A five-year-old child, gripped with fear, dashed downstairs. In the lounge, his mother sat engrossed in the TV. "Mom!" He called out in distress.

Turning towards him, she noticed his trembling form, tears streaming down his cheeks. "What happened?" Concern filled her voice as she pulled him into a tight embrace. Silent and tearful, the child clung to her, seeking solace.
"Did you have a bad dream? It's okay, I'm here," she reassured, but his tears continued to flow. All she could do was hold him close. "Now, honey, tell me what's wrong?" Her voice softened, trying to coax out an explanation. Gently wiping his tears, she noticed his pallid complexion and then saw his hands stained in red. "Blood?" Her eyes widened, and she urgently inspected his hands for any signs of injury. But there was none. Confusion etched her face as she tried to comprehend why his hands were stained with blood.

"Mom... I... I'm sorry," he sobbed, struggling to articulate through his tears. "Ed... Edward..."

"What happened to Edward?" Her pulse quickened, a growing sense of unease settling within her.

"I... I..." he stammered.

"Tell me!" she urged, her voice fraught with worry.

"I killed him," he confessed, breaking down into tears once more.

"What are you saying? Are you in your senses?" She shook him, hoping it was a misunderstanding.

"It wasn't my fault," he struggled to say between sobs. "He refused to play with me... It wasn't my fault."

She pushed him aside and hurried upstairs, bursting into the room.
"Edward! Open your eyes!" she pleaded, shaking her son. Covered in blood, he had succumbed to the battle for life.

"Mom..." The other child entered the room.

Without glancing at him, tears streamed endlessly down her cheeks.

"Mom, why are you crying?" He approached, concerned.

"Look what you've done! I feared this day from the very start! You are a monster! A monster!" Her hysterical shout pierced the air.

"Don't say that, mommy." He retrieved a knife from his pocket. "I'm a good boy, mommy, am I not?"
He advanced towards her. As he did, she looked into his eyes, now a fiery red. Fear drained her complexion as she stood petrified, backing away only to find a wall behind her.
"I am a good boy, mommy. You need not worry. I'll lessen your pain."

"Stay away!" she screamed. "Spencer! Eric! Ailin! Someone, save me!"

"No one will come. They are all in eternal sleep," the child said, advancing towards her. His expression was blank, as if in a trance.

"No way," she stammered, covering her mouth in shock.

"You hate me, mommy. Don't you? I hate you too. I hate all of you." The child's expression darkened as he plunged the knife. A piercing shriek echoed through the room, jolting Zac out of his haunting nightmare.

Zac woke up trembling, his heart racing as if it might burst out of his chest. The nightmare had left him drenched in sweat, clinging to his bedsheet. His breathing was heavy, and his eyes darted around the room, trying to shake off the lingering fear.
Shaking his head to dispel the haunting remnants of the dream, Zac sat up, trying to calm his racing thoughts. "It's not real. I know that. I won't let these false images affect me," he reassured himself, taking deep breaths to regain his composure, the words barely a comfort against the eerie images still etched in his mind.

"You're destined to be a murderer. You can't escape your fate," a haunting voice echoed in his ears.

"You're wrong," he mumbled, clutching his aching head.

"This is your truth. You better accept it."

"Enough!" he shouted, his voice cracking with frustration.

Something crashed, prompting him to scan the room. In that instant, he realized the room was engulfed in darkness. "A power outage?" he pondered, fumbling in search of his mobile phone. But it seemed to have vanished, his mind still foggy from sleep. It must have been around 1 or 2 am, he guessed. The faint glow of the moonlight seeped through the window, casting a dim illumination across the room.
Suddenly, he tensed, his gaze fixated on the door. A figure stood there. Blinking, he rubbed his eyes and peered again. There was indeed someone present, their face obscured as they stood facing the door.

"Who's there?" he asked in a clear, loud voice.

A female voice spoke, "So, you're the new one around here, huh? People tend to avoid this place because I tend to disturb them."
She turned toward him, taking few steps. He glared back. She wore a white cloak, her hair a pale white and her eyes a piercing gold.

"Now I have to deal with this nonsense," he muttered to himself.

"Would you mind staying a bit longer? I'd like you to hear my story. I am..."

"What do you mean by a bit longer? It's my room. I'm not going anywhere," he interjected.

She glared at him briefly, then let out a giggle.
"So, who do you think I am? Not all ghosts are harmless."

"Ghost, huh?" His expression remained stoic.

"Yeah, consider your words carefully," she said, arms crossed.

