Yosu jolted upright, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat. Not waking – surfacing. Like breaking through ice into suffocating air. His sheets were plastered to him, cold and sodden, clinging like a second skin of dread. Every muscle screamed, heavy as lead, as if he'd been dragged from the depths of a lightless sea. His lungs burned, starved. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic prisoner in a cage of bone.
Was it…? Could it be…?
His eyes, wide and bloodshot, darted around the room. The mundane assaulted him: the familiar crack in the white ceiling, the cluttered desk, the faded band poster on the wall. His room. His real room. The silence was profound, deafeningly ordinary.
For endless, frozen seconds, he remained statue-still. Then, a fragile, disbelieving whisper scraped out: "A nightmare… Just… a nightmare?"
The memories flooded back – Regulus's borrowed flesh, the ritual's stench, the monster's wet roar, Beatrice's terrified voice, the searing agony of death – a second life etched in terror. But it was fading, dissolving like smoke in daylight, leaving only the oily residue of cosmic horror. A sick echo of something too vast, too alien for mere dreams.
A laugh bubbled up. Quiet at first, shaky. Then louder, hysterical, edged with desperate relief. "Holy shit… I thought… I thought I was trapped there. Forever." He dragged a trembling hand through sweat-soaked hair. "I died. I burned…" His body shuddered violently.
"But it wasn't real," he insisted, the words a fragile shield against the lingering dread. "None of it. Not the brother, not the void-city, not the girl. Just… my own fucked-up imagination." A story twisted too far. A sick joke my brain played.
He staggered from the bed, legs watery, almost buckling on the damp floorboards. His heart still raced, but the relief was a heady drug. "If I'd known it was all in my head," he breathed, a manic grin touching his lips, "I could've crushed every monster. Just… willed it gone. Stupid. So stupid." He shook his head, the self-recrimination a familiar anchor.
His gaze snagged on his phone, face-down on the carpet. Dead. Ominously inert.
"Figures." He plugged it in, watching the black screen flicker reluctantly to life, the charging icon crawling. "When it's up… I'll open the novel again. See what my brain twisted… find the seed of that nightmare." Make sense of the senseless.
He stretched. Tension coiled in his spine like frozen wire. But the world outside his window was reassuringly dull: gray skies, the distant hum of traffic, the chirp of sparrows. Weekend quiet. No job. No monsters. He needed air. To walk. To feel normal.
The streets were a balm. Dull, predictable, achingly familiar. The scent of wet pavement and exhaust, the chatter from a cafe, kids glued to phones – each mundane detail was a whispered prayer: I'm back. I'm safe. It wasn't real. He walked, letting the rhythm of the ordinary soothe his frayed nerves.
Everything is fine.
Then he passed it.
His best fried Eryndor's building.
He froze. Ice flooded his veins.
A figure stood behind the grimy second-floor window.
Messy brown hair. Sharp, familiar features. Unmistakably Eryndor.
Yosu blinked. Hard. Rubbed his eyes. The figure didn't move. Didn't react.
"No…" The word was a breath, stolen by sudden terror. "That's… impossible…" Panic and a treacherous sliver of hope warred within him.
"ERYNDOR!" The shout ripped from him, raw and desperate. He stumbled towards the building entrance. "HEY! I thought you were gone! You idiot! What were you doing? Hiding?!" A nervous, brittle laugh escaped. "I thought— I thought aliens got you or something!" Or worse. So much worse.
No response. The figure remained, a statue framed by dust, staring out with unnerving stillness.
Yosu didn't hesitate. He slammed through the front door, adrenaline surging, drowning reason. If this was a prank, it had crossed a line into cruelty.
"Eryndor?" His voice echoed in the silent, clammy stairwell. No answer. The air felt thick, stagnant. Each creaking step upwards was a drumbeat of dread. The door to Eryndor's flat stood ajar, a dark maw.
Yosu pushed it open.
The room was dim, shadows pooling in the corners. Dust motes danced in a single shaft of weak light.
Eryndor stood with his back turned, facing the far window, utterly motionless.
"Okay," Yosu managed, voice tight, forcing lightness he didn't feel. "You're really committing to this bit. Look, my brain's already scrambled from that nightmare. Enough, yeah?" Please just turn around. Smile. Say it was a joke.
