He woke up in the middle of the night to drink some water, when he saw the shadow of someone standing in the middle of his living room. The room was cloaked in darkness, making it hard to see clearly.
The only light came from the moon, slipping silently through the window, casting a pale glow across the space.
He stared at the figure, confused, then slowly reached his hand toward the wall and turned on the light—
Standing there was someone in a red cloak, back turned to him.
"You… How did you get in?" he asked, still dazed.
But then—he noticed something.
This wasn't his apartment.
"This… isn't my place," he said in bewilderment.
He was in a quiet, dimly lit room. The furniture was simple, ornate. Paintings of people sketched by hand lined the walls. Long red curtains kissed the floor. A massive rug stretched beneath his feet, leading to a fireplace at the far end. Before it stood the same cloaked figure he had chased.
Above the fireplace hung a large portrait: a blonde woman in a flowing white dress, sitting on a chair with a baby in her arms. A soft smile touched her serene face. Behind her stood a faceless man in a formal suit.
The silence was thick.
Crackling flames danced in the hearth, casting a golden hue across the room.
He stepped forward slowly, cautiously, toward the stranger.
He reached out a hand to remove the hood—
And revealed… a woman. Blonde hair cascaded down her back, and her eyes were the same breathtaking blue as in the painting.
She looked at him and whispered softly:
"My son."
Her gaze drifted to a cradle in the corner of the room, pointing her finger. A baby's cry echoed softly.
He followed her finger and approached the cradle. He reached down, slowly pulling the blanket back to reveal the child's face—
A grotesque creature.
Demonic. Deformed.
He staggered back in horror.
But before he could react, the woman appeared behind him in a flash, striking him with a powerful blow to the abdomen. The impact sent him flying through the air. His body split into fading echoes as he was flung out of the room.
As he hurtled backward, suspended for a heartbeat in midair, his gaze caught a sudden, jarring sight—
through the darkness beyond the room's walls, a lone cabin stood ablaze in an empty clearing.
Flames devoured its wooden frame, their orange glow tearing through the black night, smoke billowing upward like a shadow given life.
And then—everything was gone.
He rose from the bed, gasping for air. The room was just as he had left it... except for the girl standing by the window.
She had deep blue eyes and black hair that shimmered faintly where the moonlight fell across her face. She stood still, staring at him.
"You're not real," he said, voice low.
"I am," she whispered.
And then—
He was back again.
In his room.
He shot up in bed, gasping.
His face was drenched in sweat. His chest rose and fell in rapid rhythm, heart pounding.
He turned to the nightstand—an ordinary clock ticked calmly. Just a dream.
He placed a hand over one eye and exhaled.
He followed the path from his dream, deep into the forest. There, nestled in the silence, stood a small cabin—warmly furnished, with a single portrait of a blonde woman hanging on the wall.
On the bed lay a rotting corpse, draped in a white sheet. The stench of time was heavy in the air. He slid down against the wall, sitting in quiet stillness as his eyes traced the room's every detail.
Outside, behind the cabin, a man was digging a grave with a crude tool. He buried the woman in silence, then disappeared into the woods.
Back inside, a shadow flickered against the wall—one that did not belong to him.
They call it the Devil's Hour—the moment when the veil between our world and the other grows thin… fragile enough to tear.
In that fleeting hour, what once was merely a dream may reach out and touch the living.
At that very moment, the gates to the other realm swing open.
Restless spirits, denied peace in their final rest, begin to creep into the world of the living—seeking redemption or revenge.
An ancient curse awakens, or a creature born from the shadows between worlds emerges.
This is the hour when everything begins… and everything ends.
Time is not merely a fixed measure; it is a living fabric that weaves and shifts with everything around it. Trying to control it or escape from it is like swimming against a current that never ends.
From afar, buildings crowned with pointed spires gleamed under the glow of lanterns, casting long shadows with their Gothic and Baroque details. A towering clock spire stood proudly, echoing the rhythm of time.
