Miyauchi house in the morning was the kind of quiet that felt thick, like the air itself was still asleep.
Soft light slipped through the shoji, pale yellow strips slanting across tatami. A little fan in the corner clicked as it turned its head back and forth. From outside came the distant caw of crows, a truck growling down the road toward town, the static hum of cicadas starting their daily chorus even though it was still early.
In the middle of it sat Miyauchi Renge.
She was crouched in front of the low table, legs tucked to the side in that sloppy kid posture, an open sketchbook spread before her. Crayons rolled lazily near her elbow. She wore her usual yellow long-sleeved top with the reddish ribbon at the collar, and her orange skirt was rumpled, one side bunched up under her hip. Her ridiculously long silver hair hung on both sides in twin-tails, held up by those star-shaped yellow scrunchies, the ends brushing the tatami when she leaned forward.
Her face was a mask of blank concentration, mouth a little open. In her hand a thick purple crayon scraped across the cheap paper. She was drawing some kind of surreal creature, three-eyed tanuki riding a rocket, or at least something that looked like that in the uneven lines.
"Uu..." she exhaled quietly, tipping her head. The movement made her hair swing like slow pendulums.
The house was empty except for her. Her oldest sister, Hikage, had long since gone to school in town. Kazuho, her sleepy teacher-sister, had mumbled something about a staff meeting and staggered off earlier than usual, yawning and almost tripping over the genkan step. She had told Renge, in that fuzzy half-awake voice, "Renge, lock the door, okay? Nee-nee will be back later," then shuffled away.
Renge had locked it. At least she was pretty sure she had. The memory of turning the little latch floated somewhere hazy at the edge of her mind, mixed with remembering the miso soup taste and the sound of the morning TV.
Her recorder lay beside the sketchbook, its cheap plastic body slightly yellowed. Every so often she reached out and tapped it with a finger like it was a talisman.
*Today is very peaceful nanon.*
She lifted the crayon and added another messy line, the little figure now apparently holding some sort of lopsided trumpet.
Then, sharp and out of place in the drowsy air, came three knuckles rapping on wood.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
Renge's hand paused. The crayon tip lingered in mid-air. Her head turned slowly toward the entrance.
"...?"
The sound came again, a bit lighter.
"Oi, sumimasen. Anyone home?"
The voice was deep, older, carrying through paper walls with ease. Not someone she recognized, not Koma-chan, not Hotaru, not Suguru's awkward silence. A stranger.
She blinked once, owlishly.
*Delivery-san maybe. Or takkyuu-bin nanon.*
She put the crayon down carefully, then pushed her palms on the tatami and got up in that slightly wobbly kid way. Her socks scratched against the straw mats as she shuffled, body a bit too limp, like she hadn't quite fully booted up for the day.
At the genkan, light from outside stabbed in through the small frosted window. Silhouetted against it, someone stood. The knock sounded once more, more playful now, a little rhythm to it.
"Ton ton, ton ton. Ne, anyone inside?"
Renge slid the inner door open a crack and peered with one golden eye.
A bald head filled her vision.
The man on the other side was big for this narrow countryside entryway. Mid-sized town clothes that looked a little too neat for around here. Faded polo shirt tucked into slacks, cheap belt, worn leather shoes. His scalp was shiny with a few stubborn gray hairs clinging at the sides. Thick neck, a belly that pushed faintly against fabric, arms with that loose old-man muscle hidden under softness.
His face was broad, skin creased by years of laughter and sun. Short, faint beard shadow around his jaw. His eyes crinkled as he saw her, and his mouth curved into an easy grin that showed off yellowed teeth.
"Oo, there you are," he said, voice warm, almost goofy. "Ohayou, chibi-chan."
Renge blinked up at him, her face unreadable.
"Ohayou gozaimasu nanon," she answered automatically, monotone.
She slid the door open a bit more, bare toes curling on the edge of the wooden step.
The man let his eyes slide quickly over the interior, then back to her little form. He adjusted his stance, bending slightly so he didn't loom as much, but even then he was a wall in front of her.
"Renge-chan, kana?" He tilted his head in a practiced way. "Nee, ore, I'm looking for Miyauchi-san. Otou-san or Onee-san. Are they home?"
"Nee-nee wa kaigi nanon," she said with that small sleepy lilt. "Mou dechatta nanon."
He chuckled quietly.
"Ah, sou ka. Working hard, ne. And otou-san, okkaa-san?"
"Ichigo tsumi ni itteru," she said without hesitation. "Kyou wa ichigo no hi nanon."
He had no idea if that was true, but it sounded about right for these strange villagers. His grin widened.
"I see I see. So right now, Renge-chan is hitori de留守番 da, ne."
He let the information settle between them. She just stared blankly, one hand holding the door frame.
The air outside smelled of road dust and grass. He brought that smell in on his clothes, mixed with something else, a faint tobacco that clung to his breath.
He reached slowly into his back pocket, watching her eyes. She didn't flinch, only tracked the movement. He pulled out a folded leaflet, some kind of cheap-printed paper.
"Ne, Renge-chan. Ojisan has some very important paper to give Miyauchi-san, ne. For the house. Like, jyuuyou na o-shirase." He wiggled it between two fingers. "If I just leave it here, maybe it will fly away. Kaze, ne."
She looked at the paper, then at him. The subtleties of adult lying were wasted on her.
"Fly away is yabai nanon," she agreed in the same neutral tone.
He laughed, full-bellied, showing crow's-foot wrinkles at his eyes.
"Sou sou, yabai. So maybe, chotto dake, ojisan can come inside, ne? Put it on the table. Maybe also check one thing about the gas. Dangerous if it's broken, wakaru?"
Renge considered this, head tilted a few degrees to the side like a curious bird.
"Gas," she repeated. "Explode suru nanon?"
He widened his eyes in mock alarm.
"Sou da yo! BAKAAAN, boom. House flies to the moon. Renge-chan also pyon pyon, space travel da."
"Space travel wa sugoi nanon," she said seriously.
He barked another laugh, shaking his head.
"But better to not explode, ne. So, can ojisan come in, chotto. We check, then onegai ne, you give this to Nee-chan and otou-san later. Dekiru?"
Her small fingers tightened just a little on the frame. Kazuho's sleepy words about "lock the door" floated up, slow motion.
*Nee-nee said... lock. But I...*
Her memory of flipping the latch was fuzzy. Maybe she had, maybe she hadn't. The door was open now anyway. She looked up at his big grinning face again.
He did not look scary in the usual ways. No shouting, no angry eyebrows. He looked like the kind of uncle who gave kids candy at festivals and told bad jokes. The kind of man Kazuho might randomly accept free vegetables from at the bus stop.
