Who am I?
Where am I?
Kuragane Yami stirred, caught in that fragile space between sleep and wakefulness. A dull ache bloomed behind his eyes as he blinked into the half-light of an unfamiliar bedroom. His mind was blank—stripped of memory, hollow of answers.
He couldn't remember who he was, where he'd come from, or why he was here.
His fingers instinctively rose to his temple, massaging it in vain. The more he tried to remember, the sharper the pain became—like his own thoughts were resisting him.
With a low groan, he gritted his teeth and clutched at his hair in frustration. Still, no fragments emerged. No names. No emotions. Only silence.
Exhaling shakily, Yami threw off the blanket and pushed himself upright. His legs trembled beneath him, but he stood. The bedroom, dim and unfamiliar, offered no clues.
Whose room is this?
Why can't I remember anything?
A creeping unease coiled in his chest as he scanned the room. But then, something caught his eye—a notebook resting on a computer keyboard. Its cover was pitch-black, the title written in stark white ink:
"Who Am I??"
His heartbeat stuttered.
This... this book...
It feels important. Too important.
Should I open it?
He didn't hesitate. Guided by instinct, Yami reached for the notebook and flipped it open.
It was arranged left to right. On the inside of the cover, a mirror was glued in place. His own reflection stared back—strange and familiar all at once.
So… this is me.
He touched the mirror lightly, then turned to the opposite page. A photograph was pasted there. The same face. His face.
Beneath it, neatly written lines read:
Name: Kuragane Yami
Height: 177 cm (5'10")
Born: November 26, 2002
Hair: Black
He turned the page. A table of contents followed.
Three chapters. Three titles.
"Who Am I?"
"Why Should I Exist?"
"The Meaning of My Existence."
His hands trembled as he turned to the first chapter.
No more photos. Only text—handwritten, precise, elegant. The ink had faded at the edges, yet each word was sharp, as if carved into the page by memory itself.
At the top, his name again: Kuragane Yami.Not a question—this time, a declaration.
And what followed read like a confession—intimate, raw, torn between brilliance and despair.
It described someone fluent in both creativity and logic. A boy who wielded programming languages and design software like an artist with a brush. A graphic designer. A web developer. A dreamer.
But also something else—something darker.A shadow who walked the blurred lines of cybersecurity.Not a hero. Not a villain. Just a presence in the borderline.A grey hat hacker.
He built things. Games. Worlds. Not just to escape reality but to overwrite it fully.
But the tone shifted—growing heavier with each line. The writer spoke of pain, of silence, of a battle with the mind.
He suffered from more than memory loss. Social anxiety. Clinical depression.Dissociative identity disorder.Paranoia. Intrusive thoughts.A thousand ghosts inside one boy.
Then came the other selves. Fragments. Personas. Each with its own scars.
There was the student—crushed under the weight of expectations, trying to be a doctor not for himself, but for the broken dreams of his parents.
There was the dreamer—locked in a room for nights on end, creating fantasy realms too grand for the real world.And then, the vigilante—an unseen ghost in the network.
Root128.
Feared and whispered about on hidden forums. The founder of ksociety. The architect of 128chan—a faceless online refuge molded after his fractured mind.
And in the world of tech, design, and gaming, he wore yet another mask:
Doctor Sterben.
Admired. Respected. Untouchable.
Yami's eyes lingered on the final line—its ink less steady, as though written with a trembling hand: "And still, I do not know who I am."
He closed the notebook slowly. So... that's who I am...?
He glanced at the mirror once more. The reflection seemed different now—layered, enigmatic. He no longer saw just a boy. He saw someone stitched together by pain, dreams, and secrets.
And yet, the question still echoed—deeper, louder. Who am I... really?
Silence fell, thick and absolute. The page didn't answer. It only whispered more questions.