Consciousness didn't return all at once.
It seeped back slowly—like something reluctant to exist again.
Then came weight.
A foot pressed down on his hand.
Not hard.
Not enough to injure.
Just enough to remind him he hadn't disappeared.
"…It's still here?"
The shopkeeper's voice carried mild irritation, like noticing trash that hadn't been taken away.
"The filth hasn't moved for two days," he muttered, peering down briefly. "Thank god."
A short pause.
"Kill it… would've saved trouble."
His eyes opened.
Only slightly.
The world returned in fragments—blurred shapes, distant movement, people passing without slowing down.
No one stopped.
No one looked.
Some stepped around him.
Others didn't bother.
He lay there, and the world adjusted itself around him as if he were part of it—like a stone, or dirt… something that had never truly been alive.
Time passed.
Or maybe it didn't.
It felt the same either way.
Eventually, his body remembered how to move.
He pushed himself up.
Slowly.
Unsteadily.
For a moment, the world tilted.
Then settled.
No one reacted.
That felt… strange.
"...She hasn't eaten for four days."
The words slipped out, quiet and broken, though he didn't fully realize he had spoken them.
He stood.
Or rather, forced himself upright.
His legs obeyed, but barely.
He walked.
If it could be called walking.
It was closer to collapsing forward and catching himself just enough to continue.
The streets hadn't changed.
They never did.
The same noise. The same filth. The same people moving with purpose that led nowhere.
Nothing had changed.
Of course nothing had changed.
His house came into view.
The door stood open.
He stepped inside.
The air felt heavier than before—thick, unmoving, as if it had been waiting.
His sister was in the same place.
But not the same.
She wasn't curled into herself anymore.
Her body had loosened in a way that didn't belong to sleep.
Still.
Too still.
Her fingers remained pressed into her arms, weaker now, as if even that last attempt to hold onto herself had faded.
He stood there.
Waiting.
For a breath.
For a twitch.
For anything that would deny what he already understood.
Nothing came.
Hunger didn't wait.
Death didn't hesitate.
His hand tightened slightly… then loosened again.
The feeling didn't last long enough to become anything.
He turned.
And walked out.
The world outside hadn't noticed.
It never did.
The shop stood as before—clean, bright, untouched by the decay surrounding it.
It didn't belong here.
Inside, the man stood with his head lowered, hands pressed together in quiet devotion.
"Thank you," he murmured softly. "For this peaceful day… for your guidance… for making this world better."
The boy watched him.
He didn't understand the words.
They didn't match anything he had experienced.
Behind the man, something moved.
A girl.
Small. Thin. Her hands clutched a piece of bread as if it were the only real thing left in the world.
She looked his sister's age.
The man's voice stopped.
Not suddenly.
Just… ended.
He turned slightly.
"Thief."
The word fell flat.
Heavy.
The girl froze.
Then the first strike came.
Fast. Practiced. Without hesitation.
She hit the ground before she could react.
The second strike followed more deliberately.
"Filth like you," the man said calmly, adjusting his sleeve, "is why this world suffers."
Another blow.
The boy watched.
Something shifted inside him.
Not anger.
Not grief.
Something colder.
The girl cried out.
Her voice overlapped with something distant—another moment, another life echoing the same sound of breaking.
His body moved.
He didn't remember deciding.
Didn't remember stepping forward.
Didn't remember taking the knife.
The man raised his hand again.
It never came down.
The blade entered cleanly.
For a brief moment, nothing changed.
Then warmth spread.
Too much. Too fast.
The man's body stiffened, his breath catching as if something inside him had stopped working.
Then he collapsed.
Silence followed.
The girl didn't scream.
Didn't move.
She just stared.
The boy stood there, the knife still in his hand as blood dripped steadily onto the floor.
Behind the body, the framed image remained.
Perfect.
Untouched.
Until the first drop of blood struck it.
Then another.
And another.
The face did not change.
Still smiling.
Still calm.
That felt wrong.
Noise returned all at once.
Voices. Footsteps. Panic that didn't belong to him.
"He killed him!"
"Monster—!"
Hands grabbed him.
Pulled him back.
Forced him down.
He didn't resist.
There was nothing left to resist with.
The place changed as they dragged him forward.
Cleaner streets.
Quieter air.
Buildings that didn't decay.
People here looked at him differently.
Not with indifference.
With disgust.
"Why bring it here?"
"It shouldn't exist."
He was pushed into a large room, bright enough to hurt his eyes.
Figures sat above him, elevated and distant, looking down as if evaluating something broken.
"We don't need to waste time."
A voice spoke without hesitation.
"Execution."
No discussion.
No delay.
Just a conclusion.
They didn't kill him immediately.
That wasn't the purpose.
He was thrown into a cell with 50 soldiers.
Blades cut.
Boots struck.
Hands forced him down again and again.
It wasn't rage.
It wasn't hatred.
It was routine.
At some point, his body stopped responding.
At some point, they stopped trying.
"…Dead?"
One of them sounded unsure.
"Throw it away."
The pit smelled like something that had been forgotten too long.
Rot. Decay. Silence that had settled in and refused to leave.
They dropped him.
His body hit something soft.
It didn't matter what.
For the first time—
something inside him loosened.
It was over.
No more hunger.
No more pain.
No more—
His chest moved.
Once.
Then again.
"…Ah."
A breath.
Unwanted.
His eyes opened.
Darkness surrounded him.
But not completely.
There was something else.
As if something else was waiting for this moment.
END OF CHAPTER 2