"…He's crying."
"That's good. That means he's strong."
Light slowly bloomed in the distance, faint at first, then growing brighter, warmer, as if pushing back the darkness itself. Takumi stood where there was no ground and no sky, surrounded by nothing, watching as the glow took shape and depth. Sound followed soon after—soft, muffled voices threading through the air, becoming clearer with each passing moment.
"It's a boy," the woman said, her voice trembling with exhaustion and awe, the kind that came only after something precious had been brought into the world. "He's really here."
A man laughed quietly, relief and disbelief mixing in his breath. "Yeah… I can see him." He hesitated, then spoke again, gentler this time. "Have you thought about a name?"
"I have," the woman replied without looking up, her arms cradling something Takumi still couldn't fully see. "Takumi."
The name struck him with unexpected weight, reverberating through the silence around him.
"Takumi?" the man repeated, tasting the sound of it.
"Yes," she answered firmly, a tired smile in her voice. "It means skill. Purpose. Someone who creates something with their own hands. Someone who survives."
The light sharpened, pulling Takumi closer, though he never felt himself move. The scene unfolded with unsettling clarity—white walls, soft sheets, the lingering tension of a birth just finished. In the woman's arms lay a newborn boy, small and red-faced, crying with everything he had, unaware of the world waiting for him.
With his name.
"That's him," the man whispered, awe thick in his tone. "Our Takumi."
The child's cries filled the space with life, echoing within the glow, while just beyond it, wrapped in darkness, the grown Takumi stood and watched, unable to speak, unable to turn away, as the very beginning of his existence played out before his eyes.
Standing there, Takumi struggled to believe what he was seeing. "Is that… me?" he murmured, unable to pull his eyes away from the scene unfolding before him. His gaze shifted to the indistinct figures beside the newborn. "And those blurred faces…" His breath caught slightly. "That's my parents, isn't it?"
He knew it. He understood it on some level. And yet, none of it made sense.
"But those… those are memories, right?" he whispered, his thoughts racing. "So why am I seeing them now? What's bringing them back?" The questions stacked endlessly, one folding into the next, each heavier than the last. He turned slowly, taking in his surroundings, only to find the same scene reflected again and again, stretched across the darkness like fractured glass. "And where am I?" he added quietly. "How did I even end up here?"
No answer came.
Then the world shifted.
The light twisted, reshaping itself into new images, new moments—ones that felt distant, half-buried. Takumi's eyes widened as recognition surfaced. "Those two…" he said under his breath. "Those babies are—" The realization settled fully. They were his younger siblings, one of them the very same he lived with now, in the middle of Aoshima City's unfolding nightmare.
The memories kept moving forward, whether he was ready or not.
"And this headache… where did it come from?" Takumi muttered, pressing his fingers against his forehead as a dull ache throbbed behind his eyes. Even so, he refused to look away. The images kept playing before him like an old reel of film, one memory bleeding seamlessly into the next.
His parents appeared again.
This time his mother stood right in front of him, younger, alive in a way that made his chest tighten. She knelt, smiling warmly as she spoke to him, her hands clapping together with soft excitement. "Aw, Takumi. You grew up so fast," she said fondly. "You remind me so much of your dad. Strong, handsome, so calm—always ready for anything."
She laughed, bright and effortless.
Then his own voice echoed back at him, softer and smaller, belonging to a version of himself he barely remembered. "Hey, mom," the child asked innocently. "I thought dad was supposed to come home today. Is he not coming?"
His mother's smile faltered for just a fraction of a second before she hid it behind a gentle giggle, carrying a weight the child couldn't possibly understand. "Now, now, Takumi," she said lightly. "Don't worry. I'm sure your dad just had a little extension at work."
The lie passed smoothly.
Only the Takumi standing in the darkness knew the truth.
"Why did she lie to me back then?" he whispered, his jaw tightening. "I know my dad died because of those monsters." Saying it out loud made something sink in, cold and heavy. "And now that I think about it… it was almost the same thing that's happening in Aoshima."
The memory sharpened painfully. A boarded train. Strange frequencies flooding the area. Systems shutting down without warning. Chaos. Screams.
"The train was destroyed," Takumi continued quietly. "Passengers slaughtered." His breath hitched. "Including my dad."
The images didn't stop. They never did.
