parasite [YANDERE!O.DAZAI/READER]

SIX: THE WOUND.

Kunikida and Dazai enter the morgue to find it groaning under the weight of such a young loss. On one of the metal beds was a small body, not older than nine or ten, a tag tied around their thin right ankle.

"Hello, detectives," One of the morgue workers greeted with a wan smile, peeling off his gloves and tucking his surgical mask under his chin. "I received your call this morning. How can we help?"

"Tell us about the boy," Kunikida says.

"Well, he was found discarded in the park; there are bruises on his side that indicate that he's been thrown onto his side," The worker pulls the body to the side and like a painter's palette, mixes of purple and blue were merging together to form an orchard on the fragile, thin skin. "Just thrown aside, like a doll."

Kunikida shifts from one foot to another, eyes never leaving the bruises. "What else? How did he die?"

"Blood loss. Not self-inflicted, and–"

"Can I check something?" Dazai interrupts, which earns him a nasty glare from Kunikida. The worker blinks.

"Of course, what do you need to check?"

"Can you check the neck area?" Dazai walks closer to the body, and the smell of sterilising chemicals overwhelms him. But he persists. "Any holes or punctures?"

The morgue worker looks at the neck, and snaps his gloves back on when he sees something.

"How have we skipped over this?" He incredulously looks at his partner, who looks just as confused as he was. "Looks like a large wound done by a sharp tool, like a scalpel."

So it wasn't you.

"Why a wound there?" Kunikida asks, and the worker furrows his brows.

"Considering that blood was drained, it's possible that the neck was cut open to let the blood drain out. Usually, the morgue then pumps embalming fluids to, you know, embalm the body. But only the blood's been drained."

"And why such a young victim? Following the two young boys that were found abandoned fully desiccated of blood, do you think this is a serial killer case?" The blonde turns to Dazai who shakes his head.

"No. The wounds are too different; if the killer wanted to drain a body, they'd do it all the way, not half-drain it. These are two different people."

"A copy-cat killer?" Kunikida asks, and Dazai shrugs.

"Possibly. We'll have to wait to see what the next step of these killers is going to be."

–

The sun had lost its redness and was still shining, losing its strength moment by moment. The port waters had turned a golden honey colour, thick, the waves had died down, and the great iron of the sun pressed them without leaving the finest line. The whiteness of sea foam sputtered against the rocks. The water stiffens; little waves like goosebumps spread across the sea.

You swiftly move shadow from shadow and lean against a lamppost, your arms crossed under the shade it provided. Your long lashes, fluttering like butterfly wings–slow and languid, shudder when you open your eyes. Passersby are stealing stares at the abnormally beautiful woman under the grey-shade, her clothes dusty and torn at the seams. You had dug into your chest of clothes to find the most appropriate clothes to venture out into the human world, though you knew you couldn't stay here for long. If too many people stared, you would be the hunted, instead of the hunter. And you hated that sense of helplessness; you've faced it when they burnt your mother at the stake, hiding under a hood with your hands clenched together at her laughter as the fire ate away at her immaculate flesh.