A new day of torment at university. I grabbed my toothbrush and began brushing my teeth while staring at the mirror, which reflected my disheveled black hair and tired face...

After finishing my morning routine, I walked to my wardrobe to put on my university uniform. But why do I have to endure the agony of going to university? I don't like anything about it—especially those guys who turn into aliens whenever they see girls. Ugh. Just thinking about their cringeworthy and embarrassing behavior makes me sick...

I finished putting on my uniform, left the house, and took a taxi to university. On the way, memories of what happened three years ago began to flood my mind...

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In a dimly lit room, illuminated only by a faint light coming from a corner, Icarus sat on a wooden chair. In front of him was a simple computer resting on a desk.

He was studying anatomy and psychology, switching between the two in preparation for his exam.

"This is so boring… but I have to keep studying if I want to get a job as a detective," Icarus thought as he glanced at the files on his screen.

With a sigh, he returned to his studies.

But it wasn’t long before the house started shaking…

Icarus was shocked—there hadn’t been any earthquakes or tremors for so long that they had become nothing more than a legend.

"What’s happening?!" he thought, trying to recall any safety procedures he had studied about earthquakes.

Before he could remember anything, the only light in the room flickered out.

Darkness engulfed everything. The blackout hadn’t just affected him—it had swallowed the entire city.

His heart pounded with fear. He never liked the dark, nor the night in general.

Standing up nervously, he groped around for something in the darkness.

After some searching, his hands brushed against something large and rectangular—his wardrobe.

"I think I left a flashlight in here..."

As Icarus searched for the flashlight, he suddenly felt something move behind him.

A sharp, sickening crack echoed through the room, like bones breaking and shattering.

He tried to turn around to locate the source of the sound—but his body wouldn't move.

"Damn it. What is this? Why can't I move?!"

He struggled to regain control of his limbs, but his fear of confined spaces began suffocating him. The sound of bones snapping drew closer…

"Move, damn it! I don’t want to die here!"

A cold sensation crawled up his back. The relentless sound of cracking and breaking bones became unbearable.

"I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die."

Icarus muttered under his breath, feeling as though death was mere inches away.

Then, suddenly—

The horrifying sounds stopped.

Silence swallowed the room.

Time seemed to stretch into eternity before a voice—distorted and inhuman—spoke from the darkness.

"We meet again, Number Twelve."

"It has been a while, my dear friend… You may not remember me, but I remember you all too well."

There was a strange hint of sorrow in the voice, something barely perceptible.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it. What the hell is happening to me? Am I losing my mind?" Icarus thought, frustration and panic clear on his face.

Buying himself time, he asked: "Who… are you?"

"Who am I? You may call me… the Red Mask."

The moment Icarus heard those words, something shifted.

The air in the room grew heavy. The wardrobe—the last tangible thing in the darkness—vanished.

The walls, the floor, the ceiling—all gone.

Only an endless abyss of blackness remained.

"W-what the hell is happening?! The wardrobe was just in front of me! I reached out frantically, searching for it, but it was gone. Wait—"

That was when he realized—

He could move again.

Relief surged through him as he regained control over his body, but it was short-lived.

A freezing hand wrapped around his ankle.

Pure terror shot through him.

With all his strength, he kicked at the icy grip. The hand was unnaturally strong, resisting at first—but after a flurry of desperate kicks, it finally released him.

Without wasting a second, he bolted in the opposite direction, away from whatever that hand belonged to.

As he ran, his mind raced, trying to make sense of everything. The earthquake. The darkness. The mysterious voice. The cold, unrelenting hand.

And then, he remembered—

That thing had called itself the Red Mask.

It had spoken to him like an old friend.

"But that’s impossible," Icarus thought, panic creeping into his mind.

"I don’t have any friends. I’ve lived my whole life alone, raised myself, shaped myself into who I am now."

"So… who the hell is the Red Mask?"