As the visions continued, distortions began to creep into them. His mother—still there, still caring for her son—started to dim, her presence fading unevenly as thin streams of black wind slowly circled her. Takumi's breath caught. "That wind…" he thought, instantly recognizing the same force he had endured before. The air around her warped, and her face began to crackle, as if the image itself were breaking apart.
Second by second, the distortion worsened. Her features darkened, twisting into something unrecognizable, something unhinged and deeply wrong. Then, in a sudden and horrifying shift, her face transformed into a skeletal mask—the same kind worn by the creatures. The mask roared, a sound that tore through the memory itself, and lunged forward, swallowing the young Takumi whole. His screams echoed helplessly as the vision collapsed in on itself.
The black wind surged again, now flooding the space Takumi stood in, filling the dome around him until there was nowhere to look, nowhere to escape. It wrapped around his body, tightening as the pain returned in full force. "No—no! Let me go! Not again!" he shouted, but the wind consumed him regardless. His scream shattered the space around him, and the next moment he was falling—plunging through a dark void of nothingness, the black currents chasing him relentlessly, never letting go.
"Hey! Hey! You—wake up!"
The voice cut through everything.
Takumi's eyes snapped open as his body jerked upright, breath sharp as he sucked in air. Morning light flooded his vision, warm and overwhelming. "Wh—what?" he muttered, still disoriented, struggling to understand where he was.
As his vision steadied, he felt sunlight washing over him, real and solid. Slowly, the blur faded, and the shape of someone nearby came into focus. His eyes locked onto a woman standing before him, her features finally clear in the bright light of a brand-new day.
His breath slowly steadied as his eyes focused on her, the last traces of the nightmare slipping away. The woman standing before him had a smooth, sharp-featured face, her slightly pointed chin giving her expression a composed, confident edge. There was nothing frantic in her posture, nothing uncertain—she stood as someone who knew exactly where she was and why.
Long, flowing crimson-red hair framed her face, falling in soft, layered strands that brushed against her cheeks and caught the morning light as it moved gently with the breeze. The color was vivid, almost striking, impossible to ignore. When his gaze reached her eyes, he froze for a brief moment. They were bright violet, glossy and luminous, holding a calm depth that felt steady rather than overwhelming. There was a quiet strength in them, the kind that didn't demand attention yet naturally commanded it.
For a split second, Takumi forgot the pain, the wind, the darkness.
She felt real—solid in a way the visions had not been. And somehow, standing there beneath the warm sun, she carried a presence that made it feel as though the world had shifted the moment he opened his eyes.
"
"Good. You're awake."
Her voice reached him first, calm and grounded, giving his mind time to settle. Takumi looked into her violet eyes, confusion clearly written across his face, and she seemed to understand it without a word needing to be said. When he finally spoke, he rubbed his head as he talked, still trying to piece everything together.
"I'm guessing you helped me somehow," he said, fragments of the night flashing through his thoughts. "But… how am I still alive? It's the next day, right?"
As he spoke, she stepped in and supported his shoulders, guiding him to sit on the nearest bench. Once he was settled, she straightened and faced him again, her expression serious—there was concern in her gaze, but it was carefully restrained.
"Good. You still have your senses," she said. "Lucky, aren't you? And yes, I did help you." Her eyes flicked over him briefly, checking his condition. "Tell me, are you still dizzy? Does anything hurt? I treated the wound on your shoulder, but that doesn't mean you've fully recovered."
Takumi lifted a hand and gently touched the bandage wrapped around his shoulder, testing it. There was no blood, no sign of injury beneath it, yet the ache was still there, deep and unmistakable. "What did you do…?" he asked quietly. "It still hurts, but the wound's basically gone."
As a few seagulls cried overhead and swept past, he finally took in his surroundings. The scent of salt filled the air. He was at Aoshima City's docks, near the beach, where only a handful of people were moving about—marines preparing equipment, delivery workers starting their morning routes.
She followed his glance before speaking again. "I used my spiritual aura," she explained evenly. "Not magic like people imagine. No spells." She nodded toward his shoulder. "I cast a healing spirit through the injury. It cleaned out the blood and the residue left behind, then concealed the damage so it wouldn't reopen or draw attention."
Her gaze returned to him, steady and honest. "Your body still remembers the pain. That's normal. What I did wasn't to erase it—just to make sure you lived."
