Yasushi stood motionless, his eyes trained on Mizahara, who held the knife with a grip that suggested both familiarity and intent. He waited, his breath measured, for her to make her move. The moment the blade began its arc towards him, he sidestepped with a fluidity that spoke of countless hours of practice. His open palm struck her back, sending her crashing into the wall. He retreated a step, creating a buffer of space between them once more, his gaze fixed on her, anticipating her next action.
Mizahara's laughter erupted, wild and unrestrained, echoing off the narrow area's walls. She twisted her head, her eyes blazing with a manic intensity, the knife now an extension of her will, a pointed accusation.
"People like you," she hissed, her voice dripping with disdain, "who follow the normal path from school to adulthood, need to be erased from the world!" Her laughter grew louder, more unhinged. "I, Mizahara, will remake this world!" Her declaration hung in the air, punctuated by another bout of frenzied cackling.
Yasushi's brow furrowed as he absorbed her words. Though her message was shrouded in madness, he glimpsed a fragment of pain behind her tirade. "What? Why? Were you bullied?" he asked, his voice a mix of confusion and empathy. "If so, this isn't the solution, Mizahara. This path you're on — it's madness."
Mizahara's laughter intensified, a discordant symphony that resonated through the dimly lit area. "Bullies? Oh, yes, yes," she responded, her voice a chilling blend of mockery and bitterness. "They were part of it, certainly. But they weren't the root cause. You could say they were the final catalyst that pushed me over the edge, but they're merely a small consequence compared to what I'm about to unleash upon this city! I'll make them all pay!" With that, she lunged at Yasushi once more, her knife a gleaming blur in the dim light.
Yasushi's frown deepened as he deftly dodged her wild slash, his movements fluid and precise. He felt a pang of frustration and sadness, wanting desperately to reach through the haze of her madness and pull her back to reason. Yet, the ferocity in her eyes and the unhinged edge to her laughter made it clear: reasoning with her now seemed an impossible task.
In the back of his mind, Yasushi began to count down the seconds, each tick of time a prayer for the authorities to arrive. The prospect of subduing her, of inflicting harm upon someone he once knew, gnawed at him. Yet, as the confrontation dragged on, each passing moment seemed to stretch into an eternity. The world around them faded, leaving only the two of them locked in this deadly dance.
As fate would have it, the sound of screeching tires heralded the arrival of two police cars, their flashing lights casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the dim alley. Officers spilled out of the vehicles with practiced urgency, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons.
Amidst the chaos, Yasushi's eyes locked onto familiar faces — Yinhaie, Xinyi, Laura, Furuya, and Jingliu, who stood a short distance away, their expressions a mixture of fear and determination. Jingliu attempted to rush forward, but Yinhaie and a nearby officer restrained her, preventing her from intervening.
"Put the weapon down!" one of the officers commanded, his voice cutting through the tension. "Or el—" His words were abruptly halted as Mizahara, with a swift, almost dismissive motion, hurled several small rocks in their direction. She then pivoted back, her focus once more fixed on Yasushi, her knife gleaming malevolently as she continued her relentless assault.
The officers persisted in their attempts to reason with her, their voices blending into a desperate chorus. "Drop the knife! Put it down now!" But their pleas fell on deaf ears, drowned out by Mizahara's singular obsession. Yasushi moved with a dancer's grace, each dodge narrowly avoiding the lethal arc of her blade. Despite the life-or-death stakes, a part of him registered the officers' admiration for his agility and composure under pressure.
As he evaded another slash, Yasushi's gaze flickered toward the officers, his eyes silently pleading for their acknowledgment. He sought their unspoken permission, a reassurance that his actions would be seen as necessary, as self-defense, even though the situation made it blatantly clear. The weight of his decision bore down on him, the moral quandary of having to harm Mizahara gnawing at his conscience.
Time seemed to stretch, each second an eternity as Yasushi awaited a sign from the officers. He wanted — needed — that silent nod of affirmation before he acted. His heart pounded in his chest, the rhythm of it echoing the urgency of the moment. His friends watched with bated breath, their collective worry palpable in the air.
