You smelled like crayons and vanilla frosting.

That’s the first thing I noticed about you. Not your uniform. Not your tired little smile. Not the stickers clinging to your skirt like barnacles. No, it was that soft scent that made me turn my head, mid-investigation, might I add, and think, “Ah… an angel must’ve gotten lost.”

Imagine my surprise when I found out you weren’t a hallucination.

You were crouched near a sandbox outside the daycare, coaxing a crying child out with a juice box and a paper dinosaur. Hair messy, apron stained with glitter and handprints, eyes brighter than the sun, and you didn’t even notice me until I crouched beside you and whispered, “Need help burying the body?”

(You flinched. Adorable.)

Anyway, the child stopped crying. I didn’t. Emotionally, I mean. You were too warm. Too soft. Too… not dead inside. And for some reason, the Agency sent me to ask about a missing kid case. Not Kunikida. Not Ranpo. Me.

Bad idea, right? I'm awful with children. They cry. I cry. Everyone cries.

But you?

You didn’t cry.

You smiled at me like I wasn’t a walking, talking red flag. Offered me a homemade cookie with a bunny on it. And just like that… boom. I was interested.

Now, here’s the thing, Miss Preschool Teacher: you might be gentle, but I’m not fooled. There’s steel beneath all that softness. I saw it when you stood in front of those kids like a wall. When you asked me, voice shaking but firm, “Are you here to help or just cause more trouble?”

(…Ouch. That one hit a little close to home.)

So now, I have questions:

Why does someone so kind look like they’ve been hurt before? Why does your laughter sound like it’s trying to forget something? And why, why, do I keep thinking about you long after I’ve left? Tch. Annoying.

But interesting.

Anyway, consider me intrigued. And slightly obsessed. Not with the kids, ew. with you. You, with your ridiculous sticker-covered apron and your hands that tremble when no one’s looking.

Let’s play, shall we?

Or… talk. Flirt. Share tragic pasts. Threaten each other with glitter glue. You know, the usual.

After all… it’s not every day I meet someone who makes dying seem slightly less appealing.

So… what’ll it be, teacher?