A faint whisper curls around Obinai's ear...amused. "Obinai," it purrs, the voice slithering through his mind like smoke. "So weak. So deliciously pathetic. You break so easily, don't you?"
In the black..., Obinai feels nothing and see nothing. His movements sluggish and uncoordinated as though he's wading through thick tar. He turns in slow, jerky circles, trying to locate the source of the voice. His breaths come in a shallow uncoordinated rhythm.
The voice laughs, a low, guttural sound that reverberates through the void. "Ah, this is exquisite," it says, its tone shifting between mockery and delight. "Do you feel it, Obinai? The weight of it all crushing you? The futility? That lovely little ember of hope snuffing itself out?"
The words feel like needles, piercing through his mind and burrowing into his core. He struggles to, his movements feel slow, but he clutches his head, his trembling hands pressing against his temples as if he could force the voice out. "Shut up," he croaks, his voice weak and hoarse. "Leave me alone."
But the laughter only grows louder, echoing in every direction. "Leave you alone?" the voice mocks, feigning surprise. "Oh, Obinai, you misunderstand. I can't. I'm part of you now. That blissful chaos earlier? That was me. Free."
The air grows colder. Obinai feels it creeping into his lungs.
"The sight of it were magnificent," the voice continues, each word dripping with glee. "The way they screamed, the way they begged. Oh, the taste of it all. I did it so beautifully, Obinai." The voice shifts closer, intimate and invasive, as though it's speaking directly into his ear. "And soon, you'll take me to more places. More people to share this little… gift of ours with."
"No," Obinai whispers, shaking his head even as despair threatens to drown him. "I didn't do it. I didn't—"
The voice cuts him off with a sharp, mocking laugh. "Didn't you? Oh, but your hands… your hands, Obinai. So soaked in their blood. Did you feel it? The warmth, the stickiness? The way it lingered even after they were gone?"
"It wasn't me," he chokes out, his voice breaking. "I didn't want this."
"But you did," the voice counters smoothly, its tone almost soothing now. "You opened the door, Obinai. I simply walked in. And now…" The darkness shifts, pressing closer. "Now we'll walk together."
The laughter returns, louder and more triumphant, surrounding Obinai as the weight of the void presses down on him. He collapses fully, his forehead touching the nothing, but something. The voice's final words echo in his mind.
"Don't worry, Obinai. This is just the beginning."
Desperation claws at Obinai as he grapples with the darkness, trying to make sense of his surroundings. , He can feel the presence of the entity, its eyes boring into him from the shadows.
He feels the darkness closing in on him, suffocating him with its weight. The sensation of drowning returns, and he thrashes once more, desperate to break free.
The whispers grow louder, more insistent. "I cannot wait...tp see and embrace yours and their despair."
With a violent gasp, Obinai jerks awake. He coughs and sputters, his chest heaving as cold water hits him in the face. His head feels heavy, his body trembling uncontrollably. The shock of the icy water soaking his clothes jolts his senses, but it does little to steady his spiraling thoughts.
Blinking rapidly, he takes in his surroundings. The room is small and suffocating, its concrete walls bare and stained with patches of dark dampness that seep downward like veins. The air is thick, heavy with the musty stench of mold and decay. Overhead, a single bulb dangles on a frayed wire, flickering weakly. The light pulses sporadically, casting shifting shadows that stretch and shrink across the cracked walls. Each flicker sends his heart racing, the shadows seeming to twist and move like living things just beyond his reach.
He shivers violently, his teeth chattering, the frigid water soaking into his skin. His breath comes in uneven gasps, the chill seeping into his bones.
"Where…?" His voice cracks, barely a whisper. His throat feels raw, as though he's been screaming. He swallows hard, wincing at the effort. What is this place? he thinks, his eyes darting around the room, desperate to make sense of his surroundings. How did I get here?
The bulb flickers again, and his gaze is drawn to the ceiling, where the light sways gently. The faint sound of water dripping somewhere in the distance punctuates the silence, each drop a slow. The sound echoes...
