I'd just left the rentals store, and the mid-afternoon sun was absolutely scorching as I walked through town. It was grocery day, my usual routine just to make sure I'd have something to eat tomorrow. This heat, though, I swear it's going to be the death of me. It felt like it was slowly cooking me from the inside out. If my apartment hadn't been completely bare, I never would've dared to step outside at this hour. Seriously, who wants to be out when it's like this?
My hands and feet were slick with sweat, my head felt like it was going to burst, and my clothes were sticking to me like a second skin. Even my stupid black hair was clumping together, constantly falling into my eyes. Every other minute, I had to awkwardly sweep it away with my wrist because both my hands were full, clutching those heavy grocery bags. God, I really wish I had a motorcycle or something to just zip around in when it's this infernal. And seriously, why is it so hot? Who even leaves their house in this kind of weather?
That's when I spotted the bookstore across the street. Naturally, there was a massive line snaking all the way around the corner. Of course, it was manga release day; the new issue was about to drop. Everyone was practically vibrating with excitement. It was a bit deflating, though, knowing most of them would go home completely empty-handed. Only a lucky few would actually get a copy. I just sighed, a deep, tired sigh that felt like it carried all the weight of the oppressive heat, and kept walking.
Later, on my way back to my apartment, still lugging those groceries, I found myself humming a random tune that had been stuck in my head all day. My mind started to drift, as it often does, to my name: Akira Tsukihara. It's really nothing special. It doesn't hold any deep meaning for me, and honestly, I couldn't care less what it means. My name doesn't define who I am. It's just something my parents decided to call me. And even though, deep down, I might not always love it, on the outside, I have to act like I cherish it. I put on a whole show for everyone else, pretending I absolutely adore it. It's just what you do, isn't it? You smile, you nod, you say "Oh, yes, I love my name!" even when you're thinking, "Meh."
So, what do I actually do for a living, you ask? Well, I'm a writer. An author, if you want to be formal. I churn out love stories—you know, those sweet, fluffy books that fill up bookstore shelves only to be replaced by the next wave of generic paperbacks within a month or two. I've written dozens of them, always clinging to the hope that just one, even one tiny little book, would somehow become a bestseller. My daydreams are pretty vivid: all my stories selling out, making me a ton of cash so I wouldn't have to write any more of this sappy stuff. Imagine, financial freedom from fictional romance! But back to reality, none of my stories have ever really taken off or captured a large audience for very long. I've written so many, probably more than I can even remember; I stopped counting a long time ago. And not a single one has gone viral or had high sales. I genuinely thought at least one would have completely sold out, made a splash, but I was wrong. It just feels like none of my work makes any real impact in the literary world. It's kind of a bummer, really, to pour your heart into something and have it just… sit there. Does that make sense?
While walking back to my apartment, my thoughts just kept circling back to my name: Akira Tsukihara. It means nothing, really. Not to the critics who probably just skimmed my books, not to my actual readers (bless their hearts for sticking with me), and honestly, not even to me. I'm completely aware of my situation; on the surface, I agree with what everyone else probably thinks. I'm just another failed author, my dreams and spirit already crushed and shattered. It's not some dramatic, epic downfall, but more like a quiet defeat brought on by the indifference of those who read my stories and the hard truth that my work is, at best, mediocre. I guess I was just exaggerating, thinking it was more than it actually was.
I'm painfully aware that my life, if I were to compare it to a bird, is pretty much caged and chained by what I can only call the "Chains of Mediocrity." It's a constant, dull ache in my mind. If only I could come up with a good plot, something fresh and exciting. But my mind feels totally blank. I have no idea what else to write. Seriously, why do people even enjoy this kind of stuff so much? To the point where they'll spend hours reading romance fanfiction, getting this insane level of motivation from it? What is wrong with these people? If you gave me a million years, I still wouldn't understand them. It's just baffling.
