The next morning felt… wrong.
It wasn't the sky—it wore its usual hazy spring gray. The wind carried its familiar chill, and the streets below pulsed with their typical rhythm. Cars honked, vendors called, people moved along their paths like wind-up toys. Everything should've felt normal.
But something had shifted. Not on the surface—no crack in the pavement, no tremor in the ground—but beneath all of it. A subtle warping in the world's fabric, like gravity had tilted slightly, and no one else noticed.
He stood at the window, eyes fixed on the city, a dull pressure building behind them. The dream hadn't faded like it usually did. Most mornings, its weight melted in the sunlight, leaving only foggy edges and scattered emotions. But not today. This one clung. The voices, like a distant echo in the back of his skull, refused to quiet. His throat was parched, like he'd spent hours screaming.
The alarm hadn't gone off, but he was already dressed.
From the hallway, Miri peeked around the corner. "You're up already?"
He gave a slow nod.
"I'm telling Mom you didn't sleep again."
"Go ahead."
"You'll get in trouble."
He turned his head, and his voice came out duller than he meant. "I'm always in trouble."
Her playful expression faltered. Without another word, she slipped away.
The streets to school looked the same—gray concrete, faded storefronts, the buzz of routine life. But the people… they felt wrong. Too loud. Too vivid. Their laughter stabbed through the morning air like broken glass, and every idle conversation itched beneath his skin.
By the time he stepped through the school gates, his hands were jammed deep into his pockets, fists clenched tight enough to leave crescent-shaped marks in his palms.
Something in his chest had begun to stir. It wasn't pain. Not exactly. It was hunger—quiet, constant, and growing. He tried to ignore it. Tried.
The buzzing began again in class—not from the fluorescent lights, not from whispers in the room. It came from within. A low thrum, buried deep under his skin, like another heartbeat vibrating through his bones.
The chalkboard swam. The teacher's words blurred and dissolved into meaningless sound. He stared past it all, unmoving, jaw clenched as he fought the urge to shut his eyes and let it take him.
Something's wrong with me.
He didn't just know it—he felt it, coiled and breathing under his ribs. And what terrified him most… was that part of him didn't want it fixed.
He didn't go to the rooftop during lunch. Instead, he sat alone at the back of the cafeteria, near the vending machines, peeling apart a dry slice of bread with shaking fingers. His legs bounced restlessly under the table. His palms bore fresh red cuts from his own fingernails.
He tried to eat. Couldn't.
A sharp laugh behind him drew his attention. A group of Class 3 boys sat two tables over, joking about some prank involving a frog and a locker. One of them tossed a napkin that sailed across the room and landed on his tray.
He didn't move, just stared at it.
A whisper crept into his head. Just get up. One hit. They won't even see it coming. Let go.
His eyes snapped shut. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. No. Not here. Not again. Not like before.
He found Asuka waiting on the gym rooftop after school, sitting on the ledge with her legs swinging into open air. She didn't turn as he approached.
"I figured you'd show," she said.
He sat beside her, not speaking. The city stretched below them, small and distant, lights beginning to flicker on as dusk crept in.
"You look like you're dying."
"I feel worse."
She dug in her bag and handed him a canned drink. He accepted it but didn't open it. She leaned back on her hands, letting the wind lift strands of her hair.
"I used to have dreams like yours," she said softly.
"You don't know what mine are."
"You talk in your sleep sometimes. Loud. You don't just mutter—you argue. Like you're fighting something that lives in you."
His throat tightened.
"Everyone's afraid of the dark," she continued. "But what if the real fear is that the dark likes us back?"
He let out a dry laugh. "That makes me feel so much better."
"I'm serious. Whatever's inside you… if you don't face it soon, it's going to win."
"It already is," he muttered.
Silence followed. The wind was colder now.
"Would you still talk to me," he asked suddenly, "if you knew I'd hurt people?"
She didn't answer immediately. Then, "It depends."
"On what?"
"On whether you wanted to stop."
He turned toward her. For the first time in days, he didn't feel entirely alone.
He didn't go home that night. He walked.
The city under moonlight felt different—more honest. The edges were sharper, the shadows deeper. People drifted past like ghosts. The air held a chill that didn't touch skin, only spirit.
He wandered through alleys and across bridges, through parks empty except for streetlights and wind.
And then he saw him.
The old man. Same alley. Same coat, soaked in darkness like it had soaked through the threads.
"You're feeding it," the man said without turning.
He froze.
"The more you deny it, the more it grows."
"What is it?" he asked. "Why does it want me?"
"Because you invited it."
"I never—"
"Not with words. But with need. You wanted strength. You wanted to survive. You wanted to be feared. Something in the dark heard you."
"I didn't know what I was doing."
"Doesn't matter."
He stepped forward, voice shaking. "Then what do I do? How do I stop it?"
The old man turned. His eyes glowed—faint, but unmistakable. "You don't."
The word landed heavy.
"You live with it. Or die with it. But there's no going back. What's inside you isn't a ghost. It's hunger. Pure, endless hunger."
He leaned closer. "You have the eyes of a devourer. I've seen them before. A long, long time ago."
"I don't want this."
"No one ever does."
That night, the dream returned—but it had changed. No forest.
A cathedral. Vast. Broken. The stained-glass windows pulsed with veins of light. Black mist crawled across the floor like something alive.
And at the center, a mirror—twisted and towering, bending the light around it.
He walked toward it. His reflection didn't mimic him. It stood still. Smiling.
"Welcome back," it said.
He clenched his fists. "What are you?"
"I'm you," it replied. "Just… freer."
"You're not me."
The figure chuckled, stepping through the mirror like stepping through smoke.
"I'm the part you buried. The hunger to rule. To destroy. You gave me life the first time you chose to kill."
"I was sick."
"No. You were honest."
He tried to step back, but the figure gripped his shoulder.
"Don't lie to yourself," it whispered. "You liked it."
The air split with screaming.
Faces—dozens of them—surrounded him. People he'd hurt. People he remembered.
They clawed at him, gasping, sobbing, crying his name.
He collapsed to his knees. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry—I'm—"
The figure knelt beside him.
"You're not sorry."
He woke up.
Tears stained his cheeks.
Blood clung to his nails.
And one word, not from the dream but from somewhere deeper, branded itself into his mind.
Gluttony.