Silence. Profound and heavy.
"Seriously, man…" Yosu took a cautious step closer, the floorboards groaning. "Say something. Anything."
Then, Eryndor spoke. His voice was calm. Too calm. Devoid of inflection. Empty.
"Why… did you read the novel?"
Yosu flinched as if struck. "W-What? I barely… I just read a few lines. Got tired. Didn't even finish the first page! I didn't mean—"
"You promised…" The whisper slithered out, low and distorted, the tone warping, stretching thin. "You promised to wait. Until it was finished."
Yosu's breath hitched. The air grew colder.
Eryndor repeated, slower, deeper, each word glitching, layered with static and something sub-vocal, insectile:
"How dare you read it. How dare you. How dare you."
"H̵̢̧̨͔̝̗̬̤̫̘̳͗̓͒̊̋̇̆̈́̌̚̕͠͠͝͝ͅƠ̵̧̨̡̩̭͚̼̫̟̮̮̩̗͍̋͐̋̈́͑͂̌̋̇̎̉̎͝͠Ẃ̶̧͎̬͕͓̮͚̤͓̮̗͚̘̭̔͆̿̿̓̑̒̽͐̈́̈́̊͒̕ ̸̢̛̛̱̮̤̠̰̭̊͂͂͗̈́̅̐̓̏͛͌̚͠D̴̛̥̼̰̘̭̜̻̰̗͚̭͎̭̊̓̓͐̈́̅̾͊͗̑̀̓̇̊A̸̳̠̭̘̱͎̗̹̬̠̖̺̭͚͋̌͐̿̏̈́̇͋̊̈́̆͑̈́Ṙ̵̨̞̱̹̦̱̥̩̫̭̥̘̉̆̈́̅̆͑̾̿̈́̅̔̕͜͝͠ͅE̴̡̡̨͕̹̼̼̲̱͔̱̩̠̬͐͂̋̋̽͂̒͑̇͂̇͝͝͝ ̷̢̡̢̥̩̩̱̙͈͇̹̾̒̐̓͋̓̓̓̌̇͆͊͝͠Ỳ̵̢̡̡̠̫͇̼̖̜͎̰̜̈́̾̌̽̐͌͆̏͋̇̽̊̿ͅO̵̧͕̱͕̗͇̰̥͇͓̦̭̱̰͗͗̓̐̆̇̇͆̆̈́̏̕̚͝Ư̷̧̖̪̥̟̥̝̹͔̹̩̤͙̟̅̈́̏̉͛́̑͛͛͗̆̆͋͝."
Reality fractured.
The floor beneath Yosu's feet didn't just crack – it shattered like obsidian glass, revealing swirling, hungry void beneath. The walls dissolved into cascades of static snow, bleeding color and form. The sky outside the window swallowed itself into absolute, starless black.
A susurrus of a thousand whispering voices filled the air, not from around him, but inside his skull, behind his eyeballs, laughing with the sound of breaking glass and tearing flesh.
Yosu stumbled back, a raw scream trapped in his throat. "NO! I WOKE UP! I'M AWAKE! THIS ISN'T HAPPENING!" This can't be real. It can't.
"You forgot about me…" Eryndor's voice echoed, devoid of its source as his body began its grotesque metamorphosis. His head turned. Not a glance. A full, sickening 180-degree rotation. Bones audibly cracked and ground.
"You think only of yourself." The voice dripped with infinite contempt. "Selfish. SELFISH. S̸̢̟̮͉̻̙̮̝̋̒͗̈́̈́̉̕͝Ȩ̴̡̧̧̧̟̫̩͚̻͇̬̩̉̈́̇͗̈́͒͛̾͛̌̒̏͝͝L̶̺̗̥̙̭̻̅̈́͂̀̿̊͛̅͊̚͝ͅF̵̛͈̞̭͓̦̘̙̮̙͔̠̫͑̿̉̿̔͗͆̒͗̈́̕̕I̶̧͖̥̞̠͍̙̪̜̻̠̥͍͐̈́́̑̋̑͛̓̊͂̓̿̋̾S̴̨̛̹̭̜̮̲̖͚̙̗̩̻̈́͂̆̇͋̈́͆͛̓̓̿͊ͅH̷̜̼̠̥̭̘̼̫̋̐̇̎͊͗̉̈́̆̉̐͝͝."
