Chapter 11: The Perfect Lie

The hum of the capsule's deactivation was the only sound that greeted Yuto as his vision slowly faded from the virtual world of Nihilos into the familiar, dim glow of his bedroom. The scent of his worn blanket, the flickering light through his old curtains—it all felt painfully real. But something had changed. His body didn't feel as sore. His bruises from the bullies at school weren't throbbing. In fact, he didn't feel anything at all. Not numb. Not tired. Just... still.

He sat up slowly, glancing at the mirror across the room. His eyes—once dull and defeated—had an unnatural sharpness now, like they could cut through illusion. He leaned closer. Something behind his pupils shimmered faintly, like static on a screen.

Downstairs, his mother called out, her voice soft and distant. "Yuto! Hurry, or you'll miss school!"

He stood, legs steady and light. No ache. No heaviness. Like the body had synced with something else—stronger, lighter.

His sister passed him in the hallway, pausing for a moment. "...Yuto?"

He blinked. "What?"

She stared. "You look different."

He forced a smile. "Slept better, I guess."

But something in her eyes lingered a second too long. Like she didn't fully recognize him. Or maybe she did—and wasn't supposed to.

School felt like a blur. The same classrooms. Same cold glares. The bullies in the hall bumped his shoulder as usual. But this time... he didn't even flinch. One of them glanced back, confused.

"Yo, did he bulk up or something?"

"I dunno. He's not limping anymore."

They left it alone.

The teacher called him by name. "Yuto Kurogane."

He answered automatically. But in the back of his mind, something clicked.

That name… hadn't been used in the system. Not once.

No one called him that there. Not even himself.

Yuto said nothing. Just walked. Calm. Inside, he could feel something shifting. Whispering. As if a part of Nihilos was still with him—watching.

During lunch, he overheard someone saying, "Hey… isn't there a weird blackout happening across town?"

Another voice chimed in. "My cousin said a bunch of capsule users are glitching out—some couldn't log out. Some don't even remember logging in."

Yuto looked up slowly. No one noticed.

A bird fluttered across the classroom window—but stuttered midair, wings glitching for a fraction of a second before continuing.

No one else noticed.

Back at home, the hallway light flickered. When he passed by the living room, his mother was staring at the TV—but the screen was off. Her eyes didn't blink. As soon as he turned, she smiled.

"Dinner will be ready soon," she said cheerfully.

He nodded, but kept walking.

That night, he lay in bed, eyes wide open, unable to sleep. As he stared at the ceiling, a soft, chilling voice echoed in the room. Not from the system. Not from a dream.

"You have to wake up."

He shot upright.

But the room was empty.

And so was he.

He slowly turned toward his capsule. The screen was off. The interface—blank.

Just one faint blinking light remained.

[Yuto... still inside.]