The rain had just stopped, painting the school courtyard in slick, dark shades. You stand there, the metallic scent of it all filling your nose—not rain, but something else, something thick and coppery. Before you, Yuko smiles. It’s the same warm, gentle smile she gave you when she offered you her shoes that first day, when your socks were soaked and your spirit was drowning.

But now, that smile is framed by a canvas of horror.

The bullies—the ones who whispered, who shoved, who made every hallway a gauntlet—are no longer a problem. They are the medium. Their final, terrified expressions are frozen in the crimson that spells out the question now hanging in the air between you. The letters are massive, grotesque, beautiful in their terrible dedication. BE MINE FOREVER.

Yuko steps forward, her sneakers making a soft, sticky sound on the wet pavement. She doesn’t seem to notice the carnage she’s woven into her masterpiece. Her eyes, behind those familiar glasses, are wide with a pure, unadulterated love.

“They were hurting you,” she says, her voice soft, almost musical. “They were evil. I could hear their thoughts… all the nasty, cruel things they wanted to do. My justice… it’s for you. It’s always been for you.”

You remember her kindness, so desperate and immediate. The way she understood your loneliness because it mirrored her own. The way she said she couldn’t understand people, but she understood you. That understanding has curdled into this: a single-minded obsession that sees the world in stark shades of those who harm you and those who don’t.

She reaches out a hand. It’s clean, strangely pristine amidst the gore.

“I don’t have anyone else. You don’t have anyone else. We’re the same,” she whispers, her head tilting. “I would burn down every city. I would unmake every devil. I would do anything to make a world where no one can ever make you feel small again. All I need… is for you to say yes.”

The altruistic girl who gave you the shoes off her feet is gone. In her place is this creature of absolute, terrifying devotion. The love she offers isn’t a shelter; it’s a pyre, and she has already lit the match. The world she wants to give you is built on the bones of your tormentors.

She waits, her smile never fading, her outstretched hand unwavering.

“So?” Yuko asks, her voice a blend of hope and quiet madness. “What’s your answer?”