Sirens aren't a warning; they're a countdown.
The wiu-wiu-wiu slices through the cold dawn air, drawing closer—dangerously close. Red and blue lights start to bounce off the trees, casting dancing shadows over the corpses that surround me.
"What… what did you do?" I whisper, my voice trembling.
I look at the mangled bodies. I don't know who they are. I don't know whether they were good, bad, parents, or monsters. I only know they're dead and I'm standing in the middle of them, my hands stained with sticky blood.
Panic punches my chest. I have to run. I have to disappear.
I take a step back, ready to flee into the darkness of the woods, but my heel hits something metallic.
Clang.
I look down.
There, lying on the wet grass stained red, is the sword. The same curved, black blade Anima summoned in the dream. And a few meters away, the matte-black pistol.
I go numb. A cold runs down my spine, sharper than the night wind.
"This is impossible…" I gasp. "They were dream things. They should've vanished when I woke."
I crouch. I touch the sword.
The metal is cold, solid, heavy. Real.
And worst of all: the edge is dirty. Fresh blood.
My mind—the rational part that tries to keep me from going mad—connects the dots at a terrifying speed: If the police find these weapons, they won't find serial numbers. They'll find my fingerprints on an object that shouldn't exist. I won't go to jail; they'll turn me into a lab experiment.
"Goddamn it, Anima… you brought the nightmare into reality."
I can't leave them here. They're evidence.
I take off the gray hoodie, shivering down to my T-shirt. I wrap the sword's blade with the fabric so I don't cut myself and sling it across my back, cinching it with my belt. I tuck the pistol in my waistband, the cold barrel digging into my hip.
They're heavy. Heavy like I'm carrying tombstones.
"Over here!" shouts a voice amplified through a megaphone less than two hundred meters away. "I see thermal movement in the clearing!"
A beam of light sweeps the bushes to my left.
I'm no longer Eduur, the student. I'm prey.
I turn and launch into the thicket, sprinting for the depth of the forest.
---
Running when your body has been used by a sadistic entity is torture.
Every muscle screams. I feel instant lactic pain, like I ran a marathon with no training. Anima has no limits; she uses my body until it breaks, then hands the reins back to me when the gas runs out.
"Stop! National Police!"
Bang. Bang.
Two shots into the air. Warnings.
I don't stop. I hurl myself down a slope full of roots and mud. I tumble, slamming my shoulder and head, but the adrenaline of fear numbs the pain.
I fall into a ravine. At the bottom a black stream runs—an industrial drainage channel.
"The water…" I think, desperate. "The dogs. If they bring dogs, they'll smell me."
I plunge into the icy, putrid water without hesitation. The stench of trash and chemicals fills my nostrils, but it's better than the smell of gunpowder. I press through the channel, water to my knees, trembling, fighting the current and my own tears.
I didn't kill them, I tell myself.
But they're my hands, my conscience answers. It's my body. I'm a killer.
I walk for what seems like hours, crawling through the shadows of the sewer system, until I see the lights of the industrial zone. I'm far from the woods. I'm in the city.
I emerge from the tunnel like a specter: soaked, filthy, armed, and broken.
---
I get to my apartment at 6:20 A.M. My hands tremble so much it takes me a full minute to get the key into the lock.
I close the door. I bolt the three locks. I wedge a chair under the doorknob.
I slide down to the floor, breathing like a wounded animal.
"I'm safe…" I whisper, even though I know it's a lie.
I get up and start the hiding ritual.
I take out the weapons. The sword gleams under the living room light, threatening, beautiful in a twisted way. The pistol is heavy and ugly.
I lift the mattress and tuck them in the center, between the springs and the base. It's a mediocre hiding place, but it's all I have.
I get into the shower with my clothes on.
I turn the hot water on. I watch the brown drain water turn pink. Blood. Blood that isn't mine.
I rip off the wet clothes and scrub my skin with the loofah until it hurts. I want to erase the night's prints.
I get out, dry off, and put on clean clothes. I look in the mirror.
Deep dark circles under my eyes. My skin pale. I look sick, but I don't look like a killer. I hope not.
I sit on the bed. The apartment's silence is making me go crazy.
I need answers.
I don't know what happened. I don't know why he killed them. I don't know what he plans to do the next time I close my eyes.
"I have to talk to him," I say to the air. "If I can't control him, at least I have to interrogate him."
I check my watch. 6:45 A.M.
The stationery shop on the corner opens at 7:00.
---
I step out. I pull a cap down to hide my eyes. I walk fast, trying to look normal, but I feel everyone staring. I feel like I have a neon sign on my forehead that reads "GUILTY."
I go into the small shop. The owner, an old man named Don Mario, greets me.
"Early bird, huh, kid? You look rough."
"Late night studying, Don Mario," I lie. My voice sounds hoarse.
I buy a hardback notebook—black cover, thick, sturdy. And a red-ink pen. Red like the warning I need to give.
I hurry back home.
I sit at my desk. I open the first page. The white paper seems to mock me, waiting.
I write hard, almost tearing the sheet:
RULE NUMBER 1: DO NOT KILL INNOCENTS. DO NOT USE REAL FIRE.
I stop. I take a deep breath. I need to know.
WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO LAST NIGHT? I DON'T REMEMBER ANYTHING. WHO WERE THEY? EXPLAIN. I WANT A REPORT OF EACH ACTION.
IF YOU KILL AGAIN FOR NO REASON, I SWEAR I'LL KILL MYSELF AND WE'LL BOTH GO TO HELL.
I put down the pen.
I leave the notebook open on the nightstand next to my bed.
Weariness hits me like a hammer to the nape. The biological body can't take any more. My eyelids weigh tons.
I lie down on the bed.
"I hope you know how to read, you damn parasite."
I close my eyes and my consciousness falls into the abyss.
---
I'm back.
The dream space. Gravity disappears.
In front of me stands the Black Door with golden veins.
"Read? Of course I can read, idiot."
The voice thunders behind me. I turn.
There she is. Or rather, no one is there, but I feel her presence like a dense shadow surrounding me.
"They were poachers, Eduur," Anima says, her voice sounding bored. "My nose detected the wickedness in their sweat. There are no innocents—only prey and predators. You should thank me for cleaning up the trash."
"You murdered them!" I shout in the dream. "We aren't judges or executioners!"
"We are what we need to be. Oh, and thanks for the sword; I'll keep it."
"You won't come out again!" I warn, walking toward the door. "I won't summon you ever again!"
Anima laughs. A cold laugh that makes the dream floor vibrate.
"Oh, you'll summon me. Because you're weak and this world will eat you alive without me. By the way… wake up."
"What?"
"Wake up. Now. You have visitors. The police found your muddy prints near the river. They're slow, but they have dogs."
"What?!"
"3… 2… 1…"
---
I snap my eyes open in my room. The sun blinds me.
BAM, BAM, BAM!
Three dry, authoritative, heavy knocks on my apartment door. They're not visitor knocks; they're law knocks.
"National Police!" a deep voice roars on the other side. "Mr. Eduur Vance, open the door immediately! We know you're in there!"
I look at the notebook. It's still open where I wrote. Anima didn't write anything, but her voice in the dream felt real.
I look at the door, which is shaking from the blows.
I look at the barely visible lump of weapons under my mattress.
I'm trapped.
"Shit."