Akaashi Keiji |13| Bokuaka (maybe..)

Akaashi fit perfectly into the mold of the ideal nineties son. His life unfolded between university hallways, perfect grades, and the orderly routine of his parents' house. Outside, the world vibrated with denim jackets, cassette tapes, and noisy youths; inside, he preferred the silence of his own universe.

That voluntary isolation dragged him toward an obsessive fascination with horror. He devoured Stephen King novels and collected VHS tapes of psychological horror. He was obsessed with the atmosphere of fear, perhaps because it was the only thing that altered his methodical pulse.

On Friday night, his parents went out to celebrate their anniversary, leaving him alone. For Akaashi, this was the perfect scenario. With the lights dimmed and the smell of freshly made popcorn flooding the living room, he prepared a marathon of classic ghost and possession movies. He settled onto the sofa, ready to immerse himself in fiction.

Suddenly, the sharp, shrill ring of the landline phone cut through the silence of the house. The sound made him jump. He looked at the wall clock: it was almost midnight. He walked with slow steps toward the plastic device hanging on the kitchen wall, while the coiled cord danced slightly.

He lifted the receiver, dragging with it the echo of the era's static.

—Hello, who is this? —

he asked with a rehearsed calm, sharpening his hearing to decipher the heavy breathing filtering through the other end of the line.