The blue light from the television hit Theodore Candlelight's face. As he followed the screen with his eyes, a smirk mixed with disgust appeared at the corners of his lips. He didn't like the Saviors.
To him, they were untrustworthy. The authority given to them and the powers they accepted without question... One day, it would all spiral out of control. The Hunters presented themselves as gods: Powerful, beautiful, and untouchable. But Theodore always saw the same thing in their eyes: ego. Eyes seeking applause, not danger. No one wanted to face the real darkness. There were only those who posed. Those who pose can never protect.
"The most elite members of the European Savior Union completed their final preparations this morning for the A-Class dungeon in Vienna!" The announcer's voice trembled with that familiar excitement. It was as if he were telling fairy tales to children. "Team leader Erik Von Strauss and his seven elite Saviors will embark on this dangerous mission—"
Theodore brought the beer bottle to his lips. Warm. Terrible.
On the screen, Von Strauss's charismatic smile filled the entire frame. His hair was perfect, his jawline was perfect, and his armor was perfect. The team members standing behind him looked like they had stepped out of Hollywood posters. Glittering, bright, and fake.
"Our heroes..." Theodore murmured, savoring the word as if chewing it in his mouth. Painful. The whole world believed in this game.
Since the Great Opening in 2054, the world had changed. First, there were small cracks. Then doors. Then, full-fledged dungeons appeared. Monsters, treasures, and power crystals emerged. Humanity reacted, of course—some with fear and some with greed. Saviors emerged. They were specially trained, famous, and had unique powers. The knights of the new age.
And, of course, on television.
Theodore stretched out his legs and looked at the worn leather of his boots. On the screen, a reporter held a microphone to Von Strauss, who furrowed his brow as if in a heroic film and spouted clichés about "protecting our people."
Protect.
The word echoed in Theodore's mind. His smile faded.
In the corner of the room, next to the refrigerator, stood an old woman. Her head was slightly bowed and her eyes were vacant. She wore an old-fashioned gray dress, perhaps from the 1950s. Her hair was pulled back and her face was pale. She wasn't moving. She wasn't breathing.
She was dead.
Theodore didn't even look at her. He set the beer bottle on the table and turned off the TV. Silence filled the room. The woman was still at the foot of the wall, as if waiting for something. Maybe she was waiting. Theodore didn't care.
"Fuck off," he muttered, his voice low and tired. He wasn't trying to make the woman go away; he simply felt the need to speak.
He rolled up his sleeves. The burn marks on his left arm stretched from his wrist to his elbow, forming wavy, curving patterns. Strange. It was as if someone had deliberately left them there. There were similar, though less distinct, marks on his right arm with the same strange pattern. No fire leaves marks like this.
The doctors had asked unanswerable questions at the time. Theodore said he didn't know. It had happened when he was a child, he said. It wasn't a lie—he really didn't remember. Only darkness.
He got up and went into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, which was empty except for two beers and half a sandwich. Quality life. His eyes drifted to his reflection on the glass shelf. Twenty-one years old. His black hair was tousled, he had three days' worth of stubble on his face, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He was wearing an old black shirt with stains on his pants. Elegant.
The woman was still standing in the corner.
Theodore closed the refrigerator.
His phone lit up. A message: Joe. Short and to the point:
"Tomorrow. We have work to do."
Theodore didn't reply. Joe's "business" never meant anything good.
But at least it was real.
The woman vanished. Suddenly. As if she had never been there.
Theodore picked up the beer bottle and returned to the couch. He was alone in the dark room. The screen had gone dark.
The next morning, as the sun filtered through the dirty windows of his apartment, Theodore stood in front of his wardrobe. Behind the half-open door were limited options: a few black T-shirts, worn jeans, and one decent outfit.
He chose that outfit.
First, a white shirt. Cotton, thin, unpressed, but clean. There were burn marks on his sleeves, so he buttoned them all the way to his wrists. Over that, he put on a dark gray vest with thin fabric and a tailored fit that Joe had given him years ago. Black pants. Straight-cut and slightly worn, but still presentable. The buckle on his belt was silver and tarnished. He put on black, leather boots with thick soles. Sturdy. Silent.
Finally, he put on a long, black coat. The heavy fabric reached to his knees, and there was sturdy stitching on the inside pocket. Theodore ran his hand over the coat. High quality. Old style.
He looked in the mirror. He combed his messy hair back and washed his face with cold water. His beard was still there, the three-day stubble replaced by a slight roughness. He put on a black coat, a button-down white shirt, a vest, and boots. He looked neat. Like he had business to attend to.
He left the bedroom and went into the living room. A vintage, large leather bag with a strap sat on top of the old wooden cabinet in the corner. Theodore set the bag on the table and unzipped it.
He emptied it. Old bills, blank notepaper, and a lighter. He tossed it all aside.
Now for the important things.
