharing memes that mocked women for aging, for having standards, for wanting relationships instead of serving as replacements for anime characters.
One post in particular made her hands clench: *"Reminder that 3D women hit the wall at 25. 2D waifus stay perfect forever. Choose wisely, brothers."*
The replies were enthusiastic agreement, dozens of men congratulating each other on their "wisdom" in preferring fantasy to reality.
Celeste created a fake profile—cute picture stolen from an Instagram model's page, interests carefully curated to match the Culture Club's preferences. She called herself Sakura, because of course she did. These men were nothing if not predictable.
She sent Martin a direct message: *"Hi! I'm new to the community. I love your collection—it's so rare to find a guy who really appreciates the artistry. Would love to talk more about your favorites?"*
Martin responded within minutes. Of course he did.
---
Over the next week, Celeste cultivated the Sakura persona carefully. She let Martin mansplain his favorite series, agreed enthusiastically with his opinions, asked breathless questions about his collection. She was everything these men wanted—appreciative, deferential, interested in them.
It was horrifyingly easy.
"Most girls don't get it," Martin typed during one of their late-night conversations. "They get jealous of 2D. But you seem different."
"I just think it's amazing," Celeste-as-Sakura responded, "how you guys have found something pure in such a complicated world."
"EXACTLY!" Even through text, his excitement was palpable. "See, you understand. The 3D world is so corrupted. Feminism ruined women. But 2D preserves what's good and beautiful."
Celeste's jaw clenched, but her fingers remained steady on the keyboard: "I'd love to see your collection in person sometime. If that's not too forward?"
There was a pause. Then: "Really? You'd want to?"
"Of course! I've always wanted to meet a real man of culture."
The pause was longer this time. Celeste could almost hear his internal debate—suspicion warring with ego, caution losing to the intoxicating idea that a girl, a real girl, wanted to see his shrine to cartoon characters.
Ego won. It always did with these men.
"How about Saturday? I'm free in the evening."
"Perfect," Celeste typed. "Can't wait."
---
Saturday arrived wrapped in grey clouds and cold drizzle. Celeste spent the morning preparing with the same methodical care she'd used for Rex. New burner phone, fresh utility knife, change of clothes sealed in plastic. She'd learned from true crime documentaries that the successful killers weren't the smartest—they were the most patient, the most careful.
She drove to Martin's apartment complex, parking three blocks away in a lot with no security cameras. The building was one of those modern constructions, all glass and steel, with a lobby that pretended to be sophisticated but couldn't quite hide its cheapness.
Martin buzzed her up immediately. Third floor, apartment 312. She memorized the security camera locations—one in the lobby, one in each hallway. She kept her head down, hood up, moving quickly but not suspiciously so.
Martin opened the door with an eager smile that died slightly when he saw her. Reality versus profile picture—the eternal disappointment of online dating.
"Sakura?" he asked, uncertainty creeping into his voice.
"The one and only." Celeste smiled, wide and bright and empty. "Sorry, my camera adds like twenty pounds. Can I come in?"
He hesitated for just a moment, and she could see the calculation in his eyes. She wasn't quite what he'd expected—older looking, less deferential in person, something harder in her eyes. But his ego, his loneliness, his desperate need for validation won out.
They always did.
"Yeah, sure, come in."
The apartment was exactly what she'd expected. The collection was even more extensive than Rex's, covering not just shelves but entire walls. Posters of impossible girls in impossible poses. Figurines arranged in careful displays, some behind glass like museum pieces. Body pillows—three of them—propped on the couch with printed girls embracing their emptiness.
"This is..." Celeste paused, searching for the right tone. "Impressive."
Martin beamed, his suspicion melting under the warmth of approval. "Thanks! I've been collecting for eight years now. That's Rem—" he pointed to a blue-haired figure, "—and that's Sakura Eternal, your namesake. Isn't she perfect?"
The figure in question looked approximately fourteen, dressed in a school uniform that violated every dress code ever written. Her pose suggested she was falling, mid-air, skirt lifted to reveal white underwear, expression frozen in perpetual surprise.
"She's something," Celeste agreed.
"I have the premium edition too, want to see?" Martin was already moving toward his bedroom, so confident in his domain. "It's a special variant where she's—"
The utility knife slid from Celeste's sleeve into her palm in one practiced motion. She'd rehearsed the movement dozens of times in her apartment, perfecting the draw until it was muscle memory.
"—in her swimsuit and—"
The knife entered through his lower back, angled upward toward the kidney. Martin's words cut off in a choked gasp. He spun, eyes wide with shock and incomprehension, and Celeste struck again, this time aiming for the femoral artery she'd studied so carefully.
Blood sprayed across Sakura Eternal's perfect face.
Martin collapsed, hands scrabbling at the wounds, his mouth working soundlessly. The betrayal in his eyes was almost funny—as if his precious 2D world had somehow materialized into this nightmare.
Celeste crouched beside him, watching him bleed out across his hardwood floors. She thought of all his posts, all his smug certainty, all his contempt for real women packaged as sophistication.
"Here's what you didn't understand, Martin," she said softly, pulling out her prepared note. "2D girls can't protect you. They can't warn you. They can't save you. Because they're not real. They never were."
She placed the note on his chest as his eyes went glassy: *"Here's to all the 'laifus' who weren't worth your time. —The Cultured Killer"*
---
The news broke faster this time. Two murders, both targeting young men, both with the same calling card. The Culture Club forums exploded into panic.
**MARTIN IS DEAD TOO - CULTURED KILLER IS REAL**
*Posted by BeastMaster69: They found TiddieSamurai dead in his apartment. Same fucking note as Rex. "Here's to all the laifus who weren't worth your time." Someone is hunting us.*
The responses came fast and frightened:
*WaifuWarrior: This can't be real*
*AnimeAscended: Do we contact police?*
*BeastMaster69: And tell them what? We're being hunted for liking anime?*
*CultureVulture: This is why you keep your power level hidden. Never let 3Ds know your true self*
*AnimeAscended: You think it's a woman doing this?*
*BeastMaster69: Has to be. Some feminist psycho who can't handle that we've transcended the need for real women*
*WaifuWarrior: Or someone's girlfriend who got dumped for being inferior to waifus*
Celeste read their speculation with cold satisfaction. Even now, even with two of their own dead, they couldn't help themselves. They had to make it about their superiority, about women being jealous rather than justifiably disgusted.
She scrolled through the member list, already researching her next target. There were so many to choose from. BeastMaster69, who'd posted detailed fantasies about anime characters that made her skin crawl. AnimeAscended, who ran a YouTube channel "defending" the sexualization of young-looking characters. CultureVulture, who'd created a tier list ranking real women he'd dated against his favorite anime girls (the real women had all scored below a C).
The Culture Club had given her an endless supply of targets, men who'd proudly documented their contempt for real women, their preference for fantasy, their absolute certainty that their dysfunction was actually enlightenment.
Celeste leaned back in her chair, feeling something she hadn't felt since before she met Rex: purpose.
She wasn't a romantic anymore, wasn't a girl waiting for her storybook ending.
She was the Cultured Killer.
And the Culture Club's reckoning had only just begun.