Chapter 2 - Shattered Reflections

From a distance, I watched as a feminine silhouette emerged across an expansive, unfamiliar lake. With each blink, she drew nearer, her form becoming clearer until she stood directly before me. Though her face remained shrouded in shadow, her smile was unmistakable—a faint curve of lips that seemed both inviting and unsettling.

"Life," she began, her voice resonating like a soft echo through the still air, "is often misconceived by living beings as something sacred. They revere it, worship it, yet rarely do they truly cherish it."

Confusion swirled within me, my thoughts tangled in the web of her cryptic words. What is she talking about? I wondered silently, though I found myself unable to move or speak, trapped in this strange encounter.

"Humans are among those who hold such misconceptions," she continued, her tone carrying the weight of detached observation. "With lifespans barely stretching beyond a century, they feel compelled to make their fleeting existence meaningful. But how misguided their efforts often are."

She paused, letting her words hang heavy in the silence. "And what excuse do they offer for these transgressions? The so-called 'circle of life.' How... unsightly."

Her voice grew sharper, laced with disdain. "They wage wars under the guise of 'the greater good of humanity.' Wars fought for ideals, for land, for resources. How naive. How ruthless. How barbaric. How greedy humans are."

Then, unexpectedly, she turned her attention fully on me. Her piercing gaze felt like it could see straight into my soul. "Don't you agree with me, Kiseki?" she asked, her question hanging between us like a challenge.

Before I could respond—or even comprehend the implications of her query—the world around me dissolved into darkness. My eyes snapped open, and I bolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat, the shrill beeping of my alarm clock slicing through the lingering haze of the dream.

"What the hell was that?" I muttered, pressing a hand to my forehead as if trying to physically grasp the fragments of the vision slipping away. "Where was I just now... and who was she?"

I sat frozen on the edge of my bed, staring blankly at the wall as the vivid details of the dream began to blur. Each attempt to recall them only pushed them further out of reach, like sand slipping through clenched fingers. It was maddening, infuriating—and then, suddenly, interrupted.

Footsteps echoed up the stairs outside my bedroom, followed by a gentle knock at the door. "Kiseki, wake up! You'll be late for your job interview," came a familiar voice, warm but firm.

My gaze shifted to the other side of the room, where a freshly ironed suit hung neatly by the window. The sight jolted me back to reality. "Oh right, the job interview," I murmured, shaking off the remnants of the dream.

The bedroom door creaked open, revealing a beautiful middle-aged woman leaning casually against the frame. Her arms were crossed, and her expression balanced concern with encouragement. "It's time to get ready, Kiseki. Ichijou is waiting for you outside," she reminded me gently.

Running a hand through my disheveled hair, I stretched and nodded. "Yes, Mom," I replied politely, stepping past her as she moved aside to let me pass.

"Geez, look at you," she teased, shaking her head with mock disapproval. "All slouchy and sweaty. Hurry up and shower! Don't keep your friend waiting."

As I entered the bathroom, my reflection greeted me in the mirror. The woman I called "Mom" wasn't my biological mother; she was my aunt, Misaki. Despite being in her late forties, she carried herself with a youthful energy that defied her years. Flipping through old family photos, I'd often marveled at how little time seemed to have touched her.

Sadly, Misaki had never married. Perhaps her devotion to raising me left no room for personal pursuits of love. Over the years, I'd come to see her not just as my aunt, but as my mother—a role she embraced wholeheartedly. She filled the void left by memories I could no longer access, memories of my biological parents that had faded almost entirely from my mind.

After a hurried five minutes, I stepped out of the bathroom, steam curling around me like ghostly tendrils. But something felt... off. A faint breeze brushed against my skin, carrying with it an inexplicable chill. My gaze darted across the room, landing on the window. It was open—though I was certain I hadn't left it that way before my shower.

And then I saw her.

Standing by the window, silhouetted against the morning sunlight, was the same enigmatic figure from my dream. Her features were obscured once more, veiled by the glare of the sun streaming in behind her. Yet there was no mistaking her presence—the weight of it pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe.

