Chapter Text
The wind howled like a ghost outside the apartment block, slinking through the narrow alleyways of the city, between broken glass and rusted gutters. Snow drifted slowly from the sky, white and ominous, reminiscent of ash.
Ike Eveland stood at the edge of the stairwell for a moment, blinking into the dusk. His fingers trembled on the railing, bare to the abuse of the winter. Not that he minded, when the cold was so constant it had become part of him. He trudged up the staircase, each heavy step leaving a cold imprint in the layer of snow. Finally, he reached door 1B, its hinges rusty, and door hanging at an angle. He slipped the key into the frost-covered keyhole, turning- twisting- turning. Click. He shoved the door open and stumbled in.
The scent of dust and old wood greeted him, mingled with the faint iron sting of rust. Then door shut behind him with a soft click. And just like that, the world outside stopped existing.
He exhaled.
One step, then two. He shrugged off his jacket, the thin material pooling to the cold floor.
The apartment was barely a room. A single bulb buzzed softly overhead, casting golden light that flickered like candle flame. The wallpaper peeled at the corners, yellowed by time and weather. A small desk leaned tiredly in one corner, beside a mattress pressed against the wall. There was no couch. No chairs. Nothing. He had nothing. He was nothing- all he was really good for was a punching bag. At least that was what his father would have said.
Father. The word felt weird, foreign, even in his mind, something that shouldn’t be there, never should have been there.
His body moved on instinct. The electric kettle sputtered as it came to life. He put the tea bag in. The water spilled over the edge, caressing his frozen fingers. He didn’t flinch.
Steam curled up like smoke, painting ghosts in the light.
The floor beneath him groaned softly as he knelt beside his desk and powered on the laptop, the only good thing the streets had done for him. He had found it on one of his hunts in the trash. More often than not, he ended up with bruises and shaky breathing rather than an actual meal. At least the- assault always left him with no appetite, with him choosing to curl up and scream silently in the shadows rather than testing his luck again.
“Stop-! Please-”
“Why should I stop? Your little screams are the only thing keeping me sane right now. Scream more! Cry more! Let me hear your whimpers anD MAYBE I’LL LET YOU FREE!”
He never really did recover from that encounter. The only thing he did after that was cry in his corner of the alley, a picture so miserable no street rat came near him.
Ike was broken from his daunting thoughts as the computer hummed awake. The screen flickered. He plugged in his mic, adjusted his scuffed headphones. His VTuber model waited silently on screen, all smooth lines and dreamy colors. The contrast was startling. The model looked so warm, so unlike him.
He reached toward it like one might reach toward the surface of a pond, watching it ripple.
His hand trembled and dropped back to his lap.
7:59 PM.
Almost time.
He tried not to think too much as he readied himself.
He leaned forward and hovered over the "Start Stream" button.
In the moment before he clicked it, he allowed himself one breath.
Just one.
He held it. Let it settle deep in his chest. Let it hush the trembling in his hands, the echoes in his head, the voice that sometimes still whispered "You should’ve died with him."
Then he exhaled.
Click.
The screen faded in to color. The chat lit up.
“Hello!” he said, voice soft and smooth, the practiced melody of joy. A little higher than his natural tone, a little too perfect. “Hope everyone’s night is treating them kindly!”
He smiled.
The model smiled.
Behind the mask, his eyes didn’t.
The chat bloomed with excitement
IKE’S BACKKKK
Let’s goooo novel boy~
Omg your voice heals me fr
Are you doing another reading stream???
Ike laughed gently, pressing his fingers against his lips like it would make the sound more real.
“You all are seriously the sweetest,” he said, breath catching faintly. “Even when I’m having a... bad day, you guys make it better.”
Another lie, spoken in velvet.
The stream continued. He played a shifty horror game, breath occasionally catching when scared, when the screen got dark, draining the room of light…
But beneath his desk, his feet were cold. His legs had fallen asleep. And his hands would not stop shaking.
His lips parted. But the words didn’t come. He could feel his chest tighten viciously, as if an invisible fist has closed around his heart and decided not to let go. The pain bloomed sharp and deep, every breath feeling like dragging air through broken glass. His vision blurred, dizziness slamming into him. His heart beat sluggishly.
He clicked mute.
No one heard the way his breath hitched. No one saw the tears that slipped down quietly, tracing the curve of his cheek like rain sliding down glass. No one saw the boy curled over a cracked desk, nails digging into scarred arms and letting out small streams of red.
Because on screen, the character still smiled.
And the chat, still unaware, overflowed with hearts. Hearts for him. The broken, young boy who was only accepted into Nijisanji with carefully crafted lies about his living situation, talents, streaming experience… everything basically. He was yet to meet his fellow wave members, but when he did… he wasn’t sure he would be able to keep up the façade. The illusion of a happy, bright novelist. He couldn’t. When he was anything but happy. Anything but bright. All he was, a worthless liar, was nothing to the world. He was nothing.
The stream ended the way it always did, with a wave, a smile, a breathy little "thank you for watching!" that melted like sugar on his tongue.
Then the silence returned.
Not the quiet of a room without sound, but the kind that settles after performance, when all the rehearsal hours spent evaporates, leaving everyone empty.
