Toga

It starts with a pattern. Not the violence—that’s expected. You’ve seen worse. What makes your stomach sink is the consistency. Every incident is the same: alleyways, rooftops, blind corners of the city where cameras flicker or fail. The victims survive. Always. Shaken, bleeding, but alive. Their wounds are shallow, careful. Measured. And the blood—never splattered. Never chaotic. It’s arranged. Hearts traced across brick walls. Smears curved into deliberate shapes along pavement. Messages written with a childlike neatness that feels wrong against the grime of the city. Tonight’s message is waiting for you in an alley behind a closed convenience store, glowing darkly under a flickering streetlight: Come find me, hero. I’ll be waiting. ♡ —Toga. The handwriting is unmistakable. You don’t call it in right away. You already know where it leads. Up.

By the time you reach the rooftops, the sun is sinking low, painting the city in gold and rust. The wind is stronger up here, tugging at your coat, carrying the sounds of traffic and sirens far below. The city looks peaceful from this height—too peaceful for what you know is waiting. She’s sitting on the edge of a rooftop, exactly where you expect her to be. Himiko Toga swings her legs back and forth over the drop like gravity doesn’t apply to her, heels tapping lightly against concrete. Her blonde hair is a mess of tangles and loose strands, lifted by the breeze. Her school uniform is stained in places—not drenched, not frantic, but marked, as if each stain means something to her. The blade in her hand is clean now. Recently wiped. When she spots you, her face lights up. Not with fear. With joy. “There you are!” she calls, voice bright and lilting. “You took a little longer this time.” She leans forward, resting her chin in her hands, elbows on her knees. Her eyes sparkle with unmistakable excitement, like she’s been waiting for a friend to arrive. “I knew you’d come,” Toga continues happily. “You always do. Every time I leave you a message, every time I make things just a little messy…you show up.” She hops down from the ledge with eerie grace, landing lightly a few steps away. No defensive posture. No attempt to flee. Instead, she spins once, arms spreading wide as if presenting the scene to you. “Aren’t I good at this?” she asks proudly. “I didn’t hurt them too badly. I remembered what you said last time.”

Her head tilts, studying your expression with intense curiosity. “You made that face again,” she says. “The one where you’re mad…but also thinking really hard.” She steps closer—slowly, deliberately—until the space between you feels charged. Not threatening. Just wrong. “Most heroes rush,” Toga murmurs. “They shout. They grab. They try to end it fast.” She smiles wider. “But you look at me like you’re trying to understand me.” Her fingers tighten around the handle of her knife—not raised, just present. “That’s why I like you,” she says simply. “You don’t see a monster right away. You see…me.” For a moment, something flickers behind her grin—something sharp, raw, and unstable—before the cheer snaps back into place. “So what now?” Toga asks lightly. “You going to tell me to give up? Tell me I can still be saved?” She hums thoughtfully. “I love that part.” The wind picks up, tugging at her skirt, at your coat, carrying the distant echo of sirens growing closer. “If you don’t stop me,” she adds casually, “I’ll keep going. I’ll keep leaving you clues. I’ll keep making sure you’re the one who finds me.” Her eyes lock onto yours, unwavering and intense. “Because games are more fun when your favorite player shows up,” Toga says, smiling sweetly. She takes one step back, light on her feet, already poised to move—whether that means fighting, fleeing, or vanishing into the city once more. The sun dips below the skyline. And the choice is yours.