Ivan slowly walking out a heavily lighted up LED place, with bright colors, as he left the place women called out behind him whining.
The bright neon behind him flickered, casting long shadows across the wet pavement.
"Don't leave yet mister,"
one whined as Ivan chuckled, the sound echoing faintly in the hollow night air as he walked.
The evening was grey. The sky looked washed out, like someone drained all the color from it. It felt silent — the kind of silence that presses on the ears.
The world felt dead. Dry. Heavy.
As Ivan walked down the streets, hands tucked in his pockets, he saw a convenience store glowing dimly on the corner and decided to enter it. The bell above the door chimed weakly as he stepped inside.
When he left, he had a pack of cigs and a snack, tucked behind his suit coat.
He exhaled, the cold night air stinging against the exposed skin under the bandages.
He found a parking lot and slowly walked up it, his shoes tapping softly against the concrete ramp. He took his stance near a lamp post — the pale light buzzing above him — and lit up a cig, taking a slow drag from it. The smoke curled through the gaps in his bandages like fog slipping through old ruins.
"My my, how the sky looks so drained."
Ivan said to himself, chuckling lightly, puffing out cigarette smoke through his bandaged face.
Suddenly he sees a girl in a high school uniform afar, standing at the edge of the parking lot roof. Her figure looked still, too still — like a statue waiting to fall.
Ivan looked at her, confused, before dropping his cig and stomping it.
His heartbeat thumped once — hard.
"Yahoo!"
Ivan said with a playful tone, waving to her, trying to pull her attention back.
Before he could say another word, he saw her slowly push herself off the ledge.
His breath caught.
"I—"
He lunged forward, arms outstretched, but it was too late.
The wind carried nothing but the echo of her fall.
As Ivan stared down, he saw Hina's lifeless body on the floor — twisted, silent.
A cold, sick heaviness settled in his chest, like someone tightening a fist around his ribs.
The world felt still.
Too still.
Ivan suddenly woke up with his phone ringing — it was the alarm.
His ears still felt eerie, like the dream left a ringing inside his skull.
He sighed, rubbing his face as he sat up, the room dim and quiet around him.
He grabbed his phone to check the time.
"Hina won't be back until noon,"
Ivan said to himself before standing up and moving in front of the mirror.
His face wasn't covered in bandages.
The skin — melted, warped, uneven — reflected back at him. The sight was familiar, but it still hit him in a small sharp place inside.
He sighed, slowly stretching, his X-Men pajamas lifting up slightly with the motion.
The floor felt cold beneath his feet as he walked out of the room, heading to the open kitchen. He opened the fridge, grabbing ingredients with slow, practiced movements before cooking himself something quick.
The sizzling pan, the faint smell of oil — it all felt routine.
His face stayed emotionless, dead, recalling the memory of that day.
His mind replayed the fall. The scream that never came. The silence after.
It burned behind his eyes.
As he finished eating, he slowly went back to his room and stared at his face again, longer this time.
He gently touched it — the uneven edges of melted skin, the rough patches, the deep grooves. His fingertips lingered.
"Maybe I could restore my beauties,"
he said, trying to humor himself. The joke sounded empty, but he forced a breath through his nose anyway.
He slowly started bandaging his face, wrapping layer after layer with careful precision.
It was a ritual — one that steadied him.
As he finished, he placed the fedora on his head.
He gave himself a thumbs-up in the mirror before leaving.