Morning in the city was quiet again.

  The news came in pale tones.

  The anchor’s voice was slightly lower than usual, soft and calm.

  Every word was shaped so that no edge would remain sharp.

  “Today, the social anxiety index remains within standard range.”

  “Crime rate: below measurable threshold.”

  “No major accidents have occurred.”

  “Please enjoy your day with peace of mind.”

  Each time the numbers appeared, Kei Mochizuki felt his chest loosen naturally.

  That was normal.

  Over ten years, his body had learned to respond that way.

  But today, after that loosening, another feeling came—slightly delayed.

  —Far away.

  The reassurance felt far away.

  It was reaching him properly, and yet it was thin somehow.

  He quietly opened the door to Hiyori’s room beside the living room.

  She was asleep.

  Her small chest rose and fell in steady rhythm.

  No crease between her brows.

  Barely any movement in sleep.

  “Deep sleep: stable.”

  “Nightmare probability: minimal.”

  The display appeared and faded.

  Kei felt relieved when he saw it.

  She’s safe.

  Today, too.

  And yet he thought of the desk again.

  The colored pencil case no longer used.

  The neatly stacked drawing paper.

  Her flat voice saying, There’s no need to draw.

  He closed the door softly.

  Watching his sleeping daughter for too long was no longer about protecting her.

  It was becoming confirmation for himself.

  The fact that he could think that frightened him again.

  He returned to the living room and picked up his jacket.

  “No outing has been registered.”

  “Please enter your destination.”

  The display at the entrance lit up.

  Destination.

  Kei stared at the word.

  A walk. Shopping. The park.

  None of them would be lies.

  But none of them would be true.

  He was trying to leave without being able to explain why.

  He felt that something existed beyond this city.

  It didn’t have to be an answer.

  He only wanted a shape for the misalignment that still had no words.

  “…I don’t need to enter one.”

  “Unregistered outings are not recommended.”

  “Safety may not be guaranteed.”

  A gentle warning.

  Not a threat. A caution.

  Hearing it, he knew returning would be the correct choice.

  “I know.”

  Kei answered in a low voice, and opened the door.

  The city was as orderly as ever.

  No litter on the sidewalks.

  Cars moved quietly.

  Traffic signals changed in smooth sequence with the flow of people, leaving no need to stop.

  The air was clean.

  The sounds were arranged.

  As he walked, Kei became conscious of his own pace.

  A little fast.

  Restless.

  He passed through the central district and beyond the residential area.

  There were fewer guidance displays.

  More rows of trees.

  But they were still urban trees—trimmed, shaped, their branches growing with visible intention.

  Then there was a place where that ended.

  The pavement became rougher.

  Weeds began to overgrow the edge of the road.

  He noticed, suddenly—there were no advertisements.

  No voice guidance.

  No one saying, This way, please.

  He saw trees ahead.

  A forest.

  Nature left along the city’s outer edge, thinly managed.

  “Beyond this point, urban management priority decreases.”

  “Recommendation: turn back.”

  The display appeared.

  Kei stopped.

  He knew what the wise choice was.

  But his foot moved forward.

  Nothing happened when he crossed the boundary.

  No warning alarm.

  No forced halt.

  Only the sound changed.

  The rustling of wind through leaves grew louder.

  Birdcalls sounded in the distance—irregularly.

  The smell of soil deepened.

  Wet earth. Rotting leaves.

  Only then did he realize that the city’s air had been curated as well.

  The ground beneath his feet changed.

  No longer paved.

  Pebbles. Roots. Moisture.

  The earth gave a little with every step.

  “Communication stability: reduced.”

  “Location precision: reduced.”

  “Safety guarantee: unavailable.”

  The display had become simpler.

  The word unavailable pierced his chest.

  Still, Kei kept walking.

  He could feel the layers of optimization thinning against his skin.

  His breathing grew shallower.

  His heart rate rose.

  “Heart rate increasing.”