Finally, I reached my apartment building. A small smile touched my lips. Ah, sweet solitude! Home at last. And more importantly, no more lugging these ridiculously heavy grocery bags. Seriously, my arms felt like they were about to fall off. If only my latest story, the one I just published, actually made me enough cash, I'd definitely buy a motorcycle, maybe a Vespa. Imagine, zipping around comfortably, able to buy as many groceries as I want without breaking my back. But for now, I was just ecstatic to drop these bags.
I walked towards the building's front gate. It looked sturdy enough, at least. I slid the door open with my foot, just enough space to squeeze myself and these bulging bags through. But just as I was about to step inside, a deep, loud voice boomed from behind me, telling me to "hold." It almost made me jump, and then, a wave of familiar anger and disgust washed over me. But I kept my face calm. I knew that voice. My intuition, unfortunately, was spot on. It was the guard.
He then spoke, his tone dripping with that sarcasm I absolutely despise. "Ma'am," he said, drawing out the word, "this is a private residence building. You can't just waltz in without proof you live here. So, ma'am, I'm going to need to see your resident card."
I let out a huge sigh, my mind screaming, Not this again! "Don't you think this kind of flirting is getting a little old, Verto?" I shot back, trying to keep my voice steady, but the anger was bubbling. "And incredibly creepy, even for you."
Verto, in his typical, infuriating "I-know-it-all" way, just laughed. "You've been avoiding me for a while now, haven't you, lady? You don't even come out of your apartment when my shift starts. What's wrong, girly? Did I upset you on our last date?"
I actually laughed out loud at his words, but inside, my heart was boiling with pure rage and disgust. As I forced out another laugh at the sheer bullshit spewing from his garbage-hole of a mouth, my mind reeled back to when I first moved into this apartment a year ago. I needed help moving my stuff from the first floor to my apartment on the third. My big table, you see, wouldn't fit in the elevator, so it had to go up the stairs. The old guard couldn't leave the gate, so when his shift ended, he asked the new, young guard – Verto – to help me.
At first, Verto wasn't keen, but then he saw me. That's when his creepy smile spread across his face, clear as day. I didn't say anything, I just needed the help. But as we were about to enter the building, he deliberately brushed his hand against mine. That was the first red flag, right there. At the time, I brushed it off, thinking it might have been an accident. After he helped me get everything into my apartment, I thanked him and was about to close the door in his face. But he used his foot to stop it.
He then asked if he could come in for a drink. I told him I'd just moved in, hadn't even unpacked, so I didn't have anything good to offer. He just shrugged and said a glass of water would be fine. So, I smiled sweetly and told him, "Oh, good! There's an AquaGuard on every floor of this building; you can drink from there." And then, I caught him off guard. I opened the door so fast, while he was still leaning against it, that he lost his balance. I pushed him lightly on the chest, and he stumbled back, letting go of my door. I slammed it shut as quickly as I could.
From that day on, he's been harassing me. Every time we cross paths at the gate, whether I'm coming or going. Sometimes, even when I'm just outside. I even considered going to the police, but then I decided to talk to the landlord first. Turns out, Verto is the landlord's son. And since I was a little short on rent for a month or two, I've had to endure his constant harassment. He knows he can get away with it, and it's infuriating.
Back to the present. Verto finally stopped his nonsensical rambling. I forced a smile onto my face. "Keep your mouth shut," I told him, my voice deceptively calm. "Nothing like that ever happened between us, so I don't mind some silence from you."
He just grinned, that smug, confident grin. "Alright, feisty. Just how I like it. But now's not the time, I'm at work. So, keep the dirty talk to yourself."
I scoffed, my fake smile still plastered on. "Can you just stop now? You look pathetic trying that hard."
"Yeah, yeah," he chuckled, "I think I know when I'm going hard." He actually winked. What a disgusting man, I thought, my insides churning.
"Let me help you open the door," he offered, and as he did, he deliberately tried to brush his shoulder against mine. But I moved in time, slipping quickly into the building. As I walked away, he called out, "See you later!" I just looked back, gave him a small, cold smile, and kept walking. All the while, my mind was filled with vivid fantasies of punching his face, kicking him in the nuts, and bashing his skull into the gates over and over until it cracked open. Oh, how I wished that imagination of mine could come true!
