Kengen Takeshi stood frozen, his entire body a statue carved from pure shock.
His feet would not move, his hands would not rise, and even his breath felt trapped somewhere in his chest.
Before him, a monstrous abomination had materialized, its very existence a tangible assault on sanity. It was not just large or ugly in a normal way...it felt wrong, like something that should never have been able to exist in the same world as people.
The air crackled with an unnatural energy,
a palpable aura of dread that seemed to warp reality itself.
The hairs on his arms stood up, and the space around the creature looked slightly distorted, like heat ripples on pavement, except colder, darker, and more threatening. Around him, the world dissolved into a symphony of screams and terrified shouts as the crowd, a sea of fleeing figures, succumbed to primal fear.
Shoes slapped against the ground.
bags fell and bounced.
And bodies shoved past one another without apology.
Each person's instinct for survival screamed louder than reason.
Their faces a blur of panic.
Some cried names.
some cursed.
And some simply screamed without words, as if language had broken under pressure.
Kengen's eyes, wide and unblinking, mirrored the terror he felt. His pupils trembled, dilated to their absolute limit, and a voice, raw and broken, escaped his lips.
"What in the name of madness is happening…?"
He whispered, the words barely audible above the cacophony.
His throat felt dry, as if fear had stolen all moisture from his body.
A chilling thought, cold and sharp, pierced through his daze, cutting cleaner than any scream around him.
"Is this truly where my life ends?"
A sound, barely a breath, escaped him.
It was a laugh. Hollow and fractured.
Born not of mirth but of an abyss of despair so deep it had stripped away all dignity.
It scraped out of him like something forced, like his mind trying to protect itself by turning terror into a cruel joke.
Tears, hot and uncontrollable, streamed down his face, blurring the horrifying spectacle before him.
He could not stop them; they came fast, making his vision smear and shimmer.
He choked back a sob, his voice shaking with a cruel, self-deprecating mockery.
"Ha… ha…"
The sound was choked, pathetic. It didn't even sound like him, more like a stranger pretending to be brave and failing.
"If I were to die here and now, who would even notice?"
"Who would shed a tear for Kengen Takeshi?"
"So... this is how my story concludes,
an insignificant failure meeting an equally insignificant end..."
"Quite the tale, isn't it?"
"A fitting epitaph for a life lived in the shadows."
His mind raced. Not toward hope, but toward a list of emptiness.
No grand moments, no proud memories, nothing that would make anyone stop and say he mattered.
He coughed, trying to regain some semblance of composure,
but it was futile.
His breath broke apart, turning into short, weak bursts that made his chest hurt.
"But this isn't a novel, nor a manga, nor some romanticized fantasy where salvation arrives at the final moment."
"No miraculous awakening awaits me."
"No overwhelming power will descend from the heavens to rewrite my fate."
He had read too many stories where the weak became strong in an instant,
where someone's life changed because of a hidden talent,
a secret bloodline,
a system,
a god's gift.
But reality did not work that way.
He was just himself, and himself was not enough.
The monster advanced, each ponderous step radiating an unholy malice that seemed to push against Kengen's very soul.
The ground seemed to vibrate with every movement, or maybe that was only his knees shaking.
Its form was a fevered nightmare, a blasphemy against nature. Twisted flesh clung to bone in ways that made no sense, and its body looked like it had been put together by hate instead of biology.
Impossibly long limbs dragged and bent at angles that made his stomach turn.
A gaping maw that promised oblivion opened and closed,
as if tasting the air,
as if savoring the fear.
It was a sight that defied description, a presence that assaulted the very essence of his being. His brain tried to label it,
to compare it to something from the fiction he loved,
but nothing fit.
With a single, swift, and utterly merciless motion, the creature unleashed its attack.
There was no warning, no dramatic pause, no time to understand.
Flesh, bone, and existence itself were cleaved in two, severed without hesitation, without a shred of mercy.
The moment was short, final, and absolute
"AH!—"
Kengen jolted awake, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His chest rose and fell too fast, as if he had been running for his life, and for a few seconds he could not tell where he was.
His body was slick with cold sweat, clinging unpleasantly to his skin.
The sheets felt damp, and his hair stuck to his forehead.
For a moment, he stared at the familiar, unremarkable ceiling above him, the mundane reality a stark contrast to the horror he had just experienced.
The ceiling had a small stain in one corner, and the paint looked tired, but it was real, solid, and safe.
A weary sigh escaped his lips, a puff of air that carried the weight of his exhaustion.
