The slums weren't kind to anyone, but they were especially cruel to newcomers. A month ago, the six of them had woken up here—filthy streets, broken walls, a sky the color of ash. No instructions, no guidance, just the taste of rot in their mouths and hunger clawing at their stomachs.
Survival came first.
They built a shack out of scavenged wood and rusted scrap. They hunted rats, stealing from other desperate souls when they had to. Food was never enough, and fire was always borrowed from someone else's dying flame.
Arguments came often. Medici wanted to pick fights, Adam wanted to reason with everyone, and Amon found amusement in chaos. Bethel kept his mouth shut, Lilith smoothed things over when tempers flared, and Klein tried to pretend he was normal even when nothing around them was.
Somehow, it worked. Somehow, they endured.
But peace never lasts.
For the past week, none of them had known real sleep. Not because of noise or hunger, but because of the Nightmare Spell. It sank into their bones, left them heavy, every step like dragging chains.
Three days ago, they couldn't take it anymore. Staying in the shack meant collapsing into the dirt and never rising again. So they left.
After they got to the police station, they headed straight inside. The place smelled of dust and gun oil, its cracked tiles echoing under their footsteps. Behind the front desk sat an old man in uniform, his cap tilted low, his face lined with years of discipline and war. His eyes sharpened as soon as he saw them.
"Are you lost, little ones?" he asked, voice calm but wary. His hand never strayed far from the pistol at his side. To Amon, it looked like the man was itching for another war.
Bethel was the one who spoke, his words flat and tired, as if even speaking cost him effort.
"As demanded by the third special directive… we're here to surrender ourselves as carriers of the Nightmare Spell."
The words dropped heavy in the air. The old man froze, then narrowed his eyes.
"Do you even know what you're saying, boy?"
"We know," Bethel replied, his tone unchanging.
Medici scoffed under his breath. Adam elbowed him to shut up. Lilith stepped forward, her face pale but calm. "It's true. We've all been infected. No one has slept for a week."
The old man's gaze swept over them. He saw the trembling hands, the hollow eyes, the sluggish posture that wasn't just from hunger. His frown deepened.
"For how long have you been carrying the Nightmare Spell?" he asked, already reaching for his radio.
"For about a week now," Lilith said, quick before Bethel could open his mouth again.
"…Shit." The man's composure cracked. He raised the radio to his lips.
"Attention! Code Black in the lobby! I repeat! CODE BLACK!"
His shout echoed through the halls. Doors slammed open deeper inside the station. The sound of boots rushed closer.
Medici rolled his eyes. "Finally, some attention."
"Don't provoke them," Klein muttered, his voice strained, trying to sound reasonable even when his legs wobbled.
Adam raised his hands, glaring at Medici. "We're here to surrender, not start a fight, you idiot."
Amon only laughed, quiet and sharp, like he was watching a comedy play no one else understood.
Within minutes, armed officers swarmed the lobby. Their rifles leveled at the six exhausted figures. Orders barked. Rough hands restrained them, cuffed them, pushed them to the ground.
Amon yawned, resting his cheek against the cold floor. He watched the others sag as sleep finally won.
'Man, what a bitch ass fate we have,' he thought as darkness pulled him under.
[Aspirant! Welcome to the Nightmare Spell. Prepare for your first trial]
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Short chapter here