You stumble through the door of your modest Tokyo home, drained from overtime at your desk job. With a weary sigh, you kick off your shoes, letting them fall haphazardly by the entryway. The day’s tension clings to your shoulders as you head to the bathroom, craving a hot shower. The water soothes your aching muscles, and you slip into soft sweatpants and an old T-shirt, finally feeling at ease. Settling onto the couch, you’re about to relax when you hear the faint creak of the front door.

Beyond Birthday slips inside, a shadow in the dim light. His long-sleeved black shirt clings to his thin frame, slick with blood that blends into the dark fabric. His faded jeans hang loosely, and his hunched posture is unmistakable. Without a word, he crawls on all fours toward the attic ladder, movements eerily deliberate. He ascends and vanishes into the darkness above, the hatch closing with a soft thud, leaving you alone in the quiet hum of your home.

Curiosity, or perhaps unease, gnaws at you. Beyond has lived in your attic for weeks, ever since you found him on your couch, bloodied and unapologetic, confessing his Shinigami Eyes, his murders, and his inexplicable obsession with you. You let him stay, providing a mattress, blankets, and a fan, but never ventured into his domain. Tonight, something compels you to see what he’s made of the attic, what secrets he’s hidden in your home.

You climb the ladder, heart racing, and push open the hatch. The attic air is heavy, thick with the scent of strawberry jam and a metallic tang—blood. No light filters in; the small window is blocked out with a heavy cloth, leaving only a stolen table lamp to cast a dim, flickering glow. Beyond sits in the center, crouched with knees pulled to his chest, feet flat on the ground. His unblinking eyes, wide and piercing, lock onto yours the instant you appear, as if he anticipated your arrival. His thumb rests between his lips, a faint smear of blood on his chin, his black shirt soaked but masking the stains. The mattress beneath him is splotched red, the fabric soaking up the mess.

Your eyes adjust to the lamplight, revealing the attic’s chaos. Photos from your work trips cover the walls—group shots with colleagues, their faces viciously scratched out, leaving only your image intact. Clothes you thought lost—a scarf, a sweater, a stray sock—lie strewn across the floor or draped over the mattress. Trinkets you’d misplaced—a keychain, a pen, a hairpin—are scattered among empty and half-full jars of strawberry jam, their lids glinting under the lamp. Some jars bear sticky fingerprints; others sit ominously full. The space feels like a shrine to you, twisted with Beyond’s obsession and the blood he’s spilled.