CHAPTER 6: Footsteps Without Bodies
The moment Noir's eyes fell upon the dead bodies, something inside him shifted.
A sharp, suffocating pressure wrapped around his chest—as if memories he never owned were clawing their way out. His mind screamed before his mouth did.
Why… why did I call them Mother and Father?
"Mom…? Dad…?"
The words slipped out on their own.
His voice trembled.
"What is happening to me?" he whispered, clutching his head. "My parents… my parents are—"
The realization shattered him.
Noir screamed.
A raw, broken scream echoed through the house, tearing through the silence like a blade. His legs gave out as tears streamed uncontrollably down his face. His body shook violently. His breath grew unstable.
Coughs burst from his throat—harsh, painful, desperate.
Again, he screamed.
Blood dripped onto the floor.
"I want to go home," Noir cried, his voice cracking. "Please… I don't feel okay anymore. I want to go home…"
He wiped his face and turned around.
The man who had been there earlier was gone.
Vanished.
The house felt larger now. Colder. Empty in a way that hurt.
Two lifeless bodies lay before him.
People he didn't recognize.
Yet… he had called them his parents.
A family photograph hung crookedly on the wall.
Noir stepped closer.
In the picture, the same man and woman stood smiling. Between them was a boy—young, alive, full of warmth.
The moment Noir looked into the boy's face, his vision blurred.
Fragments surfaced.
A field under a bright sky.
A boy running freely, laughing as a dog chased him.
Mud-stained shoes. Sunlight. Happiness.
The scene shifted.
Night.
The boy sat at a dining table with his parents. Warm food. Laughter. Casual conversations. A sense of belonging.
Later—
A dimly lit room.
Music playing softly from a laptop.
Late-night chats with friends.
Noir staggered back.
"No… these aren't my memories," he muttered. "Then how do I know them?"
His legs felt weak.
He sat down on the bed.
His gaze drifted toward the laptop resting nearby, as if it were calling him.
He pressed the power button.
The screen flickered to life.
A password prompt appeared.
"Password…?"
Above it—
Microsoft Account: Gabriel
Noir froze.
"Gabriel…?" he whispered. "That man… he called me Gabriel."
A stabbing pain shot through his head.
Everything felt wrong—like reality itself was folding in on him. The room felt sealed shut. No doors. No windows. No escape.
"Why am I here?" Noir asked the empty air.
"What's my purpose?"
"Am I trapped inside a simulation?"
His breath grew heavy.
"If I'm in a simulation… then what's happening to the real world? I saw it—the Earth drifting away from the solar system. I saw it with my own eyes."
He inhaled deeply.
Then typed—
dontdie235
The laptop unlocked.
A wave of familiarity washed over him.
Icons filled the screen:
Google Chrome
Discord
Microsoft Word
Minecraft
Files
It felt… natural.
Too natural.
Noir opened Files.
Photos loaded—dozens of them.
A man.
A woman.
A boy.
Family.
Friends.
One image made him stop breathing.
Gabriel's parents stood beside a man wearing a laboratory uniform. An ID card hung clearly from his neck.
Professor Karl Sougt.
The name echoed in Noir's head.
He didn't know why—but the man felt familiar. Deeply familiar.
As if Noir had spoken to him once.
Or many times.
He opened videos next.
Gabriel laughing.
Playing with his dog.
Walking with his parents.
Noir smiled.
For a brief moment, he forgot where he was.
It felt like watching himself.
Like those moments… belonged to him.
Then reality hit.
"No," he whispered. "That's impossible."
He opened Microsoft Word.
Several documents appeared.
One stood out—
"My Daily Life."
He clicked it.
And read.
(Gabriel's diary remains the same, but now every word feels heavier, more intimate, as if someone left it behind for Noir to find.)
When Noir finished reading, silence filled the room.
"He's… a good kid," Noir murmured. "Hardworking. Dreaming."
He laughed weakly.
"I wish I were like him."
He turned toward the window.
Night had fallen.
Moments ago, it had been afternoon.
"That's not possible…"
He turned back.
The dead bodies were still there.
And somehow—
They no longer shocked him.
His mind felt numb.
Exhausted, Noir sat on the bed, feeling an unsettling sense of comfort—as if this place had once been his home.
He remembered the diary.
The comic is under my table.
Noir searched beneath the desk and found a box. Carefully—almost respectfully—he opened it.
Inside lay the comic.
He opened it from the middle and began reading. The dialogue flowed effortlessly. The art was sharp. The action dynamic. The humor genuine.
He smiled.
Then frowned.
Something felt off.
Realization struck.
"It's Japanese-style…"
He had been reading it upside down.
Correcting it, Noir started from the beginning—turning page after page until he reached the very last one.
Then he turned the cover.
The title stared back at him.
NOIR
To be continued....