The cries of the child followed Kaito long after he had left the square.
They weren't loud anymore—just faint echoes, like threads of glass weaving through the air, delicate yet sharp enough to cut if he listened too closely. He told himself they were just echoes, a trick of memory, but the sound seemed to move with him, its distance shifting every few steps. Sometimes it trailed at his back, other times it drifted ahead, as though luring him deeper into the town.
The villagers walked past him without pause. A woman with a basket of bread repeated the same stumble twice, catching herself on her knee in the exact same motion, as if the world had rewound for a heartbeat. A group of children skipped along the path, their laughter oddly hollow, repeating a rhyme that ended without a beginning, then began without an end. Kaito slowed his steps, his eyes narrowing, but none of them seemed to notice him watching.
They don't hear it. Or… they don't care.
He forced himself to breathe evenly, though each inhale felt shallow, tight in his chest. The lanterns above swayed gently, yet the air held no wind. Their flames burned orange, but the glow felt too pale, too thin—as if it lit nothing but shadows.
The cry came again. Clearer this time. A small voice, cracked with grief.
Kaito turned sharply, scanning the crooked alleys between the houses. Narrow gaps where light didn't reach, where shapes seemed to stretch longer than they should. He expected to see a child standing there, bare feet on stone, eyes wide with tears. Instead—nothing. Just darkness that stared back at him.
He ran a hand across his face, forcing his thoughts into order.
You're losing it. It's just exhaustion. The forest. The statue. The deaths. Too much has piled up.
But even as he tried to believe the thought, the sound returned, weaving through the air like a needle through cloth. Louder now, sharper, as if daring him to keep ignoring it.
His pace quickened. He drifted past stalls shuttered for the night, past a fountain whose water shimmered oddly, almost too still. For an instant, he thought he saw his own reflection twist into something else—its mouth open, but not in time with his own breath. He tore his gaze away before the image could resolve.
This place… He swallowed hard, forcing the words into a whisper. This town isn't real. It feels like… like I've stepped into a story already written. Everyone's following their lines. Everyone but me.
Another cry. This one so close it felt as though the child were standing right behind him. Kaito whipped around—fast, desperate.
The street was empty.
Only the hollow glow of lanterns. Only villagers in the distance, moving in their strange, mechanical rhythm.
Kaito's throat tightened. He dragged a hand through his messy hair, pressing the strands back from his face. He wanted to scream, to demand the world explain itself, but his voice caught. Instead, he muttered the name he'd given himself, testing it like a shield.
"Kairen… Kairen…" The false name barely steadied him. Not Kaito here. Kairen. Nobody knows me. Nobody can touch me.
But even as he whispered it, he realized the crying had stopped.
The silence pressed in, heavier than the sobs had ever been.
The silence grew so thick it felt alive. Not the silence of night—no rustling of fabric, no creak of shutters in the wind—just a smothering stillness that pressed against Kaito's ears until his own heartbeat sounded foreign.
Too quiet… way too quiet.
His footsteps rang against the cobblestones, sharp and lonely. He tried to walk softer, but each step seemed to echo longer than it should, as though the streets themselves were hollow.
Then—
"Kaito…"
His real name. Spoken so low it was almost a breath.
He froze mid-step, his blood turning to ice. The sound hadn't come from in front of him or behind him. It had come from everywhere, from the very air around him. His pulse hammered in his throat.
"No…" he whispered to himself, shaking his head violently. "No one knows that name here. I— I made sure…"
But the voice came again. Sharper this time.
"Kaito."
His chest clenched. He spun around, scanning the narrow alleys. Shadows peeled away from the walls as lantern light flickered, forming shapes that almost looked human. For a split second, he thought he saw familiar outlines—faces he knew he shouldn't be seeing.
The girl from the forest. Her eyes wide, her hand dripping crimson.
A boy he barely remembered from before all this.
Fragments. Ghosts. Hallucinations.
He staggered back, his heel scraping the stone. "Stop it—just stop!"
His own voice cracked in the empty street, bouncing back to him like mockery. His hands trembled as he pressed them hard against his ears, but the voices didn't fade. They slipped through, threading between his thoughts like smoke.