Not that it mattered, when every atom of his body was hollow and spent, brutalised by every assault that had been forced onto him during his time captive by his father and the gangs on the streets.
The moment the stream shut down, Ike let his body slump forward, his forehead pressed against the edge of the desk. The cool wood grounded him, slightly rough beneath the skin. But it didn’t stop the spinning in his head.
Somewhere beyond them, the city exhaled in broken car engines and distant sirens.
The wind scraped past the window like claws.
He closed his eyes.
Everything felt… distant. His body, his voice, his sight. Even the warmth from the ring light still faintly glowing nearby didn’t reach him. Nothing did.
It had been a good stream. The chat had laughed. His viewer count climbed higher than usual. He should feel something about that. Pride, maybe. Relief.
But all he felt was the echo of the smile he’d forced.
He was nothing.
“You are nothing! Nothing you do will ever make me proud, because all you have ever done for me is debt. Debt. Who knew raising a son would be so tiresome? So useless. Go die. Go jump. Go DIE!”
The words echoed in his mind, a neverending reminder of the pain he has went through. Is going through. And will go through for the rest of his worthless life.
He should just jump. Yet something stopped him. It could have just been his battered body not having the strength to get up. He should have been grateful. But he wasn’t. No. He wanted to die. Yet… he could hold on a bit longer. Just a bit longer.
Ike’s phone pinged somewhere in his background. And again. It must be important if anyone messaged him. He was insignificant. Who would waste their time messaging an insignificant piece of shit? Oh- It was his manager. The money-hungry, greedy manager of Luxiem. Swiping his phone open, he read the email idly, barely understanding a word of it. What caught his eye was- the flight tickets to Japan?
Ike Eveland,
Congratulations for your success in your first month in Nijisanji EN! You are invited to move in with your fellow wave members at Niji Residence the following month. You will be given accommodation and streaming equipment. Keep up the good work and we look forward to meeting you.
Regards,
Takagi Kenta
It seemed like he had to move to Japan… the living conditions would obviously be so much better, but at the same time, he couldn’t let them see his true self. The broken, black- haired 18-year-old, with pale, scarred skin, eyes haunted and devoid of warmth. They can’t see him like this. So different from his bright, sweet, online avatar who everyone made him out as.
He grabbed the bottle of cheap liquor he had shoved under his desk, the acrid smell hitting him as he desperately unscrewed the cap, and stumbled to the mattress, and drank. It hit his tongue like gasoline, the bitter sharpness stinging, a metallic edge to it that almost seemed like blood. Oh, maybe it was blood. The fuzziness in his head made it hard to think, but he still drank. And drank. There was no smoothness, no grace. It clawed at the back of his throat, rasping all the way down. But at the same time it was freeing, relaxing, allowing his to drift from his body, and his struggles, and his pain, everything. The chemical sweetness was addicting, and he found himself drinking more. And more. And more. It was better than slicing at his arms with the razor, anyways. Carving up his bruised, scarred arms and scarring it more, captivated with the shiny red that oozed out at every. Single. Drag.
He fell asleep to those thoughts, body drifting away and mind at peace, everything too fuzzy to comprehend, body too exhausted to fight.
He let the alcohol take him away from his troubles, let it liberate him from life, for a while. For a while. Nothing lasts forever. Not this bliss. Not this peace. Only his pain, will remain forever.
He awoke to pain. His head felt like it was splitting apart, a sharp knife stabbing into it and carving his brains out. It was agony. The taste of the liquor still clung to his mouth, bitter, and strangely sweet.
He dragged himself from his bed and took the nearest bottle of painkillers, shoving 2 down his throat and collapsing to the ground. But he had work to do. He changed out of his T-shirt and ratty shorts, pulling on a sweater to hide his mangled arms, and jeans. That would be enough to survive the cold outside. He was used to it anyways.
The city outside moved like clockwork: clattering buses, flashing signals. Ike drifted through it like a ghost, the sound of his footsteps grounding him to reality.
The coffee shop was large and busy, like always. Ike slipped behind the counter with a small nod to the manager, an older woman who never asked questions and paid in cash.
“You’re pale today,” she said offhandedly.
He smiled weakly, tying the apron around his too-thin waist. “Just tired.”
That was always the answer.
His shift ended with a muttered thank-you. He walked home slowly. It still felt like a blur.
He wanted to sleep.
Instead, he streamed.
He sat at his desk again, laptop humming, ring light flickering faintly in the corner. His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
He saw himself-his model-floating in soft colors, blinking gently, smiling always. A strange contrast to what he was actually like. What he actually felt. What he always felt.
It really was a beautiful mask.
He clicked “Start.”
“Hi everyone! It’s Ike Eveland, back again!”
His voice was warm. Perfect. No one could hear the rasp in it from the vomiting, or the way his hands still trembled under the desk. No one could smell the liquor still in his bloodstream or see the red in his eyes.
IKEEEE YOU’RE BACKKKK
Cute novelist boy on my screen again 💕
He laughed softly, brushing a hand through his hair like they could see it.
“Let’s have fun this stream!” His voice was smooth honey. Smooth and perfect. That’s what everyone else saw.
So he smiled.
And he streamed.