The rain fell in relentless sheets, drumming against the cold pavement and masking the blood that now pooled where Katsuki's broken body had been. Only a dark, crimson stain remained, glistening under the flashes of lightning that split the sky. The vehicle that had obliterated him was gone, as if it had been swallowed by the night itself. No sign of where it had come from, no whisper of its departure. Just the rain and the haunting silence that followed. Asahi's sobs filled the emptiness, raw and jagged, echoing through the desolate street.

Zen gripped Asahi tightly, arms locking around her torso as she writhed, eyes wild with grief and disbelief. “Stay back!” he hissed, voice trembling but resolute. The thought of her running back to that cursed school, to those dark, grinning spirits, was a risk he couldn’t afford. His own eyes darted to the iron gates that now stood closed, indifferent and silent witnesses to the horrors they had just witnessed.

The street was devoid of life, dark houses lined up like sentinels with eyes shut, their windows reflecting nothing but shadows. The streetlights, dead and cold, did nothing to ward off the suffocating darkness. Akihiko shifted on his feet, his face pale, droplets of rain rolling down his cheeks like icy tears. He swallowed hard, the sound almost lost in the drumming rain. “I…we must go,” he managed, though his voice was nearly stolen by the howling wind.

They stood there, drenched to the bone, shivering not just from the cold but from the gnawing terror that settled deep in their bones. Katsuki’s death was sudden, brutal, and inexplicably supernatural. If they lingered here any longer, they would be next.

“No!” Asahi screamed, her voice cracking, raw with desperation. “He can’t be dead! This is one of their tricks—hallucinations! He’s alive!” Her sobs twisted into shouts, and she struggled violently against Zen’s hold. The boy, deceptively strong for his lean frame, hoisted her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing, her fists pounding against his back, legs kicking uselessly. There was no time to reason, no time to soothe. Only the race against whatever curse had ensnared them.

As they took off down the drenched road, Asahi’s screams merged with the sound of the storm. The pounding of feet on wet concrete, the ragged gasps of breath—they moved like hunted animals, driven forward by the horror that snapped at their heels. But then, Rester skidded to a halt, eyes wide and mouth ajar. “Wait!” he shouted, voice quaking. “Emo-san said someone had to die to stop this, right? So Katsuki’s death…it should mean we’re safe now.”

The others halted, breathless, cold seeping into their bones. Their eyes flicked to Rester, hope and dread mingling in the silence. Before anyone could react, Asahi’s voice sliced through the rain, shrill and cracking with fury. “How can you be so selfish?” she shrieked, still held fast on Zen’s shoulder. “He isn’t dead! He’s alive! Maybe still in that school! Put me down!” She twisted and clawed, each sob tearing through her as she fought to break free.

Emo stepped forward, rain streaming down her face. Her eyes, no longer vacant with hysteria, were sharp and glistening with terror. “Yes,” she whispered, shuddering. “Technically. But there are these junior boys—the ones who are real. Our club…our club had more than ten people.”

“How do you know all this, Emo?” Erano demanded, eyes narrowing, teeth chattering as he glanced nervously at the darkened windows around them.

Emo’s gaze flickered to the side, haunted. “…she told me,” she said, voice barely a breath over the rain. Lightning cracked overhead, illuminating their soaked and pale faces. “She said there were more people in the club. If one dies, it’s supposed to be enough. But when I saw these two,” she glanced at Shane and Himura, their faces frozen in terror, “I realized if the count keeps growing, the deaths…they keep happening.”

Thunder roared as if the sky itself responded to her words. The silence that followed was heavier than before, pressing down on them with the weight of guilt and inevitability.

Sean’s jaw clenched, eyes dark with remorse. “All this…because we made that stupid student council club,” he muttered. The rain beat harder, stinging like needles, as they exchanged glances filled with silent accusations. Should they blame Emo for urging them to join? Rester for being the first to volunteer? Jetto for proposing they recruit dancers? Or themselves, each complicit in a collective decision that now cost lives?

The answer was meaningless; blame was an old poison, tasted before, that only brought regret and tears. There was no time left for it. Without a word, they began to run again, feet splashing through pools of dark rain.

The night clung to them like a shroud, thick with whispers that scraped at their minds, scratching deep and leaving trails of ice-cold fear. As they ran, gasping for breath, those whispers grew louder, morphing into dissonant chants. Faces materialized in their thoughts—twisted, spectral visages with hollow eyes and lips stretched wide into cruel, knowing smiles. Yet they pressed on, their legs aching and lungs burning with each ragged breath. The road stretched endlessly beneath them, each step a small victory against the suffocating dread.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the suffocating darkness thinned, and a wider path appeared ahead. The main road to Yokohama, glittering under the thin veil of rain, lay before them. Streetlights cast pools of pale light, and the glow of neon signs from distant storefronts flickered like beacons. Cabs hummed by, and the occasional car or motorcycle roared past, carrying late-night workers heading home. The sight was a balm to their frayed nerves. Real people. They weren’t alone anymore.

Harumi, her voice hoarse from exertion, turned to Rester. “Where is your orphanage?”

Rester, chest heaving, nodded ahead. “Just across the block.”

Akihiko glanced at the others, eyes weary and desperate. “Does anyone have money?” The question hung heavily in the air, a cruel reminder of their haste and desperation. Min exhaled, shoulders slumping as the realization hit. Of course, they had nothing. They had fled the school on instinct, leaving behind phones, wallets, any semblance of normality. One by one, they shook their heads, defeat etched into their faces.

