Tokyo.
A city powered by the steady pulse of time, where every minute and second is bound by unchanging schedules.Each morning, trains carry streams of people in white shirts and gray ties, gliding past damp stations shrouded in early fog like gigantic steel worms. On the sidewalks, wooden wheels creak across cobbled stones, trailing the nostalgic aroma of hot rice porridge and aged soy sauce. Footsteps blend into the chorus of train whistles, high heels, and street vendors' chants—long and melodic, as if echoing from some faraway dream.A symphony of routine — repetitive, immutable, orderly.But then, amidst all that order—A rupture opened.
At the edge of the city, where wild grass and moss devour the rotting remains of forgotten signposts, there lies a forest no one dares name. And deep within that forest, something unnatural floats silently in midair—a jet-black sphere, so perfectly smooth it hurts to look at.It emits no light, no sound, yet it seems to absorb all light and sound around it, as if it were a crack in the fabric of reality itself.Inside the sphere, space contorts into an endless cylindrical chamber where light does not exist and time no longer flows. In the heart of this warped space, a girl kneels motionless upon a stone floor cold as hell's own ice.Her white dress is stained with specks of deep red blood—like wilted flowers, frozen in silence. Above her head hovers a burning red halo—far from holy, more like a crown of thorns, spinning slowly like a clock measuring faith.
"Ah..."A heavy breath slipped from the girl's pale lips.
Takayama Siesta.
Her name—a gentle song echoing in the midst of a nightmare. But reality was far colder.Beneath the worn white cloth that blindfolded her, Siesta saw nothing. She didn't need to—this place was never meant for light.The space around her was alive with sound: the ticking of hundreds of floating clocks, ringing out a distorted requiem of time. One beat after another, drowning all concept of existence.
Too dark…Ticking echoed everywhere, from clocks of all shapes and sizes suspended midair. They overlapped in chaotic layers, forming a horrifying symphony, as though time itself was bending and slowing down.Siesta, once a beacon of optimism, now felt an unbearable pressure weighing down her mind.She tried to move—But it was no use.Black chains tightly bound her slender legs and fragile wrists, tightening whenever she twitched. Her pale skin bore faint bruises, as though she'd been trapped like this for a long, long time.
"How long have I been here…?"She gathered all her strength to stand—but her body no longer obeyed.Not because of the chains.Because of something far more terrifying:The silence of her own body.
She tried lifting her hand—But her fingers didn't move.Her body was stiff. Numb.Strange…Siesta's heart began to race—or wait...She placed a hand on her chest, searching for that familiar rhythm.But there was—nothing.
My heart… isn't beating?
In that moment, she felt the blood in her veins grow cold.Beneath the faded cloth, her eyes widened.She strained to feel the beat within her chest—But all she found was emptiness.
"N-No way… What is this…!?"Fear surged through her, seeping into every cell of her body.Not because she was chained—But because she realized: this body was no longer hers.Wasn't she just walking home with her schoolbag a second ago…?
"No way…"She whispered.She tried again—desperately willing her fingers to twitch, to feel any pain, any sharp sensation—But all that answered her was silence and helplessness.
Her pale lips trembled, leaving behind the metallic tang of blood.Real blood—yet no sensation.She trembled, fingers twitching like a marionette with no master, flailing in a sea of endless darkness.
The only thing that remained—Was fear.She could no longer hear her heartbeat.Could no longer feel warmth in her chest.Could no longer feel anything—not even pain.
Am I… dreaming…?A cold thought slipped into her mind, like a bitter wind through a crack in the dark.If her body no longer felt, no longer beat—Then could it be that she had…?
"Please… someone…"Her voice was so soft it might have been a whisper in her own head.Her trembling lips parted, releasing a breath as fragile as mist.She bit her lip, tasting the salty tang of blood. It hurt—but not from the wound.It was the stifling pain of despair, of fear blooming like rot within her chest.
Her fingers trembled faintly, her skin ghostly white, blue veins showing through under the red glow—A glow cast by the halo above her head.Once a symbol of divinity—Now, only deepened the otherworldly dread.
She was clinging.To something.To someone.To the last decaying remnants of a shattered belief.
