Chapter 29: An Unwelcome Alliance

Chapter 16: A Fragile Return

The new term, the second year of Arthur’s nightmarish island sojourn, arrived with the noisy, unwelcome, and almost aggressive intrusion of the returning ferries. They disgorged their reluctant cargo of students onto the familiar, weathered pier – a chaotic, uneasy mix of fresh, unsuspecting new faces, their expressions ranging from nervous apprehension to a misplaced, naive excitement, and the more hardened, deeply wary, haunted-eyed returnees from the previous, blood-soaked, traumatic year. The island, which had been Arthur’s silent, mournful, and strangely, almost peacefully, isolated kingdom for many long weeks, was suddenly, jarringly, violently alive again with the cacophony of shrill youthful chatter, the thud of hastily unloaded, battered luggage, and the forced, brittle, almost desperate cheerfulness of the few remaining, equally traumatized teaching staff.

Arthur had somehow survived the long, profoundly solitary inter-term break through a combination of meticulous, desperate scavenging from the surprisingly well-stocked (if obscurely located and heavily fortified) emergency food larders he’d discovered deep in the school’s damp, echoing basement, and a grim, almost monastic, unwavering determination. His solitude had been absolute, his only constant, silent companion the still, unnervingly unchanged form of Michiru Inukai in her sealed, undisturbed dormitory room. He’d kept the room cool, the heavy blackout blinds permanently drawn against the harsh, unforgiving summer sun. The official story of her "tragic, contagious illness" and subsequent "peaceful passing" meant her room remained a sealed-off, almost taboo memorial, a place none of the superstitious or frightened staff dared enter.

But Arthur knew – or rather, desperately, fiercely hoped for – something more. Her body, even after all these weeks, was inexplicably, almost unnaturally, warm to the touch – a faint, persistent, life-like warmth that defied all rational explanation for someone supposedly deceased. This, for Arthur, was a stunning, almost terrifying confirmation that Michiru wasn't truly, irrevocably dead; that her extraordinary healing Talent could well be working in some profound, unseen way, fighting a slow, silent, almost impossible battle against the finality of death.

He hadn't breathed a word of this astonishing, terrifying possibility to a living soul. The reasons were manifold, each one a cold knot of fear in his gut. Firstly, any hint that he believed Michiru might return from the dead would invite immediate, intense, and deeply unwelcome scrutiny of his own "Talent." How could he possibly know such a thing? What "glimpse" could have shown him that? His fabricated abilities were already a precarious balancing act; any further probing could bring the whole charade crashing down around him. Secondly, and far more chillingly, was the thought of The Committee. If, by some infinitesimally small chance, news of Michiru's anomalous state, of his secret vigil and his bizarre hope, were to leak out, to somehow find its way back to Tsuruoka’s ears… they would undoubtedly descend upon her. They believed in the potential of powerful Talents to regenerate, he recalled that much with a shudder – it was probably the only vaguely true or insightful thing they’d ever inadvertently let slip about the true nature of these strange abilities amidst their mountain of lies. But their interest would be purely exploitative, monstrous. And if they discovered someone actively tending to such a phenomenon, actively hoping for it, they might see it as something more than just grief – they might interpret it as… defiance. Specks of resistance to their grand, evil designs. And if word of that got back to Nana, likely twisted by Tsuruoka to paint Arthur as an even greater, more unpredictable threat… That was a scenario Arthur certainly didn't want, a prospect that filled him with a unique and specific dread: going up against the full weight and force of the Japanese government, with all its shadowy resources, as well as a potentially re-conditioned, lethally focused Nana Hiiragi. The thought was unbearable.

So, he kept his vigil, his astonishing secret, locked tight within his own breast, the faint, persistent warmth of Michiru's hand beneath his own questing fingers his only, fragile confirmation. It transformed his lonely watch from one of hopeless grief into one of almost unbearable, anxious expectation. The terrifying unknown, of course, was the timescale. If such regeneration were even possible, how long would it take? Days? Weeks? Months? Or, God forbid, years? He didn’t know. Nobody did. But he had vowed to watch over her, to protect her, for as long as it took. He would not let her become an experiment. And he would not, he swore, allow her, if she did somehow return and was left alone, terrified, and uncontrolled, to eventually transform into one of those monstrous “Enemies of Humanity” that Tsuruoka cultivated, a fate he dimly understood from his anime memories to be a horrifying potential endpoint for unchecked or traumatized Talents.

