This Is Based On Talentless Nana, And Considering The Story Is AI Generated The Thriller Aspect Does

Chapter 13: Rentaro's Rampage

The end of the first tumultuous school year was fast approaching, and with it, the much-touted, almost feverishly anticipated third-term “leaving party.” For most of the surviving students, those who hadn’t mysteriously vanished or succumbed to tragic “accidents,” it was a time of genuine, if somewhat brittle, excitement – a chance to celebrate the end of arduous exams, the temporary cessation of classes, and the upcoming blissful release of the term break. For Arthur Ainsworth, however, the impending festivities, with their forced gaiety and chaotic energy, only served to heighten his ever-present anxiety. In a place as steeped in deception and sudden violence as this island academy, a large, boisterous, and poorly supervised gathering felt less like a celebration and more like a powder keg perilously close to an open flame. He knew from the grim tapestry of his fragmented foreknowledge that the end of this first year was traditionally marked by yet another brutal series of violent events, a bloody full stop to the semester.

The spark, when it finally came, ignited just a few tense days before the scheduled party, delivered in the arrogant, sneering form of Rentaro Tsurumigawa. Rentaro was a smug, perpetually smirking student with a distinct air of self-importance, whose Talent, Arthur recalled with a shiver of unease, involved a particularly potent and dangerous form of astral projection. His projected self, an ethereal, shimmering duplicate, was largely intangible but could, with terrifying focus, manifest sharp, crystalline projectiles – deadly shards of solidified psychic energy – making him an elusive and lethal opponent. His physical body, however, remained inert, vulnerable, and necessarily hidden while he was projecting his consciousness elsewhere.

The first victim of Rentaro’s sudden escalation was Moguo Iijima, a somewhat boorish, athletically built boy known more for his loud voice and short temper than his intellect. Iijima was found dead in one of the communal bathhouses late one evening, slumped against the tiled wall, his chest and throat impaled by multiple glittering, razor-sharp crystalline shards that seemed to have materialized out of thin air, leaving wounds that spoke of a swift, vicious, and utterly merciless attack. The sheer brutality of the assault, and its almost surgical precision, sent a fresh wave of terror through the already traumatized student body.

Suspicion, swift and almost universal, immediately fell upon Iijima’s volatile and fiercely possessive girlfriend, Saeko Mochizuki. Saeko’s Talent, conveniently and damningly, allowed her to generate and propel similar-looking blades of solidified energy from her hands. She was known for her fiery temper and her jealous outbursts.

Nana Hiiragi, in her official capacity as the concerned and diligent class representative, took immediate charge of the initial “investigation,” her lovely face a mask of grave concern and profound sympathy. Arthur watched her closely as she moved among the shocked students, her voice soft and reassuring, yet her questions subtly probing. She interviewed a hysterical and vehemently protesting Saeko, who swore she hadn’t seen Iijima since earlier that afternoon. Nana’s questioning of Saeko was a masterclass in feigned empathy, yet her inquiries relentlessly circled back to Saeko’s relationship with the deceased. It soon emerged, through carefully elicited “gossip” that Nana “just happened to overhear” from supposedly distraught friends of the couple, that Iijima had been seriously considering breaking up with Saeko, complaining that she was too clingy, too demanding. It was the perfect, almost classical setup: a jealous girlfriend, a spurned lover with the known means and now, apparently, a powerful motive. Saeko looked guiltier by the minute, her frantic denials only serving to further entrench the suspicion against her in the eyes of her frightened peers.

Arthur, however, felt a persistent, nagging prickle of doubt. It all seemed a little too neat, too conveniently packaged. While Saeko was certainly capable of dramatic, volatile emotions, the cold, calculated precision of the attack, the deliberate nature of the wounds designed to mimic her Talent so perfectly, felt off. It felt… framed. He found himself observing Rentaro Tsurumigawa, who was among the most vocal in expressing his profound "shock" and "outrage" at Iijima's murder, his performance just a shade too theatrical, his condemnations of Saeko a little too quick, a little too vehement for Arthur's liking.

The one person on the entire island who seemed to genuinely believe in Saeko’s innocence, who refused to be swayed by the mounting circumstantial evidence and the tide of popular opinion, was Michiru Inukai. Driven by her innate, unwavering empathy and a profound, almost childlike refusal to believe anyone could be so cruel without overwhelming, irrefutable proof, Michiru quietly, almost invisibly, began her own gentle inquiries. While Nana was methodically building a seemingly airtight circumstantial case against the increasingly distraught Saeko, Michiru, with her disarming gentleness and shy persistence, spoke to students who had seen Saeko around the supposed time of the murder, students who could, if pieced together, provide a surprisingly solid alibi. She found small, almost insignificant inconsistencies in the presumed timeline, tiny details that didn’t quite add up. She even, with a courage Arthur found astounding in someone so timid, managed to find a nervous underclassman who admitted, under Michiru’s gentle questioning, to having seen Rentaro Tsurumigawa lurking near the bathhouse shortly before Iijima’s body was discovered, looking unusually agitated and furtive.

Michiru, her heart pounding in her chest but her quiet resolve firm as steel, presented her painstakingly gathered findings to Nana and a clearly reluctant Mr. Saito. The evidence wasn’t conclusive, irrefutable proof of Rentaro’s guilt, but it was more than enough to completely dismantle the flimsy, circumstantial case against Saeko, who promptly collapsed in a heap of tearful, gasping relief. Nana, faced with Michiru’s earnest, undeniable facts and the clear, logical holes they punched in her preferred narrative, had no choice but to publicly concede that Saeko was, in all likelihood, innocent. Arthur saw a distinct, dangerous flicker of cold annoyance in Nana’s eyes – Michiru’s unwavering, inconvenient goodness had complicated things considerably. It had also, he realized with a sudden, sickening lurch, unknowingly painted a very large, very dangerous target on Michiru’s own back.

Rentaro Tsurumigawa was incandescent with fury. His meticulous, arrogant plan to eliminate Iijima (for reasons Arthur still couldn’t fathom, though he suspected some deep-seated prior grudge, a bitter rivalry, or perhaps simply a demonstration of his own perceived superiority) and then neatly frame the volatile Saeko for the crime had been utterly, unexpectedly ruined by, of all people, the timid, fluffy-haired, seemingly insignificant Michiru Inukai. His rage, Arthur sensed, was a poisonous, festering thing.

The day of the leaving party arrived, cloaked in an atmosphere of forced jollity and underlying, unspoken fear. The school gymnasium had been hastily and somewhat haphazardly decorated with colourful streamers and balloons that seemed to mock the grim realities of their island existence. Music, tinny and overly cheerful, blared from a set of aging speakers. Students, dressed in their slightly less formal attire, milled about, attempting a semblance of normal teenage festivity, their laughter often a shade too loud, their smiles a little too bright.

Arthur, however, couldn’t shake a profound sense of impending doom. He kept a close, anxious eye on Michiru, who was trying her best to enjoy herself, chatting shyly with a small group of girls, but seemed subdued, her usual gentle radiance dimmed, perhaps by a subconscious sense of the danger she had courted.

Then, Michiru, looking a little pale, excused herself from her group, murmuring something about needing some fresh air. A moment later, Arthur, his senses on high alert, saw Rentaro Tsurumigawa detach himself from the edge of the crowd and slip silently out of the gymnasium through a side door, his eyes glinting with a chilling, predatory light. Arthur’s blood ran cold. Rentaro was going after Michiru.

Before Arthur could even begin to formulate a plan, before he could push through the throng of dancing students, Nana Hiiragi, who had also, Arthur now realized, been observing Michiru with an unusually protective, almost hawk-like gaze, noticed Rentaro’s stealthy departure and Michiru’s sudden absence. A look of genuine, unfeigned alarm – an expression Arthur had rarely, if ever, seen on her carefully controlled features – flashed across Nana’s face. Without a word, without a moment’s hesitation, Nana sprinted out of the gymnasium, her own party dress a blur of pink, clearly in pursuit.

This was escalating far too quickly, spiraling out of his limited control. Arthur knew he couldn’t possibly catch up to them on foot, nor could he hope to fight Rentaro’s deadly, intangible astral projection. His gaze swept frantically across the gymnasium, landing on Kyouya Onodera, who was standing near the overloaded punch bowl, his usual expression of aloof indifference firmly in place, looking utterly bored by the surrounding revelry. Kyouya, with his immortality and his sharp, analytical mind, was the only one on the island who might conceivably be able to help Nana, to stop Rentaro.

