Suspended in pale blue liquid, a teenage boy hung like a ghost in limbo. Wires and tubes slithered from his limbs and neck, glowing softly with rhythmic pulses of light. The tank enclosing him was scratched and fogged, faintly humming with outdated tech and neglected maintenance. A soft hiss escaped from a broken valve nearby, filling the cyberpunk med-bay with a high-pitched whine that barely registered through the layers of synthetic fluid in his ears.
The room around the tank was dimly lit, cluttered with medical debris, rusted panels, and half-dead monitors. Neon graffiti bled across cracked tiles. On the far wall, a ventilation fan creaked as it turned, coughing out smoke that smelled faintly like burnt oil and ozone. This was no hospital. This was a back-alley resurrection.
Then, the draining began.
With a gurgling churn, the fluid receded, swirling away into hidden pipes below. Mechanical arms clicked to life with cold precision. One by one, the tubes disengaged from his flesh, leaving behind faint red marks and the sting of sudden exposure. Metal clamps still held his wrists and ankles in place. His eyes fluttered open—first flickering, confused. Then wide, alert. Panicked.
"Where…?"
His gaze dropped to his body, seeing what shouldn't have been possible. The gash that had torn open his side—gone. The shattered leg—whole again. Even the burns across his arms and chest were smooth, like freshly grown skin.
He didn't get to scream.
A voice cut through the room, deep and cool as midnight whiskey, slicing through the static hum like a blade.
"Easy there, kid."
Ren's head snapped to the side, heart pounding against his ribs. In the corner of the room, veiled in the flickering gloom, stood a man. Tall. Still. Casually leaning against the wall like he owned the place. The soft flicker of overhead lights danced along the edge of his mirrored sunglasses, reflecting twin sparks in the dark.
"Glad you're still breathin'," the man said with a slow, almost lazy cadence. But there was something in his voice—something coiled, ready. "Most folks in your shoes wouldn't have made it."
Ren's breath hitched. His limbs trembled as he instinctively tried to push away, but the restraints kept him rooted in place. His hands slid against the slick metal floor, his fingers weak.
"W-who are you?" he rasped. His throat was dry, raw. The words scraped out like sandpaper.
The man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he tilted his head, the corner of his mouth quirking into a half-smile. "The guy who dragged your sorry ass outta a crater after you went and killed that monster."
He stepped forward. Each bootfall echoed with heavy finality. The closer he got, the more imposing he became—towering height, corded muscle, an aura like stormclouds before the thunder hits. His sleeveless shirt clung to his body, stained with oil and blood, revealing arms marked with faded scars like old war stories. A belt hung around his hips, trinkets dangling from it—dog tags, rings, a bullet casing that clicked against his thigh with each step.
Ren's head throbbed. A sharp, electric sting lanced through his skull.
A roar. Claws. Fire. His own scream—
He gasped, clutching at his head. "I... ahhhh… What… what do you want from me? And where am I?" His voice was barely audible, strangled and hoarse.
The man clicked his tongue, then raised a finger to his lips. "Tsst. Wrong order, Ren."
Ren froze.
The man took another step closer. His voice dropped, warm but heavy with weight. "Ain't how this works. I ask. You answer."
Ren blinked. The pounding in his skull grew louder. "He knows my name?"
The man grinned, full of southern charm and just enough menace to leave a mark. "Ren Kurose. Born in Okutama, Japan. Sub-level seventeen, residential sector. Parents: Kouji and Mariko Kurose. Pops runs freight between sectors, mom used to teach synth music before—well... y'know."
Ren's mouth dropped open. "S-stop. Please stop—"
"Funny thing is," the man continued, circling now, slow like a shark, "you were supposed to be dead. Yet here you are." He leaned in close. "So how'd you do it, Ren? What'd you use to kill the thing?"
"I don't—!" Ren's voice cracked. "I don't know!"
The room felt like it was closing in. His heart slammed in his chest. His skin burned. Flashes came in bursts—flames curling around his hands, a beast shrieking in the dark, a shadowy form cracking open beneath him.
"I don't know," he repeated, quieter this time, barely holding himself together. "I swear, I don't remember anything…"
The man paused, then finally—finally—took a step back, letting the tension unravel just enough for Ren to breathe.
