Eiji’s heart hammered against his ribs. He was the son of , a notorious serial killer who had been executed years ago. Eiji had spent his whole life trying to be the "nice guy," the harmless college student who would never hurt a fly. But as he looked at the receipt—purchasing a heavy-duty tarp and a hacksaw—the terrifying truth began to settle in his gut. He wasn't alone in his own mind.
Ignoring the warning, Eiji grabbed his coat. He had to know if he was a monster, or if he was being framed by the ghost of his father. As he stepped out into the rain, he realized he wasn't just running toward the truth; he was running toward a version of himself that intended to kill him. Eiji’s heart hammered against his ribs
The morning light felt like a physical weight on eyelids. He woke up with the familiar, sickening sensation of "missing time." The last thing he remembered was falling asleep on Tuesday night; the calendar on his desk now screamed Saturday. But as he looked at the receipt—purchasing a
Eiji walked to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He looked into the mirror, but for a split second, the reflection didn’t feel like his own. The eyes were too sharp, the smirk too predatory. In the corner of the mirror, tucked into the frame, was a receipt from a hardware store he never visited, dated two days ago. He had to know if he was a
His phone buzzed. A text from a girl he barely knew, , read: “You were so different last night. I’ve never seen that side of you. Are we still going to finish what we started?”
He opened it. The message was short: “Don’t go to the warehouse on 4th Street, Eiji. You don't have the stomach for what we did there. Let me handle the blood.”
A second personality, had been carved out of the trauma of his childhood. While Eiji slept, B-I walked. B-I talked. And B-I was currently entangled with a violent gang known as the Skulls .