The world held together by silence is always the first to break.
Khương Triều Dạ woke at 3:33 AM.
No alarm. No sound. Just a cold sweat on his neck and the distinct taste of iron on his tongue. He sat upright in the dark, eyes wide, hands trembling—though he didn't know why.
His body remembered something his mind did not.
The room was the same. Cracked ceiling, blinking red from the smoke detector. Fan spinning slow like a broken clock hand. The lamp on the desk glowed faintly, flickering once.
Then again.
Then died.
He turned his head.
And saw someone sitting at the edge of his bed.
---
Segment I: The Pale Twin
It looked like him.
Same face. Same eyes. Same hair. But skin pale, waxen—like paper soaked in water. The twin stared at him, unmoving, and spoke in a voice as dry as static:
"You left the door open."
Khương Triều Dạ couldn't respond. His throat felt sewn shut.
The figure leaned closer.
"They walked in."
And then—it disappeared.
Not in a flash. Not in a puff.
It simply folded out of existence.
He blinked. The room was empty.
The bed was undisturbed.
But something whispered at the back of his skull:
> Remember this shape.
---
Segment II: The Stairwell of Names
Later that day, Khương Triều Dạ found himself wandering.
He had no memory of leaving the office. His hands were still ink-smudged from his ledger. But the sun was already setting, and his shoes echoed against old tile floors.
The stairwell was unfamiliar. Rust on the railings. Fluorescent lights humming like a throat full of bees.
He descended one floor. Then another.
Then another.
On the fifth floor down, he saw names etched onto the walls—thousands of them. Written in charcoal, pencil, blood. Some crossed out. Some fading. Some recent.
He found his name.
Three times.
One crossed out. One smudged. One fresh.
He touched the newest one.
The wall pulsed beneath his fingertips.
> Khương Triều Dạ. Error: Host Identified. Soul Fragment Detected.
A voice whispered from the stairwell:
"You are not alone in here."
---
Segment III: The Woman in Reverse
Back in the real world—if this still qualified—he entered a café to escape the creeping cold.
Soft jazz. Coffee. Normal people. Breathing. Laughing.
He sat by the window, ordered black coffee. His hands stopped shaking. For a moment, he pretended to be ordinary.
Then he saw her.
A woman across the room, dressed in black. Pale. Hair tied back. But her eyes blinked in reverse—closing from the bottom up. She was facing the counter, but her reflection in the café's glass faced him.
She smiled.
Her reflection moved when she did not.
Khương Triều Dạ stood and left without finishing his drink.
---
Segment IV: Memory That Wasn't His
That night, he dreamed.
No. Not dreamed.
He remembered.
He stood on a shore of black sand. Waves rolled in, hissing with blood. Above him, the sky was full of empty eye sockets. Stars that watched.
A child stood next to him. Clothed in shadow. Its face blurred, but its voice unmistakable.
"We were one once. Now we are fragments."
Khương Triều Dạ fell to his knees. The sand split open beneath him.
Inside—bones. Dozens of skeletons twisted together like vines.
One of them looked up at him and said:
"You're wearing my name."
---
Segment V: The Sound Beneath the Floor
Back in his apartment, silence reigned.
He sat at the desk, staring at a blank page. Trying to draw. Trying to write. Trying to anchor himself to anything.
Then he heard it.
Scratching.
Beneath the floorboards.
Not rats. Not pipes.
Scratching in a rhythm.
Like fingers tapping in code:
tap–tap–tap tap... tap–tap.
He pressed his ear to the ground.
It whispered:
"One soul. Three cages. Six locks."
---
Segment VI: The Mirror Watches
Before bed, he dared look again in the mirror.
He stared.
Waited.
Behind him, something stirred.
But it was his own reflection that spoke:
"Do you remember which version of you survived?"
Khương Triều Dạ touched the glass.
It was warm.
It pulsed.
And his reflection smiled—half a second late.