~1,000 words
Darkness was not supposed to have a texture.
All his life, he was taught that darkness was to be understood in a contextual manner, to use it in as a clinical instrument.
After all, it was mainly just the absence of light that often tested the limits of sensory deprivation. It was smooth, silent, and chaotic. But the darkness pressing against Kiyotaka's eyelids now was different.
It was heavy, viscous, and smelled of wet soot and rotting timber.
He tried to draw a breath, but his lungs felt as though they were being lined with fine glass dust.
A violent and hot tremor started at his fingertips and raced up his spine, suddenly forcing his long, olive colored eyes open.
He was lying on his back, staring at a ceiling that seemed to be weeping. Thick, yellowish water stained across the cracked plaster like the veins of a diseased, autumn leaf.
Taking a feel of himself, he realized every inch of his skin was slick with a cold, sickly sweat that made the coarse, wool-like blanket beneath him feel like sandpaper.
'I am not in my dorm... Where am I?'
Kiyotaka attempted to move his right arm, but the limb felt as if it was made out of lead. The muscles were atrophied and trembling from a fever that seemed to be receding just as he regained consciousness.
He turned his head to the side, his cheek dragging against a pillow that smelled of stale sweat and cheap tobacco.
He quickly looked around and saw that the room was a coffin of shadows with a single, flickering gas lamp on the street outside, casting a weak, jaundiced glow through a window caked in layers of grime.
The air felt thick with a mixture of coal smoke and river dampness that clawed at his throat and made it rough as a sandpaper.
'Well...This isn't ANHS. Where am I...?'
He could tell at least that much because the last memory he held was still fresh in his mind.
He could vividly remember the weight of the school provided phone in his palm, the sterile, brightly lit hallway of the dorms, and the looming graduation.
Kiyotaka could remember looking at his phone in the hallway.
All he could remember that he was trying to send a message to Horikita, and then the screen flickered. The conclusion he had come to at that moment was that it had gotten a virus. Since that was the assumption he came to, he switched off the phone and threw it in his dorm room.
After that, any recollection had undergone an absolute erasure. One second he was walking to the ceremony, and the other he had transitioned into this shivering, malnourished vessel.
Kiyotaka laid there for several minutes, waiting for his heart rate to stabilize. His pulse was erratic and his heart was thumping against his ribs like a trapped bird.
As the fever cleared, a secondary sensation plagued him instantly. An illusory pressure rose behind his eyes, as if his brain was trying to expand beyond the limits of his skull.
With a monumental effort, Kiyotaka tried to stand up, taking the support of the bed frame that was a rusted skeleton of iron and wood as it shrieked in protest.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, his head hanging between his knees as he gasped for air that felt far too thin. His vision was blurring again and again, and for a moment, the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stretch and writhe like ink in water.
'Hallucination agent in my blood?' he wondered. 'No, it's not that. Any agent like that will have different side-effects.'
He forced his eyes to focus on his hands. They were pale, deathly so, with long, slender fingers that lacked the callouses he had on his palms.
His gaze drifted to the floor, where a leather-bound notebook was open, while the pages fluttered in the draft from the poorly sealed window. Beside it sat a small glass vial, shattered, with a single drop of a shimmering, black, viscous bubbling liquid that.
The moment he looked at that residue, the "pressure" behind his eyes spiked once again.
A flood of jagged, discordant and terrifying memories that did not belong to him exploded inside his head.
He heard a man screaming, terrifying ravings that made him feel a sensation that he had never felt before
He saw a man with a frantic expression handing him the vial. He heard a voice whispering about something... something about acting, and to not betray the family.
Kiyotaka closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against his cool, damp palms as his fingers snaked inside his curly locks.
Once the terrifying ravings were gone, Kiyotaka tried to steady himself by sorting his mind.
"I... I have transmigrated."
He realized instantly. The stream of memories that invaded his mind had left no room for doubt.
He was an 18-year-old boy named Brendan.
He lived alone and was working his way up to become a Detective.
At that moment, Kiyotaka remembered something.
The last words of the person who had handled the black, viscous liquid to Brendan.
He reached out and pulled the notebook that was on the ground towards himself with trembling fingers. The handwriting inside was a descent into neurosis, however, somehow, he understood it completely.
The header said: Acting Method, and the subsequent description had three points.
1. One must not flaunt one's superiority or be arrogant.
2. One must understand the insignificance of their own strength.
3. One must still accept guidance and focus on studying.
'Acting Method...?'
Kiyotaka tried to probe for it, but even after "scrolling" through Brendan's memories, he could not exactly understand what was going on. The only thing he could place his finger on was that he had gained "supernatural powers."
"Interesting." Kiyotaka mumbled. "Bizarre, but interesting."
"I need to do something about this headache first." Kiyotaka mused as he rubbed his temples. The pain from the terrifying ravings from a few moments ago was still lingering.