Haruto

A single, flickering lightbulb swung from the ceiling of the cold, metal room. Its pulse caste erratic shadows against the rusted walls, painting patterns that almost looked alive. Chains rattled softly as Haruto stirred, wrists bound to a rusted steel chair, ankles shackled to the floor.

He jolted awake with every nerve in his body screaming. His coat had been stripped off, his shirt torn and bloodied. Bruises bloomed across his torso, and dried blood crusted beneath his nose. One eye was nearly swollen shut.

The sound of water dripping echoed throughout the room. But then came the sound of footsteps. Leather boots.

“You’re awake,” came the voice, refined and eerily calm. A man stepped into the light, wearing a sterile white coat stained with crimson fingerprints. His face was also covered with a white mask.

He was tall and confident. His eyes gleamed with interest more than malice.

Haruto didn’t respond. He was too focused on the sharp ache in his shoulder. It was most likely a dislocated joint.

“Your file,” the man said, flipping open a folder, “says your name is Haruto. No family records. No parents. Stray from Sector 9. You’ve got scars like you’ve lived a thousand lives… You really are a liar.”

Haruto spat blood to the side. “Just get on with it.”

The man smiled. “I like the defiant ones. They scream louder when it counts.”

He set the folder down and picked up a metal rod from a tray. At its tip was a crackling arc of electricity.

The rod met his skin with a hiss. His cream echoed through the chamber.

“This isn’t about pain,” the man said casually. “It’s about memory. About awakening something you’ve locked away. You don’t even realize how much you’ve forgotten.”

Haruto clenched his teeth, blood seeping from every corner of his mouth. He shut his eyes, forcing every ounce of strength inward. The world around him began to slow. His breath caught. Now…

But then – nothing. The sensation collapsed.

“Trying to run again?” the man muttered, his voice laced with mockery. “Cute. But this place… it’s sealed tighter than you know. You can’t run… not until we extract every last bit…”

He leaned in close as his grin widened. “You’re not the only one who’s danced with the impossible, Haruto. Welcome to the fracture.”

Haruto blinked through sweat and blood.

The man whispered things between the shocks. Names. Places. Dates. He mentioned Ren. Asahi. Aoi.

“Tell me,” the man continued. “Do you perhaps remember… Akane?”

At the sound of her name, Haruto’s head jerked up slightly.

The interrogator smiled. “Ah. A flicker. I was told to stay quiet, but I’ve always been bad at following the rules.”

He placed the rod back and lifted a scalpel, dragging it slowly across Haruto’s forearm. It wasn’t deep enough to kill him, but enough to make blood weep like ink on paper.

“What was she to you?” the man asked casually. “Perhaps… your sister?”

Haruto didn’t reply.

“She’s dead now. That’s what you believe, isn’t it? That she turned her back on you.”

He made another slice, across Haruto’s bicep. Then another, lower down. He didn’t scream this time. Just gritted his teeth.

“Pain brings clarity. I need you to remember. The girl. You.”

A pause followed as he walked behind Haruto.

“Every time you get to the truth, you bury it again. You’re afraid of what you’ll see. But… you see… I’m here to help you...”

He drove a needle into Haruto’s side. Instantly, a surge of heat spread through his veins. It was some chemical stimulant. His vision blurred and his heart raced.

“What… did you…”

“Accelerated neural recall,” the man said. “You’ll start remembering now – fragments, pieces, slips in time. I’ll know when it happens.”

Haruto’s breathing quickened. Flashes burst behind his eyes – rainy streets, a girl’s voice calling his name, a dimly lit apartment.

“She depended on you,” the interrogator whispered. “Didn’t she?”

The scalpel dug into Haruto’s back now. “You stole. You killed. Yet, you provided. You protected”

“You don’t know anything about her,” Haruto growled.

“Don’t I?” The man leaned in with his cold breath. “then why does your memory stall the moment you think of her name?”

Haruto was shaking now. Not from pain, but the chaos inside him. Flashes again – her face, blurred. His voice yelling – but not in the voice he had now. Younger. Afraid.

“Still resisting?” the interrogator murmured. He picked up a pair of pliers and approached his hand. “This next part? It’s personal.”

The crack of bone echoed in the chamber as he began bending one of Haruto’s fingers back. Slow. Purposeful.

Haruto bit into his lip until blood ran down his chin.

“You remember more than you say,” the man whispered. “I know you do. Because you’re not just some slum rat. I saw your readings. The static around your presence. I’m not just trying to hurt you, Haruto…”

He yanked the finger back.

“I’m trying to wake you up.”

The pain was almost transcendental now. Haruto’s vision dimmed at the edges. His consciousness trembled on the edge of collapse.

“You’re going to break,” the man said calmly. “And when you do, we’ll finally see what you’re really hiding.”

He stepped away, satisfied, and turned towards the camera in the corner. “He’s almost there. Prepare the next sequence.”

As the lights dimmed and the door shut with a mechanical hiss, Haruto sagged forward. Blood dripped from his hand and his cuts stung with the sweat that rolled down his skin.

But his eyes had changed. Beneath the pain, something flickered.

And behind his eyes… memories began to stir.