The ceiling fan above Kamazaki's bed spun in slow, lazy circles. It groaned on every rotation, like it, too, was tired of pretending everything was normal.
Kamazaki lay beneath it, eyes wide open, unmoving.
The world outside his window was loud. A dog barking. A car alarm wailing. Somewhere down the block, a drunk man shouting into the night.
But in his room? Silence.
A heavy, creeping silence that slithered across the floor like smoke. Familiar. Too familiar.
Kamazaki blinked once, slowly, and turned his head.
The mirror across from his bed reflected a pale boy—sixteen, tall for his age, sharp-featured. His black hair clung to his face in a tangle of sweat and oil. But it was the eyes that always caught people off guard.
Cold. Distant. Wrong.
He stared at himself for a long time. Then, that expressionless face curved upward.
A smile.
Thin. Gentle. Almost innocent.
Almost.
He hated it.
With a frustrated grunt, Kamazaki sat up and grabbed his desk chair. He spun it around and sat backwards on it, elbows on the backrest, chin resting on folded hands. The mirror still stared at him. Still smiling.
"You're not real," he muttered to the reflection. "You're just a symptom."
That's what Dr. Yano had said. A symptom. A projection of the internal disorder. Detachment from consequence. Obsession with control. A fetish for silence.
That was the word the doctor used.
A fetish.
Kamazaki closed his eyes. His stomach turned. He wasn't sick—he was broken.
"Kamazaki," his mother's voice called softly through the door. "Dinner's ready."
He flinched. Guilt burned behind his ribs like acid.
"Coming," he replied, voice calm, steady—practiced.
The Kamazaki family was average. Respectable. Loving. And from the outside, happy.
His father was a high school teacher. His mother stayed home to take care of the house. His little sister, Miri, was nine—too bright for her own good. Too curious. Too trusting.
They all sat at the small square dining table, the TV murmuring in the background.
Kamazaki joined them, sliding into his seat. His mother smiled and placed rice, miso soup, and grilled fish in front of him.
He forced himself to smile back. He was good at pretending.
"How was school?" his father asked, spoon halfway to his mouth.
Kamazaki shrugged. "Fine."
"Just fine?"
Kamazaki nodded, chewing slowly. His mother watched him more closely than usual.
"You look tired," she said.
"I'm fine."
Liar.
Miri giggled. "Onii-chan probably stayed up late watching horror movies again!"
He glanced at her. Her innocence hurt more than any punishment ever could.
"Yeah. Something like that."
He didn't watch horror movies. He didn't need to. His dreams were worse.
After dinner, He helped clear the table. His mother touched his shoulder lightly.
"You're shaking again," she whispered. "Are you… okay?"
He hesitated, then nodded. "Just cold."
She didn't believe him. But she didn't press. She never did.
Back in his room, he stared at the ceiling again. The fan was still spinning. Still groaning.
He opened his nightstand drawer and pulled out the old pocketknife. It was dull now. Harmless. He kept it to remind himself what he wasn't allowed to become again.
The first time had been an accident. He was eleven. A classmate had pushed him too far. Something inside He snapped. There was blood, a scream, a teacher pulling him back.
Therapy. Diagnosis. Suppression.
But the second time?
There was no accident.
No push.
Just silence. And a smile.
He didn't want to kill.
But he wanted to want it. That was the difference.
He stood and walked to the mirror. The reflection did the same.
He raised the knife slowly.
The reflection smiled.
"I'm going to be better," Kamazaki whispered.
The reflection said nothing.
He stared at himself until the smile faded. Then, he put the knife away and crawled into bed.
Tomorrow would be better.
It had to be.
The Next Morning
He walked to school alone. He always did.
Crowds made him feel like a monster hiding among sheep. One wrong move, one nudge, one sharp breath in the wrong direction… and it would all spill out.
But he liked the cold air. It made him feel clean.
As he walked past the convenience store, he noticed the old man who always sat by the side door. The man was muttering again, scratching his neck raw.
He paused.
The man looked up, bloodshot eyes wide. "You've got it in you, boy. I see it."
He didn't answer.
"Dark thing. Hungry thing. You smile like it's not there, but it's always there."
He met the man's gaze, and for a second, he felt seen.
Truly, horribly seen.
He walked away without a word.
At school, everything was normal.
Teachers lectured. Students laughed. Life went on.
But beneath the surface of normalcy, His's mind churned. Every second was a war.
Don't stare too long. Don't grip the pen too tightly. Don't imagine slashing throats.
He walked through hallways like a ghost, a beautiful lie in human skin.
That night, it happened again.
He woke up on the floor. The knife was in his hand. The mirror was shattered.
And on the wall, scratched in faint lines only visible when the light hit just right:
"Don't smile."
His hand was bleeding. His mouth hurt.
He touched his lips.
He was smiling in his sleep again.