The night was unnervingly quiet.
Akira stood in the middle of the street, the faint glow of neon bleeding into the mist. The phone in his hand buzzed once, then went dead again, the message still burned into his vision:
If you want her back… come home.
Home.
The word felt heavier than it should have. It wasn't just a place anymore—it was a wound.
And he was about to open it again.
He looked up. The old district stretched before him, a forgotten piece of the city—empty windows, hollow buildings, the ghosts of laughter and fire. Somewhere in there was the house where it all began. Where the screaming had stopped, and everything inside him had split apart.
Akira took a step forward.
The wind shifted, carrying the faint smell of burnt wood—the same scent that clung to the pendant, to that night, to him. His fingers tightened around his sister's phone. Her wallpaper was still the same: the two of them smiling years ago, before the scar, before the trial, before the shadows took form.
"I'm coming," he whispered.
The old neighborhood didn't change.
The streets were cracked, the houses sunken into silence. When Akira reached the gate of his family's home, it was already open. The wood creaked softly, like a sigh of recognition.
Inside, dust hung thick in the air. The living room was frozen in time—broken picture frames, scorched wallpaper, a clock that had stopped ticking years ago.
He felt the weight of memory pressing down on him.
His father's voice seemed to echo faintly in his mind, fragmented and distorted:
"You can't erase what you are."
He swallowed hard and moved toward the hallway. Each step felt heavier, as if the floor remembered him too.
That's when he saw the light.
Flickering faintly from under the basement door.
The handle was cold.
He hesitated—then turned it.
The door creaked open, revealing the stairs descending into shadow. The same staircase from his nightmares. The one that led down to his father's hidden lab—the same kind of room he'd found beneath the school.
He took out his phone, turned on the flashlight, and started down.
Each step moaned under his weight.
When he reached the bottom, the smell hit him—chemical, metallic, and faintly sweet. The air pulsed with the low hum of machinery that shouldn't have been running.
Rows of old monitors glowed faintly in the dark, their screens filled with static.
Akira's heart pounded.
Someone had turned it all back on.
"Welcome home," a voice said behind him.
He spun around.
The double stood there again—same face, same scar—but this time, there was something different. A calmness. A confidence. Like he wasn't hiding in the shadows anymore. Like he belonged here.
Akira's voice was barely a whisper. "Where is she?"
The double smiled faintly. "Safe. For now."
"Where?"
"Right where you left her." He tilted his head. "Do you remember the fire, Akira? The one that took everything from you?"
Akira's jaw tightened. "You're not answering me."
The double stepped closer, eyes flickering with a strange warmth. "That's because you already know. You just don't want to accept what this place really is."
Akira's pulse raced. "What are you talking about?"
The double gestured to the monitors. "He didn't build this lab to destroy you. He built it to split you. To see if he could divide conscience from instinct. The human mind… from the part that never feels guilt."
Akira shook his head. "No. No, that's not true."
"Then why do you think I exist?" the double whispered. "Why do you think you see me, touch me, bleed like me?"
The screens behind him flickered—then stabilized.
And there she was.
His sister—bound to a chair, her face pale under the harsh light of another room. The same room they stood in, only older. Like a memory playing in real time.
Akira stepped closer to the screen. "Where is she?!"
The double didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out the burned pendant—the same one Akira had found days ago.
"She dropped this before she ran," he said softly. "Do you know what she told me before I brought her here?"
Akira's throat was dry. "Don't."
"She said she forgave you."
The words hit harder than any blow.
The double continued, voice quiet, almost kind. "But forgiveness doesn't erase what you are. It just exposes it."
Akira lunged forward, slamming his fist into the wall beside the double's head.
"Where is she?!"
The double didn't flinch. "Upstairs."
Akira froze.
"She's upstairs," the double repeated, his voice calm. "But if you go now… you'll see what you've been running from."
Akira shoved past him, racing up the stairs two at a time. The walls seemed to twist around him—the air thickening, humming with old energy. When he reached the first floor, he saw the faint glow coming from his sister's old room.
He pushed the door open.
And stopped.
The room was perfectly preserved.
Her posters still on the wall. Her books neatly stacked.
And in the middle—her.
Sitting quietly on the bed.
"...Yumi?" he whispered.
She looked up slowly. Her eyes were empty.
"Brother," she said softly. "You came back."
He took a step forward, heart breaking with relief and dread. "It's me. I'm here. You're safe now."
She smiled faintly. "Safe? You still think any of us are safe?"
Akira froze. Something was wrong in her voice.
Too calm. Too measured.
Then she looked directly at him.
"You really don't remember, do you?"
Akira's breath caught. "What do you mean?"
She stood up. "The fire didn't start because of him. Or you. It started because of me."
The world tilted.
"You're lying."
She shook her head. "Father didn't want to test it on you. He wanted to test it on me. He said I was pure, unbroken." Her voice trembled. "You tried to stop him. You tried to save me."
Her eyes flickered—pain and something darker.
"But when the fire spread, when the walls fell… you didn't just save me, Akira. You took his experiment with you."
Akira's voice broke. "No…"
"That's why you don't remember the years after. Because they weren't yours."
Her expression softened—almost pitying. "He made a copy. Two of you. One who could carry the guilt. One who couldn't."
Her gaze darkened. "You think he's your shadow? He's not. You're his."
Akira stumbled back, shaking his head. "No. That's not—"
The double's voice came from the doorway, calm and steady.
"She's right."
Akira turned. The double stood there, the faint glow of the hall light outlining his silhouette.
"I was the first," he said quietly. "You were the replacement."
Akira's pulse hammered in his ears. "You're lying."
The double stepped closer. "Am I? Look around you, Akira. Everything you remember—every scar, every nightmare—was mine. You just inherited what was left."
He reached out, placing a hand on Akira's shoulder. "But it's not too late. We can finish what he started. Together."
Akira's mind reeled. The truth pressed against his chest like a weight.
Yumi's voice trembled. "Akira… he's not lying."
For a long moment, no one moved. The air was thick with static, grief, and something old—like time itself had stopped.
Then Akira stepped back, his voice hollow.
"If what you're saying is true… then why am I still here?"
The double's smile was faint. "Because you still have something I don't."
He leaned in.
"Choice."
And then the lights went out.
The last thing Akira heard was Yumi's whisper:
"He's not done yet."
End of Chapter 8