Izochi's fingertips grazed the coarse texture of his trousers. Bandages, he noted, the thought drifting into the empty air beside him. "
"I need those first."
The bell above the shop door chimed a sharp 'ding-ding' as he crossed the threshold. To a stranger, it was a mundane sound, but to Izochi—a regular patron—it rang with a hollow, distorted metallic thud that vibrated in his skull. He pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to steady the world.
"I can't even hear right,"
He muttered, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears.
"Let's hope my brain isn't as fractured as my hearing."
"Good morning. Can I help you find something?"
The shopkeeper asked.
"A trench coat,"
Izochi replied, his gaze already drifting across the racks.
"Actually, make it two. One Navy, one Charcoal Black."
The shopkeeper moved with practiced efficiency, folding the heavy wool into brown paper parcels. Izochi stared at the packages for a long heartbeat before sliding one back across the counter.
"Forgive me, I can't take both right now. Keep the black one here? I'll collect it when I return."
Stepping back outside, the Navy coat felt like a shroud of lead on his shoulders. As he pulled it on, a sickening, absolute silence swallowed his senses. He tried to move toward his destination, but his legs felt like distant anchors, severed from his will. A surge of frustration flared within him.
"Damn it,"
He hissed.
"I should have gone to a doctor."
He glanced back at the shop, now a distant silhouette several blocks away. The path forward was the only one left.
He adjusted his collar, the stiff fabric masking the raw, weeping marks on his neck. If I can't feel the pain, it can't stop me, he lied to himself. The flicker of confusion on his face hardened into a mask of cold indifference.
"Oi, Izochi!"
Marco was lounging against a wall, a broad, effortless grin plastered across his face—a jarring contrast to the grim tension of their last meeting. Izochi managed nothing more than a tight, obligatory twitch of the lips.
"Congratulations on becoming my assistant, you little maniac."
"You mean you were assigned to watch me—and put me down if I snap,"
Izochi countered.
Marco let out a sharp laugh, clapping a heavy hand onto Izochi's left shoulder. Izochi watched the hand land, saw the fabric of the coat compress under the weight, but the sensation reached his mind like a muffled echo from another room.
"You're my junior now, don't sweat it. Oh, right—forgot you're still a bit numb."
"It's fine. The feeling is coming back,"
Izochi lied.
"First official day deserves a treat. Come on."
Izochi fell into step beside Marco, but with every stride, the pavement beneath his feet seemed to liquefy. The vibrant colors of the street began to bleed into one another, swirling into a gray, featureless fog. His movements became rhythmic and hollow, a puppet guided by unseen strings.
The world around him didn't just fade; it was replaced. Sharp, jagged fragments of a place that didn't belong to Forth Land began to pierce through the veil of his vision. He was no longer walking toward a restaurant; he was drifting into a nightmare that wasn't his own.
Miles away, in a house that reeked of copper and decaying wood, a middle-aged woman collapsed against a blood-streaked wall. Her eyes were wide, paralyzed by a shadow that seemed to feast on the very light in the room. Her legs lay at impossible angles, shattered and useless after weeks of torment.
"Why... my family?" she wheezed, her voice the ragged rasp of a soul that had witnessed too much slaughter. "What did we do?"
"You became a threat," a voice replied—flat, heavy, and devoid of human rhythm.
A hand tangled into her matted hair, wrenching her head back. The once-elegant windows of the villa were now opaque, lacquered in a thick, dark crimson spray that reduced the outside world to a scarlet blur.
A sudden, violent jolt tore through Izochi's chest. A scream, phantom-like and impossibly distant, vibrated in his very marrow. He stared blankly out the restaurant window.
High above Forth Land, a single, heavy drop of water plummeted from the grey expanse. Then another. A biting southern wind swept through the narrow streets, carrying the metallic scent of wet dust. After three years of agonizing drought, the sky finally broke.
Izochi remained motionless. He watched the rain begin to wash the grime from the pavement, his consciousness slipping away from the clatter of the restaurant.
"Izochi."
Marco's voice snapped the tether. The world rushed back in a blur—the aroma of roasted beans, the artificial warmth of the room. Subconsciously, Izochi reached for his coffee and took a deep, desperate swallow.
"Ah!"
He hissed, the scalded skin on his tongue finally firing a sharp, undeniable signal of pain to his brain. He looked around for water, but the table was a desert.
Marco was observing him, chin resting in his palm.
"Where did you just go?"
Izochi tilted his head slightly. The deep, angry scratches that had carved his skin only hours ago were gone, replaced by smooth, unblemished flesh.
"What do you mean?"
"You were staring into the void, then you tried to drink boiling lava. Didn't you hear me call you?"
"No."
Izochi looked down at the dark, swirling depths of his coffee.
"My mistake."
"Well, at least it's finally raining,"
Marco joked, nodding toward the glass.
"The clouds must have been hoarding that for a lifetime."
Izochi offered a faint, ghostly smile.
"I wonder when it'll stop."
"Who cares? Until then,"
Marco slid a menu toward him,
"what's your poison?"
"Baklava,"
Izochi said.