It had been weeks since Gen disappeared into the belly of the city.
The slums swallowed him whole.
His once clean face now bore the start of a scruffy, uneven beard—a patchy rebellion of hair he never thought he could grow. The boy who once stood atop Linguang Tower was now just another ghost wandering the alleyways. His clothes were permanently damp. His hands were raw and blistered. His ribs showed under the black poncho that clung to his once large and muscular frame.
Every day began the same.
Bag in hand. Head down. Searching for anything he could sell.
At this point Gen didn't even care about the missions anymore. That was no longer on his mind, the only thing that is, was his survival. So be it he thought, if he reverted back to his former fat and ugly self. What could he possibly need being handsome and strong in his current situation?
Today, like the others, Gen picked through alleyways and gutters. He plucked up bottles, twisted scrap metal, crushed cans—whatever had weight. A life measured in trash.
He tied the bag closed and dragged it, heavy and sagging, toward the scrapyard on the city's edge.
Rows of others waited in line, all wearing the same worn expressions. A man in a bright orange vest and dented hard hat stood by the scale, barking at the crowd.
"NEXT!"
Gen stepped up, dragging the bag onto the scale.
The man grunted. "Ten pounds. That'll get you twelve hundred yen."
Gen blinked. "What? No—last time, I got fifteen hundred. And it's supposed to be two thousand per pound. This should be twenty thousand."
The man's lip curled into a smirk. "Listen, kid. You want the money or not?"
Gen's jaw clenched. His fists balled under the poncho.
"Fine."
The man narrowed his eyes. "You're always so suspicious... what're you hiding under that hood, huh?"
Gen yanked the bills from his hand and turned sharply. The man grabbed his shoulder, but Gen shoved it off with enough force to stagger him. Whispers followed, but he didn't look back.
His stomach growled violently.
At the corner of the main street, Gen stopped at a street vendor—an elderly woman ladling steaming rice and grilled fish into styrofoam bowls.
He held out his money with trembling fingers.
"One, please."
The smell nearly made him cry tears of joy.
He took the bowl with reverence, holding it like treasure, his mouth already watering as he turned and hurried home.
But as he stepped into a side alley, his foot caught on a loose pipe.
CRASH!
He sprawled forward, the bowl sailing from his hands.
It landed face-down in a puddle—rice and fish spreading like a cruel joke.
Gen hit the ground hard, water soaking through his poncho. His hands burned from the impact, knees stinging. But worse than the pain was the silence. The emptiness.
He stared at the ruined food.
His stomach churned.
Slowly, shakily, Gen pushed himself onto his knees and slammed his fist into the puddle, sending a spray of dirty water across his face.
"DAMN IT!"
He stayed there, breath ragged, eyes stinging—not from the splash, but from everything.
From the hunger. The cold. The loneliness.
From what he had become.
He staggered back to the broken shed he called home. Just walls and a roof made of rotted wood and old billboard tarps.
He dropped onto the cardboard bed, curling to one side.
Everything ached.
His voice came out broken, barely a whisper.
"All I ever wanted… was to not get bullied."
His voice cracked.
"I wanted friends. I wanted to be strong... handsome... popular. Someone people could like."
Tears rolled down his cheek, hidden in the folds of the poncho.
"I never asked for this. I never wanted to kill anyone."
He lay in the darkness, wishing he could forget everything.
But instead of sleep, he slipped into something else.
A dimly lit room flickered into existence around him.
Stone walls. A crooked wooden chair. That same eerie table.
He knew this place.
Crexa's room.
Gen stepped forward slowly at first. Then faster. His bare feet echoed across the floor.
"Crexa!" he shouted.
Silence.
"CREXA, WHERE ARE YOU?!"
He dropped into the chair, hands trembling. His breath echoed in the room.
Then, out of the shadows—he appeared.
Crexa.
Cloaked in black, face hidden behind her porcelain mask. That impossible, floating presence.
Gen stood suddenly, slamming his fists onto the table—
CRACK.
The wood splintered under the force.
"WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?!" he screamed.
Crexa tilted his head. "That was a good table, you know. Handmade. One of a kind."
"I don't care. I'm done with your riddles. What did you do to me?! Was this your plan all along?! To turn my life into this—THIS MESS?!"
He didn't reply.
Instead, she turned slowly, her footsteps long and theatrical, pacing to the far side of the ruined table.
"ANSWER ME, DAMN IT!"
His voice cracked like lightning. His body shook.
Crexa stopped. Slowly, he reached up and waved his hand across his face, the dark mist. It slowly dissipated and a face emerged.
Gen froze.
But what he saw wasn't what he expected.
His face was... familiar.
Too familiar.
"No..." he whispered, stepping back.
Crexa's eyes burned into him—piercing, knowing, sad.
"You still don't understand, Gen." he said softly.
"This isn't the beginning. This is the return."