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Code: CBA84
Ending: 10/08/25
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The pale morning sun filtered through the slatted blinds, laying soft golden streaks across the minimalist apartment. Dust particles danced silently in the light.
On the bed, a young man lay still—his body unmoving, chest rising and falling with the mechanical rhythm of sleep.
His eyelids twitched faintly.
Kaito's eyes opened, not with reluctance, but with a kind of practiced inevitability. He lay there a moment longer, staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched, thoughts silent but heavy. Then he groaned softly and sat up.
...Another morning.
But the thought carried no weight. There was no excitement in his composure—just a quiet observation, like noticing a shadow on the wall.
The sheets slipped down his torso, revealing a lean, sculpted body—one that hadn't grown lazy despite its owner's lack of purpose. His muscles flexed subtly as he stretched, joints popping one after another like whispers of old effort.
He stood, wearing only a pair of black boxers. The light kissed the edges of his skin, running down his broad shoulders, over his arms, and along the defined ridges of his abs. He didn't admire the view, didn't smirk at the mirror like a self-obsessed teen.
He sat at the edge of the bed, eyes cast toward the floor.
There was no joy in his expression, just stillness.
Why am I still here?
The question drifted through his mind without urgency or pain. It didn't seek an answer. It was simply there — like a whisper in an empty room.
He rubbed his neck and walked into the bathroom, flicking on the light with a casual motion. The mirror greeted him with a familiar stranger.
He had a chiseled face, a strong jaw, and deep black eyes.
His eyes that had once burned with fire and hunger… now seemed flat and dim. The kind of emptiness that came from more than just boredom.
He stood up and stretched his arms.
Thud!
The floor was cold. He barely noticed. He walked across the room, each step soundless except for the quiet brush of skin on marble.
In the bathroom, he flicked on the light.
Click!
The white light poured over him as he stood before the mirror. He didn't look at his reflection with vanity or scrutiny — just curiosity, as if seeing someone else.
His face looked the same, his eyes slightly sharp, and his jaw defined, but his stare was empty and cold.
He splashed cold water on his face.
Splash!
The chill did nothing to wake him as he wasn't asleep. Hadn't been for years — not truly.
He dried his face with a towel, then ran a hand through his messy black hair.
He turned and walked out.
In the kitchen, the coffee routine began.
Whrrr…
The grinder whirred as beans cracked and churned. He loaded the machine. Pressed the button.
Click.
Drip… drip… drip…
The smell of fresh brew filled the air. A scent others might call comforting, but to Kaito, it was just a smell.
Another part of the day.
He stood at the glass wall, staring down at the Tokyo skyline, looking at the cars, people on the streets.
They're all chasing something...
He didn't know what, and he couldn't remember what it felt like — to want, to need, to crave anything beyond silence.
Beep!
The machine signaled.
He turned and poured himself a cup.
Clink.
Took a sip.
It was bitter, strong, and grounding.
But still not satisfying.
He sat at the counter, unfolded the morning paper, and looked at the news, scandals, triumphs, and losses.
He flipped the page.
Flip... Flip...
Each word passed by his eyes, but none of them stayed.
He closed the paper and left the mug half-finished before he walked away.
He passed the door to the locked room and didn't look inside, just kept walking.
The floor creaked faintly beneath his feet as Kaito crossed the threshold into the gym.
Click.
Lights flickered on overhead, casting clean white beams over neatly arranged dumbbells, squat racks, and black padded mats.
He didn't come here for company or routine. He came for solitude — for the silence between every repetition, where the world couldn't intrude and his thoughts could scream without anyone hearing.
He reached for the resistance bands mounted to the overhead bar and pulled them down with a practiced motion. Wrapping them securely around his hands, he planted his feet and anchored his stance. Then he pulled, slow and steady. His muscles tensed under the strain, veins pressing against the surface of his skin as the bands fought back. He didn't rush it.
He embraced the burn that began to crawl up his arms and shoulders, repeating the motion again and again until each stretch felt like it might tear something loose inside him.
That was the point.
He let the bands recoil with a snap and moved on without hesitation. The dumbbells waited by the bench, heavier than most would dare to lift alone, but he didn't even glance at the weight indicators. He gripped them tightly, the knurling biting into his calloused palms, and sat down with a dull thud that echoed in the silence.
Then he began the presses — a steady rhythm of metal rising and falling. The weights clanked with each repetition, his arms trembling under the strain, but he didn't slow down. His breath came hard and even, sweat beading at his brow and rolling down his spine.
Every press carried more than its weight.
It carried regret.
Why did I make those mistakes...? Am I still running from my real self?
The dumbbells hit the floor with a thunderous crash, bouncing once before settling against the rubber mat. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chest heaving — not from exhaustion, but from restraint.
The fury inside him hadn't lessened, but just… simmered.
He needed more, something to relieve himself.
Pushing himself upright, he crossed to the cable machine and attached the rope, setting the weight high without a second thought. His fingers were raw as he gripped the worn handles, and when he pushed down, the stack jerked with a mechanical whirr followed by a solid thump.
Over and over, the rope descended in punishing reps, triceps flexing hard, his breath harsher now. This wasn't training. It wasn't building strength. It was punishment.
I should've done something that time...
If only I could have just gone ahead and talked...
His memory haunted him like a broken record, looping in his mind with cruel precision, the helpless seconds that stretched into eternity.
He tried to shove it away, bury it behind every repetition, but it never stayed buried for long.
The rope slammed against the machine with a final, brutal pull. He let it fall and stepped back, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, barely noticing the sting from split knuckles.
Then he turned toward the corner — toward the place he always ended up.
The heavy bag.
It hung from the ceiling like a waiting confession, never flinching, never judging. It didn't ask questions. It didn't look at him like he'd failed. And today, like every day, that was all he needed.
He wrapped his hands slowly, the familiar motions grounding him as the soft scrape of the fabric filled the silence. When he finally stepped up to the bag, he stood just inches away, staring at it like it was the only thing in the world that could take what he had to give.
"You're not real," He muttered under his breath. "But you'll do."
Then he struck.
One blow... Then another.
Each punch landed harder than the last, his fists a blur, sweat flying from his skin as he twisted his hips, throwing his entire body into every strike. The bag jolted with each hit, chains rattling above as if struggling to hold the weight of his anger.
I could've changed it? I don't know…
His fist smashed into the side of the bag with such force that it spun halfway around, nearly coming off its hinge. He stumbled, catching himself on the wall, chest heaving, breath tearing from his lungs.
He didn't speak as there was nothing left to say.
His wrapped hands trembled with blood seeping through the cloth.
But it didn't matter.
When he finally looked up, his eyes met the mirror across the room. For a moment, he didn't recognize the man staring back — soaked in sweat, knuckles torn, chest rising like he'd just fought a war.
But it was the eyes that held him, as they weren't empty and numb.
They were broken and burning.
He dropped to his knees, fists still clenched tight.
The mat was cold beneath him.
The room was silent again.