Re:Birth - Glass and Gloss.
Sparda — the demon king who ruled the heavens and the realm of Hell.
His blade severed armies.
His power ended wars.
Yet he was never fully evil.
He protected humanity—
and in the same breath,
separated humans and demons forever.
The clash between him and his brothers shook creation itself.
No being could witness those battles and remain unmoved.
They were jaw-dropping.
Unforgettable.
The wars lasted thousands of years.
Countless lives were lost.
Not a single soul would ever forget his na—
"Was this written by a child?"
Akira squinted at the page.
"How boring."
He snapped the book shut with a flick.
TICK.
"Ah— crap."
A tiny slice appeared on his finger.
He blew on it instinctively, holding it up.
He glanced around.
The librarian looked up at him for half a second—
not in concern, not in suspicion—
just in the universal way someone looks at noise.
She went right back to typing.
Uninterested.
Unbothered.
Absolutely done with life.
Akira forced a laugh.
"Guess I'm gonna die from this papercut, huh?"
She didn't even blink.
He muttered:
"…tough crowd."
Silence.
RING.
RING.
RING.
Akira sighed and picked up his phone.
"…Hello."
His posture straightened.
His eyes sharpened.
The casual warmth vanished.
A man's voice blared through the speaker:
"AKIRA!
Listen, can you come in early today?
Rimi just up and quit—didn't even give notice.
There's a mountain of dishes and we're swamped!"
Akira exhaled heavily.
"…right."
He blinked.
He put the book back on the shelf, yawning as he walked out of the aisle.
He pushed the library doors open.
Sunlight spilled across his face.
"…Nice," he murmured, closing his eyes as he embraced the warmth.
Then he opened them.
And froze.
A swirling distortion hung in the air directly in front of him.
Like a tear in space.
Like a glitch in reality.
…Portal?
he thought.
Before his brain could even process the word—
tap.
A foot nudged the middle of his back.
Light.
Lazy.
Almost bored.
Yet somehow strong enough to knock him off his feet.
"H-HUH—?!"
His balance vanished.
He pitched forward into the distortion.
Instinctively, he twisted mid-fall to see who touched him.
There—
on the library steps—
stood a woman.
She wore a full black bodysuit, long-sleeved and slightly baggy around the joints.
Her dark red hair rested over one shoulder.
Her eyes were hidden behind tinted black glasses.
Her leg hovered just slightly off the ground—
the casual follow-through of someone who had just nudged a door closed…
except the "door" was him.
No expression.
No tension.
No hostility.
Just a bored professional doing her job.
Akira's eyes widened in disbelief.
"The HELL—?!"
The portal swallowed him whole before he could finish the sentence.
Light bent.
Sound warped.
Her figure vanished as he fell into the unknown.
DRIP.
DRIP.
DRIP.
Rain tapped against the metal ceiling above him.
Akira's eyes opened slowly.
A dark room.
Walls of black steel.
Cold air brushing against his skin.
He looked down.
A metal floor.
A metal chair.
Metal cuffs locking his wrists and ankles in place.
He tried shifting.
"…The hell?"
The restraints didn't budge.
Before he could gather his thoughts—
CREAK…
A heavy metal door slid open.
Akira tensed.
Instinct took over.
He forced himself upright, chair and all—
the legs scraping loudly against the floor as he stood, fully bound.
A silhouette stepped through the doorway.
A man.
"Who are you?" Akira snapped, voice sharper than he expected.
The man muttered something under his breath, stepping into the dull overhead light.
He wore a black bodysuit.
Short dark-purple hair.
Slender build.
Tinted glasses.
And—unexpectedly—a cane in his hand.
He lifted the cane theatrically.
"Welcome, Hellspawn."
He slicked his hair back with a single slow sweep of his hand, closing his eyes in a dramatic flourish.
He held the pose.
Hand in hair.
Head tilted slightly.
Smirk glued to his face.
He didn't move.
