Sylas stood before the orphanage under a shroud of midnight silence, the ancient stone facade bathed in the pallid glow of a waning moon. The building, once a sanctuary in his turbulent life, now loomed like a sentinel from forgotten dreams. He blinked hard, rubbing his eyes as if to dispel the lingering haze of terror that clung to him. "It was all just a nightmare," he whispered, his breath forming faint clouds in the chill air. The words felt hollow, a fragile mantra against the chaos that had ravaged his mind moments before. He pushed against the heavy wooden doors, their creak echoing like a reluctant confession, and stepped inside.
The foyer welcomed him with deceptive familiarity. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and faint lavender from the sachets Mercy used to tuck into the linens. Children's beds lined the dormitory hall, small forms huddled under their blankets—their chests rising and falling almost in unison. The old grandfather clock on the far wall ticked methodically, its pendulum swinging like a heartbeat in the stillness. Sylas exhaled deeply, his shoulders sagging with relief. But as he ventured deeper, a subtle wrongness prickled at his senses. The children's eyes—wide, unblinking orbs—stared directly at him from the shadows of their beds. Not a single lid fluttered; no sleepy murmur broke the quiet. He froze, his pulse quickening. "Guys, just go to sleep already," he called out lightly, forcing a chuckle that died in his throat. It had to be one of their pranks, the kind they pulled on stormy nights to chase away boredom. Shaking his head, he pressed on, ignoring the way their gazes tracked him like predators in the underbrush.
His own room lay ahead, a modest alcove at the hall's bend. But as he approached, the doorway plunged into unnatural darkness, a void that swallowed light like a hungry maw. He reached out, fingers grazing the frame, as the door slammed shut with a thunderous crack. Sylas leaped back, heart slamming against his ribs. "What the—?" The word escaped in a hiss, but the hall remained empty, devoid of any culprit. He glanced around, half-expecting laughter or a hidden figure, but there was only silence. To steady himself, he turned away—and that's when he saw it: a portrait hanging on the faded wallpaper, its frame ornate and dust-free, as if freshly placed. It depicted Mercy in exquisite detail, her kind eyes rendered with lifelike warmth, her silver hair cascading in gentle waves. But Mercy despised portraits; she had always waved off artists with a laugh, claiming they capture the body and leave the soul hollow. "When did this get here?" Sylas murmured, stepping closer. The painting's gaze seemed to pierce him, almost accusatory. He shuddered and backed away, turning as he walked away, oblivious to the subtle shift—the way the portrait's head tilted ever so slightly, its eyes following his retreat with an unnatural gleam.
The unease gnawed at him as he continued down the corridor, each step echoing louder than the last. Mercy's room was at the end, a haven of quiet wisdom where she had raised him and the others with unyielding compassion. His hand trembled on the knob, hesitation born of some primal instinct. He drew a deep breath, steeling himself, and pushed the door open. There she sat on the edge of her bed, silhouetted against the window's faint moonlight, staring into the night beyond. Relief washed over him like a cool wave. "Mercy," he breathed, crossing the room with hurried steps. He lowered his gaze to the worn floorboards, avoiding her eyes for a moment as vulnerability welled up. Pulling up the wooden chair beside her bed, he sank into it, the creak of its legs mirroring his frayed nerves.
"I had a nightmare," he confessed, voice barely above a whisper. "In it, you... you died. Kael betrayed me, left me to face hundreds of mercenaries alone. I fought, but it was endless—blood everywhere, screams tearing through the air. The thought of never seeing you again..." His words caught, a sob threatening to break free. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, the salt stinging his skin. Composing himself, he asked, "Where is Kael, anyway? He should be here."
Slowly, he lifted his head. Then he screamed, the sound raw and primal, as he toppled backward from the chair, crashing to the floor. Mercy turned to face him, but her left cheek was a grotesque ruin, flesh melting like wax from a guttering candle, dripping in viscous strands onto her shoulder. Her skin sagged, exposing raw muscle and bone beneath. She shifted, the blanket slipping away to reveal arms elongated and twisted, fingers like blackened branches bent at impossible angles—echoing the demon he had glimpsed in the orphanage's forsaken basement long ago. Her body elongated as she rose, stretching to tower over him, joints popping with sickening cracks.