I finally reached the elevator and stepped inside, pressing the button for the third floor. Just as the doors were about to close, an old woman, Soura, entered. The doors closed behind her, and we began our ascent.
So, the elevator doors closed, and there I was, going up to the third floor with that old woman. I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. Isn't that the lady who lives on the second floor, right below me? Soura, I think her name is. We've definitely bumped into each other a few times in the hallways, and once at that building security meeting – oh god, that was a boring one. I offered her a gentle smile. "Good afternoon, Madam," I said, trying to be polite. She just nodded back, a small smile on her face. And then... awkward silence. The kind that fills the space and makes you want to squirm.
Finally, the elevator dinged, reaching the third floor. The doors opened, and I shuffled out, juggling my grocery bags. My apartment door was just around the corner, and I was so close, practically dreaming of dropping these heavy bags. But then, I suddenly stopped. I felt a hand on mine from behind me.
I looked back, and sure enough, it was the old woman. Before I could even say anything, she looked at me with this gentle, calm, very grandma-like smile, and then she released my hand. I pulled my hand back, and now that I think about it, she's actually pretty strong for an elderly lady.
"Oh dear," she asked, her voice soft, "you look distressed. Are you alright? Is everything okay?"
I blinked. Distressed? I didn't think I was showing any distress. Why was she asking me that? Wait a minute, was I unknowingly showing how stressed I was, and it made her uncomfortable? Was she just forced to ask me this awkward question out of politeness?
I forced another gentle smile. "No, Madam, I don't have any problem. I'm completely fine, but thank you for asking."
"Well, alright then, alright," she said, nodding. "But be careful, okay? There are some dangerous people all around us, and a young girl living alone can be dangerous."
"Thank you for caring," I replied, trying to sound genuinely appreciative. "I'll make sure to take care of myself."
"Alright then, I'll go now," she said, turning to leave. But then she stopped. "Wait a minute."
"What is it, Madam?" I asked, my patience starting to wear thin, but still trying to be respectful.
She rummaged in her purse and pulled out a small piece of paper. She handed it to me. "Here's the number for my grandson's mobile. He's a police officer. Call me if you're ever in danger, and I'll tell him."
"Okay, thank you, Madam," I started, but before I could finish, she cut me off.
"Don't worry about it," she said, already turning and heading back towards the elevator. This whole exchange was just… awkward.
I started walking towards my apartment, shaking my head a little. What a kind lady, though. I really should thank her properly the next time I see her in the corridors.
Finally, I reached my apartment door. Oh, the sweet relief! I could finally go inside, drop these bags, and just… collapse. But then I saw him. A man in a suit, standing right in front of my door, waiting. When I saw his face, I recognized him instantly. And no, I was not happy to see him.
It was my editor.
I finally reached the door of my apartment, and there he was: my editor. My legs stopped dead for a moment. For a fleeting second, the idea of running away, just bolting down the hall, flashed through my mind. But before I could even pivot, he saw me. His gaze fixed on me, and with a straight, emotionless face, he said, "I was waiting for you."
Oh no, here it comes, I thought, bracing myself.
He practically jumped at me, engulfing me in a hug. I kind of expected it, but it still almost made me drop my grocery bags. With a goofy smile plastered on his face, he exclaimed, "Big sis, it's been far too long! I waited so long my feet are starting to hurt. Can we go inside your apartment?"
I let out a big sigh. "Fine. Just let go of me." I managed to push the door open, and we both entered my apartment.
Now he's sitting in the chair at my tiny dining table, humming some annoying tune, practically vibrating with unlimited energy and that irritating puppy-dog smile. Meanwhile, I'm in my kitchen, unpacking groceries and making tea for my uninvited guest. I thought to myself, he's really like a bear. Big and imposing, but in truth, he's like a giant teddy bear. But despite that, he's a real pain in the ass. He's my new editor, after the old one finally decided he couldn't work with me anymore. Honestly, I hated the old one even more than he hated me, so it was a win-win.
