Assassins, Detectives, and the Mafia

Gutters and Gloom

Rantaro's certain that it's not paranoia if someone's really out to get you.

It started out semi-normally, just an occasional itch and chill. Once or twice, he could have sworn he saw someone hiding in the bushes, but when he turned, all he saw was the waving of leaves in the wind.

Funny, how it wasn't windy at all that day.

Rantaro's not stupid. He just prefers to think positive. Maybe it was just a sudden, unexpected gust. Maybe it was just a squirrel... a squirrel with dark hair.

It continued on like that for about a month, until it suddenly ramped up. He hadn't done anything, per se, except for maybe letting Shuichi fall asleep on his arm. And that was barely his fault! What was he supposed to do, let him break his skull on the bus railing?

It was a dark, cold night, just after midnight. They were coming back from a meeting, and rain made a soft pitter-patter on the windows.

"I'm tired," Shuichi sighed, rubbing at his tea-brown eyes with the base of his hand.

"Same here," Rantaro griped, leaning against the bus window. His eyes stared unseeing into the rain, lost in thought.

He was so focused on absolutely nothing that he almost missed it when Shuichi leaned into his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

"Wake me when we're back," Shuichi sighed.

The bus continued on in silence as Rantaro leaned his head atop Shuichi's, surrendering himself to sleep's call.

"Yeah," Rantaro sighed, inhaling Shuichi's scent - a mixture of books and chocolate. "G'night, Shuichi."

Yes, it was precisely after that when he received his first death threat. Pinned onto his door with a blood-stained knife, the letter promised him very bad things to come unless he stayed away from Shuichi.

It was far from his first rodeo, so he doubted that it was a serious threat.

In hindsight, he probably should have.

Camera flashes in the dark of night, threatening messages left in his bed, blood smeared on his door, all in the same week. He couldn't sleep, and when he did, it would be to a fitful rest tormented by nightmares.

The last straw came when he just barely dodged a heavy ball left atop his door. It fell to the pavement and cracked the cement with a thud.

"W-What is this?" Rantaro gasped, pressing himself to his doorframe.

What appeared to be a shot-put ball now lay on the pavement, indenting the solid. It was easily heavy enough to kill him, and probably to severely injure him if it clipped him.

That was the first time that Rantaro realized it - he was going to die.

He tried, he really did. He didn't want to die, but nobody would listen.

At night, he would curl into a small ball under his covers, sobbing until his throat grew hoarse and eyes stung from tears.

He doesn't want to die... he doesn't want to die... the mantra repeated, over and over, a final, desperate prayer.

Now, it's late December. Snow swirls through the air, washing down the gutters in a deluge. Rantaro sucks in a weak breath, finding it harder and harder to breathe. He tugs his jacket tighter around his arms, trying to resist the cold.

There's nobody else around at this time of night, and Rantaro isn't sure how to feel about that. On the one hand, that means the dark-haired man might not be around, but on the other hand, no witnesses-

He's abruptly yanked out of his train of thought by a scarf looping around his neck.

He scrabbles at the fabric as the unknown assailant tightens his grip. Stars dance before his eyes as he falls to his knees and his lungs burn for air. Air, they seem to scream, air, we need air!

He doesn't want to die, he thinks, as tears roll down his cheeks. He doesn't want to die, doesn't want to die, doesn't... want... to...

With his last breath, he catches a glimpse of his tormentor's face, breathing his name as the world goes black...

"Kokichi..."