…But deep down, she had always known—There was no one here.Never had been.And perhaps, never would be.If anyone had been here—Wouldn't they have saved her long ago?
She let her arm fall.A soft clink echoed as the black chain swayed, dragging across her wrist.Cold. Hard. Heavy.The chains tightened whenever she moved, as if to remind her—There is no escape.
Her lips parted, but no words came.Only the crushing silence devoured everything.Beneath the blindfold, her lashes quivered faintly, as if resisting despair—But nothing answered her but the void.
The halo above spun slowly, casting a red shadow over her pale face—She looked like a fallen saint, drained of all life, waiting…For something.
And then—
"You really shouldn't be moving anymore, Siesta…"
The voice rang out—soft as a breath, yet carrying a presence… unnatural. It didn't come from any particular direction, but echoed like a distant resonance from behind the veil of consciousness, a place even reason dared not approach.
It held a strange warmth—familiar, like a forgotten prayer or an old lullaby from a shapeless dream long past.
Siesta's breath caught. Something in her chest—what was once a heart—tightened, as if being gently squeezed.
The entire space felt compressed, invisible walls quietly closing in. The air thickened, every molecule slowly crystallizing into ice.
There was no time. No movement.
Only the faint sound of a chain rattling—and her fragile breathing.
She knew that voice.
Not just recognized it.
More importantly—
That person knew exactly who she was.
"…Who?"
From the deepest corner of the room, where no light could reach, a figure stepped forward. His pace was neither rushed nor slow, as if each step had already been fated. A long, pale-white cloak draped down to his heels, the hem swaying faintly in the dark.
On his face was a porcelain mask—refined, smooth, as though fired from moonlight itself. Though fine cracks marked the corners of the lips, where a motionless smile had been etched, the expression retained an odd serenity. Not cold. Not warm. Merely... observing the world from a realm apart.
His eyes behind the mask were indistinct, but they radiated a sensation that defied description—an unseen gaze tracing Siesta's every subtle motion, as though trying to remember something once precious.
He approached. His steps light, even, seemingly soundless—as though the very rhythm of space itself bent to his motion.
When he stopped before her, even the faint breeze in the room seemed to hold its breath.
He bowed slightly, a movement graceful and natural—like a gentleman from another world. Then his hand, clad in a white glove, extended toward her—palm open, inviting. Courteous, elegant… yet strangely unsettling. As though this wasn't merely an invitation—but the beginning of something else.
Siesta didn't move.
Not from fear. Not from suspicion. She simply hadn't grasped what was happening. Her breathing grew shallower, as if her very body sensed someone drawing unbearably close. Her fingers trembled, and her pale skin, under the dim glow of the oil lamp, shimmered with an ephemeral fragility—lost between reality and illusion.
Time slowed. Each heartbeat, each gust of wind, each glimmer of light stretched endlessly within that moment.
Then, as if growing tired of the silence, the man tilted his head, and withdrew his hand—softly, as though it had never been offered at all.
"…It's been a while, hasn't it… Siesta?"
She flinched.
Not at the name—but the voice. Deep, gentle, and strangely familiar, as if she had met him before.
"Who would've thought… we'd reunite in a place like this?"
He smiled—or at least, the eyes behind that mask narrowed slightly, evoking the feeling of a smile. There was no threat in his demeanor. On the contrary, his words felt perfectly placed, in the right time and space, carrying the weight of an untold story.
She stepped back. The chain on her wrist clinked, letting out a sharp, metallic ring.
"...Reunite?"
"…Haven't you already figured out who I am?"
A stillness settled between them. Siesta struggled to piece the clues together—the voice, the mannerisms, the way he called her. Then suddenly, a name flashed through her mind, bringing with it a wave of surprise.
"Shin… nii-san?"
"Bingo."He shrugged lightly. The mask remained unchanged, but the glint behind it hinted at amusement."Took you long enough."
Takayama Shin.
The eldest brother who had always protected her and their other siblings since childhood. The one who gently patted her head when she cried, who stood firm before her when nightmares loomed. A hero in her eyes—someone she believed would always appear to protect his family, no matter the time or place.
