Backstory: Yu Korima
Scrub. Scrub. Yu Korima scrubbed the plate over and over, his hands moving mechanically, a well-oiled machine in service of an unseen force. The ceramic surface gleamed under the kitchen light, so clean it could reflect the ceiling like a perfect, unblemished mirror.
"Finally," he muttered under his breath, the word a small, earned victory. He set the plate aside with exacting care, aligning it precisely with the others. "It's clean."
Yu was 14 years old, in his final year of middle school. To the outside world, he was a model student—disciplined, focused, exceptionally bright. On paper, he was everything anyone could hope for: fluent in three languages, proficient in five different instruments, and consistently at the top of his class. He excelled at everything he set his mind to, and no one ever questioned how he did it.
Some assumed his success was the result of innate talent, but Yu knew better. It wasn't natural ability; it was obsession. An ironclad routine, a relentless, almost brutal pursuit of perfection. There was no other way to describe it. He would not accept anything less than flawless.
After finishing the dishes, Yu carefully removed his rubber gloves, folding them neatly, crease on crease, before peeling off his face mask. He walked down the hall to the bathroom, where steam curled invitingly from the tub, wrapping the air in warmth. He grabbed a fresh towel, but before stepping into the bath, he paused in front of the mirror.
His reflection was always the same: sharp, intelligent black eyes beneath perfectly kept black hair, an average height of 5'6", his body lean and toned from hours of daily calisthenics. He maintained his physical condition with the same obsessive standards that governed everything else in his life.
But there was something the mirror didn't show—something deeper, a shadow beneath the surface that no one else saw.
Beneath the clean-cut appearance, the perfect grades, and the polished skills, Yu carried a profound burden—an invisible weight. He had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
There were many variations of OCD, but for Yu, it was cleanliness and symmetry that held him captive. Every surface had to be spotless, free of even an imagined speck of dust. Every object had to be perfectly aligned, every angle precise. The slightest imperfection sent his mind spiraling into a maelstrom of anxiety and panic. He couldn't relax, couldn't breathe, until everything was meticulously in its right place.
Originally, it had started subtly, a mere preference for symmetry. A misplaced book, a crooked painting—these small distortions once caused a mild discomfort. But over the years, his yearning for perfection mutated into a consuming obsession. First, it was just sweeping, then throwing away the garbage, then cleaning the entire house. The more he cleaned, the more imperfections he perceived, leading him to clean day after day, hour after hour, until the obsession consumed him entirely.
It wasn't a mere quirk, not a minor eccentricity. It was a cage, formed from an endless series of rituals and routines that consumed his every waking moment. And while the world around him saw brilliance, Yu saw only cracks—cracks that could never be filled, no matter how many times he scrubbed.
Every day, he fought a silent, relentless war in his own mind.
And so, he scrubbed again and again. Not because the plate was dirty, but because he needed it to be clean. If it wasn't, the fragile world he had constructed around himself would shatter into a thousand unbearable pieces.
Yu stepped into the warm water of the bathtub, letting the steam envelop him. The heat soaked into his skin, a rare moment of release that eased the rigid tension from the day's endless rituals. It was a brief moment of respite, a fragile peace before the inevitable weight of his routines began anew.
Twenty minutes later, he exhaled in relief, drying himself off with careful, deliberate precision before slipping into his neatly ironed school uniform—a crisp navy blazer, a pristine white shirt, perfectly creased black slacks. Today marked the end of an era: his middle school graduation.
As valedictorian, Yu was expected to give a speech. He had rehearsed it countless times, every word, every pause, every inflection meticulously calculated. Perfection was, as always, non-negotiable.
He descended the stairs quietly, glancing around the empty living room. His parents weren't home. They never were.
Yu locked the front door behind him and stepped into the cool morning air. His parents were workaholics, always immersed in their small business, their lives a ceaseless cycle of meetings and paperwork. He had grown up alone, and it had become his normal. Birthdays, holidays—they were just days to him, no different from any other. He had convinced himself that he didn't need them, that their absence didn't affect him, not truly.
But as the years passed, something inside Yu had changed. The easy smiles and unrestrained laughter of the other kids became foreign to him, distant echoes he couldn't quite grasp. The world grew gray, sterile, just like the meticulously controlled routines he clung to. He built walls around himself, high and unyielding, brick by painful brick. He refused to let anyone in, because he knew the truth: if he allowed himself to love, he would love too deeply, too completely. And if he was hurt, it would not merely wound him; it would destroy him.
When he arrived at school, the security guard greeted him with a wave. Yu nodded and offered a polite, practiced smile, a mask he wore effortlessly, returning the gesture before passing through the gate. The graduation assembly was held outside on the vast field, and he made his way toward it, his steps measured and precise.
The heavy door to the field swung open, and Yu was immediately hit by a wave of sound—the raucous laughter, the joyous cheers, the excited chatter of students and their families. He stopped for a moment, scanning the vibrant, swirling crowd, searching, almost instinctively, for familiar faces.
Fathers carrying their children on their shoulders, pointing out friends. Mothers fussing with uniforms, wiping away stray tears of pride. Families clustered together, laughing, embracing, capturing memories with flashing cameras.
Yu's practiced expression dimmed, a flicker of something akin to pain crossing his face. Still no sign of them.
He took out his phone, his thumb moving automatically to his father's contact. His heart tightened with a familiar ache as he tapped the name.