Arthur rushed over to him, his phone already active, his fingers flying across the small screen. “Onodera-san!” his translated voice was sharp, urgent, cutting through Kyouya’s apparent reverie. “It’s Rentaro Tsurumigawa! He’s projecting! He’s hunting Michiru Inukai! Nana Hiiragi just went after them, trying to protect her!” Kyouya’s eyes, usually cool and indifferent, sharpened instantly with a focused intensity, and perhaps, Arthur thought, a flicker of something that might have been genuine concern. “His real body… while he’s projecting, it has to be hidden somewhere nearby, probably within the school building! It’ll be vulnerable! If you can find it, attack it, you can disrupt the projection, stop him completely!”

Kyouya Onodera didn’t waste time with questions or expressions of surprise. He simply absorbed the information, his mind clearly processing it at lightning speed. He gave Arthur a single, curt nod, then strode purposefully out of the gymnasium, his gaze already sweeping the corridors with a focused, predatory intensity, as if he were already searching for Rentaro’s hidden, vulnerable physical form.

Arthur was left standing amidst the oblivious, laughing, dancing party-goers, a knot of cold, sickening fear tightening in his stomach. Nana, Michiru, Rentaro, Kyouya – they were all heading for a violent, inevitable collision, and he could only pray, with a fervour he hadn’t felt in years, that Kyouya would be fast enough, and Nana strong enough, to avert the worst of the tragedy he knew, with a terrible, chilling certainty, was coming. The distant, tinny sound of festive music seemed to mock his rising, helpless panic. He knew, with a sudden, desperate clarity, where they would likely end up: the isolated docks. He turned and fled the gymnasium himself, his own desperate chase beginning.

Chapter 14: Sacrifice at the Docks

Arthur’s mind raced, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pounded the worn pathway leading away from the deceptively cheerful gymnasium. The distant, tinny music of the leaving party faded behind him, replaced by the frantic thudding of his own heart and the lonely sigh of the wind whistling through the island’s sparse, salt-stunted trees. He had to calculate where Rentaro would take Michiru, where Nana, in her desperate pursuit, would inevitably follow. The boat docks – isolated, exposed, offering few escape routes and an abundance of shadowy hiding places – loomed large and ominous in his mind as the most logical, and therefore most horrifying, stage for the unfolding confrontation.

He sprinted towards the harbour, his unfamiliar teenage legs burning with the unaccustomed exertion, his phone clutched tightly in his hand, though he had no time for the laborious process of translation now. The air grew colder, tasting of salt and damp, decaying wood as he neared the coast.

He arrived, breathless and his chest aching, just as the scene at the end of the longest, most dilapidated pier reached its horrifying crescendo. Silhouetted against the dull, bruised pewter of the overcast evening sky, Rentaro Tsurumigawa’s spectral form – a shimmering, translucent duplicate of his arrogant human self – had Michiru Inukai cornered against the rotting railings. Razor-sharp, crystalline projectiles, like shards of malevolent ice, hovered menacingly in the air around him, glinting faintly in the dim light. Michiru was crying, her small body trembling, her face a mask of pure terror, but even so, she seemed to be trying to shield herself, a tiny, defiant figure against a monstrous, ethereal threat.

Nana Hiiragi stood between them, a fierce, protective tigress in a party dress. Her usual neat pink pigtails were askew, her clothes torn in several places, and a dark bruise was blooming on her cheekbone, but her violet eyes blazed with a desperate, almost feral fury Arthur had never witnessed in her before – not the cold, calculating fury of an assassin about to make a kill, but something raw, deeply personal, and utterly protective. She was intercepting Rentaro’s psychic attacks, her own movements preternaturally quick and agile, dodging and weaving, but she was clearly outmatched, her physical efforts largely ineffective against the intangible, relentlessly attacking projection that could still, somehow, inflict real harm upon her.

“You won’t touch her, Tsurumigawa!” Nana snarled, her voice hoarse and strained as she narrowly dodged a volley of shimmering blades that sliced through the air where she’d been a split second before. One of the shards grazed her arm, drawing a thin line of blood.

“She ruined everything!” Rentaro’s projected voice was a distorted, inhuman screech, filled with venom and thwarted rage. “She deserves to die for her meddling! And you too, Class Rep, for getting in my way!”

Just as Rentaro’s astral form lunged forward with a particularly vicious-looking ethereal spear, its crystalline point aimed directly at Michiru’s heart, Nana, with a desperate cry, shoved Michiru violently aside. The smaller girl stumbled, falling hard onto the rough wooden planks of the pier. The spectral weapon, impossibly, plunged deep into Nana’s side. Nana gasped, a choked, pain-filled, liquid sound, her eyes flying wide with shock and disbelief. She stumbled, her hand instinctively going to the phantom wound in her side, though no spectral blood flowed from the astral injury, the devastating impact on her life force, her very essence, was terrifyingly apparent. Her face began to pale with an alarming rapidity.

At that exact, critical moment, Rentaro Tsurumigawa’s shimmering projection flickered violently, like a faulty hologram. It let out a final, agonized, drawn-out shriek that seemed to tear through the very air, then dissolved into nothingness, vanishing as if it had never been. Kyouya. Kyouya Onodera had found him. He had found Rentaro’s hidden, vulnerable physical body and neutralized the threat. Arthur let out a shaky, almost sob-like breath of relief for that small, vital mercy, but his gaze was fixed, horrified, on Nana, who was collapsing slowly to her knees, her face now a ghastly, waxy white.

Michiru scrambled to Nana’s side, her face streaked with tears and grime, her voice a desperate, broken wail. “Nana-chan! Nana-chan, no! Please, no!”

Arthur finally reached them, his chest heaving, his own terror a cold, hard knot in his stomach. He saw the life visibly draining from Nana’s eyes, the way her body was becoming limp. He saw the way Michiru was looking at her – a dawning, terrible understanding mixed with a desperate, almost fanatical resolve. He knew, with a sudden, sickening certainty, what Michiru was going to do. Her healing Talent… he remembered the whispers, the theories about its ultimate, desperate application. It could, some said, even bring back the recently departed, but only at the ultimate cost: the user’s own life force.

“Michiru, no!” Arthur yelled, the words tearing from him in raw, desperate, unthinking English, forgetting the phone, forgetting the language barrier, forgetting everything but the impending, pointless tragedy unfolding before his eyes. He lunged forward, his hands outstretched, trying to pull her away from Nana’s rapidly cooling body. “Don’t do it! You’ll die! It’s not worth it!”

But Michiru was lost in her grief, her loyalty, her terrible, loving determination. She barely seemed to register his presence, his frantic, foreign words. Shaking her head, her cloud of fluffy white hair matted with tears and sea spray, she gently, almost absently, pushed his restraining hands away. “She saved me, Tanaka-kun,” she whispered, her voice trembling but resolute, her gaze fixed on Nana’s still face. “She saved my life. I have to… I have to save her. It’s the only way.”

Ignoring Arthur’s renewed, frantic pleas, Michiru pressed her small, trembling hands against Nana’s still form, over the place where the spectral spear had struck. A soft, ethereal white light began to glow around her, emanating from her palms, then engulfing both her and Nana. The light intensified, pulsing with a gentle, almost heartbreaking rhythm, bathing the grim, windswept scene in its otherworldly luminescence. Michiru’s small body began to tremble violently, her face contorting in an agony Arthur could only imagine, but her hands remained firmly fixed on Nana, a conduit for the impossible. The light flared, becoming blindingly bright for a single, eternal moment, then, with a soft, final sigh that seemed to carry all the sorrow of the world, it receded, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

Michiru Inukai crumpled to the rough wooden planks of the pier, a small, still heap, her vibrant life force utterly extinguished.

A heartbeat later, Nana Hiiragi gasped, a ragged, shuddering intake of breath, her eyes flying open. She sat up slowly, looking around in dazed, profound confusion, her hand going to her side, where only moments before a fatal wound had been. Then, her gaze fell upon Michiru’s still, lifeless form beside her. Understanding, followed by a wave of raw, uncomprehending anguish, crashed over her. A sob, harsh, broken, and utterly devoid of artifice, tore from Nana’s throat – a sound so full of genuine, unadulterated pain, so unlike anything Arthur had ever heard from her, that it momentarily stunned him into silence. This wasn't the calculated grief she’d so expertly feigned for her previous victims; this was real, shattering, soul-deep sorrow.

Arthur stepped forward, his own face a grim mask, his earlier panic replaced by a cold, weary, and profound anger. He raised his phone, his fingers deliberately, almost violently, typing out his words.

“Well, Hiiragi,” his translated voice stated, flat and devoid of any inflection, cutting through Nana’s ragged, heartbroken sobs. She looked up at him, her face streaked with tears, her violet eyes wide with a mixture of confusion, grief, and dawning horror. “It seems you finally got what you wanted. Another Talent eliminated from this island.” Nana stared at him, her mouth opening and closing, but no words came out. “You should be rejoicing, shouldn’t you?” Arthur pressed, his voice, even through the phone, laced with a cruel, cutting sarcasm. “Or,” he paused, letting the words sink in, twisting the knife, “are some Talents worth more than others, after all?”

