We were walking home. The sky, once painted in the orange hues of dusk, had surrendered completely to night. The shadows were thicker than usual, as if the world had forgotten to breathe.

  "Can we talk when we get home?" I asked without turning my head.

  "Mmm? Okay."

  "Good..."

  Tension hung between us—silent but tangible, like a taut rope barely maintaining balance.

  Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing we couldn't resolve.

  Or so I believed.

  Suddenly, reality gave way. As if someone had flipped a switch in my mind. Everything turned black.

  Absolute darkness.

  This wasn't the darkness you see when closing your eyes. This had weight, density. The ground beneath my feet was damp but not cold—like walking on bottomless, stagnant water.

  "Seems you're doing fine," a voice said.

  I recognized it instantly. It was far too familiar—not because I heard it often, but because it was mine.

  "Hyung-Seok? Me?"

  "Wow. Eight years, and you've already forgotten your old face. Some things never change, huh?"

  The figure before me condensed from gray mist. It bore the appearance I once had... back when I still went by that name.

  "What the hell...?"

  "Don't panic. I'm just consciousness. A part of you that chose to stay behind. A buried voice. Though I admit, it's strange seeing you smile out there, pretending everything's fine."

  "What do you want?"

  "Want? Nothing really. I'm just... here. Resurfacing, I suppose. Maybe because you're finally shedding me. You've noticed certain urges fading, haven't you? All those... morbid tendencies."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Oh, don't play dumb. You know exactly what I mean."

  It was true. As much as I hated to admit it, something had changed in me. That dark, festering, insidious part... had begun to fade.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "Where am I?"

  "Like I said. Your consciousness. Or something like it. Technically, this shouldn't be happening. But here we are. I'm what you left behind. A version of yourself you chose to bury."

  I studied him closer.

  Blond hair. Green eyes. A past self I'd rather forget—not for how it looked, but for what it represented.

  "You disgust yourself, don't you?"

  I didn't answer.

  "I get it. No judgment. You knew what you were. And yet you walked that path. Who knows? Maybe I'm your punishment."

  "Let me go."

  "What? I can't. Not yet. It's not up to me. You have to."

  He pointed upward. Instinctively, I looked.

  And then I heard it.

  Isolde's voice, crying. Muffled by distance, as if separated by an invisible wall.

  She sobbed. No one comforted her. No adult came to help.

  Why was she crying? What was happening out there?

  I didn't know.

  But if she was crying, something was wrong. Very wrong.

  And I... I was trapped here. With myself.

  "How long will I be stuck here? I need to get out," I said, urgency barely contained beneath a thin veneer of control.

  "Why? To comfort her?" His voice dripped with mockery, each word a velvet-wrapped dagger. "From what I recall, you never showed an ounce of remorse before. And now look at you—falling apart over a crying child. You've gone soft."

  "You don't understand. She's my sister. It's my duty to protect her."

  "Your duty?" A humorless laugh. "How convenient that you remember that now. If only you'd shown that same concern when you invited those girls home. Didn't they deserve protection too?"

  His tone wasn't accusatory. It didn't need to be. Worse—it was logical. Cold. Impossible to refute without moral contradictions.

  I stayed silent. Because he was right.

  This wasn't just some childhood specter. Before me stood the living—ironically dead—reminder of what I'd been. A killer.

  Twenty-five? Thirty? Maybe more.

  The number didn't matter anymore. Not because it was insignificant, but because what truly mattered had been lost long before: meaning.

  Those "WANTED" posters plastered on damp, crumbling walls... they used to fill me with a twisted satisfaction. A sick sense of power.

  Their faces printed on cheap paper were like trophies to me. I knew their bodies remained exactly where I'd left them. With me.

  "Well... Looks like my time's up."

  "What?"

  "You're waking up. Doesn't matter. We'll meet again."

  "What do you—"

  The words died in my throat. Or maybe I finished them—I couldn't tell. Suddenly I realized it wasn't him fading away. I was being pulled down, dragged by some silent, invisible force as if the subconscious itself had decided to return me to the world I'd forgotten to breathe in.

  Then I woke.

  Air rushed into my lungs with violent urgency. I coughed, feeling the weight of my body, the dull ache in my chest, the lingering pressure of memories that should have stayed buried.

  "Lucy!" Isolde's voice trembled. Even through half-lidded eyes, I could hear the knot in her throat. Unmistakable. Pure pain.

  With great effort, I focused on her. Fresh tears streaked her cheeks, her hands clutching me as if letting go might shatter the world completely.

  I looked around.

  No adults. Not a single concerned face. Just the silence of dusk, broken by a child's sobs.

  Maybe that's why no one helped her. Maybe the world ignores what it doesn't understand... or simply what it can't afford to see.

  "Lucy! Are you okay?!"

  I tried to answer, but my throat was an open wound. Words failed me—only a ragged whisper emerged.

  "I'm... fine..." The lie came with unnecessary effort, as if my body doubted its own survival.

  But I wasn't fine. Not completely.

  Isolde crushed me in a fierce embrace, burying her face in my chest. Her crying continued—raw, unrestrained, the floodgates finally broken.