Darkness.Not the familiar comfort of a quiet room, but a deeper, more unsettling abyss. This is the darkness that lingers between heartbeats, between breaths, stretching the thin line between waking and dreaming.
A solitary orange glimmer pierces the black—just the glowing tip of a cigar.
In the shadows, a figure sits, enveloped in luxury smoke. The ember casts no light, merely a pinprick of warmth in an endless chill. Expensive leather creaks under the figure's subtle movements, crossing one leg over the other. His posture is one of patience, of expertise.
Waiting.
Footsteps resonate from an unseen distance—no echoes of concrete or wood, but a sound born from a place that should not exist.
A door appears where there was none before.
Light floods in—dim, red, and wrong. It doesn't illuminate; it merely hints at shapes hidden in the dark. And there, in that sickly glow stands a figure adorned with a grotesque ram's skull mask, its curling horns reminiscent of ancient bones.
A stranger.
He steps into the shadows, and the door slams shut behind him, devouring the crimson light. Only the cigar remains, a steady ember in the darkness.
"Sir," the stranger's voice booms, even in the muted air. "He is here. We've done everything, but he refuses to speak."
Silence.
The cigar tip brightens as the shadowed figure inhales slowly, smoke spiralling upward, distinguishable only as deeper gray against the black.
When he finally speaks, his tone is calm, measured—a soothing presence that compels even the ancient and powerful to stand a little taller in his presence.
"Refusing?" he muses. "Curious. That was not part of the contract he signed." Is it possible he thinks he has a choice in this? The voice sounds to be mature. It looks like a voice of an elderly person.
"He's… resilient, sir," the stranger replies. "We dismantled most of his conditioning, but some essence of him remains—unbroken. Defiant."
"Defiant?" A contemplative drag on the cigar ignites the ember. "Charming. And the object? Did you retrieve it?"
"No, sir. He concealed it before we captured him, and now he refuses to disclose its location."
A pregnant pause thickens the air.
"Bring him in," the figure commands.
The man in the ram mask bows slightly and claps his hands.
The door creaks open once more, revealing two more masked figures—one a crow with a shattered beak, the other a serpent coiled tightly. Between them, they drag a man.
Blood stains the ground. His clothes are tattered, his face a canvas of swelling bruises. His wrists are bound in chains that shimmer, phasing in and out of existence—not quite corporeal, not quite gone. Dream chains. Unbreakable here.
They toss the man at the shadowed figure's feet. He does not cry out, merely crumples to the ground with a wet thud.
"Leave us," the voice commands from the darkness.
The ram-masked figure hesitates. "Sir, he's unpredictable. If you wish us to stay—"
"I said leave!"
The trio bows and retreats through the door, which closes with a sigh, leaving only darkness and the glowing cigar.
The bruised man struggles to his knees, gasping for air. Blood dribbles from his lips, pattering onto a surface that isn't quite concrete.
"Mr Zhou, am I correct?" the elderly figure asks.
The wounded man is silent.
"Very well, let's settle on that." The elderly man speaks with feigned politeness. "So, Mr. Zhou, do you know who I am?" His tone is deceptively casual.
The man spits blood onto the floor. "Yeah... I know exactly what you are."
"What! Not who? An intriguing distinction." The cigar burns brighter, illuminating the darkness further. "So... what am I, in your view?"
"A monster," the man rasps. "A parasite. A nightmare dressed in a suit."
A low chuckle reverberates through the void.
"Articulate. But I'd argue the suit is merely superficial. In any case, Mr Zhou, you and I transcend such physical limitations. You've glimpsed what lies beneath the masks, the flesh, beneath… the DREAM."
"That's why I ran." The bruised man's voice steadies, challenging despite his condition. "That's why I took it. Someone has to end this."
"End us?" The figure sounds genuinely entertained. "Do you honestly believe you can halt us? You are one of our most effective harvesters. Forty-three souls collected. Forty-three lives extinguished by your hand in your slumber. Don't you recall our supposed unity? And now you wish to stop us?"
"I was blind to your true nature," Zhou's voice trembles. "You never let me see the reality of our actions. Your foolish dog in the ram mask always insisted we were delivering justice. Restoring order. But it was all just a façade, all lies! You claimed we were eliminating parasites—"
"And weren't you?" The interruption cuts sharply. "Didn't you eliminate those you deemed parasites? Did you not kill corrupt officials? Abusive bosses? The wealthy elite that trampled the vulnerable? Every target I assigned to you was deserving."
"Were my wife and child also deserving?" Zhou's question hangs, heavy with accusations.
"In certain contexts, yes, Mr. Zhou," the elderly man replies, his tone frigid.
"NO! YOU WERE JUST HARVESTING SOULS!" The man's shout reverberates in the darkness. "Using me as a vessel for your grotesque rituals! I wasn't delivering justice. I was merely feeding you. FEEDING YOU SOULS!"
Silence.
The cigar tip flickers, then dims.
"True," the voice concedes. "But does that negate the fact that you wished for their deaths? You've always believed your actions were justified."
"My wife and my son didn't destroy society to indulge their greed. They were blameless," Zhou responds, pain evident.