"Do you really think this town is real?"
"You were supposed to die."
"Not the main character, Kaito. Not you."
Each whisper overlapped the next, tangled and indistinguishable. His breath grew ragged. His vision blurred, the world tilting ever so slightly like an unstable picture frame.
He stumbled forward, forcing his feet to move, desperate to escape the voices. His chest burned with every step, but he couldn't stop. Couldn't let the whispers catch him.
Around the corner, he saw a woman sweeping outside her house. Relief flared for a moment—someone, anyone, real. But when she lifted her head, he felt his stomach drop.
She was smiling. Not the warm smile of a neighbor, but something stiff, frozen, too wide. Her lips moved slowly, forming words out of rhythm with her sound.
"Good… evening…"
Her voice lagged. A half-second late. And then she repeated it.
"Good… evening…"
The same inflection. The same pause. Exactly the same.
Kaito's throat tightened. His legs carried him faster, past her, down another crooked street. He didn't dare look back.
By the time he reached the fountain at the town's center, his breath came in jagged bursts. He leaned against the cold stone, forcing himself to gulp air, but even the water seemed wrong. It rippled though no wind touched it, patterns folding into themselves like an endless loop. His own reflection stared back—except the eyes weren't his. They were too dark, too empty.
Kaito staggered back, his knees nearly giving way.
This isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't real.
And then—
"Rough night, stranger?"
The new voice cut through the haze. Calm. Human. Warm, even. It didn't slither like the whispers; it broke them.
Kaito whipped his head up.
There, leaning casually against the fountain's edge, was a man draped in a traveler's cloak. His boots were caked with mud, his satchel worn and patched from long journeys. He had a relaxed posture, one hand tapping against a flask, eyes sharp but softened by an amused smile.
A real person. Or at least… someone who looked real.
Kaito's chest heaved, torn between relief and suspicion. He forced words out past his dry throat.
"Who… who are you?"
The man chuckled softly, tilting his head as if amused by the question.
"Just a traveler passing through. But you…" His eyes narrowed slightly, not unkindly, but with interest. "You look like someone who's been running from shadows."
The traveler's words sank into the silence like a stone dropped in still water. For the first time that night, the voices hushed, leaving only the faint trickle of the fountain.
Kaito blinked at him, his chest rising and falling too fast. His instincts screamed caution—don't let your guard down, not here, not with anyone. Yet the man's presence was grounding in a way that the blank-eyed villagers never were. His smile wasn't too wide. His tone wasn't lagging or hollow. He felt… human.
"I—" Kaito's voice cracked, and he forced himself to start again. "…I was just walking. This place… it's different at night."
The traveler raised a brow, sipping from his flask before answering. "Different is one way to put it. You've got the look of someone who's seen too much too quickly." His eyes, a pale amber in the lanternlight, flicked over Kaito with sharp attention. Not threatening—more like someone reading a map.
Kaito shifted uncomfortably. He kept his posture rigid, arms crossed loosely in front of his chest, a half-barrier between them. "And you? What's a traveler doing here at this hour?"
The man chuckled, brushing dust from his cloak. "Looking for a place to rest, same as anyone. I trade stories, a few trinkets, whatever folk are willing to barter. Though I admit—" He leaned back, gazing up at the crooked rooftops silhouetted against the clouded moon. "—this town has an atmosphere that could curdle milk."
Kaito almost laughed, almost let the tension crack—but the sound caught in his throat. He lowered his eyes instead, muttering, "You don't know the half of it."
The traveler tilted his head at him. "Maybe. But you could tell me."
That simple offer sat heavy between them. Kaito clenched his jaw. Part of him wanted to spill everything—the child's cries, the broken villagers, the whispers of his real name. To have someone, anyone, confirm he wasn't losing his mind. But another part whispered danger. Too much trust gets you killed. Too much truth marks you as different.
"…Name's Kairen," he said at last, giving the lie automatically, the shield he'd built since first stepping into the town. "Just… trying to figure out my place here."