Terror propelled him to his feet. He bolted from the room, slamming into the corridor wall in his haste. The exit doors loomed at the hall's end, a promise of escape. He sprinted toward them, lungs burning, but the corridor seemed to defy him—stretching, elongating like taffy pulled taut. Footsteps pounded behind him, unnatural and echoing. Then, a voice slithered through the air, soft and insidious: "Why are you leaving already, Sylas? Won't you stay a little longer?"
He skidded to a halt, whipping around. There it stood—a abomination with Mercy's face grafted onto a spindly, shadow-wreathed form. Limbs like elongated spider legs clicked against the floor, dark and slender, coiling with predatory grace. The eyes—Mercy's eyes—locked onto his, but they were void of life, glassy like the severed head he had seen impaled on a spear in his dream. "Not even for mother?" it crooned, the word twisting like a knife in his gut.
Sylas whirled and lunged for the doors, wrenching them open. But instead of the cool night air, he stumbled back into the foyer—the same entrance he had crossed moments before. The corridor had looped, a cruel mockery of reality. Behind him, the hall duplicated in a dizzying fractal: one path remained dim and silent, the other erupted in flames, orange tongues licking the walls, devouring the wood with ravenous hunger. Screams pierced the inferno—the wails of children, high and desperate, pleading for mercy that would never come.
Driven by panic, Sylas plunged into the fiery duplicate, the heat searing his skin, smoke choking his throat. Flames danced around him, singeing his clothes, but he pressed on. A doorway gaped to his left, and he glanced inside—then froze. The room was a slaughterhouse: a vast pool of crimson blood spread across the floor, thick and congealing. Piled in the center were the lifeless bodies of the orphans, limbs akimbo, faces frozen in eternal agony. Atop the macabre heap sat... himself? A doppelganger with long white hair cascading like a shroud, a jagged gash scarring his left eye, and a sword dripping with gore clutched in his hand.
Drawn by morbid compulsion, Sylas stepped inside. "What have you done?" he demanded, voice trembling with rage and horror. "What did they ever do to deserve this? They were innocent!"
The other him only smirked, a cold, knowing curl of lips that mirrored his own. He shifted aside, and the bodies beneath him liquefied, melting into the blood pool with grotesque slurps. The crimson tide surged, tendrils rising to ensnare Sylas's ankles. The children re-emerged from the depths, their forms twisted and spectral, clawing at him with bony fingers. "Why did you do this to us?" one wailed, a boy with eyes like bottomless pits. "Weren't we humans too? Why did you kill us? Why did you forsake us?"
They dragged him downward, the blood rising like a living entity, cold and viscous against his skin. He thrashed, but their grip was iron. The doppelganger loomed over him, voice a venomous whisper: "You could've saved Mercy, Sylas. But you were just another failure—like us."
"Us?" The word escaped Sylas's lips as dread coiled in his chest. He glanced down into the abyss below, and his blood ran cold. The pool deepened into an endless ocean, teeming with bodies—thousands upon thousands, stretching into infinity. Each one bore his face: some older, etched with lines of weary defeat; others younger, innocent yet doomed. They all gazed up at him with hollow eyes, a legion of forsaken selves, drowned in regret.
A faint voice echoed from afar, piercing the nightmare: "Is he dead? Why isn't he moving?" Sylas's head dipped toward the surface, the blood lapping at his chin. He glared at his tormentor, desperation fueling his rage. "Who the fuck are you?"
The doppelganger leaned close, breath foul with decay. "Don't worry, forsaken heir. You are the last one, so you're special. Just remember—you couldn't succeed. At least, not yet."
Sylas's scream tore through the void, a final defiance as the blood claimed him completely.
Then—splash. Cold water slapped his face, jolting him upright. He flailed wildly, but his arms refused to obey, bound by heavy metal chains that bit into his wrists. "Stop moving," growled a rough voice. Sylas blinked water from his eyes, vision clearing to reveal two burly guards looming over him in a dank cell. Stone walls dripped with moisture, the air rank with mildew and despair. A third guard burst in, panting. "The captain said to wai—" He halted mid-sentence, eyes narrowing at Sylas. "So he's awake," he sneered, disdain curling his lip like a predator scenting weakness.