He reached forward and lightly patted her head.
His hand was rough, palm warm and heavy on the soft silver hair, fingers brushing the root of her twin-tails. The pat had that practiced adult rhythm: tap tap, small ruffle.
"Daijoubu da yo," he said gently. "Ojisan, tokuni warui koto shinai kara. Ne, chotto dake, ne."
The touch slid down the back of her head, then away. Renge's eyelids fluttered once at the unexpected sensation, but she didn't pull back. Her hair swayed when he removed his hand.
"Chotto dake," she echoed quietly.
"Sou sou. Good girl." He moved one foot up onto the genkan step, testing her reaction.
She stepped backward automatically, clearing space, and that was all the opening he needed.
He slipped off his shoes with practiced ease and stepped inside, the weight of his body making the wooden floor creak. The faint coolness of the interior swallowed him. He closed the door behind him with casual familiarity, the latch clicking.
The sound seemed louder than it should have.
Renge watched his large hands as he slid the door shut, then looked down at his socked feet, slightly yellowed at the toes. He noticed her gaze and wiggled his toes playfully.
"See? Ojisan took shoes off. Proper ne. Not a bad guy, right?"
She blinked.
*Taking shoes off means okay nanon.*
That was how it worked with visitors. Candy people, community people, they all took shoes off and sat at the table and drank tea. She accepted this as fact, because it had always been that way.
He rubbed her head again, more firmly this time, fingers sinking deeper into the silken mass. Her small body swayed under the pressure.
"Well then, show ojisan where the kitchen is, ne. Table. We put this paper, then we do chotto inspection, wakatta?"
"Hai nanon," she replied, and turned, leading him deeper into the house.
Her small socks whispered against the floor. His heavier steps thudded behind, floorboards complaining softly.
As they walked, his hand stayed on her head, gently steering like she was a little wind-up toy. Each pat made her hair bounce. He could feel her skull, the fragile smallness under the hair, and it sent a little electric thrill through him.
The living room was just as he'd expected from the entrance: low table, cushions, an old TV, a corner cluttered with Renge's drawings, toys, random junk Kazuho hadn't bothered to put away. A half-empty bowl from breakfast sat on the table, miso film clinging to the rim.
He dropped the leaflet onto the table with a careless flick. It slid over one of her drawings, covering half of a crooked sun.
"Yoshi," he said. "Paper delivered."
Renge hovered beside the table, hands at her sides, waiting for the next adult instruction. Her gaze drifted to the paper, reading none of it, then back to his face.
"Ne, Renge-chan," he said with a wider, more private smile now that they were inside, "this house, quite old, ne. Ojisan, actually, gas people ja nai kedo... another kind of, ee to, safety check suru n da yo."
"Safety nanon," she repeated, not really understanding but trying to follow.
He stepped in closer. His presence filled up the little room, changing the air. The lazy morning felt more crowded now, the fan's hum suddenly noticeable.
He crouched down so he was more at her level. Even then, his face was still above hers.
"Listen ne," he said, voice dropping just slightly in volume. "Today, Renge-chan gets very special lesson. Tokubetsu na jugyou da. Only for when family is not home. Secret lesson, wakaru?"
Her brow creased a millimeter.
"Secret wa... bad koto nanon?" she asked, child logic kicking in slowly.
He smiled indulgently and reached to pinch her cheek lightly.
"Chigau, chigau. Some secrets are fun, ne. Like surprise present. Or, ee to... game. If you tell everyone right away, tsumannai. So, between Renge-chan and ojisan dake. Nisho nisho, ne. That kind."
His fingers left her cheek and went back to her head, stroking from crown to nape, pressing a bit harder each time. Her small neck bent with the weight, her body swaying under his hand.
"Game nanon," she echoed, somewhat reassured.
"Sou. Very important game. It will make Renge-chan into, ne, adult lady a little bit faster. Otona no benkyou da."
She had no idea what that meant, but "benkyou" and "game" both were words that had positive resonance in her simple map of the world. Being "otona" was abstract, far away, something like being tall enough to reach the high cupboard and drink coffee.
He let his hand slide from the back of her head down between her shoulder blades, pressing at the center of her back.
"First, we go to your room ne. Benkyou room. Show ojisan."
That made sense. Studying happened in her room sometimes.
"Hai nanon," she mumbled.
He started to shepherd her along the corridor, his palm firm on her small back. Each stride of his covered almost two of hers, so she trotted a bit to keep up, hair swinging, the ends brushing his thigh now and then.
As they passed Kazuho's room he glanced in, quick sweep of the eye confirming the usual chaos and, more importantly, absence of adults. No shoes scattered in unexpected places, no coffee mug still steaming.
In front of Renge's door, he paused.
She slid it open with both hands, the wooden frame grating softly. Her room was an explosion of childishness: stuffed animals in a pile, endless drawings taped crookedly everywhere, a futon folded in the corner, a low desk cramped with crayons, a cracked mirror propped against the wall. The faint smell of crayons and dust, and a little bit of sweat from summer nights, hung in the air.
He let out an appreciative whistle.
"Ooh, kawaii heya da na."
Renge stepped inside and turned to face him, standing near the middle of the tatami, hair trailing behind her like white tails.
He slid the door closed behind him, this time very carefully, the wooden runner making a soft shh sound. Then, with a small practiced gesture, he nudged the simple twist lock on the frame. It clicked into place, quiet but final.
Renge's eyes followed the motion but did not connect it with danger. Locks were just objects.
He stepped toward her, and that friendly uncle aura around him thickened into something heavier.
"Ne," he said softly, "lesson time da."
His hand dropped to her head once more, fingers spreading, pressing down. He loved the way her skull fit under his palm, small and compliant. He rubbed her scalp in circles, mussing her hair slightly.
"You know, Renge-chan," he went on, "adult ladies do, ne... special things with men. To make nakayoshi. You ever heard?"
Her golden eyes just stared at him, unreadable, face blank as ever.
"...Like playing karuta nanon?" she tried.
He snorted.
"Well... some adults probably would say similar, ne." His grin sharpened, edges showing. "But a little different. They use their body. Body game."
She looked down at herself. Her flat chest under the yellow shirt, the hem of the orange skirt brushing her bony knees.
"Body game..." she repeated slowly, then lifted her gaze. "Gym class nanon?"
He laughed louder now, genuine amusement mixing with the darker excitement bubbling inside him.
"You're funny ne, Renge-chan. Demo chigau yo. This one, no teacher at school teaches. Only ojisan-tachi like me, ne, can teach you. Tokubetsu jugyou."