She followed his glance before speaking again, her tone measured and precise. "I used my binder," she explained. "Through it, I initiated a healing resonance and guided it directly through the damaged area." She indicated his shoulder. "The resonance purged internal blood buildup and residual contamination left by the Ghoul, then stabilized the tissue and concealed the injury to prevent reopening or external detection."
Her gaze remained steady, analytical rather than emotional. "The pain persists because the trauma hasn't fully resolved. Muscles and nerves were stressed beyond their limits. What I applied wasn't complete restoration—only controlled intervention, enough to keep you functional and alive."
Takumi caught on to a word she'd used—one he hadn't expected to hear. He spoke up immediately. "Ghoul?"
It was a simple question, but it carried weight.
She nodded, resting her hands on her hips. "The creature that attacked you. You remember it, don't you?" Her tone remained steady. "We call them Ghouls. If you want a more detailed explanation, it'd be better for you to fully get your bearings first. Then we'll talk."
It made sense. The image of the creature surged back into his mind, sharp and unsettling, and with it came even more questions he wasn't ready to ignore.
He adjusted his posture on the bench, carefully rolling his injured shoulder as he stretched his arm to the side, testing how far it would go. A dull ache responded, but it held. "Thanks for the help," he said after a moment, then looked back at her. "But who are you?" His brow furrowed slightly. "I don't think I know you. I've never seen you before."
"Lexa," she said simply. "And you?"
Takumi stretched his arms one last time, then leaned forward slightly as he answered, his tone natural and unguarded. "Takumi. Nice to meet you… I guess." He paused, testing his shoulder once more before continuing. "I think I'm well enough to hear your explanation about the Ghouls."
His expression grew more serious. "I've been seeing them for years, and I never knew what to call them. To me, they were just monsters." He looked up at her again, curiosity sharpening his gaze. "So how do you know what they are? And how you're talking about them so casually… you're not exactly a normal human, are you?"
"Since you're so impatient, fine," she said evenly. "Ghouls aren't creatures in a biological sense. They're anomalies—formed when intense psychological collapse leaves behind an unresolved imprint within reality itself." Her gaze stayed fixed on him as she continued. "Those imprints are called Echoes. When enough of them accumulate, they gain density and begin to manifest physical vessels, their shapes dictated by the dominant emotion that created them."
She folded her arms, her tone precise. "They stabilize by absorbing similar emotional frequencies from others. Over time, as that accumulation continues, Ghouls develop higher cognitive function and behavioral mimicry, slowly approaching human awareness—while remaining fundamentally incompatible with natural existence."
She paused briefly before finishing. "In high-pressure environments, where suppressed emotion is widespread, the rate of Echo formation increases dramatically. Those emotions become convergence points, and from them, these reality-born aberrations emerge."
Takumi stayed quiet, brow furrowing as he tried to line everything up in his head. "So… let me see if I'm getting this right," he said slowly, uncertainty creeping into his voice. "They're not really alive, but they're not just… nothing either." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "More like something left behind when a person breaks hard enough that it leaves a mark."
He glanced aside, clearly still working through it. "Those marks—Echoes—you said they stack up, right? And when there's enough of them, they start forming something physical?" He looked back at her. "Something shaped by emotions. Fear, anger, despair… whatever was strongest."
His jaw tightened, but confusion lingered. "And then they keep themselves going by pulling that same emotion out of other people?" He shook his head slightly. "That's why they end up in places like Aoshima… not because of the city itself, but because of the people in it."
After a brief pause, he added more quietly, "So they act human because they're built from humans—but they're still not supposed to exist."
"Correct," she replied, giving a small nod.
Takumi exhaled, but the tension in his shoulders didn't ease. "I get what they are now," he said slowly, "but not everything else." He looked up at her, eyes narrowing with thought. "Why are they invisible? And why can we see them when most people can't?"
Lexa took a moment before answering. "Because Ghouls don't fully exist on the same layer of reality as everyone else," she said. "Their vessels are anchored by Echoes, not by biology. To most people, their senses simply can't register something that unstable. Sight, sound, even presence—it all slips past unnoticed."
She tapped lightly against her temple. "But some people have a higher sensitivity. Their perception isn't locked to just one frequency of reality. Trauma, prolonged exposure, or certain innate traits can thin that barrier." Her gaze met his. "Once that happens, you start picking up what others can't."
Takumi frowned. "So seeing them isn't normal."
