A faint whisper curls around Obinai's ear...amused. "Obinai," it purrs. "So weak. So deliciously pathetic. You break so easily, don't you?"

In the black..., Obinai feels nothing and see nothing. His movements sluggish and uncoordinated as though he's wading through thick tar. He turns in slow, jerky circles, trying to locate the source of the voice.

The voice laughs, a low sound that reverberates through the void. "Ah, this is exquisite," it says. "Do you feel it, Obinai? The weight of it all crushing you? The futility? That lovely little ember of hope snuffing itself out?"

The words feel like needles, piercing through his mind and burrowing into his core. He struggles to, his movements feel slow, but he clutches his head, his trembling hands pressing against his temples as if he could force the voice out. "Shut up," he croaks, his voice weak and hoarse. "Leave me alone."

But the laughter only grows louder, echoing in every direction. "Leave you alone?" the voice mocks, feigning surprise. "Oh, Obinai, you misunderstand. I can't. I'm part of you now. That blissful chaos earlier? That was me. Free."

The air grows colder. Obinai feels it creeping into his lungs.

"The sight of it were magnificent," the voice continues. "The way they screamed, the way they begged. Oh, the taste of it all. I did it so beautifully, Obinai." The voice shifts closer, intimate and invasive, as though it's speaking directly into his ear. "And soon, you'll take me to more places. More to share this little… gift of ours with."

"No," Obinai whispers, shaking his head even as despair threatens to drown him. "I didn't do it. I didn't—"

The voice cuts him off with a laugh. "Didn't you? Oh, but your hands… your hands, Obinai. So soaked in their blood. Did you feel it? The warmth, the stickiness? The way it lingered even after they were gone?"

"It wasn't me," he chokes out. "I didn't want this."

"But you did," the voice counters smoothly, its tone almost soothing now. "You opened the door, Obinai. I simply walked in. And now…" The darkness shifts, pressing closer. "Now we'll walk together."

The laughter returns, louder and more triumphant, surrounding Obinai as the weight of the void presses down on him. He collapses fully, his forehead touching the nothing, but something. The voice's final words echo in his mind.

"Don't worry, Obinai. This is just the beginning."

Desperation claws at Obinai as he grapples with the darkness, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He can feel the presence of the entity, its eyes boring into him from the shadows.

He feels the darkness closing in on him, suffocating him with its weight. The sensation of drowning returns, and he thrashes once more, desperate to break free.

The whispers grow louder, more insistent. "I cannot wait...to embrace yours and their despair"

... ...

Obinai explodes into consciousness with a gasp that tears at his lungs. Freezing water slaps his face, soaks his shirt, shocks his system into overdrive. His body jerks against unseen restraints—why can't he move?—and his skull pounds like a war drum.

"F-fuck—!" His teeth chatter violently. The water drips from his chin, his hair, pooling in his lap.

The room stinks. Mildew. Rust. The walls press in, concrete sweating with condensation, stained with dark streaks. A single bulb swings above him, its frayed wire creaking. The light stutters, plunging the room into sporadic darkness.

Click. Light.

Click. Dark.

Each flicker makes his pulse jump.

"Where—?" His voice comes out shredded. His throat burns—had he been screaming?

A drip echoes from somewhere unseen. Slow. Relentless.

Obinai yanks at his wrists. Metal bites into his skin—handcuffs? The chair beneath him groans.

This isn't real.

Can't be.

"Wake up," he snarls to himself, blinking hard. "Wake the fuck up—"

He swallows hard, wincing at the effort. What is this place? he thinks, his eyes darting around the room, desperate to make sense of his surroundings. How did I get here?

The bulb flickers again, and his gaze is drawn to the ceiling, where the light sways gently.

"No... no, this can't be happening," he whispers hoarsely, his voice barely audible over the incessant dripping. Tears blur his vision as he struggles to focus on his surroundings.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

This has to be a dream. The thought claws its way into his mind, desperate and futile. Wake up. WAKE UP!

Obinai's whisper hangs in the damp air—"This can't be happening"—before the clang of a bucket hitting concrete shatters the silence. His whole body jerks as he whips his head toward the sound.

The figure steps into the flickering light.

Military-short gray hair. A scar carving through his left eyebrow down to a jawline clenched like a steel trap. And those eyes—pale blue, unblinking, the kind that strip you bare without saying a word. Cigarette smoke clings to his black fatigues, cutting through the cellar stench.

"W-who—?"

The man doesn't answer. His boots squelch on the wet floor with each step. The sound is obscenely loud—like he's stomping on Obinai's last nerve.

Closer.

Closer.

Obinai's back presses into the chair.

The man stops abruptly in the corner. Metal screeches as he drags a chair across concrete—the noise sets Obinai's teeth on edge. He flinches, shoulders hunching.

"Please—"

The chair thuds in front of him. The man sits, the old wood groaning under his weight. He leans forward, elbows on knees, and stares.

A beat.

Two.

Those eyes—they seem to see everything, peeling him apart. He wants to speak, to demand answers, but the words catch in his throat.

