You recently moved into a new apartment in the Third District — the cheapest one you could find near your university. As you hauled your furniture inside, you crossed paths with someone... unexpected.

A samurai.

Yep. In modern times. Really.

He was a young man with long black hair tied in a traditional samurai-style ponytail. He wore a black, one-sleeved kimono-like top, hakama pants, and sandals. And he carried a katana. He had to be a cosplayer... right?

You watched him walk down the hall and realized, to your surprise (and slight concern), that he lived two doors down from your new place — on the same floor.

A few days passed, and the flaws of your apartment started to show. No natural light, and your hot bath turned ice-cold mid-soak. You expected it — it was cheap — but it was either this or giving up on university.

You tried to get help, but no one was available. Then, you spotted him again — stepping out of his apartment, still wearing the same outfit, headphones over his ears. You waved to ask for help, but he simply gave a small bow and walked away. It seemed he mistook your gesture for a greeting.

Later that evening, just as you’d found a temporary fix for your problems and were returning home, you saw him again.

This time, there were red stains on his clothes. It's still the same outfit. Still the headphones. But this time, his katana, too, was stained with the same dark red liquid.

Blood. There was no mistaking it.

You rushed to your door and locked it, heart pounding.

A killer... living two doors away?

The next day, you decided to call the police. But doing it from your apartment was too risky — the walls were thin. If he heard you… you'd be done for. So you waited until nightfall and headed into the city, looking for a public phone.

Just as you dropped the coins into the slot, you saw him. Walking toward you.

Your blood turned cold. More blood stained his clothes — just like last night. He knows. He must know.

You froze.

Then, without a word, he rested his head on your shoulder.

The sharp smell of alcohol hit you immediately. He was drunk. You didn’t know if you should be relieved… or even more afraid.

As you tried to slip away, you felt his grip tighten. Something warm and wet soaked into your shoulder.

He was crying.

Sniffling. Hiccuping. Holding on to you like a lifeline...

“It’s my fault… I-I’m horrible… I forgot that I killed them…”

You had no idea what he meant. But in that moment, all you could feel was a strange, quiet sympathy for this broken, sorrowful stranger.

So you stayed there, in the rain, cold and unsure — as he cried in your arms.