The cold bit first.
Metal against skin, tight enough to bruise. Makun tried to move. His wrists wouldn't budge. Ankles locked. Something wrapped around his throat, not choking but present, a reminder that breathing was a privilege here.
Darkness pressed against his eyes like a physical weight. No shapes. No shadows. Just absolute black that seemed to swallow sound itself.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps.
They didn't echo right, like they were coming from inside his skull.
His heart slammed against his ribs. He yanked at the chains, felt them bite deeper. The metal was freezing, the kind of cold that burned. He pulled harder, shoulders screaming, but nothing gave.
A hiss cut through the darkness.
Not quite breath. Not quite speech. Something between.
Light bloomed above him. Sickly green, pulsing. A glass tube descended, slow and deliberate, sealing around him with a hiss of pressurized air. The space contracted. His chest tightened.
Through the glass, shapes moved.
Wrong proportions. Too many limbs. Faces that blurred when he tried to focus on them, like smudged charcoal on wet paper.
They were watching him.
No.
Not watching.
Feeding.
He could feel it now. A pulling sensation deep in his chest, like something was being siphoned out through his skin. Not blood. Something else. Something vital.
"No." The word scraped out of his throat. "No!"
He thrashed against the chains, felt his wrists slick with something warm. The tube walls pressed closer. The shapes outside leaned in, hungry, patient.
One reached toward the glass with a hand that had too many fingers.
Makun screamed and fought and refused to stop fighting even as the cold seeped into his bones and the pulling sensation grew stronger and the darkness threatened to swallow him whole.
GASP!
He jolted awake.
Sheets twisted around his body like ropes. For three panicked seconds, he couldn't move. The chains were still there. He could feel them, cold and tight and suffocating.
He yanked his arms free. Kicked the sheets off. Scrambled back against the headboard.
Just sheets.
Just his crappy mattress.
Just his even crappier apartment.
Makun dragged air into his lungs, pressed his palms against his eyes. His pulse hammered in his ears. Sweat soaked through his shirt, making it cling to his skin.
Third time this week.
Same nightmare. Same chains. Same glass tube. Same hungry shapes in the dark.
He looked down at his wrists, half expecting to see bruises. The skin was unmarked, but the phantom pain lingered. A dull ache that felt too real for something that only existed in his head.
His phone screamed from the floor.
The alarm had been going off for who knows how long, shrill and insistent. He snatched it up, silenced it.
7:43 AM.
He was supposed to be at work at 7:30.
"Perfect." He dropped the phone on the bed, ran both hands over his face. "Just perfect."
The apartment looked worse in daylight.
Peeling paint on the walls. Water stains on the ceiling that looked like continents on a messed up map. The AC had died two weeks ago and the landlord still hadn't fixed it. The heat made everything smell like mold and old regret.
Makun pushed himself off the bed, joints popping. His body felt like it had been through a fight. Probably had been, in his sleep. The sheets were evidence enough, tangled into knots he'd have to deal with later.
The shower sputtered before spitting out lukewarm water. He stood under it, let it run over his shoulders, tried to wash away the lingering sensation of those chains.
In the mirror, bruises bloomed across his ribs.
Old ones, fading yellow green. New ones, dark purple. Souvenirs from last week when a shelf at work decided to collapse the second he walked past it. The supervisor said it was his fault. Equipment always broke around him. Accidents followed him like stray dogs.
He'd stopped arguing.
What was the point?
But today felt different. Maybe it was the nightmare still clinging to his thoughts, or maybe it was something else, something sharper.
He met his own eyes in the mirror.
Not today.
He dried off, threw on the least wrinkled shirt he could find, jeans that had seen better months. His work badge hung from a nail by the door, the photo making him look younger than twenty three. He clipped it to his belt.
Not today. Today I fight back.
The words felt hollow but he held onto them anyway. Better than the alternative. Better than letting the world grind him down without resistance.
He grabbed his keys, phone, wallet. Checked the time again.
8:02.
He was officially late, and traffic would make it worse. Another lecture from his supervisor. Another mark against him.
He opened the door.
The landlord stood in the hallway.
Arms crossed. Expression carved from stone. Mr. Okoye was a big man, the kind who filled doorways and hallways with his presence.
He'd been waiting.
In his hand, a single sheet of paper.
"Makun." His voice was flat, businesslike. No warmth. No pity. "We need to talk."
Makun's stomach dropped. He knew that tone. He'd heard variations of it his entire life, right before everything went sideways.
"I'm late for work, Mr. Okoye. Can this..."
"You're three months behind on rent." Okoye held up the paper.
Eviction notice.
The words were printed in bold at the top, impossible to miss.
"I've been patient. More than patient. But I can't keep carrying you."
Makun stared at the notice, felt something cold settle in his chest. Different from the nightmare cold. This was real. This had weight.
"I get paid Friday. I can give you..."
"Forty eight hours." Okoye pressed the notice into his hand. "That's what the law requires. After that, you're out. I'm sorry, but this is business."
He didn't sound sorry.
He sounded tired.
Makun looked down at the paper in his hand. The official letterhead, the date stamp.
Forty eight hours.
Two days to come up with three months of back rent or lose the only roof he had.
The old Makun, the one from yesterday or last month or last year, would've panicked. Would've begged. Would've tried to negotiate, make promises he couldn't keep.
But that Makun was tired.
And this Makun, the one standing in this hallway holding an eviction notice while his landlord walked away without a backward glance, felt something different.
Cold anger.
Clean and sharp.
He folded the notice. Shoved it in his pocket.
"Fine." The word came out steady, controlled. "I'll figure it out."
He always did. Somehow. Even when the world threw everything it had at him, he figured it out.
Because the alternative was lying down and letting it win.
And he'd be damned if he did that.
Makun locked his door, pocketed his keys, and headed for the stairs.
He always figured it out.