Obinai starts walking away from the school at a slow pace, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He's barely made it a few steps when something compels him to turn slightly. His gaze drifts upward, and there it is—the Nurikabe.

The colossal structure pierces into the clouds, its reddish-brown surface stretching endlessly in both directions. From his vantage point, he sees no end to its span, the sheer size of it pressing against his mind. He scoffs, shaking his head with a wry smile. "One would think we're trapped," he mutters, a quiet chuckle escaping him at the absurdity of the thought.

Kicking a loose rock on the pavement, he continues walking, his steps uneven. His fists clench tightly in his pockets, his knuckles pressing against the fabric. His mind starts to wander, picking at the corners of his insecurities like an itch he can't ignore.

What if I actually tried? he thinks bitterly, his jaw tightening. What if I applied myself for once? Maybe I wouldn't be such a screw-up. Maybe I'd actually be someone worth…

He stops mid-thought, rubbing his forehead with one hand as if trying to physically push the doubt away. But it lingers, heavy and relentless. Tears well up in his eyes before he even realizes it, blurring his vision. He sniffles sharply, blinking them back, but the thoughts keep coming.

Genius. You're only born with it. If you don't have it, you're just—

"No," he says aloud, his voice cracking slightly, startling even himself. He grits his teeth, his head shaking defiantly. "Fuck that," he mutters, louder this time. "Fuck this."

He wipes his eyes roughly with the back of his hand, sniffing again as he exhales shakily. His hands drop back into his pockets, and as he fumbles inside, his fingers brush against something. He pauses, pulling it out to see what it is.

In his palm is a blunt, slightly crushed from being jammed in his pocket. He stares at it for a moment, a heavy sigh escaping him. Of course, he thinks bitterly, his fingers instinctively rolling it between his hands.

Lighting it, he takes a long drag, the bitter smoke filling his lungs and momentarily grounding him. The sharp edges of his emotions seem to dull, just slightly, as the numbing sensation begins to settle in. He tilts his head back, exhaling slowly, watching the smoke curl and dissipate into the air.

His steps slow as he leaves the campus behind, the towering school buildings shrinking in the distance. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out the train card, staring at it briefly before tossing it onto the sidewalk. "Whoever's it was probably canceled it by now," he mutters to himself, the words barely audible.

As Obinai walks down the bustling city street, a growing discomfort gnaws at him, twisting in his gut like a persistent ache. The earlier pang of jealousy rises unbidden in his chest, sharp and bitter. The sight of Mya confidently stepping through the gates of Crestwood Academy lingers in his mind.

What does she have that I don't? he thinks bitterly, but the thought instantly recoils in his mind. She's a kid, Obi. Let her have her shine.

He shakes his head, running a hand through his locs in frustration. The city moves around him—commuters brushing past, horns honking in the distance—but it all feels muted, like the world is operating just slightly out of reach. He stops abruptly at a corner where the pedestrian traffic thins, the noise of the city falling away into a dull roar in his ears.

He swings his backpack off his shoulder, unzipping it with jerky movements. His fingers fumble inside until they close around a folded piece of paper. Obinai pulls it out hesitantly, the sharp creases evidence of how often he's looked at it, how much it weighs on him.

It's last week's chemistry test, the red "C" scrawled at the top glaring up at him like a taunt. He unfolds the paper, his hands trembling slightly, and stares down at the comments scattered across the margins. Corrections and notes—"Be more thorough," "Recheck your calculations," "Missing key steps"—each one digs into him like a blade.

If I'd just put in more time, he thinks, his teeth clenching. If I wasn't such a screw-up, maybe I'd have gotten this right.

His eyes drift to the question he'd lost the most points on, the teacher's neatly written note at the bottom stinging more than the grade itself. "You have potential, Obinai. Let's work on bringing it out."

Potential. That word feels like a cruel joke.

His thoughts drift back to Crestwood Academy, to the pristine buildings and the ambitious students who filled its halls. If I went to a place like that, he muses, maybe I could actually be something. His chest tightens as he imagines himself walking those pathways, sitting in those classrooms, pushing himself toward something better.

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But what's the point? His inner voice sneers, cutting through the momentary flicker of hope. You're not like them. They've got the resources, the drive, the talent. You're just... you.

The edges of the paper crinkle under his tightening grip, his knuckles whitening as anger wells up inside him. He tries to push it down, to swallow it like he always does, but this time it won't stay buried.

Before he knows it, he's clutching the test in a shaking fist. The tension in his body builds, his chest heaving. His thoughts race tumbling over one another, deafening in their intensity.

Finally, it bursts out of him in a raw, guttural scream.

The sound echoes briefly in the small, quiet pocket of the street corner, startling a few passersby who glance at him with surprise before quickly looking away. Obinai stands there, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps, the crumpled paper still in his fist.

