BIA Ch. 1

“This is bad. I’m doomed now.”

– Isaiah 6:5

Day 1

Where is this again?

Isaiah thought, his face half-buried in the pillow. Through his blurry vision, he could see an old cabinet and a shabby hanger. If he rolled his eyes from side to side, he might see more, but it was impossible right now. His head throbbed with pain and his stomach felt queasy.

Anyway, this isn’t my house. Isaiah closed his eyes again. Once his dizzy vision was blocked, his brain finally began to process slowly. This isn’t my house… If that’s the case, then it must be the house of one of his classmates. Since the entrance ceremony, there had been parties almost daily. He tended not to miss such gatherings. That’s just what being a freshman is like. It’s natural to prioritize getting accustomed to a new environment and making friends over college classes. Parties every night, drinking, occasionally doing drugs, and maybe even stupider things than that. Well, it’s all temporary anyway.

“That’s right, I’m doing it now because..”

Isaiah muttered, his face still buried in the pillow. Yeah, I’m only nineteen. Sure, I’m a college student, but I’m still a kid. Besides, my birthday is…

…Wait.

Isaiah opened his eyes without realizing it. Has my birthday… not passed yet? If not, then he was still eighteen? Or had his birthday already passed, making him nineteen? Wait a second, my birthday… what month was it again?

“…….”

Isaiah blinked blankly, still lying face down on the bed. He must have had way too much to drink. Or maybe he just wasn’t fully awake yet. Yeah, that must be it. He would remember everything once he got some sleep. Whose house this was, how he ended up sleeping here and when exactly his birthday was. All of it.

As he resolved to drink more moderately from now on and started to turn to his other side, something caught his eye. On the pillow lay a phone. It was an old-fashioned slide phone, so outdated it felt insulting to even call it ‘old.’ The moment Isaiah saw it, he felt his sleep vanish completely.

What the…? Could I have taken this while drunk? Maybe from a professor? No, even old people use smartphones these days, don’t they?

A sudden chill ran down his spine. Isaiah instinctively grabbed the phone. When he slid up the panel, the screen was filled with unchecked messages.

“Lanius, are you with the robin?”

…So, not a professor, but a bird farm owner?

Of course, it wasn’t as if a bird farm owner would actually text birds, but that wasn’t the point. All that mattered was that it wasn’t a professor.

“Ha, what is this?”

Feeling a bit deflated, Isaiah sighed and tossed the phone aside. The tension eased, and sleep began to wash over him again. As he buried his face into the pillow out of habit, he slid his hand between the mattress and the pillow. Suddenly, a cold sensation brushed his fingertips. Startled, Isaiah screamed and shot upright.

No way.

Isaiah hurriedly lifted the pillow. He was right. It was a gun. He had slept all night with a pistol under his pillow.

“…….”

This wasn’t just some decorative self-defense weapon. The grip panels were worn, evidence of frequent and long-term use. The sight of the black hunk of metal made Isaiah’s heart pound with terror. His breath quickened, and his vision blurred.

He didn’t even have time to think about whose gun this was or where he was. A vague sense of dread told him that he couldn’t stay here any longer.

I have to get out of here.

Isaiah hastily shoved the gun back under the pillow and climbed off the mattress as if in a trance. He had to escape this place as soon as possible. Somewhere far away, somewhere no one knew him.

But his shoes were nowhere to be found. Next to the mattress lay an old, beaten pair of work boots, but they weren’t his. Isaiah remembered his own shoes as being much more ordinary, typical nondescript sneakers like the kind every other college student wore.

“Oh, right. Sneakers.”

Isaiah snapped back to his senses and scanned the room. But all he could see was the worn-out pair of boots. Did the house owner take my sneakers instead? If so, they must have been just as drunk as me. How else could they confuse sneakers with boots?

Grumbling about the crazy house owner, Isaiah picked up the boots and put them on. Surprisingly, they fit perfectly. Not only that, but they were incredibly comfortable, as if they’d been custom-made for his feet. He was marveling at the fit when a loud mechanical sound startled him. Isaiah instinctively grabbed the phone from the mattress.

But it wasn’t the slide phone making the noise. Where is that sound coming from? Panicking, Isaiah ripped the blanket off the bed and found a smartphone teetering on the edge of the mattress. This one was brand-new.

The sound turned out to be an alarm. When he turned it off, he saw a missed call log. Fourteen calls in total. He had set the phone to Do Not Disturb, so only the alarm had been audible.

The problem was that this phone wasn’t his either.

“Where the hell is my phone?”

Clicking his tongue, Isaiah opened the messaging app. Whoever had taken his sneakers must have taken his phone too. If he checked the messages, he might figure out who the culprit was.

As expected, the phone’s owner wasn’t normal. The message inbox was full of spam. There weren’t any messaging apps installed other than basic SMS. No Snapchat, no Facebook. Not even the bare minimum of social media apps.

How does this guy even function at school? Does he skip classes, ignore assignments, and only show up for drinking parties?

Isaiah’s annoyance turned to unease as he scrolled through the phone. It wasn’t just missing messaging apps. There were no apps of any kind, aside from the default ones. And even those showed no signs of use. The photo gallery was empty, and there were no schedules or notes recorded.

This is… really strange.

Finally, Isaiah checked the call log. At least there was a record of calls, but only two numbers were listed. One was the same as the fourteen missed calls from earlier.

What the hell…? How did I end up involved with a lunatic like this?

He tried to recall the events of last night, but his mind was blank. Every time he tried to think, a headache and nausea overwhelmed him. He must have drunk a ridiculous amount. Maybe he had even taken something stronger than alcohol. Giving up, Isaiah decided to call his own phone. If someone answered, he would figure out who had taken it.

But when he opened the keypad, he froze. He couldn’t remember his own phone number.

“Wait, what…? My number, what was my number…?”

Isaiah muttered frantically, clutching the phone. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember.

What’s going on…? Am I still drunk?

Before he knew it, Isaiah was panting. His heart, which had just begun to calm, started pounding again. Overcome by a nameless fear, he threw the phone aside and left the room.

Looking for the front door, Isaiah stopped in front of the kitchen. On the red refrigerator door, a note was pinned with a beer bottle-shaped magnet. Drawn as if by some invisible force, Isaiah approached the refrigerator.

“You have a surprisingly cute sleeping face. It doesn’t suit you. But I understand why you were named after that cute little bird. There’s a gift at the front door. I hope you like it.”

The note was written on the back of a receipt. For something scribbled so carelessly, the message was oddly sentimental. Plus, the handwriting was stunningly beautiful.

Is this a message for the house owner?

Isaiah scanned the message without taking it off the fridge. Then, without thinking, he went to the front door. When he saw what lay there, he let out a horrified scream and collapsed on the spot.

A corpse lay sprawled in the middle of the entrance. He knew it was a corpse because the neck was twisted 180 degrees. It was a middle-aged man in a bomber jacket and brown slacks, dressed in entirely ordinary clothes.

“What… is this?”

Isaiah muttered, covering his mouth with his hand. Is this the gift? No, it can’t be. This has to be some kind of joke, right?

Then, suddenly, someone outside began pounding violently on the door. Isaiah felt his heart plummet to his stomach.