Date: UC 1923, Early Spring
Location: Eastern Pacific Islands, Abandoned Forward Outpost
Report Classification: Restricted — Psychological Observation Log
Time no longer made sense.
The days blurred into each other, marked only by the rising and setting of a pale, cloud-covered sun. Itsumi lived in silence—true silence—the kind that seeps into your bones and makes you forget the sound of your own voice. He had stopped counting the days. Or maybe he never started.
The bunker had become his world.
Dark, damp, and lifeless, it was more than shelter—it was his prison and his coffin. The air reeked of sweat, metal, and rot. Outside, the jungle grew back slowly around the bodies. Crows gathered. Flies ruled. The stench was unbearable, but he had grown used to it.
Or maybe he hadn't. Maybe he just stopped noticing.
He would sit in the corner of the bunker, staring at the walls for hours, sometimes days. When hunger struck, he'd force himself to walk over the corpses, looting the packs of the men he had killed. Their rations became his meals. Their soap became his only comfort. He'd wander into the jungle and wash in the river, scrubbing off dirt and dried blood—trying to feel human, just for a moment.
At night, he lay on the cold floor, curled up, eyes wide open. He couldn't sleep. Not really. He'd just close his eyes and drift in and out of memories.
He thought of his mother's warm hands.His sister's laugh.His brother's proud voice before leaving for war.Then, he thought of their deaths.Of the moment he was taken from them.
And he remembered before all of it.Back when he was just Itsumi Susuki, a quiet boy in a school uniform.A boy bullied until he cracked.Ignored until he vanished.
Even his parents had turned away from him in that life.
But here…Here, he had no one to turn away from him.Because there was no one left.
His mind wandered endlessly. Sometimes he wondered why he was still alive when everyone else had died. His comrades—the boys from the 290th Company—were all gone. Their voices, once loud and hopeful, had vanished like smoke.
Why was he the only one left?
Was he lucky?Was he cursed?
He didn't cry anymore. Not because he didn't want to—but because the tears wouldn't come. It was as if something inside him had broken, rusted shut. What replaced sorrow was silence. Heavy and suffocating.
Every day, he woke up, ate stolen food, bathed in enemy soap, defecated in the forest, and sat in the darkness of the bunker. The routine became his reality. The bunker became a reflection of his mind: cold, hollow, and falling apart.
He was a child.But no longer.Now, he was just a shadow that breathed.