He loosens his grip slowly, the balled-up test feeling weightless but unbearable in his palm. The surge of anger subsides, leaving behind a hollow ache. He wipes at his face with the back of his hand, realizing belatedly that tears had begun to spill, blurring his vision.

Obinai's vision sharpens, his breathing steadying as his tears dry. His eyes fall once again to the crumpled test paper in his hand. The sight of it twists his face into a deep scowl.

Why do I even keep this thing? he thinks, his fingers itching to tear it apart. He glances around, his eyes darting over the street to make sure no one is paying him any attention. Spotting a trashcan tucked off to the side, partially obscured by a low wall, he steps toward it, his jaw set.

Reaching into his backpack, he yanks out the crumpled paper, the sharp edges of its creases digging into his hand. His thumb brushes over the red "C," the mark that feels like it's mocking him every time he sees it.

"Fuck this," he mutters under his breath, his voice low and tense.

From his pocket, he pulls out his lighter, flicking it open. The small flame springs to life, flickering in the cool morning breeze. He stares at it for a second, almost hypnotized, before bringing it to the edge of the paper.

The flame licks at the corner, spreading quickly as the edges blacken and curl. He watches, transfixed, as the fire consumes the test. The red marks disappear into ash.

Good riddance, Obinai thinks, his lips curving into a small, bitter smirk as he watches the last wisps of smoke rise from the trashcan.

Stepping back onto the street, he takes a deep breath, the crisp air filling his lungs. For a moment, he feels lighter, almost free—until a faint tremor ripples through the ground beneath him.

He stumbles slightly, his foot catching awkwardly on the pavement as he grabs for a nearby lamppost to steady himself. "What the—?" he mutters, glancing down at his feet as if the source of the quake might somehow reveal itself. The tremor passes quickly, but his heart is already pounding. He shifts uncomfortably, brushing it off. Probably just the weed messing with me.

But then it happens.

A faint whisper brushes against his ear, soft and indistinct, like words spoken in a language he doesn't recognize. Obinai freezes, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes dart around, searching for the source, but the street around him looks normal—people walking, cars honking, the city moving as it always does.

"Hello?" he calls out tentatively, his voice barely above a whisper. The sound feels thin, swallowed by the weight of the moment. He rubs his temples, shutting his eyes tightly as if to block out the strange sensation. Get it together, Obi. It's just your mind playing tricks.

When he opens his eyes, the world is no longer the same.

The sounds of the city—the honking horns, the hum of conversation, the distant rumble of a subway—are gone. An eerie silence greets him, unnatural and heavy. He straightens slowly, his hand gripping the lamppost tightly as he takes in his surroundings.

The street is...

deserted.

The people he'd seen just moments ago are gone. No pedestrians, no cyclists, no vendors. Cars sit idly at the curb, their engines silent, their drivers vanished. Even the pigeons that usually flutter about are absent.

"What the hell?" he breathes, his voice breaking the oppressive quiet.

He takes a hesitant step forward, his sneakers scuffing against the pavement. The sound feels too loud, echoing in a way that makes his skin crawl. His eyes dart upward to the skyline—buildings stand eerily still, their windows reflecting nothing but emptiness.

"Hey!" he calls out, louder this time, his voice cracking under the strain. It bounces off the surrounding buildings, unanswered.

A cold knot forms in his stomach as his mind races. This isn't real. It can't be real. What's happening? He presses his fists against his temples, trying to steady his breathing. His fingers tremble as he lowers them, forcing himself to look around again.

As he scans the street, he notices something even more unsettling. The edges of the horizon... seem blurred, like the world itself is fraying, unraveling into a haze of indistinct colors. He steps back instinctively, his hands clenching into fists.

"Okay, Obi," he mutters to himself, his voice shaking. "This is just a bad trip. That's all. Just ride it out. You've been here before." But even as he says the words, he knows this is different. Too vivid. Too real.

He takes another step, his legs feeling like they're moving through water. The whisper comes again, brushing against his ears like an icy breath. This time, it's louder, more insistent, though still unintelligible.

"Who's there?" he shouts, spinning around, his voice raw with panic. The silence that follows is deafening, pressing against his eardrums.

His chest tightens as his breaths grow shallow, and he forces himself to stop, planting his hands on his knees to steady himself. "Get it together," he mutters, gritting his teeth. "You're fine. You're fine."

But the unease doesn't leave. It grows, creeping up his spine like a cold hand. As he straightens, his eyes catch something in the distance—a faint ripple in the air, like heat rising off asphalt, distorting the horizon. He squints, trying to make sense of it, but the more he stares, the more his head throbs.

This isn't real. It can't be real.

But deep down, a small, terrified voice whispers: What if it is?