The smile. It didn't just widen. It split Eryndor's face, stretching impossibly beyond the ears, rending the cheeks upwards into the eye sockets. The sockets themselves deepened into pits of purest void. His pupils winked out like snuffed candles.
Then—
His eyeballs lurched free. One. Then the other. They hit the dissolving floor with wet, sickening splats, leaving trails of viscous black fluid.
Black fire erupted. Not flames that flickered, but anti-light that consumed. It raced over Eryndor's skin, not burning, but erasing, unraveling. Flesh sloughed away, muscle withered and charred, bones collapsed into ash. In seconds, where his friend stood was only a sizzling, smoking mound of charred, unrecognizable meat on the fracturing floor.
From the meat, the Voice rose again: a guttural, multi-throated chorus vibrating the crumbling air, coming from everywhere and nowhere.
"Y̷̢̜̗̹̜̤̻̼̮͔̠̼̞̓̿̐̈́̔̏̊͊̒̿͑̈́́͠Ö̶̡̖̠̞̫̞̻̱̘̦͍͔́̅̑͊̾͆̇̌̈́̒͌̆̾͜͝Ư̵̺̤͙̜̮̟̘̤͕̹̹̰̮̊̎̿͑̿̈́͆̋͂̉̓̿̕ ̶̧̛̘̪̬̝̠̹̱͕̺͚̰̥͊̈́̓̊̆͆͒̐̈́͝͝͠W̸̧̡͇̙̖͚̗̱̬̫͓̰̾̒̔̌̽̈́̏̑̾͆̈́̕̚͝ͅI̵̡̝̤̬̫̰͉͉̱̬̞̥̙͋͛̐́̉̅̏̾͋͌̚̕͝͝L̶̢̧̛̙̫̗̠̰̜̪̤̥̼̐̿̔͒̏̋̎̑́̈́̏͝L̴̨̖̻̮̩̦̱̱͍͖̮̩̔̈́̓͆̈́̆̓̿̏̈́̓̽̓ ̴̨̨̢̨̦̟̼̗̼̭̫͚̇͛̓͗̾͛̒̏̀̎̆͠͝S̷̡̘͕̹̱̩̪͖̖͚͈̈́́̿̈́͑́̓̅̈́̌̈́̿͜͝Ṷ̷̢̡̺͕̲̦̠̠̼͉̠̾̊͛̅̀͆̉̀͋̊̽͝͝F̶̨̢̛̜̝͎̱̗̦͔̤͕̞͒̎̒̈́̋̑̔̋͒̽̑̕F̷̢̨̭̮̬̖̬͍̦̰̤̿̊̈́̈́̈́́͋̓̈́͊͒̈́̈́E̵̛͙̖͓̬͔̞̙̬̮̜͊̓̽͗͒̔̚͜͝͝͝͝͠R̷͓̟͎̮̲̬̤̗̙̻̭͔̾̆͑̋̿̔́͒͝͠͝͝.