The Exposition

What is real? What is not?

Am I living in reality? Or a peculiar reverie?

I can see the obscure, touch and feel its existence, and recognize its image. It is surreal, yet it feels absolute. This led me to find an uncertain answer, hoping it would steer me true.

Because...

This is... what I longed for...even if it was impossible...

Fantasy is an endless realm woven from pure imagination—a world unbound by truth or logic, where possibilities are limitless, and anything you can dream becomes a reality. The world of fantasy is a beautiful sanctuary, a refuge from the harshness of reality. But, it is nothing more than an alluring delusion—an escape that blinds you from truth. Yet, I yearned for the solace of beautiful lies, for they made the world feel bearable.

But if fantasy were to become truth... would it torment me like reality?

***

Once more, an insipid sunrise casts its light over the "prosperous" city of Tokyo, Japan. Amidst this urban landscape stands an unnecessary yet intricately designed apartment building. Within its walls lies a stark apartment, devoid of character, furnished only with a bed, a solitary lamp, and a sparse shelf. The walls are drab brown, offering a dull and tasteless view.

People often say that rooms reflect a person. This is erroneous, yet it rings true; my surroundings mirror my nature—toneless and devoid of ambition.

No...that's not what I was...

But... I refuse to talk about it...

...

I am Kizu Kiyoshi, a hopeless nobody enduring the taste of anxiety. It's the second year of my withering adulthood, and I find myself living in my closest friend's apartment—which feels rather pathetic. While they enjoy their vibrant college life, I'm left slowly rotting away in solitude. It was time for me to stop being a burden to him, so this week, I found a job that seemed perfect for keeping my identity under wraps—or so I thought. Now I wonder why I feel the need to keep my identity hidden in the first place.

I woke up groggy, dragging myself out of bed and through the motions of my morning routine. My reflection in the mirror—messy hair, half-lidded eyes—mocked my attempt to feel hopeful about the day ahead. Still, I clung to the fragile promise of a fresh start, even as a nagging unease tugged at the edges of my thoughts. It wasn't until I was almost out the door that it hit me...

"Wait... What time is it?!"

My dull mind exploded into chaos as panic took hold. I scrambled to check the time, my eyes darting everywhere for the alarm. In my hysterical frenzy, I couldn't even notice the glaringly obvious alarm right there, screaming at me from inches away! Frustrated, I gave up and reached for my phone instead—only to realize it was missing too.

"Seriously? Of all days?!" I groaned, frantically patting down my pockets and scanning the room like a maniac.

My phone!!! Where's my phone?!?!

If I'm late, my boss will kill me—on my first day, no less! Then I'll lose the job, end up broke, and be stuck in this apartment until my friend kicks me out. I'll be homeless, starving on the streets, and eventually vanish without a trace. No one will even remember I existed! I muttered, desperately searching for anything that could tell me the time—fumbling around the nightstand, digging through the sheets—yet somehow still failing to spot the blaring alarm right beside me.

No, no, no! I can't let my mind spiral like this—I need to stop overthinking! I stopped muddling and bolted for the door, as though the very ground beneath me was collapsing. Just then, an irritated voice snapped, "Oh my God! Can you stop mumbling around?!" before the door suddenly slammed into me, narrowly missing the one part of me I needed most, right between my thighs.

"It's not like you're in college anymore!" the man remarked. "It's still six; your job starts at exactly eight," he added, his face wearing a look of mild disappointment.

Dressed in a bluish-gray suit and dark pants, with a college ID hanging around his neck, he had dyed gray hair and striking black eyes that somehow only added to his annoyingly charming smile. Despite his effortless charisma, his jokes were ridiculously corny—so much so that they either made people cringe or left them awkwardly chuckling. His name is Azuto. He is eighteen, a law school student, and my childhood friend.

I lay on the floor, still completely inert. Azuto seemed to have had enough of my nonsense; the slight furrow in his brow hinted that he was steeling himself for another one of his dreadful jokes.

And there it goes.

"Oh, so you're just going to lie there like a pile of laundry, huh?" he finally said, flashing a grin. "If you keep this up, someone might mistake you for a doormat." Typical. I groaned inwardly at the terrible joke, but—as much as I hated to admit it—he had a point.

