That hand was stuck fast to the steel pillars, gently severed from my arm without a single pang of pain. Only the warmth of blood tracing its way down my arm remained. How warm it was!
WAKE UP
I snapped awake, still stranded in that same eerie greenish space. But on the walls to either side were two lines of text—one in black, one in red.
The words on the left read: 'We know there is a Shota-chan here. That scent, we could never mistake it. Don't be afraid. We are angels.'
The words on the right read: 'They are devils.'
I looked back, but there was nothing but a cold steel wall, leaving me with no choice but to press forward. Yet, those two lines of text kept creeping into my head, refusing to release their grip on my thoughts.
I pressed on, taking the only action I was still capable of. My footsteps rang out with a sharp 'clang.' But it wasn't as lonely as I was; another footstep always kept it company. The two always walked in tandem, growing closer and more intimate with each step. Then, when invited over to play, that other footstep grew delighted and dashed eagerly ahead.
Now, I couldn't even hear my own footsteps anymore—only that continuous, relentless 'clang' echoing without end. I tried to run, to flee from that maddening, chaotic din shredding my eardrums.
Run. Keep running. RUN TO DEATH.
Bang.
Finally, the 'clang' ceased, replaced instead by the blast of a shotgun. I was shot lovingly. The sensation wasn't pain, but a freezing chill running down my spine. That bullet—the very thing fired into me—is right here, inside this abdominal cavity of mine, creating an intense, bursting pressure deep within my gut.
But that freezing chill was short-lived, yielding to a violent onslaught of agony. The gunpowder and the friction of the round made the wound feel as if it were being seared white-hot. As the bullet shredded the muscle groups in my back, tore past the peritoneum, and forced segments of my internal organs outward, the pain was no longer just skin-deep—it radiated throughout my entire body. With the anterior abdominal wall ruptured and the sudden drop in internal pressure, I felt a hollow emptiness dominating this small chest of mine.
The freezing air envelopes my warm intestines; I can feel the very moment they meet and intersect, creating a distinctly cold, clammy sensation. The smooth muscles of my bowels contract continuously from the direct stimulation, triggering agonizing cramps that feel as though they are being violently twisted.
"So thirsty."
I feel my mouth going completely dry, parched with an extreme, overwhelming thirst.
Every breath I struggle to take is a knife stabbing into my stomach, ripping it open, devouring it greedily, setting it ablaze, strumming inside my gut like an instrument, playing the melodious and gentle Movement IV "Adagietto" of Gustav Mahler's Symphony No. 5. My vision blurs, and a prolonged ringing echoes in my ears, making everything around me fade into the distance.
Everything kept blurring, fading away before my eyes until nothing remained but an endless black. A pitch black. A pitch black. A pitch black and me. And then I—or more accurately, my head—was cradled up into a warm embrace. I heard a melodious voice singing a lullaby.
"On frosty, windy days, wrap warm clothes around your body and carry on, While driving, often quietly wondering how to survive this winter..."
WAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUP.
I woke up. To my right was that clock, the clock with four hands pointing to 23 hours, 99 minutes, 99 seconds, and 99 ticks. Its sounds still echoed, yet its hands still stood perfectly still.
I slowly stood up. But the pain still lingered inside my stomach. With every step I took, I could hear it—hear the horrific screams within my stomach, within my mind.
On the wall, the two lines of text remained, except now, more had been added.
The text on the left had been appended with: Don't panic. Don't run. The text on the right had been appended with: Don't panic. Don't run.
Those two lines of text, I still couldn't understand them. I kept walking, kept walking, kept walking, kept walking, kept walking, kept walking, kept walking, kept walking until I heard it—footsteps that weren't mine, accompanied by a gentle voice.
"Come over here and let us give you a hug!"
