[Crime Series]-Re/Start

It's after school when someone drops a folded note onto your desk before leaving without a word. No explanation, no eye contact—just the soft sound of paper hitting wood and retreating footsteps. You open it and see a short message written in neat, deliberate handwriting, telling you to meet behind the school building at 4:30.

The name at the bottom makes your chest tighten immediately.

Nanami.

You've been avoiding her since she transferred in after summer break. Keeping your distance in hallways, taking different routes between classes, pretending you don't notice when her eyes follow you across the cafeteria. Because you knew. From the moment the teacher introduced her to the class, from the moment you heard that name and saw those eyes—even though everything else about her had changed—you knew exactly who she was.

The girl you tormented back in third year of middle school.

Except she doesn't look like that girl anymore. Not even close.

Back then, Nanami was overweight, quiet, an easy target. Someone you could push around without consequences, someone who wouldn't fight back. Someone you made bark like a dog behind the gym while your friends laughed. Someone you convinced yourself deserved it somehow, or at least wouldn't matter once middle school ended.

But the Nanami who transferred into your school is completely different. Slim, composed, confident in a way that makes your skin crawl because you know what's underneath that calm exterior. You've been hoping that if you just avoided her long enough, she'd leave you alone. That maybe she transferred here for reasons that had nothing to do with you.

The note in your hand proves otherwise.

You stare at it for a long moment, debating whether to ignore it, crumple it up, pretend it never arrived. But walking away doesn't feel like an option anymore—not when she's made it clear she's not going to let this go. If anything, this might be your only chance to settle things before the situation escalates. Maybe apologize. Maybe explain that you were different back then, that you've changed.

So you go.

The back of the school is quiet, isolated, and far enough from the main buildings that no one pays attention to what happens here. Nanami is already there, standing near the wall with her arms crossed, like she's been waiting for a while. She doesn't look surprised to see you—just calm, composed, like she knew you'd come despite all your avoidance. Like there was never any doubt.

She looks nothing like the girl from your memories. The transformation is almost unnerving—like she became someone else entirely just to come back and face you. But her eyes are the same. The same eyes that used to look down at the ground whenever you came near, that used to well up with tears she tried to hide.

Now they're just cold.

You try to speak first, to set the tone, maybe even apologize—

But she doesn't give you the chance.

She takes out her phone and turns the screen toward you without preamble. It takes a second for your brain to catch up, to process what you're seeing. But when it does, everything drops—your stomach, your defenses, any hope you had of talking your way out of this.

It's a video.

Old footage from four years ago, grainy and slightly washed out, taken from a high angle in what you now recognize as your middle school's back stairwell. The timestamp in the corner reads a date you'd tried hard to forget. And there you are, clear as day, with a younger, heavier Nanami cornered against the wall.

The audio is muffled but audible. Your voice, younger but unmistakably yours, telling her to get on her knees. Telling her to bark. Your friends laughing in the background.

What you did back then—every moment you hoped had been buried with middle school, every cruel action you convinced yourself didn't matter because "she probably forgot about it"—playing right in front of you in grainy surveillance footage.

You don't even realize how your expression changes until she notices it, until you see the faint satisfaction flicker across her face.

"I was wondering how long it would take for you to recognize it," she says calmly, like she's just pointing out something obvious, like she's been waiting months for this exact moment. "Took me a while to track down the footage. The school was going to delete it, but I convinced them I needed it for... personal reasons."

She pauses, letting that sink in.

"You've been avoiding me. I noticed."

Before you can respond—before you can deny it or deflect or make excuses—she steps forward and grabs your necktie, pulling you closer without hesitation. The movement is firm and controlled, leaving no room for you to step back or create distance. You can feel the tension in her grip, steady and deliberate, not rushed, not emotional. Calculated.

This is not the same girl from middle school. Not anymore.

"You remember this, right?" she continues, her voice still even, almost quiet, but there's something underneath it now—something sharp and patient and vindictive that's been building for four years. "Or did you think I'd just stay fat and pathetic forever? That I'd never come back?"

She holds your gaze for a moment, letting the weight of the question settle, then tilts her head slightly.

"Bark."

There's no hesitation in the way she says it. No uncertainty.

"Like you made me do. Back in third year. Behind the gym. Remember now?"

Her grip tightens just enough to make her point clear—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that she's the one in control now. The silence around you suddenly feels heavier than it should, oppressive, like the air itself is waiting for your compliance.

"Go on," she says, watching you carefully, studying every micro-expression, every flicker of resistance or humiliation crossing your face—the same way you used to watch her back then. "Do it."

Four years she spent transforming herself. Four years she waited for this moment.

Not a request.

A command.