{ Jhiro Fukiyama }
"Alright lad, time to wake up."
My eyes open groggily to a black canvas of fabric. The world around me shivers under a blanket of water, wrapping around me but not tight enough to hurt. Where am I?
"Fukiyama."
The voice is suave but harsh on my ears, not at all like the mellow hum of my dad's voice. This isn't my room, either, which means Mom isn't behind the door. I just want to go back to sleep.
"...What the hell?"
My mind takes a long time to kickstart and rewind back a few hours. Actually, no. It's probably been longer than that; I remember cold, damp walls of concrete all around me for days on end. And I couldn't breathe.
All too sudden, a familiar feeling resurfaces inside my chest, tearing me apart from the inside out. Spikes puncture through my throat, and the nausea crushes down on my lungs as the world blurs before my eyes.
Breathe.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The tide of fear recedes gradually, as I struggle to contain my urge to vomit. Cloth bags, I can handle. A net cafe stall, no problem. But tight concrete boxes are where I draw the line.
Mind over matter.
Breathe.
Alright, think.
What are things like at home...?
What happened to Mom and Dad. . .?
Where are Kaede and Tetsuya? Did they escape?
"Good morning," Yokubari says, nonchalantly kicking aside something at my feet. "How are you feeling?"
My lungs heave with a searing agony, as I crumple over into the fetal position. As if the claustrophobia wasn't enough, he opts to splash me in the face with a bucket of water.
"Thanks, I feel like shit," I sputter. "Mind telling me how long it's been?"
"Four days, give or take. Maybe five. You look like a skeleton—eh, well, you were already one to begin with."
"I don't trust you enough to eat your food yet."
"We expected that, so we've been running you nutrients every time you pass out."
My fingertips rest on an icy metal bench, and I recoil at the touch of it, as if burnt by one of those industrial freezers. For as long as my recent memories stretch back, I've been cold. However, there's something palpable about this coldness. Something that I, ironically, can't grasp.
The Prince of Greed clears his throat. "I'm gonna take the bag off now."
Before I can even react, a blinding light assaults my eyes, and it carves away any lingering fog in my mind.
"Because the warning did me a whole lot of good," I grunt, squinting through the stabbing pain. From what I can make out, there's a sleek mahogany table in the center of the room, surrounded by six velvet-cushioned chairs built in a matching color. Nobody currently sits inside of them, but if Yokubari and I are here, somebody will be arriving very, very soon.
"Lad, I would advise watching your mouth when Lady Leviathan comes in."
"Leviathan? Could you be talking about the archdem—"
YOU ARE READING
Spring Upon the Solstice
Ciencia FicciónSeventeen year-old Jhiro Fukiyama hates the world; that's a fact. Of course, he has reason to. After all, he's a Yomiborn in totalitarian Japan, and for that very reason, he's been treated like dirt for his entire life. But when he meets a mysteriou...
