Intermittently, endlessly, a savage scorching heat was erasing existence itself.
The skull, the limbs, the torso, the organs, the blood and flesh.
Every single thing that composed the body was crushed and shattered by brutal impact, twisted and broken, and the agony born from it all scorched the brain, plucked at the nerves, seared the soul until it burst.
From that inconceivable sense of loss and heat, a scream tore loose.
Pain, pain, pain, pain, pain-pain-pain-pain-pain-pain-pain-pain-pain-pain-pain-pain-pain.
There was pain.
There was only pain. Nothing but pain. The world was filled with pain. Even the thought that the world was filled with pain was itself being painted over by pain, grinding down, hurting.
Thought, existence — being smothered and crushed by pain.
Anxiety, confusion, tension, grief, fury, disappointment — before pain, all of it was worthless.
Worthless.
Yes, worthless.
Thought, action, deliberation, opinion, hope, memory — all equally worthless.
What was there to grieve over the destruction, the collapse, the eventual loss of something so utterly worthless?
Only that endless pain carved the certainty of existence into the soul.
And that pain, which should never end, suddenly let go of existence — "—UAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!"
A scream erupted, and consciousness returned.
That the throat screaming had been crushed, that one had been drowning in welling blood — all of that was now lost in the distant haze of memory.
"AAAAAAHHH!! UAAAAAAHHH!!"
Screaming, flailing arms and legs, trying to protect the shattered body. Joints ground to pieces, arms and legs that should have been rendered immobile — they moved.
They moved, but balance crumbled, and the body was enveloped in a brief sensation of floating before slamming into the floor.
"—!!!"
A voice that wasn't a voice escaped as the body rolled across the ground.
The feel of the floor was wrong. It felt like thick ropes laid out across it, and as the whole body rolled over that surface, the screaming-only throat swelled seeking oxygen, triggering a sharp pain that brought immediate coughing.
Unable to hold back, vomit came up. Nothing was in the stomach. Yellow gastric fluid passed through the parched mouth along with a sour stench, splattering everywhere.
"Ugh, bleh! Gah! Cough! Gahhh!"
Coughing, desperately spitting out small amounts of gastric fluid, face crumpled with tears and snot. Crouching down, covering the face, repeatedly — weakly — slamming the forehead against the floor.
Doing it again and again, and only then finally noticing.
That the pain, like a scorching blaze, which had mercilessly battered the entire body — had vanished.
"—Ah"
Pausing, startled by the disappearance of pain, there was something else noticed even later.
Someone was gently stroking the back — stroking the back of the crouched body — with their palm.
"Calm down?"
Turning around, through vision crumpled with tears, the face of the person stroking the back came into view.
Even through blurry vision, the vivid image of a girl with beautiful silver hair and deep purple eyes — brow furrowed with worry, gently stroking the back — made the throat emit a small click.
"Suba…"
"UAAAAAAAAAAHH—!!"
With a violent twist of the body, the white hand on the back was roughly slapped away.
In that moment of instinct, shock flashed through the girl's eyes as her arm was knocked aside. But the one who had suffered far more severe damage to the psyche was none other than this person here.
The back.
The back had been touched.
Just now, and moments before, the back had been touched, and the next instant, that agony would— "Hh—"
A sensation like the fine hair on the back standing on end, and the body leaped backward as if fleeing. Of course, the legs couldn't hold, and the body collapsed ungracefully onto its rear, tumbling backward.
That tumbling body was caught by a rough, coarse black texture, and— "————"
The one who looked at the trembling figure was the gaze of a sharp-featured reptile. The moment those eyes registered the rows of fine, keen teeth lining the mouth — understanding that they were weapons capable of easily crushing the body— "UAAAAAAAAAAHH—!!"
Another scream, and this time the body rolled forward. A pair of human feet was visible right in front, and without even looking up at the face, the body rolled sideways, knocking over a small figure standing there.
"
A high, silvery voice was desperately shouting something, but with ears clamped shut, it didn't reach.
Without stopping, the trembling legs were driven forward through a gap in a green wall, fleeing the room. Stepping into a stone corridor, the body crashed headlong into the wall ahead, unable to stop.
The impact sent pain lancing through. Vision flooded red, and a phantom sound of bones shattering echoed.
