"One of Aoshima's central arteries had been drowning in unrest for months, ever since a violent pulse erupted from a remote research facility on the city's outskirts. The shockwave had carved reality open for a moment too long, trapping hundreds of unsuspecting citizens—men, women, and children alike—inside what authorities could only describe as a masked world, a distorted layer draped over the ordinary cityscape.
Whether those trapped were dead, alive, or something in between, no one could say. Yet their names continued to echo through the city in the form of newspaper headlines, televised reports, and endless public broadcasts projected across Aoshima's towering digital screens. The story refused to die, because the disappearances did not stop.
As the months dragged on, more individuals began vanishing without warning—snatched away by an enemy no eye could see, no camera could capture, and no investigator could trace. In the beginning, the incidents were relentless; entire neighborhoods felt the weight of something hunting within the shadows. Over time, the occurrences dwindled, but the dread never did. Even a single disappearance was enough to send tremors through the districts, reminding everyone that whatever was lurking had merely grown patient, not gone.
A full year has passed since the pulse. A year of fear-fueled curfews, hushed conversations, empty streets after sunset, and doors triple-locked the moment night laid claim to the sky. And despite countless investigations—scientific, supernatural, military—no one has uncovered a cause. No one has found a pattern. No one has returned from the masked world to explain what waits on the other side.
The phenomenon became a riddle too complex to untangle, yet too terrifying to ignore.
And so, the government, the media, and even the civilians found a single name for it—
The Zero Project.
A project with no known origin.
- No confirmed enemy.
- No survivors.
- No answers.
Only the certainty that when darkness falls, something unseen moves with purpose… and chooses its next victim."
A young woman hurried up the concrete steps with her daughter in tow, breath sharp, movements frantic. She knew all too well the price of being outside at this hour—when the streets felt hollow, when the air seemed to listen, and when the unseen tended to stir.
"We're almost there!" she urged, though desperation clung to her voice. The night had cornered them unfairly. A mountain of overdue paperwork had kept her late at the office, and with schools closing before sundown for safety reasons, she had no choice but to bring her daughter along. Now, that decision weighed on her like a stone.
"Mom… why are we running?" the young girl asked, her voice small, confused. She knew nothing of the disappearances, nothing of The Zero Project, nothing of the invisible threat that stalked the late hours. Her mother had kept the truth sealed away, believing ignorance was kinder than fear.
"We're just late for the train, sweetheart," she replied, forcing a smile she did not feel. "If we miss it, we'll have to walk home."
But the sweat beading down her temples, the trembling at the edges of her breath—those betrayed her far more than her words ever could.
"There! The train!" Relief surged through her as the carriage lights came into view. But as they rushed forward, the sliding doors sealed shut with a cold metallic snap.
"No—wait! Open up!" she cried, pounding her palm against the glass. The conductor, already settled behind the control panel, hesitated but did not move to open the doors.
"Please," she begged, voice breaking. "You have to let us in. This is the last train tonight."
The man looked back at her through the glass, his expression torn. "Ma'am… I'm sorry. I can't do that. We're under strict orders to transport the passengers safely and without delay." His voice lowered, heavy with unspoken dread. "You understand why."
"I-I know! I know… but please—we're just two people. Just two." Her daughter clung to her hand, eyes wide, sensing her mother's fear even if she didn't understand it.
The conductor swallowed hard, glancing down the length of the empty station platform. The lights flickered once—barely noticeable, but enough to make him stiffen. He turned back to the mother. Her fists trembled against the glass. Her daughter's lip quivered. Somewhere deep in his gut, a quiet voice whispered that leaving them outside tonight would be unforgivable.
He sighed.
"Damn it…" he muttered under his breath.
Then, with a reluctant hand, he reached for the manual override.
The doors hissed open.
"Quickly—get in," he urged, eyes darting toward the station's shadowed end as if expecting something to step out at any moment. "I'm breaking protocol for this, so move."
The mother didn't wait for a second chance. She scooped her daughter up and rushed inside, whispering frantic thanks as the conductor slammed the doors shut again.
Outside, the empty platform remained still.
But something unseen stirred in the dark beyond the lights.
"Thank you—thank you so much!" the mother breathed out, her voice trembling with a mix of relief and gratitude. Her eyes lingered on the conductor, silently conveying what words could barely hold.