When the other students returned, flooding the familiar corridors and common rooms with their unwelcome, boisterous vitality, Arthur Ainsworth was a visibly, profoundly changed individual. He was thinner, almost gaunt, his ill-fitting school uniform hanging loosely on his still-teenage frame. His eyes, sunk deeper into their sockets and shadowed with a perpetual weariness, held a haunted, faraway, almost unnervingly intense look. His interactions, always stilted due to his lack of a phone and his painfully rudimentary Japanese, were now even more clipped, his pronouncements, when he was forced to make them, often bleak, cynical, and unsettlingly prescient. He had become a pariah, an outcast, a figure of fear and morbid curiosity amongst his peers – the “creepy Tanaka-kun.” This strange, unending May, which had bled into a sweltering, oppressive summer on the island, felt so utterly disconnected from any concept of season or normalcy he had ever known; it was just an endless, timeless expanse of dread.

Nana Hiiragi was among the returnees. Her own transformation, Arthur noted, was less overtly physical but no less profound. The almost manic, candy-coated cheerfulness that had once been her primary, impenetrable camouflage was noticeably, significantly muted, replaced by a more sombre, introspective, and almost melancholic air. When her violet eyes, shadowed with a weariness that seemed too profound for her young face, inevitably met Arthur’s across the crowded, reawakened canteen on that first chaotic day back, he saw a complex, unreadable flicker of emotions – surprise at his continued, stubborn presence, perhaps a lingering trace of the raw guilt and profound confusion from their last terrible encounter, and a renewed, deeply wary, almost fearful assessment. The air between them, whenever their paths crossed, was thick with unspoken things.

Arthur knew he needed an ally, or at least, someone who wouldn’t immediately dismiss his dire warnings as madness. His thoughts, inevitably, reluctantly, turned to Kyouya Onodera. Kyouya was a consummate observer, a cold, logical, and entirely dispassionate analyst. He was, Arthur suspected, perhaps the only person on this godforsaken island who might, just might, possess the intellect and the detachment to believe even a fraction of the unbelievable truth, or at least to find his warnings pragmatically useful.

He found Kyouya in his usual self-imposed sanctuary in the furthest, quietest, most dust-laden corner of the school library. “Onodera,” Arthur began, his Japanese hesitant but firm. “We need to talk. Urgently. About what is coming.” Kyouya slowly closed his ancient book. He regarded Arthur with that unnerving, unblinking stare. “Tanaka. You look… remarkably unwell. Even more so than before the break.” “This island… it has that effect,” Arthur managed. He sat. “Listen to me. The Committee… they will create food shortages. Severe ones. To make us fight. Civil war.” Kyouya raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Your ‘glimpses’ tell you this?” “Among other things,” Arthur confirmed, his expression grim. “And Nana Hiiragi… she uses blackmail, manipulation. She is a tool, yes, but a thinking one.” He paused, a bitter irony in his voice. “I’m supposed to see the future. But I’m trapped in this bloody, repeating past, watching it all happen.” Kyouya listened with an unnerving, focused stillness. He had witnessed too many of Arthur’s strange, unsettlingly accurate “predictions” come to pass. “Deliberate food shortages,” Kyouya mused aloud after a long silence. “That would create precisely the chaos you describe. And Hiiragi… I have had my own suspicions.” He looked directly at Arthur. “What do you propose, Tanaka? Given your… unique perspective?” “Propose?” Arthur echoed, a harsh laugh escaping him. “I propose we try not to starve. We watch our backs.” He then hesitated, the weight of his incredible secret about Michiru immense. He couldn’t reveal the full truth, not yet, not even to Kyouya. It was too dangerous, for Michiru, for himself. But he had to say something. “And… I am keeping Michiru Inukai… safe… in her room. She deserves that. The Committee… they would not understand her… her condition.” He chose his words carefully, hinting at something beyond mere death, hoping Kyouya’s sharp mind might grasp the unspoken. “She is still… warm.” Kyouya’s expression didn’t change, but Arthur saw a flicker of something new in his eyes – not disbelief, but a profound, analytical curiosity. “Inukai Michiru sacrificed herself,” Kyouya stated, his voice flat. “A most… perplexing event. Her current… anomalous condition… is noted, Tanaka.” He paused. “If what you say about the Committee’s intentions is true, then this year will be… significantly more trying.” It wasn’t an alliance. Not yet. But Kyouya Onodera was listening. And Arthur, though still burdened by the full weight of his secret hope for Michiru, felt a fraction less alone in the encroaching darkness.