Five seconds passed.
Then ten.
Then twenty.
He stayed frozen—
like a statue built solely to perform the world's slowest, most over-the-top hair slick.
Akira stared.
The air grew painfully awkward.
Then—
A tiny voice squeaked from behind him.
"U-um… sir…?"
The man didn't break the pose.
Still hand in hair.
Still eyes closed.
Still smirking with unearned confidence.
The voice trembled again.
"…S-sir…?"
A young girl stepped into the light.
Fourteen at most.
A full black suit far too big for her—sleeves over her hands, pant legs bunching around her shoes.
Brown hair tied in a ponytail, though strands escaped from her shaking.
Round glasses fogged slightly from nervous breathing.
Her entire posture screamed:
timid, terrified, deeply regretting being hired.
She clutched a clipboard like it was a lifeline.
"…S-sir— um— h-he's… he's just a normal guy…"
The man's smirk twitched.
He stayed in the pose for one more stubborn second.
Then his eyes snapped open.
"…What?"
His hand dropped from his hair.
The aura—
the coolness—
the entire twenty-second pose—
collapsed instantly.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE'S JUST A NORMAL GUY?!"
His voice cracked as he spun around, nearly stumbling after committing too hard to his own theatrics.
The girl flinched so violently her glasses slid down her nose.
"H-h-he doesn't match any Hellspawn readings!
N-no demonic signatures!
N-no anomalies at all!
H-he's j-just… a civilian!"
The man grabbed his head with both hands.
"WE SET UP A PORTAL FOR THIS!
WE— I— DID A TWENTY-SECOND HAIR POSE—
AND HE'S JUST SOME RANDOM GUY?!"
"Oh crap… oh crap… oh crap…"
the girl whispered, shaking like a terrified NPC.
Silence followed.
Thick.
Awkward.
Suffocating.
Akira didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
The humiliation filling the room was enough to silence even him.
Finally, he drew in a breath.
"S-so uh… are you guys like what the men in blac—"
His sentence died halfway through.
His throat locked.
His lungs seized.
A rough cough tore out of him.
Before he could understand—
The world tilted.
Dust burst around him as his body hit the floor, cheek pressed to cold metal.
He blinked, vision spinning, dizziness crushing him.
He had been standing seconds ago.
"…huh…?"
Then—
A voice colder than steel:
"I don't recall giving you permission to speak."
Akira froze.
The purple-haired man stepped closer, spinning his cane.
Metal clicked—
shifted—
transformed—
into a blade.
A long, sharp point extended toward Akira's face.
Akira's eyes widened.
His breath hitched.
Every muscle tensed.
The air shifted into something deadly.
"Wait—WAIT! You can't just kill him, sir!"
The young girl darted forward.
Her glasses shook.
Her ponytail trembled.
Her clipboard rattled as she shielded Akira with her tiny frame.
"He's a civilian! A c-civilian!
H-he's not a threat!"
The man didn't lower the blade.
He only exhaled slowly—humiliation still burning beneath his tinted lenses.
"…Do not test me."
The girl flinched, but stood her ground.
Akira lay frozen.
Dizzy.
Disoriented.
Terrified.
Blood dripped from his nose.
A thin line.
Warm.
Wrong.
His nose tingled—
a strange, delayed sensation—
and then the memory struck him:
He hadn't collapsed.
He had been kicked in the face the moment he spoke.
His hands clenched, ropes digging into his wrists.
A single thought echoed through him:
I'm in danger.
His vision blurred…
darkened…
faded…
as fear swallowed him whole.
A sound cut through the silence.
Sllllrp.
The unmistakable noise of someone sucking the last bit of juice through a straw.
Akira forced his blurry eyes open.
A figure walked into the room.
A woman.
Black suit.
Long strides.
Casual posture—far too casual for a torture chamber.
Akira's vision swayed, but he managed to mutter under his breath:
"…red hair…?"