"Well then," the man said, voice softening into something almost resembling sympathy. "Let's help you remember."
Ren gulped, his breath still uneven, chest tight like a vice had latched onto his ribs. The pain in his head hadn't left—if anything, it pulsed harder with each beat of his heart. His vision swam. Every nerve screamed flight, but his body remained frozen under the metallic arms.
Then the man lifted two fingers to his mouth and let out a sharp whistle—short, deliberate.
"Yo," he called out, his voice drawing out with a smirk. "Get out here, you dusty-stringed siren."
From the shadows behind him, something shifted.
A shape stepped into view, heels tapping softly against the metallic floor with the rhythm of rain on chrome. Her silhouette emerged slowly, like smoke slithering out of a bottle—graceful, poised, dangerous. In her hands was an instrument unlike anything Ren had ever seen. A modified ruan—its long neck sleek with chrome plating, its wooden body etched with glowing circuitry veins and wires like a heartbeat frozen in sound.
The woman—tall, sharp-jawed, with long silver-dyed locs pulled into a cascade over one shoulder—cast a lazy glance toward the man.
"'Dusty-stringed'? How flattering," she said, her voice low and lilting, like silk draped over broken glass. She stopped a few feet away, propping the armonia against her hip with practiced ease. "For a man who can't even tune a coffee machine, you sure love talkin' about music."
The man let out a rough chuckle, arms folding over his chest. "Ain't about tuning, darlin'. I'm just givin' him context. You? You give him color."
She looked at Ren then—her eyes the color of old whiskey, unreadable. She clicked her tongue. "Let's see what's echoing in that pretty little skull."
Ren recoiled slightly as she crouched near him. He wanted to move, to get away, but his limbs were still too weak. The armonia shifted in her hands. Her fingers, adorned with rings and chipped black nail polish, slid across its strings.
Then she played.
The first note was low—barely more than a hum, but it slithered into Ren's ears, into his bones. The armonia didn't just make music. It injected it—each sound a tendril of pressure that weaved through his body like electricity through copper.
His eyes widened. His breath caught.
The second chord hit harder.
Suddenly, images spilled into his mind—no, poured. Fractured, out of order. A beast of shadow lunging from smoke. Screams that weren't his. A girl's voice calling his name. His own hands—glowing, shaking, bleeding light. A blade of sound in his hand.
"Agh—!" Ren clutched at his temples, fingers digging into his scalp as the harmonics crashed through him—not cruelly, not maliciously, but like a river carving through stone. Inescapable. Inevitable.
The music didn't scream. It whispered. It remembered.
And Symphony kept playing, her face as serene and detached as a statue carved from moonlight. Each stroke of her fingers peeled away another veil from his mind, slicing through layers of fear and fog like silk with a blade.
"I don't want this—!" Ren cried out, his voice cracked and rising, panic curling at the edge of his every word. "Stop—stop it—please—!"
But the music didn't stop.
It deepened.
His breath grew ragged. His vision blurred. And then—tears.
Hot drops slid down his cheeks, vanishing into the collar of his ragged shirt. His eyes squeezed shut as his body shuddered, the flood of memory too much, too fast. And then, everything slowed.
The darkness came—not violent, but soft. Encroaching like twilight on a lonely street.
And in the silence, only his heart remained.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The rhythm grew louder.
Faster.
Thump-thump. THUMP-thump.
His ears rang, and then—light.
Out of the void, she appeared.
A woman, alone, framed against an endless field of white lycoris radiata. The petals danced with the breeze beneath a brilliant blue sky, clouds drifting like dreams too distant to reach. She stood there—her back to him—still, ethereal. Her silhouette wavered as if not fully real.
Then… she turned.
Ren couldn't see her face clearly—just the curve of her lips, the warmth of her smile. Something achingly familiar, something buried deep in his bones. A part of him knew her. A part of him mourned her.
"Wake up…"
Her voice was a whisper, soft and urgent, woven into the rhythm of his heartbeat.
"Wake up…"
The petals stirred. The wind shifted.
"Ren! Wake up already!"
The voice snapped. Urgent. Real.
No longer a dream. A scolding reality.
His eyes flew open, breath caught mid-gasp.
The field vanished.
The sky collapsed.