Chapter 34: Echoes of a Fictional Past II

The future, which had always been a terrifying, oppressive unknown for Arthur despite his supposed “Talent,” now felt even more vast, more unpredictable, but also, strangely, more laden with a desperate, shared, and almost defiant agency. They were no longer just characters in a half-remembered story he carried within him like a curse. They were survivors, together, facing a monstrous, common enemy, armed now with not just their varied Talents and their hard-won courage, but with the most bizarre, the most unbelievable, the most world-shattering truth imaginable. Where they went from here, what they chose to do with this impossible knowledge, was now, truly, terrifyingly, and perhaps even liberatingly, up to them.

Arthur watched their faces in the flickering firelight – Nana’s stunned but newly resolute expression, Kyouya’s thoughtful and analytical gaze, Michiru’s wide, tear-filled but courageous eyes, Jin’s unreadable, almost unnervingly placid mask. He had laid bare his most fundamental, most unbelievable secret. He felt strangely scoured, almost hollowed out, yet also, paradoxically, lighter. He had done his part; the truth, however insane, was out.

He cleared his throat, the small sound loud in the sudden, contemplative silence of the cave. He thought of the sheer, unadulterated madness of it all – an accounts clerk from Crawley, of all places, now a fugitive in a hostile Japan of the future, allied with a group of super-powered teenagers, about to propose a strategy based on a half-remembered comic book. It wasn’t exactly a Tuesday morning budget meeting back in his old office, nor was it akin to mulling over the day’s dreary news with a pint down the local pub on a damp May evening, anywhere remotely familiar on the south coast of England, or indeed, anywhere else in the sane, predictable world he’d once known. This was something else entirely.

“Right then,” Arthur said, his voice still a little shaky but gaining a new firmness. He looked around at each of them in turn. “Before we… before we decide what actions to take next, how we move forward from this… this rather unique position…” He managed a small, wry, almost pained smile. “I do have one idea. Something that might… just might… give us an edge, or at least a direction.”

He paused, letting that sink in, then met their gazes squarely. “But before I even attempt to explain that, I imagine you all must have… well, rather a lot of questions for me, given what I’ve just told you.” He spread his hands in a gesture of openness, of surrender to their scrutiny. “So. Are there any questions?”

The fire crackled, spitting a shower of sparks into the charged air. The roar of the waterfall outside seemed to recede, leaving a ringing silence in the cave, a silence pregnant with a thousand unasked, unbelievable queries. Their new, uncertain, and utterly bizarre fight had just truly begun.

Chapter 9: Immortality and a Doomed Boy

Arthur’s grotesque and shocking presentation with Shinji’s severed head had undeniably sent profound shockwaves through the student body and the teaching staff. It had also, in its own horrific way, achieved one of his desperate objectives: Yūka Somezaki was broken, her necromantic Talent voluntarily renounced, and thus, she was no longer an immediate, practicing threat that Nana Hiiragi might feel compelled to eliminate. However, Arthur knew this act of desperate intervention wouldn’t stop Nana for long. She was a force of nature, a meticulously programmed killer, and she would simply recalibrate and move on to other names on her unseen list.

And so she did. Perhaps driven by a need to understand or neutralize one of the most overtly powerful Talents on the island, or maybe even by a flicker of genuine curiosity that occasionally surfaced beneath her assassin’s programming, Nana Hiiragi found herself accepting an unexpected invitation. Kyouya Onodera, the aloof, white-haired boy who had bluntly declared his immortality upon arrival, had invited her to his small, somewhat dilapidated house on the outskirts of the main school grounds. It was an unusual gesture from the solitary Kyouya, and Nana, ever watchful for an opportunity to assess a potential threat or gather intelligence, had agreed.

Arthur only learned of this visit later, through the island’s surprisingly efficient student rumour mill – whispers of Nana being seen heading towards Kyouya’s secluded cottage – and by his own grim piecing together of the explosive events that followed.

