I sat in my room on the second floor, unable to tear my gaze from the laptop screen. My fingers trembled each time I hit "Refresh" on the AP exam results page, as though touching a forbidden launch button, until the numbers finally stopped moving. My heart pounded somewhere in my throat, like a trapped bird, and the muscles in my neck tensed from strained anticipation. And then I saw what I both feared and longed for: 5 out of 5 in Math, Physics, and Computer Science. Along with that—an email from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) in my inbox.
It felt like slow-motion when I realized: the dream that had lit my nights over piles of textbooks and my laptop was now real. Full admission with a spectacular tuition discount—down from seventy-five thousand dollars a year to just twenty-two and a half. I felt as though it might all just be a mirage that would vanish at the slightest breeze, so I ran my finger across the screen, trying to hold on to that happiness, to keep it from slipping away.
"It can't be…" I breathed, and my voice betrayed me by breaking, as though admitting the boundless joy mixed with fear.
I leaned back in my chair, sensing a tremor in my lower back brought on by an overflow of emotions. The room suddenly seemed cramped, though minutes earlier it had felt spacious. I slowly looked around: the walls breathed with my aspirations and phantom hopes. Posters with engineering diagrams, where each line hinted that the future could be rewritten at will if only you persevered. Photographs of a starry sky, in which I had so often tried to find answers about myself. Shelves crammed with books on robotics and physics—pages literally torn up, covered in scribbles and faded ink. On the desk lay a stack of notebooks packed with formulas and sketches, meticulously drawn in countless hours, depriving myself of sleep. All those years of tears from fatigue, when my eyelids felt like lead, and constant training of my mind—everything led to this blinking email in my inbox.
I shut my eyes tight and felt a surge of hot tears. This wasn't a dream, I told myself, trying to believe it was real.
At that moment, an image of my parents flashed through my mind, and my heart filled with warm gratitude. Father and Mom… They invested everything in me so this moment could happen. So vividly I recalled being eight, sitting with Dad in the garage, burning with anger as my first homemade robot kept falling apart. He, barely stifling a smile, simply put a hand on my shoulder and said, "Adam, every failure is a chance to learn something new. Let's figure it out." We stubbornly repaired that odd, clumsy contraption again and again, until it moved. That's how I learned to fall and get back up, to see that perseverance outweighs talent.
And Mom… Her lessons were just as profound, only gentler. In the kitchen, amid the smell of orange peels and medical alcohol, she taught me how to stitch fruit. "Patience, Adam," she said softly, her words always like a calm melody. "In medicine and in life, every little detail matters, every small thing can change fate." She opened up the world of cells and the heart, explaining how science heals bodies and souls. There were days when I literally fell asleep at the kitchen bench, exhausted by study, but her quiet voice brought me back to life. They each gave me an arsenal—my father taught me how to think and never give up, my mother gave me that inner light that keeps you from collapsing when it feels like everything is falling apart.
Footsteps sounded below—light, almost inaudible. Then the door swung open, and there in the doorway stood Mom, Elizabeth Perkons, with dark hair slipped from a neat bun, eyes gleaming in anticipation of something wonderful. She froze, noticing my smile, and her face lit up as if from within.
"Adam, what happened?" she asked, and I heard her voice quiver with tenderness and expectation.
I jumped up so fast that my chair banged on the floor, sliding. My emotions poured out in a wave, and I couldn't hold back:
"Mom, I got in! MIT! And I got fives on all my AP exams! A full scholarship!" I blurted out, my voice cracking under the weight of delight and a bit of lingering doubt.
Mom gasped, tears instantly welling up in her eyes as though a dam had burst. She rushed at me with such force that I nearly lost my balance, hugging me hard. I felt the air squeeze out of my lungs, and her tears burned through my shirt like molten metal.
"Oh, Adam, I'm so proud of you!" she exclaimed, voice trembling like strings in the wind. "You're my hero! I always believed in you, but… this is more than I ever dreamed!"
Tears streamed down her cheeks, and suddenly my own throat tightened, my eyes stung with this shared joy. I hugged her back, burying my face in her shoulder, breathing in that familiar aroma of lavender and vanilla that had always felt like home and safety.
"Thanks, Mom," I whispered, feeling a bright warmth bloom inside me, like sunlight after a long, cold winter.
At that moment, the door creaked once more, and Dad, James Perkons, came in. Tall, with silver at his temples, he felt like a fortress. His dark-blue eyes, mirror images of mine, were calm, but now flickered with genuine pride, like a distant star that for an instant revealed its power. He adjusted his shirt sleeves and smiled faintly at the corners of his mouth—enough to let me know he already understood everything.
"What's all the commotion?" he asked quietly, and I caught the gentle teasing in his voice. "I hope it's not a fire?"
I couldn't help it and laughed through tears:
"Dad, I… I got into MIT! And top scores on all the exams!" I blurted, unable to keep a smile from stretching my face. I thought my cheeks would start hurting from sheer happiness.