He muttered to himself, his voice raspy,
"I knew it… Of course it was just a dream."
Even as he said it, his heart still refused to slow down right away. The fear clung to him like a smell that wouldn't wash off.
The relief, however, was short-lived, quickly replaced by the dull ache of his usual apathy. Relief from death did not automatically become joy; it simply became another reminder that he still had to get up.
He glanced towards the clock, its faint glow a small beacon in the oppressive darkness of his room.
The numbers looked harsh and clear, like they were accusing him of being awake.
"Five in the morning… School starts at seven."
The prospect of another day, identical to the last, settled over him like a shroud. It was not fear this time, but heaviness.
He could already picture it:
the same halls,
the same faces,
the same tired conversations,
and him moving through it like a ghost.
He slid the window open, and the world beyond greeted him not with sunlight.
But,
with a curtain of falling rain.
Gray clouds, heavy and suffocating, smothered the sky, their somber presence reflected in the steady patter of water against the concrete below.
The sound was a dull, melancholic lament, a soundtrack to his solitary existence.
Rainwater streamed down the buildings in thin lines, and the street looked darker than usual, as if the city itself had not fully woken up.
A wave of cold air seeped into the room, carrying with it the sharp, earthy scent of wet asphalt and the quiet,
pervasive loneliness that had become his constant companion.
It chilled his skin and made him want to crawl back under the covers,
but he didn't.
A bitter, exhausted expression, etched deeply into his features,
settled upon his face.
He muttered aloud, his voice soaked in a heavy, dark irony,
"What a wonderful day!"
Kengen Takeshi lived alone in a small, unremarkable room.
It was a space that perfectly mirrored his existence...plain,
forgettable,
and devoid of any distinguishing features.
There were no personal touches that shouted home,
only the basic things needed to survive:
a bed, a desk,
a phone charger,
a few stacked items that never really got organized.
Each day followed the same merciless cycle:
he left for school,
returned in the evening,
and endured the slow,
agonizing passage of time without leaving any discernible mark on the world.
He was nothing extraordinary.
Merely another face lost in the vast anonymity of the crowd.
No one looked for him in particular,
and he had grown used to that.
The only constant in his life,
a fragile thread connecting his present to a past that felt increasingly distant and faded, was a single friend,
someone he had known since childhood.
That friendship was not loud or dramatic.
But it was real.
It was the closest thing he had to stability.
After school hours,
his days were further filled with a part-time job at a local restaurant.
The work was tiring in a quiet way,
standing too long,
repeating the same polite lines,
cleaning,
carrying,
and forcing his body to stay active even when his mind wanted to shut down.
He exchanged his limited time and dwindling energy for a modest wage,
a meager sum that barely covered his expenses.
It was enough to keep him going and not much more,
a thin line between him and trouble.
During the rare moments when the harsh grip of reality loosened its hold,
Kengen found solace in escaping into other worlds.
He would lose himself in the pages of manhwa, manhua, manga, light novels,
and comics, or find refuge in the flickering glow of animated fantasies on his screen.
Fiction was his sanctuary,
a place where lives held meaning,
where struggles had purpose,
and where the ordinary could become extraordinary.
In those stories,
even pain often led somewhere.
In his life, pain mostly just repeated.
Soon after waking and with the same resigned sigh he always emitted on such dreary mornings,
he made his way to school.
He washed his face.
Threw on his uniform on himself,
and moved through his routine like a machine running on habit instead of will.
The streets were wet and empty,
and the rain made everything feel slower.
However, as he approached the familiar campus,
he found himself standing before the locked iron gates.
The metal bars were still,
cold,
and final,
a simple barrier that should not have been there at this time.
The entire campus lay silent and deserted beyond them,
devoid of the usual student chatter and the bustling noise of a typical school day.
No footsteps, no clubs, no voices, not even the distant sound of a teacher calling out.
A flicker of confusion, a rare departure from his usual apathy, crept across his face.
His brows furrowed as he spoke under his breath, a hint of disbelief in his tone.
"What…? It should be open. Everyone keeps saying I'm always late..."
"Shit..."
He stared through the gate as if the school might suddenly come alive and prove him wrong.
A sudden thought struck him, simple but sharp, like a slap.
"Wait, let me check the date."
He pulled out his phone, his eyes scanning the screen.
The bright display seemed to mock him as he froze.
Sunday.
For a second,
he just stood there,
feeling the stupidity settle in.
A sound of pure, unadulterated frustration escaped him, a sharp exclamation of annoyance.