During Nana’s visit to Kyouya’s surprisingly cluttered and book-filled house, as she’d excused herself to use his small, old-fashioned bathroom, she was reportedly struck by an almost overwhelming olfactory assault – the cloying, combined scent of various strong, masculine toiletries: harsh antiseptic soaps, pine-scented shampoos, a bracingly powerful aftershave, all mingling in the small, poorly ventilated space. When she casually commented on the rather potent aroma, remarking that he must have a fondness for particularly fragrant products, Kyouya had merely looked blank, a slight frown of confusion on his face. He claimed, with apparent sincerity, that he didn’t smell anything particularly strong or out of the ordinary.

It was then, Arthur deduced, that Nana, with her razor-sharp observational skills and intuitive understanding of human tells, realized Kyouya Onodera suffered from anosmia – the partial or complete inability to smell. A critical weakness, hidden in plain sight.

This discovery, Arthur knew, would have immediately sparked a deadly, opportunistic idea in Nana’s cold, calculating mind. Kyouya’s older, somewhat neglected house, unlike the more modern dormitories, still utilized bottled gas for its heating and cooking appliances. Anosmia meant he wouldn’t detect a gas leak until it was far too late. It was a perfect, almost untraceable method of elimination for an otherwise unkillable target.

A day or two after Nana’s seemingly innocuous visit, a powerful, ground-shaking explosion ripped through the northern, more secluded part of the island, sending a roiling plume of black smoke billowing into the clear afternoon sky. Panic, a now familiar companion to the students, flared anew. Teachers, their faces pale with alarm, rushed towards the site of the blast. Arthur’s heart sank with a sickening thud; he knew immediately where it had occurred, what it signified. He could almost picture Nana, arriving at the scene with a carefully orchestrated display of shock and concern, perhaps even feigning an attempt to "rescue" Kyouya, all the while expecting to find his scattered, incinerated remains among the smouldering wreckage.

Instead, she would have witnessed the utterly impossible: Kyouya Onodera, emerging like a phantom from the smoking, demolished ruin of his home, his clothes scorched, his skin blackened, yet already regenerating before her very eyes. Cuts would have been sealing, burns fading to new pink skin, his white hair dishevelled but his body remaking itself with an unnerving, silent speed.

Later, Kyouya, with his characteristic, infuriating stoicism, would have calmly confirmed to a stunned, undoubtedly seething Nana that yes, he was, for all intents and purposes, immortal. Her meticulously planned assassination, exploiting a cleverly deduced hidden weakness, had failed spectacularly against a Talent that trumped even her lethal precision. For Nana, it must have been a deeply frustrating, almost insulting setback, another name she couldn’t cross off her list. For Arthur, hearing the fragmented, awed accounts of the explosion and Kyouya’s miraculous survival, it was another grim confirmation of the established script, a small island of terrible predictability in the chaotic, churning sea of his new reality. Kyouya Onodera was a problem Nana couldn’t easily solve.

While Nana was grappling with the Kyouya problem and the aftershocks of Arthur’s classroom stunt, another, quieter tragedy was inexorably unfolding, one that Arthur felt with a particular, poignant helplessness: the fading life of Touichirou Hoshino. Arthur remembered Hoshino vividly from the anime – a frail, gentle-faced boy with a shy smile and a Talent for cryokinesis, who was, by his own quiet admission to a few trusted classmates, slowly, inexorably dying of an aggressive, untreatable form of cancer. His time was short, regardless of Nana Hiiragi’s murderous intervention.

Arthur felt a particular, unexpected pang of sympathy for Hoshino. He knew the boy didn’t have long, and the thought of Nana callously cutting that already tragically short life even shorter, purely to meet some unseen, monstrous quota, filled him with a quiet, impotent rage. It struck too close to home, perhaps – the specter of mortality, the unfairness of a life curtailed. He’d tried, in his awkward, phone-assisted way, to find Hoshino during breaks in the days following the Yūka incident, hoping to offer some small, stilted comfort, perhaps even a vague, reassuring “prediction” of a peaceful passing to ease the boy’s final days. But Hoshino, increasingly weak, was often secluded in his room, resting, or had simply wandered off to find a quiet spot to be alone with his thoughts and his pain. He was proving difficult to find.

And then, Arthur was too late.

