Chapter 1
It was 16:02, two minutes past the scheduled appointment time. Dr. Kureha Yaegashi glanced at the clock, feeling a subtle pang of annoyance, though she tried not to let it consume her. Instead, she turned her attention to the serene image on her desktop—a masterpiece by Monet. The soft strokes of the bridge spanning the pond of lilies seemed to calm her, providing a fleeting escape from the unpredictability of her work.
What could have happened? Kureha mused, her thoughts beginning to wander. Before she could dwell further, the door creaked open, snapping her back to the present. A man stepped hesitantly into the room, his presence almost ghostlike. According to his file, he was twenty-six years old, though his frail frame and pallid complexion made him seem older. His anxious expression betrayed a mind weighed down by unseen burdens.
“Please, come in,” Kureha greeted softly, her voice warm and inviting. “I’m Doctor Yaegashi, but you’re welcome to call me Kureha if that feels more comfortable.”
The man nodded, his movements stiff and uncertain. “I-It’s nice to meet you, Kureha-san,” he stammered. His gaze avoided hers, his fingers nervously tugging at the frayed edge of his sleeve.
“Would you like to take a seat?” Kureha gestured to the chair opposite her desk. He nodded again and shuffled toward it, sinking down as if the simple act required great effort. A tense silence followed, broken only by the rhythmic bouncing of his knee—a telltale sign of his unease.
Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “My mother thinks I’m crazy. She says... she says it’s because of my mourning. That I’m losing touch with reality.”
Kureha tilted her head slightly, her gaze kind but probing. “Mourning? If you’re comfortable sharing, could you elaborate on that?”
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. “My sister... she... she committed suicide a few weeks ago.”
Kureha felt her chest tighten. She took a slow, measured breath, striving to maintain her professional composure. “I’m deeply sorry for your loss,” she said gently. “I hope my earlier question didn’t cause you discomfort.”
“It’s fine,” he muttered, his tone flat. He offered no further explanation, his eyes fixed on the floor.
After a moment, Kureha resumed. “Would you mind elaborating on your mother’s perspective? Why does she believe you’re... disconnected?”
His lips parted as if to speak, but for a moment, no sound came out. Then, with a shaky inhale, he began. “You think you’re free, don’t you? Sitting here, asking me questions like this.” His voice trembled, rising with a strange intensity. “But you’re not. None of us are.”
Kureha’s pen hovered over her notebook, her interest piqued. “What do you mean by that?” she asked, keeping her tone even.
A bitter smile flickered across his face. “There’s someone—something—controlling us. Everything we say, everything we do. It’s not real. We’re just... puppets. Pieces in a game.”
The room seemed to shrink, the weight of his words thickening the air. Kureha forced herself to remain calm, her grip on the pen tightening imperceptibly. “A game? Who is controlling us?” she pressed.
Shinseki’s hollow gaze met hers for the first time, sending a chill down her spine. “The Master of Puppets,” he whispered.
The silence that followed was deafening, as if the room itself were holding its breath. Kureha leaned forward slightly, her curiosity battling with a growing unease. “And what is this Master of Puppets?”
He raised his trembling hands, miming the pulling of strings. “They see everything. They control everyone. They’ve been here since the beginning, watching, shaping... playing.” His voice cracked, the fear in his eyes almost infectious. “We’re all part of Yuugi.”
“Yuugi?” Kureha echoed, her pulse quickening despite her composed exterior.
Shinseki nodded fervently, his movements erratic. “Yes! You, me, everyone outside this room—we’re all pieces on a board. None of this is real. The Master of Puppets pulls the strings. We’re just their entertainment.”
Kureha scribbled furiously in her notebook, capturing every word. There was a conviction in his voice that made his delusions feel disturbingly tangible. “How do you know this?” she asked, her voice steady but tinged with genuine curiosity.
“I saw it,” Shinseki replied, his tone dropping to a near-whisper. “In my dreams. Every night, the same thing.”
He paused, his fingers twitching nervously, before continuing. “I walk through a forest. It’s silent—too silent. The trees... they’re drained of color, like a lifeless painting. And then, it happens. A glitch, like... like a broken screen. Everything changes. I’m standing on a chessboard, massive and endless. Someone’s there—a figure, enormous, towering over me. I can’t move. I can only watch as they reach down. My sister... she’s there too, but she’s not alive. She’s a statue, and they... they flick her off the board like she’s nothing.”
Kureha’s hand froze momentarily before she resumed writing. The vividness of his description sent a shiver through her. “And then what happens?”
“The scene shifts again,” he murmured, his eyes wide and unblinking. “Another figure appears, surrounded by mist. They’re... they’re different. Powerful. They call themselves Ningyoutsukai. The Master of Puppets. They whispered to me, ‘You are not free. None of you are. You are pawns in Yuugi.’” He swallowed hard, his voice breaking. “And then I wake up.”
Kureha’s pen paused mid-stroke as she looked up at him. His gaze was distant, haunted, yet his words carried a strange weight. “Kureha-san,” he muttered, his voice trembling, “we’re all just pawns. All of us. Just... entertainment for them.”
