My Taboo Harem!

THUND.

The sound was wrong — wet, heavy, final. Meat and bone slamming into concrete with sickening permanence.

The cleaner turned… the sound had been so wrong that it belonged in a slaughterhouse, not an academy courtyard at night he was cleaning.

The cleaner turned, mop slipping from his fingers as his legs buckled instantly beneath him. He crashed down hard, but the pain of his tailbone cracking against the tile never registered through the ice flooding his veins and the roaring static devouring his mind. His eyes locked onto the impossible horror sprawled before him.

A girl’s body lay shattered on the concrete like a marionette whose strings had been viciously severed. Limbs twisted at grotesque, unnatural angles. Dark hair fanned out in a halo already drinking deep crimson from the spreading pool beneath her. Thick, dark blood poured relentlessly from under her ruined form, crawling in a hungry tide across the cold stone straight toward him.

For three endless seconds, he couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Could only stare at what had once been a person, a student, a child, while his mind fractured against the impossibility.

Horror detonated inside him. He screamed — a raw, primal, gut-wrenching howl that tore from the depths of his soul and ripped through the entire east wing like a siren of pure human terror. It slammed off stone walls, rattled windows, and tore into the night until the whole academy seemed to tremble with his horror.

He scrambled to his feet, ran, and dropped to his knees beside her in the spreading pool of warm blood, hands hovering uselessly over the devastation

“Hey — hey! Can you hear me? Wake up! Please — please wake up!”

Her neck was wrong.

Twisted almost completely around, her face pointing toward her own shoulder blade instead of the sky. Vertebrae bulged visibly beneath the skin — a grotesque bulge pressing outward like the bones themselves were trying to escape the atrocity done to her.

Her shoulder — the one she had landed on — was destroyed beyond recognition. The clavicle had snapped clean through. The scapula had punched violently through flesh and fabric, a jagged white shard jutting from ruined meat, glistening wetly in the dim courtyard lights. Blood pumped from the wound in rhythmic spurts that were already slowing. Already weakening. Already dying.

Desperate, he looked up. The administration building towered overhead, ten stories of cold glass and steel. His gaze climbed frantically to the rooftop where a silhouette stood against the night sky, coat billowing wildly in the wind, already stepping back from the edge and melting into shadow.

“HEY!”

His voice cracked and broke.

The figure didn’t stop. Didn’t even pause. It simply melted back into darkness like it had never existed — a nightmare returning to the void that had spawned it.

The cleaner fumbled for his phone. Fingers shaking so violently it took three tries to unlock the screen, smearing her blood across the glass. his blood-smeared fingers fumbled for his phone, smearing crimson across the screen as he finally dialed emergency services, words tumbling out in a frantic broken torrent.

“Girl fell from the roof — blood everywhere — someone pushed her — I saw them — please hurry she’s dying please please hurry —”

Dispatch told him to stay calm. Stay on the line. Help was coming.

He couldn’t stay calm. Couldn’t do anything but kneel in the crimson pool that marked the threshold between worlds of the living and the dying. The blood was warm against his knees, a reminder that life still pulsed here, even as death leaned close.

Her breath rattled like a spirit trapped in a broken vessel. Each rise of her chest was a fragile rebellion, a defiance against the dark. The sound was wrong — bones grinding, lungs drowning — yet it was also sacred, the last hymn of a body refusing surrender.

He reached for her hand. Not to save — salvation was beyond him — but to bind himself to her fight. To promise she would not cross alone. His fingers trembled as they closed around hers, a gesture as hopeful as prayer, as desperate as love.

Her chest rose once more, a final defiance.

For an instant, he thought the world might hold its breath with her, that the heavens themselves might pause to watch this fragile flame flicker. Then it stilled. The silence that followed was not absence but passage — the moment when the soul slipped free, carried into the unseen.

And he remained, kneeling in the blood, marked forever as witness to her crossing.

What he’d thought of her last breath had leaked out of her in a long, wet sigh that seemed to stretch into eternity. Her body settled deeper into the concrete like it was sinking into dark water.

