Don't Forget About Me

Detective Tachibana Shun did not like delays.

He liked first impressions. Immediate statements. Raw reactions. The truth before it had time to reorganize itself into something safer.

But procedure had won.

The school insisted the student go home. The counselor insisted the boy be stabilized. Administration insisted parents be notified.

By the time Shun was permitted to formally question Orimoto Akira, three days had passed.

Three days was enough time for fear to turn into a story. He didn’t like stories.

The interrogation room was small. Neutral. Designed to flatten emotion.

Akira sat on one side of the metal table. No cuffs. No restraints. Just a recorder placed between them.

Fourteen years old. Too calm.

Shun entered with a file in hand. He sat down slowly, placed the file on the table, and pressed record.

“Detective Tachibana Shun,” he said evenly. “Interview with Orimoto Akira regarding discovery of unidentified female in school theatre.”

He looked up.

Akira met his gaze directly. Not defiant. Not frightened. Measuring.

Interesting.

“You found the body,” Shun began.

“Yes.”

“Walk me through it again.”

Akira folded his hands loosely in front of him. “I had a bad feeling.”

Shun did not blink. “You’ve said that before.”

Akira nodded once.

“What does that mean?” Shun asked.

Silence stretched. Akira seemed to weigh his words.

“I noticed something strange,” he said carefully.

“What?”

“She stopped coming to class.”

Shun leaned back slightly. “She?”

Akira hesitated.

There it is.

“Someone,” Akira corrected.

“You’re aware,” Shun said calmly, “that no one else in your class recalls this student.”

“Yes.”

“And yet you do.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Akira’s jaw tightened.

Because a goddess told me someone Blessed erased her existence.

He did not say that.

“I pay attention,” Akira said instead.

Shun’s eyes sharpened slightly.

“Transfer student,” he continued. “You weren’t here long. How would you notice someone else missing when others didn’t?”

Akira didn’t answer immediately.

Because I’ve lived this before. Because I know there are four. Because I’m counting down toward someone I can’t afford to lose.

“I don’t know,” Akira said quietly. “It just stood out.”

Shun opened the file.

“You told a classmate her name was Kisaragi Kana.”

Akira’s pulse spiked internally. So that detail made it into record.

“Yes.”

“Where did you hear that name?”

“In class.”

“There are no attendance records reflecting that.”

“She introduced herself.”

“No one remembers that.”

Akira leaned back slightly. “And you believe them?”

Shun didn’t react outwardly. “I believe in documentation.”

“That’s convenient,” Akira replied softly.

The air shifted.

Shun observed him carefully now. Emotional, yes. But not unstable. He wasn’t rambling. He wasn’t fabricating under pressure.

He was… withholding.

“Let’s try this differently,” Shun said calmly. “You arrive at the theatre. Why there?”

Akira’s eyes flickered briefly.

He cannot know I remembered from another timeline. He cannot know I knew where the first victim was found before it happened.

“It was quiet,” Akira said. “Too quiet.”

Shun watched for micro-expressions. There was truth in that statement. But not the whole truth.

“You ran,” Shun continued. “Without confirming anything.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Akira’s fingers tightened slightly.

Because I’ve already failed once in another life.

“Instinct,” he said.

Shun studied him. “You don’t seem surprised that no records exist.”

That hit. Akira went still.

There it is.

“You’re not confused,” Shun continued. “You’re frustrated. There’s a difference.”

Akira looked up slowly. “And you’re not dismissing it as a clerical error.”

Silence.

Now the tension shifted. Two intelligent minds testing each other.

Shun folded his hands. “You believe something is wrong.”

“Yes.”

“What?”

Akira hesitated.

This is the moment. Tell him.

Tell him about the coins. About the Goddess. About memory manipulation. About the Mist Killer. About the future. About Aira.

Shun is sharp. He noticed the anomaly. He doesn’t like it either. He could be an ally.

But—

What if he’s Blessed?

What if he’s the killer?

What if the killer isn’t a student? What if it’s an adult with access? What if it’s a cop?

The thought hit hard and cold.

Police have access to records. Police can manipulate files. Police control narratives.

Akira’s stomach turned slightly.

Do not trust blindly. Not yet.

“I think someone erased her,” Akira said finally.

Shun’s expression did not change. “Erased.”

“Yes.”

“From records?”

“From memory.”

The room fell very still.

Shun studied him. “Are you suggesting mass delusion?”