He came closer, each step steady and powerful, like a hammer striking an anvil. He laid a hand on my shoulder, giving a slight squeeze. That simple gesture sent a storm of gratitude and pride bursting inside me.
"Fantastic, son," he said, his voice warm but contained, like he was wrestling back emotions that wanted to break free. "I always knew you were persistent. And you proved it."
Father's words were always a special treasure for me, since he rarely offered direct praise. Feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment, I recognized them as the most precious reward. He rarely let such pride show.
"Thank you, Dad," I mumbled, lowering my gaze, my cheeks burning.
Mom dried her tears with her sleeve, her face glowing, and she clapped her hands in excitement, like a child witnessing a miracle.
"We have to celebrate! I baked your favorite apple pie, Adam, and brought out some nonalcoholic cider! Let's go downstairs, to the living room!" she cried, her voice ringing with delight.
We went down to the living room, and my heart clenched with the warmth of the place. Mom had made it an inviting oasis, with a soft couch and pillows that begged to be hugged, bookshelves crammed with medical journals and technical manuals, and a huge window through which the last rays of daylight fell on the old maple in the garden. On the coffee table stood the pie, exuding the aroma of cinnamon and baked apples, and beside it three glasses and a bottle of cider glinted in the lamp's gentle glow.
Mom poured the drinks, her hands slightly trembling from excitement. We picked up the glasses, and dancing reflections glinted on the table.
"To our son, to his achievement, to his bright future!" she proclaimed, her voice wavering like violin strings ready to burst into melody.
"To you, Adam," added Dad, meeting my gaze with such depth that I felt goosebumps along my spine. "You've made us happier than we could have imagined."
Our glasses clinked, and I took a sip—cool cider slid down my throat, refreshing, calming. I took a bite of pie, each crispy edge and sweet apple with a hint of cinnamon taking me back to childhood, when Mom first baked it for me. Yet now it all felt different: this pie wasn't just dessert—it was a symbol of the new path I'd begun.
We ate, we laughed, memories came rushing in. Mom shared how she'd stayed up nights worrying about my exams, Dad recalled how at five years old I dismantled the TV remote, convinced I could "improve" it, and nearly blew up the microwave trying to "upgrade" it. His laughter was low but sincere, and I felt a lump in my throat dissolve.
"You've always been so inquisitive," said Mom, brushing a strand of hair from her face, her eyes shining. "I knew it would lead you to the stars."
I smiled back, though inside a storm brewed: joy at my success, but also the creeping fear: MIT—my dream, yet so demanding. If I let them down? My thoughts churned, but I forced them aside, deciding this was my moment of triumph.
Finally the pie was nearly gone, and the cider almost finished. Mom stood, drying her tears.
"I'll call Grandma and Grandpa, they'll be over the moon!" she said, beaming, and left, leaving Dad and me alone.
Dad set his glass aside and looked at me. His gaze was heavy yet brimming with warmth, and my heart clenched in anticipation.
"Adam," he began, voice low like distant thunder, "you've done something amazing. MIT, top scores—this is your victory. I'm prouder of you, son, than I can ever say. But it's only the beginning."
I nodded, feeling my shoulders tighten and a spark of anxiety light in my chest. His words always left a deep imprint, unstoppable and profound.
"Ahead lies a harsh road," he went on, leaning forward. "College, battles with yourself, choices that decide your fate. We'll be with you, your mom and I, for as long as luck allows, but soon you'll walk alone."
He fell silent, and the hush weighed like lead in the room. His gaze softened, and I saw not just strength but tenderness.
"You've always been strong, Adam," he spoke, almost whispering. "But adulthood will demand all of you. And I want you to be prepared for the day when your mom and I won't be by your side. It's inevitable."
My hands clenched the tablecloth; my fingers went white. The thought of losing them struck like lightning, tearing me inside. I didn't want to imagine it, not now, not when everything was so wonderful.
"I'm not trying to scare you," he said, noticing my face, voice gentling like a caress. "I want you prepared. Life can fling you into the depths so far that light seems a mirage. But I believe in you. I believe there's a fire in you that can't be quenched."
He placed a hand on my shoulder, and its warmth seeped through my shirt, anchoring me in a stormy sea. I raised my head, meeting his gaze, and there I saw a faith so strong it made my heart race faster.
"When that day comes and you're alone, prove something, Adam," he said, his voice trembling with emotions he seldom showed. "Not to me, not to Mom, not to the world. Prove to yourself that you can stand, even if everything collapses. Prove your spirit is stronger than any darkness."
"I'll try, Dad," I breathed, voice husky but firm as steel. "I won't let you down."
He smiled, and that smile was the sun driving away the shadows of my fear.
"You know, I wasn't always so 'wise,'" he added with a slight smirk, crow's feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes. "Once I almost torched the entire lab tinkering with the wiring. Thought my career was over. My boss just laughed: 'Mistakes are lessons. Don't repeat them.' Then let me stay. So learn from my missteps, son."
