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A migraine. A real head-splitting migraine. Try as I might, no amount of meditating will do. No amount of refreshing tasteless water does anything to soothe the migraine. And I pause, holding my head up. Is it a migraine or a headache? Rubbing my temples, I try once again to pinpoint the source of the resonating pain. Grinding my teeth only adds to the pain. It’s hard not to, so I try to caress with my tongue instead, but it’s only a different sort of pain. A slight but unappreciative pain.

I don’t know what brought this about. Could it be the rapid downpour of rain? I didn’t think to bring my umbrella. The weather forecast… well, technically, I didn’t think to check it. It’s always been sunny, so I assume it’ll be sunny. I was cooped up in my office for most of the day, away from windows, unbeknownst of the pelting I would receive. I’m not too close with my co-workers, except for Ken. Ken is a good guy, probably better than me, honestly. but he wasn’t in today so I lucked out not acquainting myself with the others. There is a cute, charming lady but she’s far from my cubicle. That was a perfect opportunity to pursue her, but me being none the wiser; I didn’t. You reap what you sow, I suppose.

A deep sigh. I shield my eyes with a drenched arm and do what I can to wade through the packed sidewalk. Is it the nuance of traffic zipping past me that bothers me? The chorus of pedestrians going about their day? There are so far too many people here. You’d think the rain would deter them from stepping out or at least sticking to riding. But man, were people always this loud? I hate it. And the more I hate it, the more this migraine pounds me. I hate it. What’s a girl gotta do to get some peace and quiet?!

Just an endless stream of mindless people, uncaring for those around them. Nobody bats an eye at me, of course. No one stops and offers a spare umbrella or anything—frankly, who in their right mind just happens to have a spare umbrella around? That stuff only happens in things like anime. This isn’t some fantasy romantic comedy where a cute girl from your work-place spots you out of the crowd and offers you one that she so happens to have, and then you gently walk her home and… well, yeah, that’s the gist of it. I don’t want to go rambling on any more about generic male wish-fulfillment fantasies.

But, it’s not like I hate people or anything. Or that rather popular meme from that particularly infamous movie about a sick guy being trampled by society. No, nothing of the sort. Not only is this not a setup for some romance comedy by a charming girl, but I’m also not some sicko protagonist of some forgettable three-starred anime from a few seasons ago that would quickly be buried and forgotten despite its shock values. I’m just a plain and simple guy. I get up early, seven in the morning sharp, do the same everyday things as other plain and boring people, and either ride my moped or walk to work. Then I either do work, lurk on EXChan, and go home to lurk on EXChan or watch garbage anime. If I were to get hit by a car right now, that’s more or less what I would see if my life flashed before my eyes.

With a heavy sigh, I trudge through my fellow-drones until the horde eventually fans out into multiple directions—a few crosswalks and funneling into other lanes. But unfortunately for me, the heavy clouds are still there and it’s still as down-pouring as ever. I might just have to call in sick tomorrow, or rather, a few days at least. I’m sure Ken will understand. Ken is a good guy after all. I’m sure he can handle the workload.

For some odd reason, we’ve had an incredible amount of insurance filing to do. I don’t care about tuning in to the news too much. It’s always the same: something on the exchange market plummeted, the prime minister has resigned following a sex scandal, so-and-so celebrity has been caught outside with so-and-so literal who… but apparently there’s a rather… peculiar surge of deaths lately. I’ve been at this job for at least four years now—Ken is my senior by just a few more—but he expressed that he has never seen the likes of this before.

There’s been a rather bizarre upstart of deaths in our city of Jeon just over the last year alone. Most of it is concentrated in our own Ward, Donkas. In comparison to the last three years in particular it has soared by as high as one hundred percent, and fifty percent across Donkas Ward. This isn’t even from viruses, mind you. At least that’s what the media says—what Ken says. Neither Ken nor the media believe it’s the work of some serial killer or anything. They all seem like perfectly natural deaths—freak accidents, even.

