It was a little past midnight.
The corridor stretched silent and dim,
the bulb above painting faint halos on the walls. Ryker Bertin stood before the door to his room on the fourth floor, a single bag hanging from his tired hand, reflection faintly visible in the dusty glass of the window opposite. Black mid-length hair brushed the edge of his eyes, unkempt from the day's exhaustion. His white T-shirt clung slightly to his back and the blue trousers looked one wash away from fading into gray.
DING!
A notification rang silently.
He exhaled a slow breath, reached into his pocket, and drew out his phone. The screen was a mosaic of scratches.
A soft chime broke the stillness.
[Happy Birthday, Ryker Bertin! Join the game and show your true potential.]
He stared at the glowing words for a long second before a dry, almost self-mocking smile appeared on his face. "Ryker… my ass," he muttered. "Only rich by name." The smile faded somewhere between amusement and bitterness. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, fingers searching for his keys, and that's when it came again, from the next room over. "Ahh~ ahh~ ahhh~ harder."
Lewd, rhythmic sounds attacked his ears. His brow twitched, he clenched the keys in his fist, jaw tightening. "Every damn night," he whispered, not so much to complain as to continue a conversation with the silence itself.
"They're slaves to their own desires," he continued in low and detached voice. "Filthy creatures chasing warmth in filth. In my opinion they're no different from stray dog sniffing garbage"
"A leash called obsession, and they wear it willingly." The key scraped against the lock, harder than necessary. " You know they've got peace, comfort, everything they need… yet waste it on meaningless pleasure." His voice softened, then faded into a breath. "It irritates me."
Click!
The click of the lock was soft and polite. Ryker's gaze lingered on the doorknob for a heartbeat as if finishing a silent conversation with someone only he could see. Then, with a slow exhale, he pushed the door open.
A narrow, five or maybe six step long passage stretched out before him, hemmed in by faded wallpaper and the faint scent of damp. To his right stood the bathroom door, its handle was at the edge of doing suicide. He walked in, the dull thud of his steps echoing off the confined walls, and the moment his room revealed itself, the stillness folded around him again. A single bed, a small table, a curtain that never quite shut out the city light. He dropped his bag beside the bed, the sound breaking the quiet like a sigh.
Then the cruelty started.
A sharp and sudden cough clawed at his throat. He pressed a hand to his chest, felt the pulse of something wrong beneath his ribs. Another cough tore through, harsher this time, and he staggered toward the narrow passage again, fingers brushing against the wall for balance.
He pushed open the bathroom door. The mirror greeted him, a pale reflection staring back, lips parted, eyes dulled by fatigue. He leaned over the basin, coughed again and red blood splattered across white porcelain. Coughed again with more blood. It ran down his chin, crept along his neck, painted thin lines that caught the weak light above.
He didn't panic. His eyes didn't widen. There was no fear in his eyes but only the quiet acknowledgment of something familiar.
"The weak die," he muttered with a shaky breath, "and the strong survive."
A hollow, rough and half chocked laugh escaped him. He turned the tap, let the cold water wash away the stain, crimson swirling down the drain like it had somewhere better to be. When he raised his head again, his reflection looked older, lazier and almost indifferent.
He left the bathroom, steps dragging lightly and moved to the table beside his bed. The phone came out of his pocket with a dull clack as it met the wooden surface. He reached for a folded sheet of paper. A medical report, creased at the edges. His eyes met the cruel letters once again.
He faintly smiled at it with no humor.
"AIDS," he read softly. "Such a weird name for something this harmful."
The report slid back onto the table. His gaze shifted to the left, the air there weighted as if someone stood unseen, but the air wearing clothes of human was his only listener. "You know," he said in low and thoughtful tone, "many were afflicted by this. For most, it was tragedy… for some, a chance to meet their god a little earlier."
He exhaled, a tired sound more than a sigh.
"I fucking don't wanna belong to either."
Then—
Knock. Knock.
Ryker's head turned slowly toward the door.
The clock ticked once. And Ryker just stood there, eyes steady, as if he already knew what waited on the other side. He didn't move, the knock still echoing faintly in the bones of the room. Then he exhaled slowly, the corner of his mouth curving in something too weary to be called a smile. "They're going to come anyway," he murmured.
THUD!
The door burst open, slamming against the wall with a jarring crash. Broud-shouldered figures filled the doorway. They all carrying fragrance of anger and rage with them.
"Where's my money, you whore's bastard!" one of them shouted, the words slicing through the air.
Ryker didn't answer. He merely watched, dark eyes half-lidded, as if observing a familiar play repeat its tired and lazy script.
A rough hand seized his shirt, dragging him half upright. The man's breath was hot and sour with rage. "When you gonna return my money, you whore's dog." His words tangled between fury and contempt, but Ryker barely listened. Single thought flickered in his mind, "Hmph. Stupidity dressed in words"
After receiving no reply, the man applied his all damn force in a single puch that torn the breath from lungs. The floor caught Ryker as he fell, pain blooming like fire under his ribs. He curled slightly, a low groan escaping despite his efforts to swallow it down.
Another man stepped forward, "your prostitute mom opened the canteen with my money and freaking died, return my money." Another low groan escaped from Ryker's mouth as the man kicked him hard on face "Argh—!" "He took money from me for treatment of his mother." Another man shouted and kicked Ryker hardly on his face.
The rhythm of their anger came just like waves, boots scraping, fists tightening, the air vibrating with rough breaths. Ryker endured all pain in silence.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
One of them leaned close,
"Listen you bastard, you've got one day or you lose everything." He said in low and mocking voice.
A final kick met his face, enough to make him gasp and then they were gone. The door swung shut with a dull click, and the room fell back into its uneasy quiet.
Ryker lay there, the ceiling swimming above him, pale light trembling across the cracked plaster. Blood traced a slow path from the corner of his mouth. Then, softly at first, a sound rose from his chest, a broken, breathless laugh. It grew, trembling, spilling into the air like the last thread of sanity stretching thin. He laughed until it hurt, until the sound itself began to fade into silence again. The laughter lingered for a moment longer, echoing faintly through the narrow room like the ghost of a melody that had already forgotten its tune. It softened, faltered, and finally bled into a fragile smile.
Ryker lay still, the dim light trembling across his face.
Then—
The world began to waver.
At first, air shimmered like heat rising from pavement. The walls rippled, colors dulling, shapes softening. The faint ticking of the clock stretched into silence, and the edges of everything began to dissolve into smoke.
Within a breath, the city, the pain, the narrow room all of it melted into smoke. And when it cleared, he was no longer on cold tiles but soft earth. Grass brushed against his palms, cool and damp with the breath of dusk. Wildflowers swayed around him, scattering their scent into the quiet air. Somewhere behind him, a deer sat unbothered.
A lone mango tree stood nearby, its branches heavy with leaves that caught the last remnants of gold. The sun had already sunk, leaving the world in the silver glow of coming night.
Ryker looked at it all, the gentle curve of the hills, the trembling light, the stillness that seemed to hum with something beyond understanding and his lips parted in a small, sincere smile. No exhaustion. No bitterness. Only calmness. "My time has come," he whispered, voice carried off by the quiet wind.
And as the silver light deepened, the world froze as if waiting for him to open his eyes again...
...but somewhere else this time.