Am I Making You Feel Sick?
At first, the night Jan took Aoi didn’t feel like anything special. Everything was just—normal, or close enough. If there was danger, it was hiding out of sight.
Aoi stayed late at the archive, fussing over a beat-up old journal under his little desk lamp. When he finally left, the streets were empty—no cars, nobody out, just the dry smell of grass and dust in the air. Soba trotted at his side, nails clicking on the sidewalk, ears up at every little sound. They didn’t hurry. Then headlights swung around the corner behind them, too slow to be casual. The silence broke.
The car stopped beside the curb.
The driver’s door opened, and Arjantha Dierja stepped out, his presence unsettling in the quiet night.
Jan leaned over the car door, voice low. "You’re out late, you know." Something about it sounded like a warning, but maybe Aoi was just tired.
Aoi gave a small, tired smile, trying to hide his nerves. He listened to Soba’s breathing, looking for comfort.
“Deadlines,” Aoi replied, his voice thinner than he intended. The word hung in the air, brittle as glass.
Jan looked off down the street. Shadows pooled under the streetlights. "You should be careful out here," he said. It made Aoi’s shoulders bunch up, but he tried not to show it.
Soba let out a low growl, his fur bristling. Aoi felt a surge of gratitude for his dog.
“I’ve got him,” Aoi murmured, scratching Soba’s neck with unsteady fingers. Soba pressed closer, sensing his distress.
Jan’s gaze lingered on Aoi, his eyes unwavering, making the air feel suddenly heavy.
"I could give you a ride," Jan said. “We live on the same block.”
“It’s only a few blocks,” Aoi said, glancing at the familiar homes lining the street. He tried to sound casual, but his pulse raced in his throat. Every house was dark, the windows blank and indifferent. He pictured his own front porch light, the safe clutter of shoes by the door, and Soba’s bowl waiting in the kitchen. Never had home felt so far away. The silence pressed in, thick and expectant, as if the neighbourhood itself was holding its breath.
Jan only tilted his head. "Yeah. Not far," he said, softer now. The space between them felt a little too close. The air got heavier.
That was the last moment of normal life before everything changed. In seconds, fear and confusion took over. The night became a blur: Soba barking, Jan reaching out, the sharp smell of cologne as he came closer. Aoi would always remember the panic, the struggle, and the cold concrete under his knees.
When Aoi woke, the first thing he noticed was the smell.
It wasn’t the sharp, metallic tang of blood you’d expect from the movies—it was something older, almost rotten, as if the walls themselves remembered every drop ever spilt. The air was clammy and oppressive, saturated with the iron scent of rust embedded deep in the concrete. Each breath turned to mist in the frigid air, and somewhere unseen, water dripped with a steady, maddening rhythm. Disoriented, Aoi tried to piece together how he’d gotten here—the curb, the headlights, the struggle, the sense of weightlessness as the world tilted and went dark. Now, the only certainty was pain and the icy bite of terror crawling up his spine.
He tried to move and realised his wrists were bound tight to the cold metal arms of a chair.
Panic jolted him upright, the chair’s metal legs scraping out a shrill protest against the slick floor.
His voice shattered. Panic crashed over him in violent, dizzying waves. Soba had been with him on the curb that night, loyal and protective until the very end. The memory surfaced. The thought of his dog alone somewhere brought a bitter ache to his chest, all tangled with guilt.
A soft sound echoed behind him.
Jan emerged into the weak cone of light beneath a hanging bulb, sleeves rolled to his elbows with meticulous care. His shirt was spotless, pale as paper. That same calm, distant curiosity lingered in his eyes—the look Aoi had glimpsed on the street, in the bakery, by the library door where Jan lingered too long.
Like someone observing a painting.
Aoi’s breathing turned ragged immediately.
Aoi’s tongue felt heavy, and every word hurt his throat. His voice shook so much he could barely speak. Fear made it hard to breathe. His heart pounded against the ropes holding him, and for a moment, all he could hear was his own rough breathing.
The question tumbled out, desperate and small. He could barely recognise his own voice.
Jan tilted his head slightly, studying Aoi’s trembling frame. The gesture was eerily calm, almost clinical—a predator examining a wounded animal.
“The dog?” he asked, as if confirming a trivial detail.
Aoi’s entire body trembled. The cold metal of the chair bit through his clothes, reminding him with every shiver that this was real. His mind flickered with images of Soba, warm and alive, and the terror of loss nearly overwhelmed him.
“Yes—my dog—please—please tell me you didn’t—”
Jan frowned faintly, almost puzzled by the outpouring of emotion. It was as if he were struggling to understand why anyone would care so much.
The words slipped from Jan’s mouth so casually, they felt obscene—like a knife wrapped in silk. Aoi stared at him, heart hammering, struggling to believe. He clung to the hope like a lifeline, but suspicion gnawed at the back of his mind.
“He’s sleeping on your couch,” Jan continued, tone as bland as if he were giving directions. “I locked the back door. He seemed comfortable.”
Aoi’s disbelief showed on his face. His vision blurred from tears and exhaustion. The room spun, and the ache in his chest was the only thing that felt real.
