Akira’s old life had been built on quiet systems.

  Not the kind people noticed.

  Not the kind that got praise.

  Just the kind that ran in the background. Networks, access logs, permissions people never thought about until something broke.

  He had been the office IT guy.

  The one who fixed printers and reset passwords and got blamed when the Wi-Fi dropped.

  The one who understood how most “security” worked.

  It wasn’t walls.

  It was habit.

  People trusted routines. People reused credentials. People forgot to close doors they didn’t know were open.

  Even back then, he’d exploited it sometimes.

  Nothing dramatic.

  Just little things.

  Adjusting leave days so he could take time off without getting flagged.

  Opening HR spreadsheets he wasn’t supposed to see.

  Staying one step ahead of a system designed to squeeze him dry.

  He told himself it hadn’t mattered.

  Now it mattered.

  Because tonight wasn’t about hacking for comfort.

  It was about isolating prey.

  Akira sat at his desk with the laptop open, the school’s internal portal glowing on the screen. He had found it days ago while digging through the settings menus on the student network. A maintenance login with a default password. An administrator account that hadn’t been renamed.

  A door left ajar.

  He didn’t feel clever.

  He felt tired.

  He typed the credentials in.

  Access granted.

  He navigated to the scheduling module.

  Sports department.

  Soccer club.

  Practice notification list.

  A simple automated blast that would send a cancellation notice to every player registered.

  Akira stared at one name.

  Matsuda Kaito.

  He highlighted the roster.

  Selected all.

  Then manually unchecked one ID.

  Kaito’s.

  He injected the cancellation message into the queue.

  Practice canceled. Field maintenance issue. Resume Monday.

  He didn’t send it yet.

  Not until he confirmed the filter.

  Not until he confirmed Kaito would still receive the usual practice reminder and everyone else would get nothing but a cancellation.

  He clicked the test output.

  Kaito: unchanged.

  Everyone else: canceled.

  Akira exhaled slowly.

  He hit send.

  A small part of him wanted to vomit, not from guilt.

  From certainty.

  He closed the laptop.

  Tonight, Kaito would show up alone.

  But the digital manipulation was only half the work.

  At school, Aira was still angry.

  Not loud angry. Not tantrum angry.

  The kind of angry that came from feeling robbed.

  She cornered him near the courtyard after lunch, arms folded tightly.

  “It’s not fair,” she said.

  Akira blinked. “What isn’t?”

  “Our concert,” Aira snapped. “We worked so hard. Shinobu was finally excited. Hayate actually practiced. And then—” She stopped herself, jaw tightening. “And then it turned into that.”

  Akira didn’t answer.

  Aira looked away, swallowing hard like she hated that she was upset about something so trivial compared to death.

  “I know it sounds selfish,” she muttered.

  “It doesn’t,” Akira said quietly.

  Aira’s eyes flicked back to him. “Yes it does.”

  She rubbed her sleeve with her thumb, a nervous habit she had.

  “Still,” she said, voice lower, “I don’t want it to end like that. I don’t want that to be our only performance.”

  Akira held his gaze steady.

  Aira straightened slightly.

  “So we’re doing a re-debut,” she announced.

  Akira stared. “A re-debut.”

  “Yes,” she said, as if that was normal language for high schoolers. “Another concert. Soon. We can’t just… stop.”

  Akira nodded once. “Okay.”

  Aira’s expression softened a little.

  “And I want to practice tonight,” she added quickly, like she’d been holding it in. “Even if the others can’t make it. I need to keep the momentum.”

  She hesitated, then looked at him with those bright eyes that always made the world feel too sharp.

  “Can you help?” she asked. “Just record it. I want to see if my stage presence looks as good as it feels.”

  Akira’s stomach tightened.

  Tonight.

  Kaito.

  He forced his expression to be neutral.

  “I can’t,” he said.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Aira blinked. “Why not?”

  “I already have plans,” Akira replied.

  It was the first time he’d said that sentence in this timeline and meant something darker than a normal teenager’s life ever should.

  Aira’s shoulders sagged slightly.

  “Oh.”

  Akira opened his mouth almost to lie, almost to soften it, when a voice slid smoothly into the space.

