It was early morning in San Francisco, just as the city was beginning to wake up.

The reporter opened the apartment door and entered.

His clothes were still stained with the remnants of the landfill, and his hair was a tangled mess, soaked with blood.

What the hell happened...?

Staring at his reflection in the mirror, the reporter muttered.

The wound on his forehead, the blood stains on his clothes.

The sudden awakening in the landfill.

And the disconnect between the date on the clock and his memory.

An entire week had vanished from his recollection.

Everything felt surreal.

Desperately trying to recall his memories while showering with hot water, but nothing came to mind.

All that surfaced was the mysterious dream he had just before waking up.

After a quick meal and changing clothes, the reporter checked the time.

The workday was fast approaching.

Ugh, how do I go to work without my phone?

With no other option, the reporter left the apartment.

The usual morning scene in San Francisco greeted him.

But something felt new in the reporter’s eyes.

The busy people, the distant collapsed buildings, the everyday sights.

Yet, everything felt vivid, as if he could see through the darkness.

Arriving at the San Francisco Object building with his usual gait, the reporter was still in a dazed state.

As the elevator ascended, he wondered what excuse he would make for being absent for an entire week.

Most likely, as soon as he opened the office door, he would hear the editor’s loud shouting.

But when the reporter opened the office door, nothing happened.

You look a mess. I guess the story you went out to cover yesterday didn’t go well. You can skip the report.

Instead, the editor passed by with a concerned expression and spoke casually.

...

The reporter shook his head, as if dizzy, and walked to his desk.

His coworkers’ puzzled gazes followed him, but the reporter was consumed with his own thoughts.

Luckily, it seems like there’s no issue with unexcused absences...

But what the hell happened during that week?

And why was I buried in a landfill?

At that moment, something stirred deep in his eyes, black waves rippling.

The reporter, unaware of it, was struggling to return to his ordinary routine.

Deep inside the Sehee Research Institute, in the isolation room.

I was lying on a soft bed, using my fluffy hair as a pillow.

As always, the room had a warm and comfortable atmosphere, but I lay there listlessly, without even turning on the TV.

The reason for this was a failure in a prank involving the golden Shinigami, who tried to make a star candy that could never be touched.

The candy’s duration was running out, and just as success was within reach, the prank ended in failure.

The golden Shinigami had helplessly watched the candy disappear as they reached for it.

The prank was ruined because the sudden appearance of the blue idol Shinigami had undone the enchantment on the candy.

Then, a whisper echoed in my mind.

The whisper urged me to turn all the golden Shinigami who had obtained the candy, as well as the blue idol Shinigami, into d’ejji.

Was it the Orange Shinigami’s idea, or was it my own thought?

But since I lost the prank, I decided to accept my defeat.

I turned my back on the golden Shinigami, happily eating the star candy, and walked toward the isolation room.

This is comfortable…

I lay on the bed, staring vacantly at my fluffy hair that covered my entire body.

On top of my cotton-candy-like hair, many mini Shinigami heads popped out.

Their heads sprouted in abundance, making my hair look like a nest for mini Shinigami.

The mini Shinigami resting on my hair all had orange Shinigami-style hair.

Mom!

Just like Mom!

Hehe.

In addition to the golden and black Shinigami who could change their hair, many mini Shinigami had fluffy hairstyles too.

Thanks to the wig quickly distributed by the yellow Shinigami.

If the yellow Shinigami hadn’t been around, they would’ve probably asked me to change my hairstyle...

It would’ve been really annoying, so I’m glad.

Fluffy!

The mini Shinigami happily rubbed each other’s fluffy hair or fiddled with each other's fluffy hair, having a great time.

I watched the mini Shinigami play on my body until I suddenly became annoyed and shook them all off.

No!

The mini Shinigami tumbled down to the floor, and I walked toward the corner of the isolation room where the pudding factory was located.

Doo-bang, doo-bang.

Around the pudding factory, a few Sehee Institute staff members, including Yerin, were gathered.

They were taking pictures, exclaiming in admiration, and so on.

At first, I thought, Maybe it's just a trend to post photos of the pudding factory, but they had been gathered for quite a while, and my curiosity grew.

Looking down at the pudding factory, I saw golden Shinigami, with bunny ears, working busily, moving at ten times the normal speed.

The only difference was that they had turned fluffy.

