"You murderer,"
The whisper slithered into Ken's ear—cold, breathless—sharp as a blade drawn across bare skin.
He froze.
Behind him loomed a figure—an outline of a human, but wrong, as if reality had forgotten how to shape it.
It was pure black, deeper than any shadow, with two hollow, glowing white eyes staring without blinking.
It stood deathly still, its hands folded neatly behind its back—
like a guest waiting for tea—
calm, composed, and utterly monstrous beneath the surface.
Ken's fingers tightened around the neck of the guitar he clutched like a lifeline.
"I'm not a murderer," he said, forcing the words out, but they tasted alien, as if his mouth was borrowing them from someone else's story.
"I didn't kill anyone. That's just... your illusion."
In the space of a blink, the figure moved—no steps, no sound—
just there, six feet away, its face (or the idea of a face) tilted slightly to the side.
"Oh really? Then how?"
Its voice was sweet, venom disguised as curiosity.
Ken stiffened, willing himself to meet those void-like eyes.
"I don't owe you anything," he muttered, looking away.
The figure chuckled—a hollow, empty sound that somehow felt like nails dragging along the inside of his skull.
It tilted its head further, at a grotesque, unnatural angle.
"Then who will you confess to...?"
"The sun? Hahaha..."
The laughter broke apart into something fragmented—half-cough, half-choke—
a sound that made Ken's stomach churn.
His breath quickened.
The room bent, twisted, warped.
Walls turned to liquid colors.
The ground beneath his feet trembled like an old drum stretched too thin.
The memories came—uninvited, ravenous—clawing at the edges of his mind.
He whispered, barely audible:
"I... I don't kill..."
"You sure?"
The voice now sounded right behind him, warm and wet against his ear.
Ken tried to hold onto the guitar, but it dissolved between his fingers, blackness eating it away.
Strings snapped like the last screams of something dying,
its body swallowed into the living darkness now crawling over the floor, the walls, the ceiling.
Only he remained.
Breathing.
Barely.
Panicking, he stumbled back—
but there was no ground anymore.
He fell.
Down.
Deeper.
Into a void so endless it made the concept of 'up' and 'down' meaningless.
The laughter multiplied, fractured into thousands of whispers, all taunting him, all chanting:
"Murderer..."
"Murderer..."
"Murderer..."
And then—
his lungs screamed for air—
he gasped—
"Gah!"
Ken jolted awake, the real world slamming into him like a car crash.
He was drenched in cold sweat, the guitar heavy and alien in his trembling hands.
But the echoes lingered—soft, persistent, like ghost-breath at the edge of hearing:
"Murderer..."
"Stop it!" he shouted.
The room answered with silence.
He waited.
Listened.
Then spoke, his voice cracked and broken:
"I am not a murderer..."
"I can't kill a human... I can't even hurt a creature..."
"Yes... Yes... I..."
"I am... a good boy."
A smile crawled onto his face—
a wide, stretched, terrible smile that didn't reach his eyes.
For a moment, the silence felt like a broken puppet grinning.
Then he blinked.
The smile dropped.
"What's wrong with me?" he whispered to himself, waiting — foolishly — for an answer that never came.
For a long, stretched moment, he stood still.
"I'm not hearing anything... Did she leave?"
"But... I didn't hear her footsteps."
"Is she still out there? Waiting for me... to open the door?"
His fingers tightened around the neck of his guitar like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. The air grew heavier around him, dense and oppressive. He didn't move, straining to catch any sound — a breath, a shuffle, anything.
Slowly, he stepped toward the door. The knife was still wedged deep into the wood, trembling slightly with every thud of his heart.
He wrapped his hand around the doorknob.
"Okay..." he muttered under his breath.
The door creaked as he opened it just a crack and peeked outside. The corridor stretched empty before him, eerily silent.
Cautiously, he pushed the door wider and stepped out, his guitar still clutched like a lifeline.
No one.
The hallway was deserted.
But when he glanced back, his door was a mess of splinters, the knife still embedded deep.
He loosened one hand from his guitar and reached for the blade. Just as his fingers brushed the handle, a faint noise scratched at his ears — distant, unclear.
Screams.
Muffled. Far away.
Or...
"Am I just imagining it?"
"Is it just... my brain making those sounds?"
Ignoring the unsettling possibility, he gritted his teeth and yanked at the knife. It was stuck fast. He had to put his guitar down, pulling with both hands until finally it came free, almost sending him stumbling backward.
With the knife in hand, he turned to the half-open door: Mrs. Keiko's room.
He hesitated.
"Is it... wrong to enter someone's room without permission?"
A beat.
"Well, she tried to break into my room and kill me... I guess it's fine."
Steeling himself, he pushed the door open.
