Ken's legs barely worked anymore.
Every step felt heavier than the last. His body ached. His stomach had long since stopped growling — now it just hurt.
He wandered the quiet outer district of the capital, a part of the city that looked too peaceful for someone like him. Stone homes lined the street, each with little gardens, trimmed trees, clean fences. Birds chirped, wind blew softly through open windows.
And he was falling apart.
Then, ahead, he saw someone — a man closing his garden gate, keys jingling in his hand.
Ken didn't think. He just moved.
"Excuse me!" he called, breathless.
The man turned. He was older, maybe in his forties, with short hair, rolled-up sleeves, and a tired but kind face.
Ken stood there panting, trying not to look like he was about to collapse.
"I know this is sudden," he said quickly, "but… I don't have anywhere to stay. I'm not asking for money. Just a few days. I'll do chores — clean, cook, wash dishes, whatever you need. I just… need a place to stay."
The man looked at him for a long moment, expression unreadable.
Then he nodded.
"You look like hell," he said. "Come on in."
Ken nearly broke down from relief.
"Thank you," he whispered.
The house was small but warm. Wood floors, stone walls, a quiet fireplace burning low. It smelled like stew and herbs. Peaceful.
Ken sat awkwardly at the table as the man brought him a plate of hot food. Stew. Bread. Something roasted.
"Eat," the man said, setting it down. "I'm Vando."
Ken grabbed the spoon like it was the last thing keeping him alive.
"Ken," he said, mouth already full. "Ken Arai."
"You from around here?" Vando asked, sitting across from him.
Ken hesitated. He knew how to lie by now.
"Yeah. I live in the city."
"You don't look like you do."
"I've been… going through stuff."
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
Vando nodded, not pushing. Just watching.
"Rough time for anyone," he said. "You can stay in the guest room. Help out around the house. That work for you?"
"Yes. Seriously, thank you. I'll do anything."
After the meal, Ken saw the sink full of dishes and got up.
"I'll wash these."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I owe you."
He got to work, scrubbing awkwardly with cold water and dull soap. He broke a plate, muttered a few curses under his breath, and dropped the sponge more times than he wanted to admit.
Vando walked by and smirked.
"First time washing dishes?"
"Obviously," Ken grumbled.
They both laughed.
That night, Ken laid on a creaky wooden bed under a thick blanket in the guest room. He stared at the ceiling for a long time, afraid that if he closed his eyes, the bed would vanish.
But when morning came, the sunlight still shone through the window. The room was still there.
He was still there.
And for the first time in forever, he didn't wake up dead.
Two days passed.
Ken ate. Cleaned. Struggled with chores. Vando didn't say much, but he was patient. They spoke over meals — nothing deep. Just little things.
Ken didn't share the truth about the curse. He didn't mention how many times he'd died. He didn't talk about waking up in deserts, snowfields, prisons. He just… let himself pretend.
Pretend that this was real.
That he was safe.
That he had a home.
On the third night, Ken was almost happy. The house was quiet. The dishes were done. His belly was full. Vando had even offered to take him to the market the next day.
Ken lay down in bed, smiling to himself for the first time in what felt like years.
Maybe this time… it'll last.
He closed his eyes.
He opened them.
Stone floor.
Cold.
Damp.
Dark.
Bars.
Ken blinked.
Then sat up in horror.
The walls were back. The cell was back.
"No… no, no, no."
His voice was thin and cracking.
"W-why…?"
He looked around. Same walls. Same silence.
He stood up fast and stumbled back, hitting the wall with both fists.
"NO!"
"WHY AM I BACK HERE?!"
He sank to the floor, gasping.
"W-what is this…?"
His hand trembled as he clutched his hair.
Then, in a voice no louder than a whisper, broken and bitter:
"W-what… I'm in hell again?"
The echo of his words disappeared into the silence.
And once more…
No one came.