Sloth
He had tried.
He really had.
At first, he thought he could handle it. Thought that wearing the debt like a second skin—like the sparkling capes of heroes—would be enough.
If he acted normal, smiled enough, dressed well enough, no one would notice the weight he carried.
For a month, he kept up the act.
He worked.
Paid what little he could.
Ate the cheapest food he could find.
His parents were too sick to notice the suffering in his eyes.
Then, he cracked.
The first attempt was simple.
A bottle of pills. Swallowed dry. An empty stomach. He lay down, waiting for sleep to take him.
It didn’t.
His stomach rejected them, forcing them back up. He spent the night on the cold bathroom tiles, trembling, crying, stomach cramping so hard he thought it would tear open.
When morning came, he wiped his face, dressed well, and went to work.
Nothing changed.
The debt remained. His parents remained in bed, too weak to move. Shigaraki Corporation still wanted their money.
The second attempt was higher.
A rooftop. Late at night. He stood at the edge, wind whipping through his hair. He thought of flying. Thought of finally being free.
He leaned forward.
A gust of wind pushed him back.
He slipped.
Not forward, but back. Crashed onto the hard cement of the rooftop.
Laid there, staring at the stars, hating them.
The third attempt was quieter.
A knife. A clean slice.
The pain wasn’t as sharp as he expected.
But then, his hands shook. The blood dripped too fast.
Panic.
He pressed the wound shut, breathing hard. His heart pounded. His mind screamed.
He wrapped it up.
Pressed against it.
Hid it beneath long sleeves.
He didn’t try again for weeks.
But the debt never left. The calls never stopped. Shigaraki Corporation always got what they were owed.
He wondered if he could disappear.
Maybe if he ran far enough, it would be like he never existed.
But his parents were still there.
And the weight still crushed him.
So he stayed.
And suffered.
And smiled.
Because if he cracked again, there was no one to pick up the pieces.
He closed his eyes.
The bed was thin. The blanket too rough. His body ached.
But it didn’t matter.
He just needed sleep.
Just a little.
Just a moment—
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Get up."
His heart lurched. His stomach clenched.
Too soon.
He had only just—
"Get up!"
He swallowed. Forced himself up. The world tilted. His head pounded. His body screamed.
But none of that mattered.
He dressed. He left.
The walk to work was cold. His shoes were worn down. His hands stuffed in his pockets, nails digging into his skin.
The building loomed.
He stepped inside.
Eyes turned to him.
His boss frowned.
"You’re late."
His throat was dry.
No excuse.
None they’d care about.
"Sorry."
"Don’t be sorry, be faster." A hand waved him away. "Your numbers are behind. Your deadlines aren’t met. We can’t keep covering for you."
Aoyama nodded.
Didn’t argue. Didn’t fight.
Just sat. Worked.
Or tried to.
The words blurred. His head swam. His stomach twisted.
He had forgotten to eat again.
Not that he could afford much.
The clock ticked too slow.
His hands trembled over the keyboard. His eyes burned.
"You’re behind again," someone said.
"I know."
"Then fix it."
He nodded.
Tried.
Failed.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Lunchtime came. He stayed at his desk.
Watched others eat.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just waited.
Tried not to close his eyes.
If he did, he’d fall.
And if he fell, he might not get back up.
He walked home.
The streets were dark. The lights blurred. His body felt like it wasn’t his.
One foot in front of the other.
That was all he had to do.
His apartment was cold. Quiet.
Too quiet.
His parents were asleep.
They always were.
"Bonsoir," he whispered.
No answer.
They must be tired.
He set his bag down. His hands shook. His feet ached.
His stomach growled.
He walked to the stove. Turned it on.
The flame flickered.
Water in a pot. Something simple.
His head throbbed. His body swayed.
Just for a moment.
He sat on the bed.
Closed his eyes.
Just for a moment.
Just—
Smoke.
Coughing.
His eyes snapped open.
The room was orange. Bright. Wrong.
Heat licked at his skin. His lungs burned.
Flames.
Everywhere.
He tried to move. His legs wouldn’t listen.
Noise.
People shouting. Sirens wailing.
Hands grabbed him. Pulled him.
Cold air hit his face. He gasped, choking. His body hit the pavement.
He looked up.
The building. His home.
Burning.
He turned his head.
Stretched his arm.
"Where are my parents?"
Silence.
The rescuers looked at each other.
Then at him.
Then down.
His chest tightened. His throat closed.
"Your parents…"
Something in their eyes.
Something final.
"They’ve been dead for two days already, way before this even happened."
The world stopped.
They didn't let him rest.
Not even after the fire.