Cold air snaked over his skin.
He shivered.
"Why is it freezing in here? Did she leave the AC on in the middle of winter?"
The room was a disaster — clothes strewn everywhere, newspapers, torn plastic bags, overturned furniture, broken frames.
Like a storm had torn through it.
He didn't want to step inside. Instead, he tossed the knife onto the floor and slammed the door shut.
Picking up his guitar, as he turned back—
DING!
The elevator chimed.
The doors slid open.
The smell of blood wafted out.
"What the—" Yuuto muttered.
And inside...
Mrs. Keiko.
No — not Mrs. Keiko anymore.
A grotesque creature now, hunched over, gnawing at the flesh of an elderly man.
The thing turned toward Yuuto, its mouth smeared in blood, its eyes hollow and wrong.
It let out a grotesque, gurgling noise — and lunged.
Yuuto barely dodged in time.
Before he could react, it attacked again, grappling him with unnatural strength.
"I'm hungry... I'm hungry..."
Its voice was a twisted, alien mockery of humanity.
Yuuto thrashed, trying to shove her — it — off.
He slammed her against the wall, freeing his arm, and then —
SMASH. SMASH. SMASH.
He drove his fist into her face, again and again, wild, frantic, brutal.
Meanwhile, Himari, who was still smoking on the stairwell, heard the commotion.
"What's going on?" she muttered, tossing her cigarette and rushing down.
At the bottom of the stairs, she froze — stunned — at the sight of Yuuto pummeling what looked like a woman into unconsciousness.
"Hey! What the fuck are you doing?!"
Yuuto barely glanced at her, dropping the creature's limp body.
Without saying a word, he turned and started down the stairs.
But as he descended a few steps—
A shriek.
The creature, still alive, lunged at Yuuto's back, sinking her teeth into him.
He howled, trying to tear her off, but she clung like glue.
Grabbing a fistful of her hair, Yuuto hurled her into the wall —
THAWK!
Strands of hair tore free in his hands.
He didn't stop.
He kicked her, over and over, rage and terror blending into one brutal assault.
Behind him, Himari stood frozen, unable to comprehend what she was seeing.
Yuuto kept kicking — the creature's head now a crushed, pulpy mess.
And yet — no blood.
Finally, panting, Yuuto stopped.
The wall behind the creature was cracked from the force of his final kick.
Without turning around, Yuuto spoke:
"It wasn't human. It was eating a man. Check the elevator if you don't believe me."
And then he started descending the stairs again.
"Wait! You can't just leave a girl alone in this mess! I'm coming with you!" Himari shouted, running after him.
...
As Ken turned around, he felt something cold brush against his face — thin, skeletal fingers, gently, almost curiously, tracing his features.
The creature mumbled:
"Where... are you?"
It was gaunt and pale, with sunken cheeks and hollow black eyes.
It wore old, dusty clothes that clung to its frail body, as if desperately trying to hold on to a lost humanity.
Ken froze.
He stopped breathing, heart hammering against his ribs.
He had no idea how long the creature had been standing there.
But it wasn't attacking him.
It was... searching. Feeling.
The creature walked past him without a second glance.
Ken didn't even blink, knowing one wrong move could mean death.
"It's cold... Where are you?" the creature mumbled again, voice cracking with unnatural hunger.
Ken carefully lifted one foot, intending to sneak back to his room.
But the moment he shifted his weight, the creature stopped.
It turned —
Their eyes met.
Ken's heart exploded in panic.
He dropped his guitar and dove into his room.
The creature bolted after him.
Ken struggled to slam the door shut, but a freezing hand caught it and shoved it open with unnatural strength, sending him sprawling backward.
The creature entered.
Slowly.
"Where are you?"
Ken remained frozen on the floor, willing himself not to move.
The creature walked past him again, searching.
Ken, desperate to know where it was, slowly, very slowly, turned his head—
—and found the creature crouched right in front of his face.
Ken almost screamed.
The creature's hollow eyes stared into his, but it seemed confused, unable to truly see him. It couldn't recognize life by sight—it relied on the tiniest vibrations in the ground to sense movement.
It didn't matter where you looked—as long as you didn't move, you could survive.
But if you move—even an inch—you're dead.
The creature eventually rose and began shuffling toward the window.
Ken knew this was his chance.
He shifted — carefully, soundlessly.
But the creature noticed.
It turned sharply and lunged.
Yet —
Ken's clothesline caught it midair, tangling it up.
Without wasting a second, Ken bolted out of the room and slammed the door shut from the outside.
He leaned against the wall, breathing hard, staring at the door — waiting for the inevitable slamming, the screaming.
But there was nothing.
Just a whisper — from the other side.
"Where are you?"
Ken grabbed his guitar and ran.