Third-person point of view:
The tentacles no longer moved. They had been severed with the best precision that only a heavy blade like a firefighter's axe could provide. The metal dripped thick, viscous purple liquid that fell to the floor in slow, heavy drops. The smell was revolting: a mixture of rotten flesh, rusted metal, and something deeper—something organic and diseased that Ayanokōji had never smelled before. It wasn't ordinary putrefaction; it was as if the air itself had turned rancid, infected.
Ayanokōji swung the axe once, twice, testing the weapon's weight and balance. The handle was slippery with blood and the creature's fluid. He leaned it against a shelf and looked at Hirata.
Hirata was hunched over, hands on his knees. He had vomited everything: breakfast, probably last night's dinner, and now only yellowish bile mixed with chunks of dog food and blood remained on the floor. He gasped desperately, as if every breath cost him a lifetime. His gaze, normally serene and perfect, was lost. Shock and fear had transformed into something darker: contained rage, a slow-burning fire behind his eyes.
He straightened slowly, unsteady. He looked at Ayanokōji, who regarded the axe with that inhuman calm. The rational part of Hirata screamed not to approach: a man holding an axe, covered in blood, was not someone to confront. But the anger was stronger. His mouth opened halfway, trembling.
Was it a mistake? It has to be, right? Maybe he did it because the plumbers were old and…? Hirata's thoughts spiraled, searching for any excuse, any justification to avoid accepting that Ayanokōji had sent Yamauchi to his death.
"Gather everyone," Ayanokōji said, breaking the silence. "I recommend moving the product shelves to create more space in the center. I... will handle informing everyone of our current situation."
He had weighed the options in seconds. People needed to know. Ignorance was dangerous; truth, however cruel, was the only path to survival. He thought of Kei. She was probably already dead. The fog was too dense, too alive. It could conceal anything his rational mind couldn't imagine... or could.
The plumbers were disheveled, with small splatters of Yamauchi's blood on their clothes. Compared to Hirata—whose white shirt was now an irregular red canvas, and his black pants soaked in blood and bile—they looked almost clean. They nodded silently and set off, muttering under their breath: "God has abandoned us... God has abandoned us..."
Hirata remained there, staring fixedly at Ayanokōji. The tension between them was so thick it could be cut with the same axe.
"You should change," Ayanokōji said without looking at him. "Find something from one of the workers. In theory, there should be a section with cheap clothing. That's what I understand about American chains."
He walked toward the severed tentacles, which still twitched faintly on the floor like dying worms. Hirata opened his mouth to say something, but only a lump in his throat emerged. Nausea returned; the taste of bile burned his tongue. He needed clean clothes, mints, and time to process how everything had gone to hell in minutes.
Only a few minutes had passed since the plumbers withdrew, but everyone was already gathered in a semicircle in front of the checkout counters, facing the main entrance. The atmosphere was oppressive: ragged breathing, murmurs, the metallic smell of blood.
"Shit! Kid, is that blood?" The diminutive manager spoke in English, approaching as quickly as his short legs allowed. "What the hell happened?"
Hirata had no real perception of his own state. To the others, he was terrifying: drenched in red from head to toe, strands of hair matted with dried blood, glassy eyes.
"There's something in the fog," Hirata said in English, his voice hoarse. "There's something in the fog..."
Then he repeated it in Japanese, loud enough for everyone to hear.
The adrenaline crash hit him full force. His arm muscles burned from the effort of holding Yamauchi. Exhaustion swept through his body like a wave.
Haruka, Akito, Yukimura, Kushida, and Sakura stared at him in horror. When Ayanokōji had left, the group had approached Kushida to ask what had happened in the bathroom. They knew her version: something in the fog, a tongue, Mii-chan gone. But seeing Hirata like this...
"Someone died," Haruka whispered, hands over her mouth. Her eyes were wide open, full of panic.
The whisper was audible to the group.
Ayanokōji! they thought in unison. He was nowhere to be seen. That could only mean...
"Look, kid, no offense, but we're not in the mood for jokes," said a tall Black man, stepping forward. He wiped his temple, sweating. "There is nothing out there, nothing in the mist."
A distinctive sound began: the slow, wet scrape of a rag wiping fogged glass, growing louder, closer. The white tiled floor was staining red, leaving an irregular trail that extended from the back door.
The Black man didn't notice what was happening behind Hirata, but the crowd let out a collective gasp.
"What if you're wrong?" Ayanokōji said, pushing through the people.
He held a severed arm tightly. With a sharp motion, he tossed it into the center of the semicircle.
It was the upper half of Yamauchi's torso. The face hung like a broken mask, torn off cleanly yet brutally. It was still attached by shreds of skin to the exposed facial muscles. The eyes remained open, lost in the absolute terror of his final seconds. The mouth frozen in a silent scream.
"My God, my God!"
"What the fuck is that?!"
"You're kidding me!"
Reactions exploded: screams, sobs, people backing away, others covering their mouths. ANHS students and workers alike.
Hirata couldn't take it anymore. Tears rolled down his bloodstained cheeks. He hadn't saved his friend. He was too weak. But someone he held in high regard... someone who could have done something... had done nothing.
His knees buckled. He collapsed unconscious to the floor with a dull thud.
The silence that followed was worse than the screams.
Ayanokōji looked at Yamauchi's body without expression. Then at the group.