Ring… ring… ring…
Each tone was like a drumbeat in his chest, his heartbeat quickening with a fragile hope that this time, maybe this time, he'd hear a response.
No answer.
Yu lowered the phone, ready to slip it back into his pocket, when it vibrated in his hand.
Incoming Call: Dad.
A faint flicker of hope, so fragile it was almost painful, lit in Yu's chest. He quickly answered, holding the phone to his ear.
"Hello," came his father's stern, impatient voice.
"Hi… Dad," Yu said softly, the words feeling small and inadequate.
"What is it, Yu?" his father asked, his voice distracted, detached, as if Yu were an unwelcome interruption.
"Today is my graduation. Are you coming—?"
Yu's hopeful question was cut off abruptly by his father's sharp, cold response. "Yu, how many times do I have to tell you? Stop wasting time on things like this. I have important meetings. Focus on your future, not these useless ceremonies."
The words hit Yu like a physical blow, a punch to the gut. His chest tightened, and he felt a familiar hollowness spread through him.
"Yes… Father," he whispered, the words feeling like ash in his mouth.
He ended the call, the click of the disconnect echoing in the sudden silence, and slipped the phone into his pocket. As he walked through the vibrant crowd of celebrating families, no one noticed him. He didn't join any games or photo sessions. He simply wandered, a solitary figure, unnoticed, like a ghost amidst the living.
Eventually, the event began. Rows of students sat rigidly in their uniforms as speeches commenced—the teachers, the vice dean, and then the dean himself. His voice was steady, welcoming, warm, a stark contrast to the coldness Yu had just experienced.
"Thank you all for coming today…"
Yu's thoughts drifted as he listened, contemplating the endless, predictable path ahead. High school. University. The relentless, exhausting pursuit of excellence. Always moving forward. Always alone.
Then, he heard his name, sharp and clear through the loudspeakers.
"Korima Yu, our valedictorian."
Yu stood, his movements automatic, and walked to the stage. The dean met him, shaking his hand firmly, his eyes radiating a genuine pride that momentarily disarmed Yu. He stepped up to the podium, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm in his chest.
"Hello everyone. I thank you—"
Pain.
A sharp, searing bolt of agony tore through his chest, like a jagged shard of ice piercing his heart. Yu gasped, staggering backward, clutching desperately at his ribcage as the world tilted violently around him. His vision blurred, the vibrant colors of the crowd dissolving into a kaleidoscopic swirl. The ground beneath him seemed to vanish.
"Yu!" the dean shouted, his voice laced with alarm, rushing forward instantly.
Yu collapsed, his legs giving out, but the dean caught him just in time, holding him securely in his arms.
The world spun around him, a chaotic maelstrom of sound and color. Yu struggled to stay conscious, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. His body felt impossibly heavy, his chest impossibly tight, as if a great weight had been placed upon it.
"Yu! Stay with me!" the dean's voice trembled, raw with fear.
Through the haze, Yu saw him—the dean. The only adult who had ever truly seen him, who had made him feel like he wasn't invisible, wasn't just a checklist of accomplishments. The dean's quiet smile, his seemingly offhand comments that somehow always managed to make Yu laugh, even when he didn't want to, even when the burden of his routines felt overwhelming.
If anyone had ever made him feel truly loved, it was the dean. And now, in this moment, a revelation, sharp and clear like the pain in his chest, struck him—he loved him. He loved the dean more than anyone else in his entire life. He had never felt a love like this, not from his parents, not from anyone. A deep, aching realization of what he had always longed for.
If only the dean had been his real family…
Tears welled in Yu's eyes, hot and unexpected. As the dean cradled him, his strong, steady arms the only anchor in his swirling world, Yu whispered, his voice barely a breath, "Grandpa… c-can I call you that?"
The dean froze, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and overwhelming tenderness. His voice cracked as he replied, "Of course you can. Of course, my boy."
"Thank you…" Yu whispered, his voice barely audible, fading like a dying ember. "Thank you for everything. For not giving up on me."
A single tear slid down the dean's weathered cheek, a testament to the quiet bond they shared. "Of course," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion. "Grandpa will always be there to make you smile."
Yu tried to say more, to express the depth of his gratitude, the overwhelming feeling of finally being seen, but the words never came. His chest grew tighter, a vise squeezing the last remnants of breath from his lungs, and his body grew heavier, sinking into the dean's arms. The world around him dimmed, the bright sunlight fading into a gathering darkness.
"Yu… Yu! Stay with me! Yu!!"
The dean's voice, once so clear and comforting, faded into a distant, echoing silence.
Where am I? What is this place?
Yu floated in a void without shape or sound. No light, no floor beneath him—just endless darkness stretching in every direction. There was no wind, no warmth, no cold. Nothing to feel, nothing to hold on to. Just the oppressive, all-encompassing silence.
Is this death?
If it is, Yu thought, a strange sense of calm settling over him, it wasn't so bad. No pain, no struggle. Just quiet.
No deadlines. No tests. No lectures. No pressure. The crushing weight of the world was gone, dissolved the moment he had arrived here.
Maybe this was peace. Or maybe it was oblivion. Either way, it was a profound relief.
His thoughts began to slow, slipping away like smoke in the wind. Even the fear, that constant companion, began to fade, becoming meaningless in this boundless void. What was the point of fear in a place like this?
He let go.
His eyes—had they ever been open?—began to close, heavy with an exhaustion that had nothing to do with physical exertion.
In the profound stillness, Yu surrendered to the dark.