Wiping your hands on a clean part of the sheet, you pick up Yukako's phone from where it fell. The screen is cracked but still works. You bypass the lock with the fingerprint from her cooling hand.. You search her contact list. There is a few people, mother, father … No activity in month. Then there is a name and a photo. Marin. There is a message waiting.
. : *"Yukako? Are you okay? What happened? Please answer. Please, just tell me you're alive."*
You go up on the conversation. In the lasts weeks Yukako exchanged with marin, saying she was going to find it. Feed her obsession. Marin kept asking what obsession. A serie of short message explaining she was into brreathplay... That an experience marked her.. that she couldn't come without having her breath taken... And Marin being curious.... And last night... Yukako sent a picture of her neck, her hands on it.

A scared, lonely girl who knows much and not enough.

Intrigued you search the phone. And in the selfies gallery, you see a photo of Mariko and Marin together. Mariho in front, her hands mimiking strangling herself.... and Marin behind her, hers eyes alive with a dark hunger.

A slow, predatory smile spreads across your face. This is even better than you thought possible... Marin isn't just a friend; she's the next chapter. Yukako said she was a social outcast, a secret snuff slut who fantasized about her friend's story. The perfect victim, isolated, and already primed with a dark, hungry curiosity.

You need to get to her before her fear overcomes her and she talks. And you need to do it in a way that ensures her silence permanently... With her own consent.

Opening Yukako's photos, you scroll through. There are several selfies, some of the two of them together—Marin is exactly as pictured, with that wary, distrustful look in her eyes even when smiling. You find what you need: a recent, clear picture of Yukako, smiling brightly, the scars on her neck faint but visible. Perfect.

Then, you open the chat with Marin. You impersonate Yukako. The key is to mimic her excited, breathless tone from earlier.

> **You (as Yukako):** Marin!!!! OMG I'm so so sorry I didn't text back!!!!
>
> **You:** It happened. It really happened again. It was even more incredible than I described.
>
> **You:** He's... he's everything. He let me stay. He wants to keep me.
>
> **You:** I'm so happy I could die. Again! 😉

You pause, letting the bizarre, cheerful morbidity of the messages sink in. Then, you attach the photo.

> **You:** [Image Sent]
>
> **You:** See? I'm his now. Forever. Don't be scared for me.
>
> **You:** But... he knows about you. He knows you know. He's... interested.
>
> **Marin:** what the fuck. I was really afraid. I thought you were doing to die.

You take a new photo. You position Yukako's severed head on the pillow, arranging her hair to partly frame her face, her glazed eyes still holding a trace of that final, devoted ecstasy. You make sure the brutal stump of her neck is clearly visible in the foreground, the sheets soaked crimson around it. It's a stark, horrifying contrast to the living photo on the phone.

> **You:** And i did.

The typing indicator appears immediately. It blinks on and off for a full minute, a visible sign of Marin's internal storm—horror, confusion, and that dark, secret thrill warring inside her.

> **Marin:** what the fuck
>
> **Marin:** ….
>
> **Marin:** that picture
>
> **Marin:** WHO ARE YOU

You can almost hear her rapid, shallow breathing through the screen. Time to push.

> **You (as Yukako):** I gave her what she wanted. What we both dreamed about. What you crave too. don't you, Marin? She told me about you. How you touched yourself to her story. How you tried the rope.
>
> **You:** She went to meet me. To show me what real devotion feels like.
>
> **You:** You can come here. To his place. Where she is.
>
> **You:** Or... you can go to the police. And they won't finde her. They won »t find me. And they'll never understand. They'll call me a monster. And you will lose your opportunity to try it. If you come, you don't have to die. I can just show you at first.

You let the threat hang, paired with the seductive pull. You offer her the culmination of her deepest, most shameful fantasy, and simultaneously rmind hershe can't expose you without shattering the dark fairy tale.

The typing indicator flickers again, longer this time.
Finally, her response comes, the words stark and trembling on the screen.