The traveler nodded slowly, as if testing the weight of the name. "Kairen. Suits you well enough." He didn't question it. He didn't pry. That small courtesy loosened the knot in Kaito's chest, though not entirely.
For a moment, they stood in silence—just two strangers beneath the pale moon, one too weary to speak, the other patient enough to wait. The traveler's gaze softened, and he added, "You've got a hunted look in your eyes. Happens to everyone who wanders too close to the veil."
"The veil?" Kaito asked sharply.
The traveler smiled faintly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Ah. Just a phrase. Some places feel thinner than others, don't they? Like the world's skin is stretched too tight. I figure this is one of them."
Kaito's fingers twitched at his side. He didn't like how close the words came to what he'd already been thinking. Didn't like the idea that this stranger could see right through him. But still… it was better than the villagers repeating the same empty greetings. Better than the voices in the dark.
"…You talk like you've been to towns like this before," Kaito said cautiously.
The traveler shrugged. "I've been… around. Seen more than I care to sometimes." His amber eyes flickered, just for an instant, as though some memory had surfaced. Then the smile returned, smooth and practiced. "But I won't bore you with old man's tales."
Kaito frowned. There was something off about the way he'd said it. Not a glitch, not a broken repetition like the villagers—but a weight, like an actor skipping a line.
Still, he didn't push. Not yet.
Instead, he asked, voice low, "Do you… hear it?"
The traveler tilted his head. "Hear what?"
Kaito swallowed. "The… crying. The voices."
For the first time, the man's smile faltered. He didn't answer immediately. His gaze shifted past Kaito, toward the empty alleys, and lingered there too long. When he finally looked back, the easy warmth had returned, but thinner now, stretched.
"…Can't say I do," he said softly. "But I believe you."
Kaito's stomach twisted. The words were kind, but the pause before them was worse than denial.
Kaito stared at the man—at his calm voice, his worn boots, his steady eyes. He looked too ordinary to belong here, too human compared to the villagers. That very ordinariness made him stand out like a lantern in the fog.
"…Who are you, really?" Kaito asked quietly.
The man smirked at that, the corner of his mouth lifting as though he'd been waiting for the question. He didn't answer right away. Instead, he uncorked his flask, took a slow sip, and sighed like someone who had walked a thousand miles.
"Just a traveler," he said at last. "But some call me…" His amber eyes glinted as he leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "…The Guide."
The name lingered in the air, heavier than it should've been.
Kaito's pulse quickened. He wanted to demand more, but the weight of the words pressed against his tongue. He couldn't tell if it was a title, a joke, or something deeper.
The man—the Guide—straightened, slipping the flask back into his cloak. "You'll understand in time. Or maybe you won't. Either way, the path's yours to walk."
And just like that, he pushed away from the fountain, stepping into the dim light.
"Wait," Kaito said, moving after him. "If you know something, tell me. This town—something's wrong. People… they repeat themselves. I hear voices, see things that don't—"
The Guide stopped, turning his head slightly, not enough for Kaito to see his full face. His voice came soft, almost regretful.
"Don't chase the answers too fast, Kairen. Some truths burn more than they heal."
Then he stepped into the shadow between two houses.
Kaito followed instantly, heart pounding—
—but the alley was empty. No footprints. No cloak vanishing around the corner. Just silence.
The Guide was gone.
Kaito stood there, chest tight, caught between fury and relief. He wanted to scream at the emptiness, but the words wouldn't come. All he could do was clench his fists and whisper his own lie of a name—
"Kairen…"
—like a thread tying him to something, anything, before the darkness swallowed him too.
The traveler's steps were light, almost noiseless on the dirt path. Kaito found himself stealing glances, studying the man's profile. He looked ordinary—messy cloak, a leather pack slung over one shoulder, a walking staff that clicked against stones. Yet something about him was too smooth, too placed, as if he had been stitched into the world rather than born from it.
"Not many take this path at night," the man said, his voice steady and strangely calm. "It leads to more than most are ready for."
Kaito's brows furrowed. "And you? Why are you here?"
The man only smiled faintly. "Because someone must walk it first."
