Chapter 1 – Curtain CallPart I: The Final Performance
The fluorescent lights hummed above him like tired angels.
Tanaka Ishika lay on the operating table, pale under the sterile glow. The oxygen mask fogged with every uneven breath. Machines pulsed rhythmically — heartbeat, blood pressure, life measured in numbers.
"Mr. Tanaka," the surgeon's voice said through the haze, "are you still with us?"
"Define 'with,' doc," Ishika mumbled through the mask. His voice came out slurred but sharp enough to cut through the quiet. "Spiritually? Emotionally? Because mentally, I checked out when you shaved half my head."
A nurse stifled a laugh. The surgeon sighed.
Even with the IV taped to his arm and the tumor pressing against his brain, Ishika wore that same crooked grin — the one people mistook for confidence. It wasn't. It was armor.
He looked young — early twenties, too beautiful for the room he was dying in. Smooth skin, delicate jawline, long lashes that had earned him compliments even from men. He'd always said he was "the kind of pretty that confused people," and maybe that was true. His nails were still painted — chipped lavender, his favorite color.
The nurse adjusted his mask. "You'll do fine, sweetheart. Just breathe."
"Oh, trust me," Ishika said. "I'm a professional breather. Been doing it for years."
Another small laugh. He loved that sound. Even here, at the end of his script, he could still get an audience reaction.
He closed his eyes. The smell of antiseptic stung his nose. Beneath the banter, the fear stirred — an old, quiet beast. What if this is it?
His fingers twitched. He imagined the hundreds of anime posters back in his apartment — Naruto among them, smiling like a fool. "Man," he whispered, "if I die, I'm haunting Studio Pierrot."
The surgeon's voice blurred into static. "Administering anesthesia. Count back from ten, Mr. Tanaka."
"Ten," he said softly."Nine.""Eight."He felt the cold river of drugs rushing through his veins."Seven."
He thought of a stage — crimson curtains, empty seats, the hush before a play begins."Six."
A smile tugged at his lips. "Guess this is the final performance."
"Five."
He wanted to say something dramatic, something clever — but his tongue wouldn't move.
"Four."
The lights flickered.
"Three."
The sound of the heart monitor flatlined, long and unbroken.
"Two—"
Darkness folded him in.
When he opened his eyes, the world had forgotten color.
Everything was white — endless, depthless, featureless—the sound of the machines, the breathing, the people — gone.
He sat up slowly. His hospital gown was gone; he wore something looser, simple — like a silk robe that shimmered faintly. His hands trembled. They looked… translucent.
"Okay," he said aloud, voice echoing in the blank. "Either I died… or the afterlife has a minimalist budget."
Nothing answered. The silence pressed against his ears like cotton.
He took a few steps. The ground — if there was ground — rippled faintly beneath his feet. It was like walking on glass over water.
"Helloooo?" he called, dragging the last syllable with mock cheer. "If this is limbo, I'd like to file a complaint. You forgot the dramatic lighting."
Something laughed.
Not a voice — more like a sound vibrating through reality itself.
And just like that, the white began to bleed into color. A faint, rippling gold.
[To be Continued]