Am I dead?
The thought flickers weakly in Shinichi's mind. The air is thick with dust, clogging his throat and stinging his eyes. He coughs, the sound harsh and grating, and spits out a mouthful of metallic-tasting blood. His tongue feels heavy, his lips cracked and dry. The taste of iron lingers, sharp and nauseating, as he tries to steady himself.
His chest heaves, each breath a struggle, as if the air itself is fighting him. He blinks rapidly, his vision swimming in and out of focus. Shapes blur and twist—jagged edges of broken equipment, the jagged remains of the ceiling, the faint glow of flickering lights. His head throbs, a dull, insistent ache that pulses in time with his heartbeat.
No. Not dead. Not yet.
His left arm screams in protest as he shifts, radiating from his shoulder down to his fingertips. He glances at it, wincing. The sleeve of his suit is torn, the fabric soaked with blood and dirt. He flexes his fingers experimentally, and a sharp crack echoes through the silence, followed by a wave of agony that makes him grit his teeth.
"Still works," he mutters under his breath, his voice hoarse and barely audible. The words feel strange on his tongue, too loud in the eerie quiet of the ruined newsroom. He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a choked, bitter sound.
The world sharpens around him, details snapping into focus. The newsroom—once sleek and modern, a testament to progress and ambition—is now a graveyard of twisted metal and shattered glass. The air smells of burnt plastic and something acrid, like melted wires. The overhead lights sway precariously, their flickering glow casting long, jagged shadows across the debris. Shinichi's eyes dart to the wall where awards and accolades once hung proudly. Now, the plaques dangle like broken teeth, their polished surfaces cracked and smeared with soot.
He pushes himself up, his palms scraping against jagged concrete. His suit is ruined, the fabric torn and bloodied, clinging to his skin in places where sweat and grime have soaked through. He catches a glimpse of himself in the shattered remains of a monitor—his reflection fractured, his face pale and streaked with dirt, his dark hair matted and disheveled. His eyes, wide and hollow, stare back at him.
A faint sound cuts through the silence—a low, pained groan. Shinichi's head snaps up, his heart pounding in his chest.
"Conner," he breathes, the name barely more than a whisper. His throat tightens, panic clawing at the edges of his mind as he stumbles forward, his legs unsteady beneath him. His foot catches on a piece of broken equipment, and he nearly falls, catching himself on a jagged piece of metal. The sharp edge bites into his palm, but he barely registers the pain.
He drops to his knees beside Conner, his hands trembling as they grasp at the cameraman's shoulders. "Conner! Hey! Can you hear me?" He shakes Conner gently, his fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket. "Come on, man. Wake up. Please."
The man groans weakly, rolling onto his side with a grimace. His face is pale, almost ghostly under the flickering light of the ruined newsroom. A shallow gash cuts across his forehead. His shaggy blond hair clings to his temples, damp with sweat and dust, and his five o'clock shadow gives him a rugged, almost desperate look. His clothes are now torn and smeared with dirt, exposing bruised skin and shallow scrapes along his arms. Despite his battered state, there's a hardened edge to his gray-blue eyes as they flicker open briefly.
"Shinichi… what the hell happened?" Conner murmurs.
Shinichi's jaw tightens. He glances over his shoulder.
What the hell did happen?
His eyes dart across the wreckage.
"I don't know," Shinichi snaps. "I have no fucking clue."
A shadow moves in his peripheral vision, drawing his attention. Someone stumbles into view, their steps uneven, clutching their side with one hand. It's Nelson, the young analyst, barely in his mid-twenties. His wide hazel eyes dart around, wild and unfocused, like a cornered animal. His short, messy hair—somewhere between brown and auburn—sticks up in odd directions, and his glasses sit crooked on his nose, one lens cracked and reflecting the faint, flickering light. His once-crisp white button-up shirt is torn at the hem, streaked with blood and grime, and hangs loosely over a pair of dark slacks ripped at the knees. His lips are pressed into a thin line as he grits his teeth against the pain, the tension in his jaw hinting at the effort it takes to stay on his feet.
Shinichi's exhaustion gives way to frustration, a hot, bubbling anger that rises in his throat. He storms toward Nelson, his boots crunching over broken glass and debris. Without thinking, he grabs the analyst by the collar and hauls him upright.
"What the hell is going on, Nelson?" Shinichi barks. "You said we weren't on any fault lines! You said there was no risk of quakes!"
Nelson flinches, his hands fumbling at Shinichi's grip. "Wait, I—" he stammers, his voice trembling.
"You promised!" Shinichi interrupts, shaking the man slightly. "This wasn't supposed to happen!"
Nelson stumbles back as Shinichi shoves him away, holding his hands up defensively. "I don't know!" he stammers, his voice rising in panic. "I have no idea! Fault lines don't just… change like this. Maybe—maybe it's some anomaly—"
"Anomaly?" Shinichi growls, pacing in a small circle. He runs a hand through his hair, his fingers catching on tangles and dirt. His eyes dart wildly, landing on the structure far beyond the collapsed structure. "It's not an anomaly. It's that fucking thing."
