Mike — "And to top it all off, you came back right at the moment I had just met him."
Mike had finally rested in the empty corridor before passing through the door and going down the stairs.
Short stairs, whose steps closed behind him after each step.
All the while explaining to the Voice most of the events that had taken place between the moment he had left to watch over Rhea and the moment he had returned.
Whether it was his fight against the fire bodies, the forced regeneration he had undergone, while omitting certain details. Such as the feeling of absence when he cut, as well as his mental state.
Had he omitted them deliberately? Yes… Why? Even he didn't know, but he preferred to keep certain things hidden. Hoping that Gekidō would not talk about it in the future, since apparently the latter had still told him nothing.
His account continued with the monster Gekidō had fought. A monster far bigger than the others and stronger.
Mike — "I had to let him have some fun."
That was how he had explained it. Which sounded somewhat false.
And finally, he told him about the good meal he had eaten in the closed room, describing the flavors that had come into contact with his taste buds. Flavors he would have trouble forgetting.
As well as the sleep that followed, a sleep one could call restorative. Unfortunately cut short by an incessant ringing.
Who knows how long he had slept and how long he would have slept without it?
Ending up on the floor of the 90th floor, facing a new individual, Entity No. 708.
「Voice? — "I see… it hasn't been easy."」
The voice replied with its usual calm, without excess.
「Voice? — "And you're handling things better and better."」
That sentence was thrown at him after a short pause.
Their discussion ended in front of the door to the next floor. A door just slightly taller than him. Quite ordinary and without any apparent distinction, just an [89].
Without a sound, he placed his hand on it before pushing it open and entering.
A thin, long corridor stretched out before his eyes. Dark, similar to the previous ones.
His eyes lingered on it for a good while before he stepped inside and let go of the door, which closed instantly. Without a slam?
Mike — "I still can't get used to it… There's really something wrong with these doors."
That was what he would have said.
But no sound came out of his mouth. None of his words reached the air around him. Only his lips had moved.
Yet his vocal cords were vibrating. But nothing. Nada. No sound came out.
So he had to think like anyone else. But nothing. Nada. No thought. No word took shape in his mind. It was completely impossible.
Ask the Voice? But there too… nothing. Whether it was calls or even the Voice, he heard neither. Yet the Voice hadn't said it was leaving, nor anything of the sort.
So? Even in the event that the Voice had spoken to him, he wouldn't have heard it either? Was he being mocked again?
His hand clenched tightly, striking hard against the wall to his right. And once again, no sound. His hand might have been frail, but if it met a wall or anything else, a noise should have come out. Unfortunately, that was not the case.
In this situation, he had to accept that sounds had disappeared. That it was a new peculiarity.
A very troublesome one for someone who had always heard. He found himself like a deaf man.
Yet he fumbled at his ears as if to check that they were still there. They were indeed still there. Still attached to his head, just like his mouth.
The current situation irritated him greatly. Out of spite, he walked slowly, without a sound.
Approaching a first apartment with a closed door, he pushed down the handle.
But the door did not open. He tried again with a semblance of strength in his hand, but no change.
After a few minutes on the same handle, the next one was already in his hands.
This one opened easily, at the very first press on the handle, revealing a completely disordered apartment.
Mike's facial muscles recoiled at all that mess.
With a new expression of disgust, he entered silently.
Well, silently was a big word—maybe he was making noise? But that would be dwelling too long on his situation.
In front of him, an entryway filled with clothes, scattered everywhere.
Jackets, pants, T-shirts. Everything was mixed together, littering the floor.
Stepping over all that, he entered the living room, which didn't seem any better—rather, worse.
In addition to clothes, there were all kinds of things that had no place in a living room.
Such as broken plates, chipped ones, toothbrushes everywhere—too many toothbrushes. And once again, mountains of clothes.
This apartment could be described as impassable terrain. Moving forward was difficult, going back just as much. His body preferred to extricate itself.
