Kayla

☆⌒ヽ(*'､^*)chu

[liebe-dichh]

꩜|| 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘

About me:

Hiya! My name is Kayla! Or Kay as a nickname. ٩(๑❛ᴗ❛๑)۶

My Favorite series that I’ve always been a big fan of is Monster (2004), which is what I mostly write for and post about.

Feel free to reach out and chat with me about anything! Whether it's Monster, writing, or just random thoughts!

Blog:

I mostly post about Monster but I do also post for other things as well.

I post Art, official content, fanfics, etc!

Request info:

Feel free to request!

Just a heads up: I might take a little while to get to them (or might not get to them at all, I hope you understand!).

Links:

Masterlist

“When you’re in the darkness, you only sink deeper into it… Keep the light shining.” -Kenzo Tenma

[themonstrousother]

She’s so silly rabbit….. #mysillyrabbit

[liebe-dichh]

When you’re weak, they’ll stay.

༄𖦹 SYNOPSIS: How the Monster cast would react to you being sick.

༄𖦹Cast: Tenma, Johan, Nina, and Grimmer.

༄𖦹A/N: For reasons unknown, I keep getting crazy sick all the time now… So who wouldn’t want Monster characters to take care of you in times of need! (Writing this, instead of preparing for finals this week… (￣ヘ￣) )

Kenzo Tenma ₊˚.༄

C’mon he’s a famously skilled doctor, what do you expect to happen?

Whether it’s a tiny cold with a pathetic little cough… or a fever so bad you’re convinced you’re about to meet your ancestors. Tenma is already hurrying on his way. Faster than you can say Johan.

The second he walks in, he switches into doctor Tenma mode.

His expression quickly sharpens. He’s focused, calm, and has steady hands pressing against your forehead. As well as checking your pulse and asking precise, clinical questions in that soft, reassuring voice. He lines up your medicine with almost military neatness with carefully measured doses.

And if that medication might have come from Eisler Memorial Hospital… Well, it’s for the greater good!

He won’t even think of giving you crappy drug store medicine, that’ll take maybe even weeks to actually take effect, especially not while you’re already in pain :c

He’ll gently but firmly make you take whatever bitter herbal remedy he insists will help. Probably a homemade Japanese specialty.

But once the hard part is over…

That’s when Doctor Tenma fades.

He settles a cool damp cloth on your forehead, adjusts your blankets, and finally allows himself to just sit beside you. His shoulders relax, with his gaze softening.

And then you get that smile:

The warm one. The one that feels like sunlight through hospital blinds. The one that makes you think maybe tomorrow will be a good day.

He’ll stay longer than he needs to. Pretending he’s “monitoring your symptoms,” when really… he just wants to make sure you’re okay.

₊˚.༄ Ex.) It starts with an email you didn’t mean to send.

“I think I’m dying.”

You meant it dramatically. Your fever had you sweating through your sleep wear while shivering at the same time.

You expected a polite response. But you did not expect a knock at your door late in the night.

When you open it, there he is: slightly out of breath, coat half-buttoned, medical bag in hand. Presumably off of work now.

“May I come in?” Kenzo Tenma asks gently, but he’s already stepping inside.

Within minutes, your living room turns into a mini clinic: Thermometer. Pulse check. Flashlight in your eyes. His dark brows knit together in quiet concentration.

“You should have told me sooner,” he murmurs, not scolding, just worried.

You grumble that it’s “just a fever.”

To which, he gives you that look. The Doctor Look. The one that says please don’t test me.

After making you take medicine (and refusing to let you spit it out), he helps you back to bed. Adjusting your blankets, and placing a cool cloth on your forehead with careful hands that have performed brain surgery. But somehow feel even more impossibly gentle.

When you shiver, he hesitates; then sits beside you. “You’ll be alright,” he says softly.

Not clinical. Not detached. Just Tenma.

And when you fall asleep, you vaguely feel his hand still holding yours—as if letting go isn’t an option.

Johan Liebert ༊*·˚

If it’s just a cold? A mild fever? A cough?

He’s not coming.

He’s a busy man. If he showed up for every sniffle, he’d turn into a miniature Tenma! and that simply won’t do.

You might get a polite “Rest well.”

Maybe…

But if it’s serious?

If your vision blurs.

If your breathing turns shallow.

If the room spins and you swear you see shadows moving in the corner…

Then he appears:

No dramatic entrance. He’s just suddenly there, seated at the edge of your bed like he’s always belonged there.

He checks your temperature with unsettling calm. Asks questions in that soft spoken, almost hypnotic voice. Watching you carefully—not just your symptoms, but you.

Then he leaves without explanation. As if he was only there for a quick checkup. But then he returns with medicine soon after.

Everything is precise: correct dosage. Measured timing. Efficacy.

He doesn’t coddle. Doesn’t fuss. Doesn’t coo sweet reassurances.

But he’ll sit nearby, observing you with faint amusement when the fever makes you delirious. When you mumble nonsense. When you cling to his sleeve without realizing it.

He might even smile.

But here’s the thing:

He stays.

He could leave. He has no obligation to remain. And yet… he does.

Maybe it’s curiosity, maybe it’s from some sort of possession, or perhaps it’s something dangerously close to care. One he would never admit to.

Because, a monster doesn’t have feelings, right? …( Very loud, incorrect buzzer!!!)

༊*·˚ Ex.) Your head feels like it’s full of fog. Every sound echoes. Every light is too bright. You can barely move, barely speak, and the fever makes your thoughts stumble over themselves.

And then suddenly, he’s there.

Johan steps into the room, quiet, calm, like he’s always been part of the space. There’s no knock, no announcement—only the subtle gravity of his presence.

“Are you awake?” he asks softly, though you can barely register the words. His voice is low, smooth, comforting… yet something hidden feels like it’s there in the same moment.

Your vision blurs, and your delirious brain seizes on him. The precise tilt of his head. The gentle way he holds the glass of water for you. The slow, deliberate brush of hair from your fevered face.

‘An angel…’ you whisper in your head.

You reach out, but your hands tremble and fall short. He bends just enough to steady your hand, and in your hazy mind, his movements are luminous, almost too perfect. The warm, steady rhythm of his presence feels like it’s keeping the world from spinning entirely off its axis.

“Drink this,” he murmurs again. You obey automatically. Your lips barely touch the water, and the fog in your mind interprets the gesture as a blessing.

Your fevered thoughts babble nonsense.

“You’re… glowing… save me…” you mutter, voice thick and wavering.

He tilts his head faintly, a hint of amusement slipping through his calm mask. Not a word of correction. Not a hint of mockery. Just precision and care, which in your haze seems almost divine.

He adjusts the blanket around you, leans closer to make sure you’re comfortable, and even the small movements—the way he shifts, the way his shadow falls across the room—are perfectly orchestrated in your fever-addled mind.

“Shh… rest,” he whispers finally, as if his presence alone could shield you from everything else.

And as your eyes drift closed, one thought lingers:

The angel… is still here.

Even though you know, deep down, it’s just Johan. But for a fleeting fevered moment, he felt like something more.

Nina Fortner ‧₊˚♡

The moment she hears you’re sick, she’s already grabbing her bike.

Nina doesn’t just come over causally. She arrives as if you’ve been wrongfully imprisoned and she’s your only chance at escape.

Your white knight, except she’s carrying cold medicine instead of a sword;;

She bursts in with that sharp, worried look she tries to mask as annoyance.

“Really? Now? During midterms?” she sighs, hands on her hips. “Do you want to fall behind?”

But she’s already checking your temperature.

Already opening windows for fresh air.Already tidying your desk so you “don’t stress about it later.”

She teases you relentlessly:

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I leave you alone for one week and this happens?”

“Honestly, I should start scheduling your immune system.”

Yet she never actually leaves.

She brings you notes from class. Sits beside you while reviewing flashcards out loud so you “don’t get too behind.” If you start coughing too hard, her voice immediately softens.

And at night, when you’re half-asleep and feverish, she smooths your hair back with surprising gentleness.

“You’re going to be fine,” she murmurs quietly—no teasing this time.

Nina fights monsters.

A little sickness?

That doesn’t stand a chance!

‧₊˚♡ Ex.) It was supposed to be a productive study night with Nina. Flashcards. Practice exams. Coffee.

Instead, you’re curled up on your bed, textbook open but unread, tissues scattered everywhere.

You send a simple text:

“I’m sick, I have to cancel our plans TT”

Five minutes later, your hear small taps on your window: Nina stands there outside with a determined smile.

When Nina walks in, she’s carrying her tote bag and wearing that determined expression—the one she gets before a big test.

“You look awful,” she says bluntly.

“Thank you,” you croak.

She sets her bag down and immediately gets to work: Medicine lined up. Water poured. Your messy notes stacked neatly.

“You cannot afford this,” she mutters, flipping through your study guide. “This is the worst possible timing.”

“You sound like my academic advisor.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll listen to me now.”

But even while she scolds, she’s adjusting your blanket higher around your shoulders. Her hand lingers at your forehead, checking your temperature.

She clicks her tongue. “You’re warm.”

You attempt to sit up and prove you’re functional.

You sway.

Her hands are on you instantly, steadying you by your arms. “Oh my gosh, sit down.” There’s real worry in her voice now.

She sighs, softer this time, and sits beside you. “Just rest. I’ll read the review questions out loud.”

And she does.

Her voice fills the room, calm and steady, even when you’re barely listening. When you sniffle, she hands you a tissue without looking away from the page.

Eventually, your head tips sideways. You don’t realize you’ve leaned against her until she goes quiet.

“…You’re impossible,” she murmurs, but her tone is fond.

Carefully, she shifts so you’re more comfortable. Her fingers brush through your hair, pushing it off your forehead.

There’s a long pause.

Then she leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead —warm and lingering. Not caring, she might just as well catch a cold.

“You’re going to be fine,” she whispers. “I’ve got you.”

She stays there long after you fall asleep, notes forgotten, one hand resting lightly against yours: like guarding you is just another subject she refuses to fail.

Wolfgang Grimmer ✩˚｡⋆

(Idk why I made his so angsty-)

He brings too much, when he hears the news of you being ill. (C’mon look at his bag full of Kinderheim documents LOL.)

Soup. Tea. Extra blankets. Vitamin drinks you didn’t ask for. Probably a small dessert “for morale.”

If you tease him about it, he chuckles in response.

“It’s better to be prepared.”

In reality, he just doesn’t want to feel unprepared ever again. Like how he was with his son.

He won’t hover obviously, but he’s observant.

He notices when your cough sounds different.

When your breathing is slightly heavier. When you go quiet longer than usual.

He’ll casually ask, “Are you more tired than earlier?”

It sounds simple. But he’s tracking everything. He may look like a big ol’ goof, but we must remember he used to be a spy.

You might tell him he can go home.

He’ll give you a nod. And then somehow he’s still there three hours later, sitting in a chair beside your bed with a book open but unread.

If you wake up in the middle of the night, he’s awake too.

If your condition worsened—even slightly—something in him tightens.

His iconic smile fades. Not dramatically. Just… less. He becomes very still. Very focused.

You might catch him staring at you with an expression that looks almost distant: like he’s fighting off a memory.

He won’t talk about it.

But his grip on your hand will be firmer.

And if you reassure him weakly, telling him you’re fine?

He’ll nod.

Then whisper, almost to himself,

“I know.”

But he won’t fully relax until your fever breaks.

✩˚｡⋆ Ex.) With Wolfgang Grimmer, there’s always that warm smile.

Even when you’re sick. Even when you insist you’re fine but clearly aren’t.

He keeps things light. Gentle jokes. Soft reassurances. Careful hands adjusting your blanket.

Until the moment your fever spikes too high.

Until you stop responding right away.

Until you look just a little too still.

That’s when something changes. He goes quiet. Not panicked, but still. The kind of stillness that feels heavy. His hand presses to your forehead, then your pulse, then your shoulder.

“Hey,” he says softly. Too softly.

There’s a tremor beneath it.

He tells himself it’s irrational. That this is just a fever. That you’re young. Strong. You’ll recover.

He used to be a spy, he’s prepared for anything!

…But grief doesn’t care about logic.

For a split second, one he would never admit out loud, he sees another hospital room. Another small figure he couldn’t protect.

His son.

And the fear hits him like ice water.

He sits closer. Closer than before. His hand wraps around yours, firmer now: grounding himself just as much as you.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he murmurs quietly.

It’s not a command: it’s a plea.

He smooths your hair back from your face, watching for every small movement. Every breath. Every shift beneath the blankets.

And when you finally stir and mumble something sleepy. When your fingers twitch back against his: The tension in his shoulders eases just slightly.

His smile returns. But it’s smaller. More fragile.

He leans forward, resting his forehead briefly against your hand.

“I won’t lose you too,” he whispers, so quietly you never hear it.

And he stays awake the entire night:

Just in case.

[punimir]

[liebe-dichh]

Chapter 11: Bad Habits

One Day, Three Autumns ✧ AO3 and quotev

༄𖦹 SYNOPSIS: You, who studied psychology at Düsseldorf University in Germany, with a certain Japanese man. Years later end up finding work at the prestigious Eisler Memorial Hospital. Your story intertwines with a kindhearted popular Japanese doctor named Kenzo Tenma, what will happen once he is charged with murder?

༄𖦹 INFO: Kenzo Tenma/Reader | 7.9k words

✧ One day, three autumns

A Chinese idiom that is used when you miss someone so much, one day feels as long as three years.

Normal.

Everything here was normal.

Which only made the overwhelming noise in your head feel even louder.

Steam curled into slow spirals above the small porcelain cup below, rising and fading into the air like cigarettes do, like what happens before a man made fire, like it couldn't decide whether it wanted to stay or disappear.

Your finger traced the rim absentmindedly, until the warmth of the ceramic began to sting just slightly. The [f/d] beneath reflected a warped version of your devoid face, your features rippling with every faint tremor in your hand.

You let out a heavy sigh, shoulders sinking as if the breath carried the weight of the past few weeks with it.

The café around you was small, tucked neatly between two taller buildings like it had been wedged there by accident. The windows were fogged at the edges from the contrast of cold air outside and warmth inside, with the soft murmur of voices created a steady comforting hum. Cups clinked. Chairs shifted. A barista called out an order in a tone that sounded practiced and bored.

"I see someone's week has not been so eventful" Reichwein chuckled from the seat across from your own, his voice gentle but teasing. As always.

You didn't answer. You just staring harder at the cup, as if sheer willpower could make the liquid rearrange itself into something that made sense.

Reichwein leaned forward resting on the table that separated the two of you, amusement brightening his eyes "hey now, you're going to burn a hole through that cup of yours if you keep that up."

His humor snapped you out of your trance like a rubber band against skin.

You blinked, finally lifting your gaze "ah..." Your throat felt dry "my apologies, Professor."

Reichwein didn't respond right away. Instead, he studied you with that same look he used to give students before exams. The kind of stare that made you feel like he could see straight through your ribs and into your heart.

Then, slowly, the sternness softened into a smile.

"Come on now," he said, voice warm. "Tell me what's been bugging you lately."

A small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. Reichwein had always been like this, always somehow able to sense when something was wrong, even when you tried to bury it beneath professionalism and polite conversation. Even back in university, the old man had made it his personal mission to drag any student out of their own heads whenever they were drowning in their own personal made sea.

You glanced back down at the [f/d], watching the steam rise once more.

And then you started talking.

At first, it came out messy. Uneven. Like you were spilling a box of scattered papers onto the table and trying to pretend it was organized.

You told him about Edmund Farren.

About the sudden announcement, the shocked crowd of students, the whispers that had spread through the university halls like smoke. About the staff meeting and the mandatory sessions that followed, your office becoming less of a quiet sanctuary and more of a revolving door of annoyance, fear, and denialment.

Then you told him about Lotte.

How she'd cried so hard she could barely breathe. How her hands had trembled in her lap while she tried to speak. How she wasn't even close to Edmund, didn't even know the boy whatsoever, and yet the sight of his body had carved something permanent into her memory.

And finally, hesitating, your voice lowering without meaning to. You told him about the blond boy.

The nameless one.

The one who had sat across from you with calm, hollow blue eyes and a smile that didn't belong to someone so young. The one who spoke like he knew exactly how to slip inside someone's mind, as if it were his very own.

The one who'd left you with a warning that sounded almost kind:

Get some sleep. Exhaustion makes people fragile.

Reichwein's expression shifted so subtly you almost missed it.

His dark eyes widened, recognition flashing like a matches spark in a dark library.

"Edmund Farren..." he repeated slowly, as if testing the name on his tongue. "From Munich University?"

You nodded "yes, that's the one." You frowned slightly, the realization creeping up. "I thought the news only really stayed around campus... how did you find out about it besides from me, Professor?"

Reichwein's fingers tightened around his own cup. He didn't drink. He simply stared into it, like you had done just moments ago.

Then he looked up at you, and his voice dropped into something quieter.

"You mustn't speak about this to anyone else" he said carefully, "but I have a client of mine working on Edmund's case right now as we speak."

Your brows lifted, "a client?"

His mouth opened, then stopped.

For a split second, the name that almost escaped:

"Rich—"

"Ahem!" Reichwein cleared his throat abruptly, recovering so fast it would've been impressive if it didn't make your stomach twist. "My client" he corrected smoothly, as if nothing had happened, "has been investigating."

A small, tired chuckle escaped you, the sound short lived "it sounded like you almost said-"

"It doesn't matter what I almost said," he cut in gently, but firmly.

The humor faded from your face as quickly as it had appeared. Your gaze dropped again, your thumb rubbing the side of your cup.

"I already told the police everything I knew," you admitted, voice quieter now. "Which... unfortunately... was nothing."

Your chest tightened.

You hated how helpless it sounded. How helpless it felt.

"I can't help but feel like I should've done something," you whispered, as if confessing a sin "he never came to me. Not once. But I was right there. I'm supposed to notice these things."

Reichwein's gaze softened.

"There's nothing you can do about it now" he said, voice steady, grounding "all you can do now is learn from these past experiences, to better yourself as well to help the others around you even better."

He leaned back slightly, giving you room to breathe "don't put too much pressure on yourself," he continued "I doubt anyone could've seen this coming."

Your eyes stung faintly, not enough to cry, but enough to feel it hovering there.

"Thank you, Reichwein," you murmured.

The old man's expression brightened again, like he was deliberately steering you away from the cliff's edge. "And besides all that" he said, pointing a finger at you in mock accusation, "how have you been mentally? You haven't picked up smoking again, have you?"

The sternness in his voice was so exaggerated it almost sounded like a father catching their child sneaking out past curfew. To which, you huffed softly "nope." You popped the end of the word like it was a badge of honor. "Almost a year clean now..."

Your lips pressed together for a moment.

"...It's hard to break bad habits" you admitted, quieter "especially in times like these."

Reichwein hummed thoughtfully. "Have you tried any hobby that might smooth the need for a pack?"

You paused, then your mouth tilted into something more genuine "I've picked up walking" you said, chuckling at your words "i've mapped out the city pretty well. Or at least around my home."

Your smile widened, warmth returning to your face for the first time in what felt like ages.

"I'd like to see anyone try to beat me in a walking marathon."

