In a cage on a wooden floor lay a young man, beige-skinned and brown-haired, unnaturally still. Slowly, his light brown eyes cracked open—blurry at first, swallowed by darkness. Then, a dim orange glow flickered to life, the flame of a torch casting shaky shadows across the walls.
Groaning, he dragged himself upright, his body stiff and uncooperative, slumping into a sitting position. His hands clutched at his head, fingers digging into his scalp as if to crush it.
"Stop… dammit… crap!"
His voice broke the silence, raw and hoarse. Pain pounded inside his skull, sharp and relentless, as if his head might split apart at any second. His vision wavered, slipping into nothingness—swallowed by a darkness so deep it felt alive.
A crack—his joints protesting, loud in the stillness—as though his body had been frozen for an eternity, untouched by movement.
Then—warmth. A presence.
Gentle fingers pressed softly against his shoulder. The pain didn't vanish, but it ebbed, dulled little by little. He breathed, ragged and shaky, feeling the weight of the moment settle on him as the touch lingered—calming, human.
Slowly, his vision pieced itself back together—blurry at first, then sharpening little by little under the flickering orange glow. Iron bars came into focus… and just beyond them, only a few centimeters away, a pair of ember eyes stared straight into his own dull brown ones.
His breath hitched.
As the haze cleared, her face became clear—a pale, pretty woman, her ember eyes glinting with something unreadable. Long, silky brown hair fell over her shoulders, catching faint light. Unlike his own messy, dyed hair, hers seemed to shimmer softly, even in this grim place.
She smiled—just a faint, knowing curve of her lips—and withdrew her hand.
Aarav's eyes dropped, and a jolt of embarrassment shot through him. Unlike the girl, who wore an old, tattered dress, he was completely exposed—naked except for the ragged scrap of cloth thrown over him, meant to pass for a blanket. Hastily, he grabbed it, pulling it over himself. It was too small to cover everything, but enough to shield most of his bare skin.
The girl chuckled quietly, and before he could react, her soft hand ruffled through his messy hair, patting him gently. Then, just as casually, she pulled her hand back again, settling into her place behind the bars.
What the…? Why is she treating me like I'm a toddler? I'm nineteen—almost twenty, Aarav fumed silently, his thoughts spiraling with irritation. He sighed, glancing down at her slender legs, barely covered by the same kind of ragged cloth he was now clutching around himself.
Of course she's tall… but that doesn't mean she has any right to treat me like some kid!
Before his thoughts could tangle further, a sharp, sour stench hit him full force—his nose wrinkled instinctively. The rank mix of piss, rot, and excrement filled his senses, drowning out his frustration and replacing it with a wave of nausea that twisted his gut.
A faint gust stirred the stale air, and, as if by magic, the suffocating stench began to fade—slowly, but steadily—until it was almost like it had never existed at all.
Aarav blinked, puzzled. What kind of system is this?
His eyes trailed down to a small hole tucked into the far corner of his cage floor, right near the edge where the wooden planks met the stone. Curious… yet hesitant, he grimaced, deciding he really didn't want to know what lurked in that hole.
Shifting his gaze, he noticed something else—a stone bowl placed just inside the gate of his cage, half-filled with murky water. Off to the side, piled sloppily, were six or seven carrots, their orange skins dulled and cracked.
Food, he thought absently, his stomach turning both at the sight and the lingering memory of the stench.
And then it struck him—his cage was in the corner. The only person within reach was the brown-haired girl. In a weird, twisted way, he realized he was… lucky. At least she was his company. For a brief, fleeting moment, gratitude brushed through him—soft, almost foolish.
But despite the small comfort, an unbearable weight pressed down on his chest. Dread. Heavy, clawing, impossible to ignore.
His spiraling thoughts were suddenly snapped apart by a voice—a few words, sharp but calm.
He froze.
Of course, he couldn't understand a single word.
