Chapter 50: Dissection

Touko did not rush.

That was the first rule.

Rushing created mistakes, and mistakes created noise. Noise drew attention. Attention invited questions. Questions led to interference.

She waited until the house slept.

Kei’s breathing settled into its steady rhythm. Yui turned once, then stilled. Rurika murmured in her sleep, a soft sound like she was calling someone who never answered.

Touko closed her door and opened her laptop.

The screen lit her face without changing it.

She typed the name.

Mizuki Aoyama.

Nothing dramatic appeared at first. No scandal. No headlines. Just the ordinary traces people left behind when they believed they were harmless.

Social media came first.

Touko scrolled slowly, not reading everything at once. Patterns mattered more than content.

Photos of coffee cups. Office desks. A plant by a window. Smiling coworkers tagged loosely, inconsistently. The captions were polite. Cheerful without being loud.

She counted the likes.

Not many.

She checked the comments.

Fewer.

Touko tilted her head slightly. Mizuki posted regularly, but the response never grew. The same names appeared. The same three people. Sometimes four.

Weak social gravity.

Touko made a mental note.

She clicked through tagged photos. Mizuki stood at the edge of group shots. Leaning in, but not fully centered. Smiling, but always looking at the camera instead of the people beside her.

Present. Not anchored.

Touko moved to older posts.

The tone shifted the further back she went. Fewer photos of people. More of empty spaces. Night streets. Train platforms. Screenshots of song lyrics posted without explanation.

Touko recognized the pattern immediately.

Loneliness disguised as taste.

She opened a new tab and searched deeper.

Public records. Old blogs. Archived accounts people forgot to delete.

Mizuki Aoyama, university years.

There it was.

A dormant blog, last updated years ago. Touko read every entry.

Anxiety. Difficulty sleeping. Fear of being a burden. Repeated apologies written to no one.

Touko’s fingers hovered over the trackpad.

Not weakness.

Fragility.

Important difference.

She checked timestamps. Long gaps between posts. Then clusters. Writing sprees at three in the morning. Sudden silence afterward.

Touko imagined her pacing a small apartment, phone in hand, waiting for replies that never came.

She did not feel pity.

Pity softened edges. Touko needed clarity.

Next came work.

Kei had mentioned meetings. Late nights. Touko compared timestamps on Mizuki’s posts to Kei’s schedule. Patterns aligned too cleanly to ignore.

Late workdays. Shared overtime. Messages sent after ten p.m.

Touko did not access Kei’s phone. Not yet.

She didn’t need to.

Mizuki’s behavior told her enough.

Touko opened a calendar and reconstructed Mizuki’s week.

Commute times inferred from posts. Coffee purchases tagged with locations. Gym visits twice a week, then once, then not at all.

Routine eroding.

Touko leaned back in her chair.

“She’s unraveling,” she murmured, more observation than judgment.

A soft knock interrupted her.

Touko didn’t flinch. She already knew who it was.

Rurika stood in the doorway, hair loose, eyes tired. “You’re awake.”

Touko nodded. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Rurika hesitated. “I had a bad dream.”

Touko gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

Rurika did, quietly.

Touko did not minimize the laptop screen. She let Rurika see the name.

Rurika’s breath caught. “You’re… looking her up?”

Touko met her eyes calmly. “Understanding someone makes them less frightening.”

Rurika swallowed. “What did you find?”

Touko considered what to share.

Not everything.

“She's alone,” Touko said. “More than she pretends.”

Rurika’s shoulders relaxed, just slightly.

“She’s anxious,” Touko continued. “She seeks validation from authority figures. Especially men she respects.”

Rurika’s fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve. “Like Papa.”

Touko nodded once.

Rurika’s voice dropped. “Does she… like him?”

Touko did not answer immediately. Silence sharpened the question.

“Attachment doesn’t need romance,” Touko said at last. “It only needs permission.”

Rurika nodded slowly, absorbing it.

Touko closed the laptop halfway, not fully. A gesture that suggested pause, not conclusion.

“You don’t need to worry,” Touko added. “She’s predictable.”

Rurika looked at her like she was being offered shelter.

“What do we do?” she asked.

Touko smiled faintly. “Nothing visible.”

Rurika frowned. “That’s it?”

“For now,” Touko said. “People like her destroy themselves when the right pressure is applied.”

Rurika shivered. “That sounds cruel.”

Touko studied her sister’s face. “Cruel would be forcing her to change. We’re just letting her be herself.”

Rurika said nothing.

Touko closed the laptop fully this time.

“That’s enough for tonight,” she said. “You should sleep.”

Rurika stood, lingering. “Touko?”

“Yes?”

“You won’t leave me alone in this, right?”

Touko placed a hand on Rurika’s wrist. Her grip was light. Controlling without being forceful.

“I won’t,” she said. “As long as you listen.”

Rurika nodded immediately. “I will.”

After Rurika left, Touko reopened the laptop.

She reviewed everything once more. Not to memorize. To confirm.

Mizuki Aoyama was not a threat because she was strong.

She was a threat because she wanted to belong.

Touko understood that hunger intimately.

She closed every tab one by one, clearing traces.

The room returned to darkness.

Touko sat still for a moment longer, listening to the house breathe.

Then she shut the laptop and placed it carefully in her drawer.

Dissection complete.

She felt no excitement. No tension.

Only certainty.

Mizuki Aoyama was already breaking.

She just didn’t know it yet.