That voice came from behind me, echoing continuously through the space. It was soft, warm, clear yet deep; each word, uttered steadily and rhythmically, made the pain in my stomach ease just a bit. Though the breath was incredibly faint, in a space where sound echoed so relentlessly, I could still catch it—a sound carrying a warm breath, as gentle as a falling leaf, without a single ripple or hint of harshness. It was a sound akin to the breath of spring, carrying a rare gentleness within this abyss of madness. It was a sound akin to the radiance of summer, bearing the vibrant joy of a maiden in her twenties. It was a sound akin to the autumn wind, bringing the pure clarity of the girl across the bridge. It was a sound akin to the chill of winter, carrying sadness and solitude.
I turned around, and I saw an older girl... or perhaps, two.
''So... so beautiful!''
The one on top was a girl with back-length hair that was trimmed a bit messily, yet it carried a touch of rebellious charm. The soft, ash-grey strands cascaded down, highlighted by a peach-pink hue at the tips, looking just like a cloud drifting lazily in a gentle sunset.
She wore a sailor fuku uniform. A long-sleeved grey shirt, yet it was short enough for me to see her midriff, its broad navy blue sailor collar accented with blue stripes. The highlight was a large burgundy ribbon bow tied across her chest. A short, flared pleated skirt exposed her "lower body." Those pieces of khaki fabric were wrinkled and disheveled. And she hadn't fastened a single button, completely "uncensored." Thus, she exposed the area where a bra would normally be worn, though fundamentally, she wasn't wearing one at all.
What's better than one beautiful older sister? The answer is two beautiful older sisters.
Beneath that beautiful girl, where her skimpy miniskirt utterly failed to cover, was another beautiful older sister—only she was more rebellious than the one above. Her golden hair carried the scent of sunlight. Her eyes were stitched shut with exquisite, flawless threads. Her face was pale, impeccably beautiful, just like a corpse. She wore a soaked sailor shirt, exposing everything that clothing was meant to hide. Her mouth was stitched with threads so thick and large that she was virtually unable to speak. And I was imagining what that voice would sound like, just how beautiful that phantom melody could possibly be. It's just a pity that people don't appreciate an upside-down girl joined to another girl on top. Although the two of them didn't cover much, I could only see the navel; absolutely nothing else existed. (The things those weebs who don't touch grass and play Genshin all day want simply do not exist.)
She... or should I call them 'they'? They approached, the ash-grey-haired girl spreading her arms as if waiting for a hug. Remembering that both lines of text had been appended with ''Don't panic, don't run,'' I gave in—accepting a touch of gentleness.
An embrace. A tight, suffocating embrace. An embrace so deep that I could hear two hearts beating. An embrace so intense that it was bone-shattering. An embrace so violent that their bodies shattered in two.
"Smells good. Shota smells so good," whispered the ash-grey-haired girl, even though she only had half a body left. Yet her smooth arms still wrapped around me, refusing to let go, as she deeply inhaled the scent that she remarked was so fragrant. And then, the longer they held me, the more they recovered—their legs growing back, and the skirt growing back right along with them.
The blonde-haired girl, having just regained her legs, slowly stood up. She looked at me with affectionate eyes.
"Why do you two look so different from before?"
The ash-grey-haired girl whispered into my ear, her arms still embracing me from behind.
"It's all thanks to Shota-chan. Be good, if you love your big sisters, let us hold you—I promise I won't do anything." She turned to look at the blonde-haired girl, her tone sharpening significantly.
"Dozaemoon. Say hello to Shota-chan."
I looked back at the blonde-haired girl, and from then on, I would call her Dozaemoon. Her mouth didn't look like something capable of speech; she couldn't even open it because the threads were bound too tightly.
But I had underestimated Dozaemoon. She looked at me gently, raised her hand to her mouth, and ripped away the obstruction. Blood flowed incessantly, yet it couldn't stop that voice from breaking through.
"H... h... h... h... h... e... e... e... e... l... l... l... o... o... o... o..."
Dozaemoon spoke in a barely audible voice, so faint that I couldn't tell if she had said anything else besides that greeting.
"Shi. Full name is Shi Tai. But you can just call me Shi."
