In the heart of the ruin, the cocoon began to crack, its shell splintering as though something inside was eager to escape. As the cracks widened, the figure inside became visible.

It was no longer the familiar boy, but a strange little girl stepping out—her delicate, porcelain face framed by white platinum hair that shimmered faintly, her skin as pale as untouched snow.

There was something wrong with her, something otherworldly. She seemed too pure, too ethereal, for this place—her beauty at odds with the ruinous decay surrounding her.

Her appearance felt like an anomaly in the midst of this broken world, as though a living angel had fallen into a nightmare.

"It’s all gone…" she murmured, her voice soft but haunting. She raised a small, trembling hand to her face, touching the smooth hand that had once been marred with wounds, only to find them gone.

Even the hollowness in her eyes had vanished, replaced with ruby-red orbs that gleamed with the intensity of freshly cut gemstones, gleaming too brightly for a place like this.

The girl tilted her head back and let out a soft, almost childlike laugh—a sound that would have been serene in any other place, but here it felt like an omen.

Her laughter was no longer the sound of a broken soul, but the crystalline ring of an angel’s cry.

"Where is it?" she whispered, her gaze sweeping the ruin. Her eyes narrowed, searching for the one thing she had come to find. But it wasn’t in sight.

"Huh?" Her voice faltered as she turned back toward the black cocoon.

Slowly, she made her way to the cocoon, her footsteps silent on the crumbling stone floor. There, resting at the base of the cocoon, was the object she had sought. A large book, its pages worn and ancient, lay untouched by time.

She picked it up carefully, her fingers brushing the cracked leather cover. A frown twisted her lips.

"This is?"

The book was split in two—its pages divided by a stark contrast. One side was white, blindingly so, while the other side was a dark, abyssal black.

On the white pages, the image of a clown slept, its painted face twisted in an eternal grimace. Red flames leaked from the clown's closed eyelids, licking the air like firebrands. A bright white flame swirled from its chest, glowing faintly in the dim light.

The clown's hands and feet were marked with empty sockets, four holes where something should have been.

On the black pages, the cover depicted an angel, serene and perfect, with a smile that promised salvation. But its wings—those were stained, tainted by an unnatural darkness.

The contrast between the angel's purity and the corruption of its wings was jarring. The girl reached to turn the pages, and while the white ones gave way easily, the black ones resisted.

They were glued together, as though they were forged from something more solid than mere paper—something more like stone, or brick.

She pressed harder, her small fingers trembling, but the black pages would not move. The black pages were sealed, its mysteries hidden beneath layers of resistance.

"Maybe reality is a little different from the game,” she mused, flipping through the book. The differences she was seeing weren’t as strange as her transformation and arrival in this cursed world.

She blinked, her fingers trailing over the smooth skin of her arms, so different, so soft. Her old body—her previous body—felt like a burden, like a mask she'd worn for too long.

But this? This was... right. She didn’t need to think too hard about it. It felt too natural, too easy. It was as though she had always been this small, delicate thing, made for darker places, for different rules. "I think... this is better," she murmured, her voice too soft for the world around her.

She was pulled from her thoughts by a sudden growl from her stomach.

“Hunger, huh?” she muttered, licking her lips. Somehow, she instinctively understood what would satisfy her, and an unexpected thrill ran through her.

"An old friend..." Her voice was a purr, as though savoring the thought. "I wonder if they're still as fun as I remember..."

The dark gleam in her eyes burned brighter, a trace of amusement curling at the corners of her lips. "Let's see what’s left to eat, shall we?"

The first thing she does upon reaching the surface is search for clothes. The thought of wandering naked through the ruined city is unbearable—unthinkable.

The landscape around her is barren and hostile, and she can’t afford to be vulnerable in such a state. She scans the area, her senses sharp and alert, until she finds a dress that seems to fit her new, smaller frame.

The garment, however, is soaked in red, the fabric stained deeply with the blood of its previous owner. Ashara hesitates, her fingers lingering on the hem. A strange unease tightens her chest as the weight of the dress’s history presses against her.

She is still a stranger in this new body, the echoes of her former self—her previous life as a boy—flickering like fleeting shadows in her mind.

The memories are fragmented, unclear, but they feel sharp, alien, like an old, forgotten language. She can’t quite understand them, but she can sense their weight.

She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. "Rest in peace," she mutters quietly, her voice barely a whisper. The words are a prayer, offered to the lost soul who once wore the dress.

