Ryo stood before his hostages, his eyes shining with an intensity that seemed to pierce their souls. His voice, deep and confident, broke the silence like a guillotine:
"Don't worry. Soon, this mystery will come to an end... and you will all have failed." "
The words hung heavy in the air, relentless. None of the hostages dared to respond. Their lips trembled, but no sound came out of their parched throats. They were paralyzed, not only by the cruelty of the message, but above all by the suffocating aura that Ryo exuded. It was not just a man standing before them, but an overwhelming presence, an entity that left no room for doubt or possible rebellion.
Some instinctively lowered their heads, unable to meet his gaze. Others remained frozen, eyes wide, breathless, as if paralyzed by animal fear. The mere idea of upsetting Ryo seemed impossible, so terrifyingly obvious was his authority.
Then, slowly, Ryo looked up at the sky. His face changed: the cold cruelty that had marked his features was replaced by a steely expression, an unshakeable determination. His lips stretched into an almost imperceptible smile, but one laden with absolute certainty.
He knew why he was acting this way. His actions, brutal as they were, had a specific meaning, a purpose. In his eyes, this was not mere gratuitous cruelty, but a much larger plan, a mission that only he understood. Soon, his prowess would reach its peak, and then... humanity would have no choice but to bow to his judgment.
A gust of wind blew his hair, as if to emphasize this unshakeable conviction. His eyes remained fixed on the heights, as if he were seeking to grasp a truth invisible to others. His hostages, meanwhile, didn't even dare to breathe, aware that they were powerless spectators of a fate that was completely beyond them.
Then, suddenly, the entire scene began to waver. The colors faded, the shapes blurred. The contours of reality seemed to melt into a dark veil, as if the space around Ryo were gradually dissolving. The ground disappeared beneath the hostages' feet, their silhouettes faded away, and even the imperious gleam in Ryo's eyes was lost in an inexorable fade.
Total silence fell.
When the darkness finally lifted, another scene took its place. The atmosphere was no longer heavy with menace, but imbued with an almost reassuring banality. The smell of disinfectant hung in the air, mixed with that of paper and old books. Light-colored walls, a solid wood desk, a few educational posters hung awkwardly.
A woman, frail in appearance but accustomed to her surroundings, stood there. She was sitting in an upholstered chair, her hands clasped on her knees, her gaze averted. Her eyes scanned the room distractedly, stopping on a pile of medical files, on a stethoscope placed near a computer, then on the friendly but serious face of the doctor in front of her.
She knew this place well. Too well. Every corner was familiar to her: the window overlooking a small garden, the steady ticking of a clock hanging on the wall, the faint smell of cold coffee that always seemed to haunt the room.
She was at her doctor's office. A place she used to visit often, almost like a second home. Consultations, regular appointments, endless checkups: it was all part of her routine, a life where waiting and resignation had become the norm.
She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. The contrast with the previous scene, so brutal and oppressive, was striking. Here, everything seemed peaceful... and yet, a vague feeling of anxiety lingered, as if this tranquility also concealed a disturbing truth.
The doctor, after jotting down a few lines in the file open in front of him, looked up and gave her a reassuring smile. His calm, steady voice filled the room with a measured warmth:
"I've provided you with the medication to take as usual."
The words echoed in the sterile air, familiar, almost routine. Koan, sitting on the edge of the chair, nodded quickly. She didn't take the time to think further, her feverish hands grabbing the box of pills. She hastily put it in her bag, standing up immediately as if the very air in this place weighed too heavily on her shoulders.
Today was no ordinary day. Her heart was beating faster than usual, pounding against her chest with the energy of an internal alarm. It was the big day: the end-of-year exams.
As she walked down the narrow hallway of the office, her thoughts were racing.
Even though it's true that I missed several classes... I have a good excuse, she repeated to herself, as if to dispel the shadow of doubt that clung to her. Normally, everything should be fine.
Her fingers gripped the straps of her bag tightly. The sweatiness of her palms betrayed her anxiety. Each step echoed in the corridor like an echo of her inner turmoil. The smooth, anonymous white walls seemed to watch her silently, reminding her of every absence, every accumulated delay.
