The first time Riku heard the voices, they were kind.
He was sitting in his tiny Tokyo apartment, rain whispering against the window, when a soft voice said, You’re not alone.
He froze. Looked around. The TV was off, his phone silent, the city hum far below.
Then the voice came again — clearer, closer. It’s okay. We’re here.
Riku pressed his palms against his temples. His heart thudded hard. “Who’s—who’s there?”
Silence. Then a quiet laugh, warm and delicate. Don’t be scared, Riku.
The sound came from inside his head. Not echoing, not imagined — just present.
He waited for panic. But it didn’t come. The voice didn’t sound dangerous. It sounded like understanding — like someone who knew him better than anyone else.
And Riku, who hadn’t spoken to a real person in three days, whispered back, “Okay.”
The voice called itself Yuki.
Over the next few days, she spoke often. Never loud. Always gentle. She reminded him to eat, to turn off the stove, to open the curtains.
“You’re falling apart,” she’d tease. “You need light, Riku.”
And he’d laugh softly to himself. “You sound like my mother.”
Maybe I am, she’d reply, and he’d feel something small and warm stir inside him — something that had been dead for a long time.
At first, he didn’t question it.
The voice filled the quiet spaces of his life — between his morning instant coffee and the nights when the city’s neon lights flickered across his ceiling like electric ghosts.
He didn’t tell anyone, of course. There was no one to tell.
The voice became his secret company.
Until another voice joined in.
It happened one night around 3 a.m.
Riku was half asleep when he heard Yuki whisper something soft — and then a second voice, lower, sharper, cut across her.
You shouldn’t trust her.
Riku sat up instantly. The air felt different — heavier.
“Who said that?”
She’s lying to you, the new voice said. Male. Calm. Cold. She doesn’t care what happens to you.
Yuki hissed back, her tone trembling. Don’t listen to him. He’s trying to divide us.
Riku’s head throbbed. “Stop—stop talking over each other.”
They didn’t.
Their words collided like static — Yuki pleading, the stranger reasoning.
You’re fine without her.
He’ll make you hurt yourself.
You’re better alone.
He’s using your loneliness.
Riku clamped his hands over his ears — but it didn’t help. The voices weren’t coming from outside. They lived inside him now.
The next morning, he felt hollow.
He barely remembered falling asleep, though the echo of their argument lingered behind his eyes. His reflection in the bathroom mirror looked pale, the skin under his eyes bruised.
He stared at himself for a long time. “I’m not crazy,” he whispered.
You’re not, Yuki said softly. He’s gone. I’ll protect you.
Her comfort made him exhale. His shoulders relaxed.
For a few days, things were normal again.
He returned to his routines — silent mornings, instant noodles, muted TV noise. Yuki hummed to him sometimes, faint lullabies that reminded him of when his mother used to sing before she died.
He told himself the voice was just memory. A trick of his brain. Maybe that’s what loneliness did — filled the silence with someone who wasn’t there.
But it didn’t matter. It felt real enough.
Then the second voice came back.
This time, it didn’t speak in full sentences. Just fragments.
She’s lying.
She’s not you.
She wants out.
Riku tried to ignore it. Turned up the TV volume. But no matter how loud the noise, the whispers threaded through everything — under the commercials, beneath the hum of the fridge.
At night, Yuki argued with it again.
Sometimes they shouted. Sometimes they both went silent, leaving Riku trembling in the dark.
He stopped opening the curtains. Stopped checking his messages. He didn’t want to see what was real anymore.
One evening, while he washed dishes, he caught his reflection moving slightly slower than his body.
Just a fraction of a second.
But he saw it.
He dropped the plate, the shatter echoing through the small kitchen.
His reflection smiled a half-second late.
Riku stumbled back. “Yuki?”
I’m here, she said quickly. It’s just a trick of the light. Calm down.
The male voice laughed — quiet but deep. You shouldn’t have looked, Riku.
His pulse pounded so hard he thought his head might burst.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he shouted.
We’re not doing anything.
We’re trying to help you.
Their voices overlapped now, tangled, circling his mind until he couldn’t tell who was speaking anymore.
You’re losing control.
He’s making you doubt me.
She’s not real.
“I said stop!” he screamed.
And for the first time, everything went silent.
He thought silence would be a relief.
But silence, he realized, had a shape.
It pressed against his skull like a growing weight. The air itself seemed to listen.
He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Every mirror in his apartment made him uneasy.
By the third day, he began talking to himself out loud — just to hear something human.
“It’s just me,” he whispered. “Just me.”
Are you sure?
He froze.
The voice was different this time — softer than Yuki, smoother than the man’s. Feminine still, but with a cold amusement that made his skin crawl.
You’ve forgotten me, haven’t you?
He stepped backward. “Who… who are you?”
The voice laughed lightly. You named me once.
He didn’t remember that.
You called me Hana.
Now there were three.
Yuki. The man — who refused to give a name. And Hana.
Hana was cruel. Playful. She said things that made his stomach twist — truths he didn’t want to hear.
