Ghoul: Re Insanity

The city loomed over him, vast and uncaring, its towers clawing at the sky. Its breath reeked of damp stone, gasoline, and rot, the kind of filth that never truly washed away. Rain clung to the streets in slick puddles, reflecting neon signs that hummed with indifferent life. The gutters overflowed, carrying refuse and filth into unseen depths.

Amatsu moved through the slums, his steps slow, his limbs hollowed by hunger. His ribs pressed against his skin like a cage, his fingers trembling with exhaustion. The coins in his palm—pathetic, few—dug into his flesh. He felt their weight, not in currency, but in futility. A handful of copper would not silence the screaming void inside him.

He had worked since morning, hauling crates until his back screamed, his hands rubbed raw against splintered wood. When it was over, the foreman hadn't even looked at him. Just tossed a handful of change at his feet like scraps.

"Be grateful," the man had muttered, already turning away. "Could've paid you nothing."

The words sat heavy in his skull, louder than the rain. Be grateful. For what? For a life that gnawed at him like a starving animal? For a world that saw him as nothing?

The scent of food coiled in the air—thick, rich, cruel. Steaming bread, roasted meat, thick stew ladled into bowls. It wrapped around him, taunting, mocking the emptiness within. He watched strangers eat, watched them tear into warmth, into fullness, while his stomach twisted and clawed at him from the inside.

A group sat under a tattered awning, laughing between bites of roasted meat, grease slick on their fingers. A woman wiped her child's face with the edge of her cloak as he pouted, his stomach full. The child, plump-cheeked and careless, whined about being unable to finish his meal before tossing half a loaf onto the ground. It landed near the gutter, steam curling into the air. Amatsu's breath caught.

His stomach clenched violently, a hollow ache gnawing at his ribs. It had been five day since his last meal—maybe more. Time blurred when hunger ruled. His limbs felt thin, fragile, like a body not meant to last. The cold had settled deep in his bones, threading through his fingers, his chest, his skull. He felt brittle. Like if he fell, he would shatter.

He tried to remember the last time someone said his name—not to order him, not to curse him, but simply to acknowledge him. Nothing came. Maybe he had already faded, a ghost dragging itself through the filth.

I tried. I worked. I bled. His fingers clenched, nails digging into his palm, pressing the worthless coins deeper into his skin. And I still have nothing.

Somewhere deep inside, something cracked. A realization, slow and suffocating, like water filling his lungs. No matter how hard he worked, no matter how much he endured, nothing would change. He would always be here, in the dirt, beneath the notice of the world.

His mother's voice surfaced—a whisper, a memory warped by time. She had told him once that the world was cruel, but it was the way of things. The strong took, the weak suffered. He had clung to the belief that if he worked hard enough, he could escape the suffering. That hard work could make him strong.

It had been a lie.

A sharp gust of wind cut through his ragged clothes, slicing against his skin. The city breathed, pulsing with life, but not for him. The world moved forward, thriving, oblivious to the boy starving in its streets.

A laugh rang through the streets, light and full, carried on the wind. It cut through Amatsu like a knife. The child had warmth. A mother. A future. Amatsu had hunger, cold, and the certainty that tomorrow would be no different.

His fingers twitched. His feet, unsteady beneath him, took a slow step forward.

The world did not care.

So why should he?

The bakery stall glowed warm against the night, its golden light spilling onto the wet street like something holy. Amatsu stood in the dark, hunger gnawing at his insides, twisting, curling like a living thing. The scent was thick, maddening—fresh bread, butter, roasted nuts. His stomach clenched, his ribs sharp beneath his ragged shirt.

Then he saw it.

A rich boy, dressed in soft silks, hands clean, face full. The child's mother fussed over him, tucking a fur-lined cloak around his shoulders. In his hands, half a loaf of bread—thick, soft, still warm.

The boy took a bite. Chewed. Grimaced. Then, with a noise of disgust, he let it fall. The loaf tumbled onto the dirty ground, steam curling into the cold air. The child wrinkled his nose.

"Leave it," the mother said, already leading him away.

Something inside Amatsu snapped.

The scent of bread was thick—hot, rich, maddening. It curled into Amatsu's lungs, into his veins, setting his hunger ablaze. His ribs pressed sharp against his skin, his vision narrowed, his fingers twitching at his sides.

The loaf lay in the dirt, steam curling in the night air, golden crust glistening beneath the streetlights. A waste. A sin. His stomach clenched so violently he thought he might collapse.

His body moved before his mind could stop it.

His fingers curled around the bread—soft, warm, alive with heat. For a single breath, everything else faded.