The city clung tightly to its rich past.
Ancient churches displayed stained glass windows adorned with angels bearing outstretched wings—catching the light like blessings from above, illuminating their interiors with every ray of sunlight. Narrow cobblestone alleys twisted between old, colorful houses that radiated warm tones, softly dimming with the evening light.
People moved gracefully through these charming streets, dressed in elegant clothing that blended traditional European fashion with subtle modern touches.
Long tailored coats crafted from heavy fabrics showcased intricate cuts and embroidery. Small hats adorned with thin ribbons or feathers sat atop neatly styled hair. Shiny leather shoes glistened under the streetlights. Some wore light scarves for warmth and flair, while women carried small, embroidered leather handbags, their arms dressed in finely crafted gloves.
It was a city where history and modern life existed in perfect harmony—a living bridge between the beauty of the past and the pulse of the present.
The castle stands proudly in the heart of Pendralice, near the River Thames, bearing witness to centuries of royal history.
Its grand façade and elegant architecture give the place an aura of absolute grandeur and authority. Surrounding it are vast gardens and green meadows stretching toward the riverbanks, adorned with colorful flowers and tall trees, interspersed with fountains that sparkle under the sunlight. The large royal stables, home to majestic horses, lie nearby, reflecting the rich traditions of royal horsemanship.
As one approaches its imposing gates, expansive courtyards and stone pathways lead the visitor inside, where grand, ornate halls unfold, their ceilings intricately decorated and chandeliers glittering under the candlelight, with long corridors flowing between the towers and royal chambers.
The castle also houses small churches built of ancient stone and stained glass, adding a spiritual touch, while the interior walls are adorned with fine paintings and precious artifacts, giving the place a life and opulence beyond compare, with windows that open onto the glowing cityscape below.
the scene spilled toward the water, where a massive, ancient stone bridge stretched across a tranquil river. Its design was refined, adorned with carved pillars and artistic engravings—as if it were a gate to another world. Beyond it, the thick forest waited, cloaked in mystery, eager to unveil its secrets.
Deep beneath the city's streets, among winding sewer pipes and deserted sidewalks, a shadow thick as midnight fog watched silently. It moved with swift, fleeting grace, unnoticed by any—a sinister breath awaiting the perfect moment to strike.
Two pairs of feet hurriedly made their way through the crowded streets of the city. Behind them, smaller feet struggled to keep up at the same pace. The city was decorated with the warm glow of house lights and street lamps, creating an atmosphere full of life and movement.
The white-haired young man turned into a dark alley where his apartment was located in an old building.
His apartment was small but decent — a sofa in the center, half of the room serving as a kitchen, and a small round table covered with a white cloth embroidered with golden flowers. old wallpaper decorated with flowers, and simple furniture.
A window overlooked the neighborhood, holding an emergency staircase decorated with plants and a cage with two small, colorful birds.
Finally, a door led to a small bedroom with a bed, a cluttered desk filled with scattered books, and a red embroidered rug.
Two feet appeared, bathing beneath the stream of water cascading from the showerhead. The water flowed downward, swirling with blood as it spiraled toward the drain.
The bathroom door stood slightly ajar—someone was watching from the shadows beyond.
The water stopped.
Sian was a young man in his late twenties, yet his hair was white, with strands falling softly beside his tired, ash-gray eyes. His skin was pale, a contrast to the dark circles beneath his eyes. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves slightly rolled up, paired with black trousers. His long, slender fingers held a cigarette between them, its smoke curling gently upward as he gazed out the window, where the darkness painted the city's sky. Sitting on the ledge, one foot resting on the ground, the other perched against the window frame. In his hand, an open book lay forgotten.
The lights in the apartment flickered off.
Then came the creak of a bed—someone had just laid down to sleep.
In the stillness of the night, broken only by the steady ticking of a wall clock, a shadow slowly emerged across the wall.
Its eyes gleamed sharply in the darkness.
