Chronolust Temptation [18+] High S*xual Content
Bad End [Nanako 2]

Hayao chose to let Nanako go, his hands trembling as he deleted the damning footage from his computer, file by file, until every trace of their night—her half-frozen moans, her body pinned beneath him. Everything was erased. 

The stopwatch was shoved deep into a drawer beneath a pile of manga, buried like a shameful secret. He couldn’t bring himself to use the video against her, couldn’t let the artifact’s dark pulse push him further into the abyss. The guilt was a lead weight in his gut, Nanako’s voice—her screams, her twisted “I love you”—echoing in his mind, but he vowed to leave it behind, hoping the silence would mend what he’d broken.

Days dragged on, heavy with tension. At school, Nanako avoided him, her eyes downcast, her pixie smile replaced by a tight, guarded expression. Hayao kept his distance, the weight of his actions choking him, the hidden stopwatch a constant reminder of his crime. He tried to lose himself in the monotony of final exams and graduation prep, but the dread clung to him, a shadow he couldn’t shake. He wondered if Nanako would keep their night buried, if her fragmented memories would fade, but deep down, he knew the truth had a way of clawing its way out.

One day, his world collapsed. 

A sharp knock shattered the quiet of his apartment, and his mother, Mai, called his name, her voice tight with panic. “Hayao, get out here!” 

He stumbled into the small living room, his stomach plummeting as he saw two police officers, their faces grim, badges catching the light. Behind them stood Nanako’s mother, her eyes blazing with fury, and Nanako herself, head bowed, her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles were white.

“Hayao Miyazaki,” the taller officer said, his voice cold as steel, “you’re under arrest for sexual assault and rape.” The words slammed into him, his legs nearly giving out as the room tilted. Mai let out a strangled cry, her hands clutching her nurse’s scrubs, her full-figured frame trembling. “No, there’s a mistake! My son wouldn’t…” she choked, but the officer’s stare cut her off, unyielding. “They are friends!”

Nanako wouldn’t meet his eyes, her short hair falling over her face, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Her mother’s voice sliced through, venomous and raw. “You vile boy, you ruined her!” Hayao’s mouth opened, but nothing came out, his throat tight with guilt and fear. 

The officers moved forward, one gripping his arm, the other snapping cold handcuffs around his wrists, the metal biting into his skin like a judgment. Mai’s pleas followed him, her voice breaking. “Hayao, tell them! Tell them it’s not true!” But he couldn’t, his head bowed, the absence of the stopwatch in his pocket a hollow weight.

The hallway of the apartment complex seemed to close in, neighbors’ whispers buzzing like flies as they peeked from doorways, their eyes heavy with judgment. The police car’s red and blue lights flashed outside, casting stark shadows as they shoved him into the back seat. The ride to the station was a blur, the radio’s crackle mixing with Mai’s muffled sobs from the doorway, her silhouette fading as they pulled away.

At the juvenile detention center, a squat, gray building on the outskirts of Tasaka City, Hayao was processed with mechanical efficiency—fingerprints smudged onto a scanner, a mugshot taken under harsh lights, his school uniform swapped for a coarse jumpsuit that scratched his skin. The cell door clanged shut, the sound echoing like a gavel, locking him in a small, sterile room with a single bunk and a barred window. The walls seemed to pulse with the ghost of the stopwatch’s power, mocking his attempt to bury it. He sank onto the bunk, his head in his hands, Nanako’s face, her betrayal, and her pain burned into his mind.

Japan had a ninety-nine percent conviction rate… there would be no escaping this. It was ironic that he had destroyed the only evidence of saving him.

Days bled into weeks, the detention center a maze of routine and isolation. The other boys kept their distance, sensing the weight of his charge, their whispers following him in the mess hall. His mother visited when she could, her eyes red, her voice strained as she spoke through a glass partition. 

“Why, Hayao?” she’d ask, but he had no answers, only shame. 

Nanako’s testimony, pieced together from her fragmented memories, had been enough—her words, her tears, her truth unraveling his life. The stopwatch, hidden in his room, was never found, but its influence lingered, a dark stain on his soul.

At his hearing, the judge’s voice was a monotone drone, listing his charges with clinical precision. Hayao stood, head bowed, as the gavel fell, sentencing him to two years in the juvenile facility, his future—a modest college in Tokyo, a life with Nanako—reduced to ash. 

As they led him back to his cell, the weight of his choices crushed him, the stopwatch’s power a distant echo, its promise of control nothing but a lie that had cost him everything.

The End

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