But the synergy of their fluffy hair and bunny ears created such an overwhelming cuteness.

The staff members were busy taking photos of the fluffy bunny-eared golden Shinigami, and the mini Shinigami who couldn’t work at the pudding factory watched them enviously.

Yerin, too, was among the staff, snapping endless photos of the golden Shinigami.

Hmm...

Hmm...

The golden Shinigami, enjoying the attention and admiration of the staff, looked incredibly happy as they worked.

They were so cheerful that even though they couldn’t make any sound, it almost looked like they were singing.

Then, when it seemed like time was up, one of the golden Shinigami with bunny ears came out of the factory.

Seeing me, it bounced toward me with a bright smile.

Mom, Mom!

Just like Mom!

Then, it wiggled its bunny ears and radiated happiness toward me.

I looked at the happy golden Shinigami and, for no reason, became a bit irritable, so I turned it into a Pudding Bunny Eared D’ejji Golden Shinigami.

No!

Hehe.

The reporter let out a deep sigh as he stared at the computer screen.

To fill the gap of the past week, he started sifting through his computer files.

Inside his computer were documents related to the Alexander Group, documents he didn’t even remember.

What is all this…?

The reporter muttered, opening file after file.

Financial records, employee lists, rumors circulating on the internet.

There was nothing concrete enough to call evidence, but it was more than enough to weave a conspiracy theory.

The most eye-catching was the whistleblower he had met last.

The only person he had successfully interviewed.

The last whistleblower seemed to be most connected to the situation where he had woken up in the landfill.

But there was no solid information left on the last whistleblower.

Is there a connection between my memory loss and the whistleblower?

Questions began to multiply.

The reporter rubbed his forehead, lost in thought.

Memories of the dream he had in the landfill and the documents on his computer swirled together in his mind.

As he reviewed the materials from the past week, time flew by, and soon it was almost time to leave work.

Looking up, he glanced at the office clock.

It’s already this late…

Muttering, the reporter packed his bag.

As he stood up and walked toward the building exit, something strange overtook him.

His coworkers suddenly seemed suspicious.

His heart began to race.

His heartbeat sounded like a loud drum in his ears.

He could hear his coworkers’ breathing, the clacking of keyboards, even the distant noise of cars, all becoming crystal clear.

His coworkers seemed tense when they looked at him.

His heartbeat grew irregular, and he could feel them subtly avoiding his gaze.

Something’s wrong. They’re all hiding something.

Ever since waking up in the landfill, his senses had become incredibly sharp.

It felt almost like the "superhuman" abilities of the Sentinels.

The reporter tried to suppress the feeling and hurried his steps.

What the hell is happening to my body?

Is this related to the Alexander Group?

Are my coworkers... is it just my imagination?

The reporter, consumed with these thoughts, walked through the dimly lit streets of the late evening.

When he arrived near his home, the street was already shrouded in pitch-black darkness.

The lonely streetlights flickered, and the shadows cast by collapsed buildings from the Object incident created a chilling atmosphere.

Perhaps because his senses were heightened, every sound as he walked became startlingly clear.

It was then.

Suddenly, a familiar yet strange sound of footsteps echoed.

It was definitely not the usual sound of regular shoes.

Those are military boots... boots.

The reporter froze in shock.

How do I know the sound of military boots?

Just as the thought passed, a sudden noise sliced through the night air.

Thud.

A heavy, dull sound.

Before he could understand what it was, a sharp impact hit his chest.

He lost his balance and fell backward.

As he lay on the ground, his blurry vision scanned his surroundings.

The reporter’s eyes locked on to heavily armed soldiers wearing night vision goggles.

The smoke still rose from the barrels of their guns.

Why…?

And as his vision slowly slipped into darkness.

Ping.

The sound of a small metal object falling on the asphalt reached his ears.

Human...

At the same time, the reporter’s gaze began to rise.

Rising beyond where he had stood.

So large that he could look down at all the soldiers.

And that raised gaze illuminated the reporter’s now transformed hand.

A long, blackened hand with sharp claws.

The reporter wasn’t unfamiliar with this sight.

It was certainly the black hand he had seen in the dream.

Then, in the next moment, the reporter charged toward the soldiers with incredible speed.

His sharp claws pierced through their equipment, and steel-like teeth tore them apart.

The reporter didn’t witness the carnage to the end, as he lost consciousness completely.