Darkness
A void without sound, without warmth, without life—only silence so thick it felt like the universe had drowned in ink.
The boy floated, weightless, as if suspended in an endless ocean of nothing. He tried to breathe, but even his own heartbeat felt swallowed by the void.
"...Where am I?" His voice didn't echo. The words were eaten by the dark, devoured before they could exist.
He wasn't sure if he'd actually spoken—or only thought he had.
Then, somewhere distant, a sob. Soft. Fragile.
"Why me…? What did I do to deserve this…?"
The boy's eyes—or whatever counted for them here—narrowed. Someone was crying.
"Who's there?" he asked, but there was no direction, no up or down, no light to follow. Only the sound, and then—
Light.
It split the darkness like a blade.
He gasped as searing brilliance consumed him, blinding, merciless—and before he could raise an arm to shield his eyes, the floor vanished beneath him.
He fell.
Then came air. Pain. Breath.
His eyes shot open as agony tore through his throat. His lungs screamed. His fingers clawed at something rough and tight digging into his neck.
A rope.
"What—what the hell—"
His feet dangled above the ground. The realization struck him like a hammer. He was hanging.
Panic surged through his body. He kicked and thrashed, trying to find something to brace against. His gaze darted wildly—then he saw it: a chair, tipped over just out of reach.
"C'mon—!"
He swung his legs, scraping the air. The rope burned against his neck. His vision flickered with spots of black.
Once. Twice.
Then—his foot hit the edge.
The chair wobbled, steadied. With trembling hands, he reached up, digging his nails into the rough rope and forcing it over his head. It tore at his skin, but he didn't stop until—
Air.
He fell to the floor, coughing so hard his body convulsed. His throat ached like it had been carved open. He clutched at his neck, gasping, vomiting bile and air, trying to remember how to breathe.
Minutes passed. Eventually, the silence returned, but now it carried the echo of his ragged breathing.
When he finally looked up, his vision began to focus.
He was in a room.
A grand, luxurious room—polished marble walls, velvet curtains drawn halfway over tall windows, golden fixtures that gleamed faintly in the dim light. Everything looked far too expensive, too refined to belong to him.
He pressed a shaking hand to his throat, feeling the dark bruise forming beneath his skin.
"Where… am I?" he whispered.
He tried to remember—his office, the smell of coffee, the endless spreadsheets, the faint hum of the city outside. Then… darkness. Nothing else.
And now—this.
Something caught his eye. A mirror.
He froze.
The reflection staring back at him wasn't his.
A young man stood there, pale skin, messy black hair that shimmered faintly blue under the chandelier. His eyes—one deep blue, one pitch black—stared back in shock.
"Who… who is that?"
He stepped closer. The reflection mimicked him perfectly, but the face was that of a stranger.
No—familiar.
He'd seen it before.
Not in life. In fiction.
It hit him like lightning.
That face belonged to a name he'd read, not lived.
"Hiroki," he whispered. "Hiroki Kanzaki."
The name left his lips in disbelief. He stumbled back, gripping the bedpost for balance.
"This… this room. That rope. This is his room."
The story flooded back to him—The Strongest Hunter. The tragic beginning. The neglected son of a wealthy family who ended his life before the real tale began.
And now, somehow, he was inside that body.
"I became Hiroki Kanzaki."
The words felt wrong, heavy. Yet the longer he stood there, the more the truth pressed down on him.
Hiroki Kanzaki—the spoiled son of a powerful family. Hated by his father, ignored by his mother. Overshadowed by his adopted brother, Eren—the golden child destined to awaken incredible powers and become the story's hero.
While Hiroki… was a footnote. A forgotten name in the prologue.
His gaze dropped to his trembling hands.
"So that voice I heard in the void…" he murmured. "That was him. The real Hiroki."
A faint breeze from the open window stirred the air, swaying the cut rope above. Its shadow stretched long across the carpet like a ghostly noose.
"He couldn't take it anymore," he whispered. "And that's when I…"
He stopped himself, exhaling shakily. A humorless chuckle escaped his lips.
"Unbelievable. I survive corporate burnout just to wake up in a suicide scene."
He slid down the wall, pressing his palms to his face.
"And this guy's life? Even worse than mine."
Time passed in silence. Slowly, his breathing steadied.
He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his aching throat. The room felt too large, too quiet. The tick of a golden clock echoed faintly through the still air.
"Okay," he muttered to himself. "Breathe… just breathe."
He pinched his arm. Hard.
Pain.
"Not a dream then," he sighed. "Great."
He flopped backward onto the soft sheets, staring at the chandelier.
"If I was going to be isekai'd… why here? Why the guy who dies in chapter three?"
He groaned into a pillow.