  “I’ll do it.”

  Ren stood behind Aira, hands in his pockets, smiling like he’d arrived on cue.

  Aira turned instantly. “Really?”

  Ren shrugged lightly. “Sure. I owe him one anyway.”

  His eyes met Akira’s.

  Just a simple, confident look that said: I’ve got it.

  Akira held the gaze for a beat.

  Then nodded once.

  “Thanks,” Akira said.

  Ren grinned. “Don’t make it weird. I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it because I want front-row access to Shinobu in idol clothes.”

  Aira smacked his arm. “She won’t even be there!”

  Akira watched her talk excitedly again, watching the way she brightened when she had something to chase.

  Then he looked away.

  Because tonight wasn’t about music.

  Tonight was about ending someone.

  At 6:15 PM, Akira entered the shed. He didn't use a crowbar. He used a physical bypass on the electronic lock, a trick he’d learned back when he used to open HR spreadsheets he wasn't supposed to see.

  The school’s high-end pitching machines were stored in a locked shed near the dugouts. They were automated models, designed to be controlled via a tablet for solo practice. Akira didn't need a tablet. He had the maintenance credentials.

  He dragged the primary machine to the far end of the field, positioning it exactly sixty feet and six inches from where Kaito would end up. He didn't eyeball it. He used a laser rangefinder he’d borrowed from the theater department.

  Then came the calibration.

  The machine ran on a simple logic board. Akira hooked his laptop into the diagnostic port. He overrode the safety limiters, pushing the motor output from 80 mph to a lethal 102 mph. He ran three test fires using a weighted dummy he’d rigged out of old gym mats.

  The first ball went high. The second went wide. He adjusted the horizontal axis by 1.2 degrees. The third ball hit the center of the target with a sound like a gunshot.

  System confirmed.

  Akira checked the remote in his pocket one more time. It was a basic IoT trigger he’d synchronized with the machine’s power supply. Range was confirmed. Angle was set.

  He climbed into the far bleachers and waited in the shadows.

  Soccer practice started at 7:30 p. m.

  At least, that’s what Kaito believed.

  The field lights flickered on automatically. The rest of the team had received a cancellation notice. He hadn’t.

  Akira watched from the far bleachers. Alone.

  He checked the remote in his pocket one more time.

  Range confirmed. Angle set.

  He exhaled slowly. No more hesitation.

  Kaito jogged onto the field at 7:34 p. m.

  He slowed when he saw only one person standing near the mound.

  “…Where is everyone?” he called out.

  Akira didn’t answer immediately.

  Kaito squinted. “Orimoto?” He laughed awkwardly. “Did I miss something?”

  Akira stepped down from the bleachers.

  “No,” he said calmly. “You didn’t.”

  Kaito frowned slightly. “Then why is it just you?”

  Akira stopped ten feet away from him. The field felt too quiet.

  “Why did you kill them?” Akira asked.

  Kaito blinked. “…What?”

  “The girls.”

  Silence stretched. Kaito’s expression shifted, not to fear. To annoyance.

  “You dragged me out here to talk about that?” he scoffed.

  “So you admit it.”

  Kaito rolled his eyes. “I had to.”

  Akira’s jaw tightened slightly. Had to.

  “If you knew about the coins,” Kaito said casually, “you’d do it too.”

  There it was. Just like that. No restraint. No caution.

  Akira stared at him. “You really just say that out loud.”

  Kaito frowned. “What?”

  “You don’t even know who I am.”

  Kaito hesitated. “…You found one of them. Was it the whore?”

  Akira didn’t reply, he just stood there staring straight ahead. Silence was as good as an answer.

  “And you still showed up alone,” Kaito said, a grin forming. “That means you know.”

  Akira’s expression didn’t change. “I do.”

  Kaito’s grin widened.

  “Then you get it. Why are you acting righteous? She was nobody anyway. No one cared. No one remembered. She was the perfect prey.”

  Akira’s fingers twitched.

  “You called her a whore,” he said quietly.

  Kaito shrugged. “Bathroom girl? Yeah. Did you actually care about her?”

  The air went still.

