In an apartment where quiet order and quiet neglect coexist. A worn sofa sits against a pale wall, its cushions shaped by long evenings and absent conversations.
A low coffee table holds a half-read book, a cold mug, and the scattered evidence of routine life. Soft lamplight replaces the ceiling glare, casting warm shadows across a simple grey rug.
A bookshelf leans slightly under a mix of volumes and idle clutter. By the window, thin curtains filter grey daylight.
The room felt neither empty nor complete, just paused. Like its occupant either too used to moving around or too lazy to care about home aesthetics.
It was in this apartment that a certain dark-haired, grey-eyed teenager was seen sprawled on the floor. Till he started to wake up.
His eyes opened slowly.
The first thing Ishmael noticed was the silence.
Not the normal kind, the kind that settled in at night when people slept and the city dimmed, but something heavier. Like sound itself had been scraped out of the world and forgotten.
The ceiling above him blurred, doubled, then snapped into focus with unnatural clarity. Every crack in the paint, every grain of dust resting on the fan blades, he could see all of it. Too much of it.
"…what the hell…"
His voice came out hoarse. Dry.
He pushed himself up, but the motion sent a sharp wave of dizziness through his skull. His hand slipped on the floor, and for a second, just a second, he felt it.
A pulse.
Not his heartbeat. Something deeper. Something… coiled.
Ishmael froze.
The memory hit him in fragments.
Darkness.
Pain.
That voice.
"Congratulations on your Ascension…"
"…not a dream huh," he muttered.
The apartment was still dark, but not completely. A faint, bluish glow hovered at the edge of his vision. He turned his head and it followed.
No.
Not followed.
It was there.
A translucent panel, hovering just slightly out of reach. Like it existed between his eyes and the world.
[Initializing…]
[System Integration: 100%]
[Spirit Core formation: Successful]
"…you've got to be kidding me."
He reached out instinctively. His fingers passed through it like mist, but the panel reacted, shifting, responding.
[Input Registered]
[Congrats on your successful awakening host, go through the status panel for more information, and most importantly….Survive.]
"Okay… so this is real, ominous but real" he exhaled, rubbing his face. "Great. Love that for me."
A distant noise followed by a loud crash echoed from outside. Distracting him from his almost existential crisis.
Ishmael's head snapped toward the window.
That wasn't just noise. That was…
Another scream.
This one is closer.
He stood up too fast. The world tilted, but he caught himself on the wall. His body felt… lighter. A little stronger, more responsive. Like it was listening to him in a way it never had before.
Another pulse.
Stronger this time.
It spread from his chest outward, crawling under his skin like static electricity.
Ishmael clenched his jaw.
"…don't start that again."
But it didn't hurt.
Not like before.
This felt—
Controlled.
He stepped toward the window and pulled the curtain aside.
The street below was chaos.
Cars abandoned at odd angles. A streetlight flickered weakly before dying completely. People stumbling, some clutching their heads, others… not moving at all.
And then he saw it.
A man….no, something that used to be a man, lurched forward at inhumane speed.
Its body twitched unnaturally, veins glowing faintly beneath the skin. Its movements were jerky, unstable… wrong.
It turned its head. Its eyes, two globes of milky white as it scanned, looking for potential prey
And even from a distance, Ishmael felt it.
That same pulse.
Resonating.
The man….no….thing let out a low, distorted sound.
Then it started running.
Not away.
Toward his apartment complex.
Ishmael's expression hardened.
"…yeah," he muttered, stepping back from the window. "I'm definitely not going home."
The panel flickered again.
[Warning: External Threat Detected]
[Survival Protocol Recommended]
[Prepare For Battle]
Walking away from the window, Ishmael dismissed the hovering panel pushing it to the back of his mind….for now.
He made his way to his modest bedroom, reaching for a sleek black katana nestled against his bedside table.
He cracked his neck, the faintest hint of a smirk forming.
"Finally," he said quietly. "Something I understand"