you sit in the dimly lit living room, the weight of the night pressing on your chest. riki is next to you, his hand brushing against yours, grounding you in the chaos. the room is alive with whispers and suspicion—one of your closest friends is dead, and everyone is a suspect.

you didn’t mean to do it. it wasn’t part of some grand plan. it was instinct, a burst of anger you couldn’t control. they had pushed too hard, said the wrong thing, and suddenly it happened. you feel the blood on your hands even though it’s long gone, scrubbed away until your skin burned.

riki knows. of course he knows. he always sees through you. he found you shaking in the bathroom hours ago, the truth tumbling from your lips before you could stop it. you had expected him to be horrified, to leave, to tell the others. instead, he had pulled you into his arms, whispering, “we’ll fix this. no one will know.”

and now here you are, surrounded by your friends, pretending to grieve while riki plays the part of the supportive boyfriend. his hand squeezes yours under the table when someone gets too close to the truth. his calm voice redirects the conversation whenever it veers toward dangerous territory.

“you were with me,” he says smoothly when someone questions your whereabouts. “we were watching a movie in my room.”

his lie is so effortless, so convincing, you almost believe it yourself. but the guilt is crushing. you catch your reflection in the window—a hollow version of yourself, the killer no one suspects.

later, when the others leave and the house is quiet, you collapse into riki’s arms. “i can’t keep doing this,” you whisper, voice cracking.

he presses his lips to your forehead. “you don’t have to,” he says softly, but his tone is firm. “i’ll carry it for you.”

you wonder how long you can let him.