Written on Paper

The hospital corridor stretched before Akima, its sterile walls bearing witness to the unfolding enigma. As he stepped out of Malamu's room, he found himself confronted by an unsettling duo—a tall and heavily built individual with skin so dark it seemed blue. Who was brandishing a gleaming sword and another one whose silhouette of lethal grace seemed to melt in the aura of the situation.

'The slender guy is the puppeteer' Akima affirmed.

It appeared as though the puppeteer's grasp on him was waning. Yet, Akima, wise to the whims of these individuals, knew better than to believe they would afford him a moment's respite. As the strings of control slackened, the taller figure surged forward, a manifestation of imminent threat.

His blade, an ominous creation, bore the semblance of crocodile hide, its surface textured with the rough allure of the ancient reptile. Massive and formidable, the sword dwarfed its mundane counterparts, a looming presence that demanded attention. Scales, large and reminiscent of a crocodile's, intermingled with teeth that adorned its formidable form. This weapon, a grotesque beauty in its distinctiveness, held the promise of danger. The tall heavily built guy brought his blade close to Akima and mist started emanating from it in the shape of tendrils.

As the tendrils of the mist began their delicate ascent, there was an undeniable elegance to their movements. Each wisp, each strand, carried a hushed promise of confinement—a lulling whisper of entrapment veiled in the enigmatic mist.

The mist's embrace, initially subtle, gradually gathered momentum. It was as if the very air acknowledged the impending union with its elusive dance partner. Akima, a silhouette against the nebulous backdrop, remained a stoic observer of this spectral ballet.

The mist, now a capricious painter, draped itself over Akima's form with a deliberate grace. It clung to him, insinuating its intangible fingers through the contours of his being. The transformation unfolded like a slow revelation, a metamorphosis where the physical realm succumbed to the ephemeral whims of the mist.

Akima's silhouette, once sharply defined, became a shadowy abstraction beneath the mist's ethereal brushstrokes. The mist lingered, a shroud of whispers, caressing him in a dance that transcended the boundaries of the tangible.

The corridor, now cloaked in a delicate opacity, bore witness to the ethereal fusion of mist and man. Akima stood encased in a Mist Box like shape, a creation not of brick and mortar, but of the intangible threads that wove through the very fabric of the fog.

The mist box like shape Akima was in, resembled a cage, and the puppeteer visibly relaxed himself after his teammate put Akima in that mist box, the toll of manipulating Akima's body evident.

Outside the mist box, the other Mbila crossed his sword, the gleaming blade moving inside and out of the fog, stained with blood upon each emergence.

This lasted for a fleeting five seconds. Then, the mist began to retreat to the sword.

The other teammate focused and launched his technique. As Akima emerged from the mist box, bloodied and battered, the other Mbila took control of him once again.

The taller figure's voice cut through the air, devoid of command but dripping with an unassailable certainty. " Come with us," he intoned, his words less a request than an immutable truth. Akima, caught in the invisible web of the puppeteer's control, yielded to the pressure, his movements dictated by forces beyond his control.

"Wh... wh…e…re are yo…u lea….ding me?" Akima's voice faltered, the weight of uncertainty heavy upon his tongue.

"You still have some energy left, ahahah," chuckled the obscure figure, his amusement bordering on the sinister.

"Be patient, for the son of God wishes to speak to you," the puppeteer interjected, his voice a cryptic echo in the dimly lit corridor.

The trio moved in tandem, a macabre procession shrouded in shadows. The towering figure led the way, Akima caught between them, and the puppeteer lingered at the rear, his presence a haunting specter in their midst.

As they navigated the corridors of the hospital, the duo orchestrated a deceptive dance, using Akima's faltering steps to cloak their true intentions. Each approaching member of the hospital staff was met with a facade of camaraderie, as Akima leaned upon his captors, feigning assistance toward an unknown destination. Few questioned their motives amidst the chaos that engulfed the hospital, the cacophony of voices and urgent footsteps masking their clandestine movements.

Above, in the lofty heights of the hospital's upper echelons, a veneer of calmness prevailed, catering to the needs of the wealthy and privileged. But as they descended deeper into the bowels of the hospital, chaos reigned supreme, a tumultuous symphony of noise and disorder, a veritable capharnaüm of despair and uncertainty.

In the room where Akima had left, Malamu's friend stood by the window, his gaze fixed on the horizon. His thoughts were consumed by worry for Akima and the inexplicable events that had transpired.

A delicate piece of paper fluttered like a lost soul seeking refuge. It drifted through the open windows, propelled by an ethereal breeze that whispered secrets to those who cared to listen.

Unbeknownst to the inhabitants of the hospital, this innocuous piece of paper, glided effortlessly, passing from one window to another, weaving through each corridors effortlessly.