Nana flinched as if he had physically struck her. She looked from Arthur’s cold, accusing face back to Michiru’s peaceful, lifeless body, and a look of dawning, unutterable horror began to mix with her grief.

“I’m taking her,” Arthur’s phone continued, his voice now unwavering, filled with a cold, hard resolve. “Tsuruoka and his damned Committee won’t get their hands on her for experimentation.” He saw Nana’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly at the casual, knowing mention of Tsuruoka’s name. Yes, she knew now that he knew. The game had changed. “She deserves to be treated with dignity in death, Hiiragi, not carved up like some lab specimen for your masters to study.”

He knelt beside Michiru, his own heart aching with a profound, unexpected sorrow for this gentle, brave girl he had barely known, yet had come to care for. “You killing Tachibana… the time traveler… that was your worst, most senseless act. You couldn’t even let a dying boy like Hoshino live out what little time he had left in peace.” He looked directly at Nana, who had stopped crying now, her expression a frozen mask of shock, confusion, and a dawning, terrible guilt. “There were times, Hiiragi, so many times, I was sorely tempted to stop you permanently. To end your murderous spree myself. For Michiru’s sake, for Nanao’s, for my own damn principles, I refrained.”

He paused, then added, his voice, even through the phone’s impersonal synthesizer, laced with a profound, weary sorrow, “She deserved so much better than you. Better than any of us on this cursed island.”

Without another word, Arthur gently, carefully, scooped Michiru Inukai’s small, impossibly light, lifeless body into his arms. He stood, turned his back on the stunned, grieving, and utterly shattered Nana Hiiragi, and began the slow, heavy walk back towards the distant, uncaring lights of the school buildings. He left Nana alone on the windswept pier with the accusing ghost of her actions, the devastating weight of Michiru’s sacrifice, and the first, agonizing, unwelcome taste of genuine, heartbreaking loss. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

Chapter 28: Justice, Parole, and a Ghost from the Past

Nana Hiiragi’s fragile, newfound resolve to confront Commander Tsuruoka, precariously bolstered by Jin Tachibana’s enigmatic counsel and Arthur Ainsworth’s devastating revelations, was tragically, almost laughably, short-lived. She had woefully underestimated the speed, the reach, and the utter ruthlessness of her former handler. Just a few desperate days after her clandestine, rain-swept meeting with Jin, as she was cautiously, almost timidly, trying to gather meager resources and formulate even the most rudimentary plan of action from the squalid sanctuary of her tiny, anonymous apartment, Tsuruoka made his decisive, inevitable move. He contacted Detective Maeda, the outwardly respectable police officer to whom the earnest, unsuspecting Akari Hozumi had so trustingly entrusted her meticulously compiled dossier of damning evidence against Nana.

“Maeda,” Tsuruoka’s voice was cold, devoid of inflection, and utterly decisive over the secure, encrypted line, “it is time to officially activate the Hiiragi case file. I want a full-scale, highly publicized manhunt. And I want her found. Quickly. Public interest in this matter is… considerable.”

The well-oiled machinery of the law, its gears greased and subtly guided by Tsuruoka’s pervasive, unseen influence, ground into motion with terrifying, unstoppable efficiency. Within hours, Nana Hiiragi’s face – a younger, more innocent-looking photograph taken from her old school records – was plastered across national news broadcasts, online forums, and police bulletins. She was branded “The Island Schoolgirl Killer,” a teenage monster who had preyed on her unsuspecting classmates. Her carefully constructed anonymity evaporated like morning mist under a harsh sun. The city, once a sprawling, indifferent refuge, transformed overnight into a vast, tightening net. Within days, her desperate attempts to change her appearance, to melt into the urban sprawl, proved futile. She was cornered in a crowded, brightly lit suburban shopping mall by an alert off-duty police officer who recognized her from a wanted poster. Her frantic, desperate attempt to flee, to lose herself in the throng of shoppers, was short-lived and brutally curtailed. Nana Hiiragi, the Committee’s former star assassin, the girl Tsuruoka had molded into a perfect weapon, was apprehended, her brief, flickering hope of confronting her tormentor on her own terms extinguished.

Her trial was a media sensation, a lurid, captivating spectacle that fed the public’s morbid fascination with youthful depravity. The damning evidence Akari Hozumi had so meticulously gathered was laid bare for all to see: chilling witness testimonies from former island students (their own traumas carefully managed and selectively presented by the prosecution), Akari’s own unnervingly precise forensic reconstructions of multiple murder scenes, and Nana’s own fragmented, tearful, partial confession made by the lake on the island. The prosecution, led by a sharp, ambitious young lawyer, painted Nana as a cold, calculating, remorseless serial killer, a monstrous aberration who had systematically preyed on her innocent, unsuspecting fellow students. The public outcry was immense, a wave of revulsion and fear. The death penalty seemed not just a possibility, but an almost foregone conclusion.

But Nana’s court-appointed lawyer, a tenacious, fiercely idealistic, and surprisingly skilled older woman named Haruka Ito, fought tirelessly, passionately, against the overwhelming tide. Ito, with a quiet dignity that often wrong-footed the more aggressive prosecution, argued for diminished responsibility. She meticulously detailed Nana’s brutal, isolated upbringing, her systematic indoctrination from a young, impressionable age, and the extreme, undeniable psychological manipulation she had endured at the hands of a shadowy, unaccountable government organization. She portrayed Nana not as an inherent monster, but as a tragic, deeply damaged victim, a child soldier psychologically tortured and molded into a weapon in a covert war she hadn’t understood, couldn’t possibly have comprehended. Nana herself, during the long, agonizing trial, remained mostly silent, a pale, hollow-eyed ghost in the defendant’s box, her demeanor one of profound numbness, punctuated by occasional, barely perceptible flickers of remorse and a deep, soul-crushing weariness. Haruka Ito’s defense was compelling, deeply unsettling to the public narrative. While it could not exonerate Nana of the terrible acts she had committed, it cast enough doubt on her sole, unmitigated culpability. The death sentence was, to the shock and outrage of many, commuted. Nana Hiiragi was instead sentenced to a lengthy, indeterminate prison term for multiple counts of culpable homicide. She disappeared into the unforgiving, anonymous depths of the penal system, her name forever synonymous with betrayal, youthful monstrosity, and the dark, hidden secrets of the nation’s clandestine operations.

Three years later, in the mild, cherry-blossom-scented spring of late 2028, Arthur Ainsworth was expertly wiping down a small, Formica-topped table in “The Corner Nook,” the bustling, unpretentious restaurant in a quiet, residential Tokyo suburb where he now worked as a waiter. He was surprisingly, almost guiltily, content. The mundane, predictable rhythm of the work – taking orders, delivering food, clearing tables, the easy, unforced banter with the regular patrons – was a soothing balm to his once-tormented soul. His Japanese, honed by years of daily immersion and supplemented by diligent attendance at informal language exchange meetups, was now reasonably fluent, his English accent a minor, charming novelty that amused the customers and his co-workers alike. He had even, cautiously, begun to make a few tentative friendships.

The island, Tsuruoka, Nana Hiiragi – they were ghosts that still haunted the periphery of his thoughts, their sharp edges softened by the healing balm of time and distance, but their presence, their impact, was undeniable. Annually, on the grim anniversary of his inexplicable, violent arrival on that cursed shore, he would make a quiet pilgrimage to a large, peaceful, and entirely anonymous public cemetery on the outskirts of the city. He didn’t know where Nana’s victims were truly buried, or if their families had even been allowed the dignity of a grave. So, he would choose a weathered, unnamed, forgotten headstone at random, lay a single, pure white chrysanthemum at its base, and talk to them, to Michiru, to Nanao, to Hoshino, to Tachibana, to Habu, even to the foolish, cruel bullies, Etsuko and Marika. He would speak to them in quiet English, recounting their small, stolen lives as he remembered them, acknowledging their needless deaths. It was his private penance, his way of remembering, of shouldering the small share of responsibility he felt for their fates.

The world outside the comforting, predictable routine of his quiet restaurant, however, was growing increasingly, palpably uneasy. News reports, both mainstream and from more fringe online sources, spoke with alarming frequency of rising anti-Talent sentiment across Japan, often fueled by isolated, sensationalized incidents of Talents losing control of their abilities or, more disturbingly, using their unique powers for overtly criminal, even terroristic, acts. Whispers, then more overt discussions, of government-run “Protective Custody and Assessment Centers” – internment camps, Arthur knew them to be, his blood running cold at the familiar, chilling euphemism – for individuals with “problematic” or “unstable” Talents were becoming more frequent, more insistent, presented as a necessary measure for public safety. The seeds of fear and division Tsuruoka and the Committee had so carefully, so cynically, sown over the years were now bearing bitter, poisonous fruit.

