Obi shot upright in bed, his breath hitching like he'd just been dragged out of deep water. His chest rose and fell in quick bursts, and for a moment, he wasn't sure if he was really awake.
Silence. Not the peaceful kind-but the kind that felt wrong. No soft footsteps padding through the hallway. No clatter of pans in the kitchen. No familiar, off-key humming from Kanou getting ready for school.
Just the distant hum of early-morning traffic, and the quick, nervous thump of his heartbeat.
He dragged a hand down his face, eyes gritty with sleep. His skin felt clammy, and his shirt clung to him with sweat. The dream was already slipping away-something about shadows chasing him, hands reaching from dark corners, a door slamming shut somewhere deep in a house that wasn't quite his. That dream again.
He glanced at the clock beside his bed. 5:12 a.m.
"...Great," he muttered under his breath.
He leaned back for a moment, stared at the ceiling. Maybe if he just closed his eyes, he could-
No. The thought of going back in felt like willingly walking into a trap.
With a soft groan, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The wooden floor was cold, biting against his bare feet.
"Alright," he mumbled to no one in particular. "Guess I'm up."
He stretched, joints popping in protest. The house felt too still. He already knew what he wouldn't find downstairs-no scent of breakfast, no family waiting at the table, no sister humming through the static of the TV. Just that ache that never really went away.
---
Obi rubbed his temples and sighed. Sleep was a lost cause. With a quiet groan, he shuffled over to his desk and picked up the book again-CONSUME. The cover still felt strange in his hands, like it remembered things he didn't.
He wasn't really reading-just skimming. Letting the words blur together. His brain felt like mush. That dream had left its fingerprints all over him.
Then something stopped him.
There-just beneath a particularly frantic paragraph, smeared like an afterthought-were faint, rusty stains. Blood. Real or not, it looked disturbingly genuine.
He squinted at the text. The handwriting was tight, slanted, practically clawed into the page.
> "My mind is unraveling.
I can't keep keeping this facade.
I didn't kill them.
Help me."
Obi read the words out loud, his voice cracking slightly, dry from sleep and something else he couldn't name.
They echoed in the room. Wrong, raw. Like hearing someone whisper through a crack in the wall.
He stared at the page. His hand felt cold against the paper.
"Jesus," he breathed. "This guy wasn't just writing fiction. He was screaming."
A shiver crept up his back, slow and deliberate. He closed the book gently-almost like he was afraid it might bleed again-and slipped it back into the shelf beside some old paperbacks .
He made his way to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and splashed water on his face until the chill cleared some of the fog from his head. Toothbrush. Rinse. Routine.
Then he showered, letting the hot water sting his skin. It felt like he needed it to wash off more than sweat.
After toweling off, he pulled on a pair of jeans and a worn black T-shirt. Pain bloomed across his side as the fabric brushed his still-healing ribs.
"Shit-" he winced, grabbing a bottle from the desk and popping a couple of painkillers.
He opened his bedroom door with a long creak-the hinges whining like they hadn't been used in a century. Morning light filtered in through the hallway window, pale and cold, casting sharp lines across the wooden floor.
He pulled his hoodie over his head and padded down to the dining area. Someone had left out a plate of rice, grilled fish, and pickles. Mr. Kumon, probably. Obi sat down, ate a few bites, then poured some into the cat's bowl.
The cat eyed him, narrowed its eyes, then dramatically smacked the bowl aside before trotting off with its tail high, disappearing into Obi's room.
Obi blinked.
"...Racist little gremlin," he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Wait. Can cats be racist? Is that a thing?"
Still chewing on that thought, he walked through the back door that led into the bookstore. A note was taped to the counter in Mr. Kumon's tight scrawl:
> "I'll be out for a bit. Help me with the shift.
If not, lock up for the day."
Obi stared at it, then exhaled through his nose. "Well... I guess I'm the guy now."
He turned on the lights, flipped the sign to "OPEN," and settled in behind the counter.
The day passed in a slow, quiet rhythm-customers drifted in and out. He scanned books, answered a few questions, even recommended a manga to a middle schooler with glittery nail polish. He wasn't half bad at this.
By the time the sun began to sink below the city skyline, he was locking the front door, the clunk of the deadbolt echoing through the empty shop.
Then he grabbed his bag, slipped out the side door, and started walking toward Tokyo Metropolitan Matsuzawa Hospital.
The weight of CONSUME lingered in his mind like a bruise.