I laughed, feeling tension fade, and nodded.
"You'll do fine, Adam," he said, patting my shoulder. "You have everything you need to conquer the world. And not just this one."
"Father and Mom… I owe them everything," I thought, tears burning my eyes. "His persistence, his faith in learning from each failure. Her patience, her understanding that life's smallest details can matter. They shaped me. If one day they're gone, I'll still stand, because they taught me how."
"Thanks, Dad," I said, my voice trembling with gratitude.
Conversation ebbed, and I glanced at the clock—nearly eight. I remembered I'd promised to stop by Felicia Green's place to celebrate with everyone. My voice still unsteady from emotion, I stood.
"Dad, I'm heading to Felicia's. We planned to talk about who's going where."
"Go, son," he nodded, eyes warm. "Don't be late. And be careful."
I grabbed my jacket and dashed outside, hopping on my bike. The chilly wind whipped my face, carrying the scent of grass and blossoming trees, as if cleansing the last tearful residue and ushering me out of the warm family cocoon into the wide open. I pedaled down streets lit by lamps and lined with blossoming maples, heart still echoing with Dad's words: "Prove yourself." I felt prepared for anything.
But I had no idea that this night would change everything.
***
Evening in March 2025 turned out chilly, but felt surprisingly lively. I was pedaling my bike, sensing the piercing wind slip under my jacket, cooling down a body still heated by triumphant adrenaline. Familiar suburban streets flashed beneath my wheels, shimmering under lamplight and flanked by blooming maples. I must have ridden here a thousand times, yet tonight everything felt different—I wasn't just going to see friends, I was going to celebrate.
Numbers spun through my head: 5 out of 5 in Math, Physics, and Computer Science on the AP exams, an MIT letter offering to cut the staggering seventy-five thousand dollars a year down to twenty-two and a half. I planned to tell everyone myself once the moment felt right. I longed to hear the chorus of amazement, the exchange of handshakes, maybe even a cry of joy. Some knew about my exams, but the grant part was still my secret—let it be a surprise.
Felicia Green's mansion loomed at the end of the street, like a palace out of a reality show for the wealthy: a three-story house with white columns, wide windows pouring out light, and a garden in which each shrub was clipped to geometric perfection, shining under neon accents. The music—a mix of pop, light rock, and electronic—rattled the glass, while a huge courtyard teemed with people. I braked by the wrought-iron gate, got off my bike, propped it against the fence, and took in the façade with a glance:
"Cheap showiness," I muttered under my breath, smirking wryly.
Three floors, a fountain with gilded fish, a lit-up pool—it all screamed of cash flowing like a river. But I wasn't impressed: my home was smaller, yet "alive." We had smart lamps, a robot vacuum (whose firmware I'd reworked myself), a coffee machine tied into the neural network my father wrote. Every item in the Perkons family served some purpose, rather than posing as a mere luxury trinket.
I pushed open the gate and stepped into the yard, where the crowd buzzed like a beehive. All around me, figures from the A-, B-, and C-classes—three senior parallels about to graduate—bustled, celebrating their achievements. My nose caught whiffs of pizza, wet grass from the evening moisture, and something sweet, likely punch or cider. Someone was yelling by the pool, others danced at the speakers, while a group in the shadows argued about something loudly.
Ducking into the chaos, I wound my way to the house, scanning for familiar faces. Almost immediately, I spotted a small A-class cluster—cheerful brainiacs whispering about colleges. Just then, someone called my name from behind.
"Adam!"
I turned—it was Alexander Blake, my brother in spirit if not by blood. He stood by the drinks table, a can of cola in hand, staring at the star-filled sky with that peculiar grin that meant his thoughts had flown off into theoretical territory.
"Blake!" I shouted, slapping him on the shoulder. He turned, and his face instantly lit up with a broad smirk.
"Perkons, finally!" he exclaimed joyfully, hugging me so hard I nearly spilled my soda, which I'd grabbed on the way. "I was starting to think you crashed along the way with all those godlike scores and missed the fun!"
"You'd have hauled me back even from the afterlife," I teased, feeling tension melt away in his presence. With Blake, it was always like that—he covered for me if trouble got physical, and I helped him whenever he was stuck academically.
"Exactly," he shot back with a snicker, squinting. "So, what's up? You're beaming like a hundred-watt bulb. Spill it."
I paused for a moment, enjoying it. Then exhaled:
"MIT. I got perfect fives on my APs—Math, Physics, Computer Science. They offered a grant: twenty-two and a half grand a year instead of seventy-five."
Blake froze for a second, eyes going wide. Then he suddenly burst out in a whoop of delight that made half the yard turn around.
"You're serious?!" He grabbed my shoulders and shook me, like he had to check if I was serious. "MIT, man! Honestly, I knew you'd pull it off. Remember that time you fixed my ancient PC in half an hour, while I wasted three days? That's when I knew for sure!"
"Yeah, well…" I chuckled, waving him off, but inside I was soaring from his reaction. "Where did you end up?"