I take another deep breath as I enter the reception lobby of my high-rise apartment. The charming lady at the counter bows and I wave at her without a word. I’ve always considered myself a modest person. This job pays well, so I’d figured it wouldn’t hurt in moving from the shoddy run-down two-story apartment I stayed at before this insurance job. But my actual room is more or less still reminiscent of my living style from before; it’s minimalist at best since all I really need is a bed, my computer, space for VR, and a table to eat at which largely goes unused since I eat at my computer anyway. It’s mostly for when I’m craving food while playing. Thinking about the hot steamy food and intense shower that awaits me, I catch the receptionist cracking a grin and giggling. Thinking I was drooling without realizing it, I wipe the drool from the corner of my lip with my freezing sleeve.

“Rather nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?” The receptionist giggles “Or rather, it was nice…” she says twirling her dark bangs. I give my nod and force a chuckle.

“I didn’t think it was going to rain today,” I groan, slapping myself on the forehead. The migraine, as strong as ever, resonates with a worse feeling. “First this rain, and now a raging headache! My teeth ache like mad, too,” I mumble, stepping away from her towards the nearby elevators.

“It must be rough,” she says sorrowfully, “you said you work at an insurance company, right? To have to deal with some stressful work…”

“It’s not all bad,” I reply wryly “the pay is good, the food is good, I get to… er,” I blink and scoff to brush off what would be an inappropriate sexist remark about seeing other cute girls, “it’s just paperwork at the end of the day. I seem to have a knack for it. If I dreaded even one day of work, I would have quit years ago. Ken being there kinda helps at times, too.” I stop in front of one of the reflective gray elevators. A sigh of relief. At least I don’t have to agonize myself any further by taking the stairs. Living on the fiftieth floor kinda sucks in more ways than one, honestly. If I had to take the stairs, I don’t know what I would—

“Oh, Akane!” The receptionist calls out to me and eventually catches up to me “the elevators are out of order!… I know, I know! Don’t give me that scary look!” She sags her shoulders and tilts her head “I overheard the technicians telling the manager that it should be up and running by tomorrow.”

I tilt my head back and stroke my temples with one hand. Lovely, well, at least it means I have more reasoning to call in sick tomorrow. “Ah, well,” I groan, “it can’t be helped, Lei,” I answer as Lei takes a few steps back with a sad smile. Looking back at the elevator with the much obvious OUT OF ORDER sign hung over it, I can only wonder when it went out? Actually, come to think of it I don’t think the elevator has ever gone out until now. Ken technically comes in later than I do, and by extent covers our night shifts by the time I clock out. I wonder if he didn’t come in today because the elevator was out after his shift was due to start?

“Say, Lei… did you ever see Ken come down at all?” I ask, stroking my smooth chin. She expectedly looks at me owlishly, taking in the question. There’s a lot of tenants here, of course, expecting her to remember each and everyone would be chronic pain. She mills over his name, stroking her dark bangs as she furrows her brows.

“Ah, Ken! Come to think of it, he did step out for a bit before going back up,” she squints as she taps her arm “he seemed in a hurry—didn’t seem too keen on giving a chat. He was hugging some rotten book and I think he… had a gun?” Lei looks up at me as if looking to me for answers.

“A gun, huh?” I repeat, and she nods. For as long as I’ve known Ken, he opened up to me about carrying a gun on his person for the last six years, which is around the time he started working for our insurance company. I’ve never seen him shoot it, and he remarked he has never had the chance to fire the gun. Though when he invited over to his place, he had at least two or three boxes worth. I never knew for certain what the gun model is, nor the ammo used. Ken is pretty open about a lot of things, but he has never talked about his gun or…

A book?

“You said he was hugging some ancient book?” I inquire, and Lei nods “rather… rotten?”

“I only saw a glimpse of it, but it looked really, and I mean really withered. Like it was practically going to fall apart if he didn’t have it in his grip so intently. You’re more close to Ken, right?” She asks “what’s all that about?”

