The Art of Bad Lying

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

There are a lot of ways a journalist’s career can end.

Maybe you get caught fabricating quotes.

Maybe you misinterpret a source.

Maybe you post an embarrassing typo and the internet never forgives you.

Or—just hypothetically—you find the dead body of the only man who could have saved the world, and now you’re standing in his living room, holding a bloody flip-flop and wondering how in the grammatical hell your life became a true crime podcast intro.

I wasn’t panicking.

You were panicking.

I was merely… journaling aggressively in my head.

Let me rewind a second.

It all started after the reunion.

And no, I didn’t leave because it got emotional. That’s ridiculous. I’m a professional.

I left because I had a lead to follow. An address. A name. A possible ending to the article of a lifetime.

So I slipped away—quietly, skillfully—ignoring the tiny part of me that maybe, possibly, definitely felt something when Kaito and Sota hugged like idiots.

Professionalism, people.

Anyway.

I was weaving through the wreckage of downtown Pittsburgh, half-tripping over emoji graffiti and abandoned street puppets, when it happened.

I almost ran straight into Hana.

No joke.

Turned a corner—and there she was, checking a map, eyes sharp enough to shave a dictionary clean.

I ducked into a pile of trash bags so fast I got a bruised rib from a frozen meatloaf.

She glanced around, suspicious, but moved on.

I waited exactly ten Mississippis before crawling out and sprinting the last three blocks to the address.

I didn’t knock.

I didn’t think.

I just pushed the door open.

And found him.

The man.

The original poster.

Slumped over his desk.

Still warm.

And now here I was.

Standing in a dead man’s house.

In a post-apocalyptic America where people spoke in emoji spells.

With a bloody sandal in my hand.

Wondering two things:

How are the trio going to save humanity now?

And more importantly...

What the hell was I supposed to do about my article?

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“Okay,” I whispered to myself, pacing circles around the body. “Okay. This is fine. This is salvageable. Happens all the time. You walk into a guy’s house, he’s freshly dead, and you… clean it up. Totally normal Tuesday. It's America after all.”

The body didn’t answer.

Which, honestly, was pretty rude.

I knelt down and checked for a pulse like I had any medical training whatsoever.

Nope. Toasted. Fully, depressingly dead.

The draft on his computer screen flickered at me mockingly.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this—”

Yeah, buddy. Tell me about it.

First step: Hide the evidence.

Obviously.

Because, as every great journalist knows, when life gives you a crime scene, you cover it up and pretend it’s a personality trait.

I grabbed a dusty blanket off the nearby couch—some hideous floral monstrosity that smelled like expired mothballs and sadness—and threw it over him.

Perfect.

Problem solved.

Except for the bloodstain.

And the sandal.

And the weirdly specific crime scene aura that screamed “Bad decisions were made here.”

I grabbed a roll of paper towels from the kitchen counter, wiped the floor like a man possessed, and kicked the bloody flip-flop under the couch.

“There,” I muttered. “That’s... fine. That’s good journalism.”

I sat down heavily in a ripped office chair, staring at the draft glowing on the cracked monitor.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this—”

Same, dude. Same.

I tugged the hood of my jacket higher and spun the chair around like I was auditioning for a very illegal version of The Office.

“Okay, okay,” I told myself. “Let’s think.”

The original plan was simple:

2.Get the story.
3.Save humanity, or at least look really cool trying.

Problem: The man behind the post was currently auditioning for a ghost tour.

Solution?

Improvise. I wasn’t a stranger to improv.

After all, I almost successfully defended Kaito Sasaki on a trial where both the audience and the judge were his sworn enemies.

This was just another curveball.

I’d find a way to salvage this. I had to.

I just needed—

A noise snapped me out of my spiral.

Voices.

Getting closer.

Footsteps outside the door.

Kaito’s voice, low and serious:

“Come on. The signal came from here.”

Sota’s voice, higher and nervous:

“You think he’ll actually—”

“No time. Move.”

Panic crackled through me like static.

They were coming in.

No time to escape.

No time to explain.

Only one option left.

Pray to Edgar Allan-Poe.

I know, right? This is the bottom of the barrell.

The door creaked open.

And there they were.

Hana.

Sota.

And Kaito, looking like he’d lost a fight with gravity, space, and possibly an eagle.

All three stared at me.

I sat up straighter, forced a smile that probably looked more like a threat, and said—

“Welcome! You must be here about… the Owl.”

I don’t know who looked more suspicious:

Hana - narrowing her eyes like a suspicious cat.

Sota - tilting his head like a confused puppy.

Or Kaito, who looked ready to fight me with a chair if needed.

Internally, I was screaming.

Externally, I gave them my best “trustworthy academic who is definitely not hiding a body in the living room” smile.

Let the lies begin.

I cleared my throat and gestured to the room like a bad tour guide whose last customer review was titled “0 Stars and Also I Think He Hid a Body.”

“Come in, come in!” I said, plastering the friendliest smile I could manage over the complete and utter terror crawling up my spine. “No need to be shy. Friends of the cause are always welcome.”

Nobody moved.

Sota lingered in the doorway.

Kaito crossed his arms, frowning.

And Hana — oh, Hana — took one slow step forward, her eyes sharp and assessing like she was trying to figure out where best to stab me for information.

“How do you know why we’re here?” she asked.

My brain immediately pulled the fire alarm.

I had two seconds to answer.

I laughed, hoping it sounded casual and not like I was choking on my own soul.

“Everyone’s here about the owl,” I said, throwing my arms wide. “The Cult. The mobs. The UN. You can’t swing a traffic cone without hitting someone blaming Duo’s death for the end of the world.”

Kaito’s brow furrowed.

Sota’s mouth formed a little ‘o’ of understanding.

Hana’s expression stayed the same — neutral, patient, terrifying.

“And how do we know you are who you say you are. What if you're part of the Cult?”

I patted my chest with mock offense.

“Please. Do I look like I have enough free time to join a cult?” I gave a dry chuckle. “I’ve been dodging those lunatics for months. Same as you. Running from the end of language. Watching everything fall apart.”

I let my voice crack a little — just a hair. Enough to make it real.

Hana's gaze flicked over me, calculating.

Meanwhile, inside my head, I was screaming:

“THIS IS BAD. THIS IS SO BAD. SHE SEES THROUGH YOU. YOU ARE A WET PAPER BAG OF LIES AND SHE HAS MATCHES.”

But outside?

Outside I gave a world-weary sigh and leaned heavily on a nearby chair like someone who’d been chased through five countries by grammatical collapse.

“We’re all just trying to survive this mess,” I added. “One word at a time.”

A long, tense moment stretched between us.

Finally, Sota stepped inside, dragging the parrot behind him.

Kaito followed, muttering something under his breath.

And Hana… Hana watched me like she was filing my entire existence into a category labeled ‘Temporary Asset (Possible Threat)’.

She moved last.

Always last.

Always in control.

For a half-second, I thought maybe — just maybe — I was safe.

Until she said, low and cold:

“You made the post.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a blade.

I opened my mouth, panic ricocheting around my skull like a drunk bat.

I had no plan. No backup story. No clean lie.

And what came out was:

“I didn’t make it. Duo did.”