“…”

  The lengthening ash of the cigarette fell to the floor, crumbling into fragments.

  “…”

  Exhaling purple smoke, Danan stared at the mix of white and black ash, crouching down, head bowed, hands clasped.

  His living left hand felt the cold steel of his mechanical arm and the heat of the ember creeping along the cigarette paper. Sizzling… as the flame reached the filter, black smoke replaced purple, the acrid stench of dioxin filling the smoking room.

  “…”

  A deep sigh mixed with disgust. Scratching his gray hair, Danan slowly closed his eyes, muttering, “What am I doing…” as he spun his drunken head.

  He knew escaping the table changed nothing. Words like love or bonds were hollow, intangible. Family, a warm home—illusions he didn’t know. No one could feel affection for him, nor should they. He had no right to love or be loved, no claim to bonds or affection.

  Having children wasn’t born of emotion. Genes remembered species survival, instinct birthed life, and parents cycled through life and death. Reason was called a shackle on instinct, but as long as humans remained biological, they couldn’t escape the cage of genetics.

  “…”

  No… thinking like this was just piling up meaningless excuses. Desperately avoiding sweet emotions, refusing to acknowledge his lingering kindness, he spouted nonsense to deny it. To survive the undercity, he’d kept only necessary emotions, culling useless thoughts.

  Slide the barrel, load the bullet. Finger on the trigger, safety off. Hammer or trigger—either way, the loaded bullet flies straight with the gunpowder’s burst. Mimicking a gun with his fingers, Danan reenacted the process, sighed deeply, and scoffed at himself.

  Killing one or two—killing humans was all the same. In the undercity, where people died miserably daily, boasting about kills was worthless. Even if some oddball called killing evil, faced with death, they’d flip, showing no resistance to murder. Not that he’d ever seen such a fool in the undercity.

  Everyone killed, drowning in sin in this chaotic city. Foaming, rotten desires pried open hell’s lid, baring blood-soaked instincts in a glittering, ruined capital. Wishing to live, praying not to die—weaklings lost everything, strong ones laughed atop a flower of sin. Born and raised in the undercity, mocked as a cesspool of sin, Danan poured his personal desire to live into quiet fury, convincing himself he couldn’t be loved, filling his cracked, dry heart with self-deceptive escapism.

  Physical pain he could endure—spitting blood, spilling it, squeezing out sticky pus was enough.

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  Mental pain he could bear—loneliness clung to him, whispering empty lies like a lover.

  But the pain leaking from the gaping hole in his heart was unbearable. Chasing something unfulfilled, exhausted, shooting in frustration—he knew that reality. Unable to find meaning in life, fighting only to avoid death, could he truly say he was living? Could he claim he lived his own life?

  Cold sweat trickled down his forehead, chills raced up his spine. Nonexistent delusions swirled in his mind, dark thoughts connecting like dots.

  Why did he want to live? Because he didn’t want to die.

  Why couldn’t he find meaning in life? Because he saw no value in himself.

  Why didn’t he want to die? Because death ended everything, rendering his life truly meaningless.

  Why did he stand still, refusing to move forward? Why settle for the status quo, not reaching for a way out? Why not act despite being handed the key? Why… not fulfill the role, the duty, imposed on himself?

  That’s what the other me is asking.

  “—!”

  Gasping, Danan looked around. Beside him stood an old man in white, like a withered tree, his face a mosaic of vibrant, shifting squares hiding his expression. Metal pipes sprouted from his back, mechanical limbs whirring, emitting a thick metallic stench as he peered into Danan’s eyes.

  “I’ve searched for you, so long… Finally found you. Now—fulfill your role. Advance the plan buried in bygone days. That’s why you exist.”

  “—”

  “Don’t understand? No matter. A child becomes the parent’s limbs, fulfilling their unachieved desires. Now, grip your gun, destroy everything. The key is in your chest, the muzzle fused with blood and flesh. Move, my child. Start now. Understood?”

  The burnt-out filter scorched Danan’s fingers, leaving a raw burn. Lumina repaired it, white threadworms sealing the wound.

  His body wouldn’t move. He couldn’t look away from the withered elder. Thoughts clouded, unraveling. As Danan’s sense of self frayed like loose threads, a cowboy-hatted old man aimed a Peacemaker at the mosaic-faced figure.

  “Hey, hey—leave my son alone, alright? Let’s keep it non-interfering, like proper ghosts, yeah?”

  “…Why?”

  “No questions about why I’m here. We share the same body—secrets aren’t secret, right? I believe you get that without words.”

  A voice so nostalgic it brought tears.

  “Danan.”

  “…”

  “Thinking you’re unworthy of love, shutting yourself off—I won’t stop you. Carving unworthiness into your subconscious, fine. But… maybe look around a bit?”

  At his vision’s edge, a tattered coat, faint cigarette smoke. Pushing aside the withered elder, the phantom of his foster father—John Doe—stood beside Danan, chuckling softly at his bowed head.

  “Old man.”

  “What, Danan?”

  “Why… do you always help me? Every time I’m cornered, you appear, give advice, and vanish. You’re supposed to be dead. I… found your body, buried it. So why…”

  “Because you’re my son.”

  “…”

  “Look, Danan, what’s wrong with a parent caring for their kid? Even without blood, if there’s a real bond… you’d help, right? I believe you know that.”

  The old man slowly raised his arm, pointing to a table.

  A warm scene bathed in faint lamplight. Lils, with Stella on her lap, sipped liquor, her gaze meeting Eve’s. What did her prismatic eyes see in him, what did she think? That abyss of the heart was unknowable without words.

  “Don’t keep shutting yourself off, Danan. You’re already… starting to find your own family. Stop lying to yourself, stop burying your emotions in mud. Face forward, truly, and walk.”

  “But I… never did anything for you—!”

  A jolt, like a hard slap on the back, and a throbbing head. Opening his eyes, Danan realized he’d fallen asleep, the pain from collapsing off balance.

  “…I didn’t do anything for you.”

  Scratching his head, tossing the cigarette stub into the ashtray, Danan opened the smoking room door and walked back to the table.