"Princeton," he replied proudly, straightening his back. "String theory beckons. So you and I are now officially geniuses, going to smash up all the conferences we find!"
"If you don't blow up the lab with your experiments," I jabbed, getting a friendly elbow in return.
"And you don't torch your workshop with those robots," he retorted, and we both burst out laughing.
Just then, Felicia Green, the A-class representative, walked over, a tray of canapés in her hands. Her soft smile lit her face as she noticed us.
"Adam, Alexander! What's the commotion?" she asked, setting the tray on the table.
"This genius is going to MIT!" Blake thumped me on the back so hard I nearly choked. "Full scholarship, Fel! Can you believe it?"
"Really?" Her eyes went wide, and she nearly dropped the tray. "Adam, that's incredible! Congratulations!"
"Thanks, Fel," I nodded, still feeling a bit embarrassed by all the fuss. "Where are you heading?"
"Harvard," she shrugged, though her voice betrayed some pride. "Full scholarship. So, we'll basically be neighbors, in 'the top tier.'"
"Brace yourself, Fel," Blake winked. "Adam and I will show up and bring chaos."
"Just try," she laughed, flicking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Then she turned to the crowd, calling out, "Hey, guys! Adam's going to MIT!"
I flushed as several people looked over. Alexandra Richmond, considered the "queen" of A-class, folded her arms, her dark hair gleaming in the light.
"MIT, huh? Not bad, Perkons," she said coolly, her tone almost icy. "I got into Yale. Dad's friends with the dean."
"Of course," I whispered to Blake, rolling my eyes.
"The usual connections," he snorted. "But she did get top scores on the APs, too."
Right then, Jasper Flame appeared out of nowhere, as loud as ever, with a stack of fireworks.
"Perkons at MIT? We gotta celebrate with a bang!" he yelled.
"Just don't torch the gazebo," muttered Evelyn Stone, never looking up from her sketchbook. "By the way, I'm heading to Stanford, Math and Physics."
"Another genius," Jasper quipped and dashed off somewhere, shouting, "Fireworks time!"
I glanced aside and saw someone knock a tray down. Reflexively, I grabbed a napkin and stuffed it into my pocket—"just in case." My mind flashed: small detail, but sometimes vital.
Nearby at a chessboard sat Lucius Frost: he raised his head.
"A good choice, Adam. I'm in Columbia for Stats and Econ."
"You'll outplay them all," I said, and he nodded.
The noise swelled, and I spotted some folks from B-class: Logan Carter and Tyler Brooks, who'd been mock-fighting by the pool, now strolling over.
"Perkons!" Logan called, wiping sweat from his brow. "Where'd you get in?"
"MIT," I answered.
"Holy… for real? I'm off to Texas A&M for football," he thumped his chest.
"And I'm going to Michigan," Tyler growled. "I'll take you down, Carter."
"Dream on," Logan retorted, giving Tyler a friendly shove, and they went back to wrestling.
Just then, Blake leaned in, handing me a small flashlight:
"Here, man. Good luck charm. You never know when you'll need it," he grinned.
I smirked, sliding it into my jacket:
"Thanks, buddy. Might come in handy."
I glanced over to see the cluster of C-class "slackers and geeks" by the speakers, hair dyed, wearing anime T-shirts, talking about the newest games, or half-joking about how half had "bought their way" into some random college. Max Velarin, their leader, stood with arms folded and a brooding look.
"Perkons, MIT, yeah? Huh, not bad," he said gruffly. "I'm at the local college for now, but soon I'll level up, like in an RPG."
"Good luck with that," I sighed, mentally acknowledging everyone's different path.
Reina Solvayne, bored, scrolling on her phone:
"MIT? Interesting. I ended up at some local institute. The main goal is reaching that SSS-rank IRL," she said snarkily.
"One percent chance," I teased.
"I'll roll it," she sniffed.
I glimpsed how the other C-class folks were either unconcerned or felt they'd see how it turned out. Everyone had their own approach.
Suddenly, three adults stepped into the courtyard.
Amid the hustle and bustle, someone whispered: "The teachers have come!" I looked closer: indeed, it was Henry Withers (curator of A-class), Graham Harper (coach and mentor of B-class), and Adrian Crowley (responsible for C-class).
Henry Withers, a man in a tweed suit with a neat cane, had steel eyes that shone with strict wisdom. He looked at the A-class as if scanning each one.
Graham Harper, fit and in a sports windbreaker, walked confidently, showing the posture of a former athlete.
Nora Meyer, with a tired face and a backpack on her shoulders, looked as if she had been persuaded to come, yet she still cast warm glances at her chaotic "charges" from C-class.
The crowd quieted down a bit. Withers approached the makeshift platform in front of the pool, looked around at those present, and said quietly but so that everyone could hear:
"Friends, today we have gathered to say goodbye to school and to this era of your life. A-class, you are the elite in terms of studies. I am proud of your grades, your admissions, and remember: when you go to universities, everything is just beginning there. I wish you to preserve not only your mind but also your humanity."