Reichwein laughed, deep and real, the sound filling the small space between you like sunlight breaking through clouds. And to your surprise...

You laughed too.

Not the polite kind you used at work. Not the strained one you forced when people asked if you were "doing okay."

A real laugh.

For a moment, the café felt softer. The steam from your cup didn't feel suffocating. The chatter around you didn't feel distant. It felt like you could breathe again. Even if only for a little while.

Once you and Reichwein had parted from your monthly meet-up, you stood there for a seconds longer than you meant to, watching his figure disappear into the crowd like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Like nothing could break his stride.

Like he didn't carry the same weight you did.

A soft smile tugged at your lips as you finally turned, ready to head the opposite way; back to your apartment, back to work, back to pretending you weren't unraveling at the seams. But instead of cold air brushing your face, you walked straight into something solid.

A chest.

Not the kind of bump where you both stumble back and laugh awkwardly. This felt like slamming into a concrete wall. Your breath punched out of you, your shoulder jolting with the impact, and for a split second your brain didn't even catch up to what had happened.

Before you could regain your balance, big hands grabbed your waist.

Firm.

Too firm.

The world tilted, and then you were upright again, steadied like a doll being set back on a shelf.

"I should really watch where I'm going" a deep sultry voice murmured above you, smooth, and almost amused.

Your skin prickled as their grip didn't loosen right away.

"Are you okay...?" he asked, dragging the last word out like he was waiting for you to fill in the blank.

Your thoughts were jumbled, slow to form "y... yeah," you breathed, forcing your body to pull back even though his hands still lingered "I'm fine." His sly eyes stayed on you, heavy and measuring, like he wasn't just checking if you were hurt.

He was studying you.

Waiting.

The man towered over you, broad shoulders packed into a gray suit that looked too expensive for how casually he wore it. Olive-toned skin, sharp jaw, and a brown receding hairline that made him look older than you expected. Older, but not weak. Not weak at all.

Not even close.

You suddenly understood what Reichwein must've felt like to be smaller in compared to everyone else around himself.

But to be cornered... even out in the open.  Your mouth moved before your mind caught up. "...[y/n]," you finally replied without thinking.

The man's lips curved, slow and satisfied. "[y/n]," he repeated. Again. Like he was tasting it.

"[y/n]..."

Each time he said it, your stomach sank a little more.

"What a lovely name" he continued, voice smooth as oil. "for a lovely individual such as yourself."

Your throat tightened. You forced out something polite, because that's what you were trained to do. What you'd always done.

"Ah... well. Thank you...?"

His smile didn't falter. If anything, it deepened. lazy and confident, like he had all the time in the world. "Roberto," he said again, like the name was meant itself to charm you. "Nice to meet you."

You gave him a small nod, polite out of instinct more than anything else. "Right... well. Nice to meet you too." For a second, you waited for him to step away.

He didn't.

Instead, Roberto's gaze stayed on your face, lingering in a way that felt less like interest and more like an expensive bounty that was written all over your face. "So" he drawled, shifting his weight like this was just some casual street encounter "you always walk around looking this serious?"

Your brows furrowed slightly. "Excuse me?"

He chuckled, like you were the one being silly "I'm just saying. You look like you're carrying the whole world on your shoulders."

Your stomach tightened. It wasn't what he said, it was how comfortable he sounded saying it. Like he knew you. Like you were old time buddy's.

"I'm just tired," you replied shortly, already adjusting your bag's strap and angling your body away. A clear signal.

Roberto ignored it completely.

"Tired" he repeated, voice warm, amused "that's a shame."

You forced a neutral expression. "Well... it happens."

You took another step back, increasing the distance between you. "Look, I'm sorry, but I really should be going now." Roberto's eyes flicked over you again, slow. Like he was taking inventory.

"Going where?" he asked lightly, as if he was just making conversation.

You blinked. "Home."

"Alone?" he added, too quickly.

Your grip on your bag tightened.

"...Yes."

Roberto made a small noise—half a laugh, half a sigh. "That's not very safe, you know."

You stared at him, your patience thinning and your mind running "I'll be fine, I have someone waiting for me at home to come back."

"Mhm." His gaze stayed steady "You sure about that?"

The words were soft enough to sound like concern.

But there was something under it.

Something smug.

You forced a tight smile "Yes. I'm sure."

Roberto tilted his head, feigning innocence. "Relax, sweetheart. I'm not trying to scare you."

Sweetheart.

Your jaw clenched.

"I didn't say you were" you replied, a little sharper than before. Roberto's grin widened, like he liked that. Like your discomfort was entertaining. "Right" he said, holding up his hands slightly in mock surrender. "My mistake."

A beat of silence passed. You tried to step around him. Roberto moved too. Not blocking you fully, but drifting in the same direction, keeping pace like it was natural.

You stopped walking.

He stopped too.

"Can I help you?" you asked, voice flat. Roberto blinked, all faux confusion. "Help me?"

"Yes," you said slowly "You're following me." His expression turned into something almost offended—almost. Like he was pretending to be hurt.

"Following you?" he repeated, then laughed. "No, no, Doctor. Don't flatter yourself."

Doctor...

You hadn't told him that... your stomach dropped. You kept your face still. But the suspicion hit you hard, fast, and ugly. "How do you know that?" you asked quietly.

Roberto's smile didn't move, but his eyes sharpened like a blade being unsheathed.

"...Know what?"

You didn't blink. "My title."

"Oh" he said, like it was nothing. Like it was obvious. "You just look like one."

That was a lie.

A lazy one, too.

You felt your throat tighten "right."

Roberto stepped a little closer. Not enough to touch you, just enough that you could smell him. Cigarettes and expensive cologne. Along with something else, something heavy.

"You're pretty hot when you're suspicious," he murmured.

Your entire body stiffened.

You took a step back instantly. "Okay. Not only is that extremely inappropriate considering I just met you. But that coming from you, fills me with pure disgust."

Roberto only smiled wider, like you'd told him a joke.

"Inappropriate?" he repeated, amused "come on. It's just a compliment. Don't break my heart now."

"I didn't ask for one," you shot back.

For the first time, his smile twitched. Not gone, just... strained at the edges. Then he laughed again, "Feisty."

You exhaled sharply through your nose, done with this whole situation "look, Roberto. I don't know you. I don't want to know you. So please stop talking to me."

Roberto stared at you for a moment. Then his tone softened, suddenly almost gentle. "You're right."

You paused.

He leaned back slightly, giving you space. "I apologize," he said smoothly. "Bad first impression. That's on me."

You didn't relax.

You'd known too many people who knew how to weaponize apologies. Roberto gave you a charming smile again, as if resetting the entire conversation. "Let me make it up to you" he offered "coffee? Dinner? Something warm. It's freezing out here."

"No," you replied almost immediately.

He blinked, like he didn't expect you to refuse so fast.

"No?" he echoed.

"No," you repeated, firmer "I'm going home."

Roberto's eyes narrowed just slightly, his voice still light but no longer as playful. "You don't have to be so cold," he said.

Your mouth tightened. "I'm not being cold. I'm being careful."

Roberto chuckled, "careful" he tasted the word like he found it cute. Then he stepped closer again, just enough to make your nerves spark. "You're smart," he murmured. "I like them smart."

That did it.

You turned, walking away immediately, faster now. Your heart pounding, ears sharp, every sense on high alert. Behind you, Roberto didn't chase. He didn't grab you. He didn't raise his voice. He just laughed softly, like the whole thing was amusing.

And as you reached the corner, you heard him call out:

"Have a good night, Doctor."

Your stomach twisted. You didn't look back. You couldn't. Because you didn't want to see him still standing there with that awful smile of his.

Like he hadn't been flirting.

Like he hadn't been playing dumb the whole time.

Like he hadn't been watching you the entire time... and enjoying the fact that you knew it.

𓇢𓆸

You hadn't slept the entire night.

Not even for a moment.

You sat stiffly at your desk in your office at Munich University, the dim evening light spilling in through the blinds in thin, pale stripes. Your untouched paperwork sat stacked like a silent accusation, your pen lying useless beside it.

Your mind refused to move on.

It kept circling back, again and again, to the same repeating questions that clawed at your thoughts until your head felt sore.

That whole interaction with Roberto...

It had been too smooth. Too planned out. Like he'd known exactly where to be, exactly when to bump into you, exactly what to say. Like he'd been waiting for you.

And worse than that... how in the world did he know your occupation?

How did he know people called you Doctor?

It wasn't common for strangers or people to call you that anymore. Not here. Not in Munich. Students called you just [l/n] sometimes, sure, but only on campus. Outside of work? Most people didn't even bother with titles.

The only place where you'd been called Doctor so naturally, so often... was Eisler Memorial. Back then, before everything fell apart. Before Tenma disappeared. Before your life started feeling like it was being watched from the shadows. You swallowed hard, throat dry. You had never seen or heard anyone by the name of Roberto before yesterday.

So that meant... He had to have known you through someone who knew you.

Someone from Düsseldorf.

Someone from your past.

The thought made your stomach twist. You slowly pushed yourself up from your chair, your body aching from tension more than exhaustion. With a shaky breath, you reached for the door, your hand hesitating on the knob before you finally opened it.

The hallway outside was bright and normal.

Too normal.

Like the world hadn't shifted off its axis overnight.

You quietly closed your office door behind you and began walking through the university building. Your footsteps echoed softly against the floor, each one sounding louder than it should've in your ears. You kept your gaze forward, but your mind kept drifting back, replaying Roberto's voice like a scratched record.

Have a good night, Doctor.

The day outside was clear, soft baby blue skies stretching over the campus, the sun pale and cold, the kind of light that looked warm but didn't feel it. Students passed by in groups, laughing, chatting, living their lives like nothing bad could ever touch them.

And you envied them for that.

Because since last night, your heart hadn't stopped racing even once. Everything felt like too much. Tenma's disappearance. The nameless blond boy who appeared like a ghost and vanished just as fast. Now this Roberto...

Your breath trembled as you stepped out into the courtyard, the cold air biting at your cheeks. You wrapped your arms around yourself, not because you were cold, because you felt like you were coming apart.

'I miss Kenzo...' you thought suddenly. If only he were here now, you wouldn't have to be so scared. You wouldn't have to deal with all this alone... do you even occur in his thoughts anymore?

The thought came out of nowhere, raw and sharp, and your eyes burned instantly. Tears welled up, threatening to spill. But you refused. You refused to let them fall in the middle of campus like some helpless mess. You hastily wiped them away with cold-tipped fingers, blinking hard until your vision cleared again. That's when you saw them:

Karl and Lotte.

They sat together on one of the benches in the courtyard, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. Lotte was speaking animatedly, her hands moving as she talked, while Karl listened with that quiet attentiveness he always had. Seeing them drew a small smile from you before you could stop it.

They looked... better.

Happier, even after what happened with Edmund Farren.

It made your chest loosen, just slightly. Like maybe the world hadn't completely lost all its softness. You took a step forward, intending to greet them-

But then your gaze caught on a patch of blond hair. You stopped. Your entire body went still.

It was him.

The boy from the counseling session. The one with that pale face and those cold, striking blue eyes that felt wrong to look at for too long. The one who smiled like he knew things you didn't. From where you stood, it looked like he was... with them. Not just near them.

With them.

Like he belonged there. Like he'd always belonged there.

So the boy really did exist. He really did go to this campus. And for some reason, that realization didn't comfort you at all. It only made your skin prickle.

You didn't want to interrupt them. You didn't want to draw attention to yourself, not with your nerves already stretched thin. So you forced your feet to move again, turning away and heading in the opposite direction.

Little did you know, a pair of blue eyes stayed fixed on your figure as you disappeared into the distance.

You ended up going near the front of the school, where the brick walls were taller and the student traffic thinner. The noise of the courtyard faded behind you, replaced by the quiet rush of distant voices and the occasional sound of footsteps passing by. You stopped beside the nearest wall and leaned against it, the cold brick seeping through your clothes.

Your head felt too full.

Your chest felt too tight.

You were overwhelmed in a way that was hard to explain... like your body was begging for relief, but your mind wouldn't allow it. Not for a split second.

You closed your eyes.

Tried to breathe.

Tried to remember what Reichwein had told you over and over again:

Don't let the impulses win.

You inhaled for four seconds. Held it for another seven. Exhaled for five. Again. Again. And again. Your fingers curled against your sleeves, nails digging lightly into your skin just to keep yourself grounded. You were trying so hard to stay calm, when a voice slipped into your ear, soft and devilish

"Is everything alright, Dr [l/n]?"

Your blood turned to ice. Slowly, you opened the lids to your [e/c] eyes. You already knew, before you even turned, who was standing behind you.

The blond boy stood a few feet away, his pale white hands tucked neatly into the beige pockets of his coat as if he'd been there the whole time. His expression was calm just like the last time you had seen him, almost gentle. Like he had simply wandered over by coincidence. But nothing about him felt like coincidence.

Not the timing. Not the way he held himself. Not the way his eyes stayed fixed on you like he already knew what you'd do before you did it. Just like Roberto yesterday.

"I'm fine" you replied, voice rough. You pushed yourself off the wall and straightened your posture, like standing taller would somehow make you feel less vulnerable "just tired. That's all"

He tilted his head slightly, as if considering your answer like it was a piece of evidence. "Tired," he repeated softly "that makes sense."

You swallowed, forcing your expression into something neutral "shouldn't you be in class?"

His lips curved, barely. Not a smile. Not quite. "I could ask you the same thing," he replied.

You blinked, brows furrowing "...I work here?"

"I know" he said simply, a poor excuse of a joke.

His gaze dropped briefly to the ID badge hanging down from your collar, your full name printed neatly beneath a portrait of you trying to look professional, trying to look fine. Then lifted back up to your face.

"You look like someone who listens to others well," he said casually. Too casual for their hidden undertones "Must be a nice job, right?"

Your fingers twitched at your side. It was a harmless statement. Almost flattering. But your body didn't accept it as harmless. Not with the way his voice stayed so even. Not with the way he watched you like he could see every thought you didn't want to show.

"I help people," you said cautiously "that's my job."

"Does it make you happy?" he asked.

You stared at him.

"...What?"

His tone didn't change. "Helping them. Listening to them. Carrying what they can't carry." Your lips parted, then shut again.

Because the worst part was—he wasn't wrong. That was what it felt like sometimes. Like you were a shelf people leaned their grief onto until it bent. Like you were meant to hold everything steady, even while something inside you quietly cracked. Little by little, More by more.

You forced a breath through your nose, slow and controlled "I don't really discuss personal matters with students."

"I'm not a student," he said.

Your heartbeat stuttered.

You didn't speak.

He watched you for a moment, quiet, as if he enjoyed the pause. Like he was waiting for you to fill the silence first.

But you didn't.

So he did.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice softer now. "That was rude. I shouldn't have approached you like this." Your shoulders didn't relax at his statement. Which, he noticed. Of course he did.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he added. You let out a short, humorless breath in response "you didn't scare me."

His eyes flickered, just slightly. Like he found that interesting "...no?" he murmured.

You didn't like the way he said it. You didn't like how he stood so still, so calm, while you felt like your entire nervous system was screaming. You then crossed your arms, more for yourself than for him "what do you want?"

The boy's gaze drifted past you for a second, toward the courtyard in the distance. Toward the sound of students laughing. Toward Karl and Lotte sitting together like the world wasn't heavy. Then back to you.

"I wanted to see if you were okay," he said.

You held his stare. His expression didn't crack. Not even a little.

And it made you wonder...

Was this what he looked like when he lied? Or was this what he looked like when he told the truth?

You hated that you couldn't tell.

"I'm okay," you repeated "if you're personally having trouble, you can schedule an appointment like everyone else."

He hummed softly, as if he was thinking it over "maybe I will," he said. "But... I don't think talking in your office would feel comfortable."

Your eyes narrowed. "Why not?"

His gaze lifted again, settling on your face with something almost... knowing. "Because you don't feel comfortable in your office either," he replied.

Your breath caught. For a moment, you couldn't respond. That was the problem. He kept saying things that weren't impossible to guess... but were too accurate to be luck.

You forced your voice to work, "you're making assumptions."

"Am I?" he asked quietly.

He took another step closer. Not close enough to touch you. But close enough that you could smell something faint on him—old books, cold air, and something else underneath...

Something sharper.

Something like nicotine.

You stiffened instinctively. He noticed again.

"Sorry," he said, taking one step back this time "I didn't mean to upset you."

You exhaled slowly, trying to keep your expression from showing too much "you didn't," you lied. The boy's gaze flicked down to your hands. Your fingers were clenched tighter than you realized. He looked back up, eyes unreadable "...you're trying very hard," he said, voice almost gentle. "To be strong."

The words hit you wrong. Not because they were cruel. But because they almost sounded like pity.

And you hated pity.

"I don't need you psychoanalyzing me," you snapped before you could stop yourself.

Silence. The boy blinked once. Then he smiled.

A real smile this time—small, calm, almost polite "you're right" he said "That's your job."

Your jaw tightened. To which, he tilted his head again, studying you in that strange, quiet way "...you look like you haven't slept," he continued. "Is it because you're worried about someone?"

Your heart lurched. You didn't answer. You couldn't. Because if you did... if you reacted too fast... it would confirm everything. The blond haired boy's gaze stayed on you, unblinking. Then, as if he was simply making conversation, he spoke again "I saw you earlier."

"...Where?"

"Near the courtyard," he replied "you were looking at us."

Us.

Not me.

Not Karl and Lotte.

Us.

Your throat went dry from his words "I wasn't looking at you," you said quickly.

He didn't argue. He just nodded once, like he believed you. But his eyes said the opposite.

A pause.

Then, like he was thinking out loud, he muttered something under his breath. So low you almost didn't catch it.

"...Did you really mean what you said back then?"

Your brows furrowed instantly, "what?"

His eyes flickered—just once.

Not confusion.

Not surprise.

Something else.

"Back then..." you repeated slowly, trying to piece it together "I'm sorry, but I don't know what you mean."

The boy's expression stayed smooth, but the air shifted anyway. It was subtle. Almost invisible. Like the temperature dropped a degree.

"You made a promise," he said softly.

Your stomach twisted "a... promise?" you echoed, voice quieter now. Your mind raced, flipping through memories like scattered papers.

A promise to who?

To a patient?

To yourself?

To—

But the boy didn't give you time to chase the thought. He just stared at you with those sadden eyes that felt far older than his face.

You forced yourself to speak again, more firmly this time "I think you've got the wrong person."

For the first time, something about him faltered.

Not outwardly.

But there was a tiny crack—something human—something that almost looked like disappointment. Like you'd failed to recognize him the way he'd wanted you to. Like a child who had realized, their parent had forgotten them at the park.

The silence stretched.

"Well," you said, voice stiff "if that's all, I should really get going now..."

You started to step around him, but his voice stopped you again.

"Dr. [l/n]."

You halted. Your pulse thudded louder in your ears. Then hesitantly, you turned back to look at the young boy.

The boy was watching you with that same calm expression, like he'd been waiting for you to look at him again.

Then, without rushing, he reached into his coat pocket. Your entire body tensed.