The city, the cold, the filth—all of it ceased to exist. Only warmth remained, seeping into his skin, sinking into his bones. His stomach clenched, his breath caught in his throat. He had forgotten what it felt like—holding something meant to fill, not take away.

Just one bite. Just one moment.

His fingers curled around the bread.

Soft. Warm. Real.

For a single, fragile breath, the world ceased to exist. The cold, the hunger, the filth—all of it melted into that small, delicate heat pressing into his palm. His fingers tightened around it, pressing into the soft crust. His.

Maybe this time, it could be his.

His breath hitched. The scent curled into his lungs—thick, rich, dizzying. It filled the hollow spaces inside him, drowning out the emptiness. He had forgotten this feeling. Forgotten what it meant to hold something meant to fill, not take away.

Maybe—just maybe—he could have this.

Then—

Pain.

A fist crashed into his ribs. The heat in his palm vanished. The world snapped back in a sickening blur of cold, stone, and breathless agony.

The bread tumbled to the dirt, rolling once before coming to a stop beneath a splintered boot. Steam curled from its surface—warmth he would never taste.

A boot crashed into his side. His ribs caved, breath tearing from his lungs in a strangled wheeze. The pain was sharp, white-hot—then dull, sinking, spreading. Something cracked.

He hit the stone, face scraping against wet filth. His body jerked, instinct clawing its way through the haze of agony. Crawl. Get away.

His fingers clawed at the ground, pulling—just inches, just enough to—

Hands seized his collar, wrenched him back. His body slammed against the cobblestone. His vision blurred.

"Stay down," someone muttered, bored.

Another boot. A weight crushing his fingers, grinding them into the dirt. Bone strained, pain shot up his arm. His breath hitched.

Through the haze, he saw it—the bread.

Just a few feet away. Steam curling into the night air, the golden crust now dark with dirt and bootprints. Ruined. Trampled. Gone.

His fingers twitched toward it.

A heel came down—hard.

Pain detonated through his ribs. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Just a silent, shaking breath, too weak for anything more.

Somewhere, deep in his mind, his mother's voice surfaced. But it was wrong. Twisted.

Not the strong take and the weak suffer.

Just:

The weak suffer.

Nothing else. No fairness. No justice. Just the simple, indifferent truth.

A fist crashed into his jaw. His skull hit stone. The world blurred, dimming. His body sagged.

Amatsu opened his mouth. A sound came out—something thin, rattling, already fading. Not a plea. Not even a curse.

Just a breath.

The guards turned away. Someone spat. One by one, the boots walked off, vanishing into the pulsing life of the city.

And that was it.

No one stopped them. No one spoke. No one glanced his way.

The market went on. People haggled, laughed, ate. Somewhere, a woman scolded her child for running too fast. A butcher's knife thudded into wood. The air filled with the scent of roasting meat, butter, things warm and rich and unreachable.

The world had already moved on.

Amatsu lay still, cheek against wet stone. His ribs burned. His lungs fought for breath. His fingers twitched once, then went still.

The last of the bread's steam faded into the night air.

And no one cared.

Time slipped. Minutes? Hours? He didn't know. The night was quiet now, save for the distant hum of the city—laughter, voices, the world still breathing, still moving, as if nothing had happened.

As if he had never existed at all.

Amatsu dragged himself toward the mouth of an alley, fingers clawing against the stone. His limbs barely obeyed. Blood slicked his skin, warm at first, then cooling against the night air. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one shallower than the last.

Memories surface.

He thought of himself when he was 9 years old.

Barefoot. Starving. Staring up at the sky between crumbling rooftops, whispering a promise to himself.

I'll survive.

He had believed it then. That if he just kept moving, kept fighting, he could carve a place for himself in this world.

But the world had never been carved for people like him.

He coughed. Blood splattered onto the stone, dark and thick. His body felt heavy. The kind of heavy that didn't lift. He tried to move his fingers, to reach for something—anything—but there was nothing left to hold onto.

Regret. Rage. Despair. They all blurred together in the fog of his mind.

Had he ever truly lived? Or had he only ever been waiting to die?

From the street beyond the alley, laughter rang out.

People lived. Ate. Drank. Slept in warm beds. Loved. Hated. Kept moving.

As if his suffering had never mattered at all.

"His fingers twitched one last time. The taste of iron filled his mouth—warm, thick, coppery. The world flickered. The alley blurred—shadows stretching, neon bleeding into darkness. A final breath curled from his lips, lost in the cold night air.

The weak suffer.

And then—nothing.