  “Would you like stabilization guidance?”

  The display appeared.

  Kei pretended not to see it and kept walking.

  If he followed the prompted breathing pattern, he felt he would turn back.

  The forest was not dark.

  But the shadows were deep.

  They remained shadows.

  In the city, shadows were softened.

  Dark shadows invited anxiety.

  Here, they were simply left there.

  Kei flinched at the sound of a branch snapping underfoot.

  His own footsteps sounded too loud.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Maybe even that had been adjusted in the city—so that his movements would dissolve into the rest of the world.

  After a while, traces of artificial things began to appear.

  A rusted piece of metal.

  Broken plastic.

  A tree marked by fire.

  They looked like trash.

  And yet not exactly discarded.

  Not things made unnecessary—

  things left behind because there had been no choice.

  Then came a smell.

  Not smoke.

  Iron.

  Blood.

  The raw scent of living flesh.

  Kei stopped.

  His throat dried instantly.

  His tongue felt stiff.

  He knew this sensation.

  The smell from a train platform ten years ago.

  The smell from the night when the ambulance had come too late.

  —This is a place where those smells return.

  Behind him, a branch cracked.

  Kei turned around.

  He saw nothing.

  And yet he felt it—

  not sight, but presence.

  He stepped back.

  On the second step, his foot caught on a root.

  As he tried to regain his balance, the underbrush split open.

  A dark shape burst forward.

  An animal.

  Larger than a dog.

  Its fur was filthy.

  Its eyes were clouded.

  He saw teeth.

  A strand of saliva swung from its mouth.

  Kei couldn’t scream.

  In the city, there was no need to scream.

  Danger vanished before screaming became necessary.

  His body had forgotten how.

  Instead, his breath locked.

  He tried to run.

  But his legs were heavy.

  The ground was soft.

  Roots caught at his feet.

  The forest was not a surface made for running.

  The beast closed the distance.

  A low growl.

  Wet breath.

  Kei backed into a tree trunk and raised an arm over his face.

  The pain came a moment later.

  Something tore along the outside of his arm.

  Hot.

  Then blood.

  “Danger detected.”

  “Bleeding confirmed.”

  “—”

  The display appeared.

  But nothing followed.

  No help came.

  The beast leapt again.

  Its teeth came close.

  White fangs.

  Dark mouth.

  Kei froze.

  Then—

  the air split.

  A short, sharp sound.

  Metal striking.

  The beast’s body flew sideways and crashed near the roots of a tree.

  Kei stared, unable to understand what had happened.

  A figure stood beyond the shadow.

  A man.

  Tall.

  His clothes were filthy, but his movements were precise.

  His right arm was metal.

  Hydraulic tubing ran exposed along it, and its joints bent at angles stronger than a human arm ever could.

  At the end of the metal arm was a blade-like attachment.

  A tool.

  Not exactly a weapon—more like a work implement.

  A blade for cutting.

  For tearing.

  The man approached the beast and stepped in without hesitation.

  The beast tried to rise.

  The man’s hydraulics growled as he drove the blade into its shoulder.

  The animal convulsed.

  Dirt sprayed.

  Its growl collapsed in its own throat.

  The man leaned his weight in and forced the blade deeper.

  The hydraulic hiss deepened.

  The sensation of steel striking bone came through with revolting clarity.

  Then he pulled it free.

  Blood sprayed.

  It turned to mist in the air and left dampness on Kei’s cheek.

  The man immediately pinned the beast’s neck and struck again.

  This time shallow.

  Precise.

  The convulsions shortened.

  Its eyes lost focus.

  The sound in its throat stopped.

  The man looked down at the still body and wiped the blade against the grass.

  That was all.

  No heavy breathing.

  No sense of triumph.

  It was hunting.

  Not heroism.

  This was simply routine handling.

  The next to appear was a girl.

  Small body.

  Mud on her cheeks.

  Short hair.

  And her eyes—

  dark-vision sensors.

