The day of the school festival arrived. I was mechanically getting ready when my cellphone rang—a jarring sound in my quiet room. It was Phil.
"I hope you're ready for the festival I told you about the other day?" His voice was cheerful, but it felt like it was coming from another world.
"Yeah, I remember. That was on Monday." My own voice sounded flat, even to me.
"Alright! Glad you remember. Don't be late!"
I don't really operate cellphones, but at the very least, I can answer calls. My life was a study in boring routines, a existence I wasn't even bothered enough to resent. I took a taxi, watching the city blur past the window, feeling utterly disconnected from it all.
It had been several days since the incident at the dojo. **Wrath** hadn't shown himself in my consciousness. No fiery outbursts, no taunting whispers. The silence in my head should have been a relief, but it felt more like the calm before a storm. I was the one in control now, but the control felt… different. I'd discovered I could do more than just see Life Scales. Sometimes, I could feel the faint echoes of emotions from people around me—flickers of anxiety, spikes of joy. It was like tuning into a radio station I never knew existed.
More unsettling was the new ability to retreat internally. I could let my body operate on its own, a hollow automaton going through the motions, just as **Wrath** had done. But I hated the feeling. It was a numb, empty drift, and the only emotion the vessel seemed capable of feeling without me was a dull, residual anger. So I stayed in the driver's seat, clinging to my own agency, however fragile it was.
I arrived at the school's main entrance thirty minutes after the call. Phil was already at the gate, leaning against the wrought iron with practiced ease.
"Took you long enough," he said, patting me on the shoulder with a familiarity that still felt unearned. "Let's go in."
"I take priority in clean, long baths," I said, the excuse sounding weak even to my own ears as I sheepishly followed him. His school was a monument of wealth and prestige, one of the top five in the country, a world away from my own nondescript one.
We boarded the automated school train to head to the event venue. The car was mildly crowded, the seats all occupied, forcing us to stand and cling to overhead straps. The train jolted into motion, and that's when I felt it.
A wave of ominous pressure. The train wasn't just filled with people; it was saturated with a thick, cloying miasma of evil emotions. Anxiety, bitterness, petty jealousies—they leaked from the passengers like a psychic sweat. Even Phil emitted a low, constant hum of it, a stark contrast to his cheerful exterior.
Despite my own emotionless baseline, I'd become acutely able to differentiate pure from impure. And this train was a sewer.
"Do you by any chance feel any other person present here other than humans?" I whispered to Phil, my voice tight.
He turned, his red eyes narrowing slightly in concern. "Nope! What's wrong? You feeling something like that?"
"Yeah," I confessed, the words tumbling out in a low rush. "I've been seeing… things. Weird creatures. Some look almost human, but they're not. Others just hang around people. Some cause chaos, others seem harmless. I can't remember how long it's been, but it's been happening a lot lately. Some of them…" I was pouring everything out, this newfound ability to converse fueled by a desperate need for an answer.
Phil burst into uncontrolled laughter, a sharp, barking sound that drew stares from other passengers. "Man!! You're hilarious!" he interrupted, slapping his knee. "You must have been watching a lot of animation recently. You need to lay off it. This is the side effect. Things like that do not exist. It's just your imagination."
As if to mock him, one of the "imaginary" creatures, a psyche with a human-like head disintegrating into dust from the waist down, clung to the window pane outside the moving train. It stared directly at me and smiled. I shrugged and looked away, a cold knot tightening in my stomach.
"I haven't been feeling like myself lately," I pressed on, ignoring his dismissal. "It's as if I'm possessed. I can't control my actions sometimes. What do you think, Phil?"
He pretended to be distracted by the passing scenery, avoiding my gaze. "Oh, I think you're worrying too much. You need sleep. And I guess you're just anxious about the festival 'cause you might meet some pretty girls at my school," he teased, poking me in the stomach in a weak attempt to lighten the mood.
"Beautiful girls?" The concept felt alien. "I don't believe anyone is beautiful. What does it even mean to be beautiful?"
Phil sighed in genuine disappointment. "You're too serious. Since when do you start believing in all this weird stuff, anyway?"
Perplexed, I had no real answer. "I could ask myself the same question," I replied quietly.
Our conversation was interrupted by a shabbily dressed, grumpy-faced fat man sitting beside us. He'd been listening with a deepening frown. "You brats have been making a hell of a lot of noise," he ranted. "Would you quiet down? I'm trying to think here!"
An old lady sitting opposite us chuckled lightly. "Let them be. They are young and full of spirit. Let them enjoy their little chat."
"Yes! Besides, I love their conversation. It interests me," a young woman chewing gum added. She was older than us, her gaze sharp and intelligent.
"Of course, why wouldn't you?" the fat man shot back, his voice trembling with a deep-seated rage. "After all, all you women do is gossip and cheat!!" He was a storm of depression and anger. As his emotions peaked, I saw it clearly—a **red** aura, intense and violent, identical to the one that cloaked me when **Wrath** took over. It wasn't just me. This thing, this emotion, was a parasite affecting others too.
"Don't bring your family problems here! This is a public transport, you know?" the young woman retorted angrily.
"What did you say!?" The man's **red** aura flared, burning brighter. The very air in the train felt thick and sickening, a mixture of anger and hate that was both repulsive and, to a newly awakened part of me, strangely pleasing.
"Calm down, mister," Phil said, trying to play the peacemaker, placing a hand on the man's arm.
"Shut the hell up, kid!!! Just keep your mouth shut. You shits are the cause of all this!" the man roared, shaking off Phil's hand.
Something inside me snapped. A heat bloomed in my chest, different from before—less a pure inferno of **Wrath**, more a clouded, righteous fury. "I'm irritated," I said, my voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. The entire train fell silent, all eyes on me. "Who are you calling little shit? Did you just call *him* shit?"
I was speaking, but the words felt both mine and not mine. I could hear the voice echoing in my psyche environment, but I couldn't find **Wrath**. The space was empty.
*'This is all your fault, Wrath, for letting me ride this metal scrap,'* the unknown voice in my head complained with a sneer. *'You know I and Sloth don't flow. Yet you put the vessel in here?'*
Confusion warred with the rising anger. Who was talking?
*'I'm going to blow this train up,'* the voice declared, cool and casual.
The temperature in the train car began to skyrocket. The air grew heavy and stifling, the metal walls groaning as if under immense pressure. Passengers started sweating, fanning themselves, looking around in panic.
I felt a terrifying power gathering within me, a pressure cooker ready to explode. I was going to ignite the entire train.
Before I could, Phil's hand clamped down on my arm. His grip was like iron. His expression was no longer cheerful or teasing, but deadly serious, his red eyes boring into mine.
"It's too early," he said, his voice a low, commanding whisper that cut through the chaos in my head.
The gathering power faltered. The heat began to recede. The unknown voice in my head fell silent.
Who was the unknown voice? And who was Phil, really?