Chapter Two: Metamorphosis
"Ah, Jinmeiyo, do you think you could stay overnight for today? We're pretty backed up today in paperwork." In the corner of my vision, my manager calls out to me. He sounds pretty insistent with his "request".
I glance toward him, abruptly halting my process of returning my belongings to their proper places within my bag and silently acknowledging his words. I ponder his plea thoughtfully. Honestly, I mull over the idea.
Should I accept, another sleepless night awaits, and the comfort of my dreams will be scarce once more. However, I recognize that this is more of a directive than a genuine request for my expertise. And sure, the overtime pay could be beneficial, and the repertoire with my boss could land me more paid-off time, but even after weighing the benefits, I find no interest in the offer. It seems to pass through my mind without leaving even a lasting impression.
Strangely to me and everyone else, I seamlessly pick up where I left off, packing my belongings, as if the potential consequences carry no weight on my conscience. It's peculiar, and I even find it hard to comprehend. The idea that my job or lifestyle could hang in the balance due to this decision doesn't stir a lasting emotional reaction within me.
It's an unusual resolution, especially considering I was already prepared to sacrifice my sleep. The decision now feels somewhat arbitrary. Strangely enough, for this night, I was prepared to offer even the dreams I cherished so much.
"Jinmeiyo? Are you alright?"
"Mr. Lewis, sorry, I'm going home today. I have someone to meet."
As I cast my gaze upward at him once more, a languid expression of contentment unwittingly graced my face, materializing in the form of a subtle smile. None of my colleagues, nor even my boss, had witnessed any emotion other than apathy plastered on my countenance before. The unexpected display seemed to instill a sense of unease, evident in the reactions of both him and the nearby onlookers.
"O-oh, sorry to bother you then." The manager's voice falters, bearing an apologetic tone that resonates in the room like a delicate melody. A lone bead of sweat charts a hesitant course down his face, emblematic of the tension now permeating the air. His request, initially proffered with a measure of anticipation, is rescinded with a tangible unease, as if he's delicately retracting a thread that seemed poised to unravel.
I ignored them unhesitatingly. With my bag slung over my shoulder, I join the stream of departing colleagues.
Each step I take reverberates through the somewhat silent ambience of rustling papers and distant whispers in the room, my heels hitting against the marble floors with a clack. I notice the worried gazes of my coworkers, and I understand them, but it doesn't matter. My smile sticks to my face, even against my own will. It was the first time I could genuinely say I valued something outside of work in a long time.
The elevator dings, and I, along with a few colleagues, get in. It's a routine, signaling the end of the workday and our journey home. The few people inside chat quietly, acknowledging the day is done and looking forward to their personal space.
As the elevator goes down, the office lights fade, and the lobby's softer glow takes over. The change is noticeable, and the atmosphere feels more relaxed. My colleagues and I seem to reflect this shift in our mood as we head towards the exit.
The automatic doors creak and slide as they notice my presence looming closer. I step out into the limelight of the evening's distant orange glow, and the cold wind rushes into me like it was set on attacking me. Even as the shock plants itself on my face, somehow I don't mind it. It almost seems reminiscent. Before today, perhaps I'd never truly stopped to admire the setting like I did once in the past.
The city feels like a bustling machine as the nightlife eases in with the ebb and flow of lively activities. A sense of liberation accompanies each step away from the office, as if shedding the day's responsibilities. I needed none of them. Today felt special to me in a way, akin to the way the average person's birthday feels; I'm shedding the skin off of the world of last year's troubles and taking a first step into somewhere new. I'm transforming in ways my own head can't comprehend, and it's thrilling.
With my heart analyzing the future three steps ahead of me, my anxiety-filled limbs seem to shrivel up in suspense. She was right there behind that gate waiting for my arrival. It was my choice in the end whether I'd choose to ignore her and go home or if I'd venture into the world of "sorcery." She said she wouldn't interfere. The decision was obvious to me, but it seemed the hardest task was to move one foot in front of the other to meet her. My mind was yelling "Yes!", but my body foretold the horrors of the danger that awaited me, like the one in Shibuya.
With a brain clouded with the aphrodisiac of interest, I forced my legs into a walk.
The flight of stairs unfolds before me like a journey into the unknown, with each step echoing a rhythmic beat in the dimly lit space. In that fleeting moment, a sense of anticipation mixes with the soft glow of ambient light. The air is thick with possibilities, and for an instant, uncertainty wraps its tendrils around my consciousness. She doesn't immediately come into view, and a subtle unease settles in my chest.
Did she lie to me?
The thought touches the certainty in my mind for a moment. I feel betrayed and stupid for finding the truth in her words, and I am ashamed of myself for believing in the world foretold by a woman who is probably making idle conversation in her devious nature. Why did I find this escape of learning more about "sorcery" so inviting in the first place? A part of me wanted to just turn around and return empty-handed to ask my boss if his offer was still available, but I kept going, wanting to stay true to the effort it took to actually believe in her.