I brought him his tea and some meager snacks. As we sat there, sipping the tea I made, another familiar dread settled in. There's one other thing I absolutely despise about his visits: it always means there's some huge problem, usually because he messed something up.
After we finished our tea, I gently placed my cup down, taking one last sip. He was still babbling about how good the tea was, but I finally broke the facade of peace. I violently smashed both of my hands onto the table, making him jump. He stared at me, startled. In a flat, emotionless voice, I told him, "Just get on with it. What did you do now?"
He gave me an awkward, sheepish smile. "What? Why do you always assume I only come to you when I make mistakes? I thought writers had open, imaginative minds!"
I gave him a death glare, one that usually makes people squirm, and it actually seemed to scare him a little.
"Calm down!" he said, his voice a bit more subdued. "You look like you're going to kill someone. And when you look like that, I don't really feel safe around you."
"What did you just say?" I retorted, anger and frustration boiling onto my face. My calm demeanor completely shattered. "Just tell me what it is!"
With a sigh of forfeit, he said, "Fine, fine, but you're no fun! If you keep acting like this, you'll find no man to marry and die alone and old!" He then paused for dramatic effect, as usual. "There's good news and bad news."
My latest story, "The Fallen Kingdom of Seraphis," was a success.
At first, I didn't believe what I heard. My composed, emotionless artist facade completely crumbled. A goofy, happy smile spread across my face. But the second I realized what I was doing, I quickly composed myself, snapping back to my unreadable expression. He saw everything, though. It made him smile, and I felt a blush creep up my neck, embarrassed. Still, I couldn't help but think, Is my wish coming true? Have the gods finally answered my long-awaited prayers?
But then, in the midst of my soaring happiness, his voice cut short. I could recognize the subtle difference in his tone, just now. And his face – it looked different, too, in a scary way. His eyes met mine, his expression shifting from carefree and happy to serious and sad. Then, in a low voice, he said, "The bad news is... your new story, that very same story that got hit and popular overnight, is getting cancelled and banned for further development."
Wait, what did you say? Those words jolted me awake from my fantasies. A cold wave of suspicion and surprise washed over me.
For a second, I couldn't think straight. I absolutely could not believe what I had just heard from him. "What did you just say to me?" I practically shrieked, the words tumbling out before I could even process them. "Are you trying to tell me my most recent story, the one that finally got the popularity I always wanted, is now... getting banned from further development? Why? What exactly happened? Why would you say that? What's going on?!" My voice was rising with every question, a mix of disbelief, anger, and a terrifying sliver of hope that this was all just some sick joke.
He finally looked at me, his eyes grave, and in a low voice, he delivered the next blow. "A different company from ours, one that does pretty much the same work – publishing novels and stories – is filing a copyright case and a lawsuit on us. And apparently, your story is exactly similar to one of their old but very popular stories. According to them, you copied it and published it as your own."
He paused, letting that sink in. "I don't know if you did that or not, but I hope this is all just a big misunderstanding. In any case, you should check it out yourself. Their lawyers aren't making it easy for us. Plus, do you know they hired a special lawyer? A guy named Lucian. He's said to have never lost a single case." He swallowed, then continued, "I say we need to hire a lawyer of our own as soon as possible to cover our losses."
With that, he got off the chair, already moving towards my apartment door, clearly intending to bolt. But before he could even reach it, I quickly spoke up, my voice sharper than I intended. "Wait a minute! If they're trying to say that my story is a copy of theirs, wasn't it your job to check before publishing it? Isn't that what your job is?"
He didn't say a word. Not a single, pathetic word. He just opened the door and slipped out of my apartment as fast as he could, leaving me standing there, dumbfounded and furious.
What an asshole! I thought, my mind seething. This bastard is making me the scapegoat for his own screw-ups. I'm going to kill him when I get the chance, I swear to god. But for now, I had much bigger troubles.
I never wrote my stories by copying from others. Never. Is this just a huge misunderstanding, or... or was it on purpose? No, it couldn't be. I had to check it out myself. Because there was no way I had the cash flowing around to hire a competent lawyer to go up against a fully operational, presumably wealthy company. I had no choice. I had to do the unthinkable: I had to read that novel, the one people were claiming I copied. The very idea made my stomach clench.
