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"...What?"

"I told you," she said, with an audible sigh. "I got a job for you. You busy right now?"

"I'm making dinner."

"That's not what I was asking—wait, what?" She broke into laughter. "You? Cooking dinner? Thought you just lived off convenience store bentos, or some shit like that?"

"Just because I get you bentos so you don't starve to death doesn't mean I'm the one living off bentos," he said with a sigh. He saw Fujino glance at him from the corner of his eye. "Besides, I have a guest over."

"I…huh. Who?"

"A friend."

"...Really?" She didn't sound like she believed him. Brushing it off, probably with a shrug or a huff, she continued. "Whatever. What I'm saying is, we got a new job."

Mikiya snorted. "Is it something weird again? Like drawing key frames, or stalking Touko's—"

"It's about the murders."

He froze at that. His hand started to tremble, but he steadied it, and sat down to calm himself. "Explain."

"Well, we've been commissioned to find her. Before the police do, probably. I mean," she said, an indignant edge to her voice, "I tried tracking the murderer down myself, but came up dry. You, however, have a knack for this sorta thing, right?" For a moment, neither of them said anything, gears turning in Mikiya's head, mind lingering on that word— her. Shiki opted to continue. "If it helps, I have leads. And the payout's looking pretty good; you're looking for a job, right?"

"Who put you up to this?"

"Killer's father." Shiki snorted. "Apparently they're some wealthy, bigwig family that can't stand a stain like this on their family history. Dunno what they're gonna do later, but they'll probably cover it up." If Mikiya could see her right now, he'd imagine she'd be shrugging. "And we're cleaning up the mess. But as I said, the pay's good, and I doubt Touko would end up blowing all your money on something dumb again."

"Uh… huh. Why?"

She laughed. "Apparently, she managed to swipe her sister's bank account info somehow, so she's binge-spending with that, now." Shiki cleared her throat. He could hear her flipping through papers over the receiver. "But yeah. Murders. Investigations. You up for it?"

Mikiya hesitated. "I already have a job—"

"More important than this?"

"It's also about the murder."

He heard Shiki freeze, and the sound of the papers stopped. "Explain."

"Four people were killed," he said, "Five were down there in the bar." He got up and turned off the stove lest the rice burn, and reached for his envelope. Fujino stared at him all the while. "Minato Keita, that's his name. Actually, he was one of our underclassmen from Mikami, though I don't think you knew him all that well. Gakuto— remember him? He asked me to go look for him."

Mikiya noticed movement out of the corner of his eye, and when he turned to check on Fujino, she would not look back at him. Shiki's voice brought him back to his senses. "Gakuto… the apeish one, right?"

He chose to ignore the comment. "He's worried. As far as we know, Keita's alive, but in hiding. Apparently he's tried to call his friends for help, but it's all incoherent, rambling about being 'chased' or something along those lines. And," he said, shifting uncomfortably, "I already got paid for this job. And someone's life is on the line. So I'll have to find Keita first."

He heard Shiki sigh. "Alright, alright. Go ahead, bring him here, and then we'll question him. See if he knows anything about the case. On that note," she said, as Mikiya heard more shuffling papers, "I have some information you might want. Documents and shit. About the murderer."

"How much do you know?"

"Affiliations. Abilities. History, though only a little. And so on. Though I guess you won't really need it until you start chasing her yourself."

Her.

He gripped the phone. "...Do you know her name?"

"Ah, right. Forgot 'bout that." A small laugh, that trailed into a sigh. "Hold on, lets see here… Ah."

"'Fujino Asagami.' "

—*—

Mikiya did not press her for details. They agreed to meet up the next day at Garan no Dou, where Touko would fill him in on the details, and Shiki hung up, leaving him to tend to his rice. As it turns out, just turning off the gas didn't remove the heat, and the rice continued to cook, nearly burning, crusting on the bottom of the pan. While this wasn't bad as far as the taste went, he supposed, it was always a pain to clean up. Another pain to deal with, albeit petty. And with that, he called her over from the couch, where she seemed to have awoken from a nap, and the two sat down to eat.

More accurately, Mikiya ate— or tried to, as best as he could—while Fujino did not. He watched her with concern, how she sat, hand lingering by the bowl, eyes downcast, teeth grit and lips pressed tight.

This wasn't right.

He wanted to ask her. Was now the chance?

There has to have been some mistake—

Yet before he could speak, she broke the silence.

"Mikiya!" she blurted out. He froze. She had a strange expression on her face: determination, almost anger, seemingly struggling with herself, trying find the words to say. She spoke quietly now, wearing a sullen expression. "I— Who was it you were talking to?"