"Sometimes, sacrifices must be made for greater ends," the elderly man states coldly, devoid of empathy.
"I wasn't seeking justice; I was merely your weapon. A puppet."
"Everyone is someone's tool," the elderly man philosophises. "At least we provided you a purpose. Power. The chance to strike back against a world that wronged you. Isn't that worth something?"
The man says nothing, merely sobbing in his anguish.
"Listen, Mr. Zhou. Right now you have something that I owe." The voice continues, all pretence of casual conversation dropping away. "Where is it?"
"Fuck you."
The darkness shifts. Something moves in it—something vast, something terrible that makes the wounded man flinch despite himself.
"Mr. Zhou, you'd better not test my patience. That thing is very important for me," the voice says, and now there is an edge to it. Steel beneath velvet. "Without it, the barrier between the dream and reality cannot be permanently breached. Without it, we cannot achieve our ascension. Without it—" A pause. "Well. Let's say I'm highly motivated to retrieve it. And you will cooperate with us Mr. Zhou."
"Good," Mr. Zhou spits. "I hope it rots wherever I hid it. I hope that you never find it. I hope every harvester that you have chosen, realises what you have made them into."
"You are being too optimistic, Mr Zhou." The voice, sounding almost certain. "Those harvesters are long gone now. You are never going to find them."
Mr. Zhou's breathing quickens. "So... What are you going to do now? KILL ME?"
"Eventually." The cigar glows. "But first we are going to make you tell us where you hid it. That thing doesn't belong in the waking world. It needs to return dream realm, where it can serve its purpose."
"I'll never—"
"You will." The voice is patient but it is not calming. "Pain in dreams is so much more... malleable than physical pain. We can stretch every limb and every muscle of your body to an unimaginable extent. I can make you feel such things that you can't even process. You're here now, and here we are the rulers and we make the rules."
The darkness moves again. Shapes begin to form—terrible, incomprehensible shapes that hurt to perceive.
Mr. Zhou backs up on his knees, chains rattling."Wait..."
"There is an easier way Mr. Zhou." The voice interrupts. "Tell us, where is it? So that we retrieve it. And in exchange, we give you, what you want the most."
"What I want—?"
"Freedom." The voice purrs. "Freedom from this pain."
Mr. Zhou starts feeling some burning sensations. He hesitates. The offer hangs in the air like smoke.
"I don't care how much pain I have to bear. I will never tell you where it is." Mr. Zhou replies, feeling burn.
"Perhaps." The voice sounds amused. "Perhaps, I am being entirely serious. The only way to know is to test it. Tell me where you hid that thing, or...."
"Or...?" Mr. Zhou asks.
"Or you will find out if I am a parasite or something worse than that."
Mr. Zhou's resolve wavers. The shapes in the darkness press closer and the burning sensation increases.
"I..." Mr. Zhou swallows. "I can't. If you get that thing back, you will make millions suffer. You'll merge the realms. Trap everyone..."
"Trap? How dare you use such an ugly word?" The elderly figure asks with a higher tone. "This is not any kind of trap Zhou. The people in your world need better leadership, they need to be freed from the limitations of flesh and we are offering them a better world."
"A better world? Or a beautifully painted nightmare that you control."
"A dream we guide," the elderly figure corrects. "But this is a pointless philosophy for you now. You will not understand. Now tell Mr. Zhou, where is it?"
The darkness surges forward. The burning sensations increase.
Mr. Zhou screams in pain, the sound resonating within the vast emptiness.
The stranger, standing outside, hears the painful cry, echoing inside the room.
The stranger rushes in, and is stunned after what he finds inside.
Mr. Zhou is nowhere to be seen. He was crying screeching in pain a few seconds ago, and now it looks like the darkness has swallowed him.
"Sir, where is Mr. Zhou?" The stranger asks, his tone increasing because of shock.
The orange gleam of the cigar brightens.
"He is gone! He somehow woke himself up, forced his consciousnthe ess back to his body. Thehave cha,ins couldn't hold him"
Silence from the darkness.
Then, slowly, the cigar glows brighter again.
"Clever." The elderly man says, there is a clam beneath the rage. "More clever than I anticipated. He's learned to sever connection forcibly. Impressive!"
"Should we try to pursue him in the physical world sir?" The ram-masked man asks.
"NO!" The command from the elderly man is absolute. "Let him run. Let him think he has won. This time specifically. That thing is safe wherever he stashed , I am sure he will not try to harm that thing."
"What do we do now sir?" The ram-masked man asks.
"He may have escaped now but he is merely human after all. He can't run away from us all the time. He needs sleep. I mean how much he can avoid sleeping? Days? Weeks? Someday the exhaustion will finally drag him under."
"So we have to wait for now?" The ram-masked man asks.
A slow drag on cigar.
"Precisely." The elderly figure stands, moving through the darkness. "Now go, find another fool just like him so that we can fill his void."
The ram-masked man nods slowly. "As you say sir."
The ram-masked man leaves and the door closes.
The darkness settles back and the elderly figure sits back and continues puffing on cigar.