Later in the evening, I was sprawled out on my bed, in my comfy clothes, a packet of chips and a scattering of snacks right by my side. I pulled out my phone, opened Instagram, and started scrolling through shorts, popping a chip into my mouth, stretching my legs out on the mattress. Just enjoying this little slice of peace I call home.
I knew, logically, I should be researching that other story. I knew I should be working hard to clear my name, doing my best to prove to everyone that I didn't do anything wrong. I should be preparing to fight for my story against that big company. Yeah, that sounds pretty awesome and heroic, doesn't it? Like something out of one of those dramatic movies.
But the truth? The cold, hard truth of this world I live in is that I have neither the money nor the power, no background, or even the willpower to stand against them. That's just how it is.
In all my stories, all my novels, where I write those sweet lies like "love conquered all" or some other ridiculous platitude, I just keep feeding readers lies, chapter after chapter, book after book. Every single chapter of my story, I churn out the same cheesy, lovey-dovey stuff that countless other writers use over and over again. Why? Because people don't want something new. They just want the same thing with different icing. And I kept writing and doing the same dumb stuff, again and again, because that's what they wanted from me. Not truth. Not grit. Not reality. Just fiction wrapped in a pretty pink ribbon. They don't want anything different; they just want to see that good and love are the best solutions to all problems.
And so, I kept writing what they'd already seen a thousand times in different fictions, including my own. Night after night, I sat at my desk, shackled to this false ideal. Smiling through clenched teeth as I typed out another saccharine confession scene, another magical moment of clarity, another hollow happily-ever-after.
But deep down, something inside me festered. A rot I could no longer ignore. And I didn't know it then, but that was actually the feeling of disgust over myself for writing this kind of shallow material. And I hated that about me. I truly hated it. It felt like I was betraying something fundamental within myself, all for the sake of mass appeal and a paycheck that rarely amounted to much anyway. It was soul-crushing, to be honest.
There I was, dropping another chip into my mouth, scrolling through my phone, feeling pretty content. And then, of course, a message popped up. From that stupid editor. The one who's the entire reason for this mess.
He was saying he was "extremely sorry" for being the cause of my troubles. At least he admitted it, that much. But then came the usual spin: he couldn't admit to any more mistakes, or his job as an editor would be finished, no other company would take him in. So, he's leaving the company, and "please, big sis, don't tell anyone."
Yeah, right. Like I'm going to take this stupid blame. Sorry, buddy, I don't care if you live or die, even if you end up living in the sewers, see if I care. But oddly enough, I'm not going to tell anyone or blame you. Why? Because I'm too bored with my job anyway. So, you're safe for now, buddy.
That whole message got me thinking, though, about the story I'm being accused of stealing and publishing as my own. I have no idea how anyone could accuse me of stealing my own damn story. And to be specific, the story they're accusing me of stealing is actually my oldest work. Yes, my latest published story is actually the very first story I ever had the idea of writing. I just never published it back then for reasons that honestly make me sad, so I really don't want to talk about it.
Anyway, back to my phone. I stumbled upon a short video of a police ceremony, officers getting promoted. I saw an old, fat police officer struggling to get onto the stage for his promotion. And honestly, I immediately thought, how are the people who are supposed to protect us so unprofessionally inactive? Someone who doesn't get enough physical exercise, even when their job demands they be fit all the time? It's just baffling.
When that couch potato of a man finally got to the stage and received his promotion, he looked so happy. And just by looking at him, I could tell he's someone who probably lounges around all day. I know, I know, I shouldn't be criticizing someone else, especially since I'm pretty lazy myself. And I shouldn't be body-shaming, because who knows, one day I might look like him. We'll cross that nightmare when we get there, but at least I'm not right now.
Then the camera panned to the audience, and an old woman stood up and clapped for the man. He waved back at her. When I looked closer, she looked kind of familiar. With closer inspection, I realized it was Soura. Isn't that the same old lady who lives on the second floor, right below me? The one I talked to earlier today about my well-being and safety, and whose grandson is a police officer? It had to be her. What a strange coincidence.