Its horns, twisted and menacing, rose like those of a demon.
He stood on the edge of a towering clock tower, his feet dangling in the void. In the distance, a white-haired man appeared under the sunset that painted the sky crimson, where birds flew freely. Their feathers fell through the air as their wings fluttered, one feather briefly covering the man's silhouette before falling, and then the man vanished from the edge of the tower, plummeting downwards.
At that very moment, the sound of footsteps echoed on the iron edge of the tower as someone followed the same path, falling swiftly down. In the sky above, a hand stretched out toward the young man, reaching to grasp him.Suddenly, the deep chime of the clock tower rang out, resonating through the city like a solemn bell.
He opened his eyes slowly. There she stood—a young girl with black hair flowing softly on the night breeze, eyes as clear and deep as a cloudless sky. Her red cloak fluttered behind her like a whisper of flame .Behind her, a full moon bathed the world in pale silver light, filtering through the trees and casting a mystical glow that wrapped her like a whisper of ancient magic. She smiled softly, her voice barely more than a breath:
"I've found you."
In the morning, he stood frozen as he saw the kitchen completely turned upside down.
A girl in a red cloak had clearly been searching for something to eat.
He sat across from her at the small kitchen table.
She was already sipping a glass of milk he had prepared for her.
It all began just a few days ago,
when a little girl in a crimson cloak started following me.
Even now, I can still see her in my memory
standing beneath the streetlamp in that same red cloak,
gazing up at me in silence as I looked down from the window above.
I pretended not to see her,
But she was everywhere. She sat with her elbows on her knees, her hands cupping her cheeks, staring straight at me.
Peeking at me through the restaurant window while I ate.
Sitting in the frame of my office window while I worked.
Her eyes never left me.
Even when I slept, I could feel her gaze piercing the silence.
No matter how many locks I turned, no matter how many doors I closed—
She always found her way in.
She told me her name was Sikakama…That's… a strange name.
Yet no matter how hard I searched, I couldn't find that name in any record—
not hers, not the dead woman's.
It was as if they'd both come from another world,
he thought to himself, staring at the girl.
Then, the image of the corpse lying on the bed flashed through his mind.
silence swallowed the room whole.
Even the ticking clock seemed to hold its breath.
He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, placed it between his lips, and lit it with a lighter—shielding the flame with one hand.
Sian noticed the book in her hand and asked,
"And that book? You carry it with you everywhere."
Sikakama opened the book, showing him the illustrations as she explained, "it was a gift from the black man. It's a story about a monster who lived alone in the forest because he was too ugly. He was afraid the villagers wouldn't accept him, so he wore a cloak to hide himself. He kept traveling from place to place until he met a noble prince who gave him a sword. The monster used that sword to protect the village from evil, and the villagers grew to love him. He became friends with everyone."
"The black man?"
His fingers froze. The cigarette slipped from between them and fell to the floor.
His eyes widened.
Fixing his gaze on her, his voice low and unsteady:
"What did he look like?"
"He was tall… wore a black suit… and his face—was all black."
"Did he… tell you his name?"
"He said… he didn't have one," she replied.
He let out a dry, incredulous laugh, pressing two fingers to his forehead, as if trying to make sense of it.
"He spoke to you... and didn't even bother giving you his name?"
She looked down, voice soft and distant:
"He said names don't matter when there's no one left to call you by them."
Then, more seriously:
"Where is he now?"
"I don't know. He was always there."
He reasoned she must have been hallucinating—left alone in that place… with that corpse.
"It's a children's story," Sian said, looking unimpressed by what he thought was a silly tale.
Sikakama frowned, visibly annoyed.
"It's not just a children's story!" she protested.
"By the way, I'm looking for the legendary sword. Don't you have any information about it? I've heard it's somewhere in this city."
He folded his hands and leaned back in his chair. "A legendary sword?"
"I'm serious this time!" Her voice carried a sharp edge, eyes blazing with determination. "I'll take it… and become a knight."