Not after the smoke.
Not after he threw up in the alley, coughing up black.
A blanket on his shoulders. Too thin. Too late.
They pulled him into a small, bright room. Too white. Too loud.
Cameras. A desk. Two chairs.
They sat him down.
And then it began.
"How long were they dead?"
He blinked.
"I—"
"You didn’t check on them?"
"I…"
"You lived in the same room, didn’t you?"
He nodded. Slowly.
"How could you not know?"
He didn’t answer.
"How could you leave the stove on and just… fall asleep?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
"You do realize that counts as negligence?"
He bit his lip. His tongue tasted blood.
"You were responsible for them. Your parents were sick."
"I tried—"
"You didn’t try hard enough."
"You weren’t even of age, and now you think you can live alone?"
"I…"
"Did you want this to happen?"
"No!"
They looked at him. Cold. Sharp.
Like knives.
"Maybe not murder," one of them said. "But still. Two days, and you didn’t notice."
"That’s not normal."
"You were home."
"You said you greeted them."
"I—"
"Did you talk to them? Touch them? See them?"
"I thought they were sleeping!"
"For two days?"
He fell silent.
His chest hurt.
His eyes blurred.
He wanted to sleep.
He wanted to die.
But they kept talking.
Then came the papers.
The debt.
It hadn’t gone away.
No.
It had grown.
Interest. Fees.
His parents were no longer working.
No income.
No stability.
And now—
The fire.
The building.
Destroyed.
"That’s on you," they said.
The landlord wanted compensation.
The neighbors wanted payment for their ruined apartments.
The belongings. The smoke damage.
The accusations.
"You owe all of them."
"You’ll need to attend the hearing."
"There’s a formal complaint."
"You may be charged."
Everything blurred.
He stared at the wall.
White. Empty.
He didn’t blink.
He didn’t breathe.
His name. On every paper.
His parents. Gone.
The building. Gone.
The money. Never enough.
His life.
Falling apart in front of him.
And all he could do—
Was sit there.
And nod.
Then, nothing.
Just—nothing.
Aoyama blinked.
And suddenly, he wasn’t in the city anymore.
The air was warm. Heavy. Sweet, like perfume and something deeper, something he couldn’t name.
The ground beneath him was soft. His skin felt—
Bare.
He looked down.
He was naked.
His breath hitched, but before he could react, before shame or fear could settle, his eyes lifted—
And saw her.
A woman.
Decorations bathing over her body. Jewels clung to her wrists, her neck, her fingers.
She was naked, but it felt intentional. Like clothing would have been beneath her.
Her eyes—deep, knowing—studied him.
Her lips curled.
"Welcome," she purred, voice like silk. "To the First Ring—"
"Just kill me."
His own voice surprised him.
Flat. Empty.
The woman paused. Tilted her head.
He sighed. Shoulders sagging.
"I’m tired," he murmured. "I just want to sleep."
He didn’t know how long he had been on the ground.
The woman had decided to use his existence as entretainment instead of granting his wish.
The laughter still echoed. Somewhere behind his ribs.
His body didn’t feel like his.
He stared at the floor. Not moving. Not blinking.
The air was thick. Like syrup. Like oil.
He wasn’t cold. He wasn’t hot.
He just—was.
Time passed. Or maybe it didn’t.
Then—
The air shifted.
A hum. A ripple. Like the room exhaled.
When he looked up, she was gone.
And someone else stood there.
A boy.
Young. Probably his age. Maybe younger.
Green hair. Pale skin. Eyes that didn’t blink.
The boy smiled, soft and strange.
"You look tired."
Aoyama didn’t answer.
The boy tilted his head.
"Would you like to sleep forever?"
He didn’t hesitate.
"Yes, I do."
The boy offered his hand.
Aoyama took it.
The room changed around them.
A door appeared.
They walked through it.
Another room.
Nothing.
Not even a floor. But he was standing.
They walked.
Another room.
Still nothing.
But the air buzzed. Like something was waiting.
The fourth room looked exactly the same.
But something was different.
The boy stopped.
Turned to face him.
"What's your name?"
Aoyama blinked. "...Aoyama Yuga."
The moment the word left his lips—
Pain.
No, not pain. Not sharp.
But something.
A pull.
His back burned. Threads weaving through his skin.
He stumbled.
The ground opened beneath him.
Not falling—no.
Cradled.
Wrapped.
Folded.
A cocoon.
Soft. Warm.
Tight enough to hold him, not crush him.
He sighed.
For the first time in weeks—months—maybe longer—
His body let go.
His eyes fluttered shut.
The hum of the void faded.
And Aoyama slept.