The bluish glow spread through the cell like mist.
As Z-69 stepped past the threshold, reality vanished.
He stood in the middle of… a café.
Sunny sky.
Cool breeze.
A soft, old jazz tune played in the background.
Z-69 looked around: zombies in suits sat drinking tea, nodding like philosophers.
Another, wearing an apron, was serving a dish called “grilled human brain with cheese.”
At the table opposite him sat John — hair slicked back, white suit, sunglasses, cigar in hand.
He smiled brightly, speaking in the most serious tone:
“Z-69, you’re late. The Zombie Alliance Conference is about to begin.”
“…What?” Z-69 frowned.
John patted his shoulder and lowered his voice.
“I’ve just been promoted to Director of the Department of Nutritional Management for the Undead. I need your speech on the ethics of cannibalism during the reconstruction era.”
Z-69 looked around.
One zombie was sticking roses into its head, another was doing yoga.
The whole world felt gentle—so gentle it was terrifyingly absurd.
On the bar’s TV, the news played:
“Today, the city of Crimeria honors Dr. John R. for his great contributions to undead human rights. He currently lives with his student, Z-69, a national-level honor student.”
Z-69 froze.
John turned, smiling like a kindly mentor:
“I told you—just go vegan and everything will be fine.”
Z-69 blinked.
The image cracked.
The whole space began to melt like wax.
Sounds distorted, a lullaby reversed itself inside his skull:
“Sleep now… little light… sleep…”
A stabbing pain tore through his temples.
Z-69 roared, the crystal in his chest flaring. A surge of energy rippled outward.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The world shattered into fragments.
The scenery dissolved, leaving only blue smoke breaking like glass.
When he opened his eyes, it was all back—the cold cell, cracked ceiling, and the pungent stench of ozone.
John lay convulsing on the floor, drenched in sweat.
He was still trapped inside his own illusion.
Z-69 crouched down.
The monitor on John’s wrist device flickered: Memory overflow – access error – psychological fragmentation.
He heard John murmuring:
“…don’t… Z-69… teacher, please don’t go… you’ll die…”
The voice trembled, weak, nothing like the usual John.
Z-69 frowned.
As if by instinct, he reached out and flicked John’s forehead.
Then he placed a hand on John’s shoulder and whispered, unconsciously:
“Don’t worry… John, I’ll… be fine.”
John’s breathing steadied. His expression relaxed.
Z-69 blinked, dazed, not understanding why he’d done that.
Then John awoke.
For an instant, pain and fear still lingered in his eyes—but vanished quickly, replaced by emptiness.
He exhaled, voice hoarse:
“I erased that part.”
“Which part?”
“What I just saw,” John said distantly. “Trust me—some things are easier to live with if you don’t remember them.”
Z-69 stayed silent.
Ahead of them, the small blue fox still lay curled up, its ears twitching slightly.
The crystal on its forehead pulsed in rhythm with the one on Z-69’s chest.
Their lights met—merging into a warm blue glow.
Z-69 felt a current flow through his bones, soothing his whole body.
He leaned down carefully and picked the fox up.
Its fur was as soft as cotton; its breath carried the faint scent of cold wind.
“How strange…” he murmured. “It feels… like me.”
John frowned.
“Put it down. That’s a B Tier anomaly. I remember it now—designation N-013, Phantom Fox. It once drove an entire special ops team insane in ten seconds.”
Z-69 looked at him, expression blank.
“You’re afraid of it?”
John started to answer—but N-013 turned its head, eyes open.
Two pale blue pupils gazed straight at him—cold and deep as still water.
John’s words caught in his throat.
“I’m… not afraid,” he said quietly, voice tight. “I just don’t want to live through what it showed me again.”
Z-69 smiled faintly.
He stroked the fox’s fur and asked:
“Little creature, what’s your name?”
The fox tilted its head, silent, then rubbed its forehead against his chest.
In Z-69’s mind, a whisper echoed—soft as breath:
“…Lumina…”
Z-69 twitched slightly.
“Lumina… I see.”
He smiled—a rare, human smile.
“Lumina, from now on, you’ll stay with me.”
John opened his mouth to object—but met the fox’s gaze: empty, sharp as a scalpel.
He closed it again, lit a cigarette, and muttered through smoke:
“Fine… whatever. Just keep it from trapping me in another illusion.”
Lumina stretched, rubbing its forehead once more against Z-69’s crystal.
The two crystals touched—light rippled outward like water.
A warm energy flowed through Z-69, washing away his fatigue.
The fox climbed onto his shoulder, wrapped its tail around his neck, and curled up, eyes closing peacefully.
Z-69 tilted his head toward it, murmuring:
“How contradictory. Something this small… feels more dangerous than all the monsters out there.”
John smirked.
“That’s a common biological response. People tend to soften toward small things with big eyes and soft fur.”
“I feel like I’m being bewitched,” Z-69 said while stroking Lumina, unable to stop his hand as if caught in a trance.
John chuckled, exhaling a ring of white smoke.
“In ancient East Asia, they told stories of fox spirits that seduced men with illusions. The men fell in love—only to have their souls quietly drained away.”
“You’d better watch yourself.”
Z-69 looked down at Lumina — the little fox sleeping soundly, its tail draped across his neck like a silk ribbon — and spoke in a voice so tender, so doting it barely sounded like him:
“Adorable little creature, you’re not going to steal my soul… are you?”
Seeing Z-69 on the verge of becoming a fox’s thrall, John opened his mouth to say something—then froze again.
A serious chill ran down his spine.
With its sharp fox eyes, Lumina was glaring at John.
Like a predator glaring at someone who wants to steal its prey.
John shut his mouth. Another nightmare wasn’t worth it.