It was on a cool, clear spring evening, as Arthur was meticulously cashing up for the night, the familiar scent of soy sauce and grilled fish still lingering in the air, that Nana Hiiragi walked, not back into his life, but back into the turbulent, unforgiving life of the world at large. She had been paroled, her release from prison quiet, unpublicized, almost surreptitious – likely another of Tsuruoka’s intricate, inscrutable machinations, Arthur suspected. Her first act as a conditionally free woman, her gaunt face hardened by three years in the brutal, dehumanizing environment of prison, her eyes still burning with a desperate, unquenched need for truth and retribution, was not to seek anonymity or a fragile peace, but to confront her primary tormentor, the architect of her ruined life.

She found Commander Tsuruoka, as she somehow knew she would, in his heavily fortified, opulently appointed private office deep within the Committee’s impenetrable headquarters. He received her with a chillingly calm, almost paternally amused demeanor, as if her unexpected appearance was an entirely predictable, mildly entertaining diversion from his important work. Nana, older now, her youthful softness almost entirely erased, her voice raspy from disuse but her resolve like tempered steel, demanded answers – about her parents, about the Committee’s lies, about the true nature of the “Enemies of Humanity,” about everything.

Tsuruoka deflected her every accusation, her every anguished question, with infuriating, condescending ease, his words a masterclass in psychological manipulation, twisting reality, subtly shifting blame, painting Nana herself as the architect of her own misfortunes, a flawed, inherently unstable instrument who had inevitably, disappointingly, broken under pressure. He smirked, a slight, dismissive, utterly contemptuous expression that finally, irrevocably, shattered Nana’s fragile, prison-honed composure.

Consumed by years of suppressed, impotent rage, by the fresh, agonizing grief of her remembered, manipulated past, Nana lunged, not for Tsuruoka himself, but for the heavy, ornate, antique silver letter opener lying innocuously on his vast, polished mahogany desk – a poor, desperate substitute for a real weapon, but the only thing immediately at hand. She tried to stab him, to silence his maddening, condescending voice, to inflict even a fraction of the pain he had caused her. At the last possible second, Tsuruoka’s ever-present, stoic, and utterly loyal adjutant, a career military man who had served him faithfully for over two decades, threw himself in front of his boss with a shout of warning. The sharp, pointed steel of the letter opener plunged deep into the adjutant’s chest. He collapsed with a surprised, gurgling grunt, a dark, rapidly spreading stain blooming on the crisp white front of his uniform.

Tsuruoka looked down dispassionately at his dying, devoted aide, then back at Nana, who stood frozen, horrified, the bloody letter opener dropping with a clatter from her trembling, suddenly nerveless hand. A slow, cold, almost predatory smile spread across Tsuruoka’s face. “Is that all you’ve got, Hiiragi?” he taunted, his voice soft, laced with a chilling amusement. “Still so… predictably emotional. So very… disappointing.” Panic, raw and absolute, seized Nana. She had just killed again, this time an innocent man, a man who had tried to protect his monstrous boss, right in front of her nemesis, the man who held all the power. She turned and fled, stumbling from the opulent office, Tsuruoka’s derisive, mocking laughter echoing in her ears, a soundtrack to her renewed, now doubly damned, fugitive status.

Chapter 27: The Cat's Counsel

The relentless, cold rain continued its merciless assault on the sprawling, indifferent city as Nana Hiiragi, her thin clothes plastered to her shivering frame, stumbled numbly through the labyrinthine backstreets. Arthur Ainsworth’s devastating words echoed and re-echoed in the shattered ruins of her mind, each revelation a fresh, agonizing hammer blow against the crumbling, indoctrinated edifice of her former life. Tsuruoka, her parents, the true, horrifying nature of the “Enemies of Humanity,” her own unwitting, monstrous role as a Talentless executioner in a grand, grotesque, and terrifying deception – it was too much to absorb, too much for any sane mind to bear. She was a ghost in her own stolen life, her hands, her very soul, stained with the indelible blood of those she had been so cruelly, so thoroughly, manipulated into killing. The city lights – reds, greens, whites – blurred into meaningless, swirling patterns through her tear-filled eyes, the cacophony of urban sounds a distant, irrelevant roar.

She eventually, through some dazed, unconscious homing instinct, reached her current, miserable hideout – a small, squalid, single-room apartment tucked away in a decaying, rat-infested tenement building, its grime, its anonymity, its pervasive air of neglect and despair her only shield against the world that now hunted her. As she fumbled with the rusty, ill-fitting key in the lock, a silent flash of white darted past her legs from the shadows of the crumbling stoop. The scrawny white cat from the alley, the one that had watched her and Arthur with such unnerving, almost sentient stillness, slipped silently into the room just before she could close the rickety, ill-fitting door. It padded softly across the grimy linoleum floor and settled itself on the room’s only chair, a broken-backed wooden reject, regarding her with those same intelligent, unblinking, luminous green eyes.

Soaked to the bone, shivering uncontrollably more from profound shock and existential horror than from the penetrating cold, Nana sank onto the threadbare, stained mattress that served as her bed. She stared blankly at her hands – these hands. Murderous hands. Hands that had, with such chilling efficiency, such blind obedience, snuffed out so many young lives, so many bright futures, all predicated on a foundation of monstrous, unforgivable lies. The weight of it all, the sheer, crushing, suffocating enormity of her unwitting, unforgivable crimes, pressed down on her, stealing her breath, extinguishing the last, faint embers of her will to live.

In a daze, her movements slow, almost mechanical, she rose from the mattress and walked with an unsteady gait into the tiny, grimy kitchenette alcove. Her vacant eyes fell upon a long, thin, serrated kitchen knife lying on the chipped, rust-stained draining board, its blade glinting faintly in the dim, flickering light from the single bare bulb hanging precariously from the ceiling. It seemed to beckon to her, a silent, gleaming promise of a swift, definitive, and perhaps even merciful end to her unbearable pain, her suffocating guilt, her wretched, pointless, and now utterly exposed existence. This, she thought with a strange, cold clarity, was the only atonement left to her. The only way out. She picked up the knife, its cold, surprisingly heavy metal a stark, unwelcome contrast to the feverish, chaotic turmoil raging within her. Turning the unforgiving steel blade towards her own throat, she closed her eyes, a single, silent tear escaping to trace a path through the grime on her cheek, ready, almost eager, to embrace the oblivion she so richly deserved.

Just as the cold, sharp edge of the blade kissed the delicate skin of her neck, a white blur, impossibly fast, launched itself from the shadows of the broken chair. The cat, with a surprisingly powerful, perfectly aimed leap, slammed into her outstretched arm, its small body a furry projectile of unexpected force. The knife, knocked from her nerveless grasp, clattered loudly, skittering across the grimy linoleum floor to come to rest beneath the leaking sink.

Nana gasped, her eyes flying open, her body jolting with a fresh wave of shock, this time not of horror, but of sheer, uncomprehending surprise. She stared at the white cat, which now sat a few feet away, calmly, almost nonchalantly, licking its paw, as if knocking a deadly weapon from a suicidal girl’s trembling hand was the most natural, most everyday occurrence in the world.

Then, before her disbelieving, traumatized eyes, the cat, the ordinary-looking stray from the alley, began to shimmer and change. Its form elongated, solidified, its white fur receding, its feline features melting and reforming, coalescing with an almost liquid grace into the figure of a young man with stark white hair, pale, intelligent features, and an unnervingly calm, enigmatic smile. Jin Tachibana.

Nana’s mind, already reeling from Arthur’s revelations, struggled to process this new, impossible reality. This… this was the man she had glimpsed, so briefly, so unsettlingly, in that sterile observation room at Tsuruoka’s monstrous facility, the one whose brief, intense, almost accusatory stare had inexplicably, uncomfortably, stuck in her memory. “You…” she whispered, her voice trembling, barely audible. “You were there. At Tsuruoka’s base. In that… that room. I saw you.” Jin’s faint, enigmatic smile widened almost imperceptibly. “Yes, Hiiragi Nana-san,” he said, his voice calm, melodious, entirely at odds with the squalor of the room and the suicidal despair he had just interrupted. “You are quite correct. Your observational skills remain… commendably sharp, even under duress.” A new wave of bewildered confusion, mixed with a desperate, clawing need for answers, for any kind of sense in this senseless, collapsing world, washed over her. “But… why?” she stammered, her gaze darting between him and the discarded knife. “If you’re… if you have a Talent… why would you be there? Why would you work for an organization that wants to eradicate us all?”

