January 27, 2025 — 6:42 AM (local time)
The voices were back. Not fuzzy. Not dreamed. Just there, in his head. It had started last night. Or the night before. He couldn’t remember. People he didn’t know. Talking like it was normal. Names, cities, ages. Lined up like some old casting call.
And what the hell am I supposed to do with that?
He’d gotten dressed without thinking. Everything was normal—except him. The Book waited, placed like a provocation. He picked it up. Stared at it.
"You only talk when I’m asleep? Scared of something, daylight?"
He opened it. Blank page. Of course.
"Still playing diva."
He sat for a moment, the Book on his knees.
They introduced themselves. So fine. I’ll play along.
He inhaled. Closed his eyes.
Noah Delgado. Seventeen. Mexico City. If anyone hears me... I’m here.
The Book vibrated. A line appeared, sharp and clear:
Message received.
He reopened his eyes. Not relieved. Just... steadied.
This is real. Or it’s a really coordinated hallucination.
He put the Book away, grabbed his stuff, and left.
January 27, 2025 — 8:20 AM (local time)
Surulere District Dojo — Room 2
Asha adjusted her black belt, then stepped to the center of the mat. She’d asked to come early. Not to show off. To warm up alone. Or just to check she was still there. Whole. Solid.
Footsteps echoed near the door.
"Sweating already?"
Chidinma walked in, calm. She set her bag against the wall.
"You won Lagos, Abuja, and Port Harcourt last year. You could coast."
Asha smirked.
"I don’t train for them. I train so I don’t lose what I’ve got."
Chidinma nodded.
"Wanna spar?"
"Always. En garde."
They took position. First sequence: strikes, dodges, timed breaths. Then Asha accelerated. Not consciously. Her body did it for her.
A strike flowed out. Fluid. Perfect. Too fast.
A spin. A high kick. Precise. Instinctive.
She landed softly. Silent. But inside, her pulse hammered.
I don’t know where that came from. Never learned it. Not like that.
Chidinma had stepped back. She was staring differently.
"You didn’t move like that before."
Asha studied her own hands. Her breath had stalled.
"Feels like my body moves before I decide. Like I’m following, not choosing."
Chidinma frowned slightly.
"You mean it’s getting... easy?"
"Not easy. Just... automatic. Like I forgot I ever had to learn it."
Chidinma froze. Then she stepped back again. Almost against her will.
"That wasn’t you. I mean—it was you, but like... you were plugged into something else."
A pause.
"I didn’t even see your foot leave the ground. Even for taekwondo, that was... unnatural."
She spoke softly, as if afraid it might return.
Asha didn’t answer. She walked away. Her bag was there. She knew before opening it: the Book was awake.
She grabbed it. It was already open. Words wrote themselves, slow, inevitable:
You’re not just moving.
Some are born with gifts.
You’re remembering what never left.
She stood there, Book in hand. Not afraid. Not yet. But dizzy.
What if it’s true? What if this thing’s been mine all along?
She closed it slowly. Put it away. Rejoined Chidinma.
"I’m still here."
It was the only thing she knew for sure.
January 27, 2025 — 8:11 PM (local time)
Hapkido Class — Over
Training had ended early. Too early for her taste. The instructor praised her balance, but Min-Ji knew something was off. A detail. A tension. She’d reacted too fast on the last attack. Not like usual. The move was good. But not mine. Not quite.
In the locker room, she packed her gear in silence. She’d already folded her belt when Yoon-Ah sat beside her.
"Seriously, Min. You weren’t normal tonight."
Min-Ji zipped her bag without answering.
"Instructor said ‘good,’ but his eyes looked like he was questioning reality. And that sweep at the end... Where’d you learn that?"
Min-Ji smoothed a wrinkle in her towel. "Nowhere."
Yoon-Ah stopped. "Wait. You’re improvising moves mid-class now?"
No reply.
She half-smiled, half-grimaced. "You’re gonna make us lose our minds."
Then her gaze dropped to the bench. "What’s that book? Looks... weird."
Min-Ji slowly finished zipping her bag. She could’ve stayed quiet. She always did. But this time, a thought crossed her mind: what if she tested Yoon-Ah? Just to see. If she’d believe her. Or if she was losing it herself.
She looked up. "Come on. I’ll explain on the way."
They walked side by side, bags slung over shoulders, the evening air biting their cheeks. Min-Ji spoke without turning, tone flat, almost detached.
"Found it at my door on my birthday. Just sitting there, no note, nothing. Opened it—all blank pages."
"Next day, there was writing. No one came in. I didn’t touch it."
"Now I hear voices. Not always. But they come back. People. Giving names, cities. In English. Always."
Yoon-Ah had slowed without realizing.
