The cold water clings to Obinai's skin, the damp fabric of his clothes pressing against him. He shivers violently, his breath coming in shaky, uneven gasps. His teeth chatter, and a faint sniffle escapes his nose, the sound barely audible over the persistent hum of the flickering light above.
The metallic groan of the lock disengaging cuts through the oppressive silence. The heavy door creaks open, and Obinai's head slowly raises, his eyes narrowing as they adjust to the dim light spilling into the room.
A man steps in, his messy blonde hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. Obinai recognizes him immediately—it's the same guy from before, the one who had to be escorted out in a panic. His green eyes are tired. His uniform is slightly rumpled, the edges of his collar damp. In his hands is a tray, steam rising from the food it holds.
Santos moves with a carefully, his boots making a dull splash in the thin layer of water covering the floor. He sets the tray down on the small, dented metal touching the far wall and pulls a chair closer, its legs scraping against the concrete with a sharp, grating sound. Without a word, he drags the table closer to Obinai, positioning himself just within arm's reach.
"Sorry for the inconvenience," the man says, his voice low. "But… protocol is protocol. Since your hands are cuffed, I'll have to feed you."
Obinai blinks at him. He nods slightly, unsure of what else to say. "Okay," he murmurs, his voice hoarse.
The man picks up the fork and begins scooping mashed potatoes and rice, the steam curling softly into the cold, damp air. He leans forward, holding the fork out toward Obinai. "Here. Eat."
Obinai hesitates for a moment, staring at the food as though unsure whether to trust it—... Then, hunger and warmth win out. He leans forward, taking the bite. The heat spreads through him, momentarily driving back the cold.
As the man prepares another bite, he speaks, his tone casual. "Do you have any friends? Anyone you'd call your people?"
Obinai chews slowly, the question catching him off guard. He swallows before answering, his voice soft. "Yeah… a few."
The man nods, his expression thoughtful. "Good. It's important to have people. Especially when you get out."
The word 'out' rings in Obinai's ears, his body stiffening slightly. He swallows hard, his thoughts racing. Out? He said when, not if.
Before Obinai can ask, the man continues, his tone shifting to something lighter. "What about dreams? What do you want to do when you're out?"
He lowers his gaze, staring at the cuffs encasing his wrists. "I… don't know," he admits, "I've never really thought about it."
The man offers a small, reassuring smile. "That's okay," he says softly, his voice gentle but steady. "A lot of people don't figure it out right away. It takes time. And you've got time."
Obinai looks up, meeting the man's gaze for the first time. "Who are you?" Obinai asks hesitantly, "Do you think I'll get out?"
The man hesitates, then softly he says "Just call me Santos," his tone warm yet grounded. "I only got acclimated to this job recently. But yeah, I do think you'll get out. It's not going to be easy, but it's possible. Rehabilitation comes first. It's a process, but if you stick with it, you'll get there."
Obinai nods slowly, the weight of the cuffs on his wrists and the chill of his soaked clothes momentarily forgotten. He takes another bite of the warm food Santos offers, the rhythmic motion of the fork bringing an odd sense of comfort amidst the bleakness of the room.
Santos watches him eat, his expression softening. "You know," he begins, his voice low and thoughtful, "I've seen people come through here and find a way out. Not many, but some. It's hard, but it's possible. You just have to believe in that, even when it feels like you can't."
Obinai's brow furrows as he chews slowly. "Thanks," he murmurs quietly.
When the tray is empty, Santos sets it aside with a soft clatter, standing up and brushing his hands against his uniform. "Alright," he says, his tone shifting slightly as he adopts a more serious expression. "Listen, Obinai. I'll usually be the one coming to feed you, but for the next couple of days, someone else will handle it."
Obinai looks up sharply, confusion flashing in his eyes. "Why? Where are you going?"
Santos exhales, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. For a moment, he hesitates, his gaze drifting to the corner of the room as if searching for the right words. Finally, he sighs and looks back at Obinai, his expression heavy with a mix of sadness and determination. "To remind myself why I'm doing this," he says simply, his voice carrying a weight that Obinai doesn't fully understand.