He shifted his gaze to the B-class, raising his cane:
"B-class, your sports achievements speak for themselves. You are the spirit of victory, the physical strength of our school. But do not forget that strength without reason turns into vice. Keep the balance."
Graham Harper nodded approvingly, and Withers turned to the C-class:
"C-class… I know you are not a gift," a slight smile flashed in his eyes, "but you have creativity and that very spark that 'nerds' sometimes lack. Your path may be the most unexpected. I hope you will find yourselves without losing your potential."
There was a short pause, and Harper stepped forward:
"Well, I'll say from myself: I saw how you ran on the field, trained, won matches," he looked at the B-class. "And not only you, but others too. All of you who are here today have gone through your trials. My advice: stick to the team—in life, sometimes you have to work together to win."
He stepped back, and Nora Meyer reluctantly adjusted her backpack, looking at the C-class with a tired but warm gaze:
"I know that you love freedom and do everything 'your way.' That's not bad," she said quietly. "But remember: freedom requires responsibility. I hope you will understand this without making too serious mistakes. Good luck, guys."
The crowd reacted with applause and shouts; someone from the C-class yelled, "Teacher, well said!" and someone (from the B-class) shouted: "We are the best!" But overall, the mood was inspired and friendly.
While I was studying the situation, Felicia suddenly clapped her hands, gathering our attention:
"Friends, silence for a minute, I also want to say a word! All three parallels—A, B, and C—have united for the first time at one party! Crazy, right? I would like us to share joy today and see each other off into adult life. After all, someone is leaving for another city, someone will focus on a career, and someone…" she gave the C-class an understanding smile, "will definitely find themselves too."
The crowd responded: some with applause, some with jokes, some with shouts. And then, through the noise, a new voice broke through—quiet but strangely resonant. Gabriel Knight, who usually walked as a merry fellow, suddenly said so that he could be heard:
"There is only a little time left…"
"What are you talking about?" someone shouted, but Gabriel didn't answer, only looked toward the sky, squinting his eyes.
"Today… it feels as if the threads of fate are trembling," he muttered. "As if on the verge of something irreparable."
"Alright, Gabi, don't be gloomy," Felicia waved off, giggling nervously. "Let's better turn up the music!"
But something was already changing in the air. I felt how the wind, which was cool and fresh a moment ago, became somehow static and viscous. The sound of the speaker began to tremble; the music faded and then resumed. The lamps on the facade of the mansion flickered like in a bad horror movie.
"What is this?" Blake whispered, frowning.
At that very second, all the light in the garden flickered and went out. The house plunged into semi-darkness, and the crowd whispered in alarm. From afar came a muffled hum, barely audible but vibrating in the ears. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
"Power outage?" Felicia pressed a button on the remote, but it remained dead.
"Maybe the fuses blew?" Logan suggested, frowningly looking around.
At that moment, a blinding flash of white light cut through the sky. It seemed as if someone had shot lightning straight from above, though there were no clouds or thunder around. I squinted from the intensity of this light, and a wave of panic rolled through the yard: someone screamed, someone rushed to the gate. But my body seemed frozen, and I just watched as the sky appeared to crack.
"We are on the edge…" Gabriel Knight's voice came again, this time very quiet, almost a sob. "The game has begun…"
Then a blow—like an electric shock. I screamed, feeling my legs give way, and my consciousness was covered by a veil. Horror trembled in my chest. Somewhere I still managed to notice Blake shouting: "Adam, hold on!" but my brain was already shutting down.
A white flash exploded the space, and I fell into darkness, feeling as if I was being torn from the inside. Then everything around me swirled and disappeared, and darkness enveloped my consciousness.
***
I awaken slowly, through a viscous haze, as though from somewhere beneath a thick layer of water. It feels like only a couple of hours ago I was in familiar surroundings—maybe a warm home, or Felicia's garden, or even in my own room scrolling through my acceptance letters. Yet at the same time, fragments of memory flash before my eyes: the glare of a flash, strange voices, smells… And suddenly I realize that a sharp, nearly physical pain seizes my chest and throat. I cough—dry and unpleasant, as though my throat's been scraped with sandpaper. The taste in my mouth is harsh, chemical, as though I swallowed some sort of acid. I inhale, and it's like shards of glass prick my throat: the cough tears at my lungs, and I barely manage to bite my lip so as not to scream.
With difficulty, I peel my eyes open, only to squeeze them shut again—my face has pressed into something rusty and sharp, cold as a blade sticking out of the ground. My cheek burns; I hiss between clenched teeth, trying not to shred my skin on its jagged edges. My fingers tremble, feeling around: metal, rough, soaked with damp and sticky grime so nauseating it makes my stomach churn. The air hits my nostrils—acrid, tainted with the stench of decay, chemicals, and rotting flesh. This is not mere stink—this is poison, boring into my lungs, scorching them, leaving a taste of blood on my tongue. I press a sleeve to my face, but the fabric is powerless against this suffocating miasma.