"I'll get up," I muttered weakly, dragging myself to my feet. My limbs felt heavy, as though the weight of my thoughts had settled into my very bones. As I trudged past Azuto, I could feel his gaze on me, sharp and unyielding, his concern practically radiating off him. His silence spoke louder than any words, pressing against me like a suffocating fog. I didn't need to turn around to know what he was thinking. It was written all over his face—the worry, the frustration, the silent plea for me to just... be okay.

And that weight only made it worse. His endless support, his unwavering kindness, it all piled onto the ever-growing mountain of guilt in my chest. I needed to do more. I needed to be better. For him.

Azuto sighed softly, breaking the silence. "I'm asking you this one more time—please, is there anything I can do to help?"

His voice was gentle, almost hesitant, like he was afraid of pushing me too far. Yet the sincerity in his tone was unmistakable. It was that same selfless concern, that unwavering kindness, that stirred something in me. A faint spark of hope, buried beneath layers of doubt and despair. But even with his kindness staring me in the face, I couldn't bring myself to speak. The words caught in my throat, strangled by the weight of my own inadequacy.

It didn't matter who asked—no one could understand. Being open with anyone seemed pointless.

The world was still the same. Empty.

Yet, I should be the one offering help, not the one receiving it. I should be the one carrying the burden. But how could I, when I could barely lift my own?

The room felt colder as silence settled between us, heavy and unyielding. My gaze drifted to the shelf on the wall, lined with trophies, medals, and certificates. Each one was a testament to Azuto's accomplishments, his name—"Azuto Deishi"—gleaming from every surface like a constant reminder of everything I wasn't. I looked away, a frown twisting my face. It wasn't envy that made my chest tighten—it was something far worse. A brush of nihility. A reminder that no matter how many good things the world had to offer, it would always be meaningless to me. Because the world would always treat me the same way.

Azuto glanced at his watch, breaking me from my thoughts. "I've got to go," he said, his tone lighter, as if trying to dispel the lingering tension.

We exchanged a few words, our goodbyes stiff and perfunctory. As the door creaked open, he paused, hesitating for just a moment. Then, without turning to face me, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I never saw you smile again since."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone in the suffocating silence of the room. My chest tightened as the words echoed in my mind, their weight settling over me like a shroud. My eyes drifted back to the shelf, to the gleaming accolades that seemed to mock me with their brilliance. The air felt heavy, and oppressive, pressing down on me until it was hard to breathe.

And then it began.

A cold, creeping dread coiled in the pit of my stomach, its tendrils snaking through my veins. The edges of my vision blurred, and my thoughts began to spiral, each one crashing into the next in a chaotic storm of fear and doubt. The clash of sheer thoughts and the angst for indefinite futures—it was unbearable, inescapable, unrelenting.

What if I fail? The question clawed its way to the forefront of my mind, dragging with it a tidal wave of self-doubt.

What if I'm not good enough? What if I never will be?

The storm raged on, each thought louder and more suffocating than the last. The weight of Azuto's words, his concern, his kindness—it all felt like too much.

"He's done so much for you, and what have you done in return? Nothing. You're a burden. A failure. A pathetic excuse for a human being."

The words cut deep, their venom seeping into every corner of my mind.

"You're killing him."

The thought struck like a lightning bolt, freezing me in place.

"You're dragging him down, holding him back. He'd be better off without you."

"No! That's not true..." I whispered, my voice trembling, but the venomous thoughts were relentless, drowning out my protests.

"You don't deserve him. You don't deserve anyone. You'd be better off gone."

The thought lingered, cold and unyielding, wrapping itself around my chest like a vice. For a moment, the weight of it was almost too much to bear.

I clutched my head, my nails digging into my scalp as I tried to drown out the voice. "Stop it," I muttered. "Please, just stop!"

But the whispers only grew louder, a cacophony of despair and self-loathing. "You're worthless. You'll never amount to anything. Why were you even born?"

"Why are you even here? You're ruining everything. You're dragging Azuto down with you. Maybe if you just disappeared..."

Tears welled in my eyes as I sank to the floor, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. "Shut up!" I shouted, my voice cracking under the weight of it all. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

"What's the point of living, when you just hurt everyone around you?"

I clutched my head, the screams in my mind deafening. "STOP IT! STOP IT! I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE!"

Through the haze of despair, a single thought broke through.