The hand on her head slid down again, this time along her spine, fingers spreading over the thin fabric of her shirt. He could feel the knobs of her vertebrae under the cloth, the heat of her small body.
She stiffened just a little, more in mystery than in fear. Nobody usually touched her there.
"Nee, turn around." His voice left no space for question.
Her body obeyed almost automatically. Adults gave instructions, kids followed. She turned, now facing the futon stack, her back open to him.
His palm flattened between her shoulder blades and pressed, guiding her forward.
"Sit."
She dropped down to her knees, then sat on her heels. Her twin-tails fanned out behind her, ends pooling on the tatami. Her thin shoulders hunched slightly.
He moved around to kneel in front of her, looming, his knees almost touching hers. From this angle he could see her skinny thighs under the skirt, the pale band of flesh above the socks, the way her shirt hung loosely on her narrow frame.
His hand reached out and patted her head again, like rewarding an obedient dog. Her hair rustled.
"Jaa, first, we have to check Renge-chan's body, ne. Is it ready for adult game ka. Like, doctor check mitai na."
"Doctor nanon..." she murmured. Medical check-ups were familiar. They were always a little embarrassing but normal. Kazuho always told her to endure.
"Sensei ga itta, 'ganbatte ne' nanon," she added absently.
He smiled, leaning closer. She could smell him now, sweat and stale tobacco and something sour under his shirt.
"Sou sou. So now, ojisan sensei ga ganbaru yo," he breathed. His hand left her head and went to the ribbon at her chest.
When his fingers touched the bow, she looked down, eyelids dipping.
"What are you doing nanon?" she asked, tone flat but question clear.
"Checking," he answered, cheerful. "To check, we have to see skin ne. Clothes, jama da."
Her small hands twitched in her lap, not quite reaching to stop him. The adult world had lots of rules where clothes came off: doctors, baths, hot springs. This could be one of those. Her brain tried to fit it into a known box, because unknown things were slippery.
His fingers deftly untied the ribbon and flicked it aside. It landed on the tatami like a small dead thing.
Then he grabbed the hem of her yellow shirt and tugged up.
The fabric bunched under his hands, folding at her ribs. Her thin arms shot up automatically so the shirt wouldn't get stuck, the habit of getting dressed overriding everything else. In one swift motion he peeled it off, her twin-tails snagging for a second before flipping free. The shirt ended up in a crumpled pile beside them.
The air against her bare chest felt cool. Goosebumps erupted along her pale skin. Her nipples were tiny, just faint pink dots on the slight swell of her childish pectoral muscles. Her ribs showed faintly.
She looked down at herself, then up at him, still expressionless but with something restless behind her eyes now.
"Cold nanon," she observed.
His gaze ran over her chest without shame, pupils dilating slightly.
"Of course, ne," he murmured. "Renge-chan is still little, so nothing here yet." He reached out with one thick finger and tapped lightly between her nipples. The touch made her flinch.
"Itai..." she said quietly, surprise more than pain.
He chuckled.
"Not itai, that little. Daijoubu. Just touch da." His finger moved and flicked one tiny nipple. The small bud hardened instantly from the stimulation and the air. Her body gave a tiny jerk.
"Oo, reaction wa ii ne," he muttered, more to himself.
Her breath hitched, a tiny intake.
*Weird... feels...*
She didn't have words for the prickling sensation that spread out from that tiny point, half uncomfortable, half just strange. Her mind flagged it as "suspicious".
"Nee..." she began, voice slightly smaller, "this is... what kind of benkyou nanon?"
He smiled wider, teeth showing.
"Otona no, ne." His hand slid from her chest down her thin belly, palm warm and heavy, fingers splayed. Her stomach muscles tensed at the unexpected pressure. "Jaa, next, down here."
His hand stopped at the waistband of her orange skirt. His thumb slipped under the elastic.
Her legs squeezed together reflexively.
Her voice came out a bit rushed, but still monotone.
"That place is... no good nanon. Kazuho-nee-nee said, skirt no baka shicha dame."
"Ah, but that is for school boys, ne," he soothed immediately. "Ojisan is sensei. So it's okay. More okay than Kazuho, ne. Kazuho ne, always sleeping, right? Not proper. Ojisan, much more majime."
He snorted softly at his own joke. His thumb pushed the waistband further, skin indenting under the pressure.
"Also, if we don't look, we can't be sure it's safe, ne. You said, safety is important, right? Gas boom wa iya deshou?"
Her eyes flickered, uncertain.
*Gas... boom...*
Child logic again: if adult said it, maybe weird things were connected. She didn't like the idea of exploding. She imagined the house blasting into space and herself floating around, arms stuck out stiffly.
While she was caught in that dumb mental image, his other hand came to help. He hooked his fingers into the waistband on both sides and yanked.
The elastic scraped along her hips. Her skirt slid down her skinny thighs. Her white underwear came with it in one smooth motion, the cotton dragging roughly over the little mound of her crotch and down her legs.
"Ah...!" A sharp little sound ripped from her as cool air and exposure hit her most hidden place. Her hands flew to grab at the front of her shirt on reflex, but the shirt was gone. Her fingers clenched on empty air.
The skirt and panties pooled around her knees, then her ankles. He lifted her thin ankles one by one with casual efficiency, sliding the clothes off completely. Her socks stayed on.
Now she was naked from neck to knees, a bony little thing on the tatami, hair spilling, socks on, pale skin like unbaked dough.
Her small slit was hairless, a simple line with just a faint pinkness, still almost flat against her body. It was vulnerable in a way that made even the air feel sharp.
She squeezed her thighs together, hiding it instinctively. Color rose very faintly in her cheeks.
"This is... hazukashii nanon," she said in a whisper.
He drank in the sight with greedy eyes, breath lifting his chest.
"Eh... hazukashii? It's okay. Ojisan already saw lots of little pussies, ne. Renge-chan's one, very kirei." His hand moved like it had a will of its own, landing on her knee, then sliding up along the inside of her thigh.
Her muscles tensed, legs trying to clamp tighter, but his hand forced them apart easily. Her strength was nothing against his adult grip. The gap opened, her slit coming into view again, exposed to his gaze, his breath, his fingers.
The skin there was slightly darker, smooth, lips small and pressed together. He could see the faint cleft, the origin of everything he desired to break.
His thumb stroked along her inner thigh, creeping closer to the center.
She sucked in a tiny breath.
"...Itai?" she asked preemptively, fear and curiosity mixed.
He smirked.
"Soon, ne. A little. But it's necessary, benkyou da kara. If it hurts, it means you're growing, ne."