She was drinking from a small carton of apple juice, the straw still between her lips as she stopped in front of him.
She didn't bother looking down at him first.
She just inhaled through the straw—
slrp—
and spoke with absolute confidence:
"Are you ready to answer our questions, Hellspawn?"
Silence.
No one responded.
Not the girl.
Not the purple-haired man.
Not even Akira, half-unconscious on the floor.
"…um… Miss Ren,"
the little girl whispered, tugging lightly at the woman's sleeve.
Ren leaned down as the girl whispered into her ear.
The room held its breath.
Silence.
Ren nodded once.
"I see."
She nodded again.
"I see."
She nodded a third time.
Still sipping her juice.
Silence stretched.
Then—
Ren's expression snapped.
Her voice boomed, shaking the room:
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE'S JUST A NORMAL GUY?!"
Her shout echoed off the metal walls with enough force to knock dust loose from the ceiling.
The girl flinched.
The purple-haired man winced like he'd been stabbed in the pride.
Akira?
He could only lie there, dizzy and bleeding slightly, thinking:
…who ARE these people?
"This is all your fault, Ren! You're the one who told us he was clearly part of them!"
the purple-haired man shouted.
Ren shot back instantly:
"The hell you mean, dumbass?! You were the one monitoring him!"
Their arguing rose, sharp and messy.
The young girl clamped her hands over her ears.
Akira, still on the floor, muttered:
"…apart of them…?"
Then everything blurred.
The room.
The shouting.
The lights.
His thoughts collapsed into raw sensations.
Inner thoughts:
it hurts.
it hurts.
it burns.
why does it burn so much…?
hey.
where am I…?
why does it—
hey.
…that's not my voice…?
hey…?
A shadow moved in front of him.
His mind flickered.
Then—
"HEY."
Loud.
Sharp.
Real.
Akira's eyes snapped open.
Ren was crouched in front of him, one hand gripping his chin, forcing him to look up.
Her voice…
was the hey he'd been hearing.
"Stay awake," she said, annoyance dripping from every word.
"I wasn't done talking to you."
The burning inside him surged again.
Ren slammed her fingers against the holographic keyboard.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Multiple screens flickered into existence around Akira — security feeds, files, blurry images of him walking into the library.
The purple-haired man jabbed his finger at one screen.
"THERE! SEE?!"
The image showed Akira…
…holding a book.
Ren exploded.
"WHO," she shouted,
"WALKS INTO A GOVERNMENT-SEALED LIBRARY WITH FIFTY THOUSAND BOOKS—
AND PICKS UP THE MOST SACRED, RESTRICTED, HEAVILY GUARDED ONE—
READS FOUR PAGES—
AND JUST LEAVES?!"
Her voice cracked the air.
"No human does that in a library,"
the purple-haired man muttered, genuinely shaken.
Akira stared.
Shock. Confusion. Fury.
"…Huh?" he exhaled.
Then louder —
"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN?!
YOU KIDNAPPED ME OVER— WHAT?!
OVER READING A BOOK FOR FOUR SECONDS?!"
His voice echoed around the steel walls.
The young girl covered her ears, shrinking under the tension.
Then—
softly:
"Um… Mister Akira…?"
Akira turned, still panting.
She stepped forward.
Still trembling.
Still timid.
Still clutching her clipboard.
But her voice—
It shifted.
Not scared.
Not stuttering.
Just… resigned.
"So here's what's going to happen," she said quietly.
Then she corrected herself.
"No…
I'm sorry."
Her eyes lowered.
"Here is what already happened."
Akira froze.
Ren and the purple-haired man stiffened—
not daring to interrupt her.
The girl inhaled shakily.
"You entered a government-protected library…"
Her voice was small.
Fragile.
Accurate in a way that chilled the room.
"…that is run by world leaders."
Akira blinked.
"You had a bomb with you."
His breath caught.
"You were a mule in a terrorist operation."
His pulse spiked.
"They bribed you."