News, carefully managed and somberly delivered, filtered through the school via a visibly grieving Mr. Saito: Hoshino Touichirou had been found dead. The official story, corroborated by a “traumatized” but “brave” Nana Hiiragi, was that Hoshino, in a bout of melancholic restlessness, had wandered off from the main school grounds, seeking solitude in one of the island’s many natural caves. Nana, ever the caring class representative, had noticed his absence and, filled with concern, had gone looking for him. She’d found him deep within a dark, damp cave, just as they were suddenly, inexplicably attacked by shadowy, indistinct figures – the ubiquitous “Enemies of Humanity.” Hoshino, in a final, heroic act of self-sacrifice, had apparently tried to protect Nana with his ice Talent, but had been fatally stabbed in the struggle. Nana herself, she tearfully recounted, had sustained a “defensive wound” to her forearm – a shallow, suspiciously neat cut – while “bravely” fighting off the attackers before fleeing to report the terrible tragedy.

It was a neat, almost plausible story, playing perfectly into the prevailing atmosphere of fear and paranoia that the school authorities seemed keen to cultivate. But Arthur knew the sickening truth. Nana had found Hoshino alone in that cave, likely in his final, pain-wracked hours, and had murdered him with her poisoned pen-knife, a quick, “merciful” elimination to tick another name off Tsuruoka’s list. The self-inflicted wound was merely a theatrical prop, a cynical flourish to solidify her alibi and paint herself as both a heroine and a fellow victim.

Kyouya Onodera, who had also been present among the group of students and teachers to whom Nana recounted her harrowing tale, had listened with his usual unnerving, impassive expression. But Arthur, watching from the periphery of the shocked gathering, saw the almost imperceptible narrowing of Kyouya’s eyes, the way his gaze lingered for a fraction too long on Nana’s artfully bandaged “wound.” Kyouya was suspicious. He didn’t buy Nana’s overly dramatic, conveniently vague story, not entirely. The pieces weren’t fitting together neatly enough for his sharply analytical mind.

For Arthur, Hoshino’s death, and the fabricated narrative surrounding it, was another heavy, suffocating blow. He hadn’t even been able to offer a single kind word, a moment of shared humanity. He was a man who supposedly held disruptive glimpses of the future, yet he was constantly, frustratingly outmanoeuvred by the brutal, unfolding present. He retreated to the relative anonymity of his dorm room that evening, the phone idle in his hand, the English words of frustration, grief, and self-recrimination dammed up inside him, untranslatable by any app, comprehensible only to the silent, judgmental ghosts of his own conscience. He was an unwilling passenger on a ship of fools, sailing straight into a maelstrom, able to see the waves crashing ahead but with his hands bound, unable to steer clear of the jagged, waiting rocks. The weight of his terrible knowledge, and his profound, repeated inability to act effectively on all fronts, was becoming a leaden cloak, threatening to drag him down into the depths of despair.

Chapter 22: Mainland Purgatory

The mainland was a brutal, disorienting awakening into a new kind of hell. Stripped of the insular, albeit perilous, structure of the island academy, and now, crucially, without his phone translator which had been casually confiscated by a bored Committee agent during the chaotic disembarkation, Arthur found himself utterly adrift in a sea of indifferent, uncomprehending faces and a language that was now an almost impenetrable barrier. The yen he’d had in “Kenji Tanaka’s” school uniform pockets had been minimal and was quickly exhausted on a few meagre portions of rice balls. He was just another nameless, homeless youth, lost and invisible in the sprawling, pitiless concrete jungle of a large Japanese port city. His limited, halting Japanese, learned through painful necessity on the island, was woefully inadequate for navigating this complex new world.

Days blurred into a miserable, exhausting cycle of gnawing hunger, damp cold, and the constant, weary, often fruitless search for some form of shelter from the elements or a discarded, half-eaten meal in a fast-food restaurant’s overflowing bin. He slept in darkened alleyways that stank of stale urine and rotting garbage, under the echoing concrete arches of bridges, the ever-present fear of discovery by police patrols or less savory, predatory elements of the city’s underbelly a constant, unwelcome companion. He missed Michiru with an ache that was a physical pain in his chest; her quiet presence, her unwavering kindness, their shared, fragile peace during the last island break, had been a small, precious light in his otherwise oppressive darkness. Now, that light was extinguished, and he was stumbling blindly.