For a moment, her breath caught in her throat. What if everything fell apart today? What if her efforts, despite everything, weren't enough? The specter of failure loomed before her, immense and threatening.
But Koan shook her head, violently chasing away these images. She took a deep breath, forcing her lungs to fill with the cold, dry air. She told herself that this was not the time to give up. Not today.
Her lips murmured almost against her will: "Courage... You can do it."
This simple phrase, whispered into the void, became her fragile talisman. Her gaze, at first lost and hesitant, regained a spark of determination. She stood up straight now, ready to face the day, oscillating between the fear of imminent disaster and the feverish hope of a last-minute success.
Her pace quickened as she left the building, and the light outside enveloped her. Her heart pounding, Koan walked toward her destiny, torn between trembling and confidence.
Koan arrived at the exam room breathless, her footsteps echoing in the hallway like desperate drumbeats. She had barely made it through the front door, her heart pounding, convinced that she would finally sit down in front of her exam paper and prove that she was capable after all. But her expectations were dashed in an instant.
In front of her, the assistant stationed at the entrance shook her head gently, blocking her way. Koan stood frozen for a moment, blinking as if she had misheard.
"Why... why can't I take the exam?" she asked in a trembling, almost strangled voice.
An awkward silence ensued. Her professor, who had approached, adjusted his glasses, looking uncomfortable. His hesitant gaze oscillated between the strictness of the rules and the compassion he felt for his student.
"Koan..." he began in a measured tone, "you've missed too many classes this year. You know that regular attendance is essential to qualify for the final exams. Under these circumstances... I cannot allow you to take the exam."
These words hit her like a blow. Her whole body tensed, her fingers clenched the strap of her bag. She shook her head in disbelief.
"No... it's not possible..." she whispered. "You know why I missed so many classes! It wasn't my fault. I had a good reason..." "
Her voice rose, tinged with anger and a dull fear.
She suffered from an invisible, insidious illness that consumed her strength day after day: chronic fatigue syndrome, or myalgic encephalomyelitis. It was an illness that offered no respite. Every morning was an ordeal, every movement an exorbitant expenditure of energy. Her body, which appeared normal, hid an invisible burden: persistent muscle pain, profound exhaustion that did not disappear even after rest, and concentration problems, as if her mind became clouded at the most crucial moments.
For months, Koan had been going back and forth between the hospital and the university. Medical exams, treatments, and consultations punctuated her daily life. The school, aware of her situation, had once promised to relax certain rules and give her a chance despite her absences. She had clung to that promise like a lifeline.
"You told me..." she replied, her voice breaking. Her eyes misted over, but she refused to give in to tears. "You told me I would be allowed to take the exam. You knew I was trying hard despite everything!"
The professor lowered his head, visibly sorry. His face expressed sincere compassion, but his hands clasped in front of him conveyed the firmness of his decision.
"I'm sorry, Koan. I really am. But... I can't let you in." "
The door to the exam room remained closed in front of her, cold and indifferent. Koan stood frozen, refusing to accept this verdict. Her heart was pounding, her mind clinging to the slightest possible loophole, as if one more protest, one more word, could reverse the decision.
Koan stood frozen for a moment, unable to move, as the exam room door clicked shut behind her. Her breathing became short, rapid, and irregular, as if each breath required superhuman effort. Her legs trembled, threatening to give way, and she had to lean forward, desperately searching for a handle, a support, anything to hold on to.
Panic rose within her, brutal and relentless, a dizzying fear that made her almost blind to everything else. Her hands grasped at the air, then at her bag, her coat, never quite finding a grip. She could feel her heart pounding against her chest, her body tensing like a spring about to snap.
In a reflexive gesture, Koan closed her eyes and focused on what had always saved her in moments like this: the sound of the sea. She imagined the gentle waves lapping against the sand, the steady rhythm of the surf rolling in, the sea breeze caressing the surface of the water.
In her mind, the sounds overlapped, precise and soothing: the soft splash of the waves, the murmur of the spray, the lapping of the shells brought in by the tide. Gradually, her irregular breathing began to slow down. Her body relaxed slightly, her hands loosened their grip, and the dizziness of panic gave way to a feeling of calm.
It was a ritual she knew well, an inner refuge that allowed her to get through crises without being completely overwhelmed. Even if everything around her seemed to be falling apart, the sea, in her mind, remained immutable, faithful, constant.
