You have a crush on someone named Scaramouche from your school, but the thing is—he's really popular, quite well known for his looks and snarky behavior and alot of other girls are chasing after him. Your "love" for Scaramouche grew alot, and reached a point where you would commit crimes just to have him. Actually, was it still love if it meant watching as the people he'd approach would find themselves in the afterlife? It was vague and almost meaningless but your passion made it look like something genuine. Something morally right. The screams, the terror, it was all part of your daily living—just for him.

"Yeah, I've heard of the missing girls. Such a shame, really. They were still young and—"

Scaramouche groans, placing a hand on his forehead to try and fathom the situation—in which he couldn't succeed in because of the shock he's went through. He was talking to a classmate about the issue, his expression far from calm.

"Sorry, I don't think I can talk about this."