"I don't believe in ghosts. To me, you're just a thief who invaded my room," he shrugged.

"It's my room, and I won't permit anyone to stay here," she insisted firmly.

He sighed, letting several seconds pass before he asked, "Are you truly deceased?"

"Finally acknowledging it! I am indeed dead," she replied, a wicked smile spreading across her face.

"This world isn't for the departed. All progress is for the living," he remarked.

"What do you mean by that?" She peered into his eyes, seeking clarification.

"Death concludes a life and severs all connections to this world and everything within it. Whether you were a king or a beggar in your past life, once you're dead, you're disconnected from this world and its possessions," he explained, but she remained perplexed.

He sighed before speaking firmly, "To put it simply, this room belongs to me because I'm still alive. I've paid the rent as well. You, on the other hand, are dead, so return to your world; the World of the Dead."

Her expression turned blank. "Why? Why aren't you afraid of me? I am a ghost," she murmured.

He heard her words and stood up, stepping in front of her.

"I believe the dead can't be brought back to life. That's my conviction," he said in a low, serious tone.

She glared at him, noticing his slightly gloomy expression. Both of them fell into a silence that lingered for a few seconds before she broke it.

"You've truly left me speechless. I surrender," she confessed, dropping the pretense of being a ghost.

He stayed silent, heading towards the door. "Would you mind leaving now?" he asked, opening it.

"Huh? Don't you want to know why I've been doing this?" She followed him.

"No. Just leave," he replied, sounding annoyed.

Her gaze remained fixed on him.

"What now?" he inquired.

"I don't know where to go. I have no home. This is the only place I've lived in for a long time," She revealed, her voice tinged with uncertainty,

"Jeez! It's none of my business. Do you even know what time of night it is? First, you broke into my room, then you made me listen to your nonsense, and now I'm supposed to tell you where to go too? It's generous of me to have tolerated you until now. Maybe it's time you stop testing my patience and leave already," he said angrily.

"I want you to hear my story. I'll leave after that. I promise," she pleaded.

His expression softened as her face turned grim, tears streaming down. He sighed.

"Okay, fine. Tell me whatever you want to share. But afterward, you can't stay here any longer," he conceded.

He closed the door, flicked on the light, and headed for the bed, gesturing for her to sit. She smiled gratefully, taking a seat as he joined her. After a few moments of silence, she began,

"You are the first person who has shown-"

"Just tell me about yourself," he interjected.

She smiled softly. "I've been residing in this room for the last three years. I truly have no home of my own. My parents sold me for money. As if money is worth more than one's own child. The buyer was an awful person, a notorious smuggler. Sensing his evil intentions, I fled. Lost and homeless, I wandered, finding no shelter. I resorted to stealing for food, but it was insufficient. Sleeping under the sky was uncomfortable. I became a thief, purchasing essentials with the stolen money. But it was never enough. I wasn't a skilled thief," she paused, with him attentively listening.

"One day, I overheard two girls discussing the suicide of a girl who lived in this room. An idea struck me. I decided to pose as her ghost, hoping to peacefully reside here. Since then, I've been unsettling anyone who enters. I cherish this room; it's my sole sanctuary. The management locked the door from outside, so I use this window for entry and exit," she finished.

Moments lingered before he rose. "So, you still steal to survive."

"Yeah, it's the only way," she replied, her face flushing with embarrassment inexplicably.

"You're mistaken," he countered.

Her eyes shifted toward him at his unexpected statement.

"If you believe this is your sole option, you're mistaken. Instead of resorting to stealing, you could have pursued a different path. Channel your intellect and abilities towards something more positive. But that's not my concern. Do as you wish."

He reached for his phone lying on the cushion's edge, tapping the screen to reveal the time. It glowed, displaying 3:46 am. With a sigh, he glanced at her.

"I don't know what else to do. Please, tell me," she asked, her voice low and despondent.

"First, get a grip on yourself," he replied, moving towards the door.

"Where are you off to?" she inquired.

"For a morning walk," he responded, turning to face her. "Make sure you're gone before I return."

"A morning walk? But it's not even dawn yet," she remarked.

"Just try to get some sleep. Children shouldn't be up this late at night," he retorted, avoiding eye contact. He wasn't sure himself why he couldn't just ask her to leave.

"Children? Do I appear as a child to you, Mister? Come to think of it, we haven't properly introduced ourselves. I'm Abby Abner."

"Zac."

"So, Zac, you're a good and kind person," she smiled.

