YUTA

The cold night air bit into my skin, a familiar sting that grounded me in the moment. I lay motionless, my body pressed against the hard, unforgiving ground. My rifle, an extension of my very being, was steady in my hands, its weight both a comfort and a burden. Around me, the world was a desolate wasteland—a barren stretch of war-torn earth, scarred by craters and littered with the debris of countless battles. The distant hum of drones patrolling the skies was the only sound, a constant reminder of the never-ending war that had consumed my life and soul.

This is where I belong, I thought, taking a slow, measured breath, a rhythm ingrained into me through years of service. Through the scope, the world narrowed to a single point of focus: the target. A man whose existence threatened the fragile peace that hung by a thread.

A voice crackled through my earpiece, breaking the stillness. "Yuta, assist me." Commander Ryu. His words, once a source of reassurance, now felt distant, like a ghost whispering from a world I no longer recognized.

I adjusted the scope, aligning the crosshairs with precision. My fingers, calloused and steady, found the trigger, but a tremor betrayed me. For a fleeting moment, doubt crept in—a whisper in the back of my mind. The man in my sights was not just a target. He was a father, a leader—someone with a past, a future that I was about to erase. But doubt was a luxury I couldn't afford. I buried it deep, beneath layers of duty and obedience. "Target acquired," I muttered, my voice a hollow echo of the man I once was. With a muted pop, the trigger squeezed, and the target crumpled, another life snuffed out.

NARRATOR

In that moment, Yuta felt the familiar weight of duty settle in his chest, but the satisfaction that once came with a mission accomplished had long since withered away. He was no longer the sharp-eyed sniper who took pride in his precision; he was a shell, his mind haunted by the faces of the men he had killed, their lifeless eyes staring back at him from the dark corners of his memory. Every shot fired, every life taken, etched deeper scars into his soul, eroding his sanity until all that remained was a shadow of the man he once was.

His superiors noticed the change in him—the vacant stare, the way his hands trembled when they weren't holding a rifle. They knew he was no longer fit for the field, and in a final act of mercy, they discharged him. "You've served well, Yuta," Ryu had said during their last meeting, his voice heavy with unspoken concern. "It's time to rest." But peace was a luxury Yuta could no longer afford.

YUTA

Confined to a small, dimly lit room, I spent my days in a haze, the flickering images on the screen my only connection to a world that felt more distant by the day. The room, once a haven, had become a prison of my own making. Posters of places I'd never visit adorned the walls, mocking me with their vibrant colors, their promises of a life I could never have. The television was my window to the outside world, but it offered no solace—only reminders of the horrors I had witnessed, the lives I had taken.

I became a ghost in my own life, moving through each day without purpose, without direction. The images on the screen blurred together, scenes of violence and destruction that mirrored the chaos in my mind. I barely ate, barely slept, lost in a cycle of despair that seemed to have no end.

Then one day, after what felt like weeks of isolation, there was a knock at the door. Commander Ryu. He stepped into the room, his face etched with concern, his usually stoic demeanor softened by worry. "Yuta, you need help," he said gently, his voice cutting through the fog that had settled in my mind.

I barely looked up, my voice flat and lifeless. "There's nothing left to help."

Ryu sighed, placing a hand on my shoulder—a gesture that once might have comforted me, but now only deepened the chasm between us. "You've given everything, Yuta. Let others help you now."

The silence that followed was suffocating, a vast gulf that neither of us could bridge. I wanted to respond, to reach out, but the words stuck in my throat, buried under the weight of my own despair.

NARRATOR

Days turned into weeks, and Yuta continued to spiral downward, his mind trapped in a prison of his own making. The room, once a sanctuary, became a tomb. The walls seemed to close in on him, the darkness growing thicker with each passing day. His body weakened, worn down by the constant strain of his inner turmoil.

And then, one fateful day, Yuta's body gave out. It was sudden, almost peaceful—a quiet release from the torment that had plagued him for so long. As the darkness closed in, he felt a strange sense of relief, as though the weight of the world was finally lifting from his shoulders. At last, he thought as his vision dimmed, it's over.

But death was not the end. In the darkness, a new beginning awaited him.