But when she opened her eyes again, reality hit her hard. The door remained closed in front of her, symbolizing the end of this stage. Despite all her efforts, despite her willpower, despite the battle against her illness and the accumulated absences, her year was now over.
Koan left the university, her dragging footsteps echoing faintly on the cold concrete of the campus. The light afternoon breeze brushed her face, but she hardly noticed it. Instead, a feeling of injustice burned in her chest, dull and persistent, like a wound that no reason could soothe.
This feeling was not new. She was used to it. For a long time, her life had been reduced to a single goal: to succeed in her studies. No matter the subject, no matter the difficulty, no matter the sacrifice. All that mattered was passing each stage, clinging to that tenuous thread that would one day allow her to get a job, even the most modest and precarious one. This goal had structured her years, giving her a semblance of direction in an otherwise vague and threatening world.
But on this day, that routine was brutally shattered. Koan felt dizzy with a reality that was spiraling out of control. Every absence imposed by her chronic illness, every trip to the hospital to manage the overwhelming fatigue and persistent pain in her body, had piled up against her. Today, everything seemed to be turning against her, transforming her efforts into apparent failure, and she felt anger and despair mingling with frustration.
Since losing all memory of her past, Koan had gradually lost part of her identity. The erased memories had taken with them her bearings, her roots, and even the certainty of who she really was. Her features, neutral in the eyes of others, her mannerisms, her clothing choices, all of this had led to a single perception: the society around her now considered her a woman. It was a simple detail among many others, but it symbolized the fragility of her own identity, erased and rebuilt over time, yet still dependent on outside judgments.
As she walked, Koan felt this duality weighing on her: on the one hand, the determination that had carried her this far; on the other, the fatigue and emptiness that crept into her thoughts. Her steps guided her mechanically, but her mind was elsewhere, absorbed by the injustice that continued to gnaw at her, a silent echo of all she had lost and all she still believed she had to conquer.
Koan settled into an almost empty subway car, her back pressed against the cold wall, her hands clutching the bag as if to hold on to something real. Around her, the voices and laughter of the other passengers floated in the confined air, bursts of joy and camaraderie bouncing off the metal walls. Groups of friends joked, exchanged bright glances, and talked about plans for the weekend.
"We're going to the movies to celebrate the holidays!" exclaimed one of them, setting off a contagious laugh that echoed through the car.
Koan turned her head toward them, but her eyes saw nothing of her world. These moments of happiness seemed to belong to another planet, to a life she had never been a part of. These are moments of joy in life, I have never known them... she thought, a veil of melancholy darkening her features.
She breathed in slowly, trying to chase away the bitterness, but the thought returned relentlessly, implacably: I have always been alone. Since I have no memory of my past, no one has ever really seen me or waited for me. They say that when you disappear, someone misses you, someone loves you... But in my case... even if I disappeared tomorrow, no one would care about me.
She looked down at her hands, her fingers intertwining nervously. Every smile she saw around her, every burst of laughter, accentuated the feeling of being invisible, of being a ghostly presence passing through the world without leaving a trace.
I'm just a ghost in everyone's eyes... she thought, and the subway sped away, carrying with it the tumult of lives filled with warmth and affection, while she felt more and more alien to it all.
A strange, almost clownish smile appeared on Koan's lips. "Well... I suddenly feel like going to the movies," she murmured to herself, as if the impulse had come out of nowhere. There was something offbeat about that smile, a flash of irony toward her own loneliness, a way of defying the emptiness of her days.
Without thinking twice, she began to walk, slowly at first, then with increasingly random steps, following the city streets without any specific plan, guided only by chance and this sudden urge. She didn't know what movies were playing, what recent blockbusters had hit the theaters. None of that mattered to her. She just wanted to walk, to blend in with the flow of passersby, to feel the energy of the city.
The gazes of others sometimes crossed her path. Some frowned, others whispered, perhaps thinking she was drunk, staggering down the street. But Koan was not under the influence of alcohol. Her head was clear, her mind sharp, only... she was walking aimlessly, driven by a strange impulse that defied all logic.
