A few days later, I stood at the edge of the city, my backpack slung over my shoulder. The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a golden glow over the vast forest ahead. A gentle breeze rustled the treetops, whispering secrets I wasn't sure I wanted to hear.
I hesitated.
Something about this moment felt... wrong.
My pulse quickened as memories I hadn't invited clawed their way to the surface. The weight of the past pressed against my chest, familiar yet distant, like a dream I couldn't quite remember but also couldn't forget.
I took a step forward. Then another.
The path beneath my feet was eerily familiar, each step like a distorted echo of something I'd already lived through. The crunch of dry leaves. The distant rustling of unseen creatures. Shadows flickering at the edges of my vision.
I turned, expecting to see something—someone.
Nothing.
The city's sounds faded into the distance, swallowed by an unnatural silence that sent a chill up my spine. The deeper I walked, the heavier the air became, thick with something unspoken.
Then I saw it.
I froze.
The clearing was just as I remembered—but it wasn't empty.
The ship stood before me, an enormous, otherworldly structure, its curved surface half-buried in the earth like a long-forgotten relic. Vines coiled around its rusted hull, moss clinging stubbornly to the cracks and crevices.
It looked ancient.
It shouldn't be here.
"This… this can't be real…" My voice barely carried in the empty space.
The ship's arrival was supposed to be decades away, a cataclysmic event that marked the beginning of everything I had fought to prevent. And yet, here it was—weathered, decayed, as if it had always been here.
As if it had been waiting.
A shiver crawled down my spine. My legs felt like lead, instincts screaming at me to turn back.
I didn't.
I stepped forward, breath hitching as I reached out. My fingers brushed against the metal surface—cold, unnervingly smooth. A strange sensation shot up my arm, making me shudder.
The entrance stood open, a gaping void in the ship's hull.
Beckoning.
I swallowed hard. "Let's do this," I whispered, though my voice trembled.
Inside, the air was thick, stale, suffocating. My flashlight flickered as I stepped deeper, its narrow beam slicing through the darkness. The sound of my own footsteps echoed, the acoustics unnatural, making the space feel endless and claustrophobic at the same time.
The corridors were a graveyard.
Shattered monitors. Broken wires. Overturned consoles.
And then, the smell.
It hit me all at once—rot, decay, something metallic.
I covered my mouth, fighting the urge to gag. My stomach twisted.
Then I saw them.
Bodies.
Dozens of them.
They were alien—gray, elongated limbs frozen in unnatural positions, eyeless faces contorted in their final moments.
I took a shaky step forward, my breath uneven. My fingers tightened around my flashlight, knuckles white.
"What the hell happened here…?" I whispered, though I wasn't sure I wanted the answer.
The silence pressed in, heavy and watchful, as if the ship itself was listening.
I stepped over the corpses, my heart pounding. Each one looked like it had been reaching for something. Or someone.
Something terrible had happened here.
And I had a feeling I already knew what.
Deeper into the ship, the atmosphere grew thicker, heavier, like the walls were closing in. My flashlight flickered again, casting long, twisting shadows.
And then, in the far corner, I saw it.
A metal desk, half-buried under layers of dust and debris.
And on it—something small, faintly gleaming in the dim light.
I moved closer, my breath catching.
A pendrive.
I picked it up carefully, turning it over in my palm. The casing was scratched, worn, but intact. Faded letters were etched into its surface.
PROJECT DAICHI.
My grip tightened.
My name.
My life.
Connected to this place—to this ship—to this timeline.
"…What the hell is this?" My voice was barely above a whisper, my throat dry.
The ship groaned, a low, mournful sound that made my skin crawl.
I didn't have time to stand there. Clutching the pendrive tightly, I turned and started back the way I came. My footsteps echoed unnaturally, overlapping, like something—or someone—was following.
I didn't look back.
I burst into the open air, collapsing to my knees. My lungs burned, my hands trembling as I stared down at the pendrive in my grasp.
This wasn't just about the Vanishing.
This was bigger.
Much bigger.
And for the first time, true fear gripped me—not just for myself, but for the world.
The small room was silent except for the faint hum of the ship's dying systems.
Then the screen flickered.
"This is Project Number 233," a voice crackled through the speakers.
My breath caught.
The alien scientist's face appeared—glistening gray skin, elongated features illuminated by the cold glow of the console.
Its voice was calm.
Clinical.
Devoid of emotion.
But its words crushed me like a collapsing star.
"We have achieved what we believe is a perfect human. Its body can resist any disease and survive extreme pressure and temperature, thanks to our successful gene-splicing with human DNA."
The sound of my own name echoed in the chamber.
Daichi.
I took a step back, my stomach churning.
"No… no, no, no," I whispered. My voice shook. My hands curled into fists.
The scientist's face flickered with static before returning. This time, its voice held something else.
Urgency.
Fear.
"To whoever finds this recording… please put a stop to Daichi. He escaped from his containment tube and has gone berserk, killing everyone on this ship."
