CH2

Humanity, really is a curse. We don't choose to be born and we don't choose how we die. Does free will really exist? These thoughts drowned me.

 I stared down at the lifeless body in front of me. kill or be killed, really is a twisted way to live, isn't it? But this Is the life I chose, no, it chose me. the moment I drove this blade into his chest.

My face stared back from the pool of blood: hollow, smeared red. A killer, I really did become a killer, everything my parents warned me not to do, I have successfully done each one. I wonder the look my father would have on his face if he saw me right now, happiness that I'm alive? Or disgusted that his "idol" son became a murderer, he would probably prefer I died than stain his perfect legacy with blood. 

 But everyone's killed, right? A fish, a bug—does it matter if it's human? It's still life. I laughed, the sound harsh against the dripping pipes overhead.  Justifying myself now? I really am as weak and cowardly as my father. NO! I took a life; my bitch of a father could never do that…I am stronger and better than him.

The knife slipped, clattering against the stone floor, its echo a scream in the silence. What am I? is a human who takes a human life…human? But do I really want to be human? Humanity disgusts me, but would I really want to be a killer? My first kill, at the age of sixteen, yet I don't feel regret or fear. I really did die a long time before this happened.

 I staggered away from the pool of blood. Glared one last time at the lifeless body before leaving the room. No! the weight of what I've done just hasn't hit me yet…. I'm still human, what is wrong with me? I say I hate humanity and yet I still try to justify this and cling onto it. I'm as useless as my father. These thoughts flowed through my mind as I made my way through Tsuboya's cold, lonely streets, the salt-stink of the docks clinging to the air. The cobblestones gleamed faintly under flickering lamps, emptier than usual—or maybe my deed had carved a deeper rift between me and the world. Truth was, feeling something, anything, after killing made me feel better. I couldn't hide it from myself: In the end, I'm still human.

 The moon light lit up my house. It looked like a scene out of a movie. It mocked me—cozy, safe, everything I wasn't. I wanted the ground to crack open, swallow me, absolve me of this sin. I'm just a kid; I want that warmth. No! My eyes watered, vision blurring as I shuffled forward, boots dragging on the gravel path. I climbed the rickety ladder I'd propped under my window earlier that night, each creak flashing back to my escape—sneaking out to prove I wasn't my father's puppet. If I'd stayed, he'd still be alive.

I shut my eyes, drowning out the world: the cackle of electricity in the cables, the wind's low whistle through warped planks, the chirping of birds too cheerful for dawn. Too perfect, too still—I hated it. Do I deserve to feel this way?

 I shoved the window open and climbed into my room, the echo of the knife's clatter still ringing in my ears. My legs gave out, and I dropped onto my bed, the mattress sagging under me. Death—the last thought before darkness swallowed me whole

A knock jolted me awake.

"Good morning, Nagumo. Get ready for school," my mom's voice seeped through the door, soft but firm.

I yawned, blinking twice. A dream? The blood crusting my hands said otherwise—dark, flaking, real. I dragged myself up, washed it off in the sink, the water swirling red then clear, and got ready. Downstairs, breakfast waited: sausage, rice, the usual.

"Where's Dad?" I asked, scanning the empty kitchen.

Mom's face tightened, the same look she gave every time he worked late at city hall.

"I see," I mumbled, chewing the sausage, its salt sharp on my tongue.

I grabbed my bag and headed for the door.

"What happened yesterday, Nagumo?" Her words sliced through me, freezing me mid-step. Did she know?

"What happened yesterday?" she pressed, quieter now.

I turned slowly, heart hammering, like a thief caught red-handed.

"You kept screaming and thrashing in your sleep," she said, eyes searching mine.

Relief flooded me, heavy and cold. "Oh. Just a bad dream, I guess."

"If something's bothering you, you can tell me."

"Nothing's wrong," I said, stepping out.

 You'd never see me the same once I told you that…..that's the fate of killers.

The walk to school cut through Tsuboya's gut, a jagged path of chipped stone and gutter rot. Silence hung heavy, broken only by the scrape of my boots and the faint clatter of a tin can kicked by the wind. Salt and ash stung my nose, the air thick with the docks' decay—a stench that clung like blood I couldn't wash off. Memories of yesterday's events lingered in my mind, a sin I would never be able to wash off, except I paid with my demise. An eye for an eye they say.

My school loomed through Tsuboya's haze, a squat hulk of cracked brick and iron bars choking the horizon. A prison—chains I didn't forge but couldn't break. The air thickened with coal dust and the sour reek of the wharf, stinging my throat as I glared at its glowing windows, warm lies flickering in the dawn. My boots scraped the uneven stone, each step a dull thud against the city's pulse.

I hated it—every hall, every desk—as much as the next bastard trapped here. That shared loathing clawed at me, a thread of humanity I couldn't cut. Disgusting. I'd spilled blood, carved my soul into Tsuboya's rot, yet here I was, tethered to their petty miseries. My lip curled, tasting the bile of it—proof I wasn't dead inside, no matter how much I wished it.

 I made my way into the building, The hall reeked of sweat and chalk, students and teachers brushing past, their stares carving into me—sharp, knowing, peeling back my skin. It was sickening.

A damp breeze hit me as I stepped into the classroom, heavy with Tsuboya's salt and a faint whiff of rot. The chipped desks sprawled like graves, the windows glowing with a warmth that mocked me.

"Nagumo!" A shrill voice cut through, sharp as a blade's edge.

 I followed the voice to be met by the gaze of a familiar face. Akirah.

 Akirah was my friend. My only friend, since the days I learned my name. I somewhat trusted him and could tell him some things I couldn't bury. I walked over to him and sank into the chair beside him, the wood creaking under my weight. My father runs Tsuboya—its mayor, its puppet master. He'd stuck close, even when my father's mayor coin glittered—nights at our house stretching into months. I'd thought it was greed, but time proved him real.

 Akirah's grin faltered, his fingers tapping our old signal on the desk. 'What's up, Nagumo?

 My face hardened, eyes locking his. "Akirah, I need to tell you something."

 "I don't like that look on your face," he replied. "what's wrong?"

 As if on cue, the teacher bust in through the door. "something really bad just happened."

 The room froze, a silence thick as Tsuboya's fog. My pulse hammered, blood roaring in my ears.

"A man's been found dead," He said, pausing. "Stabbed in the chest."

"Who did it?" a voice snapped from the back.

"We don't know," He replied. "Police are hunting the killer."

My gut churned, the room swaying as her words sank in—stabbed in the chest. My own hand twitched, still feeling the blade's bite.

"Stay safe," He added, voice flat. "No late nights alone, stick together, report anything odd." He turned and left.

The class erupted. Chattering overlapping.

"Nagumo."

I twisted, meeting Akirah's stare—steady, too knowing.

"Did you kill him?"