Whether the words hold any meaning, she doesn’t know—but it feels right, like something she must do before moving forward.

With a final sigh, she slips the blood-stained dress over her head. The fabric feels soft against her skin, almost as if it were meant for her. As the dress settles in place, a strange calm washes over her.

The red stain, the reminder of death and loss, no longer feels like an intrusion. Instead, it feels like part of her now—an emblem of this new life, this new beginning.

Oddly at ease, she takes a step forward, her body and the dress now one. She moves with a quiet confidence, ready to face whatever comes next. She hums to herself, “La” A hauntingly sweet sound echoes through the shattered streets.

“My~ my.”

She glances up, noting the blood-red moon still hanging in the morning sky, casting an eerie light over everything. Inhaling deeply, the air prickling with radiation feels like a comforting scent of home.

Her humming turns to a playful tune as she skips down the empty streets, heading toward her destination—the only lit building in the city, A-34698/Department Store.

“Hehehe~ here I come,” she whispers, pushing the door open with eerie confidence. The automatic door chimes, its sound cheerful yet chilling against the silence. But this time, she doesn’t enter as prey; she is the predator now.

Inside, a ghostly white flame flares comes from the book she is holding, creating a screen that displays information about the anomaly she’s just encountered, along with its discovered rules.

“Hmmm~” she murmurs, focusing on the bottom of the screen: “2/2 rules discovered.” Her lips curl into a mocking smile.

“You’re finished~” she whispers, her eyes scanning the store’s shadowed aisles.

Her angelic voice rings through the air as her ruby eyes ignite with a fierce, red fire that spreads outward. Flames pour from her eye sockets, sweeping the store in waves of burning light.

Entity that had lurked in silence are forced to reveal themselves, twisting in agony, their forms scrambling as they try to attack. But they can’t reach her—no matter how they lash out, they remain trapped, unable to close the distance.

“Why’d you stop giggling?” Her voice dripped with venom, like a child teasing a broken toy. She cocked her head, lips curling into a cruel smile. "Did the fear finally choke on its own fun?"

“I’m full now~”

As the last ember of the department store fades to ash, a strange glow appears on the open book in her hands. Slowly, an image etches itself onto the first blank page—a haunting, precise depiction of the store, captured just as it had been before it was reduced to ruins. Shadows and details bloom in black and white, like an artist’s final impression of the place, frozen in time.

She watches in fascination as the page settles, the ink drying in silence, marking this place as conquered and bound within her grasp. She runs a finger over the image, a sense of satisfaction flickering in her ruby-red eyes.

The page feels cold under her touch, yet alive, pulsing with a faint, otherworldly energy.

“Perfect,” she whispers, a grin spreading across her face as she realizes the power the book is granting her—one page, one ruin at a time.

“Hehehe~ This fire is perfect for me.” she declares, her voice laced with a twisted joy. The flames flicker in her eyes, bright and consuming, as though her very gaze could set the world ablaze.

But her words hang in the air, their weight growing heavier, as if the darkness itself is listening. She doesn’t realize, in her newfound arrogance, just how naive she is. For the fire she wields—like this world she now inhabits—holds secrets far beyond her control.

She resumes her journey, moving through the city that has now become a twisted, forsaken home. The girl decides to find a place to settle down. After some wandering, she finds an old mansion on the outskirts.

The building is scarred by the aftermath of a nuclear blast, its walls crumbling and scorched, but to her, it’s perfect—a fitting sanctuary in a desolate world.

“Excuse me,” she murmurs, gently nudging the door of the mansion open and peeking inside. From the outside, the place is dilapidated, cracked stone and ivy crawling up the walls like veins. But within, the mansion is pristine, each surface dust-free, the floors polished to a high shine.

She mutters, “Did the owner manage to leave before everything…?” Her voice trails off as her eyes wander across the immaculate room.

Venturing further inside, she notices the scale of the place—echoing halls, endless rooms. There are three bedrooms: one master, one guest, and one obviously meant for a child. In the hallway, she pauses by a family portrait. A man, woman, and young girl smile warmly from the frame. Their closeness, their contentment, seems foreign to her, like a language she has never learned.

But something disturbs her. A cross, made of delicate feathers, is etched over the mother’s face. She squints, rubbing her eyes, as if to erase the image. Yet, when she looks again, the cross remains, stark against the woman’s pale skin.

“What…?” She frowns, unsettled. Summoning the book, she compares the feathered cross to an image on the cover—a dark-winged angel. The resemblance is uncanny. “They’re the same,” she whispers, a strange chill tightening around her heart.