Her footsteps echoed on the pavement, punctuated by the sound of cars and conversations in the street. The lights of colorful signs reflected in her eyes, but none of them really attracted her. She walked on, free from all constraints, all expectations. Her path was erratic, almost absurd, but it was her choice: to walk without reason, to let the city engulf her, to lose herself for a moment in a world where no one was waiting for her, where no one was holding her back.
Every step, every movement seemed like a small, silent rebellion against the loneliness that had always weighed on her. Even in this disorderly wandering, there was a hint of fleeting pleasure: she existed, here and now, even if no one really noticed her.
Koan pushed open the cinema door and entered the lobby, the dim light and the sweet smell of popcorn floating in the air filling her with a strange satisfaction. An almost triumphant smile spread across her lips, as if crossing this space, climbing these stairs, was in itself a feat worthy of celebration. She climbed each step deliberately slowly, savoring the simple fact of moving in a place where she had never been expected.
When she reached the top floor, she saw the door leading to the roof terrace. Her trembling fingers gripped the handle. The desire to feel the open air, the wind caressing her face, tempted her. She pushed the door open and found herself on the roof, overlooking the city. Dizziness overtook her for a moment, but instead of fear, a strange thrill ran through her: a mixture of excitement and silent defiance.
That's when a security guard appeared, panting, his face stern:
"Ma'am, you can't be here!"
Koan, still smiling, slowly turned her head toward him, her gaze meeting the void that stretched out beneath her feet. She let out a small grumble, almost amused, tinged with irony:
"Well... I can't even have a more dignified death than this..."
Her breath mingled with the wind sweeping across the roof. She stood at the edge, aware of the danger, but finding in this position, fragile as it was, a strange form of power. The void beneath her feet was immense, but the solitude of this moment belonged entirely to her. The security guard, powerless, seemed to be able only to gesticulate in vain, while Koan, on that roof, savored a moment of absolute freedom, on the edge of the unknown.
Koan took a deep breath, feeling the wind whip her face. Her eyes lost focus for a moment, and she whispered to herself, almost defiantly:
"I hope that at least death will accept me as I am..."
The security guard, arms outstretched, tried to pull her away from the edge, his voice trembling:
"Step back, you're going to fall!"
But before he could fully react, a sharp jolt shook the roof beneath their feet. The metal railings creaked, the doors shook, and a shiver of incomprehension ran through the crowd below.
The sky, already tinged with twilight hues, suddenly took on a strange shade of deep blue mixed with incandescent purple. Passersby stopped, their eyes raised to the horizon, which seemed to twist and move like a living entity. No one understood what was happening, each trying to grasp the inexplicable.
Then, a childish laugh, clear and crystalline, rang out from the heights of the sky. It carried an unsettling familiarity, filling the air with a palpable strangeness.
"What's going on?" cried a voice in the street.
"What is that?!" wondered another.
Questions flew in all directions, cries of fear and wonder mingling in harmonious chaos. Koan stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the now surreal sky, feeling her heart racing. The unknown had imposed itself on her reality, and for the first time in a long time, she was no longer alone in the face of something she could neither control nor understand.
Koan glanced down at the growing commotion in the streets below, but the crowd was so dense, so fluid, that she didn't know where to look. Everywhere, bodies were pressing together, faces tense, arms raised, gestures of uncontrollable panic. The chaos seemed to spread like an unstoppable wave.
Then, suddenly, a strange collective movement took hold of everyone: people began to cover their noses, cough, and gasp for air. The air had become heavy, suffocating, almost impossible to breathe. A pungent odor seemed to float in the air, invisible but palpable, stifling.
"I can't breathe! Help! Help me!" people shouted from all sides, desperate voices rising from every corner of the city, mingling with cries of panic and murmurs of confusion.
Koan felt her own breath shorten, her lungs burning with a vital need for fresh air. Her body instinctively curled up, her hands pressed against her chest. She didn't understand what was happening, and like everyone else, she could only endure this invisible oppression.
And then, just as the confusion and terror reached their peak, an unexpected phenomenon appeared before the eyes of every human being. A blue, floating window appeared before them, perfectly clear and motionless, as if it had come out of nowhere.
On this luminous surface, white letters appeared, clear and unchanging:
[Introductory puzzle: -The Suffocating Tunnels-]