⚠️ Warning
chapter contains scenes of violence, disturbing imagery, and psychological tension. Reader discretion is advised.
The Shadow That Breathed
The world was quiet.
Too quiet.
Like the air itself was holding its breath.
Naoki floated in nothingness—weightless, cold, hollow. The last thing he remembered was the rope, the pain, the fading light.
But now there was… silence.
He tried to move, but his hands passed through the emptiness like smoke.
His voice—if he even had one—didn't echo.
It was like screaming underwater.
And then, a sound.
A faint drip… drip… drip.
Followed by a low hum—like electricity crawling through metal.
The world blinked into color.
A dimly lit apartment appeared before him, walls stained yellow by cigarette smoke and time. A single lightbulb flickered above a cluttered table. The air was thick with dust, blood, and silence.
Naoki turned.
Someone was standing by the window, his back hunched slightly, his hand pressed to his lip. Blood smeared his fingers.
Rain fell outside, slanting through the cracked blinds, painting red streaks on the glass.
Naoki's heart dropped.
That face…
That posture…
It was him.
Older.
Rougher.
Harder.
Eyes like burnt coal, dead yet burning.
The man wiped the blood from his mouth, chuckling under his breath.
"Guess that's one way to start the morning."
Naoki stared, frozen.
He wanted to speak, but no words came.
Then, the older man turned. His gaze flicked through the air—and locked directly on him.
Naoki's pulse spiked.
The man's brows furrowed. "...You've gotta be kidding me."
Naoki blinked. "You—can see me?"
"Yeah, dumbass." The man sighed, setting the bloodied cloth down. "You shouldn't be here."
Naoki's voice trembled. "W–what is this place?"
"Hell."
He turned his back. "Or close enough."
Before Naoki could answer—
A thud.
Then another.
The door rattled.
The older Naoki tensed, instincts snapping to life. He grabbed a pistol from under the table, the motion fast, automatic—like muscle memory born of violence.
The next sound was thunder.
BANG!
The door burst open—splintered wood flying across the room. Two men in black rushed in, masks pulled tight, weapons drawn.
The older Naoki didn't flinch.
He fired once—clean, precise.
The first intruder's knee shattered.
The man screamed, collapsing before he even realized he'd been shot.
Naoki dove behind the couch, rolling to cover. The second intruder fired wildly. Glass exploded; shards rained like tiny knives.
Older Naoki moved through the chaos like he was born in it.
He slipped from cover, fired again—one in the chest, another in the arm.
Each shot landed perfectly.
The air filled with smoke and gunpowder.
Naoki's heart pounded even though his body had no blood, no lungs.
It was… terrifying. Beautiful. Unbelievable.
One of the masked men lunged forward with a knife, screaming.
The older Naoki sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, twisted it until the bone snapped like dry wood. The man howled—
Then Naoki slammed his head into the wall.
The sound was wet.
Final.
The remaining intruder aimed again, shaking from pain.
The older Naoki moved before he did—kicked the gun from his hand, pinned him down, and drove the pistol's barrel against his forehead.
"Who sent you?"
The voice was low, deathly calm.
"N–no one! Please—"
Bang.
The echo silenced everything.
Blood misted across the wall.
The man fell limp.
Older Naoki dropped his gun to his side, breathing heavy. He leaned against the wall, eyes staring at nothing. His face was pale, his knuckles white. His jaw clenched so tight it trembled.
And for the first time, Naoki realized—
The man was crying.
Not loud. Not sobbing.
Just tears, silent and bitter, slipping down through a face that had forgotten how to feel.
The younger Naoki floated there, trembling.
He didn't recognize this person.
He didn't even want to.
He stepped closer, reaching out. "Who… who are you?"
The man looked up, his face shadowed by the flickering light. "You already know."
Naoki's hands shook. "No. No, that's— that's not me. I would never—"
The man chuckled, dark and broken. "Wouldn't you?"
Naoki stumbled back. "I'm nothing like you!"
The older man stared at him for a long, quiet moment. Then he picked up his gun, wiping the blood off it with the edge of his sleeve. His eyes were distant, empty.
"Keep telling yourself that," he muttered. "It helps at first."
The sound of rain filled the room again.
The bodies on the floor looked like shadows—souls drained of color.
Naoki's knees felt weak even though he didn't have a body to collapse with. He wanted to vomit, to run, to wake up.
But he couldn't.
He could only watch as the man—his future self—holstered the gun, sat down on the couch, and stared blankly at the wall.
Minutes passed like hours.
The silence was unbearable.
Naoki whispered, voice shaking, "Why… why are you like this?"
No answer.
Only the faint twitch of his lips.
Finally, the older Naoki turned his head slightly, just enough to reveal those dead eyes. "Because one day, you'll have no one left to protect but your hate."
The room seemed to tilt.
Naoki stumbled backward, his glowing fingers clutching his head.
"No… no, that's not me," he whispered. "That can't be me…"
The older man didn't reply. He just lit a cigarette, the ember flaring in the dark.
The smoke swirled lazily around him, curling like a serpent.
He took one drag, then looked at the blood pooling by his feet.
"…You'll see soon enough."
Naoki screamed.
But no one heard.
The rain outside grew heavier, pounding the glass with relentless rhythm. The world seemed to fade—slowly, painfully—like an image burning out of focus.
And just before everything went white again—
Naoki saw the older version of himself glance once more toward him, eyes cold and tired.
Then came the words that would echo forever.
"What the fuck is happening?"
The world shattered.
Black.
Silence.
End of Chapter.