Chapter 7: Confessions, Closets and Certain Death
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Here I was. Trembling. Quivering like a newborn chihuahua flung into the final boss level of a thunderstorm, armed with nothing but anxiety and a bad sense of timing. My nerves? Mutiny. A full-blown revolt. Every synapse was filing complaints with upper management. My hands flailed like dying fish in a gravity simulator, and my knees gave out in slow, dramatic fashion, as if overcooked spaghetti suddenly asked to hold up the Roman Empire.
And my soul? Oh, bless its exhausted, caffeine-deprived heart. It had already written its last will and testament, folded it into a paper airplane, and tossed it straight into the void with all the ceremony of a bad sitcom finale.
I didn't fall. I unraveled.
I crashed onto the cold floor of the abandoned storage room like a bag of week-old rice flung from the penthouse balcony of Olympus by a god who'd just stopped caring. The tiles beneath me didn't just feel hard. They felt judgmental. Above me, the flickering fluorescent bulb buzzed with a sarcastic hum, like it knew something I didn't. Like it had front row tickets to my breakdown and was already live-tweeting it.
My body? Fragile. Overwhelmed. As catastrophically human as a man can be when he's just barely outrun vengeance in a skirt and combat boots.
System shutdown initiated.
Every function, every ounce of composure, every last drop of my testosterone-soaked pride, gone. Evaporated faster than my confidence at a high school reunion. My breath came in stuttered gasps. My chest rose and fell like a broken seesaw in a windstorm. My heart slammed against my ribs, not rhythmically, but like it was trying to file for divorce and escape my body altogether.
"Rebooting… please wait," whispered my consciousness, before slipping into a gentle spiral of dizziness and despair.
I had escaped.
Somehow. By sheer panic, dumb luck, and the power of shame-fueled cardio.
But only for now.
But what even was safety anymore?
Was it a locked door? A silent room? A really good VPN? Because right now, all of that felt like cheap cologne sprayed on a corpse. Useless. Pointless. Comforting only in theory. Could I ever feel secure again in this godless dimension where love confessions came wrapped in threats and teenage girls wielded emotional guillotines sharper than their eyeliner?
Probably not. Probably never again. Not without therapy. And snacks. Lots of snacks.
Maybe it was time to pray. But then again, prayer felt a little... slow for the situation. Besides, I'd seen enough anime to know there was always a backup plan.
Magic.
Yeah. That's right. If years of binge-watching had taught me anything, it was this: when all logic fails, cast something ridiculous and shout the name like your lungs owe you rent.
With fingers trembling and pride already in tatters, I shaped my hands into whatever awkward formation my panic-addled brain thought looked remotely cool.
"Summoning Unbreakable Forcefield Jutsu," I whispered into the void, because at this point, the void was the only one listening.
And just like that… nothing happened.
Of course.
But hey. At least I tried.
Author's Note:
And that, dear readers, is precisely what happens when you binge too many shonen marathons at three in the morning. Meet Ryuji Takahashi, a misunderstood delinquent, shunned by society and occasionally by his own reflection. A lone wolf with a heart of gold buried somewhere beneath layers of sarcasm and trauma. He didn't ask for this chaos. He didn't ask to be noticed. And he certainly didn't ask to become the target of a deadly misunderstanding involving Akira Suzuki, the queen of hallway silence, and now, unintended confessor turned executioner.
Back to Ryuji:
Deep breaths. In and out. Just like those yoga tutorials I watched once and immediately forgot.
Okay. New plan.
Hide. Forever.
This closet? Yeah. This was home now. Call off the search party. Tell my parents I ran off to become a minimalist monk in a high school supply room. I'd grow a beard. Change my name to Sage Whisperingwind. Sell ethically sourced crystals. Post daily affirmations on a blog with five loyal readers and one troll named Steve.
It sounded peaceful. Quiet. Spiritual.
Wait.
No signal.
No Wi-Fi.
I was doomed.
Why? Why was this happening to me? I wasn't the one who confessed! I was just the emotionally stable civilian caught in the crossfire of romantic warfare. I didn't ask to be mistaken for some other guy with better luck and worse survival instincts. If Akira wanted to confess, couldn't she have done it the normal way? You know, the classics. Sunset. Cherry blossoms. Soft background music composed by emotional flutes.
But no. I got ambushed in a hallway that looked like a rejected horror movie set, and now apparently I was Public Enemy Number One in her romcom revenge arc.
And now she wants me dead?