Once outside, he wiped his forehead. It was abnormally soaked. Not due to any heat, but rather a reaction to all the surrounding mess he had just passed through.
After that, his steps headed toward the end of the corridor.
That end of the corridor that was so far away?
It had taken him around eighty steps to reach it. Surely more if one added the first ones he had taken for the first two apartments.
All along, he kept wiping his forehead. A forehead that continued to produce all the water it could.
And finally, he had reached the end of the corridor.
He groped at what was in front of him, but nothing, no door.
He struck the wall out of spite, but again no sound, no reaction. Just his fist frantically hitting an empty wall.
He turned around, ran to the opposite wall, but there too, no door.
The one that had been there previously had disappeared?
Apparently.
He stared at the wall, biting a finger. As if the wall would change. As if a door would appear.
He sat down in front of it, continuing to stare. Not taking his eyes off it. Not even blinking anymore.
After a long moment in this position, he stood up and headed for yet another door he hadn't opened.
Opening it, he came upon a tidy apartment. Simply, just right. All the objects were in their place.
Walking required no unnecessary effort. He crossed the entryway, then the living room, ending in the kitchen.
Eagerly opening a cupboard. A cupboard that seemed to be filled with cutlery. He took out everything it contained, as if he were looking for something.
But the more he rummaged, the more his eyebrows furrowed.
Something was missing?
Among what he had thrown onto the floor, there were forks, large spoons, smaller ones. Of all sizes, as well as many other kitchen utensils, varied, different from one another.
But no knife? Whatever their size, there were absolutely none.
He rummaged through all the other cupboards. Food, canned goods, pots, other utensils—but still no knife!
The kitchen, which had previously been too tidy, had been turned into an indescribable mess. By no one other than Mike.
A Mike who refused to accept this reality. That no knife could be present in a kitchen?
It was absurd. As if they had been deliberately removed from this kitchen.
Who would have believed it? After all that had happened to him?
He stormed out of the kitchen and the apartment, heading straight for the last apartment.
He opened the door. But behind it was simply a wall.
A wall? What was a wall doing here? Behind a door?
Frowning, he threw a powerful punch into that wall. But nothing, no reaction, no sound.
Just his hand trembling. Intensely, wavering.
With his mouth clenched, he shook his hand, blowing on it.
Finally…
He returned to the previous apartment, passed by the kitchen, and entered a final room.
The bedroom.
It was tidy, but abnormally empty. It contained only a large bed. Answering only the primary necessity: rest.
Mike collapsed onto it, yawning with all his teeth.
His eyelids slowly closed.
After a short while, he turned over, changing position.
Then again, slipping under the covers.
Once more, now staring at the ceiling.
But nothing, no sleep came.
He got up after a few more minutes spent staring at the ceiling.
Left the bedroom and picked up one of the packets of cookies he had previously thrown onto the floor.
He sprawled over the table, eating his cookies without hearing them crunch in his mouth.
Yet he was eating slightly hard cookies, which should have made quite a bit of noise.
Once finished, he threw the packet away, left the apartment, and stopped in front of the window.
A clearly visible red moon. No clouds obstructed the view.
He stayed there, contemplating it, a slight smile forming. An almost radiant smile.
Raising his hand toward it. In that movement, his eyes stopped on his arm. More precisely, on the chain wrapped around it.
His mouth opened briefly. As if he had uttered an "Ah!".
His steps carried him to the first door, the one he hadn't been able to open.
He gently placed his hand on the handle. He didn't tighten it—on the contrary, he couldn't have been more delicate.
His breathing was slow, his eyes closed.
The chain vibrated slightly around his wrist. His hand slowly lowered. As if the movement did not come from him.
And in the same way, his elbow drew closer to the rest of his body.
His eyelids lifted gently.
The door had opened, revealing circular stairs.
He let out a long sigh, gazing for a long time at the chain, while the steps were already passing beneath his feet.
His breathing now short, before him stood the door [88].
Kling
A noise? A sound had rung out behind that door?