I woke up sitting on a chair in an unusual room, the lighting dim and grimy. A foul stench invaded my senses, making me gag as I covered my nose. My head jerked around, searching for the source. Then I saw them.
Behind the chair lay a heap of corpses, hacked apart, limbs twisted unnaturally. The sight struck me like a hammer to the soul. My stomach lurched, and a wave of nausea crashed over me. I staggered to my feet and bolted for the door, bursting through it and collapsing onto the cold ground outside, panting.
The passage outside was eerily pristine—white walls stretching endlessly, sterile and unmarked. The contrast was unsettling. My hands trembled as I tried to gather myself. Where the hell was I? The gruesome image of the bodies seared into my mind, making it hard to think.
I forced my shaking limbs to move, pushing forward, desperately seeking an exit. The hallway stretched on, lined with doors. Too many doors. A nagging feeling gripped me—one of them had to be the way out. I clung to that thought like a lifeline.
I checked door after door. Each one swung open to reveal nothing. Just empty voids.
Dozens of doors. Then a hundred.
Panic gnawed at my mind, but I pushed through. I was nearing the end of the passage when I saw him. A lone figure stood just before the exit. Familiar yet... wrong.
I ran toward him, but no matter how fast I moved, the distance never closed. My breath came in ragged gasps.
He turned.
Kyle. My best friend.
But he wasn't the same. His hair was wilder, spiked, sharp bangs casting half his face in shadow. His expression was blank, yet something about his stance made my chest tighten.
I tried to call out. "Kyle, is that you??"
No answer.
His gaze held something—sadness, maybe regret. The world around us trembled, glitching violently, and then—
He was right in front of me.
Too close.
His hand rose to his left eye, slowly lifting the curtain of hair that hid it. And then I saw it—
Waves of black. An abyss of twisting, writhing darkness, seductive in its motion, yet suffocating. I was drowning in it, caught between the comfort and terror of the unknown.
Kyle smiled.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Bart woke up, gasping, drenched in sweat. His heart pounded as if he had just sprinted for miles. The dream was already slipping away, fading into the fog of his mind. But the feeling—the feeling remained, lingering like an unseen weight on his chest.
He glanced at the clock. Too early. With a shaky breath, he lay back down, hoping for sleep to reclaim him.
My name is Kyle Damian. I live with my mom, Dorothy Damian. My dad passed away when I was five. I'm currently trying to get my life back on track.
The alarm blared at 8:30 AM, but Kyle lazily reached out and hit snooze, curling deeper into his bed. Ten minutes later, it rang again. He groaned and extended an arm, blindly fumbling for the button.
"AREN'T YOU GOING TO GET UP, KID?" The scratchy, guttural voice of Raknar echoed in his mind.
For a moment, Kyle had forgotten he shared his body with a demon. "No, leave me alone," he muttered sleepily, rolling over, eyes shut tight.
"If it isn't mama bear," Raknar sneered before fading away.
Just then, Kyle's mother entered the room.
"Come on, Kyle. You have school today," she urged gently. "I'm sacrificing a lot so you can have a bright future."
A sad smile crossed Kyle's lips as he sat up, rubbing his face. Things were finally back to normal—or at least, something resembling it.
Last night, when Dorothy returned with the ice cream, she and Kyle had watched a movie together. He had told her everything—about the museum, the skull, the mafia, the hijacking, and Raknar. Before they fell asleep, he pretended to drift off, but in reality, he lay awake, burdened by guilt.
Her knowing would only bring her more pain.
So he made a deal with Raknar.
For a price, the demon erased her memories of everything.
The sun shone brightly, birds chirped, and the trees swayed lazily in the morning breeze. Kyle stood at the bus stop, waiting for his best friend, Bart.
Bart was usually the early one, but today he was late—ten minutes late, to be exact.
Kyle's brow furrowed. Odd.
Finally, he appeared, sprinting toward the bus stop, looking frazzled. His hair was unkempt, his expression weary.
"Kyleee! Sorry I'm late!" Bart shouted, barreling toward him at full speed. He tried to slow down but failed miserably, skidding past Kyle and crashing onto the pavement.
Kyle erupted into laughter, grinning ear to ear. "You alright, man?" he asked, extending a hand.
Bart groaned, taking it as Kyle helped him up. "We're walking, aren't we?" Bart sighed.
"Seems like it," Kyle smirked.
"Miss Barlow is gonna be so mad," Bart grumbled, dusting himself off.
"Delaying any longer is only gonna make her madder," Kyle called over his shoulder, already a few steps ahead.
Bart cursed under his breath and ran after him.