Aoi’s voice cracked apart. The memory resurfaced in jagged flashes: the strange taste on his tongue, the world tilting and breaking.
Jan walked a little closer, shoes whispering across the concrete. Each step seemed to echo, impossibly loud, in the cavernous, windowless room. Drains punctuated the floor. Hooks lined the walls. Stainless steel tables gleamed dully beneath the dim light, their surfaces wiped clean, but nothing could erase the feeling that violence lingered in the air.
Realisation crept, slow and cold, into Aoi’s mind. It moved through him like frost, numbing every thought until only the pain remained.
When he finally understood, his stomach twisted so much he thought he might be sick.
“This is…” Aoi whispered, but the words barely made it past his lips.
Jan glanced around the room with quiet pride, as though unveiling a masterpiece.
Aoi shook his head frantically, panic climbing his throat like bile.
“No. No—this is a slaughterhouse—”
“An abattoir,” Jan corrected gently.
Aoi gasped for breath, his throat raw. Fear left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Jan studied him with unsettling patience, as if he had all the time in the world to watch Aoi’s world collapse.
Aoi pulled at the ropes around his wrists, growing more desperate each time they didn’t move. The cords cut into his skin. Hopelessness weighed on him.
"Please," he said, voice cracking. "Let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I swear."
Jan crouched in front of him, folding himself down until their eyes were level. For a moment, he simply watched Aoi’s face, as if memorising the way terror twisted every feature.
The tears gathered in the corners of Aoi’s eyes, hot and helpless. His lower lip trembled uncontrollably, betraying every thought he fought to conceal. He had always looked soft, but fear made him look unbearably fragile now—like something that had never known the shape of violence before.
Aoi flinched violently, recoiling from the touch as if it might burn him.
Jan’s fingers paused in the air, uncertainty flickering across his face.
“…You’re shaking,” he observed, voice flat but not unkind.
“Of course I’m shaking!” Aoi’s voice rose, spiralling into hysteria. The sound bounced off the tiled walls, sharp and thin. “You kidnapped me!”
Jan’s hand lowered slowly, disappointment ghosting over his features.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “But I needed you to understand.”
He walked to the far side of the room.
Only then did Aoi notice the third figure.
Someone was tied to a metal chair just like his.
Aoi hadn’t seen them before. They were slumped forward, breathing shallowly through a bloodied mouth.
The man lifted his head weakly.
“Aoi,” Jan said calmly, rolling up his sleeves further, “this is Mr Takeda.”
Recognition struck like lightning.
The man from the café two weeks ago, who had leaned in too close across the small table, his smile bright and edged with a kind of effortless confidence, as if the world would always tilt in his favour. Aoi, caught off guard by the attention and unsure how to handle someone so at ease, felt his cheeks burn and had to bite back the nervous smile tugging at his lips.
Takeda had offered a hesitant smile, clearly searching for something to say—something to break the ice. “I guess this is the part where I ask for your number?” he’d joked, his voice light but slightly unsure, eyes darting away for a moment.
Aoi had laughed nervously.
Jan had been sitting three tables away that afternoon.
“Oh my god,” Aoi whispered.
Takeda’s gaze flicked between Aoi and Jan, his face pinched with confusion and fear. Sweat gathered along his brow, and he worked his jaw as if something bitter was caught in his mouth. "You know this freak?" he managed, voice rough. He looked at Aoi—not with anger, but with a silent plea for something to make sense, anything to hold onto.
Jan reached for a knife on the table. The movement wasn’t rushed, but steady and practiced, like he’d done it a hundred times. The blade caught the overhead light and threw a thin glare onto the wall. Aoi felt his chest tighten; every breath was a struggle, the air thick and jagged in his throat. He thought he could hear the scrape of Jan’s shoes, the soft rattle of metal, every sound sharper than it should be.
“Jan—please—” The words barely came out. He wasn’t sure if Jan even heard him. When Jan looked back, his face was calm—almost gentle. It would have been comforting if not for everything else in the room, everything Aoi couldn’t ignore.
“You told him you liked jasmine tea,” Jan said.
“You told him you hated bitter coffee,” Jan continued calmly.
Aoi shook his head desperately.
“Jan, please, I don’t care about tea, just let us go—”
“You laughed at his jokes.”
Takeda struggled weakly against the ropes.
“Are you seriously doing this over a guy?”
Jan looked mildly offended.
The sound ripped from his throat like something dying.
Blood spilt across the concrete floor.
Aoi’s entire body shook violently as he watched. The metallic stench of blood filled his lungs. He wanted to look away, but horror rooted him in place. Each sound—the wet crunch, the scraping metal—etched itself into his memory. His mind screamed at him to disbelieve, to wake up, but there was no escape from the nightmare unfolding in front of him.
Watched Jan move with horrifying calm.
Like someone performing a careful craft.
Aoi sobbed uncontrollably.
“Please—please—please stop—”
The violence didn’t stop—if anything, it seemed to intensify. Every sound was magnified: the sickening crunch, the choked screams, metal scraping frantically against the floor. The air was thick with the smell of blood and pain. Each new noise made Aoi’s stomach twist; his mind spun, unable to look away no matter how much he wished he could.