The words hung in the air longer than they should have. Kaito's chest tightened—was it a warning, or just idle talk? He wasn't sure. Still, he felt a strange tug inside him, the kind that made him want to believe this traveler, to follow him, even while every instinct screamed caution.
For a while, they walked in silence. The air grew heavier, as if the forest at their backs had stretched invisible threads toward them, unwilling to let Kaito go. He tried to ignore the feeling, but when he blinked, a faint flicker passed across his vision—
[System Notice: …error…]
It vanished as quickly as it came, leaving only a ripple in his thoughts.
Kaito slowed his pace. The traveler didn't even look surprised.
"You saw it, didn't you?" the man asked softly.
Kaito's pulse quickened. "…Saw what?"
The man's smile sharpened, almost knowing. "Never mind. Some things are better left unnamed until you're ready."
Kaito clenched his fists. A stranger shouldn't know about the system. Unless—unless this wasn't really a stranger at all. He kept his expression guarded, but the unease clawed deeper into his chest.
The traveler tapped his staff on the path and continued forward, humming a tune so old it sounded like the earth itself might have taught it to him. And yet, the longer Kaito listened, the calmer he felt, as if the melody was smoothing over the jagged edges of his thoughts.
Against his will, the words slipped from him. "You talk like… you've seen this before."
The man glanced at him, eyes shadowed beneath the hood. For a moment, Kaito swore he saw something vast behind them—stars reflecting in an endless black sky. But when he blinked, they were just eyes again. Human. Mortal. Ordinary.
"I've seen many things," the traveler said, voice low. "And I'll see many more. But what you need to see… you'll have to walk to it yourself."
Something about that sent a chill down Kaito's spine, but it wasn't fear. It was recognition, the kind that told him this man was dangerous—but not an enemy. Maybe not an ally either. Something else.
For the first time, Kaito realized he wasn't just walking into Virestead. He was being guided toward something much larger, whether he wanted it or not.
The moonlight grew thinner the closer they drew to the town, as if the very sky were conspiring to dim their path. Kaito's eyes adjusted to the gloom, picking out faint outlines of crooked wooden fences and scattered lanterns that swayed with the wind.
The traveler walked ahead with that same unhurried pace, staff striking the dirt with a steady rhythm. It wasn't loud, yet every beat echoed like a pulse in Kaito's head. He hated how comforting it sounded. He hated more that he wanted to trust it.
They passed an old milestone stone, half-buried in weeds. Strange etchings crawled across its surface, faintly glowing like embers when Kaito's shadow touched it. He slowed, frowning, and reached out to brush his fingers across the markings.
The traveler didn't stop walking. "Careful. Stones remember more than men do."
Kaito pulled his hand back instantly, gooseflesh prickling his arms. He glanced at the man's back, at the way his hood swayed slightly in the breeze, and muttered, "You talk like you know too much."
"And you," the man replied smoothly, "talk like you know too little."
Kaito bit the inside of his cheek. There was no malice in the words, but the way they were said—so matter-of-fact, so patient—felt heavier than any insult. He quickened his pace to walk beside the traveler, unwilling to trail behind anymore.
As they entered the town's edge, the atmosphere thickened. The first houses were small, timber-framed things with thatched roofs, their windows glowing faintly with lamplight. But the streets… the streets were wrong.
A woman walked past carrying a basket of herbs, her head bowed. Kaito glanced at her once. When he looked again, she was walking the same path, basket full, as if rewinding and replaying a moment on loop.
A chill ran down his spine. "Did you see that?"
The traveler only hummed his old tune.
A child stood at a corner, tossing a wooden ball against a wall. The ball bounced back, she caught it, tossed it again. Over and over. Her lips moved, whispering something Kaito couldn't quite catch. He leaned closer.
"…gate… gate… gate…"
He stiffened. The air in his lungs froze. The ball struck the ground with a hollow thunk that sounded louder than it should, as if the world was amplifying only that sound.
Kaito turned sharply toward the traveler. "What the hell is this place?"
The man stopped walking. For the first time since they met, he turned fully to face Kaito. His expression was shadowed, but his eyes gleamed faintly like wet stone catching starlight.