A few desperate, soul-crushing weeks into this miserable existence, as he was huddled in a damp shop doorway, trying to escape a biting, persistent late summer rain, a sleek, anonymous black car with tinted windows purred to a silent halt beside him. A man in a sharp, impeccably tailored dark suit emerged, holding a large black umbrella with practiced ease, shielding himself as he approached. He addressed Arthur by his island name, his Japanese precise and formal.

“Tanaka Kenji-kun?” the man inquired, his voice polite but utterly devoid of warmth or inflection, his eyes cold and appraising as they took in Arthur’s ragged, rain-soaked appearance. “My employer has taken an active interest in your current welfare. He understands, through various channels, that you may be… experiencing some temporary difficulties adjusting to mainland life.” He paused, allowing Arthur to absorb the implications of being so easily found. “He is, therefore, prepared to offer you refuge, assistance, a chance to rebuild your life under more… favorable circumstances.”

Arthur stared at the man, then at the opulent, waiting car, a stark symbol of power and influence in this grimy, indifferent street. He didn’t need his phone to translate the chilling intent behind the polite words. This was the Committee. This was Tsuruoka, reaching out with a silken, poisoned glove. “Who… who is your employer?” Arthur managed, his own voice raspy and weak from disuse, the Japanese words clumsy and heavily accented.

“A concerned benefactor,” the man replied smoothly, his expression unchanging. “He believes that Talented individuals like yourself, particularly those who have endured the… unique rigors of the island program, deserve ongoing support and guidance, not abandonment.”

Arthur almost choked on a bitter, hysterical laugh. Support. Guidance. From the very people who ran a death camp for unsuspecting, Talented teenagers. “Tell your ‘concerned benefactor’,” Arthur said, the English words a sudden, angry torrent from his lips, before he caught himself and forced out a stumbling, defiant Japanese reply, “that I… I appreciate the offer… but I prefer to manage my own affairs. I require no assistance.”

The man’s thin lips curved into the faintest, most chilling of smiles. “A most regrettable decision, Tanaka-kun. My employer is not accustomed to having his… generous offers so readily dismissed. This opportunity may not present itself again.” He produced a plain, unmarked white card from his inner pocket, offering it to Arthur. It held a single, untraceable phone number. “Should you reconsider your position.” Then, with a slight, almost imperceptible bow, he returned to his car, which slid silently away into the rain-swept streets, leaving Arthur alone once more, shivering in the damp doorway, the card quickly turning to sodden pulp in his trembling hand. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he’d made the right, the only, choice, but the brief, chilling contact, the effortless demonstration of their reach, left him profoundly shaken and with a renewed sense of being hunted.

Meanwhile, many miles away, Commander Tsuruoka was indeed displeased. Not only had this Kenji Tanaka anomaly refused his "generous" offer of controlled reintegration, but Nana Hiiragi, his once-star asset, was proving increasingly problematic, her operational effectiveness compromised by sentimentality and doubt. During a particularly harsh, psychologically invasive debriefing session following her return from the island after the truncated second year, Tsuruoka informed Nana that her next assignment would be a return to the island academy, with a new, carefully selected intake of students. He then fed her a meticulously constructed, entirely false narrative: “Kenji Tanaka has become a dangerous rogue element, Hiiragi. His so-called prescient abilities are unstable, making him a unpredictable threat. He has evaded all our attempts at compassionate control and assistance. He is now, regrettably, considered a significant threat to the integrity of the program, potentially even to wider national security interests if his abilities fall into the wrong hands. Your primary, non-negotiable objective for the upcoming term will be his swift and permanent elimination. There will be no failures this time. Is that understood?” Nana, still reeling from her own recent traumas and Tsuruoka’s chilling manipulations regarding Mai, had listened with a pale face, her mind a maelstrom of conflicting emotions and a growing, terrifying dread. Arthur, a threat to national security? The haunted, weary boy who had so tenderly cared for Michiru’s lifeless body? It didn’t track, not at all, yet Tsuruoka’s orders were absolute, backed by the implicit threat of unimaginable consequences should she disobey.

