The days following the arrival of the katana were a blur of preparation for Ryohta. He spent every waking moment planning, his mind a whirlwind of strategy and obsession. The guard who had smuggled the blade to him had become an unwitting accomplice, and Ryohta knew he could use that to his advantage.
One evening, as the prison lights dimmed and the other inmates settled into their routines, Ryohta sat on his bunk, a small notebook in his hands. He had been writing in it for weeks, filling the pages with his thoughts, his plans, his fantasies. It was the only thing that kept him sane.
He flipped through the pages, his eyes lingering on a sketch he had drawn of Aika. It was crude, but it captured her essence—the way she smiled, the way she moved. He traced the lines with his finger, his mind drifting back to the days when he had watched her from the shadows, unseen and unknown.
But now, he was the one in the shadows, and the thought filled him with a burning rage. He couldn't let her go. He wouldn't.
The guard returned, his face pale and tense. "I've done what you asked," he said, his voice low and trembling. "Now leave me alone."
Ryohta smiled, a cold, calculating smile. "You've been most helpful. But there's one more thing I need."
The guard hesitated, his eyes darting to the door. "What is it?"
Ryohta leaned forward, his voice a whisper. "I need you to deliver a message."
The guard's face paled, but he nodded. He had no choice. Ryohta had too much on him, too many secrets that could ruin his life. He took the note from Ryohta's hands and hurried out of the cell, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.