"Hyah—"
The right arm that had hit the wall — it could move freely. To verify whether it truly could move freely, the arm was slammed against the wall again. Pain returned. The scream flipped over.
And then, along the wall, in a staggering, unsteady gait, the body began to run.
"Hah, hhh, ahhh…!!"
Gasping for breath, drool spilling, cold sweat beading — desperately, desperately running down the corridor.
From behind, the feeling that someone was pursuing — the urge to look back was suppressed again and again. If the body turned around, if it confirmed that someone was indeed chasing, the heart ready to burst would not endure.
The heart would rupture, all the blood in the body would rot, and from the feet up, the body would shatter like glasswork.
Whether that was premonition or truth, what was clearly established — was this absolute, unshakeable fact: that if things continued as they were, one would perish.
Humans are born already crumbling.
Decaying second by second, heading toward death second by second, falling toward the end second by second.
But for the current self, such a conceptual "death" held no meaning.
In far more extreme form, "death" was approaching with steady, certain footsteps. Clumsily, wretchedly, as the self flailed and tried to flee, it toyed with the pursuit, closing in.
Ran. Fled. Just fled, no matter what.
"Death" was coming. Being killed. Being killed. If this continued, being killed.
Despite having already been killed, still being killed. Or perhaps, even after suffering that level of pain, humans simply could not die? Was it the mystery of life? If so, it was nothing short of abhorrent.
Calling it a "mystery" was too dignified a euphemism. It was a loathsome, ugly attachment.
Wouldn't it have been better to simply be dead — "—!"
A heartbeat like an explosion shook the eardrums, and vision flickered rapidly. At a level of life proficiency below that of an infant who had even forgotten how to breathe, the idea of escaping the terror of death was absurd.
Absurd as it was, no laughter escaped. Everything was an object of terror.
"————"
Ahead, the stone corridor stretched on without any variation, to the point of losing sight of where one was running.
What was understood was that going back was not an option. But if one continued fleeing without any anchor, eventually one would be worn down and lose the path.
If the path was lost, one would be caught by someone. If caught by someone, one's life would be taken.
Why, how, why was one's life being taken — such questions were now utterly useless.
Right, left — there was no time to hesitate about which way to go.
Only, relying on the wall touched by the right hand, desperately gasping for breath while fleeing from the "death" that might catch up at any moment.
It felt like drowning.
On dry land, with water nowhere in sight, it felt like struggling toward the surface.
Drowning, drowning, drowning — like a drowning thing thrashing, groping for the surface, flailing, flailing, flailing, struggling and struggling and struggling, and eventually — "—Hey, what the hell are you doing here this goddamn early, huh, you!!"
"————"
Right in front, a terrifyingly colossal presence was felt, and the legs stopped.
No — it wasn't just the legs that stopped.
Breathing stopped, the thunderously loud heartbeat went quiet, the knees shaking from exhaustion and terror froze, and every living function felt as though it had been seized by the scruff of the neck.
Before the eyes, there stood something that gave the illusion of being a giant.
But after a few seconds of time, it slowly sank in that while the figure was tall, it was by no means a physique that had transcended the boundaries of a human.
At the same time, the fact also sank in that humans, as a species, could be wrapped in such a ferocious aura.
"Alone, are you? Just you, alone — that doesn't even register, kid. At your age, not 'one person' but 'one little fry.' Even one fry doesn't cut it. Come back tomorrow with your little gang and some nice-looking broads, you hear me? Hey — are you listening? Come on. Hey — you — hey, you!!"
Like water off a greased board, the presence standing before him hurled words without pause or hesitation.
Struck by the profoundly violent aura and the words laced with a reckless, half-hearted emotion, the breathing, the heartbeat, the trembling knees that had stopped — all of it resumed.
Without meaning to, one had wandered into the cage of a savage beast.
All one had done was desperately keep running.
Desperately sprinting through the stone corridors, trying to get far from any familiar place. As a result, in an unknown room, a staircase leading upward was spotted, and one clung to it.
Perhaps that staircase had been mentioned before — yesterday, or some day like yesterday, or a few hours ago — but it was lost in the abyss of forgetting.
Up the long, long, terribly long staircase, gasping for breath, climbing, and then.
And then, at the end of the journey, glared down upon by the most terrifying wild beast — "Hey. Are you listening?"
