Tokyo, November 2025.
A city that swallowed people alive, spat out bones, and pretended to shine.
Kuroe Satori, 17 years old, senior year of high school, perfect grades no one noticed, fake smile glued to his face like a cheap Halloween mask.
I was the ghost of my own life. Adopted by a family that used me as a trophy – "Look at our adopted son, so obedient!" – but treated me like trash when the cameras were off. At school, I was the "invisible nerd": too good to be a friend, too boring to be an enemy.
And Mizuki… oh, Mizuki.
My perfect girlfriend. Wavy brown hair, eyes that sparkled when I paid for the movies, a smile that made me think I was worth something. I bought her stupid gifts – a plush bear last month, a cheap necklace she said she loved. I thought about her all the time, imagining a future where she was the only real piece of my rotten world. She was my everything. My reason to keep pretending.
I was already broken inside, pieces held together with hot glue and old duct tape.
Until I got the message.
17:43. My phone buzzed like a time bomb in my pocket. Unknown number.
"If you want to see what your little girlfriend does after class, equipment room at the gym, 6 p.m. sharp.
Don't miss the show, clown."
I laughed alone in the crowded street. Clown? Whoever it was had a sense of humor. I knew it was a trap – who sends anonymous messages if not to screw with you? But I went. Because deep down, a part of me wanted to watch the world burn.
I got to the gym at 5:59 p.m. The sun had already set, leaving the place in a gray twilight that matched my life. The equipment room door was ajar, leaking low moans. I pushed it slowly, heart pounding like a muffled drum.
There she was: Mizuki on all fours on the dirty floor, skirt hiked up, moaning loudly while the baseball team captain took her from behind like she was a trophy. He grunted, she gasped, and I… I stood there, watching for a full 30 seconds.
I didn't scream. I didn't run. I didn't cry.
I laughed. A low, hoarse laugh that started in my stomach and rose like bile. I laughed so hard I had to lean against the wall to stay standing.
They didn't see me. I slipped out quietly, closing the door without a sound, laughing the whole way home.
No one knew I knew.
Not yet.
On the way home, the number sent another message.
"Liked the show? Want to make a bigger one?
Meet me on the school rooftop tomorrow at midnight.
Come alone.
— H."
For the first time in years, I felt something real. Not anger. Not sadness. Curiosity. That laugh had opened a door inside me, and I wanted to see what was on the other side.