They called him the Seer now.
Not "cashier." Not "washed-up jazz hack." Not even "weird clarinet guy who smells like brine and lost dreams."
No. Now it was "Prophet Squidward." "The Visionary." "The One Who Sees Death."
Which, technically, wasn't a lie. He did see death. He even wrote it.
But that was a minor detail.
"Will it rain today?"
"Should I avoid Lagoon Airlines?"
"Is green unlucky?"
"Does eating kelp dogs increase my risk of exploding?"
The questions never stopped. The plaza outside his house had become a shrine of stupidity. Every fish with a question about life, fate, or the color of their pants had come to him like he was some divine crustacean oracle.
Squidward stood at his door, rubbing his temples, exhausted.
"I see death, not fashion disasters," he snapped.
"But what if bad color choice leads to death?" one guppy asked earnestly.
Lurala cackled from behind him, lounging across a floating banner that someone had unfurled bearing his likeness.
"You're popular, Squiddy," she purred, upside-down. "Tell me, how do you plan on keeping up the charade?"
He didn't answer.
"After all," she added, grinning, "The only reason you predict death… is because you cause it."
Squidward adjusted his bathrobe
"I have a plan," he muttered. "I always have a plan."
He managed to get the crowd to follow him to the grocery store, before ditching them and doubling back. He walked home through the coral path, soaked in praise and prayers, his mind racing.
He didn't want to keep killing. But he couldn't be found out. Not now. Not when they finally respected him. Besides, he had concocted a plan that was only now setting into motion.
He was two blocks from home when he saw her.
Sandy Cheeks.
Waiting at his front door. Arms folded. Eyes tired. Lips thin.
"Sandy," he said warily.
"Hey, Squid," she replied, stepping forward. "Is it true?"
"…Is what true?"
"That you can see death. Before it happens."
Squidward hesitated.
"…Yes."
The next thing he knew, she hugged him.
It was so sudden, so loving, that for a moment he forgot who he was. Forgot the notebook. Forgot the whispers of his resident death god.
"I need your help," she whispered. "I think I'm close. Close to figuring out what's been happening to everyone. The deaths. The patterns. It's all—wrong. But with your ability, maybe… maybe we can stop it together."
Squidward's mouth was dry. "You… want me to help you?"
"Of course. Come on, let's go inside. I'll show you what I found."
He opened the door, reluctantly.
Lurala floated in behind them like a cartoon vulture, hissing under her breath, "Abort. Abort. Bad idea. Very bad idea."
Sandy placed her satchel on his table and pulled out a thick, black book.
It wasn't one of her usual science journals. No, this one was bound in eel leather, with symbols etched in blood-colored ink.
"This isn't… standard research," Squidward murmured.
"Nope," Sandy replied brightly, flipping it open. "Science wasn't getting me anywhere. So I turned to Bikini Bottom's restricted library."
Lurala's eyes widened. "Oh no," she whispered. "I know that book."
Sandy began reading aloud.
"When the sea runs red and silence falls,
A god of death shall walk coral halls.
Not born, but bound by cursed ink,
The god shall strike before you blink…"
She looked up at him.
"I think a Shinigami is behind all this."
Squidward's blood turned to ice.
"I think someone made a deal. Someone got their hands on something they shouldn't have."
Sandy leaned closer.
"But with you, we can catch it in the act. If I'm right, it's still lingering around… watching. Waiting. We catch it—we stop this madness."
Squidward's brain screamed.
Lurala backed away slowly, whispering, "I'm gonna sit this one out."
Then, Sandy smiled.
And began undressing.
"Wh-What are you doing?" Squidward choked.
"I just… I'm relieved," she said, voice trembling, eyes locked on his. "In all this madness… I'm glad it's you, Squid. You're logical. Measured. I feel safe with you."
Her top came off. Then the shorts. Her fur rippled in the lamplight.
She straddled him.
Held his trembling hands and placed them where they shouldn't be.
He tried to pull away, but part of him—the part that longed for connection—didn't want to.
Her breath was hot on his cheek.
And then—
Her hands closed around his throat.
The room spun.
His lungs screamed.
And darkness took him.
When he came to, he was tied to a chair in his own kitchen.
Sandy sat opposite him, calm, clothed, and terrifying.
On the table sat his Death Note.
Open.
Her fingers tapped the pages.
She smiled.
"Let's read a few names, shall we?"