Akai Sekai: Mike (Eng. ver)

He had descended the large stairs leading to the next floor.He had stumbled several times on the final steps but had caught himself at the last moment each time, ultimately arriving unharmed before the door to Floor 97.

The air was colder than on the previous level. A fine mist hovered near the floor, as though the walls exhaled some forgotten memory.

Something was off. He didn't know what, but it lingered in the cold air, like a memory refusing to be recalled.

This door was the same size as the others, but unlike them, it had two panels. Each panel had a thick frame, and at its center was a glazing that didn't seem like real glass.

He tried peering through it, but couldn't see what lay beyond.

When he touched the pane lightly, it vibrated ever so slightly—as if alive, rejecting contact. It reflected a shadow—but not his own. Just for a moment. Then nothing.

Mike — That's a strange door… different from the rest. I don't recall ever seeing one like this. Yet somehow it feels familiar.

At last, he gripped the handle and entered.

After a few steps, he paused, taking in his surroundings. The corridor felt too silent—no echoes answered his footsteps, as if sound itself refused to linger.

Windows ran along both sides of the hallway.

On one side, he saw the same red moon and drifting clouds obstructing part of the view. The other side featured not just glass panels but also precise door placements, with three panes of glass between each door, covering half the wall.

Mike approached one window to peer inside. The visibility was poor, but he could make out some objects.

Mike — Hmm… looks like tables… or desks with chairs? And near the entrance… a blackboard!

Voice? — Yes, it does look like a classroom.

Mike — A classroom? That rings a faint bell, but… it's too vague to recall fully.

He felt a twinge in his head, as if memories were surfacing—then the moment passed.

He finally decided to go in, walked to the door, and pulled it open. A shiver washed over him—but still, he entered.

??? — You are… still… la…te, Mr. "___".

In front of him hovered a semi-transparent female silhouette, with blurred, erased features…

She spoke those words in a harsh, clipped tone, standing between a wooden desk and a large blackboard.

She pointed to a clock on the back wall. Its hands seemed to try to move but snapped back each time—frozen pointing at 12 o'clock.

At times, her form disappeared, as if glitching out of existence.

Mike — Huh? What the—? Why "late"? Late for what?

Voice? — She truly looks like a teacher... You must be late to class.

The figure advanced into the room and, holding a small object, indicated a desk at the back.

Teacher's silhouette — Go… sit… at the… back... without… disturbing… the other students…

She spoke in the same clipped tone, then vanished.

Mike looked at the chairs.

Each desk held a student silhouette. They varied in height and features: some smiled or laughed, others appeared terrified. Some faces were blurred; some wore hand-painted smiling masks; several turned to face him.

Laughter? Why? Without reason?

Fear? Of what? Of whom?

Of Mike himself?

He began walking slowly, though he didn't fully grasp what was happening around him.

Passing between desks, he noticed the silhouette on his right:

Nerd silhouette — My mother… she said your mother died… suspiciously… just like your father! D‑don't… come near me!

Her speech halted and stuttered, but fear was clear.

To his left, another voice mocked:

Girl silhouette — Him? Killing someone? He can't even arrive on time. Ha! Ha!

Voice? — Another painful memory… You can leave if you wish…

Mike — No… I have to keep going. I know that if I reach that seat… I might remember this memory.

He didn't know why, but he was certain. So he pressed on.

As he moved forward, the silhouettes spoke more sharply, shouting.

Jock silhouette — Puff… if you hadn't been telling such creepy stories… I'd have had you in my group...

Boy silhouette — Murderer! Killer!

He ignored them and continued onward with newfound resolve.

He raised his gaze toward his destination.

But the far wall receded further—and so did the seat he had been pointed to.

The clock hand spun backward wildly, as if time itself accelerated.

tic‑tititic‑tic

Each step grew heavier and more difficult.

Voice? — It won't be easy...

His vision blurred. The voices grew shrill and violent.

Every silhouette pointed a finger at him.

Group of silhouettes — Murderer! Coward! Killer! Madman! Weakling! Spineless! Killer! Cursed! Poltroon! Coward! Killer! Madman! Spineless!

In a deafening tumult, the insults flew.

Some whispered beside his ear while others screamed as though aflame. Some laughed softly—fixated on him.

Mur… der…! Dea…th…!

A throbbing beat pulsed in his head in sync with his heart—but this was not his heartbeat. It was… another presence.

Suddenly, a sharp screech rang out.

Mike turned.

A red piece of chalk floated in midair. Words, sentences formed on the board.

Each letter vib­rated, as if screamed directly into his mind:

[They treated you so badly… All you did at that time was reject me… Yet I—ME!—could've HELPED you!!]

Voice? — He's still here...

Madman…! Spineless!

Mike forced his eyes away and continued walking.

Mike — Not now.

Coward… killer…!

Mike — AND YOU WILL SHUT UP!!

A sudden silence—almost deafening—fell. Even the air felt frozen.

Mouths froze mid-snarl. Time was suspended.

The silhouettes, locked in grotesque final expressions, remained still.

The wall reassembled itself into place.

The clock slowed, its hands returned to 12 o'clock.

Mike stumbled forward and grabbed the desk he must reach. It now stood unnervingly close.

He sat in the chair waiting for him.

In that instant, memories flooded over him.

Overcome with nausea and a pounding headache, he closed his eyes.

Faces. A room. Laughter. A hand on his shoulder. A scream. Blood? No… red… something else… He couldn't recall exactly—but it was there. It was real.

In his eyes, something had changed. That memory… it was only the beginning.