**Title: Shadows Under the Skin**
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The darkness was unnaturally soft, like a shroud woven from cold silk being slowly draped over his bare skin. There was no sound. No whispers. No breathing. Just a faint tremor in his chest, as if his heart was afraid to be heard. Something was wrong.
No—everything was wrong.
His body lay sprawled on a hard, cold surface, sticky with a dampness resembling the sweat of someone long dead. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids refused at first. The light was dim, seeping from somewhere distant, as if behind sealed walls. Finally, his eyes fluttered open. The ceiling was high, covered in shifting black tendrils, like living mold.
He wanted to move.
He wanted to lift his arm.
But his arm wasn't there.
No—it *was* there. It just wouldn't obey.
**Subaru Natsuki.** That was his name. He remembered it, but not how he got here. He couldn't recall the last thing he'd seen, heard, or felt. It was as if his memories had been meticulously emptied, pulled out one by one with devilish care, leaving only sensations: cold, terror, shame.
Slowly—as if his fingers didn't belong to him—he began feeling the ground beneath him. It was soft in places, as if something living lurked beneath. His body moved sluggishly, muscles forgotten. Then, he sat up. He realized he was wearing unfamiliar clothes—tattered remnants of something old, hastily stitched back together by clumsy hands.
The air was suffocating. A stench of blood, iron, and rot. He didn't know if it was the place's smell… or *his own.*
*"Hello..."*
The word came out trembling, barely audible. But it echoed off the walls like a scream.
No response.
He staggered to his feet, legs shaking, each step producing a faint *click* as if his bones were quietly snapping. The walls around him were uneven black stone, veined with faint red lines that pulsed like arteries. No doors. No windows. No exit.
This wasn't a prison.
It was worse.
This was a tomb—built for the living.
Then, suddenly, he heard it.
A whisper.
Soft.
From *inside his skin.*
He whipped his head around. Nothing. But the sound continued. Not from outside. Not in his ears.
*In his bones.*
As if someone was speaking to him from within his spine.
*"You're finally awake..."*
A woman's voice. Mocking. Smiling as it carved him open from the inside. He didn't answer. His heart shuddered. Heat prickled the back of his neck—like a hand resting there.
*"This isn't a dream."*
The voice continued, calm, delicate, and lethal. Subaru began panting. Tears welled in his eyes, but there was no emotion behind them.
He wasn't sad.
He was *so afraid* his body didn't know how to react.
Then—the wall in front of him *shifted.*
Not magically.
As if the stone *parted,* forming a small, circular void in the air, as though someone had drawn it into existence and the walls obeyed.
And from that void...
A hand emerged.
A human hand.
Clad in a smooth white glove.
But it was holding *something.*
A *head.*
*His* head.
Yes—his *own* head.
He stared, his pulse freezing.
The head in the hand was *his* face. Closed eyes. Messy hair. Dried blood on its cheek. A dead, cold copy of himself.
Then—the hand *dropped* the head.
It rolled... rolled... stopped.
Face to face.
Subaru stared into his own dead eyes.
And the dead eyes *snapped open.*
The head screamed:
***"YOU DIED."***
He screamed back.
A scream that wasn't sound.
A *tear in the soul.*
Then—everything turned *white.*
Not light.
A *cold* white.
Like dying all over again.
Like the brain couldn't take it.
Like everything was being reset.
Then—
He woke up.
In a *real* room.
Dim sunlight through a window.
A bed.
A blanket.
His breaths were heavy. Cold.
His hand trembled.
He gasped as if he'd been drowning.
*"A nightmare..."* he muttered. *"Just a nightmare..."*
But his hand—his hand was clutching *something.*
Under the blanket.
Something warm. Sticky.
He slowly pulled it out.
It was covered in blood.
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**End.**
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