Chapter 18 — “Dolls in the Locker”

The first scream came from the east hallway.

---

Morning sunlight slants across the lockers of Class 2-A. The air smells faintly of floor polish and cherry blossoms. Everything feels ordinary—until it isn’t.

Someone opens a locker.

Then comes that sound.

A scream sharp enough to slice through the chatter of morning.

Students gather like startled birds.

Whispers ripple through the hall.

Himari pushes through the crowd, her heart already beating too fast.

Inside the open locker: a small box.

Inside the box: two dolls, roughly hand-stitched from fabric.

Both female. Both with dark hair.

And both pierced through the chest with pins.

---

At first, it looks like a prank.

Until someone notices the details.

One doll wears a miniature red ribbon—the same one Himari always wears in her hair.

The other has a faint cut drawn in red marker along its cheek.

The resemblance is undeniable.

Himari’s blood runs cold.

Someone murmurs, “It’s them… Mizuki and Himari.”

Then another voice: “Look at this—there’s hair in it.”

A girl lifts one of the dolls by the shoulder. A few strands of black hair slip out of the stitches, sticking to her fingers.

Another gasp. Someone backs away.

> “This is sick.”

“Who would even—”

“Maybe it’s her. The quiet one.”

All eyes turn toward Mizuki.

---

She stands a few steps behind the crowd, expression calm, almost bored.

When their gazes meet, she tilts her head slightly, as if she’s trying to remember something.

Then she smiles.

> “It’s just art,” she says softly.

The word echoes, absurd and chilling.

> “Art?” one of the girls spits. “You call this art?”

> “Yes. I wanted to capture how fragile love is.”

Her tone is even, but her eyes glimmer with something too sharp to be innocence.

Himari tries to speak, but her throat refuses.

Someone calls for a teacher.

The crowd disperses slowly, buzzing with disgust and excitement.

Mizuki watches them leave with an odd sort of serenity, like she’s already seen this moment in a dream.

---

By afternoon, rumors have spread across the entire academy.

“She made voodoo dolls of her girlfriend.”

“They say it had real blood on it.”

“Didn’t that Reina girl hang out with them before she died?”

In the cafeteria, whispers follow Himari like a shadow.

Her friends avoid her table.

Someone laughs behind her back—high, cruel, childish.

She wants to scream that it’s not true.

But even she doesn’t know what’s true anymore.

That night, she writes in her diary:

> “I didn’t make them. I didn’t tell her to.

But part of me liked that she did.”

---

The next morning, Mizuki isn’t in class.

The teacher says she’s “sick.”

The empty seat beside Himari feels heavier than ever.

After lunch, Himari goes to the art room. The smell of paint thinner and candle wax lingers in the air. Mizuki’s easel still stands by the window, a half-finished portrait on it.

It’s of Himari again.

Of course it is.

But something’s wrong.

Her painted smile is too wide, her eyes too glassy.

Around her neck is a choker—black velvet, tight, strangling.

And in the corner, written in faint red paint:

> You said you’d wear it for me.

---

When she turns around, the art teacher is standing in the doorway, holding the box from the locker.

> “You were close to Sera, weren’t you?” the teacher asks gently.

Himari nods.

> “Then please tell her this isn’t funny anymore. The principal’s involved now.”

> “I will,” Himari whispers.

> “And Akane—”

> “Yes?”

> “You should stop covering for her.”

The teacher’s eyes soften. “Some girls can’t be saved.”

Himari leaves before she can cry.

---

That evening, she visits Mizuki’s dorm again.

The lights are off.

When she knocks, the door opens slowly, almost like someone had been standing behind it.

Mizuki stands there in her nightgown, hair damp, eyes blank.

> “You shouldn’t come here,” she says softly.

> “They found the dolls.”

> “I know.”

> “You made them?”

A pause. Then—

> “You said you wanted me to smile more. I thought maybe if I made something beautiful, you’d see me again.”

> “That’s not beautiful, Mizuki. That’s—”

> “Love,” she interrupts. “It’s what love looks like when it doesn’t fit inside the body anymore.”

Her voice trembles, but her eyes are dry.

> “Do you hate me now?”

Himari swallows. “No. I just don’t know who you are anymore.”

> “I’m who you made me,” Mizuki whispers.

Himari steps closer, wanting to reach out—but Mizuki flinches, backing into the dark of the room.

> “Don’t.”

> “Mizuki—”

> “You’ll leave soon. I can feel it.”

> “That’s not true.”

> “Then prove it.”

Her smile trembles, fragile and terrible.

> “Kiss me.”

Himari hesitates.

> “Please.”

So she does.

Their lips meet — cold, trembling. Mizuki tastes like salt and copper.

When they break apart, Mizuki whispers against her mouth,

> “Now you can’t deny me.”

Himari leaves without another word.

---

The next morning, someone has written on the blackboard before class:

> “ART PROJECT CANCELLED — SEE PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE.”

Below it, in faint red chalk:

> She’s mine.