“I’m suggesting,” Akira said carefully, “that something doesn’t add up.”

Shun leaned back slightly. “Be specific.”

Akira held his gaze. “You saw the body. She existed.”

“Yes.”

“So how does someone exist long enough to attend school… but not exist on paper?”

Shun didn’t respond immediately. Because that was the correct question.

“Administrative failure,” he said finally.

Akira’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You don’t believe that.”

Shun’s expression cooled. “This is my interview.”

Akira nodded once. Fair.

Silence returned.

Shun studied the boy across from him. Not hysterical. Not attention-seeking. Not enjoying the spotlight.

Protective. Of something.

“You’re holding something back,” Shun said.

“Yes.”

It wasn’t denial. It was acknowledgment.

“Why?” Shun asked.

Akira’s gaze shifted briefly toward the observation mirror.

Because I don’t know who to trust. Because if I say the wrong thing, I might accelerate the next death. Because if you’re involved, I tip my hand.

“Because I don’t know who to trust,” Akira said aloud.

That answer was honest. Shun absorbed it slowly.

“Do you distrust me?” he asked.

Akira met his eyes. “I don’t know you.”

Fair. Shun nodded once.

“You should distrust everyone,” he said calmly.

That wasn’t sarcasm. That was policy.

Akira blinked slightly. Interesting. The silence now wasn’t hostile. It was mutual calculation.

“You believe there will be another victim,” Shun said quietly.

Akira’s throat tightened. “Yes.”

“How many?”

He almost answered four.

“More,” he said instead.

Shun leaned forward slightly. “Why?”

Akira hesitated.

Because in the first timeline there were four. Because I already know the pattern exists. Because I am racing something invisible.

“Because this didn’t feel random,” he said.

That was also true.

Shun watched him for several seconds.

“You’re not afraid for yourself,” Shun observed.

Akira’s jaw flexed. “No.”

“You’re afraid for someone else.”

Akira didn’t respond. Which was answer enough.

Shun closed the file slowly.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “If you remember something, anything, no matter how small, you contact me directly.”

He slid a card across the table.

Akira looked at it.

Tachibana Shun Detective Direct Line: 090-XXXX-XXXX

“This isn’t about paperwork anymore,” Shun continued quietly. “Something is wrong. I don’t know what yet. But I intend to find out.”

Akira studied him carefully.

Mechanical. Methodical. Controlled. Not emotional. But not dismissive either.

Maybe. Maybe he could be trusted. Not fully. Just maybe.

Akira pocketed the card. “I’ll call.”

Shun stood. The interview was over.

As Akira exited the room, Shun remained seated for a moment longer.

The boy knew something. Not fantasy. Not delusion. Something structured.

And Shun had learned one thing clearly:

This was not a random killing.

And the student who “had a bad feeling” was either very lucky… Or already playing a game he didn’t understand.

Monday morning felt normal.

That alone made Akira uneasy. Normal was fragile.

He entered the classroom expecting whispers. Instead, he was met with something else.

Attention.

Not hostile. Not accusatory. Curious.

And at the center of that curiosity stood someone he hadn’t formally met yet.

Amane Ren.

Akira had seen him around since the first week. Hard to miss. Tall for their grade. Clean posture. Hair styled just enough to look effortless. The kind of smile that didn’t feel forced because he genuinely enjoyed being looked at.

Ren wasn’t loud. That was important. He didn’t need to be.

People leaned toward him naturally.

He was currently mid-story, gesturing lightly as a cluster of girls laughed at something he’d just said. He noticed Akira looking. And without hesitation, he excused himself from the group.

That alone was a social flex.

He walked over casually.

“You’re Orimoto, right?” Ren asked, smiling easily.

“Yes.”

“I’m Amane Ren.”

They shook hands. Firm. Confident. Not dominant.

“Rough week,” Ren said lightly. Not insensitive. Just acknowledging.

“Yeah,” Akira replied.

Ren tilted his head slightly. “You okay?”

It wasn’t performative concern. That caught Akira off guard.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

Ren studied him for half a second.

“No, you’re not,” he said calmly. “But that’s okay.”

Akira blinked. That was perceptive.

Ren shrugged lightly. “You don’t have to be fine right away.”

He leaned back against a desk, casual.

“People are saying you’ve got good instincts,” he continued. “That you just knew.”

Akira felt the subtle probe.

“I had a feeling,” he said neutrally.

Ren nodded once.

“Well,” he said, “if you ever get another feeling, maybe tell me before you sprint off.”