"No one, really. It was from work." Tone: calm. Casual. Nothing was wrong.

"The doll-maker?"

"Nah," he said, with a shake of his head. "It was Shiki."

Mikiya thought he could hear the chopsticks crack under her grip. Yet, she relaxed her hand, smiled, and began to eat. He couldn't tell if it was an act or not. Seconds passed.

"...You'll still look for Keita, won't you?"

An uncomfortable silence. Mikiya took another bite of rice, chewing slowly and swallowing before answering.

"I will."

She laughed, though it was weak. Fujino did not ask any further and continued to eat, and Mikiya opted to do the same.

And so the meal continued in silence, as usual. He gripped his hand tighter. He almost wanted to laugh. Even it always ended in silence, in words left unsaid, that didn't mean he wanted it to. He looked on over, across the table, as Fujino listlessly played with her food. A thousand questions burrowed in his throat, forming a lump, an iron grip on his lungs—

He opened his mouth to ask, but Fujino spoke first.

—*—

This was the end, or maybe it wasn't. She didn't know anymore, though she didn't know a lot of things, other than that she couldn't hide from him any longer. Or maybe she could. She didn't know.

Fujino could hear his question, wavering and unsure, resounding inside her skull over and over, clinging to the back of her mind and refusing to leave: "Do you know her name?" She felt heavy. "Her name?"

"Her name?"

She gripped herself, nails digging through cloth, into skin. She could feel it again, the stabbing, hot, stinging sensation in her stomach, like barbs and needles, prickling, stabbing, lacerating her body— yet she did not bend to the pain. Let it hurt. It provided a distraction.

What will you do?

She grit her teeth, and could feel herself draw blood, the tang of iron and salt playing upon her lips. She could hear Mikiya call her for dinner from the other side of the room, but the voice wouldn't leave—"Her name?"

When he finds out you're a murderer?

Not hate. Not fear. That wasn't who he was.

She was normal—wasn't she? She wasn't insane. She wasn't strange. And he treated her like so.

I…

—What was she afraid of?

For a moment, she leaned back, and focused on the pain, the sensation—the stinging and heat in her stomach, the dry, conditioned air cooling her skin, the feel of the fabrics against her body—and sunk deeper into the couch. She balled up her hand into a fist as if to remind herself, and it hurt, nails digging into skin, a stinging heat reminding her of the pain. She relaxed her hand, and the pain disappeared; yet, she could still feel it, vestiges, lingering on her skin. She closed her eyes. The room disappeared. The sensation did not. It was still there, all of it—the ebb and flow of her breath, the beating of her heart like a metronome, a steady, persistent rhythm. An unfamiliar feeling. She didn't know what to make of it.

I am here.

She opened her eyes, and got up. She could see Mikiya from the other side of the room, and he smiled. She felt a lump in her throat, felt a tightening in her chest, felt a thousand things, a thousand sensations—of hot and cold, heavy and light, of pressure, of movement, of weight—of pleasure and pain.

If anything, it made her feel like she was real.

I'm going to lose this.

A bitter laugh, under her breath.

I don't want to go back.

Through the haze, she noticed herself moving over to the table, steps mechanical, like clockwork, sitting down as Mikiya set the dishes. She couldn't bring herself to look at him—lest she give herself away. Who told him? Who out there knew her for what she was? Who was it, that would everything away from her?

She glanced up only to see Mikiya staring at her, in—what was it? Was it concern? Disappointment? Confusion? What was it?

Was it pity?

"Mikiya!"

A sudden outburst. It stunned her, too. His look—what was it?—intensified. Brow furrowed. Lips parted. Chopsticks left hanging, mid-bite.

"I—" A mistake. It was a mistake. She didn't mean to yell, he was staring now, that look—how long had he been staring? What was he—she couldn't think. Time was ticking away, think fast, act natural. "Who was it you were talking to?"

"No one, really. It was from work." A casual shrug.

It almost calmed her, helped her keep her voice steady. "The doll-maker?"

"Nah," he said, shaking his head. "It was Shiki."

A slight snap. She looked down, and they were there again: lines, a sickly red and green, twisting and turning along every surface. She blinked, and they were gone. From the corner of her eyes, she could see Mikiya staring at her, an expression of alarm on his face. She was giving herself away.

She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. The world was gone. A thousand sensations disappeared. She opened her eyes, a doll once more.

"You'll still look for Keita, won't you?"

A useless question. A desperate grasp at straws. A half-hearted hope, that he would change his mind. She already knew the answer.

