Ethan's eyes snapped open, and everything around him had changed. No cold metal walls, no oppressive corridor lights—only warm sunlight, green grass, and a faint scent of sandalwood in the air.
He froze in place, lowering his gaze, and realized he was standing in a graveyard. The stone path beneath his feet was damp, as if it had just rained. The wind carried a low, mournful melody.
He had returned to the living world.
Ethan could hardly believe his eyes. He looked around and saw familiar figures—former classmates, neighbors, even distant relatives. They all wore black, their expressions solemn, eyes fixed on a grave ahead.
A black coffin lay there, its surface blanketed with white petals.
"…A funeral?" Ethan whispered, his chest tightening.
He stepped forward slowly, wanting to get closer, but his footsteps made no sound. No one noticed him. A child ran past, their body passing straight through his shadow. Ethan's heart sank.
They could not see him.
He stood before the coffin, his gaze falling on the inscription. The carved name made his breath catch.
—Ethan Veil
"This… what kind of joke is this?" he murmured, reaching out to touch the name—but his fingers brushed only cold air.
The mournful music continued, and a few figures approached. He saw his mother's face—a face long faded from memory, now painfully vivid through her tears. Her hands trembled as she laid down a bouquet, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Ethan's throat tightened. He wanted to shout, I'm still alive!, but no sound came. His voice was stuck, suppressed by invisible hands.
Beside her, a stern-looking man stood—his uncle—calmly comforting her:"He passed quietly. At least… he is no longer in pain."
Pain.
They believed he was gone.
And yet here he stood, a ghost forced to observe.
Suddenly, the music stopped abruptly, and silence descended. Ethan felt a chill crawl up his spine. Looking up, the sky was rapidly devoured by dark clouds; wind whipped the branches into frenzied motion.
The faces in the crowd froze, their movements suspended mid-air. The petals in his mother's hands hovered, as if time itself had stopped.
Only Ethan could move.
In that instant, the coffin creaked with a dull click, the lid slowly lifting. Thick black mist poured forth, accompanied by whispers.
—"There is no going back…"—"You belong to us…"—"Follow the shadows…"
Inside the coffin lay not a peaceful corpse, but another "Ethan." Its eyes snapped open, black as an abyss, and its mouth twisted into a shape that defied description.
"Liar." The black Ethan spoke coldly. "You think you can return to the living? Look at them—they are already mourning you. Here, you are nothing but a shadow."
Ethan's throat tightened as he stepped back, fear and rage warring within him. The black mist spread, slowly engulfing the graveyard, as if reality itself was being torn apart by nightmares.
"I'm not dead yet!" Ethan shouted. This time, his voice finally erupted, echoing through the black mist.
But the only response was the cacophony of mocking whispers.
—"Then prove it to us… or your grave has already been prepared."
The world shattered abruptly, breaking like fragments of glass into countless shards of light and shadow. Ethan felt a sharp pain in his chest as he scrambled to his feet, finding himself back in the cold dormitory room of the Bureau.
Sweat drenched his forehead, his breathing ragged, his heart still pounding. Outside, the light remained cold and indifferent, as if nothing had happened.
He reached to his chest. The covenant mark blazed unbearably, as if it could burn him through at any moment.
Had what he just experienced been an invasion of nightmares—or some form of "return to reality"?
The only certainty was this—
The living world had already held a funeral for him.
And in the truest sense, he no longer had a path to turn back.