That made no sense, but his tone was so confident that part of her swallowed it.
His thumb finally reached the line of her slit and pressed, dragging slowly along it from top to bottom.
Her whole body jolted. A strangled sound bubbled from her throat, half gasp, half whimper.
"Nnu...!"
The thumb rubbed again, more firmly, the soft skin compressing under the calloused pad. There was no moisture yet, just friction, bare flesh on rough, adult skin.
The sensation was overwhelming: burning-scratchy, electric, alien. Her hips tried to jerk away backwards, but his other hand grabbed her bony hip and held her in place, fingers digging into the soft bit above her pelvis.
"Oi, oi," he murmured, grin spreading, "don't run away, ne. This is main point no tokoro da yo."
Her hands fluttered uselessly in front of her chest, then one dropped as if pulled by gravity, hovering awkwardly near his invading hand.
"Yaa..." she squeaked, "it's...変 nanon... weird."
He laughed softly and pressed harder. His thumb slid back up and found the tiny bump of her clit. Even at her age it was there, just a swelling of nerve endings under thin skin. He circled it, slow and relentless.
Her spine arched, a small cry breaking out.
"A... aaah...!"
Her voice, usually flat and measured, cracked. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.
*Stop, stop, it's too much, too fast...*
Her mind couldn't form words beyond that jumble of protest. The feeling at that little point was like something alive had been awakened there, a burning ant biting her from inside.
He watched the way her face twitched, the way her mouth opened just a little wider, the way her eyes shone. The twitch of her small nipples from the stimulation below.
His own body responded immediately. Between his legs, his dick thickened, pushing uncomfortably against his slacks.
"Sou da, sou da," he muttered. "Good reaction. Ne, Renge-chan, this is adult spot da yo. From now on, guys will touch here and here." He reached up with his free hand and flicked her nipple again, making her jump. "And they will say, 'Renge-chan, let's play,' ne."
"Don't... want..." she whispered, but the conviction was weak, dissolving under the assault of new sensations.
He chuckled.
"You say that now. Dakedo ne, girls always end up liking it. Body, baka da kara."
His thumb finally moved lower again, pressing against the slit proper. He found the little seam and started to push in, forcing the tightly closed lips to part.
Dry friction burned. Her crotch tensed, pushing against him, resistance fierce. The tight ring of her entrance refused at first, a small knot of muscle defending itself.
Her voice shot up.
"Yamete... yamete, itai itai nanon...!"
Her hands grabbed at his wrist now, small fingers barely encircling it, futilely trying to pull him away. He only smiled, watching her panic bloom.
"Calm, calm. This is only finger da yo. Chinpo wa, more bigger, ne. Let's get ready."
He spat casually onto his fingers. A thick rope of spit fell, stringing between his thumb and forefinger. He smeared it along his index, middle finger, then went back in.
Her slit glistened now with a thin coating of saliva. The next push slid more easily, though the tight ring still fought, stretching further than it ever had.
Her eyes went wide, pupils huge.
"Nnnnn...!"
A long, thin sound eked out of her as his middle finger finally forced its way inside, penetrating that tiny unused passage. Her entrance stretched brutally around his finger, the skin whitening from the strain. A sharp pain tore through her, stabbing up her stomach into her lower back.
*It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts...*
She couldn't even form "nanon" in her thoughts anymore. Her body shivered, muscles clamping down, trying to eject the intruder.
He groaned softly at the sensation of her tightness around his finger. It was like shoving into a narrow, hot ring, walls clinging greedily even as they tried to push him out.
"Yabai... chotto... this is tighter than I thought," he muttered, cheeks flushing.
He pumped the finger in slowly, forcing her walls to accommodate, knuckle grinding against the small entrance.
Each thrust sent a jolt through her, her hips twitching involuntarily. Wet squelch mixed with her quiet, broken sounds.
"Ah... au... uuu...!"
A tear finally escaped and slid down her cheek. Her hair clung to her damp face. She looked strangely still from the neck up, only small tremors betraying her, while from the waist down her body was squirming tiny, desperate movements.
"See?" he cooed mockingly. "Soon it will start to feel good, ne. Body will melt, tokete iku. Itai no ato wa kimochi ii. Ganbare, Renge-chan."
Her small fingers dug their nails into his wrist, but she had no leverage. His hand might as well have been the ceiling.
His finger plunged deeper, touch brushing something inside, the spot where her vaginal canal met the stiffness of her cervix. She gasped, chest hitching.
He added his index finger, squeezing it alongside the first.
The stretch was monstrous to her tiny body. Her entrance screamed, pain radiating in sharp waves.
"AAAA...!" The sound ripped out of her, louder than anything yet. Her voice cracked, high and raw.
He clamped his other hand over her mouth immediately, palm mashing her lips and nose, muffling the scream into a strangled, wet noise.
"Shh shh, neighbors aru kara," he hissed into her face. "If you scream, big problem da yo. Police kita ra, Renge-chan also angry, ne. They will say, 'why you disturb everyone?'"
Her chest heaved under his grip, breath hot against his palm. Tears spilled freely now, tracking down her cheeks to his skin. Her muffled cries vibrated into his hand, making it tingle.
Inside her, his fingers worked ruthlessly, in and out, twisting, stretching, scooping. Her walls clung, then slipped, her flesh reddening.
Gradually, the sharpness of the pain dulled into a throbbing ache with each thrust. Instead, another bizarre feeling started to coalesce, something deeper, heavy, a pressure building behind the ache.
Her body betrayed her, some primitive part responding to the stimulation even as her mind recoiled. A faint sheen of moisture began to mix with his spit, a grudging lubrication.
"Hou... already, little juice coming ne," he murmured, eyes alight with sick delight. "Renge-chan is eroi girl after all."
Her muffled protest was just a garbled, wet noise.
He took his hand from her mouth briefly to let her breathe properly. She gasped in air, sob hiccups making her words stutter.
"Yaa... yamette... nee..." Her monotone was gone. She sounded small and cracked, like an instrument with a broken reed. "I don't like this nanon... I don't like..."
His hand slapped lightly against her cheek, the contact sharp enough to stun, not bruise.
"Oi. You don't understand, ne. This is very important, I said. You will thank ojisan later." He grinned wider, leaning close so his face filled her blurred vision. "Also ne, if you don't do properly, maybe something worse happens, wakatta?"
"Worse...?" she whispered, breath hitching.
He chuckled lowly.
"Sou da yo. Like, accident. Gas... or, ne... cute legs, arms... maybe disappear. That would be, sugoi yabai ne."