All around is gloom, some rusty surface, a dim, sickly light from above. No familiar ceiling, no normal lamps. My head spins, a ringing swells in my temples, as though my heart is ready to break out through my skull.
I gingerly turn on my side, doing my best not to injure myself further. Through the metal sheets comes a nasty crack, as though everything might collapse beneath my weight.
Whatever my hand rests on is cold and brittle, like twisted metal covered in jagged shavings. Summoning the courage, I look around: all about me sprawls an endless dump of twisted iron, torn pipes, some hideous fragments of technology. The surface bristles with jagged edges, a mass of metal debris protrudes here and there. Above it all looms a murky sky the color of pus and smoke, devoid of sun or moon. A sudden wave of horror crashes over me from the smell. Finally, I take a conscious breath—and nearly throw up. A vile, heavy reek of rancid meat and old chemical fumes. It feels as if someone dumped a mountain of long-decayed corpses here and mixed them with spilled industrial acid, letting it all bubble and steam, poisoning the air. Each breath plants the feeling that I'm inhaling powdered waste.
And here I lie, on a heap of colorful metal scraps, twisted sheets of steel, rusty frames. Ridges of similar junk stretch away in every direction. Panic flickers somewhere in my mind: "This isn't any yard, any garden, any room… none of it… makes sense…"
My insides clench. I run my hand across the ground—my fingers promptly catch on sharp bits. My hand jerks, blood oozing from the cut.
"I was just at home? No… I was at that mansion…" the thought pounds in my head, fumbling in vain for a rational explanation. Yet how could this hellscape be explained?
I take a short pause, listening to my own breathing: it's strange, ragged, as though the air is stinging my throat from inside. I get goosebumps when I try to inhale more deeply. It's no good: my lungs resist, my windpipe clamps shut, a cough tears out. That cough… as if my body protests against breathing this air, mixed with something toxic and decomposing. Each breath is like inhaling a cloud of refuse, glass needles sprouting in my throat.
"Damn…" I whisper hoarsely, and my voice sounds foreign, feeble.
By feel I search for something to hold on to. My fingers only find coarse metal and crumbly rust. Every attempt to push away from this spot causes scraping and rattling. I'm scared that the noise might lure someone or something. Meanwhile, an anxious thought drums inside: "Where is everyone?"
I try to recall the last moment there, at Felicia's place: friends, teachers, the flash. "Are they all here?" A lump rises in my throat.
My last memories are of a party that was supposed to usher us toward our futures. Teachers spoke proudly of our acceptances, how we'd all be heading our separate ways. I recall smiles, excitement, and suddenly that blinding explosion of light… shrieking terror… And now, it seems the Earth itself swallowed me up and spat me out in this bizarre place. Nobody around, no familiar faces. No typical urban sounds. Just a crushing silence and stench.
I attempt to stand. My legs wobble, yet nothing cracks. "At least I'm not broken…" But my lungs fill with that monstrous dryness, another cough lurches me forward. I hack up a suffocating clot, horrified by the knowledge that if I stay here long, the air alone may kill me.
"What… is this… place…" I utter, knowing there's no answer.
My heart picks up speed once more. I realize that if I lose it now, I'll collapse from panic and suffocate. It takes effort to swallow the saliva gathering in my mouth; it tastes metallic, my throat stings, the cough begs to escape. Suddenly, a warm dampness pricks my eyes—tears of dread and pain. "Breathing's impossible. How can anyone live here?"
With uncertain steps, I manage a few more paces, gripping the protruding sheets of steel. Right then, something cuts off my thoughts—a muffled, rhythmic noise. A scrape or a knock, as though someone is slowly dragging a metal bar across the ground. I freeze: might it be another person? Or am I hearing a living being? But fear grips me even more strongly, because the sound is so unnatural—not like typical footsteps. Then I hear hissing, compressed, inhuman, not shaped for human speech.
I crouch, attempting to remain quiet, but I can't stifle the cough, and that same savage pang ignites in my throat.
Carefully, I peek out from behind a hanging sheet of metal. There, maybe twenty yards away, lurches a figure, stooped low, with disproportioned arms grasping a warped shard of metal blade. Its skin—or whatever covers that body—rotting in patches, corroded lumps of rust in places, half-revealing bone. My mind refuses to believe it was once human. It's a nightmare, risen from the abyss.
Inside, everything goes cold. "This can't be… this place is crawling with monsters?" My terror clamps down on my chest. I back away, my foot skidding, clanging into a piece of rebar that drops with a clang. The creature's sound changes to a harsh, guttural snarl. It raises that eyeless head, pivoting in my direction, as though sensing my warmth or scent.
"Damn…" my breath catches, panic surges. There's only one option—run.