---
Obi tugged his hoodie over his head as he stepped out into the waking sprawl of Shibuya. The city was already pulsing with life-neon signs still blinked half-heartedly from the night before, and the sidewalks teemed with commuters, tourists, and students all moving in chaotic, practiced harmony. Above him, enormous screens flashed ads with cheery voiceovers that didn't match the dull, gray sky.
It was the kind of place where you could disappear in plain sight. No one really looked at anyone-yet somehow, you always felt like someone was.
He slipped into the current of the crowd, weaving through business suits, school uniforms, and the occasional human billboard in cosplay. A cyclist nearly clipped his shoulder, and he muttered a quick "Watch it" under his breath before dodging a couple trying to frame the perfect selfie beneath a massive, smiling billboard for a new soda brand.
By the time he reached Shibuya Station, the noise hit like a wave. The screech of train brakes, the ding of arrival chimes, and the constant hum of overlapping announcements in Japanese and English. People moved like water-fast, directional, impossible to stop.
As the tide of early commuters began to thin, Obi found himself pausing just outside the ticket gate, adjusting the strap of his bag. That's when he noticed her.
A girl, maybe his age, maybe a little younger. Black hair with icy blue highlights that caught the fluorescents overhead. Blue eyes sharp as winter glass. She wore a long white gown that brushed her ankles, layered with a burnt-orange haori. Simple flats. No bag. No phone. Just standing there, still as a painting in a room full of noise.
Obi blinked. Something about her face-it tugged at him, like a name he should remember or a dream that had almost faded.
She met his eyes. Just for a second. Not curiosity-suspicion. Like she was sizing him up. Like she knew him.
Then she turned and walked away, disappearing into the stream of passengers like a ghost slipping through walls.
He kept staring long after she was gone.
"...What the hell..." he murmured.
It lingered-the strangeness of it, the familiarity-and he didn't realize how long he'd been standing there until the next train's arrival shook the platform.
Snapping out of it, Obi swiped his card, stepped onto the train, and let the doors slide shut behind him.
Whatever that was... it wasn't just a random encounter. Something about that girl stuck to his ribs like a warning.
---
Obi boarded the JR Yamanote Line to Shinjuku, gripping the overhead strap as the train lurched into motion. The carriage rocked rhythmically, a soft mechanical groan underneath. Through the windows, Tokyo blurred past in fractured glimpses-gray towers stacked like dominoes, loops of wire hanging overhead, and flashes of color from vending machines and storefronts rushing by too fast to register.
His mind wandered. Back to Kanou's face-twisted in pain, feral and frightened-and then to the crimson-flecked pages of CONSUME. The words Help me echoed, low and persistent, like a splinter too deep to pull out.
At Shinjuku, he was swallowed into the underground tide of people. He navigated the maze of hallways and glowing signage with quiet purpose, eventually finding his way to the Keio Line. Another train. This one quieter. The sort of line only locals bothered with.
He slid into a faded red seat by the window, pulling his hoodie sleeves over his hands. The city outside began to peel back. High-rises softened into residential blocks. Traffic noise dulled into bird calls and distant chatter. The farther he rode, the more the city's grip seemed to loosen-like he was moving backward in time.
By the time he stepped off at Hachimanyama Station, the sun was high but the streets were hushed. Trees lined the sidewalk, casting slow-moving shadows on the pavement. Here, the buzz of Shibuya felt like a bad dream.
Obi walked the few blocks in silence, passing trimmed hedges, shuttered cafés, and old bicycles chained to rusted fences. Then, as he turned a corner, the hospital came into view.
Tokyo Metropolitan Matsuzawa Hospital.
The building stood like a monument to forgotten things-concrete, sterile, and still. It didn't look haunted, not exactly. Just... tired. The kind of place that carried the weight of too many stories.
As he approached the front gates, a shiver crawled up his spine. It wasn't cold.
It was instinct.
The quiet kind of dread that whispers, Something's waiting for you in there.
He paused, hand hovering above the gate handle.
Then, jaw set, he pushed it open and stepped inside.
---
The scent of antiseptic hit Obi as soon as he stepped into the hospital lobby-too clean, too sharp. The walls were pale and silent, the kind of silence that made every footstep echo. He approached the front desk where two nurses sat, murmuring to one another. When he mentioned the name-
"I'm here to see Itsuki Hibira," he said, trying to sound casual.
The nurses exchanged a quick glance. One arched her brow.
"Oh... that patient," the older one murmured. "And your business with him?"
Obi hesitated a second. "I wanted to ask him about the book he wrote. Consume. I'm... a fan."
The younger nurse gave a half-laugh. "I forgot he did write something, back when he wasn't talking to shadows."