"Unbelievable," I muttered, arms crossed like a middle manager fed up with everyone's nonsense. "You might be the most feared girl in school, but emotionally, you're still a baked potato."
Silence.
Then.
"YES! I'M PATHETIC INDEED! YOU'RE RIGHT!"
Oh no.
That voice.
It slithered through the air like a cursed lullaby sung by a demon karaoke night hostess.
I froze.
Turned.
And there she was.
Akira. Freaking. Suzuki.
Bathed in a shaft of dusty light like the final boss in an emotionally confusing RPG. Her eyes blazed like hellfire dipped in regret. Her ponytail moved like it had its own soul and a vendetta. She stood at the door like a vengeful goddess of rejection, poised to smite.
How? How had she found me?
Had she followed my scent? Interrogated the janitor? Whispered a dark contract into the ear of an ancient god?
Did she teleport via sheer rage?
Author's Note:
And yes, dear reader, that was a reference. Respect it or cringe in silence. We don't judge here.
"I'M PATHETIC, RIGHT?!" she roared, each step forward shaking the Earth, or at least my bladder. "I SHOULDN'T HAVE CONFESSED OUT OF NOWHERE, RIGHT, MR. GENIUS?!"
Her voice cracked the air like thunder after a moral lesson. Her footsteps were like countdowns to a cosmic slap. My heart tried to eject itself from my chest and flee to safety.
And then, without warning, she went still.
Calm.
Too calm.
Like the eye of a hurricane filled with unresolved feelings and unsent text messages.
"Hey, Mr. Genius," she said, her voice dipped in deadly sugar. "Maybe you're right. Absolutely right."
Every drop of blood in my body froze. That wasn't agreement. That was foreshadowing.
That was war paint disguised as civility.
That was the eerie music cue before a dramatic plot twist in a show that kills off your favorite characters.
Ever have someone agree with you and it still feels like you just insulted their ancestors and their cat? That's me. Right now. Because sometimes, agreement isn't peace. Sometimes, it's the last thing you hear before divine punishment drops from orbit.
"So, Mr. Genius," she purred, each syllable a blade sliding into a velvet sheath. "Since you know everything… how about I give you the reward you deserve?"
And just like that, I knew.
I wasn't getting out of this closet alive.
I blinked. Cleared my throat. Tried to sound casual.
"An eighteen-plus magazine will do. Thank you."
Silence.
Not the awkward kind. The haunting kind. The kind that presses down on your chest and whispers, "You have made a grave mistake, my son."
And then.
"YOU ABSOLUTE PERVERT! HOW ABOUT YOU TASTE MY FIST OF FURY INSTEAD?!"
Fourth Wall Break: Ah yes, welcome back to your favorite late-night disaster broadcast: Ryuji Dies Again. Now featuring upgraded pain physics, high-definition humiliation, and one very angry girl with fists blessed by ancient anime gods. Sponsored by poor choices.
I ran.
Again.
I don't know how. Just seconds ago, my legs had the structural integrity of overcooked noodles. But fear is a powerful motivator. Or maybe it was survival instinct. Or maybe.. just maybe, the ghost of some forgotten shonen protagonist reached through the veil and screamed into my soul, "Live, you moron! There's still time!"
Behind me, Akira roared like a mythical beast that had just discovered its prey knew how to backtalk. Her voice shook the walls, possibly the Earth itself.
"GET BACK HERE! WE'RE NOT DONE! YOU'RE SO DEAD YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW DEAD YOU ARE!"
I zigzagged through the halls like my life was a badly coded video game. I leapt down staircases, hurdled over desks, and dove through doorways like I was auditioning for an action movie where the main character dies in the first five minutes.
And then, fate.
Cruel, janitorial fate.
I tripped over a mop bucket.
It launched itself toward me with malicious glee. A true inanimate assassin. The edge slammed into my shin, the bucket flipped with acrobatic flair, and landed directly on my head.
Darkness.
Plastic.
Echoes of my own terrified breathing.
I was blind. I was running. I was screaming.
"CURSE YOU, BUCKET-SAMA!!!"
Behind me, Akira's voice echoed louder, angrier, and somehow more terrifying than before. I didn't need eyes to know she was gaining.
I needed a miracle.
Or at the very least, a second bucket.
To hide in.
Author's Note:
And so continues the Great Escape. Now with added buckets. Join us next chapter to find out if our beloved fool survives another day, or if Akira finally performs the dreaded Confession Exorcism Ritual. Patent pending.
| TO BE CONTINUED.. |