The blood stopped pumping. The faint tremors in her broken limbs faded into absolute stillness.

She was gone.

The cleaner knelt there in the rapidly cooling pool of her blood— with absolute, terrible certainty that would haunt him until his last breath — that he had just watched a girl breathe her last.

Knowing this moment would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He stayed on the line. Dispatch kept talking. He couldn’t hear a single word.

Footsteps thundered toward him from every direction.

Running footsteps pounding toward him from three directions at once. Three guards burst onto the scene, flashlights cutting wild arcs through the darkness, radios crackling with panicked voices.

Behind them, two more cleaners stumbled out from the service entrance, faces pale as milk, eyes wide with horror.

They saw the body.

They stopped dead.

A visible shiver of pure animal terror ripped through them — shoulders jerking, spines rigid, bowels clenching with the primal urge to flee. One woman pressed both hands over her mouth and staggered backward, a high, keening wail escaping between her fingers like steam from a cracked pipe.

“What happened?” The lead guard forced himself forward, training barely holding against every instinct screaming at him to look away. “What the fuck happened?”

The first cleaner was calmer now. The initial shock had burned through him like wildfire, leaving behind a cold, clear-headed stillness.

“She fell.” He pointed upward. “From that building. The roof.” His finger swung toward the east wing. “Someone was up there. I saw them running. That direction. That exact direction.”

The lead guard didn’t hesitate.

“You — go to the cameras. Now. Pull everything from the last hour. Don’t let anyone touch that footage.” The youngest guard nodded and sprinted toward the security office. The lead guard turned to the third. “You’re with me. We’re going hunting.”

“Don’t touch the body!” the first cleaner shouted after them. “Don’t let anyone touch her! This is a crime scene!”

The guards were already gone, flashlight beams bobbing into the darkness like will-o’-wisps leading the damned.

Sirens.

Distant at first, then roaring closer, then screaming through the main gates as red and blue lights exploded across the courtyard in frantic, strobing waves.

Police cruisers screeched in first — three of them — slamming to angled halts that sealed every exit. Officers poured out with hands already gripping holsters, eyes sharp, bodies tensed for the worst.

Then the ambulance arrived.

Paramedics sprinted toward the body, kits bouncing wildly against their hips. But the first cleaner stepped directly into their path, blood still dripping from his knees.

“She’s gone,” he said, voice hollow and dead in his own ears. “I watched her take her last breath. Someone pushed her. This is a crime scene. You cannot move her.”

The paramedics hesitated, exchanging grim glances. One still knelt beside the girl anyway — fingers searching for a pulse that no longer existed, flashlight beam piercing fixed, dilated pupils that stared at nothing. Protocol demanded it. Even when death was screamingly obvious.

“He’s right,” the paramedic said quietly, rising. “No vitals. Deceased at the scene.”

Yellow tape was already snapping into place across the courtyard. Flashes from a camera lit up the horror in blinding white bursts — freezing the twisted limbs, the blood pool, the grotesque angle of her neck.

Another officer barked into his radio, calling for detectives, forensics, the coroner.

The body would remain exactly where it had fallen. Evidence. Untouched.

It was sacred in its tragedy.

The first cleaner gave his statement in a flat, mechanical voice — every brutal detail he could summon: the silhouette on the roof, the billowing coat, the exact direction the killer had fled, the way the figure had melted into shadow like something not quite human.

“You’re sure someone was up there?” the officer pressed, tone cautious. “It wasn’t just shock? Imagination can—”

“I know what I saw.”

The officer wrote it down, face carefully blank.

More vehicles kept arriving — unmarked sedans gliding in like predators. Men in dark suits stepped out, moving with quiet authority. The kind who only appeared when power had been violated.

And then the Chief of Police himself emerged from a black SUV.

A heavyset man with tired, haunted eyes and the heavy stillness of someone who had witnessed too much death to waste emotion on it. He surveyed the blood-soaked scene without a flicker — the broken girl, the spreading crimson, the yellow tape, the growing crowd of shocked staff and students drawn like moths to the flashing lights.

His presence alone thickened the air with dread.