I decided to do a little bit of snooping around online on that fat old policeman. And you know what? It's really unsettling how easy it is to find information on people these days. Anyone can dig up so much about you in a matter of seconds. It kind of makes you think, isn't it? Is the internet a perfect tool of knowledge, or a great weapon of mental warfare if used properly? And that "user" can be anyone with a phone and a basic understanding of how to use the internet, including myself.
But back to finding out all about that man. What I found out didn't surprise me at first, but then what I saw... I couldn't believe it. It literally shocked me.
Turns out, he's a 41-year-old police officer, living a double life. After his wife, he was apparently living with another woman, and both of them had no idea he was married to the other. And he had kids with both! Naturally, both women left him, and he's now single, looking for dates, with multiple accounts on different dating sites. Plus, in the comment sections of whatever exposé I was reading, he's apparently known as a "cheater and disappointment" in real life and in bed by both his ex-wives. Yeah, that was pretty personal, and way more information than I ever needed.
But the most shocking thing was the realization that he was actually the grandson of my neighbor, Soura. It was right there, in a picture from a holiday he posted online. As I connected the dots, a truly horrible truth dawned on me, and it filled me with such profound disgust. That old hag, that sweet old lady I thought was just being nice, was actually trying to hook me up with her asshole grandson! That bitch! How could she?! I was furiously angry at her, and at myself for letting my guard down.
I violently shot off my bed, pacing furiously around my apartment furniture, cursing that old bitch under my breath. But then, in my angry pacing, I stomped my foot right on my toe. I let out a soft groan, then a growl of pain and sadness. A tear actually formed in my eye. I quickly grabbed my throbbing toe with both hands, collapsing onto the floor in agony. This had to be the worst day of this week, hands down.
After some time, when the pain became tolerable, I sat back down on my bed. Well, the moment had passed. She tried to trick me, but I wouldn't fall for it now that I knew the truth.
My mind, however, immediately went back to the copyright case, the bigger problem. At least now I could actually see what story I was being condemned for. So, I messaged my stupid editor to tell me the name of the story they were claiming I copyrighted. Within a minute of me sending the text, he responded back, faster than I could have ever expected. I thought to myself, cheekily, looks like he was waiting for my response, probably wondering if I was going to rat him out or not. But I'm not going to tell him I won't rat him out. Let him suffer a little bit more.
Anyway, back to the story. The name of this alleged copy was "Hearts Bound by Starlight and Ruin." So cheesy. I searched it online, opened the website to read this stuff on my laptop, took a sip of the coffee I'd just prepared for this miserable task, and started reading it. Even though I absolutely hated reading these kinds of stories. This was going to be a long night.
I started reading that story at about 7 PM, and now it was already midnight. I only stopped because my feet were freezing, and I really needed my blanket. Plus, my stomach was growling – I was starving.
I got up, went to the kitchen, grabbed a cold water bottle from the fridge, and then pulled out a packet of ramen from the cabinet. I mean, the only reason I even started reading that story was to prove I didn't copy it. But after I read it, I had some mixed feelings.
I definitely realized that some of the characters were similar to mine, and the setting was the same. But that story also had a lot of extra characters my story didn't, and the plot, the power system, and the overall outline were completely different from mine. Honestly, I still hated the overly dramatic, cheesy romance parts, but it wasn't as bad as I thought. I actually started liking the plot; I really think it has potential. I was already on chapter 46, and each chapter was between 2,000 and 4,000 words. The comedic tone really gave it the edge it needed. I was actually pretty interested now.
"Let's make this quick," I thought. I grabbed a pan and put it on the stove, shivering from the cold. I probably needed to dig out my winter clothes soon. But when I tried to turn on the stove, nothing happened. Am I out of gas? I swore I refilled it last week. How did it finish so fast? Looks like it was cup noodles for dinner. I pulled one out of the same cabinet, peeled back the lid, and poured hot water from the electric kettle. I settled back down near my laptop screen, ready to keep reading.
