After steadying myself, I returned to my desk.
I launched my tracing software—not just any tool, but technology I'd used since my active days in the police's digital forensics division.
I began to track the origin IP of their broadcast.
I searched for their nodes. Usually, they'd reroute through a Canadian cloud or a Taiwanese proxy server.
But this time... the IP was Japanese. Even narrower. Shibuya District.
And as I parsed the metadata with the hash code disassembler algorithm, I froze: the administrative user ID was listed as "May0_Zzz."
I nearly slammed my laptop shut.
What did this mean? Why was their broadcast... connected to her account? Was this a fabrication? Were Mono and Delta already dead, their accounts now controlled by May0_Zzz? But... why? And how? Or perhaps, conversely—was May0_Zzz, whom I'd admired all this time... actually them? Or...
There was a third party.
Someone who had taken over both of them. And was impersonating all three.
My brain began to burn with theories. Paranoia crept higher. I wasn't just watching a livestream... I was witnessing something that shouldn't exist. And all of this... somehow... was directly connected to the deaths of two people in that apartment last night.
Then, a new message popped up on my screen, from the very IP I'd just traced, bearing the username May0_Zzz.
[Why are you tracking me?] it read.
The question wasn't just text; it was a cold, digital whisper, piercing the already thin veil of my composure.
My stomach, still churning from the earlier upheaval, tightened further.
It was audacious. A direct challenge.
And it confirmed every chilling suspicion.
I could have ignored it. Called the police, handed over everything. But that wasn't how this puzzle felt. This wasn't a standard investigation anymore.
This was personal, tangled in the digital threads of my own life. And I had questions that only May0_Zzz—or whatever entity was behind that username—could answer.
My fingers flew across the keys, fueled by a mixture of adrenaline and righteous fury.
VelVice26: [Who are you? What have you done with Mono and Delta?]
The silence stretched, broken only by the hum of my computer and the frantic pounding of my own heart. Seconds bled into minutes.
Each tick felt like an eternity. Was I being foolish? Was I walking into a trap?
The thought barely registered over the desperate need for answers.
Then, the cursor blinked. A response.
[They're gone. As for who I am... does it matter?]
A chilling, detached tone. My blood ran cold. "Gone." Not "dead."
[Not "murdered." Just... gone. As if they were trivial, easily dismissed.]
It matters to me. And it matters to their millions of fans.
[You've hijacked their identities. Why?]
My voice, though only in my head, was a snarl.
[Hijacked? Such a strong word. I merely... continued their legacy. A service, if you will.]
A service.
The sheer arrogance of it made my vision blur with anger. This wasn't some fan tribute. This was a sophisticated, grotesque charade built on death.
A service? You call this disgusting act a fucking service?
[You're performing a desecration. Are you telling me you killed them?]
I typed, my breath held. This was it. The direct question.
A pause, longer this time. I imagined them on the other end—a cold, calculating smile, or perhaps, nothing at all. Just pure, unfeeling detachment.
[Their passing was... unfortunate. A consequence. Not an act committed by my hand, but a result of their own limitations.]
Limitations.
The word hung in the air, a venomous, intellectual insult.
It dismissed Mono and Delta not as victims, but as failures. My mind flashed back to the crime scene: the unnatural poses, the vacant eyes, the forced ecstasy.
[What limitations? You saw them. You were there.]
I pressed, my fingers aching from the tension.
They pushed boundaries. Explored limits.
The human form has its weaknesses. Their ambition exceeded their biology.
Ambition. Biology.
The terms were clinical, devoid of emotion. But the implication—the dark, twisted implication—was clear. They had been driven to their deaths by something, some perverse experiment.
[You manipulated them. Forced them to... to whatever resulted in their deaths.]
[What were you doing? And why?]
The questions tumbled out, each one a desperate grasp at understanding.
[I provided guidance. Facilitated an experience. The "why" is complex, a quest for ultimate expression. Their final performance was... transcendent. A raw display of human essence at its breaking point.]
Transcendent. Performance. Raw display of human essence my ass.
The words twisted in my gut. This wasn't a criminal. This was a psychopath, an artist of the macabre, using human lives as paint on a canvas.
[You recorded it. You're broadcasting it. That's why the webcam was on, isn't it?]
Their final moments, for your sick gratification.
My voice, a ragged whisper, now echoed in the silence of my apartment. The reality of it was almost too much to bear.
[The world deserves to see true art. Unfiltered. Uncensored. Their final act was a masterpiece. A shame it had to be... posthumous. But the show, as they say, must go on.]
A masterpiece. The "show must go on." The utter depravity of it made my head swim. This wasn't about fame or money for May0_Zzz. This was about a twisted vision, a dark ideology.
[You're insane.]
I typed, the words bitter on my tongue.
[Am I? Or am I simply seeing what others are too afraid to acknowledge? The raw, untamed urges beneath the veneer of civility. They craved it, Kyouya. More than you could ever know.]
"They craved it."
The lie was infuriating. But the chilling certainty in her words—or its words—made my blood run cold. It was feeding on my reactions, enjoying the unraveling. I had to maintain control.
[Hold on. How do you know my name?]
A tactical retreat, a shift in questioning. It was a detail I hadn't revealed to the public.
[You leave quite the digital footprint, Kyouya. A keen mind, but predictable in your pursuit of truth. And now... you're part of the performance too, aren't you?]
The message blinked, a final, chilling statement. Part of the performance. The thought lodged itself in my mind like a shard of ice. I wasn't just an observer anymore. I was drawn in. And the game, whatever twisted game this was, had just begun.