Arke startled awake to a deep, resonant sound.
Something felt wrong.
He moved his foot and it twitched.
"What in the world…" he muttered.
Sitting up, he stared as his feet shifted on the bed.
To the side, his wheelchair was right where it always was, just beside the bed.
He moved his legs over the edge.
A smile broke across his face as the cold floor met the soles of his feet.
He stood.
A shaky breath left his lips, followed by a quiet laugh. His legs held. The weight, the balance—it was all real.
He took a step. Then another.
"Mom! You won't believe this!" he shouted, voice cracking with excitement.
But as he reached the door, he stopped.
A piece of paper was pinned to it.
His smile faded as he read the words, scrawled in black ink:
"You have seven days to find the exit."
His smile lingered as he stared at the paper.
A prank. Probably his brother, Arth, being an idiot again.
He pulled the door open—and paused.
Something immediately felt off.
It was quiet.
Not just inside. Outside.
He stepped into the hallway, frowning. His gaze drifted to the clock on the wall.
4:30 p.m.
That couldn't be right.
At this hour, the neighborhood was never this quiet. Dogs barking. Kids yelling. The distant hum of traffic or someone mowing their lawn.
But now—nothing.
"Mom! Arth!" he called out again, louder this time, his voice edged with alarm.
He checked their rooms—empty.
He rushed toward the front door. It wasn't until he was halfway down the porch steps that he realized he was running.
The thought barely had time to settle before something else pulled at him.
The street looked wrong.
Everything was tinted in a muted, violet gloom.
The sky hung low in a deep violet shade, dark and cloudless.
He started down the street, glancing around the familiar neighborhood. The houses, the trees, the fences—everything looked the same, but felt wrong.
"I must be dreaming," he muttered, giving himself a quick slap.
But then he stopped.
Something moved in the corner of his eye.
Down a narrow alley, a figure was walking slowly toward him.
His chest eased. "Finally, someone."
But as the figure came closer, relief turned to dread.
Its face was blank—expressionless, save for a wide, eerie smile. A dagger glinted in its hand.
Arke staggered back.
Then turned and ran.
Just yesterday, he was in a wheelchair. Now he was running.
But running for his life.
He stumbled up the porch steps, grabbed the handle, flung the door open, and slammed it shut behind him. The lock clicked.
He stood there, panting, heartbeat hammering in his ears.
Then Arke remembered the paper on his bedroom door.
He rushed back, grabbed it, and flipped it over.
There, on the back, was a map.
Lines were drawn across it—clear directions starting from one point and winding toward a spot labeled as "Exit".
His eyes lingered and he realized. It was a small map of their neighborhood. The starting point was their house.
He flipped the paper again. "I have seven days to find the exit…" he muttered.
Then he flipped it back, studying the map. It clicked.
The exit wasn't far.
The convenience store.
He folded the paper and stuffed it in his pocket.
Back at the front door, he moved to the window first, peeking through the glass.
The porch was clear.
Slowly, he opened the door—then ran.
He knew the streets. Every crack in the pavement, every bend. His feet pounded the ground as he made for the convenience store.
But then he heard it.
Muted thuds. Offbeat. Heavy.
He glanced over his shoulder—
Behind him were figures. The same as before. Not one, but at least a dozen. Blank faces. Dagger in hand. All running. All coming for him.
Arke ran faster, breath sharp, teeth clenched. He turned corner after corner, pushing his legs harder.
On the final bend, the store came into view.
He looked back. They were still chasing him.
He reached the door, grabbed the handle, and threw it open.
Eyes scanned the room.
There. Behind the counter.
A door marked "Exit".
He ran again, quickly opening the door.
Then stopped.
The door led back to his room.
Same bed. Same wheelchair. Same window.
Before he could make sense of it, the sound of the store's door slamming open reached his ears.
They were here.
He didn't stop to think. He grabbed the handle, yanked the door shut, slammed it, and turned the lock.
Then stepped back, heart racing, breathing hard.
"Come on, Arke," he said to himself. "You have to wake up from this nightmare."
Then he froze.
Something felt off again.
He reached into his pocket, checking if the paper was still there.
It was.
But there on the door was another paper pinned.
Same handwriting. Same ink.
"You have seven days to find the exit."
His hands trembled—not from fear this time, but from the gnawing thought that this was only the beginning.