Chapter 1: Knock at Midnight
Adrian had long stopped watching the clock. In his world, midnight was no longer a time; it was a summons. A weight that pressed against his chest, a whisper curling in the corners of his apartment. He felt it first as a shiver skimming down his spine, then as the flicker of the television - though it was off - casting shadows where none should exist.
He moved to the window, looking out at the empty street. Streetlights hummed faintly, their glow too still, too heavy. No wind moved the leaves; no distant hum of cars broke the silence. The city had always felt a little off after midnight, but tonight, the offness had teeth. Adrian knew what it meant.
A knock came at the door. Gentle, deliberate, wrong. His first instinct was to ignore it. Some part of him always did, as if hesitation could save him from the inevitable. But experience had taught him differently. Knocks at this hour were never innocent.
He reached for the pocket knife hidden in his coat pocket. The metal was cold against his palm, a small comfort in a world that had no mercy. He approached the door with careful steps, each one measured, deliberate. He had survived countless nights like this, but every night carried the same edge of terror, sharpened by memory.
Peering through the peephole, he saw nothing. The street was empty. The shadows pooled at the edges of the doorframe like liquid ink. And yet, he could hear the faintest whisper, barely audible, as if the darkness itself were speaking: are you ready?
He unlocked the door and pushed it open. The hallway beyond was normal enough, dim but familiar, yet something was wrong. The air had a weight to it, thick and stifling. Shapes flickered at the corners of his vision - long, thin shadows that didn't belong to any light source. The hallway stretched farther than it should, angles bending subtly, unnaturally.
Adrian stepped into the corridor, every muscle tensed, knife at the ready. He didn't flinch at the first movement - a small, slight figure appearing just beyond the stairwell. It moved differently than a human should, sliding almost, its head tilting at impossible angles.
"You shouldn't be here," Adrian muttered, low and calm. Not to the figure. Not to anyone. To himself. A mantra. Control. It meant something in a place like this.
The figure froze, then vanished. Adrian's pulse quickened - not out of fear, but anticipation. He had learned long ago that the Realm liked to toy with him before striking. Silence, stillness, that false sense of safety - it was always the precursor to chaos.
Another knock echoed through the apartment behind him. Softer this time. Like fingers tapping the wooden frame, patient, methodical. Adrian didn't move backward. He had learned that hesitation often meant death.
He scanned the hallway. The shadows were lengthening, pooling around corners, creeping along the walls as though alive. Shapes formed and reformed, twisting into outlines that suggested faces, limbs, reaching hands - but always just out of reach, just beyond clarity.
And then he heard it: a whisper carried on the thick, unmoving air. You cannot escape.
Adrian's jaw tightened. He had heard it countless times before, from countless mouths he couldn't see. It never lied. Not really. Survival here depended on understanding that fear was a weapon, but terror was a guide. He was ready. He had to be.
The figure reappeared, closer this time, unnervingly still, as if observing him. Its eyes - or the suggestion of eyes - reflected nothing. The shadows around it shimmered unnaturally, bending light, space, reality itself. Adrian didn't hesitate. He tightened his grip on the knife and took a careful step forward, disappearing into the darkness that now filled the apartment like water.
The first night had begun.
The shadows thickened around Adrian as he advanced, each step calculated, silent. The air was wrong - heavy, oppressive, as if breathing itself had become a challenge. His knife remained steady in his hand, the only tangible thing in a world that refused to remain solid.
The figure before him shifted suddenly. Not running, not lunging - just stretching in ways that defied logic. Its form blurred at the edges, and yet the mind instinctively recognized the silhouette of a child, small and silent, unmoving. Adrian's gut tightened. Black-Eyed Children.
He didn't flinch. He had seen this before, many times, though never quite like this. They were the Realm's way of testing him, probing for hesitation. The innocuous, childlike form concealed something far older, far hungrier. One wrong move, and the shadows would close, fast and precise.
Adrian circled slowly, knife poised, eyes scanning every flicker of movement. The hallway seemed to stretch longer than it should, corners bending, light warping, his senses screaming at him to act - but he ignored it. Fear was a tool here, and he refused to let it guide him.
A whisper echoed again, almost imperceptible: open the door… let us in… The voice was soft, coaxing, unnervingly human. Adrian's lips pressed into a thin line. Do not open the door. Do not hesitate. His voice was steady, though only he heard it. The Realm didn't need loud words; it listened to the small, internal ones, the ones that betrayed doubt.
One child stepped forward. Or at least it appeared to. Its legs elongated, the head tilting to an impossible angle. The eyes - hollow, obsidian pits - fixed on him, unblinking. Adrian's muscles tensed. Survival here wasn't about brute strength; it was about timing, about understanding the rhythm of the Realm.
He lunged, knife slicing through air where shadow met shadow. The figure recoiled, screaming - a sound that shouldn't have come from a child, something warped and terrible. The shadows around it flared, writhing, attacking in unpredictable bursts. Adrian ducked, rolled, slashing again, every movement precise, every breath controlled.