"This," he said, voice calm but heavy, "is a town built on memory. Not all of it belongs to the people you see."
Kaito swallowed hard. He wanted to ask what that meant, but before he could, the world seemed to skip. Just for a moment. A lantern flickered on—then off—then on again. The same villager passed them twice in different directions, neither acknowledging the other.
And beneath it all, faintly, the system's static hissed in his ears:
[Warning: Data stream unstable.]
[Correction protocol initializing…]
He clutched his chest. "The system—"
But when he looked again, the traveler was already walking ahead, as if none of it had happened. As if Kaito were the only one who could see the cracks.
His voice drifted back, calm, patient, inevitable.
"Don't let what you see unmake you. This place thrives on those who lose themselves."
Kaito forced his legs to move, following. Every step felt heavier now, as if the ground itself wanted to pull him under. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the thought that maybe, just maybe… this traveler wasn't guiding him into safety at all.
Maybe he was guiding him deeper into the trap.
The deeper they went, the more Kaito felt as if he were stepping into a dream someone else had forgotten to finish.
The houses looked normal from a distance, but up close the wood grain ran in strange, looping spirals that didn't belong to trees. A sign above a shop read Herbalist, but the letters bled faintly at the edges, as though the word itself was struggling to stay. The smell of damp earth and burnt oil clung to the air, heavy enough to make his throat itch.
Kaito's eyes darted from face to face. Villagers smiled, waved, nodded… but their eyes never quite met his. Every time one did, the gaze slid off him, like their minds refused to hold the shape of his existence for too long.
He tugged at the sleeve of the traveler. "Why don't they notice me?"
"They notice what the world allows them to," the man said, not breaking stride. "Everything else, it forgets."
That answer chilled him more than silence would have.
They passed a tavern. Through its fogged window, Kaito saw a table of men drinking, laughing, throwing dice. But when one raised his mug, his arm flickered—just for a second—like an unfinished sketch. Kaito blinked. The mug reappeared, and the laughter continued as if nothing had happened.
This place is broken, Kaito thought, biting down on the rising panic. Like the forest—but worse. At least the forest wanted me dead. This place… this place wants me to stay.
He whispered, "How can people live like this?"
The traveler paused at a lantern post. The flame inside sputtered unnaturally blue for a moment before settling back to yellow. He tapped his staff against the ground and said softly, "People live where they're told to live. Memory makes the walls. Habit makes the doors. And fear…" He glanced at Kaito then, his gaze piercing and knowing. "…fear keeps them from asking the questions you're asking."
Kaito's breath caught. For a second, he felt exposed, like the man could see straight through his chest, peeling away every fragile layer he had built since waking in this world.
He clenched his fists. "Then why are you helping me ask?"
The man smiled faintly, though it wasn't an answer. Instead, he stepped aside, gesturing for Kaito to look down the next street.
Kaito hesitated—then did.
A child stood there. A different child than before. She was barefoot, wearing a torn dress, and held a doll missing its head. She wasn't moving. She just stared at Kaito. Her lips parted.
"…don't forget…"
The whisper was so faint he almost thought it was the wind. Then her body jerked once, like a puppet's string being yanked, and she dropped the doll. When it hit the cobblestone, it didn't make a sound.
Kaito stumbled back, heart hammering. "Did you—did you hear that?"
But when he turned, the traveler was already walking again, as if none of it mattered.
Kaito ground his teeth and forced himself to follow. I can't lose him. Not here. Not when everything feels like it's slipping through my fingers.
As they walked, he kept glancing at the traveler's back. The man moved with certainty, like every twist and turn of this warped town was etched into his bones. And yet, Kaito couldn't shake the thought: Why me? Why now? Why guide me at all?
Finally, he muttered, "My name's Kairen." The lie slipped out easily—he had decided long ago that the real name Kaito was too vulnerable, too sharp an edge to expose. "At least, that's what people call me."
The traveler slowed, as though tasting the name on his tongue. "Kairen…" He nodded once, eyes glinting. "Then I'll remember you as such. For now."
For now? The words dug into Kaito, making him uneasy. But he said nothing.