"You messing with me?"
Min-Ji finally glanced at her. "Maybe."
A pause.
"Or maybe not."
Yoon-Ah stared, then let out a small, nervous laugh. "Between your training tonight and this... I might actually believe you."
Min-Ji didn’t answer.
Later, in her room, the black Book was there. Unchanged. She opened it.
You said it.
Thought it’d relieve you?
Testing others like it protects you.
But you exposed yourself.
And yet, you’re not alone anymore.
She closed the Book. Slowly. Stood there. Not surprised. Just... sharper than before.
January 27, 2025 — 8:10 PM (local time)
The air was cold, dry, almost biting. But Itsuki left the dojo still sweating, his neck damp, legs loose. He walked a few steps down the alley, bag slung over his shoulder, gaze low.
I lasted the whole session without faltering. No pain. No fatigue. And yet, I’ve barely slept in two days.
At the corner FamilyMart, two figures waited under the greenish neon.
"Watanabe, saw you on TV. You kill someone?"
Riku, beanie jammed on his head, mimed a sword with his soda can. Beside him, Taka rolled his eyes.
"Bro, you had that ‘talking to gods’ look again."
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
Itsuki shrugged. "Gods leave me alone. You two? Never."
Riku burst out laughing. "He speaks! The black-robed monk cracks jokes."
Taka handed him a can. "Here. It’s warm. And bitter. Like your face."
He took it. "If I drop dead, skip the flowers. Just cry really loud."
They sat on the curb, backs against the wall. Cans cracked open, steam rising. The overhead light buzzed.
"You look wrecked, man," said Riku. "What’s with all the extra training?"
Itsuki didn’t smile. "Practicing to decapitate you both. Cleanly."
A beat. Then Taka shook his head. "That’s the comforting vibe we love."
They laughed, a little nervously.
Riku turned serious. "But you’ve changed. Like you don’t sleep anymore."
"Got this... thing. Won’t leave me alone now."
Taka frowned. "Wait... some creepy girl stalking you?"
"Worse. She writes."
Riku stood. "Yeah, I’m out before your ‘thing’ starts talking to us too."
"If I vanish, burn my bag."
Taka followed. "You’re too weird to die. Later, swordsman."
They walked off, shoving each other.
Itsuki stayed a moment. The cold clung to his skin. He tucked the can into his bag. The Book was there. No heavier than before. But not the same.
It vibrated. Soft. Present.
He opened it.
You play clever. But you know I’m your real friend.
He closed it.
No smile. Just a sigh, and another step into the cold.
An hour later, he was home. Cross-legged on his bed, notebook open, he reread his notes. Names. Times. Voices.
He closed his eyes briefly.
"I’ve heard your voices. I think there are seven of us. Maybe more. If you’re here, respond: name, age, city. Just that. To start."
The Book vibrated.
They’re waking up. Stay steady.
January 27, 2025 — 7:15 AM (local time)
Didn’t sleep. Again. And I’m not even sure I want to.
Her phone read 6:30 AM. That same message, frozen for three days. No name. No photo. Just that line, still there. She reread it.
"You had to ditch me like a coward. Couldn’t even do that right."
Her eyes stung, but it was dry. Not sadness anymore. Disgust. And not just for him.
"Should’ve dumped you first. Wanted to. But you pulled the trigger. And I hate you just for that."
She flung the phone onto the mattress. It half-slid off. She didn’t care. She sat up, hoodie cold against her skin, knees drawn to her chest, back against the wall.
"Not gonna collapse over some guy I glued back together three times. Just gonna survive. Like always."
The silence was too clean. Then it came back. The voice. Calm. Certain.
"I’m Itsuki Watanabe. Seventeen. Kobe, Japan. I’ve heard your voices. I think there are seven of us. Maybe more. If you hear this, respond with your name, age, city. Just that. To start."
Fuck him.
"I didn’t sign up for this. Didn’t ask for it. You all barge in like I’m supposed to say yes. Spill who I am, where I’m from, like it’s normal. I’ve got nothing left to prove, and even less to share."
Her eyes fell on her bag. The Book was there.
She grabbed it, flipped it open.
You act like you don’t care. But you hoped we’d insist.
She pressed her lips together.
"Didn’t ask for you in my head."
You endured. For years.
But you’ve changed.
And you still hope someone will notice.
She shut her eyes. Just for a few seconds.
I’m tired. Don’t want mysteries. Coded messages. Networks in my skull.
She reopened them. Tied her hair up haphazardly. Pulled on a clean hoodie. Grabbed her keys and left.
January 27, 2025 — 5:12 PM (local time)
Karate Dojo
Thok. Thok. Thok.