Obinai blinks, his mind struggling to process the statement. He wants to ask more, but the words catch in his throat. He watches Santos pick up the tray and turn toward the door.
As Santos reaches the door, he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. "The commander will be coming later," he says, his voice steady but tinged with a warning. "He'll bring some scientists to run tests and take notes on you. Just… do what they say, alright? The quicker you comply, the faster it'll be over."
Obinai nods, though the uncertainty on his face betrays his inner turmoil. "Yeah… I'll do that," he says hesitantly, his voice wavering.
Santos gives a faint nod of approval, his expression softening again. "Good. Just hang in there, kid. You're stronger than you think."
With that, Santos steps out of the room, the heavy door closing behind him with a soft yet definitive click. Obinai slumps slightly in his chair, the warmth of the food fading as the cold, damp surroundings seeps back into his awareness.
He stares at the closed door, Santos's words echoing in his mind. "You're stronger than you think." For the first time, a flicker of something other than despair stirs within him. It's faint, almost imperceptible—but it's there.
Obinai shifts uncomfortably in the small, metal chair, his muscles aching. The magnetic cuffs clamped around his wrists and ankles hum faintly. The cold surface of the chair presses against his back, and no matter how much he fidgets, he can't find even a semblance of comfort. The chill of the room seems to seep into his very bones.
I have to sleep, Obinai thinks, his eyes heavy. If I can just ignore it all for a while… But the harder he tries, the more elusive rest becomes. His mind races...unsettling images race back to his head.
He swallows hard, his throat dry, and lets out a shaky breath.
The silence presses in. But as the minutes tick by, the silence begins to shift. It is no longer empty. Faint whispers creep in at the edges of his hearing—indistinct and fleeting, like the rustling of leaves in the wind. Obinai's eyes snap open, his pulse quickening. He strains to make out the words, but they slip away, teasing...
...taunting him.
Then, cutting through the soft murmur, a distinct voice emerges. It is low, intelligent, and laced with an unsettling familiarity. The words are deliberate, carrying a weight that makes Obinai's stomach twist.
"Not yet," the voice says, its tone calm. "I will come when the moment is ripest, when hope shines the brightest and a new beginning is on the horizon."
Obinai stiffens, his body rigid against the cold chair. His breath catches in his throat as the voice echoes through his mind. He shakes his head, trying to dispel the sound, but it lingers, wrapping around him like a cold, invisible shroud.
"Who… who's there?" Obinai whispers, his voice trembling as he glances around the room. The shadows seem to ripple and deepen, the corners growing darker as if the room itself is alive and watching him.
The voice chuckles softly. It feels like it's coming from every direction at once, enveloping him in a sinister embrace. "Oh, Obinai," it says, the laughter fading into a chilling whisper. "How long will it take for me to grow bored of you?"
Obinai's heart pounds in his chest, his eyes darting around the room. The walls feel like they're closing in, the air growing heavier with every passing second. This isn't real, he tells himself, clenching his fists against the restraints. It can't be real.
The voice grows louder, sharper, cutting through his thoughts like a blade. "I have become the shadow that follows you, the whisper that keeps you awake at night. I am now the piece of you that you deny exists, the part that you will never escape."
Obinai shakes his head violently, his breathing ragged. "No," he mutters, his voice cracking. "You're not real. You're just… I'm just tired. That's all."
The voice laughs again, the sound sending shivers down his spine. "Tired? Perhaps. But I am as real as the blood on your hands, as the fear in your heart."
Obinai's eyes widen as the shadows seem to pulse and shift, moving closer, encircling him. His breath comes in short, panicked gasps, and he presses back against the chair as if trying to escape.
"Leave me alone!" he screams, his voice echoing off the cold, metallic walls.
But the voice only chuckles, the sound dripping with amusement. "Oh, my dear Obinai," it says softly, almost lovingly. "No dear boy...as of now I am you. And you cannot leave yourself behind."
The room falls silent once more, the oppressive darkness receding slightly as the flickering light regains its weak glow. Obinai slumps in the chair, his body trembling, sweat dripping from his brow...