I looked at my watch. It was half past seven. My interview was an hour away.

It didn't matter how I felt. It didn't matter if it all seemed meaningless. I had to move. I had to survive. Because that was the only way forward in this crippling reality.

***

I arrived at the building, its looming, featureless exterior reflecting the pale morning light. The air was unnervingly still, the quiet broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves and distant hum of traffic. The line outside was sparse, with just a handful of people waiting their turn. Each face wore a mask of calm, but I could see the subtle signs of tension—the tapping feet, the tightened grips on portfolios.

This wasn't going to be as bad as I thought. Working as a data entry clerk seemed like a safe bet—a job far from the prying eyes of judgment. I could bury myself in spreadsheets and documents, keeping my identity hidden in the monotony of keystrokes. Numbers didn't ask questions, and databases didn't judge. It was just... simpler this way.

I told myself it wasn't impossible. The world wasn't entirely cruel, was it? I might meet new people here—people who wouldn't judge me, who might even be kind. Adults didn't have time for petty high school dramas, right?

I'd seen it countless times in anime and novels. Misunderstood protagonists, burdened with their pasts, finding allies who embraced them for who they truly were. They'd share meals, embark on grand adventures, fight villains, and come home to warm laughter around a glowing hearth.

But that's fiction, not real life.

I knew that, but I still clung to the idea like a lifeline. When I was younger, fantasy had been my escape. I'd spend hours with a controller in hand, saving kingdoms or building empires, while the real world grew more distant. The heroes in those stories never had to sit through grueling interviews or drown in shame from their own inadequacies. They were valued, loved—even when they fell.

Why are you lying to yourself?

The thought struck like a whip, making my chest tighten.

I looked up at the building again, its shadow stretching toward me like some great, uncaring beast.

In the real world, no one cared about your inner struggles or your dreams of redemption. There were no second chances, no magical friends who'd defend you to the end. No one would laugh with me or wipe my tears. Here, I was alone.

The silence around me grew heavier as my name was called.

"Kizu Kiyoshi?" The voice cut through my thoughts like a cold wind, jerking me back to the moment. I stepped forward, my legs stiff as if they were moving on their own.

The interview room was larger than I expected, but its simplicity was unnerving. White walls, a wooden table, and a man in a sharp suit sitting behind it. His expression was unreadable, his eyes fixed on me with a sharpness that made my stomach churn.

"Take a seat," he said curtly, gesturing to the chair across from him.

I sat, my hands clasped tightly in my lap, trying to steady my breathing. The man glanced at the papers in front of him, his brow furrowing slightly.

"Kizu Kiyoshi, nineteen years old?" he began, his tone brisk.

"Yes, sir," I replied, keeping my voice even.

"You're young to be applying for this position," he noted, his eyes briefly flicking up to meet mine. "Most applicants have a bit more experience."

"I understand," I said, forcing a small nod. "But I'm confident I can learn quickly and meet the demands of the job."

His gaze lingered on me for a moment before returning to the papers. "You were born in Hamilton, Ontario, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you've completed your secondary education?"

"Yes."

"What draws you to this job, Kiyoshi?" His eyes were on me again, sharp and probing.

My chest tightened under his scrutiny. "I believe this position aligns with my skills and interests. I'm comfortable working independently and focusing on detailed tasks, and I see this as an opportunity to grow professionally while contributing to your team's efficiency."

Stop lying. You just want to disappear.

I felt the scream bubble up inside me, desperate to escape, but I shoved it back down.

A faint hum escaped him as he jotted something down. The questions continued, one after another, each one a test I had to pass. My answers came automatically, my voice steady even as my nerves prickled under my skin.

Finally, he leaned back in his chair, his pen hovering over the papers. "That will be all for now," he said. "We'll let you know our decision in the coming days."

I stood, bowing slightly before making my way to the door.

As I stepped outside, the weight I'd been carrying on my shoulders lifted ever so slightly. The storm of thoughts from earlier felt like a distant memory now.

Had I been worrying for nothing? Maybe this wasn't as bad as I'd made it out to be. Maybe I'd get the job. Maybe everything would finally start to fall into place.

But then the voices crept back in, cruel and relentless.

You think this will save you? You think you can just start over?

The cold grip of reality lingered at the edges of my mind, wrapping tighter and tighter.