Arthur, entirely oblivious to Nana’s new, horrifying directive concerning him, eventually, through sheer, desperate persistence, found work. It was grueling, back-breaking, spirit-crushing labour on a sprawling construction site on the city’s outskirts, hauling bags of cement, shoveling rubble, mixing concrete under the relentless summer sun. The pay was insultingly minimal, barely enough for a shared, flea-ridden bunk in a crowded, squalid flophouse that reeked of stale sweat and cheap alcohol, and a daily bowl of watery, tasteless noodles. His days became a monotonous, exhausting blur of brutal physical exertion and profound mental despair. He was Kenji Tanaka, anonymous construction grunt, his past life as Arthur Ainsworth, respected (if unfulfilled) accounts clerk, a fading, almost unbelievable dream; his time on the island, with its constant terror but also its strange, intense connections, a recurring, vivid nightmare. He thought often, achingly, of Michiru, wondering where the Committee had taken her, if she was safe, if he would ever see her gentle smile again. The hope of it was a distant, flickering, almost extinguished candle in the vast darkness of his current existence. The irony of his current occupation, he sometimes thought with a bitter twist of his lips, was that this was the kind of life Kyouya Onodera had apparently endured before his own arrival on that cursed island.

His miserable reprieve, such as it was, didn’t last. One sweltering evening, as he trudged wearily back towards the dubious sanctuary of the flophouse, his body aching from head to toe, his spirit numb with exhaustion, a dark, unmarked van screeched to a halt beside him on the deserted, dusty road. Before he could even register the threat, before he could think to run, several grim-faced figures in plain, dark clothes erupted from its sliding door and bundled him inside with brutal, practiced efficiency. He struggled instinctively, a desperate, futile thrashing, but they were strong, their movements coordinated, their grips like iron. A rough cloth, smelling faintly of chemicals, was pressed hard over his face, a sweet, cloying, sickeningly artificial scent filled his nostrils, and the ugly, indifferent world dissolved into a suffocating, unwelcome blackness.

He awoke, gagging and disoriented, in a bare, sterile, windowless room, strapped tightly to a hard metal chair. A single, painfully bright spotlight shone directly into his face, making him squint. Tsuruoka himself wasn’t present – Arthur was clearly not yet deemed worthy of the commander’s personal attention for this particular stage of his “re-education” – but a subordinate, a cold-eyed, stern-faced woman in a severe, dark military-style uniform, stood before him, her arms crossed, her expression devoid of any discernible emotion.

“Tanaka Kenji,” she stated, her voice flat, impersonal, chillingly devoid of inflection. She consulted a thin file in her hand. “Or perhaps, given your rather… unusual background, you currently prefer the designation Arthur Ainsworth?” She didn’t elaborate on how they might know his original name; the casual, confident implication of their far-reaching, invasive intelligence network was, in itself, a potent form of intimidation. “You have proven to be a persistent, and rather tiresome, inconvenience, Mr. Ainsworth. You were given a generous opportunity to cooperate with our organization. You unwisely declined.”

She took a step closer, her shadow falling over him. “Our organization has a significant, long-term investment in the island program, and its successful outcomes. Uncontrolled, unpredictable variables such as yourself cannot, and will not, be tolerated indefinitely. You will be returning to the island academy for the next academic year, with the new intake of students.” Her lips curved into a smile that held no warmth, only a cold, clinical menace. “Consider this your final opportunity to demonstrate your potential utility to the Committee. Or, failing that,” her smile widened fractionally, “to be… neutralized, shall we say, in a more controlled, predictable, and entirely deniable environment. The choice, as they say, is yours. Though, I suspect, largely illusory.”

Arthur said nothing. There was nothing left to say. He was trapped, a terrified, exhausted pawn being forcibly moved back onto the bloodstained, treacherous board.

The journey back to the island was a disorienting, humiliating blur of sedatives, blindfolds, and the gruff, dispassionate presence of his Committee guards. When he finally stumbled off the transport vessel onto the chillingly familiar pier, the sight of the imposing school buildings, nestled amidst the island’s unnervingly lush, verdant landscape, filled him with a profound, soul-deep sense of dread and utter resignation. A new intake of students, fresh, innocent faces full of naive hope or nervous apprehension, were already disembarking from another, larger ferry, their excited chatter a grotesque counterpoint to his own internal despair. The Third School Year was about to begin, and Arthur Ainsworth knew, with a terrifying, inescapable certainty, that he was now not just an unwilling observer or a clumsy, desperate interferer, but a designated, marked target. And this time, he had no phone, no easy means of communication, and very few allies left.

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.

Another pointless poster