The ticking was gone.
No hum from the fridge.No buzz from the streetlamp.No faint rumble from the neighbor's TV.
Just… silence.
Arai Masaki opened his eyes, expecting to see the white paint of his ceiling, the cracks near the window, the half-open curtain. Instead, he saw—nothing. A pale, endless white.
He sat up in a world with no walls, no ground, no sky.
His breath didn't echo. It simply vanished.
Was this a dream?
No… it felt too real.Too still.Too… deliberate.
He reached up to touch his face. His skin felt the same. Sweat still clung to his shirt, like he had just woken up from a nap on a summer day.
But his body told him otherwise. His muscles tensed. Instinct screamed.
"Something's off."
He stood. His feet didn't sink or press against anything—just a smooth, invisible surface. No wind, no heat, no cold. He moved carefully, every step measured.
"Don't panic. Observe. Breathe."
His heart wasn't racing. He didn't allow it.
The last thing he remembered was writing in his notebook… turning off the light… and sitting in the dark.
Then—nothing.
"So either I'm dreaming... or I've died."
He let that thought hang, just long enough to accept it. But not long enough to be consumed by it.
Then he heard it.
A voice.
Not from the air.Not from around him.
From inside him.
"We apologize for the inconvenience. This is a one-way transfer."
He blinked.
"…What?"
The voice was calm, almost synthetic, like an announcement on a train platform.
"You have been relocated. You are not the chosen one. You will not be given a gift. You are not needed. You are not special. We apologize."
A beat.
"This world has rejected you. But it could not refuse you."
Arai stood still, listening, frowning.
"…Okay," he said quietly. "Then I'll figure the rest out myself."
There was no reply.
The silence returned—deep, wide, suffocating.
And then—light.
It slammed into him.
A rush of color, noise, and gravity. His body twisted as if thrown through a whirlpool. His limbs were weightless, spinning. His stomach flipped. He didn't scream.
He gritted his teeth, held his arms close, and braced for impact.
Then—darkness again.
Then—mud.
He hit the ground hard, shoulder-first, rolling across wet grass and dirt. Rain was falling—cold and unforgiving. His hoodie soaked instantly. He gasped, coughed, then rolled onto his back, staring up at a storm-filled sky.
Wind howled through tall trees.
Somewhere in the distance, wolves howled back.
Arai lay there, catching his breath, feeling the sting of the world around him.
He blinked, rainwater running into his eyes.
He could smell it.
Earth. Real. Tangible.
He sat up.
"I'm not dreaming."
"And this isn't Japan."
He checked his pockets. Phone—gone. Wallet—gone. Notebook—gone. But his clothes were the same. His body was intact.
He flexed his fingers.
No power.
No magic.
Just muscle.
The sound of something moving in the trees made him stand.
Fast.
His stance dropped low, body balanced on instinct.
He saw eyes in the dark—small, glowing, moving.
He took a deep breath.
No weapon.
No defense.
Just him.
But he didn't run.
Because in that moment, a part of him whispered:
"If this is a world that didn't want me…"
"…Then I'll give it a reason to regret it."