The next morning felt… wrong.
It wasn't the sky—it was the same hazy gray it always was in spring. It wasn't the wind or the rhythm of the streets below, still pulsing with the usual hum of people going about their lives. It was something beneath all that. A subtle shift in the world's fabric, like gravity had been tilted slightly off-center.
He stared at the city from his bedroom window, a dull ache behind his eyes.
The dream hadn't faded. Not like before. Usually, the details melted away with the light, but this time... they clung to him. The sound of those whispering voices still echoed in the back of his skull, and his mouth was dry, like he'd screamed for hours.
His alarm hadn't gone off, but he was already dressed.
Miri peeked around the hallway corner. "You're up already?"
He nodded.
"I'm telling Mom you didn't sleep again."
"Go ahead."
"You'll get in trouble."
He looked over, and his voice came out flatter than he meant. "I'm always in trouble."
Her playful smirk faltered, and she stepped away.
The streets to school were as ordinary as ever: crowded, noisy, and soaked with indifference. But every person he passed seemed… brighter. Louder. Too alive. Their laughter grated. Their casual conversations gnawed at the edge of his patience.
By the time he walked through the school gate, his hands were stuffed deep in his pockets, fists clenched tight enough to hurt.
Something in him felt like it was itching—gnawing at the inside of his ribs, impatient and hungry.
He ignored it.
Or tried to.
In class, the buzzing started again. It didn't come from outside. No, this was internal. A pulse. A thrum beneath the skin that wouldn't stop no matter how hard he tried to tune it out.
The letters on the chalkboard swam in his vision. The teacher's words dissolved into static. He stared at the back of the classroom, jaw tight, and fought the urge to close his eyes.
Something's wrong with me.
He knew it.
And worse… something in him didn't want it to be fixed.
By lunch, he didn't go outside.
He sat alone at the farthest end of the cafeteria, near the vending machines, picking apart a piece of bread with shaking fingers. His body was tense. His legs bounced restlessly under the table, and his nails had already cut small red lines across his palm from gripping so hard.
He tried to eat. Failed.
His head jerked slightly at the sound of laughter behind him—loud, sharp, grating.
A group of boys from Class 3 were sitting two tables over, shoving each other and laughing about some prank they'd pulled on a junior. Immature. Loud. Annoying.
One of them threw a crumpled napkin, and it bounced across his table.
He stared at it.
A small voice in the back of his mind whispered, Just get up. One quick hit. They won't even see it coming. Just once. Let go…
He blinked and looked away. His breath caught in his throat.
No. Not here.
Not again.
Not like before.
When he reached the gym rooftop after school, Asuka was already there, legs dangling off the ledge. She didn't turn around when he approached.
"I figured you'd show."
He sat down beside her. The city looked distant from this height, like a toy model. Lights blinking on one by one as evening crept in.
"You look like you're dying," she said.
"I feel worse."
She handed him a canned drink, pulled from her bag.
He took it but didn't open it.
Asuka didn't speak right away. She just leaned back on her hands, hair lifting in the breeze.
"I used to have dreams like yours," she said softly.
His head turned slowly. "You don't know what my dreams are."
"I don't need to. You talk in your sleep sometimes. You don't just mutter. You argue. Like something's inside you, and you're trying to drown it."
His throat tightened.
"Everyone's afraid of the darkness," she continued. "But what if the real fear is that the darkness likes us back?"
He didn't respond.
She leaned in a little. "You're not crazy. You're haunted."
He let out a hollow laugh. "Great. That makes me feel so much better."
"I'm serious. Something's following you, or living in you. I don't know. But if you don't face it soon, it's going to take control."
"It already is," he admitted.
They sat in silence as the wind picked up, colder now.
"Would you still talk to me," he asked suddenly, "if you knew I'd hurt people?"
She didn't answer right away.
Then, quietly: "It depends."
"On what?"
"On whether you wanted to stop."
He looked at her, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn't feel completely alone.
He didn't go home that night.
He wandered.
The city at night was different. Sharper. Edges stood out more clearly. The shadows stretched longer. And in those shadows… he felt things moving. Not physically. Spiritually.
People passed him by, but they felt like echoes—flat and hollow. He wandered through alleys, under bridges, through parks emptied by dusk.
And then he saw him again.
The old man.
Same alley. Same darkness clinging to his coat.
"You're feeding it," the man rasped without turning.
He froze mid-step.
"The more you deny it, the more it grows."
"What is it?" he demanded. "Why does it want me?"
"Because you invited it."
"I never—!"
"Yes, you did," the old man said, turning. "Not with words. But with need. You needed power. You needed to survive. You wanted to be feared. And something in the dark answered you."
"I didn't know what I was doing."
"Doesn't matter."
He stared at the man, his voice trembling now. "Then what do I do? How do I stop it?"
The old man tilted his head. "You don't."
That word hit like a stone in the gut.
"You live with it. Or you die with it. But there's no going back. The thing in you isn't a ghost or a dream. It's hunger. Pure, endless hunger."
He stepped closer. His eyes were glowing now—dim, but real.
"You have the eyes of a devourer. I've seen them before. A long, long time ago."
"I don't want this."
"No one ever does."
That night, the dream was vivid.
No longer a forest.
A cathedral. Enormous. Cracked and broken. The stained-glass windows pulsed like living veins, and black fog coiled along the floor like snakes.
At the center stood a mirror—again. Towering. Twisted.
He walked toward it.
His reflection didn't move.
It stood there. Watching. Grinning.
"Welcome back," it said.
His fists clenched. "What are you?"
"I'm you," the reflection said. "Just... freer."
"You're not me."
The figure chuckled, stepping through the glass like it was water.
"I'm the part you buried. The need to dominate. To tear apart. To feed. You gave me life the first time you chose to kill."
"I was sick—!"
"No. You were honest."
He backed away, but the figure grabbed his shoulder.
"Don't lie to yourself," it whispered. "You liked it."
And suddenly, the air was full of screaming.
Faces. Dozens of them. People he remembered. People he'd killed. All around him, clawing, gasping, crying—
He fell to his knees, screaming.
"I'm sorry—I'm sorry—I'm—!"
The figure leaned down beside him.
"You're not sorry."
And then—
He woke up.
Tears on his face.
Blood under his nails.
And a single word burned into his memory, not from the dream but from somewhere deeper.
Gluttony.