And as the final step unfolds before my eyes, there she is, positioned on the very right side of the gate, leaning casually against the metal fence.
Her attire, a departure from the usual subtle gothic style she would don for casual business meetings, strikes me as somewhat peculiar. It's not exactly a dress, or at least not in the conventional sense, as it intriguingly embraces her legs, resembling baggy pants, blending seamlessly into her large brown boots. Wildly unconventional, I find myself hesitant to label it as a dress, yet it adds a unique flair to her presence, defying expectations and capturing attention in its own distinctive way.
"Took you long enough." Almost unhesitatingly, she unsheathes a weapon from seemingly nowhere, swings it faster than my eyes would ever be able to track, and dons it onto her shoulder like a character in a comic.
It's a thick white ax with a long handle; its lower half is wrapped in white cloth. Its towering stature almost matches Mei Mei's own, underscoring the considerable strength one would need to wield such a substantial weapon effortlessly. Contemplating the sheer dimensions of this two-handed ax, it becomes evident that even someone with a well-trained physique would find it a daunting challenge, let alone someone like myself.
Yet, Mei Mei's lifestyle appears paradoxical given the intimidating weapon she wields. She exudes the aura of someone who resides predominantly indoors, finding solace in the pages of books and savoring snacks amidst luxurious surroundings. There's a lack of visible muscular strength in her frame, and her physique suggests she wouldn't be someone naturally inclined to engage in physical combat. The incongruity deepens—the unwieldy ax clashes with the image of Mei Mei as a woman who seems more at home in the realm of leisure than in the throes of a battle. These contradictions add complexity to the enigma surrounding Mei Mei, inviting contemplation on the mysteries concealed within the layers of her character.
The reality of these "sorcerers" begins to truly dawn as truth in my mind. That superstrength was born somewhere else—an energy I cannot yet clearly see. The world of sorcery Mei Mei mentioned must be real to some extent. The excitement tries to express itself on my face as I gaze at Mei in awe. Something was truly about to change.
She laughs a bit as she notices my intense stare. "Don't stare so much." She says it haughtily.
I find myself averting my eyes, finally noticing how deeply I was ogling her. I wasn't sure what really grabbed my attention there. Could I have simply been admiring the beauty of her strength? Or was there something more I lacked the understanding to perceive? An intense desire I'd never even felt within the confines of my dreams?
"Don't think about it so much," she assured me. "I already knew how you'd react."
"...Really?"
The striking resemblance between her current expression and the one she wore earlier during our meeting left me unnerved. The sensation of her gaze penetrating through me like a looking glass filled me with intense unease. Without conscious thought, I stumbled backward, finding an unsteady perch on the hood of a nearby car. My instinctual reaction was an attempt to deny her eyes the privilege of unraveling the intricate puzzle of my mind, as if avoiding the intensity of her scrutiny could shield the complexities hidden beneath the surface.
Her expression only intensified, a cyclone of determination brewing in her eyes, seemingly poised to extract every detail of my soul. She slowly advanced with purpose, narrowing the distance until she loomed over me, a formidable presence practically breathing down my neck like a relentless predator. The air around us thickened with tension, an energy that clung to the moment like an invisible force.
As she encroached, my body responded involuntarily, every muscle coiling in anticipation. Our eyes locked, and in the piercing gaze of her amber pupils, it felt as though she could peer into the depths of my thoughts. Beads of sweat materialized on my forehead, tracing hesitant paths down my face like small rivers, mirroring my internal currents of unease.
She leaned in, her voice a breathy whisper that danced along the shell of my ear. The words, delivered with an intimate proximity, sent shivers down my spine. "Tell me, Mr. Ken, what made you want to meet me here today?"
※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※
Clack. Clack. Clack. The rhythmic tapping of my keyboard creates an oh-so-familiar cadence, enveloping me in a robotic-like sense of existence. The monotony of my work is palpable—an endless stream of tasks stacked within my computer like a black hole of effort, each keystroke propelling me further into the void.
Glancing at the clock, it reads 11:30 am, leaving me with five and a half hours remaining on this shift. While there's no guarantee that my workload will conclude precisely at the end of this timeframe, it offers a semblance of structure in the otherwise unending expanse of my tasks. It may not be ideal, but it's a small anchor in the vast sea of routine.
My brain feels like it's liquefying as my fingers dart around the keyboard. The numbers on the client's transaction list appear as mere symbols, devoid of inherent meaning, serving only as a conduit to help my brain process the influx and outflow of information. I can see them; I can decipher them, yet they elude any sense of reality. It's akin to fixating on a wall for twelve consecutive hours or repetitively shooting a basketball into the same spot thousands of times. I find myself embodying an AI, meticulously programmed to execute a singular task throughout the relentless cadence of the day.