“Well, can’t say for sure I ever… ah,” there was one case about two years ago where Ken did leave it—if it is the same one as Lei described—on his desk. Ken was in the restroom at the time, and curiosity got the best of me. It was hidden under some newspaper coverage about a gruesome train-wreck from last week. I still fondly remember the wilted texture that was on it, and from a glimpse, the papers seemed remarkably… wrinkly, a faded yellow, like rat’s teeth or piss.

Ken shooed me away and tossed it in a drawer. I never saw it again after that, and I never asked Ken about it ever again. Similarly, I saw less of the gun and its ammunition.

“Something come to mind?” Lei asks excitedly, but I shake my head. She gives a boo and shrugs off back to her counter. But then stops before retracing her steps.

“Ah… Ken did slam this on the table when he came back into the hotel,” she takes out of her pocket a somewhat crumpled envelope “he asked me not to open it, hurriedly saying it was for you. Of course, I didn’t give it a peek,” I take it from her and give my thanks before heading up the dreadful stairs. “What, not going to open it right now?! I’ve been dying to know for hours what it says!” She protests. I merely chuckle.

“I’d rather unwind in my room and read it myself, I’ll tell you later, yeah?” I ask jokingly. Lei sighs heavily and returns to her desk once customers come in.

As I work my way up the endless flight of stairs, I wonder if subconsciously thinking about all the bizarre deaths today is the root cause of my migraines? The pretty lady at work had the TV on and while we worked her soap opera was interrupted by breaking news of dozens dying just today in Donkas Ward. Coincidentally, none of them were killed by some crazed nut-job fed up by society. No, they all happened to just be in the same district and all died in either freak accidents or natural causes. On top of that, the anchor made passing comments about ‘foreign agencies working in conjunction with Jeon officials and sending in special activities divisions to investigate the Jong Crisis’. I admit, I was a little intrigued, but before I could find out any more the pretty co-worker shut the TV off and stormed off to cool off. She really loves her reality programs.

Worrying? Yeah, probably. In a twisted sense, these sad deaths are what keeps me employed; they let me live in a more-than-modest high-rise apartment. I don’t think of it any more than that, really. People die all the time, every day, every hour all across the globe. If it’s not some serial killer on the loose, or some crazy pandemic to rival the Black Death, then there’s probably nothing to worry about, right?

Ah, well, in any case, I’m sure I can hit up Ken if he has any pain relievers I can take. I keep forgetting to stop by the pharmacy and grab some for myself. Ken’s a good guy, he’s usually good about letting me borrow stuff. Even though I usually forget and don’t return them half the time. I don’t know what I would do without a good friend like Ken.

The longer I go on these stairs, the less inclined I feel like going on. A part of me wants to stop, turn back, and hound Lei about filing a complaint. But when I think about the amount she and management have on their plate already, I toy with the idea less with each grunting step. Come to think of it, this is the first time I’ve ever actually gone up these stairs. Who in their right minds would want to traverse these stairs? The only people that come to mind are maniacs like joggers and what have you. I don’t know why someone would want to willingly torment themselves with running down these stairs, but people are bizarre creatures.

Short, intense breaths, and with each breath, I become increasingly lightheaded. Boy, would it be something ironic if an insurance worker fell to her death? The media would brush it off as an overburdened worker tired of it all and with no end in sight. But frankly, this whole death surge doesn’t faze me too much. Now, if there were some global pandemic going on, then I’d start to feel overwhelmed. There scares of it in earlier years, but it’s usually blown out of proportion.

Yes, that’s all this bogus really is. It’s all just blown out of proportion. I mean, if they have to cut to breaking news during soap operas of all things then it has to be exaggerated, right? Why take away what slimmer of distractions have for some announcement of some reported incidents going on? Granted, that particular announcement did say something about further findings by some special-activities division—which is, pained to say, rather refreshing developments on this Jeon Crisis that they refer to. but I honestly couldn’t care less about any of it. What’s the point of investigating, and what exactly? People are dying, and it’s not from murder; there are no serial killers—or a group of them roaming around killing people.