"Ugh… seriously? What am I supposed to do now?"
He considered his options,
his gaze drifting aimlessly.
Going home felt pointless,
but standing here felt even worse.
His brain searched for something to do that didn't require effort, social energy, or money.
"Maybe I'll go to the park…"
The thought, however, lasted only a fleeting moment.
He paused, a grimace contorting his features, and shook his head almost immediately.
The image of him sitting alone on a bench like a bored child made him feel irritated with himself.
"Hell nah! I'm not a kid anymore."
The idea was immediately dismissed, leaving him with no clear path forward.
He stood there another moment, listening to the quiet, then turned away from the gate with a tired exhale.
Eventually, with no other appealing options, Kengen found himself standing before his friend's apartment building.
The walk there was familiar enough that he barely remembered taking it.
The corridor was dimly lit and eerily quiet, the air thick with the familiar, heavy stillness of a weekend morning.
The building smelled faintly of old paint and someone's cooking from another floor.
He raised his hand and knocked on the door with a casual, rhythmic tap, as though he had performed this ritual countless times before, which, in a way, he had.
The sound echoed down the hallway and then faded, swallowed by the silence.
A voice echoed from the other side, muffled by the door but still alert.
"Who is it?"
"It's me, grandson," Kengen replied without hesitation, his tone shamelessly casual, a familiar jest that had become their usual greeting.
He said it like it was normal, like it was his right to be annoying first thing in the morning.
A brief pause followed, the silence stretching for a beat too long, then the door creaked open.
Standing there, framed by the dim light of his apartment,
was none other than Kenja Yamazaki.
Kenja's expression already twisted with annoyance, a familiar sight for Kengen.
His hair looked messy, and his eyes had that half-awake sharpness of someone who had been interrupted.
"Come on," Kenja said, letting out a long, put-upon sigh.
"I have a name, you know. You don't have to call me that."
Kengen lifted a plastic bag in response, its contents rustling softly, a silent testament to his errand. The bag swung slightly from his fingers, and the smell of instant seasoning seemed to rise even through the packaging.
"I bought some ramen."
Kenja's eyes instantly lit up, a spark of excitement flickering across his face, instantly erasing his annoyance.
The change was so fast it almost looked fake, like a switch being flipped.
"Ohh! Then let's eat together!"
he exclaimed, his tone shifting from exasperation to eagerness. He stepped back, already making space, already welcoming the idea like it had been his plan all along.
"Huh?"
Kengen scoffed, his expression remaining flat, betraying no emotion.
"This is only for me. I just came here to use your hot water. Nothing more."
He stated it as a simple fact, devoid of any warmth or consideration. It was his usual way: honest, blunt, and slightly cruel without intending to be.
Kenja froze, visibly stunned by the bluntness of Kengen's statement.
His mouth opened, then closed, as if he was deciding whether to argue or laugh.
"Eh? Dude, you're seriously so random."
He couldn't quite comprehend Kengen's logic, or lack thereof. His eyes narrowed like he was trying to find the joke hidden in the words.
Despite his complaint, and Kengen's clear declaration, the two of them ended up sitting together anyway. Kenja had already brought out two cups like it was a done deal, and Kengen didn't bother fighting it for long.
Steam rose from their individual cups of ramen as they ate side by side,
a comfortable familiarity settling between them.
A silence that felt natural rather than awkward. The warmth of the noodles and the simple routine of eating made the morning feel less pointless.
They didn't need to fill every gap with words, and neither of them seemed to expect it.
Kenja Yamazaki was Kengen Takeshi's closest, and perhaps only friend.
Like Kengen, he lived alone, though his apartment was only a short walk away,
a convenient proximity that facilitated their shared moments.
Their lifestyles and hobbies overlapped almost perfectly, from their shared taste in media to their similar social anxieties.
Making silence between them a comfortable companion rather than an uncomfortable void.
It wasn't that they were good at socializing;
it was that they didn't demand effort from each other.
There was no pressure to perform,
no need to pretend they were better than they were.
Between mouthfuls of ramen,
Kengen spoke casually, his gaze fixed on the television screen.
His tone made it sound like a random fact, but it was also the closest thing he had to excitement.
"The new Demon Slayer movie has already been released."
"Hmm,"
Kenja replied noncommittally.
His eyes still glued to the screen, a gesture of focused attention that Kengen was accustomed to.
He slurped his noodles and nodded slightly, as if he had heard, but didn't want to admit he cared too much.