My eyelids, barely open, operate as cameras, capturing the data, while my brain functions as a CPU, tirelessly interacting with the information. The symbiotic dance between my visual input and cognitive processing centers revolves around churning out accurate calculations on matters ranging from mortgage payments to rent and government taxes.
I glance at the clock once more: 11:32. Confusion blankets me, as I was convinced that at least half an hour had slipped away unnoticed. Is the clock malfunctioning, or has the incessant sound of typing clouded my perception of time? The answer eludes me, leaving my mind suspended in uncertainty.
Gritting my teeth, I reluctantly surrendered to the relentless rhythm of my typing once more, unable to break free from the clutches of my mind-breaking work. It was a burden I couldn't afford to cast aside. It wasn't just a job; it was my anchor in a sea of uncertainty, the thin thread keeping me chained to a semblance of stability.
In a strange way, this place stood as the ultimate connection to my past, and I can't quite put my finger on it, but there's an unsettling sense that, once it slips away, the dreams will vanish alongside it.
Beneath the expanse of a deep blue sky, I found comfort in the gentle caress of a compassionate breeze, a welcome respite from the relentless summer heat that beads down on me. Memories unfolded, each vivid and poignant—a steaming bowl of curry placed before me, a creation of my mother's loving hands, the promise of adventure in a town with countless places to explore and run to. My heart craves that anchoring place, the refuge that encapsulates everything I truly seek. It's a silent plea resonating within me—just a comforting home to return to. That's all I want. That's all I want.
Truly my own form of peace, I can handle all the work needed to keep this occupation as long as those dreams remain.
I close my eyes, leaning back in my chair for what felt like the fifth time today—an unusually high amount, might I add? "A small price, huh?" My left eye opens a little as I stare down at the bright envelope Mei Mei left on the table for me. It's pretty thin, and its packaging reminds me of those early 2010s bootleg DVDs people sold at every corner. It's quite reminiscent, actually.
A scene rolls back into my mind from the early day: "The price is the death of your daily life. Once you see it, you'll never want to live the same again." Mei Mei spins the rolling chair in the other direction and stands proudly. "I'm pretty confident this means freeing you to some extent—if not, that just means I was wrong about you!" Her expression dulled down as she left the cubical, only leaving a complacent tone as she muttered out the last sentence. "This is the last time you'll ever see me here."
Remembering how serious she was only seems to irk my interest further.
It mirrors the sensation I experienced when the News initially ran the story on those infamous "Cursed Spirits." At first, I dismissed it as a mere jest by the publishers, believing it to be nothing more than an elaborate prank, but as the narrative gained traction across various channels, my skepticism began to wane.
Despite my initial verbal dismissals whenever the topic surfaced, a peculiar shift occurred. I found myself drawn to the stories and compelled to watch more accounts detailing the theory. Even as I muttered, "This again?" with each encounter, the allure proved irresistible. I stumbled upon secret documentation on Reddit, fully intending to scoff at the notion, yet found myself inexplicably immersed in scrolling through each piece I could lay my eyes on. The subtle pull of curiosity evolving into a consuming fascination became undeniable, leaving me entangled in the enigmatic web of the purported "Cursed Spirits."
It's happening again with the anticipation of what lies in between the two thin sheets of paper in that bright orange envelope. I can't help but look at it; after all, it was this or continuing my endless piles of work—obviously the only thing that could possibly grab my interest in the whole world was a distraction.
Anxiously, I reach out my trembling arm towards the sleeve.
The object in my hands feels refreshingly new, akin to the sensation of running your fingers across pristine loose-leaf paper on the very first day of school. The scent accompanying it is familiar, reminiscent of Mei Mei's essence—a delicate fragrance akin to that of an exotic flower, weaving its way towards my nose as it draws nearer. As I turn its front, a vivid red warning materializes: "The choice is yours." The words, elegantly inscribed in English, mirror Mei's precise handwriting, especially on significant documents.
A gulp marks my realization as I tentatively reach for the top opening. With a swift motion, I overturn its contents onto my desk, discarding the wrapper into the already overflowing trash can at the side. In the aftermath, my suspicions are confirmed—a DVD lies before me, just as I had theorized.
My gaze shifts toward my aged, worn-out PC, and I find myself fixating on the CD function, a feature I had never truly noticed until this moment. With an air of eeriness, I mutter, "It's almost lunch." The timing of these unfolding events feels strangely orchestrated, as if the universe conspired to lead me to this moment. It's an unsettling sensation, but beneath the monotone in my voice, an undercurrent of anticipation lurks.