  A pale glow moved where her pupils should have been, measuring the surroundings.

  She looked at Kei.

  Or rather, she took his values.

  Then another figure emerged.

  Someone wearing an exoskeleton.

  A frame over the torso, support braces on the legs—gear built for ground too soft to trust.

  The exoskeleton-clad figure scanned the perimeter and operated a small device in their hand.

  A frequency too high for the ear slid through the air like a brush against the forest itself.

  There was never only one beast.

  In the forest, there was always the possibility of next.

  Kei’s knees were shaking.

  His arm burned.

  His breathing was ragged.

  His throat dry.

  “…Help…”

  The word came out, late.

  A pathetic voice.

  The kind he had never needed in the city.

  The man did not answer.

  The girl stepped closer.

  Kei instinctively tried to back away, but his legs tangled.

  In her hand was a slender rod-like tool.

  Not wood.

  Metal.

  Short.

  Made for striking.

  Her voice was low.

  “Don’t move.”

  Not a command.

  A condition.

  The kind that made it obvious what would happen if he did.

  “…I’m not your enemy—”

  Before he could finish, the girl closed the distance.

  Fast.

  The gait of someone who knew how to move through a forest.

  Kei raised his hands.

  He meant surrender.

  But it was only the city’s version of surrender.

  Here, it meant something else.

  The girl swung the rod without hesitation.

  A dull impact landed at the side of his head.

  The pain came a beat later, and his vision went white.

  Kei collapsed to the ground.

  As he fell, he heard the man say:

  “…Don’t wake him. Carry him.”

  That was all.

  His consciousness broke off in the smell of the forest.

  When he woke, the first thing he noticed was the smell.

  Smoke.

  The sweet grease-burnt scent of animal fat.

  Wet earth. The iron smell of blood.

  The bitter taste of herbs lingering at the back of the tongue.

  The next thing was weight.

  He couldn’t move.

  Or more precisely—

  he was being stopped from moving.

  His wrists hurt.

  Rope.

  Rough fibers bit into his skin.

  Kei opened his eyes slowly.

  There was a fire.

  A simple one, nothing more than branches assembled together.

  No pot.

  Meat was being roasted directly over the flames.

  Fat dripped.

  The fire snapped.

  Deep in the forest.

  A slightly open clearing surrounded by trees.

  The ground was tamped down by use.

  Not cloth—fur and waterproof sheeting.

  The roof against rain was a crude structure of wood and fabric.

  Less a settlement than—

  a dismantling yard.

  When Kei shifted slightly,

  that alone gathered attention.

  He felt the stares immediately.

  The man with the hydraulic arm.

  The girl with one dark-vision eye.

  The figure wrapped in an exoskeleton.

  There were others too.

  Beyond the fire.

  Inside the shadows of the trees.

  He couldn’t see them clearly,

  but he knew he was being watched.

  Cold sweat rose down his back.

  Here—

  there was no assumption that anyone would protect you.

  “You’re awake.”

  The man with the hydraulic arm spoke.

  His voice was low.

  Emotionless.

  Kei swallowed.

  “…Where is this?”

  “Outside.”

  The person in the exoskeleton answered.

  Not an explanation.

  A category.

  “…Why am I tied up?”

  His voice was weaker than he expected.

  His body had already accepted the atmosphere in which being tied up made sense.

  The girl answered.

  “We don’t trust people from the city.”

  He wanted to deny it.

  But the words wouldn’t come.

  Only now did he understand how many of his words had always been built on the assumption of being trusted.

  “We saved you,” the man continued.

  “There was no reason.”

  Not pride.

  Not kindness.

  Just fact.

  They had hunted the beast.

  Something had been in the way.

  A man had been lying there.

  That was all.

  The girl pressed a finger against his forehead—where she had struck him.

  The dull pain was still there.

  “If you die, it’s trouble.”

  The words were not cold.

  Not threatening.

  Not contemptuous.

  Just the result of calculation.