  “Is that how you see them?” Akira asked.

  “All of them,” Kaito replied easily. “All I care about are the coins. And since you’re aware of them…”

  He took a step forward.

  “I’m actually glad you came to me. Usually, I have to do all the work. Tracking. Watching. Waiting. This is the first time someone’s just handed themselves to me.”

  He laughed. Akira didn’t.

  “You’re stupid,” Akira said flatly.

  Kaito blinked. “…What?”

  “You don’t even check your surroundings.”

  Kaito frowned.

  That was when the first pitch fired.

  CRACK.

  A metallic sound cut through the silence. The baseball hit him directly at the temple.

  His body jerked violently sideways and collapsed into the grass. Akira didn’t move.

  Kaito groaned, clutching his head, dazed and confused.

  “Wh—”

  Second pitch.

  STRIKE.

  Right across the side of his skull. Blood sprayed across the damp field. Kaito convulsed once.

  Akira stepped forward slowly. The third pitch launched.

  STRIKE.

  The final one cracked against the back of his head with brutal precision.

  The pitching machine on the far end of the field powered down with a soft mechanical whir.

  Silence returned.

  Akira stood over Kaito’s body. Breathing steady. No trembling. No shouting. Just cold.

  “Three strikes,” he said quietly. “You’re out.”

  Kaito’s body twitched once. Then stopped.

  The air shifted. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t explosive. But something released.

  From Kaito’s chest, faint shards of light slipped free.

  Coins.

  Three of them. Each a different hue.

  One pale silver. One faint blue. One dull green.

  They hovered briefly before falling into the grass with soft metallic chimes.

  Akira stared at them.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Footsteps approached behind him.

  Dr. Arisu Erisawa stood just beyond the floodlight. Applauding slowly.

  “Well done,” she said softly.

  Akira didn’t look at her. He crouched and picked up the coins. They were warm.

  “Why are they different colors?” he asked.

  “Rank,” she replied. “Blessings fragment. The more divided they are, the weaker the wish. Lower tiers take on diluted hues.”

  He turned one over in his fingers. “And yours?”

  She smiled. “Pure gold.”

  He exhaled slowly. “So if I merge these?”

  “They’ll strengthen. Three of the same tier form one higher tier. But you’ll never recreate an original God Coin. Those are singular.”

  He pressed the coins together experimentally. They vibrated faintly. The blue and silver merged first, becoming a deeper cobalt shade. The green resisted, weaker.

  He pocketed them. Not to use. Not yet. Insurance.

  He stood slowly.

  “You’re not disgusted,” the Goddess observed.

  Akira stared at Kaito’s body. “I am.”

  “But you’re not breaking.”

  “No.”

  She tilted her head. “You’re already thinking ahead.”

  He didn’t deny it. His parents. The arson. His wife. His daughter.

  How many coins would it take to rewrite that?

  The thought lingered. Tempting. Dangerous.

  He pulled out his phone.

  Opened the school records database. Checked attendance logs. Checked incident reports. Checked archived student lists.

  He scrolled. Searching for one thing.

  Kana.

  Her name should reappear. If Kaito was the Mist Killer then her identity would return. Memory would restore.

  He waited.

  Nothing changed.

  No database shift. No student profile restoration. No archival correction.

  The records remained empty.

  Kana did not exist.

  Akira’s stomach dropped. Slowly. Carefully. He turned.

  The Goddess was laughing. Not loudly. Not mockingly. Just… amused.

  “You really thought that was it?” she asked.

  Akira’s voice was quiet. “He wasn’t the Mist Killer.”

  “No.”

  The word was soft. Cruel.

  “The girl in the bathroom was never the third,” she continued. “You aligned coincidence with pattern.”

  Akira’s breathing slowed.

  Four victims. Kana. Yui. One more. And then—Aira.

  The field suddenly felt colder.

  “You killed a player,” the Goddess said gently. “Not the game.”

  Akira’s grip tightened around his phone.

  “So where is the third?” he asked.

  The Goddess’s smile widened faintly.

  “That,” she said, “is the right question.”

  The floodlight flickered.

  And for the first time since waking in this timeline Akira felt truly behind.