His heart dropped.
"Police officers responded.
There was a shootout between law enforcement and the terrorists."
Ren looked away.
The purple-haired man swallowed hard.
The girl forced the last words out, barely a whisper:
"And then…
you detonated the bomb."
Silence swallowed the room whole.
She continued:
"Hundreds died."
Her voice cracked.
"Including you."
Akira's knees weakened despite being tied to the chair.
"You understand… right?" she whispered.
Ren and the purple-haired man stared at the floor.
Avoiding Akira's eyes.
Avoiding the truth they forced on him.
Akira's voice broke.
"…what…?"
His chest tightened.
"What…?"
The burning inside him spread like fire under his skin.
"WHAT?"
"Operation Re:Birth."
Ren muttered it so quietly it barely existed.
The room fell dead silent.
DRIP.
DRIP.
Akira's sweat hit the metal floor in slow, trembling drops.
His breathing turned thin.
Fragile.
Shallow.
Without warning—
SNAP.
The purple-haired man flicked his cane.
The blade folded back in a smooth, unnatural motion—
and with a single, effortless sweep—
the ropes binding Akira split apart.
He didn't even feel the moment they loosened.
One second bound.
The next—
empty.
His arms dropped limply to his sides.
His legs shook under him.
He wasn't free.
He wasn't safe.
He was just… untied.
The young girl closed her eyes.
A long inhale.
A trembling exhale.
Her voice came out like something delicate breaking:
"The aftermath was… horrible."
Akira's chest tightened.
"Your boss couldn't believe you would do such a thing."
His heart stuttered.
"Your girlfriend was extremely upset.
She said you were a kind soul… yet this world is full of liars."
Her lips quivered.
"I can't believe you'd let her cry so much… what a horrible thing to do."
Her hand pressed to her chest,
her eyes glued to the floor,
refusing to look at him —
not out of anger,
but out of shame on his behalf.
Akira's breath faltered.
His pulse hammered.
"Your family… see you as a failure now."
Ren and the purple-haired man both turned their heads away.
Cowards.
The girl continued, voice cracking:
"Your university lecturers and friends couldn't believe it."
Her tiny fingers curled around the clipboard.
"They said you were smart.
Wise.
Trusted.
Loved."
Silence.
The kind of silence that makes the world feel smaller.
Heavier.
Colder.
Then—
She looked up.
Her eyes glistened with guilt and fear.
"Do you understand?"
It wasn't a question.
It was a verdict.
Akira's throat locked.
He didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Because the truth had already sunk its nails into him:
The world believed he died a monster.
A terrorist.
A fraud.
A disgrace.
And these people—
had rewritten his existence.
The purple-haired man leaned forward, whispering like something sacred and forbidden:
"Re:Birth Operation… Glass and Gloss."
The words slid under Akira's skin like poison.
His body trembled violently.
His breath shortened.
"…what the hell is going on…"
The words slipped out of him like a dying thought.
He looked down at his right hand—
It was shaking uncontrollably,
fingers twitching,
palm spasming like it didn't belong to him anymore.
He tried to clench it.
He couldn't.
His hand was no longer listening.
His body was no longer his.
Ren sighed.
A heavy, exhausted breath —
like someone who had finally reached a checkpoint she never wanted to.
"…Alright. I guess it's time."
Akira stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet.
"T-Time for what?!"
His voice cracked.
He was shaking uncontrollably.
drip.
He looked at his hand.
The tiny paper cut from earlier —
the stupid little thing he joked about dying from —
was still bleeding.
Except now…
the wound pulsed.
The blood gushed a little more each second.
drip.
His brown hair swayed slightly —
even though there was no wind in the metal room.
His eyes widened.
And then —
The door behind Ren slid open.
More people walked in.
And more.
And more.
Whispers.
Muttering.
Breaths that didn't belong to any face he recognized.
Their voices blended together into a low, nauseating drone.
Were there ten?
Twenty?