"I will."

She made a sound; she couldn't quite figure out what. Did she laugh? Cry? She closed her eyes, and everything was gone again. She didn't know. She raised a hand to rub her eye—did she cry? Was she crying? Was her hand wet, or dry? She couldn't feel it. She couldn't know.

—Like I really am a doll.

She listlessly poked at her rice. Mikiya seemed to be struggling, too. His hands were shaking, ever so slightly, his body tensed. Did he know yet? Did it even matter, anymore, if he would find out anyway?

She didn't know what she was afraid of. It wasn't the punishment of law or justice, or even hate or fear at this point. Fujino Asagami was a murderer, and Mikiya would learn this, sooner or later. It wasn't the fear of being seen as a murderer. It was the fear of being seen as something else.

What do you think you'll be to him, when he finds out what they did to you?

Another silence, another one of those lovely silences— the kinds that lasted seconds and felt like eternities. Mikiya had opened his mouth to speak, but she spoke first.

"What will you do?"

He started at that. "I— wuh? Huh?"

She wanted to know, even it would kill her. Even if it hurt, if she could even hurt. Did all the fear leave her body? Was this for becoming a doll? "What will you do, when you find the murderer?"

"I'm not going after the—"

"You will. The murderer's out to kill Keita. You're out to save him." She heard her voice— dull, listless, coming out like clockwork. "So what will you do, when you find the murderer?"

"Do you think she wants to be saved?" She looked directly into Mikiya's eyes.

She counted. One second. An confused look. Two seconds. Widened eyes. Three seconds. Recognition, definitely there, if only for an instant. Four seconds. A steeled expression, resolution. Five seconds. Back to normal, as if nothing was wrong.

"Maybe."

He set his chopsticks down.

"Maybe not." He cast his eyes down. His hands were unmoving, his expression stolid, an unreadable mask.

"Then," she asked, "do you think she should be brought to justice? That she should answer for her crimes?"

No answer.

"Why do you think she killed those men? Do you think she's a hateful person? Or some lost lamb to be protected? Or—"

"—I don't know. Her reason, that is. I… it doesn't matter to me." He closed his eyes; she counted the seconds pass by— two, three, four— and he looked straight back at her, gave unwavering. "Does it even matter what the reason was? If this all stops, if no one else is hurt, can't everything go back to normal?"

Of course not. She knew, and suspected that he knew too. And yet…

"I don't think anything has to change."

Silence. And then she almost snorted.

Mikiya laughed at that too, but did not answer, and instead continued his dinner. She followed suit, even if she couldn't quite taste the food. Their dinner continued in silence—the familiar, lonely silence—as Mikiya ate his rice, and Fujino poked at it, taking a bite here and there. She couldn't muster up any appetite. Neither of them commented on it. As usual.

They continued like that, no sound but the sound of the distant city, from a lonely apartment on the urban outskirts—of distant chatter, of the faint wailing of sirens and rushing of cars. She could hear rhythmic clicking and clinking of bamboo against porcelain from across the table, as Mikiya continued his meal.

"...Idiot." She muttered under her breath, voice choked, and he laughed sheepishly.

"I get that a lot."

She couldn't feel herself. She couldn't tell what she was doing, her mind a ghost from the body. And yet, she thought she might have been smiling.

"As you should."

—*—

He didn't know what to do.

He didn't even know if he had an answer.

Across from the table, in a shirt a few sizes too large, was a familiar sight, though it had no right to be. It wasn't the oversized shirt, or the fumbling with the food, or the atmosphere, or the setting, the distant city, the summer heat—nothing he could put his finger on. It shouldn't have felt familiar at all. Despite it all, he thought of Shiki.

Like night and day. But still, familiar.

Hollow. Dangerous. Under she, the doll, he saw someone with secrets better left buried. Secrets that would bring nothing but pain unearthed, yet an allure that drew him in spite of it.

Any closer, and he would hurt her.

Any further, and he could not save her.

Internally, he scoffed. "Save". Like that did any good with Shiki. He didn't save her from anything. He only salted the wound. He had a feeling, a conviction, that this was the same. That anything he could try would only hurt her more, make things worse. He hadn't a clue what to do back then. He hadn't a clue what to do now. But even so, he couldn't turn away. No matter how hard he tried.

Hopeless, no?

In the end…

What could you possibly do?

He couldn't save her. He didn't know how. He didn't even know what he was saving her from.

He almost laughed to himself. What else could he do?

If he could save her, he would. If he could not, so be it.

If it hurt, let it.