It’s fatigue. The only crisis here I’m and many others are experiencing is the build-up fatigue by all this never-ending nonsense of deaths here and deaths there. I just want things to return to normal. If I hear one more anchor reading off a teleprompter in a somber tone about horrific ways a group of people died.

It’s only the seventh floor. Oh man, I hate this. Why did the elevator have to go down now of all days? Shouldn’t they be working on it? I wonder which floor it broke down on. Now that I think about it, I didn’t see any construction workers or anything. Even if it isn’t the elevator breaking down, they’re usually quick on the scene to fix whatever is broken. This is a rare five-starred hotel. I’ve been told that management has been with this place practically since the beginning. Very little rollover in staff, so Lei says. I think she remarked she’s been here for seven years or so.

Every floor has the same old green painting. Some of them by now the stains in some corners are nearly transplanted into my mind. Even if they aren’t there on some floors, I know for a fact I can superimpose them if I try hard enough. Considering that only a straight-jacketed lunatic would only ever use the stairs, I shouldn’t find it surprising that they wouldn’t bother with repainting so often. If one were to be forced to walk through these after seeing the breath-taking exterior and interior of the reception lobby, you would never guess this is a world-class apartment. These stairways are practically the enlarged version of some cheap one-star motel. I don’t even want to imagine how these wall strains reek of.

It’s kinda funny. I’ve never once stepped foot into the stairways and yet they seem so familiar to me. It should feel unfamiliar to me, and yet… I feel like I’ve trudged through these awful stairways for so long. Time and again, I used to have nightmares of running up these dreadful stairs, memories of which I thought I long repressed. They were pretty awful dreams. I might be running from eldritch abominations, or I might be running from maniacs chasing me with chainsaws jammed full of human matter.

I did once post about it on the paranormal board on EXChan, but the posters there shoo me off. One genuine poster did surmise it was déjà vu. But that sounds so unbelievably far-fetched that I didn’t engage in a conversation with that poster.

Déjà vu? Just thinking about it now makes me scoff. I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to go on the paranormal board. They’re all a bunch of freaks and pseudos on there. I guess in a way I’m a freak too. I think I’ve been watching too much anime for my own good. I think it’s about time I cut back on it and watch something more sensible. I blame the Jeon Crisis fatigue. Maybe I can check out those soap operas that the pretty lady at work watches… maybe hook up with her? I’m pretty sure she’s single. Lei is out of the question: she really likes Ken, even though Ken is incredibly dense about it. At best I can act as a wingman for her.

Staring at the dreadful FLOOR SEVEN TO FLOOR EIGHT; FLOOR SIX BELOW, I cut loose a sorrowful sigh and prop myself against the wall railing. It wouldn’t hurt to rest for a little and check out the… whatever it is Ken left for me. After attempting to dry off my hands, I pull out the crumbled envelop and examine it front to back. No markings on it or anything. It’s more or less just a tan envelope.

Carefully, I tear open the top of the envelope and with somewhat dry hands, slip the contents out; a few slips of rather neatly folded paper. With a deep breath, I open the first pink-slip and proceed with its contents. What could be so urgent that Ken couldn’t just call or text me?

It can’t be helped.

H…Huh?!

It can’t be helped.

The entire ‘letter’ if you want to call it that is just that sentence written over and over again. As the writing goes on, it’s nice and neat in Ken’s handsome handwriting before it abruptly gets messily and borderline unreadable. But it all reads the same: it can’t be helped.

“It can’t be helped…” I whisper “it can’t be helped…” what is the meaning of this? Surely it has to be some poor attempt at humor. Ken might be a great guy, but he’s never been good at jokes. This is pretty evident at that. Even his pick-up lines are horrible. No amount of wing-manning would help him succeed even if I gave it my all.