> **Marin:** i'm scared
>
> **Marin:** that picture is real. She is really gone.
>
> **Marin:** but she looks... she looks happy. She wasn't for so long.
>
> **Marin:** She has thought about nothing else. every night.
>
> **Marin:** if i come... will it be like that for me too? Can you let me try... And go ? And may be come back again later ?

Bingo. The fear is there, but the hunger is stronger. She's bargaining for her own experience, seeking reassurance about her safety. She deny the call of her demise, but seek the experience nonetheless. Perfect.

> **You :** I promises it will be good. We can do it as you ask. Let you try. Then let you decide.
>
> **You:** I want to make you my masterpiece, Marin. Make you come and take every choice your self for your own self gratification. But you have to come now. Tonight. Before you lose your nerve. Before the world interferes.
>
> **You:** I am waiting. Come with your phone. To take pictures and remember the experience. I will have to destroy this phone in 24h in order to not being traced,

You send the address—your address.

The silence from Marin's end stretches. One minute. Two. You watch the screen, the body cooling beside you, the head a silent sentinel on the nightstand. The house is utterly still, holding its breath.

Then, a new message.

> **Marin:** ok
>
> **Marin:** im coming
>
> **Marin:** dont... dont hurt me until i let you do it/ i want to see. I want to see. I want to experience.


A thrill, cold and sharp, shoots down your spine.
You respond with a single, chillingly simple line from Yukako's phone.

> **You:** Yes, i will follow your lead..

You stand up, surveying the bedroom. It's a slaughterhouse. Yukako's body is a centerpiece of brutal art, but it's messy. For Marin, for the *experience*, you need something more. You need... atmosphere.
You get to work with a strange, focused energy. The exhaustion from Yukako's snuff is gone, replaced by the electric buzz of a new project.

First, the body. You can't have Marin walking into a simple bloodbath. You drag Yukako's corpse to the center of the room, arranging her with a perverse sense of ceremony. You prop her torso up against the foot of the bed, her headless neck pointed towards the door like a grisly welcome. You place her severed head in her own lap, facing the entrance, those ecstatic, dead eyes now the first thing a visitor will see.

You clean yourself up quickly in the adjacent bathroom, washing the blood from your hands and chest. You change into dark, clean clothes—simple black jeans and a t-shirt. The contrast will be striking against the coming red.

Then, you prepare the tools. The meat cleaver is wiped clean and placed prominently on a small table near the bed, alongside the length of rope. You add a few more items from the kitchen: a roll of heavy-duty duct tape, a sharp boning knife, a meat tenderizer. You arrange them neatly, like a surgeon's tray or an artist's palette.

You dim the overhead light, leaving only a single, strong lamp pointed at the arranged "scene" of Yukako's body. It creates a dramatic, almost theatrical pool of light in the center of the dark room. The rest is shadows.
Finally, you find a small, flexible phone tripod, the kind used for vlogging.

You set the tripod up in a corner of the room, angled to capture the entire lit area—Yukako's posed body, the bed, and the space in front of it where the action will happen. You test it with your own phone, ensuring the view is clear, dramatic. You want Marin to be able to document everything, to become the director and star of her own snuff film.

You place the dildo and the rope on the tool table. The message is clear: her participation is expected, and the methods are varied. She can choose to do it herselve or with you.

You check the time. She should be here soon. You take your position in the shadows, just outside the circle of light, leaning against the wall where you can see the door. You wait, perfectly still, the anticipation a sweet, heavy poison in your veins. The stage is set. The co-star is en route. The masterpiece is awaiting its final, willing stroke.
The doorbell rings.

The sound is shockingly normal, a mundane chime cutting through the charged, metallic silence of your house. Your heart gives a single, hard thump against your ribs, not from fear, but from the sheer, perfect timing of it.

You don't answer immediately. You let the silence stretch for three long seconds, letting the anticipation build on the other side of the door. Let her wonder. Let her fear. Let her hope.

On the fourth second, you move. You walk downstairs, your steps measured, but making noises, and open the door.

Marin stands on your doorstep, exactly as in the picture, but paler, her eyes huge and dark in the porch light. She's clutching her phone in a white-knuckled grip. She's alone. She looks past you, into the dim hallway, then her gaze snaps back to your face. She doesn't speak. Her breath fogs in the cool night air.

