Chapter 21 - 20
The morning air at Gohoku University buzzed with a restless hum, the kind that crackled through a crowd when secrets spilled too fast to contain. Students clustered in tight knots along the damp paths, voices low but sharp, words tumbling over each other like leaves caught in a gust.
"Hey, have you heard about Riku?" one whispered, eyes wide behind fogged glasses, glancing over his shoulder as if the name alone might summon a ghost.
"Was it real?" another pressed, clutching a coffee cup, her brows furrowed in disbelief. The questions ricocheted—relentless, insistent—each one peeling back another layer of the scandal now scorching through the campus.
"Did he really try that with Mika, his sister?" a girl in a red scarf hissed, her tone a mix of shock and morbid curiosity, leaning into her friend's ear.
"Where is he now?" a lanky guy wondered aloud, kicking a pebble across the pavement, his voice trailing into the chatter. The wildest rumor hit like a thunderclap—"Is it true he was sent to a mental asylum after his breakdown on the streets?"—and heads turned, gasps rippling through the throng.
Riku Sato, once the golden boy—broad shoulders, easy grin, a magnet for girls—now a pariah, his name a spark igniting whispers everywhere. It was hard to swallow—him, of all people, doing that to his own sister. Yet the wildfire of gossip spared no one, and truth twisted into something jagged and unrecognizable.
Kaito Nakamura slunk through the chaos, his sneakers scuffing the wet concrete, a faint smirk curling beneath his cracked glasses. He lingered near a group by the library steps, catching snatches of their hushed debate—"Riku's always been a flirt, but this? No way"—and felt a strange, electric pleasure coil in his chest.
"Mental asylum, huh? Heard he was screaming her name all night," one guy muttered, and Kaito's grin widened, subtle but sharp. He joined in, voice casual—"Yeah, saw him lose it once, total mess"—tossing fuel on the blaze, savoring the way their eyes lit up, hungry for more. It was a hot topic, a live wire threading through every hall, and Kaito rode it like a high—no booze, no smoke, just the raw thrill of his revenge blooming loud and wild.
He leaned against a railing, hands stuffed in his frayed denim jacket, glasses fogging faintly as he breathed in the crisp air. They're eating it up, he thought, a dark satisfaction pooling warm in his gut—Riku's fall, Mika's shame, all his doing. T
he rumors painted a picture so grotesque it almost outshone the reality he'd crafted, and that felt better than he'd imagined—like a meal settling right, no acid clawing up his throat. He tilted his head, listening as a girl nearby scoffed—"Popular or not, guy's a creep"—and Kaito bit back a laugh, the sound bubbling low, a secret only he held.
A flash of pink caught his eye—Aiko bounded across the quad, her sweater clinging tight to her curves, dark hair bouncing loose as she cut through the crowd. Her face was a storm—cheeks flushed, lips pressed thin—not sad, not broken, just pissed, a fury simmering in her stride.
Kaito straightened, pushing off the railing, and met her halfway, his voice sliding out smooth—"Hey, you okay? You look like someone torched your notes."
She stopped short, eyes narrowing, her keychain jangling as she crossed her arms. "It's just one of those days," she snapped, sharp and clipped, brushing off the question. "Not feeling well—crappy mood, that's all." Her tone bit, defensive, but Kaito caught the flicker beneath—something raw, something she wouldn't say.
He nodded, slow and deliberate, feigning concern—I know why, you cheating bitch—but kept his face neutral, a mask he'd perfected. "Rough one, huh? Take it easy," he said, voice soft, playing the doting boyfriend while his insides churned with a twisted glee.
She huffed, shrugging, and turned away—"Yeah, whatever"—her scent trailing vanilla as she stalked off, leaving him standing there, pulse thrumming with the game he played.
The cafeteria thrummed at noon, a cacophony of clattering trays and overlapping voices, the air thick with the tang of soy sauce and steamed rice. Kaito slid into a seat across from Aiko after morning classes, his tray sparse—just a bowl of miso and some bread—while hers held a colorful sprawl of sushi rolls.
She stabbed at one with a chopstick, her movements jerky, that same pissed-off edge still clinging to her like a second skin. He sipped his soup, watching her over the rim, then dropped the bait—subtle, sly—"Heard about Riku yet? Campus is losing it."
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Aiko froze, chopstick hovering midair, her eyes flicking up to meet his—surprise flashing quick before she shuttered it. "Riku?" she echoed, feigning innocence, her voice a touch too high. "Don't care about trash like him—why would I?" She popped the sushi into her mouth, chewing hard, her jaw tight as she stared him down.
Kaito leaned back, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Weren't you friends with him, though?" he pressed, casual but pointed, letting the question hang like a blade between them.
Her face darkened, a scowl twisting her pretty features—she slammed the chopstick down, the clack sharp against the tray. "Don't talk about him, okay? Makes me nauseous just thinking about it."
Her words spat out, venomous, and she shifted gears fast—"Anyway, did you finish that econ thing? Total nightmare." The dodge was clumsy, obvious, but Kaito let it slide, nodding along—"Yeah, barely"—his smirk hidden behind a sip of miso.
Inside, he glowed—for the first time in weeks, his food sat easy, no heartburn clawing up his chest. Her anger, her disgust at Riku's name—it fed him, a quiet triumph pulsing through his veins.
She's rattled, he thought, watching her ramble about class, her voice tight, her foot tapping restless under the table. He ate slow, savoring it—not the soup, but the sight of her fraying, the proof his plan had teeth.
They finished, trays stacked, and drifted back to their afternoon classes—her chatter fading as the crowd swallowed her. Kaito lingered, the buzz of rumors still swirling around him—"Heard Riku's locked up now, totally cracked"—and felt that high again, a shiver of delight racing up his spine.
The day dragged on, lectures blurring into static, his mind elsewhere—plotting, gloating, a dark thread weaving tighter with every whispered tale.
After university, the campus emptied fast, the sky bruising purple as dusk crept in. Aiko was gone—no sign of her pink sweater, no jangle of her keychain in the halls. Kaito didn't care—her absence barely registered, a shrug rolling off his shoulders as he trudged back to his dorm, sneakers scuffing the path.
Good riddance, he thought, unlocking his door, the familiar stench of stale air and spilled soda hitting him as he stepped inside. The room was a wreck—blood-flecked tiles, crumpled cans, sheets twisted—but it felt like home, a lair for his chaos.
He tossed his jacket aside, glasses fogging as he exhaled, and rummaged through the fridge—a half-eaten bento, some wilted greens. Dinner was quick, mechanical—rice shoveled into his mouth, soy sauce dripping on the desk as he ate alone, the silence thick around him. His mind wandered—Mika's blonde hair, her tight cunt, the way she'd moaned under his command.
Should I call her again? The thought flickered, tempting, his cock stirring at the memory—Riku's ruined, revenge is mine—but a shadow crept in—it'd be wrong. He snorted, a bitter laugh escaping—wrong? I'm already the bad guy, might as well enjoy it.
He leaned back, chair creaking, staring at the ceiling—cracked plaster, a map of his descent. The urge gnawed harder—I want her, want it—sex, power, the rush of bending her to his will. His hand hovered over his phone, the RNTR app's red glow a siren call on the screen, daring him to press it.
One more time, he reasoned, what's the harm?—his pulse quickened, a dark hunger curling low, the line between right and wrong blurring into nothing. But then he held back. It's wrong.
Then it buzzed—sharp, sudden—the phone jolting alive in his grip, the RNTR play button pulsing bright. Kaito's breath hitched, eyes narrowing as he stared at it, a murmur slipping from his lips, low and venomous—"That bitch."