̷̨̧̗̺̳̖̱̖͈̫̙̑̾̉̈́̈́͛̇͛̅̈́͆̌̊ͅ ̴̧̢̨̻̗̳͍̙̗̪̤̘͛̅͛̇̈́̀̽̏̽̀͝͝͝Ę̷̨͕̱̤̠̩̮͚̖̼̝̆̓̆͋͛́̒̋̒̒̑̔͌Ṉ̶̡̹̼̙͔̙̩̤̙̟̭̒̈́̒̾͋͑̎̈́̋̾͠͝͝Ḑ̶̢̨̙̱̟̦̺̫͕̖̜̇͒͗͗̿͋͊̎̉̑̚͝͝Ļ̶̡͔̬̬̬̭̩̮̌͋̋̐͊̔̇̊͌̊̚͜͠ͅȨ̶̢̛̛̱̞͓̬̘̹̲̖̮̘͒̋̈́̊͋̌̓̈́̊̆͝S̸̨͙̦̖̖̳̪̪̺̠̒̀̈́͋̓̈́́̉͗̈́̑̇͜͠ͅS̵̢̮̗̱̼͈̗̤͚̩̞̺̾͋̆̀̾̓̀̐̉̕͝͝͝L̴̛̩̪̙̠̫̤̩̘̠̫̥̈́̇̈́̆̑̀͗̆͊͊͝Y̴̡̢̧̧̢̧͍̳̖̖̱̼͒̑̊̀̈́̔̾̐͛͛͝͠.̷̢̨̛̺̪̪̞̺̗̪̗͍̻̈́̓̿̇̈́͑̓̒̈́̕̕͝ ̶̢̮̹̩̪̠͔͇͇͔̤́̈́̽̊͂̓̿̿̔̇̉͝͝Ȁ̶̡̢̢̛̦̩̭̖̮̫̼̠̫̽͌̾̇̆̑̓̿̆͝N̴͔͔͍̩͔̠͈͇̖̦̈́̐̾̒̿̋̅͗̉̚̕̚ͅͅD̴̨̛͚̤̦̙͓͖̤̥̺͉̦̈́̆̈́͆͊̇̿̆́̽̈́̕ ̷̢̬͈̖̱͍͇̖̬̥̓͂̾̐̀̓̒̈́̾̿̈́̚͜Ğ̶̡̢̛͓̰̹̺͙̟̘̫̪̋̾̓͆̑̽͆̈́̋͝ͅE̷̡̧̨̩̠̱͉̬̮͖̪͌̈́͗̈́́̊͊̽̎̚̚͝Ṯ̷̨̞̥͇̱̪̤̺̞͈̈́̓̉͊̒̋͒̌͆͊̚͝ ̴̡̧̨̗̞̬̰̙̲̳̱̼́͂͑̆̆͗̔̓͋̋̈́͝Ẅ̴̢̢̤̜͙̘̮͙͕͉́̈́̇̆̐̏͊̏̐̀̉͝ͅH̸̡̡͉̥̫͇̱̙̙̪͔͋̔̋͆̓͆̅̅̌̀̈́̐A̴̢̲̗̬̪̗͕̘̥̰͈̔̉̓̇̋̀̎̒̓̕͝͠T̵̛̛̮̰̦̻̩̭̩̟̜̗̓̓͋͆́̿̕̕̚͜͝ ̸̧̨̦͓̱͙̞̜̳͎͎̀͑͛̓͋͒̑̾͒͋̋̕Y̴̢̨̡̛̗̻͔̰̞̘̤͙̿̆̆͒̑́̓̐̊̉̕Ơ̷̧̼̬͚͔̮͕̻̘̹̏̿̇̓̏̐̈́̏̅͜͝͠U̵̢̨̫̫̜̼̠̜̩̜̗̹̔̈́̈́͛̓̎̈́͛̚͝͝͝ ̷̢̲̬̖̹͙̼͈̬̰̙̈́̔͗̈́͊͗̋̽͒̆͑͊D̶͉̦̝̞̰̤̫̪̩̤̦̾̎̓̽̓̇̉̆̽̿̓̅Ę̴̜̗͈͉̼̗̳̲͚̫̿̉͋̏͗̀̓̚̕͠͠͝S̷̖̱͉̪̥̥̭̫͇̏͆̒͊͗̈́͂̒̊̕̚̚͜ͅȨ̵̧̛̤̳̫͙̘͈̘̙͔͋̀̈́̓̾͌͂̊͆̚͝R̴̛̫̝͕͇̗̤͈̪̱͓̈́̀͑͗̏͛̈́̚̕͝V̴̧̥̤͚͔̪̫͇̙̖̪͌͊͛̾̌͑̏͛̾̈́͑͠Ȩ̸̡̨̛̟̗̪̗͇͓͈͚̑̾̐̀͗̓̀̇̾͊͝.̸̨͚͚͙̪̰̞̬̖̐̓̈́̾̈́̊̅͋̎̔̾̈́ͅͅ"
Yosu collapsed. Not to his knees, but fully prostrate, pressed against the cold, fracturing nothingness. Violent tremors wracked his frame. Tears, hot and corrosive, carved paths through the grime on his face. His voice was gone, strangled by the sheer, suffocating weight of cosmic malice.
He opened his mouth. To scream. To deny. To beg.
The world blinked.
Absolute, suffocating darkness swallowed everything – the room, the void, the Voice, the charred remains, Yosu himself. Not an ending. An unmaking.
Silence. Profound. Final.