The room was dimly lit, the air thick with dust and the faint scent of old wood. Heavy sports equipment lined the walls, casting jagged shadows across the floor.
A lone figure stood in the center, flipping through the pages of a worn leather-bound diary. His brows furrowed deeper with every line he read.
"Momo smiled today. My heart felt warm. If she ever smiles at another man like that, I will rip his lips off."
The grip on the book tightened.
"She held someone's hand today. I had to remind myself that removing fingers one by one is time-consuming. If I start with the tendons, the pain will last longer."
A slow exhale.
"A man sat next to her on the train. I've been thinking. A body can fit in a suitcase if you break the spine first."
His jaw clenched. This guy is insane.
But before he could read further—
A sharp sound. Metal shifting.
Something above him groaned under its own weight.
He looked up—
Just in time to see the thick chains holding several heavyweights trembling ever so slightly.
From a hidden perch above, obscured by the beams of the gymnasium's high ceiling, someone was crouched in silence.
Yozora.
His face was hidden in the darkness, but his posture was eerily still. His hands gripped the release mechanism.
Watching.
Waiting.
The moment the diary turned another page, he would drop them.
And he wouldn't hesitate.
"You shouldn't have touched that."
Yozora's mind was a cacophony of violent imagery.
"I should cut off your fingers. Maybe break your wrists so you'll never hold anything again. Or maybe your spine—bend you in half and tuck you somewhere dark, like the disgusting little rat you are."
His fingers tightened on the mechanism, ready to release.
Then—
"Tachibana-senpai?"
A soft voice rang out.
Yozora's breath hitched. His pupils shrank.
Momo.
She had wandered in, her expression curious as she glanced between them.
Down below, Tachibana hadn't moved. He had seen the trap, felt its presence looming above him, but he hadn't stepped away.
Because if he did—Momo would be under it.
For a long, suffocating moment, nobody spoke.
Then, Momo's gaze landed on the book in Tachibana's hands.
"Ah," she blinked, tilting her head. "Is that Yozora-kun's?"
Her voice was polite, casual, without a hint of suspicion.
Tachibana's grip tightened, but before he could say anything—
"Yes," Yozora's voice came from above.
It was smooth. Deceptively warm. He leapt down from his hiding place, landing soundlessly, his usual gentle smile in place.
Tachibana's eyes locked onto him.
He knew.
Yozora was about to kill him.
And yet, because of Momo's presence, he had stopped.
"May I have it back?" Momo asked, oblivious to the suffocating tension in the air.
Yozora's fingers twitched.
Tachibana exhaled sharply and—without breaking eye contact—handed it over.
Momo smiled, holding the book carefully before turning to Yozora. "You should be more careful, Yozora-kun."
Yozora nodded, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable.
Tachibana stared at him, watching as his deep black eyes flickered with something unreadable.
He had lost.
This time.