"Sylas" looked like he was made of paper and pain.
His steps were slow, almost mechanical, as he walked the cold streets with two things in his hands—a bitter black coffee and a dented can of Expense,
the strongest energy drink money could buy.
His white hair hung over his face, damp with sweat. His red eyes, wide and haunted, never stopped moving.
He hadn't slept in four days.
Not because he didn't want to—but because he couldn't.
Sleep meant death.
He reached the tall glass doors of the Intelligence Agency. His body felt like it might collapse, but he pushed forward.
The doors slid open with a hiss, and cold, sterile air brushed against his face. Fluorescent lights buzzed above him, far too bright. Everything inside was clean and quiet, too quiet.
He walked in, clutching his drinks like lifelines, and sat down on a leather sofa in the waiting room. His body trembled. His skin was pale.
His eyes were bloodshot and bruised with exhaustion.
He dug his nails into his palm, hard enough to break the skin. Blood began to drip down his hand, but he didn't flinch.
Pain helped.
Pain kept him awake.
Across the room, a receptionist noticed him. She hesitated for a moment, watching the way he twitched and trembled, then cautiously approached.
"Sir… are you here for something?"
Sylas didn't respond right away. His head slowly turned, and his eyes met hers—red, glassy, hollow.
"I'm infected," he whispered.
"Please… tell them now."
The woman's breath caught. She didn't ask more. She rushed toward the hall, heels echoing across the tile floor.
A minute later, Agent Jack entered.
His coat flowed behind him as he strode into the room, tall, sharp-eyed, and alert. The moment he saw Sylas, his expression tightened.
The boy looked like a broken doll—pale skin, dark circles, red eyes that almost glowed under the fluorescent lights. He was young. Too young.
And yet… still awake.
Jack had seen what the infection did to people. Most were found collapsed in alleys, unconscious, or worse—already lost to the other side. But this one… this boy had fought it.
He walked over slowly and sat beside him.
"Hey," Jack said quietly.
"What's your name, kid?"
Sylas didn't answer. His lips were dry, cracked. He took another sip of bitter coffee and winced.
"…Sylas, Bunny" he muttered finally.
Jack watched him carefully. "How long's it been since you slept?"
"Four days," Sylas said. "If I close my eyes, I'll be taken."
Jack nodded. "You're infected by the soul-binding spell, aren't you?"
Sylas flinched but nodded.
"They call it the Tenmare Trial," he said. "If you fall asleep, your soul is pulled into it. Most don't come back. I don't want to die… I just wanted a normal life."
His voice shook. His body was barely holding together.
Jack leaned back, jaw tense. The agency had been looking for someone like this for months—a conscious victim.
Someone resisting. Every other case they found ended in a corpse or coma. But this boy… he was fighting back. He was still in control.
This was their chance.
"Sylas," Jack said slowly, "We've been working on a way to stop the trial. We need someone like you—awake, aware, and infected."
Sylas blinked.
"You want to use me?"
"We want to help you. But yes… we also want to study the condition through you,"
Jack admitted. "If we can find a way to block the transition—stop the pull into the trial—we can save others. Hundreds. Especially elite families who are at risk."
Sylas looked down at his shaking hands. He wasn't sure what felt worse—the fear or the hope.
"What happens if I say yes?" he asked.
Jack didn't hesitate.
"We'll monitor you. Keep you awake through external stimulation. We have methods—chemical, electric, environmental. We've been preparing for this."
Sylas stayed quiet for a moment. Then, with trembling fingers, he nodded.
"I'll do it… Just don't let me fall asleep."
Jack stood and called in a nurse and two agents. One carried a black tablet, the other a silver case.
"Sign the consent," Jack said. "You're not a prisoner. But once you sign, you're part of the project."
Sylas stared at the screen, then slowly scribbled his name.
A nurse immediately swabbed his arm and injected a caffeine serum—pure concentrate. It hit him like lightning. His eyes widened, heart racing, chest pounding.
The agents gently lifted him, helping him stand.
He barely had the strength, but his feet moved.
As they escorted him down the hall, deeper into the facility, Sylas glanced at the pale walls and sterile lights.
So this is what my life becomes… A test subject for the world that forgot me.
But even now, he didn't feel regret. He didn't want to die. If there was even a sliver of a chance to survive—to live a quiet, peaceful life again—he'd take it.
Even if it meant becoming a lab rat.
As the metal doors slid open and the lab swallowed him whole, Sylas looked back once.
Not at the people.
But at the place where he last sat, coffee cup still warm.
The reasearch room had grown tense.
Every second ticked louder than the last.
Will was strapped to a padded medical chair. His head slumped slightly forward, but his eyes stayed open—barely. His breath came in broken gasps, his limbs trembling like a candle in the wind. The monitors beeped in uneven rhythm.
Jack stood behind the glass window, watching with clenched fists.
The researchers moved around Will like ghosts, checking tubes and calibrations. One gave a short nod. Another grabbed the cold spray.
"Begin the stimulation protocol," one of them said flatly.
A blast of freezing water hit Sylas's face. His head jerked back. He let out a weak sound—half a gasp, half a sob. His eyes fluttered open for a second, then began to close again.
"Again," someone ordered.
This time, they pressed a soaked cloth of chili powder near his nose. His body recoiled violently. He groaned, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, his throat too dry to scream.
They didn't stop.
Electric shocks were applied to his fingers and the soles of his feet. Sylas twitched in his restraints, his jaw clenched tight as his body arched slightly from the pain.
The gas mask slid over his face next, releasing a no-sleep chemical blend designed to keep the brain alert for another hour.
But it wasn't working.
Sylas's head slowly tilted forward again. His fingers stopped twitching. His breath was shallow.
"Heart rate dropping," a tech said. "He's resisting, but his body's shutting down."
"Inject again," the lead researcher snapped.
"No," Jack said quietly.
Everyone turned.
Jack stared through the glass at the boy in the chair. His voice cracked when he spoke.
"Enough."
He punched the glass—once, hard. A crack bloomed across it, jagged like a spider web. His knuckles bled, but he didn't care.
He pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the lab.
The room froze.
Jack walked toward Sylas , who looked more like a broken puppet now than a boy. His white hair clung to his forehead, soaked. His skin was too pale. His eyes barely open.
Jack knelt beside him and placed a hand on Sylas's shoulder.
"I'm sorry, kid," he said softly. "I tried."
Sylas's lips trembled. He couldn't speak, but his eyes met Jack's for a brief second.
There was no anger in them. No fear.
Only tired acceptance.
Jack's throat tightened.
"You fought longer than anyone," he whispered. "More than we thought possible."
Sylas blinked once—slowly.
And then, he let go.
His eyes closed. His body went still.
The monitors flatlined.
The room fell silent, as if holding its breath.
And in that moment, Jack knew the truth.
Sylas had entered the Tenmares Trial.
Alone.
And there was nothing left they could do.
Darkness covered him, and everything went blank.
For a long moment, there was nothing—no sound, no weight, no thought. Just a void.