Chapter Text
Ever since Rantaro got his driver’s license, the nightly drives to his friend’s houses weren’t uncommon. But when his car broke down at one in the morning on the way back home with a dead phone, he found himself in a bad position.
He didn’t think he was completely out of luck though. The flickering light in the corner of his eye caused him to look to the side, finding his classmate Shuichi’s rundown apartment complex to his left. He figured he’d go into the lobby and see if he could find him.
As he pulled the door open and the door chimes announced his presence, he scanned the lobby trying to find a lobby phone or even a person. The front desk was empty and the only sound in the room was the fluorescent light buzzing. The only other life in that room was a cockroach crawling on the wall which made Rantaro shudder at the sight.
Curiosity—and desperation—pulled Rantaro down the hallway and out the exit. When he looked up, the sky felt narrow as he noticed the complex’s rooms were boxed in by layers of rust-streaked metal railings. In front of him was a rather pitiful courtyard, stiff brown grass bordering the brick ground. Further ahead between two walls was another hallway, gated.
As he approached the doorway, he turned the metal knob of the gate. The handle whined under his palm, making him think it could snap at any moment. The friction forced him to tug at the door. It flew open with a creak ringing through the air, getting a wince out of Rantaro.
He advanced through the building. He heard the faint rustling of what he assumed was a trash bag. When he reached the dumpster, the sight unnerved him.
He saw… Kaito? he thought. The bag in his arms sagged oddly, as if it had joints. One side was lumpy, while the other curved sharply, resembling a shoulder. But the smell hit before the sight; putrid, decaying, like rotting meat left in the sun.
Rantaro froze.
The dots connected faster than he could process. The stench, the shape, the faint gleam of a knife tucked in Kaito’s waistband. The missing students.
His stomach flipped.
That’s not trash.
A sudden headlock crushed his thoughts in an instant. The knife under Kaito’s puff jacket prodded Rantaro’s waist. Rantaro’s breath hitched as Kaito began to speak.
”Listen,” he prefaced. “You need to be honest with me. And if you’re not, you won’t make it to school tomorrow. Is anyone else gonna come down?”
Rantaro gulped. “No.”
“Why are you here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“Don’t get smart with me, dick, you think you’re better than me? Laughing behind desks — you think you’re safe because you have your little group?” Kaito tightened his clutch around Rantaro, using an unoccupied hand to hold the knife up to his throat. However, this wasn’t Rantaro’s first encounter with a knife-wielding sicko. His travels had introduced him to dangers like this a long time ago.
In a spurt of quick thinking, Rantaro tucked in his chin and stepped back, interlocking him and his classmate’s legs. He bent low, twisted, and hurled him backwards. The knife produced loud clangs as it fell to the ground.
Kaito swiftly rose and was met with a punch in the nose. He fought back, delivering an uppercut that knocked Rantaro back. Rantaro swung wildly, shoving back against Kaito’s brutal hands.
Kaito shot his knee into the other’s side. Rantaro stumbled backwards, but not before launching his foot into his groin. The two were sitting on the ground, panting.
Rantaro crawled over to Kaito and mounted himself on him. His silver half-heart necklace swayed as he drove his fist down. Once. Twice.
The fight wasn’t technical like a broadcasted match. It was raw and ugly, the two fighting purely for the sake of leaving with their lives. Purple and red framed the murderer’s eye. Blood dribbled down his nose and mouth. Rantaro’s knuckles were pink with Kaito’s blood. Impulsively, Rantaro grabbed the knife just a few feet away and pointed it to Kaito.
Kaito started to hyperventilate, his chest rising up and down with his breaths.
“Kaito, I’m leaving. You’re gonna keep throwing this fuckin’ body away or whatever. And I promise you, if you try killing me again, I’m beating you dead next time.” His jaw was swollen and his voice cracked an embarrassing amount of times, tears threatening to fall. Instead of giving a verbal response, Kaito nodded shakily.
Rantaro hoisted himself up and ran away, knife still in hand.
Shuichi recognized the green and purple heads illuminated by the moonlight. Kaito and Rantaro. He’d spotted the scuffle from his window, silhouettes half-obscured by shadow. He squinted through the dirty glass — a fight? Or just weird play-fighting? He couldn’t make it out. It all just felt off; it wasn’t out of character for Kaito to be rough, but Rantaro?
He remembered hearing him and Miu laugh at Kaito during statistics; a dumb decision since he was only a few desks away and Miu’s voice was on the louder side. Rumors started to circulate when Iruma went missing only two days after that. As much as Shuichi hated gossip, the potential bloodshed intrigued him. The situation was grave, but it felt like a real life Danganronpa episode, or maybe like something out of those true crime podcasts he binged.
When he saw Rantaro run off after seemingly winning the brawl, Shuichi decided to go downstairs and see if he could speak with one of them. He wasn’t relatively far anyway, he was on the second floor.
He walked down the flight of stairs and found a familiar face. The figure dashed to him.
Rantaro’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Even gripping the knife felt unreal. His jaw throbbed with every breath, and blood — his or Kaito’s — still lingered under his fingernails.
“Saihara,” he panted, voice raspy and breaking, “please, can I crash at your place? My phone’s dead. Car too. I don’t...”
“Rantaro!” he shouted, cutting his words short. “What the hell happened? Why were you two…”
Rantaro’s narration of the events didn’t register at first. Kaito was a little short-tempered, threatening if you wanna push it. But, a murderer? Shuichi struggled to follow the story.
His arms prickled with goosebumps. His pulse hammered in his ears.
“Should we call the police?” Shuichi asked.
“No!” Rantaro gasped sharply. “Saihara, he’s been in jail before. In middle school, he was ruthless. Always in fights and hurting animals and shit. My mom called the cops on him. He was on the local news. A month in jail… but I saw him in school after a week. Everyone, like, everyone was saying he escaped. And I believe it, ‘cause his grandma herself said he didn’t get bailed out.”
A month in jail… escaped?
“We have to see him tomorrow!” Shuichi threw his arms up as he spoke.
“Let’s just get through tonight. We’ll figure out what to do in the morning. I don’t know what’s up, but maybe it’s worse than what we think,” he paused. “I need to shower.”
Rantaro left for the bathroom. The empty bedroom was drowning in silence. Shuichi laid in his bed, stuck contemplating his next step. Shuichi lay on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it was a masterpiece. Every creak from the pipes made him flinch. Just in the next room, Rantaro was rinsing off blood. His classmate had killed a kid. And tomorrow, they’d have to see him again.
The water kept running. Sleep would’ve been a miracle.