For now, though, I forced the thoughts aside and held onto the faint glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, things could be different.

Stop making excuses. You're delusional. You will taste reality once again.

The room seemed to blur, the walls closing in as I stood before the interviewers. They had been polite at first, their questions routine—checking qualifications, probing experience. But then it happened. One of them leaned back, flipping through the papers on the table with an almost dismissive air.

"I see," one of them said, his voice slow, deliberate, each word a calculated step closer to something inevitable. "So, you're telling me…"

He trailed off, his gaze sharp, prying, the kind that stripped away defenses and laid bare the soul. "You are… that Kizu Kiyoshi?"

The name hung in the air, heavy with implication, a shadow of everything that had followed me. That Kizu Kiyoshi. The pariah, the outcast, the scapegoat.

The room grew tense, the silence thick and oppressive. The other interviewers exchanged glances—knowing, calculating. Some shook their heads in silent disapproval, others leaned in, whispering behind cupped hands. The weight of their scrutiny pressed down on me.

One of them cleared his throat, his tone carefully neutral but with an edge of disdain. "Considering your history, Kizu, many are still… unsettled by the outcome of your case."

My jaw tightened, my voice barely steady. "The case is closed. I was cleared."

"Cleared, yes," another murmured, her gaze piercing, cutting through the façade. "But not everyone trusts the system's judgment. Some believe certain individuals are... protected."

Protected. The word landed like a blow. "You think I got away with something?"

Her silence was more damning than any answer. The others exchanged looks, their expressions unreadable but heavy with implication.

I tried to steady myself, to push back against the rising tide of frustration and fear. "You're not here to dredge up the past," I said, my voice low but firm. "You wanted to discuss the future."

"Your past is impossible to overlook," the first interviewer responded coldly, his words laced with finality.

And that was when the walls began to close in.

Their eyes bore into me, heavy with judgment, their disdain palpable. The whispers in my mind, always lurking, now surged to the forefront. The scandal, the rumors, the relentless wave of condemnation—they had never truly left me. Every glance, every slight shift in their seats, felt like another accusation, another nail in the coffin.

My breath quickened, each inhale a struggle against the suffocating weight of their collective disdain. My chest tightened, my hands trembled at my sides. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, pressing down like an unseen force determined to crush me.

"It's over," my mind chanted relentlessly, a loop I couldn't escape. "It's over, it's over, it's over."

And then it came. The breaking point.

"It wasn't my fault!" The words erupted from me, raw and desperate, tearing through the oppressive silence. I shot to my feet, fists clenched, my voice cracking. "You don't understand!"

The room froze. Every eye turned to me, wide with a mixture of shock and alarm. One of the interviewers shifted slightly, a hand hovering near the desk's button, ready to summon security.

Their judgment, their fear, bore down on me like a physical weight. Even now, after everything, they still saw me as guilty. A symbol of their disdain.

The whispers grew louder, suffocating. The scandal, the rumors—they were all still there, waiting in the shadows. My legs gave out, and I stumbled, barely catching myself on the edge of the table.

This is reality. This is what the world is.

I turned and fled, bursting through the door without looking back. My steps were uneven, my legs numb and trembling as I staggered down the hall. Faces turned toward me—strangers, each one a fresh wound, their eyes filled with curiosity, contempt, or worse, indifference. My chest heaved as I broke into a sprint, each step pounding the refrain into my skull:

Run. Run. Run.

...

I don't know how I made it home. The apartment door felt heavier than usual as I pushed it open. The setting sun bathed the room in a dull orange light, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to mock me. I froze when I saw Azuto standing there, his arms crossed, a questioning look on his face.

"Oh? You're back late," he said, his tone laced with suspicion. "You didn't… get rejected, did you?"

I forced a smile, though my cheeks twitched with the effort. "Y-you're telling me t-that…?" I stuttered, trying to turn his question into a joke. "You must be joking—"

Azuto's expression darkened slightly. "Isn't it obvious that it's a joke?" he said, his voice tinged with exasperation. "You've accomplished something great, so you should be happy instead!" He gave me a small, encouraging smile, but there was a hint of something else in his eyes—concern, perhaps. Or disappointment.

"Come on in. Let's celebrate your new job…" He paused, his smile faltering for a moment before returning, forced and thin. "…as a data analyst!"