The older one stood up, smoothing out her scrubs. "Alright, follow me. But fair warning-he's a few screws loose. You sure you want this?"
Obi nodded, though something in his stomach twisted.
They walked through a series of long, sterile corridors that felt increasingly distant from the rest of the world. As they moved deeper into the facility, Obi noticed the paint on the walls starting to peel, the lights flickering just a little longer than normal before stabilizing. The air felt colder. He hugged his hoodie tighter around himself.
Finally, they stopped outside a thick security door with a reinforced glass panel. The nurse tapped a code into a keypad, and a heavy lock clicked.
"Here we are," she said. "His... room."
Inside, the cell was bare save for a small mattress and a bolted-down toilet. A man sat on the floor in a straightjacket, his back turned to the glass. His white hair was greasy and wild, his head tilted slightly as if he were listening to something no one else could hear. His lips moved constantly, mumbling nonsense-or prayers.
The nurse rapped her knuckles on the glass. "Itsuki! You've got a visitor."
The man slowly turned his head. Green eyes, ringed with dark circles, met Obi's. His beard was unkempt, and a twisted grin cracked across his face like a dried mask.
"Well now... that's a first," he said with a crooked chuckle. "Usually it's just the cops... or those white-hooded freaks who think the sky's gonna fall."
The nurse rolled her eyes. "He's here about your book, Mr. Hibira."
"At least they believed me," Itsuki muttered, leaning his head back against the wall.
"That's enough," she snapped. "You get ten minutes." She turned to Obi. "Don't get too close to the glass." Then she left.
Obi stepped forward cautiously, his breath fogging the glass slightly. "So... I've been reading Consume. And I need to ask-demons? What really happened to your family?"
Itsuki blinked. Then he let out a long, low sigh, like the question had been dragging behind him for years.
"I came home one evening," he said, voice suddenly soft, almost reverent. "To my loving wife. My little girl. My son. Dinner on the stove. I opened the door and saw him."
Obi said nothing.
"He was standing in my living room. Just standing there-eating them. The devil himself. Blood all over his mouth." His voice began to quiver. "And then... he changed. He turned into my wife. My wife, wearing her face like a mask. Told me I was lucky. Said he'd let his pets clean up the rest."
Obi's heart began to pound.
"I asked him why. Why leave me alive?" Itsuki's eyes twitched. "He said he wanted to see how inferior lifeforms would handle it. Just... walked out. Unbothered. Unafraid. Smiling."
He suddenly looked away, shaking now. "I tried. I tried to tell them. I didn't do it. It wasn't me! It was a creature of the night, I swear!"
He lunged toward the glass with terrifying speed, slamming his forehead against it with a sickening thud. Obi jumped back, heart leaping into his throat.
"LET ME OUT!" Itsuki screamed. Blood trickled down his face, but he didn't stop. "HE'S STILL OUT THERE! I'LL FIND HIM-I'LL KILL ANYONE WHO GETS IN MY WAY!"
He headbutted the glass again. And again. Cracks spiderwebbed outward with every impact, and his face began to smear with red. His eyes rolled wildly, veins bulging in his neck.
Obi collapsed backward onto the floor, frozen with terror. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Finally, a scream ripped free:
"HELP! HE'S-HE'S TRYING TO ESCAPE!"
A blaring siren cut through the corridor as staff flooded in-nurses, orderlies, and a doctor, all in motion. The door slammed open as they charged in, tackling Itsuki to the ground. His body thrashed violently until a half-dozen syringes found their mark.
His movements slowed.
And just before he went limp, he mumbled something-so faint it seemed carried only on breath.
"Fear... the man with blood-red eyes."
Obi sat there, back against the wall, heart pounding in his ears. His chest heaved like it was caving in. He was shaking so badly, it felt like his bones were vibrating.
Then a hand rested gently on his shoulder.
A young doctor crouched beside him, offering a sympathetic smile.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," he said softly. "Not the ideal way to meet your favorite author, huh?"
Obi didn't answer. Couldn't.
The doctor sighed. "It's been rough for him ever since... Well, ever since that serial killer incident. Everyone thought it was him. Sent him away for years. But... the truth? We still don't know. We've been trying to understand him, understand the mind behind all that trauma. But..."
He trailed off.
Obi forced a weak smile, voice dry. "Don't worry, doc. You're doing a great job in this madhouse. I'd lose my mind on day one."
The doctor chuckled quietly. "The secret is hope. Hope that even the insane can find their way back." He stood up, looking down at Obi with a tired gaze. "Because to a madman... we're the crazy ones."
Obi just stared after him, the sound of red eyes echoing in his mind.
---