Jin regarded her for a long, silent moment, his pale eyes unreadable, his calm composure utterly unnerving. Then, with a graceful, almost dismissive gesture, he indicated the tiny, dilapidated bathroom cubicle in the corner of the room. “You’re soaked through to the bone, Hiiragi-san,” he observed, his tone surprisingly gentle. “You’ll catch your death of cold, or something far worse, if you remain in those wet clothes any longer. Why don’t you avail yourself of a hot shower, if such a thing is possible in this charming establishment? Find something dry to wear. Then, perhaps, we can talk. Some questions, I find, are best answered on a full stomach, and with a clearer head, don’t you think?”

An hour later, scrubbed clean, dressed in a set of surprisingly clean, if ill-fitting, clothes Jin had inexplicably produced from a small satchel he carried, Nana found herself seated opposite him in a discreet private booth in a surprisingly expensive, almost opulent restaurant, the kind of place she hadn’t imagined she’d ever set foot in again. The warm, ambient lighting, the soft, unobtrusive classical music, the starched white linen, the delicious, exquisitely prepared food Jin ordered for them both without consulting her – it was a deliberate, disorienting, almost aggressive contrast to the squalor of her hideout and the black, churning turmoil in her soul. Jin, she was beginning to understand, was a master of subtle psychological manipulation himself, though his methods seemed geared towards creating a temporary illusion of comfort and security, perhaps to disarm her, to make her more receptive to what he had to say, or simply to demonstrate a level of capability and resourcefulness that was both vaguely reassuring and deeply, profoundly unsettling.

As they ate, Jin began to speak, his voice calm, measured, almost hypnotic. He told her about Kyouya Onodera, a name she knew, a presence she had felt on the island. And then, he spoke of Kyouya’s younger sister, Rin. “Rin,” Jin explained, his gaze steady, unwavering, “was a profoundly gifted, yet deeply troubled young woman. She suffered from a severe, almost crippling depression, always felt like she was an unbearable burden to her beloved older brother, Kyouya, whom she adored with a fierce, protective loyalty.”

Nana listened, her own food forgotten, captivated, wondering with a growing sense of dread and anticipation where this unexpected, intimate narrative was leading. “Rin,” Jin continued, his voice dropping slightly, drawing her further into his confidence, “eventually reached a point where she believed she could no longer bear the weight of her own perceived inadequacy. She left Kyouya, hoping, in her own tragic way, to spare him further pain, further worry.” He paused, allowing the sadness of it to settle. “Unfortunately, Hiiragi-san, in her vulnerability, in her despair, Rin ended up falling into the insidious, waiting clutches of the Committee. She was… one of your direct predecessors, Nana. One of the talented, broken young women Commander Tsuruoka identified, indoctrinated, and meticulously trained to be an efficient, unquestioning assassin. She saw the horrors of his program firsthand, the endless lies, the soul-destroying manipulation, the casual cruelty.” He paused again, his pale eyes searching hers, letting the full, terrible implication of his words sink in. He didn’t explicitly state that he was Rin, that he had endured those horrors himself. But he implied a deep, intimate, almost unbearable knowledge. “I learned everything I now know about the Committee, about Tsuruoka’s monstrous ‘Enemies of Humanity’ project, about his methods, his ultimate goals, from Rin. What she endured… what they did to her… it motivated me. Profoundly. I decided then that I would infiltrate the Committee, that I would gather information, that I would understand the true, horrifying extent of their despicable plans, and perhaps, just perhaps, find a way to dismantle their entire bloodsoaked operation from within.”

By the end of the surprisingly elaborate meal, Nana felt a fragile, hesitant sense of something akin to hope begin to flicker within the desolate wasteland of her soul. Jin’s story, his apparent deep-seated opposition to the Committee, his calm confidence, offered an unexpected, almost unbelievable lifeline. She wasn’t entirely alone in this. There were others who knew, others who fought. She returned to her dingy, cold apartment later that night feeling slightly less burdened, her mind, though still reeling, already beginning to formulate a new, desperate, reckless plan – a plan to confront Tsuruoka directly, to wring the full, unvarnished truth from him herself, armed with the terrible, empowering knowledge that Arthur Ainsworth, and now this enigmatic Jin Tachibana, had given her.

Jin escorted her to her grimy doorstep, then, with another of his inscrutable, faint smiles and a quiet promise to be in touch, he simply melted away into the dark, rain-swept city night, leaving Nana with a fragile, newfound resolve, but also a lingering, disquieting sense of unease. She felt as though she had merely traded one form of potential manipulation for another, possibly more subtle, more complex kind. But for now, any ally, any weapon, in the desperate, coming fight against Tsuruoka and the Committee was a welcome, if deeply wary, development.

Unfortunately for Nana Hiiragi, her desperate desire for immediate confrontation, her burning need to act on this new, terrible clarity, would be her swift undoing. She didn’t realize, couldn’t possibly have known, how closely Commander Tsuruoka was already watching her every move, how quickly his invisible, inescapable net was already closing tightly around her. Her time as a fugitive was rapidly running out.

Chapter 10: The Bullies and a Calculated Message

Life on the island continued its grim, unsettling rhythm, a macabre dance between Nana Hiiragi’s relentless, unseen hunt and Arthur Ainsworth’s increasingly desperate, often futile, attempts to anticipate her moves and shield potential victims. After the murder of Touichirou Hoshino and her spectacular failure to eliminate the immortal Kyouya Onodera, Nana seemed to withdraw slightly, her usual bubbly energy muted by a layer of something colder, more watchful. Arthur knew this wasn't a reprieve, but a recalculation. She would be feeling the pressure from Tsuruoka, needing to demonstrate continued success. He feared she might target someone less formidable, an easier mark to reassert her deadly prowess.

His attention, and a growing sense of protective unease, was increasingly drawn to Michiru Inukai. A small, unassuming girl with a cloud of startlingly white, incredibly fluffy hair that seemed to possess a life of its own, Michiru exuded an aura of gentle, almost painfully earnest innocence. She was kind to a fault, quick to offer help or a shy smile, often to her own detriment in the harsh social ecosystem of the isolated academy. And it was this inherent vulnerability, this lack of guile, that soon made her an unfortunate target – not for Nana, not yet, but for a pair of mean-spirited, bored female students who had clearly identified Michiru as an easy mark for their petty cruelties.

Arthur first witnessed their bullying during a lunch break in the bustling, noisy canteen. The two girls, Etsuko and Marika, whose names he’d reluctantly learned through ambient classroom chatter, had cornered Michiru near the tray return. They were taunting her in rapid, spiteful Japanese that Arthur’s phone, tucked away, couldn’t catch, but their sneering expressions and aggressive postures were universally translatable. They mocked her fluffy hair, calling it “lamb’s wool” and “dandelion fluff,” tugging at it playfully, yet painfully. They belittled her shyness, her quiet voice, her general lack of assertiveness. Then, with a deliberately clumsy shove, Etsuko knocked Michiru’s carefully stacked lunch tray from her hands, sending her bowl of soup and chopsticks clattering and splashing across the floor. Their laughter was sharp, malicious, drawing a few uncomfortable glances from nearby students who quickly looked away, unwilling to get involved. Michiru, her face flaming red, close to tears, just stood there, trembling, absorbing the humiliation, stammering apologies for her own “clumsiness.”

Before Arthur could even formulate a stilted, phone-translated intervention – what would he even say? How could he interfere without drawing dangerous attention to himself? – a clear, bright voice cut through the air, sharp as a shard of ice despite its sweet tone. “Is there a problem here, ladies?”

It was Nana Hiiragi. She walked towards the tense little group, her expression one of polite, innocent concern, though Arthur, now highly attuned to her micro-expressions, detected a steely, almost predatory glint in her violet eyes.

“This is none of your business, Class Rep,” Etsuko sneered, though she looked significantly less confident now, her bravado faltering under Nana’s direct, unwavering gaze. Marika, her cohort, merely shuffled her feet and avoided eye contact.

“Oh, but I think it is my business,” Nana said, her smile unwavering, yet somehow conveying an icy displeasure. “It’s never pleasant to see someone upsetting a classmate, especially one as sweet as Inukai-san.” She gestured towards the mess on the floor. “Now, why don’t you two apologize properly to Inukai-san for your rudeness and help her clean this up? Then, perhaps, we can all just forget this unfortunate little incident ever happened.” Her tone was light, almost playful, but the underlying current of command was unmistakable.

Etsuko and Marika, clearly unwilling to pick a direct fight with the popular, deceptively formidable class representative, and perhaps sensing the dangerous undercurrent beneath her smile, mumbled a reluctant, insincere apology. They made a token, clumsy effort to pick up the debris before slinking away, casting venomous glares back at a bewildered Michiru.

Nana then turned to Michiru, her face instantly softening into an expression of pure, heartfelt sympathy. She gently took Michiru’s trembling hand. “Are you alright, Inukai-san? Please don’t listen to them. Their words are meaningless. And for what it’s worth,” she added, her smile becoming genuinely warm as she gently touched a strand of Michiru’s cloud-like hair, “I think your hair is absolutely lovely. Like freshly fallen snow.”