But before he pulled anything out, his gaze lowered—just slightly, like he was speaking to himself more than to you.

"...Did you really mean it?" he murmured.

Your brow furrowed deeper, "mean what?"

He lifted his eyes back to yours.

For a second, there was something raw behind them.

Something almost... young.

"JOHAN! come on were going to be late to schuwald!"

The shout echoed across the courtyard. You flinched slightly, your head turning toward the sound on instinct. Lotte was waving from across the campus, Karl beside her, both looking toward the two of you. Your gaze instantly snapped back to the boy.

Johan.

So that was his name.

And yet... nothing clicked. No memory. No sudden realization. No recognition. Just that same crawling unease in your gut. Then you saw it. the way Johan watched your face, almost waiting.

Waiting for you to react. Waiting for you to remember. But you didn't. And for the briefest second, his eyes darkened.

Not with anger. With something quieter. Something that almost looked like it hurt. Then it was gone again, wiped clean like it had never been there. Yet, his gaze stayed on you.

Still.

Intent.

Then, slowly, he slipped his hand into his coat pocket again.

This time he pulled something out, just enough that only you would see.

A cigarette pack.

Unopened.

Perfectly clean.

The kind you used to buy before you forced yourself to quit.

He held it out toward you, not too far—just enough that you'd have to reach for it if you wanted it.

His voice was quiet. Almost kind. "...Do you want one?"

Your breath caught. Your eyes locked onto the pack like it was a loaded gun. Your fingers twitched. Your mouth went dry.

A year clean. Almost a year.

And you'd been proud of that. You'd been fighting. You'd been trying so hard not to fall back into it. But right now... right now, your nerves felt raw, your chest felt tight, and your thoughts felt like they were chewing through your skull.

And he was holding relief out to you like a gift. Like he'd known. Like he'd planned it.

You slowly lifted your gaze from the cigarettes to his face. He was watching you. Not smiling. Not pressuring. Just waiting. Patient. Like this was the most interesting thing in the world. Like you were the most interesting thing in the world. Waiting to see what you would choose.

Your hand lifted. Slowly. Not all at once. Not desperate. Just... drawn forward.

Your fingertips brushed the edge of the pack—then your whole body jolted. A sharp, sick awareness hit you like ice water.

No.

Your fingers froze against the cardboard, trembling faintly.Your breath stuttering. Your chest tightening like you'd stepped too close to a cliff edge.

And then you pulled your hand back.

Fast. Like it burned just brushing against it. You forced out a shaky laugh, trying to make it sound casual. Trying to make it sound like you weren't crumbling inside.

"...I'm good," you said, voice strained "thanks."

For a second, Johan just stared at you. His expression didn't change. Still calm. Still mild. But his eyes sharpened—just slightly.

Not offended.

Not angry.

Just... interested.

Like you'd done something different from what he'd seen nor expected. "...Almost," he murmured.

"What?" you asked, voice coming out sharper than you meant.

Johan blinked once, slow.

Innocent.

"As I said," he replied smoothly, tilting his head, "for your nerves."

Lotte groaned, impatient as her and Karl had finally reached the two of you "Johan, oh my God, come ON."

Karl lightly touched Johan's shoulder. "We really have to go."

Johan finally turned away, letting the pack disappear back into his pocket with the same unhurried grace, like he'd never taken it out at all.

Like the moment hadn't happened.

Like you hadn't almost relapsed right in front of him.

But right before he disappeared into the crowd with Karl an Lotte, Johan spoke again—quiet enough that only you could hear.

"...You're still trying," he murmured.

Your breath hitched, you didn't understand what he meant. Not fully. But the way he said it didn't sound like praise. It sounded like someone observing something struggling.

But then he was gone.

And you were left standing there, your arms still crossed like armor, your heart racing like you'd just escaped something you couldn't name.

Your fingers still remembered the shape of the pack.

And the worst part?

For a split second,

you'd wanted it.

𓇢𓆸

The walk back to your apartment was no better.

Each new footstep you took echoed through the nearly barren streets of Munich, the sound swallowed and repeated by the narrow buildings on either side. The city felt too quiet.

Every little noise startled you. A car door closing somewhere in the distance. A bicycle chain rattling. A stray gust of wind scraping dead leaves along the pavement.

Each time, your head snapped to the side, [e/c] eyes scanning the shadows like something would leap out at you if you looked away for even a second.

Paranoia was the cruelest disease of all. It didn't kill you quickly. It made you live through it over and over again.

You tried to tell yourself it was nothing. That you were exhausted. That you were letting your mind run wild because of everything that had happened lately: Edmund Farren, Roberto, Johan, Tenma's disappearance-

But then you heard it.

Footsteps. And they weren't yours.

At first you thought it was just someone walking home too, someone taking the same route. But when you slowed down, the sound slowed too.

When you stopped completely... the footsteps stopped. Your stomach dropped and then you waited.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Nothing.

You started walking again.

And so did they.

A chill crawled up your spine, raising goosebumps along your arms despite the layers you wore. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe normally, to keep your pace steady.

Don't panic. Don't make it obvious. Don't—

The footsteps grew louder.

Closer.

Like whoever it was had finally decided they were done pretending. That was your last straw.

You bolted.

Your breath ripped from your throat as you sprinted forward, shoes slapping harshly against the pavement. You didn't look back—not even once—because you were terrified that if you did, you'd see something you wouldn't be able to forget.

You swerved sharply into the closest alleyway.

The narrow passage swallowed you whole, dim and cold, the scent of damp stone and old trash flooding your senses. Your lungs burned as you forced yourself to run faster, heart pounding so violently you could feel it in your ears.

You knew the only way to lose someone was to confuse them.

And luckily for you, after all the walking you'd taken up as a "healthy hobby," you'd learned these alleyways like the back of your hand.

Left. Right. Left again. A sharp turn. Another.

Your legs screamed. Your chest tightened with each new breath you took. Your vision blurred at the edges, but you didn't stop.

You couldn't.

Not when you could still hear it:

Those footsteps. Still there. Still following.

You cut through a narrow passage between buildings, nearly clipping your shoulder against the wall. The cold brick scraped your sleeve. You stumbled but caught yourself, forcing your body forward even when it begged to collapse.

But by the time you reached your apartment building, you were shaking.

You didn't even remember opening the main entrance door. You just moved, half-running, half-falling up the old stairs to your apartment door, your hands grabbing the railing as your feet slipped on the worn steps.

Your foot slid out from under you.

Pain shot through your ankle as you barely caught yourself, before you could tumble backward down the staircase.

A strangled sound left your throat, and you scrambled upward, almost crawling now. Refusing to waste even a second.

When you finally reached your door, you fumbled your keys so badly they almost dropped from your trembling fingers.

You shoved the key in.

Turned it. Then threw yourself inside. locking the door so hard the lock clicked twice.

You hastily backed away from it like the wood might explode in any given second.

You sank to the floor, breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps. Your entire body trembled, adrenaline making your muscles feel weak and useless all at once.

You pressed your hand to your chest like it would steady your heart.

It didn't.

Everything had gotten too weird lately. Too targeted. Too planned.

Should you go to the police?

Would they even take you seriously?

‘Hello, officer, I think I'm being followed by strangers and a blond boy keeps showing up like he knows my past—‘

They'd laugh. Or worse... they'd pity you.

And pity felt like being buried alive.

You sat there for minutes, staring straight at the door. Waiting. Listening. But you didn't hear anything. No footsteps outside. No shadow under the crack. No rattling handle. Nothing.

Maybe it really was your imagination.

Maybe you were just tired.

Maybe—

With a shaky breath, you forced yourself to stand, legs stiff and sore, and slowly made your way back toward your room. You needed something to distract your mind. Something normal.

You turned on your old computer, the screen's glow lighting up the dark room in an ugly blue hue.

Your inbox loaded. One new email sat at the top.

Your heart stuttered.

Von: Dr. Becker.

It felt like ages since your last visit to Düsseldorf.

If he emailed you, it had to mean he found something. Something important.

Your fingers hovered over the mouse.

Before you could click down, a soft knock came from the front door.

Your entire body went still. You didn't breathe. You physically couldn’t, not even if you tried to.

Another knock.

A pause.

Then another.

Your stomach twisted into a knot. Could it be the same person who followed you earlier?

No... the knocks were too soft. Too gentle.

But the silence afterward felt worse than the sound itself.

Then suddenly-

A loud bang hit against your front door.

You flinched so hard your chair squeaked. Your breath caught in your throat as you dropped instinctively to the ground, crawling backward until your spine hit the wall.

Another bang.

Harder.

The entire door shuddered in its frame. Your blood turned to ice. What the hell is going on outside? Is someone trying to break in?

Another slam hit that made the hinges creak. You quickly scrambled to your feet, hands shaking as you grabbed the nearest thing you could find from the kitchen countertop:

a knife.

The metal felt cold and unreal in your grip.

"H-Hello?" a high-pitched voice called from the other side.

You blinked.

Another thump came—rhythmic now, like something bouncing rather than punching.

Your heart still raced, but confusion started to cut through the fear.

You crept toward the door, each step slow and silent, knife clenched so tightly your knuckles ached.

More thumps.

Then the same voice once more, louder this time.

"Hellooo!"

You swallowed hard and leaned toward the peephole. Your [e/c] eye pressed to the glass, looking anywhere the suspect might be.

Nothing. No one. Just the empty hallway.

Your skin prickled. That's impossible.

Another thump.

Right at the base of the door.

Your grip tightened around the cold metal you held in your grasp. You didn't know what you expected—someone waiting to grab you the moment you opened it, a hand, a weapon, a shadow… But your nerves couldn't take it anymore.

With a sharp inhale, you yanked the wooden door open. Awaiting for your sealed fate.

Instead, something smacked right into your shin.

Light pain flared, unexpected enough to make you gasp as you stumbled back, the knife jerking up on instinct.

Only for a black and white soccer ball to wobble across your floor before rolling to a stop near your foot.

Your eyes widened as you looked downwards. A small figure stood in the hallway across from you.

A little boy.

He instinctively scooped the ball up, quickly, as he hugged it tight to his chest like a shield, hiding behind it. Only pieces of his face showed—wide round eyes, pale cheeks, and a short messy clump of reddish-brown hair.

He looked just as surprised as you were. Like you were the scary one in this interaction. His gaze flicked down to the knife in your hand. Then back up to your face: which was contorted with confusion.

He swallowed hard before speaking, "...s-sorry, about the ball" he whispered "I didn't mean to scare you. I got bored…"

Your heart was still hammering violently, your body still buzzing with panic. Slowly—very slowly—you lowered the knife down, but you didn't put it away.

Not yet.

Not when your nerves were still raw and your mind was still screaming that something was still wrong.

"...What are you doing here?" you asked, voice strained, almost frantic. "it's late."

The boy's fingers tightened around the ball. He looked down with a pout, like it was the only thing keeping him steady, then glancing back up at you again, eyes shiny with bashfulness.

And then, like he suddenly remembered something important, his expression shifted.

He blinked fast, almost frantic, and his voice came out small.

"Um... a-are you..." he hesitated, staring at your face like he was connecting an important name to a once unknown picture.

"...Are you [y/n]?"

Your breath caught. The way he said it wasn't casual. It wasn't like he was asking a stranger for directions. It sounded like he'd been sent here with specific intentions.

"...Yes," you answered slowly, your voice softer now despite the warning bells still ringing in your mind. "I'm [y/n]."

The boy let out a breath like he'd been holding it for hours. Relief flickered across his face so fast you almost missed it. Then his grip on the ball loosened, just a little. Like he could finally stop bracing for the worst.

"I'm sorry" he said again, louder and more at ease. "I didn't mean to bother you so late. I just also... had to make sure you were [y/n]."

Your hand lowered fully now, the knife pointing toward the floor. Your eyes stayed on him, scanning quickly.

No coat too big for him. No bruises you could see. No blood. Just a kid who looked like he'd run too far on legs that were already tired.

"...What's your name?" you asked gently.

"...Dieter" he he said enthusiastically, his once unease fully gone now. Only replaced with lingering shyness a child has when first meeting someone new.

Something about that made your chest tighten. The name didn't mean anything to you, but the way he said it did, like he expected you might know it somehow.

You swallowed. "Okay, Dieter... where are your parents?"

Dieter's face fell.

His eyes darted away, toward the stairwell behind him, then back to you, and suddenly he looked smaller than he already was.

"I... I can't go back now" he admitted, voice filled with disappointed. As if it were like he would go against a parents prior words.

Your stomach dropped. "...Did someone hurt you Dieter?" you asked, worriedly and sharp despite how hard you tried to soften it.

Dieter shook his head quickly. "No—no! not like that at all. He would never... I'm fine, I promise."

He shifted his weight, the soccer ball pressed tight to his chest again, like he didn't know what else to do with his hands.

Then his eyes lifted back to you, and he spoke again, more certain this time.

"...Tenma told me to come here."

PREVIOUS CHAPTER - NEXT CHAPTER

The lovely Dieter has made an appearance!!… so has Roberto(￢_￢;) (lolol). I already have the next chapter structured out, so hopefully it’ll come out in less than a month.

If nothing goes wrong. Since my computer is so old and bad, recently none of my progress has been saving, had to rewrite the second half of this chap like three different times ahh… still working on redoing the older chapter as well. TvT

(This chapter has been out for a while, it’s just hard to formate anything on tumblr…)

[liebe-dichh]

Official Monster (2004) anime Original soundtrack vinyl and CD’s

CD’s

Two separate CD’s were made and sold (as shown down below) with all the OST from the anime’s production. Including another one, that I do not own unfortunately, that is a remix version of some the OST.

Monster original soundtrack 1

(Released on June 23, 2004.):

Inside the pamphlet includes lyrics to some of the songs. Staff credits, background info on Urasawa, and the song writer of the ending song “for the love of life” by David Sylvian, wrote:

“I was attracted to the Monster material by the moral dilemma faced by its central character. The calm surface of the music giving way to darker undercurrents signifying the conscience of the lead protagonist and the themes of morality, fate, resignation, and free will.”

2. Monster original soundtrack 2

(Released on December 22, 2004.):

The pamphlet inside includes the cast credits and some background shots from the show. Also, it comes with a sticker of the artwork of Nina/Anna on the front. (I just saw that while looking back through it lol.)

3. MONSTER remix -OCTOPUS:

A remix album of the soundtrack album to anime. Remixers include Jazztronik, Free Tempo, and more. Released on October 21, 2004 (or 2005, information online differs).

Track List:

1.GRAIN(Sunaga t Experience Remix)(Sunaga t Experience)

2.GRAIN(CALM Remix)(CALM)

3.NACHT TOUR(Cycle Remix)(Toshiyuki Goto)

4.Drift Mind(Child who dreams mix)(Free TEMPO)

5.Decola(Reggae Disco Rockers Re-production)(Reggae Disco Rockers)

6.GRAIN(Jazztronik Operation)(Jazztronik)

7.angel hand(SIGH&HIGH Bright Size Mix)(SIGH&HIGH)

8.Drift Mind(Deep Euro Mix)(TOMOKI HIRATA)

(I really wonder what these remixes sound like lolol, very interesting merch.)

Vinyl

The vinyl for the monster OST came out fairly recently on May 31, 2024. It unfortunately does not have all of the OST from the show, only some :/// it is not stated if they plan to make another vinyl, with more of the OST.

It won’t let me add another image of the back of it </3 but it’s super pretty and has a lot of songs surprisingly.

[liebe-dichh]

White Oleander on Asphalt

༄𖦹 SYNOPSIS: During your photography class, your deeply personal photograph of a crushed oleander draws the attention of Vincent—the quiet, observant boy who seems to know far more than he should. As rain falls and tensions rise, an unexpected connection forms between two people who both know what it feels like to stand out, and risk being ruined for it.

༄𖦹 INFO: Vincent/Reader | 2.8k words

༄𖦹 A/n: Just finished the movie, it was super ass. But Vincent was super cute, so here we are lolol! Vincent’s character is very inconsistent in the movie, so I tried my best to characterize him well! Also PLZ write more Vincent fics, there’s like nothingggg (this is so niche oml).

Dark clouds above swallowed what had once been a clear blue sky, smothering it in heavy shades of grey. Rain had always fallen in uncertain patterns, no matter the day. A hesitant drizzle one moment, a steady hush the next. Almost as though the heavens themselves couldn’t decide whether to remain masterfully composed or to finally break.

Your pencil moved absentmindedly across the page, the graphite whispering back and forth in lazy strokes. You weren’t really drawing, not consciously. Just letting your hand create whatever it wanted, while your mind wandered elsewhere. The margins of your paper were filled with fragmented sketches of your latest fixations, half-finished faces, flowers, and abstract shapes blending into one another.

At the front of the classroom, the photography teacher continued their usual monologue. Something about perspective. About composition. About subject matter.

You didn’t dislike them. Not exactly.

You just never understood how someone could stand there and decide what counted as art and what didn’t. How could something so personal be graded? Measured? Reduced down to a rubric?

With a soft exhale, your gaze drifted toward the window across the room. Rain streaked down the glass in uneven trails of tears, blurring the world beyond into a watercolor of greys and muted greens.

Most people hated this kind of weather. Called it depressing. Dull. Cold.

Yet, you loved it.

There was something comforting about the sky when it looked like this—heavy and honest. It felt real. Unfiltered. Like it wasn’t pretending to be brighter than it actually was.

Your eyes shifted, just for a split second.

Light blue eyes.

Piercing and unflinching.

They were already looking straight at you.

The boy sat across the room, posture relaxed. But his blue gaze didn’t dart away when you noticed. They lingered. Studying.

You turned your head away immediately, your pencil pressing harder into the paper than before.

It was nothing.

Just mere accidental eye contact. That happened in classrooms all the time. Meaningless. Empty.

Still… your pulse felt slightly uneven. The way his gaze still lingered, felt like it was more than a simple accident.

“So then, let’s get going now, everyone.” Your teacher announced, clapping their hands once. The room erupted into scraping chairs and overlapping chatter.

You blinked, momentarily disoriented. “Um… what’s going on?” you asked the classmate seated beside you.

“We’re going to the school’s art gallery,” they said quickly, already halfway out of their seat. “All of our work’s are in there.”

Before you could ask anything else, they were gone. Joining the rest of their friends. Swallowed into a cluster of louder voices and easy laughter.

You remained seated for a second longer than everyone else.

Of course. The art gallery.

Every so often, the school insisted on displaying student works from the art departments. Framing it under soft lighting, pretending teenage vulnerability was something tasteful and consumable. Much to your dismay.

Because art may be subjective. But high school students rarely are.

As you stood and joined the slow-moving crowd toward the hallway. Clusters of friends moved like migrating flocks—shoulders bumping, laughter spilling over itself, private jokes shared in careless whispers. They walked as if belonging was something effortless. As if it had simply been handed to them.

They didn’t even realize how lucky they were.

You walked alone. Not dramatically. Not pitifully. Just… separate.

Like a shadow trailing behind the brightness of everyone else.

No matter how hard you tried—adjusting your tone, your smile, your interests—it always felt like something invisible always kept you just outside the circle. As if there were some unspoken rule everyone else understood but you. A quiet curse, that seemed to be unable to break.

