Darkness.
Not the kind you see when you close your eyes.
No. This was different. Denser. Alive.
As if the darkness itself was breathing. As if it had consciousness. A will.
Kairo floated in that void, unable to tell whether he was falling, rising, or simply existing.
Every thought was muffled, slowed down—like swimming through liquid fog.
Then, a voice.
Not a sound, but a whisper that exploded straight into his chest, like a stolen thought.
> "Are you ready to forget everything?"
His heart leapt to his throat. He tried to respond, but no sound came out.
His body was there, yet weightless—like an echo trapped in a place without time.
Before him, deep in the dark, a figure began to take shape.
Tall. Wrapped in a cloak like solid smoke.
And that face—
A white mask, featureless, expressionless.
Two black slits for eyes, empty. But he could feel it watching him.
> "How many times have you forgotten already, Kairo?"
Hearing his name tore through his mind.
Each syllable stabbed into his skin.
A visceral jolt of terror clenched his gut.
He stepped back—but there was no ground.
Only the void.
And then…
The darkness shattered.
Like glass under pressure, cracks of light exploded around him.
A silent sound. A scream without voice.
The figure raised a hand.
Touched the air—
And reality fractured.
Kairo fell.
Into the void.
Into silence.
Into oblivion.
---
He jolted awake, gasping for breath.
The air felt too heavy, like he was still drowning in that dream.
He sat up, heart pounding in his chest.
His sheets were drenched in sweat, his shirt clung to his skin.
His hands trembled as he wiped his face.
"Again… him…" he whispered.
The room was cloaked in a pale haze.
Dawn's light barely filtered through the curtains, casting a thin blade of gold on the floor.
The alarm clock ticked faintly—muted, distant.
Like a vibration trapped in fog.
Kairo opened his eyes… but he didn't feel awake.
The light was gray. Dim. As if even the sun couldn't decide whether to rise or not.
His breathing was slow. Too slow.
Not calm—just tired.
His heartbeat echoed like a weight behind his ribs.
> "It's all still there."
The dream.
The mask.
The voice.
> "Are you ready to forget everything?"
He clutched the blanket in his fists, as if it could protect him from the memory.
But it didn't.
It was still under his skin.
Behind his eyes.
In his breath.
He stood, slowly.
The wooden floor beneath his bare feet felt ice-cold.
Every step was heavier than the last.
He opened the window.
Tokyo stretched out in perfect order:
Gray buildings. Electric wires. The distant rumble of a train.
And yet… something was off.
He couldn't see it. But he felt it.
As if the entire world was holding its breath.
---
"Ugh… what a weird dream. But it's just a dream, right?"
He muttered to himself as he walked toward the kitchen.
The house was strangely silent.
No footsteps. No creaks.
It was like everything had frozen.
"Strange… Mom's not up yet?" he said aloud, heading for the fridge.
The kitchen was small but practical.
Digital fridge, sleek black microwave, a modern induction stove—perfect for his mom, who loved to cook.
Then something caught his eye.
A yellow post-it stuck to the fridge.
Kairo squinted at it.
Tried to read it.
But it was blurred, as if his mind refused to focus on it.
He reached out.
And just before his fingers touched the note—
A sharp, blinding migraine hit him.
Groaning, Kairo staggered back and blinked.
The letters were clear now.
> "Are you ready to forget everything?"
He dropped to the floor, startled.
His heart raced.
Breathing fast.
He clutched his chest, eyes wide.
Then he closed his eyes.
Tried to calm himself.
> "My name is Kairo. I'm eighteen. I live in Tokyo."
He repeated it like a mantra.
His pulse slowed.
His breathing steadied.
He looked again.
Now the note read:
> "Long shift today—wake up early tomorrow hahaha. Breakfast's in the fridge.
Love you — Mom."
He was sure.
He had read something else.
But… he convinced himself it was just his mind playing tricks.
Deep down, though—he knew something wasn't right.
> "Probably just stress… I really should stop playing those horror games so late."
He washed up and returned to his room.
---
A typical nerdy teenager's room.
Double bed, anime posters, scattered Funko Pops.
A beefy gaming PC sat on his desk, surrounded by comics and manga.
Above it, hanging on the wall—his prized bokken, carved from cherry wood.
A gift from his father.
Crafted by a "family friend," or so his dad had claimed—
But he'd never met the guy. No photos, no stories.
Just vague words and reverence, as if the man were some kind of legend.
Kairo paused.
The desk chair…
It was slightly moved.
Not a lot. Just a few centimeters.
Barely noticeable.
But shifted toward the bed.
As if someone had been… watching him.
He stepped forward, slowly.
Hand trembling.
Fear and doubt coiled in his gut.
He touched the chair.
Cold wood.
Nothing more.
Kairo let out a long, shaky breath.
"Okay… this day is getting weird."
He got dressed, ignoring the chair.
---
School was the last thing on his mind.
Only one thing really mattered: kendo.
The art of the blade. His fire.
He loved his bokken like it was a real sword.
He'd even won a few regional tournaments—
But ever since his father's mysterious disappearance, he had quit all official matches.
He threw on his black jacket, slipped into his sneakers, and grabbed his backpack.
As he did, a shiver ran down his spine.
A door creaked open behind him.
It was his parents' bedroom.
"…Okaaay, now things are officially weird."
He approached the room, cautious.
His mother always kept that space pristine—hoping that one day, Kenji would return.
Even five years after he vanished.
The room was minimalist.
Clean lines.
A tall bookshelf filled with handwritten manuscripts.
Kenji was a writer. He traveled the world for "inspiration."
But he had been obsessed with Genesis—
The biblical story of how humanity began.
The window was open.
Gray daylight poured in.
Kairo shut it calmly.
But as he turned to leave—
He froze.
Tap. Tap.
A knock on the glass.
His blood ran cold.
> "No way… second floor. Five-story building… how—?"
He whipped around.
No one.
But on the floor, beneath the bookshelf—
A book had fallen.
No sound.
No thud.
As if it had been gently placed.
He picked it up.
The title read:
> "Saito Corporation and the Remembrance of a Forgotten World."