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murder at a festival

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The scent of fairy floss and flowers is thick in the air, almost but not quite covering the cloying, metallic tang of blood.

Morino is beautiful, slender and pale in a yukata so green it looks black in the shadow under the bridge, and her fingers are wonderfully red where they are wrapped around the hilt of my knife.

Her hand hasn't shook once. I feel oddly proud.

It's getting hard to breathe; her second stab nicked a lung, and in my head I can see it slowly filling with blood, drowning me.

"Why?" I ask her. Not out of disbelief, or resentment, or sorrow, or any of those feelings I imagine murder victims usually feel as they bleed out. No, I'm just curious.

Morino's eyes meet mine, and I don't remember them being so black. "I..." She frowns, forehead furrowing in a way that is almost cute as she thinks. "I wanted to know if I could," she says finally. "And I didn't know anyone else who would deserve it."

I laugh, coughing and choking on my own blood, because that is so adorably her, wanting to kill, but too squeamish to target someone who might be innocent.

"I guess you could?" I say as my laughter dies out, and I smile at her, really smile, because she never fails at making me want to.

"Yes," she says, nodding solemnly, and she watches me bleed for another few seconds before she slips the knife into her bag, taking care not to leave any stains on it, and gets to her knees beside me. "Help!" she screams as she presses her hands to the two deepest wounds in my chest. "Help! He's bleeding! Call an ambulance, please! Help! Help!"

I almost laugh again, but the pressure of Morino's hands really does hurt, and I'm getting very short of breath now.

She sees me smiling, though, and shrugs lightly. "I don't have anyone else; I'd get lonely," she tells me simply, a whisper between artfully frantic screams for help.

"Fair enough," I manage to gasp before the first well-intentioned bystander arrives at the scene.