20 / 02 / 2019, 11:24 - Wednesday, Osaka, Sakai City.
The air was crisp and dry, the slight chill of early spring brushing against exposed skin. Clouds floated lazily across the sun, painting patches of warmth on the streets below.
In a quiet hospital room, the world was smaller, contained, almost timeless.
The windows were half-open, the gentle wind teasing the curtains.
It brushed against the sleeping boy's face, lifting strands of his dark hair, painting soft shadows across pale cheeks.
Sunlight seeped in, striking delicate highlights in the curve of his lashes and the slope of his nose.
He slept as though he had been in that state for an eternity, yet his body remained cared for, nourished, and maintained.
Infusions ran into his arms, steady and silent, while a monitor tracked the pulse and heart rate, each beat measured, calm, with the faintest tinge of sadness.
And then, a subtle shift.
One pulse.
Two pulses.
The monitor's rhythm quivered, a tremor in the stillness.
His eyelids fluttered, not fully conscious, yet the stirrings of life hinted beneath the surface.
Somewhere below, in the hospital's reception, nurses noticed the changes. Routine checks turned urgent. Calls were made to the attending doctor, messages sent to the family, the boy's vitals were rising, showing signs of awakening.
Back in the room, quiet returned, almost ceremonious.
The steady heartbeat now began to normalize, rising from a lethargic rhythm to something resembling life.
The boy stirred, grey eyes heavy, soul and body slowly aligning after the vastness he had traversed.
He lifted his head with measured caution, absorbing the unfamiliar environment.
A hospital room bathed in sunlight smells faintly sweet from cleaning and care. The wind still moved the curtains, brushing his hair and cheeks.
His gaze found the window.
Outside, the city stretched in peaceful disorder, bright, distant, yet irrelevant. He felt calm, detached; his emotions felt like distant echoes.
Carefully, he propped himself up, hand against the side, pushing his upper body forward.
Each movement is deliberate, slow, a hint that he is still weak.
As he stood fully, his gaze remained fixed on the window, eyes closing briefly, relishing the rare calmness, the fragile peace.
He could feel the weight of what he had endured: apocalypses survived, death witnessed, the shedding of old selves, games played with his own mind.
Weakness, despair, futility, he had felt it all.
And yet, now, a moment of stillness. Serpent's recognition lingered in memory, a subtle reassurance to soothe his soul and mind.
He breathed in the wind, letting it brush over him. For once, he allowed himself to rest, knowing that peace was something to claim, not wait for.
But even in stillness, awareness returned. From the far edge of his mind, from the Maroon Door, a distant pulse stirred. Red, malignant, and endless, rising like a tide: malice, despair, something alien.
But he felt it, controlled it, and at the very last, he could achieve a balance, coexistence with it.
It was his shadow, his other side, restrained but acknowledged.
His eyes opened fully. Perception sharpened. Something moved near the doorway. A doctor.
A nurse. A stranger, a woman, unfamiliar yet not threatening. The boy turned his head slowly, as if he had anticipated this arrival.
The doctor entered, age evident in the faint lines on his face, experience in the measured, calm way he approached the bed.
The nurse followed, attentive, professional.
The woman lingered behind, observing.
"Good morning, Akane," the doctor said softly, checking the monitor. "How are you feeling today?"
Akane's eyes regarded him evenly, expression neutral, voice measured and flat.
"…not bad."
The doctor nodded, slightly surprised at the clarity yet unsettled by the emotionless delivery.
He moved closer, checking the infusions, palpating pulses, listening to breath.
"All vitals are stable," he murmured, more to himself than the boy. "…and the neurological responses… consistent. Fascinating."
His eyes flickered, noting the blank yet aware stare.
"Unusually detached," the doctor thought. "Flat affect… no response to external stimuli. But controlled. Cognition seems intact. He notices the surroundings, observing… yet there is no emotional engagement in it."
He scribbled in his notes, glancing back at the monitors.
"The body is adapting well. No malnourishment, no physical degeneration. Yet… something is different here. The mind has evolved beyond the normal response patterns. Perhaps trauma… or… more."
Akane remained still, observing the room with quiet detachment. The sunlight on his face, the shifting shadows, the gentle rustle of curtains, he absorbed all, yet responded minimally.
His grey eyes, deep pools, reflected the sterile light, distant yet aware.
The doctor adjusted the infusion, nodded to the nurse, then crouched slightly to meet Akane's gaze.
"Your body is recovering faster than expected," he said. "It's unusual… but I can see that you're aware, even if you seem… distant. Can you tell me where it hurts? Any discomfort?"
Akane thought for a moment and maybe seriously checked his body, but felt no signs of anything. Then, he shook his head, though still distant.
"…none for a moment."
The doctor's brow furrowed slightly, the observations piling in his mind.
He had seen patients awaken after long comas, after trauma, but never like this.
Detached, yet perceptive. Blank, yet aware. A mind that had survived a storm.
"What happens to this kid that he becomes like this?"
"I must ask the family about it, for a kid at his age to be like this," the doctor thought inwardly.
And as he studied the boy, he realized: this was no ordinary recovery. Something profound had occurred.
Akane, meanwhile, allowed himself to simply be. The wind, the sunlight, the faint sweet smell of the room, the small, fragile elements of life.
He will enjoy this moment, savoring the silence, before the next storm of thought, the next path he would tread, would inevitably, returned to claim him.