"Hh—"
Before realizing it, the other's face was close enough to feel the breath.
Long red hair, a black eyepatch covering the left eye, a kimono worn loosely to bare one shoulder, a white sarashi visible underneath — and, for whatever reason, a thin wooden stick being jabbed right at the nose.
Its tip, which was sharp by no means whatsoever, even seemed like the "death" that had been thrust upon one— "—!!"
"Oi, oi — don't you go ignoring me, you little punk!!"
"Hah, ah, eh?"
Without a second thought, acting on pure instinct, the body tried to turn and flee.
And yet, the instant it tried to run backward, for some reason the body slammed head-on into the man's chest. The forehead that tilted back was pressed by the wooden stick, and the body toppled backward.
The back of the skull struck the floor, and vision scattered with sparks. From the pain, tears spilled.
The pain of impact, the pain of being struck — it so easily recalled the pain of being shattered.
"Ah, ah, aahhh…"
"Hey, hey — no way you're actually crying, are you? What's all the boo-hooing for? Did you get into a fight with your little buddies down there? Did you get talked down and you're crying about it?"
"Guh, hh, uuu, uuuuuu…"
"Geez. What a hopeless bastard."
Lying on its back, the body whimpered as fear reignited, tears streaming. The long-haired man looked at this and scratched his own head roughly.
Then, squatting down right beside the head of the one lying there — "Come on, tell me what happened. If you want someone to listen, I'll listen."
"…Uh, ah?"
"You came all the way out here to hide. Must've been something serious, huh?"
With a sigh, the words were spoken — their meaning not fully registering, and the eyes blinked again and again.
In that instant, the presence that had seemed incomparably malevolent began, slowly, to take on a definite outline. Not merely in the shape of a human, but the warmth of human feeling and way of being took on tangible form.
Through vision blurred by tears, the man's face looking down gradually became clearer and — "—No way in hell would I say something like that, you moron."
"Gy, ga, aaaaaaaahhh!!??"
With a savage, shark-like expression that thirsted for blood, the man drove the wooden stick into the chest.
In that instant, the tip of the branch slipped between the ribs, and the delicate organs that should have been protected by bone were — with a cruel tenderness, with a raw consideration — prodded, tickled.
Just that alone brought pain so excrucifying it was as if one were literally vomiting blood throughout the entire body.
"What the hell are you running away to me for? On top of that, you run all the way to my place — what's the idea? I'm not your babysitter, not your buddy, not anything, got it? You pick who you want to hang around with, don't you? You wanna die or something?"
"Gy! Gaah! Agih! Gugyahh!"
"Like this is the kind of relationship we can just talk it out and call it even, huh? If that's all it took, I wouldn't have been called to a dump like this in the first place. Come at me to kill. I'll play around with you. That's more like it."
With clear irritation and dark emotion, the anger escalating with every word, yet the hand prodding the internal organs possessed a delicacy — or perhaps precision was the better word.
That much was clear because the vital importance and preciousness of one's own organs was being driven home through searing pain.
If the man were even slightly the type to be swayed by emotion, or if his skill did not match his violent manner, the guts would have long since burst.
That they hadn't was the man's terrifying talent.
An overwhelming aptitude as a predator, blessed with both violence and the skill to wield it.
Only with that in place could this brutality properly exist as it did.
No — this place was far too different from anything known.
"Get lost, little fry."
"Gah—"
The sensation of prodding organs receded, and then the body was kicked viciously in the side by the man's foot.
Rather than a kick, it was more of a scooping launch, the body lifting onto the foot and being thrown. The body floated gently, rolled helplessly, and was expelled from the space.
However, as the body tumbled toward the exit of the room, what awaited — "I — no, don't—!!"
A vision of the body rolling down the staircase flashed before the eyes, and the fingers dug into the floor instinctively.
A twisted sound as the nails of the right hand — the middle and ring fingers — were torn from their roots. Exposed nerves and red blood wet the floor, but the body just barely escaped falling.
"Gu, gguu…!!"
The fleeting relief of avoiding the fall was immediately consumed by a scorching sensation radiating from the fingertips. Looking at the hand through the sharp pain, two nails had peeled back like the lid of a box, and the nail on the little finger next to them was half-torn — the visual pain accelerating the brain's reaction.
