February 17th, 2010 — a cold morning.
The alarm screamed beside my ear.
I rubbed my eyes, groaning as sleep slipped away. Stretching until my back popped, I dragged myself to the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind me.
My reflection stared back — black hair sticking up in every direction, tired brown eyes, and a face that always looked a little more worn than it should at my age.
I sighed, splashed water on my face, and pushed through the usual routine.
After getting dressed, I headed downstairs.
My brother was already at the table with Mom, chatting softly. The sight made me smile a little.
I took my usual seat. Mom placed a plate in front of me. Pasta again — her comfort dish, the one she made whenever something felt off at home.
"It's delicious," I said with a small grin after a few bites.
My brother rolled his eyes. So I nudged him under the table. He glared at me. Mom laughed quietly.
When I finished eating, I went back to my room and collapsed onto my bed.
I grabbed my phone, unlocked it, and opened the novel I'd been reading.
As always, the world around me faded.
Hours slipped by.
Even during dinner, my mind stayed in the pages.
Later that night, when I finally turned off my phone and closed my eyes, sleep pulled me under.
And then—
⸻
The Dream
I was standing on my street.
Not a wasteland.
Not a battlefield.
Worse — because it looked familiar.
The same houses.
The same road.
The same streetlights.
But everything was wrong.
The windows of the houses were filled with thick black fog, like something inside was watching.
The streetlights flickered, stretching my shadow across the ground — too long, too thin, almost disconnected from me.
At the far end of the street stood my home. Its front door was open.
A faint sound echoed from inside:
Tick… tick… tick…
Like a clock with a broken heartbeat.
I tried to call out.
No sound came out of my mouth.
As I walked toward the open door, the air changed — peeling the walls like old paint, revealing scenes behind them.
Not memories.
Not dreams.
Possibilities.
In one flicker, I saw Mom's pasta bowl overturned on the table, the noodles dried and cracked like roots.
Another showed my brother's empty seat at breakfast — a faint handprint burned into the wood.
Another revealed my room: the bed neatly made, untouched, as if I had never existed.
The world darkened.
Every window on the street turned red.
The sky tore open like fabric being ripped apart, and something massive slid into view.
A moon.
But not a moon.
An eye.
Red, unblinking, bigger than the sky itself.
Every shadow on the street slowly turned toward me.
Not moving.
Not attacking.
Just watching.
A voice whispered right against my ear, cold and breathless:
"Found you."
Pain detonated inside my skull.
The world shattered.
⸻
Awakening
I woke up with a violent gasp.
My entire back was drenched. The sheets clung to my skin.
My breath came out in short, shaky bursts as I grabbed my head.
It felt like someone had taken a hammer to my skull.
I forced my eyes open.
This wasn't my room.
I didn't know the walls, the ceiling, the smell — nothing.
Panic climbed up my spine.
If this isn't my room… then where are Mom and my brother?
My heartbeat grew loud enough to drown everything else out.
I turned toward the window, desperate for something familiar.
But instead, the same crimson moon from my dream hung in the sky — uncaring, too close, too calm.
My stomach dropped.
"What the hell…" I whispered.
"Did I… die in my sleep?"
And the terrifying part?
It didn't feel like a dream anymore.
I stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the tap.
Water splashed into the sink, cold and steady.
I washed my face, trying to steady my breath.
When I lifted my head, I froze.
A pale face stared back from the mirror — skin almost white, jet-black hair falling over the forehead, cold silver-grey eyes that never belonged to me, and sharp, defined features.
Not my face.
I stumbled back.
A spike of pain tore through my skull.
It felt like someone forcing a drill into my brain — slow, cruel.
The agony dragged on until finally, mercifully, it faded.
Then the memories came.
Flashes of another life.
A boy named Azael.
His loneliness.
His routines.
His empty house.
All of it poured into my mind like water filling a cracked jar.
I gripped the sink, breathing hard.
Then a strange warmth spread across the side of my neck.
I touched it.
And froze.
A mark glowed faintly on the middle of the left side of my neck — exactly between jaw and shoulder.
A symbol.
A blood-red moon with a vertical slit, like an eye.
Pulsing softly under my skin.
Not a tattoo.
Not a scar.
Alive.
The red glow reflected in the mirror, tinting my throat.
A fragment of memory surfaced — faint but undeniable.
"…The Forsaken Sigil."
My fingers trembled.