Her brain caught on the words "legs" and "arms" and "disappear." Images popped into her mind, cartoonish at first: her stick-figure drawing version of herself with no limbs, just a round head and body.
A small shard of real fear stabbed through the cartoon. She looked down at her thin legs, toes wiggling in socks, then back at him.
"You can't cut... no, that is..." Her voice faltered, unable to wrap around the idea.
He smiled like a kindly doctor explaining a vaccination.
"Jaa, then be good girl ne. If you're good, maybe ojisan will be gentle. If not, chop chop. You remember anime, ne? Samurai go, sha, sha, arms flying. Kakkoii ne. But if it's Renge-chan's arm... taihen ne."
Her skin crawled. That weird image of anime samurai slicing enemies overlapped with herself, with cheap red crayon lines for blood. Her stomach flip-flopped.
Her body froze, muscles locked in pure prey terror. His fingers inside her stilled for a moment to savor that stillness.
"Sou, sou," he hissed, almost lovingly. "That's it. Now, be quiet, ne. We finish lesson, then... we see."
He removed his fingers from her with a wet squelch. Her entrance spasmed around empty air, hurting and oddly bereft. A thin smear of blood tinted his skin, mixed with spit and her reluctant wetness.
Renge stared at the red, eyes going to pinpoints.
"Red..." she croaked. "That's... my..."
"Un," he said, pleased. "First time blood. Omedetou. You became a bit adult ne. Lucky. Nee-chan didn't show you this yet, ne."
The idea that she had somehow "become an adult" from this made her want to laugh hysterically and throw up at the same time. Her mind wobbled.
While she was stuck there, he stood, looming over her. As his full height unfolded, his crotch came level with her face.
He unbuckled his belt with quick, practiced motions. The clink of metal echoed in the small room. His zipper rasped. He shoved his slacks down, then his underwear.
His dick sprang out, heavy and swollen, dark skin mottled, veins standing out like cords. It slapped slightly against his lower belly, then bobbed in front of her, thick head flushed almost purple. The shaft was slick with a bit of pre-cum at the tip, a drop forming and slowly sliding down.
Renge's eyes locked on it. Her brain labeled it "chin-chin" like she'd glimpsed by accident once when Suguru's towel slipped at the river, but this one was different. Bigger, angrier, more alien.
She watched the bead of fluid fall and splatter on the tatami in front of her, leaving a small dark mark.
Her voice came out in a whisper, half awe, half horror.
"...Ugly nanon."
He barked a harsh laugh.
"Kids are honest ne. Mou, you hurt ojisan's feelings." He grabbed his dick at the base, giving it a pump, making it swell slightly more. "This is very important thing, you know. Without this, no babies, no Renge-chan either. Be more polite ne."
He stepped closer, until the head of his cock almost touched her face. She flinched, leaning back, eyes wide.
The musky smell of his arousal hit her, thick and salty, clashing with the light scent of crayons and dust that usually filled her room.
"Nee, open your mouth," he said lightly, like asking her to say "aa" at the doctor.
She jerked her head side to side.
"No. It looks... gross. I don't want..."
His hand shot out, fingers tangling in her hair, grabbing a fistful of silver near the roots. The sudden yank made her yelp, neck bending backward.
"Itai!" she cried, hands going up to claw at his grip.
His fingers tightened, scalp screaming.
"Open," he said, smile gone for a second, eyes hard. The amusement in his face froze into steel. "Or, ne, maybe chop first. Then we don't need mouth."
His other hand reached casually toward her arm, fingers tapping against her small forearm as if measuring.
The threat, combined with the pain in her scalp, broke something in her.
Her jaw loosened with a little sob.
"Hii... aa..."
He tugged harder, forcing her head back further. Her lips parted on a choked sound.
The head of his cock slid forward, bumping her upper lip, smearing clear fluid. He used his grip on her hair to angle her, then thrust his dick into her small mouth.
Her lips stretched around the thick head, pain radiating at the corners. Her tongue was crushed against the floor of her mouth. The taste flooded her senses: salty, bitter, a little sour, like licking dirty coins and sweat.
Her eyes went enormous, tears spilling over again.
"Uuh... ggh...!"
Her small hands flew to his thighs, fingers splayed, pushing weakly.
He groaned, head tipping back as the heat of her mouth enveloped him.
"Ah... yabai... chibi no kuchi, maji de...," he muttered, breathing faster. Her teeth scraped lightly at first, making him hiss, then he jerked her hair harder.
"Teeth, damena," he warned through clenched teeth. "If you bite, I'll really cut your arms first. Wakarimasu ka."
His words vibrated through his cock into her mouth, a bizarre sensation.
She tried to pull her teeth back, jaw aching, but her mouth was so small that the dick barely fit without rubbing against them. Her gag reflex engaged as the head hit the back of her tongue. Her eyes crossed briefly.
*Too big... can't breathe...*
He started to move his hips, shallow at first, fucking her mouth. The head pumped in and out between her lips, slick with spit and pre-cum. Each forward thrust made her head jerk back, hair pulling sharply in his grip.
Wet gagging noises filled the room, grotesquely loud in the small space.
"Gu... gghk...!"
Drool spilled from the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin, onto her bare chest. The drops traced lines between her tiny nipples, glistening in the light.
Her nose was pressed against his pubic hair with each deeper push, the wiry hairs scratching her skin. She smelled him so intensely she could almost taste it through her nose.
His free hand found her throat, thumb pressing lightly against her larynx, feeling his own cock bulging inside. The sensation made him laugh breathlessly.
"Look, look," he panted, half to himself, half to her. "You feel that? That's adult's chinpo going all the way. Sugoi ne, Renge-chan."
Her world shrank to the feeling of being impaled from the mouth, the burning in her lungs from lack of proper air, the ache in her jaw, the tearing pain at her scalp.
Her thoughts became a stuttering loop.
*Nee-nee... help... stop... want to stop... Nee-nee...*
Her arms shook with effort as she pushed against his thighs, useless as insects against a truck.
He picked up the pace, hips snapping more aggressively now. Her head bobbed automatically, guided by his fists in her hair. Her throat convulsed around the intruder, gagging, the reflex squeezing him in random pulses.
A thick, choked whine vibrated around his shaft.
"Mmnn...!"
"Yabai, that's good," he grunted. "Chibi throat, dangerous ne."
Pre-cum and spit mixed, bubbling at the seal of her lips. It dripped onto her lap, stringing between his shaft and her chin in obscene ribbons.
Her vision blurred. Her lungs burned. When he finally pulled out, a long slick sound accompanied it.
She gasped, sucking in air desperately, coughing, strings of drool hanging from her lower lip. The taste of him lingered, coating her tongue, clinging to the back of her throat.