The strikes echoed through the dojo, crisp as Swiss bank statements. Amira flowed through katas, every millimeter calculated. Straight back. Steel gaze. The perfect student they expected.
Yet for three days, something had been off.
"I’m Itsuki Watanabe. Seventeen. Kobe."
The voice returned mid-stance, between breaths. That Japanese boy and his damnable calm.
Thok. A strike too sharp. Her partner raised an eyebrow.
"Break."
The bathroom reeked of bleach and regrets. Amira leaned against the cold tiles, knuckles reddened, pressed to the wall.
Why am I listening?
She knew the answer. The same instinct that let her sense strikes before they landed. Something was changing.
"Respond. Just that. To start."
Her finger traced words in the mirror’s fog:
Amira Rahimi. 17. Tehran.
Then, smaller, like a confession:
I hear.
When she returned to the mat, her first strike cut the air differently—freer, less perfect. The kind of move that would’ve made her instructor frown.
The kind that, for the first time, truly belonged to her.
January 27, 2025 — 4:12 PM (local time)
The floorboards barely creaked under his fencing shoes. A precise, familiar sound. Like the fifty-seven other times Elias had stepped on that same pine plank. He fastened his gear methodically: left first, then right. Not superstition. Logic.
"You’re against Henrik today." Elias nodded without breaking routine. Henrik. Fast. Unpredictable. A good test.
Salute. En garde. Allez.
First engagement: blade attack. Elias parried, riposted. Tink. Clean hit. Second bout: low feint. He pivoted, countered again, each motion aligning like an equation.
Then... a misfire.
Not physical. Mental. A split-second lag, but clear. The strike he anticipated... never came. Another, unexpected, grazed his shoulder. I predicted wrong. A move that wasn’t there.
"Touché!" The coach frowned. "Bergstr?m?"
He shook his head. No embarrassment. No excuse. Just data to analyze.
Third exchange. Fourth. Each time, a fraction of a second ahead. But of what? Not Henrik. A hypothetical opponent. I see lines that don’t match. Openings that don’t exist. Like my brain’s simulating another fight.
Final score: 5–3. Decent. Satisfactory. Useless.
Locker room.
The Book was in his bag. He opened it without hesitation. No text. Just a black-ink sketch: a fencer in an unknown stance. Hips tilted, arm suspended, balance shifted. A pose no manual taught.
He studied it. Long.
Beneath, one line:
Your mind predicts what your body doesn’t know yet.
Tomorrow, you won’t lag behind.
He closed the Book slowly. Not a memory. A prediction. Or a test. He stood.
Outside.
Wind swept his hair as he exited. Oslo smelled of coming snow. Ten steps, then he froze. His muscles had already adopted the sketch’s stance. Not consciously. Not deliberately. Like his nerves recognized a memory he’d never learned.
The Book wasn’t showing the future.
It was revealing a buried skill. Already there. Waiting.
January 27, 2025 — 7:05 PM (local time)
Parseh Archery Club — Shooting Range
You want to be strong. Fine.
But strong for what?
She'd read that right before entering. One line. Two questions. And it stuck.
Three arrows. Three tight groupings. Mitra never smiled, but her nod was praise enough.
"Better. Not perfect."
Amira nocked the next one. The string hummed against her fingers. Thud. Bullseye again.
"I learned this before I could read. Alignment. Silence."
But the Book's words wouldn't leave. They clung between her shoulder blades, hollowing each breath. She clenched her teeth. Shot faster. Thud. Again. But she knew her motions covered something deeper. A flaw.
Final shot. She exhaled slowly. Snap.
Perfect.
Mitra opened her mouth. Too late. Amira was already gone, leaving behind the scent of wax and four flawless arrows.
Night fell over Tehran.
Somewhere between mountains and sea, six other Books opened in silence.
January 27, 2025 — 9:48 PM (local time)
Elias sat cross-legged on his bed, notebook open on his knees. He reread his notes. Not to check them. To find a pattern.
His eyes landed on one line. Three names. Three times the same age:
Min-Ji. Itsuki. Himself.
Not quite adult. No longer children.
He wrote in the margin: 17 years old — common factor?
Below it:
Min-Ji: 17
Itsuki: 17
Me: 17
Then:
Hypothesis: All are 17.
And lower:
What if they all have a Book?
A brief vibration made the notebook tremble. He froze. Words had appeared, thin and black:
You want to understand. Try looking.
He looked up, powered on his computer. Typed: "Itsuki Watanabe Kobe".
One link stood out:
Iaido Tournament — Junior Finalist — 2024.
Dojo: Kenyukai.
High School: Sakuragaoka.
Second search: "Sakuragaoka Watanabe".
An old forum. A blurry group photo.
Caption: "Watanabe outdrew everyone again."