  Kei didn’t understand them immediately.

  —If you die, it’s trouble?

  No one in the city spoke like that.

  In the city, words like safety, care, and optimization came first.

  Danger disappeared before death.

  Pain was predicted, adjusted, and processed before it ever escaped the numbers.

  So death itself never became a topic.

  But here, it was different.

  The man roasting meat over the fire continued in the same level tone.

  “If you die, you bleed.”

  “If you bleed, the smell stays.”

  “If the smell stays, beasts come.”

  “If beasts come, we use bullets.”

  The words came one by one at the same pace as the fire.

  “Bullets are valuable.”

  “So if you die, it’s trouble.”

  Kei held his breath.

  There was no anger in it.

  No contempt.

  Not even morality.

  Only the arithmetic of survival.

  The girl continued.

  “While you’re alive, you can be managed.”

  “Tied.”

  “Given water.”

  “Watched.”

  “When you’re dead, you can’t.”

  Kei’s throat tightened.

  In the city, it was the opposite.

  As long as you were alive, no one needed to manage you personally.

  The system removed danger first.

  A person’s condition was reduced to numbers,

  and problems were corrected before they happened.

  So in the city, it wasn’t it would be trouble if someone died—

  it was a system designed so they would not die.

  In the forest, it was different.

  Here, death remained inside the range of possibilities.

  It had not been removed.

  And because of that,

  death itself became something to manage.

  Kei felt his bound wrists tense.

  The rope bit into his skin, and pain flared.

  The pain did not disappear.

  In the city, this pain would have been processed as abnormal.

  Neural signals adjusted.

  The value of discomfort reduced.

  Not here.

  “We leave the pain,” the man said.

  “If it doesn’t stay, you don’t learn.”

  The person in the exoskeleton added, low:

  “If you don’t learn, you do the same thing again.”

  “If you do the same thing again, next time you die.”

  That was when Kei understood.

  The city shaved the world down

  so pain would never happen.

  The forest let pain happen,

  then carved it into the body.

  The direction was reversed.

  And yet both were built on the same idea:

  to minimize suffering.

  The difference was only this—

  what each world chose to leave inside a human being.

  The girl looked at Kei’s forehead.

  At the place she had hit.

  “Does it hurt?”

  Not a question.

  A check.

  “…It’s still there.”

  She nodded.

  “Good.”

  “You won’t forget.”

  A chill ran up Kei’s spine.

  In the city, forgetting was considered good.

  Forget anxiety.

  Forget fear.

  Forget failure.

  But here, remembering was a condition for survival.

  The fire flickered.

  Grease dropped.

  Sparks scattered.

  Watching it, Kei thought:

  The city’s lights do not flicker.

  They are designed not to.

  So that nothing will remind people of fear.

  But light that never flickers

  never shows that something is burning.

  “The city erases death,” the man said.

  “Here, we count it.”

  Something heavy fell into Kei’s chest.

  It was not about which one was right.

  Both were only answers to the same question—

  different attempts to shape something human beings could endure.

  And that realization—

  brought the words out of him.

  “…I have a daughter.”

  For a moment, only the fire grew louder.

  No one answered at once.

  “In the city?” the girl asked.

  “…Yeah.”

  Kei did not choose his words carefully.

  “She doesn’t cry.”

  “She isn’t afraid.”

  “She sleeps properly every day.”

  It was not pride.

  Not an appeal.

  Only fact.

  “She’s protected,” the man said.

  “…Yeah.”

  “Then she’s been shaved down.”

  Kei could say nothing.

  He could not deny it.

  He could not accept it.

  The girl spoke quietly.

  “The city calls what’s left after shaving ‘happiness.’”

  “Here, we call what’s left after shaving ‘a wound.’”

  The fire flickered again.

  And in that moment, Kei understood for the first time.

  The city and the forest were not opposites.

  They were answering the same question

  from opposite directions.

  —How much of a person can be shaved away

  before they can no longer live?