"Of all the unlucky roles… I couldn't even get reincarnated as a hero or a villain. No, I had to land the tragic extra slot."
He sat up, running a hand through his messy hair.
"Alright, recap. Name: Hiroki Kanzaki. Background: spoiled rich kid, unloved, arrogant, ignored. Personality: textbook brat. Fate: dead by chapter three. Cause of death? Emotional damage."
He rubbed his temples, exhaling. "Motherfu—nope. Calm. Stay calm."
Fragments of memory trickled into his mind. Cold dinners. Disapproving glances. His father's voice praising Eren. The same praise Hiroki never earned.
It was like watching a life unlived yet familiar.
"So this is the world of The Strongest Hunter," he whispered.
He remembered the lore—creatures called Titans, monsters hiding among humans. The secret organization of Hunters that fought them. And at the center of it all—Eren Kanzaki, the destined hero.
"Eren's supposed to awaken his powers in… what, chapter five?" he muttered. "That means I've got six days before that happens."
He sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. "Six days to not die. Sounds simple enough."
He checked the clock again. Noon.
"Hiroki skipped school. Good. At least I don't have to deal with teenage melodrama today."
He wandered into the bathroom. The mirror reflected the unfamiliar face again—sharp, handsome, but hollow.
He turned the faucet and splashed cold water over his skin.
"Hiroki hated Eren," he whispered. "Because Eren stole everything from him. Their parents' love. Their friends. Even his girlfriend. But Eren didn't do it out of malice… he just existed."
The thought stung, somehow.
"If I were him, maybe I'd hate Eren too."
He stared into the mirror one last time, then smiled faintly.
"Step one: survive. Step two: avoid the protagonist like he's final boss material. Step three: become the most invisible background character in anime history."
He grinned. "Time to become background furniture."
His stomach growled. "...After lunch."
The kitchen was vast and spotless. Every surface gleamed. The fridge looked like it belonged in a restaurant rather than a home. He opened it to find rows of neatly labeled ingredients, but no sign of instant noodles.
"A billionaire's fridge and not a single ramen pack. Criminal."
He made a sandwich and sat by the counter as sunlight spilled through the tall windows.
"Alright, Hiroki Kanzaki," he said quietly. "You may have been a tragic extra… but from now on—"
He raised his sandwich in a mock toast toward his reflection in the toaster.
"I'm the extra who's gonna live long enough to see the credits roll."
For the first time in that empty mansion, laughter echoed softly through the halls.
By evening, the sky burned orange. Hiroki lay sprawled on his bed, flipping through TV channels while snacking on chips.
"This world even has cable," he sighed. "But not a single anime channel? What kind of knockoff reality is this?"
He stopped on a soap opera. "I loved you, Gabriella! But you loved my sister!" screamed a man on screen.
"Wow," Hiroki muttered. "Cheating drama exists here too. Some tropes are immortal."
He laughed, but it faded quickly. The room around him was too quiet, too perfect. Every luxury item screamed wealth, yet everything felt empty.
"So this is what it means to have everything except happiness," he murmured.
Then—
Knock. Knock.
The sound made his heart jolt.
"Who the hell—"
A voice came from beyond the door. Gentle. Hesitant.
"Um… Hiroki?"
That voice. Calm, careful—too familiar.
Eren Kanzaki.
His stepbrother. The protagonist.
His body stiffened. A flicker of anger twisted in his chest, not his own—but Hiroki's lingering resentment, deep and raw.
"So that's what hate feels like," he thought bitterly. "Can't even hear his voice without feeling it."
He steadied his breathing. "Calm down. Blend in. Be Hiroki. Don't make waves."
"Who is it?" he asked aloud.
There was a pause. Then—
"It's me," came the reply. "Eren. I just wanted to say… dinner's ready."
Hiroki blinked. His mind went blank.
Say something, idiot!
He forced the words out, his voice awkward and unsteady. "I—I'm not hungry! Just leave me alone!"
Silence.
Even the TV seemed to stop.
Then came Eren's quiet response, hesitant. "Okay… I'll leave your food here if you want it, Hiroki."
The sound of footsteps retreated down the hall.
Hiroki collapsed back against the bed, groaning into his pillow. "Smooth. Real smooth. I sound like a socially awkward villain."
He stared at the ceiling, the faint ache of someone else's sorrow still lingering in his chest.
"Just hearing his voice made my heart twist," he whispered.
The moonlight spilled across his face as he turned toward the window. The mansion glowed silver beneath the calm of night.
"Eren… you really aren't a bad guy, are you?"
His voice was soft, almost regretful.
As his eyes drifted closed, the faint sadness of the boy who once lived in that body seemed to linger in the quiet room—like a ghost unwilling to let go.