I nodded numbly, mumbling something incoherent as I shuffled past him. My legs felt like lead, my chest hollow. I made it to my room and shut the door behind me, leaning against it as the first tears began to fall.

I collapsed onto the bed, burying my face in the sheets to muffle the sobs that wracked my body. The events of the day played over and over in my mind, a relentless, unending torment.

"I couldn't handle it anymore… Why is life… like this?" I murmured into the mattress, my voice trembling. "Will no one side with me anymore?"

Stop whining. This is reality.

But the thought was drowned out by the storm of emotions inside me.

To escape, I turned to the only solace I had left—fantasy. I grabbed my laptop and opened an anime series I'd been watching. The screen glowed in the dim room, drawing me into its world.

The main character was facing yet another insurmountable challenge, his life crumbling around him. Betrayed by those he trusted, shunned by the world, and weighed down by his own mistakes. Yet, despite everything, there was someone who stood by him. Someone who reminded him of his worth, who believed in him when he couldn't believe in himself.

Why can't I have that? I thought bitterly.

I watched as the protagonist picked himself up, driven by the words of his companion. Their unwavering faith in him was like a lifeline, pulling him out of the darkness. My chest ached with longing.

"It must be nice," I whispered to myself, my voice barely audible over the sound of the show. "To live in a world like that."

But as the episode ended, the glow of the screen faded, and reality crept back in, cold and unyielding. I closed the laptop and stared at the darkened screen, my reflection barely visible.

"I can't do this anymore," I muttered, my voice hollow. The weight of the day, of everything, pressed down on me until it was hard to breathe.

I made my way to the bathroom, my movements mechanical. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead as I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, my face pale and gaunt. I barely recognized myself.

Something glinted on the floor—a shard of glass from an old broken vase. I crouched down, picking it up carefully. It caught the light, reflecting a distorted image of my face.

For a moment, I hesitated, the shard trembling in my hand. Then, a thought broke through the haze, sharp and clear.

Enough. Enough of this.

I looked back at the mirror, at the person staring back at me. And for the first time, I saw not just despair, but anger. At myself, at the world, at everything.

I can't keep living like this.

There reflects a wretched man holding a sharp piece of glass—his black, long, and curly hair framing an alluring face ruined by despair. Dark circles weigh heavily beneath his red-rimmed eyes, and his black-red tracksuit hangs loose on his trembling frame. He stands in the dim light of his noise-sensitive apartment, contemplating the end, yet caught in an agonizing tug-of-war with his own thoughts.

The air felt thick and suffocating. My breaths were shallow, my vision blurred by unshed tears. The shard in my hand quivered, reflecting the dim light in jagged, fractured patterns. In that splintered reflection, I saw a pitiful version of myself—haunted, yet maddeningly stubborn. That miserable face still glittered with hope. It was infuriating.

"I JUST WANT TO END EVERYTHING! I DO NOT WANT TO SUFFER ANYMORE! SO WHY? WHY CAN'T I?" My voice cracked as I screamed, the sound reverberating like a cry for help swallowed by an indifferent void. The shard slipped from my hand, clattering onto the tiled floor. My knees buckled, and I crumpled into myself, clutching my head as a torrent of sobs overtook me.

"I can't do it anymore," I whispered into the silence. Each word felt like the end of a tether unraveling.

In that hollow moment, a voice emerged—soft, steady, and achingly familiar.

"You don't have to."

My breath hitched. That voice... it wasn't an echo. It felt like something deep within me had finally found the courage to speak. My gaze darted toward the mirror, searching for the source. Nothing moved, yet the voice resonated again, clear and deliberate.

"It's okay to feel this way. But please, don't let this be the end."

The voice wasn't patronizing or pitying. It was raw and understanding, carrying a tenderness I had long forgotten. It felt like the voice of someone who had witnessed my darkest moments and still believed in me.

"Who... who are you?" My own voice felt foreign to me, shaky and uncertain.

"I'm... you," the voice replied, gently. "The part of you that's been quiet for too long. The part that still wants to live."

I stared at the mirror, and my reflection—no, something beyond my reflection—stared back. It was still me, yet there was a warmth in its gaze that didn't match the hollowness I felt. A flicker of something unreal danced in its eyes.

