—If nightmares had a membership system, Ethan would probably be a lifetime diamond member.
He woke up to find himself lying on a bed far too familiar. The wooden frame creaked, the walls were painted a sickly white, and outside the window it was forever dusk—like someone had jammed a broken filter over the world.
"Oh, fantastic." Ethan rolled over, staring at the ceiling. "Back at the nightmare's five-star hotel. Same service as always: free suffocation, complimentary mental breakdown."
He got up. His shoes slipped onto his feet by themselves, the laces tying into a perfect bow. At the end of the hallway, footsteps echoed—matching the rhythm of his heartbeat.
Around the corner, figures awaited. No faces, no eyes, only hollow masks. He recognized them: rookies who'd died in training, hosts devoured on missions, even colleagues who once clinked glasses with him at the bar.
They spoke in unison, voices stretched like warped records:"Eeee-thaaaan—"
Ethan scratched his head. "Well, this is more awkward than a team dinner. At least at dinner no one glares at me with their death stares demanding we split the bill."
The figures lunged. Their limbs bent like broken puppets. Ethan whipped out his gun—but instead of bullets, slips of paper shot out.
They fluttered to the ground. On one, in blood-red scrawl: "You owe us a round of drinks."
He bolted into another corridor. At the end loomed a massive iron door, engraved with three words—"Director's Office."
Ethan squinted. "Great. Even nightmares know the scariest boss belongs in here."
He pushed inside. Sure enough, the Director sat behind the desk, expression as frosty as ever. But his shadow sprawled ten times larger, like a beast waiting to strike.
The Director raised his head. His voice was glacial: "Ethan, you've crossed the line."
Ethan spread his hands. "Come on, at least give me a yellow card first. Straight to a red card? That's just bad refereeing."
No reply. The shadow surged, swallowing the room.
Darkness engulfed him. Ethan tumbled into an endless urban wasteland.
The sky cracked, the ground rippled, buildings swayed like drunken dancers. The streets swarmed with copies of himself—rookie Ethan, corpse-Ethan, even a smugly well-dressed Ethan who chased him shouting: "You should've quit ages ago!"
"Fantastic." Ethan sprinted, muttering. "Even my self-loathing has gone multithreaded. Top-notch customer service."
He dashed into a ruined building. Inside sat his old friend—the one who'd died, then inexplicably returned.
The friend looked up, eyes conflicted. "Still running? Think you can outrun this?"
Ethan glared. "Are you real or another knock-off? If you're real, give me the code word. Like the name of that dirty book we borrowed back in school."
Silence for three seconds. Then: "You never returned that book."
Ethan froze.
—Shit. He really had forgotten that detail.
Before he could react, his friend's body split open, morphing into a mass of black tendrils—like an old debt book come alive to swallow him whole.
Dragged into a lightless abyss, whispers gnawed at his ears:
"You think you're the hunter? You're just a specimen.""You chase truth? Truth is just a bigger cage.""Your soul's been on lease for ages."
Ethan snarled, then roared: "Shut up! I can't even pay my mortgage, and you think I'm paying soul rent? Dream on!"
The darkness actually faltered, tripping over his shamelessness.
He shoved hard and tumbled through a gap.
When his eyes opened again, he was in the Bureau's infirmary, forehead drenched in sweat. Andre sat beside him, worry etched on his face.
"You were out twelve hours," Andre said gravely. "Did the nightmare trap you?"
Ethan blinked, forcing a smile. "If 'trap' means class reunions with the dead, poker games with ghosts, and getting chased by an old buddy with unpaid debts… then yeah. Pretty trapped."
He covered his eyes against the light, murmuring:"This isn't a nightmare. It's a trial version of hell. Worst part? I think I might have to renew the subscription."