[tiramisu] - Ntraholic [v4.2.2c]

Natsuki wasn’t blind; he was trusting. He noticed Marin coming home later from the library, her excuses about “staff meetings” growing thinner. He noticed the new perfume—something floral and expensive, not the lavender she always wore. But when he asked, she laughed it off. “You’re being silly, Natsu. He’s just a neighbor.”

“You captured the moment perfectly. But you forgot to live in it. GAME OVER. New Game+ unlocked—with all Corruption memories intact.” ntraholic [v4.2.2c] [tiramisu]

Natsuki, the player-character in his own tragedy, had only one weapon: his camera. He began to document. Not out of suspicion at first, but out of a photographer’s habit. He snapped a shot of Marin laughing at her phone while making tea—her face lit by a screen that wasn’t his. He zoomed in on the reflection in the window: Renji’s silhouette in the hallway, waiting. Natsuki wasn’t blind; he was trusting

Natsuki raised his camera. The auto-focus whirred. Through the lens, Marin and Renji looked like a painting—two figures in a gallery of betrayal. He pressed the shutter. Click. But when he asked, she laughed it off

The argument that followed was the game’s “Trust Breakpoint.” She didn’t deny an affair—she denied his right to watch. “You’re never home,” she said. “Renji listens. Renji sees me.” The irony was a knife in Natsuki’s chest. He saw her every day through his viewfinder. But she meant something else.

The game’s mechanics were cruel in their banality. Renji didn’t seduce Marin with grand gestures. He did it with small, persistent kindnesses that Natsuki, consumed by his own work, had forgotten. A shared umbrella in the rain. A compliment on her cooking (he’d “accidentally” burned his own). A text message at midnight—just a funny meme, harmless enough.

The first in-game “corruption point” ticked up when Marin forgot their third anniversary. She came home with a new dress—too short, too bright—and a bottle of wine that wasn’t from their usual store. “Renji recommended it,” she said, her cheeks flushed. Natsuki felt a cold stone settle in his gut. He checked the hidden app he’d installed on her phone (a feature of the “Suspicion System” in v4.2.2c). Her chat log with Renji was pristine—innocent, even. But the timestamps. Always the timestamps. 11:47 PM. 12:23 AM. 1:05 AM.