Michiru, overwhelmed with gratitude and relief, could only stammer her thanks, her eyes shining with unshed tears. From that moment on, her devotion to Nana Hiiragi became absolute, almost worshipful. She trailed after Nana like a devoted, fluffy white puppy, her loyalty unwavering and unquestioning, seeing in the pink-haired girl a savior and a true friend.

Arthur watched this entire exchange with a complicated, sinking feeling in his stomach. Nana’s intervention had been smooth, effective, and undeniably helpful to Michiru in that moment. But he also knew, with a weary certainty, that Nana rarely, if ever, did anything without a calculated motive. She was likely cultivating Michiru as an unwitting pawn, a source of information, a loyal admirer whose devotion could be exploited for an alibi, or perhaps even as a human shield if necessary. The almost tender way Nana had mentioned Michiru’s “lovely” white, fluffy hair sent a particular, ominous chill down Arthur’s spine – a grim, unwelcome echo of the fabricated future he’d described to Nana during their first unsettling lunchtime encounter. A woman approaches… white, fluffy hair… He wondered, with a jolt of unease, if Nana herself felt any resonance, or if his bizarre words had been buried too deep under layers of her own deceptions and the Committee’s indoctrination.

The bullies, however, had made a fatal, if unknowing, mistake. They had drawn Nana Hiiragi’s direct attention, and not in a favorable way. They had threatened and humiliated someone Nana had, for whatever strategic or nascent emotional reason, decided to take under her wing.

A few days later, the first bully, Etsuko, was found dead in her dorm room by her horrified roommate. The official cause of death, after a cursory examination by the island’s doctor, was listed as a sudden, violent, and inexplicable allergic reaction. Arthur, however, felt a cold knot of certainty in his gut. He remembered a chilling detail from the anime – a virtually untraceable method of assassination involving a contact lens coated with a fast-acting, synthesized poison. Nana was nothing if not meticulous, her methods designed to leave minimal evidence.

The second bully, Marika, met her end a week later, under even more elaborate and horrifying circumstances. Her body, alongside that of another girl Arthur didn’t recognize – likely an unfortunate acquaintance who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time – was discovered on a secluded, windswept stretch of beach on the island’s western shore. Both had apparently succumbed to a fast-acting, potent poison, consistent with the effects of Nana’s signature tainted needles. The discovery of two more deaths, so soon after Etsuko’s, rocked the already traumatized student body, sending fresh waves of fear and paranoia through the dormitories.

But Nana, Arthur knew, would have already woven her alibi with her usual chilling foresight. As Kyouya Onodera, his expression grimmer than usual, began his inevitable, meticulous investigation, it soon came to light that the unknown girl, just moments before her estimated time of death, had apparently sent a seemingly innocuous text message to Marika’s phone. The message, something trivial about meeting up on the beach, was found on Marika’s phone, which lay beside her lifeless hand. The timestamp on the message suggested Marika had died first, and the other girl had texted her, unaware of her friend’s demise, before also succumbing to whatever unknown toxin had claimed them.

Arthur, however, knew Nana’s almost supernatural cunning. He recalled the gruesome, ingenious trick from the source material: Nana would have killed them both, likely Marika first, then the other girl. Then, using the second dead girl’s phone, she would have angled it precisely on the sand so that the bright, unimpeded sunlight, refracted through a deliberately cracked portion of the phone’s screen, would overheat a specific point on the touch-sensitive display, simulating a finger press and sending the pre-typed message. It was a diabolical, if ghoulishly clever, way to manufacture a timeline that seemingly exonerated her from any involvement.

He listened with a growing sense of revulsion as the teachers discussed the “tragic accident,” the “unforeseen environmental toxicity” perhaps from some poisonous marine life they’d touched or something they’d unknowingly ingested on the desolate beach. He watched Kyouya Onodera frown at the cracked phone screen presented as evidence, a thoughtful, deeply suspicious expression on his face. Kyouya was no fool; he would sense the artificiality, the staged nature of it all, even if he couldn’t yet prove it.

For Arthur, these latest, brutal deaths were another stark, chilling reminder of Nana’s unwavering ruthlessness and her terrifying adaptability. He was managing, by the skin of his teeth, to protect Nanao Nakajima, for now, but he was just one increasingly weary, emotionally frayed man with severely limited resources and a fragile, dangerous secret. He couldn’t be everywhere at once, couldn’t save everyone on Nana’s list. Each murder Nana committed was another gruesome piece of data for him, another chilling insight into her methods and her mindset, but it was also another young life extinguished, another soul lost, another failure weighing heavily on his already overburdened conscience. He felt like a grim accountant, silently cataloguing the dead in a secret war he had no hope of winning, only, perhaps, surviving for a little longer. And with each successful, unpunished kill, Nana’s confidence, her sense of untouchability, and the omnipresent danger she posed to everyone on the island, only seemed to grow.

Would be even better if Nana is killed by someone she trusted. Would be nicely ironic

Chapter 26: Reunion in the Rain

The chaotic, premature end of the third school year on the island had seen Arthur, along with the other bewildered and traumatized student survivors, unceremoniously dumped back onto the mainland like so much unwanted refuse. For him, it meant a grim, dispiriting return to the life he had briefly, miserably known before his forced return to the academy: the anonymity of the teeming city, the gnawing ache of poverty, and the soul-crushing, repetitive labour of a sprawling construction site on the urban fringe. The bitter irony wasn’t lost on him; he was now walking the same path of grueling menial toil, enduring the same casual cruelties from foremen and co-workers, that Kyouya Onodera had apparently walked before his own arrival on that cursed island. He endured the harsh, unforgiving conditions, the meagre, often insufficient pay that barely covered the rent for a shared, squalid room in a decaying lodging house, and the constant, wearying taunts from his fellow labourers who mocked his still-halting Japanese and his foreigner’s awkwardness. Each day was a fresh testament to his unwanted, unwelcome survival. His phone, his former lifeline to communication and understanding, had been confiscated during the island evacuation, leaving him to navigate this complex, indifferent world with only his painfully limited vocabulary and a profound, isolating sense of linguistic inadequacy.

Months bled into one another, a dreary, monotonous procession of exhausting physical labour and long, lonely nights spent staring at the cracked ceiling of his cramped room. He heard nothing of Nana, nothing of Michiru, nothing of Kyouya. The island, and the unspeakable horrors it held, began to feel like a distant, terrible fever dream, its sharp edges softened by time and the sheer, grinding drudgery of his current existence.

One particularly bleak, miserable evening in late autumn, as a cold, persistent, sleety rain lashed the city, relentlessly turning the streets into slick, reflecting rivers of neon and grime, Arthur trudged wearily away from the cacophonous, muddy construction site. His body ached with a bone-deep exhaustion, his spirit felt numb, hollowed out. He took a shortcut through a narrow, dimly lit, garbage-strewn alleyway, more to escape the biting, rain-laden wind than to save any appreciable time. And there, huddled in a recessed, darkened doorway, trying desperately to find some meagre shelter from the relentless downpour, was a figure he recognized instantly, despite her ragged, filthy clothes and the haunted, almost feral terror in her eyes. Nana Hiiragi.

She looked up with a start as he approached, her eyes – those once bright, violet, calculating eyes – widening in shocked, terrified recognition. She was thinner, almost skeletal, her once vibrant pink hair now lank, faded, and plastered to her skull by the rain, her face smudged with dirt and etched with a weariness that went far beyond mere physical exhaustion. She looked like a cornered, wounded animal, a desperate fugitive who had finally run out of places to hide. On top of a nearby overflowing, reeking rubbish bin, a scrawny, spectral white cat sat preternaturally still, its intelligent, luminous eyes fixed on them both, seemingly entirely unfazed by the driving rain or the charged atmosphere in the narrow alley.

“Tanaka-kun?” Nana whispered, her voice hoarse, cracked, barely audible above the drumming of the rain, disbelief warring with a flicker of raw, desperate fear, and perhaps, Arthur thought with a jolt, a tiny, almost imperceptible spark of desperate, unwelcome hope. She looked utterly broken. She began to stammer, incoherent words of regret, of apology for… for everything, her body trembling violently.

Arthur, his own weariness a heavy, sodden cloak upon his shoulders, cut her off, his voice flat, the English words falling like chips of ice in the damp, cold air. “Save it, Hiiragi. Just… save it.” He saw the last vestiges of fight, of defiance, go out of her. She sagged against the grimy, graffiti-covered wall, the rain plastering her thin clothes to her shivering frame.