"No," she answered. "And once you do see them, you can't go back. Your mind has already adjusted." She paused. "That's also why they notice you. To a Ghoul, someone like you doesn't blend into the background. You stand out."
The implication settled heavily between them.
Takumi went quiet again, staring out toward the water as the docks creaked softly behind him. "So… it's kind of like tuning into a signal you weren't meant to hear," he said, half to himself. "Most people are stuck on one channel. The normal one. And these things are broadcasting on something else entirely."
He frowned, still unconvinced. "But if that's the case, then why doesn't everyone eventually pick it up? Aoshima's full of stress. Fear. People snapping under pressure every day." He glanced back at Lexa. "You're saying some of us just… slip through the cracks? Either because we've been exposed too long or because something about us was already off to begin with?"
His jaw tightened slightly. "And once that happens, there's no turning it off. You see them, they see you, and suddenly you're not just another person in the crowd." He let out a slow breath. "Which means the night I got chased wasn't random. I wasn't unlucky."
He looked down at his hands again, flexing them. "I was visible."
Lexa nodded once, her expression tightening just slightly. "Exactly. You were visible," she said. "And to a Ghoul, visibility isn't passive. It's provocation."
She shifted her stance, eyes scanning the quiet docks before returning to him. "Ghouls don't hunt randomly. They're drawn to resonance—people whose emotional state, perception, or presence aligns closely enough with the Echoes that formed them." Her voice remained steady, but there was no softness in it. "To them, that alignment feels like pressure. Like noise that won't stop."
Takumi frowned. "So they kill people because—what—those people stand out?"
"In part," Lexa replied. "Some humans act as stabilizers without realizing it. Others act as catalysts." She paused. "When a Ghoul encounters someone who can perceive it, the Echo recognizes familiarity. Something unfinished. That makes you a target."
She folded her arms. "They kill for two reasons. One is sustenance—absorbing emotional output at its peak, fear being the most efficient." Her gaze sharpened. "The other is correction. A Ghoul is incompatible with reality. Anyone who can see it represents a contradiction, a reminder that it shouldn't exist. Eliminating that contradiction reduces instability."
Takumi's jaw clenched. "So either way, we lose."
"Not always," she said calmly. "But from their perspective, killing you either feeds them or quiets the pressure you create just by being aware." She met his eyes. "That's why they don't chase everyone. Only the ones they can't ignore."
The weight of her words settled in.
Takumi looked at her again, more serious now. "Then… does that mean I have some kind of resonance?" he asked. "Something different from a normal person's?"
Lexa didn't answer immediately. Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer than before, as if reassessing what she already knew. Then she nodded. "Yes," she said. "You do."
That single word tightened his chest.
"It's not fully developed," she continued, "but it's there. Strong enough for Ghouls to notice you, strong enough for you to perceive them clearly." Her gaze sharpened slightly. "That's not something ordinary humans have. Most people pass through the world without ever leaving a ripple. You don't."
Takumi frowned. "So it's not just exposure."
"No," Lexa replied. "Exposure can awaken it, but it doesn't create it. The capacity has to exist first." She paused. "In your case, it's been there for a long time. Longer than you realize."
His thoughts immediately drifted back to the memories—the train, his father, the years of seeing things he was never supposed to see. "So I was marked early," he muttered.
"Not marked," she corrected calmly. "Aligned. Your resonance sits closer to the same layer Ghouls occupy. That's why they react to you more aggressively." She met his eyes. "And it's why you survived last night. Someone without it wouldn't have lasted seconds."
The realization settled heavily in his chest, unanswered questions still piling up—but one thing was suddenly clear.
Whatever he was, he wasn't normal.
Takumi hesitated, then spoke again, more quietly. "Then explain it properly. What is a resonance?"
Lexa's expression sharpened, her tone shifting into something more precise, more deliberate. "Resonance is a structural anomaly in how a person occupies reality," she said. "Most humans exist as closed systems. Their thoughts, emotions, and intent remain internal, dissipating without consequence once the moment passes."
She raised a hand slightly, as if outlining something invisible. "A resonant individual is an open system. When something significant occurs—trauma, resolve, collapse—the effect does not terminate within the self. It propagates outward, imprinting pressure onto the surrounding layer of reality."
Takumi listened without interrupting.