They reached a small plaza where a fountain sat at its center. Water trickled down its cracked stone, though the basin was half-empty and filled with black leaves. The statue at its heart depicted a robed figure with its face worn smooth by time—or maybe by something else. Someone had etched a crude symbol onto its chest: a circle with jagged lines radiating outward, like a sun tearing itself apart.
Kaito's gaze lingered. His skin prickled. The symbol looked… familiar. He didn't know why.
Behind him, the traveler's voice was softer now, almost like a lullaby.
"Every town has a heart. If you wish to survive, Kairen, learn whether it still beats—or if it's already dead."
The fountain gurgled, a hollow sound. Kaito shivered.
For the first time that night, he realized something terrifying:
He wasn't sure if he was stepping into a town of the living—
—or if he had just crossed into a graveyard that hadn't accepted its death yet.
The fountain's trickle seemed louder the longer Kaito stared at it. Drops hit the basin like nails tapping glass, each sound just a fraction too sharp, too hollow. His reflection in the dark water rippled—and for an instant, the face looking back wasn't his.
He froze.
The reflection blinked a beat too late, its lips parting in a silent scream before the water shivered and turned black again.
Kaito staggered back, breathing hard. "What the hell was that…?"
But when he turned, The Guide was leaning casually against a crooked lamppost, as though none of it mattered. His staff rested at his side, and his expression was unreadable, eyes half-hooded.
Kaito's voice cracked with frustration. "Do you see it too? Or am I just—" He cut himself off, teeth gritted. He hated how raw his voice sounded, like a child begging for reassurance.
The traveler tilted his head. "You see what you're meant to see."
"That's not an answer!"
The man's faint smile didn't shift. "It's the only one I can give."
Rage and despair wrestled inside Kaito's chest. He wanted to scream at him, demand clarity—but he bit it back. The man wasn't an enemy, not exactly. He was something else. Something dangerous to push too hard.
Kaito muttered, almost to himself, "Why am I trusting you?"
The Guide's gaze sharpened. "Because you don't have anyone else."
The words hit like a blade sliding between ribs. Kaito's throat went dry. He thought of the forest, the endless deaths, the girl who had killed him once, Thalen's wagon, the looping quest with the assassin… No one stays. No one listens. No one believes me.
For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt the crushing weight of solitude pressing down, suffocating.
"…Yeah," he whispered. "I don't."
Silence stretched between them. The fountain gurgled. Somewhere far off, a child's laugh rose—high, sweet, but cut off too suddenly, like a sound file ending mid-frame.
Kaito flinched.
The traveler finally pushed off the lamppost, his cloak whispering. "Come. This place has more to show you."
Kaito followed, though each step felt heavier than the last.
---
The streets narrowed as they moved deeper. Buildings leaned toward each other like conspirators, their windows dark, their doors sealed too tightly. On one wall, Kaito noticed claw marks etched into the wood—not human, not animal. The scratches seemed to burn faintly, like embers refusing to die.
His pulse quickened. "What… what did that?"
The traveler didn't slow. "Not everything here is meant for you to fight. Some things only remind you you're not alone."
Kaito hated how that answer twisted in his chest. Not alone should have been comforting, but in this town, it wasn't.
They passed a tavern again—not the same one as before, yet identical in every detail. The same wooden sign, the same crooked lantern, even the same muffled voices within. Kaito stopped cold.
"…We already walked by this place."
"No," the Guide said softly, glancing back at him. "This is another one."
Kaito's stomach churned. "They're the same."
"Repetition is the town's way of protecting itself." His tone was calm, like a teacher explaining a lesson a stubborn student didn't want to hear. "What do you do with memories too painful to hold, Kairen?"
Kaito frowned, teeth digging into his lip. "…Forget them."
"Exactly."
The Guide resumed walking, and Kaito followed, though each step was heavier, his mind buzzing. This town forgets itself. The people repeat, the places repeat. It's all… hollow.
---
They finally stopped at a narrow alley that reeked of damp stone and rust. The traveler raised his staff, its tip glowing faintly, illuminating a door at the end.
It was a small, warped door. Its frame was crooked, nailed shut with planks that didn't match the wood. The walls around it pulsed faintly, as if the town itself was trying to smother it.
