3:30 p.m. – Tokyo Streets
I stop at a crosswalk, the signal beeping, red light steady. A sound—like a tire skidding—cuts through the street noise, and my chest tightens, my breath catching for a moment. It's nothing, just a bike stopping fast, the rider muttering a curse.I shake it off, my shoes hitting the pavement again, finding my rhythm. The convenience store is a block from Apex, its bright lights standing out in the dim afternoon. Inside, it smells like instant noodles and cleaning products, the hum of refrigerators filling the small space.
I grab a canned coffee—bitter, cold, but it keeps me alert—and a bento with rice, fish, and pickled vegetables, cheap and filling. The rice sticks to the lid, falling apart when I open it, a small annoyance. The clerk, an older man with a tired look, scans my items, hands me change without a word. I nod and walk out.
Tokyo's busy—voices, smoke, people moving in every direction. Street food stalls are open, the smell of grilled meat mixing with the air. People pass by, some rushing, others dragging, their faces showing dreams or exhaustion. A kid on a skateboard zooms past, nearly bumping me, his earbuds hanging loose.
I'm just another person in the crowd, my shoes tapping a steady beat. For a moment, I wonder if the yakitori vendor from this morning notices his customers, or if we're all just money and orders to him. It's a silly thought, but it lingers. I take a breath, let it pass, and keep walking, cherry blossoms falling gently in the breeze.
My aunt's apartment is dark when I get there; Hana's still at the factory, her shift running late. I sit at the small kitchen table, open the bento, and eat without really tasting—rice, fish, just something to keep me going. The clock ticks: 6:32 p.m. A faint stain on the table catches my eye, probably soy sauce, old and stubborn.I throw the empty bento box in the trash and head upstairs to my room. The futon's messy, sheets wrinkled, smelling faintly of dust. I drop onto it, back against the wall, legs out, staring at the ceiling's cracks—uneven, like someone scratched them in a hurry.
Apex is what I thought it'd be—tough, demanding, built to test you until you break. I can handle it. I have to.The room's silent, just the soft sound of wind against the window, the apartment settling into the night.The streetlight outside casts a glow through the blinds, my shadow stretching across the wall. It feels heavy tonight, like it's carrying something I can't name, a tightness in my chest where her voice lives. I don't dwell on it, don't let myself think too much. Not now.
I pull my knees up, head against the wall. Apex is a challenge, and I'm part of it now.
I'll get through this place.But as my eyes close, that shadow stays, a quiet reminder that something's still there, watching.
My eyes open the moment I close them. The world feels stopped, slowed, like time's stuck in place, and my heart's pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears, a thudding that drowns out everything else. What's going on?
My room is dark, the streetlight's glow slicing through the blinds, but it feels wrong, like the air's too thick, pressing against my skin. Is this a hallucination? A dream? It's too vivid, too real, like I'm standing in it, not imagining it.My hands grip the edge of the futon, the rough fabric grounding me, but my mind's racing, trying to pin this down. A lucid nightmare? That's the closest I can think of, but even that doesn't fit. I've had nightmares before, the handshake from that other dream—but this is sharper, like I'm awake in a world that's not mine. I've read about dreams, about trauma, about what the crash might've done to my brain. The doctors said it was stress, maybe a concussion, but this feels beyond that.
My chest feels tight, like I'm trapped in a box too small to breathe in.
I try to focus, to find a pattern, like I do with physics or shogi, but there's nothing to grab onto. Is this real? It can't be, but my heart's telling me it is. I'm lost, and that scares me more than I want to admit. I need to move, to check if this is my world or something else.
I stand up, my legs shaky, and look around. My room's still here—the futon, the wrinkled sheets, the dust in the air, all exactly where I left them. I step out, moving slowly, checking the hallway. The same wooden floor creaks under my feet, the same faint smell of soy sauce lingers from downstairs, where Aunt Hana's kitchen sits.
Everything's where it was when I lay down, but it feels wrong, like something's watching me. This isn't like the hallucinations I'm used to.Beyond human. Is it supernatural? No, that's impossible—there's no such thing. But my stomach twists, and I can't shake the thought.
What if it's not my mind breaking? What if it's something else, something I can't explain? I move through the house, checking every corner. The kitchen table's still there, the soy sauce stain dark and stubborn, like it's mocking me. The clock ticks, 6:35 p.m., its hands moving backwards as if it was a time bomb.The small living room is cramped, with Hana's old couch sagging in the middle, a faded green blanket draped over it. The hallway's narrow, the walls yellowed from years of cigarette smoke before we moved in. My room's tiny, just enough space for the futon, a low desk cluttered with physics books, and a single shelf holding a shogi board, its pieces worn from late-night games.
Everything's normal, but it's not. The silence is too loud, the shadows too deep, like the house is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. I grip the doorframe, my knuckles white, trying to steady myself. This isn't my mind—I know it—but what else could it be?I head outside, the door creaking as I push it open. The street's quiet, too quiet, the streetlight's glow dimmer than it should be. Then it happens—my house shakes, cracks splitting the walls, the ground rumbling like an earthquake hit. I freeze, my breath catching. What the hell?
I stop myself from cursing out loud, my hands shaking. This can't be real. Earthquakes don't just happen like this, not in my head. The street outside is a mess now—cracks spiderweb across the pavement, splitting the road like broken glass. A streetlight flickers, then goes dark, leaving the alley in shadows.