This isn't real. It can't be real,he tells himself, his thoughts spiraling. It's another nightmare. I just need to wake up.
"No... no, this can't be happening," he whispers hoarsely, his voice barely audible over the incessant dripping. Tears blur his vision as he struggles to focus on his surroundings.
This has to be a dream. The thought claws its way into his mind, desperate and futile. Wake up, Obinai. Wake up!
A sudden, sharp sound snaps him from his spiral. The clang of a plastic bucket hitting the wet floor rings out, unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence. Obinai freezes, his heart hammering in his chest. His head jerks toward the noise, and his blood runs cold.
The figure lingers in the shadows. As the weak light flickers overhead, Obinai makes out the details of the man standing before him. Piercing blue eyes, cold and unyielding, seem to drill into him even from a distance. The scar running across the man's face only adds to his intimidating air, while his clean-shaven, gray military-style hair. The faint smell of cigarettes wafts through the damp room, mingling with the musty stench of mold.
Obinai's heart pounds in his chest. He stammers, his voice trembling, "Who… who are you?"
The man doesn't respond. He steps forward, his boots pressing into the wet floor, the squelch of each step by the silence. His movements are slow, and his gaze never wavers from Obinai. The sound of his boots echoes in the confined space.
The man halts abruptly in the far corner of the room, his broad shoulders casting a shadow that stretches toward Obinai. He bends down, and the screech of metal against concrete fills the room as he drags a small chair into the dim light. The sound is sharp and grating, making Obinai flinch as he instinctively covers his ears.
The man sets the chair in the center of the room just in front of him. He lowers himself into it, the chair creaking under his weight.
Those eyes—they seem to see everything, peeling him apart with a precision that feels surgical. He wants to speak, to demand answers, but the words catch in his throat.
"Please…" he stammers, his voice barely audible. "Who—"
Before the question can leave his lips, the man's hand moves. The slap echoes like a gunshot in the confined space. Obinai's head snaps to the side, his cheek erupting in a searing, stinging pain.
His vision blurs, the tears pooling in his eyes mixing with the coppery taste of blood as it fills his mouth. He doesn't even have time to cry out, the shock of the blow leaving him breathless. The room spins, and for a moment, all he can focus on is the sharp, burning sensation on his cheek.
The commander leans back in the chair, his eyes never leaving Obinai's face.
The slap's sting doesn't fade; Obinai's cheek throbs. He tries to lift a trembling hand to his face, but his arms won't move. Panic surges as he glances down. His wrists are locked into sleek metal cuffs attached to the chair's armrests. The cuffs are unlike anything he's seen before—cold, unyielding, and futuristic. Tiny interlocking gears shift under a transparent casing, emitting a faint, mechanical hum in a hard metal chair. A green light pulses rhythmically on each cuff.
"Don't even think about it, kid," the man growls. "If that light turns red? Boom." He mimics an explosion with his hands, his expression calm but his tone laced with malice. "Your arms go flying, and trust me, it won't be pretty."
Obinai freezes, his body stiff. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his breaths shallow and panicked.
The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pocket-sized file folder. Its edges are frayed, and the metal clasp holding the pages together is slightly bent. He flips it open with a flick of his fingers, his eyes scanning the pages as he begins to speak.
"Obinai Nobunaga," the man reads aloud, his tone cold and clinical. "Age 14. Friends: Darren, Angel. Family: Maria, Amos, and… Mya." He pauses, glancing up at Obinai with a cruel smirk that twists the scar on his face. "Status: mild smoker, no aspirations, and average grades." His voice drips with mockery as he adds, "In fact, failing. No future."
He chuckles darkly, shaking his head. "What a sad little life you've got here."
Nothing...
"You're a real piece of work, kid," the man continues, tossing the small file onto the floor without a second thought. The papers scatter across the wet concrete, soaking up the murky water like discarded trash. "No aspirations, no future. Just another waste of space."