Before I could speak again, the world around me shifted. It was subtle at first—a faint ripple like the surface of water disturbed by a single drop. And then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed. The cramped walls of my apartment dissolved into an expanse of endless water, shallow enough to wade through yet vast enough to stretch beyond the horizon. The sky above was a kaleidoscope of shifting colors, blending hues that didn't exist in the natural world.

I stood there, my feet submerged in the cool water, my reflection staring back at me from below. But it wasn't the same reflection. It shimmered, animated and stylized—a version of myself pulled straight out of an anime. My features were exaggerated, my eyes larger, my expression almost surreal.

"Welcome," the voice said, now clearer than ever, as if it had taken form around me. "This is Fiction. A world where everything imagined can live."

I turned, startled to find myself surrounded by faint illusions—diverse characters and creatures from stories I had consumed over the years. Heroes, villains, fantastical beasts, and mundane figures alike swirled around me, their forms translucent and ever-shifting. Each one felt familiar, yet untouchable, like memories brought to life. They moved with purpose but paid me no mind, as though I were an unseen observer.

The voice continued, soft yet insistent. "Look around you. These are the fragments of every story you've ever loved, every tale that gave you an escape. Now, they're alive."

I reached out to touch one—a towering dragon with scales that gleamed like molten gold—but my hand passed through it as though it were smoke. The creature roared, a sound that reverberated in my chest, before it dissolved into the ether.

"Why... why am I here?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Because you need to see it," the voice answered. "The beauty of a world where anything is possible. Where hope can take shape and become real."

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "And what if I don't want to go back?"

The voice softened, almost coaxing. "Then don't. Stay. Escape with me, Kizu. Let go of the despair that weighs you down. Let's find solace in fantasy that is now living."

The water beneath me began to ripple, the illusions around me fading into the distance. The voice grew fainter, but its final words lingered in the air like an echo.

"This is where it begins, Kizu. A place where you can be free."

"The Living Fantasy."

And with that, the world shifted again, the rippling water giving way to solid ground beneath my feet. But this time, I wasn't alone.

***

People passed through my body like whispers of the wind. I was untouchable, unseen—a phantom adrift in a world not my own. Their conversations, their laughter, their hurried steps, all carried on without the slightest recognition of my presence. It was not just isolation; it was erasure. The realization struck me: I didn't exist here.

I stood motionless, surrounded by animated figures oblivious to the broken man among them. My lips trembled as I wondered aloud, "What should I do? What am I doing here?"

Suddenly, a searing fireball tore through my intangible form, erupting in a blinding flash. My head whipped around to see a hooded figure parrying the flames with a glowing staff, their movements swift and deliberate. Opposite them, a robed man conjured another blazing sphere with terrifying ease.

The clash between them escalated, bursts of magic shattering the air around us. It was breathtaking—the kind of spectacle meant to captivate an audience through a screen. But standing amidst it, face-to-face with the raw power and chaos, I felt only fear—an instinctive, suffocating fear.

Though I was immune to their attacks, my mind screamed for survival. My legs moved before I could think, carrying me away from the battle, my heart pounding as though I were mortal. Then, the skies darkened.

A monstrous shadow loomed above. A serpent-like creature—a dragon—descended with an earth-shattering roar. Its crimson eyes locked onto me, its massive wings slicing through the air.

"Okay... Wait... WHAT THE HELL?!" I shouted, sprinting aimlessly. I knew I couldn't be harmed, yet my body betrayed me, consumed by an instinct I couldn't suppress.

The dragon crashed into the ground behind me, shattering buildings into rubble. The impact sent waves of debris cascading through the streets. I flinched, shielding my face, and when I opened my eyes, the scene dissolved into shimmering fragments.

Tall skyscrapers now surrounded me. Neon lights flickered, casting colorful reflections across rain-slicked streets. A billboard caught my eye, its bright letters declaring, "Back to School 2014!"

So, this world was close to my own. Or was it? The familiar brands carried subtle distortions, and the people bustled with an unnerving synchronicity. I looked ahead and saw a boy surrounded by a group of girls. They all seemed impossibly charismatic, their voices unnaturally bright, their movements exaggerated.

I frowned, watching the scene unfold like a bad parody of everything wrong with escapism. The boy strutted by, surrounded by girls fawning over him with exaggerated adoration. "So, this is where I've landed," I muttered, bitterness seeping into my voice. "A genre that takes loneliness and dresses it up as fantasy."

