It was quiet. Too quiet.
The boy's voice still echoed in Izuma's ears, clinging to the stillness like dew on glass:
"Izuma Nasiki, would you like... to join the council?"
But Izuma wasn't there. Not really.
His body remained frozen, but his mind had slipped, spiraling backward like a drowned memory clawing its way to the surface.
Fade.
-
- -
- - -
- - - -
A small hand clutched the edge of a wooden table.
Warm light flickered in the cramped dining room. The scent of curry lingered heavy in the air, clinging to the walls. A man's voice filled the space—deep, steady, comforting.
"Listen here, Izumy," his father said, tapping the boy's nose with a spoon.
"Being good is the most important thing you'll ever do. Be good, and good things come back to you. Always. Got it?"
Six-year-old Izuma nodded seriously, legs kicking off the booster seat.
"Even if people are mean?"
"Especially then," his father smiled.
"Being good isn't about what they deserve. It's about who you are."
His mother hummed by the stove, content. The world, for that moment, was small. And whole.
But memories lie.
---
First Grade
Izuma tried to live by those words.
He smiled at everyone. Gave away his pencils. Shared snacks. Took blame for things he didn't do.
By the end of the week, he was invisible.
Not hated. Not targeted.
Just... unchosen, unacknowledged.
In the cafeteria, he watched the other kids sit in groups, trade jokes, toss food. He sat in the corner alone, tray untouched.
He waved once.
No one waved back.
He told his dad about the kids.
The quiet.
And his dad would still say:
"You're good, Izumy. That matters. That's your strength."
Izuma believed it. Or tried to.
But even then—a seed of contradiction had been planted.
---
Middle School
He didn't smile as much.
He became... efficient. Polite. Quiet.
But inside, something itched. He noticed things. The way people grouped up, the way they laughed only when certain people were around.
He saw the invisible game that no one else bothered to notice.
And began watching, Playing.
People weren't cruel. But they were indifferent.
And indifference hurt.
At home, his dad would squeeze his shoulder and say:
"You're just too real for them Izuma. Keep being you."
Izuma held onto that like a raft in an ocean.
But even then—he started wondering:
If being good meant being alone, was it really good?
---
The Crash
It happened three days after middle school graduation.
A car accident, just like his.
Izuma remembered the call. The screaming.
His mother on the floor, clutching her chest, unable to breathe.
He remembered standing still. Blank. Empty.
The funeral was worse.
Everyone cried.
His mother howled. His uncle cursed the heavens.
Izuma watched.
Expressionless.
He saw the pain in their eyes. Memorized it. Replayed it like scenes in a play.
Then he mimicked it.
He mimicked the sobbing. The shaking.
He cried. Because he should cry, not because he wanted to.
Since that's what they needed to see.
He didn't quite understand it, but he had the basics down.
People needed attention.
That was the day he knew.
Something was broken in him.
Or maybe it had never worked right to begin with.
From that moment, he committed.
To observing.
To playing roles.
To surviving.
He never again asked his mother for advice.
Because no advice could bring back the part of him that died with his father.
A choice he didn't regret until now.
---
High School
If middle school was isolation, high school was war.
He became a target. Easy prey.
Tall, pale, silent.
The weird one.
Water bottles dumped over his head. Lockers slammed shut just before he reached them. Bags "accidentally" tripped over.
Every day, he wore a smile.
Because "good people smile".
His father said so.
Or at least use to.
Inside?, he screamed.
Every lunch, he sat alone, telling himself that it didn't matter. That being good was more important than being liked.
But every time he saw someone else laugh with their friends, something cracked.
He had "friends."
Or so he thought.
Other loners who tolerated him.
They laughed at his dry jokes.
They invited him to group projects.
But they didn't ask how he was.
They never asked if he got home safe.
He studied them, too.
Their smiles. Their insecurities. Their tells.
He became a master at reading people. At predicting what they'd say before they said it.
A perceptionist.
But he was never given that title, not until now.
The better he got at understanding people—
the less he felt like one of them.
He became distant. Efficient. Mechanical.
And when he looked in the mirror...
he didn't see his father's son.
He saw an imitation.
A ghost.
A mask?
no.
A Shadow.
He hated it.
He wanted to die.
Not because he couldn't survive.
But because he didn't know who he was surviving as.
Every day, the thought flickered:
If I just stepped off the edge...
If I just didn't wake up...
But no the funeral costs would be too much.
But he smiled anyway.
He wore his mask so well.
No one suspected a thing.
And what made it even worse is...
They were people I talked to.
Smiled with.
I even gave them my middle name, something I never shared with anyone.
But they didn't know me. Not really.
Because I didn't know how to show myself.
But even if that's the case...
Now I'll never see them again.
Those quiet lunches. The bus rides. The tiny victories of surviving another day.
Gone.
I died before I figured it all out.
But if I ever get the chance to return...
No.
I can't think like that.
Not now.
Right now, I have to focus on surviving. Not escaping.
Present – Council Chamber
"Izuma Nasiki," the boy repeated.
"Would you like to join the council?"
/Monologue Begin/
Okay now think.
They've been watching.
Of course they have.
It's only been three days. But they had eyes.
Magic.
Spies.
They saw the chaos.
They want to own it.
Just like the bullies.
Just like the systems.
Just like everyone else.
Use the quiet kid. He won't say no.
But I'm done being quiet.
I'm done pretending to be good.
I see it...
I see how the game works now.
if breaking and manipulating me was the plan,
They should've made sure I was weaker.
/Monologue End/
Izuma stepped forward.
And bowed.
"No."
he said softly.
The room stiffened.
"I cannot join the council."
The boy's gaze didn't waver.
"Why not?"
Izuma lifted his head.
"Because I don't trust you. And I don't trust myself around you, nor the people on those chairs beside you."
A beat of silence.
"I know what you want. Power. Control.
And if I give myself to you, I become another pawn. Another mask."
He looked the boy in the eye, voice flat.
"And I promised myself...
I'd never wear someone else's shadow again."
The boy smiled faintly.
"I see."
Izuma turned.
And walked up the stairs.
His footsteps echoed.
Alone.
The door opened.
In a world where the strong rule over the weak,
it is quite common for a bigger wolf to govern everything.
From my perspective,
that is the council.
The thing is with the big dogs—
They don't improve themselves.
They believe they're the finished products.
They think they're superior.
And they give too much time for the weak to grow.
That's their fatal mistake.
Because yea, I'm fucked up.
I'm hollow where a person should be.
I'm stitched together with lies.
I don't even know if what I feel is real anymore—
Pain, doubt, hatred…death.
I carry it all like a second skin.
But I'm still here.
And I'll show them.
I'll show all of them—
what a human...
Can TRULY Achieve.
End of Volume 1. The beginning of madness.