Nelson follows his gaze, turning slowly. There, stretching across the horizon, looms a monolithic wall. Its surface is rough, darkening as night approaches, and impossibly tall. It stretches endlessly in both directions, an impenetrable line cutting the observable world in half. The last rays of sunlight gleam off its ominous surface, casting long, jagged shadows across the ruins. A deep chill settles into the air, making Shinichi's skin prickle.
Nelson exhales shakily. "Maybe…" he mutters, his voice hollow, like he's trying to convince himself. "Maybe it's… something else."
"Maybe?" Shinichi rounds on him. He steps closer, his boots crunching over debris.
"You're supposed to know these things! You came to me, telling us this area would be the best. How can you not—" He stops mid-sentence, staring at the ground as his breathing quickens. His hands shake as he grips his head, muttering under his breath. "This isn't real… this can't be happening… It's not fair." His voice drops to a whisper, barely audible. "I didn't leave everything behind last year for this."
Conner's groan pulls him out of his spiraling thoughts. Shinichi looks down at him, biting his lip as tears threaten to spill. His chest aches.
Then, a shaky laugh escapes him, bitter and dry, like the sound of wind through dead leaves.
"Conner," he says, kneeling beside the cameraman and grabbing his shoulders. His fingers dig into the fabric of Conner's jacket. "Listen to me. You have to find a camera. A spare. Anything that still works."
Conner blinks up at him, confused. "What?" he rasps, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Shinichi leans closer, his face inches from Conner's. A faint, desperate smile tugs at his lips, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "We're going to record this. The wall, the quake, all of it. Do you know what this could be worth? The money we could make?"
Conner stares at him, dazed. His lips part, but no words come out for a moment. Then, weakly, he mutters, "You're joking."
"I'm not," Shinichi says. He grips Conner's shoulders tighter, his fingers trembling. "This… this is our shot. We're going to be the first. The first to show the world that this could all actually be connected. Just like we said we would."
Conner's brow furrows, and he shifts slightly, wincing as pain shoots through his side. "I don't know, man…" he says nervously, his voice shaky.
Shinichi lets out a shaky breath, his eyes darting back to the monolith towering in the distance. The last rays of sunlight gleam off its ominous surface, and a deep chill settles into the air, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. His mind races, thoughts spiraling. What if we're too late? What if someone else gets there first? What if—
"Because if we don't…" Shinichi interrupts his own thoughts as he trails off, his voice dropping to a whisper. He looks back at Conner, his eyes wide and desperate. "Then who will?"
The words hang in the air. Conner stares at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nods. "Alright," he mutters, his voice rough. "But if we die out there, I'm blaming you."
Shinichi lets out a short, humorless laugh. "Fair enough…,"
…
The camera lies half-buried under a slab of broken plaster, its once-polished frame now covered in dents and scratches. A crack spiderwebs across the lens, but the internal mechanisms seem intact. Conner limps toward it, favoring his left leg, his steps uneven and slow. Each movement is accompanied by a grimace, but he doesn't stop. His breath comes in shallow gasps, and his hands tremble as he kneels beside the camera, brushing away dust and fragments of glass with trembling fingers.
"Come on, baby," he mutters under his breath. He flips the camera over, inspecting its base. His fingers fumble as he pulls out a spare battery from his vest pocket, its casing scuffed but functional. He slots it in with a firm click, and the camera whirs softly to life, the faint glow of its power light flickering like a dying ember.
Shinichi stands nearby, his fingers twitching as he rubs dirt into his jacket and smears it across his face. He crouches briefly, scooping a handful of ash-like debris and dusting it over his hair. The grit clings to his skin and he shudders as it falls into the collar of his shirt. "Make it real," he whispers to himself. This has to look real. It has to feel real.
Conner tests the camera, adjusting the focus ring with shaky hands. He peers through the cracked lens, the fractured glass distorting his view but still serviceable. "It's good enough," he says. He limps back to Shinichi, clutching the camera tightly, his knuckles white.
Shinichi exhales, nodding as he pats Conner on the shoulder. The gesture is meant to be reassuring, but his hand lingers, trembling slightly. "Let's do this. No turning back."
Conner counts down, his voice rasping. "We're live in… five… four… three…" He mouths the final numbers, holding up two fingers, then one. The camera's red light blinks on.
Shinichi stares into the lens. For a moment, he struggles, his lips parting without words. His mind races, thoughts tumbling over each other in a chaotic jumble. What do I say? How do I even start? He swallows hard, his throat dry, and forces himself to steady his breathing. "We interrupt your regular programming for this breaking news…" He pauses, his eyes flickering away briefly before locking back onto the camera. "Good evening, I'm Shinichi. Most of you watching probably already know who I am, so I'll… I'll skip the formalities." He forces a faint, humorless chuckle, but it comes out hollow, and he quickly falters.