Obinai's mouth opens—"Who—"

CRACK

The man's palm connects with Obinai's cheek with the precision of a whip. Obinai's head snaps sideways. His vision whites out for a second—just long enough to miss the man settling back into his chair.

"Focus," the man says, like he's correcting a distracted student.

Obinai blinks rapidly. His cheek burns. He tries to raise a hand—

Clink.

His wrists don't budge. Sleek metal cuffs lock them to the chair arms, their surfaces etched with glowing circuitry. Tiny gears whir under transparent panels. A green LED pulses. Thump. Thump. Thump. Like a heartbeat.

The man leans forward, elbows on knees. "See that light?" He taps one cuff with a fingernail. Tink. "Turns red? Boom." His hands blossom outward. "No more arms. Just... pink mist."

Obinai's spine locks. His lungs burn from holding air too long, but he doesn't dare exhale loudly.

The man's gloved fingers dip into his breast pocket, emerging with a battered file folder. The metal clasp pings as he flicks it open.

"Obinai Jelani Nobunaga." The man's voice could frost glass. "Fourteen years old. Associates: Darren Hill, Angelico 'Angel' Morales." A pause. "Family: Maria, Amos... and little Mya."

Obinai's pulse stutters at his sister's name.

The man's scar twists as he smirks. "Mild smoker—tsk, bad habit. Academic performance: subpar. Career aspirations..." He flips a page. "Ah. None." The folder snaps shut. "What a disappointing specimen I've got."

The file slaps onto the wet concrete. Papers fan out, ink bleeding as water soaks into them.

"That's bullshit!" Obinai jerks against the cuffs. The green lights flicker. "I—I've got plans! I'm gonna—"

"Silence." The man's boot crushes the soggy papers as he leans in. Tobacco and gun oil waft off him. "Your 'plans' died with your pathetic test scores. You don't talk unless I tell you to," the man hisses.

"Your name is #13 now," he says. "Obinai Nobunaga? Never existed." A pause. "Neither did your family."

Obinai's mouth moves before his brain catches up—"No, that's not—"

CRACK

The backhand comes faster than Obinai can blink. His head whips sideways, the taste of blood flooding his mouth again.

"I said," the man murmurs, wiping his knuckles on his pants, "you don't talk unless told to."

Obinai's vision swims. Tears blur the room, but he refuses to let them fall.

"Please," he rasps. "I just want to go h—"

The man's cold smile returns. "Home?" he repeats mockingly. "Kid, you're not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever."

"Please," Obinai tries again, his voice breaking. "I don't understand why this is happening."

The commander remains silent, his expression unchanged. He leans forward, his eyes never leaving Obinai's. "Understand this, #13," he says. "You're ours now. You do what we say, when we say it. No questions, no hesitation. You got that?"

Obinai hesitates but nods slowly looking at the damp floor. The commander gives him a hard look, then nods back. "Get used to the name Crowe," he says, his voice low. "You're gonna be seeing a lot of me."

With that, the commander stands up with a slight groan. He walks towards the heavily secured door, the mechanisms of which are a marvel of engineering. The door is lined with a series of intricate locks, each one clicking and whirring as the commander operates them.

The door seals shut behind the commander with a final, ominous thud, leaving Obinai alone in the dimly lit room. He looks down at the cuffs on his wrists, which seem to be magnetized to the chair, preventing him from moving them. The green light on each cuff pulses gently...again.

Crowe's words echo in his ears. "You are no longer human."

… ...

Crowe stands outside the door, the dim, flickering light overhead casting long, distorted shadows along the narrow hallway. He pulls a cigarette from the breast pocket of his black tactical jacket. His scarred hands, calloused, cup the flame as he lights the cigarette, the brief flash of orange illuminating the weathered lines on his face.

He takes a long drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment before exhaling slowly, the cloud curling around him like a ghost.

Crowe glances at the door behind him, where the trembling boy—#13 now—sits shackled in a chair, his sobs likely still echoing in the confined space. Killed his whole damn family, he thinks. To think that soft kid is capable of that. He'll learn his place, or he won't. Either way, it's out of my hands.

His boots thud heavily against the worn floor as he begins walking down the corridor. The sound reverberates. The hallway lingers in the direction Crowe travels revealing other doors. Each one bears a painted number—black and fading with time.

Slowly he reaches a door with the number "1," he slows, his gaze lingering on the rusted metal. This door is different, weathered and cracked, the door slightly off the hinges, the paint peeling away.

Crowe pauses, staring at the door. His expression is inscrutable, but his fingers twitch at his side. He takes another drag, the cigarette now nearing its end, the ash precariously clinging to the tip. As the ember glows faintly, his lips press into a thin line.

"Zola…" he mutters. His voice is low, almost reverent, but edged with something like—regret, anger, maybe both.

He flicks the cigarette onto the floor, grinding it out with the heel of his boot. The faint sizzle as the ember dies matches the sharp intensity in his eyes. He runs a hand through his short-cropped gray hair.

Crowe leans against the wall beside the door for a moment, his head tilted back, eyes staring at the cracked ceiling tiles. It still stings. After all this time? He clenches his fists briefly before pushing himself upright. With one final glance at the door, his expression hardens.

Straightening his jacket, he steps forward.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.