home? back?
starring ; tentten, takaniki-rida, maoaru, mushimae, akio-røn, shiori icilubi.
12/03/25
her house was quiet when tentten stepped inside. too quiet. the kind of quiet that didn’t feel right, that didn’t sit well in her stomach.
she had come home looking for rida, for what felt like the hundredth time. every meeting had ended the same. rida rejecting her. turning away. speaking in that cold, monotone voice that wasn’t hers. but tentten kept coming back, because she knew—she knew—that the real rida was still inside, somewhere. trapped, and suffering.
this time would be different.
“rida?” tentten’s voice was soft as she moved through the dimly lit room. she knew rida was here, she could feel her.
a shadow swiftly moved in the corner. then, a voice—calm, emotionless, distant.
“you shouldn’t be here for me.”
tentten turned, and there she was. takaniki-rida. not kirida. not the girl she had grown up with, had loved, had saved before. no, this was what was left of her.
but tentten smiled anyway, because she had to. “you always say that,” she said, taking a small step closer. “but i’m not leaving. not until you come with me.”
rida tilted her head. the way she moved wasn’t natural, wasn’t human—it was precise, calculated. “you are being inefficient,” she said, flat and cold. “this conversation serves no purpose.”
tentten’s chest ached, but she forced herself to keep the smile. she had to be patient. “rida, listen to me. you are still in there. i know you are.”
something flickered in rida’s expression. just for a second. a twitch of her lips. the way her fingers curled ever so slightly. tentten latched onto it.
“please,” she whispered, eyes tearing up as she stepped closer. “come back.”
and then, it was gone. rida’s hand shot out, grabbing tentten by the throat.
she gasped, fingers flying up to claw at the robot’s grip, but it was useless. the metal of rida’s fingers dug into her skin, lifting her off the ground like she weighed nothing.
“you do not understand,” rida said, tilting her head as she studied tentten’s struggling form. “there is no ‘coming back.’ this is what i am now.”
tentten kicked, dug her nails into rida’s arm, but the metal didn’t give. her vision blurred, her lungs screamed for air.
rida’s grip tightened.
“you are a malfunction,” rida continued, her voice eerily steady. “a disruption to my efficiency.”
tentten wanted to scream, to tell her she was wrong, but there was no air left in her lungs. her vision darkened at the edges.
and then—
rida threw her, with an unnatural strength. a strength that belonged only to something that was far from human.
tentten’s small body hit the floor with a sickening crack. pain exploded through her skull, her ribs, her spine. for a moment, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. she lay there, gasping, trying to push herself up, but the room spun violently.
rida stepped closer, looking down at her.
“you should not have come for me. i have no use for you.”
tentten coughed, blood spilling from her mouth. she tried to move, but her limbs weren’t cooperating.
rida knelt down beside her. reached out. tentten flinched, but rida didn’t strike. instead, her fingers brushed tentten’s face—soft, almost curious.
tentten’s vision blurred. whether from pain or something else, she didn’t know.
“rida…” she rasped, her voice barely above a whisper.
and for just a second, something flickered in rida’s expression again. something human.
but then, her fingers curled into a fist.
and she swung.
tentten’s head snapped to the side as the first punch landed. then another. and another. metal against flesh. skin splitting. bones fracturing.
rida didn’t stop.
not until tentten stopped moving.
not until the warmth in tentten’s eyes faded.
not until she was sure she wouldn’t get back up.
rida stared down at her, at the blood staining her knuckles, at the body that was once her friend.
then, she stood. scanning the room as if nothing had happened. she lifted the body as if it was a piece of clothing, and threw her to the sofa.
an unnaturally precise step, she walked over, staring down at tentten almost like a chore. she leaned down, grabbing at her clothing and tearing it all over.
she laid tentten on her back, held and pulled her head and jaw so that she lay with her mouth open, raised her arms so she looked as if she had been pinned down. gripping her ankles, rida placed one on the armrest of the sofa, and left the other hanging, limp, to the floor.
she was exposed, exposed in her last moments, exposed for everyone who loved her to find her, and most importantly, disrespected.
and with that, takaniki-rida stood, and she left.
the house was quiet. too quiet.
the kind of silence that didn’t belong.
maoaru sat curled up in his room, the edges of a cigarette burning low between his fingers, though he’d long since forgotten about it. the ash had grown long, dangerously close to falling, but his hands were too still, too tense. something didn’t feel right.
his parents weren’t home yet. mushi was still asleep. but there was a weight in the air, like something was waiting to be discovered.
then he heard it.
his father’s voice. low. sharp. angry.
“maoaru. downstairs. now.”
his stomach twisted. there was something in that voice. something colder than usual. something that sent a chill up his spine.
slowly, he stood, setting the cigarette in the ashtray. his body felt heavy, his breath uneven. step by step, he moved toward the stairs.
the air grew thick.
and then, when he reached the bottom, he saw her.
tentten.
tentten, still lying on the living room sofa.
tentten, just like she had been when they found her.
they hadn’t moved her. they hadn’t even had the decency to cover her. they had just left her there.
his breath caught in his throat. his heart pounded against his ribs. he wanted to run to her. to wake her up. to make this some kind of mistake—but then his mother turned to him.
and the way she looked at him, was something he would remember forever. she looked at him like he was filth. like he was something she couldn’t even stand to see.
“what did you do to her?”
the words hit him like a punch to the chest. his lips parted, but no sound came out. his father took a step forward. his hands clenched into fists. “don’t play dumb, maoaru. don't you fucking dare.”
his mind was spinning, his body frozen in place. he looked back down at tentten, the bruises, the torn clothing, the burns on her skin—the position of her.
no. no, no, no.
they thought—they thought he did this?