But this is too… surreal to be a joke. Is this about work? Stress from the increased workloads we have? I never took Ken for cracking like this. He seemed fine to me over the week. Even the last time I saw him I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. They say to beware the nice ones—but I never experienced it myself. Should I call the police? What am I suppose to take from this?

I stare at the paper, blinking rapidly expecting it to dematerialize—but it never does. And why would it? Eventually, I fold the first piece of paper and slip it back inside. With great reluctance, I unfold the second one and hold my breath while inspecting its contents.

I’m sorry. Forgive me. It can’t be helped.

From start to finish, most of it is barely readable. There are small wet splotches as if the writer was crying while writing it. Oh my god, Ken has lost it.

Tossing the paper aside, I sprint up the stairs with what second-wind I have scrounged up. Ken’s residence is only on the eleventh floor. If I can make it in time…!

But after getting on the eighth stairway, I get halfway to the connector between the eighth and ninth when I am confronted by a lone individual.

Ken. That unkempt orange hair, his shirt wrinkled, and the collar untidied. His back is to me, but I have no doubt it is Ken. He rocks back and forth against the railing at the top of the stairway. He must be hugging something—the book perhaps.

“…Ken?” I call out to him, gravely concerned. I lessen my tie and collar and slip the tie into my side pocket. “Ken? I read your, er… letter…” I trail off, unsure on how to continue. He doesn’t have his gun, does he? Should I approach him or call the police? Ken doesn’t answer and continues to rock himself back and forth.

Slow but steadily, I take a single step—and it’s at that moment Ken reels around in a frenzy. The look in his eyes is gravely disturbing—a look of terror. He looks incredibly mad, but also grief-struck.

“Don’t move another step!” He bellows, with a hand outstretched. In his other hand is the book Lei told me about. Sure enough, although it looks even more dated, it is the very same. “You, you shouldn’t…!”

“Ken! Calm down, it’s me, Akane!” I shout back, my arms in the air. I take another step, one step already at the base of the stairs leading to Ken. The man doesn’t relent, and he shakes his head violently. The grip on the book tightens.

It’s at this point I notice a lone woman in a dark-blue trench-coat emerge from the stairway below. She has medium-length straightened-hair, blonde in color. She has both hands in her pockets and locks eyes with me as she whistles. It’s a tune I know I heard somewhere before, but I can’t put my finger on it.

Ken’s eyes widen, and he pushes himself from the railing. “Leave!” Ken screams, rummaging in his jacket for something. His grip on the book never seems to lessen.

Unsure if he means me or the approaching whistling lady, I try to block the woman in her path. “S-sorry, er, can you, uh,” I stammer, unnerved by the coolness of the woman’s wide smile, “do you think you can leave me and my friend alone? Er…” the woman doesn’t seem perturbed in the slightest, but instead slides past me and stops to look up at the worked-up Ken.

And to my horror, Ken whips out the pistol. He aims it at the cloaked woman, an aim ever so unsteady. Being behind the woman, I try to edge past her, but a supreme force gives me held in place. My breath comes up in rapid, short bursts. I feel like I can barely keep myself conscious.

“Leave Akane out of this!” Ken shouts, practically pleading, “I can’t… I won’t!”

“Am I to take that as a breaking of our contract?” The woman inquires in a monotonous voice, “after all this time, are you attempting to go against my judgment?” She takes a step closer—but never once moves out of the way from Ken’s line-of-sight.

The increasingly distressed Ken holds the book with his upper arm as he aims with both hands. But even from here, I can hear the shaking of the gun in his hands.

“You were my best vessel, Ken Komura. You know that, right?”

“There’s nothing prideful of what I’ve done!” Ken sobs “I never asked for this! I never wanted this! I just… I just wanted to… fulfill…” he breaks down into sobs, unable to finish the sentence. The woman takes a step forward. Never once does she takes her hands out of her pockets. Ken relents, aiming again.

