Perfection is a distant mirage—forever hovering at the horizon, always just beyond reach. To pursue it feels almost sacrilegious, as if defying the very boundaries of human nature.
But here's the truth: I'm wrestling with a problem so persistent, so embedded in the marrow of my being, it feels like an echo from another life. And yet, that's only the beginning.
Pieces of my consciousness are no longer mine. They are hijacked—commandeered by something else. Something that is me, and isn't. It emerges with a terrifying strength, wielding clarity I could never summon. Do you know what it's like to be outdone by your own shadow? To watch, powerless, as a more capable version of yourself takes the wheel?
And when it's over, I wake up to the wreckage. No memories. Just a skull-splitting headache, as if I've clawed my way out from a bottomless, dreamless pit. The date might be familiar, the room recognizable, but the hours—they are stolen. Vanished.
THWACK!
A frying pan slammed to the floor, the metallic ring lancing through the silence like a gunshot. A small figure darted for the door, their voice rising in panic, "Grandma! Grandma!"
Moments later, they returned—breathless, with a girl and an older woman in tow. Unlike Kiel or the elfin child, these newcomers were unmistakably human: grounded, ordinary, and very, very real.
Kiel stirred, a soft moan escaping his lips. The sunlight pierced through the window like knives, its glare hostile, searing across his skin. Blinking against the light, he surfaced slowly—his return to consciousness a reluctant crawl from the abyss.
"He's waking up," whispered the young Kaiju, urgency lacing his voice. The old woman's gaze sharpened as she beckoned to the girl, who vanished with fluid urgency, her exit and the elder's movements synchronized like a well-rehearsed dance.
Kiel's eyes flickered open. Pain lanced through his head—a molten bolt of agony that made him wince. Where… am I? Did I black out?
His surroundings swam into focus: an airy, oversized cupboard lined with crisp linens, folded with obsessive care. Towels. Blankets. Sheets. Each shelf bore the mark of routine and control, a sterile order mocking his current state of helplessness.
Then he saw the boy.
A strange clarity surfaced beneath the pain. Am I... dead? Dreaming? But no—everything was too tangible. Too loud to be a dream.
Kiel turned his head, his muscles aching, his eyes locking onto the child. He expected fear, awe—something. But what he found was calm. A quiet, unsettling stillness in the boy's expression. As if this moment had already happened a thousand times in some secret history.
Stay calm, a voice in his head instructed, smooth and detached. Just observe.
He obeyed. Breathing slow. Watching. Waiting.
The boy lifted a hand in greeting. "Sup?" he said, tentative.
"Nope," the Kaiju replied flatly, motioning a sharp X with his arms. That's when Kiel noticed the bindings. His wrists and ankles were tied—thick, unforgiving cords biting into his skin. He twisted against them, panic rising.
Let me go! Kiel signed, his hands slashing through the air with practiced urgency.
Expressionless, he continued. Where am I? What the heck hit me? A truck? Pain surged again, radiant and merciless. He slumped back, his breaths shallow. The memory fog was dense, unforgiving.
The boy shuffled nervously, attempting to nudge the frying pan under the bed with his foot. His whistle was too casual, too rehearsed. Kiel saw right through it—and remembered the impact. Ofcourse. That noise. That crack. It had been him.
The old woman returned, a white ceramic bowl in hand. The girl followed, carrying a pail without spilling a drop. The sight of her froze Kiel's thoughts.
The hair. That unmistakable orange hue.
It was her—the girl from the game.
The woman stepped forward, silver hair bound tight, sun-scorched skin lined with stories. Her eyes were sharp, lips firm, every movement steeped in authority. This was no ordinary caretaker—this was a matriarch.
A knife flashed. Kiel tensed. But instead of pain, there was relief—the ropes fell away, cut with clinical precision.
"Here," she said, offering the bowl. Her smile was thin, her eyes still calculating. "You've had the first dose. This is the second. You should be on your feet in no time."
Kiel hesitated. The broth inside was murky, with unidentifiable chunks bobbing like secrets. He was bare from the waist up, bandaged tight around the ribs, his hoodie gone. Vulnerable. He eyed the potion warily.
Poison?
But something in their expressions—open, unguarded—disarmed him. Maybe it was the girl's calm gaze. Maybe the child's fidgeting. Maybe the old woman's worn defiance.
With trembling hands, he lifted the bowl. The first sip scalded his throat. He coughed violently, pain blossoming from his chest.
Was it supposed to do that? He wondered.
And then—images.
A village bathed in sunlight. Green fields. Children, Kaiju-like laughing. Then: fire. Screams. A shattered doll. An older Kaiju pulling him into the shadows.
His hand slipped.
The bowl shattered.
Silence fell.
He stared at the shards, dreading her reaction. But she only knelt, gathering them without a word.
Why are you helping me? he signed, frantic. Aren't you afraid of something like me?
"Don't move," she said gently, wiping the floor. "You'll tear the stitches."
Her voice wasn't angry. Just… tired.
The seasons shifted outside the window—bare branches blooming, spring pushing back the chill. Birds sang above the tension, oblivious to the storm below.
"You don't understand," Kiel signed slowly. You move through life like sleepwalkers, unaware what's out there. The darkness, things you should fear—things like me.
The old woman stood straight.
"Oh?" she said, voice steely. "Do you think you know more than we do?"
Kiel froze.
"I've faced darkness, boy," she continued. "Worse than you could ever imagine. You? You're just a child. I've buried worse fears than you in my garden."
Kiel blinked.
So you're not afraid? Not even a little?
"Not in the slightest," she said. "And don't you think for a second that I enjoy this. I was at peace, until my grandson in here brought back the one thing I spent a lifetime trying to forget."
Monsters? he asked.
She didn't blink. "Close. The existence of monsters."
With that, she turned and left the room.
The linens mocked him now—too clean, too organized. They didn't belong to his world.
He touched the raw skin on his wrists. Proof he had been restrained. Proof that someone had feared him once.
The young Kaiju still watched, eyes wide with unease. There was something innocent in his curiosity. Something honest. Kiel didn't know what to do with that.
He stared at the ceiling.
Outside, the birds kept singing.
"You should rest," the boy whispered.
Kiel didn't respond. The word hung in the air like a foreign concept. Rest? Not until he understood why he was still breathing. What they wanted. What he had done.
He was too weak to run. Too fogged to plan.
For now, he could only wait.
And hope that whatever version of him had taken control… had left for good.