🩸 CASEFILE: KAPPA RHO 🩸 1 || Victimology
[ SUM ] — your first day of “criminal behavior & profiling” hands you a campus cold case: elijah park, nineteen, last seen at a kappa rho party. you’re supposed to build a picture from scraps. you don’t know yet that you’ve already walked past the boys who can’t stop rehearsing their alibis.
[ PAIRING ] — fratboy!sukuna x f!reader
[ THEME ] — campus mystery, victimology, slow-burn romance, “do not fall for your suspect” energy
[ TAGS ] — mdni. 18+. missing student. classroom setting. true-crime analysis. victimology. timeline building. morally gray cast. no smut this chapter. sukuna cameo at the end. prelude recommended.
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The first photo they give you is terrible.
Too bright, wrong angle, the kind of candid that makes anyone look like a suspect. The flash bleaches the hallway into one long smear of white, faces blown out, eyes red. Bodies jostle toward the camera, cups in the air, somebody half–crowd-surfing in the back.
You have to squint to even find him.
There, left of center. Faded college hoodie, plastic cup clutched too tight, grin a second too late to be natural. Everyone else looks like they’re having the best night of their lives. He looks like he’s trying.
You tap the corner of the photo with your pen.
“Elijah Park,” the professor says, leather shoes ticking softly along the front of the room. “Sophomore. Nineteen at the time. Last seen at an off-campus party hosted by Kappa Rho. Missing for almost a year now.”
His name is printed on the folder in your hands. VICTIM: ELIJAH PARK. Black marker. Block letters. The kind of handwriting that doesn’t have time for cursive or hope.
Fluorescent lights hum. The room smells like dry-erase marker and burned espresso drifting in from the hall. Someone’s RA bulletin board screams Free Flu Shots Today beside a torn flyer for a poetry slam.
“As you can see,” the professor continues, “today we’re starting your case projects. Real disappearances. Real interviews. Real reports. I’ve pulled anything that’s still open, unsolved, or… unsatisfactorily resolved.”
Someone in the back snorts. “So, all of them?”
A couple people laugh. You don’t. Your thumb catches on the edge of a photocopied statement.
You’ve been waiting for this since you registered for Criminal Behavior & Profiling. The syllabus called it “applied analysis.” Your brain translated that to: you get to dig through someone’s worst day and make it make sense.
The professor nods toward the class. “Your job is simple on paper. Build me a picture. Not of what you wish happened, but what the facts are quietly screaming at you.”
He starts calling names. Group assignments. Folders shuffle from desk to desk, paper sighing.
“Park,” he says, glancing up with an apologetic wince. “No relation; different Park. Group three. You’ll be lead on Elijah.”
You slide your thumb under the flap and open it.
Police report. Missing person flyer. Timeline summary. A campus security incident sheet with half the lines redacted. The party photo on top, blurry and loud.
You skim: date, time, last seen. Shared student housing. Roommates “believed he stayed out somewhere else.” Frat house mentioned three times in the first paragraph alone.
You circle it like ink can stop it from slipping away.
Your group collects itself around you. A tall guy in a baseball cap. A girl with highlighter stains on her fingers. Another kid who smells like coffee and all-nighters.
“I’m Maya,” highlighter girl says. “I’m good with data stuff, so timelines.”
“Tom,” the cap says. “Mapping. Logistics.”
The coffee kid shrugs. “Ben. I switched majors twice and ran out of options.”
“I can do victimology,” you say. “Behavioral stuff. If that works.”
Maya grins. “Oh, we got a keener.”
Ben squints at the photo. “He doesn’t look like someone who just… vanishes.”
Elijah’s smile is crooked. Sweat dampens his hairline. The hand holding the cup is tense, knuckles pale. He’s standing close to a guy with a backwards cap who has his arm slung around Elijah’s shoulders, laughing at something off-camera.
It bothers you that Elijah doesn’t lean back into the touch.
You turn the photo over. On the back, someone has scrawled a date and time in messy ink.
You whisper it under your breath.
“Last confirmed sighting: 11:42 p.m.”
Maya blinks. “You got that from one picture?”
“One bad photo is still a mirror,” you murmur. “Victimology starts with how the victim saw themselves, and how other people saw them.”