She looked up at him with dazed, reddened eyes.
"Why..." she whispered, voice raw, "why are you doing this... nanon...?"
He smiled lazily, wiping the spit off his shaft with his hand, then flicking it onto the tatami.
"Because it's fun ne. For ojisan. For Renge-chan, it's study. Two birds, one stone da." He reached out and smeared a streak of her drool across her cheek with his thumb. "And because no one stops me now, ne."
Those last words didn't fully land in her. They swirled somewhere above her understanding.
He bent and grabbed her under the armpits.
Her small body was light, easy to lift. He hefted her up as if she were one of the stuffed animals on the floor. Her legs dangled, twin-tails swinging. Her arms flailed briefly.
"Hii...!" she yelped.
He turned and dumped her onto the futon pile, unfolding it roughly with one hand, then pushing her down on her back. Her hair splayed out like a pale halo. Her socks slid against the fabric, toes curling.
He grabbed her ankles and yanked her down, her butt sliding, until her crotch was right at the edge of the futon, lower half hanging slightly off. Her legs spread easily under his grip, her flexibility and smallness no match for his positioning.
Her slit glistened faintly with blood and spit, a raw little opening.
He stepped between her legs, his dick bobbing, thick and ready.
Her eyes tracked it, terror clear now in the wideness, tears making them shine.
"No..." she whispered, voice cracked, monotone broken into shards. "That... can't fit... nanon..."
He grinned, teeth bared.
"It will. Or it will break trying, ne. Either way, interesting."
He lined the head up with her entrance. The contrast was obscene: the big, flushed mushroom head pressing against the tiny, almost closed hole.
He spit again, onto the head, rubbing it with his hand. Then he pressed forward.
The tip nestled between her lips, compressing them. Her body tensed like a bowstring, muscles rigid. Her hands flew to the futon, clutching at the fabric.
His cock head found the entrance, the small ring of muscle that had already been forced once by his fingers. It protested again now, clamping down.
He pushed harder.
The flesh bulged, whitening. Her mouth opened in a silent scream before the sound tore free.
"AAAAAAH...!"
The pain was incomparable. Her earlier finger penetration had been bad, but this was like being ripped open by a hot, blunt log. Every nerve in her crotch screamed, a white-hot burst that drowned everything else.
Her hips tried to jerk back, but his hands grabbed her thighs and pinned them, fingers digging hard enough to leave bruises.
"Shit," he hissed through gritted teeth, sweat popping on his brow from the resistance. "So tight... you might really break, ne."
He grunted and thrust his hips forward with more force.
The head finally punched through the ring, her entrance snapping around the thick ridge, interior gripping like a vise. The rest of the shaft followed, wedging its way in bit by agonizing bit.
She shrieked, voice breaking, high and ragged.
"YAMETEEE...! ITAIII, ITAII NANON, ITAII...!"
Her cries ricocheted off the thin walls. Somewhere distant, a crow took off.
He slammed his hand over her mouth again, all his weight bearing down to keep her steady as he bottomed out.
His pelvis met her pubic bone with a wet smack. The full length of him was inside her tiny body, stretching her in ways it was never meant to be stretched.
He could feel the resistance of her cervix at the end, a solid pressure. He ground against it anyway, enjoying the way her insides squeezed around him spasmodically.
Tears streamed sideways toward her ears. Her vision went white around the edges, her mind retreating from the intensity.
*I'm splitting... it's splitting...*
She could almost feel herself open like ripped paper, red spilling.
Indeed, there was blood. It welled up around where he entered her, a dark, slick ring forming, sliding down his shaft as he started to move.
He withdrew slightly, the friction fierce, her walls clinging desperately. Then he thrust in again, harder, his hips slamming into her bony pelvis.
His hand muffled her scream into a hoarse, incomprehensible wail.
"Mnnghh...!"
The bed creaked under the force of his movements. Her small body rocked with each slam, shoulders dragging on the futon, head snapping slightly.
He found a rhythm quickly, fueled by the obscene tightness and the sight of her small, pale body writhing helplessly, limbs flailing weakly.
Wet, ugly sounds filled the room. Each thrust squelched, blood and spit and the faint beginnings of her own fluid mixing. The smell of iron joined his sweat and the faint scent of her childhood room.
Her arms beat against him, fists hitting his forearms, shoulders, anything they could reach. It was like being battered by butterflies.
He panted over her, breath hot and rough.
"Ah... ah... chibi pussy, maji de... tight... chokotto...," he muttered between thrusts. "You're going to break ojisan's chinpo, ne."
His words were nonsense over the roar in her head.
Her cries dwindled into broken sobs, her throat raw. The pain didn't stay a sharp spike; it became a continuous, grinding torment, each thrust reopening and deepening it, like a wound being stabbed again and again.
Within that, though, the same strange heavy feeling from the finger invasion twitched, a betrayal. Her body, even under trauma, responded to the relentless rubbing in some automatic way. Her walls pulsed, trying to accommodate, secretions slowly increasing.
He felt it and laughed breathlessly.
"See... body hates you, Renge-chan. Even now, it's getting wet. Eroi ne."
She shook her head wildly, more in denial than response. Her hair stuck to her damp cheeks and forehead, twin-tails tangled.
He shifted one hand from her mouth to her throat, fingers pressing lightly around the soft column. Not enough to cut air completely, but enough to choke her breath, to make each inhale a struggle.
Her eyes flew open wider at the pressure.
"Ah... haa... ha..." she gasped, each breath a thin squeak.
The combination of choking and pain and violation blurred her senses into a surreal fog. Sounds became distant, the edges of the room lost their sharpness. Only his weight, his movement inside her, his hand on her throat remained.
*Maybe... if I sleep... it will stop...*
Her body twitched weakly.
He fucked her harder, chasing his own peak now, mind full of nothing but the tightness and the image of her broken, childlike face.
His hips pistonned, slapping against her skinny thighs. The wet noises grew louder. Blood smeared on his pelvis, on her inner thighs, leaving streaks.
Her small feet in socks kicked uselessly, toes flexing.
His breath hitched. The familiar tension coiled in his lower belly, spine tingling.
"Chotto... chotto de... Iku...," he grunted. He squeezed her throat a little more, loving the way her eyes glazed, then released a fraction so she didn't pass out before he finished.
Her vision tunnelled. The world shrank to the pounding inside her.
He thrust in deep one last time, burying himself as far as he could go, grinding against her cervix. His cock throbbed violently, then thick, hot semen erupted inside her.