A cold, sharp silence filled the room.
My heart pounded so hard it hurt.
My vision blurred.
"I… I did what?" My voice cracked. My knees felt weak.
The video continued, indifferent to my horror.
"Through my hypothesis, his emotions are not like humans'. They are highly unstable, unpredictable, and dangerous."
No.
No, this had to be a mistake.
This had to be—
Static overtook the screen. Then, movement.
A blur.
Fast. Feral.
The camera jolted violently, crashing to the ground.
A shriek—raw, filled with terror—pierced the speakers.
Then, a shadow.
A figure emerged from the darkness, slow, deliberate.
Golden eyes burned through the dim light.
My breath hitched.
My entire body turned ice-cold.
It was me.
It was me.
"NO!" I screamed at the screen, but the image didn't change. It played out like a nightmare I couldn't wake from.
The figure on-screen lunged.
The scientist's screams cut off.
The screen went black.
Silence swallowed the room.
I stared at my own reflection on the dark monitor.
I staggered back.
"No… that's not me," I whispered. "That's not me!"
But the words sounded hollow.
My mind reeled, my breath uneven, my hands shaking violently.
I gritted my teeth, gripping my hair. "WHY?" I shouted, my voice raw. "WHY DID YOU MAKE ME?!"
The answer never came.
But I knew.
I was the reason.
For everything.
My fists clenched.
I couldn't change the past.
But I could fix this.
I had to.
The faint words etched into the console sent a chill down my spine.
Project Daichi.
My breath caught, my pulse hammering in my ears. The alien's dying words resurfaced like a ghost whispering in the dark.
The serum.
I sucked in a shaky breath, my whole body still trembling. My mind screamed at me to crumble, to let the weight of it all drag me down. But instead, something inside me twisted—hardened into something colder. Something sharper.
A bitter laugh escaped my lips, quiet, hollow. "If I'm the problem," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper, "then I'll find the solution."
I clenched my fists, my knuckles raw and stinging from earlier, blood staining my fingers. I wiped them absently against my pants, but the pain barely registered. Guilt still burned through me, searing and relentless, but I refused to let it consume me. Not yet.
"I don't care what I was," I said, my voice steadier this time. Firmer. "I don't care what they made me." My throat tightened, but I forced the words out anyway. "I'll fix this. No matter what it takes."
The ship groaned around me, its hollow, mechanical whispers echoing in the suffocating silence. I turned toward the darkened corridors ahead, my grip tightening around the pendrive in my hand.
A monster. That's what the alien scientist had implied I was. That's what I might still be.
I swallowed hard, shaking my head. No.
That wasn't going to be the end of my story.
I took a step forward. Then another. The floor beneath me shuddered, metal creaking under my weight. The silence pressed in, thick and oppressive, but I welcomed it. Let it settle into my bones.
I'll save them.
I clenched my jaw, breathing through the knot in my chest.
Even if I have to destroy myself to do it.
The ship was dying. I could feel it.
Every step I took sent echoes bouncing off the decayed walls, the air thick with dust and something bitter—like old smoke and rusted metal. The low hum of unseen machinery vibrated beneath my feet, faint and unstable, as if the vessel itself was barely holding together.
I climbed the ruined stairwell, gripping the railing tighter than I needed to. My heart pounded in my chest, my mind racing.
What am I even doing?
The video of the alien scientist kept replaying in my head, over and over. His frantic voice. That monstrous figure on the screen. My reflection.
I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. Focus.
The stairwell groaned as I reached the top, where a heavy door hung crooked on its hinges, scorched black as if it had barely survived an explosion. I pressed my palm against it and shoved. The hinges shrieked in protest, but the door gave way, swinging open just enough for me to slip through.
The room beyond was massive, hollow. The walls were scarred with deep cracks, the floor littered with shattered machinery and broken consoles. It was the remnants of something that had once been important—once been alive.
But now?
Now, it was nothing more than a graveyard.
I stepped forward, my breath misting in the unnaturally cold air. Something was here. Something powerful.
Then I saw it.
Half-buried beneath a collapsed structure in the far corner, a reinforced case pulsed faintly, its eerie glow slicing through the darkness. My stomach twisted.
I moved toward it slowly, my footsteps muffled by the dust and debris. With each step, the air around me seemed to thrum, the vibrations sinking into my bones, growing stronger—like a warning.
When I reached the case, I knelt, brushing away layers of ash and grime with unsteady hands.
And there it was.
A small vial, nestled within the reinforced glass, its liquid contents swirling and shimmering with an otherworldly glow. The light wasn't natural—it moved, shifted, almost like it was alive.
I swallowed hard. "This is it," I whispered.
I hesitated.
Every part of me screamed that this was wrong. That touching this thing—using it—was going to change everything. But deep down, I knew.
I didn't have a choice.
My fingers closed around the vial. The glass was freezing against my skin, a numbing cold that seeped into my fingertips, spreading like frostbite. I shuddered but didn't let go.
I couldn't let go.