Zen’s arms were locked around Asahi, who had gone quiet and limp. He finally set her down, unwilling but knowing they had to blend in, avoid attention. The last thing they needed was curious eyes prying into their fragile, fractured state. Asahi’s feet hit the ground, but she didn’t move on her own. Her face was blank, eyes staring straight ahead, as if all the light and fire within her had been snuffed out. Katsuki’s death hung over her like a storm cloud, relentless and suffocating.

They began to move, a silent procession on the dark, rain-soaked footpath. Zen kept one arm looped through Asahi’s, Min on her other side, guiding her forward with gentle pressure. The world around them was quiet now, the whispers faded into the background noise of the city. But the silence felt sharp, ready to slice through the fragile sense of safety they’d found.

The trek dragged on, minutes feeling like hours as they passed shadowed alleys and quiet homes. Lights from within these homes shone weakly, hints of warmth and life that felt out of reach. The damp chill seeped into their bones as the adrenaline began to fade, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Finally, a towering building emerged from the darkness—the orphanage. Its familiar silhouette loomed ahead, old and worn, with ivy creeping up the stone walls. But something was off. The gate was closed, secured by a massive lock that glistened with rain, the keyhole clogged with rust and sealed shut.

Ray’s voice, low and strained, broke the silence. “Let’s climb over.” There was no discussion, just nods as they took turns scaling the iron gate, fingers slipping on wet metal, shoes scraping against rusted bars. One by one, they dropped down onto the cracked path on the other side, hearts pounding as the echo of their landing bounced off the cold, silent walls.

The air here was different, thick and oppressive. Silence smothered them, the occasional flicker of light from distant windows a taunting promise of safety. Yet none of them dared move toward those houses. Rester, Jetto, and Alvia stared at the old building, memories rippling through them—memories of warmth, of laughter, of a woman who had cared for them like a mother. A woman who was now gone, claimed by the same curse that had hounded them all. The bitter ache of loss made Rester’s hands clench into fists.

This place was supposed to be a sanctuary, but now it stood as a reminder of everything they had lost. Steeling themselves, they stepped forward, the others trailing behind with hesitant, haunted gazes.

The orphanage loomed over them, a silent monolith soaked in shadows and memories. Alvia reached for the front door, the ancient wood groaning under the pressure as it creaked open, its sound reverberating through the silent corridors like a warning. The main gates had been sealed with intent, but inside, the building stood untouched, a forgotten relic haunted by the echoes of its past. The air was stagnant, thick with the scent of mildew and age. The dim light from a single, dusty bulb cast long, eerie shadows across the cracked walls and splintered floorboards.

The group followed Alvia, their steps cautious as if afraid the floor would suddenly give way. Every creak and groan underfoot made them flinch, the silence broken only by the erratic thumping of their hearts. The maid rooms and the small, neglected church were empty, abandoned in a hurry that still whispered through the disarray. Tattered sheets hung limp in the rooms, and old, moth-eaten curtains swayed with the breeze that seeped through broken window panes.

Alvia led them up the narrow, winding staircase, each step an effort that seemed to drag them deeper into a place suspended between life and death. The stairs creaked beneath their weight, sending shivers down their spines. Rester and Jetto exchanged glances, memories of childhood laughter now twisted into something grotesque and mocking in the silence. The hallway at the top was dark, the ceiling low, pressing down on them with an almost tangible force.

Alvia paused at the door to her old room. The brass knob was cold and sticky, coated in a thin film of dust and grime. She twisted it, and the door swung open with a hollow groan. The room was small and sparse, but familiar—a worn-out mattress on the floor, a wooden chest, and a single, chipped bedside table. The air here felt different, weighed down by memories of nights spent staring at the cracked ceiling and listening to the rain drum on the roof.

She dropped to her knees, hands trembling as she reached beneath the bed, feeling for the box that had been hidden there for years. Her fingers brushed against the rough edge of the cardboard, and she pulled it out. The brown carton was battered, corners crumpled and tape peeling. She ripped it open with urgency, dust puffing up and clinging to her face and hair. Inside, old toys lay jumbled together—plastic soldiers missing limbs, a ragged doll with one button eye—but at the bottom, tied together with twine, was what she sought.

Alvia's breath caught as she lifted the bundle of yellowed sheets, their corners curled and ink smudged from age. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she glanced back at the others clustered in the doorway. Their faces, pale and drawn, leaned in as she began flipping through the pages.

The ink was faded, but legible enough to make out the story it told. Each word clawed at their minds, their expressions shifting from confusion to dawning horror as the pages turned. Rain pelted the window behind them, the tapping like skeletal fingers against the glass. The whispers they'd heard outside seemed to have followed them here, slipping under the door, creeping into their ears with every breath they took.

“It’s not possible,” Jetto whispered, the disbelief in his voice cracking under the weight of terror. Alvia said nothing, her eyes scanning the familiar handwriting—one she knew too well, a hand that had guided her through childhood stories but now felt like a twisted harbinger of their current nightmare.

When the final page fell away in her fingers, silence smothered them. The rain outside had quieted to a drizzle, and even the whispers seemed to have retreated, as if they too awaited what came next. One by one, their gazes met—haunted, desperate, and raw. The truth lay open before them, a tale that had bled from fiction into reality, trapping them all in its relentless grasp.