Chapter 319

Tokyo was a city of noise, lights, and faces lost to the throng. But deep within its veins, something else simmered beneath the hum of life. It started in a lab, far from the eyes of the public. No one noticed the crackling of life slipping through the cracks until it was too late.

The virus they had made, the one they thought would never leave, was called the Impact Virus. It had no cure, no antidote, just a slow burn of madness, destruction, and death.

The virus found its way into the hands of a man with no name, just a face. A face people forgot until it was too late. He was a psychoman, a creature of disorder, a man lost between the world and the next. His motives, like his past, were a fog of silence. No one understood him. They couldn't.

He moved like a shadow through the streets of Tokyo, the crowded city oblivious to the storm about to tear through it. The virus spread from person to person, unnoticed at first. Then it began to show. The first victim was a businessman, his suit stained with blood from his own mouth, coughing like a sick dog.

His eyes were wide, frozen in horror as if he knew what was happening but couldn't stop it. His body twitched in unnatural spasms before collapsing, as if a part of him was trying to fight the disease, but it was already too far gone.

The man watched from a distance. His face, pale and expressionless, reflected none of the fear the world felt. He knew what he was doing. He didn't care. Every time someone fell, every time someone succumbed to the virus, he felt nothing. Tokyo's streets would become a wasteland of bodies and empty eyes.

The impact of the virus wasn't just physical; it shattered the mind, turning everyone into a beast. No one could escape it.

The news spread, of course, like a wildfire. There was no containment, no hospitals left untouched. Families turned on each other, screaming and fighting. Children ran from their parents, who had already changed, eyes wild, hands shaking as if the very touch of their skin was burning. Society crumbled in a matter of hours.

The city's once-pristine buildings became towering tombs, now silent and empty, their walls scarred with the echoes of violence.

He moved from district to district, never in a rush, never hurried. He was a ghost, haunting the streets, watching as the virus did its work. He'd pass people who hadn't yet succumbed, their faces hollow with fear, their bodies trembling with the knowledge that they couldn't run from it. And with each step, the city became quieter, more abandoned, the streets littered with corpses and broken dreams.

By the time the sun dipped beneath the horizon, Tokyo was almost unrecognizable. The lights that once defined it were now cold, their glow casting an unnatural pallor on the destruction below.

The psychoman walked through this new world, indifferent to the chaos, his mind only focused on one thing: the spreading of the virus. It had no cure, no remedy. No one could save themselves from it.

He found a woman, huddled in an alleyway, her eyes wide with fear. She hadn't yet seen what he had done, hadn't yet experienced the horror of the virus tearing apart the very essence of who she was. She didn't know what to make of him, but she knew instinctively that he was not someone to be trusted.

The woman stumbled back, her hands shaking as she reached for the bottle of water in her bag. Her eyes darted around, trying to find an escape. But the psychoman didn't speak, didn't need to. The virus did all the talking for him.

The woman's breath hitched in her throat as she realized what was happening. Her body began to tremble, her skin going pale as the virus took hold. She fell to her knees, coughing violently, her mind spinning, a twisted symphony of terror and confusion playing in her head.

He watched her for a moment, his face blank, as the life drained from her. The virus had done its job. She wasn't the first, and she wouldn't be the last. She was just another casualty in a world that didn't care anymore.

The city was breaking apart. It wasn't just the people, it was the very fabric of life itself. Buildings crumbled under the weight of time and decay. The streets, once crowded with noise and life, were now empty. The air smelled of death, a thick, metallic taste lingering in the back of the throat. Every corner, every street was a reminder of what had been lost.

Tokyo had become a graveyard.

And yet, the psychoman walked on. He didn't care. He didn't need to. He was the end, the conclusion to everything. And when the last scream had faded, when the last breath had been taken, when the last light had dimmed, he would still be there. Waiting.

Time was irrelevant. He had no place in it. He was above it. His work was not done. Not yet.

The people who had once filled the city were now gone, their bodies scattered, their minds lost in the madness the virus had brought. The air was thick with the scent of decay, the sound of distant cries fading into the dark. The psychoman's steps echoed in the empty streets, a rhythm that mirrored the ticking of a clock, the final moments before the city would crumble to dust.

But there was something different now. Something that changed as the last few survivors, those too weak to escape, began to succumb to the disease. There was a scream in the night, not of terror but of hopelessness, as a man stumbled forward, his face pale and his eyes wide with dread.

The psychoman approached, his footsteps soft against the pavement. He reached out a hand, his fingers brushing the man's cheek, cold as ice. The man shuddered, his body trembling in fear. But the psychoman didn't move. He didn't need to. The virus had already begun its work.

The man's chest tightened, his breaths shallow, as if something was suffocating him from the inside. His mind began to unravel, the virus taking root in his thoughts. He couldn't fight it. His body twitched as if responding to some unseen force. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Only a sickening gasp, a last desperate cry for help.

But the psychoman wasn't there to help.

The man's eyes rolled back into his head, his body stiffening in a final, painful spasm. And then he collapsed, his soul ripped from his body by the madness the virus had wrought.

It was only then that the psychoman felt it. A crack. Something in him broke, something fragile and thin, like the last thread of sanity in a world gone mad. He had done it. He had killed them all. The virus, the chaos, it was all him. And yet, it wasn't enough. It could never be enough.

He stumbled back, his mind spinning. His hands trembled, blood still warm on his fingertips. His reflection in a shattered window caught his eye. He didn't see a man. He saw nothing.

The coldness of the night wrapped around him, the silence of the city pressing in on him. But it was the silence that hurt. It hurt because he was alone. Alone in a world that had forgotten what it was like to live. And for the first time, the psychoman felt fear. Not for himself, but for the world he had destroyed.

He dropped to his knees, the virus inside him now, coursing through his veins. His body felt heavy, numb. The chaos that he had spread, the destruction he had caused, it all came crashing down on him. He had no purpose now. The world was gone, and he was just a shadow, a remnant of something that had once been.

His breathing slowed, his vision darkened. And in that moment, the psychoman finally understood what it was like to die. Not from the virus, but from the emptiness that comes after. The world had fallen apart, and he was the last piece to be forgotten.

And then, as he sank into the cold, silent night, there was nothing left but the sound of his heart slowing down, his breath faltering, and the dark void swallowing him whole.