All of a sudden, my laptop screen started buffering, making this weird "zing" sound like a radio losing signal. "Oh no," I thought. "What's happening now? If it broke, I don't have the cash to fix it."
Then, the air itself became incredibly cold, like the temperature had plummeted to negative degrees. I wrapped my arms around myself and stood up, heading to my bed where a blanket was waiting. I grabbed the laptop on my way. As I walked, I noticed something strange about the closed glass windows of my apartment – it looked unusually dark outside, no light at all. And the corners of my apartment were strangely dark, even though the room lights were on. It was unsettlingly dark, like the light just didn't reach those spots. "It's just my imagination," I whispered to myself, trying to stay calm. But I could feel the hairs on my body standing on end, which just told me how truly scared I was.
I pulled the blanket tightly around me, still feeling the intense cold. This blanket is too thin, I thought. I need to get the heavy ones and some warm winter clothes from the closet. That's when it hit me: it's the middle of summer. How could it be this cold? My air conditioner wasn't even on.
Then, an idea popped into my head. To check, I did a simple experiment: I exhaled to see if my breath would mist in the air, like it does in winter. It did. That meant only I was feeling the cold; the actual temperature hadn't changed. Fear gripped me. There was definitely something happening, and it wasn't natural. It was supernatural. I didn't know what was going on, but it couldn't be good.
I tried to call someone, but my phone also had the same buffering screen. Then, I looked back at my laptop screen. The buffering was gone, replaced by a plain white screen. Fifteen letters were written there, in some foreign language I'd never seen before. Confused, I held the laptop closer to me. The letters shimmered, then disappeared from the white screen. The last thing I remembered was a brilliant, blinding light that erupted from the screen, completely engulfing me.
At first, I thought it was just a glitch. Maybe a power surge. But then the lights in the room dimmed—just a little too slowly, sinking into a gloom no apartment lightbulb should ever produce. Shadows stretched across the walls like they were trying to crawl towards me. The corners of the room twisted ever so slightly, as if they didn't belong. The air went still. So still it felt like reality itself had stopped breathing. And then I felt it. That presence. It's hard to explain—how do you put into words the feeling of being watched by something that doesn't have eyes? But I swear, to whatever god might have been listening… something was in the room with me.
No—everything was watching me. The walls. The floor. The ceiling. Even the screen of my laptop. It was as if some ancient, invisible entity had decided to stare into the deepest cracks of my soul… and it was enjoying what it found. My skin crawled. My heart hammered in my chest. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.
And then—A blinding light came from my laptop. It swallowed me whole. I didn't even have time to scream. I didn't even know how to scream anymore.
This feeling... it was something I'd never experienced before. There was no ground beneath me, no gravity, no sound. Yet, I was falling, my body feeling weightless, meaningless, through an infinite black void. My body didn't feel like my own. My limbs—if I even had them anymore—drifted without direction. I couldn't tell if I was floating or if the universe around me was spinning.
Memories fractured. I could see pieces of my life—flashes of them—breaking apart like stained glass. My first rejection letter. My tiny, cramped apartment. The smell of burnt coffee. The blinking cursor on a blank document. My name, printed on covers no one bought: Akira Tsukihara. And then those fragments shattered into nothing.
An unbearable pressure closed in, like I was being pulled inside out and compressed into something I didn't understand. Time had no meaning here. There was no past, no present. Only transition. A violent, cosmic rewriting of my existence.
And then—
It stopped.
The darkness peeled away.
A light—soft and warm, almost golden—wrapped itself around me like silk. I couldn't see my body, but I felt it, piece by piece, being stitched back together. Reformed. Like I had been torn into billions of fragments… and now, something—someone—was carefully putting me back into a shape.
But it wasn't the same shape.
I wasn't the same.
When I could breathe again, it hurt. At first, it was violent and unsteady, a desperate clawing for air, but now it was calm. Still, it hurt. The air clawed its way down my throat, thick and heavy, like I was inhaling water instead of air. I choked on it, gasping, coughing, blinking hard against a dim, flickering light.