He grinned slightly. It disarmed the tension immediately.

Aira appeared behind Ren, smirking. “Careful. Ren loves drama.”

“I do not,” Ren replied smoothly. “I love being involved.”

Honest.

That word echoed in Akira’s mind. I love being involved.

Ren’s eyes flicked briefly between Akira and Aira.

“You two are close already,” he observed.

“Park swing alliance,” Aira replied immediately.

Ren raised an eyebrow. “That sounds ominous.”

“It wasn’t,” Akira said quickly.

Ren studied them both for a moment. Then his grin widened.

“Good,” he said. “We need new blood in this class.”

New blood.

Akira’s stomach tightened slightly at the phrasing. He ignored it.

By lunch, Ren had integrated himself fully into the courtyard group.

He didn’t dominate conversations. He redirected them.

When Hayate started rambling, Ren would guide the topic. When Rin’s sarcasm edged toward sharp, Ren softened it. When Aira drifted off-topic, Ren pulled her back playfully.

He wasn’t just charismatic. He managed social gravity.

Akira who studied carefully. Ren clearly was a master at keeping the natural social flow.

“Why are you staring at him like that?” Aira whispered.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Akira looked away. Ren caught the tail end of that exchange.

“Suspicious?” he asked lightly.

Akira shrugged. “Observant.”

Ren’s eyes gleamed slightly. “Good. I like observant.”

There was no menace in it. Just confidence.

Friday returned quickly.

Church youth group again. This time Ren came too.

“I’m not religious,” he announced casually as they walked. “I’m networking.”

Hayate laughed. “At church?”

“You’d be surprised.”

Ren wasn’t wrong.

Inside the church hall, the dynamic shifted subtly with him present. He gravitated toward whoever wasn’t being looked at.

Miki was loud and visible. She already had attention. Ren instead sat beside Sakurai Mio, who usually spoke softly. Within ten minutes, Mio was laughing louder than Akira had ever heard.

He didn’t compete for the spotlight. He redistributed it.

Akira felt something uneasy stir. Not because Ren was threatening. Because he was effective.

After the group activity, Ren slid into the seat beside Akira.

“You’re cataloguing everyone,” he said quietly.

Akira stiffened. “I’m not.”

Ren smiled faintly. “You are.”

Akira didn’t respond. Ren leaned back slightly.

“Why?” he asked.

The question wasn’t accusatory. Curious.

Akira considered lying. Instead, he answered halfway.

“Someone died,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And no one remembers her.”

Ren’s smile faded slightly. “People remember someone died,” he said carefully.

“Not her.”

Ren studied him. “Do you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Silence stretched between them. Ren looked forward again.

“Then remember enough for everyone,” he said quietly.

Akira glanced at him. That wasn’t dismissive. That was… support.

Ren bumped his shoulder lightly. “You don’t have to carry everything alone either, you know.”

Second person this week to say that.

Akira exhaled slowly. “Why do you care?” he asked.

Ren didn’t hesitate.

“Because if someone’s picking people off,” he said lightly, “I’d rather be involved than surprised.”

There it is again. Involved.

Later that evening, Mio left early.

She waved dramatically. “My mom’s going to kill me if I’m late.”

Ren laughed. “Tell her you were saving souls.”

“She’d rather I saved grades,” Miki shot back.

She disappeared down the street alone. Akira’s eyes followed her longer than necessary.

Ren noticed.

“You’re doing it again,” he said quietly.

“Doing what?”

“Counting.”

Akira didn’t answer.

Ren’s expression softened slightly. “You think there’ll be another one,” he said.

Akira didn’t ask how he knew. “Yes.”

Ren nodded slowly.

“Then we stay loud,” he said casually.

Akira frowned. “What?”

“If someone’s targeting people who others don’t bother to remember,” Ren said lightly, “then we make sure everyone matters and is remembered.”

That sounded almost naive. But not entirely wrong.

Akira looked at him carefully. “You don’t sound scared.”

Ren’s smile returned, softer this time.

“I hate being invisible,” he admitted.

Honest.

Akira’s chest tightened slightly. He remembered the Goddess’s explanation.

Blessings that had the power enough to send him back 14 years… What is the killer's wish?

He forced that thought down.

Ren stood up. “Come on,” he said, extending a hand. “Let’s walk back together.”

Akira hesitated only briefly before taking it. Warm grip. Solid.

Trust began in small moments like that.