Chapter 6: The Weight of the Night Part1

The night was already deep when Kai stepped out of the bathroom. Steam still rose from his body, carrying the faint scent of cheap soap that had become a habit over the years—a scent that always reminded him of the training camp, of the days when he was still learning to be a killing machine, and soap was a luxury rarely afforded. Now, that cheap soap was one of the few things he truly owned.

Long gray training pants clung loosely to his body, the fabric thin in some places, almost see-through, but warm enough for the cold night. His upper body was still bare, and under the dim light of the apartment, the scars on his chest were clearly visible—a bullet wound on his left shoulder, a knife slash across his stomach forming a long line from his ribs to his waist, and a burn mark on his right side where the skin looked wrinkled like burnt paper.

A map of war etched into his skin. Every scar was a story, and every story was a death he had survived—but Kai never considered himself a hero. He only saw himself as a tool that had outlived its usefulness. His black hair was still wet, dripping water onto his shoulders and back, the droplets tracing paths between his scars like small rivers flowing through valleys. He ruffled his hair with an old, faded towel, drying it halfway, then tossed the towel toward the laundry basket in the corner of the room. It landed on the edge of the basket, half-falling to the floor, but Kai didn’t care—no one would see it, no one would scold him, only him and the silence that kept him company.

Kai moved toward the small kitchen in the corner of the room, each step slow and heavy, as if he was carrying something—or maybe he was just tired, physically and mentally, because today was his first day as a teacher, his first day meeting the nine girls whose fathers he had killed eight years ago, his first day pretending to be a normal person after years of being a killing machine, and his first day feeling something strange in his chest—something that felt like hope but also fear, something that made him want to become better, but also made him afraid that he would never be able to become better.

The floor of his apartment was made of old wood that creaked at every corner, and each of Kai’s steps produced a familiar creak—a sound that had become the background music of his life for the past two years, a reminder that he was still alive, that he still existed, that he was still breathing even though he often wondered why. On the walls, the dim lamp cast a yellowish glow that made everything look older than it should; the wooden table in the kitchen had peeling paint, the chairs around it wobbled, and in the corner of the room there was a pile of old newspapers he had never read—all of it had become part of him, part of the life he had chosen after the war ended, part of the life he lived without purpose until Leonhard came with that brown envelope.

Before him, an old cream-colored refrigerator stood proudly even though its door was slightly crooked from being slammed too often; its hinges were rusted, its paint peeling in some places revealing rusted metal underneath, and there was a scratch on the left side from a sharp object that had accidentally hit its surface. But the refrigerator still survived—like Kai himself, like something that should have died but kept functioning—and Kai opened it slowly, very slowly, so the rusted hinges wouldn’t break; even though a small creak could still be heard, the old refrigerator held on, and on the bottom shelf, two cans of his favorite drink remained. Kai grabbed one, feeling the cold spread from his palm, then carefully closed the door and walked toward the long sofa in the living room. ℯℯ𝘭.

The sofa had been part of him for the past two years—the place where he slept, where he played Russian roulette, where he stared at the ceiling wondering why he was still alive. It wasn’t comfortable; its springs were starting to protrude in several places, the cushions were deflated, and there was a dried coffee stain on the armrest—but Kai was used to discomfort, just as he was used to everything imperfect in his life. There was a flattened pillow at one end and a thin blanket he always used when it got cold, and before him was a low wooden table shorter than the sofa, where several empty bottles lay scattered along with piles of unread papers and the old revolver he hadn’t touched since the night Leonhard came—the revolver was still there, but it no longer caught his attention, no longer his only companion on lonely nights.

Kai sat on the sofa, his body sinking heavily into the deflated cushions, then opened the can of drink with a familiar ssst—the sound of carbonation that had become his faithful companion on lonely nights, the sound he always heard before closing his eyes, the sound that always accompanied him when he was alone. He took a sip, tasting a strange sweetness spreading across his tongue, a taste that always reminded him of something he couldn’t remember. Why do I love this drink so much? he thought, staring at the can in his hand, other people say it tastes like cough syrup, maybe their taste is bad, or maybe I’m the strange one, maybe this is the only sweet thing I can taste after years of only tasting the bitterness of war.

He placed the can on the table, then leaned his head back against the sofa and stared at the cracked ceiling; the lamp above flickered like it was fighting to stay lit, and the night air felt empty, only the sound of a broken wall clock with irregular ticks—sometimes fast, sometimes slow, like a heartbeat that couldn’t decide, sometimes stopping completely for a few seconds before continuing as if nothing happened, like his own life that stopped and started without clear direction.

Kai closed his eyes and his thoughts drifted to today’s events: the school gate with that mysterious woman whose face was familiar, whose smile was strange, whose eyes seemed to recognize him; the principal’s office where Reina—the principal who turned out to be his former comrade, the woman who had stitched his wounds without anesthesia, the woman who had shouted "KAI!" every time he was about to die, the woman who had saved his life dozens of times on the battlefield—fixed his tie with the same hands that once held a scalpel; class IX-9 with nine girls who had nine pairs of different eyes, some full of curiosity, some full of suspicion, one with a look that wanted to pierce through him; Rin who coughed once and Kai panicked like a madman, carrying her to the infirmary until Reina shouted at him again; Claus Code with his insults that triggered an explosion of anger; Mira who shouted "cool"; Ella who wrote in her notebook with scribbles that were actually investigation notes; Iris’s teasing smile; Luna’s gaze watching from behind the window; Nora who was alert in the corner of the room; Aria who bit her nails anxiously; Eve who typed without stopping; Fay who laughed for no reason; and that woman again, outside the window, staring at him with a smile that sent chills down his spine.