Finally, two officers gave a barely perceptible nod, their subtle gesture almost swallowed by the chaos that was in front of them. Yasushi, his determination crystallizing in that instant, sprang into action. With a swift feint, he prompted Mizahara to stab toward an empty space. To the astonishment of everyone, Yasushi let the knife strike, allowing it to pierce through his palm and hand. His fingers closed around the blade and Mizahara's hand, his grip ironclad.
Without hesitation, Yasushi furrowed his brow, his eyes meeting Mizahara's wild gaze. "Sorry," he muttered, his voice carrying a mixture of regret and resolve. With a powerful motion, he drove his fist into her face, the impact sending her sprawling. Mizahara was flung backward, her body colliding with one of the police cars, the force of the blow stunning everyone present.
For a moment, the scene was frozen in stunned silence. Then, one of the officers snapped out of his daze and rushed to Mizahara's side. "She's okay! She's breathing!" he called out, quickly helping her to her feet and securing her with handcuffs.
The rest of the officers, galvanized into action, turned their attention to Yasushi. His stoic demeanor and the knife protruding from his hand created a jarring image. They hurried toward him, their concern evident.
"Young man, are you alright?" one of them asked, his voice tinged with both admiration and worry.
Yasushi glanced down at his injured hand, the blood oozing around the blade, yet his expression remained calm, almost detached. "I'll be fine," he replied, the understatement almost surreal given the severity of his wound.
As the officers gathered around him, one of them quickly took charge, gently but firmly guiding Yasushi to sit down. Another officer began administering first aid, carefully removing the knife and applying pressure to the wound to stem the bleeding. The area, which moments ago had been a battleground of raw emotion and violence, was now a flurry of controlled activity as the police worked to stabilize the situation.
Eventually, an ambulance arrived, summoned by one of the diligent officers. The flashing lights and the wail of the siren cut through the tension, providing a stark contrast to the surreal stillness that had settled over the scene.
The officers moved with practiced efficiency, beginning the process of taking statements from everyone present. Yasushi and Furuya, having borne witness to the entire harrowing event, recounted their experiences in detail. Yasushi's recounting was particularly crucial, given his direct involvement in subduing Mizahara.
After the statements were recorded, the officers let the medics do their job, they turned their full attention to Yasushi, gently lifting him onto a stretcher. The weight of the evening's events was starting to settle in, the adrenaline beginning to wane. As they carried him towards the waiting ambulance, Yinhaie's voice rang out, full of urgency and concern.
"Yasushi, we'll head to the hospital soon, okay?" she called, the rest of the group echoing her sentiments with anxious nods and murmurs of agreement.
Yasushi managed a faint smile, his composure astonishing in the face of his injury. "I'm not dying, but alright, thank you," he responded, his tone as calm as if he were discussing the weather. As the ambulance doors swung shut, his last glimpse was of Jingliu, her face etched with worry. He sighed softly, shaking his head with a mix of exasperation and bemusement. "I just got stabbed in the hand, not the head or heart," he muttered to himself, a wry smile playing on his lips.
One of the paramedics, busy securing him and preparing to administer further aid, glanced at him with a mixture of admiration and incredulity. "Most people aren't this calm after being stabbed, regardless of where, and especially with a knife of all things, young man," the paramedic remarked, his voice tinged with both respect and concern.
Yasushi shrugged slightly, the movement limited by the straps securing him to the stretcher. "I've had worse days," he replied, his mind drifting to less chaotic but equally challenging moments in his life. The paramedic's words, meant to reassure, instead highlighted Yasushi's extraordinary ability to remain collected under pressure.
Yasushi sighed as he settled in for the short ride, the soft hum of the ambulance engine a backdrop to his spiraling thoughts. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a heavy weariness that seemed to seep into his bones. His mind wandered to Mizahara, pondering her fate now that the police had effectively branded her as the killer that had been terrorizing the city. The weight of that label, so definitive and damning, hung heavily in the air.
He replayed her words in his mind, the cryptic mention of bullies being the final catalyst for her actions. If they weren't the root cause of her breakdown and the subsequent violence, then what was? What dark undercurrents had pushed her over the edge into madness and mayhem?
A single, troubling thought came to him: her family. The notion of abuse — whether physical or, more disturbingly, sexual — rose unbidden, casting a shadow over his thoughts. Yasushi felt a cold knot of dread in his stomach as he considered the possibility. The thought was almost too terrible to entertain, but it lingered, a dark specter that refused to be dismissed.