The neighbor's small house, with its chipped red paint, leans slightly, one window shattered, glass glinting on the ground. A bicycle lies tipped over, its wheel bent, like it was thrown aside. The air smells sharp, like dust and something metallic, and the quiet is heavier now, broken only by the faint creak of settling debris.
I don't believe in ghosts or spirits—there's always a reason, a pattern—but this feels like something else.My heart's racing, and I clench my fists, trying to anchor myself. I'm not crazy. I know I'm not. But this isn't just a hallucination. It's like the world's trying to tell me something I can't understand.
Then I see it—a small light, far off in the distance, glowing bright in the dark. My pulse races, but it feels like an answer, a way out of this mess. Maybe it's the key to stopping whatever this is. I start walking toward it, my shoes crunching on the cracked pavement, the city around me too still, like it's holding its breath.The air's cold, sharper than it should be, biting at my skin. The street's empty—no cars, no people, just the faint hum of a distant train that feels miles away. The buildings loom, their windows dark, some cracked from the quake, reflecting the light in jagged pieces.
My steps echo, too loud in the silence, and my shadow stretches behind me, long and thin, like it's trying to pull me back. I keep moving, my eyes locked on the light. It's the only thing that feels alive in this dead world, a beacon pulling me forward.My mind's racing, trying to make sense of it. Is this the way out? The answer to the voices, the shadows, the dreams?
It's not a problem I can solve with equations or moves. It feels like something bigger, something I'm not ready for.
But I can't stop. If I stop, the fear will catch up, the questions will swallow me. What if this light is the end of it all—the hallucinations, the nightmares? Or what if it's something worse? I don't know, but I keep walking, my breath shallow, my hands trembling. I need to know what's at the end of this.
Minutes pass, and I get closer. The light isn't just a glow—it's a throne, shining with white light, so bright it hurts my eyes, like staring at the sun. A small figure sits on it, maybe 14 years old, small like I was back then. Its face is distorted, blurry, like someone smudged it out with their thumb, and its hands and legs are black, like they've been dipped in ink, glistening in the light.
My skin prickles, a cold wave running down my spine. This isn't right. Nothing about this is right. The figure stands and starts walking toward me, its steps slow, deliberate, like it knows I'm here. My heart pounds harder, so loud it's all I can hear. Why is it coming closer?I want to run, my legs twitching with the urge, but I can't. There's no time to be scared. This could be my chance—to end the hallucinations, the dreams, all of it. What if this thing, this figure, is the reason I'm seeing these things?
I have to face it, have to know. I take a step forward, then another, matching its pace, my shoes scraping the ground. When we're 15, maybe 18 steps apart, it stops. Its mouth opens, and a voice comes out, clear and sharp, cutting through the air.
"Rei, you have the power to kill by words. Your words can kill."
I almost laugh, the words so ridiculous they don't make sense. Kill with words? What kind of nonsense is that? My mind snaps to sharp comeback I've thrown—Kenji's smug grin in class, If I could kill with words, they'd be gone by now, not still buzzing around me like flies.
"You're talking nonsense," I say, my voice steady despite the shaking in my chest, my heart pounding like it's trying to break free.
The figure steps closer, its blurred face unreadable, like a shadow I can't pin down, its black hands twitching slightly, catching the faint glow of the throne behind it. "Try it. You haven't tried, have you?" Its voice is calm, too calm, like it's mocking my confusion.Anger flares up, hot and sharp, burning through the fear. "What do you want, huh?" I snap, my hands clenched so tight my nails dig into my palms, the pain grounding me. "Are you the one doing this to me? Giving me these dreams, these voices?" I need answers, something to make sense of the chaos in my head—that won't leave me alone. "Who are you?" My voice is loud, desperate, echoing in the dark space around us.
The figure's voice stays steady, unshaken by my outburst. "I don't know about that. But I know the second one. I am you, Rei."My breath stops, caught in my throat, the words hitting like a punch. You? My mind spins, grabbing at the words, trying to pull them apart like a puzzle with missing pieces. The figure's small, maybe 14, the age I was when the crash took everything.
Is that what this is? Some piece of me from that night, when my world broke? The crash changed me—made me cold, sharp.Did it leave something behind, something stuck in my head, showing up as shadows, voices, now this figure?
My hands shake harder, and I take a step back, my shoes scraping the ground, the sound loud in the quiet. "That's impossible," I say, but my voice cracks, weaker than I want it to be. Did something else happen that night, something more than a concussion?
The figure tilts its head, its blurred face watching, like it sees through me. "The key to all your answers is your ability," it says, its voice low, deliberate, like it's handing me a solution. "The more you use it, the closer you get to the truth. The dreams, the hallucinations—they'll stop when you embrace it."My chest tightens, the words sinking in, heavy and cold. The truth? What truth? The hallucinations—the glowing throne, the voices, the shadows that follow me—have been tearing me apart, making me question my own mind.
Is this why I see these things, why I hear voices? Because of some power I haven't used? My mind races, trying to find logic, a pattern, but it's like grabbing at smoke. "You're saying if I use this… power, the nightmares stop?" I ask, my voice sharp, demanding, though my hands tremble.
The figure nods, its blurred face unchanging. "Yes. Use it….The truth is waiting." The words feel like a dare, like a shogi move I can't refuse. My scar itches, a burning line on my arm, and I rub it, hard, like I can erase the doubt.