The apartment was dark, lit only by the dull glow of the television screen. A rerun of some variety show played in the background, laughter echoing from the speakers, but it only made the silence heavier.
Imura sat cross-legged on the floor, chopsticks hanging limply in his hand. The bowl of ramen in front of him had long since cooled, the noodles bloated and lifeless. He hadn't taken a bite.
He sighed, running a hand through his messy black hair.
Another night. Another meal he didn't eat. Another reminder that nothing ever changed.
It had been years since he had last shared a meal with anyone.
Years since he had felt what it was like to come home to a voice that called his name.
Years since he had believed in people.
His chest tightened. The past clawed at him, dragging him back into memories he never asked for.
He remembered the funeral. The way black umbrellas bloomed across the cemetery like flowers of mourning. He remembered gripping the sleeve of his aunt's coat as they lowered the coffins into the earth, the cold rain soaking through his thin clothes.
He had been seven. Old enough to understand that his parents weren't coming back. Too young to understand why the world had decided to take them away.
His relatives took him in. Not out of love—out of obligation. He saw it in their eyes, the way they sighed when they thought he wasn't listening, the way they set an extra plate on the table with the enthusiasm of someone taking out the trash.
He grew up in a house where he was tolerated, not wanted.
And so he learned early: people only stayed when it was convenient.
By the time he reached high school, he had stopped expecting kindness. Still, a part of him longed for connection. He laughed at jokes, lent money, carried bags for classmates who pretended to be his friends. He thought… maybe this time, he belonged.
Until the day he needed them.
He remembered lying in bed with a fever so bad he could barely move, texting the only group of people he thought cared. "Can someone bring me medicine?"
The replies came quick. "Sorry, busy.""Can't today.""Get someone else."
No one came.
He recovered alone, staring at the ceiling until his fever broke, and something inside him froze over.
And then came her.
The girl who smiled at him like he wasn't invisible. The girl who said she liked quiet guys. The girl who held his hand and whispered promises under the stars.
He believed her. He let his guard down. For the first time, he thought maybe—just maybe—the world hadn't abandoned him completely.
Until the day he opened her door without knocking and found her in bed with his best friend.
Her gasp. His friend's laugh. The silence that followed.
That was the last straw.
From that day forward, Imura stopped trying.
Now, at twenty, he lived alone in a small one-bedroom apartment. He had dropped out of college, quit part-time jobs when they became too much, and spent his days drifting between cheap manga, second-hand games, and the comfort of numbness.
It wasn't living. It was existing.
He leaned his head back against the couch, staring up at the cracked ceiling. His lips twisted into a bitter smile."In the end… I guess I'm the only one I've got."
The words echoed louder than he expected, bouncing off the walls, filling the silence like an accusation.
And then—
Ding!
A sharp chime rang in his head. He flinched, eyes snapping open. For a second he thought it was the TV, but the screen had gone black.
No. The sound had come from inside.
A glowing panel appeared before his eyes, hanging in the air. Blue letters shimmered against the darkness, impossible, unreal.
[Talent Awakening Detected!][Congratulations, Imura. You have unlocked: The Clone System.]
Imura stared, his breath caught in his throat. "…The hell is this?"
The words didn't fade. If anything, more appeared.
User: Imura | Level: 1HP: 100 | MP: 100 | Stamina: 100
Stats:
Strength: 3
Agility: 4
Intelligence: 5
Willpower: 7
Charisma: 2
Abilities:
Clone (Lv.1): Create 1 duplicate with 50% of user's stats. Duration: 10 minutes.
EXP: 0/100
He blinked rapidly, rubbed his eyes, even slapped his cheek. The panel remained.
"…Okay. Either I'm going insane, or the universe finally decided to throw me a bone."
It looked like something straight out of an RPG. But it was there, as real as the ramen bowl on the table.
Another notification pulsed at the bottom of the screen.
[Clone Ability Lv.1 – Available to activate.][Would you like to summon a clone? Y/N]
Imura swallowed. His finger twitched, as if drawn to it.
"No way this works," he muttered. "This is just… just a dream. A breakdown. Hallucination."
But even as he said it, something deep inside him stirred.
The words he had spoken earlier came back to him. I'm the only one I've got.
What if this… thing… was the answer to that truth?
What if the world was finally giving him something?
His hand trembled as he reached out and pressed Yes.
The air rippled. Pressure crushed down on his chest, like something was tearing free from inside him. His knees buckled. His vision darkened for an instant, before light burst forth, filling the room.
The shape formed slowly—first a blur, then a shadow, then something more solid.
A person.
Imura staggered back as the figure stood upright.
It was him.
A copy. Same hair. Same face. Same tired eyes.
But weaker. Its body flickered faintly, its posture sluggish, its gaze empty. Like a puppet waiting for strings.
Imura's heart slammed against his ribs. His throat went dry.
He stepped closer, reaching out with a shaking hand. His fingers brushed against the clone's arm. Warm. Solid. Real.
"…Holy shit."
The clone stared blankly, tilting its head.
Imura's lips parted, breathless. For the first time in years, his chest felt alive—pounding, burning, sparking with something dangerous.
Hope.
A crooked smile spread across his face. He let out a breathless laugh.
"So this is it, huh? A system, a clone… me, but not me."
He met the clone's vacant eyes and whispered, almost reverently:
"If I can't trust anyone else… then I'll trust myself."
The clone said nothing. But for the first time in a long, long while, Imura didn't feel entirely alone.
And that was enough.