"Yeah, alright," he replied, waving her thanks off with a weary motion. "Just… try to be on time next round. Trains leave sooner than scheduled these days. With everything going on, no one wants to risk the late-night hours."
His tone carried the frustration of someone bound to strict rules he didn't fully believe in—rules born from fear of the disappearances that haunted Aoshima.
"I know, I know… I didn't mean to cut it this close," she said, catching her breath. "I was buried under paperwork at work, and with schools shutting down early, I had to bring my daughter with me. It's difficult for those of us working late shifts. I'm sure you get that—you work late too, don't you?"
The conductor paused, his jaw tightening before he gave a short nod. He didn't elaborate. Instead, he turned back to the controls and eased the train forward, the wheels humming against the tracks.
"Yeah," he muttered, eyes fixed ahead. "Life's difficult for everyone these days."
The mother guided her daughter, Yuki, to the nearest vacant seat and gently eased her down before settling beside her. Yuki's small hand remained firmly clasped around her mother's, refusing to let go.
"Mommy… what's going on? What happens during the late hours…?" the girl asked softly. She had heard enough of the earlier conversation to sense something was wrong.
"Oh, nothing—nothing you need to worry about," her mother answered quickly, forcing warmth into her voice. Yet again, she veiled the truth behind gentle lies. "It's just grown-up concerns, that's all. You don't need to trouble yourself with any of it, okay?"
She ran her fingers through Yuki's hair, offering a reassuring pat before pulling her daughter close into an embrace. She could feel the tension in the child's shoulders, the unease planted by words she wasn't meant to hear.
"Once we get home," the mother whispered, "we'll have something to eat, and then I'll read you a story before bed. And tomorrow… tomorrow I don't have work, so we can spend the whole day together."
Yuki's eyes brightened, even if only faintly. The promise of normalcy—of warmth—was enough to steady her.
But the mother didn't know.
She couldn't have known.
This simple conversation, this small moment of comfort, would be the final quiet breath they shared within the safety of Aoshima's borders.
The journey home dragged on longer than expected. The train crawled from station to station, collecting stragglers whose delays only stacked more precious minutes onto the night. Each stop tightened the conductor's nerves further.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. "I'm already running late. I hate this job… every night I'm the one deciding whether people make it home alive or not. Too many near-misses today. One wrong choice and I'm done for." His words came out tense, frayed at the edges.
Then—
Clunk.
A sudden jolt rippled through the carriage, rattling the wheels against the track.
Passengers jerked their heads toward the front, eyes wide and uneasy. Some flinched, clutching their seats. Others tried to pretend nothing happened. Just a bump, they told themselves.
But the bump didn't stay a bump.
The air outside shifted—subtle at first, then unmistakably wrong. A pressure settled over the train like a tightening vice. The lights flickered. The vehicle began to slow, not by the conductor's hand, but as if something unseen were dragging it down.
"What the hell…?" he whispered, checking the gauges. Fuel: half a tank. More than enough. Nowhere near empty. Yet the engine strained as if suffocating.
Another jolt.
Heavier.
More violent.
A middle-aged man shot up from his seat and marched toward the front, bracing a hand against the conductor's glass panel.
"Why the hell are you slowing down?" he demanded. "There's no station for at least twenty minutes."
The conductor met his glare with one of his own. "I'm not slowing it down," he said firmly. "The fuel's draining way faster than it should. Something's off. Really off."
The man scoffed, frustration boiling over. "You can't be serious. Maybe if this city used decent trains instead of these rusty goddamn tin cans, we wouldn't be screwed every night. Who thought it was a good idea to run these pieces of shit at this hour? Stuff like this always happens."
His voice carried through the cabin, and the passengers stiffened in rising fear.
Outside, the darkness pressed closer against the glass.
And the train continued to slow.
Gradually, the rest of the passengers became aware of the train's unnatural deceleration. One by one, they rose from their seats, gripping handrails and seatbacks as a murmur of dread rippled through the cabin. Everyone knew what slowing down during late hours meant. What it could invite.
Voices overlapped in a chaotic swell—complaints, accusations, nervous speculation. Panic simmered just beneath the surface, ready to erupt at the slightest push. Some passengers snapped at each other; others turned their fear toward the conductor, desperate to pin the blame on someone tangible.