It flooded her tiny, wounded canal, spurting forcefully, coating her inner walls with sticky warmth. The pressure of it made her insides feel like they might burst.
She felt the pulses like distant explosions, each spurt accompanied by a grunt from above. The invasive heat seeped deeper, some leaking past his thick shaft to drip out, mixing with the blood.
Her body gave a final, pathetic shudder.
"No... more..." she whimpered, voice barely a thread.
He groaned, shaking, holding himself deep until the last twitch of his cock subsided. His sweat dripped from his chin onto her chest, little warm splats.
For a moment, the room was filled only with his ragged breathing and the faint hum of the fan.
Then he exhaled, long and satisfied, and pulled out.
His dick slid from her with a wet, obscene sound. A thick string of semen and blood stretched briefly between his cock and her ruined entrance, then broke, splattering onto the futon.
More fluid oozed from her, dripping down her crack, onto the sheet, staining it dark.
Renge lay limp, limbs sprawled where they'd fallen, hair fanned around her. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, shaking breaths. Her eyes stared at the ceiling, tracking nothing, pupils dilated.
Her crotch burned like fire. Each tiny movement sent shards of pain through her. It felt both horribly full and empty at the same time.
Her voice came out hoarse, hardly shaped.
"Nee... nee-nee..." she rasped, not even aware she spoke.
He looked down at her, the glow of his orgasm slowly fading, replaced by that other hunger that had been waiting in the wings since he first stepped inside.
He glanced at the futon, the walls, the cheap little toys scattered around. Then back at her thin arms, her legs, the small bones under pale skin.
"Jaa," he said conversationally, as if they'd just finished a board game, "lesson... ichibu shuuryou ne. Next wa... souvenir time da."
Her eyes twitched toward him, trying to focus.
"Souve...?" she croaked.
He grinned.
"Un. Ojisan, ne, likes to take little presents. So I remember my cute students forever."
He walked to the low desk and rummaged casually. Pencils rolled, paper crinkled. He found a pair of scissors, the cheap kind for crafts, with slightly dull blades. He laughed softly at the coincidence.
"Eh... this is good start," he said. "But for proper cutting... chotto weaker." He set them down and instead reached into the large bag he had brought with him, half-hidden by the door, that Renge hadn't even noticed earlier.
From inside he pulled something wrapped in cloth. He unrolled it on the tatami.
The blade that gleamed in the soft light was long and narrow, a kitchen knife sharpened to a bright edge, the kind used for slicing fish. The steel caught the beam from the shoji, throwing a small flash onto the ceiling.
Renge's breath hitched.
The knife's presence cut through the fog in her head. Her heart kicked into a higher gear.
"That... is for cooking nanon," she managed, voice trembling. "Nee-nee uses for fish..."
"Sou da ne," he agreed cheerfully. "Fish, meat, vegetables... arms, legs... all the same if you cut right. Just different shapes."
He picked the knife up, testing the balance, thumb grazing the edge carefully. A tiny bead of his own blood appeared where he pressed too close. He smiled at it, sucking the drop off.
"Mm. Sharp enough."
He moved back to the futon, looming over her again. She tried to move her limbs, but they felt like they were made of lead and pain. Her crotch screamed at even the smallest shift.
He grabbed her right arm at the wrist, lifting it and examining the thinness, the delicate bone.
"Ne, which one Renge-chan wants to lose first?" he asked almost playfully. "Arm? Leg? Maybe we start with legs, easier to hide, ne."
Her mouth opened and closed, soundless for a moment. Then a hoarse shriek clawed its way out.
"NO... NO NO NO... I NEED THEM NANON...! I HAVE TO GO TO SCHOOL... I HAVE TO WALK...!"
Her voice broke on the last word.
He tilted his head, pretending to consider.
"Hmm... demo, if you can't walk, then no more walking to school ne. Everyday, just sleep in bed. Sounds nice, ja nai?"
He pressed her arm back down and grabbed her right ankle instead. His hand closed around the socked limb, fingers meeting easily.
He lifted it, bending her knee, exposing the pale underside. The sock slipped slightly, exposing a bit of skin above the ankle.
She kicked weakly, heel scraping the futon. It was like fighting a tree.
"Please... please, yamete... I won't tell... nanon... I'll forget..." she babbled, words tumbling out, her usual measured speech completely shattered.
He grinned, eyes crinkling.
"Ah... but I want you to remember, ne. Even if you can't tell. That is more interesting. Every time you look at... well, if you had legs, you would look at scars, ne. But without legs, you will remember phantom pain. Sugoi, ne."
He placed the knife against the sock, the cold metal pressing through the cloth to the soft skin of her ankle.
She froze, entire body rigid, breath arrested. Her mind shrieked, some primal animal part clawing at the inside of her skull.
"Nee... please..." she whispered one last time, voice thin as paper. "I'll be good... I won't be bad... I won't... I won't talk back to Nee-nee... I'll eat vegetables... I'll..."
He chuckled softly.
"Too late ne. You already did bad thing. You made ojisan feel good. That's unforgivable."
Slowly, almost tenderly, he began to cut.
The knife sliced through the sock with hardly any resistance, the fabric parting with a faint ripping sound. Then it met skin.
For a split second, there was just cold pressure. Then the blade bit, parting the thin flesh.
Pain exploded.
Her scream shattered the air.
"AAAAAAAAAAGH...!"
Her foot jerked, but his grip was iron, holding her ankle steady as the knife bit deeper. Blood sprang out, bright red against pale skin and white sock, flowing over the steel, dripping onto the futon.
The sensation was searing, a line of fire wrapping around her limb. It went beyond the pain she could conceptualize. Her mind recoiled, skidding.
He concentrated, brows furrowing. Cutting through live flesh and bone was harder than meat. The knife sank through skin, yielded to tendon with a rubbery give, then grated against bone.
He adjusted his angle, sawing, the blade scraping. Blood spurted in rhythm with her racing heartbeat, splattering his hand, the sheets, his clothes.
Her voice became a high, continuous wail, rising and falling as her breath struggled.
"AAAAAAAAH... ITAAI... ITAAI... NEE NEEEEE...!"
Her cry for her sister cracked into pieces.
He ignored the words, focusing on the work. Bone resisted, then fractured with a sickening crunch beneath the relentless sawing. The sound passed through her body, vibrating her whole being.
When the last stubborn fibers of muscle and tendon finally gave way, her foot came free in his bloody hand.
Her leg beyond the cut was a mangled stump, white bone glimmering amidst the torn red flesh, blood gouting in pulses.
Her world imploded into pain. The room spun, edges blurring. Her scream broke off into choking sobs, then just raw, wordless noise.