A second figure emerged, smaller, almost silent. It reached toward him, hands pale and impossibly thin, fingers like claws. Adrian spun, driving the knife forward into empty air - the first figure had vanished, leaving only a smear of black that evaporated like smoke.
The corridor became a blur of motion. Shapes flickered in and out of reality, shadows coiling around corners and doors, whispering threats that weren't spoken aloud. Adrian moved with the cold efficiency of someone who had been here before: feints, slashes, quick steps, the constant mental calculus of life versus death.
A sudden creak from the apartment door startled him. Another player? Another shadow? He didn't have time to analyze. Reflexes took over. The knife found a target, plunging into a form that shimmered before his eyes. The figure screamed, a sound that cut across the heavy silence and made his skin crawl, and then was gone - leaving nothing but a faint smear of black liquid that evaporated into the air.
He didn't allow himself a moment to breathe. Another shape appeared behind him, moving faster than humanly possible. Adrian spun, knife slicing. The shadows reacted violently, striking, clawing, testing, probing. One hand grazed his arm - burning, icy pain that made him grit his teeth.
He pivoted and struck again. The shadow shrieked, melting back into the darkness. Adrian pressed forward, scanning every corner, every doorway. The hallway was a labyrinth, distorted and alive. The longer he stayed, the more the shadows seemed to anticipate his movements.
Minutes passed - or maybe seconds. Time had no meaning here. He had to find the center of the disturbance, the source of the first Trial's attack, before it overwhelmed him. His breathing remained controlled, his focus razor-sharp. Every movement, every calculated strike, kept him alive.
Then he saw it: a small, pale hand reaching around the corner, grasping at the edge of a doorframe. Adrian lunged, slashing with precise, clinical efficiency. The hand dissolved into darkness, leaving behind a whisper that lingered in the air: Not enough…
Adrian's jaw tightened. The Trial had begun in earnest. Survival wasn't a choice; it was the only rule that mattered. And as the shadows coiled around him, whispering and writhing, he knew one thing for certain: tonight, there would be blood.
The shadows had learned him. Every movement he made was anticipated, countered. The hallway had warped into something impossible, walls stretching, floors slanting, corners bending in ways that made the mind reel. The black shapes skittered along edges, whispered just out of hearing, and shifted their forms when he wasn't looking directly at them.
Adrian's breathing was controlled, shallow. Panic was a luxury he could not afford. He could feel the Realm pressing against him like water, pushing him to make mistakes, to hesitate. One misstep, one flinch, and the shadows would tear him apart. He tightened his grip on the knife, feeling the familiar cold comfort of steel against skin.
Two figures emerged simultaneously, sliding from the corners. They were children, yes, but distorted in ways that clawed at the edges of sanity. Limbs bent at impossible angles; faces stretched into something that was neither human nor beast. Their eyes were voids, blacker than night itself. They moved with silent intent, circling him, probing for weakness.
Adrian struck first, lunging toward the closer figure. The knife sank into its chest - or where its chest should have been. A scream erupted, tearing through the warped air, and then it dissolved into darkness. He pivoted just in time to dodge a swipe from the second. The blade grazed his shoulder, searing, icy pain shooting down his arm. He didn't flinch. Pain was irrelevant here. Only survival mattered.
The second figure screeched, a sound that seemed to vibrate inside his chest, shaking the walls of the apartment and the very floor beneath him. Adrian lunged again, knife plunging - but the shadow dissolved before his eyes, leaving a smear of inky blackness. He realized something dangerous: these were not mere phantoms; they were part of the Realm, responding to fear, anticipation, hesitation.
A third form appeared suddenly behind him, its fingers elongated, brushing against the nape of his neck. He swung, the knife slicing through air, barely grazing its form. The whisper followed, closer now: you cannot leave…
Adrian's mind calculated rapidly. He could fight, but the shadows multiplied faster than he could strike. Retreat meant abandoning the hallway, risking traps along the way. Hesitation meant death. Survival demanded action, decisiveness, cruelty.
A small sound - the scuff of a foot, faint but real - drew his attention. Not a shadow, not a whisper, but a living human. One of the survivors who had wandered into the Realm alongside him. The boy froze, eyes wide, realizing too late that the shadows had followed him. Adrian's jaw tightened. Choices were never easy here.
He made his decision in an instant. He shoved the survivor behind him and swung the knife in a wide arc. The figure closest to him let out an unholy screech and collapsed into nothingness. Another form lunged at the survivor. Adrian caught it midair with a precise strike, driving the knife into it, the inky form evaporating with a hiss. The boy stumbled, gasping, but alive - for now.
Adrian didn't look at him. He couldn't. He could not afford distraction. The hallway was alive with movement, shadows twisting, curling toward him, testing, probing. He moved as he always did: calculated, cold, unflinching, a predator in a world designed to devour.
