The crunch of Tochi's foot pressing down on a dry leaf echoed through the silent, fog-covered foothills. The mist was thick—too thick—blanketing everything in a soft, impenetrable gray. He could barely see a few steps ahead.
As he shuffled forward, his foot caught on a hidden stone. "Tch—couldn't even see a damn pebble," he hissed, stumbling like an exhausted man under a merciless sun.
He patted his pockets. "Where's my—? Shit."
The pocket watch. The one with his photo inside. Gone.
A heavy sigh escaped his lips. "I can't even see my own damn arm. How the hell am I supposed to find this piece of crap?"
Reaching down, he groped blindly until his fingers brushed against a long, crooked stick. He picked it up for balance, muttering curses as he knelt to continue the search.
"Who knows how long I've been down here—oh. Found it."
Just as his hand wrapped around the watch, a chill crept up his spine. Not a breeze. Not the cold of the fog.
Something else.
It started at his toes. Slid over his skin like ice beneath the flesh. His body stiffened.
Don't move.
Don't stand up.
His instincts screamed.
"I see," he whispered. "This isn't normal. If I stand... I die."
And just as he dared to inhale...
A tongue.
Wet. Cold. On his neck.
The air died.
Tochi froze — paralyzed not by logic, but by instinct. That tongue. It was there, and it wasn't human. Cold. Wet. Lingering. The sensation trailed upward, just once, as though whatever it was needed only a taste.
This isn't real. This isn't real. But the shiver climbing his spine argued otherwise.
He stayed crouched, hand still gripping the pocket watch like it was some sacred relic. It ticked. It shouldn't have — it was broken years ago, but now... tick. tick. tick.
What the hell is going on?
Then, silence again.
The presence behind him vanished, like steam pulled back into the air. He wanted to turn — needed to turn — but something inside whispered, Run first. Then ask.
He took a step. The crunch of the leaf under his foot cracked like thunder.
"I think I'm going crazy," he whispered aloud. "The things that are happening to me, I can't even imagine."
He stopped walking.
"Oh, why is my life this useless?" His voice cracked slightly. The fog heard it. The mountain heard it. But there was no answer. Not yet.
His legs shook.
Then something clicked — deep within his chest. Not pain. Not fear. A… familiarity. He looked around, confused.
"Wait…" His brows furrowed. "I've been here before?"
He turned in a slow circle, trying to see through the fog. "No, no I haven't… have I? Nah. Okay, first let's try to get home. Home. Just—just home."
He turned and took a determined step forward—
—and ran into it.
A moving shadow, tall, indistinct, and coming straight at him — fast.
It didn't break the fog. It didn't make a sound. It just glided toward him like it had always belonged in the void.
Tochi stumbled back. His breath caught in his throat. "No. No, no, no. What are you—?"
The thing stopped just feet away.
Even that close, he couldn't see its face. Just outlines. A cloak? No, maybe smoke. Eyes? No—holes.
It lifted something. A hand, maybe. But it was too smooth. Too perfect. Like it wasn't shaped by nature, but imagined.
Tochi took a step back.
The wind screamed.
And then—
It whispered.
Low.
Echoing.
Like a dozen voices trying to speak through one.
"You've carried it too long."
Tochi clutched the pocket watch.
"Let it go."
"No," Tochi barked, the fear spiking into anger. "You don't get to tell me what to carry!"
His voice surprised even himself. It echoed. Reverberated in the fog like a declaration made to gods and demons alike.
"Then suffer."
The figure raised a limb and vanished into the mist — not like smoke, but like a cut in a page being closed.
Tochi stood still, panting. He looked at the pocket watch again.
The time was frozen at 11:11.
His hands trembled.
He was alone again. But something was different. He could feel it. The world around him had changed — not in shape, but in intention.
Everything was still, yet waiting.
Waiting for what?
Tochi turned, eyes wide, heart racing, fog creeping around him like a question.
"What the hell is going on…?"
The sound of the wind had changed.
It no longer whispered through leaves or rustled dry grass. It hummed. Mechanical. Low-pitched. As if some distant engine were vibrating reality itself.
Tochi opened his mouth, parched.
"I'm thirsty," he muttered, his throat cracked like brittle glass. But the moment the words left his lips—
—the ground vanished.
Replaced by water.