Kengen opened his mouth again, ready to continue his thought. He leaned just a bit, the word already forming, the old habit ready to fire.
"Grandso—"
"I know,"
Kenja cut in sharply, his voice laced with a hint of exasperation, but also with an underlying affection.
"Shut up, bitch."
The insult, delivered with a smirk, was a testament to their long-standing friendship, a playful jab that held no real malice. It sounded harsh, but in their world it was almost a greeting.
Kengen didn't bother responding, accustomed to Kenja's bluntness.
He only breathed out through his nose, something close to a silent laugh, then reached for the remote.
Without another word, they both turned their full attention to the screen and started the movie together, the comforting weight of shared experience settling around them. For a while, everything else faded:
school,
work,
loneliness,
and even that dream.
Three hours passed in a blur of vibrant animation, thunderous sound effects, and emotionally charged climaxes.
The story unfolded, drawing them both into its world, a temporary escape from their own realities.
Their eyes followed every fight, every dramatic pause, every bright slash of color and sound. At times Kenja leaned forward;
at times Kengen forgot to blink.
When the credits finally rolled, Kenja leaned back in his chair with a satisfied grin, a look of genuine enjoyment on his face.
The room felt warmer, fuller, like something good had happened even if it was only on a screen.
"Damn… that was way too good."
Kengen stood up, stretching slightly, the stiffness in his limbs a reminder of his prolonged sitting. His shoulders cracked softly, and he rubbed the back of his neck.
"Alright, grandson. I'm heading home."
The familiar farewell was delivered with the same casual tone as always. He said it like he didn't care, but the routine itself was comforting in its own way.
The rain had finally ceased, leaving behind a city washed clean but eerily lifeless.
The sidewalks shone under the streetlights, and puddles reflected broken pieces of the sky.
Kengen began his walk home beneath the dim glow of streetlights, their reflections trembling across the wet asphalt like fractured memories, fragmented and distorted.
Drops still fell from power lines and tree branches, tapping softly at the ground like leftover echoes of the storm. The road was unnervingly silent.
Too silent.
as if the entire world were holding its breath, a stillness that felt unnatural.
Even the usual distant traffic noise seemed muted, as though the city had been turned down.
After taking only a few tentative steps, his pace faltered.
His senses,
dulled by the monotony of his routine, suddenly sharpened.
He heard something.
movement, rough voices, a scrape of shoes and his body reacted before his mind fully understood.
Ahead of him, in the dim light, shadows writhed.
A knot of figures moved with a disturbing urgency. Their shapes clustered tight, blocking the light, making a dark stain on the street.
A group of men surrounded a girl, their movements violent and unrestrained.
The scene was messy and frantic, arms grabbing and pulling, bodies closing in.
She struggled desperately, her body writhing against their grips, tears streaming down her face as her raw scream tore through the oppressive night air.
The sound was not like in movies;
it was ugly, real, and full of panic.
"HELP!—"
The sound, sharp and desperate, pierced him like a physical blade, jolting him out of his stupor.
It cut through his thoughts and went straight into his chest.
Kengen stopped, his feet seemingly rooted to the spot.
His heart pounded a frantic rhythm against his ribs,
a drumbeat of fear and indecision.
His hands clenched without him noticing,
nails pressing into his palms.
His thoughts churned,
cold and brutally honest,
a stark assessment of his own cowardice.
"What should I do?"
The question echoed in his mind, devoid of any heroic impulse.
There was no sudden courage, no natural
"I have to save her,"
only a heavy pause.
"If I step in… what do I gain from it?"
The answer,
stark and unyielding,
presented itself immediately.
"Nothing."
No reward.
No gratitude worth risking his life for.
His own safety, his own insignificant existence, seemed far more valuable than intervening.
He imagined fists, knives, the way things could go wrong in seconds.
He imagined being the one on the ground while strangers walked past.
His body stayed still, and the silence inside him felt disgusting, but it was there.
Just then, a voice emerged from behind him calm, sudden, and unsettlingly close, as if it had materialized from the very shadows.
"You should save her."
Kengen stiffened, a jolt of surprise running through him.
His skin prickled, and his stomach dropped. He turned sharply, his eyes narrowing in alarm and a growing sense of unease.
He hadn't heard footsteps.
He hadn't sensed anyone approach.
"Wait…"
he said slowly, the words catching in his throat as disbelief crept into his voice.
He stared at the figure standing there, a figure he recognized with a chilling certainty, not because he wanted to, but because the face was too familiar to deny.
"…are you Kim Joon Goo?"