"Are you kidding me? Not tonight—why now?!"
"This is exactly how people go missing!"
"Hey! What the hell are you doing up there? Fix it!"
"Someone call the authorities—why are we slowing down in the middle of nowhere?"
"I knew taking the last train was a mistake…"
"This is bullshit! We trusted you to get us home!"
"Mom, is something outside…?"
"Shut up! Don't say that!"
"Conductor! Say something! Don't just sit there!"
The voices meshed into a frantic chorus, the fear in the cabin thickening with every passing second.
The conductor worked frantically, his hands flying across the control panel with growing desperation. Panic pulsed through his veins, clouding his judgment. Sweat rolled down his temples, his breaths quick and uneven as he jabbed at switches, toggled emergency relays, and repeatedly reset the ignition system. Every button he pressed, every lever he pulled, yielded nothing but stubborn resistance.
"I'm trying, goddammit!" he snapped, voice cracking under the pressure.
But the passengers were no longer listening—they were spiraling.
The shouting grew louder, overlapping into a wall of raw fear.
That was when Yuki, small and silent in her seat, sensed the shift—the moment when panic became something darker. Even in her innocence, she knew something terrible waited beyond the windows.
"We're screwed if we step outside now!" one man bellowed, surging toward the front. "If we leave this train, we're dead! Fix it!"
His outburst ignited a chain reaction. Several others rushed after him, crowding the aisle, demanding answers the conductor did not have, pressing closer as if proximity alone could resolve the crisis.
And then—
The inevitable happened.
With a final sputter and a gut-wrenching lurch, the train shuddered to a complete stop. The engine died. The lights dimmed to a low, trembling glow. The carriage fell silent except for the low hum of fear.
The train was isolated—stranded in the middle of empty tracks, far from any station, far from any help people could reach on foot.
There was only one option left.
The conductor grabbed the emergency transmitter, his voice shaking as he pressed the call button.
"This is Line 7… we've stalled on Track C-14. Fuel levels dropped without warning. Passengers aboard, conditions unsafe. We need immediate assistance. Repeat—this is an urgent request for rescue. Anyone receiving this, respond."
Static hissed back at him.
The passengers held their breath.
Outside, the darkness waited.
The conductor kept the transmitter pressed to his ear, praying for something—anything—other than static. For several agonizing seconds, the only reply was the soft hiss of dead air.
Then, finally—
click.
A voice filtered through, warped but audible.
"Line 7, we read you. State your exact position and passenger count."
Relief washed through the conductor, but only for a heartbeat. The passengers surged forward, tension exploding into frantic questions.
"Are they sending help?!"
"Tell them to hurry—please!"
"Ask if they can reroute another train to pick us up!"
"What if something gets to us before they arrive?"
"Do they even know what's out here?!"
The conductor raised a hand, trying to quiet them enough to hear the transmission.
"This is Conductor Ryu of Line 7," he replied, forcing his voice to steady. "We're stalled between Sector 4 and Sector 5, approximately three kilometers from the next safe station. Around thirty passengers on board. Engine won't respond, fuel's draining unnaturally fast. We need immediate assistance."
The radio crackled again.
"Copy. A rescue team is being dispatched. Estimated arrival—"
The voice cut out, drowned by static and a faint distortion, as if something interfered with the signal.
"Hello? Repeat that!" the conductor demanded.
The passengers leaned closer, anxiety tightening their expressions.
"Did they say how long?"
"Are they even coming?"
"This interference… that's not normal."
"If they don't hurry, we're all fucked."
"Stop saying that! You're scaring the kids!"
"The kids should be scared—we all should!"
The static thinned and the voice returned, strained.
"—arrival time unknown. There is… disturbance on your line. Stay inside the train. Lock the doors. Do not—repeat, do not—attempt to exit under any circumstances."
The line crackled violently and then fell silent.
The conductor lowered the transmitter slowly.
The passengers stared at him, eyes wide.
"What does that mean?"
"What kind of disturbance?"
"Why can't we leave?"
"Are we safe in here or… or not?"
No one knew.
Outside, something brushed against the metal exterior of the carriage with a sound too soft to identify.
And every passenger felt it in their bones:
They weren't alone on the tracks.
To be continued...