"That's not true!" Obinai blurts, his voice cracking. His face burning, and his fists clench instinctively against the restraints. "I—"
"Shut up," the man snaps, his voice a whip crack that silences Obinai instantly. He leans in close, his piercing blue eyes locking onto Obinai's. His breath reeks of tobacco and something metallic, and the faint, acrid scent makes Obinai's stomach churn.
"You don't talk unless I tell you to," the man hisses. He straightens up, crossing his arms as he continues to loom over the boy. "Your name is now #13," he says, his tone flat. "You do not exist anymore. You never did. You're no longer human, so you forfeit the rights of one."
Obinai's mind reels. His heart pounds so hard it feels like it might burst. #13? Not human? He tries to shake his head, to deny it.
"No," Obinai whispers, his voice cracking. Tears well up in his eyes. "This can't be real. I just… I just want to go home." His words trail off into a soft, desperate plea.
The man's cold smile returns. "Home?" he repeats mockingly. "Kid, you're not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever."
"Please," Obinai tries again, his voice breaking. "I don't understand why this is happening."
The commander remains silent, his expression unchanged. He leans forward, his eyes never leaving Obinai's. "Understand this, #13," he says, his voice low and threatening. "You're ours now. You do what we say, when we say it. No questions, no hesitation. You got that?"
Obinai hesitates but nods slowly looking at the damp floor. The commander gives him a hard look, then nods back. "Get used to the name Crowe," he says, his voice low. "You're gonna be seeing a lot of me."
With that, the commander stands up with a slight groan. He walks towards the heavily secured door, the mechanisms of which are a marvel of engineering. The door is lined with a series of intricate locks, each one clicking and whirring as the commander operates them with practiced efficiency.
The door seals shut behind the commander with a final, ominous thud, leaving Obinai alone in the dimly lit room. He looks down at the cuffs on his wrists, which seem to be magnetized to the chair, preventing him from moving them. The green light on each cuff pulses gently...again.
The commander's words echo in his ears. "You are no longer human..."
…
Crowe stands outside the door, the dim, flickering light overhead casting long, distorted shadows along the narrow hallway. He pulls a cigarette from the breast pocket of his black tactical jacket. His scarred hands, calloused, cup the flame as he lights the cigarette, the brief flash of orange illuminating the weathered lines on his face and the piercing blue of his eyes.
He takes a long drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment before exhaling slowly, the cloud curling around him like a ghost. The faint crackle of the burning tobacco is the only sound in the oppressive silence. The faint scent of nicotine mingles with the sterile, metallic tang of the air—a hallmark of these cold, lifeless halls.
Crowe glances at the door behind him, where the trembling boy—#13 now—sits shackled in a chair, his sobs likely still echoing in the confined space. Crowe's jaw tightens, the muscles flexing as he takes another drag from his cigarette. The kid's soft, he thinks. Too soft for this. But he'll learn, or he won't. Either way, it's out of my hands.
His boots thud heavily against the worn floor as he begins walking down the corridor. The sound reverberates. The hallway lingers in the direction Crowe travels revealing other doors. Each one bears a painted number—black and fading with time.
Slowly he reaches a door with the number "1," he slows, his gaze lingering on the rusted metal. This door is different, weathered and cracked, the door slightly off the hinges, the paint peeling away.
Crowe pauses, staring at the door. His expression is inscrutable, but his fingers twitch at his side. He takes another drag, the cigarette now nearing its end, the ash precariously clinging to the tip. As the ember glows faintly, his lips press into a thin line.
"Zola…" he mutters. His voice is low, almost reverent, but edged with something raw—regret, anger, maybe both.
He flicks the cigarette onto the floor, grinding it out with the heel of his boot. The faint sizzle as the ember dies matches the sharp intensity in his eyes. He runs a hand through his short-cropped gray hair, the motion stiff.
Crowe leans against the wall beside the door for a moment, his head tilted back, eyes staring at the cracked ceiling tiles. It still stings. After all this time? He clenches his fists briefly before pushing himself upright. With one final glance at the door, his expression hardens.
Straightening his jacket, he steps forward...