Then came the impossible. One figure, larger than the rest, stepped out from the shadows. Its face was obscured, but Adrian could feel its intelligence, the cruel cunning that distinguished these creatures from mere illusions. The whispers crescendoed around him, pressing against his eardrums: choose… choose who dies…
Adrian's stomach twisted, but he did not hesitate. He pivoted, thrusting the knife with all his strength. The shadow screamed, twisting violently before evaporating into the inky black that soaked the floor. But the larger figure remained, advancing, relentless.
He glanced at the survivor. Fear froze the boy in place. Adrian knew what he had to do. Another swipe, another strike, and then a calculated shove, pushing the boy out of the line of attack. The shadow screamed again and lunged toward Adrian, finally allowing him to drive the knife deep, the figure dissolving with a hiss that echoed in his skull.
The hallway stilled. The shadows retreated, melting into the warped walls, leaving only silence. The survivor lay on the floor, trembling, staring at Adrian with wide, terrified eyes. He looked back, expression unreadable. He did not speak. Words were a liability here. Survival was always louder than speech.
And yet, beneath the calm, a thought lingered: the Realm was watching. It always was. And this was only the beginning.
The hallway was still. Silence pressed against Adrian like a physical weight, heavier than the shadows had been. The inky residue of the vanished figures clung faintly to the walls, evaporating slowly, leaving a stain on the memory rather than the floor. The survivor he had saved - or rather, allowed to live - still lay on the ground, trembling, wide-eyed.
Adrian didn't move to comfort him. That was not part of the rules. Comfort was a luxury the Realm never afforded. Instead, he kept the knife at the ready, scanning every corner, every flicker of shadow, every wavering beam of the distorted lights. The Realm had a rhythm, and he had learned to listen, even when it threatened to drive him mad.
"Are you… going to help me?" the boy finally whispered, voice quivering.
Adrian's lips pressed into a thin line. He didn't answer. Words were dangerous. Hesitation was fatal. Survival required clarity, focus, and detachment. Yet, despite himself, he allowed a glance. Fear clung to the boy like a second skin, and somewhere beneath the instinct to keep moving, Adrian recognized something familiar: the raw, untempered panic of a first night.
He moved past the boy, keeping the knife ready. "Stand," he said, voice low, clipped. Not a question. A command. The boy obeyed, trembling, eyes darting toward every flicker of shadow.
Adrian took a slow, deliberate breath. The hallway stretched farther than it should, every corner a potential hiding place for new horrors. The first Trial had been a test, a warm-up for what the Realm had in store. And he had passed it. But passing here did not mean safety. The Realm was patient, and it learned quickly.
He crouched briefly, inspecting the faint inky residue that lingered on the floor. Something about it made his stomach tighten - not just the violence, but the awareness that each creature here was a fragment of the Realm's design, deliberately crafted to provoke terror and manipulate choice. Every strike, every calculated shove, every life saved or sacrificed fed into its plan.
The boy finally spoke again, quieter this time. "Why… why are you… not scared?"
Adrian didn't answer. Fear was not gone; it never was. He simply learned to channel it, to shape it, to keep it from breaking him. That, and experience. He had survived nights that would have killed others outright. He had learned what was needed, what was irrelevant, and what could be ignored until the final moment.
A faint whisper brushed against the edge of his mind. Not the shadows this time - not quite - but the Realm itself, reminding him that nothing ended here. The Trial had only begun. Adrian's jaw tightened. He had survived worse, but worse was coming, and he knew it.
He turned his attention back to the boy. "Listen," he said, voice steady. "Stay close. Keep moving. Don't look at anything you don't understand. The moment you hesitate… you die."
The boy nodded, swallowing hard. Adrian didn't offer reassurance. None existed here. Only survival, and the cold calculus of choices that left guilt and blood in their wake.
He moved forward, knife in hand, scanning the hallway. The shadows had retreated for now, but the walls seemed to pulse, alive with the knowledge of what had just occurred. The Realm remembered. And it would return.
Adrian's mind wandered briefly to the others he had lost in previous nights, fleeting memories of those who hadn't survived. Friends? Comrades? Sometimes he didn't know the difference anymore. He had long since stopped counting the deaths he caused or permitted. Survival was everything; morality was optional.
And yet, a seed of something stirred - a faint, almost imperceptible tug. A notion that perhaps saving one mattered, even if only as a tether to the humanity he had left. He pushed it aside. The Realm did not reward sentiment. It punished weakness.
A sound from the far end of the hallway - a soft shuffle, almost human - reminded him that the night was far from over. Adrian adjusted his grip on the knife and stepped forward, the boy following cautiously behind him. Every instinct screamed for him to move, to anticipate, to strike before the next horror arrived.
This was the Midnight Realm. This was the first night of many. And Adrian knew one truth, cold and certain: the Realm didn't just want players. It wanted legends.
And he intended to survive.