They reached school late, Kyle was already serving his punishment standing outside till the period ends. Bart, panting, leaned on his knees. "I—huff—won't even—huff—bother."
Kyle stood tall, barely winded. "Must be my shoes."
Bart shot him a look of pure disbelief. "Yeah, right."
Kyle shifted the conversation. "I never get why we have to stand outside for being late. Wouldn't it be easier if we were let in so we could, you know, actually learn?"
Bart, still breathless, nodded fiercely. "Yeah! The system is all wrong."
"Would you two keep quiet!" Miss Damian snapped from inside, Kyle and Bart shut their mouths, standing at attention like scolded soldiers.
No fighting the system. At least not today.
They looked at each other with a mischievous smile spread across their faces
It was dinner time at the cafeteria. Kyle and Bart walked into the lunchroom and grabbed their plates.
"Everyone's been staring at you all day," Bart said as the large, mean-looking chef lady slapped a messy scoop of mashed potatoes onto his plate and handed him his drink. He moved on, and Kyle stepped up next in line.
"Fried rice, please," Kyle requested.
Strangely enough, the chef was smiling as she grabbed an oversized spoonful of rice and dumped it onto his plate. "Hyes, a liwwle estraa," she said, her thick Norwegian accent making the words almost comical. She handed him his plate and milk.
Bart, staring in disbelief at the sheer heap of food on Kyle's plate, stood frozen. His best friend casually walked past him, gently nudging his shoulder. "Must be your imagination," Kyle muttered.
Before they could reach their table, a whole group of junior girls sprang out from their hiding spots, ambushing Kyle.
"Kyleee!"
"Please be my boyfriend!"
The other girls laughed, dragging him around like a toy.
"He's my boyfriend!" one of them declared, the chittering and squealing intensifying.
Bart took one glance at the chaos and immediately abandoned Kyle to his fate, making his way to their usual table.
It was commonly referred to as the "losers' table" in the brutal social hierarchy of high school, but he and Kyle had proudly claimed it as their own. As Bart absentmindedly chewed on his mashed potatoes, an unexpected guest joined him—Larry, the stereotypical high school bully, the kind typically used for the protagonist's character development.
Larry plopped down across from Bart and started munching on his own mashed potatoes. The two locked eyes, tension rising. Bart reacted first, jabbing a finger at him.
"You can't just sit here like it's natural!"
Larry remained calm. "I'm not looking for trouble," he said coolly. "Besides, I already apologized."
Bart scoffed. "No, you didn't. You just got your ass whooped."
A vein twitched on Larry's forehead, but he kept his composure. "I'm s—" He started to apologize, but Bart wasn't letting up.
"What was that?" Bart leaned in mockingly.
Before the tension could escalate further, a gentle voice interrupted. "Noticed you guys arguing from way over there."
Trish had arrived. She was their classmate—the same one who had followed them on their spy trip back then. Spotting them from her table, she had walked over, her presence seemingly cooling Bart's temper. He exhaled and scooted over, making space for her.
"Mind your own business," Larry muttered.
"That's no way to talk to a lady!" Bart shot back, his energy flaring up again.
"It's okay, Bart. We're all friends here," Trish said with a small smile. Her warm presence seemed to melt Bart's frustration, and his face softened.
Shortly after, another girl approached the table—Clara. She was effortlessly beautiful, with smooth caramel skin, well-shaped almond eyes, and long, silky dark hair that cascaded down her back. The school already had a running poll for her as the hottest girl on campus.
With natural confidence, she sat to Bart's right. "Sorry, hope I'm not interrupting anything," she said, her tone neutral, with a slight smile.
Bart and Trish both stiffened, faces heating up as they suddenly recalled spying on her date with Kyle.
'No way. I'm sitting between two hot girls,' Bart thought as his mind reeled from the surreal situation.
"Uhm, uhm." Clara cleared her throat lightly, drawing his attention. "You're Bartholomew, right? Kyle's best friend? I was hoping to meet him, but I can't seem to find—" she started, only to be cut off.
"There he is," Bart pointed.
Kyle, looking utterly drained, shuffled toward them. His expression mirrored that of a war veteran who had barely survived the battlefield. He sat down, noting the unusual crowd at their table but ultimately deciding not to care. There were far worse things.
"I'm so sorry, Bart. I had to shrug off all the junior classes before I got here," Kyle sighed.
"Don't worry about me, I already have enough company," Bart replied smugly.
"Hey, Kyle," Trish greeted. Kyle gave her a nod in acknowledgment before noticing Clara at the table.
"Cl-Cl-Clara... I didn't see you there," he stammered, his cheeks tinged red.
"Hey, Kyle," she greeted, offering him a slight smile.