He gestures to the rubble behind him, his hand trembling slightly. "Tonight, we're reporting from the remains of… well, what used to be our newsroom. As you can see, it's—" He swallows hard, his throat dry. "It's gone." His voice cracks, and he looks away for a moment. The flickering overhead light casts eerie shadows on the twisted beams and jagged shards of glass. Monitors hang from their mounts by frayed wires, swaying faintly like hanged men.
Shinichi looks back at the camera, his expression tightening. "This… destruction—it's not just here. It's happening everywhere near the Nurikabe." He nods toward the monolithic wall in the distance, its surface glinting faintly in the twilight. "That thing… Nurikabe…The wall. The earthquakes… they're connected somehow. They have to be." His voice wavers, and he clenches his fists at his sides, trying to ground himself.
He straightens up, trying to project authority, but his voice wavers. "Each quake is followed by something worse—disappearances. People vanish without a trace, and no one knows why. No one knows what's causing this. And the experts… they don't have answers either." He rubs the back of his neck, grimacing. He looks down, breathing heavily. "Just—give me a second…" He leans forward, bracing his hands on his knees, his shoulders shaking.
Conner's voice whispers from behind the camera. "You good?"
"Yeah," Shinichi mutters, standing upright again.
"Local authorities are telling everyone to stay back. Scientists, emergency teams—they're all trying to figure this out, trying to keep us safe. But…" He trails off, glancing over Conner's shoulder.
His eyes catch faint movement in the distance, several dark figures coming into focus, their silhouettes blurry against the fading light. He narrows his eyes, trying to make out more details, but his thoughts interrupt him.
Probably bystanders. Maybe journalists who got here before the authorities did. We'll talk to them later…wait, where is Nelson? He shakes his head, brushing the thought aside. "Doesn't make sense," he mutters aloud.
"What doesn't?" Conner asks, tilting the camera slightly to adjust the shot.
"The sirens," Shinichi says. "I heard them earlier. Now? Nothing. No emergency crews, no responders. It's like they just... stopped." His voice is low, almost a whisper, and he glances over his shoulder again, his unease growing.
Conner shifts again, his grip tightening on the camera. "Maybe they're stuck. Roads might be blocked or something."
"Maybe," Shinichi replies, unconvinced. His gaze flickers again to the figures in the distance. They're closer now.
A faint unease creeps up Shinichi's spine, but he shakes it off, forcing his focus back.
"Anyway," he says, brushing dirt off his tattered jacket, "let's get this over with. People need to know what's happening."
He steps forward, placing himself squarely in the camera's frame as Conner adjusts the focus once more. The figures linger in the background. Not now, he thinks, clenching his fists briefly at his sides.
Before he can continue, Shinichi freezes.
His eyes widen as he stares past the camera.
"Conner…" His voice drops to a whisper. "Behind you."
Conner hesitates, confused.
He turns slowly.
A man in a black suit steps forward, his face expressionless.
A silenced pistol is already raised, the barrel aimed squarely at Conner's forehead.
Conner's breath catches. "No…" His voice is barely a whisper.
The shot is muffled but final. Conner crumples instantly, the camera tumbling from his hands. It lands on its side, the view askew. Shinichi's horrified face fills the frame as he staggers back, his hands trembling at his sides.
Two more men in identical black suits step into view. They glance at Conner's lifeless body. One of them turns to Shinichi, his eyes cold and empty.
Shinichi stares at the men in black suits. The world feels like it's closing in, the air thick and suffocating. Who are they? Why are they here? What do they want? His hands tremble at his sides, his fingers twitching as if searching for something to hold onto. But there's nothing. Just the cold, unyielding reality of the moment.
For some reason, his eyes dart to the side, drawn by a flicker of movement. And there, just out of view of the men in suits, stands Nelson.
What?
Nelson's face is cracked—literally cracked—like porcelain shattered and hastily glued back together. His smile is too wide, too unnatural, stretching across his face in a grotesque parody of joy.
Drool drips from the corner of his mouth, glistening in the faint light, and his eyes… his eyes are a sickly yellow, glowing faintly like embers in the dark.
Shinichi's stomach churns, bile rising in his throat. His chest tightens, and for a moment, he can't breathe. What the hell is happening? What is he? His mind screams the questions, but no answers come.
Nelson's smile widens, his cracked face splitting further, and he gives a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if to say, Go on. Finish it.
Shinichi's face pales, his skin clammy and drenched in sweat. His chest heaves as he tries to form words, but none come. His lips move soundlessly, trembling as tears well in his eyes, blurring his vision. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear the haze.
He looks back at the camera, his lips quivering. The lens stares back at him like a cold, unfeeling eye, and for a moment, he feels utterly alone. "No one knows… what's going on," he chokes out.
A tear slides down his cheek, cutting through the dirt and grime. "But I swear… I swear the truth will come out."
The tears fall freely now, streaking the dirt on his face. His shoulders shake as he takes another deep, ragged breath.
His hands clench into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms as he tries to steady himself. "This is your host… Shinichi… signing—"
The feed cuts abruptly to black.