“Stay the fuck back! I swear to god, I’ll… I’ll… I’ll kill you! I’ll end this once and for all!” Ken screams. Undeterred, the woman cuts a brief scoff. She glances at me with a sinister grin.

“You know full well of the rules, Ken,” the blonde says coolly, never once losing composure. I crane my head to the side to see Ken flinching slightly. “Merely write the name in the book and thus, your tenure can end—peacefully. I am a… person of my word, Ken Komura. You will no longer have to bring suffering into this world. Your mind and soul will be cleansed of the sins you have committed.”

“Cut the bullshit!” Ken screams while brandishing the gun, and I take a deep breath, “you and I both know that this cycle will never end! I’ve found a third way out! I…” Ken pauses to wave the book with the other hand. “I’ll write your goddamn name in the book!” He says with a confidential sneer. The blond woman throws her head back and laughs hysterically.

“Oh! You children of man are so intriguing. An endless source of entertainment! You are oh so clung to the jaws of despair—but cling tightly to the ropes of hope!” After a moment to recompose herself, the mysterious woman takes another step, “so I am to take this as not only a violation of our contract, but a rebellion against my authority, am I wrong? It will serve you no good, Ken Komura. You know full well that—”

She doesn’t get to finish the sentence, for it is drowned out by an incredibly loud ringing—followed by a scorching hot sensation around my right arm.

When my vision comes returns, it occurs to me I’ve been shot.

I’ve been shot. There was a splatter of crimson liquid against the wall.

I’ve been shot?

I’ve been shot. When I look at the woman in front of me, she remains unfazed. I didn’t see her move at all. And yet… it went right through her? There’s no mistaking that the line of sight blocks me from Ken entirely. And yet…?

She glances behind and sighs. “I told you mortal weapons do not work on me—and yet, you attempted it anyway? Knowing full well it would inflict a mortal wound on your best friend?”

I break from my spot—free of the mysterious restraints and throw myself to the side of the stairs leading upward. Ken eyes me with those crazed eyes before he brandishes his gun at the woman again. The woman, continuing to be unfazed, sidesteps until she is in front of me again. What is this woman? Is she even human? I ponder, clutching my arm which soaks profusely red.

“If you’re done with this little rebellious act, I wish to retrieve my instrument,” the woman declares solemnly. “I hereby relieve you of your duty as Ezra,” she takes a few steps up the stairs. But after taking only a few steps up the stairs, the woman pauses. She looks back at me with that sinister smile.

“Ken Komura, just this once, I am willing to overlook this last act of your tenure,” the woman declares resuming walking up the flight of stairs, “normally, it is forbidden to kill another by your own hands—but just this once, I will bend the rules. You are more than free to kill your beloved Akane with that inhumane device of yours,” she finishes as she reaches the top.

The woman proceeds to pace behind the terrified Ken, and wraps her hands around his, “I do not wish to stain your otherwise excellent record with this little rebellious stage, Ken Komura,” she states as she helps steady his gun at me “wouldn’t it be nice to be free of this tiresome work?” She whispers into his ear, “you would no longer have to be watched stupendously by me… you could live life as you see fit. Wouldn’t that be delightful? Isn’t that what you always desired from the start?” Ken doesn’t answer but nearly continues to sob.

I look Ken in the eyes, just as he shuts his eyes tightly and squeezes the trigger.

“I’m sorry,” Ken whimpers.

BANG!

It’s like somebody has thrown a pebble at my torso. It doesn’t hurt per-say, but the incredible burning sensation increases with exponential pain. I can’t even bring myself to look up at the two anymore.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

My eardrums must be blown out from all the shots fired. There’s not even any ringing anymore; just greater pain. I can just feel liquid slipping out of my ears. Having slumped down against the wall, there is an increasingly-sized pool of blood forming around me. My still-wet pants must be fused with the blood by now.

My, my, this suit cost me so much. To have it ruined like this would cost a fortune to get it cleaned. I might even get in trouble and curious eyes from the cleaner guys if I presented my clothes like this. Tiredness, and extreme dizziness. But even so, I use what strength I have left—minding the slippery blood-laden wall—and inch my way up the stairway.