"That pressure isn't emotional residue," she continued. "It's alignment. Your internal state and external conditions synchronize instead of separating. When that happens, reality responds—not consciously, but mechanically. Like a structure adjusting under stress."
She glanced toward the horizon. "This is why you can perceive Ghouls. Their existence relies on unresolved imprints. Your resonance operates on the same principle, though in a controlled, living form. You're not seeing them because your senses are sharper—you're seeing them because you're occupying overlapping coordinates."
Takumi frowned slightly. "And the black wind?"
"That was resonance destabilization," Lexa replied. "When incompatible Echo density entered your system, your resonance attempted to reconcile it. The result was discharge—pressure forced outward as a corrective flow." She met his eyes. "It wasn't power being released. It was containment failing."
She paused, then added, "Resonance isn't something you activate. It's something you endure. Those who can't manage it break and leave Echoes behind. Those who survive become points of convergence."
Her voice lowered. "You don't simply exist in the world anymore, Takumi. You interfere with it."
Takumi sat back slightly, eyes unfocused as he tried to compress everything into something he could actually live with. "So… most people exist, and that's it," he said slowly. "But people like us leave a footprint. Not just emotionally—existentially. We press too hard against the world, and it presses back."
He looked at Lexa again, something sharper in his gaze now. "You mentioned a binder." A pause. "That's not just a tool, is it?"
Lexa gave a small nod. "A binder is what resonance turns into when it stops being passive," she said. "If resonance is pressure, a binder is the shape that pressure takes when it finally chooses a direction."
She stepped closer, her voice lowering slightly. "It's a personal manifestation—your resonance answering a question you didn't know you were asking. For some, it becomes a weapon. For others, an ability. For a few, something that doesn't fit either category." Her eyes flicked briefly to his hand. "But it always reflects the person it belongs to."
Takumi frowned. "So it's like a power."
"Yes," she said without hesitation. "But not a gift. It's more like a survival mechanism that learned how to fight back." She lifted her hand as if gripping an invisible object. "A binder takes the chaos of resonance and compresses it into something usable. Controlled. Dangerous."
"When I used mine on you," she continued, "I wasn't casting something outward. I was extending my binder's function through my resonance. That's why it worked so precisely." She met his eyes. "Once yours awakens, it won't feel borrowed. It'll feel familiar—like something that's always been there, waiting for you to notice."
The air between them felt heavier.
"Resonance is what makes you visible," Lexa finished. "A binder is what lets you decide how."
Takumi's brow furrowed, unease creeping into his voice. "You keep talking like I already have one," he said. "A binder. How do you even know I can access something like that?"
Lexa didn't hesitate. "Because everyone with resonance as high as yours does," she replied calmly. "A binder isn't something rare among resonant individuals—it's inevitable."
She continued, her tone steady and assured. "Resonance builds pressure. If that pressure has nowhere to settle, it either fractures the person or spills outward and leaves an Echo behind. A binder forms as a counterweight. It stabilizes the resonance by anchoring it to the spirit—giving it shape, limits, and intent."
Takumi listened, tense but focused.
"In your case," she added, "your resonance already tried to protect itself last night. That black wind wasn't random. It was unformed output—raw, unstable, searching for structure." She met his eyes. "That's how I know. Your binder hasn't awakened yet, but it's already pushing to exist."
She paused, then said quietly, "Once your spirit learns to hold it, the binder will settle. Until then, the resonance will keep overflowing."
The implication was clear.
This wasn't a question of if. It was a question of when.
Lexa went quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting away from him as if replaying the night in her head. "Still…" she murmured, more to herself than to him, "there's one part that doesn't make sense."
Takumi looked up. "What part?"
She hesitated, then spoke slowly. "You didn't just endure the black wind. You absorbed it." Her eyes narrowed slightly, analytical rather than alarmed. "That shouldn't have been possible. Unstable resonance usually rejects foreign output—or shatters under it."
She crossed her arms, thinking aloud now. "A binder that hasn't formed shouldn't be capable of intake. At most, it should have dispersed the pressure or collapsed entirely." Her gaze returned to him, searching his face. "But yours didn't. It pulled the wind in, processed it, and survived."
She exhaled quietly. "That suggests either your resonance behaves differently from standard cases… or something in you recognizes that kind of output." A brief pause. "I don't know which is more concerning."
For the first time since she'd woken him up, uncertainty crept into her voice.
To be continued...