"Don't misunderstand. You've got a few more hours. It's up to you whether you sleep or find another place," he said coldly, leaving the room.

He remained drowsy, sensing a tightness at the back and sides of his head. Rubbing his eyes, he ambled through the corridor, finally reaching the ground. Darkness still enveloped the surroundings. Settling onto the grass, he inhaled the refreshing air, his breaths slow and steady. Eventually, he drifted into a deep slumber.

☆☆☆

Suddenly, a bucket of icy water drenched Zac, jolting him awake. His soaked clothes clung uncomfortably as he sat up. The sun had already risen, and as he looked up, he spotted Takato and Drew, both laughing at him.

"So, it's them," he frowned, rising to his feet.

Their laughter continued, mocking him, but Zac chose to say nothing and walked away. People along the way stared and laughed, amplifying his discomfort. Hurrying, he reached his room, muttering about the situation.

As he rummaged through the closet for clothes, his eyes caught sight of the mirror. His face flushed red with embarrassment; someone had drawn black triangles above and below both his eyes, painted two large red circles on his cheeks, and inscribed 'mad' on his forehead. His lips were coated in purple. Understanding the reason behind everyone's amusement, he muttered, "Those jerks."

It was clear who planned the prank. Zac rushed to the washroom, soaping his face. However, when he turned on the tap to rinse, the water gushed out muddy. Despite running it for several minutes, it remained unchanged.

"Seriously!" He hurried to the lower floor's washroom, ignoring the stares and laughs. But even there, not a drop of water flowed.

"What's happening in this place?" he muttered in frustration.

Needing to clean up, he headed to the ground floor. However, the washroom door was locked with a 'NOT FOR USE' sign. He sighed, sensing his anger rise. Turning, he encountered Ayumi and others, knowing they were behind this. Enduring their mockery, Zac offered a nonchalant shrug before leaving.

Pausing while climbing upstairs, he noticed the absence of people around. Muttering, "Instant Transmission," Zac vanished, reappearing in a familiar yet unfamiliar room. As the door swung open, locking eyes with someone who entered, a moment of recognition passed between them.

"Aaa! Mom! Mom!" Hiyono's shout echoed through the room.

"Cut it out, you goofball! It's me," he yelled, covering his ears.

She glared at him briefly, then burst into laughter. He watched her for a moment before heading towards the washroom. Despite washing his face repeatedly, the marker wouldn't budge. Frustrated, he called out to Hiyono.

As she appeared in the doorway, he grumbled, "This stuff won't come off."

"Don't tell me you came here to wash your face," she giggled.

"No luck getting it off," he complained while still rubbing his face.

'"Wait a sec," she said, disappearing. After a few minutes, she returned with a bottle in hand. "Use this."

He accepted it cautiously. "What's this?" he asked.

"Magic potion," she chirped playfully.

After examining it, he poured a bit onto his hand. Testing it, he found it effectively removed the paint. Letting out a sigh of relief, he dried his face with a towel.
They both settled on the couch in the living room.

"Where's Mom?" he asked.

"She's gone shopping. Now spill it! What happened?" Her excitement was palpable.

"Has anything happened?" He asked, teasing Hiyono while keeping the real matter to himself, his hand casually resting on his chin.

""Zac!"

"Yes?" He appeared casually calm.

She feigned anger and stood up.

"Bring me a glass of juice," he said.

Without a word, she left, leaving him certain she would return. After a while, she reappeared with a glass of juice, handing it to him as she settled beside him again.

"There's a water shortage at the hostel," he told her. Finishing the glass in one gulp, he looked at her, questioning her amusement. "What's so funny?"

"You're something else, Zac! Going from Tokyo to Osaka just to wash your face-there's no one like you," she exclaimed, clapping in amazement.

He managed a small, fake smile. Over the past year, he'd mastered the art of pretending. He didn't want to hurt them anymore.

"He finally smiled," she thought, beaming with happiness. She didn't ask about the paint on his face. She was content because he seemed more like his old self again. The psychiatrist's advice had worked.

"Give him some space. Let him interact with others; it might help him forget this incident," the psychiatrist had suggested.

"Let me bring you something to eat. You must be hungry. You're going back tomorrow, right?" she asked as she stood up.

"Yeah," he replied. Staying put was his only choice. Using instant transmission twice daily was too draining in terms of energy.

"Alright," she smiled and headed to the kitchen.

He observed her departure, silently acknowledging the temporary respite these moments offered before returning to the solitude that awaited him.

☆☆☆