Chapter 1 - "BLACK"
Max opened his eyes.
Black.
He blinked. Still black.
His head felt heavy, like it had been filled with wet sand. He tried to lift it—managed, barely. The movement sent a dull ache through his skull, spreading down his neck.
Where—
The thought dissolved before it finished.
He was lying on something hard. Cold. Not metal-cold, but stone-cold. Or concrete. He couldn't tell. His fingers pressed against the surface beneath him—smooth, seamless.
The air tasted stale. Recycled, maybe. Like a room that hadn't been opened in a long time.
He tried to sit up. His arms responded slowly, as if they belonged to someone else. Eventually he managed it, propping himself against what he assumed was a wall behind him.
Still black.
Not the black of closing your eyes. The black of *nothing*. No shapes emerging as his vision adjusted. No crack of light under a door. No window glow.
Just black.
His breathing sounded loud in the silence. Or was it silent? There was something—a hum, maybe. So faint he wasn't sure if he was hearing it or imagining it. A vibration in the walls, or in his skull.
He raised a hand to his face. His fingers felt thick, clumsy. He touched his cheek—stubble, more than he remembered having. How long had—
When did he last shave?
He couldn't remember.
His hand moved higher, to his forehead. His hair felt matted, unwashed. And then his fingers found it.
A line across his scalp. Raised. Rough thread.
Stitches.
He traced the length of it slowly. Started above his right ear, curved over the top of his head. Fresh enough that touching it sent sharp sparks of pain through his skull. Not bleeding anymore, but recent.
How recent?
He tried to remember.
Tried to remember anything.
There was... Japan. He'd been in Japan. That much he knew. His apartment—small, dark, the curtains always closed. The door. Someone had slipped something under the door.
An offer.
100 million yen.
And then—
Nothing.
The gap in his memory felt physical, like someone had cut a piece out of a film reel. Before: the paper under his door. After: this room.
This black room.
He let his hand drop from his head. The stitches throbbed.
His throat was dry. Painfully dry. When had he last drunk water? He swallowed—it felt like sandpaper.
He tried standing. His legs shook but held. He kept one hand on the wall for balance and shuffled forward, feeling his way. Three steps. Four. His foot hit another wall.
He turned left. Followed it. Smooth surface, unbroken. No door handle. No seam. Just wall.
How big was this room?
He kept moving. Counted steps. The wall curved slightly—maybe. Or maybe his sense of direction was failing. Ten steps. Fifteen. Another corner.
Small, then. The room was small.
He completed what he thought was a full circuit and sat back down in approximately the same spot. Or a different spot. Impossible to tell.
The hum continued. Or didn't. He still couldn't tell if it was real.
His head hurt. Not just where the stitches were—everywhere. A pressure behind his eyes. The kind of headache that came from sleeping too long, or not sleeping at all.
Which was it?
The stitches felt the neat, even spacing of the thread. Professional work. Someone had cut into his head and sewn it back together.
Why?
He tried to remember pain, surgery, anything. But there was only the gap. The clean, empty space where memory should be.
His stomach felt hollow. Not hungry, exactly. More like the sensation of hunger had been turned off and then back on incorrectly. Present but distant.
How long had he been here?
The black pressed against his eyes. He could feel it, somehow. Heavy. Patient.
He leaned his head back against the wall. The coolness felt good against his scalp, even where the stitches pulled.
Maybe if he waited, someone would come.
Maybe if he waited, he'd remember.
Maybe—
His fingers found the stitches again. He traced the line slowly, methodically. The thread felt foreign against his skin. Like something that shouldn't be there. Something that belonged to someone else's body, not his.
But it was his head. His stitches. His black room.
Wasn't it?
The silence swallowed the question.
Max sat in the dark, fingers resting on the raised line across his skull, and waited.
For what, he didn't know.
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