"I dislike this genre," I muttered. As much as I loved romance-comedy anime, harem shows irked me. And this boy? His smug grin and languid posture screamed "opportunistic scum."

"I don't even have to try," he muttered, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "They just fall for it every time."

The words hit me harder than they should have, reverberating through my mind like an echo from a distant memory. Why does that sound so familiar? My fists clenched at my sides, the tension in my body rising without warning.

I didn't know the context, didn't need to. That tone, that self-satisfied arrogance—it scratched at something buried deep, something I couldn't quite place but felt in my bones. My breath quickened, chest tightening as my thoughts spiraled.

They fell for it every time. The phrase circled in my mind, stirring a vague but potent unease. It reminded me of something... someone. A moment I had tried to bury, a truth twisted beyond recognition.

"Disgusting," I growled, my emotions surging uncontrollably. I followed him, throwing punches that I knew would pass through his body. It didn't matter. Each jab felt like a release, a way to vent my frustration at a world—real or not—that seemed so twisted.

A faint resonance cut through my rage. Not a voice but a feeling—a trembling ripple in the air. Like the breath of something vast and unseen.

"Kizu," it seemed to say without words. "This isn't escape."

Before I could process it, the world shifted again.

Now, I stood on the threshold of a spaceship, the vast expanse of space stretching out before me. Soldiers rushed past, their boots clanging against the metallic floor. Lasers fired in every direction, plasma bombs detonating in brilliant bursts of light. The air was thick with tension, fear, and the smell of burning metal.

Frozen in place, I watched as chaos unfolded. My body trembled. I was untouchable, but the sights and sounds overwhelmed me. A soldier hurled a grenade. Its arc carried it straight toward me, and I flinched as it landed at my feet.

"You're running," the ripple murmured, threading through the cacophony. "But not from this."

The explosion roared, but I was already somewhere else.

An underground tunnel stretched before me. Two men crouched over a bomb, their hands trembling as they worked to defuse it. One of them, his voice tight with panic, said, "Jarvis, there's only a minute left. A thousand lives depend on us."

"I know, Dray! We have to make the right choice meticulously," the other replied, his face pale with anxiety.

Dray placed a hand on Jarvis's shoulder. "We're doing this together. I'm ready to die with you."

The bomb detonated. I stood frozen, helpless as the tunnel erupted in a blinding flash of light. My chest ached with the weight of their sacrifice.

"This pain is yours," the ripple whispered, gentle but firm. "You can't leave it behind."

A serene countryside came into view. A little boy and a fisherman sat by a pond, their laughter soft and warm. It was a picture of peace, yet it cut through me like a blade. Why did they get to laugh while others suffered?

The scenes came faster now. A grieving man knelt by a grave, his cries echoing in the air. "I promise I'll find the man who did this to you," he swore.

A woman bled out on the floor, her children screaming in terror as they clung to her.

The transitions blurred together, each scene more harrowing than the last. My heart raced, my breaths coming in shallow gasps. I couldn't take it anymore. My mind spiraled as the ripple deepened into a rhythmic pulse, a heartbeat that wasn't mine.

And then, silence. The world vanished.

I was back at the lake, my knees sinking into the shallow water. The hooded man stood before me, his face obscured. He raised his hand, and the ripple surged, no longer a whisper but a crescendo.

"You carry it all," it declared, filling the air with its resonance. "Even here."

Darkness consumed everything.

... ..... ....

I woke with a start, my chest heaving as I leaned forward in my bed. The plain walls of my room greeted me, but they offered no comfort. My hands reached for my face, trembling as I touched the sharp features that weren't mine. I still looked like an anime character.

"So it wasn't a dream," I murmured. My mind reeled, struggling to piece together the fragments of the night. The hooded man, the endless transitions, the ripple that had called to me—it all felt like a fever dream. But the pain, the helplessness, the despair? Those were real.

Azuto burst through the door, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Kizu! Are you seeing this? This is anime! We've been isekai'd! Your delusional dream came to life!"

Before I could respond, the hooded man appeared again, stepping through a glowing portal. His voice was steady, almost amused.

"So, you're awake now."

And just like that, reality slipped further from my grasp.