Kaito felt his chest tighten. "…What's in there?"
The Guide's voice lowered, serious now. "The questions you shouldn't ask yet."
Kaito swallowed. His hand trembled as he reached for the wood—but the Guide's hand shot out, firm on his wrist.
"Not tonight."
Their eyes met. For a split second, Kaito saw something vast behind the man's gaze—something endless, terrifying, and not human.
He stumbled back, gasping.
The glow of the staff died. The Guide stepped back into the shadows, his figure already fading into the mist curling through the alley.
"Wait—!" Kaito's voice broke as he lunged forward. "You can't just—"
But the alley was empty.
The only sound was his own ragged breathing, and the faint, distant echo of children's laughter—repeating the same three notes again and again, like a broken lullaby.
Kaito pressed his back against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the cold cobblestone. His chest heaved, his thoughts spiraling.
What is this place? What am I? Why does he… why does he feel like the only real thing here?
His hands shook as he whispered into the dark:
"…Am I even supposed to be here?"
The town didn't answer.
Only the fountain's trickle, echoing far behind him, carried on—like a heartbeat in a corpse that hadn't realized it was dead.
Kaito sat in the alley until his body felt as heavy as stone. The cold cobblestones beneath him leached warmth from his skin, grounding him just enough to stop shaking. But the silence pressed harder than the chill ever could.
No footsteps. No distant chatter. Only that broken child's laugh, caught in a loop somewhere in the distance.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Breathe. Just breathe. One more night. Just survive this night.
When he finally pushed himself up, his legs felt foreign, like they weren't fully his. He retraced his steps through the narrow streets, the buildings bending around him like they'd rearranged themselves while he was gone. Every corner he turned looked the same.
At one point he swore he saw the traveler again—cloak vanishing just beyond a lantern glow. He ran toward it, heart pounding, but when he reached the spot, there was nothing. Only shadows.
By the time he stumbled back to the inn, his throat was raw and his body felt carved out.
The inn's door creaked as he pushed it open. The same innkeeper stood behind the counter, her smile unchanged from earlier, like it had been frozen on her face the entire time he was gone.
"You're back," she said warmly. "Your room is waiting, Kairen."
Her voice was kind. Too kind. It brushed against his frayed nerves like sandpaper.
"…Thanks," he muttered, keeping his eyes down as he took the key.
The inn's hallway was too quiet. Each door was shut tight, not a single sound of life seeping through. When he reached his room, he locked the door twice, then dragged a chair beneath the knob for good measure.
Only then did he collapse onto the bed.
For a while, he just stared at the ceiling, unable to close his eyes. The wood beams above seemed to pulse faintly, like veins. He told himself it was just fatigue, that his mind was playing tricks.
But then—
"…Kaito."
The whisper was so soft, so familiar, it cut straight through the exhaustion. His chest seized.
He sat bolt upright. "Who—who's there?"
Silence.
He pressed his hands into his face, trying to steady his breathing. It's nothing. Just stress. Just—
"…Don't trust them."
The voice again. A different one this time—deeper. A voice he knew.
His heart stopped. It was his old friend's voice. From his real world.
"No," he whispered, shaking his head violently. "No, you're not here. You can't be here."
But when he dropped his hands, his eyes widened.
For a split second—only a split second—someone was sitting in the corner of the room. A boy, slouched forward, face half in shadow. Familiar. Too familiar.
Kaito's blood ran cold. His vision blurred. And then, like smoke, the figure vanished.
The room was empty again.
He clutched at his chest, gasping. I'm losing it. I'm—
His gaze drifted to the small mirror nailed to the wall.
And in its reflection, his face was smiling.
He wasn't.
His body froze, paralyzed by terror. His own reflection tilted its head, lips curling higher. Then the mirror cracked, splitting the image into jagged fragments.
Kaito stumbled back, nearly tripping over the bedframe. His breaths came fast, sharp, painful.
And in that moment, one truth seared itself into his bones:
The town wasn't just strange. It wasn't just broken.
It was hungry.
And it had noticed him.