You glanced behind you without thinking. And there he was again. The same boy from before.

His light blue eyes were fixed on you: not sharp, not mocking. There was no smirk, no whispered comment to someone beside him. Just a steady, unreadable gaze.

It unsettled you more than cruelty would have. Could he have some secret agenda? Is it pity or judgement that hides beneath that blue gaze of his?

You tried to place his name. You knew you’d heard it before, during attendance, perhaps. Something simple. Something ordinary… But it slipped through your mind like water through open fingers.

He wasn’t loud enough to be memorable. He was one of the quiet ones. The kind who sat in the back, alone or surrounded by strangers who could care less about him. Who spoke only when called on. Who blended into the walls.

Just like you.

The class funneled into the small gallery space: white walls, track lighting, and the faint scent of printer ink and dust. Immediately, the room fractured into smaller groups. Students drifted toward their friends, pointing at certain pieces, laughing at others, barely sparing them a glance.

Some works were clearly rushed… snapshots taken the night before, poorly lit, vaguely composed. Easy grades.

Others held something heavier. Something intentional.

You moved slowly through the display, taking everything in.

Photographs. Paintings. Abstract pieces. Landscapes. Faces frozen in staged smiles.

And then, you stopped your once slow drifting steps. There it was, your photograph.

Mounted neatly against the stark white wall, framed in clean black trim.

If you’d known this one would be chosen, you wouldn’t have submitted it. You would’ve picked something safer. Something generic. A city skyline. A blurred motion shot. Something that didn’t say anything about you.

But this one:

Pink oleander flowers grew thick between highway barriers, their soft petals defiant against concrete that protected them from the cars.

And below them, on the asphalt, a single white oleander lay crushed into the road. Tire marks streaked through its petals. Run over. Discarded. Almost invisible unless someone was looking closely.

You stared at it, trying to detach yourself from it. Trying to see it the way a stranger might. Maybe they’d see contrast. Color theory. Urban decay versus nature. Maybe they’d see beauty in resilience.

But only you knew what it truly meant. Only you knew why the white flower was there.

“You never take photos of people. Only nature.” The voice was soft spoken, and close.

You were startled, breath catching as you turned sharply toward the sound.

It was him. The boy from earlier.

Up close, his eyes were even lighter than you’d thought. Observant. Like he was constantly taking notes no one else could see.

He wasn’t smiling. But he didn’t look detached either. He was studying the photograph.

Then, slowly, he looked at you.

And somehow that felt far more exposing than the framed piece on the wall.

There was no accusation in his expression. No judgment. Just curiosity.

“I don’t know… I just find them more interesting than people” you said with a small shrug, trying to make it sound casual. “They’re more genuine... And who would want to stare at a picture of a person when you could look at nature?”

The unknown boy didn’t answer right away.

The silence stretched.

Your nerves spiked instantly. Had you said too much? Maybe he only photographed people. Maybe he thought you sounded pretentious. Or stupid.

You opened your mouth to backtrack: to laugh it off, to say you didn’t really mean it—

“That’s not completely why.”

Your brows pulled together at his words. “Oh..? And why do I take them, then?”

He didn’t look at you immediately. His attention stayed on the photograph—on the white flower crushed into asphalt.

“You don’t like being looked at,” he said calmly. “Or more specifically… the consequences of being looked at.”

His words weren’t cruel. They weren’t sharp. They were only observational. Yet, your stomach tightened anyway. “That’s a weird thing to say.”

“You frame things that can’t look back,” he continued evenly. “Landscapes. Plants. Empty roads. They don’t judge you.”

Your throat felt dry. “You’re reading too much into it.”

“Maybe.” His head tilted slightly. “But I don’t think so.”

The noise of the gallery seemed distant. Classmates laughing too loudly at someone’s distorted self-portrait, sneakers squeaking against polished floors. Now it all felt muffled.

“You noticed that?” you asked quietly, before you could stop yourself.

“I tend to notice things.” His eyes shifted to you, and stayed there. That same steady, searching gaze.

You crossed your arms without meaning to. Defensive. Guarded. “So what, you’ve just been analyzing me this whole time?”

“Not analyzing,” he corrected softly. “Observing.”

“That’s even worse.”

Something almost like a genuine smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. He breathed out a breathy laugh, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

But, before you could respond:

“Well, would you look at that.” The harsh voice cut through the moment like a blade.

A group of boys approached, loud and careless, their presence shifting the air around you. One of them stepped forward with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Who would’ve guessed Vincent would be talking to another living being?”

Laughter followed.

One of the boys grabbed the supposed Vincent roughly by the shoulder and ruffled his dark hair in a mockingly affectionate gesture. “Didn’t know you were capable of social interaction.”

Vincent stilled. Then calmly removed the boy’s hand from him. “Don’t touch me unless you love me,” he said evenly.

The words weren’t aggressively shouted. They weren’t emotional with distress. No strong visible anger.

But there was something underneath:

Controlled distain and composure.

The boys burst into louder laughter. “Of course you’d say that,” one of them snorted. “You think you’re on some poetic crap.”

Your chest tightened, and before you could think, you stepped forward. Positioning yourself slightly in front of Vincent.

“Back off,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “He wasn’t doing anything to bother you.”

The group turned their attention to you.

“Oh, look at that,” one of them mocked. “He needs a little ol’ bodyguard now?”

Another guy shoved your shoulder—not hard enough to knock you down, just enough to irritate. To belittle.

“How pathetic. Can’t even defend your own wimpy self.”

You felt Vincent move behind you. “Don’t touch them.” His voice had changed. Still quiet, but colder.

It wasn’t a request.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It was a warning.

For a split second, the boy in front of you hesitated.

“Hey! What are you boys doing?” A staff member’s voice rang out across the gallery.

The group immediately backed off, muttering under their breath, annoyed at being interrupted. “Nothing,” one of them called out with a fake grin before they dispersed.

The room slowly returned to its normal hum. But your heartbeat hadn’t. There was a brief silence between you and Vincent.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said finally and almost casually. As if it all was a small accidental interaction, and not a form of intentional harassment.

The staff member lingered just long enough to ensure the boys had truly dispersed before turning away.

The gallery slowly resumed its rhythm. But the air around you and Vincent felt different now. Closer.

“They shouldn’t treat you like that.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment, thoughtful. “They shouldn’t treat you like that either.”

You hadn’t even realized your shoulder still ached faintly from the shove. You rubbed it absentmindedly.

Silence settled again—not strained, just heavy with everything that had almost happened.

You hesitated before asking, pointing toward your photo “so then… how did you mean it?”

He looked back at the photograph.

“The white one,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t belong there.”

Your chest tightened instantly.

“It fell,” you replied.

“No,” he said gently. “It was placed.”

You froze.

The noise in the room dulled, like someone had lowered the volume on the world.

“You think I staged it?” you asked, careful to keep your voice even.

“I think you wanted it there.”

His tone was soft. Not accusing. Almost careful—like he knew he was stepping across thin ice.

“Why?”

Your eyes dropped to the crushed petals in the photo.

“Because it stands out,” you said after a moment. “And sometimes standing out just means you get ruined faster.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. Too honest. Too raw.

You expected him to counter it immediately. To say something easy and reassuring.

He didn’t.

He just absorbed it.

Studied it.

“That’s not always what happens,” he said after a moment.

“It is here,” you gestured vaguely toward the gallery—toward the easy laughter, the comfortable groups, the people who didn’t have to think twice about where they stood.

“You think they’re all truly happy?” he asked.

“At least they’re not alone.”

His gaze sharpened slightly at that. “You’re not.” The certainty in his voice startled you.

You let out a quiet breath. “You don’t even know me.”

“Maybe I know more than you think.”

The honesty caught you off guard. There was no teasing in it. No bravado. Just truth.

“And what if I don’t want to be known?” you asked.

He stepped closer—not enough to crowd you, just enough that you could feel the shift. The narrowing of distance. His deliberate choice.

“Then I’d still look,” he said. “Not to expose you. Just to understand.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest.

No one had ever said something like that to you before. No one had ever seemed willing to try.

After a moment, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “You still haven’t personally told me your name.”

He watched you carefully, like he’d been waiting for that question all along.

“Vincent.”

You nodded slightly. “I’m—”

“I know,” he interrupted softly.

Your breath caught. “You do?”

That smile returned, subtle and deliberate. “I tend to notice things,” he repeated. But this time, it didn’t unsettle you.

It didn’t feel invasive. It felt intentional. And somehow… comforting.

The gallery had now thinned out since the bell had rung. Most students had already drifted toward the exit, voices fading into the hallway. The white walls felt quieter now, less performative. More honest.

You were still standing in front of your photograph. Vincent hadn’t moved far. But then, he stepped closer again, eyes tracing the image carefully. Not like someone skimming for aesthetics. Like someone reading.

Slowly, he lifted his hand—not quite touching the frame, but hovering just inches from the print.

“If it were real,” he said quietly, “I’d move it.”

“The flower?” you asked.

“Yes.”

Your arms folded loosely across your chest. “You’d ruin the meaning.”

“I’d change it.”

His fingers hovered near the crushed white oleander. “It deserves better than being flattened into symbolism.”

Your breath caught slightly. “It’s just a flower.”

“No,” he said softly. “It’s not.” His eyes shifted to you then.

And suddenly it didn’t feel like he was talking about the photograph at all.

You swallowed. “And what do you expect instead?” you asked.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his hand lowered slowly and the back of his knuckles brushed yours.

Light. Barely there. But intentional enough to matter.

Neither of you moved away.

The contact lasted only a second longer than it should have.

Then, thunder rolled faintly outside. You both glanced toward the windows at the far end of the hall.

The rain had returned. Heavier now.

By the time you stepped outside, the parking lot shimmered under sheets of grey. Students sprinted toward cars and buses, shrieking as rain soaked through their clothes.

You stopped beneath the overhang.

The air smelled like wet asphalt. You stepped out first. Cool droplets hit your skin, your hair, your lashes.

Within seconds, you were damp. But you didn’t move back.

Footsteps approached behind you. “You’re going to get drenched,” Vincent said.

“I know.”

He hesitated under the shelter. Then, without another word, stepped into the rain beside you.

You glanced at him. “Why’d you do that?”

He looked straight ahead, water sliding down the thin line of his soft jaw.

“You looked like you didn’t want to be alone.”

Your heart skipped.

The rain fell heavier now, drumming against the pavement, against your shoulders. The world felt smaller.

“You don’t mind being alone?” you asked.

“I don’t mind being misunderstood,” he corrected.

The answer lingered between you. A car sped past, spraying water along the curb. Neither of you flinched. After a moment, he turned slightly toward you.

“If that flower really fell,” he said, voice lower beneath the rain, “I’d pick it up.”

Your breath caught. “It’d already be ruined.”

“Only if you leave it there.”

The rain blurred the world around you: the school building, the parking lot, the distant noise.

For a moment, it felt like just the two of you. You studied the boy in front of you carefully.

“And if it didn’t want to be moved?”

His eyes softened, just barely.

“Then I’d still stay with it.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears. No grand confession. No dramatic gesture. Just rain.

And the quiet certainty in his voice.

And for the first time in a long time: you didn’t feel like something crushed against concrete.

You felt seen.

[akqrus]

Everyone say happy birthday to him!!!!! NOW!!!!

[lumpsofstuff]

L File No. 15

Next>>

[liebe-dichh]

Chapter 10: The Counseling Session

One Day, Three Autumns ✧ AO3 and quotev

༄𖦹 SYNOPSIS: You, who studied psychology at Düsseldorf University in Germany, with a certain Japanese man. Years later end up finding work at the prestigious Eisler Memorial Hospital. Your story intertwines with a kindhearted popular Japanese doctor named Kenzo Tenma, what will happen once he is charged with murder?

༄𖦹 INFO: Kenzo Tenma/Reader | 4.6k words

✧ One day, three autumns

A Chinese idiom that is used when you miss someone so much, one day feels as long as three years.

The once blue, clear skies had long since darkened, swallowed by the creeping twilight. The forest surrounding the lone cabin held a faint purple hue, an almost ethereal stillness settling over the trees.

Tenma held a bag of groceries close to his chest as he walked, its weight oddly grounding. Tonight, he had decided to make dinner, for once, for the people who had taken him in: Hugo the gruff once French mercenary and the quiet little girl who he had taken in.

The kitchen was nearly silent. Empty. Devoid of the usual faint shuffling of the little girl and the rough voice of Hugo. Only the soft crackling of the pot on the stove and the gentle bubbling of stew broke through the quiet. A thin veil of steam fogged the air, curling upward in lazy spirals.

Left alone with nothing but those small sounds, Tenma's mind wandered.

He hadn't cooked a proper meal like this in what felt like years—decades, even. The relentless nights of surgery upon surgery had kept him alive on takeout cartons and cold leftovers scavenged between emergency calls. His sense of home cooking had faded into something distant, almost nostalgic at best.

But before all of this, before his failed marriage, before his disappearance, before the chase, before Johan.

There had been you...

His grip tightened on the wooden spoon as memories pulled him under.

You would cook for him sometimes, whenever you visited back in Düsseldorf, while staying over at his place. You'd show up with groceries, reminding him he'd starve if left to his own devices.

Becker used to tease him mercilessly about it, nudging his shoulder with a smirk, telling him how he should "make a move before someone else takes them away."

Tenma exhaled slowly. How could he even believe he had the right to consider something like that now? How ridiculous the idea felt. Him, in the middle of a manhunt, soon to be blood on his hands, a murderer in the eyes of the world—entertaining thoughts of you.

Now that he was on the run, now that he'd inevitably have to face Johan... what space could possibly remain for someone like him in your life?

If he survived any of this, it would only be to spend the rest of his years behind bars.

His brows furrowed as the stew simmered gently beneath him. 'You shouldn't have to wait for someone like me, [y/n]... You're too good for me, for this world even.'

The image of you, standing in his kitchen one winter evening. A [f/c] apron on, humming softly to yourself as you chopped vegetables. It lingered in his mind with painful clarity. It was a memory preserved with the tenderness of something he'd never allow himself to reach for again.

Whoever you ended up marrying, if you weren't already taken by now, they would be impossibly lucky.

"It's a traditional Japanese stew with meat and potatoes" Tenma said gently, setting the steaming bowls down at the dining table "go on, try it."

Hugo looked down at the stew with his typical frown like a stubborn child. The little girl, saying nothing as usual, looked down at the food at what one could maybe even call curiosity.

Hugo's immediate struggle with the chopsticks drew laughter from the girl. A moment of warmth. A moment of family. Their simple joy filled the room, and for a fleeting moment, Tenma found himself smiling too.

But for Tenma, the laughter only sharpened the ache in his chest.

Even here, even surrounded by fragile peace, the realization hit him harder than expected: he would never have another night like this with you. Never feel the soft glow of your presence across his old chipped table. Never hear you praise his cooking or tease him for slicing potatoes too thick.

He had known, logically, the moment he chose this path.

He was cutting himself out of your future.

But now... now that he was living it... the weight of that decision felt crushing.

There would be no more you. Your intricate way of seeing the world, your appreciation for the small things, your unwavering gentleness. Your voice. Your smile. Your warmth. Your everything.

All gone.

Tenma had vanished from your life, and by all accounts, he should be grateful. You were safe. Unharmed. Far from the darkness that would followed him.

But somewhere deep inside—buried beneath guilt, duty, and despair—something selfish stirred.

A quiet, aching part of him wished he hadn't let go.

Wished he could go back.

Wished he could see you again, just once more.

And that secret, fragile regret was the heaviest sin of all.

✽𖦹✽𖦹✽

You lay the top half of your body across your desk, face pressed against your forearm. From the moment you returned to Munich, you'd been swallowed whole by a mountain of work waiting for you; files, appointments, intake forms, evaluations, meetings, emergency consultations.

All of it dumped onto your plate the second your coat hit the chair.

You groaned, shutting your tired eyes.

'Please,' you begged silently, 'just one moment of rest. One. Moment.'

You had never felt so mentally exhausted in your life. Not only were you burning your energy on the new semester: new students, new schedules, new administrative duties. but you were also quietly destroying yourself with worry over Tenma. The constant, gnawing fear of what he might be going through. Where he was. Whether he was safe. Whether he was even alive.

It all pressed down on you like a weight you couldn't shake.

You grumbled into your sleeve, trying to quiet your racing mind. The soft hum of the radiator and the faint rustle of leaves outside your office window slowly lulled you into stillness. Your breathing softened. Your limbs grew heavy. Everything began to fade into a comforting darkness...

Until a loud BANG shook the entrance door.

You jolted upright with a gasp, heart leaping into fight mode. For a split second you were ready to throw your stapler at whoever dared break into a university office of all places.

But instead of a burglar, or even the university principal, you were met with two students. One familiar, one not.

"Hey there, Dr. [l/n], how's it going?" Lotte chirped, far too energetic, and far too suspiciously cheerful. Her tone was a badly wrapped package with 'TROUBLE' scribbled all over it.

You let out a long sigh, shoulders slumping "Lotte, what did I tell you about barging in here without knocking?"

"But we've got important business, doctor!" she whined dramatically, leaning across your desk as if declaring war. "We need your help. You're the only one we can trust."

You glanced at the boy standing awkwardly behind her. Curly dark hair, uncomfortable posture—clearly mortified by Lotte's theatrics. He looked like he'd been dragged here against his will.

You sat up a little straighter and offered him a gentle smile "Hello there. I don't think we've met before. I'm the school's therapist, Dr. [l/n]."

The boy nodded politely "Karl Neumann. It's a pleasure."

Your lips twitched into a knowing smirk.

'Ah,' you thought smugly, 'so this is Karl. The boy Lotte won't shut up about.'

Lotte made a strangled noise at your expression, already knowing exactly what you were thinking. "Okay great, formalities done. Now you need to help us!" she blurted.

"If this is about a schedule change," you began, "you'll need to speak with-"

"No, not that!" Lotte cut in, throwing her hands up. "We need information on a student. Edmund Fahren. Blond, pretty face, the so called Thursdays boy—"

You frowned sharply "Lotte, you know I can't give out personal information about other students. That would be breaking confidentiality, I could lose my job."

"Please, you have to!" Lotte exclaimed, eyes wide with desperation "This is serious, he could be trying to take Karl's inheritance!"

Your brows drew together "Well then you should go to the police if it's that serious. I'm sorry, but I can't risk being fired. Or sued. Or both."

Karl finally stepped forward, his voice soft but earnest.

"Please... any information would be helpful."

You stared at them. At Karl's worried face. At Lotte's frantic one. At the clock. At your unfinished paperwork. At the sleep you were so violently denied.

You exhaled slowly and turned to your computer.

"Alright," you muttered tiredly, pulling up the directory "I can't tell you anything personal. But" you clicked through a few windows "if you're quick, you'll catch him in English Literature right now."

Lotte lit up, grabbing both your hands across the desk like you'd just saved her from a burning building.

"THANK YOU—thank you!!" she squealed, practically dragging Karl out the door. "You're the best!"

The moment they left, you slumped back in your chair with a groan.

'God. Those two.'