And the world returned with brutal clarity.
Ren sat upright on a plush leather couch, chest heaving. The sprawling living room of his family's modern villa basked in morning sunlight. It streamed through towering windows, painting golden bars across the glossy marble floor. Art pieces hung like whispers of wealth—polished, curated, cold.
His mother's voice rang out from the open kitchen, sharp and impatient.
"Ren!"
"I'm up!" he called back, rubbing the sleep and tears from his eyes with the heel of his palm. His voice was thick—frustrated, confused—but his pulse hadn't settled. Not yet.
He sat up, tossing a crumpled blanket aside, muttering under his breath. "Her raspy voice is like nails on a chalkboard," he sneered, dragging himself to his feet. He shuffled toward the bathroom, grumbling. "Can't stand her. Always nagging about something."
After a lazy, half-hearted routine in the bathroom, Ren trudged back into the living room. He passed the kitchen, ignoring the aroma of fresh toast and eggs wafting through the air. His mother, standing by the counter, caught his eye.
She shot him a glare. "Hurry up and eat. You're going to be late."
Ren rolled his eyes but dropped into the chair at the dining table. The plate of eggs and toast sat there, untouched. His stomach growled, but he wasn't in the mood for small talk. He grabbed the toast, biting into it without a second thought, shoveling eggs into his mouth between chews.
A heavy sigh came from the other end of the table. His father, seated with his usual stoic expression, lowered his newspaper. "Slow down. Eat properly," he ordered, his deep voice cutting through the tense silence.
Ren barely spared him a glance. "I don't have time for this," he mumbled, mouth half-full. He took another hurried bite, stuffing the rest of the toast into his mouth like he was in some kind of race.
His father narrowed his eyes. "Don't talk with your mouth full. Show some manners. You eat like a wild animal."
Ren scoffed, gulping down his food. "Maybe I'd eat slower if you weren't breathing down my neck about every little thing."
His father's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond. Instead, he folded his newspaper and set it aside. "Discipline starts with the small things. If you can't even eat properly, how do you expect to handle real responsibilities?"
Ren pushed back his chair with a screech, grabbing his bag off the floor. "Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Dad." He slung the bag over his shoulder and turned toward the door.
His mother frowned. "What about your lun—"
"I'm going!" he snapped, pulling the door open. A cold breeze rushed in as he stepped outside. He didn't wait for another word, slamming the door behind him.
As he stalked down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, his mind churned. Same old routine. Same nagging. Same pointless rules. One day, he'd be out of here for good.
He kicked a loose pebble, watching it skid across the pavement. For now, he just had to get through another useless day of school.
Ren arrived at school, his bag slung over one shoulder and a permanent scowl etched on his face. After swapping his shoes at the entrance, he stepped into the bustling corridors, the noise hitting him like a wave. Groups of students loitered around, chatting animatedly or rushing to their classrooms.
As he walked, snippets of conversations floated toward him.
"Did you see the new trailer for Soul Reaper Chronicles? It looks insane!" Sota exclaimed, showing his phone to his friend, Riku.
"Yeah, but the new arc seems like a filler," Riku replied, shaking his head. "I hope they don't ruin the pacing like last season."
Nearby, two girls, Ayumi and Hana, leaned against their lockers, whispering conspiratorially.
"Did you hear about Kaede and Haruto? I saw them walking home together yesterday," Ayumi said, smirking.
"No way," Hana replied, her eyes wide. "Haruto's been rejecting girls left and right. Kaede must be something special."
At the same time, a trio of boys stood near the vending machines, arguing over weekend plans.
"I'm telling you, karaoke is the way to go," Ryota insisted, crossing his arms.
"Not when you sing like a dying cat," Takumi teased, earning a laugh from their friend Daiki.
"What about the arcade? They've got that new fighting game," Daiki suggested. "I'll destroy both of you."
Ren walked past them all, his irritation growing with every step. He caught sight of a group of girls nearby, giggling over their phones.
"Have you seen his latest video? He's so amazing," Aiko gushed, holding up her phone to show Miki and Yuna.
"I know, right? He's not like those cheesy street magicians," Miki added, leaning in to get a better look. "And that mask he wears? It's so mysterious."