Thirty?
Forty?
The young girl was gone.
The purple-haired man was gone.
Ren was gone.
Everyone he'd met in this nightmare had vanished.
Replaced by a crowd of silhouettes that filled every inch of the room.
Akira's voice trembled as he shouted:
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!"
Silence.
Then—
The entire crowd bowed their heads.
And in perfect unison,
they whispered:
"Re:Birth — Project Glass and Gloss."
Akira blinked—
And the world snapped.
Birds chirped.
A dog barked somewhere.
Warm sunlight pressed onto his skin.
He turned—
People were walking their dogs.
Kids were laughing.
A couple held hands.
Coffee shops buzzed with life.
The clatter of mugs.
The smell of pastries.
Humanity.
He was standing on a familiar street, his shoes scraping concrete as he stumbled to his knees.
His blue jeans tore slightly.
His breath shook violently as he covered his mouth —
he was going to puke.
"H-Huh…? What…?"
His brain couldn't process it.
A second ago he was in a steel room.
Now…
Now he was—
Alive?
Free?
Safe?
No.
No, something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Because—
SIRENS.
SIRENS.
SIRENS.
Not one.
Not two.
Dozens.
Akira's head snapped up as blue and red lights exploded across the street.
Police cars.
Ambulances.
Fire trucks.
Dozens of them.
Racing past him.
Their sirens ripped through the peaceful afternoon like knives.
Akira slowly stood, stumbling, staring down the road as chaos surged toward him.
It was still bright outside.
Warm.
Sunny.
Alive.
No rain.
No metal walls.
Just—
Pure confusion.
And the feeling —
burning in his chest and crawling up his spine —
that something was horribly, irrevocably wrong.
He didn't know why.
But he followed.
Something in his chest — instinct, dread, gravity — pulled him toward the sirens.
People were already running, gathering, whispering.
And then Akira saw it.
His heart dropped into a black void.
The library he had just been in—
—was engulfed in flames.
Not damaged.
Not partially burned.
Destroyed.
The entire structure had collapsed into a mountain of scorched rubble.
Flames clawed at the sky.
Black smoke twisted upward like a funeral banner.
Wood crackled.
Glass shattered.
Metal warped in the heat.
Akira's breath vanished.
People stood in clusters, watching, murmuring.
"Bastard…"
a teenage boy spat.
"Pure filth,"
an old man muttered with shaking hands.
"That asshole was nothing more than a good-for-nothing terrorist,"
growled another man.
Akira's ears rang.
"What…?"
"I heard he was a good man, though…"
a woman added quietly.
But no one listened to her.
Police pushed civilians back, forming a barrier.
Detectives stepped through the smoke, holding papers and photographs.
Akira walked forward, eyes empty, feet moving without permission.
A detective raised a sketch above the crowd.
"Has anyone ever seen this man?" he called out.
Akira's world stopped.
The drawing—
It was him.
A perfect sketch of his face.
His hairstyle.
His clothes.
His expression.
Then the detective flipped the page.
A photograph.
Akira holding a bomb inside the library.
His vision fractured.
His knees buckled.
He fell to the ground, palms hitting the pavement.
"Huh…"
the sound escaped him, barely a breath.
He stared at his hands.
The place where the paper cut should've been—
Gone.
His nose—
no longer burning, no trace of blood.
Everything from the metal room—
the kick, the ropes, the blade—
undone.
"What…" he whispered.
"What the hell is Re:Birth…?"
A hand touched his shoulder.
"You alright, pal?"
a man asked gently.
Another man leaned in.
"Don't worry. We'll find that monster for sure."
They smiled at him.
Like he was just another civilian.
Like they had never seen his face on the drawing.
Like he wasn't the man the entire crowd was cursing moments ago.
Akira's throat tightened.
They didn't recognise him.
They couldn't.
Operation Re:Birth erased him.
Replaced him.
Killed him.
And now—
he was a ghost inside his own life.