You couldn't help but smile a little, though. Their chaotic energy—Lotte's determination, Karl's anxious politeness—it reminded you a little too much of your younger self.

Of your university days.

Of how you used to run through halls breathlessly seeking advice from Professor Reichwein, practically begging the older man to help you navigate whatever emotional mess you'd stumbled into.

And in the back of your mind, uninvited but persistent, came another memory:

Tenma's soft voice.

His tired smile.

His gentle hands guiding you up from the grass years ago, beneath a moonlit sky.

You rubbed your forehead, exhausted all over again.

This job was going to kill you before the stress over Tenma ever did.

Lotte and Karl practically sprinted down the hallway, the echo of their rushed footsteps bouncing off the empty afternoon corridors.

"English literature... room 204, right?" Karl asked, slightly breathless.

"Yep! Come on, if we miss him because you walk like an eighty-year-old man, I swear—"

But the moment they skidded around the corner and peered through the classroom door, their excitement deflated.

The room was practically empty.

Chairs half-pushed in, sunlight slicing across the rows of desks, and not a single blond head in sight.

"What—? He's gone?" Lotte whined, pushing the door open and sticking her head inside as if Edmund might be hiding under a desk.

Karl stepped in behind her, scanning the room "but the class should've ended just five seconds ago. He couldn't have vanished that fast..."

Lotte groaned dramatically "ugh, of course he did. Of course today is the one day he decides to skip."

Karl's gaze lowered, expression tightening with worry rather than frustration. "We should still try to find him. What if he really is connected to all this...?"

Lotte bit her lip, then nodded. "Okay. Then we check his apartment. You still have the address, right?"

Karl held up a neatly folded slip of paper "I... uh... wrote it down. Just in case."

"Great!" Lotte grabbed his sleeve and pulled him toward the stairwell "then let's go before he disappears off the planet."

The two bickered lightly the entire way out of the building. In that same moment, you were slipping out through the front doors as well.

The sky was clear, a washed-out winter blue, but the cold bit through your coat all the same. A familiar kind of cold. Not the pleasant kind—it crawled up your spine in a way that echoed another rainy night, almost a decade ago.

That one rainy night that changed everything.

You shook the thought off, but it clung stubbornly.

A sudden honk snapped you back to the present. You were startled, stepping back from the curb as a car sped past.

"Great" you muttered under your breath, still startled "at this rate I'm going to walk straight into traffic or a ditch. Fantastic."

Still annoyed with yourself, you adjusted your bag and kept walking—until you felt it.

A stare.

Your [e/c] eyes lifted, scanning instinctively across the street.

And there he was.

A young man stood at the bus stop opposite to you—around college age, maybe a bit younger. Blond hair tugged by the wind, posture relaxed, a faint smile curling the corners of his pale mouth.

But it was his eyes that froze you in place.

soft blue.

Sharp.

Familiar.

'I've seen those eyes before...'

Your feet slowed without you realizing, the noise of the street fading into a dull hum. The boy didn't look away. Didn't blink. He watched you with the kind of quiet attention that made your chest tighten. Not purely curiosity, not recognition... something else. Something...

A bus screeched to a stop in front of him, blocking your view.

You blinked, took a breath.

And when the bus pulled away, the spot was empty.

The boy was gone—vanished as if he'd never been there in the first place.

A shiver crawled up your arms despite the sunlight.

You weren't sure if it was the cold...

...or the feeling that someone had just looked right through you.

✽𖦹✽𖦹✽

That night, as you lay in bed, the silence felt unnervingly familiar.

Almost like that night—over nine years ago—except there was no rain hammering against the windows, no storm swallowing Düsseldorf whole.

Just a heavy, unmoving darkness settling over Munich like a suffocating blanket.

Still, sleep came quickly. Too quickly. And in the quiet, you couldn't have known what horrors were waiting for you when the sun rose.

By morning, everything seemed normal. Peaceful, even. No traffic on your way to the university. No frantic scramble to get ready. No spilled coffee. For a brief moment, you let yourself believe it would be another ordinary day.

But that illusion shattered the second you stepped onto the brick walkway leading toward the faculty building.

A group of students huddled together, their faces pale, whispering urgently. Before you could ask what was going on, a hand clamped onto your shoulder. You flinched.

"[L/n], where have you been? It's been chaos since the news got out," a staff member whispered harshly, eyes darting around.

You blinked, "What are you talking about?"

There was no explanation—only urgency. You were ushered away from the crowd and straight into an emergency staff meeting.

The room felt colder than the hall outside.

The principal spoke with a strained voice, "One of our students... Edmund Fahren... he was found yesterday afternoon. He" a pause "he committed suicide."

A hush fell over the room.

It wasn't unheard of for students to break under impossible pressure. It was a tragedy every university dreaded, but one you had yet to dealt with before. Yet hearing Edmund's name hit you like a punch to the chest.

Yesterday Karl and Lotte were searching for him. That same boy. Worried. Frantic. And you... you had brushed them off. You had given them his schedule and sent them on their way with barely more than an exhausted sigh.

And now the boy was gone.

Your breath came out shaky 'I should've done something... I should've noticed...'

But Edmund had never come to you. Never sought counseling. You had no prior sessions, no warning signs. Still, guilt settled over you like a fresh layer of frost.

The principal continued, "Effective immediately, mandatory counseling sessions will be scheduled for all students. This applies to every department. We need to ensure no one feels alone or overwhelmed."

Your pulse quickened. That meant days—maybe even weeks—of nonstop sessions, student after student carrying fear, grief, paranoia. And you, expected to keep yourself together while dealing with your own unraveling mental state.

"And," the principal added, "if any students come forward with information about Edmund's final days, all leads will be forwarded to the police. This will be a full investigation."

You slowly nodded along with the rest of the staff, but your mind drifted, unwillingly, back to Karl, back to Lotte, back to the cold blue eyes of that blond boy who watched you from across the street the day before.

You had seen eyes like that before.

And the certainty that something was terribly wrong settled deep in your gut.

The next few days passed in a blur of back-to-back sessions, each one blending into the next. Students filed in and out of your office—some irritated, some indifferent, some grateful to have a space to let out the pressure they'd been carrying.

You couldn't begin to count how many names you'd checked off your list, how many anxious faces you'd tried to soften with reassurance.

Most students clearly just wanted to get the mandatory session over with so they could return to studying. But others... others came in trembling, or exhausted, or quietly grateful for even ten minutes of someone listening. You offered what comfort you could, even as the weight of it all settled deeper into your shoulders with every passing hour.

Lotte had been one of them.

Presumably, Karl had been assigned to another counselor, because she arrived alone—red eyed, tense, barely keeping herself together. She and Karl hadn't known Edmund personally, but they had seen his hanging body with their own eyes.

A sight no young adult should ever have to witness.

Lotte cried through most of the session, her voice shaking as she recounted what happened. You felt your heart sink with every word, every tremble. You comforted her as best you could—soft reassurance, a steady presence.

But you knew some wounds could only ever fade with time, this being one of them.

When she finally left, you exhaled slowly and turned back to your old computer. You checked off her name on the long list of students and rubbed your tired eyes. You weren't sure how much more emotional whiplash your mind could take.

Still, before you could click open the next students file, the office door creaked open behind of you.

"Come in," you said automatically, writing a final note for the police before you could turn around "have a seat, I'll be with you in just a moment."

There was a gentle pause.

"Good afternoon... Doctor."

The voice was soft. Polite. Calm.

You finished up the last line of your report, then lifted your head as you turned in your chair and froze.

Your words died in your throat.

Sitting across from you, perfectly composed in the chair opposite to your desk, was the same boy you had seen a few days ago at the bus stop.

The same boy who vanished behind a passing bus as if he had never been there in the first place.

Light blond hair framing his, concerningly, pale face. Blue eyes so angelic, so calm, so unreadable... and so deeply familiar it made something cold curl in your stomach.

He offered a faint almost-smile.

As if he already knew you'd somewhat recognize him.

For a moment, words refused to form. Your breath caught halfway up your throat as the boy's pale blue eyes regarded you with unreadable calm.

He looked the same as he had at the bus stop; soft smile, gentle posture, the light blond hair fluttering faintly whenever the office heater clicked on.

Familiar, but in the way a shadow looks familiar: something glimpsed once, somewhere, in a moment you weren't sure was real.

"...You," you murmured before you could stop yourself.

His head tilted, just slightly "Me?"

You shook the thought from your mind, straightening in your chair. Putting on your professional face "Never mind, sorry. I thought I recognized you from somewhere."

"You probably did," he replied lightly "Campus is small."

Somehow, that harmless explanation settled uncomfortably in your stomach.

You cleared your throat, the professional mask slipping back into place "alright then... let's begin." You lifted your clipboard, "what's your name?"

His once composed smile faltered, as if that one simple question was like a bullet to the head, yet no answer came out of the man. He turned his solemn gaze to look out the window, as if in deep sadden contemplation.

"That's unusual," you muttered, "Is something the matter?" you said before you were swiftly cut off.

"Is it?" he mused, masking his former expression as if it were never there to begin with "some people prefer not to leave too many traces of themselves lying around."

A strange answer, indeed. But before you could question it, he continued:

"I'm a first-year. I study in the school of law."

A lie. Perfectly crafted.

You forced yourself to nod, you could just look up the boys name afterwards, writing it down even though something about it itched at the back of your mind. Your instincts tugged at you—This isn't right. This boy isn't right.

"Alright," you said slowly, glancing up. "How can I help you today?"

He studied your face for a moment, as though measuring your every micro-expression.

"Well," he said, folding his hands neatly in his lap, "I heard you've been speaking to a lot of students recently. About the incident. The one that had recently occurred."

Your chest tightened.

"Yes," you answered carefully. "It's been... a difficult week for the university and everyone here."

"I imagine it has." His tone was gentle, almost seemingly sympathetic. "You must be exhausted. Taking on everyone's grief like that."

You blinked, "It is my job. And everyone needs a shoulder to rest on every once and awhile. Especially now..."

"Of course. But that doesn't make it easier." He leaned forward slightly. "People forget that caretakers need care too."

A faint chill crawled up your spine. Nothing he said was threatening. In fact, every word was kind. Soft. Considerate.

And yet... something in those blue eyes of his didn't match the warmth in his voice.

He continued, "I thought maybe you could use someone to talk to. Someone who isn't coming to you with tears or demands."

"Ah... I appreciate the concern," you said, forcing a smile. "But this time is for you, alright? Not for me."

"Is it?" His voice slipped into something quieter. "You seem troubled."

You stiffened.

"I'm not troubled," you insisted gently. "I'm just tired."

"Hmm." His gaze didn't waver "Tired looks different on most people."

Your fingers curled slightly against the edge of your clipboard.

"Mister," you said, steadying yourself "did you come into this session because you're struggling with the recent events? Or is something else bothering you?"

He paused.

Then his smile softened into something serene. Almost beautiful.

"Oh" he whispered, "I'm not here about the tragedy, Dr. [L/n]. I'm here because I've been curious about you."

Your breath hitched.

"Curious... about me?"

"Yes." His eyes glimmered like glass catching light. "I hear you're someone who truly listens and will do anything in their power to help an helpless individual in need"

The air in the room seemed to thin.

"And I've always been fascinated," he added quietly, "by people who can see into others."

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

There it was again, that feeling of familiarity. Faint, blurred, as if a memory half-erased.

Where had you seen those eyes before?

Where?

Where??

Where???

Your pulse fluttered under your skin, but you steadied your tone.

"Alright... let's go back to the session," you forced your breathing to slow, made your voice level. "You said you were curious about me. Why?"

His fingers tapped once against his knee, gentle and rhythmic "curiosity isn't a sin, is it?"

"No," you answered cautiously, "but motivations matter. Most students come to me because they're struggling, or because they need help processing something emotional."

He watched you quietly. Too quietly.

"And what," he asked, tilting his head, "makes you think I'm any different?"

You blinked confused "But you just said—"

"I said I was curious," he interjected, still smiling "but curiosity can come from struggling too, don't you think? People look into others when they're unsure of themselves."

Your brows furrowed. You opened your mouth to speak, but he continued smoothly.

"You've been losing sleep," he observed. "Your eyes are tense. Your shoulders, stiff." His gaze slid slowly, deliberately, over your posture. "You're carrying too much."

A faint thud echoed in your heartbeat.

"How... how would you know that?" you whispered.

"Because you hide it very poorly."

Something in his tone wasn't mocking or ignorantly matter of factly... it was almost tender. But it did not belong on a boy his age. It belonged to someone older, wiser, or maybe even a young child... a child who had seen far too much.

You cleared your throat "Once again... the session is for you. Not for analyzing me."

"That's the thing," he murmured. "People don't realize how much they reveal while trying to help others. Especially someone like you."

"Someone like me?"

"The type," he said softly "who still believes people can be saved."

Your breath stopped.

His smile widened by a millimeter.

You couldn't breathe for a second.

Then you forced yourself upright. "I'm going to have to redirect us, alright? Let's talk about your stress. Your classes. Your social circle. Anything that might be weighing on you."

You felt like you were losing your mind in that moment. Going around in circles, like a game of cat and mouse. A game you never wanted to join in. A game you had unknowingly entered years ago.

The boy didn't blink.

Finally, he nodded. "Of course."

But it wasn't agreement.

It was permission.

You swallowed again, the tension thickening around your ribs. "So... what brought you in today?"

He paused for a heartbeat.

Then.

"I wanted to confirm something."

"...Confirm what?"

He leaned forward just a little, and his voice dropped to that soft, careful whisper that made your stomach twist.

"That you were exactly the kind of person I imagined."

Your fingers froze around your pen.

"And now," Johan—though you didn't know of that name yet—continued "I'm sure."

He rose from the chair, quiet as a ghost. "Thank you, Doctor. This was... very enlightening."

"But we're not finished with your session," you managed to squeeze out.

"Oh, we are" he said gently, already turning toward the door "you gave me exactly what I needed."

Your pulse hammered.

He paused with his hand on the doorknob.

Then he looked back at you—blue eyes calm, soft, and impossibly hollow.

"Get some sleep, Dr. [L/n]. Exhaustion makes people fragile."

The door clicked shut behind him.

You quickly turn to check your records. To see any more information of the boy who had just left. But no matter how many times you reread the schedule. The student records. There was no boy who was scheduled in with you that fit his description.

Almost as if he wasn't even a student at the school.

And you sat frozen, breath caught in your lungs, your heart beating far too hard for a simple counseling session.

You weren't sure why... but for the first time in years.

You were frighten.

✽𖦹✽𖦹✽

Across the city, in a cramped apartment lit only by a flickering lamp, Tenma sat at the edge of a makeshift cot, a gun laid up against the sheets.

Everything was quiet.

Too quiet.

A chill ran through Tenma—sudden, sharp, instinctive.

He stood abruptly, breath tight.

That feeling.

That terrible, suffocating pull in his chest he hadn't felt in years. The kind he only felt when something—someone—was in danger.

He braced a hand against the table, eyes clouding.

"...[y/n]?"

He didn't know why your name came to him.

But the dread blooming in his chest was unmistakable.

Something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

And miles away, beneath the dim lights of the Munich streets...

...Johan Liebert smiled.

PREVIOUS - NEXT CHAPTER

A/n: Johan pops in this chapter, to wish you all a late merry Christmas! Definitely for no other plan or reason… ( ◡‿◡ *)

And so the Munich arc begins!, my personal favorite arc in monster, I'm so excited for all the drama of what is to come next in the future. ^^

[savangrxnt]

Grimmer, a literal polyglot that speaks German, English, Spanish, French, Russian, when he went to Prague and didn’t have Czech on his repertoire:

[any0-o]

[spiraphobia]

"Something's wrong. My right eye can't seem to focus."

- Uzumaki (2024) | Episode 1

[liebe-dichh]

Through the Blur

༄𖦹 SYNOPSIS: A routine night in Munich after class spirals into chaos, when you unknowingly stumble into one of Johan's secretive plans. Captured and drugged by a dangerous stranger (Roberto), you drift in and out of consciousness—until Johan appears. Calm and precise, rescuing you in his inimitable way. The two of you share quiet, moments in the back of a car, where his cold, controlled presence offers both safety and a disquieting closeness.

༄𖦹 INFO: Johan Liebert/Reader | 5.6k words | Oneshot

༄𖦹Warnings: None, just Roberto.

Orange and amber-tinted leaves drifted lazily from the trees, spinning in the cool air before landing softly on the pavement below. The scene carrying an almost movie-like essence, fitting for the kind of cozy fall evening—one that felt both peaceful and lonely. 

The soft tap of the heel of your shoes echoed down the empty walkway, each step accompanied by the faint rustle of fallen leaves. Your fingers, nearly frozen, clutched the strap of your school bag in a halfhearted attempt at warmth.

Munich University, once bursting with chatter and movement, was now silent. Emptied of its usual life. You had stayed after class for help on a project, something that was supposed to take only an hour or two. But the time, as always, had slipped away.

The sun that once painted the sky in golds and reds had now long sunk beneath the horizon, leaving behind a wash of cool gray and violet tones. The streetlamps flickered to life one by one, halos of light against the encroaching dark.

With no buses left running this late, much to your dismay, you were left to walk the long way back to your small apartment. To pass the time, your mind began to wander...

to the half-finished assignments waiting on your desk, to the comforting hum of streetlights that filled the emptiness of the night, and inevitably, to him.

Johan.

You wondered if he, in this same moment, was tucked away somewhere. Quietly reading or working on an almost due assignment with that same measured calm he always carried.

Johan Liebert—seemingly flawless in almost every way. Probably perfect grades, polite words, that faintly distant smile that seemed to know too much. His light golden hair always fell effortlessly into place, his deep melancholic carrying blue eyes-

You stopped mid-step, horrified by the turn your thoughts had taken. A flush of embarrassment warmed your cheeks as you gave your head a quick shake, muttering to yourself under your breath. 

You weren't supposed to think about him like that—not someone like him. Not only was he far out of your league, or anyone's for that matter.

 But as well, you were friends... or something like it. Close enough, perhaps, though Johan always seemed to keep a quiet, invisible distance between himself and everyone around him.

But you would like to think that you've managed to leave a small crack in his invisible cold outer shell.

Above, the darkening clouds gathered thickly, veiling the moon. The air turned heavy with the scent of upcoming rain. Usually, you might've welcomed it; the soft patter, the fresh smell of earth. But not tonight. Not with your bag full of important papers and books. The idea of a sudden downpour was enough to quicken your steps.

You glanced around, frowning at the empty street. The sound of your own footsteps was unnervingly loud now. You'd need to take a shortcut if you wanted to make it home before the rain began.

Your eyes flitted from one street sign to another, trying to remember the layout of this part of town. Then, a small recollection surfaced—a conversation over lunch with Karl and Lotte. They'd been in the midst of their endless search for information about Hans Georg Schuwald, endlessly ranting to you about their theories and advents and more importantly, about an alley they'd taken one night that led almost directly toward your neighborhood.

You exhaled slowly, scanning the street until your gaze landed on a narrow opening between two buildings. The alley was dimly lit, its entrance framed by overgrown ivy and crumbling brick. It had to be the same one they mentioned.