"I hard he's performing at Shibuya this weekend," Yuna chimed in, her cheeks slightly pink. "Imagine seeing him up close! That accent, that jawline—he's like something out of a movie."
Ren rolled his eyes as he passed them. "Why do people always have to group up and chat about nonsense?" he muttered under his breath. "And why do they have to be so loud?" Every day, it's the same mindless gossip.
He clicked his tongue, shoving his hands in his pockets. But the irritation in his chest didn't settle.
"I'm just jealous, aren't I?
That's what this really is.
I hate that they have someone to talk to, and I don't."
He reached his classroom and slid the door open.
Laughter. Chatter. Noise.
A boy perched on a desk, one foot resting on the chair, grinning as his friends flipped through a manga. Kenta. He always had a way of making himself the center of attention, whether through loud jokes, dumb impressions, or just by being the guy who never shut up.
As he laughed at something in the manga, his gaze flicked up—and landed on Ren. His grin widened.
"Yo, Susuke Uchicha," he called out as he hopped off the desk, then strolled toward Ren, followed by a few chuckles. Kenta did this a lot—zeroed in on someone just to stir things up.
"Guess I'm today's target."
Ren didn't respond, keeping his pace steady as he slid into his chair.
Kenta wasn't about to let it go. He grinned, leaning in. "Damn, man, what happened? You on some secret training arc? What is it this time—murdering the entire Jenin clan to awaken your dark side?"
"That's not even the right anime," someone snorted from the back.
"And the name's not even close," another added.
"Details, details." Kenta waved them off with a grin. "Point is, our boy Ren has been in deep training—honing his ultimate technique."
He pressed his palms together, shutting his eyes like a monk in deep concentration. Then, with exaggerated reverence, he whispered,
"Almighty Pussy."
The room lost it. Someone smacked their desk. A guy in the back wheezed, practically sliding out of his chair. Even the ones pretending not to listen broke down laughing.
One of the girls in the front row rolled her eyes but bit back a smile. "You're such a clown, Kenta."
"Clown?" He gasped, gesturing at himself. "Nah, I'm just out here entertaining everyone for free, keeping things lively."
Kenta leaned back, clearly pleased with himself. "C'mon, Ren, say something. You're making me feel like I'm talking to a mannequin."
Ren didn't respond.
Kenta let out an exaggerated sigh. "Yikes. Tough crowd." He threw up his hands in mock defeat, but the smirk never left his face.
Ren ignored him, fingers tapping idly against the desk. "Can this guy just shut the fuck up already,"
With a sharp exhale, he yanked his notebook from his bag and flipped it open. His pen scratched across the page, doodling nothing in particular as his mind drifted. That dream from this morning—it had been strange, lingering in the back of his head like a half-forgotten whisper.
Before he could sink into it, a shadow fell over his desk.
"Uh… hey, Ren," a nasally voice cut in.
Ren glanced up, his eyes flickering with something rare—hope. Someone wanted to talk to him? For a brief second, his chest felt a little lighter.
But the feeling evaporated as quickly as it came.
The short, pudgy boy in front of him—Shun—clutched his notebook tightly, his thick glasses sliding down his nose. His face was flushed, and he couldn't quite meet Ren's gaze.
"What's up?" Ren asked, his voice cooling to neutral.
Shun shifted awkwardly. "I, uh… I didn't do the math homework last night. Can you… you know, let me copy yours? Just real quick?"
Of course.
Ren's expression didn't change, though something inside him soured. "Ah, sorry. I didn't do it either."
Shun's face fell. "Oh… really?"
"Yeah," Ren lied with a shrug. "Forgot about it."
"Damn…" Shun sighed. "Guess I'll have to figure something out."
"Yeah, guess so." Ren was already turning back to his notebook.
Shun lingered a second longer, then muttered, "Right… sorry for bothering you," before trudging off.
Ren didn't watch him leave.
"Like hell I'd let him copy my work.
I actually put in the effort to do that stupid assignment. Why should I hand it over to someone who couldn't be bothered?"
His grip tightened on the pencil.
"People like him always expect someone else to bail them out. Like my time and effort mean nothing. You didn't do it? That's your problem, not mine."
The pencil tapped rhythmically against the desk. He shook his head, the brief spark of connection already dead and buried.