In the bedroom doorway stood Marin. She wasn’t surprised to see Natsuki. She was wearing the new perfume. Her eyes were tired but resigned. “He told me you’d come,” she said. “He said you’d rather watch than stop me.”
Natsuki, the player-character in his own tragedy, had only one weapon: his camera. He began to document. Not out of suspicion at first, but out of a photographer’s habit. He snapped a shot of Marin laughing at her phone while making tea—her face lit by a screen that wasn’t his. He zoomed in on the reflection in the window: Renji’s silhouette in the hallway, waiting. ntraholic [v4.2.2c] [tiramisu]
And somewhere in the code of the game, a new “Corruption” counter began to rise again—this time, for the player. In the bedroom doorway stood Marin
Natsuki stood at the threshold of his own apartment, the USB drive in one hand, his camera in the other. He could hear Marin’s soft breathing from the couch. He could hear, through the wall, the low thrum of Renji’s music. Her eyes were tired but resigned