"Perfect," you muttered, mostly to convince yourself.

Pulling your bag's strap tighter against your shoulder, you stepped into the dark alleyway, leaving behind the familiar glow of the main road.

But the farther you had walked, the more uneasy you became. Every turn led to another narrow passage, another dim corridor that looked almost near identical to the last. 

Karl and Lotte never mentioned which exact route they'd taken that night, and it was only now, as the shadows grew thicker and the silence heavier, that you realized just how foolish it had been to mindlessly follow their vague directions.

"This has to be the thirtieth alley I've turned down," you muttered to yourself, clutching your bag closer. A nervous laugh escaped your lips, thin and brittle "Great job. Really smart"

Your shoes clicked against the now uneven cobblestone, the sound echoing off damp brick walls. The air smelled faintly of smoke and wet concrete. Every instinct told you that this wasn't the right place—not even close.

Up ahead, the alley opened slightly into a small stretch of road. A woman stood beneath a flickering streetlight, her silhouette shifting in the dim glow. Relief flickered in your chest at the sight of another person, maybe someone who could point you toward the main road. But as you drew closer, that hope faded fast.

She wasn't the sort of person you could easily ask for directions. Her outfit was revealing, her posture languid and confident, her smile sharp enough to draw blood.

You dropped your gaze to the ground, hoping to slip past unnoticed. But the tap of your shoes betrayed you.

"Hey, sweetheart," she called out, her voice husky with smoke and amusement. "You look a little lost." She took a slow drag from her cigarette, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that curled in the cold air "How about you spend the night with me instead? I promise it'll be an experience you'll never forget."

Your words stumbled out in a rush, polite but firm refusals as you tried to step away. The woman's grin faltered, twisting into irritation.

"Oh, come on. If you're not gonna play, at least spare a little cash. I'm running low tonight." Her tone turned rough, her hand suddenly gripping your shoulder with surprising strength.

That was all the warning you needed. You yanked yourself free and bolted, the sound of her angry shout chasing after you "Hey! Come back here!" until it faded into the maze of echoing streets.

You then burst out of the alleyway, breath heaving, heart pounding in your chest. But what greeted you wasn't anything much better. The street before you was lined with bright flickering neon lights and crowded with people; mostly women like the one before, their laughter sharp, their eyes dull. Men lingered around them, hands exchanging bills, whispers traded for something darker.

Panic flushed through you as you realized exactly where you'd ended up. The red-light district.

You tried to walk faster, eyes locked ahead, ignoring the calls that followed you. The teasing offers, the jeers, the low laughter that made your skin crawl. A few men stepped too close, their colon and alcohol-scented breath clinging to the air. Every refusal you gave only seemed to amuse them more.

You just needed to find a map. A main road. Anything familiar.

You turned another corner, your pulse racing in your ears. The world around you blurred into color and noise--until, suddenly, one sound cut through it all.

A voice. Calm. Smooth. Familiar.

"Do you perhaps know where I could find the Red Heidelberg?"

You froze mid-step. That voice... you'd know it anywhere.

You turned toward the sound, scanning the crowd until your eyes caught a flash of blond under a flickering neon light.

A man, tall and composed as ever, walked near the edge of the sidewalk, speaking quietly to another women who clung tightly onto his arm. To which was seemingly unimportant to him.

"Geez," the stranger replied, heavily unimpressed, quickly letting go of her once tight grip on his arm "That's what you're into? Suit yourself kid. She's right down that alleyway there, up the stairs."

The boys response was polite, almost warm "Thank you."

Now getting a full glimpse of the boy, there he was.

Johan Liebert.

The crowd seemed to blur around him, the world narrowing to the sight of his calm expression and pale hair glinting faintly in the sickly neon glow.

Your heart nearly leapt out of your chest. For the first time that night, relief surged through you. Someone familiar, someone safe. Johan of all people could certainly help you out of this mess.

You quickened your pace, almost breaking into a light sprint after him, but your steps faltered halfway there.

You froze, warmth spreading to your face, not from the chill in the air, but from embarrassment and disbelief. 

Johan? Here? Looking for... a woman?

No. That couldn't be right...

You wanted to laugh it off, to tell yourself it was a misunderstanding, but your mind spiraled regardless. Maybe... maybe even he had a side you didn't know about. Everyone at the university always saw him as untouchable, perfect, maybe this was the type of things that he did when no one was looking.

You took a hesitant step forward. He didn't look lost the way you did. His movements were too sure, too deliberate. If anything, he looked intentional—like he knew exactly where he was going. And he hadn't been asking for directions home, he'd been asking for someone. Someone called 'The Red Heidelberg?'

The thought stung more than it should have.

You stopped, torn between wanting to call out to him and wanting to pretend you hadn't seen any of this at all. Because what would you even say? 'Hey Johan, funny seeing you in the red-light district. What 'cha doing in a place like this so late?'

As if the answer wasn't obvious itself.

You let out a shaky breath, your pulse pounding in your ears.

Still, something about him seemed off. It wasn't the kind of nervousness you'd expect from someone sneaking around for pleasure. It was too measured. Too quiet. The way he glanced down the alley before walking—not out of shame, but perhaps calculation.

You stood there, caught between disbelief and dread. Maybe you'd misunderstood. Maybe he had his reasons. Maybe this was some secret sexual part of his life you were never meant to see. But it was Johan. He wasn't like that. He couldn't be..!

Your mind twisted itself in circles as his figure grew smaller, swallowed by the narrow alleyway ahead.

Then, footsteps behind you. Heavy. Too heavy to be someone friendly.

Instinct kicked in before logic had the chance. You bolted.

You darted into the same alley Johan where had disappeared down moments before, your shoes striking against the damp pavement. The flickering light overhead turned his departing figure into a blur of motion, the pale shape of him ascending a flight of metal stairs that led to a single closed door.

"Johan—!"

You barely got the first syllable of his name out before the door shut behind him with a sharp metallic click.

Panting, you reached the bottom of the stairs, fingers brushing the cold railing as you hesitated going up with each new step you took. Your hand lifted toward the door handle, then froze midair.

You couldn't.

Whatever he was doing here, whoever he was meeting... this wasn't a place you belonged. And maybe, for the first time, you weren't sure you wanted to know what he was capable of.

Your hand fell back to your side. A sigh escaped you, small and shaky. You stared at the door for a moment longer, your chest tight with confusion. You'd never imagined Johan as the type to wander into places like this, and the thought left something bitter in your throat. Not pure disappointment, exactly. Something more complicated. Something heavier.

You turned away, descending the stairs slowly, each step echoing hollowly against the brick walls. "I'll just... find a phone booth," you muttered, mostly to convince yourself you still had some control over the night.

The alley stretched ahead, long and dim, the end lost to shadow. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and started forward again, trying not to think about the questions swirling in your mind.

That was when you heard it—footsteps behind you.

Not light like Johan's. These were firm, dragging slightly with each step. Male.

"Hey," a voice called from behind you, deep and slutry. "What's a cute thing like you doing all alone in a place like this?"

You didn't even look back. You were too tired, too done with this night. "I've had a long day," you said flatly, exhaustion bleeding into your tone. "I don't want anything from you—even if you think it's worth my while." The sarcasm cracked in your throat. "Just... leave me alone."

A low chuckle rolled through the air behind you. Not the drunken kind—something darker. Deliberate.

You froze mid-step.

"I said, I don't want-"

Before you could finish, something heavy landed on your shoulder. A hand, one that was large and unyielding. You turned your head just enough to see the man. Broad build. Suit jacket. Brown hair receding at the temples.

"Well, aren't you polite," he drawled, voice dripping with mockery. He stepped closer. "You shouldn't be here, sweetheart. Not tonight."

You tried to steady your breathing, "I—I just got lost. I was just leaving."

"Oh, I don't think so."

His grip tightened. Panic flared through you. You tried to wrench free, but he slammed you against the nearest wall. Pain exploded across your back. Before you could process anything, a rough cloth was pressed over your mouth before you could scream—the sharp, chemical sting hit your nose, burning your lungs.

You thrashed, muffled protests swallowed by the fabric. The alley spun around you, the bricks twisting and blurring like melting wax.

Through in the dizzy haze, you caught a glimpse of movement.

A shadow, a flash of pale hair under the dim red light.

For a second, you thought you saw him.

Your mind tried to make sense of it—Johan, the Red Heidelberg, the man holding you.

but the world was fading too fast.

Your knees buckled, and darkness rose up to meet you.

The world came back in fragments.

The hum of an engine.

The faint vibration of the car beneath you.

Leather pressing cold against your cheek.

Everything felt fuzzy and slow. You blinked sluggishly, the world still swimming out of focus. Shapes blurred together—light, shadow, movement—but nothing made sense yet. All you could make out was the faint smell of leather and something faintly clean, like soap and cold air.

You were in the backseat of a car.

The realization barely registered. The first thing any sane person would do would be to panic, to scream for help, to claw at the door handles until they opened. But your body refused to do any of that. Your limbs felt heavy, your head filled with fog. The only thing you had strength for was to stare ahead at the dim interior and try to remember how you got here in the first place.

'Did that man from earlier... drug and kidnap me?'

The thought came and went without weight. Normally, panic would've come next, but you still couldn't muster it. Everything felt distant, like you were watching from outside your own body.

You weren't sure how long you'd been drifting like that, caught somewhere between conscious and unconscious. But then, two voices reached you faintly from outside the car, broken by the wind.

"Ah, I see," a gruff voice said, probably the one from before, low and unpleasant "So they're one of your university... "friends"?"

A quiet pause followed, then the man spoke again. "Found them wandering near. So I assumed—"

The rest was muffled, lost to the sound of the engine and your sluggish mind.

Your eyelids grew heavier. Reality began to unravel at the edges, your thoughts slipping into nonsense. Maybe this wasn't real at all. Maybe you were dreaming, or trapped in some elaborate dream, or maybe your name wasn't even your real name. You let out a soft, drowsy laugh at the absurdity of it, the sound fragile and half-delirious.

Then, the click of a car door.

Cold air brushed your skin as the seat beside you shifted. Someone slid in next to you, as their side faintly brushed your own. With the air in the car itself changing quieter--less lonely almost. Whoever it was that entered didn't speak at first. Just staring, as if the world itself, expect the two of you, had frozen in time.

Through half-lidded eyes, you caught glimpses of the person seated next to you: dark shoes, beige pants, the faint outline of a brown suit jacket. And then... pale blond hair, falling just slightly into a pair of clear, yet distant, blue eyes.

Eyes that were watching you this whole interaction.

You slowly blinked a few times, confusion mixing with faint recognition. You knew those eyes. You were sure of it. Those were the one things you were certain were real in this car, or even the world itself.

"[y/n]," the voice came, soft and even. Catching your, once again, wandering attention.

You mumbled a quiet hum, your head fulling turning toward him instead of your previous quick side glance. The small motion made your vision spin, but when it steadied after a moment, you found yourself staring right at him.

"...Ah..." you breathed, blinking slowly. "...it's you... Johan."

The name felt strange on your tongue—both foreign and familiar. You managed a small, sleepy smile "Wha...cha doin' here?"

Something faint flickered across his face, amusement, perhaps. His studious expression softened in a way, lips curving just slightly.

"I should be asking you that," he murmured, voice steady and low "You've had quite the night."

His tone wasn't mocking. Or detached like it sometimes was—it was soft, quiet, almost tender. The sound of it seemed to reach through the fog in your head, settling somewhere deep, somewhere warm. Your halflided eyes blinked up at him slowly, your mind sluggish but aware enough to catch the faint trace of what one might call, concern in his eyes.

The edges of everything—his face, the car, even the sound of the engine—blurred together. The world felt distant, muffled, and he was the only thing that stayed in focus.

Then, as your muddled thoughts tangled together, a breathy sound escaped you, almost a gasp "Per... pervert..." you muttered, words slurred and broken, "you... shouldn't've known that I... saw you..."

Your voice was so soft that you could barely tell if it even made it past your lips, but Johan caught every syllable. His brows drew together ever so slightly, the faintest flicker of confusion crossing his expression.

"Pervert?" he echoed, his tone curious rather than offended, as though he were dissecting the word over in his mind. His gaze drifted away for a brief moment before returning to you, eyes sharp but unreadable.

Realizing what you'd said, your stomach twisted with embarrassment. You turned your head in the opposite direction, causing your body to sway, while weakly lifting your hands as if to shield yourself from your own mortification. "Mmh... forget it..." you mumbled, voice barely audible.

Before your fingers could reach your face, a cool touch stopped you. Johan's hand closed gently around your fingers, steady but careful, his grip featherlight compared to the older man who had dragged you here earlier.

You froze.

His skin was cold, almost startlingly so, but his touch wasn't harsh. He guided your trembling hands down, his fingers brushing the inside of your palm before resting against your side.

"Easy," he said softly, as though speaking to someone half-asleep "You'll hurt yourself."

Your head tilted toward him, eyes unfocused but trying to meet his. "You don't... have to do that," you murmured, voice small and uneven. The words slurred together, not quite a protest, more like a thought you accidentally said aloud.

Johan's thumb brushed idle circles against your fingers before he let go. The movement was slow, deliberate, as if he were testing the distance between kindness and something else entirely.

"You shouldn't look so fragile, then," he said after a moment, his voice low but steady. There was no edge to it. no mockery, no reprimand. Just something quiet, almost weary, like he wished the words didn't have to exist at all.

For a few seconds, the hum of the car filled the silence between you. You stared at the space where his hand had once been, still feeling the cold imprint of his touch. You couldn't tell if he was comforting you or reminding you that he could break you just as easily.

The thought drifted through your hazy mind, but It didn't feel threatening—not from him. 

"Anyway, It's all just a simple misunderstanding," Johan said softly, his voice calm, low, and almost hypnotic. "I'm here for business. That's all. Nothing for... pleasure of the sort."

He guided your gaze toward his, and your drugged mind obediently followed.

"Oh... I see," you mumbled, your voice sluggish, foggy, but tinged with relief.

Anything Johan could have said might have been a lie, and part of your rational mind screamed at you to be suspicious. But right now, rational thoughts didn't stick. They didn't have the energy to fight against the pull of his presence, the softness in his tone, the careful way he held himself beside you.

You blinked slowly, trying to focus, and only then realized he'd moved. His hand rested against your cheek, cool but steady, thumb tracing over your skin in a motion so light it almost didn't feel real. The touch wasn't demanding. It was quiet, deliberate—like he was grounding you, or maybe grounding himself.

"You... found me?" you mumbled, words soft and uneven. It was hard to tell if you were actually speaking or just thinking aloud.

Johan's deep gaze stayed locked on yours, calm and unreadable. "Something like that" he said after a moment, voice low, like he was answering a question you hadn't meant to ask.

Your breath hitched when his hand moved again, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face. There was something careful about the way he did it, so careful it look as if it almost hurt.

"You shouldn't have been there," he said quietly, eyes dropping for just a moment before finding yours again. "Places like that... they're not meant for people like you."

There was no accusation in his tone, only a strange mix of weariness and certainty. You wanted to ask what kind of person he thought you were. But your tongue felt heavy, and your head leaned slightly toward his touch before you could think better of it.

A faint click echoed from the front of the car. The man who had drugged you, Roberto, slid into the driver's seat. You caught his gaze and accompanied grin in the rearview mirror, a sly, dangerous smirk that made your stomach twist.

"Sorry back there," Roberto said, his voice rough and mocking. "Just... a little misunderstanding." He dragged out the word misunderstanding, twisting it in a way that made your skin crawl.

You looked back at Johan, only to find him seated calmly next to you, as if the confrontation had never happened at all.

"Roberto," Johan said, his tone soft, steady... but there was an edge to it, razor-sharp even through the calm.

Roberto let out a low chuckle, the sound awkward against the tension in the car. "Right, right. Message received," he said, glancing at Johan through the rearview mirror. "Didn't know you had... attachments that weren't just part of the game."

Johan didn't respond. Not a word. Not even a glance toward him. 

Your consciousness wavered as the car rolled forward into the night, streetlights stretching into sluggish streaks against the glass. The world felt dreamlike, distant, unreal.

Without thinking, your head shifted, turning slightly. The next thing you knew, it had settled ever so slightly against Johan's shoulder. An action you wouldn't have even dared to do in a more sober state. 

Your eyelids drooped, heavy and slow. You tried to focus, tried to come back to reality, but the drug in your system was too strong. You let yourself relax against him, the faint rise and fall of his chest beneath your head grounding you in the hazy blur.

Johan's eyes followed your every movement, his expression carefully unreadable. When your head finally rested fully on his shoulder, he stiffened just slightly, caught off guard by your sudden closeness. His eyebrows rose subtly, but he said nothing. Instead, he adjusted, ever so slightly, so that your head rested comfortably against him without pressure.

"You're... really out of it," he murmured softly, mostly to himself, the tiniest trace of something resembling amusement or tenderness in his voice.

You mumbled something incoherent, shifting slightly closer in your haze, and Johan's thumb brushed again across your cheek, a quiet, grounding gesture. The motion was slow, deliberate, and strangely intimate—as if he was tethering you to reality without saying a word.

A small, sleepy sigh escaped your lips, half-laughing, half-whining. "Feels... like a dream," you murmured.

"Maybe it is," he replied softly, voice low, careful "or maybe it's just... a quiet moment for you to rest."

The car continued its quiet hum through the streets, and in that suspended space, the two of you sat close, the world outside irrelevant. Your head heavy on his shoulder, his hands gentle, it was... comfortable. Safe. And strangely, tender.

Your head rested heavily against his shoulder, eyes fluttering open and closed as the world outside blurred into streaks of streetlight. Your lips parted in a soft, sleepy sigh. "Johan... you're... warm," you mumbled, voice thick and slurred.

He didn't answer at first; he merely tilted his head, just enough for his cheek to brush lightly against your hair "Mm," he murmured back, not moving, just letting the words hang in the air. 

Your thoughts drifted slowly, like they were wading through thick water. "Do... you... always... show up... like this?" you mumbled.

"Like what?" he asked softly, head tilting just slightly to meet yours.

"Calm... like... you know... everything," you mumbled, voice trailing off as you struggled to keep your words together. Your head shifted slightly, making his shoulder a little warmer "It's... unfair..."

A faint breath of amusement left him—so soft you might've missed it even if you were fully awake. "Unfair?" he echoed.

"Mhm..." Your fingers brushed lazily against his arm, barely aware of the motion. "You make... everything feel... safe... even when it shouldn't..."

He didn't laugh this time. His gaze dipped to you, lingering in a way that was both gentle and unreadable. "Is that something you dislike?" he asked, tone low.

You blinked slowly, letting the motion drift you further into the fog of your drugged haze. "...No..." you whispered, leaning into him without thinking. "Just... confusing."

Johan's hand shifted—slow, deliberate—until his fingers brushed against yours, holding them lightly, grounding you. His touch was cold... but steady. "Confusing," he repeated, almost to himself.

You blinked sluggishly, feeling your thoughts spill into the open before you could stop them. "You always... make me feel like I'm not just... wandering alone..."