“i—” his voice cracked. his throat was dry. he shook his head, his hands trembling. “i didn’t—i would never—”
his mother’s hand came down, fast and sharp, across his face.
the sting barely registered. all he could feel was the nausea rising in his stomach, the horror settling in his bones.
they didn’t believe him.
they would never believe him.
his father grabbed him by the collar, dragging him forward. “she was your sister.” his voice was a low growl, filled with disgust. “your own sister. you absolute disgrace. you're sick.”
his body went cold.
“i didn’t,” he whispered, barely able to breathe. “please. i didn’t.”
but his father and mother weren't listening. his mother wasn’t even looking at him anymore.
she was staring at tentten, and her hands were shaking.
“you killed her. you raped and killed your own sister maoaru.”
maoaru stood frozen, his breath shallow, his mind struggling to catch up with what was happening. his mother held one of his old sketchbooks in shaking hands, pages fluttering as she shoved it toward him. the drawing—dark, twisted, something he had made years ago, back when he was just a kid experimenting with horror art—now looked like evidence in her grip.
“look at this,” she hissed, voice sharp with disgust. “we always knew there was something wrong with you. this—this filth you draw, the way you hide away, the way you look at people—god, we should’ve seen it sooner.”
his father loomed over him, fists clenched, eyes burning with fury. “tell us the truth, maoaru,” he growled. “you did this to her, didn’t you? just couldn't handle your sick fucking thoughts anymore, so you do this to your own sister?”
his stomach turned. his hands trembled. tentten—his sister—still lay motionless on the couch, and all he could do was stare, horror-stricken, as the world collapsed around him.
the words settled over him like a suffocating weight.
no. no. no.
he didn’t even realize he had fallen to his knees until his hands hit the floor.
he wanted to touch her. wanted to shake her awake. this wasn’t real. this couldn’t be real.
his hands hovered over her, but he didn’t dare touch, because she was cold. and she wasn’t moving.
and he was never going to hear her voice again.
behind him, his mother’s voice dropped to a cold, measured tone. “if your little brother wasn’t here, we’d be dealing with you right now.” she glanced toward the stairs, where mushi still slept, unaware of the nightmare unfolding below. “but he is, and this is hard enough on him already.” she turned back to maoaru, eyes filled with quiet, seething rage. “so we’ll wait. but don’t think for a second that means you’re getting away with this.”
he said nothing, and simply stared down at tentten, beginning to accept the fact that they believed he was responsible for the state of her.
“now go wake up mushi. tell him what his brother did.”
mushi.
mushi, who was still asleep. mushi, who hadn’t seen anything yet. mushi, who still had the luxury of not knowing.
maoaru couldn’t move.
his father’s grip tightened. “i said go wake him up.”
his legs felt numb as he stood. his feet dragged against the floor, his body moving without his mind catching up.
the stairs stretched endlessly before him. every step was heavier than the last.
he reached mushi’s room and hesitated.
his fingers hovered over the door handle.
for one brief second, he considered lying. considered running. considered anything that would keep mushi from having to see what was waiting for him downstairs.
but before he could decide, his father’s voice cut through the silence.
“now.”
he swallowed.
his hand turned the knob.
the room was dark. mushi was curled up in his too-small bed, tangled in thin blankets, his breathing soft, even.
maoaru hated that he had to take this from him.
but he didn’t have a choice.
he stepped closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “mushi.”
no response.
he reached out, shaking him lightly. “mushi, wake up.”
mushi groaned, rolling over. “five more minutes…”
maoaru’s throat tightened.
he doesn’t know. he doesn’t know. he doesn’t know. but he had to.
they were going to make sure he knew.
“please,” maoaru whispered. “you have to wake up.”
something in his voice must have sounded wrong, because mushi finally blinked awake, rubbing his eyes.
“what’s wrong?” he mumbled.
maoaru opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come.
how do you say it?
how do you tell your little brother that your sister is dead? that your parents think you did it? that your family is never going to be the same again?
he didn’t have to.
because his father’s voice rang up the stairs.
“bring him down, maoaru.”
mushi frowned. “what’s going on?”
maoaru shook his head. “just—come with me.”
he took mushi’s hand. it was small. warm. not for long.
they walked down together, one step at a time. mushi didn’t see her at first, but maoaru did. she was still there. right where they left her. as if her body had been nothing more to them then a piece of evidence in their twisted accusations.
he squeezed mushi’s hand tighter.
mushi blinked, his drowsiness fading. “why is it so quiet?”
his mother turned to them. her eyes red.
she pointed at maoaru.
“tell your brother what you did.”
mushi’s brow furrowed. “what?”
mao couldn’t speak. couldn’t move.
mushi’s gaze drifted lower, to tentten. to her body. to the mess of what was left of her, and in this,his breath hitched.
“t-ten…?”
he let go of maoaru's hand and he ran forward. mao reached for him, trying to stop him, but it was too late.
mushi dropped to his knees beside her. his hands shook as he touched her arm, her shoulder.
“tentten?”
no answer.
mushi turned to their parents. his eyes were wide, his chest rising and falling too fast.
“what happened to her?”
his mother’s gaze never left maoaru.
“ask your brother.”
mushi turned, slowly.
his small hands curled into fists and his lip trembled. his eyes—his wide, innocent eyes—filled with something broken.
“you did this?”
maoaru's stomach twisted.
“no,” he whispered, eyes tearing up as the words caught in his throat.
but mushi wasn’t listening. mushi wasn’t looking at him like his brother anymore.
his father stepped forward.
"go upstairs. now." he said, in a dead, flat tone.
"we'll deal with you later." maoarus mother hissed, cradling mushi's small head against her.