The world was a fragile place, held together by the thin threads of normalcy. But even in its fragility, there were cracks—small, almost invisible, yet deep enough to swallow lives whole. One such crack was the sickness known as Erythros Syndrome, a rare and incurable condition that afflicted only a handful of people across the globe. Those who suffered from it were bound to a life of dependency on a specialized drug, a lifeline that kept their bodies from shutting down. But the drug was expensive, and the stigma was even heavier. Society had a way of ostracizing the different, the rare, the fragile. And for those with Erythros Syndrome, life was a constant battle—not just against the disease, but against the world itself.
The morning sun filtered through the thin curtains of Haruto's small bedroom, casting a pale golden light across the room. The alarm on his phone buzzed relentlessly, pulling him from the depths of a restless sleep. He groaned, slapping the device to silence it, and sat up slowly, his body feeling heavier than usual. Another day. Another battle.
Haruto shuffled to the bathroom, his movements mechanical. Brush teeth. Wash face. Stare at the mirror. His reflection stared back at him—a young man with dark circles under his eyes, his skin pale and almost translucent. He leaned closer to the mirror, his breath fogging the glass. "Another day with this sickness," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "When will it just end? When will I finally… die?"
The thought lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating, but Haruto pushed it aside. He didn't have the luxury of self-pity. Not today. Not ever. He reached for the small case on the bathroom counter, his fingers trembling slightly as he opened it. Inside was the drug—his lifeline. He prepared the injection with practiced ease, the needle piercing his skin with a sharp sting. The cold liquid flowed into his veins, and he exhaled, feeling the familiar rush of energy that came with it. For now, he was alive. For now, he could keep going.
Breakfast was a quiet affair. Haruto's mother, a woman with kind eyes and a weary smile, placed a plate of rice and miso soup in front of him. She didn't say much, but her gaze lingered on him, filled with unspoken worry. Haruto picked at his food, his appetite nonexistent.
"Haruto," she began softly, breaking the silence. "How are you feeling today?"
He shrugged, avoiding her eyes. "The same as always."
His mother hesitated, then sighed. "I know school has been… difficult. But you only have one year left. Just… try to endure it, okay? We don't have the money to transfer you to another school, and—"
"I know," Haruto interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended. He softened his tone, guilt flickering in his chest. "I know, Mom. I'll manage."
She reached across the table, placing a hand over his. "You're stronger than you think, Haruto. Don't let them break you."
He nodded, though he didn't believe her words. Strength wasn't something he felt. Not when every day was a struggle just to exist.
The walk to school was uneventful, the streets bustling with the usual morning crowd. But as soon as Haruto stepped through the school gates, the atmosphere shifted. The chatter died down, replaced by hushed whispers and sidelong glances. He could feel their eyes on him, hear the fragments of his name being passed around like a secret.
"There he is… the sick kid."
"I heard he's contagious."
"Why does he even bother coming to school?"
Haruto kept his head down, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He was used to this—the stares, the whispers, the isolation. But it didn't make it any easier. He walked quickly, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence, until a voice called out to him.
"Hey, Haruto! What's up, sick boy?"
Haruto froze, his stomach churning. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The voice belonged to Daiki, the school's resident bully and the bane of Haruto's existence. Daiki sauntered up to him, a smirk plastered across his face.
"How's it going, freak?" Daiki sneered, his tone dripping with mockery. "Still injecting yourself with that weird drug? What's it called again? Oh, right—your life juice."
Haruto clenched his jaw, his nails digging into his palms. "Leave me alone, Daiki."
Daiki laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Or what? You gonna cry? Go ahead, cry, sick boy. Everyone's watching."
Haruto's chest tightened, but he forced himself to keep walking. He couldn't afford to lose control. Not here. Not now.
The day dragged on, each class feeling like an eternity. Haruto tried to focus on the lessons, but his mind kept wandering, his thoughts a jumbled mess. It wasn't until the afternoon that things took a turn for the worse.
During math class, Daiki decided to escalate his torment. He slipped a note onto Haruto's desk, the words scrawled in bold, mocking letters: "Why don't you just die already?"
Haruto stared at the note, his vision blurring with anger and frustration. He had had enough. He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor, and turned to face Daiki.
"You think this is funny?" Haruto snapped, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. "You think because I have this disease, I can't stand up for myself? Well, you're wrong. I'm done letting you push me around."
The classroom fell silent, all eyes on Haruto and Daiki. Even the teacher paused, her expression a mix of surprise and concern.
Daiki smirked, clearly unfazed. "Oh, look who's got a backbone now. What are you gonna do, huh? Fight me?"
Before Haruto could respond, the teacher intervened. "Daiki, that's enough. Out. Now."
Daiki rolled his eyes but complied, shooting Haruto one last glare before leaving the room. Haruto sat back down, his heart pounding in his chest. For the first time in a long time, he felt a small flicker of pride. He had stood up for himself. But that flicker was short-lived.
The walk home was uneventful at first. The sun had set, casting the streets in a dim, eerie glow. Haruto kept his head down, his thoughts a whirlwind of emotions. He didn't notice the sound of approaching footsteps until it was too late.
A sharp pain exploded in the back of his head, and he stumbled forward, collapsing onto the pavement. His vision blurred, and he could barely make out the figure standing over him—Daiki, holding a baseball bat, a cruel smile on his face.
"Thought you could stand up to me, huh?" Daiki sneered. "Big mistake."
Before Haruto could react, Daiki's friends joined in, their laughter echoing in the empty street. The blows came one after another, each one more painful than the last. Haruto curled into a ball, his body screaming in agony, his mind drifting in and out of consciousness.
The last thing he remembered was the sound of a woman's voice, shouting for help, and the distant wail of an ambulance siren.
When Haruto woke up, the world was silent. Too silent. He blinked, his vision slowly coming into focus. He was in a hospital room, the sterile white walls closing in around him. The only sounds were the steady beep of the heart monitor and the soft drip of the IV connected to his arm.
He sat up slowly, his body aching, and looked around. The room was empty. No nurses. No doctors. Just him.
Confused, Haruto pulled the IV from his arm and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stumbled to the window, his breath catching in his throat as he looked outside.
The world he knew was gone.
The streets were in ruins, buildings reduced to rubble, cars overturned and abandoned. And the people… they wandered aimlessly, their movements slow and lifeless, like shadows of their former selves.
Haruto's heart raced, his mind struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. "What… what happened?" he whispered, his voice trembling.