In the face of cold sweat accumulating on my forehead, my fingers exhibiting an uncharacteristic twitchiness, and my decisions taking erratic turns, a surge of exhilaration courses through me. Excitement, for better or worse, propels me forward. Despite the internal turmoil, a relentless curiosity spurs me on, urging me to confront the mystery hidden within the confines of that disk. Dismissing the signs of unease, I am undeniably invigorated.
As my heart beats faster, I acknowledge that something within me compels me to unravel the contents of this disk. There's a fervent desire to prove to myself that these fantastical creatures don't exist and that this is all just a fabrication. The internal debate gives way to a resolute decision—whatever lies on the disk, I must confront it.
With a slothful hand, the disk drew ever so close to the drive on the front of the CPU. I hesitated, reminding myself of the insanity of monotony I had to live through for ten years and the dreams that carried me in tandem. I had no idea what was on this disk, but if it's what I truly want, as Mei says, I feel like I have to try. The disk enters, and it cuts my computer screen black.
My eyes are dead locked on the image as it loads the contents, steeling my resolve to keep watching with every passing second.
The screen changes with an abrupt whirring sound. A white light fills the screen, and the scene immediately changes to News Channel footage.
Its dated year is almost exactly ten years ago, and the quality mocks that of its age. The story it's centered on is about the home of a couple having an abrupt end as the wife hangs herself from the ceiling fan and a home invader mangles the corpse. What an unreal scenario!
"Reporting live from the home where the horrific incident took place." A male reporter chimes in on the scene of a living room with yellow tape and marked white spots on the ground. "I'm here with the head detective on the investigation. Detective, how do you figure the hanging and the mangled corpse aren't connected in any way?"
"Well, other than the very obvious signs of a beating, the body doesn't seem to show any signs of a struggle. There was no flesh underneath the nails or bruises on the knuckles; there was nothing to conclusively say she fought back in the least. I don't know about you, but I'd try to stop an assailant by any means possible if I were in fear of my life." The officer rambles on. "She clearly left a note for her late husband, and there's evidence of a chair being dragged to the living room to stand on."
The mental image of a man ruthlessly assaulting the lifeless body of another is truly repugnant—a grotesque scene that evokes visceral discomfort. Empathy wells within me for the husband who has endured the agony of losing a loved one in such a horrific manner. The echoes of death's brutality resonate with my own experiences, and I find myself grappling with profound sympathy for the grieving spouse. Yet, amidst the emotional turmoil, a nagging question persists: What relevance does this gruesome incident hold for me?
The scene changes once again to a screen containing a photo of the victim and the husband held in custody for questioning. I felt like I was seeing things; why did they have the same appearance as me and Mei Mei? I rubbed my eyes, trying to find any remaining slivers of sleep in my blurry vision.
—I need to sleep more often.
As I open my eyelids once more, that's all the scene amounts to as the picture changes once again back to the house. The reporter's voice fills the room, narrating the unsettling episode of aggressive behavior against a woman and emphasizing the necessity for a thorough investigation. It's standard rhetoric, a script that unfolds predictably in the face of such distressing incidents.
I find myself unenthused by the sheer lack of—well, anything. Nothing about cursed spirits and nothing about sorcery proved essentially nothing. It was simply a news report about an attack on a corpse—a tragedy, sure, but it lacked what I wanted. Lacksidazily, I checked the time again: 12:30 p.m. Lunch just ended.
That was the end of the universal turn of events. I sighed. Maybe I simply missed what Mei mentioned.
In the periphery of my vision, an anomaly unfolds on the screen—an unexpected intrusion that defies the context of the broadcast. Something sizable, with a reddish hue, materializes, sending a jolt of unease through me. A moment of doubt flickers—is it an edit, a glitch, or is my vision still playing tricks on me? Swiftly, I redirect my focus towards the screen, halting the motion of my finger over the eject button. My gaze locks onto the unfolding spectacle.
There it is—a creature emerging from the shadows, defiantly breaching the confines of the broadcast. Its low-intellect demeanor is apparent, and its reddish complexion gives an eerie contrast against the backdrop. As it pushes its way out of the closet in the background, the disconcerting details come into focus. Bulging, repulsive eyes lock onto the camera, their malevolence piercing through the screen. An unhinged smile distorts the creature's visage, contorting its features into a nightmarish expression of twisted glee. Its jaw, grotesquely unkempt, unveils fangs reminiscent of a shark. Its grubby hands wriggle in front of the camera like some kind of otherworldly slime, contributing to the surreal spectacle unfolding before me.
Despite the creature's presence and its absurd little dance, the people around it, and by extension, likely the viewers, remain oblivious. The scene passes by like it would have anyway, as if this grotesque entity is an unnoticed specter in the background of an otherwise ordinary scene.
I could see it, though, and the pain I felt when I initially did came back as well.