In this world, there are two kinds of beings: the living and the dead.
People like to say only the special ones can see the dead. Chosen kids. Blessed souls. Freak accidents of fate.
I don't buy it.
I can see them too—and I'm far from special.
The dead are everywhere. Scattered across the world like stains no one else notices. They linger in alleyways, drift through crowded streets, sit quietly in corners of rooms where they don't belong. Watching. Waiting. Moving through the world of the living as if they never truly left it.
For as long as I can remember, they've just been… there.
I don't know why I see them. I never asked for this gift—if you can even call it that. And I don't pretend it means I'm destined for something greater.
If anything, it's a nuisance. A curse I'd rather ignore than show off. I mean, what good is seeing what everyone else pretends doesn't exist? What am I supposed to do with it?
But lately, something has changed.
The dead don't feel as distant as they used to.
And for the first time in a long time, I get the feeling they're not just watching me anymore.
I think they want me dead.
[7 Years Ago]
When I was eight, I didn't fully understand fear—but I knew the feeling of it.
It crawled down my spine that night, cold and slow, like something unseen was standing just behind me. At first, everything was normal. I lay in bed, listening to the familiar sounds of my parents moving through the house. Their quiet voices drifted through the hallway, soft and comforting. Safe.
Then the sounds changed.
Murmurs turned into gasps. Gasps into frantic whispers. The air grew heavy, as if something dark had slipped into the house and wrapped itself around the walls. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding, my skin prickling with a chill I couldn't explain.
And then I saw them.
Figures drifted into my room, silent and shapeless. Their faces blurred. Their bodies twisted, stretching and warping like smoke caught in a current. Later, I would know them for what they were.
The dead.
But in that moment, all I could do was stare.
They weren't like the ghosts from stories. These were broken echoes of people—wrong, distorted, and empty. They moved with purpose, gliding past me like a cold wind. When one brushed against my arm, the chill sank deep into my bones.
I tried to scream. Tried to call for my parents.
Nothing came out.
Then I heard it—a dull thud from down the hall.
Silence followed.
I don't remember deciding to move, only that I was suddenly on my feet. Every step toward my parents' room felt heavier than the last. My heart hammered in my ears as I pushed the door open.
Cold.
So cold.
The room was filled with them.
They hovered around the bed, circling slowly, almost reverently. My parents lay motionless beneath them. The air pressed down on my chest, stealing my breath, pinning me in place.
I couldn't move. I couldn't scream.
I could only watch as the last warmth drained from my parents' faces.
My mother's eyes were wide open, staring past me—into something I couldn't see.
And then everything went black.
After that night, I was alone.
No one else could see the shadows that followed me. No one else heard the whispers in empty rooms or felt the dead lingering just out of sight. I tried to tell myself it had been a nightmare—a child's mind twisting grief into monsters.
But I knew better.
The dead had taken my family.
And they never stopped watching me.
[Now]
"Shit—shit—shit!"
I sprinted through the crowded streets, weaving between early commuters and nearly colliding with vendors setting up their stalls. Morning sunlight barely pierced the skyline, casting everything in a dull haze. I glanced at my watch and swore under my breath.
"I overslept. I'm so dead."
I skidded through the school gates just as the bell rang, earning a few startled looks as I barreled down the hallway. I slowed only long enough to straighten my uniform and swipe at my unruly hair before slipping into the classroom.
Mr. Tanaka looked up from his desk, one eyebrow raised.
"Well, well," he said dryly. "If it isn't Kurenai—our track star. Care to explain why you're late?"
"Sorry," I muttered, bowing quickly as I made my way to my seat. A few snickers followed me, but I ignored them and focused on catching my breath.
The day dragged on.
When the final bell rang, I packed my bag in record time.
"Two more months till summer break," the guy next to me said, grinning.
"Yeah," I replied tiredly.
"Oh—Mr. Jones said to come get your sword. He's heading out early."
I froze.
"My sword—! Damn it." I slung my bag over my shoulder. "Thanks!"
I bolted down the hallway toward the club room, heart racing—not from running, but anticipation. That sword wasn't just equipment. I'd spent weeks refining it. Perfecting it.
I slowed when I reached the door.
Inside, Mr. Jones knelt in the center of the room, calm and composed. His blade flashed under the dim lights as he moved through a flawless sword form—each step fluid, each strike precise. It wasn't just practice.
It was art.
I stood there, watching, feeling the distance between where I was and where I wanted to be.
Outside the school, fog rolled in.
Not the normal kind.
It slithered across the ground, thick and unnatural, swallowing sound as it spread. The air dropped several degrees, and laughter from nearby students faded into nothing.
From within the mist, something began to move.
A figure emerged—hunched, twisted, wrong.
Its limbs stretched too long, skin a sickly gray pulled tight over muscle and bone. One eye bulged grotesquely, pulsing with dim light. Its mouth split too wide across its face, filled with jagged teeth like shattered glass. Black fluid dripped from its stringy hair, staining the ground beneath it.
Clawed fingers dug into the earth as it crawled forward. Barbed tendrils writhed from its back, twitching as if sensing every living thing nearby.
The creature shifted, its body rippling like flesh and shadow fighting for control.
Its hollow gaze locked onto the school.
A low, guttural growl rumbled from deep within its chest.
The air turned ice-cold.
And without seeing it—without needing to—I felt it.
This wasn't just another dead thing.
This was something else entirely.
Something that had come for me.