“Tsuruoka,” he began, speaking slowly, deliberately, still in English, knowing she had some comprehension, and needing the precision of his own tongue for what he had to say. “Commander Tsuruoka… he killed your parents, Nana. Not you. He did.” He saw her flinch as if he had physically struck her, her eyes widening in stunned, uncomprehending horror. “He hired two Talented criminals to do the job, individuals with existing convictions, easily manipulated, easily controlled. They were likely… disposed of… after they’d served their purpose. Silenced. Standard Committee operating procedure.” Nana stared at him, her mouth agape, rain dripping from her chin, her breath catching in her throat. “Your parents,” Arthur continued, his voice relentless, a grim, emotionless recital of terrible truths. “They supported Talents. They were actively opposed to Tsuruoka’s ideology, his methods, his growing power within the Committee. He decided not only to eliminate them as a threat but, as the ultimate, monstrous act of revenge against their memory, to take their only daughter and twist her, mold her, into the very thing they fought against. It was so much easier to shape you, to control you, if you could be blamed for their horrific murders, wasn’t it? If you truly believed yourself a monster from the very start.” He saw the dawning, unutterable horror in her eyes as pieces of her shattered, manipulated past began to align with his brutal words. “You running to that police station, a terrified child clutching your own father’s severed head… the accusations, the recriminations you faced there… that was all part of Tsuruoka’s meticulous, diabolical plan. The reason you were shunted from one uncaring, abusive foster family to another. It was all designed to break you, to isolate you, to make you utterly pliable, to make you his perfect, unquestioning weapon.”

He paused, letting the crushing weight of his words sink into her already fractured psyche. “You could have asked more questions, Hiiragi,” he said, his voice softening almost imperceptibly, a hint of weary sorrow creeping in. “You could have done more research. Yes, many Talents are bad, dangerous, destructive. But it was never your place to be their judge, their jury, and their executioner.” He looked her directly in the eye, his gaze unwavering, trying to convey the full import of his next statement. “And Talents, Hiiragi,” he added, his voice dropping to a low, pointed near-whisper, “they don’t have a monopoly on doing bad things.” The implication that he knew she, Nana Hiiragi, the Committee’s most feared assassin of Talents, was herself entirely Talentless, hung heavy, unspoken but deafening, between them in the cold, rain-swept alley. “Now, perhaps, after everything, you finally understand the full, terrible extent of my ‘Talent.’ My ‘predictions.’ And believe me, Hiiragi, things are going to get much, much worse. For all of us.”

Nana, looking utterly numb, her face a mask of dawning, unbearable truth and profound, world-shattering despair, finally spoke, her voice a mere breath, almost lost in the relentless drumming of the rain. “I’ve seen them… Tanaka-kun. I’ve seen… the Enemies of Humanity.”

Arthur, who had almost turned to leave, to walk away from her and the vortex of pain and violence she represented, froze in his tracks. Her words, so quiet, so full of a new, specific terror, stopped him cold. He knew, with a sudden, sickening lurch, where this was heading, to the most bizarre, the most terrifying, the most inexplicable aspect of this twisted, nightmarish world. He turned back slowly to face her, the rain dripping from his hair, from the collar of his thin jacket. He struggled for a moment with his limited Japanese, then resorted to blunt English again. “Tsuruoka. He’s shown you, hasn’t he?” he asked, his voice grim. “Two of them, I’d wager. Two of those… monsters. And he told you that Talents don’t truly die when you kill them? That they just… change? That they turn into those things?” Nana, her eyes wide and haunted, brimming with a fresh, unspeakable horror, nodded slowly, a single tear tracing a path through the grime on her cheek.

“He was telling you the truth, Nana,” Arthur said, his voice heavy with a weariness that seemed to age him decades in that moment. “Up to a point, at least. My own… additional information… it may not be entirely precise, you understand. It’s… fragmented. But from what I’ve managed to piece together, from what I remember… when a person with a Talent reaches a certain point in their life – late teens, their twenties, sometimes as late as their forties, it varies – their Talent can undergo a kind of… profound, often terrifying metamorphosis. Think of it as… as puberty, but with new, often unstable, uncontrollable superpowers. A secondary, more monstrous blossoming.” He saw the flicker of horrified understanding in her eyes. “Unfortunately, from what I know, it’s not long after that stage, that secondary manifestation, that they can… they can transform. Become those creatures Tsuruoka so proudly, so callously, displayed for you. The process, I believe, can also happen, perhaps even accelerate, if a Talent appears to be dead to our eyes, like Etsuko, the girl he showed you in that body bag. Their essence, their Talent, it just… festers, corrupts, transforms.”

He saw the recognition of Etsuko’s name, the confirmation of her own terrible experience in Tsuruoka’s charnel house, reflected in Nana’s horrified gaze. “I don’t know what the Committee’s ultimate, endgame plan is, Nana,” Arthur admitted, running a hand through his wet hair. “I truly don’t. But I strongly suspect Tsuruoka will use – or perhaps already is using – these so-called ‘Enemies of Humanity’ as a potent, terrifying tool. Maybe, just maybe, it’s to keep the current Japanese government in power, by presenting these monsters as a constant, existential threat that only he, and the Committee, can manage, can protect them from. Or, and this seems far more likely given his megalomania, once he’s successfully eliminated all other Talents he deems problematic or uncontrollable, he’ll use these monsters, these transformed Talents, to try and take over the world himself.”

He looked at Nana, her face a canvas of shock, dawning comprehension, and utter, soul-crushing despair. “He played you, Nana,” he said, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “From the very beginning. He played us all.” With that, Arthur Ainsworth turned and began to walk away, his shoulders slumped, leaving Nana Hiiragi alone in the cold, dark, rain-lashed alley to absorb the full, crushing weight of his devastating revelations. As he reached the grimy, graffiti-scarred end of the alley, he glanced back, a brief, almost involuntary movement. Nana was slowly, unsteadily, pushing herself to her feet, a small, broken figure in the vast, uncaring city. The scrawny white cat, which had been watching their entire exchange with an unnerving, almost sentient stillness from its perch on the overflowing rubbish bin, hopped down with a silent, graceful leap and, with an almost imperceptible flick of its tail, began to follow Nana as she stumbled out of the alley and disappeared into the rainy, indifferent labyrinth of the darkened city streets. He knew, somehow, with a certainty that settled like a stone in his own weary heart, that their paths, his and Nana’s, were still destined to cross again. The island’s dark, insidious tendrils reached far, even into the deepest, most anonymous shadows of the sprawling mainland.

Chapter 2: The Lie and the Lifeline

The insistent, jarring clang of a bell dragged Arthur from a fitful, shallow sleep. He lay for a moment on the unfamiliar, unyielding mattress, the cheap fabric of the thin blanket rough against his cheek. The dormitory room was small, spartan, and already filled with the grey, pre-dawn light filtering through a single curtained window. His roommate, a lanky boy whose name Suzuki he’d managed to glean through a torturous, phone-assisted exchange the previous evening, was already up and rustling about, his movements brisk and efficient. Arthur felt a familiar ache in his back – this teenage body, while undoubtedly more resilient than his 51-year-old original, was not accustomed to sleeping on what felt like a thinly disguised board.

His phone. The thought jolted him fully awake. He reached for it on the small, battered nightstand. 98%. He’d managed to keep it plugged into the common room charger for most of the night, a small victory in a sea of overwhelming disorientation. It was his shield, his voice, his only tenuous connection to understanding in this utterly alien landscape.

Breakfast in the canteen was a cacophony of unfamiliar sounds, smells, and social rituals. The clatter of chopsticks against ceramic bowls, the rapid-fire Japanese chatter, the aroma of miso soup, grilled fish, and pickled vegetables – it was a sensory assault. Arthur, acutely aware of his own clumsy foreignness, navigated the serving line with a series of awkward bows, nods, and pointing gestures, managing to acquire a tray of food he wasn’t entirely sure how to eat. He found a relatively isolated table and ate mechanically, his gaze sweeping the room, a new, terrible kind of people-watching. Were any of these bright-eyed, chattering teenagers future corpses? Future killers? The rice stuck in his throat. He kept his phone hidden, reserving its precious battery for interactions more critical than ordering natto, which he’d mistakenly selected and was now eyeing with deep suspicion.

The first class of the day was in a classroom that could have been pulled from any number of nostalgic school dramas – worn wooden desks scarred with generations of graffiti, a large, dusty chalkboard, and tall windows that looked out onto a dense, almost suffocatingly lush greenery. The air smelled of chalk dust, old wood, and the faint, lingering scent of floor polish. The teacher, a man named Mr. Saito according to the timetable Arthur had painstakingly deciphered, was balding, with a kindly, slightly harassed smile and a suit that had seen better decades. He beamed at the assembled students, then his eyes, magnified by thick-lensed glasses, found Arthur, the conspicuous late arrival.

“Ah, class, good morning!” Mr. Saito began, his voice surprisingly warm and resonant. He beckoned Arthur towards the front. “We have a late arrival joining our happy group today. This is Tanaka Kenji-kun. Please, let’s all make him feel welcome.”

