Akira froze.
The figure standing before him — the intruder who had broken into his home — wasn't a stranger.It was him.
Same black hair falling over his forehead. Same cold eyes.And that scar — the deep one cutting across his forehead like a half-healed wound from another life.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. The hum of the refrigerator filled the silence, faint and unnervingly calm.
Then the other Akira smiled — slow, deliberate."Finally," he said. "You remember me."
Akira's pulse hammered. His throat went dry."This isn't real," he muttered, stepping back. "You're not real."
The double tilted his head slightly — the same way Akira always did when he was trying to hide fear."You keep saying that," he said quietly. "But tell me… who are you trying to convince?"
Akira's back hit the wall. The smell of dust and something faintly metallic filled the air.Every part of him screamed to run, but his body refused to move.
"What do you want?" he forced out.
The double's expression softened — almost sad. "To finish what you couldn't."
"I don't—"
"Don't lie," the other snapped suddenly, voice rising for the first time. His tone was sharp, cold, and laced with a familiarity that made Akira's skin crawl. "You killed him. You know you did."
Akira flinched. The words hit like a hammer.He had spent years trying to bury that night — the flashes of red, the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, his father's voice breaking mid-sentence.
He had told himself it was self-defense.He had told the court, the police, the counselors.And yet, somewhere deep down, he never fully believed it.
Now, those words — from his own mouth — tore open the wound again.
Akira's hand trembled as he reached for his phone on the table.He didn't even know why — maybe to call for help, maybe just to break the silence.
But the other Akira was faster.In a blur, he slammed Akira's wrist against the wall. The phone clattered to the floor.
"You think this is about help?" the double hissed, face inches away. "You think anyone can save you?"
His eyes were wild — but not with madness. With purpose.Like someone who knew something Akira didn't.
"You left me there," he said, voice low. "You left me to die with him. And now you're pretending you've changed? That you can live normally again?"
"I didn't—" Akira started, but stopped.Because deep inside, something in him remembered.The smell of gasoline. The sound of fire crackling.The faint reflection in a broken mirror — a boy staring back with the same scar, the same terror.
The double stepped back, breathing hard. Then, he smiled again — eerily calm now."You don't have to understand yet. You just have to remember where it began."
He reached into his coat pocket and tossed something onto the floor.It clattered near Akira's feet — a small, burned metal pendant.
Akira's stomach dropped when he saw it.
It was the same pendant his mother used to wear — the one she'd lost the night everything fell apart.
He crouched slowly, picking it up with trembling fingers.The surface was scratched, blackened by fire, but one word still glimmered faintly on the back:
Forgive.
Akira looked up sharply.The double was already walking toward the door.
"Wait!" Akira shouted. "What do you mean by this? Who are you?!"
The double paused at the doorway, half-turned, his silhouette caught in the flicker of a dying lightbulb.
"You already know," he said softly. "You just don't want to admit it."
And then he was gone.
Akira stood frozen for a long time, the silence in the apartment almost deafening.
When he finally moved, his legs felt weak. He sat down hard on the floor, clutching the pendant.
This couldn't be happening.It was impossible — hallucination, maybe trauma returning, stress.He wanted to believe that.
But the blood under his fingernails, the faint dent in the wall where his wrist had slammed — those were real.
He looked at the pendant again. Forgive.
Forgive who?
His father? Himself?
Or the other him — the one who shouldn't exist?
Hours passed before he could think clearly again.By morning, exhaustion hit like a brick. He barely noticed when his phone buzzed on the table.
One new message.
"He's not gone. He's waiting."
Akira's heart skipped.The number was unknown again — the same sender as before.
He typed quickly.
"Who is he?"
"What do you know?"
No reply.
He tossed the phone aside, stood, and walked to the mirror near the door.His reflection stared back — tired eyes, disheveled hair, faint dark circles under his eyes.And that scar — that old, healed line across his forehead — looked deeper than ever.
For a split second, he thought the reflection smirked.He blinked — it was gone.
School felt different that day.
The air was heavy, the students quieter.A few glanced his way, whispering like always, but Akira barely heard them. He moved through the halls like a ghost, lost in thought.
When he reached his desk, something was taped to it.
A photo.
His photo — taken last night, inside his own apartment.He could see himself in the frame, holding the pendant, staring blankly into the dark.
Scrawled across the bottom were four words in jagged handwriting:
"He isn't your shadow."
His chest tightened. He tore the photo off the desk and slipped it into his bag before anyone noticed.
That's when he felt someone watching him.
He turned — and there was Hayato, sitting two rows back, staring quietly.
Their eyes met.Hayato didn't say anything.But his expression was different today — not skeptical, not mocking.
Worried.
Lunch break came, and Akira went to the old stairwell near the back of the school. He needed space to breathe.
But Hayato followed.
"Who took that photo?" he asked flatly.
Akira froze. "You saw it?"
"I saw him," Hayato replied. "Last night. Near your apartment."
Akira's stomach dropped. "You're lying."
Hayato shook his head. "I don't think so. Whoever that was… he looked exactly like you. Even had the same scar."
He hesitated, then pulled something from his pocket — a small black key.
"I found this on the ground near your place," he said, tossing it to Akira. "It has your name etched inside the ring. But the weird part? It's not from your building."
Akira turned it over. The number scratched into the side read: 2-B.
The world seemed to tilt.
That wasn't just any number — that was his old classroom.
That night, he couldn't stay home.He walked to the school after hours, the sky deep purple with approaching storm clouds, the corridors faintly humming with electricity.
He reached Classroom 2-B.It was locked.
He used the key.
The door creaked open.
Dust swirled in the faint light from the hallway. The desks were covered with sheets, the windows boarded from the outside.This classroom hadn't been used in years.
Then Akira noticed something on the floor — a faint outline beneath the old carpet near the teacher's desk.He pulled it back carefully.
A square hatch.
His pulse quickened.
There was a basement.
And carved roughly into the metal hatch, half-hidden by dust, were two words scratched deep:
"Welcome back."
Akira's breath caught.
For the first time, he realized this wasn't someone tormenting him.
This was an invitation.
End of Chapter 5