The first thing I saw was… hay. Piles of it, strewn across a dirt floor. Some of it poked me through a thin, scratchy fabric that clung to my skin. I looked down—my dress was dull, rough-spun, frayed at the edges. The kind of thing a poor peasant girl might've worn in the 1700s. And then the smell hit me. Mud. Dung. Wet wood. Greenery. A mix of earth and rot and something so organic it made my nose twitch. I instinctively covered it with my hands.
I sat up slowly—my limbs trembling, unsteady. My head spun. The walls around me were wooden, uneven. The windows were tiny slits in the structure. I wasn't in my apartment. I wasn't in Japan. I wasn't anywhere I recognized. "What the hell…" I whispered, my voice hoarse and strange. Was this some kind of farm? Did someone drug me? Did I get kidnapped and dumped in a countryside pigsty?
I couldn't make sense of anything. My heart pounded like a war drum in my chest. I tried to calm myself, told myself this had to be a dream. A coma. A psychotic break. Something. Anything. So I did what every idiot in every movie does. I tried to pinch myself.
But when I raised my hand… My breath caught in my throat. It wasn't my hand. It was too small. Too thin. The skin was rough, sun-kissed and dirt-smudged. The fingers were delicate, but calloused—like they belonged to a girl who had never known a desk, only fields and hard labor. And then I saw my arms. My legs. Little. Frail. Wrong.
I scrambled toward the nearest mirror—no, not a mirror. A half-polished bronze plate nailed to the wooden wall. The reflection was murky, distorted… but I saw enough. My hair—once black and straight—was now a mess of pale white strands, tangled and unkempt. My face… it wasn't my face. The eyes that stared back were too large. Too glassy. Too young.
"What… what the hell is this…?" I whispered. My voice cracked—lighter, softer than it used to be. A sickening wave of dread crashed into me. That's not me. That's not my face. That's not my body. I wasn't Akira Tsukihara anymore. I was… someone else. Some peasant girl in a world that reeked of medieval misery. What the hell is happening to me…? I pressed my hands to my face, desperate to wake up. But no matter how hard I tried, nothing changed. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't some metaphor. This was real.
I had fallen out of my world… And into another. I wasn't… me anymore.
The panic hit me like a crashing wave. Not gentle. Not a nudge. No, it slammed into me, swallowed me whole and dragged me under. I scrambled to my feet—if you could even call them mine anymore. My legs were weak, unsteady like they'd never known anything but dirt roads and hard living. My hands fumbled over my face. I expected sharp features—my nose, my cheekbones, the familiarity of a face I'd seen in every mirror for decades. But what I touched wasn't mine. My fingers—small, rough, calloused—brushed over skin that felt too soft in places and too worn in others. My cheeks were sunken. My skin was dry.
And my hair—God. My hair. No longer sleek. No longer black. It was matted, tangled, uneven, and white. Not the beautiful, silvery kind of anime protagonists, no. White like stress. Like rot. Like I had been drained of youth and identity all at once. My stomach twisted into knots. My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't. The dread settled in my bones, thick and immovable.
And then I looked outside.
I wish I hadn't. The cottage door creaked open like it hadn't been touched in years. And outside… The world was wrong. The air was stale, heavy with a quiet that screamed in silence. I stood on the edge of a village—no, not a village. A corpse pretending to be one. Shabby huts leaned into each other like broken ribs. Roofs sagged. Walls were patched with straw and desperation. The streets weren't streets. They were dirt paths soaked with old blood and older sorrow. The sky above was a sickly gray. Not cloudy—drained. Like the color had been sucked out of the heavens and replaced with despair. The sun was nothing but a weak pulse behind the gloom. There was no warmth.
I clutched the doorframe, my legs nearly giving out beneath me. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a twisted fantasy. This was my story. And I think, somehow, I've been reincarnated into the world of my own story.
Then, out of nowhere, I heard a loud sound of someone calling someone else in a foreign language. I couldn't understand it at first, but somehow, I actually knew this foreign language that I'd never heard before. It was as if I'd been speaking this language for a long time. The man was calling someone named Aira.