He held her small severed foot up, studying it like a craftsman examining a piece. The sock was soaked red halfway up, toes still twitching faintly in post-mortem nerve spasms.
"Souvenir number one," he said calmly, voice almost reverent. "Kawaii ne."
He glanced at her face. It was pale under the blood spatters, lips blueish, eyes rolled slightly upward. Sweat plastered hair to her forehead. Her chest rose and fell in uneven, shallow breaths.
She was close to passing out, teetering.
He slapped her cheek lightly with his clean hand.
"Oi, don't sleep yet," he chided. "We still have work. If you sleep, you won't enjoy it properly, ne."
Her eyes fluttered back toward him, unfocused.
"Stop... please..." she begged, voice barely there. "It hurts... nanon... it hurts..."
He set the foot aside gently on a corner of the futon, like placing a cherished ornament. Then he grabbed her left ankle.
Her reaction was slower now, her nervous system overloaded. She made a weak sound, a protest more out of habit than real hope.
The knife kissed the second ankle.
He cut again.
The pain was not any less, but her mind was more fragmented now, unable to process it with the same clarity. Her scream was shorter, broken, like a skipped CD.
Blood flowed more sluggishly this time, her pressure already dropping from the first amputation. The knife found bone, scraped, bit, parted. He worked with a grim, absorbed focus, mouth set, breath steady.
The second foot came free, sock red, toes limp.
Renge's consciousness flickered like a candle in a draft.
*My legs... my legs...*
She could no longer feel her feet, just a huge, throbbing emptiness at the ends of her legs. The stumps pulsed with heartbeat fire, then even that began to dull, replaced by cold.
Her arms twitched, fingers opening and closing in a weak, repetitive motion, like they were trying to swim away from her body.
He placed the second foot beside the first, aligning them neatly. A macabre symmetry.
His clothes were splattered, hands slick. He licked some of the blood from a knuckle absentmindedly, face twisted in something like ecstasy.
"Mm. Human blood wa... warm ne," he murmured.
He looked at her arms now, evaluating.
"Jaa, arms too ne, for balance."
Her head rolled side to side on the futon, tears mingling with sweat and blood.
"No... no more..." she slurred. Her voice sounded distant even to her own ears, like someone else talking in another room.
He grabbed her right wrist, fingers circling the fragile joint, lifting it. Her hand dangled, fingers curled like a dead spider.
He pressed the knife to the soft inner forearm, just above the wrist, deciding where best to cut. Then he shook his head.
"Maybe elbow better ne. More meat."
He shifted his grip, sliding his hand up to her thin bicep. He bent her arm, exposing the inside of the elbow.
The knife met skin again.
She closed her eyes, not in acceptance but because the world was too sharp to look at.
The first cut sent a new jolt of agony through her. It was bright, then quickly dulled under the weight of everything else. Her brain was running out of ways to register pain.
Her scream was more like a ragged exhale now.
"Aa... aa..."
He sawed, the blade hacking through sinew, cartilage, bone. The sound was wet and crunchy. Blood spilled, but not as forcefully as before; her volume was running low.
Her hand spasmed, fingers clawing, then slowly went limp as the connection was severed. The arm segment came away in his hand, still oozing.
He added it to the growing collection at the side, arranging the limbs almost artistically.
"Mm, it's like Renge puzzle ne," he said, chuckling to himself. "Mix and match."
Her remaining hand clutched weakly at the futon, fingernails scraping.
The room swam in her vision, colors too bright, edges too soft. The cicadas outside seemed impossibly loud, their droning weaving into the ringing in her ears.
*I can't... move... my body is... gone...*
Her sense of self shrank, retreating from the ruined flesh. It hovered somewhere near the ceiling, looking down at the little broken girl on the futon, pale and red and silver-haired.
He reached for her last arm.
This time he didn't even bother to look at her face. He hummed a little tune under his breath, some old enka song, as he worked the blade.
The pain was distant now, more a concept than a feeling. Her voice didn't rise this time; it was stuck in her throat, too tired to force the air out.
The last limb came free.
What was left of her on the futon was a torso and head, twin-tails splayed, chest rising faintly, lower half ending in two ragged, bloody stumps. Her maimed body looked too small for the amount of gore around it.
He stepped back, knife dripping, and surveyed his work with an artist's satisfaction.
"Sou... sou..." he murmured. "Perfect. Now, no one can say Renge-chan didn't study properly, ne."
He wiped the knife on a relatively clean patch of futon, then rolled it back into the cloth and stuffed it in his bag along with the neatly arranged limbs, wrapping them like meat from a butcher. The blood seeped through, staining the fabric.
Renge's eyes fluttered, half-lidded. Her lips moved soundlessly for a while before a whisper escaped.
"...Hotaru... Koma-chan... minna..." she breathed, the names fragile ghosts. "We didn't... finish playing..."
Her vision dimmed further. The ceiling above her tilted, the beam of sunlight blurring.
He moved back to her side one last time, crouching. He patted her head gently, the same way he had at the door.
"Arigatou ne, Renge-chan," he said softly. "Ojisan had a lot of fun. You did well. Kimi wa... ichiban no seito da."
His hand stroked her hair, careful to avoid the blood. She barely felt it.
"Nee..." she whispered, summoning the last scrap of breath, "will... Nee-nee... be mad... nanon...?"
He smiled, amused.
"Maybe ne. When she comes home and sees this mess, sugoi odoro-ku yo. But you... maybe won't hear it.残念だな."
Her eyes tried to focus on him, but he was already turning into a dark blur at the edge of her vision.
The fan clicked in the corner, rotating. A fly buzzed thickly near the window. The smell of blood hung heavy, thick enough to taste even in her fading consciousness.
Her last coherent thought flickered, small and childlike.
*I didn't say, "Ittekimasu"...*
Then the light inside her went out.
He stood, slung the bag over his shoulder, adjusted his clothes as best he could. His dick was flaccid now, hanging forgotten. He glanced once more at the small, lifeless torso on the blood-soaked futon, at the silver hair spread like spilled milk, then turned.
He unlocked her door, sliding it open. The corridor looked exactly as before, morning light undisturbed. The house was strangely quiet, as if holding its breath.
He walked through it, leaving faint bloody footprints on the wooden floor. At the genkan he slipped his shoes back on, humming. He opened the front door. The countryside air rushed in, bright and clean.
He stepped out into the sunlight, pulled the door shut behind him, and started down the road, his bag of little souvenirs bouncing lightly against his back.
Inside the Miyauchi house, the fan kept turning, clicking steadily, blowing over crayons, papers, and the room where Renge Miyauchi would never wake up again.