Emotions surged. Something deep inside her stirred, warmed by the sudden, unexpected return of a long-lost brother…
But then—
A sound shattered the silence.
"Meow~ Meow~ Meow~"
A strange, almost comical meowing echoed through the gloomy room, tearing apart the tension like a misplaced joke. Siesta blinked. A second later, realization struck.
It wasn't a real cat.
It was her ringtone.
A chill ran down her spine. Her alarm—the one she'd set to remind herself every day at 6 PM, fearing she'd forget her evening cram school if she got too absorbed in something.
Time—
Her consciousness was suddenly yanked back into reality. A vague but ominous sense of danger crept through her mind. She remembered clearly—the last thing she could recall was the moment school ended, around 4 PM. At that time, she had been on the phone with Shin—her older brother who was still in Vietnam.
And yet now, she was locked in this room, with Shin standing right in front of her.
Her phone was still displaying an active alarm set for 6 PM.A two-hour gap—too long to be just a short nap, and far too short for Shin to travel all the way from Vietnam to Japan. It made no sense.What's more, there was no way someone could have changed the time on her phone—only she knew the password.
And now… she was locked inside an unfamiliar room.And the person before her—was Shin.
Then that means…
A cold gust swept through the room, lifting strands of Siesta's platinum hair into the air. She stood frozen, her hand instinctively clenching, her eyes wavering between astonishment and doubt.As if the reality before her was too foreign, too absurd to be real.
Why is he here?
A chill brushed past her again, sending another wave through her silvery hair—like a flicker of movement across an otherwise still world. Siesta's gaze began to shift—from disbelief to suspicion.
The man standing before her remained motionless, composed, as if his presence here was the most natural thing in the world.Shin tilted his head slightly. Behind the silver mask, his eyes glimmered with an unreadable amusement—as though he had noticed Siesta beginning to suspect something.Yet, he offered no explanation. No gesture. No sign.
"Just moments ago... weren't you still in Vietnam? We were talking on the phone..."Siesta's voice trembled. Even she couldn't believe the words she was speaking.Just a moment ago, his voice still lingered in her ears through the phone.So what had happened while she was unconscious?And how could he appear right before her now?
"But now… you're standing right in fro—?"
Her words were cut short, lost in the air.On instinct, Siesta stepped back—only to stumble and fall, her back pressing against the freezing wall behind her.Her breath grew erratic, panicked, like a countdown ticking away inside a nightmare.She wanted to ask him something—scream something—to tear through the fog clouding her mind.But when her lips parted, only a bone-chilling silence escaped.
Her throat locked up, as if an invisible thread had coiled around it, preventing any sound from slipping out.Her breathing turned heavier, each inhale like a needle piercing her chest.She tried to breathe in, but it only brought more pain—like she wasn't breathing air, but something far colder… emptier.
Her fingers trembled.The chain wrapped around her wrist clinked with a sharp, metallic sound—like a bell signaling something about to collapse.She wanted to step back, to escape—but her legs felt like stone.Her whole body… frozen.She couldn't move.
She couldn't speak.Was her own body turning against her?
Another icy wind swept by, lifting her platinum hair once more. A few strands fell over her pale face.Her skin was icy, drained of all color—lifeless.Even though her hands gripped the chain tightly, they no longer held warmth… or feeling.
No heartbeat.No warmth.No life.
She looked… no different from a corpse.
Before her stood Shin Takayama—the brother she loved and trusted more than anyone else—silent beneath the dim glow of the old oil lamps.The silver mask on his face reflected the flickering light, casting cold, glimmering patterns across the metal surface.His eyes—deep and still, like a lake beneath a moonless night—stared directly at her.Unwavering.
Was the person standing before her truly Shin?
Her knees finally gave out.She collapsed, helpless, eyes hidden behind a frayed, worn-out blindfold as she looked up toward her brother.
After a moment, Shin seemed to notice—something inside Siesta was changing.His mask shifted ever so slightly, and for a brief second, his dark eye showed a flicker of unease—as if he had seen something even Siesta herself could not feel.
He let out a quiet sigh.In that bone-chilling air, his breath rose faintly—white and vanishing.