I blinked rapidly, convinced this was some trick of the light, a remnant of my imagination still clinging to the edges of consciousness. But when I opened my eyes again, she was still there. Solid. Real. And, impossibly, smiling at me.

"So, Kiseki," she said, her voice resonating softly yet firmly in the small space. "Do you agree with me about what I said to you not long ago?"

Before I could even process her words, she moved—impossibly fast. One moment she was by the window; the next, she was right in front of me, close enough that I stumbled backward in shock. My back hit the door with a loud thud, jolting me fully awake and drawing Misaki's immediate attention.

"What just happened, Kiseki?! Are you alright?!" Misaki burst into the room, her face etched with concern as she scanned the area for any sign of danger.

But the mysterious girl was gone. Vanished without a trace. The only evidence of her presence was the slight movement of the curtains, swaying gently in the breeze from the open window. I stared at the spot where she had been, my heart pounding wildly in my chest.

"What was that..." I muttered under my breath, my eyes fixed on the closed window as if willing it to provide answers.

"Don't scare me like that! I thought something terrible had happened to you," Misaki scolded, her tone wavering between relief and exasperation. She placed a hand on my shoulder, grounding me in reality. "Now hurry up and get dressed. You can't afford to be late for your interview."

Ten minutes later, I emerged from my room, feeling more disoriented than ever. As I slipped on my shoes, Misaki watched me from the hallway, her expression softening into one of quiet support.

"Wish me luck, Mom," I said softly, meeting her gaze with a grateful smile.

Her lips curved upward in response, warmth radiating from her eyes. "Good luck, Kiseki. You'll do great."

With those parting words, I stepped outside, greeted by the sight of an old-school Ford Mustang parked in front of the house. Its sleek lines gleamed in the morning light, unmistakably Ichijou's. I approached the car and slid into the backseat, bracing myself for his usual barrage of teasing.

"You know, my girlfriend gets herself ready much quicker than you. Plus, she's a damn girl," he quipped, glancing at me through the rearview mirror with a smirk.

"...Who the hell do you think you are, you ass! Get your butt to the front! I'm not your freaking driver!" he barked suddenly, his patience clearly wearing thin.

"Relax, man. It's 8 in the morning. You don't have to yell at me this early," I grumbled, reluctantly climbing into the front passenger seat. Ichijou continued to mutter complaints under his breath as he pulled away from the curb.

"Big day for you today, man. Take this thing seriously. You've been jobless for god knows how long," he nagged, his tone laced with both mockery and genuine concern.

"Easy for you to say, Boss. You're set to inherit one of the largest mafia syndicates in Japan," I shot back, leaning back in the seat and closing my eyes. Exhaustion settled over me like a heavy blanket, the events of the morning weighing heavily on my mind.

Ichijou, the son of the infamous White Tiger, was a legend in his own right. Tales of his exploits spread like wildfire throughout the underworld. He was rumored to have dismantled entire rival gangs single-handedly, his mastery of martial arts unmatched. To most, he was untouchable—a force of nature wrapped in human form.

To me, though, he was simply Ichijou: reckless, unpredictable, and somehow always managing to stay one step ahead of death itself. Despite the constant threats looming over him, he carried himself with an air of cheerfulness that baffled me. How could someone so deeply entrenched in danger remain so carefree?

Still, despite his flaws—or perhaps because of them—I admired him. Trusted him. In many ways, he was the brother I never had.

"Oi! Don't sleep while I'm driving you, ungrateful bastard!" Ichijou snapped, jolting me out of my thoughts.

"Fine," I muttered, sitting up straighter and resting my hand against the cool glass of the window. I gazed out at the passing scenery, letting the rhythm of the car lull me into a state of semi-awareness.

Soon, we entered a tunnel that led directly into the heart of Tokyo City. Emerging on the other side, we were greeted by the dazzling skyline of the metropolis—a kaleidoscope of towering skyscrapers, neon lights, and endless possibilities. The city stretched out before us, alive with energy and promise.

But my admiration for the city's vibrancy was short-lived. After a thirty-minute drive through bustling streets, we arrived at the company where my interview was scheduled. As I reached for the door handle, ready to step out, Ichijou's voice stopped me.