Johan's gaze softened, the tiniest flicker of something tender passing across his normally unreadable features. He leaned slightly closer, careful not to crush you. There was a pause—soft, almost fragile—before he spoke. "You're not alone," he said, voice quieter than the engine beneath you. "Not tonight."

A sleepy giggle escaped your lips, muffled against his shoulder. "Funny... you... so... serious... Johan..."

"Maybe," he said quietly, the edge of a smile tugging at his lips. His thumb brushed over your knuckles "but I mean it."

You murmured something incoherent, one hand curling lazily over his forearm, the other resting limply on your lap. Every movement felt heavy and dreamlike, and yet you felt a strange comfort in the weight of his presence.

"Do... you... always... watch me... like this?" you asked, voice dipping with exhaustion.

His fingers stilled, just for a beat.

"Only when I need to," he said. It wasn't teasing. It wasn't dramatic. Just soft... honest in a way that made your heart tighten. "And right now... I need to."

Your breathing grew slower, deeper. A yawn slipped out before you could stop it. Instinctively, you curled a little closer, letting your forehead brush the seam of his jacket.

"Don't... go..." you mumbled.

His hand squeezed yours—light, steady, careful. "I'm here," he whispered, his breath brushing your hair. "I'm not leaving."

The car rolled through the night, the world beyond the windows slipping by in muted streaks. But inside, there was only the steady rise and fall of your breath against him—and Johan's quiet stillness beside you, holding you in a way that felt far too gentle for the truth that waited beneath it.

Your eyes flickered open that morning to cold sunlight spilling through your open curtains. Everything ached faintly—your temples, your ribs, your thoughts. You told yourself it was nothing. A strange dream. A long night. A stress-induced hallucination.

You tried to believe it.

But the bruise on your side told a different story.

Hours later, when your last class ended, you found yourself standing outside the university with Johan—just as you always did. The sky was painted in a soft peach glow, the campus quiet except for the distant sound of bikes passing and leaves brushing along the pavement.

Johan stood beside you, leaning lightly against the railing near the old stone steps. The fading sunlight caught in his hair like something out of a half-remembered memory. He watched you the way he always did—softly, attentively, but with a depth you could never quite place.

"So that's it," you said, arms crossed loosely as you finished recounting your "dream." Even if you excluded some parts you deemed to be too embarrassing to admit. Your voice was careful, testing. "It felt... real. Too real. Like I could still feel parts of it when I woke up."

Johan hummed a little, barely audible, eyes drifting up to the branches swaying overhead. "Dreams do that sometimes," he said, almost thoughtfully. "The mind clings to fear more than anything else."

You looked at him—really looked. His profile calm, serene, unreal in the dying light. He shouldn't have looked so gentle when the memory of last night sat heavy in your ribs.

"It wasn't just fear," you murmured. "It felt like... someone was there with me."

Johan turned his head then, eyes meeting yours. They were soft, startlingly soft—and yet something behind them felt like a door you weren't supposed to open.

"A silly dream," he repeated, voice low, warm enough to wrap around you. "That's all. And you're safe now. Isn't that what matters?"

You swallowed. The wind brushed past you, cool against your neck.

"I guess so," you whispered.

He stepped a little closer—not enough to touch, but close enough that you felt the shift in the air around you. Close enough that your heartbeat stuttered.

"[y/n]," he said quietly, and there was something in the way he said your name—something that made the world around you feel suddenly small. "Your imagination is... vivid. But you don't have to be afraid of shadows. They disappear when you look at them long enough."

Your breath hitched. "Is that your way of saying it really was just a dream?"

His smile was small—gentle, almost affectionate. But it didn't reach his eyes.

"If you believe it was," he murmured, "then it was."

He said it like a reassurance.

It felt like a verdict.

You held his gaze. For a moment, the evening quieted around you—the birds, the distant chatter, the wind—everything softened until it was only him.

And in that moment, he faintly looked at you like you were something fragile he wanted to keep around. Something he didn't intend to let slip away in the hands of someone else--Roberto.

Your heart warmed and chilled at the same time, tangled somewhere between trust and unease.

Because even as Johan reached out to gently brush a stray leaf from your shoulder—his touch feather-light, lingering just a little too long—you could still feel the faint bruise under your shirt.

The one he pretended not to notice.

The one that told you the truth you weren't supposed to remember.

And when he smiled at you again—soft, warm, impossibly tender—the kind your gut told you not to fully trust, that there was something hidden beneath the sweet gestures and words. You had realized something unsettling:

You didn't know whether you wanted to pull away... or fall into him.

Roberto driving in the front of the car: Damn Johan got some game (LOL)

Storytime!: Where I got the inspiration for this oneshot. Was when I recently was hanging out with some new acquaintances, they got me to be high for the first time ever by giving me some crazy high dosage stuff (idk w33d? I was pressured, but I'm safe now!), which not pleasant and wouldn't do again.

I was out of it so much that I deadass thought the homeless man on the road was doctor Tenma and Johan was chilling next to me in the car the whole time???

So afterwards I thought 'yk I wonder how Johan would really react to someone drugged' lolol.

[liebe-dichh]

Chapter 9: Echoes Of a Name

One Day, Three Autumns ✧ AO3 and quotev

༄𖦹 SYNOPSIS: You, who studied psychology at Düsseldorf University in Germany, with a certain Japanese man. Years later end up finding work at the prestigious Eisler Memorial Hospital. Your story intertwines with a kindhearted popular Japanese doctor named Kenzo Tenma, what will happen once he is charged with murder?

༄𖦹 INFO: Kenzo Tenma/Reader | 4.6k words

✧ One day, three autumns

A Chinese idiom that is used when you miss someone so much, one day feels as long as three years.

The second your eyes fell upon that hastily written email, something inside you shifted. You must have read it a dozen times; each line sharper, heavier, harder to ignore.

But by the time dawn had touched the sky, you'd already made up your mind. A one-way ticket back to Düsseldorf sat in your trembling hands.

'Maybe it was some kind of prank,' you told yourself, trying to calm the unease sitting heavy in your chest.

But the thought didn't hold for long.

'Kenzo isn't the type to joke about things like this.'

The rhythmic clatter of the train filled the silence. You sat by the window, watching the landscape roll by. The flat fields, quiet towns, and the faint reflection of your own uncertain face. Every now and then, you caught yourself pressing a hand to your chest, as if to steady your heartbeat.

When the announcement came "Next stop: Düsseldorf Hauptbahnhof" your stomach twisted.

You hadn't been here in months. Yet it felt like decades.

✽𖦹✽𖦹✽

The soft hum of a old computer filled the quiet of a small room. The blond-haired student leaned forward, blinking at the glowing screen.

"Another email?" she muttered under her breath. A small smile tugged at her lips. "Oh, Peter... you've outdone yourself this time."

She powered off the computer and grabbed her bag. There was still time before her afternoon counseling session.

The campus air was crisp, a light wind brushing against the early spring sun. Students passed by with laughter and chatter, and for a moment, the girl almost forgot the unease that had been following her these past few weeks—the sleepless nights, the strange dreams, the faint echo of a voice she could never quite place.

"So, Nina" the counselor began as she sat down across from him, "have you had any more of those dreams lately? The one about the monster emerging from the darkness or that hospital, the one with the doctor?"

Nina paused, "No. I've been sleeping fine, actually. I've been too busy to dream at all" She smiled faintly, though her voice carried a trace of something else—uncertainty.

"That's good to hear. What you described before could've been brought on by stress, or lingering childhood memories," the counselor explained, flipping through a few notes "It's very common in university students-"

But Nina's attention had already started to drift.

The room around her seemed to blur slightly. The beige walls fading, replaced by pale white ones, washed in the dim light of fluorescent bulbs. The air felt sterile. Cold. Somewhere distant, a child's voice was crying.

And then... a memory, faint but distinct. A warm tone, calm and steady.

"It's okay, Anna. please, take your time. You don't have to talk about what happened that night yet."

A face surfaced, though it was blurred at the edges. A doctor's white coat, a voice that soothed her when no one else could.

You.

She blinked, startled.

"Sorry," she said quickly, realizing her counselor had stopped talking "Just spaced out."

The man gave a polite nod. "No problem. It's been a long week for all of us."

Nina forced a smile as she gathered her things. "Yeah... thank you. See you next week."

Later that afternoon, back in her room back home, Nina sank into her bed with a tired sigh. Exhausted from all the events that had occurred that same day.

But then, another notification chimed throughout the room.

Another email.

Her smile faded.

It couldn't have been Peter. She had already solved that mystery earlier that day.

An: Nina

Von:

Betreff: Do you remember the doctor?

Nina hesitated, her pulse quickening slightly as she clicked it open:

"You once sat across from them. They tried to save you, Anna. Just as I was brought back to life by the other."

Her breath caught. Anna. That name again.

She swallowed hard, staring at the words until they blurred.

The doctor. The hospital. The voice that still echoed in her dreams.

The image flashed again—your silhouette by the window, your hand resting gently on her shoulder, the quiet reassurance in your tone.

Her stomach twisted.

She quickly turned off the computer and pushed back from the desk, gripping the edge of the table as if to steady herself. Her reflection in the window looked pale, almost unfamiliar.

Somewhere deep in her memory, something had begun to stir. Something she had unknowingly buried years ago.

✽𖦹✽𖦹✽

As you stepped onto the platform, the cool air hit your face, thick with the scent of rain and iron. The station looked the same; crowded, bustling, yet hollow in a way memory never captured. For a moment, it felt like stepping back into a life that had long since ended.

Your eyes wandered to the far corner of the platform—the one near the vending machines, where you once stood with him.

You could still remember it vividly. Tenma's quiet laugh, the nervous way he rubbed the back of his neck before you leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. It had been impulsive, fleeting, but the warmth of it lingered for what felt like years.

You smiled faintly at the memory... then the smile faltered. 'Why didn't I do more? Why didn't I do more with the little time I still had with him?'

The station noise faded into the distance as your thoughts grew louder.

Shaking yourself free from the haze, you tightened your grip on your bag's strap and stepped toward the exit. You had booked a modest hotel not far from the hospital—just for three nights.

Long enough, you hoped, to figure out what had really happened.

The afternoon light was already beginning to fade by the time you arrived at the hotel. It wasn't anything fancy, just a small place tucked between a café and a bookstore, the kind of building that could easily be missed if you weren't looking for it.

You checked in quietly, the receptionist offering you a polite nod. The heels of your shoes thumped against the hallway carpet as you found your room—number 207.

Once the door clicked shut behind you, silence filled the space.

You stood for a moment, staring at the single bed, the small desk, the rain-speckled window. It felt like a waiting room for something you couldn't yet name.

Your heart twisted. Whatever he had seen, whatever had driven him to write that... it must have been something terrible.

You needed answers.

Pulling your [f/c] coat back on, you made your way to Eisler Memorial Hospital. The walk was longer than you remembered, the streets darker, colder. When the familiar building finally came into view, your breath caught in your throat.

The hospital looked almost the same—tall, clean, imposing—but something about it felt emptier. Like the life had slowly drained out of it over the years.

You stepped through the glass doors and approached the front desk. "Excuse me," you said softly, "I'm looking for Dr. Kenzo Tenma."

The nurse's eyes widened slightly at the mention of the doctor's name.

"Oh- Dr. Tenma. Yes, of course" Her tone shifted, polite but uneasy "I'm sorry, but... he's been gone for some time now. If you need help with anything else-"

She was then cut off by a familiar voice.

"[y/n]? Say, what're you doing here of all places?"

You turned and there "he" was.

Dr. Becker stood a few steps away, coat slung over his arm, a paper cup of coffee in one hand. Despite the faint shadows under his eyes and a few more lines etched into his face, that same tired but warm smile was still there.

"Dr. Becker..." you breathed, relief flooding through you all at once.

He gave a light chuckle, the sound carrying that same comforting familiarity. "I'll say. What brings you back here? Don't tell me you missed the hospital food."

You managed a weak smile, but it didn't last long. "It's about Tenma. I... received a message from him. Something strange. He warned me to be careful, said something about a blond man."

Becker's expression shifted instantly. His smile faded, replaced by a look of quiet tension. He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze falling to the floor. "Tenma..." he murmured.

Then, forcing a casual tone, he added, "Say, I'm on break right now. How about we sit for a bit? Sounds like something you need to talk about."

You nodded, and the two of you made your way to a small hospital café near the lobby. You found a table near the window, where rain tapped faintly against the glass.

Becker leaned back in his chair, stirring his coffee. "Ah, that Tenma of ours..." he sighed "Last time I spoke with him, he was being questioned by the BKA."

Your stomach twisted, "The BKA?"

"Yeah," Becker said, voice low "He claimed he saw one of his patients being shot right in front of him. Someone who used to be treated here, John? No... Jan? Hmm, what was it again..."

"Becker." You said his name sharply, trying to pull him back from his wandering thoughts.

"Right, right. Sorry." He chuckled awkwardly before continuing "Anyway, the BKA questioned him because of those murders—the ones that started a few years back. If I were them, I'm not sure I'd have believed him either. His story sounded... well, crazy."

"Crazy how?" you asked, though you already had an idea.

Becker frowned. "He said the killer was someone he'd saved. A patient, a young man with blond hair, cold eyes... He said the kid smiled before he pulled the trigger. I mean—who'd believe that?"

You froze. Your blood ran cold. That same word, blond, echoed Tenma's warning from the email.

Becker didn't seem to notice your reaction. He sighed, running a hand through his hair "Anyway, the BKA took him in for questioning. I think Inspector Lunge was in charge of the case? tough guy, sharp eyes. Haven't seen Tenma since that week."

"So you haven't heard from him at all?" you pressed.

He shook his head. "Not a word. I'm worried about the guy. If you ever run into him, do tell him to get back to work. It's not every day we lose one of our best doctors."

He glanced down at his watch and frowned "Damn. Got to get back. It was nice running into you, [y/n]. Wish I could stay longer, but duty calls."

You stood up as well, hesitating before blurting out, "Wait- Becker. Could you do me a favor? Maybe check the patient files. Anyone Tenma might've treated that matches the description of that blond man he mentioned? I know the hospital won't let me look, but..."

Becker raised a brow. "You seriously believe that story? Oh well," he sighed, shrugging his shoulders. "I'll see what I can dig up, but don't be surprised when nothing turns up. That case is practically buried."

"Thank you, Becker. Really."

You watched Becker disappear down the corridor, his footsteps fading into the quiet hum of the hospital. For a moment, you stood there in the lobby, unsure of what to do next. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above, casting that familiar sterile glow over the tiled floor.

'At least Becker had agreed to help. Maybe this trip wasn't for nothing...'

You pushed open the doors and stepped out into the darken world. The rain had lessened, a light drizzle falling over Düsseldorf, silvering the streets and rooftops. The air smelled faintly of wet concrete and cigarette smoke. Strong enough, that the back of your mind started to crave ever so slightly.

You were halfway down the steps when a voice cut through the night—sharp, scornful, and chillingly familiar.

"Didn't expect to see you here again."

You froze. Slowly, you turned toward the voice.

Eva Heinemann stood by one of the pillars near the hospital entrance, her arms crossed, a lit cigarette dangling between her manicured fingers. Her blond hair caught the light of the overhanging lamp—immaculate, as always—but her eyes were tired, rimmed with red. Even through her anger there was something brittle, worn and hurt.

"Eva... it's been awhile." you said softly, unsure how to act in the situation.

She gave a humorless laugh, blowing out a puff of smoke "Not long enough."

You sighed, stepping down another stair. "I didn't expect to see you here either. I just came by to-"

"Let me guess," she interrupted. "Tenma."

You blinked, caught off guard. "How did you-"

"Oh, please." She rolled her eyes, her voice dripping with disdain. "Everyone knows you were always hanging around him. Following him like a lost puppy. You think I didn't notice? Even after I told you to stay away from him."

You frowned. "Eva, that's not fair. We worked together-"

"You adored him," she snapped, cutting you off again. "All that moral nonsense he spewed about equality, about 'saving lives without bias' You ate it up, didn't you? God, the two of you were insufferable."

The bitterness in her voice stung. Still, you tried to keep calm. "Eva... I didn't come here to argue. I just want to know if you've heard from him. He sent me something, a warning."

Her gaze sharpened. "A warning?"

You hesitated. "He said I should be careful. That there's someone dangerous... a blond man."

For a brief moment, something flickered across her face—confusion, then realization. But she quickly masked it with a laugh, cold and hollow. "A blond man? Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

"I don't know. Maybe it does."

Eva's expression hardened again. "You're unbelievable. He disappears for weeks, maybe years, and the moment he calls, you come running back here like it's your goddamn calling."

You took a step closer, lowering your voice. "Eva, please. I know you're angry-"

"Angry?" She laughed, but the sound was shaky. "You have no idea. He left me. He left everything. And its all because of you, this is all your damn fault. So you think I don't have the right to be angry?"

You didn't know what to say, as you stood there in shock on those once so familiar hospital steps.

Her eyes glistened in the lamplight "Do you know what it's like to be thrown away for the sake of his principles? For the sake of his precious moral code? We could've had everything. But no, its always been you in the center of it, hasn't it. You and that damn idealism of his ruined it all."

Her voice broke on the last words, and she turned her face away quickly, pretending to take another drag.

"Eva," you said softly. "Tenma didn't do what he did for me. He did it because he believed it was right. You know that."

For a moment, her composure slipped. You could see it—the immense loneliness under the bitterness, the physical and mental exhaustion in her trembling hands. But then she looked back at you, eyes flashing cold again.

"Don't pretend you understand him better than I do. You're not the one who lost everything when he walked out that door."

You took a breath. "Eva, I'm sorry for what happened between you two and... your father. But whatever's going on now, it's dangerous. I think he's in trouble, and if there's even a chance-"

"Stop." She stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the strong perfume under the smoke. "You really don't get it, do you? Tenma's gone. Whatever he's tangled in—murders, fugitives, whatever fairy tale he's telling himself—you can't save him. He deserves whatever happens to him, I'll make sure of it."

You froze under her stare, the rain pattering quietly around you both.

"Stay out of it," she said, voice low, trembling with restrained fury. "If he wanted to come back, he would have. Let him drown in whatever mess he made."

She dropped the cigarette to the ground, grinding it under her heel. "Goodbye, [y/n]."

You watched as she turned and walked away, her silhouette fading into the dim glow of the streetlights.

The rain hadn't stopped. Eva walked without an umbrella, not caring that her coat was getting soaked through. The city was quiet, too quiet, and the echo of her heels on the wet pavement filled the emptiness around her.

She couldn't stop shaking. Not from the cold, but from the way your voice had echoed in her head: He's in trouble... a blond man.

"Ridiculous," she muttered to herself. "Just ridiculous."

But the image wouldn't leave her. Tenma's face. His voice. The way he used to look at her before everything fell apart.

She stopped at a street corner and leaned against a lamppost, pulling out another cigarette with trembling fingers. The lighter clicked once. Twice. Finally, the flame caught. The longer she stood there, the more anger she felt.

It truly was both your and Tenma's fault that her life was falling apart. The death of her father, the engagement breaking off. The two of you were at the center of everything. Like partners in crime.

"I'll make sure you'll both pay," she whispered to herself, repeating her own words.