"I see… so this is your limit?" Shin murmured.
His gloved hand gently touched Siesta's cheek, then slowly combed through the messy strands of her platinum hair.
"Wait for me a little, okay?"
The air around them grew unnaturally silent.Only their breaths echoed faintly in the empty room.
He raised his hand slowly.His index and thumb paused at the edge of the porcelain mask.Then, bowing his head slightly, Shin bit into his own thumb.
…Chomp…
A small, crisp sound echoed—the sound of flesh being pierced.And at the same time, she caught a scent.Blood.
The sharp, metallic tang filled the cold air—thick, suffocating.She heard something dripping onto the stone floor below.Tiny droplets of blood, falling freely through space, splashing as they struck the ground.
That smell… it's blood!?
Before Siesta could react, Shin calmly lifted his wounded hand toward her.The white glove had been pulled down, revealing pale skin beneath the dim light.A deep red stream ran down from his fingertip, tracing along faint blue veins, forming a horrifying contrast.
The pungent scent of blood filled the air, seeping into Siesta's every breath, making her chest tighten with an indescribable feeling...
Shin looked at her for a moment, then quietly let out another sigh.
"Forgive me…" he whispered.
The stench of blood thickened the air—so strong that even an ordinary person would instinctively frown. Yet Siesta showed no reaction. She lay motionless, her skin pale as snow, lips tinged a lifeless purple, her entire body seemingly frozen stiff.
Without a moment's hesitation, Shin leaned closer.
His blood-smeared hand gently lifted Siesta's cold face, and his crimson-stained thumb softly pressed against her lips, now devoid of any pink hue.
Drop by drop, the blood trickled down—gliding over her lips, brushing her tongue, then sinking into her nearly lifeless body. The metallic tang and thick texture filled her mouth, yet none of it spilled. The blood flowed continuously—slow, steady, but strangely rhythmic.
Each time the flow ceased, Shin silently bit into his already torn fingertip—again and again, a third time, a fourth… not a single groan, not a single sigh escaped him. His eyes never left Siesta, watching intently for the slightest reaction, each faint breath.
Then, in that fragile moment—Siesta's face twitched ever so slightly. The movement was so subtle that anyone not paying close attention would have easily missed it.
And then… a faint rasp slipped from her throat. Weak, heavy, yet undeniably warm.
The stench of blood lingered. Overpowering, nauseating—but still, Siesta didn't react. Her body remained limp, skin ghastly white, lips drained of life. She looked less like a person and more like a porcelain doll caught in time.
Again, Shin bent over her with unwavering resolve.
He cupped her face with a trembling hand streaked in crimson, his thumb brushing over her frigid lips once more.
Blood fell—softly, purposefully. Sliding past her lips, onto her tongue, merging with the silence of her motionless body. The iron taste filled her mouth, heavy and dark, but none of it leaked. The stream persisted—slow, disciplined, almost ritualistic.
Whenever the blood paused, Shin bit his fingertip again—third, fourth, maybe more. Not a whimper, not even a breath of pain. Only his gaze—locked onto Siesta, as if willing life back into her.
Then—a flicker.
Siesta's face twitched. Small, almost imperceptible.
A breath escaped her throat, a strained sound like wind whispering after a storm. Hoarse, labored… but unmistakably alive.
Shin tilted his head slightly. The halo's light edged toward the cracked porcelain mask. He exhaled softly—so faint it was almost inaudible—as if releasing a long-held breath of quiet relief.
But—just as hope dared to spark, fate grinned.
The halo above Siesta's head suddenly shivered. Its light flickered, then began to rotate—slowly, deliberately, like a massive clock ticking down. The surrounding air twisted, particles of dust suspended mid-air, unmoving—time itself seemed gripped by an unseen force.
A mocking smile curled at the edge of her lips, beneath the cold shell of ceramic.
"So… it's a race against time, is it?"
The voice wasn't loud—but it echoed with the depth of a bottomless well. Within it swirled exhaustion, skepticism, and cruel irony—like the murmurs of someone long acquainted with the brutality of fate's game, yet still forced to play a role they no longer believed in.
"I won't let it happen again… not this time…"