"Hey, Kiseki. Look over here," he called, his tone serious yet tinged with playful mockery.

I stayed silent, letting him work. But then his expression shifted—his teasing smirk faded into something more concerned. "What's that on your cheek?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

"What? Is there something on it?" I instinctively began touching my face, running my fingers along my skin in search of whatever had caught his attention. My left cheek felt normal, but when I touched my right... it sank inward. Not like flesh yielding to pressure—it felt hollow, unnatural.

Glancing into the side mirror, I froze. My reflection stared back at me—or rather, part of it did. A section of my right cheek glowed faintly blue, pixelated as though someone had taken an eraser to reality itself. It shimmered unnaturally, distorting the surface beneath.

"What the hell is this?" I muttered, prodding at the strange anomaly. The moment my finger made contact, the pixelation spread outward like cracks in glass, shattering further across my skin.

"Dude, stop touching it!" Ichijou barked, frantically rummaging through the glove compartment. He pulled out a plaster and thrust it into my hand. "Cover it with this! We'll figure it out later—you don't have time to deal with it now."

Nodding dumbly, I pressed the plaster onto the affected area, hoping it would hold until after the interview. With no other choice, I stepped out of the car and headed inside, trying to push the unsettling sight from my mind.

In the office, the interview felt like an eternity, even though only a handful of questions had been asked. Each word I spoke seemed to stretch time further, my focus fractured by the gnawing unease in the back of my mind. Just as I thought it couldn't get worse, one of the interviewers leaned forward, their expression shifting from professional curiosity to something closer to alarm.

"I think we better stop this interview right here," they said, their tone hesitant but firm. "Uh… this may not be our concern, but what exactly is on your cheek? It seems to be getting bigger."

My blood ran cold. For a moment, I could do nothing but stare at them, my mouth opening and closing without sound. Panic surged through me as I scrambled for any reflective surface in the room—a window, a glass panel, anything that might give me a glimpse of what they were seeing. When my eyes finally landed on the polished metal frame of a certificate hanging on the wall, I nearly choked on my own breath.

What I saw sent shivers racing down my spine. My right cheek was almost entirely hollowed out, consumed by the eerie blue pixelation. The edges crumbled and shifted with even the slightest twitch of my jaw, as if reality itself were disintegrating under my skin. A wave of nausea hit me as I realized how far it had spread since I'd last checked in the car mirror.

Pulling out my phone, I dialed his number. "Dude, I'm done with the interview. I- I really need you to get me. Where are you? C-Can you pick me up now?" my lips stuttered from the horror I've witneess in the room. Though i tried to remain calm as I walk through the hallway.

Instead of his usual sarcastic banter, panic laced his response. "Kiseki! I'm at a parking lot a few blocks to the right of the company. You have to come quick!"

His urgency sent a jolt of fear coursing through me. "What's wrong?" I demanded, already jogging in the direction he mentioned.

When I reached the parking lot, I spotted Ichijou sitting in his Mustang, his knuckles white as they gripped the steering wheel. His face glistened with sweat, and his eyes darted around wildly, betraying sheer terror.

"Ichijou! What's going on?!" I shouted, rushing to the driver's side.

Without a word, he rolled down the window and yanked off his shirt, exposing his torso. There, spreading across his chest, was the same pixelation I'd seen on my cheek—but far worse. Large patches of his skin were consumed by the glowing blue distortion, fracturing and expanding with every passing second.

"Dude… I don't know what you just infected me with," he stammered, his voice trembling. "But it's getting worse. Way worse."

Before I could respond, he pointed urgently at the car window. "Kiseki, what the hell is going on?! Look at yourself!"

I turned, catching my reflection in the glass—and froze. Half of my face was now engulfed by the pixelation, including my right eye, which flickered and distorted like static on a broken screen. Horror washed over me as I realized the phenomenon wasn't slowing down—it was accelerating.

"Get in the car, Kiseki! We need to get to the hospital, NOW!" Ichijou yelled, his voice cracking with desperation. He leaned across the seat to open the passenger door, his movements frantic.