The cold bit first.
Metal against skin, metal tight enough to bruise, and Makun tried to move but his wrists wouldn't budge. His ankles were locked. Something wrapped around his throat, not choking, just present, a reminder that breathing was a privilege here.
Darkness pressed against his eyes like a physical weight, no shapes, no shadows, just absolute black that swallowed sound itself.
Then he heard it.
Thud!
Footsteps that didn't echo right, like they were coming from inside his skull.
His heart slammed against his ribs and he yanked at the chains, felt them bite deeper, the metal freezing, the kind of cold that burned. No matter how hard he pulled his body wouldn't break free.
A hiss cut through the darkness. It might have been breathing.
Light bloomed above him, sickly green and pulsing. A glass tube descended, sealed around him with pressurized air, and the space contracted. His chest tightened. The walls kept pressing closer and closer until he could barely breathe.
Through the glass, shapes moved. Wrong proportions, too many limbs, faces that blurred when he tried to focus on them.
They were watching him.
No.
Feeding.
He could feel it now, a pulling sensation deep in his chest like something vital was being siphoned out through his skin. Not blood, something else, something he couldn't name but knew he needed to survive.
"No." The word scraped out. "No!"
He thrashed against the chains and his wrists went slick with something warm, the tube walls pressed closer, the shapes outside leaned in hungry and patient. One reached toward the glass with a hand that had too many fingers.
Makun screamed.
GASP!
He jolted awake, sheets twisted around his body like ropes, and for three panicked seconds he couldn't move. The chains were still there. He couldn't see them but he could feel them cold and tight against his skin, ready to pull him back under.
He yanked his arms free, kicked the sheets off, scrambled back against the headboard. Sat there breathing hard with his heart pounding, waiting for something to grab him from the dark.
Nothing did.
Just sheets, just his crappy mattress, his even crappier apartment with the water stains on the ceiling and the broken AC that made everything smell like mold.
Hah... hah...
He pressed his palms against his eyes and tried to slow his breathing. Sweat soaked through his shirt. His pulse wouldn't calm down.
Third time this week, same nightmare, same chains and glass tube and hungry shapes that wanted something from him he couldn't name.
He looked at his wrists expecting bruises but the skin was unmarked. The phantom pain lingered anyway, a dull ache that felt too real.
His phone screamed from the floor.
7:43 AM. He was supposed to be at work at 7:30.
"Perfect."
The apartment looked worse in daylight, peeling paint on the walls, water stains shaped like continents on a messed up map, and everything smelled like mold and old regret since the AC died two weeks ago.
Makun pushed himself off the bed, joints popping, body feeling like it had been through a fight. Judging by the tangled sheets it probably had.
The shower sputtered before spitting out lukewarm water. He stood under it a long time letting it run over his shoulders, trying to wash away the sensation of those chains still wrapped around his wrists.
In the mirror bruises bloomed across his ribs, old ones fading yellow-green and new ones dark purple. Souvenirs from last week when a shelf at work collapsed the second he walked past it. The supervisor said it was his fault, equipment always broke around him, accidents followed him like stray dogs. After a while he'd just stopped arguing.
But today felt different.
He met his own eyes in the mirror. Not today.
He threw on the least wrinkled shirt he could find, jeans that had seen better months, clipped his badge to his belt without looking at the photo. It made him look younger than twenty-three, more hopeful, and he didn't recognize that version of himself anymore.
8:02. Officially late.
He grabbed his keys and opened the door.
The landlord stood in the hallway, arms crossed, expression carved from stone. Mr. Okoye was a big man, the kind who filled doorways and made you feel small just by existing. In his hand a single sheet of paper.
"Makun, we need to talk."
His stomach dropped. He knew that tone, had heard variations of it his entire life right before everything went sideways.
"I'm late for work Mr. Okoye, can this..."
"You're three months behind on rent." Okoye held up the paper and the words at the top were impossible to miss.
Eviction notice.
"I've been patient, more than patient, but I can't keep carrying you."
"I get paid on Friday, I can give you..."
"Forty-eight hours." Okoye pressed the notice into his hand. "That's what the law requires, after that you're out. I'm sorry but this is my business, this is how I take care of my family."
He walked away without looking back.
Makun stood there holding the paper, official letterhead, date stamp, forty-eight hours to come up with three months of back rent or lose the only roof he had.
He folded the notice and shoved it in his pocket.
"Fine, I'll figure it out."
He always did, somehow, even when the world threw everything at him. Not because he was lucky or blessed or special, just because the alternative was lying down and letting it win.
He refused to do that.
Makun locked his door, pocketed his keys, and headed for the stairs.