"Hurts… it hurts, it hurts, it hurts…"
The fingers of the right hand with the peeled nails were grasped by the left hand, pressed to ease even slightly the pain. Drip, drip — blood flowed down the wrist to the floor, leaving a trail, and through that blood trail the body stood on the staircase.
There was no longer any courage to look behind.
There was no sense that the other — that wild beast — was directing attention this way. If even a single glance had been cast, the body would surely have been unable to endure and gone tumbling down the stairs.
The worst situation, stopped one step before, settled into the next-worst version of the worst — so now what?
"Why…?"
Why was the self in a place like this?
The gait forgot to flee, the heartbeat was swallowed by terror and went numb — and only then did the mind finally turn to the meaninglessness and impossibility of one's own existence in this place.
Supposedly shattered, yet here.
Supposedly swallowed by scorching heat and vanished, yet still here.
If only everything were a dream, an illusion — if only it were something like that.
"A… prophetic dream…"
That was how the self had been trying to frame what had happened.
Because familiar sights, people once encountered, conversations recalled as having been exchanged, events that should have been passed through — all had passed before one's own eyes.
Trying to explain the reason through one's own logic, thinking so.
Surely, somewhere, even regarding all of that with the detached vagueness of something happening to someone else — Without knowing that the price for that shallow thinking and superficiality would be paid in excruciating pain.
"————"
Before realizing it, the body had collapsed into a crouch.
Drip, drip — the unceasing drops of blood could be seen soaking red into the stone steps.
A sense of futility, a sense of loss, a sense of disappointment — anyway, nothing but dark thoughts circled in the head.
The conclusions of that circular reasoning, if pressed to their end, were all the same: one did not understand why this was happening.
"————"
Just a few hours ago, the self had been nestled in warm, languid days.
With no danger whatsoever — at most, worry about one's own future going nowhere — never threatened by anyone, never taken seriously by anyone.
A place where all that was needed was to simply bow one's head before the eyes of a father and mother.
Had that been wrong?
Had one continued to be a burden to mother and father. Continued to disappoint them. Never managed to be a good child.
And so, made to endure pain so terrible it could kill, pushed into a situation where even death was impossible, nails torn off and hurting, interrogated by a stranger, alone on a staircase — crying.
If this was what waiting felt like, then it would have been better to be more, to do properly.
"…I should have said 'I'm leaving.'"
It had been a life filled with nothing but regret.
Full of failures, full of things that didn't go right, and looking back, there were far more things one wanted to redo than two hands and two feet could count — but what came to mind first was this.
When leaving the house, mother had called out, "Take care."
The self did not answer.
Why?
—Because the cup soaked in the sink in the kitchen had not been washed.
"Guh, fu…"
The cup had not been washed.
After drinking cocoa, the brown residue stuck to the cup had been too much bother to scrub off.
If one answered mother's words, a conversation might arise, and she might say to wash the cup. That was why the self did not answer mother's words. Because the self did not want to wash the cup.
Because the self did not want to wash the cup, the self ignored mother's words.
Said nothing. Walked out of the house without saying anything, headed to the convenience store, spent money not earned by one's own hand — and before realizing it, was in a place like this.
Without saying anything to mother, without saying anything to father, without washing the cup — in a place like this.
Without washing a single cup, without saying a single word to a kind mother — in a place like this, dying.
Having been nothing but a burden, unable to return anything, without even washing the cup — dying.
Dying, dying. One would die. Absolutely, without fail, one would die.
Falling from such a height, survival was impossible. One would certainly die.
"…I'm going to die."
One would die.
All living things die eventually, but the self would die here.
In a place where no one one knew existed.
Without father or mother, surrounded by strangers, becoming a filthy clump of blood, dying.
"I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm… going to die. Die, die, die…"
Murmuring. And strangely, the murmuring seemed to push it all slightly further away.
A crutch. A trick of the mind. Even if spoken aloud, nothing would change dramatically.
"Death" remained unchanged, standing with a smile as it coiled around one's fate.
And now, that "death" was clearly seen to be shaped like a human. A black shadow had risen, laughing mockingly at the self.
And stuck to that black shadow was a face — a familiar face, and thinking about who in a place like this could have a familiar face, the realization came immediately.
