The rain came down like needles—cold, biting, relentless.
Ren stumbled into motion before his mind had even caught up. His boots struck stone, splashing through puddles that swallowed sound. Breath tight in his lungs, he pushed forward through the streets. The darker tower loomed just ahead of his path.
Then, a woman had staggered into his path, clutching her chest. Her voice cracked.
"H-h-help...You have to help me!"
Ink sullied her eye sockets, as she coughed up clots of ink.
She reached with shaking fingers, missing his arm by inches.
Ren stepped around her, causing her to stumble to the ground.
'I'm sorry...I wish I could.'
He reached an intersection and halted, streets branching off in three directions, each more claustrophobic than the last. He breath fogged, as he traced the memory of the vision again.
'Focus...dark tower...left side...find the angle...'
A tremor of instinct tugged him toward the center path.
The street dipped gradually downward, the buildings leaning inward like they were trying to suffocate him. As he ran deeper, the air changed into something thicker, heavier. An oil-like sheen had spread along the stone walls. The ink-plague was worse here. Much worse now.
Halfway down the street, the skyline cracked open between two slanted rooftops, just wide enough for Ren to catch another glimpse of the dark tower.
'That's it...this is the right direction...I have to just keep moving.'
And the narrow street had widened ever so suddenly, opening into a large courtyard drown in rainwater. The sight hit him like a blow to the stomach.
Bodies littered the ground—some collapsed, others twitching as ink surged through them. Their breaths were weak. Choked sobs strangled in their throats. Blackened arteries pulsed beneath skin, alive and writhing.
More figures slumped against walls, trembling, clutching at themselves as the infection swarmed beneath their skin. Others crawled, leaving streaks of black behind them.
Their hands reached toward him, pleading to fix mistakes he never caused.
"Give...it back."
"That wasn't...our deal."
"You lied!"
"You lied!"
"You lied!"
"You lied!"
Ren kept his eyes forward, focusing only on a street connected to the left of the courtyard.
He felt the inked hands of the damned brush against his boots.
He heard their pain as they wept and groaned.
But he wouldn't stop.
Not when she was somewhere alone, terrified, and crying.
Ren pushed himself toward the left-hand street. The cries behind him twisted into warped echoes, overlapping until they became a single, distorted wail. The ink-plague victims lurched after him with broken movements. The street tightened back to normal—narrow, suffocating, a single-file corridor crushed between tall buildings. The path seemed right.
He looked over his shoulder, back to the dark tower.
'The tower...seen from the left...low vantage point...amber light near window...angle...focus.'
And as the buildings stretched along both sides, he found the angle. The perfect alignment.
Three buildings faced that precise line of sight. Yet, only one held an amber light in the windows. Ren's breath trembled with the sudden clarity.
"There..."
When he stepped inside, the air was warm, almost stagnant, carrying the faint scent of wet wood. He drew a shuddering breath and tugged his hood off, shaking rain from his hair.
The interior was dim, lit only by thin streaks of gray from rain-streaked windows.
The furniture in the lobby had been left untouched—a coffee table surrounded by wooden chairs, a coat rack in the corner of the room, a clean front desk. The space was eerily intact.
He pressed forward, brushing his hand on the back chairs and the edges of tables. From the vision, she had to be on the second. The amber light, the window alignment, the low vantage point—everything pointed upward. Up the staircase, a narrow hallway stretched before him.
Eight doors lined the edge facing the tower.
He went down the row, one-by-one.
Door one:
A single bed, neatly made, and a small dresser against the far wall. Nothing else.
Door two:
The room was bare, just a chair toppled on its side and a lantern near window.
Door three:
Dusty floorboards, and a cracked mirror leaning against the wall. No one again.
Door four:
Locked.
Ren pressed his ear against the locked door.
A faint, trembling whimper came from within—so soft he almost thought he imagined it.
"Eva…" He whispered. "It's me…I'm here."
There was no response.
"Eva, are you in there? It's me, Ren..."
No response.
"Eva?! Are you alright?!" Ren's voice filled with worry. "Please, open the door. I'm here..."
Nothing. Except, the sobbing had become louder.
Ren went into a cold panic from what could be happening on the other side.
Without thinking, he slammed his shoulder into the door.
BAM
The door creaked under his pressure.
Ren took a step back and charged in again.
BAM
The lock shattered, and the door swung inward from his force.
Inside was just as the vision showed. A single chair. A cracked lantern glowing. And Eva curled in the corner with shoulders shaking as she wept.
Ren stepped forward.
"It's okay, Eva...It's just me. I'm here now."
"Eva?" He knelt next to her, placing a soft hand on her shoulder. "Can you hear—"
Eva jerked away from his hand as it made contact, scurrying on the floor to get away.
"What's wrong?" Ren's voice cracked.
Slowly, Eva looked over her shoulder, her body still shaking in fear.
And her eyes—those eyes that had always been closed—were open.
She was now staring at Ren, ink flowing from the sockets.