Kaito presses his back against the cold stone. His hand finds the hilt of his compass—useless for navigation now. He uses it to check his own pulse. 142. Too high. He forces a slow exhale.
His own reflection stares back. Same tired face. Same scar above his eyebrow. Same ink stains.
But the mud beside his boot has a fresh footprint. Too long. Too many toes. The toes are smiling —little curved indents where they should be straight.
"It's shaped like a mouth."
A long pause.
Nothing there.
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