I recoil, pivoting, and break into a frenzied dash through the labyrinth of metal junk. Every second counts; behind me, I hear the creature pursuing, blade scraping on steel in a repulsive shriek. I imagine there might be more—I hear echoes of howling voices. I want to scream "Help!", but my mind yells: "You'd lure more creatures, shut up!"
Breathing quickly becomes agony: I cough violently, almost choking on this foul excuse for an atmosphere. Each gulp of air scorches my lungs like acid. Adrenaline drives me on, leaping across heap after heap of metal, searching for safety. My thoughts flicker: I may die of asphyxiation sooner than from the monster, yet fear propels me forward. Behind me, I hear the beast scrambling over debris, steel clanging against steel, that sinister hiss. There are other voices—so there are multiple beasts? I'm practically clawing my way through these twisted piles, scraping my nails on rust, tearing my hands to blood, unstoppable.
Cries from behind grow louder, turning into a wrenching wail, like it's summoning something. The nightmare intensifies. "No… no…" I mutter through clenched teeth, weaving erratically among rust-eaten structures. My heart's about to burst out of my chest. Soon I'll collapse from exhaustion if I don't find somewhere to hide.
I keep stumbling on sharp edges, nearly skewering myself. I know I can't keep this pace long. "Somebody, help me…" my mind begs, but I dare not speak it out loud, for fear of attracting more monsters.
Crashing, I burst onto a slightly flatter patch. I see a metal ledge up ahead; I can skirt around or jump. I choose to jump. But I make a fatal mistake: losing my footing on the slick metal, I leap blindly, hoping to clear the drop.
It's a disaster: my foot slips, and I hurl myself downward. My ankle twists with a sickening crack, my chest ripped by a ragged moan. I slam chest-first onto a protruding metal beam, barely avoiding being impaled, though the impact tears through me, my ribs ablaze in agony.
"A-aah…" a half-scream tears free. But dread of those creatures forces me to clamp a hand over my mouth, not to give myself away. Pain lashes in waves: I might have broken or fractured a rib. My ankle, from the stabbing jolt, must be dislocated. Darkness pricks at my vision, my heart pounding. Another cough seizes my throat. "Get up or die…" yells instinct.
I try to stand—the ankle buckles; a fresh burst of torment draws a near shriek. Tears flood my eyes. "No, not this…"—panic builds. I'm hobbling, every breath feels like a needle stabbing my ribs. And the monster is near—an evil hiss. I'm practically crawling, dragging my body over jagged scraps, leaving smears of blood.
Then I glimpse a gap in the wall, resembling a door. Beyond, only darkness, but it beats staying exposed. Moaning, I crawl through, grab a bent chunk of metal, and barricade the entrance. My arms shake, a coughing fit engulfs me, nearly blacking me out from the stabbing pain in my ribs.
Inside, in the half-light, I see that it's a low, cramped space, reeking of mold and rot. Walls coated in rust, pockets of slime. Overhead, a jagged hole reveals the same sickly yellowish sky. The air here weighs even heavier, like a stale chamber with no ventilation, but at least the monsters can't see me… for now.
"Agh…" I can't help groaning when I try to sit against the wall. My ankle throbs, presumably dislocated, and every breath sends a stabbing spasm through my ribs. I gingerly touch my side, the pain so severe I break into a sweat. Outside I hear scraping, likely the beast, sniffing me out.
Hissing and footfalls, as though these dead things are snuffling the entrance. I clench my jaw, trying not to cough. "Just don't find a way in… please…"
A shuffle beyond the wall signals that the creatures roam close. I fall silent, forcing back any cries. Each breath I take is short and ragged—an attempt at full inhalation reignites a savage needle in my chest. My head clouds from pain and the stench, but raw survival fear keeps me from blacking out.
My heart pounds frantically, too frightened even to breathe. My eyes burn under acrid fumes, my throat raw from the smell. I sit, taking shallow, deliberate breaths, hoping not to faint. If I pass out, I'll be easy prey when (not if) the monster storms in. Or else I'll suffocate in this noxious trap. I've never felt such terror.
Minutes tick by. The feral noises outside retreat somewhat, but I don't relax. How could I? My ribs are broken (or nearly), my ankle is in agony, and my cough keeps threatening to tear open my throat. I have no meds, no water, no food. Not a single person around, not even a meager corner of comfort. Just this horrific semidarkness, the metallic stench of death, and my ragged, pitiful wheezing.
I listen again: silence outside, except for a faint drip-drip and some distant "khrr…," almost too soft to hear. Possibly more monsters roam about, meaning I dare not poke my head out. My trembling fingers wipe sweat and grime from my face. My body quivers with fever, it feels, or maybe shock. If that's so, well, I could die from infection, or starve, or that monster could rip me to pieces. I can't decide which is worse. Pressing my back to the wall, I see a flicker of that nauseating light through a gap. Maybe it's "night" now, or maybe there's no such thing here. Possibly eternal twilight. I don't know. I just shiver, my legs clenched in pain, my head heavy, consciousness flickering in and out.