High probability. It was him.
Below, a Vocord link. Elias clicked.
Public channel, recent messages. He typed:
"Looking for someone in Kobe.
Itsuki Watanabe.
Important.
Elias — 17, Oslo.
Tell him I need to talk.
Not a joke. Not spam.
Urgent."
He closed the tab, aware replies were unlikely. But in this equation, one new variable could change everything.
January 27, 2025 — 6:12 PM (local time)
The door slammed behind her. The acrid stench of sweat and old leather stung her nostrils. Five years these walls had watched her rage burn itself out on heavy bags.
"You were supposed to rest today." The coach crossed his arms, his No Mercy tattoo glistening under fluorescents.
Zoe walked past without slowing. "You were supposed to shut up."
He shrugged. Knew the routine.
Two kids paused near the ring.
"That her? The regional champ?"
"Look at her eyes. You see those eyes?"
She ignored the whispers. Her bag waited in locker 13. Hers. When she yanked it open, the black Book sat wedged between hand wraps and ibuprofen.
Not now. She slammed the metal door.
Side Ring — 6:25 PM
Jump rope. Swish-swish. Leather taps marked rhythm on her ankles.
"Sparring?" offered the coach.
"Not in the mood."
"You're never in the mood. Just angry."
The first punch came before she realized. The bag shuddered from the hook.
"You know Itsuki Watanabe?"
The coach squinted. "Who's that?"
"Seventeen. Kobe, Japan." She unleashed a low kick. "Been talking in my head for two days."
Silence thickened. The coach wiped his brow.
"Zoe... maybe you should talk to someone."
"I am talking, aren't I?"
Vibration.
Her bag shook against the wall. The Book.
She yanked it out. No text this time. Just a photo: Herself, a year ago, hand raised after the regional KO. Predator's grin. Empty eyes. And in the trophy's reflection—a girl who no longer recognized her own face.
You hit hard enough to drop anyone.
Except yourself.
Her mouthguard cracked between her teeth.
Weight Bench — 6:40 PM
"Zoe Bennett." She wiped sweat stinging her eyes. "Seventeen. Chicago."
No one listened. No one was meant to hear.
In the dirty mirror, her reflection showed a stranger with clenched fists.
January 27, 2025 — 6:43 PM (local time)
Training Gym — Centro District
Thirteen minutes late, Delgado.
Noah shoved through the gym doors, already sweating from sprinting from the bus stop. The reek of old leather, dust and effort hit him like a wall. Crackly speakers blared vintage cumbia.
You think you're a rockstar? Warm up. Now.
Alejandro didn't yell. He observed. Coldly. Like a judge.
Had something come up—
You'll cramp if you keep talking. Move.
Noah hurled his bag against the wall. No time for knee pads. No mask. Just laces tightened. He vaulted onto the ring without a word. Bounced. Rolled. Two steps, pivot. His shoulder hit the ropes. Again. Faster.
That's it. Want to play star? Earn it. Two ring laps, full rolls, then planks.
Noah was drenched already. He knew this drill. Had done it a thousand times. But tonight, everything felt heavier. He powered through. Lucha was in his blood since milk teeth. Not a sport—family business. His father had thrown him into the ring like others toss kids onto soccer fields. And he'd never quit. Weekend tournaments. Masks. Personas. Sometimes he went by El Huracán. Because he talked too much. Moved too much. Laughed too much. But here, it all matters. Everything matters.
He rolled. Leapt. Struck air.
Then—a shiver. Not pain. A vibration.
He stopped dead. Grabbed his towel from the bag, discreet. Reached inside. Fumbled until his fingers found the Book. Words had appeared, sharp, blunt:
You smile. But your heart hammers too hard to play clever.
He closed it. Scanned the room.
Nap time, Delgado? Group sleep session?
No, coach. Nothing.
He stashed the Book. Fixed his gaze on the ring. Pulled his soaked shirt back on. Then pulled out his mask—black and white, seams frayed.
I'm ready. Let's go.
Better be. Time to see if El Huracán blows hot air or hits hard.
They climbed in together. Stance. Noah bent his knees. Ready to charge.
Then a voice rang in his skull. Clear. Foreign.
I'm Itsuki Watanabe. 17. Kobe.
I've heard your voices. Believe there are seven of us. Maybe more.
If you're here, if you hear this,
respond with name, age, city.
Just that. To start.
Noah froze. Alejandro nearly plowed into him.
Seriously? Waiting for divine intervention now?
Noah didn't answer. He stared at the gym's ceiling. And in broken English, just a thought, he replied:
Ok. Me Noah. 17. Mexico City. Don't get it. Book. Voices. Weird. But I'm here. Not alone. And... I think I like that.