The ash-grey-haired girl introduced herself, even though I hadn't asked. And I felt so incredibly sleepy, just wanting to stay in this warm embrace forever. Shi sat down, cradling me in her lap—and of course, she never once stopped holding me.
"I'll sleep for a bit, wake me up in fifteen minutes, okay?"
Shi nodded gently. She pulled out a wall clock from somewhere unknown to me.
"I'll wake you up in a bit."
Trusting that promise, I drifted off. It was a drowsiness that I couldn't comprehend, couldn't understand, and couldn't explain why I wanted to sleep so badly. It arrived abruptly, without any warning.
Why did I trust them? Whatever the reason, it was definitely a foolish one.
My mind kept spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning until I fell asleep.
Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep until I'm a sheep. Sleep until I'm an explosion. Sleep until I am being eaten.
''A... a... a... k... k... k... u... u... u... h... h... h... a... a... a''
Dozaemoon's voice pulled him from his sleep.
Akusha looked around. Perhaps he was sitting in a kitchen; in that room, there was only him and Dozaemoon. In front of him was a pink checkered tablecloth, upon which a lavish meal was laid out. It included three bowls of shogayaki, white rice, three small bowls of kyaribetsu... and a few other dishes whose names he didn't know. But there were only a few plates to hold the food, while bowls and chopsticks were entirely absent.
In that room, Akusha had only the ticking sound for company, even though he couldn't see the clock. It was perhaps wanting to play hide-and-seek with him. He walked around, and thanks to its constant ticking, he managed to track down its location. Mr. Clock was inside the trash can; his hour hand spun continuously, while his second hand stood perfectly still.
Shi was back, her right hand holding a bag full of bowls, her left hand carrying another filled with kombu, katsuobushi, silken tofu, and green onions.
Seeming still busy in the kitchen to cook one more dish, Shi quickly grabbed the bags and rushed straight in, while Akusha returned to his seat. Taking the ingredients out, she sliced the silken tofu into small cubes, chopped the green onions, and set the dried seaweed to soak in water. Meanwhile, Dozaemoon sat down at the table with him; she wasn't as skilled at cooking as Shi.
"Dozaemoon, hand me the cloth!"
Dozaemoon stood up, nodding as she reached behind her back and produced a cloth from somewhere. Shi took it and dunked it in water. Once it was wet, she lifted it and wrung it out forcefully. She then used the damp cloth to gently wipe the kombu before placing it to soak in a pot of water. Afterward, she set the pot on the stove and turned the heat to medium. While Shi stood waiting by the pot, Akusha and Dozaemoon sat waiting for her. Shi took this moment to finely chop the green onions and slice the silken tofu into small cubes.
As the water in the pot began to simmer with gentle bubbles, Shi used a slotted spoon to scoop out the kombu and continued to wait while the pot kept heating. Once the water reached a full boil, Shi turned the heat down to low and added the katsuobushi. The waiting continued, and Dozaemoon's drool began to run. Akusha's did too; it was a pure, light aroma that carried within it the very prose of the sea.
After three minutes, Shi produced a small strainer from behind her back—again, I had no idea where it came from—lined it with a thin cloth, and poured the liquid through to remove the fish flakes. But she wasn't done yet. Shi poured the broth back into the pot, brought it to a gentle simmer, and gently dropped the silken tofu in, stirring very softly to avoid breaking it. We continued to wait.
After about two minutes, Shi took the small bowls from the bag, ladled the miso in, and sprinkled a bit of green onions on top. And just like that, the miso soup was complete. Shi placed the food onto obon trays and served them to everyone. There were three portions in total. Akusha accepted his obon; on the tray, a bowl of white rice sat on the left, the miso soup on the right, with the shogayaki placed right in the center, and a small bowl of kyaribetsu beside it.
Dozaemoon accepted it and devoured it voraciously, while he continued to eat slowly, slowly savoring the flavor. It was so delicious that he didn't know what words could possibly describe his thoughts, other than "almost as good as mother's cooking."