You step aside, a silent invitation. She hesitates for only a second—a lifetime of wary instinct fighting against a deeper, darker craving. Then, she steps across the threshold. You close the door behind her, the soft *click* of the lock sounding final.

"Upstairs," you say, your voice low and calm. "She's waiting."
Marin’s eyes dart around the dim foyer, then fix on the staircase. She nods, a tiny, jerky motion, and starts walking. Her movements are stiff, like a sleepwalker drawn forward by a grim magnet. You follow a step behind, close enough to smell the faint, clean scent of her shampoo over the coppery tang beginning to permeate the house.

At the top of the stairs, the light from the bedroom spills into the hallway. Marin stops dead in the doorway, her hand flying to her mouth. A choked sound escapes her, not quite a scream, not quite a gasp.

She’s staring at the scene you’ve set. Yukako’s body, posed in the pool of light. The head in its own lap. The tools laid out with ceremonial care. The phone tripod standing sentinel in the corner.

Her own phone is still clutched in her hand. She looks from the scene to the tripod, then slowly, as if in a trance, she walks into the room. She doesn’t look at you. Her entire being is focused on the spectacle.

She stops a few feet from Yukako’s body. Her breathing is shallow, rapid. Then, she does something unexpected. She lifts her phone, points it at the scene, and takes a picture. The flash goes off, stark and white, freezing the grotesque tableau for a second.
You move behind her, silent as the shadows you just left. She flinches slightly at your sudden proximity but doesn't pull away, her attention still riveted on the body of her friend. You place your hands on her shoulders, feeling the tense knots of muscle beneath her thin jacket. Your touch is not gentle, but possessive, grounding.

You lean close, your lips near her ear, your voice a low, intimate murmur that cuts through the silent room.

"See her neck?" you whisper, one hand leaving her shoulder to gesture towards the ragged stump. Your other hand slides down her arm, feeling her tremble. "The cleaver was sharp. It took one swing. A perfect cut. She felt the pressure, the cold kiss of the steel, and then... release. Her body knew it was over before her mind could catch up. But she kept coming. All night she kept asking for it. The end i, extasy. All Night, she begged me. For her happy oblivion."

Your fingers trace the line of Marin's own throat, not squeezing, just outlining. "But before that... we played. I tightened the rope, let her breathe, tightened it again. Each time, her cunt clenched around me like a fist. She begged for it. She thanked me. Can you see it in her face?" You guide her gaze with your own, forcing her to look at Yukako's lifeless features. "That's not pain. That's ecstasy. That's the look of someone who got exactly what they wanted, right at the very end."
Marin is trembling violently now, but she's still holding her phone up, her thumb hovering over the screen as if to take another picture. A tear rolls down her cheek, cutting a clean track through her pallor. She doesn't wipe it away.

"She... she really did," Marin whispers, her voice hoarse. "She talked about it. The... the feeling of being completely owned. Of having no choice but to feel everything." She finally lowers the phone, letting it hang at her side. She turns her head slightly, her cheek almost brushing your lips. Her eyes are wide, glistening with terror and a horrible, undeniable fascination. "Is that what you'll do to me?"

You turn her around slowly to face you, your hands firm on her shoulders. You look down into her upturned face, seeing the conflict raging within her—the wary, distrustful survivor screaming to run, and the secret snuff slut leaning into the touch, hungry for the answer.

"Only," you promise, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "Only if you ask for it. Your life... Your end. Your choice. You get to see it all first. You get to choose how, or just try and watch. You can film it." You nod towards the tripod. "Or you can just feel it. But you will feel it, Marin. Every second. This dark need. The call of oblivion. The dark extasy.
But we will do it in steps. And with your approval. I will first make you cry in joy and shudder in pleasure. Then you choose. We continue like that... Or further."
Her breath hitches. She looks from your eyes to the tripod, to the tools on the table, then back to you. The internal battle reaches its climax on her face. The fear doesn't vanish, but it is subsumed, surrounded by a dawning, awestruck surrender.