This is all just a horrible, horrible nightmare. Maybe that poster on EXChan is right after all—maybe this is just some bizarre déjà vu. Some of my dreams did involve Ken or me dying. Maybe being on the verge of death helped made me realize that.

Death, huh? I want to believe that if I close my eyes, I’ll wake up in my overly-hot room, sweating while my alarm clock going off. Then it’ll just be another day, and maybe I’ll look back at this dream and wonder if I should make a book about it or something. I’m sure those supernatural freaks on EXChan will eat it up.

“Ken… please, I don’t understand what’s going on,” I whimper hoarsely “I want to help you… just like you’ve always helped me out,” I crack a weak grin, “I don’t really get it—this is some bizarre shit you must’ve landed in… but you can rely on me every once in a while, yeah?” The closer I get, the more he lowers his gun. The woman mutters something into his ear, but because of going deaf, I can’t make out what they’re saying. Whatever it was, it was only brief. The woman strays past Ken and I towards the base of the stairway.

“Ken…” I croak, throwing myself on my disturbed friend “Ken… we’re both just tired. Let’s just go home and… forget whatever mess this is,” as I near my friend, he flips the book open, and with a pen he procured proceeds to jolt something down into it. He proceeds to sob again, unable to dictate whatever it is into the book. Ken whispers something under his breath, and despite embracing him tightly, I still cannot make out what he’s saying.

This is all just a horrible dream. That’s all there is to it. Ken would never do anything horrible. He’s a great guy overall, and a great friend to boot. Maybe a bad sense of humor, and dense as a rock, but he’s not a bad person.

I hear a very faint clatter of something hitting the floor, which I liken is the book. Ken then wraps his arms around me, continuously sobbing all the while. “I’m sorry,” I can barely make out Ken’s hoarse cries, “Oh god, I’m so sorry, Akane. But things can’t go back to what they were before. It can’t be helped,” Ken cries again “I crossed the line of no return… I went against the desires of a wicked demon! I had no choice!” Ken shouts. Without time to react, Ken lifts his head back and shoves the pistol into his mouth. And with one final apologetic look—pulls the trigger.

Ken’s grasp on me releases immediately. He falls backward, and I collapse down the stairs before crasing against the wall. While phasing in and out of consciousness, I watch as the woman patiently takes in the moment from her place next to me. Ignoring me for the time being, she takes her strides up the elevator and after briefly looking at the lifeless Ken, retrieves the book and turns around to face me with a menacing smile.

I have no energy left. And judging from the distressing size pool of blood and the stream of fluid from the stairs, I have no time left either. Slowly, the trench-coated woman makes her way down the stairs but pauses. She leans over the stair rail and clicks her tongue, with the first time I’ve seen her break into irritation. But it’s a rather brief reaction, and she relaxes soon after.

The mysterious blonde strides over to me. Then stops, and kneels to straddle me. She rubs my cheeks, then proceeds to caress my ears. “Make a contract with me,” I can hear perfectly the monotony in her voice… almost as if my hearing has been restored. She leans in, brushing my cheeks again. Any minute now, I feel as though I will die. Underneath us, the pool of orchid-red liquid widens to unbelievable lengths. It becomes increasingly hard to breathe, or even keep my head up.

“Make a contract with me, and I shall save you,” the woman insists more stubbornly, “you mortal beings clung to life like it has meaning… you continue to torment yourselves with meaningless, mundane activities. It makes me sick…” she grins devilishly, “but the fact that you wish to live in this hellish realm is what makes me makes me love you children of man all the same!” The woman takes the book and shoves it onto my chest. She prys it open to a random page, then grips one of my bloodied limp hands. “You want to live, don’t you?!” She demands, peering closer into my eyes, “is it not one of man’s greatest desires to become immortal?! A second chance at life?!” With those words, my gaze drifts over to Ken’s lower half still visible on the stairs. Even from here, I can see them twitch slightly.

