The Cruel Horizon[Old]

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

The colossal structure pierces into the clouds that never move, 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.

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...

That's where she belongs, look where you'll never—

What if I actually tried?

The thought hits like a sucker punch. Could've been me. Should've been me.

A memory flashes—Mya at eight years old, scowling at the fancy headmaster in their living room. "I don't wanna wear dumb blazers!" she'd whined, kicking the coffee table. The man had just chuckled, adjusting his tie. "Miss Nobunaga, for a mind like yours, we'd let you attend in pajamas."

Obinai's throat tightens. She didn't even want it. And they handed it to her anyway.

A hot tear escapes before he can blink it away. It tracks down his cheek, salt-bitter. Pathetic.

"Genius isn't earned," he mutters. His voice sounds alien to his own ears. "You're just born with it. Or you're not."

A car honks. A pigeon scatters. The world keeps moving.

Should hate her for it. The thought slithers through him. Should resent her so damn much.

But then—

Mya's grin flashes behind his eyes. Her tiny arms squeezing him tight. "Don't be weird today, okay?"

"Fuck," he chokes out, scrubbing his face violently. "Fuck this. Fuck me."

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.

As Obinai walks down the city street, a growing discomfort gnaws at him. The sight of Mya confidently stepping through the gates of Crestwood Academy still 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 continues 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. 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.

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 test paper crumples in Obinai's fist with a sound like dead leaves. His knuckles whiten, tendons standing rigid against his skin. The red "C" bleeds through his fingers, screaming at him even when he squeezes his eyes shut.

Stupid. Worthless. Failure.

The words beat against his skull like a second pulse. His chest heaves—too tight, too hot—until—

"AAAAAGH!"

The scream tears from his throat, scattering pigeons from a nearby fire escape. A woman walking her dog flinches, pulling the leash tighter as she hurries past. Obinai doesn't care.

His foot lashes out, sending a soda can clattering against the brick wall. It's not enough. He grabs a handful of trash—crumpled receipts, a greasy burger wrapper—and hurls it. The paper blooms in the air before fluttering pathetically to the ground.

Should've studied harder. Should've tried. Should've been born like Mya—

His hands drop to his knees as he gasps for air. Tears drip onto the pavement, mixing with spilled coffee and city grime.

Why can't I hate her?

All he sees is Mya's face when she hugged him—no pity, no judgment. Just love. And that somehow makes it worse.

I hate myself.

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 that more tears had begun to spill, blurring his vision.

After some time, 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. 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.

His thumb brushes over the red "C," mark.

"Fuck this," he mutters under his breath.

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.

He steps back onto the sidewalk, dragging in a lungful of city air—exhaust and pretzel carts and that weird smell that always hangs over downtown. For half a second, the weight in his chest lifts.

Then the ground moves.

"Shit—!" His foot catches mid-step, sending him lurching sideways. His palm slams against a lamppost, the impact vibrating up his arm. The metal feels alive under his touch, humming with something that isn't just the fading tremor.

"The hell...?" He stares at the pavement like it'll crack open and confess. A few pedestrians glance over, but their faces show no alarm—just mild annoyance at his flailing.

Probably just the weed.

But his pulse won't slow down.

Then...it happens.

And from here on the course of everything changes.

A whisper slithers past Obinai's ear—not words, not wind, but something in between. His muscles lock. The hair on his arms stands rigid.

"The hell—?" His voice comes out strangled. Pedestrians stream past, oblivious. A hot dog vendor laughs at some joke. Traffic lights change.

Normal. All normal.

Except.

The whisper comes again, closer now—a hiss of syllables that almost form his name. Obinai whirls, sneakers scraping concrete. Empty air greets him.

"Hello?" he calls out tentatively, his voice barely above a whisper. The sound feels thin. 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...

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.

"Hey!" he calls out, louder this time. 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.

His next step lands wrong—too slow, too heavy, like his sneakers are full of wet cement. That whisper slithers back, bending around his ear. Closer now. Sharper.

"Who the fuck—?" He whirls, fists clenched.

The silence rushes in, thick and suffocating.

Breathe. Just breathe.

He plants his hands on his knees. "Get. It. Together," he growls through gritted teeth. The sidewalk smells like urine and pretzel salt. His vision swims.

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?