Groaning under the weight of the flames, the wooden house trembled, its walls devoured hungrily by the fire inside. The air was thick, heavy with choking smoke and unbearable heat — just one breath too long, and it felt like you'd collapse, swallowed whole by the burning inferno. The windows cracked loudly, splintering like bones breaking, while the flames crawled up the walls like living claws, relentless and hungry.
A small voice broke through the chaos, pale and hollow, like they were reciting lines from a script they didn't understand:
"Mama? Papa? Let's go... The house is on fire. We have to move."
It was the voice of a child, but there was no fear, no urgency — just a strange emptiness, as if the words were spoken from somewhere far away, detached.
In the kitchen, where pots and pans were melting into puddles of metal, two bodies lay motionless on the scorched floor. Their faces, twisted and melted by the fire, were unrecognizable, blank masks of suffering and silence. And yet, the child's voice kept repeating, untouched by the horror around:
"Mama? Papa? Wake up... We have to move. The house is on fire."
No tears. No panic. Just a quiet, chilling echo bouncing through the burning wreck.
"Aaaaa!!!" Ken jolted awake, his chest heaving, eyes wide and wild in the dark. Sweat drenched his thin frame, sticky and cold against his skin. His trembling hands ran through his tangled black hair, trying to chase away the nightmare's grip. His breath came sharp and uneven, like he was drowning without water. Ken looked around his dark room, the table, the chair, the mirror.
"I can't take this anymore," he whispered, voice cracking with pain.
For nights on end, the same nightmare had haunted him—relentless, cruel, dragging him back into that burning house, the lifeless bodies, the emptiness in that little voice. Each time, it felt like the fire wasn't just in his dream... but inside his chest, ready to consume him whole. Frustration twisted in his gut. How many more nights could he survive this?
The next morning, the sun blazed bright and clear. Birds soared across a flawless blue sky, and the air held a cool, perfect calm—like nothing in the world could go wrong today.
Inside Akiwara High, in Class A, a few students slowly circled Ken, who was slumped over his desk, still exhausted from the restless night. His messy black hair fell over his pale face, eyes barely open. The group's intentions didn't look good—smirks and whispers filled the quiet classroom.
One boy let out a quiet giggle, nudging his friend. "Hey, look at that loser Ken. I'm gonna sneak this bug under his shirt and watch him freak out."
"Try it," a sharp voice cut through the murmurs, freezing everyone mid-step.
Ken's eyes snapped open. It was Sarah—everyone knew her—the school's golden girl. Her green eyes sparkled with icy authority, framed by long, silky blond hair that shimmered under the classroom lights. She stood tall, her voice sharp like a whip.
The would-be pranksters froze, faces draining of color. No one dared mess with Sarah, the daughter of the school owner. Her presence was a silent warning: cross her, and things would get ugly fast.
The students slowly drifted away, muttering under their breath. One muttered in frustration, "Why does she care about that freak so much? Does he even matter?"
Sarah didn't answer. Instead, she walked over to Ken, who was still half-dazed, blinking rapidly as he tried to piece together what had just happened.
Her voice softened, careful and gentle. "Are you okay? Did you sleep well last night?"
Ken's heart slammed against his ribs like a trapped bird. Every time Sarah came near, his shyness crushed him like a weight. His words stumbled out, barely audible, trembling with nerves. "Y–y—yes, I–I'm okay."
Inside, he felt like his head was spinning, like if she stayed one second longer, he might just pass out right there from the overwhelming pressure.
The bell rang and the teacher entered, instantly quieting the room. Everyone took their seats while Sarah moved to her usual spot in Class A1.
"Alright, today we're starting a new chapter. Take out page 50—The History of the 19th Century and Its Development," the teacher announced.
Ken flipped the pages but suddenly felt a cold chill. Through the window, he spotted something strange—a shadowy figure with long limbs and a blank, featureless face.
His face went pale. He wanted to scream but couldn't. His body froze, eyes fixed on the figure.
"Ken? Ken?" the teacher called, snapping him back.
"Are you okay?" the teacher asked.
"Y-yes, sir," Ken stammered.
Before Ken could relax, a student sneered, "Tired already, Ken? Didn't eat? Or maybe you don't have money?"
Laughter erupted.
The teacher slammed his desk. "Silence! That's enough."
The room fell quiet, but the words stung.
The whole day passed wrapped in fear and unease. As the last bell rang, Ken stepped outside, walking alone down the quiet street. Shades of orange painted the evening sky, and a gentle breeze brushed past him. Lost in his thoughts about life and his problems, he barely noticed until a soft voice called out,
"Hey, Ken!"
He looked up and saw Sarah walking beside him. She smiled gently and said, "Hey, let's go home together."
Ken's voice trembled slightly as he replied, "O–ok."
They walked side by side, the air heavy and quiet between them. Breaking the silence, Sarah glanced at Ken with a curious look.
"Hey, do you believe in curses?"
Ken answered softly, careful with his words.
"No, I don't believe in that kind of stuff."
Sarah's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"People say curses are born from the darkest parts of humans. They sneak into your life, weaken you bit by bit, until all that's left is suffering... and death."
Ken's mind raced. The word curse echoed loudly, mixing with the shadowy figure he'd seen and the nightmare that haunted him every night. Suddenly, he looked up at Sarah, a spark of hope flashing in his eyes.
Ken gripped her hand tightly, trembling with fear and excitement, he whispered,
"Thank you, Sarah. Thank you so much!"
Before she could react, Ken bolted toward his home, leaving Sarah standing there, puzzled and unsure of what had just happened.
The scene shifted to Ken's small apartment, quiet and still. In his room, a dusty red book lay open on the floor before a worn bookshelf. Years ago, his grandmother had given it to him—tales about curses—before she passed away. The room was bright, everything seemingly normal.
At first, Ken had brushed it off as just his grandmother's old superstition.
But now, he sat cross-legged and began to read.
[Curses are born from the deepest desires people can't fulfill—born from the dark side of human nature. They found the first curse in Africa, in the story of a novelist whose books never sold. He was mocked and rejected, he kept failing, yet his burning desire to be a great writer never died. Then one day, he wrote a masterpiece that became famous—but unfortunately the curse took hold and had already manifested. Months later, he stopped eating, stopped moving, obsessed with writing until he died, for a reason that no one knows.]
As Ken tried to grasp the meaning, connecting it to his own nightmare and the shadowy figure, the lights flickered violently. Then, darkness swallowed the room.
A heavy numbness crept over Ken's body—no fear, no panic—just crushing pressure, like tons of weight pressing down, suffocating him.
His body screamed run but he couldn't move an inch, sweat poured down his face as the temperature rose sharply, the air grew thick and hard to breathe.
Behind him, a dark shadowy humanoid figure appeared—tall,
with elongated limbs and a face wiped clean of features.
The creature slowly lifted its right hand.