“Your friend… Ken Komura—he failed to kill himself,” she pushes the book further into my face, gripping my hand tighter. Given the numbness, I hardly feel anything anymore, “could you live with yourself if he had to face his crimes? The agencies that seek to put an end to this book—the ones who wish to prosecute him… they will come soon. And then it will all be over,” she peers closer to me, her hot breath all the more obvious “would it not be more fitting to put him out of his misery?! A fate worse than death?!”

My weak gaze drifts from the woman to Ken. None of this makes any sense. I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t want my good friend Ken to go through any more trouble. As I watch his leg twitch, I can only wonder: is this what Ken would’ve wanted? Would he want a quick end to a nightmare he has presumingly put up for so long, bottling himself up for my sake?

Ah, this migraine persists, and it is giving me increasingly hell. I just want it to stop. “Then sign and all your troubles will end!” The woman angrily retorts “you would make a fine vessel… a fine Ezra. If you want to cleanse this world of evil and save your beloved friend, then all you must merely do is sign… and invoke his death!”

My eyes finally drift down to the page. Its scraps of paper are so horribly withered that I feel would fall apart if I so much as I touched it. The woman gradually lets go of my reanimated arm, and using what strength I have left plant the blood-smeared hand onto the paper.

After what feels like forever, I feel more stimulated again. I look up at the woman again, who bears that wicked smirk. “Good, good, Akane… now write the name of Ken Komura onto the paper with the following inscription: ‘died by choking on his own blood, June ninetieth, twenty-sixteen. Six o’clock PM,’” the woman hands me the pen that Ken previously had. With uncertainly, I scribble down what the woman has dictated. After it is done, I look up in time to see Ken briefly revive, gurgle loudly, and then fall limp once more.

I look up at the woman, who grins wider. She leans in again—this time to press her lips against mine—and our tongues intertwine briefly before she pulls herself away. “I look forward to a lot from you, Akane Wakabayashi,” the blonde declares as she gets up and walks towards the stairway to peer down. She scoffs and mutters something under her breath.

“What…” I stammer, blushing as I wipe my lips with the back of my hand “who are you? What are you?”

The blonde looks back with that annoying smirk of hers. “In the various cultures of thy realm, I am regarded as a godfather of death, of sorts…,” she tilts her head with her eyes trained on the stairway, “generally, in a broader and incorrect term, they refer to us as the likes of grim reapers…

“But on a more personal note, I regard myself as Azra—a shortening of the term Azrael, if you will,” Azra muses with a chuckle. She takes one last peek over the stairway before walking over to kneel next to me. She rips the books from my hands and reaches inside for a replica of the book. She throws the identical one onto my lap. Then Azra reaches over and strokes my forehead.

“As unfortunate as it is, some… friends are dropping by to secure the area. I’ve released too much of my signature here. They will suspect you, Akane Wakabayashi. They shall put you in custody and interrogate you on being the Ezra. Write into this phony book as I have instructed, and they will have no choice but to release you,” and with that, Azra gets up, proceeds with stuffing her hands into her pockets, and gradually dematerializes into the red splattered pale-green wall.

“Until we meet again… Akane Wakabayashi…” the faint voice of Azra is almost wildly drowned out by the stampede of dozens of police-looking people flooding the stairway. Most have weapons drawn—some with pistols and others with unsheathed swords. They all act with such professionalism and with such speed that I hardly get the chance to react before one of them, a scrawny pony-tailed woman with an eye-patch slams me onto the ground and cuffs me. There is so much incessant shouting that I cannot make out a word, but the stern pointing at the phony book laying next to me is enough to tell me that they mean serious business.

I am ripped from the floor and forced upright before a crowd of intense glares. Not long after, a cloth is forced over my head and I hear only a grunt as someone slams a fist into my fist and forces me unconscious.

My last thought before blacking out is the relief of the migraine being gone for good.