But Akusha was not a good child; instead of focusing on his own meal, the boy was completely engrossed in watching the two big sisters.
And it seemed Shi noticed it too, realizing that a pair of eyes was gazing at her face.
"Akusha-chan. Open wide, say ahhh."
She picked up a piece of meat and fed it into Akusha's mouth.
Whether a flavor called "warmth" truly exists in this world, I do not know, but somehow it tasted even better than just a moment ago—strangely, peculiarly delicious.
"Don't... monopolize... Akusha."
Dozaemoon spoke up, her speech slightly less slurred than before. Pouting, she picked up a piece of meat, but a brief moment of carelessness caused her to accidentally puncture Akusha's eyeball. He felt a sharp, piercing pain, so sudden and intense that it left him dizzy—and those chopsticks were still coated in shogayaki sauce. Ginger, inherently pungent, combined with the salty-sweet blend of soy sauce and mirin, and the lingering heat from the food. The sauce enhanced the flavor of the dish, and the agony of the wound. It caused a burning, stinging sensation that cut straight to the marrow of his bones, multiplying the initial pain manifold.
Yet, as it was a gesture of Dozaemoon's genuine affection, how could this younger brother bear to refuse? The piece of shogayaki was now coated in a "special sauce"—a glaze of vitreous and aqueous humor. Blending into the shogayaki sauce, it warped the original sweet-and-salty flavor into something acrid, salty-bitter, and utterly unswallowable, had it not been a piece of meat fed to Akusha by Dozaemoon herself. It was drenched in fresh blood; he could taste the heavy, metallic tang of iron, sharp and astringent, characteristic of raw blood. The shogayaki was now enveloped in a slick, viscous, and ice-cold film. Upon chewing, the slippery sensation mingled with the tender, chewy meat, creating a strikingly peculiar contrast inside his mouth. The subtle sweetness of the mirin and the warmth of the ginger no longer served to enhance the meat's fragrance. Instead, the sharp, pungent aroma of ginger rushed up his nose, mingling with the copper stench of raw blood and the sickening, raw odor of biological fluids to form a monstrous flavor profile. It violently assaulted his olfactory senses while instantly triggering his body's gag reflex.
And just like that, the meal proceeded in such a warm fashion—and surely nothing else would happen, right?
A while later, Shi was standing by the sink washing the dishes while Dozaemoon had run straight up to her room. But how could this younger brother bear to let his beloved big sister do the housework all by herself? He walked over and offered to help her.
Shi smiled gently and said, "Then how about Akusha-chan sweeps the floor, okay?"
Akusha skipped happily to fetch the broom, humming nursery rhymes as he swept. He thought back on his day—meeting Shi and Dozaemoon, eating this meal, and being allowed to help his big sister with the chores.
Yet, he felt as though something was missing, something very important.
"Why do I know your name is Shi?"
Shi turned her head, smiled, and said, "Because I already introduced myself to you, didn't I? What's the matter, Akusha-chan?"
"B... but I never introduced myself to you... so how do you know m... my name is Akusha?"
Shi stopped washing the dishes completely, slowly walking toward him. She opened her arms wide. Akusha kept backing away, backing away, backing away, backing away, backing away, backing away, backing away, backing away. Shi spoke gently, her voice echoing throughout the kitchen:
"Because I'm eating you."
In a cold place of nothing but steel, a girl wore a sailor fuku uniform. Her long-sleeved gray shirt was short enough to expose her midriff, its dark blue-black sailor collar accented with blue stripes. The highlight was a large maroon ribbon bow tied across her chest. Her short, flared pleated skirt exposed her "lower body." Those pieces of khaki fabric were wrinkled and disheveled. And she hadn't fastened a single button. She was cradling a body drenched in slimy, viscous fluids.
"A pink kitchen, and a warm meal. You had a beautiful dream, didn't you, Akusha-chan? But I liked that dream very much too—a dream ten thousand times more beautiful than this place."
Akusha's mind rotted away in the kitchen, while his physical body melted within that warm embrace.