Hashina stood in the hallway.
Darkness surrounded him. Only a flickering light above cast its unsteady glow across his face — a fragile brightness, trembling like the dying breath of a soul.
A strange feeling washed over him.
He didn't know where he was or why he was here. He didn't even know if this was real — or just another illusion born from a tired mind.
Was this a dream? Or was something else, something unseen, quietly tightening its grip around his consciousness?
The space was silent.
No trees.
No people.
Only him.
It felt as though the place itself was trying to warn him —that something was coming, something inevitable.
The dim light above quivered, struggling to pierce through the eternal dark —just like him, a faint spark of hope too weak to warm a heart that had long been asleep.
Crash!
The bulb shattered, scattering shards of glass across the floor. The echo rang sharp and hollow, as if the silence itself had been torn apart.
It reverberated through the void — a sound like a voice, distant yet familiar, calling to him from within.
Suddenly, pain shot through Hashina's head.
It wasn't from the sound — but from within.
Something deep inside him was cracking open, like ice breaking under unseen pressure.
He clenched his teeth, gripping his shirt. The pain tore through his skull like hammer blows from the inside.
His breath faltered; sweat ran down his temple.
Then came the noise.
A low hum filled his ears — then more sounds piled on top of it, each one bleeding into the next: breathing, heartbeats, the soft hum of a fan, the ticking of a clock, the faint wind whistling through cracks in the dark —all merging into one distorted, suffocating symphony.
His mind felt heavy, as if it were sinking into fog — thick, slow, and suffocating. Thoughts blurred.
Time twisted.
Everything felt far away, like he was watching himself from outside his own skin.
Then, without warning, the room flared red.
His vision blurred; the air itself felt heavy and wet,as if it carried the scent of iron.
In front of him stood a table. And at that table, a man sat, back turned.
Hashina froze.
So he wasn't alone.
But strangely, fear never came.
Instead, a chilling sense of familiarity crawled beneath his skin —like he was looking at something that had always been there.
For a long, long time.
Inside him.
He stepped closer. One hand clutched his head. The other trembled.
Then a voice spoke —cold, sharp, like a blade grazing across his heart:
"Not yet."
At that moment, the room burst into laughter.
HA… HAHAHAHAHA…
It didn't echo outward.
It echoed inward.
The laughter was inside his head —mocking him, twisting around his thoughts, growing louder and louder until it was all he could hear.
Tick… tock…
The ticking of a clock slipped between the laughter, each sound stabbing through his ears like a thousand tiny needles.
Tick… tock…
He covered his ears — but it was useless. The sound wasn't out there. It lived inside him.
Hashina fell to his knees, clutching his skull, his breath sharp, broken.
His vision blurred, dissolving into a swirl of red and black.
Everything folded in on itself.
Then — silence.
Darkness.
Riiing… Riiing…
The alarm went off.
Morning light crept through the window, brushing against the faded walls.
The ceiling fan turned lazily, its blades whispering: phach… phach…The clock ticked — steady, distant, calm.
Reality returned, quiet and indifferent.
Everything was the same.
As if nothing had ever happened.
Hashina sat up, eyes wide.
The fan. The clock. The gloves hanging in the corner — all still there.
Unchanged.
So… it was all just a dream.
And yet, it didn't feel like one.
It was too real.
He could still hear the echo of the ticking somewhere inside his skull, faint, but alive.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair.
The pain was gone. But the laughter remained — faint, distant, like a whisper trapped under his ribs.
A while later, he sat on the sofa, a cup of steaming coffee beside him.
Outside, the world moved on — footsteps, traffic, chatter —all blending into a distant hum.
Inside, he sat still, letting time drift past, feeling like a man stranded between yesterday and tomorrow.
The smell of coffee — bitter, grounding — filled the room, but it did nothing to wake him. His eyes were empty, tracing shapes in the rising steam.
He reached into his pocket.
The folded paper was still there. Three days had passed since he met Saito at the café.
He unfolded it, and the silver letters gleamed faintly in the morning light:
"Meet me at this address. Next week."
Hashina stared at the words.
He could feel them pulling at something deep inside —a thread, invisible yet firm.
He couldn't tell if it led him toward salvation or ruin.
"Find a job — any job, no matter how small."
The memory of those words floated through his mind, gentle but heavy, like an echo from a life that used to be his.
He had already passed the days of his glory —like a boxer stepping out of the ring after the lights went out.
The cheers had faded.
The doors that once blazed with brilliance were now quietly closed, leaving him alone in the dark, listening to the slow passage of time.
Now, all that remained was a road — uncertain, uneven —a path life had given him to walk as penance.
Every step was a reminder of what he had lost. And what he might still lose.
HA… HAHAHAHA…
The laughter returned — quieter, but sharper —as if mocking the fragile spark that had dared to flicker inside him.
Hashina picked up his phone. His hands trembled slightly, though his voice was calm.
"I'm ready, Saito."
A pause. Then the voice on the other end:
"Good. Then I'll see you at the place."