From the front of the room, the professor clears his throat.
“Lead investigators. In your groups, answer three questions before you leave today. One: what do you know? Two: what do you think you know? Three: what are you willing to admit you don’t know yet? Start with the first list. Do not jump straight to number two just because your brains are excited.”
He’s talking directly to people like you.
Know, you tell yourself. Think later.
Elijah Park. Nineteen. Korean-American. Computer science major. No criminal record. No history of running away. Introvert, according to roommate notes. “Nice kid, kind of awkward.” “Tried too hard to make jokes when he was nervous.” “Really wanted to rush but kept backing out.”
Last seen at Kappa Rho’s end-of-year party. Witnesses say he arrived around ten. Security footage shows him entering the house.
There is no footage of him leaving.
You circle that. Then another line.
Phone last pinged at 12:13 a.m., somewhere in the block around the frat house. After that: nothing.
“Okay,” you say, more to the paper than to your group. “We know he went in. We don’t have proof he came out.”
Maya leans in. “He could’ve left through a back door.”
“He could have,” you agree. “But nobody wrote that down. If they could confirm he walked away, it would be here.”
Tom flips a statement. “‘We were devastated when we heard he was missing. He seemed like he was having a great time.’”
You don’t have to see the page to hear the script in it.
“They always say ‘great time,’” you mutter, already writing. social desirability / public image. “That’s about the house. Not about him.”
Ben hesitates. “Is it possible nothing bad happened at the party? He left, something happened somewhere else…”
“Sure,” you say. “Lots of things are possible. We’re not here for possible. We’re here for probable.”
You skim again, hunting for splinters.
Noise complaints. Officers knocking for a welfare check. “Everyone was fine, just drunk.” Three fraternity members formally interviewed in the days after Elijah’s disappearance.
Needs, you write without thinking: inclusion, approval, belonging.
Risk tolerance: high, if it buys acceptance.
Maya peers over. “That’s… sad.”
Tom checks the time. “So what’s the plan, boss?”
A year from now, you’ll wish you’d said: somewhere else.
Right now, you just think: finally.
“We start with him,” you say, tapping Elijah’s file. “Who he was, what he wanted, what it would take to get him alone. If we understand that, we’ll know who could take advantage.”
“And then we look at the house,” you say. “Who benefits from the story they told. Who hasn’t stopped repeating it.”
You don’t notice which house the frisbee lands in front of. Not yet.
You have three pages of notes by the time the professor dismisses you. Maya starts a shared spreadsheet. Tom draws a rough map. Ben volunteers to pull old articles.
You slide Elijah’s photo back into the folder, close it carefully, and hug it to your chest as you leave.
In the hallway, everyone’s buzzing. Theories. Complaints. Jokes about solving something before midterms.
Victim. Timeline. Location.
You repeat the words in your head as you push open the double doors.
Cool air hits your face. The campus smells like cut grass, floor cleaner, and someone’s vape. Voices drift from the steps to your left where a group of guys in frat letters are laughing at something on a phone, loud and easy.
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You have your head bent over the folder when someone’s shadow falls across the page.
“Careful,” a voice says, lazy and amused. “You keep walking like that, you’re gonna crash into something you weren’t ready for.”
You step around him, mouth already forming an apology.
It dies in your throat when you finally glance up.
Pink hair. Tattoos. Black hoodie. A smirk curling slow as he looks down at the folder in your hands.
“Casefile, huh?” he says, eyes flicking over your grip. “Didn’t know they gave homework that heavy this early.”
You just shift the folder higher and force your brain to reboot.
“Some of us like a challenge,” you say.
“Good,” he says. “Campus could use more people who aren’t boring.”
He takes one step back like he’s giving you space, like he’s letting you decide whether this continues.
For now, you just say, “You blocking the stairs for a reason, or…?”
He laughs under his breath, chin tipping toward the path.
“Nah,” he says. “Just taking in the view.”
He moves aside. His eyes follow you as you pass, flicking once more to the bold letters on the folder.
You don’t see the way his smile thins when he catches KAPPA RHO.
You’re already halfway down the steps, heart beating a fraction faster than it was in the classroom.
Behind you, Ryomen Sukuna watches you walk away with a case that shouldn’t know his name.
You don’t know it either.