"Please…" I rasp, staring into emptiness. My voice is hollow. It doesn't matter if I'm asking some God, or my parents, or my friends—pointless. There's no reply. Nothing breaks the apathy of this bizarre, dead realm, apart from drip… drip… drip… and my hacking cough.
Inside me pulses despair. I recall the cozy home, Mom's smile, Dad's motto "Prove yourself, stand if everything falls," but how can I stand if I can't physically stand, while horrors roam nearby? How many hours do I have? A day? Less? I lack the energy to do anything but slump, terrified to slip into oblivion in case I never wake.
At some point, I do let my eyelids fall, pressing my forehead to my knees, letting out a quiet, almost inaudible sob. My lungs are on fire, even crying hurts, every movement punishing my ribs with scorching pain, but tears come anyway—there's nothing else. No hope, no friendly face offering a hand: "It's alright, Adam…"
Suddenly, I hear a distant "Clak-clak" and a rasping groan, prompting me to stifle my breath anew. Likely they haven't gone far. Maybe they're lying in wait. This world has had its fill of human screams and rust, and for me, it's a slow sentence. Even if they don't break in, I could die of thirst or infection. And this damned air is made to kill.
Minutes or hours pass, no point keeping track. I drift, remembering joyous illusions of college, of research, of a bright future. All of it undone in one stroke, like I died and woke up in someone's twisted Hell. Resist? I can barely move. Rotting stench intensifies.
With each breath, I inhale more poison. My lungs prickle, and only fear keeps me conscious. Nobody's coming, nobody will save me. Even if my friends ended up here alive, how would we find each other in this monstrous labyrinth?
My tears have dried; the pain remains my constant companion. I pry open my eyes, scanning the warped door I'd blocked off, praying no "monster-hand" reaches in. "Don't give up… but how to escape?" My mind teeters between "Stay here" and "Try crawling out." Both lead to death. Yet my heart still beats; I cough again, violently, biting my hand to smother the sound. Trying to steady my breathing, to calm the sobs. If I'm meant to die, I'll at least try to hold on a while longer.
So here I remain, in this cramped recess—with my broken (or fractured) ribs, twisted ankle, raw-throated cough, and pitiful hope that maybe, just maybe, not all is lost. But reality says I've been swallowed by a realm with no compassion, no deliverance. It's only rust, toxic fog, and bloodthirsty fiends waiting for me to weaken entirely.
Another chunk of time passes, impossible to measure. I drift through a half-conscious state of pain that waxes and wanes. My brain hovers near shutdown, but I fight it, biting my lip hard—just to avoid falling asleep. I don't want them tearing me apart in my slumber.
Surviving is unimaginably hard. But my body still clings to life, and my mind orders: "Hang on, just a bit longer." I obey: eyes shut, breathing shallowly, ignoring the savage throbbing in my chest, the scalding in my throat each time I draw in that toxic gas. I pray for anything—anyone—to change this nightmare. But beyond the thin walls, I only hear that shuffle, drip… drip… drip… and a haze of grey gloom. And me, heart pounding, alone against a lifeless, rusted abyss.
"Mama, Dad…" I whisper faintly, trying to conjure some warmth from home. Empty. Only trembling dread and stabbing chest pain. Outside lurks a crushing, dead wasteland overrun by hideous monsters. So this is the new world that's claimed me.
I clench my fist, nails digging into my palm. No telling how long I can keep going. But as long as my heart beats, I'm not yet dead. Carefully I exhale, forcing myself to feel each beat, each second of awareness. I'm alive. However wretched, in the dark, choking on despair, but alive.
In the distance, another "Clak… Shh…" echoes, like a creature or something else prowling for a fresh search. I freeze like a statue, only inward sobs shaking me.
I'm trapped…
Either I go out and get ripped apart, or stay and die slowly. It's… not even a choice, it's a sentence. Nausea from helplessness wells up, but I clamp my teeth, stifling the urge to retch. Only my ragged breath betrays that I still exist.
At last, the scraping beyond the wall nearly fades, carrying off the final traces of that nightmarish chase… As though they left, found some other prey or lost interest in me. But I don't dare creep out or look: too big a risk.
And so, curled up, braced against cold, slippery metal, I remain stranded in this unknown, alone against the noxious chaos. No one will tell me if dawn will come, or if this place even has dawn. The air reeks of death, madness surrounds me, and I force myself to cling to the fragile hope that I can still fight. My mind, swirling in a fog, conjures images of parents, friends, teachers… while reality shrinks to a filthy dark corner and monstrous footfalls on the other side of the wall.
I hug the metal, trembling with pain and terror. Out there—an inhuman realm; in here—pain and cough. Thus ends my introduction to this horrifying place, saturated with hopelessness and toxins, where each breath is a feat and any sound could be fatal. My eyelids droop; fear and agony wrestle with sleep, and in a hoarse whisper I exhale:
"Please… anyone…"
No reply, no rescue: only the faint moan of the wind and the screech of metal, echoing the indifference of a terrible world where that cursed flash deposited me.