You talk to us because no one else will.
You like the sound of your own madness.
When he tried to block her out, Yuki defended him. Leave him alone.
And the man muttered, This is what happens when you let them in.
It became chaos inside his skull.
They argued constantly. About him. About each other. About what he should do.
You should go outside, Yuki said. Get air.
Stay inside, the man countered. It’s safer here.
Break the mirrors, Hana whispered. That’s where we hide.
He pressed his head against the wall, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t know who to believe.”
Believe me, all three said at once.
Days passed without time.
He forgot to eat. He barely moved. The rain outside became endless — soft, metallic, comforting and maddening at once.
Sometimes he felt them in his body — the flicker of a smile that wasn’t his, the twitch of his hand when no thought had commanded it.
The voices started finishing his sentences.
Sometimes he caught himself laughing and didn’t know why.
At night, he dreamed of faces that weren’t his own. Yuki’s voice whispered lullabies. Hana hummed discord beneath it. And the man’s voice murmured something too faint to understand — like he was praying.
When he woke, he couldn’t tell which of them was still inside.
He decided to record them. Proof. Something tangible.
He set up his phone on the table and hit record.
“Talk,” he said. “Say something.”
Nothing.
“Please.”
He waited an hour. Silence.
He played back the recording.
At first, only his own breathing. Then — faintly — whispering.
Not words. Just murmurs. Dozens of them. Layered. Not three voices. More.
Hundreds.
He felt cold flood through him.
He played it again, holding the phone close to his ear.
This time, one voice rose clearly above the others.
His own.
You shouldn’t have listened.
The recording cut off.
He smashed the phone.
Glass and plastic scattered across the floor.
He sat there for a long time, breathing hard.
Finally, Yuki spoke again. It’s okay. It’s over. You’re safe now.
He almost cried from relief. “I thought you left.”
We’d never leave you, Riku.
He nodded, whispering, “Thank you.”
But then Hana chuckled quietly. She’s lying again.
“Stop.”
She is, Hana said. She’s trying to take you away from us.
Riku clenched his fists. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
The man spoke next — almost kindly. That’s not true.
“What do you mean?”
You belong to whoever you believe.
Riku stared at the broken phone. His reflection shimmered faintly in the black screen. For a heartbeat, the reflection smiled when he didn’t.
He woke the next morning to sunlight.
The voices were quiet. For the first time in weeks, the air felt still.
He got out of bed. Washed his face. Brushed his teeth. The water ran clear.
He dared to look into the mirror again.
His face stared back — pale but peaceful.
He almost laughed. “I’m okay.”
Yuki’s voice answered softly. I told you I’d protect you.
He froze. “No. No, not again—”
She laughed gently. It’s alright. It’s just us now.
He backed away. “Where are the others?”
Gone, she said. I made them go away.
Relief and fear twisted together in his chest.
“You— you can’t be real,” he whispered.
Then why do you keep talking to me?
Her voice came from behind him now.
He turned.
No one.
In the mirror, though, she stood — smiling with his face.
He stumbled backward, tripping over the edge of the bed. “Get out!”
You don’t want that.
Her reflection tilted its head. Without me, you’ll be nothing again. Just empty space.
“I don’t care!”
He lunged forward and smashed the mirror with his hand. Pain burst through his palm.
Shards scattered across the floor, each one catching a tiny piece of his face — a thousand little reflections of him staring back.
Each mouth whispered something different.
Help me.
Let me in.
Don’t leave me.
Please.
He fell to his knees, clutching his bleeding hand.
Now look what you’ve done, Yuki said softly.
“I’m done with you,” he whispered.
No, Riku. Her voice was everywhere now — walls, ceiling, floor. You’re done with yourself.
He woke later on the floor, the light dim and golden. His hand was clean. The shards were gone.
Everything in the apartment was spotless, rearranged.
He stood slowly, unsteady.
A voice — Yuki’s — hummed faintly from the kitchen.
He turned the corner.
Someone was standing there.
A man — his age, his build — making coffee. Humming the same tune Yuki used to hum.
“Who are you?” Riku asked.
The man turned, smiling. His face was identical to Riku’s.
“I’m you,” he said. “The version that listened.”
Riku stumbled back. “No.”
The reflection — the man — smiled softly. “She was right. You needed someone.”
“I—”
He couldn’t speak.
“She’s in here now,” the man said, touching his chest. “She chose me.”
Riku shook his head, trembling. “I’m real.”
“Are you?”
The man’s smile widened.
Maybe you were.
Later, the neighbors would say they hadn’t seen Riku in weeks. The apartment stayed quiet except for faint humming that sometimes drifted through the vents.
When the landlord finally entered, he found a perfectly clean room — a bed neatly made, a mirror unbroken, a mug still warm.
And in the reflection, just for a second, he thought he saw someone standing behind him.
Smiling.
Every night since, the neighbors swear they can still hear Riku’s voice — arguing softly with someone who sounds exactly like him.
