I wasn't getting anywhere.
Days passed, and all I had were dead ends, loose threads that didn't connect, pages that told me nothing. Nihil wasn't a student. Not a staff member. Not someone who left behind a convenient file for me to flip through.
It was like he didn'texist.
But I knew better.
People like him didn't just appear out of nowhere. They left traces—hidden, buried, but never truly erased.
And then, one night, I finally found one.
I almost missed it.
It wasn't in any of the records, not in the names I had searched a thousand times, not in the databases I had scoured until my vision blurred. It was somewhere else. Somewhere stupidly obvious.
The old student newspaper archives.
I had been flipping through them mindlessly, scanning for anything, when my fingers stopped on a page.
It wasn't an article. Just a mention. A passing note.
"Another dispute between upper-year students was reported last night. According to witnesses, one of the students, who identified himself only as 'Nihil,' was removed from campus after an altercation turned violent. The administration has not disclosed further details."
That was it.
A single paragraph. No photo. No follow-up. No explanation.
But it was enough.
Because it confirmed two things:
One—Nihil was real.
Two—He had been here before.
I traced the name with my fingertips, my pulse quickening. An altercation. Removed from campus.
Why?
Who was he fighting?
I flipped the pages back, trying to find an earlier article. Something. Anything. But there was nothing. No reports of a fight. No names.
It didn't make sense.
Until I realized—
The only fights that don't make the papers are the ones that weren't supposed to happen. The ones that weren't supposed to be seen.
Which meant—someone covered it up.
Which meant—someone wanted it erased.
Which meant—I had just stepped onto something bigger than I thought.
I leaned back in my chair, exhaling shakily. The library was quiet, the lamps above flickering slightly. My hands were cold. My thoughts were racing.
Nihil was here once.
And for some reason—he came back.
But for what?
And more importantly—for who?
----
The body was found before sunrise.
Same precise markings. Same method. Same chilling accuracy.
And carved into the skin, in deliberate, almost surgical strokes—
"Step off a ledge, and gravity pulls you down. It's not personal."
A familiar sentence. A familiar ghost.
I felt nothing at first. No shock. No disbelief.
Because I already knew who did it.
Of course it was him. Who else could it be?
The nausea hit me in waves as I stared at the scene, the blood soaking into the cold tile, the eerie stillness of it all. Students murmured in the distance. Teachers rushed to contain the panic. But I didn't move.
I didn't need to see more. I had seen enough.
And yet—
When I found him, he wasn't hiding.
He wasn't avoiding me, wasn't lurking in the shadows like a monster waiting to be confronted.
He was just there.
Standing at the edge of the courtyard, watching the aftermath with something unreadable in his expression.
For the first time—he looked tired.
Almost—angry.
I approached without thinking, without hesitation, without even considering what I was about to do.
"You did it," I accused, my voice sharp, slicing through the morning air.
His gaze flickered to me, and for a second, just a second, there was something almost disappointed in his eyes.
And then it was gone.
"You think that was me?" His voice was flat. Cold. Detached.
I clenched my fists. "Don't play games."
"I'm not."
His expression was unreadable, but something was off.
Wrong.
It wasn't the usual indifference.
It wasn't amusement.
It wasn't even cruelty.
It was—something else.
Something quieter.
Something—colder.
And then he said it.
"I don't need to be sloppy."
My breath caught.
I took a step back. Just slightly. Just enough.
And that's when it hit me—
This wasn't him.
I had been so sure. So certain.
But now, looking at him—I knew.
This time, the killer wasn't him.
There was someone else.
Something else.
And the worst part?
He knew exactly who it was.
His voice was quieter now, barely above a whisper, but it cut through me like a blade.
"Step off a ledge, and gravity pulls you down. It's not personal."
A pause.
A breath.
And then—he met my eyes.
"But this?" His voice dropped lower. Darker. Sharper.
"This is different."
I studied him carefully, searching for something—anything—beneath that blank expression.
A hint of regret. A flicker of hesitation. A crack in the mask.
Something human.
But there was nothing.
At least, not until I pushed again.
"You said it yourself. It wasn't you." My voice was steady now. Sharper. "So who was it? Why now?"
His fingers twitched. Barely noticeable.
But I saw it.
And then, so quietly I almost missed it—
"Because he wants me to see it."
A slow, creeping cold spread through my chest.
I blinked. "...What?"
His gaze didn't waver. "That's what this is. A message."
Not for me.
For him.
My throat went dry.
"Step off a ledge, and gravity pulls you down. It's not personal."
He had always said it like a rule. An inevitability.
"But this? This was different."
I stared at him, feeling something unravel inside me.
"Then what is it?" I whispered.
His jaw tensed.
A beat of silence.
Then—lower this time, rougher, like he almost didn't want to say it—
"Personal."
I sucked in a breath.
The ground beneath me suddenly felt unsteady.
Because for the first time, I wasn't just me caught in something bigger.
For the first time—he was, too.