✽𖦹✽𖦹✽

Nina—or was it Anna? The name echoed like a faint bell in the back of her mind, and she couldn't tell anymore which name truly belonged to her.

She sat in the passenger seat of the car Tenma drove, the low hum of the engine filling the tense silence. Outside, the dark city stretched endlessly, flashing past under the thin beam of the headlights.

She had waited at Heidelberg Castle just like the email told her to. He had told her to. And now she was sitting beside a stranger, a foreign black haired man who spoke her name like it carried ghosts.

"Please," she said suddenly, her voice trembling as she looked toward him. "Please tell me who you are. Doctor Tenma, right? You've got it wrong. My name's Nina. Not Anna."

Her words cracked at the edges, a desperate attempt to convince herself more than him.

Tenma's hands tightened slightly around the steering wheel. His eyes stayed on the road ahead, the faint glint of the dashboard lights reflecting off his glasses.

"Now you are," he said softly, his tone steady but heavy "But that wasn't your name when you were brought to my hospital... when [L/n] and I treated you. You were Anna. And your brother's name... was Johan."

The name hit her like a stone dropped into still water.

"[L/n]... My brother..." she whispered.

The road blurred as flashes began to erupt behind her eyes. images, sounds, fragments of something buried deep.

Grass fields bathed in sunset light.

A boy's laughter.

A woman's scream.

A doctor with gentle eyes and a [h/c] head of hair, writing something in a small notebook beside her hospital bed.

And the smell of antiseptic. Always antiseptic.

"Johan..." Her breath came out uneven. "Anna... [L/n]... Tenma..."

Her head throbbed with every name, each one unlocking another flicker of memory she didn't want to see. As her thoughts spiraled inward, deep into that locked corner of her memory.

A white corridor.

Small hands clutching the edge of a hospital blanket.

You, kneeling beside her bed, voice calm yet sorrowful.

"It's all right, Anna. You can tell me when you're ready."

The warmth of your hand over her smaller ones.

Tears welled in her eyes before she even realized it. She pressed her palms against them, shaking her head.

"No," she whispered, "I don't want to remember anymore...”

Tenma reached for her shoulder, hesitant, as if afraid even comfort might break her further.

Outside, the rain began to fall harder—steady, cold, and quiet against the windshield.

Neither spoke for a long while.

✽𖦹✽𖦹✽

The rain had stopped by morning, but the city still felt damp—heavy with last night's echoes. You stood on the platform at Düsseldorf Hauptbahnhof, clutching the strap of your bag with one hand and your ticket in the other.

You were going back home, Munich.

Or at least, that's what you told yourself. Munich felt like the only place that still resembled normal, even if every corner still reminded you of Tenma. The days had been a blur—Becker's words, Eva's accusations, the way her voice still rang in your ears.

"Stay out of it."

You wished you could.

The announcement system crackled overhead, calling out departures in both German and English. The 09:45 train to Munich would arrive in less than ten minutes. You took a seat on one of the metal benches, resting your bag beside you.

For a moment, you let yourself breathe.

You had done all you could here. Becker promised to look into the files. Maybe something would come from that. Maybe not. But you'd tried, and that's all that matters.

You were just reaching into your bag for a pack of cigarettes, to which there were none. An old habit you were scoff at yourself for. Then a voice, one that was measured, low, and precise—broke through the hum of the station.

"[y/n], isn't it?"

You turned sharply.

A tall man stood a few feet away, wearing a beige overcoat and holding a briefcase under one arm. His expression was unreadable—polite, but coolly detached. His eyes, sharp and calculating, took in every detail of you in a matter of seconds.

He didn't need to introduce himself. You'd seen that face before.

"Inspector... Lunge," you said quietly.

"Of the BKA," he confirmed, with a faint nod. "I was told you were in Düsseldorf."

Your brows furrowed. "Told by who?"

He didn't answer immediately, only adjusted his coat and glanced at the departing schedule above the platform, tapping his fingers through the air. "You were seen entering Eisler Memorial yesterday evening. Asking questions about Dr. Kenzo Tenma."

So Eva must have mentioned it… You exhaled slowly. "I wasn't doing anything illegal, Inspector. As you know Tenma's an old colleague of mine, and I'm just trying to find out what happened to him."

Lunge's tone didn't shift; it was steady, as if every word you spoke was being catalogued in his mind. "Is that so? I assume you're aware that Dr. Tenma is wanted for questioning in connection with multiple unsolved murders. Düsseldorf, Frankfurt, and now possibly Heidelberg."

You swallowed, uneasy. "He's not a murderer. You don't know him like I do."

"That's true," Lunge said simply. "But I know what the evidence shows."

You tightened your grip on your bag. "Then your evidence is wrong."

He tilted his head slightly, as though studying you. "You seem certain of that."

"I am."

You looked away, jaw tightening. "I received a message from him," you said finally "He warned me to be careful. Said there was someone dangerous, a blond man."

At that, something in Lunge's expression shifted—subtle, but there. He regarded you more intently now.

"A blond man," he repeated. "Interesting."

His fingers typed even faster now, "Did he mention a name?"

You shook your head. "No. Just that it was someone we knew before."

After a moment of silence, Lunge spoke up once more "I'm on my way to Frankfurt," he said at last. "Another homicide. Similar pattern."

You blinked. "You think it's connected to Tenma?"

"That's what I'm going to find out."

The PA system chimed again, announcing the train to Munich now boarding. You rose from the bench, shouldering your bag. Lunge did the same, though his train would leave from another platform entirely.

"Inspector," you said, before you could stop yourself, "if you find him, Tenma, don't arrest him. Please. Hear him out first. He's not what you think."

Lunge looked at you for a long moment. His expression gave nothing away.

Then, with the faintest hint of a nod, he said, "I always hear people out."

Even with those words, you knew better than to blindly trust them.

The two of you turned in opposite directions—you toward Munich, and Lunge toward Frankfurt—your paths diverging across the same station platform, both unknowingly walking toward the same shadow that had already begun to move again.

The blond man, whose name will forever be engraved in your lives.

The day you came back from work felt strangely ordinary as if the last few days, the train rides, the sleepless nights in Düsseldorf, had all been part of a distant dream. The rhythm of your life in Munich fell back into place too easily: paperwork stacked neatly on your desk, the faint hum of the radiator, the dull scratch of your pen against another half-finished report.

You were midway through typing up a patient note of one of the students when your office door burst open.

"[l/n]! You're back!"

You nearly jumped in your seat before letting out a breath. Standing in the doorway was Lotte—brown-haired, glasses slightly askew, and grinning ear to ear.

"Lotte," you sighed, though a smile tugged at your lips, "you do know there's this thing called knocking, right?"

"Yeah, yeah," she waved you off, stepping inside, "but you just disappeared out of nowhere these past few days! I thought you got abducted by a rival university or something."

You chuckled softly, resting your elbow against the desk. "Sorry to disappoint. Just some personal business I had to take care of."

She plopped down onto the chair across from you, folding one leg over the other. "Well, whoever you were visiting, they must've been important. You've got that look again."

You raised an eyebrow. "What look?"

"That whole 'I've-seen-something-I-can't-tell-anyone-about' look. You always get it after conferences or weird field trips."

You smiled faintly. "Maybe I'll tell you when I can."

"Uh-huh, sure you will." Lotte pushed up her glasses, still grinning. "Anyway, while you were gone, who else was I supposed to bother with my findings? Besides Karl."

"Karl?" you asked, feigning confusion but intrigued by the sudden spark in her tone.

"A new boy I met," she said, trying to sound nonchalant though the way she smoothed her bag and fiddled with the hem of her sleeve gave her away completely.

"Oh really?" you said with a knowing smirk.

"Mhm!" she nodded, the pride unmistakable now. "He's a business management major pretty polite, a little stiff, but sweet. We've been talking a lot lately. He's the one and only 'Tuesday Boy'"

"That's good," you said warmly "It's nice to see you making friends besides the staff" you said with a slight chuckle.

Lotte shrugged, though her cheeks colored slightly. "yeah, yeah. But he's... different, you know? Like there's something sad about him. But he listens."

You glanced toward the window, the fading afternoon light cutting across your desk. The story reminds you of your days back in university, with Kenzo. The memory's of the two of you secretly glancing at one another and the limited conversations still made your heart flutter. Those nostalgic innocent days were your history began with him.

"Well, I'm glad you found someone worth talking to," you said, closing your notebook. "But next time, try knocking before you scare me half to death."

Lotte laughed, standing up and brushing the invisible dust from her pants "No promises, Doctor."

As she left, her cheerful footsteps echoing down the hall, the room fell silent again. You leaned back in your chair, the smile fading just slightly.

The world around you was moving on—students laughing in the corridor, sunlight spilling through the window—yet your mind, and soul almost, were still stuck on Kenzo.

And you couldn't shake the feeling that whatever peace you'd come back to... wouldn't last long.

PREVIOUS - NEXT CHAPTER

A/n: Not much happened this chapter, butttt good news! From now on things will start escalating and Tenma will return soon enough. I'm almost done with the next chapter, it'll probaly be out given a week or two yaya^^

I've also completely rewritten the first two chapters (New scenes, etc.) and plan to rewrite the rest.

[gabstherium]

[liebe-dichh]

Official ‘Monster’ Franz Bonaparta Sketch Collection + Interview

Sketch Collection:

The Interview:

A/n: All I could understand is that this interview/report is done inside the monster universe, after the events of the sequel ‘Another Monster’ and Werner Webers disappearance. As well as it being tied to the sketch collection and the “new” monster(?) ofc. But I don’t know whom (character wise) made the report? prob some random reporter :P

I had to google translate the interview/report, so I apologize if any parts don’t make any sense!

[Commentary]

It’s been nearly thirty years since I first learned the names of the Czechoslovak picture book artists Emil Šébe, Klaus Poppe, and Jakub Paloubeck.

If I remember correctly, it was at the “Original Illustrations by Eastern European Picture Book Artists” exhibition held at a large bookstore in Nihonbashi, Tokyo. (At the time, their names were introduced as Emil Schebe and Jakob Falobeck.)

In the early 1980s — right in the middle of the Cold War between the U.S. and the Soviet Union — Czechoslovakia was, for Japan, one of those socialist nations from which little information reached us.

However, in the field of children’s literature — especially in picture books — the country was known for its world-class quality and maintained relatively open exchanges with Western nations.

Names such as Josef Lada, Mirko Hanák, Miroslav Šašek, Josef Paleček, Kvĕta Pacovská, and Štěpán Zavřel — great masters, mid-career artists, and newcomers alike — all had their works on display.

A friend of mine, who was very knowledgeable about picture books, explained to me,

“Poppe, Šébe, and Paloubeck are probably the same person, or perhaps artists from the same Czech school.”

But rather than that, I was overwhelmed by the strange, almost eerie atmosphere those illustrations radiated.

To be honest, they felt very nihilistic and unhealthy, hardly the kind of drawings one would expect to be made for children.

Even so, I remembered that even the works of Charles Keeping — who illustrated books by popular British children’s authors like Alan Garner and Rosemary Sutcliff — could not exactly be called wholesome either. So I convinced myself that overseas picture book artists simply had a different standard.

The next time I heard the names Šébe, Poppe, and Paloubeck was from the Austrian writer Werner Weber, who visited Japan in 2000.

At a party celebrating the Japanese publication of his nonfiction book “Backstreet Neo-Nazism” (translated by Makoto Ōmura, published by Shunrai Shuppan), which had won Austria’s most prestigious Gottschalk Prize, Weber confided to me:

“My next work will be about that incident which happened in Germany a year ago.”

That incident — though it was barely reported in Japan — shocked not only Germany but all of Europe.

Yes, it was that case involving the “monster,” Johan Liebert.

The moment Weber mentioned the names of the three picture book artists, I vividly recalled that same accursed style of illustration.

According to him, they were in fact the same person, and those picture books had been used by the Czechoslovak Ministry of the Interior (the secret police) as educational materials to create cold-hearted warriors loyal to the state.

He also said,

“In fact, there may be people in Austria who were influenced by those cursed picture books — individuals who, like Johan, manipulate others and have committed gruesome murders.”

The rest of that story is detailed in ANOTHER MONSTER (co-authored by Werner Weber and Naoki Urasawa, published by Shogakukan).

In it, Weber develops the theory that a mysterious Austrian writer — who went by the name Fritz Weindler or Hermann Führ — may have been educated as a child at Prague’s so-called “Red Rose Mansion.”

He was in the process of compiling those findings into a book.

However, in December 2001, just before completing the manuscript, Weber suddenly disappeared while conducting interviews in the Czech Republic.

He vanished without a trace from a hotel room in the beautiful Bohemian town of Jablonec — leaving behind his unfinished manuscript…

Then, in May of last year, I received information from an acquaintance living in Germany: a sketch under the name Helmut Voss (A/n: Franz bonaparta) had been put up for sale at a secondhand book fair in Munich.

Helmut Voss — he was none other than the man who, back in the days of Czechoslovakia, had gone by many names:

Franz Bonaparta = Emil Šébe = Klaus Poppe = Jakub Paloubeck — the hotel owner who died in Ruhenheim, Germany.

Moreover, the sketches listed in the catalog under the name Voss depicted a pregnant woman who appeared to be Johan’s mother, and a pair of twins who looked unmistakably like Johan and Nina… a baby, a young Nina holding flowers, and so on.

If those sketches were genuine, they would surely be an incredibly fascinating final work of his.

Without hesitation, I asked my acquaintance to bid on them for me — I thought they might provide a clue to the whereabouts of the missing Werner Weber.

I hurried to Munich, but as soon as I arrived at the airport, my acquaintance informed me:

“Unfortunately, the sketches have already been bought — by someone else. And for an unimaginably high price…”

I stayed in Germany for a month, hiring a private investigator to help me trace both the seller and the buyer.

The seller was quickly identified — the owner of an antique shop in the town of Kaufbeuren, near Munich (that is, not far from Ruhenheim).

According to him, the sketches had been brought in by a local housewife, who said that her child had found them in an abandoned house.

The shop owner had bought them purely on intuition and decided to list them for sale.

When the detective told the shopkeeper,

“This is a matter of great importance — I promise you won’t be inconvenienced…”

the man rather easily revealed the name of the buyer.

That name was Werner Weber.

I couldn’t believe my ears.

Was he… alive?

Or was someone else using his name for some hidden purpose?

I decided then and there that I had to find this buyer — no matter what.

The detective frequented used bookstores, auction houses, and antique shops connected to the Munich book market, and eventually came upon a rumor.

It seemed that a shady rare book dealer — one who dealt in stolen or untraceably obtained items such as rare editions and authors’ manuscripts — was somehow involved in this affair.

Finally, in March of this year, I managed to arrange a meeting with that man.

What follows is a transcript of our exchange.

(And let me note: this man bore absolutely no resemblance to the Werner Weber I once knew — he was a small, unimposing man who introduced himself as a German-Vietnamese half.)

Me: “What is your line of work?”

Man: “I mainly find rare books and authors’ manuscripts, then sell them to collectors.”

Me: “For example?”

Man: “Recently, I got my hands on part of the original manuscript of Scaramouche by Rafael Sabatini — the Italian-born British swashbuckler novelist. It brought in an incredible profit.”

Me: “Where did you obtain it?”

Man: “That’s not something you should ask.”

Me: “Did you purchase Helmut Voss’s rough sketches?”

Man: “That was a perfectly legitimate transaction at the book fair. I was simply bidding on someone else’s behalf.”

Me: “Is Werner Weber your real name?”

Man: “No.”

Me: “Then why did you use that name?”

Man: “At the request of my client.”

Me: “Didn’t you ask whose name it was?”

Man: “I didn’t. My client said using that name was a kind of joke — that if he did, someone would definitely come looking for me.”

Me: “He said someone would come looking for you?”

Man: “Yeah. And here you are. Looks like he was right, huh?”

Me: “What’s your client’s name?”

Man: “That, I can’t tell you.”

Me: “I won’t cause you any trouble, but…”

Man: “What I can’t say, I can’t say. The reason I’ve managed to stay alive and keep doing this job is because I can sense when a client is dangerous.”

Me: “And this client was that kind of person?”

Man: “Probably… maybe even someone who’s killed before. Even when it’s just a matter of collecting, once big money gets involved, clients like that aren’t so rare.”

Me: “Didn’t you find it strange that someone would spend so much money on Voss’s original drawings?”

Man: “Everyone’s got their reasons. But I’ll tell you something interesting: the guy said that as soon as he got those sketches, he was going to burn them.”

Me: “Burn them?”

Man: “Yeah. He said those weren’t ordinary works. Once, Voss had been a great picture book artist — but for the sake of his honor, those pieces had to be destroyed. They were not to be seen by human eyes again.”

Me: “Just tell me this one thing — was the client Czech? Or German?”

Man: “Probably neither.”

Me: “Any other hint you can give me?”

Man: “I saw him once on TV — on a news program. It shocked me. He was sitting right beside one of the most famous leaders in the world.”

Me: “Who? You mean one of the world’s most famous leaders — a politician?”

Man: “Yeah. A politician whose true intentions no one can read. Some say he’ll one day build his own dictatorship — after all, he’s the man who pulled that fallen superpower back onto its feet with sheer force of will.

He’s immensely popular with his people. Sure, there are tons of dark rumors about him, but even the United States can’t touch him. You must know who I’m talking about now, don’t you?”

Me: “………………”

Man: “Voss wasn’t just a picture book artist — he was also a brilliant scientist. He conducted experiments on reshaping human beings… and the client had thoroughly researched his achievements and was completely obsessed with him.”

Me: “Achievements?”

Man: “Don’t you get it? He intends to redo the experiment — under the guidance of that same powerful leader.”

Let me make it clear: I have no way of knowing whether that man was telling the truth.

But there’s one thing I can say for certain — there are still those who worship the experiment that created Johan.

And anyone who dares to follow the trail of Šébe, Poppe, and Paloubeck will meet the same fate as Werner Weber.

Most likely, the unseen “client” used the name Werner Weber to lure me in — to deliver a warning.

A warning to withdraw.

The man’s final words were these:

“Hey, do you know a novelist named Fritz Weindler or Hermann Führ?

He’s not as famous as Stephen King, but apparently he’s a cult-favorite horror writer in Austria.

The client asked me to find his original manuscript next — and, if possible, to invite the writer himself to his country.

He said this writer is the next Helmut Voss.

He’ll bring him in, gather the children, and restart the experiment.

I don’t know what exactly that means — and I don’t want to.”

August 2008 – Stockholm

Takashi Nagasaki

Personal thoughts:

I don’t know what to think of this tbh…

At first, I thought it was Johan collecting the sketches and burning them since that’s what he did with his mother’s portrait in the red Rose mansion. Erasing proof of his existence.

But it can’t be him, because he would never want to re-create all those experiments that he endured as a child, AT ALL.

It could be the other/new monster (Johan 2.0 wannabe) that was mentioned in the sequel ‘another monster’, but I personally don’t like that plot or what they did with Johan’s character and the ending of monster in ‘another monster’; just defeats the whole purpose of the original ending and is a lazy twist plot.

So I really don’t know how to think of this lol!



Bonus!