Teach me to sin II (Sins of the past) のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 121 - チャプター 130

I don’t know why the note unsettles me so badly. Eloise isn’t dramatic. She isn’t cryptic. She isn’t one of those girls who writes poetic nonsense for attention. So the simplicity of it — the softness, the gentleness — feels wrong. So wrong that it keeps replaying in my head like a whisper I can’t shake. “Thank you for showing me what freedom feels like? I wish I could explain?”What was that supposed to mean? I don’t like it. I don’t like any of it. And I especially don’t like that Eloise is not in class. She’s never absent without saying something. She always shows up. Being class president required that much. But today… nothing. She’s gone, and this note is the only proof she even existed in the last hour. Everyone around me is distracted — whispering about another cafeteria fight, about Norman disappearing from school early, about how the principal looked stressed this morning.But my mind is somewhere else entirely. Something is wrong. Deeply, bone-deep wrong. I d

The moment I got the text alert from school—the one screaming *EMERGENCY ON CAMPUS*—my stomach bottomed out. The second I pushed through the mass of people, saw Elijah’s blood on the tiles, and saw Eloise’s terrified face being dragged away, something in me snapped like a wire pulled too tight. I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t breathe. I ran. By the time I reached the motorcycle lot, my hand was shaking so badly I nearly dropped my keys. My helmet wasn’t even fully buckled before I threw my leg over the bike, kicked the engine awake, and tore out of the school grounds like the devil himself was on my heels. The wind hit me like a slap. Cold. Hard. Loud. I didn’t care.I almost ran over security guards on my way out because they thought it was a good idea to get in my way. My brain played the same image again and again: Eloise’s face—wide-eyed, terrified, her legs dragging uselessly across the floor as the man pulled her into the shadowed hallway. Her mouth opene

Darkness is the first thing I feel. A heavy, suffocating darkness that presses down on my eyelids like someone’s palms are holding them shut. My head throbs — a deep, pounding ache at the base of my skull — and when I try to breathe, something forces my lips apart in a muffled, strangled rush. My chest stutters. A gag. My brain fires in fragments — roof… Elijah… blood… screaming… the fall. Then it hits me with a force that makes my breath hitch into a sob. Elijah is dead.It’s all my fault. My body jerks violently before my eyes even open. My wrists slam against rough rope, biting my skin. My ankles are tied too. I thrash — desperate, animalistic — but the ropes cut deeper and the panic slams harder, flooding me with adrenaline so sharp it feels like fire in my veins. When my eyes finally snap open, darkness gives way to a dim, cramped metal interior. A van. The smell hits me next — gasoline, sweat, stale cigarettes, and something metallic and sour that makes bile claw up

Consciousness slammed into me like a blow. I woke choking on my own breath, gagged so tightly my jaw ached. My arms wouldn’t move. My legs wouldn’t move. The ropes bit into my skin, burning, unforgiving, as if someone had poured fire around my wrists and ankles. For a second, I didn’t know where I was. Then the stench of the room hit me—mold, damp concrete, old sweat, and something metallic that made my stomach roll. I was lying on the cold floor of a small, windowless space, lit only by a single flickering bulb that hummed above me like an insect. It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a nightmare. It was real. My heart thrashed. I twisted violently, trying to kick, trying to crawl, trying to scream through the gag. The sound that came out was pathetic and muffled, like a dying animal. Tears blurred my vision, burning hot and relentless. Elijah. The thought carved through me like a knife. Elijah is dead. Elijah is gone. And now—now it was my turn.God, I’m so sorry, Eli. I’m

I haven’t been this version of myself in years. Not since I buried that old life under paperwork, lectures, and the steady monotony of academia. But the second I walked out of that house—ignoring Alex’s anger, ignoring the worried voices behind me—the switch flipped. And the man I used to be woke up. Shadow. Silent. Calculated. Cold. The Tristan that existed before professorhood. Before Alex softened the edges. Before life gave me a child I did not plan for but had come to love. The Tristan the world once paid to make people disappear. The air is sharp as I step onto the street, my pulse steady, breath even, mind slicing thought from thought with surgical precision. I pull out my phone, swipe to the encrypted folder disguised as a file for academic grading, and open the interface. A blinking dot appears on the screen, weak but alive. The tracker. The one I slipped into the lining of all her shoes. I did not trust that she wouldn’t try to sneak off to anoth