The night pulsed with restless energy. Neon lights flickered like digital specters against the towering skyline, their glow fractured in the puddles left by recent rain. The air carried a chaotic medley of scents—grilled skewers from street vendors, the acrid sting of exhaust fumes, and the lingering petrichor of damp concrete. Beneath the unrelenting hum of the city, a ceaseless tide of people moved with mechanical purpose, their footsteps merging into a dull, rhythmic murmur.
Through the throng, a lone figure trudged forward.
Kenji Takeda, twenty-three, newly employed and already suffocating under the crushing weight of corporate servitude, dragged himself home after a punishing twenty-hour shift. The job was supposed to be a stepping stone to financial stability—an opportunity. Instead, it had become an endless grind, a relentless machine fueled by exhaustion and unreasonable expectations. His muscles burned with fatigue, his thoughts dulled to a sluggish haze. He could have collapsed at his desk like some of his coworkers, but the stagnant office air—sterile, lifeless—felt more suffocating than the chaos of the streets.
He needed the fragile illusion of his own space. Even if it meant walking.
Normally, it took him fifteen minutes to get home. Tonight, it took him thirty.
Each step felt heavier than the last, as though unseen chains dragged at his limbs. His shoulders slumped, arms hanging limp at his sides, and his half-lidded eyes barely registered the shifting blur of faces around him. Passersby cast him wary glances, some whispering in hushed tones. To them, he must have looked like a corpse in motion—a puppet with its strings half-severed, barely upright through sheer force of will.
A long, ragged breath escaped his lips. "I'm so damn tired." His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper lost to the night. "My supervisor just keeps piling more shit on me like I'm some kind of machine… I can't feel my arms… my back's killing me… my whole body hurts."
By the time he reached his apartment, every ounce of strength had been wrung from him.
The door clicked shut behind him, and he barely managed to toe off his shoes before collapsing onto the bed, face-first. The thought of showering flickered through his mind, but his body rejected the idea with brutal finality.
In four hours, I have to wake up and do this all over again…
A dull hunger gnawed at his stomach, a reminder that he hadn't eaten all day, but even the thought of cooking felt insurmountable. Later. Too tired now…
A fleeting memory surfaced—Episode four of Black Clover had dropped today.
"I'll watch it when I wake up…" The words slurred together, his voice fading as exhaustion pulled him under.
For a moment, the sounds of the city blurred into a distant hum, a white noise lullaby. The walls of his tiny apartment seemed to stretch and distort at the edges of his vision, shadows twisting in unnatural patterns.
A strange sensation prickled at the base of his skull—fleeting yet unmistakable, like the moment before stepping off a ledge.
And then—
Darkness.
"Look at our son—he looks just like you."
"No, love. I think he inherited your beauty instead. Just look at his nose and lips—they're exactly like yours."
Kenji frowned. His mind was sluggish, his thoughts tangled in a fog of disorientation.
Who the hell is making so much noise this early in the morning?
His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, resisting his weak attempts to pry them open. Slowly, his vision adjusted to the dim light, revealing two figures standing before him.
Strangers.
Confusion jolted through his sluggish thoughts. The first thing he noticed was their clothing—simple, old-fashioned, the kind of attire he'd only seen in history books or period dramas. The fabric was rough, homespun, far from modern standards. Their faces, however, radiated warmth, their eyes brimming with unfiltered joy.
And they were staring at him.
A sense of unease prickled at the edges of his consciousness.
Who the hell are these people? Why are they in my bedroom?
He needed them to leave—he had work soon.
Wait… work?
A sudden, ice-cold realization slammed into him.
Shit. I'm late.
Panic surged through his veins, and he tried to leap out of bed—only to find that he couldn't move.
His body refused to obey.
Huh? What the hell?
His breath hitched. His limbs felt alien, distant, as if submerged in thick molasses. No matter how hard he tried, nothing responded. His chest tightened, panic swelling in his throat.
"W-what's happening?" His voice came out wrong—higher, weaker, unrecognizable.
Frantically, he tried again to move, to sit up, to do anything—but his body remained frustratingly limp.
"Hey! Help me!" He shouted, his voice cracking with desperation.
But the two strangers only laughed softly, exchanging affectionate glances as they continued speaking, their words lost in his spiraling dread. They weren't reacting. They weren't even acknowledging his distress.
Then—
A baby's cry.
The sound was close. Too close.
Kenji's breath stilled, his pulse hammering in his ears. His eyes darted around the dimly lit room, searching for the source. But no matter where he looked, there was no baby in sight.
Wait.
No.
No, no, no.
A sickening thought clawed its way into his mind, slow and suffocating. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as dread coiled in his gut like a venomous serpent.
With mounting horror, he forced himself to look down.
Small. Soft. Chubby.
His fingers.
They weren't his.
His breathing grew uneven as he flexed them—tiny, delicate things that shouldn't be his. His gaze darted lower, to his feet—equally small, impossibly fragile.
And then it all clicked. The wooden bars surrounding him. The soft bedding beneath his back. The
warmth of swaddling fabric wrapped around his tiny form.
A crib.
His throat went dry.
"I'm dead." The words tumbled out in a hushed whisper. "This is heaven. I'm dead. This isn't happening. I'm dead."
His pulse pounded, his thoughts a frantic whirlwind of disbelief. This wasn't normal. This wasn't real.
But the more he tried to rationalize it, the more the truth sank its claws into him.
This wasn't a dream.
This was real.
His breathing hitched. His vision blurred. Panic clashed with the unnatural drowsiness overtaking him, his body—now that of a newborn—helpless against the pull of exhaustion.
No. No, I can't—
The warmth of the swaddle pressed around him. A distant heartbeat echoed in his ears. The scent of milk lingered in the air.
Darkness swallowed him whole.