A surge of cold, incomprehensible ocean swallowed him. One breath, then another—both stolen. He thrashed. Tried to scream. But the scream choked in his lungs, bubbling upward like useless prayers. This wasn't any ordinary sea. The water was heavy—not with salt, but with something thick… almost metallic.
There was no sky. Just layers of shifting gray above him, rolling like clouds of mercury. He kicked. Fought upward. But the more he climbed, the more the water pressed down, dragging him into its infinite, suffocating embrace.
"This isn't thirst…" he thought, heart pounding. "This is death."
Then everything went black.
When he woke up, he was gasping—not for air, but for answers.
The scent hit him first: burning ozone, oil, rot.
His body lay half-curled in what looked like a metal dumpster, barely wide enough for his limbs. The walls around him were a quilt of riveted steel plates, wires dangling like veins from above. Faint neon light flickered in through a cracked opening.
The headache returned. Not as pain, but a thrum. Like something inside him was syncing to a rhythm he didn't understand.
"Where…" he rasped.
The moment he sat up, a cat screeched—launching itself over the rim of the dumpster and disappearing in a blur.
Tochi groaned, pushing the lid open fully.
Beyond the bin, the world of Grey revealed itself.
Skyscrapers that spiraled into the clouds like drills, their surfaces coated with shifting holographic symbols. Roads that moved. Cars that hovered without noise. Blue flame vents spat mist into the streets. People walked past—some with wires growing from their skulls, others with limbs of glass and chrome. A child ran past chasing the cat, laughing. And then—
Thud.
The child smacked directly into Tochi, knocking them both back.
"Whoa!" the boy said, springing up immediately, goggles over his eyes glowing dim blue. "Sorry, man! Didn't see you in the heap."
Tochi blinked. The boy's clothes looked like something out of a sci-fi film—patchwork metal panels, cloth woven with circuitry, and boots that hissed air with each step.
"You alright?" the kid asked.
Tochi sat up slowly. "I… think so."
"You new here?"
Tochi hesitated. "Where… is here?"
The kid frowned. "Uh, Grey? The city? The world? You hit your head or something?"
Tochi looked around again. The sky above was covered in shifting panels—fake clouds projected on a screen that sometimes glitched. The people didn't speak—most of them were wired into translucent visors, their mouths unmoving, eyes glowing with invisible data. There were no trees. No birds. Only tech. Only concrete and glass and metal and light.
"I don't understand…" he whispered.
The boy's gaze dropped. "Wait, are you a Non-Awakened?"
"A what?"
The kid backed away a step. "You don't have any implants? No augmentation? No nano-gear?"
"No… I—I don't even know what that is."
Tochi's voice was dry. His shirt, still the same faded tee from home, clung to him in the strange, humming air. It was like walking through static.
The boy rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay. That's… weird. But not impossible. Just weird. People don't usually show up without a record though. You got any IDs?"
Tochi reached into his pocket. The fabric felt like sandpaper, soaked in oil. But inside—
The pocket watch.
It was still there.
He pulled it out, the metal face dull in the neon light. The time read 11:11, unmoving.
The kid leaned closer. "Whoa. Is that, like, analog? That's ancient. Looks custom-made."
Tochi stared at the watch. For a second, the world around him faded. Not in a dramatic swirl—but in a longing. Home. Where poverty made sense. Where struggle had form. Here? Nothing made sense. Not the city. Not the child. Not the dream that threw him into an ocean of metal.
"I just want to go home," he said quietly.
The boy tilted his head. "What's 'home'?"
Tochi looked at him. Really looked. The boy couldn't have been older than ten. And there was no recognition in his eyes. No concept of what home meant outside this place.
He swallowed hard.
"Who are you?" Tochi finally asked.
"Name's Crick. You?"
"Tochi."
The boy offered a hand. Tochi took it.
"You're gonna need help," Crick said. "You look like someone who doesn't even know how to breathe here."
"Feels like I don't," Tochi muttered.
He climbed out of the dumpster, his muscles weak but mind sharper than ever. The metal beneath his feet vibrated softly—nano currents pulsing like veins through the streets. Holographic signs floated in the air: BUY A NEW FACE TODAY. UPGRADE YOUR REALITY. SURRENDER IS FREEDOM.
He turned to Crick.
"What is this place?"
Crick shrugged.
"Grey. Just Grey. You'll see. Or maybe you won't. Depends how long you survive."