Somewhere in the chaos, Takeda’s voice grew weaker, then fell silent. The fighting faded, leaving only the memory of pain echoing in the slumped, battered figure. And then—
A silence heavier than any scream settled over the room. It pressed in from every side, suffocating and complete, as if the world itself recoiled from what had happened. Aoi’s breath caught, tears streaming down his cheeks as the sight of blood pooling on the floor blurred before his eyes. The metallic taste in the air was so sharp it made him gag.
Jan moved slowly, almost ceremoniously, to the metal sink. His shoes squeaked in the quiet. He turned on the faucet, washing blood from his hands in slow, deliberate strokes. The water ran red, then pink, and finally clear, swirling away down the drain.
When Jan turned back, the light cast eerie shadows across his face, making his calm composure even more frightening. He looked at Aoi with the same gentle ease as before, as if nothing had changed at all.
Aoi recoiled in terror. “Don’t come near me!”
Jan stopped a few steps away.
Aoi shook his head violently.
“I don’t see anything except a murderer!”
Jan studied him carefully.
“People say they love each other every day,” he said. “They marry. They sleep together. They promise forever.”
His voice remained quiet.
“But their bodies remain separate.”
Aoi stared at him through tears.
Jan stepped closer again.
“Real love,” he continued softly, “means becoming part of someone.”
Aoi’s stomach twisted violently.
“You’re sick,” he whispered.
Jan knelt in front of him again.
Aoi tried to pull away again, but the ropes held him firmly in place.
His fingers brushed the tears from Aoi’s cheek.
“I would never hurt you.”
“You just killed someone in front of me!”
“That wasn’t hurting you.”
Aoi’s voice broke into panicked sobs.
Jan’s expression shifted slightly. Something darker flickered there.
“Your life was lonely,” Jan murmured, his voice so low it seemed to vibrate in the heavy air. Each word landed with the weight of a verdict, the kind that echoes in empty rooms at midnight.
Aoi’s protest shattered the moment. “No, it wasn’t!” he snapped, but the denial rang hollow, dissipating into the cold, echoing space.
Jan’s eyes never left him. “You worked alone.”
“So what?!” Aoi’s voice cracked, brittle with exhaustion and fear.
“That’s normal!” The words tumbled out, desperate—almost childlike in their insistence.
Jan’s gaze was relentless, peeling back every layer of defiance. “You slept alone.”
Aoi’s breathing hitched violently, his chest rising in shallow, frantic jerks. Each memory flashed through his mind in quick, painful bursts: solitary dinners beneath the buzz of a bare kitchen bulb; the hush of early mornings, interrupted only by the distant clatter of pipes; the empty side of the bed, cool and untouched. The loneliness pressed in, dense as fog, settling into his bones.
Jan leaned closer, his presence looming—an inescapable shadow. The faint scent of cologne, sharp and cold, invaded Aoi’s senses. “But I never left you alone,” Jan whispered, each syllable curling in the air like smoke.
The words chilled Aoi to the bone, a wave of nausea crashing through him. His skin prickled, heart stuttering in terror and disbelief.
“I watched you every night.” Jan’s voice softened, almost reverent, as he confessed. “Through the cameras.”
“You noticed them eventually.” His voice held faint approval. “You’re smarter than I thought.”
Aoi began shaking so badly the chair rattled beneath him.
“You’re insane,” he whispered.
“But love rarely makes sense to other people.”
“Please,” he begged. “Please just let me go home. I won’t tell anyone. I swear.”
Jan looked at him for a long moment.
Jan walked toward the table again.
“But first,” he continued calmly, “you need to understand what loving someone truly means.”
Jan picked up the same bloodied knife.
He placed it gently into Aoi’s shaking hands after freeing them.
“You won’t hurt animals,” Jan said softly. “And you won’t hurt me.”
His voice lowered into something almost reverent.
“So you’ll start with him.”
Aoi looked down at the knife clutched in his shaking hands, the blade slick with blood and the handle cold, alien in his grip. His vision blurred, and every breath felt shallow, leaving a bitter copper taste at the back of his throat. The overhead bulb flickered, casting shifting patterns over the steel like a spotlight in an operating room. Blood collected at his feet in thick, slow-moving streams, sending up faint steam in the chill, creeping into every crack in the stained floor. The sharp metallic odour mixed with the sourness of fear, filling the air so thickly that breathing felt impossible.
Takeda’s body slouched in the chair, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. Blood traced a jagged line down his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt until the fabric was stained a deep, unnatural red. His hands, once clenched in fists, now hung limp, fingers curled uselessly toward the floor. Aoi’s gaze fixed on the slow drip of blood from Takeda’s fingertips, each drop splattering onto the concrete with a sickening clarity, counting out the endless seconds of horror.
Jan was watching him, eyes shadowed and patient, posture composed—like a teacher awaiting a student’s answer, or an artist admiring a canvas not yet complete. The silence between them rang louder than any scream, heavy with expectation and the weight of everything that had just transpired.
Jan’s voice remained calm.
“You love your dog, don’t you?”
“You’d do anything for him.”
“Good.” His eyes darkened. “Then prove you understand love.”