"Death" wearing the self's own face was pointing and laughing at the trembling figure.
"Don't laugh."
Glaring at the shadow, pouring dark hatred into the words, the self spoke.
The shadow's smile did not cease. The pointing finger did not stop.
"Don't laugh. Don't you laugh. Don't you, laugh…!!"
Rising, teeth clenched, the body approached the shadow along the wall.
The shadow's smile did not cease. The pointing finger did not stop.
"Don't laugh, stop it. I'm going to die. Not at your hands. You won't be the one to kill me."
For the first time, the personification of "Death" distorted its expression.
It seemed to grow angry that its own self would not obey its own commands.
That seemed to be the shadow's weakness, and the self seized the opportunity to press the attack.
"I won't be killed by you! I'm going to die — yes, I'm going to die! I did die! I died! I died, and came back here, but I won't be — by you —"
—Killed by you.
The moment those words were about to form clearly on the lips — "————"
The lips stopped moving of their own volition. Then came the realization of the eyes — which had been glaring at the shadow — going rigid, and the sensation of one's own body slipping entirely beyond control.
Even the ability to question "why" was sealed, and there was nothing to do but await the abnormal change.
The body wouldn't move. — No, it wasn't just the body. The world itself had stopped.
The black shadow that had been before the eyes had also frozen its movement, its expression of rage still twisted.
In such a world, with the self left immobile, there was one thing that still moved.
It was — "—I love you."
— It was, perhaps, a woman in black.
A slender, willowy figure entirely dyed in black.
Whether black was shaped like the woman, or the woman was draped in black — neither was certain, and it didn't seem to matter which.
In any case, it was a woman in black. Clad in black vestments reminiscent of a wedding gown, her features concealed beneath a black veil through which no face could be seen from inside or out.
"—I love you."
But what those lips spun forth was an emotion so powerful it defied imagination.
How much emotion would need to be distilled before one could approach the words that spilled from those lips?
It was quality, and quantity, and time, and weight, and value, and concept.
How many beings in the world might utter the words "I love you" was unknown — but if all of them were combined, they would surely equal this woman's "I love you."
And whispering her love, the woman slowly extended her black arm toward the chest.
Slender fingertips passed through the chest wall, through skin, through flesh, through bone, coming to rest against the heart that beat within.
"————"
A few minutes, ten-odd minutes — time was impossible to measure, but since waking, the organ of life had been felt again and again, present in consciousness — yet never before had it been felt so strongly as in this moment.
Never before had it been felt so loathsome.
Because — "—I love you."
With the same passion that whispered love, the woman's black fingers caressed the heart.
And with that, a piercing shock struck — and this body, which had come to fear pain, was utterly, completely subdued. Having the whole body shattered by the impact of a fall, having the soul scorched by inextinguishable fire, having the heart worn down by guilt toward mother — even all of that, before this pain, seemed like dust.
If a scream could be let out, one would have wanted it.
If the throat could scream until it tore apart, something could have been done about the pain — not by confronting it, but by directing attention elsewhere, escaping from it.
That was impossible. There was only the pain, and being forced to face it.
"—I love you."
The woman's love did not release the heart.
It was as if — as if nothing that directed interest toward anything other than the self was permitted, an inexhaustible possessiveness driving it so.
— As if jealousy toward everything else was driving it so.
"—Ah."
The release came suddenly.
"————"
A breath escaped, and the body collapsed.
Tears spilled, and eventually the body lost control of its bladder. A warm sensation dampened the crotch, and urine trickled down the staircase toward the lower floors.
That wretched, ugly display was met by the frozen black shadow pointing and laughing out loud.
Realizing it had been set up — watching that laughing figure, the trap became clear.
By acting weak, showing vulnerability, the self had been lured into striking — and had stepped on a tiger's tail it should never have touched.
"You…"
The words that followed could not form.
The head was clutched. Blood still flowed from the wounds where nails had been torn. Tears, urine flowing toward the lower floors — everything felt like punishment for one's own weakness and foolishness.
— Just kill me.
Those words did not become sound.
Even if killed, would the self truly be "killed"?
The footsteps and worried voice ran up the stairs.
Covered in filth and disappointment, the self simply continued to weeping like a stupid child.
It was — the remains of