Leaving the portrait behind, she steps into the master bedroom. She sinks onto the bed, letting the softness lull her into a state of calm, her anxiety lifting with each deep breath. For a moment, she forgets the strange cross, the whispers of dark memories.

“I survived,” she says softly, smiling. She places her hand on her chest, almost as if reaching for something she can’t quite grasp. Since arriving in this form, a certain feeling had vanished—an elusive presence within her, a warmth she yearns to reclaim.

She closes her eyes, drifting into sleep as silence envelops the mansion. Darkness, thick and cold, creeps into her dreams, swallowing her until she stands in a void—a place with neither sound nor light.

Two massive figures loom before her: a clown, asleep and grotesque, and a dark angel hunched over something on the ground. The air is thick and damp, suffused with a sickly sweet scent.

She steps forward, feeling an invisible pull toward the angel, which is… eating. A wet, visceral crunch fills the silence as it tears at the flesh of something beneath it.

As she inches closer, the angel stops, its head turning to reveal a face smeared with blood. A grin stretches across its face, sharp teeth glistening.

“Hi…hi…hi…” The laugh is guttural, wrong, and sends a shiver down her spine.

The angel watches her, amused, and resumes rummaging through the pile of flesh. Her heart pounds as she realizes what lies before it: dismembered human remains, a tangle of blood and muscle.

She bites down her nausea, but the angel’s mocking smile only widens, reveling in her horror.

Then, with a casual motion, it selects two small pieces from the pile and places them before her: a brain and a heart, both glistening and twitching as though still alive. The angel lifts a single finger, signaling her to choose.

Her mouth goes dry. She stares, entranced, the pulsing brain and heart like magnets pulling her forward. After a long, tense silence, she reaches out, trembling, and picks up the brain.

The angel’s grin deepens, satisfied. Without hesitation, it crushes the heart beneath its hand, blood seeping between its fingers. A terrifying realization blooms within her—here, the angel could end her just as easily.

It gestures for her to eat.

The girl gulps, her wide eyes fixed on the twitching brain before her. Her hands tremble as she reaches out, fingers digging into the soft tissue, feeling its unnatural warmth pulse against her skin. She closes her eyes, taking a shaky breath, then leans in and takes a bite.

The taste is iron and salt, thick on her tongue as blood drips down her chin, staining her clothes. She gnaws through the sinewy folds, driven by a strange compulsion she can't resist.

Each bite fills her mouth with that metallic warmth, and though her stomach churns, something inside urges her to keep going.

With every mouthful, a strange, hollow feeling spreads through her. The edges of her mind begin to blur, thoughts slipping away like water through her fingers. A chill seeps into her bones, as if part of her very self is fading with each bite.

The more she devours, the emptier she becomes, as if a piece of her essence—something crucial and fragile—is vanishing, swallowed up by the darkness.

At last, she finishes, her breath shallow, her hands stained red. The angel looms over her, its mouth curving into a twisted smile of satisfaction. With a delicate, almost gentle touch, it pats her head, its bloodied finger pressing against her hair. She feels the pressure like an unspoken command, a terrible approval.

Then, as if dismissing her, the angel turns back to its own grotesque feast, leaving her alone in the dark.

She stumbles back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, breath hitching as she stares down at her blood-streaked clothes. She feels different, hollow and fragile, like something precious has been taken from her.

“Hah…”

She gasps, her chest heaving, as if she’s surfaced from drowning. The world around her snaps into focus—the soft bed, the gentle glow from a lone lamp, the mansion walls that once felt safe.

She’s still here, still in the mansion, yet the remnants of her dream cling to her like shadows, too vivid to dismiss as mere imagination.

It was real. It had to be.

Her hands clutch at her arms, gripping tight, her body trembling uncontrollably. The room’s stillness presses in, amplifying the rapid beat of her heart. She shivers, but it’s not just from the fear.

There’s something else mixed in—a dark thrill coiling within her, something hot and feverish. Her fear, her helplessness, the horror—it all lingers like a powerful drug, pulsing through her veins.

A twisted smile creeps onto her lips as she realizes, in a way that terrifies and exhilarates her, she wants to feel it again. The helplessness, the raw terror—it’s a craving, gnawing at her, an unnameable need that makes her skin prickle.

She closes her eyes, as if savoring the aftertaste of her nightmare, feeling its dark thrill tugging her deeper into a part of herself she’s never known.