A smattering of polite, if somewhat curious, applause rippled through the room. Arthur walked to the front, each step feeling like a mile, the thirty pairs of young eyes boring into him. He felt like an imposter in a badly rehearsed school play, acutely aware of the ill-fitting uniform and the sheer absurdity of his presence. He managed a stiff, jerky bow, an approximation of what he’d seen others do.

“Tanaka-kun,” Mr. Saito continued, his smile unwavering, “perhaps you could introduce yourself to your new classmates? And, of course, this being an academy for the Talented, we’d all be very interested to hear about your special gift.”

This was it. The moment he’d been dreading since the horrifying realization of where he was had crashed down upon him. His stomach churned. He fumbled for his phone, the smooth plastic cool against his clammy palm. The slight delay as he typed, the almost imperceptible whir as the translation app processed his English words, felt like an eternity.

“Good morning,” he began, his voice, when it finally emerged from the phone’s small speaker, sounding unnervingly calm and even, a stark contrast to the frantic, terrified monologue screaming inside his own head. “My name is Tanaka Kenji. It is… an adjustment being here. I hope to learn much.” He kept it brief, hoping against hope they might just move on.

No such luck. A girl in the front row, her dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, her eyes sharp and inquisitive, asked the inevitable question, her Japanese clear and direct. “And your Talent, Tanaka-kun? What can you do?”

Arthur took a ragged, internal breath. He’d spent most of the night staring at the unfamiliar ceiling of the dorm room, his mind racing through a dozen half-baked lies, discarding each one as too outlandish or too easily disproved. He needed something plausible within the insane logic of this world, something difficult to verify, something that sounded vaguely impressive but was, in practical terms, utterly useless in a fight or for any kind of nefarious purpose. He typed furiously, his English words a desperate scramble on the small screen.

“My Talent,” the phone announced after a moment, its synthesized voice echoing slightly in the quiet classroom. He paused for dramatic effect he didn't feel, then continued his input. Right, a suitably grand name. Something that sounds… profound. “I call it… Chrono-Empathic Glimpse.” He let that hang in the air, allowing the unfamiliar syllables to settle over the room. He could feel the weight of their expectant silence.

He continued dictating to his phone, carefully constructing the parameters of his fabricated ability. “If I make physical contact with someone…” Physical contact, yes, that’s a good limitation. Makes it less likely they’ll just demand a demonstration on a whim, and it gives me an out if I need one. “…I sometimes… see a brief, vivid moment from their future.” Vague. Good. Keep it vague. “Usually this moment is from twenty to fifty years ahead.” Far enough that no one here will ever be able to verify it. “It tends to be a moment of… significant emotional resonance for that person.” More vagueness. Could be joy, could be sorrow. Unpredictable.

Then came the crucial caveats, the built-in flaws. It can’t be reliable. It can’t be useful for fighting or predicting enemy movements. It must be a burden. “It’s… not always clear what I’m seeing,” the phone translated his carefully typed English. “The glimpses are often fragmented, deeply personal, and sometimes… quite unsettling.” That should deter casual requests. No one wants an unsettling glimpse into their private future. “And I have no control over what I see, or indeed, if I see anything at all when I make contact.” Perfect. Utterly unreliable, therefore, from their perspective, mostly useless. He finished with a touch of feigned weariness, allowing his shoulders to slump slightly, hoping he looked suitably burdened by this incredible, yet terribly inconvenient, “gift.” “It can be quite… draining, emotionally and physically.”

A low murmur rippled through the class. He couldn’t decipher the individual Japanese words, but the collective tone suggested a mixture of awe, curiosity, and perhaps a little trepidation. It sounded suitably esoteric, suitably… Talented. He’d bought himself a sliver of credibility, or at least, a plausible, if rather outlandish, explanation for his presence in this extraordinary institution.

Mr. Saito nodded thoughtfully, his brow furrowed in contemplation. “A most fascinating and unique ability, Tanaka-kun. A window into distant futures… remarkable.” He seemed to accept it without question.

Arthur decided to press his advantage, however slight. He needed to confirm his timeline, to know how long he had before Nana Hiiragi and Kyouya Onodera arrived. This was risky; it might draw undue attention. But not knowing was worse. “Sensei,” he addressed Mr. Saito, his phone dutifully translating, “to help… orient my Talent to this new… temporal-spatial location, sometimes it helps to focus on specific upcoming arrivals. It can stabilize the… glimpses, you see. Could you perhaps tell me if students by the names of Nana Hiiragi and Kyouya Onodera are expected to arrive in the coming days?” It was utter nonsense, a pseudo-scientific justification he’d concocted on the spot, but he delivered it with as much conviction as he could feign.

Mr. Saito blinked, then consulted a sheaf of papers on his desk. “Ah, yes, indeed!” he exclaimed, looking mildly impressed. “Hiiragi Nana-san and Onodera Kyouya-kun are both due to join our class in… let me see… approximately three days. Excellent foresight, Tanaka-kun! Perhaps your Talent is already beginning to acclimatize!”

Arthur managed a small, noncommittal nod, trying to keep the wave of mingled relief and dread from showing on his face. Three days. He was in the right place, the right horrifying time. The confirmation was a cold comfort, but a vital one. Nana was coming. The clock was ticking, louder now.

The rest of the school day passed in a blur of hyper-vigilance and linguistic confusion. He recognized a few faces from his fragmented memories of the anime – their youthful, innocent appearances a disturbing contrast to the bloody fates he knew awaited some of them. There was the lanky boy with the ever-present camera, Habu, already making some of the girls uncomfortable with his leering gaze. And there, sitting alone by the window, his shoulders hunched, radiating an aura of profound anxiety and loneliness, was Nanao Nakajima. Nana’s first intended victim. Arthur’s stomach clenched with a sickening lurch. He looked so small, so vulnerable.

Later that afternoon, during the final homeroom period, Mr. Saito cleared his throat, recapturing the students’ attention. “Now, onto another important matter for our class. As you know, we need to elect a class representative. This individual will act as a liaison with the teaching staff, help organize class activities, and generally be a voice for all of you. It’s a position of some responsibility.” He smiled. “We’ll hold the vote at the end of the school day tomorrow. Please give some thought to who you might like to nominate, or indeed, if you’d like to nominate yourselves.”

Immediately, a girl in the front row, Inori Tamaki, the one with the severe ponytail and sharp eyes, raised her hand with an air of quiet confidence. “Sensei, I would like to put my name forward for consideration.” Other, less confident murmurs of interest followed.

Arthur watched Nanao Nakajima, who seemed to shrink further into his seat at the mere mention of a leadership role, his face paling. He remembered Nana’s cruel manipulation from the anime, the way she would prey on Nanao’s shyness and insecurity. An idea, impulsive and probably foolhardy, sparked in Arthur’s mind. If he could somehow insert himself into this process, even in a minor way…

He raised a hesitant hand, the unfamiliar gesture feeling alien. All eyes in the classroom turned to him again, the strange new student who spoke through a machine. He fumbled for his phone, his heart pounding a nervous rhythm against his ribs. “I… Tanaka Kenji…” the phone translated his typed words, “I would also… like to be considered for the role of class representative.”

A ripple of surprise went through the room. Mr. Saito, however, beamed with encouragement. “Excellent, Tanaka-kun! Active participation in class life is always to be commended!”

Arthur didn’t particularly want the role. He knew he was a terrible candidate – his communication was severely hampered, his understanding of their school customs was non-existent, and he radiated an aura of awkward outsiderness. But it was a way to be seen, to perhaps disrupt the expected dynamics, to gauge reactions. And maybe, just maybe, it was a way to signal to Nanao, however obliquely, that not everyone was an overwhelming force of charisma or intimidation. Perhaps it was a desperate, subconscious desire to plant a flag, however small, signifying his intention to do something, anything, in this terrifying new world, rather than just be a passive victim of its unfolding horrors.

For the remainder of the day, he tried to melt into the background, to be a ghost observing the ecosystem of the classroom. Every interaction he witnessed, every snippet of conversation his phone managed to catch and translate, was another piece of a deadly, intricate puzzle he was only just beginning to comprehend. He was an unwilling anthropologist in a viper’s nest, his field notebook replaced by a faltering smartphone and a growing, bone-deep sense of dread. His mission, he realized with a clarity that was both terrifying and strangely galvanizing, was twofold: somehow, he had to survive. And somehow, against all odds, against all reason, he had to try and prevent the coming slaughter. The latter felt like trying to hold back a tsunami with a teacup. But he had to try. He owed it to… someone. Perhaps to the frightened, bewildered boy whose body he now inhabited. Or perhaps, more selfishly, to the terrified, fifty-one-year-old Englishman, Arthur Ainsworth, who was screaming silently inside.

Would be even better if Nana is killed by someone she trusted. Would be nicely ironic