First, the books. He took three from the shelf. The first was thick and leather-bound with yellowed pages. The alphabet on it was unfamiliar—old letters, the kind Joe had shown him. Theodore didn't open the book; he put it straight into the bag. The second book was smaller and unbound and filled with handwritten notes. Joe's handwriting was in the margins, with corrections and warnings. Theodore threw that one in the bag, too.
The third book was more modern, yet still old: an occult research book from the '70s. It had colored markers, Post-its, and his own notes between the pages. Theodore knew this book well. He put it in the bag.
The books settled in. They added weight.
He went to the kitchen and took a large salt shaker from the bottom shelf of the cupboard. It was half empty. He found a plastic bag and emptied half the salt into it. He tied the bag tightly and placed it in the side pocket of his bag.
He picked up a few old, yellowed A4-size papers from the table. They had symbols drawn on them by hand: Circles, triangles, and strange letters. Protection symbols. The kind Joe had taught him. Theodore carefully folded the papers and tucked them between the books.
Now, the gun.
Theodore pulled a long, flat box out from under the bed. It was a metal case with a combination lock. He turned three numbers—click, click, click—and the lid opened.
Inside was a pistol. A Glock 19. Semi-automatic, 9mm. It was black, matte, and heavy. Theodore took the gun in his hand and checked the magazine. It was fully loaded. Fifteen rounds. He reinserted the magazine and cycled the safety on and off.
Guns weren't manufactured anymore. At least, not for the civilian market. After the Great Opening, it was clear that bullets didn't work on the monsters. The creatures emerging from the Dungeons had thick skin and strong bones. Firearms were ineffective. Saviors used magical swords, aura power, and energy crystals. Governments shifted their investments there. Gun factories closed one by one. Now, guns were only found among collectors, on the black market, or in the possession of people like Theodore.
But the creatures Theodore encountered weren't monsters. They were different. They were ghosts. Old sins, curses, spirits, and demons. Sometimes, silver bullets worked against them. Sometimes. Joe had taught him that. "If it's in physical form, it can be harmed," Joe had said. "Remember that. Remember that."
In desperate situations, when this was the last option, it had to be done. Otherwise, they could die.
Theodore placed the gun in the side pocket of his bag. Then he put the spare magazine in the other side pocket. He took two more from the second drawer—one full and one half-full. He put both in the bag. The weight distribution changed.
Theodore zipped it up. He slung the bag over his shoulder. He looked in the mirror one last time. He was ready.
He walked to the door.
The apartment hallway was dim and quiet. The walls were covered in faded yellow paint that was peeling in places due to moisture. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet.
On the second floor, Mrs. Krause stood behind her door. Theodore didn't see her, but he saw movement—a shadow—behind the door. The woman was always there. Always watching.
Theodore passed by. The woman did not open the door.
He went downstairs. In the lobby, the old doorman, Herr Möller, hid behind his newspaper. Only his eyes were visible as Theodore passed. Theodore did not look at him.
He pushed open the front door. The streetlight hit his face.
The street was a narrow, dirty alley. Old apartment buildings stood on either side, water dripping from broken gutters hanging from their roofs. The cracked pavement was covered in grass in some places. Despite the early hour, a few people were on the street.
Theodore sat down on the steps in front of the door. He put his bag beside him.
A young man wearing a hooded sweatshirt was passing by. He looked up, saw Theodore, and sped up immediately. Immediately. He averted his gaze.
A little further ahead, an old woman was carrying a shopping bag. She approached him, slowed down, saw Theodore, and changed her path. She crossed to the other sidewalk. She didn't look back.
This neighborhood knew him. Maybe they didn't know his name. Maybe they didn't know who he was. But they knew something about what he did. Yet, people always fear what they don't understand.
Theodore took out an old, crumpled pack of cigarettes. It was his last cigarette. He lit it and drew in the smoke. His lungs filled, then emptied. The smoke dispersed in the air.
Ten minutes passed. The car still hadn't come.
Theodore stood up and took a few steps before sitting back down. He finished his cigarette and lit another one. It was the second pack. He had three cigarettes left in his pocket.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Theodore's jaw tightened. Joe. Old bastard. He was always late. Always.
Finally, a car appeared at the end of the street. An old classic. A Mercedes from the 1980s. It had gray, matte paint and was a bit rusty, but the engine sounded solid. It approached slowly.
Theodore stood up. He threw his cigarette on the ground and crushed it.
The car stopped. The engine idled.
Theodore slung his bag over his shoulder and walked to the car. He opened the back door and slid inside. The leather seats were old and cracked. The interior smelled of tobacco and gasoline.
Joe was at the wheel. He was old, in his sixties, with gray hair and deep wrinkles. He had a slight smile on his face. Theodore looked at him.
"Twenty minutes," said Theodore. His voice was flat but tense.
Joe stepped on the gas, and the car moved. "Traffic."
"Traffic? It's seven in the morning."
"People are going to work."
Theodore leaned his head back against the seat and looked out the window. Joe kept smiling.
The car moved through the old streets of the city. The sun was rising. The shadows were getting shorter.