The dream—or whatever it was—turns into a white light so bright that it wakes me up.
I wake up, my eyes snapping open, my heart still racing, a heavy thud in my chest that echoes in the dark. I'm on my futon, the room dim, the streetlight's glow cutting through the blinds, casting thin lines across the cracked ceiling. The transition is jarring, like falling off a ledge, no warning, no ease.
What the hell was that? I sit up, my hands gripping the damp sheets, trying to steady myself, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps, like I've been running. Kill with words? That's insane.
But my stomach twists, a cold knot tightening, because that dream wasn't like the others.The throne, the figure calling itself me, the way it spoke about truth and power—it felt too real, too deliberate, like it came from somewhere outside my head.Something's wrong, deeply wrong, and I don't know what.
I push myself up, my legs unsteady, the floor cool under my feet. My room smells of dust and old wood, the same as always, but it feels smaller, like the walls are closing in. The figure's words keep echoing—"The more you use it, the closer you get to the truth."
If the figure's right, if using this power stops them, then I need to try. I need to know. The thought of the nightmares stopping, of sleeping without seeing blood or hearing Mom's voice, is like a door opening, a way out of the cage I've been in since I was 14.But what if it's not that simple? What if using this power—killing—makes it worse, pulls me deeper into something I can't control?
My thoughts churn, fast and desperate, trying to make sense of it. The figure's saying it's me, but how? A memory? A ghost? Something else?Did it break something in my head, or did it… unlock something?The idea scares me, more than the voices, more than the dreams.
If I use this ability, if I test it, will the nightmares really stop? Will I finally understand why I see these things, why I hear voices, why I'm not the kid I was before?
If using this power—killing with words—means I can be free, can sleep , then maybe it's worth it.The figure's calm, too calm, like it knows I'll try it, like it's already won. I want to yell, to demand more, but my voice is stuck.If this power is real,I'll use it, not just to stop the nightmares but to prove I'm in control, that the world can't break me again. But there's a doubt, small and sharp, like a splinter under my skin. What if I'm wrong?
I push it down,lock it away, like I've locked away the crash, the pain, the voices.
I head straight to the bathroom. I need water, something to wash the vision from my mind. The sink is small, the faucet creaking as I turn it on. Cold water splashes on my face, sharp and biting. It drips down my cheeks, pooling on the cracked tile floor, and I grip the sink's edge, staring at my reflection.It's 7:37 p.m., according to the clock on the wall, its ticking loud in the quiet. Only about an hour since I laid down. My heart's still racing, and my hands shake as I wipe my face with a rough towel.
That figure, the throne, the words "you have the power to kill by words"—it's stuck in my head, replaying like a song I can't stop hearing, each note sharp and heavy, cutting into my thoughts.I need to calm down, to think clearly, the way I do when solving a physics problem or planning a shogi move against Kaito.
I head downstairs, my steps quiet on the worn carpet. I sit on the wooden chair at the kitchen table, the one with a wobbly leg that groans when I shift my weight, the sound sharp and familiar, grounding me.The apartment is quiet, too quiet. Just the clock ticking on the wall, each second a steady beat, and the faint hum of the ceiling fan spinning slowly, stirring the still air. Aunt Hana's still at the factory, her late shift keeping her out. It's just me and this empty space, the walls plain, the air heavy with the smell of rice and dust.The soy sauce stain on the table catches my eye again, dark and stubborn, like it's carved into the wood. I take a deep breath, the air cool and faintly stale, trying to slow my thoughts, to make sense of the dream.
The quiet helps, like a blank page before I start an equation, but this isn't a problem I can solve with formulas.I lean back, the chair creaking under me, and close my eyes. The truth? What truth? The figure's words make me doubt. What if it's not just trauma?
What if it's not me at all, but something else pretending to be me?
I lean forward, my head in my hands. There's nothing to grab onto—no clues, no formulas, just the figure's words and my own thoughts, tangled and heavy.I want the hallucinations to stop—more than anything. I want the dreams to stop, the voices to go quiet, the weight of that night to lift. But killing? The word feels heavy, wrong, a line I shouldn't cross.
Could I do it? Say words and watch someone fall, just to see if it's real? The thought makes my stomach twist, but it also pulls me, like a shogi move I can't resist.I can't go to a doctor—they'd call me crazy, give me pills to dull my mind, and I need my mind sharp. I can't tell Aunt Hana—she'd look at me like I'm broken, worry herself sick. I can't tell anyone at Apex, not Kenji, not Kaito. They'd see weakness, and weakness is failure. My hands grip the table's edge, the wood cool and rough. If I can kill with words, if it stops the hallucinations, then I'll know. My heart steadies, a cold resolve settling in, like a shogi board coming into focus.
I'm not crazy. I'm not broken. But the doubt lingers, small and sharp—a crack in the pavement I didn't see. What if the truth isn't what I want?I take a deep breath, diluting my thoughts. Now—the only thing I can do is sleep. Hope tomorrow brings something clearer. I stand, the chair creaking loudly, and head upstairs.
The futon's still messy, sheets wrinkled, the faint smell of dust stronger in the dark. I drop onto it, my back against the wall, my scar itching again, a faint burn I can't ignore. I rub it, hard, trying to push the thoughts away.
I close my eyes, expecting the dream to return—the glowing throne, the blurred figure, those words. My heart pounds, waiting for it.
But nothing happens.
The quiet wraps around me—just the clock's ticking from downstairs, the fan's hum, the faint whistle of wind against the window.
No throne. No figure. No shaking house.
Just darkness, and me, alone with my thoughts. I don't know if that's better or worse.