He awoke in the middle of the night, as if from a terrible nightmare. His whole body was covered in a cold sweat.
He got out of bed and went to the kitchen. He poured a glass of water but couldn't bring himself to drink it. He didn't want water, but he had no idea what he wanted. With great effort, he managed to swallow a mouthful before pouring the rest down the sink.
For a moment, he sat down in his computer chair. He thought about turning on his laptop, but he felt too drained. The shivering had started again. He stood up and went back to the bedroom, hoping the warmth of the blanket would calm the tremors.
He couldn't recall the dream. He didn't know what had happened to him. He was just scared. No, it wasn't just fear; a feeling of regret weighed on him. He felt anger, but for no reason he could name.
He closed his eyes.
Suddenly, a voice next to him whispered, "Bad dream?"
His eyes flew open.
Someone was sitting on his bed. Their face was impossible to make out—or perhaps they had no face at all. He didn't care. Maybe not having a face was a completely normal thing.
He tried to remember what he'd been asked. The only sound was the ticking of a clock.
"Yeah, I had a nightmare... but I can't remember it."
A hand reached out and rested on his shoulder. "It's alright. It's all over now. Don't worry about it."
He pulled the blanket tighter around himself, trying to get warm, but the shivering only worsened.
"I have to remember... something tells me I need to... I just can't remember at all... Oh, wait... who was I?... Was I a person? Yes... a simple person with a simple life... not better than anyone... not more special than anyone..."
The more he thought, the louder the thumping of his heart became.
He didn't even realize he had walked into the bathroom. The blanket was no longer wrapped around him. He stared at his reflection in the mirror.
He had no face, yet he looked frantic and distressed. It was clear he was consumed by anger and regret. He looked at his spiky black hair, the color of a starless night.
His awareness shifted to his surroundings. It was as if time had stopped. He was detached from the world and life, lost in a labyrinth of his own thoughts. He felt swallowed, dissolved, and erased from existence. He wanted to become one with the darkness.
The clock's ticking persisted.
The voice came again. "What is it? Not feeling well?"
He turned. The faceless being from his bedside was now standing behind him. He tried to force a smile, but it was as if he had no lips to fake one. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
The faceless one chuckled. "Want me to tell you?"
He nodded. "I do, but you can't. Can you?"
"No, I can't. But I can help you understand."
The ticking grew louder, like the rhythmic crescendo of a drum. He squeezed his eyes shut to block out the sound; it was driving him insane. When he opened them, he saw a mirror directly in front of him. The mirror seemed to be pulling him inward. Inside, it was full of people—people who seemed to have faces, voices, and maybe even a purpose...
He heard their cheers. Their insults... their scorn...
He flinched, stepping back. "Stop it... I don't want this..."
He plunged into the darkness. His eyes seemed to have blinked once more... The room dissolved from his sight, the walls crumbling to nothing. The bed, the desk, the bathroom—all had vanished.
Only a clock and a full-length mirror remained in the endless void of black.
He studied himself in the mirror. He raised a hand to his eyes; they burned as if two molten embers had been placed in the hollows of his sockets. He looked closer and saw they were crimson. His pupils were black, but his irises were red, marked with three commas aligned along their axes.
The commas began to spin.
The clock's ticking morphed into the pounding of a war drum. The commas in his eyes seemed to stretch and contort. His eyes burned and ached. He recoiled, pulling his head away from the mirror and stepping back.
He couldn't remember a thing. It was as if he had no past, and nothing was etched in his mind. Time meant nothing to him. All he wanted was a moment of peace. But it was as if the darkness loathed his tranquility.
The blackness slowly began to change. A faint vision of a life appeared before him. It wasn't a scene, but a feeling—the feeling of endless repetition. He saw himself in a small room, the light from a computer monitor on his face, the stifling smell of instant food, the reek of sweat in the stuffy air of a building with no windows. He wasn't a person, he was just a number. A number among a horde of employees who took the bus every morning toward a soulless and exhausting life.
His gaze fell on a door. He went to it and opened it. Beyond the door was a window. A window to the past. One that showed every moment of his loneliness and passivity. The days he could have smiled but only watched others do so. The days he could have helped but only watched. He was an observer. A solitary person who never tried to connect with anyone. In a world where everyone had a face and a purpose, he had neither. No friends, no lover, no purpose.
This passivity was more painful than any physical blow. He now understood why he felt regret, but understanding wasn't enough. The regret was a deep wound in his soul that still bled.
The pain within him reached its peak. The window was gone. The door was gone. The darkness seemed to be returning... No, it wasn't darkness. It was light, though cold and lifeless. He stood on open ground, on a cliff overlooking four faces that represented four heroes. He saw people who had been separated in the western corner of a remote village. People who seemed unhappy about being isolated, yet still they laughed, still they cried, and still they tried to make their lives go on. He saw himself, watching. Even in this life, he was an observer.
Suddenly, the scene changed to the night of the catastrophe. He saw Itachi, not as an enemy but as a tormented ninja. He saw Obito, not as a monster but as a victim. Then, he saw his own face, standing in the shadows, watching death unfold. He thought he couldn't stop the tragedy. Maybe he really couldn't; maybe it wasn't his destiny. But he hadn't even tried. He could have tried. He could have reached out to others. But he didn't. He had preferred to remain an observer.
The voice came, "Do you understand what's wrong with you now? You never tried... and that's what's eating you alive."
He turned and saw the faceless being. It was no longer faceless. It was a short, slightly overweight man. His hair was straight and a little long. The round glasses on his face gave him a kind, pensive look. "See? You don't regret dying... you regret not living. All the people who could have been everything you never had... you abandoned them. You even threw away a great chance just because you thought you knew their fate and that they had no hope. You didn't even gain anything from the second life you were given."
"I wanted to... but I couldn't."
"Couldn't you really?" The man shook his head with a bitter smile. "If that's the case, then why the regret? You still don't get it?"
A heavy silence fell. He understood now. "I get it... but it doesn't matter anymore."
"Whether it matters or not, that's up to you. Tell me, what will you do now?"
"In what way?" he asked, his voice trembling.
The man stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Don't lie to yourself. The past is the past. I'm talking about what comes next. About the future you can build."
The shadow of doubt lifted from his eyes, and a new resolve bloomed within them. He lifted his head and met the man's kind gaze. "If that's the case, then I'll take them back. All the chances I was given and threw away... I want to take them all back."