He stared at her pretty face—those delicate, pale features—and her lips moving gently, shaping words he couldn't understand. Her voice was weak yet oddly soothing, like a fading melody echoing in the dark.
And then her eyes… they gleamed with something sharp. A flash of realization, or maybe understanding.
She started gesturing—hands weaving simple but deliberate signs—but it only made things worse. Aarav squinted, baffled, his mind spinning.
Finally, she pointed at herself and spoke softly:
"Seriah."
Then she pointed at him.
So… that's her name, Aarav thought, blinking slowly.
Thrown into this world naked, unable to understand a damn word, whipped unconscious, and now rotting in some filthy basement…
He exhaled, half-laughing in disbelief.
Am I some kind of tragic hero now? Is this that moment—the one where I tell someone my name and it echoes through history like a legend?
For a second, he actually let himself believe it. He straightened up a little, looked her dead in the eyes, and said—
"Dusk…" he stuttered, hesitating—then, gripping onto some stray thread of pride, he added flatly, "Dusk Walker."
Deadpan. Completely.
Aarav stared ahead, internally cringing at the sheer awkwardness of it… but no way was he taking it back now.
And then—
"Dusk Walker," Seriah repeated, her smile gentle, almost too pure for the place they were in.
Her voice, her eyes—so trusting, so soft—held him in place. He felt… scared. Scared that if he moved, or said anything else, that fragile warmth between them might vanish. That smile, that flicker of belief—it pressed on something deep inside him.
Was that weird? A surname too? Why the hell did I blurt that out? he thought, stiff with regret.
God, was the surname even necessary?
But as his thoughts spiraled, the weight of reality crept back in—the cold bars, the stink of rot and piss, the silent dread. Yet, when he looked at her again… Seriah remained calm. Unshaken. There was a quiet strength in her posture, in her composure, as if the filth around them didn't dare touch her spirit.
And somehow, her quiet radiance bled into him too—seeping into his bones like a balm, slowing his frantic thoughts, giving him something to hold onto.
His gaze drifted, finally, past her… to the side.
An old man, sleeping—his breath shallow, his body curled in on itself. And beside him… a shadow, slumped. Another figure farther down. And another. Each silhouette faded into darkness, until beyond them, there was nothing but a void of black.
Silent. Still.
Aarav swallowed hard.
Aarav slowly crawled back, knees pulled tight to his chest, wrapping the ragged blanket around himself like a fragile shield. He buried his face in the coarse fabric, trying to slip into sleep—into nothingness—just to pass the time.
But sleep wouldn't come.
Minutes dragged. Then what felt like hours. His body was exhausted, but his mind—
wide awake.
Buzzing.
Finally, he let out a frustrated breath and peeked out from under the cloth. The dim light still flickered weakly across the stones. He turned his head, eyes landing on the girl—Seriah—her face calm, breathing soft as she slept, completely at ease in the same hellhole.
"Why can't I sleep…?" he whispered into the dark, voice hoarse.
He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, waiting. More hours passed—or at least it felt that way. Time was a blur here.
Eventually, Seriah stirred, her eyes fluttering open. She gave him a lazy smile and, half-asleep, reached through the bars to tap his nose playfully.
Aarav flinched back slightly, scowling. "What's wrong with me? Why the hell can't I sleep?" His chest tightened, dread creeping in again. None of it made sense.
And then—
"Grrrrrr…"
He blinked, startled, looking at her.
Seriah's face flushed as she pressed a hand to her stomach, embarrassed.
Aarav followed her glance to the pile of carrots near his cage door. He sighed and grabbed one—choosing the least-wilted of the bunch.
"I'm not even hungry," he muttered, turning it over in his hand. "It must be… insomnia."
He tried to convince himself—to anchor his spiraling thoughts to something familiar, something safe. But deep down, he could feel it:
the lurking panic, the creeping fear, peeking in from the edges of his subconscious.
Something wasn't right.
" Why are there so many in front of me ? Am I special somehow or!.."